Sunday, October 22, 2006
Frank Spanks Angela, Volume One
Editor's Note: This was written prior to the start of yesterday's Tigers-Cardinals game, which, as you know by now, was won by the Cardinals. 7-2. However, due to technical difficulties on the part of the organization which hosts this work, I was unable to post the entry. Therefore, while the date may say Sunday, please pretend that you are reading this on Saturday. Thank-you. ed.
This is a good weekend. My beloved Tigers are preparing for the premier game in baseball’s World Series. Colette is conveniently spending the night at the home of a friend, leaving just Angela and I to enjoy to game, and to enjoy the spanking that my beloved spouse earned for foolishly thinking that the Tigers would not be victorious in their League Championship Series versus the Oakland Athletics. As you must know, the triumphant Tigers cleared that hurdle in just four games, allowing Oakland to win a grand total of none.
The realization came upon me earlier this week that, although I have related a number of the firsts in my spanking career, I have never explained how I came to know that Angela was also a connoisseur of the fine art of spanking. Unlike some of my other epics, the story is not long or involved.
I remember the date well because it was the day after the Tigers had won their third game of the 1984 World Series, in which they eventually defeated the San Diego Padres, four games to one. Angela and I were not yet married, but had been dating, as well as engaging the pleasures of the flesh, for quite some time. Angela had spent the night at my apartment and we had watched the Tiger game cuddled on the couch (except for every time the Tigers did something positive, when I would jump off the couch and scream exaltations to my team). Afterwards, I made us both ice cream sundaes, and then we retired to the bedroom, where we eventually fell asleep, but only after we had played our own ball game.
The following morning, I arose first. As I was showering, Angela became conscious and, after donning one of my larger t-shirts (and nothing else, I might add), she wandered from the bedroom and spied my personal computer. Since this was 1984, it was well before the time when the world had begun to ride the Information Superhighway into the Cyber Age. My computer was what was known as a Tandy 1000, with a 4.8 MHZ processor and two floppy disk drives. I was the only person on my block that owned their own home computer. Naturally, I put the machine to the best possible use – I wrote spanking stories on it.
Angela, being a technology professional herself (back then they called us “computer programmers”), was familiar with how my machine functioned, so she fired the beast up and began to explore. Since Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet, and since the machine did not have a hard drive, the pickings were rather slim, so she started reviewing the contents of the various floppy disks that I had scattered around the desk. She happened upon one that I had labeled “SSTORIES.” No, the double “S” at the beginning is not a typographical error, but rather a pneumonic of the contents of the disk. Loyal readers will certainly be able to easily ascertain what the first “S” stood for.
Angela listed out the files on the disk, which were all cryptically named because, at the time, technology did not allow for more than 8 characters in a file name. Since the file name did not offer a clue as to its contents, Angela proceeded to list the contents of the file. Then she began to read the contents of the file. Then, apparently, and to my utter surprise, she, shall we say, “touched herself.” She proceeded to repeat this cycle with more of the files on the disk. About this time, I exited the bathroom wearing just a towel. Since it was a small apartment, Angela spotted my appearance immediately. She gave me this most mischievous smile and said, “Well, you perverted son-of-a-bitch!”
Since I had been unaware of her activities whilst I was showering, I hadn’t the slightest clue what she was talking about. Angela got up and came over to me. “You’re a naughty little boy,” she said to me, “and I’m a naughty little girl.” While I liked the tone of her voice and the contents of her comment, I still didn’t have the foggiest notion about what she was referring to. Then I noticed that my PC was on. While I couldn’t read exactly what was on the screen, I knew from experience that she had been reviewing my corporal punishment literature.
I was totally aghast! Despite the come-hither look in her face and the allure in her voice, I figured that we were through. I expected that Angela would quickly dress and take leave of my apartment, never wanting to see such a weirdo as I ever again. I further expected that she would expose my little secret to all of our friends, and they would also distance themselves from me. I would be branded a sicko, a sexual deviant, perhaps even a pedophile (although my stories never involved children). The police would discover this, and I would be suspected of every sexually-oriented crime from exposing ones private parts in public to … well … I didn’t even want to think about the other extreme. The worst was that I would never be able to be able to enjoy the company of my dearly beloved Angela ever again! I became so distressed that I was about to panic.
Then Angela surprised me. She grabbed my arm and directed my into the bedroom. From there, she whipped off my towel and pushed me into a seated position on the bed. Then she stood next to me and said, “Spank me!”
Still on the verge of panic, I responded, “Huh?”
Smiling, she threw herself, face down, across my lap. “I said, spank me!” she said.
“Are you sure? You’re not wearing any pants and I don’t want to hurt you….”
“Just spank me, you idiot,” she exclaimed. So I did. Gently at first, more pleasant little pats than proper slaps. “Harder!” she said. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t know if she would enjoy this or think that I was some kind of brute. I didn’t know what her pain threshold was. We had never talked about anything like this before, so I had no idea of what the boundaries should be. But she was insistent, and her beautiful butt was there on my lap for my amusement. I began to slap her harder, probably enough to sting a bit and turn her cheeks light pink.
“C’mon! Really spank me! Or are you really a wimp?” she said. Panic, worry, or not, she had thrown down the challenge. I would give her what she had asked for, if for no other reason to show her what she was really getting herself in to. I began to spank her with full force.
She started to kick and squeal as I gave her several significant swats with my hand in quick succession. When I noticed her struggles I quickly stopped. “Are you okay?” I asked. To my complete and utter surprise, Angela was actually laughing!
As her laughter subsided, Angela said to me, “I’ve been waiting for a guy to do that to me since I was thirteen!”
It took me a minute to comprehend the meaning of her words. Then it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: Angela, the girl of my dreams, this fine, wonderful woman, was a spanko! I was dating with a bona fide spanko! I was sleeping with a card-carrying spanko! I was so happy that I resumed spanking her with great enthusiasm!
At this point, the remainder of the story pretty much tells itself. After completing our morning’s folly, Angela and I exchanged stories about our love of striking and having struck the glorious gluteus. Later that afternoon, the Tigers won their fourth game of the Series and thus became World Champions. And, following that, I asked Angela to be my wife, to which she instantly agreed.
The rest is history. We married the following summer. Maribel followed shortly after. And, twenty-eight years later, the Tigers are in another World Series and Angela and I have spent all those years exchanging spankings that we both find so wonderful. It all started that one day, so many years ago. It was one fantastic day.
This is a good weekend. My beloved Tigers are preparing for the premier game in baseball’s World Series. Colette is conveniently spending the night at the home of a friend, leaving just Angela and I to enjoy to game, and to enjoy the spanking that my beloved spouse earned for foolishly thinking that the Tigers would not be victorious in their League Championship Series versus the Oakland Athletics. As you must know, the triumphant Tigers cleared that hurdle in just four games, allowing Oakland to win a grand total of none.
The realization came upon me earlier this week that, although I have related a number of the firsts in my spanking career, I have never explained how I came to know that Angela was also a connoisseur of the fine art of spanking. Unlike some of my other epics, the story is not long or involved.
I remember the date well because it was the day after the Tigers had won their third game of the 1984 World Series, in which they eventually defeated the San Diego Padres, four games to one. Angela and I were not yet married, but had been dating, as well as engaging the pleasures of the flesh, for quite some time. Angela had spent the night at my apartment and we had watched the Tiger game cuddled on the couch (except for every time the Tigers did something positive, when I would jump off the couch and scream exaltations to my team). Afterwards, I made us both ice cream sundaes, and then we retired to the bedroom, where we eventually fell asleep, but only after we had played our own ball game.
The following morning, I arose first. As I was showering, Angela became conscious and, after donning one of my larger t-shirts (and nothing else, I might add), she wandered from the bedroom and spied my personal computer. Since this was 1984, it was well before the time when the world had begun to ride the Information Superhighway into the Cyber Age. My computer was what was known as a Tandy 1000, with a 4.8 MHZ processor and two floppy disk drives. I was the only person on my block that owned their own home computer. Naturally, I put the machine to the best possible use – I wrote spanking stories on it.
Angela, being a technology professional herself (back then they called us “computer programmers”), was familiar with how my machine functioned, so she fired the beast up and began to explore. Since Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet, and since the machine did not have a hard drive, the pickings were rather slim, so she started reviewing the contents of the various floppy disks that I had scattered around the desk. She happened upon one that I had labeled “SSTORIES.” No, the double “S” at the beginning is not a typographical error, but rather a pneumonic of the contents of the disk. Loyal readers will certainly be able to easily ascertain what the first “S” stood for.
Angela listed out the files on the disk, which were all cryptically named because, at the time, technology did not allow for more than 8 characters in a file name. Since the file name did not offer a clue as to its contents, Angela proceeded to list the contents of the file. Then she began to read the contents of the file. Then, apparently, and to my utter surprise, she, shall we say, “touched herself.” She proceeded to repeat this cycle with more of the files on the disk. About this time, I exited the bathroom wearing just a towel. Since it was a small apartment, Angela spotted my appearance immediately. She gave me this most mischievous smile and said, “Well, you perverted son-of-a-bitch!”
Since I had been unaware of her activities whilst I was showering, I hadn’t the slightest clue what she was talking about. Angela got up and came over to me. “You’re a naughty little boy,” she said to me, “and I’m a naughty little girl.” While I liked the tone of her voice and the contents of her comment, I still didn’t have the foggiest notion about what she was referring to. Then I noticed that my PC was on. While I couldn’t read exactly what was on the screen, I knew from experience that she had been reviewing my corporal punishment literature.
I was totally aghast! Despite the come-hither look in her face and the allure in her voice, I figured that we were through. I expected that Angela would quickly dress and take leave of my apartment, never wanting to see such a weirdo as I ever again. I further expected that she would expose my little secret to all of our friends, and they would also distance themselves from me. I would be branded a sicko, a sexual deviant, perhaps even a pedophile (although my stories never involved children). The police would discover this, and I would be suspected of every sexually-oriented crime from exposing ones private parts in public to … well … I didn’t even want to think about the other extreme. The worst was that I would never be able to be able to enjoy the company of my dearly beloved Angela ever again! I became so distressed that I was about to panic.
Then Angela surprised me. She grabbed my arm and directed my into the bedroom. From there, she whipped off my towel and pushed me into a seated position on the bed. Then she stood next to me and said, “Spank me!”
Still on the verge of panic, I responded, “Huh?”
Smiling, she threw herself, face down, across my lap. “I said, spank me!” she said.
“Are you sure? You’re not wearing any pants and I don’t want to hurt you….”
“Just spank me, you idiot,” she exclaimed. So I did. Gently at first, more pleasant little pats than proper slaps. “Harder!” she said. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t know if she would enjoy this or think that I was some kind of brute. I didn’t know what her pain threshold was. We had never talked about anything like this before, so I had no idea of what the boundaries should be. But she was insistent, and her beautiful butt was there on my lap for my amusement. I began to slap her harder, probably enough to sting a bit and turn her cheeks light pink.
“C’mon! Really spank me! Or are you really a wimp?” she said. Panic, worry, or not, she had thrown down the challenge. I would give her what she had asked for, if for no other reason to show her what she was really getting herself in to. I began to spank her with full force.
She started to kick and squeal as I gave her several significant swats with my hand in quick succession. When I noticed her struggles I quickly stopped. “Are you okay?” I asked. To my complete and utter surprise, Angela was actually laughing!
As her laughter subsided, Angela said to me, “I’ve been waiting for a guy to do that to me since I was thirteen!”
It took me a minute to comprehend the meaning of her words. Then it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: Angela, the girl of my dreams, this fine, wonderful woman, was a spanko! I was dating with a bona fide spanko! I was sleeping with a card-carrying spanko! I was so happy that I resumed spanking her with great enthusiasm!
At this point, the remainder of the story pretty much tells itself. After completing our morning’s folly, Angela and I exchanged stories about our love of striking and having struck the glorious gluteus. Later that afternoon, the Tigers won their fourth game of the Series and thus became World Champions. And, following that, I asked Angela to be my wife, to which she instantly agreed.
The rest is history. We married the following summer. Maribel followed shortly after. And, twenty-eight years later, the Tigers are in another World Series and Angela and I have spent all those years exchanging spankings that we both find so wonderful. It all started that one day, so many years ago. It was one fantastic day.
