Virginity

 

No, I didn’t lose it: even I’m not that careless. I gave it away to an older man – twenty-nine – in a cowboy hat, with great arms and large hands. I knew what I wanted when I saw those hands. I would say that a few hours later I found I was right. The size of a man’s hand is the size of each ass cheek. He was proving that to me – as well as how much cowboys dislike bratty attitudes and whining in a brat tone. He was very busy correcting me. Did I tell you about his thighs? (Must be something with horses.) They were hard and warm, and in between was well… does the word 'uncut' ring any bells? I won't tell you anything more except he had a hand-tooled leather belt that was just right. That was the weekend – yes, I said weekend – that I learned what bending over the bed’s foot board meant.

*

 

 

I believe it was Sunday, mid-morning, and we were lying on the bed after another session of pleasurable correction. We were both fresh from a shower – which included more fun than just getting clean; my head on his chest and his hand cupping a still very warm bottom –when he mentioned that he thought my lifestyle needed some work, and if I wanted, I could come home with him; at which time he would give me what every brat always wanted. Grinding my groin against his hip I giggled.

“I have that already.” That's when I learned that Tops don’t generally take kindly to smart-ass answers. His hand went from cupping to a hard smack in less time than it takes to write this. I yelped, and I could tell he was about to pull me over his lap – to drive home this lesson, when I squeaked I was sorry and I would be good.

I heard him rumble, in his chest, that he thought that was a stretch. Still, his hand went back to cupping, and I snuggled deeper into his chest; smelling his scent and sighing contentedly. I was thinking, vaguely, about whether or not breakfast in bed was a good idea, when his stomach growled. This, of course, broke the lounging spell. He lightly slapped my bare bottom and demanded breakfast. Now, being a former short-order cook, that part was a breeze. Soon I was flipping eggs in the pan, draining the bacon, and browning the hash browns. I guess we had been in bed all the time so he didn't know about all my talents – except a few that aren't for public knowledge. Well, knowing how to cook is a talent and a joy to me. So, after the coffee was finished and the eggs were laid in front of him at the table, I joined him a few minutes later with my plate. Then we ate like two men that had been up for quite awhile, and really hadn't had anything decent to eat for a few days and nights. Yes, we did eat. I remember him dragging me out of bed and swatting my bare butt enough to get dressed for a meal or two at the local diner.

I cleared the table after we had eaten. He helped with cleaning up by loading the dishwasher. Soon, we were in the living room drinking our second cup of coffee; him sitting on the couch, and me in between his legs, leaning against him and the couch.

He brought up the conversation we'd had in the bedroom again. I knew he didn't like me working in a sex club (it's not at all what you're thinking). He said it was a dead end job – high paying with tips, but still a dead end job. Thank God, I hadn't met him there; I met him at a club I go to on the rare occasion when I have a day off.

I cocked my head up toward him – as a 21-year-old man-boy that is driven by the age and the confidence of youth, and I told him –rather sharply – that I get by just fine; I did notice the thundercloud that played over his face. His eyes seemed to go flat, and he had this stare.

I remember that stare from childhood schoolteachers. It was the LOOK, conveying in a very professional way, that said they would cheerfully yank down your pants and blister your bare butt if you didn't do what they wanted – right then and there – without backtalk. I was surprised that it appeared on his face. Then suddenly my bottom was tingling, and the light sting from the playing about was intensified... strongly. I was even more surprised when my mouth just stopped working, and I heard my voice trail away to silence.

I heard his quiet deep voice calmly asking me if I had not learned my lesson about smart-ass answers in the bedroom, and if not, he was more than competent – and very willing – to revisit that lesson. I was stung into action by the sheer superiority of his calm voice.

I leapt to my feet, and asked just who the hell he thought he was. Continuing that, yes, we'd had a great time, but he was not my mother.

All right. I was angry.

I didn't expect him to move so fast. One second he was sitting there with that Look, and the next heartbeat he had me by the ear, marching me back to the bedroom. I swear, I wanted to fight and punch him. I do have to say that ears are very sensitive – by the way he got a hold of it. I was pretty shocked!

He then marched me into the empty corner of the bedroom and shoved me into it – with a very hard swat on my butt and a growled command to stay there until I calmed down. I bounced out of that corner like a SuperBall, only to be bounced back in with another hard swat. I was getting very angry, my butt was hurting, and my pride was trashed. I turned the other way, quickly, and faked him out enough to throw a punch.

I have enough knowledge to know you don’t fight with a stronger man, especially a very angry man who outweighs you by a fair bit, and that fair bit was muscle – a man who'd spent the weekend spanking me, as I spent the weekend encouraging the behavior, making sure he knew how much I wanted, had that kind of attention, and needed it.

Well, the punch hit home against his shoulder. I felt like I'd punched a wall. God, my hand hurt.

They never tell you that part on TV.

I felt like I had broken every bone in my hand. He spun me back around and, with a harder swat, bounced me right back into the corner. I, of course, bounced right back out. I remember that it wasn’t silent; I remember my choice of words making the air blue. Mostly, I remember the burning sting on my ass and that LOOK the last time I saw his face.

Now, let me stop here during the most humiliating few minutes of my life.

Let’s speak for a just a second about sweatpants. They are great to hang around in. They are nice and toasty on a winter nights. They stay up due to elastic waistbands. True as they get older, that elastic gets a bit limp... such was the pair I was wearing at the time.

It wasn't a problem for him to yank them down before he grabbed me by the waist and held me against his hip, exposing my bare pink, going to red, ass to his hard punishing hand. I thought we had spent the weekend spanking. We had not! Those were erotic taps as far as this went. This was a spanking. His arm held me in place and his other hand landed with terrible accuracy from the crown of my butt, to just below the cheeks where the thighs meet the butt. I couldn't get away. I was held there. He held me firmly in place to receive every lick. I remember I was still in fine voice, and the yelps turned from yells and gasps, to yells and curses. All the while I heard that calm voice over my head saying over and over again.

“We do not hit – ever. We talk calmly.”

After one particularly painful swat, I yelped.

“You’re hitting me!”

Another solid swat landed across the center of my butt.

“No, I am spanking. Spanking is to teach a lesson. That is not hitting, that is spanking.”

With one final hard swat, he pulled me up and firmly pushed my face back into the corner.

Now, I may not be the sharpest card in the deck, but I figured that out quick enough. I stayed put.

My hands flew to my battered – sure to be bleeding – ass cheeks. I gently explored... no blood... nothing except a monstrous amount of heat and pain. Then my hands were gently removed from my burning ass and placed on my head. I got that one too, and I left them there.

My legs were shaking; I locked my knees... waiting. I wasn't sure what was happening to me. I could hardly stand the still growing heat from my backside. I was sweating and almost hyperventilating. I couldn't get my breath – which scared me even more.

I heard that damnable calm voice ask me to turn around, which I did. Looking through my tears, I saw him standing there looking at me. I saw something in his eyes and, at once, I tried to throw myself into his arms. When the sweats, puddled around my feet, caught me I stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn't scooped me up and held me in those strong arms. Suddenly, I was crying – sobbing really, my head pressed to his upper chest. He held me close, murmuring words of comfort. His hand was rubbing my back, rubbing my neck, and up and down my back to just above the burning area. The words he was using made no sense, but the tone was calm and strong – telling me I was a good brat, I had been spanked for losing my temper, and it was all over. I just hung on him and sobbed. He backed up, with me still locked in an embrace, until he was sitting on the bed – my face still pressed into him. Then he pulled away, and with his hand, he wiped the tears and snot off my face using the Kleenex from the bedside. He pulled me into a reclining embrace and turned me so I was resting against him on my hip. I was slowly trying to get my act together. I stiffened at the thought of what he was seeing. His hand started to rub my back and shoulders again, and his soft voice was soothing.

I was slowing down on the waterworks by now. He leaned away from me and left the bed. I gasped at being alone. Then he was back with a cool washcloth, placing it against my neck and then wiping my face. I was shattered but I was breathing. He placed the pillows around me to keep my well-spanked butt from touching anything, and left the room again. Retuning, he had a bottle of water and a bottle of sports drink. Opening them both, he held one then the other to my mouth, until they were gone. Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion swept over me and I could hardly keep my eyes open. I turned my face to his chest; his one arm going across my waist, pulling me into a deeper embrace. That was the last thing I remembered.

I know what happened; it was entirety from the experience. I was content, well fed, then soundly spanked; the surprise and the reality of the spanking put me into a cathartic response. The emotional part was exhausting my entire body. The shame and the humiliation, along with the pain and heat on my butt, added to the feeling. Then a warm large person to hold me and tell me everything would be all right. I may not have been born yesterday, but I do know enough to know that this is not how the game is played in reality. Sure, in all the one-handed reading I did, yeah; riding off into the sunset with the man of your dreams. Still, this was real life – I had bills to pay, I had to work to live. Besides, I didn’t look like a porn star.

So after all the emotional outpouring, my mind and my body just decided to shut down completely and I fell asleep...

I woke up later – a lot later – and felt a bit muddled; I don’t take naps. I have a hard time not being totally muzzy and confused when I wake up. I didn’t understand why I was sleeping on my belly, so I rolled over, and the weight of me and the spanking, both, made me remember just what had happened, and I squawked. I felt like I'd just put my ass into a steam table. I sprang out of the bed and clapped my hands to my backside. I yelped again – that was way too hard.

At the sound of a chuckle, I whipped around to see the author of this leaning on the doorframe with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a grin; which was shifting into a leer. He handed me the cup of coffee, then eyed me up and down slowly saying things like “nice!” He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me around. He pushed me toward the bathroom and showed me my burning butt in the mirror. He still had the grin plastered all over his face. I gasped in shock at the sight of my poor burning butt; it just looked red – no blood, no cuts, no massive back and blue marks.

I picked up the coffee and took a sip. Gad, it was awful. I almost spat it into the sink.

“What did you do to that coffee?” I gasped, setting the cup down very carefully.

Turning on the water, I cupped my hand to get a drink before all the fillings in my mouth dissolved. This may not have been a smart choice because as soon as I spat out the water, and was ready to take a drink, his hand landed on my bent over butt; with a loud crack. I whipped around to see a pious look on his face, eyes looking toward heaven

“Brats never learn, Goddess, thank you for that. Now,” he said with a growl, “I suggest that we continue this discussion about my cooking abilities in the kitchen or the living room. The bathroom may be OK for you brat; however, just to remind you there are things in here that can be used to tame any wild brat,” he said, nodding at the bath brush.

“Brute!”I said in that tone that all brats have – a kind of mix between a“coy smirk” and a whine – as I batted my eyelashes.

“Brat!”he replied, and hugged me.

Listen. He put me to bed naked, so I was that way when he hugged me, and I can recommend hugging... fully. He seemed to have too many hands. They were touching and rubbing (OH, there. Oh, do that again!). My mind was shutting down... only this time it was because my other parts were clamoring for attention. Not only were we on the way to the living room, I'd just provided him with a long thick handle –about halfway down my body.

I still had two hands... they being very busy at shirt buttons and jean zippers. He persuaded me into the living room and to the couch. He sat down first and took me on his lap, opening his legs so my sore butt wasn’t really touching anything. I wrapped my hands around his neck and kissed it, giggling.

“Listen brat,” he said in that deep voiced rumble that he has,“I have two younger brothers and a younger sister, I know all about bratty behavior – and I have one older brother and an older sister so I know a fair bit about being a brat. Not as an adult brat but the principle is the same. Those puppy dog eyes are NOT working, I can still see that mind of yours figuring out how to get your way. I know all the tricks.”

He might know all the kid’s tricks, I thought, grabbing at places kids don’t grab and touching other places that are... not for kids, anyway. Not an adult brat, I betted to myself; as I returned the favor of touching and pulling and kissing parts that were exposed and some that were not… yet. He was gasping and chuckling as I turned to kiss him. God, he knows how to kiss too, I thought. This is just getting better as things were growing – and the feelings were also growing. Then I felt a sharp smack on my thigh.

“Behave,”he growled.

He sat me on the couch with no regard for my sorer parts. I hissed as my butt touched the cushion.

“You sit there and I’ll sit here. We need to talk,” he commanded.

I was thinking, at this minute, that talking was vastly overrated. I had about set my mind to go for it anyway, when I saw the Look. It said, in a no-nonsense way, that he was being very Toppish and I'd better listen up.

OK. So touching and kissing were out of the question. I got up and went to the bedroom returning with my comfortable well broken in floor pillow that had ended up in the bedroom, and grabbed a new pair of sweats too. Then came into the living room pulling them on, tossed the pillow on the floor, carefully pulled up the sweats, and sat very carefully on the pillow.

Well, all the brats reading this missive will know exactly what I was doing. He doesn’t want to cuddle, FINE I won’t. There was just a suggestion of a tongue sticking out as I sat gently in front of him on the floor. Then I looked up with my face angelic.

“Then let’s talk,” I said in a normal tone of voice.

I knew he saw through that in just one glance, and with a raised eyebrow and a modified

Look, he said, “I know just what you're trying to pull brat; it is not going to work. OK, here's the deal... I am a Top and you are a brat –a real brat – that I know needs a real Top to deal with, which means spanking and other punishments as I see fit. I won’t beat you, but we will have rules and you will obey them or get a warmed bottom.”

Well, I was about to tackle him and tell him yes, when he stood up. Walking over to me, he dropped a ticket on my lap. It was an airline ticket and it was open dated. Now I was getting the picture, and a knot of fear roiled in my gut. Trying to, but failing to be brave, I quipped,“Not from these here parts are ya', mister?”

Then the sadness started. Damn Florida. Damn myself for jumping in head –or in this case – bottom in first.

I just stared, and spat, “You’re a bloody tourist! Have a nice time at our beaches and in the warm Florida sunshine!”

I was so hurt – mostly at me, but also at him because he could have said something. He looked at me, and I stood up and stalked past him to the bedroom.

His arm grabbed me as I went past and, with a twist, I was falling over the arm of the couch to his lap. Somehow, the sweats were down again.

“I said, (CRACK) we were going to talk. Now behave and get back over there, or do you want to talk here? Where do you need to have the talk, brat?” His hand CRACKED down again, re-igniting the sear on my butt. He just held me there for a bit waiting for an answer.

“I should not have to hold you down while you hear about my idea, brat. But, hey, you get that attitude back and that's where you're going to be!”

He stood me up and made me stand in front. Then he walked me over to one of the kitchen chairs, and he carried that and me. With his foot, he kicked the floor pillow and sat me down hard on that hard wooden chair. He then picked up the ticket and told me to look at it then I would read it aloud to him so he could explain any of the big words, in the drawl Tops use.

That's when I saw it. I cleared my throat.

“Passenger name: Randy Williams. Time of flight: Open to current schedule. Just three days notice must be given.”

Then a receipt fell out of the ticket holder. I picked it up, wincing as the movement made my butt slide forward. Now, with a slower sound and tone – all brats and Tops know that one; the sound of a brat’s voice realizing he has made a huge error.

“Receipt for Apt 212. Paid in full for one year from month of Oct to Oct of the next year.”

Someone had been a busy beaver while I was napping. Then I saw his luggage behind the chair. I looked up; my hopes and dreams rising. His arms were open, and I flew into his lap. His strong warm scent was in my face as I pressed against his neck; his other arm cupping my still sore butt.

He chuckled, and said, “With you as a brat, I think we need to live together. Now, I am on vacation – I live in Montana. We, the family and I, own a horse ranch. I live there in my own home, but we are a close family and we all work together. My brothers and my dad and mom all live on the ranch as well. Make no mistake, we'll try to be discreet when family is around but don’t be surprised to see one, or more than one, seeing you get what you have coming. Now the other parts (and his hand stroked a very wonderful part of me firmly and positively) will be for the bedroom only.”

He kissed the back of my neck and hugged me tighter, whispering,“Of course I’ll work your cute ass off. We work outside mostly but, hell, think of the learning that will be. So what I have done; while I was watching you sleep – with that well spanked look on your face, all cute and adorable; however, knowing you are a perfect brat when you wake up – made me make a few changes to my plan. So I called our banker and had some money wired to here, and I paid your rent for a year and bought you an open ended ticket so you can come home if it doesn’t work. I don’t want you to feel you have to come, but I’d love to live with you. This way, we have a few outs that we, hopefully, will learn to talk over. And hopefully, we can tear them all up. How does that sound to you?”

Look, I’m not a dummy but... well, there was the kissing on my back of my neck, and his other hand was cupping and touching places, so I said: the hell with my dead end job, and I’d go home with a cowboy. So I nodded, and started to return the touches and sliding of hands on chest hair and nips, and kissed him seriously, and said, “Yes, Sir."

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