From: an176641@anon.penet.fi (Solstice)
Subject: My Evening With Ava (M/f) * S *
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
To the Ava's of the world. You are the BEST!
(c) 1995 * SOLSTICE *
I met her at a party in East Hampton, New York. She'd had a fight with the guy that brought her. She was tall, blonde and extremely attractive. She looked like Sharon Stone. I didn't think she would even talk to me. But she was sitting alone in the corner. A few guys went up to her, but they each slinked away.
There was a small bar next to her, so I used that as my excuse. I walked over, began mixing a drink and just nonchalantly noticed her.
"Hi. I'm making myself a screwdriver. Can I get you something?"
She stared at me for a second. "Champagne, please. Mustn't mix."
"Sure, sure," I said and poured her a glass. I sat down opposite her and handed over the drink. She was even more beautiful up close than she was from across the room. She had on an expensive looking, low cut, white dress that flattered her slender frame. Her hair was long, but swept up. Very elegant.
"Great party, huh?" I said, stupidly, and she eyed me suspiciously. "Well...it's a nice house, anyway."
"Oh, yes," she agreed, "a very nice house. Our host is very rich, I suppose," she said, tipping her glass slightly. "Look at all the well dressed friends he has..."
"Well," I said quietly, "you're rather well dressed yourself."
She smiled as if to say "give me a break," then relaxed and said, "Thank you. You look very nice in your suit."
"Well, I'm not big on dressing up." I nodded toward a few guys near us talking about the stock market or something. They were in black tie. "I'm not masochists like those guys." Later, I wondered if that word had been the key.
She looked at the men. "Masochists? You think they're masochists? Real masochists?"
I was caught off guard. "Well...well, I don't know, I just meant--"
She cut me off. "Real masochists are rather rare, don't you think?" She raised her chin and looked appraisingly at me.
"I--well, I guess..." I didn't know what to say.
"What would you think..." I noticed that she was slurring her words slightly and was probably quite under the influence of liquor, "...of a real masochist? I mean, what would you say to him...or her?"
"I--uh, well--" I was just lost. I didn't know what to think or say. I just knew I was interested. I tried to gather my wits about me. "I'd say that being a masochist is okay with me. And that--that, if you're, uh, in touch with your own feelings that directly, then you're a thousand times better off than most of the stiffs here."
I swear her dark blue eyes seemed to flash. I guess that was the right answer. "That would be a nice thing to say," she said, a little thickly. Then, sexily, she almost whispered, challenging me, "And...and what would you _do_ to your little masochist?"
"Well--"
She gestured with her glass: "Remember, she's a masochist..."
I chuckled. "Yes, that could be very interesting." I looked down and tried to appear pensive, but I was really looking at her incredibly long legs. They were well proportioned, smooth looking and tanned...or was it her stockings? Then she moved them, slowly folding them up under her, as if she were getting comfortable. But she was actually getting ready to stand.
"Let's go out on the terrace," she said quietly.
"Okay...sure."
She rose and walked ahead of me. She seemed to have a really nice body. Her dress was not very tight, but I noticed two luscious, rounded ass cheeks bulging the sleek white material this way and that as she walked.
We got outside and she rested her arms on the railing, looking out at the dark beach, still holding her champagne glass in her hands.
"I, uh, I don't know your name," I said.
She hesitated, as if that might ruin the moment. "It's Ava. What's yours?"
"I'm Jim. But my friends call me Solly."
"Solly? What's that? A nickname?"
"Yes, sort of."
"Well, Solly," she said, then paused, thinking. Then she turned around to face me. "What would you really think of a female masochist? A modern, accomp--accomplished woman who likes...who likes to be roughed up a little in the bedroom?"
I smiled. "As long as she was secure and could separate those feelings from--from her life outside the bedroom, that's fine."
Ava's elbow slipped off the rail and she lurched a little. She laughed. "What, uh, what do you mean? Explain that."
"Well, as long as she realized that my roughing her up didn't mean I didn't care about her or respect her, then I..." I took a chance: "...then I think I would _like_ it."
Ava raised an eyebrow. "You'd 'like' it? What do you mean you'd 'like' it?"
I smiled. "Hey, you're asking me too many questions. Why do you want to know all this about me?"
She paused for several long seconds and looked right into my eyes. "Because...I like you. You're...nice." She put an unsteady finger on my lapel and traced an invisible line parallel to the edge of the material. My pulse quickened. Then she said, "So you would like to, say, slap a woman?"
"Well, I don't know...it--it depends. I--"
"How about holding her down or..or..pinching her?"
I tried to make light of it. "Well, a little pinch now and then is nice," I chuckled. She stayed serious.
"Have you ever whipped your lover?" she asked seriously, turning away.
I hesitated. "No...no, I never, uh, have. You?"
"Oh, yes," she said plainly, "and 'been whipped, too." I felt butterflies in my stomach. I tried to imagine this stunning female being whipped. It was just...unbelievable. Then she looked at me very directly again. She said slowly, "I, uh, am..a..a..true...masochist."
"Really?" I said, stupidly. I wanted to kick myself.
But Ava continued, glassy eyed. "Yes. I saw a therapist about it. 'Didn't help. Sometimes it's better to accept yourself than be forced into a mold you don't fit. I like to be...uh...mistreated, so to speak, humiliated by men before sex. I find it...stimulating." She looked into my eyes. "Do you find that odd?"
"No," I said hoarsely. I moved my face closer to hers. I could smell her perfume. "I find that...wonderful."
"Wonderful?" She stared at me for several seconds. "Are you sure?" I nodded. "You know, that's easy to say, but the reality of another person...asking to be hurt... Well, some men find it distasteful."
"I don't think I would," I said confidently.
"Solly, come with me," she said. She threw her glass carelessly onto the beach and took my hand in hers. It was warm and soft. She kicked off her heels and we trudged off the terrace into the sand, away from the lights of the party, around the side of the house. I couldn't help noticing she was still over 5'8" or so in her stocking feet and her full ass was squirming in the moonlight as she walked over the soft ground.
She began talking quickly now, slurring a word now and then, but seeming to have made a decision. "Would you beat me, Solly? I want you to give it to me good. I deserve it and I want it, do you understand?" She turned and stopped to see my reaction, then kept walking. "It won't bother you? You're not afraid to hit a woman?"
That seemed like a loaded question. "Well--"
She turned her head in my direction. "Well, don't punch me in the mouth, but you mustn't be afraid to hurt me. Do you know what I mean?"
"I--I guess so," I lied.
She led me into the detached garage and searched for the light. She found the switch and a small, dim bulb illuminated the space. It was a typical two car garage, cluttered with stuff. There was a shiny new Caddy at one side but the other space was empty. She left me standing there, dumbly, as she energetically began rummaging around the edges of the room. We seemed quite alone. I heard her say "Ah!" triumphantly. Then she rummaged around some more. She walked back towards me. The front of her dress was smudged and she was carrying what looked like some kind of racket ball paddle with holes in it and a wooden plank. "Look what I found!" she exclaimed, as if she had discovered something very valuable.
"The front of your dress is dirty."
She looked down at the smudge. "Oh shit!" Instantly, she put the paddle and board down on the floor and reached for the front hem of her skirt and pulled the dress 'way up. Her pantihose and small pink panties came into view. The pantihose were darker from the waist to the tops of her thighs. I gaped. She had a beautiful, feminine shape! Her legs were slim and model-perfect and her ass jutted out saucily, begging to be slapped and pinched. I watched with anticipation to see all of her, but she got stuck halfway up in the dress. Thrashing, from under it she said, "Can you, help me?"
"I sure can," I volunteered, emboldened, and gave the seat of her pantihose a good, hard smack. When I touched her firm, bouncy ass, I felt an erotic electric shock flick through my entire body. I had touched her! She turned a quarter turn away, but was helpless with the dress over her head. I pinched the bottom of her right ass cheek, hard, and she giggled and sexily shot her hips to the side to avoid my hand. I took a step to her right and swatted her again, aiming low, catching her full under the base of both cheeks.
She jumped and let out a feminine "Eeek!" Then, comically, with one knee bent, she said slowly, "You know, this isn't fair."
I laughed and unzippered the back of the garment with difficulty (it was inside out) and pulled it up and off. She was magnificent. She was well built up top and her breasts nearly overflowed the top of her small, lacy white bra. I was off balance, stunned, to see this mouth watering woman stripped to her underwear in seconds before me.
She came close to me and took both of my hands in hers with the bunched up dress between us. She kissed my fingers and said very quietly, "Slap me across the face."
"No," I said. I didn't want to do that. That wouldn't turn me on at all.
"Yes. Do it. Hard. For me."
Reluctantly, I raised my right hand and half heartedly patted her left cheek. I never saw it coming: she slapped me hard against the left side of my face with her right hand. My mouth dropped in shock and I was instantly angry. "Like that," she said matter of factly.
I did it. I slapped her right across the face. "Again. Other side," she commanded. Her head jerked as my hand connected. "Again." I slapped her again, this time with the back of my hand, and her face jerked the other way. In the dim light I could see her left cheek was visibly red. I felt a strange mixture of horrified confusion and excitement.
Then she was comical again. Like she was in a rush, she looked around. She shoved the dress onto the shiny hood of the car. "Here," she said simply and began dragging a wooden bench to the center of the empty parking space. I drank in the image of her, bent over in her underwear, tugging the heavy wooden piece, determined to move it. I helped her center it. Then she briskly walked around it, forced her pantihose to her knees with a wiggle of her shapely hips and bent over the backboard. I didn't move. She looked up. "Go ahead. Hit me," she said.
"I--I...you--"
"Try the paddle first," she suggested. "Go ahead, Solly. Whack my ass!"
I needed no more encouragement. I picked up the paddle, held it with both hands, set my feet about an arms' length away and let fly with a powerful swing. The paddle caught her square in her defenseless rear end, pushing her luscious ass well up and jiggling it tremendously. The slap resounded loudly. Ava let out a restrained "mmm." Then quietly, she hissed, "'Good one! Give me another."
I hit her again.
"That's it. Swat my butt! Tear it up!"
I went manic. I swung again. And again. As fast as I could I spread forceful, hot, burning swats over every square inch of her shapely behind. She tilted her ass this way and that, bent her legs, shook and rose up on her toes, jutting her ass out to meet the paddle. But other than muffled sounds and gurgles, she didn't cry out in distress once. Her ass was wonderfully solid, firm and strong. After a dozen or so very hard blows, she spoke horsely, "Use the board. The board."
"The board on the floor?" I asked (like an idiot).
Sounding far away, almost in a trance, she said, "Yes..."
I rapidly walked over to the board and picked it up. It was heavy, rough and dirty, at least four feet long, five inches wide and a half inch thick. It was hard to hold because it had no handle. I had to ask her: "Are you sure?"
Again, that odd tone: "Yes.."
I got behind her. The thing was so long I had to stand off a few feet. Managing to grasp it at one end with a hand on each edge, I brought it 'way back, then clumsily snapped it forward. It was a direct hit with tremendous leverage. The plank contacting her ass made a WHOP! noise and the impact was fierce. I felt her ass resist, yield, then push the board forcefully back. Ava yelped. She jumped up an inch or two, stayed on her tiptoes a moment, then settled back down and shifted her weight from one foot to the other a few times. The movements of her round, feminine ass were hypnotic. Dirt from the wood left two marks, down low, on the fullest part of each cheek. I swung again, just as hard. A dust cloud flew off her seat. This time she let out a fairly loud "Oh!" Then she grunted twice.
"Again?" I asked.
"Yes.."
WHOPP! "Ahh! Unhh! Mmm! Oh! Oh! Okay! Enough! Okay... enough..."
I couldn't resist. She was a masochist, right? I swung again, with all my strength. WHHOPP!!! The board seemed to "pop" on her ass and and I was stunned to see half of it go flying away and skitter across the floor, disappearing under the car. I was left with a jagged piece about two feet long. I had broken it across her firm, tight butt. "OHH!" she yelled. Then, quieter, as if she was truly suffering somewhat, "Ohhh...oh..oh..geez..oh..shit..oh.."
I didn't know what to do next. Ava slumped over the back of the bench, sniffling, her hands furiously massaging her damaged seat. I knelt behind her on my knees, not caring about my suit. I gently dusted off the seat of her panties, then slowly peeled them down to reveal her magnificent, swollen, bruised ass. I tenderly kissed and licked her, all over her butt, and she moaned a little.
Then, quite simply, I had the best sex of my life.
How I ever let her get away from me I will never understand. We exchanged numbers. I called her, but we could never manage to get together again. She was always jetting off to Europe or the Orient.
I've spent my life searching for another woman like her.
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