His and Hers

[Adelina]

“Closet.”

It was amazing how one word could say so many things, yet retain the simplistic comfort of its central meaning. The directive was music to her frazzled ears. She glanced up at him, relieved that he was already turning back to the living room and dropping into an overstuffed chair, not looking her way. He was done. She was going.

She thought of it as Her Closet, just that way, capitalized just so. To her, it was a cave, a place of retreat when she was at the end of her rope, pushing her lover toward the end of his, and needed to mellow out before things got out of hand. That’s what the other closet was for, the one she called His Closet, capitalized just so. His Closet was not really a closet at all, but an armoire, beautiful, old and made from carved wood, housing an array of items she did not care to see today. It was pretty, but not nearly spacious enough to crawl inside and hunker down with her wired nerves. Hers had more space. She needed space, badly.

She whirled around in a rather ungraceful spin, landing in front of the door to Her Closet. She yanked the door open, hopped inside and shut the door behind her. This was her refuge from the world. Bright, noisy, hectic world. Sometimes, it was just too much to be in it. Here, she was safe from it. Here was her modest mountain of small, cushy throw pillows jumbled on the floor where she could curl up and bury herself as if in a nest. Here was her soft fleece blanket, a warm covering to give herself shelter from the storm of life. Here, on the inner wall, was a dim touch lamp fastened to the wall, providing just enough light to see where she was and to appreciate the textures and colors in which she was nestled.

She burrowed into the pillows and wrapped herself in the blanket, focusing her gaze on a nearby cushion. She liked this particular cushion, with its bright satin patterns and little metal adornments. It reminded her of India. She always had to be mindful of where she put it, so she wouldn’t land on it if she was really in a huff and had to jump in here to calm down. Those little metal things were scratchy. She looked at them. She thought them rather contrary to the smooth surface of the fabric and the happiness of the bright colors. They sullied the cushiony mood with their scratchiness. She was feeling rather scratchy herself, a big metal scratchy thing sitting amongst a heap of softness. She couldn’t shake it. She knew this was not going to help, not today. She was far too overloaded.

She drew the blanket over herself and curled onto her side, resting and willing the bad feelings to go away. She hated feeling this way. She couldn’t help it, but she still hated it, all the more so because there was little she could do about it. Her nervous system had its own plans and didn’t usually consult her for an opinion. It ran on its own steam, dragging her along for the ride.

Silently cursing in frustration, she flicked off the lamp and crawled toward the length of light sneaking under the door. She groped above her head for the knob, found it, turned and pushed and spilled into the hall. The pattern in the carpet runner danced under her gaze as she got her bearings and pushed herself up. She looked toward the living room. There he sat, idly watching the evening news. He turned in his chair and focused on her, on the sight of her, lying there on the hallway floor. The expression on her face told him she was unwell. She needed more than solitude.

“Go pick something.”

Even hearing the cue made her feel calmer, before she’d even been touched. She was not alone. At times like this, when the feelings were bad, sometimes, that was all that mattered.

She got to her feet, slowly, allowing the dizziness to dissipate as she stood. The walls seemed to back away as she passed them by, stepping towards the bedroom and through the doorway, approaching His Closet as anxious energy filtered through her veins. She felt somewhat robotic, not quite connected. She saw her hand on the knob of the armoire door, and felt the coldness of the metal, but somehow, she felt separated from it. These feelings were all quite familiar to her, like old friends, the ones who aren’t really your friends anymore, but you go have coffee with them anyway. She watched as the door swung open and the contents came into view: above, a rack with the usual shirts and such; below, on the floor of the armoire, a basket which held the items from which she was to choose. She looked carefully at the selection, purposefully lifting a large brush from the mix. She had bought this one herself, found it in the bath section of some unassuming department store. It felt heavy in her hand, and she found the weight of it comforting.

As she emerged from the bedroom, she noticed that he had already turned off the television and arranged himself for the task. She walked toward the dining area, where he was neatly seated in a chair, hands folded in his lap, waiting patiently for her return. His eyes found hers, and for just a moment, everything stopped. She felt nothing. All that mattered were the deep brown eyes that held her in their gaze. She barely noticed the quiet sound of his hand patting his thigh in invitation. Her feet seemed to follow their own path, approaching silently and halting at his side. Eyes locked once more, and she nodded her assent. Nothing needed to be said. It had all been done before. He knew her needs.

Her stomach did a slight flip as he took the brush from her and tapped it into his palm. Belt and jeans came undone quickly, and she pushed it all down past her knees, hungry for release. The firmness with which he grasped her wrist and pulled her across his knees was like an elixir to her. Nothing ever made her feel safer than being securely held on his lap. She never knew why, nor did she seek to know. Even as the brush began to fall, and the pain took hold, she felt soothed and loved. Physical pain displaced the accumulated stress, releasing it from her in sobs and tears. She felt tension swimming away, leaving calm warmth in its wake.

She didn’t know how long it went on. It was enough, and that was the important thing. Somehow, he knew when it was enough. Her sated body slid limply to the floor, lost in a peaceful nothingness. And as he lowered himself to join and embrace her, she melted into him, giving silent thanks for this perfect person who made her feel whole.

[lil_dixiedarling]

I must say very well done...i really liked this story. It was refreshing to see the buildup and emotions from her point of view instead of getting lost in alot of whacking here and there that sometimes just tends to serve as filler. I think the idea of release and safty and caring accomplished through a spanking with the right person was beautifully displayed. Thankyou for sharing.

Sherie