By Sacchi Green
I’m an old hand at spanking. In my imagination, that is, although once upon a very fondly-remembered time I did take lessons from a master of the art, and later wrote about the experience in a more-or-less truthful piece called “Learning It at Her Knee” in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s First-Timers (Alyson). That scarcely qualifies me as an expert, but I never let little details like that slow me down, and I went on to publish spanking stories in two more of Rachel’s anthologies, Naughty Spanking Stories from A-Z volumes 1 and 2 (Pretty Things Press.) Spanking scenes have also worked their seductive way into several of my other stories, including “Bright Angel” (kink on the edge of the Grand Canyon!) in Best Lesbian Erotica 2007.
In short, spanking does occupy a special niche in my imagination, and a special place in my heart. When D.L. King announced this anthology I went trolling through my teeming subconscious, and was startled by what came to the surface. I occasionally recycle characters from previous stories, writing sequels or prequels, and they don’t mind, but this time I’m pretty sure it was nonconsensual.
Two of my very favorite pieces deal with a WWII Army nurse and an American woman pilot ferrying warplanes in the Air TransportAuxiliary of the RAF during WWII. Their bitterweet story appeared in Hanne Blank’s Shameless: Women’s Intimate Erotica (Seal Press,) and I wrote a follow-up with the same characters, also on the bittersweet side, letting them meet again after thirty-five years (in Best Women’s Erotica 2004, Cleis Press.)
In Spank!’s “The Good Soldier”, I’ve made the pilot crash-land a Spitfire in a storm on the moors of Scotland, just where a young German has hidden after escaping from a prisoner-of-war camp. She’s kicking herself for leaving her lover for the sake of her career; he’s kicking himself because he thinks he’s failed his idol (and mad crush) Field Marshal Rommel. No actual kicking occurs, but spanking does definitely ensue. I have an awful feeling that my character, if she found out what I’d gotten her into, would whap me around and wring me out and hang me up to dry—but that would be just fine with me. On the other hand, just maybe my subconscious has revealed what she really got up to (and down to) on that stormy day in 1943.
Here’s an excerpt, from near the beginning:
Gunther opened his eyes to a stormy dawn. He turned his head. The dimness of the morning was dimmer still inside the little stone hut, its one window covered by a leather flap, but the rattle of hail on the roof was diminishing. The narrow wooden door stood open to let in some light. And there the woman, silhouetted against the grayness, lounged against a doorpost.
She straightened and came to stand above him. Not a woman from any of his favorite dreams. Nothing like Fraulein Ludmilla, nor movie goddess Marlene, so naughty in The Blue Angel, so sultry in top hat and tails in Morocco, so deliciously cruel with an imagined riding crop in her elegant hands!
This woman was tall, dark-haired, self-assured—and in military uniform. He could not have imagined such a vision even in dreams! She wore dark blue trousers and belted tunic, “USA” insignia on one sleeve, and silver wings pinned above one high, firm breast. And such boots! Heavy leather boots, so much like…
No. He must not think of Field Marshal Rommel’s boots. The Fuhrer, for all Gunther cared, could rot in hell; it was the Desert Fox he had fought for, escaped for, should have died for. And must never soil with his dreams.
To be taken prisoner by a woman was no greater humiliation than he deserved. He stole another glance. Yes, strong, attractive in a handsome sort of way, and, at this moment, looking quite severe. Possibly she was more than he deserved, after all. His buttocks prickled as he felt her gaze move over him.
“C’mon, Gunther, it’s just about morning.” The voice was edged with irritation. The inflection, the tone, the shape of the words—English, yes, which he understood well enough after nine months in British POW camps, but different. Like in a movie. Not one with Marlene, though, nor Garbo. An American movie. With cowboys.
“Wake up, and convince me to let you move around a little. No bedpans in this place, and I’m sure as hell not going to clean up after you.” In one quick motion she yanked away a ragged woolen blanket reeking of sheep.
Chilly air washed over him. Gunther made one final attempt to believe he was dreaming, or still serving with the Field Marshall, but it was useless. However fiercely he squeezed his eyes shut, no Panzer’s steel plates enclosed him. The Afrikakorps no longer battled in Egypt. The Desert Fox had withdrawn across the Mediterranean to France, and Sergeant Gunther Bernhardt would never serve at his side again.
He tested the bonds on wrists and ankles once more. They seemed to be tied to the crude frame of a narrow wooden bed with no mattress and only interwoven leather strips for springs. He gave up, and looked back toward his captor.
“Last chance, or I’ll just leave you here,” the woman said. “My landing gear may have knocked you out, but that lump on your head doesn’t amount to all that much. Didn’t even break the skin.”
Gunther hadn’t noticed the ache before, but now it startled a groan out of him.
“Too late for that,” she said callously. “And I know you can talk. You’re lucky I didn’t gag you last night to shut you up. Seemed like you had nightmares there for a while, muttering in German and English, but just now, whatever was going on in your head, you were having way too much fun for an escaped POW.”
Gunther struggled to make sense of the situation. What should he say? Did she hold a genuine military rank? How much authority did she have over him—aside from the undeniable fact that he was tied down and completely at her mercy? His vulnerable backside tingled at the thought.
“Suit yourself, then.” She shrugged and seemed about to step out into the light rain.
“Fraulein, wait!” he blurted out. “What…who are you?”
“Make that ‘Lieutenant,’” she barked. “Commissioned temporarily in the Air Transport Auxiliary of the RAF. And I’m the one who gets to ask for name, rank and serial number, Sergeant Bernhardt!”
“Ja!” Gunther’s bound right hand strained in vain to snap a salute. “Yes Lieutenant! But…already you know my name and rank. How is that?”
She slid a hand into the pocket of her blue trousers and drew out an envelope. He recognized a letter from his sister that had most recently been in his own pocket. “I didn’t read anything beyond name and address, and that last part is already stamped on your underwear. ‘Halmuir Farm POW Camp, Dumfries, Lockerbie’. Which is good to know, since I was supposed to be flying that brand new Spitfire fighter to the RAF airfield at Lockerbie. If you got here on foot, it can’t be too far. Shouldn’t take them long to locate us.”
This woman had peered into his underwear? The limp, dirty garment he’d been wearing during five days of stumbling across boggy moorland? Gunther wriggled just slightly in embarrassment. Then, imagining her hands on his nether garments, perhaps even brushing his flesh, he struggled to hold himself rigidly immobile. Every movement of his body against the leather strips beneath him made his cock lurch and stiffen, and the pressure of his full bladder only amplified the discomfort.
He was not, he realized, wearing the rough gray trousers issued at the POW camp. He was not wearing any trousers at all, not even the thin underdrawers she’d mentioned. Nothing but the equally rough gray shirt, disarranged now so that its tail did nothing to shield his buttocks.
The woman must have seen his grimace of humiliation. “Sorry,” she said brusquely. “I’m not sure the Geneva Convention covers anything like this, but I reckon they’d take a dim view of it. You can have your pants back if you give me your word that you’ll submit to being my prisoner, and won’t try to escape.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, Ma’am,” Gunther said wearily. Her frown made him wonder whether he should have said, “Sir”, but his mind was more occupied with wondering how much submission she expected. Turning his head with an effort, he looked up into eyes as gray as the cloudy sky. “I submit myself. I will not try to escape.”
“Okay then. If you haven’t managed to get anywhere beyond the moors yet, chances are you wouldn’t have any better luck even if you did run.” She moved to the head of the bed and bent to release his wrists.
With her body so close to his face—a woman’s body, inside an officer’s uniform!—arousal became even harder to suppress. When he saw that he had been tied down with a pair of ladies’ nylon stockings, and caught a faint whiff of woman-scent as one brushed his face, he very nearly groaned.
In Germany no one had such luxuries. Even in Paris only the highest-priced whores wore nylons. Or so he’d heard. This woman—this Lieutenant and pilot—had nothing of the whore or the flirt about her. He could tell by the fit of her trousers that her legs were as elegantly long and slim as even Dietrich’s, but to think of her pulling the stockings languorously up over calves and knees and thighs seemed wrong, somehow. And profoundly, erotically, disturbing.
She straightened, and he could swear that she lowered her face very briefly into the filmy stockings to inhale their scent before tucking them inside her tunic. For a moment an expression that might have been pain crossed her face. Then she moved briskly to the foot of the bed to tend to his remaining bonds.
Trust me, it’s worth pursuing to the very heated end.
Sacchi Green
Don’t forget to follow the blog tour. Here are the dates and places and be sure to get your own copy of spank, available now, right here at Logical Lust.
9/1 D. L. King
9/2 Cervo Logical Lust
9/3 Sommer Marsden
9/4 Anna Black
9/5 Jean Roberta
9/6 Tara S. Nichols
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9/8 Kathleen Bradean
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9/14 Roxy Katt
9/15 Donna George Storey
9/16 Beth Wylde
9/17 Sacchi Green Logical Lust
9/18 A.D.R. Forte
9/19 J. Z. Sharpe Logical Lust
9/20 Jessica Lennox
9/21 Cassandra Park
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