Legends of The Fall

"Crow's feet are ingrained on my face, and I'm living too late"

She's shivering, I think; I know I am. It's a night filled with
cold rain slithering on an insistent wind, the kind that tries every
door, and rattles every window seeking warmth.
I've got the collar of my jacket turned up, and the buckling strap
pulled tight. Still, a trickle of the cold wet has worked its way in,
winding an icicle trail down my back. Its my kind of New England
autumn, when the chill of the long night coming swirls with the passing
vigor of summer.

I'm thinking of a song, a song for a filthy night like this. That's
me in a nutshell, life with a soundtrack.

Who sang that?

Something hard, unforgiving, English. I can hear it, but I can't say
the name. I tease myself with the lyrics, one thing leads to another
that way. But all I get is more lyric, no answer.

"Sleepless, in-control spleen" - what the hell is that? Its got a
little Nick Cave feeling, but that's not right . . . I can always
remember his voice, but I can't place this.

She's younger, cute, whip smart, but now cold. I spanked her this
morning, a glorious thing. Watching her squirm, interrogating her about
the swollen prurience of her little pouch, I made her ask for it, made
her spread and blush.

And I felt the need to be most particular about her posture, made her
round her bottom out for the discipline, told her how it split her
cheeks apart, made her admire same with a little hand mirror, a
beautiful silver indulgence, something that made her smile when I
delivered it wrapped up in a box with a grosgrain ribbon.

Even cold and wet, the thought of a spanked girl can warm me. She and
me, we talk, I show her things, I spank her. Its like that with us.
Now, on a cold night, we're talking about something, about Albrecht
Durer.

He sought perfection in the human form, and in the artificial form-he
was the last man to treat them the same way, a mathematical ration for
the forearm length, a mathematical formula for the tilt of
letters-they were all the same to him.

I asked her how that could be, how organic form and the fleshy could
fall into the same ambit. I like to talk to her, when she's over my
knee. She wants to drift away into some kind of happy spank-land, a
mushy place of damp panties, skirts pulled high, and I don't let her.

I talk to her about the curve of her waist, the swell of her bottom.
I've an exact preference for how wide I'd like her-neither
grossly splayed, nor demurely tightened. I trace her little
"eight": the exquisite double figure, the top her anus, smaller,
and a wider depression for her sex. I make her stay like this a long
time.

"You're a girl who needs to bend over"

She'd blushed when I said that to her, once. Maybe the first thing I
said to her, actually, which raises the question of why she didn't
slap me . . . simple one, that. Why? Because she is, in fact, a girl
who needs to be bent over. Call a thing by its true name, and you can
possess it.

"You're a platonic spankee, you know that?"

What? She's used to my digressions, though, and just mumbles. She's
on a buzz, we went somewhere for dinner, somewhere special, somewhere
dark and quiet. I know all the dark and quiet places, and I know all
the bright and noisy places, too-but them I avoid. Hate noise, hate
marble little tables and a terrazzo floor and a server who introduces
himself-I really hate him most of all.

No, a dark place on a rainy night, wood floors, an old Italian waiter
bringing me a whiskey about the same age as the girl . . . that's
nice. That makes me warm. And she likes it too, I gather, though she
squirms a bit in her seat. Its not really the spankings that've done
that . . . it's the wool tights I've bought for her. They scratch
terribly, I'm told.

We ate, and we talked. I'm in pursuit of my own perfection, like
Durer, only I want the perfect bent over girl. I make her practice,
perform, while I seek that perfect image. Different shoes, different
height chair. I watch her move as I spank her. I stop and make little
sketches, leave her lying across my lap as my pencil scratches across
the paper. She resents that most, I think, me drawing her. She likes
being photographed, though.

I wonder why that is. Maybe because she's a better draughtsman than I
am; I think that's it. I asked her once, but she denied it. Still, I
have to work and rework my sketches. I want to capture something, that
"it" that I can see when I close my eyes, her bent over . . ..
As I say, she likes the photography better. I have a big old view
camera, glass plates. It's a pre-industrial contraption, wood and
brass, shiny screws and a leather bellows. I spank her, till her bottom
is ruddy and tears stream down her cheeks, arrange her skirt, check the
light on her shoes.

I feel her wet, the mossy damp of her pubic hair. I haven't let her
shave, I remind her of that as we're walking in the rain, cold and
shivery. I tell her why, that it photographs better, a wet-matted patch
of hair around her sex, it tells a story, one of arousal.
She wrinkles up her nose . . . too intimate, I suppose. But I press on,
talking about the seeming incongruity, the spanked, punished girl
who's nonetheless excited by her discipline-what better image than
her darkened cheeks, a deep claret bruise, with her wetness between.

She gives me a little smile:

"You make me feel so dirty"