The Allotment

Annika

While I have at times been described as soft and cuddly, Annika was the opposite. Her hair was short, blond and spiky, her body lithe. While my bottom was round and soft, her’s was drum tight, athletic and toned. While I was a passive, tender lover, Annika was uninhibited, ferocious and exuberant. While my style was to caress and tease, hers was to use bonds and the palms of her hand and on occasion, the strap. She loved to spank me and then trace the marks that her fingers left, her nails leaving their own trail of pain. My whimpers excited her, my squeals of pain aroused her.

Awakening

I wished that Annika hadn’t decided to leave so early! I lay on my stomach on her side of the bed, my fingers pressed up beneath my mound; this caused a delicious wave of pleasure to course through my body every time I shifted. The bed was warm and cozy beneath the fluffy duvet and the morning light had not yet forced it’s way through the heavy curtains. A trace of her scent lingered on the pillows, tantalizing my senses, carrying me back to her seductive behavior of the earlier night. Black Opium perfume,vanilla and coffee, spices and arousal. My mind wallowed in the seduction and luxuriated in the memories.

Annika’s head tucked between my thighs, her lips pressed against my pouting sex, her fingers trailing gently up and down the sensitive skin behind my knees and up to my crotch. The warmth of her spiky hair as it brushed my thighs, my own moans of pleasure as I succumbed to my own passion. My arms stretched up behind my head, my hands grasping the poles on the headboard, where they were bound with silk ribbons and spread for her pleasure. In that early morning state where I was half asleep and half awake, I tried to string my random thoughts into a coherent story-line.

I knew that I was behind in my allotment and I was now grasping at straws. I had been a teenager when I first read Anais Nin’s book ‘Delta of Venus’; it had seemed to be such a romantic lifestyle she had chosen, writing erotica day in and day out, constantly in pursuit of hedonistic encounters to fuel her imagination, filling her allotment with ease as she committed her imagination to paper.

The Allotment

Now in my mid thirties, I had been thrilled to get a placement at ‘Gilded Lily Erotica’, a boutique publishing house that specialized in writing and publishing lesbian publications. Annika and I were the writers, while Daniella, the owner, was the editor and publisher. I remember vividly the meeting Daniella and I had when I came into sign my contract. The contracted allotment seemed very fair, over generous perhaps! Fifteen hundred words minimum a day seemed an easy target; I could not imagine how I could fail. I had often scoffed at those who proclaimed that they had writer’s block. “Pick a topic, and write about it!” My response was always blase and unsympathetic. I had signed the contract blindly, not reading the small print, never for a moment thinking that I might not be able to meet the allotment. Let the signer beware.

Three months later, I found myself struggling. Twenty days a month, three months, sixty stories; it was not suprising that my creativity had dried up. I was two short of my allotment for the month, and no matter where I looked for inspiration, I could not find it. I re-read the advice given to Anais Nin in ‘Delta of Venus’; “read the Kama Sutra, experience situations, open yourself up”, she seemed to counsel. I had taken Annika in as a lover, I had read erotica, I had watched pornographic video clips.I had immersed myself for hours on the Internet, surfing online erotic sites and libraries, but the ideas never came; my writer’s block had set in.

Despondently, I got myself ready for work, and after a light breakfast, I headed in to the office. Annika was already there; I wished again that she would move in with me permanently, or at least spend the whole night with me; I simply couldn’t understand why she had to creep out of my bed in the early hours to head back to her own apartment. We greeted each other cheerfully like any working colleagues would do, our romp of the previous night neither mentioned nor alluded to. We sat in front of our own screens and I tried to come up with a plot for the day but with a growing sense of panic I realized that writer’s block had set in. I knew then that I would miss my contacted allotment for the month, and I desperately wished that I had paid more attention when I had signed the contract; one of my few phrases of Latin sprang into my mind: caveat emptor – let the buyer beware.

The round-table

Daniella seemed to be in rather a good mood when she walked into the office that Annika and I shared. She was carrying a report of our firm’s performance; good sales numbers, positive reviews from readers, few book returns, growing interest from a major publishing house.

“I love what you girls are writing! ” she gushed, “I just wish it was more!”

Her bubbly mood did not seem to last for very long; just a few minutes later she was back. Daniella had another report in her hand; she didn’t look as pleased with the output of this new one.

“You have both fallen two stories short of your allotment this month.”

I looked across at Annika; she had worked at the Golden Lily for a lot longer than I had. She would know the implications, would know what to expect. What I saw did not set my mind at ease: her face had gone pale and the sparkle in her eyes had dimmed. I had no idea that she was also struggling to meet her allotment, but she obviously knew what the ramifications were!

“I think we should have a round-table now!”

This seemed like a fairly reasonable thing to suggest; how naive I was!  I was sure that Daniella would read us the Riot Act, tell us to pull up our socks and then we would all be back to normal; she was delighted with the market acceptance of our writing, after all. The look on Annika’s face told me otherwise.

I followed Annika into the small conference room where we sat in silence on opposite sides of the table waiting for Daniella. It was a round table, quite appropriate for a round-table discussion, I decided, but what transpired left me a bit unnerved. Daniella walked into the conference room, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor, a cane bouncing up and down in her hand. She had a strange look on her face, not one that I would have associated with anger or disappointment. Affection, compassion, empathy; she was reluctantly going to dish out correction to two individuals for whom she had close feelings; I only learned later how close those feelings actually were!

It inspired mixed emotions in me; I felt at once petrified yet thrilled, saddened that I had disappointed Daniella, yet proud that she seemed to care enough for us that she was showing these outward emotions. I instinctively knew what was about to happen; with that cane in her hand it didn’t take much to figure it out! I was about to get swished! For three months I had been writing scenes like this and now I was about to experience it in real life.

Annika and I stood up and our eyes locked in recognition that we were in this together. I followed her lead and self consciously unbuckled my belt, popped open the top button on my jeans and pushed them down over my hips to let them drop to the floor. With my eyes still on her and mirroring her every move, I inserted the middle fingers of each hand under the elastic of my panties and slowly eased them down to join the clothes that were now puddled around my ankles. It took me just a few seconds to squat down and pick up the pile of clothes and drop them into the chair at my side. Naked from the waist down, I bent forward across the table and leaning on my elbows, I found myself looking straight into Annika’s eyes. She reached forward slightly and held my hands, loosely to comfort me, partly for her own reassurance.

Contractual Penalty

I was totally focused on Annika’s face as Daniella raised the cane and whipped it down across her bottom. Annika gasped and jerked forwards toward me. She clutched frantically at my hands and squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head wildly as her mind registered the pain and desperately tried to cope. The second penalty was delivered in short order. The crack of the cane against her drum tight bottom sickened me and the tears that started to flow down her cheeks tore at my insides. I desperately wanted to jump across the table and comfort her, to hold her tight in my arms, to hug her tightly and to tell her that it was all over now, but I couldn’t because I instinctively knew that was not how round-tables were to be conducted and I knew that in just a few moments that it would be me who would be at the receiving end of Daniella’s painful correction.

I watched with trepidation as Daniella walked around the table, the cane bouncing in her hand as she flicked it up and down. I nearly died of heart failure as she smacked the cane down across the seat of the chair next to me. The crack was resounding, harsher than when she had wiped it across poor Annika’s bottom; it frightened the living daylights out of me. She was suddenly behind me. I couldn’t see her anymore but I could hear her heels clicking on the floor behind me. The clicking was the only sound I could hear, except for my heart, which was pounding loudly, threatening to explode. Suddenly Annika squeezed my hands tightly and I knew it was happening.

I could picture the cane raised shoulder high by Daniella; I had watched how she had held it when she swished Annika. I waited; time seemed to have stood still. It hit me at the same time: that terrifying spat as the cane bit into my flesh and the first bite of pain. A second or two later, my bottom bust into the most incredibly powerful explosion of pain that I had ever felt. A deep unrelenting fire that lit up every nerve in my backside, driving itself deeper and deeper. I desperately clung to Annika’s hands, and let out a screech. The table dug into the front of my thighs as I rammed myself forward, then back again, shaking my bottom wildly, oblivious of the spectacle that I was offering up.

My bottom slumped shamelessly.

“Get it up! Now!”

I obeyed Daniella’s command instinctively, sobbing, loathe to offer myself as a target again.

She tapped me on my bottom, taunting me, lecturing me, telling me that I had better be prepared to fulfill my contractual obligations in the future or else I would be out on my ear. Her tone had turned angry; all vestiges of compassion had gone. When she whipped in again I screamed. I couldn’t control myself; it was the most terrible thing I had ever experienced. I wanted to jump back, to massage my pain away, to slink back to my office to heal, but I couldn’t: Annika was holding my hands at the center of the table.

Slowly, she released one hand, and lifted her free hand to stroke my cheek and wipe the tears away. I heard the click of Daniella’s heels as she left the room, and then as I stood up straight, my eyes closed, I heard Annika walking around the table to join me. Her arms came wrapped around my neck, and her lips came up to mine. As the warmth and sweetness of her lips locked onto mine, I felt a delicious warmth pervade my whole lower regions. The heat from my bottom mingled with the heat that her fingers generated on my sex. Time seemed to stand still; I never wanted to pull away from her. If she was incredible in bed, then she eclipsed even that in the office.

In an incredible moment of insight, I knew then that in the months to come, Annika and I would always be falling just short of delivering on our allotment.

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