The sun had sunk below the horizon and the lights of the city were beginning to twinkle in the valley, as she looked at him, sitting calmly—or perhaps only apparently calmly? Kirsten desperately hoped his serene appearance covered over as much arousal as she felt—in her desk chair, waiting for her to act out the salacious story of the moment she had destroyed her career. And then… then he would spank her for it and for her disrespect to him.
“Turn on the light,” he said.
Panic rose in Kirsten’s chest. “B-but… it was dark… it was like four a.m.”
“Maybe we’ll change that,” he replied. “But in any case I want to see you.”
Kirsten’s breath caught in her throat at that. “Wh-why?” she stammered, although she thought she knew the answer.
What Michael said took her by surprise though. “I want you to be self-conscious. I want you to think about me watching you.”
“But I… I mean, I didn’t know you… and, I was thinking about…” Her knees started to shake as she contemplated actually obeying him.
“Show me, Kirsten,” he said, with a hint of sternness. “Turn on the light and show me.”
She gulped, and reached out to the lamp on her night-table and turned it on. Then she turned away, and started to take her top off, wondering if he would tell her to turn around.
“Think about me sitting here behind you,” he said. “What you did was about seeing yourself being naughty, wasn’t it?”
She had her top off and she dropped it onto the bed. He could see that she hadn’t been wearing a bra. It was not something that made her self-conscious usually, but oh, lord did it ever now.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Your jeans, now,” Michael said, from behind her. “You were in bed, I’m thinking?”
Kirsten balled her hands into fists in front of her midriff. “Yes.”
“What do you sleep in? Do you sleep in the nude? You were wearing pretty white lace panties in the picture. How did they get on you?”
He seemed like the director taken to some exponential power. He asked all the questions a director asks to help an actor or actress get into character, but of course because of the nature of the “scene” she was supposed to perform those questions cut directly to the core not just of her “character” but of her own identity. Involuntarily, she moved her hands to cover her breasts, feeling more vulnerable than she thought she ever had in her life.
She turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder. As she did, she wondered for an instant whether she would find that he had taken off his own clothes and sat there naked. The flash of arousal that shot through her pussy at the image made her knees go weak, but he sat still in his white Oxford and his jeans, regarding her levelly.
“I was in a nightshirt,” she said softly.
Kirsten bit her upper lip, then said, “No.”
“How did the panties get on you, then?” Oh, God, the slightly accusatory tone… an image of the spanking he had promised—when? When would he do it at last?—sprung to life in her imagination.
“I…” She took a deep, sobbing breath, and then spoke as quickly as she could to get the shameful confession over with. “I got out of bed so that I would stop playing with myself, and I took my nightshirt off and put the panties on, but…”
“Show me,” Michael growled.
“I can’t!” Kirsten wailed. “It’s so…”
“Do I have to spank you to get you to show me, Kirsten?”
“You wouldn’t!” Michael couldn’t believe how different she sounded now, from the way she had come across when playing guerrilla executive producer only a few minutes before. Kirsten August, small-voiced and just the tiniest bit bratty. It was a part: if anything, it was closest to Molly in A Lifetime of Promises, but it was also clearly a new character for her if Michael knew anything about her career—and he did.
Michael felt a sudden urge to stop everything so that he could figure out what they had started. At that moment, he couldn’t even determine whether they were still playing themselves, or had begun to improvise a scene—something he knew from an interview in the run-up to the Oscars Kirsten August loved to do and felt she hadn’t gotten enough of a chance to try in her movies to that point.
“I’m really hoping that when I finally get to work with Jacob” (Jacob Horner, attached to direct a Jane Austen movie Kirsten had now lost, and renowned for saying “action” and letting his actors go, in the hallowed style of Robert Altman) “we’re going to have fun with the part,” she had said.
Michael loved improvisation, too—not the comic kind, where you were just always going for the next punchline, but what he thought of as the real, dramatic kind, where you could get at things inside you that you didn’t know were there. Was that what this scene was, with Kirsten? But how could it be that, when they were talking about Michael’s actual screenplay and Kirsten’s actual selfie?
But if it were actual Michael talking to actual Kirsten, how could he possibly have just said, “Do I have to spank you to get you to show me?” They were talking about what had become an incredibly traumatic memory for a girl that Michael already thought he had probably fallen in love with, both Kirsten August, movie star and real-life woman. To threaten to spank her if she didn’t perform that memory for him—how could that be something a man who had always considered himself kind, and empathetic could have said?
He needed to commit to his character, and his motivation. Later, he could figure out how much overlap existed between that character and the person Michael Rollins wanted to be going forward, with or without Kirsten in his life either as actress or as—what?—taken-in-hand girlfriend? He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it of the impossible thought.
He had spanked girls. He knew how it could go, how the script could work. The part was there, in his repertoire. He needed to expand it a little—to go from non-specific paternal spanking figure to spanking director—and he needed to do it now.
“Kirsten,” he said. “Clearly I need to show you that I would, and I will. Come here.”
“Not only do you apparently need to understand how serious I am about you showing me how the picture happened, but I think we need to get your first spanking out of the way. Come here.”
Hesitantly, and with her hands over her breasts, she turned and took a little step toward Michael.
“Hands down at your side, Kirsten,” he said.
Wordlessly, wide-eyed she shook her head.
“It’s nothing the whole world hasn’t seen, sweetie.”
Kirsten gasped, and he knew he had guessed right, from the very beginning. Michael supposed that really the naughty selfie shouldn’t have left him in any doubt, but now he could read on Kirsten’s face exactly how much arousal lay for her in the idea of being displayed for the visual pleasure of masculine eyes.
She kept shaking her head.
“Yes, Kirsten,” Michael said, putting more authority into his tone. “Get those hands down, so I can see your tits. Among other reasons, they happen to be my favorite tits in the world.”
“P-please don’t make me,” she squeaked, and he could hear that she had begun to breathe so hard that she might actually be lightheaded now.
“Last chance before I come get you, sweetie,” Michael said, more gently.
Kirsten dropped her hands, and Michael couldn’t help an aroused swallow at the sight of the perfect little breasts, with their strawberry nipples. Part of him wanted only to push his luck all the way, and re-summon her so that he could suck as much of those sweet peaches into his mouth as he could, and try to make her give in to the pleasure he could force upon her.
But instead, after taking a long, long look at Kirsten August, topless for him and him alone, he looked into her eyes and said, “Pull down your jeans and panties to your knees, and then get over my lap.”
“I… I can’t.” This time she whispered, rather than wailing.
“You can, and you will,” Michael replied, now letting a little frustration come out in his tone, as if he couldn’t believe that a well-behaved young lady like Kirsten wouldn’t understand that when a director told her to bare her bottom she must obey him.
“I’ve never… no one’s ever…”
“Oh, I can tell very easily that you’ve never been spanked, Kirsten. That’s why we need to get you over my knee right now, rather than waiting until later.”
Her resistance seemed to grow, at that—at the matter-of-fact way Michael summarized her need for real discipline. Good: she should resist—that was certainly a key element of the character he had begun to develop around her, in the screenplay. She narrowed her eyes, and said, “No. I’m sorry, Michael. I think this is probably my fault, but… Just, no. I thought it might… but I’m twenty-three years old, and it… it’s just not appropriate.”
Michael stood up. At this point, he had no doubts at all: Kirsten needed this very, very badly.
“What are you—”
He seized her around the waist, and dragged her toward the chair. “I’m going to start you off with a spanking over your jeans, just so that you’re not so scared, sweetie, but I promise you that the jeans—and your panties—will come down soon enough. We need to be clear on that.”
“Did you not hear what I said?” Kirsten said, the little-girl bratty tone returning. “I said no. I said…”
She struggled against him, but not, he thought, as hard as she might if she were really to try. Stage-fighting: she had used it to good effect in Thoughts of Violence and The Tenth Crusader. Heck, there had even been that bizarre interpolated scene in Romeo and Juliet where Kirsten’s Juliet tried to kill Count Paris.
“I heard you, Kirsten,” he said, as calmly as he could, given how incredibly aroused he had gotten. He maneuvered her so that she bent at waist and knees, with her upper body on his left and her backside just where he wanted it, over his right thigh.
Michael brought his hand down as hard as he could on the jean-covered bottom of the reigning best actress in the world. She just felt so wonderfully little in his grasp, as if he could hold her tight and keep her safe just with the bulk of his own well-muscled body. He had felt it up atop the hill, when the embrace had been affectionate: he felt it even more strongly now, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she needed to struggle against him, needed to resist him, in order to accept the spanking she truly craved.
“Ow! Jesus! Michael!” He spanked her again, just as hard. Through the jeans, he knew, he would have to work hard to show her he meant business.
“Goddammit! Stop!” Now he spanked over and over—not so fast that the scene felt out of control, as if Michael were spanking in anger, but very steadily, ten times all right in the center of her little bottom, down low at the sit-spot. She kept yelling, but he concentrated on giving her as thorough a taste of punishment as he could, though he was spanking her so hard that his hand began to ache a little.
“Okay!” she said, her bottom squirming with unintentional sexiness over his leg as he held her tightly around the waist. “I’ll show you! Stop, please.”
“You’ll take off your jeans and panties, is what you’ll do, sweetie,” Michael said. “And we’ll continue this spanking properly.”
“But you just spanked me! I said I’ll… I’ll show you that. I’ll show you what happened.”
“I can tell you don’t mean it,” Michael said. “And more importantly I need you to understand that when I spank you, from now on, I’m the one who decides how it happens and how long it lasts. Until you get used to that, I need to be strict with you.”
“Strict with me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Michael released her from his grasp and set her on her feet. She glared at him.
He sat back down in the chair, looking her steadily in the eyes. “It means exactly what you think it means. Whether I’m your director or I’m something more, I’m in charge of you now. I’m going to punish you when you need it, and I’m going to do it on your bare bottom, so get your jeans and panties down right now, or I’m going to take them down for you.”
Kirsten didn’t say, “You wouldn’t,” this time, or anything else. He had managed to deliver the message. He could tell that she was turning over in her mind all the new sensations she had just experienced, because she put her right hand back to cup her right bottom-cheek and rub some of the sting away, as if unconsciously. The gesture seemed so adorable to Michael that he wanted to gather her up in his arms, but again he knew she needed severity right now.
She had dropped her eyes to the floor as she rubbed her rear end, but now she raised them to meet Michael’s gaze again. She put her hands to the waistband of her jeans.
“Good girl,” Michael said. Kirsten’s nostrils flared at the sound of the words, and she bit her lower lip. She had the buttons of her fly undone, and Michael could see that she was wearing white lace panties that looked very much like the ones in the picture.
“Are those the same panties?” he asked softly.
Kirsten nodded. “I… when I came in, I put them on.” She looked down at Michael’s hands and then back up into his eyes. “For you.”
“Pull them down,” he said in the same gentle tone.
Kirsten pulled the jeans and the panties down together, and by the light of the lamp on her night-table he had the view he had dreamt of in his feverish imaginings of Kirsten August, the perfectly naughty girl. Kirsten August, movie star. No, Kirsten might not be the movie star, really—but the movie star was a part of her, just as the director was a part of Michael.
“When did you start waxing?” he asked.
“Do you like it?” Kirsten whispered.
She was trying to get out of her punishment. His libido thrilled with the thought, as he looked at the little cleft between Kirsten’s trim thighs. He inhaled deeply, unable to stop himself from trying to discern her arousal, and found his nose amply rewarded with the scent of her passion. Oh, how he wanted to reach out his hand, and touch her there, to make her cry out with helpless pleasure.
But she was trying to get out of her punishment—the punishment Michael knew she needed.
“Answer the question, Kirsten,” he said, still quietly but with authority. “When did you start waxing?”
“Last year,” she whispered. “It was… it was for the swimming scene in The Haunted Air.”
“You didn’t have to bare your pussy completely for that, though.”
She shook her head, eyes closed. Then she bowed her head and opened her eyes again, looking once more at his hands, as if trying to discern in them the source of her bottom’s lingering discomfort. Her own hands were curled into loose fists at her side.
Kirsten put her hands up and buried her face in her palms. “Please just get my spanking over with,” she said, her voice a little muffled. She started to move to get over his lap, but he took her hands in his own and pulled them gently away from her face.
“Remember what I said about me deciding?”
“I need to know why you bared your pussy.” He looked at her, there, again, enchanted by the lovely sight of her girlish cleft presented so charmingly over the jeans and bunched panties.
“Why? Lots of women do it.” Her voice held no defiance, but he did hear a kind of desperation, as if she made a last-ditch effort to avoid telling Michael her most important secrets.
“I’m guessing it has a very special meaning for you, though, Kirsten.” He held her little hands between them, rubbing his thumbs very gently over the soft skin of their backs.
Kirsten took a breath, and nodded.
“What does it mean to you?”
“It means that I’m bare for… f-for… him.”
Had she really almost said “for you”? Was she playing a part, or trying to express the terrible truth about her desires?
Was there any difference?
She became hyper-aware of her hands’ entrapment by Michael’s. Michael: director, prospective boyfriend. Spanker.
One part of her tried desperately to slow down and to think straight, while another said that the last thing she should do right now was stop and consider. Let it happen, said that part. You are about to get everything you always dreamed of—everything you were thinking about that shameful morning. Don’t fuck it up, for God’s sake.
Her hands in his. Michael had seized them. Not roughly: no, he was not rough even when he was… doing that—spanking her hard on her bottom, over and over.
The spanking: Kirsten August’s very first spanking.
“Who is he?” Michael’s voice seemed to come from very far away, as Kirsten gazed down only at his hands, holding her hands.
Don’t say “you.” For God’s sake…
“The man who… who… Oh, God, Michael. Please… don’t make me say.” She felt she could barely get her voice to work. Her cheeks burned like a furnace, and she didn’t think she could look him in the eyes now if her life depended upon it.
“You, young lady,” he said very softly, “have a great deal to learn.”
But he didn’t say anything else, and she did look at his eyes, and saw the resolve there. By itself, that steady look made her give a little whimper, and then Michael was pulling her to the side of his legs, and toppling her over his lap.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
And then he spanked her bare bottom. Over and over: not like when he was spanking her through her jeans, all on the same spot, but from right to left and then on her upper thighs where the sting was even worse. It hurt so much more than she had thought it would that she struggled, but Michael held her down with his arm around her waist. When she threw her right hand back, he caught it, just the way he was supposed to do, and bent it behind her back.
“No,” he said. “When I spank you, you keep your hands away.” His hand fell hard, then, in the same central spot, five times, then ten times.
Kirsten started to cry. The terrible arousal—the wetness she was sure he would see, trickling down her thighs and into her bunched panties—went away, but somehow despite the pain she still wanted it. She wanted the pain itself, because the pain came from him, and he had declared that this punishment would repay Kirsten for the naughtiness that lay at the foundation of her nature.
She hung her head, and cried, not from the pain, but from the way Michael spanking her seemed to clear away the shame.
“Who did you wax your pussy for, Kirsten?” he asked, not stopping the spanking.
“For you!” she sobbed. Did she hope that she might surprise him into halting her punishment? No, she knew in a flash: she wanted to push against the boundary and find it unyielding. Kirsten wanted to confess, and have Michael give her what she had coming for what she said in the confession.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, for me. And I like your pussy that way, sweetie. I can tell I’m going to like fucking it very much indeed.”
Whoa. Yes, she had hoped, and yes, he embodied that man… the director. But…
He brought his hand down three more times, right in the middle. It hurt so much that Kirsten couldn’t help flailing against him. The way he just kept holding on to her, keeping her wrapped up in his arms and unable to move seemed to make everything in the world safe, even the terrible things.
Then he put his hand there, on her punished bottom, gently. Kirsten gave a little sob. “Are you going to show me how it happened, now?” he asked.
But you know how it happened, now, came her thoughts’ wild response. This is how it happened: wanting this.
He rubbed: Kirsten moaned. Michael spoke much more quietly and confidentially, then. “Are you going to get into your nightshirt, and show me how you played with your sweet, bare pussy?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. His hand on her stinging rear end, soothing her there, where it had all begun, seemed to forbid rational thought.
“Are you going to put on your naughty little show just for me?”
Naughty little show. Yes, that was what it was, wasn’t it? “Yes.” she breathed, in a quiet whimper. She had made blockbuster movies, but at heart she was a little slut who put on dirty shows and got spanked for them.
“Get up, and take off all your clothes.” Now Michael’s voice turned stern again. My director, Kirsten thought. I need to do what he says. My director, and…
“Now, Kirsten.” She felt her brow pucker in anxiety as she stared at the blue floral pattern of the rug she had chosen so carefully for this, her grown up master bedroom in her grown up house. But she had played the naughty girl, with her panties down, and now she had been punished with her panties down, the way naughty girls got punished.
She stood up, trembling, looking at the lap over which she had just had her very first bare-bottom spanking. She looked at the place between his legs, trying like the dirty girl she was to see if her director had gotten hard while punishing her. His faded jeans, his strong thighs: Kirsten had a real director, and she must do what he told her to do, no matter how shameful.
She watched his hands start to move toward her. No—he wouldn’t…
But he did: he hooked his thumbs into her jeans and panties, where they lay bunched around her knees, and he tugged them down. “You need to learn to obey me more quickly, sweetie,” he said.
“Oh, no… please…”
“Don’t be silly,” Michael said. How could he use that tone? How could he use that tone so perfectly—the man who just knew what a naughty girl needed? “When I want you naked, you’ll be naked, from now on.” He stripped the jeans and panties all the way down and, automatically, she stepped out of them, blushing.
“Get into your nightshirt now, sweetie,” he said. Kirsten turned, and took the two steps to her dresser. Don’t think, she thought. Don’t think. Just feel. She felt the warmth of her bottom, and she wanted to cry for joy that a man had finally seen that Kirsten August needed a firm hand to guide her, and that that hand should be applied with severity to her bare backside.
She opened the top drawer of the dresser, and took out the big T-shirt with Marilyn Monroe’s hugely silk-screened face.
Behind her, she heard Michael laugh. “Really?” he asked.
Kirsten felt her face go hot, and she didn’t answer, but dropped the shirt over her head. It came down almost to her knees. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung over the dresser. She looked adorable, even with—or maybe especially with—the redness around her tear-brightened eyes. It was the way a naughty girl looked after she had received the just reward for her wickedness, delivered, as was right and proper, to her bare bottom by a man who could teach her the difference between right and wrong.
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