Fantasy Friday - Sunlight Sunday

Most of my readers know I do love getting a new Fantasy Friday story and I feel this was is truly special. Or rare occasions I get a story from a reader that I don't know and that's always exciting. Most of the Fantasy Friday's are written by people I've blogged with for a while.

This story comes from a little of both. Rosie Jones and I are friends and I've had the privilege of actually meeting her - a truly lovely woman. But she didn't write this story, her husband, Harry, did! I think this is one of the most romantic things a DD husband can do and the fact that he let her share the story with us ranks him high on my list! 

Please enjoy...

Sunlight Sunday

The house was old, built in the mid 30s the way houses were meant to be built. It had the benevolent air of a property built for raising families, with high ceilings, three bedrooms all generously proportioned, and deep sliding sash windows. Thirty-four years ago, when looking for a new home closer to his work, they had fallen in love with it and finally, after a year had won it. They had changed the name of their house when they moved in, no numbers in this hamlet in the shires. They’d raised their two daughters in this home, which stood with a line of mature trees on the east side of the quarter acre plot. It was their family home, they loved it, and they believed it loved them back.

Harry wasn’t really sure at what point he’d passed from dreaming to realising that he was awake. He had been sleepily watching the pictures of his dreams on the back of his eyelids and slowly recognised the pastel flickering of sunlight for what it was. The sun shone through his bedroom windows early in these summer months; the leaves on the mature trees in the garden outside dappled the sunlight like reflections of light from a swift moving stream. He was watching the shadows between the rays of light when one shadow, larger than the rest, grew in the middle of the picture. The pressure on his nose announced the arrival of a long, slender, beautifully manicured and dark-red varnished finger pressing on his nose.

As his mouth widened into an easy smile, something he couldn’t have prevented even if he’d tried, he slowly opened his eyes to squint at the guilty digit. It was as he thought except that his squint had sent him cross-eyed and there were now two of them…

Rosie was curled up beside him with her head snuggled into the crook of his neck, their favourite position together. Her left arm was laid between them and her right arm – the guilty one – was resting on his chest with the hand and finger extended. She gave a nervous little girl giggle when his eyes opened, which quickly escalated into unrepentant laughter at his cross-eyed squint. He could feel her warmth and her breath on the side of his neck, as she lay there enjoying her success at surprising him, and thought he was in heaven.  Then she gave two presses on his nose and whispered, “Beep, beep,” in his ear. 

The house listened quietly to their combined laughter.

This, he knew, was Rosie’s way of suggesting that it was time for breakfast.  She was not what you might call a morning person, well, not unless morning started about 10.30 that is. But she did love the summer, and coffee and pain au chocolat were on her mind with this show of minor physical violence. He rose from the bed still naked and stood in front of the large windows on his side of the bed.  Rosie tut-tutted, “One day there’ll be someone outside and they’ll have a heart attack,” she said. “If they don’t have one,” he replied, “I’ll chase them off the property with a shotgun – that ought to do the trick!”  They laughed again and the house smiled even though it had heard that one before.

Downstairs he slid easily into breakfast making mode. He’d laid the tray the night before, including taking the pastries from the freezer. They were in the habit of doing regular booze runs to France and took the opportunity to stock up with fresh croissants, pain-au-chocolat, pain-au-raisin and tarte-aux-pommes - no one makes them like the French. The thawed pastries went into the microwave for a gentle warming and the kettle was urged into action. With the orange juice poured, coffee steaming and the aroma from the pains-au-chocolat wafting under his nose he returned to their bedroom.

Sundays in general followed this well-trodden path except for the unexpected assault on his person today! It was the only morning in the week that the alarm didn’t go bonkers at 5.45am, wrenching them from their sleep and thrusting them into the working day.  As such they embraced the morning with enthusiasm and did nothing for a couple of hours except read or watch the news.  Champagne usually appeared around 10.00.

Rosie was following her group of friends on Facebook and Instagram with her iPad, uttering the occasional exclamation of support or sharp intake of breath as she followed everyone’s progress and posted her comments. Immersed in her online world she had lost track of time. With a start she realised that she needed to get the Sunday dinner going as her mother was coming today.  Scrambling from the bed Rosie unwittingly upset the tray sending hot coffee over his hand, and although not particularly hot he made out as though he had been scalded (Rosie’s words – not his). Now in something of a rush and panic Rosie told him not to be a baby and dashed off to the bathroom to get showered.

Rosie used a body lotion after showering that had a delightful fragrance that he only got to savour on Sundays, as on a working day he was usually in his car well before she took a shower. The lotion also had the other, much appreciated, bonus of leaving a very appealing sheen on Rosie’s skin, particularly across the rise of her bottom and over her naked mons Venus. This often led to some horizontal aerobics before she was allowed to dress and he had been looking forward to that possibility today.  Taken aback by the sudden whirlwind that had erupted beside him in bed and the surprise of the hot coffee, sans sympathy - the second assault on him that day following the beep, beep, incident - he sat and plotted his revenge.

Gathering some implements and secreting them under the pillows, he sat in the middle of the bed with his back to the headboard and, taking up the long firm daytime bolster, placed it with a leg either side. Pillows followed on top of the bolster to make a firm ridge down the centre of the bed over which a lady might, on reconsideration, realise that she had not treated him with the respect his position as the male of the species demanded.

With her head down, still towelling her hair dry, Rosie came back into the bedroom and completely missed the evil grin he’d positioned on his face and his proud construction. He caught her hand and turned her body to the bed, pulling her forward so that she fell onto the bed and toppled straight onto the ridge of pillows. She knew instantly that she was in trouble; he had one hand positioned over her legs preventing her from wriggling forward and off, and the other in the small of her back preventing her from rising. The combined scent from the lotion and that unmistakable fragrance of mild panic took him by surprise as well. It was intoxicating to him, he was the master, he was omnipotent! His chest puffed out as he raised his hand.

The smack from his hand on her right buttock, although anticipated, was a real shock to Rosie. It hurt and that told her that he had meant it to.  The hard smack, coming at the start of a spanking told her there was to be no warm up.   At least not having mascara on yet was a good thing,no tell-tale smudges round her eyes or on the bedding. She was expecting, and braced for, the second smack almost straight away but he was wondering to himself why he always started on her right cheek followed by the left. This delayed the second smack for a moment and in that moment he decided it meant nothing and started again on the right cheek with another powerful landing. This completely wrong-footed Rosie’s expectation and she let out a yelp of surprise and pain. Her legs kicked up in response so he also took the opportunity to give the back of her calves a quick flick with his hand to tell her that lifting her legs was not allowed.

A few fast and furious contacts followed, with his hand almost sliding on the lotion residue. The noise his hand made was immensely satisfying and he began debating with himself which paddle would make the best soundtrack – only one way to find out! Rosie had stopped struggling, dinner could wait, he was obviously on a mission and although this could be very uncomfortable she wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else right now (note to self, she thought, don’t tell him that). Her bottom was already tingling and even this early she could feel the heat building up on both sides and particularly front and centre.  She couldn’t remember if she heard the noise of the leather paddle as it struck, or if she had felt the power on her left buttock first – he’d wrong-footed her again, he always starts on the right.  A sharp, deep, intake of breath prevented her from complaining about either, not that it would have done any good to complain, as he seemed to be getting into his stride at the moment.  After a few more ministrations the leather paddle was put aside and his hand was currently meting out the punishment, stopping regularly for a moment or two. Both his hands caressed her cheeks and she felt his lips and his tongue wandering down between the hills forming the start of the valley of her buttocks. Rosie knew that he was in love with her bum and he often complimented her, saying that it was as firm and well shaped as it was when he first dated her - she was a schoolgirl at the time, almost fifty years ago.  This time-out to caress her was an intimate part of their play and would get them both aroused. If he kept this up with the spanking, she thought, she’d have to jump his bones.

No one knew what the house thought of all this muckiness, although it made a lot of its own sounds at night so who was it to judge?

With the sound track experiment proving inconclusive and all of the thoughts and sensations competing for attention in her head, the unheralded arrival of the jam spoon on her left cheek caused a squeal of disapproval to escape from Rosie’s lips. He stopped immediately.  “Did you hear that?” he asked.  “Was that the sound of surrender do you think?  Damn, I wish I’d recorded it!”  Rosie kept her silence – she wouldn’t give in, ever.  The jam spoon visited her right cheek and proceeded on a World Tour of her derrière that had the tears welling up behind her eyelids, but none touched her cheeks, she was made of sterner stuff.

The spanking continued apace with measured visits from his hands, which were her favourites. She believed there was something far more intimate from the feel of your lover’s hand on your bum than the harder pressure of an inanimate paddle. She could almost feel the caressing motion as his hand left the contact with her skin to rise for another smack. He was smacking low level now – his hand moving upwards from the direction of her legs and kissing her cheeks firmly, drawing her buttocks towards her upper body and arousing her sex with the movement of one cheek against the other. 

Seeing her arousal, and feeling his own with the sight of her bottom right in front of him and the one eyed monster continuously trying to get in the way, he slowed and smoothed the regulation of his smacking to a more gentle and soothing action.  He could feel that she was moist and thought that if he let her up straight away he might not have time to move the pillows and bolster aside before she got to him. 

Then, like the klaxon alarm of a diving submarine, the dedicated ringtone they had assigned to Rosie’s mother hammered out its warning. Rosie’s Mum was a lovely lady but it was now 30 minutes past the time when they had told her he would collect her from home, “Is everything all right, what time will you be here?” The blood drained from somewhere south of his navel and the remaining lotion evaporated from her derrière with the heat.

This wasn’t over yet, the house thought...

~o~

Oh, I do hope the house is right and that there is more. A very big thanks to both Harry and Rosie (as the inspiration) for this story. Please write for us again.

If ANYONE else would like to write for us we would love it! Please send your stories to elisspeaks@yahoo.com