Or: From the Chaos Came a Voice
A Britta and Lise Story

     By Hedeia

Britta was pacing.

On her fourth trip around the deck, feet shuffling, one hand in her mouth as she nibbled nervously at her nails, I reached out quickly, hooked a finger in her belt loop and tugged her toward me.

The movement pulled her jeans, already cut low on her hips – she IS Britta, after all – even lower, and showed me a tantalizing inch of tanned torso.  Ah, my Britta…as distracting as she is distractible. 

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” I told her, tilting my head back to look up at her.  Admittedly it’s not an original line, but it did the trick, focusing both of us.

It was hard to be focused these days.  It was staying lighter longer, and we were spending our evenings soaking up as much of the pre-summer sun as we could.  The aforementioned sun was hovering at the horizon now.  We would follow our pattern of staying until it sank out of sight, and maybe a bit longer, sometimes until the fireflies came out, sometimes until it got chilly.

“I can’t help it. I’m nervous.”  She tugged at a hangnail with small, sharp teeth.  Gently, I removed her hand from her mouth, turned it over, and examined the nail. 

“Brit…” It was bleeding a little.  I stood up, still holding the injured hand, and led her inside.  At the bathroom sink I washed her finger, applied antiseptic and a band-aid.  Usually the calmness and order of routines like this one helped ease her anxiety.  Tonight though she still looked like a bundle of nerves, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth as I worked.  I took care of the nail quickly, then tapped her mouth gently to stop her biting it.

“Don’t; we’ve only just fixed the damage from the last casualty of your teeth,” I told her mildly, kissing her to give her lips something else to do.  She responded, then pulled away.

“Lise…I’m not going to pass.”

From the other room came the low rumbling of the dryer, inside which was tumbling Britta’s gi.  By tomorrow evening it would be snow-white and freshly-laundered, crisp and clean, ready for competition.  And the white belt spinning with it through the dryer…

Tomorrow it might be yellow.

I touched her hair, soft where it’s blondest around her face.  “You don’t know that.  You’ve been doing great.  You’ll do your best tomorrow, and whatever happens…”

She rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Okay, then you tell me.”

“Just do my best, and everything else will follow.  And however it turns out, I can look myself in the eye and know I tried my best,” she recited, her voice slightly sing-song and sounding an awful lot like…


I raised my eyebrows.

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” she said hastily, flushing a bit.  I caught her hand before she could put the nails back in her mouth and swatted her gently out of the bathroom. 

“Come on, brat, let’s go relax.  You’re not going to get yourself worked up.”

Oh, but I should never underestimate Britta.

My attempt to get us settled on the couch, cuddling and cozy in front of an innocuous, calming sort of tape…failed.

My attempt to get her to drink her beloved green tea, guaranteed to extend her life by several decades with anti-oxidants or free radicals or whatever it was the articles in her pet magazine said…failed.

Instead, I, who was perfectly calm, was curled up under a chenille blanket all by my lonesome, watching Sense and Sensibility and sipping green tea, which I loathe.  If I were any more serene, I’d be deceased.  Meanwhile Britta popped up every few seconds, first fidgeting, swinging her adorably big feet over the end of the couch, then hopping up and dashing all over the place – with perfectly good excuses, of course. 

She had to go to the bathroom.  She had to check that the front door was locked.  She might have left a window open upstairs, and it might rain.  She was cold. She needed a sweater.  She was hot.  She needed to change into another t-shirt. 

I sighed as she slipped from my grasp again, only to pace over to the window seat, clamber up, and gaze dispiritedly out at the wet back deck (the fact that it actually HAD started to rain in no way made her anxious movements any more excusable). 

“Britta…come back.”

She leaned her head against the window.  “I’m not going to pass, Lis. I’m NOT.”

“Britta. You don’t know that, and you won’t accomplish anything getting yourself more nervous.  You know what your instructor said…you need to relax tonight, get some rest so you’re fresh tomorrow.  Stressing out won’t help.”

“But I AM stressed,” she snapped.  “I’m going to fail and you don’t even care!”

“Brit.”  I didn’t change the level of my voice, or even the tone really, but she caught on. 

“I’m sorry,” she said sullenly.  “I’m just nervous….”

“I know.”  I held out my arms.  “Come here.”

She got to her feet but spun around instead, walking suddenly to the bookshelves and fussing with the knickknacks.  Absently she picked up a framed picture of the two of us and studied it for a moment.  I couldn’t quite make it out from across the room but I knew which one it was…at the shore, last summer, Britta wearing a modest – for her – tankini, bleached even fairer under the hot sun and laughing hysterically, wrapped around me piggyback in the water.  I’m laughing too, shielding my eyes with one hand and trying to keep Brit from drowning us both with the other. 

It’s a great picture.

It had been a great day.  The act of looking at that picture wasn’t lost on me.  The camera had captured Britta happy and relaxed, quite different from how she looked now. 

Ironically, jujitsu had been something she started to help her relax.

In an increasingly stressful school year, the jujitsu club had provided her with more than just structure, routine, and a place to safely kick and throw out her aggressions.  The carefully set structure of the martial art, with its gradated belts and increasing skill levels, had allowed her to work at accomplishing something thankfully quite different from the overwhelming course load she was carrying.  Her classes frustrated her; her professors aggravated her; she complained that she felt like she was marking time.

But since she’d started jujitsu…

It had been good for her.  Indisputably so.  The regular exercise, the camaraderie of the club, even the rigor and discipline of the art.

And she looked particularly sexy in her gi.  Had I mentioned that?

I looked over at her now, fair head bent, shoulders stiff with tension.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, still not moving.  “It’s just…I need to pull this off, Lis.  I haven’t pulled anything off in so long.”

“Oh, Brit…” I got up and went over to her, pulling her close.  She twined her arms around my neck and leaned against me. 

“I’m sorry I’m stressing…”

“It’s okay.”  I stroked her back for a minute, then disentangled her arms and turned her away from me to rub at some of the tension in her shoulders.  “You need to relax.  You’re going to be stiff…”

She nodded and let me work; slowly some of the tightness in her muscles started to ease. 

“Brit…you know however you do, it’s going to be fine…”

She shook her head.  “No.  I need to pass.”


“I NEED this, Lise!”

“What you NEED to do is calm down,” I said, my voice quieter than hers but the tone strong. 

I felt her inhale deeply beneath my hands, and cut her off at the pass before she could explode, turning her around to hold her again.

I kept her in my arms until I felt her relax a bit.  Just then the buzzer sounded; the dryer was finished.  I stroked her hair. 

“Laundry’s done,” she murmured into my ear.  I pulled her head down and kissed the crown.

“Go sit on the couch…I’ll be there in a minute.”

I went to the dryer, not really expecting her to obey me, and took her gi out.  The fabric was warm.  I held it to my face for a moment and breathed in.  Then I arranged it on a hanger and hooked it carefully over the closet door.  There.  It would be smooth and unwrinkled for tomorrow’s test.

The white belt I smoothed out in my hands, running my fingers the length of it.  I rolled it carefully, palmed it, and went back into the living room.

As I’d predicted, Britta still stood in the middle of the floor, her body radiating tension.  I went over and took her hand, towing her to the couch, then sat down and pulled her onto my lap.

She wriggled to get up.

“Hey.” I pulled her back down.  “You can sit on my lap, or you can lie over it.  Your choice.  Either way, you’re staying on my lap.”

She flushed.  “Lis,” she whined, batting blue eyes.  The effect wasn’t lost on me; I held her tighter and kissed the tip of her nose. 

“Settle down.” 

She tugged a bit more for good measure, then flopped back against me.  “What?” she asked grumpily.

I swatted the closest hip and she yelped.  “I’m calm,” she informed me, through gritted teeth. 

I almost smiled.  Instead I pressed my lips to her head and just rocked her for a few minutes, waiting for her to relax.  My Britta is incredibly expressive; never a hidden emotion for her.  Anxiety, pain, frustration, happiness, excitement, contentment…whatever she’s feeling radiates in every muscle, every movement, across each feature on that lovely face I can never tired of seeing.  I held her against me and in the familiar lean curves of her body I felt her tension touch me. 

“Whatever happens, it’s going to be fine,” I repeated instead.  My manta.  Slow and calm.  “You’ll do your best, hopefully you’ll enjoy yourself.  It’s just another day.”

She didn’t answer me.

“However you do tomorrow, you should be proud of all the work you’ve done for this, Brit.  I know I am.”

“Lis…I want to get up.”  Her voice was high-pitched, nervousness launching it out of its usual range.

“Tough,” I countered, offering the challenge purposely.

Her face darkened and she started to struggle again.  “Lise! Stop!”

She managed to get halfway off my lap before I caught her and pulled her down again.  “I warned you,” I reminded her, tipping her off balance and pinning her down across my knees.  I wrapped an arm securely around her waist, holding her close to my stomach, wrapped one leg across hers to steady her and waited it out.

She put up a good fight.

“I’m not even a yellow belt yet; you shouldn’t go beating up on me,” she muttered finally into the couch cushion.  I ruffled her hair with my free hand.  We’re exactly the same height; I’ve got fifteen pounds on her but hers is lean muscle mass, and with her training she was hardly defenseless.  Not that that was the point.  Pre-spanking, logic rarely informed Britta’s protests.  Panic, self-preservation, sometimes even remorse, but not logic.

“You can’t spank me.  I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said then.

“Don’t think of it as spanking,” I suggested.  “Think of it as part of your training.”


I just slipped a hand beneath her stomach to unbutton her jeans, then tugged them swiftly over the curve of her bottom. 

With the pants safely out of the way, I rolled my eyes at her choice of lingerie: Britta and sensible underwear are generally mutually exclusive.  A thin strip of buttercup-colored cotton, edged with lace, ran between her cheeks, displaying rather than covering her buttocks.  Attractive and, for this particular activity, quite convenient, too!

She wriggled underneath my hands, possibly regretting her choice of a thong.  I patted one bare cheek reassuringly.  “Just remember what the dojo wall says,” I advised her.  “‘From the chaos came a voice: Smile and be happy, it could be worse – And I smiled and was happy and it got worse.’”

“You are pure evil,” she called from the depths of the couch.  I rubbed the smooth skin under my fingers and ignored her comment.

“You listen to me, Britta,” I told her firmly, tracing the contours of her flesh with my fingertips.  She shivered a little under my ministrations and I paused to pull her closer to me.  “Tomorrow’s not important…sshh,” I put a restraining hand on her back, anticipating her rise of disagreement.  “Wait.  Yes, you’re nervous about your grading.  But whatever happens tomorrow, nothing important will change.  It’s another day when you’ll try your best; you love jujitsu and you’ve done beautifully with it.  I love you no matter how you do; you know that.  That’s not going to change.”

I patted her cheeks.  “Do you hear me?”

“I know,” she said in response.  “I DO know that.”

“Good,” I resumed my pattern of stroking, feeling her relax a bit against me.  The weight of her body against my thighs was, as always, deeply intimate.  The pressure and heat, in this particular circumstance, are soothing and reassuring rather than exciting.  I adjusted her hips very slightly; our bodies fit so easily, so closely together by now that this position is as natural as any other. 

Silently I removed what was in my hand, arranging it carefully.  “And what’s the worst that can happen? What are you worried about?  That you might not pass?”  When she didn’t respond, I gave the closest cheek a firm pat.  “Brit?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Okay. Worst case scenario.  You don’t pass.  You stay a white belt.”  I felt her stiffen up beneath me.  “What’s so terrible about that?” I asked.  “You know, I sort of like the white belt.”  With that I raised my secret weapon and brought it down sharply on the pale curves in my lap.

“Hey!” she yelped. 

“What?” I asked innocently, stopping to double the belt, then double it again.  I swatted her with it, putting my full arm into the swing.

Before I sound brutal, let me remind you that it WAS just cloth.  Sturdy cloth, perhaps, but cloth nonetheless.

Yes, I was spanking my brat with a sash.  Call the toll-free number and get me excommunicated from the proper tops society, ASAP!

“WHAT are you doing?”  She asked, twisting under my hands and I peppered her bottom and thighs with the white belt.

“What does it feel like I’m doing?” I asked.

“You’re…um,” she sounded like she was trying very hard to keep a straight face.  “You’re spanking me with a wet noodle?”

I brought the belt down particularly hard.

While that method served well to illustrate a point or underscore a rule during a typical spanking, in this case it produced the same reaction the other lashes had…

Pretty much nothing.


I swatted her again.  “Listen, I love you as a white belt, I’ll love you as a yellow belt, and I’ll love you all the way to black belt.”  I underscored each color with a swat.  “I’ll love you as a mauve belt,” I chanted, listening to the belt swish down with a very un-belt-like soft…swish.  Not a crack.  Just a…swish.  “I’ll love you as a peach belt.  I’ll love you as a lilac belt.”  Britta was giggling under me as I continued the assault.  “I’ll love you as a burnt sienna belt, and an orchid belt, and a periwinkle belt…” 

“Those are NOT real belt colors!” she cried indignantly as I swatted her a few more times, finally getting the hang of swinging the belt.

“Well, you get the idea,” I retorted.  The belt slapped down with a rather unsatisfying sound against her flesh.  With the right motion of the wrist, I supposed it could sting a bit, but quite frankly, I was wearing out my arm with apparently very little effect on a certain bottom. 

I set the belt aside for a moment, then bent over the abovementioned bottom, checking for redness.  With all that effort…

“Hey, you’re tickling me!” she protested as my nose brushed against her cheeks.  I was looking VERY closely.  I couldn’t see red exactly.  Was that pink, maybe?  I ran my fingers over the spot.  Nah, just shadow.

“I’ll show you tickling, brat,” I countered, digging a finger into her ribs.  She squealed, caught off guard, and I swatted her bottom a few times playfully. 

“Let me see your secret weapon?” she begged.  “Is it a feather? …no, wait!” she shrieked when I started to tickle her again.  “I know!  It’s a butterfly wing! You’ve been beating me with a butterfly wing!”

I gave her a couple of sound smacks with my hand, feeling the flesh start to warm up under my skin.  She quieted for a moment, then offered a muted: “Ow.” 

“Well?”  I demanded.

“Well, THAT wasn’t a butterfly wing,” she scowled. 

I laughed and rubbed her bottom.  “Let me ask you something.  Would you call my secret weapon scary?”

She twisted around to see my face.  I’d already tucked the secret weapon behind the couch cushion. 

“Um…no.  Sorry, Lis…”

“Does it make you nervous?”

“The secret weapon?” she asked, her voice incredulous.  “Not really, no…it does kind of make me laugh…”  Her voice was thick with the effort of suppressing her giggles, and I rewarded her self-control with a flurry of smacks.  There was much more precision with my hand, my palm cupped naturally over the curves of her bottom, heating the already sensitized flesh.  She groaned and shifted against me.  “You’re killing me…”

“So you’re saying you are NOT stressed out about my secret weapon.  Is that right?”

“Yes, it’s right,” she mumbled, moving her hips in what looked suspiciously UNlike trying to alleviate discomfort.  “Can we go upstairs now?” she asked hoarsely.  I slapped her cheeks a few more times in response and she exhaled sharply, subsiding against me. 

“Just so we’re clear…it didn’t kill you, it didn’t even hurt, and you’re not afraid of it?”

“Yes, damn it, Lise, what is this, some kind of kinky survey?”

“Language!” I laid a series of sharp smacks across her bottom, hard enough to sting, but with enough pauses to keep it playful.  From her groan and the way her hips shifted again, I could tell it was working.

“Nope.  But I’d like you to meet my secret weapon.”  I reached for it.  She started to rise off my lap and I swatted her back over my knee firmly.  “Stay down,” I ordered, and she complied with a soft sound.

Slowly, enjoying the moment, I unfurled the secret weapon and dangled it in front of her. 

“Brit…open your eyes, Brit,” I said with a half smile.  She shifted and was silent for a moment.

Then a guffaw escaped.

“LISE!  You’re crazy!” she shrieked, body convulsing with laughter.  “You’re crazy!  That’s not…it’s not a REAL belt…” she gasped. 

“What, you think I’d mar my precious peaches with a REAL belt?” I asked indignantly, running a hand possessively over her rounded cheeks.

“You’re nuts…you’re certifiable…”

“I love it when you sweet-talk me,” I cooed, intensifying my caresses.  I stroked her thighs as she laughed, and her laughter turned to moans as I worked. 

“Lis…god, Lis…”

I withdrew my hand.  “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

She laughed again, shifting slightly onto her side and I leaned down until our lips could meet, hungrily halfway.  I kissed her deeply, running a hand along the curve of her waist. 

“You’re right,” she whispered against my mouth. 

I laughed and kissed her throat.  “Say it again.  No, write it down.  I’d never believe you said it…”

“You’re right, you’re right, you’re right,” she murmured.  Well. Oysters have nothing on those words as an aphrodisiac.  I kissed her again, my hand dipping between her thighs again as she startled, drawn tight as a bow, fingers at my waist.  Still kissing her, I rolled the white belt across my hand and stroked it gently across her chest, glancing off her collarbones, tracing her breast.  She gasped as the rough fabric brushed across a nipple, threw her head back.  “Damn that secret weapon!” she managed to get out. 

I swatted a bare cheek with the belt-wrapped hand.  “Language, Brit.”

“You provoked me,” she protested, jerking hard as I brushed the textured cloth against her breast again.  She clenched her teeth, pulled away to strip off her tee-shirt as we fell across the couch, shifting into other positions that came just as naturally to us. 

“Remember,” I whispered against her soft skin a while later.  “What’s the worst that can happen? So you’ll keep the white belt?  I kind of liked the white belt…”

“Oh, I liked it too,” she murmured sleepily, her body utterly relaxed, slumped heavily against mine.  “The white belt rules.”

“And if you pass…well…”  I ran a finger under the narrow scrap of golden fabric still dividing her cheeks.  She gasped at the sensation, arched against me as I lifted the thong, then let it snap back down again.  I ran my hands all along the butter-colored fabric, stroking briskly across the front panel until she was whimpering and twisting her hips.

“…if you pass, I like you in yellow, too.”

* * *

“I knew you could do it,” I told her sincerely, accepting her breathless hug outside the locker room.  I squeezed her tight.  “You were wonderful.”

She grinned, giddy and flushed, striking a pose to show off the new yellow belt cinching her waist. 

I smiled back, reaching out to touch the bright fabric.  “It looks great.  What happens with old belt, anyway?” I asked casually.  “Do they keep them for the new class or something?”

She shrugged.  “No idea.”

“Oh.” I schooled my features toward neutral.  She nodded gravely.

“I have no idea what they usually do, that is,” she whispered; she hugged me again and I felt her slip something into my back pocket, some sort of folded bulk.  “But for me, well…I thought maybe we should keep it around.  Just in case.”

I patted the white belt, tucked securely against my hip, feeling the smile widen across my face.  “Just in case,” I repeated, linking arms with my newly minted yellow belt of a lover as we strode toward the door and homeward.