Six of the Best Spanking Stories - Volume 2

by Miranda Forbes

  Slowly, she approached him, and when she stood squarely in front of him, he stopped her. ‘Take off your shirt. I want to feel how hard your nipples get when I spank your little bare arse.’ He smacked the palm of his hand with the looped belt.

  She feared she’d be beaten to death by her own hammering heart. She could almost get to the door and make a run for it. But she didn’t. Instead she did as he asked, pulling the wet tank top off over her head, exposing her already engorged nipples to his scrutiny. With his free hand he gave each breast a stinging slap and pinched her nipples until she winced.

  Then he grabbed the waist band of her shorts and pulled her to him, guiding her down over his lap, bending her over his knees. If his cock had been a knife, she would have been mortally wounded, the way it jabbed against her belly as he tugged her shorts down over her hips, and she wriggled and manoeuvred to help him, both anxious for and frightened of what was to come.

  ‘What? No panties? You really are a dirty girl, aren’t you?’ Without so much as a warning, the belt came down with a loud snap against her bottom. She yelped and squirmed. The sting of it was strong enough to take her breath away. But she wasn’t sure if the tears were from the sting or from the strange cocktail of humiliation and anger that it seemed to induce. ‘That hurt,’ she hissed between clenched teeth.

  ‘It’s supposed to hurt,’ he replied, kneading and caressing the ass cheek he had just smacked. ‘It’s punishment.’

  Smack!

  The belt came down again. And she would have bucked right off his lap if he hadn’t held her firmly. My God, it hurt. And if he ever let her up, she’d strangle him with his own belt.

  But he didn’t let her up. He smacked her again, and this time, as quickly as the pain registered in her brain, it was translated into twitching, swelling, humid impatience in her cunt. Impatience for the next smack, which came along with a stiff probing of her slit with his finger.

  ‘You’re getting pussy juice on my best Levis,’ he breathed. ‘That’ll only make the punishment worse.’

  As a last act of defiance, she ground her wetness against him. But he wasn’t taking any of her sass. He scooped her around the waist and with amazing strength, tossed her on her back on his bed. ‘You’re only making it harder for yourself.’ His voice was breathless as he grabbed her ankles in one large hand and shoved them up over her head as though she were an infant and he were about to change her diaper. Instead the belt came down in three rapid, stinging whooshes against her exposed bottom, no doubt now glowing pinker than a sunburn.

  Before she could do more than squirm and bounce on the bed, he tossed the belt aside, ripped open his fly and his cock sprang free. He held it like it was a power tool and he was the handy man, who knew how to use it. There was no foreplay, no making nicey-nice. He just thrust into her hard, shoving the breath from her lungs, kick-starting the orgasm that had been on the verge of exploding since he threatened to spank her. Her legs were still over her head, ankles still held firmly in his cast-iron grip, as he spanked her on the inside with his cock. Jesus! She didn’t want the punishment to end.

  ‘You naughty, dirty, girl,’ he rasped, thrusting each word for emphasis. ‘You have (thrust) to be (thrust) punished (thrust). He released her legs and she wrapped them around his neck, arching up to meet her punishment over and over until he grunted. It was more like a roar actually, then he ejaculated so hard that she was sure she’d never hold it all, but it hardly mattered with her own orgasm spasming and threatening to rip her apart.

  ‘Are you sorry for your bad behaviour?’ he asked, much later, curled around her in his bed while they listened to the storm rage outside.

  ‘Terribly,’ she lied.

  ‘Farming takes discipline,’ he lectured.

  ‘Right. And just how much farming can you do in London?’

  He clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t live in London. I help feed London, or used to. My family owns a farm in Kent. My uncle owns a farm in Illinois. I’ve provided cheap labour for both. My hands got soft while I was away at university.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Thanks to you they’re hard again.’

  She winced slightly as his newly callused hand moved down to stroke her tender bottom. When she was no longer speechless from his revelation, she spoke. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘And spoil your fun? You were dying to spank my city-boy arse from day one, admit it. Besides,’ he slipped his fingers back into the silken wetness of her pussy, ‘I’m sure the more disciplining I get the better farmer I’ll be. And you, you’re such a naughty girl, I may wear my belt out on your little bare bottom.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She shoved him onto his back and mounted him. ‘If you wear out your belt, there are plenty of willow switches.’

  Just the Ticket

  by Elizabeth Coldwell

  I only agreed to deliver the ticket to Jason as a favour to my husband. I couldn’t see why the two of them were treating it as though it was gold dust, but then I didn’t share their passion for football. In fact, I couldn’t stand the wretched sport.

  I had known when I first met Clive that football was a big part of his life, and in the early days of our relationship, when we were trying to accommodate each other’s likes and dislikes, I had actually accompanied him to a couple of matches in the hope it might help me understand the attraction. It didn’t, and after a while I simply left him to enjoy it, finding more enjoyable things to do with my Saturday afternoons.

  But even after all our years together it was still important to Clive; important enough for him to spend six hours queuing for a ticket to see his beloved West Bromwich Albion play in the FA Cup Final, and a second for Jason, his closest friend. The same ticket I should have been handing to Jason at this very moment.

  That hadn’t been the plan. The two men had originally arranged to get together a couple of nights before the match and sort everything out over a few pints and a takeaway curry. And then, at very short notice, Clive’s firm had asked him to fly over to Geneva to close a troublesome deal, and I’d offered to take the ticket round to Jason instead.

  I admit the fact it gave me an excuse not to go to the leaving do being held for Gerry, the biggest perv in our accounts department and the man who had spent the best part of eighteen months trying to take me from behind over the office photocopier, played a big part in my decision. Beneath it all, though, I just wanted to help Clive out.

  Except something terrible had gone wrong. Somewhere between our home in Fulham and Jason’s flat in Chiswick I had lost the envelope containing his ticket. I was certain I had put it in my inside coat pocket before I’d left the house, but when I came to take it out, it simply wasn’t there. I fumbled in my pocket, checking it hadn’t somehow slipped down into the lining of the coat, but to no avail.

  ‘Is everything all right there, Laura?’ Jason asked, an edge of impatience to his voice as I shrugged the coat off my shoulders and shook it, hoping against hope that a crumpled white envelope might drop down on to the floor.

  ‘I... er...’ I didn’t know what to say to him. I’d always had the impression Jason thought I was slightly scatty, and my behaviour was doing nothing to dispel that view.

  ‘You’ve lost the ticket, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Don’t try to pretend you haven’t.’

  ‘I had it with me when I left the house. I know I did,’ I replied, a forlorn edge to my voice. ‘I couldn’t have...’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you could,’ he retorted. ‘I told Clive it was a mistake to leave something so important in your hands, but he said it would be fine.’ He gave a heavy sigh, as though he was a headmaster talking to a pupil who had somehow let him down. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done, Laura? There’s no way they’re going to issue me with a replacement this close to the game, and I’d be stupid to travel over to Wembley and pay some ridiculous price to a tout i
n the hope that I won’t get arrested when I try to get into the stadium.’

  He looked at me as I stood forlornly, still clutching my coat. A strange, devious expression crossed his face. ‘Of course, you might not have had the ticket in your coat in the first place. It could be in your jeans pocket.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, wondering if I had actually put the envelope in my little rucksack for safekeeping and somehow forgotten I’d done it.

  ‘Well, I do. Why don’t we have a look? Take your jeans off, Laura.’

  I gaped at him, unable to believe what he’d just said. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ I asked.

  Jason shook his head. ‘I’ve never been more serious. I want to check them myself, seeing as you obviously can’t be trusted with simple little tasks.’

  ‘Can’t we do this in the living room?’ Even though it was the middle of May, the weather was cold for the time of year, and the hall of Jason’s flat was surprisingly draughty.

  ‘Just shut up and do as you’re told, Laura, or I’ll take you out in the lobby and make you do it there – or do you like the thought that anyone from the other flats might walk past and see you half-undressed?’

  There was a tone in Jason’s voice I had never heard before, one which frightened and excited me. The only way I could describe it was dominant – as though he had utter control over what I was about to do. The truth was, of course, he didn’t. If I wanted, I could just tell him where to go and walk out of the door. And the fact that instead I stood exactly where I was and began to unbuckle the belt of my jeans had nothing to do with any fear of what my husband might say when I told him I had lost the ticket.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my husband very much, and while Jason is admittedly very handsome, standing well over six foot, with thick, glossy dark hair and startlingly blue eyes, I had never thought of him as being anything other than Clive’s best friend. However, I have sometimes thought that while our sex life was very good, it lacked a little something – but until Jason looked at me as though I was a naughty little girl who deserved to be punished for my stupidity and ordered me to start taking my clothes off, I had never realised what that something was.

  So I obediently slipped off my shoes, unfastened my jeans and stepped out of them, my skin prickling not only from the cool air in the hall but from the anticipation of what might be to come. Jason took the jeans from me and turned the pockets inside out, then shook them. As both of us had expected, his precious Cup Final ticket did not flutter to the floor.

  A sardonic smile crossed his face. ‘Oh, dear, Laura. This isn’t looking too good. But I suppose we could just be looking in the wrong place. There’s a breast pocket in that top of yours, isn’t there? So why don’t you just take it off and we can look in there, too.’

  His suggestion was outrageous, and we both knew it. There was no need at all for me to remove my blouse for him to search inside the pocket, and my nipples tingled at the thought of Jason’s hand closing over my breast as he did, but he seemed determined to see me stripped down to my underwear.

  I took a breath, still believing that I had some measure of control over what was being done to me, and unbuttoned my top. Jason took it from me with a dispassionate air, though I had seen a momentary hunger in his eyes at the sight of me in nothing more than my white lacy bra, matching knickers and the little white ankle socks I usually wore to play tennis.

  He made a show of examining my breast pocket, but by now both of us were aware that what was happening was no longer anything to do with the missing ticket. I stood waiting, wondering what he had planned for me, as he dropped the discarded garment to the floor. Would he force me to strip entirely naked to prove his point – and why was a small, shameful part of me actively hoping that he might?

  To my relief – or was it disappointment? – he seemed to decide that I had undressed quite far enough. Instead, he ordered me to put my hands on my head. ‘This calls for a body search, I think,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure Clive would have something to say if he knew what you were doing,’ I replied, doing my best to play for time.

  ‘Would he really?’ Jason smirked. ‘Why don’t we give him a call and ask him. Geneva’s what – an hour ahead of us? I’m sure he’ll be in his hotel room now. I wonder what he’d say if I asked him whether I should search you to find my missing ticket and deal with you appropriately if I couldn’t?’

  I didn’t reply. I had a feeling Clive would tell Jason he had no problem with the idea, especially not if he could have all the action described to him as it happened. I had a vision of my husband lying on his bed in some Swiss hotel room, his ear pressed to the phone receiver and his rigid cock in his hand as Jason toyed with me. He had often mentioned fantasies in which another man fucked me while he looked on, and just the thought of it seemed to get him more excited than usual. I had no idea what Jason meant when he said he would deal with me appropriately, but I was sure Clive would have been able to supply a few suggestions.

  So I submitted to be searched. Not that Jason had a particularly extensive search in mind: he merely patted me through my bra, making sure to brush his thumbs over my nipples in the process, before pulling my breasts out of the cups. I blushed at being exposed to him in this way, but my embarrassment was mixed with the feeling that he liked what he saw very much.

  ‘Only one place left to look now,’ he commented, and turned his attention to my knickers. His hands smoothed over them, cupping my buttocks before moving round to the front, where he slowly pressed the material into the cleft of my sex, rubbing and teasing me as he did. My knees gave way slightly, but I did my best to hold my position as he played with me. Then, just as I was beginning to enjoy what he was doing, he stopped.

  ‘That’s it,’ Jason said. ‘I’ve looked everywhere. It’s obviously gone, and the only thing I can do now is teach you not to be so careless in future. Come with me.’ With that, he grabbed hold of my hand, and led me into his living room. He pulled one of the chairs out from under the round dining table in the centre of the room, and sat down on it.

  ‘Right, Laura. Over my knee, please.’ For a moment, I hesitated. There was only one reason I could think of why he would want me in such a position, and that was so he could spank my bottom. Again I thought of old-fashioned headmasters and naughty pupils, but surely there was no way Jason could think it appropriate to spank a grown woman. Obviously, however, he did, because when I didn’t immediately do as he had asked, he grew impatient.

  ‘Do I have to tell you again?’ he snapped. ‘Over my knee – now.’

  Feeling incredibly foolish, I draped myself apprehensively over his lap. I had never in my life been spanked for any misdemeanour, and I could not prevent myself from wondering whether it would hurt and, if so, how much.

  ‘I want you to know that I do regret having to do this,’ Jason said, ‘but you brought it on yourself.’ And with that, he slapped my left buttock. It wasn’t much more than a tap, in truth, and when he did the same to my other cheek I thought that perhaps this punishment wasn’t going to be so bad after all. What I didn’t realise was that he was merely warming me up, getting me used to the feeling of his strong hand on my arse. Gradually, the force of the slaps began to increase, causing me to give the odd little yelp as my tender flesh began to sting beneath the thin protection of my knickers. Soon, tears were pricking at my eyes and I was ready to promise anything if only he would stop. But as Jason ignored my cries of protest and continued to spank me methodically, to my surprise, I found the sting was being followed by a warm, sweet undercurrent of something I could only describe as pleasure.

  As if part of me was waking up for the first time, I began to ride the pain – welcome it, even. And then Jason raised the stakes a little higher. He caught hold of the waistband of my knickers and began to haul them down. ‘Let’s see how this cute little arse looks with the marks of my
fingers on it,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sure it’s turning the most gorgeous shade of red.’

  ‘No, please, you can’t!’ I begged. The prospect of continuing my punishment in nothing but my ankle socks and the bra I was still half wearing was almost too mortifying. I couldn’t bear the thought that Jason would be able to see my bare, glowing bum and shaven pussy lips as he spanked me. And yet I knew I had no choice. I would submit to him willingly, whatever he chose to do to me, because it was turning both of us on. The fact that as I squirmed on his lap I was all too aware of his cock, rigid and straining beneath me, was proof enough.

  Needless to say, Jason was deaf to my pleas. Within moments, he had tugged my knickers down and off. He gave me a moment to prepare myself as best I could for what was about to happen, and then he renewed his onslaught on my bottom. With my skin super-sensitive from the spanking he had already given me, I now felt every slap just that little bit more. It seemed as though Jason’s arm would never get tired as he brought it down over and over again. I was really pleading with him to show some mercy by now, afraid that if he spanked me for much longer I would actually break down and sob, but he seemed determined to make sure that I had learned my lesson thoroughly before he stopped. And all the time, I could feel his hard cock through the coarse material of his trousers, and knew that if he asked me to, I would beg for that, too.

  He gave one last, doubly hard slap to each of my cheeks, and then he seemed to decide enough really was enough. ‘Are you sorry?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him.

  ‘Will you look after other people’s possessions more carefully in future?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I promised fervently.

  ‘And would you like your reward for taking your punishment so well?’