Six of the Best Spanking Stories - Volume 2

by Miranda Forbes

  If that meant what I thought it meant, I was more than ready. I had been stripped, teased, spanked almost beyond endurance and now, I hoped, I was going to be fucked. Jason ordered me to bend over the dining room table and spread my legs. The next thing I heard was the zip of his trousers coming down. I glanced round to see him approaching me, naked from the waist down and clutching his hard cock in his hand.

  Getting into position behind me, he eased my pussy lips apart with his fingers and slowly pushed his dick up into me. He wasn’t as long as Clive, but he was much thicker, and I felt myself stretching around him, almost crying out with the sweetness of the feeling. The way he fucked me, hanging on to my hips as he thrust hard inside me and occasionally running a hand over my hot, red bum cheeks, was a beautiful reward for the punishment I had taken. I reached down to tickle my own clit, and within moments I was coming, my muscles clenching hard around Jason’s thick shaft and setting off his climax in turn.

  ‘That was amazing,’ he sighed, when he could finally speak again. ‘It doesn’t quite make up for missing out on the Cup Final, but I know now that Clive is even more of a lucky bastard than I always thought he was.’

  And from now on, I thought as I got dressed, my husband was going to be a lucky bastard with a wife who was determined to show him how much fun he could have punishing her whenever she stepped out of line. Perhaps he would even send me over to Jason’s if I misbehaved really badly, with a message to his friend to keep my knickers when he peeled them off me and send me back home with a bare, spanked arse and a pussy full of come.

  As I was letting myself back into our house an hour later, I spotted a white envelope lying on the doormat, exactly where I must have dropped it when I was locking the front door. Tomorrow, I would ring Jason and let him know I hadn’t lost the ticket, and he would be going to the Cup Final after all. And if he had to spank me again for all the mental anguish I had put him through, well, I didn’t think either of us would have a problem with that!

  In Tooth and Claw

  by Giselle Renarde

  I’d reached the point where I never wanted to bring another man into my home. Never. No one. Not even Connor. To bring a man into your home is to grant him access to you on an intimate level. It leaves you exposed. It’s one thing to be naked with someone, quite another to be exposed to him. It’s one thing to fuck a co-worker in an underground parking lot, quite another to have him in your own bed.

  No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that backseat mambo with Connor was a one-time-only event, it just wouldn’t sink in. It was only spring fever, I’d assured myself at the time. That was bullshit.

  Fortunately, Connor floated at the very periphery of masculinity, so there was something not-too-scary about the idea of bringing him home. He couldn’t hurt me too badly, right? That’s what I believed, after lunching with him in the springtime. One’s esteem of a man necessarily changes once you’ve seen him wearing a wig, sweater set and tweed skirt.

  Even in typical men’s attire, Connor exuded the sweet perfume of transvestism. If you knew how to look, you could see the hints of cross-dresser even in his black cotton turtleneck. Very plain, right? Nothing suspect there. But if you were a particularly astute observer, you’d notice his sleeves were a little too short. You’d also notice how smooth his forearms were, and after a moment of pondering why that was, you’d realise he shaved them. See? There were signs, if you knew how to look.

  Sneaking up behind him as he checked audio levels for the Women Entrepreneurs Association dinner, I dressed my voice in a Cornish accent. ‘Hallo, poppet!’

  Connor nearly jumped out of his black slacks. ‘Dotschy, you scared the shit out of me! Someone should put a bell on you.’

  ‘You know, all your clothes look like women’s clothes now that I’ve seen you in a skirt,’ I told him. It was one of those seemingly-casual comments with the ulterior motive of validating a suspicion.

  ‘That’s because these are women’s clothes…’ he confirmed, fiddling with the soundboard. Ah-ha! Notion authenticated. Connor was cross-dressing at work. ‘…but, really, what am I wearing? A plain turtleneck, a plain pair of pants. They’re androgynous enough that nobody would ever know they were women’s clothes without seeing the tags.’

  ‘Except me,’ I bubbled. Nobody was looking, so I grabbed him by the love handles.

  Connor seized, breathing in sharply. ‘Except you, and that’s only because…’

  ‘Because I’ve seen you in a skirt!’ I giggled.

  And the conversation had come full circle.

  ‘How late are you working?’ he asked.

  ‘Until tear-down. You?’

  ‘Same.’ Despite the fact that I’d fucked him in the past – when he was wearing women’s clothing, no less! – Connor still seemed anxious making propositions. He returned to work, fiddling with that damned soundboard, before asking, ‘Do you need a ride home?’

  ‘I don’t need a ride home,’ I began. Before his expression could fall too flat, I added, ‘But if you want to take me for a ride at home…’

  Connor grinned, touching his magnetic nose to mine, and it was hell on earth not to kiss him there and then.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m letting you see my house,’ I admitted, touching my key card to the electronic lock in the front entrance.

  ‘This is a house? It looks a hell of a lot like an apartment building to me.’

  I shook my head, eyes rolling. ‘Same thing: Casa Dotschy.’ I led Connor to the staircase, asking as an afterthought, ‘Do you mind taking the stairs? I don’t like elevators.’

  ‘And you live on the sixteenth floor…?’

  ‘The sixth floor,’ I consoled, hopping steps like a playful bunny.

  ‘Ugh! You’re trying to kill me,’ he called, one flight down. ‘I’ll be too worn out to fuck you by the time we get to your house.’

  ‘My apartment,’ I teased.

  ‘Same thing,’ he teased back.

  ‘You’re so cute, Connor,’ I gushed as he crawled up the final storey.

  Gazing up at me from the floor, he replied, ‘That, I don’t often hear.’

  All in black, he rested on the sixth floor landing. I stood with my back to the door, wondering when I would find the courage to turn the handle and push it open so I could escort him down the hallway, unlock my apartment and lead Connor in. I had to contemplate all the moments I’d looked at him thinking, ‘Why this man? What do I see in him?’ He was attractive, wasn’t he? Fine brown hair, soft skin, noble features…

  ‘You’re feeling apprehensive about letting me into your house,’ Connor said. A statement, not a question. I nodded. ‘It’s not because you’re afraid of being alone with me. Hell, we’ve fucked before. It’s because your space is an expression of you. You’re concerned that I’ll learn too much about you too fast.’

  ‘It’s not that I have anything really weird in there,’ I began, but Connor stopped me.

  ‘Of course not. The fear is like…’He contemplated. ‘It’s like, if I really hated artichokes and couldn’t get along with anyone who liked them. If I found your living room full of artichokes, it would be a deal breaker.’

  Connor was so weird. He always could make me smile. ‘My living room isn’t full of artichokes.’

  ‘But that’s the fear, right? That your home will reveal something about you that’ll put me off.’

  ‘You’re very astute, Connor,’ I said. I liked pronouncing those two modest syllables of his name. He didn’t reply because he was no good with compliments.

  Anxiety lessened, though not totally destroyed, I opened my home to him.

  ‘You have a cat.’

  ‘I do,’ I declared as Bijou began her cautious approach. It suddenly occurred to me that a cat might be the deal-breaker. ‘You’re not allergic, are you?’

 
; ‘Nope.’

  Oh, thank God! ‘Hear that, Bijou? This one’s not allergic!’

  ‘This one!’ Connor scoffed, holding my shoulder for support as he took off his shoes.

  ‘My ex was allergic to her. I was vacuuming constantly.’

  ‘In high heels?’ He gifted me with a coy smile, which I returned.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What size are your feet?’ he asked as I slipped off my shoes.

  ‘Extra small. These are boys’ shoes, actually.’

  With a beat of affinity, Connor cooed, ‘Your feet are cross-dressers?’

  ‘Yup!’ I couldn’t have been more proud.

  ‘Well, if I can do it, you can do it.’

  When I gazed up at him, our magnetic noses kissed. He smiled, eyes alight, and my heart leapt in my chest. Connor swept me into an embrace, biting my bottom lip. I sucked in his hot breath as his tongue traced the outline of my mouth. He squeezed my little body, pulling me in close. I got so swept away by the passion of his kissing, I almost forgot we were still standing in my front hall. There was a line from Being John Malkovich I’d always wanted to try out on someone…

  ‘Shall we to the boudoir?’

  In place of an answer, he kissed me again. Untucking his women’s cotton turtleneck top, I backed away inch by inch. Connor followed, attached to my lips, until I’d led him with a trail of hungry kisses into my bedroom.

  I’d never seen his naked body. The one time we’d fucked, it was a torrid, spur-of-the-moment ordeal. I still only half knew what to expect – the lower half, to be precise. I knew there’d be some girly panties under those androgynous slacks. It was his upper torso that had me concerned. I’d wrapped my arms around Connor enough times to recognise that he had a bit of a belly. It was one thing to make love with a curvy woman, but the image of tiny little Dotschy fucking a big fat man was less than appealing.

  But I’d fucked him already! That was the kicker. Why was it so different because he’d been dressed in a skirt last time? He was still the same sweet and sensual Connor.

  Telepathically, he broke from the kiss and sat at the edge of my bed. Thank God only slivers of light embraced the room from the front hall and the streetlamps outside. He couldn’t see the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. He couldn’t see my ratty slippers not quite hidden under the dresser. I could see him, though. Connor’s pale skin glowed midnight blue, his expression utterly sympathetic. ‘Second thoughts?’

  Climbing into his lap like a child on Santa’s knee, I took hold of his hand. My fingernails were cut to the quick, practical for hardworking hands. Next to my rough, dirty nails, Connor’s gleamed. They were fairly long, filed into sharp points and glossy with a clear coat of polish. Showing off his mind-reading abilities once more, Connor asked, ‘Did you notice I did my nails?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Even in dim lighting, it was obvious. ‘It’s not fair; yours look so much better than mine.’

  ‘Why’s it unfair? I care about my nails and you don’t.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Mine tend to split, so I picked up a polish with Teflon in it. This stuff is unbelievable! Look how great they look.’

  ‘Teflon. Neat,’ I said, honouring the fingernails. I couldn’t believe Connor’s sheer giddiness about a stupid beauty product, but that beaming expression on his face did it for me. His smile was just so gorgeous, my insides boiled over like a pot of sticky rice on the hot stove. ‘Maybe we can cook breakfast on your nails instead of dirtying my frying pan,’ I kidded, running my tongue along those feminine fingertips.

  Tossing his head back with a snorted giggle, he asked, ‘So you want me to stay?’

  Bubbling from the inside out, I nodded, kissing Connor’s cheeks, nose, lips. It was his eyes more than anything that seduced me. My core shuddered at their sparkling blueness. ‘Sometimes I look at you and it’s just like, oh my God!’

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m sleeping with this hideous ogre!’ he mocked.

  ‘No, Connor,’ I stated firmly, hurt that he’d shattered the moment. ‘Learn to take a compliment, will you?’

  He glanced away, at the pot of begonias on my dresser. Not because they were particularly beautiful, only so he wouldn’t have to look at me. ‘I’ve never thought of myself as handsome.’

  ‘You have your moments.’ That sounded harsh, but it was the truth. ‘When you look at me a certain way, my temperature rises. Suddenly, you’re the fucking sexiest man alive.’

  ‘When you get hot, I get hot?’ he asked, his voice resonating deep within me.

  I nodded vigorously, slipping out of Connor’s lap to tear my top over my head. I wanted his eyes all over my dark gypsy skin. I unlatched my bra, let it fall. My pants came down too, and I pulled off my black socks. His eyes were everywhere, taking in moonlit flesh. Connor reached for my ass and I thought he might cast off my thong, but that wasn’t it at all. No, no, no. He dug those piercing lacquered fingernails into the willing flesh of my ass and I nearly jumped out of my skin. My body heaved itself toward him, entirely of its own volition.

  ‘How hot am I now?’ Connor asked, his breath a temperate rainforest. Sizzling. Sweet.

  My gasp shivered. ‘You are so fucking hot!’

  Those razor-like nails traced a path up my tender ass, dipping into the small of my back. As they sliced upwards, slowly, cutting like wheat-thrashers. I pawed at Connor’s paunch beneath his top. His skin was smooth. Smoother than mine. He was soft, smelled soft, felt soft. I grabbed his belly hard with blunt nails as he pulled me inside his well-protected sphere. When his talons neared my shoulders, my throat released a breathy squeal. My body quaked at the delicious pain.

  ‘You really like this, don’t you?’ Connor sang, almost teasing.

  There were no words to describe how much, so I kissed him, melting and melding into the tropic of his mouth. Across my shoulders and down my arms, his nails tore my throbbing flesh to shreds. I’d never felt anything like this before. Never had a partner who pleasured me with pain. The wicked gratification of that sting pumped me up. I kissed him harder. His tongue mingled expertly with mine, berating me as he scratched the back side of my thighs.

  ‘I knew I’d find a BDSM-lover in little Dotschy,’ Connor goaded, like he’d won a prize. ‘There’s something dark hidden in you.’

  ‘I know the S and the M, but I never figured out what the B and the D stood for,’ I admitted.

  Connor grinned like I’d opened season on the Dotschy Bird. That deep chuckle in the back of his throat let me know something very good or something very bad was about to happen. I was right. Sliding off my bed, he was behind me in a flash. Before I knew what was going on, my face met the bedspread, my feet still firmly planted on the floor.

  ‘B is for Bondage…’ Connor began, crossing my hands behind my back. My pussy palpitated. Or maybe it was my heart. I heard him knock stuff over on my night table before wrapping something around my wrists. What did I have on my night table that could possibly tie me up?

  ‘Is that dental floss?’

  In response, Connor grabbed me by the shoulders, piercing my flesh with those threatening nails. As he dragged them slowly down my arms, my body screeched and I pleaded, ‘Do my back next!’

  With an exasperated sigh, he used his lilting woman’s voice to teach me a lesson in technique. ‘You know, Dotschy, you’d get a hell of a lot more out of this whole experience if you kept quiet for five seconds.’

  ‘Ah,’ I replied, dedicating myself to silence.

  But my special request was granted, and Connor tore into my back with sharp fingernails. Did he realise my pussy clenched tight as a Tory’s asshole every time he pierced my flesh? I wanted to scream, ‘God, is that good!’ but instead I muffled a whimper. Connor responded with a throaty chuckle, like my pleasured pain amused him. He dragged h
is nails over my bound wrists, across my ass and all the way down to my feet, pausing momentarily to pierce my butt cheeks with teeth like razorblades. My insides leapt and I struggled with the moans that so badly wanted to escape my mouth. I had no idea how much I loved pain.

  Again, there was a clatter from the night table. ‘The D…’Connor said, his voice breathy and feminine, ‘…is for Discipline.’ The triad of syllables fell from perfect fifth, to minor third, to perfect unison. Discipline. The word was music. And with music came movement. Though anticipated, no amount of expectation could have prepared me for the stinging swat that struck my ass like a killer spanking. But it wasn’t a hand that fell against my flesh; I knew that sensation, and it wasn’t quite this raw. I almost asked, but Connor had advised me to keep quiet, so I did.

  The unknown implement struck me again on the other cheek. ‘Do you enjoy being disciplined?’ Connor’s woman voice asked.

  Was I permitted to respond? Simply, ‘Yes.’ So Connor dug his nails into the scruff of my neck like a mamma cat with her kitten as he slapped my ass with that strange something. Hard. Wood? Varnished, it seemed. I whimpered as he smacked me again. That’s what he wanted to hear, I assumed. That’s what this kind of play was all about. Connor didn’t want me shouting out his name and praising the Lord, saying how good it felt to be slapped on the ass. If I was to make any sound at all, it should be a pleading whine. But I wasn’t going to beg for mercy, not just yet. Each resounding smack was still just this side of bearable.

  Leaning close, Connor’s teeth pierced my arm as each strike against my ass burned my flesh like a branding. And then something pricked my thigh like fifty needles on the head of a pin, and I knew exactly what he’d been spanking me with. Now he was dragging the criss-crossed wires on the sharp side of this crazy implement down my tender thigh, all the way down to my knee. I was on tip-toes, pushing myself across the bed, trying to flee the pain. When he started with the multitude of sharp prongs against my cheeks, already on fire from the spankings, I released a blood-curdling shriek that probably scared the neighbours.