Six of the Best Spanking Stories - Volume 2

by Miranda Forbes

  The biker was somehow different. Lisa couldn’t put her finger on it. Was it because he was polite, or because his tight black biker trousers showed a big bulge? Was it his eyes, which communicated his feelings far more directly than anything he said? Was it the bike itself, a black Harley with a throb that rattled the window of her cash booth? Or his fingernails, dirty with oil underneath them? Why did that excite her? Lisa wondered what kind of perverse meaning that particular detail might have in her unconscious.

  Whatever the answer, she soon recognised the sound of that particular bike, looked over at it every time the biker showed up. Also she knew his name, because it was on the card he used to pay for the juice: Joseph.

  It was two more days before he made his move and she almost missed it.

  ‘You’re always here at this time of day,’ he said casually, the sixth time he came in.

  ‘Yup. Early shift. I get off at three.’ What had made her say that?

  It was only two o’clock. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Tomorrow then. I carry a spare passenger helmet on the bike.’

  A statement, not a question. It made her feel cold that he would assume she was free and willing to ride off into the unknown because he wanted it. It made her feel hot that she actually wanted to do it.

  She hands over the booth to the boy on the late shift, hangs her tabard on the hook in the little back office, and waits outside. Skinny T-shirt, short skirt, sneakers, denim jacket over one shoulder and a handbag that contains her copy of the latest bestselling self-improvement book, to read in the slack times and breaks. The basic argument seems to be that if you want something enough you can make it happen for you.

  Since Lisa didn’t know what she wanted, she couldn’t try to attract anything specific. What she could do, though, was try to anticipate and have faith that something unexpected and wonderful would happen. And just be ready for it.

  Is this what she wanted? Has she made it happen, in some unconscious way? Because he’s not here.

  She’s beginning to wonder if she imagined the whole thing or if he’s deliberately making her wait.

  The distinctive throb echoes across the forecourt at five past three.

  ‘You know how to ride pillion, right? Stay right up close to my back and hold on tight – put your arms round me and grip my belt. When we lean into corners, go with it, let it happen. There’s no point screaming if you want to go faster because under the helmet, I won’t hear it. If you need to say something just keep tugging on my belt until I stop.’

  Ten more minutes and she’s now hanging onto Joseph, feeling the g-forces in the long swooping corners take her. They grind her into the leather padding between her legs. She’s feeling the thudding of the bike engine worming its way up her thighs, pulsing against tender pinkness. Never been on a bike before. Now she can see the attraction. This isn’t a whining, fast-revving bike. The engine is a throaty growl. Lisa has a mental image of riding on the back of a black-and-chrome tiger that’s on the hunt.

  And Joseph seems to handle the bike as though it’s a living thing, throwing it into bends and changing gear like he’s using spurs on the beast’s flanks.

  Even at 30 she’s grateful she’d had the foresight to bring her denim jacket. And her knees are getting cold. But she’s hot in other ways.

  Riding pillion means she has the choice of seeing the back of Joseph’s helmet, or a sideways view of the road. But they’re quickly in countryside, on roads she doesn’t know. The view is fields and hedges. She has no idea where they’re going.

  Joseph gears down, brakes, comes to a standstill. They’re on a patch of dirt that couldn’t even be called a lay-by, on the side of a narrow country lane that seems to be in the middle of nowhere. Fields on one side, a wood on the other.

  Hmm…

  ‘I thought you might want the wind in your hair. Up there,’ Joseph points to a ridge visible above the trees, ‘is a great view. Plus if you’re interested, there’s an old stone circle.’ He reaches into one of the bike’s panniers and pulls out a small rucksack. ‘If your legs are cold after the ride, I’ve at least got a flask of coffee to warm you up. I didn’t figure you’d be wearing anything quite so short…’

  A short, steep walk and they’re on the ridge. Lisa glories in the afternoon sun warming her, the occasional breath of wind tickling her hair. And in the lack of people, the need not to face customers. Or face them down.

  They sit propped against one of the stones, looking into the distance.

  ‘So why here? Are you into stone circles? Magic and witchcraft?’ After the stale atmosphere of the petrol station, the fresh air makes her feel almost drunk.

  Joseph smiles. ‘I could say it’s magic now that you’re here.’

  ‘See, I knew you were going to be a smooth-talking bastard!’

  ‘It’s very un-PC to call someone a bastard, you know. I bet you couldn’t do it at work.’

  Lisa laughs. ‘Yeah. So bite me!’

  It’s an American thing, a put-down that she’s heard repeatedly on TV and her small circle of friends had picked up. But Joseph looks puzzled, like he doesn’t get the reference.

  He bites her anyway. Lisa finds herself pushed to the ground, wrists held down by his hands. She squirms theatrically, exposing her neck and wondering at the same time, why am I doing this?

  But Joseph isn’t one for doing the expected. He leans over and bites into her thigh, just level with the bottom of her denim skirt. Firm enough to leave tooth marks. Gentle enough not to hurt. Long enough to make her feel juiced and squirming inside.

  She’s gulping air.

  Joseph’s grip on her wrists gradually relaxes. Lisa rolls over onto her stomach, which put her face next to his leg. The smell of leather is deep and rich – a smell of black leather, somehow.

  ‘I could bite you!’

  ‘You could, but seeing as the trousers are designed to take falling off a bike and scraping along asphalt it wouldn’t be very effective.’

  What he says next gave Lisa a jolt that feels exactly like his lips on her pussy.

  ‘Since you’ve been unkind enough to call me a bastard, I think you deserve to be punished for it. I should give you a spanking.’

  She sniggers. But at the same time she’s thinking about it as a serious proposition. Is it a serious proposition?

  Reality check: ‘You’ve known me for two hours. Half of that we were on the bike. You’ve driven me out to God knows where. And now you think you should give me a spanking?’

  ‘Two hours, two years. Doesn’t matter. But I think you do want spanking. Because you’re up for anything new and different, aren’t you?’

  How had he known that?

  In the centre of the circle is a single boulder, of a size that Lisa can lean over, resting her forearms on the weathered and smooth top. Why is it smooth? Is it down to centuries of people coming up here at full moon and fucking on it? Thousands of women lying on it and polishing it with their backs?

  When she bends over the boulder, her short skirt rides up high at the back, exposing thong and bare arse. She wriggles experimentally, waiting, anticipating. She isn’t calling his bluff: just proving she’s up for something new and different.

  What’s he doing? Just looking?

  A fingernail traces the line of her rump, almost tickling. Then gently follows the seams of her thong, around and between her legs.

  Lisa discovers she’s holding her breath.

  ‘It would be so much better if you weren’t wearing that thong.’

  Fingers tug. She lifts her stomach away from the rock, an implicit permission for him to reach round and pull the thong to her ankles. She steps out of them. Spreads her ankles for better balance. Even though that means her pussy is thoroughly exposed; to someone she’s only met a couple of hours before. This is new territory for he
r – she’s not the kind to screw on a first date – wasn’t the kind to screw on a first date. If this is even a date. A first time for everything…

  And they’re standing on the skyline; looking around she can still see for miles: fields; roads; a couple of villages. A passenger jet is beginning its descent to the city airport. Reverse the perspective, it means anyone can see her, see her open pussy waiting…

  A sudden breath of cool wind caresses Lisa’s bare buttocks and wantonly displayed pussy. It feels fresh, but strange. Sends a tingle up her spine, and she shivers.

  A second later the spanking begins.

  The spanks are not severe. Just enough to make the tops of her legs bounce against the boulder. Just enough that the sting is almost sensual.

  Joseph talks in between the strokes. ‘You called me a bastard.’ Thwap. ‘And technically that’s correct.’ Thwap. ‘Because my parents never legally married.’ Thwap. ‘They had a biker wedding, old-school style.’ Thwap. ‘I was five when it happened.’ Thwap.

  ‘So much for the word not being PC, then.’ The sassy Lisa is still there with the put-downs.

  ‘Oh, but it’s not PC.’ Thwap. ‘Politically correct? Not at all. It stands for Petrolhead Culture.’ Surely he just made that up? ‘We’re all bastards, one way or another. Some of us by birth and some because we’re just plain nasty. Or both.’ Thwap. ‘But it’s bad form to mention it.’

  Repeated impacts generate heat. Heat on Lisa’s arse, but also the heat of wanting…more.

  She bites her lip. But that quickness of breath is with her anyway, and the flush that starts between her legs and crawls up her body, all over her body.

  ‘Nnnnnn…’

  He knows what effect the spanking has. He starts hitting harder. Each time, she exhales. Little explosions of air from between her lips, in sync with the little fiery explosions happening in her loins.

  There’s a heaviness in her pussy, a feeling that blood is pumping there, increasing the pressure in her pussy lips. Engorging her clit, the love-button swollen and quavering. Her nipples grazing the surface of the boulder every time she’s pushed forwards.

  Her lips puckering to an ‘O’ shape.

  She expects an impact, and it doesn’t happen. Looks around at Joseph, questioningly.

  ‘Girl, you need more than my hand on your backside!’

  ‘What…?’

  He’s undone his belt buckle, is unhooking the belt from his jeans.

  ‘No!’ But she stays rooted to the spot, her body stubbornly wanting this.

  The first blow makes her yelp, a reflex action because she’s expecting hurt. But it feels thuddy, not stingy, less pain that she anticipated.

  And she’s laughing. Actually laughing, because the tension is too much to keep inside her body. There’s a filament of excitement that runs from her pussy up to the base of her brain, the “lizard brain” that deals with fear response. Lisa isn’t just a pretty face and short skirt. She reads books, knows things. Right now her pussy is in communication with her lizard brain, telling her this is OK, this is not a fight-or-flight scenario. It’s telling her she can take pleasure in this. Take pleasure in the fall of the belt on her arse, the rosy flush of her skin.

  According to the book in her handbag, in some unknown, unconscious way, this is what she attracted to herself. It’s what she really desires.

  He’s hitting skin already reddened by the spanking. The feelings are intense and she rocks back and forth, channelling them into a desire to feel this man’s cock inside her.

  Lisa’s thighs tremble, knees begin to give way. Her fingers turn into claws, scrabbling at the smooth boulder, trying to dig in as though they can hold her in this position.

  Then Joseph is behind her, the cool leather of his jeans feeling good against the backs of her legs and her arse. Even through the leather he must feel the heat radiating from her skin. Even through the leather he must feel her musky waves of desire.

  ‘And…?’ he asks.

  ‘Ffff…’

  Lisa has never, ever, said ‘Fuck me!’ to a man and meant it literally. But it’s what she wants and now the bastard is going to make her plead for it.

  She pleads.

  What she actually says is, ‘Fuck me now, you bastard!’

  She’s pleased about the bastard part.

  What passes through her mind is whether Joseph has any condoms in that rucksack of his.

  He does. The latex sheath brushes insistently against her crack, finding the right angle, the right position. Supported now by his body weight against her, Lisa uses her right hand to feel down, breaking position enough to get fingers around the cock and guide it in.

  It’s not thick. Just long. Long enough to reach her cervix from this position. She grunts, shifting one leg to raise herself enough to ease the pressure.

  Lisa’s surprised at how lubricated she is. Moistened by the bike, juiced by being bitten, and now sopping wet. Hadn’t felt that coming. All her attention had been focused on the repeated impacts on her arse.

  Long, even, powerful strokes. Like a piston fitting precisely into its cylinder. The bike imagery flashes into her head, drags with it the memory of g-force and vibration against her clit. If she can get a finger to her clit…

  The middle finger slots into place, working its magic. And she arches her back, getting the cock to ride precisely over her g-spot.

  He’s riding her, handling her like an animal, the way he rides his bike. And then he hits the throttle.

  Lisa’s never found it easy to climax. It takes a while, and if she’s honest it’s easier with a vibrator. She needs the right bore and stroke, one that hits her g-spot with g-forces. But more than anything, she needs the right images in her head. They’re often transgressive images: being held down and forced, being seduced by a mysterious stranger, the instant fuck in a nightclub, on the street, on holiday, in a threesome.

  Some of this is memory, not fantasy.

  But this fuck hits all her buttons: the bike; the biker; the smell of leather; the bite Lisa can still feel on her thigh. The idea of being fucked in the open – not exactly in public, but close. The fact she’s bent over and being tupped from behind, which she associates with being controlled. The spanking, which her arse cheeks tells her about every time his leather-clad thighs smack against them.

  Her finger moves harder, faster, against her clit.

  He’s taking the revs into her red zone and she’s skidding out of control. She’s in that moment where all sensation is reduced to a single onrushing inevitable black leather orgasm.

  It’s a slow-motion impact that connects first with Lisa’s clit and pussy, flowing upwards through her ribcage and tortured gasps, wracking her arched spine, flooding her breasts and nipples, no longer rubbing against the boulder but still imprinted with the memory of friction. It hits her lizard brain and flows to every pleasure centre in her head. Then, finally, it flows downwards, through her legs, feet, toes, earthing out on the ground like an electric shock.

  Lisa can’t move without falling over, but Joseph is tender. They lie together on the ground, her head on his chest, languorous in the afterglow. Her fingers play with the zipper on his jacket, then his nipple, its outline visible through his T-shirt. His fingers move gently through her short, spiky hair.

  ‘So is that how you pick up women? A big flashy bike to make them go weak at the knees, and offer a ride on it?’

  Joseph laughs. ‘No, that was the first time! Usually I just rely on my addictive personality and sparkling wit.’

  It’s her turn to chuckle. ‘Right. So you don’t get much sex, then?’ Sassy Lisa’s back in action.

  ‘I’m thinking you might need another spanking quite soon. Like in about five minutes.’

  ‘Hmmm. I’m still feeling the heat from the last one, thank you!�
� Her body remembers the sensation and shivers deliciously.

  It’s two miles down the road that Lisa remembers her thong. It’s still at the base of the boulder. No doubt someone will find it and work out what led up to it being left behind. She smiles, shifts position on the bike, allowing her pussy to contact directly with the pillion seat. By the end of the journey, there will be pussy cream to rub into the leather and in a strange way she’ll feel she owns the bike.

  Her knees are cold again.

  Joseph will pick her up at the same time, same place tomorrow. She figures wearing jeans to work would be a good plan.

  On the internet, the local bike shop has women’s cowhide trousers, full leather knee panels, for £120. Her bank balance will just about stand it.

  She lies in bed thinking about the laws of attraction and how life just became more wonderful and exciting. Wondering about next time, where he’ll take her and how he’ll take her. How she might want to be taken. Tied up and forced to take his cock in her mouth, for example?

  Later still, she dreams about how good she’ll look wearing leather.

  The Naked Truth

  by Dee Jaye

  The pompous guy took his eyes off my tits and slid a photo across the desk. ‘I think my wife’s seeing another man,’ he said. ‘I want you to find out if it’s true.’

  I glanced down. A petite girl with funky, honey-coloured hair and alabaster skin stared back at me. She looked sad. Having met her husband I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d found someone else.

  ‘I want a name and description. If you can get a picture so much the better. And I want the info through my letter box next Friday evening. All right?’

  Did he now? Well I wanted him to piss off and play with himself, and was about to say so when he slapped a wad of notes on the counter. That changed my mind. I had bills to pay.

  ‘You’ll get the other half when I have the info. And you’re in luck seeing as it’s Tuesday. Michelle goes out at eight so you can follow her. She’ll be in a red BMW.’