‘Well, you’ll learn soon enough, come on now, close your eyes and open your legs.’
I did as I was told. I’m always a good girl and like to do as I am told. He stroked my bush like you would stroke a cat; it was lush, the hair soft and silky, a shade darker than the hair on my head. My pussy parted like water when a swimmer takes the plunge. He slid two fingers up inside me and remained still for several seconds. He then worked his fingers back and forth, in and out of the ooze. I pushed against his hand, rocking slightly, and a luscious feeling of pure debauchery swept through me. I could have stood there all day, rocking on my white heels, his fingers like the head of a drill pumping out a steady stream of oily gunk that trickled into my pubes and rose smelling like the stable into the air. I arched my back, I rose on my heels and dropped down again, screwing his finger into me, his eyes on my eyes and like a cat I shamelessly purred from the attention.
There was a tap on the door that I didn’t so much hear as feel, like someone tickling your nose when you’re asleep.
‘Come in, Tara,’ he called.
I awoke from my somnambulant state when I heard Tara’s voice.
‘Sorry . . .’
‘Come in, I said.’
I opened my eyes and Tara was peeking through a crack in the door, just as I had peeked into the greenhouse at Mummy and the Polish gardener that summer’s day a year ago.
‘Come, come, come,’ he added and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Tara.
She remained outside. ‘What shall I do next?’ she asked.
‘Do you remember our little talk about discipline?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, when I say come in, what I mean is come in.’
He carried on running his fingers up into me as Tara entered clutching an assortment of photographs and papers. She closed the door softly behind her. I wondered what she must be thinking. I was totally ashamed standing there with Mr Cartier’s finger stuck in me like a doctor doing an internal and modestly lifted my hands to cover my breasts.
Ashamed? Yes, and fascinated, too. It was like being in a strange play and it was exciting making it all up as we went along.
‘I’ve got the . . .’
Tara had lowered her eyes and wasn’t sure what to say. I just carried on tightening my thighs and bottom, my pussy muscles sucking at Jean-Luc’s hand, my neck turning from pink to crimson.
‘Photographs?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘Put them on the desk, then.’
I was standing against the side of the desk. Tara placed the photographs on the other side and, as she did so, he bent my back forwards like he was closing the lid of a suitcase and I rested my arms on the glass top. I automatically pushed my bottom out and spread my legs to get more comfortable.
‘What is the first rule of acting, Tara?’ he asked the girl.
‘I’m not . . .’
‘Timing,’ he said before she had finished speaking. ‘What’s the second rule?’
‘I’m . . .’
‘Discipline,’ he said, and with that he brought his hand down on my bum with an enormous thwack that brought tears to my eyes and an aromatic spray of misty sap from the lips of my pussy.
‘How was that, Miss Petacci?’
‘OK.’
‘That’s not very good, now is it?’
Thwack.
Down it came again. I could feel a warm glow seep over my posterior like a slowly moving tide of agony and ecstasy, those conjoined twins of desire, those extremes of all pleasure and sensation. What was a girl like me doing with my bare bottom being spanked by a virtual stranger with a complete stranger watching? It was a mystery, but I felt oddly complete. This was my role, my mission, my purpose. You are just beginning, he had said, but beginning what? Would I, aged 39 like my step-mama, have the gardener’s tongue up my pussy?
The questions sprinted through my mind like a little mouse running on a treadmill. It made no sense. They were questions without answers. I hadn’t come to the office intending to take off my clothes, but it had taken so little for it to happen. I had taken off my knickers in the lavs at the Jewel Royale for heaven’s sake. I had been getting dressed for the show, or undressed to be on show. I knew there was a good chance that I was going to get another spanking and another spanking was what I really, really wanted.
Was spanking an obsession? An addiction? I had gone straight from the authoritarian regime of the nuns at convent school to the disciplinarian antics of Jean-Luc Cartier, from puberty to depravity! It was still all new to me. There was so much I didn’t understand. I’d lost my virginity to Hamish, the Laird of the Black Watch, and he didn’t even know it. He thought I was some naughty girl up from London looking for trouble and that wasn’t really me at all.
And again.
Smack No 3. His big hand was signing the plump cheeks of my bottom with a pattern of palm leaves. I was all wet sticking to the glass top of the desk. There was sweat on my back. My hair was hanging down over the far side of the desk, my toes were stretched and my pretty little bottom was just where it wanted to be: the centre of attention.
‘Now, how does that feel?’
‘Better,’ I murmured.
‘You see, Tara,’ he added, addressing his assistant. ‘This girl says she needs to find a job but what she really needs is to be spanked. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘She wants to work in the movies and what she doesn’t yet appreciate is that to do so she needs . . . what does she need?’
‘Discipline.’
‘Voilà,’ he said, and he hit me again, much harder, and a sizzling jolt of electricity ran up my spine and down my thighs.
‘Is this your first time, Tara?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ she said timidly.
‘Come, come, come. Don’t be shy. You are among friends here. Is this the first time you’ve seen a girl spanked?’
‘Well, I’ve never seen a girl being spanked before. Not exactly . . .’
Ah! I wondered. There is more to Tara Scott-Wallace than meets the eye.
‘And?’
He spanked me again while she thought about it.
‘It’s quite nice.’
‘Mmm,’ he said thoughtfully. Then he addressed me again. ‘How many is that?’
‘Five, Monsieur Cartier.’
Thwack.
‘That’s six,’ he said and took a deep breath. ‘Tara, come here. Stand here, where I am, that’s right. Très bien.’
I heard them shuffling about behind me. I felt a soft girlie hand resting on the small of my back.
‘Here,’ I heard him say.
I had a very firm notion that what he had placed into her hand was the wooden ruler I’d seen earlier on the desk. I had thought at the time how out of place it had been in that high-tech office, but now it all made perfect sense as a sharp snap from the ruler cut a path across the soft flesh Jean-Luc had carefully tanned.
‘Come. Come. Put some feeling into it.’
Tara beat my bottom once more with the ruler and it really hurt. She was beginning to enjoy herself. No 3 came down just above the last one and the sound ricocheted off the walls with an abrupt retort that brought a little round of applause from Mr Cartier.
‘That’s better, Tara. You’re getting warmed up. Take your blouse off now.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your blouse. Take it off.’
‘But . . .’
‘Remember what I said about discipline? Come along, now, we don’t want to keep Milly waiting, do we?’
Jean-Luc Cartier was a genius. It was that accent, soft as silk, yet so commanding. Men on the battlefield would charge enemy cannon if he gave the order and girls like me wanted to obey, wanted to please, wanted to be disciplined. You spend your whole life waiting for something special to happen, and when something special happens you have to recognise it, know that it’s happening and go with it, wherever i
t takes you. The first time I stepped into that office and Jean-Luc Cartier told me to take off my school blouse it was like a call to shed my old skin and become myself, shed the constraints of the chrysalis and become the butterfly. Inside us all is a desire to change, to be all we can be, in my case to be free and outrageous. A sort of animal instinct, a primal urge, the deepest expression of our humanity. I had wanted to take off my clothes for him and I had a feeling that Tara wanted to as well. We were the same age. I was exploring my potential and she surely was doing just the same.
‘Monsieur Cartier . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Yes, Tara.’
‘I’ve never . . .’
‘Then now is as good a time as any.’
There was a long pause. She had more resolve than me. But not that much.
‘It’s not something I want to do,’ she finally said.
‘Are you feeling all hot and sticky?’ he asked her.
‘Yes . . .’
‘Do you like spanking Milly?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘And you don’t want to take your top off?’
‘Not really.’
‘And why is that exactly?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t dismiss something you’ve never tried, Tara.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘No buts. It’s warm in here. Take off your blouse.’
She stamped her foot. ‘I won’t,’ she said and of course that means I will.
‘Come along now, let’s get on with it.’
‘But Monsieur Cartier . . .’
‘TAKE OFF YOUR BLOUSE.’
His voice had a different tone, stricter, more demanding. The air was charged with a sense of waiting, of anticipation. I could smell pheromones and fear. There was a brief silence. Then I heard a button snap open and a smile crossed my lips. Once that first button is released you are on a shiny silver chute. There is nowhere to go but down, down to the next button. You have made a decision to expose yourself and, once you start, you want to go sliding down, faster and faster, your head in a topsy-turvy of unfamiliar desires and new emotions. I heard the ruffle of material, the cotton blouse slipping from her skinny arms. She was on the slippery slide and I knew where she was going even if she didn’t.
‘And that, if you don’t mind.’
Again the pause.
The same thing had happened to me. Jean-Luc had created a special set of conditions and taking off your top seemed logical, normal, natural; it is a reasonable thing to ask, a reasonable thing to accept. You could justify it in your mind. But exposing your breasts was a step into the unknown. I knew as the pause extended that Tara had every intention of removing her bra but needed to imagine for a few moments that this wasn’t her intention at all. It is a mind game, a game you play to lose.
I stood up straight and nursed my poor bum with my palms. Tara avoided looking at me. She was looking at the floor and her voice was just a whisper.
‘I can’t see why,’ she said.
‘I think you can, Tara,’ he said, and he raised his voice, just slightly. ‘Now, don’t let me have to ask you again.’
The pause was shorter than before.
She ran her arms up her back and the elastic made a little ping as the clasp parted. She took the straps down one at a time. Did she know this looked really cool, really sexy? She held the bra clutched like a white dove between her palms.
‘There,’ he then said. ‘Excellent. Bring it here, give it to me. Now, Tara, tell me honestly, doesn’t that feel better?’
‘Yes, Monsieur Cartier.’
He smiled at me. ‘What do you think, Milly?’ he asked.
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘She’s quite delectable, no?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, yes she is.’
We were standing close. I could hear the electric lights humming, hear the faint beat of my breath. My breasts were fizzing and I had a terrible urge to ignite Tara’s nipples with my own. I bent forwards and, the moment our flesh touched, all her fears and reservations evaporated. Her arms went round me like the coils of an octopus and her lips were immediately jammed against my own, her tongue probing my mouth like a little fish. I slid my hand down her jeans and the moment my finger found its way through the ring of her bottom all the air left her body in one great exhalation and I thought for a moment she was going to collapse.
She was panting for breath as if she had just done those 100 laps around the top field. She whipped down the zip on her jeans and I thought how silly it was for a girl to wear jeans, they are so awkward, so hard to get off, and you just never know when you might want to get naked in a hurry.
I held her shoulders as she pulled down her jeans and knickers in one movement. She was sopping wet and I pushed my fingers straight up inside her cleft, drawn as if by some force outside my control. We were doing what nature intended us to do, two teenaged girls with healthy bodies, ripe and juicy and eager to be touched. We kissed and fingered each other until Tara came in a long rumbling orgasm and I had a feeling that it was just what she needed.
‘Over the desk now, Tara,’ Mr Cartier said. ‘Over the desk.’
His voice was soft, so soft, almost a whisper, a chant, a spell. He glanced at me and the faint nod of his head, the shrug of his shoulders, made it clear that it was my turn to spank Tara and it was something I had never done before. I had never done it but now, as she did as she was told and bent over the desk, I understood the attraction.
Her bottom peered up at me, round, tight, quite perfect, the slit down the middle like the entrance to some wonderful place, an unexplored continent. And inside me was a feeling that this pert white bottom needed the caress of my hand, it needed to be applauded with a good hard slap and automatically, almost unconsciously, I brought my palm down upon Tara’s bum as hard as I possibly could, so hard it stung my own hand, so hard the sound of the slap almost burst my eardrums. I had concentrated on the little cheek furthest from me and left a perfect white imprint outlined in baby pink where the blood rushed protectively to the surface.
‘Yeooi,’ she screamed.
‘Good girl, Tara, don’t move,’ said Jean-Luc.
I brought my hand down again on the other cheek and the feeling of Tara’s soft flesh as it gave way under my palm sent a feeling through my whole body like jumping on a trampoline. The higher you jump the more the trampoline springs you back into the air; the higher you go the harder you come down again. There were two white prints now, a perfect match, a perfect pattern which I slowly obliterated as I spanked her again and again, harder and faster, and she screamed in pain and then she screamed with pleasure as another orgasm burst like an erupting geyser from her drenched pussy. Her bottom was bright red like the flames of a fire with blue tinges around the edge and although it lacked the surreal colouring of the tartan plaid of the Black Watch, I had signed my first abstract and couldn’t help being pleased with the result.
After coming so copiously Tara seemed drained. She pulled herself up from the desk and clung to me, pressing her lips to mine, and I soothed the ache in her raw bottom, stroking and gently squeezing as she rammed her pubic bone into my wet crotch. She slipped as if exhausted to her knees, took my thighs in her two hands and her warm tongue wriggled up inside me, nursing the sharp little nub of my clitoris and draining the last liquids still stored in my body.
When we were both satiated we seemed to awake as if from a dream. I wasn’t sure where I was. My head was still slowly spinning from the lunchtime wine and I had the absurd notion that I wanted to rush home and show Mummy my spanked bottom. Tara held on to my thighs and a big contented smile of pleasure played over her lips.
I’d spanked my first girl and it was great.
‘Happy?’ Jean-Luc asked, and we both nodded. ‘Was it fun?’ he continued and we both nodded more vigorously.
‘Divine,’ I said. I loved that word.
‘Good. Stay there, and don’t move.’
Monsieur Ca
rtier unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it over the back of his leather chair. He removed his shoes and socks, folded his creased trousers and when he removed his boxers his cock sprang out and bobbed up and down like a little boy arriving at a party. It was pink and sweet, not huge like Hamish but playful and it was fun when he stepped forward and slipped it casually into my waiting palm.
Tara was still on her knees and he placed his hand gently on top of her head to keep her in that position. I started to roll the soft outer skin up and down the shaft of his cock.
‘Slowly,’ he whispered. ‘Always slowly.’
I felt like a conductor directing a piece of music, Bach, obviously, slowly, slowly, the notes climbing and building, and it was such a joy to be there in that office on a warm summer’s day, two spanked girls and a naked man with wisps of silver in the brown mat of hair on his chest. Slowly, slowly, up and down, up and down, the skin growing warmer, more solid, more alive with each stroke, up and down, up and down.
‘That’s very good, Milly. I think I might have just the right thing for you.’
‘Really?’
‘A short film,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s a bit flat at the moment. You might be able to give it a bit of oo la la.’
‘Oo la la?’
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Mmmmm.’
I was so excited I started going faster, my hand moving like a piston, up and down, squeezing as hard as I could, squeezing, releasing the squeeze, and squeezing again. I’d never done this before but it’s really quite easy, like swimming or playing the piano, you don’t need to think, it’s all instinct, all feeling, all so sensual and wanton with Tara on her knees gazing up like a worshipper in a temple. Up and down. Up and down.
Jean-Luc was caressing the back of her head and she wriggled forward. She smiled in such a way that her pink lips opened a tiny distance from the swollen head of his cock. Like me, she didn’t need to be told what to do. These things you know without having to be told. Everything that’s natural comes naturally, I thought, and this was probably quite profound and I would try to remember to write it down.
I kept a firm grip on Jean-Luc’s cock. I could feel it pulsing like something alive in my palm. Tara Scott-Wallace kept her mouth open and her eyes open and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, a great stream of frothy sperm jetted over her face and into her mouth, over her hair and into her eyes and she leaned forward to take the head of his cock deep into her throat to suck out the last juicy warm drop. Jean-Luc kept his hand on the back of her head and rocked backwards and forwards, in and out, the whole length of his cock vanishing down her throat, and at the same time I nursed his balls in my hand, squeezing gently. He ran his hand down my back, between my cheeks and a finger found its way into my wet bottom.
Being a Girl Page 8
