Undeterred, with her own research to pursue, she cornered him, pressed her hot little body against him. Luke felt her braless nipples harden through her thin T-shirt; could feel her firm stomach, naked under the crop top. Ducking down, Rose freed his half erect penis and took it into her mouth.
She’d never attempted a BJ before, but she had always been a good student and had read enough about oral sex since meeting Luke, her enthusiasm quickly took him to the brink. ‘Rose, I’m …’ he gasped in warning.
It was, she reckoned, less messy to simply suck and swallow. And besides, what better right of passage to becoming a new woman?
She looked up at him, smiling in triumph, as a thin trickle of come ran down her chin.
‘This is for distracting me,’ Luke said through gritted teeth.
And Rose was thrust face-down over the counter. Feet barely touching the floor, her baggy combat trousers were tugged down to her ankles. Hands pinned into the small of her back, she was held helpless, as Luke doubled the worn leather of his belt, then raised his hand high.
A flash of pain seared her naked rump; a sensation far removed from the previous day’s more sensual spanking. This was punishment pure and simple, yet for Rose its erotic effect was every bit as potent as the day before.
Six livid wheals decorated her jiggling bottom before Luke tossed the belt to one side. Tears filled her eyes. And when he pulled her tiny thong to one side, her sex was every bit as wet as her teary face. As he grasped her hips, Rose pushed herself up and back on to her toes, expectant, eager for more. Until a knock at the door broke them apart.
Luke didn’t visit the library the following day but sent an email. He would be in on Monday, he informed her; the day when his work at the Worth would be complete. ‘But there was,’ he wrote, ‘unfinished business between them which he intended to resolve.’ And Rose should therefore ‘dress accordingly and be in a suitable frame of mind.’
That weekend Rose took another shopping trip on which she purchased a dress in a 50s style, high-heeled sandals, and finally, with an insouciance she couldn’t have imagined a couple of months previously, a pair of sheer black stockings and a matching suspender belt.
Back at her flat she could scarcely believe her own transformation; from drab librarian to chic attractive femme; and from wanting to wanton.
‘You like?’ enquired Rose mischievously, when Luke arrived at the library. She’s never held this much sway over a man before, let alone had the self-assurance to use it.
‘Yes, very much,’ Luke said. He carried a long canvas bag under one arm.
‘Then let’s lock the front door and adjourn to my office,’ said the newly confident Rose.
‘Now,’ she enquired, once they were ensconced inside. ‘About this unfinished business?’ Her glasses slipped down her nose and she peered over the top.
Without taking his eyes from her, he reached out and gently grasped one of her breasts. Squeezed the firm flesh and felt her nipples stiffen in response. Slowly, he raised the hem of her dress; over nylon-clad knees, up shapely thighs, and onward, past the dark welt of her stocking top to the enticing nexus where her legs and torso met. ‘You appear to have forgotten your knickers,’ he said.
‘I didn’t forget anything.’
‘Aren’t you taking a risk?’
‘I hope so.’
The CLOSED sign went up. Heavy doors were firmly locked against the world. The answer-phone was switched on. High windows and thick walls would ensure they were neither seen nor heard.
‘I think you know what the resolution of our unfinished business will involve,’ said Luke. From his bag, he produced a cane and theatrically swished it though the air.
Rose nodded a mute assent.
‘There’s no need for preliminaries.’ Luke’s strong hands clasped her shoulders and guided Rose carefully, but insistently, to her desk. She allowed him to position her; upper body bent forward until she lay prone along the smoothly polished wooden surface. She reached out and grasped the sides.
Luke’s hands grasped each of her slender ankles, tugged her feet wide apart, then lifted her dress to her waist.
She tensed her calves, pushed herself up slightly on to her toes and locked her knees. The stance pushed her buttocks out and upward in silent invitation. Luke tapped the tip of the cane lightly against her two perfectly proffered cheeks. Rose screwed her eyes shut. And the first stroke of cane fell to become a thin line of fire across the crest of both buttocks. She gasped. A second stroke followed. Then a third. Rose wriggled on the tabletop, struggling to endure the increasing smart.
But the area of tenderness only increased as three more strokes followed; each applied with precision, none overlapping. She’d taken the sixer well, she knew; no hollering, no tears. Instead, she’d somehow channelled the tremendous discomfort inwards. And it was as if the heat from her buttocks had suffused to her sex, which had flooded.
‘There’ll be a further six,’ announced Luke.
Rose haughtily tossed her head. ‘I can take it.’
‘Can you indeed.’
He employed a wrist-driven action, making full use of the rod’s pliable qualities to whip the perfectly curved outline of Rose’s posterior.
Her jaw set in determination, Rose gritted her teeth, determined not to cry out. The cane cuts were even harder this time and fell lower, slicing cruelly across the tender junction where her thighs and buttocks merged. Rose’s feet kicked out in involuntary response, as the pain rapidly accumulated into a persistent, throbbing smart.
Eventually Luke stopped.
‘You really laid those on hard.’ Rose struggled to maintain her self-control. ‘My arse feels as if it’s on fire.’
‘Don’t pretend you didn’t deserve it, or crave it. But you may stand up now.’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘You may be ready to stop, but I’m not.’
‘Rose. Look over your shoulder at the indisputable evidence of a soundly caned rear end.’
Rose obliged, craning back to peer at her pertly presented posterior. ‘You’re right. It’s deeply marked. And it hurts like hell, but I need more.’
‘Well, you asked for it.’ Inevitably this time the strokes started to intersect, causing Rose intense suffering. And when Luke halted for the third time, 18 strokes had been delivered cold
But Rose has yet to shed a tear. True, her eyes were wet, her face creased with the effort of enduring the intense discomfort of a thoroughly beaten bottom. But Rose steadfastly retained her punishment position. Luke rested the rattan’s tip at the apex of her thighs, observing tangible evidence of arousal to which she gave a low moan of pleasure.
‘One for every year of my life, please,’ she declared resolutely.
Rose was 24; another six strokes to go. ‘Very well, it’s your choice.’ Luke raised the rod and Rose thrusts out her red-striped rear.
At the finish, every inch of Rose’s perfect bottom had been thrashed scarlet, and she was finally reduced to tears: ‘I think I deserve my reward now,’ she whimpered, smiling through her tears.
‘Ever been taken from behind before?’ Luke asked, scarcely able to comprehend such a feat of endurance, and such an appetite for depravity in one so young and inexperienced.
‘In my bum? Will it hurt?’ Rose is wary but doesn’t demure, a fact Luke gratefully files away for future experimentation.
‘From, not in , silly,’ Luke reassured her.
‘In that case no, but I’m about to be aren’t I?’ Rose’s tone was unashamedly lascivious.
Luke guided the tip of his cock into her wet sex. Her bottom cheeks glowed hot and her stockings rubbed against his thighs. Clasping her small tits, Luke slid right into her depths.
She wanted the moment to last for ever and pondered how to prolong the bliss. ‘Turn me around.’
‘What? Your sore bum on that hard desk. It’ll hurt,’ he warned.
‘I’m too turned on to care. Beside
s I think it’ll add to the sensation.’
So Luke did and they were both proven right. Her cheeks smarted, but the pain simply spurred Rose on.
‘Do it!’ she cried out, losing herself, taking her pleasure roughly and joyously. And as she came so hard, Rose had few doubts that she could keep Luke and be exactly what she wanted, simply by choosing to submit.
Butt in a Sling
by Landon Dixon
‘You get me those LCVP’s pronto, Sergeant! Or, by God, I’ll have your butt in a sling!’
‘Trouble, General Williams?’ Imee Aquino politely asked, strolling into the map- and memorabilia-cluttered office just as red-faced Warren Williams was in the process of slamming down the phone.
‘Damn NCO’s couldn’t run a rotary club back home, let alone a goddamn pacific war!’ His bony face softened, as he watched Imee strut across the office and, drop a teletype message into the basket on the desk.
The twenty-year-old Filipina was tiny and her taut, tawny-skinned body topped by cupcake breasts jiggled deliciously when she walked. Her face was an almond-coloured oval, lusciously punctuated by plush, red-lipsticked lips and huge, brown, liquid eyes. Her jet-black tresses were pulled back from her pretty face and secured by a red, white, and blue ribbon, and her hair shone under the bright lights, like the velvety skin of her slender legs and arms on display in a short-skirted, dark-blue polka dot dress.
The girl had taken to all things American, but especially the silver screen, and today was her Joan Crawford in ‘Hollywood Canteen’ look.
‘Get me the Tarawa invasion plans!’ Warren barked. He leaned back in the bamboo rocking chair that had somehow survived the hasty and perilous evacuation from Corregidor to Australia, and hooked one tan khaki leg over the other, admiring the view of the Islands.
She batted her long black lashes and rolled her eyes, said, ‘But, General, the Tarawa invasion was a year ago – don’t you remember?’
‘Damn it all, girl, do as I say!’
Imee shrugged and turned and walked away from the desk in her polished black heels.
And Warren just about had a conniption. Because the skirt of the girl’s dress was pinned up at the back, exposing her bare, brown, bountiful buttocks. Which were bolstered up even more extravagantly plump and juicy by her pulled-down panties; the panties bunched into a thin, white cotton line just below the bottom of her overflowing butt cheeks. They rippled and shivered and shuddered wickedly as she strolled over to the row of filing cabinets in the corner.
Watching the cheeky young woman squat down in front of the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, Warren almost swallowed his tongue.. Her buttocks hung out like sun-ripened, sun-browned melons from the slender vine of her body, supported and buttressed by that tight line of panty.
He gulped. ‘Wh-wh-what’s th-th-the m-m-meaning of this!?’ He stuttered whenever he got flustered. Staring into those fantastically fleshy orbs, gleaming like copper moons under the office lights. , his face and body flooded with more heat than even the brutal Brisbane summer could generate,. ‘Y-y-you c-c-can’t be d-d-dressed like that! By God, M-M-MacArthur himself might come by any moment!’
Imee slowly straightened up, lithe as a panther. She turned her head, but not her body. ‘Why, whatever’s the matter, General?’ She placed her hands on her hips and pulled her best Betty Grable pose, times ten.
‘By God, I’ll t-t-teach you something about Army discipline, young lady!’ Warren bellowed, untangling his long legs and jumping to his feet.
He stalked over to the ass-blessed girl, and clapped a hand to her cheek. Then the other one: gripping, squeezing, plying the thick hot firm flesh; his cock tenting his pants like a relocation camp. He smacked the right cheek, the left, watching and feeling the heavy butt flesh reverberate all through his surging body and mind.
Imee pursed her glossy lips and mewled, ‘Oooh!’ Her brown eyes gleamed. Her bouncy, butt-mounded body tingled all over – especially in the hand-warmed caboose. ‘An army travels on its ass, doesn’t it, General?’ she said, Mae West sarcastically. ‘Especially the brasshats.’
Warren grunted, clutching the girl’s heated, impudent rump in his sweaty hands, his wire-rimmed glasses fogging up like Manila Bay. Her body shivered through her cheeks into his hands and throughout his wiry frame.
He reluctantly released her buttocks and grabbed her little hand and dragged her over to the chair. He dropped down into the rocker, then pulled the sassy, assy Filipina over his knobbly knees. He raised his right hand in warning, and she twisted her head around to glare at him, to dare him. And he fired an opening shot, smacking the girl’s gloriously bulging behind.
‘Mmmm, I thought you’d never get around to doing that,’ she murmured, a la Barbara Stanwyck in Ball of Fire.
Warren spanked her again, and again. And again. Smacking her joyfully jumping cheeks over and over, his bony pale hand forming a stunning contrast with her lush, brown hills; e. Each cushiony touch of the succulent flesh sending thrills racing up his arm and into his groin.
Imee’s quivering buttocks blushed not a bit, easily absorbing the impact of the blows; the sharp whack of burning hand on brimming ass echoing throughout the stifling office. ‘Maybe I should call in the Marines, soldier-boy,’ she taunted, a snarl curling her lips like Ida Lupino’s in ‘High Sierra ’.
‘Y-y-you asked for it!’ Warren spluttered. He picked a corncob pipe up off the desk and cracked it across Imee’s brazen bottom.
The MacArthur mouthpiece was no match for this taut resistance. It broke apart like the Imperial fleet at Midway.
Warren tossed the stem aside, and picked up a pointer; whapped the rubber-tipped bamboo down on Imee’s bum. Her cheeks and body jumped, and she moaned. He struck her repeatedly, lashing her swollen ass with the slender stick, making some small impression on her butt and one large impression on her twat.
He raised his arm up to the ceiling fan, crashed the stick down on her bottom. And it splintered apart like the pipe.
‘Damn it all!’ Warren thundered, throwing the mortally wounded pointer to the floor. He ran a shaking hand through his shock of blonde hair, desperately thinking. Her over-endowed derriere stared up at him – demanded more.
Then he snapped his fingers, and leaned over the hard-breathing honey and felt around under the desk. Found the polished, knobbly walking stick and pulled it out. It was the spitting, preening image of the one Mac sometimes used.
With a righteous glint in his blue eyes, Warren rolled Imee off his knees and pulled her over to the ‘strategy table’, where the big, laminated map of the Pacific theatre was laid out. He positioned the girl’s hands on the edge of the table and her legs slightly apart, so that she was bent forward, her smooth-skinned, spongy bottom showing. Then he pulled back the walking stick and turned it into a whacking stick, letting fly, smacking her plush bum with a resounding splash.
Miniature aircraft carriers and battleships went sailing, the heavy impact rattling the girl and the table. She bit her lip and whimpered, this stick actually leaving a mark on her seat, and soul.
Warren whaled her flagrant rear-end, blow after blow whistling in and thudding against ass, scrambling Allied strategy and shivering Imee’s buttocks. She gasped, vibrated, her bloated butt cheeks taking on a life of their own; a trembly anticipation of a blow, then a fleshy embracing of it, sucking in the savage slash. Repeatedly, the knotted wood sunk into her stinging cheek-meat and set it to a gyration, raising a white-hot, red flush that fanned all through the girl’s shimmering body.
Warren brutally caned her vibrant bottom. Before finally pausing, gasping for breath. He shoved his misted glasses up the slippery slope of his nose, his uniform soaked through with the sweat of exertion, his cock a hard, throbbing thing like the red neon lights in Manila’s hoochie-coochie district. ‘H-h-had enough?’ he rasped.
Imee jerkily turned her head, her arms and legs and buttocks quivering wildly. Black mascara streaked her face; her brown eyes were shining pools of ne
edful lust. ‘Fuck me, GI!’ she hissed. ‘Now that you’ve warmed me up, fuck me in the ass with your big stick!’ It was all nasty little Imee now, the glitzy Hollywood impersonations gone.
Warren dropped the knotted maple and his khaki trousers as fast as Zeroes dropped out of the sky during the Battle of the Coral Sea. He pulled his boner out of his skivvies, as Imee reached back and pulled her battered butt cheeks apart.
Warren glanced from the girl’s tiny auburn pucker to his mushroomed purple hood and pulsing length of vein-ribboned pipe. He licked his lips, and swallowed. This looked tougher than an amphibious landing at night.
Imee dove a hand in between her legs and rubbed her pussy. Then smeared her bumhole with the hot, slick girl-juice. ‘You do it, too,’ she instructed.
Warren reached down between her slender, shaking legs and rubbed the damp, springy fur of her pussy. He gasped at the depth of her wetness, the soft, slippery feel of her private lips. Then he greased up his cock with the heated moisture, her juices on his prick making his knees buckle.
Gun loaded and lubed – check. Cheeks spread and open – check. Commence invasive action.
Warren steered his arrow-straight cock towards Imee’s anxiously awaiting bumhole. He groaned when his cap bumped browneye, moaned when he pressed forward and she pressed back and his hood popped through and his shaft sunk home.
‘Christ, yeah!’ He plunged deep into Imee’s hot, tight chute.
‘Kristo, si!’ she cried, wallowing in the wicked feel of Warren’s hard cock stuffing full her pulsating ass.
He gripped her hand-spanning hips and pumped his narrow hips, sliding his iron dong back and forth in her gripping ass. She dug her red-varnished fingernails into Sumatra on one side of the map and the Hawaiian islands on the other. Up on her tip-toes, surging with pleasure with each penetrating thrust of his cock in her chute.
Warren started churning his hips, really pounding Imee’s big butt with his battering-ram dick. He groaned, and she moaned, the room and body temperatures soaring, sweat flying, the frenzied smack-smack-smack of corded thighs striking cushiony ass, rattling off the picture-laden walls of the sex-funked office. Warren’s knuckles went white on the girl’s glistening brown skin, digging his nails into her soft flesh and pistoning his cock to the flapping balls inside her anus, over and over and over.
Spankers Justice Page 3
