Spankers Justice

by Aishling Morgan

  Imee took it and loved it, whimpering, shuddering, Warren pumped her full of a languid, liquid heat that flooded her to the sexual core. She tore a hand off the rocking tabletop and plunged it down and onto her pussy. When her fingertips touched her puffy clit it triggered a chain-reaction, an orgasmic explosion.

  ‘O-Day!’ Warren wailed, going off full-cocked in the girl’s sucking bum. He jerked around on her rippling rear-end like a rutting Sherman tank, blasting off cap after cap of fiery jizz.

  As Imee danced around on the end of his spurting prick, feeling his heated splashes, hot, humid ecstasy washed over her like high tide on an island beach.

  ‘I don’t have time for any air raid preparedness plans right now!’ Brigadier-General Donald McDougall bellowed out in the hallway. ‘Mac’s expecting me for pinochle and brandy in the Officers’ Club at eight!’

  The weary sergeant just shook his head. General MacArthur had returned to the Philippines, as promised, four weeks ago. Slightly in the rear of an invasion force that Brigadier-General McDougall had been deliberately left out of. The tropical heat, apparently, having fried the one-star general’s brain in his steel helmet some time earlier.

  Warren and Imee heard the voices and hastily retreated from their advanced anal positions, Warren just making it into the outer-office in one clothed piece as his boss marched through the door. ‘Evening, General,’ he snapped, saluting the older man.

  ‘At ease, Private Williams,’ the General snorted, briefly eyeing his aide’s damp, beet-red face. He sniffed at the strange scent in the air, then dismissed it as enemy propaganda. ‘Get me the Tokyo Bay weather reports! I’m meeting Mac for whiskey and shuffleboard on the deck of the USS Missouri there in the morning. And I want to know if I should bring my rain slickers.’

  He strode into his inner-office, a broad grin breaking over his sun-weathered face as he spotted Imee bent over the strategy table, straightening things up. He watched the girl’s swaying, undulating rump and licked his chapped lips, his glassy grey eyes beaming. Then he humped up behind her and grabbed onto her plump, squeezable butt cheeks, and squeezed.

  ‘What the hell!?’ he roared, his young secretary’s bum hot to his lecherous touch.

  Imee giggled, as the General hoisted the hem of her dress and took a look, eyeing with astonishment the extent of her and Warren’s brutal lovemaking.

  ‘Wh-what’s happened here!?’ he sputtered, furious that someone had mustered on his parade ground. He’d plied Imee’s ribald cheeks many times before, and had planned on launching his own anal invasion in only a matter of days. And now he’d been left behind on this one, as well. It was too much.

  ‘By God, I’m going to get to the bottom of this!’ he ranted, looking wild-eyed from Imee’s blistered bum to the broken corncob and pointer lying on his desk. ‘Someone’s butt is going to be in a sling over this one!’

  Warren grinned in the outer-office, fingering the General’s recently received transfer orders. The old man was finally, mercifully, being sent home to his wife and his rotary club. Leaving the young Private free to pursue his back-end courtship of the bottom-beautiful Imee Aquino.

  There was only room for one MacArthur in this man’s army, after all.

  Spanked by my own Step-daughter

  by Teresa Joseph

  The moment that I first started falling for Roger, I knew that I’d be living a cliché.

  After all, he was forty-seven years old and I had only just turned twenty-two. So of course, it would be obvious to everyone that he was having a ‘Mid-Life Crisis ’, divorcing his wife and shacking up with a Bimbo who was less than half his age. But in reality, however, it was love at first sight, and I know that I will love him until I die.

  As a matter of fact, even Roger’s ex-wife saw how happy we both were together and wished us all the very best for the future. After all, she had only really married him in the first place because he had got her pregnant. So, in many ways, the divorce had been a fresh start for both of them and a real chance to finally be happy.

  However, this cliché that I was living would never really be complete without the presence of a grown-up daughter from Roger’s first marriage, banging on about the fact that her new mother was almost the same age as her. And yes, it turned out that Stacey was only a couple of months younger than I was.

  Far from hating Roger for leaving her real mother though or resenting her new step-mother in any way, I’m pleased to say that Stacey was incredibly devoted to her father. In fact, they both even lived in the same apartment building so that they could spend a little time together each week.

  From the moment that I first moved in with Roger after the wedding, my step-daughter made it absolutely clear: anything that made her dad feel happy would make her happy in turn. And likewise, anything that made him feel un -happy would provoke a swift and proportional response. But although I just smiled and nodded, believing that these were only empty words, I received my first taste of what was to come the next day when Stacey saw me borrowing some cash from Roger’s wallet.

  ‘Did you ask him?’ She demanded as she closed the door behind her.

  I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. I always borrowed money from my husband’s wallet, just as he sometimes borrowed it from my purse.

  The next thing I knew, though, I was sucking air through my teeth as Stacey suddenly smacked me on the thigh. It was a hot summer’s day and I was only wearing a short skirt. But before I even had a chance to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, she smacked me again as she told me off as if I were a naughty little child.

  ‘What if Dad needs that money to pay for something?’ she snapped angrily. ‘What if he gets there and finds that he’s short because you borrowed it without asking?’

  By this point, half a dozen sore, rosy-pink handprints were forming along the sides of my thighs. All I had to do to stop her was to simply walk away, or even just cover myself with my hands. In fact, I knew that I could have eased the pain at any moment, simply by reaching down and rubbing my thighs. But instead, I just stood there with my hands up under my chin, dancing from one foot to the other as I winced with pain and waited for her to smack me again.

  I apologised to her for taking the money and promised that I would never touch her dad’s wallet without asking. Then, after Stacey had left, I pulled my knickers down and started fingering my pussy; actually feeling disappointed that she hadn’t spanked my naked rump.

  I’ve spent much of the last five years trying to understand it. But to this day, I still can’t explain why.

  I actually get off on being spanked by my own step-daughter, and I honestly don’t believe that there’s a real or a tangible reason.

  Out of sheer curiosity, a few weeks later I even visited a visited a woman who spanked Naughty Girls for a living, just to see if she could turn me on as well.

  When I arrived, I paid her for a full hour. But as it turned out though, I left after five minutes because I really wanted to punch her in the face.

  When she smacked my thighs, I pulled away and told her to get off me. And when she started telling me off , and treating me like a child, I knew that I’d have to leave right away because I was practically fuming with rage. But the next day ironically when Stacey demanded to know what I’d been doing, annoyed about the fact that Roger had been really worried about me, my pussy tingled as my step-daughter quickly dragged me down over her knee, pulled off my knickers and began furiously spanking my bare behind.

  It stung like hell, but I didn’t try to resist. I didn’t even try to cover myself.

  Instead, I crossed my ankles as tightly as I could, just to keep myself from kicking or trying to escape.

  I bit my tongue and held my hands together until my knuckles literally turned white. And as Stacey rhythmically spanked my bottom bright pink with the flat of her hand, I felt a wonderful orgasm building deep inside my pussy, being stoked by the burning agony in my rump.

  I held my breath until my face was
probably the same colour as my flaming cheeks.

  When Stacey’s hand got sore, I squealed with pleasure as she started using the sole of her flat shoe instead. And obviously mistaking the meaning of my outburst, she told me that I deserved it as she doubled the pace.

  Less than two minutes later, I howled and squealed with pleasure as I climaxed and gold stars flashed in front of my eyes.

  Of course, Stacey must have thought that I’d been keeping quiet because I was trying to be stubborn and defiant, refusing to give her the satisfaction of hearing me cry out or beg her to stop. So now of course, since I had finally ‘broken down and started bawling ,’ she just kept going to make certain that I had learned my lesson once and for all.

  Even though I’d already climaxed and the sore burning was almost unbearable, I didn’t beg the woman to stop, and I still didn’t try to move.

  In fact, in the end, I believe that it’s the sweet humiliation of being punished by my own step-daughter which makes me so eagerly submissive. The perverted shame of being spanked by a woman who’s younger than me, even if it’s only by a couple of months, and who, at least according to tradition, should be laying across my knee.

  In fact, I can even remember experiencing the same sensations back when I was still at school. Because every day when she was standing behind me in the lunch queue, a girl named Donna (who must have been at least a couple of years younger than I was), would suddenly begin smacking the backs of my thighs.

  Once again, I never moved or tried to complain, and I certainly didn’t try to cover myself. Instead, I just kept shuffling forward as each girl ahead of me reached the lunch counter. And holding my hands very firmly in my lap as the sore pink handprints began to throb, I bit my tongue and held my breath as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

  I would even try to time entering the lunch queue so that Donna was standing behind me every day. And a couple of times in my final year, I even got into trouble for wearing skirts that were far too short, longing to give Donna the opportunity to spank the tops of my thighs as well. But, in spite of all my uncertainty, after countless sleepless nights, I am absolutely certain of one thing.

  I love Roger. I may love being spanked by his daughter, but that’s got nothing to do with why I married him. I’m not merely using Roger so that I can be with her. And, as evidence of this, I know for a fact that if I ever cheated on my husband, his daughter would go absolutely ballistic and beat my backside until I couldn’t sit down for a year. But even though the thought of this may sometimes turn me on, I could never possibly bring myself to hurt the man I love.

  Besides, Stacey’s punishment for my minor misdemeanours was more than enough to satisfy my craving; smacking my thighs if I ever needlessly insulted Roger during an argument, and spanking my backside a delightful shade of pink whenever I stayed out without calling.

  To be honest, most of the offences themselves were so trivial that I can’t even remember why my step-daughter was so angry with me. But the idea and the memory of the spankings themselves endured; if I close my eyes when I’m fingering my pussy and wish that she is spanking me right there, I can almost seem to relive every single sharp and biting stroke.

  Of course, a couple of the crimes that I’ve committed in the last five years have really stuck in my mind, mostly because the punishment itself was so deliciously unique. And from all of these memories, the one I’d really like to share was the time that Stacey caught me borrowing money from Roger’s wallet again.

  In spite of my step-daughter’s warning, I’d seen a beautifully ornate, brown calfskin belt which I simply had to have. But by a cruel (or perhaps even a fortunate) twist of fate, this was the last day of the sale. I wouldn’t get paid until the next day, and by then it would be too late.

  I remember taking my time as I picked up my husband’s wallet, almost begging for his daughter to suddenly walk through the door.

  When she finally did, I almost let out a squeal of delight as she caught me red-handed, holding £100 cash in one hand and her dad’s wallet in the other. I felt a tingle in my pussy as I struggled to explain myself, going on and on about the gorgeous belt which would make my whole life complete. She decided that if I loved belts so much, then I should have one across my rump.

  As luck would have it, I was already wearing skin-tight jeans with a leather belt that day. And ordering me to take them off, she folded the belt into a fairly painful and erotic-looking strap.

  Standing there in nothing but my white ankle-socks and my T-shirt, feeling my own pussy growing wetter by the second as I waited for my step-daughter to begin, without thinking, I laced my fingers together and rested my hands on top of my head.

  Of course, Stacey honestly didn’t even seem to even notice. But as far as I was concerned, my posture really underlined the fact that I was desperate for my punishment to begin. And sure enough, when she started lashing the sides of my thighs, I physically needed to bite my tongue to keep myself from begging for more.

  For more than ten minutes as I just stood there in the middle of the room, bolt upright and clenching my hands on top of my head, my step-daughter circled around and around, lashing every exposed millimetre of my thighs.

  My face was red as I clenched my teeth and the tears were literally streaming down my cheeks. Every vicious whack across the front of my thighs was soon followed by another along the side. And this in turn always curled around to sting the front as well. An equally vicious whack then landed across the back of my thighs, and then another along the other side.

  Starting up near my rump, Stacey methodically worked her way down to the very top of my knees. Working clockwise for five minutes before circling the other way, she made certain that every inch of my skin was swollen and blazing red; covered with angry purple welts that were left by the edges of the belt. And having long since climaxed and started howling like a baby, still standing bolt upright and never even considering that I could just simply run away, when Stacey ordered me to touch my toes, I obeyed without a single moment’s thought. Following that, I spent another ten minutes howling as my step-daughter belted my naked peaches black and blue. Or to be more accurate, a deep, blazing shade of crimson, criss-crossed with the same angry purple welts that now covered my thighs.

  After giving me the money to buy the calfskin belt from her own purse, she told me that I could expect exactly the same thing if she ever caught me ‘stealing ’ again.

  Have any of you ever tried wearing skin-tight jeans over sore and inflamed thighs? The denim feels like sandpaper, aggravating the burning welts whenever you try to move. Indeed, I was still in tears when I went out to buy the belt in question. And when I tried to force myself to sit down and cross my legs, I almost screamed as the course thick material dug even further into my flesh.

  After receiving a belting like that from Stacey, it would only be a matter of time before Roger would notice the marks. And even if I’d tried to hide them and had worn loose trousers 24-hours a day, he was also bound to notice how much I was wincing whenever I tried to sit down.

  After all, a blushing pink bottom might only require a couple hours to recover, but the angry purple welts on my bottom and thighs took several weeks to heal. And when he asked me what on earth had happened as he rubbed some cooling cream into my skin, I felt myself coming as I explained how his daughter had been spanking me every week for several years.

  Roger was aghast, but the truth was that the shame of it was actually turning me on. It seemed that I’d been longing to receive these angry purple marks for quite a while; the evidence that would finally force me to confess my humiliating secret.

  ‘I was such a naughty girl,’ I said, panting, as I longed to feel my husband’s cock inside me. ‘I tried to borrow some of your money without asking, and Stacey punished me really hard.’

  Roger couldn’t understand why I’d enjoyed it so much. But in the end, he honestly didn’t have to. Being beaten by my own step-daughter like this had made me ecstatically happy, and
the shame of admitting it to my husband was making me feel as horny as hell. So begging him to ‘cuddle me better’ as I spread my legs and lay down on the bed. Actually getting off on the slow throbbing pain that was burning in my bottom and my thighs, I actually squealed when my welts began to sting as we had the most wonderful sex of our marriage.

  Sadly, that was the only time that my step-daughter has ever really punished me. And although she gives me an over-the-knee spanking a couple of times a month, she’s expecting her first baby in November, and I don’t think she’ll have much time for me after that.

  As weird as it may sound, however, now that Stacey’s had an ultrasound and is positive she’s having a daughter, I finger my pussy whenever I imagine turning forty-seven myself. And as I bring myself to climax, I can almost feel my naked rump being belted by my twenty-year-old step-granddaughter, because she’s caught me taking money from her grandfather’s wallet, just like her mother before her.

  Hot Enough for June

  by Philip Kemp

  Very quietly and carefully, June turned the key in the lock. Mark always slept like a log – so if only she could creep in and get herself into bed, he’d never know what time she got in. Always assuming – she offered up a silent prayer – that he was asleep.

  No such luck. Even before she’d closed the door behind her she heard Mark’s voice from the lighted living room. ‘June? That you?’

  She turned, putting on her most innocent expression as Mark appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh hi, honey! What’re you doing still up?’

  The look on her boyfriend’s face was a mixture of concern and anger. ‘You OK, baby? Where on earth have you been? Don’t you know it’s nearly three o’clock?’