by Kyoko Church
Then, with my thumbs, I opened her clitoral hood, exposing the tiny nubbin. I touched it lightly with just the tip of my tongue and Miranda raised her hips and shoved her pussy into my mouth. I circled the clit with my tongue over and over, driven by her continuous cries of pleasure. I sucked it into my mouth and flicked my tongue back and forth over it in maddening delight.
Satisfied that I had let her feel my pleasure on her clit, I lowered my head and drove my tongue straight into her pussy, as deeply as I could. She was wet as the sea and I enjoyed every moment.
My cheeks were soaked with her womanly juices. There was no holding back. I fucked her with my tongue, sometimes slowly, sometimes so rapidly my tongue became tired. She bucked her hips wildly as she tried to push my tongue further into her.
When her breathing became laboured, I thought she was close to coming. I was right – she screamed in ecstasy for a few wonderful moments before she slowly came down.
‘He needs a reward, Jennifer,’ she said after she came back to our world.
‘And that would be, ma’am?’ asked the maid.
‘Your ass.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’d like that.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Miranda said to me, ‘Jennifer is quite the anal slut. Have fun, Mr Morton.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Miranda left us alone. Jennifer started to undress. After that taste of my mistress, my cock was very hard and needy.
Jennifer started to apply lubricant between her ass cheeks. I noticed a strange look on her face.
‘Is there something wrong?’ I asked.
‘Will you put it in my pussy instead of my asshole?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t had something nice like that in a while.’
‘I would be honoured to fuck your pussy,’ I said.
The naked maid came to me, into my arms, and I held her before entering her. A little tenderness after pain – but I loved Miranda, and so did she, and I had a feeling our ma’am was watching us from somewhere. I hoped she would not punish me – both of us – for not engaging in the kind of nasty sex she demanded.
The Belt
Elizabeth Coldwell
I knew before we left the house that morning that by the end of the day I’d find myself in the most compromising of positions, getting my bottom spanked for my bad behaviour. I just didn’t know how I’d manoeuvre Simon into giving me the punishment I craved – or that when he finally dished it out I’d be tied up and helpless.
Sometimes I wake with the urge to bring my bad, bratty side out to play, and that Saturday was very much one of those times. For once, Simon didn’t have to devote himself to work. I’d grown so used to him shutting himself in his office for most of the week, poring over figures and projections and giving every indication that he shouldn’t be disturbed, even if the house was burning down. Not that I minded on those occasions when he handed me his credit cards and told me to treat myself to something nice; meeting up with a couple of my girlfriends for some retail therapy on Bond Street was always fun. But I wanted to spend some quality time with my husband, and I hadn’t had much of an opportunity to do that in recent weeks.
So when Simon settled himself at the breakfast table with the Telegraph and a second cup of coffee, showing no signs of needing to be anywhere near his computer and office phone for the next few hours, my stomach gave a little flip of anticipation. It was playtime.
‘D’you fancy doing a spot of shopping this morning, Samantha?’ he asked me over the top of his newspaper.
When I talk about shopping, I mean shoes and handbags and all the girly trinkets that make life that bit more fun and frivolous. What Simon means by shopping is poking around in the overpriced antique shops along Camden Passage, looking for the perfect armoire. I find it boring, and he knows all too well by now how dangerous it is to let a brat get bored, particularly a brat who’s not averse to making a scene in public. Maybe that’s why he suggested it. Whatever the reason, I agreed enthusiastically, and went to change into something more appropriate for the occasion.
Coming downstairs twenty minutes later, I found Simon standing at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his house keys and looking eager to leave. He’s like me in that respect: once he gets an idea into his head, he has to act on it straightaway, and as far as I knew I might already have earned a demerit mark by keeping him waiting. Good.
Alongside the impatience in Simon’s expression was something more; something best described as frank admiration. I’d gone for a simple but classic look. A fluffy white angora sweater that left my midriff bare and was Simon’s favourite, teamed with a skirt so short I couldn’t bend over in it without flashing my underwear. Anyone close enough to catch a glimpse of my panties would notice they were patterned with the sweetest pink daisies, so very girly and feminine. The finishing touches involved white knee-length socks and sensible Mary Jane shoes, and I’d twisted my hair into twin bunches, one each side of my head, secured with hair bobbles in the shape of fat red cherries. You can quite easily make a fool of yourself dressing like an overgrown Japanese schoolgirl in public but, until I reach the age where the glances I’m getting make it obvious I look clownish rather than cute, I am determined to play the part to the full.
‘At last,’ Simon said peevishly, probably stifling the urge to glance at his watch. I might have taken my time, but I was sure he liked the way I’d dressed. If I knew him even half as well as I thought I did, there’d be a subtle but palpable stiffening in his chinos, and already he’d be wondering how and where I might decide to act up. Just like me, he enjoyed the sense of anticipation, the first steps in our complex routine of misbehaviour and resulting punishment.
The first real spell of fine summer weather had brought the crowds out in force on the streets of Islington, and we negotiated our way through little knots of shoppers dawdling along Upper Street. When Simon strides out, stretching those long legs that help take his height well above the six-foot mark, I have to really scurry to keep up with him. We appear so oddly suited in physical terms, the top of my head barely reaching his shoulders, and his silvery hair making him look even older than he is, and people base all kinds of assumptions on this mismatch that we don’t necessarily attempt to correct. All that matters to us is our physical compatibility and our shared love of kinky sex games.
In Camden Passage we bypassed the shops selling silver plate and vintage clothing, Art Deco jewellery and Oriental vases, much as I might have liked to browse there. With his usual single-mindedness, Simon marched over to a display of bookcases and occasional furniture, where he stroked the smooth wood just as lovingly as he caressed my bare bottom in the moments before he commenced a spanking. While he examined the antiques on offer, I looked round, hoping one of the shop owners might be worth indulging in a spot of flirtation with to pass the time, but no one – male or female – caught my eye. And it soon became obvious that none of the furniture was to Simon’s liking, as he stomped back to me with a disappointed expression. It seemed today might be a wasted day after all.
‘Why don’t we go and have lunch?’ I suggested, when he’d exhausted all his usual haunts and come no closer to finding a suitable chest of drawers for the second guest bedroom. ‘We could always try that new gastropub that’s opened up on the other side of the Angel. I hear they do smoked haddock fishcakes.’
Simon conceded it was as good an idea as any; a pint or two of porter and a generous helping of old-style nursery food never failed to brighten his day. And that was how our expedition might have ended, if it hadn’t been that, as we walked past the entrance to the newish little shopping centre containing a cinema and concert venue, we noticed a farmers’ market had been set up.
‘Ooh, can we have a look?’ I asked, my voice deliberately more high-pitched and excited than usual. A passing couple turned to look as I tugged at Simon’s arm. I could see them struggling to work out the exact nature of the relationship between us. ‘Please, please, can we?’
‘If you must, Samantha, but make it quick.’ Simon had slipped without effort into the role of the world-weary guardian whose young charge was delaying him on the way to his well-earned lunch.
Permission granted, I gave a little squeal of gratitude and trotted off to explore, Simon wandering behind me at his own pace. This, I quickly discovered, was some kind of event promoting French produce. Stalls were heaped high with artisan cheeses, sourdough loaves, flavoured oils and vinegars and all manner of charcuterie. The smell of so much fresh food made my mouth water, but I bypassed it all in favour of something far more attractive. Halfway along the row, the sexiest man I’d seen since I’d left the house this morning, my own dear Simon notwithstanding, was selling leather goods.
Bags in shades of black, brown and oxblood hung from hooks, and wallets and belts were laid out in neat rows. Picking up a thin, supple, honey-coloured belt, I wound it around my hand. I’d just bought the most beautiful pair of cream Capri pants, and this would be the perfect accessory. Not to mention all the other uses Simon and I could put such a belt to, in the privacy of the bedroom …
‘All belts are only five pounds today. Special offer.’ The stallholder’s heavily accented voice cut into my thoughts. From a distance, he’d been cute. Close up, he was the fuel for a thousand filthy fantasies. Stubbled chin, eyes dark as sin and lips that had seemingly been designed for a thin roll-up to droop from them. He had no cigarette in his mouth at the moment; instead, a white paper lollipop stick jutted from between his lips. His eyes never left me as he removed the lolly with an audible pop, and I felt a gush of hot juice flood my daisy-patterned panties. In the presence of such raw sex appeal, my body couldn’t help but react in the most primal of ways. And all I was supposed to be doing was buying a belt.
‘You like what you see?’ he asked, the question so loaded with meaning I swore he’d been reading my mind.
‘Oh, very much so,’ I answered, and gave the man a pouting smile. All morning I’d been looking for the opportunity to flirt, and now it had been handed to me, I intended to enjoy it to the full. The fact that Simon couldn’t be too far away, and would realise exactly what I was doing as soon as he saw me talking to the stallholder, only added to the naughty thrill coursing through my body.
‘Maybe you should try the belt for size, make sure it’s not too big for your pretty little waist …’ He stepped out from behind the stall and took the belt from my trembling fingers. Close to, he smelled of sweat and tobacco, and his clothes were as rumpled as if he’d slept in them. My skirt had no belt loops, but I’d suspected the idea of measuring my waist was simply an excuse to touch me, and, as he wrapped the cool leather round my bare flesh, those suspicions were confirmed. As he pressed close to me, claiming to admire the way the belt looked, and how it complemented the honeyed tones of my skin, I felt his cock nudge against my leg. The baggy cut of his jeans hid its outline, but it felt deliciously solid to me. In other circumstances, I might have been tempted to push back against him, making it obvious I wanted to feel that hard length filling my pussy.
But at that moment Simon stepped forward, holding a carrier bag from which one end of a thick baguette protruded. The similarity to the fat baton in the stallholder’s jeans made me giggle aloud.
Simon looked at the stallholder’s grubby fingers where they still rested on my hips, then at me. When I didn’t immediately pull away from the other man, he snapped, ‘Come on, Samantha, it’s time to go.’
‘Can I get this belt first?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you think you have enough belts?’ He sounded weary, fed up. ‘You’re always buying things you never wear.’
‘But I really want this belt,’ I told him in a sulky tone, the brat determined to get whatever she wanted. ‘Don’t you think it looks good on me? Don’t you think I deserve it? And it’s only five pounds. Please buy it for me.’
‘Samantha …’
‘Please, please, please!’ I tugged at my husband’s arm, threatening to explode into a full-blown tantrum if he refused me. If I hadn’t displeased him enough by letting another man chat me up so blatantly in public, this attention-seeking behaviour was guaranteed to compound the offence to a level where Simon would feel compelled to take it out on my bottom.
The stallholder was regarding Simon with an expression of utter contempt, as if he couldn’t believe anyone could be so weak-willed. Whether he thought he was dealing with my elderly uncle or some kind of indulgent sugar daddy, I didn’t know. Whatever, it didn’t stop him taking the five-pound note my husband handed over, and giving my arse a little squeeze as he gave me the belt, stashed in a brown paper bag.
‘Just wait till I get you home,’ Simon muttered in my ear as he marched me away from the stall.
‘Why, have I been bad?’ I replied, fixing him with a look of pure butter-wouldn’t-melt innocence. When I glanced behind me and caught the stallholder’s eye, the man gave me one of those Gallic shrugs that can be interpreted in any of a hundred ways. I assumed he was feeling sorry for me, stuck with a stuffy old stick who didn’t let me have any fun. If only he knew.
* * *
Simon, proper to the last, stowed the groceries in the fridge as soon as we got home, apart from a round of evil-smelling cheese that gave the impression it could have crossed the kitchen floor unaided. Only when everything had been put away did he take my new belt out of its bag. When he wrapped it round his fingers, the gesture was so full of promise I felt my pussy go liquid-hot all over again. Nervous as always in the prelude to a spanking, I let out a giggle. He quelled me with a stern look.
‘You make it so – difficult for me, Samantha.’ He’d almost said ‘hard’, but he knew that would only have set me off giggling all over again. ‘I try to take you out for a nice morning’s shopping, and what do you do? As soon as my back’s turned, you start making eyes at every Tom, Dick and Harry –’
‘Henri,’ I interjected.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He was French, so he’d have been Henri. Or maybe Pierre. Or –’
‘Samantha, would you still your chatter for just one moment?’ Again he wound and rewound that length of new, strong-smelling leather around his fingers, and I had a sudden sharp intuition that he was rehearsing the motion. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wrapped a belt around his hand before using it to beat my unprotected arse.
‘I’ve had just about enough of your bad behaviour, young lady.’ Whenever he called me ‘young lady’ I knew I was really in for it. I hung my head, trying to express a contrition I didn’t feel. ‘You need to learn how to conduct yourself in public.’
‘But I was only being friendly,’ I told him. ‘And you were far too busy buying that horrible stinky cheese to pay me any attention.’
‘So, it’s attention you want, is it?’ Simon shook his head, as though the workings of my mind were beyond him, even though we both knew I’d been manipulating him towards this point from the moment I’d gone upstairs to change into my sluttiest schoolgirl attire. ‘Well, this is where you get it. Or at least, this is where your bottom does.’
With that, he caught hold of my wrists. Still convinced he was going to thrash me with the belt and mentally doing my best to prepare for the feel of it cracking against my backside, I could only gape in surprise as he instead wound the supple leather around my wrists a couple of times before fastening it securely. He allowed me a moment to appreciate the irony of having my new purchase used on me in such an unorthodox way. We don’t often incorporate bondage into our spanking games, but the feeling of being restrained as well as beaten always adds an extra level to my feelings of helplessness, and Simon was all too aware of that fact.
I waited for him to pull a chair out from under the kitchen table and haul me over his lap for the inevitable spanking, but the sight of me with my wrists bound by the belt must have sparked something in him. ‘Wait there,’ he said, and went bounding out of the kitchen. I heard footsteps receding up the stairs, then noth
ing for a good couple of minutes. Maybe he’d gone to fetch his favourite spanking implement, the plaid slipper with its sole worn almost smooth from years of being applied to my recalcitrant bum cheeks.
When he reappeared, he was indeed holding the slipper, but he’d also been hunting through my closet, for he had with him a selection of belts.
‘You see,’ he began, dumping them on the kitchen table, ‘I was right. You do have too many of these things.’
‘But they all go with a different outfit,’ I tried to explain, my inner brat not entirely subdued by her unexpected spell in restraint. ‘Men just don’t understand the concept of accessorising.’
My comments fell on deaf ears. Single-minded Simon was too busy dragging the kitchen stool into the middle of the room. He came over and untied my wrists, but any respite I felt at being free was only temporary. Before I could react, he’d pushed me over the stool and was using the new belt to tie my left wrist to one of its legs. Then he plucked a black patent belt from the table and fastened my right wrist in place with it.
This was getting silly, and I wanted to protest, but a thick, hot excitement pulsed through me at being effectively restrained. With so many belts in the pile, Simon must be intending to use some of them to bind my legs, but instead he just seemed to be standing, contemplating something – bent over as I was, I couldn’t really turn my head to see what he was doing. Instead, I had to be guided by sound and touch. He came close behind me and pulled down my skirt in one swift motion. When he hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties, I squeaked and tried to beg him to stop.
‘Be quiet, Samantha,’ Simon ordered me. ‘How will you ever learn your lesson if you don’t take your spankings on the bare, like a good girl?’
I felt my panties being tugged down my legs. They reached my ankles, and on Simon’s command I stepped out of them. I could only imagine how I looked, bare from the waist down, still wearing my silly, girly socks and the fluffy sweater. As Simon took my ankles in turn and tied them to the legs of the stool, the movement spread my legs slightly. My sticky sex lips peeled apart, offering him a perfect view of the wet pink secrets between them. I felt helplessly exposed, fiercely turned on, knowing he could see everything from my cunt hole to the pout of my anus and not being able to do a thing to cover myself up. Every sensation seemed heightened by the fact that I was held securely in place, unable to move, entirely dependent on my husband’s whim for pleasure and release.
