Title Page
ULTIMATE SPANKING
A COLLECTION OF
TWENTY EROTIC STORIES
EDITED BY
MIRANDA FORBES
Publisher Information
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010
Digital edition converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited 2010
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
Cover design by
Red Dot Design
The Spanking Man
by Monica Belle
He had to be one of the least attractive men in the bar and he’d just threatened to spank me. No, he’d managed to imply that I might enjoy a spanking, which was worse, as if I might ever, ever, ever want him to lay me across his lap, pull down my jeans and panties and smack my bare bottom. It was unthinkable, impossible, totally inappropriate. Not that he was ever going to get to do it, not in a million years, but even for him to dare to think that I might be interested was too much. I mean, he had to be fifty if he was a day, and he was balding and thick-set, with a slimy grin painted onto a round red face that rose from a squat body on a short, thick neck. And he’d offered to spank me. Me! Tamara Chertsey, a twenty-year-old student, less than half his age, taller than he was and a size ten in my skinny jeans.
It was the skinny jeans that were the problem. They clung to my cheeks as if they’d been painted on, and while I do like to show off, that was not for the benefit of people like him. I always hate it when older men grab an eyeful of what they shouldn’t be looking at, and I never cease to be amazed that some of them proposition me, as if I could possibly be interested. But to imply that I might enjoy a spanking really took the prize.
As I’d passed him his drinks and his change he’d said “Spank you very much” instead of “Thank you very much”, and winked. I thought I’d misheard him. I wanted to have misheard him, but there was no mistaking the implication of that oily wink. My reaction showed in my face, and I realised that with a piece of truly breathtaking arrogance he’d misread my outrage for a pleased reaction. Or perhaps shock mixed with a secret thrill, because his grin had immediately grown broader and dirtier.
Before I could think of what to say he’d taken his drinks and started back to his table. I wanted to chase after him. Tell him what a filthy old pervert he was. Point out how utterly impossible it was that a girl like me might be interested in him in any way whatsoever. But most of all to tell him that I did not, under any circumstances, want him to spank me. Of course I couldn’t, because he was hideous, and even if he wasn’t it would have been hideously embarrassing in front of everybody else in the bar. And he was so arrogant he’d probably have taken my protests as further proof of interest.
So he left me seething with embarrassment. And furious with him, but equally furious with myself, for not reacting quickly enough and because I could not get what he’d said out of my head. It was just too offensive; even the basic suggestion that I might enjoy having my bottom smacked was a gross affront to my dignity, and to female dignity in general, let alone that he might be the man to do it to me. A set of images had begun to form in my head, in much the same way as I sometimes think of the most inappropriate thing at the most serious moment, like deliberately wetting myself in the middle of an exam.
At first the images were simple: standing shy and embarrassed as I admitted to him that I’d like it; draping myself across his lap with my bottom raised for his attention; having my jeans and knickers taken down to get me bare; and last, and worst, being spanked.
I sneaked a double shot of over-proof vodka in the hope that the awful pictures would go away, but that only made it worse, adding yet more humiliating details: such as getting it in the bar in front of other people; being made to repeat myself so that everybody could hear as I asked to be punished; and having my thighs pulled apart for him to see if I was wet. I was. Very wet. And by the end of the evening there was no denying that I was ready for a good, hard fucking.
Which was exactly what I got. Not from him, obviously, but from my boyfriend, Connor, when I got back to the hall. He’d been in the middle of an essay and was astonished by how horny I was, when I normally came back from work tired and ready for sleep. When he told me to wait a bit, I got down under the desk and sucked his cock, which soon had his attention. I offered myself to him, kneeling on his bed with my jeans and knickers pulled down, my top and bra up over my tits and my bum stuck up, which was the closest I could bear to come to my awful fantasy. He took full advantage, taking me by the hips for a rough, hard fuck while I played with myself. But even as I came I was biting my lip, determined not to admit to what was going through my head, which was the image of him giving me the same treatment but with my bottom hot and red from spanking.
The moment I’d come I was filled with guilt and shame for my fantasy, even though I’d been imagining Connor doing the spanking and not the awful man from the bar. I felt as if I’d betrayed not only myself, but every woman on the planet by giving myself an orgasm over something so impossibly degrading. But, despite my every effort to get rid of them, I still didn’t stop thinking about it, nor could I hold back the ever-more dreadful fantasies evolving in my mind.
Logically I knew that the experience would be as painful as it was shameful, thoroughly unpleasant from start to finish and not sexy at all. Unfortunately, I’ve never been very good at making myself accept logical explanations, and the same terrifying thoughts about being spanked stayed lodged in my head day after day, until by the end of the week I could picture the entire scenario of how it would be, like a scene out of some grotesque film, half horror, half porno.
I didn’t know his name, but I thought of him as the Spanking Man and would imagine myself going over to where he’d been seated with two equally repulsive friends, not to give him a piece of my mind, but to admit he’d been right. And then I would ask, very politely, if he’d mind spanking me. He’d respond with his slimy grin and a knowing chuckle, pointing out that he was busy talking to his friends but agreeing to give me what I needed as long as I did exactly as I was told and didn’t talk back. He’d tell me my knickers would be coming down, that I was to be spanked on my bare bottom, right there and then, in the middle of the bar, in front of my boss, my workmates, friends from uni’ and a good fifty random strangers. I’d protest, but I’d give in, standing there like an idiot as I unfastened my jeans to make it easier for him to get me stripped. People would see, conversations slowly dying all around me as they realised they were about to witness a bare-bottom spanking, my bare-bottom spanking. The music would stop, only to start again, no longer pop but something catchy and a bit silly to accentuate the ridiculous, humiliating situation I was in. He’d pat his legs and down I’d go, my eyes tight shut and my hands braced against the floor, my hair a curtain around my face, my bottom lifted. He’d fiddle with the zip of my jeans, drawing it slowly down, his fat, moist fingers pressing into my flesh. There would be a bubble of shame growing in my throat as my exposure continued, my jeans tugged down off my hips to get my knickers showing, tight across my cheeks, but not for long. He’d pull them down, casually, as if baring a young woman’s bottom in public were the most natural thing in the world. He’d touch me up, enjoying the feel of my flesh and the shape of my bum. Maybe even pulling my cheeks apart to inspect my anus and the rear view of my pussy. Maybe even sticking a finger up me to
see if I was wet. I would be, and he and his friends would laugh to see my excitement. He’d spank me, his fat little hand rising and falling on my bare bottom to make my cheeks bounce and set my legs kicking in my pain and frustration as I was punished. I’d be sobbing, tears streaming from my eyes, but the state of my pussy would tell a very different story, wet and ready between my open thighs, and I’d be ready for the final humiliation, being made to suck his cock to say thank you for my punishment.
To make it worse I seemed to have dredged the whole thing up from some dark corner of my subconscious mind, including that final, awful detail. Certainly I’d never done anything of the sort. In fact I’d never been spanked in my entire life, and on the rare occasions when I’d come across references to it, the idea had always filled me with the same horrified fascination as a car crash. Yet I’d never been indifferent to it, that much I had to admit, and eventually I came to realising that there was a little kink in my psyche which the Spanking Man had managed to trigger.
I could have killed him, cheerfully, but the damage was done and as time passed and my fantasies grew ever more vivid, and the urge to play with myself over them stronger, I realised that there was only one thing to be done. Fantasy and reality are very different things, as everybody knows, or should know, and it occurred to me that the only way to get rid of my unspeakable desires was to have somebody do it for real and so teach myself what a horrible experience it really was.
When I first thought of the idea as a solution, I rejected it immediately, laughing at myself in a way that came uncomfortably close to hysterics. And yet the more I thought about it, the more I grew certain that it was the only way out. The only question was: who was going to spank me?
Connor was out of the question. He was great as a boyfriend, but in a rough, super-masculine sort of way. I’d spent ages training him to respect me, explaining what should have been obvious, such as the fact that just because I like it hard and from behind doesn’t mean he can treat me as his personal fuck dolly; or that he should boast to his mates at the rugby club about how hot I am in bed. The thought of how he’d react to a request for a spanking was enough to set me blushing hot, because I’d not only get it, and hard, but my secret would be around the entire university within days.
I couldn’t ask any of my other male friends either, for similar reasons, because it would be unfaithful to Connor and because they were sure to want to fuck me afterwards, and that was out of the question. Yet the idea of asking another woman to do it was more embarrassing still: not only would I have to explain why I wanted a spanking, but whoever I went to was sure to conclude that I was a closet lesbian. What I needed was an older, sensible man. Somebody who would do it to me, and be sufficiently awed by what I was allowing him to do so that he’d respect my limits. He’d have to be a stranger as well, in order to make sure the story didn’t get out. And he’d have to be attractive, naturally. I thought of the internet, but if there’s one rule that should never be broken about meeting up with people you only know online, it’s not to go alone. But to take a friend with me would be nearly as bad as asking her to do the spanking herself.
Really I was only making excuses, and I knew it, because there was one other possibility, which I kept coming back to: my own uncle. It was an appalling thought, and yet we’d always been close. He was a lot younger than Dad: handsome, single, and one of the few people I could really talk to, even to the point of going to him with questions about sex that I was too embarrassed to put to my parents. Better still, if I explained my problem he might just be able to find a solution that didn’t involve putting me across his knee. Finally, he was very, very gay.
I tried to postpone the inevitable, telling myself I was being silly, that my wild fantasies would go away eventually. They didn’t, and only got worse, keeping me in a state of almost permanent arousal that grew so strong in the middle of my month that it was all I could do to keep my fingers out of my underwear. Connor loved it, although I never told him what was making me like that, but it was starting to affect my work. In the end circumstances caught up with me. Uncle James picked me up at the end of term.
He quite often came to visit, because he only lived fifty miles away, much closer than my parents. When he rang to offer a lift, I accepted without a second thought, telling myself that I didn’t have to tell him. And if I chose to, then I’d only ask his advice rather than suggesting a trip across his knee. Even that was going to be pretty embarrassing, and when the day came I found myself silent and uncommunicative, responding to his happy conversation with monosyllables or not at all. He noticed this attitude before we were even out of town.
‘What’s eating you, Tamara? Don’t tell me you’ve flunked your prelims?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I …’
And then it just came out: the whole story, from my encounter with the Spanking Man to my decision to ask him to show me what it was really like.
He laughed.
‘It’s not funny, Uncle James!’
‘No. I’m sorry. But you do realise that your desires aren’t all that unusual. A lot of girls like to be spanked.’
‘Oh come on, Uncle James, that’s just male fantasy!’
He shrugged. We’d had similar discussions before, on other sex-related topics, and I knew he was happy to leave me in what he called my ignorance. For a while we sat in silence before he spoke again.
‘And you really want me to try and spank your fantasies out of you?’
‘Yes. I know I can trust you.’
He nodded, accepting his due before going on, his voice doubtful. ‘I’m not really sure it’s a good idea, Tamara. What would your parents say?’
‘They’re not going to know!’
‘That’s not the issue. I’m your uncle.’
‘Exactly. With anybody else it would be sexual. I have to, Uncle James. I really do. And surely it’s better for me to come to you than somebody else?’
‘Would you go to somebody else?’
‘I … I’m not sure. Yes, I think so.’
He didn’t answer, leaving me burning with embarrassment. We’d been about to pull on to the motorway from a roundabout, but he went past the slip road, taking the next exit instead, a lane that led off into the countryside.
‘Where are we going?’
Again he didn’t answer, but my stomach had contracted into a tight knot. I was about to be spanked. I stayed quiet, biting my lip and telling myself I could back out if I wanted to, as we followed the road, first between high, green hedges and then in among stands of tall, grey-barked poplar by the river.
He stopped the car on the verge, where some thick bushes fringed the plantation, got out and came round to open my door for me. I joined him, suddenly unable to speak but taking his hand as he offered it to me, his eyes fixed to mine.
‘Are you really sure you want this, Tamara?’
All I could manage was a nod. He responded in kind, his voice once more light-hearted as he spoke again. ‘Come on then, but if you change your mind, just say.’
He had a firm grip on my hand and led me in among the bushes. I was shaking badly, hot with embarrassment and apprehension, because although I knew I was safe with him, I also knew it was going to hurt. That it had to hurt, or I wouldn’t be able to get rid of my fantasies. That was what I wanted, what I needed, but that didn’t make it any easier when he sat down on a low branch and looked up at me, not speaking, but his eyes once more offered the chance to back away from the insane situation I’d got myself into. I’d folded my arms across my chest, protecting myself and I looked down, unable to meet those level grey eyes.
He drew a faint sigh. ‘I suppose you’d better come across my knee then.’
My response was a weak nod, but I couldn’t make myself do it and just stood there fidgeting until at last he took pity on me. Reaching for my hand once more, he drew me gently down into that impossibly undignified pose I’d come
to think of as the spanking position. I braced my hands and feet the way I’d imagined myself doing so many times, thankful that my long hair meant I couldn’t see much as I lifted my bottom. He took me gently around my waist, another detail I’d imagined many a time, and which wrung a sob from my lips. His hand settled on my bottom, sending a sharp stab of humiliation through me. So strong I was immediately choking back the tears, and yet something was fundamentally wrong. In my imagination I was always bare-bottomed, and any other way simply wasn’t going to work. My voice was a croak as I spoke up.
‘I … you… please could you turn up my skirt, Uncle James, and … and take down my knickers?’
He hesitated. His hand rested across my bottom. Then gave me a sudden, hard smack and it had begun.
It did sting, making me kick and wriggle across his lap, but he wasn’t doing it all that hard and it didn’t hurt anything like as much as I’d expected. Being covered didn’t help either.
‘No, really, Uncle James. I need to be bare bottom, and … and you can do it harder.’
I heard him swallow. ‘Tammy, if you asked that of anybody but me …’
His words had trailed off as he took hold of the hem of my skirt. I shut my eyes tight, my whole being focussed on my burning shame as my skirt was turned up over my bottom and tucked into my waistband along with the tail of my blouse. With my knickers on show, Uncle James hesitated once more and I found myself wondering if he was having second thoughts about pulling them down, to give me time to contemplate the indignity of my position before I was bared. Or was he simply trying to not to laugh because the pair I’d chosen that morning were pink and patterned with little yellow ducks. Only when he took hold of them did I know they were really coming down, and I’d begun to shake uncontrollably as he spoke once more.
‘Completely bare?’
My answer was a sob, but it was supposed to be a yes and he took it as one.
‘OK, if you insist. I suppose I’d better pop your knickers down.’
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