Ultimate Spanking

by Miranda Forbes

  I’ve had a tendency towards exhibitionism from an early age. I first noticed men looking at me in my early teens and quickly became aware of the power this gave me. As a teenager my girlfriends and I would put on strip shows for each other and talk about what our stripper names would be, and what we would wear. At university we would study in the park and my friend Leah and I would deliberately try to distract the boys playing football by sneaking our legs further and further open as we lay on the grass. We’d compete with each other, squabbling over which one of us made the bloke do a double take and completely miss the ball, until we got so brazen that one of us would have a skirt on with no knickers, while the other had hot pants so tiny that our pussy lips would be poking out of one side. We’d wear bikinis and pretend to secretly unfasten each other’s tops then feign embarrassment when we stood up and they fell off, showing our tits to the whole park. We’d get so horny that we’d fuck each other in our little single dorm beds. But we were straight at heart, so I’d be finger fucking her and telling her all about what a dirty little bitch she was showing her cunt to the footballers and how they were going to come in and fuck her one by one until she could hardly walk. Of course, when I saw the advert in the back of The Stage magazine for table dancers, it was her who came and auditioned with me and we learnt the strip club ropes together. Our two-girl dances were popular because the chemistry between us was real, and we’d push it as far as we could, sneaking our fingers inside each other’s pussies where we knew the CCTV couldn’t quite pick it up; some middle-aged man sat in front of us nearly coming in his pants.

  I’d spent the last year working in Velvet, a slightly sleazy fully nude club, where I’d built myself up a group of regulars who not only got off on seeing my naked pussy but also on the fact that I just loved showing it to them. Fetishes and turn-ons are subtle, and it can take a while to hit the jackpot of finding someone with the same equal and opposite reactions, and that goes for sex workers’ and their customers as much as any couple.

  With one guy, I would whisper in his ear as I danced, telling him how wet I was, how I loved having a bare cunt in a roomful of men, knowing they all wanted it, but none of them could have it. Every word was true.

  Stag parties would get wild. Girls would be putting on lesbian shows and getting fingered in front of everyone. About half the girls were escorting which was fine, but not something I ever went into myself. Showing off was my thing and I made quite enough money at it. The official story was that the owner had been offered a price he couldn’t refuse to sell the old club to make way for a new cinema, but everyone knew it was on the verge of being closed down for pretty much being a brothel full of tax evaders.

  Bikini was a whole other ball game. In theory a much better run club, with female management and bouncers that didn’t look like East End gangsters. It had panic buttons, and strict policies on drunkenness and touching and knickers: they had to stay on. My first few weeks went by without a hitch but I was getting bored. Without being able to show off my pussy it was starting to feel like work. Before eleven we wore dresses and to assuage my boredom I took to slipping my knickers off in the changing room and walking to the bar at the other end of the club with nothing under my dress. I’d have a drink on a high stool and chat to a couple of customers and give them sneaky little glances at my pussy, before nipping back to put on a thong before I was due onstage.

  For my birthday, Leah, now a happily married mum and a senior social worker, but still a filthy tart at heart, gave me Jenna Jameson’s book How to Make Love Like a Porn Star. I laughed my way through Jenna’s days as an underage Vegas stripper, remembering my own early career. She wrote all about working in a club where thongs had to stay on, and I found my hand wandering under the duvet as I read about how she used to wear a white thong and wet it before she danced so that the fabric would go see through and her pussy lips would be visible through it. I circled my clit gently, imagining the super-hot Jenna’s pussy, just veiled by a slippery scrap of white mesh, and the look on the man’s face as, instead of seeing the expected censored triangle, he sees everything, and it would be easy for him to imagine it was her making it wet.

  Inevitably, the devil on my left shoulder got the better of the angel on my right, and less than a day later, I was risking my job, and risking some poor guy’s entertainment licence, as I stole off into the club toilets and doused my white thong in water. I’d had a total wax, so the wet fabric clung nicely to my lips. I put my short, pleated skirt over the top. As I walked into the main room of the club I could feel my lips grinding against each other; whoever bought a dance off me was in for a filthy treat.

  I walked straight over to a group of guys and picked out their obvious ring leader. I’d bring him to his knees. They all started to laugh and jeer at him as I took his hand and led him straight to the private booths. I whipped my top straight off and leaned over him, just brushing his cheek with my nipple and letting him smell my skin. He closed his eyes briefly. It’s strange; so many men do that, when they’re paying to look. I turned my back on him, ran my hands over my waist and hips, flipping up the edges of my skirt as I lowered myself onto his lap. I pressed my back against his chest and leaned my head back over his shoulder, lifting my breasts up to meet his gaze, and ground my arse into his groin. He was strong, muscular and smelt clean and well groomed. His hands never moved to touch me but his eyes lapped up every detail, a little smile creeping in. I could feel the fabric of the wet thong clinging to my lips, which were wet at the thought of giving him something he wouldn’t be expecting. I lifted myself off his knee and swayed my hips as I inched my skirt down. I bent over completely in front of him and he audibly gasped. I indulged him, and myself, and stayed in that position a little longer, inching my legs apart to give him a good look. When I arched my back up and turned to face him he didn’t know where to look first – at my pussy from the front, or at my face to figure out if I knew how much he’d just seen. His eyes darted all over me, hungry and pleasured, and settled on my gaze and I smiled at him. He knew, I knew. His eyes trailed over my breasts and down my stomach and settled on the tiny white triangle barely covering my pussy. I glanced down and suppressed a giggle; it was completely see-through. I got even wetter at the thought and felt like saying fuck it and rubbing my clit until I came on his lap. I’ve never seen a man look more engrossed. Even though there are hundreds of fully nude bars nowadays, there’s something so much sexier about being just that little bit covered, about breaking the rules, about acting like it was accident.

  As the song came to an end I leaned in and asked him if he wanted another dance, and he just smiled a lazy smile and handed me the dance vouchers. I liked him; he was confident. I got in a little bit closer, straddling one leg behind him then sinking onto his lap and I could feel he was hard. I couldn’t help but rub my clit over his erection and we both moaned. By the time three songs were over, and I was £60 richer, I was so close to coming.

  After that I was hooked. I wet my little white thong every night and even got more daring and wore crotchless panties a couple of times. I’d always thought they were cheesy, slutty garments but I found some in Ann Summers that were really plain and cute, with black satin edging and just a discreet slit that opened up as I bent over or opened my legs. I had to be careful to change before I went on stage as one spin around the pole as a manager walked past and I’d be rumbled. But I managed to keep my secret to myself and had a lot more fun as well as raking in the money.

  One night I was wearing my crotchless panties under a tight black tube dress with no stockings and plain black heels. I was at the bar and was approached by a manager to say there were a couple of guys in the VIP who wanted me to sit with them. I fluffed my hair and went over. Two older business types were already drinking champagne and poured me a glass. We chatted for a while then they asked me to dance for them. I used the sofa opposite them to put on a bit of a show, reclining full length and running my hands up my legs and toying with my dress, just flashi
ng a hint of nipple then smoothing it back up, turning myself on as much as them. I got down to my thong but kept my legs together, getting up on all fours and arching my back, letting my breasts hang down and knowing the curve of my arse looked gorgeous from the side. At the very end of the song I sat back on the sofa and spread my legs, feeling the thong part to show my pussy for just a second before I crossed my legs.

  The businessmen didn’t know what to think, and were exchanging furtive glances to confirm if they had just seen what they thought they’d just seen. I sat topless for a while, sipping my drink and enjoying the power my sexuality had over these strong characters, then wriggled back into my dress, telling them I would take it off again any time they wanted me to.

  After I finished my hour in the VIP I was called into the manager’s office. Normally all the girls went together to pay house fees after the club closed, but I thought nothing of it. Scott was duty manager that night; a man of few words, and a former doorman who’d worked his way up. He was sitting with his back to the door when I breezed in, high on money and power.

  ‘Lacey …’ he said with a strange half smile. ‘I’m sorry to have to do this but I need to have a look at your costume.’

  My heart leapt into my throat. I was rumbled. On the spot I decided to try and brazen it out.

  ‘Oh, no problem,’, I said. ‘Do you want to go and see what I’ve got in my bag?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ His eyes darted to my middle. All the male staff were very careful not to seem sleazy or flirty. ‘I need to look at what you’re wearing now’.

  Shit. I was definitely rumbled, but whether I could talk my way out of it was another thing.

  ‘I think you know full well the club rules on dress. Your,’ he faltered a little, ‘your undergarments need to be opaque and with a string of at least an inch wide, and I don’t think what you’ve been wearing tonight fits these rules. Moreover …’ he was gaining power now. I was blushing. He stood up, ‘I think you’re a dirty little bitch and you’re enjoying all of this.’.

  He had me.

  ‘Stand up and pull your dress up to the waist. I need to see these panties that have been causing such a stir’.

  I felt like that stereotypical fantasy school girl getting told off for her skirt being above the knee. Except this was the adult version.

  I rolled my tube dress up slowly. Damn my bodily responses: I was getting wetter because I was in trouble, and because my trouble-making pussy knew it was going to have another man’s eyes on it. I stood in the middle of the office with my dress hitched up, feeling more exposed than I had all night. He walked around me, then behind me, and locked the door. I heard him fiddling with something, while he just left me standing there.

  ‘Bend over.’

  I had nothing to lean on so I reached for my ankles, straining against my high heels, knowing the panties would be splitting before his eyes.

  I heard him draw breath.

  ‘Turn around; I’ve got something to show you.’

  I made to stand up and his palm landed on my back.

  ‘I don’t remember telling you to stand up.’

  Mortified, in the most delicious way, and still bent double with my hands on my ankles, I shuffled my exposed pussy around the room in a circle. Until I came to face him, my eyes level with his knees.

  ‘You could have got me in a lot of trouble tonight. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.’

  I uncomfortably raised my head up to where he was tapping at the CCTV computer. ‘So I’m going to show you what a filthy slut you look.’

  The screen crackled to life and there I was, rolling around on the sofa in the VIP. I looked good, and I remembered the delicious feeling of the leather of the sofa, the soft fabric of my clothes slipping off, the look on the businessmen’s faces as I showed them my cunt. The dance came to an end, and the on-screen me leaned back, topless and wanton, and opened my legs towards the men, and towards the camera I hadn’t even known was there. He hit a button and the frame froze: my eyes were closed, I was leaning back, and an unmistakable hint of glistening pink was visible between the strands of my panties.

  His hand glided over my buttocks, partly clad in the black mesh of the panties. His finger slid around just where the crotch started to split, just above my asshole. ‘These are sexy. If I had a pussy like that I’d want to show it off as well. Doesn’t change the fact that you’ve deliberately broken the rules though does it?’

  His hand landed smack across my buttocks, making me jump. It stung, but I was getting wetter by the second.

  I could hear a gaggle of girls just outside the office; I could hear one loud voice bitching about a regular client of hers, and a few high-pitched giggles. I silently begged them not to knock on the door. They passed by down the corridor.

  ‘Look at yourself,’, Scott was saying. ‘Legs wide open, just feet away from those men. I can see how wet your cunt is on that film, you filthy …’ smack,. ‘filthy …’ smack,. ‘whore.’.

  I was starting to get giddy with the dichotomous effects of pain, shame and excitement, and flashed back through the events that had led me to this point. All those years I’d stayed out of trouble dancing in a much sleazier club, and here I was bent over the desk in a respectable upmarket chain lap dancing club, with my pussy in my boss’s face, getting spanked into a frenzy. I remembered the book. It’s all Jenna Jameson’s fault, I decided, and if I ever met her I would make sure she knew what she’d done.

  His hand landing again shocked me out of my little aside. Harder this time, as he was getting into his stroke. ‘You do realise you’re actually dripping onto the floor? Those sorry excuses for panties can’t even keep your pussy juice under control.’

  I melted in the gorgeous shame as he bent me even further forward onto the desk, pushing my face closer to the frozen image of myself in quasi-orgasmic bliss showing off my pussy and lifting my arse up higher so he could get a better look at it in real life.

  ‘You do realise I could post that on the internet don’t you? After I’ve got all the doormen and bar staff in here for a good look. In fact, fuck the CCTV footage, I might call them all in here for a look at it in the flesh.’

  He was playing with me; he knew exactly what he was doing. ‘Please …’ I began, half playing along and half pleading that it had gone far enough. His big palm landed again, and then the back of his hand on the other side, and again, and again, until I cried out.

  He was slowing down now, caressing my bum gently and I was desperate for him to touch my pussy. I pushed back even further towards his hand and he pulled away.

  ‘I’m not going to fuck you,’ he said, mock harshly. ‘I don’t go around breaking rules’.

  ‘Please …’ I started again, not even really sure what I was asking for. I wanted him to let me go, I wanted him to hit me again, I wanted him to fuck me. I didn’t even know any more.

  His finger trailed lightly down the split in the panties, grazing my ass and just touching my pussy and I moaned loudly. My whole body was alive, my nipples begging to be let out of the dress and not be ignored any more, and my cunt was so wet it felt like there was a piece of silk between me and his finger.

  I tried to turn around to face him, wanting to get my dress off, and start fucking, but he pushed me back and a heavy smack landed again. He started a slow arrhythmic smacking again while his other hand probed the folds of my pussy. He found my clit and rubbed in little circles with his two fingers before dipping inside me. I tried to push back onto his hand, desperate to get those fingers further inside so I could ride his hand, but he pulled away and continued the infuriatingly gentle movements interspersed with occasional smacks. I lifted my head slightly to confront the image of myself, to remind me how I got here. I came hard looking at the filthy image of myself.

  I turned round, sweaty, spent and red- faced, and he was already walking away and busying himself back at his desk.

  ‘Scott …’ I started.

  ‘That will be all.’ He
said. ‘But if I catch you doing anything like that again I’ll …’

  ‘Don’t worry, you will.’ I grinned, and he grinned back, before waving me out.

  And I did. And he did. Talk about having your cake and eating it.

  Spend or Save

  by Heidi Champa

  I clicked my key in the lock, making sure that I made as little noise as possible. I hadn’t expected him to be home already, and I knew, if he caught me, I would be in big trouble. Peaking around the door, I heard the familiar drone of the television from the den. Creeping along the hallway, keeping my shopping bags still, I made it to the bedroom without him seeing.

  I knew it was silly; sneaking around like a teenager. But, I also knew I was under strict orders not to buy any more shoes. Three new pairs now sat in front of me, next to two belts and a scarf I had splurged on that day. My resistance to the urge had been pathetic at best. Walking into that mall was a bad idea. I had let Becca talk me into a quick trip, just to browse. Somehow, I ended up the same place I always do. The shoe department. The one place I had promised Jake I would stay out of.

  Since we had agreed we wanted to move into a house, and get out of our crappy apartment, we had both decided to cut back. Jake had sacrificed his yearly trip to the lake with his buddies, along with a new MP3 player for his car. And I was to give up shopping for shoes. At first, I had done very well. I managed to go a whole month and a half without even looking at a new pair. But the draw of a sample sale pushed me over the edge. I still remember the rush of walking around the aisles, finding those sling backs in the perfect shade of blue, in the perfect size. And half price. I was in heaven. Three hours and four pairs later, I knew I had officially fallen off the wagon.