Naughty Spanking Three

by Miranda Forbes

  I made ineffectual attempts to cover my increasingly abused arse but this only resulted in my arm being jammed up my back, pushing my face even further into the suffocating welcome of my designer upholstery. To add to the torture he began to rake his nails across my scalded skin. I made an idiotic mental note to check people’s nails in future.

  “Are you going to promise me you will dress decently?” he hissed, without letting up. “Or are there other measures I should take? Are you even listening?”

  “Yes sir, yes sir,” I stumbled over the words and my voice began to crack.

  “Or are you going to go on behaving like a slut?”

  “No, sir!” I almost wailed. My legs had begun to shake.

  Abruptly he stopped, catapulting my senses into a different kind of shock. I could hear my own breathing – fast and unsteady. I could hear his – controlled, even.

  “Let’s see, shall we?” he said. “I can smell you, bad girl.” So could I. Unmistakable. Sex. I felt mortified. He gently caressed my hot cheeks with the tips of his fingers and then plunged them between my legs, fingering me. I was soaking wet and began to moan a little, opening my legs wider, as he continued his exploration. My head was buzzing and I could feel myself becoming lost. A familiar ache began. I heard him chuckle softly.

  “Not what I’d call modest, are you?” he said. “I think we need to teach you a lesson you’ll actually learn.”

  He pulled me to my feet, a teetering mess in my lovely shoes, my hair tumbling. I was having difficulty focusing. Part of me, the outraged demon dominatrix, hands in leather gloves, whips and chains and chastity, considered assaulting John with the stilettos. But she was diminishing into impotence before the better part of me, a contrite child, love seeking and eager to please. He bent me over, pulling my knickers further down. I could almost hear my beautiful stockings laddering.

  Even though I couldn’t see, I could tell from the sound it made cutting through the air that he’d picked the dragon bamboo from my gallery of objets vertu. I braced myself against the sofa. The candles flickered with the breath of it. These were only impressions as the first stroke landed with such scalding accuracy that everything but pain was driven from me. My whole body shuddered. He was using a full swing. Dimly, I was aware he was speaking.

  “Six. Count them. Say ‘I’m sorry for being a slut, sir’.”

  There was no getting out alive so I tried. But the force of each stinging stroke kept driving the right words from my head. I was conscious only of the world in a boiling torrent being striped across my arse. And of my body’s shameful arousal. Cruelly, he added another stroke for each fumble, for each hesitation. I was torn between paradise and the inferno. I wasn’t even aware of it when I began to cry.

  Finally it was over. I ended the count at eleven. I think. I could barely stand as he pulled me upright and held on, stroking my dishevelled hair, kissing my tears away as I desperately rubbed the tingling welts on my cheeks. He cradled me gently, massively, and I curled up in comfort, hardly aware. He was speaking softly, with more kisses and soothing words, and I let him undress me.

  He took his pleasure of me on the plush, soft leather. I was still in wonderland with stars for eyes. Feeling the heat, feeling him push deep inside me. Hearing him sigh as he held my hips, his fingers curling round my buttocks into raw, hot tenderness. And safe in his control, I came with a frightening intensity that he relished. We held each other in cathartic abandon until the world slowed down and came back into focus. I watched the candles flicker again and smelled patchouli and passion.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home!” John looked at me and smiled his crushingly sweet smile. I pouted, shifting my weight awkwardly on the blossoming bruises.

  “Hard day at the office, darling?” I said and returned his smile.

  “Oh, so-so.” He ruffled my hair into further tangled hilarity. “Now where’s my dinner?”

  Let’s be honest. Everyone has character aberrations. I’m just lucky I married mine. It’s good. It makes me whole. I thumped him playfully.

  “Ow!” he said and looked hurt.

  Sole Indiscretion

  by Elizabeth Coldwell

  “I hate it when beautiful women wear ugly shoes,” the Professor says.

  I pause in the act of setting down his coffee cup, realising that he is staring at my feet.

  “Flip-flops,” he continues, “are an abomination. Yes, I know they have their place, but that’s on the beach, or at the swimming pool – never, never in the street or at the office. Not only do they encourage such a lazy style of walking, they offer no support to the arch of the foot and they cause the toes to claw. You’re setting yourself up for all kinds of possible problems, you know, particularly as you have such high, delicate arches. Shin splints, tendonitis. I could show you diagrams …”

  I want to tell him that these aren’t just flip-flops. They’re a cut above the average cheap plastic beach shoe, with their scattering of multi-coloured jewels across the top, and until this moment I thought they were quite pretty. But he doesn’t give me a chance to explain any of that. Neither does he pull open one of the hefty medical textbooks which litter his desk to show me graphic images of ruined feet. Instead, he merely says, “In future, Louise, I would appreciate it if you wore more appropriate footwear to work.”

  “Of course, Professor Dobinson,” I reply. It’s not that much of an imposition, after all, and I was warned when I took the post that the Professor is a stickler for certain rules. I’ve already learned that he has to have a Danish pastry with his morning coffee, but always apple, not custard or raisin, and that no one is to interrupt him between one o’clock and half-past, because that’s when he meditates. And, as bosses go, he’s by no means the worst on campus, unlike Dr Chaucer in the history department, who once dangled a student out of the window of his study on the fourth floor of the arts building because the boy delivered his dissertation a fortnight late, or Miss Menzies, the senior lecturer in applied mathematics, who is, quite frankly, certifiably insane. What’s more, I only have to answer to the Professor for six more weeks, while his secretary recovers from an operation, and then I can go back to my usual job in the students’ union office. If I have to wear boring little court shoes to keep him happy until then, I think I can cope.

  I do notice, though, that he mentioned my “delicate arches” when he was lecturing me. The girls in the office mentioned that the Professor has some kind of quirk, by which I assume they mean a specific sexual taste, but though they giggle about it, they don’t seem to know what it is. Perhaps he has a foot fetish, and that’s why he’s so concerned about my footwear? But though I watch him very closely as I trot around fetching his coffee and the morning mail, I never notice him paying any special attention to my feet. Perhaps he has learned the art of masking his interest, particularly if it has earned him a reputation among the campus gossips. But gradually I forget all about his supposed kink, and our relationship continues on a purely professional basis. Until I spend Sunday night at Danny’s.

  Danny and I have been seeing each other for a couple of months. He works for a TV production company as a runner, a job which is firmly at the bottom of the food chain and mostly involves him running errands and fetching coffee. Which is how we meet. We keep finding ourselves queuing in the same coffee shop – me waiting for the Professor’s skinny latte and apple Danish, and Danny for an eye-wateringly complicated list of drinks, muffins and pastries for the rest of his production team, and we get chatting. I’ve been admiring him ever since I first noticed him, with his shaggy blond hair, dirty grin and muscular legs which are usually displayed in khaki shorts cut just below the knee. We swap numbers and he invites me for dinner in a local trattoria. By the end of the week, we’re having mind-blowingly energetic sex in just about every room in his flat.

  Though I stay at his place a couple of nights a week, having a flatmate who’s a light sleeper and has made it clear she doesn’t want to be kept awake all night by our antics, I m
ake it a rule that I always spend Sunday nights at home. It gives me the chance to have a nice long bath, iron my work clothes ready for the week ahead and make sure my shoes are polished, just in case the Professor is taking a sneaky look at my feet when I’m not paying attention.

  This particular Sunday, however, is one of those Indian summer days that sometimes grace late September with their presence, and Danny invites me for a picnic in the park near his home. He’s pulled out all the stops, filling his backpack with chicken legs, rice salad, strawberries and a bottle of Prosecco, and we sit beneath the trees and feed each other. I lick my fingers clean suggestively and, almost before I know it, I’m on my back, skirt hiked up, and Danny is between my legs, mouth pressed against my pussy, licking me till I have to bite my hand so my screams don’t alert any nearby dog walkers to our presence. It’s a perfect afternoon, and when Danny takes me back to his flat so he can fuck me thoroughly, I lose track of time passing. Before I know it, it’s close to midnight. I know I should call a cab, but Danny and his nimble tongue are surprisingly persuasive, and it does seem so much easier to stay where I am, curled up in bed with him, rather than go home and sort out a fresh outfit. After all, I always carry clean knickers and a toothbrush in case I find myself in this sort of situation. What I don’t have – though it doesn’t seem like much of a problem as I drift off to sleep – is anything to wear on my feet when I go into the university tomorrow morning other than my pretty jewelled sandals.

  It’s the first thing Professor Dobinson notices, of course, even though I don’t realise it as I bustle around sorting his post and gathering a file of work which needs to be photocopied. He’s quiet, apparently staring into the middle distance, but for him that isn’t unusual behaviour, so I don’t pay much attention to it. I’m just about to leave the room when his voice breaks the silence.

  “Louise, when you first started working for me, what did I specifically request?”

  At first, I can’t think what he means, and then I realise he’s staring down at my feet. I follow his gaze, and his lecture on unsuitable footwear floods back into my mind. “Er – you asked me not to wear flip-flops,” I reply.

  “And you are wearing ...?”

  Sandals, I want to tell him. Lovely, feminine sandals. “Flip-flops,” I say, meekly.

  “Indeed,” he sighs. “Such a simple request, and yet you manage to disobey me.”

  The word “disobey” startles me, as does the emphasis he places on it. All the time I’ve been working for him, I’ve been trying to convince myself that he’s kinky for women’s feet, but suddenly I’m beginning to realise that his interest may lie somewhere else entirely.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to teach you that I make my rules for a reason, and I expect them to be adhered to.” He comes round from behind his desk. “Take those appalling things off and hand them to me.”

  Still a little bit taken aback by this sudden change in his behaviour, I do as he asks. He looks at the sandals with distaste, as though they might rear up and bite him, and then he turns them over and examines their soles. “This one, I think,” he says, half to himself, then he settles himself down in the chair which is usually occupied by whichever student has come to him for a one-to-one discussion of their course work and turns his attention firmly back to me. “Right, Louise, I want you to bend over the desk for me.” As I gape at him, he adds, “Straightaway if you please. The quicker you do as you’re told, the quicker we can get this over with.”

  He’s treating me as though I’m a naughty child who’s been caught swapping notes at the back of the classroom. I’m a grown woman, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he is holding my sandals, I would walk out of his office and tell the head of admin to find someone else to sort his post and fetch his bloody apple Danish. At least, I tell myself that’s the reason that, instead, I position myself over his lap, face down. Otherwise, I would have to admit that there’s a small part of me – well, quite a large part, actually – which believes that, yes, I have disobeyed a simple request he made when I first started working for him and, therefore, I fully deserve to take whatever punishment is coming to me. And from the way he continues to flex one of my sandals between his palms, I have a very strong suspicion as to what that punishment is going to be.

  That suspicion is confirmed when, in a very matter-of-fact fashion, he lifts my skirt up so he can see the white cotton knickers which are stretched tautly across my backside. Strangely, I feel quite glad I’m wearing such ordinary underwear; if it was the skimpy, lacy pair I’d been wearing for my date with Danny yesterday, I’m sure he would have been appalled. I suspect, as with footwear, he has very decided views on such things.

  Before my thoughts can wander any further, the Professor brings them sharply back to the matter in hand by tapping the sole of the sandal gently against the cheek of my bum. “A dozen, I think,” he announces, and I smile to myself. How bad could a dozen slaps with a sandal really be? And then my smile fades as, with no further warning, the thin man-made sole cracks down against my backside, hard.

  I yelp, and try to stand up, but the Professor’s hand is firm in the small of my back, keeping me in place. “Please don’t make this any harder for yourself than you have to,” he sighs, and I wonder how regular a routine this is for him. How many other girls besides me has he spanked for some misdemeanour in this little cubbyhole of an office, and why has none of them ever complained? Perhaps, like me, they believed their punishment was merited.

  Again I feel the sting of the despised sandal against my bum. For a man who never gives the impression of having much in the way of upper body strength, the Professor certainly has a powerful right arm. Steadily, he works his way through the first half-dozen blows, three to each cheek. I’m beginning to feel as though my flesh is on fire, prickling and burning from the force of the slaps. It might be my imagination, but I can almost swear I can feel the Professor’s cock, starting to thicken and swell and press against my belly. If he is getting any kind of sexual kick from this, though, his face and demeanour are giving none of it away.

  When he pauses, I begin to plead with him. “Please, you really don’t need to hit me any more. I won’t wear them to work again, I promise. I’m really sorry I didn’t do as you asked.”

  “Pretty words, Louise,” he replies, “but I need to know that you truly mean them. And unfortunately for you, I’ve discovered over the years that there’s only one way to really make a lesson hit home – if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  As he speaks, I feel him hook his fingers into my panties and begin to slide them down. “No, please, you don’t have to ...” I beg, but he is oblivious to my words as he relentlessly bares my bottom.

  His hands caress my cheeks almost absent-mindedly. “You do mark beautifully, Louise,” he murmurs. “It’s always so delightful to see a pretty white bottom burn so red.”

  The sole of the sandal strokes over my bum, its smooth surface igniting little flares of pain in my already overheated flesh. I know it is nothing to what I will be feeling very soon, and I try to prepare myself as best I can.

  As I grit my teeth, the Professor begins to spank me in earnest once more. Thin as my knickers are, they offered a little in the way of protection, but now I really feel the full force of each slap. Tears spring to my eyes and I kick and wriggle on the Professor’s lap, desperate for my punishment to be over, but now he is taking his time, allowing me to register the impact of each slap and begin to dread the next. Finally, the twelfth blow falls. He releases his grip on me, but it is a few moments before I recover the strength to move. As I lie there, I am more aware than ever of the Professor’s erection, hot and solid beneath me. I wonder whether he is about to release it from his trousers, maybe even order me to suck it, but when I look at his face, it is an impassive mask. It is as though the top and bottom halves of his body belong to two entirely separate people.

  All he does is hand me my sandals as I pull my knickers back up, as discreetly as I can. “Go a
nd have a coffee break,” he tells me. “Take some time to reflect on what has just happened, and think about making good on your promise to never disobey me again.”

  “Yes, sir,” I find myself saying, as I grab my shoulder bag. Within moments, I am standing in the corridor outside the Professor’s office, wondering exactly what has just taken place between us. And then I am dashing – but not for the coffee shop, as he suggested. Instead, I head for the ladies’ toilets, and lock myself in a cubicle. Again my knickers come down, and I pull the powder compact from my make-up bag so I can study the marks the Professor has made on my arse – twin red splotches on the creamy flesh that are hot to my touch. The sight is strangely gratifying, like some secret badge of honour, and my fingers stray of their own volition between my legs. Surprised by the wetness I find there, I start to rub myself. It feels good – pure pleasure after the pain of my punishment – and I find myself wondering whether the Professor has ordered me out of his office so he, too, can masturbate. It shouldn’t arouse me to think of him with his cock poking out of his fly, tugging at it, but it does. With everything that’s just happened, it isn’t long before I’m coming, clutching on to the toilet for support as my body heaves and shudders.

  As I wash my face and hands in the sink, I gaze up and catch sight of my face. My eyes are bright and glistening, and I look deliciously fulfilled. Next time I see Danny, I tell myself, I’ll get him to tell me something I do which secretly annoys him – and then deliberately do it. And then I’ll tell him I know a very good way of dealing with girls who don’t do as they’re told. I’m sure he’ll enjoy finding out that there’s more than one use for a flip-flop ...

  Merrilee Swings

  by Eleanor Powell