Isobel's Surprise

by Maggie Carpenter

  “Yes, Sir,” she quivered.

  “I’m going to spank you hard.”

  “Ooh, yes, Sir.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, Sir?”

  “Because I need to see your beautiful bottom turn hot pink as I slap you. Because I need to feel you squirm, and I need to hear you gasp and moan.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she trembled, the butterflies flying around her stomach feeling more like a flock of hummingbirds.

  “But the most important reason, the reason that motivates me above all else, the reason that it will give me such enormous pleasure...”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Is because you want me to.”

  Her legs fell weak, and she leaned back against him.

  “I know, my sweet girl,” he murmured, and placing his arm around her waist he led her to the bed, then pulled her across his lap.

  Still wearing panties, she gasped as he yanked them up between her cheeks. It was all so new, this flurry into the darker side, but the more he shared with her, the more she felt herself falling under some kind of spell.

  Isobel read what she’d written, feeling a shiver of erotic heat shudder down her spine. Closing her eyes she said a prayer, asking that one day she would experience the very thing she’d just imagined.

  “With Patrick,” she whispered, then yawning she hit the save button, and dragged herself into her bedroom.

  A short distance away, much closer than Isobel could have known, the man of her dreams was drinking a glass of very fine Cabernet. Expensive wines were an indulgence of his, and swirling the Riedel glass, inhaling the bouquet of blackberry, oak, and other aromas he couldn’t quite identify, he lifted the thin crystal to his lips, allowed a small amount of the wine to float into his mouth, savored it for a moment, then swallowed.

  He closed his eyes as the rich liquid cloaked his tongue, focusing on the explosion of flavor, but try as he might he couldn’t get the talented, sweet, sexy siren out of his mind. Isobel was a girl-woman, a phrase he’d penned in one of his books; a grown woman, but with an endearing, childlike streak that begged to be disciplined.

  “I would love to spank you, Miss Parker,” he whispered. “I would love to turn you over my knee, pull up your dress, pull down your panties, and spank that incredibly cute butt.”

  Wandering into the living room of his small condominium, all he’d been able to manage as he’d scraped out a living with his books and teaching, he stared out the paned glass and studied the city skyline. It was late, but the lights of the bustling town twinkled against the black backdrop of the moonless night, man-made earthbound stars.

  I’d also like to make love to you right here, staring out at the city, your hands pressed against the glass while I take you from behind.

  Carrying his wine, sipping as he walked, he headed up the staircase to his loft bedroom, and as he quickly undressed he thought about how Isobel had been lusting after him through the entire two-hours; even when his back was turned he could feel her eyes scrutinizing him.

  “You should be spanked just for distracting me, let alone not paying attention,” he muttered placing his glass on the bedside table.

  Stripping quickly he laid on the bed, and reaching for his cock he began to rub, the image of her stretched across his desk facing the blackboard deliciously clear in his mind. He was touching between her legs, finding her wet and open, and as she cried out her need he spanked her sharply, vowing she would only have him if she promised to pay closer attention and be a much more focused student.

  His pending orgasm floated around him, and as he pictured her wiggling her bottom, virtually asking for more, it hovered closer. He saw his hand lift in the air and land on her glorious cheek with a keen, hot smack, followed by another, then another.

  The heady climax was nearing, and massaging fervently he could see his hands clutching her burning cheeks, pulling them apart, all of her charms open to his lecherous gaze.

  His hot cream surged forward, shooting from his member in a triumphant, shuddering release, and as the last of it spilled across his hand he sighed deeply, falling back on his pillows.

  After allowing the tingles to travel through his limbs he absently reached across for the tissue box, then sat up and retrieved his wine.

  “Ahhh, yes,” he smiled as the wine fell on his tongue, “you needed to breathe a bit. Now you are full and smooth and velvety. I’d love to share you with Isobel, maybe with some rich dark chocolate. I’d have her blindfolded and tied to my favorite chair...no...I’d have her tied to this bed, then I wouldn’t have to move her.”

  Closing his eyes he took another sip.

  Isobel Parker, I wonder if you know your wish is about to come true.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Believing she wasn’t capable of writing a novel, Isobel had found work at a publishing company; it allowed her to be around writers and editors, and to learn about the book business.

  The company for whom she worked, Brader, Brader and Coombs, wasn’t the biggest or most powerful publisher in the city, but it was considered elite, representing a small, select group of celebrated authors. Their clients included many award winners, and even a rising star who had won an Oscar for an original screenplay based on his bestseller.

  She worked for one of the acquisition editors, Brad Saunders, a young man who had a lot to prove and was determined to do so quickly. Arriving ten minutes late, she’d been intimidated during her interview, and had been shocked when he’d hired her, but as the months had gone by she’d grown to admire his courage, quick wit and intense ambition; Brad Saunders was a rising star, and she wanted to stick around for the journey.

  Besides Brad’s growing momentum there was another upside to her job; after a few weeks Brad had started handing her manuscripts to evaluate. Supremely complimented she’d taken to the task with gusto.

  It was Friday, the day Brad generally handed her reading material for the weekend, but as she settled into her desk her thoughts were still lurking in the night before; being alone in the parking lot with the hunky Patrick Doyle had made her butterflies spring to life, and a luscious heat burn between her thighs.

  “Shit. I have to wait until Monday before I see you again,” she mumbled, then trying to focus on her duties she powered up her computer.

  “Morning, Isobel,” Brad said briskly, marching out of his office.

  “Hi, Brad. Anything exciting going on?”

  “Yes, and I need to get out of here,” he answered as he dropped two envelopes on her desk. “One of these is a sample chapter, the other a full length book. Can you get to them over the weekend.”

  “No problem,” she replied.

  “Cancel all my appointments for the day, I have to go,” he frowned, then paused for a moment staring at the envelopes. “The chapter, I need a woman’s perspective. I know what I think, but I want to know what you think.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she smiled, elated that he seemed to really care about her opinion.

  She was about to start rescheduling his appointments when she felt his gaze. Darting her eyes up she caught him staring at her with an odd look on his face.

  “Is there something else?” she asked.

  “Uh, I should probably say...the chapter, it’s erotica,” he announced, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “Is that, uh, all right with you?”

  “Really? Yes, that’s fine with me,” she smiled, catching a subtle hint of his cologne she had yet to identify, and why are you nervous? You’re never nervous.

  “You can leave too, when you finish with, uh, whatever it is you have left to do...if you want,” he stammered, then frown deepening he hurried away. As she saw him march to the elevators and push the call button she broke into a broad smile.

  How odd. Huh, ah well, this is cool, I can get out of here before lunch. How great is that?

  She spent the next couple of hours completely focused on her remaining tasks, then heading to her car she started for home, but as she nav
igated through the traffic raindrops began splashing across her windshield.

  How perfect. I can make some coffee, curl up and read, she smiled, delighted at the comfortable afternoon ahead.

  Once home she changed into her favorite sweat pants and a warm cardigan, made herself a cup of coffee with steamed milk, and deciding to get the sample chapter out of the way first, she curled up on the sofa and opened the envelope. Staring at the title she blinked in surprise, and stared again; it read, HIS DARK ACHE.

  Sexy title. Kind of like Three Dark Hours, and feeling completely intrigued she began to read.

  I knew it the moment I saw her. It may have been the flush that began creeping up from her neck when our eyes first connected, or the way she then dropped them to the floor, as if she was afraid she’d fall under my spell if she held my gaze. However I knew, it matters not; she was special, she was a sub.

  Ooh, this isn’t just sexy, this is super sexy.

  Grabbing her coffee she took a sip, and taking a deep breath she continued on.

  She was a woman who craved a covert, darker foray into love. A woman who ached for the slap of her lover’s hand on her naked ass. Not a love pat, or even an unexpected sharp swat, but a slap that would carry its sender’s meaning; a slap that would tingle, then sting, then stain, then mark. I’ve been with such women before, many times, but few have stirred me as she did; I knew immediately that the chemistry existed; I could feel it sparking across the room, and her flushed face told me she could feel it too.

  My animal instinct was compelling me to march across to her, clutch a fistful of her chocolate brown hair, yank back her head and lock her eyes.

  “I know what you are, and I know what you need, but you must ask me for it...nicely.”

  My words would have been a deep whisper, borne of a power that lies within me, a power that constricts my vocal cords, as if nature ordained that my speech be modified for such occasions. Society, however, would perceive it as threatening, and though her true self would have craved surrender, her conditioned mind would have prevented her from responding as she would have longed to.

  “Sir, please, spank me, whip me, caress me, kiss me, use my body for your pleasure, and hold me for long hours...”

  I could hear them as she dared to lift her eyes and capture mine, the unspoken words drifting through the space between us. As they’d whispered into my soul’s ear, I had sighed and risked a lingering glance.

  If I were never to see her again it might be easier. To live with such a memory holds its own pure, white fantastical magic, but fate has other plans for me...for us. We must pretend, we must be formal, we must be polite strangers, since the roles we play demand civility; convention has laid down its rules, and the rules say it must be so.

  It has been a while since that first, subtle, heady moment, but her true nature haunts me, a shadow that flits around my head reminding me of her presence, as if she doesn’t want me to forget. How could I? I see her all the time, and it is a painful sweetness, coating my heart like dripping, hot, bubbling candy. It burns, but the aroma promises a rich, luscious flavor.

  In the dark hours of night, after I have watched my favorite television show, or the news that isn’t news at all, I crawl into my bed and stare up at the night. Blessed with a skylight above my bed I lose myself in the black infinity, allowing the vision of her loveliness to hover around me.

  As my hand rests on my sturdy cock, leisurely rubbing, I imagine many licentious scenarios, but I confess to a favorite. My desire to share this is odd, and I wonder if my need comes from the probably flawed thought that in doing so, it might somehow cause it to happen.

  Isobel paused, lifting her eyes from the page. Heart skipping she reached for her coffee and took a large gulp. The heat was wet between her legs causing her thighs to squeeze, and she took a deep breath. Longing to read more, though almost afraid to, she dropped her eyes back to the page.

  I’m sitting on the bed resting my back against the soft, brown, suede headboard. I would like to be naked so I can feel her writhe against my penis, but there is something compelling about remaining in my business suit while she is nude; this has always been a particularly pleasing habit of mine.

  Her soft, yielding body is laying across my lap, and I have removed my jacket, my tie is loose around my neck, the top button of my shirt is undone, and staring at her perfect backside I begin to roll up my sleeves.

  This small act has stirred every woman who has gratefully succumbed to my spanking hand, and I have learned that the longer I take to fold the fabric up and over itself, the faster her breath becomes; the goosebumps that sometimes follow I consider an added bonus.

  “Are you going to spank me very hard?” she whimpers turning her head to look up at me.

  Her eyes are so wide, so full of need and questioning, I pause the shirt-rolling-up to smooth my palm across her glorious, full bottom.

  “Hard is a relative term,” I reply. “Hard for one, isn’t so for another.”

  A delightful crease draws two short vertical lines between her eyebrows as her quizzical look glows up at me.

  “I don’t think so. I think hard is hard. I mean, I guess there is some relativity about it, but if you spanked me until I was wriggling a lot, that would be hard.”

  I am so taken by the earnestness of her answer and its obvious flaw I break into a smile.

  “If I were to use wriggling as a judge, I could be manipulated. I certainly can’t allow that.”

  The crease between her eyes deepens.

  “But, I wouldn’t do that,” she argues.

  “Perhaps, but my judgement comes more from the color and heat of your cheeks than any histrionics on your part.”

  “Oh,” she sighs, and as the crease disappears she drops her head back down.

  This part of my fantasy has become vitally important to me. It demonstrates the soft intimacy that has developed between us, and though there is something that tells me that we’ve not been together long, it suggests that we have been together for eons; a familiarity of two souls that are old friends.

  Oh, my, gosh, that is so amazing. A familiarity of two souls that are old friends. I love that. Why can’t I think of phrases like that?

  “I’m going to spank you now.”

  It’s an announcement, a proclamation, and as her cheeks squeeze together in a humble request for mercy, I slip my fingers between her legs.

  “Spread them, please, I must check your wetness from time to time.”

  She utters something I can’t quite decipher, and as she separates her thighs she follows it with a moan.

  As my fingertip slides across her pulpy pussy flesh, it touches her early dew, and pressing further, causing her to gasp, I find she is already open in an obvious invitation.

  Confined in my trousers I am now cursing myself for not stripping to my boxers, but the rustling of my clothes, and the sight of her nakedness across my pinstriped, charcoal grey trousers, satisfies my eye to such an extent as to bring me enormous pleasure, so the moment of self-chastisement exits quickly. Moving my hand from the joy of her sex, I lift it in the air and snap it back down, casting a perfect handprint on her left cheek. The small ‘ouch’ in response is of no consequence, and I begin the rhythmic pattern of smacks, moving my hand from cheek to cheek in its deliberate procession, happily witnessing the transformation of pale cream to rose pink.

  In a short time she has begun her wriggling, and while others find it annoying, claiming it interferes with their task, I find it immensely enjoyable. Her squirming may or may not indicate the level of her discomfort, but her gyrations makes landing my hand in the same spot time after time quite challenging, and I, for one, find it entertaining.

  “Sir,” she howls, “please, Sir, please stop.”

  I pause, slipping my fingertip between her legs.

  “Should I stop because you say so?”

  “No, Sir, only if you want to,” she says quickly.

  “Good answer, and your tone
is just right.”

  Slipping my finger further into her succulent depths, finding her deliciously wet, I move it forward, gently searching out the special spot that so many find elusive.

  “OOOOOHHHH.”

  Not so elusive today.

  “Do you want me very badly?” I purr, gently pressing again.

  “OOOOOOOH, yes, yes, yes,” she wails.

  Taking a deep breath I stare down, capturing the moment; her outstanding bottom, red and glowing as it stares up at me, her nude figure at my mercy, mine to spank, or finger or fuck as I deign, and the bittersweet restriction of my clothing soon to be removed.

  It is her wriggling against my finger that snaps me back, and withdrawing my hand I fondle her hot skin, caressing away the burn. Our heady closeness and her soft moans grab the attention of my eager member, so ordering her off my lap and on to her knees I slip from the bed, stripping quickly.

  Kneeling behind her my thumbs part her swollen lips, and as my joyous dick slithers home, my hands clutch her reddened bottom, pulling her cheeks apart. The dusky puckered hole is inviting, and one day she will learn to accept me there, but these initial glimpses are the first steps in her training. Her gasps at the visual intrusion quickly die away as I plunge forward, and as I grab her hips and begin to thrust, her wails of pleasure ring through my brain like bells calling all to worship.

  My fantasy allows me the pleasure of drawing out our carnal play for as long as I would like, but the reality of my hand on my cock dictates a different result, and such imaginings soon see it spewing across my hand in an explosive, rocketing release.

  It is a feeling of breathless happiness, and yet of defeat. The creature I adore from afar shall remain so until or unless the formal dictates of the world should change, or our circumstances create the required space between us.

  Perhaps one day her eyes will read these words, and she will know she lived with me long before the handcuffs graced her wrists, and the light around her was stolen by my black, satin blindfold.

  While I hope for this, it is also possible that our paths were meant to cross, only to part, our mutual need remaining unfulfilled.