by Penny Birch
My bag was on a table by the door and he picked it up. Rummaging inside, he produced first my mobile, then the card on which Rhiannon had written her number.
‘No, Anton!’ I squeaked. ‘Don’t call Rhiannon!’
‘I do not intend to,’ he informed me. ‘I intend to place the phone by your head. With a little effort and the use of your rather pert little nose you should be able to call her if you wish. Alternatively, I could send the concierge up on my way out, which was my original plan. Take your pick.’
‘Neither! For goodness sake, Anton, please just untie me. I’ll do anything for you, anything. I’ll be your slut, to be used when you like, any way you like—’
He cut me off with a brusque laugh, then spoke again as he laid my mobile beside my head.
‘Really, once you were free? I doubt it. I advise against playing games with me, Natasha, because you will always find me one move ahead. Now goodnight . . . oh, and incidentally, the Champagne, it was excellent. But I have signed a contract with Southern and Allied to talk up their prestige cuvée, with a nice fat bonus when the price rises above that of Cristal.’
He returned to the door, gave me one last flutter of his fingers and left. I was cursing and sobbing, but a little voice in the back of my head was telling me that he was only playing with me. Obviously he had realised that I’d been trying to manipulate him, and what I’d been put through was a very real punishment, but he would come back. He had to.
I lay still, trying hard to control both my body and my emotions. My muscles ached and I was sticky with Champagne and spunk and my own juices, but it was harder to get over the turmoil in my head. He’d well and truly messed my mind up, and it wasn’t over. I could ring Rhiannon and beg for help, or yell for Jean-Marc. Maybe Jean-Marc was about to come up anyway, if Anton had tipped him off, but then Anton himself had to be coming back. Soon I was sobbing, despite all my efforts at self-control, and I kept remembering what Anton had said about me wetting and soiling myself. I’d drunk a lot and my bladder was already beginning to ache. If I let go I’d pee all over the floor, while my panties were so taut over my bum that if I messed myself most of it would come out at the sides. I could not be found in that state, I simply could not.
The choice was Jean-Marc or Rhiannon. I didn’t mind Jean-Marc seeing me the way I was, and no doubt he’d expect some dirty reward for releasing me, but I could cope with that. Possibly he’d even take advantage of me first, but he would untie me in the end. Unfortunately I was on the third floor and if Anton hadn’t told Jean-Marc about me I’d have to scream the hotel down to attract attention. The door wasn’t locked, so it was more than likely that I’d have an audience of several dozen assorted tourists and businessmen admiring my soiled, helpless body before I was set free.
To be rescued by Rhiannon would be more embarrassing than Jean-Marc. I’d had sex with him, and, while I was sure she’d been tempted, she had turned me down. On the other hand she was a woman and wasn’t going to fuck me or violate my bottom before she untied me. Also, she would be able to come up to my room without drawing the attention of half Paris. She was the best choice.
I twisted my head around to press my nose to my mobile phone.
Five
MY RESCUE WAS hideously embarrassing, but it could have been worse. By good luck, Rhiannon was drinking in a bar just a few streets away. She came immediately and, while she was shocked by the state I was in, I managed to blame the more perverted details on Anton, which was pretty much the truth. We were still trying to clean up the mess when he came back, having intended to leave me for two hours, probably long enough for me to wet myself. I had the satisfaction of surprising him, because he hadn’t thought I’d dare call Rhiannon, and also of telling him to fuck off in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately I was too exhausted and stressed to take advantage of her curiosity about my behaviour.
I spent the whole of the following day either plotting revenge or masturbating myself sore over what had happened. Even as I came I would be cursing Anton, but I couldn’t stop myself, and after my eighth orgasm I realised that I was obsessed with him and that it would take weeks or even months to move on. That happens to me sometimes, but I’ve come to understand that it doesn’t mean I genuinely love the person involved, or even like them. I was definitely not going to give Anton the satisfaction of knowing what he’d done, let alone call him to take advantage of the fact. He’d had more than enough from me.
He’d also made it abundantly clear that he was not willing to help me promote the Hambling and Borse wines. To judge by what he’d said, he only praised the famous names and those who paid him, which was infuriating. If I’d known the bastard was corrupt I’d have offered him a bribe in the first place and saved myself a great deal of trouble. I did wonder if it would be possible to expose him as a fraud, but with no proof it would be his word against mine and I could see who’d come off worse. It would do me no good, and I had now lost my two best chances of bringing my wines up to astronomical prices.
I wasn’t at all sure what to do next, and it was only my native obstinacy that prevented me from abandoning the whole thing and staying in Paris for a go at seducing Rhiannon. She was obviously intrigued but too shy simply to be taken to bed, so it would need time. Unfortunately I couldn’t even close my eyes without seeing Anton Yoshida’s smug grin, and besides, a lot of people were going to be disappointed in me if I backed out, including Percy. So I contented myself with buying Rhiannon an enormous bunch of flowers and headed back to London.
Another reason for leaving was that the vintage looked like being a disaster. The wet summer had left most of the French vineyards badly affected by mildew, with Bordeaux the worst hit region. How Anton was going to cope with that I had no idea, but I was certainly not going to follow him around the country from one group of depressed vignerons to the next. The prices of older wines were likely to rise, and it was just possible I’d be able to bring our 2005 clarets to the attention of the public without the help of either Earle Hayes or Anton Yoshida.
Lastly, there was the message Gilbert Hambling had sent, asking for a report on my progress. In the circumstances there wasn’t a great deal I could say, as all I’d really managed to do was get heartily abused. I assured him I’d be in London on Monday, and as I sat on the Eurostar I was trying to work out how to put the best spin on events. By the following morning I’d decided that the best I could do was show that I hadn’t been wasting my time and propose a tasting aimed at investors hoping to capitalise on the probable price rises for recent good vintages.
I dressed in another of my smart new skirt suits, only fractionally less fine than the one Anton Yoshida had put in urgent need of a trip to the dry cleaners. Just knowing how smart I looked helped to keep me feeling efficient and in control, and my mood was positively bullish as I got out of the cab in St James’s and clip-clopped my way across to the building. Gilbert was alone in his office, seated behind the enormous desk. His jowls lifted into a smile as he saw me.
‘Ah, Natasha, there you are,’ he greeted me. ‘Do take a seat. Coffee? No? Well then, how are you doing? I confess that I had expected you to spend a little more time in the office.’
‘There’s not really much I can do here,’ I told him. ‘I need to get out and meet people. So far I’ve had two offers for the company, both quite generous but unsuitable.’
‘Ah ha! And who were these from?’
‘You’d probably prefer not to know.’
‘Not at all.’
‘If you insist. One from a company called Orpheus Asset Management, and the other from Earle Hayes.’
‘Hum . . . I see what you mean. Still, good work.’
‘A good start at least, I like to think,’ I lied. ‘I also need to arrange a tasting.’
‘The Hambling and Borse tasting is in November, at the Aviators Club.’
‘Then we can have two, although the Aviators would be an excellent venue.’
‘Two?’
‘Yes. T
he one I’m planning is rather different, you see. The thing is, the Bordeaux vintage looks as if it’s going to fail.’
‘So I hear.’
‘In which case we’re in an excellent position to benefit from our stocks of older wines, particularly the ’05s and ’06s, which are sure to appeal to investors and . . .’
‘Investors? Natasha, we at Hambling and Borse do not sell wine as an investment. We sell it to drink.’
‘Yes, of course, normally, and I agree with the principle, but in the circumstances—’
‘I’m sorry, my dear, but that is out of the question.’
I drew my breath in, trying to be calm, but it was beginning to feel as if everything I did blew up in my face.
‘We need to increase our income,’ I said carefully, ‘also to raise our profile among those who’re prepared to pay high prices.’
‘I am fully aware of that, Natasha,’ he responded, ‘and yet we have commitments to our regular customers.’
‘Who are buying at well below market prices in some instances. At the very least we need to raise our Bordeaux prices by fifty per cent, and a hundred or more for some of the reserved stock.’
‘We couldn’t possibly!’
‘If we don’t we’re going to end up being pulled into little pieces by Orpheus Asset Mangement or somebody similar. You know what they want to do, don’t you? They want to buy the Hambling and Borse name and sell it to a supermarket to be used for their premium brands.’
‘Good God!’
‘Exactly, so we need to act. Let me show ten or a dozen different Bordeaux and a few of our agencies from other regions, that’s all.’
‘But our regular customers . . .’
‘We’ll bring in cheaper wines to fill the gap.’
‘What? Absolutely not! It would ruin our reputation.’
‘You won’t have a reputation to ruin if you don’t get your act together, you obstinate old goat!’
I’d tried to stop myself even as the words came out of my mouth, but I’d said them and Gilbert was going slowly purple.
‘Sorry,’ I managed, my temper draining away on the instant, ‘but I’m only trying to help.’
‘By calling me an old goat?’ he demanded. ‘I think you should mind your language, young lady, or those knickers of yours may have to come down again.’
‘Sorry,’ I repeated. ‘That was rude of me, but I’m serious.’
‘So am I, I assure you.’
‘No, look . . . I . . .’
He certainly sounded serious, and I stopped in confusion, genuinely outraged by the thought of a proper spanking, but with my nipples instantly stiff and my pussy tight. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to think clearly before I began again.
‘I was rude, and you would be right to spank me, but we really do need to resolve this. At least let me use my contacts to try and bring in some new clients for a tasting, and auction some of our surplus Bordeaux afterwards? Please, and I promise I won’t mention investment.’
He paused to consider, frowning. All I’d really done was rephrase my suggestion, and I was fairly sure he knew that I’d still be inviting potential investors. Suddenly I felt immense sympathy for him, as an ageing man struggling to preserve values almost everybody else had rejected, in terms of both business practice and the right to smack naughty girls’ bottoms when he felt it necessary. At last he replied.
‘Very well, so long as you assure me you will do nothing to bring the name of the company into disrepute.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and meant it.
‘Perhaps you’d care for a drink at the Aviators and we can arrange matters? I’ve been meaning to introduce you to some of the boys anyway.’
‘Yes, thank you. Should I give my expenses to Melanie, or would you like to look them over?’
‘I’m sure they’re fine, but I’ll pass them along to her if you like.’
I dug the invoice and the envelope with my receipts in it out of my bag and passed them across. He gave them a casual glance, then did a double-take, his eyes widening slowly as he took in my figures. I managed a weak smile.
‘I don’t mean to be critical, Natasha,’ he said, ‘but this does seem rather a lot. Two thousand five hundred Euros for a skirt suit? One hundred and ninety Euros for a set of underwear?’
‘I don’t mind bearing a proportion of it,’ I assured him hastily, ‘especially the clothes, but believe me it was money well spent.’
‘On underwear?’
I shrugged, blushing. He shook his head and continued to scan the list, only for the expression on his face to change abruptly, from irritation to pleasure.
‘Of course, yes, the classic situation,’ he said, ‘although while I appreciate that you like to have something to receive your punishments for, you needn’t go quite so far for the sake of verisimilitude. Nevertheless, you do have excellent timing.’
I wasn’t at all sure what he was talking about, except that he was obviously going to use my profligacy as another excuse to punish me. He put the papers down on his desk and rubbed his hands together, now beaming with delight. My initial puzzlement had begun to give way and I bit my lip, feeling distinctly embarrassed and more than a little sorry for myself. I’d come in feeling brisk and businesslike, and now it looked as if I’d be having my knickers taken down for another spanking, because that was undoubtedly what he thought I was angling for. It was not what I’d been expecting, not at that moment, and I felt awkward and slightly ridiculous. I wondered if I could back down gracefully.
‘Maybe another . . .,’ I began, only to stop.
He had reached into his drawer and pulled something out, a magazine, which he tossed casually on to the desk. I thought it would be a copy of Corkscrew or something like that, and it took me a moment to realise what the plump gentleman in a dinner jacket and an orange waistcoat on the cover was doing. Rather than addressing a tasting or showing off his cellar, he was attending to a pretty girl in school uniform, with her gymslip already turned up as he pulled down her knickers. It was abundantly obvious what he intended to do with her, as the magazine was Kane and he was holding one.
‘Oh,’ I said as my stomach began to churn. ‘Look, Gilbert . . . Mr Hambling, I thought maybe another spanking, some time, maybe, but the cane really hurts!’
‘Is that not the idea?’ he asked. ‘And indeed, is that not what you deserve?’
‘No! Well . . . perhaps, but I really . . .’
I trailed off, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself and on the edge of telling him it just wasn’t going to happen. Yet ever since he’d spanked me I’d wanted it again, and I knew that to turn him down would ruin the sense of his authority over me, which was what had made it special. He nodded, perhaps aware of my conflicting emotions and certainly enjoying my discomfort. I also knew I’d be OK once my bum was warm.
‘Oh, all right,’ I said miserably, ‘but you’re to spank me first, and not to use the cane until I’m quite pink.’
I was pouting furiously as I went to the desk, where I leant forward, resting my arms on its surface with my bottom pushed out behind. He watched, one corner of his big, loose mouth twitching with amusement, admiring the shape of my body but making no move to take my punishment any further. It was I who spoke first.
‘Well? Aren’t you going to spank me?’
‘Yes,’ he told me, ‘but not yet. No, no, don’t get up, I prefer you in that position.’
He’d set me blushing again, hotter than before, but I did as I was told, bending over with my bum up in spanking position. He pushed the copy of Kane under my nose.
‘The fellow on the cover is a member of the Aviators,’ he informed me. ‘One of the idle rich who need not be concerned with concealing his peccadilloes. He particularly wants to meet you, as do one or two others, so if you are willing I’ll call ahead and engage a private room?’
The implication was clear. If I went over to the Aviators I would be lunching in private with a group of lecherous old basta
rds who not only knew that I received corporal punishment but almost certainly fancied a turn at dishing it out. At the very least I’d be spanked in front of them, maybe passed around from lap to lap, then caned. I found myself nodding.
‘Splendid!’ he declared. ‘A moment, if you please.’
He made a call, and meanwhile I remained in position. I was imagining the coming exposure of my bottom and my beating, now with rising excitement but still a great deal of embarrassment. He made me feel small and vulnerable, wonderful sensations in their place and ones I’d rarely experienced in recent years. When he put the phone down he extended his hand and I took it, allowing him to lead me from the room like a puppy on her master’s lead.
At the door he let go, and we left the building like any other pair of business associates making their way to lunch. There were plenty of people about, and it felt strange to think of them going about their daily routines, all unaware than one among them was being taken to have her bare bottom smacked in front of a bunch of dirty old men.
The thought was enough to keep me warm all the way to the club. Not that it was very far, only in King Street, where it was housed in a great square grey-stone building four storeys high that projected an air of gravitas and maturity. The doorman was in full livery, an old boy with a military air whose disapproving scowl vanished as he saw Gilbert. I was given a rather different look, as if to say that while I was allowed in with my chaperone I had better behave myself.
I returned a cheeky smile, determined not to let the atmosphere of masculine dignity oppress me, and deliberately clicked my heels on the polished wooden floor as we crossed to a desk where another commissionaire stood. He too was polite to Gilbert but gave me a look that suggested he knew exactly what I was up to, setting me blushing despite myself.
Stairs ascended beside the desk and I hurried up them, keen to escape the knowing glances from behind. All I succeeded in doing was making my boobs bounce and giving the man a prime view of my bottom wiggling beneath my skirt, and I was sure I heard a chuckle as I passed out of his sight. I had to wait for Gilbert on the landing, but took his arm as we continued upstairs, which made me feel protected though still a woman in a man’s environment, and a slut at that.
