The Story of Emma

by Sean O'Kane

  “Next time, I’ll beat you harder for that,” he said.

  That left me utterly speechless. Next time! Beat me again! After what he had done? I was going straight to the police, never mind anything else.

  But while I was struggling to absorb this latest outrage, quite suddenly he was fully into me and his whole weight pressed down on me. He let go of my wrists, reached under me and gripped my buttocks again. This time I really yelled, but he stopped my mouth with his own and began to move inside me. Thrust and withdraw, slowly, rhythmically, the oldest rhythm in the world, at the same time he gradually increased his grip on my bottom. My attempted yells faded to groans and then I suddenly realised that my hips were responding to the rhythm and that the pain in my bottom had joined the pleasure in my sex to form one seamless sensation that was neither pleasure nor pain but something quite different.

  The previous night’s orgasms faded into insignificance. I couldn’t tell where his body ended and mine began, I lost all thoughts and very nearly passed out when my climax exploded. I heard him shout something and realised that he had come as well and we bucked, thrashed and twisted as one body while the aftershocks ran through us.

  Over the following days I seesawed wildly between hate for Martin, shame and disgust at myself and fond memories of the sex. I felt used and abused but couldn’t deny that the climax I had enjoyed after the beating had been the best ever.

  Eventually I even stood with my back to my dressing table mirror with my skirt up and my knickers down to see if there were still any marks. There were still scratches and bruises from his fingers, but no red marks from the actual spanking and a treacherous part of me regretted that, so I gave in and rang him.

  We met at a bistro in Soho. I was deliberately late but he seemed quite unconcerned and rose to greet me, giving me a quick peck on the cheek as I got to his table. I tried to be all aloof and cool, but it’s difficult when you know he got you into the sack so quickly on your first night. And then there had been the spanking and now, here I was again. Back for more? I honestly didn’t know, but he had woken something in me, I had to admit that, and whatever I felt about him, it was different to the way I had ever felt about any other man.

  While I picked at what was more of a snack than a meal he was gentleman enough to keep the conversation away from the bedroom, but when we were into our third glass of wine I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Look Martin,” I said. “I’ve got to know. If I come back to your place tonight, are you going to… you know… do that to me again?”

  He was quite unperturbed. “I promised you another spanking, so yes. I fully intend to keep that promise.”

  The bistro was crowded and I looked round in panic; he had spoken quite loudly and plainly.

  “I meant what I said Emma,” he went on. “You have a lovely arse. Just a nice size - a good handful in each cheek. And they wobble so beautifully when they’re hit.”

  “Shut up!” I hissed desperately, although I suddenly realised that I had my stockinged thighs clamped together to savour that treacherous tingling at their tops.

  “Have you kept your knickers on tonight?” he continued, completely ignoring me.

  I had. The briefest thong I owned - and I had on my one pair of stockings - emergencies only. I had wanted it to be secret that I had dressed to look good undressed. But his words felt like they were stripping me in public. He was pushing all the buttons again, totally in control.

  Again I gave in.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “And stockings and suspenders. The whole works. But do you have to do it so hard this time?” That last part came out in a girlish whine.

  “Yes, of course. Come on, we’re leaving.”

  I followed him out, weak kneed and fluttering inside.

  Back at his flat I got what was coming to me. This time he didn’t put me over his knee, he made me strip while he watched. He wasn’t giving me anywhere to hide or pretend that I didn’t want what was coming.

  I had on a simple shift dress so it didn’t take long till I was standing with just stockings, suspenders and high heels on. Martin let his eyes wander over me slowly and I felt my breasts start to get that tight feeling as my nipples started standing to attention. Down below I was all heat and butterflies again.

  “Come and kneel down here,” he told me at last.

  I did as I was told, kneeling beside him and facing the sofa, then he had me lay my torso on the cushions so that my bottom stuck out. I tried to bury my face in the cushions to blot out just how exposed and vulnerable I knew I looked. I felt him get up and then heard him undress before he put one knee on the sofa beside me, his left hand on the small of my back and his right on my bottom.

  Oh God! This was going to hurt! But I didn’t make a move; I wanted to see just how much it would hurt.

  “How many am I getting?” I asked.

  “As many as I want to give you,” he said quietly and then he started.

  It was a good beating. Hard strokes delivered steadily so that the heat and sting from one could spread up from my buttocks before the next one landed. I gasped and wriggled, humping and arching my back under his strong left hand as smack after smack rained down. My nipples rubbed hard on the fabric of the cushions as I writhed. And all the while my whole pelvic area glowed and stung and burned in that strange way it had before. It was as though his hands were striking directly into my sex. And although I yelped and whimpered in genuine pain, I was responding as if to a really good screwing.

  At last he gave me a rest and I lay panting and twitching, but then he dug his fingers between my thighs and straight into my sex. I gasped at the roughness of the intrusion but opened my legs instead of clenching them shut. It only took a few moments until I could hear as well as feel how my vagina was responding. Shameless squelching noises came from inside me as he worked his fingers. I couldn’t tell how many he had in there I was so open and wet.

  He chuckled and started in again and I howled and wriggled even more. This time it really hurt and he had to almost lean on my shoulders to keep me down, but even as each resounding smack forced floods of tears from my eyes, I knew I was getting more and more desperate for him to take me. And at last he did. He knelt behind me and had me doggie style. He went in so easily and so fast that it felt like he was going to go right up into my stomach. I was well and truly impaled on him and with his hands on my hips he rode me to three orgasms before he came himself. He never even touched my breasts or my clit, he just rode me like an animal until he allowed himself to come, forcing me to climax under him just as easily as he had made me strip and kneel for him. I was beaten in all senses of the word.

  For two months I was the happiest girl in London. I went to his flat when he rang and summoned me, I dropped whatever I was doing and ran to meet him for drinks or dinner whenever he wanted me to. I learned the importance of taking my time, when his summons allowed me to. Showering or bathing, then perfuming every nook and cranny before easing the stockings up my legs and fastening the suspenders, taking hours to choose the right dress or suit, always a suit with a skirt though. And always I wore suspenders and stockings or hold ups underneath.

  And for the first time I really got turned on by looking at myself in the mirror and seeing the way the suspenders framed the area of my sex, looking almost like a harness and I began to understand why men love the contrast between the naked and the stockinged thigh - the change from outward appearance to naked intimacy. There’s really only one reason why a woman dresses like that.

  Once he had me get a taxi to the flat wearing only bra, suspenders and stockings beneath a coat. But always he beat me. And always hard. And every time he did I grew more and more accustomed to the strange regions a woman can be taken to. I bent over every item of furniture in the flat and even learned to bend over in the middle of the floor and hold my ankles.

 
I really believed I had the strong man I had obviously always wanted. And I probably would have gone on believing it if Martin hadn’t taken me to dinner that night with Jason, then let him beat me and offered me for screwing into the bargain.

  “No!” I yelled and twisted away, straightening up to face the men, flustered and dishevelled but defiant. “He’s bloody well not going to do that, Martin!”

  While Jason had been beating me, he had helped himself to another whisky and now he drained it. “So you won’t obey me, Emma?” he asked quietly.

  “Damn right I won’t!” I screamed, too angry to even note the humiliating use of the word ‘obey’.

  “Sorry Jason. Looks like you’ll have to settle for the spanking for now.” He seemed strangely unperturbed and Jason just shrugged and made to leave, Martin followed him out and I helped myself to a drink.

  “Well Emma,” he said on his return, “I promised you something new and now I’ve got the perfect excuse to do it.”

  At once I realised what game he had been playing. He had deliberately put me in a position where I had been bound to refuse to do what he wanted. So now I was going to get a real punishment beating, which was something I had never had before. Tingling excitement erupted once again and I decided I would play the game to the end.

  “Get stuffed,” I told him.

  He came close and I could see genuine anger in his face. Suddenly I was scared as well as excited - like you get at the start of a fairground ride. Was he playing or had he really expected me to let Jason fuck me? The risks and dangers of the situation set my pulse racing.

  “You let me down in front of an old friend, you bitch,” he said and without warning he slapped me. I staggered back and fetched up against the drinks cabinet. “Now I’m going to punish you.”

  “All right then,” I said fingering my blazing cheek and finding I was really enjoying the thrill of the danger. “See if you can make me say sorry.”

  He slapped me again, on the other cheek sending me reeling sideways into the TV set. I looked up at him, my heart hammering wildly, my bottom still glowing and now my sex fluttering. He stood before me, calm and authoritative; powerful and in control. I melted completely and he saw it.

  “Go into the bedroom and take the belt out of my jeans, then bring it to me here for your punishment.”

  I did as I was told, hardly able to breathe from excitement and fear. I fumbled the belt out from the loops that held it, my nervous fingers feeling the thickness and weight of the leather. Then I took it back to the man who was about to beat me. I watched as he wrapped a couple of turns round his fist, leaving a good long lash to use on me then he had me strip completely and lie on the coffee table.

  I went to the long low table, straddled it and lay down on my face, squashing my breasts against the cold wood and feeling my nipples harden into full arousal. I braced my hands, feet and knees on the carpet and waited.

  I heard him go to the drinks cabinet and pour another large measure of whisky. He drained it in one go and then came to stand by my right shoulder. I braced myself for this new experience. My first taste of leather. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when the first lash landed. It cracked deafeningly loudly across my shoulders and I really hadn’t expected that. I was so naive! I thought I was just in for a more extreme bottom thrashing, but suddenly I knew he intended to whip my back as well. Images of true slavery leapt to my mind even as the second lash cracked home. This one was across the buttocks and started a strange, burning, itchy sort of stinging; quite unlike a hand spanking. Then he moved his target to my middle back, then the shoulders again. He was plainly intent on keeping me guessing as to where he was going to strike next. The physical sensations were far from pleasant at this stage of the whipping but mentally I was incredibly turned on by my own submission and vulnerability, and now by Martin’s coldly calculating way of tormenting me further.

  More lashes fell; the noise of leather smacking down onto my own flesh had me squirming with excitement even as the stinging they caused began to escalate into a fire of breathtaking intensity.

  When he had me giving little breathless gasps at each lash, he stopped.

  “Don’t move,” he said, still cold and distant.

  Again I heard him go to the drinks cabinet. I should have told him then how excited I was and that I was quite happy for him to carry on; to take me further into the strange landscape of pleasure and pain that was opening up before me, but all I could do was hang my head down and try to get my breath back. I realised that I had shifted my hands and now they gripped the table legs with white knuckles. Then Martin was back and the belt swung in again. The second batch was far more intense. The lashes built on the earlier ones and I moaned and kicked and writhed as my whole body seemed engulfed by white-hot flames.

  I had no idea how many I had taken when he finally stopped, but I just lay, panting and gasping as the fires raged. Deep inside me though there was a certain pride and peace. I had taken my punishment and in so doing had come to know myself fully. I had been whipped - how that word went round and round in my head - and when Martin took me as he surely would do, he would find me open and ready for him. He did indeed take me, right there and then, still face down on the table. He tore off his clothes and rammed himself towards the crease of my vulva where it was plainly on view between my now well-whipped buttocks. He used his hand only to guide his shaft, there was no preliminary fingering but he slid into me with no problem and I cried out at the depth and speed of the penetration. He laughed at how easily he went in and, careless of my discomfort pushed his whole weight down onto me. I could smell the whisky on his breath as he lay on me and pumped in and out hard and fast. I came very quickly that time and the orgasm blended and blurred all the borders between the vaginal stimulation, the white heat in my back and buttocks and the way Martin’s body was crushing mine down onto the hard wood. It was simply mind-blowing and I just lay like a wrung out rag while he rammed himself to his own climax and finished with me.

  However much pleasure I had taken in being punished with the belt, Martin had taken more in delivering that punishment. He was insatiable that night and drove me to the point of begging for mercy after God knows how many orgasms. He took great delight in digging his fingers hard into my back and bottom as he thrust into me when he took me to bed and it had never felt so good. Especially when he whispered that the next day he was going to buy a cane. By the time I sank into an exhausted sleep I was quite certain that I had found the man I wanted, and that I had also found myself.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Ben

  I struggled up into wakefulness, stinging and aching all over, to find Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me and his head in his hands. When he heard me stir he turned and I could see how haggard he looked.

  “I’m so sorry Emma,” he croaked in a morning-after-whisky voice. “Can you forgive me? I lost it… I really lost control. I’m so sorry.”

  It took a few seconds for the depth of his betrayal to penetrate my sleep fuddled brain but only a few minutes later I was stumbling home, my eyes filled with tears of humiliation and rage.

  I thought I had submitted to the anger, and the hand, of a strong man. A man strong enough to overpower me with his will; to make me quite literally bend before him. But after that terrible beating, as it now appeared to me, he had revealed that he had had to have a drink to get up the courage and had then had too many so he had been more than half drunk while he thrashed me.

  If only he had said nothing and carried on I would never have known, but now he had actually apologised and begged my forgiveness, all my illusions were shattered and my self- disgust at the pleasure I had found in being so abused knew no bounds.

  That summer was the worst of my life.

  I was so depressed, confused and lonely.

  I couldn’t bear to talk
to Martin after I had walked out on him that morning, so there was no-one I could talk to about my confusion. At first I tried to simply put it all behind me and throw myself back into my work, but re-runs in my mind of the whipping at Martin’s hands just wouldn’t leave me alone. And it was hardly the sort of thing I could discuss with a girlfriend over lunch.

  I had been brought up to believe that straight sex was the only sort, and I was naive enough that I never really believed other people could enjoy alternative sex. I was convinced that I was totally alone in taking pleasure in pain and submission and on top of this there was the question of sex itself. I had tasted it at an intensity which left everything else standing. It had become a major part of my life and I missed it terribly. I tried going out with a few men but it was no good, the sex was bland without that added spice of secret illicit pleasure. Once I tried asking for a spanking and the guy tried but he just couldn’t do it hard enough to be of any use to me, and anyway he too apologised afterwards. So I resigned myself to celibacy and masturbation; something I had never done before. I found I could do a good job on my clitoris, better than most men anyway, but when it came to penetrative… well fingers just didn’t do it. I plucked up every ounce of courage I had and went into a sex shop to buy a vibrator. And while I was in there I saw that they sold whips, restraints and paddles. So there really were other people out there doing it! I resolved to try asking the next man I fancied. I would give it one more try and then if that failed and he reacted in horror, well maybe an advert in the personal columns somewhere…

  For two weeks not one eligible male came within range and mentally I had begun composing an advert, but then I met Ben again.

  I had known him for some years really but had not met him since well before Martin. He was an MP and in his mid-fifties. I liked him; he had never made any secret of the fact that he fancied me a lot. Okay so he was a lot older than me but he was tall, grey haired and hadn’t run too badly to fat. He often gave me interesting titbits of news and gossip, one of those un-named sources that political journalists use so much. I knew he was only trying to get inside my knickers but he was so honest about it that it had become a bit of a game with us. It was the more slimy ones that made my skin crawl.