by Laurel Aspen
‘In the study? But I thought we were?’
‘About to get down and dirty with some seriously X-rated sex?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘We are.’
‘Ooh, good.’
‘When, and only when, you’ve received your just desserts for your latest overindulgence.’
Chris had clearly no intention of showing clemency, and a cold feeling of trepidation filled Sally’s stomach. ‘I… I hoped you might have forgotten.’
‘Nope, I haven’t forgotten or forgiven, so you’d better brace that naughty little bottom for a prolonged disciplinary session.’
There was no adequate answer to a threat like that, well not that wouldn’t make a bad situation infinitely worse. So with a heavy heart Sally finished dressing, all the time wondering what fate Chris would have in store for her downstairs.
‘You took your time,’ he snapped brusquely. ‘I said five minutes, Sally, that was more like fifteen.’
‘Really?’ she goaded. ‘Well then, Mr Punctuality, what are you going to do about it?’
‘I’ll begin by showing madam the many merits and veritable versatility of the piece of office seating you felt it so imperative to purchase. Allow me to demonstrate.’
‘How kind. What does this knob here do?’
‘Oh, very droll, unhand me, pray. This knob sets the rake of the back, while the lever underneath…’ he crouched, eyes at hem height; hell, was that a short skirt or what? Distracted by her apparently endless, nylon-covered legs, Chris’s concentration momentarily strayed from upholstery to hosiery. But reality returned in the form of Sally’s hand on his wrist. Damn, just when he’d reached the interesting bit between her stocking tops and the apex of her thighs.
‘Mind wandering, is it?’ Sally mocked. ‘Back on planet Earth you were in the middle of explaining how to work this executive marvel.’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, girl, or you’re likely to have ample opportunity to regret it. However, since you’re so inquisitive you’d better try it for size. To begin with, sit facing the back.’
Unfazed by this strange request Sally instantly obeyed. His ingenuity would never cease to amaze her, she mused. Now, it didn’t take an ergonomics expert to work out the implications of this unusual, some might say undignified, position. Sally wasn’t an ergonomics expert and it didn’t take her any time, either. In order to maintain her balance she was forced to lean forward, arms resting on the chair-back, feet spread wide on each side. Best of all, and just as Chris had intended, her rounded buttocks overhung the edge of the seat. Flicking up the satin skirt he tucked it into her waistband and stood back to admire the sight.
‘What are you doing, Chris?’
‘Just looking.’
‘Then what’s that in your hand?’
‘That is half of the appalling pair of fluffy slippers you insisted on purchasing the other day.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re a crime against good taste. I should call the fashion police.’
‘I offered to buy you some too, now you’re getting older,’ replied Sally, with an endearingly impudent pout.
‘You do invite punishment, bless you.’ Chris couldn’t help but smile too. ‘Let me remind you, I’m not in my dotage yet. Whatever possessed you to choose such horrors?’
‘They keep my feet warm.’
‘They’re about to warm something else as well.’
Sally’s look of apprehension proved well warranted. Discreet, earlier experimentation by Chris had revealed the soles to be hard but extremely flexible. Consequently the subsequent prolonged and noisy slippering caused her to suffer rather worse than a warm glow, and within minutes her pretty posterior was glowing with the intensity of a furnace, emitting a fierce heart which soon spread from her hot cheeks to engorge the entire area between her legs with a simmering sexuality. The sounds of chastisement were accompanied, albeit sadly not in harmony, by Sally’s increasingly animated and vocal complaints; her way of trying to cope with the intense pain now permeating every centimetre of her rear end. Time passed quickly for Chris, but with agonising slowness for Sally.
‘Stand up,’ he eventually ordered.
Shakily Sally clambered to her feet, flushed, excited, chastened and yet groggy with arousal. Eyes heavily lidded and breathing rapidly she allowed him to remove her skirt and knickers without protest, daintily raising each foot to allow him to slip the scrap of material from around her ankles.
‘Kneel on the seat.’
In a daze she did so, and was promptly twirled round to face him.
‘An infinite variety of positions to suit every taste,’ Chris growled with heavy irony, simultaneously lowering the chair’s overall height. ‘That’s what this lever does… voila! A perfect punishment position every time.’ With careful deliberation he pulled the leather belt from his trousers. ‘Time you got reacquainted with this faithful servant.’
‘How many?’ whispered Sally, gazing up penitently, tears already brimming in her blue eyes.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Not more than six, please.’ She attempted a pleading look that failed totally to win her any sympathy, instead having the opposite and unwelcome affect of increasing his determination to leather her trembling orbs soundly.
His tone invited no dissent. ‘A dozen should suffice.’
Quickly and unselfconsciously she pushed back her buttocks, mutely inviting the leather’s harsh caress, no choice but to try and get it over with, get past the undoubted agony and on to the longed for hot and heavy sexual aftermath. Doubling the belt and measuring his distance, Chris was determined not to falter in his resolve to make sure she really felt each and every stroke.
Crack, smack!
Two blazing lines of fire instantly bisected Sally’s alabaster-white moons.
‘Yeow!’ Her unrestrained hips danced and wriggled wildly, her moisture-soaked slit once more openly visible to Chris’s appreciative gaze.
Whap, slap!
‘Oooof!’ The impact of the belt forced the breath from her lungs, bringing a howl of protest. ‘Nooooo.’ Calves crossing, thighs rubbing, feet drumming furiously, her concentration centred on the pulsating pain, Sally somehow managed to stay in position.
‘Six more to go.’ Despite her evident distress, Chris remained calm and collected. ‘However, I think your fortitude deserves a brief respite.’ Adeptly he petted her swollen clitoris, simultaneously sinking a finger deep into her moist, pouting pussy, rapidly taking the already over-stimulated Sally to the brink of a climax before cruelly and without warning he withdrew his hand.
Sally had no illusions as to what would happen next; body as tense as a bowstring with effort, her shoulders shaking with sobs, she nevertheless managed to force her buttocks back and as high as possible. The belt whistled mercilessly down, each stroke driving her forward on the seat, cutting cruelly across new areas of porcelain-pale skin, bringing further burning discomfort to those parts already visited.
Hair awry, make-up all but dissolved, traces of mascara streaking her cheeks, fingernails scrabbling at the back of the now hated chair for support, Sally presented a pathetic site; mentally resolving to relinquish their joint credit card and never spend money indiscriminately again. At the same time her repentance was edged with another deeper, more atavistic emotion - pure unabashed lust.
Chris laid a steadying hand on her shoulder, sensing she was close to the limits of her endurance. An unbearable heat scorched every inch of her belted behind, accentuating her already intense sexual arousal, she ached with need, craved release.
Three final cuts slammed across the tops of her thighs, drawing a wail of distress. Urgently Chris pulled her to her feet, seating himself on the chair instead.
‘Get on my lap,’ he ordered, and tearstained and frantic she quickly did so, freed his erection and straddled her man.
With a euphoric gasp she sat facing him, an exultant sigh of pleasure escaping
her lips as she was firmly impaled on his cock.
This way and that the chair spun. Back and forth the seat moved on its castors, Chris’s cock crammed to its fullest extent into Sally’s welcoming channel, sliding frantically in and out until finally they sat arms entwined, slumped together, satiated and triumphant.
It was Sally who eventually broke the silence. ‘You know, I think we really should replace the old wicker bedroom chair, Chris. Fancy a trip to the furniture superstore this weekend?’
Indya
Slap!
The sound of the impact was like a gunshot. A strangely costumed figure sailed though the air and landed with a horrible thump on the mat where an equally bizarrely attired assailant renewed the attack. The noise was incredible, announcers shouting, crowd baying, contestants’ contorted faces screaming homicidal threats. Chris winced with evident distaste and leant forward to lower the volume on the video player.
‘Sports entertainment is the big thing across the pond at present,’ said a voice at his shoulder.
Chris shrugged dismissively and delivered a succinct verdict, ‘Cartoon violence, pantomime for the cerebrally challenged.’
‘Sure, it’s fixed,’ responded his boss, but don’t underestimate those guys, it takes a lot of strength and timing to avoid serious injury in the ring.’
‘Those would be the guys with the bumps on their chests?’ said Chris, rewinding the video. ‘I can’t believe the smaller one’s tits can possibly be natural, although I’ll grant you her muscles look real enough.’
‘Female wrestling is hot right now, and catching on fast in the UK,’ continued Terry, ‘which brings me neatly to your next assignment.’
‘Moi?’ Chris looked suspicious.
‘Indya, the dark-haired pretty one whose breasts you just mentioned, is our client.’
‘The one underneath, apparently having her arms removed without anaesthetic?’ queried Chris.
‘Quite,’ Terry confirmed. ‘Indya’s prudently decided her days in the ring are numbered and decided to branch out with an autobiography and a minor part in a sitcom.’
Chris raised his eyebrows. ‘Please God, no,’ he murmured.
Terry grinned. ‘Surprisingly, she’s not a bad actress, her years in the ring have obviously provided valuable instruction in the method, and the book, which I’m assured was not ghosted, isn’t a bad rags-to-riches read.’
‘And you want me to…?’
‘Do your PR best and guide her through a two week UK book signing and chat show promo tour,’ confirm Terry.
‘Oh, come on!’ Chris’s worst fears were substantiated. ‘Why do I get to baby-sit a female wrestler? No, don’t tell me, this is because I worked in the States for two years, right?’
‘Partly, yeah. Oh, and I’ll warn you she prefers to be considered a “sportswoman”. Anyway, Indya - aka Betty Martin - flies in to Heathrow in three hours. Be there.’
Halfway across the Hammersmith flyover, en-route to the centre of town, Chris is already making a rapid reassessment of his charge. In the back of the car Indya is proving not at all parochial. She’s never visited London before but has obviously done some homework on the city, scoring immediate brownie points with Chris.
He’d half expected denim, rhinestone, and cowboy boots, but Betty’s impressive body is concealed under an expensively cut jacket, which has no need of shoulder pads. A matching, not-too-short skirt showcases impressively long and muscular legs.
‘Now then,’ she picks up the itinerary and immediately becomes businesslike, ‘what’s on the agenda for today?’
Fumbling in her bag, Betty finally locates a pair of glasses that she perches on the end of her nose. ‘I normally wear contacts, but my eyes are dry after the flight. Not a word to anyone about these,’ she warns with a winning smile, ‘don’t want to dent the dumb image.’
Chris relaxes, what might have been a chore is turning out to be fun. If he can just keep his eyes off those legs and concentrate on business, this girl’s warm and frank persona is going to play well with the public.
‘Okay, a lunchtime radio interview then an afternoon chat show,’ he says. ‘Have you done much talk TV before?’
‘Sure, Chris, but have you ever seen US TV?’
‘Oh yes,’ he rolls his eyes, and they’re still laughing when the car reaches the hotel.
By the end of the next day both interviews have gone well, but things begin to take an inauspicious turn as jetlag kicks in. Betty’s grouchy, but Chris waits with practiced patience in her hotel room while, with more speed than haste, she completes a lengthy make-up routine.
Catching his reflection in the mirror Betty suddenly turns on her minder, her southern accent much more pronounced. ‘Whatcha’ lookin’ at?’ she snaps. ‘Tryin’ to see my tits, huh? Shit, you guys are obsessed. What were you, bottle fed or somethin’?’
‘Actually, I was wondering if mismatched earrings were part of the Southern Belle look,’ Chris responds calmly, ‘and what I see is a sassy woman, trying for a make or break career change, feeling low and a long way from home.’
There’s a long pause, and eventually Betty throws up her hands in defeat. ‘Hell, I blew it there,’ she admits. ‘I’m real sorry, Chris.’
‘It’s okay,’ he soothes. ‘I’m used to celebs getting a bit worked up. Relax, have a drink, give yourself a chance to regroup.’
‘Let’s not kid ourselves about the celeb bit, honey, and I’ll pass on the drink, my ex-husband drunk enough for an entire lifetime in just a couple of years.’ Betty sighs. ‘You’re sure enough right about the lonely bit, though. Trouble is, the tough girl image scares most guys. Either that or they can’t see beyond the gloss and the chassis. Sure, I’m trying hard to make this work, who wouldn’t? The alternative’s a future spent opening shopping malls or cheerleading for a load of steroid-crazed pro-fighters. Aw dammit, you’ve showed me a lotta respect these last couple of days and I’ve done bad-mouthed ya like some bratty kid. I deserve to git my hiney warmed…’
‘Spanked?’ Chris’s adrenaline kicks in hard, as unknowing and unpredictably she’s chanced upon his secret passion - in pursuit of which, he believes, every chance, however slim, is worth taking.
‘That what you guys call it over here?’ she shrugs. ‘I guess so.’
‘Well now,’ Chris’s legendary interpersonal skills are about to be put to the ultimate test, ‘you’re spot-on there, Betty. That’s just what you need.’
‘Need, or deserve?’ comes the unexpected response.
‘Both,’ says Chris, fortunately sounding more confident than he feels. ‘Look at this as therapy,’ he continues, and taking the initiative, grasps the waist of her tight leather trousers, pulling her, teetering on her trademark high heels, towards him.
She offers no resistance, merely looks up quizzically and says in a puzzled tone, ‘You really figure you’re gonna tan my butt, doncha?’
‘Damn straight,’ Chris replies, fixing her with what he fervently hopes to be a steely gaze.
‘Honey, I could throw you across the damn room.’
‘Could, but won’t,’ responds Chris coolly. ‘You want someone who isn’t intimidated by you, and that’s me.’
Seating himself on the capacious hotel sofa he adroitly undoes the expensive leather trews. ‘So, we’ll have these trousers down and you across my knee.’
To his incredulity that’s exactly what happens. Betty is equally amazed. What her divorced husband might have achieved with brute strength this guy is doing with mere words. Which, she silently observes, her mind racing with ambivalent emotions, is a good deal more impressively masculine and sexy.
Betty waits in trepidation as the air-conditioning cools her naked cheeks, a slender thong concealing what little remains of her dignity. Chris, equally stunned by the rapid turn of events, runs his hand across her firm buttocks, taking in her slender, weight-trained body. No sign of implants, he thinks, abandoning another preconception, as her breasts crush against his leg.
He spanks her carefully, methodically, covering every inch of the silky flesh with ringing slaps while Betty kicks and yells but, significantly, makes no attempt to break free. Her cheeks turn pink, then red; a sharp sting gradually becomes a warm, tingling glow; lascivious tremors send covert messages to parts sadly neglected of late.
‘Relax your buttocks,’ Chris’s commanding tone breaks the silence. ‘They’re far too tense.’ True enough, his palm is starting to smart.
‘You relax ‘em,’ comes the reply.
Hey, I’m supposed to be the boss, Chris thinks, but the opportunity is too good to refuse and he sets to work. Caressing the hot globes, stroking her sensitive inner thighs, letting his fingertips dance over the damp strip of fabric which guards the entrance to her most erogenous of zones. As those fingers skilfully tease and pet so Betty’s buttocks do indeed relax, groans become moans and little gasps of pure pleasure. Until, as his hand resumes its percussive tattoo, and taken unawares, she twists and turns on his lap, grinding her overheated pussy against his knee. Oh yes, she needs this but isn’t going to get it, nor any other sort of immediate release, for abruptly her heartless English tormentor decants her onto the floor.
‘Right,’ he says briskly, ‘if you’re going to make that book interview you’d better spruce up and get weaving.’ Hah, who’s in control now?
‘What?’ Damn, her voice has a pleading tone she didn’t intend but can’t seem to shift. ‘You can’t leave me in this state.’
‘State of what, independence?’ Chris retorts brightly. ‘It’s just for an hour or two. We can pick this up later.’
‘Goddamn…’ Betty can’t believe what’s happening, no guy has ever made her wait before. Usually they’re in like a shot, although granted it’s then mostly over too quick. ‘And what,’ she continues sarcastically, ‘do you suppose is goin’ to happen then?’ She’s standing close against him, hauling trousers that suddenly seem much tighter, up over her throbbing bum. Chris leans forward to kiss her and finds her mouth eagerly responsive, her tongue forcing its way urgently between his lips.
‘Something a little harder,’ he ventures.
