by Laurel Aspen
BODYGUARD
A collection of five spanking stories
Edited by Miranda Forbes
ISBN 9781908006493
Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
These stories were originally published in Naughty Spanking One
Published by Accent Press Ltd
ISBN 9781906125937
Contents
Bodyguard Laurel Aspen
No One Ever Guesses, And No One Guesses Now Lana Fox
My New Personal Assistant Eva Hore
Mistress Satina's Slutmaid Academy Alexia Falkendown
Alistair's Hobby Beverly Langland
Bodyguard
by Laurel Aspen
‘Get out of my way dammit, do you have any idea who I am?’
Blonde – well, from an expensive bottle at least – and tempestuous the struggling spitfire’s shrieks of protest shattered the expensive ambience of the exclusive prêt a porter emporium.
‘Yes ma’am, I do, you’re Columbia Walker, but I’m afraid it makes no difference.’ The Paul Smith be-suited floorwalker remained impressively calm under verbal fire.
‘Of course it makes a goddamn difference. I’m not an ordinary shopper, not one of the little people, the usual rules don’t apply; I was simply taking the items to try on in a more secluded changing area.’
‘That’s not what our cameras show ma’am.’
‘What cameras? I face cameras when I’m paid to and at no other time.’
‘Our in-store CCTV security screens clearly revealed you heading for the door with no intention of paying for those goods…’
‘It’s customary for stars to be loaned items to wear to wear at the Oscars, you fool.’
‘Maybe, but it ain’t our custom and I’m going to have to call the police.’
‘Hey, what’s goin’ on?’ A second man intervened.
‘Jon, thank goodness; tell this moron here to let me go immediately.’
‘What’s the problem, Ms Walker?’
‘Problem? It’s not a problem, it’s an outrage; this oaf is accusing me of shoplifting!’
‘OK buddy what’s the story, hey you’re…’
‘I don’t believe it, Jon.’
‘Frank!’
‘Jeez what a place to meet.’
‘Long time, man.’
‘And some.’
‘When you two are through with old home week perhaps someone might like to explain how come you’re so obviously acquainted.’ The woman’s sarcasm was biting.
‘Both ex-airborne, Ms Walker,’ explained Jon.
‘Served in the Gulf together,’ agreed Frank heartily, ‘plus a few other places Uncle Sam’d rather we didn’t discuss. Hell this guy saved me from losing an arm one time.’
‘Hey it wasn’t that dramatic buddy,’ responded Jon with characteristic modesty, ‘look, how ’bout we go somewhere and sort this out?’
‘I shouldn’t, but, well I guess if you’re working for Ms Walker…’
‘He’s my personal security operative,’ spat the otherwise attractive young woman angrily, ‘and had he been paying attention this might never…’
‘Ahem, if you’d like to go into that office there,’ suggested Frank diplomatically.
Columbia flounced angrily across the floor and the two men followed, talking quietly. ‘Sheesh, she always seemed real nice in her films, when’d she turn into ball breaking bitch of the decade?’ queried Frank.
‘About six months back,’ replied Jon, still smarting at his boss’s public put down.
‘How long you worked for her man?’
‘I guess around 18 months, started off a good gig, like you say she use to come on pretty much as she appeared in the movies,’ said Jon.
‘But?’
‘Two Hollywood blockbusters in succession; megabucks followed by a hoard of fawning sycophants. Miss Superstar here started to believe the studio publicity about her was the real deal,’ sighed Jon wearily.
‘Kinda “Day of the Locust” for the new millennium’ suggested Frank.
‘Very perceptive as ever my friend,’ Jon replied. ‘Yeah Columbia began comin’ on like a spoilt child an’ when the next movie turned out to be a turkey she threw the longest hissy fit LA’s every seen.’
‘Then publicity like this she don’t need.’ averred Frank.
‘Meaning?’ Jon smiled, as if he could already guess the answer.
‘Meanin’ firstly that I owe you one for bailing me out when that Chinook went down…’
‘And?’
‘This job sucks man, it was meant to be a temp thing but I’ve been here nine month, this lousy shoppin’ mall’s suckin’ the life outta me,’ Frank sounded tired.
‘What do you need?’
‘Always the sharp one,’ Frank nodded approvingly, ‘I’ll cut straight to the chase. I ain’t greedy man. Twenty grand buys me a share in pal’s scuba diving school off Key West. Sort me out in cash and you an’ Shirley Temple can hit the exit with the security video tape long before management starts asking questions.’
‘Frank, you’re a star but I’m gonna haggle with you,’ began Jon. ‘No,’ he raised a hand to still his erstwhile buddy’s objection. ‘Cheap at twice the price, I won’t settle for a dollar less than $40,000, little Ms Moneybags won’t even notice it, I’ve seen her spend that much on shoes.’
‘Well thank god you got finally got your sloppy act together at the 11th hour.’ Columbia was darting angrily around her Laurel Canyon A frame, high heels clattering on the beech parquet, a tight pencil skirt forcing her to take short rapid steps.
Jon leant his six-foot frame against the doorjamb and did some breathing exercises to slow his rising heart beat and stay calm. Although neither as tall nor as broad as his erstwhile comrade in arms, the now Florida-bound store detective, Jon Bradley, corn-fed American boy, was every inch a former soldier. Underneath the neat denim shirt and chinos he packed some serious power. Not gym-pumped steroid bulges but long sinewy muscles, twelve stone of strength and stamina matched by a mind which had put him a whole different ball park from the average grunt. A former bodyguard to Jack Nicholson and Angelica Houston, Jon was usually professionally geared to tactfully avoid conflict, but right now he’d had enough.
‘Shut up!’ He raised his voice only slightly but the icy tone was enough to momentarily halt Columbia’s self-regarding rambles.
‘First of all you deliberately gave me the slip like some silly little kid playing truant.’
‘Hey I…’ Columbia’s indignant interjection was cut off with a single withering look.
‘Second I do not get off on having my professionalism publicly undermined. Grow up girl, start being accountable for your own actions; you got yourself into that situation not me.’
Columbia gasped; an uncomfortable jolt of truth gnawed at her stomach; prudently, if wholly uncharacteristically, for once she didn’t interrupt.
‘Thirdly you have gone from a smart, sassy indy movie star to winner of the Joan Crawford award for solipsism; head so far up your too-often kissed ass you’ve no longer any perspective on the outside world or consideration for us mere mortals who inhabit it.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ yelled Columbia relocating her inner shrew and finally finding her shrill voice, ‘you’re fired.’
‘Lady, I quit,’ Jon’s voice was dangerously quiet, ‘but before I go I’m gonna try and stop the rot, do you a favour and above all get me some recompense for
the last six months of hell.’
‘What do you mean? Get away, don’t touch me.’ The look of determination on Jon’s face had Columbia scared. Silently he strode towards her and grabbed her wrist.
‘No,’ she screamed pathetically holding up her hands, ‘don’t damage my face.’
‘Oh you don’t have to worry ’bout that pretty face,’ Jon said grimly. ‘If you’d taken the trouble to understand me as well as I do you, you’d know I never beat up on a woman in my life. I was raised by a single mom and taught respect. Pity your ’60s liberal hippy parents didn’t do the same. ‘However,’ he added, plonking himself onto an uncomfortably modern and angular chair and pulling her over his lap, ‘I intend to make a small exception.’
‘Let me go!’ Columbia screeched in horror as his intention suddenly became plain.
‘Who’s gonna make me?’ asked Jon, savouring the humour of his erstwhile employer’s situation, ‘the bodyguard?’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ whined the supine star, scarily certain she already knew.
‘I know exactly what I’m at,’ growled Jon, lifting her slender frame effortlessly from the floor and pinning her face down, struggling and kicking, over his knee.
‘You wouldn’t,’ her voice tried for a coquettish, pleading tone, ‘dare spank me?’
‘Oh yes I would,’ Jon confirmed happily, ‘this spoilt butt is overdue for a thorough tanning, a whole galaxy of waiters, maids, directors, agents, fellow actors and fans deserve to witness this comeuppance, but sadly only I have the privilege.’
‘Get off, this is assault, I’ll report you, I’ll sue,’ Columbia was frantic; she’d never yet encountered a man she couldn’t wheedle her way around.
‘Like I care, like anyone will believe you,’ he laughed, ‘and anyway the National Enquirer will have a field day. I can see the headline now: “Film Star gets her ass whipped.” Great chance to test the theory that any publicity is good publicity.’
‘No!’ yelled Columbia despairingly, legs flailing, head down and bum uppermost as Jon wrestled her tight skirt up around her still enviably trim 24 inch, 24 year old waist.
‘Legs to beat the band,’ mused the ex-soldier as he skilfully dodged those lethal flailing stiletto heels. Her perfect peach of a carefully dieted, personally trained bum was currently sheathed in sheer grey tights and ivory coloured panties. Which, it transpired as Jon’s hand began the first of many impacts, loudly and firmly across her rippling moons, held her buttocks perfectly in position but offered no protection at all.
Had this been one of the foreplay spankings he’d occasionally dispensed to lovers, Jon would have began slowly, gradually building up the tempo and velocity of contact to match his partner’s arousal and allowing lengthy interludes for soothing caresses and intimate stroking. This however was a punishment spanking, the release of months of tension, retribution for a thousand slights and he’d every intention that the little cow would feel it from the start and still smart painfully tomorrow.
Fifty or more ringing slaps set the tone, turned her skin from lightly tanned to blushing pink; sent a fierce, fiery stinging pain flaring across every inch of her tormented hindquarters. In response to which Columbia shouted, protested, cried, writhed and generally disported herself without out an ounce of dignity.
Jon paused for breath and, thinking his anger abated and her penance at an end, Columbia gave a shuddering sigh of premature relief, which abruptly became a keening moan as her tights and knickers were pulled rudely to her knees.
Oh woe, the ultimate embarrassment, Hollywood’s hottest young female star spanked humiliatingly bare across the knees of the help. OK, pretty hunky help, it was true. Hey, where did that thought come from? Grasshopper brain. How could Columbia possibly be thinking about sex at this awful moment? But she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that looks had been a factor in Jon’s employment.
Or that she’d sometimes entertained fantasises of his physique, all the better to dismiss the memory of studio-promoted public dates with yet another ersatz tough guy actor. But this situation involved an embarrassing lack of control she’d hardly bargained for. Down came his hand, again and again, jerking her back to a sore reality and leaving imprints of pale fire on the increasingly scarlet hued skin of her scalded nether cheeks
‘Ow, ow, ow!’ It stung, it was hot, it hurt and she really couldn’t take any more. Tears welled up, washing her makeup in rivulets down her cheeks as Columbia gave loud vent to her contrite and confused feelings.
Jon’s wasn’t intrinsically unkind, he’d nothing more to prove, and indeed he seriously considered concluding the chastisement there and then. Instead he decided to be cruel to be kind. Somewhere inside he still held some affection for Columbia, maybe a salutary lesson might make her regain her equilibrium, undergo a damascene personality change, cure a movie brat.
In pursuit of which laudable blind faith he pulled the belt from his trousers, doubled it and wop, wop, wop, concluded her torment with a dozen harsh, searing strokes across Columbia’s tenderised haunches, leaving livid parallel weals from the crest of her buttocks to the tops of her thighs.
The sobbing prima donna was now beyond struggle, beyond pain, existing !in a blazing hell of draconian discipline, which would ensure she ate standing up next day and slept on her stomach, if at all. Finally satisfied his self-appointed task was complete, Jon tumbled the chastened thespian weeping and dishevelled to the floor, reacquainted the broad strip of leather with his belt loops and strode from the room. Two hours later – as a tear streaked and shocked Columbia still knelt by the chair massaging her ravaged rear – he was on a flight to Hawaii.
More than a year later, completely out of the blue, Jon retrieved her letter in his mailbox. Off the beaten tack but not completely isolated, the modern wonders of broadband and satellite ensured he’d kept tabs on Columbia Walker’s career. So he’d heard how she’d turned down several lucrative big studio projects to produce and star in a movie of her own, a book adaptation. Columbia had, it seemed, returned to her independent roots and an early cut of “Personal Assistant”, the debut feature from her new company, had played to critical acclaim among aficionados at the recent Sundance festival. However, the movie was still months from whatever general release it could secure and possible distributors seemed unsure how to handle it.
The letter, in her own hand, not typed, read disarmingly frankly. If Jon wanted to know – and Columbia could quite understand why he might not – what the film was about, he was warmly invited to a private screening in New York a couple of days hence. Plane ticket and accommodation paid, of course; she did so hope he’d attend. He might be pleasantly surprised, Columbia was sure he’d find her a different, altogether nicer person and she’d like to express her gratitude to him for inspiring her career change.
Jon took the flight. For a start he reasoned a free return ticket to the Big Apple was not to be dismissed out of foolish pride, he was bigger than that. As for his feelings toward his former employer, while not yet warm they’d mellowed with time and, niggling away in Jon’s self-conscious, remained a stubborn sexual attraction, fuelled by the memory of their last encounter.
Outwardly she’d certainly changed, that was for sure. ‘Very Nanci Griffiths,’ he observed dryly of Columbia’s new ’50s-style print dress. No more than smidgeon of makeup, contacts traded in for round, steel-rimmed specs, a ponytail and – good grief! – short white socks and low heeled Mary Janes. Out with the Tinsel Town power-dresser wardrobe and in with wholesome Mid-Western girl-next-door attire.
‘Shouldn’t Toto be around here somewhere?’ he grinned.
Relaxed and cheerful, Columbia returned the smile. ‘Yeah I know,’ she conceded, ‘short of pierced cyberpunk it’s as near as I could get to the opposite of the old image. Come in,’ she added expansively, ushering Jon through the door of the small review theatre. ‘I’ve block-booked this for review screenings to try and drum up some interest with the big multiplex chains
but this afternoon we’ve got the whole space all to ourselves. Fortunately its remote controlled so I guess I’m both host and projectionist.’
‘You sell popcorn too?’
She laughed again in response. ‘I guess a mutual hatred of junk food was one of the few things we used to have in common.’
‘Things change,’ allowed Jon easily.
‘Glad to hear that,’ said Columbia, sitting herself next to him, ‘Hey, great, back row banquettes, just like in high-school. Perhaps after seeing my movie there’ll be something else we share?’
Jon’s brown eyes betrayed no clue as to his thoughts. ‘Make or break,’ thought Columbia and began the movie.
Fifteen minutes later Jon was beginning to glean what she might mean. ‘Brave choice of subject,’ he whispered, ‘no wonder the distributors are wary.’
‘Yeah, even the trendy art houses, but I always knew it would be tough,’ agreed Columbia, ‘in a post-feminist world not many people want to admit some women might actually enjoy getting a spanking, too many folks confuse that with violence against women or…’
‘Think anyone into is a pervert,’ Jon concluded.
‘Exactly,’ sighed Columbia, ‘I didn’t know myself until, well you know,’ she clutched his hand and felt a thrill of elation when he held on to her palm.
Jon watched engrossed, the film was obviously low budget but professionally lit and artfully shot. The actors, despite being unknowns, bought a rare commitment and authenticity to their roles. Columbia had, in a courageous sink or swim career gamble, cast herself as the lead, a submissive young PA anxious to find someone who would fulfil her fantasies.
Jon felt his heart beat faster, as, in a defining dream sequence, the heroine graphically imagined herself being disciplined by her boss. Columbia imbued the role with complete credibility, first apprehensively locking the office door then, with a long, smouldering look at the handsome older man, lowering herself over his desk. Slowly, sensually she raised her skirt to reveal slender, black stocking-clad legs and perfect alabaster cheeks bisected – but not obscured – by the skimpiest of lingerie.
