by Monica Belle
‘Sex?’
‘Patience, my dear. I hope you like gnocchi?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never had them.’
‘No? I’m surprised. Your mother has excellent taste.’
‘Mum doesn’t really go in for fancy cooking. She prefers to go out.’
‘A shame. It is a rare chef who can equal what is possible at home, if only due to considerations of time and volume.’
As he spoke he had begun to set out implements and ingredients on his stone worktop, but suddenly stopped and ducked down to the fridge, speaking again as he removed a small brown bottle.
‘I do apologise, I’m forgetting myself. A little manzanilla as an aperitif?’
‘Thanks.’
He poured two glasses of pale sherry. It was dry and very cold, refreshing and with a slight burn of alcohol. I swallowed mine down, causing him to raise his eyebrows.
‘One sips it, generally, and my preparations will take a while.’
I accepted a second glass, relaxing into the sofa and wondering about my own reactions as I sipped my sherry. He was so arrogant, and not me in so many ways, yet it was so easy to just let him take over. Then there was the sex, and the way something about him made me want to give in completely, to be down on my knees with my mouth full of cock, or over his knee with my bottom spanked hot.
All I’d had to eat was a packet of crisps at lunchtime, and I could already feel the sherry going to my head, making me feel mellow as he fussed over his preparations, talking all the while. He’d opened another bottle too, this one of an Italian red wine that looked strong. I knew I’d be drunk before the end of the evening, and I knew I’d be staying.
The gnocchi turned out to be little cheese-flavoured dumplings, which he served with smoked ham and spicy sausage, all delicious but not really very filling. By the time we’d finished I was hoping he’d produce some pudding, or preferably huge bowls of chocolate-chip ice cream, but he merely poured out the rest of the bottle into our glasses and moved from the table to the sofa, motioning me to join him. I followed, lying against him with my head nuzzled into the crook of his arm, quite relaxed, but wondering if he’d left me less than full so I’d be ready for sex. It seemed like just the sort of thing he’d do, but he was still talking about food.
‘. . . the Italians immerse themselves in cooking in a way we British seldom if ever do, although it’s peculiar, as we have if anything rather more of a variety of national styles. I suppose industrialisation was the death of British cooking, or very nearly so, but then again one could hardly classify the Italians as purely rustic.’
As he spoke his hand had moved to my breast, fondling me in a casual, possessive manner, first as if checking for quality, and then to make my nipple erect. I couldn’t help but giggle and relaxed a little more, happy to have him toy with me. He was still talking as he began to unbutton my blouse, exposing my bra and tugging it gently up to leave my breasts bare and both nipples poking up in excitement. At the sight he gave the dirty little chuckle I was getting used to and went back to fondling me as he finally acknowledged what we were doing.
‘You are truly beautiful, Felicity, and what is more important, sensual. So many women these days feel the need to make a production of their sexuality, but you know how to give into a man gracefully, which is infinitely more arousing.’
For him, maybe it was true. I certainly felt surrendered, lying against his body as he casually teased my naked breasts, and under his control as he guided my hand to his fly. I took him out, my eyes closed as I stroked his cock and balls, relaxing towards what I hoped would be a slow, intimate sexual encounter, quite willing for him to take the lead just so long as I reached orgasm and was given a certain little treat which was making my tummy flutter in anticipation.
‘You are going to spank me, aren’t you?’
‘Say that again, would you?’
‘You’re a pervert, Stephen English. You are going to spank me, aren’t you?’
‘Naturally I shall spank you, but I am no pervert, simply a man, and any man with blood in his veins would want to spank you, Felicity.’
‘You’re the first.’
‘Which merely shows what poor specimens of men you have found before, but I fear that is the general rule these days. Come along then.’
He moved as he spoke. I’d been quite happy where I was and about to crawl over his legs to have my bottom seen to while I played with his cock, but he had other ideas. He lifted me from the sofa with his normal lack of effort and I realised I was to be carried up to bed, squeaking in alarm as he slung me across his shoulder, leaving my bum the highest part of my body as he gave each cheek a single firm pat.
It was almost as undignified as getting into a spanking position, but I didn’t mind, not even pretending to fight as he carried me up the stairs, removing his hand from my bottom only when he needed a grip on the banister. Only when he’d dumped me unceremoniously on his bed did I get to see his bedroom, a big, round chamber that had to be under the central, conical roof of the old mill. The walls were scrubbed brick, the furniture very plain and masculine, the bed huge and covered with a thick off-white spread. It was the perfect place for me to give in to his will. I rolled over, bottom up, and reached back to tug my skirt high, showing my legs and the seat of my knickers. He laughed as he sat down.
‘Eager little thing, aren’t you?’
I nodded, knowing it was true, however patronising his words. His hand found my bottom, squeezing one cheek through my knickers, applying a pat, and a second. I lifted my hips, my eyes now closed, wanting a slow, sensual spanking like the one he had first given me. He continued to smack, on my bottom and on my thighs too, using the tips of his fingers to make my skin sting and tingle. I reached back, taking hold of my knickers and pulling them up between my cheeks, deliberately showing off for him. Now he was smacking my bare bottom, still with his fingertips, and a moment later he had climbed on the bed, his voice curt as he pushed his half stiff cock at my face.
‘Take me in your mouth. Suck me while I spank you.’
He didn’t need to tell me. My mouth was already open, and I took him in, sucking eagerly to make him swell as his hand continued to work on my bottom. I was still holding my knickers up between my cheeks, tight over my pussy, but he took over, tugging on them as he smacked me. He really was an utter pervert, getting off on playing with my knickers and spanking me while I sucked his cock, but knowing that just made it feel even better.
Soon he was hard in my mouth, while I was beginning to warm behind, my bottom flushed and my pussy ready to take him in. I hoped he’d put me on my knees and spank me while he fucked me, but he simply gave me a last, harder smack and moved back, looking down on my half-naked, aroused body with an amused, proprietorial air. He nodded.
‘Yes, quite beautiful. Have you ever been caned, Felicity?’
‘Caned? Like, with a stick?’
‘Yes, essentially, but with a proper school cane.’
‘I’d never been spanked before I met you. How much does it hurt?’
‘A lot, I won’t lie to you, but I think you might come to like it. Or rather, come to like it and hate it at the same time, which is the essence of accepting corporal punishment.’
I nodded, because I already understood what he meant, just as the spankings filled me with shame and resentment and fear at the same time as desire and longing. He had already taken my response as assent, tucking his cock carefully back inside his trousers and pulling up his fly as he climbed off the bed. There was a big chest of drawers on the far side of the room, and he crossed to it, opening the bottom one to extract a long, pale cane with a crook handle. I’d never seen one before except in cartoons and swallowed as I thought of having it put across my bottom.
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Shh, darling, just do as you’re told, and you can stop any time you want. Now stand up.’
He had closed the drawer and now flexed the cane, every bit like a stern youn
g headmaster except that his erection was making a hard bar in his trousers. I got up, shaking badly and biting my lip, but wanting it too, at least to try, and telling myself I should take one stroke at the very least. He gave a small, complacent nod as he saw that I was willing, and pointed to the exact centre of the room.
‘Knickers down, Felicity, and touch your toes.’
As always when he gave me a command it sent a shock straight to my sex, and this time there was real fear too. My movements seemed mechanical as I got off the bed and adopted the exposed, pitiful position he had commanded, with my naked breasts hanging down between the open sides of my blouse, my skirt turned up at the back and my bottom pushed out in acceptance of what he was planning to do to me. As I pushed my knickers down to show him the target my fingers were shaking so hard I could barely control them, and yet I made a point of doing it properly, because I knew he would want the lips of my sex and the tiny star between my bottom cheeks to be showing. That was all part of my surrender, which was complete as I touched my fingers to the toes of my shoes. He gave a cluck of satisfaction and that same dirty chuckle, then spoke.
‘Hmm, very good, Felicity, and may I compliment you on how sweet you look? I like a girl in punishment position to have her breasts showing. It adds a certain something. You have such a fine bottom too, and such a neatly turned cunt. You should be on display more often. Now, the cane. Six of the best is, I believe, traditional for naughty girls.’
Every word he spoke sent a fresh pang of shame-filled excitement through me. Part of me was screaming that he shouldn’t be getting his perverted kicks out of my body, but still I held that awful pose as he tapped the cane across my bottom cheeks. Even that stung, the gentlest touch, making my muscles twitch, then he had lifted the cane and I was whimpering into my dress where it hung down to block my view.
For one eternal moment of terrified anticipation nothing happened, before I heard the swish and felt the hardness of the cane slap down across the bare, soft flesh of my bottom. It hurt so much, making me gasp and swear, calling him a pig and a bastard and a pervert, but I never broke my pose, holding myself ready in pain and indignity, because what he was doing to my body and my head was beyond anything I had experienced before short of actual orgasm.
‘Good girl, and a nice, neat welt if I say so myself. Five more.’
As he spoke his words were soothing, but I could hear the mockery and the sadistic glee beneath, and let nobody tell you that it’s a contradiction to hurt the one you love and to enjoy it. Stephen did, and I was enjoying being hurt, as once more I heard that awful swish and felt the cane cut across my naked cheeks, harder this time, to leave me dancing on my toes as well and gasping and wiggling my bum in a pointless attempt to make the pain go away. Again Stephen spoke.
‘Very pretty, my dear. I do like a girl who responds well to punishment. Four more.’
I tried to answer him, but my words came as a broken sob and once more I’d put my fingertips to the toes of my shoes. The cane touched my bottom, a tap, lifted and swished down to lay a third line of fire across my cheeks. Again I cried out and again I gave my rude little wiggle, making him laugh once more.
‘Perfect, you really are perfect in every way. You should be punished like this more often, preferably in front of a good-sized audience so that everybody can appreciate what a nice bottom you have, and how well you dance.’
‘You bastard, you’d do it too, wouldn’t you?’
‘Certainly, it’s only a shame the authorities take such a foolish view of such things.’
I screamed again as the cane bit in, completely unexpectedly and lower than before, to leave a fourth burning line across my flesh. My bottom was on fire, hotter even than when he’d given me my punishment spanking, but still I stayed in position, determined to take my full six, from pride and obstinacy, but most of all because only if I knew that I’d been properly beaten would I be able to give in completely once I was done. Again he spoke.
‘Yes, I’d love to parade you naked in the High Street and cane you, just like this, only with a hundred people looking on. Two to go.’
Again the cane whipped down and again I screamed, this time losing control completely and jumping up to clutch at my hot bottom. He waited patiently while I went through my little act, his mouth set in a small, cruel smile, the horrible cane dangling negligently from his fingers. It was almost too much, but finally I managed to adopt my punishment pose once more, now gasping for breath even before he’d hit me.
‘One to go, Felicity.’
He came close, to touch my bottom, running his fingers gently over the stinging welts that now decorated my flesh, five in all, which I knew would mark me for a week or more, mark me as his, mark me as a girl who got caned for kicks. After a moment his fingers pushed between my cheeks, spread them to show me off as he spoke.
‘Ah, ha, your bottom hole has started to wink, always a sign that you’re ready, I find.’
‘You pig, you fucking pig . . .’
‘Language, my dear, really. I can see you actually deserve this.’
As he spoke he’d let go of my bottom and lifted the cane above me, leaving me shaking my head and wiggling my toes in terrified anticipation for an instant before he brought it down, harder than ever and full across both cheeks, to leave me screaming and wiggling in frantic, pained reaction, but only for an instant before I dropped to my knees.
He came close, cool and easy as I scrabbled for his cock, the cane he’d beaten me with still hanging from his hand as I freed him into my mouth, then sucking urgently as I clutched at my hurt bottom. I could feel the welts, the welts he’d given me. A man had beaten me, used the cane on my bare bottom, humiliated me utterly, hurt me, and I was sucking on his cock in frenzied passion, completely subservient to him.
I’d have come, like that, sucking on his cock as I stroked my poor burning bottom and rubbed at my sex, but he had other ideas. He was barely fully hard in my mouth again before he lifted me and tossed me casually onto the bed. My ankles were taken in his hands, my body rolled up and opened, my skirt left like a huge flower with my welted bottom and my sex at the centre. He was looking down at me, admiring what he’d done as he entered me, pushing deep and setting up a steady rhythm that immediately had me gasping and shaking.
My hand went down, to touch myself, eager to come as I was fucked. He slapped it, just gently, and pulled out again, turning me onto my knees with my punished bottom stuck high as he took me from behind. Again I tried to get to myself, and again he stopped me, driving my frustration and need higher still as he eased himself in and out of my body.
I was begging for release, but he did it again, and yet again, manipulating my body as if I was a doll, and again and again taking my hand away from where it so badly needed to be. I was put on my back, my front, my side, on my knees and bent over the bed, mounted on him but still with my bottom showing, fucked deep and slow, his cock rubbed on my clitoris, his finger put in my bottom hole, my breasts fucked and my mouth, until at last he put me back on my knees and told me I could come.
Immediately I was babbling my thanks, with my fingers busy between my thighs even as he slid himself into me. My spare hand went back to touch my cane welts and I was masturbating as he fucked me, my head full of what he’d done, how he’d made me pose, how he’d beaten me, how he’d left me with my bottom decorated with the welts from his cane.
I have never come so hard, screaming and calling him every filthy name I could think of even as I wriggled on his cock, at once cursing him and telling him I loved him, calling him a bastard and demanding he spank me, yelling at him for using me so hard and begging him to come for me, which he did, driving my orgasm to a final blinding peak as the hot droplets spattered my upturned bottom cheeks.
9
IT HAD BEEN quite a weekend, the way a weekend should be, only distinctly weird. I’d made one male friend suck another’s cock, and if that was bad, well then, my bottom was decorated with six neat, parallel red lin
es. That was the major experience. I’d been caned, beaten, punished. I’d allowed a man to put a stick across my bare bottom. You just do not do that nowadays, or if you do you end up on an assault charge. Stephen English had done it to me, and yet I could not find it in myself to be unhappy about it.
We slept together too, and when we had sex again, much later, it was very different, intimate and loving, cuddled close together in the warm darkness of his bedroom, and completely uninhibited. Even then I knew I could never have opened myself up to him so fully without my earlier caning.
I spent most of Sunday there, half of it just padding naked around his flat, which felt completely natural, while every time I caught a glimpse of my stripy bottom in the mirror it made me smile at my memories of the night before. Not that I really needed to see, because my welts still smarted, keeping me constantly in mind of the fact that I’d been caned. I even let him take a picture of me, to his personal direction, standing in the corner of his main room with my hands on my head and my face turned back towards the camera in a sulky pout, stark naked so that it was completely obvious what had been done to me.
He finally drove me back after lunch at the local pub, and I simply collapsed on my bed at home, face down. By the time I woke up it was nearly dark, and my memories of the night before seemed oddly hazy, as if none of it had ever happened. It was the same next morning, and I was actually feeling shy as I walked across the Hereward towards Black Knight Securities.
Stephen was the same as ever, almost, greeting me with a kiss and a pat to my bottom, but otherwise very much my boss rather than my lover. Paul was there too, and had apparently been told by Mr Phelps that the council had as good as accepted their system. It only needed to be rubber-stamped by the relevant committee and we would have the contract.
That meant updating the plans for installing the system throughout Hockford and the surrounding area, as Mr Phelps and his cronies wanted various changes and additions. It was all rather a rude shock to me, but there was nothing to be done but get on with my work and try to ignore the tender feeling every time I sat down. I’d lost, so it seemed, and all I could do was warn people and attempt to influence the final positioning of the cameras.
