She came into my life when I was looking for someone to kill my ex-husband. Too much information? Well, it was only a passing phase. I’d rather have him alive these days. That way he’ll suffer much longer.
Geezer Hardnut, my boyfriend, when I can prise him away from the Playstation, arranged for me to meet Svetlana. She was a genuine female assassin. So he said. He might be a liar but he’s killed more people than I have so I have to go with it. Particularly as I spent at least a year wanting my ex husband killed. Actually, I never got as far as discussing my husband’s disposal with Svetlana. Some film noir heroine I would have made.
Svetlana was my scarlet woman. You could use ‘rubious’ to describe her crimson lipstick and the broken veins in her bloodshot eyes.
It was also the colour of her pert little bum once I had finished paddling it. Svetlana was thin, chic, adorably scatty and most probably insane. Her skin was as white as the paper I write on, her bruises as black as my ink. Like my teenage self Svetlana wore only black and red. Black boots, red leather mini-skirt. Her conversation also had one theme: what she wanted next. Apart from her blonde hair this was going to be like spanking my teenage self.
“You talk too much! Beat me! I want to be flogged. Flogged hard!”
Typical Svetlana. She can’t even be bothered to wait for a proper introduction. I can hear her husky voice, too loud from vodka and smoky from too many cigarettes. “Linear narrative? Is for pussies!
Pull my knickers down and smack my bottom! Hard!”
Well. If you insist.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Then I knew I wasn’t hiring her as a hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them. As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and pleasure, the site of pride and shame. It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped. “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible. I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist, reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
I dangled the tawse between her legs, rubbing it back and forth as she opened further for me. I smacked her bottom harder, I used the tip of my middle finger right on her puckered little anus and shoved two of my fingers in her mouth. She sucked on them greedily, eager to show me she would now do anything. Her bottom was red hot to the touch.
“Had enough, darling?”
“You call this pain? In Russia we birch each other.”
Bloody cheek! This is sometimes called bratting. Behaving as a brat to provoke punishment. Some find it cute. I find it annoying but a pretty bottom excuses a multitude of sins.
“Really?” I said. “I wonder if you have sampled a birch made out of rattan. Lasts much longer than the real thing. Even on an impudent rump such as yours.”
I showed her the birch, tied in a red bow. She was a little frightened now, but trying not to show it. I prefer the birch because canes are harder to control, however experienced you are. It’s quite easy to miss and give someone an extremely painful swipe just where they don’t need it...in the middle of their thigh, for instance. No erotic benefit and a sting like sulphuric acid. An exaggeration perhaps but it’s a sensation you won’t forget in a hurry. As it was, the birch caught her right on the sweet spot. With a few more whacks, just to keep her yelping for more, I picked her up and took her to my bed. It was high time she played with me, selfish little baggage.
We spent the next few hours making each other come, rubbing our faces in each other’s bodies, snuffling up our mingled earth and sea scents. Needless to say this sweet ecstasy wasn’t enough for her. She needed coke and cigarettes more than anything else.
As the bedroom filled with smoke time and time again I decided that what she needed was a proper caning. I hate smoke!
“Time for you to bend over properly,” I told her. I didn’t have to fake the aggression or the cold hatred. She had been boring me with coke babble and a little nicotine breath in your face goes a very long way.
“Come on. Stand up, bend over and grasp your ankles. You need six stripes across your backside, young lady.”
Her eyes glazed over as she stepped into the world I was creating. She staggered to her feet, wobbled a little, wiped her nose yet again, snorted down some coke-drenched snot, glared defiantly and then bent over. I got up and picked out my thickest rattan.
“Grasp your ankles and hold the position.”
She managed it somehow. Now it was impossible to hold back. Her back was arched, her peach was ready and I could resist no longer.
I tried spacing out the strokes, for maximum pain, but the sound of her cries was just too exciting. All too soon I had given her five beauties. She was panting but I still hadn’t broken her.
I drew the cane back as far as possible and landed it with maximum force. She jumped up squealing, hopping around the room holding her bottom. She calmed down enough to kiss the cane and then we feasted on each other.
I will always remember that day, long after the stink of cigarettes evaporated. The frenzied love. The talk. The laughter. But the instant she ran out of Marlborough she vanished for good.
Maybe she found a rich Englishman. Maybe she annoyed the wrong person. She could have drunk herself to death or got into heroin.
I think of her often, my Russian ruby. But it’s a relief she’s gone.
I’m old enough to know she would have been a disaster if she had hung around. With age comes wisdom. Or perhaps th
e fires of madness flicker a little softer.
I was a teenage Satanist. Now I’m twice as old as the little girl who courted darkness. Whenever possible, I seek the light. My skin’s still white, my hair is black, but in summer I wear light colours. I still like smacking bottoms of course, all the shades of red my hand can conjure. From the prettiest pink to the deepest vermilion. Suicide now looks like a cop out and as for Sylvia Plath? Thank God for Prozac...
The Confidante
by Roger Frank Selby
The sun beat down on the hide – heating young Lord Underhill inside.
Damn! It was getting too hot for this game. Easing off his jacket he picked up the binoculars to resume his watch.
No waterfowl in sight, but the river looked cool and inviting as hell …
A flash of white.
Hey, what was that? Someone trespassing by the shore! A damned woman on the bank. Sitting on a blanket. Picnicking, no doubt. He fixed his elbows to hold the view steadier. What was this? My God! She seemed to be undressing ... She was already out of her top clothes. Looking around, to check she wasn’t being observed she stood and began undoing her bra ... It was off. His pulse quickened at the sight of exposed breasts in motion as she folded up her clothes, keeping her knickers on. She had a really cracking figure. Now she was wading in, waist deep, swaying her body from side to side.
God! He was just not used to the sight of naked breasts in reality. He’d only seen his fiancée undressed a few times, and Amanda was a trifle on the skinny side. But this woman ... His breath came a little faster as he watched. He would eventually have to ask her to leave of course, but to see her splash and play without any knowledge of him observing – it made him feel … Well, this prey was far more interesting than bloody ducks!
She swam right over to the central island, then around to the far side to pull herself up on the landing stage, giving him further glimpses of breasts and thighs flashing in the sunshine. She lay down on her back to bask on the boards.
He would catch her red handed. He slipped down into the punt, and with his head down, let the current waft him downriver towards her.
To his annoyance he saw that without using the pole he was heading for the riverbank, not the island. A new plan formed in his mind. No doubt he would get a torrent of abuse, but even in the 21st century he was just a bit old fashioned about this sort of liberty in the heart of his estate.
Out of her sight behind the island’s willows, the punt grounded with a scrape that was lost among the gentle sounds of the river. He bundled her clothing into a plastic sack and tucked it out of sight under a gunwale. He had her now!
He punted nonchalantly around to the landing stage.
“Good afternoon!” He raised his cap.
She screamed and scrambled back into the water, swimming around the top of the island to escape to the bank and her clothing.
“It’s no good; I’ve confiscated the lot!” He tied the punt to a post and stepped out onto the stage.
The woman saw that her things had gone from the bank. He half expected her to climb out and run away like a frightened animal, but she turned in the water to face him, her white body rippling sensuously beneath her in the crystal water. No abuse, just a silent frown. She waited for him to speak again.
“I’m afraid you are clearly trespassing on my property. This is my estate and my river. You have no right to be here at all. There are plenty of signs.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t know this was private. I’m new around here.”
The handsome, shapely woman was in her mid-thirties, but she spoke oddly. “I don’t get it... are you a gypsy – or should I say a traveller?”
“I don’t mind being called a gypsy, sir.”
“Well, I should really phone the security company.”
“I’m sure there’ll be no need for that, sir. Perhaps I can make this up to you somehow.”
“Well, I don’t see …”
The woman had swum up to the stage and pulled herself halfway out, as wet and naked as a mermaid. ‘But, you do see, sir!’ She laughed at his obvious embarrassment. She completed her exit, where shapely thighs and a dark triangle under wet knickers, showed her not to be a mermaid.
Confronted with her splendid, dripping body in the sunshine, he felt his own body stirring. But at the social level, the mood was moving from confronting a trespasser to something else – looking after a guests, perhaps?
“Ah, would you like to dry off? I have a fresh towel in my bag …”
“That be nice, sir.”
He leapt down into the punt, nearly capsizing it, and dragged the emergency bath towel out. He handed it over and she dried off in front of him with much shaking of her delightful breasts, patting her bottom and mopping between her legs.
It took a good minute, during which he had to turn away and carefully arrange the worsted of his heavy shooting breeches to hide his growing arousal. He glanced around. He and the woman were completely screened from the bank. There would be no one around for miles, anyway.
“Look, I may have been a bit hasty taking your clothes like that, but even in this day and age you can’t just...” He suddenly laughed at himself. “My great-grandfather used to horsewhip trespassers.”
“Not the women, surely sir?”
“I don’t know – I expect he would have spanked a woman like you.”
“Spanked?” Her dark blue eyes widened suddenly. “Could he have done that?”
“He was the Lord of the Manor – as I am. In those days, he could do more or less as he thought fit. He was the law – but times have changed, of course.” He smiled, then his eyebrows furrowed at her thoughtful look. “What?”
“Pity, ain’t it – that you can’t do that no more... But we could go back in time, sir.” Her country voice was softer but deeper, her manner, mischievous.
He looked intently at her. “Yes, we could ...” Quite gloriously bare-breasted, she had gone back in time. She thrust her perfect, brown nipples out at him in an insolent flaunt. He felt his face flush as his heart raced. “How dare you come on my land and swim naked in my river, you brazen woman!”
“I’m not quite naked – I kept me knickers on, for modesty, like ... and I’m really very sorry, sir.”
“I’ll make you sorrier, woman! Come with me.”
“All right, sir.”
He grabbed the towel from her hand and clamped her arm in his grip. Then he marched her, breasts bouncing at all angles, to a secluded bench among the willows of the island. He felt his body respond with each jiggle of her mobile body.
He sat down quickly, doubled the towel over his lap and beckoned her across his knee while loosening the tight worsted at his groin. She draped herself over his lap. Her breasts hung down, brushing his left thigh. He positioned her wide bottom on his right, the stretched knickers still damply sticking to her skin.
“Please don’t spank me too hard, sir.”
“I will spank you as I see fit, young lady.”
He raised his right hand, aiming for a spot just above the dark patch nestling between her bottom cheeks.
“And please don’t smack my bare bum.”
“I won’t bare you completely, young woman, but you will feel my hand hard against your skin.” He eased the material up, over the globes of her bottom, and rolled it into the valley between. It pulled tight around the dark bulges of her labia lower down, a few wisps of hair escaping each side. That would add some extra protection. He didn’t wish to sting her there ...
Smack!
“Ow!”
At the fist hard slap of his hand on her buttock, she knew him to be a natural – but inexperienced. This was the fist time he’d ever spanked a grown woman, she felt sure. Somehow, this fitted in with his quaint shooting clothes.
Smack! Each one hurt a little, but he varied the impact point each time, often taking her by surprise, and sometimes his hand would linger and clench a handful of her buttock, or shimmy her cheeks around a little
. At each smack she would utter a small yelp – more of surprise than pain as he worked over her rump. She felt a wonderful tingling warmth from her bottom, which was probably glowing a little pink by now. She wanted something more now ...
Smack!
“Oh! Can you bare me properly now, please, sir?”
“Right.”
She wriggled a little to help him as he pulled the material down and out from between her buttocks and down her legs. She felt the coldness of her wet puss between red hot cheeks. She kicked off her knickers. Naked at last!
He spanked her a few more times, but with less resolve than before. Perhaps he was becoming distracted with the more open view? He ran his hand all over and around the full width of her bottom, his fingers lingering in the valley between. She felt a finger draw down and across her anus.
“Oh!” He touched her wet lips ever so gently. She felt them separated and lightly probed. Then his fingers slipped up inside her. She moaned softly.
While he moved deeper, she reached back across his lap and found the great tension under his trousers.
He unbuttoned the heavy breeches single handed, and she put her hand inside. She curled her fingers around the hot, broad member she found lurking there.
“You got a nice cock there for me, sir!”
“You think he’s there for you, do you, young woman?”
“I don’t see no other bare-arsed girl around here, and he seems that ready for one, sir.”
“He certainly is!”
From the fumbling, they stood up. She released him, and while he stood with his cock pointing up at her, she pulled his trousers down. Breathless, she knelt and took him deep into her mouth. Her tongue licked around his shaft.
“Ah!”
He seemed to like her doing that. She felt his body jerk with the movement of him tearing off his shirt. She began to bob her mouth on him, moving her lips backwards and forwards along his substantial length.
“Ahhhhh!”
She tasted him. He was ready – she was too; she had never felt such urgency! Her mouth released him. “Now, for God’s sake; give it to me now – fuck me!” She spread the blanket on the ground and got down on it on her hands and knees. He kicked off his remaining clothes, but he seemed a bit nonplussed at her position. He touched her shoulder as if to roll her onto her back. It suddenly dawned on her how inexperienced he probably was – he’d never done it like this before. “Come up behind me, sir ... Let me have it from behind, like.”
Bottoms Up Page 3
