I know I should lower my gaze and be respectful, but I’m a wild girl, even in subservience. I can do nothing but ogle his crotch, feast my eyes on his magnificent groin—because it’s suddenly come to my attention that he’s erect.
“Have a care, Suzanne,” he says quietly. “Have a care. You know that’s impertinence, don’t you? And that’s a punishable offence.”
It’s all bullshit really, because we both know this is all about punishment. But in the context of the game it seems to make perfect sense.
“I’m sorry.” I consider calling him sir, but that seems a bit much.
He gives me a steady look, then reaches out and lays his hand on my thigh. I’m slightly tanned, and so is he, and the hues of our skins almost match. Slowly and contemplatively, he slides his fingers up and down, up and down, and then in a little darting movement, he slips his thumb beneath the elastic in the leg of my knickers. He dives it quickly in the direction of my cleft, then burrows in and sets it craftily on my clit.
When I gasp, he slaps my thigh with the flat of his free hand.
Oh God, it hurts! I didn’t expect that. Well, not so much. I thought it would sting a bit but this is a hard, sharp blast of keen pain that makes me cry out in a strangled moan—while at the same time, my clit jumps in a precarious flutter of pure pleasure.
I don’t know which shocks me the most.
Simon feels the pulse of my flesh and gives me a fierce look. “What did I tell you?” His voice is quiet, but almost deadly. He’s acting, but he’s a damn fine performer.
Or is he?
“I think we should get down to matters, don’t you?” he goes on, not really consulting me, just carrying on with the show. Giving my clit one last merciless rub, he withdraws his hand and starts manipulating the rest of my body. I’m on rubber legs now, so I just let him move me about.
Apparently quite sure of what he’s doing, he nudges me away from him a little and then makes a lap for me, bracing his strong thighs. Every bit of me is trembling, both figuratively and literally, but I still have the presence of mind to ogle his crotch again. He shakes his blond head warningly, but there’s a smile in his eyes.
“Okay then, Suzanne, over you go.” He’s all brisk efficiency now, guiding me into position, then pushing my back with a light touch to tip me over. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world I comply, and for the first time in my life I’m across a man’s knees.
“Relax,” he says more gently, his hand already resting on my bottom, through my knickers. He starts to circle it, the action soothing and calming. “Relax, baby. Don’t tense. Don’t tense.”
I try. I really try. But I’m anxious now. Eager to get on with it, but fearful of the start. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I grab the edge of the sofa and a fold of my bunched-up skirts. My legs are stretched out behind me, and they flail a bit as Simon adjusts his position.
“Keep still and be a good girl.”
Immediately, I’m motionless. Normally I bridle at being told what to do, but now I want to please. Still I shake though, when my lover pushes my knickers down to my knees, baring my bottom.
I’ve never felt more naked, even though it’s only a relatively small area of my skin that’s on show. The rounds of my bare buttocks feel like the rudest, lewdest, most vulnerable display of flesh that there ever was, and I imagine their relative pallor as a target, pulsing white. Where my crotch presses against Simon’s thigh, my arousal flows. I can feel it wetting the fabric of his trousers right through.
“Very well, then.” He lifts his hand, his strong right hand, and lets it fall.
If I thought the little smack when I was standing was something, I instantly realize it was barely anything at all. The impact of Simon’s palm feels like nothing at all for the first fraction of a second, and I’m half thinking that everything’s okay and I can stand it.
Then the delayed reaction kicks in and I jerk and screech in exactly the way I told myself I’d wouldn’t. My bottom cheek seems to have a voice of its own and silently screams too, a wail of burning heat and solid pain.
This, from just one stroke? Surely, not possible.
Yet I have no time to ponder this agonizing miracle, because more blows follow the first, each one more fiery. Each one feels like the impact of a plank of wood. Where did Simon, the refined and, yes, pampered executive, get the hands of a hewer of timber or a construction worker?
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I complain, my voice not my own, nor my body either as I wriggle and squirm and rock, my rump on fire. The heat seems to fill my cleft, and I grind it against him.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, keep still!” Simon sounds slightly vexed, and even with the terrible and unexpected agonies raging in my bottom, I suddenly bark with laughter amongst my moans. It seems so funny to hear him struggling with his role, his veneer of dominance faltering.
He gives me a harder smack, one that makes me keen like a beast, and then he laughs too. My pussy clenches. The sound of his laughter is as sweet to me as the pain in my buttocks is dreadful and harsh.
For him, for the man I love, I do try to keep still.
He spanks on, and I endure on, half grace, half hoyden. My bottom is a mass of flaming sensation, and it almost seems to be beating like a drum. The thud of my heart seems to match each aching throb, as does the pounding, gouging desire that fills my sex. Not really knowing what I’m doing, I discover I’m trying to reach beneath my body and finger my clit.
“Uh-oh,” warns Simon, his voice sounding ever so slightly shaky. He’s breathing just as heavily as I am myself. Defying him, I start to rummage beneath my belly to find my clitoris, and in the process I shuffle on his lap, a little to the side.
Oh God, his erection is huge. Enormous. Has he ever been bigger? Harder? As I wiggle against him, trying to enjoy it, he smacks me harder.
How long does this go on? It’s hard to tell. Time is acting strangely. I seem to have been across my lover’s lap for hours, my bottom belabored with a thousand spanks of rampant agony; but really I suspect it’s just been minutes, eight or ten.
Suddenly, Simon stops dead, and makes a little sound of pain and discomfort himself. “Bloody hell, my hand’s killing me,” he gasps, and I can feel him rubbing his palm with his other hand.
“My heart bleeds. How do you think I feel?” I retort, suddenly as far out of my role as he’s out of his.
“Cheeky cow,” he growls, grabbing my bottom with the hand that’s killing him, and making me squeal. I thrash and wiggle, and kick out with my legs. Catching Simon off guard, I begin to tumble off his lap.
He tries to save me, but only manages to slow me and soften my impact on the rug. In a jumble of limbs, I roll on my back, and suddenly he’s down too, and moving on top of me and trying to get between my thighs.
The weight of us both makes me bare my teeth from the fire in my bottom. But I just don’t care. It’s pounding with pain, but all I want is my lover inside me. Between us we wrench open his trousers and shove down his shorts, and it’s a contest to see which one of us can grab his cock first.
“Oh God,” he grunts as I start to rub him, and he fiddles around in his pocket, searching for the condom I’m sure he planned to need all along. In a frantic, half-assed fumble we somehow, between us, get it on him. Then, in even more of a fumble, we divest me of my knickers. I’m still gritting my teeth from all that when, in a final joint effort, we guide his erection to my entrance. My sex is a dripping river of arousal and, despite the chaos, he slides in easily and ever so deep. The impact makes me swear, my bruised rear flaming.
It flames more, hurting beyond what it had when I was being spanked, but I’m way, way beyond worrying about that. I spread my legs wider, hooking my ankles around Simon’s calves. We thump and bang against each other, every thrust making the pleasure/pain distinction shift and blur.
/> He shouts. I shout. We grab each other and rock and jerk and strain to become ever closer. Every painful thud of my punished bottom is a knock of exquisite pleasure to my clit.
The fuck is as time distorted as the spanking. I feel as if we’ve been plunging against each other for hours, and yet, in reality I know it’s been barely a minute. My sex ripples and grasps at him in waves of untethered bliss, while Simon jerks and shouts and throws his head back. The profanities that fall from his lips are the sweetest poem of love, and as he curls over me again, I sob and clasp his shuddering back.
Coming back down to earth again is like waking up inside an industrial cement mixer. After that tempestuous tumble, it feels like my bottom isn’t the only part of me that’s taken a beating, and like Simon’s, my chest is heaving, dragging in air.
I wiggle, trying to adjust his weight on me, and the effort of that makes me curse and bare my teeth again.
“Sorry, love,” he gasps, and hurls himself off me and onto his back on the rug beside me. I roll over onto my front to get some respite, and as I lie there catching my breath, he kisses my upper arm and the back of my neck, murmuring indistinct nothings that all the same express his love and awe.
“You’re really something, you know,” he whispers in my ear, still kissing, “That was amazing…you’re amazing…it was just…just incredible.”
“Ditto,” I gasp, continuing to float in some kind of endorphin shock. My bottom is killing me, but somehow it still feels good. Which doesn’t make sense.
Simon sits up, while I still lie here, absorbing this anomaly. I hear him zipping his trousers, and the sound of him tossing the recently used condom in the trash. Despite everything, I grin when he gets the shot from across the room and goes, “Yes!”
Then he’s kneeling over my prone form. I feel the slight wind from his fingers cruising an inch or two over the surface of my punished flesh.
“It looks very sore,” he observes. Can he be remorseful? In our normal life he’d rather walk over coals than cause me physical hurt in any way.
“Pah! It’s nothing,” I lie. “It’s not much worse than the burn when I’ve been to SuperAerobics, and believe me, I’d far rather have this than my monthly cramps.”
“Still though…” He sounds dubious.
I shift around a bit, ignoring the jolts of pain. “I’ll be fine after a large whiskey or two, and some of that blue stuff you spray on your dodgy calf when you’ve been out running. Have you brought it?”
“Yep, you’ve got it.”
He rises gracefully to his feet and walks to the door, so tall and straight and amazing, the perfect master. If he wanted to spank me again right now, I’d gladly say yes.
In the doorway, he turns and looks at me, his eyes like stars and his face aglow with love. “You look adorable.”
So do you, I silently tell him as he disappears.
* * *
Strangely, the whiskey and the blue stuff work a treat.
I didn’t expect that. I thought my rear end would be sore for days, feeling bruised and battered, but surprisingly, the next day, I can hardly feel it. I don’t know whether this is normal, or whether I have superhero powers of healing. Or maybe it’s just that Simon has an innate gift for spanking in just the right way that stings at the time but fades pretty quickly?
Against all the odds, I’m disappointed, even though it doesn’t make sense. Something so momentous should linger in more than just the memory, shouldn’t it?
The only answer is to initiate another session. And yet somehow it seems such a momentous thing to ask for. Which is odd, as we can usually ask each other anything. We’re usually so comfortable together. But this, this is a very big thing.
In the midst of my dithering and wondering and trying to frame an opening to the conversation, Simon says, “Let’s go for a walk.”
We set off around the lake, strolling along side by side, not holding hands but just ambling along as we often do. It should be idyllic. In fact it is, in a way. But still that big question is hovering around, and the air’s electric.
Our conversation is bitty, ranging from topic to topic as we mooch along the dusty path. Simon’s holding forth in a humorous fashion on some aspect of office politics at his work, when, as he strolls ahead, he idly reaches toward a straggling bush by the path—and breaks off a slender limb in the form of a switch.
It’s like somebody’s spun a dial, and that charge in the air has ramped up to a thousand volts. As he swishes his new find around, I can hardly breathe. I can think of nothing but the object in his hand and how it whooshes and flexes as it flies. At the same time, my entire body is charged too. Tiny hairs stand on end. My skin prickles as if somebody’s attached electrodes to my toes and the tips of my ears.
I feel the ghost of yesterday’s spanking whisper through the musculature of my bottom.
Does Simon know what he’s doing to me?
As if he’s heard my voice, he turns slightly as he walks, and I swear that his eyelid droops in a wink. Or did I just imagine that?
Oh yes. He knows. He’s planned all this, it suddenly dawns on me. The switch whistles through the air, fast and level, and between my legs I feel a flutter and the flow of moisture.
“I expect you’ve been looking at the Blue Book again, haven’t you?”
His inquiry is casual, but he punctuates it by lightly whacking the switch against his palm.
“Oh shit!” he hisses, and I giggle, realizing that he struck himself far harder than he intended and it really hurts. “Bloody hell…” He rubs his hand against his jeans and laughs too.
We’ve both still got quite a lot to learn.
I’m smirking when he turns to me again. He’s not laughing now, not smiling, except with his beautiful eyes.
This is it.
“Funny, eh?” he observes, quirking an eyebrow, trying to look stern and not doing too bad a job of it. He’s wearing black today, which he often does, but at this moment, it seems far more significant. Black for mastery. Black for dominance. His snug T-shirt clings to his biceps, and his nicely shaped back and shoulders. He’s so strong, and he can hit, as I now know very well.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, not quite knowing why. Maybe I’m slipping into my role quite effortlessly too? Penitent. Submissive. Ready for punishment and “deserving” it somehow, even if in reality I don’t.
It’s just what I want. And Simon knows, how he knows.
“So you should be.” His voice is quiet and composed. He really has the knack for this, the instinct. If he shouted and ranted like a cartoon disciplinarian it wouldn’t work at all. But he’s low-key, subtle. A natural.
“So, have you been reading the Blue Book?” He returns to the question, even though he knows the answer. He’s the one who’s hogged the thing most of the time. Studying. Learning.
Getting turned on.
My gaze snaps to his crotch, and oh, Lord, he’s huge again.
“Keep your eyes to yourself, if you don’t mind.”
I try to obey, but it’s hopeless. Now I’ve looked, I can’t stop looking and ogling. And imagining. And wanting to touch. Maybe to suck.
But I know I can’t do those things until, well, until afterward.
“Are you turned-on?” He punctuates the inquiry by stopping in his tracks and turning to me, making it even harder for me not to look at the bulge of his cock in his jeans.
“Yes. A little bit,” I lie. I’m raving hot for him now. Wet as a river between my legs, and my breasts are aching. The thought of him touching me makes me quiver all over. The thought of him swishing me with his thoughtfully selected twig almost makes me come on the spot.
I’m all over the place with desire and yearning, and I feel as if I’ll explode if I don’t get some action almost immediately.
“H
orny little trollop. Can’t take you anywhere, can I?” There’s a gentle tone to his voice, and yet he still sounds dominant, in control. “Looks like we’ll have to do something about that, doesn’t it?”
All I can do is nod.
“I bet you’re wet, aren’t you?” His blue regard seems to strip me, then settles around my pelvic region. “I bet your panties are sopping.” The last word he rolls around his tongue, savoring it and making it sound incredibly rude. It’s not something he’d normally say, but it’s perfect for the moment.
Me, I can’t speak. My mouth is as dry as my pussy is drenched. I just nod like a dummy again.
“So, are they sopping?” he insists, “Come on. Speak up.”
It’s a bit too much. He knows it. I know it. And he grins. And resets.
“Don’t be afraid. Just tell me.”
“Yes. I’m very wet and my knickers are drenched.” I clutch a bit of my skirt and twist it, sinking into my persona. “I’m really sorry…I just can’t help myself.”
He nods thoughtfully, looking almost regretful. As if he really is a benevolent disciplinarian from the Victorian age of the Blue Book, and he’s compelled to teach me a lesson for my inability to control my own lechery.
“Perhaps you’d better show me.”
Shaking so hard I can barely control my fingers, I hike up my skirt.
“Oh no, not that way. You must take them off and give them to me.”
I feel as if I want to swoon, but in the best possible way. My pussy throbs. It feels a mile wide with arousal.
Clumsy as a colt and almost expiring with the purest love, I struggle out of my knickers, trying all the while to keep my skirt up and keep myself on view to him. I nearly trip, and like a flash, he darts forward to catch me. But I recover in time, and manage to step out of my underwear without further mishap.
Discipline of the Blue Book Page 2
