There was no doubt about it. Holly’s Christmases had all come at once.
Bad Credit
by Amelia Thornton
Christmas. Everything about it tells me I should hate it. Neon Santas perched on rooftops, cloying jingle-bell junk worming its way out of every shopping centre speaker, families you hate all converging upon your dining table to eat you out of house and home then proceeding to drunkenly reveal every sordid family secret you wished you’d never heard.. But somehow, every year, when they bring out that first set of multi-buy card displays and racks of sparkly tinsel, I get a little tingle of excitement. It’s time for that most magical, heart-warming activity of all – shopping.
I try to not go crazy, I really do, but swiping that little piece of plastic just gives me a rush of power like nothing else. It’s almost as if I’ve just got all of these beautiful things, to give to the people I love and make them happy, all for nothing. I don’t hand over any worn banknotes, no money magically leaves my account, and if I just don’t open any envelopes till after January, it’s like it never happened! I mean, I do know I’ll have to pay for it eventually, but why not just have that little bit of enjoyment until that day comes?
Which is how I wound up, on that Thursday late-night-shopping evening, full of festive cheer as I joyfully crammed several bulging bags into the car boot and drove home singing along to bad Christmas songs on the radio. I had, admittedly, got a few little presents for myself as well, but what with this whole credit crunch thing going on there were just so many good deals around! Who could resist a nice red sales sticker? Besides, I reasoned, it would save Jeff having to find me anything himself, he never seemed to quite get it right with present buying. I will agree a George Forman grill is a very useful addition to the kitchen, but it’s not quite a new Italian leather handbag, is it?
The lights were on when I got home, and I was just about to go and pour myself a nice glass of wine when I heard his voice from the dining room.
“Charlotte? Will you please come here a moment?”
I frowned. That wasn’t like him, to take that serious a tone of voice as soon as I got in. Maybe he’d talked to his sister again, and was going to try and talk me in to spending Christmas day with that miserable bitch again. Casually, I strolled into the dining room with my sweetest smile, all ready to convince him that we really didn’t need to give her anything more than a perfunctory phone call over the entire festive season, when my entire body froze, mid-step. There, spread out across the dark wood veneer of the dining table, surrounded by scattered white envelopes, was every last one of the bills I had stashed in the back of the coat cupboard.
“Would you like to explain this, Charlotte?” he enquired, a no-nonsense expression on his face.
“Er … um … They’re some letters? I was going to deal with in January?” I offered weakly.
“And what, exactly, did you intend to do in January? Did you think, in January, the £650 you spent on an espresso machine would somehow magically disappear?”
“It was for your brother! He hates all that filter coffee muck, remember, he said so when we last visited! It’s got a milk steaming attachment and everything, you should really see it, Jeff, it’s a beauty! It came in black as well but I really thought the stainless steel finish looked a lot more professional and –”
“Do you really think that makes it worth it?!” he interrupted, rather more angrily than I’d expected. “I told you last year you needed to stop spending so much, and you promised me you’d cut back. Christmas isn’t about getting the most expensive presents for everyone, Charlotte, and you know we can’t afford to keep carrying on like this! What did I tell you last year?”
I felt my face drain of all colour.
“But you were joking! I mean, I thought you were joking. You can’t really do something like that …” I protested, half wondering if he was still joking now, or if this time, he really did mean it.
“Do I look like I’m joking, Charlotte? You won’t listen to me any other way, and I have warned you. You’ve given me no choice.” There wasn’t even a hint of humour in his voice as he rose from his chair, gathering the bills up as he did. “Go and stand in the corner. I want you to think about what you’ve done.”
For just a moment, I stood there, dumbfounded. He couldn’t be serious. I was a grown woman! He couldn’t just treat me like this. I mean, admittedly, he had told me last year if I carried on spending I’d be in serious trouble, and had pointedly explained to me what he meant by “serious trouble”, but I’d never really thought he’d actually, honestly go through with it.
“Come on, Jeff. I’m sorry. It’s not that bad, and I’ll really cut back in the New Year, I swear! It’ll all get paid back before you know it, and –”
He just looked at me, directly in the eyes, not even a flicker of compassion in them.
“The corner, Charlotte.”
I took a deep breath. This was clearly not the time for excuses. He’d probably change his mind, once he saw me standing there. Once he saw how ridiculous it looked to have his grown-up wife in the corner like a bratty child. Yes, I just needed to play along and he’d soon realise how silly this whole idea was. It did feel more awkward than I expected, though, to actually walk over there, to stand up straight just staring forward at maroon wallpaper and nothing else. It did make me think, just a little bit, that perhaps I’d gone too far this time.
I don’t know how long it was that he actually left me there. Somehow, time seemed to pass very differently, knowing he was right there in the room, watching me. I could feel his eyes upon me, hear his footsteps pacing, the scraping of furniture, almost like he was trying to scare me, remind me of what he had said he would do. Maybe he wasn’t going to change his mind after all.
“Come here.”
His voice was so abrupt, after so much silence, it almost made me jump. Slowly, awkwardly, I turned around, and saw that he had moved one of the dining chairs further out into the room, and was sitting on it, facing me, his expression one of absolute authority.
“Over my knee.”
Those words, far from sounding far-fetched and laughable like I’d always thought they would, sent a shiver through me I had never expected. This wasn’t what I was supposed to feel. I opened my mouth, to protest, but no sound seemed to come out. I couldn’t even think of a good excuse, of any reason not to take what he intended to give me. He was going to punish me, and there was nothing I could do about it. Resigning myself to the inevitable, I gingerly stepped towards him, and bent myself over his waiting lap. It felt so alien, to be in such a humiliating position, but at the same time strangely comforting, and as his hands began to softly stroke the fabric of my skirt, I found myself closing my eyes, giving in to what was going to happen to me.
The first smack made me jump more than anything. Over my skirt, it didn’t actually hurt, it was just a strange sensation, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The second seemed a little more forceful, and soon he seemed to settle into a rhythm of sharp, evenly placed swats covering my bottom, making me wriggle just ever so slightly across his lap, giving me a feeling I could not quite seem to place. Surely this wasn’t quite right … Suddenly he stopped, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That wasn’t so bad! I was just about to get myself up when I felt his hand firmly grip my waist, the other edge towards the hem of my skirt.
“Oh no you don’t. Do you really think a spanking is complete over your skirt? No, no, no. I’m far from finished with you yet.”
I felt his fingers slowly pulling at the fabric of my skirt, gently lifting it above my waist, tucking his fingers around the waistband of my thick winter tights and roughly pulling them down, exposing my knickers to him. I couldn’t help but squirm a little, feeling embarrassed despite the fact that he’d clearly seen my knickers before. There was something about being over his knee that just made it feel differe
nt somehow, more humiliating. He ran his hand softly across the lace, feeling the smooth skin at the top of my thighs, then landed his palm forcefully across my backside with a strength that made me gasp. He was certainly far from finished with me. With only a thin layer of pale pink lace between his hand and me, I could feel each strike much more than before, a heat spreading across my cheeks as he brought his hand down again and again, making me wriggle and squeak, my fingers gripping the chair legs for support. Surely this had gone far enough now? Surely I’d learned my lesson?
I could feel his fingers slipping into the elastic of my knickers now, the lace tickling against my tender skin. He couldn’t be going to … With one swift movement, he pulled my knickers down over my hips, exposing my blushing pink bottom. Bare skin. All I could think of was how it would hurt even more now, but more than that, now he would notice the dampness that had soaked through my knickers, betraying my reactions to this humiliating chastisement. I couldn’t even understand myself how something like this could be turning me on so much, something that was supposed to be painful. Thankfully, he seemed to be paying little attention to that. His strikes were much harder now, making me gasp each time, and every time I tried to squirm away, his free hand would only grip me tighter at my waist, remind me how I was being punished. There was no way of getting out of this, no matter what I did.
Finally, just as I was beginning to think I couldn’t take any more, he stopped, his hand resting gently upon my tingling skin.
“Well done,” he murmured softly, his palm softly rubbing my sore bottom. “I think you’re ready to start your punishment properly now. Stand up.”
Scrambling to my feet, I stared at him in disbelief.
“What do you mean, start my punishment properly?! That wasn’t it?!” I squeaked, barely able to contain my shock.
Calmly, he stood up, smiling at me for the first time.
“Do you think ‘serious trouble’ really just means a light spanking? No, you have got a lot more than that to make up for. Bend over the table.”
I couldn’t even say what it was that made me do as he told me. Every rational bone in my body was telling me this was ridiculous, but I still couldn’t seem to stop the slick wetness between my legs as I stretched my upper body across the smooth surface of the dining table, my skirt ruched up around my waist, my tights and knickers tangled around my mid-thigh. What could he possibly do to me next? Softly he stroked my glowing skin, as if admiring his handiwork, then neatly placed the stack of bills in front of my face, flat on the table.
“I want you to read out the contents of each bill, one after the other. And slowly. If you stop, or hurry your words, you’ll only make it worse for yourself, so you had better do it properly. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” I stammered, unsure of quite what his intention was with this. “Am I supposed to start now?”
“No, you will wait for me.”
With that, he left the room, and I could hear his footsteps disappearing up the stairs. Wait for him? Where was he going? Something told me that waiting would include waiting in position, however, and remained rigidly bent over the table until he returned a few moments later, a look of grim determination upon his face, and my very best ebony hairbrush in his hand.
“I don’t want to hurt you just for the sake of it, Charlotte, you know that. I just want to make sure you don’t make the same mistakes again. It’s for your own good. Now, I want you to begin, starting with last month’s Visa bill, please.”
Taking a deep breath, I focused myself on the page in front of me.
“ November 2nd. Fifty-three pounds, John Lewis,” I began, and before I could even notice what he had done, he was behind me, bringing the hairbrush down on my sore bottom with a sharp thwack. Frozen, I could hardly decide what to do before he smacked it down again.
“I told you not to stop, Charlotte. Now, will you please continue?”
Shakily, I read out the next line, again punctuated with a strike of the brush. I couldn’t even keep track of time, as line after line of all of my itemised misdemeanours were read aloud in my quavering voice, each one resulting in the hairbrush stinging my skin once more, my bottom on fire as the hard, glossy wood collided with my already tender flesh. Finally, just as I thought it would never end, I pushed aside the completed House of Fraser storecard bill and realised it was, at last, the end of the stack.
Jeff seemed to just stand there for a moment, lost in the spell he had created between us. Gently, he stepped forward, and as the scratchiness of his suit trousers rubbed coarsely against my sore skin, I could feel his rigid cock straining against my tingling skin. He was just as turned on by this as I was.
“You’ve done very well, Charlotte,” he murmured, his hands caressing my hips, his thumbs running across the red marks he had created all across my bottom. “I hope you will not be making the same mistake again, though?”
“No!” I responded immediately. “No, I certainly won’t.”
“Good.”
I could hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, and fabric falling to the floor, and the next moment the hardness of his cock rubbing across the welts on my bottom. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted him right now, now that he’d just disciplined me in a way I would have found absolutely ridiculous if anyone had ever said it to me. Yet here I was, aching for him to take me, right here, like this, bent over the table with my reddened, spanked bottom in the air, feeling so completely comforted by his punishment of me.
“Please,” I managed to whisper, “please?”
The head of his cock was instantly at my entrance, pressing agonisingly against my aching hole, teasing me even more as I wriggled plaintively, trying in vain to make him push inside me completely. I could feel him, poised to enter me, so much power in withholding such a simple thing from me, until at last he couldn’t take it any more, and with one forceful thrust was deep inside my longing wetness. I gripped the edges of the table as he pounded against me, fucking me harder and deeper than I could ever remember him doing, each movement accentuating the soreness of my tender bottom, his hand snaking round to rub against my swollen clit. As the rhythmic strokes of his fingers began to build me closer and closer towards orgasm, I closed my eyes, my vision filled with his hand striking down against my vulnerable bottom, as waves of unbearable pleasure crashed over me.
Over the next few weeks, I certainly repented for my behaviour. All my unnecessary purchases for myself went back to the shops they came from, my storecards met a nasty end with the scissors, and his brother was getting a very nice stove-top espresso maker and some homemade coffee and walnut cake instead of his £650 hi-tech beauty. But there was one present I immediately knew I needed to buy, and he was sure to approve of it.
As Christmas morning came, and I brought Jeff his usual cup of morning tea, I snuggled up in bed next to him with a neatly wrapped green and red package, especially for him. Smiling, he undid the ribbons and slipped the shiny paper from it, puzzling over what it could be, until he finally revealed his gift. There, nested in deep red tissue paper, was a smooth, hard paddle of glossy black leather.
“Merry Christmas,” I smiled, crawling across his lap.
The Pre-Christmas Pick-me-up
by Caz Jones
Claire shouldered her way through the throng. The whole of London seemed to be doing their Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. It had been raining all day and she was soaked to the skin, tired, footsore and thoroughly fed up. Damn Ed! He’d promised he’d get his PA to sort out his presents, yet this morning he’d casually dropped the bombshell that ‘dear Sophie’ hadn’t had a chance to get it done and would she mind awfully popping out to the shops for him? Only he had this drinks party at work that he simply couldn’t miss … Oh, and she should treat herself to something lovely while she was out.
Not for the first time in her five-year marriage, Claire had
been tempted to point out to him that she was his wife and had a demanding full-time job of her own, not another member of staff, but she controlled the urge to hurl her bowl of muesli at him, consoling herself instead with the mental image of him sitting there with milk dripping off the end of his nose and a vow to treat herself to something staggeringly expensive on his credit card.
Threading her way to the edge of the pavement, she looked up and down the road for a taxi. Nothing. Every black cab that went past had its light switched off, either occupied or off duty. The thought of cramming herself onto a bus or the tube filled her with dread.
Her phone rang and she juggled all her bags into one hand to answer it. If it was Ed asking where she’d got to, she really was going to say something she regretted.
“Claire? Did I just see you struggling down Bond Street in a bedraggled heap?”
Oh thank God for Julie. Claire smiled for the first time that day. “Yes and I can’t find a cab anywhere. Are you free for a coffee?”
“No, I’m still stuck at work. But I was wondering if you’d like to come and test the hotel spa facilities? They’re opening next week and management wants some fast feedback.”
“I’m on my way.”
Julie worked at a small boutique hotel in Mayfair, one that was so exclusive it only accepted guests by word of mouth recommendation. Claire dripped in the hallway as sympathetic staff relieved her of her wet coat and shopping bags and ushered her down to the spa. In no time she was wrapped in a soft towelling bathrobe and reclining by the pool with a magazine and a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
“You look much better,” Julie said, appearing by her side. “What happened? I thought you had your shopping sorted.”
Claire explained and Julie rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you really should ditch him. I’d love to stay and gossip, but my boss is on the warpath. I’ve booked you in for a four-handed massage with the gorgeous Pieter and the divine Soren. Enjoy yourself.” She gave a broad wink and went back to her duties.
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