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.
As her on screen manager eagerly smacked the proffered buttocks, Jon found himself fervently wishing himself in the man’s shoes. Tightness began to constrict his groin, he felt overheated, a hand slid across his thigh to his crotch.
‘Hmm, looks as if this scene is definitely having an affect on my test audience,’ whispered Columbia teasingly. He felt her warn, sweet breath on his cheek, smelt her perfume.
‘So,’ she continue
d seductively, expertly unzipped his jeans and sliding to the floor in front of him, barely visible in the flickering light, ‘I can’t let you sit there in discomfort, let’s see if we can take care of that.’
Transfixed, Jon sat watching Columbia’s bottom bounce and ripple on the silver screen as the punishing palm burnished that delectable derriere. He gasped as in reality her hot little mouth gently engulfed his cock; hands skilfully stroked his balls; darting tongue ran the length of his member. Ramrod straight, his cock felt as if it were about to explode, teased by sensations both tactile and visual.
‘Columbia I’m…’ he began, trying to push her head away.
Momentarily she halted her oral ministrations and looked up
‘Gonna come? No problem, honey,’ and dipping her head she took him deep in her mouth and swallowed long and hard.
Luckily the next two scenes were mainly dialogue which gave Columbia, smiling like the cat who’d got the cream, a chance to resume her seat and Jon, still on cloud nine, the opportunity to recover a little of his composure. All too soon the final reel reached what was clearly the climatic – in every sense – scene. Wearing nought but knee-high boots and a halter top, Columbia’s character was spanked by what was obviously the man for her; someone who understood submission needn’t mean subservience, that equality can encompass difference.
Feeling her grip on his hand tighten, Jon looked at his host. Eyes shining, she was clearly aroused by her own work, still mentally occupying the character on screen. Time to repay the compliment, he thought.
Deftly Jon slid his hand up her skirt where, meeting no resistance, he gently parted her thighs. The minx! Columbia accidentally – or more likely by design – wasn’t wearing knickers. Softly, he stroked her thighs teasing his fingers through her downy, pubic hair, quickly detecting the wet slick of arousal. Sliding into the kneeling position she’d occupied not 15 minutes before he lifted and spread her thighs, Jon bought his mouth down to kiss the honeyed portal, tongued her clit, finger-fucking her tight vagina. Columbia began to moan in pleasure, surrendering to the simultaneous pleasures of voyeuristically enjoying her own spanking, while having him expertly go down on her.
Facing away from the screen, Jon couldn’t see her celluloid character smile blissfully as she slid her hand down to slyly masturbate while being spanked by her beau. That the real Columbia should come noisily, joyfully, just as the film ended was just a fortunate coincidence. After which, Columbia knelt a touch precariously on the folding seat while Jon, quickly but most satisfactorily to both concerned, took her vigorously from behind.
Then, straightening themselves up, Jon and Columbia adjusted their dress and left the picture house arm in arm in search of a coffee over which to discuss their future.
Alistair’s Hobby
by Beverly Langland
Alistair’s locked in his bloody den again! Not that Nadine minds so much. She’s grateful he has a hobby to keep him occupied. It allows her to keep doing what she always does – whatever she likes. Truth is, their marriage hasn’t turned out quite as she expected. She thought marrying an older man the right thing to do, thought Alistair would be a guiding hand. Though she also misguidedly thought that being older he would be more sexually experienced. He wasn’t, particularly. It was her own stupid fault for playing coy right up until their wedding night. She was good at playing with men, but this time it had backfired. Alistair turned out to be a kind and gentle lover. Not her type at all. She had thought him more of a man. Man enough to keep her under control, to control her wayward tendencies, to cut her loose from her so-called friends who led her astray. Not that Nadine needs much encouragement. She is a natural flirt. Yet even Nadine senses her behaviour is getting out of hand. The neighbours are talking, don’t like how she leaves Alistair alone while she swans off for a night out with the girls. She loves him but she just can’t help herself. All those hard bodies, those young studs. Handsome studs like Paul – keen to please, keen to get inside her knickers. And Alistair makes it easy for her. He spends night after night in his workshop, has recently taken to redecorating the spare bedroom, and now calls it his den. God only knows what he’s doing in there with all the banging! Playing with trains no doubt. She’s curious but Alistair keeps the door locked.
Well, you play with your trains, darling, and I’ll find something else to play with. Maybe Paul? Maybe tonight? Nadine tiptoes down the stairs, but Alistair surprises her in the hallway, places his hands around her waist while she’s stretching for her coat. “Off out?”
She turns, smiles sweetly. He’s like butter in my hands. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Only that you look like a tart.”
“Alistair! You don’t mean that?”
“But I do!”
Alistair holds her by her elbow, briskly marches her up the stairs into the spare room – into his den – catching her once or twice when she stumbles in her ridiculous heels. Nadine casts her eyes furtively around the dark room, looking for clues as to what Alistair expects of her, what he intends to do. There isn’t much to see – no trains, no model cars. The room reminds Nadine of a small old-fashioned gymnasium. The only items are some sort of wooden contraption to one side and a large cabinet set against the far wall. Wooden climbing bars spaced at regular intervals furnish the other walls. At least Nadine assumes they are climbing bars. Alistair walks to the cabinet, opens a drawer, withdraws what appears to be a wooden ruler. Nadine’s face drains of colour as she looks on apprehensively.
“Hands on your head.” His voice is full of purpose now, his distinguished features set into a look of determination – hard, stony-faced. Nadine has a sudden flashback to school, of Mrs Jones, her head teacher, reprimanding, making her stand in the corner of the room while the other girls snigger. Alistair uses the exact same tone – uses a teacher’s voice. It is full of disappointment.
“Alistair, don’t be silly.”
“Hands on your head!” His jaw stiffens as he swipes her exposed thigh with the flat of the ruler, making her start. Nadine quickly obeys, places her manicured hands, painted fingernails uppermost, on top of her head. She feels silly standing in front of Alistair like this, but she keeps them there all the same. She has never seen her husband so angry.
“Now, what were you saying about going out?”
“A quick drink with the girls, that’s all.”
Alistair studies her, walking around her slowly. He is a big man. Even in her heels, he is several inches taller. She watches, a little dazed as he fumbles with the buttons of her blouse, then, irritated with his slow progress, rips apart the folds of cloth. Nadine gasps, feels embarrassed when her breasts fall free, when he reveals she isn’t wearing a bra. He shakes his head, tuts mockingly, yet quickly has his hands on her breasts, roughly fondling them, kneading them, stretching them. “Get these pierced,” he states flatly, flicking one of Nadine’s nipples with the end of the ruler.
“Alistair, what’s going on?”
“I’ve had enough of your antics. I’m reining you in.”
“But Ali, darling …”
“Quiet!” He flicks her other nipple, then while Nadine’s breast still reverberates, he swipes viciously with the ruler. Nadine cries out in pain, looks to her husband beseechingly. Alistair doesn’t flinch. Quite the opposite – he swipes her other breast equally harshly. “Ow! Stop that.”
“I said quiet!” Alistair strikes her breasts again, leaving two broad marks on her otherwise perfect skin. Nadine bites her lip to stifle her cry. She cannot believe what is happening, cannot believe Alistair is treating her this way. She glares at him, but for once he holds her eye. She feels his hands on her bottom, undoing the zip of her skirt, releasing the material, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air of the sparsely furnished room washes across her buttocks. “No panties?” he chides.
“Honey, you know this skirt clings. It looks wretched with underwear.”
“Your friends wouldn’t like that?”
“Th
ey can be so bitchy. You know what girls are like.”
“I know what you’re like.”
“Darling, what’s all this about?”
“It’s about setting boundaries.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry, you will. Turn around.”
Hesitantly, Nadine obeys. Shortly after, Alistair is fondling her bottom, massaging the cheeks, rudely pushing, pulling them this way and that, as if assessing their condition, their firmness. Then, just as abruptly as before, he strikes her with the ruler. Alternating between the cheeks, first one and then the other. Three stokes on each. The pain isn’t nearly as bad as when he swiped her breasts, but it is bad enough. Bad enough to make her buttocks smart. Bad enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“Alistair, don’t.”
“Hurts when someone betrays your trust, doesn’t it?”
Alistair shifts position to face her, staring into her green eyes, smiling, perhaps sensing her apprehension. “Who’s Paul?”
Nadine blushes. “Anne’s friend,” she says quickly.
“Not yours.”
“No. I hardly know him.”
“Yet his number is in your phone.”
“I …”
“Chest and bottom out,” he scolds.
Nadine responds, immediately pushing her breasts out before her, arching her back to offer her bottom. She feels ridiculous in this contrived position, but it seems to please her husband – the way her position forces her breasts to stand to attention. And she is desperate to distract him, to gain time to think.
“Good,” he coaxes, “just a little further.” He cups one of Nadine’s breasts, takes her nipple between thumb and forefinger, places his other hand on her bottom. “That’s a good girl,” he encourages her. He gently squeezes Nadine’s nipple, begins to lightly spank her buttocks as she shifts position. Without fully knowing why, Nadine strains to offer her bottom further, to push her breasts forward, coaxed somewhat by Alistair’s firm grasp on her nipple. Alistair suddenly stops spanking, runs his hands over Nadine’s body, along her back, her stomach, as a judge might with a pedigree dog as he checks for posture, for bone structure. “You’re a prize bitch, you know that?”
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