‘I beg your pardon? Repeat what I said, Olivia.’
‘Please, Ma’am!’
‘Repeat what I said, Olivia.’
Olivia broke once more, the words spilling from her mouth in a torrent. ‘Oh please … Miss Olivia would like to keep her knickers up for her spanking because she’s embarrassed to show her bare bottom. Please don’t pull my knickers down, ma’am, please … please …’
Her words gave way to a gasp as the grip on her knickers tightened, leaving her mouth agape and her eyes wide, as slowly but surely they were peeled down over her bottom. She felt every instant and every inch of her exposure, from the moment her hips and the small of her back came bare, through the unveiling of her cheeks, to the finally ghastly indignity of having her upper thighs and the pouted rear lips of her private parts put on show. Only when Olivia’s bottom was fully bare did the Hatchet speak again.
‘No, Olivia, that is not the right answer, as I suspect you are perfectly well aware. The right answer, and the one you should have given, is that you know naughty girls don’t deserve to keep their knickers up when they’re spanked. Why should you be an exception?’
Olivia didn’t answer. The words had been accompanied by smacks to her now naked cheeks and the spanking had begun. It was not hard, but the simple fact of lying across the stern woman’s lap and having her bare bottom spanked was enough to render her incapable of speech. She hung her head, the tears streaming down her face and splashing on the wooden floorboards beneath her, overwhelmed by her own feelings for what was happening to her.
It rapidly grew worse. After perhaps a minute of applying gentle smacks to Olivia’s quivering bottom, Senior Commander Buchanan made a slight adjustment to the position of her knee. Olivia found her bottom lifted higher still, to make her cheeks part and to add the display of her anus to her woes. Worse still, as the spanking began once more, harder now, she found herself unable to prevent the little puckered hole from opening and closing to the rhythm of the smacks. It was an exhibition at once unspeakably lewd and hideously shameful, and yet there was nothing she could do either to close her cheeks or prevent the winking of her anus, or her other bodily reactions.
The smacks were getting harder, stinging her flesh to make her kick her feet and toss her head. Little cries began to escape her mouth, sobs and gasps of pain and misery, pleas for mercy and desperate, pointless apologies. She knew none of it would do any good, yet that didn’t stop her, her pride quite broken as she whimpered and babbled. The spanking grew harder still, now delivered full across Olivia’s cheeks to make her bottom wobble and set her breasts bouncing and jiggling beneath her chest. She’d begun to grow warm too, adding the fresh humiliation of wet privates to her suffering. The Hatchet gave a chuckle, rich with contempt and amusement, then tightened her grip around Olivia’s waist.
‘So it’s like that, is it?’ she laughed. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you? Even when you’re having your bottom smacked you react like the dirty little tart you are! Oh I do hope you’re ashamed of yourself, Miss Olivia, I really do!’
Olivia was too far gone to even attempt an answer. The spanking had now grown furiously hard, making it impossible for her to control herself at all. Her head was tossing frantically back and forth, shaking her hair and making her breasts jump and slap together. Her hips were bucking up and down to the rhythm of the smacks, making her cheeks open and close repeatedly to show off the pulsing ring of her anus and the wet smudge of her cunt. Her legs were pumping in her knickers, so hard that one shoe had flown off, nearly hitting the Hatchet, who promptly adjusted her grip.
The spanking stopped. Two quick motions and Olivia was trapped between her tormentor’s knees, her bottom still the highest part of her body, her cheeks still well spread, but her legs now firmly trapped in place. Her knickers were adjusted, tugged further down to make sure she was left with absolutely no modesty whatsoever. But as she braced herself for a fresh assault on her now blazing bottom the Hatchet spoke once more. ‘American nylons, I do believe. And the prophylactics were American too, weren’t they? What have you been up to, Olivia?’
As she spoke she had traced a slow line up the seam of Olivia’s stocking to where a low swell of flesh bulged over the top, which she began to tickle. Olivia gasped, then began to giggle, unable to stop her reaction. Her thighs began to kick again, her bottom to jiggle and spread, once more showing off her anus to her tormentor. The Hatchet chuckled, now sounding thoroughly pleased with herself as she continued her exploration of Olivia’s flesh; tickling, then beginning to stroke the hot skin of the well spanked cheeks.
‘What have you been up to?’ she repeated. ‘Trading favours with United States servicemen, I imagine? You are a dark horse, aren’t you? Our own boys and the Yanks too, and all the while I thought you were such a sweet little thing. What does it cost, for a pair of nylons? Do you have to take them in your hand? Do you have to suck their cocks? Or do you have to go all the way, knickers off and legs apart to fuck like the dirty little tart you are!’
The last few words had been accompanied by hard smacks to Olivia’s bottom and the spanking had begun once more. Now it was mercilessly hard, while having her legs trapped made it impossible to dispel the pain. She began to squeal and writhe in the Hatchet’s grip, but that only made it worse, the smacks raining down on Olivia’s dancing bottom until she felt sure she would faint, and all the while that same, harsh voice mocking her.
‘How does it feel, Olivia, with a man’s cock in your mouth while you suck it for a pair of nylons? How does it feel to be a whore, Olivia, because that’s what you are.’
Olivia broke completely. ‘No! I didn’t! I’m not a whore, I’m not! I bought them, that’s all! I … I’m not a whore!’
Again the spanking stopped.
‘Hush,’ Senior Commander Buchanan said, her voice suddenly soft, and as she went on she had moved her hand from Olivia’s bottom and began to stroke her hair. ‘I know you’re not a whore, darling, and I know you never did any of those beastly things. You wouldn’t do that, would you? Oh no, not an invert like you. You just wanted your little bottom smacked, didn’t you?’
Olivia didn’t answer immediately, but allowed herself to be eased gently to her knees. Kneeling to the woman who was now tugging up her own skirt, Olivia stuck out her hot bottom, let her hand slip between her legs, licked her lips in happy anticipation for what she was about to be made to do, and then nodded. Senior Commander Buchanan lifted herself in her chair, slipped her drawers down and off, then made herself comfortable once more, now with her naked sex on offer to Olivia’s tongue. She spoke again. ‘Before you get to work, darling. You do know how that packet came to be in the ATS officers quarters, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘I put it there.’
From Wanting to Wanton
by Laurel Aspen
Luke looking up at the modest brass nameplate: The Worth Collection of English Literature. This Victorian temple to learning and enlightenment would have stood out in any small provincial town. Here, in a side street in the heart of the City of London, dominated by even grander institutions, it became architecturally anonymous.
Pushing open the heavy oak doors Luke stepped into a surprisingly light atrium where a slender woman stood behind a polished wooden counter. Her dowdy dress sense belied her years; early 20s, he guessed. And probably a very pretty girl if she gave herself half a chance, but not so eye-catching without make-up, or jewellery or a discernible sense of style to provide a hint of the personality within.
He introduced himself. ‘I’m researching some material for a book, I’ve got a letter here permitting me access to the library for six months to –’
‘You’re Mr Forbes. Luke Forbes?’
‘Yes that’s right.’ Luke gave his most winning smile. Establishing a rapport with librarians was vital in his experience; getting them on-side could save hours of tedious research.
‘The trustees told me you were coming. I’m Rose Hall,
the senior librarian.’
Luke looked around the lofty reading room where rays of weak wintry sunshine illuminated the lofty bookcases. ‘I can imagine it’s often pretty quiet in here.’
Rose frowned. ‘Not many people know of the Worth Collection, even though we’re almost as old as the British Library. So many investigations are done on the Internet these days. Recycling others’ opinions and not bothering to go to the original sources. In my opinion.’
‘You’re quite right. I’m here to do some proper delving, though, so I’ll be grateful for your expertise. Do you work here full-time?’
‘Not enough visitors. Just Monday to Thursday mornings. The rest of the time I’m finishing a PHD thesis on late twentieth-century female fiction. What are you researching?’
‘Erotic writing. Especially that written by and for women. It’s become quite fashionable in the last couple of decades.’
Rose blushed. ‘Not really an area I’ve paid much attention to. Are you writing a book?’
‘Yes. On how erotica reflects, or even affects, modern sexuality. It started out as a newspaper article for one of the Sunday lifestyle sections, but was so well received a publisher commissioned it. Has to be finished quickly though before people’s attention moves on.’
‘Oh so it’s not academic work?’
‘Does something have to be academic to be of worth?’ There was an edge to his tone.
‘No of course not.’ To cover her embarrassment, Rose turned around and led Luke towards the books.
Nice chassis, trim little figure, probably shapely legs under those thick tights; it occurred to him that young Ms Rose might present a pleasant challenge. Not quite Professor Higgins and Eliza Dolittle, but if he could just draw her out a little the results might prove rewarding.
Perhaps, Rose tried to convince herself later that day, sampling contemporary women’s erotica might help restart her stalled thesis. Albeit embarrassed, she made the appropriate purchases.
A few erotic short collections later, it had become clear to Rose that these titillating tales were underpinned by certain prominent and reoccurring themes. Dominant men and submissive women for example; and such stories often involved an element of dressing up. Despite Rose’s lack of dress sense, the idea of exchanging her serviceable white, with a tint of grey, M&S undies for some racier lingerie slowly took root. She wondered, having never ever tried, what it might be like to wear stockings; certainly if these stories were accurate, they invariably seemed to push all the requisite male buttons. Increasingly enthralled by this strange new world of sartorial and sexual possibility, Rose read on voraciously. Stories about spanking were guaranteed to hit the spot, dampening her knickers and sending her fingers surreptitiously down between her thighs to bring urgently required relief. Far from being epistles of brute sadism, as she’d previously believed, CP fiction, as she now understood it to be called, was a far subtler mélange of literary arousal.
Unbeknown to her, though Luke also enjoyed the genre, he’d been fortunate enough to have already enjoyed a couple of long-term CP relationships.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ Rose asked him midway through the third week of his attendance. It’d taken her that long to pluck up the courage to attempt anything more than professional or a merely mundane interaction.
‘Sure,’ answered Luke readily, and over cups of cappuccino it became clear Rose was more than just curious about him.
‘How’s the research going?’ She asked, nervous.
‘Good. Quicker than I expected.’
‘Oh.’ Rose couldn’t keep the tone of disappointment from her voice. The faster he worked the quicker Luke would be gone. There was obviously no time to lose. ‘I’ve been looking at some of the books you’ve finished with. Thought they might be useful for my own studies. But tell me, do you find them arousing?’ Rose flushed at her own boldness.
‘Sometimes.’ Luke was disarmingly frank. ‘I’m only human, how about you?’
Involuntarily Rose reddened. ‘Certain themes seem to be ubiquitous,’ she said, evasively.
‘Such as?’
‘Well.’ Rose had entered uncharted territory. ‘It’s interesting how clothes are always used to accentuate a female character’s sexuality. To proffer her body as an offering. Stockings and high heels for example.’
‘Many women wear them as a matter of routine. Look at the average City office.’
‘You know, I’ve never worn them. In academia women have made a virtue out of dressing down. But I can see it might be fun to dress up. Perhaps erotic clothes could enable less brave souls to feel uninhibited. And in the spanking stories there’s always an element of sexual coercion: he is completely in charge, she is forced to submit and so is absolved of guilt and responsibility, as a result, for what follows.’ Aware she had now given voice to feelings she’d not really thought through enough, and in a somewhat awkward academic fashion, her discourse promptly stalled. They hadn’t, she was suddenly acutely aware, even been discussing spanking. It had just crept in.
‘Why not test the idea,’ suggested Luke. ‘Isn’t that how you scholarly types are meant to proceed?’
‘What me?’ Rose laughed. ‘You’re not serious.’
But on the walk back to the library Rose glowed with pleasure.
Walking alongside her in companionable silence Luke’s own thoughts were definitely not innocent. With a little more effort, and a little less Oxfam she could make something of herself. But don’t get rid of the glasses because actually they’re very sexy.
Two days later Rose spent her lunch hour browsing shoe shops, and eventually emerged with a pair of sleek black court shoes with high heels.
Walking in them was tricky, so she practised assiduously, enjoying the way they thrust her shoulders back and made the most of a not very big bosom, and tensed her calves, and pushed her small, firm buttocks into a whole new prominence. In fact, Rose began a plan to startle Luke with a new and sophisticated image. She’d wear the shoes with a knee-length black skirt, sheer pale tights and a crisp white blouse. Let her hair down too and put some lipstick on. She was determined to be the equal of any modern girl.
But to her chagrin Luke didn’t appear to notice her new attire. They exchanged the standard pleasantries and he got down to work.
Rose was furious and out the corner of his eye Luke watched her angrily pacing up and down, her heels clicking out an angry percussive accompaniment to her mood. Of course he’d clocked the transformation, but saw no need to let Rose know. Not yet anyway.
Damn him. He will notice me.
Grabbing a couple of seldom requested volumes, she pushed a stepladder into position, immediately adjacent to Luke. As if the tomes need returning on the uppermost shelf, she climbed high, and the tapered toes of Rose’s new fuck-me footwear searched for grip on the worn wooden steps. Not completely unknown to her, each time she raised a knee, her skirt exposed a sinuous nylon-covered thigh and one of her delectably taut buttocks.
‘Very nice,’ observed Luke, laconically. ‘Is this a new you?’
‘Possibly.’
‘So you’re emulating a femme fatale? And trying to distract me from my labours, for which sin I shall have to take you to task.’
A thrill, part fear, part excitement, surged through her. ‘How so?’ Her voice was small, almost a croak.
‘By spanking the bottom you’ve so obligingly revealed’.
‘And if I refuse.’
‘You won’t, because it was you who bought the subject up. And you were right in your textual analysis of CP literature. The essential element is coercion, so whatever happens next, you’re not to blame. Now, come here.’
Rose descended, unable to take her eyes from his face. She teetered towards him. And soon found herself face-down, over his knees, with her fingers and toes touching the worn wooden boards, and her bottom raised enticingly. Tingling with anticipation, every muscle in her body tense, she gritted her teeth, held her breath and waited.
And wai
ted.
Not until she relaxed did his palm descend, and as each slap came into contact with Rose’s tightly skirted rear, a satisfying crack echoed around the hallowed walls. After an initial volley Luke paused. Rose had no words to describe the rush of unfamiliar emotions coursing through her and stayed silent. But not for long. Feeling his hand grasp the hem of her skirt she anticipated Luke’s intention and immediately protested. But then regretted her outburst, as an admonitory slap to the back of each of her thighs stung like fury.
Luke expertly pulled the skirt to her waist, exposing a most beautiful bottom, barely covered by skimpy white briefs and every spanker’s sworn enemy, tights. He spanked harder and her alluringly firm cheeks juddered most pleasingly. Rose was breathing heavily, squirming her hips on his lap in response to what he knew were contradictory feelings of pain and arousal.
He stopped a second time, and adroitly tugged her knickers and tights down and around her knees. Resting his hand on Rose’s lightly toasted rear, he felt the silky skin glowing hot beneath his tender touch.
Rose mewed and sighed as his fingers caressed her, teasing and squeezing her labia. She squirmed and she squealed with delight at the delicious torment. One finger, two fingers, slid effortlessly into her honeyed vagina and pistoned insistently, in and out, while his other hand returned to chastising her rear end. The combination of the two sensations was irresistible. Rose could not help herself. She came hard.
Dazed and smiling, endorphin-stoned, her gaze unfocused, it took five hazy minutes before she’d recovered enough to stand upright.
Luke murmured something to her: ‘Prior appointment. Must go.’ Rose doesn’t take in most of what he says. But he smiles at her and promises to return the following day.
Rose spent a restless night; appalled by her wanton reaction to Luke’s spanking, yet thrilled by her belated discovery of hitherto unimagined sexual pleasures. Elated and emboldened she decided to again push the boundaries of her new relationship.
As promised, Luke returned to the library the following day, but acted as if nothing had ever happened between them, and promptly got down to work.
Spankers Justice Page 2