by Kyoko Church
He’d positioned me so I was able to watch as he walked over to the table and picked up his punishment slipper. Smirking, he flexed it between his hands, the sole bending almost in half. That slipper and I had a love-hate relationship, and he knew it, as he strung my anticipation of the first swat out to the point where I almost begged him to just start spanking me and have done with it.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m only going to give you six.’
Only? Six with the slipper was like a good couple of dozen with his hand, made worse by the fact that I’d feel the sting of the blows long after a hand-spanking would have faded. But I’d teased and taunted and embarrassed him in front of a stranger; I couldn’t say I didn’t deserve it.
He caressed my bum absently, no doubt admiring the way my posture thrust it up high, inviting touch, demanding punishment. Then he tapped each cheek lightly, once, with the slipper, just as a little taster of what was to come. Shivering in my bonds, I took a deep breath.
I didn’t have to wait any longer for my spanking to begin. The slipper seemed to whistle through the air, announcing its presence in the moment before it cracked down hard on my vulnerable arse. I gave a full-throated yell, knowing no one would be disturbed by my cries.
‘For heaven’s sake, Samantha, we’ve barely begun,’ Simon pointed out.
‘But it hurts,’ I retorted.
‘Well, you should have thought of that, shouldn’t you?’ Not prepared to take any more of my nonsense, he set about spanking me in earnest. He dished out the prescribed half-dozen strokes ruthlessly but dispassionately, giving me just enough time to recover from one before laying on the next. Fire raged through my arse but, though I wriggled in my bonds, Simon had made sure I couldn’t get free. Pain mounted on pain, hot and harsh, but bubbling beneath the surface was a wellspring of pleasure. I fought for that pleasure, drinking it in; I might be bound, but I swore I wouldn’t be broken. By the time he’d finished with my beating, I doubted I’d be able to sit down for the rest of the day, but I felt a strange sense of satisfaction at having taken it all.
‘Good girl,’ Simon murmured, laying down the slipper. Now when he ran his hand over my arse, his touch was pure tenderness. His fingers traced over the sore and no doubt blotchy skin, and when they slipped lower, into the cleft between my cheeks, I didn’t object.
‘So how did you like it?’ he asked, brushing my lips with the pad of his finger before moving down to dip into the well of juice flowing from my cunt. ‘Being tied up, unable to stop me doing whatever I wanted to you …’
Now I wriggled again, no longer wanting to be free, only needing more of his teasing, frustrating touch. ‘I loved it,’ I told him honestly.
‘Even though I used all of your pointless belts?’
‘Vital accessories,’ I retorted, my bratty side reasserting itself just for a moment. Then one of Simon’s slippery fingers jammed itself into my arsehole, filling my tight rear passage, and his thumb began to play lazy circles over my clit. Ripples of pleasure rolled through my belly. ‘After all, if I hadn’t had so many belts, what would you have used to tie me up?’
Simon just chortled, and increased the speed of his strokes, reaming my arse, stimulating my pleasure button. The combination was too much to resist, and I gasped and bucked in my bonds. Driven to a point where there was no longer any holding back, I came, creaming all over his steadily wanking hand.
When I’d stopped seeing stars, Simon withdrew his finger, and I heard the sound of him tugging down his zip, and letting his trousers drop to the ground. He didn’t bother to untie me, just put the head of his cock to my arsehole and shoved home. Only when he was snugly lodged in place, in the moment before he began to fuck my punished arse, did he give an answer to my earlier question.
‘What would I have done if I hadn’t been able to fasten you in place with all those belts? Well, really, Samantha. Why do you think a gentleman owns so many neckties?’
Putting on the Dog
Heather Towne
It was the lap of luxury. And I was feeling antsy, uncomfortable in that plush, polished lap, staring across a cup of tea at Livia Chienne. The bone china alone was worth more than I was.
The fiftyish heiress was elegantly attired in a white silk blouse and cream silk skirt, a pearl necklace arranged around her slim, tan neck, golden-blonde hair swept back from her sleek patrician face. I needed a smoke in the worst way, my rumpled brown suit and tired hound-dog countenance woefully out of place in the airless, soundless, flawless white penthouse.
‘You wanted to hire me?’ I rasped. My voice grated through the perfumed stillness like a chainsaw. I could hardly believe the super-rich widow had a use for the likes of me.
She took a delicate sip of tea, set the cup and saucer down. ‘Yes. This may sound foolish, Mr Barker –’ her crystal-clear blue eyes looked downwards, high cheekbones reddening just a tad under the bronze ‘– but I want you to find my … dog – Tom. He’s gone missing.’
I blew out my cheeks, then hastily wiped away the spittle. Now it all figured. ‘Your dog? Tom?’
‘He’s an English cocker spaniel. He just turned seven last Friday. He disappeared when I was taking him for his walk last night. He, um, was about to do his business against a wall in the mouth of an alley, so I looked away.’ She looked up at me, dazzling eyes suddenly shiny with moisture. ‘And when I looked back … he was gone.’
I put the cup of tea down on the antique coffee table without breaking either and rose up on my hind legs. ‘I’d suggest a call to the pound, maybe a few posters around the neighbourhood, a Facebook page. I don’t chase runaway pooches, Mrs Chienne.’
She came to her feet as gracefully as a yacht slipping anchor and handed me a piece of paper. My puppy dog-brown eyes popped as I read it, an old-fashioned ransom note sent via email: ‘I’ve got your dog. Leave $100,000 in the wire garbage bin by the yellow fire hydrant at the entrance to Talooley Park at midnight tonight, and Tom will be returned unharmed. 894376152.’
‘894376152?’
‘That’s Tom’s ear tattoo number.’
‘Better than his real ear,’ I mumbled. ‘A hundred g’s is a lot of dog biscuits.’
‘I’m willing to pay it, Mr Barker – Ben. You see, Tom’s … all I’ve got, since my husband died.’ The blush again, the glittering blue eyes.
‘What do you want –’
‘I want you to deliver the money, ensure Tom is safely returned to me. Talooley Park is a dog park not far from here. The money is in that duffle bag over there. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars.’
It was bigger than a doggy-bag, all right, stuffed with green cabbage of the non-edible kind. ‘OK,’ I said, zipping the bag back up and hefting it. ‘I’ll do it.’
What the hell? It wouldn’t do my rep any good – gone to the dogs? – but it was the only bone I’d had tossed my way that month.
‘But Tom might already be –’
She gasped, a slender hand fluttering up to her mouth. She was cool-as-ice elegance and beauty, but still a caring, loving woman beneath all the sheen. I reached out and touched her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance, and she shivered, stiffened – body and breasts. I was suddenly aware of her nipples indenting that über-expensive top of hers now, pointing in my direction.
Her hand closed over mine on her shoulder, warm and soft and feminine. ‘I – I appreciate what you’re doing, Ben. It’s good having a man …’
I swept her up in my arms and kissed her full on the mouth.
It shocked me, too. But the lovely lady’s exquisite appearance, her scent, the surroundings, her needful, noticeable yearning, compelled me to do it. Sure, I was more than twenty years her junior, she three tax brackets my senior, but sometimes a man and a woman are just that, the barriers stripped away, damn the propriety and consequences. Livia threw her lithe arms around my gangly frame and kissed me right back.
Our mouths moved together, urgently, passionately. Her lips were slick and velvety as rose
petals. Her tongue darted into my mouth, wet satin, played against my tongue. We entwined our slippery mouth-organs, speaking the same lusty language, on the same level, breathing hotly into each other’s faces. My big hairy hands slid down her silken, curved back and onto the soft swells of her bottom. She moaned in my mouth, as I squeezed her lush cheeks.
Then she was out of my arms and hands, dropping down to her knees on the hushed white shag, deftly pulling my belt and zipper open. The sophisticated lady getting down and dirty. I watched in amazement, tremoring at the thrill of her hot, dainty palm on my hard, swollen cock, as she pulled me right out into the open and popped my bulbed hood right into her moist, heated mouth.
‘Yeah!’ I groaned, hovering my shaking hands over her perfect hair; then diving my long, blunt-nailed fingers into her coiffed yellow strands, when she took more of my pulsating meat into her mouth.
The contrast of cool wealth and red-hot lust was stunning. Livia took fully two-thirds of my rigid dong into her mouth. She sealed her glossy lips tight around my shaft, her cauldron of a mouth squeezing me, my cap crowding the back of her throat. She kept me locked down in that humid hothouse, staring up at me with brimming eyes until I desperately guided her head back and forth.
She hungrily sucked my cock, vaccing tight and wet and wonderful. I poled out for all I was worth in her mouth, my one man-asset now making up for all of her monetary ones. Her head bobbed in my hands, lips gliding, tongue caressing, mouth tugging – faster, and faster, and faster.
I was about to push her back, for fear of soiling her sultry silver-spoon mouth, when she bobbed her head right off my prick, disgorging my dripping tool. She had experience, had sensed my impending explosion.
Livia went lower, dirtier than I had any right to expect her to go, dropping her golden head down and sucking my hairy, hanging nut sack into her wicked mouth. My knees buckled and I almost folded like my cheap suit as the woman swallowed my pouch whole and pulled on it, jostling my balls around with her tongue. I gaped down at her, my big, ugly, veined dick jutting out over her cameo-perfect face, getting tea-bagged by an expert.
I pulled her to her feet. We stumbled over to the lace-shrouded seventeenth-century dining table, Livia losing her skirt somewhere along the way. I lifted her up onto the table, set her down on the edge, then ripped her modest white cotton panties in half. She rocked back, planted her hands on the table, lifted her legs and spread them. I clutched the slim limbs to my chest, staring at a pussy shaven breathtakingly clean.
I kissed Livia’s tapered ankles, caressed her smooth calves. She tore a hand off the table, grabbed my cock and slotted it into her glistening cunt. ‘Fuck me, Ben! Fuck me!’
She didn’t have to ask twice. I grabbed her taut thighs to my torso and pumped my hips, sawing my cock back and forth in her tunnel. She was tight and juicy as any woman half her age, but mature enough to convulse her cunt muscles so that she sucked on my cock as I fucked her.
‘Jesus!’ I gulped, pumping in a frenzy, wildly rocking the woman and the table. ‘Livia, I’m going to –’
‘Come inside of me! Come in my cunt!’ she screamed, her hand plunging down onto her clit and frantically buffing just above my pistoning cock swelling her pussy. Then she shuddered and bucked, vibrated in all-out orgasm.
I pounded, exploded. White-hot ecstasy shot out of my spasming cock and deep into the beautiful lady, my body and brain jolted by wicked joy, over and over.
* * *
I was at Talooley Park at midnight, carrying the duffle bag full of cash. But I’d made a stop beforehand – at a K9 buddy of mine. He’d treated the dough with a special doggy scent and lent me one of his trackers. I’d vowed to treat him to two football and three baseball games in exchange.
I tossed the duffle bag into the wire garbage bin, on top of plastic bags and bags of dog doo-doo. The park was empty, dark, not a mutt stirring or yapping. I walked back to my car, where Police Cadet Bruno was waiting and panting, anxious to make tracks.
We waited another half-hour, then hit the scented trail. The specially trained Belgian Malinois almost tore my arm out of its socket as it made my own dogs do their stuff.
Forty-five minutes later, we were on the outskirts of town. The big black-lettered sign on the large whitewashed building just off the industrial park read: Bowsers Obedience & Boarding School. There were steel cages out front for the dogs to run around in during the day. The cages were empty now, the building conspicuously quiet for a doggy dormitory.
Bruno leapt at the red-painted front door, ready to tear strips off. I yanked him back, anxious to let sleeping dogs, and humans, inside lie. Then something round and hard jabbed into my back and someone hissed hard into my ear, ‘Hold it right there, buster!’
I held it.
Bruno swivelled and yelped.
‘Quiet!’
Bruno’s jaws clamped shut, and he hung his head. I wasn’t the only one obeying orders.
We left my back-up on the doorstep of the building, tied up to a railing, passive as a Tasered suspect. I was prodded inside, down a hallway lined with staring, kennelled dogs, into a play area carpeted with chew toys. The pooches didn’t so much as growl as we passed by. And when the door closed on them, and I was told I could turn around, I saw why.
She was well over six feet tall, whip-thin body sheathed in a gleaming black rubber getup I would’ve called a catsuit except for the canine surroundings. Her jet-black hair was sheared short and severe, her narrowed eyes just as black and stern, lips slashed with three layers of brilliant red lipstick. Her face was hard and high-planed and handsome, her expression downright imperious. She was probably in her late forties, and had the bearing of someone who’d commanded respect from two- and four-legged animals all her life.
‘I’m Kay Bowsers,’ the woman rapped. ‘I own this place. Why were you trying to break in?’
I squared my stooped shoulders and swallowed the lump of fear in my throat. ‘You kid-, er, dognapped Livia Chienne’s cocker spaniel, Tom. We tracked you and the pay-off here. I want the mutt and the money, in that order.’
She strolled forward on three-inch-high black boot heels, stroking her whip. That’s what I’d felt in the small of my back – the handle-end of what looked like an oversized black riding crop. She stood in front of me, looking down at me. ‘Take off your clothes. Then get down on your hands and knees. You need to be taught a lesson.’
‘Name’s Ben Barker, not Warrindale Fido Von Yorkington, lady. I’m no show dog. If you –’
She cracked the whip across the tombstone-white palm of her hand, her eyes cold as onyx.
I peeled off my duds like I was shedding fur for the summer. There was just something about her – her voice, her posture, her all-powerful presence. Plus, this was the play area.
She surveyed my naked body. Then she curled a lip, gestured with the whip. I dropped down onto all fours on the indoor-outdoor carpeting. Kay clamped a studded leather collar around my neck, latched a steel chain leash to it and muzzled my mush with a brown leather-braided muzzle.
Then she strutted away from me in her glistening black boots, yanking on the leash. I crawled after her, obediently trailing my master all around the room on my hands and knees.
She abruptly stopped. I kept crawling forward. She jerked on the chain and I was pulled up by the collar.
‘Let’s see your form,’ she stated, walking around to the side of my doggy-postured body.
I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant.
She meant for me to show my posed form – like in a dog show. That much did become clear when she whacked me with her whip of instruction on the small of my back, then up under my dangling dick, pulling my head up by the neck as she did so. I arched my back and neck and thrust out my butt, as rapidly as she snapped out the commands with her crop. I was quickly posed bowser-style, rigid all over and especially at the groin. I could’ve flushed birds out of the bush with my cock, if I was that kind of dog.
Kay surveyed my form
with two very critical eyes, strolling back and forth at my panting side. Then, finally, satisfied to some extent I had no way of guessing, she smacked my rump with her whip. I jumped, body and cock both.
‘Let’s see how you take commands.’
I’d thought that’s what I’d been doing, as obediently as possible. But this was Kay’s command performance. I was just the trained animal who did what she said, or suffered the striking consequences. I’d never been lower in my life, or felt higher.
‘Sit.’
I sprang up off my front paws and lurched backwards onto my butt. And toppled right over onto my side. The blood had rushed to my head – what little was left from my cock.
Kay yanked my chain and whacked my shoulder. I pushed up and rocked back, splaying my buttocks out on my heels, sitting up on my knees. Anxious to please, I wasn’t sure whether to raise my hands into a begging position or what.
Kay studied me, her dark eyes and crimson lips revealing not a trace of emotion. Whether from training or tendency, I wasn’t quite sure at that point.
She flicked the flexible leather tip of her whip against one of my nipples, then the other. The pink buds instantly blossomed, hard and buzzing. Being on the other side of the leash was turning me on like I never would’ve believed. Normally, I like to be the one in control (who doesn’t?), but getting ordered around, submitting to an authority figure (with a very attractive figure), was somehow liberating, definitely arousing. Submission was obviously sexually appealing to me. Who knew?