He was probably a conman. Possibly even a rapist. Or a murderer. I read on.
Send me the details of your wrongdoings and I will formulate a suitable penalty. If you have a bad habit or recurrent fault you would like to work on, then we can establish a disciplinary programme, involving regular progress reports and motivational chastisements.
I felt prickly and tight-chested, my knickers incriminatingly damp. Even if he was a conman … just an email wouldn’t hurt, would it?
Several emails later, I rolled up at his door, dressed as instructed in a mini-kilt, white shirt, thigh-high socks and Mary Janes. I wondered if he would answer the door in a cloak and mortarboard. I rather hoped not.
And indeed he managed to swerve that particular cliché, even though he’d made me embrace it with my attire. The man who answered the door was younger than I expected – maybe about thirty – and I thought immediately that he was too handsome to be using all that fusty old schoolmasterish language. Even if I did find it hot. He wore a suit, which was … reassuring in a way, but it was a sharply cut, trendy kind of suit and he had an open collar rather than a tie. And his smile was beatifically beautiful. He looked like a man I might eye up in a bar. And I was slightly alarmed that he might lack the natural authority for what I had in mind, especially when he said, warmly and without a trace of sternness, ‘Ah, you must be Kat. Come in.’
His place was neat and redolent of modern bachelorhood. I had been expecting lots of chintz and brass, don’t ask me why. He took my coat and offered me a seat on the leather sofa.
‘Can I get you a drink? Sometimes a little Dutch courage goes a long way.’ He half-winked at me.
I laughed nervously. ‘Oh … maybe a white wine. If you have one.’
‘Sure.’
Would I be expected to make conversation? I did not think I would be capable, but he eased me in with his pleasant, open manner and we found ourselves discussing work and traffic and the weather as if we were already friends.
‘So how did you find me?’ he asked, halfway through the glass, the change of tone so abrupt that I sloshed a little of the wine over the rim.
‘Well … Google …’ I said. Suddenly my breathing was not coming so easily and I wanted to fold my arms over my chest and look away from his eyes, which had been kind and were now piercing.
‘Google, eh? I wonder what search term might have led to me?’
‘Oh,’ I laughed, very nervously. ‘Something silly … and embarrassing.’
‘Tell me.’
This wasn’t light conversation any more. I felt as if I was in the witness box undergoing rigorous cross-examination. I bit my lip.
‘When I ask you a question, young lady, I expect an answer.’
Oh, that did it. That opened the thigh-top floodgates all right, that ‘young lady’. Even though I could not have been more than a couple of years younger than him.
‘Well, I think it was … oh God, I can’t believe I’m saying this …erm … “bad girls need a spanking”.’ I lifted my eyes to the ceiling in mortification.
‘No, look at me. Good girl. That must have been difficult for you to say, but you said it all the same. I appreciate your honesty and courage.’
I basked in this stranger’s approval, utterly transfixed by the effortless power he radiated. Had I really thought to question his authority? It seemed ridiculously blind of me now to have done so. I adjusted my frame of mental reference: quiet and low-key do not equate to easy-going and submissive.
‘So you’re a bad girl, are you?’ he asked next, sipping at his drink.
‘Sometimes.’
‘You think you need a spanking?’
‘That’s, ah, why I’m here.’
He nodded, accepting my little hint of snark without rancour.
‘Of course. It’s why you’re here. And this bad girl, Kat … is she bad a lot, or is this a one-off situation? Because I can deal with either scenario. A conscience-cleanser, so you can move forward with your life … or a more long-term mentorship arrangement. Which do you think would be most appropriate for you?’
Good question. ‘I … well. I seem to never learn from my mistakes. I think I need something a little stronger than the possibility of everything going pear-shaped … to influence my decision-making. A deterrent. Stop me doing all the same things. Drinking too much and getting off with the wrong people. Slacking off at work and getting more and more disorganised. It’s like, I can sort myself out for a few weeks, and then I start sliding again.’
The idea of this man being a mentor … a disciplinarian mentor … oh God. I was so wet now that I feared for the leather of the sofa. Would he spank me even harder if I messed up his furniture?
‘Right,’ he said, and he stood up, took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. I forgot to breathe, my wine glass frozen in my hand, watching him like a tiny mouse in the sights of a raptor. ‘If this goes well for you, then, Kat, perhaps we can come to a more formal arrangement. But first, I need you to put down that glass and fetch the straight-backed chair from the corner, please.’
My chest decompressed in an undignified rush. I rose on shaky legs and went to fetch the chair, which was plain old-fashioned wood with a very high back and no arms, in the Shaker style, I suppose, though I’m not sure that’s still in fashion. I could imagine Professor Strict – or whatever his real name was – as the preacher of some old-time religion, thumping the Bible in a kitchen with a similar light oak finish. Sending the girls outside to cut switches: oh yes, he had that look.
Shaker style was apt, because I was shaking, nay quaking, with the enormity of what I was doing. This was really happening. I could leave. I didn’t have to go through with it.
But he took my elbow, firmly but not painfully, seated himself on the austere chair of chastisement, and pulled me down over his lap in such a seamless gesture that I almost didn’t realise what he was doing. Talk about a shift in perspective. There, stomach pressed tightly to his expensively-trousered thighs, legs sloping down to the floor and head dangling perilously close to the shiny leather of his shoe, I truly felt the ignominy of my position. I was not even remotely in control of this situation, even though I was the ‘client’ and he the ‘service provider’. It was such … a relief. Yes. A relief. What happened next would not and should not be up to me. I wanted it to be up to him. And I knew he would not fail me.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to keep still? Or should I hold your wrists behind your back?’
‘I really don’t know. I’ve never …’
‘All right. We’ll see how we get on.’ One hand cupped the tartan seat of my skirt, tapping it lightly and experimentally. ‘How’s your pain threshold?’
‘OK, I think.’
‘If you get to the point where you really can’t bear any more, you must tell me. Think of a word.’
My mind went blank. Think of a word? What sort of a word? Any old word?
‘Or should I think of one for you?’
‘Yes please.’
‘OK, the word is Antidisestablishmentarianism. Got that?’
I giggled and squirmed in his lap. ‘That’s too long!’ I objected.
‘You had your chance. Right then. I hear you’ve been a bad girl, Kat, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I muttered, glad that he could not see my flushed face.
‘Didn’t catch that, Kat,’ he said, with a leisurely swipe of my behind that shocked more than it hurt. ‘Was that Yes? Or was it Yes, sir? Which do you think is the right answer?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I squeaked.
‘Better. So what do you think happens to bad girls, Kat? Bad girls who come to my home?’
‘I think … they get a spanking, sir.’
He rubbed my skirt over my bottom, the hem tickling my thigh so that I wriggled. ‘Is this irritating you, Kat? Perhaps we should get it out of the way.’ He raised the material to reveal my white cotton briefs, stretched tight over my vulnerable globes. ‘That was the right an
swer, incidentally. Well done. Can’t say it’s going to spare you any of what’s coming to you though. Speaking of which …’
His hand raised the most resounding crack Oh, on the thin cotton his hand raised the most resounding crack, making me jerk and yelp in surprise. The fabric was barely any barrier at all to his painful purpose, and he rained down a few more, glorying in the crispness and efficiency of his technique, for I was already whimpering and trying to rearrange myself to a less wide-open position on his lap – which he was having none of, of course.
‘You asked for this, Kat,’ he said warningly. ‘You know it’s what you need. You shouldn’t fight it, should you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No, sir. That’s right.’ And his hand was being gentle now, rubbing at the site of the soreness, dissipating the sting. ‘This’ll help you take a longer spanking,’ he told me, ruining my illusion that it was all out of the kindness of his heart. ‘Short, sharp shocks are all very well, but I think a good, long session over my lap will be better for you.’ And with that, he repeated the initial fusillade, peppering me with hard smacks until I tried to cover my backside and, sighing deeply, he was forced to hold my wrists in the small of my back.
He repeated the punishing process several times until I was no longer able to count, twisting like a tethered eel and failing in my original intention of savouring every moment so it would imprint itself indelibly on my memory. All I could think of was how it hurt and how I could minimise the hurting and how I somehow never wanted it to end all the same. I think I was supposed to be listening to what he was saying too, but his voice, though rather calming with its low, slightly northern, timbre, did not succeed in communicating its words to my brain.
Until he stopped and I flopped my head down from its tense upward crick and sighed.
‘Think I’ve finished, do you?’ he said. ‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve said? Eh? What did I just say?’
‘Oh … I don’t know! I sort of lost consciousness a bit there,’ I meeped apologetically.
‘Well, it’s an intense experience, Kat, but don’t forget, the whole point is to learn from it. What have you learned so far?’
‘That you have a hard hand.’
‘Hmm. Well, that’s true. I think you need to come up with a bit more than that though. Let’s see if this will make any difference.’
‘Oh God!’ I spluttered as he began to peel the knickers down over my tingly-warm rear, tugging at them until they rested mid-thigh, exposing all my most hidden fleshy parts to close inspection.
‘Let’s get serious, shall we? You’ve been getting away with things for far too long. It’s time for some consequences. Are you ready for the consequences?’
‘Ah … I … think so.’ A slap that must have printed the shape of his hand on my bottom descended. ‘Ow!’
‘I think so what?’
‘I think so, sir.’
I’ve had many more spankings over his knee, or leaning over his table, or over pillows on his bed since then. Some have been by his hand, but these days he often moves on to something, as he would say, ‘a little more salutary’. Perhaps a hairbrush or a belt or a long thin rod or a thing with lots of whippy strands. But that first occasion is the one that stands out, the one I often go back to in my sleeplessness. It is not so much the heavy hand falling on my bottom, or the humiliating nakedness, or the extensive and ear-burning lecture he delivered; it is more to do with the feeling of being cared for. I know that must sound insane. But afterwards, after he had straightened me up and pulled up my knickers and sat me down next to him on the sofa and stroked my hair and given me a tissue and made everything better again – that time was priceless and precious. And addictive.
I came back for more, and more, and more again. Twice a month, regularly as clockwork, I presented my backside for a blistering at his cruelly refined hands, and he never disappointed. On the second visit, he asked me if I wanted a little … relief … after my spanking, and I let him put the hand that had hurt me between my legs to wring pleasure from the pain. About a month later we started ending up in the bedroom – it seemed such a natural and logical extension of the unnatural and illogical way our interactions had begun. He cared for me, enough to see that I did not get away with being any less than I could be, and I loved him for that, and wanted to give the gift back to him.
And now, six months later, I am in line for promotion at work. I drink less, avoid dodgy people and situations, keep myself safe and clean and fresh. But there’s only one problem – I don’t want to get involved with anyone but him. Professor Strict. OK, that’s not his real name. He is called Aidan.
I’m a fool for love, and there’s no spanking hard enough to help me with that.
So I think this one will be our final session. I have to walk away before I fall apart. Only when I call to make the appointment, he says that he is shutting up shop.
‘What do you mean? You don’t want to spank girls for money any more? Are you mad? That’s so many men’s dream gig … are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ he said with a slightly defensive laugh. ‘Meet me for a drink. I’ll tell you about it. Can you be in O’Malleys later on, about six?’
A drink! A proper social-type situation! As if we were friends, or something.
I hope he might at least offer me one final bottom-warming for the road, but when I see him in a corner booth, nursing a whisky with about half a polar ice cap in it, my heart jumps a little, then sinks. He looks so pensive.
I slip in opposite him with my wine.
‘What’s gone wrong, Aidan? Have you got RSI in your spanking arm or something? I wonder if Injury Lawyers 4U deal with that kind of thing …’
His luscious lips curve upward in a faint smile. ‘I doubt it,’ he says. ‘Anyway, my arm’s fine. As you might get to find out for yourself, if you’re lucky. Or unlucky, depending how you look at it.’
‘So you’re not quitting the scene then?’ I grin, delighted, even though I know I had been planning to make this our last rendezvous.
‘Oh, yeah, I’m not taking bookings any more.’
‘Oh. So …?’
‘I don’t need the money. My day job earns me more than enough.’
‘Ah. OK. But … didn’t you enjoy it?’
The look he gives me turns the wine to fire, all the way from my throat to my stomach. ‘You know I did. You know I do. But I don’t want to be a gun for hire any more. I want an arse to call my own.’
The glass jerks in my hand and I slop wine over the table, as is my habit. I can’t help barking with laughter at his turn of phrase.
‘You mean … a serious relationship? Of some kind.’
‘Of some kind, yeah. Man, woman, kinky sex and, y’know, maybe even a bit of normal stuff thrown in on top. Like this. This is almost normal, isn’t it? And it’s OK. Don’t you think?’
I do think. I think I don’t even dare ask the next question. But I force it through.
‘So … do you have a candidate? Or are you going to start looking?’
‘I have a candidate.’ I feel sick. The wine is like prussic acid eating at my core. Why must he keep looking at me with those eyes? What does it mean?
‘Oh,’ is all I can say.
‘Come on, Kat, put me out of my misery.’
The prussic acid is now gunpowder, setting off fireworks that shoot to the roots and tips of my being.
‘Do you mean me?’
‘Of course I mean you! I haven’t spent the last six months shagging you just to bin you off because I don’t want your money any more. God, what do you think of me?’
‘What about the others though?’
‘I didn’t shag any of the others. Jesus. I’m not a fucking gigolo.’
‘A non-fucking gigolo would be a bit pointless.’
‘Don’t, Kat. And that’s exactly what I was – a non-fucking gigolo. Not that I think there’s anything so wrong with that. But I want to move on now. With you, if you think your arse c
an take it.’
‘I think it can.’
He smiles brilliantly enough to melt the last of the ice-cubes in his drink.
‘That’s a yes?’
‘That’s a yes.’
We seal the deal in the pub car park, over the low wall with my skirt up and my knickers down, his belt flying through the evening air, all invisible in the darkness but just close enough to the pub to add a hint of risk.
‘You’d better get used to the idea of bending over at a moment’s notice,’ says Aidan, his arm beneath my ribcage, holding me against him, his other hand tugging at my hair so that his lips can reach my ear without hindrance. ‘I’m a spontaneous kind of guy when I want to be.’
Afterwards, he sits me down on the hard brick so that I feel every tiny bruise and sore patch against my spontaneously- spanked bum, and he kisses me until I think I will fall backwards on to the tarmac.
‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ he whispers.
‘No.’
‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’
It’s All Jenna Jameson’s Fault
by Cyanne
It’s all Jenna Jameson’s fault.
It was her book that gave me the idea.
The new club I was working at promised a shorter drive to work, an earlier finish, and access to the city’s top earners as they entertained clients and were more than ready to splash their bonuses on having me rub myself all over them.
Happily for most of the girls, but sadly for my exhibitionistic self, the club was only licensed for topless dances, even in the VIP, where I had previously been able to go all out showing off my pussy and had climaxed on a customer’s lap on more than one occasion.
I’ve been a lap dancer since I was 19 and have enjoyed every lip-licking, arse-shaking second off it. I’ve made some friends for life in those chilly dressing rooms as we safety pinned each other’s costumes and straightened each other’s hair. Most of us – whatever reasons we cite, when pressed by the occasional journalist passing through researching the new licensing laws, or filming the ‘secret’ world of the strip club for some voyeuristic mock-umentary for those who daren’t step through the opaque doors and see for themselves – are there at least partly because we love the attention. Of course £600 in a night helps, as does the hours you can fit around studying for your masters, looking after the kids, or writing a book. But for many of us, we just like to be looked at. Did I say we? Obviously I meant I.
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