I hadn’t just broken my promise to Jake, I obliterated it. Shopping online at work was too easy, and the more I bought and got away with, the more I wanted. I had never been so obsessed with shoes until I wasn’t allowed to have them. Now I could barely last a week without buying a pair, even if I didn’t really want them. As soon as I knew Jake wasn’t looking, I was buying. And the sick part was I couldn’t even wear the shoes, for fear Jake would notice the new pair.
Once or twice I had managed to convince him that the brand new beauties on my feet were an old pair he had simply forgotten about. Since I own so many shoes it worked. But the rest of my collection shoes sat idle in a hiding place in my closet, waiting for the day when we could move, and my shopping ban would be lifted.
I heard him stirring in the other room, and I quickly threw the accessories back inside the bags and hid them under the bed. The bag had just made it out of sight when the door opened.
‘What are you hiding in here for? I made dinner.’ His smile was so sweet, so kind. I felt my stomach turn over with the thought of lying to him once again.
‘Nothing. I was just going to get changed. I’ll be right there.’ He walked out leaving me to endure a fresh pall of guilt. Gingerly, I pulled a bag out from under the bed and opened a box. The purple Kenneth Cole’s looked up at me fetchingly. I was soothed by their beauty, their intoxicating leather smell. They would look fabulous with my new black dress. Suddenly, my guilt was gone, and replaced by the warm feeling only new shoes can provide. Placing them back in banishment, I headed to the kitchen and my sweet, sweet man.
I knew I had to stop, had to rein myself in. Sooner or later, Jake was going to find out, and I knew I was going to be sorry then. I hadn’t set out to hurt him, but when he found out (if he found out) what I had done, he would be hurt. I kept telling myself he would never have to know, as long as I stopped now, thinking I could hide what I already had. But, by this time, the whole top shelf of my closet and under the bed had been taken up by my clandestine purchases. I knew I was on the edge of being discovered.
Walking to the train station after work, I strode past the row of shops I see every day. Keeping my eyes forward, I tried to not notice the entire display of boots in the front window. I tried to untie the knot in my stomach as the black leather knee high boots called out to me from behind the glass. They sat proud on a pedestal, high above the other merely average boots. These boots were special.
I was fogging up the glass of the window. The boots seemed to be specially lit, shining in all their 40 per cent off glory.
Then my hand was on the door. Then I was inside.
I promised myself these would absolutely, definitely, without a doubt, be the very last pair of shoes I would buy for a long long time. The very last thing I would have to hide. The very, very last pair of boots I would ever need.
This time, when I went home, I didn’t bother trying to hide anything. I walked straight into the bedroom, fearless. Jake had called; he was working late, so I would have plenty of time to enjoy my boots before they had to go into hiding with the others. I changed my clothes and poured a glass of wine. Pulling down the boxes and bags, I started putting on the shoes, admiring them one pair at a time. I had missed them all so much.
The last thing I did was slide the beautiful boots out of the box and slip them on. But as I stood in my underwear, staring into the closet, trying to find a prefect outfit to go with the boots, I heard the doorknob turn. My heart shot into my throat.
Jake walked into the room, his eyes wide with disbelief. All around me were shoes, and belts and new outfits too, all out of hiding, all exposed. Jake looked at me, and then the shoes, and back again at me. Finally, he found his voice. ‘Would you like to tell me what the hell all this is? Where did it come from, Tara?’
I felt sick. The look on his face made me forget every good feeling buying the shoes had brought. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would make it better. He walked towards the bed, surveying the damage. With Jake in the room and with my plunder all gathered in one place, the scale of what I had done surprised even me. His hand had settled on the Kenneth Cole shoes, the perfect purple ones.
‘Answer me, Tara. Now!’
I swallowed. I had no defence. Especially after all he had given up for me.
‘I’m so sorry Jake. I can’t explain it. It’s like an addiction. I don’t know why I do it. I can’t stop.’
Jake came towards me, still clutching the shoe in his hand. I had never seen him look so angry. He was always so sweet, so gentle. But that Jake had been replaced by a far more serious and pissed-off Jake. He grabbed my wrist and I was overcome by another shot of adrenalin. My hands started shaking uncontrollably.
‘You’re sorry. That is all you have to say. We agreed no more spending. I gave up my trip for you. For us. You couldn’t give up some lousy shoes. God, Tara, this is crazy. I knew you were a shop-a-holic, but this is ridiculous. You were willing to lie to me, for this.’ He shook the shoe in front of my face and then threw it back on the bed. His hand was still around my wrist.
‘And, what do we have here?’ He gestured to the boots on my feet. I had forgotten they were still on. ‘Nice boots. Just get them today?’
I nodded, not knowing what else to do. ‘Jake, let me try and explain.’ But, before I could say another word, he pulled me towards the bed and turned me around to look at the huge pile of extravagances I had accumulated.
‘So how long have you been lying to me, Tara? How long did you wait before you started buying stuff again?’ He was behind me, digging his hand into my arm, his breath hot on my neck.
‘Since March.’
He seemed unsurprised by my answer. I heard him sigh, and I waited for another rant, another onslaught about how terrible I was.
‘What am I going to do with you, Tara? What are we going to do about all of this?’ His tone wasn’t angry anymore. That didn’t surprise me either. Jake always had trouble staying mad at me, even when I did something really dumb.
I was surprised, however, by his mouth on my neck, gently biting my skin. My bra was soon on the floor, and I leaned back into him and let his hands roam over my body. Just as I relaxed into him and his teasing fingers on my nipples, he stopped. Suddenly, he had my wrists together in his hand, and pulled me down towards the footboard of the bed. I tried to break free, but he was too strong. Grabbing a scarf from the pile, he quickly knotted it around my hands and then to the metal frame. I pulled on my restraint, but it was too tight.
‘This isn’t funny, Jake. Let me go.’
He just smiled at me. I was bent at the waist; my face close to the mattress. ‘Oh, I don’t think so, honey. I think you need to be punished for what you did. For lying to me, for breaking my trust. What else am I supposed to do? You won’t listen, and I can only think of one suitable course of action.’
He ran a hand over my back, before smacking my ass, lightly. The jolt of contact sent me forward; another surprise from my gentle boyfriend. He slapped again, just hard enough to let me know he was serious. Any thoughts I had about him joking left the room.
‘Let’s have a look at some of these shoes.’ Weeding through the pile, he found the purple Kenneth Cole again. Holding it by the heel, he looked it over. ‘Pretty. How much did they cost?’ Before I could answer, he slapped the sole against my skin. Once, twice, three times more, the shoe hit my ass. I gasped, not so much from the pain, but from the whole situation. It was making me impossibly hot, something I had not expected.
‘Three hundred.’ With that answer, another three hits came down on my flesh. It hurt more than I expected, but each hit turned me on more than the last. I had never considered spanking before, because I never thought Jake would agree to it. This new side of Jake was having a huge effect on me. He put down the shoe, and reached for another from the stack. It was the black Jimmy Choo I had bought months before.
‘What about this one? What did this set us back?’ He ran the suede gently over my
ass, now hot from the spanking. ‘I don’t remember. Maybe four hundred.’ The words were just out of my mouth when the next barrage came. I lost count of how many times he spanked the beautiful shoe against my ass. Over and over I felt the sting on my skin, the small sole radiating pain out and over my whole body. My panties were soaked through, and I felt the sweat forming on my face. Jake stopped and stood behind me, admiring his work.
‘You should see how red your ass is.’ I jumped when I felt the palm of his hand. The gentle rubbing felt like sand paper, his touch not doing a thing to soothe me. Soon his fingers found their way to my pussy, and he teased me through the wet fabric. ‘My, my. You must be enjoying yourself. Maybe you did all this on purpose, to finally get me to spank you. You could have just asked, you know.’ He shucked off my thong, pulling it down over the soft leather of my new boots.
‘These really are nice boots. Especially from this view. I think they were made for this.’ His hands slid up my thighs, continuing upwards until they reached to my nipples, which were hard and aching for attention. Teasing me, I felt his hard cock through his pants, rubbing my raw bottom. But he didn’t let it remain there for long. The spanking continued. Chanel, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin. They all had their turn on my searing, hot flesh.
Finally, he stopped torturing me, leaving the rest of the shoes in the mess around me. My wrists ached from the scarf, and I was desperate for him to fuck me. I whimpered as he walked around me, begging him to fuck me, to release the ache he started inside me. Just when I thought he was going to leave me there, his fingers slipped into my cunt, and with such ease. He leaned down and kissed my lips. His gentle side didn’t stay for long, as he put his hand in my hair, gently pulling my head back. I couldn’t take much more. I whimpered again as the pain shot straight to my pussy.
‘Do you think you’ve learned your lesson yet?’
I nodded, pushing myself back onto his waiting fingers. I think, deep down, we both knew I would never reform.
‘We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ He groaned as he finally entered me with his hard cock. He fucked me slow, bumping into my tender ass with each thrust. I murmured promises of willpower, self-control and no more shoes. But as my eyes scanned the bed, I realized there was a sale at Saks the following week.
After all, he hadn’t said anything about purses, had he?
Red
by Charlotte Stein
He has absolutely no idea that I’m there, so it’s not really a big deal that he drops his pants. He thinks he’s all alone in the office and free to change into nice, comfy, after-work sort of clothes. No one is here to see that he’s not wearing any underwear.
And certainly no one is here to see the flash of red, on his smooth golden ass.
At first I look away. Like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t and I know it, instinctively. I don’t mind staring at his bare butt, so much, but sneaking a peek at something secretive and strange, that’s beyond the pale.
But then I want to be sure of what I’ve seen. I can still see that red mark, behind my eyes. I can see it when I sit back down at my desk, behind this cubicle wall. I need to have another look, before it becomes a trick of the light or something far more boring. Or becomes just, you know, not that.
But it is that. I peer back around the wall and laser in on where he’s standing: by his desk, about six cubicles down. Just out in the open enough for me to spy him. And to spy what is definitely a red handprint, peeking out from beneath the completely inadequate cover of his shirt-tails.
Someone has spanked Blake Cooper’s ass. His name is Blake and he drives a Porsche and he’s the biggest most arrogant douchebag to ever walk the face of the earth, and yet someone has still spanked him. The evidence is right there, that blazing red mark like a scarlet letter. A scarlet letter written to me: I have been punished, for being an immense douche.
Once, I saw him wave his coffee cup at our boss, Mrs Henderson. If women turn him down, they’re lesbians. He spends two hundred quid on a haircut, and then tells everyone in meetings, loudly.
And all the while someone’s been spanking him, the fucking faker. It’s all just a show, just a front, and he proves it when he turns around too suddenly, and catches me staring. All that expensive tanning drains out of his handsome face. He tries to put his jacket on, and instead jams his arm into a hole that isn’t there.
Then he dashes off before I can expose further dents, in his asshole facade. Though for the life in me I can’t think why you’d want the asshole to be your storefront, while the slap-happy slut lies locked in the closet.
I bet he doesn’t think I’m going to follow him about, to see what he’s up to. I bet the arrogance slips right back on, when his arse isn’t on show. He can shrug it off, roll with it: so what if that little peon stared at him. What does she know about anything?
I know that everything here is grey, and I want red red red. I want to measure that handprint on his ass, and match it to his dirty co-conspirator. I want to see that slick exterior crumble and dissolve, leaving behind nothing. Nothing at all. He’s never done anything to me, never said a word; in meetings, he looks right through me. But that’s not the point, is it?
The point is that I can’t stop thinking about him bent over something. Or maybe he doesn’t bend at all. Maybe his partner in crime is really petite, and when he’s standing his arse is at just the right level to catch a good swing from the shoulder.
The handprint looked quite small, so it’s probably a woman. Maybe Connie, the head of accounting. She’s small and strict and mean-eyed. I could imagine her smacking him and smacking him until his arse-cheeks grew hot and red, and then ordering him through some urgent fucking.
Get on top. Put it in. Move in time to the tapping of my fingernails, on this counter-top. Don’t grunt, it makes you sound like a beast. Stop scrunching up your face, stop breathing hard. You’re going to lose it, aren’t you? I can feel that you’re about to spurt, you disgusting animal. Go on, then. Go on.
I have no idea why thinking of Connie from accounting ordering Cooper about is turning me on. Though I guess my current state of arousal might have something to do with the following, the sneaking around, the anticipation of catching him again.
I think he might be anticipating it too. In the meeting after lunch, he’s not looking through me any more. I can feel the absence of his absence, and his furtive, sweaty agitation. Even the boss notices it; she asks him if he’s feeling like himself, today.
‘Long night,’ he says, and does the whole nine yards: winks, nudges, hey fellas you know what I’m talking about, right?
And it just so happens that I do know what you’re talking about, Cooper. You’re talking about how you lay in bed last night, staring up at the ceiling, gripped by the icy cold knowledge that one of your colleagues knows that in your spare time you like to bend over and just … take it.
And then maybe afterwards, when you’re crying tears of shame and delicious agony, she (because his dirty co-conspirator has definitely now solidified into a she, in my feverish brain) takes pity on you, and licks cool stripes over the hot flesh of your perfect ass. Though of course it could be that she has no mercy at all and instead leaves you tied somewhere, with your ass burning and your cock stiffer than it’s ever been.
The image of him squirming like a pinned bug is so clear in my mind, that briefly I’m the one who’s embarrassed. I’ve never thought of Blake Cooper in anything resembling a sexual manner before, and yet here he is, naked from the waist down, bent and spread and humiliated, thick hard cock poking up at nothing. Begging for it, probably: please, please fuck me. Please, suck me off. Anything, I’ll do anything, just …
I don’t think I’ve ever been as turned on as I am right now, sat in this boring grey meeting with thoughts of Cooper’s potential antics running through my mind. Not even Ewan McGregor, fucking away in every film he’s been in has ever gotten me to this point. I think I’m light-headed. I think I might be hallucinating.
But I don’t need to do anything that insane, because it seems he did mean to sort of blunder into me. He uses it to slyly take my arm, and manoeuvre me down a hallway I didn’t intend to take. Of course, if Blake Cooper had done such a thing before what happened yesterday, I’d have jumped away from him as though struck.
But things are different now. Now I’m laughing, and he’s red-faced and grim. He pushes me into Gerald Farber’s empty office in a way that suggests he’s going to be the one in control, he’s going to show me a thing or two.
Until he shuts the door behind us, and then he’s just a wheedling, bargaining, guy-who’s-into-some-kinky-spanking-fun. The transformation is astonishing, marvellous. He puts his hands together, like he’s praying. His eyes are wild and desperate; his voice goes up and down like a rollercoaster.
‘Scarlett, I’m asking you. No, I am begging you. From one trusted colleague and friend to another … please don’t tell anyone about anything you may or may not have seen, some time yesterday.’
I almost feel bad for him. Or I would, if the heady thrill of having power over him wasn’t going to my head as quickly as it had probably gone to Connie’s, or Mrs Henderson’s, or whoever it is that’s giving him what he’s so mysteriously embarrassed about.
Or not so mysteriously, all things considered. People might not see him as a potential youngest ever CEO of the company, if they knew he liked to bury his face in some Amazon’s cunt, while she barked orders at him. Harder, you little fucker. Harder, yes, God yes.
My brain is rambling. I think I’ve been keeping my slap-happy slut in the closet too. Though, I’ve got to say, I think mine’s more of a happy to slap slut, than happy to be slapped slut.
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