Ultimate Spanking

by Miranda Forbes

  ‘I have pull in this place. If you keep this to yourself – and really, what did you see anyway? – I could set things up. In a year’s time, you could be my executive assistant.’

  I am currently occupying the exact same position he is, and in the last year my sales exceeded his by over thirty per cent. But I guess he’s getting his second wind now. You know, the one that puffs him up to three times his actual size.

  ‘I mean, come on. You don’t want to tell anyone about this, right? I’m sure you do some kinky things, with your boyfriend. Even though you don’t have a boyfriend. And you’re not dating. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with anybody.’

  He points his prayer hands at me.

  ‘But I’m getting off target. You and me, we’re cool, right? You’re not going to tell anybody about this, and we’ll just go on with our lives, like nothing ever happened. Right? Aces.’

  He claps his hands together, smiling in that smug way of his, even if said smugness doesn’t quite touch his darting, furtive eyes. He thinks he’s got me down cold with that smooth salesman’s patter, but his eyes still speak of his intense bowel-clenching fear.

  I think it’s this fear that stops him dead in his tracks, when I speak just as he’s going for the door.

  ‘What was it that happened, again, Coop?’

  That’s what his squash pallies call him, as they slap his back and coo over his car. Coop.

  ‘I saw your … sunburned ass, correct? I mean, that’s what it was. Sunburn. Right?’

  He turns, throws up one hand. Blows out one of those blustery, but of course breaths.

  ‘Exactly! We’re on the same page.’

  He even winks, and gives me the finger guns.

  ‘The page where it looked like someone’s handprint, on your bare ass. Right?’

  His face collapses into the arms of desperate, again. But this time it’s brought its friends. This time it’s grim, and threatening. He leans in close, just so that I get the threatening, if slightly ludicrous, picture. He’s just so sweaty and agitated.

  ‘Listen, Scarlett. I could make life very difficult for you, here. Oh yeah, I can do that. I could destroy your career.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because I hear that guys who like being spanked almost never get executive assistants.’

  Truthfully, I’m sure people would actually think better of him, if they knew. I certainly do. But, oh, it’s fun to watch him fall apart. He can be my executive assistant, little smug punk that he is.

  He tries to laugh it off, but his laugh comes out higher than Joe Pasquale on helium.

  ‘I do not like to be spanked, or humiliated, or dominated in any way, by anyone.’

  I think I love him a little bit, for adding all those extra bits on without me having to ask.

  ‘I bet you don’t like having hot wax dripped on you while you’re tied to a bed, either.’

  ‘No, I definitely do not like that.’ He pauses. The expression he then gives me is as delicious as it is amusing: it’s greedy curiosity, plain as day.

  ‘Why? Do you do that?’

  ‘Do you want me to do that?’

  The swagger in my voice. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

  ‘Hey listen. I don’t want to do anything with you,’ he says, as though that’s just the most hilarious idea in the world.

  But I think he might actually be lying.

  ‘Who is it?’ I ask, and suddenly enough to catch him off guard. Of course, he acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He tries to shrug it off. But what I say next has a different effect altogether. ‘Tell me who it is, and I’ll let you go.’

  His electric blue eyes, perhaps the only truly sexy thing about him, snap to me. I think of mean Connie’s hand descending, and have to squeeze my thighs together. I have to think of England. I think of the girl in the closet, raising her fist to smash at the door.

  ‘I … no. I can’t.’

  There’s no shrugging it off, now.

  ‘Sure you can. It’s easy. She won’t mind, I’m sure. If anything, I’ve got to think she’s proud of all the humble pie she’s making you choke down.’

  ‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m betting I know her.’

  I could mean several things, saying that. I know it. But he homes in on exactly the right one, immediately. Which says something about him, I feel.

  ‘You enjoying yourself, Scarlett? Feel good to humiliate me?’

  I don’t answer, but I’m sure he can read my response on my face.

  ‘Maybe you want to get a little piece of what she’s been getting. Teach me a lesson, huh?’

  When he lunges forward and grabs a handful of my ass, I don’t stop him. I let him push me back up against the only thing in the room: a big old desk that no-one wants to move. And all the while that hand stays tense and tight on my backside. He shoves himself hard against me, his face right in mine, though he no longer looks either panicked or threatening.

  He looks like he’s gagging for it, and is really, really angry about that fact. A combination that somehow bursts through me, tingling and delicious. He looks like he’s on fire inside, and I don’t mind that at all.

  ‘Come on then, bitch,’ he says. ‘Show me who’s boss.’

  So I grab his ass right back. Right where the red was, hard enough to make his eyes go big and his breathing come fast and rough. He makes a sound of complaint, but then the sound is suddenly in my mouth, along with his tongue.

  Of course, he’s a good kisser. Even in the midst of trying to eat each other’s faces off, he’s good. Though I think, in part, it has something to do with all the noises he’s making, like a rutting animal. And they vibrate right through me too. God it’s good.

  I smack my hand down on his ass, just to show him how good. Just so he’ll choke out more groans and pants and even better: you’re not doing it hard enough.

  That’s what he says to me, as he buries his face in my throat and kisses, kisses. His hand is tangled in my hair, and he’s so close to me I can feel how feverish he is, even through our clothes.

  ‘Harder,’ he says, and I do it harder. I do it so hard that I clench in sympathy, thinking of how it must sting against his already sore flesh. And then I bite down on his earlobe, just for good measure. I get a handful of his goofy over-styled blond hair, and twist.

  He makes the exact sound that my body is telling me to make. I think I almost come from the feeling of his hair in my fist, his entire body shivering against mine. It’s like I’ve been drugged.

  ‘Do it harder, goddammit!’ he says. ‘Where are you balls?’

  He sounds so much like his usual self, it’s hilarious. Captain of Industry, Blake Cooper, using his authoritative voice to get a woman to pull on his hair.

  ‘You like having your hair pulled, you little bitch?’ I ask, and he practically hiccups with glee.

  ‘Of course I do, of course. Fuck, use me. Use me. Mess me up.’

  I think it’s love. We’re soulmates, I swear to God.

  He doesn’t even flinch, when I shove him down over the desk. I guess he got all of the flinching out of the way, when Connie or Mrs Henderson or who-the-fuck-ever spanked him till he cried.

  I think I’m going to spank him until he cries. I want to see tears squeeze out of his tight-shut eyes, but then he says make me cry so I’ve no idea what I want to do. It seems I don’t have an original thought in my head – he’s thought of them all first, for me.

  And when I crack my hand down on that firm ass of his, oh when I give him what he deserves, hard and fast, I wish he’d told me about the thoughts I’ve been wanting to have, much earlier.

  I think about the red, now marking his other cheek – courtesy of me. Not those other women. Me. He’s moaning for me to do it harder, me to do it faster, he wants me to make it sting.

  I’m surprised he doesn’t have an instruction manual. He certainly sounds like one.

  ‘No,’ he pants, so ho
arse and lust-shot that it sounds like another word entirely. ‘No, flatten your hand out. Make it straight, then down — fuck!’

  I think I got him right, that time. I know I got me right, because my palm is suddenly prickling hot and said heat spreads down and through my entire body, thick and delicious. My thighs squeeze together of their own accord; I crack my hand down again just to get that sizzling sting back.

  ‘You like it,’ he says, breathless but almost smug, and I do it again just to prove him wrong.

  Only it’s not proving him wrong, of course. It’s making him right, the little shit. So I yank him up, and bark out:

  ‘Get your fucking pants off.’

  He moves five steps back as though I shot a gun at him. I’ve never seen a man go for his zipper as quick as he does.

  ‘Yes ma– sir.’ He stops, glances up at me. He looks harried and wild-eyed and, well, like a maniac, frankly. ‘What do you want me to call you?’

  I think of the handprint on his ass, now beside the one I’ve made. He has done this before, right? He’s done this before, and I’m just the doe-eyed naïf. Right?

  ‘Stop thinking about what to call me and drop your pants, you little punk.’

  He drops them.

  I think he has a right to be proud of what he’s got. Much like the rest of him, his cock is extremely attractive. I think I actually ache to have it in me. I know that I feel suddenly empty and squirmy and I start picturing him on top of me, pounding away like a jackhammer.

  But he doesn’t need to know any of those things.

  ‘Is that all you got?’

  He actually glances down. It’s definitely love.

  ‘What exactly are you going to do with that pathetic thing, Cooper? I’ve fucked bigger pencils.’

  ‘You’ve fucked a pencil?’ He swallows. ‘I’m going to pay for that, aren’t I?’

  He’s going to pay for it by marrying me, tomorrow. Also, I think he might be doing it on purpose. I think he actually wants to say words like “I’m going to pay for that, aren’t I”.

  ‘Get over here, pencil dick.’

  He starts towards me, but I can see we’re going to have many, many tutorials and Powerpoint meetings in the near future. Just to get him up to speed.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ I tell him, and to his credit he stops dead. I sit down on the desk, casual-like. ‘I didn’t say walk over here. On your knees.’

  Blake Cooper has one amazing grin. It’s wolfish and as broad as anything, it consumes his face.

  So it’s pretty obvious when he’s trying to hold it down. He’s busy trying, as he gets to his hands and knees.

  ‘Crawl,’ I say, and oh God he does. I almost tell him how utterly sexy he looks, prowling towards me over the crappy office carpet. Dear Lord, he deserves it. His shoulders roll. He smacks me with that smouldering, insane stare.

  And then he gets to my dangling right leg, and wraps one arm around it, and kisses just below my knee in a way that ever-so-slightly suggests bite. You know, teeth scraping, that grin still in his eyes. Suddenly he’s sliding the flat of his tongue up my inner thigh.

  I’m really, really glad I didn’t wear tights today. I’m also glad that he keeps right on meeting my gaze as he licks up and down, because there’s something seriously lewd about that. Like he knows that I know where he’s going with this.

  But he still doesn’t fucking go there. He keeps right on teasing and kind of pushing my skirt up a little and then not. Spreading his hands all over me in this aggressive Blake Cooper sort of way, and yet not really all over me.

  And then he says, in between the tongue bath: ‘Make me.’

  It’s almost like a goddamned stage whisper. You know, like: line. Even worse, it makes my heart beat faster. It makes me grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he says.

  ‘Take off my knickers,’ I tell him.

  His hands fumble immediately beneath my skirt. It’s hard for him, because I keep him looking at me: his electric blue eyes on my dark ones. But he manages it. He even manages to stuff my underwear into his pocket, before I force his face between my legs.

  He shoves my skirt right up as he goes, hands braced firm and greedy on my thighs, my hips in the slots between his thumb and forefinger. And then his mouth on me, sloppy and eager.

  Somehow, I had imagined Cooper would not be a good lover. A good kisser, maybe, to reel them in. But then he’d be the kind of guy who lay back and let you wait on him. The kind of guy who doesn’t moan into your pussy, when you cream for him. The kind of guy who doesn’t know where your clit is, or how to lick it hard and fast just right there, because he can tell where you like it. He’s listening, for that little sound you make in the back of your throat. He can feel you, rocking against him when he hits it perfectly. Yeah, he didn’t seem like that kind of guy.

  But I guess you have to be, when you want to go into the service industry.

  He’s amazing. He only breaks focus when he twists his arm around so that he can get hold of my hand, and put it back on the back of his head. And when I clench my fist and pull the hair tight, he sucks my clit into his mouth until I’m screaming.

  The door isn’t locked, anyone could walk in. I don’t care that I’m screaming. I don’t. I come so hard I think I pull some of his hairs out. I squirm and my toes curl and I say his name in a completely non-sarcastic way: Coop, I say. God, baby, don’t stop.

  When I finally manage to release the death grip on his hair, he sits back on his heels. Mouth glistening, face flushed, looking real pleased with himself. But it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look pleased with himself without the smugness. It’s an honest pleasure, half-cut with a kind of ruefulness.

  I start tugging my skirt down.

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘I’d better get back to work.’

  He just grins that wolfish grin. Shakes his head.

  ‘I knew you’d be a bitch. I knew it. I knew it,’ he says, and then his face smoothes out suddenly. It becomes something serious and intense. ‘I knew you’d be incredible.’

  I think that’s when I know. I mean, I could have got it before: after all, you don’t change your clothes right in the middle of an office, no matter how late it is. You just don’t, and especially when you’ve got something you don’t want anyone to see.

  And then there’s all that baiting he did, to piss me off. And the promptings. God, he’s a manipulative little bastard.

  ‘No-one spanked your ass, did they,’ I say, and he has the grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘I did it to myself. But it looked the part, right?’

  The Corporal’s Punishment

  by Robin Moreton

  Virginia, September, 1862

  ‘What you did today was brave but foolhardy, soldier,’ General Rufus K Slocum growled from behind his trestle war-table. To one side of the lantern-lit tent hung his sword in its scabbard and a daguerreotype of President Lincoln; on the other side was the furled Union flag.

  Reluctant to make eye contact, Corporal Charley Compton stood to attention at the closed entrance flap and studied the superior officer’s slightly ginger sideburns, which seemed to bristle. ‘Yes, sir.’ Charley’s eyes lowered, staring at the cane on top of the outspread map. A wicked-looking cane.

  Slocum’s Union jacket was unbuttoned, revealing an opened sweat-stained shirt and curling chest hair. Shadows flitted across his handsome features, the light from the lantern flickering. He was rumoured to be in his thirties, but seemed older. Running a hand through his long unruly brown hair, Slocum barked, ‘Look at me when I’m speaking!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Charley responded tremulously and their eyes met. The general had captivating periwinkle blue eyes, which, contrary to his tone, did not appear to contain any anger.

  Getting to his feet, the general wrapped both hands round the cane. ‘You defied my direct order, Corporal,’ he said.

  Charley blinked and quailed as if the general had used the cane. ‘Yes, sir. I’l
l accept your punishment, sir.’

  ‘Damned right you will!’

  Charley’s legs trembled. ‘But I had to save Jimmy, my brother.’

  ‘Aye, and you did. I’ve never seen anything like it! Your intemperate action was the catalyst, Corporal. If you hadn’t risked your life by rushing forward to rescue your brother, the rest wouldn’t have followed. Those damnable rebels didn’t expect a charge, by God, but that’s what they got – thanks to you disobeying my order!’

  Charley’s palms felt damp, clammy. ‘I’m sorry, sir – for disobeying …’

  Slocum let out a mixture of a bark and a laugh then walked round the table and stood in front of Charley, one hand slapping the cane against his boot. The general was a good ten inches taller and smelled of cigar smoke, an avuncular aroma. ‘How is your brother?’

  ‘Thank you for asking, sir,’ Charley replied, surprised at the change in the general’s tone. ‘Surgeon says he was lucky – if it had been an inch either way, the bullet would have – er – deprived him of his manhood, sir.’

  The general grimaced. ‘Aye, that’s what I heard. Lucky fellow – to have such a brave sister.’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  Slocum looked askance at Charley, fingers stroking his chin. ‘I was there while the surgeon operated on your brother. He was delirious. Thanked his sister, Charlotte. That’s you, isn’t it?’

  Charley swallowed then nodded. Her mouth was too dry to answer.

  ‘You realise I must punish you, don’t you?’

  Annoyed at feeling unsoldierly with tears welling at the corners of her eyes, Charley croaked, ‘Yes, sir. I deserve to be punished – for disobeying your order.’

  Gripping the cane, with his hands behind his back, he walked round Charley, and murmured, ‘It’s quite uncanny, quite strange …’

  But Charley deemed it prudent not to enquire further. She felt the tip of the cane slide down her straight back, pressing her threadbare shirt against her perspiring shoulder-blades.

  ‘Drop your britches, soldier,’ the general ordered.

  She drew in a breath. This was so humiliating! Perhaps she should turn and leave. He had no right – then she remembered her promise to Ma. ‘I’ll stick with Jimmy,’ she’d said, not appreciating the subterfuges she would have to undergo to preserve her modesty and keep her secret. She was nineteen, older than Jimmy and therefore responsible for him.