by Laurel Aspen
Needing no further instruction Georgie rests her body over the sofa’s lushly padded rear, her head in the cushions, feet slightly apart for balance, her rear thrust up high and proud. She waits, shaking, not just with anxiety - oh, she knows this is going to hurt like hell - but also with barely suppressed desire. There’s no doubt about it, tough and assertive Georgie finds domestic discipline a real turn on.
‘How many?’ she enquires, annoyed at her quavering voice.
‘A dozen,’ he replies sternly.
Her heart sinks, her stomach churns, it’s worse than she’d feared - twice as bad, in fact. But Georgie is hardly in a position - real or metaphorical - to argue. She who plays the drunken slut must pay the price.
Briskly he raises her skirt up around her waist, the front of his trousers tightening at the sight of flawless thighs and perfectly sculpted calves. Not so long ago Darren had laid on that very same sofa, gripped between her legs as he and Georgie fucked each other to gorgeous oblivion. Crossly he shakes his head to dispel the memory; there’s a job to be done.
Inserting his thumbs into her skimpy thong, another innovation he’s rather taken by, which so neatly bisects the perfect peaches of her buttocks, Darren simply snaps it in two and casts the flimsy material into a corner.
Legs straight, standing on tiptoe, face buried in the seat cushion, Georgie waits, naked from the waist down, open and vulnerable, ready for a memorable beating; between her legs the telltale signs of moisture just apparent on her downy public hair.
Darren works slowly and thoroughly, laying each stroke on at fifteen second intervals, allowing the scorching smart of each one to make itself all too apparent to Georgie’s naked rump, before deftly following in with a successor. Neither brutal nor overly lenient, ignoring her kicking feet and wails of distress, he etches half a dozen neat red lines across the firm, suntanned skin of her animated haunches.
Once more tears dampen Georgie’s eyes, her fingers scrabble blindly at the seat cushion, and her breath comes in ragged gasps as she struggles to control the searing hurt that follows the cane’s savage kiss. Confusingly she’s also forced to battle with very different sensations. The deep heat somehow seems to have spread from her bottom to the very depths of her sex. Georgie hurts, yet she’s as randy as hell.
Halfway through her caning ordeal and for the second time in a week, her bum is a mass of burning discomfort. She must hang on, has to endure this blistering penance. Gritting her teeth and tensing her body, somehow Georgie summons up all her reserves of courage and thrusts back her posterior to invite the next castigating blow.
Which never comes, for with a grunt Darren tosses the cane to join the thong in the corner, loosens his jeans and moves purposefully forward. Impressed by her fortitude and determination to make amends he’s also spotted the liquid evidence of her sexuality, and smelt the unmistakeable scent of feminine arousal. With her poor, punished arse thrust high, Georgie’s pouting labia are perfectly presented, ready to be entered robustly from behind.
Seizing her hips Darren eschews caresses and romantic words and simply plunges his cock into her inviting vagina, pistoning in and out of her silky slot so rapidly her feet are lifted from the floor. ‘Oh yes,’ she groans exultantly as his groin slaps into her still burning bottom. ‘Harder, Darren, harder!’
Roughly he plunges deep inside Georgie as she responds with commensurate vigour, thrusting back her haunches to impale her tight hot quim on his rigid prick, as she struggles urgently towards a lusty conclusion. He feels her climax approach, hears her shout, then joins her to plant his seed in a satisfying climax that’s bound to produce a sequel.
And you thought gardening was dull?
Writer’s Block
In the corner stood an elfin figure, fidgeting restlessly from foot to foot. Hands on head, fingers twisting short blonde tresses, even white teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.
Her short flared skirt had been flipped up and tucked into a thin silver belt. The burnished skin of her pert bottom radiated a rosy glow, just visible through the sheen of pale blue tights. Tangled around slender ankles, just above sensible sandals, was a pair of lilac knickers.
Invisible to the eye, churning within the hot and velvety sanctum of her sex, a palpable agitation amplified the arousal to which a sound spanking had been the catalyst.
Phew, it was hot in here; with a sigh Beth stopped typing and reread the final paragraph.
Yep, that should do the trick.
Squirming on her chair she pulled at her short floral skirt and eased her hand down the front of her tight and skimpy panties beneath. Her questing fingers rapidly established just how warm and damp she’d become whilst writing that last paragraph. Breathlessly Beth ground the heal of her palm into her downy pudenda; did every magazine contributor, she wondered, her fingers working furiously to satisfy her craving clitoris, become so excited by their own literary efforts? Given the choice, she would much rather the hand belonged to an authoritative male, capable of delivering a spanking every bit as sound as the one inflicted upon her fictional heroine.
Carnal thoughts of compulsion, powerless to resist punishment or penetration, gave added impetus to Beth’s vigorous digitisation and tumbled her headlong into a long-postponed orgasm.
The editor had been most complimentary about her first, hesitantly presented, short story. I’m more than happy, he’d said in his letter, to publish it and commission another.
Even better news followed a few weeks later when, completely unexpectedly, a popular book publisher rang to ask if she’d mind the original effort being included in a new anthology of women’s erotic writing called Femmes Fatales. Beth was delighted to agree, so thrilled with her achievement she never gave a thought to using a pseudonym.
She wrote best from a personal perspective, incorporating real life experience into a fictional narrative. Which, as far as spanking was involved, was sadly limited. Beth was no CP virgin, but such adventures as she’d had in her twenty-four summers were already largely incorporated into those first two tales. Her work clearly required more inspiration; the problem was how to get it?
Beth was blonde and petite, slender and fair of face, so attracting possible suitors was the least of her problems. But finding one who’d understand a girl’s penchant for spanking was another matter altogether. After all, Beth thought ruefully, it was hardly a subject you broached on a first date. Imagine the embarrassment of a putative paramour doubling up with laughter when you suggest he put you over his knee as a sexual aperitif.
Greg, her last long-term partner, had been wonderful, in fact her entire CP experience derived from their six months together. They’d parted, amicably and regretfully, only because Greg got the offer of a dream job in Canada, each realistic enough to realise that a relationship by air and email wasn’t likely to endure. Beth smiled at the memories.
He’d first spanked her, lightly and laughing, as she emerged wet from the shower, having used the last of his shampoo. The aphrodisiac effect on their subsequent coupling had occasioned serious discussion and further experiments; over her knickers on a punt in Granchester Meadows - how they’d avoided capsizing she’d never know - a public display which astounded a solitary dog walker who’d chanced upon the scene.
Their absolutely best time of all had been Greg’s birthday surprise. The sight of Beth in her old school uniform - embellished with stockings and suspenders, the first time she’d worn them - left him speechless. Fortunately not for long, for Beth was soon rapturously squirming, knickers down, across his knee while he warmed her cheeky bottom with the back of a hairbrush.
All in all she supposed he must have punished her about a dozen times, sometimes spontaneously, others the culmination of a careful planning. Either way, Beth had always ended up with a blush-red bottom and a memorable fuck. Growing in confidence she’d ceased to feel apologetic or embarrassed by this aspect of her sexual repertoire.
Since Greg there’d been a couple of post-party flings, but nothin
g serious. To try and fill the void Beth took refuge in the pages of CP fiction, and then tried her hand at writing. Her own stories, thus far, evoked the flirtatious, OTK end of the CP spectrum, but beyond the joyful spanking games in which she’d delighted, Beth dreamt of deeper, darker scenarios.
Now she might be unusual in her desires, but she was quite smart enough to realise she certainly wasn’t unique, and what worked for her no doubt did the same for other readers. If Beth’s future fictional endeavours were not to become repetitive, she’d have to make them more inventive. Simply plagiarising other people’s work for ideas wasn’t enough; Beth needed to act out her putative stories… but how?
Which is where, those enamoured of the lazy lure of determinism might say, fate intervened. Unknown to Beth, one discerning and appreciative male reader was already a keen fan of her fledgling literary endeavours.
Beth Dubois, the name immediately appealed to Rod, so different from the usual obvious pseudonyms, such as Laurel Aspen; he could easily envisage it being the soubriquet of a vibrant young woman. Rob was queuing patiently at a bookshop cash register when he glanced idly at the pretty young assistant’s identity badge. He did a double take, but amazingly there it was, the name, on a badge right in front of him. Rod waited impatiently to be served, but at last it was his turn.
‘Beth Dubois?’ he asked carefully.
‘Yeees,’ Beth replied, equally warily.
‘The Beth Dubois?’ Rob continued, aware of being overly direct but unable to miss the opportunity of satisfying his curiosity.
‘I’m a Beth Dubois, certainly,’ replied the shop assistant.
Her friends couldn’t fathom why a girl with a good English degree had opted for such apparently un-ambitious employment. Beth didn’t care what they thought; the lack of oppressive career demands afforded her more time in which to write.
‘The Beth Dubois who wrote this?’ Rob pressed, holding up a copy of Femmes Fatales from his pile of prospective purchases.
A long pause ensued; Beth took stock of her enquirer and liked what she saw, about ten years older than her and taller, the better part of twelve inches. Possessed of a pleasant, slightly weather-beaten face, well spoken, middle-class voice. Acceptable dress sense; i.e. neither nylon shirt, living-with-mum nerd; nor jumped-up, junior executive shiny suit. Beth suddenly wished she’d applied more lipstick since leaving home in a rush that morning. Meanwhile, the silence was becoming uncomfortable.
‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘that Beth Dubois.’
‘Is it wise to admit that so openly?’ he replied.
‘For goodness sake,’ a note of indignation entered Beth’s tone, ‘why ask if you don’t want to know? And why not? I’m proud of my work.’
‘Yes, quite,’ Rob responded hastily, ‘but sadly others are less urbane. Most of this town’s depressingly petit-bourgeois population, for a start.’
Strange, mused Beth, Rob was smiling, his tone mild and friendly, yet something in his voice implied a veiled threat.
‘You’re the only one, except myself and the publishers, who knows,’ she said frankly.
‘How sad to be so narrowly appreciated, when you’ve brought such a fresh voice to what’s all too often a tired, formulaic genre,’ he said generously. ‘I really enjoyed the two pieces I’ve read so far. Are there more?’
‘Two pieces? So you also read…’
‘A certain CP magazine, yes I do.’ Rob held her gaze.
‘Nothing further at present, I’m kind of at the research stage,’ Beth explained, ‘but I’m suffering from writer’s block.’
‘How unfortunate, perhaps I could help? I’d love to discuss your work in greater depth, but,’ he raised an eyebrow and looked around, ‘this probably isn’t the most appropriate place. How about joining me for lunch?’
‘Well thanks, but I’m really not sure…’ began Beth.
‘Come now, Ms Dubois,’ said Rob, a hint of steel in his tone, ‘I really would be honoured.’
Contrary to the hackneyed saying, flattery got Rob somewhere; a corner table in a nearby pub, to be precise.
Good as the food was, their conversation remained stilted until, breaking her usual lunchtime rule, Beth accepted the offer of a glass of red wine. After which words seem to flow from her mouth of their own volition. Fortunately Rob was an attentive listener. ‘Let’s recap,’ he said at length. ‘You write best from a degree of personal empathy.’
‘True,’ Beth confirmed.
‘And feel constrained by a lack of direct experience.’
‘Right again.’
‘So in order to develop as a writer, you need to explore unknown territory?’ Rob continued.
‘In theory, yes,’ said Beth, cautiously.
‘I, on the other hand, if only by virtue of age, have ventured widely into the, erm, more unusual aspects of human behaviour,’ said Rob.
Beth moved to speak, but he raised a palm to silence her.
‘So, since we seem to have established a degree of familiarity, I might be able to help.’
‘Hang on, let’s not rush…’ Beth was flustered. It wasn’t that Rod was physically unattractive, far from it, but this discussion no longer seemed to be on anything approaching an equal footing.
‘Let me come to the point, Beth,’ he said persuasively, ‘I’m generously offering my time and expertise to help an aspiring young author. I shall be most offended should you refuse, so much so that,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘I might feel it my civic duty to reveal your identity to a wider public.’
Beth’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened but no sound escaped.
‘You’re quite right, Beth,’ Rob continued, talking as if this were the most mundane, everyday conversation, ‘there’s absolutely nothing of which you need to be ashamed. How unfortunate that so few of the local populace share your libertarian view of adult erotica. How sad that the next-door neighbours lack your sexual sophistication. If there’s one thing better than the word sex in a local newspaper headline, it’s spanking…’
‘All right, all right.’ It was Beth’s turn to firmly halt the discourse. ‘Thank you, Rob, you’ve made your point. But surely if you enjoy my work, share my interests, you wouldn’t name and shame me.’
‘No,’ he retorted, his face breaking into a smile, ‘I wouldn’t be such a hypocrite. But,’ he went on swiftly, ignoring the evident wave of relief suffusing Beth’s pretty features, ‘if we were to pretend so, just imagine what a catalyst to your imagination that could be.’
Beth considered the suggestion. ‘A role-play to inspire original ideas,’ she said tentatively, then pursed her lips and added with quiet determination, ‘Well Rob, it appears I have little choice in the matter. What do you want me to do?’
‘Do? You make it sound like an instruction, and I do so want you to enter into this adventure voluntarily,’ Rod said lightly. ‘Now then, Beth, what I suggest is…’
Which was, in essence, that Beth should present herself at Rob’s flat next Sunday morning, prepared to acquiesce to whatever he should decree.
‘I won’t promise your sojourn will be entirely pleasant,’ he explained reassuringly, but your horizons will most certainly be widened and, I hope, your writer’s block completely cured. Oh, and Beth,’ he added, ‘you’ll be quite safe.’
Anticipation kept Beth on tenterhooks; she was taking a risk and entering unknown territory, but far from being cowed, she felt vibrantly alive and strangely free of responsibility. The intervening days dragged but at last it was Sunday. She got up early, showered and began to dress purposefully. The boots had been an impulse purchase, dreadfully extravagant they’d cost far more than she could really afford, but she felt sure their slender-heeled and knee-length allure would not be lost on Rob.
Her stylishly clad feet perfectly matched the rest of her carefully chosen clothes: a soft brown leather skirt, elegantly complemented by an orange silk top, modern silver neck chain and matching hoop earrings. Her underwear was more adventurous, agen
t provocateur, in fact; three skimpy but beautifully made items costing the better part of her humble weekly salary on their own. For the first time since Greg’s birthday treat her coltish legs were sheathed in sheer, sable-hued stockings, their nylon swish faintly audible to the discerning when she walked.
Beth was already on her way out of the front door of her flat when the telephone rang. Who was that at this time on a Sunday? ‘Oh, Rob,’ she said, surprised to hear his voice nearly as much as she was surprised by the sudden increase in her pulse rate as she did so. ‘No, of course not, no change of heart, I’m already on my way.’
Half an hour later Rob solicitously held open the door as Beth nervously entered his high-rise flat. Pressing a glass of wine into her hand he ushered her into a bright and spacious lounge. As she looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, Beth noticed a low table, upon the polished surface of which lay a bizarre assortment of items. She watched incredulously, unable to speak, as Rob arranged a riding-crop, small whip, some sort of brush, massage oil, and a vibrator into a neat line.
Apparently satisfied with this display he picked up a small candle and lit it. ‘The flame will burn for an hour, the time I’ve allowed for our adventure,’ he said casually, as if this were explanation enough for the implements before them.
‘I haven’t yet agreed to anything.’ Beth pointed out, at last finding her voice.
‘Quite so,’ Rob agreed. ‘So how can I persuade you?’
‘I’m not sure if persuade is the right word,’ said Beth. ‘This unexpected array of toys is rather intimidating.’
‘Hmm, yes, I thought you might say that,’ Rob mused. ‘But then, if you’re to move on to the next stage isn’t intimidation exactly the emotion you should be experiencing right now? After all,’ he went on, expanding the point, ‘were I really blackmailing you, if you really had no choice…’
‘But to obey,’ Beth finished the sentence for him, her pulse quickening and a thrill of excitement sending a spasm to her stomach.’ Mentally she had made a commitment; to write with credibility she must first participate fully.