SMARTS!

by Jay Lawrence

His hand must be made of leather. I saw poor Sonia's face turn as scarlet as her nether cheeks. Her well-padded rear bucked and wobbled as she began to sob.

  "Oh, please, sir! Oh, please! I promise I won't do it again, sir!"

  I wondered what the servant girl did to incur such stringent correction. Was there any point in requesting clemency on her behalf?

  Slap! Slap! Slap!

  "Mercy! Oh sir! Oh sir, it hurts so!"

  "Good. It's intended to, my girl."

  My plain satin drawers were soaking with a fragrant musky juice that seeped in time to his spanking hand. My, what a lovely bottom Sonia had, how round, how soft, how lush, how terribly sore...

  "Please, Quentin! Oh please, do spank me! I can't bear to watch this any more."

  Aghast, he ceased his punishment of the girl. They both raised their heads and I could see that her bodice was somehow undone, her enormous magnificent breasts spilled out, the nipples large and the pink of strawberry ice cream. Had he seduced her? Was her spanking a warning that she should not rebuff her master's advances? Horrified, I took a step back, knocking over a drinks tray as I did so. A bottle of gin and two martini glasses dropped to the floor where they promptly smashed.

  "Connie, you clumsy foolish girl!"

  My cheeks were as rosy as the maid's. Like a naughty child I clutched at my skirt and wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Memories of being at boarding school and receiving a slippering from Miss McKay addled my mind to a feverish degree. The aromatic smell of the gin wafted up from the parquet flooring and I swallowed hard. Quentin did so enjoy his pre-dinner cocktail.

  "Fetch the dustpan and brush and clean that mess up."

  At first I assumed my husband was instructing the maid and I waited for the blushing girl to extricate herself from her position across his knees. Then I realized he was looking at me. Expectantly. With more than a hint of challenge in his steely gray eyes. Heavens.

  "Dustpan? Brush? I have no idea where they are kept..."

  My voice sounded squeaky, pale pink in the large and airy room where everything was in the very height of fashion. Except, it seemed, for dowdy old me.

  "May I say something, sir?"

  It was Sonia who spoke, her own voice a little tremulous yet somehow vaguely amused. My husband nodded.

  "Go ahead."

  "If you please – madam will find the dustpan and brush in the cupboard under the stairs. Hanging on a hook at the back of the door."

  "Excellent! Run along, Connie, like a good girl. Sweep up that nasty mess."

  I blushed even harder. The humiliation of it! Surely it had to be some wicked joke. Two pairs of eyes gazed at me from the sofa. I noted how my husband's fingers continued to stroke the warm red patches on the girl's behind. And how she shivered every time he did so.

  Stifling a sob I turned and ran into the hallway. There, in front of me, was the dreaded cupboard under the stairs, equipped, it would seem, with the means to clean up a mess. Behind me, in the drawing room, I overheard a giggle, shortly joined by a deeper laugh. They found it amusing! Hanging my head I opened the cupboard door. The dustpan and brush were there, just as the maid described. I felt a powerful urge to whip them out and throw them at my tormentors. Instead, for some reason I cannot explain, I took them down and returned to the drawing room, meekly compliant to my husband's will. When I entered the room I almost dropped the pan and brush – for there, on my beautiful, elegant green sofa, sat my husband, fully dressed, with a half-naked servant girl dandled on his knee. He smiled, an odd predatory expression I'd never noticed before, and casually played with the girl's full white breasts.

  "Carry on, Connie. Or perhaps we should call you Cunny tonight. What say you, dear Sonia?"

  The maid giggled openly, making no attempt whatsoever to either suppress her mirth or preserve her modesty. She sat, thighs spread wide, on my husband's neatly trousered lap. It almost seemed that she reveled in my humiliation, a very similar sensation to the one I felt when bare bottom slippered by draconian Miss McKay.

  "Yes, sir! I do think madam should be Lady Cunny. And she should sweep up that naughty mess she made on her hands and knees."

  My heart pounded in shame as I recalled scolding Sonia for a poor black-leading job on the dining room fireplace – how I told her that she must get down on all fours and rub like mad. My sharp words returned to haunt me as I slowly sank to my knees, clutching the dustpan and brush.

  "And she should do it naked too!"

  There was no stopping the girl. My husband's eyes lit up like a beacon.

  "Sonia, my dear girl, what a brilliant plan! That's settled – Lady Cunny, take off your dress. It makes you look like a stick, anyway. Take it off and let's see your little titties. Time they took the air."

  I knew it was a dreadful thing they wanted me to do – the devil's work indeed – but a strange voice in my head urged me to do as they told me. The thought of being called an obscene word and baring my bosoms for my husband and a servant girl seemed (I am ashamed to admit it) to contain a peculiar allure. I unfastened my frock and felt it slip to the floor – too late! – falling into the puddle of gin.

  "Clumsy Cunny!"

  Sonia was crowing like a rooster on a fine June day. My husband cupped and jiggled her breasts, obviously savoring their size and weight. They looked like a brace of cantaloupe melons. I thrust my chin up, aware of my petite proportions, my resemblance to a stick. I stood before them in my best chemise and drawers, their humble servant.

  "Take it all off!"

  They spoke as one and then giggled together like conspiring schoolchildren. I slipped the fine lace-trimmed undergarments from my quivering body and stood before them, naked, on the rug.

  "Quentin – where are her tits?"

  The maid spoke in an imperious, mocking tone and my heart sank to learn that it was a parody of my own voice in a tiresome particular feminine mood. I looked down at my modest bust. The nipples were very hard. I thought, with some satisfaction, that at least they would not sag.

  Submissively, I knelt before them and picked up the dustpan and brush. I would clean up the wicked mess I'd made, every last shard of broken glass. And I hoped – yes, I truly did – that Quentin would turn me over his knees and spank my bare bottom until tears filled my eyes. This thought was a revelation to me and helped immensely as I completed my task, carefully sweeping up then depositing the mess into the kitchen dustbin.

  When I returned from replacing my tools upon their hook my husband had turned the maid around so she sat with her plump legs encircling his waist. His dark head dipped to suckle her fat nipples and they both ignored my reappearance in the room. I stood on the rug, quite naked, and invisible as a ghost. I cleared my throat. My husband glanced up, one eyebrow raised.

  "Yes, Cunny? Did you want something?"

  I kept my eyes fixed on the rug, the pattern of which had suddenly become rather fascinating.

  "If you please..."

  "Yes?"

  "If you please, dear Quentin..."

  My husband glared at me.

  "Out with it! Can't you see I've got far more important things to do here than listening to your incoherent mumblings?"

  I flushed. Sonia wriggled and sighed contentedly. And so she should with my husband's hands rhythmically squeezing her ample behind.

  "If you please, Quentin – I would like a spanking too!"

  The words tumbled out, as hasty and careless as the spilling of the drinks tray. I felt like a child. Now, why was it Miss McKay took the slipper to me? My mind traveled back a decade, to a time of strict rules, where little girls did as they were told and stern mistresses made sure those rules were kept to. Ah, that was it – the candied fruits! Mama had sent a box of the delicious French confectionery and I was supposed to put it away for my birthday and to share it with the other girls. But I was greedy and impatient and Miss McKay discovered me (in the broom cupboard, no less), my fingers all sticky, my mouth covered with the luscious syrup of t
he forbidden fruit. And she marched me to her study, told me to take my knickers down and bend over her desk. I recall the sharp intake of breath as she applied the slipper's leather sole to my helpless, wildly squirming behind. I was spanked until I cried and then made to stand in the corner, my skirt raised to exhibit my naughty red behind.

  "Greedy girls must learn some temperance."

  Well, yes, indeed.

  Quentin sneered.

  "A spanking, Cunny? What makes you think you deserve to go over my knees? Why, a stick-like clumsy creature like you could do no better than to act as a resting place for my feet. Or, hmm, let's see – a drinks tray. Yes, that's it. Get on your hands and knees and place that salver on your back. Dear sweet Sonia and I will have a cocktail or two. It's most definitely time and I'm absolutely parched. Jump to it!"

  Again, I gasped. Once at the dreadful way I was being treated – like a slave, in fact, akin to a whore. But behind the initial shock of mistreatment there was a potent frisson, the desire to serve, to be subject to my lord and master's every whim.

  "Yes, my love. At once!"

  Miss McKay's firm clear voice rang in my mind as I scurried off to fetch the silver tray I'd so carelessly knocked to the floor. Obediently, I knelt before my husband and his newfound paramour, on all fours, just like a domestic animal, a horse, a cow, a pig. I amused myself with farmyard allegories as I adopted the most servile position I could possibly attain, balancing the tray upon my naked back.

  "Oh, Cunny, now that's quite admirable! Oh I do wish I'd thought of this the past six months. How dull it has been but not any more. Now I have Sonia and her stupendous bosom and a wife who has, at last, found her vocation. My cup runneth over. Care for a cocktail, my dear?"

  I almost answered then the maid laughed "oh, yes, please!" and I realized the invitation was not for a mere chattel such as myself. I braced my arms and legs and flattened my spine, determined to be the most elegant and serviceable piece of furniture that ever graced a fashionable salon. Like the Art Deco statuettes that danced on the mantelpiece I would be slender and pleasing to the eye.

  Quentin laid the maid aside and got up to mix the drinks. I kept my gaze fixed on the rug (not difficult given my stance) and felt sure that wicked Sonia was pulling faces at me. No matter, I had an odd pride of my own, the satisfaction of a job well done. It was what had been missing from my pampered, haughty little life.

  "This table is a little wobbly."

  My husband returned with two brimming glasses and promptly slapped me on the rump as if spurring on a horse. I winced and then straightened, making myself the perfect surface for the serving of drinks.

  "Alas, it's whisky as some ninny-cunny spilled the gin. Drink up, my dear. I'm in the mood for some bed-sports so let's get you nicely oiled."

  Sonia giggled and took a rather noisy sip of her cocktail. I suddenly realized how dry my mouth was and how much I'd love a drink of my own. But no matter – there was work to be done. A sharp sensation shot through my left calf and I jumped, making the tray on my back slide a little. That minx of a maid had kicked me! I gritted my teeth as Quentin pinched my naked bottom very hard.

  "Stay still you stupid cunny-tray. If you cause a second mess it'll be a real whipping for you. Do you understand?"

  The thought of a real whipping made my stomach fill with butterflies but it was not, I confess, a lepidoptery of fear. My pussy grew so wet that I felt sure they would notice. The scent of my arousal drifted on the air. A real whipping!

  "Do you understand? Answer when you are spoken to, you little slut!"

  Quentin's voice was so different to its usual calm and nonchalant tone. Something about it suggested darkness – a darkness I would gladly succumb to. I shivered and bleated "yes, my dear" as meekly as I could. Being called a slut made my pussy even wetter. As did the sounds of arousal issuing from the maid.

  "Ooh, yes, Quentin, darling! Touch me there. What clever fingers you do possess! Slide them in. See how my kitty wants your big fat cock!"

  Raising my head to watch would surely tip the tray so I concentrated on the "bed-sport" sounds that emanated from the sofa. There was a rustling of clothing being removed and several squeals and moans and gasps. I pictured buxom Sonia sitting on my husband's lap, her plump thighs spread as wide as she could muster, her vast white breasts spilling wantonly from the bodice of her dress, opening and offering herself for Quentin to take just as he pleased. It was the oddest thing – I should have been beside myself with misery and jealousy – and yet all I could think of was how thrilling it was.

  "Spread your legs, girly. Mm, what a nice wet slit. Much plumper and juicier than that dry old stick of a table down there. What do you say, Sonia, my love? Shall we give the cunny-tray a taste of paradise?"

  I wondered what on earth he meant. There was further rustling of undergarments and a piercing squeal from the servant girl. Then Quentin's hand appeared before my face. Swiftly he pushed two fingers into my mouth and I recognized the strong musky odor of desire. Sonia's love juice coated my tongue and I swallowed, licking my lips to catch every last drop of feminine nectar. My husband roared in laughter.

  "You harlot! Wait – this table has better uses than for serving drinks. Sonia – take what's left of your clothes off. We're going to really make use of this Cunny."

  The next thing I knew, the cold drinks tray was removed from my back and replaced with something bigger, softer and deliciously warm. I could smell the servant girl – a faint whiff of perspiration mingled with cheap perfume and the scent of young woman on heat. It seemed she knelt beside me on the rug with her torso draped across my back so we formed a kind of fleshy cross. I could feel the twin points of her engorged nipples pressing against my spine. I had never made acquaintance with another girl's breasts and I liked the sensation very much.

  "Excellent," Quentin remarked, somewhere above and behind the nude tableau. "Now, how shall I have you? Spread your legs, Lady Sonia and prepare for a mighty ramrod!"

  At this I did feel a fleeting pity for the maid who shifted herself upon me, opening her well-padded thighs as instructed. My husband was exceptionally large. A brief rustle of pants-removal and three of us knelt upon the drawing room rug. I could feel Sonia's heartbeat and her smooth skin began to stick to my own. And then there was a shriek.

  "Ow! Sir! It's huge!"

  I smirked as the maid bucked and tensed like a rider dealing with a difficult mount.

  "Ow! Oh, mercy! You're built like a bull!"

  Quentin began to thrust – a powerful motion quite unlike the method he used upon myself. I couldn't help but grin as Sonia squealed in time to the hard, fast strokes. Her weight seemed to increase and I braced myself to bear the heavy, struggling, surging load. And yet, the harder and faster my husband took the helpless girl, the more her cries softened and the stronger the sweet scent of her arousal grew. I pictured her ripe juicy sex, rhythmically ploughed by Quentin's massive shaft. My mind conjured up the image of her face, alternately closing her eyes then opening them wide in shock like some go-to-sleep doll.

  "Ow! Ow! Ow!"

  On and on my husband thrust, until I was certain he must be reaching his point of no return. It was at that moment that he stopped and pulled out of the squirming, perspiring maid. There was a brief pause and his member appeared before my face.

  "Now, Cunny, suck on this," ordered Quentin, pressing the reddened head of his manhood against my lips. "I want it licked clean, do you hear?"

  So that was the latest twist in the evening's pursuits. My husband's swollen rod smelled strongly of the maid's wet quim. I put out my tongue and licked its tip, as dainty as a butterfly alighting on a buddleia bush. The taste was clean and sweet and faintly metallic. I lowered my mouth around the shiny fat bud of a head and sucked enthusiastically as if it were a cherry flavored lollipop. Quentin groaned.

  "That's it! You little cunny-licking whore of a table. That's it – suck hard and fast. Take more of my prick. No, take it all."

&
nbsp; I gagged as my head was suddenly pushed down upon the fearsome shaft. Several inches of turgid flesh pushed insistently at my tonsils. Like a sword-swallower at the circus I attempted to open my throat and take it all. My eyes filled with tears and my nose began to run.

  "Take it all, cunny-slut. Clean off my cock so I can have another go at rodgering this fine maid of ours."

  I did my best to suck and lick every last drop of Sonia's love essence from his big hard tool. When I had finished he sharply withdrew and returned to making the young girl squeal. As they groaned and pounded on my back I licked my lips and savored the musk, the juice, the naughty feeling of having tasted some forbidden fruit and enjoyed it very much indeed. Sonia's perfume scented my tongue. I sucked on it, making it last as long as I possibly could.

  The pounding intensified. My arms and legs began to give way beneath me. Sonia was almost screaming – whether in pain or pleasure I couldn't quite tell, possibly a potent blend of the two. Quentin grunted with each deep stroke. He had to be close to filling the girl with a dose of seed. I closed my eyes and focused on my task. I was a table, a footstool, a bench. I had to be useful, remain upright and supportive. I clenched my teeth and braced myself, determined to do my duty to the end.

  "Aargh!"

  I recognized my husband's cry of release and it was swiftly followed by a sound of relief from the sobbing maid. Ha! He had almost proved too much for the flighty little girl. I was a very proud little table as I listened to their quickened breath. I also realized that my private parts were as slick as a fish.

  The weight was removed as they slid to the rug, laughing at their disarray. I almost collapsed at the sudden release and I crouched there, unable to move an inch, rigidly locked into my furniture pose. I hoped I would not require a chiropractic adjustment.

  "Good girl, Cunny!"

  Quentin slapped me hard across my well-braced behind.

  "Please, my dear," I asked, as sweetly and nicely as the meekest little girl. "Please may I have my spanking now?"

  My husband laughed like a drain.

  "A spanking? Now? Why, I'm utterly pooped. Perhaps tomorrow, if you're good all day. Things are going to change around here, you know. I've enjoyed today's pursuits far too much to revert to the previous dull regime."