‘Not so fast,’ I said.
She turned.
‘Now I think it’s my turn to give you a spanking; after all, what you did was even worse than me.’
Her hand was on the doorknob and I saw the twinkle of desire in her eyes.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said half-heartedly.
‘I do. Now come over here,’ I said, pulling her by the arm.
She came and I knew I’d won her, knew that if she could give a good spanking then she’d probably enjoy one just as much.
‘Lie over my knee,’ I said, sitting on the chair.
My erection had subsided somewhat but as she lay over me, her flimsy nightgown rising to show me her pretty panties, I felt it rise again.
I pulled her panties down, exposing her bare cheeks, and slapped at them. She flinched but didn’t say anything so I smacked harder until I saw my handprints on her flesh.
‘Oh,’ she squealed as welts rose.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she whimpered.
‘Open your legs so I can touch your pussy.’
She did.
My hand slid down the crack of her arse to cup her pussy. She was on fire. The heat coming from there was amazing. I slid a finger down her flaps, amazed to feel the wetness there already. She wiggled her bum at me encouragingly.
Slipping in a finger I marvelled at her silkiness, knew I had to have her and have her quickly.
‘Get up,’ I said. ‘And take off your nightie.’
She did, stripping completely. Her nipples were hard. I tweaked them, giving them a hard squeeze, loving it when she squealed with pain. I pulled her closer, tugging at a nipple. She leaned forward as I took one in my mouth, rolling my tongue over it, and she moaned with pleasure.
My hand slipped down over her naked mound and onto her flaps. I parted them sliding in a finger, then another, enjoying the sensation of having her do exactly as I wished.
‘On your knees,’ I demanded. ‘Now suck my cock.’
She sucked like a pro. I held her head, controlling the movements until I felt I was about to come.
‘On my bed, legs open.’
As quick as a flash she lay before me, her legs splayed wide.
Picking up the ruler I slapped at her pussy, gently, not wanting to hurt her. Her hands slid down her breasts, over her stomach to her pussy. She opened her flaps and stared at me.
‘Slap me with your hand,’ she whispered.
Hesitantly I did.
‘Harder,’ she demanded.
I slapped at her pussy over and over again, watching as her juices oozed from her. Her clit hardened, doubling in size. I touched it, amazed at how hard it was slipping under my finger.
‘Oh, rub me,’ she begged.
I did and within seconds she was coming. Her body arched then shook as a massive orgasm exploded from her.
‘Oh God, fuck me, will you.’
I didn’t need to be asked twice. I speared my rock-hard cock into her deliciously hot pussy and fucked her like I’ve never fucked anyone else before.
We came clinging to each other, her nails raking down my back, taking half my flesh with them.
We lay together in the aftermath of great sex, the room heady with our scent, and I promised her that from now on whenever she was naughty I’d repeat the spanking for her.
I couldn’t wait for her to be bad again, I can tell you.
The Governess
by Izzy French
“Follow me, Mademoiselle.”
Angelique kept her head bowed as she followed Monsieur Leveque into his study. She could feel Cook’s gaze on her back as the oak door slammed shut behind them. No doubt she had witnessed this summons many times before, although, for Angelique, it had come sooner than she expected. The justice would be summary, no doubt. He would dismiss her, and she would leave the house the same day. She had known what he was like before taking the position. His reputation as a hard taskmaster had preceded him. She knew of several governesses who had left his home within days, hours even, of having undertaken the task of teaching his two young sons. Some of their own volition, some dismissed. What each of them had in common was that they would not speak of what had occurred whilst they resided in his home. But Angelique was determined. She would not allow him to intimidate her. She had wished to avoid him, to work well with his sons, and gain experience as a governess.
Monsieur Leveque sat behind the oak desk in a high-backed chair. He was silent, contemplative. He did not invite Angelique to sit. She glanced around the library, certain she would show no fear. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. She had visited this room before, but not when Monsieur Leveque had been home, had opened cabinets, taken books down and turned the pages with care. She had even taken one or two back to her room. He was a man of taste. The titles were those read in the salons of Paris, she was quite certain. She had been impressed.
“My sons like you, Mademoiselle.”
His voice was surprisingly soft.
“And why wouldn’t they, Monsieur?”
He looked surprised at her boldness. Maybe previous governesses had been compliant, unwilling to stand up to him. But she knew she was a good governess, and that they were learning much with her. She would not be mistreated.
“Because, Mademoiselle, they have never liked a governess before now. And neither have I. But still, you are not perfect. There have been infractions. And there must be punishment. We must all learn that there are consequences for our actions.”
Angelique gulped but didn’t look away. That would be admitting her fear. She held her hands before her demurely and held his gaze. He was an austere-looking man, but his face wasn’t without charm. There was much gossip in the surrounding area about his wife. That she had left and fled to Paris with a lover, leaving her husband and the boys behind. If this were true, it might account for his severe demeanour. His dark hair curled over his collar, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. He could be considered a handsome man; the planes of his face were regular. He dressed formally, and his clothes were well cut. She could tell he was appraising her in return, taking in her grey governess’s dress, and her neat figure. She wondered what his wife looked like. Was she handsome too? Pretty? There were no portraits of her around the house for Angelique to judge. She had a fleeting thought about how it would feel for him to touch her, to rest his hand on her cheek. She pushed that thought away.
She drew breath.
“Punishment, Monsieur? You must be mistaken. And I was in the middle of a lesson with Serge and Charles. I must return to them. We were learning about the Americas. They will spoil their work if I am gone from them for too long. They can be disobedient, at times.”
She knew she was taking a chance, criticising his sons. But she felt the only way to gain respect, and keep her place, was to be honest with him.
“Cook is sitting with them, for now. The boys tell me you allow them to talk during mealtimes.”
The tone of his voice had altered slightly. Still soft, it had an edge to it, something she was unable to grasp. Was her punishment to be dismissal?
“We talk of our day together, Monsieur. Of what we have seen on our rambles, for example. How we translate our observations to paper the next day. It is all productive, I assure you.”
Her voice trailed away as he rose from his chair and walked to the corner of the room, where a riding crop rested against a wall. Her eyes widened. The boys had spoken to her of the punishment he meted out to them, on occasion. Across their hands. Surely he wasn’t going to mete out the same punishment to her? A grown woman in his employment. How would she face his sons with marks across her hands? How would she ever make them obey her again? She flushed.
“I have rules, Mademoiselle. You were made fully aware of them when you accepted the post. And my rules must not be broken. I do not accept disobedience from my sons, or from my servants. Over here, please.”
Angelique stayed exactly where sh
e was. And she stayed silent.
“If you prefer, Mademoiselle, I could dismiss you. But I believe your family is in great financial need. I believe it would not sit well with them if you were to be summarily dismissed and returned to them, penniless and without references, would it? I know your father well. He is a proud man.”
Angelique knew Monsieur Leveque was correct. Father was proud. He had once been a wealthy man, but had lost much money in an ill-fated adventure in the West Indies. Once he had moved in the same circles as Monsieur Leveque, but no more. He would be most displeased if Angelique were to return home so soon. He had entreated her to work hard.
“And, Mademoiselle, I would ensure you would never work as a governess again in this town.”
His voice was raised now. He lifted the crop and whipped it against his desk. Angelique could see grooves there, where it had been whipped before. For the benefit of his sons, or other governesses? she wondered. She could not afford to lose her position, so she walked over to him, remaining upright and proud as she did so. He would understand she was not going to submit to a lashing willingly. He would know of her displeasure. He paid her wages, but he did not own her. She stood before him now, her face defiant. He breathed deeply, heavily. He flexed the crop, and stroked it against the palm of his hand. She waited for him to ask her to hold her hands out before her for him to hit them. She closed her eyes. If the pain became too intense she would make her thoughts wander. But that did not happen.
“I can see why my boys are so fond of you, Mademoiselle.” He stroked the tip of the crop down her cheek, and across her shoulder to the lace edge of her dress. He traced a line down to her décolletage. She shivered. This was unexpected. But not unpleasant. In fact, she felt a tiny frisson of what she could only describe as excitement. He plucked at a ringlet that fell to one side of her ear with his left hand, and tugged slightly. The sensation was strange, a mixture of pain and sweetness.
“You are pretty. And clever. I can see that you understand me better than the others. They would have fled by now.”
Angelique wasn’t sure she agreed, that she did understand him, but she didn’t demur. Then he stroked the cane over the surface of her dress, down her sleeve, round her waist and across her skirts, lifting the edge, showing the whiteness of her petticoats.
“Pretty ankles can tempt a man, you know.”
She could have protested that if he hadn’t lifted her skirt, exposing them, that they wouldn’t have tempted him. That her ankles weren’t routinely on show. That he had allowed himself to be tempted. She hadn’t shown herself off. But she didn’t speak.
“And I believe there have been other transgressions. I hear from my sons that you have taken books from my library, without my permission. You are a learned young lady.”
Angelique dropped her head. So he knew about the books. The boys had told him, despite her express wish that they wouldn’t. She had to have the books. Life in the house could be dull. She loved teaching the boys, but she soon grew bored of the tittle-tattle amongst the servants in the kitchen, where she was expected to spend her time when she wasn’t teaching. She was drawn back to the present when she felt the crop begin to rise up her calf. Momentarily she had to suppress a giggle. The situation seemed entirely absurd. Then it snagged on her stockings and caught her skin. She gasped. It was as though he could read her thoughts.
“I will return your books to you, Monsieur.”
“Indeed you will, Mademoiselle. But before you do, I would be grateful if you would bend over my desk. Now please.” His voice was insistent. It brooked no argument. She met his eyes one last time, then turned from him and, bending at waist height, she rested her palms on the desk. Her chest heaved. She hoped he could not see her agitation. The crop was moving slowly up underneath her petticoats, reaching her thigh. Then his left hand picked up her petticoats and skirt and threw them up over her back, exposing her undergarments. Resting the crop against the desk, his hands roved over her backside. She shivered in anticipation, as the cool cotton rubbed against her skin. Then his hands reached between her knickers and tore them further apart. She stifled a protest, that they were handworked, by her mother, part of her going-away gift.
She pressed her legs tight shut. Perhaps she was deserving of this punishment. She had taken his books, after all, fully intending to return them, of course. And they had made interesting reading. She felt his lips brush across her skin. She closed her eyes. The feeling was exquisite.
“Are you ready, Mademoiselle?”
She did not answer him, nor give him any sign she had heard him. Her punishment would come whether she did so or not. And, although she felt powerless to resist the physical punishment, by refusing to communicate with him, she retained her dignity, and, with that, some power of her own. She waited. The crop whistled through the air administering the first blow with a sharp sting. Angelique squeezed her eyes tight shut. It hurt more than she anticipated. But as he raised the crop again the place between her thighs began to tingle with anticipation. She had to resist raising her arse to him. She would not show him her reactions.
The second blow came. Across both buttocks. The agony was soon becoming sweet, and the corresponding sensation between her thighs was intensifying. She had to resist the desire to reach down and satisfy that ardour as he whipped her. It was ironic, really. Often, alone in her room, with the books she had taken from the library, reading of such punishments, she would explore that part of herself that gave such sweet pleasure, bringing on waves of comfort that she had never known before. And now, in turn, she was receiving the pain and pleasure that was described within their covers.
Another blow came. He was relentless. She groaned. Her skin was becoming hot and sore. She twisted and turned her hips, writhing against the desk. He bent to her, kissing her skin again. She cried out.
Then he laid the crop beside her on the desk. She wished to take it up and turn and strike him in return, to see how he reacted, to see how it felt to lash his skin. But then some delicate, invisible thread hanging between them would be broken.
“I think that is enough punishment, for allowing my sons to talk at mealtimes, at least. Stand up.”
Angelique was confused. Why was he stopping now? She was disappointed. She stood, allowing her petticoats and skirt to fall, skimming her burning buttocks. She winced. They stood facing one another in silence. Angelique wondered if she was to be dismissed from his company now. She would have to return to her room, unfulfilled. And then be forced to satisfy herself. Anger rose in her throat.
“But there is also the other matter. I have not yet punished you for stealing my precious books.”
“I borrowed them, Monsieur. I will return them immediately. As soon as you release me.”
“I am fearful for you, Mademoiselle. Fearful of your morality. If you would steal from your employer, when you are so new to his employ, to what moral depths would you descend?”
“I am good, Monsieur.”
“That goodness needs testing, Mademoiselle. And reinforcing. Closer, please.”
Angelique stepped towards him, not allowing her eyes to draw away from his gaze. Once she was within arms reach he grasped her, and in one swift movement, sat in his chair and threw her over his knee. Again he threw her skirts up. Angelique offered no resistance. She wondered what implement he would use this time. She was beginning to believe she deserved her punishment. She knew she was deriving pleasure from it, although she wished to hide this fact from him. And he would be deriving pleasure too, if he shared the sentiments she read about in his books, which he almost certainly did.
She was surprised to feel the palm of his hand strike her this time. His hand felt cool against her stinging buttocks, but his slap felt hard against her smooth skin. He raised his hand again and let it fall. Angelique twisted and squirmed within his grasp.
“I think this excites you, Mademoiselle.” His voice was stern. She smiled down at the floor.
“No, Monsieur,” she attem
pted to protest.
“I believe there is a moistness there, between your thighs. A moistness that usually demonstrates a woman’s lust.”
He traced his fingers over her buttocks before slapping her again, several times. His strike was firm and steady. He had done this before. She quivered with desire.
“You are a whore, Mademoiselle, to derive pleasure from my actions.”
Angelique did not reply, but pushed her arse against his hand, willing him to delve between her thighs and satisfy her.
The next slap was electrifying. She groaned with longing, feeling helpless. Pressing herself into his lap she could feel that he, in turn, was excited.
“I see my punishment has inflamed you, Monsieur,” she gasped, unable to suppress herself.
“You are very perceptive, Mademoiselle.”
Instead of striking her this time, he rubbed her bottom, parted her buttocks and inserted several fingers deep inside her, thrusting for several moments, then pulled them from her. She felt her cunt tighten and release. She wanted him inside her now. He bent over her, kissing her buttocks, running his tongue over the lines left by the crop, the marks left by his hand.
“You taste sweet,” he whispered. Her desire raged at the melting together of pleasure and pain. Pulling herself up, she twisted round on his lap, straddling him, allowing herself room to unfasten his trousers and release his cock. It was his turn to groan. Raising herself slightly, she tilted backwards and lowered herself onto his cock, feeling it nudge into her cunt, its passage eased by her juices. He threw his head back, having now surrendered herself to him. He held her hips and rocked her backwards and forwards, and they settled into a rhythm. Her buttocks rubbed against the serge of his trousers and the soreness felt exquisite. She felt his hand push itself between her lips, seeking out the tiny nub that so often afforded her pleasure when she was alone. He rubbed it firmly, encircling it with his finger as he thrust deep inside her, and she forced herself down on him in return. Their coupling was ardent, the fulfilment of the agonies of her punishment. He groaned as he reached his orgasm, and she soon followed him, waves of pleasure flowing through her cunt, all the more rapturous for what had preceded it. It took some moments for her to return to her senses, and she felt herself blush as they looked at each other, neither speaking. Her cunt still pulsed around him, her body still taking pleasure from his cock.
Naughty Spanking Three Page 11