Later, during dinner in a posh restaurant, I’d praised Sophie for her fortitude. Cupping her still sore breasts – the absence of a bra tantalisingly revealing erect nipples beneath her silk shirt and causing a voyeuristic adjacent diner to come close to choking – she smiled wanly and ruefully admitted to becoming powerfully aroused despite the discomfort.
An hour later, crouching over me as I gently kissed her sore nipples, Sophie gingerly skewered her copiously lubricated, slot vigorously up and down on my rigid cock until we noisily came together.
I can guess what you’re thinking; most people react in exactly the same way when they cotton on. “You’re 46, she’s 24!” That’s typically how the conversation kicks off, after which I can usually predict the precise response by gender.
Guys nudge each other, openly envious: “You old lucky sod, she’s old enough to be …” Yeah, thanks for that.
Women tend to be immediately censorious; I’m a ‘svengali’, or an ‘ageing lothario’, maybe even guilty of that most heinous crime, being a ‘manipulative, dirty old man’.
Although it doesn’t comfortably with fit any of the above hypothesis the simple fact is that Sophie – drop-dead good looking, outgoing, witty, obviously confident and for those sad souls who communicate in modern management speak ‘empowered’ – picked me up and made the running right from the start. So there’s no need to patronise her or demonise me, thank you very much, no one is a victim here.
Our relationship is, in every respect but one, wholly egalitarian. Flatteringly, Sophie tells me that much of the attraction of a liaison with an ‘older bloke’ (truth to tell that’s a description I’m having trouble accepting, however accurate and kindly meant) is the ease with which I accept her expectations of equality. A welcome relief compared to the insecure male egos of her peers apparently. My generation’s ideals – and in particular my old hippy emphasis on individual freedom – apparently exercise a stronger appeal for her than the supposedly ironic sexism of gadget-obsessed ‘new lads’.
“You’ve travelled, learnt skills, done things other than play pointless computer games or sit in bars trading empty boasts; in short, lived a little,” she told me happily.
“Besides, it,” she looked meaningfully at her delightful derriere, “just wouldn’t feel right with a bloke of my own age.” ‘It’ turned out to be an oblique reference to spanking. For all her outward autonomy, Sophie, it emerged, had a deep atavistic compulsion to ‘get in touch with her need to sexually submit.’ Fine by me, I was initially prudent enough not to appear too aghast (nor openly exultant) at this revelation, nor to push things on to quickly. When she felt ready would be soon enough, let the fly come to the spider. Sure enough good things come to those who wait – proving there’s a basis to most clichés – and Sophie came to trust me sufficiently to relinquish control in one special area of our private partnership. Inside the assertive 21st century woman I was delighted to discover a secret submissive. Naturally I was thrilled to indulge the fantasies Sophie had long harboured unrealised since she was a teenager and add CP, mild bondage and role-play games to our sexual repertoire.
Sophie’s second ‘harsher measures’ episode had been alfresco. Halting the car at a country park packed with holidaymakers on a summer’s day, I’d led Sophie firmly by the hand through the crowds. Her attire – hair in girlish bunches, ultra short netball skirt, tight T shirt, bare legs and sneakers – got me some envious glances since her figure is far from appearing adolescent. As an unmistakably adult woman dressed in such a juvenile fashion – albeit that on Wednesday evenings she really does play the sport to keep fit – Sophie’s embarrassment was acute.
Most visitors seldom stray more than 50 yards from the family car and we were soon in a quieter area of the woods. Once among the trees I calmly ignored her plaintive protests, and pleas to ‘get it over with’. How ironic, rather than as was usual begging me to stop spanking her, she was entreating me to begin. Conversely I was in no such hurry; enjoying the spectacle I forced Sophie, bottom lip quivering and squirming with humiliation, over until she touched her toes whereupon I delivered a brisk, business-like, intensely rapid series of ringing slaps without respite for several minutes.
Alert to every noise, real or imagined, convinced that a party of picnickers might chance upon the sight of her humiliation at any moment Sophie tried desperately not to cry out for fear her distress might be overheard, or worse still recorded on some holidaymaker’s Instamatic. Somehow she contrived to purse her lips as all the while her firm, rounded buttock cheeks juddered and crimsoned under the impact of my unforgiving hand. Eventually relinquishing my iron grip I let her stand, damp eyed, red of face and sore of bottom, fidgeting uncomfortably and dancing an impromptu on-the-spot jig in the sun-dappled forest glade.
Next I produced a small penknife and had her reluctantly choose and cut a whippy, green willow switch. Requiring Sophie to select the implement, which would soon wreak havoc with her already throbbing haunches added a delicious piquancy to proceedings – for me at least. Dismissing further heartfelt pleas for clemency I bent Sophie over a convenient fallen tree trunk and flipped up her skirt. The tiny thong tantalisingly revealed beneath afforded no protection; her pink-tinged bottom cheeks might as well have been naked. Savouring the sight I almost forget the punitive purpose of this expedition but having recalled my true intent soon had the hapless Sophie squirming under the first of half a dozen cuts of the rod delivered hard to already smarting skin. Despite her attempts at self-control the pain forced two involuntary cries from her pretty mouth, sounds of acute female distress easily heard in the car park and greatly increasing our risk of detection.
She rose stiff (although not as much as I) and sobbing after the sixth incorrectly thinking her ordeal concluded. To her horror, I pushed Sophie cruelly back over the tree and administered two extra strokes, low down across the backs of her thighs causing her to shriek loudly once more. Wet eyed and scarlet with humiliation I returned a chastened Sophie through the crowds, a pair of livid weals clearly visible below the attenuated hem of her skirt, her legs and posterior smarting intolerably. To mind every eye was upon her, in truth I detected no more than a couple of sidelong glances until, nearing the car, an attractive raven haired Greek women proffered a brief conspiratorial smile.
“That was cruel, and so embarrassing,” whimpered a sore and extremely penitent young woman 15 minutes later as I carefully rubbed soothing cold cream into her glowing hindquarters.
“Walking home alone half-cut from the Tube station at one in the morning, not phoning for me to collect you and worrying me to death, I’d say it was just desserts,” I responded testily but in truth couldn’t stay cross for long and my next instruction was altogether kinder. Sophie obediently knelt up (sitting would not be on the agenda for some hours to come) in the back seat of the car – this time parked in proper seclusion – parted her thighs and was rewarded for her fortitude with a sound seeing to from behind.
Lest it be thought Sophie makes the entire running in determining the sexual boundaries of our relationship I was the one to suggest the occasional session of authentic discipline. Whether as a subconscious desire to redress the balance of power between us I neither know nor intend to analyse my motives too closely; it seems to me there’s far too much analysis these days, much better to grasp opportunities as they present. But how would an enforced penance square with her professed feminism, I wondered? Had she said no at that juncture there’d have been argument from me, I wasn’t going to spoil a good thing by getting greedy.
Fortunately Sophie didn’t care a fig for ideological rectitude – “let’s keep politics out of the bedroom,” she declared firmly and unhesitatingly agreed to experiment to “push our relationship to another level” by being the recipient of a genuine punishment. Perhaps for Sophie these episodes serve as a calling to account, a modern day equivalent of the confessional. Whatever, on such occasions her misdemeanours – exaggerated a tad for dramatic effect – provide
d a basis for some emotionally and erotically intense encounters.
To further extend the boundaries of our shared experience and exercise my imagination I set myself the task of experimenting with various ways to increase the salutary effects of Sophie’s occasional real-life castigations without recourse to either draconian implements or harsher strokes. Pain beyond a certain level seems to me gratuitous and uncivilised and I believe that ritual and anticipation play every bit as an important part in domestic discipline as the severity of the chastisement. The method by which I went about delivering Sophie’s threatened bottom warming amply illustrates this point.
On the appointed evening of this third such ‘harsher measures’ session – retribution for her conduct that morning – Sophie shivered at the recall of those previous disciplinary travails then steadfastly set about dressing as I’d directed. Finally satisfied with her appearance she discreetly made her way, apprehensive but excited to my flat and our latest reckoning.
One benefit of age, some compensation for greying temples and stiffening joints, is an ability to bring an effortless air of seniority and authority to proceedings. This time I’d decreed innovative attire for penitence and was pleased to see that, blushing furiously and however reluctantly, she’d complied.
Sophie’s shoulder length tresses were pinned neatly in place, her makeup regime little more than bright red lipstick. Underneath a long coat, discarded upon entry to my domain, a crisp white cotton shirt strained its buttons dangerously close to breaking point over her plentiful breasts. Her straight black skirt was far shorter than would have been permitted by any bona fide educational institution, barely covering the tops of her sheer black stockings and only an adult schoolgirl would’ve dared to sport such high heels on her single strap black court shoes. The outfit was completed with a clumsily knotted school tie and authentic white ankle socks. Admiringly I flicked up the hem of her skirt to reveal her superbly rounded bottom cheeks snugly encased in a pair of simple white cotton knickers and bisected by taut suspenders of a matching hue.
“Right, Sophie,” I said calmly, “since this is a punishment I shall reverse the usual order of events.” Her wide hazel eyes stared at me with puzzled apprehension. “Consequently I intend to begin by strapping you, following which you’ll go over my knee for a sound spanking,” I explained.
Sophie’s pretty mouth fell open in shock. She knew from bitter experience that the thick leather strap applied ‘cold’ is painful enough. To be subsequently spanked over the throbbing stripes would be agony. She began to protest, but obediently stopped when I placed an admonitory finger on her lips. Now was not the time to further increase my ire.
Arranging two dining chairs back to back I told Sophie to assume an uncomfortable stance, standing astride one chair and bending over the back to place her hands on the seat of the second. This was a pose I’d seen illustrated but never previously employed; eminently suited to chastising the most serious misdemeanours, the perilously unstable posture is difficult to maintain and dreadfully humiliating. From a punisher’s perspective it affords an ideal opportunity to apply the strap to a girl’s bottom and the exquisitely tender insides of her thighs.
Wailing abjectly in pain and mortification and struggling to maintain her grip and balance Sophie endured 18 hard strokes from the well-worn length of leather. Her cotton knickers shielded no more than her modestly and when helped unsteadily from the chair Sophie’s hands immediately clutched desperately at the blazing buttocks I’d callously transformed into a mass of stinging, overlapping red weals.
Horribly aware that this time she was being taken to the furthermost limits of her endurance Sophie then stood, trembling, hands on head as I removed her skirt and began to spank her bottom with methodical, cupped-palm slaps, which echoed around the room and made her cheeks wobble delightfully. After several minutes her posterior had reddened even further and was obviously stinging furiously since Sophie began jiggling agitatedly from foot to foot. I then transferred my attention to the front of her thighs, firing off a fusillade of ringing slaps that soon had her hopping ignominiously on the spot crying out in anguish.
Despite her wails of pain and pleas for mercy I marched Sophie over to an upright chair, seated myself and dragged her, tearstained and dishevelled, face down across my lap. Sore thighs chafing on my jeans Sophie kicked and struggled to no avail across my knee. Another sound spanking followed, long minutes ticking by until her bottom had been rendered swollen and crimson and my palm smarted unbearably.
So abject was her distress by this point that my resolve almost weakened, but not quite and her unfortunate bare bottom, thrashed and smacked pillar-box red was soon squirming hot and sore across my lap once more as I mercilessly dispensed further heat and discomfort to her tortured rear.
Sophie’s cries simultaneously increased in volume and she bucked wildly across my knees all self control abandoned as her bottom was subjected to an unrelenting and seemingly unending ordeal by spanking. Eventually satisfied not a square inch had escaped the harsh impact of my palm I transferred my attention to her thighs and calves. To ever more frantic shrieks of dismay I smacked them scarlet until each matched a bottom so scorching I could feel heat radiating from it.
By now Sophie was in floods of tears, never had she endured a spanking so severe or as unrelenting. But I had yet another unwelcome surprise in store; reaching into my pocket I located a small phial of baby oil and deftly dribbled it across her blazing buttocks. Sophie moaned with relief as I rubbed it into her scalding flesh then squealed with incongruous delight as the lubricious liquid was smoothed around her sex. In spite of her pain and distress her treacherous sex had become wet enough to easily allow me to part her labia and slide a questing digit into her vagina.
This was rapidly replaced in turn with a vibrator I’d sneaked from the varied collection supposedly hidden in her underwear drawer and Sophie was soon involuntarily gasping and moaning as I forced it roughly deep inside her vagina while simultaneously recommencing her spanking. Sophie’s hips jerked and convulsed in response to the renewed hurt, forcing the thick plastic penis to slide in ever deeper, stretching and penetrating her aching sex to the fullest extreme.
Without warning I lifted her from my lap and carried Sophie to the sofa, flipping her wide and wet-eyed onto her back. Hoisting her legs into the air by her high heels and pushing her hands down onto her sex I gave one final instruction: “It’s quite simple Sophie,” I explained, “you work the vibrator in and out of your naughty little cunt and rub that throbbing clitoris. I hold your legs up in this undignified but deliciously revealing position and continue to spank your sore bottom. When you come, and only then, will I stop, so you’d better make a lot of noise so as to be sure I notice.”
Undignified though the situation was Sophie had little choice but to comply, masturbating frantically as her fiery bottom received a further fusillade of ringing hand slaps. All propriety abandoned she ground the heel of her hand hard into her mons and rapidly plunged the vibrator in and out of her sopping pussy until, lost in the hinterland between pleasure and pain, adrenalin coursing like electricity through her veins, she noisily came.
“Way harsh”, as I believe her generation say these days, although we subsequently concluded an unforgettable encounter with a loving, caring and rather more conventionally-positioned conciliatory coupling.
Pride And Preference
by Roz Macleod
Lindsey didn’t know whether she felt happy or sad when Nick rang her. It had been a long time since their affair and his departure for the new job in Milan. Although, now she was free, there was no need for her to feel guilty.
“Hullo, gorgeous.” Cliché, with just that touch of humour in his voice to make her smile, as doubtless he knew she would. Phone in hand, she walked into the hall and looked at herself in the mirror. Her complexion looked pale, but her hair was thick and glossy and there was a liveliness in her eyes which might have been an instinctive reaction to his voice.
>
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“De-cluttering my home office. What are you doing?”
“Jet lag. I’m in bed. Stroking my cock and thinking of you. You liked to have it in your mouth, didn’t you?”
She had to agree.
“You gave me a blow job in a lay-by.”
“I did.”
“You sucked my balls.”
“Yes.” Lindsey’s stomach lurched and her cunt felt wet.
“I bet you’re nice and moist now, aren’t you?”
“Not especially,” she lied.
“You’re never far from my thoughts, my love.”
Nor you from mine, she thought, although she would never admit it to him.
“Will you come and see me?”
“Where?”
“In my new flat in the Barbican.”
“You mean you’ve returned for good?”
Nick laughed. “Depends on whether it’s worth my while – from the business point of view, I mean.”
Typical Nick. Putting work first. Yet wasn’t that one of the things that attracted her? A self-made, successful businessman. An alpha male. Very handsome, his tall figure honed by exercises in the gym. Muscles rippling under his shirt, his broad shoulders exuding power. The leather belt he’d bought in the States with a buckle the shape of a snake curled at his slim waist. Why, she couldn’t wait to grab his big cock bulging under his black jeans.
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