by Laurel Aspen
‘I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.’ Sir Maurice was standing behind her, only inches away. ‘Now lift your skirt or I’ll do it for you.’ A threat he guessed, accurately as it turned out, Audrey would find ignominious beyond endurance.
Hands shaking, she reached for the hem and slowly, in Sir Maurice’s estimation delectably, raised the skirt and slip beneath it to her waist.
‘Splendid,’ he said, and returned to his chair to drain the whiskey tumbler and further contemplate the pleasurable sight she presented. His earlier idle speculations were not just confirmed but superseded. Audrey was possessed of what the squaddies in his old battalion would no doubt have referred to as a magnificent arse. Alabaster white, ample but firm, supported upon what his fellow officers would have called a superb pair of pins, lean with just a hint of muscle definition, clad in sheer dark nylon and held up by taut black suspenders. Hells bells, the strain on his trousers was becoming intolerable.
Thankful he could not see her blushes, Audrey trembled beneath his gaze but determinedly kept her back ramrod straight and pressed her knees tightly together, lest they betray her by shaking. Adrenalin coursed through her like a drug. She couldn’t recall when last she’d felt so excited, so alive, so deliciously vulnerable. At last she heard him stand again and move about the room. An item of furniture was picked up and transported to a space somewhere close by.
She felt a hand grip her elbow and Sir Maurice turned her to face him. ‘Kneel, please,’ he said, and she followed his line of site to the piano stool, positioned in front of an easy chair.
Now completely in his thrall, Audrey prudently said nothing but moved sedately to obey. Once in position she turned her large hazel eyes to meet and hold his steely gaze.
‘Bend forward, rest your forearms on the chair cushion and your head upon them,’ he ordered.
‘Sir Maurice, please…’
‘Forthwith,’ he snapped icily, in no mood to grant clemency at the eleventh hour, and with an audible sob she reluctantly did as she was told.
Just as he’d intended, her elevated position on the padded stool meant her hindquarters were now set higher than her head, thrust boldly upwards and thus perfectly presented for whatever chastisement Sir Maurice might choose to visit upon them. But not quite yet, for he had one more petty humiliation to submit Audrey to before reaching for the crop.
‘Take your knickers down,’ he said calmly.
‘Sir Maurice, you can’t mean… surely not on the bare!’ With her bottom so prominently presented to the old soldier’s lascivious gaze, Audrey was in no doubt what intimate sights the doffing of her knickers would reveal. Yet amid her genuine cries of protest an inner voice struggled to be heard. Isn’t this what she regularly dreamed of? To be completely possessed by an alpha male. Isn’t this one of the images which so frequently came unbidden into her head on lonely, restless nights, when she flushed hotly and the only way to fill the emptiness inside was with that vibrator kept carefully locked in her bedside drawer.
To which, of course, there was only one answer, and submissively Audrey reached to pull the skimpy knickers down to her knees. A beguiling image indeed, and if he wasn’t deluded Sir Maurice perceived the merest suggestion of moisture, dew-like upon the downy thatch at the apex of her thighs. No time to dally, there was work to be done; the time for tantalising anticipation was over, now he must show his mettle.
‘Since this is the first of what I intend to be a series of corrections…’ another despairing moan from the kneeling figure came as punctuation to this solemn announcement, ‘…I shall deliver just six cuts of the crop. But in future, when time is less pressing and I have first warmed the target area with a meticulous spanking, you may expect a good deal more.’ She gave another anguished sigh. ‘Be quiet, woman,’ said Sir Maurice, but not unkindly, running his hand across the silken skin of her derrière causing an involuntary shudder to run through Audrey’s body.
‘I have in my hand an old but still efficacious crop that will match this posterior well. In order to ensure you surrender your current unfortunately overbearing attitude, Audrey, at my command you’ll thrust back those glorious haunches to invite the rod’s corrective attentions.’ Employing words as weapons Sir Maurice was deliberately upping the ante and asserting his complete control.
‘After an initial “sixer” you’ll subsequently reach back and pull those ripe peaches asunder, exposing your bottom cleft and anus to the crop’s wickedly searching tip.’
‘Nooo…’ Audrey’s wail of protest was almost simultaneously truncated by a squeal of pain, ‘ahhhhh,’ as the first of six successive blows from the crop sunk into her soft flesh. Delivered with ruthless precision at roughly fifteen-second intervals each perfectly horizontal stroke scored a livid red line of fire across the previously pristine flesh. Fortunately, true to his word, Sir Maurice ceased the thrashing after half a dozen lusty strokes; considerably out of practice Audrey could not have endured any more.
Wailing sorrowfully, with tears coursing down her cheeks, any bravado Audrey might have intended abruptly dissipated by the throbbing pain in her poor posterior. Fighting the urge to wriggle her hips to assuage the heat suffusing those tremulous orbs she somehow remembered his previous instruction and reached back with her carefully manicured fingers, pulling her bottom cheeks apart to humiliatingly expose the puckered rose of her anus. Whereby as threatened, Sir Maurice employed wristy badminton flicks to bring the crop into searing contact with the sensitive skin of her buttock cleft, forcing shrill cries of dismay from Audrey’s lips as it caught her chocolate starfish.
In truth the cruel blows were mainly symbolic, intending to reinforce beyond doubt the dominance Sir Maurice had worked assiduously to establish. Tossing the crop to one side he ran his hand soothingly across her indecently disciplined buttocks, making her groan once more, albeit this time with pleasure.
‘You took that very well, m’dear,’ he said affectionately. ‘Not that I’d expect anything less. It’s only fair, therefore, that such stoic forbearance should be rewarded…’
Rewarded? Audrey’s heart raced and her thighs involuntarily clenched as if to stem the sharp thrill of liquid pleasure welling up within, engulfing her sex with unrequited desire.
‘With a sound corking.’ Sir Maurice’s questing fingers skilfully sought out her aching clitoris while his other hand reached for the zip of his trousers.
Audrey required precious little foreplay to ready her for his erection. As Sir Maurice’s adept fingers quickly confirmed, her velvety cave was already seeping with moisture and the tip of his cock was soon sliding between her labia. With a series of quite unladylike moans and imprecations Audrey urged him on, urgently thrusting back her hips to draw him deep into the slick welcome of her overheated cunt. Within moments he’d penetrated her to the core, working his penis rapidly in and out like a piston at full bore. Then, just as she felt her climax approaching, he abruptly withdrew.
‘No, please, Maurice,’ she whimpered, no longer caring that her overwhelming sexual need had reduced her to begging for his cock, ‘don’t leave me in this state - I can’t bear it.’
‘Of course,’ he mused craftily, dextrously employing his fingers to slick the copious outpourings of her vagina around the entrance to her rectum, and suddenly aware of his intentions she once more protested.
‘Oh no, Sir Maurice, not in my back passage.’
‘I rather thought I thrashed the disobedience from you, but perhaps you require another taste of the crop,’ he said, and further inaudible but clearly pathetic pleadings indicated that this was not the case. ‘Then relax your muscles, woman; it will make my entrance easier for both of us. You’re surely not pretending never to have had your arse reamed before?’ In which wild guess the cunning old fox was once more correct. Audrey’s was no virgin fundament, in fact her late spouse had punished then plundered her rear end on several memorable occasions to the mutual satisfaction of them both.
Outwardly prudish and out
moded in her views on sex, Audrey was, when it came to the act, as lascivious and demanding as any woman Sir Maurice had encountered on his worldwide travels. Indeed the breadth of her experience of perversity, and the unbridled enthusiasm with which she appeared to accommodate any sexual suggestion within the bedroom, would in future come as something of a revelation to him.
Slowly, carefully pushing and stretching her back passage to the limits of endurance, Sir Maurice soon filled her bottom with, she noted with extreme pleasure, his considerable endowment. Once fully in place he quickened his pace, shafting her to the very hilt with the strength and vigour of a man half his age until, noisily and joyfully he shot what felt like pints of sperm deep into her bowels and brought the outwardly respectable middle-aged widow to a shattering climax.
Two weeks later a maid paused in her journey down a hotel corridor. What was that noise she’d heard? Why, it almost sounded like a spanking, and she smiled at the memory of what she and her boyfriend had got up to the previous evening, her bum still tingling pleasurably under her uniform. She could have sworn she’d caught the sound of slaps punctuated by shrill yelps of pleasure, pain, or perhaps both. No, she dismissed the idea from her mind, it couldn’t be, the hotel’s patrons were of the utmost respectability, drawn from a better class of person. And anyway, those two guests were, she recalled, both over forty and therefore, to a nineteen-year-old at least, past it. Humming and looking forward to the night’s encounter, she continued her work.
Meanwhile, in the hotel’s most expensive and exclusive suite, Audrey, naked but for a tightly cinched waspie, ankle strap sandals and a string of pearls, reclined on a four-poster bed. Standing above her Sir Maurice adroitly visited the crop upon her soft inner thighs, smacking the succulent treasure of her sex, lightly stinging Audrey’s labia as she lay on her back, legs in the air, widespread and pulled right back to her generous breasts, held behind each knee - by her own hands, because it was all the more piquant to ensure she be complicit in her own corporal comeuppance. After two prominently erect nipples - revealed when Sir Maurice tugged her silk blouse asunder - had also tasted the crop, she would taste his cock, taking him in her mouth and skilfully bringing him to the very brink of coming before ceasing to suck and guiding him deep into her sopping sex to ride her roughly to a creamy fulfilment.
Lady Ashby, she thought distractedly, had a certain ring to it, almost as if she were to the manner, and manor, born.
Three months later and in the spirit of rapprochement, Arthur popped in to see his mother-in-law as he made his way home from work one day. Usually composed and serene, Audrey appeared a touch restless, continually shifting around in her chair, seemingly unable to get comfortable.
She rose to offer him a drink, moving extremely gingerly and, when she judged him not to be looking, surreptitiously rubbed her bottom. Despite such evident physical discomfort she was however looking extremely pleased with herself, albeit more than a little flushed. Curious, mused Arthur, she was taking such small steps, and he could have sworn he’d noticed her wince with pain as she sat again.
Another thought then entered Arthur’s head, and nothing could prevent the broad smile that creased his features. Maybe it was zeitgeist, perhaps it was something in the stars, but like her daughter she’d obviously had a recent close encounter with an alpha male.
‘We haven’t seen much of you lately,’ he said innocently. ‘You seem to be spending so much time with Sir Maurice.’
‘Most certainly I am,’ said Audrey, with evident pleasure and enthusiasm. ‘Weekend breaks in Venice, Vienna, Edinburgh,’ her face became radiant, ‘nights out at the theatre, dining at the best restaurants…’
‘You certainly seem very happy,’ Arthur commented.
‘After the dull and pedestrian life I’ve led these last few years, who wouldn’t be smiling?’ Audrey replied.
But Arthur thought there was something else, and he now realised fully that Sir Maurice had not been joking when he suggested ‘tanning the hides’ of recalcitrant women.
The two had been seeing each other for several weeks and the positive results, demonstrated by Audrey’s fulsome and sincere welcome, were obvious to see. As recently as the last twenty-four hours Audrey had clearly been on the receiving end of a sound spanking, at the very least.
Which in turn brought another pleasant image to Arthur’s mind. Polite farewells, a kiss even, and in just another thirty minutes he’d be home, carefully locking the front door behind him. Where, he had absolutely no doubt whatsoever, Lyn would be waiting, suitably attired, properly prepared, every detail perfect; just as he’d earlier instructed her on the phone.
The early evening drive to a nearby part of pleasantly anonymous suburbia passed in a thrall of pleasant anticipation.
Humming to himself and with a spring in his step, Arthur opened the door of their modest new semi-detached house and crossed the threshold. He looked around approvingly, the house lights were low but there was sufficient illumination to confirm that the place was spotless. Instead of the usual bluish TV glow shining through the half open living room door he glimpsed a blank screen; instead music, soothing and melodic, came softly from the stereo.
‘In here, darling,’ a pleasant female voice confirmed his entrance had not gone unnoticed, and pushing open the lounge door fully Arthur was delighted to discover the rest of his orders had been carried out to the letter. One of their armchairs had been pulled into the centre of the room and there, bent submissively over the back of it, was Lyn.
It took Arthur a double take and a slow, appreciative circuit of the room to confirm this, but yes, made-up, made over and no doubt pushing their current account into the red the penitent figure awaiting his punitive pleasure was indeed his wife. Red of nails and red of lips, she was shoehorned into a figure-hugging and daringly low-cut dress. Preened and perfumed, dainty feet wobbling slightly in strappy high-heeled sandals, her legs were sheathed in sheer, shimmering nylon. Carefully, slowly savouring every second, he lifted the new garment to her waist and revealed the black stockings tightly suspended from a waist-clinching corset of similar hue.
Last but not least was a whippy cane, carefully laid close to hand on an adjacent side table.
Tentatively he picked it up, twirled it in his hand, caught Lyn’s apprehensive gaze and observed her wince as experimentally he swished the lethal rattan through the air.
‘Perfect, darling,’ he said, ‘well done.’ With a smile he flexed the pliable bamboo between his hands. ‘Now then, just a quick half dozen to keep you on your toes, and then we’ll go out to dinner…’
‘Whatever you say, Arthur.’
Network
‘Mind the closing doors, please.’ Richard couldn’t help but sneak furtive glances at the woman seated opposite. As the travelling lemmings in the swaying carriage stayed buried in their newspapers or stared catatonically into space she glanced up, caught his eye and favoured him with the briefest of smiles.
‘Mind the gap.’ He’d first seen her fifteen minutes earlier, a model of cool composure, boarding the tube on the northernmost reaches of the Piccadilly line. Richard rarely commuted into town on a Saturday, but the customer had pleaded on the phone, this job was desperately urgent and couldn’t possibly wait until Monday. They’d even pay Richard double his already considerable hourly rate.
‘Move right down the train.’ Ignoring the pleasant prospect of pecuniary enrichment Richard spent the journey wondering why he found this female passenger so alluring. Was it the lustrous dark hair that fell across her shoulders, occasionally swept from her face by red varnished nails? Or the simple black dress and matching coat?
Richard surreptitiously let his eyes travel the curves of her body. The ubiquitous images of waif-like clones currently saturating the media did nothing for him, nor, he suspected, most other blokes. Someone should start a campaign for women-shaped women.
‘Please stand behind the yellow line.’ Her legs, from mid-thigh length hem to low-heeled sho
es, sheathed in glossy, honey-hued tights, most definitely met with his approval. It was always the first feminine characteristic he noticed, Richard reflected, turning his attention back upward. The mysterious stranger’s face was made-up sparingly, lively dark eyes set above sculpturally defined cheekbones and flawless pale skin. Glossy red lips pursed with preoccupation.
The driver brought the carriage to a juddering stop at Leicester Square, prematurely ending his aesthetic reverie. For a moment Richard was briefly aware of the girl getting to her feet before losing sight of her in the crowd. He struggled through indecisive groups of disorientated tourists and began to walk up an escalator. There she was again, ahead of him, climbing steadily on the left-hand side. Following close behind Richard took the opportunity to sneak another look and caught his breath; Ms Mysterious favoured stockings over tights, their tops momentarily visible from his privileged position. Uncertain which exit to take he lost her again in the station booking hall. Oh well, it had at least been a brief erotic moment to brighten his day.
Studying his A to Z carefully he went in search of a small publisher’s office, located in a tiny mews somewhere off Wardor Street.
Soho was still quiet at this hour of the morning; road sweepers cleared the detritus of last night’s clubbers while the first cafés to open set their tables out on the pavements. After five minutes of searching through this pale imitation of Paris he located the correct door.
‘Come in,’ called a voice on the entry-phone, and Richard climbed the stairs to an apparently deserted first floor office; computers humming, lights on, no one at home. ‘Hi, Richard Henson,’ he called, ‘computer engineer, looking for a, hmm,’ he paused to check his notes, ‘Ms Lauren…’
‘That’s me,’ interrupted an agreeable voice, as a woman walked through from an adjoining office and extended a hand in greeting. ‘I’m - good grief…’ For a moment mutual recognition rendered the two of them silent. ‘The woman from…’ she went on.