On Demand

by Justine Elyot

  'Now you're getting what you deserve, Sophie,' he said. 'You're beginning to glow.' I could vouch for that. His hot rain stopped abruptly; I sighed and pushed my bottom up, wanting his fingers to slip down into my burning crevasse. To my infinite joy, he took me up on the offer.

  'Hmm, dripping wet,' he observed, skating around my eager spread, pushing in and pressing down. 'Perhaps this is not punishment for you, Sophie? You seem to be finding some pleasure in it? Is that so?'

  'No, Sir, no, I don't,' I lied, backing shamelessly into his touch. 'It's awful, Sir. It's too painful for me.'

  'Ten strokes of the hairbrush for your dishonesty,' he decreed, withdrawing his fingers with a squelch and reaching for a large wooden-backed number from the bedspread selection.

  I flopped back on to his lap, defeated and doomed. The brush cracked down and it really, really hurt. Only ten of these, I told myself, I could handle ten. Mamma mia, but I had no idea wood was so hard! I would have congratulated myself at this point for my choice of soundproofed room, if only I could have thought of anything beyond the sizzling heat and swingeing impact of the oval terror at my rear. What made it more difficult still was that he seemed to be concentrating on just one area – the crease between buttock and thigh, sensitive flesh stretched taut in my bent position. I howled through the remaining nine strokes, then fought to regain my breath.

  'Good girl, Sophie; you took that well,' he praised, putting the brush aside.

  'More than ten of those would definitely have been amber,' I gasped, and then I lost the words again because his hands were returning to soak in my juices a second time.

  'Do you like to hand control over?' he asked me, working busily on my tenderised clit.

  'I think so,' I wibbled. Two fingers slipped inside, possessing me.

  'Good. I am responsible for you today, Sophie. I am responsible for your punishment, but also for your pleasure. What I want you to do now, Sophie, is tell me when your climax is close. Can you do that?'

  'Yes, Sir,' I wailed stickily, riding his hand, luring it up inside, knowing it would take very little. I felt on fire inside and out, tensed as a bowstring. When I snapped there would be a white-out of sensation.

  I rocked up and down, sucking him in. I could feel the pressure rising, a counterpoint to the fading sting of my bottom; it would not be long, it was close, I was close. 'I am close, Sir,' I confessed unevenly.

  He took his hand away and smacked my bottom hard.

  'NO!' I cried.

  'Dirty girl,' he gloated. 'Come and look at yourself.'

  He stood, toppling me to my feet, then turned me away from him and tucked my skirt into my waistband. I had to keep the knickers at my knees while I waddled over to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe.

  I looked over my shoulder, transfixed by the scarlet skin which faded to pink further down my thighs before graduating to its normal whiteness. I looked well tended to and thoroughly chastised.

  'I haven't finished with you yet,' Lassiter murmured into my neck, his hands at my hips. 'But you need a break. Rachael's rear end is hardened and can take a lot more in one session. You need a little more TLC.' TLC. Tender loving care. Even as my bottom throbbed, I felt undone by the phrase. He was in control, he was hurting me, and yet he was caring for me. It was a dizzying thought.

  I allowed the thought to dizzy me for the entire half-hour I spent in the corner with my hands on my head, waiting for Dr Lassiter to finish drinking a mineral water and do some kind of techy thing with his PDA, all the while taking in an eyeful of my exhibited bottom. I was conscious of its diminishing heat as much as of my slicked thighs, growing colder while my clitoris cried for attention. If Lassiter would only go to the bathroom, I could touch it. Oh, how I needed to touch it.

  But he remained obstinately present until he called me back over, gave me a draught of water and then ordered me to bend over the bedside chair.

  'You're cooling, girl – we need to heat you back up again, don't we?'

  'Erm, yes, Sir,' I replied uncertainly. Still unused on the bed lay a supple-looking strap and a whippy-looking cane, by far the two most villainous characters of the bunch. I had a feeling I was going to want to remember my safe-words.

  'Now then, Sophie, for your curious choice of hosiery, I intend to lay this strap across every part of your skin, from the tops of your socks to the centre of your bottom, until it is quite, quite hot. I estimate that I will need to place twenty strokes to achieve this end. I am going to make you count each one. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, Sir.' Twenty sounded like a lot. But it was better than an undetermined number. I gritted my teeth, flexed my toes and gripped the side of the chair hard. I did not want to fail myself, or him.

  The first crack of the strap was breathtaking; my teeth clenched so hard I thought they would break as I hissed through them. But through the fire I managed, 'One, Sir,' and braced myself for the next. Dr Lassiter took it slowly, magisterially, laying each scorching line with deadly accuracy, one above the other. A couple of times I let go of the seat and leapt up, clutching at my bum, but he merely waited patiently for me to resume my position and then the next whistled down.

  At ten, I had to invoke amber. He knelt beside me, rubbing my tight skin, speaking words of reassurance, telling me we could stop here and now if I wanted and I had done so well already, remarkably well for a novice, and should be proud of myself. The whisperings nerved me; I told him I could take the rest, and I did.

  Twenty solid strokes until my arse was lit up like Blackpool illuminations and hot enough to cook a fry on. 'Twenty, Sir,' I mewed in jubilation, my legs like jelly, my forehead dripping, my knuckles white, but my sex aflame and needier than I had ever known it.

  'Well done, Sophie; you deserved that,' said Dr Lassiter. 'Stay there, part your thighs a little more.'

  His hands were upon the inside of each leg, swooping upwards, gathering the juices, marinating in them, and then he granted me the orgasm I had been craving, crooning into my ear while the bubble burst and my legs buckled beneath me. He caught me, wrapping an arm around my waist, bringing me safely to my knees.

  I felt an urge to worship him, a peculiar gratitude. Gratitude for giving me a bottom sorer than sunburn – what was I thinking? Perhaps I really was a closet submissive. He sat himself down in the bedside chair and patted my head.

  'I like my submissives to thank me for their punishment,' he said, half-smiling. 'I go to a lot of trouble to keep you girls on the straight and narrow, after all.'

  His hand was on the buckle of his belt. I knew exactly what he meant.

  My mouth full of rigid prick, I glanced sideways at the bed, noticing that the cane remained untested, wondering if this really was it, or whether there was more. My bum, transferring warmth to the heels it sat gingerly upon, was probably not capable of taking any more. All the same, I could not help but wonder. Was it that much worse than the strap? Was it really the instrument to fear above all others? I licked lavishly up Lassiter's shaft, squeezing the base until he spurted in my mouth, pulling at my hair and thrusting fast so that no drop of seed escaped my throat.

  I ran my tongue around my lips and smiled coyly up at him. A certain lassitude had overtaken Lassiter and he even returned my smile, hazily, his fingers fumbling to replace the detumescing cock in its hiding place.

  I looked back at the bed, and his eyes followed mine.

  'I don't think you're ready for the cane yet, Sophie,' he said wearily. 'Perhaps another time.'

  'Oh, I don't want a proper caning,' I assured him. 'But . . . couldn't you give me one stroke? I just want to know what it feels like.'

  He mopped his brow, exhaled hard. 'You're an interesting girl, Sophie.' He paused, wiping at his face with a handkerchief, crisp and smart as the rest of him. 'Go on, then, get up,' he said with a show of reluctance.

  I took my final position, hands on the bedframe, legs spread, arse up, while he whipped the cane through the air, practising angles. The sound it made was fr
ightening enough that I thought of abandoning the plan, falling forward on to my stomach and sleeping off my post-thrashing enervation, but I had asked for it, and I was going to go through with it.

  He tapped it gently against my reddened flesh. 'This will hurt, I can guarantee it,' he said sharply. 'Last chance to back out.'

  'No, give it to me,' I insisted, my own worst enemy as usual.

  He drew back, the air sang, the cane fell, absurdly quiet in its impact, and for a second I just thought, 'Oh! Is that it?' Then white stars of torment sparked in a line; I jumped up and palmed the welting stripe, trying to push it back inwards.

  'Red!' I exclaimed, turning around to Lassiter with popping eyes and a near-dislocated jaw.

  'Yes,' he conceded, nodding sagely. 'So you'll believe me next time, won't you?'

  'Yes, Sir,' I said contritely.

  'Good. Now if you lie down on your stomach, Sophie, I have a lotion that can ease the effects. And I'll ring down to room service while I'm at it. I think you deserve a little treat now.'

  Lotion notwithstanding, I had to watch how I was sitting for a few days afterwards. But it didn't put me off. I still call on his services from time to time when my itch for Chase is driving me insane. Six of the best take the edge off quite nicely, I find.

  The Manager #2

  My lunatic infatuation with Chase led me down some strange avenues. If most of them were dead ends, at least I gained a little better understanding of my psycho- geography on the way.

  A few months after my disastrous Christmas campaign, I began to worry that my promiscuity was what held him back. After all, we had a good working relationship, there was a definite spark between us and he often expressed concern for me in small ways - a cup of tea, an extra break, a more comfortable chair, insistence that I take all my annual leave. If we were friends, what stopped us being lovers? My reputation, that was what. It must be.

  I began to avoid the bar after working hours, spending my evenings out in the city taking photographs of its desolate corners. That summer, you were more likely to find me beneath the dripping archway of a 1930s council block than in a luxury hotel bed. Kebab shops with missing neon letters in the signage replaced the Michelin-starred restaurant. I lurked in hidden places, wanting to obscure myself, wanting to be taken seriously.

  At work, my hemlines dropped and necklines rose. I kept my hair scraped back and replaced my contacts with square-framed spectacles - smaller, feminised versions of Chase's own. I kept my nose to the grindstone, my make-up neutral and my presence minimally noticeable. I was discreet, understated and sober. I was not a slut.

  God, it was boring.

  Chase gave me some curious glances in the first few weeks, but refrained from comment. I took to working late when he did. When the restaurant was dark and the lobby empty but for the stragglers on their way back from shows and clubs I would rearrange the Reception desk yet again, singing under my breath, 'There are worse things I could do/Than go with a boy or two . . .'

  Sometimes my gentleman friends would pitch up at the desk, ask when they could see me, what was I doing, was I OK. I fobbed them all off with a tight smile, until I became bored with the rigmarole and told them I had genital warts. Only a couple continued to bother me after that.

  One night in late July, I was filing and singing again. 'But to cry in front of you/That's the worst thing I could do.' I finished crooning and looked up at the door of Chase's office. He was standing there, peering into the low-lit Reception area, frowning at me.

  'Sophie, it's past midnight. Why are you still here?'

  His jacket was off, collar undone; he looked tired and drawn and yet still incandescently sexy.

  I did not know how to answer the question. 'Just wanted to tidy up,' I mumbled, continuing to arrange a selection of tourist guides into height order.

  'Go home,' he said tersely.

  'You're still here,' I pointed out, my heart beating a little faster at my own temerity. 'I can make you coffee, if you want.'

  His fingers tightened on the door handle. 'Go home,' he repeated.

  I went and took a series of pictures of a deserted greyhound stadium. By four o'clock I was naked in my bed, and the night had turned out differently. Chase was with me. He was on me. He was in me. He gave himself to me, and took me for his own. My legs were open for his cock, my mouth for his tongue, his hands pinned my wrists above my head and he ravished me, insatiable thrust by thrust, until I was screaming, and even then he didn't stop but just flipped me over on to all fours and pushed back in for another turn. Spent and dazed, I watched the ceiling circle above, my hand still grasping his fat cock. Except it wasn't his fat cock. It was my fat vibrator. And now some DJ was wittering from my alarm clock, telling me that the Talgarth Road was already jammed and there were delays on the Northern Line.

  I was dead on my feet, but I splashed cold water on my face, ran a bath and fell asleep in it. When I woke up, it was to my mobile phone playing a tortured version of the March of the Toreadors. I shook my head, took in the midmorning sunshine streaming through the louvred glass. I had to be late for work.

  Running wetfooted into the bedroom with a towel pressed to my front, I discovered that my surmise was correct. It was ten to eleven; I should have been at the front desk by nine. Fucking fuckity fuck, Chase was going to be furious. I dragged on a demure linen shirt dress and a light blazer, low-heeled sandals and massive sunglasses and ran out to the station with my hair still wet.

  On the train I tried to calm my nerves by imagining the scene the way I wanted it. I would be called into his office. He would tell me he was disappointed in me; he knew I was capable of a better performance. He did not want to blemish my record with a written warning, but there was no question that discipline was called for. He would bend me over the desk . . . yes, then he would lift my dress . . . then he would spank me, not too hard, just enough to make me wet . . . then he would pull down the knickers and fuck me hard from behind, reminding me throughout that he insisted on punctuality and professionalism from his staff. Once he had filled me with his spunk, I would have to pull up my knickers and keep it there for the rest of the day. Or . . . no, that would not happen. Once he had ejaculated, he would draw me into his arms and kiss me passionately, telling me that he had resisted me for so long his strength was sapped and he must now have me for ever. Or perhaps he would do that before spanking me? Or would he just smile and say we both needed a day off and take me out for a picnic in the park first, where we would lie in the shade of a spreading oak and . . .

  My station.

  'Christ, Sophie, where have you been?' squeaked Jade, one of the chambermaids, who had been filling in for me on the front desk.

  'Sorry, sorry, how mad is Chase, scale of one to ten?'

  'Oh, not really,' said Jade in her airy New Zealand twang. 'He seemed OK. Mind you, I can never tell with him. He's a funny kind of guy, don't you think?'

  Hmm, well, Jade prefers girls, so I suppose I can forgive her lack of judgement. 'Funny kind of guy' indeed.

  'Funny ha ha or funny peculiar?' I mused, frowning at my computer screen. No major meltdown was in evidence, which was pretty good going for Jade.

  'Oh, you know, he's kind of aloof, isn't he? Nobody knows much about him.'