by Ashe Barker
“You think? Try again.”
“Seven?”
“Uh uh,” he corrected.
“I don’t know. I thought… Five?” She turned her tear-streaked face toward him.
“That’s right.”
“Do you…? Will you want to start over? I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll try harder. It’s just so… so…”
“No, I’m feeling generous so I’ll allow you that slip. We carry on from here.”
Despite the tears and gulping sobs her smile of relief was little short of radiant. “Thank you, Sir. That was number five. Can I have the next one, please?”
Dylan duly obliged. Jodie’s grasp of arithmetic was near enough flawless as the strokes mounted. Dylan moved on to the backs of her thighs by the eighth stroke. She still let out a screeching wail each time and her body jerked, but she managed to hold her position. She was weeping pitifully by the time she snuffled out her thanks and requested the final stripe.
Dylan examined her heavily punished bottom with care. The bright red stripes were near enough perfectly placed, parallel pink lines perhaps an inch apart and nicely symmetrical. Jodie’s buttocks and the backs of her thighs were swollen and he knew she was tender as he drew his fingertip gently along one of the raised wheals. She let out a sharp hiss but remained still for his inspection.
He selected just the right spot to conclude the lesson in a way she would find memorable, but without inflicting any damage. The tender seam where her bottom and thighs met was the perfect target and would ensure she didn’t sit in comfort for a good while. She wouldn’t forget this caning in a hurry.
“I want to land the last one just here.” He traced an imaginary line with his finger. “It’s a nice, sensitive place. This one will smart.”
“Th-thank you, Sir,” she muttered. Her tone did not sound to be dripping with gratitude exactly. She would regret that final surge of insurrection.
“You’re too low down. I can’t get just the right angle to swing the cane as hard as I’d like. I need you higher, up on your toes.”
With a groan, she complied.
“Better, but still not quite right. I know. Step away from the table and touch your toes.”
She did so, assuming the position without difficulty. All those years as a finely toned athlete came in useful here. Dylan circled her slowly, coming to a halt behind her.
“Almost perfect. Just a fraction more, I think. Place the flats of your hands on the floor and spread your legs.”
She complied, and Dylan was treated to a fine view of her plump, swollen pussy, gleaming with her juices. She was so aroused there was a serious danger she might make a mess on his floor after all.
“I think you want me to fuck you. Am I right?”
“Yes, Sir.” The reply was immediate. Hopeful, even.
“But you’re being punished. Do you really think you deserve to be fucked? Only good girls get their pussies fucked. For a bad girl, it really needs to be here…” He circled her exposed anus with the tip of the cane. “What do you think, Jodie? Shall I fuck your beautiful, naughty ass?”
“Please,” she wailed. “Yes, yes, yes! Anything. Anywhere. I just need you to be inside me. Your cock…”
“Then shall we stop wasting time? Tell me if you’re ready.”
“I’m ready, Sir. Please, let me have the last stroke, then… aaagh!”
Her final shriek topped the rest by about a hundred decibels in Dylan’s estimation. He was glad he had no close neighbours or someone would surely call the police. Jodie lurched forward, staggering slightly but managed to hold her pose as the final strike blossomed and turned a delightful shade of magenta before his very eyes.
He laid the cane on the table and turned Jodie to face it again.
“Lean on that, if you need to.” He was already unzipping his jeans. His cock sprang free, solid and still thickening. Pre-cum dripped from the slit at the tip and he scooped some onto his fingers to smear around Jodie’s tightly furled anus. He’d come prepared and dug in the front pocket of his denims for a sachet of lube he’d slipped in there in anticipation of getting to this point.
Dylan tore off the corner and dribbled a good squirt onto her bottom hole. Then he pressed with his fingers, and managed to ease first one, then two inside. However much he prepared her, this would be a tight squeeze—it always was. The ass-fucking was part of her punishment though, and he intended it to be swift and not especially gentle. She would come, no doubt about that, but it would still hurt.
“Oh, God. I’m… I’m…”
“Push back against me and let me in,” he commanded as he eased a third finger into her snug channel. He twisted his digits inside her to stretch and open her still further. Jodie moaned, arched her back, and grasped for the opposite edge of the table to brace against it.
“Good girl,” he murmured, withdrawing his slick fingers. He positioned the bulbous head of his cock against her entrance and dribbled more of the lube over it. He grabbed the shaft in his fist and pumped a couple of times to spread the lube everywhere. Then, he pushed.
Jodie gasped, but managed to push back against him. The head of his cock sank into her rear hole. In a gentler moment he might pause, wait, allow her more time to stretch, to adjust. Not now. Not on this occasion. Dylan rocked his hips, driving his cock forward, deeper.
Jodie’s receptive body parted to accept him, and in moments he was buried to the hilt. He leaned forward and pulled her hair out of her eyes.
“How are you doing?”
“It hurts. Everything hurts.”
“You okay?”
“I… I’m fine, Sir.”
“Good.” Dylan gathered a hank of her blonde bob in his fist and tugged on it to draw her head back. “In that case, feel free to scream. And to come.”
He fucked her ass hard. Fast, even strokes, the friction glorious as her inner walls clamped around his cock. He snaked his free hand around and under her to find her clit, swollen and plump and just begging to be squeezed.
Under him, Jodie writhed and wriggled, her breathy whimpers and desperate moans mounting as she scraped her punished bottom against him. Every plunge of his hips rubbed her tender buttocks, creating that heady blend of agony and ecstasy he knew she craved.
He lengthened his strokes, drawing almost entirely out of her then driving deep again. It felt fucking wonderful, and he knew he wouldn’t last long.
Jodie yelped when his grip in her hair tightened. The sound sent a surge of satisfaction straight to his balls. They twisted. His cock twitched and lurched inside her. She made a guttural sound deep in her throat, then her entire body shook. Her ass contracted hard, squeezing him in a beautiful vise of heat, desire, and pure, carnal lust.
Pleasure pulsed the length of his cock. Dylan rubbed her clit harder as Jodie convulsed under him, then his balls contorted, and the decadent pleasure spiralled out of control. His semen was a sudden rush of wet heat, spurting from him to fill her narrow channel. He watched as the final few strokes, slowing now, forced the viscous liquid out of her ass and it dribbled across her freshly marked skin. He had never seen anything so fucking gorgeous in his life.
“Jesus, girl,” he breathed. “You’re so beautiful it takes my breath away. Have I told you I love you?”
“I need you to tell me again. And I need you to tell me that it’s all right, that everything is fine again now.”
Of course she needed that. Aftercare, right? And forgiveness. Dylan leaned forward to press his chest against her naked back. His lips were beside her ear.
“The slate’s clean. Hartwell’s history and I’m never going to stop telling you, starting right here, I love you.”
“Thank you, Sir. For everything. Have I told you I love you too?”
“Not in the last few minutes. I think I need a top up.” More than that, he needed to know that she was okay, that they were okay after he’d been so hard on her.
Jodie reached behind her and stroked her fingers across the stubble on his cheek
, then she turned her face to meet his eyes. “I love you, Sir. I think I might love you even more if you were to kiss me right now.”
“I could do that.”
So he did.
* * *
Dylan was the first to get up the following morning. Jodie was flat out in his bed and he decided to leave her there. She’d earned her sleep.
When he returned from his morning run about thirty minutes later she was still sleeping so he started on breakfast. Crêpes, he thought, with maple syrup. There were no competitions scheduled for a few weeks at least; they could indulge a little.
He mixed the batter and left it to stand until Jodie woke up. The coffeemaker gurgled and he poured himself a cup, then settled down to scan the morning paper he’d picked up while he was out.
He was disturbed by a buzzing sound. He glanced about but saw nothing. Then he realised, it was Jodie’s phone. He spotted it on the worktop where she must have left it last night. The screen was lit up, the caller’s number displayed.
Shit, if that’s bloody Hartwell again, I’ll…
He paused. There was no name, but he peered at the number. He recognised it. Surely, he wasn’t wrong. Dylan dug in his pocket for his own phone and scrolled through his contacts.
Yes!
He checked Jodie’s phone again. Three missed calls, all from that same number, all registered that morning, the first one at just after nine o’clock.
She needed to wake up. Now.
“Jodie, your phone’s been ringing.” He sat on the edge of the bed and patted her shoulder.
She rolled over, groaned, and tugged the duvet up around her ears.
Dylan grabbed the quilt and peeled it back.
“Wake up. This is important.”
“Go away,” she muttered.
“Jodie, sit the fuck up, drink this, and answer your bloody phone.” He put a cup of coffee on the table beside the bed.
“What?” She opened one eye and peered at him. “What’s the rush? They’ll phone back.”
“Sit up. Now.” He brought his finest dom voice into the mix and it did the trick. She slithered painfully to a sitting position and reached for the coffee.
Dylan allowed her two fortifying slugs of caffeine, then handed her the phone.
“Check your missed calls, baby.”
She did, then furrowed her brow. “I don’t recognise that number.”
“I do.”
“So, who…?”
“Greg Halliday. National team coach for Taekwondo GB.”
“What… what does he want?”
“You need to return his call and ask him.”
Her eyes widened, realisation dawning. “Do you think…? I mean, it’s only been a few days since the nationals. It couldn’t be…”
“Phone him,” Dylan repeated. And to make sure, he hit the return call command and passed the phone back to her.
“It’s ringing,” she hissed.
Then her eyes took on a look of sheer panic. Dylan assumed Greg Halliday had answered.
“Yes, hello. This is Jodie Price. I’m sorry I missed your calls earlier. I… I was—”
She went silent. Blood drained from her face. Dylan resisted the urge to speak, to say anything. This was her moment. A couple of minutes passed with only the odd word from Jodie. Greg Halliday was doing all the talking. At last Jodie met his eyes again. Her expression betrayed nothing.
“I… yes, of course, Mr. Halliday. Thank you.” She ended the call and dropped the phone onto the duvet.
“What?” Dylan demanded. “What did he say?”
“He said… He asked me if I’m free to join the Olympic squad at their training camp in Seoul. The week after next. For two months.”
The week after next? Shit, better scrub the maple syrup…
“Seoul,” repeated Dylan. “You mean…?”
“Yes,” she squealed. “Yes, yes, yes! I’m the national champion so he wants to select me for the squad. I’m to join the Olympic training camp for trials, but if that goes well… I’m in!”
She flung her arms around Dylan’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You did this, you got me here.”
He returned her hug. “I helped, but you did it, baby. You did this.”
Epilogue
Tokyo, August 2020
God save our gracious Queen, Long live our noble Queen…
Jodie mouthed the familiar words, her head high as tears streamed down her cheeks. She gazed up through a watery haze at the flags fluttering above her. The familiar union flag of Great Britain cascaded from the highest pole, and beside it, in the silver position, the blue silhouette of the Korean peninsula against a pristine white background.
Send her victorious, happy and glorious…
Jodie turned to smile at the Korean woman to her right. Mi Sung-Nam was the national champion of a united Korean team and had fought brilliantly. Jodie glanced down at the gleaming gold medal dangling around her own neck. Yes, Sung-Nam had fought well, but not quite brilliantly enough. It had been close, but Jodie had managed a triple turning head kick in the dying seconds to snatch victory by just two points. Mi Sung-Nam still looked stunned by the result, but there it was, fluttering over their heads in red, white, and blue for all to see.
She, Jodie Price, ranking number five on the Team GB taekwondo squad, had not only beaten allegedly better girls from her own nation but the best in the world. She was the Olympic champion. A dream come true.
She turned to her right. Tanya Monroe had only been selected at the last minute when Amy Saunders, Team GB’s number three, had snapped her Achilles tendon. No one really expected her to do that well, but the experience would stand her in good stead for the future.
Martha saw it differently. Dylan too. The pair had trained together, on the same side now and the results had been electric. Tanya found herself facing Caroline Lloyd in the quarter finals and saw her off in fine style, then was narrowly beaten by Mi Sung-Nam in the semis. But she scored a convincing win against the Chinese girl whom Jodie had beaten to reach the final and snagged herself the bronze.
Jodie held out her hand. Tanya took it and together they sang the final strains of the British national anthem. Jodie reached for Sung-Nam, too and the three of them stood in jubilant, weeping triumph as the crowd roared their approval.
Somewhere, up in the stand, her parents were among the cheering spectators. They’d made the trip as they said they would and Jodie had done them proud. Her mother would be sobbing, Jodie knew it. Mrs. Price would never stop talking about it at the hairdressers, the day she went to Japan to watch her daughter win an Olympic gold medal. Jodie was thankful for all their support over the years, driving her to taekwondo competitions, paying for her training, meeting the gym fees. It had been a struggle at times, but they never let her down. They deserved this moment almost as much as she did.
She looked over to the benches where the teams sat and met Dylan’s gaze. He was on his feet, Martha beside him, his hands above his head as he clapped and cheered. He paused when he caught her gaze and lowered his arms. For Jodie, the room fell silent. The final notes of the anthem died, and he mouthed the three words she never tired of hearing from him.
I love you too, she mouthed back. Then, Thank you, Sir.
The End
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