Bare Behind Bars / Isabella Gets Nailed / Stuck in the Window: 3 Stories of Interracial Infidelity in Dangerous Situations

by Felicity Fleming

  "Do you remember what I asked you?" Armstrong asked.

  “I do," I squeezed my eyes shut with embarrassment. "You asked me if I'd been naughty or nice."

  "And what did you say?"

  “I told you I'd been very, very naughty."

  The truth was, I had been. I was more than a little tipsy that night and I'd been flirting outrageously with Armstrong that evening. Nestling into his lap, staring into his eyes. I told him I'd been `very, very naughty' and needed a good spanking for Christmas.

  Now that had all been in good fun. As flirtatious as I was - I hadn't meant anything by it. After all, I'm a happily married woman. But as I knelt there, trapped in the window, I remembered how my husky voice had coincided with something very big and hard appearing in Santa's pants.

  Wiggling around on his lap hadn't helped, either.

  "It seems to me," Armstrong chuckled, "that poor old Santa Claus isn't going to get another opportunity to deliver his Christmas present any time soon."

  I blinked.

  "What?"

  There was another crunch as Armstrong dropped to his knees on the gravel. Then, to my embarrassment, I felt him grab the hem of my robe and lift it up.

  "What on earth are you doing?" I demanded. "Stop that this instant!"

  But he didn't. In fact, Armstrong lifted my robe up completely, exposing my backside and thighs to the cool breeze.

  "Stop that this instant!" I yelled. "Armstrong, this is highly inappropriate!"

  I then felt his warm, calloused path stroke my exposed cheeks. They were still damp and greasy from my shower and a slathering of baby oil.

  "Now Mrs McBride," Armstrong warned, "both you and I know you were hitting on me pretty hard last Christmas. You must have felt the bulge in Santa's pants."

  "I just thought that was a very large candy cane."

  "No," Armstrong chuckled, "I was just pleased to see you."

  He was rubbing my butt cheeks in wide, circular motions now. His hands were big and rough. His calluses felt delicious against my soft, oily skin.

  "In fact, I know you felt the bulge," said Armstrong thoughtfully, "because you kept wiggling on it."

  Oh, curse those cups of mulled wine I'd had! He was absolutely right, of course. I'd flirted incorrigibly. But in my defense, I wasn't the only one. Half the housewives on the block must have been hitting on sexy, single, exotic Armstrong.

  "I'll tell you what, my dear," Armstrong purred. His fingers were stroking my legs now, dangerously close to my inner thighs. "How about you be a big, brave girl and take your Christmas caning and then we'll see what we can do about getting you out of there?"

  Now I know I should have said no. I should have yelled at him and threatened to call my husband - or the police. But the truth was, his warm, rough hands and deep, rich voice was turning me to butter. I was feeling trapped and vulnerable. Stuck on my knees, I was unintentionally offering myself up to him. My soft, round, freshly oiled ass. Even my shaved and baby-soft pussy, which I'd carefully made smooth in anticipation of my husband's return.

  It wasn't my husband that was making it quiver now. It was Armstrong and those damnable hands of his. My clit was throbbing as his fingers traced a path ever closer to my moist snatch.

  I squeezed shut my eyes and tried to resist him one last time. I knew deep down that if I told him `no,' Armstrong would stop immediately and help me out of the window like a true gentleman.

  But I didn't want to say no.

  "Alright," I whispered huskily.

  To reward me, Armstrong slid a rough, warm finger between the lips of my pussy. Not inside me... Just enough to part my dampness and stroke my clit. His brief touch elicited a deep, guttural moan from me.

  And then he was gone.

  I heard the sound of his boots on the gravel, straightening up. Then I heard him march to the willow hedge dividing his property from ours and the sound of rustling undergrowth.

  "W-what are you doing?" I demanded. He didn't respond.

  Instead, I heard the snap of a breaking branch and then the rasp of leaves being torn off it. Then the whistling whisk of a bare branch being swung forcefully through the air.

  I bit my bottom lip.

  Of course, I couldn't see it - but I didn't need to. Armstrong had clearly taken a long, lithe branch of willow and stripped it of its leaves. What was left would be a flexible, sharp little switch.

  "You can't be serious!" I protested.

  Armstrong didn't say anything - but a moment later, I felt the tickling sensation of him running the flexible switch up and down my tingling thighs.

  "Armstrong, please!" I begged. "Not that!"

  Armstrong chuckled again.

  "It's your choice, my dear," he purred warmly. "If you'd rather stay like that, I'll leave you be right now. But I should warn you. Next door have their Great Dane out and I don't think they're getting him spayed until next month."

  I closed my eyes in frustration. Maybe Armstrong would be cruel enough to leave me pinned in the window until my husband got back - my ass in the air and my robe pulled up around my shoulders. I'd be utterly helpless – and if to reinforce that point, I heard my neighbor's rambunctious Great Dane bark playfully.

  "Very well," I murmured.

  "Good girl," the tip of the switch lightly tickled the lips of my pussy. "Be brave."

  It's not like I had any choice in the matter!

  The tickling, teasing switch was removed and I heard the gravel crunch as Armstrong got into position.

  "By the way," he announced, "I think the neighbors are out in force today. The sound of this might not be too alarming," I heard the willow branch whisk sharply through the air, "but if they hear you screaming or crying out, you can bet they'll be over trying to see what's wrong."

  I suddenly visualized all my neighbors, peering at my exposed backside as somebody other than my husband criss-crossed it with red stripes.

  "I'll be quiet," I promised.

  "Good girl," Armstrong purred wickedly. The switch swished through the air again.

  The gravel crunched. Through the glass, I felt his shadow fall across me.

  "I'm going to give you fifty two," he warned me. "One for every week you were naughty."

  "Fifty two!" I cried out, almost loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "I can't survive fifty two!"

  "You can and you will," Armstrong warned. "In fact, you'll no utter a noise except to thank me after each strike."

  Fifty two? I hadn't even had one, so I had no idea what to expect. In some ways, that made the anticipation so much worse. How would I be able to cope with one swish of that sharp little switch? Let alone fifty two of them?

  "Please, no," I pleaded. "I can't take that much."

  "Well, that depends," Armstrong purred. "Perhaps we can negotiate. But let's see how you hold up, first."

  And with that, I heard the swish of the branch whistling through the air and then an almighty crack as it made contact with my buttocks.

  For a second, I was surprised only by the noise - which was certainly loud enough for everybody on the street to hear. But barely a heartbeat later, I suddenly felt a strip of pure, red heat paint a path across both by buttocks and I cried out in pain.

  "Ssssh!" Ordered Armstrong - and I struggled to stifle my groan.

  That initial `thwack' had been bad enough - but immediately afterwards, that thin line across my ass began to throb. Tears sprang from my eyes. I squeezed them shut, trying desperately to cope with the pain. It was like somebody was pressing a hot poker across my bum, the heart throbbing in time to my heartbeat.

  "What do you say?" Armstrong demanded.

  I didn't say anything. I was whooping in great lungfuls of air to cope with the pain.

  Through gritted teeth, I eventually managed to gasp: `T-thank you."

  "Good girl."

  There was the whisk of the branch again and then the sharp slap of birch against buttock.

  I stifled the cry, emitting a guttural groan
as the throbbing pain spread itself in another thin line across my ass. Suddenly, the pulses of pain were in stereo, criss-crossing each other.

  "You should see your beautiful bottom," Armstrong purred proudly. "X marks the spot."

  "Thank you," I groaned.

  The next swish bisected my thighs - landing on the strip where my ass meets my legs.

  "Thank you!" I almost shouted, trying desperately to control the intense heat. "THANK YOU!"

  Another swish! Another thwack! This time, the only spot X marked on my thighs was my pussy, which was the centre point of the two criss-crossing switches.

  Tears were rolling down my cheeks. I was whooping in great lungfuls of air. I felt like I was melting - utterly helpless.

  Armstrong must have realized that. There was a crunch of gravel as he knelt down and stroked my throbbing ass.

  His fingers were rough and calloused, but felt cool and gentle. He rubbed his big hands in rough circles, that helped soften the throbbing welts in my skin.

  "There, there," he said soothingly. "You're a good girl. And only forty eight left to go!"

  "Oh, God..." I groaned.

  "Be a brave little baby," Armstrong whispered huskily.

  He wouldn't have been able to see it, but I shook my head from side to side.

  "I can't cope with fifty two," I pleaded. "I'll just die."

  "Well, I'll tell you what," Armstrong continued rubbing my tortured tush, sending delicious endorphins into my bloodstream. I was still in pain, but it was almost like I was lifted up onto a cloud. My body and brain felt like helpless, compliant clay he could mould with those amazing fingers of his. "Do you remember what else you told me that Christmas, when you were sitting on Santa's lap?"

  In my dreamy state, I would actually hear my own voice - telling Santa that if he came down my chimney, he'd get more of a treat than milk and cookies.

  "If you can make it up to fifteen," Armstrong purred, his fingers straying between my thighs, hovering above my shaven snatch, "I'll trade you those remaining switches for Santa's treat, okay?"

  With that, his rough fingers spread me open - and I felt his thumb press against me.

  I gushed wetness. Like quicksand, my pussy sucked his thumb inside. His knuckle rubbed against my clitoris.

  My tortured backside was still throbbing, but the sensation of pain and pleasure had become totally entwined now. My pussy throbbed to the same heartbeat as the burning lines across my ass. It was intense - like my upturned rump was burning with nerve endings.

  Armstrong's delicious fingers slid wetly from between my thighs, leaving a tingling, hollow feeling once they'd gone. Then he straightened up and I heard the birch whistle through the air.

  "Fifteen, remember," he warned me.

  And then he swung.

  It was the most delicious type of torture. He'd swing the switch and it would strike my trembling tush like fire, painting yet another burning brand across my upturned ass that would throb and pulsate long after the wood had left my skin. Then he'd wait long, lingering seconds - enough for the intensity of the strike to fade into the burning aftermath of recovery.

  "One," he'd count. When I'd breathlessly managed to murmur `thank you' he'd swing again. `Two.'

  Tortuously, one after the other, he counted out fifteen more swishes of the stick. Fifteen more red lines across my bum. Fifteen more groans of `thank you.'

  And then finally, blissfully, it was done.

  I knelt there, still stick in the window. I couldn't feel my ass any more. It just felt like my stomach ended and this great big, burning mass began.

  When Armstrong bent over me to wrench open the sash, I barely had the strength to pull back and free myself from the window. I just slumped into the flowerbed, feeling the wet soil against my skin.

  Drifting dreamily in and out of consciousness, unable to concentrate on anything except the steady, pulsating pain in my roasted rump, I let Armstrong scoop me up in his strong arms and carry me to the back door. There, hanging limply across his shoulders, I watched him pull out his keys and unlock our back door.

  "Your husband gave me a spare," he explained, "the last time you went on vacation."

  I was laid gently across the bed, face first so my birched-backside was protected. Then, half asleep, I heard the sound of running water as Armstrong ran a bath.

  Then I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, I was being gently carried to the bathroom. Armstrong stripped me of my muddy bathrobe and slid me into the overflowing bathtub.

  The big bath was brimming with bubbles. The water was so hot, it nearly scorched me. The moment the heat hit my tortured ass, I cried out in pain.

  "There there," Armstrong rolled me onto my tummy, so my weight wasn't resting on my bottom. "Be brave."

  And I was. The water felt amazing. The pain was still there - but it dulled to a delicious ache.

  As I floated there in the water, like a lifeless doll, I watched my neighbor strip.

  He pulled off his sweater, revealing his muscular brown torso. His belt unbuckled and his khakis fell to the floor. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his jockey shorts, he pulled them down and out flopped an enormous cock, half swollen and falling almost three quarters of the way down his thigh.

  Armstrong carefully folded his clothes and left them by the door: `So they don't get wet."

  Then, naked, he knelt by the side of the bath, reached for the baby oil and started slathering me up.

  I just lay there, floating in the water. Armstrong's rough hands would pick me up and slather me with oil, which he kneaded in, massaging every inch of me with his big, strong fingers. He cupped and squeezed my breasts. Ran fingers down my spine. Kneaded my thighs like dough. He caressed my bottom, stroking each painful welt with pride and affection.

  Then, just as I thought I'd melt into the bathwater itself, he slid his fingers back inside me.

  I was so turned on by this point. The switches might have been tortuously painful, but they'd awoken my body's senses like never before. I'd never felt so alive to every touch and sensation. As Armstrong's thick fingers stretched me open and his callused thumb circled my clit, I bit my lip and surrendered to an orgasm every bit as blissful and intense as the birching.

  Feeling floppy and helpless, I let Armstrong position me on all fours, my weight resting on the end of the bathtub. Then there was a splash and he clambered into the hot water.

  I peered over my shoulder, watching him drop to my knees behind me. Sticking up from between his legs was a thick, black rod that looked far more daunting than the switch he'd tortured me with.

  With his rough fingers closing around my thighs, I let him spread my ass. Then I felt his thick, engorged cock press against my pussy.

  He sunk into me like I was hot butter. Immediately, I felt deliciously full. His magnificent dick slid so deep inside me, I could feel my spine straighten.

  My fingers gripped the lip of the bathtub and I braced my feet against the taps. Somewhat secure, I then surrendered myself to him.

  Armstrong was a passionate and powerful lover. He dug deeply into my pussy, spreading me wider and more open than I'd ever been before. His muscular, brown body was hot against mine. His dick throbbed and swelled inside me.

  The thought of being fucked so forcefully by a man other than my husband made me wilt in wicked pleasure.

  As Armstrong pounded into me, the water sloshed and splashed over the edges of the bathtub. His big dick rubbed and teased my g-spot. His bony hips slapped against my fleshy rump and each thrust set my sore bottom screaming in delicious agony.

  Then I heard him grunting.

  I had to brace myself against his pounding. Bucketfuls of water sloshed onto the bathroom floor. His rough fingers grasped my buttocks and wrenched them apart, so he could plunge his pulsating cock even more deeply inside of me. He was splitting me in two - and I loved it. Closing my eyes, I uttered a low moan as he drove me over the brink into orgasm.

  And then he cried
out.

  His weight crushed mine. His cock, lodged deep inside me, swelled and pulsated, stretching me wider than ever before. I felt myself fill with warmth. He was coming inside me - another man's sperm was spurting into my body and just the thought of that alone was enough to make me twist and tremble in a third and final climax.

  We'd stayed connected at the groin for what seemed like forever, both gasping for air. Eventually, he slid his flaccid cock out of me inch by delicious inch and it flopped wetly into the water. I slumped back, feeling his seed dribble down my thighs.

  Still weak as a kitten - by the climaxes as much as the caning - I let Armstrong help me from the bath and wrap me in a fluffy white towel. He led me to the bedroom, where I slumped onto the covers while he mopped up the water in the bathroom and helped get the place back into some semblance of order.

  Eventually, he came back into the bedroom, pulling on his clothes.

  I was more awake now, lying on my tummy with my naked rump exposed. It was criss-crossed by a dozen angry red lines.

  "What on earth will I tell my husband?" I demanded. "My ass looks like a checkerboard!"

  "Well, Mrs Hunt," Armstrong knelt by the bed and gave me a wet kiss on the lips, "that's no longer my problem."

  With that, my magnificent neighbor left by the back door, whistling cheerfully and swishing that willow branch through the air.

  I reached rather frantically for the cocoa butter. I had six hours until my husband was home. Perhaps, by some miracle, I'd be able to make the redness go down by then…

  The End

  Thank you for reading this book!

  In the back of most books, authors give thanks to the people who inspired and motivated them. And in that vein, I’d like to dedicate this book to you.

  Because if you know anybody who’s a writer (or maybe you are one yourself) you’ll know that we don’t do this for the money.

  We writers write because of you – the people who read out books, and breathe life into them. I write erotic stories about what turns me on – but it’s knowing that they turn other people on that gets me up at five in the morning, or keeps me up until long past midnight, just so I can finish writing another chapter.