A story of pasts, presents and futures
There is a message within a message in every handwritten note, a subtle impression of the writer’s soul. Here, her handwriting wrote with the elegant fluency that only comes from the heart, the ebony stream flowing from her fountain pen slowly transcribing a secret she’d never ever dared reveal. How could a small rectangle of plain white card ever hope to contain something of such importance?
It made her shiver to see her secret written out so explicitly in an undulating line of black on white. It was as if her private fantasy had finally escaped from the gilded cage in which she had kept it hidden all these years. She was beginning to realise that on this little piece of card she had inscribed a magic spell, and those twenty-four words were imbued with the power to change her entire world. That was scary.
And also, she had to admit to herself, rather exciting.
Tinsel and baubles glimmered in the candlelight. She was sitting at the dining room table, alone for the evening, a chance to wrap Christmas presents for the nearest and dearest. One present had particular significance, it was the one into which she’d slip the note she was writing. But only if she was bold enough.
A lump of sanded driftwood occupied the middle of the table, a platform for the tall fat candle that illuminated the room, its warm brightness complementing the colourful glow of the Christmas tree fairylights. She looked into the flickering flames, turning the little card between her fingers. Over and over. Prevaricating, hesitating. Reading and re-reading what she’d written, checking the spelling, wondering if she’d said enough, or far too much, feeling the cool sharp points of the card’s crisp corners tingle her fingertips.
“My love,” it began.
“I’ve been fascinated by spanking since I was a girl.”
“I long for it, I crave it.”
“Please. Will you spank me?”
Her fascination had started early. There was a secret word that had begun to obsess her from an early age. It tended to appear at the end of comics and fairytales where naughty miscreants got their well-deserved comeuppance. Not that she had ever experienced it herself, it sounded like an archaic practice from Dickensian times, her tender-hearted parents would never have dreamed of laying a finger on her.
Nevertheless, it gave her a thrill when she whispered it, its seductive start, its abrupt end. It made her imagination race when she thought about it. In her books, spankings were never described with the level of detail her voracious mind demanded, just frustratingly coy mentions that punishments were given. So she had to fill in all the details herself, the implement used, the number of smacks given, with special thought given to the rituals of undressing and shaming.
Spank. Verb. To slap or smack with the open hand, slipper etc., especially on the buttocks.
It was the first word she’d ever illicitly looked up in a dictionary. At one time, a couple of her friends had gone through a phase of leaving any dictionary they’d found unattended in the school library open at the entry for penis. She’d smiled at their infantile prank, but never understood why it provoked such giggles, especially given there was an even more powerful word lurking a few dozen pages later.
All of which had led to a Christmas memory that was especially cherished.
It had actually been the day after Christmas, Mum had taken her sister to the Boxing Day sales, whilst Dad had taken her brother to a football match. She had made plans to go to a friend’s house later, and so had stayed behind, leaving her alone in the house with a couple of hours to occupy herself.
In their absence she had reclined decadently across the living room sofa, and started to read. Her book’s protagonist was a precocious teenage detective, she was a huge fan of the series, a heady mix of international adventure, historical mysteries, capers and hijinks. She liked to think she saw a bit of herself in the heroine.
In this book, Nancy Jones, the intrepid girl detective, had broken into Eldritch Hall on the trail of the fabled Copa de Zafiros, the golden sapphire-encrusted goblet she’d previously uncovered in a perilously ramshackle temple in the High Andes. Her investigations had led her to the stately home of one Baron Eldritch: Olympic fencer, raconteur, suspected art thief and criminal mastermind. Of course, one does not simply knock on the gates of Eldritch Hall, so Nancy had broken in, improvising a smoke bomb to dodge the security lasers.
Nancy Jones was good. She’d penetrated the heart of the Baron’s ingenious defences and discovered his secret museum, where she found the priceless goblet atop a plinth in a glass case. She’d tried to extricate it, but — Drat! — been unable to deactivate all the alarms in time. Thick steel bars had dropped from the ceiling, clanging all around her, imprisoning her in a cage of her own. One more exhibit for Eldritch’s nefarious secret museum. Curses!
The Baron himself had appeared some twenty minutes later, he was not a man who liked to be hurried. He was a tall fit man, immaculately dressed (as always) in a spotlessly white woolen suit. Just because you’d been born to the Eldritch baronetcy didn’t mean you had to dress like a vampire count, and the Baron did enjoy confounding people’s expectations. And he had a lot of secrets.
“Good evening, Miss Jones,” he said graciously. He saw her trespass and present predicament as no reason for impoliteness.
“You’ll never get away with this, Eldritch!” she’d reposted, with rather less regard for social niceties.
He smiled, in the same way someone who’d forgotten their umbrella might respond when told it was going to rain. He produced a small glass bottle from an inside pocket, and approached the cage where Nancy was standing indignantly. She didn’t flinch, and held his stare. It looked like he was holding a small bottle of perfume. How curious. Then his finger pressed the brass stopper, and a small cloud of vapour puffed into Nancy’s face. She staggered backwards, holding onto the cage bars for support.
“I do hope you’re going to be a good girl for me…”
He was pressing buttons on the wall now, there were a few pulsing beeps, and then the bars began to lift, retreating into the ceiling. Released, Nancy felt woozy and strangely passive, like she’d been robbed of her instinct to run. She did not demur when the Baron approached and took her by her arm, and escorted her up the grand spiral staircase.
They walked up several floors until they reached one of the top corners of the manor, and a door to one of the windowless turret rooms. The Baron unlocked it and ushered her inside, it was small room, its round walls whitewashed, a single wood frame bed the only furnishing.
“Now, you can wait here until I decide what to do with you,” announced the Baron.
Nancy sat on the bed compliantly.
“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” he said, as he began to close the door on her.
Then, just before the door shut, a line that would burn itself into her imagination:
“I’ve half a mind to put you over my knee.”
And just like that, the chapter ended.
On the sofa she’d stopped and gasped. She’d followed the adventures of Nancy Jones for years, during which her heroine had survived all kinds of jeopardies, devious Aztec temple-traps, crumbling Transylvanian castles, scary pitch-black tombs with their creepy curtains of clinging cobwebs, innumerable perils that had made her pulse quicken and her palms sweat. But this was different, the Baron’s threat had dampened somewhere else entirely.
Home alone, with a tingle developing down below, this was an opportunity too good to miss. She closed her book, rising from the sofa as elegantly as she could manage, as if she was being spied on, and she was trying to conceal her true intentions.
The stairs of the family home had a slight bend, making her think of that grand sweeping staircase of Eldritch Hall Nancy had just been forced to climb. She imagined what that must have felt like, to be captured, to be completely at his whim, his arm under hers, escorting her upstairs, powerless to resist.
At the top of the stairs her parents’ room faced the landing. Their door was open, and inside she could see the grey slippers Daddy had just received for Christmas lying under the bed. Goodness, they’d be just perfect, she realised.
Once in her own bedroom she immediately dressed herself as Nancy Jones, choosing the smartest short skirt and most stylish shirt in her wardrobe. And then she was ready to jump into her story.
She sat on her bed, picturing herself in the little turret room, waiting for the Baron to return, her tummy fluttering at the thought of what nefarious torments he might have in store for her. Then she imagined the door opening.
“You’ve been a very naughty girl, Nancy Jones,” she told herself in a low voice, mimicking the cut-glass accent she imagined the Baron possessed.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied meekly.
Sir? Wow, she thought, clearly whatever had been in that narcotic vapour must be highly potent! Headstrong Nancy had clearly been robbed of her resistance, rendered incapable of disobeying him.
“Pull down your panties.”
She complied quickly, reaching underneath her skirt and slipping them down her legs until they lay abandoned on the floor.
“Lift your skirt.”
She tugged her hem and slowly did what she was told, lifting her skirt high above her waist, revealing her secrets to the Baron’s commanding eyes. A cool breeze tickled her mound; she imagined the Baron admiring the prize he’d captured.
“Now, you know what has to happen to naughty girls…”
Of course she did, and the thought thrilled her.
“Bend over, young lady.”
She approached the armchair that sat in the corner of her room. Its chunky leather-padded armrests jutted out towards her, each as wide and long as the Baron’s thighs. She imagined standing before him, her legs either side of one his knees, straddling it. Then she bent over the armrest, feeling its smooth leather rub along the inside of her thighs as she descended, squirming slightly until her weight was pressing against her mound.
Nancy Jones was a stubborn young lady, but now she was powerless to resist under the influence of this devious narcotic. She spread her legs as wide as she could, allowing her disciplinarian to see every inch between her legs, her tight puckered hollow and her swollen slit, now damp with her dew.
She picked up her father’s slipper from the seat of the armchair, and tapped it against her bare bottom. It had a soft rubber sole with a foam underlay, making it an ideal implement for spanking. For a moment she wondered who exactly had bought these slippers. Had it been her mother? She rubbed herself against the Baron’s knee in eager expectation.
The first whack stung her bottom. Then a second. The Baron would be meticulous so she spanked herself slowly, every now and then adjusting her arm to ensure each smack was appropriately hard and satisfyingly painful. In her bedtime fantasies, the Baron was an accomplished spanker; young ladies had often come to stay at Eldritch Hall, and all had received regular bare bottom discipline.
The smacks continued to rain down onto every region of her smarting cheeks. Nancy took her punishment stoically, she wasn’t the kind of girl to beg for mercy. The Baron paid particular attention to where her bum met her thighs, making her squirm her mound indecently against his knee. This over one knee position offered her no modesty, he could see how wet she was getting, how her petals had swollen open. But that just excited her even more.
The last ten whacks were as hard as she could muster, filling her room with loud echoing slaps, and making her recoil and grind herself against the armrest, which had now become slippery with her disgrace. When the last smack fell she lay panting over the chair, her bum raised into the air, red, hot and sore.
But she knew her torment was far from over. Her spanking, whilst painful, was no worse than a naughty schoolgirl might get for skipping her classes. She was Nancy Jones, caught trying to raid the treasured art collection of her arch-rival, the cruel Baron Eldritch. Her punishment would clearly need to befit his devious mind.
She wondered how the next chapter of the book might continue, as fantasies of her own began to swirl in her imagination.
“Up. And stand in the corner,” she told herself.
She did as she was told, looking over her shoulder to see the bright pink flush the Baron had applied to her cheeks. She rubbed her sore buttocks in slow lazy circles, pulling them apart, feeling the cool air tickling her arse.
“Hold your bottom apart, girl.”
She gasped at the bluntness of the Baron’s command, but obeyed without complaint. Her cheeks were hot to her touch when she grasped them, and pulling them apart felt deliciously naughty. She could imagine the Baron standing behind her, looking between her legs. A surge of self-confident pride ran through her; she must be, she realised, a glorious sight.
She could almost hear the dialogue between them, adult, edgy and flirtatious. Adopting the characters’ voice she spoke their words aloud.
“Why do you think a naughty girl should hold herself open?”
Nancy interpreted his question as a test of her worldliness, and resisted the temptation to answer flippantly.
“Acquiescence?” she suggested. “You want me to demonstrate my submissiveness.”
“Go on…” he prompted.
“Or maybe you want me to truly feel the sensation of my spanking as it radiates through my fingers.”
“Humiliation. My punishment is to feel ashamed, naked and exposed…”
At that point in the story, she’d decided, a featherlight touch on her bottom hole would silence Nancy’s loquacious explanations. It felt warm, and wet — slightly sticky, like the tip of a moistened finger. The submissive Nancy accepted this intrusion matter of factly, pushing back slightly, groaning at the pleasurable sensations it provided.
Moments later, she imagined the Baron’s hands gripped both her shoulders.
And with a shock Nancy suddenly realised what was really pressing against her arse.
“Now Miss Jones…” said the Baron, “I shall show you why naughty girls hold their bottoms apart…”
Minutes later she was lying on the floor gasping, after the most spectacular orgasm of her life.
The intensity of her wantonness had shocked her, she had been amazed she’d ever been able to imagine something so filthy. Yet the experience was to become one of her most cherished Christmas memories.
Even now, remembering that episode with Daddy’s slipper still made her blush.
She was supposed to be a nice girl. Nice girls didn’t think about such things. Nice girls were supposed to respect themselves, not spank themselves pink and then masturbate to a frenzy with a finger up their bottoms. Surely girls who believed themselves the equal of men shouldn’t be aroused by thoughts of surrendering to them, about willingly becoming mere objects of lust.
At the dining table she looked again at what she’d written. Was that really who she was? A naughty girl who wanted her bum smacked? Perhaps it would be better to compose a more conventional note.
“Love You. Happy Christmas. Hugs and Cuddles.”
Just like she always did.
She raised the little white card to the candle. Maybe this was a secret that was better kept hidden away in her own private collection. The card hovered over the flame, close enough for her to see its edges darken.
The glint of the candle flame stayed her trembling hand. There was something about the flickering light that was meditative, a calming glow that relaxed the mind. It made her return the card to the table and sit back in her chair.
In the mesmerising candlelight she began to see what might be.
She saw herself edging the card towards the candle flame. A black spot appearing, like a blotch of spilt ink, racing towards the elegant swirls of her illicit message. Her secret was obliterated in an instant, the blackened card igniting in a puff of flames that she could feel in her fingertips. Its charred ashes disintegrated, floating apologetically onto the table.
She would write another note, a nice note, a proper note, a note her partner wouldn’t be shocked to receive, one that wouldn’t reveal her sordid little secret. Then on Christmas Day, they’d open their presents, laugh and joke about the various trinkets they’d bought each other, exchange the customary kisses and cuddles, then eat, drink and be merry. It would be like Christmas was supposed to be.
And then they would grow old together. Over the years, their kisses would evolve, from the early passionate embraces where they’d sometimes lose themselves in each other’s scent to short perfunctory touches of each others’ lips. They’d never notice when they began to sit on their own chairs in the living room. It was no big deal, it all happened so gradually. It was no big deal either when they moved to their own bedrooms, after all, they didn’t fuck any more, their physical contact had dwindled to the occasional hug and cuddle.
In the twinkling candle flame she caught a glimpse of her future self, lying alone in bed, as her soulmate slept at the end of the hallway. She saw tears well in the eyes of her future self, and heard herself wonder: how did this happen?
When did this happen?
Then she remembered the note and the candle. The secret she’d thought of revealing, but fed to the flame instead. Perhaps that was where the path of her life diverged, when she’d taken the comfortable path, the respectable path. She’d locked her desires away, like musty boxes in the attic, wanted enough to keep, but too embarrassing to reveal, and ever so slowly, they’d been forgotten. Their passions suppressed, the fire had faded from their relationship. Now they were just friends who’d shared a fabulous life story, and just happened to live in the same house and share the same spaces.
She woke from her daydream with a jolt. A sharp point pricked her finger, beneath her hand, the card was still there.
Her gaze returned to the golden oval of light dancing above the candle wax. Had her future already been set? Or was a different destiny possible? She searched her head for an answer, provoking a dizzying cascade of what-if this and what-if that? She stared into the candle, as if pleading for its divination, it flickered impassively.
Nancy Jones had been captured!
Now she sat on the bed of the small turret room, her hands cuffed behind her back, waiting for her captor to return. Eventually a metallic rattle in the keyhole signalled the door had been unlocked. She held her breath as the door swung slowly inward with the faintest of squeaks.
His tall frame dominated the doorway. He’d dressed as The Baron, following her instructions meticulously. A pristine white suit hugging his trim athletic torso, the only colour the red and gold silk stripes of an MCC tie. In his right hand he held a large grey round-nosed bedroom slipper, which she immediately recognised. Hello again old friend.
She wore her black hair in a short stacked bob cut with cheek-length bangs that gave her a chic, gamine look. Her short skirt and shirt had been chosen for freedom of movement rather than style, they were clothes for scaling walls, or jumping through a windows, which resulted in an almost tomboyish appearance.
“Ah, Miss Jones!” he announced, in a voice that always made her insides tremble. She met his eyes defiantly.
He closed the door behind him and motioned her to stand, plucking a key from his trouser pocket to undo her cuffs, which clattered to the floor.
“Undress please, Miss Jones,” he said succinctly.
It was not a request, more an expectation.
She complied immediately, unbuttoning her shirt and then skirt, folding them neatly on the bed, after all, there were standards of decorum to maintain. She paused for a moment to allow him to admire the filigree of her fine lace underwear, knowing a connoisseur like him would appreciate it. The eyes of most men would have sparkled with lust at the sight, but the Baron just gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement, one befitting a worldly-wise aristocrat. He seemed determined to put his illustrious captive in her place. She, naturally, would follow her own agenda, attempting to shatter his ice-cold toff act with the sexual heat of her femininity.
Her bra slipped coyly off her shoulders, revealing her small round mounds, and nipples that were already conspicuous erect. The removal of her panties was even more of a performance; as it should be. A whole minute of seductive revelation that demonstrated the glories of every one of her curves en route from the swell of her hips, all the way down her slender legs to the tips of her toes. It culminated in the spectacular final reveal of her magnificently bare pudenda and the gorgeous globes of her bottom.
He could feel his cock stir. The Minx! He knew he needed to reimpose his authority, and quickly.
“You shall now be spanked, Miss Jones, like a naughty schoolgirl.”
His perfectly pronounced threat made her legs wobble. Without thinking her hands drifted behind and rubbed her bare cheeks.
Just two strides brought him to the bed, and he sat purposefully in the manner of a chairman taking his seat in the boardroom. In one smooth movement he jutted a knee between her legs, and pulled her forward by the arm so she toppled over his lap. Before she knew it she found herself with her head behind his waist, her arms and chest resting on the bed and her feet dangling just above the floor.
In this position she could feel the heat of his thigh radiating onto her mound, but frustratingly, her clit was hovering just above the soft wool of his trousers. He let her squirm, as she attempted to rub her little pearl on his leg. So close — but too bad, the dastardly baron would ensure she endured her spanking in a state of yearning frustration.
Putting a girl over one knee was the Baron’s personal favourite spanking position, maximal erotic effect with minimal physical effort. His left leg would keep hers splayed apart, and he could use his right to push her legs wider, or clamp them over hers to prevent any kicking. And with her arms outstretched across the bed, she’d be unable to reach back and interfere with her chastisement. All as it should be.
His left hand wandered between her legs, whilst his right simultaneously rubbed the slipper across her bottom.
“Do you know how naughty schoolgirls are spanked, Miss Jones?”
“Very hard, Sir, on their bare bottoms,” she replied earnestly, she didn’t need to ponder that.
His left index finger began to slowly circle her bottom hole, alternating unpredictably, one clockwise, then a few anti-clockwise. Every now and then, he’d let his finger drift downwards, drawing it down the middle of her soft wet lips, until her petals had opened completely. A slick splash of soft puffy pink soon filled the space between her legs.
The first whack of the slipper rudely interrupted Nancy’s blissful reverie. It was a glancing smack, hitting the top half of one bum cheek, momentarily lifting it, imparting a smarting sting and leaving the slipper just above her hip by the time it stopped. A similar whack stung her other cheek moments later.
The next whack landed in the centre of her left buttock, stopping the slipper in its tracks. This was a hot burning impact that expelled her breath in a little yelp, as she ground herself against his leg. Her subsequent slippering was a moan-inducing medley of searing thudding whacks and stinging glancing slaps. He spanked quickly and methodically, his elbow barely moving, to ensure his arm wouldn’t tire before her bottom was appropriately sore.
He spanked so hard! She could begin to feel her eyes watering as she squirmed, yelped and gasped. The gap between her legs now felt like a cavernous hole, in those brief pauses between his spanks, she could feel it throb, like her fingers had just been inside her, then abruptly pulled out. Then the slipper would land again, and the yearning throb would be swamped by the fiery sensation that burned across her cheeks. It was excruciatingly divine.
He was building up a rhythm now, which made him recall something he’d read in a bizarre little Victorian book called The Disciplinarians’ Gazetteer. He’d received it for his birthday, delivered with a sly smile and wrapped in a bow. It really was a delight, a treasure trove containing seemingly everything a gentleman might need to know about the spanking arts. There were testimonials from schoolmasters and the clergy, discussing how regular bottom smacking was an effective antidote to moral turpitude. There was advice on not only how to spank, but where to spank, and countless listings of clubs, brothels and bordellos across the Empire where flagellation was not only performed, but seemingly practiced to the point of perfection.
And within the book had been the memorable advice that “a gentleman should spank his minx until he feels his member swell, and continue until it is impossible to contain it in his britches.” He was rapidly reaching that point, his cock was now painfully stiff, and beginning to bend against the confines of his trousers.
His fingers returned between her legs. He smeared them with her excitement, transferring her wetness to around her bottom hole several times. When his fingers suddenly vanished, she moaned, so he cruelly let her squirm in frustration for a few moments. Then she felt the warmth of his left hand on the small of her back, followed by a fingertip crawling down her bottom crack. Seconds later the invading finger was pushing into her arsehole, pinning her in position as his other hand delivered the final volley of her slippering, a set of hard targeted whacks that made her bottom throb and her clit ache.
All of a sudden the smacking stopped, and the room echoed to the sound of their mutual panting.
“To the corner with you, Miss Jones!” he announced after a brief repose, wrapping his arm around her waist and lifting her from his lap.
She wobbled uncertainly to her feet, teetering towards the corner of the room, where she stood swaying slightly.
“Naughty girls hold themselves apart…” he reminded.
Nancy reached back and cupped her cheeks in each hand, then slowly pulled them apart, which only exacerbated how much they stung and sizzled. In the process she could feel her labia parting too, admitting cool air to tease her soaking folds. Behind her, she could hear him undressing.
“And why do naughty girls hold their spanked bums open?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question, she knew the answer well.
His warm breath ebbed through her hair, tickling her scalp and the back of her neck. And then something warm and stiff touched her bottom hole. Nancy knew she was on the edge now, on the very verge of surrendering control, of being taken. In moments she would be impaled, and after that she would be powerless to resist him. She would be defeated by her own yearning, she would let the Baron fuck her until she collapsed in a delirious heap. Even worse, she knew she’d enjoy every moment.
One last gambit flashed through her mind.
“Take me on the bed Sir!”
True to the spirit of the game, she remained compliantly submissive. That was the only rule, she couldn’t demur — she had to do anything he said. But it was perfectly legitimate for Nancy to provide a little encouragement. So she turned around, grasped his stiff dick in her hand, and tugged him towards the bed.
“Oh Sir…” she said coyly, whilst gently squeezing, “So thick and hard, I can’t wait to take it in my tight little bummy hole…”
Her words seduced him onto the bed with no complaint, and she made a point of rewarding his compliance by taking his cock in her mouth.
“Oooo… l’m making it so wet,” she said in between mouthfuls, “It’ll slip in… so deep…”
From his position on the bed, the Baron didn’t see her hand scrabbling on the floor, but you could say he was otherwise distracted.
Now she stepped up onto the bed and knelt, straddling his waist and obediently reaching underneath to position his cock against her bottom hole. She could feel that his member was soaked with her spit and completely rigid.
“I’ve been so very naughty, Sir. I deserve a good seeing-to!”
She could see the lust twinkle in his wide blue eyes as she began to push downward, feeling the tip of his helmet starting to intrude into her bum hole. He reached forward, as if to grasp her hips, but she intercepted his hands, leaning forward to stretch them above his head, encouraging him to grip the bed frame instead. He seemed to enjoy her initiative.
She kept lowering herself downward, gasping as the tip of his cock finally pushed through the tight ring of her arse.
“Oh Sir!” she exclaimed, as innocently as she could manage.
Then, as a wave of pleasure surged through him, she saw him close his eyes.
It was a move that would have made her heroine proud. As she’d sucked him, her hand had searched the floor for the handcuffs she had worn, keeping them out of view behind her whilst she climbed onto the bed. Now, as he was rendered momentarily incapable by his own bliss, she’d skilfully reached forward to slip the cuffs behind the bed frame and over his wrists. The cuffs had clicked shut before he’d realised what was happening.
She gave a little shriek of triumph, “My turn!”
The Baron should have known better. Didn’t he know she was Nancy Jones? Incorrigible minx, daredevil adventurer, and maestro of improvising victory from the jaws of certain defeat.
Tables now turned, she rose, enjoying the sensation as his cock slowly slipped out of her bottom, despite his best efforts to raise his hips and stay inside her. She could see a scowl developing on her captive’s brow, which made her smirk.
Then she turned around, straddling his torso so her bottom rested on his chin. This proved to be a very enjoyable position, because when he breathed, she could feel his warm breath blowing through her legs.
“You’re a very bad man,” she observed, “You’ve made my bottom very hot and sore.”
“It seems I have,” he replied unapologetically.
“I expect you to make amends. You’ll lick my poor spanked cheeks better.”
With his hands trapped at the top of the bed, and the weight of her body pinning him to the bed, it was clear he was no longer in a position to give the orders. She exploited her position by slowly rubbing her perineum up and down the bridge of his nose. The scent was intoxicating. Mouth-watering. He swore if it wasn’t for the cuffs he’d have rolled her over and ravished her there and then.
She altered her stance so she could feel his breath on her left bum cheek, and gave the order.
He did as he was told, placing his tongue on her hot skin and painting slow lines with his own saliva. She cooed as his rough tongue tingled her spanked cheeks, leaving a wet trail that felt delightful as it cooled. When the left cheek was covered to her satisfaction, she shifted so the same treatment could be given to the right.
This was amazing, she thought, surely every girl deserves to have her sore bum soothed by her spanker’s tongue. Her mind drifted into a blissful fug, contemplating the practicalities. Something made her imagine herself as a naughty schoolgirl, skirt rolled up, holding her recently slippered bottom apart in the headmaster’s study. Obviously it would have been rather awkward to have had to ask Sir to soothe her bum with his tongue, so she dreamt she was allowed to nominate another. Then there was a knock on the headmaster’s door. Tim had been her teenage crush; and now he was going to kneel behind her bare spanked bottom, feel the warmth of her punishment against his cheeks, and lick it all better…
“And in between too…” she commanded.
She lunged forward, pushing her hips back until she felt his tongue press into her bottom hole. That brought his groin within her reach, allowing her to reward the performance of his tongue with tugs of his cock. Soon his tongue was prying into her arse, circling it, pushing into her little hollow, widening her hole and pushing further and further inside. Meanwhile his cock throbbed in her hand, and she encouraged his intrusions with yanks of increasing vehemence.
It was time. She turned around, placing her knees just above his shoulders, and splaying her legs. He had a close-up view of her labia approaching his lips, separated and glistening, her pearl now swollen and protruding. This time she gave no instructions, it was obvious what she expected. His tongue explored her gap, whilst she reached back to grasp his cock, which she angled forward, pointing it at her bottom.
Their endgame had become a contest of wills, of who could make the other erupt first. So she kept his tongue away from her clit, whilst her hand slid over his helmet. She could see the shaved skin of his sac was drum tight now, and his balls trembling as he fought to retain his control.
“Oh Sir, are you going to come?” she teased, “… and splatter your sticky mess all over my naughty spanked bottom?”
“You are a minx, Nancy Jones!” he retorted between breaths, “You deserve a good, hard spanking!”
Just the mention of the word made her clit throb and her insides quiver.
“Another spanking, Sir?” she asked coquettishly.
And after that, there were no more words; their conversation continued in gasps.
The future is unknowable, people are complicated and unpredictable, and the paths of life are many strange. She could only be certain of her own heart, her passion for adventure and desire not to settle for the mediocre, which had burned within her ever since she was a little girl.
She slipped the card bearing her message on top of the slippers and closed the box. Each fold of the wrapping paper made it feel more and more like a fait accompli, as if her secret had already been uttered, and there was no going back.
She tied the snow white box with a strand of vivid red ribbon and tied it into a bow. She wanted it to be conspicuous, its contents were priceless, it was the most important gift she’d ever given.
And then she left it under the Christmas tree, her little pot of gold, hidden among the twinkling lights, just waiting to be discovered.
Originally published at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.
You’re welcome to share. Perhaps you might even leave a copy for your partner to discover, under the Christmas Tree…