The Fathers' Club: ... and other spanking tales Page 5

  For a few more minutes Leon wrestled with himself. Finally, his baser instincts won out. "Ok, Susan," he said, "against my better judgment, I'll go along with your suggestion. But two things you should understand. First, this is the only time I'll let you off with this kind of retribution. Any repeat of this kind of behaviour and you'll be instantly fired, without any kind of reference. Clear?"

  "Yes, Mr Richards. Thank you."

  "Secondly, before I spank you I want you to draft a document making it quite clear that you're submitting to this punishment at your own suggestion and of your own free will, and renouncing the right to any kind of legal comeback. You've worked here long enough to know the necessary wording. Bring it to me when you've done it."

  "Yes, Mr Richards," Susan said again quietly, and returned to her office.

  Left to himself Leon cleared a space on his desk, then got up and gazed out of the window at the venerable buildings of Lincoln's Inn, mellow in the evening sunlight. "Am I crazy, taking a risk like this?" he asked himself. More than once he was on the verge of calling Susan back and telling her he'd changed his mind. But then the evocative phrases of Alex's email recurred to him (the little wriggles and squirmings, and yelps of mingled pain and arousal at each smack, and your bottom so adorably soft and rounded), and he let the images they aroused flood over him, feeling himself harden in anticipation.

  "Here it is, Mr Richards," came Susan's gentle voice behind him. He turned, took the document from her and perused it, making a few modifications to the wording before handing it back.

  "Good, thank you, Susan. Make those changes, then bring it back. Oh, and on one of the desks in the outer office - Harold's, I think - you'll find a two-foot wooden rule. Bring that as well."

  Three minutes later she returned again, as instructed. He took the document and re-read it. "That's fine," he said, handing it back. "Now sign it and date it, please." When she'd done so he read through it one final time, checking for loopholes, then locked it carefully in his safe.

  Susan watched, trembling with apprehension, as Leon picked up the heavy oak rule and weighed it in his hand. Excitement mounted in him. "Oh yes," he said, smiling at her, "I think this will do very well. Now stand here, please, in front of my desk, remove your jacket and raise your skirt."

  She blushed, keeping her eyes averted as she gradually eased the tight-fitting dark fabric up to her waist. As it rose it revealed high-cut panties, lacy and black - a far sexier garment than he'd have expected from Susan's quiet demeanour.

  "Good - now lower your panties and step out of them, please."

  Again she obeyed. At her submissiveness a sense of power thrilled through him, enhancing his arousal. When she'd stepped out of the flimsy garment and stood there, exposed from the waist down, he said with that air of effortless assurance that had so often riveted the attention of juries, "Now look at me, Susan."

  She raised her dark eyes to his. They were wide with fear and - or was he imagining it? - excitement.

  "Here's what I want you to do, Susan," he told her. "But don't move until I've finished speaking. First, let down your hair. Then, you'll turn and face the desk, bend yourself over it, right over, and grasp the far side of it. You'll stay like that, gripping the edge of the desk, until I tell you to stand up again. You'll hold that position while I give you one hundred strokes with this ruler on your bare bottom. If you let go of the desk or stand up before I tell you to, you'll receive ten extras strokes on each occasion. Understood?"

  "Yes, Sir." The 'Sir' was something new. Until now she'd always called him Mr Richards.

  "Good. Now let down your hair, then turn round and bend over."

  She did as he told her. As she turned, Leon got his first glimpse of Susan's bare bottom. It was just as Alex had described it: sweetly, provocatively rounded - softly curvaceous twin globes just made to be spanked.

  The desk was broad. In order to reach the far side, she had to raise herself up on her tiptoes, rounding and thrusting out her bottom still more invitingly. A more tempting target could scarcely be imagined. Unable to resist, he reached out and caressed the sweet rondeurs. They felt deliciously cool and soft, quivering slightly at his touch. No trace was visible of the previous night's activities.

  Stepping back, Leon indulged himself by taking time to drink in the delectable prospect. Besides, he reflected, making her wait would increase her apprehension and, quite possibly, render her punishment still more effective. Finally he raised the ruler and stroked it across the lovely young woman's luscious bottom-cheeks. "Susan," he said quietly but distinctly, "ask me for your punishment."

  She gulped. "P-please, Sir," she stammered, "please sp-spank me. Very hard."

  "Oh, I intend to," he responded. "I certainly intend to."

  Raising the rule high, he brought it down hard and fast across both the trembling mounds. It landed with a sharp crack, and Susan gave a shrill yelp, like a distressed puppy. As Leon watched, a band of pink sprang out on the pale, flawless skin. He paused to admire it, then administered another stroke slightly higher than the first, painting a second, overlapping band of warm pink. Susan yelped again, louder this time, squirming her bottom as if trying to shake off the sting.

  If that was her aim, it was in vain. Over the next fifteen minutes the cruel wood steadily rose and fell, suffusing the girl's jouncing bottom with an ever deeper blush - from pink to red, from red to fiery scarlet, from scarlet to a deep throbbing crimson that seemed to radiate heat. Leon took his time, pausing for several seconds after each stroke to let the sting sink in, covering the whole of the target area and paying particular attention to the sensitive undercurves where bottom met thighs.

  As the anguish of her spanking built up Susan sobbed piteously, begging for mercy and promising every kind of future good behaviour. But she valiantly held her position, never once letting go of the far side of the desk. When the hundredth and last stroke landed - for Leon was keeping scrupulous count - she still lay prone across the desk, whimpering softly, scarcely seeming to realise that her punishment was over.

  Putting down the ruler, Leon once again stroked the tender curves, marvelling at their burning heat. He had found a deep satisfaction in administering Susan's spanking. Never had he experienced such intense sexual arousal; but at the same time he was filled with a deep protective tenderness towards the girl he had so mercilessly chastised. Gently he lifted her up from the desk. Her face was flushed and tear-stained. She gazed at him for a moment, then with a sob buried her face in his shoulder, her whole body shaking.

  He held her while she cried it out, stroking her long tousled dark hair and murmuring soothing phrases in her ear. And when her sobs had finally subsided she raised her head and looked at him, her brown eyes still filled with tears - and their lips met in a long passionate kiss.

  ---oOo---

  Three days later Jennifer Barnes, Susan's predecessor, was sitting in a café just off Holborn with her five-month-old daughter on her lap. She looked up and waved, seeing Susan enter. The younger woman joined her, and the next five minutes were occupied with the ritual cooings and exclamations of adoration obligatory on such occasions.

  "So," asked Jennifer, once the infant had been sufficiently idolised, "it worked, then?"

  Susan gave her a radiant smile. "Oh, it worked. It worked brilliantly. Those emails we devised had just the effect you said they would. But how on earth did you know?"

  "Well, remember I was his secretary for over five years. I had plenty of time to observe him. And of course it was easier to watch him because he never fancied me, so he wasn't paying me much attention. I'm not his type. Whereas I could tell from the moment you came into the office that you were his type - quite definitely."

  "Ok - but what put you on to the spanking thing?"

  "I told you - I watched him. I love watching people, always have, and working out what makes them tick. And I noticed how he'd react to odd phrases and references. You remember that divorce case that was all over the papers abo
ut a year ago - the one with the Premiere League footballer and the blonde ex-model? That's right, that's the one. He was always reading reports about it and chatting about it to his friends, even though divorce law isn't at all his area. And I thought, Aha, so that's what floats your boat, Mr Smart Lawyer. Then when you and I met at that Law Society party and you got a bit smashed, it all started coming out, didn't it? How you were carrying a torch for our Mr Richards, but he just didn't seem the least bit interested. And then you let slip, indiscreet girl that you are, that you had a kinky yen for being spanked. And my crafty little mind started putting things together."

  Jennifer laughed. "But you mustn't give me all the credit, Sue. After all, you wrote almost all of those emails - and wow, talk about steamy! I bet those had him standing to attention. Which reminds me, though - what did you tell him about the mysterious Alex?"

  It was Susan's turn to laugh. "Oh, no problem. I told Leon that he's ten times the lover Alex ever was - and a way, way better spanker. And that now I'd got him, poor old Alex was right out of the picture. You should have seen how proud he looked!"

  "Great! So it's all systems go?"

  "And how! He's taking me to his cottage in the Cotswolds this weekend. He says it's miles from anywhere, so I can yell and scream as loud as I like while he's spanking me. And he's bought a new paddle for the occasion. I can't wait!"

  "All sounds perfect," observed Jennifer. "Let's just hope he never finds out."

  Susan grinned naughtily. "How could he? And in any case, even if he did - he'd probably just give me the spanking of my life!"

  The Airport Assignment

  It had seemed like a pretty good vacation job. She'd answered an ad in the local paper - Drivers wanted. Must be presentable, polite and have a clean license. Nothing about any restrictions on age or sex, no hint that a student wouldn't be acceptable. So she'd presented herself at the office, been interviewed by a smartly-dressed woman with a cut-glass English accent and ironic eyes who checked her license, asked if she minded wearing chauffeur's uniform on occasion - and that was that. She had the job.

  At first it was quite fun, having a big gleaming black limo to drive and ferrying people around from here to there. And the pay was pretty good, too - especially for a 19-year-old college student. But pretty soon the monotony of it started to get to her. Most of her passengers were fat middle-aged business executives, who either treated her like she wasn't there or made passes at her. She could handle the passes, but it didn't improve her opinion of the guys who made them. And she had to spend a lot of time just sitting and waiting outside offices or expensive restaurants. She took a book along, of course, but it still got tedious. Not to mention the way the cops kept trying to hit on her.

  Then one day she gets a phone call.

  "Kirsty, we'd like you to go to the airport and pick up a passenger on the 3.30 Virgin Atlantic flight from London. He's an important client, so we'd like you to look your best," says the voice. She thinks it's the woman who interviewed her, but she's not sure. "Report to the airport wearing black spike heels, black seamed stockings and garter belt, a grey slim skirt, sheer white blouse with tie, and a chauffeur's cap. Carry a sign that says 'Mr. Karl' and stand to attention while the passengers disembark."

  At the airport she stands and waits as instructed. Finally a man comes down the walkway and stands in front of her. He's tall and slim, with a small neat beard and moustache. He could be an academic of some sort, or an author. There's an air of restrained authority about him that, for some reason, makes her buttocks tingle. He says not a word but inspects her and her uniform. Then he says coolly, "Good. Please precede me to the baggage claim."

  At the carousel she stands and waits, he standing slightly behind her. "That one," he says, indicating a smart suitcase of dark brown leather. When she bends over the carousel to pick up the case, she feels him cup her bottom. She gasps and stands up, her cheeks flaming, but he looks calmly at her as if nothing had happened, and she finds herself wondering if she imagined it. When she gets out to the limo she holds the rear door for him, then comes round and slides into the driver's seat. As she's about to turn and ask where she should take him, he speaks.

  "No, don't turn round, please. I'll give you directions. But before we start, kindly slip off your panties and pass them over to me."

  He speaks so quietly and matter-of-factly, as though it was the most normal request in the world, that to her utter amazement she finds herself obeying. She slides down her cream silk panties and passes them back to him. In the rear-view mirror she sees him sniff the garment briefly, then fold it and put it carefully away in an inside pocket.

  "Good. Now I want you to join the westbound freeway and take the second exit." From there he directs her to a country road that winds through a quiet patch of woodland. "Stop here and switch off the engine," he tells her. "Now get out, come round to the right-hand rear door and open it."

  When she's standing there he reaches out, takes her gently but firmly by the wrist and, with one practised tug, pulls her face-down across his lap.

  "No! What are you doing?" she gasps.

  "Don't ask stupid questions, girl," he responds calmly. "What do you think I'm doing? Giving you what you so richly deserve, of course."

  To her own surprise, Kirsty doesn't dispute his statement. There's no way, of course, that he could know - but in fact she has been doing a few things recently that, if she were honest, she'd admit she deserved punishment for: laziness, procrastination, skipping classes, overindulging in drink and drugs, dating unsuitable boys. On the other hand, what right has a stranger to administer the punishment? But then again, lying face-down across this authoritative man's lap just feels so right - as though it was where she was meant to be...

  While all this is whirling through Kirsty's bewildered mind, Mr Karl is calmly preparing for the task in hand. Without fuss, he peels her skirt up above her waist. She feels cool air on her bottom and realises that she's humiliatingly bare to his gaze from the waist down. She wriggles with embarrassment.

  "Stay still, girl," he commands, with a crisp slap to her bottom. "You'll have plenty to wriggle about very soon, believe you me." He strokes her defenceless rear end, squeezing the cheeks and patting them to make them quiver. "You have a very pretty bottom, young lady. But it's a bottom that hasn't been spanked anywhere near enough. Well, that's something we're about to put right."

  "But - but you can't!" she protests wildly. "I mean - I'm too old to be spanked!"

  He laughs. "Oh, you think so, do you, missy? Well, this is where you learn otherwise."

  SMACK!!

  "Yee-oww!" she yelps, less from pain than from surprise as his hand makes crisp contact with her soft rump. And she yelps again, and continues to yelp and gasp and wriggle as his hand descends again and again, smacking left and right and covering every inch of her rearward curves with stinging smacks.

  Still, as her initial surprise wears off, she finds herself thinking that maybe a spanking isn't anything so terrible after all. True, it's highly undignified for a grown woman to find herself face-down across the lap of a man she's only just met, all but naked from the waist down and having her bare bottom spanked bright red. But at least there's no one else around to see - and there is, she has to admit, something very stimulating about the warmth he's engendering on her bottom cheeks.

  Unexpectedly he pauses. Thinking her spanking's over, she tries to get up, but he holds her firmly in position. "Oh no, young Kirsty," he says with a chuckle. (How does he know my name? she wonders bewilderedly.) "We're not through yet. Far from it. That was just a gentle warm-up, my dear, to get your bottom into perfect condition to receive its due punishment. Now your real spanking starts."

  "Owwwwww!" she squeals, as his hand descends with full force on her already well-smacked rearward curves. Mr Karl, she's coming to realise, is a very experienced spanker and knows exactly how to deal with a naughty girl's bottom. Smack after ringing smack rains down, building up a blazing heat in he
r squirming mounds until she thinks they must be swollen to twice their normal size and she'll never sit down in comfort again. And all the time he's talking to her in his calm English voice, telling her what a bad girl she is and how very soundly she deserves to be spanked.

  "You have a lovely soft, curvy bottom, young lady," he says, "just made to be spanked. And it looks even lovelier now that it's blushing so prettily. But it's going to blush even more vividly before we're through here. And remember - this is just a small sample of what's to come when we reach our destination. Over the next few days, my dear, you're going to be spending a lot of time across my lap. This is a seriously underspanked bottom-and we have a lot of catching up to do."

  Finally he pauses, and slips his hand down between her legs. To her embarrassment, she's aware that her most secret places have responded to the fires being lit on her bottom. His exploring fingers encounter a cleft as hot and moist as a tropical rainforest, and at his touch she squirms uncontrollably, moaning deep in her throat. "Ah," he says, and she can hear the grim smile in his voice, "you are a very naughty girl, aren't you? I do believe you're actually enjoying your punishment!" His fingers explore further, finding her love-bud and stroking insidiously around it. She gasps, teetering on the edge of ecstasy - and, tantalisingly, his fingers withdraw, their moistened tips stroking briefly across the pucker of her anus.

  "Yes indeed - a very naughty girl is what we have here," he says. "Clearly, young lady, I'm not spanking you anything like hard enough. I can see stricter measures are called for. Now, down on the floor there you'll see a briefcase. Open it, please." She obeys. The expensive tan pigskin lid opens silently and smoothly on invisible hinges, revealing a red silk-lined interior. "Good. Now, in the top right-hand corner you'll find a hairbrush. Hand it to me, please."

  The hairbrush is made of black, smooth wood - ebony, at a guess. On the dark surface of its handle is embossed 'Mason & Pearson, London W1. By Appointment to HM the Queen'. The bristles are pristine, unused. The back of the brush is very broad. It looks formidable. She hesitates, realising just how much it will sting her by now very sensitive hinderparts.