The Bottom Line

 

THE BOTTOM LINE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By

Emma Savage

 

 

 

The Bottom Line first published in 2005 by

Chimera Books Ltd. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Chimera a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

 

Digital Edition Converted and Published by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

 

New authors
are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to
hear from you
.

 

This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex

 

This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

 

Copyright Emma Savage. The right of Emma Savage to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 

I neither saw nor heard the car. Indeed, as I began to pick myself up laboriously and painfully from the gutter I had no idea of what had happened until I heard a car door slam somewhere close by and a voice screaming at me to ask whether I was all right.

In trying to get up I stumbled and half fell over again. At once I felt a hand under my arm steadying me and another hand on my elbow trying to help me regain my feet. Only then did I look round to see Carol standing over me, trying to help me, her face white and her mouth open wide. ‘Thank heavens you're all right,' I heard her say as I struggled to my feet. ‘Oh, Conal, I just don't know what to say. I started backing to get off the kerb, heard a thud and saw you in the mirror. I was terrified you were under the back wheels. Please, please tell me you're all right.'

For Carol this must have been a remarkably long speech. We had been next-door neighbours for twenty years and I doubt that, in all that time, I'd heard her utter three consecutive sentences. As I began to brush myself down I was conscious of considerable pain in the area of my right hip. I moved my hand round in an exploratory fashion to find that my trousers were badly torn and already bloodstained. Suddenly I felt quite faint and had to sit down on the low wall separating our houses. Carol sat beside me and put an arm round me, drawing me to her.

‘Be careful,' I whispered, ‘you'll get blood all over your coat.'

‘Oh my God,' she spluttered. ‘Are you bleeding? Where? Show me, let me have a look.'

Instinctively I pointed to the area that hurt most.

‘Oh Conal,' she began again, ‘you're covered in blood and your trousers are ruined. When you can stand up we'll go into the house and I'll see if I can clean you up. Do you want me to call a doctor? Or an ambulance?'

‘No,' I replied, ‘I don't think you need call anyone. I think once I'm cleaned up I'll probably be all right. I can move all my fingers and toes and I don't think anything's broken.'

‘Well come on, then,' she said, ‘let's get you into the house and see what needs doing. I'm sure you ought to let me call a doctor. You'll probably need an anti-tetanus jab, won't you?' As she spoke she was already beginning to manoeuvre me up and towards her drive.

‘I think you'd better switch your engine off before you do anything else,' I suggested, ‘and we'll go into my house.'

She began to argue on the grounds that she was the one who had caused the accident and so she should be the one offering the repair service, but I pointed out that my trousers were so badly ripped that I'd need to get changed after I'd cleaned myself up. Accepting the logic of what I said she asked whether I could stand by myself for a minute and, when I said I could, switched off her car engine and locked the doors. Then she held me up and this time began to walk me down the drive towards my house.

‘Is Harriet at home?' she asked, ‘or is there anybody else who can help you?' I explained to her that Harriet, my wife, was away visiting one of our children and that I had the house to myself. She nodded while absorbing this information and apparently deciding what to do next, but I had by now got the front door open and was halfway inside.

Climbing the stairs was agony. The cuts and bruises stung like hell, but I could tell there were no serious injuries and I no longer felt faint. I realised that what must have happened was that I had come out of the house while Carol was already in her car, which she always parked half on the footpath and half on the road. I had gone on to the path to pick up the pruning-shears I'd just been using, at the very moment when Carol started her usual manoeuvre without realising I was half behind her car. Fortunately she caught me only a glancing blow and stamped on the brakes as soon as she heard the thud. I had landed in the gutter, damaging myself as I slid across the gravel, and she jumped out of her car fearing the worst.

I opened the bathroom door and she followed me in, taking in at a glance the layout of the bathroom. ‘We'll need scissors, cotton wool and some antiseptic. Have you any Dettol or Savlon?' she asked. ‘I've some scissors in my bag.' I pointed to the cupboard where the cotton wool and antiseptic were kept and she got them out as I leaned on the bath, holding myself firmly with both hands to take the weight off my injured hip.

‘I think the best thing will be for me to sit on the loo,' she suggested. You kneel in front of the washbasin with your elbows resting on the bath. Then I can reach you easily while I bathe you and clean you up and you won't need to support your own weight. Now turn round and let me have a look at those trousers.' I shuffled round so that she could see the damage more easily. ‘Oh, Conal, what a mess,' she almost wept. ‘I'm so sorry. These are absolutely ruined, so I may as well cut them off. It'll avoid pulling at the wound. I'll have to buy you a new pair of trousers in any case, so it doesn't really matter if I cut these.'

‘You won't have to buy me a new anything,' I retorted. ‘It was an accident and accidents happen.'

‘No,' she said, ‘it wasn't an accident. It was driving without due care and attention. At least, that's what the police will say.'

‘Why should the police say anything?' I asked her. ‘I have no intention of calling the police.'

‘Well, okay,' she replied. ‘That's big of you, but I think you probably ought to. We'll talk about it when I've got you cleaned up.' Meanwhile she was performing some sort of surgery on my trousers, cutting out a huge patch of muddied and bloodied material. ‘Come on, then, you can take these off quite safely now.'

I unbuckled my belt and, holding the material well away from my right hip, allowed the trousers to slide down to my knees. I could hear her running water, testing the temperature and then felt a soft, warm dab on my flesh. She dabbed at me for a few minutes, very gently and very slowly. Suddenly she reached a particularly tender bit and I squealed as the antiseptic in the water hit the raw wound.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘I really think you should let me cut your pants off as well, so I can see what I'm doing more easily.'

‘Go ahead,' I told her, wincing as she continued with her operation, yet laughing to myself at the ludicrous situation. Here I was in my own bathroom with no trousers on, waiting for my pants to be removed by the woman with the biggest knockers on the whole estate - and I didn't even have an erection.

Carol was of above average height, rather plain-looking save for the short brown hair which curled impishly round her face at the edges, quite slimly built except that she had an absolutely huge bust, usually sculpted into an improbable shape by her foundation garment. She was invariably pleasant, as was her husband, Eric, arguably as boring a man as one could find anywhere, but conversation with them never went beyond a greeting or a banal comment about the weather.

And yet here she was, ministering to me in my bathroom and, instead of rejoicing in the fact that her massive tits were only a few inches from my face, all I could do was continue to yelp as she continued to bathe my wounds. It took a long time, but eventually she decided she had done everything possible. The pain of the original abrasions had long since given way to the bite of the antiseptic, but I knew that that, too, would fade. Clutching my shirt rather self-consciously to my loins, I went to my bedroom to look for a suitable garment which would both protect my modesty, and my clean trousers from the cream with which she next proposed to anoint the wounds.

I decided upon a pair of loose-fitting football shorts, long since discarded yet kept for some unaccountable reason. Then I knelt down again as she rubbed a soothing cream into the area she had finished cleaning. This was a much quicker operation and soon I was able to wriggle into the shorts and stand up. Carol chose this as the moment to reopen negotiations.

‘Are you really not going to report this accident?' she asked me.

‘Why on earth should I?' I asked her in turn. ‘What good would reporting it do either of us?'

‘Well, you must at least let me take down the details of your trousers so I can buy you another pair,' she insisted.

‘Look, Carol,' I told her, ‘I appreciate what you're saying but it's not necessary. They're an old pair I wear for doing odd jobs in and I don't even like them. I might as well...' I broke off as I saw she'd begun to cry. ‘What on earth is the matter? Carol? Come on, tell me about it.'

‘It's so unfair,' she whimpered. ‘I knock you down, I nearly kill you, I ruin a pair of perfectly good trousers, I make a mess in your bathroom and you won't let me do anything to make amends. You won't report me; you won't even let me replace the trousers. I just don't think I should get off scot free.'

‘Well, what do you want me to do?' I asked her. ‘Perhaps I ought to give you a good hiding to teach you to be more careful in future, ought I?' If I thought a rather poor joke would make her see things in a better light, then I could not have miscalculated more.

The sobs ceased immediately. ‘Oh yes,' she said, ‘yes, please. That would be perfect.'

I recoiled. This was not something I could ever have anticipated. I had more than once fantasised about her most prominent assets and imagined myself undressing her in order to get at the very least a good look at them, but this was something altogether new. Moreover, I could feel the stirrings of interest in a part of me that had remained surprisingly docile until now.

‘Carol, it was a joke,' I told her. ‘Come on, I was pulling your leg. You can't be serious that you want me to punish you.'

‘Conal,' she whispered, ‘it's a long time since I've been more serious about anything. I need to be punished for not looking where I was going and this way nobody ever need know about it. Harriet's away and Eric's out for the day. Please, Conal, do it, make me suffer for making you suffer. I'll feel so much better about it if you do.'

I continued arguing with her but she was adamant and finally produced the killer argument. ‘I've seen you peeping at my... breasts.' There was just the faintest hesitation before the last word, as though she couldn't quite decide whether to be biological, vulgar or just matter-of-fact. ‘I bet you've got quite horny just thinking about them.' There was no denying this and, had I turned round, the flimsiness of my shorts would have allowed a glimpse of conclusive evidence.

‘You really want me to...' this time there was a slight pause while I sought the proper word ‘...spank you?'

‘Yes please,' she said, ‘that's the very least. Why don't you start by spanking me and then see whether it gives you any other ideas?'

My erection was now enormous and I was feeling quite embarrassed. Never previously having been invited to spank a mature woman - or any other sort, as it happened - I found the prospect wildly exciting and yet somehow disturbing at the same time. And the need for secrecy provoked a similarly paradoxical reaction: the thrill of doing something furtive and the fear of what might be the consequences if anybody ever found out. I made my mind up.

There was a low stool in the bathroom that looked an ideal height, so I went and sat on it. Then I told Carol to kneel on the floor with her torso stretched over my lap and her hands supporting her on the other side. In this position her bottom was invitingly raised and her body was clear of my erection.

I brought my hand down on her trousered bottom several times, first on the left cheek, then on the right and then across the middle. For a couple of minutes I continued like this, the blows gradually becoming harder until I felt I should stop.

‘Is that what you had in mind?' I asked her.

‘It's a good start,' she said, ‘except I can hardly feel it. Your hand isn't hard enough through two layers of clothing.'

It wasn't clear whether this was an invitation to find something harder or to remove the two layers of clothing. I decided that the former was the safer course of action and went downstairs to the kitchen, to collect a wooden spatula. Then I told Carol to resume the position for punishment, but she managed to kneel across me in such a way that her body pressed down on my rampant cock. Pretending not to notice this, I began spanking her with the spatula.

As I continued I realised that my excitement was in danger of rising to the point where I might shoot my load unless I changed position. ‘How's that?' I asked. ‘Is that how a dangerous driver deserves to be punished?'

‘I can feel it more,' she answered, ‘but it's still not right.'

‘How do you know what's right?' I asked her, just as a thought occurred to me. ‘You've done this before, haven't you?' There was silence. ‘Is this a game you play with Eric?'

She straightened up and looked at me. ‘Eric?' she said. ‘You must be joking. Eric and I haven't even, you know, for the past ten years, let alone anything kinky. We don't even share a bedroom except when we go on holiday.'

‘So if it's not Eric, who is it then? Who's the toy-boy?'

‘There isn't a toy-boy at all,' she snapped. ‘There isn't even a boyfriend. I've never been to bed with anybody except Eric and I don't intend to.'