The Bottom Line (20 page)

How I spanked her on that occasion, how I enjoyed it and how startling was the result. There can be few experiences more pleasurable to a man than spanking - and I mean properly spanking - a voluptuous female bottom. The contact between hand and deliciously rounded cheek is so breathtaking, the imprint of one's fingers is so stimulating, the gradual reddening of the cheeks is almost intoxicating and, perhaps even better than any of these sensations, there is a sublime feeling of power as the victim squeals and struggles to escape, while one holds her firmly down with a hand on the small of the back, all the while continuing to administer a well-deserved spanking: better even than an orgasm, although the two may be closely connected.

They certainly were on that occasion since the firmness of my erection was matched only by the firmness of Janine's purpose as, finally released she turned over on the settee and more or less pulled me on top of and inside her. I'd certainly never reamed her more deeply and I suspect that she had never climaxed more deeply.

And so ended the Marina episode: painfully but volcanically for Janine, erotically and equally volcanically for me. We didn't talk about Marina again and it was weeks before we talked about our own activities that afternoon. What finally prompted the analysis was a passage of words between Janine and Radford. It was about something very trivial and it eventually blew over, but I was furious at the time because Radford was my housekeeper, whom I'd known far longer than I'd known Janine; I felt Janine should respect that and treat Radford with sufficient consideration.

At one point I threatened her with another good hiding, at which she giggled and asked whether there would be the same follow-up. It was clear that she felt the pain would be justified by the sex afterwards and then, surprising me as much as she had previously surprised me by talking so candidly about arses and tits, she asked whether I would try a similar position but with her on her back on the dining table, legs over my shoulders and me standing up to penetrate her. In the event I neither spanked nor fucked her, but I made a careful mental note of what she had requested.

After that we began playing occasional games, whereby I would take Janine to task for some slight offence, she would spit fury at me, her blue eyes like ice and her auburn hair framing her face as menacingly as if she were a gorgon. Then she would be across my lap and I would concentrate on her third resemblance to Willie, thinking vindictively of my least favourite teacher as I laid into her. She would wriggle and squeal however mild the spanking but, if I overdid the punishment, the wriggling would turn into frantic and vain attempts to escape and the squeals would turn to venomous denunciations of anything she could think of. If she became really poisonous I would use my moccasin.

This was perhaps a daring innovation, but it was my protection against the vituperation and vilification I suffered at times. The spanking sessions were usually a game, occasionally a game in which I allowed Janine to reverse the roles, though not often and not seriously. She could, however, lose control and when that happened and I had spanked her until my hand ached and she was still screaming at me, then I used the moccasin. A dozen real stingers with that and the tears were for real, but it made no difference to the aftermath; the harder I beat her the more she wanted me to pleasure her. I still hadn't used the dining table, but I hadn't forgotten the suggestion.

Life continued much the same as usual for several months, with Janine sometimes trying to curb the vicious use of her tongue and sometimes, it seemed to me, deliberately giving it full rein in order to provoke the reaction which might well follow. There were those colleagues, friends and guests whom she regarded with sufficient respect to leave alone, but to others she could be brutally frank and cutting. There was to be no repetition, however, of her disagreement with Radford, for which I was grateful: had I been forced to choose between the two it would have been far from easy. But the crisis came one Sunday evening when Roland was with us.

Roland was a friend of long standing. He and I had played rugby together at university and had remained in touch ever since. He was a huge but gentle man whom Janine had known almost as long as she'd known me and with whom she got on very well. She and Roland had been teasing one another over dinner and the teasing continued afterwards. But Roland was both too good-natured and too well-mannered to be a match for this particular hostess, and as Janine, fired perhaps by the couple of glasses of wine inside her, began to make her remarks more cutting and more personal, I tried to intervene.

I might as well have been called Canute. Her anger was really directed at me but it was through the medium of Roland that she attacked, calling him my poodle, suggesting it had been wasteful to feed him on pheasant and that a tin of dog food would have been more appropriate. There was quite a lot more in this vein, which Roland dealt with at first as though it were a huge joke. But finally, and understandably, he decided he'd had enough and, without ever retaliating or even losing his temper, picked up his jacket and left.

It was as well that he did, because I had almost reached the point when I was ready to give Janine a good spanking right in front of him. I saw him to his car, apologised profusely, listened to his loyal defence of Janine, arranged to meet him for lunch the following week and stormed back upstairs. Janine stood there grinning at me, her hands on her hips, so I pulled her roughly to the settee, sat down myself and hauled her across my knee. When I pulled up her skirt and saw that she had no knickers on, I realised that the whole act had been designed to produce this one result and decided, there and then, that I would really give her something to remember.

There was no pretence at a gentle warming up. My first blow landed with a crack on her right cheek, producing instant fingerprints, and the second landed as firmly on her left cheek with a similar result. Each one produced an instinctive grunt from Janine. I gave her half a dozen on each buttock, all quite hard but not hard enough yet to really make her squeal. I redoubled my efforts and soon enough she was screaming insults about my ancestry, my relationship with Roland and anything else she could think of. I don't know how many times I struck her but it must have been approaching a hundred. My hand was very sore by now and her bottom was a scarlet fusion of finger marks.

‘Get up,' I snapped at her, and she did.

‘Go and fetch my slippers,' I instructed her, and she did.

‘Now get back in position,' I said in as chilly a voice as I could manage, and she did.

I took one moccasin in my hand, rested it carefully on her right cheek, moved it slightly to and fro while deciding exactly where to strike, and then struck hard, four times. The very first blow caused her to wriggle frantically, but my left hand was pressing her down firmly. With each succeeding blow the wriggling continued, but the screaming was real and the insults had stopped. I paused briefly, laid the moccasin across her left cheek and practiced positioning it, then administered another four hard blows, ignoring both her screaming and her contortions. When I had finished this salvo I followed up by four more right across the middle, noting with grim satisfaction that every stroke now was leaving an imprint of the side of the moccasin, where it had dug into her soft flesh.

It was enough: nothing could excuse her deliberate and unkind treatment of Roland, but I felt that if I continued I would be crossing the boundary between corporal punishment and sadism. I dropped the moccasin on the floor and told her she could get up.

‘Get up?' she asked.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘get up.'

She did without even rubbing her bottom, put her hands back on her hips and glared at me. ‘You're useless,' she spat at me, ‘absolutely useless. I really get you going and you still can't be bothered to make it worthwhile.'

I stared at her, hardly able to believe what I was hearing.

‘Too idle to give me a real thrashing,' she continued. ‘I don't know why I bother with you, why I don't go and find myself a real man. Are we just going to stay in this rut for ever?'

And suddenly it all fell into place: useless, idle, incapable of aspiring to anything better. It was Willie Hoyland all over again, almost the same words and certainly the same intention to wound. The auburn hair was flying, the blue eyes were glacial and the famous bottom was aglow before my eyes. Only it wasn't the hated Bumble any more and I could do something about it.

‘Kneel on that stool,' I barked at her, ‘with your hands resting on the floor and your bum high in the air.' She silently took up position. ‘And don't move until I come back.'

I went into her single bedroom, fetched the duvet and spread it across the dining table. Then I pulled my leather belt through the loops of my trousers, removed all my clothes and stood behind her.

‘You're going to get four of this,' I warned her, ‘and if you even try to get up I'll start again. You can make as much noise as you like and you can wriggle as much as you like, but you stay on that stool. Got it?'

‘Yes, Oliver,' she murmured, in a tone of unusual compliance.

I doubled the belt and swished it experimentally through the air, as every man must have done prior to using a belt on somebody's bottom. The noise and the sensation were equally intoxicating. Then I rested it across her bottom, measuring how much of the target I could cover with a single stroke. And then I struck, not with the full weight of my arm but quite hard. Janine screeched and straightened on the stool, her hands coming off the floor to clutch her bottom, but she had the sense not to climb off the stool.

I waited for her to settle, noted the two angry lines across the soft flesh where the edges of the belt had bitten into her, then struck again, equally hard and slightly lower. Again she screeched, but this time she had known what to expect, and once more she managed to stay on the stool. There was no doubting her fortitude, I conceded, as I drew back my arm and let fly, this time holding nothing back. She couldn't stop herself from straightening up and clutching the wounded flesh but, for the third time, she succeeded in remaining on the stool.

‘One more,' I reminded her, ‘and then you can get up.'

It was tempting to say nothing, let her get up after the fourth stroke and then tell her that she had disobeyed the instructions and I would have to start all over again, but I decided against that. The last stroke was as hard as the previous one and caught the tops of her thighs.

She shrieked something incomprehensible at me, pushed herself off the stool and flew at me, but half-expecting this I stepped aside, seized her round the waist with one arm and hoisted her over my shoulder in a fireman's lift. Ignoring her fists drumming on my back I carried her to the table, set her down on it, drew her legs over my shoulders and entered her. I drove hard into her several times, but the duvet was sliding on the table as I pumped, so I seized her nipples and pulled hard on them to steady myself as she gripped the sides of the table. It must have been all over in a couple of minutes but even that was enough to leave me exhausted and bathed in sweat.

Saying nothing further I lifted Janine off the table, carried her, more gently this time, into the bedroom, found a jar of cold cream and rubbed some into her bottom, remembering myself sufficiently to tease the crack as I did so, then sensing her stamina was greater than mine, gave her another orgasm by hand.

When I woke up the following morning she had gone, leaving only a note saying,
See you on Friday
.

I tried to get in touch with her at work, but was told she wasn't there. I tried her mobile but it seemed to be switched off. For four days I tried in every way I could think of to make contact, but all in vain. I even went to her office but I was assured that she hadn't been in all week. Had she left me? What did her note mean? Would I see her on Friday? I could only pray that I would because I had realised that, Bumble-like or not, she was the one I wanted to live with.

There was no message on the Friday morning. I tried again to contact her but again was unsuccessful. I waited at work half an hour longer than usual but she didn't arrive. Slowly, my mind churning, I went down to the executive car-park and there she was, sitting in the passenger seat of the car. I had forgotten that she had my spare set of keys.

As I got in she smiled at me. I began to ask questions, but she put her fingers to my lips and then leaned across to kiss me. ‘Just drive,' she said, and I did so, but continued to ask where she'd been and what she'd been doing. Eventually we reached the flat. I switched off and went round to let her out of the car. In her hand she had a small parcel, neatly wrapped.

‘What's this?' I asked her.

‘Let's go inside and you can open it then,' she replied.

I followed her into the flat, resisted the temptation to interrogate her again, and tore off the wrapping paper. Inside was a small leather object with a round handle and a broad, flat blade. I knew what a paddle was, but this was the first one I'd seen. I didn't know what to say, and decided it was probably better to say nothing.

On the following Monday morning she had again departed before I got up, this time leaving no note. I tried to contact her during the week, though less frequently and, on the Friday afternoon, there she was again, sitting in the car. We followed an identical procedure, even to the extent of her handing me a neatly wrapped parcel as soon as we got out of the car. This time it was a split leather tawse, about two feet long and a quarter of an inch thick, with the business end divided into four tongues. It required very little imagination to realise that, with a sufficiently hard impact, those four tongues would separate and leave four marks across their target.