A Strict Seduction (8 page)

‘How many have you had?' I asked, pausing for a second, wanting to keep the suspense and raise the tension further.

‘Seven, Paul,' she whispered miserably.

‘You'll get extra for that lie,' I whispered.

I cut off her complaint with a hard stroke of the slipper, aimed between her thighs. She cried out, but this time I noted the sigh of pleasure mixed in with the pain. Again, another stroke that brushed the underside of her thighs and touched her sex. It was happening again, she was stealing pleasure from her punishment. She was pulling herself down and sticking her bottom out, forcing herself into the stroke, accepting it eagerly. She shuddered as I dealt the last hard blow between her buttocks, a sharp stinging lick from her slipper.

‘Stay there,' I warned her.

I waited for a while, relishing the view of her punished backside, of her twin globes blazing red and pink. I wondered whether she was getting off on being exposed, after all, there was no doubt about her exhibitionist inclinations; that was what had got her into trouble in the first place.

‘Did you enjoy that?' I asked casually.

There was a long pause before she answered. ‘Sort of…' she admitted hesitantly.

‘Do you want more?'

‘No!' she cried at once, without hesitation at all.

I nodded to myself. She found pleasure in her chastisement all right, but it was punishment all the same: painful, humiliating and to be avoided at all costs.

‘Stand up and face me,' I instructed. ‘You can forget about covering yourself up too,' I added.

Her eyes were lowered, and I was pleased to see that her face was as red with shame as her bottom was red with punishment. Her breasts were ripe and attractive, her hard nipples pointing out enticingly. I noted that her skin was flushed, with that radiant afterglow of orgasm.

Without warning I raised the slipper and brought it down sharply on her right breast. She squealed with shock, but the red imprint on her flesh made her nipples stand out even more. The left breast got the same sharp treatment, a spanking with the slipper that made her cry out.

‘You can go and get dressed now,' I told her at last, satisfied that her punishment was complete.

‘First this,' she said softly. She knelt down and crawled forward and touched the outline of my cock, impressed on my trousers. In seconds she had loosened my clothes and released my aching erection.

‘You are such a naughty girl,' I told her tenderly, sighing as she stroked my hardness with her slender fingers.

‘You can always punish me…' she whispered, and then closed her luscious red lips around my helmet.

It was heaven, admiring her punished backside while she mouthed and sucked my cock. She knew what she was doing. I had never felt so much pleasure. She teased and caressed until I thought I would be the one screaming. And then I felt myself explode, filling her lovely mouth with wave upon wave of thick creamy come.

‘You'd better clear up,' I told her later, kissing her mouth and stroking her hair.

‘Sure,' she agreed lazily, ‘Jim will be home soon. Let this be our secret, our little secret.'

I nodded, that was what it was exactly, our little secret. The last thing I wanted was for my son to find out what I'd been doing with his girlfriend.

Marianne

Stephen stood up and went to the window. The sky was a uniform milky grey, leeching the colour from the day and leaving everything dull and flat. He stood for a moment, looking out across the fields to the thin line of trees on the horizon, the thin green plumes pointing to the hazy white disc that was the wintry sun.

‘If we're going to do this then we have to do it properly,' he had said earlier in the bar. She had agreed readily but had avoided his eyes, looking instead into the roaring flames crackling in the brick fireplace.

The air felt heavy, the atmosphere was already very tense, filled with an expectation that was almost tangible. He returned to the desk and buzzed Marianne, jabbing a finger forcefully at the intercom.

‘Yes sir,' she responded breathlessly. He could imagine her sitting on the edge of her seat, waiting for his call, her legs crossed so that the tight skirt revealed the perfect shape of her thighs.

‘I want your personnel file please,' he said clearly, managing to conceal the tremor of emotion with an air of cool formality.

‘My file?' she asked with a note of genuine surprise.

‘Yes please,' he said, and cut the phone off, her quizzical note still hanging in the air. He leaned back, sinking into the welcoming comfort of the leather chair, and waited for her to come in. The Sullivan account file lay on the desk in front of him, the buff folder containing the full details of the most important account the company had. It was the first file he had asked for when they had both arrived that morning. He remembered the nervous look in her eye as she handed it over, as if she wasn't sure that she wanted him to see it. But the account had been lost and he had to see the file.

Marianne entered and smiled coolly. It was an efficient smile that managed to conceal whatever feelings she had, yet managed not to look false. ‘My file,' she said, carefully handing him the blue folder with her name neatly stencilled on the cover.

‘Thank you, Marianne,' he said, deliberately placing it next to the Sullivan file.

‘Is there anything else?' she asked, hovering in front of the desk nervously.

‘No, thank you.' He looked down at her file, not bothering to wave her away. She hesitated for a second, standing in front of the desk, one leg crossed in front of the other, hands together, fingers locked tight. It was only when she turned to walk away that Stephen looked up again. She was wearing a smart navy skirt and jacket, with black seamed stockings and black high heels with butterfly bows on the heel. Her skirt was tight and her hips swayed slightly with each step, emphasising the constraining tightness of the skirt and the elegant curves of her body.

She lingered at the door for a moment and he felt sure she was going to say something, but if she was she changed her mind. She closed the door gently and he felt a sigh of relief. These situations were always so difficult, so very tricky. He skipped through her file, flicking through the pages, not even pretending to read through it. He knew all he had to know, but he was stalling for time, wanting just those few extra moments to think things through. He leaned back in his seat once more and looked around at the comfortable office, at the framed certificates on the wall, at the book-lined shelves, at the painting by the door, at the drinks cabinet in the corner. Success – everything reflected the success of the company, and of the people who worked there. Until now.

He buzzed Marianne again. She responded too quickly, her voice just a little too loud and a little too eager. ‘Marianne, I'd like to see you for a moment, please,' he said, as calmly as he possibly could. His heart was thumping and his throat had gone impossibly dry.

‘Yes, Stephen,' she said when she came in. Her smile was more nervous than it had been a moment earlier, as if she realised that things had finally come to a head.

‘This is going to be very difficult,' he said, playing with a pen nervously, finding it easier to look at that and not at her. ‘Very difficult,' he repeated softly, ‘for the both of us. You've been with us a long time now, and sometimes that's not a good thing.'

‘It's about the Sullivan account,' she said quietly, barely whispering, her sharp blue eyes suddenly full of tears.

‘Yes. The Sullivan account.' He paused, exhaled heavily. ‘But that's not the first time, is it?'

‘But it wasn't my fault,' she whispered, her lips trembling.

‘I'm afraid it was,' Stephen said softly but firmly, hoping she wouldn't make a scene. ‘You were late with the tender documents. We missed the deadline for the contract and they lost the job. They lost a major contract because of us, and it was our fault. Your fault. They were our biggest client and now they've gone. This was the third time Marianne, the third. We've given you chances before, too many perhaps. We just can't go on like this.'

‘Please, I'm sorry,' she said, the anguish etched miserably on her face. Her skin was pale, making her red lips more prominent, pouting, alluring.

‘I'm sorry too,' he said, closing her file and pushing it towards her.

‘Please Stephen, I'll do anything…'

He shook his head sadly, exhaled slowly. ‘I'm sorry,' he repeated, looking up into her eyes for the first time.

She looked at him, eyes wide, her body trembling. Then she looked away. ‘Please…' she whispered.

‘What else can I do?' he asked reasonably. ‘You've been warned before. You've been given chances. What can we do? It's as if harsh words aren't enough. Sometimes I think there's only one thing you'd respond to. Sometimes I want to…' He stopped, suddenly aware that he'd said too much, gone too far.

‘What? Do what? I'll do anything, you know I would,' she said earnestly.

He looked at her. She was beautiful, even the tears in her eyes and the anguish on her face were seductive. His heart was racing. He had said too much, letting the tension and the emotion get the better of him. ‘Nothing. Forget I said anything,' he said apologetically.

‘Please Stephen, what were you going to say? It's not fair, you can't do this to me. You owe me more than that.'

He nodded. ‘I was going to say that sometimes I think you'd only respond to being properly punished.'

She looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean treated like a naughty child. Punished with more than just sharp words.'

There was a moment of tense silence and he regretted ever opening his mouth. It hadn't been a smart thing to say and it was going to make a difficult situation impossible.

‘Yes. Maybe you're right,' she said very quietly, her face flushing pink. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, avoiding his own questioning look.

‘Pardon?'

‘I said, maybe you're right. Maybe I do need to be punished.'

‘No, I don't think you understand. I meant punished as in smacked on the backside and told to behave.'

‘Yes,' she agreed quietly. ‘That's what I thought you meant. Perhaps I do want to be punished like that.'

Stephen breathed deeply, his hands trembling. ‘Remove your stockings,' he said, his voice almost hoarse.

Marianne's face was burning red, her embarrassment clear to see, yet she obeyed. She turned her back to Stephen and pulled her skirt up at the front. She reached under and fiddled with her suspenders. Stephen stood up and walked round to the front of the desk, his eyes fixed on her long elegant thighs. She looked away from him but made no effort to cover herself. Her stockings were dark against her soft white skin, and when she rolled them down he felt the heat rising within him. It was like a dream, something he could hardly believe was happening. She slipped her shoes off and pulled the stockings off completely.

‘Bend over the desk,' he said, putting a hand to her shoulder to stop her picking up her stockings. She stepped back into her high heels and then went to the desk. She bent over at the waist, pressing herself flat against the smooth leather-topped desk, pressing her face against the cool surface, her hands up by her face.

Stephen stood behind her, enjoying the sight of her skirt pulled tight over her backside, pulling the buttocks apart slightly. Very gently he took the hem of her skirt and lifted it high, up and over her waist. Her long legs were smooth and straight, the knees locked tight so that every muscle and sinew was stretched tight. Her snow-white panties were pulled tightly between her thighs, deep between her rounded bottom cheeks. The darkness between her thighs was unmistakable, the outline of her sex clearly visible.

‘I'm going to smack you six times,' he said, his voice trembling. ‘I don't want you to scream or cry. If you do I'll punish you for that as well. Is that clear?'

‘Yes,' she said, her voice as nervous as his. ‘Yes, sir,' she added, twisting round to look at him, her eyes sparkling with fear and excitement.

Stephen hesitated, eyeing her lovely long legs and beautiful rear. He reached over to the desk, to the photograph of happy laughing children, and turned it over.

The first smack echoed in the room, a sharp sound of flesh on flesh. Marianne moaned softly, her hands pressed hard onto the desk, her eyes half closed. Stephen waited a second then smacked her again, a hard slap on the other buttock. He stopped to admire the imprint of his fingers, marked deep red on the soft white flesh of Marianne's backside.

‘Does it hurt?' he asked softly.

‘Yes, it stings horribly,' she replied quietly, her eyes still half closed. She was breathing hard, though Stephen couldn't tell how she was reacting; her feelings were closed off from him, obscured by her silence and her half closed eyes.

He spanked her again, two quick strokes in rapid succession. Each time she tensed and then exhaled slowly, the breath escaping from her glossy red lips like a sigh.