Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories (78 page)

"I congratulate you, Mr. Carroll," came the chairman's voice from behind her, "on the acquisition of a very fine piece of ass."

Maud's heart raced, and her breathing quickened. She had never imagined that mere words could produce the effect that simple, terrible phrase
piece of ass
had just done: her whole body went hot, and cold, and she felt her pussy gush with arousal as it never, ever had before.

"Uncover her nakedness, if you would," said the Master Instructor, and then David's hands were upon her, pulling down the black lace thong, all the way to her knees, so that it stretched, and seemed to bind her there.

"Nicely waxed," commented the Master Inquirer. "You'll have a nice ride there, Mr. Carroll. A sweet young cunt for Valentine's Day is always a treat."

The chairman said. "Place your hands upon the bottom, if you would, Mr. Carroll. Open it just a bit so we can see the anus. Yes, thank you, just like that. My, that's lovely. So very pink and tight. You'll have a delightful time training her there."

"Oh, God," Maud whispered at the terrible sensation of the air upon her there, and the image in her mind of what David and the tribunal saw.

"By the authority vested in me by the Secret Society of Saint Valentine," the chairman declared in a solemn voice, "I hereby award this anus and this cunt to David Carroll, to use and to master as shall best please him. Now, Miss Fredericks, you may rise and, with your panties left where they are, walk over to the chair and stand by its left side. Your master will spank you now."

Over David's lap Maud went, with her panties down, and received her long-delayed spanking. It went on and on, until her backside felt like it was on fire. At first it felt terribly embarrassing to be disciplined like a naughty little girl, upended for a well-deserved punishment, but as she felt the firmness of her master's hand, so different from the police paddle, so much more intimate, claiming her bare bottom as his place to teach her how to be good for him, she really did feel taken in hand, cared for.

David led her upstairs, then, to the beautiful room with the enormous tub, even nicer than the hotel room from New Year's. She was not allowed to pull up her panties, and they passed many men in the same robes, some of them leading their own girls in lingerie. Somewhere in the huge house a band played romantic music.

But all Maud wanted was what David did in their room: without a word he bent her over the bed and entered her, his hands gripping her hips firmly so that he could press his loins very close to her blazing, punished backside. She remembered how he had said at Thanksgiving that he wanted to have her this way to make Maud feel submissive. Now, looking down at the bedspread, she could hardly believe she had had such trouble understanding how much she needed that feeling.

Then at last he prepared her anus, and entered her there, still in the same position. He made her cry out at the burning pain of opening the way her master demanded, and at having to be so terribly full of cock back there, down there. As David began to thrust and to ride her backside for his pleasure, Maud's feverish mind flashed to the moment she had first seen the summons, and thought it a wedding invitation. What had David said, inside the room of discipline?
As strange and new as it seems
.

David moved his hand from her hip down between her legs, as he drove in and out of her bottom. He touched Maud's clit, and suddenly she was coming harder than she had ever thought possible, screaming out her pleasure and shaking in David's grasp.

"Master?" she whispered, when he too had come, and they had showered and climbed into the big tub together at last, David's arms around Maud in the bubbles.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can I get awarded to you every Valentine's Day?"

About Emily Tilton

Emily Tilton, whose books have hit number one on Amazon in five different erotica categories, wishes she could live out her fantasies of submission the way her characters do.

Emily's erotica is a narrative version of her nearly lifelong quest to reconcile her submissive erotic orientation with her ethics. She writes erotica, not erotic romance: her books are about sex, because writing about sex helps her understand that fundamental part of her life better. She hopes maybe it does the same for her readers.

Over the many years since Emily became aware of her sometimes unbearable craving for ravishment, spanking, and above all anal domination, she has tried to come to terms with that craving in more ways than she can count. The first of the ways was by reading, voraciously, every piece of BDSM erotica she could find.

Eventually, she read Story of O. As is reflected throughout her work, it changed her life, though the change has been gradual, and continues to this day. The idea that other women might share the lusts she has by turns been ashamed of and defiantly proud of, that a woman like the real Pauline Réage might write so beautifully of those lusts, and work them out so thoroughly and even pitilessly on a character, put Réage's famous pencil in her right hand. Or, to put it in the terms of EXPLORATIONS, which she considers her magnum opus, it put her left hand on the keyboard of her laptop and her right hand in her lap, if you know what she means. Emily started to write spanking stories.

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Chapter One

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“A
re you sure you want to do this?” My best friend, Jodi, trailed behind me, trying to keep up with my determined steps. “You have never ballroom danced in your life. You said so yourself.”

“I know.” I waited for her to catch up, and we entered the mall together. “Two left feet.” And the rest of me was what you would call hourglass. Huge hips, an even bigger ass, boobs with a mind of their own—especially when left to their own devices—like the first few minutes after getting out of bed braless. I called it fat. Men don’t like size fourteen. They want size two or four, like Jodi. Perfect, petite, curves—not mountains.

We got into the long line for potential dancers. Who would have thought there would be so much interest in a televised “dance off”? This show was going live on a little known cable station on Valentine’s Day. Everyone else would be home cozying up with a loved one, talking about stuff like romance, flowers, chocolates, and true love. Disgusting. There was no such thing as true love. At least not for someone like me.

What had Derek said last year when I found him fucking not one, but two other women? Oh yeah. “Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Sorry, but I needed someone warm in my bed this time.”

I lost my job the next day. It wouldn’t have been a huge deal if I still had a husband and a home. But the timing? Holy crap, Mercury must have been in retrograde or something. Either that, or I had pissed off the wrong guardian angel. The timing sucked.

Jodi was a big help. Her husband’s a lawyer. He got me divorced and set up in their guest room, until I could find a new apartment. Jodi brought me extra-hot Mickey D’s french fries, Chubby Hubby ice cream, and red wine. It helped. For a few weeks, I snuggled in bed, ate, and slept. I called it my hibernation slash recovery time. Jodi called it bullshit. Even though she weighs at least forty pounds less than me, she can get me off my ass quicker than a
buy-one-get-two-free
sale on peppermint-mocha creamer. She said I had wallowed enough. Hey, I wasn’t wallowing. I was recov-er-ing. She told me Derek was laughing and enjoying single life, screwing every woman he met. She’s a real friend. And she was right. I had wallowed enough. So I got off my tired ass, updated my resume, and signed up at the temp place downtown. Then I started looking for new adventurous things to do. Anything that was opposite to the “married to the jerk” me. Like skydiving, bungee jumping...or dancing.

Now, I stood at the back of a long line of hopefuls, all vying for ten spots. A chance to ballroom dance our way to television stardom. For me, a chance to tell Derek to fuck off and that I had moved on. And to be busy—very, very busy—all the way up to and through the most horrible of all holidays. Valen-fricking-tines Day.

“Okay, here are the forms.” Jodi furrowed her brows as she read them. “Are you up-to-date on all your shots? And do you have a will?” Laughing, she stuffed the forms along with the cheap black pen into my palm. “I’m kidding about the last one. But, seriously, try not to trip, ’kay?”

“I’m not going to trip,” I growled under my breath as we inched our way up to the stage. I was going to be beautiful, stunning, poised, and graceful. Well, at least beautiful in a sort of retro jeans, loose T-shirt combination paired with funky high heels. I couldn’t find anything else to wear, since I had tossed everything into boxes and taken to living as a hobo in my friend’s guest room. I would make that show if it killed me.

I tripped walking up the steps to the stage.

*****

D
ane stood in the small hall across from the stage, overseeing everything from his vantage point in the shadows. Though in charge of this whole event—he had been the one to come up with the idea to save his uncle’s small cable station—he didn’t want anyone to see him yet. People would kiss up to him for spots on the show, and he wanted to see what they were like when they didn’t realize he was present.

His earpiece whined, almost piercing his damn eardrum. Cursing, he turned it down to a reasonable level. “What’s up, Mac?”

His head judge and best friend’s drawl came through the earpiece. “I’m not sure about number fifteen. She’s pretty and she’s a schoolteacher, but...”

“Put her file in the second, to be considered, pile. We still need a teacher. But you’re right, she’s a bit
too
pretty, and she’s trying too hard.”

“You saw the fake smiles and the way she flirted with me?” Mac asked.

“Her boobs were in your face. I think everyone saw it. Why do you think I’m over here?” Dane stepped back farther into his quiet dark corner.

“But you said you wanted real people,” Mac reasoned. “Teachers, firefighters, single parents—”

“Wounded soldier. Right there.” Dane pointed toward a man in olive-green fatigues, with silver bars on his dark cap and a noticeable limp. “Find out if he’s legit. A former army captain hurt while protecting his country is the perfect addition.”

“How the fuck is he going to do the lifts? What if he falls?” Mac grumbled.

“Just do it. We’ll figure out a way around it—partner him with a professional who can steal the show. He’ll be there for the overall good energy.”

“Shit, you’re good at this.”

“That’s why the old man agreed to let me head this. It’s our last chance before the station goes bust.”

The link went silent as they watched the next few potential dancers go through the brief interview session followed by three minutes of “show off your moves while pasting an overly dramatic smile on your face.” The boob-in-the-face schoolteacher had nothing on some of the potentials. One male entrant beat-boxed “The Star-Spangled Banner” in fuchsia high heels while twirling a baton. The dude did not make the cut. After another fifty entrants, Dane wanted to close down the preliminaries. They had selected the fifteen potential dancers he wanted—everyday people who did
everyday
jobs. Paired up with the hottest dancers—within budget confines, of course—they would make television history this Valentine’s Day. Either with an epic fail or by luring enough of their sponsors back to raise the fifty thousand dollars needed for their overdue payroll. They were going for broke.

“Wake up, asshole. Last dancer is coming up.”

Rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hands, he released a long sigh, ready to get this last one over with so he could go home, grab a beer, and, what...the...fuck?

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen—dressed in the most god-awful outfit of faded jeans and a too-loose T-shirt—wobbled her way up the stairs in high heels and tripped, falling flat on her face with a loud
oomph
.

The judges raced around the table to help her up. Her baggy shirt rode up and above her ample hips giving Dane a very good glimpse of her curvy ass, the perfect round globes hugged by blue jean material. Damn shirts shouldn’t hide an ass like that.

She shoved off from the stairs and turned to glare at the men trying to help her up. “I’ve got this. Thank you.” Then she stared right at him, green eyes full of fire, fists clenched, and pink softening her cheeks. Straightening her back, she walked to the center of the stage, rolled her shoulders, and stood there. Like a goddess. A warrior goddess with dark-chestnut hair falling from a loose ponytail, and curves that would make Helen of Troy jealous. “I’m ready to dance.”

She grabbed her professional partner’s hand and yanked him into her, surprising everyone in the room, especially the poor man trying to lead her. Furrowing her brow and focusing on her feet instead of him, things only got worse as she tried to compensate by taking the lead again. The dancer looked to Dane for clarification, and Dane nodded at him to keep going. He did, right until the final foot-high-heel-to-foot combo stomp, leaving him wincing and hobbling through the rest of the tryout.

“Oh my God, she’s terrible,” Mac groaned after the woman fumbled her way through another easy set of moves demonstrated by her professional partner. “All she has to do is step and turn and follow his lead. Damn.”

Frustration roughened his best friend’s voice, but Dane ignored it. The way her hips swayed... The way she bit her bottom lip in concentration... She wore only a little mascara and plum lip tint, her natural beauty needing nothing further to accentuate her high cheekbones, expressive eyes, and plump lips. A formfitting emerald dress would look gorgeous on her. No. Red would suit her. Damn, he didn’t care what she wore. He was already turned on by seeing her in loose T-shirt and jeans. It didn’t matter.

She didn’t have much in the way of natural dancing talent. But her body moved so beautifully, it wouldn’t take much to teach her the basics. If she could get past this round and stop trying to take over the dance. The professional teamed up with her for the tryout seemed flustered, sighing and rolling his eyes at him every time
she
misstepped. The young man cringed and grunted when she stomped on his foot for the third time.