Priya works the room expertly, flattering egos and indulging the art gallery’s wealthy donors. On the opening night of a major retrospective show, the press and TV are out in force, their coverage vital. These days, exhibitions are as much about ensuring footfall as nurturing talent.
And should she walk in an overly stiff and slow manner? Well, chances are no one will notice. Beneath her leather skirt, Priya’s bottom blazes, six red wheals indent her curves, throbbing with every step she takes, every move she makes. Resisting the temptation to surreptitiously rub her ravaged rear, Priya reflects on the cause of her discomfort. Her caning was, she searches for an appropriate adjective, exquisite. If previous experience is any guide, this is a prelude to eagerly anticipated gratification.
“The first part of your punishment,” he’d whispered behind the locked door of her office. Not entirely welcome news to Priya, bent over and grasping her ankles, skirt up over her waist, tiny panties around her knees.
“You mean there’s a second? For goodness sake, it’s the grand opening tonight,” she’d protested.
“An excellent test of fortitude and self-composure,” he’d answered smoothly. “Just because your family’s millions fund the art institute doesn’t mean I’ll be kind.”
And he wasn’t! Priya shudders, ambivalently recalling the fiery sting of half a dozen, thrilling cane strokes, a catalyst to her burgeoning arousal. Taking his time, expertly creating a pattern of scorching parallel wheals across the writhing flesh of Priya’s lovely bottom, the session peremptorily curtailed before the carnal conclusion she so craved.
Back in the present Priya diplomatically detaches herself from the self-congratulations of a group of witless hoorays and continues her gallery tour. A loose, off-the-shoulder top fortunately conceals the erect nipples beneath, ring-pierced nubs chafing and heightening Priya’s excitement. She’s wet too; Priya can feel her juices seeping into the crotch of her knickers. What, she wonders, is the greater turn-on? The disciplinary ritual or the punishment itself; the thrilling heat soaking her pussy, or her shamelessly willing submission?
The heels of her Manalo Blahniks tap across the terrazzo as she makes her way, ostensibly to appraise a minor sketch, in a quiet alcove. Priya has already caught a glimpse of him, with dark skin and flashing, hazel eyes. He stands behind her, taking care not to be seen, and cruelly squeezes Priya’s arse.
“Oh God that hurts!” she stifles a gasp of pain and manages to transmute it to one of faux astonishment at the (in her opinion, mediocre) artwork. “How much longer before you can finish me off?” There’s a note of desperation in Priya’s tone.
“Soon, they’re starting to leave. Be grateful for short attention spans.”
“It’s wrong to keep me waiting,” she pouts.
“You know what to expect?”
Of course, she does. Priya also knows many would consider such a blatant lust for subjugation weird, as indeed does a part of her psyche. Sometimes it’s as if she’s soaring out of her own body, watching someone else.
“Pretty much,” she responds warily
“I wonder what your gallery goers might think if they knew of the director’s, ahem, predilections?”
“I neither know nor care,’ Priya is unequivocal. “It takes me to where I need to go, is an integral part of my identity.” But, then, he knows that already. They walk back through the gallery together, Priya waves farewell to the final stragglers, thanks her staff, and asks them to lock up.
Her car awaits; she lives far out of town. Tonight will be spent at a nearby hotel. Chivalrously, the enigmatic man holds open the door, smiles conspiratorially as Priya gingerly eases her sore haunches into the seat, decorously swinging in elegant legs. Priya’s running on pure adrenaline now, heart racing during the short car journey, fidgeting restlessly during check-in. She drags him, impatiently, down carpeted corridors, driven by pent-up passion. In contrast, he’s calm personified, enjoying the moment.
“Skirt and knickers off and bend over that chaise longue,” once they’re inside the suite, he consummately takes charge.
“How many?” She croaks, genuinely apprehensive, face and chest already flushed with sexual arousal.
How many? He considers the question, slips his hand between her legs, and strokes Priya’s silky inner thighs. He forces his palm up hard against her denuded, already-drenched vulva.
“I like to know…” she ventures, tentatively. Her poor bottom is already so very sore.
“Another half dozen,” he announces decisively. “Lower this time.”
The first strikes home before he’s finished speaking and catches Priya unready and sinks into the super sensitive crease where her bottom and thighs meet. She yells, bare buttocks jiggling, animatedly.
“Calm down” he instructs, “any more fuss and you’ll get extra.”
Oh, she does not want penalty strokes. Priya makes a superhuman effort and composes herself, taking the next two parallel stripes, an inch above and an inch below the first, with scarcely a murmur.
He stops to survey the results. It’s Priya’s misfortune to bruise easily, and her rear end is now lividly marked. Coping admirably, but clearly approaching her limit; his objective is after all to stoke the fire, not crush her spirit.
A pair of strokes across her thighs swiftly destroys Priya’s attempts at stoicism, just as he intended. Her knees dip, hips weaving a desperate dance as she struggles to absorb the smart. Teetering on the edge of orgasm, She’s determined to stave off complete abandonment until his body at last meets hers. The concluding cut intersects the previous stripes, whipping into the taut skin. Her bottom writhes in anguished reaction; Priya gasps in shock and shoots upright. She clutches her blazing buttocks and almost stumbles; it’s certainly been a very sound caning. He lifts Priya onto the bed, face down, over a pile of pillows.
Smack! His hand slaps the burning cheeks, forcing a startled cry from her lips.
“Oh yes, now, please,” she implores urgently, spreading her legs wide in invitation, her silky slit open to his thick cock, sexual temperature soaring in a mix of euphoria and eroticism.
“That’s right. Take it all,” he growls. Priya’s hotly-ravaged arse jars against his lower abdomen in excited response. His full length slides into her pussy, cock pumping juicily amid moans and whimpers of desire. Lost in the wanton pleasure of the moment, Priya begs for more.
“Fuck me until I scream.”
He shafts her urgently, roughly. Time slows, the world turns, her universe explodes, and she comes, again and again. Eventually regaining her composure, Priya nestles her head contentedly on his shoulder.
“You’re without a doubt the most conscientious driver I’ve ever employed,” she purrs softly.
He shrugs, pleased by the compliment. “Don’t know much about art, but I know what you like…”
