Miranda’s heels click as she walks across the market square. Anyone looking – and several do, this outwardly composed, elegantly dressed woman turns heads – would be unlikely to guess how she spent the last half hour.
Spanking aficionados might spot certain subtle clues: a slight stiffness in gait, manicured hands fleetingly rubbing her desirable derriere. She turns down a side street dominated by Georgian houses and stops – well, you don’t need to know where – turning her key in the door of one the town’s most desirable properties.
“Ah, there you are at last. Told you it’d be quicker by car,” calls a male voice as she enters a tiled hallway. “In the lounge. Come on through, there’s a drink waiting.”
“Good, I bloody well need it,” replies Miranda, gratefully accepting a large glass of red wine from her husband. Pushing a copy of the Telegraph to one side he gives a questioning look.
“Mission accomplished? Were you suitably punished?”
“I think you already know the answer to that, Tom,” she replies coolly, taking a large sip of Shiraz.
“Need to see evidence, though, don’t I?” Tom grins, apparently indulging a private joke. Miranda sighs and puts down her glass.
“Very well,” she says indulgently. Turning from him she stands about a metre away and with tantalising slowness raises the hem of her knee-length skirt. With a delightfully silky susurrus, it ascends firm thighs and traverses the tops of gossamer-sheer grey nylons until the fabric reaches her slender waist. She may be ten years his senior but, Tom thinks, is in great shape, particularly her peach of a posterior.
On which it’s no hardship to focus his full attention. Two curvaceous pale cheeks, patterned with livid red wheals. Miranda’s sans-culotte buttocks have clearly been recently caned. About a dozen strokes judging by the marks. Applied in parallel by an evident expert, endurable only by someone far from a novice in such matters.
“What happened to your panties?” he enquires.
“Too painful to put them back on, I walked home commando,” she explains.
“Brazen hussy,” he answers affectionately.
“Well, after suffering the humiliation of bending over a chair and pushing my bottom out for twelve zingers, I’m rather sore,” she replies with typical English understatement.
“In need of TLC?”
“Very much so.”
“Better get over my knee then.”
Cautiously she lays face down, upper body stretched along the sofa, throbbing cheeks exposed and vulnerable.
“Ow,” Miranda groans – a mix of relief and pleasure – as Tom gently massages cold cream into her overheated skin.
“Gosh, that was a low one,” he observes sympathetically, carefully caressing a tender line where buttocks meet thighs. Miranda mutely parts her legs in response. “You’re very wet,” Torn notes in an admonitory tone.
“When did my being punished ever produce any other effect’?” she replies, squirming in delight as he slides first one, then two fingers between pouting labia. “Oh, yes” Miranda pants, wriggling across his lap, shamelessly grinding her pussy against his knees.
“Yeow!” A volley of slaps is delivered unexpectedly and on top of her earlier caning, stinging like hell. The unexpected combination of pain and his urgently thrusting digits pushes Miranda over the edge to an animated and extremely satisfactory orgasm.
For a short while, she lies prone and spent, then slides with surprising grace and decorum onto her knees in front of him. “That’s me sorted… for the moment,” she adds with a mischievous grin, reaching for his belt, “let’s see about you.”
With practised dexterity, she releases Tom’s straining manhood – ah, the virtues of a younger lover. Taking his cock in manicured hands, she admires its length and rigidity before sensuously taking him between lipstick-red lips and deep into her mouth. Head bobbing purposefully, she skilfully sucks and wanks Tom to an inevitable conclusion. Ignores his warning and instead swallows the creamy entirety as he convulsively comes. Miranda sinks back on her haunches, swallows and daintily wipes her mouth.
“You really are a wicked man, caning me in my own office.”
“Nonsense,” Tom replies amiably, “wicked would have been to punish you on a weekday. Oh yes, nearly forgot,” he reaches into his pocket, produces a pair of knickers and tosses them to her.
“Even a successful businesswoman needs taking in hand occasionally,” he observes. There’s no faulting his logic, or the warm sensual glow suffusing her body.
“I insist upon it, and preferably often,” replies his wife.
“Pleased to hear it,” he replies, “just wait till you discover what I have planned for your poor bottom next weekend. But right now, I’m going down on that pretty pussy to see what sort of reaction my tongue circling your clit might achieve.”
“After which I’ll be more than ready for a forceful fucking,” murmurs Miranda salaciously, crude vocabulary at odds with her sophisticated manner. “You do realise this is going to escalate?”
“Tit for tat,” quips Tom
“Speaking of which….” Miranda slowly undoes her blouse.
