Janice Maxwell loved referring to the old Ramada Hotel with the broken neon lights by the ring road as The Tanning Booth, when explaining to her husband Andy Maxwell, where it was that she disappeared to every Sunday afternoon. It was a cunning nickname; an inside, yet one-way joke of a title, for the outdated building with its americana-tinged rooms, slow room service, and dusty red curtains, primarily because she rented such a room, four times a month, for the purpose of getting her backside tanned— reddened by a younger, darker and sexier man than she ever thought she could manage to acquire in her lifetime: Nialls Walker-Jones.
After their weekly spanking sessions, when her peachy, middle-aged rump was covered in bruises, handprints and once in a very blue moon, bite marks, and her pussy— a special, tasty pussy (which was seldom fed and even more seldom eaten), was adequately soaked, she’d head home, quickly applying a light layer of bottled fake tan to her arms and legs, remaining as true to her alibi as possible, before her husband Andy returned for his scheduled Sunday tea.
Janice and Nialls’ spanking sessions were always the same, and had remained the same since the day that they started. Yet, instead of feeling numbed or bored by the repetition of their meets, Janice felt younger, sexier, and more excited as weeks rolled into a sticky stack of months, pining for her weekly dose of pain and punishment, like a dog for a walk.
Every Sunday morning, Andy would leave for the golf club at 11:00 on the dot, taking the Audi A3 (which he’d won from a radio competition back in 2013), and leaving Janice in bed. The moment the car left the driveway, she would leap out of bed, and getting undressed. Legs spread, in front of their full-length mirror, she would foam her pussy with shaving cream, tending to it carefully with a Bic razor, impressed at how wet, tender and sensitive she was just at the mere thought of her lover’s hand across her skin, let alone the other implements such as his belt and his devilish collection of paddles.
After having a quick shower, she’d moisturise herself slowly, trying her best to turn her shapely, hungry body on as much as possible, paying special attention to her slightly drooping, otherwise picture-perfect breasts and small, yet deliciously protruding nipples; teasing herself as she put on one of four secret lingerie sets which she hid in a box at the back of her walk-in wardrobe.
Booking an Uber to pick her up around the corner, Janice would sit in the backseat, giddy, yet nauseous with anxiety, all the while teasing her vagina, unbeknownst to the driver who was usually taking a phone call, edging herself covertly beneath the raised hem of her mumsy, innocent beige skirt, her oversized clit twinkling at the prospect of feeling the full force of a backhand or compacted leather, against it, soon enough. Breezing past reception, she’d take the lift to the eighth floor, knocking on room 813 with two gentle taps.
“Enter,” a soft, yet younger, deep voice would reply. Stepping inside, her tender heart rattling against bone, she would close the door, facing her play-partner. He was in his mid-twenties; with an average build, that in Janice’s eyes was perfect in any way, with long semi-tattooed arms, large, silk-smooth hands, and a pristinely hairless head, that commanded submission and respect without a word needing to be uttered. Despite his age, he knew how to pleasure a woman; how to read a body, however needy, sexless, and aged it was. His dark complexion made Janice’s white neck buzz with her heart’s palpitations. His sternness in their ritual, made her shrink with fear and excitement, struggling for breath in her responses.
“Hello— I mean, good afternoon, Mr Walker-Jones,” Janice would say, her mouse-like smirk disappearing. His lack of expression would make her pussy wince; make her legs cross in anticipation of what was to come.
“I suppose it is, Janice. But… hmm— tell me— why exactly are you late? I mean, my watch says 13:07. Yet I’m fairly certain we were scheduled to meet at 13:00? Correct me if I’m wrong.”
An awkward silence would fill the room. Although Janice did her best to always be a little bit late, ensuring the very best and firmest spankings, she had to control herself not to rush ahead of the half-pre-planned ritual; not to leap onto the bed and remove her panties, spreading her arsehole, for it to be spat upon, lubed and plugged before the lashings followed. Order was required and she knew the script. Walking up to her, Nialls would stop only centimetres away from her weatherworn, flushed face.
“I said,” he breathed, as he’d slowly lift the hem of her skirt, causing her to exhale with excitement and partial relief, “I’m fairly certain we were scheduled to meet at 13:00. Is that not the time we meet every week?”
“Yes, Mr Walker-Jones.”
Nialls, like a displaced sofa cushion, would grab Janice’s pussy, tightly. She’d bite her lip, tears glossing her green eyes, as she stood frozen to the spot.
“So, why were you late, Janice?”
“Because…” she started, feeling her pussy releasing a steady stream of juice, onto the tips of his fingers. “I’m a naughty girl.”
“Yes. Yes, it would seem so, wouldn’t it? Bed.”
Nodding solemnly, Janice would walk over to the side of the hotel bed, raising her flowy, nondescript skirt to reveal her legs and hind areas. Her underwear; a silky, silver french knicker-thong hybrid would be revealed, complete with a darkened damp patch towards the gusset. Nialls, doing a semi-circled lap of the bed, would study his subject in silence, glaring at her, smiling to himself as he removed his belt, cunningly.
“Drop them.”
“Mr Walker-Jones?”
“Don’t make me ask you twice, Janice. Now, drop them.”
Those two words— drop them had a bizarrely powerful effect on Janice’s body; combined with the humiliation of exposure, being commanded so sternly, brought memories of being paraded and spanked back in high-school flooding back in a steady, sticky beam of nostalgia. Tugging at the stubborn thong, embedded up her clammy arse and stuck to her equally clammy slit, she would with her free hand, clumsily pull it down to her ankles, her holes on show for her master.
Gripping her ass cheeks firmly, before pulling them apart, Nialls would spit on her, at least three times, before massaging her ever-tight anus, slipping in a steel plug with selfish force. They had both worked out that once plugged, her orgasms were as intense as they would ever be. Secretly, the sensation of cold steel against goosebump-pricked skin was an extra, covert pleasure that Janice kept to herself.
“Now, bend.”
“Yes, Mr Walker-Jones.”
Slowly, Janice would bend over, laying flat on the outdated bedspread, her arms in front of her as if preparing for a dive in an Olympic swimming pool. Cutting the air above her, Nialls would test his belt with practice thrusts, making Janice pant like a bitch in heat, awaiting a primal fuck that would not come.
“Now, seven minutes late… I make that, fourteen lashes to warm up, and then fifteen to start us off properly. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Oh dear— twenty to warm up. Forgetting my title will cost you, Janice. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mr Walker-Jones. I’m sorry Mr Walker-Jones.”
Lowering with a smile, Nialls would look his subject in her terrified eyes, planting a soft kiss on her lips as her face lay flush against the bobbled bedspread. It was a tender kiss that seemed to make her breasts grow as their lips locked; seemed to make her vulva swell with amorous pride, as they shared saliva. Then, as quickly as it would come, he would pull away and once more, it would be gone.
“No— no, you’re not Janice. Not yet. But you will be. Believe me.”
He’d make her wait; make her squirm involuntarily just for the fun of it, each second weighing on her sexually electrified body and tortured psyche, like sharp, weathered stone. Each thwack of leather that finally followed, upon seldom-touched skin would take Janice’s breath away, so much so that she’d be gasping for air by the fourth alone. She could feel the large, juicy, tender skin of her arse burning in the pleasing way that he did, as her young master would raise his belt in the air for another stroke at his naughty subby girl. By the time he was halfway in, Janice’s pussy would be a squelching, sticky mess, ready to be ravaged, conquered and flooded with a creampie, if only she were so lucky. Nialls would laugh to himself at the power held over his middle-aged slut.
When the first round of spankings was over, Janice would rise to her feet. Legs trembling, eyes stinging with tears, she’d close her eyes in ecstasy while Nialls fingered her harshly, amused at how her body would shake and shrivel at being pushed with pleasure and pain.
“Mr Walker-Jones.”
“What?”
“Mr Walker-Jones. I— well, I need to pee.”
Nialls would always blink twice, a sadistic gleam on his face.
“Only good girls get to pee. Now, spread.”
Quick as a flash, Janice would lay on her back, her skirt lifted, her arms and legs spread like a starfish as her blindfold was applied with care and adoration, her bladder bulging with a dull, yet urgent ache. Unzipping a military surplus roll-bag, Nialls would fetch their favourite, and Janice’s most feared implement: a long leather paddle, bending it in his large hands seductively before letting loose on her breasts. Spanking them with accurate stokes, in rounds of threes, he’d redden them in no time at all, ignoring the cries of his subject, who tried her very best not to touch her sodden fanny as it juiced with arousal; an arousal that was twisted, pushed and pulled as leather pelts soon landed on her oversized, erect clitoris— ten strokes, square on her hairless crotch.
“Don’t you dare cum. I can always tell when you do, Janice. You don’t want to disappoint me now, do you?”
Janice would shake her head side-to-side, half-tempted to nod; to spur on her sadistic master into an even greater frenzy of lashes, testing the full potential of his power. Instead, she closed her eyes, tried to control her breath; tried to control the rising effervescence of an orgasm that her body needed beyond words.
Having earned the right to a toilet break, Janice would hobble to and from the characterless beige bathroom, ready for the final phase of her time with Nialls. It was the one time that she felt an element of closeness and intimacy, despite it coming with a small dosage of pain. Waddling over to him, acclimatising herself with new brand new bruises, she would drape herself over his lap as he sat in the large chair by the window, her bare bottom on show for him. Slowly and gently, Nialls would rub her tanned arse with loving circles, before spanking each cheek with his bare hand— five each for good measure, with thirty second breaks in between each round, that seemed to last for an eternity in her fuzzy mind, her drooping head rushing with blood. Her anus was usually so dilated at this point that often her butt plug would slip out, falling to the hotel room’s carpet with a muted thud, as he administered the last of his palm–given slaps. She did her best to not let that happen; as satisfying as the sensation was at first, Janice knew that the act was a fail of sorts, always resulting in the warm nub of flawless silver being reinserted into her silly little mouth as a punishment, one that often turned her on more than not, despite repulsing her in her vanilla life—a satisfyingly simple perversion.
Sensing the end of the beautiful violence, Janice would be instructed to stand for a final inspection one last time, her pussy and arsehole examined by keen hands, and even keener eyes.
“You’ve improved Janice. You’re not quite the leaky mess you were when we first met, are you? I’m so glad that you’re learning to control your arousal, like a good girl. Maybe I’ll make a decent girl out of you, yet.”
“Thank you Mr Walker-Jones,” Janice would mouth, biting down on her lip so as to not smirk, while he re-belted his jeans. “You’re very kind in saying so.”
“So what did you learn, Janice?”
“To be a good girl. Not to touch my pussy. To be punctual.”
Nialls would nod in agreement, as the two shared one last kiss, which Janice would savour for hours on end, before finally departing for another seven, impossibly long days.
In the backseat of the Uber home, Janice would smile smugly to herself, prodding the collection of stinging bruises across her vulva as covertly as she could without her Uber driver suspecting anything, sitting in a daze of bliss, her glazed eyes fixed on the world outside, in the aftermath of denied and gifted orgasms, glancing at passing faces and hazy, alien lives.
