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Note from Quillis.
This story started out as a prelude to the story "An Evening in the Lounge" but soon took on a life of its own. So even though the basic scenario is similar to that in the other story don't expect it to end up in the same place.
Enjoy it on its own.
Q
After years of working in a rather mundane job I decided to write a book. I found a publisher who liked my outlines but was not excited enough to offer me an advance to live on. The idea of working at my old job while writing part-time did not appeal to me but my publisher found an alternative. He had a friend who might agree to let me live in his mansion rent-free. I would have my own work area and could give my opus the attention it deserved.
The house was situated on acres and acres of land with beautiful gardens and a small household staff. It was a marvelous place and I was to live in a small suite with plenty of room for the things I would need to work. Aside from meals (which were part of the bargain) I would have complete privacy. It had all the trappings of a perfect solution and I only had mild misgivings; most of which centered on my new host. He was a self-made millionaire which accounted for the spacious estate but was not that much older than me. However, when you talked to him you were engulfed in his dynamic personality which seemed to give him wisdom and power beyond his chronological age. In fact, whenever we met I always found myself slightly intimidated. So much so that I could never call him by name; to me he was the personification of everything incorporated in the title of "Sir".
Still, I was willing to give it a short trial even if the price consisted of offering him intimate access to my charms. After all, he was generously allowing me to live the life of luxury and should, by rights, be reimbursed in one way or the other. Besides, I was not a virgin by a long shot and definitely not adverse to an occasional romp between the sheets. I cannot discount that he was a rather handsome and somewhat sexy man. All he had to do was ask and my body was his to do with as he pleased. However, I was not prepared for the ways he chose to use it.
During the first few weeks I was able to get a lot of work done and had just about convinced myself that he was nothing more than a completely altruistic supporter of the arts. In fact, I was beginning to think he was not attracted to females so it seemed that my chastity was safe although the lonely nights in my room made me wish it was, at least, in a little danger. As it turns out, my chastity was not what he was interested in. Not at first at any rate.
The change in our relationship started rather subtly while we were sitting in his library sipping after-dinner coffees. As usual, our evening dialog was lively and animated. During a pause he looked at me in a way I had not noticed before. He said, "I want you to know you have brightened this house with your very presence. I hope you will stay as long as you need to or want to. I put no conditions on you and you are free to leave if you find anything about your stay here unacceptable."
I immediately responded, "I can not think of anything that would cause me to leave. You have been a very gracious host and everything has been wonderful. I consider myself to be very lucky and could not have gotten as much done on my book anywhere else. Sir, I am in your debt."
He brushed off the last comment. "You owe me nothing. As I said, you have been and still are a most welcome addition. Your parents should be proud of you. It appears they took great pains in raising a daughter as well mannered and delightful as you."
I smiled and thanked him but added, "They not only took great pains but delivered them also. I didn't appreciate it at the time but I now realize their methods had some value."
With that the conversation turned to a problem in town involving some youths and the trouble they caused. It would take some time before the importance of both of these items of discussion became apparent.
A few days later we were once again in the library. He seemed lost in thought and after a while he nodded. It was as if he made a mental decision and looked directly at me for a moment. Then he stood up to say, "Come with me."
His tone was not his usual polite mode of speech but was stern as if he was giving an order. Much like the way he spoke to the staff and it was definitely one which implied that questioning it was not acceptable. I followed him to a room quite a ways from the main portion of the house and he opened the door. As we entered I noticed a distinct difference in the furnishings from the rest of the house; afew older chairs along one wall and one very solid wooden one in the center of the room next to a small table. The other distinguishing feature was that there were no windows. He waited until I had finished my perusal before speaking. His only words were, "Whenever you come in here you must remove your shoes."
Then I noticed a hat rack by the door and he pointed to the floor next to it. As I was complying with his strange request he sat in the chair. He indicated for me to stand next to him and I saw a short leather strap on the little table. Old memories surfaced and realization dawned on me. I had been here before. Not in this room and not with him but in my family home and with my mother or father. An armless chair, me standing next to and slightly behind a pair of knees and the presence of an implement of punishment all pointed in one direction. If any other man his age suggested what he was going to do I would have slapped his face and stormed out but as I said, his whole being exuded authority. He was no longer just my gracious host; he had just achieved the stature of a substitute parent and I could not bring myself to challenge him. As he reached to take my hand I nervously asked, "Are you going to use that on me?"
I realize now that what I didn't say was more important. My question told him that I had already accepted that I was going to be spanked as a foregone conclusion. The purpose of my query was only in regards to the severity of the punishment and noticeably not to voice any objection. His face remained impassive and he gently pulled me down as he said, "Yes but not right away. There's no need to rush things."
If he had any real justification for bringing me here he chose not to share it. I did not remember doing anything that would have warranted this sort of retribution but those same memories about past trips over parental laps also renewed my blind adherence to the rules I had grown up with. Probably the most important one was accepting the punishment. In essence, after I was face down any discussion was over. Questioning the chosen method or asking for leniency of any sort was strictly forbidden. Quite simply, a girl in that position is going to get spanked. The nature, length and severity are out of her control. She has one job to do and that is to provide the target.
So I remained silent as I felt him lift the back of my dress and then his fingers at my waist. I assumed that this was going to be a bare bottom spanking as was the norm in my experience but was somewhat surprised. He only pulled down my pantyhose and left the panties in place. Before I could give this matter further thought he began. The first spank is always a bit of a shock. Not so much in pain but as the final confirmation that my bottom is going to suffer and for all practical purposes, I am helpless to prevent it.
To be honest, he didn't strike me as hard as I remembered from previous experience but he took his time slowly building up the sting. Of course, the one inviolate rule was that I never, and I do mean never struggled out of position or put my hand back to deflect the blows; which is not to say I wasn't tempted when the pain seemed to be at its worst. Such was the case that night. His slow spanking was taking its toll and I could feel tears forming in my eyes as he increased the speed and force of his hand. I lifted my hands to grasp the legs of the chair. His grip on my waist was strong and I was briefly reminded of times as a young child when my hands and feet did not reach the floor and Mom or Dad held me in the proper position.
When I finally gave up my attempt to stoically endure the onslaught I cried out. A few more expressions of discomfort escaped my lips before he stopped. I should have remembered that he still had not used the strap but it was my training to remain where I was until formally released that kept me from getting up with the assumption that it was over.
I should point out that this was a first on many levels. The first time anyone other than a parent spanked me, the first time I had gotten spanked since moving out on my own and probably the most surprising thing was that unlike all previous spankings, my panties were still in place.
I knew that last item was about to change when I felt his hands at my waist again. The woefully insignificant protection of my modesty joined the pantyhose and he pushed both items to a point below my knees. It was humiliating for him to see this portion of me unclothed but unfortunately, not unexpected. I felt his body shift as he reached for the strap and closed my eyes. I was wrong when I described the first swat with his hand. Calling it a wake-up call would've been more accurate since the initial contact of the strap was the real shock.
Unlike when it was only his hand, he struck hard from the very first. My previous cries became loud yelps. I discovered later that he didn't beat me so as to leave bruises but the evil thing concentrated its effect which made it hurt much more than his hand. He managed to strike in a different spot each time so just as one part of me was acknowledging the receipt another was brought to vivid life. I was almost hoarse and felt that I had reached and even surpassed the limit of my endurance when he put the strap back on the table.
As you can imagine, it took me a minute to realize that my rear end was no longer under attack. Actually, it wasn't until I felt his hand gently rubbing my bottom. True to my training, I remained in position even as I tried to convince myself that it was, indeed, over. However, I'm only speaking of the spanking itself. What followed was another first and one I'm not proud of.
As he provided the comfort my own hands were never allowed to do I started to relax. It still hurt like the dickens but his touch was somewhat soothing. Then he changed tactics. My stockings and panties had slipped down farther so it was possible for me to open my knees if I chose to. It shouldn't surprise you to know that the choice wasn't mine. He used both hands to pull them apart and spread my thighs. My poor brain was still focused on the results of the spanking so by the time I realized what he was doing or why he was doing it the answer became obvious.
His fingers touched me in a spot that his hand and strap had avoided. I tried to get up but it only took the slightest pressure of his arm on my back to pass the message. He was still in control and my time on his lap was not as complete as I had thought.
So I had no choice but to let him continue his touching and then stroking. His finger slid deeper and deeper. I could not believe it but I was getting wet. I'm ashamed to say it but as he probed farther I was beginning to moan and raise myself to him. His digits entered me and found my secret spot. All thoughts of where I was, what position I was in and what he had just done to me were lost in the sensations he was producing. He was an expert at this and in time had me panting and humping and then calling out in ecstasy. He brought me to orgasm after orgasm. Each one was more powerful than the last until I slumped down in near exhaustion.
As I slowly returned to Earth he guided me to my feet. My legs were very unsteady and I tried to smile at him but all I saw was his back as he strode from the room.
I stood there in disbelief. My panties and stockings were crumpled at my ankles and I could feel my lubrication sliding down my thigh. How could he just leave me like that? But that wasn't the real question. That came to me later. I took off the garments at my feet and used my panties to wipe myself before picking up my shoes and heading for my room.
Once there I took off all my clothes and looked at my bottom. It was fairly red with some brighter splotches but as I mentioned earlier, no visible bruises. Then I sat down to think. Oops, Bad idea. I bounced off the chair and leaned against the wall to ponder what had just ensued. Aside from dinner and our chats we had little contact with each other. I tried in vain to remember something I said that may have insulted him and then I remembered the conversation we had a few days ago. The one I mentioned where he brought up the subject of juvenile delinquents.
At the time I didn't give the matter much weight but I think he did. He directed the discussion to include parental discipline. In fact, he specifically asked about the way my parents would have handled the situation. I had already hinted that my folks were strong believers in corporal punishment so I confirmed it. "Believe me, if I had done what those kids did, I would be bottom up over a lap in nothing flat."
We both chuckled and I thought that was the end of it but he commented that these children seemed a little old for that sort of punishment. I had to laugh as I said that age was not a consideration in my house. His questioning look induced me to admit to receiving spankings through my high school years and even while I was in college. He smiled in a way that indicated he thought it was a nice little story but probably not true. That led me to describe the method they used in explicit detail. When he asked why I permitted myself to be treated like a child I shrugged my shoulders and explained the unbreakable rules and that it wasn't in my nature to object. I can only assume that is what gave him the idea to try his hand at it. As to why he felt he had the right to follow their example, I haven't a clue.
I'd like to say that the reason I didn't object was because I thought I owed him something for his generosity towards me. But I would be kidding myself. If he had broached the subject over coffee I might have refused but once we were in the room and I figured out what he had in mind it was too late. Old instincts took over and I felt as if I had no choice. By that time I was defenseless against his authoritarian manner. Without saying a word he let me know I was going to get spanked. Whether spoken or not, once the spanking was decreed, be it by my father or this man, I never even thought of trying to avoid it. So just as with my folks, I meekly accepted the inevitable.
The real question for me was why my body responded the way it did after one of the worst spankings I ever received. My rear end was on fire but he found another hot spot and aside from the shame of him discovering the secret I never knew I had, it was one of the most intense sexual experiences of my life. Even thinking about that caused my hand to stray south. I moved to my bed and while visions of myself back over his lap filled my head my fingers were very busy in an attempt to renew the sensations he had produced.
When I woke up the next morning I was slightly embarrassed. I never sleep in the nude and there I was without a stitch on and my hand still between my legs. The other big question was actually in two parts. First, would he want to do that again? And second, would I let him? I didn't have an answer to either.
I didn't see him until dinner that night and the subject was not brought up. Instead we ate and then relaxed over coffee while discussing the latest news. Over the next few days I looked for any sign that he felt differently towards me but his demeanor was no different from the way he treated me before that night. Then it happened again.
About a week later he put his coffee cup down and said, "I have to go over the household accounts with the butler. It should not take too long. Finish your coffee and relax for a while. Then wait for me in the room. I'll be there at 9:00."
Well, that answered the first of my two questions. As for the second; the tenor of his voice had not changed from the casual conversation preceding his decree but the force of his personality made it impossible for me to do anything except hang my head and answer, "Yes Sir."
As I watched the clock I wondered why I had so readily accepted his invitation. Interspaced in my self-recrimination was a humorous thought. Every room in the house had a name. The living room, the dining room, the library, the lounge, the den, the kitchen, the bedroom and so on. But the place where I was going to get spanked was just "The Room". Of course, any humor I found in the situation was fleeting at best.
About 8:45 I made my way to The Room. I removed my shoes and wandered towards the table. A small plastic paddle was on it. This was yet another new thing. The strap he used last time was much like the one my folks had. I think it was originally salvaged from one of Dad's old belts. However, the little paddle I held in my hand seemed to have no other purpose than to be used for spanking. It was not a formidable instrument but I could tell it was not a toy; thin and flexible but sturdy and when I slapped it against my palm I knew it was going to hurt. I replaced it and stood next to the chair.
For the hundredth time I wondered why I agreed to this. Was I there out of a sense of responsibility to repay him or did I really want to be over his lap again? It had to be the first thing since I certainly did not want the second. I've been spanked innumerable times and I never asked for any of them or felt the slightest desire to volunteer for it.
No, it had to be nothing more than my way of repaying him.
But what about the sexual excitement of what he did after the spanking? That was unbelievable. Was that my justification? It was good but I was ashamed of myself afterwards. He was going to think I got turned on from being punished and that thought mortified me. That was the only time a spanking led to even the slightest form of arousal so I convinced myself that it was a unique occurrence. One thing was for sure. While I may submit to his punishment I was not going to let him follow it with any intimate touching. He could and definitely would bring me to tears with the paddle but then I would demand that he leave me alone. I was there to be spanked and nothing more.
With that matter resolved I was on familiar ground. Back in my parent's house spankings were scheduled affairs which gave me ample opportunity to worry and fret and dread the pain and humiliation. So, although there were many different aspects about the present circumstances, some things never change. More than once my hand strayed to provide advance comfort to my rear end and I jumped at the slightest sound that might mean my waiting was at an end.
I was standing with my back towards the door and when I heard him arrive I did not turn to face him. He closed the door and I listened for his footsteps approaching me. Apparently, he wanted to look at me before moving and my nervousness increased. In my mind I envisioned him as my father and expected him to do things the same way. Dad always went directly to the chair and wasted no time in starting. This silence was upsetting. And when he did speak I knew the pseudo-parental image I had concocted was no longer accurate. He said, "Pull your pantyhose down to your knees and lift your dress."
In our first session he deviated from what I considered traditional punishment by what he did afterwards. I had the small comfort of making a feeble attempt to stop him then but now he was demanding me to humiliate myself without softening my resistance through pain and fear. Still, I obediently complied and presented him an unobstructed view of my bottom encased in nothing but panties for at least a full minute although it seemed like much longer.
At last he moved past me and sat down. As he guided me down he said, "In the future I want you to wait like that. Dress raised and panties visible. Also, you will start wearing a garter belt and stockings. Do you understand?"
I nodded but he was not satisfied. He gave me a very hard swat and repeated his question. "Do you understand me?"
I swallowed and replied, "Yes Sir."
His voice softened a bit. "Good. You have a lovely rear end. Yes, quite adorable and well suited to spanking."
This last was spoken as his hand started caressing the object in question with an occasional squeeze. Nope, this was not my father spanking me anymore. He never took such liberties but as with everything else, I could not find the strength to object. Instead I meekly thanked him for the compliment if you could call it that.
His gentle touch became soft swats that soon started the ever increasing level of force until there was no doubt that this was a real spanking. My grunts and squeaks became louder and louder as his hand crashed down on me in earnest.
When he stopped he went back to the soft touch on the fabric for a minute before pulling them down. While I had been waiting before my eyes never strayed from the thing on the table. I tried to imagine how it would feel on my bare bottom to prepare myself for it but was entirely unsuccessful; except for the obvious, it was going to hurt and believe me, it did. In spite of the pain I was able to compare it to the strap's bite. The contact covered more skin but was no less effective at driving its point home. Time and time again he snapped it against me and never in the same place. At least not in succession, I swear he covered my entire bottom with it numerous times.
I was sobbing and unaware of the last stroke until I felt his hand on me. This time I knew what he had in mind as he pushed my legs apart and I voiced my objection. In spite of the sincerity of my opposition my body betrayed me. My thighs parted and I raised myself to encourage his exploration. I begged him to stop while my brain reeled in the glorious sensations he was producing. His fingers drove into me and he pinched my special spot. Orgasms spilled out of me and the last one was when he reached under to grab a breast through my clothes.
I didn't even try to stand as I slumped to the floor and watched his feet move to the door. When I finally got back to my room I stripped and fell into bed. The next morning I was once again ashamed to wake up nude with my fingers already busy and wondering what I was turning into.
Although we did not speak of what we did in The Room I replaced my pantyhose with a few garter belts and numerous pairs of stockings. I suppose I could have only gotten one set for those nights but I got the feeling he wanted me to make that small change in my attire a permanent thing. And, after all, I never really knew when he was going to send me there and it was best to be prepared.
The last two had been on the previous Thursdays and I was fully expecting a repeat so was surprised when the next Thursday came and went without it. As I lay in bed that night I had to face my feelings. Was I only surprised or was I disappointed? Did this mean he had tired of the game? If so shouldn't I be glad? The pain of his spankings was very real and I did not want that but what was it that made me submit to him so easily? It couldn't be for the sex thing afterwards. That was totally humiliating and the embarrassment I felt when I saw him the next day was more for that than giving into his unwarranted punishment. So why did I feel something missing? As I fell asleep I still did not have an answer.
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