have known what happened when she broke a rule, but I didn’t, and I very much wanted to. I tiptoed to the connecting door, knelt down and put my eye to the keyhole.
He stood by the bed with his arms folded while she – Mara – was rummaging in a dresser drawer. She had her back to me and, as she bent to retrieve whatever it was, her bottom was thrust out, tautening her skirt to maximum stretch. He was looking at it too, the dirty bastard, getting a good long eyeful.
She straightened up again, turned and handed him something. It was a leather strap, about half an inch thick, with a grip for the hand at one end.
I took a deep breath. I was in for a treat.
When he took the strap, he slapped it into his palm, as if testing its painfulness, then he nodded.
‘You know what comes next,’ he prompted, and the lovely Mara dropped on her knees in front of him, head bowed.
‘Please, Sir, I’m sorry I broke a rule and I beg to be punished for it.’
‘I’m considering it.’
‘Please, Sir. I really need it. Please punish me.’
‘How hard?’
‘As hard as you think I deserve.’
‘Good.’
He was good. Very good. Making her beg for it – nice touch. I’d have to add it to my repertoire.
She bent to kiss his shiny shoes, her silky hair falling over her cheek. I pictured her bending like that to lick my clit, all so sweetly submissive and obedient. I raised my skirt to my waist and put my fingers down my knickers. Damn this stupid country-house hotel and its inconvenient uniform.
‘We’ll start with my hand,’ he said, seating himself in the armless straight-backed chair by the bureau. ‘Remove your skirt and place yourself over my knee.’
I watched her unzip, my mouth watering as I wondered which view of her I would have. Perhaps her face, suffering and contorting in pain. Or perhaps her bottom. I rather hoped for the latter.
Her tight skirt had been tugged down over the swell of her hips before I glimpsed her milky thighs, with their suspender straps interrupting the smooth expanse of skin. She stepped out of it and laid herself gracefully over his lap. Joy of joys, I had the most perfect view of her upthrust bum, the flesh spilling from her silky shorts.
Not that the silky shorts lasted long, for he peeled them down until her bottom was bare and they rested just above her lace stocking tops. Now her arse was cunningly framed by the suspender belt and straps, with the froth of silk and lace three-quarters of the way down her thighs.
She was ready to begin. And so was I. My finger was on the button. Three, two, one …
But he wanted to lecture her first, it seemed, while his hand moved idly round and round her vulnerable cheeks. He spoke about mindfulness of rules, respect, discipline and duty. She chimed in only to say ‘Yes, Sir’ and ‘No, Sir’ but he seemed satisfied with this.
His palm flattened against her buttocks, which tensed immediately. I imagined her teeth and fists clenched in concert.
‘Now this is just to start us off,’ he warned her, starting in with quick, sharp smacks across the centre of her quivering bum. He did not seem to be putting a great deal of effort into it, lifting his arm only to chest height before swooping his hand down to meet her flesh, but the sound was music to my ears, as were Mara’s wails and complaints.
‘Oh! Ouch! Ouch! It hurts!’
‘Don’t be silly, Mara, this is a gentle warm-up. I haven’t even started.’
A long, despairing moan met this statement, but I could see that the boss was warming to his work now, laying on harder and harder strokes, at times leaving handprints. It was strangely aesthetically pleasing to watch Mara’s bum jiggling around and changing to a deep-pink colour under her employer’s chastising hand and I watched transfixed, hoping that he would carry on for a very long time. Much as Mara disliked the slow, hard strokes, she seemed to hate the sudden volleys of speedy ones even more, for these made her wriggle and twist like fury, calling out for him to please, stop, please, it was too much, she would be good, oh, she would. But he was utterly resolute and no amount of gasping, pleading or tearful contrition would deflect him from his purpose. Only when Mara’s poor bottom was fully and blazingly reddened and her kicking legs limp and spent did he begin to stay his hand.
For my part, my hand was hard at work, stuffed eagerly inside my cotton boyshorts, and I knelt with my fingers stroking the wiry curls of my muff and my longing clit, excited beyond expectation at Mara’s humiliation.
Oh, why did it have to end? I silently protested. Mara’s bottom had taken ten long minutes of this summary treatment, but I wanted to see more.
I uttered mute thanks to an unnamed deity when the boss, helping his subdued secretary to her feet, instructed her to go and bend over the side of the bed with her bottom high and her feet apart. This was not the end!
My joy was not matched by Mara, whose lower lip stuck out a mile.
I wondered about this dynamic. Surely it must be consensual. They would have a safeword, presumably. He seemed highly experienced, at least, and they had clearly developed their own rituals.
‘Mara, a spanking by my hand is the least you can expect for petty rulebreaking. Breaking one of the golden rules of obedience merits the application of something a little more forceful. If you are to learn, I must be strict and consistent with you. Do you understand?’
‘I am too sore,’ she snuffled.
‘Do you understand, or shall I be harder on you than I originally intended? There will be extra strokes for defiance.’
Mara let out a great howl of anguish, but she went to the bed and obediently bent herself over the side, grasping the frame. Her sore bottom glowed like a beacon amid the pale-pink frilliness that framed it. I sucked in a breath on her behalf, then another when Mara parted her feet, as instructed. All at once, that gorgeous little slut’s most secret and intimate parts were visible, tender pink lips spread and vulnerable. To me they looked edible and I imagined my teeth nipping and tongue licking at the tempting array.
But it seemed that Mara could not expect anything so pleasurable, as the boss had picked up that wicked-looking brown leather strap and stood testing it for bend and snappiness.
‘Do you ever go anywhere without those nasty things?’ blurted Mara, fearfully watching him stroke the supple hide then bend and flex it against his palm before slapping it gently down.
He looked over at her, strap in hand, without answering.
‘You will count,’ he said briskly, crossing to stand at her rear. ‘I plan to apply twenty strokes, but I will give extra for broken position or disobedience of any kind. Now then.’
He swung the strap through the air a few times before allowing it to whistle down and snap across Mara’s backside, causing her to sing out in pain and rock on her heels until she could count out a shaky ‘One, Sir’.
I noted the wide red stripe left to burn across Mara’s bottom and watched agog as the rest were delivered, slowly and with decorum,
