shoulders ached and my welts stung badly, but she was right: more than anything else I needed to come. I stripped off my clothes in seconds and crawled nude across the floor to her. As I buried my face between her thighs to lick her cunt, my fingers were already busy with my own.
I hadn’t bargained for the intensity of Adrienne’s feelings for me, nor the way she’d simply taken charge, but over the following couple of weeks I had no time to sort things out with her. She wasn’t the first woman who had treated me like that, and not only do I really rather like it, I find it much easier to just go with the flow, especially when I need to exert strong control over other parts of my life. In this case it was work.
In the short time between my appointment and taking up the position, the French had decided to elect a socialist president, with predictable results. Most of the staff had been transferred, either to London or New York, leaving only a handful of key operators. Juniors aside, these were either too old and set in their ways to want to leave, or simply too French. My boss, M. Montesquieu, fell into both categories.
He would roll up at the office in the late morning, make a few kindly but condescending remarks to people, myself included, then disappear into his office, to emerge shortly after noon and roll out again and off to one or another of his favourite restaurants. Occasionally he would come back in the late afternoon, after taking on board at least one bottle of wine, make a few more remarks, some of them close to actionable, then doze off in the enormous black leather chair behind his office desk. To all intents and purposes, that left me in charge, which meant imposing my will on people who resented me for being younger than they were and in charge, for being English or for being a woman – in some cases for all three.
I had to be pin-sharp all day, every day, so that by leaving time it was sheer bliss simply to give in to Adrienne’s will. She wasn’t even a difficult mistress, because, although she liked to be firmly in control, she believed in punishing me only when I misbehaved. As she was divorced, and in receipt of an ample monthly income from her ex-husband, she had time on her hands. I didn’t have to shop or cook, and I was always welcome at her apartment, which was only a couple of doors down from mine in the Rue de la Cure.
For the first week I ate with her every evening and went to bed with her afterwards, only returning to my own flat when I had satisfied both her and myself. It was even possible to get back along the rooftops, as long as I left the window open on the landing. The flat lead roof above her apartment was good for sunbathing, if not perfect, because it was overlooked by several taller apartment buildings, although none of them particularly close. Now she had invited me to join her at the weekend, and I was wondering if she’d make me go topless or even nude, but by the time I left work on the Friday I was in need of something rather more immediate, and preferably both soothing and slightly painful.
The difficulty was M. Montesquieu. It would be wrong to say I found him attractive, at least in the conventional sense, as he was much too old for me, but he was a great bear of a man, which I like, and had a wholly inappropriate and old-fashioned attitude to women, which I don’t, but if it’s done a certain way I can’t stop it getting to me. If he’d been rude, or openly suggestive, I’d have been able to cope, putting him in his place with a few carefully chosen remarks and if necessary threatening to report him to head office. Unfortunately he was invariably polite, but still managed to make me feel very feminine and very vulnerable, in such a way that I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like for him to spank me. Not that I had any reason to think he’d want to do it, or even that he might find the idea appealing, but it’s my thing and I couldn’t resist thinking about it, with all sorts of peculiar fantasies running through my head as I walked back from the Metro.
First and foremost was the idea of him suddenly deciding that I was getting too big for my boots and that the best way to cut me down to size would be a spanking in front of the rest of the staff. I’d be made to circulate a memo inviting everybody to watch, perhaps in his office, or on the main floor so that absolutely everybody got to see, including any clients who happened to be about, perhaps a few couriers, repair men, anybody. Inevitably it would be on my bare bottom, to really humiliate me, with my suit skirt rolled up from the start. My panties would be pulled down, but not immediately, only after a few swats, to let me think I might be allowed to keep that last, vital piece of dignity before having my cunt and anus put on show to all the men and women I spent my days ordering around.
I meant to tell Adrienne and beg her to punish me for my dirty and disloyal thoughts, preferably by dealing with me in exactly the same way as I’d been dealt with in my fantasy, minus the large and embarrassing audience. Unfortunately she wasn’t there and I was left outside her door, clutching in one hand the bottle of Fleurie I’d picked up at Nicolas and in the other the flowers I’d bought for her. I looked and felt like an abandoned date. She’d said she would be there, and had probably only gone out to the shops, but I’d expected to be across her knee within a couple of minutes of my arrival and my frustration was in danger of boiling over. I tried to call her but there was no response, and with that I decided to take matters into my own hands.
Feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself but all the more excited for that, I went back to my flat, swallowed a glass of the Beaujolais and crawled onto my bed, still on all fours and with my eyes closed as I began to fantasise. In my imagination I was back at the office, my face hot with indignant blushes as M. Montesquieu informed me that I would benefit from ten minutes across his knee with the rest of the staff watching as I was given a spanking. He’d tell me off, calling me a little madam and a spoilt brat, then send me off to distribute the memo, not by email but by hand, with everybody whispering together and smirking over my fall from grace as the message went around.
I needed my bottom smacked, whether it was by M. Montesquieu, Adrienne, the spotty boy who’d served me in Nicolas or myself, which was the only practical choice. Reaching back, I took hold of the hem of my skirt and rolled it slowly up my thighs, imagining how it would feel to have to do it with everybody in the office watching. I was in a slip, but that came up too, and the tail of my blouse, to leave first the tops of my stockings showing, then my panties, taut across my cheeks and distinctly moist where the gusset hugged my cunt.
The shame of having to spank myself was so strong I was sobbing even as I planted the first, firm pat across the seat of my panties, but nothing to what it would have been if it had been M. Montesquieu’s huge, fleshy paw. I wondered if I’d have gone meekly or made a fight of it, kicking and writhing so that I had to be held down across his lap by force, begging to be let off and promising to be a good girl even as my panties were exposed behind. He’d take no notice, keeping me firmly in place as he planted swat after swat across my jiggling cheeks, just to the point when I’d resigned myself to my fate, grateful that at least I still had my knickers up, before telling me they were coming down.
My bottom was already warm and my cunt desperate for the touch of my fingers, but I forced myself to hold back until I could concentrate on the most shameful moment of all, having my already well smacked bottom stripped bare in front of the watching staff. I took hold of my panties, imagining that it was not my hand but M. Montesquieu’s, and drew them slowly down. As I did so, I thought about the awful sense of consternation in my head as I was laid bare, my bottom exposed despite my crazy, pathetic struggles to keep myself covered, my threats, my curses, my appeals to his sense of decency, all ignored, and as I slowly put myself on show I began to babble.
‘No, please, Monsieur Montesquieu, not my panties, not that … at least leave me that. I don’t want to be spanked bare. I don’t deserve to be spanked bare, you pig, you great brute! No, please, they’ll see my –’
‘Cunt?’
Adrienne had spoken from directly
