A Strict Seduction (28 page)

The first smack was hard, landing flat on her left buttock, making a resounding slapping sound that seemed to fill the kitchen completely. She uttered a strangled gasp but did not cry or make any movement. His fingers were clearly imprinted on her white flesh, a red badge of pain that he swore was warm to the touch. He lifted his arm and brought it down again, on the same bottom cheek and with the same force.

She inched forward, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the worktop. Her skin marked easily, white flesh running to pink and then red at the site of impact.

He touched her again, able to feel the distinct mark as well as see it.

The third stroke, and then the fourth. She cried out but, biting her lip and gripping hard, she did not move out of position. There was determination in her eyes, but with it the misting over of pain and pleasure. Her left bottom cheek was red, patterned from the top of the thigh and above. A fifth stroke, as hard and as painful as the first four. She seemed to draw her stomach down and raise her bottom higher, offering him her derriere for punishment as though it were his to do with as he wished. The wisp of lace between her thighs was drawn tightly into her flesh, a black band against white skin turning pink.

The last stroke was the hardest of all, the sound of it matched by a squeal of pain that she uttered despite her best efforts. His own hand was buzzing, throbbing with pain, and yet he knew it was only a pale echo of the sensations she was experiencing. When he touched, stroking her punished left buttock, he let his fingers slip lower, brushing against the sticky warmth of her sex.

‘Have we finished?' she asked, hardly able to speak clearly. The contrast between the two sides of her rear end was plain to see; on the left a pattern of red finger marks and the shadow of his hand on her flesh, on the right the pure unblemished softness of her skin.

‘Not yet,' he told her firmly. ‘There's the other side to do as well.'

She sighed, her breath misting on the cold steel upon which her face rested. He looked around quickly, searching for the right implement in a kitchen full of them. There were a dozen different wooden spoons, and a number of small pans which looked ideal for tanning the hide of a silly girl. The spatula looked perfect however; long, slightly curved, very strong and easy to handle.

‘Six strokes,' he informed her.

‘With that?' she cried, clearly alarmed by the wooden implement he had to hand.

‘Seven strokes for that,' he decided. She fell silent, resigned to the facts of her punishment.

He was careful with the first stroke, bringing it down flat against the unmarked skin of her right buttock. The sound was impressive and the solid red mark it created looked good. Her eyes were wide, and he could tell that the spatula was indeed a more effective instrument of correction than his bare hand.

The next few strokes fell in quick succession, each delivered firmly and with a resounding crack. She was panting, breathing heavily, making little sobbing sounds as he administered her chastisement.

He stopped at number four and examined her closely, comparing each bottom cheek, touching her intimately without a murmur of dissent from her lovely lips.

She was undoubtedly aroused. When he touched a finger to her sex she seemed to melt, a sigh issuing from her lips as she closed her eyes to the pleasure.

He resumed the punishment, smacking hard the final strokes, the last delivered squarely between her buttocks.

The punishment over, he stepped back for a moment. She seemed dazed, hardly able to move, as though she too was welded to the cold steel worktop. It gave him a chance to savour the image of her, bent beautifully over, her uniform up around her waist, long legs stretched tautly, bottom perfectly displayed in all it's pink, punished glory.

‘You can stand up now,' he told her, finally.

She seemed to wake suddenly. She pushed herself up and modestly brushed down her uniform, hiding from view the evidence of her punishment. Her chest was flushed pink, her white skin mottled by the evidence of her pleasure just as her bottom had been mottled by her chastisement.

‘Do you still want the job?' he asked, his manner cool and professional, despite the raging desire he felt.

‘Will it get any worse than that?' she asked, swallowing hard.

‘Only if you're really bad,' he told her. ‘Don't worry though, most nights of the week you'll just be on display, looking pretty to keep our clients happy until the food arrives. However, the uniform and the punishment are reserved for special nights, when only the most select of our clients are invited.'

‘You mean this,' she clutched her uniform, ‘is for the special clients only? Other nights we wear something else?'

He smiled. ‘That's right. Other nights you'll wear a more respectable uniform, still pretty and sexy, but not like this. On our special nights, however, you'll have to be extra careful not to make a mistake and earn a spanking from our customers.'

He paused. The entire business plan had just been rewritten, but he knew it made more sense. Act as a normal French restaurant for most nights, but offer the privilege of punishing the girls on certain special occasions – and charge prices accordingly.

‘So,' he finished, ‘what do you say?'

She reached down and rubbed her bottom surreptitiously, as though the stinging was too powerful to ignore. ‘What if I make mistakes on the other nights?' she asked.

‘I reserve the right to punish you when required, my girl.'

She nodded at once. ‘Yes, Mr Moore. When do I start?'

He smiled. ‘You've already started. If I were you I'd change and get home for a good night of rest. You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.'

‘But the restaurant doesn't open for…'

‘It's all right,' he said, stopping her mid-sentence. ‘It's just that I have nine other girls to re-interview,' he announced, smiling.

Let Me Be Your…

I liked Andy Gale almost as soon as I met him. He was the sort of young man that most people liked, and when he joined my team I felt naturally drawn to him. I was his supervisor then, but we were soon friends rather than just work colleagues. It was just the way he was; easy going, personable, and with a sharp, irreverent sense of humour. A few weeks after he'd started, by which time we were well on the way to becoming good friends, I noticed the picture of Philipa on his desk.

Andy saw me looking at the framed photo. His young wife, she looked to be in her early twenties, was smiling, her long blonde hair swept back to reveal a round face, with shining blue-green eyes and prominent lips glossed an eye-catching scarlet.

‘She's a bit of a looker,' I remarked casually, then handed him the thick sheaf of papers I wanted him to go through.

He took the file and made a face. ‘Thanks,' he said, weighing it all in his hand. ‘You haven't met Philipa yet, have you?'

I shook my head. ‘Not yet,' I said, standing up, ‘but I'm sure that one day we'll get round to going out for a drink, the three of us.'

‘Yes, that'd be good,' Andy agreed.

And that was the end of it for a while. At the time it was just a bit of idle chatter, the sort of meaningless small-talk that goes on in offices all the time. I really doubted that I would ever meet Andy and Philipa outside the work environment; the most I could have expected would be to swap a few words with her at our Christmas party. Not that I would have turned that down, the young woman in the photograph was extremely attractive. There was no doubt in my mind that Andy was an extremely lucky man to be married to her.

It was at least a month before Andy raised the subject again. Perhaps he had seen me glancing at Philip's photograph a few times more, or perhaps he'd been thinking things through. In any case, late one afternoon he came over to my office to talk through some sales projections he'd prepared for me. The conversation was long and tedious, but halfway through he casually asked me if I had any plans for the following Friday evening. I hadn't; since splitting up with my wife many of my evenings were spent slumped in front of the television with nothing but a frozen meal and a bottle for company.

‘What've you got in mind,' I asked, imagining that he was about to ask me to join him for a post-work drink or two at one of the local pubs.

‘I wondered whether you'd want to come out for a meal and a drink with me and Philipa,' he said. ‘I mean, if you can't make it then it's no big deal.'

‘That'll be great,' I assured him hastily.

‘Good,' he said. ‘We fancied a curry, is that okay?'

‘No problem. Now,' I said, trying not to show just how grateful I felt for the invitation, ‘if you think we can forget about these,' I slid the projections back across my desk towards him, ‘then you're wrong.'

He laughed. ‘Damn, does that mean we've got to carry on?'

‘Afraid so.'

By the time Friday had arrived I was really looking forward to going out. I was certain that Andy and Philipa would be good company, and in the event I was not disappointed. As soon as I set eyes on Philipa I realised that the photograph I'd seen did her no justice. Her eyes sparkled and her smile was warm and friendly, which perfectly described her personality. Although not very tall, she had a good figure and her petite frame had curves in all the right places. She was wearing a little black dress that clung sensuously to her curves and was short enough to give me a good view of her lithe, well-shaped legs.

Andy did the introductions as soon as I arrived at the restaurant and soon we were seated, the three of us around a circular table. We took our time ordering, but the discussion about the food provided a neutral subject to get the conversations started.

During the meal Andy tried to talk about work a couple of times, but this was vetoed first by Philipa and then by me. It was soon apparent that there was a real spark between the three of us, the conversation flowed freely and time sped by.

‘Well, this has been a great evening,' I sighed, just as the last of the coffee arrived. To be honest, I was feeling more relaxed than I had for a long time. I suppose since Jan and I had split up I'd been getting more and more uptight. Although I don't mind my own company, I suppose I was forgetting what it was like to be sociable.

‘Yes, it's been good,' Philipa agreed, beaming me a bright smile. Her eyes met mine for an instant, lingered, and then she looked away. It wasn't the only time it had happened that evening, and each time my heart raced a little bit faster.

‘We'll have to do this again,' Andy said, joining in. I noticed he was looking at Philipa, and then he turned back to me. Something had passed between them, I knew it instantly. Had he picked up on the way Philipa and I had been looking at each other?

I avoided Andy's eyes guiltily. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I had somehow been flirting with his young wife. ‘Please,' I said, ‘I know it was you who invited me out, but it's on me. Okay?'

‘Oh, come on,' Andy retorted. ‘You've been a great help to me at work, this is the least I can do.'

I shook my head. ‘No way, Andy,' I insisted. ‘I'm paying, and that's the end of it. Clear?'

‘No, it's our treat,' Philipa said, taking her husband's hand in hers.

Andy clasped her hand and looked directly at me. ‘I tell you what,' he decided, ‘why don't you come back to our place for a drink?'

Philipa smiled invitingly. ‘Yes, that's a great idea, what do you say?'

Her eyes were on mine again and this time it was no accident. I looked up and saw that Andy was unconcerned, he was sitting forward waiting for my answer. ‘Only if I get to pay the bill here,' I said.

Philipa's smile broadened further. ‘Good,' she enthused, ‘I'm glad that's settled.'

I swallowed hard. For a second I was certain I was imagining things, that the eye contact and her smiles were entirely innocent. Perhaps it was the drink or the effect of too many lonely nights on my part. And then, when I caught her eye again, I became certain that there was definitely something else going on.

I called for the bill and Philipa decided she needed to freshen up before we left. I watched her walk across the restaurant, the tight-fitting dress clinging to her curves, the black velvet contrasting with the golden tan of her skin. She was delicious, there was no doubting that.

‘You still think she looks good?' Andy asked me, as though reading my mind.

I had been staring at his wife openly. If he was angry there was no sign of it in his voice. I avoided his eyes. ‘I'm not going to say she's ugly, am I?' I responded, hoping I could joke my way out of a tricky situation.

He smiled. ‘Well, you could,' he said, ‘but you'd be talking crap.'

The waiter arrived bearing the credit card slip for me to sign. My hand was shaky as I scrawled my signature.

‘It's getting late,' I said after the waiter had finished, ‘why don't you just drop me off home?'

‘Our company not good enough for you?' Andy demanded. His tone was jokey, bantering like he did in the office, but there was something else going on. He was edgy, but perhaps he was picking that off me.