The Spanked Wives Club (13 page)

An electric buzz could be felt in the darkened gallery, Troy’s boyish yet predatory grin showing he felt it too. Still looking down toward the stage, he leaned toward his wife, laying a hand on her bare thigh.

“Let’s go ahead and get that skirt out of the way then.”

Hunter felt more than heard Lacey’s soft gasp, and he tried to watch her without making it obvious that he was trying to do so.

Slowly, Lacey worked the tight skirt up, exposing more of her pale legs, her skin appearing almost a ghostly luminescent in the deep shadow of the gallery.

The smooth, shaven sex was revealed between milky thighs, Troy patting it as if it were a favored pet. Lacey took hold of each arm of her chair, gripping it tightly as if this were a much practiced — or brutally enforced — ritual.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Troy said.

“Do what?” Hunter scratched his chin self-consciously, still trying to take everything in, still trying to ignore the urge to stroke the lovely sex laid bare for him mere inches away.

“You don’t have to act like you shouldn’t look.” Troy leaned forward, turning to face both of them while still in his seat. His glance flicked to Lacey. “Spread them open.”

Her legs eased apart, and even in the darkness, Hunter could see her deep blush. Troy fixed his glittering gaze upon Hunter. “Right now, our Lacey is suitably frightened. And you know why? Because I haven’t told her for sure that she’s not going to be called to today’s Session. You see, she thinks that just because she’s sitting on sore and bruised thighs that that means she gets out of jail free today.”

Lacey stiffened, her breathing seemingly frozen on a sharp inhale.

“But she knows that it’s not always enough. Sometimes a woman’s husband will
still
want her up on that platform. Simply because he can.” Troy smiled at her. “Does that about sum it up for you, girl?”

“Yes… Sir.” The sound was more a trembling whisper than a voice.

“I think she’s had enough, don’t you?” Hunter swallowed, knowing this wasn’t really his place, but unable to help the surge of protectiveness he felt at the idea.

I think you mean possessiveness.

Hunter looked back toward the aisle as two more couples made their way down into the gallery, taking seats further along on their same side. One woman, obviously quite late into a pregnancy, was helped into her seat by her doting — and grinning — husband. A lock of her dark hair fell across her eyes, and he plucked it aside before sitting down next to her, his big arm wrapped around the back of her seat.

“How is Ron’s wife doing by the way?” Troy asked Lacey in a quiet voice. “Sunny, right? You used to play doubles with her, didn’t you?”

“Misses tennis that’s for sure — but she loves being pregnant.”

“Seems a little odd to you?” Troy squeezed her leg, easing his hand up the inside of her thigh. “Loving pregnancy, that is?”

“I-I hated the last trimester”—Lacey stifled a moan as Troy’s hand delved between her legs—”I loved the rest though.”

Hunter recalled Lacey’s misery when she’d found herself confined to bed rest for the last two weeks before delivery. He still couldn’t believe how big her belly had become — nor how beautiful he thought she looked, even then.

A tall man in a dark off-green suit treaded up the stairs of the platform, then took his place behind the lectern. He looked up then, his intense gaze scanning the darkened gallery.

“No way,” Hunter murmured.

“Keenan loves this shit. Just wait,” Troy said, with a low chuckle.

“Welcome to another Session, everyone,” Keenan said, his voice deep and clear. Hunter couldn’t tell if it was amplified by a microphone or not. If it was, that was some kinda sound system.

The crowd stirred with a murmur of anticipation, then quieted, Keenan looking upon them patiently.

“You all know why we’re here, of course, so let’s get right to it.” Keenan flipped over a page on the lectern. “We have four wives with us today. Four wives for a Session, who need an extra reminder or two of their duty to love and obey. Let’s have them come on up and we’ll get started.”

One by one, each woman stood from where she sat — two down close to the stage, and one on the opposite side of the upper gallery where Troy, Lacey and Hunter sat. The remainder of the crowd looked on, turning to watch, whispering as each woman made her way through the seats and down to the platform.

It wasn’t until three of the women had lined up along the front right of the stage, just forward of the cross, that Hunter noted their common dress. They each wore a long-sleeved white blouse, buttoned quite far up under the chin. A long, loose black skirt completed the bizarrely austere outfits, the fabric just reaching the tops of the straps of their plain heels. Their shoes were mid-height — definitely not something you’d normally see at the office, but not quite stripper slutty either.

Too bad.

Hunter smiled, despite himself, shifting his legs to try to find more room for his hard cock. Loose slacks would’ve been a better choice than jeans today.

Their bright eyes were wide as they peered up into the gallery. One, a dark-haired beauty of perhaps twenty, was so pale, Hunter wondered if she was about to pass out. The blouse and skirt hid her figure to a great extent, but Hunter could tell that though her breasts weren’t large, her hips were quite generous indeed. The woman in the middle was a blonde in her thirties, trim and athletic of build with shoulders maybe a tiny bit large for her frame. Her hands clasped together tightly in front of her thighs. She refused to look up at the gallery, her head bowed, shame rolling off her in waves.

Hunter tried not to think about how much her shame turned him on.

The woman at the end was a curvy, luscious female easily into her later forties, the broadness of her hips and the slightly lower, though still round and generous breasts belying her age. She glanced from where she’d come — she’d been one of the two sitting down near the stage — then looked over at Keenan. Her auburn hair, a thick, rich weight of locks, was caught up in a rather haphazard bun at the back of her head, one long strand of it hanging fetchingly at her temple. She looked upon the throng with firm lips, nostrils flaring, her expression one of fear or pique.

“Quite the group,” Hunter found himself saying, wincing at the way the words carried, muted chuckling erupting several rows down from them.

Keenan leaned an elbow on the lectern, a bemused expression on his face as he scanned the gallery.

“Seems we’re missing one,” he murmured wryly, soft laughter rippling through the spectators.

Then a fourth woman made her way to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to glare up at Keenan. He lifted his chin toward the other women already waiting on the stage, and the woman reluctantly climbed the stairs, joining them. The light caught the bright track of a tear on one fair cheek as she took her place in line.

“So he wasn’t kidding then?”

“Nope — he’s a man of his word. Unfortunately for Amy.”

The fourth woman was Keenan’s wife, Amy. He remembered well Keenan noting that it was his wife’s turn for a Session, but not really understanding at the time what the man had been referring to.

“So… he’s the master of ceremonies for this crazy shit — and his wife is going to be punished in front of all these people?”

“Sometimes it’s good to be Keenan.”

Hunter covered up his smile with a hand, Lacey stirring again between them. Then something happened that he’d never have expected.

Lacey took his hand.

Squeezing tight, she laid it on her other thigh, and she glanced over at him, her eyes twin glittering pools in the shadows of the gallery. Her smile was fleeting — more a quirk of lips — but it spoke volumes. Humiliated, embarrassed, or mortified, Lacey was still with them. She was still present, still part of this.

And she wanted Hunter to be part of this too.

“Now that we’re all present, Christie Matthias, come forward.”

The young brunette woman’s eyes went wide, her head snapping toward Keenan. He gave her a subtle nod, and she took a small step.

“Christie is here for only the second time, but where her inaugural Session was simply to introduce her to our ways, today’s visit has a more… specific purpose. Christie, you’ve been charged with neglect of wifely duties and endangering yourself. How do you plead?”

“I… I don’t understand. I”—she looked in the direction of where she’d been sitting as she held up her hands—”I’m sorry — it was just a ticket…”

“A citation for thirty miles an hour over the speed limit. Sheriff Mathis was quite forgiving in not arresting you for reckless driving. Now, I say again: how do you plead, Christie?” Keenan tapped the lectern with a knuckle, slowly, pointedly. “Looking to your husband will not save you today, and you know it.”

Christie looked down a moment. “Guilty, Sir. But I went to court and paid the fine. Isn’t that enough?”

“If it were, you wouldn’t be here today,” Keenan said, crossing his arms over his chest. He nodded toward the crowd. “Since she admits her guilt, we can dispense with a poll. William Matthias, come on up.”

A man in a charcoal-colored suit strode along the base of the platform, Christie’s wide-eyed gaze following him. He took the stairs two at a time, pausing a moment to whisper something to Keenan. Then turning toward his wife, he ran a hand through black hair just beginning to turn gray. Something passed between husband and wife then, and Christie walked slowly toward one of the frames, stopping before the spanking bench. A quick glance back over her shoulder and a nod from her husband had her bending over the apparatus.

It was then that Hunter understood the long skirts, his cock throbbing anew at the sight.

As Christie bent, the fabric of her skirt parted to either side, revealing long, slender legs, the dark slot of her naked sex unmistakable between pale thighs. The position even revealed the tight whorl of the anus, huddling between the rounded peaks of the buttocks. Even from up in the gallery, Hunter could make out the faded marks that still adorned the woman’s bottom cheeks, faint pink lines here and there, especially upon the right hip.

Ho.Ly.Shit.

“William is rather uh,
free
with their strap,” Troy murmured from the corner of his mouth, as if commenting on a sporting event rather than the corporal discipline of a grown woman. “I’ve seen his technique a time or two. Knows how to put Christie through her paces, that’s for sure.”

Lacey made a small sound, Troy’s murmured response a soft admonishment, his fingers still busy between her legs. Hunter could smell her arousal now, the spicy note making his mouth water, his cock throbbing even harder.

“What shall it be, William?” Keenan walked over to the implements, a long finger easing through the falls of a red leather flogger.

Laying his suit coat on one of the empty frames, William was already rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the boardroom… and into a spanko’s wet dream.

“I think the cane for her today. That junior one should work, if you don’t mind, Keenan.”

Christie’s strained voice could be heard, but it was too muffled to make out the words, her hips wiggling nervously.

Pressing the rattan into William’s outstretched hand, Keenan moved back to his lectern. “At your ease, William.”

The man made short work of the straps on the bench, within less than a minute lashing Christie so tightly to the apparatus that she could barely move. He’d reduced her to nothing much more than a pair of pale, trembling buttocks, her milky complexion setting off the trim legs, the heels — which he’d left on her — lending even more tension to the firm muscles.

“Dude should rope calves,” Hunter said, for some reason needing a little levity right at that moment. Anything to get him thinking about something other than his own aching need.

Troy chuckled, but didn’t take his eyes from the spectacle before them. “I think we
both
need some practice.” He withdrew his fingers for a moment, patting Lacey’s thigh, the sound wet. “What do you say? Think you might want to help us with that, girl?”

“Yes, Sir,” Lacey said, her breath coming faster now.

She sighed as Troy’s fingers went to work once more.

The cane tapped across the twin mounds of Christie’s ass, and Hunter found himself holding his breath, even as he wished he were the one wielding the rattan. Christie’s bottom stilled, and he could almost see the tension pouring off her body.

Whipping in crisply, the cane left a white line across her flesh that began to fill in almost immediately.

“Next time I tell you to be safe, I want you to listen.” William landed a second stroke, nearly on top of the first one, the sound of it almost inaudible, deceptive. The clenching cheeks, and squeezing thighs told the real tale though. “Reckless driving is hardly what I’d call safe. Do you agree, dear?”

She said something softly, and William shook his head, laying a backhand slice of the cane higher across the fullest part of her bottom. “Louder.”

“Yes, William!”

Hunter was surprised to hear the man’s name used, so accustomed he’d become to hearing ‘sir’ or even ‘master.’ He wasn’t sure he’d ever become accustomed to the latter word, though admittedly he was starting to warm to it.