Author’s note: Is this a heterosexual story ? Well, yes and no. It was certainly written for the pleasure and delectation of a lady of my acquaintance. And there was a certain challenge, as a gay author in seeing if I could write straight(ish) porn. But things aren’t always what they first appear. So here is a spanking that is more – ah – hetero than it seems...
I knew he wanted it hard, so I gave it to him hard, all the way. Girls you generally have to woo and gradually bring to that trembling peak where things just get out of control as their orgasm envelops them in wave after wave of pleasure. It's usually different with boys: quicker, rougher, less inhibited. He yielded sweet as a girl though, moaning as I pumped the silky tightness of his arse, until he came with a little gasp and the tremors of his orgasm rippled the slick flesh that my cock was buried in and drove me to my own explosive release inside him. Afterwards we lay in a warm sleepy pile, me still on top, until much later when his stirrings re-awakened me to hardness and I fucked him again, a slow, gentle, rhythm this time, not even needing the lubricant, my cock and his arse still slick with lube and body fluids from last time. Afterwards he stretched like a cat, with pure sensuous pleasure, and said:
"You really are as good as they say you are."
I smiled, mechanically. The number of times I've heard that ! I disentangled myself carefully from him, and made my way to the shower. It was time to get going. Linger too long afterwards, when their systems are still full of the endorphin rush, and they're apt to start getting possessive, thinking that there's more to it than simply professional etiquette, confusing the flood of hormones in their system with something more permanent, like love.
I pulled on my clothes from the disordered pile on the floor.
"Do you have to go ?" he said wistfully – uh, oh, I thought, danger sign, answer to that one most definitely YES!
"Sorry," I said. "I have another appointment." It never hurts to remind them.
He flushed.
"Yeah, of course." He showed me to the door, kissed me longingly on the doorstep. I held back from responding too enthusiastically in case it fed his illusions. With some clients it can be worthwhile to leave the impression that I feel something more than professional interest, that I really regret leaving – in fact, once I gave a guy a free fuck in the hallway on the way out, and ended up with a really profitable six-month escort contract, swanning around the Caribbean on a private yacht – but in this case I reckoned that the sooner I got away the better, this one was definitely the clingy type. And besides, the next one would be fun – she always was.
She met me at the door, dressed in a dark-green silk negligée that set off her dark-red hair and cream-pale skin, lightly dusted with freckles like a record of the summer just passed. I dropped my head to nuzzle at the base of her neck, because I knew that it drove her wild. Her skin smelt of summer too, of peaches warmed by the sun and filled to bursting with fragrant tangy juice.
"So what is this ?" I whispered in her ear. "Do you really think that this is a suitable way to dress at this time in the afternoon ?"
She giggled. She can't be so young anymore, maybe fifty, a woman in the full bloom of her maturity, but she giggles like a naughty little girl.
"What ? You think that's funny ?" I grasped her arms firmly. A trace of worry appeared in the grey-green eyes, but she brazened it out, shrugged.
"I dress how I like," she said at last. "It's my house." Her voice is one of her best features: warm, deep, a little husky.
"We've had this conversation before," I said coldly. "If you can't be bothered to dress properly to greet your guest, then I can't be bothered with you. I'll leave now."
"No wait, please . . . " Now she is distressed, a little catch in her voice – quite adorable, really. "I didn't mean – I won't – please, don't go. I thought you would like it." And of course, I do, for she looks stunning, but I have no intention of saying so.
"No you didn't," I accuse. "You didn't give a damn. Always thinking of yourself."
"I'm really sorry. Please I'll do anything. I didn't mean to be selfish."
"Well..." I play the pause for effect. "I don't know, Susan. You just never seem to learn."
"Please..."
I take a deep breath, take a look around the room. Light, spacious, furnished by someone with good taste and a comfortable income. The sort of room I could be happy to live in myself. Handsome vases filled with her favourite lilies scent the air. Near the window is a low, cream-coloured sofa, with fat, comfortable cushions strewn on it. Grabbing her by the arm, I pull her over to it, force her down to bend over the back of it.
"Just stay like that," I order, as I stand back to admire my handiwork.
She is broad-hipped, magnificent. Her buttocks stretch the emerald silk, blue highlights playing over the curves. Praxiteles would have made a Juno of her, queen and goddess; but now the queen is fallen and at my mercy. I kick her feet a little further apart, further straining the sheer silk. She is not wearing panties.
"What – what are you going to do ?" Her voice is hesitant now, muffled by her position and the fact that she is speaking into the sofa.
"I'm going to help you remember," I say. I walk round to the front, so that she can see me by lifting her head a little – uncomfortable but possible. She knows better than to get up, at least. My hands move to my waist, and slowly, slowly, I unbuckle the broad, supple black leather belt that I wear. She catches her breath as she realises what must be coming. I double the leather in my hand and lean forward to rub it gently against the side of her cheek.
"I'm going to take my belt to you," I whisper. "I'm going to thrash your arse until you cry. Then I'm going to punish you some more, so that you never forget your manners again. Do you understand ?"
A silent nod. I frown, and ask again, my voice louder, colder:
"Do you understand ?"
"Y-yes." Quavery, but acceptable for now.
I walk around behind her again. I can see muscles tense and quiver in the play of light across the silk. I pause, watching her, watching the scarlet leaves tumble from the sumacs in the garden beyond the window. From time to time I snap the leather against my thigh, and she twitches involuntarily. Make her wait, I tell myself, make each second stretch unbearably, thinking: is this it, is he going to start ? When the subtle signs tell me that she has relaxed a little I move forward and lay the warm leather against her right cheek. My other hand moves possessively across the warm expanse of her left, feels the involuntary response. Right now she thinks she hates me for this hellish wait.
SNAP. I bring the belt down abruptly and unexpectedly across her cheeks. She makes a small sound, more surprise than anything else. Again, I strike, not too hard at first, but she will be feeling it all right. I begin a methodical belting, taking my time between each stroke, gradually increasing the force. She starts to shift about, moving her weight from one foot to the other, the muscles of her cheeks flexing and relaxing as she tries to find a more comfortable position, some way to lessen the effect. There is none. I am hitting her with moderate force by now, and she is starting to whimper. The belt sounds fearsome, but in the right hands it's a subtle instrument, capable of everything from a mild warming to a severe thrashing. Her arse will be stinging, growing hot and red. Thinking about it makes me hard.
I pause.
"No," I say at last. "It won't do." I reach down to the hem of the negligée.
"Please," she says, very quietly.
"I have to do this," I say. "You need a good thrashing and you're damn well going to get one."
I ease it up her legs – wonderful, sturdy legs ! – and with a little fumbling up and around her waist, revealing that generous, womanly arse in all its glory. It is flushed pink, here and there red, in a confused pattern of broad overlaying stripes. Little of its native paleness remains.
"I'll be good," she says, but the lack of hope in her voice speaks for itself. She knows that there has to be more, that she needs more: that I speak for desires in her deeper than volition when I tell her that this is what she needs and this is what she's going to get. I pull her away from the sofa a little, so that it supports her upper torso but her lower half is free to tilt up a little, with provocative hints of the dark delights between her legs. I spread them wider, reaching forward between them to brush the labia, finger the pink nub of the clit. She whimpers again, though not with pain, thrusts back involuntarily. She is very wet. I bring my fingers to my lips, smelling of her, taste her on me. Yes.
I touch the leather to her bottom again, then begin. Red blossoms angrily after each stroke, and very shortly she begins to cry out for I am striking hard now, and the leather bites on her vulnerable flesh, deprived of even the thin protection of the green silk. I ignore her pleas, listening instead to the excited rhythm of her breathing. Presently I drop the belt and come to stand beside her, using my hand to spank her, hard and rough, stinging blows that force me in the end to hold her down, until at last she screams:
"No more, no more, I can't take any more !"
Inflamed, I lift her bodily and throw her onto the sofa. I tear off my shirt and drop my jeans, step out of them. She sighs, thinking that it is over but as I join her on the couch I pin her down.
"Now for the best bit," I say, running my palm over the hot, scarlet, welted flesh. And weeping, I force her head between my knees, her legs spread either side of my torso, her behind under my hands. She is totally helpless, totally exposed, her vulva nestled close to the swelling in my briefs that yearns for her: she is offered to me in all her wonderful, imperfect, beautiful humanity.
"Twenty more," I say, "and they're going to be hard ones."
A wordless sound of anguish issues from somewhere near the floor. But I am always as good as my word. Twenty hard, blistering whacks on her sore flesh; and between each my hands roam her buttocks and thighs and finger her private places, and feel her respond. At last: "Twenty !" I say, and release her. Her face is streaked with tears, red too, though not nearly so red as her backside; but it is the flush of desire as much as the flush of embarassment. Tonight there won't be much need for further foreplay. Our lips meet, tongues thrusting desperately, as we roam each other's bodies. Now it is her turn to press me down on the couch, to bestride me, and her hands have my briefs off without much further ado. I coil forward to bite her nipples as she mounts me urgently, sliding my stiffness into her moist and welcoming embrace. I begin to thrust, hard and fast, sensing that that is how she wants it, deep, deep, feeling the slickness of her envelop me, fighting to maintain control. I do of course, I always do. It is not long before I hear her breathing become ragged, gather in pace and speed, and I synchronise my breath with hers, allow myself to be swept along on the all-consuming tide of her excitement so that we explode together, in a shuddering of flesh and a joint cry of something so extreme that it can hardly be called pleasure.
God, sometimes I love my work.
Afterwards, she lit a cigarette and laid back – rather gingerly – while I showered and freshened up.
"Darling," she said, "you are quite the best that they've ever sent me. Are you quite sure..."
I shook my head, regretfully.
"We've been through all of this before," I said. "It's illegal for a private citizen to own one of our contracts, and that's all there is to it. But one day, I'll come to you, and say 'I'm free'."
She got up abruptly and came and stood beside me as I dried my hair in front of the full length mirror.
"It's a crime," she said at last. "You're so gorgeous."
I looked at my naked reflection in the mirror. Objectively, professionally, I had to agree with her – I was gorgeous. But then I was made to be, all the EF series androids were. We are made to give pleasure, to men and women. We make a lot of money for the Corporation for that very reason. And if we're very, very good at our job – and I am very, very good at my job – one day we can earn enough to buy our own contracts. One day I would be as free as any born human.
But an android is an expensive item, you have no idea how expensive. Susan is terribly generous to me, one of my best, and everything she gives me, I hoard like a miser. I've told her that when I buy out my contract, I'll come to her. And I will: as I said, I'm always true to my word. But by then, of course, it will only be to say goodbye, and lay the lilies that she loved so much on the grave where this woman, this wonderful, human woman, will be sleeping, peacefully, all alone.
Copyright © 2001