The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

MRS FOX by Michael Crawley

ELEVEN DAYS AFTER I broke up with Angie I ran into Jeff, sitting in a booth at Sombrero Jack’s. He was with a woman, so I tried to make it “Hi and Bye”, but he insisted I join them.

“Paul, this is Mrs Fox – Cynthia Fox. Cynthia – Paul. We worked at Blackstock’s together, years ago.”

I half-stood and reached across to squeeze limp fingers.

“Call me ‘Cyn’.” Did her fingertips drag on my palm for a fraction of a second? I wasn’t sure.

I knew straight away why Jeff wanted me there long enough to get a good look at her. He’d always been joking-jealous of me. I was bigger, and had all my hair. Some of the women in the old office had hung around my desk during coffee breaks, playing at flirting. It hadn’t meant anything, but they hadn’t done the same at his desk. He’d resented that.

Now he was with this woman – an older woman who was quite lovely – and I was alone. He wanted to make the most of it. I could live with that.

He said, “Cynthia and I live together.”

I said, “You’re a lucky man,” and meant it. Her age showed in the laugh-lines around her big dark eyes, but her black hair was crisp and short and her body looked lithe, with hard high breasts, half exposed by the shawl neckline of a sweater in clinging black jersey. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn’t need one.

Jeff ordered a round and poked the gold card he’d left on the table from side to side, to make sure I saw it. I resolved that when the time came for me to pay my shot I’d use cash. It’d spoil it for him if I used my gold card.

Jeff did the talking. It was impressive stuff – big deals with Chile and so on. He was selling prefabricated buildings or something. Maybe he was working hard. He had dark bags under bloodshot eyes. I half-listened and kept my eyes on “Cyn”, which was what he wanted me to do.

When she excused herself to go the ladies’ room I watched her hips slink away into crowded darkness.

“What do you think of her?” he asked.

“Very nice. A sexy lady.” I couldn’t comment on her personality because she’d hardly said a word.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

I was supposed to ask for details. I didn’t. I’m no prude, but some things should be kept private.

Cyn seemed jittery when she came back. Her arm stretched halfway across the table to fiddle with the little glass ball that held the candle, to adjust the condiments, to take a napkin from the holder and shred it. She had nice hands – longish fingernails – very pointed – painted deep pink. Her fingers were slender. Tiny blue veins showed inside her wrists. Higher on her pale arms I noticed some bruising and broken skin, as if a bracelet had caught in something and yanked off, or like a rope-burn maybe.

It was none of my business.

Her collar seemed to gape more now, or perhaps it was just her leaning towards me. There was a purplish mark above her collarbone and another mark, the size of a thumb-print, on the slope of her right breast.

It was still none of my business.

It wasn’t any of my business when Jeffs hand dropped out of sight and she winced, still looking straight into my eyes.

They stood to leave, with Jeff leering, “Bed time, Cynthia.”

She took my hand in a proper shake, not that “fingertip” thing. Something pressed into my palm.

I gave them five minutes before I looked. It was a note, written on that tan paper they use for towels in washrooms, and a key. The note read, “I must see you. I need your help. Midnight.” There was an address and a lipstick kiss. The paper was damp. Tears, or moist palms?

They were supposed to live together, but maybe Jeff had lied about that, or perhaps he was flying to Peru to do another of his multi-million dollar deals.

I thought for a while, but it had been eleven days since Angie, and I’ve always been a sucker for a “damsel in distress”, even when I’m not horny.

I knocked on her apartment door, but too lightly for anyone inside to hear unless they were listening for it. I still could have turned around, but I didn’t.

I used the key.

The hallway was dark. I said, “Cynthia? Mrs Fox? Cyn?”

There was a line of light under a door at the end. Something swished and cracked. A soft voice yelped. I strode on the balls of my feet and cracked the door. The bedroom was lit by candles. Cyn was on the bed, on her face, spread-eagled and naked. Her wrists and ankles were tied to the four corners of a scrolled brass frame. Jeff was stripped to his waist, his belt doubled in his hand, raised high. It came down hard, across her bottom.

When I see abuse something cold takes over. I did things to his wrist and his face and then he was whimpering on the floor. I prodded his thigh with the toe of my shoe and told him, “You have five minutes to get your things and go.”

It took him three, with me watching him. Cyn needed me but I wasn’t going to turn my back on him.

As soon as the front door closed I bent to the cords around Cyn’s ankle.

“Please? There’s some salve in the bathroom?”

It seemed obscene to leave her tied like that, but she knew what she needed first better than I did.

“It’s awkward for me,” she said. “Would you mind very much if you did it for me?”

I was as gentle as I could be. Thank goodness I’d got there on time, for there were only four weals, one high across the backs of her slender thighs, one crossing her bottom at an angle, and two, close together and parallel, blooming into darkness across her cheeks where they were fullest. There were other welts, faded to just pink lines under the translucent pallor of her skin. I smoothed ointment over those as well, though it was too late for it to do much good.

“Could you rub it in?” she asked. “It’ll sting, but it does more good if it’s worked in.”

So I smeared the stuff all over and massaged.

She said, “Harder, please. Harder than that. Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”

I felt muscles twitch and writhe under my hands. It should have been very sexy, rubbing the naked bottom of a beautiful woman, but my concern for her pain blocked any erotic response on my part.

I wiped my hands and untied her. She rolled over and sat up but she didn’t grab the bedclothes to cover herself so I found a satin robe hanging behind the door and draped it over her.

“Don’t leave me,” she said. “He might come back.” Her fingers found my hand and drew it between her breasts. “I need to have you around, for tonight.”

“I’ll sleep on your couch.”

“If that’s what you want.”

It wasn’t. Now she was untied and partly covered, my body was reacting to her body, but if I’d made a move on her I’d have been exploiting the situation, and how do you embrace a woman whose rear is so tender?

She woke me with coffee, naked under that satin robe. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

“My office, sorry.”

“Could you do my bottom again before you go?”

She lay flat on her tummy and tucked the robe up to her waist. The marks had faded to a pattern of bruises. In the daylight I could see that her skin wasn’t broken, thank goodness. The salve must have been cool and soothing on her burning flesh, because when she squirmed under my hands it wasn’t from wincing, but from pleasure. She purred once, when my fingers accidentally trailed into the crease between her buttocks.

“You’ll come back?” she asked.

“After work. About six.”

“Not for lunch?”

“I can’t. Sorry.”

When I got back she had a place set for one and a t-bone with a baked potato and mushrooms waiting. There was red wine and two full glasses. She was still naked under her robe, but dewy, as if fresh from a bath. Eartha Kitt was on the stereo, husking something about needing someone to bind her.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

“I ate earlier. I’ll just watch you.”

I ate and she looked at me. “You saved me, you know.”

“It was nothing.”

“You know what the Chinese say about when you save someone?”

“What?”

“You’re responsible for them. You own them, but you have to take care of them.”

I said, “We aren’t Chinese,” but her words stirred me. The idea of “owning” her appealed to something in my libido.

“You are my knight in shining armour,” she said.

I shrugged.

“I owe you.”

“No – not really.”

“I owe you this, at least.”

She came round and wriggled onto my lap. I just had time to swallow before her head tilted up and the prickle of her nails on the back of my neck urged my mouth down to hers.

It was a nice kiss, but not a “normal” one, if any kiss can be normal. She held her face away from mine by half an inch and slavered her wine-wet tongue across my lips, from corner to corner. I went to bend lower, but she held my head in place. Her tongue lapped backwards and forwards, as if my steak had left grease on my lips and that was what she was after. With me still held in position, her tongue centred and slithered between my lips. It withdrew, and slithered in once more, making slow sensuous love to my mouth.

As her tongue soft-raped my lips, she writhed on my lap, pressing down hard. It was as if her mouth was under perfect control but her bottom was passionate. I was concerned about her soreness but my cock wasn’t. It was enjoying every urgent squirm.

She turned away at last, and took a mouthful of wine. Her lips covered mine. Wine flowed from her mouth to mine, sweet and warm with her saliva.

“Give me some wine,” she said. “Squirt it into my mouth.”

Her mouth opened like a hungry chick, giving me no choice but to jet wine in a long stream, straight onto her tongue. The more wine she swallowed, the more frantically her bottom twisted on my lap.

“Aren’t you sore?” I asked.

She jumped up. With her back to me, looking back over her shoulder, she shot a hip and pulled the skirts of her robe to one side. “See? Almost better? All it needs is…”

“Is?”

“A ‘kiss-better’.”

What could I do? I planted a peck on one cheek, but she flexed it at me, so I licked from the crease where her thigh met her bottom to the small of her back.

“Oh yes! Being a bit tender makes me so much more sensitive. More, please?”

I’d known a number of women, and no two are alike, but this was the strangest seduction I’d ever experienced. I’d licked a few women’s bums before, but never before I’d even touched their breasts, or made love to them in a more conventional fashion. The weirdness of it-the out-of-order of it -made it incredibly exciting.

I nibbled at the base of her spine.

She bent forward, hands on knees. “That’s nice. Touch me, please?”

Where? Wherever I liked, I guessed. After you’ve kissed a woman’s bottom, what caress is forbidden?

I reached around her and pulled her sash loose. My left hand smoothed up over her ribcage, enjoying the ridged smoothness, to cup her pendant breast. My right hand did spider-fingers up the inside of her thigh, touched springy hairs, fumbled, and found moist heat. I rotated three fingers on her, pressing gently. My teeth nipped at the pad of muscle just above her bottom’s cleft. My left hand spread into a fan and strummed across the tip of a springy nipple.

Cyn said, “I could get off on what you’re doing, Paul. You won’t be shocked, will you? When I blow, I blow very wet.”

I wasn’t sure which of my caresses was getting to her, so I continued with all three. My left hand flickered faster. Two fingers of my right folded up into slick softness while a third found the head of her clit, and rubbed over it. My tongue traced an inch lower, to her tailbone – her coccyx.

She said, “Harder.”

She hadn’t been specific, so I plucked at her nipple, pinching its tip, substituted my thumb for the fingers that were inside her pussy so that I could use them to manipulate her clit, and rubbed the flat of my tongue in tight circles.

In a totally calm voice, she said, “I’m going to blow now. Don’t worry. I can do it again, and again, for a long time.”

She juddered on my palm, and hot-flooded into it. She’d been right. She did “blow wet”. She soaked me to the wrist. Her spending smelled like fresh-baked bread.

“Now like this.” Her two hands took my one and slapped it up against the soft saturated lips of her sex. “Do it hard,” she said. “I’ll keep blowing.”

It made splashy sounds. I bit into her left buttock, forgetting how sore it had to be, and kept slapping up at her until she groaned and toppled forwards onto her hands and knees.

She rolled onto her back, looked at me from under hooded lids, and said, “I blew three times. Now it’s your turn.”

“I can wait a while.”

“No – I’m on the boil. Keep me boiling. I’m hot for you, Paul. Hot, hot, hot.”

I stood and tossed my jacket aside.

“No time for that,” she said. “Get it out and get it in me. Is it big? Is it a nice big one?”

How do you answer that? I didn’t try. I didn’t have to. She was up on her feet, the dishes pushed aside, and bent over the table, legs spread. That was something I knew how to respond to. Her squishy-wet pussy was poking back at me between her thighs. Its lips were spread, stuck by their own juice. I unzipped, pulled myself out, and entered her.

I didn’t have to do much more. She went crazy from her hips down, rotating, bucking, flicking her bum from side to side, jerking back at me as if it was a battle. I just held on, pressing against her hard enough not to be twisted out.

I’m not usually quick, but I was then. My cock was like a water pistol with a blocked muzzle. Her gyrations pumped the trigger until the blockage had to burst, and then I gushed and gushed until my come was squirting back at me between her sex’s lips and my shaft.

I took a step back, plopping out. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s always quick the first time, isn’t it? With someone new? Have some more wine. I’ll be right back.”

I made myself decent and sprawled in her recliner armchair. When she came back the tightly curled hairs of her pubes were glistening but the rest of her was dry. I assumed she’d used a douche or something.

She asked me, “How do you feel about oral sex?”

“I’m for it. Did you want me to… While I recover my strength?”

“No. Sit up.”

She undressed me. All I had to do was lift up at the right times. It was sexy, being taken care of by a naked woman. My cock thickened along my thigh, but it didn’t lift. It was too soon after a really spectacular orgasm.

She knelt, took me in a cool palm, and addressed the head of my cock. “We’ll soon have you up again,” she told it.

“Give it a few more minutes,” I said.

Cyn glared at me. “When I say you’ll have an erection,” she spat, “you’ll have an erection. I’ll be gentle this time.”

It sounded like a threat.

Cyn squatted, naked, between my bare feet. The light was behind her. Her delta was black shadow. I had a silhouette to look at – a long shallow curve under one thigh, an outline like the cleft blunt end of an egg, bulging down, and then the swoop of another long curve. The cleft wasn’t regular. One side had a slightly out-turned lip. There was a spiked fuzziness on the other side of the egg-shape, as if water had matted her pubic hair.

I’d been inside that fleshy egg. My cock had split it, and beyond, deep beyond, past the hot mushiness into the throttling slick channel.

The thought brought a pulse.

Cyn lifted the base of the recliner, tilting me back and lifting my feet to the level of her breasts. She took hold of my right foot and her left breast. Her nipple dragged up over the sole of my foot, from the hardness of my heel to beneath where my toes curled over. It’s sensitive in there, at the bases of your toes. I could feel the tantalizing spike there as well as with my fingertips. She folded my toes down with her palm, gripping her nipple with my toes, and writhed, prodding rigid flesh between my big toe and the next one.

“You’re growing,” she said. She was right. My cock was thickening and lifting.

Cyn plucked her nipple from my toes. Her head bent, mouth wide. She engulfed three toes, wet and hot. Her tongue squirmed over, and between, and under. She put her nipple back and flickered it from side to side, frotting its tip on my soaking toes.

My cock lifted higher.

“Keep perfectly still!” Cyn ordered.

She stood and bridged me, her arms straight and her hands on the chair’s arms. My fingers wanted me to reach out to her dangling breasts but she’d said I had to keep still. I didn’t want to spoil whatever she had planned.

My cock was straight up by then, not fully erect, but close.

Her arms bent, lowering her face towards my cock. Cyn’s mouth stretched. She paused, my naked glans an inch from her gaping lips, pointed directly into her mouth.

She swooped. My cock passed between her lips, past her teeth, over her tongue, all without touching, and butted the back of her throat. With her mouth still open too wide to make contact, she made a deep gargling sound, and pushed.

Little bubbles from her throat burst against the glossy-tight skin of my glans. There was vibration, vibration so intimate that it seemed my cock’s head had to be pressed against her larynx.

She nodded, once, twice, three times, and then withdrew slowly, closing her mouth on me as she dragged it off my stem. By the time my cock flipped out from between her lips it was hard enough to burst.

Cyn scrambled up the chair. Brief slithers of fevered skin electrified me as she climbed over me. Her knees bracketed my waist. She reached down between us, took my cock in one hand and her pussy in her other, and slammed her hips down.

I froze, letting her impale herself. She looked down at me, wild, almost hating. “Don’t move! Don’t you dare move! I’m going to have a big one. I can feel it building. Keep still!”

Her hips juddered. She glared into my eyes. Her lips twisted. Her face contorted. Her sex was slapping at me, mashing down. She wasn’t focused on the feel of my cock inside her, just on rubbing her clit’s head against my pubic bone. She wasn’t making love to me. She was using me to masturbate with.

There was froth on her lips. Her eyes were insane. She reared up, made two tiny fists, and punched down. I flinched, but she didn’t hit me. She pounded the chair’s back to either side of my head.

“Drag me down harder. Pull down on my shoulders!”

I got a grip and pressed down through her entire body, to where we were united. She bore down with all of her might, trying to squirm her way through me, not riding my cock, just frictioning her squishy pubes and stiff clit, grinding and grinding.

Cyn screamed and toppled sideways, over the chair’s arm, to plop to the floor, sprawling, limp, lifeless.

I hadn’t come. It’d been an incredible experience. I’d never known a woman so totally consumed by her passion, but I hadn’t come. She looked to be absolutely sated, but I hadn’t come and my cock was nagging at me. I gave myself a stroke.

Cyn sat up. “Don’t you dare! That’s mine.”

“I thought…”

“I told you I was multi-orgasmic. Be patient, damn you!”

She crawled around in front of the chair again, put both hands flat on the foot-piece, and pushed it down. I was lifted up. She leaned over my thighs, dragging the points of her nipples over their hairiness and took me into her mouth again. Her two hands lifted the edge, pulling me back, drawing me almost out of her mouth and then pushed down, driving me back into the steamy soft cavern. Up and down. In and out. I just lay there, letting her rock me towards…

My cock’s head exploded inside her mouth. She sucked and sucked until I was dry.

“I didn’t spill a single drop,” she said.

“No – you didn’t.”

“I never will. If I do, you must punish me.”

That was the first time she’d mentioned my punishing her. I didn’t take much notice. It was just a figure of speech, wasn’t it?

It was down before she let me rest. That was okay. It was Saturday morning. I could sleep in.

I woke at noon to the smell of bacon and eggs. After breakfast she suggested I might like to go get some wine and vodka because we’d drunk the last of her booze. When I got back she was madeup and wearing that jersey sweater and nothing else but a pair of metallic black stay-up hose.

I’d been contemplating maybe another session that evening, not at two in the afternoon, but my cock took one look at that tiny triangle of curls, black on white and framed by black jersey above and black nylon below, and made my decision for me. I took her in my arms for a long kiss with my hands checking out how well the weals on her bottom were healing.

They were doing well, but still tender. Whenever my fingertip grazed a ridge she shivered and gasped into my mouth. Her pubes bumped at me as well, which didn’t discourage me.

“I wasn’t nice to you, when you were on the recliner,” she said. “I plan to make that up to you.”

“You were fine – more than fine – fantastic,” I said.

“No – I forgot your pleasure. I feel guilty. Let me do it right, please?”

It’d been a while since a woman had asked me to let her screw me, “please”. I let her undress me and sit me back on the chair. She poured two half-tumblers of straight vodka over ice, set them on a side table, and climbed up astride me.

“I’m not ready,” I apologised.

“You will be.”

She did that shared-drink thing again, with vodka. That, and the heat that was radiating down from her pussy onto my cock, started to take effect. She chewed at my bottom lip for a while, tickle-touching my ribs and chest, brushing her fingertips across my nipples, and then she swooped down and bit one, quite hard.

“Ouch!”

She grinned at me. “Did that hurt?”

I rubbed my chest. “Some.”

She tugged her sweater up into a roll above her breasts and said, “So – take your revenge.”

I nipped.

“I bit you harder than that.”

“Harder.”

I clamped my teeth as hard as I could short of drawing blood. Cyn sucked air, arched at me, and clawed one hand down my chest.

I jerked back. She’d drawn blood. There were four parallel furrows with little curls of skin at the ends.

Cyn said, “Kiss better.”

Her tongue-tip traced them, one at a time. When all four had been tingled she sat back and said, “And antiseptic.” She poured icy vodka over my chest. It stung the scratches but then she put her tongue to work again, lapping and sucking it out of my wounds.

“More?”

I nodded.

“Watch closely. Don’t be chicken.”

I watched. She rested the heel of her hand on my sternum. Her fingers curled. Four nail-points prickled. I stared down as they made tiny dents.

“Say when.”

The tension was unbearable, so I said, “When.”

I reared from the searing, but it was good. Her nails had cut deeper this time, but that just left wider wounds to be tongue-lapped and vodka-stung. She was still licking at me when her hand groped to wrap around my shaft and she lowered herself onto it and I sunk right up into her sponginess.

Then she went berserk. By the time I came my face was soaked with the sweat she’d flicked with her flailing hair and my shoulders were sore from the gouges, but it was worth the pain. It was worth every delirious moment of it.

Then we had to have a shower together. I was sure I wasn’t up to any more but she turned away from me and had me soap her long back and her round bottom and all the time she was reaching behind and slithering her soapy palm up and down on my cock, rubbing its head over her firm smooth slippery buttock, and I found that I could get another erection, and have another orgasm. I came thick and foamy, dribbling obscenely down the back of her glossy thigh.

When you come on a woman, instead of in her, it’s like you mark her as your territory. It defiles her the way a brand defiles the haunch of a cow, making her more precious because she’s yours.

We called out for fried chicken and she licked my fingers for me and then finger-painted her own breasts with chicken-grease, so it was early in the morning before we slept again.

Sunday was the same, from noon till four in the morning. I was glad to go to my office on Monday.

She phoned at three. “What time do I expect you, and what would you like for supper?”

“Six. Whatever. Should I bring something in?”

“Lamb chops. What are you going to do to me tonight, Paul?”

“Do to you?”

“In bed, on the chair, on the floor?”

“Make long passionate love to you, Cyn.”

“Give me the details. I want to be thinking about it till you get here.”

“I’ll call you back.”

When I’d thought, and I called her, all she said was, “Is that all? You can do better than that, darling. Leave it to me tonight then.”

I came home and found her on the bed, naked except for one stocking. The other was wrapped around her wrists and tied to the bedrail.

She said, “You bastard! You’ve got me in your power now, haven’t you. I’m helpless and you can do anything you like to me.”

I can play games. I sat on the bed beside her and rested my palm on her pubes. Leering, I said, “Do anything I like to this,” and gave her a squeeze.

Her thighs spread wide under my hand. “I bet you plan to oil your hand,” she nodded sideways towards the bottle of baby oil that stood ready open, “and work it right up into me, no matter what I say.”

I took off my jacket and rolled my shirt sleeve up. The oil was cool in my palm. I smoothed it over her pubes and her pussy’s pulpy lips.

“I might scream,” she said. “I might beg you to stop, but you’ll be merciless, won’t you.”

“Merciless,” I agreed. I folded three fingers together and worked them into her.

“I thought you were going to be cruel.”

I straightened my hand into a blade and forced all four fingers and half of my palm between her lips.

“You were going to use your whole hand.”

I added my thumb and wriggled, pushing as hard as I dared. Cyn set her feet flat on the bed and lifted her hips at me.

“Deeper. I can take it.”

Women have babies, don’t they? And don’t necessarily split? I pushed harder, against slippery convoluted resistance. My hand sank in, deeper, to the heel of my palm. She was incredibly strong in there. Her vaginal muscles clamped. I struggled against the pressure. I pushed. Her constriction folded my hand into a fist. It was like my hand was in a hot wet rubber sack that was shrinking, slowly crushing my fingers.

“I have to take it out,” I told her. “I’m getting a cramp.”

“No! Revolve it first. Twist your fist in me.”

I turned it left and then right and then started to withdraw, slowly, gingerly, unfolding my fingers as soon as I was able, and finally I was free.

“I’ll be loose for about an hour,” she said. “Better turn me over.”

It took me a moment to understand, but then I did, and flipped her, and shucked my clothes. She was kneeling rump-up, ready. I oiled my cock and poured more oil over her sphincter. Two thumbs pressed her open. I got my cock’s head in place and then pushed down on it with the ball of one thumb. It slowly sank into her, and disappeared.

“Am I tight, back there?” she asked.

“Damned tight. Wonderfully tight.”

“Cocks like ‘tight’, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“You know how I’d be tighter?”

“How?”

“If there were two of you, one buggering me while the other one screwed me.”

I stopped in mid-thrust. “I’m not into that – sharing.”

She twisted her hips, plucking herself off me. “How dare you! I’m a one-man woman. You should know that. I was just thinking of something special to make you happy. Now you’ve spoiled it.”

I apologized, but it was no good. She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night. I felt bad, but at least I got some sleep.

We made up the next morning. I moved in on the weekend. On the Monday I found she’d thrown out my robe and bought me a new one. I understood. Women always do that when a man moves in. They think they can smell the previous woman on it.

“It was a horrible disgusting thing. I don’t know how you could have worn it.”

That wasn’t necessary. Perhaps my anger at her rudeness showed, because she instantly begged my forgiveness and suggested I might feel better if I punished her.

In the brief interludes between sex, she sometimes talked about her past. She’d been raped by a friend of the family when she was thirteen. She’d been raped again when she was twenty and working as a model. A guy she’d lived with, Bill something, had brought three friends home once and gang-banged her.

If I’d kept track right, she’d been raped on a total of seven different occasions and abused in other ways by every man she’d ever known.

We watched tv once in a while. I counted five celebrities that she told me she’d either had affairs with or fought off, including two women.

I found out what she’d been getting at when she’d suggested she’d be tighter if there were two men. She liked it if there was a vibrator deep her rectum when I took her vaginally, and in her pussy when I buggered her. When I couldn’t get it up, two vibrators were fine. It was best for her if I tied her up before going to work with the twin dildos, then “she couldn’t stop me, no matter what I did to her”.

Once she told me, “I wouldn’t need this if you were as big as Jeff was.”

Later she apologized again – and suggested I punish her again. That time I did. She complained that I didn’t spank like I meant it and my hand was too soft. Mr Fox had done a lot of woodwork so his palms were hard. When he spanked a woman she knew she’d been spanked by a real man.

One night when I was seeing to her pleasure she made a pencil mark on a pad. When I asked why, she told me I’d given her eleven orgasms so far that night and she wanted to keep score. I really worked that night. By morning the score-pad read “twenty-seven”. I remarked, hopefully, that it had to be some kind of record. “Not by a long way. Bill got me up to fifty, once.”

We didn’t go out much. When we did, she flirted with the waiter or someone at the next table and we ended up fighting.

I took her swimming in the pool in her building. That was fun until a couple of young guys came in. Somehow or another she lost the top of her bikini and that made her squeal loud enough to turn the lads’ heads. I left her chatting to them, clutching her bra-top to her breasts.

When she finally came up she woke me to tell me I’d misunderstood her natural friendliness.

“I suppose you expect another spanking,” I said.

“With your soft hands? Anyway, you aren’t man enough, you hear me? You’re a wimp, Paul, with a puny little cock. Those boys down in the pool, though, they were real men. You should have seen the size of the erections they got from looking at me.”

I grabbed her and got her over my lap but even mad as I was I had to take care not to break her arms so she managed to wriggle off me. I pushed her down flat on the bed. The cords were there, tied to the four corners, ready for “play”. I used them.

I slapped her bum four times, almost hard.

She said, “Wimp.”

I grabbed my belt off the chair, lifted it high… and tossed it aside.

She twisted her face towards me as I pulled my underpants up. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going. This is where I came in.”