Discipline of the Blue Book Read online

  Still holding my skirt up with one hand, I proffer my highly fragrant panties to Simon. The devil catches them on the end of his stick.

  We both fight not to laugh, roles forgotten for a second or two, then he plucks them off the end of the switch and studies them carefully. Even from where I stand I can see the enormous damp patch on the crotch.

  “Just as I thought. You have no self-control, do you?” He rubs the silky stuff between his fingers, as if releasing more vapors, then passes them beneath his nose for a second, inhaling the damning evidence.

  My face and my entire body glow. It’s so deliciously mortifying, even though Simon is intimately familiar with my scent, and my taste. As he breathes in again, silky fluid slides down my inner thigh in a little trickle.

  Oh, please, hurry. Whip me, touch me, fuck me. Do anything. I’m dying here waiting.

  Simon’s eyes flash as if he’s heard me. God, I swear these days he can read my mind.

  “So impatient,” he murmurs, smiling slightly has he tucks my little pants in his jeans pocket and then fondles his switch, running a forefinger up and down it.

  Yes, I am impatient, I want to say. And so are you, by the looks of that hardon.

  But I just remain silent as he stares at my crotch, his mouth twitching a little as if the slight smile wants to turn into a huge lecherous grin.

  “Let’s get on with it then,” he says, glancing around, as if looking for the perfect spot. His eyes light upon the small, lakeside picnic area up ahead, about twenty yards away, and he nods toward it. “That looks like as good a place as any.”

  “But…” Good God, it’s a public area. Anybody could suddenly turn up with their sandwiches and their cool-box, and get the shock of their lives to find us cavorting around playing pervy games. Not to mention the fact that it’s also visible from the other cottages, across the lake. If any of the holidaymakers there happen to have a pair of good binoculars handy, they’ll get a fine show.

  “You’re not afraid, are you?” It’s said low, and challenging, and irresistibly; and yet I know that if I expressed a true qualm, he’d never force the issue.

  “Not in the slightest. No way.”

  “Come along then. Look lively.” He strides ahead, flicking the slender switch around, still gauging its heft and its flight.

  Letting my skirt drop, I follow, but he must have seen that out of the corner of his eye, because he says over his shoulder, “Oh no, no. Not so fast. Everything on show if you don’t mind.” I see the lift of his tawny eyebrow, his face half turned toward me. “Back and front.”

  My breath hitches in my throat. Now it’s not just my head that feels light. The sense of exposure and subjugation makes my sex throb as I bundle my skirt up in an inelegant bunch around my waist and walk behind him, displaying my pussy and my bottom and my bare thighs to the summer air.

  Simon is a demon, I swear.

  When we reach the picnic area I’m almost hyperventilating. I feel so frustrated I could scream and just stand there and rub and rub myself until I come, regardless of Simon or any notional watchers or passing picnickers.

  I can’t stop watching the way the switch flicks and dances. That’s going to hurt, I just know it, really and truly.

  Simon sets the implement of my chastisement down on the picnic table and takes hold of me, kissing me hard on the mouth as he holds me by the shoulders. Still clutching at my clothing, I respond, fighting his tongue, even though I probably shouldn’t, and trying to press my bare crotch against his jeans-clad thigh.

  I swear I’ve turned into some kind of mindless, voracious sex zombie, craving stimulation and pleasure, pain and orgasms.

  “Dirty girl,” he mutters against my mouth, low and growly. Then, in a sudden rough action, he tugs at the fastening of my skirt and jerks it open. Knocking away my hands, he pulls the garment and lets it slide away, down my thighs, until it pools around my feet. I’m so strung out that I’m not sure I can step free of it without falling over, but in a strangely courteous gesture, he holds my hand and elbow, supporting me, as I hop from one foot to another, ridding myself of my skirt altogether.

  Simon just leaves it on the ground and leads me to the table.

  “Over you go.”

  Obediently, I drape myself across the rustic construction. My breasts ache as I settle into place, hard nipples chafing against the unyielding wooden surface through my cotton top and my thin bra. Simon grasps me by the hips and adjusts my position, and I can’t contain a moan as my pubis knocks against the edge of the tabletop.

  “What do you want?” he whispers, leaning over me, his thighs against mine, denim against skin. When I don’t-—can’t—answer, he slips a finger into my cleft from behind, sliding it over my sticky sex-lips in a delicate, playful gesture that excites me but goes nowhere near to my clit and only provokes without satisfying. “What do you want?” he repeats, finger fluttering and dabbling.

  I clench my thighs, tensing the muscles of my buttocks and pubis, trying to knock his finger toward the most sensitive spot, or alternatively, bump myself against the table beneath me. Inside my head, I’m silently screaming for something, anything.

  He withdraws, running the evil fingertip up the inside of my bottom cheek.

  “I want to come. Fuck you, I want to come.”

  “But you know what has to happen first, don’t you?” He seems to ignore my outburst, and his voice is deep, not quite steady, but still composed. I wonder vaguely if the people in the Blue Book ever spoke while they were posing and enacting their scenarios. Did they really spank and groan and come, come, come again and again?

  God knows, I hope it was real, not just for the camera.

  “Yes, I know.” My voice is as unsteady as my beloved’s. “You have to beat me. I have to suffer.”

  Oh dear Lord, I’ll suffer even harder if you don’t beat me.

  “Quite so,” he affirms, a prince of placid observation, his fingertips dancing and teasing.

  “Shall we get on with it then? The longer we’re here, the longer some perv over the lake has to catch sight of us.”

  He chuckles then. “You mean some other perv?”

  “Whatever.”

  “You really are the most terrible submissive, you know,” he says, grabbing my buttocks with both his hands now, as if savoring the firm, rounded flesh and kneading it like dough. I have to bite my lip, I like it so much; almost as much as I think I like it being spanked. I know I’m useless as a penitent, but it’s early days yet. I’ll learn better how to perform as we go along.

  He squeezes now, quite hard, almost pinching. A sort of buildup to the main event. Little pains to prime me for the bigger one. I’m so tempted to just tell him to get a move on, but I stay quiet for the sake of authenticity. Even so, I can’t hold in a long, low moan.

  Over my shoulder I see him smile, a slow sleek grin. Then he grabs me by the thighs and adjusts my position over the table, parting my legs a little, making me look ruder and more exposed, more vulnerable than ever.

  “Nice,” he remarks, then reaches for his switch, and I hear it whistling through the air as he gets the measure of it.

  A tap falls on my left bum cheek and I go, “Ooh!”

  It’s not hard, not at all, but it’s different than a hand. Very different. Sort of sharp and focused, not diffuse. I haven’t the faintest clue whether I like it or hate it.

  He taps harder, on the other cheek, and I squeak again. I had some plan that I’d suffer stoically today, to offset my other shortcomings in the submissive department. But as more taps—swipes now, and maybe whacks—begin to fall, I find that I’m shouting rather loud at each bolt of heat.

  It hurts. It really goddam bloody hurts.

  “They’ll hear you across the lake at this rate, never mind see you.”

  He’s right.
I’m very loud, and getting louder as my bottom gets hotter and aches more furiously. I can feel each streak of the switch individually, pulsing and throbbing; they’re all stinging in unison. There’s barely a handful of them yet it already feels like hundreds of thin burning lines.

  Slick arousal slithers down my inner thighs, and my clit’s trembling in the same dark, thudding rhythm.

  “I can’t help myself. I have to yell,” I gasp. Simon pauses for a moment, and instead of enjoying the respite, I churn my hips against the table, trying to provoke an action from him as much as rub myself against the wood for relief.

  “Do you want me to stop?” asks sweet Simon, the nurturing soul who’ll do anything to take care of me. This persona seems a bit out of place here, but it’s nice to hear him, even if for just a moment.

  “No! Hell, no!” I thrust my bottom up at him invitingly, and at the same time sneakily loosen my death grip on the table with one hand and slide it under me. Trying not to be too noticeable about it, I search among my pubic curls to find my clit. It lurches and I make a choking sound. It’s almost but not quite an orgasm and I want to kick and kick and kick until it’s a full one.

  “Naughty, naughty.” He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand from under me, making me whimper. My bottom already seems to be pounding so hard that the reverberations are teasing my clit to an even higher state of need.

  I can hear his breathing. It’s rough and heavy with excitement as he stands over me and clasps both my wrists together at the small of my back. He’s tossed the stick away now, but he still has his hands. One to hold, one to trace the tracks of my punishment with questing fingers, making me howl.

  “I’ll make a bargain with you,” he purrs into my ear, leaning right over me, the rough cloth of his jeans catching at a sore spot just on the outer curve of my buttock. I bite my lip, trying to keep quiet, but somehow this makes me gasp again. “You can have one orgasm now, but after that, I’m going to spank you hard, with my hand, and to keep you quiet I’m going to gag you with your knickers.” He slides his fingers into my cleft from behind, but pauses just millimeters from my clit. When I try to jerk myself against his touch, he retreats, the accursed devil. Part of me is thinking ew about the knickers thing, while the rest of me is thinking, Oh God, outrageous, sexy…

  “Do you want a climax? Do you accept the terms?”

  My pussy is screaming for release. My bottom’s on fire. I’ll say anything and/or do anything, even though my mind is both appalled and thrilled at the idea of that wicked, wicked gag.

  “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth, clenching all my inner muscles in the hope that might trigger me without benefit of a touch to my clitoris.

  Obviously, Simon sees the slight flexion, and feels it, so he deals me a slap on my punished right buttock in retribution.

  “Behave yourself. Your pleasure is mine, you little she-cat. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  Somewhere inside, I’m laughing at being called a “she-cat.” The extremes of desire have made him just as ridiculous as I am.

  But the next instant there’s nothing amusing about him. He’s all business. He releases my hands and slides one of his under my belly, finger searching and finding my clit while he shoves the stiff middle finger of his other hand rudely into my sex from behind.

  Ruthless. Efficient. Effective.

  My vagina clamps and clamps around the intruding digit and my clitoris leaps and flutters beneath his fingertip. I sob, burning with pleasure, burning with pain.

  But it’s over almost before it’s begun, almost before I’ve drawn breath even. His beneficent hands withdraw, leaving me high—and wet.

  Now I’m for it.

  I can’t help myself. I have to turn around and see what he’s doing. Where are my knickers?

  However, he’s frowning. I’m not a micro-size supermodel or anything, but still, my panties are not very substantial. Simon stretches them to their limit, tut-tutting his disapproval.

  “You couldn’t gag a field mouse with these things,” he says, tossing them away across the picnic table, and then to my astonishment he tugs his black cotton T-shirt out of his waistband.

  Good grief! With McGyver-like efficiency, he rips a narrow strip from the hem, twisting his torso around this way and that in order to yank the piece free.

  “Much better.” Tensioning his trophy, he gives a smug little nod and then, with no further ado, he puts it to purpose, slipping the black cotton length between my teeth and fastening it at the back of my head, not too tight, not too loose.

  Mmm, it smells of him. It tastes of him. I don’t like the sensation of cotton against my teeth, but still, it’s him. It’s Simon. Thankfully not my own knickers but just as sexy, just as primal.

  When he runs the edge of his fingernails along one of the hot marks on my bottom, it’s also just as effective, if not more so, as a gag. I gurgle and make muffled, uncouth sounds, hitching my hips from side to side.

  The gag works well though. I’m decidedly less noisy. And I need to be when Simon sets about me, slapping and slapping and reigniting fires that were already searing my soul. With my fingers clutching the edge of the table like a vise, I close my eyes and seem to see flames dance in my head, rippling in sheets like the sensations that assail the contours of my bottom. I can’t keep still, my pelvis hikes about as if there’s a reciprocating engine in there, shifting from side to side, circling, grinding. Simon misses the mark a couple of times, and it’s worse than hitting the target. When he catches me sharply on the curve of my hip, or the top of my thigh, it produces a stifled commotion of squealing behind my gag.

  A firm hand settles on the small of my back, pinning me in place. He’s had enough of my shenanigans. With me immobilized, he renews his efforts, concentrating on the tender underhang of my bottom, so cruel but exquisite.

  I’m surprised that I’m not crying, but strangely, I don’t shed a tear. Maybe all the fluid in my body is diverted elsewhere. Blood speeding to my bottom to increase the ruby-pink glow. Other moisture pooling between my legs, in my cleft, creating a trickling well of silky arousal. I swear there’s pond beneath me on the tabletop.

  How long does this go on? I don’t know. Could be an hour, could be two. Or mere minutes. When I’m not sure I can take any more, Simon stops, a miracle of mind reading. He edges back a little way, and I can sense him surveying his handiwork. It must be like standing by a furnace, enjoying the glow. What must his hand be like? Surely that’s on fire too?

  Tick, tick, tick pass the moments of my internal clock. Tick, tick, tick throbs my clit, silently calling for release.

  Oh fuck me, love, fuck me. I can’t wait anymore.

  He hears me again, and there’s the faintest of faint sounds. A button being unfastened? Then, the more identifiable noise of a zip, and after that, rummaging. Simon fishing himself out of his underwear and then searching in his pocket for the condom. I’m lying here with my eyes shut, and I think, well, he never said I couldn’t look, so I open them and turn back to sneak a peek over my shoulder, wincing as the slight movement impacts upon my spanked flesh.

  I can just see the vivid crimson rounds of my bottom out of the corner of my eye, but the more arresting sight is Simon’s majestic erection, just as ruddy even in its latex coat. I know it’s just a trick of perception, but he seems to look twice as large as normal, and I swallow hard, behind my gag, anticipating his arrival.

  He grabs me by the hip to position me, and I make a weird mewling sound, quite beyond control. The press of his thumb against my punished buttock is agony, but still I relish it, jutting my ass out to make a connection with his cock.

  Oh, there he is. I close my eyes again, arching my back. His big glans is pushing against my labia. He reaches down, parting my folds, finding my entrance, then shoving hard, pushing in.

  I mewl again, almost chomping on t
he black strip of his T-shirt as he shoves. Slow push, a little jab, stop. Slow push, a little jab, stop. Working his way into me, owning me, stretching me, addressing every millimeter of my interior. He gets to his limit and then, somehow, seems to push some more, until he’s in deeper than ever before and the rough cloth of his denim jeans is abrading my soreness.

  But I don’t care. I don’t bloody care. I push back against him, and he inclines over my back, stirring my pain again and again as he heaves himself against me, battering the root of my clitoris as he thrusts and thrusts, and suddenly it’s like fireworks going off in my pussy and my head, white Roman candles and Catherine wheels of pure silvery, miraculous sensation.

  My sex clenches and wrenches, contracting in giant rolling waves of bliss and then it’s Simon who should be gagged, because he roars out like the king of the jungle, climaxing heavily, thudding against me and cursing up a blue streak of gorgeous, happy profanity.

  We lie there gasping for air for a while. I’m not sure whether I’m dead or not, but the ache in my bottom convinces me I’m alive, just. Simon’s thrown over my back like a cloak, and his face is against my cheek. I can swear I feel tears. Or maybe it’s just sweat? Either is good.

  “Oh, baby,” he gasps in a dazed sort of way, and after two attempts, levers himself off me and half staggers free, sideways, until he’s sitting on the bench beside the table. Then he collapses over it, his fingers seeking my arm, gently curving around it. “Oh, God, that was fucking amazing…you’re fucking amazing.” He drags in gulps of air. “Fucking amazing…”

  Eventually, we become human again, rather than creatures of flame and orgasm.

  Treating me like a fragile invalid, he unfastens the gag, smoothes my hair, helps me rise, wincing when I wince, as if he’s suffering a phantom spanked bottom himself. Fluffing it up like a tent, he attempts to let my skirt fall down without actually touching my steaming buttocks.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, genuine worry in his eyes, “I think I went a bit mad there.”

  Oh, my darling, darling man…