Jessica's script

[The following story is by Lacey DeLeye, a fellow writer of erotica with whom I collaborate on another blog.]

Many of my clients (although I hesitate to use this term, since I spank women for the love of it rather than for money) are, either through shyness, nerves or preference, vague about the type of discipline they wish to receive. At the other extreme are the few clients who would like to role-play a prepared, detailed and scripted scenario. I’m not normally keen on scripted sessions—I’d rather a spanking develops organically within broad but agreed parameters—and more than once I have had to decline a client because she wished to do things that I was uncomfortable with, or because her demands would have involved such intense acting that I would have ceased to enjoy the spanking.

Jessica, who had previously seen me on a couple of occasions for standard OTK spankings, contacted me with a ‘very specific fantasy scenario’ that she would like to play out. I told her I would consider it. She then sent the following email, outlining in detail what she wanted:

Dear Michael, I am delighted that you may be interested in carrying out my scenario. As I said in my first email, it is quite specific. I hope you find it acceptable. Assuming we do meet again, I would like us to be in role from the moment I arrive.

You are Head of Sales at a leading international manufacturing company. I am one of your senior saleswomen. You have summoned me to your office because of my performance at a major trade fair. I was seen by several people snorting cocaine, drinking excessively and behaving inappropriately in the hotel bar, the night before an important sales pitch I was due to give. The pitch went disastrously and we lost a potentially valuable customer.

I am standing before your desk. You tell me that you ought to fire me immediately, but because of my previous good performance you are considering whether an alternative to dismissal might be found. I plead with you not to fire me. You tell me that you have decided to take pity on me, but that I am going to be severely and appropriately punished for the damage I have done to the company and its reputation. You say that since I have embarrassed and hurt the company, you are going to embarrass and hurt me. You tell me to remove my clothes, folding each item up neatly after I have removed it and placing it on a chair, until I am wearing only panties and high heels. You then tell me to remove my panties and hand them to you. You tell me that I am going to be punished for the rubbish that came out of my mouth during the pitch. You order me to open my mouth, and then you bunch my panties and stuff them in my mouth. Then you say that since I had thirty minutes during which I messed up the meeting with the potential client, you are going to punish me for thirty minutes. You sit down, put me over your knee, and spank me hard with your hand for fifteen minutes. Then you say that that was my punishment for messing up the presentation. Now I’m going to be punished for messing up the question-and-answer session. You tell me to stand up and bend over the desk. You take off your leather belt, and you spend fifteen minutes belting me. Then you fuck me from behind, telling me that people who fuck with the company end up getting fucked themselves.

I hope all of that seems acceptable to you. Please let me know if you have any questions. Very much looking forward to (hopefully) enacting this with you.

Kind regards, Jessica 

* * * * *

A week later I answered the knock at the door. “Jessica, come in. I’m sure you know full well why I have summoned you here. Remain standing. I’ve had various reports from colleagues and others about your performance at the recent trade fair…”

Tight blue jeans

Only a couple of weeks ago the park was full of short skirts, hot pants, even a few bikini bottoms. But it was too much—a mass of people that overwhelmed the senses. So I prefer it now that autumn is settling in, now that the scattered lunchers, students and idlers are properly framed by wide stretches of grass and brought into focus. But above all I prefer that it is tight jeans on show, so much more suggestive and sexy than the revealing skimpiness of the summer months.

I follow my usual pattern. I amble gently around the edge of the park, and through its central paths, scouting with practised glances for the ideal sight to muse upon. Not always do I find it, but today I am in luck. Everything is perfect: on a blanket she lies on her front, absorbed in a book, nibbling at an apple, in her 20s probably, slim and casual, wearing a hoodie. But it’s her jeans I’m drawn to.

I sit on a nearby bench and place my magazine across my lap—I may need some concealment later. And I look. My eyes gaze on the contours of her bottom, how her jeans wrap them and smooth them, and how the denim wrinkles and creases, breaking up the contours, not revealing all, leaving something to the mind and to discovery. And then I wonder: does she feel where the denim runs tightly across her bottom and where it does not? Does she sense where the denim leaves narrow bands of skin free, as free as if she were wearing knickers only, or maybe not even them?

I picture her naked after her shower, stopping herself as she is about to put her panties on, walking to the mirror instead and refreshing her eyes with the reflected sexiness of her bottom. In her panties she does the same; and then one last time in her jeans. And I can see her when she bought them, craning her neck to view the mirror’s reflection of her bottom, shifting her feet to see from every angle, perhaps even taking a selfie of her bottom to be sure that the jeans are equal to the great task they must fulfil, ready to buy only when she is satisfied how superbly the jeans show off her arse.

What might she feel if she knew what I was thinking? Perhaps she knows that all day long, wherever she goes, her bottom will be the object of stares, the source of stirrings and the inspiration of fantasies. And I imagine this pleasing her.

What would she say if I went up to her now and ran my hands over the denim, tracing the curve of each cheek, prodding at the creases, trying to explore how the curve continues? How would she react if I told her that I wanted to spank her bottom? I imagine the shock on her face—but she doesn’t move, she just gives a tiny nod, takes a final bite from her apple, packs her book away, and follows me to the secluded bench in the copse, drapes herself over my knee, offering her bottom, the denim now stretched tight across the skin, all her curves and contours ready to receive the first hard smack of my hand, and then again and again until she cries for me to stop.

She is marking the place in her book; she tosses the apple core away. I must hurry now. I slide my hand beneath the magazine and start stroking. I picture myself letting her off my lap, but on condition—that she kneels before me, leans forward between my legs, pulls my panties to one side, and licks my wet cunt. And on the point of quietly coming I imagine her denim jeans, damp from her excitement.