Before it happened that first time I had honestly never imagined for a moment that I would end up getting spanked by my new husband. Raped, maybe; a couple of times in bed at the end of a long day I had wearily told him I wasn't in the mood, but he had gone right ahead anyway, muttering some sort of feeble apology about his needs as a man as he tore my panties off and forced himself on me. My token efforts to fight him off only made the whole thing more exciting for him.
But for some odd reason being spanked by him seemed even more of a violation. It was surreal. I knew something was up the minute I got home from work that evening. I was even later than usual because I had been called back to one of the wards at the last minute to renew all the medication orders. The regular psychiatrist for that unit was on vacation, and the nursing supervisor had forgotten to ask me to cover for him.
Peter Langford is nearly old enough to be my father, and he's a billionaire. That is not why I married him, but of course no one believes me. And now that he's taken to spanking me I'm wondering how long this marriage is going to last. That evening he took me into his study and stood there in the middle of the room. We were both wearing our business attire. I took my suit jacket off and sat down in one of the leather armchairs, wondering of course what was coming next, but he made an irritated gesture and told me to stand up. He stared at me, his gaze unwavering, his expression cold. I felt like an incompetent employee about to receive a reprimand. He told me, quite calmly, that he was greatly disappointed in me. The silence became oppressive as he continued to stare at me, his expression grim. For the first time in my relationship with him he was really scaring me. My voice shook as I tried to defend myself.
"I'm a professional woman, Peter. I have responsibilities. Sometimes I get caught up in my work, you know that."
"It's a pity you don't get caught up in your marriage once in a while."
"Oh, Peter, that's not fair! You know I --"
"Take your skirt off, Sarah."
The rest is a little blurry. A pang of emotion surged through me, a curious mixture of fear and -- to my great embarrassment -- sudden sexual arousal. But, of course, I had to stand up for myself. I stared at him, frowning, and put my hands on my hips.
"What? You must be out of your mind! No way, buster."
He simply smiled at me.
"Just do it, Sarah. Unless you want me to strip you."
"Peter, what the hell is this? If you want sex, you have a very odd way of going about it. I can assure you --"
He ignored me. He stood up and came around the desk and grabbed my skirt and started tugging at it. That was enough.
"All right, all right! Jeez! If it's really so important to you, I'll do it, just don't tear my clothes, damn it!"
He raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender and stood back, still smiling. I got my skirt off, quite mechanically and methodically, wondering what the hell was coming next. He brought out a straight chair and sat down and I was over his knee and getting slapped vigorously on the bottom, gasping with each blow, writhing and jerking as he held my wrists firmly at the small of my back, the heavy material of his trousers rubbing against my belly, my hair falling in my eyes as I stared down at the intricate pattern of the carpet, and then there was the sudden jolting orgasm as he yanked my panties down.
Miles Casben
When I met Colonel Maitland I had a part-time job installing video surveillance equipment, sound systems, and security alarms. He had wanted a bunch of cameras set up in his study, and I got the assignment. His place is something else. It's a real English Tudor mansion that was brought here in pieces and carefully reassembled exactly like the original. The guy must be made of money. When I finished he took me aside.
"Tricky job, Miles. Even I can see that. All that wiring had to go behind the walnut paneling, and you had to fix the high cameras directly onto the stonework, but you figured it all out in no time and it looks really good. What are they paying you?"
I told him, and explained that it was a part-time job to finance my computer science program at the university. He seemed pleased.
"Work for me, and I'll double your pay. I might not even need you every week, but I'll pay you either way. Can you be discreet? Keep things to yourself?"
The Colonel must have liked my answers, because he told me to come back one evening the next week. He was vague about my duties. When I arrived I was greeted by Mr. Jackson, an African American who seems to be employed as the Colonel's general-purpose servant. He asked me to wait in the main hallway. Then some people appeared at the front door, a man and a woman. Elegant, tall and good-looking, expensively dressed, both of them. I caught a whiff of flowery perfume from the woman. She looked nervous. She was wearing a skirt suit, dark nylons, and high-heeled shoes. Jackson led them upstairs and beckoned me to follow. He showed them into the study and then he disappeared downstairs. I waited outside the study door.
The door opened and the Colonel came out with the man.
"Please go down to the lounge, Mr. Merrihew. I will need thirty minutes or so with your wife. Jackson will fix you a drink." As the man headed downstairs the Colonel turned to me. "Ah, Miles. Stay put right there. I'll need you in a minute or two."
He retreated to his study and closed the door. From within I heard the faint sounds of agitated conversation. When he came out again he was carrying something.
"Just look after these for me, please, Miles."
He dumped what he was carrying into my arms and went back into the study. The door closed and I heard the key turn in the lock. I looked stupidly down at what I was holding. Skirt, nylons, blouse, bra, panties -- obviously the woman didn't have a stitch on in there. What the hell? Artist's model? The Colonel paints, maybe? Then, duh, I remembered the cameras and recording equipment I had installed and realized he must be making movies in there. Just as I was wondering what kind of movies, I heard a muffled thwack and a high-pitched scream. Ah. That kind.
I was called back the following week, but this time I was taken directly into the study and greeted by Maitland. Jackson showed a young woman in. It turned out that she was Dana Merrihew, the daughter of the couple we had seen the week before. Dana is 22, a college student, a lively, energetic, gleeful girl with an infectious smile, a mischievous look, and a sparkle in her eyes. Average height, compact, slender, shortish fair hair. She came right up to me and touched me on the arm.
"Haven't I seen you on campus?"
I told her I was a grad student in computer science, and she opened her eyes wide in mock horror and said something about the Big Bang Theory. Then she interrupted herself and rushed over to some shelves at the side of the room and looked admiringly at the Colonel's collection of statuettes.
"These are so cute!"
She bent forward, hands on her knees, gazing with rapt concentration. Then she bounced back towards us and said:
"OK, let's get to it, guys! How does this work?"
The Colonel told her to strip and put her clothes on the straight chair beside the desk. She giggled.
"Right! How do you want me to do it? I mean, you have all those cameras going. Am I enjoying it? Or should I look frightened? What's the scenario?"
The Colonel looked severely at her.
"I am going to punish you. It's entirely up to you how you feel about it."
"OK, OK. No need to be grumpy."
