An unorthodox wake...
The old church is set incongruously among the city office blocks and hotels which have colonised the neighbourhood and now tower above it. Two strangers sit in the rearmost pew, empty seats between them and the sparse congregation at the front. Turnout at the funeral of this prominent businessman is less than might have been expected, evidently 'widely known' does not equate with 'universally liked'. A clergyman, unacquainted with the deceased, drones a monotonic eulogy by rote at the lectern. "Respected and admired by his loyal employees..."
"As if," blurts a female voice, that of the woman adjacent to Rupert. She gasps and raises a hand to her mouth, turns in his direction, face flushed and clearly embarrassed. "Oh Christ," she whispers - accidentally adding blasphemy to her vocal transgression - "I didn't mean to say that out loud, sorry if I offended you".
"Not at all," he reassures, voice low, the trace of a smile, "in fact, I completely agree."
"You do, really?"
"Indeed, an objectionable man. I'm Rupert by the way."
"Fiona, do you think anyone else heard?" The congregation has segued into the desultory rendering of a tuneless hymn, a welcome cover for their clandestine conversation.
"Doubt it and in any case, there are many here who'd share the sentiment. Look, it's nearly the end of the service and I feel I've discharged my duty, what say we discreetly depart and grab a coffee?" She nods assent, and they surreptitiously exit.
The sunlight outside allows a better view of his fellow 'mourner' and Rupert is immediately enamoured. She's dressed entirely in black from top to toe; hat and veil, stylishly cut two-piece and shoes; age hard to pinpoint, allure indisputable.
Fiona is equally impressed. A mature man in bespoke formal apparel, groomed and confident with effortless presence and considerable charm. Politely pulling out a chair when Fi decorously takes her seat in the coffee shop, he orders and pays, black Americano for both, the waitress beguiled by his old-fashioned good manners.
There's a palpable spark between them. Hooking up at a funeral is hardly classy, thinks Fi, already anticipating the way this liaison might proceed. Rupert, astutely interpreting the covert signals flashed by Fi's expressive green eyes, is determined to follow up on this thus far unspoken mutual attraction.
"So, if you dislike him so much why attend the funeral?" Rupert smoothly picks up their earlier conversation.
"Professional obligation, I worked, fortunately not directly, for the creep. 'Mr Wandering Hands', younger female staff used to call him. My reluctance to honour him resulted in being late - hence the seat at the back. How about you?"
"His company was a big client," explains Rupert. "I met him a couple of times and wasn't impressed. Overconfident, bombastic and just plain rude."
"If Linked-In profiles were ever truthful that would sum him up succinctly," smiles Fi.
"Nevertheless," Rupert's stare is transfixing, "decorum is required at such formal occasions. A lapse cannot go unadmonished."
Fi lowers her chin and returns the look through long lashes. "You're right, that was rather wicked of me." Her voice has assumed a sultry tone. It simultaneously occurs to each of them the conversation has reached a tipping point. This is no ordinary sexual encounter. An erotic ritual commences, he the chastiser, she the penitent; hers the greater jeopardy. Rupert's intuition indicates Fi's outward composure conceals an affinity for submission while she recognises a natural dominant. A perfect match.
"Shall we?" ventures Rupert, taking nothing for granted.
"I rather think we might," confirms Fi, adrenalin surging. Without either of them overtly acknowledging it, a Rubicon is crossed. Rupert has flown in from his European home, intending to make a weekend of the visit. Fi drove from a couple of hours distant, packing an overnight bag on the off chance. They adjourn to his upmarket hotel.
"Are you going to punish me for my intemperate outburst?" Fi asks nervously once in his room.
"Most certainly," confirms Rupert, calmly.
"With that clothes brush?
"Quite so. This place is most thoughtfully appointed: coffee maker, high-speed internet and this substantial hardwood brush. Accident or design I wonder? I hope the walls are soundproof."
"You're going to smack my bottom?"
"Your bare bottom," asserts Rupert.
Tongue suggestively tracing her red lips, Fi contemplates this information. "Across your knee?" she enquires in a sublimely low and sexy voice. Rupert's manhood stiffens; Fi is already wet.
"Of course not, I've no intention of holding you down like some recalcitrant brat, you're a consenting adult and I expect you to submit with dignity." Fi considers his demand and doesn't demur.
Why would she, submission is what lights her fuse.
"I won't need to keep my skirt on then." She surprises him by allowing the expensive fabric to drop to the floor. The hat and jacket have already been discarded, likewise the shoes. Fi now wears only a chaste white blouse and sheer black nylons.
"Stockings," observes Rupert, unable to conceal his pleasure at the revelation. "Seems exotic for the occasion."
"I dress to please myself," responds Fi haughtily, before once again wrong-footing her putative punisher. "I imagine these are also unnecessary." She decorously slides a pair of skimpy knickers down to her ankles, daintily lifting each foot in turn. Neatly folds the skirt and places it on a chair, picks up the discarded panties and tosses them to him.
"That," says Rupert, deftly catching the lingerie and placing it in his pocket, "was very naughty."
"How do you want me?" Fi decides not to provoke him further, yet.
"Kneel on the sofa, grip the back and push your bottom out, I'll begin with a dozen smacks and see how they alter your attitude." Fi meekly adopts the vulnerable and exposed position.
