The Spaning Club

He sat on the bed, waiting for the door to open. He knew there were three other rooms, each with a man waiting, one on a bed, one in the loungeroom, and one in the study. He knew them by name, and they knew him. This was the third meeting.

In the kitchen there were four women, standing next to the stove. They watched as the timer moved through its final seconds. Most of their clothing rested on chairs around the dining table.

Sitting on the bed, he heard the loud buzz of the timer. And almost simultaneously he heard four doors open. He knew one of the women had reset the timer for another ten minutes. He looked to the door....

Carol walked in, climbed onto the bed, stretched over his lap face down, her bottom glistening from the anticipation. Not a word was spoken. Her head was to his left, and her feet to his right. He remembered that Joe in the next room was left-handed, and he visualised the woman in that room facing the opposite direction. And then Carol became the centre of his attention. He placed his left hand under her throat and gently massaged it, determining the weight of her head, the rhythm of her breath, the quickening of her pulse.

His right hand rested on her buttocks, slowly moving in a clockwise motion, pressing more and more into her flesh, gradually speeding up as he massaged her skin to make the sub-surface blood flow briskly. Then his right hand moved up and back onto her skin with a resounding thwak, his hand cupped to create a louder sound, his left hand squeezing just a little. Then a constant attack on both cheeks. He could hear other bottoms in other rooms, and sometimes a muffled cry, and from his own toy he could hear a slight but sharp intake of breath as she tried to stifle her own screams.

The pounding grew louder from each room, and he found himself joining a rhythmic orchestra, each beating in tune with the other. They had all found their down beat, as it were. He could see the red marks as they came to life on her cheeks. He could feel the heat of her hot blood as it took the shock and spread it to other places in her body. And he could feel her neck as it pressed harder into his palm. His right hand was getting sore far too early for the night, and he was just about to take his paddle from the nearby chair, when the buzzer sounded. The bottom spank had ended.

Carol stood and walked to the door. Putting her hand on the doorknob she turned to smile at him. And he was there, in her face, his right hand at her throat pushing her backwards into the wall, and maliciously, and brutally, his mouth pushed against her teeth. Satisfied, he opened the door and forced her out. Returning to the bed, he sat on the edge and placed a chair between his legs, facing away. And he looked to the door.

Fiona entered, and walked to the bed. He grabbed her waist and brought her down to him, her thighs straddling his lap, her weight taken by her knees on either side of him as they faced each other. He took a pillow from the bed, placed it on the back of the chair, and pushed her head back, leaving her breasts exposed for his convenience. Had she had hair, Tasmania would have also been his to own. But his hands went to her breasts.

His left hand slapped a breast from outside to the centre, His right hand slapped the other, a similar motion from outside to the centre. Then both slapped at once. Then a metronome of malfeasance. Slapping so that both breasts moved as one. He could see her eyes, the lust for pain outweighing the simple pleasure of boob beating. It was not enough. She needed more pain. He put his fingers on one nipple, clamping them and squeezing. With his other hand he slapped his wrist, ripping the tight fingers away. He saw minor surprise in her eyes. It was still not enough.

And his ten minutes were running out. He put both his hands behind her back, and pulled her torso toward him. Nipples were centimetres from his mouth. He pulled a breast to his mouth, and bit her nipple, rolling it between the two rows of teeth, increasing the pressure until he saw the first tear in her eye. It was time for the other nipple, but as he reached for it the buzzer sounded. She was rising from his lap, but his two hands went to her buttocks and lifted Tasmania to his mouth. He tongue-fucked her, just enough insertion to mark his territory, just enough to shock, just enough to dominate.

She stood, backed towards the door, her eyes not leaving his, her expression one of bewildered excitement. And she left. He moved the chair away, and went back to the bed. Phase one, bottom spanking, completed. Phase two, boob beating, completed. Next phase, freestyle fisting. Spanking had ended, and the spanking club would now go into overdrive.

Cynthia entered, and he was a little dismayed. She looked thin, and so far had not given birth. He knew there might be problems here. He knew the size of his own fist, had known since his first masturbation, and he knew the pain it could cause if he was not careful. And he knew ten minutes was not enough.

She moved to the bed and lay over his lap, face up, legs apart. He picked up the KY from the dressing table, lubricated his right hand, and her entrance. She was already starting to move, her eyes were giving subspace signals, the whites getting wider, the pupils ascending some inner staircase to hide behind the lids. And he hadn't even started! It was as though he wasn't even there. But he tried anyway.

He looked at his right hand, moving the two outer fingers to rest on the mound under his thumb. The two longer fingers stuck forward, arching away from his palm. His thumb rested on the line between those fingers. The jelly was all over his hand, like some bear caught stealing honey. Normally he would arouse the woman first to help her open the vault, but this one was past arousal. And still he hadn't DONE anything yet. He could not insert anything, her writhing body just not keeping still. He put his left hand over her lower stomach to keep her firmly in place, and it seemed to work, just.

Twisting left and right, two fingers entered. He massaged the closer walls, looking for the spot still just out of reach. The thumb entered and he moved his fingers to guide the thumb. Enough was inserted to cause his hand to put pressure on bone and sinew and, and, what was that? The tip of his fingers had reached the other side? No, she was moving again and he had lost position. Nothing could stop her from arching her body, from perspiring and dropping water from her face. And he felt himself responding to the movement, impaling her bottom if he had been naked. He hoped his zipper would not break and rip the flesh from his penis. What the hell was going on?

He pulled back on his hand to mount a fresh assault, and the buzzer rang. As she sat up preparing to leave, he put his left hand behind her neck, pulled her head toward him, held an earlobe with his teeth, and whispered the only words he had spoken so far that night, "Next time, you are mine."

He sat back on the bed and watched her leave. Then he dropped his trousers to his ankles, and waited. Sally, the final woman, entered.

She went to the bed, dropped on her knees between his legs, reached for his manhood and stopped as her hand encountered a wet sticky substance. What the fuck? Was he a fifteen year old, unable to wait for better things? He recalled this only happening once, before he learned how to please someone who deserves respect, and a full load. The only thing worse than premature ejaculation is no ejaculation at all. Still, she used her tongue and brought him back to a proper level of construction, an erection to be proud of, but he was emotionally spent. His last ten minute session and he had disappointed her. He went through the motions, and she was inventive, using the butterfly, the whirlpool, and the dustbuster. And he responded, only just. Still thinking of Cynthia. The buzzer buzzed, and Sally left. He did not even bother doing any surprises as she left.

All four done, a final buzzer and he could sleep, comparing notes with the others at breakfast.

In the kitchen, four women put four names of men into a saucepan, and then drew them out in turn. They put out every light in the house, and went to their assigned rooms. When Cynthia hopped under the sheet, he was already asleep.