Scarlett was well named, for not only was red her favourite colour, she also enjoyed acting as though she was a scarlet woman. Donning a red sequined mask, she would spend an evening out on the town, performing in the lowest dancing halls. She would allow men to fondle her through her scanty costumes, and loved seeing the lust in their eyes, the burning desire for her body. But she never yielded it to any of them.
There was one man, Nick Wolfe, who worked as a barkeep at a particularly seedy tavern. He was ready with his fists if any patrons broke the only cardinal rule of the place: rape was not permitted. There were back rooms aplenty for those who paid enough for the girls' full attentions. Occasionally the girls would retire for the remainder of the evening, or appear with more rouge than normal to cover bruises, but so long as they went willingly to the back, what happened there was considered legitimate by the owners, and thus by Nick himself. Though she had been invited -- sometimes persistently -- Scarlett had never been back there.
Scarlett found the darkly handsome, brooding Nick alluring in a way she didn't understand. Wasn't he just like all the other brutes who frequented the halls and adjoining brothels? Didn't he think with his cock more often than his long-haired head? On a handful of occasions, at the end of the night, he'd escorted her out to cabs he'd summoned. As he'd handed her into the hansom last week, his hand had tightened on hers, briefly, before he'd dipped his head and wished her a low, velvety, "Good night."
Tonight she danced with her usual abandon, flinging her skirt high to reveal the special bloomers she'd sewn for herself, ones that hugged her snatch tight and had only a thin ribbon tied into a bow in the middle of her ass cheeks and at the top of her thatch of curly hair. The tavern's patrons cheered and shouted boisterously. One man seated near the rough stage-platform had unlaced his britches and was fondling himself beneath the table. With a leering grin, she shook her breasts at him, turned, doubled over to meet his gaze between her legs, and flung her skirts up over her back -- thereby giving him and the others a quick glimpse of her nearly-bare ass -- before straightening to twirl away once more.
"Tha's indecent, tha' is," one man shouted from the bar, his face red and beaded with sweat. "Li'l strumpet oughtta be punished fer tha'."
"Yah!" shouted a man in a sailor's uniform from the side of the room near the steamy windows. "Bend the wench o'er an' give 'er a lickin'!"
"I'll use me belt on 'er!" cried the man who had been jerking off under the table.
Scarlett had heard such ribald suggestions before, but this was the first time more than two people had joined in. She felt a flutter of unease at the thought that they might try something. But the disquietude died almost at once as she caught sight of Nick Wolfe poised near the edge of the bar, prepared to step in and crack unruly skulls together if the need arose. She winked at him and continued to roll her hips alluringly. Reaching up, she twined her fingers together, her arms stiff, her feet spread wide and knees bent, and rocked her body provocatively, arching back and thrusting her breasts up into the air.
There were more cheers, some shouted suggestions that she do the same in the back --
on
her back -- but she only smiled, blew the men kisses, and began to twirl, the movement lifting her skirts once more. Faster and faster she spun, doing her best to keep herself steady. She thought she saw the sailor mount the dais, and on her next turn, she saw that Nick was no longer at the bar.
He'll take care of me
, she thought, then she smacked into a hard, tall body, her head reeling, and her earlier doubts returned.
Won't he?
The man on stage with her spun her around so her back was pressed to his well-muscled chest. As the world settled around her, she saw the drunk standing at the foot of the stage, his belt still open but his manhood thankfully tucked back inside his pants. Beside him was the sailor, his rod stiff in his breeches, and the man who had first called for her thrashing.
"Give it to 'er good, mind!" called the indecent drunk.
"I don't fancy fighting all three of them," Nick's voice said, low and deep in her ear, his breath tickling her neck. His hands were still wrapped around her upper arms. "Especially since it looks like the sailor might have a few companions with him. So we're going to give them what they want, eh, Scarlett?"
Before she could answer, he pulled her down to kneel with him on the platform. Twisting her around -- despite her short cry of shocked protest -- he bent her over his knee. Flipping her skirts up over her back, he bared her backside. One large hand pressed against her back, and the other began to rhythmically slap her upturned ass, first one cheek, then the other. She shrieked, struggled, but it did no good. He was too strong. His blows weren't violent, but it stung like hell, especially when he changed pace after the first dozen blows, and began raining all his blows upon just one cheek at a time, so that the pain built and intensified.
She quickly discovered that her struggles were arousing not only her audience, but her as well. Her breasts were rubbing against the fabric of her costume, and a wet patch was forming at her crotch. Her first thought was to fear that the men might see her arousal, but then she realized it would likely arouse them still further. Their lust fueled her sense of power, and she laughed through her tears as Nick righted her and placed her back on her feet.
"There. The naughty strumpet has been punished. But now, gentlemen, it's closing time. Go on home and wank off to the memory of this little scarlet woman being spanked, and be off out of here."
There were some good-natured grumbles, and the sailor approached to ask for her favors for the evening, but Scarlett laughingly turned him away. "If I get spanked for dancing, I'd hate to see what Mr. Wolfe would do to me if I went in back with a brawny sailor-boy!"
