Christ, I was more turned on than I’d ever expected to be outside my horniest fantasies. For a dizzying moment, I thought this was worth any risk, even though my rational mind knew that only a brain-dead, sex-crazed zombie would entertain that thought.
I drooped over his lap, trying to work out how to get over it in the most dignified manner, though God knows what any remnants of dignity were doing in my fevered brain at that point. Unable to compute logistics, I kind of threw myself across the middle section of his thighs, kicking my legs in the air until he smacked them down so my toes brushed the carpet.
‘Now, think about where you are,’ he said softly, his hand renewing its hypnotic circular pattern across my exposed bum cheeks. ‘Take a moment for the full humiliating reality of your position to sink in. Where are you, Cherry?’
I clenched my thighs, his low, authoritative voice tickling the space between them like a sonic vibrator. I wished I’d had more to drink. It would have made the verbal aspect of this scenario so much easier.
‘I’m over your knee.’
‘That’s right. But you missed a bit, Cherry. An important little word.’ His palm hovered dangerously over my rear curves.
‘I’m over your damn knee?’ I hazarded, with an irrepressible snort. Oh dear. It seemed I was discovering a hitherto-unknown minxy side of myself.
The smack was swift and remorseless. I yelped, quivering beneath his hand.
‘I’m surprised at you, young lady,’ he told me. ‘I see I’m going to have to deal with you quite thoroughly. No, the missing word you are looking for is “sir”. Now, repeat the sentence for me, Cherry.’
I couldn’t say it in my natural voice. It came out in a sort of sing-song comedy Deep Southern drawl.
‘I’m over your knee, sirrrr.’
‘That’s right, but who is this fugitive from the Grand Ole Opry I seem to have acquired? Where is Cherry?’
I humphed and tried to kick a leg, but he secured it with a well-placed foot, waiting, hand poised.
‘I’m over your knee, sir,’ I ground out, a mite sulkily.
‘Much better, Cherry. I think we’re in for a long session at this rate. Now, I need you to tell me why you think you are over my knee?’
My God, this man must have had forebears in the Spanish Inquisition. Stuart was not a particularly Spanish name, though. Perhaps his surname was. I didn’t know his surname! I was over the knee of a man whose surname I didn’t know.
‘I think something’s going to happen,’ I said.
His hand began to pat my rump compulsively.
‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘Something is going to happen. But what?’
‘I think you might have some dastardly kind of plan to … spank me … sir.’
‘That’s almost the right answer. Less of the dastardly, though, eh? You’re certainly setting yourself up for a seriously sore bottom, young lady.’
‘Oh dear,’ I moaned, squirming deliciously.
‘Yes, “oh dear” is a valid response,’ he taunted. ‘Last question. What are you going to be spanked for?’
I was stymied. I had to come up with a reason for my own erotic punishment? Was “because I want you to” also a valid response?
‘For …’ I gave it some thought, which w
as difficult with the ever-present hand gliding across my buttocks, occasionally following the line that separated them, almost to the wet spot at its base. ‘For taking strange men home to my flat, sir,’ I said, inspired.
‘Very good,’ he said. ‘That definitely deserves quite a firm spanking, I would say. Now then. Let’s get this bottom nice and high. How long will it take me to turn it red, I wonder? I do like a physiological experiment.’
His physiological experiment began with a series of sharp slaps, falling quickly on each cheek in turn.
‘If it gets too much for you, or you decide this kind of fun is not for you, just say my name. You promise you’ll do that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I sighed, gyrating my hips to push my bottom up higher, revelling in the firecracker sparks he rained down on me.