Twenty solid strokes until my arse was lit up like Blackpool illuminations and hot enough to cook a fry on. 'Twenty, Sir,' I mewed in jubilation, my legs like jelly, my forehead dripping, my knuckles white, but my sex aflame and needier than I had ever known it.
'Well done, Sophie; you deserved that,' said Dr Lassiter. 'Stay there, part your thighs a little more.'
His hands were upon the inside of each leg, swooping upwards, gathering the juices, marinating in them, and then he granted me the orgasm I had been craving, crooning into my ear while the bubble burst and my legs buckled beneath me. He caught me, wrapping an arm around my waist, bringing me safely to my knees.
I felt an urge to worship him, a peculiar gratitude. Gratitude for giving me a bottom sorer than sunburn – what was I thinking? Perhaps I really was a closet submissive. He sat himself down in the bedside chair and patted my head.
'I like my submissives to thank me for their punishment,' he said, half-smiling. 'I go to a lot of trouble to keep you girls on the straight and narrow, after all.'
His hand was on the buckle of his belt. I knew exactly what he meant.
My mouth full of rigid prick, I glanced sideways at the bed, noticing that the cane remained untested, wondering if this really was it, or whether there was more. My bum, transferring warmth to the heels it sat gingerly upon, was probably not capable of taking any more. All the same, I could not help but wonder. Was it that much worse than the strap? Was it really the instrument to fear above all others? I licked lavishly up Lassiter's shaft, squeezing the base until he spurted in my mouth, pulling at my hair and thrusting fast so that no drop of seed escaped my throat.
I ran my tongue around my lips and smiled coyly up at him. A certain lassitude had overtaken Lassiter and he even returned my smile, hazily, his fingers fumbling to replace the detumescing cock in its hiding place.
I looked back at the bed, and his eyes followed mine.
'I don't think you're ready for the cane yet, Sophie,' he said wearily. 'Perhaps another time.'
'Oh, I don't want a proper caning,' I assured him. 'But . . . couldn't you give me one stroke? I just want to know what it feels like.'
He mopped his brow, exhaled hard. 'You're an interesting girl, Sophie.' He paused, wiping at his face with a handkerchief, crisp and smart as the rest of him. 'Go on, then, get up,' he said with a show of reluctance.
I took my final position, hands on the bedframe, legs spread, arse up, while he whipped the cane through the air, practising angles. The sound it made was fr
ightening enough that I thought of abandoning the plan, falling forward on to my stomach and sleeping off my post-thrashing enervation, but I had asked for it, and I was going to go through with it.
He tapped it gently against my reddened flesh. 'This will hurt, I can guarantee it,' he said sharply. 'Last chance to back out.'
'No, give it to me,' I insisted, my own worst enemy as usual.
He drew back, the air sang, the cane fell, absurdly quiet in its impact, and for a second I just thought, 'Oh! Is that it?' Then white stars of torment sparked in a line; I jumped up and palmed the welting stripe, trying to push it back inwards.
'Red!' I exclaimed, turning around to Lassiter with popping eyes and a near-dislocated jaw.
'Yes,' he conceded, nodding sagely. 'So you'll believe me next time, won't you?'
'Yes, Sir,' I said contritely.
'Good. Now if you lie down on your stomach, Sophie, I have a lotion that can ease the effects. And I'll ring down to room service while I'm at it. I think you deserve a little treat now.'
Lotion notwithstanding, I had to watch how I was sitting for a few days afterwards. But it didn't put me off. I still call on his services from time to time when my itch for Chase is driving me insane. Six of the best take the edge off quite nicely, I find.
The Manager #2
My lunatic infatuation with Chase led me down some strange avenues. If most of them were dead ends, at least I gained a little better understanding of my psycho- geography on the way.
A few months after my disastrous Christmas campaign, I began to worry that my promiscuity was what held him back. After all, we had a good working relationship, there was a definite spark between us and he often expressed concern for me in small ways - a cup of tea, an extra break, a more comfortable chair, insistence that I take all my annual leave. If we were friends, what stopped us being lovers? My reputation, that was what. It must be.
I began to avoid the bar after working hours, spending my evenings out in the city taking photographs of its desolate corners. That summer, you were more likely to find me beneath the dripping archway of a 1930s council block than in a luxury hotel bed. Kebab shops with missing neon letters in the signage replaced the Michelin-starred restaurant. I lurked in hidden places, wanting to obscure myself, wanting to be taken seriously.
At work, my hemlines dropped and necklines rose. I kept my hair scraped back and replaced my contacts with square-framed spectacles - smaller, feminised versions of Chase's own. I kept my nose to the grindstone, my make-up neutral and my presence minimally noticeable. I was discreet, understated and sober. I was not a slut.
God, it was boring.
Chase gave me some curious glances in the first few weeks, but refrained from comment. I took to working late when he did. When the restaurant was dark and the lobby empty but for the stragglers on their way back from shows and clubs I would rearrange the Reception desk yet again, singing under my breath, 'There are worse things I could do/Than go with a boy or two . . .'
Sometimes my gentleman friends would pitch up at the desk, ask when they could see me, what was I doing, was I OK. I fobbed them all off with a tight smile, until I became bored with the rigmarole and told them I had genital warts. Only a couple continued to bother me after that.