The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2 Page 8

  “I’ll do anything, ma’am,” the failed house-sitter whimpered, tensing and untensing her smarting bare bottom.

  “Do you mean that, girl?” the older woman replied.

  She stayed her hand. Linda’s brain raced with scenes. If she pleasured her boss she might get extra weekend shifts and become her favourite. And it was probably as easy to rub another woman to orgasm as it was a man.

  “Yes, ma’am. I long to please you,” she said gutturally. Then she whimpered with relief as she was hoisted from her boss’s imprisoning lap.

  Linda stayed crouched on the floor waiting for her employer to untie her hands. Instead, Miss Breeson just pulled off her own jeans and briefs then opened her strong legs widely.

  “Lick thoroughly, dear,” she said.

  Linda stared at the pinkish-brown folds of skin. The woman’s labia was darker than her own, the lips longer. Her clitoris was peeking from its hood. “I’ve never . . .” she admitted faintly, rocking back on her heels.

  “I hope that you’re not reneging on your word? You said that you wanted to please me,” the forty-something woman murmured. She reached forwards and squeezed the younger girl’s tenderized spheres. Linda gasped at the pain and jiggled about on the carpet, then she put her open wet mouth to her employer’s oiled flesh . . .

  For the next few weeks the Model Tenants agency had a model house-sitter who turned up for work early and who never went out. She earned herself extra shifts until she was house-sitting every spare moment. It was lucrative. It was uncomplex. Until she met Nick.

  Nick looked and smelt like one of those tanned muscular men in an aftershave ad. He sat next to Linda at the bar and desire traced its paths through her wanton flesh. After a double gin she made it clear that she was a single girl in search of communal pleasure. They danced and flirted all night.

  “Let me take you to dinner on Saturday,” he suggested at the end of the evening as he called her a cab.

  “I’d love to, but I’m house-sitting,” Linda murmured.

  “Next week then, please?” he pressed. She loved the fact that he cared enough to pursue her – but she was house-sitting the next week and the next. “In that case,” Nick continued, “why don’t I come to you? I’ll order from that Home Comforts place in the high street. They supply the champagne, the crockery and the meals.”

  “Sounds idyllic,” Linda said. In truth house-sitters weren’t supposed to have guests on the premises. But no one would ever know.

  He came. He stayed. She was deliciously conquered. She could still feel the memory of his manhood inside her when she opened the door to Miss Breeson the next day.

  “You broke the rules by entertaining here,” the older woman said.

  Linda swallowed hard, but knew better than to deny it. “I’ve known him for years,” she lied. “He brought us both a meal.”

  “He also took a Victorian jewellery box belonging to the lady of the house,” Miss Breeson informed her.

  “He wouldn’t do that. He was so nice,” Linda said, her voice rising to something resembling a wail. She realized belatedly that con-men had to be nice in order to fool people. Maybe he’d even known that she was a house-sitter and had followed her to the club?

  She was still musing over the situation when Miss Breeson marched into the lounge and turned on the security tape. The film showed Nick sneaking into the house’s dressing room at 3 a.m. and taking the jewellery box.

  “I assume that he was gone when you got up?” Miss Breeson asked.

  “Well, yes,” Linda muttered, still unable to believe that she’d been duped so easily. “But he left a note saying that he would phone me tonight.”

  “The police picked him up as he left here. The only phone call he’ll be making is to his solicitor,” the older woman said abruptly. She sighed. “It’s lucky that the guard in Head Office was reviewing all the in-progress tapes and saw Nick actually stealing the valuables. Otherwise he’d have gotten well away.”

  Linda knew when she was beaten – or when she was about to be. “Are you going to spank me again, ma’am?” she asked in what she hoped was a seductive little voice.

  Her boss shook her head. “The spanking obviously wasn’t severe enough so I’m going to have to cane you. Be at the training hall for 8 p.m.”

  At 6 p.m. Linda had a bath. By 7 p.m. she’d eaten a light meal and put on her tightest blue jeans and a classic white polo shirt. She wanted to look neat yet casual. She wanted the thick denim to protect her bottom if her boss chose to cane her over her jeans. The younger girl feared the prospect of the rod lashing down on her helpless buttocks, but she was endlessly grateful that Miss Breeson hadn’t handed her over to the police. After all, she’d let a virtual stranger into a house filled with near-priceless belongings. They might consider her an accessory to the crime.

  Crime led to punishment. So be it. Determined to accept her caning with good grace, Linda drove nervously to the spacious training hall where Model Tenants Incorporated trained its employees. She was very aware of her small hips pushing into the car’s driving seat. Would she soon need a cushion under these same haunches? An ex-boyfriend had been caned at public school, and he’d said that it cut like hell . . .

  Cut it out, she told herself, parking outside the Model Tenants Incorporated facility. She walked slowly along the corridors till she reached the training hall. After taking a deep breath, she walked through the door – and abruptly stopped. Miss Breeson stood just inside the hall, but there were twenty men and women sitting in the seats around the arena. Peering closer, Linda recognized three. “Meet your contemporaries,” her boss said. “They are all here because they’ve broken the rules, like you.”

  Linda licked her lips. “You mean we’re going to watch each other being . . . You’ll chastize me in front of them?”

  “I’ve found it helps to drive the message home,” her employer said. She swished something lightly against her military-style khaki trousers and for the first time Linda saw that she was holding a rattan cane.

  Lost for words, the 25-year-old looked around the well-lit room. There was a piece of wooden apparatus in the centre.

  “Meet your punishment rack,” said the older woman, following her gaze.

  “You mean we . . . get strapped in there?”

  “Well, you do.”

  “And get caned in front of everyone?”

  “Only everyone who is here,” her boss confirmed. She paused. “Remember, your audience is comprised of fellow wrongdoers, so they’re unlikely to tease you. My other eighty employees have an exemplary record and will never hear of this day.”

  Linda looked at the rod again. It was wickedly long and thin with a thicker curved handle.

  “Couldn’t you cane me in private, then I could please you with my tongue again?” she asked in a soft low voice.

  “Private humiliation obviously wasn’t enough. I need to set an example,” the forty-something woman answered. “Go to the punishment rack now and take down your jeans.”

  “And if I don’t?” Linda muttered, her cheeks flaming.

  “If you don’t I’ll inform the police that you aren’t fit to be a house-sitter, and you can leave my employ right away.”

  She loved the job. She liked the evening hours. She adored the money. Resignedly Linda walked towards the wooden contraption, Miss Breeson in her wake. Every one of the watchers leaned forwards. Linda realized that when she got onto the rack they would all be facing her helplessly raised small rear. She couldn’t let them see it being exposed or let them stare at its naked trembling. She couldn’t bear them watching it take on the sizzling red lines of the cane.

  “Just one thing – I get to keep my jeans and pants on,” she said fiercely.

  Miss Breeson put her head to one side. “Well, for now you can keep your pants on.” She looked at the punishment rack then back at the girl. “That is, as long as you don’t try to touch your punished arse.”

  “And if I do?” Linda muttered, fearing th
at she already knew the answer.

  “If you do I’ll have to cane you harder on the bare.”

  Linda nodded. She’d show the woman that she was made of sterner stuff. She’d take her thrashing without a whimper. Marshalling her courage, she stepped forwards and clambered awkwardly onto the unpolished long oak rack. “There are straps for the miscreant’s ankles and wrists, but we’ll only use the ankle ones, seeing as you’ve promised to control yourself,” her boss said evenly. Moments later Linda felt soft thongs pinioning her lower legs. She put her face down in the velvet-lined hollow that was obviously custom built for just this purpose. Miss Breeson adjusted the machine and a bolster pushed up Linda’s tummy to its fullest extent. She closed her eyes with shame and a low spread of desire as she felt the woman tugging her jeans to below her knees.

  Miss Breeson walked around the rack and stroked Linda’s blonde hair for a moment. Next she turned towards the back of the room, obviously addressing the rest of her staff.

  “Linda failed to protect one of the properties she was house-sitting. Then she let a stranger into another house,” she said. “She’s opted for corporal punishment rather than for dismissal. Be aware that you may meet the same fate.”

  “What do you mean that they may?” Linda muttered, twisting her head round to stare at her boss in panic. “I thought that I was just the first wrongdoer? I thought we were all to be caned?”

  “No, they are all on their first warnings. They’re only here to witness your own bum turning scarlet,” Miss Breeson said.

  God, the shame! Linda closed her eyes and mouth, and tried to close her mind to her increasing indignity. Then she sensed that Miss Breeson had pulled her arm back, and automatically tensed her bum in readiness for the first smarting stripe. She lay there in an agony of anticipation. Behind her one man whistled and a second man laughed.

  “How many do you think you deserve?” her employer queried.

  “Six?” Linda asked nervously.

  “Let’s make it twelve, seeing as you’re getting to keep your knickers on,” the older woman parried. “That is, unless you touch your arse.”

  She wouldn’t touch her rump no matter how much this hurt. She just wouldn’t. Linda summoned up all her willpower and clutched the front of the rack. Then she yelled, her voice trembling, as the first stroke made contact somewhere near centre of her pantied orbs. Linda cried out and her bottom jerked almost of its own volition. Then Miss Breeson announced that it was time for stroke two.

  This stroke went lower than the first, though it felt as if it were parallel to it. Again, there was little protection in her cotton briefs. Forgetting that she’d promised to stay in control, Linda writhed upon the bolster. This time her fingers began to leave the front of the rack. Remembering just in time that she mustn’t protect herself, she put her hands back in situ and waited breathlessly for the third corrective lash.

  “Now where shall we put this one?” her merciless boss asked. Linda had some suggestions, but they were too rude to mention. Instead she lay there trying to psych herself up for the next taste of the cane. It soon fell further up her spheres, and seemed to go slightly diagonal. “Stop wriggling, girl, I like a nice still canvas,” Miss Breeson said.

  “But it hurts,” Linda moaned, twisting back her head to look at her employer.

  “Of course it hurts. It’s meant to ensure that you become a better employee,” the woman said.

  “Couldn’t I just go on a course?” Linda murmured. Then she howled as her boss swished the rod twice in quick succession across her curved expanse. Beyond thought, she reached back her hands, spreading her fingers out and rubbing desperately at her punished buttocks. “Oooooh!” she moaned.

  A few seconds later she realized what she’d done and quickly moved her palms back to the front again. Miss Breeson marched around and lightly bound her wrists in place. “What a pity that you disobeyed me,” she said softly. “Now I’m going to have to pull down those pretty pants.”

  Bent over the ungiving punishment rack, Linda bit her lip. Her twin globes tried to cringe away from the humiliation to follow. Her colleagues were about to see her naked cheeks.

  Miss Breeson seemed to be savouring the moment to the full. She walked slowly towards Linda’s knicker-clad orbs, which were raised like a sacrifice upon the bolster. She traced the sore cane-marks through the taut white cotton, then she repeated the taunting touch again and again. “What a wonderful heat,” she murmured with obvious relish. “I hope they look as adorably red as they feel.”

  She seemed to take her time pulling the blonde girl’s panties down. Linda groaned with shame and wriggled her sore hindquarters. “Easy,” Miss Breeson murmured. “You aren’t going any place till you’ve had seven more of the cane.”

  “I don’t know if I can bear it,” the 25-year-old murmured plaintively, trying to suck her nether cheeks in closer to the bolster.

  “I’ve already bared it for you, sweetheart,” her employer said.

  Linda quaked as she felt the older woman pulling her briefs to below her knees. She quivered as her glowing pained stripes were fondled. “They’re a lovely scarlet shade, my dear. It’s just a pity that some of the bands have merged into others. I wish that I could create separate parallel lines.” She palpated the sore globes some more. “Oh, well, I suppose that all I need is practice. Maybe next time you’re bad?”

  Linda promised herself inwardly that she’d never be disobedient again. This caning would be her first one and her last. It was hellish being displayed like this, her red haunches exposed for all to see. She wanted so much to put her jeans back on or at least hold her helpless chastened cheeks.

  But these same soft cheeks still had to endure seven more strokes of the rod. Miss Breeson ordered her to count them. “Thank you for stroke six,” she gasped belatedly as the first of the thrashings on the bare whacked down. Her poor bottom puckered up then relaxed then puckered again as it tried to anticipate when the next stroke was due.

  The strong-armed Miss Breeson took her time. She seemed to know exactly how to keep a nervous backside waiting. Linda sensed that she’d raised her muscular arm. In turn, the younger girl tensed her bottom. Eventually her buttock muscles tired and she had to let them relax again. The second that her bum returned to smooth-bottomed splendour she felt the cane bite harshly into both lower cheeks. She made a sort of yodelling sound, shoving her belly into the bolster as far as she was able.

  “I don’t hear you counting the stroke and thanking me for it,” her employer said.

  “Thank you for the seventh stroke, ma’am,” Linda muttered into the velvet hollow. She shivered with shame and a low deep pleasure as the older woman fondled her upturned bum.

  “Ask prettily for the eighth,” the woman prompted.

  Linda hesitated and sucked in her breath.

  “Can I be the one to lay it on?” a hoarse man shouted.

  Reminded of her audience, the blonde girl skulked upon the punishment rack with additional shame. Just five more strokes, she reminded herself. Five more and it would be over – hell, schoolboys took more than this. She’d get to keep this job with its attractive wage.

  “Ma’am, I’d appreciate receiving stroke eight,” she whispered, anxious that the man who’d spoken wouldn’t lay the rod on. The thought of a male colleague whipping her bum was even more hateful than the thrashing which was already taking place. “Ma’am, please apply stroke eight to my rear end,” she repeated as the worrying silence stretched and stretched.

  “Oh, you can plead for it more nicely than that,” her employer said. Linda hesitated, not wishing to degrade herself further. “Perhaps Thomas will change your mind?” Miss Breeson asked.

  “No – don’t let him. I’ll ask really sweetly,” Linda forced out. She squirmed as she thought up the words. “I . . . I’ve been a reckless little girl, ma’am. I’ve got a naughty bottom. It deserves to . . .” She choked back a sob. “Deserves to feel the cane on the bare.”

  “It d
oes, doesn’t it?” the forty-something woman said. “It really needs it.”

  Linda howled as she tasted the thin hard rod again. The blonde girl asked equally obsequiously for the ninth stroke, but her imagination and courage faltered when it came to asking for the tenth. “I’ll have to give two swishes of the cane in the same place if you fail to please me,” her employer murmured, stroking her flesh.

  Linda moaned at her words and actions. “Please, no! I want . . . My backside’s really red.”

  “Tch, tch,” the woman said. “You’re not sounding servile enough. You’re really not trying.” She laid on two gentler strokes above Linda’s thighs.

  They still stung and Linda moved her bum powerlessly about for what felt like hours. Finally she settled down.

  “One to go,” the woman said. “Now, I can cane you further up where the flesh is relatively unscathed, or I can make you taste the rod in that hugely sensitive place you’ve just experienced.”

  “Oh, please, ma’am, do it further up, “Linda said.

  “I don’t hear you asking nicely,” her employer prompted. She traced the cane along the twice-caned area until Linda begged.

  “I . . . I’ve got the sorest arse in Christendom,” she said thickly. “It’s so hot and red that I can hardly bear it.” She sniffed loudly, then made herself continue, “But I know it needs to take one more swishy stroke so that I never lie to my employer again.”

  “And should that stroke be hard?” Miss Breeson teased.

  “Very hard,”’ Linda forced out piteously.

  “You’re pleading nicely now,” the older woman said thoughtfully, “but I’d like to hear you beg.”

  There was a pause. “I beg to taste the cane,” Linda said.

  “Then lift your bum further up for me,” her employer countered. Snivelling with shame, Linda pushed her lower body up the little she could.

  “I beg you to cane me hard, ma’am,” she repeated tearfully.

  Her boss drew back her arm and obliged. This time the rod fell further up the blonde girl’s tethered bottom. Linda let her body sag against the bolster with long-awaited relief.