Slap!
The sound of the impact was like a gunshot. A strangely costumed figure sailed though the air and landed with a horrible thump on the mat where an equally bizarrely attired assailant renewed the attack. The noise was incredible, announcers shouting, crowd baying, contestants’ contorted faces screaming homicidal threats. Chris winced with evident distaste and leant forward to lower the volume on the video player.
‘Sports entertainment is the big thing across the pond at present,’ said a voice at his shoulder.
Chris shrugged dismissively and delivered a succinct verdict, ‘Cartoon violence, pantomime for the cerebrally challenged.’
‘Sure, it’s fixed,’ responded his boss, but don’t underestimate those guys, it takes a lot of strength and timing to avoid serious injury in the ring.’
‘Those would be the guys with the bumps on their chests?’ said Chris, rewinding the video. ‘I can’t believe the smaller one’s tits can possibly be natural, although I’ll grant you her muscles look real enough.’
‘Female wrestling is hot right now, and catching on fast in the UK,’ continued Terry, ‘which brings me neatly to your next assignment.’
‘Moi?’ Chris looked suspicious.
‘Indya, the dark-haired pretty one whose breasts you just mentioned, is our client.’
‘The one underneath, apparently having her arms removed without anaesthetic?’ queried Chris.
‘Quite,’ Terry confirmed. ‘Indya’s prudently decided her days in the ring are numbered and decided to branch out with an autobiography and a minor part in a sitcom.’
Chris raised his eyebrows. ‘Please God, no,’ he murmured.
Terry grinned. ‘Surprisingly, she’s not a bad actress, her years in the ring have obviously provided valuable instruction in the method, and the book, which I’m assured was not ghosted, isn’t a bad rags-to-riches read.’
‘And you want me to…?’
‘Do your PR best and guide her through a two week UK book signing and chat show promo tour,’ confirm Terry.
‘Oh, come on!’ Chris’s worst fears were substantiated. ‘Why do I get to baby-sit a female wrestler? No, don’t tell me, this is because I worked in the States for two years, right?’
‘Partly, yeah. Oh, and I’ll warn you she prefers to be considered a “sportswoman”. Anyway, Indya - aka Betty Martin - flies in to Heathrow in three hours. Be there.’
Halfway across the Hammersmith flyover, en-route to the centre of town, Chris is already making a rapid reassessment of his charge. In the back of the car Indya is proving not at all parochial. She’s never visited London before but has obviously done some homework on the city, scoring immediate brownie points with Chris.
He’d half expected denim, rhinestone, and cowboy boots, but Betty’s impressive body is concealed under an expensively cut jacket, which has no need of shoulder pads. A matching, not-too-short skirt showcases impressively long and muscular legs.
‘Now then,’ she picks up the itinerary and immediately becomes businesslike, ‘what’s on the agenda for today?’
Fumbling in her bag, Betty finally locates a pair of glasses that she perches on the end of her nose. ‘I normally wear contacts, but my eyes are dry after the flight. Not a word to anyone about these,’ she warns with a winning smile, ‘don’t want to dent the dumb image.’
Chris relaxes, what might have been a chore is turning out to be fun. If he can just keep his eyes off those legs and concentrate on business, this girl’s warm and frank persona is going to play well with the public.
‘Okay, a lunchtime radio interview then an afternoon chat show,’ he says. ‘Have you done much talk TV before?’
‘Sure, Chris, but have you ever seen US TV?’
‘Oh yes,’ he rolls his eyes, and they’re still laughing when the car reaches the hotel.
By the end of the next day both interviews have gone well, but things begin to take an inauspicious turn as jetlag kicks in. Betty’s grouchy, but Chris waits with practiced patience in her hotel room while, with more speed than haste, she completes a lengthy make-up routine.
Catching his reflection in the mirror Betty suddenly turns on her minder, her southern accent much more pronounced. ‘Whatcha’ lookin’ at?’ she snaps. ‘Tryin’ to see my tits, huh? Shit, you guys are obsessed. What were you, bottle fed or somethin’?’
‘Actually, I was wondering if mismatched earrings were part of the Southern Belle look,’ Chris responds calmly, ‘and what I see is a sassy woman, trying for a make or break career change, feeling low and a long way from home.’
There’s a long pause, and eventually Betty throws up her hands in defeat. ‘Hell, I blew it there,’ she admits. ‘I’m real sorry, Chris.’
‘It’s okay,’ he soothes. ‘I’m used to celebs getting a bit worked up. Relax, have a drink, give yourself a chance to regroup.’
‘Let’s not kid ourselves about the celeb bit, honey, and I’ll pass on the drink, my ex-husband drunk enough for an entire lifetime in just a couple of years.’ Betty sighs. ‘You’re sure enough right about the lonely bit, though. Trouble is, the tough girl image scares most guys. Either that or they can’t see beyond the gloss and the chassis. Sure, I’m trying hard to make this work, who wouldn’t? The alternative’s a future spent opening shopping malls or cheerleading for a load of steroid-crazed pro-fighters. Aw dammit, you’ve showed me a lotta respect these last couple of days and I’ve done bad-mouthed ya like some bratty kid. I deserve to git my hiney warmed…’
‘Spanked?’ Chris’s adrenaline kicks in hard, as unknowing and unpredictably she’s chanced upon his secret passion - in pursuit of which, he believes, every chance, however slim, is worth taking.
‘That what you guys call it over here?’ she shrugs. ‘I guess so.’
‘Well now,’ Chris’s legendary interpersonal skills are about to be put to the ultimate test, ‘you’re spot-on there, Betty. That’s just what you need.’
‘Need, or deserve?’ comes the unexpected response.
‘Both,’ says Chris, fortunately sounding more confident than he feels. ‘Look at this as therapy,’ he continues, and taking the initiative, grasps the waist of her tight leather trousers, pulling her, teetering on her trademark high heels, towards him.
She offers no resistance, merely looks up quizzically and says in a puzzled tone, ‘You really figure you’re gonna tan my butt, doncha?’
‘Damn straight,’ Chris replies, fixing her with what he fervently hopes to be a steely gaze.
‘Honey, I could throw you across the damn room.’
‘Could, but won’t,’ responds Chris coolly. ‘You want someone who isn’t intimidated by you, and that’s me.’
Seating himself on the capacious hotel sofa he adroitly undoes the expensive leather trews. ‘So, we’ll have these trousers down and you across my knee.’
To his incredulity that’s exactly what happens. Betty is equally amazed. What her divorced husband might have achieved with brute strength this guy is doing with mere words. Which, she silently observes, her mind racing with ambivalent emotions, is a good deal more impressively masculine and sexy.
Betty waits in trepidation as the air-conditioning cools her naked cheeks, a slender thong concealing what little remains of her dignity. Chris, equally stunned by the rapid turn of events, runs his hand across her firm buttocks, taking in her slender, weight-trained body. No sign of implants, he thinks, abandoning another preconception, as her breasts crush against his leg.
He spanks her carefully, methodically, covering every inch of the silky flesh with ringing slaps while Betty kicks and yells but, significantly, makes no attempt to break free. Her cheeks turn pink, then red; a sharp sting gradually becomes a warm, tingling glow; lascivious tremors send covert messages to parts sadly neglected of late.
‘Relax your buttocks,’ Chris’s commanding tone breaks the silence. ‘They’re far too tense.’ True enough, his palm is starting to smart.
‘You relax ‘em,’ comes the reply.
Hey, I’m supposed to be the boss, Chris thinks, but the opportunity is too good to refuse and he sets to work. Caressing the hot globes, stroking her sensitive inner thighs, letting his fingertips dance over the damp strip of fabric which guards the entrance to her most erogenous of zones. As those fingers skilfully tease and pet so Betty’s buttocks do indeed relax, groans become moans and little gasps of pure pleasure. Until, as his hand resumes its percussive tattoo, and taken unawares, she twists and turns on his lap, grinding her overheated pussy against his knee. Oh yes, she needs this but isn’t going to get it, nor any other sort of immediate release, for abruptly her heartless English tormentor decants her onto the floor.
‘Right,’ he says briskly, ‘if you’re going to make that book interview you’d better spruce up and get weaving.’ Hah, who’s in control now?
‘What?’ Damn, her voice has a pleading tone she didn’t intend but can’t seem to shift. ‘You can’t leave me in this state.’
‘State of what, independence?’ Chris retorts brightly. ‘It’s just for an hour or two. We can pick this up later.’
‘Goddamn…’ Betty can’t believe what’s happening, no guy has ever made her wait before. Usually they’re in like a shot, although granted it’s then mostly over too quick. ‘And what,’ she continues sarcastically, ‘do you suppose is goin’ to happen then?’ She’s standing close against him, hauling trousers that suddenly seem much tighter, up over her throbbing bum. Chris leans forward to kiss her and finds her mouth eagerly responsive, her tongue forcing its way urgently between his lips.
‘Something a little harder,’ he ventures.
Betty extends a hand to the distended front of his chinos. ‘Harder here?’ she asks.
He slaps her leather-clad arse by way of response. ‘Harder here. Good choice of clothes for television, by the way. It looks sexy on camera but way safer than a short skirt.’
‘You didn’t answer my question, you’re gonna paddle me, right?’ She’s hanging in there, has to know.
‘Something like that,’ he’s infuriatingly imprecise, ‘and whatever it is will be on the bare.’
Which leaves ‘Indya’ to endure three hours of anticipatory torture. Most of it spent perched on a burning bottom trying desperately not to squirm on screen. Witless interviewers pose an interminable succession of vacuous questions and Betty tries hard to concentrate, all the while wondering what that annoyingly assured Englishman is planning. She hopes it will involve filling her achingly empty pussy, she’s no good at deferred gratification, this frustration’s killing her.
So much so that between the television station and radio studio she pleads the need for a pee and takes a brief, impromptu adjournment. Safely bolted into a cubicle she delves frantically in her handbag, a moment of panic, then thank goodness. With the most discrete of whirring noises a delicate, finger-sized vibrator provides some urgently needed clitoral first aid and, refreshed and revived, Betty goes on to do a barnstorming prime-time TV interview.
‘Superb,’ says Chris enthusiastically, as she emerges from the studio. ‘Media feeds off media and I’ve already had the Sundays on wanting profiles.’
‘The Sundays?’
‘The newspapers. Predictably at least two tabloids want fashion shoots, but one of the broadsheets is up for a profile on the real you, while another wants to focus on your status as a post-feminist icon.’ This makes Betty laugh, and Chris sports a wicked grin. ‘I think a small celebration is appropriate. I’ll pick you up at eight, oh, and wear a skirt.’
‘Sugar, nobody tells me what to wear on a date.’
‘I do,’ he replies laconically, and in her heart Betty already knows she’ll comply.
‘You haven’t eaten a lot,’ Chris observes later.
‘I’m anxious,’ replies Betty, with beguiling honesty. ‘I feel like a prom queen on her first date. Not, she adds quietly, ‘that I ever got the chance to go to a prom, nor on to college.’
She rallies and looks affectionately at him. ‘Okay, I guess we’ve reached the point where it’s your place or mine?’
‘Mine,’ says Chris, ominously.
A little later he closes the door of his Islington flat, quietly watching Betty take in her surroundings, pleased to see her nod approvingly at the polished wooden floorboards, the eccentric mix of battered old and functional new furniture. She turns, reaches up to kiss him then lowers her eyelids, awaiting his next move.
‘Knickers and tights off, lose the dress too, but put your heels back on.’
‘Tights?’
‘Pantyhose,’ he translates, and she gracefully obeys, managing, Chris reflects, to be the only woman he’s ever seen removing her tights sensually.
Betty walks confidently towards him, breasts prominent within the confines of a skimpy bra, pubes glistening in the low light, her gym-toned posterior still faintly flushed. She kisses him again, her touch electric.
‘Now you’re gonna screw me?’ she whispers, hopefully.
‘Ultimately,’ he confirms, ‘after I’ve finished what we started earlier. Bend over the table.’
For a moment nothing happens. Has he pushed things too far too quickly?
Apparently not, Betty tosses back her hair, undulates across the room and obediently bends facedown, her torso elegantly on the tabletop. Languidly aware of the erotic spectacle she presents, Betty grasps the edge, spreads her feet and blatantly thrusts out her haunches.
‘Excellent.’ Chris savours the sight of her perfect cunt, and the dark promise of her tightly puckered anus.
‘How many?’ Betty asks timorously.
‘Six.’ Chris waves a slender strip of pliant leather where she can see it. ‘With a Scottish tawse.’
‘You’ve used this before?’ she asks.
‘Oh yes.’
At once the first stroke descends, cracks down, then another and another, searing her flesh. She gasps, but won’t cry out. Betty, being accustomed to pain, long ago learnt to control herself and triumph over suffering. Three livid stripes decorate the American’s rump, one above the other, skilfully applied and no overlap. Chris lets her wait, absorbing the pure bright pain. She’s breathing hard, eyes screwed tight shut, fighting her emotions, for the moment still in control.
‘Bring it on,’ Betty says in a clear, seductive voice.
He does so, and determined to beat her hard for such temerity Chris skims a scalding stroke across the top of Betty’s ravaged orbs, drawing an anguished cry from her lips. The next falls lower, cutting caustically into her curves, forcing the breath from her body, and to conclude is a cruelly calculated stroke that slices savagely into the crease where Betty’s bottom joins her flawless thighs.
‘Ooooh, ooh, ooh!’
No mere man has brought tears to her eyes for years. Extreme emotions, twin fires of passion and pain, burn deep within her. Betty’s ready, she hears his zip being drawn down; he waits for another few seconds then pounces. Turning like the expert wrestler she is, she catches him unprepared, at least for fighting. Cock in hand he’s in no position to defend himself as she flings him backwards onto the floor.
‘You can fuck me from behind next time, Brit,’ she growls, ‘but right now were gonna do it my way.’
Crouching over his prostrate form Betty slowly lowers her liquid slot down the full length of his powerfully erect shaft. ‘Oh yes, sugar, fill me up,’ she groans.
Chris is finding proceedings somewhat proscribed. For a start those impressive beasts are now, literally, in his face, his prick clasped tightly deep inside her, and it seems female athletes have equally well-developed internal muscles. ‘Next time?’ he repeats hesitantly.
‘Oh sure, honey, you’ll get to whip me again real soon,’ she purrs, ‘but right now let me show you how to wrestle…’