Two

IT WAS MORE than likely that my knickers would be coming down for a spanking, or repeated spankings. I’d run into Percy’s wine-trade friends before, outwardly respectable old English gentlemen but in practice a bunch of lecherous old perverts. Neither Mr Hambling nor Mr Borse was likely to pass up the chance of getting me across his lap if he thought he might get away with it, and both belonged to a generation who regarded spanking their subordinates at work as an amusing way to pass the afternoon. I liked to think so, anyway, because the occasional well-smacked bottom would ensure that my job was never dull, while with any luck I could manipulate the situation to ensure that they both did as they were told. That was essential, because while I was reasonably confident of being able to turn their company around, it would be a great deal easier with their co-operation.

The knack was to exploit the American market, or so it seemed to me. While working as a wine writer prior to pulling off my coup d’art, I had always been struck by the curious American habit of wanting the best and only the best. It’s ridiculous, of course, because enjoyment of wine is far too subjective for the concept to have meaning, but the fact remained that if the American market came to believe that a particular winery was ‘the best’ they would pay many times over the sensible price. Where the Americans led, the Far East would follow. All I needed to do was ensure that a couple of Hambling and Borse’s agencies became identified as superlative and I would be home and dry, with a rosy bottom into the bargain. It was all rather appealing.

As I took the short flight from the island to Eastleigh Airport I was reading the Hambling and Borse price list Percy had given me. Their mainstay was claret, but the Bordeaux trade was too fluid for my scheme to work. Burgundy and the Rhône were better, and in both cases they held high quality but unfashionable agencies, which I was sure I’d be able to push forward. That was going to mean sucking up to the most influential of the American pundits, perhaps even sucking them literally, a thought that gave me a delicious thrill of sexual humiliation. All the really big names were whiter than white, but one, Earle Hayes, had a reputation as a bit of an old goat, and I’ve always loved the feeling of having no choice but to do something rude. To have my behaviour dictated by the needs of my job would be wonderful.

So wonderful in fact that had I not been squashed into a tiny seat next to a respectable middle-aged woman I’ve have been tempted to slip my hand down my knickers. To distract myself I began to read the various wine magazines Percy had given me and quickly realised that Americans weren’t the only people I’d have to work on. The market had changed since I’d left England and, while their influence was still crucial in the US, the Far East had begun to look to one of their own. He was called Anton Yoshida, which presumably made him Japanese-French, and his articles were written with a high-handed, arrogant certainty that made him ideal for my purposes.

It seemed likely he would have the same attitude to women as he did to wine, and I was smiling to myself as I imagined how I would allow him to bring me under his control, while all the while he was the one being manipulated. Outside my window the island was now invisible behind us, the English Channel stretching in every direction, a dull blue flecked with whitecaps. Several yachts were visible, seemingly too small even for dolls, and I let my mind drift into a daydream in which he took me boating and gave me a choice of succumbing to his demands or being thrown overboard to swim to shore. I’d beg and plead, but it would do me no good. First my top would come off, then my pants, as I was forced to strip out of my bikini before being put on my knees to suck him hard, casually fucked, spunked all over and then thrown overboard anyway.

I was still running through various permutations of my fantasy when the Isle of Wight came into view and we started to descend. The only person who knew I was arriving was Percy, who was completely trustworthy, but that didn’t stop me feeling jittery and vulnerable as we came in to land, and I pushed my erotic thoughts aside. I was imagining banks of photographers at the airport, with the horrible Pia Santi at the forefront, but not even the customs officers paid me more than cursory attention, leaving me feeling relieved but also piqued. Waterloo was no different, and the cab driver talked to my tits, his bland, reddish face showing no recognition whatsoever. Percy was right. I was yesterday’s news.

He’d offered to put me up at his flat in Maida Vale, but I needed a place of my own and had asked him to rent somewhere for me instead. I only knew the address, which was in Marylebone High Street, but I rang ahead and he was there to meet me, standing outside a tall red-brick block.

‘Here will do,’ I instructed, ‘by the gentleman in the tweeds. He’s my uncle.’

I got out as the cab stopped and gave Percy a long, lingering kiss full on the mouth, leaving the cabbie so taken aback he didn’t even ask for a tip. Percy took my bag, and spoke as we walked to the building’s entrance.

‘I take it that was as much for his benefit as for mine?’

‘I told him you were my uncle,’ I explained, earning myself a smack on the seat of my skirt just in time for the cabbie to see as he pulled away. ‘I hope you’ve found me somewhere nice?’

‘I like it,’ he told me, ‘although the stairs are a bit much, so I suggest the lift. May I say that you seem remarkably bumptious?’

‘I feel it. London’s so full of life after the island.’

I didn’t confess that my mood was partly nerves, but let him steer me to a tiny lift with a grille-work door. His hand strayed to my bottom as we ascended, kneading gently. Sex was just what I needed to calm me down, and it came naturally with him anyway. The lift came to halt at the top floor and I found myself on a tiny landing with a single door, a window looking out on to rooftops a storey below, and a short passage leading to the top of the stairs. Nobody was about, or likely to be. I pushed Percy back against the windowsill and got down on my knees.

‘Don’t you want to um . . . go inside?’ he queried as I nuzzled my face against the bulge in his trousers.

My answer was to unzip him and pull his cock and balls free from his underpants. He gave a soft tut and made himself comfortable, knowing me too well to think I’d stop. I began to lick and kiss at his balls, enjoying the bulbous, straining feeling and his male taste. He took me by my hair, not too hard, but firmly enough to let me know I was to be kept in place until he’d finished, just the way I like it. His cock was already beginning to stiffen and I took it in my mouth, closing my eyes as I let my mind drift back to my earlier fantasy.

Not that the situation I was in wasn’t rude enough, on my knees in what was effectively a public corridor, sucking cock for a man more than twice my age, but the yacht fantasy had been going around in my head for too long to be ignored. I thought of how it would be, forced to strip and kneel in the nude, with the hot sun beating down on my back and bottom cheeks as my persecutor’s penis stiffened in my mouth. The man wasn’t even Anton Yoshida, but just a man, some complete bastard.

He’d be laughing as he watched me, enjoying his power as much as the feel of my lips on his cock, at least until his cock was hard and the pleasure too great to ignore. By then I’d have given in to my feelings, allowing my hand to slip between my thighs so that I could masturbate as I sucked him. He’d see, and give a final, derisive chuckle at my helpless arousal before closing his eyes in bliss, his cock now a solid rod in my mouth, just as Percy’s was.

I took a moment to adjust myself, tugging my skirt up around my hips and slipping my panties down to leave my bottom bare. Percy had looked down as I came off his cock, and smiled as he saw what I was doing. I gave him my cheekiest grin in return, my eyes locked to his as I unbuttoned my blouse and pulled up my bra, spilling my naked breasts into my cupped hands, deliberately showing off to him. As I took his cock back in I was teasing myself, rubbing my fingers over my stiff nipples and feeling the weight of my breasts.

Stripping myself had filled my head with rude images: of how I’d look to anyone who came up the stairs, of being spanked for my dirty behaviour or taken unexpectedly from behind. But I quickly returned to my original fantasy. As soon as the man was hard he would pull me off his cock, turn me around and simply fuck me. I’d be on all fours, kneeling in the scuppers of the yacht, my naked bottom spread to him as he thrust into me. He’d do it hard and rather casually, using my body for his pleasure without thought for mine.

Percy had begun to push his cock into my mouth, squashing his balls and the turn of his paunch into my face. I was sure he’d have been saving up for me and would come soon. My hand went down between my thighs, to find my pussy wet and sensitive. I began to masturbate, revelling in the taste and feel of the cock in my mouth as I imagined another inside me from behind.

It would only take moments, a brief, contemptuous fucking before he spunked in me, deep up, only to whip out his cock and do it all over my bottom and back as well. By then I’d be rubbing my pussy openly, indifferent to the display I was making of myself and too far gone to find my humiliation anything but arousing. He wouldn’t even let me finish, just laugh at me as he picked me up, lifting me with no more difficulty than if I’d been a doll. I’d scream in shock as I realised what he was going to do to me, kicking and hitting out in a pathetic attempt to resist him, begging for mercy and whining that he was being unfair. He’d only laugh all the louder, and in I’d go, tossed casually over the side, arms and legs and hair waving wildly, my horrified scream abruptly cut off as I hit the water.

At that thought I came, rubbing and sucking in a welter of humiliation and ecstasy as I imagined myself thrown overboard like a piece of refuse, worthless once I’d been fucked. Three times I ran the scene over in my head, from the moment I was spunked up to hitting the cold water, each time driving me to a new, higher peak, and with the third Percy filled my mouth.

My flat was rather better than I’d expected. Percy has old-fashioned, masculine tastes, which generally involve a lot of dark colours and heavy furniture. He’s also fairly unaware of his surroundings as long as he has a glass of something decent in his hand or a pretty girl to molest, so I had expected something respectable but basic. What he’d found was a converted attic space in a Victorian block, five storeys up and above most other buildings. Aside from a bathroom at one end, it was entirely open-plan, with three windows on either side, providing plenty of light and space. I’d got used to both while living on the island and would have felt claustrophobic otherwise, and although the constant buzz of the city was all around me it was no worse than my old flat in Primrose Hill.

I spent the first day relaxing and the next two shopping, while Percy did what work was necessary and provided dinner each evening. Networking was essential, but the London wine trade is small and more than a little incestuous so it was simply a matter of Percy letting his contacts know that I was back. The trade is also mercifully isolated from celebrity gossip, and for the first time I was grateful for the stuffy image I’d always railed against when I was a writer. Only on the third day did I make my way to the offices of Hambling and Borse in St James’s.

The last time I’d been there was at a tasting, when my interest had been entirely in what they had to show, but my memories went back long before. I’d been a little girl, maybe no more than six, or seven at the most. Dad had taken me there for some reason, leaving me in a reception room with what had seemed an impossibly high ceiling. I’d spent a happy half-hour scribbling elaborate moustaches on to the faces of assorted vignerons and wine pundits in the magazines, only to discover that my most imaginative efforts had been as nothing compared to the reality of the man who eventually showed us out. Save for two pale eyes and a large red nose, his entire face had been concealed behind bushy ginger whiskers, an image that had stayed in my mind for over a decade before I was introduced to Otto Borse. Gilbert Hambling I had met only at tastings, and I remembered him only as a man with the face of a good-natured basset hound.

Nothing had changed: the tall grey-stone façade was as imposing as ever, the iron railings still thick with paint accumulated over a couple of centuries, the great black door different only in that I was now strong enough to open it. Gilbert Hambling still looked like a basset hound, and Otto Borse’s moustache was if anything yet more luxurious, although now grey. Both greeted me effusively and I was shown into a private office at the rear, where a bottle of Champagne stood in an ice bucket, already half empty at shortly before ten in the morning.

‘Bubbles?’ Gilbert Hambling offered, indicating the Champagne.

‘Please,’ I responded and accepted a glass, wondering if the offer had been a deliberate test.

Neither man said anything, but to judge by Gilbert Hambling’s grunt of approval I had made the right choice. It was good Champagne too, not from one of the big houses but a private estate.

‘Patrice Beauroy, in Ambonnay,’ Gilbert Hambling informed me. ‘Fellow plays music to his vines, Bach generally. Daft as a brush, but it seems to work.’

‘He is the most conscientious of wine-makers,’ Otto Borse put in, ‘and in my view the best in Champagne.’

‘But unknown,’ I said.

‘Hardly that,’ Gilbert Hambling protested, ‘but with only seventeen hectares the supply is necessarily limited.’

‘Fifteen thousand bottles a year?’ I suggested.

‘Certainly not,’ he answered. ‘He restricts his yields to fifty hectolitres per hectare, so ten thousand bottles would be typical.’

I nodded, not wanting to argue the point. Percy had warned me that they were devoted to quality, and no doubt they would rather go down than stock some inferior brand merely because it could be handled in commercially viable quantities. As I’d suspected, the only answer was to get outrageous profit margins.

‘So,’ Otto Borse said, abruptly clapping his hands together, ‘Percy tells us that you are the person to restore our fortunes?’

‘I intend to do my best,’ I replied cautiously. ‘What is the situation, exactly?’

‘You can look over the details at leisure,’ Gilbert Hambling replied, ‘but these are the essentials. We’re not young men, Otto and I, and both of us feel that a quiet retirement is long overdue. Before we sell up, we need to get the company on a sound footing, otherwise the only people who’re going to be interested are the ones who’re after our assets, or so it seems.’

‘We would like,’ Otto Borse continued, ‘the firm to continue as it has done in the past, with an absolute commitment to quality, and to service. We realise that this may be a little much to ask, and that some degree of modernisation is inevitable, but there are dedicated young men out there, notably in the restaurant trade, and we would like to secure their interest.’

‘Will that also be part of my job?’

‘Perhaps, if the opportunity presents itself. Percy says you want a free hand, although naturally there will be certain obvious restrictions.’

‘Such as?’

‘Not selling us down the river, basically,’ Gilbert Hambling said with a laugh. ‘Come, come, Otto, if Miss Linnet is to do her job properly we must not tie her hands.’

He finished with a knowing chuckle, which reminded me of what Percy had let slip and set me blushing. Neither seemed to notice, and we began to discuss the conditions of my employment, all of which I accepted. By the time I’d signed up we had finished the bottle of Champagne and I was feeling ever so slightly mellow. At last Otto Borse gave a purposeful clap of his hands and stood up.

‘I have an appointment,’ he declared, ‘at the Aviators, who are one of our best clients.’

‘A gentleman’s club?’ I asked.

‘Indeed,’ Gilbert Hambling supplied. ‘We have several among our clients, although in the case of the Aviators Gilbert and I are members.’

It seemed entirely in keeping with the firm – crusty old gentlemen drinking hock, claret and port until it had begun to ooze from their ears – yet not enough to keep the company afloat. Perhaps it was the thought of so much pomp and gravitas, but for some reason I’d risen as Otto Borse left the room, giving Gilbert Hambling cause to chuckle.

‘How deliciously well mannered of you,’ he remarked. ‘Percy was full of praise for you, you know, but I must say that if anything he seems to have understated the case.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all. You are delightful, Natasha, and I expect that I will enjoy having you work for us immensely.’

He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, again making me think of what Percy had told him.

‘Immensely,’ he repeated, ‘especially as dear old Percy implied that the three of us share a certain penchant, and indeed that you are perhaps not averse to indulging said penchant with other gentlemen?’

It was obvious what was coming. He was going to suggest I have my bottom smacked. I’d known it was coming, but it wasn’t easy to make the transition from business colleague to spanking toy. I found myself blushing hot at the thought of a trip across his knee, as if I were an inexperienced teenager about to have her private fantasies turned into humiliating and painful reality.

‘I . . . I don’t mind,’ I managed.

‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Well then, if you would care to lock the door?’

‘Lock the door?’ I queried. ‘Do you want to do it now?’

‘No time like the present,’ he responded. ‘Come along, there’s no cause to be coy, not with me. I’ve had many a little moppet wriggling over my lap across the years, I assure you.’

‘I’m sure you have, but not me! Look, Mr Hambling, I . . . oh God . . .’

He had me badly flustered, far more so than had he gone about it the way most men would, perhaps taking me out to dinner first, or at least lunch. Yet there was something wonderfully authoritarian in the way he’d sprung it on me as a horrid surprise, and I do like the feeling that I have no choice. In fact, if he’d really known his stuff he could have just bundled me over and pinked me up without a word of warning, but what he did next was almost as good. Pushing his chair back from the desk, he made a lap, patting one leg as he spoke.

‘Come along, Natasha. Percy warned me you could be a bit of a brat about it sometimes, but I’m not having any nonsense. Lock the door and come over my knee.’

I simply melted, walking straight to the door and turning the big key he’d no doubt placed on the inside on purpose. He stayed as he was while I made my way back to him, now patient, his basset-hound face set in a placid smile, as if taking a young woman’s knickers down and smacking her bare bottom was merely a pleasant and by no means unusual task. Maybe it was, for him, but however many times I get it I can never escape the feeling that spanking is the most inappropriate, undignified, indecent outrage that a man can inflict on a woman. It also makes me wet.

‘Down you go,’ he said cheerfully as I got into spanking position across his lap. ‘Bottom up, and we’ll soon have you rosy.’

He sounded unutterably smug, and began to hum to himself as he went about the routine of preparing my bottom, Wagner of all things, punctuated by painfully intimate comments.

‘Skirt up. Ah, you wear a slip, how charming.’

My skirt was lifted, very carefully, and turned up over my back. My slip followed, showing off my stocking tops.

‘What pretty stockings! Ah, that takes me back! And such lovely thighs, ever so slightly plump, the way a girl’s flesh should be, so that it bulges around the stocking tops.’

He was holding my slip up, the tail of my blouse too, with just the tuck of my bottom showing and maybe an inch of panty seat, then all of it as he finished his inspection of my stockings and thighs.

‘What a perfect little peach!’ he declared. ‘Percy said you had a delectable bottom, but the half was not told unto me. And I see you’re wearing silk. How delightful.’

He gave me a little pat on the seat of my panties. My face was already burning at the shame of my exposure and grew abruptly hotter as he pinched the waistband of my knickers between fingers and thumbs and lifted the material clear of my skin.

‘And down come the knickers!’ he declared, and peeled them slowly off my bum.

I must have had my panties pulled down hundreds of times, slowly, fast, even torn off, but perhaps never with such lascivious satisfaction. He gave a long, happy sigh as my cheeks came bare, and made very sure to strip me properly, inverting my panties around my thighs and giving a little tug to pull the material away from my pussy and leaving me showing behind.

‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘In perfect proportion to your waist, round and feminine, elegant yet cheeky, firm without being hard, and as smooth as cream.’

He’d begun to feel my bottom as he spoke, stroking and squeezing my cheeks with a casual intimacy that had me shaking uncontrollably.

‘And between?’ he queried, and I gasped as my bottom cheeks were spread wide to show off my bumhole and the rear view of my pussy to his probing gaze.

‘Mr Hambling! You said a spanking!’

‘And a spanking you shall have, my dear.’

With that he let go of my cheeks, took me firmly around my waist and brought his hand down across my bottom with a slap that echoed around the room. So did my squeal of shock and pain. He had huge hands and he spanked hard, putting his shoulders into the swing and holding me firmly in place as he applied smack after smack to my wildly bouncing bottom. My skin had been cold, and it had all happened too quickly to let me get fully turned on, so it hurt like anything, making me squeal and kick and wriggle across his lap, all of which he thoroughly enjoyed. At last I managed to get some words out between my gasps and yelps.

‘Not so hard, Mr Hambling, please!’

He responded with a smug little chuckle and eased off. I slumped limply across his lap, too dizzy with reaction even to think of resisting as he began to feel me up between softer, gentler smacks. My bottom was aglow, bringing me slowly on heat, and he enjoyed himself with me, spanking me, groping me and increasingly teasing me with one thick finger tickling between my cheeks. I began to sob as his exploration grew more intimate, unable to stop myself – or to stop him. It felt too nice, for all the appalling shame as he began to tickle, making me giggle like a little girl and squirm my bottom about, which only encouraged him.

My sobs and giggles grew stronger as his teasing finger moved closer to my anus, only to turn to fresh squeals as another dozen hard smacks were applied to my blazing posterior. Again he stopped, this time to move my thighs gently but firmly apart, stretching my panties taut across his knee and opening my bottom. His finger went back between my cheeks, which began to squeeze together as he tickled in my slit, around my bumhole and on it, teasing the little bumps and crevices to set me squirming desperately in his grip. I was trying to stop him, or I was telling myself I was, not because I didn’t like it but because at any moment I was going to break. Then I had, pushing my bottom up to let my cheeks spread fully open, offering him my bumhole to explore as much as he pleased, my pussy too.

‘You delightful little tart!’ he chuckled. ‘Shall we see how wet you are?’

His finger moved down from my bumhole and, before I could protest, it had been eased in up my pussy, filling my hole and drawing an involuntary sigh from my lips. He knew he had me, and released his grip on my waist so that he could spank my bottom with one hand while still fingering me. I’d given in completely, my bottom thrust high to let him get as deep as possible and my thighs squirming on his.

‘Little tart indeed!’ he said as I began to rub myself on his leg.

I could get there, I knew I could, just by wriggling on his leg, so long as he kept his finger in and my bottom was being smacked. He’d treated me so well, firm and authoritative in order to get me over his knee where I belonged, rude and intrusive as he stripped me and felt me up, firm with my spanking and standing no nonsense when it came to getting access to my bumhole and pussy.

‘I’m going to come,’ I sobbed. ‘Don’t stop me, please . . . spank me . . . finger-fuck me . . .’

He set up a rhythm, easing one fat finger in and out of my slippery pussy as he smacked my cheeks one at a time. I let my mind drift, thinking of what he’d called me and how true it was. It was bad enough that I’d let a man more than twice my age pull down my panties and spank my bottom for kicks, but to let him tickle my bumhole, to let him stick a finger up my pussy, to rub my dirty little cunt on his leg until I came off . . .

It stopped.

‘Somebody is coming,’ he said quietly.

‘Hey, no, I’m nearly there!’

‘Sh! Natasha!’

I’d been right on the edge, so close I wouldn’t have cared if half the population of London, with a few tourists for good measure, had watched me bring myself off. He had more self-control, easing me gently but firmly off his lap and under the desk a moment before there was a sharp rap on the door. I made to protest, but he was already on his feet and all I could do was curl up tight, struggling to pull up my panties in the tiny space as he asked the caller to wait a moment.

Fortunately the desk had a solid front, but I was blushing furiously as he coolly opened the door to his secretary and made an excuse about having been at the safe. She had brought copies of the relevant figures for me to peruse. It was a long way to the front desk, and she may or may not have wondered how I had managed to enter the room but was apparently gone. I found myself imagining her out at lunch with friends, giggling as she described how I’d given in to the boss on my first day.

By the time she went away I was no longer in need of an orgasm, but I still had a hot bottom, which I knew would keep me flustered for the rest of the day, or until I did manage to get myself off. The temptation to nip into the loo was considerable, but the moment was gone and I felt too embarrassed, so I applied myself to the figures instead. They proved soothing, in the sense that reading them almost put me to sleep, what with such fascinating pieces of information as that in the mid-’80s the original company had been transferred to an off-the-shelf parent called Monterprise Ltd, and that Gilbert and Otto paid £1 a year each for the rent of their upstairs flats.

Unfortunately as the shock of near-discovery died away and my boredom grew, my arousal came back. The warm glow of my bottom made it impossible to forget that I’d been spanked, which in turn kept me thinking of how I must have looked and how intrusive it had been, with inevitable consequences. Gilbert had gone out, so in the end I put the papers aside and went down to the cellar, knowing full well that if it was quiet I’d probably have my knickers down again before too long.

The bulk of their stock was in a bonded warehouse downriver at Silvertown, somewhere I intended to avoid unless it was absolutely essential to visit, but they had a policy of holding back a share of the better wines until full maturity, and these they kept in the cellar. Just reading the list had been a mouth-watering experience, but it didn’t come close to the reality, which even succeeded in pushing the needs of my body into the background.

The cellar had a massive oak door, probably original. It opened with the largest key I had ever seen, revealing a flight of worn stone steps disappearing into absolute blackness, from which rose a dank, vinous waft familiar to me from a hundred visits to wineries across Europe. A light switch to one side produced a dim, golden glow and I started downwards, pulling the huge door closed behind me. The air was cool, so much so that I did up my suit jacket as I reached the bottom of the stairs.

A second door led off to one side, opening on to more or less the scene I’d been anticipating: a vaulted ceiling above a passageway with alcoves on either side, each stacked either with cases or with carefully arranged bins of bottles. Those nearest me were cases of Cissac and Pichon-Baron ’89, which I gave an appreciative glance before moving on. Many of the bins were marked for keeping, and most of the others I recognised from the list, but I quickly realised that a lot of obviously mature stock wasn’t being offered for sale at all.

Three alcoves were entirely given over to small bins of ancient port, never more than a dozen bottles of each but with three examples of the legendary ’45 and others going back to the 1904. Beyond was a single bin of Lafaurie-Peyraguey ’29, as golden as the darkest honey where the cellar lights reflected within the stack of bottles. Beyond came a set of Burgundies, wines from Clair-Daü and Marey-Monge dating back to ’53s. I was entranced just to see such rarities, to drink in the musky, ancient smell and to stretch out my fingers and stroke the cool, hard glass.

There was Romanée-St-Vivant ’64 from Marey-Monge, a wine I could remember tasting as a child. I used to come out of the nursery and demand a single drop from the tip of my father’s finger before I’d go to bed, but on that occasion he’d refused to let me taste until he’d explained the significance of the wine and the story behind the vineyard. He’d then, very solemnly, poured out a tiny amount into a glass and allowed me to drink, filling me with gratitude and a pleasure that had never really gone away. The memory brought me close to tears, followed by a sudden burst of anger as I thought of the eight beautiful bottles that remained being swallowed by some cigar-puffing CEO, a prima donna or some overpaid nancy boy whose sole talent lay in being able to kick a ball around. For the first time I began to understand how Gilbert Hambling and Otto Borse felt.

I never did get my frig, and the rest of the day was rather dull, because, for all my determination not to get bogged down in paperwork, I clearly had to make myself familiar with the company. Percy had been right to say they were rich in assets but otherwise poor. Hopeless might have been a better description. Both Gilbert and Otto were paying themselves more than substantial salaries, with expenses to match, while their overheads were alarming, all of which made for outgoings their income couldn’t hope to match. Despite accounts with most of the country’s top hotels and restaurants, they simply didn’t have the volume of trade necessary to make a profit. The private accounts were in worse condition, with an ever dwindling band of customers with impeccable taste but an average age of about sixty, my parents among them. To make matters worse they seemed to regard asking for payment with as much distaste as a dowager duchess might show to the suggestion that she drop her knickers to pee in the gutter.

I could imagine the response I would get to any of the obvious suggestions for saving money, and besides, it simply wouldn’t be enough. What I needed were rich clients prepared to pay high prices – or, ideally, filthy rich clients prepared to pay extortionate prices. To that end I needed to work on Earle Hayes and Anton Yoshida, but the direct approach was almost certain to fail. Both undoubtedly had the attention of every hopeful marketing manager in the trade and received enough samples to drown in. It would be better to use reverse psychology and try and make them think I was deliberately hiding some superb product in order to prevent the price from rising beyond my own income.

By the time I left, my head was swimming with ideas and I felt exhausted. I made for Marylebone, thinking vaguely about food while wishing Percy had volunteered to stand me dinner for one more night. By the time I reached my block I had decided to order a takeaway and eat in the bath, perhaps exploring one of the eastern cuisines so common in London but unheard of on the island. My bum still felt pleasantly sensitive and I knew that I’d soon be masturbating over what had been done to me earlier.

There was a young woman standing outside the door, petite, smartly dressed and looking completely lost until she saw me, when her face split into a beaming smile.

‘Tasha, hi!’

‘Er . . . hi,’ I managed, trying desperately to remember if she was an old schoolfriend, some forgotten one-night stand or a reporter.

‘It’s me, Lydia!’ she laughed. ‘You must remember me.’

‘I’m sorry . . .,’ I began, only for a subtle change in the light on her grinning face to bring back a flood of memories: of that same grin as she eased a candle up my pussy, as she sprayed my bottom metallic blue to humiliate me in front of her boyfriend, as she held me down across her mother’s lap while I was spanked to tears with a hairbrush.

Then she’d been a wild teenager with red and green hair, piercings and a taste for leather microskirts with no knickers underneath. She’d also been a sadistic, controlling little bitch. Now she looked as if she’d just stepped out of the boardroom of a blue-chip company, with her designer suit and several hundred pounds’ worth of hairdo. She also seemed genuinely friendly, although I wasn’t about to take that at face value.

‘You . . . you look different,’ I said, the only words I could get out and in the circumstances a truly pathetic effort.

‘You don’t,’ she said happily. ‘You look exactly the same as the last time I saw you.’

I found myself blushing, unsure if what she’d said was a compliment or a subtle dig. As far as I could remember, the last time she’d seen me I’d been having my bottom smacked at a birthday party, although that had at least been my own choice.

‘How are you anyway?’ she carried on. ‘I hear you’ve taken up an appointment as manager at Hambling and Borse?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, slightly surprised because, although her parents were both in the trade, I was fairly sure she wasn’t.

‘I want to talk to you about that,’ she said, taking my arm. ‘Can I treat you to Thai? Is the Royal Elephant good?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve only been back in London a few days, but I was thinking of just having a takeaway.’

‘Great. You go up and get a bottle on ice. I’ll order.’

She didn’t bother to wait for my answer, but gave me a last smile and disappeared in the direction of the restaurant. I was about to follow and turn down her offer, but my curiosity got the better of me. She’d said she wanted to talk about my job, and she was suspiciously friendly. I’ve allowed plenty of women to dominate me sexually, but with nearly all of them our relationship outside the bedroom has been as equals. Lydia had been different, always treating me as an inferior, which I’d found arousing but irritating. I decided to play along but to be extremely cautious.

The intercom system would enable me to let her in from my flat, so I went up and put one bottle of Gewürztraminer in the freezer and another in the fridge. It was annoying to have to postpone the leisurely bath I’d been planning in favour of a hurried wash, but I wanted to give the impression that I was a little in awe of her and so laid the table with my best glasses and some white linen napkins I’d bought in anticipation of entertaining various men. I’d only just finished when she buzzed to get in. She was already talking as she entered the flat.

‘I adore Thai. I’ve got us Gai Phad Khing, Ped Aon Yod Pak, Nua Phad Nam Mun Hoi and jasmine rice. Let’s eat.’

I had no idea what she was talking about, and suspected she was showing off, but to my surprise she began to dish up rather than expecting me to do it. The bottle from the freezer was already pleasantly cool and I poured out two glasses. She swirled her wine, sniffed and sipped, clearly appreciative but without the concentration Percy or Otto Borse would have shown for a single vineyard wine. Nor did she bother to comment, but took a swallow and a bite of food before starting to talk once more.

‘Bottom line first. I’m with Orpheus Asset Management, who I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of? We’re one of those companies that keeps the world moving on, and I am going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

She’d put on a mock Italian accent for the last few words, and grinned at me before taking another swallow of wine.

‘Hambling and Borse is a dinosaur,’ she went on, ‘yesterday’s news, twentieth century.’

‘Nineteenth, I’d have said. Eighteenth, even.’

‘I like the way you think, Tasha. They’re dead and buried, I’m sure you know that, and I have the solution. Orpheus want to make an offer and, believe me, it’s a good one, but those two old farts in St James’s won’t even acknowledge us.’

‘What are you planning to do?’

‘Buy them out at a fair price and rationalise the company.’

‘Which involves what, exactly?’

She hesitated, pretending to concentrate on her meal for a while, then pursed her lips in sudden decision.

‘OK, I’ll be open with you, because I know you think the way I do and will see that it’s the best option. As we said, their set-up is outdated. Only global companies can afford to have a headquarters in St James’s nowadays. For an outfit like Hambling and Borse it’s a joke. So the premises go. We have offers from names that would make your eyes pop, and they want it badly, so we should get well over the market price, and even that’s high. Then there’s the name. When you’re selling wine, there’s nothing like a touch of snobbery to make the punters shell out. We sell the name to a supermarket, who set it up so it looks like they’re in partnership with Hambling and Borse, which we estimate will give them at least a twenty per cent premium on their upper range wines.’

‘And the stock?’

She shrugged.

‘Whatever.’

There was no point in asking about the employees, who were obviously for the chop, or in telling her that her bit of blatant asset-stripping would give poor old Gilbert and Otto heart attacks. She obviously didn’t care.

‘They want me to make the company profitable and help pass it on to somebody who’ll keep up with the same traditions,’ I pointed out.

‘You know as well as I do that’s not going to happen.’

I made a face.

‘They should be more than content with the Orpheus offer,’ she insisted. ‘Both of them will retire rich, while the name of Hambling and Borse will become one of the most prestigious brands on the market.’

‘Associated with characterless bulk-production wines. You know how supermarkets work, Lydia, using their buying power to force producers to sell at little or no profit – which inevitably means poor quality, whatever it may say on the label.’

‘I wasn’t actually planning on drinking the stuff, Natasha.’

‘I didn’t imagine you would be, but don’t you think it’s a pity?’

‘No. As long as somebody’s still producing the good stuff and I can afford it, why should I care what the rabble is drinking? Don’t tell me you disagree, because I know you and I know it’s bullshit.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, isn’t it a pity to destroy Hambling and Borse?’

‘It’s business, Natasha.’

‘Fair enough, but they’re paying me to bail them out, not flog the company to an asset-stripper. Anyway, I don’t have the authority.’

‘Maybe not, but you can present one of our subsidiaries as a genuine buyer.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘Because we’ll pay you a percentage of what we make on the deal.’

I was taken aback for a moment as I realised that she was offering to bribe me, and blatantly at that. Not that it was all that shocking, given some of the things I’d known her to do, but I’d already let my surprise show and didn’t answer immediately. She waited patiently as I finished my wine and opened the second bottle, not speaking until I’d refilled our glasses.

‘Well? You know it makes sense, Tasha.’

‘They’d be furious.’

‘Who cares what a couple of drunken old buffers think? Anyway, they don’t have to know you were in on the deal.’

‘That’s true.’

She was right: I could do it, and she would be the only one who knew the truth. I smiled and raised my glass, to which she returned a wicked grin.

‘You haven’t changed,’ I told her.

‘No,’ she answered, either oblivious to irony or fully aware that she was an evil, scheming little bitch. ‘Have you?’

Her voice had changed in tone, growing distinctly warmer, and she was looking at me over the rim of her glass. I ignored her, piqued at the memory of her behaviour, only to think again. Her casual assumption of superiority had always annoyed me, and yet . . .

‘Before you came, I was going to eat my dinner in the bath,’ I told her, smiling as I fed her the line.

‘Why don’t you?’ she responded, as bold as ever.

Nothing further needed to be said. I stood up and made for the bathroom, taking my glass with me. It was rather a fine bath, a big old-fashioned tub with plenty of room. I poured in a generous measure of bath oil and turned the taps on full, filling the room with the scents of heat and jasmine. Lydia hadn’t bothered to get up but was still seated at the table, watching me with a knowing, ever so slightly disdainful little smirk. I went to the bed, shook out my hair and began to undress – not a striptease, such as I would have given a man if he was watching me, but simply going nude without embarrassment. She had every right to see me naked, and I knew she would enjoy it without having to be rude.

‘Your turn,’ I told her as I came back to the table.

She refilled her glass and stood up, but as I came close she gave me a solid slap on my bottom.

‘No,’ she told me. ‘You get in. I’ll watch.’

Despite myself a little shiver ran through me, both at her tone and from the sudden, sharp sting where she’d smacked me. I crossed to the bathroom once more, sensing her eyes on my rear view and the red mark on my flesh. The bath was full, with bubbles already beginning to run over the side, so I hastily twisted the taps off, bending as I did so to let her see my pussy from behind – again not to be rude but to let her know that I didn’t mind what she saw.

‘In you get,’ she told me.

She’d sat down on the loo, and watched as I climbed into the bath. The bubbles had come up so high that I was almost completely covered, just my boobs sticking out above the surface, looking big and pink and wet, feeling very vulnerable. Lydia watched, her smile now openly cruel.

‘You’re quite a big girl, aren’t you?’ she remarked. ‘Hold them up.’

I obeyed, cupping my breasts in my hands and lifting them for her inspection, tingling with pleasure to be obeying her orders but not in the least ashamed. She was several inches shorter than me and pretty much flat-chested, but her waist was no slimmer, so it was impossible not to feel proud of myself as I showed off to her.

‘Put some food on them,’ she told me. She had collected our plates from the table, and handed me mine. ‘You’re going to eat your dinner off your tits.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather I ate it off yours?’

‘Shut up and do as you’re told.’

‘Yes, Miss Lydia.’

‘That’s better. That’s the Natasha I remember, you little slut. Now get on with it.’

She sat back, watching and sipping her wine as I scraped the contents of my plate on to my chest. It was hot, stinging my skin, and slippery, bringing that deliciously rude sensation that comes with being thoroughly mucky. I put as much as I could on top of my tits, piling a little mound of rice and bits of meat and vegetable on each globe, but most of it slid off, down my cleavage and into the bath. It looked disgusting but felt lovely, especially with the ginger and chilli in the sauces making my nipples tingle. I was tempted to smear it all over myself, but I’d been ordered to eat.

‘You dirty pig,’ Lydia said, giggling, her eyes now bright with cruelty. ‘Go on, do it.’

I took my fork, carefully scraped up some of the mess and brought it to my mouth. Lydia’s eyes were locked with mine as I ate, letting the sauce run down my chin. My nipples had gone stiff, one little pink bud peeping up through the mess, and as I took a second forkful I bumped it, giving myself a sharp little shock of pleasure and increasing my need to open my thighs to her. Her grin grew more evil still as I lifted my knees above the soap bubbles, well parted.

‘Come on in,’ I urged. ‘Clothed if you like.’

She shook her head, but whether she wanted to play the stern mistress or was just being coy, or whatever her problem was, I no longer cared. Dropping my fork, I cupped my boobs, one plump, slippery globe in each hand, squeezing them and rubbing the mess over my skin before pulling them both up to lick my nipples and dirty my face. She picked up her own plate and began to eat, cool and poised while she watched me soil myself. Just that was enough to get me off, and I was going to masturbate for her when she abruptly stood up.

‘Roll over,’ she order. ‘Stick your bum up.’

I obeyed without a second’s thought, turning over in the bath to stick my bare bottom up above the bubbles, my knees open to make very sure she had access to my pussy and bumhole as well as my cheeks. She slapped me, once, twice and a third time, making me gasp with each stinging impact on my wet skin, then suddenly overturned her plate and brought it down on to my bottom with a soggy slap. I felt the food squash out over my cheeks and between, soiling my pussy and spattering my thighs.

She was laughing as she rubbed the mess into my bottom, and left the plate there, telling me to stay in place as she hastily began to undress. I watched from the corner of my eye, admiring her petite body and hoping she was going to make me be thoroughly rude with her before the evening was done. The plate slid slowly off my bottom as she stripped, leaving my filthy cheeks stuck high and open for her inspection, my bumhole still clean and pink between. Nude, she came back to me, slipped a hand between my thighs and rubbed me until I was panting and sticking myself up for more.

‘Yes, like that,’ I begged. ‘Bring me off, Lydia, and spank me too.’

‘Shut up, slut,’ she retorted, and stopped rubbing.

Ignoring my groan of disappointment, she began to explore my bottom, stroking my cheeks and smearing the mess more evenly across them. Some of it had already slid between them, soiling my bottom hole, but she added more, squashing it into my slit and inserting something small but hard into my anus. I thought she was going to finger me and closed my eyes in expectation of the bliss of having my bum penetrated, but she simply left whatever she’d put in my hole and went back to fondling my cheeks. I tried to relax, telling myself there was no need to hurry, despite my already urgent need to come – but then whatever was up my bum started to burn. Lydia laughed as I began to wriggle, and planted a firm smack across my cheeks, spattering herself with sauce.

‘It’s a piece of ginger,’ she told me. ‘Hurts, does it?’

My response was a whimper, although the hot, loose sensation growing in my anus was more heat than pain. It made me want to stick my bottom up anyway, to be spanked and plugged and molested in any way she pleased.

‘Right up,’ she ordered. ‘I want your pussy.’

I obeyed eagerly, lifting my bottom completely clear of the water and spreading my knees as wide as they would go. My hole felt open and ready, and I was expecting her fingers – only to have a handful of Thai food wadded up inside me. Lydia laughed, then gave a crow of delight and disgust as my hole closed to squeeze out the mess she’d just stuck up it. My bumhole was now burning and had begun to pulse on the ginger root, while my pussy was also beginning to sting and even my cheeks felt warm.

Lydia began to play with my bottom, spanking me and tickling my holes, pinching my cheeks and occasionally pushing a teasing knuckle between my sex lips. She’d sat down on the edge of the bath, her thighs wide, her hand between, rubbing herself as she molested me. I began to shake helplessly as she amused herself with my body. Twice she scooped up a handful of mess from my cheeks and fed it to me, giggling lewdly as I gobbled it up like a pig feeding from the hand. More bits of ginger were stuck in up my bumhole and pussy, until I felt loose and open, utterly out of control. Her slaps became hard, until I was gasping and wriggling in the pain of a full-blown spanking.

‘Frig yourself off,’ she demanded suddenly. ‘Come on, slut, I want to see you get there.’

I didn’t need to be told, but snatched back immediately, groping at my hot, eager pussy. She continued to spank me as I set my fingers to work, touching my burning bumhole to feel the pieces of ginger inside, plugging my cunt to leave myself agape in front of her, and starting to masturbate. I wanted her to see everything, to watch my fingers work in the slippery, fleshy folds of my sex, to see how excited she’d made me and how helpless I was under her command. I wanted her to punish me, spank my bare bottom until I howled, while I got off on my own humiliation. I wanted her to penetrate me, fill my bumhole and pussy with hot, slimy food, make me eat what had been up me while I came.

She gave me everything, save that last deliciously dirty detail, and that only because we came at the same time, with her calling me a slut over and over again as I brought myself off in front of her, naked and grovelling in the mess she’d made of me, soiled and spanked and penetrated for her amusement.