Five

MY RESCUE WAS hideously embarrassing, but it could have been worse. By good luck, Rhiannon was drinking in a bar just a few streets away. She came immediately and, while she was shocked by the state I was in, I managed to blame the more perverted details on Anton, which was pretty much the truth. We were still trying to clean up the mess when he came back, having intended to leave me for two hours, probably long enough for me to wet myself. I had the satisfaction of surprising him, because he hadn’t thought I’d dare call Rhiannon, and also of telling him to fuck off in no uncertain terms. Unfortunately I was too exhausted and stressed to take advantage of her curiosity about my behaviour.

I spent the whole of the following day either plotting revenge or masturbating myself sore over what had happened. Even as I came I would be cursing Anton, but I couldn’t stop myself, and after my eighth orgasm I realised that I was obsessed with him and that it would take weeks or even months to move on. That happens to me sometimes, but I’ve come to understand that it doesn’t mean I genuinely love the person involved, or even like them. I was definitely not going to give Anton the satisfaction of knowing what he’d done, let alone call him to take advantage of the fact. He’d had more than enough from me.

He’d also made it abundantly clear that he was not willing to help me promote the Hambling and Borse wines. To judge by what he’d said, he only praised the famous names and those who paid him, which was infuriating. If I’d known the bastard was corrupt I’d have offered him a bribe in the first place and saved myself a great deal of trouble. I did wonder if it would be possible to expose him as a fraud, but with no proof it would be his word against mine and I could see who’d come off worse. It would do me no good, and I had now lost my two best chances of bringing my wines up to astronomical prices.

I wasn’t at all sure what to do next, and it was only my native obstinacy that prevented me from abandoning the whole thing and staying in Paris for a go at seducing Rhiannon. She was obviously intrigued but too shy simply to be taken to bed, so it would need time. Unfortunately I couldn’t even close my eyes without seeing Anton Yoshida’s smug grin, and besides, a lot of people were going to be disappointed in me if I backed out, including Percy. So I contented myself with buying Rhiannon an enormous bunch of flowers and headed back to London.

Another reason for leaving was that the vintage looked like being a disaster. The wet summer had left most of the French vineyards badly affected by mildew, with Bordeaux the worst hit region. How Anton was going to cope with that I had no idea, but I was certainly not going to follow him around the country from one group of depressed vignerons to the next. The prices of older wines were likely to rise, and it was just possible I’d be able to bring our 2005 clarets to the attention of the public without the help of either Earle Hayes or Anton Yoshida.

Lastly, there was the message Gilbert Hambling had sent, asking for a report on my progress. In the circumstances there wasn’t a great deal I could say, as all I’d really managed to do was get heartily abused. I assured him I’d be in London on Monday, and as I sat on the Eurostar I was trying to work out how to put the best spin on events. By the following morning I’d decided that the best I could do was show that I hadn’t been wasting my time and propose a tasting aimed at investors hoping to capitalise on the probable price rises for recent good vintages.

I dressed in another of my smart new skirt suits, only fractionally less fine than the one Anton Yoshida had put in urgent need of a trip to the dry cleaners. Just knowing how smart I looked helped to keep me feeling efficient and in control, and my mood was positively bullish as I got out of the cab in St James’s and clip-clopped my way across to the building. Gilbert was alone in his office, seated behind the enormous desk. His jowls lifted into a smile as he saw me.

‘Ah, Natasha, there you are,’ he greeted me. ‘Do take a seat. Coffee? No? Well then, how are you doing? I confess that I had expected you to spend a little more time in the office.’

‘There’s not really much I can do here,’ I told him. ‘I need to get out and meet people. So far I’ve had two offers for the company, both quite generous but unsuitable.’

‘Ah ha! And who were these from?’

‘You’d probably prefer not to know.’

‘Not at all.’

‘If you insist. One from a company called Orpheus Asset Management, and the other from Earle Hayes.’

‘Hum . . . I see what you mean. Still, good work.’

‘A good start at least, I like to think,’ I lied. ‘I also need to arrange a tasting.’

‘The Hambling and Borse tasting is in November, at the Aviators Club.’

‘Then we can have two, although the Aviators would be an excellent venue.’

‘Two?’

‘Yes. The one I’m planning is rather different, you see. The thing is, the Bordeaux vintage looks as if it’s going to fail.’

‘So I hear.’

‘In which case we’re in an excellent position to benefit from our stocks of older wines, particularly the ’05s and ’06s, which are sure to appeal to investors and . . .’

‘Investors? Natasha, we at Hambling and Borse do not sell wine as an investment. We sell it to drink.’

‘Yes, of course, normally, and I agree with the principle, but in the circumstances—’

‘I’m sorry, my dear, but that is out of the question.’

I drew my breath in, trying to be calm, but it was beginning to feel as if everything I did blew up in my face.

‘We need to increase our income,’ I said carefully, ‘also to raise our profile among those who’re prepared to pay high prices.’

‘I am fully aware of that, Natasha,’ he responded, ‘and yet we have commitments to our regular customers.’

‘Who are buying at well below market prices in some instances. At the very least we need to raise our Bordeaux prices by fifty per cent, and a hundred or more for some of the reserved stock.’

‘We couldn’t possibly!’

‘If we don’t we’re going to end up being pulled into little pieces by Orpheus Asset Mangement or somebody similar. You know what they want to do, don’t you? They want to buy the Hambling and Borse name and sell it to a supermarket to be used for their premium brands.’

‘Good God!’

‘Exactly, so we need to act. Let me show ten or a dozen different Bordeaux and a few of our agencies from other regions, that’s all.’

‘But our regular customers . . .’

‘We’ll bring in cheaper wines to fill the gap.’

‘What? Absolutely not! It would ruin our reputation.’

‘You won’t have a reputation to ruin if you don’t get your act together, you obstinate old goat!’

I’d tried to stop myself even as the words came out of my mouth, but I’d said them and Gilbert was going slowly purple.

‘Sorry,’ I managed, my temper draining away on the instant, ‘but I’m only trying to help.’

‘By calling me an old goat?’ he demanded. ‘I think you should mind your language, young lady, or those knickers of yours may have to come down again.’

‘Sorry,’ I repeated. ‘That was rude of me, but I’m serious.’

‘So am I, I assure you.’

‘No, look . . . I . . .’

He certainly sounded serious, and I stopped in confusion, genuinely outraged by the thought of a proper spanking, but with my nipples instantly stiff and my pussy tight. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to think clearly before I began again.

‘I was rude, and you would be right to spank me, but we really do need to resolve this. At least let me use my contacts to try and bring in some new clients for a tasting, and auction some of our surplus Bordeaux afterwards? Please, and I promise I won’t mention investment.’

He paused to consider, frowning. All I’d really done was rephrase my suggestion, and I was fairly sure he knew that I’d still be inviting potential investors. Suddenly I felt immense sympathy for him, as an ageing man struggling to preserve values almost everybody else had rejected, in terms of both business practice and the right to smack naughty girls’ bottoms when he felt it necessary. At last he replied.

‘Very well, so long as you assure me you will do nothing to bring the name of the company into disrepute.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and meant it.

‘Perhaps you’d care for a drink at the Aviators and we can arrange matters? I’ve been meaning to introduce you to some of the boys anyway.’

‘Yes, thank you. Should I give my expenses to Melanie, or would you like to look them over?’

‘I’m sure they’re fine, but I’ll pass them along to her if you like.’

I dug the invoice and the envelope with my receipts in it out of my bag and passed them across. He gave them a casual glance, then did a double-take, his eyes widening slowly as he took in my figures. I managed a weak smile.

‘I don’t mean to be critical, Natasha,’ he said, ‘but this does seem rather a lot. Two thousand five hundred Euros for a skirt suit? One hundred and ninety Euros for a set of underwear?’

‘I don’t mind bearing a proportion of it,’ I assured him hastily, ‘especially the clothes, but believe me it was money well spent.’

‘On underwear?’

I shrugged, blushing. He shook his head and continued to scan the list, only for the expression on his face to change abruptly, from irritation to pleasure.

‘Of course, yes, the classic situation,’ he said, ‘although while I appreciate that you like to have something to receive your punishments for, you needn’t go quite so far for the sake of verisimilitude. Nevertheless, you do have excellent timing.’

I wasn’t at all sure what he was talking about, except that he was obviously going to use my profligacy as another excuse to punish me. He put the papers down on his desk and rubbed his hands together, now beaming with delight. My initial puzzlement had begun to give way and I bit my lip, feeling distinctly embarrassed and more than a little sorry for myself. I’d come in feeling brisk and businesslike, and now it looked as if I’d be having my knickers taken down for another spanking, because that was undoubtedly what he thought I was angling for. It was not what I’d been expecting, not at that moment, and I felt awkward and slightly ridiculous. I wondered if I could back down gracefully.

‘Maybe another . . .,’ I began, only to stop.

He had reached into his drawer and pulled something out, a magazine, which he tossed casually on to the desk. I thought it would be a copy of Corkscrew or something like that, and it took me a moment to realise what the plump gentleman in a dinner jacket and an orange waistcoat on the cover was doing. Rather than addressing a tasting or showing off his cellar, he was attending to a pretty girl in school uniform, with her gymslip already turned up as he pulled down her knickers. It was abundantly obvious what he intended to do with her, as the magazine was Kane and he was holding one.

‘Oh,’ I said as my stomach began to churn. ‘Look, Gilbert . . . Mr Hambling, I thought maybe another spanking, some time, maybe, but the cane really hurts!’

‘Is that not the idea?’ he asked. ‘And indeed, is that not what you deserve?’

‘No! Well . . . perhaps, but I really . . .’

I trailed off, feeling thoroughly sorry for myself and on the edge of telling him it just wasn’t going to happen. Yet ever since he’d spanked me I’d wanted it again, and I knew that to turn him down would ruin the sense of his authority over me, which was what had made it special. He nodded, perhaps aware of my conflicting emotions and certainly enjoying my discomfort. I also knew I’d be OK once my bum was warm.

‘Oh, all right,’ I said miserably, ‘but you’re to spank me first, and not to use the cane until I’m quite pink.’

I was pouting furiously as I went to the desk, where I leant forward, resting my arms on its surface with my bottom pushed out behind. He watched, one corner of his big, loose mouth twitching with amusement, admiring the shape of my body but making no move to take my punishment any further. It was I who spoke first.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to spank me?’

‘Yes,’ he told me, ‘but not yet. No, no, don’t get up, I prefer you in that position.’

He’d set me blushing again, hotter than before, but I did as I was told, bending over with my bum up in spanking position. He pushed the copy of Kane under my nose.

‘The fellow on the cover is a member of the Aviators,’ he informed me. ‘One of the idle rich who need not be concerned with concealing his peccadilloes. He particularly wants to meet you, as do one or two others, so if you are willing I’ll call ahead and engage a private room?’

The implication was clear. If I went over to the Aviators I would be lunching in private with a group of lecherous old bastards who not only knew that I received corporal punishment but almost certainly fancied a turn at dishing it out. At the very least I’d be spanked in front of them, maybe passed around from lap to lap, then caned. I found myself nodding.

‘Splendid!’ he declared. ‘A moment, if you please.’

He made a call, and meanwhile I remained in position. I was imagining the coming exposure of my bottom and my beating, now with rising excitement but still a great deal of embarrassment. He made me feel small and vulnerable, wonderful sensations in their place and ones I’d rarely experienced in recent years. When he put the phone down he extended his hand and I took it, allowing him to lead me from the room like a puppy on her master’s lead.

At the door he let go, and we left the building like any other pair of business associates making their way to lunch. There were plenty of people about, and it felt strange to think of them going about their daily routines, all unaware than one among them was being taken to have her bare bottom smacked in front of a bunch of dirty old men.

The thought was enough to keep me warm all the way to the club. Not that it was very far, only in King Street, where it was housed in a great square grey-stone building four storeys high that projected an air of gravitas and maturity. The doorman was in full livery, an old boy with a military air whose disapproving scowl vanished as he saw Gilbert. I was given a rather different look, as if to say that while I was allowed in with my chaperone I had better behave myself.

I returned a cheeky smile, determined not to let the atmosphere of masculine dignity oppress me, and deliberately clicked my heels on the polished wooden floor as we crossed to a desk where another commissionaire stood. He too was polite to Gilbert but gave me a look that suggested he knew exactly what I was up to, setting me blushing despite myself.

Stairs ascended beside the desk and I hurried up them, keen to escape the knowing glances from behind. All I succeeded in doing was making my boobs bounce and giving the man a prime view of my bottom wiggling beneath my skirt, and I was sure I heard a chuckle as I passed out of his sight. I had to wait for Gilbert on the landing, but took his arm as we continued upstairs, which made me feel protected though still a woman in a man’s environment, and a slut at that.

We climbed to the fourth floor, where a landing ran round the stairwell, with doors on every side. Gilbert selected one of them and admitted me to a room looking out over the mews at the rear of the building. The walls were panelled in oak and hung with the portraits of various long-dead imperialists; the carpet was deep and bore a dignified pattern of brown and old gold. The furniture consisted of a single table under the window and a ring of chairs, on each of which sat a man. Some were short, some tall, some fat, some thin, but every one of them was over fifty and dressed in a fashion that suggested old money. A school cane lay on the table.

I’d been expecting to be taken in and left alone to dwell on what was about to happen to me, while Gilbert assembled the troops, so I was more than a little taken aback to find them ready and waiting. One notably fat gentleman with a huge gingery-white moustache even had a clothes-brush in his hand, its purpose all too obvious. That could only mean that Gilbert had been sufficiently confident of my acquiescence to inform his friends in advance. Maybe the commissionaire downstairs was in the know, too.

He was – because at this point he came in behind us. I stood gaping at my reception committee with my face burning and no doubt the colour of a beetroot. Otto Borse was there, looking smug, but I didn’t recognise anybody else. I didn’t need to. Their self-satisfied, somewhat predatory expressions revealed confidence and hunger – enough of both for me to be sure they wouldn’t feel we needed to be introduced before my panties were pulled down in front of them. Gilbert, always the gentleman, did the honours anyway, naming each of them as I stood there blushing and fidgeting in the middle of the carpet. Only one name sank in properly, that of the man with the ridiculous moustache and the clothes-brush: the Right Honourable Vernon Flyght, chairman of the club committee and therefore, by order of precedence, the first one to spank me. The clothes-brush was a huge old-fashioned thing with a handle and I found myself biting my lip and whining in protest.

‘Not first, please! That will really sting, and you promised to warm me up!’

The Right Honourable Vernon Flyght gave a cluck of amusement.

‘It is intended to warm you up, my dear,’ he assured me, ‘but don’t fret. You’re not the first little filly I’ve had across my knee by a very long way and I know just how to handle you. So does everybody else in this room.’

‘Everybody else? I thought I was going to get a warm-up spanking and then the cane?’

‘So you shall, my dear, but surely you can see that it would be unfair to deprive any one of us of the pleasure of your bottom?’

‘But there are fourteen of you!’

‘Fifteen. Stubbs will want his turn, naturally.’

I turned round to see the commissionaire standing with his back to the door, grinning at me. My mouth opened to protest, closed again, opened again and finally closed as I realised that I probably looked like a goldfish trying to gulp in air. Gilbert finally broke the silence.

‘Now come along, Natasha, pop your knickers down and bottom up for the boys, eh?’

I nodded weakly and reached up under my skirt to tug my expensive silk panties down over my hips and bottom. That was as far as I intended them to go, so that I could at least walk over to Vernon Flyght with a little dignity instead of shuffling along with my knickers around my knees. Unfortunately they fell down, all the way to my ankles and as I stepped forward one of my heels caught in the fabric. I tripped and staggered forward to sprawl across his lap, and it was only because he was such a fat bastard that he and the chair didn’t go over backwards. I was left at an angle across his lap, bum high and knees apart, with my ankles trapped in the tangle of my panties.

It couldn’t have been a much more humiliating position, and they all had a good laugh at my expense, while Vernon gripped me round the waist to prevent me getting into a less undignified pose. My face was burning hotter than before. He didn’t give me a chance to ready myself for my exposure, but simply lifted the tails of my jacket and blouse, then tugged my skirt up to lay my bottom bare for all to see. I’m not in the least bit overweight, but for some reason my bottom always feels huge when I’m over some man’s knee and stripped behind – a fat, pink, wobbling ball of girl-flesh, thoroughly rude and in this case made ruder still because he’d got my knees cocked apart and my pussy and bumhole were already on show.

I wasn’t ready at all but, as I twisted round to beg him to let me at least get into position properly, I saw the clothes-brush raised over my bum, which he was admiring as if he’d been fasting for a week and I was a piece of sirloin steak.

‘No, please!’ I squeaked. ‘You said you’d warm me up!’

‘So I shall,’ he assured me, and brought the brush down across my cheeks.

It wasn’t hard at all, barely even a smack. He simply pressed the wood to the turn of my cheeks and began to wobble them, pulling my flesh this way and that to make my already open pussy spread and my bumhole stretch. There was more laughter at the sight and I immediately began to sob with humiliation at the view I was giving them, which I could picture all too clearly in my head: the full spread of my naked cheeks, my thighs open, my fancy knickers in a tangle around my ankles, my freshly shaved pussy pink and bare and already moist, the pale brown ring of my bumhole on blatant display and winking to show off the wet red centre.

‘Pig!’ I managed, but only earned myself a smack of the brush that made me gasp.

I thought my spanking had begun, but he hadn’t finished playing with me. Turning the brush over, he began to use it on me as if I’d still had my skirt in place and he’d been removing some fluff. The bristles were quite stiff, and they tickled and stung at the same time, getting me giggling helplessly and wriggling my feet in my panties. They all thought that was hilarious, clapping and encouraging him, although one or two were telling him to get on with spanking me so that they could take their own turns.

‘There is no hurry, gentlemen,’ he assured them. ‘I believe we have her for as long as we please. Is that not so, Gilbert?’

‘Absolutely,’ Gilbert assured him. ‘Take as long as you like. I certainly intend to.’

‘What about me?’ I demanded. ‘I can only take so much, you know!’

‘Rest assured that you are in the hands of experts,’ Gilbert responded.

I shook my head, far from convinced. Vernon had put the clothes-brush down on my back and had begun to feel me up instead, cocking his knee up to lift my bottom for his inspection and leaning forward to peer between my cheeks. I hung my head, breathing deeply, and surrendered to him as he fondled me, taking his time to enjoy the feel of my cheeks and to inspect my anus and cunt. Even when he put a finger in, all I could manage was a whimper of protest that sounded like pleasure. At that he gave a knowing little chuckle and slid a second finger in beside the first, opening me wide and finally bringing my resentment to the boil.

‘I only volunteered for a spanking,’ I pointed out. ‘And the cane. You’re taking liberties.’

‘You wanted to be warm, didn’t you?’ he asked reasonably, and his thumb found my clit.

My sarcastic answer turned into a gasp as he began to masturbate me, rubbing right on my bump, with his fingers pushing in and out of my open hole. I struggled to drive the pleasure out of my head, but I couldn’t do it and gave in, slumped spread on his knee, panting out my ecstasy in front of them all. Soon I was wriggling my bottom and rubbing against him, and at that he picked up the clothes-brush with his free hand and began to spank.

It stung like mad, but I was already too high to resist, merely wriggling a bit harder for a moment before pushing my bottom up for more. I was going to come, but it had all been so sudden that my body had left my mind behind, so that I was painfully aware of just how unspeakably lewd I looked even as my pussy hole began to contract on his fingers. He was spanking hard too, making my cheeks dance and setting my feet kicking in my panties in a final, pained flurry before the climax hit me. I screamed, in ecstasy but no less with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment that left me snivelling and limp when he finally stopped.

‘Up we get,’ he said gently, giving my bottom a gentle pat.

I couldn’t do it immediately – my reaction had just been too strong – and when I did I was shaking and unsteady. He was grinning, both amused and aroused, which was no surprise. The air was thick with the scent of my pussy, while I was a dishevelled mess, my skirt still up but my tails hanging down so that just the turn of my now red bottom cheeks was peeping out beneath, my pussy showing at the front and my panties in a puddle around my feet. He’d broken my resistance, leaving me confused and a little dizzy but compliant. When the man next to him patted his lap I went straight over, sticking my bottom up for spanking without a second thought. He began immediately, talking as he slapped my cheeks, striking upwards to make them spread and quiver.

‘Quite the little tart, isn’t she, Gilbert? You said she was willing, but I’d have expected at least some resistance.’

‘Percy Ottershaw trained her,’ Gilbert answered. ‘He’s something of an expert.’

‘So it seems,’ another man put in. ‘He’s certainly done an excellent job with this one.’

A fourth man was more critical. ‘She’s obedient, yes, but I prefer them to put up a bit of a fight myself.’

‘Old Percy spanked that out of her years ago, apparently,’ Gilbert put in.

‘That’s a shame. I love to break them in.’

‘There’s something in that, of course, but there’s a lot to be said for a knowing tart.’

‘I agree with Clive. It’s best when they put up a fight.’

‘Especially if they try to keep their knickers up. This one just dropped them to order.’

Light laughter greeted this final remark. All the while I was being spanked, my bottom bouncing to hard, rhythmic smacks that were bringing the heat to my cheeks with a vengeance. Every word made my sense of humiliation more bitter, until I began to sob and shake, at which the spanking stopped.

‘Is she all right, d’you think?’ the man who was holding me asked.

I nodded, unable to take the chance to escape. He stopped anyway, releasing me and sending me on my way with a final pat to my now hot bottom. My knickers were in the way and I stepped out of them as I went to the next man, climbing obediently across his knees with my bottom well lifted to allow him to readjust my clothes to get me fully bare. I waited as my skirt was tucked into its own waistband and the tails of both my jacket and blouse wedged underneath, then I settled into spanking position. But he wasn’t finished.

‘Aren’t we forgetting something, gentlemen?’ he remarked, and his finger moved to my blouse.

I pouted resentfully as my buttons were opened and my bra flipped up to leave my boobs dangling for all to see. I know my bottom has to be bare for punishment – that’s inevitable – but there always seems to be some bastard who wants to strip my tits as well, and because they’re big they jiggle and bounce while I’m smacked, which is hideously embarrassing. He had a good feel too, stroking and squeezing my boobs even as he began to spank me. My nipples were stiff and sensitive after my orgasm, and he began to pull at them as if he was trying to milk me, adding to my shame and confusion.

‘A delight,’ he said after a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care for a job as a maid, my dear? Topless, naturally, but the salary would reflect your extra duties.’

‘No,’ I retorted, with very real indignation, but he simply laughed and began to spank me harder.

The next man was worse, cold and harsh, spanking me hard and full across my cheeks as if he was really punishing a naughty girl rather than enjoying a willingly offered bottom. I wondered if that was what he was used to, and whether the position I was in had previously been occupied by his wife or even daughters. He certainly did it well, leaving me rubbing my cheeks and shifting from foot to foot when I was finally allowed up from his lap.

There was no respite. I was taken down by the next man, the one who’d been on the cover of Kane, who was another groper; then the next, who spread my thighs so that every single one of them had a prime view of my open cunt. I no longer cared, dizzy and shaking as I was passed from lap to lap, my bottom smacked and stroked, pinched and fondled, my boobs molested and even slapped, my pussy fingered and my bumhole tickled and teased. By the time I got to the commissionaire I was so juicy that I was slippery between my thighs and my stocking tops were wet.

He was much rougher, bundling me over his knee and spanking so hard that he got me kicking again, and squealing too. By the time he’d finished I was gasping for breath and so weak-legged I could barely stand. But there was no mercy. Gilbert looked me in the eye and pointed to the table on which the cane had been laid.

‘Bend over,’ he instructed. ‘Feet apart, back well in.’

I knew the drill and adopted a position that not only left me completely vulnerable to the cane but flaunted every detail of my rear view. My legs were shaking terribly, and I had to rest my upper body on the table, even though it meant my tits were squashed out on the cold, hard wood. The cane was directly under my nose.

Behind me the men were enjoying the view, those on either side adjusting their chairs to make sure they could see right between my legs. It’s a rare man who can beat a girl without also wanting to rob her of every last scrap of modesty by looking at what he’s made her show.

‘Perhaps you would care to do the honours, Stubbs?’ the Right Honourable Vernon Flyght suggested. ‘Unless you prefer to insist on your privilege as her owner, Gilbert?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ Gilbert assured him. ‘With the cane it’s often better to watch than to wield. Besides, I can do it whenever I wish.’

‘Owner?’ I queried, but they ignored me.

The commissionaire came forward and picked up the cane. It was an ordinary school cane, long and brown and wicked, with a crook handle, and capable, as I knew from bitter experience, of inflicting a great deal of pain. My bottom cheeks tightened as he got behind me, and again as the thin, hard rod was tapped on my flesh.

‘Six of the best,’ Gilbert instructed, ‘but good and hard.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Stubbs responded, and lifted the cane.

My cheeks squeezed tight again as I looked back. His face was stern, purposeful, with just a hint of malice; after the way he’d spanked me I knew better than to expect any mercy. He was a sadistic bastard too, holding the cane high above my bottom until I’d begun to sob in frustration and only then bringing it down. I heard the swish and the crack of wood on my bare flesh, felt the impact, then the sting, so painful it had me gasping again and jumping up and down on my toes to set my bottom jiggling.

Several of the men laughed at what admittedly must have been a ridiculous sight, and I forced myself to get back in position. The cut across my bottom was already burning and I knew I’d be badly welted, so badly that it would be two or three weeks before I could go to a spa or show my bum without making it obvious what had been done to me. I imagined the humiliation of having my caned bottom inspected by giggling girls or having some disapproving matron realise that I’d been punished.

I stuck my bottom out, half eager, half scared. Stubbs lashed the cane down again, drawing a second line of fire across my cheeks and once more setting me gasping and dancing on my toes. It hurt enough to make me wonder what the hell I was doing offering myself to the evil old bastard, but I soon had my bottom stuck out again. The third cut was harder still, leaving me sobbing and shaking my head, with tears starting in my eyes. Still I pushed my bottom high as soon as I could, trembling with fear even as I offered myself.

‘By God, I’d like to fuck her,’ one of them growled, distracting me at exactly the wrong moment so that the fourth stroke caught me off guard.

That broke me. It was just so unfair, to be beaten in front of them with my bottom flaunted naked, every detail of my wet, ready cunt open for their inspection, and not one of them with so much as his tie undone. I wondered if Stubbs would fuck me, sticking his cock up my hole from behind, not to pleasure me, not even for his own enjoyment, but to give the ring of dirty old bastards watching us something to toss over later. I burst into tears, imaging how it would feel to be fucked for their amusement, with Stubbs’s cock up me and his paunch slapping against my caned and spanked bottom as he thrust into me.

Still I held my pose, and they were too high on my pain and exposure to worry about my tears. Again Stubbs brought the cane down across my bottom and again I jerked and squealed, kicking and jiggling my bum. I was going to get it, I had to, my cunt filled with cock by the man who’d beaten me, by the man who’d earned the right to use me as he pleased. Maybe he’d even put it up my bum. Maybe they’d all have me, turn and turn about in all three orifices until I was dribbling spunk and sore.

I thrust my bottom out as high as I could, deliberately showing off as Stubbs measured up for the sixth and final stroke. It came down across the fattest part of my cheeks, biting into my flesh and sending a jolt to my pussy not so very far from orgasm. I was done, well and truly beaten, my bottom on fire, my pussy agape, my bumhole pulsing lewdly between my reddened cheeks. They could do as they liked: fuck me, bugger me, make me suck their dirty old cocks one by one and spunk in my face.

‘There we are, my dear,’ Gilbert remarked, ‘all done, unless . . .’

He left the question unfinished, but there was no mistaking his meaning. I nodded urgently as I got to my feet, still ashamed of myself but needing it too badly to back down. One of the men gave a dirty little chuckle.

‘Into the cupboard with her then,’ Vernon announced.

Vernon’s words left my puzzled. Surely I wasn’t going to be tied up and left again? Stubbs had put down the cane and crossed the room to slide back a panel I hadn’t realised was any different from the others. It closed off a sort of janitor’s cupboard, full of junk and cleaning utensils, but with a single chair positioned so that a man could sit in comfort with a clear space in front of him, a clear space just large enough for a girl to kneel while she gave a blowjob. They’d even put down a piece of carpet.

‘I’m not the first, am I?’ I asked.

‘By no means,’ Vernon assured me, ‘although you will be the first to go in there without financial inducement.’

I managed a wry smile, reflecting what a slut I was to go willingly when other girls had had to be paid. There was a mirror among the portraits and I turned my back to it, trembling harder than ever as I inspected my bottom. He’d caned me beautifully, laying six neatly spaced double welts across my bottom flesh, which was flushed an even pink from my spankings. Now I was going to suck cock for the men who’d beaten me – maybe more, maybe all fifteen of them.

‘Come along, in you go,’ one of them said, and reached out to apply a firm pat to my bottom.

Again I smiled, struggling to show how in control I was, and as I walked to the cupboard I deliberately wiggled my hips to taunt them. I was deceiving myself. They were in control, because they’d beaten me so well that I wanted to be used in any way they pleased. I was obviously expected to do it kneeling too, but that felt right, and I got down on the little square of thick carpet without demur.

Vernon made a polite gesture to Gilbert, who joined me in the cupboard and slid the door shut. There was no window but a small ventilator set high in the wall, through which dirty grey light filtered down, illuminating the pale shape of his cock and balls as he flopped them out of his trousers. Evidently there was to be no preamble. I would be treated just like the girls they paid, expected to do as I was told without making a fuss.

I took him in, his cock already half stiff from spanking me and watching me beaten. Through the haze of my arousal I was aware that not only was I sucking cock for a man who’d just punished me, but also that he was my boss. That was something I’d never done before, because I’d never really had a boss, and it was nice. I wondered how many girls ended up on their knees with their boss’s cock in their mouths, and how many got spanked first. Not many, I imagined, not nowadays, but it was just the fantasy I needed.

He was rapidly growing hard, and he had a nice cock, quite big and pale with a fat, kissable head and big balls that just cried out to be licked. I obliged myself, masturbating while I flicked my tongue over the taut, wrinkly skin of his scrotum and rubbed my face against him. There was a long queue waiting for my attention, but I was not going to rush. I wanted to savour all fifteen cocks and to masturbate while I did it, making myself come.

My hand was between my thighs before he was even fully erect, rubbing in my wet slit as I revelled in the delicious shame of being made to go bare-bottom over men’s laps, being spanked, then made to suck off the very same men. I imagined having no choice, surrendering first my bottom and then my mouth to some bastard because he’d sack me if I didn’t give in. He’d fuck me too, over his desk with my hot red bottom cheeks parted to show off my bumhole and the mouth of my cunt as his erection slid in and out. I’d be given to his friends and clients, used to sweeten business deals and brighten up dull afternoons in the office. He’d make me wear tarty underwear or none at all, have me sit with my skirt pulled up while I took dictation, make me wear a plug in my bumhole to keep me ready for buggering, force me to bend over in front of his friends and show it off, make me suck on it while they took turns to fuck me up my arse . . .

Gilbert came in my mouth, a great gush of spunk that I struggled to swallow, my cheeks bulging as he held himself in deep to make sure I couldn’t pull back before he’d finished. It left me gasping, with a trail of spunk and saliva running down my chin, which I hastily licked up as he tilted my chin and looked down at me. I was still rubbing, right on the edge of orgasm, but he didn’t seem to realise, contenting himself with a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose before sitting back to put his cock away.

I slowed down, eager to come with a cock in my mouth. Gilbert left and Vernon replaced him, treating me with the same casual disdain, cock flopped out and into my mouth with barely a word of greeting. Like Gilbert he was half stiff, but I was now urgent, sliding my mouth up and down to get him erect as I rubbed myself and once more returned to my fantasy. Now I was bent over my boss’s desk, my skirt and tails turned up to show off my bare bottom, the base of my butt plug sticking out obscenely from between my cheeks. There’d be six of them, clients, laughing at me as my boss eased the thick plug in and out of my gaping bumhole, and louder as it was extracted and put in my mouth.

That was just too rude not to come over, but I held the image in my head as I gobbled eagerly on Vernon’s now rigid cock: myself in my smart little secretary’s suit, my bottom stripped and spread, my anus agape and about to be plugged with my boss’s cock, six men laughing at my unbearable humiliation as my mouth gaped to take in a plug drawn straight from my rectum, the taste thick in my senses as I began to suck. Vernon whipped his cock free just as my pussy began to go into contraction and jerked furiously at his shaft as I shut my eyes to focus properly on the awful degradation I was wishing for. My orgasm was long and hard, every sensation magnified: the feel of my fingers on my pussy, my burning clit, the heat of my smacked and welted bottom, a wet, stickiness on my skin. I’d come, and so had the Right Honourable Vernon Flyght, all over my face.

Most of it was over one eye, which I didn’t dare open, but at least he had the decency to offer me a handkerchief to mop up with. By the time I’d finished he’d gone, to be promptly replaced by Otto Borse. I’d come twice and my pussy had begun to get sore but I was still high and took him in willingly enough. He was even bigger than Gilbert, with a thick, meaty foreskin and great hairy balls that tickled my nose as I tried to get him right in. He was nice about it, stroking my hair as I sucked, and firm only when it came to holding me in place to make sure I swallowed.

He was my third. I couldn’t even remember the name of the fourth, but he was very controlling, holding me by my hair and making me purse my lips so that he could fuck the bud of my mouth. Like Gilbert and Otto he made me swallow, and so did most of the others, with just a couple doing it in my face or insisting I hold my mouth open to be spunked in. I took it all like a good little slut, meek and obedient, while my excitement gradually rose once more. When one of them told me he was going to masturbate over my smacked bottom I climbed up on the chair without hesitation, kneeling for him and helping him toss until he spattered my cheeks with spunk.

I’d been ready for fucking from the start, but blowjobs seemed to be the order of the day, and it was only Stubbs who really took advantage. By then my fingers were back between my legs and I was masturbating as he came in. His cock was flaccid and tasted oily, and he sat on the very edge of the chair so that he could grope my tits while I got him erect. That made me feel dirty and eager. I couldn’t help but remember that he was the one who’d actually applied the cane to my bottom, and I could happily have got off on that, but he wanted more.

‘Dirty little tart, aren’t you?’ he grunted, squeezing my tits.

My mouth was full of cock but I nodded.

‘You’ll do anything, won’t you, now we’ve got you feeling good and dirty?’

Again I nodded, wondering what he had in mind for me.

‘I bet you’d even lick my arse?’

This time I hesitated, in very real disgust, but he was right. I did feel dirty, deliciously dirty. Pulling back from his cock, I answered him.

‘You filthy bastard. Go on then, make me.’

His response was a nasty, dry snigger, full of contempt as much as lust. I rocked back on my heels, scarcely able to accept what I’d just volunteered for but unable to resist. He stood up and as he unfastened his trousers I was trying to make excuses, telling myself that I was only doing it because I’d been told to be a good girl, that if I refused he’d force me, that I was just being kind to an old man who might never have the chance to enjoy a woman like me again – anything rather than admit that I actually wanted to push my tongue in between his buttocks and lick.

I could only see him faintly as he pushed his trousers and underpants down around his ankles before flopping back into the chair. He lifted one leg free of his trousers and underpants, then hesitated, reached out to a nearby shelf, and passed something to me.

‘Stick that up yourself, why don’t you?’

My hand closed on something round, smooth and hard, which I could just make out as the handle of a brush, the sort that goes with a pan. To have to stick it up my hole while I licked was a gloriously dirty thought and I didn’t hesitate, reaching back to ease it in up my sloppy pussy. Being penetrated felt good, and I was only sorry there wasn’t another one to go in up my bum at the same time. I used my finger instead, squatting down to push the brush against the floor as I tickled the little wet hole between my cheeks.

‘Get licking,’ he ordered as he pulled his legs up to spread his buttocks.

‘You have to make me,’ I told him, my voice hoarse.

‘Awkward bitch!’ he answered, and reached out.

He grabbed my hair and I squeaked as I was hauled in. I fought back, struggling to stop it happening, because I was determined that if I did it he would really have to make me. His slit was matted with hair, clammy and pungent with a male smell strong enough to make me gag as I was pulled closer. I was close to panic, but still wriggling my penetrated cunt on the brush handle, needing what was going to be done to me, but only under his control.

I got it, my face pulled hard between his buttocks and rubbed from side to side to make his slit open. His coarse anal hair was rubbing on my nose and lips and his smell almost overwhelming, but I kept my mouth firmly shut, wanting him to talk to me.

‘Lick!’ he ordered. ‘Lick my fucking arse, you stuck-up little bitch.’

That was better. My tongue poked out to find the large, blubbery star of his anal ring, and to lick. He gave a groan of satisfaction and began to wank, his balls slapping in my face as I flicked my tongue over the crevices and bumps of his anus, struggling with the acrid taste and the bits of hair in my mouth but unable to stop myself, and not only because he had his hand twisted tight into my hair.

It was the final, unspeakable degradation, to end up licking the commissionaire’s anus after everything else I’d been put through, and my hands went straight back between my thighs to frig and to tease my bumhole open. I no longer needed fantasy, because what I was getting was dirty enough: my tits swinging, naked and sweaty; my bottom stuck out, red with spanking and welted from the cane; my anus a wet brown star with my finger pushed well in; the brush sticking out from my cunt; my fingers busy between my sex lips; and, best of all, my tongue up some dirty old bastard’s arsehole as he masturbated. He wasn’t just any dirty old bastard, either: he’d spanked me and caned me, made me suck his cock and lick his balls, pulled my face between his buttocks and called me a stuck-up little bitch because I wouldn’t lick his arsehole.

Now I was doing it, urgently, my tongue well up as I rubbed frantically at my cunt. I was going to come again, my hole already in contraction on the brush handle, my own anus pulsing hard on my intruding finger. I heard him grunt and felt his spunk splash in my hair as his arsehole tightened on my tongue, and that pushed me over the edge. My tongue pushed in, as deep as I could get it. My whole body had gone tight as my orgasm engulfed me, while splash after splash of spunk landed in my face and hair. Then my head was jerked violently up and his cock jammed into my mouth for him to finish off by spunking down my throat.

I nearly fainted, and was left gagging on the floor, panting for breath and still clutching my cunt. The brush had fallen out when I came, and its bristles dug into my tender bottom as I rolled over on to my back, utterly exhausted. So was he, gasping in air as he lay back in the chair, and for one awful moment I thought he was going to die on me. He didn’t but was still breathless when I finally managed to climb to my feet.

Cleaning up was urgent, to say the least, but fortunately, now that they’d had me, Gilbert and his friends were behaving like gentlemen once again. Only Stubbs was ungrateful, checking that the landing was clear and grudgingly showing me to a bathroom, where he watched with his back to the door as I stripped and washed. I didn’t complain; I’m used to men who can’t understand that, just because I can be utterly filthy, it doesn’t mean I don’t deserve as much respect as any other woman, if not more.

By the time I had finished and returned to the room only Gilbert and Otto remained. It was gone one o’clock and they were keen to get their noses in the trough, pointing out that not only did the Aviators have an excellent menu but most of the wines were their own. I was so full of spunk I felt sick, and I was sure my belly had begun to bulge. The last thing I wanted was lunch, so I contented myself with a few glasses of Schoenenberg Riesling while Gilbert and Otto gorged themselves on grouse in a port sauce.

They were well pleased with themselves, talking expansively and explaining the background of their little club. Most of them had been at school together, it seemed, that or university, and so had built up an intimacy long before. That created an enduring bond of trust and meant they could hire girls for their dirty games with the minimum of risk – or, in my case, find themselves a genuine slut to play with. By no means all the members of the Aviators were in the spanking club, so they had to be discreet, but with well-paid girls and well-bribed commissionaires they had managed to avoid the attentions of both the less tolerant members and the press for nearly ten years.

I took it all in, happy to listen and to sip my wine because an idea had begun to form in my head. By the time they were munching their way through portions of spotted dick and custard served with a ’67 Coutet I had my solution.