Wicked Wednesday: Monica and the road less travelled

I’d just lubed Monica’s tight little asshole, putting the rest on my condommed cock. There’s a speech I usually make at that moment, at least the first time, where I check consent and make it clear that she’s in control. 

But Monica reached back and put her hands on the sides of her buttocks, parting them to give me better access. So I decided that consent was given, and that the rest of the speech wouldn’t be right: she liked the idea of me being ruthless, taking what I wanted. The whole point of Domming, and of hypnosis, is not to break the illusion.

So I growled, “Keep that ass up, girl, if you know what’s good for you.” 

Monica made a little vocal noise. It didn’t have words in it, but I took it that I’d said one of the possible right things. So I put my hands at the top of her thighs, squeezing hard enough to hurt a little, I hoped, and pushed forward. There was an instant’s resistance, and then she opened and I was inside, the head of my cock tightly held in slippery, lubed muscle.

I said, “Yes.” That was just pleasure. Then, for her, I said, “Good girl.”

Monica made another sound, a sort of gurgle. I looked down, feeling enormously fond of her. Her face was slightly turned to the left, and there was drool on her pillow. For some reason I found that utterly, absolutely hot, and I pushed further forward. Monica wailed. There was discomfort in that sound, but also celebration.

We moved together then, so I was fully in her, and my belly and thighs pushed against her bottom, still blazing hot from her wooden spoon spanking. We held still, both of us trembling, trying to savour the sensations and not move.

Eventually Monica said, “Ah, fuck … “

I said nothing, but took that as a request, and pushed forward to take one last centimetre, then withdrew a little. And then returned. Monica kept still at first, hands still holding her buttocks for me, but then she put her elbows back on the bed to support herself while she moved with me.

I smacked the sides of her ass, and then her thighs, while we fucked, and she made a sound, not in response to each blow but of gritty appreciation. So that was right too, but I soon lost the ability to coordinate the smacks and fuck at the same time, and simp[ly held her by her hips and fucked her. Time passed, with us focussed on movements, bodies and sensations.

Eventually Monica wanted to speed up, and I let her, keeping up, until she made a series of low, guttural grunts, and her anal ring tightened on the shaft of my cock. Then she screamed once, briefly, and then, panting hard, slowed to a stop.

I gasped, “Good girl. Very good girl.”

“You’re going to say that every time I come, aren’t you?”

“Probably. I like your sounds. And how you feel.”

“Heh. Then that’s good. You’ll just have to make me come often.”

“Dib dib dib,” I said.

“What?”

“Oh. You’ve never been a Boy Scout.”

“Idiot. No one has ever called my bum boyish.”

I was still hard inside her. I hadn’t come yet. But the break was good. “Don’t care about boys’ arses. Yours is perfect.”

She gave a little chuckle. Then she said, “I’ve never done that before. I mean yes, of course I’ve had anal sex before. But never as the first fuck. It was … Why did you do that?”

“Well, it’s very intimate. And to me it feels like it demands a kind of surrender from you. I wanted you to know that I want your, well, your submission. And it means that as far as I’m concerned normal rules don’t apply between us.”

She nodded. “Yes. They don’t. I feel that. I mean, as an emotional feeling.”

“Good. And it means to me, and I hope to you, that I, uh. I uh want this to be an important relationship. I mean I feel that it is. Going to be. No, already is.” I grimaced. I hadn’t expected to say that so clumsily.

“Yeah. I thought that’s what you meant. Glad I wasn’t wrong. You haven’t come yet, have you?”

“No.”

“Good. Fuck me now. Hard as you can, rough as you want. I want to feel you splash in me.”

“Yeah.”I could have made an issue of her giving me commands, but I just smacked her ass again, to preserve that whole Who/whom thing. Then I did as I was told.

Wicked Wednesday: Monica – Stirred with the Wooden Spoon

When a Dom has a naked girl bouncing on his lap, because he is naked too, and turned on, and he is spanking that naked girl hard with her own wooden spoon … Ah, I think I’ve lost my train of thought.

Oh yes, if she seems to be enjoying herself and getting into the spirit of the thing, it can be helpful if he lectures her, telling her she’s the sort of bad girl who deserves this terrible punishment. That terrible punishment she’s arching her bottom up for, mouth open and happy, eyes sparkling. 

So I said, “From now on, you do as you’re told, Monica. What do you do?” The wooden spoon spanked nice rounded girl, keeping her arse in motion.

“Uh. UH. As I’m told! Sir!” I took her arse in my hand and squeezed fondly. Warm, she was, and burning hot in places. She sighed when I squeezed her again. “That hurts, Sir.” 

“Is that a complaint?” 

“No! Definitely not, Sir!” That arse wriggled under my hand. “Actually it really isn’t.”

That was probably submission, I decided, and rewarded her by slipping my hand down between her buttocks and stroking her cunt. She shivered when I touched her folds, a wet girl, then froze when I slipped three fingers into her, and began her finger-fucking. Her head fell, forehead touching the sheet, her body abandoned to me. She said, “Duh.”

I continued the lecture. “Whenever you don’t obey me, Monica, you can expect to be over my lap again. And I’m going to bring a cane next time, and leave it in your wardrobe.”

“I’ve heard about canes. Yes, Sir!” I continued her spanking with my hand until her head was up again, and her whole body moved with those three snugly held, wet fingers.

She was in plateau, high, happy, and ready to come. I let her edge closer, and at what may have been the last possible second pulled my fingers out of her, took up the spoon and resumed her spanking.

The strokes were hard, and she yowled as I landed them on that round, red, moving target. It was happy, sexual yowling. She’d been expelled from paradise into another kind of paradise.

By then she’d had about fifty of the promised hundred strokes. I slowed the pace, and spanked harder still, so that she felt each one individually. She rode and rolled on my cock. She was receiving this as strong stimulation, but definitely not as pain. After fifteen very fierce spanks, I said to her, “Sixty-five.” 

“Oh. I wasn’t counting. That’s a lot. And there’s so many to come!” 

Actually, I hadn’t been counting very carefully either. Sixty-five was an estimate. I rolled her off me, onto the bed. “Hands and knees, Monica. Arch that arse up!” 

She obeyed quickly, though I smacked her with my hand for not acknowledging the order. But I didn’t bother to explain why, so it wasn’t good Domming.

But I was busy extracting condoms and a sachet of lube from my wallet. I knelt behind her, my knees between her calves, and admired her anus and cunt, perfectly presented for me. I tore a condom wrapper with my teeth and put it on, then, more carefully, opened a tear in the lube. 

Monica, tensely waiting for my cock, instead felt my thumb, slippery, pressing her anus and then entering. I added more lube there and to my condom. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Sir.”

I edged forward so my cock touched against that little orifice. 

Monica meets the wooden spoon

So we lay in Monica’s bed. Danny the cat had looked death at me as my foot blocked the way just before the door closed. But I was happy with his absence even if he wasn’t. Monica might have lost a smidgeon of protection but she didn’t seem to mind.

Monica had already been nearly naked before I tipped her onto her bed, but I had to pull off my shoes and socks, jacket and shirt, and pants before I joined her. While I was undressing Monica turned over onto her hands and knees and waggled her arse at me. She was right: I was hard again, wanting her, only about ten minutes after I’d come in her mouth.

So I lay down beside her, on my back, and pulled her over my lap, her hard little arse jutting gloriously upwards, Monica looked up at me.

“I know what this is! I’ve never actually been in it before. But this is the Famous Spanking Position!” I could hear the capital letters.

“Yeah.” I slapped her bottom lightly, then caressed her. She felt wonderful, firm and soft.

She said, “And you’re happy.” She meant she could feel my cock, hard, under her belly. I reached my fingers into the crevice between her lower buttocks and ran them further down, spider-walking with my fingertips until I touched her cunt. She jerked at the contact, my fingertips now a little wet and slippery, and then relaxed as I stroked her, very lightly. Her knees and her forehead dipped and rested on the sheet, all her consciousness, I expected, focussed on her cunt and my fingers.

Then, without warning I suddenly smacked her left cheek, hard. She sang, “Yiii!” But she looked alarmed only for a microsecond, then she grinned. It hadn’t hurt. Far from it.

I said, “‘Thank you, Sir; may I have another?'”

She looked at me, again with only a microsecond of disbelief before she nodded. “Thank you, sir. May I have another one? Just like that?”

She got another, and asked for more. And we continued, Monica learning that the Famous Spanking Position works, until her lower bottom, where I’d concentrated the smacks, glowed red and nicely warm. After the twelfth smack I stroked her cunt again, finding her comfortably relaxed and even wetter.

She sighed under my hand, and raised and turned her head to look at me. “Why is that so fucking hot?”

I considered not answering, because the explanation I knew wasn’t as sexy as it should be. Not as sexy as getting her even hornier and then beginning the promised hundred strokes from her wooden spoon. But it had been a serious question, so I said, “Have you ever manually tuned a radio? Or a TV?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Well, just before you reach the station, you get a loud burst of white noise, right?” 

“Yeah?” 

“That’s the carrier wave. It carries and boosts the signal.” 

“OK.”

“Inside the carrier wave, when you tune the receiver closer, you get the signal, all the creative stuff, the words and music, plus vision if it’s a TV. That’s the content. But without the carrier wave the content isn’t very powerful. I mean it probably wouldn’t reach your set, or only very weakly.”

“OK.” 

“Arousal works the same way. I smack your arse. Stimulation, right? Your body reacts, strongly. That’s the carrier wave: arousal. But on its own the arousal is just loud white noise. It’s the signal that gives it meaning. So if you’re already turned on, and the context is sexy, then each smack boosts your arousal and boosts the signal, makes it sexier. You’re creative too: you create a lot of the sexiness of it.”

Monica reached for and kissed the hand that had just spanked her. “Yeah, I see that. If I was at work and you were my supervisor and you slapped me on the arse: same stimulation but the meaning would be different, and it’d make me fucking angry.”

“Exactly. Of course it helps that every smack on your arse, your cunt feels it too. And, um, some people, they like to let go sometimes and have things just happen to them. They like to issue a good, helpless, sexual surrender. Not that you’re like that,” I lied, politely. 

“It’s not hypnosis,” Monica said, “but it’s still a mind game. And you still need the subject’s cooperation, just like I do.” She nodded. “I have to be turned on. And feeling a bit surrendered.” 

I pressed two fingertips into her cunt. She moved, trying for more, and captured my fingers to the first knuckle. I pressed further then withdrew a little, hoping it was good but still frustrating. Monica flopped up and down on my cock, in response, like a fish on the bottom of a boat.

I said, “Yeah.” I took the wooden spoon. “Now we’re going to make the signal … stronger.”  

I let the convex side of the spoon land, hard, on the crown of her right buttock, where – so far – I hadn’t warmed her with my hand. Monica yelped.

I struck her again, on her left cheek, so she knew this was going to be hard. And relentless.

Monica yelped and sighed, not at all unhappy. She said nothing more, but began to rock as the blows fell, using my cock as her fulcrum.

 

Monica’s knees

Monica undid my pants, and pulled them and my underpants down below my knees. My cock flicked free, bobbing about near her mouth. She touched the head with her tongue and of course it flicked higher. She had to reach and take it firmly in her left hand, so she could kiss the end, her lips wonderfully soft, without it leaping out of range.  I helpfully pulled her t-shirt off, so she was naked on her knees to a clothed man. It seemed right. 

When her arms were free of the t-shirt she said, “Nice cock.” Then she moved forward and took the glans into her mouth.

I said, as men will under those conditions, “Ah.” I tried and mostly managed not to move. Partly that was because I didn’t want to seem rude, and discourage her from sucking my cock at all, and partly because I liked the idea of her doing all the work. At this stage.

I thought, as she moved forward and took more of me into her mouth, still tonguing and licking me, more than sucking, about her saying my cock was nice. I’ve always been puzzled by that, when women say it to me.

A cock is a cock, if you ask me, and I can’t see how one is nicer than another, though it might be bigger or smaller than average. Maybe there’s something loveable about mine, or maybe it’s just something that some women say to all guys, once cock becomes an issue at all.

I don’t know, and I’ve never queried it. 

I swung the belt down, not hard, so it slapped her bottom, vertically, and wrapped down the underbum to her left thigh. She made a noise of surprise rather than pain, and I did it again, but on her right. She said, round the cock in her mouth, “Why you whipping me?”

“Make you feel good. You’re not just serving me, you’re under my discipline. And the belt helps you know that. Feel it.”

Monica licked the underside of my cock. “Interesting.”

Then she took me deep, all the way into her mouth, so it was jammed into her throat. I said nothing, but my legs were shaking. I reached down at last and took a handful of her hair and pulled. She made a sound of acknowledgement: that was right, and expected.

I began to control her movements, moving her forward and back while I thrust in her, fucking her mouth and throat. I gave her two more strokes with the belt, and she took that as encouragement, sucking harder and moving her head faster, only partly under my direction. So I gave her two more. Her mouth opened a little at each impact, as she gasped lightly, then resumed her task.

Monica put her hands on the backs of my thighs, and sucked hard. She wanted to show she was good at this, and she was. I looked down at her striped backside.

Vertical stripes crossed the earlier horizontal ones, so that her ass was marked out like a noughts and crosses game. Or two.

Danny the cat was watching this, the human female apparently serving the male, receiving pain as her reward and apparently enjoying that. He might remember that scenario, from the days he still had his balls. He moved, ignoring hs mistress, and began wrapping his body round my feet and ankles. Monica and I both noticed. She did eye contact and I shook my head. I had no idea what he was up to either. Cats are weird.

Monica said urgently, while my cock pistoned in her, “Belt!”

I’d forgotten my duty. I laid down four more strokes, while she took me deep and hard. And, of course, the force both of her service and her submission was too much for me.

I started to say, “I think I’m about -” And then I came, body shaking with the sugary sweetness of it, and thrust and spurted into her mouth, while she sucked hard, urgently trying to take it all, and not spill. I thought she’d expect to be punished if she let a drop escape. She was probably right.

I released Monica’s hair and caressed her face. She had her head down now, focussed on sucking and licking my cock clean. She smiled up at me at last, and put her tongue out, so I could see my come on it. I said, “Swallow.”

She did. “Yes, sir.” Then returned to nuzzling my cock, now going soft in her mouth. 

I said, “Well, bed, I suppose. Though I’m not going to be able to fuck you for at least an hour.”

Monica released my cock at last, and shooed Danny. He made his way to the top of the fridge so he could glare down at us. “We’ll be able to pass that hour pleasantly enough. Anyway, sir, I think I know how I can get you hard, whenever I like.” 

I helped her up, then held her to me while I smacked her bottom, six times, with my hand. Monica made no complaint, and didn’t squirm. She just arched her bottom out to make a better target for me. They weren’t light spanks but she was laughing. And she was right. I could feel signs of returning penile interest, a little flow of blood. Though I still couldn’t manage an erection just yet. It had been years since  I’d been a teenager.

I looked around her kitchen and saw a wooden spoon on the shelf with eggbeater and the grater.I took it in the same hand that held her belt. I looked at her. She smiled, knowing what the spoon was for. 

So I said, “Yeah. Have you ever had this used on your perfect little ass?”

“You’re my first pervert. Sir.” She grinned. Calling me ‘sir’ was silly. As well as hot. “So, no. I’m a wooden spoon virgin.”

“Lovely! Well, I think I’ll give you a hundred strokes with this.”

“And then you’ll be hard enough to fuck me, won’t you? Sir.”

“I expect so, Monica. Bed.”  

Monica’s home, and puss

Monica’s place in Annandale was part of a tiny bungalow, down a long path and dwarfed by trees. It had been subdivided by a landlord of exceptional greed, so her section comprised an alcove with a sink, a fridge and a stove, a small living room, and beyond that a door that must lead into her bedroom.

I’d expected her to live with other people, arty and theatre people, but where she was. She touched my cock again, to make sure I didn’t get bored and wander off. So I said, “Take those jeans off.” 

She looked at me. It wasn’t a hard order to obey, since she intended to do that soon anyway. But now it had meaning, and she thought about that. But I didn’t want her hesitating, so I put an arm round her waist, pulled her to me, and smacked her bottom three times with my other hand. “Now, Monica! And call me Sir.” 

She grinned. “Oh yeah. Yes. Sir.” She undid the button, all she needed to do because I still had her belt. She pulled the jeans down past her arse, let them drop to her ankles and stepped out. 

She said, “Puss! Puss! Puss! Danny! Food!” Then turned to the fridge and opened the door. I tugged her panties down to her thighs while she doled out cat biscuits and some ends of meat, and water into Danny’s dishes.

I’d done a better job than I’d thought when I’d belted her arse in the taxi. She had four pink but clearly defined stripes on her lower bottom, where I’d had to whip her through her jeans. The first two stripes, delivered on higher, bare skin, blazed merrily red. Her arse was a cheering, rousing sight, and I smacked her again. She turned to face me and said, “Does it show? Photo?”

“Yes, right now it’s kind of obvious you’ve been a bad girl.” I took out my phone. “Turn round again and I’ll show you.”

As she turned, there was loud yowling from behind the catflap. Then, as I took photos of Monica’s perfect and nicely striped little arse, the flap burst open and Danny stalked in, coal black, ignoring us, to guzzle deep in the food bowls. 

Monica said, “Rude boy. Greedy guts. I suppose I should say I don’t mean you. Sir.”

“Probably. Here.” I held the phone so she could inspect the studies I’d just taken of her whipped arse.

“Wow. I know you like those, sir. Or you wouldn’t have put them there. Actually they do look sexy as fuck. They feel nice and warm too.”

I confirmed that, putting my hand on her lower bottom, squeezing, then nodding. 

“Would you send me those shots? Please sir?”

“Yeah.” We did the exchange of phone numbers, and she took on seven studies of her bare, belted bottom.

She said, “My first whipping. Also, it’s the most spectacular molesting I’ve ever had in a taxi.”  

“Yes. Not the last, I think. Whipping or molesting. You’ll have to open a file to keep them in. Monica’s library.”

Monica grinned, but Danny, a black cat, was glaring. Not because I’d whipped his mistress, but because I was there at all, hogging all the attention. I crouched and gave him my hand to sniff. When he seemed to think I was acceptable I scratched behind his ear. Cats are sluts.

“Oh dear,” said Monica. “But at least you know what to do with pusses.”

“Puss-es?”

“Don’t like ‘pussy’. I mostly say cunt. Or puss. You did OK with mine. In a taxi. But I’ve brought you home to molest me again.”  

I stroked Monica’s own puss, or cunt, then slid my fingers inside. She was still a wet girl. She closed her eyes and leaned against me, letting my fingers work in that sweet, tight, clinging space. Her panties fell the rest of their way down her legs, but she didn’t bother to step out of them. She said, “Uh.”, and rested her head on my chest.

Eventually she regained consciousness, shaking slightly. “Danny’s shocked.”

“Only one way to deal with that.” I let her belt down, so it was full length rather than doubled over. “On your knees, Monica.” 

“Danny will be appalled!” I held up the belt. I was too polite to say so, but it was clear her next six wouldn’t be long in coming. Nor would she. Monica dropped to her knees, kissed the hard lump in the front of my pants, and undid my fly. “I think there’s a cock in here.”

 

Monica gets her arse belted, in a taxi

Monica looked at her belt in my hand. Then she looked at me.

I smiled at her. “I’m going to do a magic trick.”

“Oh?”

“Turning a bad girl into a good girl. Turn over, Monica, and look out the back window.” 

“Just a moment.” Monica kissed me, so I kissed her back, as was only fair. We were snogging in a taxi. Suddenly we were ordinary. Monica touched my cock, and grinned while still kissing me. She was giving me power over her, but my cock was hard because of her: even without hypnosis, she had power over me too.

Then she broke away, still stroking my cock. Her eyes were innocent. “Am I really such a bad girl?”

We were still whispering. There was a taxi driver in the front seat, wrestling with the traffic. “Bad enough to deserve this belt. Now turn around. Knees on the seat.”

“A woman can’t ‘deserve’ to have her arse belted. She can decide that it might be hot.” 

“I’m not going to argue with that. It’s true in a way. But I bet you’ll come to see that it’s not true, as well.”

“I see. Like mind control. This is a bit like hypnosis, isn’t it?”

But she was delaying things I felt urgent about. “Knees on the seat, Monica. Now, or I’ll pull you over my knee. And that’ll get the action into his rear vision mirror.”

Monica nodded. “Strict.” She turned and climbed onto the seat, looking out the taxi’s back window as instructed.

I whispered, “Hot. And you said if I’m strict, what do you call me?”

“Sir, sir.” There was something almost orgasmically pleasurable in hearing her say that. It conceded and promised me so much. I wondered if it had felt as hot to say it. I decided to assume that it was close. I tugged her jeans down a little further, so they left, clumsily covered, the under curves of her bottom.

I whispered, “First one’s on bare skin. The way it has to be. You keep your mouth closed, girl, till I’m done.

Monica nodded. Mouth closed, lips pursed. I folded her belt in two and wrapped it once round my hand so the swinging part was short: I didn’t have a lot of room. I swung it back, and then struck.

The leather cracked across the fullest part of that beautiful little bottom, deeply curved. Monica’s head jolted up, eyes wide, and her mouth open.

But she stayed silent, so I didn’t punish her for that.

The second stroke was about three centimetres higher. It was as loud as the first, but though I’d made sure it hurt, Monica was less surprised by the pain. Her eyes were still wide, but she kept her mouth closed. I wanted to kiss her.

As Monica’s hand edged down to reach under her belly and stroke her cunt, the driver said, “Uh, you guys OK there?”

I said, “Oh, fine. She just looking in her briefcase. It’s got a ridiculously loud catch. Sorry.”

“Uh huh.” The driver had heard bullshit before, but he couldn’t risk turning round, not in this traffic.

I laid the last four strokes across Monica’s underbum, protected by her bunched jeans. I made the strokes harder to compensate, but it was clear that, with Monica’s hand pressing and working on her cunt, it didn’t hurt her any more. Her mouth was open again, and she seemed … happy.    

After the sixth stroke I said, not whispered, “Good girl.” I tugged her jeans up, then smacked her with my hand.

Monica did up the top button, then turned and sank back onto the seat. “Thank you, sir. Yeah, I felt that.”

I reached for her and we kissed again. She looked at me. “You’re weird. That’s so not proper behaviour.” 

“Is that a complaint?” I still had her belt in my hand. 

“It is as far from a complaint as I can manage. Sir. You can,”- she dropped her voice – “whip me in a taxi any time you feel like it.”

 “I know.” 

“Ha! Said Han Solo. Um, we’re getting close. I mean, to my place.” 

I paid the driver. There was five bucks’ change, and he put that into his pocket, letting me know he wasn’t asking. As we got out of the cab he said, “Nice briefcase.”

We had, of course, no briefcase. And I still had Monica’s belt in my hand. I shrugged and smiled at him. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew he’d missed it. He didn’t smile.

Monica said, “Thank you! It’s a magic briefcase, and only a very pure taxi driver can see it.” I bet that was her stage hypnotist voice, but it didn’t seem to be working. He waved once, and drove off.

I took her hand. “Let’s get you home.” 

Monica gets her ass into a taxi

Monica slipped her hand into my back pocket while we walked to the taxi ramp. She said, “I bet you’re NSIT.” 

“What in the world is that?” 

“Schoolgirl code. I went to a very snobby school. We’d give each other warnings about boys. That one means ‘Not Safe in Taxis.'”

“Oh. Then I must be NSA.”

She frowned. “Funnily enough, we had that too. Did you mean ‘Not Safe Anywhere’?”

“Yup.” I tried to sound smug. 

“Oh,” she said. “An NSA man. Oh no. Help.”

“Take your belt off and give it to me.”

She stopped walking and looked at me. “Why?”

“First, I think you should do as you’re told. It’s more fun, and it’s safer for the state of your arse, and arguably your dignity.”

“Ok…” She didn’t sound at all convinced, but she undid the catch on her narrow, black leather belt and passed it to me.

I took it from her, and dropped it into my jacket pocket. “It’s so I can wallop your arse with it in the taxi, if you don’t do as you’re told.”

“You’re hoping I’ll take that as a dare, ren’t you?”

I kissed her. “I’m hoping you’re a good girl. But I’ll know what to do if you aren’t.”

“Hmmm…” Calculation was going on, behind that forehead. I didn’t mind which she chose, but I supposed it mattered more to her.

We were close to the ramp now. There were no cars there. While we waited, I said, “In the taxi you’ll undo the button of your jeans and tug them down a little.”

“So you can, ah, ‘wallop’ my poor arse?”

“Actually, it’s so I can keep my fingers warm and wet till we get to your place. Might keep you wet too. So I’d advise you to sit where the driver can’t see you in the mirror.”

She grinned. “You’re a very rude boy. Even by my standards.”

A taxi pulled up. She got in and sketched over to the right, where she wasn’t in the mirror or the camera. I sat in the middle of the back seat, so I could reach. “And you’re a rude girl.”

The driver said, “Where we going?”

Monica gave an address in Annandale. Then she looked at me, making sure I was watching while she undid the button on her jeans, and wriggled a little while she tugged them part-way down.

The driver said, “Annandale.” We were off.

I put my hand into her pants, and found the nicely damp gusset of her panties, and pulled that aside to reach soft, feminine flesh below.

I smiled and said, “Good girl. Also beautiful,” and slid two fingers into her. She was nicely wet, and she squirmed.

She said, “Uh,” when those fingers entered her, and then, a few seconds later, while I lightly finger-fucked her, “Ooooh.”

Monica whispered, “The driver…”

I kissed her, fingers still wetly held, slowly moving. I pressed deep into her, held it and then very slowly withdrew, and Monica seemed to lose her train of thought. I whispered, “Can’t see you. Or my hand.”

Actually, the taxi smelled headily of female arousal, and probably male, too. But there was a faint acrid smell of tobacco in that cab: the driver was a smoker. I thought there should be a new health warning: “Every cigarette is making it harder for you to smell turned-on girls.” 

I chuckled at the thought. I hate the word “chuckled”, but that’s what I did. Monica whispered, “What?” 

“Tell you later. Spread your legs more.” 

Monica closed her thighs on my hand. She looked at me, amused. I whispered, “No, spread them.”

She squeezed her thighs on my hand. It was far from unpleasant. But she’d dared me to belt her in a taxi, and I was going to have to do it. Traffic was terrible. We were still a long way from Annandale. I took her belt from my pocket.

Monica’s arse

Monica had just asked if I was proposing to spank her here, in a busy restaurant in Circular Quay. It wasn’t exactly a request, but it was a challenge. 

So I said, “Have you done as you’re told? You have so far. So you’re a good girl. I’ve got no reason to spank you.” 

That left it up to her. Suddenly we were doing a lot of eye contact. I smiled at her, deliberately smug, hoping to provoke her into some Bad Girl act. She had a half-smile, while she weighed up her options. And mine: was I bluffing? Surely that had to be bluff.

She reached for the button she’d undone, still looking at my eyes, and made to do it up again. So I grabbed her hands, and pulled them forward, across our table towards me. Then pulled a little further, so she had to raise herself from her chair. So she was bent over a table, arse up. She probably wasn’t as familiar with being in that position as I was with seeing girls in it, but she realised what it meant.

Still holding her hands – she made no attempt to withdraw them from my grasp, which she could easily have done – I got out of my chair, crossed the table, still holding her hands in my left hand, and smacked her jeans-clad bum with my right. She felt good under my hand. It was a game, a silly piece of showing off, and it was also sensual and sexual.

It was the first time I’d touched her body in a sexual way. The spank sounded like a thunderclap and even in a crowded restaurant it drew attention.

Monica said, “Yikes!”

Which suggested a total absence of pain and distress, so I smacked her again. And with that we had an audience. Monica didn’t know that, but she giggled, and didn’t stop laughing with the third spank.

I said, “I’ve told you and told you about your behaviour, Dottie! I hope you’re embarrassed, at having to be spanked in public like a Naughty! Little! Girl!” Those last three words, of course, were the last three spanks.

A woman waiter approached. Disciplining naughty stage hypnotists was probably against restaurant policy, somewhere in the rules. However Monica robbed her of her moment of glory by laughing, and saying, “You called me Dottie!” She laughed again. The waiter glared at me but backed off. I let go of Monica’s hands so she could subside back into a sitting position.

Monica sat, and pretended to wince. She said, “Dottie?”

I answered loudly. “So everyone knows your shame, Dottie Moncrieff!” There were probably photos taken, though they’d have got her jeans-clad arse and not her face. But the odds were good the photos would reach Twitter and such. So it was best that someone non-existent took the infamy and got the internet searches on their name.     

Monica nodded. She’d just gone through the same thoughts. “So … Dottie is very sorry. Possibly Sir.” She undid that disputed button again.

“Possibly sorry?”

“No, possibly I might call you Sir. If you were very strict with me.”

“Ah. I like that idea. Both those ideas. Taxi?”

She nodded, “A taxi seems to be a good idea.”

“Where would you – “

“‘Your place or mine?’ If you don’t mind, I’ve got a cat to feed. So unless you’ve got an Irish Wolfhound or something that outranks my Flivver, I’d like …” 

 “I have to meet Flivver. Your place it is.” 

“Probably a good thing. You’ve probably got whips and paddles and god knows what at your place.”

“My hand does all right. If called upon.”

She grabbed my hand, and pulled it to her mouth. She bit my thumb then kissed it soothingly. “Split the bill?”

“I understand it’s traditional that the person who’s going to smack the other person’s arse before they fuck them, has to pay the bill.”

“Wow. A gentleman.”

“Promise not to be.”

I stood up, and Monica did too. I put my arm round her waist as we walked to the counter where I paid a disapproving waiter, and then we walked out to the taxi ramp. We walked well together.    

Monica at the restaurant

Monica looked at me. This was an important moment. We were in a restaurant on Circular Quay, and I’d just demonstrated the awesome power of the Dom’s Command Voice. At least I hoped I had. 

Monica moved her hand to the button of her blouse just below her breasts. “When I make a suggestion in hypnosis, people just do it if it seems like fun. You probably want me to say something like ‘Yes, Sir,’ before I do as you say.” 

I shrugged. “It’s up to you. Whether it’s hypnosis or Domming, it only works if you want to do what you’ve been told. I haven’t told you to say anything in particular.” 

She nodded, then undid that button. Then she shrugged her shoulders too, but deliberately so the shirt pulled open a little, revealing her solar plexus and the inner slopes of her breasts. She wore a white sports bra. She didn’t say, “Yes, Sir.” 

She smiled, as if she’d managed to obey me but still won. So I reached forward and touched that place where her rib cage joined, my fingertips against her firm, slightly sweaty skin. I ran a fingernail very lightly, up to the bottom of the bra. She goose-bumped. Her left nipple, though oddly not the right, was slightly more visible through the bra and her shirt.

I wanted to squeeze that not-erected right nipple, to teach it its business, but we were in a public place. I said, “Now you say, ‘Yes, Sir.'” 

Her eyes widened. It is, of course, a hard thing to say, especially the first time, when it concedes so much. But she was turned on. She would only do as she wanted, but I hoped that her wants had expanded. It occurred to me that we would get a taxi soon. 

I wanted to smile while I watched her consider what she wanted. It seemed that she wanted me, as I wanted her, but that having me would come at some cost to her dignity. So I raised my eyebrows, to show I was being kept waiting. She blew her breath out through pursed lips. She looked into my eyes and said, “Yes, Sir.”

 I said, as any Dom will when hearing that, “Good girl.” 

She smiled. “‘Good girl?’ Is that supposed to make me feel good? A little dopamine rush?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yeah. Weird. Sounds patronising as fuck. And yes, there’s that little rush. Interesting.” 

“You could build it into your act.”

Then she frowned. “But what happens if I’m not a good girl?” 

“Oh, I thought you knew. I smack your bottom. Hard. Repeatedly. It’s quite loud. It’s called, ‘Monica gets a spanking.'”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” She glanced around. No one was watching us in particular, but there were a lot of people around. “Here?” 

Monica

Her name was Monica. I picked her up at the Opera House. There was a performance of Die Zauberflöte, and we noticed each other because we were the worst dressed people there.

She wore a pair of jeans that had been artistically torn and frayed to show off yummy bits of front and rear thigh. I wore a pair of jeans that had frayed at the crotch, because I’d been working in the garden, forgot the time, and had to race out in whatever I was wearing, it I didn’t wanted to get shut out. 

At interval I bought her a glass of champagne, and we talked about the opera for a while. She said it made no sense to her: she couldn’t see what it was about, the character Monostatos is a racist caricature, and she didn’t give a toss about any of the characters.

Except possibly Papageno, the bird-catcher, and she could see that he was a really obvious piece of “like me!” audience manipulation. 

As a paid-up Mozartean I shouldn’t have agreed with her, but I did. I told her that the guy who wrote the words, Schikaneder, had written the Papageno role for himself, so the audience would love him and he’d get all the laughs. She nodded. That figured. I had to warn her that if she wasn’t thrilled with the action at half-time, it was going to get worse. The plot turns extremely, annoyingly sexist, and nothing to be done about it. Even the racism gets slightly worse.

So at least Schikaneder gave us something to talk about: how crap he was. We got through two champagnes, and checked each other out. I decided that she had lovely tawny brown skin, probably Southern Italian or Greek, or maybe mid-Eastern, and I’d like to see every inch of that skin. And her mouth was a big sexy bruise, and her eyes were soulful and sad.

I’d certainly take her to bed. I just had to hope that she decided the same. After the show I took her to a restaurant on the Quay, and we talked briefly about how you could keep the Mozart music but lose all the Schikaneder. We worked out a completely different plot, that set new words to the same music. Maybe I’ll tell you about that some time. 

Then I asked her what she did.

“I’m a hypnotist.” 

“Really? Like telling people to stop smoking, or picking their fingernails and such?” 

“Well, audiences might be bored by that. I’m a stage hypnotist. I do my thing in a … well, it’s kind of halfway between a leotard and a corset, plus fishnets and heels.”

I said, “Ah-huh!” In case she didn’t know I’d like to see that.

“And I make guys think they’re swimming, or they’re little lambs skipping in the fields.”

“Really? I’ve seen that on TV. I’ve always found it unlikely that anyone could think they were a lamb. But they do the skipping. Do you think they believe it, or are they just playing along?” 

She frowned. “You know, I honestly don’t know. I think the hypnosis, when it works, makes them very suggestible. So it’s not so much that they think they’re lambs. It’s more that they think they should act as if they do. That’s where the suggestion works. And of course they’re having fun.”

“So it’s true what people say, that you can use hypnoses to make people do something they want to do? But not something they don’t want?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Like, if I have attractive male and female volunteers, I can tell them they’re lovers meeting at the airport. And it gets very steamy. That’s not for the matinees, of course.”

“Children’s shows? I guess not. So … what would I like to do? That I’d only dare do if I was hypnotised?” 

“No. You say. What would you like to do? If you were hypnotised and had no choice?”

“I’ve been thinking about the top button of your blouse since interval. It’s really not necessary.”

She looked at me. She said, “You are getting sleepy. Verry zzzzleepy. Now undo the top button of my blouse.”

So I did, trying to look blank while I did so. Once the button was free I tugged the blouse back at the shoulders, which wasn’t part of the command, and exposed some nice cleavage, held in a black sports bra.

“Yes,” I said. “I feel much better now.”

She smiled. “So that’s my secret power. I can make people do whatever they want.”

So I laughed. “I also have a secret power. Similar effect. Want to see?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “OK.” She sounded careful.

I pointed at the button on her blouse just below her breasts.

I spoke quietly but I used the command voice. “That middle button, Monica. I want you to undo it for me. Now.” 

She stared at me. That was interesting. And I could tell she knew what it was. She frowned. 

But before she could speak I said, “That button. Undo that button for me, as you’ve been told. Now, Monica.” 

She closed her mouth, still staring at me. I said, “I’m waiting.” 

I waited.