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.”