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Miranda’s heels click as she walks across the market square. Anyone looking – and several do, this outwardly composed, elegantly dressed woman turns heads – would be unlikely to guess how she spent the last half hour.Spanking aficionados might spot certain subtle clues: a slight stiffness in gait, manicured hands fleetingly rubbing her desirable derriere. She turns down a side street dominated by Georgian houses and stops – well, you don’t need to know where – turning her key in the door of one the town’s most desirable properties. “Ah, there you are at last. Told you it’d be quicker by car,” calls a male voice as she enters a Ataşehir Escort tiled hallway. “In the lounge. Come on through, there’s a drink waiting.””Good, I bloody well need it,” replies Miranda, gratefully accepting a large glass of red wine from her husband. Pushing a copy of the Telegraph to one side he gives a questioning look.”Mission accomplished? Were you suitably punished?””I think you already know the answer to that, Tom,” she replies coolly, taking a large sip of Shiraz.”Need to see evidence, though, don’t I?” Tom grins, apparently indulging a private joke. Miranda sighs and puts Ataşehir Escort Bayan down her glass.”Very well,” she says indulgently. Turning from him she stands about a metre away and with tantalising slowness raises the hem of her knee-length skirt. With a delightfully silky susurrus, it ascends firm thighs and traverses the tops of gossamer-sheer grey nylons until the fabric reaches her slender waist. She may be ten years his senior but, Tom thinks, is in great shape, particularly her peach of a posterior.On which it’s no hardship to focus his full attention. Two curvaceous pale cheeks, Escort Ataşehir patterned with livid red wheals. Miranda’s sans-culotte buttocks have clearly been recently caned. About a dozen strokes judging by the marks. Applied in parallel by an evident expert, endurable only by someone far from a novice in such matters.”What happened to your panties?” he enquires.”Too painful to put them back on, I walked home commando,” she explains.”Brazen hussy,” he answers affectionately.”Well, after suffering the humiliation of bending over a chair and pushing my bottom out for twelve zingers, I’m rather sore,” she replies with typical English understatement.”In need of TLC?””Very much so.””Better get over my knee then.”Cautiously she lays face down, upper body stretched along the sofa, throbbing cheeks exposed and vulnerable.”Ow,” Miranda groans – a mix of relief and pleasure – as Tom gently massages cold cream into her overheated skin.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
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