Claire Thompson - Tracy in chains

At first it didn't hurt, and Tracy stayed still, waiting. Then he smacked her harder and she flinched slightly. Perhaps taking courage from her stillness, and its implied permission to continue, Guy became emboldened, and slapped her ass harder, making Tracy gasp a little, and jump against his lap.

He continued to smack her bottom, the sound of his hard palm against her ass rang out in the room, accompanied by the whirring and snuffling of the window unit air conditioner. Tracy began to breathe hard and fast, and felt dizzy with her head down at Guys knees.

As he continued to spank her, the sting and heat flowed to Tracy's pussy, making her wriggle as much with lust as a desire to avoid the hard, smacking hands raining down on her tender bottom.

Tracy kept expecting Guy to stop and flip her onto the bed and make love to her. Instead he kept on, spanking her in a hard, steady rhythm, until the lovely stinging heat began to shift to actual pain that made her jerk and cry out for him to stop.

He didn't stop. He was so on fire with lust that he didn't care about, or barely noticed her protestations. When she reached back to try and cover herself, he grabbed her hands and caught them between his knees, imprisoning her between his strong thighs. Tracy slipped from erotic pain and excitement to real fear, and began thrashing in earnest against Guy, close to panic.

At last her protests penetrated his concentration and abruptly he released her hands and let her roll from his lap to a disheveled heap on the floor. One breast had popped out of the confining little outfit and Tracy's hair was wild and covered half her face. Guy didn't see Tracy, the quiet little bank teller, and he certainly wasn't Mr. Gray, the genial loan officer and church-going family man at that moment.

He was the swashbuckling conqueror, and she was his whore, as he scooped her up and threw her on the bed, ripping the flimsy outfit from her, baring her breasts completely, plunging his hand down to press greedy fingers into her sex.

Tracy moaned. The cool slick polyester of the spread felt good against her hot ass, and Guy's fingers opened her, making her ready for what was surely to come. After a moment, Guy stood and opened his pants, pulling them and his underwear down just enough to reveal his small, but very erect cock. Tracy stared at it, aware he fully intended to fuck her, aware, too, on some level that she would never, ever have chosen Guy as the man with whom to break her wedding vows, if whips and cuffs hadn't been involved.

She was still very aroused from the spanking, and willingly spread her legs for him as Guy grunted and let himself down onto her, to take her quickly, missionary style, coming after only a few minutes. As he lay there, panting and sweating on top of her, Tracy waited, her pussy still pulsing with need, to see what was next.

Guy rolled off her, looked over at the clock and said, "Holy shit, it's 6:30! I have to go!" Before she knew it, he was up, pulling his clothes on, tucking in the shirt, re-buckling his belt. Tracy lay still, feeling a thin trickle of sticky semen on her thigh, semen from a man who was not her husband, who was not even her lover, but a fellow she worked with, and now would have to see tomorrow, at the bank.

"Listen," he called out from the bathroom, where water was running, "Take your time. I've already paid for the room. Just leave when you're ready." Tracy sat up slowly, feeling totally deflated. Guy came bustling out of the bathroom, hair slicked back over his balding pate, round face shiny, the scent of his cologne permeating the air.

Efficiently he collected his various 'toys' from around the room, while Tracy still sat on the edge of the bed, silently watching him. Guy leaned down to her, fully in command again. There was no evidence he had just spanked and fucked a woman who was not his wife, in a seedy motel near downtown, where, she realized, he had probably met other women who were not his wife, for similar clandestine adventures.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, "You were great." Taking one of the Dr. Peppers from the melting ice, he thought to ask, "You ok?"

Tracy nodded, smiling slightly at him, knowing she wanted something, but also knowing it wasn't him. She let him go, sighing as the door clicked behind him.

She fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, which had a large water stain in one corner. Gingerly she touched her ass, which was sore. Slowly, she stood and pulled off the now tattered and ruined little outfit, pulling the stockings off too, one of which had a sizable run along the calf.

Bundling it up, she hurled it toward the little trashcan. "Two points," she half whispered, as it landed squarely in the can. Walking to the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she examined her sore bottom, and saw to her fascinated horror that it was not only red, as she had imagined it would be, but was mottled with little blue and purple bruises. He had marked her. Oh my God, how will I explain that the Kyle? She would have to make sure he didn't see her ass, or her wrists for that matter, which bore little red marks in a circle where the metal cuffs had been too tightly placed.

She was angry for a moment, thinking about how careless it was of Guy to mark her skin, both her wrists and her bottom, but a secret part of her was also thrilled. She had been marked. Like a true slave girl, marked by her master. Like the stories she had read as a teenager, where the slave girls are 'marked' every day with the whip by their lords and masters, as a constant reminder of their 'place.'

But Guy certainly wasn't her master. No indeed. He was nothing like 'Sir Stephen', like Paul, who was so eloquent and certain. If only she could meethim! But that was a dream. How easily he had let her go to Guy. How little he asked about her marriage and her 'real life.' He lived thousands of miles away, and whatever they had, it was a fantasy. She knew that now.

Wearily she dressed, the need of an orgasm receding as she pulled on her work clothes, wishing she had thought to bring jeans and a t-shirt, as Guy had. Still, one thing was for sure – she had loved the spanking. She had thrilled to the cuffs, to being restrained, to being told she mustnever close a door to her master, to having him rip her clothes off and fuck her with such fury. It wasn't just a fantasy anymore. She had tasted submission, tasted the masochistic thrill of being spanked, and found that pleasure and pain had combined in a combustible pattern that left her weak with desire, and the need to experience more.

It took Tracy a while to process what had happened with Guy. She found, somewhat to her surprise, that she wasn't collapsing under the weight of guilt over having betrayed Kyle. She did feel guilty, but it was ameliorated by the fact she was reasonably sure he was having an affair himself. And what she had done was really more of an experiment in her mind, than an out and out affair.

She certainly didn't love Guy; no question there. If anything, her feelings for Paul were far more dangerous to her marriage than the fact that she had let another man fuck her. The sex with Guy, she had to admit, had been almost incidental. Good thing she was on the pill, since Guy hadn't even brought up the issue of protection.

Now he constantly hovered around her at work, dropping her little notes, trying to get her to go to lunch again. For some reason, she refused him. It wasn't that she was avoiding him specifically. She wasn't ready to face what she was sure would be an onslaught of effort to convince her to meet again.

It had been exciting, to a point, but it wasn't the stuff of her dreams. Still, what else was there? One day, about three weeks after their first little fling, Guy left a note on her desk that made her flush as she read it, before crumpling it into a tight ball in her hand.