textfiles/sex/EROTICA/W/workhome.txt

           *** "Work at home" *** A Silly Spanking Fantasy ***


The alarm/reminder pops up on the screen and chimes.  10:00: she
will be here in ten minutes or so; time to stop reading a.s.b,
change the root window back to something suitably professional from
the current bondage gif on it, button up the shirt collar, tighten
and straighten the tie... anything embarassing left in view?  I
rise and survey my living room -- good: nothing.

Oh, and, yes, of course!  Start up the class browser and the
hypertext doc reader on her project's files -the damn things take
FOREVER to start up on this slow workstation I have here at home-
I'd better start thinking about a faster one if I want to start
working seriously at home again -- though this one is still fine
for news and mail, of course.  

Anyway, I want to give the impression that I've been working,
studying, since dawn, of course; not dawled over a.s.b and IRC and
mail with friends... Oooh, finally, the tools have started; so,
open up a few windows, make sure the docs I'm browsing and the
pieces of source have something to do with each other... here --
perfect.  Just in time: the doorbell rings.

I get my suit's jacket off its peg, and I put it on as I walk to
the door.  A nice off-white linen two-piece suit: elegant yet
comfortable, light, suitable for this hot summer day.  The same
suit I would have worn if I had gone to the office today, in fact,
complete with sober dark blue tie.  And why not?  I'm here to work
today, after all; and it's not as if I was alone, hacking on some
code all night long as I used to do so often years ago: she will
be here working with me, a respected colleague; indeed, I'm sure
she will also be impeccably elegant, as always when I've met her.

That's one of the things I like best in her, in fact: she's not
sloppy in her wardrobe, like most of those Research eggheads are,
no, she's always smartly dressed, generally, though not always, in
pants suits.  She would be a credit to my division, indeed, if she
were working for me in Software Production, rather than just seconded
from Research.  And she IS clever; maybe, although that's not
something I ever admit without reluctance, more clever than I am.

Or maybe I'm just out of practice; after all, what with all my
managing duties, I can hardly find the time to keep abreast of all
that new stuff, can I?  Still, I'm an engineer, above all; a darn
_good_ engineer, if I say so myself.  Second best techie brain in
S.P., probably, since she's arrived, I joke to myself... well,
half-joke anyway.

Anyway _this_ project is one I _am_ going to stay on top of, no
matter what it takes!  What she has crafted is a good, nay, brilliant
prototype.  She codes well, and designs well, and, a rare feat for
a Research person!, she knows what it means to _document_ software.
Still, it is MY division that must turn this prototype into a
product; recode where needed, test, port, maintain forever... it
will be MY responsibility to oversee that.  And for that, I want
to understand this thing, deeply, intimately, in all details.
Which is not easy: object-oriented analysis, o-o design, o-o coding,
all well and good, but not what we meet everyday, most definitely
not what I hacked at in my halcyon days.  So I need her help, to
study and understand all this stuff.  I KNOW I can do it!  What
the hell, I'm not even forty yet!

She knows how I aim to get to know this program as if it were my
own, and she's quite willing to help me get there, and we've been
trying for many days.  But at the workplace, as we've quickly found
out, it's impossible: somebody keeps coming to my office, for
advice, or for some crucial decision, or with some document which
must be signed at once... it's interruptions all the time, and I
just can't manage to wall myself off from them.  And each time we
have to pick up the thread of thought again, and lots of time gets
wasted.  Which is why today we're meeting at my house: I have my
living-room workstation, and an ISDN link to work, and all the
quiet we need.  Today we WILL make headways, I feel sure.

I open the door, and there she is.  In a white T-shirt, gauzy, with
dark-brown leather inlays; no bra underneath; her small, well-formed
breasts dangle free.  A heavy black leather belt, plain, three
inches high, circles her waist.  A short silk skirt, in a yellowish
pastel color, barely covers the top of her thighs.  Also somewhat
gauzy, too.  No makeup; no stockings; soft-leather boots, calf-high,
with shining metal buttons...

All of which is most definitely _not_ what I had expected.  Indeed,
my greetings come out like a half croak, and I can't stop my eyes
from feasting on the show, roaming all over.  Why, it _is_ well
worth seeing: she may not be a classical beauty (a particularly
picky perfectionist might find her face a mite too thin, her features
a bit too sharp, her hips and buttocks just slightly too wide...) --
but her body's in top shape (far better than my own; I've been
putting on weight), well-proportioned, and displayed to good effect
by her choice of attire; her face is bright and open, strong and
yet somehow still remotely suggestive of sweetness; and all about
her radiates her powerful personality and, yes, _warmth_ - not
something I had noticed in the past (not that I had been looking
for it, particularly).  Hey what IS that - a tattoo on her left arm,
half hidden by the short sleeve.  A *tattoo*?

Wait wait wait - there's something horribly wrong here!  Has she
misunderstood my invitation to work at my home today?  But I REALLY
had no ulterior motive!  Why, my wife's going to be back in an hour
or so - I wasn't planning on anything but WORK today!  Oh my, if
I had but *known* she was interested, I _might_ have been able to
arrange something... if I had but told my wife I might have been
having an affair today, she could have made herself scarce for the
day; Lord knows it wouldn't be the first time she did that for me,
or I for her, for that matter - but springing a threesome on her
without any warning and with a woman she's never even met, why
that's quite another thing, I mean, I can hardly do THAT!

No no no wait some more -- I'm going at this all wrong -- why ever
should I think her clothing implies anything in particular?!  Am
I going crazy?!  I have people who come dressed like this at work,
particularly in the summer, although I've always made it clear that
this is not the way I'd like them to dress... maybe this is just
how she likes to dress when not in the work environment, yes, that
must be it.  Or must it?  Oh God I've never been good at reading
nonverbal clues -- indeed this is why I like computers in the first
place, all open and verbal and well within my grasp...

Hey, she's talking, she's been asking me something, what?  Bike?
Oh yes - she's holding her bycicle, and asking if she can take it
into the house.  "It's not really a problem in this neighbourhood",
I answer, "you can just leave it under the front porch, and nothing
will happen to it".  "Well just to make sure, you know, it costs
a bundle", she replies.  OK, so we put the bycicle inside.  It's
incredibly light, must be titanium or something.  Beautiful, too.

I must start cycling to work again, work off that fat, get back
the nice muscles I once used to have -- see her legs and thighs as
she walks inside, how nicely muscled and tanned they are!  Yes,
but pedaling means sweating, and I can hardly risk ruining my
beautiful suits... I'm the kind of guy who sweats a LOT.  Just as
I'm thinking about that she passes near me in the entrance corridor
and I catch a tiny wiff of her sweat, and a glimpse of it, a light
film and a few miniscule drops on her forehead, arms, legs...  with
the kind of sun that's already out, and her pedalling all the way
from her hotel, it's surprising there's so little sweat on her,
actually.  No visible trace on her clothing, in particular.  Now
that I think of it, she often cycles to work too, all dressed up.
Lucky her, she must be the kind of person who doesn't really KNOW
what *sweating* means...

Meanwhile her sweat, what little there is of it, must have woken
something deep inside me (either that, or her looks... or both) -
I have a throbbing erection.  Oh come on go 'WAY -- I don't WANT
you, I can't USE you right now!  Aaah, it's as useless to tell an
erection to go away when inappropriate, as it is to just bid it
come when you could really take advantage of it... oh well, let's
hope my suit will hide it -- and anyway she certainly won't be
looking that way -- unless, unless, of course, that first wild
guess of mine was right after all... naah, can't be.  And if it
were, then this wouldn't be _embarassing_ anymore...

So we get down to work, and she explains, and I ask, and she answers,
and I object, and she defends a design choice, and...  We're sitting
very close to each other, with keyboard, screen and mouse on the
desk in front of us.  She does most of the typing and mousing as
she deftly walks the browser and the hypertext; sometimes, though,
I have to point to something, or type a query, and my hand brushes
hers as I take the mouse or the keyboard towards me.

I confess my mind is only half on the work, and, darn!, this is a
time I'd really need _all_ of it.  But I feel her scent and our
hands do brush sometimes, and our shoulders, and our feet, and her
skirt has gone up even higher as she sat down, and my eyes proclaim
her bronzed skin a much nobler target for them than that drab
screen (monochrome, too...) over there... make that LESS than half.
80% on her, 20% on her program... and a nice program it is, too...

When was the last time I felt this way, torn between work and sexual
desire for the person working with me?  Must have been long, *long*
ago... my well-beloved wife is not "into" computers at all, although
she appreciates them as _communication_ tools, at least since she
found out about a.s.b (a taste we fortunately share).  So I have
to harken back to my student days -- or nights, rather... I recall,
one night, there were just two of us left in the terminal room,
pounding away at our respective dissertations.  No fancy workstations
back then, just plain character terminals.

And it was summer, and hot, like today, and the other student (a
woman [maybe more beautiful, although definitely not half as bright,
as this one]; not that I would mind much in my student days, I used
to be extremely promiscuous then -- females, males, radiators...:-)
was even hornier than I was... we had never had sex together until
that night, although we had been smooching at parties and so,
occasionally.  She did, however, manage to communicate with me that
time - called me at her terminal to "ask for help", let her gown
ride higher and higher, rubbed her thigh against mine... finally
even body-language-deaf me had got the message.  I had put my hand
on her thigh and caressed it...  and she had responded at once,
hotly.  Yes, we had fucked on the floor of the terminal room!  Ah,
no AIDS scare at that time, and the Sexual Revolution WAS still in
the air...

As my mind wanders over these memories of, gracious!, must be more
than ten years ago, I suddenly realize, with horror, that my
subconscious has played me QUITE a neat little trick: my real,
physical hand-of-today is exactly where I was recalling my
hand-of-ten-years-ago -- on her THIGH, stroking, feeling the
softness, and the firmness, caressing, holding... oh my GOD!  This
is no daydream, I'm really manhandling her, a _colleague_!  Oh my
I'm done for, she'll report me for sexual harassment on the job,
she'll slap my face and walk away, she'll...  (or maybe -- brief
glimmer of hopeless hope -- I was right after all and she'll jump
all over me with glee...?).  I freeze.

She's doing neither.  She had been looking at me with a half smile.
As she notices I've woken from my reverie, her face goes stern -
not angry, just stern.  Her fingers grasp firmly the wrist of my
hand, still frozen in mid-caress on her thigh, and pointedly removes
it from her.  She rises from her chair...

"_DOCTOR_ M.", she addresses me, emphasizing my title, and calling
me by surname while we had been on a first-name basis for quite
some time, "I am _shocked_ at your behaviour!".  Aaargh, so she's
going to report me, oh no please please no... but she goes on:

"We are here to _work_, as you know perfectly well!  NOT to have
fun with my thighs and your hands.  I have been talking and explaining
for half an hour, and see what good it has done!  Software work
takes brain _and_ DISCIPLINE, doctor M.!  As well you should know.
The brain I know you have, the discipline you obviously lack; you
let your mind wander, and your hands roam.  Well I do not intend
to waste my time and efforts like this: if you are so lacking in
discipline, I will have to beat some into you.  If this doesn't
suit you, let me know and I'll find some better way to spend my
time, which won't be difficult!"

What is she TALKING about?!  She is removing her belt from her waist,
holding it by the buckle in her right hand, doubled up, with the tip
also held in her right hand.  She is motioning me to rise; I do so.

"Bend over the table", she says.  "B...bend?", I ask, incredulous.
"Yes, bend.  You are going to be spanked for your inattention, for
the time you have made me waste explaining things which now I shall
have to explain again, and for your lack of discipline.  It will
be a _heavy_ spanking, I warn you.  If you won't bend over and take
it, tell me so; I'll go away right now, fly back to headquarters,
and you'll have to find somebody else to explain my work to you!"

I can't believe my luck.  Surely this is sexual foreplay?!  She
must have known of my tastes, from the net, or from office gossip,
or something, and decided to go along with them.  So I was right
on the money the first time, PLUS, a nice spanking in preparation.
Oh goody!  But no, wait, wait, wait...!  I object:

"We can't do that - my wife is going to come back any time now!".
"Your wife?  What has she got to DO with this?  Is she in the habit
of interfering with your work, and if so, why had you planned to
be working here, with her around?"  "Work?" I blurt, "but, but...".

"Yes, work, of course", she replies -- "you don't think I am planning
to have FUN tanning your butt, surely?  I could easily find men
much younger and sexier and fitter than you, if that were the case!
I'm here to WORK, to TEACH you about my program.  I see that to
be able to teach you I must be a stern teacher, for you are a sloppy
student; I see that I must whip some discipline into you.  Very
well, I accept this as a part of my teaching duty.  Now BEND OVER!"

Now as I said I am not that good at reading between the lines, or
interpreting unsaid nuances and clues, but, let me assure you, in
this case I have no need for that skill, nor would it avail me
anything if I had it to the highest degree.  There is no play in
her words, or in her countenance: she is in deadly earnest.  She
means all the says; and she is saying all she means -- I am sure.
She intends to have me bend over that table, and punish me, _for
real_; no foreplay this!  On the other hand she is not hinting at
any displeasure over the _sexual_ nature of my distraction, just
the _distraction_ itself; and she is menacing no "...or else",
except that she'll just walk away if I dont submit.  But I NEED
her -- it's hard enough to grasp this program _with_ her help...
But how CAN I submit to this, the pain, the humiliation...

Now I don't want to leave you with the impression that my mind is
always such a frenzy of bubbling thoughts; I couldn't be a good
programmer, or a decent manager, if I didn't know the tricks to
still the crew that never rests.  But today, I admit, I am a wreck:
from the moment I had seen her clad like a wet dream, then even
more as my nostrils had been sweetly assaulted, and now most of
all, as, yet half-unbelieving, I confronted this real, yet oddly
compelling, physical threat, my mind had progressively gone to
mush, nor had I been able to rein it in again.

Fortunately, in a sense, my body now takes over (as, less fortunately,
it did a few moments ago): I bend over the table.  Not because of
any result of the above-related jumble of thoughts, but rather
because there is absolutely nothing else I could do here and now:
her voice is too strong, her commands too harsh, the belt she holds
too menacing; I *must* obey; choice doesn't come into it.

I notice, as I rest my head on the table, that I have in full view
a couple of the large mirrors decking the walls of my living room,
which reflect back to me a reasonably complete view of the incongruous
scene in the room.  A smartly-dressed, thirtyish male, close-shaven,
with short black hair, of heavy build and somewhat overweight, is
awkwardly bent over a sturdy oak table.  I *know* that one is me,
but I seem to be refusing the identification.  A lithe, shortish
woman in her mid twenties stands behind him, a wide and heavy
leather belt held in her right hand; she is raising her arm, all
the way to her shoulder and above.  Her face, framed in soft, short
curls of light-brown hair, shows no anger, but rather a somewhat
surprising mix of half-suppressed excitation and steely determination.

She strikes.  No preparation, no warmup; just the impact of her
belt on the seat of my trousers.  Heavy.  Painful.  But the fabric
of the trousers, although light and thin, is somewhat tensed by my
position, so that it takes the brunt of the blow from the wide
strip of leather, and spreads it more evenly all over my bottom.
I grit my teeth: this won't be pleasant, but I _can_ take it;
already I am a bit less afraid; I wait for the second stroke.

It doesn't come.  Rather, an order: "Get up!".  I do.  "Unbelt your
trousers and lower them; they are protecting you too much.  Besides,
you need more humiliation".  I am numb; again, I don't know what to
do.  I find that my fingers are fumbling at my belt buckle (again,
by body obeys, without my mind to guide it), but mindless fingers
are apparently not good at this.  She gets impatient, bids me turn
around, and undoes the belt herself; HER fingers are nimble, and
there is no hesitation in her.  My trousers fall to my shoes.
"Turn around again", and, again, I obey.

"You have NOT obeyed promptly, and, for this, your punishment is
now going to be harsher".  Her finger grasp the elastic of my
underpants, and lower it to uncover my buttocks.  The _front_ of
the underpants, thankfully, catches in my still-raging erection
(does its persistence mean that at SOME level I _want_ to live this
horrible situation I now find myself in?  Or is my sex just so
blind and stupid that it still hasn't grasped that it's NOT going
to get any chance at sticking itself in this woman?), so it doesn't
come down.  But my buttocks are bare.

My hands, in a reflex reaction, flash towards them, to cover up my
nudity, to hide my shame; but she is prepared.  She grabs my left
arm and twists it behind my back, HARD - the pain is unexpected
and intense - I cry out.  Her voice, relentless and harsh: "You
are NOT going to get out of this by now; nor are you going to get
out of this with any shred of dignity left.  BEND OVER again - and
stop being silly, and take your punishment, or it will be that much
the worse for you".  And she pushes me down again, with my face
pressed to the table.  She lets my arm go, and takes a step back;
but by now I'm terrified, I am NOT going to risk disobeying her
again in ANY way; I hold still, as still as I can, except for the
trembling of fear which I find myself unable to control.

The view in the mirrors has changed; the male is now keeping his
left arm beyond his back, the right one a bit extended forwards,
and his bare bottom, upthrust and quaking slightly, gives a strangely
funny tone to it all...

She strikes.  With all the considerable strength of her arm, and
while taking a step towards me, presumably to make sure all possible
strength is in that blow.  And, believe me, it IS!  It's like a
fire burning my bottom, sudden, sharp -- it's more painful, I think,
than any single blow has ever been to me.  I've done scenes in the
past, of course, I'm no mere lurker, I mean, but they were SWEET
ones, LOVE ones, and, even in the heaviest ones, there was a slow
warm-up, and mutual pleasure, and sexual excitement, and endorphins
to ride high on -- and I had a safeword.  None of that now; she
IS, really and truly, intent on PUNISHING me.  She is succeeding.

I scream at the top of my lungs.  Not a deliberate decision, again;
if I *had* deliberated about it at all, I guess I would have gone
for a stiff upper lip, and all that sort of crap -- but she didn't
leave me any chance.  As the pain of that stroke keeps biting at
me, and doesn't seem to let up in any sense, so does my scream go on.

She doesn't seem to be satisfied with that, either.  At least I *am*
managing, and it surprises me in a sense, not to move AT ALL - still
too terrified from that arm-twisting, I guess.  But, yet, I SENSE her
displeasure.  She seems to be waiting for something.  As soon as the
pain lowers to barely "intolerable" level, I shut up.

Yes, THAT was what she was waiting for; she speaks again.  "This is...
DISGUSTING, really.  I didn't THINK to order you to stay quiet, for
I never thought a supposedly grown man would HOLLER so.  One would
think you would be ASHAMED to let everybody in the neighbourhood know
about the spanking you have deserved!  Well, that's YOUR problem, but,
meanwhile, I do not intend to let you assault my ears this way.  YOU.
WILL. NOW. STAY. QUIET.".  These last five words are definitely NOT
shouted, nor even spoken any louder than the rest; indeed, she has
not raised her voice at all, not even once.  But, they carry an
unmistakable authority; they are AN ORDER.  I will have to obey.

I open my eyes - I had clenched them tight, I guess, when that
horrible pain wave had hit me unexpectedly.  She's... *panting*,
that's it; soundlessly, but visibly, her chest is rapidly expanding
and contracting.  I guess some horrendously visible mark must be
on my bottom, but I can't see it clearly from this position, nor
do I intend to risk moving, at all, at all!  She raises her arm...

She starts striking again, still with the full strength of her arm,
but thankfully without that further murderous forward step.  Talk
about thanking for little blessings -- the blows are landing at a
breathtaking pace, all over my bottom, as she moves around a bit
from side to side, as if to make sure every part of my seat is
equally, and thoroughly, tanned.  No single stroke is as hard and
unbearable as the first one, but the cumulative effect is overwhelming.

I manage not to cry out again -- my jaws are clenched shut so
strongly that I suddenly get a half-crazed fear I'll be hurting my
teeth -- but I am unable to stay REALLY still; my buttocks and my
hips heave up and down, right and left, not very far either way,
but frantically, as if in some desperate attempt to escape the fury
of her blows.  She doesn't seem to mind.

Normally, I would be fully out of my mind by this time in a scene
even half as heavy as this one, flying high and wild on endorphins.
But here the blows are too fast, too strong, too furious; not even
that way can I avoid their blast: I stay fully conscious of each
and every one of them.  They hurt like CRAZY!  I don't know how
much more I can take of this treatment -- not *half a second* more,
I'd guess -- nor do I know what I shall do when the time comes that
my body proves unable to take any more of it; crumble into a heap
on the floor, I guess.  But this will make her really ANGRY... oh
no, ANYthing but that!  The fear is still stronger than the pain,
and I hang on, grimly.

Part of the weirdness of this scene is the near lack of sounds.
The belt makes little more than a heavy, muffled "THUD" each
time it lands again on my tormented flesh; the heavy oak table
hardly creaks under my frantic heaving; I'm still managing to
choke the screams that want to come out of my throat...

Thus is it that we can hear perfectly the click of the key turning
in the front door's keyhole, and the sound of its opening.  My wife
is back -- I had forgotten she was due back any moment now.  Shame
at the very thought of being seen like this, and wild fear at how
she will react, assail me.  Meanwhile, my stern teacher does not
seem to be put back in the slightest, and continues unabated her
assault on my behind; so all I can do is freeze again (except for that
uncontrollable trembling, that is), shut my eyes, and clench my
teeth yet harder.  And I pray without words that SOMEthing will
happen, that my wife will suddenly recall she's forgotten something
and get out again, that she'll have pressing business in some other
part of the house and won't come this way, ANYthing.  And I know
this is hopeless: she WILL come to the living room to greet me --
and she'll see me like this instead, shamefully bent over the table,
with my bare bottom fiery red from the tender ministrations of the
belt of this woman, this colleague!  What will happen beyond this,
I cannot think, I *dare* not think.

And it happens, as it had to.  The door of the living rooms opens; I
hardly hear it, but I know, from the sudden gentle current of air
coming to soothe my exposed red globes.  The rain of blows stops; I
dare open my eyes again.

My love, my wife, my Mannie is standing in the doorframe, still,
as if transfixed by what she's seeing.  Her long, soft, curly
dark-blond hair flows over her shoulders, onto her cotton dress
printed with rich, reddish flowery patterns, all the way to her
narrow waist, snugly held by the top of a long, wide matched gown;
some ray of sunlight from the window emblazes the golden wonder of
her hair onto a fittingly magical halo to enshrine and emphasize
the perfect, angelic features of her pale-skinned face.  Her large
brown eyes are wide with wonder, as they seem to be drinking in
the scene before them, slowly, fully.  Is she shocked?  Horrified?
About to scream?  Her cheeks seem to be reddening -- with shame?
With anger?

My stern teacher's face is also displaying some hard-to-read mix
of emotions.  It is as if an initial annoyance at being disturbed
from her work was overrun by an intense and pleasurable surprise
at what she sees -- I now recall she's never met Mannie before --
and she now appears to be struggling to regain full control of
herself.  A half-smile is clear on her face, but a hint of, well,
*predatoriness*, might be hiding somewhere in that baring of teeth,
or in the glint of her sky-blue eyes...

The silence is now broken -- by my wife.

"Oh, GOODY!" she exclaims with a half-suppressed burst of giggles,
moving her hand to half-hide her mouth.  She melts from her frozen
position and is suddenly darting all around the room, stopping for
an instant at each window to draw the curtains close.  Not that
anybody could have peeked into the room before, unless after sneaking
through the woods abutting the house on this side -- thanks to the
trees, there is no unobstructed line of sight between any of the
windows and the road, or neighbouring properties.  But then, it does
not matter: I've sometimes joked that Mannie would make sure the
curtains are drawn closed if anything private was about to happen
in a stateroom of a boat in the middle of the ocean...

Fast-moving as always, she's finished her tour, and she's standing
before my colleague with her right hand out in an unmistakable
offer of a handshake.  "Pleased to meet you -- I'm Manuela, I'm
Andy's wife" (she _never_ abbreviates her name to strangers).  "Hi,
I'm Laura W., a colleague of your husband's", replies my stern
teacher, moving the belt to her left hand and accepting the handshake.

"Andy must have been VERY naughty, from what I see", continues
Mannie; "hang on just a sec and I'll go get something to help you
with!".  I can see my darling must have misunderstood the
situation greatly, and has taken it for joyous, if heavy and
unannounced, play, and plans to join in it with her usual gusto...
I think I should clarify things before they get any further out
of hand, but I don't think I dare break my orders and move, or
make any sound.  Laura seems about to speak too, so I think I'd
DEFINITELY better leave the explanations to her.

But Mannie's already darted out of the room.  Laura looks definitely
*surprised* at Mannie's reaction, or at the speed of it.  Well,
few women would react that sweetly and promptly upon being greeted,
on returning home, by the sight of their man bending on a table,
his bare bottom all red and sore, and being further tanned by heavy
beltwork from a perfect stranger, I guess.  I should be proud of
her -- by gosh, I AM!  It's just all a horrible pity that she has
misunderstood the situation, but that's also SO understandable...

Laura's surprised again at the speed with which Mannie returns to
the living room.  She hasn't gone to our "toy" cache, I see; what
she is holding is not whips and chains, but rather a wicker
carpet-beater, a couple of hairbrushes, and a table-tennis paddle.
More in the spirit of what seemed to her to be the occasion, I
guess.

I find the strength to speak and to move, a little, consequences be
damned.  I remove my arm from behind my back, putting it back on
the table, with the idea of pushing myself off it; but after all
the strain the arm aches so badly that I'll have to wait for that.
Meanwhile, at least, I turn my head around to look at my wife, and
address her: "Mannie, dearest, I think you have misunderstood the
situation, you see...".

But she interrupts me, her lovely voice a fascinating mixture of
mock-sterness, excitation, half-suppressed giggling, eagerness...:
"Shut UP you bad, baaad boy!  We won't HAVE excuses, will we Laura?
You'll pay the full price of your naughtiness!  Why I'll even have
you iron the suit yourself afterwards, as it's all wrinkled up.
Particularly the trousers, you should just SEE them hanging loosely
around your shoes.  If any black polish has rubbed onto the linen
I'll have you bleach it with your TONGUE, you know!  Oh no don't
even THINK of moving, stay down as your punishment is just starting!
Heeeere it coooomes...!"

Now I see that this account, though factual, definitely risks giving
a false impression.  Manuela is not NORMALLY like this, particularly
around strangers.  Soft-spoken, sweet, even a bit *shy* at times,
rather, in her own heavenly way...  But sometimes, something happens
to touch her sweet spot, and she starts bubbling all over with the
irrepressible enthusiasm of a five-year old girl; one of the many
reasons I love her so dearly, I guess.  THIS time she is definitely
in high orbit, a bit like she gets sometimes with champagne... I'm
not sure why; maybe it was just too long since we last did a nice
spanking scene, maybe it's the prospect of a threesome with Laura's
that's sparkling her so, maybe...

This train of thought stops brusquely as I feel the carpet-beater
descending heavily on my poor bruised bottom.  "OUCH!", I hear
myself cry out... it's NOT as heavy a stroke as the ones that
Laura's belt was imparting, by far, but my nether cheeks are in
such a sorry state that a *feather* would hurt.  "OUCH!" again, as
the carpet beater rises and falls -- having breached silence, I
can't manage to hold it all in anymore.  A third, a fourth, a fifth
time it falls, not TOO hard each time, but faster and faster, and
I start moaning...

Suddenly it stops.  What's happening?  I find my eyes are closed;
in these few seconds I had, at last, almost lost control of myself,
as Mannie's well-known painful-but-loving rhythm started resonating
with my own frequencies... light years apart from Laura's stern,
unrelenting blows.  But, what's happening?  I come to earth again
and open my eyes to see.

Laura has taken a step towards Mannie, grasping her wrist.  She
must be grasping HARD, as Mannie's face shows pain mixed with her
surprise.  Neither has spoken yet.

Then, slowly, implacably, Laura is twisting Mannie's right arm
behind her back, fixing a steely glare into Mannie's widening eyes.
Mannie drops the carpet beater to the floor; the arm twisting gets
harder; at last, Mannie cries out in pain.  As if hypnotized by
Laura's eyes, she isn't even attempting any gesture of defense.
Something stirs deep inside me, prompting me to rise out of this
humiliating position, get UP!, and defend my woman from this threat.
I gulp this noble impulse down: I'm sure it would be no use, and
might well make things worse.

Finally Laura speaks.  "This family is AWASH in indiscipline, it
would seem.  Who gave you permission to interfere with my work?!"
Feebly Mannie stammers, "W-work...?"  "Yes WORK I said!  I was
punishing your husband for his lack of attention as I taught him
about my program.  And you barge in and INTERFERE!  How DARE you?"
Her tone is severe and aggressive, the last short sentence positively
menacing.  I see Mannie has totally, and brusquely, snapped off
her playful-top mood, and is now shocked and close to tears.

"It seems I must take it upon me to give lessons to all of the
family, then.  Very well; at least this part can prove pleasant.
Doctor M., your punishment is over for now: get up, with your hands
on your head, and go kneel in that corner, facing the wall.  Hurry!"
With that, she speeds me up with a further whack of the belt on my
rump; I hasten to comply.  I *am* worried about poor Mannie, but
more relieved that my own ordeal seems over, unless I get teacher
angry at me again, that is; I plan not to.

I stumble to the corner, hampered by my trousers 'round my ankles,
but I don't dare remove a hand from my head, where she has ordered
them; I get there, at last; I kneel down, leaning a bit on the wall
to help support myself.  Kneeling is never a particularly comfortable
position for me, but thankfully the wall-to-wall carpet is reasonably
soft here.  If I lean a bit THIS way I can still follow the action
in the mirrors... it's risky (she MIGHT get angry again, should
she notice), but as the throbbing pain eases a little, my curiosity
is overcoming my prudence; also, I realize once more that my erection
has STILL not subsided at all, and that I'm getting horny again --
I guess I must have been so all the time, just stopped taking notice
as I was overwhelmed with the fear and the pain.  Oh I WISH I could
take one hand off my head and assuage this horniness...  but no,
that would be VERY visible to my colleague, and I shudder at the
very thought of what would happen when she noticed!

Meanwhile, in the center of the room, Mannie, fully dressed, is
bending over the table, her arms spread out in front of her, palms
on the table.  She is sobbing quietly but intensely... Laura stands
over her, belt at the ready; but she doesn't seem to be about to
strike.  Rather, her eyes appear to be roaming over Mannie's body;
I notice a quickly suppressed half-gesture from her free hand, as
if she was straining to avoid touching her...

She shakes her head.  "No, this will not do; I can't properly gauge
how much protection this nice dress might be giving you, to measure
off your punishment properly.  It will have to go.  Get up" -- at
this she throws her belt on the floor, and with both hands takes
Mannie by the armpits and gets her straight up almost by sheer
force -- "and, here, I'll help you take this off".  Mannie seems
fazed and unresisting; Laura's hands dart here and there, unfastening
the many buttons and ribbons of Mannie's beautiful dress.  I wish
I was half as effective at undressing Mannie when she's wearing
one of those lovely but oh so complicated things!

The dress comes off, and Laura gasps in excitation and surprise.
Under it, and despite the heat, Mannie is wearing black fishnet
stockings, with dark blue garters; frilly black silk panties;
and a dark-blue corset (its color a perfect match for the garters'),
rather tight, which goes from the top of her panties to the lower
half of her generous breasts, holding them up but leaving her nipples
bare.  It's a sight that never fails to move me, too, although I
am familiar enough with it; how *typical* of Mannie to be wearing
her sexiest underclothes, under a dreamily romantic dress, on the
hottest day of the year, and just to go shopping!  She loves to
FEEL sexy (although, let me tell you, Mannie couldn't HELP being
sexy even in sackcloth...), in and for itself.  Still, to somebody
not knowing her as intimately as I do, it must be totally unexpected.
So, I can well sympathize with Laura's reaction.

She doesn't stay there gazing very long.  She drapes Mannie's dress,
carefully, over the table; then, grabbing her by the ear (at which
Mannie also gasps, although Laura's grasp seems not too harsh --
her ears, what with all those earrings, are VERY sensitive), she
leads her towards the low, wide leather armchair near the wall.
She stops to pick up the table-tennis paddle from where Mannie had
let it fall on the floor when she had started spanking me with the
carpet beater.  She's talking, meanwhile: "The table will not do,
it must hold your nice dress.  We'd better get on the armchair,
you can lie across my lap and across the arms, they look soft
enough"...  they are, I can attest to that, having lain myself
there often enough, across Mannie's lap, in exactly the manner
she's envisioning.  About as often I have held Mannie like that,
and it's a wonderful way to spank her, with full contact with her
luscious soft body...

Laura's voice is now hoarse, and her delivery sweet, although the
steel of command is also evident just below the velvet.  She didn't
speak to ME like that, for sure... 

They get to the armchair.  Laura sits down comfortably, hefts the
paddle in her right hand (it's rather heavy, quite new, covered on
both sides with springy rubber), and gestures to invite Mannie,
who's standing before her with her head demurely bowed, to her lap.

Mannie hooks her panties' elastic with her thumbs, and slowly lowers
them to just above her garters, unbidden.  Her love triangle flowers
with soft blond curls; the twin globes of her buttocks, with their
pale and silky-soft skin, jut out from her corset.  The tatoo on
her left bottom cheek, a simple black widdershins spiral, stands
out on the whiteness of her skin.

Once again, Laura seems astonished, this time presumably by the
boldness of submission in that panties-lowering gesture.  I am a
bit surprised too, as she generally has to be ordered QUITE explicitly
before she unveils her nether beauties in a scene (when she tops,
she often keeps her panties on throughout; it's not really modesty,
she once claimed while talking to me about it, but rather the sheer
pleasure of the feel of the silk against her naughty bits -- me,
I have my doubts on this).  She's speaking now, in a low, subdued
whisper:  "Should I take these off?".  There's... something *peculiar*
in her voice.  I would almost be willing to wager _her_ voice would
be hoarse, too, if she spoke any louder -- which may be why she is
whispering instead.

"No", replies Laura, "this will do.  Remove rather your corset, it
looks uncomfortably tight; I want your body more free to wriggle
during the spanking.  I also want to see more of your skin".  Well,
at least she's OPEN about it!  That THIS one will not be a simple,
straight punishment line mine, is now abundantly clear; in a sense,
I'm relieved of the worry I had for Mannie.  On the other hand, I
feel sure the spanking is not going to be a token one, either...
I believe both the severity of her impending punishment, and the
obvious determination of my colleague to enjoy it sexually, must
be equally clear to my wife.  Which may be why she's taken the
initiative to bare her beautiful bottom?

If this is so, then she must be accepting the fact, at least at
some level, responding with a gesture of utter sexual submission
to Laura's sexually-charged domination.  Well, good for her; even
if all she's doing is trying to placate Laura's anger, to channel
it into less threatening physical channels, it's already something.
Knowing Mannie, I believe there may well be more than that, too.

And again she surprises us both.  Having unfastened most of the
corset's restraints, she kneels in front of Laura, between her open
bare thighs, facing her, head bowed, and humbly asks "Could you
please help me with these laces and buttons in the back?".  Why,
the little _minx_!  She's perfectly able to undo those herself;
all the time she wears and removes her corsets without any help --
her joints are supple, and she can contort herself at will... so
this cannot be anything but an excuse for a further gesture of
submission, the assumption of the kneeling position.  Laura cannot
_know_ this, of course, but she must suspect it pretty strongly.
Nor does she seem to mind it AT ALL...

Laura lays the tennis-table paddle on the floor, and her arms go
around my wife's torso, as she begins to work on those laces on
the back.  That's not a really _practical_ way to go about it --
the practical thing would of course be to have Mannie turn around,
to be able to work without obstruction; but a side effect of the
approach she's chosen is to draw my wife body closer to hers, and
by now there's no doubt left in my mind that this was of course
exactly the desired effect.  Mannie is being pliant, soft and
passive, her arms along her sides, not pushing herself against
Laura, but not retracting at all either...

Suddenly Laura fixes me straight in the eyes, and with a start I
realize I had let my pretence of being "facing the wall", as ordered,
fall by the wayside; fascinated by the unfolding of the scene, I
had been staring openly for awhile!  I shudder and cringe with
fear, anticipating a burst of fury...

"Oh, Andy, you may as well get up now, your punishment is over.
And, by the way, I really need a break from work right now.  Would
you mind adjusting your clothing and coming here to give me a hand?"
The voice pronouncing these friendly and unexpected sentences is
far from furious; she sounds cheerful, somewhat excited, and at
least as pleasant as she had been before my trasgression.  Somewhat
fazed, I nonetheless comply, hastily pulling up my underpants and
picking up and fastening my trousers.  I then proceed to the side
of the room where the two women are, curious and eager to see what
kind of assistance Laura might be requiring.

"Here -- you see -- this thing here really needs four hands to
unfast properly, so please hold here and here and... OK, right,
there it comes".  The knot she appeared to be fighting with wasn't
really as terrible as all that, although she had apparently been
pulling the laces the wrong way, complicating the unfastening a
little bit.  I wonder if this has been used as an excuse to lure
me here (as if that was really needed), or if this brilliant person
with a mathematics doctorate can really be that clueless about
simple knots, despite all those topology and geometry courses...

She doesn't appear to be particularly needful of me, though, as
her next words (I'm still a bit speechless, an unusual situation
for wordy me) are "Good!  Thank you very, very much.  Now could
you please fetch us some good cold refreshing drink?  Spanking is
thirsty work!  No alcohol of course, we'll have to get back to
work soon enough."  "Uh, sure", I stammer, "we have cold milk,
Coke, mineral water, or I can press you some oranges...".  "Milk
will do fine, skim, please", she interrupts.  "Sorry, we don't
use skim milk, I don't think we have any in the house", I have to
apologize.  "Oh well, I guess REAL milk won't kill me for once,
that'll do".  "Right, and, Mannie, are you thirsty too?".

"Don't you DARE offer a drink to this naughty spoiled girl!", Laura
interrupts me at once, forcefully; I hear again in her voice the
edge of the stern, punishing teacher, and see a glint of anger in
her eyes; enough to make me recoil as if under a physical shock...
"She's being punished for barging in and interrupting our work,
remember, and by jolly when I PUNISH a bad girl, she's damn well
going to KNOW she's being punished!"  She punctuates this tirade
with a hard open-handed slap to my wife's bottom; Mannie yelps,
with surprise as much as with pain, I guess.  Fortunately Laura's
voice and manners relapse at once to courtesy, as she continues,
"No, just go get some good cold drink for yourself -- you're all
red and bothered, I'm sure you could use one! -- and for me, ice-cold
milk, thanks".  Well it's not exactly from *thirst* that I'm all
red and bothered, but I know better than to go and pick an argument
with this woman at this point; I dart towards the kitchen.

My behind feels on fire, particularly as I walk rapidly.  Once in
the kitchen, I toy with the idea of applying some soothing salve
to my bottom, or at least some ice... and I discard it at once:
although my punishment may be over as she said, I surmise she might
well intend for me to feel its after-effects in full, "to help me
concentrate my mind" as she'd undoubtedly put it, so that she might
well get angry again if she knew I had done something to lessen
those effects.  And I don't want her to get impatient for her drink
and get angry again!  So I just take the occasion to straighten my
clothing a bit better, splash a little water on my face (which IS
indeed all red and hot -- I think this is the first time in my
memory that I got so flustered by SHAME, and the fluster returns
if I stop to think of the shameful spectacle I was presenting a
while ago...  so let's not think about it!), and head back to the
living room very soon, with two beautiful, large cylindrical
glasses in my hands, milk for her, Coke for myself.

When I arrive, my wife's corset has gone.  She is now draped over
Laura's lap, her panties still lowered at mid-thigh, her soft,
creamy-white, deliciously rounded bottom upwards.  On her pale skin
stands out, quite visible, the reddening mark of Laura's slap;
maybe it had been stronger and more painful than I had thought at
the time.  Mannie is sobbing wildly; her head is slightly bent,
and thus covered by the sweet cascade of her blond hair; still,
below that golden veil I see she's covering her face with her hands.
As I hand Laura her drink, I wonder what can possibly have caused
such a reaction in her.  She's not exactly the "timid virgin" type,
to get wildly sobbing about her current exposure, humiliating as
it may be, or about the body contact.  Just as I'm wondering whether
it's safe to inquire about the reasons, I am preempted from that,
as Laura makes a further request.

"I wonder -- so sorry to trouble you again -- you *would* happen
to have some good-quality saran wrap in your kitchen, yes?  Would
you mind fetching it?"  "Saran wrap?", I'm a bit taken aback --
"sure, I'll get all you want, but, what for?"  "Ah, that's to remain
a little secret between us girls for a little longer, yes?" she
banters, and applies a further, playful but not *delicate*, smack
to my wife's bottom.  Oh well, if it's going to be only *a little*
longer, I think to myself as I head back towards the kitchen, I
can maybe stand the curiosity till all is revealed.  Still, my mind
whirls about the kinds of play one does with saran wrap, and they
don't exactly jibe with Laura's stern-teacher image... but that
woman has astonished me so often today that I have lost count, so
I figure I'm in for AT LEAST one more surprise.  Well, we shall see.

THIS time I'm back in a flash -- I don't want to lose any more
interesting happenings, as I seem to have done during my last trip
to the kitchen -- and, just to make sure as I don't know how much
she may be needing, I'm carrying the whole roll and dispenser of
the saran wrap.  I wonder if I will be asked to do something in
particular with it, but Laura just thanks me and asks me to lay it
down on the floor near her armchair.  She's been drinking the milk
quite rapidly, and a bit less than half a glass remains; she deposits
the glass on the floor as well (the armchair's quite low off the
floor, so she has comfortable access to all these things while
remaining seated there).

"Aaah!  NOW, we're gonna get serious.  Andy, take a seat and enjoy
the show, will you?"  "Uh, MUST I?" I involuntarily exclaim as the
very thought of sitting down on that still-raging volcano she's
made of my buttocks makes me shiver...  "Oh, of COURSE not", she
laughs out, "just place yourself comfortably on the floor then, or
stand, or whatever".  I don't want to think what THIS will do to
my suit, but, what the hell, it's already all crumpled up anyway,
so I lower myself carefully to the softly-carpeted floor and lie
on my side, leaning on my elbow.  The view is, indeed, superb.

Particularly since, below my wife's delectable naked body stretched
on her lap, Laura's thighs are also totally displayed to my roving
eyes; she's sitting in a natural position, and as I said the armchair
is very low off the floor, so that her knees are higher than her
lap - which means her already-short gown is rolled up dizzingly
high, and my stare is *almost* able to discern her panties' cut
and colour...  and what a _tantalizing_ "almost" that is!  Darkish,
I should say, and quite small, maybe some sort of tanga-like cut...

My natural impulse would be to bring an hand to my crotch, and at
least stroke my raging erection through my pants, but I think I'd
better not.  I'm terribly close to coming as it is, and a splotch
of semen on these pants is a really unbearable thought... so I'll
go into "tantric" mode, and wait.  Don't they say that all things
come to him who waits...?

Laura gets the tennis-table paddle off the floor.  She rests her
left hand, lightly, on the small of my wife's back.  She raises
her right arm, slowly, bringing the paddle almost to the height of
her shoulder...

She strikes - definitely not as hard as I *know* she could, but
NOT softly either.  Mannie grits her teeth and catches her breath,
but manages to make no sound.  Very fast, the paddle rises again,
and again it comes down, about as hard as before.  And again, and
again...  Laura is striking at a very rapid and regular rhythm,
each time not moving the paddle very far from its soft target, and
bringing it down again mostly with wrist action; she has *strong*
wrists, though, I notice.  My wife's hands are not on her face
anymore; rather, her arms appear to be clutching at the armchair's
side, and her hands are beating against it.  Nor is her face still
bent towards the floor; her head is, instead, flailing up and down
rather wildly.

Mannie has not been able to keep silent very long; a moan is escaping
from her lips, almost unceasing now, with occasional small, sharp
cries to highlight the strokes she finds particularly painful --
not so much because such strokes are really stronger than the
others, I think, since Laura's rhythm, and the considerable strength
she applies to her task, are admirably regular and even, but rather
because, at times, two, three or more blows in a row happen to fall
in the same spot.  Well, "spot" is not the right word, not exactly,
as the paddle is large and each stroke covers a goodly portion of
the rapidly reddening hemispheres, but anyway.  I don't think such
series of strokes in the same area are any accident, either, since
Laura's control seems to be just about perfect...

Laura's not silent, either; she's mouthing an uninterrupted stream
of scoldings, mild abuse, and threats.  It's all delivered in a
flat and lowish voice, though, almost drowned in the dramatic
"splat" sounds of the paddling itself.  I think the rhythm of the
strokes, and maybe their strength, are accelerating now, and also
the speed with which Laura is talking... now she falls silent, as
the blows steadily keep getting yet harder, and faster...

A full-strength blow, all the way from shoulder height, suddenly
breaks the rhythm, falling in a spot just tormented by several
strokes in succession.  Mannie screams, and her hands finally dart
to her behind, in some vain attempt to shield it from attack...

Laura stops and GRINS.  There is no anger in her face: triumph, I
would rather say!  She composes herself in an instant and speaks
again, in her most severe tone...: "SO!  You don't even possess
enough discipline to be able to withstand a simple spanking!  Very
well, that saran wrap will come in handy in more than one way,
then.  Andy, would you mind lending me a hand...?  Oh thanks, just
hold her like this for an instant..."  As I keep Mannie in the
position Laura has placed her, that is, with her arms behind her
back and each hand just about touching the opposite elbow, Laura
gets the dispenser off the floor, and rapidly starts unrolling
transparent plastic off it and onto Mannie's forearms, going all
round them over and over.

I recognize this style of binding from having read of it in a.s.b,
but had never seen it in practice.  We're more into leather cuffs
and metal chains, so much more showy... oh, and rope, of course...
but I admit this plastic stuff is VERY practical indeed!  In an
instant Mannie's arms are immobilized exactly like Laura wanted
them to be, as the plastic sticks to itself repeatedly.  Mannie is
not resisting this, her head is bowed again, and she appear to be
crying with shame - indeed I think I glimpse some real tears from
behing her charming mane - she probably feels humiliated by not
having been able to hold position while ordered to do so, she's
always been SO proud of the perfection of her obedience!

Now Laura gets her glass again and drains it of milk, avidly.  Must
be _quite_ thirsty, apparently.  Rich creamy milk is all over her
lips, and she takes the time to lick it all off, with a slow and
sensual movement of her tongue.  Her eyes are feasting themselves
all over Mannie's sob-racked naked body draped on hers; she puts
the glass back on the floor...

Laura starts spanking Mannie's bottom again, this time with her
open hand.  On her face, I see a very satisfied smile; cat having
just eaten canary, and all that, you know.  She has not told, or
motioned, me to distance myself again, so I take the opportunity
to stay right there, crouching on the carpet near the armchair, my
hands resting lightly on Mannie's shoulders, as if to console her,
although I dare not make any explicit move towards that.  At every
heavy SPLAT, Mannie's body shudders and shivers, although she keeps
perfectly silent now, as does Laura.

The reprise does not last long.  Soon Laura stops, exclaiming: "Oh
I can't WAIT any more!  Andy, please - her discipline isn't over
yet - but I MUST, oh I *MUST*, get release... would you be so kind
as to help?  There, go fetch my belt, it's very suitable and it
must be somewhere on the floor...".  I don't understand what having
her belt back has to do with "release", but, I'm not gonna argue
with this woman, nohow.  I straighten up, I see the belt, I go get
it off the floor, and I'm back near the armchair, all in a split
second...

...just in time to see Laura shuck Mannie off her lap, dumping her
onto the carpet like a sack of coals, shaking with uncontrollable
sobs.  Laura rises and, quite matter-of-factly, she's taking her
panties off.  Hey, they're LEATHER!  And, as far as I can notice
before my eyes are inhexorably magnetized to her shaved pussy, I
had been right in surmising that they're cut somewhat like a tanga.
She is looking down at Mannie, and speaking to her, in a quiet but
firm tone, saying something about now having to show her gratitude
for the punishment that has been administered.  I'm frozen,
hypnotized, standing in front of them, my right arm extended to
offer the belt to its rightful owner...

...who finally notices me and looks at me with a puzzled air for a
moment.  "What...?  Ah, no!", she exclaims as she understands, "I
meant *you* are to use my belt on your wife's backside, to, well,
'top up' her punishment, while she thanks me properly for all I've
done so far!  Here, help me prop her up like this..."  Laura is
sitting on the armchair again, her thighs wide open, her pussy
gaping in their midst, and glistening with her own juice.  She's
urging Mannie off the floor by the very simple device of grasping
her hair and pulling upwards... Mannie's scream at this development
is the most desperate I've yet heard today - I hurry to help her
as she struggles to get up.  Meanwhile, my colleague has torn off
a further piece of saran wrap from the holder, doubling it up, and
covering her pussy with it...

Now Laura roughly but effectively manages to plant my wife's face
between her legs, on the above-mentioned pussy; Mannie is thus
kneeling on the carpet, her angry-red ass sticking up in the air,
her arms still bound behind her by the saran wrap.  "That's good",
Laura proclaims, "now you whip the slut's arse as severely as she's
deserved, while she demonstrates her gratitude!  And mind you, I
don't want you to CARESS her - that's still a PUNISHMENT, you know! -
so please *use* the strength of your arm.  Understood?"

I can but nod, I'm so excited that if I tried to speak nothing
would come out.  She pushes her torso backwards, to rest on the
armchair's soft stuffed back; her hands remain poised grasping my
wife's hair.  Mannie stifles one last sob, then her mouth goes to
work on my colleague's clit and labia through the transparency...

And I start doing as I was bid, whipping Mannie's already-sore
buttocks with the wide heavy belt, with substantial force.  I see
her beloved body tense and writhe under the blow, and a loud moan
comes from her throat, in lieu of shriek I guess, since her mouth
is enveloping Laura's sex, her lips and tongue otherwise occupied
than in crying out.

After a short while, I notice Laura isn't following the scene much
any more - she would appear to be staring at the ceiling instead,
if it weren't for the fact that only the white of her eyes is
showing.  Her hands are not *holding* my wife's soft blonde hair
any more, but rather *caressing* it, when they aren't busy frantically
clenching and unclenching in mid-air, that is.  Apparently Mannie
is rather effective with her mouthwork, despite her relative lack
of experience at pussy-eating (*active* pussy-eating, that is -
she sure is no novice at *receiving* such treatment... although no
saran wrap is warranted between us two).

So effective, indeed, that in a few more moments Laura shakes all
over, tenses, moans, growls, shrieks softly, and finally collapses
on the armchair, spent.  Mannie's head remains buried in Laura's
lap, although less active - just like her to always followup, so
softly, so tenderly - while I, knowing Mannie, keep whipping her
ass anyway, because I'd bet...

Yes, I'd have won my bet - after a few further heavy strokes, Mannie
gets her orgasm too, and a long and powerful one it is; after it,
she slumps, limp, still in position in Laura's lap.  It looks like
I'm the only one who hasn't reached orgasm yet in this room!

And I don't plan to remain in this orgasmless state much longer -
I feel as if I were about to _explode_!.  I drop the belt, remove
my pants and underpants, and kneel behind Mannie.  Finally my
hard-on will be good for something!  I check her lubrification with
my fingers - OK, as usual, it's excellent.

Slowly, deliberately, I push my cock inside her cunt - she reacts
little, still weak and woozy from her previous orgasm no doubt.
My hands are on Laura's thighs, stroking, gently squeezing, kneading,
caressing, pinching and scratching *just* a little... I feel Laura's
hands on mine, not as if about to remove them, far from it!, but
rather, apparently, encouraging them, egging them on.  Meanwhile
my cock is pumping in and out, in and out, in and out...

As I feel my orgasm rapidly approaching, the actions of my hands
on my colleague's thighs are getting less delicate, less gentle,
and *still* her hands appear to me to keep urging mine to continue,
to intensify yet more... and Mannie is starting to respond more
intensely, too, as I hoped from her wonderful multi-orgasmic
capability that I know so well (wish I was able to come even one
tenth as often as that wonderful woman...  oh well!).

Climax comes, for all of us at once - including Laura, apparently, if
I am judging well from a sort of smaller-scale replay of the previous
tension/sound-effects/release stuff...  fancy that, I've done nothing
but manhandle her firm and silky thighs - and she comes again!  I
thought only Mannie was like that... well, either I've got VERY
magic hands, or, a peculiar luck in meeting easy-to-orgasm people!

I slide to the carpet to enjoy the post-orgasmic bliss, and I notice
a *possibly* more likely explanation of my colleague's latest
orgasm: Mannie's head is still firmly in place between Laura's
thighs, although they're now both rather abandonedly slumping on
each other (as after two orgasms in quick succession, who wouldn't
be); thinking back, I also recall I didn't hear any words or moans
from Mannie during our recent fuck, which, on the "dog that didn't
bark in the night" theory, might suggest her mouth was, again,
otherwise occupied.  Repetita juvant?  Quite plausible...

I don't stay very long on the carpet, because soon Laura beckons
me:  "...Andy?  Where have you gone?  Why don't you come back here
- let's all hug at once - oh *please*".  For the first time since
that fateful moment when I put my hand on her thigh, there's no
*command* in her voice, but, rather, *pleading*.  The change is
surprising, unexpected... still, what she's pleading me to do is
a very appealing activity anyway, so I accede willingly and promptly;
soon I am in her arms, and in Mannie's, and both of them in mine,
and in each other's...

I seem to be the only one around with dry eyes.  I had seen Mannie's
well-understandable tears, but, how come Laura's...?   And she
starts speaking, softly, fast, sweet delicate sobs punctuating her
voice:  "Oh, I had been dreaming of this for SO long, since I was
a student reading your posts on a.s.b, and then I got to meet you
at last, but you were SO different, so professional, so distant,
like a computer yourself... and I never would have been able to
TALK about this, I am SO shy..." (shy?  my still-burning buttocks
wouldn't EXACTLY agree, but...) "...so I got all my courage together
and, well, planned this scene and dressed for it...!  Did it turn
out right?  It did, didn't it?  Oh I was SO afraid something would
spoil everything...  but it didn't, did it?"

She's almost babbling at this point - and Mannie, managing to be
all sweet and motherly even in her disheveled state, hugs her
harder, and shushes her, and murmurs "but of course, you were
wonderful, you were like a dream, so strong and hard and demanding
you melted me all inside, and Andy too...".  Laura interrupts "Oh
I'm not like THAT really, I'm a sweet submissive bottom, and I
dreamed of your chains on me and kissing your feet and things, but
I'd never dare ask for *that*, and I thought I had to be the active
one and oh but we do have to go on with that work so we cannot
switch right now can we oh but please sometime soon oh please..."

"No problem darling", my wife's sweet but firm Tiger-voice interrupts
Laura's stream-of-consciousness-style discourse, "you WILL sleep
here tonight - and more nights - plenty of space with our kids in
summer camp anyway - and there WILL be plenty of time for switching
every which way, although of course right now you two DO have to
be back to work.  You'll have to check out of your hotel of course."
"Well, that much money saved for the firm then, since I'm on expense
account", blurts my colleague as slowly she draws back to a more
usual, work-oriented persona.  With Mannie's ORDER to go right back
and WORK, I'm sure we'll accomplish a lot in what's left of today - and
then, tonight...

My eyes are not dry anymore.