First, The Rule:

If you are female and single/alone, you should of course remove all of your clothes (yes, socks too, I'm afraid). And no orgasms until then end, at which point you will have two--no more or no less.

If you are something other than female and single/along, please enjoy:

Anything

Anything—such a simple little word. Dangerous damn little word. I never realized how dangerous, but crap I'm starting to now. My heart thump-thump-thumping so loud that I could barely hear the radio. He had forced the word out of me, the weekend before--teased it from me, in his big, wonderful bed, blindfolded, my arms tied above my head, my ass raised up on a pillow and my legs tied ridiculously far apart, exposed and vulnerable. After damn near an hour of teasing, of his fingertips and his tongue on my clit, his teeth on my nipples, or his cock in my mouth, me wanting to come so bad, wanting his cock inside me, it was too much, and I gave him what he wanted—that simple, damn little innocent word.

Hatch told me I was a control freak, but that my deep down desire was to have my precious control stripped away from me. Always tells me how lucky I was that he found me. That he knows me. I never agree with him . He finds my limits, pushes them, forces me to stretch my legs, my heart, my walls wider and wider.

The ‘anything’ shouldn’t have mattered. He fucked me whenever he wanted, in whatever fashion he wanted. Whipped my ass whenever I didn’t read his mind and know he wanted a blowjob, or for me to stand in the corner silently asking for a spanking, or much worse, when he was simply bored. Once, early on, I had said no to his wonderful cock, and he just smiled at me, pushed me over onto my stomach, tied my hands behind my back, and whipped me with his belt until I begged, with tears running down my face, for him to fuck me, for his cock. He had made me grease up my own ass—one finger, all the way in—and then spread my striped and hurting cheeks and beg for his cock. He was not gentle.

Afterwards, he had looked me in the eyes, told me that we could break up anytime I wanted, but until then, he would be fucking me whenever he wanted. Then he asked me if I wanted to break up.

I can’t lie to him when he’s staring straight into me like that. He crumbles my walls like they were wet pop tarts.

During my sane moments, I tell myself I have an MBA for Christ’s sake—I’m a professional woman, successful, attractive—I could find another guy. One that did what I wanted.

But what fun would that be?

Once, while I was eating lunch at my apartment with my sister, he text’d that he was coming over for a blowjob. Well, the text actually said, “In five, my cock is going to be in your mouth.” It was actually more like twelve minutes.

Hatch had said hi to my Sis, kissed me hello, taken my hand and led me into my bedroom. Without a word, he roughly pulled off my shirt and bra (he likes to look down on me sucking him, and my ‘wonderful’ breasts), pushed me to my knees, and with the door only half closed, made me beg to suck first his balls, and then his cock.

Yes, I’m certain my sister heard me begging. Heard him fucking my mouth. Heard me begging for his come. His calm, quiet, “I’m afraid I’ll have to use the belt if you don’t swallow it all. And you know it’s been a couple of days…”

Left me to finish my lunch with Sis, red-faced, knees sore and my pussy swimming in it’s own wetness. While we were shopping that afternoon, all I could think of was his cock. My texts begging for it, or to play with myself in the mall’s bathroom, being ignored, until finally he said if I came over and begged for a hard spanking, and if my sister helped me pick out a new toy to spank my ass with, then he might give his cock.

My sister still teases me about that, every time I talk to her and his name comes up.

And now he’s taken it even further. One damn little word. One little promise, and I’m next to him in his damn precious BMW (I’m pretty sure he cares about me more than the car, but he sure as hell baby’s the car more than me), sitting on a towel (I’ve gotten the belt before for getting the leather wet). I’m wearing 4” black pumps Hatch bought for me, black thigh-highs he also bought, and a little French maid’s outfit he presented to me not half an hour ago. It’s at least one size too small--probably closer to two. It even came with white gloves and whatever the hell you call the white, lacey thing in my hair. My breasts are threatening to pop out of the top, and it barely covers the bottom of my ass when I’m standing.

He had asked me on Tuesday if I remembered Saturday’s ‘Anything’. Told me that on Thursday, he’d be taking me up on that. And now it’s Thursday, and my heart’s trying to explode.

We are driving somewhere—I’m already lost with the adrenaline running so hard—his hand between my thighs, where it always is (except when he shifts gears or is driving fast), the back edge so close to my clit, but of course not touching it. Occasionally brushing against it. My purse, my cell phone, my keys—everything—are back at his place. That makes me very vulnerable. He’d had me arrive at 6, ordered me to shower and shave, inspected me, and then dressed me in the maid’s outfit, as he casually mentioned, “I’ve rented you out as a maid.”

Then looked at me, dared me, to walk on my ‘anything’. And I knew it would mean walking away from him. Breaking my word. So I swallowed, and trusted him.

We arrive. He pulls the car over in front of one of those expensive, modern duplexes. Kisses me. “Be very good. If you’re naughty and they have to spank you, I’ll be very disappointed.” My heart catches on the ‘they’. I know what ‘very disappointed’ means.

He reaches across me, and opens the door. On autopilot, I kiss him again, a long, deep, good one, notice that he’s hard. With a deep breath, I climb out. Very carefully in the heels, I walk up the concrete drive. It’s not quite dark, and I wonder how many neighbors are watching me. The driveway seems very, very long.

As I step onto the porch, I hear Hatch engage the gears, and drive away. I feel more vulnerable than when he had me tied and spread. Lost without my blackberry. I cannot remember feeling more vulnerable.

None of this feels real. I swallow a pound of fear and press the doorbell.

They make me wait. The temptation to turn and run, to find my way home, even ‘dressed’ like I am, rises up and through me and I start to step away. The door opens. It’s a tall brunette—taller than me, at least, and attractive. She’s wearing a t-shirt and jean shorts. Awesome, long long legs. She’s at least ten years younger than me—probably 28 or 29, I’d guess (I’m 44, but often told I look ten years younger).

She takes in my outfit. Gives me a funny look. “Can I help you?” she asks.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’ve walked up to wrong half of the duplex.

Then she smiles, half laughing. “Are you the maid we ordered? You’re late, you know?”

She moves partially out of the doorway, inviting me in with a gesture, and I step past her, catching a hint of her perfume. The place is beautiful—did they hire help or are they that good? I’m guessing a pro; the colors and textures just right, giving the place a warm but still modern feel. Several candles enhance the warmth.

On the couch is a blonde, also young. Her hair is nearly white, maybe is white, but doesn’t look dyed. She looks at me, but I can’t meet her eyes, and look away blushing.

The brunette steps in front of me. She motions with her hand as she says, “Spin around. Let’s see what Hatch has sent us.”

Slowly, scared of falling in the heels, I do. When my back is to her, she lifts the skirt, showing the blonde my ass. I’m wearing a thong, but that’s not hiding anything.

“Perhaps you’ll do. Follow me. We’re going to have you start in the kitchen. Can you speak?”

“Yes,” I answer. It’s barely audible. She smiles.

“I think ‘yes, ma’am’ would be much wiser, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” It’s flat odd to say that to someone probably 14 or 15 years younger than me. But somehow, with those words, I’ve agreed to play their game.

The kitchen is half-open to the living room, decorated with the same subtle touch as the rest. She leads me over to the sink. “Start with the dishes. Hatch says you are quite anal, so we have high expectations.” She chuckles as she says this, her fingers running up my leg to the bottom of my ass. Actually, what Hatch usually says is if he has to have an emergency appendectomy at my apartment, my kitchen floor is cleaner than any hospital.

She tells me to take off the gloves, and after I do, she puts them on. She casually reaches over and slides her now-gloved hand around my left breast, inside the outfit. My breath catches in my throat. She cups it, feeling the weight of it (mine are bigger than hers, but hers look nice, her nipples poking through her t-shirt). She plays with my hard nipple, pinching it, then pulls the outfit down and around my breast, exposing it. She does the same to my right breast, as I stand there, frozen, hands on the counter, not daring to move.

She leaves me there with the dishes. There’s a dishwasher not four feet away, but it looks like they’ve saved up a couple days worth of dishes. And not rinsed anything out.

The brunette walks back into the living room, and sits down next to the blonde on the sofa. The sink is right in front of an open window, but I know better than to put my breasts back inside the outfit. I get to work.

I’m almost done when the brunette returns, still wearing my gloves. She runs a fingertip across my nipples, forcing me out of clean mode and back into pussy mode. “You’re taking your sweet time with the dishes. I’ll have to complain to Hatch we’re not getting our money’s worth.” She starts to inspect the dishes drying in the rack, holding them up to the light.

She holds a tall tumbler in front of me, and I’m expecting her to point out spots, but instead her white-gloved finger points to a crack. My heart drops. I suddenly know for certain Hatch’ll be spanking me later.

The brunette tsk-tsk’s with her tongue against her teeth. She walks to the other side of the kitchen, calmly opens a drawer, and the white glove pulls out a wooden spoon--a very solid-looking and long wooden spoon. She walks back to me, spoon smacking her gloved palm, a cute smirk on her pretty, young face.

Without a word, she guides me to the far side of the island, and bends me over it, the granite countertop slightly rough and cool against my nipples. My ass is pointing towards the living room and the blonde. She takes my right hand and extends my arm, curling my fingers around the edge. She does the same to my left, except it can’t reach the other side, so she puts it above my head, to the far edge of the island. I’m way bent over, stretched, with my ass high in the air thanks to the high heels, the vulnerability flooding through me. At least she can’t see my pussy. And how wet I am.

Her hand lifts up the skirt, even though bent over it wasn’t covering anything. Hatch normally makes me ask for my spanking. Beg for it. But she remains scarily silent. The spanking begins.

There’s no warm-up. No taking it easy to start with. The first crack of the spoon is hard and low, right on the crease between my stretched ass and top of my thigh. A loud gasp escapes, and I struggle to not stand up.

The spoon cracks into my ass, over and over. She starts slow, but slowly builds up the speed, hitting harder and harder, until it’s CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK, one right after the other, hard and often on the same spot for four or five in a row. I quickly lose count, and then feel tears fill my eyes. She covers every inch of my ass multiple times. Uses her other hand to spread my cheeks and spank inside my crack, moving down near my pussy. Can she see how wet the tiny bit of fabric is? A tear runs across my nose and onto the counter.

She smacks the fabric of my thong with the spoon, but not very hard, shocking my pussy. Four or five more of those and I could come, but she moves on to the insides of my thighs, spreading my legs. Slow pop-pop-pops up and down my thighs, teasing my pussy as she spanks me. Back to my ass. Slow but very hard—CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.

And then, after ten more slow, hard ones on each cheek, it’s over.

The brunette leaves me bent over the counter, and goes to the fridge. She takes out a green bottle of beer and opens it. Casually, as she takes a drink, she slips her thumb into my mouth, lets me suck on it. She walks around the island and back behind me, and I wonder where the spoon is as I hear her drink more beer, then feel the cold bottle against my ass.

I almost pop up, but manage to hold on. She runs it down between my cheeks, spreading them, then further down, resting them against the thong and the lips of my pussy, the cold crazy there. Involuntarily, I hump against it, wanting it further down against my clit. I hear a little chuckle as the bottle disappears. She stands me up, smiles at me, kisses the tear on below my eye, then kisses me hard and deep, her tongue acting like she owns me (which spins up my pussy even more), one hand squeezing my hurting ass. She feeds me a drink from the bottle.

“That, my dear, was for taking so damn long with the dishes. The glass is Jennifer’s, I’m afraid.” She puts the spoon sideways in my mouth. “I think you should go tell her how reckless and thoughtless you’ve been.”

She’s only fifteen or twenty feet away, I think, and damn well knows about the glass. Hasn’t she watched the spanking? But I of course don’t say any of that. Don’t mention how unfair it is that I’m about to get another spanking on top of my red, red ass. The brunette breathes in my ear, causing a shiver down my spine, and whispers, “On your knees would be wise. You don’t want her angry when she spanks you.” She says this with kindness, then briefly takes the spoon out of my mouth and kisses me again. She points down towards the tile floor.

Someone probably fifteen years younger than me has just spanked my ass bright red, and now I’m supposed to crawl to her lover and ask for another one? It’s hard to believe any of this is really happening. Surreal is the word, but the redness on my ass and the wetness in my pussy feel so so real. Embarrassment makes me blush, but I feel myself slide down to my knees. My pussy, betraying me again, is dripping.

I crawl into the living room. It is a very long crawl. The blonde (Jennifer!) is reading, sitting on the couch, her wonderfully long legs on the coffee table. My head is about level with her ass, peaking out of her shorts.

Jennifer holds up a finger, freezing me in place, as she finishes reading the page she’s on. She reaches over and takes the spoon out of my mouth.

“Yes?” she asks. Her green eyes bore into mine. She has an aura of confidence and power way beyond her years. The word ‘witch’ circles around the back of my mind, and I break eye contact.

Jennifer is beautiful, with the white-blonde hair, tan skin, green green eyes and that amazing and vibrant energy flowing through her. I want her. My pussy wants her.

My words tumble and fall out of my mouth. “I broke your glass. I’m sorry. Ma’am.”

“I see. Are you asking me to punish you for your carelessness?”

This seems very very dangerous. I swallow hard, but I hear myself softly say, “Yes. Ma’am.”

“Let me finish this chapter, then we’ll see to your bottom.” With amazing grace—a dancer or a gymnast at some point, perhaps—her foot slides off the coffee table and towards me. “Christie did my nails before you came over. Do you like the color?” It’s a pretty, deep blue, and looks good, so I nod. I notice the nail polish on the end table. And a wicked looking paddle—leather and curved with holes in it—sitting next to the polish.

She puts her big toe against my lip. Holds it there. I kiss it, feeling my walls crumble before her, knowing I’ll do ‘anything’ for her, too. Her toe slides into my mouth. I suck on it, realizing suddenly that the blonde is in charge, and that the brunette is hers. Is the brunette’s ass smarting under her shorts? Is that what the paddle was for? Did she spank the brunette with the paddle before having her do her nails? I picture the brunette on the floor, on her knees, ass sore and red, painting Jennifer’s nails. I want to touch my clit. I want to be the brunette in the picture.

Using her toe in my mouth, she lowers my head to the floor, then takes her toe out. She sits up higher on the couch, adjusts the book in front of her, and asks me if I’d like to kiss her toes while she finishes the chapter. I answer by closing my eyes and taking another toe into my mouth, wanting to please her so badly it’s embarrassing.

After I’ve kissed, licked and sucked each toe, and started over again, I hear her put the book on the table. Her hand lifts my chin up, forcing me to look back into her eyes. She stares into them, looking for something, then smiles with one raised eyebrow. She pats her lap, and I start to climb across her lap, looking forward to the feel of her thighs against mine. She stops me.

“Are you wearing underwear?”

“Yes. It’s just a thong. Ma’am.”

“Take them off, please.” Something about the ‘please’ is wicked.

I stand up, slide down the thong, and then step out of it. She pats her lap again. I lower myself across it, the touch of her skin electric against mine.

Jennifer runs her hand from the back of my knees up to my ass. She tells me to put my hands behind my back, and the importance of holding them there until she’s finished. Tells me to arch my back, which pushes my ass up and out. Explains that it’s my responsibility to present my ass to her, to keep my back arched. After all, I’ve asked her to punish me, she reminds me.

I know she can see my pussy. How wet it is. How much I’ve liked being bossed around by the brunette. And being spanked.

She pushes the skirt part of the outfit high and away from my ass, then into my hands, so that I’m holding my own skirt up so she can spank me. Her arm goes across my lower back, just below the skirt. Her hand spreads my cheeks, and her fingertips slide down my crack, over my asshole and then down to my pussy. I spread my legs without thinking, wanting her to touch me. She slides a finger into me. I am oh so close.

“I am tempted to have you play with yourself, maybe come a couple of times. Drain some of your energy out, so you feel my spanking more. Be warned, next time, if you are this wet, I will have you come first. You will feel it much more after that, isn’t that right, Christie?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Christie answers. She’s sitting in the chair near the end of the couch—I didn’t hear her move there, and her closeness surprises me.

The finger leaves my pussy. Her hand rubs my ass, squeezing it.

Surprisingly, at least to start with, the spoon doesn’t hurt as much as when Christie was wielding it. Maybe cause I’m not as stretched as I was over the counter. Or maybe she’s being kind.

Slowly, I learn that wasn’t it.

Jennifer takes her time, the cracks slowly building up the heat on my ass, slowly getting harder and harder. The heat builds, slowly roasting my ass, and growing hotter as it covers more and more of my ass. I start to squirm, trying to escape , the smacks now on the edge of me handling them. She stops and explains to me that she’s disappointed with my presentation. My squirming. Taps my ass, the spoon encouraging me to arch up again, hurting, but wanting to please her so badly.

She reminds me that I’ve requested such punishment. Asks me if I plan to disappoint her. I shake my head ‘no’, and arch up even higher, promising to myself I'll keep my ass high and still for her.

When tears start to fill my eyes, one leaking down my face, she stops. Her hands rub my ass, spreading it, teasing my asshole. Her hands feel so good, and I think, “Now that wasn’t too bad.” A deep, dark part of me actually wants more, and is disappointed.

“Christie, would you hand me the paddle please.” It’s more of an order than a question. I hear Christie move to get it as dread spreads through me. Her finger touches my lips, then slides to my clit, and instantly I’m back to being so close to coming.

“Now you are too wet. I don’t believe you’ll feel the paddle properly in this state.” I have no idea what this means, but she has Christie help me off her lap and leads me (crawling) to the other side of the coffee table. She guides me onto my back, the carpet rough against my sore ass, then puts one high-heel on one end of the coffee table, and the other on the other end, spreading my legs obscenely. I start to close them, but Christie smacks the inside of my thigh, and pushes them back apart.

She lies down next to me, her arm casually draped across my breasts, and whispers, “Ask her for permission to play with yourself.”

I look up between my spread legs, trying to ignore how exposed I am and find Jennifer’s eyes. She gives me the tiniest of smiles. The paddle rests on one thigh, waiting for me.

“May I please play with myself, ma’am?”

“And what is going to happen when you are done?”

“You’re going to paddle me.”

“Is that what you deserve?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I notice my hips are rising and falling, my clit humping the air.

“Tell me what you deserve.”

“A hard paddling. Please. Ma’am.”

“And why am I having you masturbate before I paddle you?”

“So I feel it more. So I’m properly punished.” I forget the ‘ma’am’, but Christie whispers it in my ear, and I tag it on, way too late.

“Which hand do you normally use?”

“My right, ma’am.”

“Ok, slide you’re right middle finger all the way into your pussy. Very slowly. You do not have permission to come yet.”

My finger feels so good. I am so wet and hot and tight. I rub my spot on the inside, enjoying the sensation, the rub of my hand against my clit.

“That’s enough. Take it out.” I am so close to ignoring her, to plunging another finger in, to finger-fucking myself until I pass out, but the desire to please her is too much. I slowly, regretfully pull it out.

“Now take that wet finger around back and slide it into your ass. All the way.”

I look up at her, not believing what she’s asking. She moves off the couch, steps over the coffee table and between my legs, then sits on the table. For a better view, I guess.

I swallow, then reach down and navigate my way around the skirt. I look away from her, close my eyes, and push the tip of my wet finger into my ass. I feel my face redden.

“All the way. Wiggle that ass for me. Please me.”

I do. I struggle to push it further and further inside me, wiggling my ass, willing to do anything for her. I feel the first knucle force it's way in, then the second. Wonder what her view looks like.

“Good girl.” This from someone so much younger than me. Why does that turn me on so much? And how did Hatch know it would? “You’ll now have one minute to come. Don’t disappoint me.”

I start to quickly reach my left for my hungry pussy, but Christie stops me. I look at her, then feel Jennifer’s foot press against my clit and the top of my pussy, as her hands secure my legs at each ankle.

“Hump my foot, you bad girl.”

Her foot feels very good. Legs spread so wide, feet propped up in my heels emphasizing how wide my legs are, my pussy completely exposed to her, like everything thing else, I do what she tells me and start to thrust up against her.

Christie kisses me, her fingers spinning around my nipples, then pinching them. She lowers her head to my right nipple, taking it in her mouth and rolling it with her tongue against her teeth.

“You’re very wet. You’ll have to clean up when you’re done.”

Christie takes my other breast into her mouth, sucking in as much as she can, her tongue all over my hard, hard nipple. She bites it, harder and harder, as she slides two fingers into my mouth.

“Pump that finger in your ass. Fuck it for me.”

Noisily, with a long, low moan, my hips rising and falling faster and faster, her foot pressing harder into me, threatening the entrance, I come, the white light spreading up from my center and then exploding out of me. Crazy, wicked, wild and wonderful, the release is huge and overwhelming. I clench my legs closed, but Jennifer’s hands stop them, then pushes me wide wide again, her foot showing no mercy, now humping me. I come down, my clit super sensitive, but still she doesn’t stop. I try to move away, but Christie has me, her arm on top of my chest. She laughs and bites my nipple again. Another wave rolls through, this one too much, the light blinding, my body shuddering against her foot, and I disappear into it.

I come to on my side, Christie leaning against my back, remembering where I am. Whose I am. I look over and see her still sitting on the coffee table, one fabulous leg draped over the other. Her eyes point to her foot. I close my eyes, trying to resist her, resist her pushing through and breaking down everything inside me, but Christie helps me to sit up and I lean over as she slides her toe into my mouth. I taste myself. I shudder, a spasm rippling through my pussy, thinking that if her foot made me come like that, what her fingers would do, or—another shudder—her tongue.

Jennifer takes her toe out, then extends it to Christie. She licks Jennifer’s toe, then down to the ball of her foot, taking her time and enjoying it. I slide back down on my back into a lost puddle of nerves. When she’s satisfied, Jennifer takes back her foot, and nods with her head to the left.

Christie takes me hand and leads me into the bathroom. All my mind can think of is the paddle sitting on the couch, waiting for me. And Jennifer being right—I’m now limp as a noodle, the soreness of my ass sinking in.

And Hatch and his belt will be waiting at home, too.