Chapter 3: The Aftermath
I woke up in the middle of the night. Fragments of a dream, or maybe several dreams, were still floating through my head. In the scene which I was able to recall most clearly, I was naked, bending over the table in Roger's kitchen. Fiona was standing behind me, not wearing any top or bra. She was slapping my bottom! Her beautiful breasts swayed gently, accompanying the movement of her hand.
There were men watching - a different man in each version of the dream. I remembered seeing Roger. He stood there in his naked glory, his cock ready for action, watching as Fiona's hand castigated my bottom. In another version, the spectator was my father. He was fully dressed, but the bulge in his trousers betrayed how much watching my punishment excited him. The same could be said for the third man, whose face I didn't recognize. He was roughly the same age as my father, so I assumed that it had to be Fiona's uncle-father.
I put my hand between my legs just to confirm what I had already suspected. This had been a wet dream! The image of me getting spanked, naked, with Roger, my own father and a stranger watching had turned me on! What on earth was happening to me?
I had left the North Tower shortly after Fiona had terminated our conversation so abruptly, but I had no recollection of how I actually left. I suppose I must have taken one of the lifts which had served earlier as the imaginary backdrop for our fantasies about what might happen inside a stuck lift.
I had made my way home, but I was unable to tell whether I had taken the bus or the underground. I had eaten something, but I couldn't say what it was or what it tasted like. Then I had joined my father in the living room to watch the Nine o'clock News. I had sat there, my eyes fixed on the television screen throughout the programme, but now I couldn't remember a single news item which had been covered. My mind had been on other things. I realized that I must have come across like a sleep-walker.
I had retired to my room as soon as the news programme was finished, telling my father that I wanted to get an early night. But I hadn't managed to fall asleep for a long time. My mind kept returning to Fiona, the things she had said, and how she had said them; her smile, the defiant tone of her voice when she talked about her passion for her 'Uncle Sid'. The image of her bare breasts kept returning, and I remembered how I had gotten irritated about that. 'Alright, her breasts are more beautiful than mine. Maybe, on the whole, she's more attractive than I am. But there's no need to rub it in,' I had told myself.
I must have drifted off to sleep eventually, but now I was wide awake again, trying to make sense of my dream. Why did Fiona's revelations leave me in this state of utter confusion? True, she had talked about things which I had so far only known from hearsay. I didn't know anybody who would actually do these things. Fiona's story had turned my knowledge of these practices much more immediate, much closer to home. Too close for comfort, it seemed. How else could I explain the impact her story had on me?
I knew that if I had seen Roger that evening, I would have spilt the beans. I would have told him every little detail of what Fiona had confided in me. But Roger was somewhere up in Scotland, installing video surveillance equipment for a customer, as part of a major contract.
My mind went back to our farewell, only a few days ago.
That trip to Scotland had come unexpectedly. The company Roger worked for had submitted a bid for a contract to supply and install a complete security system in all branches of a major Scottish bank. The bank's managers had indicated that they were willing to accept the proposal, provided that the equipment could be installed before the end of the current month. Roger had been given the assignment to put together a team of dedicated professionals who could accomplish the task in record time.
Roger had phoned me with the news, saying that he would be catching a plane to Aberdeen in a few hours' time. But he wanted to see me before he left. Would I mind coming to meet him at his office?
For me, such a question was equivalent to an order to drop everything and get myself over to his office as soon as possible.
Roger hugged and kissed me and thanked me for having come. Then he stepped back a little, looked me up and down, and said, "You know, we've never done it in my office."
My heart almost missed a beat. He wanted to make love to me, here, amidst the hustle and bustle of people discussing the final preparations for a trip and celebrating their biggest ever contract win!
I was about to remind him that he had already fucked me once in this very room, entering me from behind as I bent over his desk, when he added, "During working hours."
That other time had been on a Saturday, when we stopped briefly at Roger's office to pick up a document he needed. As soon as we had arrived in his office he had told me with his usual "You know, we've never done it ... " that he wasn't going to miss this opportunity to add another entry to the long list of places, circumstances and positions in which he had made love to me.
But now I had come to his office for the first time during working hours. And it was clear from his voice that he was determined to carry out his crazy idea.
But how could he? The place was as busy as a bee hive in summer! During the short time I had been there, the phone had rung several times, a number of people had come into the office to ask for Roger's signature. Was he thinking of fucking me in front of all these people?
"Step behind this curtain and take off your clothes," Roger instructed me.
The curtain would shield me from the eyes of anyone entering Roger's office. But on the other side of the curtain was a huge floor-to-ceiling window. There were two other buildings, one on either side of the one in which Roger's office was located. The three buildings formed the shape of the letter U. Anybody looking out of a window in one of the two lateral buildings would be able to see me standing there without a stitch on. The tinted glass would go some way towards concealing my features, but there wouldn't be any doubt that a naked woman was standing there, pressing her bottom against the plate glass.
But there couldn't be any discussion. Roger wanted it.
I went behind the curtain, made sure it was closed all the way, and got undressed. I don't think my heart had ever beaten as loud as it did at that moment. And I could feel that other sensation which usually preceded Roger making love to me: my pussy was leaking like a rusty water tank.
Roger called his secretary. I held my breath, tried not to do anything which might make the curtain move.
Roger instructed his secretary, "I need a few minutes of privacy, Martha. Hold all my calls and don't let anybody walk through this door. Understood?"
"Yes, Roger, understood. Shall I open the curtain a little? It's quite dark in here."
I could hear her walk towards the curtain, ready to carry out what she had suggested.
"No thanks, Martha. I like it this way. That will be all for the moment."
But Martha didn't leave straight away. "What happened to the young lady who came to visit you?" she wanted to know.
"Oh, she stepped out onto the balcony to catch some fresh air."
I was relieved when I heard the door close. I could breath again. But my relief didn't last long. Within less than half a minute the door opened again.
"Balcony? What balcony? Your office doesn't have any balcony."
"It was a joke, Martha. A joke."
"I should have known. You're always pulling my leg."
Roger opened the curtain a little to check that I was ready. It felt so good when he embraced and kissed me. Any fear that we might be discovered was gone.
"This is going to be a new experience for both of us," he said.
Roger told me to stand in the middle of the window, where the two halves of the curtain met, facing the glass and sticking my bottom out. He would stay on the other side of the curtain, opening it just enough for him to stick his cock through.
I started to moan as his hard rod slid into my slippery pussy. As always, the sensation when he pushed deeper inside me was fantastic. It felt almost unbearably good. I put one hand into my mouth and bit on my knuckles to keep the noise down. But I did not manage to stay completely quiet. I wondered if people in the nearby offices could hear my stifled moans.
Roger drove his cock inside me and I pushed my bottom back against him to allow him to enter me deeper. Roger increased the speed and the strength of his thrusts. I could see people behind the windows of the other two buildings, but it seemed than none of them noticed me, as Roger's thrusts pressed my entire body against the tinted glass.
After a few minutes, Roger came and filled my pussy with his wonderful hot cum. I moaned and came in sympathy. It was the best I could expect under the circumstances. But Roger knew that it wasn't enough to put out the flames he had lit. He kissed and hugged me and told me to get dressed.
Before I could even put on my knickers he buzzed his secretary and told her that he was available again. There must have been a queue of people waiting outside. They all poured inside, wanting to know details about their involvement in the project, or asking for his signature on their travel advance forms.
I just hoped that nobody would pay attention to the movements behind the curtain as I put on my clothes and tried to put my hair in order as best I could. When the movement in Roger's office had ebbed down I stepped out of my hiding place.
Roger kissed me as he led me to the door. "I'll call you. I'll think of something special for when I get back."
Something special! That promise made my heart beat faster. I was sure Roger was already planning an elaborate celebration which would inevitably end in a marathon session of wild sex.
I didn't dare to look at Martha, Roger's secretary, but I was sure that her mouth stood wide open as she saw me emerge from Roger's office. I could feel her eyes on my back as I walked towards the exit, the mixture of Roger's cum and my own juices running slowly down my legs.
Sex with Roger was like this. It was always a completely new experience. I don't think there has ever been anything which could be called a 'routine fuck', a situation where we made love just out of habit or because we didn't have anything else to do.
There were two distinct forms to our lovemaking. On one hand, there were the impromptu fucks like the one which I have just described, which usually started because we would find ourselves in a situation in which we had never before made love.
On the other hand, there were set pieces, elaborate celebrations of our passion, which Roger prepared with great attention to detail. Like a theatre director he would prepare the stage, the lighting, the background music, and me, his main actress, for a memorable performance.
The 'something special' he had promised me would be such an occasion. I found it difficult to control my impatience, but I knew it would be a pleasure worth waiting for.
I started to wonder whether the incident which had me lying naked on his kitchen table while he handed an unexpected visitor some material on optical sensors hadn't been planned exactly that way.
Roger would be capable of setting this up. He would let me believe that I was in danger of being discovered, because he knew that this kind of situation was bound to leave me steaming with excitement.
Should I make my own contribution to the upcoming commemoration by talking to Roger about my newly-found interest in spanking? Should I suggest to make my first ever spanking part of the celebration? It seemed an excellent idea, a worthy demonstration of my feelings towards Roger - but something held me back.
In a way, I was glad that Roger wasn't around. Who knows what his reaction might have been. What if he took a liking to this idea of spanking and decided that from now on he was going to give me a good thrashing whenever I misbehaved?
I trust Roger. I just wasn't sure that I trusted him enough to give him ideas about spanking my bottom. It would take all my willpower not to talk about that subject with him when he returned, or when he called. Seeing that it had taken over my mind, it would be nearly impossible to avoid it.
But what if it hurt? What if I didn't get as aroused by it as Fiona seemed to? Once Roger had included spanking my bottom into the repertory of things he did to me, he wouldn't drop it so easily. I had to find out first if I could take it. I needed to find someone who'd spank me on a trial basis - give me a free sample spanking without obligations, so to speak.
'You've gone irretrievably out of your mind, Elizabeth Jane,' I scolded myself. 'Have you lost your marbles? As if it weren't enough that you let this guy fuck you whenever, wherever and however he wants, now you want to let him thrash your bottom too!
'It hurts! It's meant to hurt! Parents do it because they expect that the pain will make their little monsters think twice before they misbehave again. Admittedly, it's a somewhat antiquated concept of education, but at least that's the idea. There's no joy in having one's bottom whacked. Only people with defective brain cells expect to feel pleasure when they're spanked.'
'Hmm, that's true too.' The hand between my legs which had been performing gentle up-and-down movements, and created a pleasant sensation in the process, stopped moving. Maybe I would be better off if I filed the whole story under 'strange and unusual things which happened to me' and got on with my own life.
After all, what did I have to do with Fiona's wish to get thrashed and then abused by her own father? We weren't even close friends! I had to admit, though, that that conversation during the blackout, our exchange of until then closely-guarded secrets, had brought us closer. But there was no reason why I should let her problems take over my life.
The following day, it almost seemed that I had managed to file and forget Fiona's revelations. I worked very hard, trying to make up for the time lost during the blackout. I even managed to remember my idea for the New Age artist's home page.
Fiona, too, was kept busy as everybody tried to get back on schedule. We met only briefly, during our lunch break. Other colleagues were sharing our table and neither of us mentioned the conversation of the day before. But somehow I felt that even saying 'Hi' to Fiona had taken on a different quality from before.
However, as soon as I left work, my thoughts returned to the subject I had intended to file and forget. 'Why can't I do it myself?' I asked as I was squeezed like a sardine in an overcrowded underground train on my way home. Couldn't I just whack my bottom as hard as I could manage, to find out how much it hurts?
Sure, I would be missing many important aspects of a real spanking. The element of submission, of handing over control to someone else, for example. I knew what that was like from my relationship with Roger. That was it! Couldn't I just imagine that Roger had ordered me to spank myself and was watching me from somewhere where I couldn't see him? That would also provide the affective energy which Fiona obviously felt towards her father-uncle.
As soon as I got to my room I started looking for a suitable arrangement. There was a backless chair, a kind of stool, which would have to play the role of my punisher's knee. I put it in front of the large mirror. Then I took off my clothes and bent over the stool. I realized that it would be very difficult to watch and slap myself at the same time. I tried a number of different positions, but there didn't seem to be an ideal angle for what I had in mind.
In the end, I just took a deep breath and smacked my bottom.
All I could tell was that it made a very loud noise. I wondered whether my father downstairs had heard it, and if so, whether he could tell what the source of the noise was.
I tried again, harder. I almost twisted my arm out of joint in an effort to put more power behind the whack. There was also a risk that I'd slide off the stool and land unceremoniously on the floor.
I gave myself another whack. There was no pleasure, nor did I feel much pain. This was obviously not the way to do it. It had to be someone else. But who?
My thoughts drifted towards my dad.
No chance! The idea of physical punishment was diametrically opposed to everything my father stood for. I couldn't imagine him spanking my bottom to punish me. But maybe, if I asked for it as a special favour?
The previous day, when I had listened to Fiona talk about her Uncle Sid, it had occurred to me how many points we had in common, even though our domestic setups were completely different. I, too, have lost my mother when I was very young. But I still have some vague memories of her. I even own some photographs showing the three of us: my mum, my dad and me.
My mother didn't die in an accident. In the words of my dad, it was 'a stupid illness which could have been easily treated if it had been detected in time' which took her away from us. My father had been madly in love with my mother, probably as much as Fiona's Uncle Sid had been with her mother. My father decided to preserve my mother's memory by not getting married again. Nor did he bring any other female companion into the house.
This decision - an egoistic indulgence, as he called it - deprived me of a feminine presence in the house, someone who could give me guidance in 'girlie' matters. My dad considered himself responsible for this gap and decided that he would do his best to make up for it.
My dad told me everything about sex and about becoming a woman, long before there were the first signs of any change in my body. And he didn't do it in the dour manner of a schoolteacher who only talks about this kind of thing because it's part of the curriculum. No, for him becoming and being a woman was a joyful experience, one of the great mysteries of life. And he wanted me to know how lucky I was to be a member of the 'beautiful sex'.
My father's explanations were in marked contrast to the 'sex education' lessons I would have much later in school. Those seemed to be mainly about the unpleasant aspects of being a woman, about the risks and dangers of sex.
My dad also talked to me about masturbation a long time before I felt any urge to stimulate myself. He talked about the techniques, the benefits, and also a little about the risks. I still remember how surprised the girls in my class were when they heard me talk about the subject so matter-of-factly.
A number of them had gathered around in a circle and were exchanging stories, amidst gasps and giggles, about the sensations they had experienced while touching themselves 'down there'. I shocked them by saying, with the authority of an expert, "Oh, you mean masturbation. My dad told me all about it." I left them open-mouthed as I told them everything I knew about the subject, both what my dad had told me and the results of my own experiments.
They hadn't expected me to know so much about a 'naughty' subject like that. My approach to most things was more serious, more mature than theirs. I wasn't interested in the superficial conversations about film stars and other celebrities they engaged in. I didn't go for the gossip about who had been seen with whom, who was splitting up and who was about to get together again. They had taken my lack of interest in these subjects as a sign of prudishness and had given me the nickname 'Plain Jane'. Now they had found out that things weren't as they had imagined them to be.
Contrary to Fiona's uncle-father, my dad had never established any rules. He never told me what to do. I didn't have to be home at a set time - it was up to me to figure out how much sleep I needed to function in the morning. The only thing he asked was that I let him know when I decided to spend the night somewhere else. That way he'd know that my absence was a scheduled event and he didn't need to worry. And, as there were no rules, the question of punishment never arose.
I knew that I could talk to my father about any subject, absolutely everything. He would listen to me, ask a few questions to make sure he understood what was afflicting me, and then he would lay out all the possible answers in front of me. He would make sure that his comments included a feminine point of view - because he had decided to be my father and my mother at the same time.
But, and this could be very frustrating at times, he never expressed any preference or gave me any guidance. He said, he didn't want to interfere in my decision making process, just because he was my father. His closing comments usually were, "These are the options and the pros and cons. The decision is yours."
It's not as if my father has no convictions, that he is constantly sitting on the fence. No, he has firm views on most subjects, and I've often heard him express them in conversations with others. But as far as I was concerned, he wanted me to form my own opinion.
When I wanted to know what was the right thing to do, what his choice would be if he were in my place, he would say. "There is no objective best course of action. A factor which one person considers an unacceptable risk might be the reason why another person decides to chose this option, because that other person wants some excitement and enjoys taking risks. You are the one who'll have to live with the consequences. You need to know where your preferences lie and how much risk you're willing to take."
Not being told what to do, and having to decide by myself based on my own criteria made me mature much earlier than the other girls I know. It made me reach decisions on a rational basis, just like adults do. At least that's what I used to think. Now that I'm (almost) an adult myself, I know that, on the whole, decisions made by adults are just as irrational as those made by little children.
I reacted to the vacuum created by this lack of guidance in two ways. One, I became very opinionated about just about everything. If my father didn't want to tell me what was right and what was wrong, I decided that I knew, and I didn't hesitate to tell everybody how I felt about things.
The second reaction - which may sound like it's contradicting the first one - was that I developed a desire to be told what to do. I follow instructions by teachers or my boss without hesitation. That's probably also why I feel this deep passion for Roger and why I follow all his suggestions so obediently. Roger does something which my father never did: he gives me orders.
My father's stance didn't even change when I asked him about smoking cannabis. I had expected that his work in a rehabilitation centre for young addicts would make him come down strongly against the use of any kind of drug, but he kept his answer neutral. As usual he covered all aspects of the question, both the negative consequences and the liberating, mind-expanding effect which is ascribed to drug-usage. And, as usual, he ended his deliberations with the conclusion, "The choice is yours."
I knew that if I wanted to get something useful out of a conversation with my dad, I would have to prepare my questions carefully. I had to avoid anything which would allow him to drift off into a general discourse about spanking, the whys and wherefores, and a variety of opinions which other people held about the subject. I wanted my dad to tell me what he thought about it and what I should do to satisfy my curiosity.
"Hi, Dad, can I talk to you about something?"
"Sure. I was wondering when you'd finally get around to asking me."
"How come? How did you know I wanted to ask you something?"
"Well, yesterday you were acting like a zombie from outer space. So I knew there was something on your mind."
I felt like telling him that zombies don't come from outer space but from the world beyond, but that wasn't important at the moment.
"It's about physical punishment. Spanking to be precise."
"Yes?"
"I've got this colleague who gets spanked once a week by her uncle who's really her father."
"What is he, her uncle or her father? He can't be both. At least not as far as I know."
I realized that I was in danger of confusing matters and getting off the subject I wanted to ask about.
"He's her uncle. Her father died when she was still very young. Anyway, he spanks her once a week to punish her for everything she's done wrong during the past week."
"She can go to the police and file a complaint. Or better still, see a family counsellor. He - or more likely it will be a woman - will hear all the parties involved, advise them on the legal situation and then suggest a solution which all can agree to. I've got the number right here."
My dad was about to get up to find the phone number in his agenda.
"No, that's not the problem," I stopped him in his tracks. "She likes it."
"Hmm," my dad said, settling down again. "Then what's the problem?"
I decided to go for the jugular. "Why have you never spanked me?"
My question took him by surprise. He hesitated for a moment. "You mean, why did I never ...?"
"Yes. Why did you never whack my bottom with your bare hand?"
I didn't want to give him a chance to recover his usual professorial stance.
"But ... But I love you, Elizabeth Jane."
"So does my friend's uncle. He loves his niece. But he spanks her every week. And she thinks it has helped her become a better person."
"Ah, yes, but that's a minority view. On the whole, spanking is nowadays frowned upon, considered ineffectual, and not consistent with the respect we should feel for fellow human beings."
Damn! Dad was off again on his 'some think this, others think that' routine. If I let him continue along this route, it would only be a question of time when he would arrive at the 'the choice is yours' conclusion.
I cut him off in mid sentence. "I didn't ask about other people's opinions. I want to know why you never spanked me."
"I don't think your mother would approve of it. And, quite frankly, I never expected that you would ask to be spanked."
Success! I had him where I wanted him. Now I only had to state my request with a firm voice and I would know what it feels like. But that would mean that I had to take off my jeans and knickers right in front of my father. That wasn't right, was it? I didn't have any incestuous desires towards my father like Fiona did. How could I justify exposing myself to him? I needed some time to think about the implications of the next step.
"Not now, I'll think about it. I just wanted to know how you feel about the subject."
I got up and left my father on his own, wondering what on earth I was after.
When I arrived in my room I realized that the thought of my dad spanking my bare bottom had indeed turned me on. I could feel the wetness seep through my knickers. I took off my clothes and put everything my dad had taught me about masturbation into practice.
I felt that I had made a huge step forward. I only needed to ask my dad nicely and he would spank my bottom. The problem of not wanting to expose myself to his eyes was easily solved. I would wear a short nightgown, just like Fiona's 'punishment shirt'. I would bend over a table or a desk and lift the back of the gown. All that would be exposed to my father's eyes and hands would be my bottom. There was nothing indecent about that, was there?
Although this particular problem was resolved, there were still many open questions which kept tormenting me. My father had never spanked anybody in his life. Could I just assume that he would know instinctively how to do it? What if he didn't do it right and I arrived at the wrong conclusion because of that?
Although my dad had agreed to satisfy my desire for a spanking, he didn't consider it a punishment for something I did. Would he let me feel the full force of his hand, like Fiona's uncle probably did, or would he go easy on me?
I would have to give my dad detailed instructions on how to do it so that it would be as close as possible to a real punishment spanking. But I had no experience in that matter. How could I possibly instruct him?
The answer was clear. I had to talk to Fiona to find out more details.