G's Short Fun Flash

The following is a story written for me by my online friend who would like to be known only as "G". Each part was sent to me in an email. The rules were that I was only allowed to read the emails while at work, but could imagine them feverishly from memory in bed after I got home (which I did!).

I was pestering G about imagining a scenario where we would meet. I was encouraging her to bring her husband along to use me however she saw fit. This was the result.

I pleasured myself several times to the installments. I was, however, indiscreet after having received the first installment, and got caught masturbating at home by my husband and received a spanking... You can read about that episode (and more about G in my blog in Wife Spanked By Husband for being Naughty). I told G about it, and she incorporated the incident right back into her story.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did 😉

---

Short Fun Flash (Part 1 of 5)

Julie Anne Delmar! If you’re craving a severe whipping, continuing to offer yourself to (or for) my husband is an excellent way to achieve that particular goal!

I have decided that he will not get to see you, not at first. Mu poor baby! Just starting to getting used to not getting what he wants, when he wants it. I’ve given him a few days off (oops, maybe longer, time slips away) to make sure he’s in peak condition, desire-wise. And he hasn’t been able to do anything about it since he knows better than to not be able to respond fully when I expect him to!

So you are on your back lying on the bed, but dressed, blouse and skirt, like me, except that I am sitting. He is standing, not exactly across the room, but against the wall. Shall we have his pants down, or maybe off? I know your recommendation, you shameless hussy, but you do have a point, he will be much more comfortable, I’m sure he’s finding those slacks quite confining right about now. So, down but not off, so silly. Sorry, sweetie, are the tails of his shirt obscuring your view? Pity.

I start at the very top, placing your near wrist over your head, untucking your blouse from your skirt, undoing a few buttons at the bottom, sliding my hand up under it. It glides its way up your tummy and ribs to your breast, pushing your bra up as I cup it, but only in passing. I want my fingertips all over you, under your arm and the soft skin on the underside of your upper arm, above and then between your breasts, pushing your bra up on the near side as well. Undoing a couple more buttons, your firm nipples obvious under the fabric, okay, well, J can see that. You might not be paying attention but I notice that he may be holding his breath and, like your blouse, his shirttails do little to hide his interest.

I stroke and knead your breast, gently, then pet you, passing over it almost casually, but always coming back to it. In fact, your near breast aches for similar attention, at least at the moment it does. Last two buttons and I focus on your breast in earnest, maybe he can see it, though not the nipple, which I have between my thumb and the edge of my first finger, rolling, then pressing, squeezing. You look at me beseechingly and squirm, trying to behave, trying to hold still. A rhythmic squeezing, a bit too hard, but never pinching. Your nostrils flare, your breaths deepen, your eyes alternately beg and drift, your hips writhe. The ball of my thumb, the joint of my finger, a little firmer, carefully controlled, our eyes locked. I don’t need to look at J to know he can see the tip of your nipple and that he watches it with laser focus. I intend to ask him about it specifically, but later.

I stop, move down and across, below your near breast. Your arched back thrusts your breasts upward and J can finally see the whole breast he’s been watching so intently, in the moment before I draw your blouse back over your hardened nipple as it peaks the material. Now your near breast, you know what to expect and take a moment trying to relax and breathe before I begin but I give you little time. My thumb is on the outside now, bending your nipple toward the center, I draw my face closer, focusing on you. I expect that all my husband can see is the outline of my hand beneath your blouse, maybe the mound of your breast, and, of course, your sore firm covered nipple on the other side, but that is not my concern, I am testing, watching, aureole, middle, tip, sensitive of course but how far down, how sensitive? Little gasps go up your nose, still without my fingernails, no pinch, just pressure, plenty in reserve but still your eyes shine as much with tears as with desire. When I stop you pant with relief and anticipation, your arms shake, not knowing where they belong, which is: anywhere.

I look at J, he hasn’t embarrassed himself, his hands on his head to resist his desire. This raises his shirt and, more clearly than ever, he has been seeing something he’s not allowed to see which at the moment are your twin tormented peaks. I slide down, off the bed, slide my arms up under your skirt, thumbs under your panties from the bottom, fingertips from the top, drawing them down off your hips thighs knees calves ankles feet, remove them and drop them on the floor next to me at the foot of the bed.

Short Fun Flash (Part 2 of 5)

I return to the bed sitting near your calves, my technique much the same as before, my hand gliding upward tingling in the feel of your so-soft thighs, and their fronts, and backs, gliding over and tickling behind your knees, up to your hips and across, and down, and everywhere except your waiting, aching center. My other hand untucks your blouse at the side, working its way under it and you until the heel of my hand is in the small of your back.

I reach down and grasp your ankle, raise it, bending your knee, repositioning you. You comply, anticipating, overreact, something I’ll teach you not to do. Your skirt rides up, exposing more thigh, though not to J, I’m blocking his view. Instead he watches the movement of my hand under your skirt and, of course, your breasts. You’re impatient and writhe, trying to direct my touch, though you cannot. I slide my hand under your near cheek, carelessly letting my thumb graze your sensitive bottom and your head tips back. I cup and squeeze at the base, near the center, where you’ll soon be spanked. And then across, tunneling under your far cheek, letting it fill my hand, not quite the same touch, asymmetrical just as spankings so often are. But still low, centered, resolute, forceful. But not now, not yet.

And your core. Your hungry, waiting core. The tip of my thumb, the tips of my fingers, touching. Not stroking, not rubbing. Like a spider walking over you, a touch here, and here, and here and here and here. Raising your skirt. From another vantage point J could see straight up between your open thighs, see this part of Julie like a picture, this part that swells and opens and weeps, separate from Julie, the person, the person who desires these touches, who blushes at their intimate intrusion, who craves the discipline that is to come. But that vantage point is not where he’s standing, desperately trying to be good, thinking he has earned enough punishment already, believing he controls, or at least influences, these things.

I withdraw my hands to push your skirt up over your hips, baring you below. Now all of you is visible, or would be, were I not covering your center with my hand. Not just covering, as each finger presses its length in turn, as if I was playing a musical instrument, as if each of your moans and sighs had an assigned location, a specific fingering, as it were. My thumb wavers, seeking a reaction. You know it is all a tease but you throw yourself into it, your back arched, your head back, your blouse fallen off of your breasts (they’ll be slapped for that in a moment), your feet seeking purchase so that you can control, direct the touches you’re feeling. Another half, full minute, and I stop abruptly, slap each breast in turn (as promised), turning you over and away from J’s unwavering stare.

I stand, collect the paddle and slipper, cross the foot of the bed and seat myself against your pale bare bottom.

Short Fun Flash (Part 3 of 5)

I open my blouse (you can’t have all the fun), it’s almost sheer and doing an imperfect job of concealing my braless breasts anyway. I tuck it into my skirt behind me before pulling you over my lap. In front of me, not too close, is a large mirror and I can watch J watching us in it. I can also make sure your bottom (and more!) is not pointed too directly at it, or, indirectly, him. Your skirt is around your hips and I finish the job of removing your blouse and bra before tucking your right hand underneath you like you want to do when you’re being naughty. I draw your left hand across behind my back and place it on my left hip.

When you look up you’re facing J but the bedclothes hide your breasts. He can see the side of your bottom to my right and in the mirror, seeming far away, most of your right cheek, a tantalizing amount but just short of satisfying. He leans slightly from side to side, thinking himself discreet, but knows better than to move. His poor overfull testicles hang heavy beneath his achingly hard salute that I know is directed more to you than me (you hussy!).

Even so I start lightly, with my hand, low enough to cup your cheek, quickly spanking harder, enough to make my hand sting, soon you’ll need the hairbrush but not quite yet. While you can still consider other things you try to maneuver your bottom to point more directly at the mirror, so that J can admire everything your blog boys do. I too am aware of this, having much the same perspective he does, and each time you succeed for a moment I drag you back, spanking harder each time. Once, twice, then I pick up the hairbrush.

The same swats, low, either side or crossing the center, very hard to make you behave. Julie, tell J why you’re being spanked.

“I was caught masturbating,” you confess. He shares your sense of embarrassment, trying to imagine such a thing, blushing and for once lowering his eyes. Briefly. How. Tell him how.

“Ow ow ohhhhh I just opened my eyes and David was standing right there,” you gasp.

I’m sparing your thighs so far. You arch up in protest, revealing your breasts, and I push you back down onto the bed, what you’re doing with your hand underneath is your business. Then almost without breaking rhythm I switch to the slipper and its rubber sole burns into your thigh with surprising sting. Not too bad at first, but five really lights a fire before I move to a new location. As you kick I find your inner thigh, not five at a time but quickly accumulating just the same, your legs are kicking and J can see… no wait, he can’t… no yes… almost… and no again.

When your little show is too successful I set down the slipper for a moment, smacking you with my hand, directly. You are soft and wet and howl but are grateful that I don't use the bristle side of the hairbrush. Then I pick up the slipper again.

I pin down your left leg, the one against me, with my foot, and spank even lower, not afraid to use the harmless slipper. With one leg pinned your kicks are even more revealing and I’m slower to correct you when you arch your back, still I am mostly managing what is seen and not seen.

Then back to the hairbrush low hard fast long and, finally, done.

I slide you back onto the bed, get up and get you a towel to wrap yourself in and turn to my naughty bursting boy.

Short Flash Fun (Part 4 of 5)

Poor J! Day after day frustrated but unable to do anything about it, needing to be responsive for every one of the frequent checks I made (he was) but was he satisfied? (he wasn’t, ever). And now, glimpses, all these glimpses, his manhood bobbing and twitching and begging for release while finding nothing but more denial! I motion him to the bed.

“Switch places, you two.” I would drag him by his “handle” but I’m afraid that my hand on his handle would make it a handle no more.

You move to the spot he has just vacated and I lay him on his back on the bed, your eyes fixed on his package, which is straining. “Do something about that,” I say and he looks at me, eyes pleading. He’s only recently accustomed to post-peak spankings (and has decided that he doesn’t like them) and not at all used to abusing himself in my presence. For some reason it embarrasses him deeply (probably my disapproval and censure, along with the rest of civilized society, particularly the female contingent) though he’s never had a problem with the countless times I’ve done it for him. “Wait,” I delay him just as he takes himself in hand. I have a ruler and pick it up, grab his wrist and bring it down sharply on his protruding head. He gives a strangled squeal and whimper and as his erection shivers and shudders you look on, amused.

“Now hurry,” I demand, brandishing the ruler, “I’m going to have to punish you for your peeping, don’t act like you didn’t.” He’s barely begun when I toss the ruler down, having already detected a final, mighty twitch. “Wait!” I demand as I quickly slap his hands away, his hips rising in frustration. I feel sympathy battle duty, but duty stands tall.

“What a mess,” I admonish him as he sprays and pumps aimlessly, soiling his crisp but wrinkled shirttails while leaving plenty running down off of his belly. “I thought I taught you better. Well, I will.” I’ve straddled one strong thigh and immediately begin running my nails over his deflating arousal, making him squirm furiously while you laugh lightly and I ignore his pleading look, his mouth making a silent “No!”.

“Hands on your head!” I order and both of you respond. In his case it helps him bear the sensations I’m giving him as I extend my light scratching. In your case the towel slides to the floor. His stare and my glare let you know you’ve earned another spanking (your third) but you’re not as adverse to post-climax punishments as he is. Is his excitement returning already? It had better not be! I pick up the ruler again. Hold, I command, and with sad puppy eyes he obeys, Smack! Then the hairbrush, he looks truly frightened by the possibilities but all I do is scrub him with the bristles. Ungratefully he whines loudly and again you laugh. Finally a few pinches, starting behind his scrotum (well behind) and moving quickly along, again around the rim and lastly the eye, I set my fingernails against one another (you know how I do, you hate it, I know) and slide them across one another, producing small tears and even smaller dark purple-black “reminders.”

Finally he can go over my knee.

Short Flash Fun (Part 5 of now 6)

I position myself as I did before, so that he’s facing you and you can, if you want, look across the room to the mirror, though I try to keep the angle from being too rude. No hand, no slipper, I start hard and fast, partly in response to feeling him rise (briefly, very briefly) against my thigh. I work his muscular buttocks low and toward the center for a good two minutes before spreading out the swats to give this part of him something of a break. He takes awhile to get a good spanking so I have to follow a plan. Like you, his head comes up in reaction to the spanks and his face bobs up and down until I pull his arms out from under him, then he’s resting on his chin, looking at you. With a few more scolds I go back to his spanking area and work it again.

As I said, he’s unaccustomed to post-peak punishment (or witnesses) and is responding babyishly, as I remind him. In this case, however, his sins are all the more egregious, with peeping, wanking, and going off in direct defiance of my command. His thighs are muscular and I know no one will see them so I don’t worry like I do with you. The hairbrush rains spanks on their backs halfway to his knees and from his reaction this is even more effective than on his bottom, though when I return to its base, that’s effective too.

Meanwhile you, bolder than he was, have edged around to get the view you want and I haven’t objected. Not, at least, until I glance in the mirror and see that your hand has crept up under the bottom of your towel! I pause in my work and our eyes meet. I thought I had been providing a fierce, even severe (though effective!) demonstration but clearly you’re not impressed.

Pinning his leg as I did yours I manage plenty on the insides. J is thrashing his head from side to side, his wails muffled by the sheets in front of his mouth. Changing hands I manage a good number along the sides of the cleft of his cheeks and spots on the insides of his thighs I couldn’t reach with my right hand, though doing it “over the top” makes me go slower.

When I stop at last he is completely chastised and should be sliding down between my legs to service me. Instead I help him to his feet by his ear and lead him to the bathroom using a grip on his testicles, which works very well and avoids protests. I close the door behind him and turn to you.

Two women in desperate need, one with a towel pooled at her feet, face each other.

The Epic Epilog. Part 6, approved for home use

The two of us, well-satisfied if momentarily exhausted, giggle and sigh. J has been in the bathroom this whole time, listening without hearing, and I’m sure it seemed much longer to him than to us. It should be just about time to let him out when there’s a knock on the door. You, in your towel, perch on the bed; I close my robe and answer it. It’s room service with a trolley of food. A uniformed man about our age wheels it to the middle of the room while I pick up a pen to sign the check. I glance around and tell him “We don’t have any money for a tip.”

You slip to the floor, on your knees, and say “I could use my mouth.”

“You should let her,” I tell him, “It’s the only tip you’ll be getting.” I speak highly of your skill, describing you with a very crude phrase that could leave no doubt to its meaning no matter what his native tongue. Your towel slips to the floor, baring your breasts for further encouragement. As long as your bruised bottom stays hidden, I don’t object.

Wide-eyed and nearly speechless, he approaches you hesitantly, stammering out a questioning thanks as he opens his fly.

He is rising in no time and I guide your mouth onto him; he swells in your mouth. I let him ride you lightly, rubbing against the roof, toward the back, before pulling you back to get a more “direct” alignment. He rocks back and forth, sawing in and out until again I pull you back so that he might enjoy your tongue. Clearly he does.

The in-and-out resumes and he’s approaching the end. It’s as if I can feel him in my hand. I’d like him to mess your hair, you might prefer your breasts(?) but I suspect his preference is your throat and after all, it is his tip, so I keep you there as he pumps (and pumps) and after, suckling like a calf on a teat until he pulls away, soft. Cutting short his thanks I have him out the door practically before he’s zipped his fly and you’ve licked your lips.

I let J out of the bathroom at long last. His excitement has returned already, I’ll have to look into that, but he’s done nothing for it (lucky for him) despite all he’s heard. He looks at you (nearly nude), you look at me and know what you’re expected to say, you tell him what you just did, explicitly as always. With no visible mess you don’t need to elaborate.

“Really? What was his name?” J asks you. You have to admit that you don’t know.

Our meals aren’t hot so we’re in no hurry to eat. I lift you out of your towel and guide you toward the bed, belly first, facing the mirror. Yes, I notice how big J’s eyes get. I pull you back to put you up on your knees and elbows and with both hands cup your left leg just above and inside the knee, pulling it toward me. If that wasn’t enough I press your lower back to thrust your bottom backward, over your feet.

“Don’t look down there, that’s not for you,” I scold J as if he could focus on your proffered penny and ignore everything else, particularly in its mid-ravished state. But he pretends to try.

Standing next to you I run my hands over your cheeks, squeezing from below, cupping. The pain of your first two fierce spankings is relieved in some places and revived in others as I massage your flesh, so delightfully soft and firm at the same time. My thumbs might brush your bottom carelessly, a fingertip might tap you even more intimately here and there (or there and there and even, oh yes, there) but nothing is sustained, nothing seems even intentional at first, not until my thumbnail scrapes most directly, a finger flicks or snaps with intention. Stop and start, mostly massaging. J watches all this, I suppose, probably even intently. I don’t notice, or check.

Thumbnails threaten to pull you open, but don’t, and whether you know it or not, I have an intense desire to pinch, pinch hard, but don’t. All very pleasurable with a tiny touch of tease. “Well?” I ask, delivering your cue.

Looking at him in the mirror, you offer “J, I need you to fill my bottom.”

“With?” I prompt, and you tell him, again, quite specifically. He knows he’ll suffer for it (actually a lot more than he thinks) but also knows he can’t say no and his physiological response is entirely positive. I snap its head with a finger, making him grimace but in no way lessening it. A good healthy size like you’re used to. “I take that as a ‘yes’,” I remark dryly. “Let’s get you ready.”

I move to your side, facing your feet, slapper in hand. A narrow, leather-covered stick with a prehensile tail, without pausing I bring it down between your cheeks, quickly reddening your bottom-cleft with quick, snapping strokes. Slowing and focusing I bounce several off of your pretty little penny. It’s easy to aim and only three sneak southward, intentionally, and you have a pillow so I don’t have to hear about it.

Fifteen little bull’s-eyes later you pick up your head as I pick up the cane. Your eyes widen but I’m not as evil as you think. Not quite, anyway. I lay the cane between your cheeks with the tip on your tortured target, flex the tip waaaaay back and let it fly. Shock raises your eyebrows even after the slapper as your back bows up in response and then down in an effort to push the pain out and away. You repeat this motion, though less exaggerated, and as your tummy drops I repeat the process. After only four I can’t keep this rhythm, your movements are too chaotic. I put my leg, folded, across your back, my shin pressing you right at your waist. You make muffled noises of pain (sorry, none identifiable) while I manage several more direct hits and a miss or two. In fact, after the second miss I draw a bead on your lips (mercifully outer not inner) and deliver one on each side. That’s all.

Higher up, back to the matter at hand, a few more attempts accumulate another five successes. (To be honest, this position, with my thigh against your hip, basically kneeling on your back, the cane resting against my raised thigh and extending downward between your buttocks, has me positively dripping). Sacrificing my pleasure for the sake of progress, I desist, though you remain unintelligible for a minute, maybe two, or more. Impatience sets in and I tell J to step forward, setting the cane aside but keeping it close at hand, since I intend to thrash both of you afterwards (I’m also going to order J not to finish before I tell him and then punish him when he can’t obey).

You’re the rosiest red you’ve ever been, with some angry reds and flecks of purple. My husband is extremely anxious to get to work.

You know I don’t think you deserve any lube, so if you want some, you’re going to have to beg for it.

Fin