“FUCK!” I was so close. I could feel it, building and building towards release. I just needed that tiny bit more pressure in the right spot. I had been straining towards this for what felt like hours, desperate to get there. Now flushed and gasping, I felt like I would do anything, promise anything, if I could just get what I needed. 

But the wheel nut would not budge. It wasn’t going anywhere, so neither was the wheel, and I was stuck with a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere. I let out a howl of frustration, stood up and stamped my foot, and threw the stupid locking-wheel-nut-tool-thingy down to the gravelly, leaf-strewn road. Then I collapsed back down onto my knees, and prepared to sulk. 

It had started off as such a beautiful day. That perfect autumn weather in England, where the sky is blue, but there’s a bite in the air that means you can crack out jeans and boots and a woolly jumper. The quality of light changes from summer gold to autumn russet, and the leaves become a visual symphony from scarlet to ochre and every shade in-between. 

It was this autumnal glory that had prompted me to take the road through Savenake Forest on my way to Salisbury, so I could appreciate the splendour as I drove. But suddenly, crunching through leaves and looking for conkers and squirrels had lost its appeal. As a choice, yes. As an enforced activity because I had no car and no phone signal… no thank you. 

The wheel-nut tool hit the ground, and bounced and rolled further down the slight incline of the gravel road. I watched its progress with irritation. Now I was going to have to go and get it before I continued my futile attempts at being self-sufficient. However, it came to a stop at a pair of walking boots. 

From my position crouched on the floor next to my cream convertible, I slowly looked up. Had the owner of the boots witnessed my temper tantrum? How embarrassing. My gaze travelled up denim-clad calves and thighs, a checked, soft-looking shirt covering a torso that registered even in my shame-fogged brain as looking pretty impressive, to a face with a trimmed beard, a smiling mouth, and eyes that were definitely laughing at me. 

I knew I was blushing. He bent and picked up the piece of metal, and then strode towards me, offering his hand. I took it, and he pulled me up easily. Of course I noticed that his hand was strong, warm and dry, and his grip both firm and gentle. All the cliches. If my strop in the middle of a forest were to be witnessed by anyone, it naturally would have to be by a guy whom I, under any other circumstances, would want to set out to impress. 

When I stood, even in my heeled knee-high boots, I only came up to his chin. I tucked my dark, shoulder-length hair behind my ear on one side - a nervous habit - and realised that my other hand was still in his. For some reason, I didn’t pull it away. Close enough to breathe him in (sage and cedarwood and leather), I  slowly looked up. He was still definitely laughing at me. Reluctantly, I smiled. 

“I’d tell you it’s not funny, but I guess it really is,” I said ruefully.

“Flat tyre out here? Not normally. But the tantrum and the howling and the throwing things? The swearing that I could hear from way down there for the last ten minutes? Yep.” His voice was warm and deep and made for the bedroom. Of course. And he was still clearly amused. 

“Hey!” I was indignant now. “That was a result of…at least 5 minutes of attempting to fix it like an adult! And finding I had no phone signal. And being generally mad at myself for coming the long way just because it was a nice day. And not having had coffee!”

“Well, the coffee I can fix,” he offered, gesturing down the road. “And I can fix the wheel, too. Any preference on order of service?”

“Coffee?” I suggested, hopefully. “How?”

“My van is down there, in a layby. Where there’s also a phone signal.”

“Sold!” I declared, brushing gravel off my jeans, and preparing to walk with him down the shallow incline. My hand was still in his, and I was disappointed when he released it, but he was spinning me round. 

“You missed a bit.” He swiped his hand over my ass firmly, and, I kid you not, I could have swooned a little, there and then. This whole damsel-in-distress thing was clearly getting to me, and I knew I wasn’t above using it to my advantage. 

I met his eyes - brown - as I turned back towards him, then moved in the direction he had indicated. And yes, I made sure my ass was swaying a bit in my tight jeans as I picked my way down the unevenly-surfaced road - carefully, due to my heels. These boots weren’t really made for driving, let alone walking. They were car-park-to-coffee-shop footwear. 

Right now, however, they were my literal downfall, as my heel got caught on something, and my ankle turned. 

“Now who’s the cliche?” I muttered under my breath, feeling his hands on my waist to steady me.

“Sorry?” His voice came from right above my ear, and he seemed in no hurry to let go of me again. The temptation to lean back against him was incredible, but I resisted. 

“I said, we haven’t done names!” I recovered brightly. “I’m Amy.”

“Jon,” he replied, releasing my waist, but taking my hand again. “You seem to be a danger to yourself, and others, so I’m just going to hang onto you until we make it there, okay?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but I’m happy with that,” I consented. We resumed walking, but there was a definite twinge in my ankle now, and he looked down, noticing my slight limp. 

“It’s only round this corner,” he reassured me, and as the road curved, I could see a van tucked into a leafy alcove, next to a gate that allowed access to the forest. Walking towards it, with my hand tucked into his, I was suddenly able again to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings, despite the shooting pain up my leg and the disruption to my plans for the day.

Jon’s vehicle was parked so that the sliding door was on the other side, facing into the forest. The floor outside was carpeted with crunchy leaves in every shade of red, yellow and brown imaginable. Normally, I would delight in scrunching through them, kicking them up and watching them scatter back down like confetti, but now I had other things on my mind. 

The van was a new conversion, with a sliding door and pop-up roof. When he pulled back the side, I could see that he hadn’t made the downstairs bed up from the previous night, but had obviously just been starting to make coffee before he’d come out to see what the fuss was.

I put my good foot on the step to get in, and he helpfully placed his hands on my hips to give me a boost. 

“Thanks,” I said, dry humour evident in my tone, and he winked at me when I turned to perch on the edge of the bed. 

“I’m going to take your boot off,” he informed me. Something about his tone made me shiver. I wanted him to do far more than that, and the look in his eyes told me he knew it. 

Jon crouched in front of me, his hands travelling up the tan leather encasing my denim-covered calf. I could feel the heat and certainty of his touch even through the layers. He began to pull the zip down, slowly, the purring noise of it loud in the suddenly charged silence. 

When the zip was fully released, he gently pulled the leather down my calf and off my foot, his hand encircling my ankle. A quiver went through me at his touch, which he surely couldn’t help but notice. 

“Does that hurt?”

“No,” I breathed. 

“I can’t check for redness or swelling. We’re going to have to take the jeans off.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. He nodded seriously, but there was a tell-tale gleam in his eye. We both knew where this was headed. His hands moved to my other boot, running up the supple leather, over my leg, handling me firmly and confidently. 

When I was divested of that one too, I stood up. His face was now level with my crotch, and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He then pushed my white knitted jumper up, exposing my midriff slightly, and unbuckled my belt. Making short work of the button and zip, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband, and pulled down slowly, inch by inch. 

Now he could see the black lace edging of my boyshorts. He looked up at me, checking that this was ok, that it was what I really wanted. I nodded almost imperceptibly, and moved my hips towards him just a fraction. This was all the encouragement he needed to let my jeans go slipping down the rest of the way. With my hands on his broad shoulders for balance, I stepped out of one leg, then the other. 

He held me there, standing in front of him while he knelt, his nose and mouth mere centimetres from my mound. Warm breath caressed me there, and I moaned, already unbelievably turned on by this man I had met only minutes ago. My knees began to tremble from desire and anticipation. Moisture was gathering from my cunt and pooling in my boyshorts. I could smell my own arousal, permeating the small space even though the door to the forest and the outside world remained open. 

My shaking intensified, my breath coming faster and shallower as the tension built. He guided me back to sitting, knelt up, and his lips finally met mine for the first time. His hand holding the nape of my neck, he devoured my mouth, plundering and taking me, claiming me as his with his tongue over mine. 

His other hand moved under my top, finding my breast, squeezing and stroking through the lace of my bra. His thumb moved roughly over my nipple, already pebbled in lust, and I moaned my approval into his mouth, begging without words. 

He sensed my need, and moved to my other breast, giving it the same treatment, before pulling back, and lifting my jumper up and over my head. I raised my arms in acquiescence, the movement thrusting my lace-covered breasts towards him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and that’s when the dam inside me broke, and I just flooded for him. He knew. He knew from the way my eyes closed in total submission. From the guttural moan that I just couldn’t control, escaping my throat and my lips.  

“Fuck.” The word was said with such deep satisfaction, I couldn’t help but smile. “You are so fucking perfect.” He kissed me hard one more time, his hand twisting and grasping the hair at the back of my neck with enough pull to make me gasp in need and pleasure. 

Both his hands were on my breasts now, massaging and cupping, kneading, teasing my nipples, and then his mouth was there too. He drew me into his mouth, hot wetness surrounding my taut nub, and flicked and laved with his tongue through the lace, until I cried out. Then he knelt up again, moving over me until I lay back on the bed, my legs still hanging over the edge.

More kissing, his beard giving yet more sensation, contrast to his smooth lips. But now his questing hand was slipping into my boyshorts, pushing them aside, assessing my wetness, and knowing I was more than ready for him. His other hand slipped down my arm to my wrist, and pushed my hand above my head. Same to the other hand. 

“Keep them there,” he ordered, at the exact same moment as his fingers thrust inside me in one, smooth movement. 

“Ohhh…” was the only acknowledgement I could manage, overwhelmed by craving and sensation. 

His fingers stilled.

“Amy. Look at me.”

I forced myself to focus on him.

“Do not move your hands. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I ground out.

He waited.

“Yes… Sir?” I breathed, melting into his touch as his fingers resumed their motion. Thrusting and exploring, twisting and pushing inside me, feeling for that rough spot on my front wall, where just the right pressure makes me instantly explode. He found it, and pressed rhythmically, massaging quickly and skilfully for just seconds before I gushed, writhing against him while his mouth continued to claim mine. His teeth gently fastened on my tongue, capturing it and holding it prisoner while I climaxed, only freeing it when I sighed my release.

I shifted away slightly, wanting time to recover, but he wouldn’t let me. This time, his thumb found my clit as he rubbed, and my hands, desperate for something to grasp, moved down to his neck and shoulders as he kissed me.

To my utter shock and disappointment, his fingers slipped away. He lifted his lips from mine.

“No. What did I say?”

My head was so full of desire and unsatisfied longing that I couldn’t think coherently, let alone form the words I needed. 

“Your hands,” he reminded me. 

Ah. Slowly, I released my hold on him, and moved my arms back up above my head, to where he’d placed them. He waited a few beats, then restarted the rhythm of his fingers inside me, pistoning in and out, his thumb circling my clit relentlessly. Within moments, I was near climax again. His other hand cupped my face.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly. “Look at me, and cum.”

With that, I threw myself over the edge, my eyes fixed on his as I bore down on his hand, taking everything I could from him to fuel my pleasure. I was still spasming as he slid back down my body, slipping my boyshorts down my hips and over my knees, from where I felt them slide to the floor.

He knelt before me again, while my legs hung over the edge of the bed. He parted my thighs, and buried his face between them, lapping my juices from my inner legs and my drenched folds. His talented tongue found every crevice, licking and sucking at my lips before flicking hotly over the tip of my clit. I jerked, as if shocked by the jolt that went through me at this. Then he slid my bud between his lips and sucked hard, and I lost myself to the sparks that became flames -  an inferno of passion that I couldn’t control. With nothing to restrain my hands but pure will, I was unable to resist the compulsion to bring them down and grasp for anything I could - fabric, skin, anything -  to force myself up to the peak of sheer bliss. 

When I finally regained some semblance of awareness, he was lying over me again, elbow to one side, chin propped up on that hand, looking at me. 

“Oh, wow,” I said, half-laughing. “That was…incredible. You are the amazingest!”

“Mmm,” he replied, that mix of seriousness and tease, with which I already felt I was becoming familiar, in his eyes and voice. “You know what you did, don’t you?”

“What?” I queried. Of course, I knew. And I wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen next, or how I felt about it.

“You moved your hands,” he said, conversationally. “You moved them, and I told you not to, and now something has to be done about that”

“Oh.”

“Ever been spanked?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Sir.”

He cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me softly. “I’ll rub it away. I promise.”

I nodded, uncertain, but prepared. “Okay.”

He got up and stood by the bed. “Just five, because I’m a reasonable kind of a guy.”

I was such a confusing mix of limp and boneless from the pleasure I’d just experienced, and tense with anticipation of what was about to happen. These physical feelings were mirrored by emotions - awe at what he had already brought me to, and fear and excitement for my first spanking.

 I knew, and he knew, that there was no way I would have been able to keep my promise to not move my arms. This was inevitable; I had been set up to fail. And with that understanding, I accepted what was about to happen as my right. My right to acknowledge that need within me for submission, and to have it recognised and acted upon.

So, it was with willingness that I turned over and surrendered myself to him. This man, this stranger, who somehow understood me in ways that no-one else ever had. 

The first swat of his hand onto my left asscheek was a quick sting, immediately rubbed and soothed away.  

“Count,” he instructed me, quietly but with that authoritative tone that sent tingles through me. 

“One,” I said, obediently.

I tensed for the next one, even though I knew that was going to make it worse. It did. More of a burn, this time on my right cheek. 

“Two,” I said, pain a little more evident in my voice. He rubbed in circles until the heat abated a little. Then back to the left. 

“Three,” I gasped. This one hurt more again, right on top of the previous one. The next was the same.

“Four!” This time, I almost grunted the word out, unable to control my voice while I breathed through the impact.

 But although I was focused on the buildup of pain on my backside, there was another burn as well, kindling again on my throbbing clit, and deep inside me. I prepared myself for the last, unsure of where it would fall, but instead, his hand moved lower, to where this other heat was gathering. I could hear how wet I was as his fingers slipped back inside me, his thumb brushing higher in the crevice between my cheeks. 

“Amy, you’re so fucking wet. I want you to take one more, then I’m going to fuck you so damn hard,” he promised, his voice rough with desire. It was then I realised that I hadn’t even seen his cock. I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for, but I knew I wanted it more than anything. I was writhing with need once again. 

“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. Fuck me,” I begged, my own voice just as unrecognisable. This was the plea of someone in desperate, carnal need. This was me, this is what I had become. 

The last spank was the hardest of all, across both cheeks. Then his hands were there, rubbing in circles, smoothing, massaging, stroking, parting them and bringing them together again. I relaxed into his touch momentarily, but was still overwhelmingly aware of my empty, aching, cunt, needing to be filled and satisfied. 

I felt the head of his cock against my needy entrance, teasing and waiting. I tried to push back against him, but he held my hips still.

“Wait,” he chided. “Don’t be greedy - or I’ll stop.”

I was both frustrated and impressed by his self-control. It took so much restraint for me to stop rocking my hips towards him, to wait, and just feel the head of him there, pressing millimetre by agonisingly slow millimetre into me. I could tell already he was bigger than anything I had ever taken before, and I welcomed the intense stretch, the overwhelming feeling of being pushed to my limits. I needed this. Needed him.

With a long, smooth, deep stroke, he was all the way inside me, bumping against my cervix, and hitting every single nerve ending along the way. That feeling was enough to send me spiralling into orgasm once again, and as he began to move, I just couldn’t stop cumming. I was squirting around his cock on every insertion, gushing liquid everywhere as he thrust in and out with those long, deep, caressing strokes. 

He held me steady so I could take his movements as they became more intense, pounding into me with increased speed and force, the strokes shorter but deeper now, his angle perfectly catching my G-spot on every thrust. Our gasps and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the air, my moans becoming louder and higher-pitched every time he slammed into me. 

Although I had been cumming constantly the whole time he was inside me, I knew that I was building to the most intense climax I had ever experienced. As he shouted incoherently, I felt him shudder, and I savoured the burning heat of his cum spilling inside me, filling me, being spread by the unrelenting pistoning movements of his cock as he pumped more and more into me. That extra heat, and the joy of knowing that I had brought him to the peak of his pleasure, sent me into a screaming frenzy of orgasm like I had never known before. 

I bucked and writhed against him, knowing that he would be feeling me clench around him, milking him for every drop, taking everything from him. Then, both of us totally spent, we collapsed, his weight pushing me down into the mattress, his cock still hard inside me. 

“SHIT!” I cursed. “I probably ought to let my friend know I’m not going to make it to meet her today. What did you say about coffee? I think the tyre can wait...”