Time waits.

But, sometimes, the wait—the anticipation—makes the wait all the more worthwhile. 

I felt like I'd been waiting fucking forever, and I'd become frustrated in almost every part of my life. Don't get me wrong. The materialistic aspects of life pointed to my being the epitome of success. Car. House. Clothing and accessories. 

These things, however, had left little time—no, no time—to develop anything but casual, ineffective personal relationships. Clients, of which I had few now, were just that. People who came to me for advice of one kind or another, often when they were in trouble, needed digging out of a metaphorical hole, which, with the skills and expertise I'd developed over the years, was usually well within my capabilities. If I struggled with a situation, I had an extremely efficient support network, all doing their own thing but ready to help out as and when necessity required it.

I'm Margaret, by the way. Maggie. Sitting in that restaurant bar, trying to decide what to eat and if another drink or an early night was the best option, my mind wandered, as it often does when I've finished with the client. 

"It's the third time this month I've seen you here, eating and drinking alone," said a pretty young woman as she sat next to me. "Being away on business can be a real pain in the arse, can't it? Once the jobs are done, then what? Too far to drive home. It's too early to go to bed. Nowt on the extensive cable TV in your room. You've finished your book."

I started to smile. It's like she was a younger version of me.

She smiled back. 

"What're you drinking? May I get you one? I often find that even a casual acquaintance as a drinking partner is better than no partner at all. Whisky, please," she said to the hovering bartender. "And for my new friend..."

"The same, please, only with coke. Thank you...?"

"Oh! I'm Jack. Jacqueline, if I've been naughty, and I'm being given my Sunday name."

"Maggie," and we shook hands, that ancient formality never seeming to go away, even though I, for one, felt so uncomfortable participating in it.

As soon as the drinks arrived, Jack ordered a duplicate round, only instructing the bartender to make them doubles.

"Don't worry. They're going on my room bill. The rest of my colleagues are in the ballroom, dancing the night away, but one of the guys is already pissed and won't leave me alone."

She paused in her monologue long enough to take a big drink.

"A bit like me," she said, "plonking myself down next to you and plying you with strong alcoholic beverages."

Another pause. Another big drink. Another round was ordered. I was still sipping my first one.

"What do you do? We're the sales force for Sales-Force," she continued, as though her company were a household name. She was more than a little tipsy. "I'm not Jacqueline Sales-Force, although it is my company."

She laughed at her joke, and this name made me laugh too.

I started telling her about what I do, but she interrupted.

"I'm sorry, Maggie, but I'm fucking starving. We only wanted a finger buffet, and there weren't enough fingers to go around." She laughed again. "D'you mind if I grab a burger? They're fantastic here, you know. The gourmet kind. Would you like to join me? My treat. For disturbing you. And the whisky's going to my head."

I considered my options for a moment, and that was too long for Jack. She was at the bar ordering food, not even considering the possibility that I was vegetarian or vegan. I'm not.

"I watched you eat the last time you were here, so I've ordered for us both. It'll be about twenty minutes or so. Some pillock has booked the ballroom, so the chef's a little busy. Defo worth the wait, though. Charlie, my last girlfriend, brought me here the day she broke my heart."

The pause and then drink interval continued, only this time Jack's eyes filled with tears.

"Fuck," she said, scrubbing them away with practised knuckles. "Fuck! I'm sorry. I thought I'd finished with all that crap. Obviously not. Fuck! Tell me all about Maggie. She's rather beautiful."

"Well. Thank you." I replied and continued telling my increasingly intoxicated new friend about my accounting business and how some of the biggest criminal prosecutions have been helped by me and my expertise. She was fascinated, asking all kinds of interesting questions, and, all things considered, I was rather drawn to this woman, this successful younger woman who took notice, and we talked long after the huge, marvellous, extraordinarily tasty burgers were consumed and large bowls of the creamiest local ice cream had also been eaten.

She ordered an expensive 'after dinner' liqueur, sat back, and announced that she felt like Mr. Creosote. 

I looked at her, puzzled.

"Absolutely stuffed."

We laughed, and that took us on another tangent. TV. Film. Music. Everything made sense. 

Then suddenly, "I got to get to bed. I've got a 6.30 am appointment, and it's," she checked her watch, "2 o'clock now."

"Goodnight, then. And thanks so much for a brilliant, unexpected evening."

"Here," she said, thrusting her business card at me. "We could do it again if you'd like that. Yes. Just give us a ring. That'd be great. It was lovely, wasn't it? Maybe a little too much to drink, but my god. Those fucking burgers are awesome. Ring me. Please."

I watched her sway unsteadily towards the lift and wondered if I should help. Then she was gone as the doors closed behind her. I saw her turn as she disappeared and looked at me, watching her. I knew I wouldn't ring, but it had been a good night.

Three weeks later.

"You didn't ring," Jack said, placing a large whisky and coke on the bar in front of me. "Why didn't you ring?"

"Honestly?" I was surprised by Jack's appearance. 

"Of course. Otherwise, I'm going to take you to my room and spank you. And who knows where that'll lead?"

"You'll what?"

"You heard. I said I'd take you to my room, and..."

"Yes. Spank me. But how do you know that that's not exactly what I wanted?"

She paused, taking a long drink.

"You didn't know I was going to be here."

"I hoped, though."

"Oh! So what? Do you want me to?"

"Do you want to? Is that your thing? Picking up lonely older women and threatening to spank them?"

"Nope. This is a first. But yes. I'd fucking love to spank you, that is. I asked and bribed the concierge to let me know when you were back. I had a feeling you'd not ring, but I wanted to see you again."

"Why?"

"You're interrogating me. Why do I want to spank you? Why did I want to see you again? The second one's easy. You made me feel seen and noticed, and you took me out of myself for the first time in ages. The first one is far more difficult."

"Try."

"Ok. What turns you on? When you're alone in your room and you need to relieve the tension, shall we say, What do you think about?"

I squirmed, feeling more than a little self-conscious. I'm purely hetero, ok? But increasingly and recently, my masturbatory imagination has steered me in an altogether different direction. Last time, once I was back in my room, as usual, the shower cubicle was my first port of call. Once I was fresh and clean from top to toe, I took to my bed, slotted my earbuds in, and began the latest Taylor Swift album. 

The drink made me drift in and out of sleep, but she, Jack, kept invading my relaxed mind. And the longer it went on, the hornier I became—until I gave up trying to put off the inevitable. 

Lube and usually two vibrating toys are my constant travelling companions. The usual young men with huge cocks, who are also my usual wanking companions, failed to show, replaced instead by a sexy, sinewy girl, a woman who was my imagination's rendering of a semi-naked Jacqueline. And she made the next half hour or so so amazingly and erotically wonderful that it stayed with me throughout the next few days. Her tongue. Her fingers. Her breasts, bottom, and bits, even though they were just created from my imagination, kept me on that wonderful edge of erotic arousal, distracting me until I just had to enjoy my toys again.

Twice, most days. And if I wasn't specifically deadlined, even more.

And almost every day I dialled her number, chickening out at the last moment.

"Young boys with big cocks" is all I admitted to.

Food and drinks arrived. 

"I know you've not eaten yet, and the drinks are virgin. No whisky."

We consumed it in relative silence.

"You want to know what turns me on?"

She asked this as she finished the huge bowl of ice cream with a flourish, dropping the spoon noisily into the bowl and rising to go to the bar. Her short summer dress, barely covering tomorrow's laundry, was, I think, one of only two garments she wore. The other was tomorrow's laundry. And I was transfixed. She looked back at me, and this, I think, was the moment I became smitten.

Under the air conditioning, unbidden, her nipples stood to attention in the cooling draft, making increasingly obvious mounts in the material of the pretty dress. She saw me looking and smiling lasciviously, licking her lips, and, while only I was watching, gently stroked the surrounding breast, thumbing the nipple to even greater definition. 

Spinning back to the bar, she flicked her skirt up, revealing, momentarily, the sheer material of the panties covering her shapely bottom.

Returning with the drinks, she sat in a way that ensured that now I'd be in a position to see the other view, should I care to look. 

I did.

"Teasing."

"Pardon," I said, momentarily mesmerised. 

"It's one of the things that turns me on," she said, grinning and stroking the other breast, stimulating the nipple back to erect attention. "Teasing. And with responses like yours, I can see it's all been worthwhile."

"You're the one who should be spanked, not me. You do know you're turning me on, don't you? You're a naughty girl..."

"And naughty girls must have their bottoms spanked. Bare bottoms. Not that these would give a naughty girl's bottom much protection," she said, lifting her skirt and flashing her knickers for me. "Now, would they?"

I asked her for her room number.

"I've got an hour's worth of work to do, and I need a shower. I'll be there a little after ten if that's what you want. Is it? What you want?"

"Come to my room as soon as you can. You'll find out."

I knew that if I thought about it too long, I wouldn't go. And I could work later, couldn't I?

Twenty minutes later, I was closing her door behind me, showered, shaved, quickly pampered, and dressed in some of the finest underwear that I possessed, gazing at the vision that greeted me.

"I'm a spanker," she said. "This is what turns me on."

She gently took my hand, led me towards the dressing table stool, sat down, and draped me over her thighs. Laying one arm across my back, curling the palm of her hand around my waist, and using her other palm to stroke my barely protected bottom, she began to talk, all the while continuing the smoothing and caressing. 

"I'm a spanker. And for the last three weeks, since we were so tipsy together, all my fantasies while relieving myself have been about this moment and what follows."

She slipped her hand up inside the loose leg of the flimsy silky shorts I'd chosen to wear and cupped the goose-fleshed globe she found there, squeezing, not too gently, her long fingers extending slowly to my suddenly damp sex. Without warning or gaining any form of consent, her fingers slid easily inside me, creating the first of many new sensations and emotions I felt before leaving for my room some time later.

With some very deft movements, her fingers slid out again, and she created a rhythmic pattern that, in moments, had me panting and squirming, widening my legs to give her easier access. In: almost out. In: almost out. In: almost out. Her free hand grabbed a fistful of my long, damp hair, pulling my head back. At the same time, and with the next 'in,' an extended thumb slipped slowly and deeply into the, until that moment, forbidden adjacency.

I heard myself crying out as an orgasm of unimaginable magnitude spun through every fibre of my being. (I know. But sometimes, normal language isn't nearly enough.)

The hand grabbing my hair gripped tighter, making me wince with the incredible pain in my scalp and neck as my head was pulled even further back. I'm not as young and flexible as I once was.

"Good girls, which you're not, can have pleasure like that whenever and wherever they want," she growled, leaning forward and speaking quietly, malevolently, close to my ear. 

The fisted hair got worse, and I cried out for a completely different reason.

"Naughty girls, which you are," she continued, using the same scary voice, "must go through transformative punishment. Sometimes here," she said, removing her slick fingers from inside my shorts and bringing her curved palm down hard, twice, on each barely protected bottom cheek. "Invariably beginning here," she continued, giving me several more, even harder smacks to each now tender cheek.

She spanked and spanked.

Pain at both ends, scalp a constant throb, bottomed becoming an unbearably awful mess of stinging and spanking. I tried to escape.

"You want to go? Go," she said, stopping immediately and releasing her hold on me.

Time stopped! This is what flashed through my mind in the instant that she let me go.

I'm going; no, you're not. but it hurts. but have you ever ever felt anything like this before? no of course not. so stay. but it hurts. I know but in a good way. no. liar.  fuck you. we've been doing that and thinking of her for three weeks. but it hurts. yes, I know. and you want more. no. liar. no I'm not. so why are we still lying here?

And time started again.

"But if you stay, that orgasm and this spanking are just the beginning." Her voice had returned to normal.

"I'm staying," I whispered.

"What?" she said.

I knew she'd heard. My hair was gripped tightly again.

"I'm staying," I repeated more bravely than I felt.

"Miss."

"Sorry, Miss. I'm staying, Miss."

"Stand up."

I did so in a momentary panic when I thought she was dismissing me.

"Put your hands on your head and face the wall. Quickly now."

The growl was back, and she spurred me on with sharp slaps to the backs of my thighs.

"Things to remember, and there may be a test. Ok?"

I paused too long and received punctuation spanks.

"OK?"

Two smacks for each letter.

"Yes, Miss! Yes, Miss!"

"Safe words."

"No, thank you."

"The next time you interrupt," she said, rummaging in her overnight suitcase, "I'm using this." She presented a shortish, stiff, leather-look cane to my mouth. "Hold it gently between your teeth. And I don't want marks left on it. Ok?"

"Yesh, Mish," replied through the oral obstruction. 

"Good girl," she said, puddling my shorts around my feet, widening my stance as far as they would allow, and manipulating far more wetness from my now expectant, still thrumming cunt. "My goodness. How aroused you are," she crooned into my ear, her fingers still working magically. "And I thought you were going to leave only a short time ago, never to be seen in this state again."

"No Miss. I'm shtaying ash long ash you'll have me. I'm a naughty girl who wantsh to be 'that' good again. And again."

"Origami."

"What, Mish?"

"P. A. R. D. O. N. Pardon." 

Six more smacks. Now on my bare bottom, one for each letter. I could tell the difference, even just by the sound. 

"Shorry, Mish. Pardon?"

"That's your own, private, safe word. Say it."

"Origami."

"Say it, and it all stops."

"Yesh Mish. Thank you, Mish. I'll only use it if I have to."

For the next i-don't-know-how-long, I was subjected to the most intense, sexually arousing, and painful assault. Only in a good way. 

No! In the best possible way, if there's such a thing.

My hair was pulled. Hard and often. Sometimes tiny little bits stung like mad. Sometimes whole fistfuls used to keep me in or put me in varying positions. Always inflicting varying levels of pain.

My nipples, treacherous little fuckers that they are, kept different levels of erection, depending on the level of my arousal at any given moment, indicating to Jack how well she was doing. Sometimes she wanted me panting with pleasure, sometimes howling in pain. 

She got her way.

She spanked me. 

I was scared several times of the ferocity of what I later discovered was merely a spanking, her open palm making repeated contact with my bare bottom. Not one square centimetre, nay, millimetre, was left unreddened or unpained. From the crown of each cheek and from side to side, continuing below the line where the cheek meets the thigh, I was punished. I was punished for something I wasn't even aware of doing or allowed to ask for a reason.

After ten, fifteen, twenty minutes of relentless smack, smack, smacking, Origami hovered around my lips constantly but was never uttered. Jack then stopped spanking, stoking my tormented bottom and alternately scraping her fingernails over the scorched cheeks. The difference in sensation was electric, and then she used her other hand's fingers to gently stroke the length of my back, ending with them entwined in the hair she'd so recently been dragging me around by.

I was also frigged and fucked with a variety of toys, shoved roughly inside me, often while the spanking and slapping continued. And the gentleness was also transferred to my wanton sex, with soft fingers sliding in and out of both her chosen holes.

Jack was in her element. 

I was, too.

"Are you done?" she whispered. 

I felt like a ragdoll must feel—to be floppy, exhausted, but elated. 

"Yes, Miss. I think I am. How can I ever thank you?"

"I'll show you next time. You're going to your room now, aren't you? Work to do, or something like that."

"Oh! Yes. I am. I'd forgotten about that. Shall we get breakfast?"

"6.30 ok?"

It was already well after midnight. 

"Yes. See you then, Miss."

In my room, my first thing was to check my bottom. The full-length mirror showed me exactly what Jack had done. I was shocked at the firey redness and also at how painfully sore I was.

"You've just been spanked, you pillock. Of course, you're red and sore," I told myself. "But why? Why have you let this stranger do this to you?"

I sat down gingerly at my laptop and began to do the work I should've done earlier. By three, I'd finished, taking me far longer than I'd expected due almost certainly to what had just been happening, and crawled into the huge, cool bed, my roasted bottom enjoying soft, cold sheets.

I'd set my alarm for 6 o'clock, three hours of sleep, disturbed by the most pornographic dreams I'd ever had, not being nearly enough. My first port of call in the morning, the loo, was superseded by the mirror. Dropping my pyjama shorts, my abused bottom was still more than faintly tinged with red, and there was a good selection of tiny round bruises from Jack's fingertips. And immediately, I was aroused again, and images from those few hours ago, mixed with the porn of my dreams, had me wet and fumbling.

I'd started, dressed as a voluptuous maid, my uniform unable to cover my bulging curves. I could do nothing right, so I spent what felt like the entirety of the night in various positions, mostly either over my mistresses' knees, several women of different shapes and sizes, or bent double, touching my toes. They all spanked me hard, and by the end, when the alarm awoke me, I was sobbing apologetically. I knew, in dream reality, it was because it was coming to an end. I wanted more.

I came. Hot, shaking, and sweaty. 

I wanted, no need for it to happen again. Stroking the cheeks firmly brought back some of the discomfort, and that turned me on even more. The smell of sex that I'd not noticed, for some reason, made my mouth water.

"What was happening to me?" I asked myself, grabbing the quickest shower, washing away last night's sweat and debauchery, and towelling myself dry. I noticed exactly how tender my recently punished, yes, punished, bottom was.

Early breakfast was great, and I was the first in line, dead on 6.30. And a running breakfast buffet is the best way to start the day. 

Except when your breakfast partner fails to show up. I collected my food and drinks on a tray; I'm sure you don't want to know what I had, and I sat at a table where I could see Jack coming.

But she didn't. 

A receptionist came to find me and gave me a note. "From the guest in room 225," she said, in her immaculate navy blue skirt, white polo shirt, and the loveliest perfume smell. I thanked her, admiring her as she walked away, being this professional and immaculately turned out at 6:40 in the morning.

The note was obvious from Jack. Her number and "Sorry! Family emergency. Haven't got your number. Please ring. I need to talk to you. I loved it last night. Jacqueline. Xxx"

I picked up my phone.

"Hi. This is Maggie. I'm feeling really under the weather, and I'm still at the hotel. I'd like to book a day's holiday if that's okay. I've got no clients today, and I can do all the paperwork over the weekend. I hope that's OK."

Breakfast could now be a little more leisurely. 

But the disappointment curbed my appetite. I'd usually go back for seconds. Not today. I just wanted to be out of there.

I'm usually a bit of a neat freak, carefully folding things back into my small case, but I couldn't be bothered this morning. I wanted to be... where? My few clothes were stuffed away, and last night's pointless work was stashed in my leather attache case. I left, dumping the key at reception but forgetting to pay my bill.

I sat in my car.

My phone chimed.

"Hi, Maggie. Yes, that's fine. All booked. See you Monday, unless you want more holidays. You've still got most of this year's allocation and over half of last year's, too. Just let me know. Jude."

She always signed her texts like a letter and punctuated them properly too.

I drove for a little while, enjoying the beautiful countryside outside and the complicated rock music inside, occasionally playing "air instruments" to my favourite passages of the sounds I knew so well.

Stopping at one of the parking spots I'd used before, I pressed the button, and the top went down automatically. Today was a "wind in your hair" kind of day, and I imagined Jack's fingers entangled in it, too.

"Hi," I typed into my phone. "Where to start? Well. Last night, Miss, was one of the best of my life. No kidding. My arse is still stinging as I'm driving, and I'm loving it. But I think I owe you. Pleasure like that shouldn't be so one-sided. I want to see you again. Soon. I don't even know where you live. Let's get together."

I turned the music up, ready to drive away, and my phone chimed again.

"Yes, I agree. You live in the city, don't you? A couple of hours from the hotel.? And I live in a little village, half an hour or so in the opposite direction. The town of Arrington is about halfway. How about meeting there for lunch? Soon. I'm on holiday and not going anywhere this week. Fancy a couple of days there? If you do, let me know, and I'll organise it. Logistics is my thing."

I needed to think.

I got home and hung my so-well-packed clothes up, hoping the creases would hang out.

I'd immediately asked for the rest of the week off, and Jude ok'd it, so I texted Jacqueline.

"There's a pub with five-star lodges. I've booked us two nights, with the option of more. Send me your email, and I'll forward the details."

I did so, and immediately I was scared. I was scared of what I was letting myself in for. I was scared of what I was beginning to feel. Scared that... oh, so many things.

An email pinged back almost immediately. Pictures. Of the pub and its surroundings: attractions in the vicinity: the rooms; a menu. 

Then pictures of...

...a pretty young woman, dressed in sheer lingerie, standing in front of racks containing an assortment of, well, I didn't know what to describe them as. 

Implements.

Implements to spank with. 

To spank me with?

OK.

But some of them—most of them—weren't meant for spanking.

Zooming in gave me a better view. Paddles. Straps. Canes. A selection of what looked like whips. These I could describe easily.

"What?" I emailed back.

"Interested?"

"No. I don't think so. Well, maybe some of the less punishment-like ones. You spanked me last night or was it this morning, and I've never experienced sex like it. But if it's violence you need, I'm not the one to play with."

"You didn't know what spanking was until then, though, did you? And you've always got origami. Let me treat you to a couple of nights away—no strings, two new friends just enjoying finding out about each other. If we 'play', we play; if we don't, that's ok too. If you don't want to, that's okay too. I'll see you next time you're at the hotel. Please just let me know."

I had to think, so I let her know that as well.

And an hour later, I sat at my computer and accepted her invitation. 

It didn't need it, but the rest of the day I spent cleaning the house from top to bottom. Louder than usual, very familiar music helped me not constantly wonder about my little getaway. 

"Hi," I said into my phone once I sat down to relax, and Jack picked up on the first ring.

"Hi, yourself. I was just thinking of calling you. Just to see if you're okay. The emails earlier were a bit, maybe, unsure."

"Jack..."

She interrupted.

"I'm going to lay my cards on the table. Ok?"

"Yes. I'm listening."

"Ok," she began. "I, as you already know, am a spanker."

"Yes. I know...."

"Don't interrupt. I'm sure that at some point if you want me to, I'll tell you how I got here. But as well as that, I fucking love fucking. And you found out that, even if you didn't like the spanking, of which that was only a taste, I fucked you well. You certainly appeared to be into it. The two things are, for me, inextricably linked. I can and do enjoy either without the other. I spanked and fucked you, and my enjoyment level was immense. 

"Right. This is where it gets rude. While I've been working today, I've brought myself so close to orgasm several times just thinking about what you let me do. That didn't feel like someone unsure or inexperienced. It felt like someone I wanted to spend time with. Someone I want over my knee again soon. Someone I want to help find if this could be their thing too. It's a painful position to be in, but the pleasure will balance out that pain. When we're together, specifically your bottom, but most of your body, will have been or soon will be in differing levels of reddened distress. Your bottom and thigh tops got a taste of that last night. And although I didn't smack it on this occasion, I bet your sexy little slit has been a little tender today, hasn't it?"

She paused, awaiting an answer.

"Hasn't it?" she repeated more sternly. 

"Yes, Miss."

"And your cheeky little nipples?"

I'd stroked them erect.

"No Miss. They're fine, thank you."

"I'm going now," she continued. "I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday morning in the pub carpark. 10 o'clock sharp. Don't be late."

"Yes, Miss. Me too. And what's going to be the consequences if I am?"

"I'll text you."

And she was gone.

A text arrived a few minutes later: pictures of a soft silk glove, followed by a paddle, a thick doubled-over leather strap, and two canes, each of different thicknesses. 

"You only get to choose the order in which they're applied, not the covering or severity. Xxx"

"I'm bringing a selection of 'garments' for you. Size 14?"

"Yes, Miss," I messaged immediately. 

She was twenty-three. I was thirty years older. I craved more attention like that which she was lavishing on me. Was I too old? Fucked if I know. Did I care if what we'd just been doing was an indication of things to come?

I had origami.