tagBDSMDiplomatic Relations

Diplomatic Relations

byLaurelAspen©

Arriving from London on the Eurostar at Gare du Nord the Englishman walks the short distance to Gare de l'Est. Travelling light his only luggage, a travel-worn leather holdall, swings easily in his hand. It's a bright breezy morning in early Spring; sunny but not so warm as to encourage those outside to surrender their coats and jackets.

As arranged they meet in Starbucks on the station concourse, embracing fondly and with an easy familiarity; kisses on both cheeks - this is France after all.

"This is not coffee!" she protests, her native Parisian palate mortally offended.

"A penance for not greeting me at Gare du Nord," he responds with detached amusement.

"And walk from there to my apartment in these shoes!" madam feigns outrage, but has a point, two in fact, at the end of elegantly tapered Louboutin high heels.

The Englishman takes her arm and they promenade diagonally southeast across the adjacent Jardin Villemin, (he secretly compares it unfavourably to London's extensive parks) those heels clicking on the pavement.

The Frenchwoman wears a black knee length coat, matching her stockings and shoes, and a bright Hermes neck scarf - the only splash of colour. Dark glasses shield her eyes from the low equinox sun.

On reaching the canal Saint-Martin the couple turn south along the Quai de Valmy, where, a little further on -- just past the Square de Recollects, they reach her apartment block.

Its nondescript front door opens directly from the street, but inside the architecture is ornate: original art noveau flourishes in the lobby, a tiny ancient lift with concertina gates.

As it slowly ascends to the uppermost floor he slides a hand under her coat, insinuating his fingers between her legs, brushing the sheer nylon of her stocking tops. The Frenchwoman clamps her thighs tightly together imprisoning it between her legs, while at the same time her red-painted nails clasp his hair. She kisses the man fiercely; tongue probing avidly between his lips. He grasps her buttocks hard, pulling her forcibly towards him, matching her fervour.

They tumble into her flat, flushed and little breathless, it has been several weeks since they last had the opportunity to express such ardent passion.

"Slow down Cherie, we have all weekend," she admonishes him affectionately. "Let me make us a real cup of coffee while you look around."

"All weekend, does he not suspect?" He's referring to her husband -- a minister in Macron's government.

"He doesn't think to ask. Here we don't enquire, it's assumed people will have little dalliances," she responds unperturbed.

"But his high public profile..."

"Our press is not so prurient. There are rarely scandals, we are complaisant -- I can't think of an exact English translation.

"Permissive?"

"Maybe... Not quite, but close I guess, Accepting perhaps, I trust him not to embarrass me, he returns the favour." She pauses contemplatively, before continuing. "It's funny, he married me in part because he was an outsider, I was his entre into society, now he's more establishment than me."

"Ah the aristocracy, delightfully licentious all across Europe, and I a mere commoner."

"My family survived the revolution"

"Mine would probably have begun it."

"My bit of rough trade, she smiles, "here," she hands him a cup, "black Americano I believe."

"Merci beaucoup."

"You haven't told me what you think of the flat?"

"I think it delightfully bourgeoisie: tasteful, but looking a bit unlived in".

"My husband bought it 'for business meetings' -- a tax deductible pied a terre. I may use it 'when in town shopping' - you see the polite little deceptions we indulge"?

"Who's idea was the chaise longue?"

"Ah, I thought you might like that. Mine of course. He considers décor and furnishing a women's concern."

"Your man's not read a lot of Simone de Beauvoir then..."

"Who cares, I get what I want, he pays."

They finish their coffee in silence, the anticipatory tension almost palpable. The Englishman stands purposefully. "Do you intend wearing that coat all day?"

"A gentleman would take it from a lady."

"I thought we agreed earlier, I'm no gentleman," he smiles, "'bit of rough remember?'"

She unwinds her scarf and tosses onto a chair.

"Do all chic French women wear those?"

"Of course, it's the law."

He unbuttons her coat, slipping it from her shoulders and letting it slide to the floor. Every bit as gorgeous as he'd remembered she wears nothing underneath but a basque, stockings and jewellery.

"You came to the station like this?" A rhetorical question, he marvels at her sang froid.

"Yes, it made me feel very naughty. Are you good at dealing with naughtiness?"

"An expert."

"Consider what you see as my gift to you, to play with anyway you choose."

"Quite the nicest present I've ever received," he replies sincerely. She is, well who knows, late 30s, early 40s? It would be crass to enquire. At once slender and voluptuous, a quality achieved seemingly effortlessly by French women, and all but but impossible for their English counterparts.

The basque cinches her waist and pushes her lovely breasts into prominence. The heels flatter her long legs and emphasise her bottom. Her derriere c'est manifique, the first thing he'd noticed when introduced at a dull reception in London three months ago when part of a Foreign Office delegation sent to meet members of the new French cabinet.

"The transport minister appears to have been the only one to bring his wife, as the only chap with fluent French could you possibly entertain her for a few hours during their trade meeting?"

He most certainly could. His charm helped of course; plus the ability to sidestep the queues and get her into an exhibition of modernist art at the Barbican she desperately wished to view.

Later a text: the meeting was dragging on; might he possibly cope for another couple of hours, perhaps accompany madam to dinner?

Of course, although in the event dinner was skipped. She was not backward in in forthrightly expressing her desires. The pair went straight from the bar to her hotel room where... Well, apart from some quite spectacular sex, it transpired the French minister's wife very much enjoyed having her bottom spanked.

It was mid evening by the time the trade talks finished and he ushered the Frenchwoman, smart attire, impeccable make-up and self-possession restored, into the company of her spouse. Politely shaking his hand she'd thanked him -- with considerable understatement - "for a lovely evening", conspiratorially whispering "au revoir" before walking, just a little stiffly, away.

"Which reminds me," he says, returning his mind to the moment, "I've bought something for you." From the holdall he produces a slender package and presents it to her.

Slowly she unwraps the parcel to discover a shiny new riding crop.

"You had this gift wrapped?"

"The assistant at James Smith & Son in New Oxford Street struggled to keep a straight face -- I don't think he's often asked to do that."

"It is perfect"

"Might need a bit of breaking in," he shrugs.

"Breaking in?" she raises her eyebrows quizzically.

"Bit stiff, the leather will become more flexible with use."

"But something that can hurt a horse will damage me!"

"You'll have to trust me to use it with skill, and you must do exactly as I instruct."

"I'll be as obedient as I want to be, cheri," She examines the crop carefully before playfully asking, "I'm surprised you are a beater and not one of the beaten -- 'le vice anglais'?"

"I went to grammar school, not public school."

"Will you use it on me now?"

"Are you ready to proceed?"

The Frenchwoman indulges a dramatic pause before responding. "Qui, but remember darling, I am not 'O' and will be as obedient as I want to be. For me discipline is not foreplay, it is part of the main event." She looks at him defiantly. "So use the crop hard; I want to feel the marks when I 'm sitting at the official reception tomorrow evening."

"It'll be my privilege, however first I intend to spank you, not over my knee like some delinquent but presented as a desirable woman." Carefully the Englishman guides her into position on the chaise longue. Her natural elegance transcends the somewhat undignified pose as madam kneels, places her hands on the back and bends forward, twin globes simply inviting his hand to chastise them; so easy to submit as he calmly asserts his total control. Sensually he strokes her taut skin, then the first slaps follow, soft and teasing; she slips into subspace ands awaits the endorphin rush.

He smacks her bottom harder and faster, deliberately and at length - alternating between each cheek. The impact of his hard masculine hand ignites a hot surge of desire between her legs. The further turned-on madam becomes so the more sensitive her bottom, each sensation building upon the other. Despite a series of seductive wiggles, punctuated by the occasional Gallic expletive, she remains in position until he's spanked her orbs to a rosy glow.

"Stand up," he assists the Frenchwoman unsteadily to her feat, teetering on the high shoes.

"Can I rub?"

"Of course -- and don't feel you have to speak English to me."

"French is the more beautiful language -- but English has more words for what we do." She carefully massages her tender cheeks. Meanwhile he fetches a low padded stool and places it at the room's centre. She looks up enquiringly, awaiting instruction.

"Take your knickers off." The Frenchwoman shivers imperceptibly at the implication of this command, feels her breasts swell and her sex dampen. She obeys decorously, providing an erotic glimpse of her carefully trimmed sex as madam lifts first one leg then the other.

"Lie on the stool face down, spread your legs wide and place your toes and fingertips on the floor."

"Like so?" She adopts a cruciform shape, legs straight, delectable pink bottom contrasting with her pale skin. She experiences a exultant feeling of liberation, buttocks bared, knowing there's nothing she can do to prevent her punisher from beating her bare bottom in whatever way he chooses.

"Perfect -- time for your first experience of the crop. Try to relax, breath deeply," says the Englishman. "I intend to whip every inch of your bare bottom and thighs. It will take some time, struggle or complain and I'll beat your calves too."

Walking in slow circles he flicks the crop's split leather tip down sharply onto her posterior, slowly picking up speed.

The cumulative affect soon makes itself uncomfortably apparent as her bottom begins to smart and burn. He observes the Frenchwoman's firm, mature buttocks clench against the smart, hears her soft, plaintive cries, an increasingly vocal accompaniment to the persistent punishment.

Madam begins to grind her hips hard into the stool, the beating a continuing catalyst to the fierce arousal suffusing her loins. He works the crop up the tender inside of each thigh -- causing her to kick out in distress at this unexpected hurt.

"I warned you," he says coldly, slapping the crop down twice against each perfectly sculptured calve, prompting louder wails of protest. A change of angle, the Englishman crouches, employing flicks of the wrist to bring the shaft as well as the crop's tip into fiery contact with her naked skin.

"Oh God! Please stop. This is too much. I can't take it."

"No, your fantasy is not being able to take it, but you can, and you will." Nevertheless he halts and once again helps madam up, legs shaking, eyes wet, mascara running; livid blotches now mark her scalding red rear.

He pulls her close, holds her tightly; they kiss fervently, as he painfully squeezes her hot-to-the-touch backside. Feels her nipples harden against his chest; explores the wetness between her legs.

"I need you," she pleads urgently.

"Soon, but not yet."

"Am I marked?"

"Yes, but not enough, further discipline is evidently required." He turns her in front of a full-length wall mirror.

"Qui, d'accord," she acquiesces.

Taking madam's wrists he manoeuvres her back to the chaise lounge. Bids her kneel on it crossways, head and hands on the floor, bottom prominently raised, the crease, her vagina, both cruelly and prominently exposed.

"Keep still," the Englishman growls, broking no dissent, forcing his hand insistently between her legs. She parts her thighs obediently to allow him greater access, his fingers brush against her lips, sliding into the wetness.

Abruptly he flicks the crop against her pink labia, hypersensitive to every contact, however gentle.

"Oh non, my poor pussy," red-painted nails claw at the rug as she struggles to stay in place.

Rhythmically administering the final part of her physical correction he strikes the full expanse of her buttocks, leaving livid red lines, taking the Frenchwoman to a space where pleasure and pain don't so much meet as collide. Sensing she is close to climax he pulls her hips closer, the crop is no longer required....

Afterwards they lay together on her bed, the Frenchwoman wraps her kimono closely around her sated, aching body, outside it's dusk and beginning to get a little chilly. Anglo French relations have never been closer, a true entente cordial.

"Shall I bring the crop to London when I visit you?"

"No need, I intend to cane you."

"Very English. I have not had that before, I must do my homework."

"I do intend to use the crop on you again before you go to your political soiree tomorrow evening."

"Where I will sit down very carefully, and tell whoever is next to me how important it is for British and French people to maintain a tres close association, Brexit or no Brexit."

2280 words

Laurel Aspen, March 2018

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by steverob105403/26/18

Delightfully written

Thank you very much - a very interesting take on the " entente cordiale"!

I look forward to many more stories from you, and than you for sharing with us.

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