Indya

Slap! The sound of the impact was like a gunshot. A strangely costumed figure sailed through the air and landed with a thump on the mat where an equally bizarrely attired assailant renewed the attack. The noise was incredible, announcers shouting, crowd baying, contestants' contorted faces screaming threats. Chris winced with evident distaste and lowered the volume on the laptop.

"Sports entertainment is a big thing across the pond," said a voice at his shoulder.

Chris shrugged dismissively and delivered a succinct verdict, "cartoon violence, pantomime for the cerebrally challenged."

"Sure, it's fixed," responded his boss, "but don't underestimate those guys, it takes a lot of strength and timing to avoid serious injury in the ring."

"Those would be the guys with the bumps on their chests?" said Chris, rewinding the video. "I can't believe the smaller one's boobs can be natural, although I grant you her muscles look real enough."

"Female wrestling is hot, a massive crowd pleaser, we're hoping it'll catch on the UK," continued Terry, "which brings me neatly to your next assignment."

"Moi?" Chris looked suspicious.

"Indya, the dark-haired pretty one whose décolletage you just mentioned, is our client."

"The woman, apparently having her arms removed without anaesthetic?" queried Chris.

"Quite," Terry confirmed. "Indya's wisely decided her wrestling days are numbered and decided to branch out with an autobiography and a minor part in a sitcom "

Chris raised his eyebrows. "Please God, no," he murmured, "and presumably Vinnie Jones is about to play Richard the Third at the RSC."

Terry grinned. "Surprisingly, she's not a bad actress, her years in the ring have provided valuable instruction in the method; and the book, which I'm assured was not ghosted, isn't a bad rags to riches read."

"And you want me to do what exactly?"

"Guide her through a two-week UK chat show and promo tour," confirmed Terry.

"Oh, come on!" Chris's worst fears were substantiated. "Why do I get to babysit a female wrestler? No, don't tell me, this is because I worked in the States for two years?"

"Partly yeah, oh, I warn you she prefers to be considered a 'sportswoman'."

"Yeah, as if. Listen, Terry, it may have escaped your notice that I worked in San Francisco on the comparatively civilised Californian West Coast, whereas Indya, he cast his eyes over a brief blog on the table, "aka Betty Martin, is from Boondock Hell, Alabama. Which means Republican voting, bible bashing, cousin marrying country folk."

Terry was having none of Chris's objections. "Oops, I think you just dropped your liberal credentials, but not to worry; everyone is equal under the sign of the dollar".

"Oh sure," replied Chris. "Silicon Valley versus little house in the trailer park. Do you seriously think the US has no class system, Terry? Christ, they're the most status-conscious people in the world."

"And you're not? I think Ms Martin might just confound your preconceptions. You'll soon find out; she flies into Heathrow in three hours. Be there.''

Halfway across the Hammersmith flyover, en route to the centre of town, Chris is already making a rapid reassessment of his charge. In the back of the car, Indya is proving not at all parochial. She's never visited London before but has done some homework on the city, scoring immediate brownie points with Chris. He'd half expected denim, rhinestones, and cowboy boots. Wrong, an expensively cut jacket flatters Betty's impressive body, and the matching, not-too-short skirt showcases impressively long and muscular legs.

"Now then," she picks up the itinerary and immediately becomes business-like, "what's on the agenda for today?"

Fumbling in her bag, Betty finally locates a pair of glasses that she perches on the end of her nose. "I normally wear contacts, but my eyes are dry after the flight. Not a word to anyone about these," she says with a winning smile, "don't want to dent the dumb image."

Chris relaxes, what might have been a chore is turning out to be fun. If he can just keep his eyes off those legs and concentrate on work, this girl's warm and frank persona is going to play well with the public.

"Okay, first a lunchtime radio interview then an afternoon chat show," he says. "Have you done much talk TV?"

"Sure, Chris, but have you ever seen US TV?"

"Oh yes," he rolls his eyes, and they're still laughing when the car reaches the hotel.

By the end of the next day, both interviews have gone well, however, things begin to take an inauspicious turn as jetlag kicks in and Betty's grouchy. Chris waits with practised patience in her hotel room while, with more speed than haste, she completes a lengthy make-up routine.

Catching his reflection in the mirror Betty suddenly turns on her minder, her southern accent much more pronounced. "Whatcha' lookin' at?" she snaps, "tryin' to see my tits, huh? Shit, you guys are obsessed. What were you, bottle fed or somethin'?"

"Actually, I was wondering if mismatched earrings were part of the Southern Belle look," Chris responds calmly, "and what I see is a sassy woman, trying for a make-or-break career change, feeling low and a long way from home."

There's a long pause, and eventually, Betty throws up her hands in defeat. "Hell, I blew it there," she admits. "I'm really sorry, Chris."

"It's okay," he soothes. "I'm used to celebs getting a bit worked up. Relax, have a drink, and give yourself a chance to regroup."

"Let's not kid ourselves about the celeb bit, honey, and I'll pass on the drink, my ex-husband drank enough for an entire lifetime in just a couple of years." Betty sighs. "You're sure enough right about being lonely though. Trouble is, the tough girl image scares most guys, either that or they can't see beyond the gloss and the chassis. Sure, I'm trying hard to make this work, who wouldn't? The alternative's a future spent opening shopping malls or cheerleading for a load of steroid-crazed pro-fighters."

"Such as 'Hulk Hogan?"

She smiles ruefully. "Babe, he's an intellectual and a gentleman compared to most. Aw dammit, you've shown me a lotta respect and hospitality these last couple of days and I've bad-mouthed ya like some bratty kid. I deserve to get my hiney warmed..."

"Spanked?" Chris's adrenaline kicks in hard, and without yet realising it Indya has rung his bell.

"If that's what you guys call it over here?" she shrugs. "I guess so."

"Well now," Chris's legendary interpersonal skills are about to be put to the ultimate test, "you're spot-on there, Betty. That's just what you need." Christ, he thinks, that's my bridges well and truly burnt. If she goes berserk my only chance is to plead two nations divided by a common language.

"Need, or deserve?" comes the unexpected response.

"Both," says Chris, fortunately sounding more confident than he feels. "Look at this as therapy," he continues, and taking the initiative, grasps the waist of her tight leather trousers, pulling her, teetering on her trademark heels, towards him.

She offers no resistance, merely looks up quizzically and says in a puzzled tone, "You figure you're gonna tan my butt, doncha?"

"Damn straight," Chris replies, fixing her with what he fervently hopes to be a steely gaze.

"Honey, I could throw you across the damn room."

"Could, but won't," responds Chris coolly. "You need someone who isn't intimidated by you and that's me." Seating himself on the capacious sofa he adroitly undoes her expensive strides and drags them down, "and I want you over my knee."              

To his incredulity, she offers no resistance. Betty is equally amazed. What her long-since divorced husband might have achieved with brute strength this guy is doing with mere words. Which, she silently observes, mind racing with ambivalent emotions, is a good deal more impressively masculine. Darn sexy if you want to know the truth.

Betty waits in trepidation as the air-conditioning cools her naked cheeks a slender thong concealing what little remains of her dignity. Chris runs his hand across her taut buttocks, admiring her slender waist and weight-trained body, her big boobs crushed against his thighs.

He spanks her carefully, methodically, covering every inch of the silky flesh with ringing slaps as Betty kicks and yells but, significantly, doesn't attempt to break free. Her cheeks turn red, hot to the touch, while from Betty's perspective, the smarts gradually turn into a warm, tingling glow sending covert messages to parts sadly neglected of late.

"Relax your buttocks," Chris's commanding tone breaks the silence, "they're far too tense." True enough, his palm is starting to sting,

"You relax them," comes the smart reply. Hey, I'm supposed to be the boss, Chris thinks, but the opportunity is too good to refuse, he caresses the burning globes, stroking her sensitive inner thighs, letting his fingertips dance over the damp strip of fabric which guards the entrance to her most erogenous of zones. And as those fingers skilfully tease and pet, Betty's buttocks do indeed relax; groans become moans, then gasps of pure pleasure. She twists and turns across his lap, grinding her overheated pussy hard against his knee. Oh yes, Betty needs this. But isn't going to get it nor any other sort of immediate release, abruptly her heartless English tormentor decants her onto the floor,

"Right," he says briskly, "if you're going to make that book interview you'd better spruce up and get weaving." Hah, who's in control now?

"What?" Her voice has a pleading tone she didn't intend but can't seem to shift, "You can't leave me in this state.''

"State of what, independence? It's just for an hour or two" Chris retorts brightly, "we can pick this up later."

"Goddamn..." Betty can't believe what's happening, no guy has ever made her wait before. Usually, they're in like a shot, although granted it's then mostly over too quickly.

"And what," she continues sarcastically, "do you suppose is going to happen then?" She's standing close against him, hauling trousers that suddenly seem much tighter, up over her throbbing bum. Chris leans forward to kiss her and finds her mouth eagerly responsive, tongue forcing its way urgently between his lips.

"Something a little harder," he ventures.

Betty extends a hand to the distended front of his chinos. "Harder here?" she asks.

He slaps her leather-clad arse by way of response. "Harder here. Good choice of clothes for television, by the way. Looks sexy on camera but way safer than a short skirt."

"You didn't answer my question, you're gonna paddle me, right?" She's hanging in there, has to know.

"Something like that," he's infuriatingly imprecise, "and whatever it is will be on the bare."

Which leaves Betty to endure three hours of anticipatory torture. Most of it spent perched on a burning bottom trying desperately not to squirm on camera. Witless interviewers pose an interminable succession of vacuous questions and Betty tries hard to concentrate, all the while wondering what that annoyingly assured Englishman is planning. She hopes it will involve filling her achingly empty pussy; the frustration is killing her.

So much so that in between the TV station and radio studio she pleads the need for a bathroom break and takes an impromptu adjournment Safely bolted into a cubicle she delves frantically in her handbag, a moment of panic, then, thank goodness. With the most discreet of whirring noises, a delicate, finger-sized vibrator provides some urgently needed sexual first aid and refreshed and revived, Betty goes on to do a barnstorm prime-time TV interview.

"Superb," says Chris enthusiastically as she emerges from the studio. "Media feeds off media and I've already had the Sundays on wanting profiles."

"Sundays?"

"The papers. Predictably, at least two want fashion shoots but the Sunday Times is up for a profile on the 'real you' while the Observer wants to focus on your status as a 'post-feminist icon'. Which makes Betty laugh long and loud; Chris meanwhile sports a conspiratorial smile.

"I think a small celebration is appropriate. I'll pick you up at eight - oh - and wear a skirt."

"Sugar, nobody tells me what to wear on a date."

"I do," he replies laconically, and in her heart, Betty already knows she'll comply.

You haven't eaten a lot; Chris observes later.

"I'm anxious," replies Betty with beguiling honesty. "I feel like a prom queen on her first date. Not," she adds quietly„ "that I ever got the chance to go to a prom, nor on to college." She rallies and looks affectionately at him. "OK, I guess we've reached the point where it's 'your place or mine'?"

"Mine," says Chris, decisively.

A little later they're in his Islington flat, Betty nodding approvingly at the polished wooden floorboards and eccentric mix of battered old and new furniture. She lowers her eyelids, awaiting his command.

"Knickers off, lose the dress too, but put your heels back on, you'll need them to push your bum up and out, exactly the way we want it."

"We?" Nevertheless, Betty gracefully obeys, walking confidently towards him breasts prominent against the confines of a skimpy bra, gym-toned posterior still faintly flushed. She kisses him again; her touch is electric.

"Now you're going to fuck me?" she whispers, hopefully. "Ultimately," he confirms, "after I've finished what we started earlier. Bend over the table."

For a moment nothing happens. Has he pushed things too far, too soon? Apparently not, Betty tosses back her hair, undulates across the room and obediently bends facedown, on the tabletop. Languidly aware of the erotic spectacle she presents, Betty grasps the edge, spreads her feet and blatantly thrusts out her haunches.

"Excellent." Chris savours the sight of her perfect cunt.

"How many?" Betty asks timorously.

"Six." Chris waves a slender strip of pliant leather where she can see it. "With a Scottish tawse."

"A what now?"

"Marvellous invention," Chris replies.

At once the first stroke cracks down, then another and another, searing her flesh. She gasps but won't cry out.

Three parallel livid stripes decorate the American's rump, skilfully applied with no overlap. Chris lets her wait, absorbing the pure bright pain. She's breathing hard, eyes screwed tight shut, fighting her emotions, for the moment still in control.

"Bring it on," Betty says in a clear, seductive voice.

He does so, determined to beat her hard Chris skims a scalding stroke across the top of her ravaged orbs drawing an anguished cry from Betty's lips. The next falls lower caustically cutting into her curves, forcing the breath from her body. To conclude a cruelly calculated stroke slices savagely into the crease where Betty's bottom joins her flawless thighs.

"Ooh."

No man has brought tears to her eyes for years. Extreme emotions, twin fires of passion and pain, burn deep within her. Betty's ready, hears his zip being drawn down, waits for another few seconds then pounces. Turning like the expert wrestler she is, she catches him unprepared, at least for fighting. Cock in hand Chris is in no position to defend himself as she flings him backwards onto the floor.

"You can fuck me from behind next time, Brit," she growls, "but right now we're going to do it my way."

Crouching over his prostrate form and now firmly in her Indya incarnation, she slowly lowers her liquid slot down the full length of his powerfully erect shaft. "Oh yes, sugar, fill me up," she groans. Those impressive beasts are now, literally, in his face, his prick clasped tightly deep inside her, and it seems female athletes have equally well-developed internal muscles.

"Next time?" he repeats hesitantly.

"Oh sure, honey, you'll get to whip me again real soon," she purrs, "but right now let me show you how to wrestle."

2620