Isabél

As I turn the sharp corner at Angelica's house I see her waving at me from the kitchen window, and I can almost hear her saying 'ciao Anna!'. Rounding this corner to hit the gravel road going steeply up the side of the valley always feels like a sort of homecoming, even though I am in a foreign country. After all, we have owned our share in the house on the hillside for ten years, and spent most of our holidays in the area. When I was younger I never thought of myself as the summer house type, settling in one place. But Toscana has endless possibilities. I am going to spend a nice and relaxing weekend hiking the low mountains, eating Beppe's truffle risotto, and tasting Gianni's latest batch of red wine. It is a shame that Jan couldn't join me, but then again, maybe it is OK. I need to relax and unwind, and I can perfectly well do so in my own company.

It has been a stressful day. I got up in the middle of the night to catch the morning flight into Linate, picked up a Sixt in the airport, and drove straight to corporate headquarters in downtown Milano, just in time to present before the board of executives at 11. It was an extremely important presentation, and I had spent two full overtime weeks preparing it. If Milano buys our proposal we will be hiring ten to fifteen engineers, plus supporting staff, over the next couple of years. If not, we are looking at layoffs, at least a handful. The board members were polite, poignant, and inscrutable. Although I left with a sort of good feeling, there was no immediate feedback or decision, and the knot in my stomach persisted. I had lunch and a brief tour of the new production facility with Stefano. He was competent and kind as always, even kind enough to flirt with me. But my uneasy nervousness remained, and I excused myself early. After all, I had several hours of driving ahead of me, and Stefano understood perfectly well.

I finally got my relief on the autostrada in the middle of the afternoon, when a text message from Martin ticked in. "ANNA, you are a GOLDEN GOOSE!" I screamed my joy and relief out loud in the secluded privacy of the little car's cabin. There can hardly be any formal decision yet, but Martin is well connected in upper management, and usually knows what is going on. Turning off the autostrada and into the hills I finally felt the knot loosen up, and a pleasant relaxation flowing through me. My mission is accomplished, and I can enjoy the long weekend with a good conscience.

For a few minutes I must concentrate on the winding and narrowing road, then the house appears on the hillside to the right of me. Partly hidden behind a line of trees, but still commanding great views over the valley and the slopes on the far side. I park the car, pick out my little hardcase cabin bag and the laptop case. I am minimally packed, outdoor clothes and boots are in the house. Reaching the top of the stone stairway, I put the key in the lock, only to realize it is already open. That must mean Isabél is there, the spanish girl that Angelica hired to do weekly cleaning and simple maintenance. She is in her early twenties I think, with long dark hair, black eyes, a slim body with a nifty little bubble butt protruding from it. I smile at the thought. Even though I haven't been on the market for many years, I am apparently still in the habit of assessing the competition.

I kick off my shoes in the entrance, and call out. "Isabél? Ciao Isabél!" But there is no response, and as I enter the living room I cannot see or hear any sign of her. Maybe she already left, and forgot to lock the door. It is no big deal. The area is peaceful, only the locals would know there is anything to come after in the house, and they could hardly go up the hill without being noticed by Angelica's ever curious eyes. I stand indecisively in the living room for a moment. The shiny espresso machine in the open kitchen area briefly tempts me, but I turn and go upstairs instead. I want to lie down and relax for a little while before doing anything else. The homeliness of the surroundings overwhelms me with a soft laziness, the furniture, the way that soft afternoon light falls through the windows, the slight creaking of the old wooden staircase. As I reach the first floor I turn left towards the half-open bedroom door. Angelica and Isabél knew I was coming, and the bed is nicely made. I can see its reflection in the mirrors of the big walk-in closet even before I enter the room.

It is odd how sounds, sights and smells, can transport you back in time. As I stand before the bed, in the fragrance of late italian spring, mixed with the dusty scent of old wooden panels and the freshness of Isabél's white linen, I am ten years younger, at the first time that Jan and I saw this room, and this bed. I lazily throw myself onto it, looking up into the ceiling, and the memory begins to unfold in my head. Jan's strong robust body, the slight, delightful smell of his sweat, the buttons of his trousers, and their erect content - back then he didn't need the blue pills. The shameful yet enticing feeling of sin, because we were beginning to do this thing in a room that technically was not yet ours. I can almost feel Jan's gravity coming softly over me as I slide one hand underneath my decent businesslike skirt. The silk fabric of my panties is smooth and tickly. The tip of my index finger circles the sweet spot, stimulating it just like Jan's thick mushroom head did while my hands fervently grabbed around his firm buttocks..

A sudden rush of lust and desire shoots through me, and I resurface from my memory-fantasy, realizing that I am horny as hell. When was the last time I got anything? Certainly not in the last two weeks. Not even in the last three weeks perhaps. With a quickening pulse and slightly trembling hands I reach out to open my little luggage bag, and pull out the remote-control vibrator that I sleepily packed in the middle of the night with brilliant, absent-minded foresight. I kick off my skirt and panties, and push the rounded oval shape of the vibrator inside me, carefully positioning the little exterior taps so they can tickle me here and there. Then I sink back into the mattress, close my eyes, and engage the vibrator with an ever so slight push on the remote-control slider. Its gentle humming is accompanied by a soft, warm and mellow pleasure spreading into my body.

After a little while I slowly begin to pick up the intensity. I try to recall the picture and sensation of Jan, but he morphs into one of those young, strong and slender guys from the valley that I cannot help noticing even though I am not looking after them. Isabél has brought him here, they are standing before the bed, facing each other. She is in tight-fitting light-blue jeans and a white t-shirt, the guy in short-sleeved hiking clothes with earthy colors. The moment is slightly awkward, because they both know what they have come for, yet it is their first time together, and it somehow feels wrong to do it in the bedroom of the foreign owners. Wrong, yes, but also deliciously naughty, and now Isabél takes the initiative, stepping forward with a shy little smile, to put her hands up under his t-shirt. They pull closer together, delighting in each others bodies, his hands softly caressing the beautiful curve of her jeans.

She pulls his t-shirt over his head, he reciprocates, and goes on to remove her bra, exposing the small, firm, rounded breasts. I give the slider an extra push as he licks them while she unbottons his pants. She pulls them down, and teasingly explores the big bulge in his boxer shorts. He pulls down her pants too, she kicks herself out of them, and let his hands reach around and caress the smooth, tight silk of her panties. I indulge in the sweet tingling sensation spreading from her buttocks out into her body, and I give the slider an extra notch. She pulls down his boxers, and push him softly onto the bed. Then she slowly removes her panties before him, and crawl onto the bed to straddle him. With two fingers she keeps his erect dick vertical while carefully lowering herself over it. Her eyes are half closed, her lips come slightly apart as she feels him going up into her. Oddly, the guy somehow evaporates, vanishes from my attention, with the sight of Isabél taking full focus as she begins to ride him, slowly, with full concentration. Her breath becomes heavier as she gently rocks back and forth, left and right, over him, tingling pleasure spreading out into my body.

An overwhelming excitement suddenly seizes me, and as I push the vibrator to full power, Isabél begins to ride her lover harder, faster. Her lips come further apart, the whiteness of her teeth beginning to show underneath. The muscles in her tight, slim belly are visibly working as she greedily jumps around on him, her breasts dancing up and down. The orgasm is approaching, her face gradually distorts, the eyes squinting, then closing tight, the teeth now fully bared, as her heavy breathing turning into abrupt, excited whimpers. We are so close, her whimpers merge to a continuous high-pitched moaning while she twists wildly over him, throwing her long hair from side to side. Her face distorts beyond recognition, and her scream fills the room as the orgasm arrives, an explosion in the brain, a tidal wave through the body. It washes me ashore panting, sweaty, exhausted, with eyes closed and ringings of pleasure slowly subsiding in my body.

I turn off the vibrator, pull it out, and sink back into the bed and the silence. A relaxed pleasant feeling is oozing into all corners of my body, as I regain my senses to feel the scent and the soft light and sounds of the late afternoon. This is a moment of true, universal perfection. The only tiny little flaw is a slight, and really ridiculous, feeling of guilt for thinking about Isabél in that way. She has gotten dressed again, but somehow changed from jeans and t-shirt to black tights and a grey hoodie. She is standing out in the hall, watching me through the mirror reflection in the closet. It takes me a few seconds to realize that it is reality, and not a continuation of my fantasy.

O shit. Oshitoshitoshit! How did she get into the house without me hearing it? Was she here the whole time? Maybe she was in the garden? Yes that must be it. She might not have heard me coming, and with the door to the patio slightly open, she could have entered silently. But how long has she been standing up here? Did she just arrive? No, in the quiet after the orgasm I would have heard the creak of the stairs. She must have come up while the vibrator was running. She has been watching me, I can see it in her face. It is very red and has a guilty bewilderment to it, her jaw is hanging, her eyes wide open.

I lie very still on the bed. I want her to go away. Then we can forget about this thing, pretend it never happened. But something is dawning on me. If I know that she is watching me through the mirror, she must also know by now that I am watching her. If I wait long enough, maybe she will go away. But I will know that she was watching me. And she will know that I know. It will remain between us as an awkward embarrassment, unsaid, unresolved, a huge elephant in a room that is way too small.

With an effort, I sit myself up on the edge of the bed. One of the things that has made me a good engineer, and - I believe - a good team leader, is that I cannot stand ambiguity. I need clarity and transparency, even if it causes temporary pain. I wet my lips, and take a deep breath.

"Isabél." I take great care to say it in a firm but otherwise neutral voice.

She hesitates, then steps forward into the bedroom. Her face is very red, she is biting her lip, and fails to look me straight in the eyes. Obviously, she is scared about what this will lead to. I could easily make her lose this job, and depending on what exactly I say to Angelica, I could make sure she would not get another one anywhere in the valley. Would she then move on, or is she somehow tied down to this place, maybe by the local guy from my fantasy? I don't know. Nevertheless, I must say something, move the situation on. But as I open my mouth to speak, I immediately realize my mistake. Jan and I have picked up quite a bit of italian over the years. But Isabél is spanish, and we don't really have any language in common. Bits and pieces of english and italian suffice to communicate greetings and simple matters about the housekeeping. They don't suffice to explain how I feel about her having watched me in my most intimate moment.

"Isabél...". The firmness in my voice peters out. I want to convey that I am angry with her, but that she should not be afraid of losing her job. But english and italian phrases are tumbling and colliding in my head, without shaping into any kind of order. For a few seconds we are staring at each other in a kind of helpless silence. Then it is as if she suddenly comes to a decision. She steps abruptly forward, and lies down along the edge of the mattress, over my lap, positioning herself so that her bubbly buttocks in the black tights are strutting right under my face, my hands. It is all too obvious what she expects me to do.

I am shocked and horrified by the mere suggestion. It goes against all of my values and my whole upbringing. It is deeply rooted in me that power is a responsibility that should not be abused. And that violence can never be an answer. I sit still over Isabéls protruding buttocks, stifled, confused, my mouth drying and a knot forming in my stomach. I begin to speak, fumbling after the words.

"Isabél.. no..".

She twists her head, looking back at me over her shoulder, fervently nodding at me.

"Sí!"

Her face has a begging, imploring expression to it, and I begin to feel doubt and confusion about the situation. I clearly sense that this is not just about her fear of my power and authority. She is ashamed of herself, and she wants me to give her some kind of atonement, or absolution. Spanish girl, catholic upbringing? Maybe a spanking can save her money for candles in the church? Or maybe she is too young and modern for the old rites to work? I can't know it. But the question remains: Is it right of me to deny her the absolution she obviously craves for?

There is also another thing, that is slowly creeping up on me. A sort of natural, innate logic of the situation, that defies my intellect and ethics. I am angry with her, I cannot deny that. She is ashamed. Her bottom is in perfect position, right under my hands. She is ready. I am ready. The situation gives itself.

Except that I am not ready at all! Hell, I have never done or tried this thing in any way. Not even for sex. How do you do it? How hard? How fast? It feels perverse, ridiculous, outlandish to me. And yet this weird logic of the situation is working on me, together with Isabéls insistent stare, and energetic inviting nods. I lift my hand, indecisively, it hangs still in the air for a few seconds. Then I let it come down onto the buttock that is farthest away from me. The slap is vain, feeble, unimpressive, but still decisive. I have crossed the line, stepped over the border, there can be no going back now.

I begin to slap her, softly but repeatedly, alternating between her left and right buttocks, gradually making my smacks harder. I try to cup my hand so that it fits her curves. Their firm rounded softness somehow feels pleasant. She absorbs the smacks without moving or complaining, but her breathing picks up. I realize that I can see her face in the closet mirror, her lips are slightly apart, and her eyes squinting a bit. Like in my fantasy. The thought is somewhat disturbing. A stinging sensation is spreading in my hand as the spanking goes on. After a while it stings a lot. I guess it must sting much more in her. Maybe this is enough. I stop slapping her, already worried that I hurt her too much.

She is still for a little while, as if waiting to see what I am up to. Then she twists her head and upper body, reaches an arm down, and begins pulling at her tights. I am surprised. She is not at all satisfied with her punishment. On the contrary, she wants it to continue in the bare!

I hesitate again, this time only for a couple of seconds. Then I grab her tights, and help her pull them down, all the way down around her ankles. The white fabric of her panties is creeping up between her buttocks, revealing their uniform pink coloration. I remove the panties as well, pull them down around her knees, feeling an odd nervous excitement in my stomach. This situation is totally unlike anything I ever tried before.

I begin to smack her again, now over the bare pink skin. I am afraid to hit her too hard, to bruise her, so that her lover would notice, or it will be painful for her to sit down. I remember from an old engineering course that intensity is amplitude times frequency, or something like that. I begin to increase the frequency, raining the slaps down over her bare unprotected bottom. It works, I can feel her body begin to twitch a bit, her breathing becomes heavier, turning into very slight moans, and her face distorts. I lay my free hand over hear waist, clamping her position firmly, and sense a brief relaxation in her, as if my embrace is comforting. Her ass is turning bright red now. I begin to experiment, hitting each buttock three or four times in a row, before switching to the other one. It makes her twist and twitch more, and she lets out small abrupt whimpers.

The situation carries me away. It gives me a strange satisfaction to feel the spying little bitch wriggle under her well-deserved punishment, to dissolve my anger, frustration and embarrassment in a hailstorm of smacks all around her perfect bubbly buttocks. They are now uniformly colored in a deep dark red, her lips wrought open in a kind of distorted grin, her right hand grappling around the white linen as in a cramp. I am in a kind of trance, let the spanking go on and on, rhythmic, excited, even lustful. Only when she begins to let out little screams and kick her legs, I snap out of my trance, stop the slaps and sit back, watching her quivering beneath me.

As my excitement subsides, conflicting emotions struggle inside me. The rush and satisfaction of delivering the punishment to her gives way to a horrible sense of guilt and shame, that gradually creeps in and overwhelms me. Isabél is literally trembling with pain over my lap. What have I done? This has gone way too far! I should never have gone into it in the first place. I feel an urge to say sorry, excuse myself, but even though I can find the words, they stick in my throat. It seems they would defy the whole purpose of Isabél's sufferings. But I feel a need to do some kind of gesture, to show her it is over, it is alright, and everything is forgiven.

When I was a kid, running, tumbling and climbing around, I always bruised myself, and then it felt good to rub the sore spot immediately afterwards. It is the only gesture I can think of now. I put one hand onto her buttocks and begin to rub them softly, carefully. I expect she will calm down, relax. Instead, her tremblings double, and her breath picks up again. It takes me completely aback. My hand rests indecisively on the soft curve of her bottom as I come to an awkward realization: She is not shaking with pain at all. She is shaking with excitement. And I knew it. Maybe my intellect only understood it now, but my body knew it the whole time. It is trembling and sizzling too, as if it was somehow in resonance with her.

I continue rubbing her buttocks very gently, now with both hands. I can hear and feel her excitement growing. Her eyes are closed, her lips shaped into something that just might be a little smile. Again, the innate logic of the situation carries me away, even though I know that this is totally wrong. I let two of my fingers slide softly down between her buttocks. She immediately lets out a whimper, it sounds a bit like a feeble protest, and I pause my movement. But at the same time she spreads out her legs as much as the tights around her ankles allow. I let my fingers slide deeper, tickling her as they go along, she twitches and moans continuously. I reach under her with the other hand, feeling the short curly hairs in her delta, then further down, into the wetness. A sudden, sharp jolt through her body as I find her little sweet bean. I let my index finger circle on top of it, gently massaging, while I tickle her ass with the other hand. The movements of my fingertips immediately translate into quivers, tremblings and moans, giving me the illusion of a deep, intimate connection between us. Her face is as red as her buttocks now, she has turned her head to the side, resting it on the bed. Her eyes are open again, staring intently at the vibrator lying beside her, like some alien spaceship stranded on a salt flat. I pick it up, take it between her legs, and very carefully slide it into her. She grabs the remote control for herself, and immediately sets it in motion. No instructions are necessary, after all she has just seen how to use it.