Ready to Wear

She stood in front of her closet determined to make the right choice. Would it be the naughty librarian, wearing the business suit, the blouse unbuttoned one button too far, the glasses, the skirt, the stockings? Or her hair in pony tails, plaid skirt, the schoolgirl in detention. Or something else, the busy soccer mom, the real MILF, speeding through town on her way home?

There were choices, but the scenario played out the same way.

She was bad.

She got in trouble.

She needed to be punished. Take her medicine. Pay the price. Do her penance.

It could be the boss man, calling in the secretary into his office for a reprimand. "You were flirting with the UPS man again, Ms Jones."

"Yes, sir," she'd say, looking down at her hands nervously wrenched together.

"We run a professional business here, Ms Jones. Not a bordello. Such behavior, such dress"--he'd point at her outfit—"have no place in this tight ship I run."

"No, sir."

"Well, what are we to do about this, to make sure such insubordination never happens again?" He'd look up, and she'd look up, and there'd be eye contact, and if she was nervous she'd giggle but that would just extend the punishment because breaking character—he didn't tolerate that either. Then she'd know what came next.

Or she'd be called in to the office of the principal, and he'd run a variation on the same story. She'd been kissing someone, some guy in her class, or maybe if he was being really elaborate, some girl, and he'd make her tell him about it, confess, and take her punishment.

Or she'd be the MILF, and he'd be the cop, and he'd put her in the back of his cruiser and have a talk with her, and she'd be in his control—you can't run from a cop, and she'd beg to be let off but he wasn't the forgiving type, and you couldn't really bribe him, so she'd have to think hard.

And then inevitably, she'd end up across his knee, her skirt up, her panties down, and he'd rub it gently at first, warm it up, warm up his hand, and there'd be the first sharp smack. And she'd wake up a bit and wonder if that was it. Then the next one, a little harder, but nothing more than playful, and she'd start to get mad. "Harder," she'd think. "I need to feel this."

And he'd lecture her a bit, try to draw a little more out from her. What other people have you been flirting with? You haven't been eyeing the teachers now, have you? Where did you have to be in such a hurry, ma'am?

All the while, raising the tempo until she felt a warmth from her bottom. Last time when he finished, she would wake up in the night and feel the heat still, the little sting that reminded her of what came after, and she viewed these slaps as an investment, something she could carry around with her all day so that each light brush reminded her of what she'd been doing, how totally vulnerable she'd been, how in control he'd been.

But she knew the real truth. She was in control. The more he'd try to elicit from her, the more she'd slip up and reveal. And the more she'd reveal, the more she'd slip up, the firmer the slaps would get. She could control him in this way. Not hard enough? Mention how she hadn't been wearing panties to work the last week, and how completely unprofessional that was. Or that she'd skipped PE to go to the lake with some boy. Or that there was a red light she'd run earlier that she felt she must confess.

And he'd spank harder each time, or increase the punishment, and as he did, she'd feel this hardness rise against her chest and she'd know she had him then.

She might offer to buy her way out of it. If I suck your cock, will you let me go now, Sir? And depending on his mood, he might, or he might see the bribe for what it was and give her another round.

At some point, she might even get him to the point where each spank jolted her whole body, made her feel alive and prickly with sensation. He'd stop, she'd grit her teeth, he'd gently stroke her red ass, hold his hand on a handprint and caress it, and a chill would go over her. She'd need one more, two more, three more, until there were tears in the corner of her eyes, and she'd say, "Fuck me now" and then she'd be in control, and he'd do what she said.

Sometimes she'd suck him, for it would be all she could tolerate. Other times she'd straddle him, her but so sore she couldn't stand to have him on top of her. She'd straddle his cock, or his face, and she'd be soaking wet already, it wouldn't take much. Sometimes she'd risk it, grab her vibe and let him take her from behind, his soft hairs touching her rosy bottom as she ground the vibe against her clit, and they'd come together, the sensations overwhelming.

Late in the night, after the lights were out, and after a bit of sleep, she'd wake up, shift in bed, feel the raw reminder of her "sin", and it would recall the eroticism of the moment. She'd reach over, tug his cock, put it in her mouth, and he'd wake up, and his time he'd envelope her with his arms as she enveloped him with herself, and together, they'd make slow sweet silent 3AM love. When it was through, in that moment before she drifted off again, she'd wonder—what trouble could she get into next time?