tagBDSMThey're Fake

They're Fake


Act one

"They're fake..."

Katie couldn't believe it, and she wasn't the only one. The newspaper editor who'd printed the compromising photographs had clearly been as confident of vindication as had she expected humiliation.

Greg Hammond, according to the same paper, a 'digital imaging guru' and a lecturer in applied information technology, was implacable.

"Very good fakes, but clearly digitally manipulated," he explained plausibly. "Look closely at these two enlargements showing Katie's head and shoulders and you'll detect a very fine line around the neck. What we in the trade call a 'Frankenstein picture', her head electronically stitched onto someone else's torso.

Which just about killed the press conference. Wobbly kneed with relief and incredulity, Katie left the hotel - wherein the embarrassed editor was being harangued by both his publisher and journalists from rival papers - via the back door and slipped quickly up the road to an old-fashioned London pub. A few minutes later she was seated in a discreet corner, sipping a large G&T and flicking through tweets on her mobile. News of her exoneration was already widespread: 'Soap star off the hook' and 'Former boyfriend now in frame for fakes; next day's Sunday papers would be hastily rewriting their front pages.

"Hello Katie, mind if I join you?" Without waiting for answer Greg, her unexpected saviour, slid into the seat next to her.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't, but it seemed a reasonable deduction. Anyone would need a stiff drink after that circus. Just a matter of trying the nearest bars."

Katie stared at him, struggling to find the correct words.

"I don't know..."

"What to say? I'm not surprised. Just a week ago a much loved TV actress was facing public embarrassment and career ruin after snaps of her being spanked across some lucky chap's knee appeared in the popular press," Greg succinctly summed up her predicament.

"Which..." stammered Katie.

"You vehemently, some might say might say foolishly, denied. Good job they didn't run some of the other snaps, at least you had your knickers on." Greg paused, and sipped his pint. "They were probably saving them for tomorrow's edition."

Katie blushed crimson. "I can't thank you enough".

But as it turned out she could, she really could...

She'd originally envisaged an older man, a stereotypically dishevelled boffin; whereas Greg seemed to be in his early thirties, same as her. (Or at least the age Katie claimed to be on her theatrical resume.) Fashionably dressed, slim and quite dishy, in different circumstances she might...

"So what made lover boy take such a vindictive revenge when you ended it," enquired Greg?

"He had the looks, but not the acting chops. I was getting better work and earning more. The poor lamb's pride was already hurt apparently, and then I dumped him. Serve me right for dating a younger bloke I suppose," said Katie ruefully.

"I think the bigger mistake was letting him take pictures, but don't be so hard on yourself. Check on any sexually active adult's hardware and you'll likely find something compromising."

"Well thanks for the grown-up's perspective," laughed Katie. "Unfortunately I fell foul of those peculiar exemplars of British double standards, the salacious Sunday papers. And, by the way, I didn't let him take pictures, the sod set up a hidden camera and used a remote."

"My loathing of the fourth estate's lower echelons almost certainly equals yours," replied Greg.

"Then why did this one pay you to prove their point?"

"Because I'm the best, and newspapers have short memories. Two years ago the very same redtop attacked me because I gave evidence supporting the prosecution when they were in the dock for phone tapping celebs.

Katie sat back in surprise - a look of dawning realisation on her face. "So today was payback - that's why you said the pictures were Photoshopped, or did you just fancy being a knight in shining armour, Whatever, I'm just grateful to be rescued, but I don't understand how you get away with such a judgement?"

"Well for a start it was a press conference, not a court of law, I didn't commit perjury. That editor was so cocky it was pleasure to take him and his scurrilous rag down, honestly the expression on his face," Greg grinned at the recollection.

"Honesty had nothing to do with," responded Katie. "When you said the pictures weren't genuine I couldn't believe it, and then you invited people to take a closer look!"

"Human nature," shrugged Greg. "Who wants to be seen to back the wrong horse? See the join, of course they couldn't, there wasn't one, but hey, 'Emperor's new clothes and all that...'"

"But won't other experts...?"

"Contradict me?" Greg pre-empted Katie's question. "At the risk of boasting there's only a couple of people in the entire country working at my level, to diminish the professional standing of one threatens the status of us all. Plenty of very lucrative work as expert witnesses to share, no need to rock the boat. Besides you're a very popular public figure."

"With who?"

"Eight million weekly views of 'Westenders', the UK's highest-rated soap opera. Everyone loves the George Tavern's, Babs McClure."

"But couldn't name one of the critically acclaimed RSC productions I've been in," sighed Katie.

"The lady does protest too much," suggested Greg.

"True," Katie conceded, "the lucrative TV work does allow me to take some prestigious theatre jobs on poverty pay, and still keep a flat in town and a cottage on the coast."

"I've seen you tread the boards," added Greg, "although to be honest still prefer you as the nation's favourite barmaid."

"Do you indeed," said Katie. "So why do I think this unexpected salvation from the brink of showbiz doom is going to cost me?"

"Well isn't the basis of spanking an element of coercion?"

"So you think saving a damsel in distress gives you the right to spank her?", asked Katie, sharply.

"Whoa", Greg raised his hands in mock surrender, "the right - certainly not, opportunity, possibly. We all have fantasies, mine - and lot of other bloke's - is to take a certain well-known buxom barmaid to task, did you know there are Internet message boards devoted to discussing your delightful derriere?"

"What! You're kidding."

"Demonstrable proof is but a few clicks away", he grinned wickedly.

"There's such a thing as too much information," said Katie, quickly. "More to the point, where did you suppose this hypothetical encounter might take place?"

"Well, in your position I'd want to be safe, and very sure there were no more hidden cameras. You should choose the venue; a hotel perhaps, certainly not your London flat - it wouldn't help either of our careers to be seen together right now."

"How about," Katie suggested cautiously, "purely for the sake of argument you understand, I've not yet agreed to anything yet, my cottage; conveniently close to Brighton - but rural and hard to find?"

"Sounds ideal."

"But..." she hesitated, "can I trust you? My track record doesn't show impressive judgement."

"Not to do a subsequent kiss and tell?" Greg warmed to his theme. "Look at it as a mutually assured destruction. We've each got enough information to dam the other; as long as that's true there no reason for either side to reveal it."

"So, if I might précis our little tete a tete. I rather obviously enjoy being spanked. You apparently enjoy spanking?"

"In a nutshell," Greg confirmed.

"You," Katie continued, "not unreasonably feel I owe you for redemption services rendered and intend to, coerce was your exact word, me into a spanking to repay this debt?"

"Quite so," replied Greg quietly, not wishing to overplay what increasingly appeared to be a winning hand.

"Then I agree,' said Katie. "But a hand spanking".

"Absolutely - I saw the marks in the later photos, what did that berk use on your poor posterior?"

"A hairbrush - clumsily." Katie winced at the memory.

"Alright - but on the bare." Greg pressed his case, no sense in appearing soft.

"Fine," Katie signed with mock resignation, all the while secretly thrilled at the prospect, "and afterwards?'

"Let's just see how it goes," he said magnanimous in victory. "No expectations, no entitlements. How about next Sunday?

"Perfect, there's a train from Waterloo gets in about 14.35."

"I'll be on it, now if you'll excuse me."

"Back to work?'

"Actually I've a job interview."

And before Katie could enquire further he was gone,

leaving her intrigued and, she discovered, clutching her thighs tightly together, definitely aroused.

Act two

He'd been standing outside of Brighton station for only a couple of minutes when a mud-splattered VW Golf, braked hard in front of him.

"Hop-in," called a familiar voice. Greg did as instructed and hadn't even had a chance to fasten his seat belt before Katie sped off as rapidly as she'd arrived, driving quickly and assuredly out into the countryside. Sunglasses concealing her eyes, she turned and smiled mischievously at him though recently rouged lips.

Taking a B road across picturesque chalk downs Katie suddenly turned left up a narrow track and halted outside a modest brick cottage. "Hang on a tick," said his chauffeur, reaching down to fish a pair of red slingbacks from the footwell and slip them on, "I always drive barefoot, much safer," she added by way of explanation, climbing out of the car. "Ten minutes walk to the beach," she added over her shoulder, walking ahead to open the front door.

This was Greg's first proper view of her since their London encounter and it didn't disappoint A tight green jersey dress hugged every one of Katie's curves closely, her bottom sashaying deliciously in front of him as Greg followed her into the house. Knee-length and scooped necked the sleeveless garment showed her bare brown arms and legs to perfection.

"Like the outfit?" she enquired archly, turning to face him hands on hips. "I figured my usual home ensemble of Ugg boots, track pants and a hoody weren't going to hack it."

"You look amazing," said Greg sincerely. "As I recall when we last met in the bar you were the lady in black."

"Oh yes, sensible black suit, sensible black shoes," she giggled. "And, had you but known, black stockings, too," Katie added impishly. "But what to delight him with today I wondered? What would Bab's do? I reckon Britain's favourite fictional barmaid would look the business pulling pints in this little number - speaking of which, fancy a glass of wine before we get down to, ahem, business?'

"Anything to slow your nervous steam of consciousness," responded Greg, relieved to get a word in.

"Sorry, I do tend to rattle on when I'm jittery and right now I could use some Dutch courage. Cold pinot gris OK?"


As Katie got the drinks Greg looked around the room, despite her celebrity status this was a bright modern unostentatious home. They drank in silence, Greg sprawled across the settee, calm and relaxed - confident of his ability to assume control. Katie, no longer chattering edgily, sat tense and upright - knees primly together on an adjacent easy chair.

"So..." began Greg eventually, his deep blue eyes transfixing her with a steady gaze, "it's time".

If Katie had words she couldn't find them. Leaning forward to grasp her wrists he pulled her towards him. Literally digging in her heels Katie half stood, half stumbled, face

down over his knees, head and shoulders resting along the sofa.

"A little late in the day to be resisting," observed Greg wryly, his left hand pressed firmly into the small of her back while his right languorously traced the contours of her classically proportioned posterior. Smoothing the material tightly across her tush he raised his right hand and bought it smartly down across Katie's right cheek; next onto the left, alternating between each buttock and slowly building a steady rhythm. Pursing her lips Katie scarcely moved an inch, despite feeling her curvaceous rear start to glow.

"Oh, going to tough it out are you?" enquired Greg with amusement; "we'll see how far defiance gets you."

Slowly he lifted the hem of her dress, peeling the clingy material clear of the target area to reveal two already pink mounds. The spanking resumed, smack after smack, louder now as his hand made percussive contact with bare skin.

"This skimpy lingerie certainly flatters your figure, but since it clearly afford no protection at all we'll have these knickers down," said Greg, the deed accompanying his words.

"No!" Katie finally, if unconvincingly, found her voice as her panties were pulled to her knees.

"Yes," insisted Greg, "and now you're nicely warmed up I'm going to smack that beautiful bare bottom properly." And he did, long and hard - covering every inch of the soon hot-to-the-touch surface; ignoring Katie's grunts and wails, paying no heed to her increasingly animated wriggling and writhing. On and on Greg's apparently tireless arm rose and fell, redder and redder became Katie's poor arse. Gradually her complaints ceased, her breathing deepened and she appeared to enter an almost trance-like state.

Greg paused, tugged her thighs apart, and transferred his punitive attentions to her sit spot. In response Katie's breaths became ragged, punctuated by moans of a much lower timbre, oblivious to dignity she began to grind her mons into Greg's knees. Carefully he slid his hand into the apex of her thighs, allowing his fingers to trace the wet outline of her labia. "Ah yes," Katie gasped.

Stroking and teasing with the fingers of his right hand,

Greg bought his left down hard, directly across the centre of her twin fiery moons. Far beyond embarrassment, or even decorum, Katie's hips squirmed and jerked as a final volley of slaps took her over the edge and she noisily and gratefully came.

Several minutes later she slid slowly to the floor, knelt before her tormenter, all the while frantically massaging her hot, sore rear. Katie looked guiltily at a large wet patch on Greg's lap. "Sorry I seem to have..."

"Not at all, you're welcome," he responded magnanimously, "I'd intended to make you stand in the corner, but..."

"I can see you have a more pressing concern," Katie's hand gripped his bulging crotch firmly. "I think I'd better take you upstairs and see if we can find a cure for that."

Half an hour later, intertwined on her bed - Greg propped on one elbow, Katie facedown, unable to contemplate sitting comfortably for a while yet, they simultaneously gave voice to the obvious question. What now?

"Well", Katie began, "I'm afraid Babs is going to be leaving the bar of the George Tavern and the cast of 'Westenders'".


"Whatever reason the scriptwriters come up with," replied Katie airily, "gone travelling, abducted by an alien spaceship, who cares? But I'm off to Hollywood. My first big movie role, only a supporting part but a great script and who knows what might follow?"

"Well done you, and something of a coincidence," said Greg. "Remember I went for an interview the other day?"

"Yes, what happened?"

"I got the gig. A visiting professorship at Caltech."

"Which is where?"

"Don't you watch 'The Big Bang Theory? Pasadena, north east of downtown LA, about 20 miles from where you'll likely be filming..."

"Looks like this was meant to be," sighed Katie contentedly.

"Exactly. So don't forget to pack your hairbrush, I promise to use it properly."

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