Naughty Tails by Robin SmithFive spanking short stories! Five mischievous young ladies test the patience, push the limits and exercise the strong right arms of the men who love them.
Enjoy this collection of fun spanking short stories by celebrated author Robin Smith! Five mischievous young ladies test the patience, push the limits and exercise the strong right arms of the men who love them in:
Dirty Phone Call
Imagine yourself sneaking inside your boyfriend's apartment, then calling him up while he's at work, and talking dirty... What if you helped yourself to a batter spoon – what? You don't know what a batter spoon is? Then why do you have one? Yeah... it's that wooden spoon with the slot in the middle. It's for stirring batter, hence, the name. Yes, now get back to imagining yourself with the batter spoon in your boyfriend's apartment while talking on the phone to him. Now, what would you do with your batter spoon? What if you smacked yourself on the ass? He's worried his co–workers might hear! So what, this is your phone call, so do it again. Oh, yeah! How does that feel? Now, what would you do next? Who knew phone calls could be so much fun!
Liam received a small, puzzling business card from his best friend Marcus in honor of his birthday. It was a simple card, with only the title and address – no advertising, no catchy byline, no art work to give a hint as to what the business was. Curious, he drives there, but it isn't until after he has signed confidentiality waivers and numerous forms that he finally gets a peek at the unusual and titillating company behind the catchy logo.
He came in through the bathroom window
Nona had forgotten to close the window in the bathroom when the temperature dropped. Now a cool wind blew in, fluttering the shower curtain. She quickly went to shut it, but not before a masked stranger invaded her home. He claimed he had been sent to punish her for her ill–temper! A wicked–good spanking ensues, but the story ends with a brilliant surprise.
Not all meets are cute! Carter was just moving in to his bedroom after a lengthy renovation, when he thinks he sees his neighbor about to commit suicide. He rushes next door to be a hero, only to discover that her behavior is far more kink than crazed. Together they work through the awkward meet, and just maybe they can discover common ground.
Follow this working girl through a day on the job, as a professional spankee in assorted fantasies. From the elderly man who revisits the first spanking he ever gave his dearly departed wife, to the ”Pa” who wallops his ”fifteen–year–old” daughter inside a rustic log cabin, it is all part of the props and fantasies these gentlemen pay for. At the end of the day, relaxed and satisfied, the working girl reflects on how much she loves her job.
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Naughty Tails (Sample Chapter)
Five bare bottom spanking stories in one hot book
© Robin Smith and Red Hot Romance Publishing 2013
Naughty Tails Sample Chapter
(excerpts from all four stories)
Dirty Phone Call
Hi, honey. Got a minute?
What? Oh, nothing scary, just wanted to give you a call. Can you talk? Good. Close your eyes. Unless you're driving, then keep them open. You're where? At your desk? Working through lunch, eh? Even better. Close your eyes.
Because I said so, that's why. This is a dirty phone call and I get to make the rules. Hang on, this isn't on speaker, is it? Okay, whew. Then close 'em, babe.
You feel silly? Ha! I don't care if you feel silly. Anyway, that's the last thing you're going to feel in a just a bit, if I do my job correctly. People can hear you? Awww, too bad. But they can't hear me, so I don't care. This is a dirty phone call, remember? I don't care about anything but my own personal gratification.
Actually, you've got a big advantage here because you already know what I look like. So I can't be some anonymous dirty caller, just a slutty friend harassing you at work. Hm? Oh, I'm definitely a slutty friend. Yes, I am. If I wasn't, would I be standing in your kitchen wearing nothing but my Harlequinn midi Tee and my red thong? Oh, yes I am. In fact, I am right here in front of your utensils jar…you've got so many nice toys to play with right here. Mmmm, home cookin' does do a girl up right, you know. I think I'll start with this batter spoon. I'm just going to—
What? A batter spoon. A batter…It's the little wooden one with the hole through the middle. The…right, the one with the pointy tip. Well, it's for stirring batter, stupid, that's why they call it a "batter spoon". Why do you even own one if you don't know? Oh. Yeah, okay, I understand about things on sale. Now, I'm going to take the batter spoon and…no, I am not going to use the wooden spatula instead! Whose dirty phone call is this, buster? Say it!
That's right, it's mine. Now, do you want to see what I do with this nice, slim lined spoon or not? Yeah, I thought you did. Close your eyes!
Ahem. I think I'll just start with this batter spoon. Mmmm, you can tell it doesn't get used much…it's so rough as it slides over my ass cheeks. I can feel this light sanding sensation… waking me up in tiny little patches where it moves… I'm tingling everywhere. But of course, I'm not using it for its tingle, am I? Let's see what it can do…
Ah! Ooo, that's got a delicious bite to it, doesn't it? That little round hole doesn't look much, but it's got it when it counts. Did you jump, baby? I did. OH! Do you think anyone else can hear the smacks? They're pretty loud on this end. Let me know when someone's walking by, and we'll experiment. HAH! Anything? Good, because I don't feel like being quiet. UH! Do you? Ah! Well, it's a good thing I don't care what you feel like, is it? Oh oh unh OH! Unnnnh, the only problem is, it doesn't have much coverage. I have to—OH—use it a lot to get everything— AH— covered, but God, it feels so great! Unh, only one cheek roasted, and I gotta tell you, the temptation to misuse this nice, slender spoon is something terrible. I could just— What? Oh, "stay disciplined", ha ha, very funny. But okay, your loss. Ah ah ah oh yes! Oh ah! Oh! Do you want to know what it feels like to be paddled down the inner slope of your bare thigh with a batter spoon, baby? It feels like OH! It feels like UnnnnNH! It feels like fucking with your whole God…damned…body! AaaaHHH!…hha…hha…hha…Okay, yeah, that was on the pussy, but I couldn't help it. I was on a roll.
Oh, that's got some nice heat, doesn't it? Mmm, I could just rub my hands all over it all day, couldn't you? Feel all those nice, big bumps where the hole in the spoon hit me. Oh, but it hurts! I've got a mean arm when I want to. I need something, baby. Let's take a walk to the fridge.
You know, it's not healthy for a man your age to eat this much soy. Yuk. Ooo, what's this? A popsicle! Mmmm, a chocolate pudding sicle. This will do nicely…what? Your last one? Aww, that's too bad. It's really good and it's such a hot day out, too. You'll probably miss it when you finally come home.
Now don't worry, I know how to use these so you don't get your ass stuck to one, which is embarrassing to write on an emergency room admittance form, believe me. First, you've got to soften it up a little, don't you? Got to, mmmmm, got to get right up and breathe on it. Got to lick, just a little, all the way down to the stick. Mmmm, that's it. Now slide it just over your lips and let it melt onto your tongue. See, all the real flavor's under the ice, and that's what Mama wants—the real flavor.
Mmm, grgl, mmmmm. Don't you love to feel that cool, chocolately goodness bumping the back of your throat while you touch yourself through your thong and rub your hot ass up against the countertop tiles?
Mmm, but it is a hot ass, and I don't suppose I should let this popsicle go to waste. Let's just rub it—unngha!—all o over—all, all—Ah, God! Mm, glm, mm, mmmmm.
Sorry, but I was overcome on the kitchen floor and had to throat something. It happens sometimes. But don't worry, there's still a little popsicle left to do the other cheek. Oo o ooo!
…hha…hha…I'm having such a good time. And I'm making such a big mess. You know what, we'd better move this into the bathroom.
God, I'm so sticky, I just can't stop touching…and rubbing…mmmm, and licking…
Oh, here we are! Gosh, this is just as neat as a fucking pin, isn't it? You make me sick. You've got a clothes hamper in practically every room, and they're all empty. No beard stubble in the sink, the lid's down on the toilet, the soap's on a…you've got an exfoliating loofa sponge. I don't even have one of those. Oo, and look what else you've got. You've got a wooden back brush. Long, angled handle…contoured head…OW!…impressive reach.
Can you still hear me? Oh, good, the water's kind of loud. All this tile.
No, I'm not taking my clothes off. You dirty old man, you. Remember, you're still at work and someone could hear you. Best if you just keep quiet and pay attention.
I'm not taking my clothes off, I'm just going to step on in here under the spray. Whoa, the water is so cold! My nipples just popped right out, look at that. I'm just going to rub a little bit, you don't mind, do you? Mm, nghh, right through the cloth…it's like it's not even me doing it…all these wet folds and the cold water, it makes my hand feel bigger, harder. God, I wish it was your hand. I wish it was you slapping my ass just a little bit with this nice back brush under the spray while you squeezed my breast like this…you can be rougher than that, you can—There! Oh, just like that, baby! Oh, spank me harder! I can feel the splashes all the way up my back every time you—AH!—do that! Oh, bend me over the side of the bathtub, will you? Turn on the jet spray too cold and let it drill into my aching ass and spank me! OH! OH YES! OH, I've been a dirty girl! AaannnghAAAAAA!
The business card was white with a simple neo Roman design detailing the border. The company name was lettered in gold and slightly raised, but the line below, on which there had ought to be a spelling out of the strange acronym, was only an address.
William Adler, who had been Liam to his friends since the age of six, turned the card over in his hand in the hopes that some explanation might reveal itself on the back and when he encountered only a plain white field, he finally raised his eyes to the only working colleague he considered a friend and said, politely, "What the hell is this?"
They were standing in the locker room at the health club where they met each Wednesday and Friday for one hour of squash for the better part of three years now. Liam was still in his whites.
Marcus toweled his hair with the same vigorous good nature with which he did most things in life, whether he was pushing stocks or losing at squash, and then wadded up the towel and sank it for three points in the bin across the room. "It's a present," he said cheerfully. "Happy birthday!"
"Thanks." More bewildered than ever—they had never exchanged presents for birthdays, although the two of them sometimes managed to raise a glass of something to the other on or near that special day—Liam studied the simple face of the card again. "I'll…treasure it always. Buy a little frame for it or something."
"Liam, buddy, why do you come here?"
Liam looked up sharply, trying not to appear as startled as the question made him feel. "To…to relax? Or wait, to keep fit?"
"It's not a quiz, guy," Marcus said, rolling his eyes. "You're not being graded. Besides, I already know the answers, I just want to see if you know them. But you're right, you come here to relax. You work sixty hours a week juggling personal portfolios of stock and you specialize in old guys with lots of lawyers who like to take risks. Lots of guys a whole lot more ambitious than you have burnt out under that kind of pressure."
"Well, I don't exactly thrive on it myself," Liam admitted.
"Tell me about it. One of the most completely thankless jobs in the business world today," Marcus added, musingly. "You take the blame for any flop and the firm takes the credit for every winner. Add to that Ms. Don't Call Me Miss Margarethe Braidwood, and you've got a recipe for a nervous breakdown."
Up until now, Liam had been smiling, waiting patiently for his friend to get to the punchline of the joke Liam was sure was coming, but at the sound of his supervisor's name, his budding good mood dried up with a rattle. "You shouldn't," he said, and stopped there, disgusted in equal measure at the prissy way he sounded and the fact of having to defend Braidwood in the first place.
"Sure I should. Someone should, at any rate." Marcus sat down to tug on a clean pair of socks—bright purple with little white Shmoos bouncing all over them, his secret spark of defiance in a job devoid of character—not even bothering to look around as he continued to lay it out in Braidwood's absence. "Sure, she's the youngest partner in the firm and the first female ever in a position of authority, and I applaud her success at breaking through the glass ceiling. Huzzah for her and all womankind. But she's got an attitude, and don't even bother to deny it."
"If she were a man—" Liam began and stopped again scowling at the bitter taste the argument put in his mouth.
"Bullshit," Marcus said cheerfully. "Although I am one hundred percent sure she'd agree with you if she were here. After she handed you your head for daring to presume her character needed the validation of male protection, that is. Nope, our Little Miss Margarethe is completely convinced that when a 'she' does it, she's condoned as a bitch, and when a 'he' does it, he's admired as a cutthroat businessman, but what she fails to grasp is that copping an attitude when you don't have a conflict is all bitch, pure and simple."
"Ah, she's not so bad," Liam muttered, frowning.
"She's a walking shoulder chip."
Marcus thought about it, his head cocked to one side like a puppy's.
"She's a vulture. You know it, I know it. And when she can't find enough bodies to feed on, she's not too proud to knock a healthy man down and start pecking."
"She's not that bad," Liam said, more firmly.
"Oh sure. You know, I hear her talking to you every day. I hear you asking her politely to please call you Liam, and I hear her turn right around and call you William. Stressing it. Stretching it out. Just daring you to say something." Marcus tucked his shirt in and started on his tie, still chirping cheerfully away. "She rides you. Not just you, of course, but mostly you."
"What am I going to do?" Liam asked, trying to sound light hearted as he began to change. "Quit the firm because my boss is a brat?"
The sound of Marcus's hands coming together was gunshot sudden and loud enough to make half a dozen men in the locker room jump. Impervious to the glares he had attracted, Marcus said, "Got it in one, guy. She's a brat. Not vicious enough to be a bitch, just thoughtless and mean and playground pushy. And you soak it up all day long for three days and then you come here and beat the living shit out of that ball."
Liam felt the skin along his spine crawling icily. "So?" he said.
"So, your lips move when you swing."
Those lips went numb. "So?"
"So I can read lips." Marcus finished shrugging into his jacket and gave Liam a clap on the shoulder on his way out. "Happy birthday!"
Liam stood alone in the locker room, the business card still held in his unfeeling fingers, staring after his departed friend. After a moment, he looked back down at his birthday present.
SASS, Inc., it said.
And there was an address.
He Came in Through the Bathroom Window
She was sitting at her vanity, wearing only a silken suggestion of a nightie and brushing her long auburn hair, when Nona felt a draft. It did not exactly surprise her; the last week or so had been an unrepentant Indian summer, and most of the windows had been open in an effort to spare her poor pocketbook the expense of air conditioning. She wanted to have something in the way of money when July and August came around, and anyway, May in Oregon had a way of turning wet and cold at a moment's notice, and that moment had finally come the night before last. She thought she'd closed all the windows then, since she was already up getting a pair of heavy quilts, but apparently she hadn't.
Nona stood up, shrugging into her matching sheer half robe, and went to seek out the source of the draft, still running the brush lazily through her hair as she walked.
The bathroom door was open, the edges of the shower curtain fluttering with every breath the night took. A little mist of rain came spattering in through the open pane of frosted glass, and tapped along the bottom of the lion legged tub. Nona put her brush down beside the sink and leaned over the empty bath to take hold of the sash.
Before she could work up the necessary muscle to budge the old window, a gloved hand closed, cool and inexorable, over her mouth and pulled her fast and hard against a man's chest.
"Be silent." The command was soft, but intense, heavily accented in some European way, and Nona could feel his voice rumbling at her back as well as sounding in her ears. "If you scream, it will go very badly for you, my lamb."
She nodded to show she understood, keeping her eyes determinedly on the shower curtain and away from the damning mirror. She wanted to show him she was compliant, that she would not betray him by marking his face.
He took his hand away and rendered her efforts moot by turning her to face him.
He was taller than she by a head and dressed all in black—black jeans, black belt, black boots, black open throated shirt with long, swooping sleeves, black gloves, black hat, and most surreal of all, black cat's eye mask. He had painted the skin around his eyes; like Batman in the later movies, she could see nothing but the whites, and she trembled as she stood pinned in his non gaze.
"Now, now," he said, and a thin smile curled one corner of his cruel lips. "I see the name of the fear dancing in your eyes, and you may set it aside for now."
"You…You won't hurt me?"
Now the other corner of his mouth turned up as well. "I did not say that." His hand caught her chin and he studied her, turning her this way and that in the shaft of light that poured in from the bedroom. "But no," he murmured, speaking in a distracted sort of way. "I have come for a separate purpose, and once it is fulfilled, I shall depart of you and perhaps you shall never see me again. Does that please you?"
How should she reply? Would he see and appreciate her honesty if she nodded, or should she play at camaraderie?
He laughed at her hesitation and released her chin, only to catch her by the arm and send her out into the bedroom ahead of him. "Such a frightened little lamb you are! And for nothing. I have already said that you need not fear me, for fear is the fruit of the unknown, and I will make all my intentions plain to you, no?" He paused in the door of the bathroom and reached back with one casual hand to take her hairbrush from the place by the sink where she had idly left it. He tossed it in his palm, then twirled it and threaded its long handle through his belt like a pirate's pistol, and smiled at her. "I know who you are," he said.
Nona sank down on the padded, high backed chair in front of her little lady like vanity, her hands whitening as she clutched it. "H how?"
He arched one fine eyebrow above that dark mask. "Who, I should think, would be more appropriate."
"What do you mean?"
"That I have been sent to you, of course!" He bowed to her in what should have seemed a ridiculous movie script gesture, and which was not. "Why, do you think I am such a man that lurks outside unsuspecting ladies' windows for my own vicarious thrills?" He bared his teeth in another smile, anticipating her answer.
She shook her head, but she hesitated first, and he threw back his head and laughed heartily.
Nona's fear had been fading steadily in the grip of confusion and now, more or less convinced by his manner that she was not in mortal danger, she slipped into anger. "Well, don't you?" she demanded. "Isn't that exactly what you've done, you—you degenerate! You pervert!"
He wasn't laughing now, but she was on a roll. Swiftly bending, she yanked open the bottom drawer of her vanity and threw a handful of panties at him. They struck softly on his broad chest and fell to the floor in drifts of purple and green and gold, like oversized confetti.
"Help yourself!" she said, pulling her sheer robe tighter around her bare shoulders and arching her neck with haughty disdain. "Those should last you a few days at least, unless you'd like me to get the ones from my hamper!"
He only stood there, as if waiting for her to come to the end of rehearsed lines, and finally he tsked at her, slowly and mockingly. He hooked one thumb through his belt and drummed his gloved fingers on the handle of her hairbrush, his eyes glittering with dark humor as he studied the limp folds of her underthings that lay at his feet. "I see my client was not exaggerating the seriousness of your condition. No, not at all."
Then he looked up, and there was not even a trace of a smile on his face or in his eyes. "Pick those up."
Her will faltered, but she shook her head. "I'm calling the police," she said. "I suggest you take the opportunity to give yourself a running start."
"Suggestion is alien to me," he told her, still unsmiling. "I do not heed them when they issue from shaking little lambs, and I do not make them. Ever. I give only warnings and commands. You have had both. Pick those up."
Nona managed to lift her chin a little higher, but her lip was quivering and she could not hold his burning, black gaze. Her nerve slipped away, and Nona bent and slid onto her knees, reaching timidly to gather her panties up. Her hands brushed his boot once and she stopped, mesmerized by the white gleam of her reflection in its inky surface. She felt like his shadow, his pale shadow.
"Now put them away," he ordered. "But stay where you are. Stay on your knees."
And she obeyed, her head down and her eyes fixed on the toe of his boot.
He made her wait. He was clearly in no hurry, and he stood above her, silently savoring the picture of her humility. "I know who you are," he said at last. "Can you guess yet who it was that hired me?"
"W what," she stammered, and bit her lip until her voice strengthened. "What were you hired to do?"
Three nights after his brand new second story addition was ready for habitation, Carter came into his brand new bedroom with sheets for his brand new bed, glanced out the window and discovered his next door neighbor was about to hang herself.
Her curtain was shut, but her light was on, and the lithe shadow she cast was very clear as she flung a rope around an out of sight beam and stepped up to adjust it.
Carter saw nothing else. He flung the sheets down and sprinted for the stairs. It never occurred to him to call 911 or even to yell across the street for help. He banged out his back door, leapt the short fence separating their two yards, and charged into her house, kicking a plastic dish clear across her kitchen and sending liver kibble and two terrified cats streaking for cover.
As though some divine force were guiding him, he went straight to the staircase, taking the steps two and three at a time. A thin stripe of light coming from beneath one of the doors told him where she was, and he barreled into it at full speed, taking it with his shoulder in anticipation of a lock, and nearly knocking the whole thing off its pins when it gave way easily.
He heard a muffled scream and a jingle of chains, and Carter jerked around, already reaching to untangle her from the hangman's noose.
For a moment or two, his baffled eyes held on to his preconceptions, so that his first startled thought was that she tied a really rotten noose—it had slipped down over her whole body. Then he realized his pretty young neighbor was naked and suspended in some sort of harness. She was also gagged and blindfolded, and was frantically twisting and kicking at the air as she spun in place.
Carter turned all the way around to look behind the door, in the horrified hope that a pair of oversized evil doers in ski masks might be lurking close by, but no such luck. Anyway, one only had to look at the way the harness cupped her full breasts, cinched her slender waist, and snugly clung to the uppermost suggestion of her hips to know that it was some serious piece of customized equipment. Right on the heel of that thought was the inappropriate and yet extremely accurate observation that she also looked damned good in it.
Now that it was obvious that no one's life was in danger, Carter had time to realize that not only had he interrupted a very private moment in his neighbor's life, but he had also committed a misdemeanor: breaking and entry. He had never been so mortified in his entire life, and that included the year he was fourteen and lost his swimsuit at the public pool right in front of Mayanne MacPhennelly. The adrenaline was wearing off; he found himself wondering if she'd done the decorating in here herself. Earth tones. Very soothing.
"Sorry," he heard himself say, in a strangled voice utterly unlike his own. "I thought you were in trouble. I'm so sorry. Ah Jesus." He started backing away from her.
She was trying to draw up her legs to cover herself, pulling and pushing at one arm until its bonds loosened enough for her to slip it free. Immediately, she unhooked her harness from its chains and dropped to the floor, rolling up tight as a pillbug and yanking the blindfold from her head.
She blinked at him several times, coloring to a brilliant crimson. Her mouth worked around the gag, but he had a feeling that even if it hadn't been there, she wouldn't have made any sound.
"Sorry!" he gasped again, and bumped against the door. "I'm really…Oh God…You have a lovely home!"
Once he was safely back in his own house, with the door shut and the lights off, only then did Carter try breathing again. He sank shakily down onto the floor and sat there, leaning against his kitchen cabinets, sporadically mumbling "I don't believe it", or "Jesus", under his breath. Every six or eight expletives, he would punctuate himself with a drawn out sigh and a solid smack to the forehead.
Eventually, he became aware of the ticking clock. He listened to it for several minutes. He wondered if she were calling the cops. If she was, they ought to be here pretty soon. He decided to make some coffee.
He was working on his second cup when there came a very timid knock at his back door.
Carter froze, one hand on the powdered non dairy creamer, staring at the door. Cops came to the front door. There was only one person this could be.
If he was very quiet, maybe she'd go away.
A moment later, her face appeared at the small window above the sink. They stared at each other.
Carter's mouth ticked. He put his coffee cup down and went to let her in.
"I'm so sorry," he began, even before the door was all the way open. "I thought you were killing yourself."
"No, I'm sorry," she said, her eyes locked on her feet and both hands knotted in the hem of her oversized sweatshirt. "I should have realized what taking that old tree down would mean to me. I should have bought a heavier curtain or…something."
They both stood there.
Grudgingly, Carter eased backwards. "Won't you come in?" he asked, hoping she wouldn't.
"Thank you." She did.
"Will you have some coffee?" he invited. Say no.
Carter poured her a cup, stirring in a spoonful of creamer and two sugar cubes by habit. She took it and sipped without complaining.
The clock ticked. Carter studied the walls and noticed some small tears and rippling in the paper over the sink. There was grease all over the hood of the stove and the burners were crusted with char. He hadn't done the dishes since day before yesterday. God, he was a terrible housekeeper.
His neighbor expelled a sudden sigh and put her coffee cup down on the counter. "Okay, I'm just going to say this. Not that it's any of your business, and I'd appreciate it not getting around the neighborhood."
"You don't have to say anything," he told her, alarmed.
"I tie myself up," she said stubbornly, and glanced at him before returning her gaze to her feet.
What does a man say to that?
"All the time?" he asked.
"No. Not for uh." She scratched lightly at the side of her nose and picked up her coffee again in both hands. She swirled it, added another sugar cube, and sipped.
"Okay," he said, repressing a small surge of hideously misplaced disappointment.
"Sometimes I feel bad. It makes me feel better. Happy?" she demanded.
"Thrilled," he mumbled, staring at the floor. He hadn't mopped in a few weeks, either.
"My name is Sarina Haffner," she said.
"Carter Mathis Babbit."
"Okay then," she said firmly, as though settling something.
She nodded. He nodded.
After a few seconds, she put her coffee cup down again and left.
He spent most of the rest of the night scrubbing the kitchen.