Seven Scarlet Tales Page 5

  What if nobody wants to join me?

  What if somebody does?

  At first, everything went so slowly. In the early part of the night there were few customers, and those that came in weren’t interested in Poppy.

  A small group of businessmen, different nationalities, joined Emma in her booth, but there appeared to be no spanking, only drinking.

  She stood up periodically, when nobody could see her, to stretch her legs, looking out into the large, dim room with its ornamental fountain playing endlessly in the centre.

  The entrance of another customer sent her quickly back to her knees, but he wanted Lizzie, and asked for her by name.

  Within ten minutes, Poppy heard the sound of the screens being drawn close and then the lively percussion of hand on bare flesh, rhythmically repetitive, accompanied by breathless little mewls of dismay from Lizzie.

  Once this was over, the screens re-opened, and she saw Lizzie leave the club in the company of her visitor. She remembered the rule that having taken your spanking you were then free to leave. The clients weren’t generally keen on pre-reddened bottoms. Canings were especially expensive, because the marks took so long to fade, and could put a girl out of commission for a few days.

  Clearly, Emma was an exception to this rule. Perhaps she just really loved her work.

  Poppy was musing inwardly on the logistics of having a kinky partner and keeping this job going – would they have to eschew all the slap and tickle in case it ruined her bottom for work? – when one of the doormen loomed over her, in company with a man.

  ‘This is our new girl,’ said the doorman.

  ‘First day?’

  The man’s voice was foreign, maybe French. Poppy didn’t dare look up at him. She had an idea that she was meant to keep her eyes cast down at all times.

  ‘That’s right. You haven’t been here before?’

  ‘No, I am on holiday here.’ ’Oliday ’ere.

  ‘Perhaps you should try one of the more experienced …’

  ‘No, no, I like this one. Please, some tea.’

  Poppy saw a pair of feet in the regulation black velvet slippers the clients were given, then bending legs in trousers as he came to sit, cross-legged, on the futon opposite her.

  ‘I’ll have the barman fetch it for you, sir,’ said the doorman, leaving, apparently with some reluctance.

  She saw his hands, folded, pale, no wedding ring, a slight yellowness on the right index finger. Smoker. Neat fingernails.

  If he was on holiday, he obviously wasn’t the slobbing-out-in-a-trackie type. He wore smart, crisp cotton trousers and jacket in a mid-beige colour with a white, open-necked shirt.

  If she raised her eyes, she’d be able to see his face.

  But did she dare raise her eyes?

  There was a slightly awkward silence.

  ‘Hallo,’ said the man with a self-conscious catch, almost a laugh, but not quite. He moved his hands as if he meant to snap his fingers.

  Was this permission to look up?

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she faltered.

  She did it. She looked up.

  He was fortyish with kind, tired brown eyes and a sharp-featured, handsome face.

  He smiled, a little ruefully, as if he expected Poppy to be judging him for his filthy, perverted tastes.

  ‘So you are the new girl?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I am your first customer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The tea tray arrived, and Poppy was grateful for the distraction of pouring and tending to her visitor’s tastes.

  ‘I prefer coffee,’ he confessed. ‘In France we don’t drink so much tea.’

  ‘You’re French?’

  She wasn’t supposed to ask questions of the clients, but it wasn’t really a question, was it? Just a mirroring of his own admission.

  He nodded, picking up his tea cup and sniffing at it with some suspicion. He put it back down again.

  ‘I thought I will try the English vice,’ he said. ‘But it isn’t so English, not really. We French have enjoyed such pleasures from long, long ago.’

  ‘And the Marquis de Sade was French, after all,’ said Poppy.

  ‘Of course. And there is also L’Histoire d’O.’

  Poppy smiled. She wanted to know more about him now.

  But of course, she couldn’t ask.

  ‘I hope the tea is to your satisfaction,’ she said.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Why do you choose to work here?’

  ‘I answered an advert on a BDSM website.’

  ‘So it is your interest? Your fetish? A spanking?’

  Poppy blushed the deep scarlet of her namesake, and nodded.

  ‘OK. I like that,’ he said. ‘The girls here like their work. This feels better for me.’

  ‘Did you think we might be prisoners?’

  ‘It happens.’ He gazed pensively into his cup. The tea looked revolting, Poppy realised with a pang. It was weak, and the splash of milk made it almost white.

  ‘I suppose it does.’

  Poppy felt that same little chill she’d experienced on entering the building for her interview. Sex work, with all the age-old implications of degradation and human trafficking it brought with it. She’d told this client she was willing, but how could he take her word for it? What kind of man did that make him?

  He had, at least, asked the question.

  ‘So you have done this in your real life? With your lover?’

  ‘I, well, that’s a personal question, but …’

  ‘I’m sorry. Am I being … rude, is that the word?’

  Poppy waved her hand, well out of her depth, and strained her eyes to see where the bouncers were.

  ‘Not rude,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s against the rules for us to talk about ourselves, while we’re in the club. I’m sorry. It’s meant to be for our safety.’

  ‘Meant to be?’

  ‘Well, they turn a blind eye to girls meeting clients, after-wards. But while we’re here …’

  Poppy made a palms-up gesture and lowered her eyes again.

  ‘OK, I understand. So, you have poured me the tea. I don’t really want to drink it. What happens now?’

  Poppy wished she knew.

  From another cubicle came distant slapping and ouching, which Pan-Pipe Moods XII, leaking from the stereo speakers, did little to drown.

  ‘If you want a more experienced girl—,’ she said, her throat closing up, eyes hot with pre-tears.

  ‘Non, non, non, shh. You are good, don’t worry. I am new, you are new. I just want to know if there is a … routine.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy smiled.

  He looked so earnest, and a little anxious. Such sweetness was completely unexpected and had thrown her for a loop; she had been expecting cartoonish sadistic bastards in business suits.

  ‘Well,’ she mused, ‘I suppose you have to act a little stern. Like maybe you think I’ve done something wrong. Or—Yeah! You don’t like the way I made the tea. And you tell me off.’

  ‘Tell you off?’ He frowned.

  ‘Rebuke me, uh, scold or—’ She wagged her finger in pantomime show and he nodded with recognition.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Then I?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘I can try.’ He took another sip of the tea, and pulled a face. ‘This is not good.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’

  Poppy, much more comfortable now the pretence had begun, threw herself energetically into the role, staring at the floor and bowing her head.

  ‘I come here for a nice cup of tea.’ He said ‘nice cup of tea’ in a ridiculous parody of an English accent, which made Poppy squash a smile. ‘But this is not nice at all. This is like hot water and mud.’

  ‘Would Sir like me to make him another cup? I will try harder next time.’

  ‘You can make me another cup. But first I will give you something to make you, to make you, oh, I don’t know. I’m going to spank you.’


  Poppy did her best frightened little squirm and sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she breathed. ‘I deserve it. I am sorry I displeased you.’ Under her breath, she added, ‘You need to shut the screens.’

  He drew the shutters closed.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, once they were confined in their little private square. ‘Is it permitted to ask your name?’

  ‘Ichisumi,’ said Poppy mechanically.

  He sighed.

  ‘OK. Well, I am Bruno. So I guess you could come here.’

  He was kneeling back on his heels and he patted his thigh.

  Poppy crawled slowly forwards on all fours, pushing the tea tray aside to clear her path. When she reached Bruno, she looked briefly up at him, then at his lap, making absolutely sure that that was what he was asking of her.

  She had thought it would feel exciting and hot to drape herself, bottom up, over a strange man’s thighs for a spanking but, now it came down to it, it was ludicrously like a drama role-play at school. It made her feel giggly and frisky, but not particularly sexy.

  ‘You are very obedient,’ commented Bruno. ‘So.’

  He tugged the hem of the tiny skirt, then lifted it. She could almost hear his heartbeat and sense his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He shifted slightly underneath her. She pushed her bottom up, suddenly engulfed by those sensations she had found lacking seconds before.

  She was ready to be spanked. Her first paid spanking. And the man was attractive and seemed, actually, quite nice. She must count herself lucky.

  ‘OK, you are ready?’ he whispered.

  She nodded.

  His hand fell, a moderate swipe, conferring the gentlest of stings to her bare bottom.

  It was far removed from the walloping and grunting now reaching her ears from the next booth along. This was delicate, erotic rather than punishing. She relaxed her shoulders, looking forward to more.

  ‘How often do you get spanked?’ asked Bruno, trying a few more.

  ‘Not often enough,’ said Poppy, in a burst of honesty.

  ‘Really? You are such a bad girl? You need a lot of spanking?’

  ‘Yes, sir, oh yes.’

  He was varying the tempo and the landing spots, covering her cheeks with perfect little firecrackers, just strong enough to send a longing message to her pussy. It was so nice, and such a long time since she’d been spanked so enjoyably; the doms she met from BDSM networking sites were always in such a rush to get to the whips and chains.

  Bruno’s happy-go-lucky technique took her back to her first time, before all the knowledge and the sophistication – an innocent time, she now thought.

  She had wondered then why people ever thought spanking was a punishment. The top had been just as sweet and considerate as Bruno, almost afraid to hurt her, it seemed. She had ended in a warm, pink glow that had lasted through the rest of the afternoon’s lovemaking.

  ‘This is learning your lesson, yes?’ Bruno said, adding a few lazy swats to the tops of her thighs.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He can see it all. He can see my bum, and see my pussy through that stupid gauzy thong thing. He must be able to see that it’s wet.

  ‘You don’t make much noise, do you?’

  Well, no. You aren’t hitting very hard. I do want to sigh and moan with pleasure, but perhaps that would be bad form.

  ‘I’m well trained, sir.’

  ‘Well trained? You had to practise to take a spanking? Tell me about it.’

  ‘Oh. Well.’

  Damn, creative thinking isn’t easy when your bottom is deliciously hot and tingly and your clit blooming like an obscene flower.

  ‘Hmm?’

  A harder smack shocked her into words.

  ‘Oh! We geisha girls, we all go to a class, once a week.’

  ‘Oh yes? Tell me about that.’

  He stopped for a moment and rubbed her cheeks. When she didn’t start straight away, he spanked her again, good and hard, so that she gasped.

  ‘It’s a class that teaches how to take a spanking. Ow! We are a group of twelve girls and we are only permitted to wear a tight T-shirt and a thong.’

  ‘What is a thong?’ He pronounced it ‘song’ and Poppy giggled.

  ‘What I’m wearing – skimpy panties.’

  ‘Skimpy? Oh, never mind. Go on.’

  ‘We sit together on a long bench and our teacher makes us come to the front, one by one, and take a spanking from her.’

  ‘Teacher is a woman?’

  ‘Yes.’ Poppy was imagining Allyson in the role. She thought she might appreciate it. ‘The first lesson, she spanks us with her hand. You can imagine, her hand got quite tired and sore, so after the first three, she made us spank each other.’

  ‘Yes? All you pretty girls spanked each other? Hmm.’

  Poppy had known Bruno was getting hard for a while, but now she felt a particular prod into the soft flesh of her stomach. Oh dear. Perhaps this was ill-advised. Perhaps she shouldn’t be driving the customers into a frenzy of lust with far-fetched tales of sapphic-themed spanking. But she’d started now, and she was honour-bound to finish.

  ‘Yes, until our bottoms were bright red. Then she made us line up and took a photograph of us all. Of course, we didn’t all take it well. Some of us needed more training than others, while others could go straight ahead to strapping class.’

  ‘Strapping class?’

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t ready after one lesson, so I had to go to Allyson for extra classes. She spanked me a little longer and a little harder each time, until I was able to last, without crying, until I was beacon-red and burning hot.’

  ‘You can take more than this, then?’ He started to spank harder.

  Poppy wondered why she could never stop her imagination running away with her. Sometimes it could be a curse.

  ‘Yes, sir. A little,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  ‘And then you go to the … what class?’

  ‘Strapping class. They use leather belts, and straps, and tawses. A few more strokes each time. Then it’s – ouch – paddles and, oh, ow, whips and canes and stuff, ow, ow, ow!’

  ‘Now you feel it,’ he said, with some satisfaction. ‘And your, what, we call them fesses, are a beautiful red. I think, scarlet.’

  Poppy could believe it, but she tried to maintain her submissive tone.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

  He stopped, rubbing her all over her rounded mounds again.

  He sighed deeply.

  ‘But I think I hurt you,’ he said.

  ‘I learned my lesson, sir.’

  ‘And it is painful,’ he said. His palm rested on her right cheek.

  Poppy wriggled, very, very slightly.

  She knew it was against the rules to solicit him for sex, or to try and invite a fingering but, oh Lord, she wished it were not.

  ‘But you like it,’ he whispered.

  Two of his fingers fluttered idly near the wettest part of her gauzy thong. If they just moved, just touched, just … He removed his hand from her and she clamped her thighs together in an agony of frustration.

  ‘So what now?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s done,’ said Poppy. ‘You can take more tea if you want.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then you pay me the rate for a hand spanking and, er, that’s it.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  He pulled her skirt back down and lifted her from his lap.

  Poppy hardly dared look at him but, when she did, she saw a misty, affectionate expression on his face that gave her complicated feelings.

  Don’t get involved with the customers. Don’t think of them as people.

  She should take that advice. She should take the money, and nod a submissive farewell.

  He put his hands on her upper arms and bent close to her. She could smell the sour tea on his breath and, beneath that, a hint of brandy.

  ‘When do you leave?’ he asked softly.

 
; Here it came. The big decision. To accept an assignation outside the club or to walk away. She should say no. She lacked the experience and he could be the proverbial axe-murderer …

  ‘I can leave now,’ she said, the words spilling anyhow. ‘I only have to take one client.’

  ‘That’s good. Listen. It is your choice. I will be in the pub on the corner, you know it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘For one hour. If you want, you can meet me. If not …’ He shrugged, then put a fingertip to her cheek. ‘If not, then thank you. OK?’

  He took a wallet from his shirt pocket and handed her the spanking tariff in crisp twenty-pound notes.

  ‘I wonder if your Queen knows what she is paying for,’ he said, looking at Her Majesty’s face on the final purple banknote.

  Poppy’s nerves dissolved and she smiled.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘And thank you for correcting me.’

  It was the script. She had to say it.

  ‘I hope you will.’

  He opened the screens and left.

  Poppy re-arranged the booth into perfect order then made the trip upstairs to Allyson’s office, nodding at the security guards so that they would know she was clocking off for the night.

  ‘My goodness.’ Allyson greeted her with evident surprise, looking up from her computer screen. ‘New girls are always popular, but you’ve broken the record, I think. We’ve hardly been open ten minutes.’

  Poppy blushed and held out the wad of banknotes.

  Allyson counted them carefully. ‘There’s fifty over,’ she said. ‘He must have liked you.’

  ‘Oh, he was French. Perhaps he just didn’t understand the exchange rate or something.’

  ‘All the same, take your tip and your half of the fee. Well done, love. That’s a good first night’s work. Back tomorrow, I assume, since he only used his hand?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s fine. Same time tomorrow, then?’

  Allyson smiled.

  As Poppy turned to go, she stopped her. ‘Poppy, did you enjoy yourself?’

  Her face was tilted on one side, as if the answer mattered to her.

  ‘Yes, it was cool,’ mumbled Poppy, wanting nothing more, now, than to get out of this silly costume and meet Bruno in the pub.