The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa Page A

grapple clumsily with my seatbelt, he’s out of the car, round to the passenger side, and hauling me out on to the pavement, or path, or whatever. He’s so much less measured now, so much less in control of himself, and that sense of the balance of power tipping makes my innards flutter dangerously. There’s just one more component in our three-for-one special, and, in that, the one who seems to have the least say in the matter is always the one who’s really in control.
    Together we almost run along a hard surface. I hear the rustle of trees, and sense a boundary of some kind on either side of us. It’s a narrow alley. There might be hedges or walls flanking us. There’s the snick of a gate, and Mr Stone urges me ahead of him through the opening.
    I smile. But I don’t let him see it.
    ‘You’re an impatient travelling companion, Miss Lewis,’ he murmurs, bringing us to a halt. A tree, above and to the side, sighs in agreement. ‘Not very restful. Not very soothing.’ He pauses, grasps my linked hands, and then presses them against the front of his jeans. ‘In fact you could say that your presence on this journey has really wound me up.’
    I’ll say! He’s even more gargantuan than usual.
    ‘What do you think we should do about it?’ He does his tango hip swivel when I try to get creative and grope him.
    ‘Discipline me?’ I suggest, all innocence, while contemplating another lunge for his equipment.
    ‘Really?’ He’s holding me at arm’s length now. Effortlessly. A man of his size has rather long arms. ‘And would you like that?’
    Trick question.
    ‘Oh, no … Please, no …’ I try for piteous and just get pitiful. No need to worry about my Oscar acceptance speech just yet.
    ‘Actually, I think “yes”.’
    And with that he manhandles me into position over the back of what feels like a conveniently placed wooden chair or seat of some kind. How handy that something just like that should be there.
    I dangle, face down – head resting against my shackled arms, thighs taut, bum in the air. Perfectly positioned. And, when he carefully adjusts my skirt, a perfect target. The black flange of the butt plug will make it easier to gauge the distance, no doubt …
    I hear a slow, sliding, insidious sound. And then the snick, snick of a heavy leather belt leaving the loops of his jeans.
    Uh-oh! He means business.
    I almost shoot out of my skin when he trails it lightly over my naked bottom as if he’s allowing me to try the leather on for size. I almost wet myself – again – with longing, when he drapes it in the length of my crease, nudging the plug, the smooth leather dangling against the stickiness of my sex.
    ‘Just three, I think,’ he purrs, still teasing me with the object of my correction. ‘And I think it would be a good idea if you tried not to cry out.’
    Fat chance of that, although I know why he suggests it.
    With that he whirls away and I hear his firm tread as he moves into position. I like his purposefulness in these matters. He doesn’t waste time with unnecessary taunts and overdramatic Grand Guignol threats. He just gets on with it.
    The first blow feels as if I’d been whaled on the right bum cheek by a two-by-four, and my attempt not to make a sound comes out like the squeal of the proverbial stuck pig.
    The second feels as if the left side of my arse had been struck by lightning and I make a sound that I don’t recognise as human.
    The third blow is much lighter, but it catches me right in the crease and knocks the evil-demon butt plug right against the nerves that connect to my clitoris.
    I climax violently, shout ‘Oh, Bobby!’ and pee myself a little.
    Afterwards, I turn into a sobbing, blubbering, shuddering, glowing, thankful, soppy mess, and he takes me onto his lap – heedless of my soggy state. I come again, lightly, when he whips out the plug and flings it away into the bushes, and, like a little kitten-girl, I try to kiss his beloved hands, and his dear