Free Eighty Days Yellow by Vina Jackson

respite. My waist and torso rested against the flat, padded section of the middle of the frame, and there were two further padded sections for me to lay my arms against, and handles to wrap my hands round.
    I felt a finger hook round the waistband of my frilled panties and gently pull them down over my thighs and then down my stockinged legs. Mark cradled one foot and then the other in his hands, helping me to step out of them. My legs were spread wide apart and I guessed that, crouching at my feet as he was, he had a clear view of every part of me. My cheeks flushed with warmth, but I could already feel myself begin to surrender, and a pleasant, tingling heat suffused my lower body. He pushed himself up to standing, and Charlotte squeezed my hand.
    For a moment, I felt nothing, just the slightest caress of air against my bare buttocks and the imagined gaze of strangers on my naked flesh.
    Then a strong palm cupped my right arse cheek, gently circling clockwise, followed by the tiniest of breezes as the hand pulled away into the air, then smacked down again, first on one cheek, then the other.
    A sharp sting.
    Now the soft touch of his cool hand on my hot flesh, soothing, stroking.
    Another brush of air as the hand travelled away from me again.
    And a jolt as the hand slapped down on my arse, harder this time.
    I gripped the metal bars with my hands, arched my back, pressed my thighs into the padding, felt another blush burn across my face as I realised I was soaking wet and I imagined Mark must be able to see my excitement, must be able to smell it. He would be able to feel that my body was becoming pliant under his touch, the curve in my back deepening so that I could thrust myself closer towards him.
    Another smack, this time much harder, genuinely painful. The sharp sting made me jump and for the briefest moment I considered asking him to stop, but then his hand was on me again, resting on the cheek that he’d just hit, taking the sting away and replacing it with a strange sort of warmth that travelled all the way up my spine to the nape of my neck.
    Leaving one hand cupping me, he ran the other gently up my back to my neck and into my hair, spreading his fingers, tugging my hair softly at first, then harder.
    Now I was somewhere else. The room fell away; the imagined stares of strangers faded; Charlotte disappeared; there was nothing but me and the feeling of his hand pulling my hair as I bucked my body on the bench and moaned as he kept slapping.
    Then I was back again. There were two hands on my stinging cheeks, just resting, gently, and Charlotte squeezing my hand. The noise of the room began to filter back into my consciousness. Voices, and music, ice cubes chinking in glasses, and the sound of someone else being slapped.
    ‘You OK, honey? You still with us? Wow,’ she said, I presumed to Mark, ‘she was gone like a rocket.’
    ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘she’s a natural.’
    I craned my head back to smile at them and then attempted to stand, but found I couldn’t walk. I felt as jittery as a newborn foal, and I was so clearly aroused, my legs were slippery. I was embarrassed by the level of my response, but neither Mark nor Charlotte, nor any of the spectators, seemed the least bothered or surprised. This was a normal weekend (or perhaps everyday) event for them.
    ‘Easy there, tiger,’ Mark said, wrapping a firm arm round my waist and leading me over to a chair only vacated as the combined gaze of Mark and Charlotte had caused the occupant to leap up and walk away.
    I slipped down onto the seat and Mark stroked my hair, holding my head gently against his thigh. His rubber apron felt cool and strange against my face, and one of his paddles pressed uncomfortably against my arm.
    I felt myself drifting away again as he ran his hands through my hair, and their voices came to me as though floating through a tunnel.
    ‘I think you’re going to have to take her home,’ he said to Charlotte. ‘Has she had too much