by Perry Symon Fowler
Part 1: Au Pair
Monique Latour was ironing a dress in her bedroom when Tom Blackmore called out to her. As usual, she was ironing in her panties and stockings, ready to slip the dress on as soon as she was done. Being French, Monique only wore real stockings, sheer and black with a seam running down the back... the kind that stayed up by themselves, pasted to her long, slender thighs by some form of anti-gravitation unknown to Newtonian physics. Topped with an elegant lace garter, they gave her legs that long, tapering look most often found in Christian Dior advertisements.
"Monique. Come here please!"
Monique looked up with wide, gleaming eyes, feeling a cold shadow cross her heart. She was in trouble; serious trouble. She'd worked as an Au Pair in Tom Blackmore's household for more than a year now, and she'd grown accustomed to every tone and nuance of her employer's voice. And she could tell that he wasn't happy on this particular occasion.
"Now, Monique!"
It was a command rather than a request, carrying that edge of threat she'd learnt to dread. She liked Monsieur Blackmore very much; he was exceptionally handsome, and kind in some respects, but he could be terribly strict at times. In a way, that was good - like all young French girls, she was extremely wild and free-thinking: she needed a good strong man to keep her conduct down to an exceptional level.
Still, she'd been in trouble a little too frequently lately, and she was hoping to avoid one of Tom's 'behavior modification' seminars, as he referred to them. This was her first night off in more than two months, and she'd been planning to go out with some friends to a disco called Blue Heat. She hoped he wasn't too angry with her; she didn't want to be grounded over some petty misdemeanor. Of course, there was something infinitely worse than grounding, which Monique had experienced more than once during her tenure.
Something she was most eager to evade, truth be told.
Setting the iron down to low, she slipped her short silk bathrobe over her panties and stockings. She wasn't usually so modest around her employer (again, being French, she was quite used to wandering about the house in her bra and knickers), but she had no desire to front up in her lingerie should Tom be angry. She wished she could throw on something more substantial, but she didn't wish to anger him any further by dragging her steps. She walked quickly to Tom's study, her black stilettos clicking on the polished wooden floorboards of the central hallway.
She hurried along frantically adjusting her robe, knowing she'd be extremely lucky to get off with nothing more than a grounding. Her pulse raced wildly in her throat. She'd come to fear these periodic visits to the Blackmore den.
A trip to Tom's private study usually meant a good, hard spanking over his knee.
The solid oaken door to Tom's study loomed before her, vast and dark and unforgiving. Monique approached it apprehensively, biting her lip and trying to hold down the child-like sobs which threatened to escape her lips. The last time he'd had her on the carpet, she'd had to eat dinner standing up for more than a week ...and seated on two plush satin cushions for six days after that.
Pausing before the doorway, Monique felt that familiar sense of helpless injustice which invariably preceded one of Tom's spankings. She hated being treated this way. She wasn't a naughty little girl who had to drop her petite culottes and bend over for a spanking whenever he decided she needed a lesson. And he had no right to paddle her bottom every time she displeased him with an errant word or glance. She promised herself - as she'd already done a dozen times previously without any success - that she'd take a stand against the terrible unfairness of her punishment: no weeping, no crying, no begging for mercy like a frightened child.
Nonetheless, Monique hesitated before raising her hand to the door. Slightly ajar, it presented an unhappy invitation, and she recalled the numerous occasions she'd entered with her face lowered and her eyes swimming with tears. Very soon now, she'd be bent over his knee for another long, agonizing spanking, her bottom burning with palm-heat and covered with glaringly bright hand-prints.
"Monsieur Tom?" she asked in a tiny, breathless voice, tapping on the oak with a delicate fist.
"Come!" It was a strong, rather paternal voice, rumbling with distant thunders.
Monique shivered as she stepped into the room.
Tom Blackmore was tall and imposing in his Armani business suit, his shoulders at least three feet apart. She could almost feel his enormous hand descending onto her pale, unprotected bottom. Looking at those huge, muscular arms with their merciless, calloused hands, she knew she'd be reduced to a whimpering child in a matter of seconds.
No! I WON'T cry this time.
Tom stood hand on hip, looking down at Monique with an unblinking stare, seeming to consider her presence. Her shining silken bath robe felt uncomfortably short, and she was blushingly aware of the frilly black-lace tops of her stay-up stockings, so visible beneath the hem of the robe. She felt like a little girl standing in the corner, facing the wall, a little girl who would soon be crying over an extremely sore bottom.
"Planning a night out are we, Chérie?" Tom asked, his face as serene as a crystal pool. His words were actually quite gentle, but Monique recognized the subtle undertones. She suddenly realized that she wasn't in serious trouble at all. No, far from it.
She was in enormous trouble.
I'm not scared. I'm not scared, she told herself.
"Oui, Monsieur Tom," she stammered, feeling her eyes growing huge and wet.
A gentle smile touched Tom's handsome features. He nodded sympathetically, his neon-blue eyes still radiating cobalt heat.
"Really? And where were we planning to go?"
"I - I'm planning t o go dancing with some friends."
"I'm afraid you'll have to cancel your plans, Chérie."
"But - but why?" Monique gasped in rising panic. She could see it in his eyes; she had done something wrong, something almost unforgivable.
Oh no ...he's going to spank me!
"Because the only place you're going tonight is over my knee for a good long spanking."
All of Monique's courage and resolve deserted her in a second. Her worst fears had been confirmed: in a matter of moments, she'd be removing her robe and taking down her panties for a spanking. She lapsed instantly into her too-familiar litany of wailing protestations of innocence, begging him not to punish her for whatever it was she'd done.
"Non, non Monsieur, I'm sorry! Please don't spank me. I'll never do it again, I promise. Please!"
Tom wouldn't be put off for an instant. His pretty little au pair had stepped well and truly over the line. Her constant laziness, pouting and petulance was bad enough, but he'd reached the end of his patience when he'd seen this month's telephone bill. He'd found it on his desk only minutes before, and his jaw had dropped at the figure printed in the debit column... eight hundred dollars worth of international calls to France - in just one month!
"If you thought I was hard on you last time, Chérie," Tom told her grimly, towering over the weeping girl, "that'll be a gentle pat on the fanny compared to what you're about to get. Tonight you're going to learn what a real spanking is!"
"No, Tom, non, pas une fessée si'l vous pla"t, please - not a spanking," Monique wailed in piercing, girly terror. All in vain: Tom had already taken her wrist and was leading her over to the armless Bentwood chair he kept on the left side of his den for just this purpose. Like the rest of the study, the 'spanking chair' held many painful memories for her. The very sight of it set her derriere tingling.
"No! NOOO! NOOOOO," Monique moaned, knowing full well that her fate was already sealed.
"Yes, Chérie, you're going to have the spanking of your life," Tom Blackmore scolded in his deep, masculine voice. "I've put up with your disobedience and truculence for months now, and I'm fed up with your spoilt-brat sulking. Well, the holiday's over now, Little-Miss-Long-Distance. You're having all your spankings at once!" Tom paused, indicating the bathrobe. "Now - you know what to do."
"Please Monsieur, don't spank me on the bare bottom, please spank me on my panties, let me keep them up-"
"Get that robe off and your panties down!"
Sobbing bitterly at this wholly gratuitous humiliation, Monique undid her bathrobe and allowed it to fall to the carpet with a whisper of lavender silk. Shamed beyond all forbearance, she placed her hands over her naked breasts, trying to hide their huge, pink tips, wishing she'd been wearing a bra when he'd called her. She half-turned away, lowering her head so that her tangled black hair fell over her shoulders.
Tom removed his jacket and sat down on the chair, his expression determined and business-like. The girl had gotten away with far too much for far too long. True, she'd been subjected to regular spankings from her first month, but he'd tended to spoil her in other ways, mainly on account of her youth and Celtic beauty. He could only blame himself for that error: he'd already known only the prettiest girls needed constant spanking.
Well, that was a mistake he intended to rectify right now.
The au pair was standing before him in nothing but her panties and stockings, unsuccessfully trying to cover her embarrassment. She was a startlingly beautiful girl with large, prismatic eyes and skin as creamy as an English rose. The stockings and the black high heels made her legs look about six feet long. Her bottom was utterly incomparable, quite magnificent. No matter how many times Tom saw it he never ceased to marvel at its pristine, flawless grace. It was absolutely adorable, soft and round and milky-white. Even sheathed in sheer, pink lace panties, it was still the most delicious little bottom he'd ever seen.
"Panties off, mademoiselle," Tom ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Moaning in wordless protest - but helpless to refuse - Monique peeled the flimsy lace remnants down to her high heels and climbed carefully out of them, trying not to catch her heels on the gossamer material. Tom nodded his approval at the sight of the girl's gloriously formed bottom-cheeks: twin spheres of delight, revealed in all their luscious, innocent beauty.
Monique stood up, sobbing quietly, her shimmering raven hair cascading over her breasts in a midnight waterfall, her slim, long-fingered hands modestly covering her femininity. Wearing only her stiletto heels and the black stay-ups with the frilly tops, she stepped forward, crying hopelessly and trembling with shame - ready to receive her spanking.
Part 2: Denier
Monique's breath caught in her throat as she came forward to receive her punishment. Her mind was whirling as it had on all the previous occasions - shame and fear and childlike embarrassment filled every inch of her being. A wild strawberry flush suffused her snowy complexion. No matter how many times Tom Blackmore drew her across his knee, she could never quite accept what was happening to her. Sobbing like a disconsolate child, she shook her glistening black hair from her eyes, spraying tears through the air.
Almost completely naked, she pushed her hair back from her face with one pale, delicate hand. She wondered momentarily if all French au pairs were treated like naughty little girls: made to bear their bottoms for long, hard paddlings. The humiliation of this particular spanking was almost unspeakable; worse in many ways than any of her previous forays over Tom's lap. On those occasions, she had been at least partially dressed.
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