“What are you doing?”
I knew it was a mistake to utter the words the moment they had escaped my lips. I stood in the drawing room doorway, frozen, entirely transfixed by the scene unfolding before my eyes. My husband was seated on the green leather sofa – the one the exact shade of the car in Tamara de Lempicka’s “Autoportrait”. His right hand was raised. And Sonia, our maid, lay across his knees, her skirt flipped right up to reveal a rather plump and exceedingly well-reddened behind.
“I thought that was rather obvious, my dear.”
As if it was the most natural and commonplace event in the world, he returned to spanking Sonia who rewarded his efforts by squealing lustily and wriggling her ample hips against his crotch. Idly I wondered if his cock was hard. But wasn’t it my cock? Wasn’t he supposed to be keeping it for me? My heart beat sturdily, making the fine cream silk of my blouse quiver in time with the young girl’s blancmange-like derriere.
“Really, Quentin…”
This time he didn’t even bother to look up but continued relentlessly applying force majeure to a pair of buttocks that had begun to look rather sore and as crimson as a bad case of scarlet fever.
“The girl needs correction and correction she will have. Be quiet, Constance. It’s time you learned your place.”
Indulge yourself!
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