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with myself? She wasn’t supposed to… but it might be worth it. She imagined retribution being exacted afterward though, here in the car, having her thighs soundly whipped while the chauffeur fondled her and teased her rear cleft with his finger.
    Before she realized it, she was massaging her sex. As an orgasm overwhelmed her, she jerked and quietly gasped, and then she saw the chauffeur’s cool, pale eyes in the rearview mirror, his attention flicking momentarily from the road toward her.
    The car stopped. They were off the road, in a secluded layby, near a copse of trees. “Come along. Hurry,” said the chauffeur, urging her firmly from the back seat by her arm.
    He was a handsome man, but his manner was nothing like her master’s. Her master was composed, always serene and understated, even when imposing the sternest punishment on her. But the chauffeur was quick and a little less refined, excitingly brusque. When they reached a clearing, he made her bend and touch her toes. She quaked as he tipped her coat up over her back.
    The exposure was breathtaking and made her well up again, her honey trickling down her thighs. For a few moments, she heard the chauffeur moving about the clearing, then without warning, he lashed her bottom with a thin green switch.
    The pain was fierce. She squealed. He struck again. Then followed with half a dozen more sharp blows. Her buttocks were stitched across with living fire. At least a couple of strokes caught her perilously near her furrow.
    She was a slave, yet her punishment exalted her. She was brought low because it was a servant who had lashed her, yet raised up because her bottom was marked for her master’s pleasure. She moaned in her throat when she heard the chauffeur’s zipper. She waited for what seemed forever, then almost fell when he thrust himself inside her.
    The chauffeur went at her hard and rough and then shot his seed without allowing her to climax. Yet strangely, this only added to the thrill, ramping up her delight in her submission. Her sex was tense when he withdrew and fastened his fly.
    “You’re a slut,” he hissed and walked off toward the car. “Comb your hair. Wipe your face. You look a mess.”
    When she resumed her seat in the limousine, she was beyond caring about doing right or wrong. Sitting down, she lifted her coat from beneath her burning haunches and pressed her stripes against the cool, smooth leather of the seat. She groaned softly and felt once more the urge to touch herself, then looked up and saw the chauffeur’s accusing eyes. He was watching her in the rearview mirror again. Defiantly, she reached between her thighs and stole another climax, knowing he couldn’t watch her properly and also drive safely at the same time.
    Though her master’s country house wasn’t large, it was still impressive. Built from weathered golden stone and set in a long, well-maintained garden, it stood mellow and elegant, in solitude, just a few miles outside a small, picturesque village. Approaching it never failed to delight her. Little Marplethorpe, proclaimed the ivy-clad sign as they glided by.
    “Your shoes are dirty and your coat is wet,” the chauffeur observed, opening the car door and allowing her to totter out onto the gravel path in her high heels. “And you’re late. The master won’t be pleased about that.”
    Whose fault is that, I might ask? she thought accusingly but kept silent.
    When she was ushered into her master’s study, it was empty. A small fire burned in the hearth, and there were comfy armchairs to sit down in as well as the vast imposing desk and an equally august leather chair behind it. The slave would have loved to warm herself before the hearth or relax in one of the chairs, or as much as she could with a reddened bottom. But she knew she wasn’t allowed to…
    Temptation was intense, but she could almost imagine he might have deviously installed a CCTV camera in here so he could keep tabs on her while she awaited