Perversion Process Read Online Free PDF Page A

particular.‟
    I expected a smack just then, but I got something else: cold lubricant in that intimate pucker, and then he was easing one of his bigger-sized plugs into me, and I knew he was going to fuck me next, and I sighed, eyelids lowering in pleasurable anticipation.
    But instead – and this was what convinced me that no ordinarily-wired man could do his job – he asked me if I‟d ever been paddled with a plug in before.
    Oh, the despair; the sweet, dizzying, dismaying, rapturous cruelty of it all.
    The fucking came later, but I must make it clear that he rarely fucks the girls he spanks. Only, he tells me, the very naughtiest ones. The ones that really need it. Such as me.
    „Do you ever get … you know … emotionally involved with your … clients?‟ I asked him afterwards, staring limply at his digital alarm clock, knowing he would probably have another girl to punish in about an hour.
    „Of course,‟ he said seriously, then he reached over to ruffle my hair. „With all of them. In a way.‟
    „Right.‟
    I showered and dressed and caught the bus home, grateful that there was standing room only, still feeling some of the residual heat my tights held into my thighs and bottom. I wished that the heat could last for ever.
    24

    We have been meeting regularly for six months now. I had split up with a boyfriend in a nasty way – all my fault
    – and had no heart for the dating game. I felt guilty and unworthy of all the nice men out there, who surely deserved a correspondingly nice girl. I was not nice. I had dark shadows inside me that kept escaping into my daily interactions. It was not fair to inflict that on anyone.
    But I felt so guilty. I could not stop thinking about the way I treated my ex, and I could not stop fantasising about spanking, and somewhere in the middle, the two obsessions collided and I found myself staring at a website advertising the services of „Professor Strict‟: I know your secret need for punishment, and I will cater to it, with all the necessary rigour.
    He was probably a conman. Possibly even a rapist. Or a murderer. I read on.
    Send me the details of your wrongdoings and I will formulate a suitable penalty. If you have a bad habit or recurrent fault you would like to work on, then we can establish a disciplinary programme, involving regular progress reports and motivational chastisements.
    I felt prickly and tight-chested, my knickers incriminatingly damp. Even if he was a conman … just an email wouldn‟t hurt, would it?
    Several emails later, I rolled up at his door, dressed as instructed in a mini-kilt, white shirt, thigh-high socks and Mary Janes. I wondered if he would answer the door in a cloak and mortarboard. I rather hoped not.
    And indeed he managed to swerve that particular cliché, even though he‟d made me embrace it with my attire. The man who answered the door was younger than I expected – maybe about thirty – and I thought immediately that he was too handsome to be using all that fusty old schoolmasterish language. Even if I did find it 25

    hot. He wore a suit, which was … reassuring in a way, but it was a sharply cut, trendy kind of suit and he had an open collar rather than a tie. And his smile was beatifically beautiful. He looked like a man I might eye up in a bar. And I was slightly alarmed that he might lack the natural authority for what I had in mind, especially when he said, warmly and without a trace of sternness,
    „Ah, you must be Kat. Come in.‟
    His place was neat and redolent of modern bachelorhood. I had been expecting lots of chintz and brass, don‟t ask me why. He took my coat and offered me a seat on the leather sofa.
    „Can I get you a drink? Sometimes a little Dutch courage goes a long way.‟ He half-winked at me.
    I laughed nervously. „Oh … maybe a white wine. If you have one.‟
    „Sure.‟
    Would I be expected to make conversation? I did not think I would be capable, but he eased me in with his pleasant, open manner