Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
(*****, FM/FM, Intense, celebrity caning)
A glorious fantasy about a famous lady with a secret kink. (Approximately 4,685 words. Originally published 2003-12.)
Living near Hollywood, you'd think I'd get used to running into celebrities. But every time I get tongue-tied. Asking them for an autograph while they're eating dinner seems rude. Complimenting them on their latest film comes across as fawning. Yet it isn't like there's time to have an intellectual discussion. So I usually stammer or stare, and after a few seconds the chance is gone, and I didn't talk to them.
I've tried to cure myself of this. I tell myself that they're human, just like me. They're wealthier and more famous, but their shit's still brown. I tell myself that I need to relax and just be myself, say whatever is on my mind. Don't worry about their reaction: after all, I'm a nobody. Who cares what Julia Roberts thinks of me?
After I'd developed this philosophy, I had a chance to put it into action when Winnona Ryder got out of cab right in front of me. But again I blew it, not recognizing her quickly enough, and not saying anything when she looked right at me. Then she was gone and I was kicking myself.
I was determined to never let this happen again. I willed myself to do better, made an oath that if I didn't do it I'd... I'd go without any kind of sexual gratification for a full month.
Then it happened. I was attending a tedious convention at a fancy hotel in L.A. Bored, I left to use the restroom, then wandered the hotel. I had heard there was supposed to be a private pool and bar on the roof and headed that direction, though I doubted I could gain access. I reached the top floor and was walking along a desserted corridor when the door to a suite opened and a woman stepped out.
Now I often have trouble recognizing celebrities. When not performing, they'll wear dark classes, do their hair up differently, even put on disguises. Some of them dress down, looking so ordinary you have to wonder if it really is them. But this woman I recognized just by her body and the way she moved. There was only one woman on the planet who looked like that, and that was the inimitable Catherine Zeta-Jones.
It was like the world went into slow-motion. I saw Catherine emerge from the suite and step into the hallway. She was heading in my direction. In four steps she'd be beside me -- I had very little time to come up with a plan. I watched her take the first step. My mind was blank. Second step. My mind was blank. Third step. I was frozen, unable to move, do anything. Fourth step -- she was right there, so close I could reach out and touch her! "Do something!" my brain screamed. "Do something NOW you fucking idiot!"
I remembed my vow and moved. I reacted on impulse. I stepped in front of her. She came up short, staring at me in surprise and a bit of alarm.
"Catherine Zeta-Jones!" was the brilliant piece of dialog I'd come up with.
"Yes, thanks," she murmured, giving me a light smile and starting to move past me.
I panicked. I was desparate. "No, wait!"
She paused, looking at me patiently. No doubt I was not the first crazy person she'd met.
A long second ticked off. She was staring at me, waiting. My brain was still blank. A second second passed. A third. She started to turn away, showing me that lovely profile. She was wearing a tight black dress that show every curve of her body. Seeing her ass, that ass I'd fantasized about so many times, triggered something.
"I want to ask you a question!" I blurted.
Again she paused. "Yes?"
The planet came a halt and waited with bated breath.
My mouth was dry, my lips dust. I stared at her, looking hopefully in my direction, her perfect eyebrows raised in expectation. So patient, so kind. Why did she have to be so nice? That just made it worse.
Suddenly I didn't care. A whole lot of things passed though my head in that one second in which the world paused. I realized that she was married -- the reality was that nothing was going to happen between me and her. I remembered that I was a nobody, that we'd never meet again. And I remembered, mostly vividly, the things I loved most about Catherine Zeta-Jones: she was from the UK, about my age (mid-thirties), and there was a possibility (more so than with an American actress) that she knew about CP.
"Have you ever been caned?"
The words were out before I realized what I'd said. I couldn't believe it myself. How could I have been so stupid? If I hadn't been so flustered, I'd have grabbed them back. But I was frozen, too scared to move or say anything, and the words hung in the air.
But then two things happened. The first was I realized that deep down, that was the question I'd been dying to ask Catherine. I had scarcely been aware of it myself, but I was frantically curious: considering her age (going to school in the seventies) and origin, there was a chance she might have been caned in school or at home. God, what a fantasy. Dare I dream?
The second thing that happened was Catherine's reaction. I'd expected her to slap me, look at me in bewilderment, or just turn and walk away. Instead, she stared at me with alarm and excitement. She grabbed my arms and said, "What did you say?"
Weakly, I managed, "Have you been caned?"
Now I expected her to react as foreseen, but she didn't. She remained calm and stood in front of me as though we were having a conversation.
"Why do you ask me that?"
I didn't know where this was going, but the blood was staring to flow in my veins again. I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. There was too much to think about to plan a strategy. All I could was be honest.
"You're from the UK," I said. "I thought maybe, you know, growing up, you'd gotten a wacking or two."
There was a short pause while she stared at me. This wasn't a normal stare: this was a mind-reading kind of stare. She was trying to suck my brain out with her eyes. I stared back as calmly as I could, meeting her gaze.
Suddenly she relaxed slightly. It was a minute physical shift, but our entire relationship changed. She smiled. "Yes, I was disciplined. Usually it was the tawse -- that's a strip of leather -- but I was caned on several occasions."
My lips opened but nothing came out.
Catherine's smile grew wider. She glanced up and down the corridor, which was still desserted. She leaned close so her face was just inches from mine. "You're wondering," she whispered, "if I liked it."
I gasped audibly. She laughed, a delightful tinkle like a wind chime. The sound was like music. I saw that when she laughed she was human. When laughing, she was relaxed and content. I smiled, my heart thudding in my chest, but I knew there was no going back now.
"You _did_ like it," I said firmly, with authority. There was no doubt in my mind.
She stopped laughing and stared at me, her face expressionless. Then slowly a wicked smile appeared. "Yes, I did."
"I've dreamed of you being caned."
"Many times. You have the most spectacular bottom."
"Thank you, though it's been a long time since I've bent over the cane." She said the words almost wistfully, and I caught the emotion.
"That can change," I said, not even realizing what I was saying.
"You mean--" She paused, assessing my nod. "Oh God, it's tempting, but it's quite out of the question."
"You aren't running away." Whoever was writing my dialog was damn good, I thought. I had no idea where this stuff was coming from.
Catherine stared me. She was excited, that much I could tell. The idea truly was tempting -- but would she give in?
It was time to press for the sale. "I live just thirty minutes away. It's not fancy, but it's private. I have a cane I ordered from England."
She was wobbling.
"No sex," I said firmly. "Just the cane. Six of the best, just like in school."
"This is mad," she said quietly. "I don't even know you."
"But I know you. It's been a long time. You want this. Your husband... he doesn't know."
"No, I haven't told him. I haven't told anybody, really. I scarcely tell myself."
"He'd never have to know. No one would know."
Catherine looked around nervously, then checked her watch. "Now? Right now?"
"Okay, but I'll need to call my agent and tell her I'll be late for lunch."
I didn't say anything as she dialed. We walked as she talked. We took the elevator to the basement and walked up a flight of stairs and exited at the back of the hotel. Neither of us said anything as we went to my car. I opened the door for her and she got in.
"I've got conceirge service on my phone," she said when I was in the driver's seat. "With one button I'll have someone on the line who can call the police."
I nodded. "You're in control. Only what you want to have happen will happen. Say 'artichoke' and the fun stops. Immediately. Safe words are involuable."
She relaxed a bit, though she was nervous. Having second thoughts. I started the car and provoked conversation. "Tell me about your childhood. How were you punished?"
Catherine smiled, remembering. "Usually with the tawse, as I mentioned. Both of my parents used it liberally. I was a precocious child, which meant I was too smart for my own good. I got in lots of trouble."
"How was the tawse administered?"
"On the hands, sometimes. Especially when I was younger and the crime involved my hand, such as me touching something that I wasn't supposed to. When I grew older, about seven or eight, I think, I got it on the bottom."
Catherine's glance at me told me she thought I was perverted... and she liked it. "Of course."
"How many strokes?"
"Not too many. Three or four, usually. When I was ten it was more, six or maybe eight."
"How were you positioned?"
"It varied. Typical was over the end of my bed, but sometimes it was across Mum's lap. When I got older it was over the back of a chair."
"When did your parents switch to the cane?"
"Hmmm. I must have been about twelve. The school I was going to used the cane and Mum heard about that and decided if I was old enough to be caned at school, I was old enough to be caned at home."
"Did you get caned at school?"
"Twice. Just three strokes both times. For insolence." She blushed and grinned at me. "I was a bit of a smart-alec."
"I'll bet you were. Now I want details."
"Both were in the office of the headmistress. I had to bent over and touch my toes. She lifted up skirt up, but I got to keep my knickers on, not that they helped much."
"And the strokes?"
"Hard. Very stingy. My first caning was with the light junior cane and I thought it was awful. But later, after being caned at home a few times, I realized the junior cane didn't hurt much at all. When I got my second school caning it was with the senior cane and I felt that, though it was only three strokes."
"Your parents caned you harder?"
"Oh, much harder. Ironically, Mum was worse than Dad: she really struck hard. If I moved from position she wouldn't count it and would give me an extra one to boot. I remember once I was to get four strokes and I ended up getting fourteen! I just couldn't stand still."
"Ouch. How many canings did you get in total?"
"Hmmm. I don't know. Maybe a dozen?"
"Including the school ones?"
"Yeah, I suppose. I don't remember getting caned that often. I got several that first year when I was twelve, but after that it was probably only one or two per year."
"How old were you the last time?"
"Fifteen. I was out with a boy and missed curfew. Dad gave me a dozen."
"When did you first realized you liked it?"
"Oh, I didn't. I thought I hated it. At least during the caning itself. It was afterwards, feeling the soreness, and before, the horrible anticipation. I would get aroused. It wasn't until years later, in my twenties, when I had a boyfriend who used to like to squeeze my bum very hard that I realized how much I missed those canings."
"Did you let your boyfriend cane you then?"
"Oh no. He was a beast: I couldn't tell him. I told one boyfriend, a really nice guy, but it scared him off. After that I was afraid to tell anyone."
"So you haven't... since you were fifteen?"
Catherine laughed, the maniacal laughter of the irrational. "Yeah. Crazy, eh? I don't know why I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this."
"You have to find out if it's like you remember."
"Yeah, I guess."
We were in my neighborhood and went silent for a while. I used the garage door opener and pulled right into the garage. We sat there for a moment after I turned off the engine.
"We're here," I said. Catherine didn't say anything. "Having second thoughts?"
"Let's go inside. No pressure. I want this, but I want you to want it too. If you don't, I'll take you back to the hotel."
I can't explain why I was so calm. Perhaps I didn't believe it was real. For some reason I was calm, as though I take celebrities home every weekend for spanking games.
I fixed Catherine a drink. I rarely drink myself, but I indulged this once. We clinked glasses. "What shall we drink to?" I asked.
"Very well. To memories. And to fantasies."
She smiled. "To fantasies."
"They're closely related, you know. In many ways our fantasies are us trying to relive our memories."
"I never thought about that, but you're right. Are you a psychologist?"
I laughed. "Heavens no. I'm just a suit. I'm 'VP of Product Management' for a manufacturing company. Totally boring."
She looked around. "You're not married? No family?"
"An ex. She got the kid. The first thing she did was move to New York."
"That sucks. Don't you miss your child?"
"Very much. But there wasn't a lot I could do. Sarah -- that's my ex -- threatened to bring to court evidence of my, er, alternate lifestyle. When we first got married she was really into discipline, but later, especially after Alison was born, she grew distant. I guess I'm weird, but sex just wasn't interesting to me without CP, and after a while we grew to hate each other. Anyway, Sarah turned on me. If she'd have taken our toys into court, they would have given her anything she wanted."
"Sounds like she got everything anyway."
"Yeah, pretty much. But at least by cooperating we didn't fight in court."
"You're really into this, then."
I shook my head. "Not publically. Sarah was the first person I'd ever played with. I met her in college. I'd had an interest all my life, but didn't know much. I thought I was perverted and I never told anyone. In college I heard about this club. It took me a long time to get up the nerve to go, but I finally did. I couldn't believe there were so many people into it. I met Sarah there, and we went out a few times, and we played. I thought I'd found God.
"I don't really play any more. I just dream about it. I read stories on the Internet. I write stories, too. I've been to a few parties, but it's tough when you're single. They're really designed for couples, know what I mean?"
Catherine was standing in my living room, looking out at the back lawn. It was a huge lawn, fenced in, with a swingset and a large play area. Obviously designed for a child.
"I've read books," she said softly. "I'm not exactly naive on the subject. But I've never 'played,' as you call it. But I know exactly what you mean." She turned to face me. "It's strange. I feel as though I've known you for years."
"You just like me because I'm anonymous," I said.
She started. "You know, I don't even know your name. But don't tell me. I think you're right. This feels better not knowing. It's less personal, more intimate."
"That time I met Sarah at that club? She was tied up and there was a line of men waiting to whip her. I got in line, and I whipped her. It was the first time I'd ever whipped a woman. Sarah loved it, and I fell in love with her. I didn't even know her name."
Catherine finished her drink. "I remember reading somewhere something about how names have power. If you know someone's name you have control over them."
"I've heard that. Goes back to the Rumplestilskin legend."
"That's right! I never thought about that before."
I put down my glass. "Well? Do you want to do this thing?"
She watched me as I went to a closet and took out a few things. I had a wooden paddle, a leather paddle, and my pride and joy, a real rattan cane from England.
She nodded. "Yes."
"Yes. I'm going to do this. I don't know why -- it's crazy. I'm afraid, terrified really, but I'm not the kind of person who lets fear stand in my way. For some reason I think I need to do this. I may never do it again, but I need to do it this once."
"I understand. Have you thought about how you'd like to do it?"
Catherine giggled. "Well, this dress is not designed for this kind of... play. Besides, I don't want to mess it up. I think it would be simplest if I'm naked."
I gulped. "That suits me."
Her eyes laughed at me as she began to strip. She kicked off her high-heeled pumps, had me help with the zipper on the dress, and carefully peeled it off. She wore black bra and panties underneath. In seconds they were on the floor and she was before me, gloriously naked.
"Wow," I said. I couldn't help myself. Catherine seemed pleased, smiling and blushing a little.
"My body isn't perfect," she said. "I have lots of flaws."
"Not as many as I do."
"You're not so bad. You could do with some exercise."
"A _lot_ of exercise," I said. "You're very kind, though."
"I think you're handsome. Really, I mean that. You're very good looking."
"Thanks," I said. It was my turn to blush. I decided to change the subject. "So, how shall we proceed? How many strokes were you thinking of?"
"Let's start with that 'six of the best' you mentioned. I'll touch my toes. If I rise up, the stroke doesn't count and you add on an extra one."
That sounded good to me. We moved to the middle of the living room -- I shoved the coffee table out of the way to give me plenty of swinging space. Catherine did several quick practice bends, then stayed bent over touching her toes. Her physique was amazing. She was lithe and fit, yet extremely feminine. Not thin, yet not fat. Just perfect. Nice curved hips, gorgeous round ass, and elegant breasts. Perfect.
Arched toward me, her ass was the main thing I saw. It was long, I noted: the cheeks were round and there was a lot of area to cover. A butt like this ought to be able to take quite a thrashing, I thought.
"Are you ready? No stopping unless you say the safeword, okay?"
"I'll start out with medium force. I don't want to overwhelm you."
Enough talking -- it was time to cane! I raised the whippy rod and brought it in line with Catherine's bottom. I did this several times, just warming up my arm muscles and memorizing the stroke angle. Then I let the rod fly. It caught her right across the middle of her ass, just where I'd aimed. There was a light "psfftt-thwack!" sound that echoed around the room. Catherine gave a deep grunt.
"That's one," I said, waiting and watching as the white mark across her butt turned red. Then I gave her the second and then the third. She was wiggling now, the sting obviously getting to her.
"Three more," I said, and really put some muscle into that fourth stroke. It was low, across the base of her buttocks, and she yelped and stood up, clutching her ass.
"Uh oh. That one doesn't count, I'm afraid. Four more to go."
Groaning, but not protesting, Catherine bent back over. I wanted this caning to be real, so I made the next one just as hard. She made strange sounds, but stayed in position. I saw there was gap between lines on her butt and laned the next right in that opening. She stayed down. There were only two left, but on the next to last one she half-rose up.
"Three left," I said. She groaned and went back over. I was easier on the next two, but for the final stroke, I really laid it on hard. Catherine shrieked and I thought she was going to get up, but she didn't. She stayed down and wiggled and writhed, waggled her butt back and forth.
"We're done," I said. "You may rise. Very well taken, let me add."
"Thanks," she whispered. Her face was somehow both pale and red. She was sweating heavily and looked tired. "Wow," she breathed. "I'd forgotten what a rush that is."
"Want to do it again?" I held my breath. Surely she wasn't that crazy, was she? It had been over fifteen years since she'd last tasted the cane -- wasn't a dozen enough?
"Let me think about that," she said calmly. "Perhaps we could try some of your other toys. Maybe a spanking by hand?"
"Certainly. Why don't you rest for a few minutes and then come across my lap."
I sat on the sofa watching Catherine's chest heave as she breathed deeply. Her flawless skin had a sheen of sweat across it. I was so aroused it hurt. She went to the hall mirror and looked at her ass over her shoulder, studying the crisscross of red weals. Only six were prominent, the others faint. Of the six one was really deep, crossing another, the overlapping area turning purple.
"Nice job," she said. "Very even." She came over to me at the couch. "I want to come," she said bluntly. "Spank me until I come."
"Sure," I said, wondering exactly what control I had over that. But I resolved to do my best and when that glorious bottom was in my lap, I squeezed those cheeks and began to spank. I spanked and spanked and spanked. My hand soon ached but I didn't care. I didn't spank especially hard, but I was thorough, going all over her bottom and enjoying watching every inch quiver and dance.
Finally Catherine signaled she'd had enough. I let her up. "Did you come?"
"Three times," she said with glee.
"Three times! You naughty girl! That's no fair. I'm as hard as a lampost."
"Oh really?" Her eyes were very naughty as she grinned at me. "Perhaps you need some assistance?"
"Oh God," I moaned. "It won't take much."
"Then maybe you're the one who needs a caning, to take down your passion a notch."
She was serious and I was putty in her hands. "Please, like most men I'm a wimp when it comes to pain. Take it easy and if you can, touch me frequently to keep me hard. If I go soft I can't take even one stroke."
Naked, my cock stiff, I bent over while Catherine picked up the long cane. Oh God this was exciting. I dreaded the pain, but the sight of a nude Catherine Zeta-Jones about to thrash me nearly put me over the edge.
She was good. The first two strokes softened me considerably, but she reached between my legs and massaged by balls and the base of my penis from behind. I was hard again instantly.
Two more strokes and I was weeping, my penis shrinking. She came in front of me and pressed her breasts against my dick. It quickly swelled up again.
Two more strokes and then Catherine was pressing her raw and striped ass against me. I stiffened so quickly I threatened to impale her from behind. But then she was behind me, lifting up the cane again.
This torture continued until I'd taken a dozen hard strokes. My ass was blazing. Catherine was forced to become more and more creative in her arousal techniques, but they always worked. After giving me two more strokes to take my total to fourteen, she apparently decided I'd had enough. She stood behind me, pulling me close. I could feel my sore ass fitting into her pelvic region. Her breasts pressed against my bare back. Her lips were on my shoulder. I could smell her wonderful hair. Then her arms went around me, her hands gripped my shaft from either side, and I was spurting uncontrollably all over the living room furniture. She pumped me dry, then released me.
"I think I'm ready for a few more of the cane," she said. "Just a few. Then I must go."
"Six," I said firmly, pressing my luck. "Of the best."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Same rules," I said.
Lovingly I delivered those final strokes, making sure they were solid and she felt them. I loved the way her ass looked while she was thrashed, the pert flesh flexing and bouncing in agony. I caned her hard, leaving some memorable weals. She rose up on the fifth, writhing silently and stamping her foot at the pain.
"Three more," I whispered, and she obediently bent back over. I made sure they counted, denting the proud flesh with the rod, leaving some juicy marks.
When she finally rose up her eyes glittered with gentle tears and I swear I've never seen her so beautiful.
I let her use my shower to clean up -- we were both sweaty -- and then I took my turn. I drove her back to the hotel parking lot. We sat in the car for a moment. We hadn't said a word the whole drive back, except a few jokes when both of us had trouble sitting down in the car.
"So, here you are," I said finally.
"Yes. Thank you." There was a pause. "Thank you for everything. That was... an experience to remember."
She shook her head. "We can never meet again, you know that."
I sighed. "I know. It wouldn't be the same if we knew each other."
"But this was truly something special. I mean that. I'll never forget you."
"Thanks. I'll never forget this day either."
She leaned over and gave me a gentle kiss on my cheek. It was warm and friendly and oh-so-intimate. It spoke volumes. I sat there with my eyes closed for a long time, and when I opened them, she was gone.
The car felt so empty I wondered if she'd ever been there. And then I saw them on the floormat of the passenger side: a pair of black panties. She'd left me a memento. God she was good.