Twitterotica – a FuckMeFriday story: Heat, or getting a spanking from Cheryl and Posh

25 Feb

Aisling Weaver has set up a new Twitterotica writing prompt, and since I like bandwagons, I’m fully signed up. So here is my entry for this week’s edition of #FuckMeFriday, which has the prompt #Heat.


He works in PR, I work in magazines — it’s one of those relationships that works in spite of itself. There are lots of people I know who have it harder, like Jenny and Mark, who both work on the same newspaper, or Mehry, who’s fucking her boss at a travel PR firm and can’t persuade him to leave his wife.

The thing is that I sometimes have to ring up Jeremy and ask him questions about… well, I won’t tell who or what, but let’s just say he works with a lot of famous people. I work for a magazine, a woman’s magazine — please, let me be a little discreet here — and so I write about a lot of famous people. It’s how we met, after all, at a party (isn’t it always like that?) and he heard who I work for and rolled his eyes as if to say “Oh God, not them, she’s going to be a complete bitch”. I get that a lot. You just develop a thick skin, and I rather agree with him as well — I know a lot of hackettes who are complete bitches. The thing is that we’d spoken on the phone a couple of times, but he has a memory like Dear Liza’s bucket — God knows how he’s got so far in his job — and he didn’t know me. I had imagined he’d be a typical PR guy: groomed, gorgeous and gay. Well, I got two of those right. He’s tall, but not too tall, has short dark hair that you want to run your fingers through and the wickedest eyes you’ve ever seen: grey with flecks of green. The Paul Smith suits, shirts from Jermyn Street and shoes from Churches help, too. I’m pretty choosy, and I have excellent taste.

I found out pretty soon afterwards that he also has a fantastic cock.

It curves upwards a little and it has a birthmark just behind the head, just the right place for my tongue. I like trying to trace it with my tongue, but he usually scolds me and tells me to get on with it.

The job gives us a little frisson in our relationship. We don’t talk all the time about it, but it comes up, and usually he’s the one complaining about journalists and I’m complaining about publicists. And sometimes, he’s complaining about my magazine, because we’ve done something about one of his clients that he doesn’t like. Everyone knows about us, of course, so we try to keep everything on email, so it’s all formal and we can point to it if anyone asks a question.

So then I got a tip about how this actress was going to do a new movie and it was all very straightforward. She wasn’t one of Jeremy’s people, so I send an email to her PR and nothing comes back. But it’s uncontroversial and so we run the story anyway. It’s summer, there’s not that much around.

Then he rang me up.

“Hi baby.”

“Don’t give me that, what the hell is this about?”


“I can’t believe you didn’t bloody ask me first. Your cover, the box at the bottom ‘OMG! Daisy’s latest thrill'”

I’m getting a sinking feeling here. “What about it?” The best form of defence is attack. “It’s nothing to do with you. And it’s true.”

“It is to do with me, and you know it. I’ve been looking after her for three weeks.”

“You never told me that.”

“Yes I bloody well did.” He went silent. I needed a fag. His faulty memory again. Idiot.

“Well, it’s true, and I don’t see what the problem is.”

“The problem, sweetheart, is that now the production company is kicking off, saying she’s leaked it and they’re going to give the part to someone else. And that’s off the record. And you can’t use it. Shit. Shit-shit-shit.”

Now the problem was becoming clearer. “Ah.”

“And it’s got your name on it.”

“Oh.” Shit. “Look, I emailed Forthright PR and they never came back to me.”

“Piers is a cunt. He probably thought you were winding him up because he knew I’d got her.” He went quiet again. “Look, I’m in the shit about this and I’ve got to figure out what to do about it.” He rang off without waiting for me to reply.

Great. Bollocking over. He has a habit of just blowing up over little things but he’s usually calm by the time he gets back. I was home early — the day after publication is usually pretty relaxed — and we were going out later so I cooked and then got changed, waiting for him. I hadn’t read Heat yet, so I perched on the stool. Cheryl Cole was on the cover. Victoria Beckham was on a panel inset with some story about her fashion label.

I was just examining the Hunk of the Week when he came in, slamming the door behind him.

“I’ve had a shit day and it’s all your fault.” He stood in the hallway, loosening his tie and undoing his top shirt button.

I leaned against the living room doorframe, holding the magazine. “It’s lovely to see you too, darling.”

He stalked past me, grabbing my hand and dragging me into the front room.

“Ow! You’re hurting me.”

He let go and threw up his arms. “You wouldn’t believe the bollocking I’ve had. We might lose the client. It’s a total disaster.”

I didn’t say anything, waiting for him to finish ranting. He stormed round the room, kicking the door. He was actually a little frightening. I’d never seen him  so worked up. He sat down on the arm of the sofa.

“I’m sorry darling, I just didn’t know.”

“Well…” He looked up at me, then checked me out — I was looking pretty foxy, I think, a short light pink sleeveless linen dress with a big belt I’d got from Selfridges and some pearls. I was channelling Mad Men. I think I changed his mood just from the way I looked, which made me feel pretty hot.

“Come here.” He looked pretty hot too, hot and bothered. I rather liked him when he was cross, and masterful.

I put down the magazine and he interrupted me.

“What’s that you’ve got there?”


“Bring it over.” I picked it up walked across the carpet in my bare feet. He took the magazine and unfurled it. “You really don’t have much respect for your profession, do you.” He looked at the page. “Hunk of the Week? Who is it… Ricky fucking Whittle?” He rolled it up again, tight, and then prodded me with it.


“Quiet.” He grabbed me by the waist, a fierce expression on his face, and slid into the sofa proper. He caught me off balance and I stumbled over him. He caught my arms and pinned me down to his leg so my bottom was in the air. I struggled. Oh yes, I struggled, but he was too strong, his hands had too much of a grip on my wrists. My stomach shrank. He was going to spank me.

Slap. He whacked me with the rolled up copy of Heat. It hurt, but not as much as I expected.

Slap. There was a time he had tried to spank me before.

Slap. But he couldn’t get hold of me properly and…

Slap. I managed to wriggle away, scolding

Slap. him and he just laughed it off.

Slap. It was beginning to hurt now and I

Slap. tried harder to slide off his

Slap. lap but he was so strong and

Slap. I was getting angry with him

Slap. that he was trying to

Slap. humiliate me like this

Slap. when it was so unfair

Slap. but it was hurting

Slap. and hurting

Slap. more and

Slap. more.

Slap. I just

Slap. wanted

Slap. him

Slap. to

Slap. stop.

I was crying now. It hurt, really hurt and I was so afraid of the next stroke. But he stopped and I sank into his lap, not struggling any more. He put down the magazine and rubbed my bottom.

“Learnt your lesson?”

It was so unfair — it wasn’t my fault he’d got a new client without telling me. Bastard. I told him so.

“Well then.” He reached under my dress and pulled down my knickers, then pulled up the hem of my dress so it was at my waist. “My my, you’ve got a red bottom.”


“Not at all. I’m just showing you who’s boss.” He prised a finger into my crotch.

“What are you doing?” He burrowed down between my thighs, stuck together on his lap, until he found my pussy.

“Aha! Just as I thought. You’re enjoying this.”

“I am not!” I hadn’t. Although the feeling of his hand on my hot bottom was more pleasant than I wanted him to know.

“Let’s see then.” He grabbed the magazine. My stomach knotted in fear. I would have done anything to

Slap. stop him spanking me

Slap. because the sting from

Slap. the glossy cover of

Slap. the magazine against

Slap. my bare skin was far

Slap. more painful than it

Slap. had been through

Slap. my dress and I

Slap. began to beg him

Slap. to stop, promising I

Slap. would never ever

Slap. do it again and

Slap. I was a very

Slap. bad girl who

Slap. deserved it but

Slap. please would he

Slap. just be kind and

Slap. stop.

And he did. And he put his finger inside my pussy and I was wet, so wet, and the feeling of burning began to cover my bottom and he let go of my hands and pulled my legs apart so that he could get inside me. The horrible, horrible pain and despair was replaced by a longing and the tightness in my stomach transformed into desire for him to fuck me.

I came on his lap, my bottom still in the air, burning, as he worried away at my clitoris. I lay on the sofa, glowing, as he undid his belt and his trousers and took me from behind, burying his cock inside me without any preamble, sliding his dry cock into my wet cunt. The roughness of his skin made me start with pain but it was nothing compared to the spanking and it just added to the glow. Besides, within three thrusts he was slick, and he was done in thirty seconds. It was good sex. Really good.

He lay on top of me, pressing me into the sofa, his dick plugging up his spunk, and nuzzled on my shoulder.

“You’re an evil man, you know that.”

He grunted. I peered at his cheek, an inch from mine. “I seriously didn’t know she was your client.”

He grunted again and then raised his head. “I know.”


3 Responses to “Twitterotica – a FuckMeFriday story: Heat, or getting a spanking from Cheryl and Posh”

  1. Angel February 25, 2011 at 7:32 am #

    Love it!

  2. Ruby Kiddell February 25, 2011 at 7:44 am #

    Loved your story, I’ll look at Heat with new respect now.

    • mehryinett February 25, 2011 at 2:57 pm #

      Thank you, both. Let’s face it – the only thing Heat is good for is rolling up to make a spank toy :p

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