A traffic altercation can lead to surprising things

By Robert Dingley

It all started about two weeks ago. I had been to a great party in Norwich. Much of the fun of a party is the anticipation and preparation, and I had gone to my friend Nicola’s flat to prepare. Now I was returning home to Woodbridge in my Mazda MX-5 sports car with the top down and with my auburn hair hanging free behind me after a long girl’s chat (and coffee) after a long and detailed review of the evening.

Coming out of a side road a huge motorbike suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere, lights glaring at me as if in accusation. In what seemed like slow motion I watched as the back wheel smoked and the rider seemed to lose control only to regain it a moment later to guide the machine round the front of my car coming to rest 25 metres or so further on. It all happened so fast I hardly had time to breathe. I climbed shakily out of the car.

“You silly man! Are you ok? Why were you going so fast?” I called out to the leather clad rider of the motorbike, walking towards him.

He had taken off his helmet and was kneeling down at the rear of his machine looking, I quickly realised, at his tyre and not, as I first thought, in a recovery position reflecting on the near miss. “No thanks to you,” he replied.

“Why were you going so fast?” I asked again accusingly.

“I was not going fast,” he replied standing up. Mentally I noted that he was four inches or so taller than my five feet five inches. “You may have noticed that it is warm, dry and…” he looked at his watch: “4.15 or so in the morning on midsummer’s eve, so fifty miles per hour, the legal speed limit, is perfectly acceptable.” And he glared at me.

“You were going far faster than fifty,” I responded. “Everyone knows motorbike riders are reckless and go far too fast anyway. I mean look at all the rubber you have left on the road on the other side of my car.”

“Lady,” he said. “You,” and he poked me hard in the stomach: “Came out of that side road without looking. Have you been drinking?” He put his face close to mine and sniffed.

I decided to change tactics. “My, my, don’t you look handsome when you’re angry?” I said staring at his short black hair, serious looking face and broad shoulders encased in leather.

“Who are you, and are you insured?” He asked. I glared at him and walked back to my car to take my shoulder bag out of the back seat while he continued examining his tyres. Walking back I searched for, and extracted, a business card and handed it to him.

“Mm, Carol Dickinson, Estate Agent,” he read aloud. “Here,” and he reached inside his leather jacket and handed me a card too. “Stephen Hammond,” he said. “My home number is on there. Now are you insured and have you been drinking?” He asked again.

“What if I have?” I replied. “It is none of your business what I do.”

“Oh isn’t it? You almost killed me coming out of that junction without looking.”

“You were going far too fast for the road,” I repeated. I was walking back to my car and he followed me. We were both shouting now.

“You’re a spoilt brat.”

“Over-confident arrogant fool!”


“Prissy spoilsport!”

I had climbed into the car, when he reached in and took the keys out of the ignition. “Mustn’t drive under the influence,” he said. I struggled out of the driving seat again and chased after him as he walked back to his bike.

“Give that back!” I demanded as fiercely as I could.

Laughing he reached underneath his jacket saying: “I’ll just phone the police to come and breathalyse you.”

It was not the threat of the breathalyser which made me see red, but the fact he laughed in my face. I slapped him as had as I could and his head jerked back. I laughed. “That will teach you not to smirk at me,” I said.

His jaw clenched and he clutched one of my arms tightly and dragged me a couple of steps to the motorbike. He lifted his leg over the back to sit astride the machine and pulled me face downwards over the front seat. “Hey, let me go you brute!” I protested into my shoulder bag, which was now jammed between my face and the machine.

With one hand firmly pressing down on my back he lifted the bag and hung the strap over the handlebars with the bag itself resting on the ground. Now I could view uninterrupted the word “YAMAHA” on the side of the bike.

“Let me up,” I demanded again.

He did not reply but brought his hand down sharply on my buttocks. I was wearing a yellow summer frock, fairly demur with a hem four or five inches above the knee so felt reasonably well covered. “Ouch! Let me up now!” And I struggled to lift myself.

“Stay down,” he said firmly, pressing me down in the small of my back. He continued slapping me and I tried to protect myself with a hand. The dress was not as effective as I first thought. Also, room on the seat was at a premium and it was not easy to move arm or body. My bottom could go up and down though and it did. One of his hands was grasping the one hand I had managed to put behind me and was pressing down on my back whilst the other right hand continued slapping steadily and hard.

It hurt, but was bearable so I mentally resigned myself to what was happening. “This is not working,” he said and began to yank up my dress.

“Stop that!” I yelped and, freeing the hand behind my back, pulled the hem down.

“It’s a pretty dress. If I can’t pull it up carefully I shall have to do so roughly and if it is torn, hard luck!” He said.

I lifted my hips muttering: “Bully,” and other more colourful epithets.

All I was wearing was a thong with good silk stockings. “Oh very nice,” he said. “But why did you protest about a public display. It’s a delightful pair of buttocks and quite becoming in red. It’s about to become even redder too.” He brought his hand down hard and I yelped. “That’s better,” he said.

The truth is I’d had two other pairs of hands kneading my bottom earlier that morning, but in a dark dance hall over my dress and not on bare skin. Nicola and I had been giggling about this afterwards as the same two men had apparently fondled her buttocks too. I didn’t think I would tell her about this third man in close contact with my bottom though. Stephen began a regular tattoo on my now practically naked posterior. “Ow, ow, ow!” I yelped, wriggling and trying to avoid his hard and persistent hand.

After a time this assault stopped, and I heard Stephen say: “Something still missing here. Let’s see what is in this bag of yours.”

As soon as he said it I knew exactly what he was after and tried to cling to the bag which was touching the ground near my head. After a struggle, my stomach really felt hollow at the thought of what he would find, he gave up the bag but was holding my hairbrush. The back of the brush is oval and wooden, a little smaller than the palm of my hand. What really made me anxious and gulp is the fact that the handle is about seven centimetres long which is likely to provide someone wielding it with significant leverage when striking an unprotected bottom. “Ah,” he said. “Just what I was looking for.”

He gave me a couple of experimental taps and then proceeded to lay into me. I screamed blue murder. “Stop, ow, oow, stop, you’re hurting me, oooow!” And I wriggled and bucked trying to avoid the hard implement.

After about a dozen swats he paused. “It’s a good thing we are out in the countryside,” he said conversationally.

He put one leg between mine, grasped one of my hands firmly and pressed down on my back again. “Ready?” He asked.

“No,” I said. “Enough.”

“Cheeky!” He laughed and gave a couple more of experimental taps before lambasting me again.

“Ouch no, ooow, bastard, no, oooh, ooow!” I bucked and kicked and then, after another dozen or so sharp slaps, burst into tears. A hand crept in between my legs and found my vagina rubbing gently, and I came to a surprised orgasm.

He helped me to my feet and I sobbed into his shoulder for a short time. When I stepped back we looked at each other awkwardly. “Hope that will stop you drinking, driving, and failing to stop at a T junction. Now, how are you going to get home?” he asked.

“Give me those keys,” I demanded. “For your information I was breathalysed earlier this morning and have not had a drink since.”

“Well well,” he said, laughing but handing over my keys at the same time. “You have brought trouble on yourself. I might not have hit you so hard if I had not thought you were drunk.”

I walked to my car angrily and climbed in, sitting down carefully. My bottom was going to be a mass of bruises, I was sure of it. Childishly I stuck my tongue out at Stephen as I roared away down the road. A few minutes later I had reached my flat on the edge of Woodbridge and was examining my bottom with the aid of two mirrors. It was still bright red with several dark patches, which I guessed would turn to bruises in a few hours. Damn the man! I wanted to go swimming on Sunday, but not at the risk of displaying bruises to anyone.

Over two weeks later, I still could not rid myself of the memory of that spanking. The helplessness of lying over that motorbike unable to really move, the breeze on my skin, the pain in my rear end and inability to stop it continuing, and the orgasmic release at the end. That Saturday morning I had slept for several hours before making and eating lunch. On examining my bottom it was covered by bruises which had stayed visible for five or six days. Whenever I had a free moment to daydream, I kept remembering what had happened.

Nicola had come down from Norwich to my flat the second weekend after this incident. I took the opportunity to ask her whether she had ever been spanked. “A couple of times,” she admitted. “It really turns a man on. The sex afterwards was great. Probably something to do with the power it gives them turning the bum red, squealing and so on.”

“Really? Was it just a hand they used?”

“Nosy aren’t you?” She said. “Just a hand. I was threatened with a hairbrush once but he soon forgot about that when I took off my bra,” she giggled.

This conversation led me on to researching the subject on the internet. The trouble was the sites I found were big on action but not the psychology behind it. It probably needed deeper research, which I was not yet prepared to undertake. Perhaps, I thought over two weeks later, I just need closure. After all I was at fault at first so, if I admitted all and apologised, maybe I could then put the whole thing out of my mind. Having decided that, I found my purse and took out his card, which I had placed there for safekeeping. Was this proof of an unconscious desire I wondered.

That evening after eating and washing up I could put it off no longer and picked up my phone. After three or four rings he picked up. “Hammond,” he said.

“Stephen Hammond?” I asked.

“Speaking. Who is this please?”

“Hi Stephen, it’s Carol Dickinson. You, er, I, er, helped you exercise your right arm a couple of weeks ago.”

“Why hello Carol. An unforgettable meeting, I recall. How can I help you?”

“Look, I know I was in the wrong. I wanted to say sorry and do it properly in person.” I managed to blurt out.

“What had you in mind?” He asked.

“Well there is a pub, The Cats Cradle, nearby in the centre of Woodbridge. I’m free this evening but if you cannot come tonight, say about 7.30pm, just let me know when would be convenient and I’ll come then, whatever day and time suits.”

“You seem determined,” he said. “Just hold on a minute.” A moment or two later he said: “Look, I’m not far from Woodbridge, but I am new to the area. Where is this pub?”

“It’s on the end of the High Street, on the left going towards Needham Market,” I explained.

“Fine, I’ll be able to find it. You said 7.30pm would suit you, I think.”


“Well, I will see you there then. Bye,” and he ended the call.

Cripes, I thought. That hasn’t given me much time to ready myself. In the end I pulled on a light green dress which accentuated my curves, sensible shoes and some blusher and walked over to the pub which is only five minutes or so from my flat. We arrived together.

“I’ll buy the drinks,” I said; half a pint for me and, to my surprise, a whisky for Stephen. They know me in the saloon, which was nearly empty anyway so we were soon sitting in a corner seat facing each other. “Stephen. I have been thinking about what happened a couple of weeks ago and I really am very sorry for nearly colliding with you,” I said. “It was all my fault.”

“Apology accepted, thank you. I suppose I was a little hasty spanking you as I did,” he replied.

“Liar! I bet you enjoyed every moment of it.”

He looked startled for a moment. “Well perhaps.” He grinned. “It certainly had its moments.”

Writing this all down the next day, I am still amazed at what I said next. “We are friends now, Stephen?” I asked.

“Well I suppose so.”

“You see I’m afraid you can not have spanked me hard enough last time because I have just had an accident with my car coming out of a side road again.” Stephen stared at me. “Will you come home and spank me again please? You had better make it harder.” I finished, amazed at what I had just asked.

He picked up his nearly full whisky glass and downed it in one. Standing up he held out his hand and said: “Come.” I was pulled out of the pub in a daze. Had I really lied to him about an accident and invited him to spank me?

When we reached my flat with me muttering inanities about not normally asking almost strangers to either come in or spank my bottom, I pulled him into my dining / sitting room and handed him the hairbrush from my handbag. “I think you had better have this,” I said.

Well, he sat down on the settee, pulled me over his knees and lifted up my skirt. I was wearing white frilly knickers but he pulled these up tight and into my bottom crack to expose most of my cheeks. “No stockings today,” he said as his hand descended sharply.

“Didn’t think you noticed. Too busy dealing with my derriere,” I replied. Where did that cheeky reply come from I thought.

“Oh derriere now is it? Well let me see how your derriere looks in red,” and his arm started to rise and fall energetically.

I wriggled a little under the assault for a minute or so before turning my head and looking at his. “Hammond, is this really the best you can do?” Now where did that come from I thought.

“Like that, is it Dickinson?” He said. “Asking for more now, are we?” And he proceeded to pull down my knickers and picked up the hairbrush.

“Ooh,” I said. “Hammond, I have already asked for more. Now is the time for you to make good on your intentions.”

Well, the next five minutes or so was painful as he pounded my bare backside repeatedly and rapidly with that implacably hard hair brush. I bucked and ducked, and my bottom swayed and bobbed but he was relentless. I just cannot believe I was relishing every painful moment. Somehow too, although it was just as, if not more, painful than my earlier spanking I was not screaming and wailing so much.

When he stopped and started kneading and stroking my globes I rolled off him onto the floor. Reaching for my trusty handbag I rummaged inside and found a condom. “Here,” I said. “Just in case you don’t have one.” I then lay back. lifted up my legs and grabbing my ankles with each hand simply said: “Come and get it.” He entered me easily and I immediately came to an orgasm. Three or four powerful pumps later he shuddered, sinking deep inside me.

Well, after that we watched a film, ordered a takeaway pizza and, before breakfast the next morning we had had intercourse four more times, the last a long intense session which brought me to orgasm several times before he ejaculated.

Before he left that morning I promised to cook for him that evening, and he hinted at buying a cane as, he said, it seemed the sharper the pain the better and more animated I became.

Sitting in my office, I realised that the reason I had given myself for apologising had backfired. Now I was sitting (or wriggling) in my office with a sore bottom, dreaming about what had happened, and wondering why I had acted as I did. I was now hooked even worse than before. I just could not believe this was happening, or why. Ooh, but also I could not wait until this evening to see Stephen again. I picked up my cell phone and found his number.

The End