Naked Opportunism

Aldo Rossini, recently arrived in England, virtually unheard of by the general public, is here to cash in on the sudden vogue for Latin balladeers. In Italy he is an established star, lusted after by educated young sophisticates, adored by their mothers and reawakening forgotten longings in their grannies and he aims to do the same on a global scale. He’s invested a lot in the enterprise and has the bills to prove it.
His latest credit card bill in particular. He expected the total to be somewhere approaching four figures, but not to comprise four such well- established figures. The majority of the outlets listed are unknown to him and the amounts spent a total surprise, though he knows the likely cause. He makes a call; then he makes his plans.
Winona Jacquard and Chanson (not, he suspects their real names) are the backing singers he has hired.
They performed well together and in the past three years have been booked as session singers on tracks for a number of established artists.
In live performances they work diligently with the musical directors and choreographers, and they complement one another in looks – one dramatically dark, the other coolly blonde, although, like their names, neither presents as nature intended.
While waiting for the girls to arrive he investigates the boxes he has found on the coffee table. Two pairs of shoes accounting for well over six hundred pounds of the balance showing on his bill. ???Treat yourselves’ he had told them, never dreaming they would spend to such excess. He tuts and reverts to his mother tongue to express his contempt and outrage at the conduct of the young women.
When they arrive, he beckons them in and, without preamble, opens one of the shoe boxes. ???So, ladies, I see you didn’t need any encouragement to use the credit card I lent you.’
The shuffled in unison, the intuitive result of years of rehearsing together. ???You said to get some gear for going out and being seen with you. We were hardly going to go to Top Shop,’ pipes up Chanson in her practised tones. Like the extended blonde hair, the accent has been acquired and groomed over time to approximate what she hopes to be rather than what she once was.
???You want us to do you proud, don’t you?’ chimes in Winona Jacquard. She tosses her raven locks – also enhanced by over-priced extensions – to show how affronted she feels by the implication that she does not merit classy footwear. Her glottal stops are given full rein – she has never mastered “talking posh” – suiting the “healthy glow” skin tone acquired over several weeks in a salon near Walworth Road and the extended nails provided at the same location.
???Just give me the credit card,’ Aldo instructs. ???In future, if shopping is needed, I’ll accompany you.’
The girls’ shoulders slump and Chanson reluctantly pulls the card from her trouser pocket and hands it over. It was good while it lasted they think as their flexible friend is snatched away.
???You have taken advantage of my generosity,’ the songster informs them. ???You know I will not return the goods so you may keep them. I do, however, expect you to make amends and since I know you cannot afford to reimburse the money, you must make reparation in another manner.’
Whatever he says always sounds like a seduction, his flawless English vocabulary set in a carefully- preserved accent hinting of sunshine, vineyards and fountains. It takes both women a moment to realise his statement does not bode well for them. Their eyes travel from their employer to the offending shoe boxes, then across the table to a couple of items they’ve not seen before. An unexplained chill slips simultaneously down both their spines.
He stands, brandishing the credit card statement and tugging derisively at the front of Winona Jacquard’s dress. ???How can a metre of fabric warrant a price tag of such magnitude? What a shame you cannot buy style as easily as you can buy garments!’
The girl – actually, not that young on closer inspection – flinches under the tirade and feels guiltily relieved when Aldo turns his attention to her colleague.
???And you! You wear a top that costs two hundred pounds and it doesn’t cover your underwear. Is this supposed to be stylish? Do you think that these shoes will make you classier? I despair! I made my standards clear to the booking agency and they assured me you would meet my requirements.’
He turns his attention back to Winona Jacquard. ???What is it about you English girls and underwear? You wear a sheer garment and have vivid pink underwear clearly visible.’ He raises the hem of her dress to fully expose the offending cerise and black panties, all his contempt and rage expressed in the simple gesture.
???And you,’ he says, addressing Chanson once more, ???let’s see the full effect. Lift up your top so we can properly admire your undergarment.’ His look lets her know this is no idle suggestion, and she slowly complies. She’d adored the lingerie when she tried it on in the boutique but now she feels like a slut. He nods for her to adjust her clothing again, then tells her to go and stand behind the sofa: ???While I deal with your partner in crime.’
???Now then, Winona Jacquard,’ he growls, ???let me accept the invitation your lingerie seems to offer.’
He turns her abruptly, lifting her skirt. He grabs at the waist of her panties, pulling them high so they dig deeply and painfully into the cleft between her buttocks. Leaving her in this uncomfortable and undignified pose, he deftly slips off his jacket: ???Let the dog see the rabbit, as you English say.’
Settling himself on one side of the sofa he tugs the hapless singer over his knees so that she can support herself on the seats at right angles to him. He has the air of one who has practised this move before and she instinctively knows what is going to happen.
She tenses her buttocks in anticipation and the first slap stings as it meets the resistant flesh. Her whole body goes rigid as she wonders how long and intense this spanking will be. Aldo’s hand comes down again, this time impacting more deeply and making her buttocks ripple.
Her instinct is to cry out, but her professional self-preservation makes her resist the urge. Whatever is happening, now, her voice is needed for a day in the studio tomorrow. She knows a third blow is coming and concentrates on absorbing the pain by breathing deeply. In total, Aldo’s palm strikes a dozen times, the sound of the impacts echoing around the room.
Chanson looks on in silent horror. Is she to suffer the same fate? She sees her friend’s exposed bottom quiver each time Aldo strikes, notes the pancaking effect as the soft muscle absorbs his hand, then the rippling as the surface regains its more accustomed form and a deep blush spreads across the salon- induced tan.
Now Aldo is pulling down the offending pink panties, dragging them to her knees. Winona Jacquard resists at last, reaching behind to protect her burning cheeks and her modesty, but Aldo is determined to continue her punishment. He lets her kick and buck under his ministrations, respecting the way she still ensures her vocal cords remain undamaged by her protestations.
His hand has grown as hot as Winona Jacquard’s backside. He reaches for one of the implements the girls had tried to ignore. The short-handled red leather paddle eases his discomfort whilst ensuring hers increases. Its blows are heavy, ponderous, the pain imparted slow but thorough in snaking its way through her pelvis and down her thighs.
Her gyrations are threatening the safety of the glass table, so Aldo re-positions along one arm of the L- shaped sofa. He admires her stoicism; but is also disappointed not to have broken her spirit more thoroughly.
Still, he has not completed her punishment yet.
He helps her stand and, leaving her knickers at half-mast, tells her to remove first her dress and then her bra. He has the cane in his hand.
The coffee table is clear of clutter and Aldo’s next instruction is to drape her naked torso across its surface. Its dimensions are perfect for accommodating her prostrate body, the glass icy against her skin, contracting her flesh and tautening her nipples.
It had not occurred to her that the cane might be applied while a person was lying down: her images are all shaped by comic strips and old movies where a youthful miscreant is bent at the waist with fingertips on toes. She wonders whether the cane will seem more or less painful than if she had not already been thoroughly spanked. She cannot answer the question, but the first cut of the cane imparts a pain beyond her powers of description. She sucks in air and drums her fingers on the table top, panting like an animal in labour until the initial shock subsides and heat once more creeps through her body. Aldo takes his time, waiting for
her body to slump and the trembling to stop, before raising the cane once more. He makes sure he doesn’t catch the site of the first stripe. Caning is an art. It is about controlling the delivery and degree of pain. It is about creating a design, leaving a unique pattern on flesh that will be a constant reminder to the wearer for as long as it lasts.
The third swing lands at the crease where her buttocks and thighs meet. It is especially sensitive there and the shock brings her up on to her knees, rocking back and forth, a high wailing sound escaping from her throat before she once more regains control.
He delivers a classic ???six of the best’ in deference to her Englishness, though it always amuses him the way the English think they invented caning.
She is chastened; her skin gleams with perspiration and her eyes are dull and docile. When she is calm, he helps Winona Jacquard to stand and passes her discarded clothes to her, amused at the way she clutches them modestly in front of her.
???Go and clean yourself up in the bathroom, then go home,’ he tells her curtly. I will see you in the studio tomorrow as arranged. You will be paid via your agency and I do not wish to be seen socialising with you in the future. You have abused my
friendship and so it is withdrawn. Goodnight.’
She shuffles off, drawing up her briefs as she goes. Aldo Rossini is already turning his attention to her friend and colleague – or he would be if he could see her. Alarmed by her friend’s ordeal, she has ducked behind the sofa, hoping to creep
to the door and make her escape. Having seen how he punished Wendy – she and Winona Jacquard go back a long way – she has no doubt that a similar fate awaits her.
???Let’s cut to the chase,’ says Aldo, pulling her from her hiding place. ???You know what you have done. You know how I feel about it. You know the consequences. Take off that top then remove that awful bra. A woman of your age shouldn’t need to wear one and if you do, you should not purchase a top that will not cover it.’
The bra is removed and to demonstrate it is indeed redundant (and increase her embarrassment), Aldo fondles her exposed breasts as if testing their resilience.
???You have a good figure’ he remarks, moving his attention to her trousered rump. ???It’s a pity you do not have good dress sense to show it off to full advantage. You may as well remove your trousers, they serve no purpose here.’
Chanson lowers her trousers, exposing what she’d thought of as a sexy thong. Aldo tuts his disgust.
???And remove that at the same time. I have no idea why women think such garments are attractive: they show up most defects and disguise none.’ Aldo stops her when her trousers are around her ankles so she is hobbled and humiliated as her friend was just minutes ago.
???Look Aldo,’ she pleads, ???I get your point. You were generous and we took advantage of you and I realise that now and I’m very sorry. I’ll just go and we’ll say no more …’
She cannot finish her sentence. Aldo has upended her and stretched her over his knee just as he had previously positioned her colleague. Now it is her turn to feel her flesh warm then burn as his hand strikes relentlessly against the pert cheeks. She makes no attempt to count the blows, just focuses on her breathing and relaxation techniques that are only partially successful. Again, Aldo feels thwarted by the self-discipline his victim displays, and tugs off her shoes and drags down her trousers so that she cannot help but give into her instincts and kick unreservedly at each stinging slap.
Disrobing her in this way provides her chastiser with a fresh opportunity. The flat shoes she favours make an ideal punishment tool, leaving their mark both literally and emotionally.
Chanson yelps and bucks, begging for a reprieve and momentarily thinks she has won over Aldo, only to find it’s just a temporary respite while he substitutes the red paddle for the shoe.
The whole of Chanson’s rear is a glowing, pulsating crimson. She can no longer tell whether the heat is being freshly generated or is the culmination of all the previous strikes. She judders and tears glide silently down her face. Her throat feels raw despite her endeavours to preserve her vocal cords; she is worried she won’t be able to sing tomorrow. Maybe not such a bad thing: she could rest for a week and get another gig. Is working with Aldo Rossini really worth this?
Aldo lets her regain some composure, and has her kneel on the sofa. That she is to be caned is no surprise, but the actual sensations stun her into silent immobility. Aldo savours the moment. He watches the line emerge against the deep red ground: first white them pink, then mauve; the characteristic tramlines rising up in relief. He is careful in his delivery. The six stripes are clustered more closely than those he tattooed on the errant rear of Winona Jacquard.
Chanson makes whinnying sounds, unattractive and inarticulate, their tone and her posture signifying her total capitulation.
He has her stand, massaging her lewdly as she tries to unbend her body and feign composure.
???Would you like to take my credit card shopping?’ he whispers in her ear and when she dumbly shakes her head he tells her, ???Good. Now take your clothes and join your friend.’
He has no need to tell her twice.

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