From the Top Shelf - I Can't Believe What I've Done

Over the Desk is an exciting new site for spanking fiction, and it's bursting with stories of every imaginable kind. I found several that I enjoyed, and you can be sure I'm going back for more. I chose a portion of my favourite story (so far) to share with you. 

I Can’t Believe What I've Just Done and Why

by Robert Dingley


It all started about 2 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 girls chat (and coffee) after a long and detailed review of the evening.

Coming out of a side road a huge motor bike 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 motor bike, 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 4 inches or so taller than my 5ft 5 inches. "You may have noticed that it is warm, dry and…" he looked at his watch, "4.15 or so in the morning on mid summer’s eve so 50 miles per hour, the legal speed limit, is perfectly acceptable." And he glared at me.

"You were going far faster than 50," I responded. "Everyone knows motor bike 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.

It seems she has. The encounter escalates, they argue, then she attempts to leave.

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 motor bike. 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 4 or 5 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.

...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."

What does he find in her handbag, and what does he do with it? Read the complete story here.