The Bottom Line by Emma Savage

picnic spot, which had become something of a quest, when we saw down below us a tiny cove, with silver sand amongst the red rocks and a deep blue sea visible through the pines.
    â€˜Let’s picnic by the beach,’ I suggested.
    â€˜Sounds lovely,’ Barbara enthused, ‘but we must be sensible. The sun’s going to get very hot this afternoon and we’re not used to it. Just a dip and a picnic and then we either come away or shelter under the trees.’
    I agreed, of course, and fifteen minutes later we were in the sea, Barbara showing her growing emancipation by bathing topless. An hour later we were just finishing our picnic, and five hours later we returned to the car!
    Our hotel that evening was in a tiny village perche . Even as we arrived in the late afternoon there were wonderful odours wafting about the place and our balcony offered views over the several kilometres leading down to the sea. The room was large and comfortable, with the usual immaculate bathroom, and everything seemed idyllic. But Barbara felt a little uneasy.
    â€˜I think we stayed in the sun just a little too long,’ she said. ‘Would you mind rubbing some after-sun into my back and shoulders? I don’t want to risk burning.’
    I was quite happy to oblige, so she stripped naked, fetched a towel from the bathroom, spread it across the bed and lay facedown on it. Actually the damage didn’t look too serious; a slight reddening across her shoulders, perhaps, and a patch on her lower back where she had been unusually exposed, but otherwise her skin had no more than a healthy glow befitting several hours spent outdoors in a favourable climate.
    Slowly and thoroughly I worked the cream into her shoulders as she gave occasional gasps of pleasure, or of irritation if I threatened to stop. When I’d finished her shoulders I straightened up but she didn’t like that.
    â€˜You haven’t finished,’ she said indignantly. ‘There’s an area on my back where I’ve definitely caught the sun.’
    There wasn’t actually much potential soreness at all, so I turned my attention to her bottom, which was pleasantly plump and a pleasure to knead. I had on a few secret occasions wondered how it would be to fuck her bum, and now I wondered about really doing it.
    But I continued to rub and knead, adding little slapping strokes occasionally and watching the flesh quiver and ripple. I forgot all about screwing her arse and began to slap more systematically and a little harder, a dozen strokes building up to a climax. I expected to be told at any moment to pack it in, but all I heard was a satisfied murmur, so I continued experimenting, slapping harder all the time, switching from one cheek to the other and then striking her right across the middle and watching her skin redden as the blood rushed to the surface.
    Still she didn’t object to what I was doing, and I was well into my stride now, pausing only to switch on the television to cover the noise I was making. For another ten minutes I continued to spank her until her skin was a deep pink all over and the murmurs of satisfaction were turning to gasps of some deeper emotion. My arm was getting tired and my hand positively ached, so I gave her another dozen or so and then told her that she’d had enough and it was time to stop.
    â€˜Oh no,’ she cried, ‘you can’t stop now. It’s just getting interesting, but I need something harder and heavier.’
    I began to protest but she interrupted me. ‘Here, try my flip-flop and do it till I tell you to stop.’
    I wanted to tell her that I wouldn’t, but something stopped me. For one thing I was enjoying it, as my still stiff prick confirmed, and for another I was getting curious to find out how much she could take. I’d been spanking her quite hard when I paused, and so I picked up the flip-flop and settled down again to my task.
    Now it seemed much more