This is a print version of story A Taste Of Bamboo For Maria! by Ima_Kant from

A Taste Of Bamboo For Maria!

I was transfixed, cornered by a pair off accurately aimed emerald coloured laser beams.
Well, that’s how I recall it when I first caught her gazing at me.
It was a Friday, late June, 1980. There I was at Bogart’s Disco: hot, smoky, crowded and very loud – what on earth drew me to places like this?
Pulling women… that’s what. Mind you, back then I was pretty successful – I fancied myself a wolf!
She was leaning provocatively, in a relaxed manner, against a pillar and supping casually from a glass.
I meandered over, checking my reflection briefly in the mirrored surface of the walls: neat, well groomed auburn hair, tallish athletic frame and strong features. Probably quite good looking – to be honest.
I was well presented in a Midnight-Blue shirt and pressed black trousers. A liberal application of Zendiq aftershave prior to leaving my house topped it all off – I’d felt good about myself; very good.
She was dressed ‘to kill’ in a revealing little black frock – God! She was lusty!
Raven hair tumbled onto deliciously exposed ivory shoulders.
As I neared I became increasingly aware of her high cheekbone beauty. Her nose was small, straight and neat; the mouth even with full sensuous glossy lips; her complexion was flawless, pale yet healthy – she was slim too.
‘Like what you see?’ her accent had a trace of the ‘Emerald Isle’.
I had expected to speak first. ‘Yes... I do rather... and what I hear.’ I was distracted momentarily by the rich green hue of her eyes – drawn into the dark depths of her pupils.
‘My name is Jules Black.’ I felt gauche.
She smiled, reassuringly: ‘Maria... ‘She hesitated ‘... is all you need to know.’
I understood... I think.
She talked of Eire: its beauty, the people. I explained my work in a laboratory, my career aspirations.
The evening drew on. I warmed to her as a person. I liked her – I could have loved her.
Dancing to ‘Three Times a Lady’ her slender bare arms tightened around me. I kissed her sweet lips and slipped my tongue in her mouth. She gently pulled away. I feared for an instant: rejection.
‘Let’s go.’ She whispered in my ear. The music began to fade out.
I caught the eye of one of my friends at the peripheral of the dance floor. He read the situation: I wouldn’t be requiring a lift back.
We passed out of the club’s entrance into the comparative chill of the night.
‘You came here alone?’ I was curious.
‘I have a few I chat with here... but yes.’ She partially answered. There was a pause in the conversation.
I listened to the waves breaking softly on the beach – the club was but a road away from the shore. The air was still and the swell of the sea: gentle, rhythmic.
She walked a little ahead of me – maybe she didn’t want to draw attention to us. She moved with poise – I wondered if she exercised, perhaps played tennis or swam?
We reached the car: a racing green Mini 1275 GT – class. In a reversal of gender chivalry she unlocked the passenger door for me. A strong aroma of rose petal greeted me from the car freshener dangling from the interior mirror.
I squeezed myself into the black-leather bucket seats and drew the inertia reel seatbelt across my chest before fastening it. Beside me now, she started the engine and sped quickly out of the car park and onto the main road.
She drove nippily and I admired the fluid movements of her limbs as she shifted gear and handled the sporty steering wheel. I hoped she wouldn’t attract the attention of the law as she was, I suspected, rather over the limit.
We travelled fast out of the small seaside town and into the country; the hedgerows and trees eerily illuminated by the cold lunar light.
After a while we turned into a new looking road that led shortly to the prestigious ‘Garden Village’ – a recent development. I doubt that the four or so miles had taken any longer than seven or eight minutes.
Maria swung the Mini onto a drive and stopped a few feet short of a double garage. She killed the engine and slipped out of the vehicle.
The residence was large, detached, and like all the surrounding properties, new and in the style, I believe, Neo-Georgian – everything about it said: money. Only the distant hoot of an owl disturbed the peace.
Maria slipped the key silently into the lock and the door opened into a sumptuous lobby. She directed me through to the lounge.
‘Would you be liking a coffee... first?’ she smiled wickedly.
I stood there gaping at the opulence: oil paintings spotlighted by brass wall lamps; expensive furnishings; curtains with gold braided pull cords. It was casual wealth taken by granted by the occupants… or maybe that was the image they sought to project.
‘Two sugars and cream... please.’ I followed her into the kitchen.
I noticed a silver photo frame lying face down on a window ledge. I sneakily picked it up: there was a snap of a bald, ruddy-faced businessman with heavy jowls at a ‘bash’ of some kind. I knew why I was here.
Her back was to me as she prepared the filter coffee. I stole up behind her and lightly kissed the side of her delicious neck. She swivelled round.
‘I’m going to give you what you so desire... me.’ She drew breath. ‘But first you will have to attend to wayward Maria.’ She then added, intriguingly.
We moved into the lounge. I sat gingerly in an armchair, careful not to spill coffee on the plush cardinal-red velvet covers. She was on a sofa – her legs folded under her.
We supped at our drinks and excitement coursed through my every nerve.
She explained: ‘There’s no need to worry – he’s in Dubai... and he won’t be returning for a month... I’m rather naughty for bringing a man back...’ She sucked in air. ‘Do you not think I deserve to be punished?’
How could I resist?
She told me what was expected of me. We finished our drinks and she left the room leaving me alone for a few minutes.
‘Everything is prepared, follow me.’ Her voice was subdued as she returned.
We entered the master bedroom: ostentatious… unsurprisingly!
In front of me, Maria paused then removed her dress over her head in one motion – her lustrous dark locks falling back into place – she was completely naked. My eyes must have widened as she was possessed of a figure superb.
Not a word was spoken. Head hung low, and arms dangling by her side, she padded to the corner of the spacious room. She bent over and held the edge of an ornately carved chair.
The implements had been carefully laid out for me on the top of an antique Ottoman chest. I picked up the small white plimsoll and walked over and positioned myself parallel to her. Her und****d form was pale, lithe and taut. I glimpsed and savoured the enticing black fur between her tense thighs.
I hesitated then thought: ‘What the hell!’ and brought the sports shoe hard and swiftly down on to her bare left buttock. There was a loud ‘thwack’ yet she didn’t flinch.
Straightaway, there was a reddening imprint of the sole upon her flesh. She thrust out her posterior even further as she relished the impact of the second blow… which I delivered with even greater f***e. She gasped. Already, her left buttock was beginning to purple. I switched to the right and gave her two satisfyingly hard swats in succession – she trembled but I gave her another three hard double-whacks on each cheek.
Each blow caused her to sway forward before she returned to the punishment position and her previously white skin was now raw. The first phase of her chastisement was over. She straightened and turned, her pretty face flushed, but she said nothing as she looked me directly in my eyes. I placed the plimsoll back on the chest.
She thrust her large firm breasts towards me; her dark nipples erect. To each one I attached a steel-toothed crocodile clip and watched as they bit deeply into the dark sensitive flesh. She accepted the pain with fortitude – she knew what was to come – and climbed onto the king-size double bed, knelt then leant forward supporting her torso on her forearms.
I weighed the curved handled cane in my right hand and again studied the almost sculpted form of her nude body: I noticed the tiny little dark hairs on her toned arms, the cute little mole on the small of her back.
No more delays – I swung the bamboo down in an arc with a ‘whoosh’ then a ‘crack’ as it struck the skin.
A ruddy ridge appeared instantly – it must have stung! I gave her another, slightly harder and watched with twisted satisfaction as her fingers grasped the thick fabric of the duvet; yet she suffered in silence.
She shuffled position slightly in anticipation of the third stroke. Her tight bum was scarlet and purple but now with two deeper purple stripes overlaid.
I raised the cane and once again administered a cracking stroke. She winced and her body shuddered with the agony whilst her clamped breasts swayed under her. Repositioning her legs, she exposed her pink and swollen labia. I applied the cane for the fourth time and this time she cried out forlornly. I felt for her – I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her: ‘It’s all over my darling.’ But, she had to have another six strokes.
I gave each one harder than the previous one. She cried and trembled as I reduced her slowly but surely to a shaking mess.
The last stroke cut the skin – small beads of bl**d formed. It was mercifully over.
‘Thank you, sir, for correcting my errant ways.’ She managed to choke out.
I released the clamps from her inflamed nipples.
‘Take me, whilst it still hurts!’ She begged.
I stripped swiftly and tossed my clothes in a heap on the carpet. I was as hard as I had ever been in my life before. She remained in the caning attitude whilst I easily slipped my engorged penis in from behind. Immediately, her internal muscles powerfully gripped and caressed my shaft. She moaned but this time in anticipation of pleasure. I felt the spasmodic contractions as she attained orgasm and they in turn delivered me to the precipice of release – my fingers reflexively tightening around the naked firm flesh of her upper arms. As she gasped I too was grasped by ecstasy.
Her body went limp and we collapsed side by side onto the bed. She rolled over and kissed me sweetly on the lips: ‘Thanks.’ She said; was all she said.
I dressed, without a word, stilled dazed then headed for the door – she made no move to stop me. Before I placed my hand on the brass door handle I turned and blew her a kiss before exiting – it felt cheap; ungracious. I then let myself out into the moonlight night and walked the eight miles home – it took just over two hours.

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