Or
Rachel's Atonement

© Big Billie 2004. Not to be distributed or sold for monetary gain.

The things that I am about to write were best left unwritten; the events that I am about to tell should not be told. Yet despite this I have decided to relate how I came to marry my wife, and how our first child was conceived.

My name is Bill Faulkner. I am a committed Christian, and an active member of one of the biggest of our nonconformist faith groups here in the UK. My faith brings me not only eternal salvation but also employment, since I own a business that sets up religious websites and provides digital services for Christians. Some of the work I do myself, but most of it is farmed out to one or more of a large team of independent associates. I have thus succeeded in building up quite a large operation, so large, in fact, that two or three years ago I decided that I needed a secretary.

Since the salary that I could at that time offer was not generous, I tried my luck with an announcement in our local Church Newsletter. You know, "Secretary Required for Committed Christian Company," that sort of thing. Well, to my surprise, I had several applications, and I interviewed them all. The successful candidate was a girl of East African ethnic origin. Her family had sent her over to England for her education, and, having completed her 'A' levels, she was taking a gap year before proceeding on to university. As an active member of our Church she was already involved in voluntary work, and she told me that, for the next 12 months or so, she would like to work full time in a Christian setting.

I do not know how familiar you are, dear reader, with the inhabitants of East Africa, but I can tell you that they are beautiful people. A very great number of the ladies, in particular, are physically stunning. They have lighter skin tones that the ladies of West Africa, and the texture of their flesh is smooth and silky. To add to their charms, their faces are open and friendly, and they usually have stunning figures. But even more beautiful than their bodies are their immortal souls; they are gracious and generous beyond measure, with happy, bubbly, vivacious dispositions.

Well, such was my new secretary, Rachel; she was a delightful girl. Indeed, she was far too delightful for me to feel safe. She was just 18 years old when I took her on, and I would be lying if I said that her supple, youthful, dusky body, and her bright, co-operative, easy intimacy did not distract me from my work, even though (or should I say, especially since?) she was 15 years my junior.

Rachel was very good at her job; from what I have already written you can probably deduce that she had an excellent manner with customers and associates, both face to face and over the telephone. She had also received an excellent academic education at one of our top Ladies Academies. It is true that she had not been specifically trained as a secretary, but, to rectify this, I sent her to our local FE College for training on one afternoon a week, where she soon began to build up her typing speed, to master word-processing software and Tee Line shorthand, and to acquire other relevant secretarial skills.

Rachel left school at the end of July, took a holiday, and started working for me in late August. Until December all went well, but then she badly goofed on the job. It was only one goof, but it was a big one. She sent out a final late payment warning letter, threatening dire legal penalties, to one of our best and biggest customers, despite the fact that he had paid the bill some time before.

Well the good news is that I managed to smooth things over. I got Rachel to apologise profusely to the client over the telephone, and then I apologised profusely as well. It was partly my secretary's fault, I explained, but it was also mine for failing to supervise her properly.

"I'm sorry, Ken," I concluded, "I will reprimand the lass, of course, but I am afraid that, in the end, the blame must fall on me."

"Not to worry, Bill," replied Ken amiably, "We're Christians. We're into forgiveness and never calling to mind. Matter closed. Have a good Christmas."

"Thanks, Ken. You too."

"By the way," replied Ken, and he sounded uncharacteristically arch. "Is it Rachel who's been naughty, and who's getting the rocket?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Wow! Well enjoy yourself! I wouldn't mind correcting her myself!"

When I had put the phone down I looked at Rachel with a mixture of relief and exasperation. I did not know what to say, and for what seemed like about 30 seconds (but was probably a lot less) there was an embarrassed silence.

"I don't know," I said at last, not unkindly. "What am I to do with you? You only goofed once, but you did it in spades."

Then Rachel made a reply that stunned me.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. Then she paused and added, "You can spank me if you like."

Now the formality of Rachel's first sentence threw me. We had always been on Christian name terms, and she had never called me "sir" before. As for her proposition, well wow! Where did it come from? As you can imagine, it caused my mouth to go dry, my face to flush, and my heart to pound fiercely against my ribcage. I gazed, hard and long, into my young secretary's eyes. My head was reeling and, when my reply came, it was spontaneous, and it expressed my deepest sexual fantasies and my sharpest desires.

"On the bare?"

"Yes, of course. I deserve it."

By now I was in a catatonic trance, and my actions were involuntary. My office chair was on castors; I slowly rolled it back from my desk and pointed to the floor with my right hand.

"O.K.," I said. "Stand here then."

Contritely and obediently Rachel carried out my order.

"Right," I continued awkwardly, by now feeling more than slightly foolish. "Over my knee then."

By now I was on the point of chickening out, and of making a joke of the incident. I certainly would not have dared to insist that the culprit bare her bottom. But I need not have worried. Without a word, Rachel pulled her knickers and tights down to the middle of her thighs, raised her pleated secretary's skirt over her back, and nestled down across my lap.

Oh, wow! There is only so much excitement, dear reader, that a gentleman into his early to mid thirties can take, and Rachel was pushing me right to its limit. I felt her trim, pneumatic tummy, and her firm, fit, muscular thighs pushing into my crotch, and my cock, already tumescent, grew rock hard, and pushed back vigorously against the weight of the gorgeous body and the luscious loins that were pressing into it. Then I gazed down into my lap, and the sight that greeted my eyes sent me into seventh heaven. There, perfectly presented to me, were Rachel's lower back, her big, firm, meaty, protuberant bottom, her long, nubile thighs and her shapely calves and ankles. Her skin was flawless, a beautiful shade of mocha coffee with just the right amount of cream and brown sugar. Then, where the buttocks met the tops of the thighs, there was the roundest, plumpest, meatiest, sexiest and most protuberant bit of all, the bottom's stunning undercarriage. On the insides of the two thighs, where they joined the crotch, two concave hollows rippled and twitched. These, together with the outer edge of the vulva, formed a delicate, inwardly curved equilateral triangle filled with thick, curly, jet-black pubic hair. The skin on the vulva and inner thighs was darker than the rest, and from the midst of it I discerned, through the thick, hirsute pubic thatch, a thin line of delicate coral pink pussy flesh, where Rachel's labial lips pouted ever so slightly open.

Ouch! To paraphrase the poet John Keats, how rich did it seem at that juncture to die, to cease upon that moment with no pain, to go to my maker in such a perfect state of happy and excited bliss! But no! Like Keats's nightingale, Rachel's youthful, sumptuous body was not born for death; it was fashioned for life and for love, for pleasure and for procreation; and perhaps, before that, for a little saucy spanking action!

Now that I had Rachel's bare bottom at my command, however, I proceeded with caution. I knew that I could not coerce her to take chastisement. In the last analysis, this was a consensual spanking, and I needed her acquiescence to whatever I decided to do. On this one, warning bells were already ringing in my head, and I could see the likely headlines in the gutter press if things went wrong: "Prominent Christian in Saucy Spank Assault Rap," "Your Ass is Mine, Saith the Lord," and so forth. I needed guidance from my victim, so I started an interrogation.

"How hard do you think you deserve to be spanked, Rachel?"

"Very hard, sir; but I'm scared, so please don't be too severe with me."

"How many spanks should you get?"

"I don't know, sir, but until you make me cry I guess."

"Should I spank you with my hand, or with a hairbrush?"

"I deserve the hairbrush, sir, but it would really hurt. Please be merciful and use your hand."

Wow, oh wow! This was exactly the reply that I was hoping for, and when I heard it I gasped with relief, and in eager anticipation. No. I did not want to bruise Rachel or to hurt her too badly; I did not want to slap her with a hairbrush. I wanted to smack her gorgeous, protuberant bare bottom with my flattened hand, and to feel her taut, firm, nubile bum flesh shudder wobble and quiver under my fingers and palm. I wanted to press my flattened hand into her meaty, youthful rump, and, if I could work up the bottle for it, to grope tantalisingly between her upper thighs, and across, around and into her hairy love slot. But did I have the nerve to do it? Would I be equal to the challenge? Well, still almost apoplectic with excitement, I determined to give it my best shot.

"O.K., Rachel, here's the first. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

Well, I still could not believe what was happening. I thought that at any minute I might wake up, and be dragged back to a cold, harsh, prosaic reality. As if in a trance I raised my flattened right hand high into the air and contemplated its intended target. Yes, right there, I concluded, right across the meat of the seat just above the tops of the thighs and adjacent to the vulva, where the flesh was at its meatiest and sexiest. Right across the back of that beautiful, dark, tight, hairy, stunning little box! Come on! Do it! Now! Don't chicken out! Go for it!

CRACK!!!

Yes, dear reader. Eventually, screwing my courage to the sticking point, I did go for it. I slapped Rachel's bottom, and I slapped it hard. As the slap hit home a crisp high-pitched crack rang out and re-echoed around the room. I felt a sharp, delicious sting across my fingers and palm, followed by a delightful shuddering and wobbling under my flattened hand. I saw Rachel's buttocks quiver, and, through the slot between her bum cheeks, I noted how the fanny hairs on and around her vulva were scattered and blown by the breeze from my descending right hand. I then left my hand in position against its target, pressing it into the hot and tingling bum meat. Next, after several seconds, although I scarcely dared to do it, I rubbed my fingers around and into Rachel's hairy vulva, and, for a brief nanosecond, between her pink, pouting pussy lips.