OUR SCENE
WILMA KAUFFEN

BLUE MOON BOOKS INC. NEW YORK

Copyright © 1989 by Blue Moon Books, Inc.
All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publishers.

First Blue Moon Edition 1989
First Printing 1989

Our Scene
ISBN 0-929654-09-9

Manufactured in the United States of America
Published by Blue Moon Books, Inc.
333 Park Avenue South
New York, New York 10010

Cover design by Steven Brower

1. THE MIRROR PRINCIPLE

It came to me while waiting at a table in the rear of Uncle Ned's for Lucy to find me. Every once in a while a fat black fly flew by, always in the same direction, bumping the kitchen side of the greasy, diamond-shaped window in the swinging door. Since whatever lovers do is mutually pleasurable, then, by symmetry (so goes the Mirror Principle), a lover exists who wants to give what you want to take, and to take what you want to give. The fly waxed fatter each trip, and older, alas.
I looked it up in the sex survey book by Kase and Bonbornikol: 32% of men and 23% of women have fantasies like mine, the good doctors report, and 20% of men and 11% of women enact them with a lover.
In a corner of my mind variations of the scene play themselves over and over: The Master prepares to punish a pretty young woman for, say, chattering about some idiotic astrology article in a woman's magazine, or for overcooking the pasta, or for ... no deviations from conduct pleasing to the Master are too slight to let slip by. The penitent turns her sweet face up to me and says, "You're really going to spank me as I deserve, aren't you?" and presents her naked or lightly covered posterior. I swish my belt in the air inches behind her rear cheeks, which quiver in anticipation of the first stroke. Yes, dear, I shall whip you and humiliate you when I have time for the whole scene. Not during working hours, but having lingered over the delicious preparatory stages all day off and on, when I'm alone in the evening, stroking my cock in rhythm with the whipping, and coming furiously as you submit to one or two of my specialties, or to all of them at once.
What makes the scene work for me is the submissive quality in the young penitent. One day I am the headmaster of a girls' boarding school, and she is a senior caught sneaking out of her dorm to meet a local boy after curfew. I had noticed her around the campus. Her bouncy breasts and pouty lips had made me long for just such an opportunity. Now, she lies across my lap as I fumble irritably in the recesses of my desk drawer (I do have to clean out my desk). The baby-faced tart knows from the other girls what to do to appease me, and she is eager to play along to avoid being expelled just before graduation. At last I find my spanking ruler, which has brought tears of repentance to the eyes of many naughty young girls. Disdainfully, I lift the bottom hem of her skirt (school uniform gray plaid) to the small of her back, and lightly tap the full double curve of her coarse cotton panties as I lecture her on her waywardness. I draw the waistband of her panties down a few inches. The skin at the top of the cleft is goose-pimply. She is chagrined about lying across my knees with her rear end about to be bared. "You can't see my bare hiney!" she exclaims, clutching at my hand. I pin her wrist behind her. "Nobody sees my bare hiney, not even my boyfriend!" she cries. An unfortunate reference for her to make just now, even if true, which I doubt. I lower the panties past the hollows of her knees. "I guess you can," she murmurs. I can also see a good bit of her quim, although she attempts modesty by pressing her thighs together. I spank her plump "hiney" until it is hot to the touch. Her calves trapped in her panties, she kicks up her heels (in gray school socks) in tandem. I rest my arm, admonish the back of her head on her lewd behavior. She sighs in relief. I find an extra fillip of pleasure in allowing a penitent to believe her spanking is over before it is.
I resume spanking briskly, pointedly indifferent to her sobs. Her buttocks bounce to the lively rhythm. She bawls and parts her thighs, suffering too much fanny pain to care what I see.
I set the ruler down and massage her red rear cheeks. She wiggles and groans. "Anything else I can't do?" I chuckle, tracing inside her crack with my fingernail and lightly circling her pink-brown asshole. "No," she sobs. Down to the little cunt lips, kneading them gently between thumb and finger, with special attention to her swollen clit. "That's nice," she says dreamily, parting her thighs further for me. I roll her clit until she clutches my hand hard between her damp thighs and pants like a bitch. "Your townie boyfriend," I say, "doesn't he do that?" I say. She pants hard. "What does he do? Out with it!" "He finger-fucks me," she says. "With your clothes on?" I shriek, thinking I may still get her for lying about him not seeing her fanny. "He reaches under my skirt," she says, "O.K.? Any more questions?" "Yes, there are," I say. I insert the tip of my finger into her warm moist quim, reliving the pleasures of adolescence. "Like that," she says, "but all-the-way-in." I give her a few deep swirls and clit-plicks, and I feel her coming again. I let her have that and then withdraw the finger. She sits up on my lap. "Where do you indulge?" I say. "At the movies and under a blanket at football games and in the town library and sitting on the floor in his room," she says, "when his family thinks were studying but I'm up on my haunches and he's behind me with his hand under my skirt the whole time. And his mother and his sister always come in and talk to me and I try to rise off his finger and close my thighs but I can't because he grabs me underneath by my bush. Last time he used the bowling-ball grip." "Bowlingball?" I say. "You know, with his middle finger in my 'gina and his thumb up my ass--is that very bad?--and he told his family, 'Can't you see we're studying?' But he fingered me and goosed me slowly in and out and as soon as they left he gave it to me fast and furious, and I just had to put my face down on my books and take it until I came." "Where else do you misbehave?" I say. "The first time, we'd just met in the grocery, he started feeling me up. There wasn't anybody near the dog food corner. I had just unbuttoned my blouse a little for him when I saw the grocer watching us in a mirror."
"So it was you," I say, "one eager slut disgracing the school uniform all over town." I put her across my knees again and give her a dozen stern smacks with the ruler on her naughty rear. She yowls. It's good my office is separated by several rooms from the rest of the school. The only ones who can hear the meaty smacks of the ruler and the wailing are my secretary Ms. Bunn and the "young ladies" in the anteroom whom she directs to remove their sturdy school shoes and not to squirm while awaiting their turns. No wonder even the brashest curtsy timidly as they enter my office.
Begin again: Same girl, pouty lips, uniform disheveled, breasts full, bouncy, jiggling slightly low, brought to me by the security guard who caught her going over the Elm Street fence.
"She sticks her purse and her school jacket through the fence," the guard says, "and starts up over it, so I nab her." "Good thinking, Nabs," I say. "You should have a look at her without her jacket," Nabs Says. The girl shifts from foot to foot. "I will, Nabs," I say, "is there anything else?" "Sir, when she climbs the fence, and I come up underneath her and grab her ankle, I see she's not properly dressed, if you catch my drift, sir." "I think I do," I say, "anything else, Nabs?" "She offers me a fiver to let her go on her way," Nabs says. "You're an honorable man, Nabs. Is that all?" "No, sir, when I don't take the fiver, she says how about this, and makes an obscene face." "What's an obscene face, Nabs?" I say. Nabs opens his hippopotamus mouth and waggles his thick tongue. The young tart would look prettier doing that. "I wasn't actually going to go down on him," she pouts, "it was just a trick." "You're not helping yourself, young lady," I say.
When I have dismissed the invaluable Nabs, I tell her to remove her blazer. The pleated front of the school blouse, designed to mask the shape of the wearer's breasts, does not hide the lack of support for this young woman's melons. Her nipples poke into the fabric between the pleats. "Empty your purse on my desk," I say. A pair of coarse schoolgirl panties and a bra are among the booty. "Unbutton!" I order her. She obeys. Magnificent pair. "Come here!" I say. I flick her longish pink nipples with my index fingers, and watch her turn on. "You are not worthy to wear our school uniform," I say, and place her across my knees. "You can't see my bare hiney!" she cries.
I lift her skirt, exposing hiney and more. "I guess you can," she murmurs. She is naked except for the unbuttoned blouse, skirt around her waist, and her socks. When I have spanked her plump cheeks until they are red and painfully tender, I ask her, "What do you do with your boyfriend?" "We just kiss," she says. Sharp spank. "OWWW!" she cries. "What else?" I say, "Why are you sneaking into town with your bra and panties in your purse?"
"He tweaks my titties," she says, "and it takes too long to get them back in the cups if someone comes." "And?" I say. "That's all," she says. I spank her again, hard as I can. "OWWW!" "And? And?" "He puts his finger up in me," she says, "he calls it 'finger-fucking.' I hate it when people catch me trying to pull my panties up in a hurry and him just standing around real innocent."
She admits permitting insertions of the boyfriend's tireless finger in his room, at his high school football games, at the movies, in the town library. I paddle her soundly after each tearful admission. "Where else have you been carrying on?" I say.
"In the Sacred Heart Church when nobody was there in the afternoon," she confesses. "I thought so," I say. Reaching between her hot cheeks and underneath her I roll her clit with a fingertip. She groans and comes. "And what do you do for your boyfriend in return for all this fingering?" I say, as though I don't know. She slides off my lap, removes her blouse and skirt, kneels between my legs. I am amused by the way she leers at me through her tears as she expertly unbuttons my trouser buttons and unzips me. "You actually sucked him off in the church, didn't you?" I say. "There was nobody there," she says, "except someone playing the organ." "That must have been the priest who wrote the letter," I say. "He thought the boy was suffering a spiritual crisis, and came down to comfort him, but he didn't notice you until the last moment. When he saw you kneeling the wrong way in the back pew, with your head bobbing in the boy's lap, he fainted dead away."
I reach for my ruler again, but she lunges forward and fastens her pretty mouth on my cock. She has too clever a tongue to waste on a local boy. As her head bobs, I inform her, "You are henceforth restricted"--spurting down her throat! It's marvelous!--"to the campus."
When she is done swallowing, she lies naked except for her gray socks on the rug on her belly, her chin propped up on one hand. She has a thoughtful (or is it merely digestive?) look.
"That really hurt," she offers, gently rubbing a pink buttock. I assure her it was merely a touch of what she will get when she reports to my office in a few days to be punished for the indiscretion in the church. I resolve to keep her soundly spanked and gulping like a goldfish for the rest of her senior year.

2. AN ENGLISH CONNECTION

Once before I met my match, but almost didn't realize it. I was twenty-one, on a three-week vacation with my aunt's family in London to celebrate my graduation from Yale with honors in fine arts. My uncle's friends gave a party, and my uncle, a plumber, was divided between showing me off and teasing me on my academic attainments. I ignored him, because I was transfixed by the stunning tall blonde daughter of the hosts. Cynthia was seated in the midst of her family when I came in. She wore the miniskirt fashionable then, twenty years ago, and on her it was an incitement to riot. Her thighs were long and slender and exquisitely molded, and no matter how she tried to dispose them, straight-out-and-down, or crossed, her skirt was no use at all; she might as well have been sitting on that tatty couch in her panties. She saw me turning to jelly before her eyes, and somehow that turned her on. I told her I couldn't stand the party another minute, and I wanted to take her out to dinner alone, even though a buffet was just being laid out. In those days I thought I had to take a girl to dinner to ask her to go to bed. Cynthia's mother gave us a knowing nod, and off we went to Ramshah's in Glendower Street for a curry dinner.
Cynthia lived in the messiest flat I have ever seen. Her three flatmates were out, luckily, and I lost no time in sliding my hand up her long thigh and under her miniskirt. I had the damp crotch of her panties in my hand when she brought her lips to mine for a kiss. I didn't realize until the next day that was the first time I had ever gone right for the quim without a lot of kissing and fondling first.
All the cots and beds in the flat were hopelessly cluttered and soiled. We cleared away a space on the carpet in one of the bedrooms and fucked for hours in the midst of empty beer cans, records and curlers, ashtrays overflowing with butts and candy wrappers and strips of toilet tissue caked with lipstick and mascara, and teen-agers' dirty underwear.
Something about being in a foreign city was liberating. I became more assertive than I had ever been with American girls. When Cynthia seemed reluctant to suck me off, I took her by the ears and held her pretty lips against my erect cock. After a half-minute of stand-off, she conceded a few pouty kisses to the eager organ, but kept her teeth clenched. "Open wide, like a big girl," I said. Her tongue flicked out, and I guided her in licking down the shaft. I enjoyed that for a while, then returned the swollen head of my cock to her lips. "Oh, all ri--" she began to say, but never had a chance to complete the phrase. Since I didn't trust her to stay on the job, I held her ears firmly the whole time, until well after she had gulped my last spurt. For most of our two weeks together I had to go through the same procedure every time I wanted her to blow me, even though she knew that whenever I took her by the ears, she would sooner or later be getting a mouthful. Other half-uttered phrases, that I stuffed back into her mouth about twice a day, "Please, darl--," and, "No, not aghhh--(again)." Then, there was my favorite, Cynthia gargling as I came, "Do I 'ave to swal--?" (Yes, dear, you do.) In fact, I became so worked up making her comply that she had to swallow more each time than if she'd done it without a struggle.
Practically the first thing Cynthia said to me during our feverish dinner at Ramshah's was, "Don't know why--men always 'it me. A bloke came to the door about a month ago--a blind date, a friend of a friend--soon as 'e's in the door, 'e slaps my face." I failed to get the message, even when it turned out that Cynthia had hardly protested her date's way of introducing himself, or his next move--unbuttoning her blouse from neck to waist and brusquely tearing it open. Then:" 'e yanks my bra up around my neck so my tits pop out. Says 'e's particular, 'e don't go out with just anyone. I ask 'im, 'Are my tits pretty enough? Are they big enough?' and 'e slaps my face again. I don't dare say another word. 'Lift yer skirt,' 'e says. 'e can see my thighs, but that isn't enough for 'im, 'e 'as to 'ave the skirt all the way up. 'e turns me facing Libby's desk that's next to the door, and tells me, 'Go on, luv, bend over and give us a good view of yer rear.' I think, this one is loony, best do it. I bend over the desk 'olding my skirt up like a naughty girl to get 'er arse warmed. Then 'e comes up close behind me and reaches 'is paws under, one right on each bare tit and pinches and pulls them and asks me, 'S'that turn you on, luv?' Meantime the girls I share the flat with are in their rooms dressing or whatever. I feel 'is prick 'ard against my arse sawing away between my buns while 'e twiddles my tits and I start to cry. I'm sure this will be the quickest date of my life. 'e's not going to take me to dinner, 'e's going to take my knickers down and 'ump me doggy-style bending over Libby's desk. 'e won't even say, 'Ta,' 'e'll just pull up his trousers and leave, and then Libby and the other girls will come tearing out of their rooms and want to know, 'Is that you Cynthia crying your eyes out, boo-'oo, with your bare boobs plop on Libby's desk and your knickers down around your ankles and your sloppy wet arse up in the air smelling like the fish stalls? And where pray tell is the date you 'ogged the bathroom three quarters of an hour getting pretty for? It's plain 'e got what 'e wanted in two minutes flat.' And then I'd 've been in big trouble. Libby's strict about none of us putting out right away, because that's where men get the idea if they 'aven't got what better to do they can drop by the flat and stick it to one of us. But 'e just backs off and stares at my arse for ten seconds and says I'll do, and 'e tells me to get proper again, and 'e takes me out."
Cynthia became vague about what happened between them after that. A lot happened between Cynthia and me, but I didn't catch on until one evening ten days before the end of my London vacation. We were at her flat. Two of her flatmates were there with their boyfriends. Cynthia was teasing me about American tourists in London, and although I am the least patriotic man alive, I began to get annoyed, perhaps because the flatmates were unusually goodlooking girls. Finally, I twisted Cynthia's arm and said, "Cut it out!" She winced and muttered, "All right--all right." When I let her go, she bowed her chin to her chest and led me to the loo (which I called the jon, to her amusement), and turned on the tub faucet full blast. "They won't 'ear--doesn't matter if they do," she said, yelling so that I could hear her. I didn't have a clue what she was talking about. Then, she handed me a wooden backbrush, the back surface facing up: a perfect paddle. She tugged her panties down and leaned over the bidet. Holding the rim with one hand, she drew her tiny skirt up out of the way with the other, showing me her delectable bare fanny. "O.K.?--like this?" she called back to me.
O.K. The first SWACK! turned the creamy skin of her bottom white and then red. She spread her lovely long legs to steady herself. With every spank her face sank a little toward the bidet, and she groaned into it. After seven or eight spanks, she exclaimed into the bowl, "I'm liquoring up." I stopped, noticing that her pussy lips and the tendrils of her curly blonde bush were glistening wetly. She was responding to the spanking exactly as though she were being caressed. She looked around at me and yelled, "C'mon, Yank, give our arse a warming to remember you by." That was all I needed. I paddled her as hard and as rapidly as I could. She must have screeched, "Please, stop!" and "Jim, darling, please! Enough!" ten times before my arm grew tired. Her normally peaches-and-cream bottom was red as a tomato. I took off my pants and hung them over some robes on the back of the door. She held onto the rim of the bidet with both hands. I grabbed her by the hip flanges and gunned away, and at our climax we almost fell together into the tub. When we came out the third flatmate had arrived with her date, and all six of them were laughing. Cynthia's face was swollen from crying, and she made no attempt to hide what had happened." 'e learns quick," was all she said. Having left her panties where they had fallen in a puddle near the tub, she stood with her back to a wall and rubbed her bare backside underneath her skirt. "Turn and show us," one of the girls said, but she didn't. "You ought to have paddled her out here, Yank," one of the boyfriends said, "then we all could've enjoyed the spectacle." "Spank your own," I said. "Ta," said his girl, Annemarie, a tall slender beauty, "he does, quite enough."
That was true. Two days later, Annemarie ticks her boyfriend off. He takes a cane from the umbrella stand near the fireplace. She flutters about like a bird, flees into a bedroom. He follows, seizes her near the door, holds her bent over, off-balance, her long legs splayed, miniskirt up in back. She kicks at the door, partly closing it. I can see the backs of her thighs. A scuffle, his fist thrusting her panties down to the hollows of her knees. Maddening not to be able to see her bare bottom! Then, a quick thwicky-THWICK thwicky-THWICK of the cane, and her "YI!-YI!-YI!-YIIIEEE!" beginning at the first stroke and carrying on the whole thrashing.
The couples disappeared into other rooms. Cynthia and I were left in the living room. She put her arms around my neck for a kiss. I cupped her red hot bottom, and feeling the warmth those flaming cheeks gave off, I began to feel turned on again. I said to her, "You know what you'll get if you don't blow me this instant," and she went right down on me and sucked me with all her heart for the first time. Excited, I held firm and fucked her for an hour. Ten days later I flew back to my first job in a graphic design studio, and I never saw Cynthia or any of them again. Cynthia has a special niche of honor in a certain corner of my mind.

3. SUMMARY OF TWENTY YEARS OF THE AUTHOR'S LOVELIFE

Since Cynthia, affairs lasting eight to eleven months. When the season rolled around again that my current girlfriend and I got started in, all erotic possibilities had been explored. For her, commitment-time; for me, time to split. Months and years passing without my obsession rearing up. Didn't intend that, but let it stand. Recall joking with my models (I'm a fashion illustrator) about spanking them for being late or other lapses, but never got encouragement. Never did anything to risk my reputation. One summer, lost interest in sex, or in sex with current friend, Donna. For the first time in twenty-five years, same to me if I went straight to sleep and woke too late to get it on. Was it Donna, or the sexual decline of age? Before I could figure that out, my scene came storming out of its corner. Flashes of it all the time, even while I was drawing. Listening to a client describe four dresses he wanted me to illustrate, I suddenly found myself thinking of Cynthia and her three flatmates. My last evening in London, Janet bending over an umbrella stand like the one inside my front door, and her boyfriend Jacques caning her plump bottom with a birch cane like one I saw years ago in an antique shop, but was too embarrassed to buy. And, afterward, Cynthia begging me for one last spanking. Or, my initiation ten days earlier, Cynthia handing me the backbrush and tugging her panties down. Paddling her as she bends over the bidet, hardly hearing her cries over the noisy splash of water in the tub. Cynthia clutching her tender behind, picking up her panties with her big toe from the bathroom floor and putting them into a hamper. Coming out of the jon, Cynthia ahead of me rubbing her backside. Turning her around and lifting her miniskirt to show everyone her bare cheeks, still rosy five minutes later, after our ecstatic doggy-fucking over the bidet. Or, a round-robin spanking, all four pretty flatmates naked--weepy faces down, bare tits flopping, heels kicking up--passed in a circle from lap to lap, suffering four leather belts smacking progressively redder fannies.
Nights, I dreamed of voluptuous women whom I'd never seen, yet each with distinct, even memorable faces, brushing my shoulder with their passionate tits as they confess their naughtiness and their secret lusts to be chastised into my ear. Dreams never fulfilling their promises, moments sketched on a story board rather than complete films! A naked woman steps out of my shower bringing me a rose wrapped in green waxy paper. Unwrapping the rose, I am not surprised to find the stem accompanied by three switches. She makes no attempt to dry herself off, but folds her arms across her breasts and bends forward, a slight suggestive incline, her long blonde hair in wet strings about her shoulders. She laughs when I insert the thorny stem lengthwise between her damp buttocks; the tender flesh of the inner cheeks is forced to clamp the sharp points. The rose blooms at the top of her crack. As I raise the three switches behind her, a tiny line of blood--the first prick of a thorn--trickles down the inside of her thigh.
All at once we are in a conference room at a client's, and the woman is an art director dressed in a green suit. She ignores me, sets a rose in a vase on the table. I am left holding the switches which have become pencils. I slip them into my portfolio.
Too good to lose that way! I want to see her buttocks jump to the switches while clasping the thorny stem! It reached a point where I didn't care to get out of bed in the morning, just wanted to churn under the covers in the grip of my own images.
One morning, two minutes or twenty? after I shut off my alarm clock, I have to deal with a chorus girl late for practice. After rehearsal I conduct her to my office. When she was late once before, I warned her that on the next offense she would choose between immediate dismissal or stripping naked and bending over my maroon leather sofa for a whipping. Now, she doesn't need reminding of the terms. I unbuckle my belt. At that signal, without a word, she unhooks her bra and removes it, turning away from me and facing the couch as she works the leotard off her shoulders, then to her waist. I walk halfway around her so that I can see her tits and the look on her face. She is biting her lip as though about to cry. After a moment's hesitation, she draws her leotard and panties down below her perfectly round dancer's butt. She bends over the arm of the couch, her tits swinging out, her bare bottom prettily thrust up as though striking a pose in a ballet. She gasps at the first smack of my belt. At the second, she exclaims, "Oh, dear!" At the third, she screams, "AAAIIIEEE!" This young woman must be punished strictly to make her cease being tardy.
The leotard and panties are down to her knees. I spare the backs of her splendid thighs because they are on display every day. At the fifth stroke she begins to cry; at the seventh she sobs a promise never to be late again. I gravely accept her promise, but inform her she is to get five more to make sure she means it. Her rear cheeks, already quite red, dance obediently in time to the smacks of my belt.
I instruct her to hold her pose after number twelve, and she does, consoling herself that I cannot resist her theatrically presented quim. But I have a surprise for her: I spread her smarting buttocks and place the greased tip of my prick at her asshole. She stops sobbing onto my couch and looks straight forward. Let her think it over. Is this indignity also "for her own good?" How will it affect her career? Now, in her! Does she protest or does she like it? No need to choose, I have it both ways! First, she hates it, cries, "No, please, not in there!" and groans at each thrust. Then (second version), she loves it, squeals, "OO-OO-EEE!" as I spurt into her hot bowels.
Another morning I wake up filled with headmasterly concerns. No one can imagine the responsibilities I have. The discipline of two hundred seventy-seven girls between the ages of fifteen and eighteen is a considerable part of it. A fair proportion of my charges need chastising, and some need it often. It is remarkable that all the students at our academy are extraordinarily pretty. How unusual to find two hundred seventy-seven girls of that age all with perfect complexions and luscious bodies! It must be our fine social and scholastic reputation that draws only girls of top model quality, girls who could be featured in a men's magazine photo story--"After Lights-Out in a Debutante Dorm," wherein a wild free-for-all pillow fight somehow causes pajamas snaps to unsnap and nightie bows to untie, baring a breast here and a lower curve of haunch there, and finally pajamas and nighties to drop away altogether, leaving the girls frolicking in the nude.
Today, there is no hot water, and the dorm boiler needs an overhaul before the Winter Term. (Have to do something about the boiler in my brownstone.) A pretty sixteen-year-old with straight black hair and a charming slight gap between her front teeth stands in my doorway. She raises the bottom of her skirt just above her knees in the prescribed manner for a girl whose name has been posted on the discipline list. The younger girls are told in lurid detail by their seniors what to expect in these circumstances, but they all react differently. Some hardly lift their skirts until ordered to. Others approach my desk with their skirts raised so high I can see the lower triangle of their panties covering their furry mounds. (I have managed to get out of bed, but my dresser drawer is a mess and in my haste I cannot find brown socks to wear with my brown plaid suit.)
"Come here," I say to the black-haired young beauty. I intend only to reprimand her for her offense, untidiness in her dormitory closet, but she surprises me by rushing over and flopping across my knees. Before I can utter a word, she raises her skirt all the way up in back. Her posterior is finely molded, with a pert, appealing roundness. "Young lady," I intone, "you were posted to receive a reprimand--"
But, at that, she sobs, "I know," and pushes her panties all at once down below her adorable rear cheeks. Either she doesn't know what a reprimand is, or more likely, she is too frightened of all she has heard about my discipline to grasp what I am saying. I roll her charming bare buttocks in little circles while I consider what to do with her. Clearly, it would only confuse her to let her off at this point with a stern lecture. Her tiny moans get on my nerves, because I haven't spanked her yet. "Very well, then," I say, "I'll give you something to cry about." I spank her smartly with my hand, and her sweet cheeks bounce and grow pinker at each smack. Her quim appears moist. She kicks up her pretty heels, sobs, "I really deserve this, don't I?"--exactly the right thing to say, and tears toll down her cheeks. She has a good cry, and then I put her on her feet in front of me. She covers her pussy with one hand, rubs her behind with the other. "I don't know what to do now," she wails, avoiding my eyes, staring at the bulge in my lap. "When you have stopped crying, you may pull up your panties and go," I say. She is relieved. "Then, I don't have to--!" she cries, and impulsively lurches forward to kiss me on the mouth. It turns into a good kiss. As it ends, she pulls her panties up almost as though in a trance and runs toward the door.
I must be crazy about this one. "If you don't behave yourself, you'll be back here, and it'll be much worse for you," I call after her. I am certain I shall see her again, and then she will "have to--!"
Next girl to enter is a delicate redhead who pretended once too often to be ill to avoid gym class. She is a virgin; I know I can help her, but until now have postponed her chastisement. When I run into her in the dining hall she says she wants to come to my office and do whatever I say, if I would please not expel her. That reminds me, I have to raise funds from the Alumnae for the new gymnasium. (I have to send a check to my health club. Have to go more often, too, I'm awfully out of shape.) This morning, the gym will have to wait. Three girls caught cheating on an algebra test have been sent to my office. I have them bending across my desk, skirts raised, panties hanging on three hooks of the coat rack, which Ms. Bunn in her direct way calls, "the panty rack." The cheaters are hip to hip in a tight row, six bare cheeks well deserving the ruler. I pace up and back behind the waiting fannies. (I have put on the wrong shirt to go with the brown plaid suit.) No, wait, they are naked except for their knee-length socks. Their school uniforms hang. on the coat rack, a bra and pair of panties lie on top of each satchel of school books. On my orders, they lean over my desk until six girlish tits just touch the polished cherrywood top. (Had better change the shirt.)
The delicate redhead standing in front of me wearing only panties and unbuttoned school blouse. "Drop your panties!" I say sharply. Showing me her lightred bush, hesitating. "All the way down!" the headmaster roars. Embarrassment over showing "it," the little cleft, along with humiliation of having to bare her own behind for a spanking. This is the peak moment, maybe better than spanking the little darlings.
Panties at her feet, one hand still clutching bra covering her tits, the other hand over the exciting fiery bush. The headmaster tells her to put both arms by her sides. She does. Sitting in my headmaster's chair, I fondle her breasts, which she loves, but looks away. Her nipples stiffen and grow feverishly warm. (Between shirts, I tweak my own nipples.) I ask her if she has let boys do this. She says no. I ask her if she does it to herself. "Not much," she says, blushing right down to her pale breasts. "That's too much!" I snap. I turn her around, hold her hip, push between shoulder blades. She bends over, sighs, puts her hands on her knees. Her pretty pale rump is so close I could bite it. Instead, I slide back in my chair and spank her cheeks soundly with the legendary ruler. When they are quite red, I turn her back to face me and unbutton my pants. (I button my pants over my erect cock. Must stop squeezing it, finish dressing. According to my watch, left five minutes ago to meet my client.)
"Am I supposed to suck you off now?" she inquires, rubbing her smarting behind. Her voice still impertinent. "How do you think you'll like the taste?" I ask. She pulls a face, but says, "If that's what you want, I'll try it." "What makes you think that's what I want?" I say. "Louise Naybough and Ginger Pollicup and Mary Beth and Holly, the twins, told me all about it when they saw I was posted." All four sex-starved brats, repeat offenders, each of whom I summon to my office at least once a month. "You give all the girls red behinds and then make them kneel and suck you," she reproaches me. "Just the bad girls," I say; "but for you there is a little matter to take care of first, since you like special treatment." I lift her up onto my desk, setting her red fanny on a terry cloth towel, and spread her thighs. I draw her hand away from her light orange pussy, and begin to lick it. (Late anyway, I decide to have a quick yogurt and tea.) She has never felt anything like this. As I lick, I pinch the warm bottom curves of her ass cheeks. Her quim tastes like apricot yogurt (my favorite). She goes wild atop my desk. She has never even imagined anything like this.
Better idea: Deflower first, spank afterward, maybe not even this time. Reschedule the three cheaters to come later. I raise her knees back toward her shoulders, putting her on her back on my desk. Standing between her thighs, unzip, pants down, push my cock into the passionate redhead's virginal quim, and one slow steady thrust does it. She sighs for her lost cherry. Then, I fuck her deep and hard, in and out, sensuously, gyrating clockwise and counterclockwise, and before long she matches her movements to mine. Her face still wet with tears, she digs her nails into my buttocks and shouts in pleasure. (I run up my block toward Lexington. Everyone wants a taxi now. Should have thought of that. I hold my portfolio in front of me. I have a hard-on to add to my other troubles.) The tardy chorus girl lurches off my couch, tries to walk on all fours stiff-legged away from me, but I keep stroking all the way up her hot red ass. We parade around and around my office like that. (I am afraid that the wrong drawings are in my portfolio, but I have no time to check. If I could only remember the sketch on top. The rough for the client I'm seeing Wednesday morning? Today is ... not Wednesday. What if it's three schoolgirls bending over a desk, three naked fannies poised high, little shadings below to suggest three girlish quims? Nonsense! Threw that sketch out. But there were two sketches, weren't there?) Helps distract me from how late I am to paddle the three cheaters. I give the bare butt on the right a good SMACK! and it wiggles and then the middle fanny SMACK! and it bounces and jiggles and the third rump SMACK! and it humps in and out and SMACK! again on the left rump and it humps faster and SMACK! to the middle one and SMACK! SMACK! to the pair of wiggly cheeks on the right until each bottom has suffered eight good ones. I alternate between paddling and moral remonstration as I pace back and forth behind them. (A few pedestrians coming toward me as I race up Madison veer out of my way as though startled by something in my demeanor.) The girls are content to listen; each time I pause in my sermonizing, they become alarmed, because then each fanny receives another eight stinging spanks of the ruler.

4. A PUBLIC SOLICITATION

What made matters worse was my lunch with Creative Director--that's how these gentlemen style themselves--Peter Jahn. Since the day I opened my own studio, Peter has bought (for the clients of his advertising firm) perhaps a third of my renderings. He likes me and my work, and all I have to do for him, besides a case of Bordeaux at Christmas, is to let him know I am utterly dependent on him. Also, once a month I take him to lunch in our favorite saloon off Madison Avenue, where he catches me up on the Byzantine politics at his agency and continues the saga of his erotic adventures. All his women are stunning, according to Peter. He has to make me envy him.
"... far out," Peter was saying, "Jim, you're not going to believe--" but he had started that way before, so I wasn't really listening, and then he said, "--she asked me, 'Petey, how would you feel about whipping me?'"
That got my attention. "You'd just met her," I said, "and she asked for that? Was she crazy? What did you say? Did you do it?"
"Down, Jim," he said, "this is some story. Why don't we order first and I'll tell you all about it."
Peter had been drinking after work at one of the fashionable bars. The girl on the next stool looked ripe to him, but a bunch of men were standing around her, each trying to engage her interest and suggest to the other men that they might as well give up. When she swiveled away from him, Peter noticed her dress was skin tight over her fine full rump, and that she squirmed a lot, as though she couldn't get comfortable. He remarked over her shoulder in his jocular way, "You're going to wear out that scary backside before its time." "What!" she said, turning back to him with her eyes wide open. Of course, what he had really told her was he had noticed her pretty hindquarters, and that he didn't mind taking a chance on alienating her. "You're not at ease here," he said. "How about coming home with me?" "I can't, I shouldn't even be here," she said, and turned her back on him again, much to the relief of the men crowding around, who resumed pitching her.
"Why not?" Peter persisted. "If you were happy with your guy, you wouldn't be here." All this was standard banter for Peter. As he told the story, he alternately played the "bitch in heat" and turned on what he took to be masculine charm as himself. He mimicked the way she whirled back to him and looked him over. Hunkering down toward our table, he smiled her bitchy smile as she reached down and rubbed his calf, and said, "I feel like such a slut sometimes." He showed me his patented shrug in response. "I just stared at her tits," Peter went on, "and then she asked for it." "For--?" I wanted to hear it again. "Something like, 'Petey, how'd you like to whip my ass?'" "You'd given her your name," I said. I make brilliant inferences like that when I'm trying to hide that I'm turned on. "Sure," he said, "hers is Cynthia--what is it, Jim, you O.K.?" "A blonde English girl?" I gasped. "No, a Bronx brunette," he said, but by then I had come to my senses. Peter was probably talking about a girl in her twenties (he was). My Cynthia must be over forty! I'd never imagined her aging a day after I left England!
"Did you take her up on it?" I said. "Sure, it seemed like it might be fun," he said, "but actually, it was a lot of work. The first thing she did when she got to my place was ask if she could call her guy to tell him not to wait up for her. I said, 'O.K., but no long discussions about it, just tell him and hang up.' You can guess what happened: Five minutes later she's still listening to this guy's pleading on the phone. I start toward her drawing my finger across my neck. She hangs up just as I reach for the phone. She starts to say she ought to go, but I stand over her and rip my belt off and yell, 'Strip!' She thinks it over and says, 'I guess,' and peels off every stitch. Fantastic body, thin where it's supposed to be thin, and fully rounded where it's supposed to be rounded. She'd dropped her panties and was working on her bra hooks when my phone rings. It's her guy--she'd given him my number! I tell him to fuck off and hang up. She comes over and puts a tit in my mouth. The jerk calls back. He has a whiny, ingratiating voice, like I should feel sorry for him! She wants to talk to him, but I grab her by the ass and start to ram the phone up her cunt. She laughs, I put my answering box on. She'd said something about liking to be tied up, and by now that sounds like a terrific idea."
"How'd you tie--?" I croaked.
"What? How'd I tie her? On her knees and chin, ass straight up. She got in that position all by herself when I dumped my old knit ties on the bed. Kind of knock-kneed, thighs a few inches apart so I could see her snatch, and knees turned out, calves spread wide to let me tie her ankles to the bed frame. She put her hands behind her knees so I could tie her wrists there."
I thought I should say something at this point to show a moderate interest, but it wouldn't come out. "What?" Peter said, staring at me as though I was the odd one, "anyway, that trick of hers, giving out my number, made whipping her easier than I'd expected. For someone who insisted she needed to have her ass whipped, she made a lot of racket. Her gorgeous rear end got red as a stoplight, and she kept swinging it in a circle and pleading with me to stop, but I kept going. After all the trouble of tying her up, I felt like making an evening of it. I didn't strap her the whole time. Once I saw she was getting juicy, I played with her quim. She went crazy and so did I. I fucked her and whipped her again and fucked her again. She begged me to untie her hands so she could blow me. Had to cut one of my old ties off with a scissors. God, can she suck! Then, I tied her back up for more fun with the belt, and so on."
"What's 'and so on'?" I said.
"Oh, you know," Peter said. "Let's just say, in between whipping her, I put it to her every which way."
"When was all this?" I cried, and without giving him a chance to answer, said, "You haven't seen her since? Are you going to get together again?"
"You're all sparked up over this one, aren't you?" Peter said. "How'd you like her number?"
"Well, I don't know," I said, "sure, why not, if you're not going to see her, not my kind of thing, but maybe for variety--"
"Right," Peter said, "I hadn't decided not to call her, but it's been a week, and I haven't. I'll ring you up at your studio and give you the number." I thought he was annoyed. This was turning us around, because I'm always giving him numbers, while, for all his teasing me, he never fixed me up with anyone before.
And he didn't this time, either. I didn't get any work done for a whole day waiting for his call. I called him the next day and said, "By the way--" He hadn't bothered to ask Cynthia her last name, but he gave me a phone number. It turned out to be a barber shop's number, and they didn't know any Cynthia. I called him back. "I've been looking everywhere for the number of that barber shop," he said, "read it back to me, would you?" I did. "Great, thanks," he said, and adding that he had clients coming in, he hung up.
I called him the next morning, but I only got his secretary, who said he'd get back to me. I called him late in the afternoon, but he didn't offer the girl's number. "By the way--" I said. "Sorry, Jim," he said, "but I think I wrote her number on a memo about an ad we scratched, and I must have thrown out the whole file. You didn't really want that scene, did you?"
"No, it sounds like a drag," I said, "and Donna and I are getting along fine."
"Still seeing Donna," he said. (He never asked, and when I volunteered, this was his stock response.)
Going to Peter's saloon, sitting down next to a girl with a great body who squirms on her stool. Her name happens to be Cynthia, and streaks of the original blonde show through her attempt to darken her hair. She touches my calf and I run my hand up her long slender but voluptuous thigh under her skirt and cup the damp crotch of her panties. "My arse needs warming, Yank," she whispers, her English accent partly submerged in New Yorkisms, "and you're a chap I could drop my knickers and bend over for."
Hopeless. If I went to Peter's saloon, I wouldn't last a half hour. I'd get depressed and leave.
One day I was standing in line waiting to pay my bill at a Madison Avenue deli when I heard two young women behind me engaged in a risque conversation. One of them giggled, "So, I said, 'What if I am naughty? What are you going to do about it, spank me?'" She sounded hopeful. I turned, but at the same moment the customer ahead of me finished paying. As I paid, they teased the back of my head: "He told me, drop my panties!"--"You did, didn't you?"--(both giggling)--"and skirt up!"--"Putchu 'cross his knees?--D'he use his belt?"--"His leather belt, whipped me good!"--"On your bare behind?"--"That must've hurt!"--"Did it ever!"
Then, I found myself standing by the exit, confused, clutching my wallet and dollar bills and change. I didn't remember paying, had no idea whether I'd gotten the right change from the cashier. I stared at the two women paying their bills, secretaries showing off their tits in tight sweaters, bundles of hot sensual curiosity in their early twenties. The one who got spanked was short and voluptuous, with long dark hair. Her friend directed her attention to me. I couldn't hear her, but I knew what she was saying--"spanking creep." Sweat ran down my ribs. Their phrases whirled in my mind. Across his knees! Naughty, naughty! Drop my panties! I couldn't get my bills back into my wallet. Whipped me good! On your bare behind? I wanted to bolt, but that would have given me away, so I gazed over their heads as though looking for a friend. As they passed by, the short one wiggled her backside at me and gave me an Eat-your-heart-out! sneer, but her friend shepherded her out the door.
Who got to strap her plump rear end? Some square-shouldered mailroom boy who had perhaps never even had a fantasy of spanking a girl's bottom? Or a degenerate like Peter Jahn, who had primed her to ask for it? What a rump she had! She knew that's what it was made for! I said aloud, "Yes, that's exactly what I intend to do." I was causing an eddy in the lunchtime pedestrian traffic on Madison Avenue. A couple of Japanese businessmen eyed me with concern.
That evening I happened to browse through the sexual smorgasbord in the back of a local newspaper. Gorgeous women sought successful men with serious intentions and a sense of humor, while a surprising number of physicians, lawyers, and wealthy business owners hoped to meet slim, pretty women interested in long walks in the country and going to museums. I tried to figure out some of the most exotic ads. "GWW sks GBW, Bi OK" would be a gay white woman seeking a gay or bisexual black woman.
Why not? That was how Libby had found Cynthia, Annemarie, and Janet. Whoever might answer wouldn't know anyone I know. If Peter's Cynthia answered, she wouldn't know I know Peter. I thought over the risks for a week. The big one was blackmail. With the box number system, it seemed unlikely. I composed an ad,

Mature, successful "Dad" available to naughty young lady needing stern discipline. Write a nice letter. Include photo, phone number.

that appeared a few days later under the heading, Box 251. In the course of the following week the newspaper forwarded some mail to me, mostly from women who wanted to sell me nude pictures of themselves or extract huge sums of money from me in advance. Mistake to have put in "successful." One woman was on the level, but the tone of her letter turned me off. She wrote she might "agree to try it once." Why did she have to say that? Had I said I wanted to sign her up for a long engagement? Besides, she was a dog even when the high school graduation photo she sent was taken, God knows what year.
I had found a photo by an amateur of his "fiancee," a debouched brunette, in one of the sleazier men's magazines (I like to go slumming visually, sometimes) that showed the look I wanted. No art, no delicacy, harsh lighting, but lots of cooperation by the naked fiancee, who bent all the way over, pointing her ample posterior straight toward the camera. But I didn't throw the dog's offer out until the next day when the letter from Lucy came in the forwarding envelope. Lucy's letter was a sensual shock compared to my getting in the first time. After decades of longing for it, though I'd advertised for it, and spent a lot of time inventing what an ideal response to my ad would be like (even amusing myself by writing a rough draft to myself on Donna's stationery), I didn't expect to get a description of my own scene as good as I could imagine myself.
First, the outrageous color Polaroid that fell out of Lucy's pink envelope. Badly lit and reddish, it showed enough: a young woman in bra and panties kneeling on a bed among pillows and rumpled sheets, head down, plump round backside prominent. Not tall, but with sexy legs. Good ankles, pretty feet, bottoms of the feet lightly soiled. Sheer panties showed the full, pretty curves of the rear cheeks and the cleft between them. A tiny opaque strip beneath was drawn tight enough to reveal the outline of the little cunt lips. Her thumb hooking into the panties at the waistband had drawn one side down three inches off the hip. A slender waist for such a voluptuous woman. Her breasts not seen from this angle, but probably large because the band of her bra was wide. Peeking around back toward the camera, but her face, almost touching the sheets, in reddish shadow and out of focus (the focus was on her rounded backside, a perfect inverted heart-shape, or closer to the camera). What I could see of her face looked good, actually. Also liked her copious long dark hair, brown or black.
Lucy's letter was in green ink on both sides of two sheets of pale pink stationery. Her handwriting was round and curly. The periods were little circles, and her frequent exclamation points, circles surmounted by cigar-shaped ovals. She used the lower-case "i" as her personal pronoun, and every "i" and "j" was topped by a little circle.

5. LUCY'S LETTER

Dearest "Daddy,"

i truly hope you're the daddy for me! i wasn't disciplined as a child so i grew up naughty, sassy, and lazy. (i'm not too young, i'm 28.) Please meet me at Uncle Ned's, 2nd Ave. and 64th St., 7 P.M. on Monday July 19. i don't want to give you my number until i meet you. Take a table and lay a hairbrush that could be used to warm the bottom of a naughty young lady across the table where i'll sit when i arrive. i may be late one of my bad habits but i know you'll be strict with me about that and make me very very sorry for every minute i keep you waiting! After talking with you if i accept you as my Dad i'll show you by kissing the hairbrush. From then on i'll obey you, with all my heart, also with the rest of me! If i screw up you'll know how to correct me!
If you don't have time to discipline me you can let me know with a word or a gesture that i'm to flip up my skirt in back for anything from a quick slap to a triple-time whipping while i spread my legs to brace myself and hold onto my ankles for dear life! Sometimes you might want to put me over your knees and spank me with your hand. As you can see from the picture i'm pretty well upholstered on my rear end so it takes a firm hand to punish me as i deserve! When i've been real naughty you might want to use the hairbrush, a leather belt, or even a whip! i know it's my duty at the first sign i've displeased my Dad to offer my ass for punishment. Just say, "Come here, bitch!" and i'll lift my skirt and show you the seat of my panties! i guess you'd make me drop my panties or take them down yourself and punish me on my bare bottom--that would be awfully embarrassing! Would you let me keep my panties on sometimes?
When i misbehave and you can't warm my behind on the spot you might want to let me know i'm going to get it at bedtime. That would be the most exciting part knowing that i'm going to pay with my ass later! i have a sexy "shortie" nightgown that rides up when i bend over and bares my whole bottom! When you tell me i'm to wear the shortie to bed i'll know i'm in big trouble and get hot down there just thinking about it! You could also squeeze my tits to punish me--i have big pretty boobs and my nipples stick right up and out. Like if i'm slow going to where i'm to get my ass whipped, you could grab my knobs and tug them real hard and i'd follow!
The picture shows how i'll look say when you've told me, "Kneel on the bed, bitch, and put your ass up!" i'm looking around to ask if you want my panties down. The longer you make me wait with my rear end up in the air begging for it while you take your time the more embarrassed and turned on i'll be. Each stroke will make me yell Ow!!! and wiggle my behind! You could tell me how many strokes and make me count them off. Then i'd be sorry about any extra you'd give me for wiggling too much or not keeping my backside up properly! If i try to cover my ass with my hands i'd deserve my Dad pinning my wrists behind me or tying me up and really letting me have it. i'll probably cry and beg you to stop but i'll bet you just give me extra for trying to get out of what's coming to me. When i'm crying my eyes out you might want to polish my burning red ass off with a hand-spanking in fact i'd want you to, lots of good hard smacks on each cheek and across my crack, make my butt suffer so i learn my lesson! When you let me up i might have to jump up and down clutching my red hot tail! Then i'll curtsy and thank you humbly and admit i got what i deserved and i'll do anything my Dad wants! i'll be so good at least for a while that you won't believe i'm the same little bitch who had to be punished. i know i need to be humiliated to teach me not to be sassy and made to obey my Dad's orders promptly and respectfully.
Many kisses Daddy from your naughty but would-be submissive young lady,

Lucy

P. S. i hope this letter and the picture please you. If i said too much or showed too much ass i'm sorry, and i beg you to punish me for taking too much of your time or exposing myself immodestly.

I must have read the letter and scrutinized the Polaroid fifty times in the next few days. Heavenly torment all day, fucking my pillow in hellish ecstasy all night. Donna was a lucky woman to have a date with me Saturday night (two days to go!). I screwed her kneeling on the bed, backside up, panties pulled down just below her quim. I told her to leave her bra on, which confused her. When I squinted, she matched the photo close enough. But she loved to get on my case. The third time I had her, Sunday morning, she said, "Jim, I don't feel you're with me. Where are you?" "Couldn't be more with you," I said, guiltily leaving Lucy in the lurch, gripping her ankles, in that corner of my mind. "Well, glad you're having a good time with me again," Donna said.
Unlikely Lucy would show up: too much masochistic glee in the letter. But who would go to all that trouble just to have a laugh on the anonymous Dad of Box 251? "Lucy" might get me to buy her dinner and ask for money, intending to get as much cash as she could and slip away. All that about the hairbrush on the table was to see how far she could lead me by the nose. Screw it. If no one came, or a mercenary "Lucy" came, I'd already had a hell of a time with the photo and letter. I had found out my sexual capacities hadn't fallen off a cliff. I was ahead, and I'd stay ahead.

6. AT UNCLE NED'S

In that frame of mind, not expecting much but seeing little risk, I took a cab from my studio/home, a brownstone in the East thirties, at six on Monday. Uncle Ned's young man on the phone didn't take reservations, and I wanted to be at a table when Lucy arrived. In my blazer pocket, the new hairbrush bought the day after receiving Lucy's letter. The box had cellophane windows on its side and top. Thought my old hairbrush might look unsanitary on the table. When I arrived at Uncle Ned's at a quarter past six, the bar was crowded, but there was no one at the tables. I had passed by as the place was being hammered together in June, and surmised it would be a hangout for junior executives and secretaries, now and then a model or stewardess to pick things up. Might be jammed by eight-thirty or nine. No table offered any privacy. I chose one in the rear with only one neighboring table. The young waiter in a striped 1890's vest called me "sir" as though he had never uttered the word before, and brought me a warm martini that must have been half vermouth, half witch hazel. He recommended the filet mignon. I told him I'd be waiting for a friend until well after seven, and asked him to take away the martini and bring me a Hennessy every fifteen minutes. "New bartender, sir," he whispered and took the failed martini to the kitchen.
Plenty of time. Pairs of young women taking tables. Young men from the bar cruise by the tables checking out the women. One of the women has light red hair, reminds me of someone. A receptionist at an ad agency? Do I know her? What if she sees me? I feel as though I share an intimate secret with her. Of course, she reminds me of the boarding school virgin I have just deflowered and, in the last version, cunningly sent away without punishment. Now, she hangs about outside my office late in the afternoon when she ought to be on the athletic field getting her shins battered by the other girls' hockey sticks. She doesn't claim illness anymore; her first screwing cured her hypochondria. She wants more of my personal attention. When I let her into my office she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me on the lips. I have a passionate desire to spank her. "Strip!" I say. She must know from my voice. "I love you," she says, letting her skirt fall to the floor. She notices the ruler on my desk as she unbuttons her blouse. The redhead at the table is eyeing me. "I love you ever so much," she says, unfastening her bra. I tweak her nipples and her expression is rapturous. The pale, foolish girl still hopes the ruler just happens to be there, to draw straight lines with. To punish the other girls with. "Panties!" I say, and she hastily pushes them down and steps out of them, naked, shivering, glancing up at me longing to see something besides a stern disciplinarian. "You are spoiled and self-indulgent," I say. Her mouth drops open as she realizes her fanny will not be spared. I put her across my left knee, spreading her thighs to see more of her fiery red bush. Her quim is moist and twitchy. I spank her vehemently with the ruler. When my arm is tired, I pause. I tell her I shall satisfy her desire to be treated differently from the other girls by spanking her bottom twice as hard and twice as long. Her flaming red cheeks bounce at each smack, and she bawls, begs for mercy, promises to behave. I pause, still holding the smoking ruler, not sure I am done.
The redhead at the table sucks her drink through a straw; very convenient, for I always do better when I have a model in front of me. My whimpering schoolgirl slips off my knee and kneels between my thighs, closes her eyes tightly and quite comically opens her mouth as widely as she can. I set down the ruler, unbuckle, unbutton, unzip, and fill her gaping mouth with cock. My hand on the crown of her head momentarily guides her; then she has the idea and bobs her head dreamily up and down. I feel a surge from deep in me, behind my balls. "Swallow fast," I say. The redhead at the table now I recognize her as the receptionist of an ad agency I've been trying to sell my work to--rolls an ice-cube around in her mouth. Her mouth is full of my cum. She rolls it around with a thoughtful look. "Swallow it!" I order. Gulp, gulp, gulp, big eyes as it goes down. The redhead at the table was eyeing me strangely for a moment, but now she has looked away, and I can't engage her glance.
Activity in the kitchen. Hamburgers and fries brought to all the tables. On the other side of the greasy diamond-shaped window of the kitchen door, the fat black fly labors past. If I had a stopwatch and could recall my school math, I should be able to calculate how big the kitchen is. Two pi something is involved. Assuming fly grazing kitchen wall and not eating on its briefest trips. All right, that's crazy, but trying not to think about Lucy.
Five minutes to seven, set the box with the hairbrush on the table. As ordered: Who was whose slave? No Lucy. She said she'd be late to provoke me. Nearly jumped out of my skin when a short curvy woman with thick dark hair entered. She wasn't looking around. A young man from the bar hailed her. They took a table. No chance I could recognize Lucy from the Polaroid. She'd have to find me.
"Hi, Dad," the young woman said, "may I sit down?" Hadn't seen her enter. Appealing face, full boobs, gauzy vanilla summer blouse showing bra, two prominent points. Almost said, "Do I know you?" But knew I didn't. Some resemblance to the young woman in the deli who'd given me the sweats. "Sit," I said. I looked at my watch. "Eight minutes after seven?" I sounded incredulous. Play to the hilt. She smiled ruefully. "You will be very, very sorry for that," I said. Too late, realized adopting her exact words made me sound like a stooge. Light streaks in her hair. Home bleaching, a vogue of years ago. "You may call me Jim," I said.
"Is this for me?" she said, taking the top off the hairbrush box. I nodded, not wanting to play straight man for her. "Lucy," I said, "I enjoyed both the letter and the photo."
"I thought you'd like the picture! I took it myself to please you."
"I appreciate that. But I resent the hairbrush rigmarole. I specifically asked for a phone number." The waiter brought the menus. I ordered filet mignon for both of us. At $6.95, Uncle Ned's most expensive dish. No drink for Lucy. "I'm glad you're so handsome," Lucy said, "I was praying you would be." She pressed my hands and looked up at me with her big dark eyes. She was sweet-looking, but rings under her eyes made her appear somewhat depraved.
"You didn't have to buy me dinner," she said. "There's one thing I want you to promise me." "And that is?" "Don't do anything to maim me or scar me." "I swear, Lucy. Nothing beyond the discipline you described in your letter has the slightest appeal to me." "Are you really mad about the hairbrush?" she said. "I'll pay for it." "You'll pay, all right," I said, getting into my role, "but not with money."
"And that's besides being late," she said, squirming, a flush of humiliation in her face. She leaned forward and whispered, "What are you going to do to me for all that?"
"You'll get what you deserve," I said. Why hadn't she kissed the brush? Remind her? No, would give her the upper hand. If I made a misstep, she could still be out the door. "Lucy," I said tenderly, "I could be very loving to you, once you show me you're a good obedient girl."
Lucy took the wooden hairbrush out of the box, turned it over and over, bristles, back, bristles, back. Then she planted a big wet kiss on the flat oval back and handed the brush to me. The couple at the next table didn't notice anything. The waiter was right on top of us, but he didn't seem to have seen, either. I slipped the brush into its box and back into my pocket as he served the steaks.
Lucy liked the filet but it took chewing. Some pieces fought being swallowed like living creatures. We talked about our work. She was a legal secretary. She wanted to be a lawyer but, she said, knew her limits. "Legal secretary is quite a respectable trade," I said.
Lucy wanted to tell me about her childhood. I cut her off, ordered her to keep it current. My kind of nature is all too easily swayed by sympathy, but at the moment I didn't want to feel sorry for her.
In the taxi Lucy nestled against me and I put an arm around her. Rolling toward me on one hip, almost squirming onto my lap, her face up for a kiss. I decline, straight-necked. Reaching down, I give her a warning pat on her soft rear cheeks, brushing her crack, feeling a backward push. Bowing her head against my chest and cautiously rubbing my thigh. After a moment, she murmured, "Your heart's pounding." The Master told her to sit up and think about how naughty she'd been.

7. LUCY'S "FIRST WHIPPING"

Lucy was impressed by my brownstone. I gave her the grand tour, ground floor living room, gourmet kitchen and dining room, studio and library on the second floor, and we wound up on the third floor in my bedroom.
"You really love mirrors," she said. I've installed the mirrors thoughtfully, one by one, over the years, no more than one needs to observe the action from any angle.
I plumped up a pillow in the middle of the bed. "All right, young lady, on your knees and face." Who said that? The Master, a tall, elegant figure, imperiously unbuckling his belt. But his voice was stagy, failing to capture the commanding reality of my daydreams.
"I brought the nightie," she said, pulling a lacy shoulder strap out of her handbag, "the one I mentioned in the letter."
Let her choose? Had to decide fast. "Put it on," the Master ordered, drawing his belt through the loops with deliberate menace. An inch wide, soft, pliable leather. Lucy scooted into the bathroom before I could say anything.
The Master reached into his closet for his dressing robe and laid it on the bed. He watched me in the mirror as I removed my jacket and tie and unbuttoned my shirt.
Lucy was taking her time. After a few moments I became aware there were no sounds at all from the bathroom. The whole house had become eerily quiet. What if she had vanished as in a dream through a door in the bathroom tiles I had somehow never noticed?
How many times had I glowed in my sleep--a gorgeous model snuggling belly down across my lap, wriggling, moaning, thrilled to have found at last a Master to spank her as she always knew she deserved--and then awakened to an empty bed? I hesitated in front of the bathroom. A creaking floorboard downstairs! Lucy must have sneaked behind me the instant I reached into the closet! I ran to the top of the staircase. Nothing.
Back to my bathroom. I knocked sharply on the door and went in. Lucy just hanging out in the nightgown with a sweet smile on her face. "I'm coming," she said. "Right now!" I demanded. Her legs were bare. The garment concealed little. I could see each pink nipple on its brown mound through the sheer fabric. "I've never been whipped before," she volunteered, toying with the end of the belt I was holding.
"Don't lie to me!" I shouted at her.
"No, never was," she said, forcing herself (I thought) to meet my eyes. She flipped the belt up. "Let's skip the spanking scene," she said, "just fuck me, O.K.?" A teasing, bitchy smile played at the corners of her lips. The rapid changes in Lucy's expression were charming. Flickers of bitchiness, panic, shame, servile sweetness, and aggressive, depraved lust chased each other across her face.
I reached down the front of her nightgown and lifted out a large warm breast, squeezed the nipple and pulled. My fingers slid off.
"Slippery," she commented. I saw or sensed the nipple swell. Seizing the errant pink button again, I tucked it tightly beneath two fingers and closed my hand. It burned into my palm. Still holding the belt, I reached down for the other tit. I gave both the swollen knobs a good tweaking and watched her turn on. Her eyelids drooped, her neck arched like a cat's, her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue protruded. She mouthed and licked up my forearm, which was within easy reach as I worked over her tits. "Don't whip my ass now," she gasped--"some other time, O.K.?" Her hands flew to my top trouser button, and as she opened it, she kneaded the head of my erect cock.
I dragged her by her hot titties to the foot of the bed. A little jerk-and-release, and she flew up onto the bed and kneeled, face down on the pillow. Her nightgown fell forward to her armpits, presenting her bare white behind and her dark quim. Her plump backside was perfectly shaped to satisfy a voluptuous esthetic. As a coy afterthought, she closed her thighs so that only a diamond-shaped tuft of curly black hair showed through.
I let her wait with her fanny up, delicious as in the photo, while I put on my dressing robe. Doing it all her way. Who was in charge here? "How late were you?" I said, fondling the smooth, silky rear cheeks. Her response muffled by the pillow. "How many minutes?" I shouted. "Speak up!"
"Seven?" she drawled, wiggling her rear end and looking back at me.
"You were the girl in the deli!" I blurted out, vaguely alarmed at this discovery. No question about it, the same impudent look, the same mocking wiggly backside!
"What're you talking about?" Lucy said, eyeing the belt in the headboard mirror.
"Count each spank aloud!" I bellowed. "Understand?"
"Yes, Daddy," she said, trailing the fingers of one hand across her behind and then back to the pillow. She had found a viewing angle that would allow her to observe her backside being punished in a mirror. Holding the belt by the buckle, I swung the free end at her prettily raised bare bottom. The belt curled around her body, making only a weak slapping sound and surely not hurting her. Standing too close. "One," she giggled. I backed away half a step and swung again. This time my aim was low and the strap curled harmlessly around her right thigh. "Two," she said with sarcastic crispness. I was screwing up. She would be all over me if I kept on like this. "You might try doubling the belt," she suggested.
"Shut up!" the Master snapped, doubling the belt and folding it over the buckle to get a better grip. The doubled strap was now a foot long, and felt right. The Master touched it across both cheeks to measure his backswing.
"Uh-oh," she said, grabbing the pillow with both hands and bracing herself. The Master smacked her fanny with the belt as hard as he could, and she yelped, "AIIIEEE!"
"Say, 'One,'" the Master said.
"One," she gasped. He waited, watching an inchwide rosy stripe bloom across the middle of the soft white cheeks. She grunted inaudible complaints into the pillow. He gave her another sound smack across the bottom curves of the cheeks.
"AI-EEE-OWWW! That hurts too much!" she cried, "you don't know how much that stings!" She pumped her behind in and out as if trying to cool it off.
"Good," the Master said. "Say, 'Two.'"
"Two!" she moaned. At the third smack she quickly screamed, "THREE!" and drew her backside in, raising the small of her back. "No," said the Master, pushing down the small of the penitent's back with his left hand, "This goes down," and jamming his right fist, still closed around the belt, under the warm cheeks, he raised them: "And this goes up."
I felt moistness with my right knuckles under her: She was beginning to wet herself. "Next one is extra strict for tucking your fanny under," the Master said. "Ready?" "No, don't," Lucy begged. He bore down: SWACK! Yowling, she let her thighs slip apart. A moment later, after crying, "Four!" she tried to drag her thighs together. I interposed my hand, cried, "Spread 'em!" and cupped her steamy quim.
She moaned. I pinched her damp, twitchy cunt lips. Lucy was coming, on my honor as a gentleman. Slow backswing, pause, and SWACK!
"OWWW!" she cried into the pillow. Then, she said quickly, "Wait, it was me in the deli!"
But the girl on line had looked younger. "What happened in the deli?" I said suspiciously.
"Oh, you know ..." she said, but seeing me raise the belt in a mirror, added quickly, "We flirted with each other?"
"Where was I?" I said.
"You were sitting right across from me?" she said.
"Liar!" I yelled. By the eighth spank she was whimpering continuously and wriggling her pink and blotchy-red rear all over the place. "Put it up for number nine and keep it up," I said. What if she had been sitting across from me?
"It is up," she moaned.
"Impudent little bitch," I said, "number nine will be the best yet." I surprised myself with my own ferocity. The belt made a shockingly loud clap. A band of white, then, pink, rose, red, crimson. Lucy grew quiet, stifling her sobs in the pillow.
"Didn't hear you count," I said. I was trembling. Why was I trembling? "How would you like number nine over again for not counting?"
"Nine," she groaned.
"Good," the Master said. "Now settle down. You have ten seconds to squirm and then I want your backside high and turned up and absolutely still. Got it, bitch?" Two things occurred to me in the same moment: Calling her "bitch" enhanced my pleasure as I whipped her; and she had put the word in my mouth in her letter.
Swish SMACK! Lucy suffered noisily for at least ten seconds before reciting the next number. It seemed too long to wait while she shimmied and pumped in and out and panted and finally offered her smarting fanny up for the next one. A violent lust came over me: I wanted to thrash her so severely it would break me out of the unreal, theatrical sense I had of being a character in Lucy's play. I didn't, because she had given me a script, and I was afraid to blow it. She could be out of my life in the time it would take her to scoop up her clothes and flee two flights down to the street.
Nevertheless, having to restrain myself angered me, and I put a little more wrist into the twelfth.
"YOWWWEEE!" Lucy yelped, and shielded her flaming behind with both hands, palms out. A forbidden resistance! I whipped the backs of her thighs. "For covering up," I said. After four smacks, she lowered her hands to protect her reddened thighs, and I caught her nicely on the ass. She howled into the pillow and shifted her hands up and down trying to guard both cheeks and thighs. I gave her one wherever she left herself open.
This sport, leaving the site of punishment up to her, was ruining the discipline. I seized both her little wrists and pinned them with my left hand to the small of her back. It was damp with sweat. "No, Daddy, please," she whimpered. I took my time, enjoying her squirming. My cock, as if enraged, poked swollen and throbbing out of my robe. I rubbed it in the cleft between her warm red cheeks. "Feels like a good size," she said, shimmying responsively. I liked that, and relaxed my grip on her. She appeared to be searching in the headboard mirror for an angle to see my cock pressing between her rear cheeks. "Let my hands go," she said, swinging her head around toward my cock, "I want to kiss it." Seeing her half-open mouth and the tip of her tongue at the ready, I was tempted; but at the last instant I recalled the script I had read so many times, and tightened my grip on her.
"You'd do anything to get off now, wouldn't you, bitch?" the Master said. "It's not that, I just want you in me," she said. She crawled a few inches backwards on her knees, mashing her rear end against my cock and sawing up and down so that the shaft felt everything from the hot dry region of her asshole down to the lips below fairly gushing boiling juices. I let her grind away until I wasn't sure I could hold myself back. After all, what does a cock understand about the fine points of discipline? All it wants is to find some warm congenial chamber and whitewash its walls.

8. LOSING CONTROL

The Master tucked his cock back in his robe and said, "That won't work. You'll make it easier on yourself if you cut out the tricks and put your ass up." Lucy sighed and tried bravely to raise her fanny.
"Way up! Higher!" the Master yelled. When the soft, well-reddened cheeks were poised as submissively as possible, he clamped her against his side so she couldn't move and whipped her rapidly and fiercely. He was standing right over her, swinging from above, the belt catching mostly one cheek or the other, alternating right or left irregularly so she couldn't guess which cheek was going to get it: SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! On the other end, Lucy yowled like a baby: "WAHHHNNN!" In the mirrors, straight ahead, the fine somber gentleman in a dressing robe clamping a nearly naked young woman (in profile) beneath his arm; she bawls and humps her flaming bottom; her heavy breasts sway, the swollen nipples peeking out beneath the frilly nightgown fallen forward to her armpits; the arm of the gentleman raising the belt vanishes on the backswing and reappears coming down from above. The headboard mirror shows her teary face, the quivering lower lip, the shocked open mouth as the belt lands. Behind Lucy, another full length view, her elevated full red bottom and rosy thighs, dark quim, soles of her feet kicking up, the full length of the chastising arm and the belt rising slowly and quick down SMACK! across one of the plump round cheeks. To my left, in the mirror above my dressing table, another view, an image reflected from a high mirror behind me--just the back of the imperious figure in the dressing gown and the arm rising with the belt--a view not worth much now, more useful for practice sessions whipping two plump pillows held in the position of squirmy smarting female buttocks.
A couple of times the strap came down the middle, and its edges bit the tender flesh of the cleft, making little sound, but Lucy squalled even more loudly and bucked wildly, futilely in the Master's grasp.
"Keep your hands away from your butt, then," the Master said, releasing her little wrists. She threw her hands around the pillow and clutched it. The Master stepped back and strapped her across both cheeks. Before each lick of the leather, her backside clenched and drew in, and after each, it unclenched, wiggled madly as the redness burned and deepened, and ballooned out.
I had intended twelve more smacks, but I got carried away, and I don't know how many I gave her. At last I rested, my arm fatigued and my sadistic urge mostly satisfied. Lucy continued to kneel with her face in the pillow.
Her loud sobs and the pretty undulations of her ass, quivering and pulsing in and out as though it were still being strapped, were oddly pleasing to me, signs of how thoroughly punished she must feel. I tossed the belt to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. Lucy slid off the bed and began jumping up and down, cupping a blotchily crimson cheek in each hand, just as she had written she would.
Lucy was bawling out of control, had been for a while. I made her stand between my comfortably sprawled legs. She stared at my cock bobbing in front of her like a hungry dog on a short leash tantalized by meat just beyond it. Each time she would compose herself, a new crying jag overtook her. Nevertheless, she managed a curtsy, still holding her bottom with both hands, and admitted she deserved the whipping for being late and the extra severity for her evasive maneuvers. She looked so pretty and dismayed I couldn't resist her another moment. I drew the nightgown over her head and pitched it after the strap, hugged her to me and kissed her passionately. Her face was salty with tears. In the midst of a kiss my fingers found her little pubes. She hung swooning around my neck while I drove her clit in tiny circles and figure-eights. She came quickly with dozens of tremors. As long as I kept touching her she would keep coming. At last she drew my hand away and began kissing my chest, tonguing my nipples on her way down.

9. THE LAW OF THE LETTER

Thus far, everything had rolled along on the greased rails of Lucy's letter. I was the engineer unable to take the locomotive anywhere except where those tracks led me. At this point Lucy made a jarring move. Just as her lips were hovering over my madly expectant cock, she straightened up and said, "That was the strictest whipping I ever got." "You said you had never--" "I lied to you," she smirked. "I've been whipped plenty of times."
"Never mind that," I snarled at her through clenched teeth. I took her by the back of her neck and brought her "face-to-face" with my almost painfully swollen cock. She licked the shaft a few times, but I sensed she was plotting something. Sure enough, she looked up and said, in a tone of artless humility, "I lied to my Daddy. I guess I'd better take my spanking now and get it over with." She made an effort to lie face down across my left knee.
I couldn't believe Lucy wanted more fanny pain. Her rear end gave off a rosy glow. "I knew you were lying," I said, "keep licking!" She gave me a few more half-hearted licks and stopped. "I lied to you and got away with it," she said, teasing me.
Damn you, I thought, we've gone through the punishment part. Then, I recalled the line in her letter about a hand-spanking after the other. I couldn't very well let her crow about lying to me, or be impudent to me because she had me strung out. I began to feel frustrated: I was the Master of Ceremonies, yet I couldn't shape the proceedings without acting out the script Lucy had set down in her letter.
There was nothing to do but take my revenge by shoving her across my left knee. I must admit I enjoyed the intimate curling of her naked body over my leg, and the yielding of her soft, round red cheeks to the SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! of my hand, her moans at each spank, and her slow kicking, left heel up, right, left. I gave her salvos of six or eight, intermittently rubbing her cheeks where they looked like raw hamburger, and finished with a dozen quick hard spanks. Lucy's pretty feet fluttered in rhythm, and for the last six she howled one long "OWWWWWW!" The moment I delivered the final climactic smack, Lucy slipped to her knees and began to suck me eagerly. It seemed the handspanking had driven her wild. She munched along the shaft of my cock as if it were corn on the cob, and licked every inch of my scrotum (I got up on my haunches on the bed to accommodate her), and the tender place behind the scrotum. By then I knew she was heading for my ass.
Another reflection in the mirror: Getting my ass licked had been a routine element of my fantasy for years, ever since Peter Jahn hinted that a pretty employee of his had a long brown tongue. The swine had her bring him a file he didn't need so he could point her out to me.
Lucy soon had me flipped over lying on my cock, while she planted wet kisses all over my behind. Considering giving her an explicit order, but I didn't have the nerve, or I am too nice a guy, or whatever. All at once, she plunged her face right in and fitted her lips to my asshole as though it were another mouth. I was so high on pleasure it's a wonder I didn't go into orbit. She burrowed the tip of her tongue in and flicked it about like a deranged snake, and didn't seem to be in a rush to finish. At last she drew back and waited. I turned over on my back, and she closed in and took my overdue cum in her mouth. It seemed as though my insides were pouring down her throat. I kept coming, and she kept blinking and gulping. Between gulps she looked up at me for approval. I caressed her head. Soon after, we fell asleep, Lucy cuddling up on my chest.
Curiously, that night I dreamed that I couldn't wake up, yet I had to pee; sleepwalking, I was unable to find my way out of my bedroom; dreaming I was dreaming meant I must be close to waking, but I could not find a light switch, and hugging the walls and feeling my way around my dresser I kept coming up to mirrors and seeing dark images of a frowning, somber, desperate man whose bladder was bursting.

10. WHAT DIDN'T HAPPEN AT LE CULIN

I called Lucy at the law office the next morning. She said she was thinking about me and finding it hard to concentrate on her typing. Sitting was uncomfortable for her; she admitted shifting from cheek to tender cheek. I began to get hard. I said I was thinking about her, too. She said my cum was delicious, at which I clutched my cock in a congratulatory handshake. It was impossible for me to match her explicit compliments, even though I was alone and she was evidently not far from her co-workers. I am not usually at a loss for words, but Lucy's teasing voice reduced me to heavy breathing.
That evening and the next I had plans with friends who expected me to appear with Donna. For my next date with Lucy, three days away, I considered foregoing the discipline scene on our next date just to establish that we could. Then, Thursday morning, when I asked her to meet me that evening at a Provencal restaurant in my neighborhood, Lucy said, "Don't forget to bring the hairbrush!"
"That won't be necessary," I said. "Anyway, Le Culin isn't Uncle Ned's. You must dress up."
"Bring the hairbrush as you've been told," she laughed.
Of course, I didn't bring the hairbrush, but there was no way to let the taunt slip by. Besides, I began to steam up all over again thinking about punishing her for her impudent jest. I had in mind to give it to her as soon as we returned to my place. I would not even allow her time to change for bed. An oversized chair in my living room would be a proper throne for me, while Lucy would lie across my lap and suffer the indignity of the spanking in her dressy clothes. Before I left to meet her, I set the hairbrush parallel to the edge of a coffee table. It seemed lost there: I spun it to various angles. Not right. Then I plumped up the cushion of the chair and set the hairbrush on top. Lucy would certainly notice it there--spanking surface against the soft roundness.
When Lucy tasted her entree, she confessed she would like to cook for me, but feared she couldn't manage anything like the fare at Le Culin. We spoke a while about the art of cooking, Lucy's repertory was bounded by what was available in the frozen dinner section of the supermarket. She was, however, eager to learn. She suggested that if she lived in the home of a man who liked fine food, she would regard it as a duty and a pleasure to become a first-rate cook. I was by no means sure she had the native talent for that, but I was glad she was already thinking about moving in. Until the moment I saw her arrive at Le Culin, I had been worried--quite irrationally considering all the lewd affection she had tendered me on the phone for the past three days--that she might not want to continue the affair. I suspected she would tell me so at dinner. I had no reason to think this, except a queasy sense that we had gone a bit far the first time, and she might need to draw away. However, her revealing dress, and even more, her aspiration to live in a certain gourmet's brownstone, let me know I could do whatever I wanted with her. It was as though she had just kissed the hairbrush again.
Lucy's notion of dressing up was to show more breast than she could at the office. More than at a public beach, for that matter. The silvery voile top of her dress was merely suggestive so long as she kept her arms by her sides. When she extended her elbows away from her sides, the material thinned so that her large pink nipples seemed to peek out like eyes.
"I am wearing a bra!" she protested. "It must be transparent," I said, "everybody can see your tits every time you lift a fork. I can even see the little mounds!"
"That's because you're close and you're staring," she said. "Nobody else notices."
"The waiter forgot the specials, and I had to repeat out order twice for him. And you're getting a lot of attention from that old gentleman across from us."
"What are you going to do about it?" she said in her wonderfully bitchy voice.
"You see the other young women here with their breasts covered modestly?" I said. She nodded. "Well, when their men get them home they'll uncover their breasts, and caress them, and kiss and suck them. Every decently covered pair is going to be petted and licked until it's very happy."
"Sounds great!" Lucy said innocently. I sensed her nipples were beginning to zing.
"But two tits in this room aren't covered properly, and I shall pinch them good and hard, until you swear you've learned not to show them in public."
"Pinch them now," she said, thrusting her breasts up toward me and stretching her arms out along the banquette behind her so that the voile material was at its most transparent. Her nipples poked up, swollen and reddened with excitement.
"Stop that!" I said. "Keep your arms at your sides!"
"A little pinch," she whispered, "right now, no one's looking."
"I'm warning you, Lucy," I hissed. She complied slowly, drawing her elbows back to her sides. "No one cares about a little tit showing but you," she said. She covered the points under dispute with her fingertips. Then, just to provoke me, she slowly rotated her fingertips in tiny circles.
"Stop that!" I hissed. "How dare you play with yourself here!"
"Jim, no one saw that but you," she said.
"I suppose no one would notice if I took you across my knees and spanked you after the entree," I said.
"Here? You wouldn't dare!" she giggled. "Dress up, panties down? Bare-ass?"
As she laughed she inclined toward me, and for an instant I was afraid she would try to assume the position to embarrass me, but she straightened up and glowed, evidently turned on by the thought. "The men would dig that," she said. "It'd be a scene, you spanking away, me crying, my behind getting red like a tomato, and everybody just eating and talking to each other like nothing unusual was happening. They really would notice, just pretend not to, 'cause this is such a fancy place."
"Everybody would understand from looking at you that you deserved it, but it wouldn't be proper to cheer me on, or stand on the chairs for a better view. By the way, a number of the women here might enjoy watching a little bitch getting her bare bottom spanked."
"I'll bet they would!" Lucy said. "They'd squirm in their seats and be glad it wasn't their asses getting warmed. Wonder what our waiter would do?"
"Nothing would be served and no orders taken 'til I gave you the last spank and pulled your panties up. Then, while you were still bawling across my knees, the waiter would hand you a napkin to dry your eyes with, and ask, 'Madame, Monsieur would wish some dessert?' For myself, I would choose something from their pastry cart; but you would just get your usual." "I know," Lucy said, "while you were eating some terrific pastry, I'd have to kneel, unbutton, unzip, and suck for my dessert. Everybody would love watching me gulp down hot salty cream."
"And lick my cock clean."
"And get it smeared all over my face."
"Madame, 'sieur would weesh some dessair?" said the waiter.
"Madame will have her usual," I said. Lucy's mouth dropped open.
"M'sieur, I am desolate I do not--" the waiter began.
"Just bring us the pastry cart," I said.

11. HOW LUCY GOT IT HER WAY (MOSTLY)

As she finished her eclair, Lucy said, "Besides pinching my tits real hard, what else are you going to do to me?"
"Well," I said, "all the well-behaved young women here will have their bare fannies fondled and gently tweaked later. Their men will cup the cheeks lovingly in their hands while they kiss the modest women's quims and lick their virtuous clits until they give them splendid climaxes." (Perhaps not all the men present would be such diligent lovers, but I thought dangling the comparison before her might do her some good. Lucy actually looked about the room enviously.) "That's what you would've gotten if you hadn't been impudent just now and on the phone, about the hairbrush," I concluded.
Lucy seemed a bit remorseful. "I know I'm due for the hairbrush, 'cross your knees, right, Master?" she whispered, her eyes growing wide as she leaned across the table. "Take me home right now, and I'll submit my ass off."
I never walked the five blocks home from Le Culin more rapidly. Lucy had to trot to stay alongside me. That wasn't easy in her absurd high heels, and she was out of breath when we reached my stoop. She swayed as she preceded me up the brownstone steps to my front door. The lower part of her dress was of the same material as the silver top, but many-layered and black. It was probably meant to disguise the plumpness of the wearer's backside, but I have never had any difficulty discerning the shapes beneath such trickery.
Once inside, I marched her over to the big chair, her eyes fixed by the hairbrush on the cushion. I sat down, putting the hairbrush in my lap. "Arms out!" I barked. "See how that shows the nipples?"
Arms raised away from her sides, glancing at her breasts. "Yes," she said to appease me, "much too much;" but I didn't hear genuine repentance in her voice.
"But you knew that when you put it on over that nothing bra, didn't you, bitch?"
"Yes, Daddy. Want me to take them out for punishment?"
I took one gauze-covered nipple in each hand. "Not necessary," I said. The tighter I squeezed, the more turned-on Lucy looked. At last, but not until I was really mashing the little buttons, she went crosseyed and stuck her tongue out involuntarily. "Going to show them in public anymore, bitch?" I said, keeping the pinch on.
"Yes, I mean no!" she cried. "No, what?" I said. "No, I'll never show my tits in public! I promise!" I let go. "Whew," she said, eyes focusing again.
"Your relief is premature, bitch," the Master said, flicking her nipples rapidly back and forth with the tips of his index fingers. "Eyes open!" he barked at her, "tits forward!"
Lightly restrained by their sheer coveting, her heavy breasts swayed over the Master's lap. He swung them in small circles, rotating out, rotating in. "What do you say, now, bitch?" he said.
"They're naughty, show-off boobs, and they had this coming to them! They'll never show off ever again for anyone but you!"
I released the swollen tits. She flew across my knees. An amusing view: Layers of black voile fanned out, separating Lucy into two parts like a magician's saw. Forward of her waist, nothing of her could be seen but her billowing dress; rearward, her sassy cheeks, which I decided to spank as they were, encased in the fine, transparent mesh of undergarments; the backs of her soft, full thighs; the pretty hollows of her knees, calves, and the spike heels.
An opaque pantihose seam ran crookedly down the cleft between her cheeks, and below, the narrow satin strip of the panties covered some of her best features. I raised the paddle.
SMACK! Her buttocks bounced and jiggled in tandem.
"YOWWW!" Lucy yelled, kicking up her spike heels. I waited a moment, watching twin pink flowers bloom beneath the filmy panties and pantihose at the highest curve of each cheek, then applied the hairbrush smartly. SMACK! "YA-OWW!" Lucy protested, her head and heels flying up. She contracted her lower buttocks around her asshole as though she could see exactly where I was aiming the next one. I lifted the hairbrush high behind her and spanked her sternly. Bounce, jiggle.
"OWWW!-ANNNH!" Lucy bawled, and kicked up her heels. There was no question that I had found the "sweet spot." Two more pink flowers bloomed on either side of her crack, a bit lower. I raised the hairbrush and brought it down in the same tender place. "WAHHHHN!"
How gratifying to get her spanked-brat whine on only the third smack! The sweet spot turned a deeper pink. The rapid, alternating flutter of Lucy's spike heels was so charming that at times the Master watched them instead of her round fanny jiggling in its transparent casing after the paddle walloped it.
When Lucy felt she couldn't take any more, she signalled it by wild, frantic wiggling of her fanny, apologized breathlessly for her impudence, and begged for mercy. The Master listened gravely, paddled her soundly after each apology. She switched to offering her repertory of licentious bribes, amusing to hear in her fresh, tremulous voice, but containing nothing she hadn't already done for the Master a few days before. He thanked her for her offers, and said she would indeed perform every one of those tricks--as soon as the spanking was over.
I was aware of a familiar, not unpleasant odor. The satin strip of Lucy's panties had darkened. I touched the strip; it was damp. "Sopping wet," I observed, "you naughty girl."
"Can't help it," she sobbed. I drew down pantihose and panties to below her knees. Her whole rump was rosy, but the portion of each cheek neighboring her asshole glowed. I laid the oval back of the hairbrush against that region. "Is my ass too big?" Lucy blurted.
"Much too chubby," I said, just to humiliate her. "Think about how fat your ass is for the last three." I gave them to her right on her fiery red, puffy sweet spot, and she suffered noisily.
I rested my hand on the burning cheeks while she lay across my lap having a good cry. Then, I inserted two fingers into her wet clutching quim. "I'll bet you're going to spank me with your hand for wetting my panties, aren't you?" she said, "not too hard?"
"Certainly," I said, although I hadn't thought of it until she asked. I had enjoyed the final handspanking our first evening, and so I gave her an encore, a dozen smacks with my hand covering every inch of vermilion backside, "not too hard," but not holding back much, either.
Lucy ran ahead of me, two flights up to my bedroom, where she stripped off everything and was kneeling by the bed lightly holding her hot posterior when I came in. If I were to recount prodigies of lovemaking, it would not be to boast about my prowess, but in admiration of Lucy's generous mouth and steamy cunt. But let me quote Lucy, the last thing she said before I fell asleep: "You've hosed me so full of cum I feel like a beer barrel. One more dose and I'd spill over."

12. LUCY MOVES IN AND BEGINS HER EDUCATION

Donna broke off with me, responding, I thought, to a slackening of my interest in her. The last thing she said to me, not in a pleasant tone of voice, was, "Your bedroom reeks of cheap perfume!" I must have been too excited to notice. I said to Lucy, "You like to use perfume, don't you?"
"You're wonderful!" Lucy gushed. "Most men don't even notice! I love to use tons of perfume!"
"I want you to cut way down. Use one-fifth as much. And no more streaking your hair."
By September Lucy had moved in with me. She understood she would have to accommodate herself to my ways, but her lapses as a "maid" and her slovenly habits invited discipline. I recall picking up a wet washrag from the carpet as Lucy, wearing only her pink cotton robe after a shower, chatted on the phone; I hear her whispering to her girlfriend, "Bye now, I'm in big trouble," hanging up, turning around and kneeling butt up. I remember the pleasure of liking the pink robe in back, and her protests as I smacked her still damp ass with my belt, "OWWW!--I didn't know I dropped it!--OWWW!--Jim, I would've picked it up!--OWWW!"
One Sunday, dragging Lucy by an ear to point out the mess in the bathroom, which she restored to spotlessness after a sound spanking with the hairbrush. Another time, pulling her along by a surprisingly warm tit from her favorite seat before the television set to the pantry where oil of sunflower, guaranteed not to clog the arteries, oozed down the side of a bottle onto a shelf; smacking her round cheeks hastily exposed between lifted skirt and lowered panties with a cheese board (bought years before for its paddle-shape); Lucy wiggly, wildly turning on; holding her doubled over a long time, inflicting much posterior pain and redness; when I let her up, she weeps as she takes off my pants and shorts and dabs the overflow of oil onto my cock. Her contrition memorable.
Lucy made up for a woefully basic education by willingness to learn. She had lived a short walk from the Metropolitan Museum without ever venturing inside. I took her. She enjoyed the art and discussing it with me (also known as The Knaster Lectures) and spent hours with my art books. I allowed her one hour of television each evening--the only rule Lucy objected to. Even after holding her ankles for a stern paddling, and ten minutes (during prime time) facing the wall, red fanny out, she did not concede the rule was for her own good, to give her time to read the books or listen to the music I prescribed. I wanted her to be able to talk with my friends about something besides last night's programs. One evening, caught her in front of third sitcom. She hadn't realized I was home until I came down to the living room and turned the set off. Even as I marched her back upstairs to the library, she begged to be permitted to watch the end of the show before being punished! Imagine!

13. A BASIC ISSUE IS HAPPILY RESOLVED

By the time Lucy's thighs were pressed against the side of the dark red leather chesterfield couch in my library on the second floor, her mood had changed. I was holding her by her thick hair at the back of the neck, about to bend her over, when I felt her stiffen. She said abruptly, "It's my own time! I can do whatever I want!"
"Three more good ones for that," said the Master, and put her face down to the worn seat of the chesterfield. That left her standing on her toes, her hindquarters over the arm of the couch. "Lift your dress," he said. Instead, she raised her mouth an inch from the leather seat and cried, "You can't tell me what to do with my own time!"
"Six more," the Master said, unbuckling his belt.
"It's not fair--" Lucy sighed as she raised the hem of her dress up the backs of her thighs, "whipping my ass--" and over her plump buttocks to the small of her back, "just for watching--"
"Nine extra," the Master said, ripping her pantihose and strawberry pink panties down so roughly that her white rear cheeks jiggled. Lucy's bottom was fresh and pouty, like the face of a child thinking up some mischief. Her face could have looked like that when she was young, though now it was a little debauched. Perhaps her backside would stay forever young, while her face grew older.
"Nnnff," Lucy said, muffling her protest in the seat of the chesterfield. The cool breeze from the open window playing on her bare backside, and the sound of the belt slapping through the loops of my trousers may have made her more aware of her vulnerability.
A crisp WAP! every three or four seconds kept her fanny bouncing. Lucy groaned softly into the seat of the couch. When I passed a dozen without pause, she chewed and sucked leather. Lucy always counted to herself when I didn't require her to do so aloud. I know, because I leafed through the diary she kept in her drawer under her pantihose. There was an account of every chastisement, along with comments about our relationship, recipes, and a great many birthdays and upcoming "showers."
I photocopied a few pages now and then. A typical page, Dec 17, contains mostly a recipe for Bearnaise sauce, followed by these jottings:

bathrm spanking last nite J told me strip and get on scale 1st time since i moved in--7 lbs over!! right off scale across his lap bare-ass he was in undershorts 35 stingers w/hairbrush 7 fast 7 slow like that i said i'll lose OK OK & 21 w/hand & had to lick his prick hairy balls and ass on my knees on bathrm rug. i hate crummy bathrm sex!!! same next Tues if i don't lose 2 lbs by then that's Xmas eve J doesn't realize

Back to the library. The sight of Lucy's pretty rear cheeks, red as two ripe apples, was highly stimulating to the Master, but the erotic pleasure was all his. Usually, a whipping would make her little cunt lips twitch and glistening streaks run down her legs. It was not the fanny pain, itself, but her own submissiveness that would turn her on. This time, however, her quim was dry. The Master told her that she would be punished until she was wet on both ends: We would have tears and a hot, succulent pussy if it took all night.
We soon had tears. However, as if to maintain her defiance, Lucy's smartly strapped buttocks clenched, enveloping her crack. Prefering the softer appearance of her relaxed fanny, I ran a warning finger down the line between the tense buttocks. No response. "How would you like three extra for disobeying?" I said. Lucy shifted on her toes, unclenching her rear cheeks. "Relax your buns all the way, bitch!" I yelled, grabbing one red hot apple with my left hand and shaking it. Lucy complied, offering her loosened cheeks to the strap. Still, she gnawed her little fist in the seat of the couch, and I knew she was resisting mentally.
Standing directly behind her, the Master lashed, forehand, good snap in the wrist, full follow-through, back-hand, forehand, WAP!-WAP!-WAP! for most of a minute. Lucy's strategy was a total failure. She could not even stop jiggling her rear end, which attained a rich crimson. One lick caught just the left cheek, and the tip of the leather tongue curled in and tickled her crack. Lucy's head bolted up and she whirled around to face me, her fingers diving behind her between her flaming cheeks to soothe the tender spot.
"That's enough!" she cried. Was she aware that by pressing into her crack she turned her pussy prettily out toward me?
"I'll put you out on the sidewalk so fast you won't have time to pull your panties up," the Master said, "is that what you want?"
Lucy looked down at her panties and pantihose around her ankles. "I have nowhere to go," she said. She closed her eyes, forcing out big, salty tears.
I laid two fingers on her thrust-out quim, just to console her. The little lips parted gratefully and my fingers sank into the hot damp purse. Stumbling forward in half-steps, Lucy took my fingers all the way inside her, mounting my hand and pressing it to her quim with both her hands. She was evidently willing to forego further punishment.
But the Master turned Lucy around and put her head back down to the seat. Alarmed, she shielded her rump with her hands, but he forcibly replaced them on the arm of the couch, where they quivered with desire to protect her glowing hindquarters. "Now, bitch," said the Master, "if your face comes off that seat again, or if you lift a hand from the couch, or one toe leaves the rug before I give you permission, I'm going to tie you down and begin this whipping again."
Not allowed even to flutter her feet, Lucy could not keep from pumping her flaming bottom to the strap. She began to sob, then to bawl (and, for the record, to hiccough). As her resistance caved in, she disgraced herself by becoming sloppily excited. Every few smacks I teased her drooling pussy with the folded belt, and her hot juices ran down the inside of her thighs. I allowed her one minute to rub her fanny as she lay over the arm of the chesterfield. Then, I ordered her to put her backside up for the nine extra licks. She obeyed with a sigh. Not a good time to be merciful. The Master laid the extra lashes on strictly, with time for Lucy to repent before each:
"I was naughty!"
WAP!
"OWWWWW!-AAAOWWW! I'm sorry!"
WAP!
"AAAOWWWW!-UUUUH! I shouldn't have talked back!"
WAP!
"AAAOWWW!-AAAOWWW! I'll never say my Dad isn't fair!"
WAP!
"WAH!-WAHHHN! Honest! I promise I'll be good!"
WAP!
It is gratifying to report that it was a long time before Lucy objected to any grounds for punishment.

14. CARNAL WAGERS

It may be that in emphasizing the mirrored quality of our lusts, I overlook some subtle asymmetries. When Lucy, bouncing playfully on her hands and knees on the bed, assumed one of her favorite postures, face down, fanny up--not for the strap, but to seduce me away from whatever I might be reading at the moment--her plump cheeks seemed to invite spreading. However, she always sobered up when I goosed her with a dollop of vaseline. To tell the truth, my swollen cucumber would as readily have slithered up and down the well-greased crack as allow itself to be crammed into the tiny wrinkled opening. It was not initially welcome there, for Lucy nearly always squawked loudly at the first, necessarily forceful thrust.
A few times when I wanted to continue her punishment after a whipping, it seemed fitting (perhaps too snugly on the way in) to stuff my darling's chastised rump. By then, Lucy, already in the compliant mood induced by having to present her bare rear end for as many stinging lashes as the Master wished to give her, would allow anything, even reaching behind her to draw apart her flaming buns, and at the moment of entry, merely sigh.
I must say that, once my cock had divided her cheeks and forged its way well inside the hot narrow door to her rear chamber, Lucy, in her paradoxical manner, showed herself to be an adroit mistress of technique. She did not leave me to poke aimlessly about, but squirmed ceaselessly on my cock, alternately gripping and releasing, and squealing like a little pig, whether in pleasure or in discomfort I could never tell. Perhaps both. I could trust neither her protests nor her squealing, invariably accompanied by orgasmic tremors. Lucy seemed mortified by her ability to come in response to a vigorous rectal shafting, and would cling to me afterward, and I would hold her and kiss her weepy eyes.
Curiously, Lucy often put her sensitive rear orifice at risk. Liking nothing better than winning a bet from me, she proposed wagers on the weather, sporting events, and the trivia of our daily lives: Would my friends arrive on time for dinner? Would the model return my umbrella? My stake would be five dollars. Since Lucy hated to part with cash--while she lived with me she banked every dollar earned at the law office--she "bet her ass," as she put it. It may seem Lucy was selling that favor too cheaply, but in fact she only seemed casual. She always did her homework, God knows how, or had superior intuition, because I lost a steady stream of small bills to her. The one thing I insisted on was being paid right away when she lost.
On one of those rare occasions, Lucy, watching a World Series game on television in her bra and panties, bet the wrong side. She was turned on; watching athletic young men in silly costumes did it for her every time. The only question was how she would take it. I wandered into the living room to check on the score every inning or so. In the ninth, with Lucy's team down four runs and one out remaining, I unhooked her bra and suggested it was time for her to fetch the vaseline.
"It is not over yet!" she cried, holding her bra on with one hand, her eyes fixed on the screen. Her batter fouled twice while I took my pants off and laid them neatly on the coffee table. All at once it was over: a pop-up to my shortstop. Lucy showed her sporting quality by shrugging off her bra and dropping her panties. As the tale of manly comradeship in the beer commercial reached its mellow denouement, she scooted over to the sideboard. Before the winning pitcher could be found, while some other ballplayer was saying, "We hadda play the bes' we knowed how ...," Lucy greased my cock and goosed me teasingly--asking for it--and knelt in a corner of the couch, raising her fanny receptively (in the general direction of the hero on the screen, it occurs to me now). Then, while the winning pitcher shared the credit for the victory with his teammates, I fed the length of my cock into her hot bowels. "I hope that's all of it," she moaned, "it feels like it's going to poke right up into my mouth." "Move!" I said, and she began to grind her hips, working my cock over in her inimitable way, rather like a dog with too large a chunk of meat in its jaws. By the time I pumped the last jets high into her, she was coming, too, but I couldn't tell from her squeals how much she loved, how much she hated paying her debt.

15. CAUGHT WITH HER FINGERS IN THE POT

One of the best features of our life together was Lucy's cooking. When she first came to my brownstone with her bulging suitcase, she could scarcely be trusted to boil water: She grasped right away that my table required more preparation than thawing frozen dinners. In order to please me she learned in three weeks to be a passable cook, and in three months to be an exceptional cook, and that is to my mind an impressive accomplishment. I believe there is more to skillful cooking than the expert use of the airbrush. I gave her lots of guidance and encouragement at the oven and punished her only for the few dishes that were total failures.
Our sex was as good and varied as our dinners. Many evenings we made love with no hint of discipline, just straight sensual pleasure. I spent many happy quarter-hours caressing her breasts, or eating her out to her extreme delight several times a week, without diminishing the sense of domination I enjoyed over her at other times. I confess that even during a straight humping Lucy excited me more than other women because flashes of some earlier scene, perhaps some submissive detail days before, would fill my consciousness--the way she would scratch an ankle with the big toe of the other foot while she knelt on my bed with her fanny up, waiting for the first smack of my belt, or minutes later, the squirming of her reddened posterior, or her sexy moans, or her earnest offers of intimate tricks to buy a little mercy. For her part, Lucy admitted she found me intensely attractive because, in her words, "I might have to pay with my ass any time."
One time Lucy had to pay when she didn't expect to. She was waiting for me to finish a rendering. It was five o'clock, but already dark outside, a cold dark Saturday afternoon in December. Moisture from the hanging plants frosted the plate glass windows that reflected the white angular studio furniture. I glanced up from my table to catch a very clear reflection of Lucy in the mirror-like window. She was sitting on a stool misbehaving outrageously. Her skirt was up to her hips, her panties were a ribbon of pink halfway down her thighs, and one of her hands ploughed beneath her. The other hand, under her loose cashmere sweater, slowly strumming her nipples. She wore a drunken look of pleasure, head tilted to one side, eyes clenched shut. I watched her for a moment in the window reflection, then spun around and stared. "Lucy!" I shouted. "Stop that immediately!"
"Ohhh, I was almost there. ..." Her eyes opened wide, her fingers reluctantly slipped away from nipples and pussy. I picked up a ruler from my table. It was a fine instrument, long, strong, and slightly flexible, a thin sandwich of metal between two layers of wood. I had imagined from time to time that it would be suitable for measuring a bitchy model's backside.
"No, Jim, don't, please," she pleaded, "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to do myself. It's boring waiting for you to finish."
"That certainly isn't allowed," I said. "You live in my home, you wait until I'm ready. Now, get over here!" Lucy rose at once, responding to the asperity in my voice. She made a guilty gesture toward drawing up her panties, but I ordered her to leave them lowered and to keep her skirt raised. Thighs hobbled by her panties, she shuffled to punishment. I pulled her sweater up over her breasts and tweaked her stiff, yearning nipples. Lucy leaned toward me, swooning, and begged me to touch her below.
I told her that it was a poor time to ask for anything, and turned her to face my left knee. Since the drafting chair was high, I had to help her aboard. Setting down the ruler momentarily, I supported her under her heavy breasts with my left arm, while I thrust my right arm between her round rear cheeks to grasp her swollen hot wet pubes. Her scalding juices bathed my hand; the insides of her thighs were soaked and viscid streaks ran down to her panties. With a dip of my right knee I hoisted her across my lap, and planting my foot on the bottom file drawer, lifted her naked rear cheeks, which were flushed with pleasure, nearly to the level of my chest. Her melon breasts flopped over my left knee. A slight tensing of her ass told me Lucy was keenly aware of the moment I picked up the ruler again. I knew she wanted to say something. "Say it!" I said, tapping her bare fanny with the ruler.
"All the magazines say it's alright to do yourself," she sniffed, a last try, although with her fanny poised high for the ruler and my left hand holding her thick hair at the back of her neck, she knew her case was hopeless. "Then, sleep with the editors!" I barked, and brought the ruler sharply across her round rear cheeks.
"OW!" Lucy yelped. The ruler sank into the soft flesh, rebounded; the buttocks wobbled, showed a pink band. "That didn't hurt a bit," I mocked her. Four more quick ones, with mounting severity. "OW! OWWW!" yowled my darling, kicking up her heels, "OWWWW!" and at the fourth, a real stinger, squealed "OWWEEE!"
"Why, Lucy," I chided, "we've hardly begun." She wiggled her reddening butt furiously in the air--almost in my face.
Three more on the tenderest spot, no time to recover, would get her where I wanted her. "OWWW! OWWW!" she cried, and, "WAHHHN!" That was it--a babyish nasal whine. I chastised her deliberately, soundly, between spanks lecturing her on the naughtiness of touching herself. Remarking that her quim was still quivering from her indulgence, and pinching the slippery cunt lips together to make sure she was paying attention, I offered her a chance to swear she would never play with herself again; but she didn't utter a word, just kept crying and waiting for the next smack of the ruler.

16. SHAMELESSLY EXPLOITING HER POSITION

Well, not only waited. As usual, Lucy was up to something. While I admonished her, she inched backward, pausing now and again so that I would not become suspicious. At last she reached her goal: The hot mouth of her pussy nestled onto my right knee, and my presumptuous little tart tried to bring herself off by mashing and squeezing her quim against my bony knee-cap! The knee of my studio jeans was soon sopping with her juices.
"How dare you!" I yelled, and picked up the pace and vigor of the spanking. Surprisingly, Lucy matched the rubbing of her cunt against my knee to the smacks of the ruler, or perhaps we matched our rhythms to each other. As she swiveled down on my knee, fitting her damp pussy to it, her rosy pink cheeks drew together, nearly burying the crack between them; then she gyrated in a little circle and up, offering her smarting bottom for the next smack. I waited for her fanny to relax before I stung the soft flesh with four or five inches of the flexible ruler. She howled with fresh amazement, and ground down on my knee and squeezed her well-reddened buttocks together again. At last she came. Moans of relief alternated with whines of pain attending every smack of the ruler. Lucy's fanny began to quiver deliciously as well as pump up and down, gyrate, and clench-and-unclench in time to the spanking. Her impudent lewdness incited me to punish her at greater length than usual, while the unimaginable mix of pleasure and pain drove Lucy to a frenzy of grinding and humping. It seemed as though she would put her posterior up for the ruler as long as I wanted to wield it, but at last she wriggled and shuddered with such abandon that she literally fell off my lap. I had all I could do to slow her fall so that she was able to roll without injury onto the floor, where she lay on her stomach, panting and holding her bottom. I let her lie there, knowing that her rear cheeks would be agreeably warm for some time. I took the coins, address book, and wallet out of my pockets, unbuttoned, unzipped, and kicked my jeans off. I pointed out the wet spot on the jeans and told Lucy to wash them. "Now?" she groaned, incredulous.
"No, now you bend over the drafting table," I said. As she obeyed, I dropped my shorts and thrust my cock into her steaming cunt, at which she began to come all over again. I loved the glowing warmth of her butt against my groin as I fucked her.
Lucy loved the whole sequence so much that I began to catch her playing with herself all over the house, and no sooner would I put her across my lap than she would wriggle until her hungry pussy fastened onto my right kneecap.
It was during these weeks that I finally learned something of Lucy's past. Moreover, I recorded it. That came about because I thought our recent routine--catching Lucy at it, my moral remonstrations, disposing her across my knees, the sounds of spanking, her orgiastic cries of pain and delight--would make an amusing sound recording. In anticipation of her next careless misdemeanor, I placed a microphone under the bed.
Two evenings later at a local cinema, during a sexy moment on screen, I became aware of a rhythmic rustle under Lucy's coat, which was spread across her lap. My hand darted under the coat, brushing over a bare thigh, a little too slowly to catch her hand, but the disarray of her skirt and the damp nether strip of her panties gave her away. "I'll warm your fanny for that," I whispered into her ear. "I know," she mouthed softly, staring straight forward at the screen. I sensed she was blushing, though I could not see it in the dark theater. I couldn't see her hand, either, and I suspected it was creeping back. "Keep both hands on top of your coat!" I whispered. Lucy nodded and obeyed, still watching the screen. Then, she began to squirm quietly, opening and closing her thighs. I knew she was exciting herself by rubbing her bottom against the seat. "Stop that!" I hissed. She was still for a moment, then resumed squirming more discreetly than before. But, just as she always had to try to get away with something, it was my role to be aware and make sure she didn't." Enjoying yourself?" I queried.
"You two, will you shut the fuck up?" inquired a gentleman behind us.
Lucy moderated her movements to a nearly imperceptible rocking. It was as though she was unable to stop stimulating herself altogether, no matter what the consequences. On the way home neither of us mentioned her misbehavior or the imminent warming of her fanny. I was saving my indignation for the tape recorder. Lucy was quiet and clingy. As I unlocked the front door of my brownstone, she stood close behind me and fondled my buttocks, which she knew she was not allowed to do in public.
As soon as we were inside my front door, she tried to divert me by falling to her knees in front of me, wrapping both arms around my thighs, and planting wild kisses on the bulge in my trousers. I ordered her up to the bedroom. As I undressed and put on my robe, I watched her in a mirror slipping into her "discipline nightie." I surreptitiously started the tape rolling.
When I played the tape back the next day, there was first a crashing sound that must have been me sitting down on the edge of the bed, a foot above the microphone. Then, as I waited for Lucy to come out of the bathroom, far-off horns and mournful street sounds. Then, my stern, somewhat muffled voice telling Lucy to fetch the hairbrush. A moment later, I am heard saying, "Come here!" There follows a sequence of sounds that, out of context, one might guess was caused by three inexperienced fishermen standing up in a rowboat, lurching overboard. Of course, it was merely the song of the bedsprings as I drew Lucy across my lap (and flicked up the bottom of her nightie) and she wriggled to cover my kneecap with her naughty quim. Next, my inspired sermon on the sins of self-stimulation, punctuated by a very sharp SMACK! of hairbrush against bare cheeks. Lucy's whimper, more smacks, Lucy's cries, my charge that Lucy had excited herself by squirming in the movie theater, her denials, more loud smacks, Lucy's howls, her admission that her squirming was naughty, sneaky, and highly spankable. Extra smacks for continuing to squirm after being ordered to stop. Her confession that she had decided, since she was going to get it, anyway, she might as well enjoy herself. My further indictment of Lucy for fondling my buttocks outside the brownstone, and for her absurd try to seduce me as we entered. More smacks of the hairbrush, Lucy's wails, her orgiastic gyrations represented by arpeggios of bedsprings, and, at last, her yelps of glee as she came in time to the spanking.
Afterwards, an abrupt thrum of the bedsprings (Lucy slipping off my lap onto her knees) and a half-minute of confused rustling; then a rhythmic soughing sound, not interpretable out of context, but which to me called up intense sensations of pleasure in my cock and an image of Lucy's bobbing head. I must have remembered the silently rolling tape, and unsure that anything was being recorded, I began in a lugubrious monotone to give Lucy specific instructions about the oral service she was rendering expertly on her own. Then, my hoarse cries drowning out the soft gurgling sounds as Lucy gulped her reward.
We must have fallen asleep, for there follows forty-five minutes of dead tape. I had set the mechanism at its slowest speed, so that it was capable of recording us for an hour and a half. The next sounds after the gap were an inaudible exchange, and then Lucy's clear, lively voice telling her story.

17. LUCY'S STORY (BEGINNING)

"Funnily enough, my older sister Sarah was the bad one. Sarah was always in trouble. Being as I was the good one, I was almost never punished. We lived in a cabin on top of a hill in Tennessee. There was a living room, where Sarah and I slept, a kitchen, and my parents' bedroom. You know 'Lil' Abner'? That's how the hills down home looked. Some of the people were pretty close, too. I thought that the comic strips about city life and people fighting dragons in space were made up, but that Lil' Abner and Daisy Mae and all the others lived on some hill five miles down the road and we would meet them at the store sometime. Then Sarah told me the other strips were true, and 'Lil' Abner' was made up.
"Sarah and me and about eight other kids of all ages went to school whenever Dad was sober enough to pick them up in his truck and teach. He was the school teacher. Everyone who was anybody had a truck. Everyone was a farmer and a distiller and an auto mechanic, whatever else they did.
"There wasn't a doctor for a hundred miles, but my Mom had worked in a hospital once, so people said she was a nurse, but I don't think she really was. Everyone was real religious. You could've tacked up five dollars on the porch of the store and it would've been there a week later. Our neighbors were chicken farmers, but they were too poor to put up fences, so we agreed, when one of their chickens turned up our hill, we shooed it back toward their hill--or else, we could eat it and pay for it sometime. Sometimes, we would be on the front porch, and one of us would spot a chicken on the road eighty yards straight down the hill. 'Let's have chicken,' Dad would say, and put down his whittlin' and reach up behind his rocker and take the rifle off its nails. Then he'd blow the head off the chicken. The chicken'd still hop around in that crazy way they do when you get the head clean. By the time I'd get down the road to pick it up, it'd be still, though. Mom would clean it, and we'd have it for dinner. Jim, are you falling asleep?"
"Yes," my voice says sleepily, "interesting 'bout the chickens."
"Good-night, Jim."

18. AN ATTEMPT TO CURE LUCY OF CERTAIN BAD HABITS

I had to decide whether I really wanted Lucy to continue indulging herself when she was being punished. I decided I didn't, and told her so, but she didn't think I meant it. Two days later I found her sitting in front of the oven with her clothing disarranged. She was wearing one of my old white dress shirts, which was dress-length on her, bikini panties, at the moment a couple of inches low, and a silly expression on her face; and yes, dipping her fingers in her own little stew. I routed her by the ear from the kitchen stool and sat on it myself. Lucy tried mightily to clamber onto my right knee, but I made her stand facing the refrigerator and holding her ankles. I lifted the tail of the shirt. Her tiny panties were already low on her buttocks. I lowered them another few inches with a large wooden salad spoon and patted her fanny with it. "I knew I should've hidden that spoon," she said ruefully, looking back at me.
"Face forward!" I yelled, and spanked her five times with the oversized spoon.
"OWWW, that stings!" she said to the refrigerator. I believed her: After each spank a little pink rose bloomed on her white cheeks. Before long some of the roses turned red, and Lucy began edging back toward me with each stroke, practically thrusting the pretty bouquet in my face. She still hoped I would let her lie across my lap and apply her greedy quim to my knee. I promised her she would suffer for such efforts, and kept her on her feet at the right distance for my earnest smacks with the spoon.
I found that by putting a little extra snap in my wrist I could get Lucy to forget the craving in her twat and bring her attention back to her chastisement. Ceasing her naughty attempts to get across my knee, she obeyed my orders (after a few seconds of permitted shimmying, always pleasant to watch) to turn her fanny well up for the next smack.
When Lucy's rear end was red all over, a bit puffy, and exquisitely sensitive to each new spank, I asked her, kindly, I believe, to stop bawling and tell me what she was thinking about.
"I was wondering how many more," she sobbed, starting to straighten up.
"That's up to you," I said. "These are the extra ones---hold your ankles again!" SWACK! "WAHHH!" SWACK! "OW-WAHHH!" SWACK! "OW-OWWW!" SWACK! "WAHHHN!"
When I paused for a moment, Lucy cried between her legs, "All right! All right! I won't do myself anymore! Never, I promise!"
I let her up and suggested she keep her mind on preparing dinner. I also promised her that if she behaved herself until bedtime, I would give her a good time in bed. She did, and I did.
I had put a new tape in. I wanted to record Lucy's cries when I ate her, and I didn't mind getting more of her background on tape, if she continued telling her story.

19. LUCY'S STORY (CONTINUED): HILLBILLY LICKINGS

"Sarah was always in trouble. Walter, the boy on the next hill, said he always knew when she was getting a licking: He could hear her yowl clear across the valley. Dad would put one foot up on the first porch step or on his footstool in the living room and he'd hold Sarah over his thigh. He used his razor strap. It was four inches wide and a foot long. He'd pick her up, even after she was full-grown, and carry her under his left arm facing backwards to the porch or the footstool. If I was there she would stick out her tongue at me when she was being carried to where she was going to get it.
"Nobody told me not to watch. Mom never watched. She would sigh, 'Elmer,' which was her way of saying she didn't approve, and keep on with her chores.
"I was always fascinated by the sight of anybody getting a licking. Sarah's dress would be up and her butt out. Most of the time she got to wear her panties, unless they were dirty, then she had to drop them. I always prayed they'd be dirty. I didn't know what it was then, but I used to get hot and itchy down there watching Sarah get the strap. I used to slip my hand down inside my panties and rub my magic button like mad the whole time. I used to come, too. I had a feeling I wasn't supposed to do that. I'd try to keep out of sight behind something. I couldn't risk moving around to get a better view. Sometime all I could see was Sarah's wrinkled-up crying face, mouth wide open, bawling every time the strap came down. I liked being behind her and watching her tail catch it. She has the big ass all the women in our family do, but longer legs than me or Mom. The way Dad held her, she'd be partly on her feet, partly across his left thigh, and she'd kick up one heel or the other.
"If Walter from across the road or him and a couple of other kids was around, Dad whipped her just the same, sometimes bare-ass, too, even when she was a teen-ager and had a bush. Walter or the other boys seeing Sarah's quim when she was bent over getting strapped was just part of the punishment.
"It wasn't only Dad, down home everybody thought the way to get kids to behave was to whip them and let 'em see other kids being whipped. Dad was the schoolteacher, and it was his duty to give children who were bad in school a hickory lesson. Mostly, that meant the boys. The older boys had to take their pants and the back of their underpants down and bend across his desk. We got a side-view. Some of the boys had real cute behinds, and I decided if I ever had a boyfriend he would have a behind I'd want to pinch. I saw some cocks and balls too, coming out of the boys' underpants when they were being hickory'd, and I was pretty interested in all that, and wanted to see more. Boys and girls under about eight years old, Dad bared their rear ends for them and put 'em across his knee. There was only one older girl who used to get hickory'd. Her name was Suellen, and she had blonde pigtails.
"Suellen was real lazy. She'd say she lost her homework on the way to school and right after we said the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag and the Republic for Which It Stands, she'd have to raise her dress and drop her panties, and bend over the desk. Her pigtails swang up and back each time the switch cut into her lazy ass. The boys loved seeing Suellen's bare ass wriggle. They all had their hands in their pockets the whole time. The boys on the left by the window had the best view, and they used to lean way out to the left to try to see her whole ass and whatever they could of her pussy.
"One time Suellen didn't have her homework she asked Dad not to whip her because she was on the rag. Dad said O.K., but to remind him next Monday. When Dad and Sarah and me came in next Monday, one of the boys had drawn a reminder on the blackboard. It showed a girl with pigtails bending over, panties down, and a hickory stick across her ass, and stars coming off her ass meaning it hurt. Dad demanded who drew it, but no one spoke up, and he checked all the boys' hands for chalk, but the artist must have wiped it all off, because Dad didn't find out. Meanwhile Suellen came in, and ran to the blackboard and rubbed the picture out. When she finished she stood by Dad's desk and started to bunch up her dress in back as usual, but Dad just sent her back to her seat. He was so mad at the boys that he let her off!
"Another time Suellen begged not to be whipped because her uncles had punished her the night before. Sure enough, when she dropped her panties her backside had purple welts on it. Dad gave her just two strokes instead of the usual dozen, and she kissed him on the cheek, which he wiped off.
"Suellen liked to kiss the young boys who didn't know what they were doing. If they tried to touch her boobs or put their hands between her legs she would take their hands away and say, 'Be nice.' It wasn't that she was a virgin, she just wanted to keep it sweet with the boys at school.
"Suellen told Sarah terrible stories about her uncles, the three Mergan brothers she lived with. They all got a piece of her every day. One of them was probably her father, but nobody knew which one, because they all screwed her mother, too. It could be none of them was her father, because she didn't look like a Mergan. Nobody wanted Suellen to get pregnant, so she had to suck them a lot when it wasn't one of her safe days. 'And guess what else?' Sarah said to me. I couldn't guess, but Sarah teased me with hints and finally goosed me. I was horrified. Sarah had never done it that way herself, but she said Suellen said if you took it up the ass regular it didn't hurt at all.
"One time Suellen startled a boy by kissing him on the mouth during recess, and Dad saw it. Someone said she tried to put her tongue in the boy's mouth. Dad made her apologize to the boy, I never could figure out why, and he sent the boy to fetch the hickory. I think Dad wanted to mess with Suellen himself but he didn't dare because she belonged to the rough Mergan brothers. They took her to school and picked her up after.
"The schoolyard had a truck tire on a rope that we used for a swing. Dad told Suellen to lift her dress in back and lie over the lower rim of the tire. He made a point of taking down her panties himself, and that's when I realized he got a big kick out of whipping Suellen and maybe Sarah, too, from the way he looked at Suellen's backside and brushed it with his fingers as he took her panties down. Suellen's bare ass was three feet off the ground in front of everyone, at high noon. When Dad laid the hickory on, she'd kick up a leg and throw it way out to one side, and then you could see her curly blond bush. The boys agreed that a good view of Suellen's snatch and her ass getting a hickory lesson was worth calling off their recess ballgame for.
"Dad told the other kids Sarah and me got our lickings at home, but that meant Sarah, because I was a goody-goody most of the time. Dad never gave it to me, except once. Mom was supposed to punish me, but she didn't really. When I was bad, Mom would take me across her lap and spank me with her hairbrush. It didn't hurt. Afterward, she would send me to bed, where I would imagine Dad putting me over his thigh and whipping me, and I'd play with myself under the covers until the bed seemed to be whirling. We used to sleep in a corner of the cabin. Our 'room' was separated from the rest by a couple of khaki blankets strung on a clothesline.
"When Sarah was whipped in the evening and sent to bed, she used to make me come to her bed in the dark. She'd be lying on her belly. She'd make me lick the welts on her hot raw backside, or just blow on them. Then she would get on her back real careful with her backside on a pillow and her knees up and I had to suck her clit and lick out her cunt. It's what I did instead of getting whipped.
"Sarah told me all about grown-up sex, but mostly about sucking cock. She got it from Walter, from the next hill over. He was an illiterate. His parents said there was no use trying to teach him anything. Besides, they couldn't read, and they never felt it had been a drawback to them. Walter was proud of how fast he could catch a chicken and cut its head off with an ax. Besides that, he had three, like, pastimes. One was a game of matching cards. He had a deck of cards with just pictures, no numbers. Also, he liked to duel you with a kind of weed. The point was for his weed to knock the head off your weed. His third hobby was getting Sarah to suck him off. Sarah said the first time was one day after she got whipped in front of Walter. He teased her about what a pretty ass she had, and was it still red? Sarah teased him about the bulge in his trousers, without knowing what she was getting into. She was 'bout ten, Walter 'bout thirteen. He took her into the woods and gave her a mouthful. After that, they sneaked off into the woods all the time. Sarah used to brag how she could suck Walter off five times in an hour.
"It wasn't Sarah's stories, though, it was seeing Mom do it that got me mixed up about sex for a while. One day when I was alone I went into my parents' bedroom. They had a real room with plywood walls and a door. I touched Dad's razor strap. I didn't dare take it off the nail. I wanted to slap my behind with it but it was too high. Then I heard Dad and Mom come in from outside, and I was terrified. I hid behind some clothes hung on a line in one corner of the room. Dad and Mom came in, and Dad closed the door. I was sure he knew I was touching the strap and he was going to give it to me. But they didn't see me. They stripped their clothes off.
"Outside, I heard Sarah calling me. She knew I was in the cabin, but couldn't figure out where. Then, I saw her on a little rise looking into a window of our parents' bedroom. She was straining, it must have been hard to see in. She ran closer, but that meant getting lower, so by the time she got to the cabin, she was below the sill. She ran back up the hill.
"Meanwhile, Mom lay back on the bed with her head on some pillows. Dad was naked with his enormous cock--it still seems to me the biggest I ever saw, no offense, Jim--he walked on his knees on the bed and he straddled Mom's big boobs and put his cock into her mouth. She didn't seem to mind. She started sucking like a calf, making a lot of slurpy noise.
"There were scuffling noises outside the window. Sarah had hooked her fingers onto the window sill and was trying to draw herself up. Dad and Mom didn't pay any attention. They probably thought it was the raccoon under the cabin. Sarah got her chin onto the window sill, but she couldn't hold on for mor'n a moment, and fell off. Dad kept sticking it into Mom's mouth, and pulling it out so she could lick it, and then pushing it all the way down her throat again. His huge purplish balls swang back and forth. Mom cradled them in her hands, which I thought was sweet. She played with his ass and goosed him; I thought that was funny, and I goosed myself, and giggled. I forgot I was in danger of getting caught.
"Sarah's fingers were on the sill again, but this time she barely got her eyes above the window ledge, and immediately had to let go. Finally, Dad came, with lots of loud snorting and grunting. I had heard these sounds my whole life, but it sure was different seeing him pump it into Mom's mouth and her struggling to gulp it down. Then, Dad went to sleep, and Mom lay there on her elbow looking at him snore. She made awful faces, wrinkling up her nose and working her mouth. Sarah explained to me later that meant she was rolling around the last mouthful and hadn't decided whether to swallow it. Sarah said the right way is just always gulp it fast as it comes. Finally, Mom took her medicine, and sighed, and went to sleep. I tiptoed out. For a long time I thought what I had seen was intercourse, even though I'd seen lots of animals mate.
"Sarah wanted to whip me or see me get a real whipping in the worst way. One time, when Dad and Mom were off in the truck, she told me I was going to get it. We were playing in the woods. She had a switch, and she dragged me across her lap and bared my ass. I wasn't able to fight her because she was bigger and stronger. I was a little curious, too. But the first lick hurt so much I threw my head up and it caught Sarah in the mouth. She dumped me on the ground and ran back to the sink shed, next to the outhouse, with her hand over her mouth. I had split one of her upper front teeth with my head.
"When Mom and Dad came home, he drove Sarah a hundred miles to the doctor, who was also a dentist, but he couldn't save the tooth, so Sarah always had a gap until she got a false tooth years later in Washington, D.C. Sarah told Dad she fell against a rock. Dad knew Sarah lied about everything, but this time he was too worried about the tooth to care. I made a deal with Sarah I wouldn't tell if I didn't have to lick the welts on her ass or eat her out ever again.
"One time Sarah got me to throw an empty jug onto the bed when Dad was sleeping off a pint of moonshine. The idea of the joke was that when he roused himself we would be out on the porch, and it would seem like the jug came from nowhere. Actually, Sarah's plan was to get Dad to punish me.
"Sarah got her wish, but I don't think she enjoyed it much. Dad didn't like the joke. He saw me running out to the porch. When he came out to the porch we were playing cat's cradle as though nothing had happened. He went back in (to sleep, I thought), but a moment later he came out with the strap and told us to drop our panties. He took us across his left thigh, me inside, Sarah on the outside. Then he lifted our dresses clear up our backs. I remember feeling the warm sun on my behind for a moment before I felt the strap. He whacked my ass one, hers one, mine, hers. It was a real licking, the first one in my life, and the only one Dad ever gave me. I bet they heard us screaming down to the store, if not clear to Nashville. Me and Sarah's bare hips were touching, and I could feel her ass bounce and wiggle every time it got the strap. We were both kicking up our heels, and our ankles knocked. When we rolled a bit toward each other, her hot ass cheek touched mine for a moment right where it hurt the most. After the licking, we both jumped up and down crying and rubbing our tender behinds. I was rubbing myself with the cat's cradle string I didn't know was still tangled around my hand."
That was all of Lucy's narrative that night. I was amused that Lucy's father was a teacher and that he actually warmed the bare butts of schoolgirls, sometimes for sexual misconduct, just as I did in one of my favorite fantasies. Did Lucy's father daydream about being a fashion illustrator? If he were in my place, would he find a way to spank his models' delicious fannies, or would he just think about it? I asked Lucy some questions that were inaudible on tape. One of her responses was that Sarah was a call girl in Washington, and "had a fabulous life."

20. WATCHFULNESS AND STRICTNESS TRIUMPH AT LAST

Somehow, I never trusted the vows of good conduct Lucy made while holding her ankles. Often they didn't last longer than it took for the redness of her behind to fade. Within a few days of the paddling in the kitchen, Lucy was at it again, this time in the wee hours. She may have thought I was sleeping. Perhaps I was, until her gentle rhythmic movements waked me. I listened to the rustling from Lucy's side of the bed for a moment, then I ripped the covers down, at the same time switching on my bedside lamp.
Lucy got her hands to her sides, but she was slow closing her thighs. Her clandestine effort to wipe her hand on the sheet annoyed the Master, who seized her wrist and asked whether she would like to admit that he had caught her or whether she wanted him to sniff her fingers. She wisely pleaded guilty, and he sent her to the closet for the narrow leather belt (for serious infractions only: an instrument Lucy respected for stinging and raising welts).
I sat on the edge of the bed and reached under it to switch on the tape recorder. When she came back I took the belt from her. "Don't whip me, just screw me," she begged, "I'm so wet I can't stand it."
I had a terrific hard-on. Just this once, O.K.? I said to the Master in the mirror, but he was already standing up and doubling the belt.
"Across your knees, please?" Lucy cried.
The Master had her hold her hands palm up, and gave one across each palm. She buried her hands in her armpits. He made her lie on her back as when she was playing with herself, knees drawn up, thighs spread. Grasping her under the knees, he hoisted her legs high and whipped her bottom rapidly and strictly. Lucy squirmed in the Master's grip. Soon she was bawling too hard to articulate a promise of good behavior, her eyes weepy and tongue out, waggling her usual, "Let-me-suck-instead" plea.
The Master set her red-striped bottom down and, standing between her raised knees, lashed the humid insides of her thighs.
Who thought of it first? "Punish me where I was bad," Lucy said, nodding down toward her moist pink quim and clenching her eyes. She may have guessed that would be next. The splat of the belt landing lightly on her gloppy snatch sounded like someone trudging through a swamp.
When the Master stopped and told her to turn over and put her backside up in the air, she let out a big sigh of relief and complied immediately. It may be that never has a woman so gratefully put her fanny up for discipline. Her cheeks kissed the cruel narrow belt as it cut into them. When the strap licked the crimson lower curves of her ass, she silently mouthed a scream and panted hoarsely, but kept her behind high.
I gave the submissive fanny a dozen smacks with my hand for completion and, I admit, for the taping. Lucy always groaned passionately while being spanked by hand on a properly prepared bottom. She did not disappoint this time, and this segment of the tape never fails to excite me. Lucy's groans bring back her face-down kneeling posture, her red, swollen buttocks humping slowly in the air, her naughty quim slightly open, caught in the rush of self-stimulation, still oozing sex juices through the curly dark hair; and more, a tactile memory, I swear, in my right hand, of smacking the exquisitely tender buttocks, now one, now the other, now on the "sweet spot"--where I feel the extra heat from her bowels as the spanking hand, momentarily forcing her wobbly cheeks apart, bears down almost to her asshole. Tape and memory reconstruct her earnest oral endearments, my invitation to her to mount me, and a moment later, galloping sounds and cries.
After a pause, Lucy chirping as she cuddled up: "Thanks for going easy on me down there, Jim. Always wondered what that'd be like, getting whipped right on my pussy." Next on the tape, Lucy's renewed promise never to play with herself again. (She kept to this, at least when I was around, and when she found herself across my lap, ceased trying to bring herself off.) After a while, my voice is heard asking Lucy about how she got started, and she can be heard telling more of her story. This was also the last piece of Lucy's biography I captured on tape. I decided I had recorded enough of our erotic activities, and gave up taping.

21. LUCY'S STORY (CONTINUED): ON THE TABLE

"Sarah had a plan for getting away," said Lucy's voice on the tape. "She used to charge the local boys money for doing things, 'cept Walter. She saved 'most four hundred dollars in a few years, which was amazing when you think how nobody down home had any money. Everything was barter and debts. But Sarah had this blouse with polka dots, and after she got good-sized breasts, she let young boys count all the dots one by one with their fingers for a nickel. For a dime, she would unbutton the blouse. None of us wore bras. When she had a tin can full of nickels and dimes, Sarah spent fifty-nine cents on a pair of panties with little roses, and then the boys got to count all the roses for a quarter. The roses down below got rubbed and the roses in back got pinched until they faded away. She charged fifty cents to let a boy slide a finger up under the elastic inside her for a minute, and for a dollar she would take her panties down while the boy poked into this and that. It was the closest thing to sex education we had down there. She charged two bucks to give a boy a hand job with grease, and she would blow anybody she knew and liked for five dollars. If a boy was a bully or a smart-aleck, she wouldn't blow him. She wouldn't lay for anybody but Walter. A boy'd have to work sunrise to sundown for five dollars, so it was a credit to Sarah that she sucked off nearly every boy for fifteen miles, some of them lots of times, and most of the grown men, too.
"Everybody knew about Sarah's whoring except Dad and Mom. Maybe Dad had heard, but he wouldn't believe the stories. He figured he'd given Sarah a good home, education, and regular lickings, and there was no way she could turn out bad. One day after I started having periods Sarah asked me if I wanted to get in on it, so I could save money and get away to the city. I said no, but Sarah said, 'Come watch, and you'll see it isn't so bad.' We went to a cleared place in the woods where there was a table and two benches, about a mile and a half from home. Walter was with us. He used to protect Sarah so no one took advantage of her. Also, after she'd had her dots and roses counted, and been fingered, and given a couple of hand jobs and blow jobs, she was horny as hell, and then she'd spread for Walter if she was safe.
"When we got to the clearing, some boys were already there waiting for Sarah. She opened her blouse for the young ones with dimes and they took turns feeling her tits. A boy came with a quarter, and she let him feel her tits and then she held her skirt up so he could count the roses, and turned around so he could count 'em on her backside, and put one foot up on the bench so he could count 'em on her pussy. He was the slow-countin' kind and I saw some damp coming through the bottom strip of her panties. Sarah didn't even look down at him but grinned at me the whole time like she was putting something over on him.
"Then she sent the young boys away. An older boy had two dollars for a hand job. When he came, it spurted clear across the table. It was revolting, and I decided I would never, ever, let any boy hose that stuff into me.
"When the boy finished coming, Sarah gave his scummy, wilting cock a free kiss. He went away happy, and there was just the three of us. Walter was sitting on the table, and Sarah sat down on a bench and undid his trousers and started sucking him, like to pass the time until someone else came. I said I was going home, but they both said to stay. I started to go anyway. Walter grabbed me. I said I would tell Dad if they didn't let me go. That was like a signal. Walter put me face down on the table. His pants were open, and he had a hard-on like a pig's thigh bone from Sarah sucking him. He held me down by my neck with one hand, and with the other he took his belt off. I knew I was going to get it, and I begged them not to. Sarah lifted my dress and took my panties down and called me 'Tattle Tillie' and 'ass-licker,' which wasn't fair 'cause the only ass I had ever licked was hers, and she made me do it. Walter whipped my ass real well. Sarah egged him on. She finally got to watch me get an all-out whipping. It hurt mor'n when dad whipped me and Sarah for the bottle joke. I cried and cried. Soon as Walter finished, though, I realized I was turned on to him, and was all twitchy and juicy down there. Sarah and him made fun of my hot virgin twat, which warn't fair neither, 'cause Sarah sucking and him strapping me and knowing he was looking at my twat was what got me hot.
"Walter whispered to her, like he was asking her, O.K.? Sarah told me stick it out, it's time you got something in there besides your own finger. Walter was still holding me over the table. I was clutching my red hot ass and whimpering. When Walter put the tip of his prick in me, it took my mind off how my ass hurt. He shoved it all the way in, slow and sure. It was another kind of hurt. I came right away. I know it isn't supposed to happen like that, Jim, but I came over and over. Walter fucked me a long time, and I hoped he was going to fuck me forever. I wanted to hug him, but all I could do was hug the rotting table. When he finished hosing all his stuff into me, I could hardly stand up.
"There was a perfect little pine cone on the table that I took home. Sarah used to say she got paid in real cash money, but I got paid in pine cones.
"Sarah 'ventually got enough money to run away. She said she would send for me bye-'n-bye, and she did. The last thing she told me was to take care of Walter. I inherited Walter when Sarah left. He was a good man. Looked like a little boy blown up ten times as big, huge muscles and a good cock, not long but extra thick. He drove a truck on errands all 'round, collected garbage, whatever people wanted. He liked me to lie on my belly next to him and blow him while he drove. I had decided absolutely I wouldn't ever suck a man off, but Walter said that's what Sarah did, and that's what I'd do if I didn't want to get pregnant.
"We drove all over the county, but I never saw any of it, 'cause my head was always in Walter's lap. He'd reach his right hand down between my ass cheeks and put his thumb up inside me, and tickle my clit with his index finger until I came. Walter taught me everything I know about sucking. If he didn't like what I was doing, he'd yell, 'Too many teeth!' or 'You're falling asleep, Lucy!' and then he'd pull off the road and drag me across his lap. He kept a belt on the dash to remind me to suck him right. Sometimes, he wouldn't say anything, just take his thumb out and pull me off his cock by my hair and whip me, and I'd have to figure out what my mouth did wrong that my ass was paying for. Early on, I used to gag a lot, 'cause his cum was thick, and there was lots of it. Gagging got him madder'n hornets, like he thought I was doing it on purpose, and I learned to gulp it clean down in no time. So you can thank Ol' Walter when I give you a good time, Jim.
"Funny thing about Walter. When Sarah sent me the ticket to Washington, he was still an illiterate boy with his truck and match-up cards. Somehow he learned to read, and did high school in a year, and went to Nashville to study medicine. He's the doctor for the whole area. A real good doctor, too, Mom wrote me."

22. REVELATIONS OF THE SECRET DIARY

One Sunday Lucy served dinner and dined with me fully dressed, and I didn't notice. I was undecided whether to go to a revival of Czech films or to spend the evening on a sketch due Tuesday. Either Lucy was testing me or she forgot Sunday penance: setting the hairbrush on the sideboard before dinner, serving me nearly naked, in white fishnet stockings and garters and a starched white apron that stood out like a shield from just above the dark raised mounds around her nipples down to her upper thighs; in back, two ribbons tied in a bow above the bare white rump wiggling all the way to the kitchen--
For some time, I had forbidden Lucy to eat on Sunday to counter her tendency to put on weight. Since she was cook and serving girl, it might seem she would have been able to cheat with impunity. She couldn't.
(Still savoring illicit morsel) "I didn't, honest--" "Come here!" (Reaching for hairbrush) "Bend over! Ass up!" Bare buttocks plump in my face. SMACK! right where a failing dieter deserves to suffer. "OWWW!" SMACK! "OWWW!"
After clearing dessert, Lucy summoned to recite current serial chastisements: (toes in, index finger on pouty lower lip) "Washing your jeans with wallet in 'em, third Sunday--six spanks." Then, any naughtiness during the week not already punished. Wholehearted confession encouraged by plucking titties above top of apron and pinching them extra hard when she seemed to be skipping or glossing over any "spankable" offenses. She had reason to fear convenient omissions; she had suffered for saying cheerily, "That's really all," before it really was. More usually, she confessed to things I hadn't noticed.
When I accepted her list, I would take Lucy across my knees. Her plump fanny was often already pink from a spanking for breaking her fast. I might chide her for an askew or half-undone apron bow that let the ends of the ribbons dangle into her crack. As I adjusted the loops of the bow so that they were the same size and lay evenly across the small of her back, she would repeat the first misdemeanor. I would punish her bottom for it, and she would repeat the second item.
When the list was long, Lucy bawled so hard after a while that her words were drowned out, and since she mixed up the sequence, I would have no idea what I was paddling her for. At that point I put the hairbrush down and spanked her red fanny with my hand as long as she blurted out anything. Hand-spanking by itself was too mild for Lucy--she giggled all the way through. But when the silky skin of her fanny was tender from the hairbrush or belt or the riding whip she bought me for my forty-first birthday, a hand-spanking elicited delightful groans. As soon as my hand gave her burning bottom a final, climactic smack, she slipped to her knees and made love to me with abandon. Some of her apparent erotic enthusiasm may have been hunger: Besides the morsels she sneaked, she would have nothing more to eat than the natural product of my excitement.
Does all this seem repetitive? Boring? If so, then I have succeeded in conveying the deadly effects of routine and ritual. I had chastised Lucy in every manner, playfully, pedantically, paternally, militarily, passionately, dispassionately, and in every tempo, allegro, largo, andante, di minuetto, with every paddle, strap, pliant rod, and whip in every room in my house, as she presented her fanny, bared or lightly covered, while lying across my knees, kneeling on beds, couches, chairs, footstools, or as she crawled upstairs, for one smack of my belt on each step, or bending over tables, desks, sinks, tubs, toilets, kitchen work surfaces, washing machine and dryer, followed by all the permutations of sensual penetration. It was all a reshuffling of the elements Lucy had written out for me before she knew me. There came a moment when I didn't feel I was myself, in my own bedroom, in my own pajamas, sitting on the edge of my own bed, warming my own mistress's fanny with my own leather belt. Rather, I felt I was some creature of Lucy's mind, perhaps the overgrown illiterate boy, Walter, who had pulled off the road to punish my sweetie's kid sister for a lazy blow-job.
I began to exchange looks with other women: eye-blink affairs without all the bother of getting on with it. I could not think of pursuing them further as long as Lucy lived in my home. Also, most of the time I was rational enough to realize none of them would play my slave as Lucy did. I began to daydream. A few times, I was Lucy's father applying official hickory to hillbilly girls. Blonde, pig-tailed Suellen took on the features of a new model, while the model herself, in her undies, changing into another outfit, glanced fearfully at me as though I might suddenly point my ruler at the waistband of her panties and shout, "Drop them!--Bend over!--Hold your ankles!"
Lucy swore she had lost interest in other men when she reckoned what I would do to her if I caught her "messing around." One evening I guessed she was struggling with a desire for another man, one of the partners in her law firm, whom she had mentioned the day before with a peculiar casualness that I noted at the time, without understanding its import. (Eventually, I realized that the trick of the voice stuck with me because it was a sign of guilt.) Lucy confirmed my guess a week later by asking me if I would mind correcting her for naughty notions she was playing with, but excuse her from telling me what they were. I decided to grant her request for privacy this one time. That evening, if I had bothered to look, I would have seen the familiar sight of Lucy in her shortie nightgown reaching up on tiptoe to the top shelf of the medicine cabinet where I kept the hairbrush she had instructed me to bring to Uncle Ned's. (She had paid for that impertinence on the instalment plan--a little each time I applied the hard oval back of the brush to her bouncing bottom.) This evening Lucy brought me the brush and lay across my knees, saying it was up to me to give her what she needed. As I spanked her, to fuel my vengeance, I imagined her on her back atop the lawyer's large desk, her legs spread, toes waving gaily in the air. The faceless attorney, whom she referred to as Mr. Gringe, both feet planted on the floor, fucked her methodically, doing push-ups over her on his desk. (Gringe not his actual name, but similar in feeling.) Afterwards, Lucy sobbed a long time, not only because her rear end was on fire, but because, as she said, she was ashamed of having to ask me to help her "control her naughty ass." Two days later she said the paddling had banished her wayward desires. This, however, was an outright lie. A few hours later, curious about the nature of those desires, it occurred to me to inspect her diary. I found an entry for the evening of the recent, solicited spanking, preceded by the remark,

Pussy twitched all day i wanted J so much.

My first response to that was a glow of pleasure, but then I began to feel queasy. There had to be another "J" tickling her pussy. One doesn't feel that kind of passion for an old lover, not to the point of recording it; a diary item like that had to reflect a new surge. I read on:

Can't stand it!! Begged j make my ass pay.

Of course! Pay for wanting some other "J"--I glanced up the page, and saw that it wasn't a "J" at all, but more like an "F." The initial was hard to identify, but the "F," if it was an "F," appeared distinctly different from the "J" that denoted me in nearly every page of her diary.
The next entry, headed "2 A.M. in bathrm," was touching, pragmatic as always, and revealed Lucy's lie:

J asleep--cried myself to sleep but woke up horny tho well screwed--after J gave me what i asked for--wore the shortie and showed him my behind and handed him the brush and he laid me across his knees. It hurt plenty!!! 12 fast ones, 12 slow, yelled i learned my lesson--enough!! 12 very fast and real strict like J knows tho i never let on what i was thinking about. A try but didn't help one bit--i wanted F all thru it. F darling i wouldn't mind you paddling my ass twice as hard!

I called Gringe's firm and asked for the partners' first names on the pretext of sending them invitations. Gringe's first name turned out to be Francis.
I considered confronting Lucy with the diary. She deserved the whipping of her life. I'd tie her wrists to her ankles, and hoist her rear end up, and then I'd lash her all-out, until ... impossible for me, as a gentleman, to conceive of how far I would go!
No, I wouldn't reveal that I read her diary. Was it not possible that nothing had happened with Francis Gringe? That it was all in her mind, might well be, or else she would not have been so hot for him!
Every day, while Lucy was at work, I read and re-read the diary. In its fake leather cover there was a little fake lock that I picked with a toothpick. Then, I noticed hairpins all over the bottom of the drawer that served as well. One day the hairpins vanished. The toothpicks were two flights below in the kitchen. A pencil point broke off in the lock, and I went crazy until I found my drafting compass to pry out the lead and open the lock. I discovered earlier entries that contained my rival's initial. I saw them now in a new light. One read:

F working w legs sprawly teasing me. i want to crawl over to him--both thinking the same thing--wish he'd just unzip and say blow me instead of letting me hang around my mouth open like an idiot!!

Another entry that seemed less flattering to me on second reading was:

Dear F always working--does he know my tits burning for a good rub--i said take a break and do it all to me, but i mumbled it--don't want to get tossed out of here.

This last entry was within a week of the spanking during which I had imagined Lucy fucking her boss--and so had she! The first time I saw it, I misread "F" as "J," and I assumed "here" meant my brownstone, of course, not her law office. I had threatened to throw her out if she demanded so much attention that I neglected my work.
I was hurt that Lucy's desires had gone elsewhere, without me realizing it. To tell the truth, she was such a good little whore that even after I knew, I had a good time. She seemed to enjoy our sex as much as ever, though what was going on in her head, I could only guess--or, sometimes, read about the next day in her diary.
Not being able to say to Lucy what I knew, and what I was worried about--and re-reading the diary day after day trying to discriminate between "F's" and "J's"--it wasn't always easy, there were intermediate cases--and changing my mind every six minutes about whom the notes referred to--wore me out.
Sometimes, it occurred to me that there might not be any "F's" in her diary at all, that the actual Francis Gringe was not a rival. I couldn't find a single unambiguous corroboration of Lucy's "confession." The most damning line was her report that, "i wanted F all thru it." If one read my name for "F," it made no sense. How could she be wallowing in guilt over lusting for her legitimate lover, the man she was living with? Yet, I also worked "all the time," as Lucy often said to me when she was horny and I needed a little more time to finish a project. I also sat in a "sprawly" way, and it was conceivable that Lucy had at least once respected my work enough to defer indulging her oral craving.
The more I punished Lucy for sins I could not mention, or sometimes even decipher, the stranger I felt. The sobbing young woman across my knees became less real than my image of her in the arms of the obscene attorney. Surely, by now, he had realized her weakness and had her. "Slut!" I cried, and gave her crimson cheeks another smack with my belt. She kicked her little heels up, but didn't protest the epithet: She knew she deserved it. "Dear F" sprawling in his chair, back at his office after an expensive deductible lunch, crooking his finger to Lucy. Lucy on her knees, unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning him, unzipping, fishing it out, licking it, getting her mouth on it, her head bobbing. ... SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! By the time I let Lucy slip off my knees and give me what my vengeful fantasy had her giving her boss, I no longer felt I was myself. I was "dear F," Francis Gringe, taking a respite from the law with my sexy secretary. I congratulated myself that while some deluded commercial artist gave her a home, I, Francis Gringe, was able to enjoy her every workday at my convenience. I filled her mouth with semen as carefully as a senior law partner pours a cognac for a valued client.

23. ESCAPE INTO MEMORY

I was keyed up all the time, poring over each new entry in Lucy's diary, re-assessing the old entries, sniffing her evenings for clues as to whether she had actually cavorted with Gringe during the day. I worried about the line scribbled "2 A.M. in bathrm" that she wouldn't mind "F darling ... paddling my ass twice as hard!!" Granted she was a glutton for punishment, the line made more sense when the initial was read, "F," rather than, "J." What was the probability that Gringe would get a kick out of chastising his little office whore? According to the sex survey by Kase and Bonbornikol, just a hair under one-third of men admitted entertaining fantasies about such sport. How long would it take Lucy to misfile a brief, garble a dictation, spill coffee, or be disrespectful in the belief that she was being cute? Less than half a day. I found an entry dated months earlier that I might have paid more attention to, if I'd known what to look for.

Called on carpet this morning. F said he ought to give me a good spanking after work!! i said i wished he would--don't know if F heard me--he just raved on.

So, she was already offering Gringe her fanny months before, if I read the initial correctly. On the other hand, there had been a few mornings when I had used just those words to advise Lucy I intended to punish her later, on her return from work. Had Lucy given a hint of what she did to be called on the carpet for, it would have made matters clearer. Then, a chilling thought came to me: With all the peculiar ambiguity in the diary, could Lucy be toying with me? Were these tidbits planted where I was certain to find and read them? How could any normally curious lover have missed that diary in his own dresser? Lucy described every domestic spanking so I could recall exactly where in my home it took place. Why could I not pin down a single item identifiable with her wayward lust for "F" to have occurred at the law office or anywhere out of my brownstone?
I could not help thinking of Lucy at the damned law office, squirming on her twitchy quim as she takes dictation from Gringe, her "tits burning for a good rub," her mouth half-open "like an idiot" until he summons her to kneel and suck. What about the corporal discipline she invited? Gringe must be having a field day with her technical shortcomings as well as her petty insolence even when trying to behave. Did Gringe finger his belt as he scolded her? If I were he, I would have made her deposit her panties discreetly in my bottom drawer until five o'clock. Was her skirt up, was she holding her ankles for punishment five minutes after their colleagues left the office? All these images made me incredibly horny. When Lucy arrived home from the office forty minutes late, I called to her to come to the library at once.
She dragged her feet coming up the stairs. When she appeared in the doorway, she saw that I was wearing only my dressing gown, and that there was a leather belt, doubled over, on my desk. Lucy was allowed into my library for two reasons. One was to bring me coffee or a snack. At the moment she knew it was for the other reason. "What'd I do?" she said, wide-eyed. I ordered her to strip naked at once. She did, the picture of offended innocence, dropping each item of clothing in a pile at her feet. I told her to stand before me and close her eyes. "I ... need a shower," she said, guilt creeping into her voice. I checked her panties and her inner thighs. No sexual stains or signs of a quick scrub in an office ladies room sink. I sniffed near her mouth. If she had been gulping semen within the hour, I ought to have been able to tell. No fishy odor, but her breath was redolent of peppermint, likely a cover-up. Her knees showed a faint pattern probably an impression of the rug in front of Gringe's chair. I told her to turn around and hold her ankles. Her bottom was mostly white, but there were a few pink blotches that might have been the fading marks of chastisement--but how recently? An hour ago at the office or at bedtime two nights ago? I strapped her behind, five good smacks. "WAHHHN!" she cried each time the belt landed, "I had to buy--WAHHHN!--some things after work--please, don't!--WAHHHN! --Then I came right here!--WAHHHN!--What's this for?--WAHHHN!"
I sat back down in my chair and told her to release her ankles and face me. "Because you're a slut," I remarked. "You do anything a man wants." I was thinking of Gringe. I didn't care what she had done with men before me.
"I guess so," Lucy said, blushing," 'cause I can never say no once a man gets his hands on my tits." So that's what had happened! Her nipples swelled. I flicked them savagely with my index fingers. "You men don't know how that makes our cunts jump," she cried. I reached between her thighs. "When you touch me like that," she panted, "I get wet and itchy for it." I lifted her up to straddle my thighs and rammed my cock in. Lucy was surprised by the rapidity of our union, but clenched me and posted gamely. I felt her shuddering inside, and let her come a while. Then, I lifted her off, still coming prettily, and proceeded with my indictment "you'll suck anyone"--I put her head down, and she began to suck me.
After an enjoyable few moments of that, I took her off by gently pulling upwards on her ears. "You'll take it in the ass, though you complain every time," I said. Lucy had the idea by now: She turned around and backed into me, pressing the crack between her rosy buttocks against my cock. I seized her by the hips, wondering if Gringe had gotten in there.
She shimmied a bit, making it harder for me to get in. "Please," she whimpered. "Let me get the vaseline. I would've brought it if I'd known--"
"Not now, slut," I said, releasing her. "Turn around!" I plucked at her nipples and ran her clit in a circle to keep her excited. "You lick balls," I said, and put one leg up on the arm of the chair. Lucy licked my balls with alacrity. I turned away from her and knelt in the chair.
"And kiss ass," she said, planting brief, light kisses in the general region. Somehow, I couldn't conceive that Gringe was getting all this--yet. All the more reason for me to insist on it, to stay ahead of the bastard. "Wet, open-mouthed kisses," I said.
"And licking it," Lucy said. Once she burrowed her face between my buttocks, she always did a thorough job. "Re'y geffing m' tongue in," her muffled voice said. I nearly fucked the back cushion of my chair. At the last moment, I turned back to her and showed her the broad belt. "And what else?" I said.
"And ... I put my ass up for whipping?" she said. I pointed to the arm of the red chesterfield. She bent over it, and I strapped her fanny. She howled the whole time.
Afterward, she rolled around on the rug, clutching her hot bottom and crying things like, "I can't help being a slut! I get too horny! It's not my fault!"
I had her crawl over to my chair. "Finish the nice blow-job you started," I said. Afterward, she picked up her clothes and fled upstairs to the shower, rosy-banded fanny jiggling all the way.
As my suspicions of Lucy grew, memories of Cynthia and her flatmates preoccupied me. I couldn't always distinguish my memories from my mind's elaboration over the past twenty years of the girl's stories. ... Cynthia telling me that from time to time a girl's fiance or boyfriend would invite whoever happened to be around to watch her "arse-warming," or even join in. The girls are casual about walking around in various states of undress in front of me. My first night at the flat, Libby herself putting on a bra while talking with me. Her pink nipples peeking out for a moment before she succeeds in hiding them in the cups. Another time, Janet, a tall, wide-hipped beauty whose long black hair hung down in ringlets, leaving her door open as she stripped, then scooting into the bathroom holding a bunched-up bit of underwear behind her, covering scarcely half the crack between her full cheeks. One could always catch a glimpse of this or that if one cared enough (as I always did). Annemarie showing me a wicked, pliant cane, one of several in plain view in an umbrella stand by the fireplace. ... Cynthia coming out of the loo ahead of me carrying wet panties in one hand and rubbing her well-paddled bottom with the other. Cynthia draping panties on radiator in living room to dry. My embarrassment as she turns around on request, lifting her miniskirt in back and displaying the rear cheeks I had painted red with the backbrush. Other times, I remembered with equal clarity that she kept her back to the wall and shook her head no, refusing to show her fiery rear end. At that moment (as Cynthia exhibits her punished rump or doesn't, which?) I am unaware the girls are used to being caned publicly, so Annemarie showing me the canes must come later ... but before Annemarie's boyfriend catches her escaping into her bedroom. He strips her just inside the bedroom door, clamps her naked under his arm. From the living room we see only Annemarie's face, blushing, and her bare breasts swinging out toward us as he bends her over. Then, her mouth quivering at the first swipe of the birch, and her crying face. No, he chases, catches her just inside the bedroom, holds her with rump toward us. Her dress up, clamped to her back, she loses struggle to keep her panties on. Birched on her bare ass. Kicking out one leg, trying to kick the door closed but unable to reach it, screeching, YI!-YI!-YI! and rear cheeks twitching right, left, right each time the cane bites into them. Is this one memory or two? I am getting it mixed up with another time a girl, I think Annemarie, was whipped in a corner of the living room before being taken out on a date. All very quick, a small crowd (three or four) of her flatmates and their dates around her blocking my view. One of the odd aspects of this scene was that Annemarie kept talking, carrying on a normal conversation--interspersed with yelps of pain--the whole time. Was she trying to talk them out of it? Her hands on her knees, her skirt raised, panties down just below her buttocks. I walk around to get a better view of her bare bottom taking its licks but then the oddest thing of all occurs. It isn't Annemarie at all, but Cynthia being caned! Of course, I could hardly be mistaken about the shape of Cynthia's backside, or her compliant way of putting it up for punishment, so different from Annemarie's frenzied resistance, or the sound of Cynthia's yelps. But how can this be? Why am I looking on from a distance while my girl is being whipped? She is allowed to pull her panties up, she kisses each of the men on the mouth, and they all head downstairs for an evening out.
One day the girls tell me what happened between Cynthia and the blind date who slapped her face. Whatever went on before their dinner, Cynthia's fears were not all imaginary. Later that night the girls and the men they were with in their bedrooms heard the sounds of a caning coming from the living room. The girls did not yet know who was being caned. After a while the THWICK! of the cane and the high-pitched yelping ceased.
There were some coarse, predictable grunts, and then the front door slammed. The girls came out, and the first thing they saw was Cynthia's bare, well-thrashed bottom up in the air. She was still bending over Libby's desk crying, at least partly from humiliation. She had evidently been subjected to some bizarre treatment, including insertion of several inches of a cane into her rectum--the rest of the instrument stuck out at the astonished flatmates.
According to Cynthia's own tearful account, her "loony" date had twirled the cane in her asshole all the while he had fucked her. Her bra tied her wrists tightly behind her back, and her panties were on her head, pulled down over her face. A dozen fresh red welts lined her bottom, which was all sloppy and sticky and "smelled like the fish that fell under the car seat."
Cynthia kept sobbing through her panties, "Why'd 'e whip me--I gave 'im everything 'e wanted--why'd 'e 'ave to tie me up?" Annemarie and Janet were sympathetic, but Libby was furious with Cynthia for disgracing the flat. She ordered Janet to remove the cane from Cynthia's ass and told each of the girls to whip her six more licks each with the sticky end, and good ones, or "you know what you'll get." Cynthia tried to rise up at that, but Libby kept her face-down across her desk for the dozen. Then, she untied Cynthia's hands and told her to go wash herself and the cane. When Cynthia was on the bidet, still crying and feeling sorry for herself, Libby came in, slapped her face and told her that if Cynthia ever saw the man again she would be out of the flat. ...
Annemarie describing almost boastfully how, after she flooded the flat, and everyone worked for hours bailing water, her boyfriend flogged her "naked arse" in front of her three flatmates and their boyfriends, and then held her bent over while everyone took turns birching her, two at a time, in relay teams. Annemarie swearing she will never again for the rest of her life talk on the phone while a tub fills.
For minor stupidities Libby sent a girl on a tour of the living room in panties, presenting bare breasts for tweaking. When the men were busy, say, discussing sports, the "cow" was supposed to beg. Annemarie shyly pressing a burning button into my arm. Janet coming up behind my chair, laying her heavy breast over my shoulder, and saying, "Moo?" As she leans forward, another man's hand plays with her round rump and explores the wet strip of her panties. The "cow" is not allowed to object. The boyfriends are blase (the girls say, "spoiled"). Cynthia complains to me that she detests being put on a "cow-round," not only because of the humiliating tweaks and touches and odd slaps on the bottom, but because, most of the year, the living room is chilly.
That summer I took Lucy on trips at every chance. The law practice was slow in summer, and the girls were allowed to take time off without pay. Gringe couldn't object to doing without his office whore for a while. I wanted to counter our stultifying routine, and hoped to clear my head of suspicion--not even to have any reason to read the damned diary. We drove to Washington to see Lucy's sister Sarah. On the road I badgered Lucy about her desires for other men, especially employers, but got nowhere. Infidelity was also on everyone's mind my last evening in London. ... The girls cooking dinner, telling me we're to watch Janet's boyfriend Jacques birch her. Janet had become fascinated by a stranger, broke a date with Jacques, spent the night out, and had an unpleasant time. As Janet puts it, "His idea of foreplay was, I suck his cock all night." She calls Jacques repentently the next day, and he promises her a caning. Libby, who had held Jacques' hand when Janet stood him up, "shedules" the naughty girl for this evening, when a good many friends are invited to dinner at the flat. After all these years I still get hard when an Englishwoman says, "shedules." Janet lively at dinner, perhaps hysterically so. We drink a lot of wine and tease Janet about the arsewarming she is to get. Janet laughing along, promising one of the men to wiggle her backside extra just for him. She enjoys being the center of attention. Cynthia whispers rather too loudly to me, "She's a real slut." Janet sticks her tongue out.
Sarah turned out to be a shrewd and apparently wealthy woman in her middle thirties. She still sold her favors, but no longer stashed the proceeds in tin cans. Instead, she was paying off a mortgage on a well-located office building. The sisters were good friends. They reminisced about their parents, Walter, and other characters from the hills. Sarah had given Lucy a home in her last year of high school. Lucy had declined to enter Sarah's profession, and left for New York.

24. WOMEN'S CLASHES

It was our second (and last, alas) summer together. We drove out under overcast skies to my friends' home near Sag Harbor on Long Island. All the way the radio predicted rain. Lucy grumbled that she'd rather spend a rainy week in the city. I told her one doesn't cancel a week with friends because of the weather. "They aren't my friends," Lucy observed.
"You'd better behave," I warned her. At last we arrived in a downpour that almost swept my Fiat off the road. I wasn't even sure it was the right home, although I'd been there many times.
My impression was that Lucy and Maggie took an instant dislike to each other, and that it was going to be a long week. I gave up long ago trying to understand why women are so critical of one another. Maggie, who knew me before she knew John (I introduced them), had never wanted me for herself, but thought (at least, used to think) none of the women I brought around were good enough for me. What with the rain outside and the tension inside the house, I began to daydream about the old days in London, where it also rained every day. There was plenty of feminine ill-will there too, mostly between Cynthia and Janet.
Cynthia telling the incident that started it: She comes back to the flat, finds Janet going through her dresser drawers. No one else in the flat. "Every drawer a mess," Cynthia says.
"This whole place is a mess!" I say.
"Not my drawers--I'll show you," Cynthia says. Come to think of it, she always managed to be neatly dressed.
Janet claims she is looking for her own blouse, but Cynthia is furious. She takes the backbrush from the bath and insists Janet submit to a spanking at once. "I put 'er right across my knees," Cynthia says.
"Why did she let you?" I say, "she's bigger than you."
"Told 'er if she didn't obey, I'd tell everyone later, and we'd take turns birching 'er for going into my drawers. She knew Libby'd birch 'er for anything, so she agreed to let me paddle 'er if I promised not to tell Libby."
Private discipline of one of the girls by another was infrequent, according to Cynthia. Libby had birched Cynthia privately, but Cynthia doesn't want to tell me the details. "You just want to get off 'earing about it," she says. "True," I admit, and beg. I've heard hints of Libby's strictness. Her voice was high and sharp, and her dark eyes looked right through one. She wore her black hair cropped closely as a military officer, which emphasized her high cheek bones and delicate features. "Oh, all right," Cynthia says with a grimace. "First, Libby makes you strip off. Then you 'ave to bend over 'er bench--there." She points to a small narrow oak bench, about two and a half feet long and a foot and a half high. (There was such a bench in Maggie's living room, right by my easy chair. I stroked it fondly until Maggie called us to the table.)
"You straddle it," Cynthia says, "and Libby ties your ankles and wrists to the legs of the bench with some old bootlaces." (Like the bootlaces Maggie was wearing, I supposed.) "Libby's really serious about this, isn't she?" I say. "She sure is," Cynthia says. "I don't care to be tied down, but she did it anyway, though I told 'er it wasn't necessary."
"Meaning ... you would've taken whatever she wanted to give?" I say. "Yes," Cynthia says, "she didn't even answer me. She just stood behind me tickling my bare arse kitchy-koo with the birch until I was mum and looking forward. Then she gave me number one. I understood why I was tied down--so I wouldn't go through the ceiling."
"Did you scream?" I say.
"Sure," Cynthia says. "Libby's number one punishes a girl enough for a year. She's strict and very patient. She gives you exactly twelve stingers, but she waits for each one until your arse is still and you're looking forward and mum." (Lucy, mistaking Maggie's civility for interest, was complaining about my perfectionism. I would have liked to stuff a napkin in Lucy's mouth.) "Libby told me five or six times, 'We'll wait until you're through whimpering,' and I didn't even know I was making a sound. Then she made sure I kept mum."
"How?"
"Stuffed my knickers in my mouth. 'Open wide,' pulling my hair, and, 'You'll stop that gagging and retching at once if you know what's good for you!'"
"What did you do to deserve the whipping?" I ask Cynthia.
"None of your business!" Cynthia says. "All right, chattering about our flat too much, the discipline and all."
"How did you two meet?" Maggie said to Lucy and me. We glanced at each other and both answered at once.
"At a restaurant," I said.
"Classified ad," Lucy said.
"What?" Maggie said. "I advertised for an assistant in the studio," I said. "I sent him a real good resume," Lucy said.
"What about the restaurant?" Maggie said to me. "Since my studio is also my home, I thought it would be proper to meet outside," I said, giving Lucy a fierce look.
"I even sent a Polaroid," Lucy chirped, ignoring my message. I sank back in my chair.
"You're depressed for a change, Jim," Maggie said. "What can I do to cheer you up?"
"I'll come out of it," I said. A few moments later I tried to imagine Maggie whipping Lucy. It didn't work. Asking Cynthia: "Did you make Janet strip for you?"
Cynthia: "She was in 'er bra and knickers. Once I 'ad the big tart across my knee, I took 'er knickers down. 'adn't planned to, but I wondered 'ow men feel baring our arses. I don't care that it makes me sound a bit odd, but it's a feeling of power, isn't it? Janet tried to 'old 'er knickers up, but I pushed one side down inch by inch. I got one fat round cheek 'anging all the way out, and I paddled it 'til it was red, and then when she was clutching that one, I slipped the other side of 'er knickers down, and spanked that cheek 'til it was just as red."
"How'd you like having a grown girl bare-ass across your knee?" I say.
"It was awkward," Cynthia says, "us all alone in the flat, Janet's big fat arse almost in my face. I spanked each cheek good and proper, and then both right across 'er crack, and she 'owled as always. After a while she thought she'd 'ad enough and tried to squirm off my lap, but I twisted my fingers in 'er 'air and hooked my leg over 'ers, you know. I've been 'eld tight across a few laps myself, so I know something about keeping a naughty arse in place. Also, she was afraid Libby would 'ear about 'er resisting, and everybody would take turns birching 'er, after all. When my arm needed a rest, I said, 'Oh, bye-the-bye, Janet, and told 'er what I was really ticked about. It wasn't Janet going through my drawers. It was trying to get a rise out of every man I bring 'ome, walking around naked in front of 'em, letting 'em know she's ready to spread 'er fat thighs anytime. You've noticed that, 'aven't you, love?"
"I don't mind. What did Janet say to that?"
"She said it was my imagination, just as I knew she would. I kept spanking the slut 'til she admitted it. She said she'd stay away from my things and my men. But I've seen 'er up to the same tricks with you."
After dinner the rain let up, and we all went for a walk along the bay. Every sand flea for miles around jumped on Lucy, who was sinking into a terrible mood. Maggie said to me privately, "Really, Jim, where'd you find this one?" and John said, with a pinched forehead, "Jim, just so you know what you're doing."
"What don't you like?" I said to John. "I don't like whiny children. I can see her getting awfully bitchy." That night as we went to bed I told Lucy we would take a walk in the woods early next morning to where no one could hear her if she wanted to suffer out loud.
"What if I don't feel like crying?" she said, teasing me.
"You will tomorrow, I promise you," I said. "Do you know how much you've been whining in front of my friends?"
"I'm sorry, I couldn't help it," Lucy said. She knew that was no excuse. "May I?" she said from under the sheet, where she was beginning to lick my cock.
"Fine," I said, "only that won't make it any easier for you tomorrow." "You're mean," Lucy said. "I love you and all you want to do is whip me."
"That's not true," I said, wondering. After a few moments she stopped licking. I told her to continue.
"You don't seem into it," she said. "I can never please you. There are plenty of men who would be very happy to get some of the special treatment I give you."
"Francis Gringe?" almost leaped from my mouth, but I didn't say it. "If that's what you want, you can go look for it," I said coolly. "Maybe you want to lick a different man's cock every night."
"No," she said, frightened, "don't throw me out." I didn't say anything. After a few uncomfortable moments, Lucy said, "You could cut a branch off a tree."
"Finish what you began down there," I said, liking the idea of making a whip from a branch. "And remind me tomorrow to punish you for that remark about other men." "Well--" she said, licking, "I got started--" (lick, lick) "in the woods--" (lick, lick, lick. ...)

25. BACK TO NATURE

At dawn we went off into the woods. I marched Lucy ahead of me. We both got wet leaves across the face, and our sneakers were soon soaked through. "Let's go back," Lucy said over her shoulder after a few minutes. "I'll behave, I promise."
"Keep going," I said sternly. I can't stand complainers.
Lucy saw that I saw she didn't put on underwear. She wore a gray sweatshirt with a hood and loose yellow sweatpants--not so baggy I couldn't see her round buttocks wobble as she trudged ahead of me. "Isn't this far enough?" she kept saying, but I just prodded her between the shoulder blades. She played with the drawstring at her waist as she stumbled forward, and then the back of her pants began to dip, showing some rear cleavage. "Soon," I said.
About a hundred fifty feet into the woods we came upon a clearing with a tree stump. I had noted this spot while walking with my friends on a previous trip.
I found the perfect branch. Amazing how nature provides what one needs. I quickly cut off the tip and all the leaf-bearing branchlets, leaving a formidable bare whip, thirty inches long, thick as a finger its whole length and pliant. Lucy stood by the stump facing me, looking as though she had lost her appetite for a whipping. Her hands trembled holding the waistband of her yellow pants just above her quim.
"All the way down," I said, swishing the whip. Lucy pushed the sweatpants down to her ankles and looked very naked. "Over the stump," I said. "It's wet," she said. I reached the whip between her legs and riffled her pussy lips. Alarmed, she turned away from me, put her elbows on the stump, her chin in her hands, presenting her backside.
I gave her a good HWWWICK! She screamed, fell off the stump, and rolled onto her back. A voluptuous ball, her knees tucked under her chin, she clutched her behind and kicked up her legs, which were linked at the ankles by the yellow sweatpants.
Then, I was watching from the edge of the clearing. The Master said to her, "Do you know why you're being punished?"
"Because I complained too much?" she said, kicking slowly.
"And you're still complaining too much!" the Master barked. "Now, lie down on the stump! All the way over!" Lucy rose and lay gingerly across the stump, bare bottom up, her head almost to the ground, boobs hanging over the edge.
"Spread, and hold on with your knees," the Master said. "I don't want you conveniently falling off."
Lucy's pretty, pale legs, pinned at the ankles by the yellow pants, gripped the dark stump. Her hands clutched exposed roots of the old tree. The highest part of her was her round white bottom, a crimson line marking where the whip had landed, her cheeks spread slightly, quivering, waiting for more. She raised her head. "Can I say one thing?" she said.
"Yes?" the Master said, swishing the branch behind her bare fanny.
"If you leave marks all over my behind, I won't be able to wear my bikinis. All I have to wear if we get any sun is my two bikinis."
"All right," I agreed, "I'll try to stay in the white part."
"And not another word out of you until I say so," added the Master.
A bikini-shaped region of her backside was whiter than the rest. The lower and outer curves of her fanny, which had hung out of her bikinis in previous trips to sunnier beaches showed a faint tan. The Master practiced the first stroke carefully, trying out the arc of the branch to within two inches of the pretty buttocks, which tensed themselves. He tapped the cheeks with the whip, a warning they understood, and they unclenched. Quickly he raised his arm and brought it down with a smart HWWWICK!
"Y-Y-YIIIEEE!" Lucy shrieked. Just the last four inches of the branch hit, close to the previous stroke, exactly on target within the bikini zone. A new red welt appeared across the white flesh of both buttocks. The Master gave her a few moments to squirm, and then, almost in the same line, HWWWICK!
"YI-YI-YI-YI-YIII!"
Three parallel red welts running across both cheeks, half an inch apart. "Any more complaints?" the Master chuckled. Lucy shook her head vigorously, no. For a while there wasn't a sound in our part of the woods but the whir and PLICK! of the branch and Lucy's yowling, which might have aroused my sympathy if she hadn't so thoroughly deserved a whipping.
I paused after six strokes to recommend that she use the respite to consider behaving well for at least the rest of the week. In minutes the bikini-area of her ass was criss-crossed with red welts, and she was promising to be good forever.
One more lesson. "Remind me," I prompted. Lucy didn't respond for a few moments. "Plenty of men?" she gasped at last, and tried to rise. "Six mean ones," the Master said, forcing her back down. Lucy groaned.
I gave her five--counting under my breath, "G!"-"R!"-"I!"-"N!"-"G!"--with plenty of wrist, on the tender flesh that curves in to form the cleft between the cheeks. At each stroke, she screamed--it would take a whole line of capital letters and exclamation points to represent each howl, and I don't wish to parody them.
"Going to threaten me with all your 'other men,' little bitch?" I said.
"NAA-OWWW," Lucy sobbed. "Good, here's the last one," I said, and gave it to her. ("-E!")
The Master watched her rear end perform a penitent dance. "Now, up!" he said. "We'll leave this branch here by the stump just in case you forget your manners again."
Lucy rose unsteadily. Her face was a mess, the front of her sweatshirt stained with the brown imprint of the stump. She drew her pants up cautiously, wincing at the touch of the fabric to her raw behind.
A marked change in Lucy's attitude blessed our next few days. Maggie commented, "Well, she appears to be crazy about you, Jim, and I think you need that." John said, "Hey, James, if I was wrong about Lucy, just forget what I said, O.K.?" He calls me James when he wants to remind me that we go back a long ways--to when everybody called me James. "All right, Prince John," I said, alluding to his role in our fourth grade play some thirty years ago.
The sun came out the next day. Lucy and I took long walks on the bay beach and dined out so as not to crowd our hosts.
Lucy's bikinis didn't completely cover the marks of my meticulous whipping, but only an inch of purple line showed at a time, and neither Maggie nor John seemed to notice the puffiness of the lower cheeks that hung out of Lucy's bikini bottom. However, Thursday afternoon Lucy and I were sunning ourselves on the beach when she said from behind the women's magazine she was leafing through, "Maggie knows."
"Knows what?" I said, putting down my novel.
"What you did to me. She saw."

26. WHAT MAGGIE SAW

"Saw what?" I cried. At first I imagined Maggie behind a tree at the clearing in the woods.
"You know," Lucy said with a bitchy smile.
I slapped her magazine flat. "Know what?" I demanded.
"I wasn't thinking this morning," Lucy said. "After my shower I was blotting my rear end dry. The shower still stings. Maggie came in and she saw my backside. That was all."
"That was all? Did she say anything?"
"She said, 'Jim did that?'"
"And you said?" I croaked, somehow knowing I couldn't depend on Lucy (deceptive as she could be when it suited her) to mislead Maggie for my sake.
"What could I say? That I sat on an electric fan? That there was a lobster in the toilet bowl?"
"Don't be funny, bitch," I said weakly. I felt my strength draining into the sand. "You didn't actually say--?"
"I told her you whipped my ass," she said firmly. Seeing I was devastated, she stomped on me: "I told her about how you made me drop my pants and lay over that stump and whipped me with a branch you cut from a tree."
"You didn't have to say anything!" I wailed.
That evening we were all sitting on the porch overlooking the bay. Lucy went inside for a moment. John said to me, "I always wondered how you kept 'em in line."
"Now you know," I said. "Actually, it was Lucy's idea, a novel experience for me. Did you notice it seems to have had a salutary effect on her deportment?"
"Complete change," Maggie said. "What do you think of me for that?" I said, rather nervously, for Maggie and John matter to me.
"Whatever turns you on, if you both agree," Maggie said with a shrug, and looked off toward the bay.
"You devil, Jim," John said, "maybe you have the right idea." He waggled a finger threateningly at Maggie.
"I'd walk out!" Maggie snorted, "right after I kicked you you know where."
"We all see who the sadist is in this marriage," John said, placing his hand protectively over his groin.

27. PUBLIC CHASTISEMENT

"You wanted Maggie to know," I said to Lucy the next day. "I'm sick over this."
"Not back to the stump again!" Lucy said. "My behind's still raw."
"It can wait until we're home," I said. "I just want you to know that was the worst thing you could ever do to me."
"I didn't want Maggie to know," Lucy said. "Maybe you did. You'd like them to watch when you give me a red ass. Bet you think it would impress John."
"You're crazy," I said, "I've never been so embarrassed in my life." I felt too low to think about punishing her then. Later, I told her I would whip her double for letting Maggie in on our private business and blaming it on me. Not playing disciplinarian: I really hated her.
I wonder, was she right? If not, why is master illustrator Jim Knaster writing out this history instead of painting his masterpieces, blocked out on mental canvas long ago? There are times I would even rather be sitting with (now long gone) Lucy watching a sitcom about lovable cops.
Tension built up again during the last days of out stay. As I drove away from my friends' home, I doubted I would ever be asked back. My old nostalgia for Cynthia returned. (If I had asked Cynthia not to show her rosy fanny to her flatmates, she certainly wouldn't have. Maybe I should have asked her to come back with me to New York. More and more, I think I should have asked Cynthia to marry me.)
In my brutal mood, doubting my own discipline, I thought of Libby birching the girls. Once I am "in," that is, after paddling Cynthia over the bidet, the girls talk to me and in front of me openly. Annemarie telling me Libby had caned her twice. She could only guess how many times Libby had caned Janet--maybe eight times. Janet telling Annemarie, "Paul's away and Libby hasn't been balled for two weeks, I better stay out of her way." Next day, as Annemarie enters flat, there is Janet tied over the bench, knickers stuffed in mouth to muffle her howls. Libby behind her with cane, "waiting for her to stop waving her fat arse in the air." And Libby had tied Cynthia to the bench for a dozen licks, besides the time she ordered the girls to supplement the caning by the lunatic blind date. Jealous Cynthia describing to me how she paddled shy Annemarie in front of Kevin, Cynthia's former boyfriend, for flirting with him. None of the girls punish Libby, although they relish watching her lower her knickers and bend over when her fiance Paul canes her--a rare treat." Libby doesn't even yell," Cynthia says admiringly, "nor cry nor beg, she sucks in 'er breath like this"--mimicking the admirable Libby--"keeps 'er legs straight and cute little arse sticking up the whole time, like she's saying, 'Please yourself!'" Thus, an order of discipline: Libby on top, then Cynthia, then Annemarie, and the lowest, Janet, once publicly caned, Cynthia informs me, merely for proposing that the girls gang up and birch Libby's pretty behind.
"How come Libby gets to cane the rest of you? Why does Janet bend over for everybody?" I ask. "It's Libby's flat," Cynthia explains. "When there's a vacancy, she advertises for a girl that needs discipline. You'd be surprised at 'ow many girls write. Men write, too, they need it or they'd like to dish it out. Libby lines the girls up and picks the prettiest--like me."
"Did you ask about the discipline?" I say.
"No, but Libby leaves the umbrella stand with the birch canes right under your nose. I told 'er my Dad used to warm my arse. When I lived at 'ome, I wouldn't let boys do things, but one boy got so mad, 'e 'it me in the face. I'd rather take it on my bare bum anytime, so I dropped my knickers and lifted my skirt in back and grabbed my ankles. 'e took 'is belt off and whipped me good, and then 'e stuck it in me. I got famous for putting my arse up real quick for boys in my old neighborhood. 'And 'ow about now?' Libby says, and I tell 'er Kevin warms my arse, regular. Libby says, for starters, next time I ticked off Kevin, 'e'd birch my bare arse in front of everyone. Didn't think I'd like that, but I just smiled. Couldn't believe it would 'appen to me, really. Week after, the whole mob watched me get a caning. It's not them watching my arse get warmed that bothered me, though--it was my pussy liquoring up like it does, you know, Jim. Another new girl left the morning after Kevin caned me right over there with everyone counting. None of the girls left after they was birched themselves. I mean they 'as left to get married, but not because they got their arses tanned."
Sunday afternoon, a lot of traffic to the city from the Hamptons. Lucy and I didn't talk to each other. I was in a total rage at her. It was as though three hours of driving had to be endured--for what? For another replay of a variation in Lucy's letter? I sank into a reverie about an evening when I had promised Cynthia a spanking and, by coincidence, each of the other boyfriends had made similar promises to his girl. I remember the girls describing what followed to someone at the table my last evening in London. Two of the other men at dinner were present the earlier evening when it came out that all four girls were due to be punished. The four girls expecting light discipline, a private hand-spanking or a few stinging smacks with a paddle, a few tears to be kissed away before lovemaking. They are rudely surprised when the men arrange their chairs in a circle and take off their belts. Libby's fiance telling the girls to strip off. The girls hesitating, until he adds that the last one wearing a stitch gets double punishment. A few hectic seconds later, each girl standing naked by a pile of her clothing. Janet mimicking the other girls covering pubes and breasts with their hands. Bravado on Janet's part, since the rest of us looking forward to Jacques caning her for infidelity right after dessert.
Each man taking his own girl across his knees and preparing to strap her bottom. I see Cynthia being pushed face-down across some man's lap. That suggests I wasn't there, and can only report what the girls tell me--except that then I also see her across my own lap. I have a vivid sensual memory in my left thigh of Cynthia's naked belly, and I see her bare fanny bouncing under my strap, and the three other beautiful bottoms around the circle, a few feet away, each waiting its turn for the next spank.
Lucy became bored looking out over the damp potato fields, and sank downward. She put her bare feet up on the dashboard. Her light summer dress floated down her immodestly spread thighs. Men passing us in the right lane glanced into our front seat. A van staying alongside us too long got on my nerves. I said to Lucy, "Sulking? Or is this a pathetic attempt to seduce your friend in the van?"
"I just wish this trip was over," she said, "and you'd already whipped me all you're going to and gotten it out of your system."
"Well, you have two hours to wet yourself thinking about it," I said.
"It isn't all that exciting," Lucy retorted, idly swinging her knees together and spreading them again; but I was back twenty years and three thousand miles away, daydreaming about four naked girls suffering across our laps, the four of us brandishing our straps high in our tight hands, playing each spank in turn, as in a round of cards. We take our time, enjoying the weepy faces, the naked boobs flopping past the laps, the pretty, squirming red fannies, and the feet fluttering heels-up at each smack. "We agreed to wait turns, 'til the other gentlemen give us the nod," Jacques says, holding his spoon aloft, then bringing it down decisively, nearly spanking his plate with it.
Libby, complaining that Paul kept her head pushed down so she could catch only upside-down glimpses of her flatmates' chastisement. After a few rounds, she says, she didn't care how red anyone else's arse was. On hearing the third spank in the round, and the third victim howl ("That was me," Cynthia says to Libby, "you were last"). Libby knew her own "arse would get the strap a few seconds later."
On completing the tenth round of spanks, Libby's fiance lifting the naked girl to her feet and (his hand cupping her perfect, inverted heart-shaped red bottom) passing her to Janet's boyfriend, who puts her across his lap.
Janet, ahead of her, taken across the lap from which Annemarie has just risen after suffering ten smacks of her boyfriend's belt. Another round of spanks beginning, and all the girls can guess what they are in for. Ten more spanks each, we set them on their feet and propel them naked, crying, clutching their crimson fannies, around the circle to the third lap.
All this I see as though on a cozy perch in the room, say, sitting on the mantle above the fireplace, looking down at it. Yet, I am also one of the four men in the circle. I slip in and out of my chair in the circle at will. When I am looking down on the scene, Cynthia's former boyfriend Kevin replaces me. After ten more spanks, Annemarie easing off the third lap to the floor, where she lies on her belly, refusing to go on. However, a stern warning of what she will get for any further delay persuades her to scramble aboard the fourth lap.
Finally, all the girls winding up across familiar knees, each red puffy smarting backside at the mercy of familiar arm. By then, the room is filled with continuous wailing, "like a hospital nursery," Cynthia says.
"I can't stand this," Lucy said after twenty silent minutes. "Why don't we get it over with?"
"Here on the highway?" I said.
"You could pull off the road," she said. "Walter used to. Maybe then we could enjoy the rest of the trip."
"You're an exhibitionist," I said, "you'd love to be whipped with everybody looking on as they drive by." Lucy didn't respond for a few minutes.
The other two men who were there recalling individual styles of the girls in taking their punishment. Cynthia shrieking every time the strap lands, scissoring her legs rapidly, and making futile attempts to cover her burning bottom with her right hand. Janet howling, gyrating her large soft ass continually, up, down, and around. Libby weeping silently, rising above the humiliation by not making a sound, except for sucking in her breath each time her trim, pretty rear end catches a smack of a belt. Everyone at the table agrees that the way Libby turns her behind up, keeping it poised for the strap, and the rapid dainty fluttering-up of her heels, is lady-like. Annemarie lying rigidly across someone's knees, arms frantically windmilling as though she wants to swim away, throwing pleas for mercy over her shoulder to whoever is spanking her.
"You bastards strapped us all evening," Cynthia says. The men think the whole carousel took about half an hour. It may well have seemed like all evening to the girls. I offer to come back from New York for the next such session.
Lucy called out abruptly, "There! That driveway, the florist looks closed!"
I pulled off the road up toward a store where large potted plants and trees had been sold for years. I think the place folded last year; at least, it was closed now. I went along with Lucy's idea because I was getting too horny to drive. I don't believe in playing in traffic, no matter how fashionable it is.
No room to punish her in the Fiat. I went around to her side, pulled her out, and put her over the right front fender. She was hidden from the traffic passing below; but the highway curved widely behind us, and we were in the distant view each moment of dozens of cars on the curve. What if there were a ten-car pile-up of distracted motorists?
Lucy was the exhibitionist, not I. Hadn't she told me of gleefully wearing her sister's "whore panties" to high school, and sitting at the top of the library stairs so that the boys below her could see the backs of her thighs and lots of black curly hair and even her quim through the sheer lower strip?
I unbuckled my broad belt. Lucy held her light dress up out of the way. "Can I keep my panties on?" she pleaded, "it hurts the same" (a lie)--"so many people out there-Hi!" She waved gaily to the cars on the curve.
Her white satin panties, more visible to the motorists than flesh, described lazy circles between the loud smacks of the belt. At each WAP! her rear end stopped, then resumed slowly circling. Lucy began howling at the first WAP! and howled the whole time. Thousands of people could have seen from a distance the brutal, and to some, exciting spectacle. But perhaps we were so far away that they thought they were hallucinating--I've done so myself--their minds tricking them into seeing--say, two motorists working under the hood--as a woman bending over, bare-legged, full fanny in white panties slowly gyrating as a male companion straps it.
I pushed her panties below her purplish red rump. She appeared to collapse on the fender. I turned her limp body over. Recovering enough to put her arms around my neck and kiss me on the lips, trying to worm her tongue into my mouth, a presumptuous trick in these circumstances. I turned her back over on her belly. Lucy groaned, but under my threats, arched her back and stiffened her legs to keep her rear end up.
Lucy admitted amusing herself by lounging at the top of the library steps with her thighs widely spread, especially to tease the shy boys who could scarcely believe their good fortune. She had never had more fun than watching boys scramble for places on the library steps beneath her and pretend not to look up her skirt. She must be getting a kick out of showing her bottom to all those people passing on the highway. Yet, here I was playing along with her, bating her backside in public. Must have had an urge to, all along.
I strapped her rapidly, worried that a state trooper might come up the driveway (and be less understanding than Maggie). Lucy's fanny went into high gear, pumping and waggling frenetically, a few times accidentally thrusting up exactly at the right moment to meet the leather coming down.
Afterward, I sat sideways on the right front seat, my heels in the driveway, and unzipped. Lucy jumped up and down clutching her fiery rear cheeks. I beckoned, and she knelt in the gravel between my legs. Looking up wetly, adoringly, as she often did after she had been soundly whipped, she took my cock into her soft baby mouth. On my orders she left her panties down and held her dress bunched up to her waist. While she sucked me I trolled the strap lightly across her burning buttocks or sawed, edgewise, up and down in the crack between them. From time to time, I leaned forward over her and gave her fanny a sharp WAP! bringing fresh hot tears gushing down her cheeks onto the root of my cock. A return flow from deep within my body, as copious as though returning all those tears to her, pumped through my cock and down her throat. As she finished gulping, I exiled her to the back seat, where she curled up and cried herself to sleep, not waking until we neared the tunnel to Manhattan.
At first I thought, at least there was nothing about public humiliation in her letter, but then I recalled that her very first request was for a hairbrush to kiss in public! And hadn't she enclosed, when I was no more to her than Box Number 251, a rear shot of herself kneeling on a bed, sheer panties half way down? There must have been other shots in that series, perhaps some more revealing or submissive--how come I had never seen them? How many other strangers had she sent provocative photos to?
If ever a variation of our scene seemed beyond the descriptions in her letter, it nevertheless turned out to be Lucy's imagination that directed!

28. THE END OF THE AFFAIR

Some time that fall it became too much for me. First, since I never found an entry in Lucy's diary that confirmed her carrying on with Gringe, or anybody else, I decided she probably realized I was reading the diary, and had kept it out. Second--this is hard to explain. I could understand women not being willing to play the penitent in my scene. For twenty years, nearly, I had been unable to suggest it or they had dismissed my hints. What I could not tolerate was having my precious fantasy corner invaded, redecorated, and utterly taken over. If I simply told Lucy we were through, to clear her out of my home, she would fight to stay. She would work so hard to please me that I might well give in, at least for a while. It had happened that way six months before. The solution was to get her to want to go. At first, I thought of exceeding our limits. I played at preparing to do gruesome things to her. On the margins of my sketch pads, where Lucy was bound to see them, I doodled women who resembled Lucy hoisted upside down, penetrated by weird dildoes, branded with my initials on their plump buttocks. In the end I frightened myself. I didn't want to find out I wanted to do any of this. Since her lusts were symmetrical, wasn't it possible she might secretly be drawn to the same extremes? Was I fated to wind up in prison for her suicide at my hands?
By November I knew what I had to do. I retired the hairbrush, the belt, the whip. When Lucy screwed up, I overlooked it. Of course, I itched to punish her as much as ever. Not indulging myself took more self-control than anything I have ever done.
I hear a scuffling outside my office at the academy. The anteroom is filled with girls. They are supposed to be scheduled one at a time! The girls have been jostling each other trying to be first just before I open the door. What am I to do with them? There must be fifteen--no, there are more outside in the office of my scheduling secretary. I go out into her office--another fifteen, at least! Ms. Bunn, of course, is away from her desk. Such disorder happens whenever she starts a new affair. Her flings are brief, and when she comes back I thrash her mature bottom. Ms. Bunn knows how the young darlings suffer.
Ms. Bunn listens at my door whenever a delinquent schoolgirl is inside my office and there is not another one waiting her turn outside. She says she is thirty-one. Her hair is silver blonde, she is tall, lithe, prim in appearance except for a mouth of monkeyish sensuality, and a bizarrely rapid, wide smile. She appears to be tenderly concerned for the girls whose names she posts for chastisement, but the girls tell a different story.
Poor Krissie was one of Ms. Bunn's victims. Krissie's offense was the sort that only naive girls are caught at. Reading or daydreaming at a table in the school library, she casually teased her nipples with the pages of a book. A delicious blonde schoolgirl may get away with a single tit-flick turning each page at respectable intervals, but not seven or nine flicks back and forth per page. Krissie was oblivious to the librarian's stares until that worthy young woman at last came over to tell her to stop. Finding her name and offense posted the next day, Krissie was mortified. Somehow, through good behavior and luck, she had escaped corporal punishment during her entire girlhood.
"Don't worry about that," Ms. Bunn said to Krissie, referring to the yowls of pain coming from my office, "she's a brat who loves to make noise." But Krissie was not reassured, perhaps because my ruler smacking the offender's buttocks also made a lot of noise. "It's only a wooden ruler," Ms. Bunn added, "just imagine how much worse it would be if he used a horsewhip." "A horsewhip!" Krissie exclaimed.
Krissie undid her blouse buttons and unhooked her bra as Ms. Bunn ordered. Ms. Bunn pushed the bra cups down and affixed a pair of stainless steel clips to her nipples. "OW! OW!" Krissie cried as the tiny claws sank in. "To remind you why you're being punished," Ms. Bunn explained.
"How could I forget? I feel so ashamed!" Krissie cried, blushing down to her oddly decorated titties.
Ms. Bunn took her hand. "There, there," she said, "don't let it bother you that the whole school knows why you're about to get a red bottom." Krissie was comforted by her hand and soothing tone. "Do you think he'll go easier on me because it's my first spanking?" she said. "I'll ask for special consideration for that," Ms. Bunn said. "And my first bl-, blow-, j-, I can't even say it!" Krissie wailed. "How sweet! Your first act of fellatio?" Ms. Bunn offered, "--delightful--if you adopt a grateful attitude. First, you drop to your knees. ..." Alas, her timely instructions only increased Krissie's hysteria.
The noisy brat left clutching her behind, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was Krissie's turn. Ms. Bunn appeared with her in my doorway. "Do you mind if I hold her hand a bit?" Ms. Bunn said. "It's her first bare-bottom spanking." The pretty schoolgirl with shoulder-length blonde hair, open blouse, bra falling off, and steel clips on her lovely titties was hiding behind Ms. Bunn or trying to pull away. I admired Ms. Bunn's efficiency as she led Krissie swiftly into my office, took a seat on the ottoman before me, and drew the girl across her knees as though to spank her herself. With one hand Ms. Bunn lifted the skirt of Krissie's uniform and slipped her panties down. Ms. Bunn's other hand still held Krissie's hand with deceptive looseness where her skirt was bunched at the small of her back. Krissie found her thighs splayed surprisingly widely by a strategic placement of Ms. Bunn's knees and elbow. The girl's bare round buttocks, wispy blonde bush and pale pink virgin quim were beautifully exhibited to me. When she reached behind her in a vague gesture to cover her feminine parts, Ms. Bunn said, "Peek-a-boo!" and pinned both her wrists at the small of her back.
"Mammary self-stimulation with school property," I said, reading the index card that Ms. Bunn had placed on my desk, "What's this number?"
"That's the library catalog number of the book," Ms. Bunn said.
"You said you'd ask ...?" Krissie blurted out, bewildered by Ms. Bunn's sudden strictness in pinning her wrists behind her.
"--for special consideration because it's your first spanking?" I snorted, "What should we do for Krissie, Ms. Bunn?"
"Make up for all the bottom-warmings she's missed 'til now!" Ms. Bunn cried. "Here, use the riding whip in my handbag--it hurts so much more than that effete ruler of yours."
Krissie tried to wriggle loose, but too late. Whatever Ms. Bunn's defects, she was superb at holding errant schoolgirls in an iron grip while I applied her favorite implement to their behinds. "Thrash her good!" Ms. Bunn cried. "Make her cheeks bounce!"
Despite these urgings I gave Krissie only a dozen routine cuts of the leather crop, appropriate to the girlish sin of plicking her tits in the library, and yet painful enough to make her think it was the fiercest of all time. She kicked up her heels, waggled her backside, and screamed so loudly the steel clips nearly popped off her tits.
"Now, do as I told you," Ms. Bunn said to Krissie, when I set down the whip. But Krissie was distracted, still gushing tears and clutching her red-striped bottom. She glared at Ms. Bunn.
"Krissie needs practice first," I said. "If you say so," Ms. Bunn said, taking off her shoes and stockings and giving Krissie her toes to suck. I flicked the whip across Krissie's smarting bottom to encourage her. She was just getting the hang of it when Ms. Bunn (securing my nod of approval) leaned back on the ottoman, raised her skirt, lowered her panties, and spread her legs widely, even, I must say, ostentatiously. I pointed a trail with the whip up Ms. Bunn's foot to her ankle, along her calf, knee, and inner thigh, and Krissie dutifully licked her way up to taste her first quim. Ms. Bunn gratefully unbuttoned and unzipped me, helped me out of my shorts, and began licking my balls, partly to set a good example. Krissie turned out to be an eager student. While Ms. Bunn chewed my buttocks affectionately, Krissie--her mouth, button nose, cheeks and chin coated with Ms. Bunn's thick juices--took her place kneeling in front of me.
But now my anteroom overflows. The girls have heard the rumor that I go easier on the ones who volunteer to be punished first. When I poke my head out of my office and say, "Who wants a spanking?" they compete for my attention with sexy looks. Some turn around and raise their skirts, showing me the backs of their thighs; others imitate them; the most daring bend over and present the seats of their panties; then, they all think that is what they are expected to do, and every one of them does it. They monitor each other, not allowing any girl to bare more than the others. I hear a rustle back in the anteroom. I don't know which girl started it, but all the panties are coming down in both rooms. Thirty-odd beautiful bare young backsides point at me, tracking me like magnets as I race back to my office. But the girls are on the move! "Wait!" I cry. "How dare you go into my office without permission!" They ignore me! Leaving the anteroom littered with panties, white and sky blue and fruity pastels, peach, strawberry, lemon, and lime, they run into my office and assume penitent positions, seven bending across my desk, one nestling rump high in my chair, one kneeling face-down on my ottoman, one at my globe-stand, three on my red chesterfield, two on each of the visitor's chairs, and the rest holding their ankles everywhere in my office. I cannot do justice to all these bare fannies. They know that, they are taking advantage of me! "Get out!" I cry, "All of you! Now!"
Lucy was puzzled by my sparing the rod. For a few days, she seemed hurt, but then I began to see a smirk that probably meant, "I can get it elsewhere."
My last evening in London, a large, noisy dinner party at Cynthia's flat, about sixteen at the long table. Janet's caning promised as the main event. I am hardly able to wait for dinner to be over. The restraint of my trousers on my monstrously excited cock is painful. Cynthia notices, slips a hand under the napkin on my lap, unzips my fly, not to be completely closed again that evening. At last the dessert reduced to smears on our plates. Libby and Annemarie rising and standing alongside Janet, who is just then reaching for the brandy bottle. They lift her to her feet. "Arms up!" Libby says, and they strip her dress up over her head. Janet in matching bra and panties patterned (like a set of Lucy's) with florid swirls of pink and purple. Annemarie unhooks Janet's bra while her arms are up and her dress over her head. Her big boobs tumbling out over the table. Annemarie and Libby marching her to the fireplace. Unsteady on her feet. Jacques emptying the birch canes from the bamboo umbrella stand onto the floor, and putting the stand in front of the fireplace. Janet assuming the position, gripping the rim of the stand, heavy boobs swaying forward. The girls insisting she back toward us so that her rump is well presented. Jacques selecting a cane, tapping his palm with it.
Libby motions Annemarie to lower Janet's panties. Janet's naked rear end impressive as a horse's, and even the extra fat rounding off the bottom of the cheeks quite pretty. We all take chairs offering a ringside view.
Libby expressing her detestation of women's infidelity, and pointing to Janet's bare backside as a disgraceful example of wayward female flesh. Libby hoping Janet will learn from the chastisement, and that the other girls from our flat (Cynthia and Annemarie) will conduct themselves so as to avoid similar penalties.
Jacques applying the cane. WHIRRR-THWICK! "YAIEEE!" Janet crying. A red line appearing across her ample white globes.
"You're blocking my view," Annemarie's boyfriend complains to Jacques, "can't you stand more to the side?"
"You move, then," Jacques says.
Annemarie rising from her boyfriend's lap. He finds another chair to the right.
"That chair's broken," Libby says, "you can't sit there." They mill around, debating the effort to bring chairs from the dining area. (I have an antique chair I must get fixed or donate for the tax deduction.) "If you don't mind," says Jacques, "I'm going to proceed."
WHIRRR-THWICK!
"AIIIOWWW!" Janet yells. Annemarie blocks my view. "Now you're in our way, Annemarie," Cynthia says. "Sit down on the floor!" Libby calls out.
When Lucy got in my way, which she did more and more often to provoke me, I chided her gently, "Lucy, you know Daddy doesn't like that."
Janet looking back around at Annemarie's boyfriend, and saying, "You've got the view you wanted, haven't you, mate?" Her legs spread to brace herself--she keeps them spread as she talks to him. Her quim with its curly black bush exposed anyway, but Annemarie's friend on the floor looking up into it. "You said you'd shake it extra for me," he says.
Once, Lucy misunderstood my intentions and brought me the hairbrush. I shook my head no. Still misunderstanding, she raised her skirt in back and put her fanny out toward me. I shook my head vigorously no. Taking it exactly the wrong way, she dropped her panties and held her ankles. I turned her around and kissed her tenderly on the mouth.
I am afraid the schoolgirls are invading my second-floor library, which resembles the headmaster's office. When I am about to go into my library, I hear them quieting down inside as though I am the guest of honor at a surprise party. What will I do when all the lights flick on and thirty naked schoolgirl backsides face me? I am the old woman who lived in the shoe.
On the campus they stick their impudent tits out at me and lick their lips. They sit naked on the upper dormitory window sills showing me their round bottoms, or lean out of the windows naked, their bare boobs swaying as they call to one another. It's getting so I dread walking around the campus. Two seniors sitting outside on the library steps see me approaching and, to mock me, one of them takes the other face down across her lap, raises the back of her skirt, and pretends to paddle her with a ruler.
Luckily, I have my work. Down the corridor my peaceful studio waits. But the corridor is nearly impassable, lined along both walls by pretty schoolgirls trying to match their behavior to ill-defined regulations, some unbuttoning their blouses, some raising their skirts and bowing away from me to present their bottoms, some lowering their panties for a tweak, a pinch, a spank each. I haven't set foot in my studio for days, and I would like to get back to work as a relief from all this madness.
Janet with two red welts across her bottom. Jacques adding a third and a fourth, and Janet yowling at each swipe. All of us spectators, high on wine and savagery, applauding Jacques for good strokes. "See how neat my lines are," Jacques says. There are parallel red lines across the two pretty globes of white blubber.
"Rub my arse, please, Jacques!" Janet says, shifting from foot to foot, boobs swinging, behind gyrating in a loopy circle.
"You may rub it if you wish, Jacques," says Libby.
"When I'm done," Jacques says. WHIRRR-THWICK!
"YAAAOWWW! I'm going to cry," Janet whines, and immediately breaks into loud sobs.
Jacques, quite peeved with her, unmoved by her tears, proceeding to cross-hatch her bottom with red stripes. After the eighth stroke Janet looks back, still holding on to the rim of the umbrella stand, and apologizes to Jacques for her infidelity. Jacques ordering her to look straight ahead, and not to say another word. Janet pleading for mercy. Jacques applying the cane across the plump globes. WHIRRRTHWICK!
"OWWWEEEEE!" Janet screeches. As everyone said she would, Janet putting on a great show. Before a stroke, her stinging rump tucking in a little as if hiding. Then, in response to hoots and catcalls from us, or crisp orders from Libby, Janet thrusting her can out and turning it up for the birch. When the cane cuts into the tender, swollen cheeks, they hop, skip, and waggle, up and down and erratically from side-to-side. All this buttocking around makes Janet's pussy lips momentarily open a chink, then rub against each other, then open again. Her twat is slippery and her black curly bush glistens with sex juices.
Groaning and sobbing, knees buckling, the voluptuous beauty gives every sign of suffering for her disgraceful behavior. Jacques unmoved, complains of difficulty in aiming the cane at the wavering rear end. Libby sends Annemarie back to Janet's side. Annemarie, solemnly pleased as a schoolgirl given responsibility, holds Janet firmly under the belly, actually helping to turn her backside up for the birch. Janet cursing her.
"Ta, Annemarie," Jacques says. "Janet, say 'Ta' to Annemarie."
"Ta, Annemarie," Janet sobs.
WHIRRR-THWICK!
"YAAAOWWWEEE!" Janet screams, her fanny glowing like a fiery grid. Paper held to it would burst into flames.
"That's twelve," Jacques says, offering the cane around. "Would anyone care to say anything to Janet before I go on?"
"I would" says Cynthia, to my surprise. Rising from my lap and taking the cane. "This is for not writing down the phone message from Jim yesterday, Janet," she says. I gather anyone may satisfy a grievance against a girl being birched. All accusations accepted as true, no defenses heard, and additional caning meted out on the spot. Cynthia delivering three vengeful swipes to the large, quivering behind. Janet howls.
"How about you, Jim?" Libby says, "it was your message."
"Cynthia just took care of it," I say.
For two months I touched Lucy only to hug or caress her. I began to let her know I was in love with her. At first she seemed happier than she had ever been with me, but before long my starry-eyed attention began to make her feel uncomfortable.
Cynthia giving the cane back to Jacques. As she sits down across my lap, her long legs over the arm of the chair, I put my hand up her miniskirt, cupping her quim as I did the first minute we were alone together. Cynthia literally sitting on my hand. In a flash I have a couple of fingers in her; her panties working down around her thighs (and my forearm); she is coming, and doesn't mind who notices. I think for a moment the chair is on fire, but it turns out to be Cynthia's steaming juices flowing down her thighs onto my lap. "You're a hot bitch who ought to be up there getting whipped," I whisper to her, pinching her wriggling bottom hard with my other hand. From her undignified position, Janet calling Cynthia "slut," but her epithet lost in Cynthia's cries and writhing as she humps my hand. In her excitement Cynthia swiveling away from the main show, Janet's flaming rump, and lying gasping on my chest. Jacques making a gesture for everyone's amusement of lifting the back of Cynthia's miniskirt and tickling her behind with the cane as she rocks forward on my hand. I play along--the spirit of that flat discouraging possessiveness, not to mention gallantry--by keeping the miniskirt up off Cynthia's bare backside; but Annemarie, still holding Janet fanny-up, is annoyed by the delay, and recalls Jacques to his duty.
Jacques flexing the birch, raising it, and bringing it swiftly across Janet's rear. WHIRRR-THWICK!
"UHHH-OWWW," Janet groans.
"Thirteen!" Two or three voices say, picking up the count from where Jacques left off.
"Count," Cynthia whispers to me.
From then on, everyone counting almost in unison.
I plied Lucy with gifts at Christmas. Two were expensive: It took a whole day to find them. With each gift she unwrapped Christmas morning she kissed me, but by the last she began to look troubled. When we went out to restaurants, it seemed to me Lucy looked around in a way she had never dared before. I didn't say anything.
Janet not only severely punished, also highly stimulated by the birching. Jacques flicking the birch at her wet and swollen cunt lips, and then sharply across her behind. The sight of the little swamp below her two red, undulating fat cheeks driving jealous Jacques to lay on his fiercest strokes.
Nearly fainting with excitement myself, unaware as we all count, "Twenty-one!" that Jacques is done.
"None else to cane this naughty arse?" Libby querying. Annemarie releasing her grip on Janet. Libby saying to her, "Pull your knickers up and stop crying." Janet trying to obey, but blubbering so hard she can't stop, can't even organize herself to draw her panties up. Jacques does it for her with a deft pull. Janet, relieved it's over, leans her bare tits against him, kissing his neck. Jacques, mollified, massaging the seat of her panties as he ushers her toward a bedroom. Some couples going into the other bedrooms. An impromptu orgy seems to be organizing itself in the living room.
The crisis came early in January. We were sitting in my Fiat, waiting for it to thaw out. It was caked with ice. I began to beg Lucy to ask me for something she wanted. At first she said she had gotten everything at Christmas. Then she suggested one or two things she knew I wanted. I skipped over these, insisting she choose something for herself. She got her courage up and asked for my hand in marriage, and I assured her it was as good as done. "But what else do you want?" I said.
All at once she cried, "Fuck you, Jim Knaster, you fucking crazy bastard," and threw herself against the ice-bound door.
"Let me help," I started to say, but she broke the icy bond and charged up the steps. I turned off the idling motor and followed slowly. I sat heavily on my living room sofa while she packed two floors up, slamming drawers to the bedroom floor as she emptied them. There was still time to reverse matters if I wanted to. I did nothing, but thought about Cynthia and I going crazy with lust after Janet's caning. Cynthia begging me to spank her bottom with my hand for making a spectacle of herself. Obliging her. (I put a round sofa cushion across my lap and spank it.) A couple in the next room, amused by the sounds of hand slapping buttocks and Cynthia's squealing, laughing the whole time and calling out encouragements.
Moments later Lucy stomped through my living room and out of my life. But not out of my thoughts. I miss her often. It is ironic that, now she is gone, I have discovered the love feelings I pretended for her were real.
Perhaps nothing was real but those feelings. As time passes, Lucy herself seems less and less real to me. She grows smaller in my mind like an image receding in an attic mirror as I back away from it. In my memories of our romps, she is becoming less mobile, as though progressively stuck in glue. By symmetry, Lucy has to think of me sometimes, too, and perhaps even miss me, although I must be receding in her memory as well.
It is getting harder to tell what happened from what I may have dreamed or fantasized. What have I to show that Lucy lived in my home for two years? I cannot prove it any more than, once upon a time, I could prove she was carrying on with the attorney Gringe. Does the bitter aftertaste of my jealousy prove she lived with me or that she existed at all?
Now, however, the sound of the front door closing as Lucy slams out has a double significance to me. For who has appeared in the headmaster's study, closing the door behind her, but the pretty young girl with the straight black hair and the narrow gap between her front teeth! The last time I saw her I intended merely to reprimand her, but she foolishly got herself spanked on her charming bare buttocks, instead. Then, she kissed me when I let her off without requiring her to kneel for what the girls at our academy call their "orals."
It is a year later, she is seventeen, and filling out nicely. She curtsies. "Come here," I say. On my desk is evidence of one of the most serious misdemeanors a student at our school can commit: a lewd book found in her closet, under a loose floorboard where decades of girls have hidden contraband. During my tenure many such caches have been located. The old biddies in charge of the dormitories search them regularly.
The black-haired young beauty does not fling herself across my knees as in her first visit. Instead, she approaches slowly, wide-eyed, scarcely raising the bottom hem of her skirt.
"This book!" I exclaim, slapping it. "Why, it's full of horny maidens, their bodices open and full white breasts tumbling out, eagerly licking immense cocks, or waving their legs wantonly in the air while those fierce long thick masculine engines plunge into their hot ravenous juicy cunts!"
"Yes, I know, sir," she says, "they really had a ball in the olden days, didn't they, sir?"
"Strip everything off," I say, leafing through the pages. She removes the school jacket and skirt. "Here," I say, "what do you say to this?--A young voluptuous yet virtuous blonde barmaid forced to disrobe and cruelly horsewhipped on her beautiful bare round white bottom and the backs of her tender shapely thighs, then deflowered and subjected to unspeakable indignities simultaneously at her oral, vaginal, and anal orifices by a drunken, red-faced, pock-marked degenerate aristocrat and his lusty though feeble-minded nephew!"
"I thought she really had it coming to her, sir," says my schoolgirl as she unbuttons her pleated blouse," 'cause she was stuck-up and a tease, but after the gentleman whips her and they stick it to her every which way, she's like, more of a good sport." She unhooks her bra, freeing her delicious pointy-up breasts.
"And what do you deserve for reading such a moral book?" I say.
"Same as the blond barmaid with the big boobs in the story," she says, flashing a smile that shows the little gap between her front teeth. She bows away from me as she draws her panties down to her knees, drops them, steps out of them. For a moment she bends over in the penitent posture, adding her own touch by cupping a hand beneath each bare pale cheek and lifting it, as if to show me the exquisite roundness and creamy skin. Along with her physical maturity, she gives off now a sense of urgency to be noticed, fondled, punished, loved.
Turning back to me, chin low and big eyes looking up, she leans her naked body over my lap, her breasts swaying out like ripe pears inches above my hands. "Whatever you want to do to me, sir," she breathes, "whatever. ..."