Horace McNair had told his buxom, sand-haired wife Corinne that he would be taking inventory at the store this warm July evening. He was, indeed, taking inventory, but not of merchandise - unless the voluptuous, ivory-skinned body of his mistress, Martha Wilson could be considered such. Since he had paid the high rental on her apartment on Cortland Square and saw to it that her closets were filled with an attractive wardrobe and her dresser drawers with provocative lingerie which he liked to have her wear on his clandestine visits, she might indeed have been considered merchandise in the sense that he had bought and paid for her.
Horace McNair was forty-three, wiry, with lean, almost satyr-like features, receding black hair, and an insatiable appetite for pussy. He was also the titular head of McNair's Department Store on Bruce Street in the heart of downtown Fresno, a city established by Armenian winegrowers and Santa Fe laborers over a century ago as a railstop between lordly San Francisco and the sprawlingly growing City of the Angels to the far south.
He had inherited the store from his puritanical father whose views on sex and marriage diametrically opposed his own until he died in a fit of apoplectic temper about a decade ago when he had discovered that his only son and heir had diverted some of the store's petty cash to finance a swift and stealthy trip to Tijuana in order to try out several comely whores in one of that vice center's most expensive bordellos.
Horace McNair had married Corinne Tolson, who was also an only child, when he was twenty-eight and she four years younger. Even at thirty-nine, however, Corinne McNair was still a hot armful in bed, and Horace had the wisdom not to overly neglect so bounteously cooperative and attractive a consort even though he managed to conserve a considerable amount of virile gism for his other amours. They themselves had just one child in their fifteen years of union, a fourteen-year-old hoyden named Patricia, who had long coltish legs, a supercilious manner far beyond her tender years, and closely cropped coppery-red hair. She was already something of a tomboy with the neighborhood children, and bossed them unmercifully, but they loved it.
He was lying back on the couch in Martha Wilson's apartment, wearing only a sport shirt, dacron slacks, socks and sandals. And a tight fitting jockstrap was the only underwear he'd donned for this one day. Whenever he intended to visit Martha, he chose this particularly snug prick-case just as a reminder of the delights to be enjoyed before that day had ended, because its binding cling against his gism-laden balls and throbbing organ was a kind of Tantalus-torture that made him anticipate his pleasures all the more intensely.
Martha Wilson, her black hair swinging in a lengthy pageboy down to her shoulder blades, her heart shaped face thoughtful, her dark-brown eyes attentively fixed on her lover, perched on a deep armchair opposite the couch. Her legs were tucked under her in a coquettishly beguiling pose, and she was wearing only a black satin negligee, charcoal-brown nylons with a black satin-elastic garter belt pressing its narrow tabs tightly against her creamy, long thighs, and a pair of high-heeled sandals. She was twenty-five, had been his mistress for eight months now, after he had ostensibly fired her as his private secretary.
Martha had been born in Stockton and her parents had come to Fresno when she was about ten years old. Her father had been an itinerant salesman, as fickle as he was lazy, and Martha's mother had to go to work a good deal of the time to keep the family budget intact. Finally he had deserted his wife and daughter for a lovely mestizo by the name of Consuelo Avilar, who worked in the vineyards and who loved to french a man's prick even better than she enjoyed having it dig inside her cunt. Since Martha's mother had steadfastly refused to give him oral sex, Jack Wilson had simply shrugged his shoulders of all marital responsibilities and taken off with Consuelo in the direction of San Francisco. At last reports, the two were living together in common-law marriage and Jack was making a meager living selling encyclopedias in the city by the Golden Gate.
Martha's mother had died when her brunette daughter was just nineteen, with the result that the voluptuous young brunette had to quit junior college and find herself a job. In Fresno, that wasn't too easy. She finally landed a place at a music shop, only to discover that the bald, bespectacled owner expected her to shag him in return for the privilege of working at slave wages six days a week. From there she gravitated to a dress shop, but after about eight months, the jealous woman owner fired her when the latter learned that her own husband was trying to proposition Martha into sharing a lovenest with him.
Then she had stayed about a year at a small foreign-language radio station on Merced Avenue, where she had been called upon to do everything from playing records to writing commercials to going out and trying to sell them. The station had finally gone out of business owing her about three weeks' back pay, and it had been owned by a senile old man who gave himself the mythical Army title of "Colonel" but who had never made so much as a mild pass at her.
For about two months, Martha had collected unemployment compensation and in the process lost her cherry to a swaggering, devilishly handsome young guitar-player, who was finally arrested for holding marijuana and who very nearly got her involved.
She was quick to regain respectability by at last finding a job as receptionist for a small advertising agency on Broadway, where she worked all of a year and where she really had no problems except collecting her salary many times when it was well overdue, since the agency relied on prompt payments from its clients but rarely got it.
That was about the time she saw a blind ad in the paper for McNair's Department Store and decided to apply for it.
After six months in a steno pool, Martha Wilson was transferred to Horace McNair's private office. His eyes brightened at once when he saw her long-legged, slinky ivory skinned body enticingly displayed on a swivel chair in front of a typewriter desk just outside his private quarters. He made a mental note that he was going to explore Martha Wilson's charms as quickly as possible, and this time the brunette accepted his attentions with a rather philosophical outlook.
She expected just a one-night stand, and because she wanted to keep the job and stay out of trouble, had yielded to him with a kind of resigned indifference. To her own amazement, he had revitalized her by taking her across his lap one night, peeling down her panties and giving her ivory behind such a tanning that she had wailed and yelled and kicked like a little child to implore mercy. When he had finished spanking her, her pussy was twitching so with passion that she had flung herself down on her knees, yanked down his zipper, taken out his cock, and, cupping it in her palms, began to suck at it until he had exploded all his viscous seed for her to swallow.
Then it was that Horace McNair revealed to her that his one special penchant was for spanking a lovely girl's naked behind as a kind of prelude to fucking and all the other variations of lovemaking. Moreover, although she hadn't been aware of it, many of his female employees, upon being hired, had to sign agreements that if their conduct warranted it they would submit themselves for corporal punishment.
Horace McNair had employed a bespectacled, dour-looking woman by the name of Matilda Dowling as a kind of personnel supervisor. Whenever an employee was considered negligent, insubordinate, or found guilty of other peculations and misdemeanors, she was summoned to Horace McNair's office, and Matilda Dowling delivered a scathing lecture on the girl's or woman's faults. Then, while Horace McNair watched, smoking a cigar and sitting on the edge of his chair, the unfortunate culprit would be required to remove dress and slip, and then go across Matilda Dowling's lap for a bare-bottom hand spanking. If the offence was serious enough, the hand spanking would be followed, after a suitable pause, by an application of the hairbrush, the strap, or sometimes the wide flat ruler that lay on Horace McNair's desk.
Although Horace McNair had Martha Wilson sign just such an agreement upon the day of her entry into his Department Store, she had been spared such discipline. And of course when she had become his mistress, he had decided to fire her so that there could be no rumors which might reach the ears of the ever-suspicious Corinne.
Tonight, however, he proposed to initiate his tryst with her by dint of a good sound bare-behind walloping. The first few times he had tried it, Martha had been at first tearfully indignant. Then, obviously roused by his sly frigging of her pussy and clitoris as his left hand maneuvered under her body, while his right palm went on spanking, Martha Wilson had been drawn to explosive and almost swooning puss juicing. And thereafter she had looked forward to the spankings as a kind of attunement which always made her much more passionate.
"A penny for your thoughts, Horace honey," she purred as she wriggled enticingly on the chair to attract his attention.
"I was just thinking, Martha baby, that we've had an awful lot of shoplifting lately," he mused as he dug into the pocket of his sport shirt, took out a pack of Pall Malls, lighted one and then watched the blue wreaths of smoke waft lingeringly up to the ceiling. "And it's not just the riffraff or people who can't afford to make ends meet, who are doing it, because national surveys show that it's going on everywhere. The main offenders are women who are pretty well fixed."
"Maybe they've got kleptomania, Horace dear," Martha Wilson contributed.
"Whatever they have, I don't like it. Jamison was telling me just yesterday morning that we can figure about a four-percent general loss for the fiscal year because of this damn pilfering. I'd like to put a stop to it."
"Well, that should be easy."
"What do you mean?"
"The girls who work for you are going to get themselves spanked if they don't toe the mark, don't they?"
"Yes, and so?"
"My gracious, Horace, you're especially dense tonight. Instead of prosecuting these women, why don't you offer them a choice of getting a paddling or going to jail?"
Horace McNair stared at her and then grinned. "Now there's a terrific idea, baby. You just earned yourself a new bracelet. And you can bring me the hairbrush while you're thinking about it."
"Oh gee, Horace Daddy," (in their intimate moments, Martha Wilson had learned that to assume a little-girl attitude and tone always made him particularly susceptible to her alluring charms) "I've been an awful good girl this last week, and you know it."
"Did I say anything? I just want to give you a good sound spanking, that's all. You know you love it, so don't give me any nonsense. Go bring me the hairbrush."
"All right, master," she sighed ruefully and slipped out of the chair. She gave him a piteously appealing look, but he was ignoring it as, his thin lips curved in a smile of reverie, he was imagining making a haughty dowager like Mrs. Evan McNulty confront that old Gorgon, Matilda Dowling, in the soundproofed buyer's office on the seventh floor which he had designated as the customary punishment chamber for all errant female employees. He could just see that fat, insolent, fur and jewel wearing troublemaker, red of face and gasping for breath, having to pull down her girdle to expose her big pale white skinned ass for a bare-bottom rulering over Mrs. Dowling's lap like a baby. He could almost hear how her indignant threats and horrified denunciations would soon change to wailing cries for mercy and abject tears.
With a loud sigh that denoted her own chagrin at having given her lover such a sadistic idea, Martha Wilson dolefully walked into her bedroom and came out with an old-fashioned black wooden hairbrush. It had come from the bargain counter in the basement of Horace McNair's own store, and its polished gleam indicated that it had been put to frequent use in this little lovenest located in a new apartment building not far from the Fig Gardens.
"Please, lover," she pouted, looking very little-girlish as she stood before him and slowly extended the hairbrush, "Be nice. Here I gave you a terrific idea, and that's the way you're going to reward me.
"That's true enough, Martha baby," he chuckled as he grasped the hairbrush and stared meaningfully up at her, "but this little domestic object is as good as a dose of Spanish fly when it comes to working us both up to a lather for fucking. At my age, it's always a good idea to have plenty of stimulation."
"I haven't got any complaints in that department, Horace darling'," she giggled. "You're just an old lecher, and I sometimes wonder where you get all your energy."
"From teasing little brunettes like you, baby. Now get naked and get over my lap," he commanded.
With another sigh, Martha Wilson sinuously emerged from the glossy satin sheath which emphasized all the enticing curves of her body, and stood before him, naked except for garter belt, nylons and her high-heeled sandals. Her toenails were tinted purple, because he liked that. She didn't need any other adornments, however. Her high set, widely spaced, uptilted, big firm pear shaped titties were capped by narrow brownish-orange aurolae with pert dark-coral nipples piquantly thrusting out their tips as if greedy for caresses, suckings and lickings. Her smooth belly had a wide, shallow navel-nook, another place for fingering and licking. And the thick black muff of her silky pussyhair covered the pink fleshy lips of her voluptuous cunt, whose sheath, as he well knew from plenty of experience, had the power of a nutcracker to clamp around a man's prong and suck every drop of gism from the farthest point back in his balls.
She was five feet seven inches in height, the perfect match for his not quite six feet. Her long, beautifully sculptured thighs and sleek, boyishly trim calves, as well as the tightly spaced broad ovals of her bottom were what he liked most, even more than those titties of hers.
Horace McNair had always been a secret devotee of bare-bottomed girl spanking, ever since he had punished a prick teasing little platinum-blonde high-school senior who had worked him up to a frazzle and then asked him what sort of girl he took her for. Her name had been Mamie Evender, and they had been out in his father's car halfway to Madera when she had pulled that line. He'd driven farther off the road to a kind of deserted ravine, pulled her over his lap, hoisted skirt and half-slip, tugged down her panties and given her such a spanking that she'd yowled and told him that he could fuck her or anything in the world if he'd only stop. That, as a matter of fact, had been his first official piece of cunt.
And ever since that time, Horace McNair needed only to think about spanking a pretty girl with her skirt up and panties twisted round her calves to get an immediate hard-on.
That was why, indeed, as his passion for that disciplinary sport grew, he had finally initiated a personnel system at the store whereby all new female employees had agreed to this sort of punishment rather than being fired or suspended. The wages he paid were attractive enough to make most applicants for jobs shrug off this hypothetical possibility, because most of them felt certain that they would never run afoul of the rules and thus be liable to such a humiliating chastisement.
Now, dragging down the zipper of his slacks, he exposed his throbbing, dark-veined prick as he pulled the resigned brunette down over his lap, so that her lower belly rubbed against his organ and bent it back between them. It was sweet torture, and it was a great relief to have the jockstrap tugged down at last and let him feel in advance what he was going to be fucking very soon.
His left arm tucked Martha in, his right leg clamped over both her calves, and then he picked up the hairbrush and tapped each of her bottom summits lightly and said, "Get ready, you sweet bitch."
Then the hairbrush began to fall and Martha's quick, indrawn gasps of breath and her sudden stiffening, the raising of her head and the widening of her eyes betokened the stinging warmth which he was spreading all over her voluptuous ivory skinned ass. Her bottom cheeks were deliciously resilient, and his eyes feasted on the way they flattened when the hairbrush made sonorous impact with them, then sprang up as he lifted the brush to ready it for another whack.
By the time he had given her twenty-five, she was sobbing most convincingly, and he knew she wasn't faking. She was also beginning to wriggle and squirm frantically over his lap, and his prick felt as if it were about to explode at any second.
"Oh please. D-Daddy," she sobbed, "I'll be good, I'll do anything you want tonight, oh please no more!"
"You're unusually sensitive tonight, baby. I wonder why. Oh yes, I remember now, it's close to your time of the month. That's true, that a girl gets awfully sensitive when the curse is around the comer. Well, count out ten more and say 'Thank you, master' after everyone, and then well adjourn to the bedroom. Get ready, baby!"
He applied ten slowly spaced swats each of which drew wails and tears, but Martha Wilson didn't forget to repeat the formula of humility lest she get unwanted extras.
Then, letting her slip off his lap and tossing the brush to the floor, he got up, his prick aching and bobbing with lust. Martha Wilson, still sniffling and rubbing her flaming naked ass with both soft hands, preceded him into her bedroom, which was dominated by an extra-large double bed (a gift from the home furniture section in his store). Horace McNair paused to peel off shorts, slacks and kick off his sandals, step out of the down rucked jockstrap, and then gripped her by the shoulders and crushed his avid mouth on hers. At once her ivory arms locked round his wiry shoulders, and she moaned softly as she felt his tongue probe between her lips.
"Ohh, Daddy, you sure can make a girl feel hot both back and front," she breathed, as she reached down for his stiff prick and guided it to the black silky bush of her pussyhair, tantalizingly rubbing the glans back and forth to tease him. "I need it bad, Daddy!"
His hands gripped her flaming asscheeks as he thrust himself between the already moist, twitching lips of her eager cunt. "Oww, ohh, be gentle, lover," Martha moaned squirming and grimacing through her tears as the fiery waves of hairbrush-stinging were intensified by his gouging fingers.
Horace McNair dug into her cunthole to the hilt, pushed her back against the edge of the bed, then fell forward atop her, and nimbly rolled her over till they reached the center of this huge altar of passion. Martha wailed as his fingers kept digging hard into her swollen asscheeks, but now her long legs wrapped over his behind and her arms had a stranglehold round his neck as she french-kissed him furiously, while he began to fuck with deliberately self-controlled, slow ins and outs.
Finally slipping his left forefinger to her moist cunt, he found her tickler and began to rub it lightly while he quickened his prick thrusts, till at last, with a frantic shriek of ecstasy, his brunette mistress quaked in hot come, a moment before he shot his own bubbling jet deep into her womb.
CHAPTER TWO
Corinne McNair had become more and more dissatisfied with her marriage to Horace over the past few years, and had come to the conclusion that he must certainly be having affairs with other women, judging by the relatively infrequent times he came to her bed and fucked her. Each of them had a separate bedroom in the large two-story house, with its beautiful garden and many fruit trees. Indeed, Corinne had turned to gardening of late as a kind of distraction.
But on this Friday evening when Horace was supposedly taking inventory and was actually enjoying spanking and fucking lovely black-haired Martha Wilson, his buxom sandy-haired wife was having her own problems with pert Patricia, their fourteen-year-old coppery-haired daughter.
Patricia was extremely precocious and considered herself already grownup, which had drawn her several scoldings from both her parents and even the promise of a spanking.
To date, the red-haired teenager, who persisted in being a tomboy and lorded it over her male playmates at school and in the neighborhood, had never known the ignominy of parental correction. On this evening, however, fate was due to intervene.
Patricia had come late for supper, and her blouse and jeans were muddled and torn.
When Corinne McNair irritatedly asked the reason for this, Patricia merely shrugged and said, "I was playing baseball, Mom, and I tried to steal home and got thrown out, that's all."
"Just look at that blouse! And those jeans. Honestly, Patricia, you go round looking like a vagabond."
"Oh, act your age, Mom, for gosh sakes!" the saucy coppery-haired teenager wearily riposted.
"How dare you talk to me like that, young lady!" Corinne McNair snapped, turning very red in the face. "You apologize. And before you get any supper, you're going to take a bath and change clothes."
"Aw, gee, Mom, have a heart!" Patricia wailed.
But her mother, harassed by her concern over Horace's dwindling interest in connubial pussy, was at the end of her patience with this trying child. Impulsively, she slapped Patricia's face: "When I say something to you, young lady, I mean it! Now you go take a bath and change clothes this minute!"
"You haven't any right to slap me, Mom!" the spirited young red-haired girl protested, indignant tears shining in her dark-blue eyes. "I was just playing, and many of the kids get their clothes all sloppy. Why do you have to take it out on me, just because you and Dad are having problems!"
And that was the straw that broke the camel's back so far as Corinne McNair was concerned. She turned pale with fury, her eyes narrowed, and then she seized Patricia by a wrist and hauled her over to the couch, plumped herself down on it and swung the astounded red-haired tomboy across her lap. Next, locking her right leg over Patricia's slim calves, she began to unfasten the front of the jeans, and, getting a good hold of the waistband before the astonished culprit could defend herself, had managed to yank them down to midthigh.
"Hey - cut it out - what're you going to do-you cut that out - Mom, I didn't do anything! Stop it!" Patricia wailed, reaching back her hands to try to get her jeans.
But her mother was like a virago, and promptly grasped both wrists in her left hand as she hoisted the tails of the dirty, torn blouse and exposed a tightly spaced, pert, jouncy oval cheeked bottom sheathed very snugly in pink cotton panties.
"I'm going to give you what you've had coming for a long time, young lady," she decreed.
And with this, her right rose and fell violently on each saucy bottom summit at its firmest, most curvaceous sector.
"Oww! Stop it-you've got no right to do that to me - wait till I tell Daddy!" Patricia McNair wailed, struggling frantically to twist herself out of her mother's hold.
"I've something to say to your father myself, and if you do get to him, you just tell him that he ought to be around here to take a hand in discipline once in a while, young lady! Now hold still, because you're going to get it, whether you like it or not!" Corinne McNair panted.
She managed to keep her left hand gripping the girl's wrists, and then her right palm rose and fell about twenty times, alternating on the resilient cheeks of the young girl's squirming ass. Patricia felt more indignation and humiliation than pain, but twist as she would, wriggle and squirm, each time her mother's palm descended with a crisp impact, she began to feel the stinging heat of this her first spanking.
"Oww - it hurts - lemme go, Mom-darn it anyway, that's no fair - oww - please, you're hurting - eeyeowww! Cut it out, I said, that's no fair!"
"No fair, is it? I suppose it's fine for me to worry all day about your father and then have you come in with your clothes all torn and dirty and be insolent to boot!" With this, Corinne McNair suddenly yanked down the pink cotton panties, to twist them with the down rucked jeans. The delicious young naked ass of her fourteen-year-old daughter appeared, squirming and flinching, a very vivid pink to attest that hand spanking had already been rather energetic. Taken completely by surprise and then mortified beyond endurance, Patricia McNair burst into hysterical sobs, crying out, "I hate you-I wish I could leave home - you've got it in for me just because you don't get along with Daddy! It's not my fault if you're nasty to him - you pull my panties up this minute, you hear me, mom?"
A dainty dark-red silky fleece adorned the delicate quim, framing the soft pink petals of that virgin pussy. The pale white sheen of Patricia McNair's thighs and lower back were accentuated now by the bright glow of her well-spanked naked behind. But her words were unfortunate to say the least, because by now Corinne McNair might well have tried to give even her husband some of the same medicine if he had appeared on the scene.
That tongue of yours, young lady, is going to get rubbed with soap if I hear another word! I haven't even started with you yet. Now you're really going to get it till you apologize and beg my pardon!" she panted. Glancing around, she saw the afternoon newspaper on the edge of the couch, reached for it, neatly folded it, raised it and brought it down with a sonorous whack across the lower globes of that provocatively upturned, wriggling bare bottom.
"Oww oohh! Hey, what are you doing - that hurts, you stop it, you wait, I will tell Daddy, you'll see!" her rebellious daughter tearfully averred.
Corinne, taking even tighter hold of her daughter's wrists, and making certain that her right leg was tightly clamped over the teenager's squirming calves, began to smack the girl's voluptuous upturned bottom with all her might, haphazard and quick but all the same down sweeping spanks that bit emphatically over the hip slopes, the edges of each bottomcheek, the base, straight across both globes, and then diagonally to bridge the shadowy crease so sinuously narrow and diminished as the struggling, wailing girl contracted all her muscles in a useless defense.
The paper began to shred, but it was bulky and did not lose its vehement sting as Corinne McNair, breathless and flushed, kept lifting and descending her arm regardless of her daughter's cries and pleas. For by now Patricia was really suffering, and she was trying frantically to weave her bottom away from the avalanche of spanks that did not seem once to miss the target: "Aiii! Oh please stop, Mom! I'll be good - cut it out, you're hurting me-that's not fair-you stop, I didn't do anything - now - all right, I apologize, damn you anyway!"
And that last phrase, drawn out of pain when a particularly stinging smack flattened the thick newspaper against the base of her burning asscheeks, further incensed her mother.
Flinging away the newspaper now, Corinne McNair plunged the fingers of her left hand into her daughter's tumbled coppery hair, twisted it, pulling up the girl's tearful face and then began to spank with all her might, resuming with her palm but with a redoubled energy.
Now each full smack had the full weight of Corinne's arm behind it, and poor Patricia's hips and bottom bucked and lunged and twisted, while a dark-red began to imbue the once pale white naked flesh of that voluptuous young virgin ass.
Finally, when she was exhausted, and when Patricia's throat was hoarse from crying out and wailing, her mother stopped. Then she released the girl who stumbled onto all fours on the floor, and promptly plunged her hands to her naked behind, rubbing wildly while tears flowed down her cheeks and her face was screwed up in a rictus of anguish.
"Maybe now you know that you've got to mind when your mother talks to you, young lady," Corinne McNair gasped hoarsely. "You go right to your room and take a bath. I'll bring you your supper on a tray."
"I don't want your damn old supper, I hate you, I'm going to run away, you'll see!" Patricia sniffled as she gingerly tugged up her panties first, and then her jeans. Slowly she hobbled out of the room, still crying softly, one hand rubbing her behind.
Corinne McNair shook her head helplessly, roiled her eyes ceilingward as if to ask Divine Providence what else she could have done, given such an unruly daughter and such provocation.
But she would have taken more than a folded newspaper to Patricia McNair's saucy naked seat if she could have seen what the young girl did, once safely in the confines of her own room on the second floor. Locking herself in, hobbling to the bathroom, she let down her panties and jeans again, then dipped a towel under the cold-water tap for a while and pressed it tightly against her flaming seat. Then, shivering, she huskily murmured as if to herself, "Oh, Bobby, if only you could be right here with me now, I'm so hot I can't stand it!"
And with this, inserting a dainty forefinger between the delicate lips of her soft virgin cunt, precocious Patricia McNair began to frig her clitoris until suddenly her body quaked and a long sobbing moan escaped her as she slumped down on her knees, her head bowed, in the throes of furious pussycome.
CHAPTER THREE
Horace McNair was in high fettle as he entered his office promptly at nine o'clock on Monday morning and, beckoning to his new private secretary, bespectacled, prim, light-brown-haired Ella Davies, indicated that he wanted to dictate a memo to Matilda Dowling.
Ella Davies had come to work about six months ago, was twenty-four, still a virgin but with high hopes of losing that encumbrance, since she lived with a spinster aunt and had done so since her fifteenth birthday when both her parents had been killed in an automobile accident when they had tried to pass a truck on Highway 99 just out of Madera.
Ella had blushed when she had seen the agreement which all female employees had to sign, agreeing to take a spanking in lieu of discharge if in the opinion of the personnel manager or Horace McNair himself, her conduct warranted such drastic action. She had never been spanked in all her life, but she reasoned that proper conduct would avoid such a risk. Besides, the secretarial and stenographic wages which Horace McNair paid at his department store were about twice the going rate in Fresno. Ella's Aunt Blanche was extremely old-fashioned and in spite of her niece's mature age, was forever nagging her about even a single date in three months. Aunt Blanche definitely did not approve of the younger generation and always darkly intimated to her niece, "Men are out after just one thing, Ella, and you might as well know that from the start. You're a good girl, and I will say I've had no trouble with you, but just don't give me cause to find any, you hear?"
Indeed, her life was so dull that at this particular point, Ella Davies was actually considering doing something to vamp her boss so that he would pay attention to her. Even a bare-bottom spanking might, though certainly annihilating to her pride and self-esteem, serve to direct his attention to her possibilities. She wanted passionately to lose her cherry, and Aunt Blanche had succeeded in driving off two of the only likely candidates she had really cared about in several years. She had brought them home dutifully, hoping to make a good impression on Aunt Blanche, only to have the elderly woman lecture the young men as if they were naughty boys with their fingers caught in the jam jar. The upshot was they had both told her that they just couldn't take it, and, though she was a wonderful girl and they wished her well, they didn't want to worry about getting her into trouble.
Horace McNair lit a cigar, leaned back, and chuckled to himself as he thought of his pleasant Friday night with Martha Wilson and the amusing idea she had given him. It was true that in the past six months there had only been about nine spankings of negligent employees which he had been able to watch, and that conduct and morale were quite good. But the thought of sentencing a handsome shoplifter to a spanking instead of charging her with theft and having her taken off in the paddy wagon to jail was entirely diverting. Of course, he had already called his lawyer, fat Ben Hagopian, who had looked after his interests for the past twenty years and had never yet missed a bet in giving him the right advice. Ben had been somewhat shocked by the suggestion of his best client, and he had guardedly been of the opinion that Horace would have to make certain that the culprit signed a release showing that she accepted the spanking of her own free will.
There would also have to be witnesses so that she couldn't later start a civil suit for assault. Horace had assured him that all that would be taken care of, invited him out to lunch at the Hacienda Motel, one of the few really outstanding places to eat in Fresno, and then called in Ella to take the memo.
It read: "Effective at once, please be advised that all women shoplifters who are apprehended by our store detectives or personnel are to be brought to my office, you being present upon notification. They will be offered the alternative of accepting corporal punishment instead of being charged with theft. It will be necessary for you to have at least one reliable witness, to prepare release forms so that there will be no boomeranging lawsuits. Here is a chance to strengthen your good right arm, Miss Dowling." It was signed with his sprawling initials.
"Type that right up and have it taken down to Miss Dowling, if you please, Miss Davies," he said as he puffed at his cigar and chuckled again.
"Yes sir, right away."
She had risen from the chair opposite his desk and walked to the door, and stopped to look back at him, her large brown eyes questioning.
"Yes, Miss Davies, what is it?
"I-I hate to bother you, Mr. McNair, but I - I hope you're satisfied with my work."
"You'd have heard from me otherwise, Miss Davies. In fact," he chuckled again, "you might have had one of those bare-bottom spankings yourself if your work hadn't been up to snuff. Now get along with you and get this memo out right away."
"Oh yes, sir, right away!" Flustered, blushing, the prim young woman made a hasty exit, closing the door behind her.
Horace McNair's eyes narrowed. She wasn't a bad piece of ass, come right down to it.
The silly way she had her hair made her look about thirty-five. And her skirt was much too long and her long-sleeved blouse and that frilly neck scarf had gone out after World War I.
He knew that she lived with a cantankerous old aunt, and guessed that she probably didn't have any boyfriends. She had nice legs and a gently-rounded ass that might be really delightful to spank. However, he wasn't about to promote her from the ranks as he had done with Martha Wilson. He needed a private secretary to be efficient right now, because there was lots to do in planning for the fall and winter merchandising campaigns. Besides, if things went well at the store, he was hoping to be able to take a much-needed vacation, maybe in Hawaii, in September...
Matilda Dowling had her private office on the third floor at the rear end of the store, and on the opaque glass was hand-lettered "Supervisor of Personnel." She was forty-two, about five feet nine inches in height, and with a high-perched round bosom, buxom hips, and full thighs, and her black hair - just beginning to be sprinkled with a little gray - was set in an imposing pompadour.
There were many things about Matilda Dowling which Horace McNair didn't know. He had hired her about four years ago, after her predecessor had been found embezzling and also carrying on a flagrantly obvious affair with an assistant buyer from the hardware department who happened to be married and had five children. Matilda Dowling had answered a blind ad in the Fresno newspaper, shown him several impressive letters of recommendation from past employers, and he had been quite suitably convinced that she would stand for no nonsense. They got to chatting, and she revealed that for two years she had been a matron in a women's reformatory near Corona. His interest had been piqued by this, because his own penchant for spanking and playfully sadistic bondage games had envisioned what it might be like running a women's prison and peeling down some of the most attractive prisoners for a good whipping and then a fucking and making them french him. He would have liked, indeed, to have been a superintendent of an all female penitentiary. She also didn't have the slightest idea that he had to go home and that he wanted to fuck the hell out of his wife, Corinne.
He expressed his ideas regarding strict discipline and proper punishment for disobedience.
To his delight, Matilda Dowling, seeing that he was sympathetic to this notion of proper and strict discipline, intimated that she had herself wielded a strap or paddle or even a hairbrush on several occasions when there had been a particularly obstinate or troublemaking female prisoner brought to her attention. It was this conversation which had inspired him to initiate the new hiring policy for all female employees, by which they had in advance to agree to submit themselves for spanking if they were charged with improper conduct while on the payroll of McNair's Department Store.
It was true that in the intervening time, there had been in all about thirty such punishments. Each one of them had left him so excited that he had either had to go him and fuck the hell out of his wife Corinne or else call up one of his little girlfriends, until, of course, he had installed Martha Wilson as his official mistress and thus minimized the danger of being found out as a philanderer by making too many extra-marital contacts around town. People in Fresno gossiped and were extremely curious about what everybody else was doing. That was natural for a small town. But he had no wish to be found out, particularly as to his own most passionate foibles.
But what Matilda Dowling did not tell her employer was that she had been for two years after her work at the reformatory an aide to an extremely wealthy matron in Burlingame, that swanky residential section near San Francisco, who had been a professional lesbian sadist.
The matron had actually established a kind of "sanitarium," to which neurotic young and mature and even middle-aged women would come and pay staggeringly handsome fees to be initiated into bondage costumes, discipline, degradation, and girl-fucking, gamahuching and sixty-nining. After about a year, the matron's clandestine activities had been uncovered by the law, and Matilda Dowling had escaped one step ahead of a warrant for her arrest. She had changed her name, dyed her hair, and come to Fresno.
She was quite well-to-do, and could have done without a job for many years, but she, like Horace McNair, had a particular passion for spanking a girl's naked bottom and making the girl weep and plead and wriggle as she implored mercy.
She had once been married, at the age of twenty, and her husband had been a jazz musician who had very neatly robbed her of her small inheritance, spent it on other women, and then cruelly and gloatingly let her know just what he had done, even to bringing around his pro tern sweetheart and staging a passionate necking scene in front of the agonized young Matilda.
It was easy to understand, therefore, why she was particularly vindictive towards attractive, saucy, and airily independent female employees of the department store, because they reminded her all too well of Lucille Penton, her husband's jeering and gloating sweetheart who had told her what a big ungainly heifer she was and how she just couldn't understand how a man like Al could even bear to go to bed with a creature like her. It was an unfair accusation, because Matilda Dowling even today was sensually exciting, for all her bulk and girth. Her proportions were superb, her titties and bottom and thighs still firm and without flaccidity, and her skin was a carnation-pink-and-white tint that many a much younger woman would have envied.
There was something else that Horace McNair did not know about his personnel supervisor. She lived in a bungalow over on Divisadero Avenue, but she did not live alone.
Sharing her bungalow was a nineteen-year-old love-slave by the name of Wilma Parker, a sweet-faced, soft-voiced, ivory-skinned, black-haired girl whom Matilda had personally saved from getting arrested on a marijuana possession charge. The girl had been something of a vagrant after her parents had broken up and left Fresno, leaving her in the care of a drunken, bullying uncle who one night tried to rape her. Wilma then tried to fend for herself, got mixed up with some young hippies, and mistook pussypassion for love with one of them. She was well on her way to being sent to prison and beginning the long descent which would ultimately lead to her being a perennial criminal, perhaps addicted to drugs, and most likely a prostitute. But Matilda Dowling had happened to live in the neighborhood and seen Wilma's lover try to frame her by putting a package into Wilma's coat. Matilda Dowling had left the bungalow, confiscated the package, and then called the girl into her place and given her a stiff lecture. The upshot of it was that the tearful and grateful brunette had agreed to live with Matilda Dowling and do chores around the house and whatever else was needed to earn her keep. "Whatever else was needed" included plenty of girl-fucking and also initiated Wilma's bouncy young bottom into the stinging pleasures of spanking.
It can well be imagined, therefore, with what sensual joy the sober-faced personnel supervisor read the memo which her boss had just dictated and which Ella Davies herself brought to Matilda's office. After the private secretary had hurried back to her boss, Matilda Dowling read and reread the memo, and then smiled to herself. "It's going to be very interesting to work here, I'm quite sure," she murmured to herself. And when she smiled, there was indeed a kind of magnetic sensual aura to her, not quite so forbidding. It was the kind of look she granted Wilma when the latter especially pleased her. As she lit a cigarette and closed her eyes, she thought to herself that tonight she was really going to use the hairbrush on Wilma's big bare bottom and then they would really have a torrid consolation period in bed. She was going to get back into practice with Wilma, and she had been much too easygoing with the little darling.
There were, indeed, about to be many changes in the lives of those who, either directly or indirectly, were concerned with McNair's Department Store in Fresno.
CHAPTER FOUR
Matilda Dowling unlocked the door of her yellow-painted bungalow on Divisadero Avenue and closed the door gently. She was smiling with anticipation, and it made her look much younger than her forty-two years. The memorandum which Horace McNair had sent to her authorizing her to apply corporal punishment to girl and women shoplifters who were caught in the act and who would be obliged to sign a legal release agreeing to such punishment instead of going to jail, had absolutely delighted her. She could remember the very entertaining two years she had spent at the women's reformatory, during which time her ability to chastise and make the lesson not only felt but remembered, had earned her quite a few assignments from the superintendent to handle the incorrigible troublemakers of the institution. Because she was a lesbian, applying punishment came naturally to Matilda Dowling. Being of course, the "butch" in any sex relationship, it pleased her to take the upper hand and to be the aggressive, order giving individual in a situation. This was precisely why she had taken the stray waif Wilma Parker into her bungalow, seen to it that Wilma had plenty of food and clothing and even a couple of dollars every now and then for cigarettes and perfume and things that a girl needed. Wilma was totally dependent on her, and Matilda Dowling intended to keep that difference between the two of them very clearly indicated at all times.
The memorandum had, indeed, not only delighted her but made her sensual nature so inflamed that she had determined to find some way to chastise Wilma this very evening, just to keep in practice. It would be very easy. Wilma was not only afraid of her, but very grateful, and although the girl cried very satisfactorily and always begged for mercy during a good hard spanking, she nevertheless accepted it with a very submissive attitude. To be sure, Matilda Dowling remembered back to the days of the reformatory when she had had a couple of particularly exciting episodes with defiant young women who had refused to strip or had fought her tooth and nail before finally being strapped down over the whipping table, their coarse gray-cotton prison panties pulled down to their knees and then given a good strapping. Sometimes she had used the hairbrush because there was nothing more exciting than to hear the characteristic smack of the back of a wooden hairbrush on a girl's plump, tightly bent-over bare bottom, to see the marks spring up on the pale skin, and to observe the frantic wrigglings which the culprit's naked hips evinced when the heat began to get unbearable.
Wilma, of course, was very passive, like a little girl. When it was spanking time, she would cry, look pleadingly at Matilda Dowling, cry some more when the order was given to lower her panties, pull up her skirts and get over Matilda's lap, which she always obeyed. The spice of defiance and revolt was really what this sadistic lesbian dominatress desired. And now she believed that, thanks to Mr. McNair's latest brainstorm, she was going to have those lovely days at the reformatory begin all over again.
Of course, she didn't have to worry about the legal aspects of the matter. Horace McNair had a smart lawyer, and for sure he wasn't going to order her to do anything until he had at first checked it out. That would mean she didn't have to bother her head the least little bit if she got some society beauty hauled off to her office with orders for a bare bottom thrashing because maybe the socialite had decided to pocket a vanity case or a string of pearls. All she would have to concern herself with would be giving the culprit a really good fantailing, and it would be exciting for her as she would let Mr. McNair himself worry about the consequences. After all, she would just be an employee following orders.
First she would say she was in a very ebullient mood as she walked through the living room and moved on to the kitchen to prepare a simple supper. July in Fresno was scorching, and it was a good thing the air conditioner was working. Her own office at the store was cool as a cucumber, and that was just the way she liked it.
She was surprised when she didn't see Wilma in the kitchen. One of Wilma's chores was to prepare supper. She frowned, then grinned. This was going to give her a pretext for giving her little baby girl a good sound bottom-warming, and it would have the double virtue of getting herself in practice for the happy days that lay ahead when shoplifters were sent to her for punishment.
Opening the refrigerator, Matilda Dowling took out a loaf of Colby cheese, some pickles, the remainder of last night's cold cuts, and a pitcher of lemonade which she had made late last night. That, some sourdough French bread and maybe some cookies would make quite a satisfying and simple meal. After that, she could attend to little Wilma.
She walked into her own bedroom, and there was Wilma bending over her dresser drawer and looking up with a very guilty expression on her face. "Whatever are you doing there, honey?" Matilda Dowling frowned.
"Oh - I - I wanted to see if I can borrow a handkerchief, that's all, Aunt Matilda." One of the things which the pretty, young brunette had been taught to do, was to call her "Aunt Matilda." It made the difference between them all the more marked, and it gave Matilda herself a kind of maternal feeling, especially when she took Wilma across her lap, pulled down the girl's panties, put her left arm around Wilma's waist, and then, her right palm resting on the naked, flinching bottom-cheeks, began to lecture Wilma as if she was a nasty little child. It was a preparation that was almost a ceremonial, and it was one of the delicious nuances in the game of subjugation which most excited the matronly head of personnel for the McNair Department Store.
"I see," she said coldly. "It so happens there aren't handkerchiefs in that drawer, though, Wilma. Now what were you really looking for?"
"Oh, gee, A-Aunt Matilda," the brunette quavered, "don't get mad, I just wanted to borrow a piece of your costume jewelry, that's all, honest it is."
"Well, you could have asked me first when I got home, you know. But well let that pass for the time being. Now what about supper? That's one of your chores, baby doll, you know."
"I - I know, Aunt Matilda. I'm awful sorry, honest I am. I guess maybe I was just daydreaming. Please forgive me this time."
"You're going to get a spanking for that. And a little extra for not being thoughtful and considerate enough to ask to borrow something of mine when I got home, not going ahead and just rummaging through my things without so much as a by your leave," Matilda Dowling pronounced. "Now come eat your supper. I've already fixed it."
Wilma blushed, looked down at the floor, uttered a doleful sigh, and then followed her lesbian protectress into the kitchen.
The meal was indeed brief, and so far as conversation was concerned, it was mostly one-sided. Matilda Dowling did most of the talking, explaining to Wilma how her boss had just given her the go-ahead sign to mete out spankings to women shoplifters, because there had been far too many thefts the last few months and Mr. McNair was going to stop it one way or another. The topic didn't exactly register a hit with Wilma, because it dealt with spanking, and she was already brooding about the one she was shortly going to get.
But Matilda was in such a good humor that if it had not been that she was feeling sexy and wanted a little pussy rubbing from her protegee, she might actually have relented this one time and let Wilma off weeping. Rising from the kitchen table, she finally remarked, "I suppose we might as well get it over with, dear. Now you do the dishes and put things away like a good girl. Then come to my bedroom prepared. You know what I mean, don't you?"
Again Wilma blushed, hung her head, and stammered, "Y - yes, Aunt M - Matilda, right away."
Matilda nodded with satisfaction, turned and walked slowly towards her bedroom. Once there, she removed her black cotton dress, moved hurriedly into the bathroom and closed the door. Stripping completely naked, she got under the shower for just a minute, and then rapidly toweled herself until her carnation-pink skin was vividly flushed. Glancing at herself in the mirror, she observed that she really wasn't too unattractive. Perhaps a few pounds off her tummy, for there was really nothing wrong with her bosom or her thighs. She smiled at herself encouragingly, and once again felt she really did look a great deal more attractive than her ex-husband's girlfriend had given her credit for. Now, taking out some perfumed talcum powder from the medicine cabinet, she sprinkled a generous amount on her titties, then on her tummy, and finally along the in sides of her thighs. Briskly she rubbed it all in with her palms. Satisfied with the scent, she turned to the door and put on a black nylon wrapper which had a tiny little belt which she tied loosely about her. Thrusting her feet into a pair of comfortable open-toe sandals, she opened the bathroom door and went out to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the culprit.
She had closed the bedroom door, so it would be necessary for Wilma to knock; in a few moments, that is exactly what happened.
"Come in!" she called. The door opened slowly, and the charmingly attractive young brunette slowly entered, already beginning to sniffle. She was wearing her special punishment costume which Matilda had taught her to put on in advance of a spanking whenever such a sentence was announced. It consisted of a sleeveless white, silk blouse, a pair of child's rompers, yellow bobbysocks, and high-heeled sandals. The outfit called attention to Wilma's delicious figure and it also gave a kind of perverse quality to this singular relationship. In making Wilma look like a little girl, it gave Matilda even more the sensation that she was actually a kind of mother to this naughty little child. There was, very likely, something here of spiritual incest. But it was part of Matilda's inflexible set of rules, and Wilma had already learned to adhere to all of them.
She studied the girl as the latter slowly came forward, holding a black wooden hairbrush gingerly in both hands, and staring unhappily down at it. Wilma Parker was about five feet five and a half inches in height, and her jet-black hair was styled in a pretty bob with one big bang in the center of her forehead which emphasized the little-girl look. Her face was oval, the cheeks somewhat highset, with a dimpled little chin, and an adorable snub nose with thin and widely flaring wings. She had a full wide kissable mouth, the lower lip somewhat riper than its mate. This gave her a kind of petulant expression, which further augmented at this very moment the playacting role which she was about to undertake.
Now slowly she looked up, and her dark-brown eyes were already misty with tears in anticipation as she held out the hand brush and stammered, "I - I've been a n-naughty g - girl, Aunt M - Matilda. Please give me a good sp - spanking on my b-bare b - bottom, pl-please."
The formula enchanted Matilda Dowling. Wilma had learned it at the cost of several really stinging bare-bottom smackings, and she was extremely diligent whenever punishment time came around to make certain that she was letter-perfect in all the little rituals which her benefactress expected of her.
Matilda Dowling took the hairbrush, laid it down on the bed to her right, and then waited.
Wilma blushed vividly, and then slowly began to unbutton the rompers, which were extremely tight and shaped out the rather spacious oval cheeks of her delicious behind.
Slowly she tugged the garment down until she had it at her knees. Then taking a few hobbling steps over to Matilda's right, she slowly stretched herself out on the bed across the plump lap of her executioner, covered her face with her hands and submitted herself with a feverish little gasp.
Her skin was a warm ivory in tint, and it was rippling now as she lay with her bottom cheeks upturned and at the exact angle which Matilda Dowling desired. The tails of the blouse were just below her waist, and the dominatress now rolled them up high on the girl's white back and then curved her left arm around Wilma's supple waist. Then her eyes considered the twitching posterior offered up to her maternal discipline. There was a sinuous crease separating the two oval globes of Wilma's voluptuous bare ass, broadening slightly at the base of the two globes. The girl's thighs were delightfully slender and long, and her calves were highset and nervously muscled. Matilda thought to herself that it might be an excellent idea to have Wilma wear a ribbon bow in her hair the next time she had to put on this childish costume. But at the moment, she was quite content with life and with her protegee in particular, the more so since the young brunette had just given her a very excellent pretext for enjoying her very favorite indoor sport.
Now her right palm passed lingeringly over the huddling cheeks of the girl's bare ass, and Wilma sighed again in nervous apprehension. "It was very thoughtless of you, you naughty little girl, not to fix your Auntie's supper, you know," she chided.
"I-I know, Aunt M-Matilda. I'm sorry, I-I won't forget again, honest I won't. Please don't sp-spank me too hard, please don't!"
"You are going to get thirty good hard spanks on your bare seat, young lady," Matilda announced as she lifted the hairbrush in her right hand. "Get ready!"
Instantly Wilma's lovely lithe half-naked body stiffened as all her muscles prepared themselves for the first hot stinging kiss of a black wooden hairbrush. Matilda Dowling, a true voluptuary, was in no hurry. She very lightly tapped each of the girl's bottomglobes with the back of the brush, and then lifted it high in the air and held it suspended like a Damoclean sword.
This period of waiting was always one of the most agonizing features of punishment for poor Wilma. Feverishly, she turned her flushed face back over her left shoulder to stare imploringly at the black-haired matronly woman. Several nervous tremors surged along her thighs and bottom, and then Matilda Dowling tightened the grip of her left hand against the warm satiny waist, and brought the hairbrush down with a crisp "Thwack!"
"Oh, ooooh, golly, it hurts, Aunt Matilda!" Wilma groaned, again looking nervously back at her executioner.
"It is meant to, you naughty girl. Maybe next time you'll be thinking about supper instead of trying to snitch something that belongs to me." Again the hairbrush fell, this time on the other bottomcheek, making the flesh flatten and then spring up in all its youthful resilience.
Wilma wailed, kicked up one lovely leg, and then squirmed nervously over the dominatress' lap.
Now having established a regular rhythm to the spanking, Matilda Dowling resumed. At intervals of about ten seconds between spanks, she visited the squirming ivory bottom ovals with sharp, crisp smacks of the flat surface of the hairbrush. Swiftly the ivory epidermis turned a bright pink, then a vivid scarlet. By the time the halfway mark was reached, Wilma was crying as if her heart would break, crossing and uncrossing her lovely legs, trying at times to wiggle off and pleading tearfully for mercy as well as making many frantic promises that she would be a very good girl from now on.
But the spanking went on till the final smack as ordained, and when at last it was over, Wilma was crying pitifully and was rubbing her flaming bottom with both hands as she lay abandoned over Matilda Dowling's lap.
"Now that it's over, I'll forgive you, pet," the woman crooned. "I'D make it up to my poor little baby, you'll see."
Slowly Wilma rolled onto her side, and then took off her blouse while Matilda herself yanked down the rompers. In bobbysocks and sandals alone, the lovely naked young brunette was ready for consolation.
Matilda Dowling swiftly removed her nylon wrapper, and rolled over onto her back. With a whimpering little sob, the naked young brunette promptly crawled over her benefactress, but in reverse, so that her trembling, soft red lips were poised over Matilda's thickly furred cunt hole. Meanwhile, shivering with passion, the mature dominatress reached up to grasp Wilma's sleek satiny hips and drew the girl's loins down to her own avid mouth. Her lips at once impressed a lingering kiss on the soft twitching and already moist lips of Wilma's pussy, and the girl moaned rapturously. Then, feverishly, as if to distract herself from the burning heat that still blazed in her scarlet-tinted, jutting, squirming bottom, Wilma began to gamahuch her executioner until both women, groaning and sobbing with bliss, threshed and squirmed and writhed in the throes of hot creaming.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two days after Horace McNair had sent the fateful memorandum to Matilda Dowling authorizing her to be in charge of spankings for female shoplifters, Horace's handsome wife Corinne decided to make a quick shopping trip to Patterson's to buy herself a new panty girdle. Corinne had just about come to the conclusion that if she wanted Horace back in bed on a regular basis for fucking purposes, she was going to have to make an aggressive pitch to win him back. She was fairly certain that he was having an affair on the side, though, to give him full credit, she had to admit to herself that thus far she hadn't had any clues as to who it might be. To be sure his occasional phone calls from the store indicating that he was going to work on inventory or other problems certainly would have furnished him with an excellent pretext if he were carrying on, and she had no doubt that that was exactly how he was using those calls - assuming that she could catch him red-handed.
It had irked Corinne considerably to have had to spank her daughter Patricia and then be told she was nothing but an old square, in so many words. Maybe it was true. She had studied herself in the mirror before going downtown, and it was certainly true that a session at Adorno's Beauty Salon might be just what she needed. And of course, a new dress and hat. But most of all, attractive lingerie, for she knew that Horace, at least in their earlier days, had loved to watch her parade around in her scanties.
Of course, she was getting close to forty, and she didn't want to think about it. There was no reason why losing a few pounds here and there, getting a new hairdo, a facial, a good body massage and some slinky new clothes might be just the perfect combination to vamp Horace back to bed. Come to think of it, he had been averaging only three or four fuckings a month, and that was even below his average for the past two or three years. Decidedly, there must be another woman.
But as luck would have it, luscious Martha Wilson also decided to go down to Patterson's this morning because she wanted a pair of very brief nylon panties, panties that would expose the base of her creamy bottom. There was something that Horace didn't know about Martha - that she had suddenly fallen very much in love, and not with him. Certainly she enjoyed the things he gave her, and she had to admit that he was very virile, and could make her juice and cream in the process. But he was always so much engrossed in his business that he sometimes forgot and treated her as if she was bought and paid for and she had begun subconsciously to resent it.
So when she had met Al Porter at a Standard Oil service station out on Fulton Avenue a couple of weeks back while she was taking her Chevy out for a spin (another present from Horace) she had felt her pussylips twitch excitedly. Al Porter was sleek, black-haired, tall and rangy, and he had a perfectly divine smile and the whitest teeth you ever saw. He was working there, he had explained, until he could find a decent job, for he had big plans, and just three nights before this episode, when Martha had known that Horace was in Bakersfield trying to swing a deal for some merchandise that hadn't moved in the main department store there but which would move in his because of the promotional gimmick he was going to tie it up with, she had invited Al over to her lovenest and let him fuck her.
It had just been super!
In the first place, Al had begun, after getting her undressed, by fondling her thighs and then kissing them From there, he had thrilled her by gamahuching her almost to puss juicing, so that when he stuck his huge, throbbing prick into her warm, quivering snatch, she had just about burst with joy. It had been one of the most thrilling fucks she could remember, and she made up her mind she was going to try to help Al get a better job so that he could earn enough to keep her, at which time she would serve notice on Horace that she really wanted a younger guy.
Once again as fate had it, Martha Wilson stood in front of a counter on which piles of frilly, sexy panty combinations were arrayed just about the time Corinne McNair was leaving the panty girdle section with her purchase already wrapped. She glanced over at Martha and observed mechanically that here was a really attractive girl, maybe just the type that Horace would go for. But Martha Wilson, in her turn, recognized Corinne, because one evening when he had been almost tipsy from too much Swiss Colony wine, Horace had taken out a wallet and quickly shown her a picture of his wife and daughter taken about three years ago.
Martha Wilson studied her rival. She was really a handsome piece, except that she could stand a new hairdo and a good workout in a health salon. With that vanity born of youth, she arched her titties out and smiled pleasantly at Corinne McNair, who observing this, returned the smile and then walked on. Of such petty and seemingly inconsequential incidents, destiny is often composed.
* * *
Martha wanted to keep him all to herself, but Al Porter's rugged good looks and almost gigolo-like manners had already attracted the attention of other females in Fresno besides luscious Martha Wilson. Al Porter was twenty-seven, had never been married and had no intention of doing so (unless it meant a sudden leap into wealth), but that was not to say he had not thoroughly explored the feminine psyche as well as the feminine physique.
Indeed, at the age of fourteen he had enjoyed his first fuck, bribing a pretty sixteen-year-old nymphet whom he had lusted for in high school at Tulare, where he had been born to a father who had already departed this world in a tavern brawl about a year after Al's birth, and to a mother who, after losing her husband, had taken on a series of boarders who had also shared her bed.
Al had left home shortly after being initiated into the pleasures to be derived between a girl's squirming thighs and her itching, tight pussy. As for Rosalie herself, the nymphet in question, she hadn't believed that a boy of fourteen could shag, and she had sort of dared him. Rosalie put out for a price, but in a discriminating way, and the deal was that if Al could get a real hard on and make her come, the ride would be free. Otherwise he would pay the tariff, which was five dollars. Al didn't have five dollars to his name, but even at fourteen he had a virile cock which he had nurtured by frequent masturbation. He had spied on his mother fucking, many a time, as early as the age of eight, to be exact, and so knew the facts of life much better than he could have learned them in any book.
Rosalie Cammering was therefore a most surprised teenager when the black-haired, wiry boy eased himself down on her squirming body and to her astonishment began to suck her titties, run his hand under her asscheeks and prod her asshole. None of her other lovers-for-pay had done much more than cram it in, juice off, and pull it out wanly. He also knew how to Frenchkiss, and before long Rosalie quite forgot that she was in the business for profit and enthusiastically locked him to her with her arms and legs. Expecting only a quick and premature episode on his part, she had deigned only to lower her panties and pull up her skirt and petticoat. But after a few minutes of his loveplay, before he even tried to enter her pussy, she had gasped, "Oh honey, you're really good, you are! Lemme get my duds off fast and you do too. I want to feel bare skin and bare skin when I screw, I really do. Oh lover, just look it that hard-on you got-you gotta be kidding when you say you're only fourteen!"
But Al wasn't kidding and as soon as Rosalie had taken off everything except her bobbysocks, he showed her that his huge erection was no fluke. Not only did he fuck her once and bring her to come, but after it was over, he took her hand and made her play with his balls and cock until he had a second go at her. This was even more thrilling, because having juiced off and got rid of the tension, Al was able to exert a great deal of self-control and to screw Rosalie until she was practically limp and panting and begging off.
After he had run away from home, he had jobs in grocery stores, service stations and farm equipment shops all over the San Joaquin Valley, until he had at last come to Fresno.
That had been eight months ago, and many a lovely matron as well as some not so lovely but jaded and yearning for male affection which they didn't get at home, came by the station, observed his rugged features, his classic profile and high arching forehead and just the hint of bluish-gray five o'clock shadow on his jaws and cheeks, for he needed to shave twice a day. But that glint made him seem the more virile.
Hence, before Martha Wilson had decided to make him her personal protege, a stunningly handsome divorcee by the name of Maxine Elliott had already hired Al to her two-level ranch house out on Benning Road, not far from the Hacienda Motel. Maxine Elliott was thirty-five, auburn-haired and coiffured in a mannish bob which, in combination with her svelte figure and haughty, supercilious expression, gave her a kind of exasperating allure to the opposite sex and often the impression that she was probably a dyke. Nothing could be farther from the truth, and Al Porter was privileged to find this out.
He also discovered that she was loaded, for her husband, a philandering owner of a soft-drink bottling firm with branches in Fresno and Bakers field and headquarters in Los Angeles, had made her a huge settlement to avoid scandal. Maxine herself had managed to conduct many extramarital affairs without detection, but her husband was not quite so clever. That was how she had milked him for enough money to last her the rest of her sophisticated, rather bored life.
And Al Porter had decided if he was going to marry anyone, it was going to be Maxine.
There was at least a million and a half in her own trust fund from her parents and an uncle, including the handsome cash settlement made by her ex-hubby.
He also discovered something else. Maxine Elliot liked to pretend that she despised men and was infinitely superior to them, but secretly she yearned to be cuffed around and humbled to know her place. He didn't find that out until the second time they fucked. The first time, when she invited him home after his working hours one November evening, she had been planning a trip to Los Angeles the very next morning and had decided to give him just an hour or two to see if he was as good in bed as he looked with those tight service-uniform pants on. She poured him a drink, excused herself, came back in a quilted blue housecoat and high heeled red leather pumps, sat down beside him and asked him about himself. Al had learned to talk without too many vulgarisms in the presence of his peers, and so he didn't shock or offend Maxine - although she might at that time have an even higher opinion of him if he had sworn at her like a stevedore, ripped off the housecoat and laid her then and there on the couch.
She began simply by sliding her tapering fingers, beautifully polished, up and down his knee and thigh, working ever closer to his knee and crotch. He had guessed that she wanted a good hard ride and that was why she had brought him home, but he wanted to play it cool so she wouldn't think he had his tongue hanging out for pussy. As soon as he got a look at some of the furniture and bric-a-brac in this house of hers, he knew that she was a treasure to be cultivated so that he could get his full share. And a one-night stand was not the way to wealth in Fresno. There were too many adulterous couples meeting at the motel beyond the Fig Garden as well as at the other end of Fresno, who came and went in perhaps an hour and then sought new partners in their brittle, tediously bored attempt to brighten the monotonous life that went on in the San Joaquin Valley.
But when her fingertip began to rub his inner thigh just where it joined the groin, he got the general idea. He reached over, his left arm going around her shoulder very lightly, and with his right hand dragged down the zipper of the housecoat, exposing pert, orange-like titties and a deep belly with a navel-nook and just a glint of her dark-red pussyhair. She smiled at him, expecting him to go ravening mad. Instead, almost reverently, he began to cup her titties, his tongue saluting each in turn. Then he kissed each in turn, and his tongue flicked against her nipples, tracing the aurolae until she began to shiver and moan and clutch at his face, rumpling his hair with her polished fingers. In a few minutes, the housecoat was completely off and she had one arm over her face and was clawing at the couch with the fingernails of the other while, her knees high up in the air and hugely straddled, Al Porter was bowing his head to her tasty cunt and teaching her the joys of being gamahuched. Despite her many sexual affairs, it was a new experience for Maxine Elliot. No man had ever taken the trouble to lick her pussy before. And so that first experience had so enthralled her that she had driven by the service station the very afternoon she got back from Los Angeles and invited him to come out to dinner at her house.
This time it was a far more leisurely affair and Al Porter had time to delve deeply not only into Maxine Elliott's seething cunt, but also into her pet quirks about letting a real man take the upper hand of her.
She had a neighborhood caterer serve supper, and then they had adjourned to the living room for champagne and cigarettes. There was only a small lamp burning in the opposite comer of the room, the thick drapes were drawn to shut out intruders and peeping toms, and Maxine Elliott had arrayed herself in a red satin housecoat with matching pumps. It was just before her time of the month, and she was sizzling, so she began to toy with his neck with one hand while with the other hand she moved up and down his thigh in the most suggestive manner possible. Al, however, had a certain streak of selfishness and he hadn't finished his cigarette or the glow from the champagne yet. He fondled her, pushed her hand away, and grumbled, "Take it easy, doll. There's a time and place for everything."
"Oh there is, is there?" she had flared up, her hazel eyes sparkling with anger. "Well, maybe when you want it, I won't be in the mood and you'd better leave. It's been nice having you for dinner, Al."
"So you want to play bitch, do you, baby?" he had chuckled. He looked at her sternly, then seized her by the elbows. Maxine Elliott had just time to utter a yipe of startled fear as she found herself being hauled over his lap. The next thing she knew, he had yanked down the back zipper of the housecoat and then started to tug the rest of the garment down over her shapely, spacious ass, working it down to a point just below her thighs, while she fought and twisted and struck back at him with her fist quite uselessly.
"Fuck you anyhow, you bastard! You can just get out of here! That's a fine way to treat me!" she had raged.
But his eyes had feasted on the tantalizing globes of her bottom, velvety smooth, their skin tint a delicious tawny sheen. "Not so fast, Maxine baby," he had told her, his left arm holding her waist tight as in a vise. "First you're going to learn some manners. Just because you're Mrs. Rich Bitch doesn't give you any leeway to order people around, see?"
And with this, raising his right hand, he had brought it down with all his might on the base of her right asscheek. Maxine Elliott had uttered a wailing scream of mingled pain and indignation, twisting her face around, her eyes blazing! "Ow! You dirty bastard, cut that out! You let go of me or I'll call the police. You've no right to do this to me!"
"Look who's talking!" he had jibed. "You bring me up here and shag me, and now you're gone modest all of a sudden. I saw your ass before, Maxine, and I'm going to see a lot more of it before the night is over. Just like this!" And then his hand had come down on the other cheek at about the same place, and a flaming splotch had leaped up on her tawny bare skin, and Maxine had wailed her chagrin and tried desperately to twist herself off the couch. But his right leg was clamping over her knees, the housecoat was rumpled down around her upper thighs, and she was absolutely helpless. His arm around her waist nearly took her breath away and his hand went on rising and falling, alternating on the cheeks of her tossing, twisting, naked ass until it was a flaming red from chinkbone to the tops of her long, sleek thighs.
By then, her indignation had given way to genuine discomfort and pain, but with it also a recrudescence of her masochistic yearning to be bested by a really virile cocksmith. By the time he had reached the count of fifty, she had begun to plead: "Owww-owwwhh-ouu!
Oh darling, I'm so sorry - aiii - awwouu! I'll be good, Al dear, only please, don't spank me any more, you're killing me-ahrr - oh, hick me instead, I want to be fucked so badly, oh, give it to me, give it to me, lover!"
He had paused, out of breath, his hand stinging, to contemplate her naked posterior, and for a moment he had a certain amount of contrition over the fiery and inflamed state in which he had left those satiny bottomglobes of hers, but her face turned back to him, her eyes limpid and huge now, even though blinded by tears, lips trembling and her nostrils flaring wildly. Her dainty aquiline nose was an indication of her sensual temperament, and as she turned, he could catch sight of her left tittie, somewhat pendant but ripe and luscious with a dark coral narrow circle and a voluptuously ripe nipplebud. He could feel his prick about to burst through his trouser's fly, and this time he was in the mood as much as she was.
But he didn't even bother to take off his trousers. Instead, yanking down his zipper, fumbling at his shorts, he liberated his massive prick. Then, tumbling her onto the floor, so that she landed with a thud on her sore bottom and let out another yell of pain, he was on her in a flash before she could scramble to her feet. With a cry she felt his massive prick dig into her cunthole and his hand gouge her titties as his fingernails sank into the sensitive globes. His mouth silenced her cries, and he began to fuck her with a rapid savagery which thrilled her to the very marrow. In a few minutes she was struggling to get loose of her rumpled housecoat and finally managed to scuff it off as well as her mules.
Then her bare heels locked around his bottom, her fingernails stabbed his shoulder blades and her pert tongue lashed his lips and mouth walls as her body arched up to meet his thrusts. He could feel the hard buds of her titties scrape and flatten against his chest, and he went on fucking her in a kind of vengeful anger. But it was exactly the medicine Maxine's thirsty, yearning cunt needed. And when she felt his burst of bubbling essence deep in her cunt canal, she uttered a wailing cry and clung to him with all her might as her body jerked and quaked in answering, tumultuous girl spending.
She nearly fainted from the frenzy of her emotions, and when at last her thick eyelashes began to flutter and her eyelids drew back and she stared up at his contorted face, wearing a crooked grin of triumph, she breathed, "Oh Al, lover, that was just heaven! If I'm ever bitchy again, you know just what to do, don't you, honey-boy?"
He did indeed, and there had been several similar sessions until this hot summer. So Martha Wilson's hope of making him her protege was bound to backfire, if only because Maxine Elliott, her rival for Al's vigorous prick, was far wealthier than Horace McNair's luscious brunette secretary was ever going to be.
CHAPTER SIX
Matilda Dowling could hardly wait for the great experiment to begin. For a little practice session with Wilma Parker had made her all the more impatient to have a mature, even prominent socialite become the first victim of the new store policy concerning shoplifters.
To that end, she had brought a briefcase from her bungalow, into which she had placed several of her favorite spanking implements just to be ready. It was true that a good hand spanking on the bare bottom, especially of a grown woman, would be extremely humiliating. And Amazonian as she was, it would doubtless hurt a good deal. But Matilda Dowling herself preferred a leather sole, a black leather strap about fourteen inches long and about a quarter of an inch thick with a double thickness at the gripping end, the same old-fashioned wooden hairbrush which she delighted to use on pretty young Wilma's tender bottom, and a whippy short cane, actually made from a dowel stick. It was about a foot long, as thick as a pencil, extremely flexible and swishy. On one end she had taped about two inches of good strong adhesive, to form an efficient grip for herself.
Wilma had tasted the dowel stick just once, and hadn't liked it at all. It had the same smacking, salacious sound that a cane had on a girl's bare bottom, and it left even more vivid marks which took a long time to fade. Wilma had gotten the dowel stick about ten days ago when she had dropped one of Matilda's favorite platters while serving dinner.
After a hand spanking, the strawberry-blonde had to get the hairbrush and take forty with that, and then finish with six good stingers from the dowel stick, kneeling on the chair and with her neck gripped by Matilda's left hand so that she wouldn't squirm out of position.
She had tearfully told her benefactress that she would much rather take an entire spanking with the hairbrush than even those few licks with the dowel stick. And in her professional capacity as personal supervisor and as one who moreover was going to supervise and deal out corporal punishments to the employees as well as the shoplifters, Matilda Dowling was quite interested in learning her pretty maid-slave's reaction to this instrument.
Meanwhile, Corinne McNair, who was still bored and distracted because her husband was spending too much time at the store and not enough with her, had decided to go for a drive this Thursday afternoon. She glanced at the gas gauge and discovered that she had only about a gallon left, so she headed the car for the nearest service station. It turned out to be the one at which Al Porter worked. And the minute she saw his unruly shock of black hair, his attentive manner, and his soft, cajoling voice, she began to feel twitches in her pussy and a tingling in her nipples that augured the wakening of a passion which Horace McNair had never fully satisfied and was practically ignoring right now.
"My gracious, you really take a lot of care with your customers," she cooed as she watched him wash the windshield diligently, and then check the air pressure of the tires of her Impala.
"It's part of our service, ma'am," Al Porter smiled. Corinne McNair shivered. He had excellent white teeth, and in her mind's eye she was imagining that he was nibbling at one of her titties or maybe even at her pussy. The thought nearly made her faint with lust, and the lips of her pussy were twitching and already moistening her sheer white nylon panties.
She had decided to wear a garter belt and hose and panties rather than her customary panty girdle and today she looked particularly seductive. She had her sandy-blonde hair restyled, into a kind of feather bob which was very girlish and youthful. She had a facial massage as well as a rub down from a big rawboned operator named Hertha Elg, who said she was from Stockholm. And since she knew that Horace would be down at the store again tonight with his perennial inventory, she felt gay and adventurous, like for example having dinner out by herself and maybe, now that she had seen this very handsome young man, inviting him to keep her company.
"I was wondering what time you get off, Mr. - Mr.-?" she cooed, giving him a very coy smile.
Al Porter thought quickly. He almost had a date tonight with Maxine Elliot, but it wasn't too firm. And this was a really well-stacked dame, and judging by the newness of the Impala, she must be pretty well-heeled on her own. It wouldn't do any harm to cultivate friends in Fresno. Maxine Elliot was the capricious type who could just as soon toss him out on his ear as invite him to her bed. He knew what she wanted, but she might even get tired of that.
"Well, about six o'clock, to be exact. Why?"
Meeting the frank candor of his eyes, Corinne McNair had the grace to blush; "Because - well, I was going to ask you if you'd mind having dinner with me. I'm all by myself, at loose ends, and I hate to eat alone. You know how it is."
"Sure I do. Well, thanks, that would be great. Where do you want to eat?"
"I was thinking at the Hotel Californian," she said rashly. It was one of the oldest dining rooms in Fresno, but it hadn't been doing too well and she knew the headwaiter Louis, who would be sure to seat them out of the way so that there wouldn't be too much danger of their being seen together. Not that Horace would ever know or even care, she thought bitterly to herself.
"That's terrific, Mrs.-" Now it was his turn to hedge to find out her name.
"Just call me Corinne. Or better still, Rinny," she giggled, feeling particularly triumphant over the way he was staring at her. Hertha had done a wonderful job, and so had Isobel, the girl who had worked on her hair and given her the facial. She felt wicked, as she had on her wedding night with Horace McNair. It had been so long ago she didn't even like to think about it. She was too close to forty to want to remember that far back.
"That's a nice name, Rinny." He grinned boyishly. "Suppose I meet you there around seven-thirty?"
"Wonderful! Don't fail me now. I'd just die if I had to eat all alone." She flashed him a dazzling smile as she turned on the ignition.
He didn't fail her. Dressed in one of the two best suits he had, he was waiting in the lobby of the Hotel Californian when she entered, wearing a soft pink cotton dress and matching suit coat which outlined the buxom and yet very desirable curves of her titties and ass and thighs. Louis, like a fellow conspirator, aided her plans by finding them a booth at the back and side of the restaurant. An elderly waitress took their orders, and Al ordered lobster Thermidor with a kind of boyish eagerness.
"Tell me about yourself, Al," she purred, taking a cigarette out of her pack and waiting for him to light it. He really had nice manners. But there was a smoldering kind of primitive manliness to him, and she could hardly wait to find out what it would really make her feel like once he put that cock of his into her soft pussy.
They shared a bottle of Chablis, from a local vineyard, between them. At the end of the meal, Corinne McNair felt the spirit of adventure glow even more brightly in her psyche.
She leaned back and smiled at him: "Well, Al, that was lovely, wasn't it? What would you like to do now?"
"I better not tell you," he grinned again as he lit his own cigarette.
"Oh don't be a tease! What?" she fished.
"I know I called you Ma'am a little while back at the station," he said, leaning across the table to make it seem very intimate and confidential, "But I hope I'm wrong."
"And why do you hope that, Al?"
"Oh gee, you sure put a guy on the spot, don't you, Rinny?" He pretended to be embarrassed. "Because if you weren't married, I'd sure make a play for you. You're stuff!"
It had been a long time since even Horace had told Corinne McNair that she was stuff, so she basked in the pleasure of the compliment. "It's very sweet of you to say. Well, yes, I am married. Only my husband doesn't seem to remember it. He's always busy at his business, or else maybe he's got a girl friend on the side."
"And you figure that what's sauce for the goose oughta be sauce for the gander too, don't you?" was his sly reply.
Corinne blushed and looked down at her empty coffee cup. Gentlemanly throughout, Al reached for the pot and filled her cup. She smiled at him, because he was really so good looking, and well-mannered. And Horace, with his ever-present smell of cigars when he did come to bed with her, had a lot to learn when it came to making a woman feel at her ease and feeling wanted. "Thank you so much. Would you like to see a movie, maybe, Al?" She pretended to ignore the ardent look in his eyes as he kept leaning across the table and staring at her. She glanced nervously around just to make sure that Louis or the waiter or maybe one of her friends wasn't watching. But the dining room was hardly occupied at all tonight.
"Now you know perfectly well I don't want to go to a movie. Hold hands? That's kid stuff, Rinny," he murmured huskily. "I'll probably get my face slapped for telling you what I'd really like to do."
"No you won't. I encouraged you, remember? Tell me. Please tell me," she begged.
She heard herself say what she was saying, and it seemed to her that she was standing to one side like the voice of her own conscience, quite well aware that what she was doing was a very dangerous game. But there was a certain stubbornness in Corinne McNair also, and it came from the fact that Horace had neglected his connubial duties. Therefore, in her opinion, he had no right to question her motives for what she was about to do - and that involved having Al Porter to herself and, if he wanted to screw her, to let him.
"I'll bet you're scared to tell me," she teased.
"No I'm not. I'd like to take you over to my place and love you up, Rinny," came his husky answer.
Corinne squirmed in her seat, glad that the booth table was covering her legs. She was rubbing her thighs together, and the soft fragile nylon panties felt wonderful, pressing so snugly up against her pussy. There was a fire burning there and he was going to put it out for her, she knew.
He looked at her, almost challengingly. "Well, Rinny, you heard me. Aren't you going to slap my face and tell me to go to hell?"
"Oh now!" she breathed ecstatically. She reached out and impulsively grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "I'd just love to have you do that. Shall we go now?"
Al Porter told himself that Fresno was getting to be interesting all of a sudden. He had Maxine Elliot on the side, he had that juicy hot-pussied brunette Martha Wilson just about ready to come running whatever he crooked his little finger at her, and now he was making a new contact with a looker in a fairly new Impala, who dressed and talked the way only a well-to-do married woman would. And married women were the best kind, because they were usually neglected in bed by their better halves, and besides they were generous and gave you presents. If his luck kept up like this, one of these days he would be off to San Francisco. He'd heard that there were plenty of "Snob Hill" dowagers and Junior Leaguers who were just dying to be serviced by a real man. In the City by the Golden Gate, from what he had heard, most of the men were that way about one another.
At least, that was what one of his buddies had told him.
But at the moment, the prospect of laying this blonde piece was extremely entertaining. "I can't offer you much of a place, Rinny," he said apologetically. "I just rent a room in a boarding house, but it so happens my landlady's out of town in Turlock the rest of this week. I wish it were something fancy, like maybe that Hacienda or even this place here."
"Your place will be just fine, Al dear. Please let's go now," Corinne McNair impatiently urged.
Al Porter's room was actually not much more than a living-room set up with an indoor bed and bathroom. Still, it had nice view on a quite residential street with plenty of hedges and trees, and it was on the second floor, which eliminated the risk of having somebody stand outside and look in. He wasn't too good a housekeeper, she noticed with a fastidious wrinkle of her dainty nose, but that wasn't important. She could hardly wait to feel his arms around her. And, sensing this, the minute they got inside the door, before he flicked on the light switch, Al Porter took her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on the mouth.
"There," he muttered softly, "That's just to let you know what you're in for. So if you got any ideas about not coming across, baby, better say good night while you still can."
It made her shiver, it was so wickedly delicious, and more than ever now she knew that she wanted to be fucked. She wanted him to treat her just like a whore, as if she weren't married at all. She hadn't had a good workout in bed from Horace for at least six months, because when he did come to bed, it was just a bang-bang-thank-you-ma'am affair. And from what she knew of Horace's appetite for pussy, she was pretty sure with each new day that all the signs of apathy and disinterest in her weren't really that at all, but manifestly Horace's interest in some younger woman. Oh, if she could only get her hands on her, the little bitch-cat! "I don't want to go, I didn't come here just to say good night," she whispered back.
It was the right answer so far as Al Porter was concerned. He began to slip off the suit coat and pretty soon his expert fingers were opening the waistband of the matching skirt and letting it festoon her ankles. Standing in her slip, with her thin matching white nylon bra and panties and garter belt on, Corinne McNair felt extremely girlish and naughty, which was precisely the mood she wanted to entertain for what was about to take place.
"You're gorgeous, Rinny," he flattered her, his hands moving down to squeeze her round full bottomcheeks through the slip and panties. Corinne McNair sighed, closed her eyes, pressed herself against him. She could feel the hard bulge in his fly, and she knew that he wanted her. It was really thrilling and very flattering. Exactly what she needed for her ego, to be exact. A little wooing before bed was the best way, she'd always felt. Even when Horace did fuck her, he didn't go for much loveplay.
"You are married, though, aren't you?" he muttered as he nuzzled her neck with his lips.
"Please don't remind me, dear. I'm just Rinny now, remember? Oh, hold me tight, love me good, Al. It's been so long - well, never mind. Just love me!" she blurted.
Her titties were beginning to rise and fall agitatedly, and when she felt his prick rub against her cunt, an electrifying current seemed to flow between their bodies. She felt so weak in the knees that she was afraid that she was going to collapse. She yearningly looked at her eyes humid and dilated. "Please, darling, do it to me!" she urged.
Al Porter grinned to himself. It was duck soup, it was walking into a candy factory with the door wide open and no one around. It was funny how in a time like this all these gorgeous married chicks just couldn't get enough of cock, and it was always a cock that didn't belong to their husbands that they really wanted. One of these days somebody would write an article in the paper to all the husbands in Fresno and tell them how to keep their wives satisfied, and then of course guys like himself would be out of business. But right now, business was wonderful.
"I'll see if I can't take good care of you, baby," he huskily muttered. He slipped off the straps of her slip and let it fall to the floor to join the skirt. Then he drew her towards the bed, which he hadn't made that morning when he left for work. But Corinne McNair didn't mind, though normally she would've been much too high-toned to tolerate such laxity in her own house.
"You really are gorgeous," he repeated. The white nylon bra showed the nuggets of her nipples prodding through, the dark aureoles which circled them, and the full ripe verve of titties that still had plenty of firmness and juice and life to them to be interesting even to an experienced cocksmith like Al Porter. Her bare skin at midriff and at upper thighs wasn't bad, either. Experimentally, he put his left palm on the small of her back, rubbing against the waistband of the panties, then began to pull them down very slowly and slyly. Corinne McNair didn't object. She uttered a little "Oohhhooooh!" and pressed tightly against him, grinding her cunt to his prick and making no mistake that he understood what it was she needed most.
"Let me undress you too!" she begged.
"Sure, baby. Wait till I slip your bra off. Yummy, you got nice big knockers, I love them that way," he breathed. He cupped her titties, buried his face in the valley, rubbed his cheek against their lush satiny curves, and Corinne's head fell back and her eyes closed and an dreamy expression appeared on her lovely face. His hands had taken over her bottom now, squeezing and pinching the cheeks lustily. She was wild for it, and she felt her heart beat so rapidly she was afraid it would be heard.
"Okay now, baby, now go ahead," he muttered.
She slipped off his light summer coat, undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and ran her fingers down his hairy chest. He grinned at her as his hands continued to squeeze her asscheeks. By now the furious tickling in Corinne's pussy had magnified so greatly she thought she would collapse.
Unbuttoning his shirt completely, she tugged off his undershirt, and with her fingertips touched the paps on his chest, then bent and kissed each in turn. He grinned crookedly.
She really must be hard up for prick, but he wasn't going to turn her down. He figured her about in her mid-thirties or nearly forty, but she really had a shape, and soft skin to boot.
Then her fingers began to unbuckle his belt, and soon she had his trousers dangling at his ankles, spreading over the floor. Now she could see the bulge against his shorts, and it was formidable.
Playfully, he reached back, grabbed the tabs of her garter belt, and drew them out, then snapped them against her legs. She uttered a little squeal, "Ouch, that's naughty, honey!
You let Mama get you ready, now. I want you so much, Al dear!"
Now, boldly, she unbuttoned his shorts and shoved them down, and gasped to see the swollen ramrod ready for her cunt. Hastily, she brushed her forefinger over the tip, because there were certain things which she hadn't really learned to do effectively in fucking. That was Horace's fault, but tonight she wanted to make up for that shortcoming.
The feel of his hands on her bottom was absolutely marvelous, indescribably thrilling.
"Let's go to bed, Rinny doll," he muttered into her ear, as his hands moved up and round to squeeze her titties. Then his right palm moved down along her belly and to the furry snatch, rubbing the lips gently back and forth while she moaned and squirmed against him.
"Oh yes, oh Al, yes!" she breathed rhapsodically.
He took her by the hand and led her toward the rumpled bed. She knelt down, while he kicked off his shoes and took off his socks and was naked for her. His wiry, hairy body was vigorous and strong, and she shivered, putting her hands to her titties and cupping them out as if offering them to him. Then he lay down on his back and reached out his arms to her, laughingly murmuring, "Now then, why don't you do all the work, since you want it bad?"
Corinne McNair frowned, the lovely idyll suddenly rudely broken. "What do you mean, Al?"
"What I said. Why don't you get over me and take it away from me? Open up that sweet snatch of yours and feed my cock to it, baby, and then we'll fuck," there was almost a contemptuous tone to his voice.
Corinne McNair stiffened, and her face flamed. "Now wait a minute," she said sharply.
"Don't be ordering me around."
"I suppose you think you're doing me a favor, baby? There are lots of dames want to get shagged, and I wouldn't have time for all of them that came around to the station. You're something special, so don't go acting like a bitch."
"Well, I like that!" she gasped, her color heating even more in her cheeks and even in her temples. "I thought you were a gentleman. You acted so nice at dinner - "
"This is bed, remember? Now get down here and do your stuff, baby. You mean to say you never been on top of your hubby and fucked him that way?" Al rudely queried.
"Ohhh! That - that's none of your business, and it's insulting. I think - I think I made a mistake, I'm going to go home."
"Not yet, you aren't. Come stay awhile, Rinny baby. It's going to get better every minute, you'll see," he chuckled. Then he reached out for her, and grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her until she toppled onto the bed beside him.
Indignantly, Corinne McNair, naked except for garter belt, hose and pumps, struggled to get loose. But quick as a flash, Al Porter knelt up, the palm of his left hand against the small of her back to maintain her on her belly. Then he began to spank her bottom with vehement blows as he lifted his right hand high and brought it down with a noisy crack.
"I see I got to teach you a little lesson, Rinny. Maybe you're a prick teaser after all. Lead a guy on and then won't give, is that your game? It doesn't work with Mother's little boy Al, though. I'll warm you up, see if I don't," he threatened.
Again his hand fell, and Corinne McNair uttered a wailing cry and began to kick her legs about frantically. She couldn't budge, because his left palm was bearing down with all his weight behind it. Having found this game delightful with Maxine Elliot, it was a small wonder that he continued it with Corinne. His hand rose and then it fell some fifty times, until finally Corinne McNair's gnawing her lips with her teeth, began to call out and to wail her pain, "Oww - you're killing me - oh please stop - what do I have to do to get you to stop? No more, oh please, no more!"
Al Porter had never buggered a girl, but he felt like doing it now. Corinne McNair, juicy round full bottomglobes, flaming and twitching and contracting, excited him. Before she realized his intention, he had put his palms on both reddened asscheeks, yawned them apart, and crammed his cock against the puckering pink cleft which led to her bowels.
"Ohh, no, not that way - oh you'll tear me to pieces-don't do it to me, Al!" she tearfully begged.
But he was adamant. Forcing the tip of his prick against the soft lips of her shrinking asshole, he pushed himself forward. A frantic cry proclaimed that Corinne McNair was on the verge of losing the cherry of her asshole, for even Horace had never claimed that as his marital right.
Her face contorted, her eyes staring and full of tears, her fists hammering on the rumpled bed, she cried out hysterically, "Oww - oh Al, stop it - you're hurting me - you're tearing me there, oh it won't go in, oh take it out, you're just a dirty brute, an animal to use me like this - I don't want you to anymore - stop it - oh please, you're hurting me, you really are - owwwahhhh!"
"Relax, baby," he grunted, "bigger things have come out of there than what's going in right now. Anyhow, I'm going to help you make it over the top, you'll see."
His left hand was gripping the scruff of her neck to keep her pinned down on her belly in position. He had his prick halfway in her asshole, and now his right forefinger edged under her abdomen and down to her pussy, where he found the dainty button of her tickler. He began to flatten and rub this energetically, and Corinne McNair's eyes bulged and her body shook and squirmed at the sudden awareness of what that magical touch was doing to her senses; "Ahh - oh darling-oh please, take it - take it easy - oohhhoohhhouuu!!!! Oh Al, you're driving me crazy-you'll kill me - ohhh!" she moaned.
As she jerked and squirmed, he forced himself homeward, till at last he was inside her asshole to the very balls. All the while, he kept rubbing her tickler, and Corinne's face lifted, her face a mask of lust, her teeth bared and chattering as her lips drew back, her nostrils flaring and shrinking, and now her fingers had begun to scramble at the sheets.
Then he began to bottomfuck her with long hard digs that drew cries and groans and incoherent pleas from her. But his finger relentlessly frigged her clitoris all the while, until suddenly her body stiffened, her eyes rolled to the whites, and then her body quaked in tumult as her pussy juicing was upon her.
At about the same moment, with a groan, he dug home to the balls a final time and shot his bubbling liquid deep into her entrails.
Corinne McNair moaned and sagged beneath him, fully spent and fulfilled. Not even Horace McNair on their wedding night even aroused such primitive emotions as this unexpected assault on a part of her body that she had hitherto considered only in connection with the ejection of digested food.
But by the token of his having spanked her and then brownholed her, Al Porter had suddenly taken on a glorified magnitude in the bored and disinterested life of lovely mature Corinne McNair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was Friday of the week of Horace's memorandum regarding the disposition of female shoplifters, and Matilda Dowling was growing restless. It seemed that everybody was on his or her best behavior. As a matter of fact, the total of spankings which she had administered in the past seven months was still at nine, and these had all been girls in subordinate positions in the store. But with the memorandum opening up a brand new world of domination to the lesbian, she could hardly wait to be assigned the first female who would have to undergo the humiliating and painful penalty for her thieving ways.
Perhaps psychologically there was an excellent reason for Matilda Bowling's avid desire to apply corporal punishment to the bottom of some independent, prominent female who had nothing to do with store personnel. She had come herself from a lower-class family in Stockton, and her father had been a lettuce picker who had been promoted to foreman of the crew but who had let prosperity go to his head by getting drunk too often. He had abused her mother and cuffed Matilda around severely because he would have preferred a boy. That was one reason why she didn't particularly care for men. And then, when he had died of a stroke after one drinking bout too many, her mother had to take in washing and do domestic work until her health failed and Matilda herself was old enough to earn her own livelihood. But all that time, the tall, rather gawky girl had been the target of derision by her classmates and had, of course, been ignored sexually by the boys.
There were many fancy women for whom her mother had worked during her adolescent years, and Matilda Dowling could still remember the slurs and the contemptuous way they had paid her mother or pretended to do her a great favor by giving her a castoff dress or maybe some food out of the refrigerator. She had long ago vowed she would get back at those bitches, and here at last was a way to do just that. For certainly there was no better way to pull a fancy, bejeweled, expensively clothed, self-opinionated woman down from her pedestal of snobbery and superiority than to compel her tearfully and blushingly to hoist her outer garments, ruck down her intimate lingerie and expose her bottom for a humiliating and juvenile spanking.
And in punishing such females, Matilda could see herself avenging the wrongs which had been done her own mother.
But this Friday afternoon her wishes were to be exceeded, for Danny Jarvis, the bespectacled, gray-haired store detective, had just telephoned Horace McNair that he had just caught a mother and daughter in the act of purloining several pairs of expensive nylon stockings and pantyhose packages. The mother had got the attention of one of the clerks while the daughter sneaked the goods into the pockets of a fur coat - suspicious enough in itself in this hot July weather - and when apprehended, tried to open her coat and shake out the stolen merchandise, displaying at least a dozen packages of cello wrapped pantyhose.
She breathed quickly, and her eyes began to sparkle. She really hoped that Horace McNair would be a witness, because she knew perfectly well he would also see the girl's pussy when the victim began to wriggled her behind and kick her legs when the spanking got hotter and harder to take. And Horace McNair, in Matilda Dowling's opinion, was nothing more than a philandering pussyhound. She had guessed already that the secretary he had fired was now occupying another position which, though it wasn't on the payroll, was probably taking plenty of spending money out of poor Mrs. McNair's allowance. Yes, she was pretty sure that he was fooling around with that Martha Wilson.
She just wished that she had had a chance to give Martha a good sound whipping with the dowel stick on her saucy bare bottom during the time she had been employed at the store.
The phone rang again, and Matilda Dowling almost knocked it over in her eagerness. It was Horace McNair himself. "Miss Dowling, it looks as if there'll be a little work for you to do in a few minutes. I have a pair of shoplifters in my outer office now, with the store detective there, and the salesgirl who saw them pull their stunt. I think you're going to have a chance to exercise your good right arm."
"It's about time, Mr. McNair. As a matter of fact, I had a good notion to ask you to rescind the little rule about employee spankings, because we certainly haven't had too many of them in the last six months. I guess maybe the girls have learned their lesson."
"Well, these two are certainly going to learn one, you can bet on that. The idea! And I think I recognize the mother. She's a divorcee, and there was something in the news about her a few weeks ago - I remember, she just got a big settlement from her husband and got custody of the girl, too. She's probably making more profit than I am on that transaction, and then she has the nerve to try to do me out of about fifty dollars worth of merchandise.
Well, if they sign the release, I'll give you a call."
"I wonder, Mr. McNair, if it wouldn't be better to have one of our ladies here as a witness instead of you. Well, you know - the matter of decency-" Matilda Dowling began.
"Absolutely not, Miss Dowling. I happen to be the owner of this store and it's my welfare they're acting against when they steal from me. I want to make sure they get their just and due punishment. So what if it does humiliate them? Let the word of mouth be passed along after a couple of incidents like this, and I can bet you the shop-lifting losses drop by half in the next fiscal report. I'll be talking to you," and he hung up.
Matilda Dowling nearly purred with satisfaction. The only fly in the ointment was McNair's presence. If truth be known, the Lesbian dominatress had a secret yearning to try a little variety of pussyrubbing and servility, because Wilma Parker was absolutely so passive that it wasn't really, so much fun any more. Oh, of course, it was just lovely to have a sweet, pretty young slave girl do her bidding and humbly accept spankings, but what she wanted was a new piece of quiff who would give her an argument, start rebelling when ordered to peel down panties and bend over. When you conquered a rebellious bitch, then consolation in bed by pussyrubbing and gamahuching was just heavenly. She drew open her drawer and fondly gazed at the arsenal of punishment weapons lying there ready for use. It was really an unexpected dividend: two for one. A mother and daughter. She could hardly wait.
* * *
"This is outrageous! I've never been so humiliated in all my life!" Mrs. Eva Durstag was protesting as she sat in a chair facing Horace McNair from across his desk. "Here my daughter and I are coming to shop, minding our own business, and all of a sudden this bully - " gesturing toward the store detective who had a cigar in the corner of his mouth and looked bored, "lays hands on me. Now you know that's against the law, Mr. McNair!"
"That's true, Mrs. Durstag. But it's also against the law to wear a fur coat in which you conceal merchandise so that you haven't paid for. I think the Fresno newspaper will be interested in finding out how you are celebrating your divorce."
"How dare you!" Mrs. Eva Durstag drew herself up. She was still wearing her fur coat, and under it was an expensive beige rayon dress. Mentally, Horace McNair calculated that she must have got it in either San Francisco or Los Angeles and the lowest possible price tag was in the neighborhood of a hundred dollars. He glared at her; it was always this kind of woman who tried to filch something. If a woman was poor and needed something for her kids, he would be inclined to look the other way. But here was this brazen creature who had got herself about two hundred thousand bucks to get rid of her hubby and kept her daughter into the bargain, coming into his store and stealing a lousy fifty dollars worth of stockings and pantyhose. This was one case in which he wasn't going to look the other way, decidedly not!
"But we were going to the cashier over near the wall when this man laid hands on us, Mr.
McNair," Mrs. Durstag defiantly avowed, giving the store detective another furious glare which left him absolutely impervious, merely shifting his cigar to the other side of his mouth, and looking up at the ceiling.
"I am afraid, Mrs. Durstag, that I am going to have to telephone the police and charge you with willful and criminal theft. And then I shall call the newspaper and tell them to send a reporter and photographer here to get the full story of how a fine society woman who could well afford to spend that fifty dollars at her beauty parlor comes into my store and tries to make off with stockings and pantyhose," Horace McNair dryly retorted.
Eva Durstag was thirty-seven, stunningly handsome, with an insolent face and high forehead. She wore a felt turban which hid her straw-colored blonde upsweep, but the dress under her open fur coat limped big, widely spaced, high-perched titties, a surprisingly slender waist and spacious hips, a perfect terrain for Matilda Dowling's punitive ministrations. Her daughter, who was chewing gum and looked angry and sullen, was Susan, seventeen and a half, just having graduated from Radcliffe High on B Street and Van Ness Boulevard with fair marks. Actually, Susan Durstag's extracurricular activities were a good deal more spectacular. She and a group of girlfriends and boys had found a deserted, ramshackled little house out on the west side of town where an old Armenian had once lived, and had had a few pot parties there as well as some near-orgiastic petting. At the last party, just last Saturday evening, while her mother had been out in a motel with her handsome young lover, a towheaded young college senior from Stanford who was spending the summer in Fresno working on a construction crew, Susan Durstag had lost her cherry very willingly to not one but two boys of that fast crowd.
She wore a blue minidress, charcoal-brown pantyhose and loafers, and her jet-black hair was cut in helmet style with a fringe halfway down her forehead. Her sulky face was oval, her eyes dark blue, her nose insolently snub, her mouth small and petulant. She had pale white skin, freckled around the cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Horace McNair's speculative eyes studied the tight fitting bodice of the minidress and lingered. Susan Durstag's titties were closely spaced, bold young pears, practically pushing out against the material, and he was willing to swear she wasn't wearing a bra. His prick began to harden as he contemplated the delectable pair of females, so different in physique and yet both insolent. It was going to be a delightful afternoon. And tonight he had a date with Martha Wilson.
Martha had been trying to telephone her boyfriend, Al Porter, at the service station, but he had told Carl Dewing, "If that babe with the husky voice who calls herself Miss Wilson calls, tell her that I'm not working this week, that I've been sick with a cold or something.
Shit, get her off my back!"
To which Carl, a sturdy twenty-nine-year-old blond Adonis and "Muscle Beach" man originally from Santa Monica, who had come up here to live with his aunt and uncle, had winked and said, "Anytime, old buddy, she can get on mine. I saw her drive up here once, and I think you're nuts for passing up pussy like that."
Al's classic answer was, "Sure, man, sure. But suppose you had a chance to boff two rich broads who could do a lot more for you than that slinky brunette who's being kept by a big shot? What would you do?"
And thus, within a single afternoon, the destinies of all concerned were becoming more complexly intertwined.
At Horace McNair's last words, Mrs. Eva Durstag had blanched, bitten her lips, and looked stolidly down at the floor. "All right," she said sullenly, "so it was a lark. I'll pay for the merchandise."
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Durstag. We've had too many thefts here and I've decided to make you and your daughter stand up as an example. Maybe if people on the outside find out that the McNair Department Store isn't going to tolerate shoplifting, I might make some money by the time the year is over. You have your choice, either you go to jail on my preferred charges, or you both agree, here and now, to accept suitable punishment."
At this Susan Durstag, who up to now had been glaring defiantly at all and sundry in the room, chewing her gum, sat upright and stared anxiously at Horace McNair and gave her mother a wondering look.
"What do you mean by suitable punishment, Mr. McNair?" Eva demanded.
"Read this," Horace McNair answered, as he shoved the printed form of release across the desk to the astonished divorcee.
She reached for it. Stared at it. And then she uttered a gasp. "Good heavens! Why, this is barbaric. You wouldn't dare! I'd sue you for every penny you had if you ever dared to try such a thing! Absolutely not, I refuse to agree to such a disgustingly vile proposition."
"Suit yourself." He shrugged, lit a cigarette and then he reached for the phone. "I'm going to have to dial the chief of police. I've told him already what I plan to do and, by the way, Mrs. Durstag, my lawyer tells me I'm perfectly within my legal rights. If you sign that release, the matter won't get beyond these four walls. If you don't, you're going to have to take the consequences, you and your daughter. She's rather young to have a prison record, don't you think? And you can't buy your way out of this. You should have thought of that when you came in here in the first place."
With this he lifted up the phone and began to dial the first two digits.
"Wait a minute!" Eva Durstag nervously blurted, her face reddening, obviously confronted by a torturing dilemma. "Do you actually mean - oh, no, you couldn't. Not both of us. Why, I'm a grown woman, almost forty."
"I don't believe you're that old. It's the first time I've ever heard a woman advance her age rather than diminish it," Horace McNair chuckled maliciously. "I happen to have read the story about you pretty well, Mrs. Durstag. You're thirty-seven. And I must say, you don't even look that. Yes, I'm afraid that's the case. You and your daughter here are going to agree to receive a spanking here and now. Either that, or it's public disgrace. Make up your minds, please. I'm a busy man and this is Friday afternoon." With this, he got up and, with the detective, walked out of the office. They stood outside the door, while Susan and her mother anxiously conferred.
"Mom - gee, you aren't going to let them do that to me, are ya?" the gumchewing brunette asked, her face scarlet and her eyes very wide with anxiety.
"You should talk, Susan!" Eva Durstag hissed, her eyes bright with anger. "You were so smart, you were the one that really talked us into this, you know. You had to show how clever you were."
"Now don't give me that, Mom. You went for some of that yourself, you know you did. But can he do that to us? I mean, is it legal?"
"You heard him tell you that his lawyer said it was, and he knows the chief of police. This would be a terrible disgrace, I don't mind telling you. We'd have to move out of town and change our names. Oh, this is terrible."
"I-I never have been spanked - oh gee, I'm scared, Mom!" Susan sniffled.
"I ought to have done it to you a long time ago, you little brat!" her mother said venomously. "All right, I guess he's got us. The only thing I can say is at least you're going to get it too. That's some consolation, because you've been catting around, haven't you?
Last Saturday night, I'm sure you didn't get home until well after midnight. Just where were you?"
"Uh-huh!" Susan sniffled maliciously. "I could ask you the same question, Mom. I'll bet you and that college boy were just loving it up in some motel."
"Why, you little bitch! How dare you talk to your mother like that?" Eva Durstag cried shrilly, and leaning forward, slapped her daughter hard across the cheek.
At this point Horace McNair walked back into the office. "All right, Mrs. Durstag, have you made your decision?" he abruptly demanded.
"Yes," Eva Durstag gave her daughter an angry glare before turning to the head of the department store she had attempted to defraud. "All I ask is that you give this little hellion what's coming to her and do it first. I'll sign that paper. And because she's under age, I'll sign it for her too. Give it here!"
Horace McNair permitted himself a small smile. He could hardly wait to see these two beauties with their bottoms bare, angry red welts from the strap or the dowel stick leaping across their tender, pampered bottoms. They were going to sing a different tune before Matilda Dowling was finished with them. And maybe, just maybe, he might get a chance at some extramarital pussy. There were many instances, he had read, where a woman who got spanked also got very sexy and wanted to be fucked. He would be very glad to accommodate either of them, and still have enough left over for Martha tonight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Horace McNair led the way to the elevator, the detective walking behind the crestfallen mother and daughter, to make certain they wouldn't try a last-minute escape. Once inside, the head of the McNair Department Store pressed the button for the seventh floor, and when the door rolled back at last, he remarked, "Here we are. Turn to your right, if you please."
Susan Durstag gave her mother a furious look, still broiling inwardly over that slap. She knew more about her mother than the latter imagined. She knew exactly who was boffing her brother and she also knew that he had a cute little redheaded sexpot he was really crazy about, because she had seen the two of them go into the Warner Theater about two weeks ago when she had been out with the gang. And from the way they were holding hands and staring gaga at each other, she was pretty sure they had nothing but fucking in mind.
Horace McNair led the way to the soundproofed buyer's office at the north end of the floor.
Matilda Dowling was already waiting there, having been advised by telephone that her first two "guinea pigs" were on the way. Her eyes glistened with concupiscent anticipation as she saw Eva and Susan reluctantly walk toward the door which Horace McNair opened to let them pass through.
"You can get back to your work," he said to Danny Jarvis, "and there'll be a little bonus in your paycheck next week. Keep it up."
"Thanks, boss," the detective chuckled, touching his forehead. Then, in a confidential tone, he whispered, "I'll try to pick the good lookers for you every time, Mr. McNair."
Horace McNair couldn't help chuckling softly as he walked into the room and closed the door. Then he drew down the shades, with which the office had been specially furnished.
While he himself intended to be a witness to the chastisement, as he had been before when some of the girl employees had had their painful spanking sessions in this very room, he had no intention of allowing a peepshow for any of his employees or customers.
The office had a desk, a low wide couch, a straight-backed chair, and at Matilda Dowling's own request, a tall, heavy footstool with leather padded top. In the drawer of the desk, beside the spanking arsenal, she had also placed several other useful articles, such as cords to bind the wrists and ankles of the recalcitrant, handkerchiefs and bandanas to gag those who cried out too loudly. It was true the office was well soundproofed, but there was always a chance of an earsplitting screech when a strap visited a particularly tender bottom and the sound just might filter out in spite of any precautions.
Finally, there was a pair of nickel plated handcuffs for binding the captive's wrists behind her back or in front of her if she proved thoroughly rebellious. Matilda Dowling had to use that pair of handcuffs just once, with Pauline Stanley, a tall, insolent, silver-blonde girl of about twenty-two who had been one of the first employees spanked under the new policy.
She had proved so obstinate when the time came to get across Matilda Dowling's lap that it had taken all the latter's considerable muscular strength to subjugate the girl and finally handcuff her. Then the dorvel stick had come into play and after about thirty cuts with it, Pauline was wildly yelling and kicking her legs and pleading for mercy. About a month later, however, she got back at the store by walking out one Friday night with about three hundred dollars out of the till and hadn't yet been found. Matilda Dowling was hoping she would be, because she had a few interesting plans concerning svelte thieving Pauline.
"Does he have to stay here, Mom?" Susan angrily demanded of her mother.
"I do indeed, young lady," Horace McNair interposed. "There has to be a witness, and since I'm the one offended, I'm the most logical witness."
"You've got no right to have us peel down raw, that's what," Susan Durstag indignantly exclaimed. "It's dirty, to watch girls getting their bare hind ends tanned, and you know it!"
"You may be assured that I'm not here to amuse myself, Miss Durstag," Horace McNair icily retorted. "Only to see justice done, and if necessary, to help Miss Downing if either of you changes her mind or puts up a fuss during the spanking. Now let's get on with it, shall we? It's a very unpleasant situation at best, and the sooner it's over, the sooner you'll be released and able to go home and, I sincerely trust, never try to repeat what you tried to do this afternoon in this store."
"Very well, ladies," Matilda Dowling purred, "who is going to get it first?"
"I want Susan to be spanked first," Eva Durstag spoke up.
"Aww, Mom, that's mean!" the brunette grumbled. She glanced up at the Amazon and shifted nervously from foot to foot, staring pointedly down at the floor. She didn't like the heft of the woman who was going to do the spanking, not one little bit. Matilda Dowling grinned, knowing that in Susan Durstag's apprehensive glance and attitude that here she had an ideal candidate for her favorite sport.
Susan squirmed uneasily, glanced back at her mother, then at Horace McNair. Then, in a quavering little voice, she asked, "How - what are you going to do?"
"I want you to take your dress off, young lady," Matilda Dowling snapped. "Then I'm going to sit down on this straight-backed chair, pull your pantyhose down and warm your bare bottom with a strap."
"Oh no-Mom, don't let her-it'll hurt-I didn't mean to take anything - it was her idea - " she blurted, on the verge of tears.
"Why, you little liar!" her mother gasped angrily. "It was more your idea than mine. If you don't do what that lady wants, I'll help her do it to you, do you understand me, Susan?
Now you get over there and take what's coming to you!"
Again Horace McNair permitted himself the luxury of a small smile. This was extremely interesting, and he foresaw quite a few possibilities for maybe even a quickie. Somehow he had the presentiment that Eva Durstag was going to appeal directly to him when it was her turn. And he wasn't so sure that he might not let her off leniently in return for a good hot swift fuck.
Susan Durstag grimaced, gave her mother a spiteful look and slowly moved toward Matilda Dowling in the straight-backed chair. "Take off your dress right now," the Amazon directed. "Lay it down on that couch so it won't get mussed."
"Please, does he have to be here?" Susan plaintively demanded, glancing around nervously at Horace McNair who met her gaze impassively, chewing at his cigar. His legs were tightly crossed to hide his hard-on. The prospect of seeing this delicious, slim brunette who reminded him very much of Martha Wilson, was extremely stimulating. Eva Durstag, who had seated herself in one of the armchairs, was leaning forward, watching expectantly. He glanced over at her and decided that either of these tasty pieces of cunt would be quite acceptable, and he would still have plenty of juice left for luscious Martha.
"Now that's enough of that, young lady! It's a little late for you to think about your modesty, when you've acted like a common thief. Get that dress off, or you'll get worse than you've bargained for," Matilda Dowling angrily interposed. She had taken out the short leather strap with its doubly-thick end serving as a grip. Susan's eyes fixed on it almost hypnotically, and she slowly began to hoist the minidress up over her head and shoulders.
She kept her back turned to Horace McNair, and he almost dropped his cigar when he saw that his conjecture had been quite correct: on that slim, deeply hollowed, pale white skinned back, there wasn't the slightest sign of a bandeau or a bra. The little bitch hadn't been wearing one, that was what. And the knowledge made his prick throb even more achingly.
Matilda Dowling also could see what Horace McNair couldn't, but could only guess at. Two proud, boldly jutting pear shaped titties capped by dainty pink nipplebuds, set in circles that weren't too wide and were of a slightly darker coral hue. She thought to herself it would be just wonderful to have this saucy little bitch paired off with passive, cloying Wilma Parker.
The two would provide perfect contrast, and a greater diversity of amusement for herself.
Susan was the sort of little bitch who would always be rebellious and sulky, and would consequently always demand a great deal more attention than humbly obedient little Wilma. It was just too bad that Mr. McNair had to be here, or she might have really worked on the idea. As it was, she promised herself to give Susan a really serious thrashing, because the sight of those titties and that lithe waist and those lovely long legs and those charcoal-brown panty hose were already making her pussy twitch and moisten.
Under the pantyhose, however, Susan Durstag wore a pair of panty-briefs, but these were filmy enough to show Matilda Dowling that the girl already had a commendable thick triangle of black pussy fur. Her belly button was wide and shallow, and her calves were boyishly slim, as were her thighs. But her bottom comprised two jouncy, rather spacious bottom ovals, with a surprisingly wide crease between them - a phenomenon which Horace McNair's greedy eyes had already noted. A girl like that, he was certain, when bent over across a desk or table, would be equally accessible for either fucking or buggering. The mere thought of fucking or brownholing this pert black-haired little bitch and frigging her tickler while he did it almost made him spend in his pants then and there.
The dress tossed to the couch, Susan Durstag was blushing as she fearfully covered her pear shaped bubbies with slim, trembling hands, her eyes widening as she glanced down at the strap.
"You - you aren't going to use that awful thing on me, are you? Oh gosh, no!" she blurted uneasily, backing a step or two away from the chair.
"I certainly am, young lady, and you're going to get as many swats as I think you deserve for parading around without a bra, as well as for your impertinence and thieving," was Matilda Dowling's acrid reprimand. "Now get yourself over my lap this minute! The more you fuss and argue, the worse it's going to be for you!"
With a groan, Susan swiftly laid herself down over the Amazonian lap. Matilda Dowling promptly laid the strap on the pale white-skinned back and then, inserting her fingers in the waistband of the panty hose yanked them down to about mid-thigh. Observing the panty briefs, she was preparing to yank these down also, when Susan looked back up and wailed, "Oh gee no, don't take them down, don't let him see me bare! Please, they're awful thin, please let me keep them on this once!"
"Absolutely not, young lady. Your mother and you are to get a bare-bottom spanking, and I'm following out the letter of the law," Matilda Dowling snapped. With this, she gave an energetic tug, and the white nylon garment joined the pantyhose, turned inside out and rucked down inside the latter's folds at mid-thigh. Horace McNair nearly dropped his cigar again, for the sight of those spacious, jutting asscheeks with the broad, shadowy groove between them let him see the peeping lips of Susan Durstag's pink quim, framed by the thicket of silky black pussy curls. It inevitably reminded him of delicious Martha Wilson's equally hirsute and similarly brunette pussy thatch and soft pink love cleft, and the ache in his prick was almost intolerable by now. He had to cross his legs all over again and tighten his muscles to prevent the others seeing into what a state he was getting.
Having completed the preparations for punishment, Matilda Dowling now tucked the culprit's waist in tightly with her left hand, gripped the strap firmly in her right hand, brandished it in the air and demanded, "Are you ready?"
"Go ahead and get it over with, but please hurry!" Susan glumly groaned.
Thwack. I The short leather thong flashed down, wedding to the centers of both upturned ass ovals. Susan, startled by the noisy smack and the painful sting, uttered a squeal and kicked up first one leg and then the other, squirming about over the dominatress' lap.
"That's right! Lay it in to her! Teach her manners!" her mother called from the armchair.
"She deserves a real good licking for going around with a crowd of boys I told her not to see!"
"Look who's talking," Susan began to jeer. "You and your - oww! Owwuuuu!!! Hey, cut it out, that hurts awful! Ohh, ouch! Let up, oh gee, let up!"
Matilda Dowling had made Susan quite forget her spiteful commentaries by applying the strap a little lower down across both naked ass cheeks, and Susan's bottom bucked and squirmed and weaved while again first one leg and then the other kicked in the air. These gyrations provided Horace McNair with the delicious spectacle of that sweet pussy opening and twitching, and also of the shadowy groove between those voluptuous bare ass globes. Meanwhile, two gleaming red bands were already imprinted on the uptilted hillocks of Susan Durstag's saucy bottom.
Matilda Dowling shifted the culprit a little closer to her, tightening the hold of her left hand against the girl's soft side. Then she tightened her grip on the strap-handle and brought the instrument down with an emphatic "Crack!" over the base of the voluptuous young posterior. Her experience in a women's reformatory near Corona had taught her that the female posterior is particularly sensitive from the summits on down to the tops of the thighs. She had had, to be sure, a few special favorites in that reformatory, and whenever they had been sentenced to a bare-bottom fantailing, she would generously administer the lashes from the middle of their bottoms on up to the hips, rather than below. In return for this, they would secretly come to her quarters at night, under the supervision of another matron who, like herself, had Sapphic penchants. So she wasn't surprised at all when Susan Durstag's loud yell and frenzied kicking proved what she already knew - that the base of a girl's bottom, particularly one that had probably never before been spanked - was excruciatingly tender.
Horace McNair leaned forward, relit his cigar, and stared fascinatedly at the flaming bottom. In her kicking, both of Susan's loafers had flown off and thudded against the floor, not far from where he sat. Her stockinged toes were jabbing against the floor as she shifted herself and tried to find a better pose in which to accept the chastisement. A fourth lash, this time across the tops of the hips, drew a wail and another frantic wriggle, and then suddenly she rushed both hands back to her naked bottom in an attempt to cover up.
"Oh no, you don't!" Matilda Dowling grumbled, flicking the strap at the offending hands.
"Take them away at once, or I'll have to tie you!"
"But it hurts so, I can't stand it! Let up with that awful strap," Susan wailed tearfully.
"Mr. McNair, I don't want to have trouble with this naughty girl," the Amazon appealed to her boss.
"Quite right. Miss Durstag, I think you had better do what you are told, otherwise we'll have to tie your wrists, and then it will be much harder for you."
"That's easy for you to say! I just wish you were getting this instead of me!" Susan groaned as she reluctantly removed her hands, clenching her fists and glancing back at her mother with implacable hatred.
Smack! The strap came down again almost at once, visiting the upper summits and leaping over the cheeks to make the leather cling to the pale white flesh. Another piercing cry was torn from the teenaged culprit. Her right leg kicked up and wildly out, and once again Horace McNair could see the gaping pink cleft of her delicious young cunt.
Matilda Dowling decided she had better have more control over the movements of her victim. Sliding her right leg out from under the squirming girl, she clamped it over Susan's calves. Then, her left hand taking a firmer hold of the bare right side of her charge, she brought the strap down with a particularly emphatic Smackkk! - leaping it exactly over the ripest curves of Susan's naked ass.
"Owwwahrrr - oh cut it out, you're killing me! Mom, I can't stand it, it's awful," Susan squealed, and once again plunged her hands back to her flaming behind.
"Mr. McNair, would you please get me that pair of handcuffs out of the drawer?" Matilda Dowling politely requested.
"No! Don't tie me up-that's mean - I don't want you to - I'd rather go to jail-Mom, make her stop-my heinie's killing me!" Susan sobbed, and made a desperate effort to shift herself off her executioner's lap. But Matilda's hand and her pinioning leg quite prevented this.
Horace McNair hastily rose, turning somewhat sidewise to Eva Durstag so she couldn't see that he had a tremendous hard-on, went to the desk and opened the drawer, drawing out the pair of nickel plated handcuffs, which he promptly handed to the Amazon, who thanked him with a nod and a smile.
"Give me your hands, Susan," Matilda Dowling demanded.
"I won't! I won't! You can't make me!" the girl sobbed. Then she tried her best to kick and to twist herself off Matilda Dowling's lap. Horace McNair squatted down, seized Susan's wrists and pulled them behind her back. As he did so, he stared up at her pendant, firm pear-titties and licked his lips with relish. Just as Matilda Dowling wished she could be alone with both of these culprits, he wished the same, but for quite a different reason.
Matilda Dowling promptly opened the handcuffs and in a moment had locked them securely around the rebel's wrists.
"Thank you, Mr. McNair. Now then, you obstinate little brat, you won't be able to get out of what's coming to you," she menaced. Once again her left hand pressed hard against the girl's left side, her leg clamped tighter against the girl's calves, and her right hand with the strap went to work. Three swiftly-delivered spanks, the first over the slopes of the girl's hips, the second right across the plumpest curves of her ass and the third across the base, drew plaintive yells and wild twistings, as Susan turned back her twisted, contorted face to inform the executioner of her intolerable suffering.
Now Matilda Dowling relaxed the pace of the spanking. Studying the squirming, wriggling, spasmodically-contracting and yawning bottom cheeks to determine where the pain was felt the most and also to "touch up" the still unmarked patches of pale white skin, she directed the polished leather strap with an expert agility and accuracy that had Horace McNair wide-eyed and hard-pricked with lustful admiration. Susan's yowls and shrieks were almost deafening by now, as the spanking seemed to go on unendingly. Her bottom leaped and jumped and bucked, and she was quite unaware of how much she showed of the widening, amber-shadowy groove which led to her dainty puckering asshole or of the gaping slit of her cunt.
Matilda Dowling was so entranced with her cries and tears and pleas that she quite forgot the precaution of using a gag. This was to the music of "the dance," which never failed to excite her. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling, her nipples were hardened and her titties rose and fell. Undoubtedly, had she been alone with this culprit, she might very well have sought to console Susan Durstag in Lesbian fashion.
But as she knew she could not, she compensated by making the strap dance all over that lovely young wriggling, tossing, jerking naked ass, until Susan's throat was hoarse from screaming and her words had become incoherent, babbling plaints, interspersed with choking sobs and groans and whimpering little cries. By the time fifty lashes had been meted out, there was not an inch of unreddened space left on those jouncy ass ovals, and Susan's palms were deeply marked and almost bleeding from jabbing her nails into them as the intolerable heat glowed brightly in her swollen, well-punished posterior.
Matilda Dowling tossed the strap over to the couch and then released her hold of the weeping girl, though she continued to keep her leg clamped over the girl's calves.
"All right now, it's over," she said, in a husky voice that betrayed her own inner emotions.
"You can get up now and put your dress back on, but next time, young lady, have the decency to wear a bra."
With this, she swung her leg off, and with both hands gripping Susan's naked sides, helped the convulsively-sobbing brunette to stagger to her feet. Then, springing open the handcuffs, she tossed them also over the couch. At once Susan's hands sprang back to her flaming bare behind and rubbed furiously in a comic and energetic effort to disperse the fires that were blazing so agonizingly. She was quite unconscious of the enchanting and lascivious picture she made, standing sidewise to Horace McNair and thus in profile, the heaving jut of her pear-shaped titties and also the black pussy thatch which marked the apex of her femininity.
After a few minutes, still sniffling, with tears running down her flushed cheeks, the girl hobbled over to the couch, picked up her dress and, wincing and grimacing, dragged it back on. Then again her hands began to rub her bottom.
"There! I hope you've learned a good lesson, Susan," her mother exclaimed vituperatively.
"I've been wanting to do that to you for years."
"It would have been better for both of you if you'd done just that, Mrs. Durstag," Matilda Dowling dryly observed. "And you may as well get yourself ready now, for it's your turn."
"That's just fine. And I sure want to watch Mom get it!" Susan forgot her sobbing and turned, a malicious look on her tear-stained face.
Now it was Eva Durstag's turn to blanch, and she glanced nervously at both Matilda Dowling and Horace McNair. Uneasily clearing her throat, she stammered, "Mr. McNair, I wonder-could I speak to you privately, please?"
"I really don't see the need, Mrs. Durstag," he replied, but he eyed her speculatively, and his prick was by now fully, ferociously hard and demanding relief, relief that couldn't wait till tonight and Martha Wilson.
"Please! It - it's very important to me. I promise - I promise I won't try to get-to get out of what's corning to me - but I do want to talk to you. Please!" she said fervently, staring at him with widened, humid eyes.
"Well, only for a moment, then. I think, Miss Downing, you and Susan may leave the room for a moment. I'll call you back when I want you to come, Miss Dowling."
"Very well, sir." The Amazon gave him a scathing look of disapproval. She had a pretty good notion of what that blonde bitch had in mind. Unless she missed her guess, Eva Durstag was going to sacrifice her pussy for her ass, to use a phrase she had picked up at the reformatory when one of the stately and very attractive "new fish" had been sentenced to a strapping and, out of pride because she had been a school teacher who had been sent to the reformatory for contributing to the delinquency of a minor with a fourteen-year-old pupil, had intimated to the head matron that she would be amenable to gamahuching and pussyrubbing if the strapping would be pardoned her.
Susan hobbled out of the office, giving her mother a baleful look. Matilda Dowling closed the door with a loud bang, and then contemplated her recent victim with a look of satisfaction.
"I hope that will last you, Miss Durstag," she remarked maliciously.
"You just about took the skin off my heinie," Susan sniffled reproachfully, still keeping one hand at work over her impertinently saucy bottom, which the short skirt of the minidress barely hid. "I won't be able to sit down for at least a week, I know I won't."
"Some towels dipped in cold water, and maybe a little cold cream and a cushion will do just fine for you, young lady," was Matilda Dowling's answer. "Whatever made you try to steal stuff when your mother has all that money?"
"I just did it, that's all. I hate her guts. She got off so easy and Daddy didn't know half the things I do about her, or she wouldn't have got a nickel. You know, I sort of - well, I sort of hoped we would get caught and Mom would get the blame. She was parading around the house, telling me how smart she was, getting all that dough!"
"Well, it looks to me as if your revenge sort of boomeranged, young lady," Matilda Dowling chuckled. "Maybe you'd better go on home. And try to be a good girl from now on. I wouldn't want to see you here again, because next time it would be a lot worse. I've got a dowel stick just like a whippy cane, and it would really make you dance and leave marks on that lovely seat of yours, honey."
Susan Durstag gave her executioner a curious look, half-mocking, half-fearful. "I bet you got a kick out of it, you old goat," was her impertinent answer, and Matilda Dowling gasped.
"It's a good thing you didn't say that when you were on my lap, or I'd have made you take it back and then some! Now get along with you before I give you something extra," the personnel supervisor snapped.
"I won't. I want to see Mom get hers."
"Maybe she can talk her way out of it. He's an old softie, Mr. McNair is. If I were in there with your mother, she'd get the same medicine you just did. Now march!" the Lesbian dominatress threatened. Her angry tone betrayed her own disgust, because she was quite sure this would be the only spanking of the afternoon, and she was to be quite right.
Susan, with a shrug, at last exclaimed, "Oh well, I really don't care. Anyhow, when Mom gets home, I'll soon find out whether she got it or not, and if she didn't I'll just bet what she had to do to get out of it. Be seeing you, I hope not!"
With this, she sauntered toward the elevator, trying to maintain a youthful bravado, but the pain in her still-burning bottom made her wince and hobble a little, and Matilda Dowling smiled grimly as she saw the girl disappear between the closing elevator doors...
CHAPTER NINE
"All right, Mrs. Durstag, we're alone now. What did you have in mind?" Horace McNair demanded.
Eva Durstag stood up, removed her fur coat and was blushing as she also removed the felt turban. "I-I'm so ashamed and embarrassed I could just sink through the floor. I know it was just terrible of me - I want to beg you - "
"If you're trying to beg off your spanking-which you agreed to by signing that release, Mrs.
Durstag," he interrupted, "you're just wasting your time."
"I know. It's so heartless and cruel - I mean, you know - a grown woman and a mother like myself - to be spanked by - a woman. I was thinking, please, Mr. McNair, can't you-can't you spank me yourself?"
Horace McNair considered the proposition. Nothing, in reality, could have pleased him more than this not entirely unexpected offer. He pretended to be reluctant. "Well now," he drawled, frowning.
"Oh please! That way, it'll just be between the two of us. I - I don't think I'd be able to look that awful woman in the face if I - if I had to go over her lap. Oh, it's just shameful. Please, Mr. McNair. I-I promise I won't resist-I'll take it bravely. Won't you please? I've learned my lesson already, just seeing how poor Susan was punished. I'll try to look after her better in the future, I assure you I will."
"Well, it's a little unusual. But don't think you're going to get out of it any easier because I'm doing it to you."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. McNair! I'm so grateful! Now, what do you want me to do?"
"Take off your dress first," he directed.
Eva Durstag began to blush as she stooped, began to pull up the hems of her beige rayon dress and drew it slowly up over her lush body. She wore a pale peach-colored slip, which clung to her big round titties and voluptuously ripe hips as well as her finely-rounded thighs. His eyes admired and coveted her.
He said, "The slip, too."
"Of course. Just as you want. Do you want me - shall I go over your lap, Mr. McNair? I've never been spanked before - not even as a girl-would you believe it?"
"Yes, of course, over my lap would be all right."
"And - and are you going to use that awful strap on me too?" Now her eyes blinked with tears, and she looked at him most appealingly. His prick was savagely rampant, and he had to keep half-turned away from her lest she see all too plainly his condition.
"Well see. Just get that slip off now," he growled.
"Oh yes, right away, Mr. McNair!"
Once again Eva Durstag stooped, lifted the slip and drew it over her body. His eyes blazed with admiration. She wore a white nylon bra with shoulder straps and bandeau, a panty girdle of the same material, the tabs clinging to beige nylons which had matched her dress. Her aureoles were dark-brownish coral circles, and the nipples, poutingly pressing against the cups of the bra, were ripe and crinkly.
He moved over to the straight-backed chair and seated himself. "Now you can get over my lap," he told her.
"All right-please be - please be gentle with me - I - I've never had this done to me before - you'll have to - have to show me - " she quavered, as she came slowly toward him.
She stood before him like a penitent little girl, her hands clasped before her, blushing and looking down at the floor.
"Just get yourself over my lap now, Mrs. Durstag," he said, his voice hoarse and thick with lust.
As she slowly leaned forward, he reached out and caught her around the waist, pulling her down so her big round bottom was well-upturned, then began to fumble with the fasteners of her panty girdle.
"Oh please, not - not on the b - bare, Mr. McNair! You can give me twice as many, but please - please - not on the b - bare!" she groaned.
"That's not in the bargain, and you know it," he growled.
"Oh, I'm so tender, I just can't stand pain! Oh, Mr. McNair, wait - I - if I let you - let you - make love to me - will you - will you let me off the spanking?"
Horace McNair, his left arm already curled around Eva Durstag's dimpled pink-skinned back, his right hand already beginning to stroke the plump, round asscheeks through the tightly clinging pan tie-girdle, felt his prick throb violently.
"You're trying to bribe me, so I'll forget your crime, are you?" he hoarsely inquired. "By rights, I ought to make it double on the bare ass for that."
"Oh, please don't! I can't stand pain, truly I can't. I'll do anything you like, and I swear I won't tell anybody. And you've got my word, I won't ever do anything like this again, truly I won't. It's just that-it's so shameful. Oh, please let me off just this once, just this once, please!" She turned back to look at him with humid, dilated eyes.
"Well, perhaps a compromise might be in order," he went on, his voice thick with lust.
"Instead of the strap, I'll give you just a simple hand spanking."
"Oh, please, please don't!"
"Wait a minute," he angrily interrupted, applying a smart slap to one of her bottomglobes.
"If that obnoxious, impertinent daughter of yours happens to ask you whether you got a spanking and you say you didn't, I should think there might be some trouble in your household. Besides which, you've got to get some taste of the humiliation that you earned by walking brazenly into my store and trying to get out with merchandise you hadn't paid for. Now either you're going to do it my way, or I'll call Miss Dowling back in here, handcuff you, take this pantie-girdle down and really give it to you with the strap. You've got your choice, and you'd better decide quickly."
"Oh yes-all right, then-I guess-I guess it's better than - I'd really die if that woman did it to me-but please, be gentle - I'm so ashamed - "
"Then hoist your ass up a little so I can get this pantie-girdle down," he interrupted again, his voice hoarse with impatient lust.
Sniffling, her face scarlet, her eyes closed, Eva Durstag lofted her bottom above his lap, and with expert deftness that showed a good deal of experience in the art of undressing a seductive female, Horace McNair undid the tabs hooking to the nylon hose, then the fasteners of the sheath itself, and then pulled it down to her calves, exposing a superb, plump, tightly compact but very spacious satiny pink-skinned pair of asscheeks. Eva Durstag uttered a sob as she felt the air of the room lave her naked nether globes, and covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes, shivering, and contracting all her muscles. He devoured her submissively posed body, now clad only in the bra and hose and pumps, more lasciviously enticing with the sight of her down-rucked pantie-girdle than if she had been stark naked. In some ways, she reminded him of curvaceously plump and still very appetizing Corinne. The thought occurred to him quite out of the blue that he had never yet spanked Corinne, and that it might be a damned good idea.
Tucking in her waist with his left hand, he passed his right palm over the shivering, satiny asscheeks and Eva Durstag again groaned at the shame as well as the imminence of this juvenile correction. He patted each cheek lingeringly, and then, tightening his lips, applied a very sound smack on the lower right summit. He felt the flesh flatten and then saw it spring up, and at once the bright pink outline of his palm appeared on the softer, natural pink epidermis. Eva Durstag's body stiffened, her head lifted, and she emitted a sobbing gasp of "Ooooohhhhh!"
"Consider yourself lucky that you aren't over Miss Dowling's lap right now with your wrists handcuffed behind your back and that good hard strap cracking down on your bottom, Mrs. Durstag," he told her. The way she was squirming over his lap told him that it wouldn't be long before she became quite aware of the enormous hard-on this entire episode had given him. But then, that was quite appropriate considering what she had asked him to do in lieu of the real thrashing she had corning. Almost righteously, he lifted his hand, applied another smack to the other bottom-cheek, and this time Eva Durstag kicked up one pumpshod foot and emitted another wail.
"Ohhhh-ouch! That hurts, Mr. McNair," she pleaded.
"Of course it does, and it's about time you had something like this. Maybe if that hubby of yours had done this regularly, you wouldn't be here right now," he growled. Then, tightening his left arm around her waist, he began to spank in earnest.
Alternating on the succulent, round satiny pink globes, his hand rose and fell at intervals of about four or five seconds, and Eva Durstag weaved and squirmed her hips, kicking up first one leg and then the other and then the first again, her gyrations inflaming his lust all the more when her contortions made her grind her crotch against the savagely aching bulge in his trousers. Glancing back piteously with tearstained face and agony-blurred eyes, she implored mercy, but he went on spanking until he had given her at least forty good hard stinging slaps and left her naked seat a highly satisfying crimson.
"There!" he panted as he paused for breath. "Now, maybe you've got an idea of how your daughter felt, though you still got off much too lightly. I'll tell you this, Mrs. Durstag, if you're ever brought before me again, you'll get a spanking and you'll go to jail-both. Just remember that. Now get yourself off my lap."
"Ohhhhahhhh - oh it hurts to - you were so hard on me, Mr. McNair - oh my, it bums, it hurts - " she sniffled as she slowly and awkwardly struggled to her feet. The pantie-girdle tumbled to her ankles, and her beige nylon hose had already started to sag. As he rose, he could see the thick, dark-blonde thatch of her pussycurls, and the deep, narrow niche of her bellybutton. He rose from the chair, zipping down his fly and liberating his throbbing prick. Then, as she stood there, her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with sobs, he raised his right hand and gave her a sound smack on her already flaming bottom and said, "Now you get over to that couch, and in a hurry, if you don't want me to use the strap after all!"
"Oooooh, I will, I will, only please no more, Mr. McNair - oh please!" she squealed, and stumbled over her own festooning pantie-girdle.
He caught her by the elbows and growled, "Just step out of it and get over there now," and Eva Durstag snifflingly obeyed.
Taking a good grip on one elbow, he led her over to the couch and brutally pushed her down on it. There was a wail of discomfort as her bottom banged down on the upholstered couch and she grimaced and tried to turn onto her side. Her eyes had seen his enormously swollen prick bobbing up and down as he moved toward her, and she stared incredulously. He got down on his knees between her thighs, his hands gripped her shoulders until she moaned in pain, and he forced her back down as he stretched himself over her. His prickhead dug against her furry snatch, and Eva Durstag twisted her face to one side and panted, "Please, please be gentle - oh do be gentle - my bottom hurts so much I want to cry!"
"Cry all you want, the room is soundproofed, Mrs. Durstag. I'm just taking you up on your little offer. And I still say if your husband had done this to you, maybe you wouldn't have been divorced at all and maybe you could have turned that daughter of yours into a nice little girl instead of a teasing brat everybody wants to slap."
With this, he felt his prickhead press between her pussylips, and he forced himself forward. Eva Durstag gasped out, "Ohhhhh - ahhhh - oh, Mr. McNair!" and twisted her face toward the other side, her fists clenched in an attitude of anguished apprehension.
With a savage lunge, he dug himself to the balls, and now his hands reached under to squeeze her burning asscheeks and cause her to cry out again: "Oh, don't! It hurts too much - oh please, they're so sore, oh please, Mr. McNair-please be kind to me!"
"I certainly am being kind. I can still have Miss Dowling come back here and give you that strapping you really deserve, you know," he panted as he began to work inside her sheath. To his delight, she was much tighter than he had expected, and she began to wriggle and squirm and sigh and groan, keeping her face averted from his, but she couldn't remain impervious to the fierce frictioning digs which he was giving her. Her breath came more quickly, her legs shifted, her pumpheels scuffing the upholstered surface of the couch, and he began to feel her cuntwalls flutter and nip and grip his digging prong.
His fingers dug into her warm, inflamed asscheeks and Eva Durstag groaned and sobbed, her eyes swimming with tears as they agonizedly, hugely, fixed on his flushed, contorted face. And then suddenly she flung her arms around him and arched herself up to him as he drew himself up to the brink of her pussy, then thrust back to the balls with a grunt of desire.
"Ohhahhhh, oh it's so good, oh you've got me crazy for it, Mr. McNair!" she panted hoarsely, "Oh please don't stop - hurt me - give it to me good-hurt me hard-I deserve it!"
Her masochistic instincts had been drawn out of her subconscious latency. It only confirmed Horace McNair's theoretical belief that such a thing was possible in a mature woman. He found himself wondering again why he hadn't tried this on Corinne. It might very well have added a new zest to their boring and rather predictable bedroom encounters. For a moment, he even thought of canceling his date with Martha Wilson tonight and seeing if he couldn't take Corinne to bed and pretend it was their honeymoon all over again. And then the vision of Susan Durstag's kicking legs and wriggling bottom and gaping pink cunt flashed into his mind, and it reminded him much more of Martha than it did of his own wife. Grinding his teeth, he felt the tides of gism bubbling towards the surface and knew he couldn't hold out much longer. His fingers dug into the curves of Eva Durstag's luscious ass, one finger at last slipping into the crease and digging into the puckering button of her asshole as he gave her two or three final thrusts and then suddenly uttered a yell of ecstasy as he exploded deep inside her cunthole.
Eva Durstag's body arched and jerked, and then her legs wrapped around his bottom and her arms hugged him madly as she began to cry out hysterically in her own shattering rapture: "Ohh - ahhh - oh damn, oh Mr. McNair, I'm coming, I'm coming - ohhheeeowwwouuuu!!!"
He silenced her with his mouth, just a little afraid that Miss Dowling might hear beyond the confines of this soundproofed office. And he felt his prick grabbed and clutched and spasmodically nipped by the frantically pulsating walls of her lovesheath as he gave down his last bubbling drop as he sagged over her, moaning with satiation.
At last he drew himself out and she gave a crying little groan as she felt his tool pull out of her wet cunt with a sucking sound. Slowly her eyes opened and fixed on him, and she turned scarlet and hid her face in her hands as she lay there sprawled, her stocking sagging down to her calves, as her titties rose and fell violently, still clad in the tight nylon bra. What titties!
"You're quite a woman, Mrs. Durstag," he said thickly as he wiped his face with a handkerchief, then wiped his limp cock and stuffed it back in his fly. "Now why the hell didn't you treat your hubby that way? You know - and take it from a man who knows all about this little business - if the two of you had given that sassy daughter of yours a good licking every so often and then gone right to bed, I'll bet that you'd have had a couple more brats and the marriage would still be on. Just think it over. Now I'll leave you to dress, and well consider the matter settled."
"Oh my... oh, Mr. McNair, what must you think of me? I behaved so shamelessly... but I couldn't help it... oh, what a man you are - you're just wonderful - I - I do want to see you again - " I eyed her thoughtfully. This was even better than he had hoped for. And if the little suggestion he had just made had registered at all, it might be that if he had a little tryst with Mrs. Durstag in the future, she might just get the notion of taking matters into her own hands, turning Susan over her lap and giving that provocative white ass a good tanning that would get them both worked up for an even more exciting fucking match than the two of them had just enjoyed. He lit a fresh cigar, took a deep breath, unlocked the soundproofed room and went out, closing the door behind him. Guiltily he looked around, but Matilda Dowling wasn't in sight.
CHAPTER TEN
Susan Durstag hadn't gone right home, though she had told Matilda Dowling she intended to. Instead, still grimacing and putting a tentative hand to her sore bottom, she hailed a cab as soon as she stepped out onto the street and gave the driver an address over on Belmont Avenue. She needed cuddling and consolation in the worst way, because she was ready to bet the last cent of her allowance that her mother had somehow managed to talk her way out of her share of the thrashing by spreading her legs for that nasty Mr.
McNair. If ever she had seen a pussychaser, he was the one. She just knew he had got plenty of mileage watching her kick and wriggle and twist under that cruel old woman's leather strap. He probably had had such a terrific hard-on, he might even have propositioned her mother.
So in a kind of vengeful mood, determined on enjoying at least some phase of this unpleasant ordeal, Susan Durstag opened her purse, took out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned back carefully. Whenever the cab went over a bump in the street, she winced, because her bottom was hurting tike blazes.
The cab stopped in front of a two-story four-flat building next to an empty lot on the comer.
It wasn't too built-up a neighborhood, and that was fine with her, because nobody would be snooping around to find out what she was doing here. And what she was doing was coming to visit Dickie Gentry, the big brown-haired high-school senior, who had taken her cherry when she and her girlfriend, Marge Branton, and Dickie and his best buddy, Paul Caswell, had had a little pot party.
Dickie Gentry was eighteen, his father was dead and his mother worked in a food packing company over on West Elm Street. On Fridays she worked overtime, and that was why Susan Durstag had made a beeline for Dickie's place right now. Mrs. Gentry wouldn't be home until at least eight or nine o'clock and that would give her and Dickie quite a bit of time to love it up and at least ease the throbbing pain in her tail.
She paid the driver, walked a little unsteadily into the lobby of the building and rang the bell opposite the Gentry nameplate. The answering buzz was almost immediate, and she giggled. No doubt Dickie had seen her from the upstairs window of his bedroom. She hoped he was in an especially swinging mood right now, because her bottom was killing her. Actually, it felt almost worse now than when that nasty old woman was laying it on with the strap, and she was darned sure the woman had gotten her kicks into lacing it into her, the bitch!
That you, sweet stuff?" Dickie Gentry's resonant baritone voice called down.
"You were maybe expecting Miss America?" she called back, grinning and instantly forgetting her discomfort. Dickie was a real swinger, and half the girls in school had been nuts about him and ready to spread for him. But when he popped her cherry, and he'd done it ever so nice and gentle, after working her up and even kissing her down there, he'd told her that sure, he'd banged a couple of chicks, but there wasn't one that came up anywhere near her on the list because she was a sex pot from the word go. She was just dying to prove to him that he was ever so right, right now!
She scrambled up the stairs and flung herself into his arms, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Immediately his hands went to her bottom and began to squeeze.
"Ouch! Don't, you big goof!" she gasped, and squirmed out of his embrace, frowning and rubbing her hind end again. "Just be nice and careful with that part of the property, honey."
"Hey now, what's this all about? You didn't even call or nothing!" Dick Gentry's blue eyes swept over her body and he yawned. He had been taking a nap and was wearing just a pair of slacks, jock strap and socks. He had a sturdy physique, and played football on the high-school team. But in spite of that, he wasn't a big bruiser at all when it came to fucking a girl. That was what she liked about him, because he looked like the sort of guy who'd fling you down on the bed and take it away from you, and he could, too, but he had lots of nice ideas in the sack. And that was what she wanted the most of right now.
"I didn't want to call, I wanted to surprise you, honey, so let's go in, huh? I know your mom won't be back till late tonight," she giggled.
"That's right, Suzy! Okay, so come in. I saw you getting out of the cab and I wondered what was up."
"Well, now you know, buster," she teased. As soon as she had closed the door, she arched up on tip toes, raised her Lips and gave him a sizzling kiss, parting her lips and just rimming his lips with the tip of her little pink tongue.
Once again his hands instinctively reached out to grab her succulent, tempting oval bottom, but she went "Mmmmmm-mm" to tell him she didn't want that. So instead, he cupped her titties and she let out a little sigh and rubbed her crotch against his already hardening young cock and dug her tongue deeper between his lips to signify that was precisely what she needed and wanted.
"Wow! You're sure horny today, sweet stuff," he said when he at last released her. "What's got into you? I thought we weren't going to have a date till next Friday when the gang got together and we smoked a little pot and maybe had a little wine. I was even going to ask you if you wouldn't mind maybe swapping. You know, you read a lot about rich people doing that, and Paul and me wanted to try it with you and Marge. Maybe we could get another couple in... "
"I sure like that!" she said indignantly, her hands on her hips and glaring at him. "Why should I share you with anybody else. And I'll have you know, Dickie Gentry, that I'm not just a tramp that wants a bang from anybody. If you're going to talk like that, I'm going to call a cab and go right back home."
"Don't get sore, sweetie, don't get sore. I was only fooling. Okay, let's go into my bedroom.
I've got a bottle of wine, and I think there's a roach somewhere around."
"Oh, dreamy. My nerves sure need that, Dickie. Boy did I have me an afternoon!" Again Susan Durstag put a hand back to her bottom and warily rubbed it. His left arm circled her waist and he brushed her hair with his mouth as he muttered, "I sure gotta yen for you, sweet stuff, I'll say that."
"You better had. Especially after what happened to me this afternoon. You wouldn't believe it!"
"What wouldn't I believe?"
"Well, Mom and I were in McNair's Department Store. They got a new rule there, and I still don't think it's kosher."
"What's that?"
"Wen, if they catch a shoplifter, either they send her to jail or she had to take a spanking.
On the bare tail, no less."
"You must be kidding!"
"You wait till I show you my rear end, Dick Gentry, and you'll see who's kidding," she blurted out, giggled and blushed; then turned to hug him and kissed him on the mouth. His hands went to her titties and he fondled them, while she breathed quickly, her face crimson with excitement.
"It was just awful!" she went on. "That's why I didn't want you to squeeze the merchandise, you big lug. See!"
"No fooling? Hey now, you mean to tell me you and your mother swiped something there and got caught?"
"It was just for fun. A stunt, see, lover? I saw some real snazzy stockings I just had to have, and I told Mom I was just going to snitch them. 'Course, I said if it looked like we were going to get nabbed, I'd pay for them. I just wanted to show what a lot of the kids do.
And don't think they don't, Dickie Gentry. Hazel Prentiss swipes stuff there all the time.
Boy, wouldn't I like to see them catch her and lay it into her ass with that nasty strap the old bitch used on me!"
"You really mean it, don't you, sweet stuff?" he stopped her on the threshold of his bedroom, staring into her eyes, his face now flushed with sensual excitement. "Let's see what you're talking about."
"Well, that's one way of getting us off to bed fast, lover, but that's all right with me. I sure need some affection and loving up," Susan Durstag giggled. "Hey, pull the shades, you goof!"
"Sure, baby." He hurried over to the windows, lowered the shades, and returned, licking his lips. "Do a strip for Daddy. Do it nice and slow."
"Give a girl time. Where's that roach you were talking about. I could use a few drags right now, my ass is sure sore as hell. And don't you dare pinch it, or I won't come here again."
Susan Durstag gave him a coquettish glance over the hem of her minidress as she slowly lifted it and exposed her delicious young figure. Then she began nonchalantly to wriggle out of her panty hose and pantie-briefs, grasping the tops and wriggling out of them in the most fascinating way as he devoured her with his eyes. He licked his lips when he saw the black curls of her pussybush come into view. She scuffed off her loafers, stopped and pulled off the final veils, and stood naked before him. Then she turned her back and looked coquettishly over her shoulder at him.
"Hey, you really meant it! Cripes, is your ass marked, baby! It's blue in spots - I mean it!"
he anxiously exclaimed.
"See? Well, that was really a licking I got. They had some old bitch in charge of stuff like that. She even handcuffed me so I couldn't cover up. And Mom sat there taking it all in, the lousy bitch!"
"What about your mother? Did she get spanked too?"
Susan Durstag moved slowly towards her young lover, her eyes shining, her hands stroking his sides as she arched herself lasciviously against him, rubbing her furry snatch against the violent bulge in his slacks.
"I'll bet she didn't. If I know Mom, she talked her way out of it. She probably spread for that old geezer. I know one thing, he was sure getting an eyeful while I was having my poor ass fantailed by that old bitch. He was sitting in a chair right behind me, so that he could see everything I had. And Mom said she wanted to talk to him in private, so I'll just bet she let him shag her instead of licking her."
"You poor kid." His palms gently moved over her swollen bottom, and Susan Durstag sighed happily, closed her eyes and nuzzled her chin against his collarbone as her hands squeezed his bare back as she whispered, "Let's have that roach and a slug of that wine, lover. I want you to screw me good, and make me forget my poor sore ass."
"You came to the right apartment, baby. Okay, I could use a drag and a slug too. Just get into bed and make yourself comfy. I'll give you room service," he chuckled thickly.
With a happy little gurgle and a reminder to him not to forget to yank down the shades, Susan Durstag climbed into bed, gingerly moving to lie on her side. Again, she put a hand behind her, appraisingly testing her inflamed bare bottom. And she watched him from between narrowed lids as he pulled open a drawer in an old walnut bureau, rummaged under a pile of neatly laundered shorts, and came out with a crumpled Pall Mall package in which there were two or three half-smoked marijuana cigarettes. He lit one of these, took a long drag, then moved over to the bed and handed it down to her, cupping one of her titties as he did so. Susan squirmed a little closer to him, and took a long puff, inhaling it and letting it blow out through her nostrils.
"That's dreamy," she purred. "Now, where's that wine?"
"Coming right up, Princess," he laughed.
A half-gallon of Gallo's was hidden, lying on its side, behind some books in the first shelf of a three-tier bookshelf near the window. He uncorked it, took a swig out of the bottle, and came back and handed it to her. Susan gulped it down thirstily and then exhaled a sigh of pleasure.
"Now I'm really in the mood. Give it to me, lover, give it to me good."
Dickie Gentry shucked down his pants, then the jock strap, kicked off his shoes and mounted the bed. His thighs were sturdy, muscular and rather hairy, with a fine light blonde down. Susan's eyes laved his body, fixing with widened appreciation on his swollen prick.
"Let's do it side-fashion, lover," she huskily whispered. "I don't think I could stand jogging up and down on my royal arse, not after that strapping that old bitch gave me. It still hurts like blazes. Please, be a love and don't pinch me too much there, huh? I'll do something nice for you."
"Like what?" he chuckled, kneeling and fondling her bare legs from the knees up to the crotch, then tickling her bare pussy and smiling at her suggestively.
"All right, I'll give you a blow job, how's that?" she grumbled.
"Perfect. All right, lover, over on your side, if you want it that way. But don't blame me if you've got a sore ass. If you hadn't tried to snitch stuff, you wouldn't be corning around here looking for sympathy," he joked.
"You can go straight to hell, Dickie Gentry, if that's the way you have to talk," Susan blazed. "I was all hot and sexy and I wanted to be told somebody loved me, so that's why I came here. If I'd known that's the way you were going to talk, I'd have gone home and frigged myself off, don't think I wouldn't." told her as he lay down on his left side and fondled both her titties, caressing tool her as he lay down on his left side and fondled both her titties, caressing them with his thumbpads. "That box of yours is still the tightest I ever did see."
She looked at him.
He looked back.
"Big deal," she murmured, tantalizingly as he tried to press his hard cock against her soft pussy.
"What you need is another drag on this roach, Suzy Q," he told her, reaching over to the ashtray and plucking up the still smoldering butt and handing it to her. She puffed, frowning, her eyes closed, and then a long shiver ran through her body and her toes curled, and she reached out to him, huskily murmuring, "Make me feel yummy - fuck me - fuck me good and hard!"
He took the butt from her fingers, crushed it out, then lay back down on his side and pulled her body to him. He nuzzled her throat, then the valley of her titties, and then Susan Durstag moaned and pushed him up hard against her so she could feel every sensation.
She felt she was soaring into the empyrean now, and the throbbing of her still aching bare ass had subsided into a constant and rather tolerable discomfort. His mouth began to move down as he bowed his head till it reached her navel, his tongue scraped round it as if scraping it clean, and she murmured "Ohhh - ohhhh, that's lovely, keep on doing that lots more - "
"And then you'll blow me, huh, Suzy?" he muttered. He put his right hand on her left hip and stroked it gently, feeling her flinch.
"I sure will but take it easy with my ass, lover, please do, just this once. Maybe next time you can pinch and slap and spank Mama, but tonight Mama feels kind of sore there."
"Tell you what, HI bet you've never been Drowned, huh, Suzy?" he muttered, prodding her navel with his tongue tip.
"No, What's that?"
"Aren't you the little square, though!" he laughed, looking up at her, his left hand still cupping one of her panting titties, his right hand caressing her bare hip. "That's when a guy puts his prick into a girl's bare asshole."
"Oh, no! Don't even say a thing like that now, the way I feet," she shuddered. "Anyhow, I bet it would hurt just terrible."
"You're crazy," he laughed with smug self-confidence. "Just put some vaseline or cold cream on it and work it in a little and the guy takes it easy and doesn't try to make a home run the first swing, and you both get to love it. You'd see for yourself when I try it on you."
"If you do," she corrected, pinching the tip of his nose, "I'll blow you, and I'll even let you brown me, if you'll make me cream down there at the Y."
"You want to be gammed before you get fucked, that right, baby?"
"Yeah, man, do I ever!" she moaned huskily, closing her eyes and shivering as his eyes again scanned her belly.
Moving downwards, Dickie Gentry grasped the edges of both hips to steer and maintain her as his mouth now brushed the silky black curls that now began to grow on her abdomen and thickened as they reached her cunt. Susan Durstag let her head fall back, her face a mask of furrowed concentration. The several drags on the marijuana reefer now began to filter through her system and a sort of euphoria tingled through her. Her bottom didn't even hurt her anymore. She felt as if she were a cloud, drifting, and alongside was a male cloud, brushing her and making her just swoon and let down all her rain, which of course was pussy cream. It was in that half-somnolent, half-stimulated plateau which the drug user often experiences which now provided sensual pleasure for the saucy and arrogant young brunette, following her severe strapping at McNair's Department Store.
Now his Lips began to brush the thickening curls until he found her twitching, already moist pink cunt lips. He began to rain kisses all over these, while Susan arched and squirmed and groaned unintelligible words and phrases. As he persisted, whimpering little sobs and her quickening breathing, as well as her spasmodically jerking reactions indicated that she was being brought close to the abyss of pussy passions.
His own needs now savagely aching, Dickie Gentry crammed his tongue between the labia majora of the young brunette's quim, entered the inner portals and began to delve inside as would a prick with an in and out thrusting until the naked young girl was in a paroxysm of tortured ecstasy. She flung her left leg over his back and shoulders, tilting back her head, her eyes huge and humid, fixing on the ceiling. Her hands rushed down to grab his head and to twist his hair, to force him to stay where he was and surfeit her with this glorious gamahuching.
Then his tongue crept back into the upper section of her slit, finding the stiffened lodestone, the trigger to her pussy passions. Furling around it, digging at it, rolling it this way and that, Dickie Gentry felt her loins and belly and thighs jerk and squirm more and more uncontrollably, while he heard her raucous plaints above him, urging him on.
"Aaahhh - oh Dickie, Oh Dickie, honey-oh, that's ever so good - you just don't know how good it is - harder, rub my little button - rub it off - oh my - oooohhhhoouuuu!! Hurry, I'm getting so close - I want your big cock inside me when I go off, but I have to have more gamming to get hot - oh darling - I'm getting hot now, oh, am I ever - oohhh - ahhhh!!"
He could no longer hold back his infuriated rut, desire. The veins in his swollen ramrod surged, threatened to break through the skin of the shaft, his balls jerked and twitched with the overloaded contents of hot bubbling gism which he wanted to burst into her. And, with a last dig of his tongue, he straightened and moved against her, his right thumb and forefinger gaping apart her wet, slick, twitching cunt-lips as he shoved himself between them and on until he felt himself tightly clasped by the agile, excited sheath of her torrid tumescent young cunt.
Her bare leg, still lying over him began to rub back over his bottom and hip and upper thigh in a feverish and quickened rhythm as her passions mounted. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder as their passions mounted, her eyes glassy, not even seeing him. The wine, the marijuana, the sound strapping of her naked behind had all combined to transport her into a new world in which there was only primitive, naked sensation. The aching void in her cunt yearned for assuagement.
Her nipples had hardened and darkened and she arched herself to him as he dug to the balls, till their hairs ground together. A choking prolonged moan escaped her and she dug at the skin until she drew blood. Her tongue in a frenzy lashed in his mouthwalls, scraped his teeth, urged him to greater deeds of valor, and he began to fuck her with a furious gait, unable to hold back any longer the maddening urge to explode.
"Oh don't come yet, I'm so close, give it to me harder, oh please!" she moaned.
Grinding his teeth, exerting his last reserve, Dickie Gentry edged his right forefinger against her dainty asshole and prodded just inside the lips. At the same time, he drew back to the brink of her cunt, then shoved back home to the balls. He uttered a cry as he burst himself torrentially into her quaking love chasm, and at the same moment Susan Durstag arched and bowed herself, her eyes rolling to the whites, and then clutched him in a stranglehold with both pale-white skinned arms as she felt herself swiftly hurtling down from the heavens into the shattering black abyss of hot girlcome.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Horace McNair had gone home shortly after fucking Eva Durstag, hoping that Corinne would have decided to go out for the evening. He wanted to take a quick nap, shave and shower, then get himself over to Martha Wilson's apartment where she would cook a light supper for him, with a bottle of chilled white wine ready for their amours. Just thinking about how Eva Durstag's big bottom had presented itself upturned and naked with her pantie-girdle twisted around her upper thighs, how the soft flesh had angrily reddened and danced and jiggled under his smacking pal, was enough to make him feel as if he hadn't fucked at all. It was a good feeling and he wanted to preserve it for Martha. He wanted to give Martha a good sound bareass tanning, just to work himself up to a real pitch. He had also got Eva Durstag's phone number and address just before he had left the soundproofed buyer's office and he knew that he was going to find some time and not too long from now to call on her and renew acquaintances even more intimately. He also thought to himself somewhat amusedly that when he visited her, he would bring along some gifts for both her and Susan, and they would be exactly the kind of merchandise she and Susan had been caught trying to steal. After all, it would be very appropriate; that was the stuff that had led them to show their lovely asses for a fantailing and got him one of the best quickies in his entire career.
But to his surprise, Corinne was still home, and Patricia was in her room sulking again. It seemed Patricia had asked her mother if she could go out with a girlfriend to a movie and have supper at the girlfriend's house, and Corinne had smelled a rat and had said absolutely not. So, Patricia had gone to her room and locked the door and there had been a little sniffling, which would have been crocodile tears or a put-on act, and it hadn't moved Corinne in the least, and it wasn't going to, she tartly told her errant husband.
"Horace, I'd love to have you take me out tonight," she said to him as he began to take off his coat and pants, eager to get a shower and also to remove whatever evidence there might have been from his adulterous encounter with Eva Durstag.
"Gosh, I'm sorry, honey, I've got to have dinner with Jack Showalter," he quickly lied. Jack was a salesman for an extremely popular lingerie line which appealed to young misses and young marrieds, and he happened to know that Jack was in Sacramento right now and wouldn't be due in Fresno for another couple of weeks.
"Fine. Just for once, take me along," she pouted.
"I wish I could, honey, but you'd be bored stiff. All we talk about is business," he hedged.
"I'd like to know more about your business, Horace," she said.
He glanced at her quickly, wondering what she meant by that wise-crack, but her face was bland and innocent looking. He knew he was trapped. If he kept protesting too much, she was going to guess that he was just a little over anxious to get out tonight and there was probably another girl. On the other hand, if he took her out to dinner and there was no Jack Showalter, he was going to have to explain that, too. Either way, it was a very awkward situation.
"Oh, all right," he finally grumbled. "Give a guy a chance to wash up and dress. And I'd like to get a quick nap. I had a helluva afternoon."
"How was that, darling?" she asked, coming over to stroke his forehead. She also sniffed, though he didn't notice, and then she frowned. There was a perfume clinging to him, and it wasn't hers, that was for certain. "Does poor Horace feel tired, great big man's all honked out?" she purred.
Horace McNair gulped, turned red. "Where on earth did you learn a word like that, Rinny?"
he wanted to know.
Corinne shrugged. "I'm not as old as you think, Horace dear, I knew about that way back in high school. And now that I think of it, you used to honk yourself out with me. You haven't done it in a good long time. I wonder why. Don't I appeal to you any more, Horace lover?"
The way she underlined the last word made him wince. "Sure you do. It's only that I've got too damn much on my mind. Inventory, and maybe building an addition farther out in Fresno and seeing all these buyers and salesmen - I ought to be twins," he hastily tried to divert her very alarming suspicions.
"If you really loved me, if I really meant anything to you, you'd find time to go the bed with me, Horace," she murmured, ringing her arms around his neck and stepping close to him.
Then she deliberately ground her pussy against the fly of his trousers. Horace gulped again; he already had an erection because he had been thinking about Martha Wilson and his plans for tonight.
"Oh my, but this is wonderful, darling! You've got to let me see - it's been so long," she giggled.
"Hey, what are you doing? That's no way for a decent wife to act!" he panted, very red in the face and backing away. She had surreptitiously yanked down his zipper and was about to put her hand inside and draw out his stiff prick when he finally evaded her.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, darling. It's wonderful. How old are you now, Horace?
Forty-three, isn't it? You'd be foolish to waste this. Please, you can spare a few minutes for your own wife, can't you?" Corinne teased. She approached again, and this time, having backed him into a comer, did manage to delve her hand into his open fly and bring out his swollen prick. Horace closed his eyes and groaned. He couldn't very well stop her, because that would be just the last straw to confirm her suspicions, and if he lost any more gism, there wouldn't be any left for luscious Martha Wilson.
But he wasn't prepared for what his buxom, attractive and supposedly boringly predictable wife did just then. For, sinking down on her knees, Corinne McNair clutched his shaft with both hands, innocently like a child might on its first experience, and then she drew it to her parted lips, and for the first time in his married life, Horace McNair felt the amateurish touch of his wife's soft lips on his alerted glans. It was simply beyond his wildest dreams.
Oh wow!!!
"Rinny! For heaven's sake, where did you learn that? Oh, hey, cut it out-Rinny - what are you doing?" he panted.
But Corinne McNair was ignoring her husband for the first time in a long time, and was busy sucking and licking his aching prick, from the bulging tip clear down to the balls. He didn't try to break loose for fear that he would be emasculated. Leaning with his back against the heavy back of an upright antique chair, he closed his eyes and surrendered, which was about the only sensible thing he could do at the moment.
Corinne, as playful as a child with a new toy, sucked, nibbled at the glans with her teeth, prodded it with her tongue and then proceeded to exercise a gentle pumping action with her fingers against the bulging shaft. He groaned aloud, dug his fingernails into his sweating palms, feeling weak in the knees. He also felt the onrush of his gism to the puckering lips of his prick, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he paid her tribute in a way he had hoped to reserve for his former secretary.
Suddenly he thought of a desperate measure. Kneeling down, he plunged the fingers of his left hand into her hair and twisted them, yanking up her face as he panted, "Now that's enough of that. You're absolutely shameless, Corinne McNair! You know, in all these years you've never before done anything like that, and I'm going to find out who taught it to you, and I'm going to give you a lesson you won't soon forget."
"Oh, yes, darling, give me a good one!" she breathed. She released his cock and stood up, expecting him to embrace her.
But Horace McNair had no such idea in mind. Instead, seizing her by the wrist, he drew her over to a couch on the other side of the room, pulled her down across his lap, hoisted up her skirt and slip, and then he did another double take. Instead of her usual drab girdle, Corinne McNair was wearing black nylon panties, a garter belt whose narrow tabs hooked to her sheer nylon hose, and he could see the cheeks of her bottom squirm and contract even through that diaphanous black veil.
"Stop it, Horace! What are you going to do?" she cried a little apprehensively, staring back at him.
"Find out where you learned what you just tried to do to me, that's what, woman," he thundered. The fingers of his right hand inserted under the waistband of the panties and yanked them down to midthigh. His eyes widened with pleasure. She really had a magnificent ass, and it was twitching and tightening, just the way Susan's ass had tightened when it was ready for the strap in the hand of Matilda Dowling. Gripping her waist with his left hand, he raised his right and delivered a solid spank on the crest of the right buttock, followed by another on the other cheek. It was delicious to hear and to feel; the crisp smacks, the resilience of her bottomflesh flattening and springing up under his palm, kindled the old spanking lust-syndrome which was so delightfully familiar to his prick and balls. His eyes glittering, he completely forgot about Martha Wilson as he warmed to the task.
Corinne was getting a great deal more than she had bargained for. She began to yelp, then to wail, and then to sob hysterically as his hand plummeted down, landing on first one cheek and then the other, till both bottomglobes were a uniform violent red and her face was drowned in tears.
Then, shuddering with lust, Horace McNair tumbled his wife onto the couch on her back and, seeing that his prick was already sticking out of his open fly, got between her sprawled legs before she could realize what he was going to do, and crammed himself between the furry lips of her cunt.
"Ohhhh, Horace-darling, oh yes, oh my darling - fuck me, give it to me hard-fuck me till I come, I need it so very badly, my sweet husband!" Corinne McNair panted. He felt her cunt walls grip hold of his ramrod and it was maddening. Her hips were squirming too, ceaselessly, restlessly, creating a new frictional torment for his imbedded cock.
He reached under to grab hold of her bare bottom, to squeeze it as he began to fuck her ruthlessly. But far from screeching or begging off, his amazingly revitalized wife linked her arms around his neck and dragged his face down, sealing his mouth with hers and digging in her tongue while her legs nimbly clamped around his thighs and she adjusted herself to the furious rhythm of his fucking pace.
It was explosive, shattering and it was dazzling. He felt himself lash the walls of her womb with his bubbling spunk, felt her quake beneath him, felt her arms and legs clutch him, and felt her tongue dig wildly about in his mouth and felt her expire with him as he felt her own rapturous pussy juicing. He lay there, dazed from this unexpected unforeseen interlude.
She had acted just like a call girl, just like Martha Wilson. He didn't know what to make of it, but he knew that his prick was utterly drained. He knew there wouldn't be any use in visiting Martha tonight. As a matter of fact, it was high time he started keeping tabs on his own wife for a change.
Corinne nuzzled his nose with her cheek, then his cheek with her nose, crinkling it at him and whispering, "Oh, darling, let's stay home and take potluck and then go to bed and spend the rest of the night there, shall we?" And for once in his life, Horace McNair didn't try to think up any excuses. Nor did he remember to tell her he had a supposed dinner engagement with Jack Showalter. As for Corinne, she had already forgotten he had even told her about that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Martha Wilson paced the floor of her living room, visibly annoyed. That old fool, Horace McNair had telephoned her for a date just before lunch today, and she had even gone out to the hairdresser and got herself all lovely for him and now he wasn't coming. It was eight o'clock and well past the time he had told her he would come by. Maybe for a change he really had to stay down at the store and take inventory or something. Or maybe - a horrid thought leaped into her suspicious mind. Just maybe Corinne was keeping him horny.
Remembering how she had met Corinne the other day, Martha Wilson realized that with a little care and painstaking, Horace's wife could really be very attractive to a man.
To be sure, that was exactly what was happening at about this time, but Martha Wilson had only her suspicions to go on. As it was, she had a lonesome, dreary evening ahead unless she could manage to do something about it. And then she brightened, thinking of Al Porter. On impulse, she put on a light cape over her slinky black satin house coat-trousers combination (under which she wore only a skimpy black nylon bra and panties of the same material, which showed off a considerable piece of her voluptuous bottom), got into her car and drove out to the service station where Al Porter worked.
Al himself had had a phone call from delectable, auburn-haired Maxine Elliott, who had wanted him to spend the night with her and very possibly the entire weekend. As it happened, one of Al's assistants had come down with ptomaine poisoning the night before, and as a result, the rugged, black-haired young stud had to work a couple of hours overtime until his regular nightshift replacement could get there, which was a little after eight o'clock.
Martha Wilson was thinking to herself as she drove toward the service station that maybe it was a good idea to give Horace his walking papers. She was pretty well fixed now, had a few thousand dollars in the bank, a nice wardrobe and the rent on her little lovenest was paid for all of this year. She could always take off to Los Angeles and find herself a secretarial job, or maybe even modeling. Frisco was a different story, however, because there weren't too many jobs in the Bay area and moreover, there weren't too many men who appreciated pretty girls. Some of her friends had told her that all you could hear in Frisco was men whistling at one another rather than at pretty girls, and that wasn't her cup of tea at all.
Clem Zelman, a towheaded, lanky former Texan who had come to Fresno because he had been stationed near there during his basic training and had fallen in love with a cute little Armenian girl and married her, finally showed up to take over the night shift and Al showed him the records of the day's sales, shook hands and then got into his Rambler. He was raring to go, and the thought of Maxine Elliott's mannish bob and girlish figure and the thought of her tawny ass wriggling under his smacking palm was giving him a prodigious hard-on as he fumbled with the ignition key.
At just about this time, Martha Wilson was a few blocks away from the service station. She reached it just in time to see AI's car pull out a short distance ahead of her and head north. Recognizing the car, she decided to follow him.
Her lovely brows arched with jealous annoyance as she saw him turn off the main road and head east. Now she knew he was going to see another woman. This was the richest section of Fresno, with lots of swanky residential houses. The streets were so dark you couldn't see the numbers, so you had to know where everybody lived. If you walked in Fresno at night, just for a lark, the chances were about two to one that a squad car would stop by and demand to see your identification. That was the sort of snooty section it was.
And when she saw Al rum his car into the driveway of a two-level ranch-type house, she was furious. She had stayed about a hundred yards behind him and was moving at about ten miles an hour when he turned into that driveway. She parked her car, got out and crouched beside it in the darkness while she watched him go up to the house, ring the doorbell and wait. A moment later the door opened and he disappeared.
She stood there a moment, undecided. She knew she didn't have any rights over him, but just the same, they had such lovely times whenever they fucked, and she was hoping he might even marry her. She was getting tired of being an old man's darling, even if Horace McNair was only forty-three, and he was in that category so far as she was concerned.
And she didn't think there was much of a chance of getting him to sever himself from Corinne and his daughter Patricia and marry her, not in a town like Fresno. There might be a scandal if Corinne decided to make some slanderous remarks and it wouldn't be good for his business, and old Horace certainly put the store above everything else.
But feminine jealousy is often an overpowering impulse, and it was for lovely Martha Wilson tonight. She walked slowly toward the house, not knowing exactly what she was going to do but determined she was going to have it out with Al tonight anyhow.
Inside the house, which was that of Maxine Elliott, Al was already saying hello to the delectable divorcee. Maxine was wearing a very prick-hardening outfit that consisted of a very thin and sheer black silk blouse with long puffed sleeves, and extremely sexy-looking black satin toreador pants, with cuffs at the calves and her tawny-sheened calves chiseled to her bare ankles delightfully showing, her feet shod in high-heeled red leather pumps.
She didn't have a thing on under the blouse and pants, as Al was discovering. His hands ran over her ass, squeezing and patting; his mouth was bruising hers in a hot and heady kiss. And she was grinding herself against his swelling ramrod like a cat in heat, her arms linked around the back of his neck, whimpering softly, "Oh darling, I couldn't wait till you got here, I'm so hot for you, lover! Can't we start fucking right now so we don't waste one minute of our precious time?"
"Why not?" answered Al, reaching down to his pants and unzipping them right away. At this point, he wasn't interested in taking off his clothes and making the fuck nice and romantic. All he wanted was to stuff his pecker into that heated pussy he knew was hiding beneath the black satin toreador pants.
He kissed Maxine again and tried to reach down into her pants. His hand wouldn't fit in.
"Hey!" he cried, "How the hell am I supposed to get in there?"
Maxine laughed at him and undulated her hips so that Al's hand could worm its way down into her pants. She felt the hot tickling of his fingers probing around in her ass, and she knew that her pants would split if he didn't get his fingers out soon.
She took her hands away from his body and reached to her waist, where she quickly undid a button that held her black satin pants together. The zipper came down without any trouble, and soon the slippery pants were sliding down Maxine's legs and exposing Al's already-busy hand.
His prick was bouncing out of his shorts, and once her own pants were down, Maxine caught up the hard piece of flesh. Fight now she was just interested in rolling it around between her hands and feeling the heat of it permeate throughout her body.
Al kept his ringers doodling around in her ass-crack, and she spread her legs slightly so that he could really get in there. This was what she called a real hello.
Her hands reached around his waist and tugged at the shirt that was still inside his pants.
Once under the material, her hands made the rounds of his hairy chest, feeling the hard nipples and touching Al all over, just to get him excited.
She kissed his neck passionately, opening her lips and roaming around the hollows of his neck with her tongue, and biting at the little hairs that gathered in clusters all over his skin.
"Mm, baby, are you delicious!" she murmured to Al, taking a large mouthful of his flesh and munching on it.
Maxine ground her hips down on the erect prick in front of her, and decided that right now wasn't exactly the time to fuck. She figured that Al was probably very tired from a hard day at the service station, and wanted to take a shower or have a drink or something.
Well, she was kind-hearted, and she wouldn't push him into a fuck right away. But they had such a little bit of time, on the other hand. If only he didn't have to go back the next day. Maybe there was some way he could stay for the weekend.
"Ohhhhhh, my baby, my baby," Maxine murmured twisting around her breasts and pushing them against Al's chest. "I really want you. I'm so glad you could come over here."
"You're not the only one, baby," Al answered. "Don't you think I enjoy coming over here after a hard day at the station?"
"I know you do, sweetheart," smiled Maxine. Her fingers wandered over his skin, and she couldn't help being obsessed with the whole idea of Al staying with her for the whole weekend.
She pressed her cunt against his prick as she thought of this, wanting him so badly, and never wanting him to leave. She decided to ask him about it, and so, pulled away, saying to him, "Darling, I love you so much, but can't you, please, really can't you work it so you can stay the whole weekend and not be going back till Monday? I'd be glad to pay you back for the salary they'd dock you, darling. I'm just so lonesome, I don't know what to do."
"That'd be great, Maxine baby," he muttered hoarsely. "Want to screw now or shall we have a drink and something to eat first? Whatever you want, doll, I'm here to give it to you."
"I want that great big stiff cock of yours, and you know it, you naughty boy," Maxine kittenishly teased, continuing to rub her crotch against his. "But it's always better when we wait, isn't it? So let's have something to eat. Would you like some wine or a shot of something?"
"Something cool. It's been a terrifically hot day down at that damned station, Maxine baby," Al grumbled as he reluctantly released the slinky divorcee.
"You just sit down there in that big comfy armchair, lover," Maxine cooed, "and I'll go fix us something. I'll pretend I'm a little slave girl waiting on her lord and master."
"That's right," he chuckled as he shrugged off his suit coat and tossed it over the back of an armchair with a sigh of comfort, "and let's see that I get good service or the lord and master is going to tan the hide off his naughty little slave girl."
"Ooohhh, I'm scared!" Maxine gasped in a little-girl voice as she made a piquant face at him, then disappeared.
Martha Wilson had stopped in front of the house, not exactly certain how to go about this dramatic breaking-and-entering routine. Then she thought that maybe she could go around to the back of the house and maybe look in the kitchen window or something.
Maybe she had misjudged Al. Maybe he was meeting somebody who was going to give him a better job or something. He was such a brainy guy, he deserved better than working at a crummy old service station, and certainly if they were going to be married, he'd have to earn a lot more than what he made there, that was for sure.
She moved cautiously along the side of the ivy-covered wall of the house, beyond the driveway and into the garden. There was a wide porch and the summer door was unhooked, so Martha quickly and noiselessly pulled it ajar and crouched down outside the window. She found that she was looking into the kitchen, and at that moment the light went on and there was a slinky redhead in a peekaboo blouse and hip-hugging black shiny toreador pants opening the refrigerator and standing in a way that stuck her ass out in a most libidinous way. Martha Wilson compressed her lips with furious indignation. So this was why he was working overtime and wasn't able to see her, the louse! Two-timing her with some rich bitch, a round-heeled slut who could afford a fancy house like this and probably had more money than she knew what to do with. She was going to fix Al Porter's clock for him once and for all, she was!
She watched the unknown woman put cold chicken, dices of ham, cheese, anchovies and olives and two bottles of beer onto plates and a tray, then carry the tray out of the kitchen, her svelte hips undulating lasciviously. She had left the light on, and apparently she didn't care whether she turned it off or not, a sure indication that Al was planning to stay here for quite some time. That little nuance made Martha's blood boil all the more furiously.
Tentatively she tried the kitchen door, but it was locked. Baffled for the nonce, she left the porch and looked around. As luck would have it, she saw a half-opened basement window, and moved over to it, squatted down and peered in. She could just make out the floor, and it didn't look to be too long a drop. Carefully she took hold of the sill, edged herself over it and let herself down, then dropped. She scrambled to her feet, looked around, and in the darkness groped until she found a narrow door and a flight of narrow wooden stairs. Fortunately the door was open, and she ascended into what was obviously a well-stocked pantry on the other side of the kitchen.
Taking off her light coat, she dropped it on top of a little ladder leaning against the wall and made her way down the narrow corridor. She could see the open door of a bedroom with a big, low, wide bed, and she ground her teeth with jealous rage at this portent of what this night was probably going to bring to her philandering lover. Well, she was going to do something about stopping him before he got to enjoy the comforts of that bed, and that was for damn sure!
Holding her breath, taking one tiny step after another, she edged her way along the wall of the corridor to be as close to the living room as she could be without being detected. She heard Al's voice boom out: "Say Maxine doll, this is really a spread! That's what I call being a good little slave girl!"
"That's what I want to be for you, darling," Maxine's voice drawled and then Martha heard Al's sigh of gusto after he had downed half a bottle of beer at practically one gulp.
"Ahhhhhh! That really hits the spot, baby!"
There followed the sound of eating and drinking for a few minutes, and then she heard Maxine's voice coo, "Was the master's little slave girl good tonight?"
"She sure was, and she better stay that way. Otherwise she'll get her bumbum spanked real good till she cries," he said playfully. Then there was the sound of a long kiss, and Martha fumed, grinding her fists into her hips. She might well have posed for an artist in the classical pose of the maxim, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!"
It was all she could do to control herself, as she heard the sounds of more eating and drinking and then suddenly Maxine giggled, "Oh darling, let's take a break and do it! I'm just burning up, Al honey! That way, we can take the edge off and then maybe come back and watch TV, and then we can go to bed and stay all night. Wouldn't that be lovely?"
"It sure would, baby doll. C'mere to your master!" she heard her lover growl.
Then there was Maxine's moaning sigh of ecstasy, and Martha Wilson edged even closer to the entrance to the living room, just in time to see the auburn-haired divorcee half-turned towards her black-haired lover, her slim hand in his lap, literally yanking down his zipper and drawing out his stiff prick, while he, in turn, had his left hand at the back of her slim neck, his right hand entered into the peekaboo blouse which he had unbuttoned and was now fondling one of her panting titties. Their lips were merged, and the divorcee's face was flushed with excitement.
"So this is the way you spend your overtime at the station, is it, Mr. Al Porter!" Martha Wilson cried as she stepped out onto the threshold of the room, hands on hips, glaring at both guilty participants. With a cry of alarm, Maxine broke off the embrace, huddled against the back of the couch, one arm hastily flung over her heaving titties. Al Porter, with a vicious oath, clapped his hand over his swollen prick and snarled, "What the hell are you doing here, Martha? Spying on us?"
"I got to the service station just a little before you left and saw you take off. I wanted to catch up with you and ask you to have a date with me tonight. Now I know why you've begged off so many dates the last week or so-all that talk about working overtime and making money for us was just so you could be here with this red-haired hussy!" Martha angrily denounced him.
"Now see here, you!" Maxine Elliott gasped. Then, turning to her lover, she demanded, "Who is this girl, Al? Do you know her?"
"Yeah, honey, we had a couple of dates. But I didn't hock myself to her and I didn't make her any promises. Now listen, Martha, can't you see you're not wanted; haven't you got any pride? I'll call you when I want to see you - if I do - " he insolently drawled as he leaned back and put an arm around Maxine's waist, then winked at her.
That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Martha Wilson uttered a strangled cry of rage, stalked over to the couch, bent down and pulled Maxine Elliott to her feet and slapped her face several times before the auburn-haired divorcee could defend herself. Al was about to interpose when he saw the divorcee was retaliating in good kind: Maxine Elliott had reached out and ripped the neck of Martha's satin housecoat, and then cried out, "Look who's talking about hussies, when she hasn't even anything on but a skimpy bra on those big tits of hers!"
"Why, you bitch, I'll show you!" Martha wailed, beside herself with rage. She plunged her fingers into Maxine's auburn hair, but the mannish bob didn't afford much of a hold.
Meanwhile the divorcee was defending herself by applying a quick jab of her right fist into the pit of Martha's stomach. The lovely brunette gasped, let go, doubled over and stumbled down on her knees, fighting for breath.
"Call me a hussy, will you, you slut?" the divorcee cried as she bent down and completed the ruination of Martha's blouse, and then tore the straps of the bra. "I'll scratch your eyes out for you!"
But Martha, regaining her breath, grabbed Maxine's legs and bore her down to the floor with a yell of pain at the bruising shock. Then she scrambled over her rival and tore away the peekaboo blouse and began to claw at the divorcee's heaving titties, while Maxine tried to defend herself by clawing at Martha's face, once luckily scratching the brunette on the left cheekbone and drawing blood.
This drove Martha to even greater fury, and she now set to work ripping off the toreador pants, pinching and slapping and clawing with her nails at Maxine's bare belly and sides.
The divorcee flailed at her with her fists, catching at her a few times with her fists, but Martha hung on doggedly, like a terrier shaking a rat until at last the toreador pants were dragged down to Maxine's knees and she was hampered by their restraint. As Martha started to rise, the hysterically-sobbing divorcee lunged at her and managed to grasp her by the ankle and throw her down to the floor.
By this time Al was wildly excited, and he had completely forgotten his anger at Martha's intrusion. She had never looked lovelier, fighting for him this way. Besides, he needed a fuck in the worst way. Yanking down his zipper and liberating his prick, he strode towards the brunette who was scrambling to all fours, panting, her hair disheveled, tears of rage and pain streaking her cheeks.
"What's your hurry, Martha baby?" he thickly panted, grabbing her by her bare shoulders - for she was naked to the waist after Maxine's assault - and forcing her down on the sofa on her back. Then, finding the opening of the satin pants, he began to drag them down past her bottom and cunt, while she hysterically tried to beat at him with her fists, crying out, "I don't want you! You can have your red-haired bitch for all I care. Let me alone, Al, damn you! Not in front of her, you dirty beast! Ohhhhh!"
But already he had flung himself over her. Ripping off her panties first, he then grabbed her titties and squeezed them while he forced his prick into the furry bush of her cunthole, found the soft, twitching petals and probed deeply to the balls as he exhaled a grunt of pleasure. Martha's face twisted to one side and she beat at him with her clenched fists, sobbing, "I don't want you-stop it - go fuck her, you lousy two-timer-ohhhh - mmfffff!!"
He had silenced her with his left palm on her mouth, his right hand still squeezing one of her naked titties, and he began to fuck her violently. Meanwhile, Maxine Elliott, stumbling to all fours, her toreador pants rucked down to her knees, angrily reached back and tugged them further down, stepped out of them, and kicked them away.
What was happening, she wondered?
It was unbelievable!
Gloriously naked, even to her feet, since she had scuffed off her footgear in the catfight with Martha, and, her beautiful titties swaying pendant, began to hammer at Al with her fists in turn: "That's enough of that-get that bitch out of here-my house isn't a cathouse, you know-I said stop it, Al - if you want us to keep on as friends-" Al suddenly rose, for the hammering of her fists on his shoulder blades and neck was becoming irritating. Leaving the sprawled, naked brunette where she was, the marks of his fingers on her lovely titties, he turned, his prick enormous and glistening from the lovejuice that already saturated the walls of Martha's cunt.
"Now cut that out, Maxine," he raged. "Looks like you need another lesson. No bitch orders me around, get me?" And with this, he slapped her cheek so viciously that her head rocked back and she uttered a cry of consternation, rubbing the fiery spot on her tawny skin.
"You - you'd rather have her than me - o, you selfish bastard!"
"And that'll be just about enough of that, you jealous bitch!" he snapped. He grabbed her by an elbow, dragged her back, wildly kicking and screaming, flung her over his lap, with her tawny-sheened ass upturned, then grabbed her neck with his left hand to stretch her out properly in position.
"That's right, give it to that tramp, that round heeled tramp, make her take back what she said about me, darling," Martha Wilson struggled to her feet and, pushing her hair away from one cheek, her titties panting, her eyes gleaming with delight, stood by to watch the scene.
Of course she misinterpreted it entirely; she assumed that in chastising Maxine Elliott, her fickle lover was actually asserting his preference for her.
"Not in front of her! Don't you do it - don't you dare! I hate you, I don't ever want to see you again, you take yourself and that bitch - OWWWW! stop it - stop it - oh, you Goddamn bastard - ohiiiiiiouuuuuu!! Stop it, I tell you - you're hurting me!" Maxine's furious tirade was broken off suddenly as his hand landed on her right asscheek, flattening it, then rose and landed on the other globe in exactly the same place. A third blow, bridging the cheeks and flattening the inner edges, made her buck and squirm.
Her gyrations rubbed her belly and loins against his already agonized prick, which had been attuned for fucking in Martha Wilson's tight warm cunt at the time of the jealous interruption by the divorcee, and far from softening him to pity for the auburn haired beauty, this Tantalus only made him determined all the more to show her who was master. He ignored her words and his right hand rose and fell rapidly, landing blows all over her naked bottom, which began to pitch and lunge and twist, as she beat on the couch with her fists, trying to reach behind to cover up her flaming bottom, shrieking incoherently, her face screwed up and drowned in tears.
After about fifty such smacks, he stopped, ruefully flexed his hand and observed his reddened palm Maxine was sobbing over his lap now, both her hands rubbing her hips, absolutely devastated by the fury and ruthlessness of the punishment.
"All right, you bitch," he panted hoarsely, "do you think you can keep your mouth shut now and let me make the decisions around here?"
Maxine thought fast, but she didn't think fast enough to suit Al Porter. He applied right thumb and forefinger in a cruel pinch right along the shadowy groove between her asscheeks, and at last she found voice: "EEEEYOWUUUUUU!!!! Oh yes, anything you want, darling, oh my God, don't hurt me any more, I'll be good!"
"Let's see if you can be. Just stay here on the couch until I'm ready for you," he warned.
Then, lifting her up by the armpits, he flung her ruthlessly on her back to the other side of the couch where she landed with a wail of pain, immediately rolling over to her side and rushing her hands back to soothe her offended backside.
He rose, his prick bobbing and angrily swollen, the dark-blue veins standing out against the skin of the shaft. "You're next, baby," he told the astonished Martha Wilson. Before she could protest, he had seized her by the elbows, hauled her to a nearby armchair, seated himself or the edge and forced her down over his lap, so that her left side was pinned against the lower edge of the armchair. Again his leg clamped over her calves, his left palm forced down the middle of her creamy back, and then his right hand began to rise and fall repeatedly. "EEEEYYYYOWWWW! Oh please, Al darling, love me, don't spank me! OWWW! I'll be good-please!" Martha vainly pleaded.
But even though his palm was smarting painfully, Al Porter had determined to teach these two cats that they didn't own him in any way, shape or form. He didn't content himself until Martha's bucking, streaked naked behind was flaming and she was weeping hysterically.
Then, rolling her off his lap onto the floor, he stood up, took off his pants, his shirt, then an undershirt and shorts and socks and shoes, his prick standing out violently, and stared down at the weeping brunette. Maxine was still sniffling over on the couch, looking warily at him with a new fear and respect in her eyes. To hold back was torture, but he sensed somehow this was the time to dominate both women completely and make both of them his slaves.
"Maxine, get over here!" he commanded.
"Yes - yes, darling, right away!" she gasped. She hobbled over to him, her hands still rubbing her swollen seat, her eyes still very large and full of tears.
"I want you two to girlfuck and make up," he said coarsely. "Go on down on her. And you, Martha baby, you just better cooperate, or I'll take my belt to your sore ass and then some!"
"What?" Maxine gasped, turning scarlet.
"You know what I mean. I've always wanted to see two broads do sixty-nine. And you're both naked and all ready. Get to work," he dictated.
He yanked his wide leather belt from his discarded pants and cracked it in the air.
Overcome y distaste, but even more by fear of his mastery, the two young women complied. Al stood before them, watching them perform the cunt sucking sixty-nine, and then, when he could stand it no more, he pulled Maxine up and crammed his prick into her in a single vicious dig.
"What about me?" Martha wailed from the floor.
"I guess you earned some fun, too, baby," Al panted. "Okay, you get down in front of Maxine here, and if she doesn't eat you till you cream, I'll use my belt."
The divorcee crouched down and her rival began to lick and suck on her cunt. And so Al Porter achieved the feat of settling a bitter duel between his sweethearts, and at the same time reconciling them to be in his lust-harem.
Martha lapped at the sweet, hot cunt in front of her mouth, and she didn't have to force herself to enjoy it, inspire of the belt threat. Al stood over her, letting his fingers wander over her ass.
She lifted her head from the bubbling twat and smiled at her lover. "Hey, babe, that feels good. Sort of stimulates me, you know?" And then she buried her head in the cunt in front of her - Maxine, after all, was too good to let go unsucked.
Al smiled down at the two women beneath him. He knew that he'd done well, even if it had taken a little too much cruelty on his part. As far as he was concerned, a little force never hurt anybody, and if that was what it had to take, that was what he would do.
Loving, to him, was more important than anything, and harmonious sex was the best part of life. He let that philosophical little thought run through his mind as he watched the progress of Martha and Maxine.
The moaning sighs that emanated from Maxine's mouth were some of the most delightful, sensual ones Al had ever heard. They came out of her like songs, moaning tunes of pleasure and desire that urged Martha even further on in her duty-desire.
She reached up to the cunt with her itching fingers and scratched away at the pubic hair, curling in tight little masses. Maxine laughed at the tickling and let her legs spread further apart so Martha could get in all the way.
"Come on, sweetheart," she murmured to her. "Come on and really lick me dry."
Martha did the best she could, and nibbled at Maxine's clit with her teeth, just gently enough to tantalize the woman, and just roughly enough to set her on fire.
"Oh, baby!" moaned Maxine, wriggling and squirming, "I can't take it! I can't take it!"
Al laughed at the funny scene, and knelt down on the floor beside Martha. He kissed her soft face and whispered in her ear. "Want it in the ass?" The words were clear and Martha, even though she was involved in her sucking, heard them.
"You bet, baby!" she murmured back, looking up from the cunt to shoot Al a sideways glance.
Her eyes glimmered, and she went back to her cunt-job, just spreading her bent legs enough to open up the ass for Al's prick. Even the inch lee-way she gave him was big enough, because within the minute, he grabbed each cheek in one of his hands and pressed them apart, shoving a growing pecker right in between.
Martha felt the penetration of heat on her flesh, and it traveled straight through her body out into her tongue, and then shot out into Maxine the same way.
Suddenly it seemed that the three lovers were totally united in their mutual desires for one another's bodies, and nothing in the world could have separated them.
Al's prick throbbed into full erection, and he pushed it into the tiny hole in front of him.
"Ooh, sweetheart, that hurts!" Martha giggled, loving the pain she felt.
"Good, baby," answered Al, "that means it's working."
It was working, all right. Al's piece of hot flesh had penetrated the tight canal and sunk itself deep into the darkness Martha had so willingly opened up to him. His pecker pressed almost savagely against the muscles that squeezed it tightly and threatened never to let it out. He put his hands on the bobbing ass in front of him and pulled it in towards himself, shoving his prong deeper and deeper into the back door he loved.
He screwed his prick in as far as it would go, and felt the tightness of his flesh, burning and sending sparks of nervous excitement throughout his body. His balls grew hard, and as he pushed into Martha, he knew it wouldn't be long before he filled her with his gift of come.
She had almost brought Maxine to orgasm, herself, the way she was wildly licking at the cunt. The bottom woman's hips were bouncing up and down, and her melodies of arousal had grown to fever pitch.
Then, all at once, unbelievably, the three experienced a height in their tripled-union, as Al filled Martha's ass with cream, hot and streaming, and Maxine bounced out an orgasm on the floor.
They collapsed together on the floor, and Al realized that while few dreams in life could be fully reached, this was one that, in his life, had already been attained.
