THIS NOVEL IS BASED on an actual happening at Northwestern University in February of this year. The story in Chicago newspapers related that an enterprising young confidence man with a fondness for spanking fast-talked thirteen Northwestern University coeds into an unorthodox "psychological research project."
Several weeks prior to the appearance of the story, an advertisement appeared in the university's student newspaper offering girls between the ages of 18 to 26 each the sum of $15 for a half hour of participation in a "research discussion group." More than 100 girls replied to the ad, and the "researcher" selected 13 from the group for his sample.
These thirteen girls met in an Evanston Hotel room, where he explained that he was a representative of "G & S Love Industries" and was preparing a scholarly work on the sexual effects of spanking. He told them that they would follow a procedure of informing him that they had done something wrong recently, and he would spank them.
The number of spanks each received across the knee would be in direct proportion to how he considered the offense. Discussing this "secret experiment" with outsiders would earn any girl twenty hard smacks with his open palm, he warned. After the spankings, the group sat around and talked about their reactions. Some of the girls said they were excited; others said it hurt.
However, the unprofessional conduct and enthusiasm for his work which this confidence man showed aroused the suspicion of some of the girls. They came back for a second and a third lesson, also at the promised $15 each. So they grew suspicious when the checks the man had given them for the first session bounced.
The university security office looked into the matter and called in the enthusiastic "spanker" for a chat. The upshot was that the researcher paid each girl $30 with good checks. Further investigation showed that there was no such company and that the confidence man had an arrest record for armed robbery, possession of stolen goods, burglary and forgery. Despite the numerous arrests, he had no convictions on his record-and he still doesn't at last writing. None of the coeds pressed charges.
This novel, therefore, is an adaptation of the idea of conducting a spanking survey for the purpose of obtaining a college degree, since university officials at the time expressed their opinion that they were not opposed to the advancement of scientific experimentation, but that their only censure was that the girls should be paid for their participation.
With pardonable license, the author has determined do show just how such a "Kinsey-like spanking survey" might be conducted and the many fascinating and complex situations evolving from such a pleasant pursuit.
CHAPTER ONE
KEN PARRADINE PUT DOWN THE ISSUE OF CORPORAL, shook his head, and uttered a low, meaningful, "Wow!"
A tall, lanky, twenty-one-year-old Branton University senior, he felt exactly as Cortez must have felt upon discovering the shores of mystic Darien. He had just had the idea of his life, and maybe it could be put to double duty, not only giving him the necessary theme for his B.A. paper for Psychology IV, but also in getting his tantalizing sexy but still virginal girlfriend Terri to let down the bars and give all the way.
The object of his burning attention had been a four-page beautifully illustrated step by step how an irate fiance, annoyed with his girlfriend's flirtations with other men and her coyly prim behavior when she was out on dates with him, had led him to the time-honored method of pulling her across his knee, hoisting her skirts and slip, lowering the panties and applying his right palm to the most prominent and naked part of her delectable anatomy. At the end of the photo-story the duly chastened and chastised young lady tearfully swore she would never make him jealous again and that she would devote all her energies to pleasing him, a promise which seemed to be on the verge of realization, judging from the torrid clinch into which spanker and spankee had fallen after they had kissed and made up, with her panties still twisted round her knees and her reddened bottom squirming uneasily on the living-room couch.
Ken himself was a virgin, but if the dream-fantasies parading through his imaginative brain every night were any indication, he was potentially one of the most virile Casanovas ever to tread the revered grounds of Branton. He really hadn't had much opportunity to sample the species, because his mother-peace to her memory-had been extremely strict and old-fashioned and often expressed her views that a boy shouldn't date until he had just about finished college and was ready to settle down and find himself a nice decent wife.
But now that his mother had been dead thirteen months from an unexpected heart attack which had snuffed out her life at the relatively youthful age of forty, Ken Parradine had begun to feel that it was time to respond to the furious cravings of his quite normal and ardently eager animal nature. His father, Manuel Parradine, not forty-six, secretly agreed with his son, but he himself was involved in a most interesting potential liaison with a stunning twenty-six-year-old copper-haired ad agency receptionist. Manuel Parradine, owner of a very prosperous engraving plant in Branton, one of Chicago's best residential northern suburbs, was discovering that his status as a widower and his nearing the critical age of fifty had imbued him with an almost adolescent eagerness to sample some young, delicious pussy before he called a halt to his amatory career. That career, to be sure, had been limited almost entirely to one woman, his now dead wife.
But he too had felt nature's urges more than once during his marriage, and only a sense of guilt and perhaps his own annoyingly interfering conscience had kept him from cheating. Because, though he would be the first to give his wife every credit for having given him a fine son and a good home and leaving nothing to be desired when it came to performing domestic chores, she had hardly been the most inventive and passionate female he had ever bedded. And for about three years before their marriage (when she had been still a teenager) Manuel Parradine had enjoyed the sexual favors of at least five of the prettiest girls on the campus of his own alma mater, Southern Illinois University.
It was a cool Friday night in April, and Ken had a date with Terri Munson this very night. Terri was a junior, just twenty, with a heart-shaped face and fluffy taffy-colored hair. She had big blue eyes and the most kissable mouth imaginable, and her figure had already made him toss sleeplessly on his bed on many a lonely night till he had finally had to resort to the use of his hand to get relief so that he could fall asleep with that delicious exhaustion which comes only from the emission of seminal fluids that have become too abundant. He had been dating Terri for about six months, having met her at a performance of the senior dramatics class early last November, and they had discovered that they had a good deal in common, such as music, books, and even sports.
Terri's mother was a widow and lived in Creston, Iowa, and she had sent her only child to Branton to major in journalism and perhaps get a job as a reporter on the Creston Daily Gazette. She had given Terri a long lecture about how a single girl ought to conduct herself while away from home, and Terri had been impressed and scared. For her mother had confessed that just before she married Terri's father, she had had a passionate affair with a devil-may-care boy who was everything that Terri's father wasn't but not in the things that mattered like security and a decent job and regular habits. And she'd been scared that she got pregnant by him, and he wasn't going to marry her so she turned to Terri's father and grabbed him on the rebound.
It wasn't that Terri Munson didn't feel nature's urge, particularly now that spring was here again. Quite the contrary. She too had learned the secret pleasure of what a finger can do to relieve the tensions in the darkness of the night in one's lonely bed. But her mother had, possibly because of the girl's beauty, seen to it that Terri had very few dates while in high school, and had constantly warned her of the possible hazards in giving way to her emotions before a decent man came along with a wedding ring. The fact was that Terri had often speculated in what kind of lover Ken Parradine would make, but she was still too hesitant to try to find out for herself.
At the moment, she was preparing for her date in her room at the Gamma Beta Epsilon sorority house, which she shared with tall, svelte black-haired Norma Anderson, also a junior and her own age, but no virgin. Of late, Norma had been boasting about her several amours with two of the handsomest boys on campus, and how she had so far successfully managed to keep them from finding out that she was their communal bed partner. She also thought it odd that Terri Munson hadn't by now succumbed to the pleasures which a good stiff cock could provide. Often seeing Terri undressed, she had thought to herself that if she were a boy, she would just push that curvaceous little blonde onto the nearest bed and give her what she needed.
Since Ken had occasionally called for his date at the sorority house, Norma had had occasion to inspect him most critically. In her private estimation, he was a nice simple joe who could probably be very well trained to satisfy a girl's most intimate needs, but in her own private opinion he needed a good hard push in the right direction. In fact, she had just about made up her mind that if he didn't seduce Terri one of these days and rid her roommate of the mental block which kept Terri's cherry intact, she very likely would make a play for Ken herself.
CHAPTER TWO
"IT'S A LITTLE UNORTHODOX, Mr. Parradine," Professor Harland O. Johnson adjusted his pince-nez and stared at the handsome young senior who had been brash enough to call him just before the dinner hour. Professor Johnson was Ken Parradine's mentor in Psychology IV, and he had privately held the opinion that this affable, brown-haired young man with regular features, strong jaw and pleasant dark-blue eyes was really one of his best students. There was just something lacking to his make-up, and Professor Johnson couldn't quite put his finger on it. But this sudden intrusion just before he had been ready to sit down to a tasty beef stew prepared by his handsome forty-two-year-old housekeeper, Mrs. Agatha Williams, had really startled him into reconsidering Ken's imaginative proclivities. A term paper on spanking, indeed! Its sexual or other effects upon those subjected to it, whether voluntarily or involuntarily-here was certainly something novel.
He was weary of so many submissions on the theme of the stimulation of all the synapses or none, on the Pavlovian theory of conditioning and all the other hoary, well-tried gambits which his students over the years had utilized to get out of the final assignment necessary for completing their B.A.. "Decidedly, it's something new."
"Do you approve of it, sir?" Ken eagerly urged. "I'm awfully sorry I interrupted you at dinner. I was going out to pick up my girlfriend, and it just hit me that I wanted to try it on you for size. You know, and see what you thought of it. Of course, if you don't like the idea, I can come up with something else."
"No, no, I didn't say I didn't like it, Mr. Parradine. But-er-isn't it going to be a little difficult to find, shall we say, source material? I mean, you'll have to enlist subjects who are willing to allow themselves to be spanked. And I assume you are dealing with female subjects in this case."
"Sure-I mean, of course, Professor Johnson. You see, I was reading a magazine that deals with the topic of corporal punishment and discipline-"
"Of which there is far too little these days, alas," the gray-haired, tall, lean fifty-eight-year-old professor interpolated with a nostalgic sigh. "Well, I'll give you a tentative approval on such a paper, Mr. Parradine. But do you intend to get your subjects from among the coeds of this university?"
"I was thinking of putting an ad in the daily paper, Professor. Of course, I'd pay them and there wouldn't be any hanky panky."
"Hmmm," the gray-haired professor mused. "You might get into trouble with the authorities, young man. Mind you, I don't say it isn't a perfectly interesting idea. But some of the old fogies on the faculty (though I shall mention no names of my colleagues, you understand) might interpret your praiseworthy attempt at scientific research as simply an effort to, shall we say, bring about illicit liaisons with attractive young ladies. I am sure that the university frowns on that sort of thing."
"Well, maybe you're right, Professor," Ken conceded as he frowned, lost in thought. "Though I could certainly try it on my girlfriend. And maybe there might be some young women outside of campus who would lend themselves to the experiment. I assure-umm, I-well-I've got a girlfriend and I'm not looking for a harem."
"Very commendable sentiment, I'm sure," Professor Johnson gave a dry chuckle. "In that case, you have my blessing. Yes, it's quite an idea. I have heard that corporal punishment often produced unusual reactions. As for source material, you might check the writings of the great French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau. As I recall, he was sexually stimulated when his pretty young governess, Mademoiselle Lambercier, spanked him with her dipper. So you see, spanking doesn't only affect the female, but also the male."
"Oh, of course, Professor, I do intend to cover all angles. Well, it was awfully good of you to talk to me, and I hope I didn't make your dinner cold. See you in class Monday afternoon."
Professor Johnson nodded and walked slowly back to the dining room of his little house on Faculty Row. Yes, indeed, he thought to himself, this young man shows a good deal of promise. And I'd be willing to bet a good deal that hell enjoy writing that paper a great deal more than most of my students who are preparing for their finals.
He seated himself, tucked in his napkin while his housekeeper stood by, a disapproving look on her handsomely sulky face. She was a widow, had been for the past decade, and ever since that time had been employed by Professor Johnson. Her husband had been a railroad man and so there had been long periods when she had wondered if she was married at all, because he was always traveling. Sex had been cut and dried with him, peace to his memory, because when he was home he was generally so tired that all he could do was get on top of her, pump her a few times and then go off and promptly want to fall asleep.
Agatha Williams was about five feet seven inches in height, her black hair coifed in a thick oval bun at the back of her head, and hardly showed a streak of gray. She had an admirable figure, though she had begun to wonder whether, in the service of her present employer, it would ever be noticed again. Her breasts were splendidly round and full, but without sag, perched high on her chest and set closely together. Her waist was still slim enough to be, if not girlish, then at least pleasingly young-matronly in narrowness. Her hips were sensual, with upstandingly rounded bottomcheeks, long, beautifully rounded thighs and full calves. She wore a black dress which descended to about mid-calf, gray silk stockings and low-heeled shoes, with a white apron tied round her middle. Her face was rounded, with a high arching forehead, and a slightly uptilted nose. It was her mouth that gave her a petulant expression, like that of a young girl who sulks because she doesn't get her way. In Agatha William's case, it was because she hadn't been properly fucked in longer than she cared to remember. It was a small ripe and very red mouth, with the lower lip slightly fuller than its twin.
Of course, she really ought to be grateful for her present life. Professor Johnson was a scholarly man, he was easy to cook for and do for, and he paid very well. He was also a fascinating conversationalist, when he wasn't getting into psychological terms that were just a little above her head. But so far as romance was concerned, she had long since given up believing that anything would come of her being in the same house with him. Even ten years ago, when she'd only been thirty-two, and was still hoping that a man would find her titties and bottom worth of more than casual notice, he'd never shown the slightest inclination of making a pass at her. There were times when she really wished he had, however. But right now, it was the autumn of her life, and she had just about resigned herself to being exactly what she was, a faithful, unobtrusive housekeeper.
"That was Ken Parradine, Mrs. Williams," he confided as he looked up from the stew. "One of my best students."
"I heard you talk of him, yes, Professor. But you oughtn't to let these young people disturb you at mealtime. You should eat your food when it's hot," she said reprovingly.
He looked up at her quizzically. "That's true. But on the other hand, I sometimes find an idea more stimulating than even your good cuisine, Mrs. Williams. Do you know what that young rascal had the audacity to propose for his term paper?"
"I wouldn't have the faintest idea, Professor. Don't forget, I've got deep-dish apple pie, and I don't want to serve it until you're ready for it, but it really ought to get taken out of the oven about now."
"Please don't rush me, Mrs. Williams. As I was saying, young Mr. Parradine wants to offer me a paper based on the emotional and physical reactions of girls who have been spanked."
"Good heavens! Why, you certainly aren't going to accept such nonsense, are you? Everything today is immorality, Professor Johnson. It's easy to see where that young man's mind lies," she said with a sniff.
Professor Johnson slowly pulled out his napkin and laid it down on the table. Then he rose. It was strange that he never really noticed how handsome his housekeeper was. Ten whole years, and she'd of course been much younger when he'd first hired her, just after the unfortunate death of her husband in a freight train collision. She had worked about two evenings a week at the university cafeteria, and that was how he had met her and come to learn of her bereavement. Of course, he knew himself to be an old fool of a romanticist. He had been madly in love with a red-haired chit of a girl about thirty years ago, and there were times when he could still remember the passionate nights they had spent fucking. And then she had jilted him for a fat but very wealthy young man who had inherited his father's chain of grocery stores. He had gone on to get his master's and then become an assistant professor in a little Eastern college. There too he had fallen in love with one of his coed pupils and she had died of leukemia just two months after they had become engaged. Since then, he hadn't thought about women at all. He'd immersed himself in his work, published many scholarly books on human psychology. Work had been his sublimation. But right now, with Ken Parradine's remarkable new idea occupying his mind, he was seeing Agatha Williams as if for the first time. And her reply, so sanctimonious as to be downright narrow-minded, demanded an intellectual rebuttal. "Nonsense, Mrs. Williams," he said tartly. "He happens to be a very decent fellow. So far as I can see, he doesn't smoke, there's never been any mention of his using any of these drugs which our modern generation is supposed to be hung up on, and he has been dating a young lady with remarkable fidelity. I may even go so far as to say that I do not think, to use the vernacular, that he has yet scored with her."
"Why, Professor Johnson! What a thing for you to say!"
"And why is it so unusual? A professor is supposed to keep abreast of the times, Mrs. Williams. Just as today's women are expected to dress in the current style, not the mid-Victorian style. Personally, I must confess I approve of modernism, with of course exceptions as to grossness and stupidity, which are intolerable in any era."
"That's all very well, Professor Johnson, but your deep-dish pie is going to be spoiled if you don't finish your stew and let me get back to the kitchen," she said exasperatedly. "Just the same, I think his idea for a paper is absolutely ridiculous. Of course, it's none of my business."
"But it might as well be, Mrs. Williams." Professor Johnson's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Agatha Williams' superbly buxom and yet not at all overly plump form. A curious new sensation began to tingle in his gonads. He hadn't had that feeling in longer than he cared to remember. That young rascal, it was his idea that had started all this. But he really wasn't annoyed with Ken Parradine at all. In fact, a sudden and very audacious notion had just entered his mind. "It may well concern you, in fact, Mrs. Williams," he added, clearing his throat and staring boldly at her.
He was noticing, also for the first time, that for her age she had a remarkably pale milky skin, a complexion that would have done credit to a female half her age. He had really been so wrapped up in his teaching and his writing that he hadn't taken time out to notice what was going on around him. Yes, he was grateful to Ken. Even if the paper wasn't up to the boy's usual standards, Professor Johnson had a notion that the very least Ken Parradine was going to get was a 'B'.
"I don't understand you at all this evening, Professor," Agatha stammered uneasily. Her cheeks had begun to flush and she nervously grasped her apron and twisted it about on her fingers. "But your stew is getting cold, you know."
"Damn the stew. I just wonder. I wonder if he has considered the effects on a mature woman who has perhaps reached her change of life," he said aloud, as if talking to himself.
"Really! I knew it was a mistake to answer the door. From now on, I'm not going to let any of those students of yours interrupt you at mealtime, Professor," she said hotly. "And now I'm going bade to the kitchen and see if I can save that pie."
"Damn the pie too, Mrs. Williams. Come here!" There was such a new, incisive authority in his voice that she goggled at him, not understanding the firm decision in his voice, the intent gleam in his somewhat watery blue eyes.
"Are you speaking to me, Professor? I don't know what's upset you, but I do think you ought to go back to the table and finish your meal and not get so overwrought," she placated.
Then she uttered a cry of utter consternation and incredulity. Professor Harland O. Johnson had seized her by the wrist and was pulling her over towards a heavily padded leather couch at the end of the dining room. Before she could realize what was happening to her, he had seated himself and dexterously pulled her over his lap, so that she lay at full length sprawled on the couch.
"Professor Johnson-what in the world has come over you-what's got into you? Let me up-this is ridiculous-I-no-good heavens-my skirt-you're pulling it up!"
"You're quite observant tonight, Mrs. Williams. I'm doing that indeed. Now you lie still!" he chuckled.
To her utter horror, he had managed very deftly to tug up both skirt and the modest satin petticoat she wore beneath, disclosing her really admirably shaped calves and thighs sheathed in the gray silk hose, held in place by the narrow tabs of white satin girdle. Over the girdle was a pair of pink cotton panties, and his eyes fixed with growing enjoyment on the sumptuous rotundities of his housekeeper's quite voluptuous behind.
"Have you gone utterly mad, Professor Johnson?" she cried almost hysterically, kicking her legs and trying to pull her skirt and petticoat down. "Let me up this instant! How dare you! You've never in your life behaved like this before!"
"I can see now it was a great mistake. Yes, indeed, that young man certainly thought of a most ingenious idea. It's one I hadn't thought of myself, and yet I can see there's a great deal of psychological effect already. No you don't!" This last, as Agatha Williams frantically tried to wriggle off his lap. His left arm tucked round her waist with surprising strength for a man of his age, and now he began to husk her panties down while she continued to kick and to squeal indignantly: "Stop that-oh, you wicked old man! I'm giving you notice right here and now-and your pie is burning-I can smell it-Professor Johnson, this is insanity-stop it, what are you trying to do?"
He didn't bother responding. His face flushed, his eyes glittering, the gray-haired professor groped for the fasteners of the girdle and managed to tug that down too, till it had reached her upper thighs, laying bare the magnificent milkysheened cheeks of her firm velvety bare bottom. Instinctively she clenched her gluteal muscles, wanting to hide herself from his offending gaze, and uttered another shriek: "Ohh nooooo! You pull my clothes back up, you disgusting old man, you! I won't stay here another hour and be insulted and humiliated like this-stop it-what are you going to do-owww! Stop it, have you gone crazy, Professor Johnson, have you-aahhrrr! Oh good gosh, you-you're spanking me!"
Indeed he was. Tightening his left arm round her waist and heedless of her twists and struggles and kicks, Professor Harland O. Johnson had lifted his right hand and brought it down with all his might on the plumpest curve of Agatha Williams' right bottomcheek, following it with an equally stinging smack on the other globe. His eyes feasted on the vivid pink outlines which his palm had left on the firm, satiny flesh. The contact between his hand and her bare skin had been electrifying. He was stunned and delighted to discover that his prick was throbbing savagely and harder than he had ever known it to be before. And as she writhed and squirmed over his lap, he felt it chafed and rubbed in the most exquisitely tantalizing way.
His hand rose and fell again, and then again. Each time, her bottom bounded and twisted and her cries were deafening. She twisted back her contorted, furiously reddened face towards him, denouncing him for a wicked old reprobate, threatening him with prison for this criminal assault upon her person and her decency. But he continued to ignore such recriminations, and, having already found the tentative essay of his spanking hand against her big firm springy bottom really exciting, continued with gusto.
His hand rose and fell repeatedly and without pause, alternating on the cheeks of her bare behind, starting at the top of her hips and working downward to the base and then up again. Each time his palm smacked noisily against the satiny rotundities, Agatha Williams stiffened, tilted up her head and emitted a poignant cry of pain and shame. Her legs continued to thrash about in the air, till one of her low-heeled shoes fell off and thudded against the wall. She tried to reach her bottom with her hands to protect herself, and he instantly seized them both and kept hold of them with his left hand while he resumed the spanking at an even faster pace. Now the bottom was a flaming pair of quaking, shivering and tensing half-moons, and there were real tears on her cheeks, and she was looking round anxiously and woefully, her lips trembling and the sulky look replaced by one of indefinable respect and not a little fear and shame.
"Professor. Ahh-owwouu-oh please stop it-oh, I want to die of shame-the idea, taking down my clothes and I'm a decent woman-aiii! Oh let me go, please, that's enough, you're hurting me-oh how terrible, my pie's burning-oww! Aiii, owowowwww!!"
His palm began to sting and he was losing his breath. But grimly he kept spanking her despite her frantic attempts to tug loose from the hold of his left hand, to roll herself off his lap, to kick so frantically that he would have to let her go. Those kicks of hers let him see the ripe pink crevice of her cunt, framed by soft and very thick black pussycurls. And that sight in turn made his prick so agonizingly turgid that he knew he wasn't going to stop with the spanking.
"There-and there-and there!" he panted as his hand rose and fell to punctuate his words with loud, stinging slaps that flattened the angrily reddened flesh of her bare behind. "Now, Mrs. Williams, I'm curious to know just how you feel. I think I spanked you rather properly and with as much scientific impersonality as I could muster under the circumstances."
Agatha Williams was crying now, reaching her hands back to soothe her feverishly discolored posterior. "Oh, you you-aahhh-you-you just about killed me, Professor Johnson," she sobbed. "Oh, what have I done to be treated this awful way? I could just sink through the floor, I'm so ashamed! But oh my poor b-bottom, you've hurt me so terribly!"
"Get up, you're not hurt. My hand hurts worse than your big bottom does, Mrs. Williams," he heard himself saying in a thickened, gloating voice. To his amazement, he was absolutely entranced by this novel experiment. He didn't even think of the possible consequences if his housekeeper should decide to sue him for assault. All he knew was that he had never felt so much like fucking in all his life, not even with his beloved fiancee back in college.
"That's to teach you not to keep nagging at me every time like a child, Mrs. Williams," he said testily, applying a last pair of slaps over the base of her crimsoned bottom which drew new wails and tears from the squirming woman. "Now you can get up. And I want a drink, whiskey or something strong. None of your weak tea, that's for mollycoddles. And you better get yourself a drink too while you're at it! Get off my lap before I get tempted to use a hairbrush or my belt on that big bottom of yours, Mrs. Williams!"
Stunned, not recognizing him at all, her bottom blazing and smarting indescribably, Agatha Williams righted herself, and stood, one hand clapped over her cunt, the other frantically rubbing her inflamed bare bottom, a perfect picture of punished womanhood after the moment of atonement, with her girdle and panties tangled about her knees, her skirt and petticoat still rolled up and her plump, deeply dimpled belly lasciviously exposed.
He rose too, and her tear-blurred eyes fixed at first uncomprehendingly, on his body and then she put a hand over her mouth and stepped back, overwhelmed with stupefaction. She had just seen the bold thrust of his prick against his fly of his neatly pressed gray trousers. Not even her dead husband had been so well equipped even on his most attentive nights.
"Pr-Professor J-Johnson!" she breathed.
"Agatha, come back here and sit down beside me unless you want more," he warned as he seated himself again and patted the couch right beside him.
Agatha didn't know what made her scramble back to him, heedless of the fact that she was showing him just about everything she had to offer. She quickly seated herself on the cool padded-leather couch, not without a grimace and a squeal as her flaming bottom sent new waves of pain rippling through her just from that mild contact. And then her breath was taken away and she could only gasp as Professor Johnson grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard on the mouth and then slipped his tongue between her lips in the most enthusiastic and lengthy kiss of its kind she had ever experienced.
"No need to muss your dress and petticoat, Agatha. Get up and take them off, and then get right back down here and pay attention to me for a change," he directed.
"Why, yes sir," she quavered tearfully. She was like one hypnotized, and she stared at him with admiring awe as she slowly rose and began to lift her dress over her head and then to unfasten the petticoat and let it tumble to the floor.
He reached up, grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her down to sit beside him. Then his bony fingers reached behind her to unhook the bandeau of her matching bra, and her sumptuous round titties sprang into view at once, the nipples dark and turgid.
"Kiss me, Agatha!" he commanded in a harsh inexorable tone.
Agatha uttered a little whimpering sob, reached forward and crushed her mouth to his, closing her eyes and shuddering violently. The feel of his long lean fingers on her swelling titties added a new feverish excitement to her already aroused ardor. And the kiss left her dazed and breathless, it was long and it was really indecent, because he had his tongue in her mouth all the time he was kissing her. But there was now such a strong tickling between her legs and it had just about drove away the painful heat he had left in her poor bottom.
"Now you can take off that bra, Agatha. And be quick about it!" he ordered.
"Why-yes-s-sir," she again faltered and hastened to obey. The thought of crossing him now was absolutely unthinkable. Her heart was beating so loudly she was certain he must hear it, and the flexions along her inner thighs made her think that there was an earthquake in progress. Because every nerve and every sense in her voluptuously mature body had been roused to the utmost as if for the first time in her life she was actually becoming a full-blooded woman.
The bra fell from her numb fingers, and now his hands explored them, greedily palpating the ripe milky globes with their brownish-coral aureolae and their saucy tips.
And then suddenly he had pushed her onto her back on the couch, and in almost the same movement taken hold of the down-rucked girdle and panties and pulled them completely off her legs. Then he was unbuttoning his fly. And before her aghast and disbelieving eyes, the bony swollen, dark-veined shaft of his manhood surged before her gaze, ridged and hot and malevolent in its intentions towards her cunt.
"Ohhh-P-P-Professor J-Johnson!" was all she could gasp out.
And then she felt him mount over her, felt his bony prick press through the thick curls of her bush and find at last the cavern to her eager, passionate and churning cunthole.
As soon as she felt the stab of his manhood between the lips of her vulva, Agatha Williams cast aside all prudish restraint. Completely unleashed now, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, gave him back kiss for passionate kiss, and aided him in fucking her by bucking up her hips when she felt him thrust painfully to the very hilt and knew that he was near to climax.
An eternity later, or so it seemed, he slowly lifted himself from her panting body. "I only wish that it had happened a long time ago, Agatha," he said thickly. Then, rising, and noticing that he didn't care how indecently he was exposing himself, he ordered in a new voice of domineering authority, "Now go to the kitchen and see how that pie is coming along. In case it's spoiled, you can just go down to the campus grocery store and buy something tasty for desert."
"Why-yes, Harland, d-darling!" Agatha breathed, and her eyes were starry as she stared at her employer with what amounted to slavish adulation.
Ken Parradine's proposed spanking research group had just gained its first two charter members.
CHAPTER THREE
KEN PARRADINE STARED longingly as Terri Munson hung up her light spring coat on the rack near the cashier's counter and then came back to their booth to seat herself directly across from him. For all her femininity, taffy-haired Terri was an enthusiastic advocate of the Women's liberation Movement.
Quite early in their dating, she had coolly informed him that she didn't expect him to help her on and off with her coat to walk on the curb side of the street with her, to help her out of a car, or do any of those Sir Walter Raleigh acts which were just about as anachronistic as the dodo.
"We girls are equal with you fellows, and that's the way we want it to be," she had vehemently declared. "It's high time all you stopped treating us as sexual symbols, Ken, because we want to be admired for our intellect and common sense, as much as for our bodies."
Naturally, such an impersonal avowal at the very start of their relationship had made him all the more avid and not for her intellect. Right now, having seen her stretch to reach the top of the rack with her coat, his eyes had feasted on the saucily compact, but very prominent hillocks of her behind, against which her daringly short mini-dress had clung with a most revealing emphasis. He had devoured, only visually all those lusciously rounded and yet gracefully slender thighs of hers and those provocatively sinuous, high-set calves sheathed in the charcoal brown gauze of nylon pantyhose. And there was certainly nothing intellectual in the appeal that view had for him. And then when she had turned to come back to the table, he had had a maddening glimpse of the two closely spaced, boldly round globes of her titties, which certainly had no need of either the moral or the physical uplift of a bra. It was no wonder that his prick was aching and for a moment he was actually glad that there was a table between them and that she couldn't see the state of his emotions toward her.
Quite unaware, or at least outwardly so, of his nervous concentration on her person, Terri smiled sweetly at him.
"It was nice of you to bring me here to Boveri's, Ken," she pronounced in a sweet, clear voice. "I'm just wild about Italian food, and I've been wanting to see that wonderful D.H. Lawrence movie, The Virgin and the Gypsy ever since I saw the ad about it at some of the loop theaters."
"I'm glad you approve of the menu tonight, Terri. Would you like some wine? I don't think anybody's going to notice or ask for an I.D., and I know I'm twenty-one."
"Yes. I should very much like some wine. Chianti, if you please. Only, I'm not so sure you're paying me a compliment, Ken. Don't you know you're supposed to tell a girl she looks younger? Of course, it's only six months away from my being as old as you are. But of course I feel a good deal more mature. Girls always are, you know."
Her cool poise somehow nettled him. In the six months of their dating, he had managed exactly four hurried kisses and one rather serious attempt at a pass, which had consisted of putting his hand on one of those wonderfully firm titties and discovering its tantalizing resiliency before she had struck his hand away and in almost the same movement slapped his face and angrily denounced, "Kenneth Parradine, will you please not be so decadent and feel that you have to make me realize I'm a female? When I'm attracted to you and you are very nice, I have to admit, I am certainly sensible enough and informed enough on the subject to be able to respond as I see fit."
Perhaps it was the very contradiction between her prick-teasing, beddable, fresh young beauty and her absolutely insolent bravado in discussing intimate matters like this which had kept Ken in a state bordering a nervous breakdown and thorough sexual frustration all the time.
But there wasn't any other girl on the Branton campus that he really wanted to boff more than he did Terri. Perhaps it was the challenge of the unattainable which drew him, innate romanticist that he was. Or maybe, he brooded disconsolately, he was just a plain garden variety of masochist coming back for more punishment.
But right now, he would just about have given up his chances of inheriting his father's engraving business with all the affluence that was certain to come along with it for just one hour in a locked bedroom with no holds barred.
The trouble was that Terri had often discussed sex with him during their dates. She had held that Playboy Magazine had done women a tremendous disservice and at the same time created a lot of neuroses in the average male by intimating that any female was fair game and that her only true status was that of a sexual chattel, born and designed for the titillation of the male organ and its eventual servicing but always on the terms set forth by the male.
"For heaven's sake," she had expostulated on one of their first dates when he had clumsily tried to kiss her, with a lump in his throat almost as aching as the secret lump beneath his trouser's fly. "I can't for the life of me understand why a man feels he has to make an assault on a girl just because he's with her and close to her. It's just like that experiment the Russian scientist, Pavlov made in conditioning. You know, the one in which he showed the dog food and rang a bell at the same time until finally all he had to do was ring the bell to make the dog's jaws water.
"It really isn't very flattering, you know. Because just about any girl would make you try to do the same thing. And when I kiss a boy, I want to be sure he's the one and only, at least for the time being."
Long before he had come up with the idea which Corporal had given him, Ken had wanted very desperately to take Terri by the shoulders and shake that smug self-assurance out of her, or better still, pull her across his lap and apply the flat of his hand to one of the most temptingly curvaceous portions of her anatomy.
But exactly because she was so tempting and because he sensed that if she ever came across, it would be with the thunder of drums and the blare of trumpets, he had doggedly squired her on innumerable dates and always gone back home feeling as if he had been put through the wringer.
It had got so bad that he had found himself impatiently waiting until he could get into his bed with the lights out to start using his hand and closing his eyes and pretending that Terry herself was accommodating him with her soft fingers and lips and tongue before permitting his rigid, agonizedly throbbing organ to visit the soft tight housing of her delicious cunt.
During their dinner of antipasto, ravioli, and veal parmesan, topped off with spumoni and a strong black coffee, Terri blithely chattered away on the minutia of campus life and on her own aspirations, when she became a senior in the fall term to go in for the university drama workshop.
"I think I could be a very good actress, Ken," she informed him, "because I'm not all cluttered up with irrational impulses and emotional involvements. I could put myself into the mood and the soul of a dramatic character and do it convincingly, I know I could. It's too bad you're going to graduate this June because otherwise you'd be able to watch me play things like Nora in Ibsen's The Doll House."
"Sure, I'm going to graduate this June," he glumly retorted, "but that doesn't mean I won't still see you. That is, unless you suddenly decide you'd rather have another guy."
"And now you're getting jealous, and I don't like that, Ken," she primly rebuked him, arching her delightfully penciled, thin eyebrows expressively. "You really don't have to try so hard to convince me that you desire me. You've made that plain enough already, you know."
He felt his cheeks burning as if he had been a little boy reprimanded by his mother for getting his fingers into the jam jar.
"Aw," he blurted, "you talk just like a book sometimes, Terri. What's so wrong about my wanting to kiss you and hold you and stuff like that?"
"Nothing at all, in its time and place. But I haven't yet indicated that I want to permit you any such liberties. To satisfy your male ego, no, there's no one eke I'd give those privileges to, either. Why don't we just take things in their stride, Ken and if they're going to develop, they will."
Again he nodded glumly and uttered a sigh. Terri frowned. "And now you're sulking like a little boy who doesn't get what he wants. Isn't that just like all men! Only I happen to know that once a man gets what he wants, he starts taking the girl for granted. That's one reason I certainly wouldn't lend my body just to cater to the selfish needs of a man who would probably be content with any girl, and not me specifically."
"Damn it anyway, Terri," he indignantly broke out. "I don't go with any other girl, so I don't see why you have to say a thing like that! If it was just any old girl I'd go to bed with, that would be one thing. But I happen to like you best."
"Thank you very much, but even that declaration, sincere though I am sure it is, doesn't give you any right to expect any sexual capitulation from me," was her maddening answer.
And once again, remembering the very graphic and detailed photographs in Corporal, Ken wished he had the gumption to pull taffy-haired Terri over his lap, pull up that daring mini-skirt of hers, tug down the pantyhose and maybe the panties she would probably be wearing under them, and really sting her butt until she forgot all those fancy words and started acting like a real woman.
Only he knew he wouldn't. If he tried a thing like that, she'd just laugh at him and make him feel thoroughly inferior and inadequate. And then of course she'd never see him again, and that would be worse torture than what it was right now.
"Well, now that that's settled," she smilingly went on, "why don't you tell me how you're getting along in school these days? Have you worked out your idea for a term paper on your B.A. degree yet?"
He had mentioned the week before that he was struggling for a subject, and so the question wasn't a surprise. But the answer would be, and for a moment he wrestled with himself on the question of whether to divulge it, especially after the obvious brush-off on sexual topics which she had just effected.
Finally, with the attitude of a man who had nothing to lose either way, he cleared his throat and replied, "Well, in a way I have. I just talked to Professor Johnson about it before I picked you up."
"That's nice. Did he like the idea? He's a wonderful teacher, I know, because I had his course as a sophomore."
"He-he said it was fine."
"Then what is it?"
"Well, er, it's a sort of a scientific study in behavior."
"That sounds very interesting. What kind of behavior?"
Her eyes were cool and intent, and his face reddened more than ever before their inquisitive scrutiny. A little unsteadily and hoarsely, he tried to explain.
"Well, Terri, it's a study of how girls would react to being spanked. I mean, whether they would be excited by it or just feel pain or humiliation. You see, it has to do with sadomasochistic behavior in a person. Sometimes a person doesn't know what makes him or her tick, but participation in a, well, group activity or a research study would sort of bring that out."
"That's an odd subject for a theme, I must say." She shook her lovely head. "And just how do you think you're going to get the answers? Go around spanking girls yourself right here on campus? I should think you'd get into a good deal of trouble doing that. I'll tell you one thing, Ken, I'm not going to offer to take part in your little experiment because I think that's ally and ridiculous, and I think a girl who would let a strange man do that to her would be degrading herself, cheapening herself and losing all her self-esteem."
He turned scarlet red now and looked down at his empty coffee cup, then shifted nervously on the padded bench on which he sat.
"You always take the wind out of a fellow's sails, Terri. I didn't say I was going to go around doing that on campus. I, er, well, Professor Johnson didn't think I should either."
"Well, I should certainly hope not," she giggled.
She was succeeding in making him feel like an utter fool, and he began to resent it. Once again the pictures in Corporal floated before his eyes, and he could almost see himself in a bedroom, seated on the edge of the bed with Terri kicking and struggling across his lap, his left hand gripping both her wrists, her skirt up, under garments down and her bare behind squirming and contracting and the fine soft skin turning very red as his palm pitilessly continued to descend upon it. It was an image and a transference which made his prick leap against the taut fly of his trousers, made him close his eyes with such a surge of frustrated longing that he was almost sick from it.
"Aw, stop making jokes," he grumbled. "I suppose I'll ask people what they feel about it. I'll bet there are lots of married people who spank one another, and they ought to know what happens."
"Well, I must say I think it's a very odd subject for a B.A. term paper. But you know best, of course. And now, don't you think we'd better be getting along to the movie? I don't want to miss the start."
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE BEDROOM OF THE Douglas bungalow on Elm Street, a scene was taking place which would have given young Ken Parradine ample source material for his projected graduation paper.
Jim Douglas, thirty-seven, curly brown hair, five-feet-eleven inches in height and of sturdy build was kneeling in the corner with his face to the wall, naked except for his shorts and with a pair of pink nylon panties tied around his handsome face and safety-pinned at the back of his neck. His beautiful, domineering wife, Ella, thirty-one, her auburn hair styled in a Sassoon bob, and wearing knee-length black leather boots, shoulder-length matching and gleaming gloves, and an equally matching black leather bra and corset, stood staring at him, hands on her voluptuous hips, her green eyes narrowed and her insolently ripe mouth compressed.
"Now maybe next time, Jim, you'll remember to do the dishes properly. I checked last night after you'd gone to bed and found that two of the plates were still greasy. And then you forgot to pick up my brand new dress from the cleaners this afternoon. You've been needing punishment for a long time, young man, and tonight you're really going to get it. Do you hear me?"
"Why, yes, m-mistress," Jim quavered, shivering with erotic excitement.
He and Ella had been married for ten years, and their sex life had always been reasonably satisfactory. But about two years ago, growing a little bored with marital routine, auburn-haired Ella had picked up a few books on the subjects of the domination of the male and of fetishism, and had decided to amuse herself by playing the role of a dominatress of slaves.
She had gone down to a leather goods store on the near north side of Chicago and purchased the outfit she was now wearing, together with a riding crop, a cbaspae, and a dog whip, as well as a leather paddle. And since then, Jim Douglas had been in seventh heaven. Several times during their first eight years of marriage, she had had the feeling that he was rather diffident when it came to lovemaking and that he could easily be turned into a passive and submissive stud by the right sort of tactics. Only, until she had bought those books and started reading up on the subject, she hadn't known what they really were.
But as her experiment had progressed, she had opened up a new world of erotic pleasure for both of them. He had found it thrilling to be ordered around, acting as her slave-footstool or pillow, or preparing her meals and bringing them in on a tray, and then posing the tray on his back while he crouched on all fours, fearful of tipping it over lest she use one of her whips on his bare bottom.
Occasionally, she bound his hands behind his back with leather restraint cuffs, blindfolded him, and then tickled his cock and balls with a feather and the insides of his thighs until he was near bursting with lust. But before letting him service her, she invariably made him turn over and offer his behind for a sound warming. And these spankings had proved incredibly stimulating to his already quite adequate virility.
Tonight she was experimenting with the idea of degradation. She had gone to the laundry hamper and chosen a pair of panties which she had worn for about four days, and ordered him to kiss and inhale them, then bound them over his face and made him kneel in the corner for half an hour. The time was almost up, and she was feeling the most delicious tickling between her legs that she had ever known in all their decade of union. Tonight, she thought, it would be the paddle.
"Do you acknowledge your sins, slave?" Her contralto voice was rich and husky with wakening desire.
"Oh yes, mistress! I've been a naughty boy and I humbly beg you to punish me as I deserve," came Jim's delightfully satisfactory answer.
"Very well, I shall. Unbutton your shorts and pull them well down. I want that big bottom of yours all bare and ready. Then you can get down on all fours, press your face down on the floor, and stick your butt up. You understand me?"
"Oh yes, dear mistress Ella!" he seemed to squirm on his knees as his own sensual agitation rose.
She couldn't see it, but she could imagine what a tremendous hard-on he must have by now. The knowledge made her almost giddy with lust. She walked over to the bed and picked up the oval-shaped leather paddle, gripped the handle tightly, and moved back to watch him comply with her order. He was hastily tugging down his shorts, pulling them all the way down to his knees, and then leaning forward on all fours and pressing his forehead against the floor as bidden. His solid, meaty and not too hairy buttocks arched up in the most spankable manner desired, and Ella moved to his left, lifted the paddle and delivered the first swat across both cheeks.
"Oww!" he gasped, wriggling about on his knees and executing a salacious twist of his hips, which allowed her to see the fierce turgidity of his prick and the heavily loaded balls.
"You can count twenty, young man," she told him, "loud and clear."
With this, she applied the second spank to the top of his right buttock, and after that had been duly announced as "Ahrr, two!", she applied the third to the top of the other cheek. His skin was pale white, for he worked all day in Manuel Parradine's engraving shop as assistant foreman, and so the paddle left a vivid imprint which delighted her.
Pausing deliberately between spanks, Ella Douglas thrilled to the sonorous smacking sound the paddle made against his bare behind and, still more, to the tearful groans and gasps, and after the half-way mark, the feverish entreaties to be spared, the promises to be a good slave and not offend her again. Still more, to the frantic and lascivious way his hips and bottom were jerking and weaving about as the flesh of his behind grew an angry swollen red.
When the final stroke was applied and counted out with an anguished cry of pain, she commanded, "Turn around now and take off my panties."
He reached behind him, found the safety pin and pulled off the pink panties which had become such an excellent improvised gag and blindfold. He stared up at her, his eyes wide and full of tears, clenching the panties in his hands and awaiting her next order.
His prick was really immense, the plum-shaped head vibrating with a life all its own, the lips puckering and contracting with the urge to ejaculate. The tickling sensations in her pussy grew by leaps and bounds.
"Now crawl over here and kiss the paddle and thank me for spanking you," she ordered.
He obeyed with an alacrity which enchanted her. "Now then, just to punish you for being such a naughty boy, you're going to jack off in my panties. I want to see you do it. No, you're not going to get that juice into my pussy tonight, Jim, and that's because you haven't pleased me. But don't think you're going to get out of servicing me the way I want! Now start rubbing them lovingly over your big wicked cock!"
His face was twisted and tormented and congested, and his breath began to quicken as he obeyed her. She watched, a quivering smile on her moist red lips, as his hands feverishly pressed her panties over his rigid weapon, then began to move back and forth. Suddenly, his head tilted back, his eyes bulged and he uttered a hoarse cry, "Oh shit, I'm coming, mistress Ella!"
She watched him shudder and jerk in the throes of orgasm, saw him clutch the crumpled panties over the head of his cock, and then sag on his knees as the spasm was emitted. With a gasp, he slowly mopped himself, and then stared up at her beseechingly.
"Leave them in the corner and come to bed now," she ordered as she moved towards their wide double bed. He instantly crawled to her booted feet and she made him kiss them lovingly. "Now take off my bra and corset, but don't get any ideas," she warned.
His fingers were trembling as he obeyed and the look on his face was one of a man on the threshold of paradise who could see it and yet knew he might not enter. Already, she saw with satisfaction, his greasied cock had stiffened again and was almost as massive as before.
When she was down to boots and gloves, she insolently postured herself on the bed, her head propped up against two pillows, the little dog whip between her gloved fingers, as she spread her legs, her knees up, and huskily ordered, "Now get between my legs and lick me until I come!"
He obeyed at once. His trembling fingers caressed the insides of her thighs, the cheeks of her plump tawny-sheened buttocks. Then she felt his mouth against her cunt, and then his tongue. Shuddering, her eyes half-closed with passion, Ella Douglas flicked his back and shoulders and neck with the little whip until suddenly she felt herself melting. Clutching her thighs against his congested cheeks, she moaned, "Deeper, harder with your tongue. I'm coming! Oh, don't you dare lose a drop of my cream! Ohh!"
CHAPTER FIVE
CHUCK WILTON WAS having it out with his cute, sulky-faced twenty-nine-year-old chestnut-haired wife, Pamela in the kitchen of their ranch-type bungalow on Northdale Avenue, about two miles from the Douglas bungalow. He was thirty-four, black-haired, tall and wiry, and he was the day foreman at Manuel Parradine's engraving plant in Branton.
Though three years younger than his assistant, he had been nominated to the job by seniority, having worked for Manuel Parradine since his eighteenth birthday and having come up through the ranks the hard way.
Though he had only a high school education, Chuck Wilton had taken correspondence courses and spent his time productively. He was ambitious, and because his firm was busy with the production of advertising brochures, lithographical masterpieces of stockholders' reports, and annual statements as well as occasional series of high quality paperback books and slick trade journals, he had always wanted to be a writer and to see his name in print.
Pamela Wilton and he had been married for four years. He had met her at a spring dance held in the American Legion auditorium on the north side of Branton, which had been staged to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the suburb. He had noticed her sitting by herself with her elderly mother, looking particular sulky and annoyed that no one was paying any attention to her.
Chuck himself had had quite a few one-night stands with girls who worked in bars and amateur prostitute housewives who saw no reason why they shouldn't earn a little spending money while their husbands were in the Loop from nine to five. He had earned his own living since his nineteenth year because his parents had died and left him very little money. Now that he had an excellent job with Manuel Parradine, he wanted a house and eventually someone to take care of him, both in bed and in the kitchen. So he'd gone over to Pamela and asked her for a dance, and overcome her hostility, and, to both of their amazement, they had had a chemical attraction for each other.
Pamela herself, though a virgin at the relatively late age of twenty-five, had been a virtual slave to her cranky, constantly ailing mother. She was therefore only too happy to leave her servitude to become the adored wife of a very vigorous, ambitious and handsome young man who had rapidly initiated her into the joys of fucking.
Pamela's own sexual education had been quite limited, and all her mother had told her was that it was the wife's duty to submit to the husband and to make herself fairly attractive to him and to be faithful to him.
This, Pamela undoubtedly was, but she hadn't forgotten her brooding annoyance at being under her mother's thumb for so many years. So, of late, she had balked at the now apparently dreary routine of preparing Chuck's meals, cleaning the house, and waiting until the dishes were washed for a little cuddling and then the inevitable bed.
He was chewing her out right now because she had decided to watch a TV soap opera program at the cost of getting his supper ready. He had been noticing with a sort of disenchantment lately that his delightfully attractive chestnut-haired wife had been shirking most of her domestic duties. Even in bed, she hadn't been quite so loving as at the outset of their marriage.
"Now listen, Pamela, you've been getting away with murder lately and I haven't said anything, but tonight's just about the last straw," he averred. "I thought we had a pretty good thing going, but you've been giving me those 'get lost' looks of yours just the way you did that first night when I came up and asked you for a dance."
"What do you expect anyhow, Chuck, hearts and flowers all the time?" She put her hands on her voluptuously ripe hips and sneered at him. "I'm beginning to feel as if I were just a slave, just the way I was with mom. I just traded one house for another, that's about all."
"Now that's not true," he said indignantly. "I know you've had a tough time of it, and that your mother was a widow for about ten years, but I've shown you that I like you and love you. I'm working hard on my job and one day I might even be more than a foreman. Mr. Parradine has had a couple of talks with me lately, and I've had a few good raises, so I don't know what you've got to gripe about."
"Maybe it's just because you think I ought to be here waiting for you on my knees when you walk in the door, Chuck Wilton," she blazed. "Maybe once in a while a girl wants to have a vacation from all her responsibilities."
"Maybe a girl needs a good sound spanking, too, I'm thinking," he said with an angry jut of his jaw.
"Huh!" she laughed scornfully. "I'd just like to see you try."
In four years, Pamela hadn't quite learned all there was to know about her usually easy-going husband. She had just said the wrong thing, and it had lit a flame to the slowly shortening wick of his anger.
He strode towards her, grabbed her by the wrists, sat down on a straight-backed chair, and pulled her across his lap.
"Chuck, don't you dare! I'll leave you, I swear I will! You let me go this minute!" she stormed, turning her angrily flushed face back at him and trying to kick and twist herself off his lap.
He ignored her. His left hand seized both of her wrists and pinned them in a steely grip, his right hand rummaged down to ruck up her brown rayon skirt and the soft clinging white satin slip beneath it, exposing a particularly opulent bottom sheathed in a pink satin-elastic panty girdle whose tabs hooked to the tops of beige nylons.
Pamela Wilton uttered a shriek of mingled rage and shame. "You put my clothes down this minute or I'll divorce you! You just watch and see."
His eyes fixed on her delightfully rounded thighs and particularly on that expanse of about an inch of naked carnation-tinted bare skin between the stocking tops and the hems of her panty girdle. She jerked frantically at her wrists, but she couldn't get loose. A vague presentiment of fear began to grow in her, but she continued to storm and threaten, believing that in his infatuation for her, he would swiftly regret this indignity and abashedly apologize.
Again, she was quite wrong. He began to fumble for the fasteners of the panty girdle with his right hand, although she twisted and wriggled and flattened herself, continued to cry out angrily at his unheard of brutality. Then, releasing her wrists for a moment, so he could use both hands, he seized the tops of the sheath and began to yank it down with all his might.
Pamela arched and kicked and twisted, but he had too tight a grip on her to let her go. Finally, just to make sure she couldn't escape, he clamped his right leg over her calves and continued his tugging. She uttered a shriek of consternation as she felt the panty girdle slide down past her hips and over the summits of her ripely rounded bottom cheeks, till at last it ended at about her lower thighs, clinging tightly and restraining her movements. Her bottom was naked and upturned and vulnerable, and she was in an ideal spanking pose.
"Don't you dare!" she warned, her eyes blazing and glistening with tears.
She grabbed for her naked bottom with her hands. It was child's play for Chuck to seize her wrists again with his left hand and to pull them high on her back. Then his right hand rose and fell emphatically, and Pamela bucked and reared as she felt the stinging smack of her husband's palm on the right summit of her naked seat.
"You're going to be sorry. You're going to be the sorriest man alive!" she wailed. "You stop that, you big brute! Just because I didn't get your lousy supper on time, you have to manhandle me this way! Ow, stop it, that hurts!" For a second smack had flattened the summit of her left bottom cheek, and again her hips jerked upwards in a convulsive maneuver.
He could see the dark brown curls of her cunt framing the soft pouting pink lips of that delicious orifice which had hitherto furnished him such appeasement and pleasure. The sight, also, of the flaming marks of his palm on her velvety naked bottom made his cock ache with longing.
Vengefully, he took a firmer hold of her wrists and tightened the clamp of his right leg and then he really began to spank. Pamela, aghast that he would go so far, bucked and twisted and swerved her behind as his hard hand fell sonorously, alternating on the cheeks, starting at the top of her hips and working down to the base, then back again.
She stormed at him, she threatened him, she pleaded, but nothing did any good. The heat in her bottom grew really uncomfortable, and by now her naked pink and white flesh was a furious red.
"Oh, are you ever going to pay for this, Chuck Wilton!" Pamela wailed, as she turned her sulky face back over her shoulder. He had never seen it so piquantly lovely before: the small petulant mouth, the firm, deeply cleft chin, the highset cheekbones streaked with tears, the forehead furrowed with several deep lines to denote her indignation and pain, and the insolently large, closely spaced hazel eyes glistening with tears. She looked like nothing so much as a pretty little girl who was getting her first bare-bottom spanking and not liking it the least little bit. He felt his prick begin to swell and prod against his trousers fly, and as she wriggled over him, her crotch ground against the tip of his glans. Between the fabric of this trousers and her naked skin, there was a subtle union of cock and pussy which augured well for their future together.
"Are you going to let me go or not? I'm going to call a lawyer and get a divorce, you wait and see!" she cried hoarsely.
"Go ahead. I'll give you even better grounds. I haven't even started finishing up your big butt, Pam girl! You could stand to lose a few pounds if you'd quit dawdling around and watching TV soap operas and instead doing a little work for a change. Maybe you ought to go out in the garden or jog around the block, instead of sitting around and eating candy and watching programs when you could do so much more with your time, the way I learned to!" he scolded.
Then his right hand rose again and fell, and Pamela uttered a wailing cry: "Owwwouuu! That hurts, you big bully! Oh you just wait!"
"I will. In the meantime, you haven't had half of what's coming to you, Pam baby!" he chuckled.
Then again, getting his second wind, he resumed the spanking. Tightening the grip of his leg locked over her calves, and with his left hand taking a firmer hold of her wrists, Chuck Wilton really made her bottom burn and smart with the furiously smacking and sonorous impacts of his palm against her furiously reddened naked bottom globes. After about fifty, she wasn't threatening him anymore. Her bottom was jerking and twisting frantically, her face was streaked with tears, and she was beginning to beg, between wails and cries, for mercy: "Ohww-oh please-I'm sorry-Ahrr-oh please let me go-that's enough-you're killing me-eeeyeowww!!-oh please stop. Oh, Chuck darling, I'll be good-oh please, Fm sorry, my bottom's on fire, you're killing me, oh darling, I won't do it anymore!"
Panting, out of breath, he lowered his hand and pressed his reddened, stinging palm over the huddling, flaming cheeks of her squirming bottom. "I've just about worn my hand out on that big butt of yours, Pam," he said hoarsely. "I think I'm going to use my belt now. You've really had a lesson coming for a long time. But you've put on so much weight with all your nibbling between meals and shirking what you ought to do, that I need something solid like a belt or a hairbrush to take care of your big hindend."
She turned crimson with shame at this, but the tears still flowed down her face as she plaintively wailed, "Oh no, not any more, please, darling-I-I'll be good! Oh don't hurt me anymore, I'm so sore there already!"
He pushed her off his lap and she stumbled to all fours, sobbing and fighting for breath, looking up at him with considerably more respect than she had ever had before in their four years of marriage. Her tear-blurred eyes perceived the enormous bulge of his prick against his crotch. "Ohoohhh, d-darling!" She gasped, incredulously.
He glanced down at himself, and then he grinned crookedly. He yanked down his zipper, and then he reached down and pulled her up by the armpits, forced her to quick-walk into their bedroom and pushed her onto her face on the bed. Tugging down his trousers, kicking off his shoes, he clambered onto the bed just as she was trying to scramble off again. "Oh no you don't," he growled. Gripping her by the shoulders and twisting her onto her back again, he tugged up her clothes again. In her struggles en route to the bedroom, the pantie-girdle had slithered off and lay on the floor just outside the door. She was ready for him. Her eyes were enormous as she saw him loom over her, and then she felt the stab of his prick in the soft twitching cavern of her cunt.
Trembling, his body seared with passion, he dug himself home to the balls in a single deep thrust, and Pamela Wilton uttered a sobbing cry of ecstasy and clenched her arms and legs around him, giving him her mouth and panting, "Oh my lover, my sweet darling, that was so exciting, I won't ever be a naughty girl again, you watch and see, I love you so!"
"Now that's more like it, woman," he grinned. "Dinner can wait. But this can't." Pamela Wilton enthusiastically and moaningly agreed. Her loins and hips began to buck and jerk and weave as she eagerly met his thrusts with uparching gyrations that made her feel the full dig of his weapon into her twitching cunt. And thus, at least for the time being, they had both taken a second wind in their marriage and renewed the most exciting of amorous hostilities.
CHAPTER SIX
HANK THURSTON, WHO WORKED on the night shift at the Parradine Engraving Plant, had always prided himself on being a fair-minded man. Where his bride of a year was concerned, however, he knew that he was inclined to be a bit more jealous and possessive than was proper, but he couldn't help it. Leslie Thurston, five years younger than himself, was such a delectable morsel that he still couldn't believe his luck in having courted and won her away from a good deal of very serious competition.
She was black-haired, with warm olive skin, about five feet six-and-a-half inches in height, and had an absolutely devastating figure, especially when she wore a miniskirt. Her long delightfully contoured legs were those of a showgirl and would, indeed, have graced the line at the Copacabana or the Trocadero in New York and Las Vegas. Sleek, sinuously highset calves merging into long, gradually swelling thighs, culminating in a very saucy and almost boyishly compact ovalcheeked behind were charms that had first kindled the fire of desire in his pleasant blue eyes. He had always regarded himself as a leg and bottom man instead of a mammary one, and so when he had seen Leslie Coleridge pushing a glider down the aisles of the Branton U-Save Supermart about thirteen months ago, he had decided that that was really for him.
However, Leslie had taken a really arduous siege, and he had had to beat out a young credit manager at the local bank, the owner of a flourishing shoe shop and, of all things, a private detective. Of course, he earned a pretty good salary on the night shift, because Manuel Parradine paid top wages, even above union scale. And one day he was going to be foreman of that shift. Maybe when that happened, maybe six months from now, they could have a kid. He'd like to have a boy in his own image and then a little girl just like gorgeous Leslie. However, Leslie had indicated rather emphatically that she didn't want children for a few years, because she was still young and wanted to enjoy life. And the last few months, she had been constantly nagging at him to see if he couldn't get back on the day shift so that they could go out evenings the way other husbands and wives did.
So on this particular Saturday afternoon, just as he was getting ready to go to work, Leslie was pouting again and starting up the same old song: "Here it's Saturday, and I'll bet everybody in Branton is going out for dinner and a show or something like that, and I have to fix your dinner and then make some lunch for you to take along and not see you until about tomorrow noon, Hank. It's not really fair, it's not at all, and you know it! If you're so good and they like you so much at the shop, the way you're always telling me, I'm sure Mr. Parradine could switch you to days."
"Now look, baby, I've just about had it! We're still both pretty young, and you just told me that you're not going to have a kid for a couple of years, so all right. Meanwhile, as long as there's this good money for night work and bonuses for some of the big jobs we get to meet a deadline, why don't you just hold your water and let me stash away the money in the bank and then we can really have some fun later on and still be young enough to enjoy it?" he said patiently.
Leslie shrugged her shapely shoulders and gave him a dirty look. She was particularly attractive today. Her black hair had just been short-bobbed, leaving her nape and ears bare and, with her sensitive high-cheekboned oval face, small ripe mouth and daintily uptilted, thin-winged nose, she looked like a tall sulky boy. But there was nothing boyish about the two closely spaced large pear-contoured globes which thrust their provocative points tightly against the bodice of her light-blue minidress. Since she was seated on the sofa with her legs crossed, the skirt rucked up high on her lovely, supple thigh and let him see also just a glimpse of the underside of her bottom. He began to feel that delightfully familiar ache in his crotch, but he had to leave for work in a couple of hours and there wasn't any sense giving way to the impulse. Tomorrow being Sunday, he could really do something about it and he would.
Leslie had turned out to be an exceptionally passionate girl in bed, which hadn't surprised him at all. However, while her responses were certainly enthusiastic, her knowledge of how to please a man was necessarily limited. After all, she had been a virgin on their wedding night, although it hadn't been a particularly difficult or messy matter to relieve her of the temporary barrier to their wedded bliss. She was also an excellent cook, a pretty good conversationalist, and for the most part she could make her own clothes and save him a good deal of money. In all respects except her nagging, she was really a most satisfactory wife and bed partner.
"Guess we might as well have dinner," he said with a disappointed little sigh, regretting that the impulse for a quick one had to be suborned in favor of thinking about his work. "Then I'll catch me an hour or so of sleep and be ready to start at six. There's gonna be overtime tonight, baby, and we'll really sock away the lettuce. There's at least fourteen hours of work, and thank goodness I'm still young and strong enough to take it without falling down on the job."
"It's all very well for you to brag like that, Hank Thurston," she said with her dark-blue eyes flashing, "but what about me? I don't especially like preparing a big meal in the late afternoon, because I'm not hungry at the time you are. And of course tomorrow all you'll want to do is sleep. I know you, Hank Thurston."
"Do you? I'm beginning to wonder."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" she flashed.
"That I think I've told you time and again and certainly enough by now that I'm on this night shift and I'm not going to change it, not with a foreman's job in the offing. Besides you know yourself that Mr. Parradine gives me a couple of days off every now and then, and we can catch up on what you call your social life. Anyway, since you don't have the responsibility of a kid yet, I should think you've plenty to do around the house, and then you've got your bridge club."
"That's right, deny me a little pleasure!" she put her hands on her lithe hips and glared at him. "You're just selfish, that's the only trouble with you, Hank Thurston. Why, if I'd known it was going to be like this, I might just as well have married Roger Jennison. He had regular hours, and I could have gone out and seen some of the shows in the Loop and had dinner at some of those wonderful restaurants they've got in Chicago."
"Oh sure, and he'd have kept you in shoes for the rest of your life too. And that's enough about Roger Jennison. I don't think he's the marrying kind, anyhow, because you'll notice he's got himself hooked up with a sexy divorcee, the last I heard," he angrily countered.
"So you've been listening to that disgusting gossip. Well, I might have known you would. You think that just because you got me to many you, I didn't turn down lots of really good opportunities, Hank Thurston. And what if he would have kept me in shoes? At least I could have the biggest wardrobe in the world, and nobody'd see what I'm wearing, not on your nightshift."
"That does it!" he said heatedly as he strode over to the couch. "It's time you had a little lesson to teach you to put up with your lot. You're not a martyr, you're not being deprived of anything, except that you just have to adjust your life to my hours. And I don't think that's asking too much. A lot of husbands travel six months out of the year, and their wives manage to survive all right. Fm warning you, Leslie, just one more yipe about my night shift, and-and-"
"And what?" she asked with a tauntingly sweet smile.
"This!" he growled. He seated himself at her left, turned, reached for her, seized her round the hips and flung her across his lap.
Leslie Thurston uttered a shriek of disbelief and indignation: "Why, you-you-you wouldn't dare-you let me go this minute, Hank Thurston, or you'll really regret it!"
"I know. You'll go chasing Roger Jennison and see if you can get free shoes. But first, you're going to get what's coming to you, baby," he told her. Then tugging up her miniskirt, he uncovered her voluptuous, jouncy ovalcheeked bottom, encased in a thin pair of nylon panties under the dark gauzy pantyhose.
"You stop that-you let me go-oh I hate you, I hate you!" she squealed. She began to kick her long legs and tried to fling herself off the couch, but Hank Thurston had too good a hold of her waist with his left arm. He raised his right hand and applied a tentative slap on the firm right bottomsummit, followed by one on the other cheek. The sound, the feel, and Leslie's frantic and protesting reaction all delighted him: "Ohhh-you-you hit me-you big brute-oh you just wait, you're going to pay for this-I won't cook your dinner, I won't make your lunch, I won't do anything for you-you can just stay married to your night shift, since you like it so much-now you let me go-" Muttering something under his breath, his face grim and determined, Hank Thurston released his wife's waist so that he could use both hands in a quick tug-down of the clinging pantyhose. She shrieked and reached her hands back to try to stop him, but the speed and expertise of his maneuver had left her unguarded long enough to pull the sheer bodysheath down to the middle of her thighs. Then, as she still twisted and kept her hands over her bottom, he irritatedly grabbed both her wrists with his left hand and swung them out of harm's way while with his other hand he yanked the white nylon panties down just below her bottomcheeks. The saucy, compact, broad ovals clenched, revealing their elasticity and mobility and resilience. The warm satiny olive skin twitched and rippled with the contraction of her gluteal muscles. She turned her face back to him, congested and red with anger, her dark-blue eyes raging: "I'm warning you, Hank Thurston, I'll leave you if you do that to me-I'm not a chattel, and you don't own me! Any wife would want what I want-"
"That's right, baby, and any wife that nagged her husband the way you've been doing the last couple of months ought to get just what I'm going to give you now! You can leave me if you want, but not until you've had your lesson. Because I don't think Roger Jennison would want to put up with your nagging either, and you'd be sure to find something-it's in your system!"
With this declaration, he took a tighter grip on her wrists, clamped his right leg over her calves, and began to spank. He did it vehemently and pitilessly, and in it he poured out all the rancor and resentment which her constant harping on the night shift had evoked all these past months. Leslie had never been spanked in all her life, and her first reaction was one of supreme mortification and shame at being treated like a juvenile. She cried out angrily, she threatened him, she tried to kick and twist, she even tried to twist her face back and bite him, but a yank at her wrists apparently dissuaded her from that retaliatory maneuver. Twisting and squirming, her bottom weaving as she tried frantically to evade the barrage of burning, stinging smacks, she found that she had no recourse except to take what he evidently intended to dish out in good measure. Her bottom was already a flaming red from some twenty-five noisy slaps when she began to feel the waves of burning discomfort overcome her indignation: "Oww-stop it, you're hurting me-ohhhouuu! Oh don't, Hank Thurston-you filthy brute you, beating your wife because you can't get your way-oww! Eeeaaahhhrr!! Stop it, I tell you, it hurts me, it hurts me!"
"This is just a start, Leslie, I haven't even begun to warm you up," he promised. Taking a deep breath, flexing the fingers of his right hand, which was already smarting, he resumed the spanking. Leslie bucked and jerked and twisted her hips frantically, trying desperately to escape the inexorable descent of his smiting palm. Once again she tried to bite, and once again she squealed with pain as he yanked at her wrists and, shifting his right leg, clamped it over the lower thighs so as to hamper her energetic movements. Totally mastered now, her naked bottom blazing and throbbing painfully, Leslie Thurston began to cry. Each time his hand descended, with a noisy "Smack!" she wailed and sobbed: "Ohhawwrrr! Oh I can't-oh please-it hurts-stop it, you b-b-brute!" Crack! "Aiii, oh don't, don't! Please, Hank, I'll be-I'll be good-"
"Will you?" Smack-Smack! His hand twice more visited the base of her flaming right bottomcheek.
"Oh you, you, you-yes, yes, I'll do anything-oh please, no more, I'll be good, I won't nag any more-"
"That's better. And you'd better not, because Fm going to keep you to that promise. The next time, I'll use my belt on that big saucy bottom of yours, Leslie."
He shoved her ignominiously off onto the floor, where she landed with a thud, squealing in pain. Slowly she rose, rubbing her bottom furiously, tears running down her face. She looked like a naughty little girl who had just had a good lesson. And suddenly he couldn't suppress the impulse any longer. Her wrigglings over his crotch had inflamed him, and he didn't care whether he got his dinner or was even late for the night shift. "Come here, young lady," he said grimly. Yanking down his zipper, he bared his prick.
"Oh-H-H-Hank-no-whatever are you-oh Hank-oh my goodness-oh darling-ohhh!"
He had seized Leslie, rucked up her miniskirt with one hand, put his right hand on her flaming bottom and pressed her to him. His prickhead had entered between the soft lips of her vulva, and she had stiffened in an exquisite surprise. Suddenly the furious pain in her behind had become almost a goading rapture. And the friction of his stiff hard weapon completed the fruition of all her latent, sensual senses.
With a sobbing little moan, she circled him with her arms and crushed her mouth to his as she felt his prick hilt within her.
And for the time being, she even forgot that he was going to have to leave her in a few hours and work until Sunday morning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS THE SUNDAY AFTER Ken Parradine had had his frustrating date with Terri Munson and his heartening acceptance of the idea for the term paper that was to earn him his B.A. from Professor Harland O. Johnson. He and his father Manuel were having lunch at one in the afternoon. At forty-six Manuel Parradine was stocky, with a pleasant round face and a small graying mustache. He had the hint of a paunch, but his doctor only last week had told him that he was exceptionally fit, his blood pressure and heart action eminently satisfactory, and that he could look forward to a goodly number of years, perhaps even the Biblical three score and ten, if he continued to take good care of himself and not over-indulge in sweets or cigars or alcohol.
He had spent a few hours on the Saturday night shift supervising the rush job for Burgoyne Industries, and the urgency of the work together with the handsome profit involved had made him reluctantly give up a date with his coppery-haired new heart-throb, Felicia Corday. He hadn't got into her panties yet, but he had ambitions. It was even possible, he knew as he poured himself a third cup of coffee and lit his first agar of the day, that he might even make her the second Mrs. Parradine. He was wondering whether he ought to tell Ken about his plans.
There would be certain difficulties, to be sure. He had a great deal of respect and liking for his handsome son, and was looking for him one of these days to take a hand at the plant and work himself in as the big boss. He'd done pretty well with his life so far, and Ken would never have to worry about where the next dime was coming from. Also the boy had pleased him throughout college by not going off the deep end, joining any of those leftist movements or protests against the war, which he personally regarded as unpatriotic and ineffectual, when all was said and done. No, Ken was all you could ask for in a son. If anything, maybe a mite too shy. He had to confess that he wouldn't have minded hearing that Ken was involved in something like a pantie-raid, the kind they used to have back when he was a freshman at Dorsey. He chuckled reminiscently, remembering how his fraternity had made him shinny up to the second-floor landing of the Rhoda Theta Epsilon sorority house and come back with somebody's panties, or else. He had, and nearly got kicked out of Dorsey for his pains. But the girl whose panties he'd managed to swipe-he'd stumbled into the first open door he could find once he'd clambered up-had turned out to be a regular cocklover in bed, and only the fact that she had been sent back East to marry some young stuffed shirt whom her family had picked for her had ended a very torrid and satisfactory arrangement in his sophomore year.
"What's the joke, Dad?" Ken looked up from the Sunday sports section.
"Oh, nothing really, son. Just thinking about the time when your old man used to be a collegian. You wouldn't believe it, would you? I was sort of a heller in those days."
"I don't believe it, no, Dad. You've got your nose to the grindstone every time I see you, and I'll bet you hit the books all the time eves back then."
"That's where you're wrong, Ken." Manuel Parradine relit his cigar, puffed at it to make sure that it was going properly, then leaned back and chuckled again. "I was just thinking that I was almost kicked out of Dorsey because I stole a pair of panties from the drawer of a really sizzling little redhead. Her name was Dora Stolberg, and if she hadn't left school a year later, I might never have finished my senior year. Which reminds me-how's your own lovelife coming along?"
Ken Parradine blushed a little. His father had spared him the birds-bees-and-flowers routine, and they really hadn't ever talked about sex. "I'm dating a girl now, she's pretty nice."
"This Terri Munson?" his father hazarded.
"That's the one. She's very cute and sassy, and she's got lots of ideas about Women's Lib."
"They all do nowadays. Thank goodness women knew their place when I was going to Dorsey. There was none of this equality stuff. On the other hand, from all I've been reading about the free love girls like that are advocating, I should think you wouldn't have any trouble getting yourself a little. You know what I mean."
"Dad!" Ken Parradine gasped, and found himself blushing again, "Terri's not really that bad, when you get to know her. She does give me a hard time once in a while. But I guess that's natural. If I were going to marry anybody, I guess she'd be the one. Of course, it's pretty early to think of that."
"Not too early to think about being a man and having the fun a man should. You've been a darned decent guy, I don't mind telling you, son. I don't think it would do you any harm to relax and have a little fun once in a while. Of course I don't mean being promiscuous or getting a girl into trouble. There are such things as pills these days, and most girls know about them. You know what I mean."
"Sure, Dad. Anyway, I haven't got much time for that these days. I've got to be starting my term paper for my degree."
"That's right. Well, you know what I promised you for graduation, a spanking new Dodge Polara or maybe even a Ford Thunderbird if your grades are good enough. What's the subject of this paper of yours?"
Ken Parradine finished the rest of his coffee and tried to keep from looking too self-conscious as he finally admitted, "It's about the sexual reactions of the female after she's experienced corporal punishment, Dad."
Manuel Parradine had put on his reading glasses to glance at the latest figures in the stockmarket. He took them off, stared quizzically at his son, and then ejaculated, "Now what in hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you see, it's like this, Dad. I got hold of a couple of books that said that a lot of women are masochists. That means, they like to be pushed around before they really get worked up."
"I could have told you that without going to any books. And what's this corporal punishment?"
"Well, it means spanking, Dad. In other words, if you were to take maybe a hundred girls at random and spank them, a lot of them would get worked up and real hot, because they were masochists. The others might just not like it or say it hurt them, or something like that."
"And that's what you're going to do a paper on? Holy mackerel! Does your professor know about?"
"Sure, I mentioned it to him Friday night, matter of fact. The only trouble is, I'll have to do some research, and I don't think I better try it around campus."
"You mean, actually go out and try to spank the girls and get their reactions for your paper?" his father incredulously demanded. "No, I don't think you better do that on Branton campus, either, not if you want to get your degree. So how do you propose to do it, would you mind telling me?"
"Well, I suppose," Ken thoughtfully frowned, "I could put some sort of ad in the paper and tell them it was scientific experiment and just tell them cold turkey what it was all about. They wouldn't have to go through with it if they didn't like the idea, and I guess I'd have to pay them for their time-now don't get huffy, Dad, I've saved my allowance, and besides, if I'm going to earn that car, it's all in a good cause."
"Sure. Only don't get yourself thrown into jail and have the cops call me up at the plant some day and tell me they've got you booked for indecent assault. Going around spanking girls, indeed!" Manuel Parradine shook his head and took another puff at his cigar. Then he eyed his son speculatively, a wry grin on his face. "But you know, come to think of it, boy, there are a lot of women who could stand something like that. A firm hand on the seat of the trouble, you might say. Yes, you've just given me an idea. Sometimes when a girl nags at you, or teases or tries to be smart or maybe flirts to make you jealous, it might just be that a good sound spanking would set her on the right track. You've given me a good idea."
"Oh, how's that, Dad?"
Now it was Manuel Parradine's turn to blush a little and to mumble, "Well, we'll talk about that some other time. You know, I'm not so old, not really, that I couldn't think of marrying again."
"Hey, that's great, Dad!"
"You-you really think so?"
"Sure I do! It'd be great for you. You spend all your time working, you don't go out and have any fun, and you're the one that's been telling me to do just that. I'd say it would do you a world of good and make a new man of you."
"Either that or kill me," Manuel Parradine muttered to himself, remembering how sultry Felicia Corday was and how the mere thought of screwing her got him in a nervous sweat. "Anyway, I'm glad to hear you talk like that, Ken. Maybe I'll tell you more about the idea I have in another week or so. I've got to do some thinking about this."
What he was really thinking was that his son's startlingly novel idea for a term paper had just put a scheme into his own head which might just help Felicia Corday stop keeping him at arm's length and say yes when he finally popped the question...
There were, however, a number of things about Felicia Corday which Manuel Parradine did not know and which Felicia herself was in no hurry to tell him. Her parents had separated when she was only twelve, and her mother had been awarded custody of her in a slam-bang court battle which at the time had attracted considerable newspaper publicity, since both marital partners had accused each other of adultery on several counts. This had taken place in Philadelphia, and Felicia and her mother had promptly moved to Chicago where Mrs. Corday had reestablished herself as a rather gifted dress designer. Felicia had gone to a private school on Chicago's North Side, and by the time she was ready for college, her mother had remarried. Her stepfather, whose name was Denton, was a bully, lecher, and cardshark, all of which three faults ultimately dissolved the marriage by the time Felicia had reached the age of twenty-one. But Bud Denton had left an indelible scar on her: one rainy night, when his wife had been in the hospital suffering from a flu virus, he had drunk more than was good for him, opened Felicia's bedroom door, and wakened her from sleep to find herself stripped of her nightie, her thighs straddled, and his heavy prick digging against her virgin cunt. She had shrieked and clawed at him, but by then the taste of her satiny flesh and the pulsing virgin crevice had overcome all remaining sanity. He had brutally fucked her, and then come back for seconds. It had been a night of utter horror for her. But, knowing that the news would absolutely demoralize her mother, she had solved her own problem by writing a personal note and putting it in the mail for her mother's attention, taking her savings, and catching a train to St. Louis, where for a year she had worked as a receptionist for a small printing company until she had regained her self-composure and discovered that she could earn her own living without any help.
When she had read in the Chicago papers of her mother's divorce and her stepfather's countercharge, she had tried to get in touch with Maria Corday, only to find to her horror that her mother had entirely misinterpreted her note (which had only alluded vaguely to the atrocious rape) and believed that her own daughter had left home because she secretly wanted to be fucked by her stepfather and had actually tried to seduce him. The injustice of this broke off all relations between the two women. Maria Corday sold her dress shop at a staggering profit, moved to New York City to accept a job as a contributing editor to a new fashion magazine, and that was the last Felicia Corday had ever heard of her.
From St. Louis she had returned to Branton, finding a modestly priced little apartment there and enjoying the restful quiet of the suburbs, though she went into the city to work in an advertising agency as a receptionist. This was how she had met Manuel Parradine, because her agency sent many of its engraving jobs over to his plant. She was attracted to him because in a way he reminded her of her original father, who had been rather portly, kindly, and gentle to her until, of course, the scandal which had resulted in divorce.
But because of her aversion to physical relationships, because of the memory of that brutal rape in which she had had no pleasure but known only the animalism of the male, luscious Felicia Corday had tried to keep from getting involved in any serious relationship with the mature widower.
Secretly, she admitted to herself that she was extremely fond of him, and she had even considered that despite the difference in their ages, he might make a Very good husband. Yet whenever she thought of that, she remembered the horrible night of waking to find herself naked and about to be fucked, the smell of whiskey on her stepfather's breath, his drunken obscenities and his mauling of her body in selfish rut.
But at the same time, her own superbly ardent nature and her need for affection had led her to many an unhappy night when she had had to resort to using her finger in the darkness and pretending that she was being made love to by a tender and considerate suitor. On such occasions, the image of Manuel Parradine often entered her mind. So that when she went out on dates with him, she was often troubled by the paradox of fearing sex and yet secretly longing for it. The result was that on their past few dates, she had played the role of a kind coy prickteaser, and she was aware that he was getting rather impatient. She knew that one of these days he was either going to ask her to be his mistress or his wife, and she didn't know what she was going to say.
And finally, but entirely subconsciously, there lay dormant in her a kind of tenuous impulse to be mastered, to have someone make decisions for her and to stop her from being so flighty and indecisive about things that really mattered, like a family and children and responsibilities. She was really tired of the breezy, artificial propositions which not only her own office workers but visiting salesmen and advertising executives put before her day after day on her job. And also, once, when she had been a very temperamental and spiteful child, shortly past her eleventh birthday, her father had taken her across his lap and calmly spanked her, lecturing her almost in professorial manner. It had calmed her tantrums, and she had even discovered a kind of pleasure out of it. Felicia Corday didn't know it, but she had just enough of the masochist in her to be awakened by the right sort of man if the proper time and place and setting came about. And thanks to Ken Parradine's surreptitious reading about spanking, her destiny as well as that of his father were about to become coalesced.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER HIS LAST CLASS ON Monday afternoon, Ken Parradine walked slowly across Mulberry Street and thence down Elder Avenue, frowning and pensive and quite unaware of the occasional interested glances which a number of attractive women sent him as they noticed the tall, sturdy, curly-brown-haired youth walking slowly and obviously preoccupied. At the moment, he was beginning to wonder if his sudden impulsive idea had been such a good one. He'd have to get started on the term paper, because it had to be submitted within the next three weeks. And although Professor Johnson had seemed to endorse the idea, there was a great deal of difference between theory and realization. It absolutely wouldn't do to put an ad in the Daily Branton. It would cause the administrative heads of the university to investigate his motives and perhaps even forbid him to go on with the outlandish notion.
Yet the more he thought about the prick teasing way Terri Munson had been treating him lately, the thought of turning her over his lap and paddling her delicious bottom urged itself even more strongly than mere theory. But the fact remained that he had to find a first subject who would lend herself to the scientific experiment so that he could actually chart it, discover whether there was really actually enough material to go on. He knew that Professor Johnson would expect a scholarly, well-documented thesis on any subject he chose. But the question was, whom was he going to find to be the first spankee?
He stopped and looked around, and found himself in front of The Brass Rail. It was an attractive little cocktail lounge and the fat, jovial bartender, Ed, knew him and had already checked out his I.D.. He didn't go very often, because he preferred wine to hard spirits, but lately, ever since Terri had been giving him such a hard time with her notions about Women's Lib, he found the need of something potent like perhaps a gin and tonic. And since it was a warm afternoon, he found himself opening the door and going on up to the bar, where he seated himself on a barstool.
"Oh, hi there, Ken. How's life treating you these days?" Ed chuckled as he finished wiping the last of a pile of glasses and strode down along the bar to greet the youth. "With the long face you've got on you this afternoon, I'd have to guess not so good. What's the matter, your girlfriend giving you a bad time?"
This was uncannily closer to the truth than Ken Parradine cared to admit to anyone except his own father and possibly his best friend Jim Evans, who, come to think of it, hadn't been getting along any too well with his own girlfriend, Mavis Parsons. He winced, then shook his head, "Not especially. But I guess all girls are about the same. Sometimes a fellow just can't figure them out."
"It all depends what your outlook is, kid. Now me, you wouldn't believe it to look at me now, but when I was about your age, I had a nice lean build on me and I used to get my broads into line when they stepped out of it. Never had any trouble once I told myself who was going to be boss, and went ahead and showed them, never did."
Ken Parradine looked interestedly at the balding, fat bartender. "Oh?" he politely inquired. "Just how did you straighten them out, Ed? By the way, I'll have a gin and tonic. Sort of strong on the gin."
"I gotcha," Ed winked as he began to prepare the drink. "Well, a lot of dames want to be pushed, you know what I mean. They have to put up sort of a battle just because it's expected of them. I mean, unless they're cheap tramps or peddling their ass. You know what I'm getting at."
"Go ahead." Ken lit a cigarette and scowled at his own reflection in the mirror. It was high time he lost his cherry, because somehow just dreaming about Terri stripped down for action and in his power and then waking up to find his pajama pants wet at the crotch or else sneaking his hand down to jack himself off when he was conjuring up an image of what he would really like to do to that young lady, was costing him a good deal of broken sleep.
"Here y'are, kid." The bartender set a glass in front of Ken Parradine. "Like I was saying, a lot of broads give you the idea that they're better than you are, and that if you make a pass at them, you're just a crude, no-good sonofabitch and so-and-so. At the same time, they practically stick it out in front of you and then they pull that I'm-that-sort-of-chick act on you. Get me?"
"I sure do," Ken had taken a healthy swig of his drink and already felt a little more courage seeping into his veins. "But what I want to know, Ed, is how did you straighten them out?"
"Simple. I just paddy whacked them when they got a little snotty. I remember one broad I had, I think her name was Irene-yeah, I'm pretty sure it was. Anyhow, I was about your age, and this broad was a couple, maybe five years older. Secretary to some bigshot out in the stockyards. She'd gone out with me about five or six times and she was giving me a line about what a fine family she came from and sort of letting me know that she was slumming going out with me. You get the picture."
Ken nodded, took another swig, and then a puff a his cigarette. He was getting more interested by the minute. "So what did you do?"
"So, one night I had it out with this Irene broad, kid. I knew she lived by herself, and she'd let me come up to the door of her place and tell me she'd had a nice time and thank you very much, good night, and that was that. Only this time I wasn't having any, see? I had a feeling that she really wanted to be laid, because of the way she was egging me on all the time. So she finally said it was all right to come in for a nightcap, but she didn't encourage that sort of thing. I can just see her now, saying those very words." The fat bartender chuckled and shook his head in pleasant reminiscence. "Well, I had my drink all right, and then she said she thought I'd better go. I said I thought it was about time we both knew where we stood with each other, and she flared up and got real huffy. Said she wasn't that kind of a girl and who did I think I was, all that sort of crap. I saw red, kid, I can tell you. I grabbed her, pulled her down over my knees, and I let her have my hand on that nice firm ass of hers until she started begging off and saying she didn't mean it, she was sorry, she'd do anything if I'd only stop. And boy, did she ever!" He winked bawdily, then chuckled again.
"So you spanked her, is that it?"
"I'm here to tell the world I did, kid."
Ken winced at the juvenile term, but then reflected that so far as coy, cockteasing Terri Munson was concerned, he probably appeared to her in that role and not much more. He finished his drink and then asked for another.
"Sure, kid. Better go easy, though. I know you got your I.D., but you know, I don't want my place to be offlimits to the university crowd," Ed said propitiatingly as he set another gin and tonic in front of the youth.
"And the spanking really worked," Ken repeated, half to himself. "She let you go to bed with her, is that it, Ed?"
"I'll say she did! And she couldn't get enough, once I got my cock into that soft little hairy slit of hers, you can take it from me. You know, now that I look back, I think maybe warming her backside got her hot in front too."
"I read something like that. The fact is-" Ken began, then stopped. He had just caught sight of a very delectable and mature woman entering the cocktail lounge and moving over to the other end of the bar. She had dark brown hair set in a very piquant pixie look with a brush of thin bangs, crowned by a cluster of curls. It made her look almost half her age, and the blending of maturity-which her figure at once displayed as she sidled onto the stool-and her rather saucy features and the hairdo began to make him cunt-conscious all over again.
The bartender noticed his sudden absorption on the newcomer and, leaning towards him, gave him a conspiratorial wink: "Now get this straight, kid, I don't run broads in this place. But seeing how down in the mouth you look right now and how you've been talking about girls not coming across, I'll just say this. That broad's available."
"A pro?" Ken whispered, taking another wide-eyed look.
"Now, not exactly like that. Oh sure, she wouldn't mind a present, you know what I mean. Y'see, she divorced her old man a couple of months back, but she sort of misses the jerk. So every so often shell have a little dry run with some guy that takes her fancy. She's got hot pants, kid, take it from me. But she's not a tramp, so the rest is up to you. And if you're going to start anything, not here, huh?"
"Oh sure, Ed, sure! I was wondering-well, never mind." Ken finished his second gin and tonic, set the glass resolutely down, got up from the barstool and slowly walked over to where the brown-haired divorcee was sitting, dipping a slim soft little hand into the bowl of peanuts. Ed moved over quickly, gave her a beaming smile, and asked her preference, which was an Alexander.
"Might I have the pleasure of buying you that drink, Miss?" Ken tried to make his voice sound worldly and casual, though he didn't quite succeed.
The brunette divorcee looked at him, then her eyes widened. They were gray-green eyes, and the humid and very large and deep. Her mouth was full and rich, with a dainty Grecian nose whose wings were thin and sensuous. Her face was round and there was an enchanting dimple in her chin. She was wearing a red cocktail frock, with mother-of-pearl buttons, and from the swift glimpse he had of her voluptuously curvaceous legs, he could see that she was wearing the gauziest of charcoal brown nylons.
"Why, that's very sweet of you, Mr.-?"
"Ken Parradine. I'm a senior at Branton." Ken slid onto the stool beside her, signaled to Ed to bring him a refill and to give him the divorcee's check.
"I'm Coralee Davis, Mr. Parradine. So you go to Branton? I haven't seen you here before, and I thought I knew some of the boys. You are a senior, aren't you?"
"Yes, Ma'am. In June."
"Why, how nice. And what are you going to be when you leave school?"
"Probably go to work for my dad in the engraving business," Ken confided. Ed gave him a warning look as he set the third gin and tonic in front of him, and the Alexander in front of Coralee Davis. Ken took out his wallet and with an air of definite bravado laid down a five-dollar bill and said, "Keep the change, Ed."
"Sure kid. Thanks a lot. Hope you like the Alexander, Mrs. Davis. Let me know."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Ken began. "I called you Miss-"
"Think no more about it. Please, and do call me Coralee and I'll call you Ken," the divorcee purred in a husky, bedroom voice. She seemed to shift herself a little, so that her thigh brushed his. "I'm divorced. And I'd just as soon be known as Miss, if you want to know something. He was a real louse. You know, a woman gives up the best years of her life to a man, and then when he's used to her, he goes looking for a fresh young thing. Well, he's welcome to her. Just so long as I get my alimony. But let's not talk about me, Ken, let's talk about you. Engraving-that must be a very good business. That's printing magazines and books and things, isn't it?"
"Something like that. Er-I-" All of a sudden it was getting very warm in the cocktail lounge. Ken hooked a finger to the back of his shirt and tried to loosen it. He wasn't used to pickups, and he knew that that was what he was darn well trying to do right now. Maybe-the audacious notion had just entered his head, possibly inspired by the third gin and tonic-Coralee Davis could be his first spanking guinea pig!
"You were going to say, Ken?" she prompted with a dazzling smile as she leaned just a little more closely towards him, and this time there was no doubt about it. Her thigh pressed against his in an unmistakably flirtatious manner.
"Well, what I was going to say, C-Coralee, was that I've got a term paper to do for my degree, you see-" he felt his face reddening, and stared at his empty glass. What he had already drunk was beginning to tingle very pleasantly inside of him, but he didn't think it would be wise to order another drink. Besides, chances were Ed wouldn't serve him anyway. "And I was thinking-well, maybe it wasn't such a good idea."
"What were you thinking, Ken?" Now she put a hand over his, and her dazzling smile seemed to become more intimate than ever. He knew he wasn't drunk, his capacity was a good deal more than three gins and tonic, but all the same he had arrived at a most pleasant state of euphoria. "I-well, Coralee, I've got a sort of scientific experiment to make, you see. And I need somebody to help me with it."
"Why, I think that's just lovely! What kind of experiment?" she pursued.
Ed had come closer now and was beginning to wash some more glasses. He was certainly within earshot, and so Ken Parradine's courage again faltered. He wasn't about to spell it out for Coralee with Ed getting an earful. "Maybe," he anxiously suggested, "we could go somewhere and talk about it."
"I'd like that very much, Ken. Why don't we go to my place?" was her startling and most propitious answer.
"That's a great idea! You see, it's very complicated and it takes a lot of explanation," he said hastily, wanting in his awkward and amateurish way to reassure her that she wasn't going to be admitting a Jack the Ripper by inviting him to her apartment.
"I like nice long explanations, Ken," she whispered huskily as she slipped down from the barstool. She walked slowly ahead towards the door while Ken got down from his stool somewhat abashedly. The bartender winked at him, then jerked his thumb toward the receding divorcee and Ken's eyes fixed on her bottom. Two upstandingly rounded firm cheeks which had the most tantalizing way of undulating and shifting up and down that he had ever noticed. In fact, it reminded him somewhat of that immortal wiggle which the late Marilyn Monroe had made her trademark in the uproarious movie, "Some Like It Hot". The warmth that had been pervading him was now more intense than ever, and it was concentrating in the region of his cock. "See you around, Ed," he waved his hand with a magnanimous gesture, and had never felt more worldly as he followed the brown-haired divorcee out into the street.
Coralee Davis's apartment was on the second floor of a new condominium building of Ashley Street, about half a mile northwest of the friendly cocktail lounge. En route, the voluptuous divorcee had confided something of her background to the bemused Branton senior. The divorce had just come through, and her husband had agreed to pay off the mortgage in lieu of regular alimony. Since there was about $6,000 still due on it, she felt it was an equitable arrangement. "You see, Ken dear," she explained, "it's a lot smarter this way because if I'd taken alimony and then married again, it would stop. But this way, Bud-he was my ex, you know-has to pay off the mortgage no matter what I do, and my lawyer got him to agree to pay it all off before the year's over."
It was really a beautifully furnished and very comfortable apartment, Ken Parradine thought, as he made himself comfortable on the wide, low living room couch. Coralee Davis excused herself "to slip into something comfy and then we'll talk about your paper, Ken dear." She was gone about ten minutes, and when she came back into the living room, the warmth in his cock had been translated into one of the most sizable hard-ons he had ever experienced. She wore a pair of knitted, flaming orange ski pants, and a red and black satin bolero jacket cut widely to expose the pale milky chest and the valley of her sumptuous, closely spaced, cantaloupe-like titties almost to the nipples. She had clipped a pair of pearl pendants to the lobes of her dainty ears, and as she came towards him, a drink in her hand, she seemed to undulate more than ever because she was wearing a pair of spike-heeled red leather pumps. A haunting scent of some exotic perfume wafted to his nostrils. He made a half-hearted movement to get up, but she giggled and shook her head, "Oh for heaven's sake, Ken dear, don't stand on ceremony with me. I'm just plain folks, that's all. I brought us both a little drinkie. It's a sort of French 75."
He knew enough about booze to do a quick double-take in realizing that the ingredients were probably champagne, brandy, and rum, or some variant thereof. On top of the three gins and tonic, his control over the situation might well be weakened. "Just a sip or two, then," he said warily as she plumped herself down beside him and pressed the glass towards his lips. No sooner had he taken the sip than he was conscious that her right arm was around his shoulders and that her beautifully manicured slim fingers were dallying with his ear and cheek. Her perfume was like an aphrodisiac, and it was growing on him by degrees, just as his prick was. He couldn't have got up now to save his life without being dreadfully embarrassed over his condition. It felt as big as a flagpole and it ached like a toothache that had been neglected far too long.
Coralee Davis took a generous swig from the glass, set it down on the coffee table in front of them, and then, without removing her right arm from his shoulders or ceasing her delicate attentions to his ear and cheek, huskily purred, "Now why don't you tell me all about the experiment, Ken dear?" Her right thigh was pressed very hard against his left, but even though it was growing more and more embarrassing, Ken Parradine found that Coralee's provocative proximity made it easier for him to discuss the intimate subject of the theme. Because she was certainly being forward, and since she was asking a direct question, she could hardly be offended if he answered her as directly. So, clearing his throat and trying to look scholarly and not at her at the same time, he began in a somewhat unsteady voice: "Well, Coralee, you see, it's about psychology."
"My goodness, that's awfully deep! You must be awfully smart to tackle something like that, Ken dear," she encouraged. He thought to himself that Terri Munson would have bitten her tongue off before ever making such an obviously flattering remark as that. The thought strengthened his resolve, and he took another deep breath and went on: "Well, you know that today there are lots of books written about sexual behavior, Coralee."
"I know. Bud was, he wanted to go trying out what he'd read on other girls instead of me. It hurt my feelings, Ken, you've no idea. I mean, I don't look like something ready for the junkyard yet, do I?" Her face was very close to his, and he could feel her warm breath upon his cheek.
"Oh no, you-you certainly don't, Coralee!" he nervously agreed. "Anyway, I talked it over with my professor-that's Professor Johnson, you know-and he thought it might be a very interesting departure from the usual kind of paper."
"But what is it, Ken? My gracious, you're keeping me in suspense!" she giggled.
"Well, er, as I was going to say, it's a sort of group experiment. I was going to try to find out what-I mean, how-a woman would react if she were spanked."
"My goodness, if that doesn't beat all! Is that what you're studying in college these days? I never had anything so interesting as that when I went to school, Ken!" Now her right palm stroked his jaw, and she seemed to move even closer to him. "Tell me more about it."
He tried desperately not to look into her beguiling face, because he might just forget the thread of his argument. "I mean," he hedged, "it has to do with different reactions, so it wouldn't be just one person. You see, Coralee, some people are masochistic, that means they get enjoyment from pain. And then there's the sadist, the person who likes it when they suffer. On the other hand, there are lots of people who don't like any pain at all, so they wouldn't get any reaction except not wanting to be spanked."
"What you're saying, then, is that you want to find out how a girl acts when she's getting her bottom swatted, is that it, Ken?" she teased. And now her lips were brushing his other jaw, and her perfume was so heady that his senses were beginning to reel.
"That-that's the general idea, yes, C-Coralee," he quavered.
"You're sure this isn't just a line you're handing poor little old me to get me all sexy and worked up, Ken honey?" was her next and even more startling question.
And this time he did look at her, and his pulses began to hammer, because her lips were parted, and there was a seductive humid glow in her eyes and that bewitchingly red, moist mouth was only inches away from his. "Oh gosh, no, "he blurted. "It's not a line. I mean, you can ask Professor Johnson if you want to. It's scientific, that's what it is. I just have to do some research on it."
"You mean, you'd like to spank me and see what I'd do, is that what you really mean, Ken?" she whispered.
He had never blushed so much in his life, and he knew that even his ears were red. "Y-yes," he managed in a voice that wobbled.
"And you're going to take notes and everything and write me all up in your paper if I let you spank me? Of course, you wouldn't be mean and use my real name or anything like that, would you?"
"Oh no! I'd call you-well, something like Jane X-, you know. That's the way they do it in books when they have case histories."
"That's cute. You're awfully handsome, you know that? Have you got a regular girl?"
"Well, yes, only-"
"Only what?" Now her lips were brushing his chin and her right hand was pressing his right cheek in a meaningful gesture. He couldn't help himself; he kissed her. Coralee Davis gave a contented little sigh, turned a little, and cupped his face in her hands as she returned the kiss with burning enthusiasm. When it was finally over, she murmured, "Only she won't give, is that your problem, honey?"
"Now you've got to understand," he began desperately, "she's a wonderful girl, and she's got brains and everything, but she's all wrapped up in this Women's lib thing and we argue all the time about it."
"And she won't go to bed with you, the silly little idiot," Coralee Davis finished with a knowing giggle. Her hands were still pressed against his cheeks and before he could answer her knowing remark, she was kissing him again. This time the tip of her tongue crept between his lips, and it was even more intoxicating than the three gins and tonic.
"She's the one you really ought to spank, if you want to know something, lover," she confided as she released him again. "But anyhow, I'd just love to be a help to you so you can get your degree and everything. I think it would be just wonderful. Would you like to do it now?"
"UH-I mean-are you sure-I mean," he floundered.
"Of course I would, Ken dear. Now let's see, how do you want to do it? Should I go over you lap, or should I kneel on the couch here, or what?"
"I-I hadn't thought about the exact process, to be honest with you, C-Coralee."
"Oh, but you ought to!" Her eyes were big and round now. "I mean, if it's going to be scientific and accurate, you have to think of all the details. You're going to write them down later, aren't you?"
"Uh, yes-sure."
"But I suppose the very first time, it can be sort of improvised, as you go along, don't you suppose so, Ken?"
"Oh sure!" He was conscious that his prick was aching so painfully that he didn't know how he could stand it much longer. Coralee rose and moved over to his right, then couched herself over his lap, her legs out beyond him along the couch, her hands clasped, and then looked back at him: "There. I guess that's as good a way as any, Ken. Now go ahead and spank me."
"I-I don't really want to hurt you, Coralee-and besides,-"
"Silly. A spanking has to be a real spanking if it's going to be scientific. Now you just go ahead. I said I wanted you to, didn't I? But when you finish your paper, you have to let me see it. Fair enough?"
"Oh yes, sure, I'd do that, C-Coralee!" Again his voice was breaking as if he were just coming out of puberty. He stared down at the excitingly opulent rotundities of Coralee Davis's bottom, upturned in the most provocative manner over his lap. The flaming orange ski pants seemed to fit her like a second skin, even to shaping out the sinuous crease between the firm jutting rondeurs. Awkwardly, he put his left arm around her waist, and felt her quiver to his touch. He blinked his eyes a few times, fighting for control. Then slowly he raised his right hand and delivered a tentative spank on the ripest curve of her right bottom cheek. His eyes widened, because it felt as if she had nothing on under the ski pants. The resilient, jouncy flesh of her behind was marvelously elastic to his touch.
"You can spank harder than that, I won't break," she giggled. She kept looking back at him, her eyes very bright and humid, with a quizzical expression in them. She had dug her pump toes into the couch, and he was conscious that her lovely thighs were tense and quivering and that the sheathing of the ski pants just about ascertained that she was bare under them. He lifted his right hand and brought it down somewhat harder on the other cheek.
"Now, that's better," she murmured, wriggling a little over his lap to get a more comfortable position for herself. "Just go ahead now and see what I do. I'm sort of interested in this myself, to tell you the truth, Ken lover."
Thus heartened, Ken Parradine tightened his left arm around her supple waist and applied a really sonorous smack on the upper right cheek of Coralee Davis's succulent bottom. She kicked back her right leg and squealed, "Ouch! I felt that one, that's the way to do it, Ken dear! Go ahead now, that's more like a real spanking ought to be!"
He had never realized before how both distracting and delicious this indoor sport could be. If he had thought of spanking Terri Munson at all, it had been out of a kind of punitive vengeance for having flouted him, but he hadn't really thought much about the sexual impetus the act could have provided. Now, however, he found himself dazed by the multiplicity of sensations crowding in on his flesh and mind. His prick was about to burst, and the feel of her warm, delightfully plump body pressing over his lap was becoming more and more inflammatory. He felt that his left hand was now on warm, delightfully moist flesh, for, stretched out as she was, the hems of the bolero jacket had slipped up a little and allowed a gap of several inches between them and the waistband of the snug ski pants. And her flesh was quivering and palpitating in the most delicious way.
His right hand rose and fell three times now, as he began to take a savoring pleasure in this scientific experiment. He felt her flesh flatten and then spring up as his palm made impact, and once again Coralee Davis kicked up her right foot and waggled the gleaming red leather pump in the air: "Ohh! That does sting! I can take it, Ken honey, you just keep right on!"
Her hands were tightly clasped and held up against her face, for she was propping herself up on her elbows and glancing back at him. She wriggled a little more, offering herself more closely to him. The maneuver made his left palm even more aware that it was pressing very hard against naked woman-flesh. His face was burning and his heart was pounding rapidly; and he knew it wasn't just the three gins and tonic.
Before he had spanked again, she huskily exclaimed: "You know, honey, to make it really scientific, you ought to figure out how many spanks you're going to give a girl and do it the same way to all of them. And you ought to keep count right now."
"Oh yeah-sure-I should, Coralee," he gulped.
"And that first one shouldn't count, it was just a lovetap, wasn't it?" she artfully giggled. Her legs were clenched together very tightly now, and again her pumptoes were digging into the upholstery of the couch as she readied herself. He took a deep breath and resumed the spanking. His hand descended once, twice, thrice, and a fourth time, two to each bottomcheek. They were stinging and noisy, and they were certainly extremely satisfying even when considered in a scientific light. Coralee Davis kicked up both feet now and waved them about in the air as she wriggled, squealing: "Ohh, it stings now! It really does, darling! But don't stop, don't stop at all!"
She had had, he estimated, about ten swats. He really didn't have any idea of what an actual spanking ought to be like, but, as she had suggested, he would just have to improvise as he went along. One thing was sure: he had never been so excited before with a girl in all his life, not even with Terri. Because he knew now that he wanted to fuck Coralee Davis more than anything else, more even than getting this term paper accepted by Professor Johnson.
His hand rose and fell with energy now, and for about two minutes he spanked the luscious divorcee. The spanks fell all over her bottom, alternating on the cheeks, but without any regular pattern. One would bite home against the upper slope of her right hip, the next over the base of her left buttock, the third bridging both the quivering, plumply upturned cheeks, but it appeared that this haphazard method was quite authentic so far as the subject was concerned. Her feet continued to kick, and now her hips had begun to swerve and squirm a little each time his hand landed. She kept looking back at him, and her fingers were twisting more and more nervously, and there was a suspicious hint of tears in her widened, humid eyes. Her squeals were also extremely convincing: "Ooh-ahh, that one hurt-oh Ken, my goodness, but my poor bummy's stinging so! Ouch-oh darling, that really does hurt, I mean it-ooh, aahh!"
He had reached a count of approximately thirty, he estimated, as he stopped for breath, and his temples were pounding and his ears were buzzing and his heart was going like a triphammer. What was worse, his prick was about to burst, and he knew that she must be feeling it as she squirmed over his lap.
"I-I guess that ought to be about enough, C-Coralee," he mumbled, suddenly abashed and contrite. Because after all, Coralee Davis was considerably older than he was, and you just didn't go around treating women that way. He wasn't a brute by nature, and maybe he was getting in too deep on this theme idea.
"Oh no," he couldn't believe what she was saying. "I can take a lot more than that. But don't you think, honey, you ought to do it on the bare? That way you can see what you're doing. And anyhow, my ski pants sort of protect my bottom, don't you think?"
"They-they-they're awfully tight-I thought-gosh-" he panted hoarsely.
"I'll do it," she breathed. She propped herself up on her hands, knelt over his lap, then reached back and to his astonishment began to tug the ski pants down from her effulgent hips. His eyes were hypnotized as the pale milky flesh of her lower back and then the dazzling sheen of her hips came into view. He saw the chinkbone, then the shadowy groove which separated the nether globes. "Do the rest for me, please, Ken, honey," she urged, looking back at him with shining, tear-glistening eyes.
He gulped. Then his trembling fingers grasped the waist-band the ski pants and tugged them down to her knees. His eyes widened as they saw the crimson marks which marred the milky perfection of her naked behind. And then she had flattened herself over his lap again, clasped her hands together tightly, pillowing her left cheek on them, and was whispering, "So go ahead and do it right!"
Once again his left hand pressed against the bare moist warm skin of her naked waist, and his right hand rose slowly, then descended. The Smack which resulted was even more characteristic and lascivious, for this time it was given on the naked flesh itself. And this time Ken Parradine could see her bottom contract and then yawn, in the muscular reaction so characteristic of corporal punishment. What was better still, he could feel the springy give of her luscious bare flesh.
"Ohh!" she gasped, wriggling over his lap and shifting herself even closer to his body. "Go on, I can take it! I've been a very naughty girl, I deserve it!"
He gulped again, and then he told himself that this was Terri Munson, getting at last what she so richly deserved. Tightening his lips, he raised his hand and resumed the spanking. For the next few minutes, the Smack, Smack, Smack rang out, interspersed with Coralee Davis' squeals and gasps and finally, tearful Points: "Oww! Ouch, oh Ken, that does sting! I'll be good, please, it hurts! Ouch-oh darling, I really felt that one, you're hurting my poor bummy! I'll be a good girl, I promise I will-oh please, that's enough, it's getting awfully hot, oh not so hard, not always in the same place-oohh, aahh, ooouu!"
Again, he stopped, out of breath and almost fainting with the savage lust that was making his balls and prick ache and the lips of his cock twitch and pucker with the frenzied urge to ejaculate.
Her feet had kicked the air in a flurry of energetic protests towards the last part of the spanking. Now as he stared down at her blazing bottom, he could see the globes shudder, flex, ripple and palpitate with all the neural reactions which the manual correction had evoked.
"Oh my," Coralee Davis huskily gasped, "that was really a good one for the first time, it really was, Ken darling."
"I didn't want to hurt you-I really didn't, C-Coralee," his voice was thick and trembling.
"Silly, I wanted you to, didn't I? Now you've got to kiss me and make me well, you naughty boy!" Sinuously, she rolled off his lap and straightened to her feet before him, the ski pants tumbled to her ankles, and the thick, luxuriant, dark-brown curls of her cunt in plain view. She held out her arms to him, a dazzling smile on her trembling red, moist lips. Ken Parradine uttered a choking cry, reached up for her wrists, and dragged her down atop him, his mouth crushing hers wildly. Her tongue darted between his lips, and then her hands were fumbling with the zipper of his trousers. He slipped onto his back along the couch and she atop him, and her left arm went round his neck and she was kissing him so hard he couldn't get his breath. He felt her hand draw out his prick, and he groaned with the sweet Tantalus of it. And then he felt her furry slit grind against the shuddering glans, felt her fingers fit him into her socket, and uttered another, louder groan as the warm moist tight haven of her cunthole accepted his rigid lance.
She sank slowly down on him, and then his arms flung round her and his own tongue thrust wildly into her mouth as Ken Parradine ecstatically lost his male virginity and gained his very first scientific reaction to the sexually stimulating power of corporal punishment.
CHAPTER NINE
MANUEL PARRADINE HAD been thinking over his son's remarks during their Sunday brunch. The idea of Ken's term paper for his B.A. had amused him. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea intrigued him. Maybe a good spanking was what Felicia Corday needed. He was getting tired of having her mention other fellows who wanted to date her, talking about them in a most casual way as if there were a waiting list ready to snap up any unoccupied evening on her social calendar. In fact, since this Monday night was free for him, and the pressure of meeting deadlines had eased a little thanks to the heavy weekend grind his shop had put in, he was thinking about having a date with her tonight.
His office was soundproofed, with thick carpeting and a large old fashioned Chesterfield against the wall directly opposite from his huge mahogany desk. He'd never really used it, except for naps when, over some weekends, he'd gone down to the shop and worked beside his crew just like one of them. He'd learned his trade the hard way, as a printer's devil, and that was one reason he had a good crew, all of his men liked him because not only did he pay exceptionally high wages, but they knew that the boss wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty and knew just as much about the machines they were working on as they themselves did.
On an impulse, he picked up the phone and dialed Felicia's office number. When the switchboard operator came on, he asked for "Miss Corday, please," and got her right away. "Felish? Mannie here. I was just wondering if you'd be free tonight."
"I'm terribly sorry, but I've got a touch of a cold and I think I'd better stay home and try to get it out of my system. Thanks anyway for asking."
"Too bad. Well, you take good care of yourself, Felish. I'll call you in a couple of days, all right?"
"Of course. You take care of yourself too. 'Bye now." The phone went dead at the other end of the line.
Glumly, he replaced it on the stand, shoved it away and lit a cigar. She didn't exactly sound as if she had a cold. She had that cool, who-do-you-think-you-are tone with which he was only too familiar. Of course, this time of year, there was plenty of virus around, and he didn't have any right to think she was a liar. After all, he didn't own her yet. But the way he felt about her, he certainly wished he did. He had a few ideas about what he'd do to Felicia Corday. One of them involved putting handcuffs on her wrists and slave-anklets on her slim ankles, making her dress in a very scanty costume-or maybe nothing except high-heeled pumps-and sitting back in an armchair and flicking a long whip the way a circus director did, and putting her though her paces. It was a lovely, stirring reverie, and he felt his prick begin to harden just thinking about it. No two ways about it, Ken's term paper would probably show that there were plenty of men who would like nothing better than to turn an uppity girl over their laps and give their bottoms what for.
Just the same, he thought to himself, it was funny how here he was getting a hard-on just thinking about paddling Felicia Corday's enticing behind. Maybe there was a lot more to Ken's theory than was noticeable at first glance.
He glanced at his correspondence. He'd neglected it the last few days, because of all the rush orders that had come into the shop. It was time he cleared his desk so that by the time Felicia got over her cold, he could afford to take a few evenings off and have some fun. But almost defiantly, he told himself that if it wouldn't be with her, there were always other fish in the sea. In his little black memo book, he had a few spicy numbers, call girls whom he'd known a few years back before he'd met Felicia and who were still ploying their ancient and very profitable trade. He didn't generally hold with whores, but a call girl was a little different. Take a young girl with some college background, put her in an office, let her do a little hustling on the side to earn some extra pin money for dresses, and she didn't quite come across like a commercial pro. You could always make a call girl come if you didn't rush things and weren't too greedy and she could pick and choose her customers and spend plenty of time with each one.
Tonight would be a very good night to ease some of the tensions that had been creeping up on him ever since he had first discovered that he wanted Felicia Corday one way or another and was beginning to feel a little frustrated over the cool and almost playfully challenging way she was avoiding his making a really serious pitch at her. She seemed to have some sort of intuitive seventh sense which made her anticipate when he was going to get serious, and she'd suddenly and flippantly change the subject and he'd find himself disgruntled and glum and acting like an old fool and hating her for it. And then she could be so damned sweet sometimes. You just couldn't figure women at all.
He wondered for a moment how Ken would handle a girl like Felicia Corday. But it wasn't a good idea, because that reminded him how much older he was than his son, and he didn't want Felicia Corday to throw his age up at him when he really got down to brass tacks with her-that is, if he ever got the chance to do it. Maybe it would be a good idea to have a little fling tonight and get her out of his system. He reached to the bottom drawer of his desk, drew it open, rummaged for his little black memo book, and then leaned back in his swivelchair and flipped through the pages. Mavis Dolton-auburn-haired, rather hefty in the hips, small titties, and an expert Frencher. He hadn't seen Mavis in a year, and she'd been twenty-five then, doing part-time work in a small public relations agency on North Michigan avenue. She wanted a hundred-fifty for the evening, and she liked to be taken out to a fancy place for dinner. A little rich for his blood, but the way he felt right now, she might be just what the doctor ordered.
Then there was Katie Ordway, twenty-seven, a tall, black-haired piece who had been married twice to louses (it was funny how a hustler who was supposed to know everything about men picked such lemons when she finally made it legal), working as a file clerk in a large insurance company in Evanston. He had her just once, but she'd really been something. The athletic type, with long muscular legs but beautifully proportioned, and that box of hers had had the force of a nutcracker squeezing his cock, and just about drained him dry. She didn't go for Frenching, though, and her price was a hundred even.
For a moment, he dallied with the notion of letting Ken have some of these numbers and maybe use the girls in his research for the theme. No, that wasn't any good at all. First of all, they'd want the regular price for even talking to the kid. And besides, it would all be an act, because no pro every really gave you an honest, spontaneous reaction on a deal like that. Oh sure, they'd probably let Ken spank them for pay, but it wouldn't be worth a tinker's dam so far as an accurate and honest response was concerned. And a lot of pros were dykes, anyway, and didn't really care for men. There again was the advantage of a call girl, because her high price meant she didn't need quite so many clients and so there was a fair chance she might really like a couple of her johns.
He flipped a few more pages, quite a few of these girls were listed in the book for some of his specially prized customers, because every so often, for instance, old John Hernton, who published a regional magazine out of St. Louis and sent him a hell of a lot of business, would come blustering into town and want to be taken out to places like the Red Carpet and Maxim's and then top the night off with a piece of pussy.
Here was one, though. Elaine Bacon, twenty-three, silver-blonde, good perky figure, long legs and a firm saucy tail. Loves to talk French. He closed his eyes and thought briefly of what it would be like if Felicia Corday would talk French to him. Kneeling down between his legs, maybe under his desk, her head bowed in humility, her hands grasping his calves, and that soft haughty mouth of hers pressing against the tip of his lance. As Shakespeare might have said, it was a consummation greatly to be wished for. Elaine lived on the far North Side of Chicago, and the last time he'd talked to her, about ten months ago, she'd been working in a neighborhood bookshop. He had both numbers, the shop as well as her apartment.
Again on impulse, he dialed the shop number, and at once found himself talking to a husky-voiced young woman who informed him that Miss Bacon was out on a coffee break but ought to be back in fifteen minutes and could she call him. Manuel Parradine left his phone number and name, and then leaned back in his swivel chair and took another puff on his cigar.
Then, almost impatiently, he rang for his private secretary, Dorothy Martin. It was high time he tackled these unanswered letters, or they'd just go on piling up and be impossible by the end of the week.
Dorothy Marin was a tall, pleasant-faced light-brown-haired young woman three months away from her twenty-eighth birthday. She wore low skirts, used very little makeup, supported an ailing mother, and had been his private secretary for about seven years. He really hadn't noticed her except from her functional activity as a decidedly efficient aide to him. She was soft spoken, rarely voiced an opinion unless asked, and she turned out a prodigious amount of work with unfailing accuracy and neatness. He'd given her several substantial raises and saw to it that there was an equally substantial Christmas bonus, because he knew about her mother. Dorothy was an only child whose father had died when she was sixteen, and about a year later her mother had contracted a form of Parkinson's disease, for which there ultimately wasn't any cure. Unfortunately, the old woman lingered, and so Dorothy Martin was chained by her daughterly devotion. It was a pity, because she'd probably make some man a darned good wife he thought.
However, exactly because he hadn't found out too much about her personal feelings or what she did after hours, he was unaware that at the moment Dorothy Martin was going through a tremendous emotional crisis in her life, perhaps the first that really mattered. While shopping at the Supermart for her mother a few Saturdays ago, she had almost been bowled over by an energetic pipe-smoking black-haired bachelor. He'd picked up her fallen groceries, apologized profusely, and wound up by asking her to have coffee with him at the little restaurant next door. Dorothy Martin had blushed and hedged, but he hadn't taken no for an answer.
As a result, for the first time in her life, Dorothy Martin was madly in love. The only trouble was, Pete Jardin was everything she was not: sophisticated, energetic, given to rash and impulsive decisions, and obviously something of a flirt. Yet the funny thing was that they'd already had two dates and he'd actually got her to the point of letting him hold her hand and tell her that he was getting a little bored with predatory, oversexed girls who showed everything they had in daring miniskirts and left nothing to the imagination. He was very much thinking of settling down, and he had come to the conclusion that a girl with brains as well as beauty would be the only feasible answer.
Dorothy martin had told Pete Jardin about her mother, and he'd brushed that aside with an impatient, "That's no problem, Dottie, because I've got an apartment that's much too big for me anyhow. Well just move her in there, there'll be an extra room off to one side and she won't get in our way at all. It's time you started thinking about yourself. You know, girl, if you'd go to the beauty parlor and maybe use a little lipstick and eye shadow, you'd really be a knock out. You've got a terrific shape."
That last remark had so unnerved her that she had half-considered the possibility of telling him she didn't ever want to see him again. Because the secret truth was that Dorothy Martin, despite her rather plain features, unconsciously longed to be a siren. The few times she had gone to confession at church was when, on Saturday nights, during her bath, she'd dared to look at her body in the mirror as she stood naked waiting to get into the tub. And what she'd seen had made her shiver and tell herself that from the neck down she had a great deal to offer a man-which she undeniably had.
Five feet six and a half inches in height, she possessed a really magnificent pair of titties, closely spaced, uptilting and proudly firm, which had no need whatsoever of a brassiere. Her waist was extremely slim, and she had beautifully chiseled long thighs and sleek calves, and a compact, oval-shaped firm bottom which she rather needlessly kept in check with an extremely tight pantie-girdle.
Her ailing mother had long ago lectured her on the sins of vanity and narcissism, and told her rather bluntly that after all she wasn't really pretty and that she must put the thought of flirtations and such nonsense well out of mind and concentrate on the very excellent job she had with Mr. Parradine. Now, Dorothy Martin was shocked to find that inwardly she was beginning to disagree with her mother for the first time in her life. She was actually beginning to think that because her mother was ill, the latter was using that illness as a kind of unfair and blackmailing hold upon her, and as a consequence she was horrified at her own shamelessness.
"Yes, Mr. Parradine? I brought my book, I rather thought you'd want to get at those letters," she said in a low pleasant voice as she quickly seated herself in the chair opposite his desk. He glanced at her, gave her a smiling nod, and then leaned back in his swivel chair, considered the sheaf of letters in his hand, took another puff at his cigar, and began to fire away.
He kept her there a good hour and a half, and by that time the sheaf was reduced to a couple of letters which could easily wait until the following day. "I think we've licked the problem, Miss Martin. Thanks a lot."
"I could stay and get them all out, if you'd like, Mr. Parradine," she offered.
"Oh no, Miss Martin, no need for that. At least they're done with, and an extra day won't matter. Besides, you'll be wanting to get home to your mother, I've no doubt. How is she, by the way?"
"Not much change, I'm afraid, Mr. Parradine."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Dorothy." As she rose to leave, he took another look at her, and he noticed that in spite of the old-fashioned low skirt, she really had a delightful bottom and very long legs. He wondered what would happen if she got rid of that mousey, thick bun of light-brown hair at the back of her head and let her hair down, or else bobbed it. And maybe a little lipstick on her mouth and a spot or two of rouge on her cheeks. She'd be a new woman. And then if she'd finally shorten her skirts by about six inches-well, in that case he probably wouldn't have got all his letters done this afternoon.
"Er-I wonder if I could ask you a sort of personal question, Miss Martin," he found himself saying.
Her pleasant face seemed to congeal a little, and her blue eyes widened. "Yes, Mr. Parradine?"
"I know it sounds crazy, but-well-you see, my son's doing a paper for his degree over at Branton U. And I just wondered-well, what I'm trying to say is that I wanted to see if I could get a few case histories for him. No, that's not exactly what I meant to say at all. Anyhow, Miss Martin, what I was going to ask you, is, have you ever been spanked?"
She stood there for a moment as if in shock, as if she didn't comprehend what he'd asked. Then suddenly rich waves of color suffused her pale white cheeks, and she blinked her eyes half a dozen times and then gasped, "Oh my no! Why-why do you ask, Mr. Parradine?"
"Well, Miss Martin, the fact is that Ken's paper is about the reactions women have to a spanking. I just figured that everybody'd been spanked maybe way back in their childhood or something like that. You know." Now he found himself red in the face and wishing he could have bitten off his tongue. It was the effect that that little teaser Felicia Corday was having on him, that was giving him such absolutely nonsensical impulses these days. And something was going to have to be done about that very soon, or Miss Martin would think he had gone bats.
"I-I see," she stammered, averting her face from him. "Well, I-I haven't ever been, if that's what you want to know. And now I think I'd better get back to work, if it's all right with you, Mr. Parradine."
"Sure, Miss Martin. Sorry I embarrassed you-I didn't mean to."
She gave him a frantic little look, and then vanished. Manual Parradine shook his head and damned himself for being a horse's neck. Suddenly he remembered that Elaine Bacon hadn't called back and that her coffee break certainly ought to be over by now, because it was almost quitting time on his day shift. Just as he was reaching for the phone, it rang. "Manual Parradine here," he said.
"Mannie, is that you?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"It's Laney, you know. I'm awfully sorry I couldn't call before, but we got terribly busy here. Delia also forgot to tell me you'd called. I chewed her out. What's on your mind, Mannie?"
"Can you talk?"
"For a couple of minutes, yes. Haven't seen you in a long time, though."
"That's the way it goes sometimes, honey. I was wondering about this evening. Dinner and maybe your place?"
"I can make it. You're lucky, to call on such short notice. Where do you want me to meet you?"
He thought quickly. "Make it the Blackhawk Restaurant around sevenish. That suit you?"
"Dandy. I love their roast beef. See you then. Oh, I think I remember what you look like-"
"I know what you look like," he interrupted with a chuckle. "Long legs, silver-blonde hair-"
"Stop right there. I changed it a couple of months ago. It's dark auburn now. Hope it won't disappoint you."
"It won't. As long as you still got the long legs and the nice tail-that's what I've got down here in my little book," he chuckled again.
"Tsk, tsk, you're a very naughty boy. Oh yes, I remember now, you've something to do with the printing business."
"Right. In fact, I'll wear a red carnation in my coat lapel and bring along a printer's ruler," he joked. Then he just remembered about his son's novel theme paper, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. The ruler wouldn't be a bad idea, because he was going to try out Ken's idea this very night.
"Fine. I'll be there. Nice to talk to you again, Mannie."
He sat there thinking for a moment, with a foolish smile on his face. No fool like an old fool, the saying went, but why not? It was just Felicia's bad luck that she couldn't see him tonight, and it was her fault, too, that he was horny and needed action. If she'd been a nice sensible girl and had radar, maybe the two of them could have been out together tonight and he could of popped the question and got her to bed and started making plans for a June wedding. As it was, that little issue was just going to have to wait until he could get with her and lay down the law once and for all.
Then he dialed his own house, But Ken Parradine wasn't back, and for a good reason. Coralee Davis had so enthralled the young graduate-to-be that the latter had already phoned the house and informed the housekeeper that he was going to have dinner by himself at a restaurant and to tell his father if the latter should call and want to know where he was. And then Ken had gone back to Coralee's eagerly waiting arms, and she'd whispered to him that they could always send out for chop suey and not have to budge from where they were, a suggestion which found such immediate favor with Ken Parradine that he discovered himself to be even more virile than he had hoped. He was very grateful to luscious Coralee for not only taking his cherry but proving to him that he was very much a man. That knowledge was going to come in awfully handy one of these days when he had a showdown with Terri Munson.
CHAPTER TEN
MANUEL PARRADINE THOROUGHLY approved of Elaine Bacon's change of hair tinting. It was dark auburn and it was styled in a very chic Sassoon bob. She wore a leopard-skin coat, and a red tint blouse with hip-hugging, tailored, brown dacron skirt that just covered her dimpled knees. Her long sleek, showgirl's legs were devastatingly appealing in off-black nylons, and the muscles of her sinuous calves rippled delightfully as she walked towards him in a pair of high-heeled black leather pumps with rhinestone buckles on the arches. He felt twenty years younger taking her arm and squiring her towards the maitre d'hotel who, with a low bow and a flourish of his menu, led them to a table with a reasonable amount of seclusion and near the bar, then himself took their order...
During the cab ride back to Elaine's apartment, he made small talk with her so that the cabbie wouldn't get any ideas about what sort of ride this was going to turn out to be. But already he had the delicious anticipatory glow of knowing that he was going to get his ashes hauled in the way that Elaine Corday really ought to be doing tonight. It was just too damn bad he was going to have to pay for it. But still, it was a reasonably good investment for his peace of mind. Besides, whenever a man passed forty-five, it was a good thing to know that he could still manage to service an attractive young girl, especially if he intended to take a wife in the very near future.
Once inside Elaine Bacon's elegantly furnished apartment, high on the eighteenth floor of a new high-rise building and with a magnificent view of Lake Michigan, he began to quiver with eagerness at the thought of what awaited him, particularly when Elaine stepped out of her leopard-skin coat, tossed it onto the low wide couch at the wall just to the left of the door of the living room, hooked her lissome arms round him and gave him a stinging kiss on the mouth. "That's so you won't forget so long the next time," she rebuked him, her hazel eyes twinkling naughtily. "Of course, I remember you, Mannie. Except you haven't sent me very much business lately."
"You did have that St. Louis client of mine, you know, baby." His hands caressed her waist, then slipped back and over her trim, lithe hips. "Besides, I've been thinking about getting married again."
"Why shouldn't you? You're a good-looking man, except maybe you could stand to take off a little here." She patted his stomach with one hand and then pressed herself against him and gave him another longer kiss. "I think you're very nice, Mannie. Now what would you like tonight?"
"This may sound screwy, Laney, but my kid's come up with the craziest idea I ever heard for a term paper that's going to get him his bachelor's degree."
"Oh? What's the subject?"
"I told you this was going to sound crazy. It's what sort of reaction women get when their bottoms are paddled, believe it or not."
"Hmm." She gave him a coy look and then giggled. "You know, if I didn't think you were really serious, I'd say that that kid of yours is a real smarty-pants for himself. It sounds like a good line to get some nice girls up to his room so he can have his way with them, if you'll pardon the mid-Victorian expression."
"I know it does. But he's not that sort of kid at all. The fact is, in my book he's still a virgin. He's been going around with a very sexy but at the same time snooty girl who has notions about the Women's Lib program, and I'm sure that they haven't got any farther than a few smooches. He'd tell me, otherwise."
"You ought to have brought him around here to be serviced, Mannie," she giggled again.
"You know, that's not a half-bad idea. But we'll talk about it later. Right now, it's the old man who needs a workout. And I was wondering-"
"Yes?"
"Would you-could you-"
"You mean, you want to take me over your lap and spank my bottom, is that what you're trying to say, Mannie?"
"Something like that."
"Well, I don't think you're what they call a dumper in the trade."
He looked puzzled. She explained while her hand began to fumble with the zipper of his trousers, "A dumper, Mannie, is a guy who gets his kicks from beating up on girls. Only he's cruel, and he doesn't just use his hand-he brings along a whip or a cane or a hairbrush or maybe even a ruler. Hey," she did a doubletake, "so that's why you said you were going to bring along a printer's ruler to our date tonight!"
"Yah, Laney. But I didn't, as you see. No, I wouldn't say I'm that much out of line. But a good spanking with the hand-and I promise not to hurt too much. Will it be okay?"
"Sure. My mother used to say that she ought to have taken a hairbrush to my bare tail lots of times. Oh she knows what I do, and we're not speaking to each other lately. But never mind that. Now, shall we get the sordid aspect of this transaction over with?"
"Oh sure." He dug into his trousers pocket, pulled out his wallet, handed her two one-hundred dollar bills. "Will that cover it?"
"Lover, for that much, you can make my naughty bottom real red. You want to start with that first or later?"
"Somehow, I've got the notion, Laney, and maybe you've had more experience in dealing with guys who have their little kicks apart from the normal way, in that when a fellow spanks a girl, he gets a real charge out of it. Well, I've already got a charge just being here with you and looking you over, so I don't think we have to start with that. Later on, when I need my second wind, why don't we try it?"
"I think even your kid would say that you'd pass a test in psychology, Mannie," Elaine Bacon giggled again. "Why don't you sit down there and fix yourself a drink and I'll go slip into something nice and cozy?" She finished tugging down his zipper, drew out his cock, then bent and gave it a quick little kiss. "That'll keep you reminded of me, honey." And then she disappeared.
Manuel Parradine sat down on the couch, helped himself from the cut-glass decanter on the coffee table to a stiff bourbon on the rocks. He felt content with the world, and he looked down at himself and saw that he was already sizably interested in what was going to happen in a very short time. In about five minutes, Elaine Bacon came out in a black net bodysheath, which took her from the top of her high arching, closely spaced, firm titties to her crotch, gusseting her like panties, and leaving her long legs delightfully bare and flexing and quivering delightfully in a pair of lower-heeled green leather bedroom sandals. Her skin was a pale carnation, that delightful blending of pink and white, and the dark auburn tinting of her hair made her seem even more ethereal. But there was nothing ethereal or fragile about her lithe, long, gently curving thighs which merged into a prick-hardening, compact but quite ample round-cheeked bottom which, as she turned her back slowly to him, had a subtle mobility and a muscular and ungulatory agility to it which made his cock lift in tribute and anticipation.
"Like it?"
"Terrific! But it's not to be torn off."
"If you want to. But I'd have to charge you another seventy bucks, Mannie. That's the tab on it. Some fellow, you know, like to play rapist with Mama. But they have to replace the wardrobe. It's an occupational hazard with me, you understand."
"I might just do that. I sort of like the idea."
"I've got the idea you're trying to get up enough courage to propose to your young lady, whoever she happens to be." The tall call girl sat down beside him and, her left arm around his waist, delved her right hand down against his aching cock and began to caress and fondle it delicately. He winced and shivered, for her soft touch was exquisitely tantalizing, and he didn't want to lose it this way. "You just might be right. I'm at least twenty years older than she is, for one thing," he admitted hoarsely.
"What's that, so long as you can get it up this way? A lot of girls like older men, anyway. I know I do. A young man is so eager and so blind to get at it, that he overlooks all the nice little details. Now do you want me to be refined or should I talk dirty and be a real naughty girl tonight? You've bought me and the night is yours, you know."
"I'd sort of like you ta talk dirty a little. Then that would give me a reason for fantailing you later on," he admitted.
"Great. But let's not plan too much in advance, because half the fun of screwing is doing what comes naturally. Don't you agree? Come along to Mama's room and we'll play house."
Manuel Parradine was groaning with delight. He had let Elaine Bacon begin by Frenching him, and he had had to push her away because he was afraid of going off too quickly. Then, sympathetically, she had urged him to lie on his back and pillow his head and his arms like a sultan in the harem, and she had got herself on top of him and wriggled around and just grazed the tip of his aching ramrod with the soft, pink lips of her pussy until he was practically begging her to fit him into her warm housing. Sinking down on him, she had done the work at first, and he had had one of the most tremendous orgasms of his entire fornicatory career. Then she brought him a drink and a cigarette, and they chatted a bit, and then she'd use some naughty language and he'd pretended to be a stern father who was going to wash her mouth out with soap and then spank her bare behind until she begged for mercy and wouldn't ever do it again. He had already ripped off the bodysheath, after discovering, during the course of their first union, that it was ingeniously contrived with a little button-on flap which allowed it to be opened so that his cock and her cunt could make cohesive contact. But for the spanking, he had thrilled at the pleasure of ripping the net sheath off her voluptuous body, and she had pretended to be scared and cried out and run around the bedroom.
When he'd caught her, he'd seized her by the wrist, forced it up behind her back but not too hard, and made her come back with him to bed. Then, sitting on the edge, he'd flung her over his lap and lectured her as he might have done with a naughty daughter who really had a sound walloping coming. Then he had begun to spank.
It was one of the most exhilarating experiences he'd ever known, and long before the spanking was over, he'd felt his prick revitalized and prodding at her belly and furry snatch while she had squirmed and twisted under the slaps that rained down and reddened her delightful pink-and-white skinned bottomcheeks.
She'd proved to be a superb actress, turning her tear-stained face around, begging him tearfully not to spank her anymore, promising to be a good girl, and finally he had growled in a thick, unrecognizable voice, "Are you going to let me fuck you then, you naughty little bitch?" And she'd gasped back, "Ohhh, yes, D-Daddy, anything if you'll only stop spanking my poor hindend!"
He had lifted her, rolled her back on the bed where she lay sprawled and with her knees up. Then he had got between those luscious, long legs of hers, and driven his ramrod up to the balls with a single thrust. Immediately those luscious legs of hers had locked around him, and her fingernails had scrabbled over his back as, her tongue probing his mouth, drawing him to her so that he could feel her firm titties flatten under his heaving chest, she had really drained him of every drop.
He lay smoking a cigarette, completely basking in the aftermath of pleasure. "You're quite a man, Mannie, you know. I think whoever that girl is, she's going to be awfully lucky. What's the problem?"
"She's not sure she wants to get involved with a guy that way. I mean the bed business, you know."
"Hmm. Maybe she had a bad first experience she doesn't want to talk about."
"It could be. I really haven't gone deeply into her background, Laney. But I'm really crazy about her. I might even want to have a kid by her, because she's about twenty-six or so."
"Of course," she teased as she began to finger his limp organ, "I really oughtn't to encourage wedlock. It's bad for my business. But you're such a nice guy, I think it would be the best thing in the world for you. My gracious, look at him come up again, would you. Well, I never did set any limits so long as the action comes off in the that's paid for, honey. You want Mama again? How would you like her? Maybe on all fours, this time?"
"That would be great!" he enthused.
Elaine Bacon scrambled agilely to all fours, looked provocatively behind her and whispered, "Give it to me good, lover. You know, I'm getting a little randy myself. And it's all your fault."
Nothing she could have said could have made Manuel Parradine more pleased with himself. It was like a clean bill of health a doctor gives a man who thinks he might be mysteriously ailing from something incurable. Because if he could make a professional have climax, could make her get hot and wet in that sweet tight sheath of hers, then there wasn't any reason at all why he couldn't service red-haired Felicia Corday and keep her panting and begging for more!
As for himself, he didn't need any further stimulant than the sight of her still delightfully reddened behind, the cheeks twitching and contracting, and just below the sight of that enticing pink mouth of love framed by the dark-auburn curls (she had tinted them the same color as the hair on her head). He felt himself masterfully vigorous as he reached for her dangling titties and squeezed them while he prodded the rims of her vulva tantalizingly a few times before sinking himself slowly in as far as he could go.
Elaine cooperated by wriggling her bottom backwards to meet his charges, and he finally expired with a cry of delight.
As she brought him a drink and a cigarette, he thought to himself that he was going to have something to tell Ken that might help with that term paper.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BY THE END OF THAT WEEK, Ken Parradine was feeling the heady triumph of proving himself a man, and he had had another clandestine date with the lush divorcee, Coralee Davis, again at her apartment. That had been on Wednesday night, and when his father had casually asked him what his plans for the evening were, Ken had stared boldly back, almost as if daring Manuel Parradine to put his foot down and say no, and replied, "Out with a girl, Dad. Do you mind?"
"Now whoa there, boy," his father had chuckled.
"Don't go flying off the handle. Remember I'm on your side. I'm not even going to ask if it's Terry."
"Well, it's not, for your information."
"I see. Might I ask whether it's in connection with your research on that paper?"
The curly-brown-haired youth flushed and toyed with his fork on the empty plate. He had also discovered that when a fellow really scored with a girl and got to fuck her energetically, his appetite for food seemed to increase by leaps and bounds. He had never been so hungry in his life. Maybe it was just building up and replenishing what was lost when all his spunk shot out into Coralee's tight quim.
"Not exactly, Dad," he finally avowed. "But I did get some reactions anyhow."
"Great! By the way, when you get close to writing up the first draft, check with me. I just might have something to tell you myself," his father announced.
"Hey now, Dad, that's terrific! Now let me ask you a question. Has it anything to do with your mentioning you were thinking of getting married-you know, that time we had brunch together."
"Not exactly, either," his father countered, evasively. "It doesn't happen to be the same girl, and that's all I'm going to tell you. Go ahead, doll yourself up and be a lady-killer. In my opinion, it's high time. Only don't forget, if you're really stuck on this girl Terri, don't give her up without a struggle."
"I don't intend to. But I want to let her cool off a little bit until I know exactly how I'm going to handle her," his son said as he abruptly arose from the table, shoved back his chair, and left the table.
Manuel Parradine, that same night his son was busy with Coralee, had decided to go down to the plant and see how things were coming along. He put on his working clothes, drove out of the shop in his own Oldsmobile sedan and greeted the old night watchman with a handshake and a cigar.
Hank Thurston, at one of the nearest engraving units, was just getting up a full-color run on a four-page insert for one of the big regional magazines. The older Parradine walked over, and patted his thirty-year-old employee on the back.
"How's it coming, Hank?"
"Great, Mr. Parradine."
"You can call me Mannie. By the way, I've been getting some good reports on you, and there might just be a raise in the old pay envelope in another week or two. You're in line to be foreman of this shift some day, you know."
"That's great, Mr. Parradine-heck, I just can't call the big boss by his first name!" the tall, smiling dark-brown-haired employee self-consciously grinned.
"Sure you can, Hank. Hell, I call you by your first name, don't I? And don't tell me it's not the same thing. Without you boys around to do a great job, I wouldn't be enjoying a very nice living. It's share and share alike here, as far as I'm concerned. By the way, it seems to me you had an anniversary of a sort not so long ago, didn't you, Hank?"
"Sure did, Mr. Parradine." Hank Thurston had decided to play it safe and not take advantage of his employer's genial mood. He had seen Manuel Parradine in a couple of temper tantrums some months back when some special inks and dyes hadn't been delivered as promised by the supplier, and he didn't want the big boss mad at him, not if there was a foreman's job in the offing. "My wedding anniversary it was."
"That's right. How's that cute little brunette wife of yours-Leslie, isn't that her name?"
"Fine, Mr. Parradine. Of course, the first year is always a period of adjustment, you might say."
"I get it. You've had to straighten her out a little bit, I suppose, and I'll bet I know why."
Hank Thurston's eyes widened. "You do?"
"Sure. I know darn well you changed over from the day shift to nights just so you could boost that paycheck of yours and get Leslie to say yes. And I suppose now she's not happy you're not home when she wants to go out dancing."
"You just about hit the nail on the head, Mr. Parradine." Hank Thurston flushed and looked down at his feet. "But I think we just about straightened it out. At least, I haven't heard any griping from her the last week or so."
"Would you mind letting me in on your secret? I'll let you in on one of mine-I might just remarry."
"Say, that would be terrific, Mr. Parradine! I know how losing your wife broke you all up, a fellow always should have somebody around to lean on and help him get ahead. But you asked me how I straightened her out. Well, it's sort of personal and I feel a little ashamed about it. I sort of played the heavy, if you know what I mean."
"You mean you laid down the law and maybe clobbered her a couple of times?"
"Oh no, nothing like that! I used to do some boxing in high-school and I wouldn't raise a fist to a woman," Hank Thurston chuckled. "No, I just-well, Mr. Parradine, I gave her a spanking, that's what!"
"Very interesting. How did she take it?"
"I-er-well, she didn't like it at first. But as I say, I think it's all straightened out now."
"I'm not going to pry, Hank, but my boy is going to graduate from Branton this year, and of all the subjects he had to go and pick for his term paper, it's about the reaction of women when they get spanked. That's why I asked, you see."
Hank Thurston glanced around to make sure that the other employees weren't eavesdropping on his private conversation with the boss. Then he took Manual Parradine by the arm, led him over to the door and, somewhat abashedly, remarked, "It sort of made a new woman of her. She got hot as a firecracker when it was all over, and we sure did kiss and make up, if you know what I mean."
"I get it. Great! I might just tell my boy about it-of course I won't mention any names-so he can use it as a case history. Any objections?"
"Gosh, no, Mr. Parradine, but of course you'll keep Leslie's name and mine out of it. I don't think she'd especially go for that sort of publicity."
"You have my word. Hey, that's a nice insert over there. A nice piece of profit for the shot, Hank. Keep up the good work. Oh, and when you're just about ready to have your first kid, I'll see if I can't sort of scrape up a bonus to buy the kid's first wardrobe, you might say."
Manual Parradine shook hands, and walked down through the plant, leaving a dazed and happy Hank Thurston behind him.
Manual Parradine would have been astonished if he could have followed his secretary Dorothy Martin over to Pete Jardin's apartment. Because Dorothy Martin had daringly decided for just one evening to neglect her ailing, tyrannical mother and find out whether the handsome, sophisticated young man who bumped into her at the Supermart was really serious about her. It was just about the only chance she was ever going to get for romance, and she wasn't getting any younger.
They had gone out to dinner, and then Pete had asked her up to his place and put some records on the hi-fi. And then he'd told her that he was really thinking very seriously of marrying and settling down and she was a sensible girl and maybe just as lonely as he was, and maybe they could hit it off together. If Dorothy hadn't been so brow-beaten by her mother over the past several years, she might have wound up in a clinch with him then and there. But because old Mrs. Martin was constantly harping on the instability, fickleness and downright basic wickedness of the male, Dorothy Martin hesitated to show him too obviously that she really cared for him. She was also remembering the startlingly personal question which her boss had asked her the other day. The very idea, to think that anybody would ever spank her! And yet, if a man were to domineer her masterfully and force her to make up her mind to leave her mother for once and for all, something like that might just do it. Of course, she didn't know, and she wasn't about to be so bold as to ask Peter Jardin to experiment in that direction.
For whatever the reason, she had for once taking a little more pains with her plain features. She had actually dared to buy a lipstick (although a very soft pink one and not at all sensually lurid), and she had also bought some perfume which she had applied to the nape of her neck, her wrists, and her armpits. Pete Jardin was conscious of this as he sat beside her. It was true, he was telling himself, that facially she wasn't the most beautiful girl in the world, but she wasn't the ugliest either. Besides, at night you could always pull a sack over a girl's head, especially if she had a body like Dorothy's. Those nice, beautifully rounded legs and that sexily firm, elegantly contoured bottom of hers had already roused a few perverse impulses in his ardent nature. However, well aware that she was a "decent" girl, he hadn't really tried a pass at her, and he didn't consider her a one-night stand, either. But there was just something so exasperating about her that he just wanted to take her and shake her. He already had suggested magnanimously that if they got married, her mother could always come and live with them in one of the rooms of his spacious apartment. But still she was shilly-shallying.
Sure, it would be easy enough to say goodbye to her and go out and find a sexier-looking piece, but he was a little tired of all that. He had a good job, a reasonably better future, although the boss had been hinting lately that when his name came up before the big boys to find out that he was married and settled and conforming to all of the corporation rules. And Dorothy Martin was as likely a candidate for wifehood as anyone he knew.
"Now look, Dottie," he was patiently explaining, "I don't know why you're fighting it. I told you I wanted to marry you, and when you said you didn't want to leave your mother, I said to bring her along. I'm sure I could make her feel wanted. The main thing, though, is do you want to get married to me?"
"I-I do like you a good deal, Pete," she quavered, "but Mother is so dependent on me I'm not sure she'd take to moving."
"That sounds like a lame excuse, Dottie, if you really want to know," he said exasperatedly.
"Pete Jardin!" she flared. "That's like saying you think I'm lying! I really don't think I care for that sort of talk. Maybe I'd better be going."
"Not till I finish what I have to say to you, Dottie. Now you listen to me for a change. Sure, I've got some selfish reasons for wanting to marry, because I think I'm going to get a pretty big promotion, and before the big boys will approve it, they'll want to be sure that I'm settled down and not about to take off on a tangent. Anyway, I like you a lot, and I think we could be very happy together, if you'd do a few things to yourself. You've already got a pretty good start by using that lipstick, and I like that perfume, too."
"Th-thank you. But just the same, Pete, I-I really don't know if you're sincere about wanting to marry me, and it's really a sort of selfish reason. Just about any girl would fill the bill, if all you want is a wife. And I-I'm not one of those slinky Hollywood starlets, and you're such a man of the world-"
"I don't know where you get your crazy ideas, Dottie, but it's time somebody brought you up short and told you not to say things you really don't mean. Look at you! You've got a terrific shape, if you want me to be perfectly frank and vulgar, and if you'd do something to your hair and maybe go to a real beauty center like maybe Helena Rubinstein, I'll bet they could turn you out to be just as gorgeous as any of those starlets. Anyway, you've got a mind, which is more than most of them do."
"I see. You've got it all figured out. You're going to have me remodeled and then if I'm not up to snuff, you'll probably turn me in for another model," she said snippily.
Pete Jardin's jaw tightened. "I give up," he growled. Then, to Dorothy Martin's consternation, he gripped her by the elbows, swung her expertly across his lap, and clamped his right leg over her stockinged calves.
"What are you doing? Pete Jardin, you stop that! I never want to see you again! I knew I shouldn't have come up here-no! you let my skirt alone-don't you dare-oh my heaven, please pull it down this minute-I hate you-you're just a brute-No-I said No-Oh heaven, not my p-p-pantie-g-girdle too-oh help! somebody help me-he's-ohhhh-ouch! You beast! Owwwoouuuuu! that hurts! Please, Pete-oh no-you can't treat me so!"
For without more ado, Pete Martin had yanked up Dorothy Martin's skirt and slip, unfastened her pantie girdle and pulled it down to the hollows of her knees and then, palming the small of her back with his left hand, begun to spank her energetically. Manual Parradine's mature but delectably contoured secretary wailed and sobbed, trying to thrust her hands back over her bare behind to cover it up, but with a chuckle Pete Jardin took a firm hold of both wrists with his left hand and continued spanking all the harder.
"I'm going to spank you until you say yes," he declared. "Are you going to marry me?" Smack!-Smack!-Crack!-Crack! Sonorously, his hand descended with even greater vigor, flattening each bottomsummit twice.
"EEEYOUWWW! Oh please stop! I hate you, you big brute! Stop it, I tell you! OWWOUUU! Stop it, Pete, you haven't any r-right to treat me this way-oh, boohoo, please-oh, Pete, I can't stand any more!"
"I haven't heard an answer yet. I guess you need a good deal more." Smack-Crack-Smack-Smack-Crack! Five more times his hand came down on her furiously reddening bare bottom. Dorothy Martin tried to swerve her hips, tried to diminish the area of her reddening bare bottom, tried to minimize the all too prominent target. But pinned as she was by his hand, with her rucked-down pantie-girdle acting as a further restraint at her knees, her wrists solidly held in his left hand, she was completely helpless.
"Qhhahhrrrr! Oh, please, you're hateful, you're cruel! Ohhhahh, oh please stop, you're hurting me dreadfully-oh, Pete, why are you so cruel to me-why are you-OWWW!-so cruel to me when I-I love you so!" she wailed.
He halted the spanking, leaned over towards her tear stained, flushed and piteously woebegone face as she looked back over her shoulder to supplicate for mercy.
What did you just say, Dottie?" he demanded, his voice thickening with desire.
"I said I h-hate you when you're so cruel-"
"No, that's not what you said. You'd better try to remember, girl." Smack-Smack-Smack! Thrice his hand flailed down to sting the delightfully curving, upswelling curve of her left buttocks.
"Aiiiii! Oh please, let up, oh no more, no more! Please, I'm begging you, Pete darling! I said-I said-I love you-so! But I won't if you keep hurting me so awfully!"
"For a change, that was the right answer. As long as you love me, Dottie baby, there's hope for both of us. I'm going to show you just how much. Spanking that sweet bottom of yours has made me randy as hell. I know you don't know what randy means, but I'm going to show you right away," he declared in a vibrantly husky voice.
He lifted her to her feet, then rose, and before she could struggle, he lifted her up into his arms and strode into his bedroom. "What are you going to do? Oh please, don't hurt me any more. Oh darling oh Pete, please!" she tearfully entreated.
Pete Jardin laid her down on his double bed. He yanked the offending pantie-girdle entirely off, drew off her shoes and flung them to the floor, then began to tug down her stockings.
"Next time we date, Dottie baby, you're going to wear long black nylons-or else," he warned.
Dazed, her bottom smarting furiously, Dorothy Martin didn't resist. Even as she watched him get her ready for bed-for that was exactly what he was doing-she was almost bemused, and the thought of revolt didn't enter her mind at all. He unhooked her skirt and flung it to the floor after the stockings, and then lifted her up a little so that he could pull up her slip and tug it off her body. Now she was naked except for her bra, and she uttered a cry and tried to clench her arms across her panting titties, but not before he had managed to husk the bra away and let it join the other garments on the floor.
The thick, triangular patch of dirk pussyfur set off the tempting site of her virginity. But as he stared at her naked titties and belly and loins, Pete Jardin felt himself seized by the most savage erection he had ever had-and he had had several before meeting Manual Parradine's prim but secretly yearning secretary.
As for Dorothy Martin herself, she lay there almost in a swoon, absolutely stupefied by what he had done to her and yet strangely unable to defend herself. She watched him as in a dream take off his clothes until he was down to his shorts and socks, and when his unbuttoned fly revealed the prominence of his hard-on, she uttered a whimpering little "Ohh my!"
He got onto the bed, put his hands on her titties, and crushed his mouth against hers to force her head back down against the pillow. At the same time, his ramrod stabbed the thick dark fleece over her maiden mount. Dorothy spluttered and tried to free herself, but she couldn't. She was shivering suddenly, and she felt just as warm in front as her bottom did. And then, for the first time in her life, she felt a man's cock slip between the lips of her vulva and come up against the barrier to womanhood. With all her strength, she managed to twist her face away and to pant, "Oh my heaven! You mustn't-it's wrong-it's sinful-we-we aren't married, P-Pete darling!"
He grinned crookedly at her. "I'm glad you added that last word, you prim little mother's girl, you," he chuckled. "Because you see, that's the first nice thing you've said this evening. That, and the fact that you love me. It's mutual, Dottie darling. Now, I'm going to give you a very good reason why you're going to have to tell your mother you're planning a new life for yourself, because I'm not wearing a rubber, you'll notice. Well, maybe you didn't, but I'm not. Which means, my prissy little schoolmarmish-type, I'm going to spurt my seed right into that tight little hole of yours, and with any luck at all, you ought to miss your next period. And I don't think your mother would care to have a pregnant unmarried daughter around the house."
"You-you-Pete-you-Oh no, please-I can't-you-oh-ohhhhh!"
He had interrupted her stammering plaint to jab through the membrane which proclaimed her virginity. It yielded, and Pete Jardin plunged himself forward in a long, ecstatic thrust as he felt Dorothy Martin's cuntwalls enclasp him more tightly than he had ever been enclasped before. The way her titties rose and fell under his clutching fingers was a thrilling sensation for him, too. She was really a dish, and her figure was spectacular. He was making plans to take her to a beauty salon, then take her home to her mother and tell the old lady that from now on, he was going to be the boss of the whole damn family.
Once the first shock of virginal loss was over, once she realized that she was "ruined" beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt, Dorothy Martin burst into tears which were part joy, part shame, and perhaps just a tiny part of secret delight that somebody else had finally made up her mind for her. She held him to her as if he were the last man on earth, and as his lips began to pluck at one of her pouting, dusky-coral nipples, while he kept a vigorous stroking back and forth inside the quaking sheath of her quaking lovecore, she moaned and gasped and sighed, rapt with the wonder of her first fuck.
She felt him gush deep within her, and her body quaked and squirmed and jerked in response. He moved away from her then and left the bed, and she uttered a sobbing little cry of alarm. But he had only gone to get a wet towel to sponge her with, and after that hygienic amenity had been taken care of, he was lying atop her again, rubbing his limpened ramrod against her quivering snatch, kissing her tears away, his hands gliding under to take care of her reddened, tingling bottom-globes. At last he felt himself empowered to show her that what had just happened to her was no accident at all, but just the sort of thing she was going to get very regularly from now on, whether she liked it or not.
But this time, her eyes closed, her nostrils flaring and shrinking, her fingernails convulsively digging into his back, Dorothy Martin began to learn that there were compensations for having led a sheltered and cloistered life so very many years, because all the sensations she had never even dreamed about were crowding in on her and making her wriggle and twist and clutch at him and arch to his cock-daggerings as if she had been doing this ever since her freshman days in high school, till at last the world exploded in the most rhapsodic cataclysm and she lay swooning with joy and fulfillment under his panting, shuddering body as the two of them achieved glorious appeasement.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CORALEE DAVIS HAD ASSURED her young lover, Ken Parradine, that she couldn't for the life of her understand why his girlfriend couldn't appreciate what a prize she had in him, if she only knew.
"My goodness, Ken, lover," she had panted by the time they finished their Wednesday night amour, "you're a sap if you let her get away with murder like that! There wasn't anything shy in the way you bowled me over, honey, I can tell you that. If she wants references, you just send her over to my apartment and I'll talk turkey to that young lady."
The tall curly-haired senior was all for seeing the young divorcee again that Friday or Saturday, but Coralee Davis was a very wise and practical young woman. "It's just because I'm new for you and we've made it together, honey, that you want to come back for more," she told him, as she put on a bathrobe and lit a cigarette, tying the robe very tightly by its belt as a sort of symbol that there wouldn't be any more pussy that night. "You're sort of on the rebound, honey, and I am too, after my divorce. I still miss that dirty louse, for all his faults. And then when I see a nice clean-cut guy like you, who's got everything to offer a girl, I start wishing I could be real lucky and begin all over again, only I can't And I'm not for you in the long run, anyway. This Terri of yours sounds like your best bet, if you can just smarten her up. Why don't you take her out and make love to her, and then if she won't come across, give her a good sound spanking?" And then she had giggled and added, "That way, you can get some more material for your term paper, you know."
Ken spent Thursday night at home, typing up such notes as he had taken on his first "case history." He had promised Coralee Davis a carbon copy, and of course he hadn't used her name, though he'd vaguely described her. He went over to Professor Johnson's house about nine o'clock that Thursday night, taking along with him the very first draft of his paper, but nobody seemed to be at home.
They weren't.
Professor Harland 0. Johnson was escorting his housekeeper, Mrs. Agatha Williams to dinner and a show, and when they got back late, Ken's psychology professor intended to put his star pupil's novel idea to work again. Because in spanking Mrs. Agatha Williams, the elderly faculty member had just about found himself reborn and well on the road to enjoying some of the most passionate sex he had ever had. Agatha-or Aggie, to use the love-name he was giving her these days-made such a fuss over him, was so fearful and respectful and loving, that it flattered his old ego enormously.
Ken Parradine went into the restaurant and up to the hostess, looking around for Norma Anderson. Then, he suddenly heard the soft, husky voice whisper in his ear, "You aren't looking for me by any chance, are you, lover?"
He was hardly conscious of what he ate for dinner, so hypnotized was he by the fascinating black-haired beauty sitting across from him.
Outside, in the parking lot, she turned to him and said, "now where, honey?"
He knew the sorority house was out.
He thought quickly. Taking her to his house was out, too, because there was no knowing what Dad might be doing. He might even be bringing around this mysterious woman he intended to marry, because he just hadn't said anything more since that Sunday brunch business.. He might even be-well, screwing in his own bedroom, and it would be very embarrassing to find that he was interfering with his own father's love life.
"Well, lover, coming?" Norma purred as she stood close beside him and put her arm around his waist. "Wouldn't you like to neck?"
"Norma!" he gasped in swift and violent reaction to this unexpected proposition. "I mean, well, you're Tern's roommate, and-"
"And I haven't got any steady boyfriend right now, and I think you're nice and I think Terri's a stupid little dummy not to snap you up while you're still in circulation," the willowy brunette finished for him. "Why couldn't we go to a hotel or a motel or something?"
"Norma, what are you saying!"
"Honey, I'd better level with you. I'm not cherry the way your girl friend is. And I've got a sort of practical attitude about sex. It's like, when a girl is hungry, she wants to eat. And you're a nice guy and not the sort that is going to blab all around campus that you've laid me. Not like that football mammoth your girlfriend is out with tonight, so why don't we cut out this kidding and have some fun together, since I haven't got anybody and you haven't got Terri," was her amazing rejoinder.
"Mmmm. Sounds interesting. Want to try it with me?"
"You mean-spank you?"
"Uh-huh. And I know something else, lover. I'll bet you're dying to survey Miss Terri Munson."
"I-I'd sure like to. But I don't think I'll get the chance."
"Look, honey, if you like, I'll even hold her down for you. She's my roommate but she borrows my best nylons and my costume jewelry and forgets to bring them back. She's got a good fantailing coming to her from whatever viewpoint you take. Now go ahead and do it to me, and write me up, only of course you're not going to use my name and be a naughty boy, are you, lover?"
"Aw, gosh, you know I wouldn't do that. It'll be just like maybe 'Jane Doe' or something like that."
"That's fine. Go ahead, then. Pull my panties down and spank my bit bottom hard. I've been a bad girl. I've tried to steal my roommate's bestest boyfriend and I need punishment good and hard," she huskily murmured. She rolled over onto her tummy and with her own hands husked down the gauzy black nylon panties. Then, pressing her cheek against the sheets, her arms thrust out rigidly alongside of her, she abandoned herself.
Ken Parradine began to shudder with ferocious desire. He knelt up, his prick bobbing in the air, threatening at every movement to lose his pent-up juices. He put his hand gingerly on her satiny back and was amazed to find how soft and smooth it was and how the flesh quivered and palpitated to his touch. He could see the muscles in her voluptuous bottomcheeks tighten, as he raised his right hand and applied a hesitant smack.
"I said hard, dummy," she taunted. "What's the matter? Do you think I'm made of china? I won't break. Go ahead and wham me until it really hurts. I'll tell you when to stop!"
"Okay, if you really want me to."
"Pretend it's Terri and you've got her here at your mercy and you're mad at her because she's out with that big football lunkhead, and you're teaching her a lesson," Norma Anderson purred.
That did it. Ken Parradine clenched his fist, raised his palm and brought it down CRACKKK! over the exact center of the brunette's bare right bottomcheek. Her flesh flattened under the impact of his palm, and even Norma herself let out a little "ouch!" at the vehemence and sting of that first spank.
His hand's imprint flamed on the warm olive epidermis, and his hand rose and fell again, decorating the other bottomglobe with another similar splotch. Norma kicked up one leg and Tightened all her muscles.
"Is that the best you can do?" she jeered, glancing back over her shoulder with a contemptuous curl to her very full, ripe lips.
"I'll show you!" he gasped. Then his hand rose and fell steadily for about five minutes, and Norma Anderson got more than she had bargained for. Grinding her teeth and compressing her lips to keep from crying out, she jerked and squirmed under the rapid barrage of stinging smacks which landed all over her bottom without any particular pattern, but with vigor enough to make her start under them.
When he stopped at last, his hand inflamed and stinging, and the cheeks of her behind were uncontrollably squirming and contracting and quivering. Instant contrition seized him.
"Oh-gee, I didn't mean to go at you that hard, Norma baby. Please-"
"Shut up, you big sap! Turn me over now and fuck the hell out of me. Don't you know that's what a girl needs when her bottom's on fire? What the hell is your survey good for if you haven't learned that yet?" Norma Anderson panted in a stifled voice as she herself rolled over and, spreading her legs wide and drawing up her knees, held out her arms to him. Ken Parradine had just added one of the most important chapters to his senior theme paper.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT WAS THE THIRD FRIDAY IN MAY, warm, sultry, and the forecast was for late evening thundershowers. Ken Parradine was half-way through his term paper on the emotional effects of corporal chastisement on the female nervous system-which was almost verbatim the title of that learned thesis. To be sure, he had actually "researched" only two subjects, Coralee Davis and voluptuous Norma Anderson. But his father had told him only last Sunday of a little conversation he had had with Hank Thurston and how a fully grown twenty-five-year-old bride of a year had received her comeuppance by receiving the very first spanking of her young life and had turned into the most loving and devoted wife imaginable as a direct result. Also, since his father had called Chuck Wilton into his office a few days previously to commend him and give him a substantial bonus for a super-rush job which had given their client tremendous satisfaction, he had discovered still another "case history" in which spanking played a dramatic and significant part in settling the air between two married partners.
It so happened that Manuel Parradine had asked Chuck about the latter's anniversary date so that he could send flowers and a little gift to Mrs. Wilton as a sort of thank-you for spurring her husband on to such excellent accomplishments in his employ. And Chuck had smiled, shaken his head, and then astonishingly volunteered, "I think Pam's just about starting to earn that special commendation, Mr. Parradine. She and I had a little wrangling about my job a couple of weeks back, but everything's coming up roses right about now."
So Manuel Parradine had naturally pursued the subject and asked Chuck exactly what he had meant. And the black-haired day foreman had glanced down at the floor, shifted his feet a little nervously, and then declared, "Shucks, Mr. Parradine, it wasn't really much. Only trouble was Pam was giving me the business about my not getting anywhere on the job and all that sort of stuff. So I told her that I was pretty lucky to have what I've got here, and a chance maybe for bigger responsibilities, and I took her over my knee and paddled some sense into her rear end." Then he grinned sheepishly and added, "You know, Mr. Parradine, I might just want to talk about those extra responsibilities faster than you think, because I think we're going to have our first kid."
What he hadn't told Ken's father, to be sure, was that ever since that unexpected spanking, Pamela Wilton had gone out of her way to please him. She wasn't spending so much time with her bridge club either; and she wasn't griping about not going our to fancy restaurants and dances and society balls either.
Purposely, Terri Munson dawdled over her dinner, and insisted on extra coffee and then an extra piece of Fanny's incomparable devil's food cake. So when at last she announced that she was ready to leave, Ken's father and Felicia Corday on the second floor were within fifteen minutes of concluding their own repast and preparing to adjourn to the Parradine house.
Ken unlocked the door of the house and politely stepped aside to let Terri enter. She was still fuming, and she'd hardly spoken to him as she'd sat beside him while he drove back from the restaurant. But when she found herself inside the lavishly furnished living room of the big house, and discovered that there wasn't a light on anywhere else except the one her escort had just turned on, she put her hands on her luscious hips and glared at him: "Ken Parradine, now I know you're a liar, too. You just brought me here to be alone with me, so you could try to get me to go to bed the way you did poor Norma!"
"Are you back to that again, Terri? I didn't get poor Norma, like you say, into bed. It was sort of the other way around, if you want to make me tell you the truth. I didn't intend to say a word about it, and I'm even surprised that Norma did. And I don't intend to go blabbing it anywhere else, so I'd advise you to keep it between just the three of us, get me?"
"Who do you think you are, Ken Parradine, giving me orders? I'll bet you your father's out of town or at the plant and he isn't coming back all night, and pretty soon you're going to make a pass at me and try to get my clothes off and-and-"
"Believe me, Terri, I'd rather sleep with Norma than with you, the way you act and talk! There's only one thing I really want to do to you, if you must know!" His voice was raided and harsh, and he was just about at the end of his rope with Terri Munson. But she didn't read the danger signs very well. "Oh there is, is there? And what is that, I wonder?" was her defiant challenge.
"I want to spank the shit out of you!" With that, he took the girl over his knee and began to administer a brutally painful spanking. He continued until she begged him to stop.
"Owww! Ken, darling, for Lordie's sake, don't spank me any more, just love me. I want you. I just want you.
Ken Parradine lifted Terri Munson up to her feet and carried her to his bedroom. "All right, you little twerp," he growled as he put her on the bed. "And you may be surprised but all I want to do is to marry you."
"Oh yes, darling, oh yes!" Terri answered his proposal willingly and was eager when he started removing both of their clothing. Her eyes fixed themselves on Ken's virile prick and she felt her own desire mounting.
Slowly he got on top of her and worked himself into her, being gentle when he reached her hymeneal seal. "Oh, do it now," she gasped. And as her pain turned to almost instant pleasure, she bucked her hips up to meet Ken's monstrous cock.
"I know the boy's home, Felicia," Manuel Parradine said.
"I think you brought me her not so much to meet your son as to be alone with me. I really don't like that, Manuel."
Manuel Parradine had had all he could take tonight of this red-haired young woman's snide rebuffs. He went right over, grabbed the impudent woman and flung her down on her face on the divan. Pulling up her skirt, he started paddling her exposed ass.
"You stop that, you brute-you let me go. I ought to have known better than to fall for your lies!" she screamed.
Upstairs, Ken and Terri had recovered from an exhausting fuck and, hearing the noise from below decided to investigate. "Oh my! Let's listen in," Terri giggled excitedly.
The two of them crept naked, except for a robe over their shoulders, down the stairs to watch this spectacle. It would be ideal material, the final chapter for his theme.
They watched the scene and then suddenly Ken called out, "Is that the girl you're going to marry, Dad?" At that, Manuel grinned and nodded his assent and Felicia waited at having her prospective stepson seeing her in this situation.
It's July now and Manuel and his beautiful new wife Felicia are on their honeymoon in Honolulu, along with Ken and his lovely bride, Terri. Although they're staying at the same hotel, they have suites on different floors, and they don't interfere with one another. Ken's paper earned him not only his B.A. at Branton but a personal note from Prof. Johnson actually thanking him for his imagination and originality.
It reads as follows: "My boy, just a few words to tell you that because of your unconventionality, I'm getting married at an age when I thought I would be preparing my old bones for the undertaker. It's really incredible what physical chastisement can do to rouse the dying fires in a man when an impertinent female is used as the bellows. I wish you great success and happiness in your future career, no matter what it will be, but I know that you won't forget to apply your ingeniously acquired learning to the seat of wisdom whenever it is called for.
