I've been told that the next best thing to seeing a psychiatrist is talking into a tape recorder or writing down your thoughts, you feelings and your emotions so that you can analyze them and have them set down as clearly for you as you would see butterflies pinned to a collection album page.
And so this is what I shall do, in retracing the career of the shadowy man who the San Francisco police have referred to for the past several years as "The Spanking Rapist." For, you see, my career has come to a dramatic and yet quite logical end, though I hasten to add that the legal authorities still do not know my real identity nor are they likely to. I have, one might say, "retired" after some six or seven exciting and daring years of sexual exploits which for me at any rate were as thrilling and exciting as if I had been the ruler of an Oriental harem, able to summon to my bed at my whim this or that beauty whom I coveted and who was obliged to allow me to fuck her whether or not she wished on pain of physical punishment.
There is, to be sure, the difference that in my case, the majority of my so-called "victims" did not wish at all to be fucked and some of them even tearfully begged me to allow them to buy their freedom through some other means, even by perversion which to them seemed less shocking and heinous than opening their thighs to let my prick thrust deep into their tender cunts.
Yet on the other hand my case was different also because I constantly risked danger and perhaps the greatest danger of them all, which is death. Kidnapping with intent to do bodily harm or even a mild form thereof is punishable in California by the gas chamber. I recall that Caryl Chessman, who himself wrote several fascinating books while being incarcerated in the death cell at San Quentin throughout his many stays of execution, always maintained that in the one case on which he was convicted, if he had not taken the victim from her car to his, he would technically not have been guilty of kidnapping and so would not have faced the death sentence which was ultimately carried out on him.
There is an exhilaration about risks which tempts all of us, I am convinced. Even the meekest man, the most henpecked husband, who tries to cross a street and sees a car swiftly coming and believes that he can beat it to the curb, is taking the risk against the greatest and most terrible odds of all. In our mundane and predictable lives, this risk becomes more and more of a challenge. Some, I know, seek it through drugs, which is not for me, because I believe that the human body is destroyed inevitably under the tensions by which we live, and there is no need to speed the process by ruining one's nerves and organs with potent stimulants. Others find their escape from monotony by gambling, whether it be at Las Vegas or on the stock market, and again there are those who race motor cars over a hundred miles an hour in an endless circle in a concrete stadium so that they may know the thrill of challenging death before their time has come. There are the matadors who face the dangerous bulls of the Pamplona in the arena, with the crowd yelling lustily for their blood. There are the mountaineers who climb the most difficult peaks simply because these are challenges which they cannot tolerate, lest their lives become drab and dull.
Psychologically, therefore, I am really not so different from all of them in the long run, except that the newspaper articles report me as an "insensate monster, devoid of human feelings, who strikes ruthlessly without pity for his victim." And that, of course, as I trust you will agree after you have read my memoirs, is a lie. Memoirs rather than confession? Perhaps, and perhaps it is truly a better title, since the word "confession" implies a kind of summing up before death or before paying the piper for having danced. And yet I, in writing these words, knowing myself to have given up the challenge which made my life so fiercely and ragingly exciting these few years, face no penalty whatsoever except of course the spur of my own conscience and the nostalgic retrospect of memory, which grows more vivid with the passing years and sometimes makes a man regret that he did not go beyond what he did at the time.
At least I have the knowledge that in the annals of sexual criminology, I am virtually unique. For not one of my rapes was perpetrated without spanking or whipping my partner, and it is this propensity which indeed makes many of these acts of stealthy sexual conquest so much more delightful and piquant and flavorful. If I had been content merely to overpower these women and girls, rip off their clothes and fuck them and then escape, I should really have shown no imagination. Moreover, my sexual pleasure therefrom would have been vastly limited. But by the device of chastising them, several times after the fucking rather than before, I was able to extract indescribable joys, nuances of reaction a d mood and even physical confrontation which made each act different from the others, and added such zest and sexual spice as few men obtain in the most normal of relationships.
A few words now about my background and antecedents, so that you, my reader, may understand what it was that drove me to my particular activities. I do not think that my sexuality was hereditary in any way. My father was about forty-eight, an importer from the Midwest who had begun as a wagon peddler in farm towns and, when he made his fortune, sent back to Europe for his bride, a quite customary practice a generation or more ago. My mother was twenty at the time, and I was born four years later. A year after that, my father moved his business to San Francisco because my mother had an elder sister residing near Palo Alto and she wished to be near her, since the sister was the last of her line.
My father was a gentleman, and from what I remember of him, he was faithful and not particularly preoccupied with sex. He was a tall man, wore glasses, looked studious and was unusually soft-spoken. Intensively he was devoted to his wife and to me, his only son and heir, and even more so to his business. That concern was what killed him, for he died following a nervous breakdown when he was fifty-seven, after an attack of bronchial pneumonia which followed his convalescence from the mental and emotional fatigue which excessive devotion to his business caused.
My mother was a highly emotional woman, of course young enough to be his daughter. I don't think she really wanted me, but at any rate after my birth the doctors told her that she could never again bear a child. She spent a great deal of time with my aunt, and since it was my father's habit to work late at the store on Powell Street, there were times when my parents rarely saw each other except at breakfast.
Nor did I ever remark very much affection between them. I even suspected my mother had a lover, and that she visited him several times while saying that she was off to visit my aunt. My father did not have a suspicious nature, but on the contrary was far too trusting.
I remember also that when I was about ten years old, there was a tremendously dramatic emotional scene. My mother had come back from Europe and she had tried to smuggle in some jewelry. My father paid a stiff fine, and remonstrated with her. The upshot was that it was decided I was to go to school in Los Angeles, where my father had a distantly related cousin and where I was to have a governess, a prim rather handsome German woman named Miss Hertha Lorschman. She was almost forty at the time she was hired, and I was greatly impressed by her. She had brown hair which showed very little gray, a sturdy peasant figure, placid disposition, and she was extremely devoted to me.
My father had established a business branch in Los Angeles, another reason for my being sent there. Apparently, though he had never contemplated divorce, he wished at times to get away from my mother's emotional wrangles. So he visited me quite a few times during the year. I went on to junior high school and finally to the Los Angeles High School, graduating three days before my seventeenth birthday with the highest honors. (There are no records there any longer, for I understand that the school was recently torn down after the terrible earthquake.) And by the time I had graduated from high school, my father was dead.
But it was here in Los Angeles, where I lived on Norton Avenue near Pico Boulevard, that I first came upon the fascinating game of corporal punishment which I was to pursue with sexual overtones in subsequent years.
CHAPTER TWO
It happened when I was sixteen. I had been most proficient in French, and my teacher, Miss Josephine Ginesche, a plump, somewhat slothful woman in her late forties and with a heavy moustache, showed me off with pardonable pride whenever there was the question of a difficult recitation or reading a lengthy and complex passage and then translating it. As the consequence of my mastery of this most expressive language, I became introduced to erotica, notably books written by Alan MacClyde and Jean de la Beuque. These books, which are only today becoming translated into English and being published as contemporary, were of course masterpieces of erotic sadism. My personal feeling is that both authors were originally English, writing for French pornographers. Whatever their identity, they appeared to have the true Gallic spirit of licentiousness and knew how to describe scenes of debauchery with unforgettably vivid verbiage.
One of these books was named L'ille des Eclaves, or "Slave Island." It made an indelible impression on me, for I was then in the very throes of my adolescence. I myself wore spectacles for reasons of astigmatism, I had a cursed case of adolescent acne, and I was studious: all these things militated against my being a sexual hero with the giddy young Lolitas of the high school which I was attending.
Naturally, this rejection by the tender sex did not set well with me, but I was not physically able through prowess on the football or baseball field to overcome their disdain of me. And so, acting out of what an amateur psychologist would call a "sour grapes" attitude, I sat down one evening and feverishly wrote a story based on my wish-fulfillment. The girl I had in mind was Priscilla S, , a golden haired, sweet and rather simpering young lady of sixteen and a half summers, endowed by nature with a magnificently round, impudently jutting pair of titties and a behind to match, together with soft baby-pink skin and the largest, widest, most innocent-looking blue eyes I had ever seen. Priscilla stood second to me scholastically in our senior class, and every view which she expressed in class I naturally countered with the diametrically opposed opinion. She believed that criminals should be rehabilitated, whereas I would get up and boldly declare that the hardened criminal should be put to death with euthanasia to save the taxpayer money.
At any rate, I wrote a story making myself an Arabian sheik, who had met Priscilla in the marketplace of Tangiers or some such Near East locale, I forget now which. In the story, my sheik, who was of course myself!, spoke gently to her, and she responded with a withering insult, threatening to call the police if he did not go away. And so in my fantasy, I returned with some of my most trusted men to the hotel where Priscilla and her parents were staying, audaciously climbed the fire escape and abducted her, gagging and blindfolding and tying her up. We made our escape on horseback, and galloped through the night to my desert tent. There I had her bound with her arms above her head to the tentpole, leaving on the blindfold (a trick I had learned from my reading of these salacious French novels, of course!) I then began to disrobe her until she was down to her brassiere and panties and stockings and garterbelt. The way she wiggled and twisted and tried to kick, the way she blushed and sobbed, the way she implored me frantically not to touch and shame her, roused my prick to its most violent erection. I remember stopping the story midway so that I could unbutton my pajama trousers and masturbate while I closed my eyes and pretended that I was standing in that tent even then confronting my beautiful and hitherto untouchable Priscilla.
When at last I had Pricilla naked except for her stockings and garterbelt, I took a feather and a whip. I amused myself by tickling her pussy and titties, her bellybutton and armpits, with the feather, sometimes visiting her inner thighs with the fronds of an eagle's feather so she was writhing and gasping, her face crimson and unable to control the involuntary spasms which wrenched her pink skinned body. Then I asked her if she was willing to fuck me, and she gasped out that she would rather die.
I therefore took my leather dog whip, or, as I called it in the story, my "Kurbash" (there was, to be sure, a vast difference, but at the tender age of sixteen I was not yet acquainted with all the nuances of flagellation). I began to flick her naked thighs, her belly and her sides, and then I gave her a few good cuts across those jouncy, big round titties of hers. How she cried out and begged me to stop, after which I tantalized her by rubbing her nipples and her pussy with the feather until she was once again squirming and groaning and half-fainting with the emotional shock to her virginal nervous system.
But she still would not agree to let me fuck her, so I applied three or four good hard slashes of the whip over her belly and then one over each panting tittie till she fairly shrieked with pain and swore that she would do anything in the world except that if I would only stop.
I naturally replied that she was my slave and I her master and that she was in no position to bargain with me, and further that her punishment would continue until of her own accord she humbly begged me to fuck her cunt with my prick and to use those exact words.
Then once again I played the feather over the whip marks, grazing her inner thighs and even visiting the base of her bottomcheeks with the downy fronds till she moaned and squealed and twisted in such a salacious way that it was all I could do to keep from falling on her and digging my prick into her tight cunt then and there.
Again I stopped and again I asked her if she was ready to obey me, and again she sobbed that she couldn't bring herself to do that except with her husband and that she would rather die than yield. I therefore untied her, turned her round and tied her back again so that this time the whip should have play over her plump juicy naked ass and those round quivering thighs, and I tied her wrists as high as I could so that she was forced to arch on the tiptoes of her stockinged feet.
In my story, she turned her blindfolded face back over her dimpled shoulder and with tears running down it, besought me not to hurt her any more, that she was suffering so. I calmly paraded the feather over her bottom, finally slyly rasping it along the narrow shadowy groove between those firm resilient globes, and the way she squealed and wriggled and dashed her hips this way and that drove me almost to sexual frenzy.
Finally, when I had her moaning and twisting about in a roused state of sensuality, I resorted to the whip. The dog whip, or rather my "kurbash", applied angry red lines in a horizontal pattern from the tops of her hips down to the base of her behind with a dozen merciless cuts. At each of these she shrieked and twisted wildly, frantically begging me to stop and to have mercy on her. I said not a word until she had her dozen, and then again I asked her if she was ready to fuck. Sobbingly, she begged me to spare her innocence, saying that even if she did yield, it would be in shame and disgust of me. But that mattered nothing to me, the mighty sheik. Now, lowering the whip, I flicked it up right between her squirming thighs, and the wild scream she emitted told me that I had touched her tender cunt hole. Two more of these lashes, and she was wildly pleading with me to have mercy on her, saying that she was going to die and that she could stand no more. I told her that she should have the lash nowhere else until she finally begged me to fuck her, and then I gave her a fourth cut, the hardest of all, that darted right up between the gape of her legs and bit her bumhole as well as her pussy. Finally she yelled out, "Ahhrr, oowwuu, oh fuck me then, but please don't whip me anymore, oh not between my legs, I beg of you, Sheik!"
I turned her round, I retied her wrists above her head, and then, dropping the whip to the sands, I kept the feather in my right hand to rub against her panting titties, while I thrust my prick against her virgin slit. She groaned and sobbed, but I thrust deeply till I felt her cherry. Then with a mighty surge of my loins, I shattered her virgin membrane and felt myself gripped by her tight cunt walls as I burrowed within her to my very balls!
My story concluded with her expressing passionate humility, almost a tender gratitude, begging me to take her away from civilization and to make of her my toy and slave.
Perhaps I wrote as well then as I do today, only naturally the passages were more florid, more purplish, with far more adjectives. But they express the blind adolescent fury which made my prick throb with lust every time Priscilla S, got up in class to recite, every time I saw her walking along campus chatting gaily with a sturdy fellow who wore the school letter for sports.
Alas, I made the mistake of turning in that story with an English composition. I heard about it the next day when I was summoned to the principal's office. Fortunately for me, he was a most understanding man. He told me that the story had great literary merit, and then he looked at me with an amused smile and said, "What you obviously need is a girl, my friend. Don't do this again, because it might get you in trouble. Unfortunately, it's not possible to overcome a woman by force and win her love, not the illegal way you've described."
I know that, two years after she left high school, Priscilla S, married an insurance salesman and later gave him four children, after which he abandoned her for his pretty young secretary. Yet for a long time, exactly because she was unattainable, she represented to me the very epitome of womanhood. And it was this story, this dream fantasy which I concocted about her, which led me ultimately to the career which some imaginative reporter with a fanciful turn of mind labeled as that of "The Spanking Rapist."
CHAPTER THREE
After my father's death, my mother decided that I should remain with my governess while I went on to college. I had won a scholarship to the Westwood branch of U.C.L.A., and I intended to continue in my studies of French and English literature I thought at that time to become a journalist, or even better, a columnist. My ego was such I believed that what I had to say was of importance to the world. But things were to happen quite differently, as they generally do whenever one plans one's life so minutely.
My father had left surprisingly little money considering the profits his business had brought him. A major reason for this was his constant reinvestment of his profits back into his business. He himself had always lived frugally, something he had learned to do in Europe. My mother, on the other hand, was notoriously extravagant. As I recall, there was something like twenty thousand dollars left for her and ten for me, and of course my share was put into a trust fund until I should become twenty- one. The business had been purchased by my uncle Carl Durfuss. He had married a shrewd German woman named Zelda who gave him the cunning and the skill, I am certain, to take over my father's business when the latter first became HI, and to buy it for a song. My mother had no power of attorney and I of course was a minor. This was taking place during my last year in high school.
So the upshot of all this was that my mother went on to live with a younger sister in Palo Alto near Stanford University, while I pursued my college studies with a determination to become famous on my own. I was still ungainly, and I was just as unsuccessful with girls in college as I had been back in high school. But by now, to be sure, I had reached the very zenith of my adolescence and I was blind with lust. I wish I had back all the money I spent on "art study" magazines, which in those days were simply colored photographs of naked women with of course the area of their pussies shadowed out. I would take those magazines home, hide them in a drawer under my books where my governess was not likely to search, and then late at night I would take them out and stare at them and masturbate while I imagined myself making fiery love to one of the most delicious models.
It was the fantasy of a lonely boy and a lonelier youth. My governess was kind to me, and even fond of me in her own way, but she was the sturdy unemotional type who rarely showed excitement either pro or con. But at the same time she had her own very definite views on sex, and one of them was than a man should not even kiss his wife unless he expected to give her a child. Another was that premarital love invariably led to disease, immorality and the utter waste of manhood and intelligence. I can still recall how one day she pointed out to me a squat little man wearing golf knickers and sports shoes and a white cap, with an enlarged Adam's apple and pustules on his face. She told me that he was the result of the union of a man and woman who had a venereal disease and said to me, "That should be a lesson to you hot to have sex with any women outside of marriage."
This of course was the most hopelessly destructive edict she could have laid down, because now I had a fear and a guilt concerning sex. I already had a terrible inferiority complex, but this was a crushing blow to any hopes I had for the pleasures of the flesh. And in college I could see on every hand boys and girls holding hands, kissing, whispering about dates, and I even overheard several ardent conversations discussing the wonderful fucking a young couple had enjoyed the night before and their plans to have a return engagement as soon as possible. In a word, I suffered the tortures of the damned, and so I had to masturbate more than ever to relieve my tensions built up during the day when I could see an attractive girl and a boy walking closely together hand in hand or stealing a kiss in the shadows of a hedge, or remembering my art magazines and the tempting naked beauties who waited hidden away in my dresser drawer until I should take them out and bring them to life in my mind and with the touch of my own hand upon my agonized cock.
By dint of concentrating on my studies, there was, after all, very little else for me to do, I was able to take my bachelor's degree about three years later, shortly after my twentieth birthday. My governess was ailing by then, and I urged her to retire, promising that I would give her something out of my inheritance to compensate her for her long years of loyalty to me, and telling her that I was, after all, quite capable of taking care of myself. But she remained intensely faithful to her assignment, which was to stay with me until I came of age. Alas, she died just six months short of that, and for all the agonies which her rather narrow views on sex caused me, I still remember her tenderness because of her unwavering loyalty.
I had in the meantime begun a job with a small mail-order house as a copywriter, so that by the time I came into my legacy, I was already self-supporting. It was a good feeling, because I no longer had to worry about the jeers and sarcasm of my fellows, but could depend entirely upon my work to see me though. Nevertheless, I confess that there were several girls in my own department whose pussies I lusted for, and I jacked off many a night dreaming up visions of their being in bed with me and yielding to me after I had properly spanked them into submission. For, of course, the sadistic notion of conquering a woman to surrender by physical force and then wooing her with all my experienced technique (mental thus far, to be sure!) was the way that most appealed to my erotic desires.
Six months after my twenty-first birthday, my mother died of a stroke, and I inherited what my father had left her, so that I was quite comfortably off with about thirty thousand dollars in my savings account. I had also frugally banked a good part of my salary, because my world of entertainment was books and music, and I read and listened to FM during my lonely evenings in the little bungalow on Norton Avenue.
And then it was that I lost my virginity, which had been very onerous to me as can well be imagined. And the most exquisite thing about it was that it took place with the accompaniment of the fantasy which had now begun to haunt me and which had been begun back in my formative years in high school.
I lived in a kind of court with a dozen bungalows forming a large U-shaped layout. Directly across from my bungalow, I had frequently observed an extremely attractive young woman who walked her Pekinese, a yappy type of dog for which I have never had much love. Her name was Jacqueline Bleer, and she had long honey-colored hair set in a thick pageboy, an oval face and a most insolent one at that. She had a small petulant mouth which always used to curl whenever she saw me, and her dainty aquiline nose always seemed to sniff disapproval whenever we chanced to meet. I had already conjured up many a nocturnal vision in which she figured prominently. In one of these wish-fulfillment fantasies, Jacqueline appeared to me in a torn white nylon nightgown, her wrists shackled behind her back with clanking chains, and iron gyves fixed to her slim bare ankles. Her hair tumbled down one cheek and onto one of her breasts, and she knelt before me while I stared greedily at her, sitting on the edge of my bed with only my pajama tops on and my prick in violent erection. I remember that in this dream I offered her the choice between sucking my cock and taking a bare-bottom spanking or being tied to the bedposts and receiving a flogging with a leather strap over her entire naked body until she consented to both fuck and suck me, and how she indignantly protested that she would rather die than do any of those things.
She was a rather athletic girl, and went about a good deal in the sun. Often in the back court, I would see her in the late afternoon lying on her stomach in a tight fitting, blue, one-piece bathing suit, her lovely legs and back and shoulders and arms turning a golden tan. The mounds of her ass excited me whenever I saw her in this blue Jantzen, because they looked so round and succulent, with such a deep deft between them that would give access to both her asshole and her cunt. For the man who has never tasted the sweet flesh of a woman and reaches the age of twenty- one, the anticipation and the images which form in his brain are almost overpowering and they are certainly maddening. Perhaps if I had had a mistress at the age of fourteen or fifteen, I might never have pursued the course I ultimately took, but that would be another story, to be sure!
I knew also that Jacqueline Bleer had a sister by the name of Betty, who was somewhat shorter and plumper, her hair being russet-colored and set in a short bob. She was far more amiable to me than Jacqueline, for she occasionally smiled and greeted me whenever she saw me in the court. But as it turned out, I was to lose my agonized male cherry, which is the vulgar term one uses for both male and female virginity, to Jacqueline rather than to her. And this is how it happened.
My newly acquired wealth had not altered my way of life in the least. I had learned how to save as a very young boy when I banked my allowance. All I can remember buying when I came into my windfall is a fine chess set, several art books and two French novels that I had always wanted to read, and several new suits of clothes. But it appeared that the Bleer sisters had fallen upon evil days. When I had first moved into that bungalow as a boy, their father and mother had been living, but they were now dead. I recall that my governess had explained that their parents ran a small grocery store not far from the neighborhood and that the daughters had been obliged to sell it to get a nest egg for themselves. And now apparently the nest egg was almost gone. One morning when I was getting ready to go to work, I saw the two sisters emerge from across the way, their faces red with anger and their eyes swollen with tears, still arguing among themselves. I could make out a few words which had to do with the younger girl's berating her sister for her extravagance, and how Jacqueline angrily remarked that it was none of her damned business.
And then on a warm October evening, while I was in my bathrobe and pajamas enjoying a recording of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto, the doorbell rang. I was surprised, because I had a few friends and almost never any visitors. I made certain that the belt of my bathrobe was tied, got up and went to the door. To my astonishment, it was Jacqueline Bleer. She looked sullen, and her eyes were still swollen with tears. "Can I talk to you privately?" she wanted to know.
I invited her in and asked if I might get her a drink. (All my life I've been a wine drinker, with no use for cocktails or straight whiskey or the like.) But she shook her head: "No thanks. This is awfully embarrassing for me, Mr. Pallin."
"Call me Stanley," I smiled at her. But she averted her eyes and was obviously not in a companionable mood. Nervously, she took out of the pocket of her dress a rumpled pack of cigarettes, put one to her mouth and then looked at me. I had already struck a match and lit it for her. She took a few puffs, leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling and then in a sort of harsh voice began: "I don't know quite how to say this. We've had some bad luck, Betty and I; it's about money."
I nodded sympathetically. She shot me a fierce look and then went on: "We made some bad investments, and now we're going to have to get jobs. Betty and I have been going to school, but now we'll have to go to business school at night if we can afford it and just work until we can make out."
"I see," I said noncommittally. "How can I help you?"
She crushed out her cigarette with a decisive gesture in the ashtray on the coffee table in front of her, then stared directly at me again: "I've seen you give me the eye lots of times, Mr. Pallin. You'd like to make time with me, wouldn't you?"
I flushed hotly. This was much too candid and direct, because I was still in my romantic period where a man didn't come right out and tell a girl he wanted to fuck her or put his prick into her soft furry little cunt. At that time of my life, I would have probably propositioned a girl with some such archaic expression as "I would like to have the rights of a husband over you, darling. "Today, of course, we are far less euphemistic!
I finally gathered my wits about me and I replied rather shakily, "I didn't mean to offend you, Miss Bleer. It's true I think you are very attractive."
"Do you want to go to bed with me or not?" was her next startling question.
"Why of course, I mean, I think any man who admires a beautiful girl would want that, but, " I fumbled, and I felt my cheeks get hotter than ever and I cursed myself for a fool.
She didn't change any part of her expression. It was cold and direct. Now she stood up, preening herself. She wore a blue summery cotton dress with pockets, and very short sleeves to the elbows. Her legs were bare, and the tawny, golden-tan skin of her sinuously-set calves and the suave dimples of her knees had already begun to excite me. I felt a twitching in my prick. But until then I had never evinced the slightest erotic desire to anyone of the opposite sex. And yet in the face of this devastating question of hers, I was beginning to tremble with a mingled anxiety and expectation.
"Look me over. How would you like to have me tonight, Mr. Pallin?" she flung over her shoulder at me as she turned her back to me, hands on her hips. She was parading herself, offering herself for sale, wanting me as a buyer to inspect the merchandise. And I confess that I had already inspected her, probably unbeknown to her, a hundred times over and found her maddeningly fuckable! "Do you like what you see?" she asked again. "Of course I do. But I don't quite understand all this."
"I'll come to the point, Mr. Pallin. I need money enough for my rent, and that'll leave us a few hundred dollars for food and incidentals until we can get ourselves jobs. We haven't got anybody we know in town we can borrow from."
"You mean, you'd be willing to have me pay you to make love to you, is that it?" I hoarsely asked.
"You're very dense when you want to be, I see," she said in a tone of exasperation. "Yes, of course that's it."
"How much do you need?"
"A hundred twenty dollars."
That was the rental for an unfurnished bungalow at that time. Today, of course, it would be at least double that. I considered the matter. In my lust-dreams, I had always conquered a girl and made her yield to me and profess that it was out of her own free will she did so. I had never once considered the possibility of going to a prostitute or a call-girl, because my governess had told me about extramarital sex and had always terrified me as to the possibility of a disease. And yet I was certain that Jacqueline Bleer was definitely not a prostitute. For that matter, I had never seen any young men visit the bungalow, the kind you would expect to date two such attractive sisters. So the chances of a disease were quite unlikely. And yet the cold, calculated thought, even though I was a virgin and dying to have my first fuck, of taking this girl who was so sullen and hostile to bed with me for money made me balk at the very start.
"Let me get this straight, Miss Bleer," I said slowly as I lit a cigarette of my own and stared coldly at her. "If I give you a hundred twenty dollars, you'll let me make love to you tonight, for as long as I want, and do anything I want?"
"Wait a minute," she said with a contemptuous sneer, "maybe you're a freak. Who knows? You lead a lonely life all the time, and for all I know you might have some funny ideas about what sex is like. Let's get one thing straight. I don't really like you, but I need the money very badly. And I've seen you look me over and undress me with your eyes enough times for me to figure that maybe you'd like to do what you've been thinking. But I don't go in for rough stuff or anything funny. I'm not a virgin, but I'm not a whore either, understand that!"
"You put things very plainly," I said sarcastically. "But suppose I tell you what I have in mind. I'll double that price tag you've put on yourself if you'll let me give you a spanking in addition to making love to you."
"I thought you were a freak! Spank me? That's ridiculous!" she snapped, but her cheeks were flaming.
"Suit yourself. I'll make it a round two hundred and fifty dollars, and I won't particularly hurt you and I won't even tie you up. But you'll leave when I want you to, not before. That way, I'll have some choice about the matter," I found myself saying to her. It was strange. Under normal circumstances, I should probably have bitten off my tongue before mentioning to Jacqueline Bleer that I had the hots for her cunt and for that juicy bottom of hers and those proud titties. But now that she had come so unexpectedly to my bungalow and offered her body for sale like a common whore, I was beginning to lose my awe of her. And this is precisely the reason that, during my career as "The Spanking Rapist," I never really preyed upon a call-girl or a whore. I wanted a haughty and free young woman who found herself compelled to yield through greater force and cunning, because I could savor her emotional reactions and her physical behavior since it would not be calculated but spontaneous.
When a man sleeps with a prostitute, he knows in advance that her responses will be calculated and mechanical, and that even if she is a consummate artist, she cannot possibly give him the passionate fulfillment he dreams of. And so I had no further illusions about Jacqueline Bleer, beautiful and desirable and taunting though she was, aching though my prick was for her at that moment. The only way I meant to enjoy her was by spanking her naked behind and humiliating her because I knew that she inwardly hated me; the spanking would avenge that rejection. Thus it was a part of my youthful fantasy that I proposed the terms to this vaunted young woman.
She stared at me, and I saw that she had the gray-green eyes with golden flecks of a cat. Her cheeks were slantingly set, and she had very thin, arching eyebrows and short thick lashes. I had the feeling that she wasn't wearing much under her dress, and my prick was already beginning to ache savagely. Finally she spoke, in a contemptuous tone: "I can't imagine why you want to spank me, Mr. Pallin. But if that's your kick, and you promise not to hurt, I suppose it will be all right. You don't have to worry about giving me a baby, I've taken precautions." From this, I gathered that she was wearing a diaphragm. So much the better, for I have never cared to wear a rubber, because it deadens the wonderful sensation of feeling your prick gripped and clenched by those humid, tight, fleshy walls of a girl's cuntsheath. Nor did I tell her why I wanted to spank her. It was to humiliate her, to drag her down from her pedestal of scorn which rated me as her inferior, and to make her ashamed and to cause her pain which would make her forget this superiority. I simply asked, "Will a check do?"
"That will be fine, thank you."
I got up, went into the little room I had been using as a study, got my checkbook, and wrote her out a check for $250, then came back into the living room and handed it to her. She stared at it a moment, then folded it neatly and put it into the pocket of her dress as she rose from the couch. "Shall we get it over with, then, Mr. Pallin?" she asked me, giving me another cold contemptuous look. I ground my teeth and dug my nails into my palms. What I really would have liked to have done would be to have tied her by the thumbs and made her dangle from them with her toes just brushing the floor, blindfolded her, taken a strap and whipped her until she learned politeness and humility. I wanted to hear from her somewhat husky, sensual voice all the cries and tears and pleas of a naked, helpless female who is experiencing torment and who is ready to do anything to stop it, even to offering up her virtue. But this cold and deliberate yielding to me was already leaving a bad taste in my mouth, even though it was the first time that I was going to fuck a girl.
If she had been the least bit congenial, the least bit humble, the least bit even suffocating, for after all she admittedly despised me and yet she was selling herself to me for the money she needed, I might have tried tenderness with her, I might have tried all the techniques I had read about in the books to make her faint with passion and finally yield to me in ecstatic climax. But her deliberate coldness, exactly like that of a prostitute who meets a new customer for the first time, angered me.
I rose and followed her and showed her the way to my bedroom. She crossed the threshold, and then turned and pulled off her dress. Under it she had on just a peach-colored nylon slip, and nothing beneath as I could tell at once. I could see the thick dark patch of her cunthair, a soft brown hue. I could see the proudly tilting, almost pearshaped titties set widely apart and with narrow dark aurolae and hard, well-developed nipples. I could even see the wide shallow niche of her belly-button. And as she put her hands to the back of her head to arch out her titties to me in this same mood of calculated offering, I could see the tufts of hair at her soft deeply hollowed armpits. All these signs I had dreamed about, dreamed that one day a beautiful and desirable girl would display to me as we began our first tryst together and explored the sweet mysteries of passion. But now I found myself on the verge of becoming a man for the very first time and yet hating her and wishing that it were someone else who was to relieve me of the oppressive burden of my male virginity.
CHAPTER FOUR
I took off my bathrobe, and I could see that I had an erection against the fly of my pajama trousers. Then she asked, "Shall I take this off too?"
"Of course," I said angrily. With a shrug, she stooped, caught up the hems of the slip, lofted it over her head and let it drop onto the floor. She was about five feet seven inches in height, and really beautifully made. She was the first naked woman I had ever seen in the flesh, and yet the lust I had for her was not for this flesh which was so deliberately offered me, but for the fantasy images I had concocted about her and how she would act once I had her in my power.
I moved to her now and I put my hands on her shoulders. I could feel her wince as I touched her, and my anger grew. I wanted to shake her, I wanted to beat her until she wept and begged for mercy and lost forevermore this insolent hauteur with which she tried even now to show how infinitely superior she was to me. In a way, I was almost afraid of her. What strengthened me was the knowledge that she had my check and that I could stop payment on it if I chose; I had kept my part of the bargain, now it was her turn to keep hers.
And so I wanted to insult her, to hurt her, to break through that sullen veneer of hers. I found myself saying in a rough voice, "Open my pants and take my prick out and hold it and squeeze it a little, Jacqueline."
She bit her lips and I could see red creeping into her cheeks. She gave me a furious look, and then she extended her slim right hand, unbuttoned the buttons of my pajama trousers and took out my cock. She squeezed it in her palm and I could feel her slim fingers press upon the shaft and the throbbing, pulsating head. I shuddered with lust, because I had at last had a tiny semblance of triumph over her. I could imagine what it cost her pride to be thus ordered about and to perform this obscene act of homage to a man for whom she had no earthly use other than as a momentary and much-needed convenience.
Nonetheless, as I stood there with my prick grasped in her soft palm and with her slim fingers pressing against the shaft and trembling convulsively, I could feel that!, I began to experience at last the vague glimmerings of my fantasies. She was my naked slavegirl, and she was about to be humbled and punished and made to beg for a fucking. I struck her hand away now and I said, my voice even harsher, "Now I want to spank you first before I fuck you, Jacqueline."
"All right. But please get it over with. I don't much care for silly games like this," she said in an indifferent voice.
I shucked down my pajama trousers and I was naked. Then, seating myself on the edge of the bed, I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her quickly across my lap, making her gasp with surprise as she tumbled rather awkwardly. She was pulled towards me at an angle, so that her feet were still on the floor but her bottom arched up over my naked left thigh and then her titties mashed against the bed and her elbows bore down upon it. She looked back nervously at me, and her face was quite red. I put my left arm round her waist and I felt her shivering. How very supple her waist was, and how the rounds of her asscheeks seemed even juicier and more spacious than I had imagined them at the outset! But here instead of golden-tan skin, the bathing suit had kept that more intimate skin pale white and so the contrast between her naked ass and her back and thighs was really exciting.
I roamed my right palm all over her magnificent bottom, and I felt her squirm uneasily, try to shift the angling position of her pumps against the rug, for she was slipping a little. But these maneuvers made her thighs and bottomcheeks flex and tighten and ripple with a thousand different, exquisite little stuffings of her muscles and her palpitating flesh, revealing to me the rather deep shadowy groove separating her assglobes and almost the hint of the pink lips of her cunt framed by the silky brownish curls of her cunthair.
And under my palm also I could feel the contractions of her behind, and I could see that she had clenched her teeth and was staring almost angrily at the wall beyond, that her fists were clenched and that she was, in a word, in an attitude of complete hostility in tolerating this vagary of mine.
As she was trying to gain purchase with her pumps, and achieve a less uncomfortable posture, pinned partly over me and against the bed, I tightened my grip of her waist and, raising my right hand, and brought it down with a sonorous smack on the very center of her right asscheek.
It was all and more than I had dreamed it would be! The resilience of her firm young flesh, the smooth satin of the bare skin, the exquisite mark of bright pink which this first spank left, and the catch in her breath as she gasped in surprise because she had not expected so vehement an attack so soon, intoxicated me. My prick reared up and I could see the angry dark-blue veins swelling against the tightly drawn skin; I could see the lips of my prick head puckering with the urge to ejaculate all my venom. But that was reserved for her haughty, prissy cunt, after she had been thoroughly bare-ass-spanked.
My hand rose again and fell on the other cheek this time, exactly against the ripest curve. This time she uttered an indignant "Ouch, that hurts!" and glared back at me reproachfully. At the same time, pressing her palms down against the bed, she tried to shift herself a little, obviously wanting to lay completely on the bed and over my lap which would be easier for her. But I quite prevented this. Since her loins were over my left thigh, I had only to lock my right leg over her calves to keep her exactly where I wanted her. At the same time my left arm made a vise over her satiny waist and thus completely imprisoned her to my will.
Now my right hand rose and fell hardly with any pause, as I attacked first the right cheek v .id then the left, visiting them with stinging smacks which drew angry cries and frantic squirmings from my haughty one-time amateur prostitute. She was getting more than she had bargained for, and my spanks really hurt, because after about twenty the skin of her ass was a flaming red and she was trying vainly to plunge her hands in back and soothe her burning rear.
Then I halted for a moment, for my palm was stinging too, at the same time I needed to regain my composure. My prick was ready to burst.
"That's enough, that's enough, Mr. P-Pallin," she hoarsely panted. "Now will you please get it over with, I don't care for this at all!"
"No more than I care for your continued insolence, Jacqueline," I reminded her. "You come in here into my own bungalow and you treat me as if I didn't have the right to draw a breath, and then at the same time you want money and you offer me yourself as if you were a Greek goddess from Mount Olympus. You act as if you were doing me a once-in-a-lifetime favor. You had this spanking coming, and I think you've had it coming for a good many years. I'll let you know when I am finished. And then I'll fuck you, not before," I told her.
"Say now, you just listen here. Oww! Stop it! Oh damn you anyhow. I told you to stop it. Ouch! You're hurting me. Please! Oohhouss. Aiii. Stop it, stop it. I'm ordering you to stop, do you hear me, Mr. Pallin? Oww! You're killing me, you'll leave marks! Eeyoww! Please!"
For my hand had resumed her chastisement. Even harder than before, I brought my hand down against the bounding, springy, fleshy cheeks of her ass. Her body jerked and twisted, her hips wriggled and weaved as she tried to escape the avalanche of burning blows. Even though my palm hurt, I knew that she was at last feeling the pangs of a humiliating bare-bottom spanking.
By this time I had given her about forty good hard spanks. Tears were streaking down her flushed cheeks now, and she was actually struggling to get loose. She had dashed her hands back of her in an attempt to cover up her flaming bottom, and she was trying to squirm herself free of the grip of my arm and leg, but it was useless. "This is just so you won't forget, Jacqueline," I added. And then, with all my might, I raised my hand and brought it down five times on each cheek, alternating again, feeling her bottom flatten under me with each impact, and drawing a wailing cry of mingled rage, indignation and pain at practically every one!
Then, seizing her by the waist with both hands, I hauled her up onto the bed and rolled her onto her back. My prick was monstrous now. I kneed apart her thighs, and I loomed over her, my hands fondling her titties which were rising and falling turbulently. Her face was twisted, stained with tears, flushed, her eyes blazing and humid, and they fixed on me with a hateful, and yet tearful look. My beauty was cowed but not yet mastered. And so I meant to use her as I would a whore, and it gave me courage and strength at this the moment when I was about to lose my virginity rather than to act the role of a fumbling and apologetic adolescent.
I flattened myself over her, my prick gouging for the furry nest of her cunt hole. I found the soft lips and I shoved forward, and by instinct I found the way. The labia parted to yield to me, and then with a further shove I felt myself begin the journey into her tight vaginal sheath until I was in her to my very balls. For the first time in my lift I knew what fucking was, and I closed my eyes and shuddered and ground my teeth to keep from bursting. The temptation of her warm tight cuntwalls was almost overpowering, and it was all I could do to keep from exploding then and there. But to do that would have been to surrender to her, and I did not want that at all.
My hands cupped her titties, my fingers rubbing pinching, tweaking, and then I kissed her hard on the mouth. She gasped tearfully, "No, don't! I don't want you to do that!" and tried to twist her face away. But I let go of her titties and cupped her cheeks and I forced my mouth down on hers and then I thrust my tongue between her lips for a moment and I exulted in my victory. Her cunt was quaking, and I could feel its walls grind and clench and kiss my cock. Even though her attitude and her features and her voice decried me, her body was accepting me as its lord and master. She squirmed, because her bottom must have been painful to her then. I drew back slowly, and then I gouged forward again to the very hilt. My fingers continued to hold her face under mine, and my lips to suck and drain her of her salivic juices. It was a sweet nectar for me to drink, and I quaffed it with relish as I began instinctively the age-old rhythm of fucking, in and slowly out, holding it a moment at the very brink of her cunt, then thrusting back slowly to the balls once more.
And soon haughty Jacqueline Bleer began to arch and to twist and squirm and moan, and her fingernails clawed the rumpled sheets, and her head turned restlessly from side to side with her eyebrows arching wildly, her eyes staring up at the ceding, glazed with tears.
But even though I was proud of my manhood, I could not hold it back much longer. Each time I thrust back into her, I almost lost my seed, so warm and active were the walls of that tight cunt of hers which held and housed me. My hands returned to her titties, and then on impulse slid under and gripped the cheeks of her ass and squeezed hard. She moaned and gasped, "Oh stop it, finish it, finish it, I can't take much more of this!"
"So you still don't like what you are getting even though you've been paid for it? You're not even an honest whore, Jacqueline girl," I twitted her. I began to quicken my thrusts inside of her, and then suddenly with a loud cry I felt myself shattered by the ferocious release of all my lust-lava. My prick seemed to go limp inside of her, after spattering her womb with my semen. Slowly I drew out, gasping at the aching torment of that, and then I slowly knelt up and stared down at her. She had twisted her face to one side, and her hair was tumbled, and her breasts were rising and foiling erratically. I stared at her for a long moment, and then I went to the bathroom to wash myself and to smoke a cigarette and to exult over my newly acquired manhood. And I thought too of all the images which her body had summoned up for me while I was spanking her. I thought back to those high school days when I had written that long story about Priscilla. And I could feel the aching in my cock reminding me that the price I had paid for Jacqueline Bleer's favors must certainly include seconds. After toweling myself, I went back with my cigarette in my mouth to stare at her. She had sat up, not without wincing, a hand rubbing her seat very gingerly. Then she slipped her long legs down to the floor, thrust her feet into her pumps and moved quickly away from me and into the bathroom I had just quitted.
I had never felt so exhilarated before. Now the onus of my male virginity was gone forever. Now that I knew what it was to work within a woman's loins, to find release and to draw her to pitch, for Jacqueline Bleer, in spite of all her contempt towards me, could not help revealing to me by the tremors of her naked body against mine that this ruthless manipulation of her sacrosanct person had had its sensual effect upon her.
"Have you finished with me, Mr. Pallin?" I heard her ask.
"Not quite."
"Now see here!" she rose and faced me, her titties jiggling, as she put her hands on her lovely hips.
"Now you see here, Jacqueline," I interrupted. "I think you'll agree that I've been more than generous. The price I paid you would buy a full night with just about any call girl in this town. I expect to fuck you at least once more, but whether I spank you again is up to you."
"You wouldn't dare! I shouldn't have let you do it in the first place, you, you're a bully and a queer!" she panted.
"You know you're lying, because your body ought to tell you otherwise. And don't forget, that check isn't any good until you get to the bank to clear it. I told you I'd let you go when I was finished with you, and I haven't finished yet," I told her.
"Damn you anyway!" she flared.
"And any little outburst like that again will cost you, Jacqueline," I sarcastically reminded her. "Now come over here and put your arms around me and kiss me sweetly, if you know how. So far, you're not quite worth what I paid for you."
That was a low blow, but I meant it. She turned red as a beet, lowered her eyes, gasped, and then slowly moved towards me. I sat on the edge of the bed again with my feet firmly planted on the floor. Already my prick was beginning to stiffen for a new encounter. "Sit my lap and put your arms around me and kiss me," I ordered.
Through my mind there whirled the phantasmagoria of all my youthful lust-dreams, from Priscilla in the tent of the sheik, to all the mental pictures I had drawn of Jacqueline Bleer undergoing subjugation by me, the pitiless and obdurant master of female slaves.
I had at last become a man. And in so doing, I had paved the way for what was to be my future behavior in sexual fray.
CHAPTER FIVE
A month after Jacqueline Bleer had sold herself to me for $250, there was a "For Rent" sign in the window of the bungalow across the way from mine. Nor did I see them through the last week when that notice finally appeared. Indeed, both young women studiously avoided me on the few occasions when we met going to our respective bungalows. Honey haired Jacqueline looked through me as if I did not exist, while her sister directed an angry look. Undoubtedly, I reasoned, Jacqueline had told Betty how I had behaved. It was really ironic that a girl should not mind the immorality of fucking with a stranger for money but consider him a "freak" simply because he spanked her.
But my interests were at the time quite far away from these two sisters because my job was in jeopardy. Not from my own lack of skill, to be sure, but simply because a larger firm was planning to buy our small mail-order house, and there were many rumors that most of us would be given pink slips when this merger was effected. So I began to cast out feelers for a better job, and within two months had landed a post as a copywriter at a medium-sized advertising agency on Wilshire Boulevard. And here occurred the second of my amorous adventures which further advanced me towards the lurid career which San Francisco journalists saw fit to label as that of "The Spanking Rapist."
It was about three months after my twenty-second birthday and I had been in the new job for several months and was enjoying it. The agency specialized in retainer accounts, and had quite a few of them. As against several large clients with huge billings, the business idea of many accounts on small retainers had much to recommend it. Usually, when a large agency loses one of its major accounts, the axe falls helter-skelter. On the other hand, in the smaller agency with many accounts, some of these progressively grow and become quite profitable while at the same time the others pay the bread and butter of agency personnel. And several of our accounts, thanks to the skill of our head copywriter, were blossoming into very lucrative affairs. I myself was assigned to a huge florist who used all the spectacular gimmicks of a Hollywood movie producer to attract new customers, to get business for weddings, catered events and conventions as well as the usual impulse business. His name was Norman Cosgrove, he was an eccentric bachelor nearing fifty, and his main shop was on La Cienega Boulevard not far from the famous La Brea Pits where, it has been said, fossils of prehistoric animals were found when the City of the Angels began its mushroom growth. He had several other shops throughout the city and in Hollywood, but his headquarters were at the La Cienega address, and I went out there frequently to bring him proofs of his advertisements. There was a rather attractive if somewhat imperious young woman working as a clerk in the ground-floor shop (his office was on the second floor of the building which he owned), and I found myself buying a flower for my lapel quite often when I visited the client, if only to have some excuse to study this delectable piece of pussy at closer range.
By now, my adolescent acne had vanished, I had taken sitting-up exercises and cured to some extent my stoop-shouldered and flat chested appearance, but of course my glasses and my studious features still stamped me as an introvert and an intellectual. At any rate, the young woman still treated me about as scornfully as Priscilla had back in high school and Jacqueline Bleer had done during our brief association.
And then one day, as I was waiting to buy a flower for my lapel again before going upstairs to consult with Mr. Cosgrove, and the young lady was waiting on another customer, an accident occurred which was to lead to a most unusual denouement. Just as the customer left the shop and the girl turned to me, she suddenly lost her balance on the combination of a wet floor and a broken shard of a flowerpot which had somehow got into the way, slipped and began to fall backwards. I was close enough to catch her, and in so doing I grabbed her bottom and righted her. As my fingers dug into it, I felt the old, haunting fantasy-urge thrill through me, and my prick was violently erect. The girl herself was blushing, and then she stammeringly thanked me. "I think just for that you ought to have a flower on the house," she remarked. "I'd much rather have a date with you some evening, if Fm not being too fresh," I said with a pleasant smile.
The singular thing was that her icy countenance had suddenly become most warm and intimate. It was as if suddenly, without my being aware of it, she had been thawed out.
"As you know, I came out from the agency to see your boss, so I shouldn't be exactly a stranger. My name is Stanley Pallin," I introduced myself.
"Mine's Dorothea Purviss, Mr. Pallin. It's, it's nice meeting you."
"Well, I'm only sorry it was such an upsetting way to meet," I quipped. "And you must forgive me for grabbing you so rudely."
At this she gave a little gasp and bit her lips and then stammered, "Oh, that's all right. I really must talk to Joe and make sure that he dries the floor after he mops it. But about that date, when would you like it?"
"I should imagine that a pretty girl like you would have a long line of applicants all the way back to the Pacific," I smiled. "But what about tonight?"
"That, that would be fine. You want me to meet you?"
"I could call for you here," I said without thinking, because I didn't own a car at that point. And in Los Angeles, public transportation was and still is unspeakable. "Wait," she brightened. "My girlfriend is going to drive into L.A. to meet her fellow downtown. Maybe she could drop me off wherever you say we could meet."
"Fine! Well, there's a very nice steakhouse a few blocks away from where I live," I said, "so maybe we could meet there about seven?"
"That would be nice. Where is it?"
"At Pico and Detroit," I told her.
She had plucked a carnation and was adjusting it in my lapel. I stared greedily at her, because this sudden transition of hers left me dazed and delighted with my good luck. It was actually the first time I had ever asked a girl for a date and certainly the very first time any girl had accepted! I lingered a moment, and then remembered that I had an appointment with her boss. "Well, I'll see you at seven, then. And thanks a lot, Dorothea."
As it turned out, I was to have ample reason to thank delicious Dorothea Purviss. She was to provide me with one of the most passionately exciting evenings of my life, to quicken within me all the fanciful urges I had ever had of sadistic domination over a female. And all, as it turned out, because I had accidentally grabbed hold of her behind in trying to keep her from falling! It is often said that the fate of a nation as that of an individual can depend on the tiniest of accidents. I am convinced that fate guided my hands in saving Dorothea Purviss from a fall that day and in leading me on to the fall from grace which I was destined to take!
CHAPTER SIX
Dorothea Purviss was extremely prompt. I had been waiting on the corner of Pico and Detroit for only about five minutes when a blue Mercury drove up and stopped at the curb nearby, the door opened and she got out. She turned to say something to the young woman at the wheel, who was obviously her roommate, and then came towards me with a very winning smile. "I do hope I'm on time, Mr. Pallin," she said.
"You're just fine. I hope you're hungry, because the steaks here are about the best in Los Angeles."
"I just love to eat. Yes, I'm awfully hungry. It's funny, but working in a florist's shop seems to give me an appetite. I'm just glad it doesn't give me an allergy. Just think how dreadful it would be for somebody with hayfever!" she had an infectious laugh, and I felt a thrill of anticipation for the evening.
I still couldn't get over her singular change of attitude towards me. But as I held the door of the restaurant open for her to enter, I took quick stock of her charms. While Jacqueline Bleer had been about twenty-one or at most a year older, this girl was perhaps twenty-three or four. She had two-tone wavy brown hair, a round face, exceptionally striking dark-brown eyes, an extremely thin mouth, with a dainty Grecian nose.
Her ears were tiny and pressed close to the skull, and her skin was carnation tint. She was about five feet six, I should judge, with long coltish legs and a most enticing oval shaped behind delineated in the attractive multicolored acetate print she was wearing. Her lovely legs were nervously muscled, and set off to excellent advantage by the gauzy off-black nylon hose (or perhaps pantyhose) she wore.
While we enjoyed our steaks, she told me something about her background. She had come originally from Boston, was apparently an only child from a rather wealthy family, but had broken with her parents because, as she put it, "they were trying to marry me off to some blue-blooded snob and I just wouldn't go for it." She had picked Los Angeles because it was big enough to hide in without discovery and to find the kind of work she liked to do.
What she really wanted was a job as a caseworker in some social welfare agency, but she hadn't been qualified enough, and so she had seen an ad by Norman Cosgrove looking for girls to work in his new florist shop and been hired about six months before.
Now she was in love with the job. She had also found a modestly priced furnished place and a very congenial roommate by the name of Myra Hess, the auburn-haired and rather plump young woman I had seen at the wheel of that Mercury.
She didn't plan on staying in the florist shop too much longer, however, because she admitted she was getting a little homesick.
"I'll probably go back and marry that fellow after all," she confided to me by the time we had finished our dessert. "But I just wanted to get this out of my system. But there'll be all the rest of my life to be one of those Boston matrons with a family and membership at the country club and all that sort of life. This city is such a melting pot, and there's so many interesting things to see and do. But I really don't have any roots here."
I suppose I might have done worse than to suggest that she could take her roots with me, but I was not ready for marriage at that time. I was still a romantic idealist, I was troubled by the sadistic desires surging within me constantly, and I wasn't certain myself that I wanted to stay in Los Angeles. It was getting overcrowded, smoggy, noisy, and the "flower children" were just beginning to discover its many fascinating cults and communes. It was a city of incredible contrasts. On the residential block, such as the one on which I lived, you would find a replica of a Persian temple whose followers worshipped the sun and ate grass and occasionally sunbathed in the nude behind eight-foot-high walls. But in a few weeks, if you waited long enough, you might find that this same temple had turned into a cult of Satan worship with the sacrifice of naked white virgins when the moon was high. It was a city of kooks and schizophrenics, of geniuses and Skid Row failures. It was a city in which a novelist would have a field day and never want for themes for his books.
Before we finished dinner, I asked her if she would like to see a movie. She shook her head. "Could we just go somewhere and talk, Stanley?" She got around to calling me by my first name by now.
"I'd like nothing better, Dorothea," I told her. "As it happens, my bungalow isn't far from here, a short walk, and I can play some records for you and give you a glass of wine."
"I'd like that very much."
So we set out, and I found that we were arm-in-arm as we walked along back to the bungalow on Norton Avenue.
I put on a recording of Ravel's "Daphnis and Chloe" by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, poured out two glasses of chilled Chablis, and came back to join her on the big wide couch. It was old and the upholstery was getting faded, but it was wonderfully comfortable and wide. Up to now it had never been dedicated to fucking or spanking, but I had a feverish hope that tonight would be just that night.
Having already lost my virginity to Jacqueline, I had gained a certain amount of confidence. I suppose this is true of all young predatory males who, at first inexperienced, have unimaginable lusts but are afraid they cannot carry them out; while after their very first encounter in the bed of love, they boastfully think themselves capable of satisfying every passionate pussy in existence!
We chatted pleasantly for about an hour, and she had the second glass of wine. She liked the music I was playing, and I put on Debussy's "La Mer" to continue the romantic mood. I sat a little closer to her, and I could smell her delicate perfume. My prick was hardening already, and I crossed my legs to hide it from her. First of all, I didn't know whether she was a virgin or not. And I had the romantic notion that a fellow shouldn't make a pass at a girl on the very first date. Though I certainly wanted to.
But it was Dorothea Purviss who forced matters by suddenly turning to me and, putting her hand on my knee, asking in a soft husky voice, "Don't you like me any?"
"Of course I do! I like you a lot. You're beautiful," I heard myself saying in the most idiotic and banal way.
"You were so bold in the shop, that I thought you'd be bolder now by this time, Stanley," she teased, and her eyes were dancing. Her small thin lips had a very light shade of pink lipstick, and she had formed them into a kissable "O" as she put her face towards me. I kissed hard, and then suddenly she pushed me away and stood up, giving me a nasty look: "I didn't mean like that," she snapped. "I didn't expect you to rape me, you know."
My face was hot and my cock was aching. Was she going to turn out to be a little prick teaser like so many girls? I've always felt that a prick teaser has a penis-envy that makes her want to castrate every man she comes into contact with. I have a special hell consigned for that kind of half-woman. But I had been led to believe that Dorothea Purviss found me pleasant to be with and she'd already asked me to be bold. And now she turned on me all over a simple kiss. What made her tick, anyway?
"Now just a minute, Dorothea," I said angrily, "I wasn't especially bold in the shop, I grabbed you to keep from falling and it just happened that I got hold of your behind. Now what would you expect me to do now when you put your mouth my way? I just kissed you, "
"You're just a fool, Stanley Pallin," she hissed. "I thought you were a real man. I thought for once I'd found somebody who wasn't a cold fish like that fiance of mine back in Boston."
And then it dawned upon me. She wanted to be forced, the teasing, clever little bitch! She wanted to be overcome, so that she wouldn't have to tell herself that she had been naughty and unfaithful to her boyfriend back in Boston. By the "rape" she could tell herself that she hadn't sinned, she'd been sinned against. It was the fiendishly clever rationalization which women invented at about the time Eve found the apple and made Adam take a bite and got them both kicked out of Eden.
"So you want to play games, do you, Dorothea? I'll be happy to oblige you," I growled. I seized her by the wrist and even as she struck me with her other fist, I dragged her back to the couch and flung her over my lap.
"What are you going to do? You let me go now, or I'll call the police! You big bully, stop it, don't you dare pull up my skirt, ohhh, you, you bastard, you filthy brute, stop it, not my panties too, help me somebody, oh please help me, he's going to hurt me, he's going to rape me!"
Her voice rose to a shrill shriek, because I had just tugged up her print dress and the petticoat under it, and found myself staring at that saucy oval ass of hers encased in white nylon panties, and suddenly and masterfully determined to take the initiative for the first time in my life, I had pulled them down to her upper thighs and I had clamped my right leg over her calves as she tried to wriggle off the couch and managed to get her legs partway down onto the floor.
So at an angle, facing the back of the couch, effectively hampered by that angling posture and by the fact that my leg was keeping her from kicking, she was helpless. I put my palm on the small of her back, and lifted my right hand up and I brought it down with all my strength on the meaty flesh of her right ass cheek, right where it was the plumpest. The two oval globes tightened at once, and on the pale carnation- tinted naked skin of Dorothea Purviss' beautiful bare ass, the flaming outline of my palm appeared at once.
She tried to twist herself round, she cursed at me, the foulest language I had ever heard from a girl to that time. She struck at me with one of her fists, but I simply caught it with my left hand and doubled it behind her back till she yelled in pain.
Then I really spanked her. Without counting, without pausing, and in no particular set pattern, I landed stinging, flesh-flattening slaps with my right palm all over her bottom and even down to the tops of her thighs. She wasn't quiet during that, I can assure you.
Her hips bucked and lunged, every which way, and she yelled and twisted and swore at me and then began to cry. I stopped at last after about five minutes, and her bottom was absolutely flaming and swollen, and the spasmodic contractions and yawnings showed me not only the narrow shadowy cleft which led to her asshole but also the peeping pink lips of her enticing cunt hole, framed by very thick dark-brown pussy hair.
"Maybe that'll teach you," I panted. "I was just kissing you, and it could have stayed at that. Now you can get up and you can slap my face and do anything else you want. But at least I've taught you a little lesson, Dorothea."
Carefully I slid my leg off hers, and then watched her sink down to her knees on the carpeted floor below the couch, clap both hands to her bare bottom and rub like mad, while her face was screwed up and tears ran down her cheeks.
And then the wonder of it was that she turned her face towards me and her eyes were shining and her lips were trembling and her nostrils were shrinking and flaring as she panted, "Don't just sit there like a dummy, Stanley, honey, give it to me now! Oh for heaven's sake, fuck hell out of me, I'm on fire for it, give it to me, lover, give it to me if you're really the man I think you are!"
And thus I learned that here was a beautiful and outwardly frigid masochist who wanted nothing better than to be dominated by a man, forced to yield herself while at the same time preserving the illusion that because she was forced against her will, she was still keeping herself pure and lily-white for her boyfriend back in Boston.
I opened my fly and let my prick stick out, and for the first time in my life I gloried in my manhood. I didn't care that I was slightly overweight or that I wore glasses or that I was an intellectual. This gorgeous, weeping, red-bottomed beauty on her knees before me was the be-all and end-all of life, the representation of my most exciting secret fantasy.
Her eyes widened and she gasped out "Ooooh, darling!" when she saw what I had to offer her. I bent down, put my hands against her armpits and lifted her to her feet. Then I flung her down on the couch on her back, and I rolled up her dress and petticoat again and tugged her panties completely off her legs and flung them to the floor. I didn't even stop to think that I wasn't using a prophylactic (I hadn't even thought of buying any, for that matter) or that she might be without protection herself. All I wanted was to fuck her. And when I saw those soft delicate pink lips almost concealed by the thick bush of dark-brown pussy fur, and when I saw her wriggling her bare ass against the couch to ease the flames I had put into it with my good right hand, I forgot everything else except the urge to make her admit who was really master.
I stretched out over her, and my hands reached for her bottom and squeezed. She wailed, "Ouch, that's cruel, that hurts, darling! Oh please, don't keep me waiting, fuck me, I want you to, oh how I want you to, you've just about killed me, fuck me, darting!"
And then her mouth gave itself willingly and wantonly to mine, and her tongue darted between those thin lips and pressed my own apart and rammed up against my own tongue, and an electrifying current flowed between us.
My prick had gouged against the silky bush of her pussy, found the way, and to my surprise, discovered that her pussy lips were moist and twitching. The little bitch had been attuned by that spanking, and that had been her loveplay, her prelude, her preparation for this coupling. I was learning rapidly indeed what made Dorothea Purviss tick!
With a single thrust I forced myself forward, and I found that she didn't have a cherry. But she was wonderfully tight, and the minute I was in to my balls, I could feel the walls of her love sheath clench around me and grip me as if they would never let me go.
She moaned deep in her throat, and her arms locked tightly round me and then her legs followed suit. The total abandon and surrender of her body was such that I very nearly lost all my spunk. I had to fight desperately the urge to explode then and there, thrilled as I was by the sight of her reddened bottom lunging and squirming and tensing and yawning under the thrashing I had so energetically dosed out.
I had to close my eyes and think of mathematical figures and the cold war and anything that was abstruse and didn't connect with sex or I certainly would have lost my juice then and there. But at last the crisis was over, and I could breathe again.
Slowly, then, I drew myself back out of her cunt hole, and I felt the tensings and fluctuations of the volutes of her ardent womb as I drew out to the very brink of her quim. "Oh give it to me, oh hard, oh fast, fuck me, fuck me, lover," she moaned. She tugged at me with her hands and forced me back down into her, as she arched up to meet me.
Once again I felt our hairs merge, and once again I felt the wonderful fluttering and spasming contractions of her vaginal sheath. Whoever said that the female vagina has no muscles has never experienced a girl in heat as I did!
By now she had wrapped her lovely stockinged legs right round my bottom, and I could feel her fingernails digging into my light suitcoat which I hadn't removed. Now her tongue was sloshing between my lips, darting in like a serpent striking, and I felt the waves of savage passion swell in me to a mighty tide that would not much longer be held back, any more than King Canute had been able to hold back the waves by having them lashed with chains.
I could feel my fingers dig into the resilient, warm, springy flesh of her oval ass cheeks, hurting her and yet exciting her at the same time. Her convulsive huggings of me with her legs and arms proved that, as did the frenetic thrusting of her tongue.
I began to draw back and forth, quickening my pace, and then I hilted her with several hard long digs that drew squeals of passion from the brown-haired florist's clerk. Then she began to whimper, and her titties rose and fell violently against my panting chest, and her legs hugged me even closer as she ground and twisted her loins against my digging tool. I couldn't hold back any longer, and I thrust my forefinger into the narrow cleft between her bottom globes till I found the crinkly, dainty lips of her asshole, entering it with just the nub of my finger.
This seemed to unleash a frenzied, inchoate erotic fury within Dorothea Purvis. She began to twist this way and that, her fingernails racking my shoulders and back, her eyes rolling, her face twisting this way and that, not seeing me and with her eyes glazed and hugely dilated. At the same time, her stockinged legs seemed to try to rise higher than my behind, and she bucked and twisted so frantically that at one point my prick almost pulled out of her cunt. The spasmodic contractions of her love walls were draining me almost to the point of bursting, and then I did burst indeed. With a bellow of joy, I felt myself expire as I gushed my torrential flow deep into her womb and lay panting over her, while she hugged me frenziedly and crushed her mouth against mine, once again digging her tongue like a rapier between my lips.
At last I rose, and the feeling of pulling my cock out of that hot tight cunt of hers was sweet torture indeed. She uttered a little moaning sound when I did so, and rolled over onto her side, and then sighed deeply: "Oh wow, you don't know how good that was for me, Stanley darling! I thought you'd never get around to doing that!"
I had taken out a handkerchief and was mopping my prick as I stared at her, her clothes still in disarray, her skirt and petticoat twisted and rolled up at her waist, the thick bush of her cunt sticky now with my spunk and with her own love cream. Those long sweet thighs of hers, the muscles flexing and rippling in the aftermath of completion. She was really maddeningly desirable.
"I never would have thought of a thing like this, Dorothea, honestly I wouldn't," I said hoarsely. "Every time I come from the agency to see your boss, I've noticed you and I wanted you. But I never thought it would happen this way."
"It wouldn't if that accident hadn't happened. When I slipped and you caught me the way you did, you just made me all randy, that'? what you did, Stanley Pallin," she teased. "I just love to be spanked. My daddy used to do it when I was a kid, but he gave it up when I was twelve. I did everything I could to make him do it to me, but he just wouldn't. He'd stop my allowance or scold me or shut me up in my room or not let me go to the movie or something like that.
"And my boyfriend, that stuffed shirt I'm supposed to marry, he wouldn't dream of forgetting that he's a gentleman at all times. That's one reason I'm sorry I have to go back. But I guess I do, because Mother's awfully sick and Daddy just phoned me last night and told me that it was her dying wish I come back home and marry Paul. So that's why."
I understood. She was an honest bitch, and a magnificently passionate one. I was going to miss her a great deal. And Paul, whoever he was, was probably never going to find out that he was married to the world's most passionate bed partner unless by some accident she could contrive to make him tan her lovely hide. I had a feeling that, with her intelligence and sensuality, she would somehow find a way.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In order to preserve the quintessence of my furious pleasure with Dorothea Purviss, I dictated my impressions into a tape recorder after our night was over and I had called a cab for her. I should have liked even more to have captured those vivid moments at the time they occurred, perpetuating her indignant reactions, then her furious invectives and finally the sobs and tears and supplications which my stinging hand wrested out of her blazing, wriggling naked bottom until the superb finale of our fuck.
All the same, I knew that I should retain the memories of this night all my life, and I was deeply grateful to the brown-haired florist clerk who had for once freed herself of her puritanical Bostonian background and proven herself the most ardently masochistic of bed partners.
As it chanced, I did not have an occasion to go back to Norman Cosgrove's office until about three weeks later. When I stopped by in the shop to acquire my usual lapel flower, Dorothea Purviss was not there and in her place was a bespectacled, tall young woman in a long-hemmed dress and an exaggerated English accent who coldly informed me that Miss Purviss was no longer in the company's employ and had gone back East. I wished her joy of her fiance and hoped that he would find the key which unlocked the secret doors of her smoldering desires.
But fate once again was jesting with me and was to substitute this tall prim and quite elegant young woman for the departed Dorothea. Agency business brought me twice more within the following week to the shop on La Cienega, and each time the glacial beauty seemed not to take the slightest personal interest in me even when I asked her to put the flower in my buttonhole and tried to make some engaging comment on the weather or this or that. But the following Friday, as I got out of the cab and hurried towards the building with a manila envelop containing the art work of a proposed Spring campaign for Cosgrove Floral Enterprises, I decided to purchase my usual flower and see if this time I couldn't thaw the icy poise of this British paragon of imperviousness.
What was my surprise as I headed toward the door of the shop which was at the left off the lobby of this two-story building on whose top floor the client's administrative offices were, to see what appeared to be a scuffle. The door of the shop was closed, but I saw a man with a cap pulled down low on his head and in a black sweater and corduroy trousers holding the bespectacled young woman by the shoulders and pushing her towards the rear of the shop.
As I flung open the door, I could see he had one hand over her mouth which was keeping her from screaming for help. With a few strides I reached him, my left hand gripping the collar of his sweater and wrenching him away from his prey. As he turned to me with a startled angry oath, I drove my right fist towards the side of his jaw and he went limp and sagged to the floor.
It was an action born totally out of impulse, for I had never before in all my life exhibited the slightest pugilistic tendencies. The young woman stood with her hands over her mouth, her bosom heaving wildly, her eyes enormous behind the spectacles. Without a word to her, I picked up the phone and dialed the police, advising them that there was a would-be robber at such and such an address and that I would wait for the squad car. About five minutes later, the car drew up and two police officers entered.
My victim was showing signs of coming to by then, and I had seized a heavy flower vase and brandished it over his head to administer the coup de grace if he showed signs of wanting to resume our brief fray.
I told the officers what had happened and who I was and the young woman substantiated my story. The man was taken in tow, handcuffed, and led to the squad car, which then drove away. We would, I was told, be required to come in for questioning upon notice.
I discovered from this that the name of the estimable British goddess was Elaine Forsby. As soon as the police had left, I politely inquired whether she was feeling better and whether I could be of any further service. To my surprise, she blushed furiously, shook her head and then rather haltingly stammered, "I say, it was jolly good of you to come in when you did, I thought for sure I was a goner. He said, he was going to take all the money in the cash register after he, he, he had, "
"I understand. Best to forget about it, Miss Forsby. Now to get back to normal, might I induce you to sell me a flower?"
"Oh, sir, I want to give you one and there won't be any charge! It was so good of you!" she breathed. She turned, found a yellow rose, plucked it neatly and scissored the stem to make it of the proper size for my buttonhole. Then very deferentially she inserted it.
She was almost as tall as I, and the sight of her cameo-like face and the view I had of her neatly parted sandy colored hair (which was coiffured in a very thick round bun at the back of her head) and the delicate scent of her perfume, combined to make my prick feel stirrings of desire.
Her long black silk dress, a kind of anachronism, shaped out high-perched small but beautifully shaped titties, hugged an exceedingly supple waist, and praised the svelte curves of her haunches and the pristine columns of her gracefully sculptured thighs.
I should have liked dallying a little longer with Elaine Forsby, but duty called and Norman Cosgrove was probably champing at the bit for his art work. I thanked her for the flower, told her I would see her later, and hurried up the stairs to our client. He was in a genial mood, looked over the art work and pronounced it excellent, then glanced at my buttonhole and wryly commented, "I see that you patronize us too, Mr. Pallin. That's brand loyalty if I ever heard of it."
"Of course," I chuckled. "Besides, you've the finest flowers in all California."
"Well, now, that's quite a broad statement and I think that my friend Ernie up in San Francisco would quarrel with you," he smiled. "Do you find Miss Forsby capable as a salesgirl?"
"Indeed I do," I at once replied. I saw no reason to tell him of the little altercation which had just taken place, and I was certain that Elaine Forsby would want no publicity. There was a kind of ghoulish fascination which rape stories have in the newspapers and magazines for the vicarious voyeurs. I was certain that if any newspaper reporter got hold of the story and decided to run it together with a picture of the delectable British export to our fair shores, Miss Elaine Forsby would be annoyed by obscene phone calls and curious visitors to the shop just to see what a "rapee" looked like and to conjecture how it would be "making out" with her long- legged, voluptuous body.
After I had finished my business with Norman Cosgrove, I went back down to the shop, where I found the tall blonde artfully arranging a vase full of carnations. Her back was to me, and so I had occasion to contemplate her callipygian charms for a long and blissful moment before I discretely coughed to let her know of my presence.
Her behind was certainly harmoniously wrought, comprising two broadly oval and tightly spaced cheeks which quivered and flexed in the most libidinous way. Since she was stooping slightly, her skirt plaqued to her bottom and thus molded it out in the most prick stirring manner.
At the sound of my cough, she straightened, turned, and her eyes widened. They were gray, very large and closely set. Her chin was firm and ovalled, with a tiny dimple to the left. Her mouth was firm and gracious, neither too tight nor too ripe. Her nose was delicately snub, with just a hint of an uptilt, and the wings of her nostrils were very thin and mercurially dilated. What I could see of her skin, and all of it was hidden except her throat, of course, in that long black dress, made me speculate as to the rest of her when unveiled, for her slim throat was a pale white against which the tiny blue veins near the pulse hollow made exquisite tracery.
"Oh, Mr. Pallin," she exclaimed, her voice flurried with the first emotion I had really heard her evidence, "I'm so glad you came back! I, I didn't really have a chance to thank you, to thank you for what you did. I was just about petrified."
"You should have screamed for help."
"I would have, but he told me he'd hurt me. There was a big pair of cutting scissors on the table right by the back where he was pushing me, and I knew he had seen them and he might have used them, and anyway, he had his hand over my mouth so I couldn't cry for help. How wonderfully lucky for me it was that you came along when you did, and that you were so brave! I'm terribly grateful."
I flushed modestly. "I acted instinctively. I'm glad for your sake it worked, because if he'd had a gun or a knife, my heroics would have been rather useless."
"I'm very glad, just the same. You're terribly brave and strong. I hope, " and here she lowered her eyes and blushed exquisitely.
"What do you hope, Miss Forsby?" I gently prompted her.
"I, I only wish I hadn't been so unfriendly to you those times before when you came in for a flower, Mr. Pallin. I guess it's because I didn't want to, I thought if I was too friendly with customers, it might encourage them, I'm rather shy, you know."
"Beautifully so," I gallantly countered, making her blush all the more. She was standing very close to me, clasping her long slim fingers together and twisting them as she strove to express herself. I suddenly experienced a ferocious desire for that tall sleek body of hers. But I was sure that she was cherry.
"I understand," I said. "But would you think me very fresh if I asked you to dinner this evening?"
"Oh no! I, I'd love to have dinner with you, Mr. Pallin."
"Then why don't you begin by calling me Stanley? And I'd like to call you by your first name. Ever since high school, and Tennyson's Idylls of the King, I've loved your name."
"Yes, Elaine the fair, Elaine the pure, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolot," she murmured and once again she blushed gloriously. "I get off at five here, and I don't live far away, Mr. Pallin, S, Stanley, I, I, I mean."
"I could call for you in a cab here or at your place," I suggested.
"Oh dear, you don't have a car? That's an awful lot of trouble to go to, "
"For a date with you? Don't be silly, Elaine. I risked my life, a little while ago, and thought nothing of it, so certainly taking a cab to pick you up isn't any great shakes. Give me your address. I'll be there about six, is that all right?"
"Oh yes!" she nodded. Then she turned to the little counter which served also as desk and at one side of which was a rack with greeting cards, note paper and envelopes, and scribbled her address down on a card which she handed to me.
When I left the agency at five that evening, I went into the lobby and bought a huge bouquet of sweetheart roses and had them neatly wrapped. Then I took a cab out to Elain Forsby's address, which was near Sepulveda Boulevard in Hollywood. When the cab drew up in front of the address, I was surprised to find myself in front of an old fashioned and somewhat rundown white frame house bordering a vacant lot.
I told the driver to wait, walked up the steps and rang the bell. A moment later Elaine Forsby herself opened the door and blushed vividly. She wasn't wearing her long black dress; instead, she had on a red satin housecoat. Also, she had done something to her hair which made her a totally different girl. Nor was she wearing her usual spectacles. She was suddenly changed into a very demure and desirable young woman whose age I put at about twenty-three at most. Her hair had been combed out, and gathered into a sheath with a barrette at the back of her neck. It pulled away from her forehead and left its purity and high arching contours to mark the classic cameo of her winsome features.
"Oh I wonder, Stanley, if you'd mind letting me cook dinner for you here. I just happened to think after you left that I've got some steaks in the refrigerator and thought you might like a home-cooked meal instead of a restaurant."
"I would indeed. Let me send the cab away and I'll be right back," I said enthusiastically. As I paid off the driver and gave him a handsome tip, I felt myself tingling with anticipation. When I came back, I handed the bouquet to Elaine Forsby as I entered her little house and closed the door behind me.
"Oh how thoughtful! And what lovely roses, as lovely as the ones we have in stock, I'm ashamed to say," and then she giggled, which was almost out of character for the image I had built up about her. But I found it coquettishly feminine, and it enhanced my sudden surging desire for that tall sleek body of hers. But I wanted to know more about Elaine Forsby and whether she lived alone. There seemed to be no other sign of life in this house.
"This is quite an attractive little house," I ventured. "Did you rent it?"
"Oh no! Someone, someone did for me. Here, let me put these in water, and then I'll go prepare our dinner. It won't take too long. In fact, I've already got the steaks buttered and salted with just a little garlic rubbed over them. How do you like yours, Stanley?"
"Medium, please. If I'd known that, I would have brought along some good wine."
"I have some. But it's very thoughtful of you to think of it. I'll be back in just a moment. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. There are cigarettes in that humidor on the coffee table, and if you want a drink, help yourself over at the sideboard."
She took the flowers, gave me a dazzling smile, and disappeared. The living room was old fashioned, extremely spacious, and beautifully decorated. I could see that there was a thick and very costly oriental rug which covered almost the entire floor, it must have cost a small fortune. There was an antique cherrywood secretary in one corner, and beside it was the sideboard in matching cherry wood, with decanters of bourbon, scotch, whiskey and a few other liqueurs which I couldn't at once identify.
There were handsome goblets and shot glasses and pony goblets for brandy. This intrigued me. If it was a rented house, it must have been unfurnished. Were these lavish furnishings the property of the prim British florist clerk?
I went to the sideboard, sniffed the decanters and discovered that one was filled with Grand Marnier, France's greatest liqueur. I poured myself about a fingerful in a goblet, sloshed it around, inhaled its bouquet and took a tentative sip. The warm tingle which it left furthered my mood of mounting sensuality. There was a mystery here, a delicious one, which I meant to unravel.
Soon she called me in to dinner, and I found myself in an elaborate dining room set off from the kitchen, with Wedgwood china and sterling silver. She had prepared a tossed salad whose dressing was incomparable and, I think, homemade. For dessert she had a bowl containing a mixture of Jello, butter pecan ice cream and creame de caso, frozen into an ice cream like mold and wonderfully tasty.
Then we went back in the living room to sit on a lavishly upholstered wide and comfortable couch. I didn't quite know how to begin, and I didn't want to make a pass at her. So I brought the subject of conversation again round to the house: "How long have you worked for Norman Cosgrove, Elaine?"
"About a year, though only a few months at this shop where we met, Stanley."
"I see. You're definitely British, aren't you?"
She uttered a gay little laugh and nodded. "Oh yes! I was born in London. And I don't mind giving my age, it's twenty-four. I came here about two years ago with my father, my mother had died about ten years ago. He had a job with one of the electronic firms as an engineer." She lowered her eyes, pursed her lips for a moment. "He came down with some sort of virus only a few months after we got here and then he died too. So I had to go to work. Of course, he left me a little money, but I didn't want to go back to England. The opportunities for single girls aren't too great, the taxes are just tremendous."
"I've read about them. A lot of young people are leaving England for Canada or Australia, I suppose," I said, just to make conversation.
After an excellent dinner, Elaine Forsby and I went back to the living room to have more coffee and cigarettes, and I was still piqued about the unexplained mysteries of this old white-framed house. Its lavish furnishings, its costly decor, all hinted at wealth. But from what I had gathered in across-the-table conversation with the bespectacled British beauty, I was not yet edified as to how she had come into this wealth.
She had put back on her spectacles when we went back into the living room, and it changed her personality entirely. With them, she was prim, aloof, and patrician, and yet of course the red satin housecoat and the change of hairstyle told me that there was quite a different woman beneath the outwardly poised and impersonal shell which she presented to the public in the florist shop.
She leaned forward to put her cigarette on the ashtray and glanced up at me, a warm blush spreading over her pale white cheeks. Then she murmured, "I really haven't thanked you as I ought to for just about saving my life, Stanley."
"This dinner is reward enough, believe me, Elaine," I chuckled. "But I'm wondering if you're going to stay in a flower shop all your life. A beautiful girl like you deserves far better things. You ought to have someone bring you flowers every day instead of you just selling them to strangers."
"That's a very pretty speech. Thank you. But, well, I'll get what I want, don't you worry. But anyway, I'm ever so glad it was you who rescued me."
I suddenly found her sitting very close to me and putting out both her hands towards me. The red satin housecoat snugged over the small but beautiful rounds of her titties, and it hugged her long slender thighs and high-set calves. I smelled her nearness, and I was getting randier than hell by the moment. I took hold of her hands, looked into her eyes, and kissed her on the mouth very gently. She gave a little gasp and closed her eyes and responded. Her lips parted under mine, and I heard a little whimpering sob muffled in her throat, and then she locked her arms around me very tightly.
My hands went to her shoulders and stroked them for a moment, then moved to her titties. She seemed to shiver when I touched them, and then she broke away from the kiss and rose abruptly from the couch, her cheeks flaming. She still had on her glasses, and the contrast between that pensive and intellectual look of hers and the subtle femininity when she didn't wear them really got to me. And all the time that gleaming red satin sheathing her and now, from where I sat, like a second skin over her bottom and her long legs, became a further tantalizing stimulus to fucking.
But once my eyes had riveted on her saucy oval bottom, I knew what I wanted most of all. Not just a fucking from her, but the pleasure of taking her over my lap and spanking her until she cried and kicked and pleaded to do anything I wanted. For I pictured myself in the role of the rapist from whom I had saved her. Only he wouldn't have had time to do all those lovely things to her, not there in the shop. But here alone in her house, all night extended before us. And I had never felt so virile, so alive.
She turned to face me, and I could see that her lips were trembling and that the fingers holding her cigarette were trembling, too. "Stanley, do you want me?" she quavered in a very husky, little girl voice that trailed away.
"You know better than to ask a silly question like that, Elaine," was my answer.
"I oughtn't to. I mean, it's not really my right to let you have me. Because you see, I belong to someone else. But in a way, you saved me for him, you really did, and I think it's only right I should, well, maybe if you made me do what you wanted so that I wouldn't be the one who was giving in, can you understand what I'm trying to say, Stanley, darling?"
Now, her cigarette dangling from one corner of her mouth, she had clasped her hands and held them out in a kind of supplicating petition to me, and her eyes were humid and misty and very wide, and her small round lovely bubbies were rising and falling very fast against the clinging bodice of the housecoat.
Yes, I comprehended. Once again it was the old story of rationalization. She didn't want to be the one to make the first step towards sinning, but it would be all right if I made up her mind for her. And I suspected also that if I hadn't intervened when I did back there in the shop, she might have succumbed quite willingly to her assailant. There was a paradox to this lovely piece of pussy, this bespectacled British patrician who still hadn't explained to me how she had come here to this white-frame house with all its expensive furnishings and who was paying the rent tab and the bill for her wardrobe. Because, knowing what Norman Cosgrove paid his help, I couldn't quite believe that she was either frugal enough or earned enough to pay the rent on a place like this.
I stared at her levelly for a moment. Then I rose and took her by the shoulders. "If you're trying to tease me, Elaine, I'm not fond of the idea. I know you British girls are supposed to be unemotional, but I'd like to try to rouse some in you. I think I'll show you just how I'd punish what we call over here a cock-teaser."
"A, a, c, cock-teaser?" she echoed, turning very red in the face.
"Exactly. A girl who teases a man's cock until he wants to fuck her, and then won't give. That's a literal if rather vulgar translation, but I think you understand the language. And that's what you are, Elaine. All this talk about wanting to reward me but not being sure you ought to. That's hogwash. Do you know what you need, young lady? A good sound spanking on your bottom, and that's exactly what you're going to get!"
"Oh no! Oh, you mustn't, please, it and not right, oh Stanley, I don't want you to, not that, it's too humiliating!" she began to wail as she backed away, and both her hands were covering up her luscious rump in a rather ludicrous gesture of self-defense.
I grabbed her by the elbows and pulled her over to the couch. Elaine Forsby began to cry. I sat myself down carefully, I dragged her down across my lap so that she stretched out completely along the couch with her bottom elevated over my knees. Then I looked around for the zipper, and I found one at the top of the housecoat, which pulled all the way down to the small of her back. I tugged it down and I saw the smooth white flesh and the deeply hollowed spinal column, and my heart began to pound madly. I didn't see any further zipper, but the spanking on the bare could wait. Right now I wanted to feel that spacious behind of hers quake and quiver under my hand. I put my left palm on the small of her naked back, pressing down as hard as I could. Then I lifted up my right hand and gave her a good hard swat on the right cheek of her behind and then one on the left, in the plumpest spots each time. She kicked her legs and wailed and looked back to me imploringly: "Ouch, oooh, dear, oh please don't! It's wicked, you mustn't, please, darling!"
But the "darling" gave it all away. I had already confirmed what I suspected: my lovely British florist clerk was a real masochist, the sort of girl who had to be forced before she could get her jollies. And remembering what I did about the English school of flagellation, I also suspected that long legged Elaine Forsby could probably take with greater stoicism than her American sisters under the skin a sound birching or a caning or even a tawsing, if I could only find an implement to stimulate any one of those three classical implements of fustigation.
At any rate, the pleasures derived were not to be discounted. Her bottom was marvelously springy, and it flattened most satisfactorily under the impact of my palm, and I could feel the flesh quake and the cheeks tighten and spasm as I continued to spank her. Her long legs kicked wildly in the air, till her pumps flew off, and then I could see her dainty toes wriggle and twist and perorate against the gauzy off-black nylons she was wearing. It felt very definitely that she wasn't wearing any panties under the housecoat, and probably no bra either. Indeed, there wasn't the sign of any bandeau around her lissome white back.
I gave her about forty good hard spanks, and she was crying quite satisfactorily when I finished. She hadn't tried to wriggle off, except to kick wildly about, to beat at the couch with her fists, and constantly to turn her tear-stained face back to me to implore mercy and to tell me that I was shaming her dreadfully and that I really mustn't.
"That will do for a start, Elaine," I declared in a voice hoarse with passion. By now I was certain she could feel my stiff prick prodding her loins as she wriggled over me. But I wasn't finished with her yet. "Now you can just get up and take off that housecoat right now, young lady."
"Oh, please don't make me do that, I'm afraid of you, oh truly I am, Stanley darling, please be kind to me and don't spank me any more, please!" she tearfully pleaded.
"That depends on how you behave now. I said get up and take off that housecoat. I mean it, Elaine!" I threatened.
She slid her lovely long legs to the floor, slowly stood up, groaned, put a hand behind her, and began to rub frantically. With her other hand, she groped through her tear- blurred eyes for the zipper at the top, yanked it down to her waist, and as it sprang open I could see the small side-curves of those orange-like bubbies of hers, so white and defenseless and delicious. My prick was monstrous now, but I wanted to see the marks of my hand on her naked ass, standing out against that once-white skin and making the rest of her that much whiter by contrast. This was the true pleasure of sadist, and it recalled to me all the exquisite and libidinous joys I had experienced vicariously by reading such books as "Maude Cameron and Her Guardian" and all the exciting stories in the superb bi-monthly publication "Corporal."
"Be quick about it!" I said quickly, pretending to get up from the couch.
"Oh please don't, I will, I will, don't spank me any more, please!" she whimpered. She seized the open folds of the housecoat and yanked it down to her waist, and then pulled some more, until the sheath crumpled round her and festooned her ankles. Then she at once clapped her hand over the bushiest cunt-fleece I had ever seen on a girl, even in the magazines which showed pictures of the "art study models." It was a dark brown fleece, with thick curls, completely covering the soft pink lips of her cunt. It began at the lower abdomen and grew luxuriously. Her bellybutton was deep and narrow and almost invisible. The lovely titties had small dark-coral aurolae, and very pert buds in their centers. They rose and fell now, making those buds bob and palpitate as if with a life all their own. My prick was enormous now.
"Turn around, stoop, and get out of that at once!" I commanded, feeling myself a pasha in my own harem.
Sniffling, Elaine Forsby obeyed. In doing so, she jutted back towards me the magnificent oval hillocks of her voluptuous ass, furiously crimsoned and twitching and contracting. Although they were tightly spaced, her bending and also the spasmodic tensions which my spanking had evoked made the shadowy cleft between them separate from time to time so that I could catch glimpses of that dainty little pink rosette of her asshole, and also see at last the peeping lips of her pink quim almost hidden by the tufts of pussyhair.
She had stepped out of the rucked-down housecoat now, and all she wore were those off-black hose to midthigh, and, to my delight, anachronistic, old-fashioned elastic garters around which the tops had been rolled. She was naked otherwise, and she was more desirable in just those stockings and the reddened skin of her behind than if she had been Eve-naked. And then I had an imaginative erotic fantasy which must have come from my association not only with all those books I had read as a youth, but also the symbolism of Elaine Forsby's presence in a flower shop. I glanced about, seeking some weapon of fustigation, for to spank her by hand was all too banal. And I saw the bouquet of sweetheart roses which I had brought, in the vase, and a dazzling idea burst into my mind. I strode towards it, lifted them out, and, having seen a scissors near the sideboard, cut off the stems, dropped the roses back into the vase, and then bound my handkerchief around the end of those stems which I was holding in my hand. It thus made a birch rod, and I advanced upon the bespectacled naked beauty, who stared at me, bewildered and bemused, her lips open in a large, stupefied "O", one hand clapped over her hairy mount, the other held out towards me as if in piteous supplication. I had glanced at the stems long enough to see that there were few thorns, for mostly these were green and slick and smooth. They would not therefore excoriate her pale white skin too much, but they would sting and impart the aura of domination, of complete mastery over her slavish nakedness.
I strode towards her then, put my left hand on her shoulder, and cut her across the fronts of her thighs with my improvised rod. She uttered a squeal of pain, and sank at once to her knees in a feline, sinuous movement which made my prick savage and rampant with desire. And she knelt there, one hand still clapped against her cunt and the other held up towards me, I dragged down my zipper with my left hand and liberated my cock. Then, my left hand plunging into the flowing sheaf of her silky hair and twisting it, I panted, "Kiss it, suck it, ask me to fuck you, Elaine, my beautiful naked slave, my English fancy girl, obey me!"
"Oh Stanley, oh please, no, oh, what are you doing, what's come over you, oh, my darling, please no!" she gasped. I leaned over her and slashed the rod at her already reddened asscheeks, and she sobbed and squirmed, bending closer to me, and then I felt her breath upon my prick and the soft brush of her lips against it. And then she was clasping the shaft with that free hand of hers while her other still modestly hid the thicket of her love-bower and she was kissing the tip of my prick until I thought I would go mad with ecstasy.
"Not too fast, now," I hoarsely instructed her, leaning over her once again to flick at her naked ass with my bundle of rose stems. Once again her hips weaved and squirmed, she pressed herself closer to me, and then the hand that had been guarding her cunt lodged at the small of my back while her other fingers pressed and squeezed my aching shaft as she guided my cockhead between her parted lips and began to suck with a slushy, moist sound that had in it all the symphonic overtones I had so longed to hear all the days of my tortured, frustrated adolescence. For this was the music of servitude, the music of subjugation and it vied with the plaints and the cries and the tears and the prayers for mercy which my fantasy needs must have to satisfy my powers.
I began to flick her back and shoulders with these delicate switches, making her wince and gasp incoherent words, the while she sucked me all the more furiously. Now I could feel her nimble pink tongue rasping along the sides of my taut spearhead, slushing round and round the circumcisional groove of my monstrously throbbing and swollen prick. I had to exert all my self-mastery to keep from gushing forth my torrent of spunk into her panting throat. For I wished to reserve it for that hairy cunt of hers, I wanted to hear her groan under me as I pierced her to my very balls.
"That's enough," I panted at last and jerked at her hair to force her to disgorge her sweet mouth off my bulging ramrod. "Now beg me to fuck you, Elaine! Beg me, you sweet British bitch!"
And with this, stepping back, and as her hand released my prong, I switched her across her titties, and she cried out and clutched at them and then, squirming on her knees, her hips executing a kind of weaving movement as if she were already beginning the libidinous rhythm of fucking, she panted, "Oh yes, oh, my master, my god, fuck me, fuck your slave, she's all yours, you've made her yours, oh Stanley, do anything to me, rip me apart, rend me, pierce me and screw me, give it to me hard and good, oh my darling lover, take me now, I want you so!"
I gave her a last cut across her titties and then flung aside the improvised rod of switches. I knelt down to face her, and my hands clutched those small sweet bosom- oranges of hers, and I forced her back down onto the floor. Sinuously, she flung her long legs up in the air, gaping her cunt, and at last I could see the soft pink lips and also the pronouncedly developed clitoris which was throbbing and swollen, proclaiming her tumescence and her willingness to yield. With a single thrust, I skewered her, and she cried out shrilly, and her long legs locked over me, and her arms hugged me fiercely as my chest crushed down those titties of hers and my mouth silenced her whimpering gasps of ecstasy.
Then I began to fuck her ruthlessly, casting aside all foreplay, all science. The tight clamp of her moist, humid, warm cunt was excruciatingly blissful to me, and I only prayed that I could sustain my fervor long enough to draw her to an answering climax. For my bubbling spunk was at the brink now, and every frictioning thrust of my ramrod deep into her chasm only drew me closer and closer to that dark abyss of total, cataclysmic rapture which is not quite death, but as beautiful as both life and death combined.
And just as I felt that I could not sustain another aching dig into her greedy love- chasm, I felt her wiggle and quake under me, felt her arms and legs convulsively lock me and draw me tighter to her body. And there was a shout forming in my mouth which my own mouth took and swallowed, as I finally thrust to the falls and felt myself explode.
She clawed at me, she rolled me over till I was on my back, and she ground and twisted and squirmed herself as if she sought to drain my prick of every possible drop and leave me limp and sexless. She was sobbing now, and there were tears in her dilated eyes, and her nostrils were flaring and shrinking and she was pagan. And with the spectacles, which were now misted, she seemed even more desirable because those glasses gave the illusion of the aloof intellectual while her naked body voraciously strove for the most carnal and primitive cohesion.
At last we lay spent with spending, panting, she atop me, my hands having gripped her still warm, quivering asscheeks. And then she breathed wanly, "Oh Stanley, oh darling, it was never so good as now, oh, I'm so glad you made love to me, I was afraid to, and I shouldn't have, not ever. Not so long as I belong to him, I shouldn't have."
"Belonged to whom, Elaine darling?" I muttered.
She turned scarlet now, averted her face from me and closed her eyes. And then in a faint, halting whisper, she breathed, "Why, Mr. Cosgrove, of course. I'm his m, mistress, you know. He owns this house just as he owns me. And I once promised him I'd never, never cheat on him, and I wouldn't have, but you, you sp, spanked me so and then you wh, whipped me, and I can't help it when a man does that to me. I melt all over inside when I'm punished, because I love to be punished. He does it, too, but it wasn't as wonderful, not ever as wonderful, as when you did it to me just now. Oh, what am I going to do now?"
"Forget what's happened, unless of course you'd rather be my girl than his," I told her bluntly.
But she shook her head. "Oh now, I can't. He's been so kind, and when my parents died, he sort of looked after me and he gave me a start with that job in the shop. I'm his now, and I think maybe some day he might even marry me. I can't, even though I love you awfully, Stanley. I just can't."
"Then we better not see each other again so you won't be worried about your conscience, Elaine," I told her. She had risen from me now, stooped and retrieved her discarded housecoat, and was holding it against her titties and cunt, her face still flaming. She had never looked more desirable, and I lusted for her, and I could feel my prick getting hard all over again. But she was too mixed up, and her conscience would bother her far more than any whip. And then there was the practical matter, too, the danger of being discovered by Norman Cosgrove as a poacher on his premises and losing his account from my agency, which would of course be tantamount to losing my job.
But it would be a memory that I would always cherish, and which, in recording now in these my memoirs, still sets my prick to aching as I close my eyes and think of that disdainful, tall, bespectacled English girl who had come all the way from London to wind up as a mistress to an egocentric florist, and who was undone because he had discovered her darkest secret, the secret of subjugation to which alone her flesh could ardently respond.
She would have been an ideal slave, a concubine to cherish, and perhaps my further episodes might never have occurred if I could have taken her away from Norman Cosgrove. But at that point in my life, I had no such desire. She would constantly torture herself with infidelity, she would feel that she had never repaid her gratitude to him, and there would be a kind of bitterness between us. I wanted no ghosts in my lust-life, other than those whom I summoned.
And so, after I had dressed, I kissed Elaine Forsby goodbye and I told her that at most I should buy a flower from her when I visited the client, but that beyond that, we must forget the night we had just enjoyed. And so we did.
But there was a happy ending for her, because a year later Norman Cosgrove married Elaine Forsby. I wonder even now about that tall white-skinned body of hen, bending to the whip, squirming under the lash, her soft lips glued to a man's prick, all the furious agitation of her turbulent emotions unleashed by the magic of the lash. What contrast between the disdainful, haughty young woman who presided over that flower shop and the girl I had spanked and made French me, naked in her stockings and glasses there in the living room of the man who had bought and given her that house as their place of rendezvous!
CHAPTER NINE
I had begun to fall out of love with Los Angeles, perhaps because, like Dorothea Purviss and even lovely Elaine Forsby, I had absolutely no roots left there any longer. True, Elaine had her boss who was now her husband, but it was a kind of compromise for what she really wanted. There was a father image there, because he was more than twice her age and obviously tyrannical. But I, who wanted to be lord over my own destiny, had neither parents, not even my old governess, only a job which supplicated anywhere in the country. And the constant smog and the shifting weather and the increasing automobile traffic and noise and the very vastness of Los Angeles had begun to fall upon me.
I took stock of myself. I was nearing twenty-five. I was somewhat more prepossessing in appearance than in my adolescence, and I had at last got over the burden of my male virginity. I had over thirty thousand dollars in my bank which I had not touched and to which I had added from my salary as an agency copywriter. I felt that San Francisco, reputedly a cosmopolitan city with perhaps a richer history, might be more interesting. And so I began to write letters to some of the leading advertising agencies there, citing my background and my special talents and mentioning the accounts on which I had worked.
It took six months before I found a decent lead which warranted a personal interview. My health had been uniformly excellent, so I was able to tell the white lie that I was going into the hospital for a checkup for a few days the following week, and thus give myself time enough to fly to San Francisco and have my interview.
I flew there on Saturday, took a tour of the city in the afternoon by bus, had dinner at Ernie's and then took a cable car up California Avenue. At night, the view from Twin Peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge and, the opposite direction, the Bay Bridge and the downtown scene of the city were really breathtaking. There was a coolness to the air which I enjoyed as an old Chicagoan, and which I had not had in Los Angeles. And at least there was no smog.
On Sunday I continued my tour, decided where I might want to live if I should get the job, had another excellent dinner at Grison's Steak House, and walked back to my hotel which was the Bellevue on Geary. At nine o'clock on Monday morning, I was seated opposite James Courtelnay, a vice president of the medium-sized agency which had shown most interest in my resume. We talked about an hour, he sent out for coffee and Danish, then took me through the shop, as he called it. We went to lunch at Doro's, and then back to the office. At about four in the afternoon I had the feeling that I was hired, and it turned out just that way. I told them I could start the following Monday, and when he mentioned the salary, it was slightly more than I was getting and it certainly sufficed. I wanted to start afresh and I could afford to stake myself for a time because of my inheritance.
So that evening I flew back to Los Angeles, had almost the entire first-class section to myself and was given doting service by a very pretty, petite brunette stewardess who seemed to indicate that she would not be averse to my asking her for a date. I learned that she was headquartered in Los Angeles, and that unhappily dampened my interest in pursuing a further and more intimate acquaintance with the damsel. I did not think I should ever go back to Los Angeles again once I had left it.
So I gave notice on Tuesday morning, spent my lunch hour arranging for a transfer of my bank funds to the Bank of America on Market Street in San Francisco, and that evening told my landlady that I was going to move by the end of the week and that she was free to show my apartment to anyone else. My boss had offered me a raise if I would stay, but I thanked him and refused. I let it be known that the state of my health required a cooler climate, and I saw no need to tell him that I was going to work in a San Francisco agency. It was a clean break, there were no recriminations on either side, and that was an end of it. On Saturday morning the movers came in, did a swift and efficient job of packing my books and records, my hi-fi and my wardrobe, while I packed a single suitcase containing enough clothing for a week. I told them that I would notify their branch in San Francisco by the middle of next week where I wanted my things brought and I give them the Bellevue Hotel as a temporary address. On Sunday morning I was having brunch at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and had a drink at The Top of the Mark with its incomparable view. I liked what I saw of San Francisco, I knew that it was plagued by hippies but they were mostly of the Haight-Asbury area which I would never have any reason to frequent. One day, I thought, I might go back to Chicago after I had learned a few skills and reached what I considered the proper maturity.
In the afternoon I went apartment-hunting, and as luck would have it, I stumbled on an absolutely perfect place. At that time, I had not the slightest knowledge that I would lead the double life which was to keep me walking a virtual tightrope for the next few years, but I could not have found a better place for my purpose even if I had known it.
It was in a rather isolated area off Golden Gate Park, at about Forty-Fifth Avenue and past Irving. It was a rather gloomy-looking house but with a substantial basement, and there was even an attic. There was a "For Rent" sign in that attic window, and as it chanced, there was a realty agent on the premises when I came by. I had taken the street car out to the ocean and walked around the Cliff House and Seal Rock, around that beach where, back in the early 'sixties, a valiant sixteen- year-old girl had swum out a hundred yards into the ocean to drag back a man whose legs had been bitten off by a shark, and had given him the last rites of the church as he lay dying on the sand, for which she had been awarded a Presidential medal.
I liked the nearness to the ocean, and I had begun to walk slowly back towards the city, for it was a beautiful, sunny yet cool day. And when I turned on to the street and saw this house standing so isolated and, coming closer, saw that sign, I knew at once that this was where I wanted to be. It would give me privacy, space and comfort. In a house, I could play my favorite records at full volume without worrying about neighbors, something I could not have done in an apartment. I liked such blazing orchestral works as Gliere's "Ilya Mourometz" and Mahler's "Resurrection" Symphony, and such operas as "Turandot" and "Boris Godounoff." And although I had stereo earphones, I vastly preferred to hear the music fill the room and make me think myself in the very middle of the orchestra pit.
The rental was only $250 a month, with an option to buy, which had to be exercised in six months. The asking price for the house was $39,000, a real bargain in view of current real estate levels in most major cities. I wrote a check for two months' rent, told the agent that my things would be moved in about Wednesday, shook hands, and then went back on the streetcar to my hotel where I had a pleasant nap before enjoying the superb French cuisine of Fleur de Lys.
And so the next morning I was in my new office at nine, reporting to Mr. James Courtelnay, and was put to work at once devising a newspaper campaign for a new night-club account which the agency had been awarded the very week I was being interviewed. It kept me busy for the better part of the day, and my first drafts were heartily approved by my new boss. I treated myself to a superb dinner at the Blue Fox, went back to my room at the Bellevue, and later that evening was roused from a sound and pleasant sleep by a rambling, which I later found, was a minor earthquake tremor.
The first week was fascinating because it was such a challenge. I was absolutely unknown to them, I had sold myself to my boss on the strength of a full day's interview, and he had taken me on trust and of Course on probation. But I was satisfied to find that my skill with words and my imagination with merchandising and advertising ideas were quite as acceptable in San Francisco as they had been in Los Angeles. So I could start my new life without looking back and only looking forward. By Wednesday, my movers had faithfully delivered all my things, and I'd paid them a premium to deliver in the evening when I returned home from work and to spend some overtime hours with two of their men setting up my stuff and saving me a great deal of backbreaking labor. And so Wednesday night I slept for the first time in my own house. Nor was I frightened by all the ghosts that might have lived there once and by my loneliness in it.
The basement was massive, solidly constructed of heavy stone with thick walls and ceiling. There were storage rooms there, and there was a tool shop and workbench which apparently had been used by the previous owner who, the agent had told me, had committed suicide when he had lost every penny on the stock market. A trust company, since this man had no living heirs, represented the house now. But the ghost of a suicide did not frighten me, nor did the fear of earthquakes. Somehow, at the age of twenty-five, one feels oneself immortal. And I had come out of the shadows of my tortured adolescence, my acne, my poor posture and short wind and brooding introspection over having been cheated out of a million-dollar estate, to establish my own life and had to contribute something for which people were willing to pay good money every week. No, there was no need to brood over the past.
But when I was in that basement, once again my phantasmagoria began to come to life, to whisper to me like all the demons of temptation that here would be a matchless hiding place, a place where perhaps a girl could be kept, locked up as a captive and forced to be a slave to my will without anyone's knowing of her presence here. And I thought I could see in my mind's eye a naked girl, perhaps tall and with glasses as Elaine Forsby had been, shackled hand and foot and weeping as she saw me stride towards her with a whip in my hand. There were few windows to this basement, and those that were there were of the thickest, most opaque glass which let in no light. It could be a perfect prison or a torture chamber or even a love nest, to use that bawdy word so often employed by newspapermen back in the "Roaring Twenties."
But it was three months before I became "The Spanking Rapist" for the first time. It happened quite by chance, and it happened because the young woman treated me as if I were trash.
It was on a Sunday in mid-November, and I had gone walking in Golden Gate Park, quite pleased with the way my new life was turning out. I had already had a small raise, I had been assigned as the chief copywriter on two of the agency's best accounts, and James Courtelnay had basked in his own ego by telling me how his partners had complimented him on his good judgement in acquiring a person of my talents. Yes, life was rich and full, except that I was much too continent. I had begun to feel the urge, and I had masturbated many a night conjuring up all my fantasies, remembering Jacqueline, Dorothea and Elaine. And suddenly I wanted to feel, over my lap and struggling against me, the body of a delicious young woman, who feared me and hated me and wanted to avert the disaster of being fucked by me. I wanted to feel her bottom squirming under the good slaps of my hand or the strokes of a strap or belt, I wanted to hear her cries and finally her hysterical promise to do anything in the world if I only would stop whipping her.
So, as I say, I was walking in Golden Gate Park along a path near a viaduct when suddenly a Jaguar came snarling around a corner with a squeal of breaks and almost onto the sandy walk instead of on the paved road where it belonged. I leaped to one side and almost fell into a hedge of jacaranda, and then I angrily rebuked the handsome young woman at the wheel. She was coppery haired, wearing a peek-a-boo blouse and man's tailored slacks, with a multi-colored scarf around her throat. Her cheekbones were high-set, her mouth was full and ripe and insolent, and her eyes were as insolent as I have seen any woman's, a cold dark blue, very large and closely set together.
"You're a grown man, you can look after yourself," she retorted and she put her hand to the horn of her car and blew a deafening blast. "Besides, what are you doing walking around this lonely part of the park by yourself? Maybe you're a mugger, in which case I'm sorry I didn't run you down."
I don't know what came over me. But suddenly I found myself leaping towards the car, opening the door, seizing her by the arm and dragging her out. Her mouth gaped and she was totally taken by surprise at my maneuver.
"Yes, it's quite possible I'm a mugger," I panted as I quickly whipped off her scarf and tied it round her mouth and knotted it solidly at the back of her neck. "But as it happens, I'm not. I'm just a man you nearly killed with your fancy, expensive car. And you're going to learn a lesson, so that you'll be more considerate of others next time."
With this, I dragged her into the bushes, seated myself in a clearing and pulled her across my lap. I flung my right leg over her calves, and as she tried to fight with me with both hands, I managed to capture them with my left and to double her wrists behind her back. Then, fumbling with my right hand, I found the zipper of her slacks and yanked it down, then unbuckled her belt and tugged it out of the loops. She squirmed and writhed frantically, and her moans exuded through the improvised gag. At last I managed to wrench down the slacks just below her bottom, and I stared longingly at the upstandingly rounded, widely grooved cheeks of an absolutely breathtaking, firm, jouncy behind.
Then I ripped her white nylon panties off and exposed tawny skin, smooth and satiny and wonderfully palpitating as the cool air laved it. I doubled the belt,. lifted it, and brought it down sharply with a satisfying smack over the ripest curves of both bare asscheeks. She bucked and twisted, turned her face back to me, her eyes furious, blazing with rage and shame. She yanked at her wrists, and I held her tightly. The belt came down again and again, and each time her body stiffened and then lunged from side to side. The marks were exciting, a bright red against the tawny sheen of her naked flesh.
I paused a moment, I asked her if she were sorry she had nearly run me down, and she ragingly cried out something which of course the gag muffled. And her tone and the look on her face told me that she wished me dead and in hell. I chuckled hoarsely, and the belt resumed its work. Twenty lashes more, and the coppery haired young woman in the Jaguar was weeping, her body twisting and squirming frantically, and her bottom striped and crisscrossed with angry, darkened red marks. Her cheeks yawned and clenched involuntarily, and I could see the dainty rosette of her asshole as well as the soft pink lips of her cunt framed by the dark-red pussycurls. And now my prick was in savage rut and needed assuagement.
I rolled her over onto her bottom on the ground, keeping her wrists pinned behind her back with my left hand while my right foraged with my zipper, yanked it down and bared my prick. A moment later, I had flung myself upon her. She tried desperately to clench her legs, to twist to one side, but I was too well planted. With a lunge, I found her cunt and entered it. Nor was she virgin, but she was gloriously tight. Her eyes bulged, as she felt my manhood sink in her to the very hilt. And then I began to fuck her savagely and quickly, without tenderness, as a kind of spiteful vengeance. And when I gushed my spew inside her, she uttered a cry, her body arched and then flattened and her face twisted to one side and she lay there whimpering and sobbing.
I rose to my feet, staggering with a heady sensation as well as the lassitude of completion which filled me. I hadn't worn my glasses during this walk, but the thought that she would recognize me and identify me had never entered my mind, so violently had I fallen victim to my fantasy and to my impulse.
I put my clothes in order, I picked up the torn panties and I kept them and the belt as souvenirs. And then I ran into a ticket of trees and disappeared, making my way circuitously back to my house. Once there, I showered, and flung myself down naked on my bed and fell asleep dreamlessly, completely.
When I went to work Monday morning, the Chronicle had a story at the back of its front section, about two paragraphs, mentioning that a prominent socialite, aged twenty-five, was assaulted by an unknown assailant in Golden Gate Park on Sunday afternoon. Her name, of course, was not given. But the last two lines caught my eye: "The victim declared to police that she could not identify her ravisher."
Could not or would not? I would never know this, but it would leave me to conjecture and to the pursuit of this maddened impulse which forced me to have sex only when I could add the sweet joys of chastisement to it!
For the rest of that week, I lived on the edge of mingled ecstasy and tenor. Ecstasy, that I had achieved a kind of vengeful punishment as if meted out by the Furies in one of those old plays by Euripides, upon an insolent, predatory, narcissistically motivated female. Terror, of course, because I might have made some error, left some means of identification which would have led the police to me. And because of that very duality of fear and joy, my mind was sharper and clearer than it had ever been. My work was commended that week, and I thought up a campaign for the agency's best account which my boss pronounced as "worthy of an award, if anybody's got brains enough to give one honestly." But having drawn the dark veil of deception and almost schizophrenic behaviorism over my life, my new life, I had apprehensions. I have realized my fantasy, for this woman was a stranger to me and it had been accidental and spontaneous. I hadn't planned it, and the precautions I had taken were those of sheer primeval instinct for self-survival. And yet what grew in my mind was that she had refused to identify me; that was what it amount to, in saying that she was "unable to identify her assailant." I could only conclude that she didn't want to, and that perhaps she welcomed me, as a kind of subconscious yearning after the fact, with a kind of rationalization many women use when they secretly yearn towards a sin which convention brands as "evil" and "unnatural."
On the Friday afternoon of that week following my first criminal act, Bud Gillies, the genial, brown haired vice-president of the agency and only a decade older than myself, invited me over to the Top of the Mark for cocktails. I was surprised and flattered. I was still a cub by agency standards, but this recognition by one of the city's top advertising executives made me realize that I was at last succeeding in my chosen profession and without the aid of any background of influential friends. This was my new home, San Francisco, and I had begun brilliantly and also criminally. It was a kind of challenging game, and I could not tell where it would lead.
Bud Gillies made the usual small talk, then asked me if I wanted to consider going into new business as an account executive who, while he might do a little copy now and then, would primarily direct his efforts towards soliciting new accounts on the basis of good service and imaginative presentations. The pay would obviously be greater, there would be bonuses, profit-sharing stock and all the other fringe benefits which tempt a man's integrity and hold him hard and fast to rigors of a job. Of course I agreed.
And then, quite oddly, after he had ordered a second round of drinks, he made a comment that I would never in the world have expected of him. "You know, Stanley, or would you rather be called Stan?, you'll find a lot of faggots in this town. The Mattachine Society was founded here, and we've also got the Daughters of Bilittis, the other side of the coin, the lebbies and dykes. I've got the feeling that you're a man's man and that you like pussy maybe even better than the average guy like myself. It wouldn't do your reputation any harm to be seen in public with some blue- blooded socialite, you get the picture. I've got some social contacts, and I can arrange it for you. Right now, I don't mind telling you, our agency is after some really big accounts, and we'd like to take them away from the two top agencies in this town. A little publicity in Herb Caen's column wouldn't hurt a bit. See what you can do about it. And now, why don't we get on home, because there's no point in going back to the shop. See you around Monday."
I wonder what he would have said if I had told him that over the weekend I had pulled a socialite out of a Jaguar, spanked and fucked her. I wonder what he would have said if I had told him that perhaps I could give Herb Caen an exclusive story on the fantasies and the projects of a supposedly normal and perhaps precociously intelligent man who intended to go on having sex with the prelude of coercional spanking...
I spent that weekend at the library, assiduously studying all the statistics in all the books I could find dealing with criminal rape. I gathered that the consensus of experts with any psychiatric standing was that most men who rape and are psychotic do so not out of love for women but rather as an expression of actual hatred for them; it was obvious that most of the cases of rape went unreported, sometimes because of the female's shame, but mostly, I inferred, because secretly she desired this subjugation through greater force, which thus relieved them of any sin.
Examining myself scrupulously, I could not find that I hated women in the least. Oh yes, out of sour grapes, I had done so back in high school when Priscilla paraded her sanctimonious virtue before me and let me understand that I was totally inferior even to touch the hem of her skirt. But I hated her simply because I could not have her, not because she was a woman. There was a vast difference. Hence my acts of rape were born out of the fantasy which made the master and relieved my inferiority.
At last I understood myself, and I knew also that I must control the dark desires smoldering within, lest I destroy myself.
Yet at the same time, having acquired my house and being delighted with it, I found myself beginning to equip the basement just as if I fully intended and was already planning future excursions into this devious world of fantasy and sadistic illusion. I put a sawhorse there and attached buckling straps to its legs and one to its middle, as if dreaming that one day I would have a beautiful naked girl strapped down upon it, her pussy pressed tightly against the sharp horizontal ridge over which she was straddled, her bottom jerking and reddening to the kisses of the strap, while she implored me to spare her until at last she acceded to my desires. In the shop of an antique dealer on Mission Street I found a remarkable old pillory in an excellent state of preservation, had it crated and delivered to my house. In a theatrical novelty shop, I found black hoods and tapes with slits for mouth, nostrils and eyes, as well as handcuffs, chains and whips. These I bought, but not in profusion, explaining casually that I was producing some amateur theatricals at one of the colleges in the Bay area.
But seeing the costumes and accouterments which this particular supply house had to offer, the perfidious notion seized me that I might disguise myself and so, if even again I were tempted to one of my sadistic forays against a predatory and haughty female, I could at least take measures to disguise myself and render identification even more difficult. Taking off my glasses would not be enough. My features were inimitable, and as I was always in the downtown business area five days a week, the chances of my being recognized were that much greater.
And so I bought several wigs, and a makeup kit, the day after I had watched a late movie on television, the old Lon Chaney "Man of a Thousand Faces."
And it was actually six months before I committed my second "official" act of sexual reprisal against an insolent, desirable and unbearably egocentric female.
By this time I had acquired an automobile, which was virtually essential in San Francisco, particularly as I was finding myself sent out to visit potential clients as far away as San Jose and San Leandro. The automobile made conveyance easy, and it facilitated my nocturnal prowlings after spankable and fuckable victims, to be sure, though at the time I did not have the slightest inclination toward the latter pursuit, when I purchased it. But it was on a late Friday afternoon in early spring when, heading back from a lengthy interview with the head of a large new animal food packer who was thinking of a major advertising campaign, that I came upon Belinda Jenkins (which is not her true name, to be sure).
I was in no particular hurry to get home, the interview had been most successful, and I meant to type up the results of my interview to have on my boss' desk the first thing Monday morning. The atmosphere was particularly favorable, and I suspected that if we could come up with a good varied package that did not exceed his budget, we had a very fair chance of getting his account. So I thought I might do some scenic driving, perhaps winding up at some nice little restaurant in one of the suburbs near South San Francisco, perhaps even go to a drive-in-movie, and then sleep late until Saturday noon, as had become my custom.
Sexually, I had been dormant. My greater responsibilities at the agency had used up most of my energy, and only infrequently did I masturbate when an occasional nocturnal vision haunted my mind and I found myself otherwise unable to sleep until I conjured up a fantasy story with myself as hero overcoming some patrician beauty who could not see me for dirt but who, after I had tamed and thrashed her, crawled at my feet and pleaded for the privilege of sucking my cock and then offered herself on all fours so that I might put my organ into either of her tight orifices.
I was driving towards Palo Alto on a road that seemed virtually deserted when suddenly, out of a narrow intersection and without waiting for my right of way, a sports convertible flashed by. I had to put on my brakes and swerve to avoid a collision, and I sat there white with fury and my heart pounding with the terror which the aftermath of reaction caused, so close had I been to death. The sports convertible had slowed. I saw a girl look back, heard a mocking giggle float back to me on the air, and then with a squeal of brakes and a shifting of gears, she was off again. Grinding my teeth, I turned my car down that narrow road and followed her. The sky was darkening quickly and there was a rumble of thunder which indicated there would soon be a storm. I drew close to the sports convertible, and I saw that at its wheel was a plump young woman with straw-colored hair cut rather short and mannishly, wearing a blouse with Peter Pan collar, play shorts and dazzling display of plump, pale White thighs. When I drew abreast of her and at her left, to pass her, I could see also that her boobies were big and full and firm and closely spaced.
I called over to her to stop, adding that I was a deputy sheriff, it was the first thing that came into my head. Her eyes widened and her mouth made a little "O" of alarm, and then she promptly stopped.
There was no one around us, there was no habitation for miles, and there was a large billboard extolling the virtues of some local soft drink, as I recall, it went something like, "It hasta be Shasta."
"I'd like to see your driver's license, Miss," I growled. I was neatly dressed in my best business suit, with shirt and tie, and I must have looked reasonably business-like and presentable, for she rummaged in her purse and silently handed me her driver's license. Her name was Belinda Jenkins, she lived in South San Francisco, it gave her age as twenty-six, and indicated that she was single. The photo was not a very good likeness, and the description indicated that she had blue eyes, which I found to be more gray-green, that her height was five feet five, and her weight 130.
"You had better learn how to drive, Miss Jenkins," I told her angrily, "And you'd better learn who has the right of way in this state. I had it, and you almost ran into me."
"I, I'm sorry, but I was in a hurry."
"I see. Suppose I ask you where you were going at such speed that you couldn't observe the courtesies of the road?"
"It, it's none of your business. Besides, I want to see some identification. You said you were a deputy sheriff."
"Every citizen is legally able to deputize himself to arrest an offender, Miss Jenkins," I told her. "So I didn't lie to you."
"You can go to hell! I'm late now, and I don't intend to sit here talking to a stupid fool like you."
"I see. I think you need a lesson in manners, Miss Jenkins." With that, I reached in, pulled her from behind the wheel, out of the car and behind the billboard. She kicked and shrieked and tried to hit me with her fists, but I had already put away my glasses before I got out of my own car, and my vengeful impulse overcame my nominal caution. All I could think of was teaching her some manners.
I got her down on her face, and then I ripped down her play shorts and discovered a wispy pair of nylon panties beneath. These came off, too, and then I sat astride the middle of her back, facing that big, plump, white bottom of hers, with the opulent cheeks and the narrow groove between them, and I began to give her a really energetic spanking.
Her legs kicked frantically, and she hammered the ground with her fists and screamed for help, but before very much longer, she was screaming for mercy, apologizing, her face scarlet and bathed in tears, pleading with me to stop spanking her hind end because she was just dying of shame, and swearing she would never, never do it again.
I got off her and squatted down beside her as she put her face in her hands and gave vent to a long crisis of hysterical tears.
"I hope this has taught you a lesson, Miss Jenkins," I lectured her. "I've still got a good mind to take your license number and run you in for reckless driving. "
"Oh don't, they'd take it away for sure! I, I've got three moving violations already, I couldn't help it, honest I couldn't, oh, you just about killed me, you really hurt me, " she wailed, and now she plunged both hands back to her swollen, naked ass and began to rub while she stared up at me with the most woebegone expression you ever saw.
"I might be inclined to feel sorrier for you, Miss Jenkins, if you'd explain what makes you race like a demon."
"It, it's my guy, we, we're shacking up and we've had a row, and I want him to marry me and now he won't, and he said he was going out with some other girl, and I wanted to get there before he'd leave and talk it over with him and now you've made me late and, oh dear, boohoo, booohoo!" she wailed.
"In that case, since the damage is already done, I may as well console you, Belinda," I chuckled, for my prick was straining at my fly by now and I was hot for this sweet, big-assed young bitch who had nearly killed me. The least she could do would be to offer me some compensation for my jangled nerves.
I rolled her over onto her back, and I was staring at the hairiest pussy I had ever seen till then. If I had thought Elaine Forsby hairy, she was almost clean-shaven compared to Belinda's shaggy-fleeced cunt. The hair was a light brown and quite profuse, the clustered curls completely hiding the plump pink lips of her twat.
"What, oh no, oh please don't do that to me, I don't want you to, oh, let me go, you hurt me so, oh, stop it, I'm going to scream, oh don't, " she began, her eyes widening as she saw me kneel down between her thighs and saw my liberated prick looming at her cunt.
I put a hand over her mouth, and I fell upon her. My prick rooted in the thick, silky bush of her cuntfleece until I found the lips, and then I gently eased myself between them. To my amazement, she moaned and reached up to hug me and pull me down atop her. Then her mouth was devouring mine with almost savage kisses, as she panted, "Oh yes, give it to me now, give it to me, I've lost him, I'm so hot, it's all your fault, give it to me, please!"
I accommodated Belinda Jenkins. I thrust to the balls. I felt the quaking of her cuntwalls. Her arms and legs were wrapped around me, and now her tongue was digging between my lips and she was whimpering as she worked with me. I stroked her long and vigorously, slackening once or twice while I regained my self-control. Then I slipped my right hand between our bodies, found her tickler with my right forefinger, and began to rub it back and forth. Her squeals and snorts and moans and gasps redoubled, and she rocked to and fro, regardless of the fact that her bare, sore bottom was grinding against the crushed grass which was our bed behind the billboard. And when I came, she bucked and twisted, and moaned and shrieked aloud finally, to proclaim her own ecstatic release.
I left her sprawled there, panting, her big titties rising and falling against her tight blouse. I mopped off my prick. I tossed her driver's license on top of her belly, and then I got into my car and drove off before she had time to come and check my license number.
I had never felt so exhilarated. I made many circuitous turns, to throw any pursuers off the track, and I felt as if I were living out a mystery by Peter Cheeney, when I reached San Matero, I went into a very charming little Italian restaurant and consumed an entire bottle of Chianti with my dinner. When I finally got home, I showered and then flung myself on my bed and feel asleep at once. In my dreams, Belinda Jenkins was naked and on the sawhorse, and she was looking at me with languorous and longing eyes as I took a leather paddle down from the panoply on the wall and came slowly toward her, masked, naked except for my sandals, my prick ready to burst.
I scanned the papers all the following week, but in none of them was the slightest notice of the rape of Belinda Jenkins. But three months later, as I was having lunch at the famous Canlis Charcoal Broiler in the Fairmont Hotel with a client, I happened to glance at a morning paper which had been abandoned on the chair at a nearby table by a previous diner, and there was the story of Belinda Jenkins, who had broken into the home of a prominent married attorney, found him with another woman, shot them both and then herself.
She had been on her way to doom, and she had nearly taken me with her. It was a pity that the lesson hadn't lingered long enough to divert her from her predestined appointment in Samarra. And thus I began to think that fate had begun to single me out as a kind of mystic avenger. For I had not altered her life or harmed her, and she had had punishment and passion coming to her, in abundant measure.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was not until the following August that the "spanking rapist" struck again, to use the melodramatic, hackneyed phrase of the Chronicle feature writer.
And this time it was in Sausalito, that Bohemian paradise just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, where down below at ocean level the young artists and some of the better grade of "hippies" rub shoulders with their more austere and autocratic betters who have luxurious houses atop the hills overlooking the blue Pacific.
Sausalito is a den of contrasts where there are inexpensive taverns and, by contrast, Ondine, one of the most expensive restaurants in captivity. And the reason I found myself in Sausalito on a Sunday morning in early August was that I had spent the night before with Jan Porter, a freewheeling, tall, athletic silver-blonde of twenty- eight, a divorcee at nineteen and, at the time, a commercial artist who had managed to sell our agency a couple of really outstanding sketches which were turned into a highly successful campaign for a fish cannery client we had just taken on and who had branches in San Pedro and San Diego, as well as Eureka and San Francisco.
Jan had visited the agency in late July, and since I had been assigned to the new account, I was the first to interview her. She came in wearing a man's shirt and bow tie, hip hugging slacks and high heeled pumps, and her silver-blonde hair was cropped like a man's. She was nearly as tall as I was, and she had long, delicious legs, a boyishly compact ass, and remarkably big, round widely-spaced tits which made my eyes pop as she casually sauntered into my office. My pretty young secretary, Rose Trenton, a black-haired girl of twenty-two, who was engaged to a junior copywriter, but who had given me a few hints of late to indicate that she would not slap my face if I were to make a mild pass at her, gave me a broad wink as Jan entered and plumped herself down in the chair before my desk, then deftly unrolled the cylinder of tissues which she had prepared as rough layouts.
They were really first-rate, with humor and a kind of droll tongue-in-cheek wit which I felt certain this particular client would applaud, as he indeed later did. We got to talking, and it turned out that Jan was, of all things, originally a Greek major at Westwood, had married and dropped out of college for the two disastrous years of her union with a forty-year-old ulcerated first-edition book dealer in Los Angeles, got herself a decent settlement and came to San Francisco where she had worked as a receptionist for a year or two, then decided to shack up with a handsome young Eastern sculptor who was living in Sausalito. The sculptor had long since gone back home and been welcomed like the prodigal son, but Jan had stayed on in a little dilapidated studio for which she paid hardly any rent and turned her attention first to watercolors and then to line drawings, and discovered that she had some talent. Now she was just about self-supporting, and enjoying life.
Perhaps because I was the one who told her the good news about our buying her work and commissioning her for further sketches, Jan Porter showed her gratitude by inviting me the following weekend to her pad. There she prepared a home cooked dinner of lasagna, with some good California Pinot Chardonnay to wash it down, and for dessert, a bowl of strawberries covered with clotted cream and saturated with Grand Marnier. After dinner, I stretched out on her couch and found myself catching forty winks, and the next thing I knew, my fly was being zipped down and a soft, slim hand was drawing out my readied cock. Further, to my delighted amazement, Jan was bowing her silver-blonde head to lick and suck my prick to alertness. I pretended to be asleep until I was absolutely maddened by her expert ministrations, and when I finally opened my eyes, she giggled and murmured, "I thought you'd never come to life, Stan darling. I need balling the worst way!"
I was too replete with good food and relaxation to want to take the initiative, so I somewhat lazily made her get atop me and do all the work, which she did with abandon that entranced me. She had a wonderfully tight cunt, and the contractions of her vaginal walls fully drained me of every drop. And yet, when I wanted seconds, which she was only to happy to accord me, I found myself strangely quiescent. She looked at me with surprise, began to play with my prick, but nothing happened.
"Oh, come on, Stan honey," she said impatiently, "one swallow doesn't make a summer. And you've got me so worked up with that one good screwing you gave me, I've simply got to have another before I can sleep tonight."
And then my fantasy returned to me. "I know something that might help," I warily suggested.
"I'll try anything once," she giggled. Up to then, she had removed just her slacks and snugged down her brief panties for the shagging she had seduced me into. This time, she was kind enough to remove her panties completely and to take off her man's shirt and tie, and stand there in just her bra, a gossamer and very diaphanous black nylon affair which made the wide brownish-orangish aurolae of her ripe titties stand out with a kind of lascivious contrast against her soft pink skin. Her arms and legs were tanned, because she was a sun lover. And now that I had more time for detail, I could see that her pussy hair wasn't silver-blonde, but auburn, and I told her I would much prefer that the hair on top of her head be of the same hue, for which she playfully slapped me.
That was the pretext I needed. I got up from the couch, shucked off my clothes, grabbed her by the waist and hauled her down over my lap and began to spank her boyish, resilient, jouncy bottom. She squealed, pretended to be frightfully indignant, and when I showed no sign of relenting, began to sniffle, groan, gasp, and to kick. When my hand was sore and her bottom a violent red, I stopped. Then I callously tumbled her off my lap, onto her back on the floor and fell upon her. When my bulging prick, once more renewed to plentitude, thrust into the lips of her quim, I found her wet and ready again. She uttered a moaning cry and reached for me. Her fingers scrabbled at my back, and her long legs wrapped around my bottom as she ground herself to and fro, meeting all my thrusts with equal ardor. It was a blazing, primeval fuck, and it left us both gasping and spent.
When at last we had come up for breath and the beat of our hearts had subsided from its maddened pounding, she looked up at me and whispered, "Good grief, Stan dear, I really set you off, didn't I? I'll bet you could take just about any frigid girl in the world and try that trick on her, and get her red hot to trot for you!"
She was truly sincere.
I smiled gratefully and modestly. At least I meant my smile to leave the impression of modesty.
I didn't tell her that I had already put her theory to the test and not found it wanting! And so, on about the third such weekend that I spent as the guest of Jan Porter in her studio pad in Sausalito, I was out this particular Sunday morning, leaving her to sleep in happy oblivion after a strenuous night of screwing, while I decided to take a leisurely stroll and perhaps find a little present for her.
I didn't know exactly what it would be but I knew some of the young artists set up their workshops and worked very close by in one or another of the cottages. They showed their wares early on Sundays to attract the tourists who swarmed to Sausalito by noon, but I was a little early. When I went down to the wharf, I could see just one girl in front of a card table with a tent behind her, inside of which was a cot with an army blanket on it.
I lit a cigarette and walked on down to her display. She was a sculptress and a poor one. Her busts were of such prominent people as Jackie Kennedy, Frank Sinatra and Jimmie Durante (all of whom should have sued for defamation.) The girl herself was petite, about five feet three, and plump. She had unkempt black hair tumbling down to her hips, and she wore levis and a dirty blouse on which the stains of gravy, lipstick and other unidentifiable debris were all too conspicuous. I stared critically at the busts, and then I felt the pressure of her plump thigh against me.
"Hi there, honey," she greeted me in a very husky voice. "Like anything you see?"
"Not particularly, if you want to know the truth. I was out looking for a present for my girl, but I don't think I'm going to find it here."
"I'm sorry, but I've sold a lot of this stuff, and you're the first one who doesn't like it," she said hotly.
"Well, let's say charitably that I'm not exactly hung up by sculptuary, and you're no Michaelangelo," I countered. She had hazel eyes and they blazed for a moment, and then she giggled again and pressed even closer to me. Much closer.
"I'll bet I've got something you would like to buy, though, honey. I go for intellectual guys with glasses. How'd you like to ball? Won't cost you very much, either. It's so nice and peaceful and quiet down here, and I've got a cot in my tent, and I really need a good screwing. I'd make you a special price, on account of 'cause you're my first customer today. How about fifteen?"
"I'd rather give you a good thirty," I said angrily, and I didn't mean dollars. She thought I did, and she grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me towards the tent, whispering, "Oh my, Daddy, am I ever going to give it to you for that!"
But no sooner was I inside the tent and she seated to my left on the hard cot, on a very scratchy and dirty blanket, than she at once plunged her hand between my legs and groped for my zipper.
"I can blow you too, for that, Daddy," she whispered. "Want me to do that first, before we ball?"
"I said I was going to give you thirty, and I meant just that. But I don't think you quite understand what I had in mind," I chuckled grimly.
She was at the wrong side of me for a spanking, so I stood up and she hung her arms around my waist and tried to roll her eyes up at me in proper bedroom style. She wasn't even a good amateur whore, any more than she was a sculptress, I concluded. But now she was in good position for what I had in mind for her. I began to unfasten her levis, and she giggled and rubbed her crotch against me.
"Oh you, aren't you the bold one!" she giggled again.
When her levis were down, I could see that her plump, upstandingly rounded asscheeks were encased in a pair of dull-gray nylon panties which had probably once been white and hadn't seen the laundry in a scandalously long time. I yanked those down too. Then it was my turn to be surprised, for she had marvelously ivory sheened skin, and an absolutely beautifully proportioned ass. I shifted myself a little to her left, sat down again, then suddenly pulled her down over me and suddenly began to spank, my left arm vising around her waist, "Hey, cut that out! That stings, I didn't say you could do that to me, what the hell do you expect for thirty bucks anyway?"
"I didn't say anything about thirty bucks, baby. You're getting thirty spanks," I interrupted, "and it might be sixty if you don't he still and take it."
"OWW! Cut it out, you're hurting me, stop hitting my heinie so hard, you big brute, I'm gonna call the cops, "
"Sure, go ahead. And I'll tell them that you solicited me. I don't think the citizens of Sausalito very much care for amateur pros, honey, and certainly not on Sunday morning," I panted as my hand rose and fell without interrupting a single cadence. Her bottom was bounding about now, and she was squealing and wailing, and the ivory sheen of her big, firm ass was turning a violent crimson and she was starting to kick, though the jeans and panties were by now restraining fetters.
I counted out thirty good ones, and she was trying to get her hands in back of her and cover up long before I finished. Then I tumbled her onto the floor, spread my legs and jerked down my zipper. My prick was hard and I wanted relief all right, but I wasn't sure about her Wasserman.
"Get to work and do what you said you'd do," I commanded.
"Oh yes, D-Daddy," she whimpered, her hazel eyes big and blurry with tears. She crawled between my legs, raised her head and began to suck noisily.
She was an expert fellatrice and I felt myself gloriously drained. I got up, took out my wallet and threw down three ten-dollar bills. Then I adjusted my clothes, left the tent and walked back through the little town which was still sleeping.
I must admit that I hadn't really expected the events which transpired but then destiny is not an anticipated thing.
I certainly never regretted the encounter. Nor, I think, did she. The ironic postcript to this episode, which probably cannot be considered an actual "rape" in my chronicle of official criminal acts, is that about two days later I observed in the San Francisco paper a story to the effect that a young Sausalito artist had been abducted and held at bay for twelve hours by an unknown assailant, repeatedly beaten and raped. Her name, it appeared, was Pamela G, , and they even showed her picture. I can only conclude that she had dreamed up this melodramatic yarn to get herself some customers, and as a matter of fact, Jan Porter, the very next weekend I visited, unsuspectingly informed me that "Some little sculptress did a land office business down at the wharf the last couple of days, Stan darling. It seems some guy ran off with her and screwed the hell out of her, and now everybody wants to come down and see what she looks like and probably mentally rape her all over again."
Jan Porter was indeed a perceptive young woman. I didn't, however, tell her that I was the one who had aided Pamela's sculpturing profits. It was a career I wouldn't particularly have wanted to launch. But Frenching was another matter, and she had an estimable future there, if she would only pursue it!
The brief if feverishly ardent affair with Jan Porter lasted until September, at which time she married a San Diego dentist whom she had met while surfboarding at Malibu on the vacation which she took the last two weeks in August. It was sudden, unexpected, and it ended what for me had been a most delightful involvement with both physical and mental enjoyment. By now I knew I had no more to fear from my old worries of being sexually inferior. But what I had to fear most of all was from my own, by now complexly developed, fantasies which led me to believe that I could conquer any female by the simple act of spanking her and then fucking her. And now that Jan was not around to ease the aching tensions in my prick, now that I had become accustomed to vigorous and enjoyable fucking in which both of us had had satisfying orgasm, the old haunting illusions of my role as master and the female's role as slave girl began to filter into my mind once more and with a greater strength and vividness than before...
It was, indeed, on Columbus Day that I accomplished my first actual abduction, and it involved not just one female but two.
I had learned that sodium pentathol, which is called by some "truth serum," had become one of the leading anesthetics in most hospitals, and that where a patient was particularly sensitive, it was being substituted even for a spinal injection for a local operation. I had met a young chemist while consulting with the fish cannery client, and we had gone out to dinner because we played chess and enjoyed music, and had got to chatting about the various substances which could be used to lull or deaden the senses, to kill pain, and even to produce a kind of hypnotic amnesia. When he told me how sodium pentathol was made, the idea intrigued me. I was able to buy certain chemicals which by themselves were available and perfectly legal, and compounded this swift-working anesthetic. I filled a hypodermic needle with it, and I put it into my coat lapel pocket to be ready for any contingency that might occur. And on this October day, foggy and dreary, which shrouded San Francisco from the Bay to the Golden Gate with what Londoners would call "pea soup," I used it most effectively.
I was driving home with great caution, and decided to take a road through Golden Gate Park to reach my own little house. The fog grew thicker, and I stopped the car at about Thirty-Ninth Avenue, got out and lit a cigarette. Then suddenly I heard voices, the voices of what seemed to be young girls angrily arguing with a boy. Apparently the boy had taken them here and expected them to "put out," and they had indignantly refused. Now he was about to "clobber you bitches till you do," and his hoarse, boasting voice reached my ears and told me where he was.
I crept forward around a bush till I could make out the vague outlines of three figures, and as it turned out, the boy was standing nearest to me with his back to me. I took out the hypodermic, I jabbed him in the neck and thrust the plunger home. He let out a yell, and I disappeared back into the bushes, and then he stumbled, coughed, and fell to the ground unconscious. Immediately the girls began to cry out in alarm. I had another tube of the dosage, injected it into the hypodermic, and then warily made my way towards the voices of these girls. I saw them standing at the curb beside an old jalopy, they were arguing, and they were very young and attractive. I came up to them, offering to be of service, and one of them, a brown-haired, rather stocky, sullen-faced girl, asked me to go for help because their friend Jerry had something awful happen to him. I caught her wrist, injected the needle, and shoved home half the dose before she was any the wiser. When she squealed at the prick of the needle, I turned to her companion, a rather tall, auburn-haired girl, and I gave her the rest of the dose in her left wrist.
A few moments later, both of them slumped to the ground. I carried each back to my car, and drove swiftly to the house. I parked along the driveway, opened the garage, and drove in, and then closed the door. There was a side exit which would lead directly to my basement, ideal for my purposes. The fog, if anything, was thicker. I carried each girl into the basement, and then locked the doors. Then, stripping naked, I put on my executioner's costume, that of a medieval torturer, of black hood with slits for the eyes, nose, and mouth, fitting me down to the chest, and then a black leather jockstrap, and heavy black sandals, and black leather gloves to the elbows. As I stared at myself in the mirror, placed on the wall just inside the door, I made a rather fearsome spectacle, and it would be suitable enough to terrorize these young beauties.
Then I returned to them. Their breathing was normal and regular, and I had ample opportunity to study them in detail, considering their potential. The stocky girl was of medium height, and was perhaps about eighteen years old. Her auburn-haired companion was perhaps twenty. Both girls were "hippies," in the sense that their hair was long, unkempt, and they wore the usual jeans; the brunette wore a poncho, and the auburn-haired girl had a long kind of Indian prayer-shawl wound round her shoulders, over a khaki blouse whose long sleeves she had rolled up to her elbows.
Now for the first time I could use my apparatus. I hoisted the stocky brown-haired girl onto the sawhorse, after first removing her jeans and leaving only her skimpy peach- colored nylon pantie briefs, and a matching bra. She wore loafers and knee-length coarse-ribbed hose. In that dishabille, strapped down on the horse, she was most alluring. Her bottom was solid, comprising two broadly spacious ovals with a gradually widening crease. Her boobies were high-perched round young cantaloupes, and she had an admirably warm olive-sheened skin.
The taller auburn-haired girl was stripped down to panty briefs and bra also, and I removed a similar pair of hose as well as her loafers, and her I placed in the pillory, with the neck yoke clamped round her slender throat and her slim wrists encased in the two smaller openings. This pillory was adjustable, I had found, and I was able to shift the headboard so that she was obliged to stand on tiptoe, or would when she recovered consciousness.
Under the jockstrap, my prick was bulging already. I now regretted that I had no movie camera to transcribe this scene and perpetuate it, but I did have a tape recorder and I turned it on. It had an extremely sensitive microphone, which I hung from the ceiling on an extension cord between the pillory and the sawhorse. Then, going over to the laundry tub in the center of this spacious subterranean room which had become my secret temple of sadism, I filled a bucket with cold water and sloshed it over the bottom of each girl.
The brown-haired girl on the sawhorse was the first to come to. She moaned, gasped, and then called out anxiously in a petulant voice, "Hey, what's happening, oh, somebody's taken my clothes off and I'm tied up, Betty, Betty, where are you? Where's Jerry?"
"He isn't here," I said in a hoarse voice as I approached the sawhorse. "And what's your name?"
"Wilma, who the hell are you, hey, this is a basement or something, hey, you've got Betty tied up there in something, who are you, dammit, you've got a mask on, you're a kook!"
"I will teach you to be a little more respectful in due course, Wilma," I told her. I put my gloved hand on her big firm bottom and patted it here and there. The water had made the nylon pantie briefs cling to the naked flesh like a second skin and I could see the olive satiny sheen through it. At the feel of my hand on her behind, the brownette writhed ineffectually and then cried out in pain, "Owww, it hurts me, it cuts me, take me off this damn thing, will you? How did you get us here? Where's Jerry?"
"Jerry won't be coming to join you, I'm afraid," I chuckled. "But I think I can substitute for him quite adequately. He had taken you to Golden Gate Park to smooch, I suppose."
"Sure, and it's none of your damn business, whoever you are! You let us go, you hear, or we'll get the cops and you can go to jail for a long time for this!" the brownette threatened me.
"If you knew who I am, and where I live, that might be true. But you don't. And you went willingly enough with this Jerry, only apparently you were a little jealous because you found out that he wanted to make time with both of you. Well, so do I, but in my own way. And when I finish with you both, I can assure you that you will be most cooperative," I told the astonished brunette.
Then, going to wall, where from a set of pegs I had hung numerous spanking implements, I took down after due reflection an oval-shaped leather paddle. Armed with this, I returned to the sawhorse and, lifting it high above Wilma's upturned, quaking ass, brought it down with a sharp whack over first the left summit, then the right. She howled like a banshee and wriggled and arched and tried to jerk herself off the sawhorse, for it was apparently cutting her pussy, judging from her shrieks: "Owwouuu!! Cut it out, it's cutting my pussy to pieces, take me off this damn thing, do you hear me?, ahrr, oh don't, it's awful, Betty, Betty, he's hurting me, Betty!"
But apparently the auburn-haired girl hadn't quite yet revived, for there was no answer.
"It's very simple, Wilma," I told her, lifting the paddle slowly over her squirming rump, "I'm going to give you a good sound spanking till you agree to fuck with me."
"You must be out of your mind, you must be a freak, owwahrr, oh, don't, not so hard, you're killing me!" Her angry denunciation was instantly changed to a pitiful wail as I brought the paddle down thrice more, again once to each bottom summit. Her body jerked and thrashed on the sawhorse, and her sullen face was exquisitely attractive now, flushed and contorted and wet with tears. Somehow, to me, the aura of pain and anguish brings about an indescribable sensuality which nothing else in the world quite equals. This stocky girl, with her long, unkempt and rather dirty brown hair, had suddenly become the personification of a beautiful Christian martyr, perhaps a Grecian slave girl suffering her first whipping at the command of an imperious Roman master who had purchased her and for whom she would not yet submit the soft warm haven of her voluptuous virgin cunt. This was my fantasy, and now I was living it. I felt a glorying sense of power, and I lifted the paddle again and this time applied three quick spanks to the base of each bottomglobe.
Wilma tilted back her head and shrieked, jerking madly at her bound wrists, wriggling her bottom, which only served to chafe her tender pussy all the more. She looked back at me piteously, and when she saw the paddle rise again in the air above her, she yelled out, "Oh don't, don't spank me any more with that awful thing, I'll do what you want, I'll fuck, oh shit, please, I can't stand this. I can't!"
"Let me understand you, Wilma. If I untie you, you'll let me fuck you without any resistance and of your own free will?"
Her voice was choked with sobs, so I promptly applied two more stingers on the upper summit of each asscheek. She found voice immediately to shriek out, "Ahrrr, aiii, oh yes, I'll fuck, oh please put that awful paddle down, I'll fuck all you want, only stop!"
Near the sawhorse was a heavy blanket, and I had managed to set four heavy metal rings into the stone floor, so that I could spread-eagle a girl and lock her wrists and ankles or at least cord them to these rings and thus have her completely at my mercy when I wished to fuck, or bugger. This I had not yet done, and I confess that the sight of Wilma's big ripe and almost naked ass (for the soaked pantie briefs left no secret of her olive skinned bottom, which was now extremely red and the more lasciviously enticing therefrom) urged me to attempt this perverse erotic game.
Accordingly, I ripped off Wilma's soaked pantie briefs, at which she gave a frightened squeal and looked back frantically over her left shoulder. I rolled up her blouse to her armpits, so that I could survey the deeply hollowed cleft of her spine and admire the warm smooth olive-tinted flesh. The acrid odor from her armpits was pungent, yet it was a kind of cantharis to me as I removed my jockstrap and let my prick stand forth in all its might. I moved round to confront her so that she couldn't mistake what was going to happen to her, and when she saw my stiff cock, her eyes bulged and she gasped out, "Oh, shit. Take it easy, mister. I'll fuck, but for cripe's sake, take me down from here before I cut my pussy off!"
"No fear of that, Wilma. But I've a little proposal to make to you. Here is the paddle that spanked your big bottom. Grab hold of the handle in your teeth. And if you let go before I've finished with you, I'll use it all over again on that big butt of yours," I threatened.
Cowed, shivering, she obeyed me. And thus one of my most exotic fantasies came into vivid, prick-aching reality. I moved behind her now, and from a nearby footstool I picked up a tube of Vaseline I had laid on there well in advance, and anointed my prick. Then I approached the almost naked brownette, and I began to rub the ointment on the plump, pink, crinkly lips of her asshole. At once consternation took the place of servile and apprehensive obedience. "Hey, what're you gonna do? Oh no, not in the back door, for cripe's sake, mister. Don't brown me, you'll kill me, please don't!" she wailed, and of course let the paddle fall from her mouth.
"Why, as to that, my girl," I quipped, "in this way at least I'll make certain that I don't give you a baby. And besides, you've just dropped the paddle, so you've got another spanking coming when I finish."
"Oh no, cut it out, you can fuck me or anything, I'll even blow you, but for cripe's sake, mister, please don't. Please don't brown me!" she wailed.
My fingers sank into the angrily crimsoned plump, meaty cheeks of her ass and yawned them apart. Then I thrust myself forward until my cockhead pried apart the clenching lips of her shrinking asshole. She let out a wild shriek, and now Betty, the auburn-haired girl at the pillory whose bottom was towards me, uttered a corresponding wail: "Oh, where am I, what's happening? Why am I tied up this way? Wilma, where are you? Where's Jerry?"
But Wilma had no time to answer her companion's frantic queries. Already I was nudging past the ring of sphincter muscles, and she tilted back her head and uttered a wild shriek as all her body contracted in an attempt to repulse the rude invader which my prick was in her bowels. Thus for the first time I took the cherry of a female asshole, and the exhilaration of my victory made my blood boil in my veins. Forcibly, slowly, inexorably, I hilted myself, my fingers constantly squeezing and kneading her satiny asscheeks.
For an unforgettable moment, I dwelt, immobile, closing my eyes and giving myself up to the ferocious sensations of Wilma's muscular retention of my imbedded cock. Then I reached forward to squeeze her big titties, and I began to work myself slowly in and out of her bumhole. Her moans and sobs and feverish cries were music to my ears. She tried to arch herself off the horse so as to stop the chafing of that ridge against her cunt, and these frantic gyrations only added to the surge of muscular tension by which her rectal walls clamped and kissed and gripped my feverishly swollen tool.
But the rush of sensations was too much for me, and long before I wanted to, I felt myself explode deep into her bung. I pulled out, and then I retrieved the paddle. She stared at it, then turned her agonized and tearstained face back to me as I moved behind her: "Oh don't, not after what you just did, oh, I can't stand any more, I'll do anything, anything! Please don't swat my hind end any more, please, mister!"
The accents of agony and the most sincere terror quivered in the overtones of her husky, somewhat hoarse and vulgar voice. The tape recorder was inscribing these for perpetuity, and I wished only that I might have burned into my brain the visual memory of this entrancing scene, since no movie camera could do justice to it. I could look beyond and see the taller, auburn-haired girl standing on tiptoe at the pillory, the muscles of her long slim calves and thighs rippling and flexing as she tried to free herself. I could hear her cries now of alarm and anguish as she began to realize that her friend Wilma was undergoing duress.
"Are you quite sure you'll do everything I ask?" I crisply demanded, and then I brought the paddle down with a sonorous Smackkk! over the upper summits of both asscheeks.
"Eeyeowwoouuu!" she screamed hoarsely.
I smiled in my impending triumph.
"Eeyeowwouuu, oh yes, Mister, for gawd's sake, quit it, I'll do anything, anything you want, I swear I will, only put down that awful paddle, please!" Wilma wailed.
I moved round to face her: "Then suck my prick clean," I commanded, and I plunged my left hand into her thick, unkempt brown tresses and yanked and twisted them until I had tilted up her tearstained, contorted face. Then, reaching beyond with the paddle in my right hand, I gave her a warning tap on the base of her left asscheek. "Begin, or I'll spank your bottom raw," I threatened.
Wilma did not hesitate. I could see her throat gurgling and her Adam's apple shifting as she regarded my greased organ with distaste. But another sharp spank of the paddle on the other asscheek towards the base decided her. She closed her eyes, leaned her face forward and, opening her mouth, took my prickhead between her lips. I could feel her lips tremblingly close over the tip of my weapon, but I was wary that in vengeance she might try to bite. And so I described for her in the most lurid and horrifying terms I knew what would befall her in the event she had the insane impulse to clamp her teeth against me. I would tear out her hairs with tweezers and then paint her raw cunt with turpentine. I would stick a metal dildo studded with spikes into her asshole, and I would whip her to the bone with a freshly peeled hickory switch.
Her terror at these threats added to the exquisite salacity of her dutiful administration to my prick now. She sucked noisily, slushing her tongue back and forth over my weapon as I directed. Her cheeks bulging, her eyes sometimes opening, bulging and glassy as they stared up at me with piteous appeal. And when she had at last finished, I drew away and let go of her hair, and she gagged and retched, and then lay shuddering over the horse and burst into hysterical sobs.
It was now the turn of her taller, older companion. I moved silently behind Betty, and then I tore off her water soaked pantie briefs, at which she uttered a frightened, shrill cry. Her voice was high-pitched, and had the note of vulgarity that I had observed in so many modern teenagers. There was a kind of feverish intensity to them, one hollow and without conviction. It was as if they were rushing towards their own doom as quickly as they could manage it, lured on by all the flashing kaleidoscope of drugs and sex and the fear of war, and all the shifting, brittle values of our day.
The man who says that all women are the same has never known the exquisite and libidinous pleasure of undressing more than one, nor has he paid attention to the myriad details of a woman's body, her reactions, her muscular and nervous spasmings, the alteration in the tone of her voice as the carnal episode progresses. I had satiated myself with stocky Wilma's olive sheened ripe nakedness. But now Betty, new, choice, untested and untasted, awaited me. Her skin was tawny, and her ass was magnificently oval shaped, tightly spaced, with long rather slender thighs and highset calves. I reached round with one hand to squeeze her titties, and I could feel that they were small and closely-spaced. She whimpered when she felt my fingers clutch through the khaki blouse, and began to beg me not to hurt her.
"I shall only spank and fuck you, Betty, unless, of course, you insult or offend me," I told her. For now that I was in possession of full control, the savage edge of my lust having been blunted by this first furious gush into her friend's bowels, I was proof against all her wiles.
But for her bottom, the paddle would not do. I wanted to see those long legs caper, for they were sleek and bare and delicious. I wanted to watch the muscles of her calves and thighs ripple and squirm, to see the knee hollows bend and shift and tauten and the skin pinch and tighten over those lovely niches. And I wanted to see the colorations left by perhaps a switch or a leather sole or a dogwhip.
I had found in a novelty shop way over in the Marina district, a curious little whip very much like a French martinet. It was obviously a toy, and it consisted of a round wooden handle about eight inches in length, to which were attached three flat straps, each about eighteen inches long. I had improved upon this by taking a knife and whittling away at the ends until they were arrow-headed so that they would impart more sting. Then I had taken a special needle for leatherwork and used a heavy cord to make various knots all along the last four or five inches of each thong.
Provided with this, I placed myself at Betty's left and regaled her at once with a sweeping lash that made the thongs spread fantail across the full oval cheeks of her tawny sheened ass. She uttered a high-pitched scream and began to tug wildly at neck and wrists till the pillory board creaked. In the caperings of her legs, as I began to lash her thighs and calves now rather capriciously and not too painfully, she performed such delicious gyrations as to show me the thick fur of her cuntfleece between which the delicate petals of her cunt appeared in a kind of salacious offertory. Lowering the martinet to the floor, I took advantage of one of her constant hoppings and squirmings to send it leaping up between her long thighs and to clack right into her twat.
"Oweee!!! Oh please, don't hit me there, you can fuck me, you can do anything you want, but please don't hit me there, mister!" Betty wailed.
"Beg me to fuck you then, and call me Master," I demanded. Yes, the phrase was banal, I agree, but to me, a novice in these exquisitely sadistic games, I was entering a new world. I was crossing the threshold into a mysterious realm where hitherto I had know only conjecture and theory and the vicarious pleasures of reading and fantasy.
But for Betty, to be sure, this was new, and she did not hesitate: "Oh yeah, oh please, mister. Please f-fuck me and I'll call you anything you want. Mister. Please don't hit me there between my legs again!" she babbled.
"That's not what I told you to say! Now say it properly!" I hissed, and I sent the martinet whistling up again to clack against her pussy.
Her entire body leaped and lunged and twisted, the pillory board once again creaking protest, as she shrieked, "Owaiii, eowwouuu!!! Oh fuck me, Master, for cripe's sake, fuck me and get it over with, but just don't hit my pussy any more, oh please don't!"
"Very well, Betty," I told her, my voice thickening with rut. "But you are going to do everything I tell you to, or back to the pillory you go for a good sound thrashing till your bottom bleeds, just remember that." With this, I unlocked the pillory, and I made her at once remove all the rest of her clothes so that she was stark naked. Then, kneeling at my feet, whimpering and trembling, her big violet eyes fixed wildly on me, obviously frightened of my hood, and sometimes glancing at my once again reinvigorated prick, I made her repeat that humbled request to be fucked and to serve her master as I desired.
When she had done this to my satisfaction, I ordered her to go over to the space on the floor where the four rings were fixed and to lie down on her back. She did so with alacrity, whimpering as I moved over, squatted down, and quickly corded wrists and ankles till I had her spread-eagled properly. She was really delicious this way, against the dark floor of the dungeon, for so it became in my fantasy. Her beautiful long legs, the gaping slit of her cunt, the panting turrets of her small but beautifully formed titties with their large nipples and intense, wide dark-coral aurolae. Then I moved over to the sawhorse and untied the whimpering brownette Wilma, and ordered her to kneel down and put her wrists behind her back. When she had done this, I tied them tightly and then made her crawl over to her friend and kneel astride Betty's face.
"Now then, Betty," I directed, as I picked up an old worn leather sole which was to be used as a spanker, "while I fuck you, you are going to lick and suck your friend Wilma and you can guess where. Turn around, Wilma, because I want your bottom here at hand. I shall use this spanker on you whenever I see that you aren't rubbing your cunt right down in Betty's face. And you, Betty, you shall feel this spanker on your titties as well as on your bottom if you don't accommodate her while at the same time remembering that you are to give me as good a fuck as you would have given your boyfriend Jerry. Is all that clear?"
"Oh yes, m, mister," Wilma wailed. "Oh shit, Betty, we gotta do what he says, or he'll hurt us bad, you better suck me good, you better gam me!" These words, to be sure, betrayed the fact that she was quite cognizant of what gamahuching was. These girls were not virgins, it was evident. But for me they were virgins in my folly, in my mania, in my fantasy of lust come true.
I laid myself down carefully, and my prickhead began to nuzzle against Betty's gaping slit. She whimpered, and I promptly raised the spanker and slapped her on the belly, sharply reminding her to begin her lesbian role. Instantly she began to kiss Wilma and then I gave Wilma a good hard spank across each asscheek, already lividly inflamed from the previous paddling, which drew a wild cry and forced the brownette to squash her cunt right down over her friend's mouth, thereby stifling Betty's cries as I ruthlessly burrowed to the balls inside her deliciously tight cunthole.
It was heaven! I felt myself the master among men, a veritable sultan in his own harem. My two naked slavegirls requited me as never before had I been served. As I thrust back and forth, in no great haste because my first burst of sperm had already found its way into that plump meaty, angrily reddened ass just beyond me, I could feel Betty squirm and start and gasp under me, proof that she was feeling my manhood. Wilma, meanwhile, encouraged by several capricious blows from the spanker, continued to waggle her hips and to rub her cunt frantically against Betty's panting mouth, while Betty in turn used tongue and lips at my behest.
And to my great delight, just as I achieved my bubbling orgasm and stretched myself out with a might lunge and uttered a cry of triumph, I heard Wilma whimper and saw her squirm and twist and then fall forward, her body heaving and shuddering in the throes of come induced by this coerced gamahuching.
Not to much later, after I had returned the girls to that lonely spot at Golden Gate Park, in the fog, and had parked my car in my garage, I went to bed. And this time I did not dream.
The case took prominent space in all the San Francisco and Oakland papers for a week. I learned that the two girls were indeed hippies, students at the University of California at Berkeley,. And the final upshot of the story was that their parents, from a little Iowa town, came to San Francisco to take them back home. Jerry, the boyfriend, was wanted for rape and criminal assault in New Orleans.
I began to think that perhaps fate was casting me in the role of avenger, and that even in my own selfish evocation of fantasy into rut-reality, I was really doing no disservice to those whose bodies I enjoyed for my own ardent pleasure!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That Christmas, I received a substantial bonus for the excellence of my work with the agency. It would appear that once my fantasy had been resolved, I could operate with swift and brilliant coordination so far as my grade of work was concerned. I debated the wisdom of visiting a psychiatrist and decided against it. Even though the honor system of the confessional would be observed by a doctor or a psychiatrist just as much as by a priest, there might be the temptation for an unscrupulous man to divulge that I had been the one who had abducted and raped those two hippies. And the penalty would be death. I had transported them to my house, I had committed acts of carnal knowledge on them, to use the archaic phraseology of the law. No, I must bide my time and work out my own salvation.
Perhaps a mistress would distract me, I thought. There were in the office several attractive young women, and I had a new secretary now since the pretty brunette had got herself married and decided to become a wife and mother rather than a career girl. My new secretary was named Sheila Quincey, and she was a prim English girl originally from Birmingham, whose parents had moved to San Francisco when she was only about seven. She was about twenty-seven, surprisingly unattached, cool and elegant as a water nymph, quite conscious of her beauty and yet not overbearing about it.
The trouble was, as I discovered after two dates, Sheila Quincey was unattached for the very simple reason that she preferred her own sex to men. We had gone on our second date to the opera, to see a superb performance of "Turandot." I had hoped that the emotional excitement and the gorgeously barbaric and stirring music would effect a kind of thaw in this cool English beauty. I mistook her expression of pleasure in the opera for pleasure of my company and when, in the taxicab, we reached her dwelling place along North Beach, I put my arm around her waist and kissed her on the mouth.
It was as if I had unleashed a demon on her. She struck me with the heel of her hand, kicked at my shin, grimaced and spat at me, and then her face turned furiously red, she wrenched open the door of the cab and ran off into the lobby. There she stopped, ringing the bell, and turned to give me such a look of hatred as I had never seen on the face of a woman before or after. A few moments later, a plump motherly-looking girl came downstairs in a faded blue bathrobe and took Sheila Quincey into her arms and began to kiss her mouth. The cab driver watched open- mouthed just as I did. Then he turned to me commiseratingly, shrugged and said, "Tough luck, buddy. Tell you what, I don't usually do this for a guy I don't know, but you look as if you could stand a piece. Want to try a call-girl? Cost you seventy-five, but she's clean, young and new at the trade."
I said to myself, why not? Perhaps I could exorcise this demon within me. So I handed him a ten-dollar bill for his trouble, and he went to a corner phone booth and few minutes later came back to tell me that it was arranged.
He drove me up Sacramento, just off Grant Avenue away from Chinatown, to a three-story apartment, I was to go up the stairs to the top floor, turn to the left and knock on the door marked "M. Davis."
M. Davis turned out to be a devastatingly pretty girl who couldn't have been more than nineteen, with fluffy little honey haired spitcurls all over her head and forehead, clad only in a blue quilted robe and slippers, and as soon as I handed her the seventy-five dollars, she dropped the robe and let me admire her. She had the body of a young Venus. Her skin had a warm and rosy tint to it, a sort of carnation that was absolutely enchanting. Her breasts were beautifully formed, uptilting gourds, with pert pink nipples and wide delicate coral-tinted aurolae. The basin of her belly was beautifully rounded and suave, with a wide and shallow bellybutton. Her mount was plump and prominent, and the fleece, which was dark gold, was none too thick so that I had an excellent look at the soft pink petals of her cunthole. She was wonderfully adept, after telling me that she was only six months in the trade. She undressed me completely, and then she knelt down and began to lick my calves and thighs until she reached my prick. I closed my eyes, and I could feel the stirring of my organ, but all the element of primitive savagery, of sadistic mastery, was absent. Was I doomed thus always to impotence without coercion, without the special allure of spanking and fustigation?
I proposed at last that she allow me to spank her. She demurred at first, but then when I offered her an additional bonus, she readily assented. I sat down on her wide studio couch, placed her gently over my lap, and began to spank those beautifully rounded plump pink and white bottomglobes. Alas, it was too calculated. Even though she emitted convincing squeals of discomfort, even though die wriggled wildly over my prick, I knew only too well that she was doing her utmost to avoid a furtherance of this rather painful and, for her, unnatural interlude. Oh yes, I had orgasm, after a brief thrusting into her cunt, but it was unsatisfactory for me. I needed the fantasy. Now had I abducted her and forced her to give what she sold me, then perhaps I might have had delight with her, for she was indeed lovely...
Sheila Quincey had resigned her job at the end of the same week we had our unfortunate date and I later learned that she had gone to work for a printing shop in which her obviously lesbian paramour was a part owner. I acquired a new secretary, a rather breathless, giggling type of girl, just twenty-one and fresh out of Stanford, who solemnly told me, when she could repress her giggles of high-strung embarrassment, that she was going to work six months and go back East and teach. Her name was Bonnie Gorton, and she was more efficient than I had imagined. But to me she was completely asexual. I might perhaps have enjoyed her had I abducted her, dressed her in a child's rompers and bobbysocks with a ribbon bow to her hair and spanked her properly and then fucked her. But even this thought did not particularly rouse me. Her giggling was almost too distracting and for her it was compulsive. My private theory was that she was a hysterical virgin who needed the reassurance of a good fucking, and when she went back home, I learned that a young man of perseverance and patience talked her out of teaching and married her. Doubtless it was exactly what she needed!
In March of this year, I was made a junior vice president, a real accolade for my accomplishments in my chosen profession. I was written up in business magazines, and The Chronicle even sent a reporter to interview me for the business section. I wondered what he would have said if I had told him I was the "Spanking Rapist"!
And by April, "The Spanking Rapist" had struck again. Once again it was in Golden Gate Park, and this time I was walking with no particular ambition in mind, for it was a leisurely Saturday afternoon, rather warm and sunny. I had reached a narrow pathway leading under the viaduct, and suddenly a woman lurched towards me, swearing profanely. She was expensively dressed in a suitcoat that was custom made and a matching A-lined skirt, her stockings were the sheerest charcoal-brown nylons I had ever seen, and she wore an expensive pearl necklace and several costly bracelets on her wrists beside a jewelled Swiss wristwatch. She saw me, scowled, and shouted at me grimly, "Get out of my way, you!"
"Just a moment, please, madam," I remonstrated, grasping her by the elbow and turning to face her. "You seem ill, perhaps you're drunk!"
"What if I am, you four-eyed bastard!" she cursed me. "You'd feel like getting drunk too if you'd just found out your very best friend was screwing your husband under your very nose. Let go of me before I call a cop!"
"Perhaps," I banteringly suggested, "we could share our sorrows, I've been jilted in a way too."
"You!" she drew herself up regally. "What woman would want you, you four-eyed creep?"
She was definitely drunk, for I smelled expensive Scotch on her breath. There was no one around. Beyond the viaduct, on the other side and to the left, there was an enormous clump of tall bushes. I felt my prick throbbing, and the old excitement crept into my brain.
"So you think no woman would have me? I'd like to persuade you how wrong you are, madam."
"My name is Esther Magnus, you creep, and my husband and I are in the Social Register," she hissed at me. She had a round face, plucked eyebrows, intensely dark blue eyes, and a sensual overripe mouth. Her nose was haughtily aquiline, very definitely patrician with its thin fluted wings. Her felt turban hat was tilted awry, and it disclosed light-brown bobbed curls in profusion.
Before she knew what was happening, I had seized her with my left hand over her mouth, my right hand gripping her right elbow and quick-marched her under the viaduct and into the clump of bushes where I flung her to the ground. Bending over her swiftly, I took out a handkerchief and plunged it into her mouth, gagging her. Then I tugged up her skirt and lace-trimmed cream-colored nylon petticoat, disclosing a lush pair of hips and full round thighs sheathed in a panty girdle.
Her flesh was delectably white and pale as if she had never been out in the sun. I ripped away the panty girdle, and she struggled under me, her eyes rolling, her forehead creased. I disclosed the plump lips of her cunt, and the dark brown tufts of her pussy fleece. Then I thrust myself into her, and I began to fuck her violently. I was so aroused that it took only four or five thrusts before I felt myself explode. But I was not yet sated with her.
Rolling her over, sitting atop her, and facing that voluptuous big round juicy bottom of hers, I first began to spank her with my palm till my hand ached and stung. Then, reaching out toward one of the bushes which shrouded us, I broke off a slim slender branch, broke it again and had an excellent switch of about a foot in length. I began to switch her big bottom and thighs while she kicked her legs frantically till her pumps flew off. When I had finished with her, I left her sprawled there, sobbing heartily, and then I disappeared into the bushes and made my way circuitously back to my house.
She had indeed given me her right name. The papers carried the story the next day. She could not describe me, except that I seemed to be a tall man with a harsh deep voice. I had taken off my glasses just before I had twisted her round and marched her into the bushes. She didn't remember that. But a week after the story o the "Spanking Rape", Esther Magnus had a criminal charge of her own to answer for. She was arrested on the charge of murdering her best friend and her husband, finding them together in a room at a little hotel on Van Ness Avenue. She flung herself on the mercy of the court, and so escaped the gas chamber, being sent to Tehachapi Women's Prison for a term of twenty years. I shall always wonder if my fucking her had led her to brook on the fact that her best friend was the one who was diverting her husband's prick from its rightful duties and so deserved demise...
I waited until October before I struck again, to use that hackneyed newspaper phrase which characterizes the "hardened criminal" or "master plotter of evil," again to quote from some of the picturesque verbiage which the San Francisco reporters devoted to the character I had created of the man without a face, the man who spanked and raped for satisfaction.
And this time again I used my sodium pentathol in the hypodermic which I kept in my coat lapel pocket. I knew that fate was leading me on and that, walking this terrible tightrope between sanity and madness, I must walk with great caution to be prepared for all contingencies and all risks. One single misstep, and I should be plunged into scandal and disgrace, into a criminal's doom. And yet the excitement of the challenge led me on.
This time it was a magazine saleswoman, a young woman with henna-tinted hair, a bold and brazen face and a buxom figure, about twenty-six, who knocked at my door one Saturday afternoon trying to sell me a combination of magazines for which I had not the slightest use. She invited herself in for a drink, and then she hinted that if I did not wish magazines, I might wish her. I determined to try the experiment of enjoying a whore without paying, making her in reality my slave and not I hers. An injection of sodium pentathol made her lapse into unconsciousness a few minutes after I administered the tiny prick while kissing her and deftly aiming the hypodermic at her shoulder.
I carried her down to the basement, stripped her to brassiere and panties, garterbelt and off-black nylon hose, also removing her pumps, and I strung her up by the thumbs with the pulley rope so that her stockinged toes scarcely brushed the floor. Then, blindfolding her, I removed her bra and cupped her big somewhat overripe and soft titties, set very closely together and with dark-brownish, very wide aurolae and voluptuously ripe nipples. Next came her panties, till she hung in just the garterbelt and hose. Then, taking a light silken carriage whip which I had found in an old theatrical novelty shop in Los Angeles on the occasion of my recent visit there to see a new client who had heard of our agency and wanted us to represent him, I began to whip my victim.
The whip left delicious pink striata on her carnation-tinted skin, and when I had finished she had begun to moan and squirm as consciousness returned to her. Taking a footstool and seating myself before her, armed with a feather in one hand and my leather sole in the other, I began to frig her pussy and her tickler with the feather while from time to time giving her sharp little smacks all over her inner thighs, the backs of them, and her juttingly round solidly set asscheeks.
I had put on my hood, my jockstrap and my sandals, and I was once again the executioner. I knew that I was daring fate this time because she might well remember to what address she had come and how she relapsed into unconsciousness and wakened to find herself stripped and being whipped and played with. But I counted on her veniality and the fact that I was certain that she was a whore. I tickled her with the feather till she began to wriggle and twist and moan, her face flushed, her body perspiring, until she finally piteously begged me, "Oh, stop that, oh fuck me, give it to me, you've worked me up, you bastard, work me off at least, that's the least you can do, owww, I hurt, what have you done to me, you dirty brute, this is going to cost you, oooh, take that thing away from my cunt, you're driving me crazy, oh please fuck me, oh fuck me!"
And so I did. And she responded wildly, dangling in her uncomfortable position, trying to wrap her legs around me and succeeding as we reached our climax together. When I released her, I removed the blindfold, and she cowered back with a cry of fear. I chuckled and told her she had nothing to fear any longer and that I would pay her for her ordeal. Then, she became the most amenable of whores, ingratiating, servile, wanting to return and humor all my whims. And she admitted to me rather brazenly, "You know, mister, that's the first time I ever came with a customer. Boy, you really worked me up, you sure did! Say, couldn't we make a go of it together? I could be real nice to you, I could be a sort of housekeeper."
But I shook my head. "You don't interest me, except for one last thing." And with this, I pulled her across my lap and gave her a solid spanking with my hand that really made her cry and kick. Then, showing her a fifty-dollar bill, I stuffed it into her bottomhole and told her to dress and leave.
But before she left, I told her that I had a tape recorder faithfully transcribe all her remarks and also a movie camera, which left her with the fear that I might blackmail her rather than she me. And so this was another "victim" who did not testify but who surely must be added to my chronology as the "Spanking Rapist." After the episode with the magazine saleswoman who turned out to be an accommodating call-girl in the truest sense (since she went herself to call on potential customers!), I did no more marauding until the following February, the month of my birth. This time, a most unusual episode took place in Burlingame, that elegant suburb of wealthy respectability where undoubtedly a writer like the creator of the private detective Lew Archer would find a thousand and one tales of infidelity, deceit, and hypocrisy, with all the skeletons in the closets one could wish for.
It was a late Monday evening, and I had taken a client from Los Angeles out on the town, dropped him off at the Hyatt House at San Bruno, a few miles from the San Francisco International Airport, and then decided to take a midnight drive.
Out of force of habit, I carried the sodium pentathol-filled hypodermic in my lapel pocket, and I recall that I even had my executioner's hood tucked neatly into the dashboard compartment. It was a full moon, and psychiatrists may draw their own conclusions, for it is said that on the night of a full moon, the psychotic murderer, the rapist, and the homicidal maniac will strike. Yet I felt no great impulsion towards any crime. I had nurtured my secrets all this while, and I had read from time to time occasional editorials in the press denouncing the inability of the police to track down the unidentified criminals who terrorized the City by the Golden Gate, meaning, of course, myself among others. Yet here I was, an aspiring young vice president of an agency, earning thirty-five thousand dollars a year and bonuses and stock, certainly eligible to wed a prized socialite if I so chose. Oh yes, I had had social outings, some of my partners in the agency being kind and thoughtful enough of my welfare to wish to arrange parties at which I might meet the cream of the crop of San Francisco's debutantes and beauties. I was not attracted to any of them. I did not know exactly what I sought. I would replay my tapes of Betty and Wilma and I would he awake at night with the earphones clamped to my ears, naked and my cock tingling with excitement as I relived those moments. My hand would gently caress my prick and I would close my eyes and try to remember all the scenes which the cries and the pleas and the supplications evoked. I wanted a wife who was also a slave, a slave who could be mistress and companion, confidante and sharer of the deepest secrets of my brooding self, as well as the inspiring goddess who was a combination of Messalina, Lilith, and perhaps even Lolita, since there is enough of the devil-tease in the child-woman to make a man yearn to discover in the mature woman that retrogression that makes her eternally a child.
I drove slowly to one of the narrow dark streets of this residential suburb, reflecting on how far I was from home and how truly an alien I was in spite of my successes here in San Francisco. It was an insular city, slow to make friendships, quick to stir up hostilities for some imagined wrong. Its sports populace was fickle, and it wanted a winner every time. It was, as Herb Caen had so often said, Baghdad-by-the-Bay, but the difference was that not every man could be its caliph and still fewer its Joe DiMaggio or Willie Mays.
Suddenly a blaze of light attracted my eye, and I saw that a door was open and that the light was pouring out of it from the antechamber, and that a tall man in a tuxedo was standing there shaking his fist at a handsomely dressed young woman. As I slowed my car and watched, he struck her brutally across the cheek, called her a dirty name, and then strode angrily down the steps, got into his Cadillac, and drove off at full speed. The young woman stood there, the absolute picture of dejection. I could see that her bare shoulders were shaking with sobs. I stopped my car, got out, and walked slowly up the steps. "May I help, perhaps?" I asked gently.
She dropped her hands and straightened, and I stood there rooted to the spot.
Then I recovered, for I had seen a ghost from the past. For a moment, I had thought that standing there before me was none other than Jacqueline Bleer, the arrogant, honey-haired beauty who had lived across the court from me on Norton Avenue in Los Angeles, and who had offered herself because she needed the rent money for herself and her sister, and who had been the first to take my male virginity. But it was not she, yet the resemblance was striking. Her hair was more ash-blonde, and it was coiffed in an upsweep, leaving her slim neck bare. Two pendant pearl earrings dangled from the dainty lobes, and her face was round, almost heart-shaped. She had intense gray-green eyes, and a tilted little nose and a small thin mouth. But she was in a white satin evening gown deeply cut at the titties to show me the deep, widening valley between two full ripe melon-like love globes, from which her waist became girlishly slim, only to surge once more into the tempting plenitude of lush hips and full thighs against which the white satin skirt clung almost lasciviously.
"No, I don't think anyone can help, but thank you all the same," she said in a rich, mournful voice which seemed to evoke for me all the Greek tragedies. It had that wonderful, low and vibrant contralto timbre which has always stirred me to my very marrow. It suggests the eternal woman and the bedroom harlot all in one. But this woman was cultured, and she was not more than twenty-seven. Her teeth were small and white and fine, and I could denote only one or two gold fillings. There were no lines to her face, and no crowsfeet or wrinkles. And her bare arms were magnificently rounded, and the skin was creamy as is sometimes found in devastatingly contrasting blondes.
"Did he hurt you?" I asked solicitously.
She shook her head. Then for the first time she looked at me. I was wearing my glasses, I had on a tuxedo because, after all, I had just taken this Los Angeles client to one of San Francisco's swankiest nightclubs, and after that we had "slummed" in some of the topless cabarets which infest Broadway down in the lower part of San Francisco.
"You're very kind. No, not really. It's my husband. He's leaving me. Now that I know he is, it's sort of a relief." She shrugged hopelessly, then smiled wanly at me. "Would you like a drink, "Stewart." I improvised. "Stewart Paschen." Now psychologically I used the same initials as my own name, and I have read a good deal of criminology to indicate that when a criminal chooses an alias, it is invariably based on his own name or the repetition of his own initials. Be that as it may, it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I admit at the time, I had no violent designs in mind when I entered that house.
Her name was Phyllis Bordeleau, and her husband, it appeared, was a noted architect about fifteen years her senior. They had been married seven years, they were childless, and she had accused him of adultery with his secretary and with two of her friends. He had laughed and told her it was a man's right, and then slapped her. She had told him that she wanted a divorce, he had called her the name I had heard, and struck her again and then left. What I hadn't heard was that he had muttered to her that he was going to his mistress where he would be appreciated and that she could file for divorce and be damned to her.
And I found that I was having to console a passionate masochist that night. For Phyllis Bordeleau, after getting me a drink and some canapes and sharing them with me, broodingly reflected on her past life. She was the only child of a wealthy retired surgeon from Philadelphia who, with her mother, had come out here about fifteen years ago. She had been sent to the most exclusive private school, and she had married Henry Bordeleau (which again is not his real name) out of a kind of obligation to her mother, because her father had died and it had been discovered that his money had been put into bad investments. Bordeleau was rich and had generously offered to put her mother into a nursing home and pay all the expenses until the ailing woman died three years ago. And so she had sacrificed herself, only to find him a philanderer, a cheat, something of a sadist, and a congenital liar. She had wealth, jewelry, a superb wardrobe, and she was intensely beautiful. And she was also intensely unhappy. I tried to philosophize with her and assure her that she was better off, but she had a certain kind of guilt which haunted her. Suddenly she turned to me and said in a husky voice, "Do you want me, Mr. Paschen?"
"That's an academic question, Mrs. Bordeleau, because the answer of course would be yes assuming I had any normal desires at all, which I do," I told her coldly.
"No, I mean it. Would you like to go to bed with me and fuck me?"
The sudden vulgarity set my prick to throbbing in earnest. I stared at her directly: "Again you know the answer is yes. Now what's the point?"
"He called me a whore, a dirty bitch. I've never cheated in my life. He was the first man I ever went to bed with. I don't even know if I'm capable of being good in bed, I don't have any standards to judge by. And he's often told me I was a, well, a lousy lay, if you want his actual expression."
"Many selfish men will say that to cover up their own deficiencies, Mrs. Bordeleau, "
"Phyllis. Please." She put her hand on my knee, stared deeply into my eyes. Her eyes were like a cat's, and I could see golden flecks, and I could also see her nostrils flaring and shrinking and her mouth growing moist and now her pink tongue edging at the corners of those thin Lips. "Please. I mean it. I want you to fuck me. I want you to pretend you forced your way in here and had me. I, I want, want you to do everything to me. If I'm to be called that, I want the game as well as the name. Do you understand, Mr. Paschen?"
I did, indeed. Again this rationalization, the age-old subconscious will to be dominated so that there would be no sin implicit in her. She was flagellating herself because of her supposed deficiencies, because in her pure and chaste and ivory- tower upbringing there had been no room for infidelity or the ugliness of a superficial marriage made for outward show and for snobbery and convention to applaud.
"If you're sincere, yes, I'd like very much to do that to you. And a good deal more," I said softly. "But you may not like violence."
"If it's done in love, why not? His was done in hate," she muttered sullenly. "Go ahead. Force me, make me fight, do it to me. Please, I mean it, I need it."
I dimmed all but the indirect lamp beside the couch. Then, I put my left hand to the back of her neck and I calmly slapped her face as hard as I could, first one cheek and then the other. "Take your clothes off, bitch," I growled.
"No!" she hissed, and struck at me. My blood was singing in my veins now. It was play acting, yes, but she was not a whore and she was tremendously beautiful and the sort of cultured woman that a man dreams of enslaving, of making grovel before him.
And what was more, in my dream-fantasy that was reality now, she had become Jacqueline Bleer, the first woman of my truest desires, of that burning night when I had come out of adolescence into the knowledge of manhood. I seized her by the wrists and dragged her to her feet, and then I dragged her up the stairs to her husband's bedroom. There I ripped off her gown, and again she fought me, kicking and clawing, her face a mask of rage and excitement, her magnificent titties rising and falling violently. Her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. I had never felt so enormously virile!
When I had ripped off her slip, she appeared before me in a bra and matching pantie girdle, beige-colored nylons, and her open toe white suede pumps. I ripped off the bra too, and I bedded my face between those magnificent titties, my hands kneading them. She beat at the back of my head and at my shoulders with her fists, as I forced her over to the bed. But then, to her surprise, I seated myself upon it and twisted her over my lap and, ripping down the pantie girdle, began to spank her magnificent, full-cheeked, solid creamy ass with all my might.
Soon she was sobbing like a child, kicking and pleading, and by then I was mad with lust.
I suddenly desisted, I righted her on her feet, and then I flung her backwards on the bed so that her legs still dangled to the floor and, unzipping my fly, crouched over her and fucked her. It was hardly comfortable for her, but it was glorious for me. And how tight she was, the sweet bitch! And what a fool her husband was to have neglected this, when he could have had the most embattled hours in all the Bay area, to my way of thinking.
And so that too went down into my annals of crime as "The Spanking Rapist," though it was not an episode the newspapers ever chronicled...
Over the next two and a half years, I had six encounters in my role as the unknown assailant who preyed on women. Two of them, by means of using my sodium pentathol-filled hypodermic, I managed to drive to my house near the ocean and there enjoy in my torture chamber. One was a matron of thirty, buxom and arrogant, and the other a brassy young coppery haired girl of eighteen who had tried to pull an oldest of old stunts on me, the "badger game."
I had gone to a bar near the Cliff House when this girl accosted me, intimated that her services could be had for a price, and took my arm and walked home with me. But no sooner had we got inside my door than she began to tear at her dress and to tell me cunningly that she would call the police and say that I had tried to rape her if I didn't "come across" with five-hundred dollars. A simple prick of the needle and she wakened to find herself in my basement, stripped naked and in the pillory. There I made her dance to the tune of a strap on her oval-cheeked, highset, creamy bottom and long sleek thighs until she repented her folly and implored me to do whatever I wanted if I could only let her go.
I made her confess to the tape recorder what her game had been with me, and then I told her that this tape would be my Damoclean sword over her in the event she thought further of the episode and wished to report it to the authorities. Needless to say, she did not. Without releasing her from the pillory, I got in front of her, crouched, and, gripping her titties, playing with them, I fucked her and brought her to climax. Then I buggered her, and I finally sent her away with a hundred dollars to content her mercenary nature. But I had had my pleasure.
And now I come at last to my final episode as "The Spanking Rapist." It was April in San Francisco, and it was bright and the park was green and the weather had been unbelievably beautiful the last several weeks, even without fog.
I had had a superb lunch in the company of the agency president, who told me that I was soon to be promoted to the post of senior vice president with a sizable increase in salary and a further allocation of stock.
But that very day, I had a letter from an old friend with whom I had played correspondence chess all these years from his home in Chicago, and he was telling me of the changes that were going on, and the new buildings, the industry, making me homesick all over again for the place of my birth. Here I was settled, at the acme of financial and material success, and I was even proud of my own creative work, some of which had been quoted in leading advertising journals.
But the nostalgia that one always has for one's natal place had assailed me, and so I was in an introspective mood when I left the office that evening.
I somehow felt also that one day I would make a fatal error and that all this success would be dashed into ignominy and disgrace. And yet I was driven. I could no longer free myself of the obsession that I had to have violent sex. Oh, I had never hurt anyone, not really, but certainly my way of virility was not truly normal.
And so that evening, after dining by myself at Doro's, I walked down the garishly lighted streets, through Chinatown, and on to the glittering neon heralded topless cabaret places which lure the tourists to this city which rebuilt itself after the great earthquake of 1906.
I decided to go into one of these topless cabarets. Perhaps the sight of naked female flesh would quiet my jangled nerves. It would be a bland stimulant, because that which was offered me did not arouse me.
And then I stopped short and my mouth gaped. For there, at the ticket office, wearing a silver sequined evening gown, was the girl who had begun all this part of my life, the girl whom Phyllis Bordeleau had so amazingly resembled, Jacqueline Bleer herself.
Yes, she was about seven years older but the maturity had made her even more beautiful and even more elegant of feature, poised and serene of beauty. Yet, there was a hardness to her mouth and to her eyes, yet the same wonderful patrician insolence which had so aroused me.
After the performance and a few drinks that night, I must admit that I followed her home and, much to my own and her surprise, I asked her to marry me and return with me to Chicago.
She laughed her haughty laugh at me at first.
"But I really mean it," I said. "Honestly. "I've nothing to say goodbye to and I don't want to say goodbye to you. I think if I went back home now, I'd be looking for you on every street and byway and I know I wouldn't find you again. Want to take a chance on a dreamer who's lost some of his illusions but still can dream, Jacqueline?"
She laughed again, a little humorless laugh. "You're a prize sap, Stanley Phallin. You've turned into a fairly decent guy, and I'll tell you this, you're a lot better looking than you were when I walked into that bungalow of yours that night."
"Thanks. And to me, you're lovelier than that night."
"Don't be a fool. Can't you see what I am, what I've been? I've been a whore. Oh, always at a high price, which is one thing in my favor. I could charge you now, and I think I could ask a little more than I did that time I knocked at your door, or did I ring the bell?"
"I've forgotten that part of it. But I would have paid you anything and I will now. I'll pay the highest price of all. Marriage, sharing the rest of my life with you, the good and the bad. As for kids, that you say you can't have, I don't really think I want them in this kind of a world. If we change our minds, however, we can always adopted them.
"I can't make you out. But then, I never could. I wonder... " And now she looked at me almost mischievously. "Do you still get your kicks from manhandling girls the way you did to me?"
My heart had begun to pound and I could feel sweat trickling down my sides and I could feel my prick stirring and wanting fulfillment. "Suppose I show you," I muttered. And then I seized her and tugged her over my lap and pulled up that silver sequined skirt of hers and saw that she had only the skimpiest white nylon panties underneath and not even a slip on. And when I ripped those off, all the old ecstasy returned to me. The years rolled back, and there she was, the haughty princess, the untouchable patrician, the eminent and quite unattainable Miss Jacqueline Bleer, completely at my mercy.
"Stanley, don't you dare, you bastard, I don't want you to, do you understand me, stop it, owwww!"
For my hand had descended abruptly and flattened those jouncy cheeks of hers, and they were still as resilient and tempting and as beautifully satiny as ever. I ignored her cries, and I kept spanking violently. There was a mist before my eyes and my heart was thudding so violently I thought it would burst. And then suddenly she was crying softly like a little girl who was terribly contrite and she was stammering words between her sobs and tears: "Oh darling, oh Stanley, please, oh no more. Oww! It hurts so! Oh, my poor bottom. I'll be good. Whatever you want. If you still want me, used as I am, Oh, Stanley, yes. I'll marry you but oh please, stop spanking me, won't you, darling?"
And that was how my career as "The Spanking Rapist" came to a very happy end. To be sure, our reconciliation ended in a violent fucking bout, not once but several times. We woke in each other's arms on the couch that next morning, and then we made plans.
And so as I conclude these memoirs, it's been six months and I'm back in Chicago. I've a job in a small agency and I'm not making half the salary I did in San Francisco but it doesn't matter. I've a nice little apartment near the lake, I've got a gorgeous wife, and I've just sent the draft of my first novel to a New York publisher. It's not this story, to be sure. It's a love story, about a girl who is redeemed through faith and a man who helped redeem both her and himself. But this is a true story and now you know it, and you know more than the reporters and the police back in San Francisco. Except that I haven't quite ended my career, to be sure, but now it's my beautiful wife who is my slave, my spanking-raping victim at her own urgent and delighted request.
And I find that I don't need to look for others anymore, because she shares my passion and she understands my secret, dark longings and is part of them.
