Charles Crowe was a sadist, he enjoyed inflicting pain upon women. This stemmed from early childhood experiences, in which he learned to associate pleasure and pain as one. Sex to him always consisted of pain and would always consist of the same. Sex without pain, was not truly sex to Crowe.
He craved this sort of action and as he became older he realized that there were many women who liked and even needed to be sexually dominated, a role which he was happy to play, and in fact, it was the only role that truly suited him. He wanted women to whimper and cry as he beat them with his hand, and their cries and sobs were music to his ears.
Crowe, by some people's standards, would be called insane, but in his own eyes he saw himself as being just as normal as anyone else. He saw sadism not as an obsession, not as an illness but merely as a diversion, a different kind of approach to sexuality.
Pain was his stimulus, that which excited him and he would do anything to have that sort of stimulus. He needed to give pain and hurt people just as many other people needed to be punished.
It was a natural sort of relationship to him, that of the masochist and the sadist, as natural as a relationship between a man and a woman. He saw it as the only kind of relationship that would work.
To him, a woman, all women, any woman, wanted to be maltreated. In his eyes it was the pain and the humiliation which aroused them. Crowe wanted to hurt women, to rough them up and spank them. This was his way of pleasure, and to him there would be nothing that could ever begin to transcend this pleasure. He liked that he was doing and in time, he became a man who dominated women for a living.
He would train other men's women for profit and for pleasure. He swatted them, spanked them, brutally treated them, all in an effort to get them to behave.
Needless to say, this was the kind of life that pleased him, and he never wanted to do anything else.
CHAPTER ONE
Everyone has a goal in life, a cause, a motivation which makes him or her tick. I have found my metier, in this seventh decade of the twentieth century. I often think that if I had been born three or four centuries ago, I might have been a masked executioner, perhaps by edict of a king, or a lordly baron, performing my artistry in a medieval torture chamber with deferential, scraping assistants who would hasten to execute my every order and tremble in fear of me.
He thought of his large cock.
The only real big nobleman who has been commissioned by the sovereign to perform legal execution upon his person.
I should have been delighted to live in the sixteenth or seventeenth century, and to have had under my thumb--with all the apparatuses provided for the demonstration of my many skills--exquisite creatures, bejeweled and bedecked in their perfumes and fine gowns, their faces paling as they saw my hooded mask and my black boots and the gloves of my authority. I should have delectated over their cries for mercy, their piteous entreaties, and I should have smirked as I stood there with folded arms across my sweat-glistening chest listening to their supplications, their vain prayers to be spared, their abject and futile promises to do aught I might wish for my own sensual comfort if only I would spare them the torment to which they had been sentenced. I sat and thought, I really did yearn for those good old days, which I never really knew. I drink my wine and go on moaning for the dear lost dead days, and there are times, when I feel like a poet.
Yes, I might be called the poet of lost causes or more likely the poet of pain and sadism. I could be the poet laureate of the torture chamber, there with those stone walls and there with my implements for pain giving. I would be most happy.
My branding iron would write sonnets on the burning suffering flesh of the victim. My manacles would represent the epic poems of Horace squeezing out the very blood of existence from my victims.
Ah, the life of agony, constant agony. My whips would mesmerize, my slaps would hypnotize, and the pain would agonize. I would write my cherished words into the very soul of the victim.
I imagine that I would have hundreds of them do as I wished. They would beg for anything, just so that I would stop hurting them, but that would never stop me. My thoughts and intentions at times exceeded my reason, I thought but reason is what?
I would never stop until those who suffered had duly paid for their guilt. Then perhaps after they had been degraded to the very lowest of all depths, then and only then would I release them from their torture. But before they were freed, they would have to do things for me, all kinds of things would have to be done.
I would have them eat my cock and they would have to give me their asses so I could bugger them. That would be how I would get my pleasure. Certainly I would enjoy inflicting pain upon their poor bodies, but there would be delight from taking sexual advantage of them. I would make them suffer severely for the things that they had done.
Now, as I say all this in a dream, all a fantasy but one that has filled my mind for many years. To a certain extent I have been able to satisfy myself in the twentieth century but I know that I would have done much better in earlier times.
No longer is the true sadist appreciated. For such work there have been better times and better places. I do all right now with my modest practice, but it is nowhere near what it could be if I were living in the centuries past.
A fantasy, like a poem can be something entertaining, something provocative, and so I will relate one of my fantasies, letting you taste the essence of my desires. You will learn who I am, the very nucleus of my soul, my hearing, my fantasy.
You will know my name to be Charles Crowe, that name will beseech you, call out to you and tell you of the man that I really am, and you will understand me and all those souls that are like me, for really we are all from the same mold.
We are all the same when one strips away the flesh, we are souls bared. There is nothing about us which says anything differently. We are what we are, and that is all that we are. There are times when, I suppose, there is need for us to realize our essential differences.
We should band together and become more than just one force blazing a trail through the universe of pain, we will become all that ever has been.
But I digress, for I was about to relate my dreams, my fantasies.
There is a stone wall, for what is a good torture chamber without a strong wall. There is the smell of cunt juices, and all of these odors mix together in the air and attack the nostrils.
There is the sound of whimpering and the sound of crying. There are groans that sound as if they come from something other than a human being, but in truth are from a human source. There is laughter and whispered threats. There are commands bellowed from the deepest throat.
The sights are many outside of the stone walls which are littered with manacles. Each set of manacles holds a body, dare I call it a human body, for all those traces that once made it human are no longer about. There is hair, surely but then instead of a face, there is only a mask of bruises and marks. There are the devices for torture, bizarre and wicked looking things. Things that seemed to have been invented by a demented mind.
There are tactile sensations here that no one can ever forget. There is the feeling of sweat running down one's body. There is the feeling of blood running down the flesh. Pain screams from every pore, from every inch of flesh. Heat sears the skin and melts the soul into a pool of pink goo.
There is the vile taste of spit mixed with blood. The taste of semen which has been splashed into one's mouth. There is the taste of wine guzzled so as to relieve the parched throat.
And now that the stage has been set, we shall descend into my parlor of hell. A young wench is brought here through the heavy oak doors. I smile at her, knowing that soon she will be given more pain than she has ever had before. My smile is not seen, because it is under my hooded face.
She does not know what I look like, and she will never know what I look like not that it matters to me, for she will never be in control of her mind again. She will go howling into the corners of doom, driven by me and my whip. I will treat her as though she were no better than a mule.
In truth, she is a duchess, her face a mask of make up, her hair a hideous stack upon her head, and in its own way really quite attractive. I feel an urge to fuck her, but I know that I will get my turn soon enough and there will be no reason for me to rape her. Before I am through with this elegant creature, she will beg me to defile her body. She will promise me anything so that I will spare her further torture. Her name is not important to me, and I push her against a wall. Her face is taut with fear. She does not know what I plan to do with her, but she has heard tales, hideous tales of how I please myself with the suffering of the victim and I can't deny that she has heard the truth.
Once she is against the wall, I chain her ands and her feet. I look at her face and utter something foul, something that will arouse her anger. "Slut," I call her and she rankles with anger.
I slap her face letting her know that I am the master of this place. I have always been the master and I always will be. That chamber is my own private heaven and her hell.
She says nothing and I rip at her satin dress, tearing it to shreds with my gloved hands. She shudders in fear as I pull each strip of cloth off her body and pile the torn garment on the floor. She is ashamed by what I have done to her and I know she hates me.
If our roles had been reversed, she would have taken great pleasure in hurting me. She would have beaten my body with anything which was handy. She would have whipped my chest, leaving me with deep cuts, but the fact was that the roles were not reversed and I was in power. I was the one that was punishing her.
What was her crime? In that day and age, living itself was a crime at times and for all I knew that was the only transgression that this poor girl had done. She had merely breathed the air and by her simple act she had condemned herself to this hell.
I continued stripping her body of clothes, until she had nothing on her white body, but a pair of bloomers and a thin bra. The sight of her comely body excited my passions and I knew that I wanted her more than anything.
Yes, I had fucked the day before but it didn't matter to me, I would have her nookey soon and I knew that she would try to satisfy me. She would do anything that I asked of her, and that was part of the pleasure of this job.
I picked up my whip and I beat her body. Once my whip came slashing down upon her porcelain-like shoulders. There was a deep ruddy mark that extended down her shoulder to her side.
I held the whip in front of her face and asked her where she wanted the next lash placed, but there was no answer to my question and so I decided that I would save her from utter defilement for I wanted her to retain her beauty until I was finished with her.
I fastened one of her manacles and turned her about, so that she was facing the wall. Now my whip came down on her pearly white back and she screamed, screamed as though her cries would bring her aid.
It was a futile attempt, but one that made no difference to me, for all that I cared, she could scream for an eternity and I would do nothing for her but whip her some more. She was my victim, my toy and I would do anything with her that I pleased. My whip crashed down on her body again and I looked at the deep cuts on her body.
Ten times I brought my whip down on her and ten times she screamed in vain. The screams were nothing more to me than music for my ears. I then beat her about the legs and she shook with pain and agony.
Tears were streaming down her face, and she sobbed heavily as I beat her some more. "You have to be punished," I told her and when she asked me for what reason, I whipped her back and told her that she had no authority on which to question me. The poor creatures I never really care for, the women that were no better than sluts, than hookers held no special place in my mind, and although I treated them as badly in many ways they were better treated than anyone that smacked of nobility.
I felt superior to them in my chamber and it was for them that I pleased myself in the ability to beat them. I would do anything to them, anything that I pleased and there was no one that could stop me.
The poor were already helpless and were well aware, they had no pretensions and it was for that reason if for none other that I treated them well. I liked to be kind to people if I thought that they deserved it, although my interpretation of the word "kind" was perhaps different than most interpretations. I would merely be less relentless on the poor than on the rich and well-to-do. The poor would still feel the same sting of the whip, would still know the same kind of pain, but I would not let them know it as long. My game of executioner would be played faster for them sparing them undue torture.
"Please," she whimpers as I whip her body into a fury of submission, "Please stop."
"Shut up," I snap, and my hand jerks her head about with one fierce yank. She sobs some more and knows that she is defeated. There is one last attempt at bravery, one last remark before she gives in. She tells me that if I do not release her that she will be sure to have my head, but then we both know that it is merely a bluff, a game for children to play, and even they would see the stupidity of such a ploy. I whipped her several more times, and with each new lash applied to her body, with each new flame of pain emblazoned on her sweet flesh, she knew that she would die in my charge.
"Please," she utters again, "please stop and I will do anything for you. I will perform any sort of act of pleasing you, but you must stop."
Ten more times I whip her and then I dropped my weapon to the floor. She screamed in agony with each beating, each lash that inflamed her body with agony. The garments have been torn from her body and I look at her and I know that she is truly a pitiful thing. Her body lies there, still. Her flesh was tender and sweet and I wanted to taste its beauty with my tongue. Her legs have a voluptuous shape and I reach out with my ungloved hand and stroke her flesh.
She stirred from my touch, but she said nothing, for there was really nothing that she could say. I moved my hand up to her ass and I touch it, patting it. She had a fine body and I knew that she would be able to gratify my desires. She would do anything that I asked of her.
I turned her about and then ripped her bra off, what was left of it, that is. I stared at her tits and with my hands I felt them. Her flesh was tender and sweet and I wanted to taste it with my lips.
I decided that there would be no harm in removing my hood and so I did. She looked at my face and said nothing. She sighed and sobbed as I ran my lips up and down on her flesh. I kissed her tits. I pulled her nipple into my mouth and sucked on it. She gave a jerk with her body and I worked my lips over her some more. She loved what I did to her, or at last I told myself that she did, although it really made no difference.
I felt her thighs with my hands as I kissed her pale breasts. There was a majestic beauty about them, a beauty that inspired me, that awed me, and I kissed her again and again. I wanted to drink from her flesh, to touch her with my lips until she swooned from the feel of my body.
I put my hands on her thighs and squeezed the flesh. She stirred as I fan my hands up and down on her body. I touched her some more and I knew that what I really wanted was to make her mine.
I pulled down my pants and stripped off my boots. My body was smelly with sweat and other smells. I had not washed in two days and I knew that she would be revolted by the touch of my flesh, but that thrilled me, for I did not want her really to enjoy what I was going to do.
I kissed her on the mouth and squeezed her jaws as I did. I worked my tongue into her mouth and she squirmed about as I did. I kissed her severely on the mouth making her gag as I forced my tongue into her. She gurgled as I slammed my tongue into her some more. She thrashed about and tried to push me off, but after I slapped her on the face, she stopped such vain attempts.
I ran my hand down to her cunt and I spread her cunt lips, and to my delight I saw that I had made her begin to dampen. She liked it! Or at least her body didn't seem to reject pain totally.
I well knew that some people, many women need pain to excite them and it was not that rare for someone of such an elevated status as she to be thrilled by the bite of the whip on her flesh.
I spread her cunt lips as far apart as possible and then I brought my cock to her. I pushed it into her and she struggled again, but this time I slammed my thing into her up to the hilt.
My hands were placed on either side of her against the wall and I pushed against the wall using as a balance to keep myself from falling on her. She was chained to the wall in a vertical position and I worked myself in and out of her quim. I was fucking her faster and faster.
My rod worked in and out of her body and I loved the things that I was feeling. I felt so damn good as my hot cock slammed into her pussy. She groaned and I wondered if she were groaning in pain or pleasure, I increased my pumping some more.
I rocked myself back and forth on my feet, moving my cock in and out of her box. There were times when my cock moved into her just a little bit and then other times when I would push the tool into her all the way. I would move it about in her and she rotated her hips.
I knew that since she was reacting then she must be feeling something and so I worked myself into her some more. I liked what I was feeling. Her tight little cunt wrapped about my prick and I worked it in and out of her body some more.
There was the feeling of her damp pussy as I fucked her and I hoped that I would be able to keep this sort of thing up for many hours. She would die from fucking, I pledged. That would be the best possible thing. There could be no other way of dying that would surpass dying from pleasure.
My cock worked into her some more and now my hands descended down to her hips. I grabbed her hips and slammed my thing into her box some more. I worked my hips back and forth, plowing into her some more. She was screaming with pleasure, for surely that was why she was screaming, since there was nothing painful that I was doing to her.
I worked my cock back and forth in her and she tightened her cunt muscles about my prick. I slammed myself into her some more, biting her lips with my teeth. She thrashed about and our paces rushed on.
She was a good fuck, a very good fuck and she let the pleasure overtake her body. She seemed to forget that I had whipped her, or she remembered that I had done to her and she was thanking me. I was not sure which way it went, but I did know that it had to be one way or the other.
I wrapped my hands about her hips and fucked her harder and faster. She moved back and forth, undulating her body back and forth, her sweet flesh touching mine.
I thought about her cunt, and I thought about all cunts. I thought about that red raw wound that is beneath a woman's belly. I thought about the pleasure that it gave and I fucked her some more.
Cunts seem to amaze me, the way they work, and I think they should be made into some kind of idol. I like the way that they feel around my cock. I was always amazed at the way they looked, like a hungry mouth.
Thinking about her cunt only made me more hungry for her and I slammed my thing into her some more. I was fucking her as fast as possible. Knots of pleasure shot up and down my spine. They collected in my belly and I knew that it was a sign that I would be soon coming. I thought that she was really something and I wanted to prove to her that I felt that way. I wanted to extend my love to her in all ways.
How many times have I felt that need? I have told myself, feebly promised myself that I would never stop fucking, that I would fuck until I dropped from exhaustion, but I never do, never do I go on. Once I come, I stop for a while. Perhaps I will fuck again in that time, but not for an eternity, not even for more than eight hours. I will fuck only for an evening perhaps.
I will slam my thing into a cunt at most six times in one session. Now I fucked her some more and I let all my thoughts drain from my mind.
There was only one thought, only one existence and that was pleasure. I knew nothing but pleasure, nothing but the purest of emotions and I liked the way that I felt. I thought that it was a good thing, a thing that was full of pleasure.
There were only the emotions of pleasure, only the emotions of fucking. There were no other senses but those of sex, no other memories, no other recollections, but what I knew now as I fucked her.
I wondered if she would come, had she gotten that much pleasure? Would she let herself go, would she come when I came? I wondered, but I fucked her some more, my cock singing as it moved in and out of her body.
Down I spiralled into the pit of pleasure. Down I seemed to go. I was slipping into a vortex of electric pleasure, I was throbbing and pulsing about as I fucked her some more. She undulated about as I fucked her some more. I moved my cock in and out of her box.
My belly touched her. I touched her, and we seem to sing songs of joy as our bodies touched. We were one, and our flesh was fused together as if we had been welded by the heat of our passion.
I hammered my cock into her body and she worked herself against me. My cock moved in and out of her some more. Now she was groaning, and her breasts heaved up and down. My body sagged with pleasure as I moved my thing into her faster. She was getting ready to come.
I could feel her cunt twitch in pleasure and I knew that she was getting hotter and hotter. I knew that she would be coming with the pleasure of the hot orgasm. Then she started to spasm. Her body jerked the lovely jerk of love and she spat her juices out of her cunt.
My organ trembled inside of her and the milk of my prick shot deep into her body. She wiggled about as I fucked her some more and then it was almost over. I worked it into her a few more times and then I had to pull away. Her body jerked and her mouth groaned and then we stopped moving.
I looked at her and I thought about fucking her some more, but I wondered if I would be able to do so very soon. I kissed her on the mouth, and my tongue shot into her.
I had known pleasure, but I had known pleasure from fucking her too and beating her as well. I knew that I would be able to fuck her again if I beat her with my whip again. There was always something about pain that excited my prick that made me erect.
I picked up the whip and brought it down on her body. I beat her faster and faster and she danced about. She screamed and I felt my cock straining to grow again. I beat her some more with the ship. My whip crashed down on her flesh. I worked my whip into her and then I dropped the whip to the floor.
There was something else that I wanted to do now and what it was was to beat her with my hand. I wanted to spank her so very aristocratic butt. I wanted her to know the pain that could be gleaned from a simple swat on the ass.
I brought her about so that her ass was facing me and now I worked my hand up and down on it. I beat her with a speed that was hard and fast.
I brought my hand down on her tender fanny and she wiggled about. She cried and whimpered as I spanked her some more. She thought that it was something terrible and I beat her some more. I heard her cry in outrage as I beat her bottom. She didn't seem to mind the pain so much as the utter humiliation. I knew that I was degrading her. She thought I brought my hand down on her bottom and she squealed as I did. I worked my hand up and down on her and with every swat that I gave her she moved about some more. She was trying to escape my hand, but she was not able to make it. I worked my hand down on her faster and faster. She cried and lifted her mouth to fill the air with more cries.
Then I stopped. My cock was now once more turgid with arousal. I was ready to fuck her. I could have had her cunt again, but this time I decided to fuck her in the ass. She seemed to like it when I fucked her instead of beating her. And so there was no difficulty in getting her to go along with my beating. I worked my hand up and down on her some more.
I kissed her ass and then I leaned over and spread cheeks as I worked my tongue into her crack and she seemed to like what I was doing to her. I made myself hot with lust for her body. I wanted to give her everything that she had ever given me. I thought that she would die with agony as I worked my body up and down on her ass.
My cock was long and extended and filled her asshole which was dry and arid. I plunged my cock in and out of the hole, filling it with my cock. I worked it into her and she tried to fight me off with her body, but it was such a futile attempt. There was nothing that she could really do, and she knew that I had won again. I had her where I wanted her.
My cock slammed into her several times and with each pulling of the puckering flesh, each tug, I knew that pleasure that I had sought. I rammed my thing into her and then I started to come.
My gism shot into her bottom. I was coming and coming. I shot my stuff into her again and again and she writhed about as the hot fluid went into her.
I was done with her and then I beat her to death. For I was after all, the executioner in that century in that dream, and my final task was to give death. But that is not the way in this century and if I was to ever do such a thing I would be executed by another executioner.
One must remember that this is all fantasy, all the flimsy stuff of which dreams are made. I never have done fatal harm to anyone.
But I wonder if I would enjoy it. Isn't death the ultimate reward of the sadist? Is that not his duty, his mission in life? Not merely to give pain, but to go on and deliver death. There are times that I feel a certain amount of awe for those men who have taken their task to the ultimate end, who have delivered death to their victims and I wonder what it felt like.
There are times of course, when that sort of thing repulses me, and I am glad that I will never be responsible for anyone's death.
I have a much simpler existence, one that is better for me. One that is in this century.
But since there is no certain reincarnation that any one of us knows of, I must be content with what I am and where I am, here in Los Angeles, where I once went to high school as a boy and rode my bicycle from Olivera Street to the LaBrea Pits on the boundaries of fabulous Hollywood. For my mission, my purpose, and, indeed, almost my profession is that of training and disciplining naughty wives and sweethearts. It is a singular role that I play, and while it does not entail all the functions of a royal executioner of ages past, nonetheless it provides me with ample joys and sadistic pleasures which even the most glowing terms can hardly begin to describe to the uninitiated.
My name is Charles Crowe, I am forty-one years of age, I wear glasses to correct my astigmatism, my curly hair is brown with only the faintest traces of gray. I am nearly six feet tall, robust and with exemplary health, and, I am happy to mention, a catholicity of appetites which enable me to appreciate not only a vintage wine, a superbly prepared souffle or coq au vin but also the performance of the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto in D Minor, and the enchanting red marks left upon the white skin of a woman's naked bottom which has been subjected to the whip.
I was born in Chicago to wealthy parents, my father being an importer of fine chinaware, cut glass and cutlery, and my mother being a dress designer who was some twenty-five years younger. It was a typical manage de convenance, customary in Europe, when a mature man who has made his fortune sends to the village for a suitable spouse. I was born about five years after this marriage. I had a governess who was prim and proper and English, which says everything and nothing. Yet it was she, Miss Elspeth Cuthbridge, who inculcated in me my earliest instincts for corporal punishment and opened the door to that incredible, lascivious world of imagery and lust and triumph which the true flagellant alone can adventure into and find pleasure therefrom.
CHAPTER TWO
In a sense, I should perhaps dedicate these, my memoirs to Miss Elspeth Cuthbridge, since its is mainly to her that I owe my initial passion for the exquisite fantasies which corporate punishment evokes within my nature. And this is how it all took place. She was about forty, I should judge, and at the time I was fifteen, I had already discovered the secret pleasures of onanism, and because I read assiduously, I had already become conversant with some of the classical erotica. Some of my boyhood companions had access to titillating books from their own homes, which they cleverly stole and lent to me after first reading for their own edification. Also, I found a complacent book dealer who, understanding that I was mature enough to know what I was doing and realizing that I read French as readily as I did English, allowed me--for a price, of course--to borrow for a night or two some of the French paperback novels written by Alan McClyde and Jean de La Beuque, masters of erotic sadism and all the voluptuous ramifications of the domination of the female by the male. Naturally this appealed to me. I was, after all was said and done, a precocious boy who wore spectacles, was cursed with adolescent acne which made me miserable and feel inferior, and I was ignored by most of the girls at school because I was considered a greasy grind, a teacher's pet, a bookworm who burned the midnight oil and had no instincts for fun and games. If these girls could have ever read my mind and particularly my thoughts regarding them, they should either have fainted dead away or rushed to the office of the principal to demand that I be incarcerated as a sex maniac, I fear! But that is another matter.
My father had opened a branch in Los Angeles and that was when I went to high school there. However, once having established it, he left me in the care of my governess, and he and my mother continued their travels to Europe to purchase merchandise and to have certain designs executed which they could sell exclusively in their several stores in Chicago, New York and Los Angeles.
Miss Cuthbridge was black-haired and she wore her hair in a very severe bun which made her look older and more authoritative. Her face was high-cheekboned, her nose aquiline with very thin and subtly flaring wings of the born dominatress, and her thin, severe mouth together with her deliberate, contralto-pitched voice, created altogether an aura of perfect self-assurance, wisdom and intolerant authority. She deferred to me intellectually, realizing that even at my tender age of fifteen I was far ahead of most of her former young charges, as indeed I was. She received the monthly checks from my father's bookkeeper in Chicago which was money paid for my clothing, food and rent, as well as her own wage%, dispensed what intellectual cheer she could and looked over me with a kind of benign tolerance which, for her, was actually approbation. I am certain she knew that I masturbated, but she never caught me at it and I took pains that she never should.
I took to bed with me a handful of tissue paper or an old handkerchief which needed discarding, and there I trapped my violent youthful gush when, lying abed late at night and with my eyes closed and the sheets flung back to expose my nakedness, my prick tingled with all the pleasurable sensations of freedom and fantasy. I imagined myself in a dungeon with a beautiful young girl who had spurned me, in the act of shackling her slender wrists and drawing her up till her bare toes just left the floor, and then menacing her with a long whip and promising her a sound thrashing until she came to her senses and accepted me as her master and lover.
In the end, invariably, the girl always did, and my youthful spunk, I fear, however, usually burst forth well before the finish of this dream illusion. But all the books I had read contributed to that building of images which is so dear to the heart of the sadist.
Mine was not a cold and crafty, heartless cruelty, however. I did not wish to draw blood nor to mar the lovely smooth white skin of a bottom or a pair of titties. Quite the contrary. I wished only to see the girl palpitating under the whip, her fine satiny skin streaked with its kisses, trembling and shivering in the access of emotion which the whip and my own virility enroused, and at the point of accepting her initiator as myself. And then, of course, in the sequel, I would always control her so masterfully that she would be my willing slave forever after. After all, this was the basic scheme of all the erotica I ever read, and all it sufficed the man to do was assert his domination and his powers of sexual priapic passion over the helpless female, and she would be impressionably indoctrinated to complete surrender thereafter.
Although Miss Cuthbridge never caught me using my right hand in lieu of a woman, she certainly must not have been unaware of some of the literature I read. Although I was quite careful about tucking away the paperbound French books which this dealer lent me, there were times when I could have sworn she had found them and moved them in the shelves. Some of them were illustrated also, with exquisite line drawings which left nothing to the imagination and yet at the same time aroused it fully. One could see the poignant look of a young girl--or better still, a mature woman--glancing around as the executioner raised the lash, and as her quivering and shrinking flesh prepared itself to receive the very first kiss there in some dank dungeon, in whose confines she was quartered at the will of her unseen lord. Or perhaps he would be peering from around the corner, devouring her cries and pleas and entreaties, watching the executioner's lash paint delicious patterns of suffering on her shuddering young body, touching a tittie here, the base of a buttock there, and finally, as a last resort, should she prove unduly obstinate, disappearing into the shadowy groove which connected both her orifices that led to paradise.
But what I did not know about Miss Cuthbridge was that she had a young niece, who lived in Whittier with her inform parents. Her sister had come from London, as she had, met this florist whom she later married in New York, been courted by him for about two years, and then the two of them had taken themselves off to California to seek fame and fortune. However, he had earned but a meager living, and their only issue had been this one girl, who was my own age and named Phyllis.
Phyllis had straw-colored hair which tumbled in a kind of helmet-style all around her round, heart-shaped face. She was quite buxom for her years, but with a superb figure, tending to be on the order of the Raphael Madonna or one of Titian's fleshy females rather than resembling what we may now call a Vogue model. In those days, immature as I was as regards sexual experience, I equated curves with voluptuousness, not yet realizing that the svelte, even boyish female may offer an even greater erotic stimulus depending on my fantasies.
At any rate, she was much too toadying and goody-goody for my own taste, and when Miss Cuthbridge introduced her to me one May afternoon, I was hardly impressed at all, except, of course, by the shape of her calves and thighs and bottom, as well as the already round firm titties which thrust against the bodice of her blue cotton dress.
Her skirts fell to about an inch below her knees, but her legs were bare, and she wore yellow bobby socks. I remember that the appetizingly baby-pink flesh gave me some nervous moments, for she had turned her back to me and was conferring with her aunt and then, a moment later, bending over the couch to retrieve something which had dropped. In so doing, the skirt hiked up and showed me her plump thighs, and it also shaped out the opulent cheeks of her magnificent behind. It was a behind made for spanking or whipping, that would be one's first impression. Plump and resilient, the curves of the summit threatened to burst through the skirt which was so snugly drawn across it.
She seemed to be in great fear and respect of her aunt, and that made me think her even more a fool and, equally, a candidate for servitude. I could already imagine Phyllis in chains, her head bowed, timidly entering my room at night where I lay upon my noble sheets, awaiting her response to my imperious summons. I could see her with tears welling into her big blue eyes, her full red lips trembling pitifully, one soft trembling hand pressed tightly over her cunt, the other arm crooked over her heaving titties as she tried to conceal her maiden charms from me. I could relish in advance the confusion and shame she would experience when I ordered her to take her hands away and to stand before me and then to take various poses, her chains tinkling and clanking as she moved about.
Of course I could only conjecture what she would look like naked, but it was her aunt, my governess, who was to give me this memorable initiation into the visual beauty of a young female and, even more exciting, one who was condemned to chastisement.
I had told my governess this particular afternoon that I would probably stay in school until at least five-thirty, because I was president of the Rotary Club and we had a meeting after the last class. There were a few girls in this club, one really attractive and her name was lone Beldon.
She had an ethereal, wistful face, dreamy eyes, olive skin and long tumbled black hair. She was sixteen, a precocious senior, but one did not think of her sexually. Next to myself, she was the leading scholar in the school. I since learned that she was a decided lesbian and, even had I attempted any seduction with her, I should have been very rudely rebuffed. Oddly enough, her partner and paramour was a coarse-featured, rather stocky honey-haired girl, quite bovine and with glasses, by the name of Cora Hinton, whom all the boys called a cow.
But that is neither here nor there. However, our club meeting broke up almost forty-five minutes before the expected time, so I came straight on home. I had my own key to our bungalow on Detroit Street, and no sooner had I entered than I heard curious sounds followed by sobs and groans and babbled entreaties. I pricked up my ears and tiptoed closer to the end of the living room. Smack! "Oww, Aunt Elspeth, please, not so hard." Crack! "Ohh, boohooo, I'll be good, I didn't mean to be sassy, please, I didn't, oh, not so hard with that awful hairbrush!"
All at once I felt my prick hardening, and the unhealthy and lustful desires which I banished from me until the secrecy of night came upon me. I crept down the hallway, and there I found, in the second bedroom where Miss Cuthbridge was wont to sleep across the way from me, that the door had been left slightly ajar.
I couldn't help peering in, crouching down on all fours and cocking my head so that I could get as good a view as possible without being detected in the process. My stern governess sat on the edge of the bed facing me. Across her lap and stretched fully along the bed was her niece, Phyllis.
Phyllis' skirt and petticoat had been neatly rolled up well above her waist, her little white cotton panties tangled about her lower thighs, her legs were crossed and one shoe was off, evidently having been kicked off in her struggles under the hairbrush. Her big naked bottom v as there before me, as well as her plump full thighs, almost those of a woman already. The baby-pink skin of her behind was already decorated with furious, dark, reddening splotches from the back of that oval-shaped black wooden hairbrush. And, with her left arm tightly tucked around the victim's waist, my governess was applying the brush sternly and severely in measured cadence of about six spanks a minute the brush landed, Phyllis's naked hips would lunge and twist this way and that, and her face would turn back until finally she could stand it no longer and plunged her hand back to her ass.
"Take your naughty hands away, you ridiculous baby," the governess scolded her "That will cost you extra, my girl. Oh, you won't do it? We'll soon see to that!"
First, reversing the brush, she struck at her niece's knuckles with the bristles, and poor Phyllis wailed and pulled her hands at once away. But the governess now seized both her wrists in her steely grasp and, thus mastering her with her left hand, applied three or four quick stinging spanks with the bristled side of the brush which drew frantic remonstrations and pleas from the sobbing teenager.
Then the chastisement proper resumed. The flat back of the wooden brush smacked wickedly, flattening the resilient, angrily reddened hemispheres in turn. First the right cheek and then the left, in methodical progression, proceeding from the tops of those already delightfully rounded hips down to where the thighs joined the swelling base of that voluptuous young bottom. There was a shadowy and rather wide groove between Phyllis' buttocks, and at times when she arched herself high, I could almost see the shadowy tufts of pussy hair which framed her cunt hole. She was not turned to me so that I could look down that provocative groove, to be sure, but I could imagine it, and imagine it I did. My prick was bursting within my trousers, and I clamped a hand over it and ground my teeth together to hold back the savage flow of spunk which threatened to burst forth at any moment.
"There, you naughty, lazy girl," my governess scolded her niece as she brought the hairbrush down right over both cheeks, bridging the crease between them. "Are you going to have better marks on your report card the next time, Phyllis? Your mother is too weak to punish you as you deserve, but I'm not, as you see. You'll go back home and tell her that I've attended to you, young lady, and you'll show her your bottom, do you understand me?" Thwack! Once again the brush visited that very tender region, pinching the inner edges of the buttocks together as it covered the sinuous groove. I have since learned from my own experience, to be sure, that this is one of the most sensitive parts of a woman's bottom, and I can understand now why Phyllis' cries were so shrill and imploring by comparison with her previous cries of distress.
Her legs kicked high in the air and flailed this way and that. The other shoe fell off and her toes flexed and twisted frantically in the bobby socks. She was jerking at her wrists in a desperate attempt to break them free and to cover up her now blazing posterior, but my governess gave her no opportunity whatsoever to do so.
She howled and wailed, sobbed hysterically, promised the world with a fence around it if only Aunt Elspeth would stop. Finally, after much more scolding and at least fifteen more good hard spanks, my governess did, then pressed the brush down right over the crease of the now -flaming and swollen bottom cheeks and demanded, "Now do you think you can work harder and to more purpose, Phyllis?"
"Oww--ohh-Y-y-es, Aunt Elspeth, oh, please lemme go now, my poor heinie's so sore, please, I'll be good, don't spank me any more, oh, please don't, Aunt Elspeth!"
"Very well. But I shall ask your mother to let me know the next time you bring home your report card, Phyllis, and if your marks aren't any better, especially in deportment, you may expect twice as much as this. Just remember that!"
And once again the brush smacked down on the left lower summit, and Phyllis kicked her legs up wildly and waved them to and fro in the air as she turned back her congested, tear-bathed face to her implacable executioner.
I couldn't stand any more, so I hurried to my room on tiptoe, carefully closed the door and went into the bathroom. There, locking the door behind me, I unbuttoned my trousers, liberated my bulging prick, and began to masturbate.
I closed my eyes, a wad of toilet paper in my right hand, began to tickle my cock with my left. I pretended that I was spanking Phyllis myself, and that she was bounding about all over my lap, showing me without the least shame or inhibition the sweet pleasures of her furry cunt and her dainty little coral-tinted bum hole. I almost fainted when the tremendous burst of semen launched forth, and I stood there wavering, pressing my thighs against the cold porcelain of the wash bowl, as I slowly regained my sanity.
As soon as I had put my clothes in order, I opened the bathroom door, coughed loudly, and then walked into my room. I could hear muffled sobbing, and my governess' stem voice demanding responses from her still weeping niece, responses which were given in a broken, almost unintelligible tone.
Then apparently it was all over, and in a few moments my governess entered my room, her face serenely composed, little surprised to find me back home before the scheduled time. I explained to her what had happened, and she nodded, satisfied. "Phyllis will be here to supper, Charles," she told me. "Don't tease her. She's been crying a little, you see. We had an argument."
I could obviously not tell my governess that I knew perfectly well what kind of argument it was. Indeed, the thought occurred to me that she might even take me across her lap and use that hairbrush on me if she found me impertinent. I had never yet brooked her wrath, and didn't have any desire to do so. So I decided I would take a short nap before supper, and when we all met at the supper table, Phyllis sat, noticeably uncomfortable and shifting quite a few times in her position, with her eyes downcast and red and swollen.
At the end of dinner, my governess gave me such a piercing look, a thin smile hovering about her lips, that I would have sworn she knew perfectly well that I had been outside her room and had peered in on that memorable scene.
Never once, until she finally left me a year later, did she allude to this episode. I am convinced, however, that she knew I must have been listening outside, for my own hoarse and heavy breathing would have given me away a dozen times over. Perhaps in some subtle way, she .wished to show me the mystic pleasures of domination and at the same time allow my precocious and yet virgin eyes to behold the naked flesh of an attractive girl, yet without leading me too far into pernicious temptation.
Whatever her motives, I shall always be grateful to her for my having come upon that scene.
CHAPTER THREE
Needless to "Say, the night after I had secretly witnessed my governess' infliction of punishment on her ripely curved young niece, I gave vent to my fantasies in the darkness. I even took pains, I remember, to lock the door. Then, lowering my pajama trousers, I fondled my prick lingeringly and delicately, closing my eyes and summoning back the vision of the charming Phyllis. In my version, naturally, the charming miss lay across my lap, but her wrists were bound with tight cords in front of her, as were her slim ankles. And in my dream, also, she wore only a little red satin blouse and yellow bobby socks, with her tight little panties drawn down and twisted about her calves. My left arm was round her waist, and my palm pressed against her belly, so that I could feel the warmth and moisture of her naked skin as well as all its rippling tremors. My right hand was busy dealing out vehement, loud smacks upon her plump asscheeks, which bounded and flattened deliciously under my attack. I almost imagined that I could hear her tearful voice, imploring me to be merciful and to stop, finally promising me that she would do anything in the world for me if only I would end her punishment.
And in my dream, finally, still bound hand and foot, she crouched between my legs with her head bowed and her hair tumbling over one tear-swollen cheek, while she put her trembling mouth to my young but savagely rampant cock and at my order sucked and licked me until I shot my essence into her gasping mouth.
Then, under the threat of a much more severe punishment and this time with my belt, I compelled the sobbing, almost naked teenager to lie on her back and draw her knees back to her titties, while I crouched in front of her, gripping her knee hollows with my fingers so that she could not escape her destiny. Slowly, my prick rubbed all over her redden bottom cheeks, even to rasping against the dainty little plump pink lips of her virgin asshole so as to arouse myself to a new vigor. Then, once I had achieved it, I tantalized her by rubbing my cock tip against the plump lips of her cunt, boasting to her how I was going to fuck her until she fainted, and only then slowly entering the portals of her virgin gates.
It was so intense a dream-fantasy that I had two powerful climaxes, the evidences of which I hid in tissue carefully flushed down the toilet lest my governess find the discarded paper in the wastebasket and surmise exactly what had taken place.
For some little time thereafter, I went about in a kind of feverish excitement, longing to have the opportunity to see such a spectacle again, and, to amuse myself, I often created stories which I typed out on my portable Corona in which I was the hero and girls like Phyllis were my slaves. I devised many ingenious methods of making them cry and twist and wriggle under my lashes and always, naturally, they finally knelt at my feet to promise me they would let me fuck them and that they would also suck my prick if only I would spare them anymore whipping.
Adolescence is the very worst of times for a virile and imaginative male. The laws of our conventional society do not admit that anyone under twenty-one years of age should have the right to fuck, and still less to amuse himself by spanking the lovely bare bottoms of pretty young girls or women. I should have been regarded as a sex monster if I had even dared admit my longings to any of my classmates; nor would I have been such a fool. They for the most part boasted of their mythical affairs with the fair sex, and I guessed that most of these adventures were, like mine, of the mind and not of the flesh at all.
But fate intended to grant me the fulfillment of my burning desire, and I am convinced that this early experience contributed mainly to my role today of administering discipline to recalcitrant and disobedient females.
About six months after I had watched Miss Cuthbridge spank her niece, Phyllis, I came home rather early from school because as the leading scholar in my history class, the teacher had decided to devote the period to the plodders and to review much of the detail which I had already shown I knew through several examinations and original compositions.
So instead of coming home at about four o'clock, I came home at two and to my great surprise, as I unlocked the front door of the bungalow in Detroit Street, I discovered Phyllis already there and in the act of taking something out of a black purse with her back turned partly towards me.
"Hello, Phyllis," I said casually.
She straightened, gasped out, "Oh, you scared me!" and then turned around, her eyes very large and her face flushed.
I could see that in one of her hands there was something crumpled and it looked green. I immediately inferred that she had stolen some money out of the purse. Her nervousness made me even more certain of it.
"Where's Miss Cuthbridge?" I asked.
"She-she had to go out to do some shopping. She'll be back around four or five," Phyllis stammered.
"Whose purse is that?" was my next question.
"It-it's hers. Why are you asking me till these silly questions?"
"I wonder if she would spank you again if I were to tell her that you just took some money out of her purse, Phyllis," I said with a cold little smile. Suddenly, I felt myself in the position of a kind of master, and before me was a trembling and very embarrassed young girl who was about to become aware of my secret powers.
"That's an awful thing to say! Anyway, it's none of your business."
"I think it is. Open your hand and let me see."
"I won't."
"Oh yes you will," I laughed. I, who had always been shy towards the fair sex, now suddenly felt myself strong and indomitable. I moved towards her very quickly, caught her wrist and gave it a little twist. She uttered a squeal, opened her hand and dropped the crumpled paper onto the floor. Just as I had thought, it was money, a ten-dollar bill.
"I thought so," I said. "Well, when she gets back home, I guess I'll have to tell her what I caught you doing."
"Oh no! You wouldn't, Charley!"
"I would indeed. Why should I keep it from her that her own niece is a thief?"
Phyllis began to cry, twisting her fingers this way and that, staring at me piteously. "Oh please, don't tell her, please!"
"You know very well what she would do to you, don't you? A good sound spanking and it wouldn't be with her hand either."
"Ohh, I hate you, you dreadful boy with glasses and pimples!" she gasped out.
Now it was my turn to redden, but it wasn't with anger. I was only too conscious of my unprepossessing looks, and I had always told myself that it would be my mind that made me superior to my fellows who had no such blemishes or handicaps such as glasses for astigmatic eyes. Naturally, her ill-advised remark had reminded me of my inferiorities and this determined me to make the worst of what I had just learned about her.
"Your insults won't do any good, Phyllis, and you should have been more careful than to say them," I told her. "I know Miss Cuthbridge is very stem and strict and when she finds out you've stolen ten dollars from her purse, she'll really give you a good spanking."
"Oh please, you wouldn't tell her. You wouldn't be so mean!"
"Yes I would. Especially after what you just called me."
"I-I didn't mean it. I take it back!"
"It's too late for that. I think probably she'll use a hair brush, and she might even use the bristled side."
She caught her breath, put her hand to her mouth and stared at me as if I were the very devil himself. "You-you saw me get spanked that time, then!" she accused.
"Yes, I did. And you had it coming, I'll bet. Bad marks on your report card, wasn't it? That's something that will never happen to me. But you're going to get worse this time, for being a little thief."
"Oh, don't! She-she spanks so hard, please, you don't know how awful it is! Mom leaves it all to her because she's too tender-hearted. Every so often she sends me over to Aunt Elspeth for a spanking." And then suddenly she blushed furiously and lowered her eyes as she stammered, "You-you saw, you must have peeked in. Oh, you awful boy, watching me get it, and on the bare, too! I could just die thinking of it!"
"But you won't, and you won't die, either when she takes you over her lap and pulls your panties down and spanks your big bottom with the hair brush for stealing ten dollars," I heartlessly reminded her.
She burst into tears then, and finally she sobbed, "Oh gosh, I just can't stand another one like that. Please don't tell her. I'll do anything you want, honest I will."
Such an offer exceeded my wildest dreams. I had been looking for some way to take domination over this very enticing, ripe young girl who was my own age, although I felt myself, needless to say, very mature and grown up. This was because of my bookish education, undoubtedly. And here Phyllis had presented me with an unexpected bounty, the privilege of exacting from her whatever forfeit I should wish to buy my silence so as to save her from the hair brush.
So for a long moment I stood there exulting in my newly acquired mastery. It was, I confess, a heady feeling. I, who had been derided and flouted by so many pretty girls at school, now found myself standing with my arms folded, looking very stern, adolescent though I was, while this deliciously ripe young Lolita approached me timidly, clasping her hands in a classic attitude of anguish and contrition, her big eyes swimming with tears, her lips trembling, her full young titties rising and falling agitatedly. Yes, I confess that at that moment I felt myself almost reborn, as if I were the lord and master of a seraglio and here was my newest slave beseeching me to be merciful and spare her the whip.
"I don't know," I scowled so as to leave her in greater suspense than ever and to make sure that she would go through with her incredible offer of "doing anything you want."
"Oh please, Charley," she sobbed, "she'll spank me raw, I just know she will! Oh, why do you have to be such a hateful boy?"
"I'm certainly not going to let you off if you keep on calling me names like that," I told her.
"I-I take it back. Oh gosh, I didn't mean it, but gee, please don't tell her, please Charley! I'll be nice to you, I promise I will. Honest! Just don't tell her, and I'll let you kiss me."
"Oh no," I laughed. "That's for kids. That's getting off too easy, Phyllis. A kiss instead of a spanking? No, I think I'll tell her. Maybe she'll leave the door open again so I can watch you this time, just like I did the last." I turned the dagger in the wound.
It worked, too. "Oh, nooo!" she wailed. "I can't take another one like that, oh please don't, Charley! All right, what-what do you want then?"
I stared at her greedily. She couldn't help blushing, because even at fifteen, going on sixteen, there wasn't any doubt of my lustful nature. Besides, I was starting to get a hard-on just from watching her and listening to her tearful voice. "You have to let me give you a little spanking with my hand," I finally decided. "And you have to let me feel you up."
"You're awful!" she gasped, turning very red indeed.
I shrugged. "Makes no difference to me, Phyllis. Fact is, I think I would just as soon tell her and watch you get the hair brush. You ought to have seen how your big bottom bounded all around in the air when you were getting it that time. So you don't have to be so modest now because I've seen everything you've got."
I realized then that I was very hateful and that I was blackmailing her. But then, she really deserved it. Theft is reprehensible, and at her age if she were encouraged to do it, she could easily try it again and again until she really got herself into trouble. And besides, what I had said was very true. If she was willing to kiss me, and if I had already seen her pussy and her bare bottom, then there was no reason for her to get so upset about what I was proposing. A hand spanking would certainly hurt her a lot less than that hair brush wielded by my strict governess.
"You-you won't do it too hard if-if I let you spank me, though, will you, Charley?" she stammered, looking down at the floor and squirming from foot to foot.
"Not as hard as that hair brush, that's for sure," I told her. "You'd better make your mind up quick because otherwise I'll go up to my room and do a theme for school. Well, do I tell her or don't I?"
"Oh no! All right, I-I'll take the spanking."
"Then come up to my room," I ordered. And I felt very much the master as I saw her dolefully walk slowly up the stairs with me behind her. She was wearing a blue cotton dress whose hemline ended just a little above her knee hollows, and again she wore yellow bobby socks and loafers. With each step she took, the cotton skirt plaqued to her plump bottom, shaping out the ripe round cheeks and even the crease between them. I felt my hard-on getting more and more painful with every step the two of us took, and by the time I reached the landing of the second floor, I was in a fearful state of erection.
She was sniffling, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands and went on resignedly towards my room. I opened the door for her out of gentlemanly instinct, and she went on in, and then I closed and very carefully locked the door behind me. Then I drew the shades, for I wanted this to be utterly private and without the slightest intrusion. I seated myself in a straight-backed chair, and then I said to her, "All right now, Phyllis, pull your skirt up and whatever else you've got under it, and get over my lap this minute!"
"You're wicked! You're just awful!" she blubbered.
"Anymore of that and you can leave and I'll wait for your aunt to get back to find out what you were doing when I walked in," I said to her.
"Please, please Charley, can't you spank me over my clothes?" she groaned, looking up at me at last with tears running down her cheeks. The sight of her discomfort and embarrassment, far from making me feel abashed or compassionate for her welfare, singularly seemed to increase my rancor which of course was nothing more than sheer sadism on my part.
"No, I can't!" I snapped. "Now, would you rather get the hair brush or just my hand?"
She started sniffling again, and then very slowly she stooped and picked up her dress and her pretty apricot-colored petticoat beneath it, drawing them slowly up to her waist. Then she crossed over to my right, and slowly laid herself down over my lap, immediately taking hold of the bottom rung of the chair and abandoning herself.
I tucked up the skirt and slip a little higher and made sure they wouldn't fall back into place, while she groaned and squirmed uneasily. She was wearing white cotton panties, and they were so tight that it seemed to me that I could almost see the plump pink hillocks of her bottom, with all the muscles in play as an instinctive defense against the oncoming chastisement. I hooked my forefinger and median finger inside the waistband, and she let out a frantic cry, "Oh, no, don't take those down, or you're awful, that's not right. I won't let you do that to me!"
"Look, Phyllis, it's either this or the hairbrush, so make up your mind to it. And don't be so modest, because you know you already showed me your big naked bottom that other time."
"Yes, but I didn't know you were spying out there in the hall, you awful boy!" she sobbed. She put her hands back to cover up her bottom, but I seized them in my left hand and pulled them high on her back. Then, without more ado, I yanked down the panties to her knees. Phyllis let out a wail and immediately clamped her thighs together as tightly as she could, at the same time cudding the big pink-sheened cheeks of her luscious bare behind. Then she burst into fitful tears.
My eyes devoured that ripe, voluptuous behind. The pouting inner edges of those firm succulent cheeks seemed to twitch as if to tighten and further diminish the shadowy groove between them. Her muscles were all in play, from her calves on up through her back, and it was an exciting picture for me. It was reality come true at last, after all these nights of onanistic fantasy.
"Are you ready?" I demanded in a hoarse voice that I'm afraid betrayed my powerful emotions. Her loins were rubbing right over my hard-on, and I knew that with her panties down her hairy pussy would be frictioning my cock. It was enough to make me very nearly lose the bubbling spunk which was rising to the lips of my organ and demanding outlet.
She had very quickly crossed one pretty leg over the other, and was bearing down with the toe of her left loafer against the right to balance herself properly. But this tensioning of all her lovely muscles offered me a further regalia of her femininity, because it tightened the firm elastic flesh of her pink-skinned young virgin ass and set into relief the lovely young contours of her thighs and saucily-rounded calves.
"Oh, please, hurry up and get it over with, Charley. I'm so ashamed, I could just die!" she groaned.
I ignored her jeremiads. Tightening my left hand around her bare waist, I raised my right hand and brought it down with an energetic smack on the plumpest curve of her right bottom cheek. It was a wonderful feeling, and you can conjecture it yourself this very first time, if you have ever had any such wish-fulfillment yearnings about the domination of an enticing young female. Under my palm, her resilient naked flesh seemed to flatten, then to spring up, and her body jumped over my lap, while I could see the bright pink splotch outlining my palm. She also gave a frantic little squeal, looking back with wide eyes, as she called, "Ouch, oh, please, Charley, not to hard, please don't!"
"It doesn't hurt as much as the hairbrush, and you know it, Phyllis, so keep still and take your medicine," I told her.
I gave her a second slap on the other buttock, and once again I had the wonderful feeling of mastery over this tender young flesh, this succulent virgin ass which bounded and quaked like a mound of Jello under my chastising hand.
She squealed again and twisted herself, so I pulled her back into the position that she was in before I had started this tirade, even thought it was only theoretical until this point, I really began to spank her big naked behind.
She jerked frantically at her wrists which I kept retained in my left hand, begging me not to hit so hard, telling me that I was just awful, saying that I was hurting her awfully. She began to kick her pretty legs, to cross and uncross them, to shift herself, trying to get off my lap entirely. I rewarded her simply by pulling her back each time and by increasing the severity of the smacks until she was really crying.
Then I paused, because I was panting, and my prick felt as if it were about to burst.
"Ohhh, boohoo, oh, Charley, oh, stop, no' more, oh, please don't spank me anymore. Please don't!" she blubbered.
"I haven't even started too half yet, Phyllis," was my reply. "How many spanks with that hairbrush do you think your Aunt Elspeth would give you if she knew that you stole a ten-dollar bill from her purse?"
"Oh, no, I just can't stand anymore, please don't. I'll be nice to you. I'll do anything in the world you want, honest I will, only let me off, please, Charley!" she petitioned.
I was not proof against the temptation, as I now should be as a full-grown man who is a trainer of undisciplined wives and sweethearts.
My prick was about to burst, and I needed relief savagely. "Are you sure you'll do what I tell you to?" I gasped.
"Oh, yes, anything, only let me up, but don't hit me anymore, oh, my poor heinie, it hurts so!" she sobbed.
"All right, get up, but keep holding up your skirt and petticoat," I told her, sounding exactly like a mature master of slaves.
Sniffling, her cheeks streaked with tears, she slowly rose from my lap, holding up her clothes, and when she saw that I was staring at her dainty plump cunt with the soft curls framing the pink lips, she turned scarlet and gasped, "Oh, that's awful, please let me pull my panties up, please!"
"No, you don't, or else back over my lap you go," I told her. "Get down on your knees now. All the way down, I say! That's better."
She knelt there, and never before in my life have I felt so magnificently empowered to rule the female just as I had always dreamed.
"What--what do you want me to do now, Charley?" she sniffled.
I held my breath a moment, because I could hardly speak. "Open my pants and take my cock out, and rub it with your hands until I come," I finally instructed her.
Her eyes went wide as saucers. "Ohhh! That's--that's dirty!"
"You said you'd be nice to me," I told her. "It's either that or I'll tell my governess what you did. And hurry up about it, because I'd just as soon spank your big bottom as let you off, that's for sure!"
She wasn't quite the innocent I thought she was. She reached out her hand, with a soft kind of sly giggle through her tears, and she opened my trousers, delved inside my shorts, and pulled out my already big, aching prick. Then she put both hands to it, and began to rub it between her soft little palms.
I closed my eyes and arched myself from the chair. I was going mad with ecstasy. "That's it, that's it, Phyllis," I panted. "Do it nice, now, not so fast, don't rub so hard. I'm going to come--now!"
And I felt myself burst into her hands, and I sank back, sated with my first thrilling experience as a dominator over the tender sex.
She made a grimace of disgust, and finally, languidly, I pulled out my handkerchief and began to mop my organ and then gave it to her so that she could clean her hands. Hurriedly she pulled up her panties, smoothed down her petticoat and skirt, and then began to rub her tearful eyes with her knuckles. "You were just awful," she whispered. "I oughtn't to have done that, and you know I oughtn't!"
"Wasn't it better than the hairbrush?" And then the little minx absolutely took my breath away when she giggled, "Sure it was. Only I would have been nicer to you than that. I would have let you put it in my little pussy. Oh, not all the way, 'cause I haven't ever done that, but my boyfriend, Henry, at school, he rubs himself off against my pussy lots of times. Well, I better get back to Aunt Elspeth's room, before she comes back. Now you promise you're not going to tell her?"
"I'll keep my word," I said very angrily. I was furious with her. If she hadn't played the role of being such a terrified little virgin, and of course she was certainly that at her age, I would assuredly have made her do much more to me than that.
Just the same, it was my first entry into the lists of lust! And it was to form my career as a trainer of naughty wives and sweethearts!
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time I had finished high school my mother was dying of cancer and my father's business was in a state of flux. I had earned a scholarship to U.C.L.A. in Westwood, and my father had left enough of the insurance and also money in a trust fund for my education and young manhood. Economically, there wasn't anything for me to worry about. Miss Cuthbridge went on being my governess, at my own request. I had the feeling that I would not see my parents again, not ever. About three months after I started at U.C.L.A. my mother died, which was a mercy as it ended her dreadful suffering. My father flew in to see me, we had about a weekend together. He was pale and drawn and haggard, and he didn't look well at all. He obviously missed my mother very deeply, just as I did. Yet of course he had been closer to her all these years, whereas I had had my governess to influence me and to make me understand women.
We had a good long talk, and it cleared the air. I told him I wanted to be a professional writer, and he said that I was more fortunate than most because I had at least enough money in the bank to let me go my own way for a couple of years without starving, as so many other young writers had to do. He told me that if I felt I didn't have any real talent after a couple of years, I should think very seriously about going into his business. After all, I was his only heir, and he wanted to keep it going in case anything happened to him.
I felt a certain presentiment when he talked like that. I think he knew he was going to die, and he did, before the year was over. The doctor said it was bronchial pneumonia, and I think it was also partly due to a broken heart over my mother's death.
Miss Cuthbridge's niece Phyllis had come over a couple of times since that one memorable occasion when I had made her take a spanking and let me feel her up in place of telling her Aunt that she had stolen a ten-dollar bill from the latter's purse. Phyllis was very snippy each time she came over, and just said "hello" and not much else. However, she didn't get spanked. I was sorry about that, because I would have just loved to have eavesdropped and watched her big bottom turn red and to hear her crying like a baby while my governess spanked her big plump bottom.
But that winter, about two months after my father's death, his lawyer phoned me from Chicago and told me that the business was in very bad shape. My father had overextended himself on credit, and now the creditors and suppliers of his merchandise were demanding overdue payment. If it were done, it would drain the estate, the business might have to be sold for a loss. I told him to go ahead and do it. I didn't fancy myself working in a business, going into commercial selling and trying to please the public. I felt much more enthusiastic about writing, although I knew of course I would have to do better than those stories I had written as a boy about my being the hero who would dominate women and give them the punishment their naughty bottoms needed.
I joined the fraternity at U.C.L.A. my sophomore year, when I was nineteen, and by then Miss Cathbridge was getting ill with the malady which was to kill her almost three years later. She asked me if I thought I could get along by myself without her, and I told her I would miss her very deeply. She gave me a strange, sweet smile, then patted my arm and said, "I've enjoyed taking care of you, child. You've given me no trouble at all. You're a very handsome and virile young man now. Your acne has all cleared up, and I know that it bothered you a few years ago. You thought you were very inferior to girls, and you couldn't bear the thought of being with them because of the blemishes, isn't that true?"
"Yes, you're right, Miss Cuthbridge. But I want to do something for you. There's money enough in the bank from my father's business, and from all the insurance in the trust fund I have. I want to give you a bonus. You deserve a trip somewhere nice, like maybe Hawaii or Mexico," I told her.
She seemed to be very touched by this manifestation of gratitude. Once again she patted my arm. "You're a good boy, Charles. You're of an age when you should have a girl. You know my niece, Phyllis, don't you?"
"Yes, of course I do. She's very pretty."
"She's very naughty and her mother is having trouble with her right now. She wants to marry Phyllis off to a rather older man in his late thirties. It's really what Phyllis needs, someone to master her and take charge of her. You know, her mother sent her over to me to be spanked several times. I never told you that before."
"No, you didn't," I agreed, hoping I wasn't blushing too much and giving the secret away that I had really once watched Phyllis getting it from this formidable yet very fair and decent woman.
"I think I can trust you, my dear Charles." She put her hands on my shoulders and looked deeply into my eyes. "I'm not so old-fashioned as you think. I believe that young people, if they are mature enough in their minds, should have pleasure together. I don't believe, however, in the promiscuity and the violence which seem to accompany sexual pleasures these days. I know that you've gone through a great deal of frustration in your own life because you didn't have a girl when you were going to high school, and you envied the boys who did--isn't that right?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it is, Miss Cuthbridge," I sheepishly admitted. "I suppose I read books and I had all sorts of dreams--"
"Of course. Don't I know! I had to change your sheets several times, and there were tell-tale signs that you were suffering," she astonishingly told me.
Then I really did blush and I stared down at the floor and squirmed uneasily. "Oh damn!" was all I said. "I didn't ever want you to know about that."
"You wouldn't have been a natural boy if you hadn't done it, Charles. But now you're twenty, a man, and you're still quite an idealist so far as women are concerned. I think my niece likes you."
"I don't agree with you, Miss Cuthbridge. On the contrary, she has a very low opinion of me. Haven't you seen and heard how she's greeted me when she's come here the last few times?"
"Girls will do that to hide their real feelings, Charles. When you're older, you'll understand a great deal more about women. They like to pretend that they are unattainable, when all the time they really want to be possessed and loved and cherished, yes, and dominated too."
I stared at my governess as if I couldn't believe what she was telling me, or trying to tell me. She was practically offering me Phyllis in bed on a platter with no strings attached. But I wanted to be sure that I was reading her right. "Miss Cuthbridge, I think Phyllis is a very attractive girl, but I'm not sure she wants any part of me. Besides, I don't quite understand why you want to match us together-or am I way off base saying that?"
She smiled and shook her head. "No you're not, Charles dear. For your information, Phyllis doesn't hate you at all the way you think. She's secretly an admirer of yours. I think she has been ever since that time you spanked her instead of telling me about what she'd done."
That really took the wind out of my sails. I started to gulp and blush and stammer, but Miss Cuthbridge just laughed softly and said, "She told me just a few weeks ago about that. You are quite an enterprising young man. It appears I have underestimated you, Charles. It's true, if you had told me about Phyllis, I should really have given her a very severe spanking. You showed unexpected depth for your age, I must say."
"Oh shit!" was all I could think of answering. "I didn't think she'd ever tell you anything like that. Besides, I really wasn't going to squeal on her anyway, I'm not a tattletale. I just wanted to stop her doing it because she might try to do it again and get into real trouble."
"That's true. But you see, you did spank her, and the fact is that the naughty little minx liked it. She's at the age, Charles, when she's restless, because she isn't quite sure what she's going to get into in her marriage. I suspect it's probably that she wants a fling. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather have her have the fling with than you, because I can count on you to be discreet. You aren't the boasting kind of obnoxious young male who likes to go around bragging about his conquests of women, making up half of them and shamelessly adding to the rest which were probably unsatisfactory to start with."
There was no doubt that my governess was a most astonishing - woman. If she had underestimated me, I had certainly underestimated her by a great deal more. So she had known about my jacking off in bed all these years and never said a word! Well, that was certainly tactful of her. It was very evident too that, instead of being shocked and going very moral and giving me a long lecture about what a nasty little bastard I was, she was actually sympathetic to my adolescent problems. Now she was offering me a kind of rendezvous with her own niece so that I could lose my virginity in proper fashion!
Before I could say anything more, she added, "You see, Charles, I'm English, and my father and my mother were very mid-Victorian. In their day and before them, it was considered correct for a husband to have another girl friend on the side so long as his wife didn't know about it or he didn't bring any scandal to the family. On the other hand, the wife was never supposed to show that she enjoyed having sexual relations with her husband. He would be inclined to look upon her as a fallen woman if she did that. So I knew perfectly that my father had his share of little girl friends from the waitresses and the seamstresses in the poorer London district near where he worked on a newspaper. He was a proofreader, you see. And my long-suffering mother never let on that she really knew. She once told me when I was fifteen that she wanted to be loved very passionately and that she was often eager to make him use his marital rights--as that silly old saying goes--much more than he did. But of course she didn't dare. They never discussed sex. Even after I was born and I was growing up as a little girl, my mother told me very little about the facts of life.
I listened to her rather breathlessly. Here was an entirely different woman, one I had never really known or perhaps understood. She wasn't just a governess or a statistic or an employee, but a warm human being with a great deal of rich and original thinking and a certainly sympathetic nature. I was only glad that I never had been really too much of a problem to her. Still in all, I could have probably been more affectionate. Looking back now, it seems quite reasonable that she herself could well have initiated me into the tender joys of fucking!
"What I'm getting at, Charles," she went on, "is that in my father's day there were houses to which a man could go when he wanted a woman. You understand that?"
I nodded.
"There were also many girls on the street who would offer themselves for money. But the danger was always that a man who would go with such girls might get a very disagreeable and harmful disease. That is what I am thinking of when I talk to you now about having your first affair, my dear boy. Or rather, I should say, my dear young man. Also I don't want you to think you have to buy sex. Of course, if you are suffering and don't have a woman who will be kind to you, you could always do that as a last resort. But usually it's so mechanical, so contrived, that a person like yourself with a good imagination from all your studies would be disgusted with it after it was over. There's something more to sex than mere animal functions, Charles, as I'm certain you know even now, virgin though you still are."
"Yes," I said, "unfortunately."
"That is why I'm going to bring you and Phyllis together for just this one time before she gets married and settles down. In fact--" Miss Cuthbridge took a deep breath and looked at me very solemnly. "In fact, she herself even suggested this. I think that should show you, my dear Charles, that she doesn't hate you at all."
Well, to put it mildly, I was just flabbergasted. All these years that little minx had hidden the secret of her trying to steal ten dollars from her Aunt's purse and then finally came boldly out and told her all about it. Not only that, she had told her aunt how I had spanked her and then felt her up and taken advantage of her. I was wondering, even through my blushes, whether Phyllis had told Miss Cuthbridge that she had put her hand out and taken hold of my cock. I didn't dare ask, needless to say!
"I've always wanted to see Disneyland before I get much older," she went on. "So I'm leaving Friday afternoon, Charles. I shan't be back till Monday or maybe not even until Tuesday. I have told Phyllis' mother and father that I'm going to take her with me. But instead, she's coming here to spend the time with you. Be kind to her, but also be firm." And then finally she said one last thing which really left me dazed at my good fortune. "I don't think she would mind a farewell spanking from you, my dear young man. It would be a kind of discipline that would prepare her for settling down as a dutiful wife to a man that she doesn't really love but who certainly will do a great deal for her and her parents. Oh, don't mistake me, he's a fine person. It's just that he doesn't have a youthful outlook, and Phyllis, as I should know, is still very flighty."
And thus began the most exciting experience of my entire life to that point. Even today, twenty-one years later, I can still remember the almost maddening and feverish excitement I felt as soon as my governess had left and I found myself alone in the bungalow waiting for her niece to visit me for the expressed purpose of becoming what, to use a somewhat anachronistic term, might be called my mistress.
The doorbell rang about eight o'clock that same night. I had already said my farewells to my governess and wished her a most pleasant vacation. I had prepared my own supper, grilling a steak and eating part of a frozen pie with several cups of strong black coffee. I even went so far, knowing myself to be on the threshold of manhood, to smoke a cigar! I had changed from my clothes to my pajamas and bathrobe and slippers, so that I looked the part of a young sensualist who was waiting for a beautiful young woman to come to me so that I might spank her and fuck her!
Then a sobering thought chilled my ardor even as I walked to the door to admit Phyllis. I had no preparation to use which would avoid the risk of giving her a child. Naturally her husband-to-be would hardly appreciate becoming the father of a child that was not his. What was I to do?
Happily for me, my governess' niece had all the answers.
When I opened the door, I did not recognize her at first. After all, it had been about five years since I had first watched her squirming over her aunt's lap with her bare bottom reddening under the vigorous thwacks of the hairbrush.
If anything, she was even more desirable now. She appeared to have lost some weight, and it was all for the good. I remember that first time I had seen her getting spanked by Miss Cuthbridge, how I had thought how ripe she was in bodily curves. She was then the same age as myself. I had thought she would be much fatter when she grew up, but this was a new Phyllis entirely. Her straw-colored hair was now coiffed in a very mature upsweep. Her waist was a great deal more slender, and her legs somehow seemed longer and not quite so plump. But now I could remember the same big blue eyes, the same full red mouth, the soft baby-pink skin and the dimpled curves of her cheeks and chin. She was dressed in a multicolored rayon print dress, its hem reaching her knees. Her lovely calves were sheathed in beige-colored nylons, and she had cute little black leather pumps on her feet, with ribbon bows at the instep.
"Hello, Charles," she said with a kind of grin and stuck out her hand which I shook as I drew her inside and closed the door. "I feel sort of funny about this. How much did my aunt tell you?"
"Just about everything. I didn't think you'd ever tell her about--you know, what happened five years ago," I said, my voice shaking just a little. Already I could feel my prick stiffen and throb with that delicious pain one always has when one is thinking about fucking, even if one doesn't do it.
"Well," she said with a saucy wink at me, "after all, I didn't think she'd spank me now after so many years. I really didn't take the money, after all, did I--as you should well know, you naughty boy!"
"Look who's talking!" I chuckled. My voice was a little loud because of my growing excitement.
Then, because there was a sort of awkward silence between us, I tried to make conversation. "I hear you're getting married soon, Phyllis."
She nodded. "His name is Douglas Tirlow, and he has lots of money and he's going to help my parents. We've had some pretty hard times, Charley. " I frowned. I was still, I'm afraid, a very sanctimonious young prig when it came to moral and ethical values. "That sounds as if you're going to sell yourself for money, Phyllis. I don't think I like that."
"Now you listen here, Charley Crowe!" she angrily interrupted. "I do like him a lot, I'll have you know, and he's decent and kind. The only thing is, he's a little stuffy. He reminds me of my father in a way. Now don't you go ahead and say that I've got a father complex, or I'll walk right out of here!"
"I haven't said anything yet," I protested weakly. The thought of her suddenly turning and leaving after the prospect of being alone with her for a very long weekend was absolutely maddening.
"All right, that's better." She giggled and then said in an impudent tone of voice, "Well, aren't you going to give me a drink or something?"
"Oh--of course--yes, what would you like, some milk or pop?"
"Charley Stokes, I do declare you are the most exasperating ninny I ever knew," she said with a little pout of her bright red lips. She walked over to the couch and sat down, then crossed her lovely, beautifully rounded legs. The skirt hiked up a little and I could see the swelling curves of one lovely thigh. My prick began to throb, and what it told me was to keep her here at any cost and not to offend her because for the first time it was going to have pleasure. This time I listened to the dictates not of my heart or my mind, but of my prick!
"I--I think there's some wine in the cupboard," I stammered. "I'll get it and be back in a minute."
I hurried to the kitchen, rummaged in the cupboard and found a bottle of very good California sherry. It would have to do. I myself had never touched hard liquor, and haven't to this day. I fancy good wines, from France and California, and an occasional brandy or something like a Grand Marnier after an excellent dinner.
I poured out two glasses and came back into the living room. I almost dropped the glasses, because Phyllis had taken off her dress and slip, and she was in a panty girdle and matching bra of white lycra and satin, wonderfully glossy on her soft pink skin, with the stocking tabs hooked tightly to the tops of her beige-colored nylon stockings. She leaned back against the couch, her arms folded behind her head in a way that stuck out those gorgeous big boobies of hers. They pushed so hard against the bra that I could see the nipples. I swallowed hard, and my prick began to ache savagely.
"H--here you are, Phyllis," my voice broke just as if it were changing back in my adolescence as I came over to the couch, sat down beside her, and handed her one of the glasses.
She looked at me and grinned. There wasn't any other way to describe it. It was naughty, encouraging, friendly and puppylike all in the same breath. It made me feel good, and it made me stop worrying that she was going to walk out and leave me high and dry with an aching prick that only jacking off would take care of. "Here's mud in your eye, Charley, and you'd better make me feel good for having given up my weekend to come out and visit you and play house, or I'll really be mad at you. My husband--that is, the man I'm going to marry--wants to go on his honeymoon to Central America to do some research work for a silly old scholarly book he's going to write. I can just see myself in some quaint little village, living in a clay hut without any bathroom around or anything. The poor darling is a little absentminded, I'm afraid. He might even forget that on a honeymoon a man and a woman are supposed to make love. Now do you understand why I begged Aunt Elspeth to let me spend the last week, while I'm still unmarried, with you?"
Then I remembered something. Of course I was thinking that she was still a virgin, but I remembered that she had told me about a boyfriend by the name of Henry, and that he had sometimes rubbed his cock against her pussy without putting it in. "What happened to that fellow you used to go with, that Henry?" I wanted to know.
"Oh!" She gave a little giggle and sidled closer to me. I felt her stockinged thigh press against mine, and I cleared my throat nervously and tried not to look too sheepish. Maybe I was just a little scared this time, because even though I had read a lot about it, written a lot about it and thought and dreamed a lot about it, I had actually never before been with a girl whom I knew I was going to fuck in a very short time. I suppose also at that early age I was wondering if I could come up to all my dreams of virility and really give a good accounting of myself.
"He got another girl friend, that's all," she told me. "About six months after you gave me that awful spanking--you bad boy, you!"
"Oh, I--I see," I muttered, my voice getting hoarse again because of my impatience and excitement and also an anxiety over whether I could really come up to expectations. "But--well, I didn't even think anything like this was ever going to happen, Phyllis, so I didn't--that is, I ought to go to the drug store or something and--"
"You really are a little stupe, Charley Crowe!" she giggled. "Of course, you're lots more good-looking now, and you don't have those pimples on your face. But you still have your glasses, don't you? It makes you look a lot older, and that's nice. But not too old, not as old as the guy I'm going to marry next Saturday morning at eleven o'clock at St. Jude's Church by the wayside."
"So soon as that?" I was trying to make conversation, a little afraid of getting back to the main issue.
"Of course. You don't think I can come to see you after that, do you? First of all, I'll be in Central America for about two or three months, and then Douglas thinks he wants to settle down in the East. You might never see me again after this, Charley. So you'd better make the most of it. Oh, yes, the other thing you were worried about. Well, silly, Aunt Elspeth sent me to her own doctor and she told him that I was going to get married and that I was a virgin. So he--well, he took care of it so that it wouldn't be messy on my wedding night. You understand?"
I guess I blushed a little. Well, yes, I did understand. The doctor had made an incision in her hymen so that they wouldn't have a hard time on their wedding night with all that blood. It was a barbaric custom but even today a lot of men get all hung-up when they get married and they find out that their wives don't have their cherry. To me, it's messy and disgusting, and I don't believe in causing pain that way. There's almost no satisfaction for the girl when she gets fucked for the first time and has to have the pain and the embarrassment of losing her cherry, no matter how much she loves the man.
"And then he gave me something to wear, Charley. So you don't have to worry about getting me pregnant. And now, for heaven's sake, aren't you even going to kiss me or something?"
She reached forward quickly, picked up her wine glass, drank it all down, and then set the glass back down on the coffee table in front of us. She turned to look at me expectantly, and her big blue eyes were humid and very intent on me. I reached for her. My fingers touched her dimpled bare shoulders and the satiny smoothness of her naked skin.
Then my mouth covered hers, and that very minute her tongue crept out between my lips. It was electrifying! And more than that, the sweet little devil put out one hand between my legs, and I felt her fumbling, with my zipper, and all of a sudden my prick was drawn out into the air and was being nuzzled by her warm little palm. Her soft fingers clenched the shaft, her thumb pressed gently against the glans, and I very nearly lost my savings at that crucial moment. I had to grit my teeth and close my eyes and tense all my muscles to hold myself back. It was maddening. Now I knew how much I needed pussy, and I felt a surge of gratitude towards this blonde minx who had haunted the last five years of my life.
"Oh my, Charley, you're much more of a man than you were the last time," she giggled.
"I think what you need is a good sound spanking, young lady," I tried to sound very stern and masterful, but I'm afraid that my voice broke again. "You're very forward, doing that to strangers."
"Aren't I though," she giggled again, and she gave my prick head a tiny little squeeze between thumb and forefinger. "I dare you to spank me!"
"You asked for it, Phyllis!" I panted. I sprang up from the couch, I grabbed her around the armpits, and I pulled her up to face me. She gave a little sigh, then her arms wound around my neck. She was standing on tiptoe as she pressed herself right against me, and I could feel my cock prod against her crotch. The panty girdle held her back from our first long-awaited cohesion. I discovered then what I have long since known, that the voluptuary in sex is always more intensely aroused by images, anticipation, and even by frustration. For that satin which prevented my intrusion into her soft young cunt was a kind of Tantalus, holding me back, chiding my impatience, and yet at the same time promising all manner of untold delights.
"Where are we going, Charley?" she whispered when she finally ended the kiss.
"To bed, of course, and to my room," I said, my voice strengthening as I realized that now I really was going to get pussy for the first time, and that I was going to preface it by giving her beautiful bottom a most delicious spanking.
"Oohh, then what are we waiting for, lover?" she teased. She put her hands to the back of my head, pulled my head down towards her, and then sent her tongue right into my left ear. I almost fainted from the savage ecstasy which ran through me. Then suddenly I did a very gallant and picaresque thing. I stooped down, grabbed her around the calves and shoulders and lifted her up, just like a bridegroom carrying his new wife across the threshold of their first hotel room or apartment or house or what have you, preparatory to their first marital fuck.
"I like that, honey," she confided softly. Once again her tongue explored the crevice of my ear, and her fingernails dug into the back of my neck while she wriggled slyly in my arms. I could smell her perfume and her warm skin and her hair and I was mad for her. My naked prick, still bare and out of my fly, bobbed and jiggled with each step I took. It was aching and I could feel the pent-up juices bubbling at the brink of my meatus and longing to be expelled.
We went inside the bedroom, and I masterfully kicked the door shut with a slam. She giggled again. "My gracious, you really have changed a lot since that time you gave me that first spanking--that is, from a man. Or should I say a boy?"
"If you say boy, Phyllis, I'll really tan your hide for you," I warned. I dumped her down unceremoniously onto the bed, and looked around. On my dresser was a silver-backed hairbrush, a present from my mother. I picked it up and came back to the bed as she sat up, pulling her knees up against her titties, circling her arms around them, looking at me with a roguish glint in her big blue eyes.
"Are you going to spank me first before you love me up, darling?" she asked in a sudden very tiny, little-girl voice.
"I certainly am!"
"On the b--bare?" she asked again in the same voice.
"That's right. You'd better take that thing off so that I can get at the big bottom of yours!"
"Well, I like that! I'll have you know I lost about fifteen pounds, Charley Crowe, and you haven't said a nice thing about my figure yet!" she flashed.
"I'll tell you more about it once I see it bare-naked, Phyllis," I replied. She gave a little giggle, and then swiftly rolled over onto her stomach. My hands began to grope for the fasteners to the sheath. I bent over her, put the hairbrush down on the bed and began to unhook the tabs which fixed to the tops of her stockings. Then I grabbed the top of the sheath and began to pull them down. She obediently arched her hips up so that I could yank it down all the way and finally off. Then I gasped with admiration. That beautiful pink-satiny pair of bottom globes twitched and quivered, wonderfully curved, even more tempting than when I had seen them for the first time five years ago and had my hand fall upon them in the first emprise of a woman's flesh. Now all she had on were her bra and stockings and pumps. I reached down and pulled the pumps off and tossed them to the floor with a thud. She shivered and squirmed a little, then asked, once again in that tiny little-girl voice which was so exciting to me, "Charley dear, aren't you going to take me over your lap and paddle my heinie? I'd like you to do that, instead of this way. It's--well, it's more intimate. I want you to feel me all over and spank me good until I cry and make me love you, darling."
It was all I could do to keep from falling on her then and there. My prick was aching so hard that I had to clap one hand over it and squeeze it to push back the juices bubbling to the surface. I was mad for her. My voice was almost a growl as I said, "All right, then you just move over here and get over my lap this minute, Phyllis!"
I sat down on the edge of the bed and she crawled towards me. She hoisted herself across my lap and giggled wickedly as she rubbed herself a little against my prick. I could feel it prod against her bare belly then against the thick silky dark-blonde curls of her pussy. Again I had to grit my teeth and summon up all my energy to hold back from losing my spunk then and there. What I was most afraid of, I think now, was that at the first entry of my cock into her tight, soft, warm pussy, I should miserably lose my manhood. And the thought of being jeered at by this wanton, charming, irresistible young beauty was more than I could have borne.
She reached out for a pillow and grabbed it with both hands, pulling it up to her face and burying her face in it. "I'm ready," she said in a muffled voice.
She crossed her lovely stockinged legs, and for a moment I gazed in rapture at the satiny smoothness of her bare behind and her upper thighs, and at the lovely muscles playing in her stockinged thighs and calves. I put my left arm around her waist, picked up the hairbrush, and gave her a tentative spank on the upper right cheek, and then one on the left. She caught her breath a little, squirmed a little more, but lay there perfectly still and obedient.
Where I had spanked, a brighter pink stain suffused the pure carnation of her bare flesh. In her squirming, her belly rubbed even more warmly and lovingly and intimately against my swollen prick.
I gave her a third spank, but this also was only a mild one. She looked back and gave me the sauciest look possible as she taunted me, "Is that the hardest you can spank a girl, Charley? I think I'll go back home and ask Mom to do it."
"Oh no you won't!" I angrily replied.
My left arm fairly dug into her bare side and as I pulled her to me I lifted the brush and began to bring it down hard and fast.
The rapid and noisy Smack--Whack- Smack--Whack of the silver back of the hairbrush was punctuated by her little squeals and groans and gasps. I could see her stockinged legs kick up, first one at a time, then both, then she crossed and recrossed those lovely slim ankles. She was twisting the pillow, turning her face back round to me, and this time I could see tears glistening in her large blue eyes and her mouth forming a wide and plaintive O.
"Is that better?" I wanted to know.
"Ooooh--oh yes it is--oh Charley, that's the way to do it to me! I've been a bad girl, so spank me good and hard so I'll have to do whatever you tell me to!" she breathed.
I pulled her even closer and resumed the spanking. I really spanked hard, and after about ten or twelve more spanks, she started to cry, to weave and twist and squirm her reddening big bottom this way and that. Her stockinged calves rubbed together, first side by side and then one over the other, and then the other one over the other, and all those muscular gyrations made me appreciate the wonderful agile curves of her voluptuous behind and legs all the more. All of her muscles were rippling now and tremoring, and the flaming red I had turned her bottom into against the soft pink satin of her back and upper thighs was a most voluptuously exciting sight indeed.
"Have you had enough, do you think?" I panted as I kept the brush pressed against the crease of her big bottom cheeks.
"Oooh yes--yes, oh love me now, give it to me. I'm so hot I'm going to die unless you do it to me," she moaned.
I flung the hairbrush to the floor, not even bothering to undress, for by now my prick was just about bursting. I took her by the shoulders and rolled her over onto her back. She uttered a cry and started to reach for her bottom with both hands, but she didn't have time. I was on her, my hands ripping away her bra in spite of her tearful "Oh, you didn't have to tear it, I'd have taken it off, Charley darling!" And then my cock was deep into her pussy.
I had acted so naturally and instinctively, without thinking or planning, that I felt myself clamped to the very roots by her before I knew it. Then again I had to hold back, close my eyes, grind my teeth and dig my fingernails into the rumpled covers of the bed to hold back my juices, because I could feel the warm throbbing clasp of her cunt walls all around my imbedded cock.
She was wriggling now, because her bottom hurt her from the spanking, and she was sobbing softly and her arms were clenched around my shoulders, her lovely stockinged legs winding around my thighs. "Fuck me, fuck me good, lover!" she whispered feverishly.
CHAPTER FIVE
When at last I found my cock dug to the very balls inside Phyllis's tight young sheath, it was all I could do to hold back my essence. Oh yes, it had been so many years that I had dreamed about a moment like this, read erotic books and translated them, written my own fantasy-stories in which of course I was always the hero, that my loins were almost constantly in a state of feverish erotic yearning. But now to feel the clampings of her cuntwalls clench against my weapon, to feel her wonderful ripe young bubbies mash down to the imperious heaving of my chest, and to have my hands gripping her well-spanked bottomglobes, with our mouths fused together and our tongues flicking in and out, was almost more than mortal flesh could bear.
Phyllis moaned and whimpered constantly. Her face suddenly twisted to one side, her eyes glassy and dilated, and I knew then that she was just as excited as I was. I knew something else, which supported my own, as I thought, originally discovered theory: the spanking which had so inflamed my passions by administering it had, for her as the recipient, as greatly excited all her feminine nerves and led her to this state of almost nymphomaniacal ardor as it had mine.
I blessed her aunt for having brought about this incredible reunion, this kind of final gift to her young charge whom she had nurtured through adolescence, because it was undoubtedly Elspeth Cuthbridge who had given me the most wonderful present of my entire life in proffering and instructing her own niece to take my onerous male virginity.
The fresh sweet smell of Phyllis's skin and her hair, the delicate film of moisture which I could feel against her belly, her thighs, her sides, and that indefinable scent was, of course, nothing more than the body-essences come to melting point in the sweet fusion of fucking... these were the nuances of the senses which prevailed over and beyond the glorious constriction of my cock inside her tender, tight young cunt. I have never been barbarous enough to demand a maidenly virginity, but in that moment I knew for certain that Phyllis was assuredly as virgin as I. If her aunt had induced their family doctor to cut the hymen and provide her with a diaphragm, it certainly meant that till this very moment Phyllis had not carnally known the male anymore than I had known the female. And yet from the veracity, the hunger, the feverish exultation with which we attacked each other through this never-to-be-forgotten weekend, one would have thought us both consummate voluptuaries!
It was fortunate for me that I had read so much about fucking, dreamed so much about it, always with the byplay of fustigation. Looking back now, some twenty-one years later, I marvel at the exquisite good luck I had. Most youths of my age would have been initiated possibly by a callgirl, or worse yet, a cheap hustler to whom they went in desperation simply because the urge of their gonads could no longer be tolerated. Or again, they might have had some hasty scuffle with some plump harridan, perhaps the landlady or an impatient, greedy and aging divorcee.
Even with the coming of the pill today, we must remember that at the time that I made love to Phyllis with such mastery and eagerness, there were no such simple contraceptives in which one could trust. I wonder now how many thousands of agonized boys and girls waited through the calendar to discover whether the period would be missed or not and how many ingenious and even laughable ruses were attempted by those thousands of unknown lovers in their frantic hope of fucking without what oldsters facetiously call "the nine-month malady."
Thank heavens I was not so unfortunate as to have as my first sexual experience nothing more than the conjunction of sexual organs quickly and ruttingly brought off without even the tenderness of orgasm or the imagination of bestowing an unselfish caress! By my own lights, I was surely not cruel towards Phyllis, and the spankings which I gave her through our "honeymooning" weekend (I cannot think of it as any other way!) were love-spankings, when all was said and done. Even so, they conditioned me, and they turned my psyche towards the more exotic and mysterious and surely far more thrilling exploits in which I am now involved as a mature man who has become an expert in administering corporal punishment, from the judicious use of the hand upon a female bottom to the adroit employment of a scourge of knotted cords, or a stinging and noisy lathe, even at times an elegant if archaic carriage whip.
But now my problem was immediate and perilous. It is all very well to entertain grandiloquent notions of the way one will fuck, in such a way as has never been perpetrated before in all the history of mankind and womankind. Oh yes, every adolescent has such dreams, and envisions himself as the master of a seraglio with timeless nights unendingly stretching out before him during which he may summon at his will this or that exquisite houri. And upon the soft perfumed couch of a pasha or sultan or even that of a king, the fantasy-dreamer sees himself achieve such sublime gyrations, such infinitesimal calculations of the flesh and blood and nerves and the genitalia (together, of course, with rhapsodic poetry and eloquent gazes and gossamer caresses) as no other mortal could ever equal, far less surpass!
But the terrible truth of the matter is that for all we read and write about love-making we ourselves are ordained by our bodily chemistry and by our own shortcomings--and that, alas, is a most Freudian pun, I fear! For even as I toiled within Phyllis's tight warm moist sheath, I felt the dangerous warnings that I would not long be able to hold back the vital flow of my life-seed.
I tried with an ingenuity born of inexperience to immobilize myself. I closed my eyes tightly, grinding my teeth together, flexing all my muscles and desperately trying to think about geometry and Copernicus and Hernando Cortez and the Sea of Darian upon which he longed to gaze. I tried to forget the fleshness of our flesh, the cohesion of cunt and prick and the enticements which sweet Phyllis's naked and squirming body applied as blandishments against my untutored, young and furiously hungering flesh.
But the trouble was all in my imagination. As my fingers clenched the ripe round globes of that beautiful bottom I had so thoroughly spanked, as I felt the warmth of that spanking still emanating to my very fingertips, into my mind there leaped once more the images of that spanking, of the saucy way this sweet and complaisant bitch had come to me and teased me with the promise of this wondrous giving. It undid me. I suddenly uttered a hoarse shout, tried frantically to hold back my bubbling spunk and groaned aloud in despair as I felt it lash the very bottom of her womb.
"Oh, damn you anyhow, Charley!" she peevishly exclaimed. "Just when it was so nice, when you were working me up and I was just wanting to come with you, you had to go and lose it!"
I stared at her blankly. Yes, there was no doubt she was a virgin because my governess had practically indicated as much and I had also heard a good deal about the strictness of her parents. But for this tasty blonde morsel of virgin quim and temptingly spankable bottom to tell me that my premature climax had robbed her of her own sweet come was a startling paradox which I had not expected.
"Get off me, you lummox," she panted, "I want to go to the biffy. And the next time, you better do it good, or I won't stay the whole weekend, so there now too!"
I drew out of her and glanced down sorrowfully at my dwindled ramrod. Nonetheless, I was secretly thrilled with my own manhood. I had spanked this girl, made her obey me in undressing, in taking the posture I wished, and now I had just fucked her and shot my seed deep into that sweet virgin cunt of hers. With all her teasing, with all her jives, she could never take that away from me. And as she scrambled down from the bed, her reddened buttocks jiggling with every step, I laughed aloud in triumph and in the young joy which a young man feels after his first successful fuck, an act which makes him cling to the illusion that he is now immortal and one with all the timeless gods of Mount Olympus. I think it is this same feeling which prevails when, in our final years, we seek out paid harlots to flatter us and fawn upon us and praise us with their lying tongues into believing that we are young once more with unending erections and bounteous stores of spunk!
I sat up, reached wanly for a cigarette and lit it. I closed my eyes and revelled at the rapture that my body had just tasted. It was sweet to sit there thus, knowing that there would be long hours ahead of us before my governess would return to claim her niece and take her back to the home from which she would be shortly sent forth as a dutifully wedded and--alas--bedded bride. I would have my fill of this blonde houri, and it would serve me well, for there might be long and lonely months ahead without the companionship of a female to do my sexual bidding.
When Phyllis returned, it was my turn at the bathroom, and I showered after stripping stark naked, for I believed that skin to skin and flesh to flesh was the most thrilling way to fuck. Oddly, the assiduous Dr. Kinsey in his monumental research about the sexual habits of Americans, has pointed out that only the intellectuals, those of college mentality, come to their bed of fucking in their skins alone. It appears that lower-class women as well as men are suspicious of such nudity, believing it to be a sign of "perversion." What folly! And yet not for a moment would I depreciate the prick-hardening stimulation which a draped or lingerie-clad beauty proffers to the male. And to this I would add, of course, all the wonderful categories of anguish, shame, fear, tension and suspense and then finally the whole physical gamut of reactions when the female is prepared to receive the ship!
And so when Phyllis rejoined me in the bedroom and we saw each other naked with no covering except our blushes and our hair, we started to smile at each other rather sheepishly. Then she giggled, hurried to me, flung her arms around my neck and, rubbing her mossy crotch against my still limpened cock, gave me an affectionate hug and kiss. She was good-natured when all was said and done, and today I still remember her with nostalgic pleasure.
She turned around and pointed to her bottom, looking at me over her shoulder: "See how you marked me up, you awful brute? I do hope all the marks fade before I have to marry Douglas. He would think it very strange to find red marks on my bottom on our wedding night."
"You could always tell him that you had a case of hives or that you wandered into a patch of poison ivy," I joked.
She giggled and then hurried back to me, once again flinging herself into my arms. My fingers squeezed the luxurious satiny hillocks of that glorious ass of hers and she began very slyly to rub her pussy fur against my cock. Oh what seductive friction that is when one is young!
As, too, when one is young, the fierce zest for life and love seems to renew one's fucking powers almost effortlessly. It did not take long before I was again empowered to pay a more lingering and persuasively stimulating tribute to my naked blonde Venus. Indeed, even as she stood there holding me with our mouths fused and our tongues exploring, I felt myself so stiff again that I knew it was time for another pilgrimage, another journey to Cythera. And the naughty minx, proving 'with each new moment that, though only recently virgin she had long been conscious and cognizant of the ways to drain a man of all his vital juices, put her hand down and graciously opened her bower to me while with her other hand she introduced my staff along the pathway to priapic paradise.
My fingers digging hungrily into the soft yet wonderfully resilient flesh of her bottomglobes, my body shuddering with newly charged emotion, we began to fuck standing there like two children of nature in a syltan glade, having no heed for the audience of the birds and the sky and the trees about us.
And this time, I am happy to relate, I brought Phyllis to a furious climax, by the simple means of introducing my right forefinger alongside my cock and finding the dainty, firming button of her clitoris. We moved, joined as we were to the bed and tumbled upon it rolling over and over, till she was at last atop me. And this time it was she who took the vigorous and playful initiative as if she were the male. Nonetheless, it was my staff and my finger which coaxed her to the most feverish of climaxes. When it was over and we laid panting and exhausted, her lovely blue eyes blurred and misty, she gasped, "Oh, Charley, I take it all back, what a man you really are! Oh I'm glad I came!"
She had made a most salacious and delicious pun and when I broke out laughing she was first startled and then understood, and we shared a wonderfully cathartic release of laughter, which we need in a world like this to keep from going mad.
Yes, I can remember every nuance of that weekend, even as I write these lines. I, who now am called by anguished husbands and frustrated lovers, to dispense what might be called rod justice, or, if you prefer, bottom justice. As the years go on, one embellishes the happiness of the past until it becomes monumentally aggradized, being in the memory of the oldster as if it were incomparable and immortal. It is all in the outlook, to be sure. Even a jaded man in his fifties may enjoy for one glorious and unforgettable moment an act of fusion with a beautiful and desirable woman which transcends all other worldly experience.
But that is enough of philosophizing. Suffice it to say that Phyllis was at her most industrious throughout the weekend. Because we were young we could nap for an hour or two and then have at each other with renewed and freshly eager zeal. Many were the game we played and many of them were spanking games. Once I forced her to enact the role of a slavegirl who was being punished for naughtiness. I bound her wrists behind her back with a handkerchief and made her kneel over a low ottoman with her legs spread wide and her beautiful bottom upturned in the most enticing angle conceivable. Then, naked and with my prick stiffening at each new moment, my left hand pressed firmly down upon her chinbone, I regaled her twisting, weaving, dancing naked ass with some fifty stinging slaps from my right palm. And she, entering into the spirit in this exquisite game, tearfully implored me to have mercy, promising to be the best of all slaves, piteously imploring me to give her another chance to prove this pledge and its good faith. And so she had it, first by my going round to face her and plunging my fingers into her hair, to turn up her face towards my resplendently erect organ so that she might suck and lick and propitiate it for the sojourn in her tight warm cunt. And then I took my place behind her, kneeling in dogfashion posture, my hands reaching out to squeeze her panting titties as I slowly and luxuriously slid my rampant tool into the pink and twitching gap of her love-core. How slowly and how savoringly I fucked her then! And because of the heat of the spanking, which I could feel when my belly ground against her satiny squirming ass, she was the more passionate and uninhibited.
So tireless was I and so hungry for her young flesh that I laugh to myself now remembering how my governess rang the bell of the bungalow about eight o'clock that Sunday night to reclaim her "niece on loan." We were taking our leave of each other, still naked, and I was crouched between her plump pink-sheened .thighs, my fingers caressing her kneehollows while my tongue and lips paid homage to the sweet plump fig of her pussy which had granted my prick such exalted release all through this wonderful weekend.
She, her arms entwined around my legs, was requiting me with her own lips and tongue to draw my prick to a last cohesive conclusion within her cunt. We were both near climax, and we gasped simultaneously, "Oh no, it can't be time yet!" And we fell to laughing gloriously as we hastily unscrambled and began to dress. I put on my bathrobe and slippers and went to admit my governess, who laughed softly when she saw that she had disturbed us at so sweet a leavetaking.
Miss Cuthbridge is dead now but I shall never forget her. And Phyllis, the handmaiden of my first proof of amorous prowess is now a grayhaired and, alas, much too fat dowager with four children who have her blonde hair and blue eyes. She lives in New York but I am sorry to learn that her husband is ailing from an incurable malady. She was an honest wanton and I have a feeling that the pleasures we shared just before her marriage served as a kind of stimulus by which she made the most of a bad bargain and came to her husband's bed with a generous and honest surrender. The four children proved that he must surely have had his joy of her lush charms!
But without Miss Cuthbridge and Phyllis I do not think that today I should be so enamored of the infinitely varied and unfailingly stimulating pleasures which combine the whip and fucking into a glorious crescendo of carnal joy!
CHAPTER SIX
By the time I had finished college, my parents were both dead, and I found that I had inherited my father's Chicago, New York and Los Angeles stores. I had, however, no real interest in the business, even though it offered the advantages of a good deal of European travel. However, the idea of a sabbatical vacation appealed enormously to me, and also I determined to sell the stores so that I would have a large cash nest egg to choose my profession, not to be bound to the slavery of a nine-to-five desk job and a bullying employer, but to live, not parasitically to be sure, but in a leisurely, ungracious manner, contributing what I could to the arts and letters. I felt myself ideally to be a writer, and my youthful stories of lust had indicated a kind of clever and adroit flair for this sort of work. Newspaper work appealed to me also, and so I made my plans accordingly.
I took a plane to Chicago and consulted with my father's bookkeeper, a meticulous little man of great integrity and honesty, who had been sending the monthly checks so that my governess and I could subsist in Los Angeles. The sales manager, Roy Getzell, came to me and told me that he was quite anxious to buy the stores outright from me, because he believed that in the past few years it had been mainly his efforts which had raised the business profits to such a currently high level. Also, he had accompanied my father several times to Europe and had done a good deal of the buying and ordering of special merchandise patterned to the designs required. He spoke several languages, was a black-haired, rather plump man in his late forties, and although there was something about him I did not especially like, I believed him to be reasonably honest.
Since I was of age and my father's only living heir, there was no problem in completing the transaction. I called in my father's lawyer, who had known my father for twenty-five years and was quite familiar with the business. Within ten days, the transaction was completed, and so at the age of about twenty-two I found myself with a bank draft in the amount of half a million dollars and some stock certificates of private issue which were worth as much again. It was agreed that I would have no controlling interest since the stocks only amounted to about thirty percent of the entire issue. Yet in this way I could exercise some opinion as to the conduct of the business without owning it or directing its course. That was quite satisfactory because I felt that I was, in a sense, taking the mantle of my father and wearing it, even if loosely, as he would have wished.
I promptly deposited the check in the largest Chicago bank, taking out only about six thousand dollars for the European trip I proposed. This trip would be one which had nothing to do with my father's business. I intended to visit Paris, Hamburg and London, the very centers of erotic life and cultism, where I might appreciate at firsthand the complexities of passion and sadism in their most sophisticated and imaginative forms.
I booked passage on a steamer leaving New York, on the Cunard Line. It would take ten days to get to Southampton, a relaxed and pleasurable way of travelling. There was no rush and certainly no need to fly to Europe. Moreover, having brought a new wardrobe and being now completely rid of the acne which had troubled me during my adolescence, I even entertained the notion that perhaps on shipboard there might be the possibility of a romance. I could not forget the wonderful weekend with Phyllis, and one of the first things I had done when I had gotten my money from the sale of the stores was to send a check for ten thousand dollars to my former governess. Alas, I learned later that it was mainly used to pay her hospital bills during her tragic and agonizing last illness. I wished that she might have had a better fate, for all her kindness and thoughtfulness in my regard. But man proposed, God disposes, after all.
I was assigned to a place near the Captain's table for meals and that first night out I wore a tuxedo. I studied myself in the mirror and found myself reasonably personable. Yes, I still wore glasses, but I had lost some of my paunch and had straightened my shoulders so that I did not look quite so bookish and scholarly as I had when I was going to high school.
I was so enchanted to find myself seated next to an extremely attractive young woman. She was vivacious, with mannishly short light-brown hair, her face oval, her big eyes hazel, her nose uptilted, her mouth very ripe and generous, which betrayed an ardent nature, I was certain. She wore a suit coat and matching tweed skirt, and her lovely long legs were sheathed in tan-colored nylon hose. Her name was Elizabeth Marcant, and from the purser I learned that she was from Boston, twenty-four, and traveling with her widowed uncle, an elderly banker in his sixties who, of course, occupied a cabin adjacent to hers. For a slight gratuity, the obliging purser, who must have been a pimp at heart, slyly told me that "Confidentially, guv'nor, that hoity-toity piece is being taken off to Europe by her dear old uncle because she's man-crazy. Now don't let on I told you, guv!"
I determined to test the veracity of the purser's information. If Miss Marcant was interested in me, I, who sat at her left, intended to make every effort to attract her notice. The presence of her uncle did not disturb me in the least. I had my own cabin, and naturally it was in first class.
At the beginning of this first dinner, she turned to me, smiled graciously, and I introduced myself. She told me her name and we began to chat a little. She had never been to the West Coast and expressed some interest in Los Angeles where, of course, I had gone to school. I made it as colorful as I could, dwelling on those things which I thought would most amuse and interest her, such as the magnificent palaces built to house hamburger stands, the searchlights spreading all over the sky to announce the preview of a new Hollywood movie release, and the numerous temples and cemeteries with their outlandishly Oriental names and their suggestions of paradise now as well as in the hereafter.
She had a cool soft laugh and said to me, "Why, we've nothing like that in Boston, I'm quite sure, Mr. Crowe. We have slums and they're not far from where Paul Revere is buried, but there's nothing so exciting in Boston. We've a wonderful restaurant, Anthony's Pier Four, but I'm afraid it's not a stucco palace."
"Ah, I know," I said wisely, "but then you still ban books in Boston which I assure you they don't in Los Angeles. Quite the contrary. You will find every kind of literature there, even the most erotic."
I purposely dropped this little gambit into our conversation to let her know that I was not exactly a bookish scholar unaware of the pleasant proclivities exchanged between healthy and warm-blooded males and females. I could see her hazel eyes widen a little and then her full red lips curved in a fascinating smile to show dazzling white teeth as she murmured, "You don't happen to have any of those scabrous books along with you on this voyage, do you, Mr. Crowe?"
I took a deep breath and, staring into her eyes, just after the waiter had taken away our dessert plates, murmured, "No, but I write them myself. Perhaps you would like to see one of my manuscripts."
"Oh yes! What cabin are you in?" she whispered back.
"It's 12-A, Miss Marcant."
She gave me a sudden naughty little smile and then whispered, without turning her head to me, "If you're still up at midnight I'd like to look at one of those manuscripts."
I ordered a brandy after dinner and one for her to toast this fortunate meeting of ours. She was very prim and demure and her uncle, who was slightly deaf--for which the gods of lust be praised!--had apparently noticed nothing of our flirtatious conversation.
After dinner, I went straight to the deck and did a turn around the ship as a kind of constitutional. With the good food, wine and brandy tingling pleasantly inside me, I felt the return of all my virility. I had the feeling I would need it, too. I hadn't fucked a girl since Phyllis and that already seemed an eternity ago. Then I went to the recreation salon, where people were playing chess, billiards, checkers, pingpong, and I sat on an armchair for about an hour watching a very athletic, tall, blonde girl of about twenty playing pingpong with her father. She was wearing playshorts and a sweater and sandals. Her long legs were gloriously bare and tanned, suggesting that she had been to Miami or the Bahamas or possibly even exotic Majorca this past summer. The way her thighs flexed and the way her jouncy oval ass cheeks undulated and shifted in the tight white shorts contributed greatly towards exciting me and putting me into the proper mood for fucking at midnight, as I fervently hoped I should be doing.
I got back to my cabin about quarter of midnight, changed hurriedly into my pajamas and a satin dressing gown and slippers. I used a little cologne, a very robust scent, combed my hair to make it as wavy as possible at the front and then, having already ordered a bottle of champagne and some petits fours from the steward to be delivered at exactly this time, I waited for the fateful knock of the Boston beauty at my stateroom door.
She was very punctual, knocking as the last stroke of midnight chimed from the little clock I had brought along, a memento from my dead mother who had given it to me on my tenth birthday. I opened the door to her and she entered quickly. "I don't believe you're a writer at all, I believe it's just a line, Mr. Crowe," she challenged, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks colored. She too, it appeared, had been taking a constitutional around the deck.
"Well, as it happens, I have no manuscripts in my luggage, but I have all my stories in my head, Miss Marcant."
"Oh for heaven's sake do call me Liz!" she exclaimed with an exasperated air. "My dear uncle calls me Elizabeth all the time and all those simpering Boston bachelors are forever calling me Miss Marcant. I'm just Liz, and I'm a girl and I enjoy living, and what are you going to do about it?"
"This," I said very simply. I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the mouth. She gave a little contented sigh and promptly locked her arms around the middle of my back and strained herself to me. I already had a hard-on and I knew she could feel it because she now prolonged the kiss and began to probe her tongue right between my lips as she slyly and slowly rubbed herself back and forth against my crotch.
She still wore her suitcoat and skirt and tanned-colored nylons. Yet as I thrust against her, my prick madly excited and rigidly demanding release before much longer, I could have sworn she wore very little else!
When our long French-kiss was over she stepped back and giggled like a little girl, "You're nice, and I like the way you kiss. Do you fuck, too, Charles? Or would you rather be called Charley?"
"You may call me whatever you like. The answer is yes, I fuck. Do you?"
Now I could not have dared to have said so bold a thing during my high-school days, I assure you. That was why I was grateful to Phyllis and my governess, for between the two of them they had given me a self-assurance which as a young cocksmith I had to have. But of course there is a great deal of difference between theory and experience and to know how to fuck and to write about it and to read about it is one thing, while to perform it satisfactorily is, I fear, quite another. However, the brashness of this brown-haired nymph--and I use that term to connote her insatiable man-desiring qualities--merited something more than just a good hot fuck. I knew exactly what it was--a spanking.
"Of course I do. Why the hell do you think I came, Charley?" she laughed softly. Then, moving over towards the bed, which fortunately was a nice large double-sized one, she began to unbutton her suitcoat.
When it came off I saw that she had on a white nylon bra, strapless and filmy, outlining the wide pale coral areolae , and the pert nipple buds centered in those love-haloes. Then she simply unfastened the skirt and let it tumble to the floor about her slim stockinged ankles and I let out a gasp of amazement and delight.
That was why I had felt nothing beyond the skirt and her pussy when my prick had rubbed against her crotch during our embrace. Elizabeth Marcant was wearing no panties, only a very narrow white satin-elastic garterbelt whose tabs clung tenaciously to the tops of her clambering, gauzy nylon stockings.
She had a very thick dark-brown bush, whose curls hid the lips of her pussy. I admired her slim flat belly with a narrow and very deep bellybutton and her titties were widely spaced, somewhat uptilted and very firm. She was tanned high on her thighs and along the valley of her titties and of course on her chest and neck, but the rest of her was a pale carnation shade which was very appetizing.
"Like me?" she challenged.
"Very much."
"Then for hell's sake do something about it, Charley!" she fiercely flung at me, putting her hands on her hips and staring me down most insolently.
She was damnably perverse and tempting. With her mannishly short hairdo and her long sleek legs and very slim waist she almost looked boyish. But her titties were not boyish and now that I could see her naked ass it wasn't boyish either. The globes were highset, plump ovals with a gradually narrowing ambery crease between them. Her muscles were rippling and she was full of nervous energy.
"Gladly," I said. I walked over to the bed and sat down and she followed me. Then I grabbed her by the waist and flung her over my lap, clamping my right leg over her calves.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she yelled angrily, clenching her fists and trying to twist around and hit at me. She couldn't kick because my leg was pinioning hers.
"Giving you what you need first, Elizabeth. You're very self-assured, ordering a strange man to fuck you on such short notice. I like to make the overtures and I like to dictate the way we go to bed. Perhaps this will help warm you up to reach my own level of desire," I mockingly told her.
She tried to hit at me again and I caught her wrists and pinned them behind her back with my left hand. Then I really began to spank her. For the first couple of spanks, she was squealing so loudly I was afraid the passengers in the other cabins would hear and report it to the steward. I hissed to her, "If you don't want me to gag you, Liz, close your mouth and try to act like a lady and take what you've got coming. Otherwise after I spank you I'll kick your lovely ass out of here and you can go back to your stateroom and play with yourself for all I care!"
"Ohhh--you--you dirty sonuvabitch!" she panted. Apparently no one had ever talked to her like that before.
I took a tighter hold on her wrists and resumed the spanking. I brought my right hand down as hard as I could every time, quickening the tempo of the spanks. By now her bottom was blazing and the cheeks were trembling and quivering and flexing uncontrollably.
I paused a minute and heard her sobbing and pleading to be let off. I gave her ten more good ones and she bucked and yelled and twisted and screamed and when I had finished I said, "Maybe you'll be good now. Do you think you can be if I let you go?"
"Yes--oh you damn bastard--oh you hurt me--you dirty bastard--oh my poor bottom--ohh, how it hurts!" she sobbed.
I lifted her to her feet and slapped her face. "My parents were decent people and I don't particularly appreciate your curses, Liz. Now I'm going to give you what you asked for, my way," I told her.
I grabbed her by the titties, squeezed them and ripped off the bra. Now, in only garterbelt and stockings and pumps, she was ready to be rogered.
I lifted her up in my arms and flung her down on the bed. Then I stripped off my dressing gown and opened the fly of my pajama pants to permit the liberation of my swollen prick.
She lay on her side turned away from me, both her hands applied industriously to her naked reddened ass, rubbing away for dear life to drive away the heat I had imparted to her tender flesh. I promptly clambered in behind her, lying on my side to face her, and immediately I searched for her cunt with my right forefinger, found it, and began to rub her tickler.
She stiffened and then she moaned, "Oh shit, that's wonderful, oh yes, keep doing that, oh you bastard, I guess I had you all wrong, Charley!"
"You did indeed but you won't make the same mistake twice, I don't think," I taunted her.
She began to squirm around, to moan and gasp as my finger got her tickler harder and harder. Then suddenly I knelt up, pulled her onto her back, and got over her.
In a flash her long legs spread apart and she held out her arms to me. I felt my prick sink deep into her slit and then I began to fuck her violently.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I spent about a month in London, with several days apart from that in the beautiful English countryside. Needless to say, I had heard of the alluring carnal adventures to be had in Soho and perhaps even in Piccadilly Circus. And so, toward the end of my first week in the city to which Dick Whittington had come in search of fame and fortune and to become ultimately Lord Mayor, I hired a cabdriver whom I chose after surveying a number of them pulled up at their stand by the corner of my hotel, selecting the one who looked most worldly and sympathetic. This one was perhaps fifty, with an elegantly waxed moustache, keen eyes and alert face. I marked him at once as having been perhaps a military officer in the days when the mad painter from Munich was trying to conquer the tiny island of Britain and learning that even his mighty Luftwaffe was no match for British guts. I hailed him and we fell to talking. He had been to the United States several times, once on business. I was correct about his having been in the Army and he had also been a commercial traveler, the quaint euphemistic term which the English use to designate a salesman. It was all to the good, I believed. Traveling salesmen and farmers' daughters have been hoary jokes long before I was ever born.
"I imagine you'd like to see a bit of life, eh what?" he himself proposed after we had talked about five minutes.
I nodded. I took out my wallet and gave him a pound note. "I know this sounds very much like pandering," I told him apologetically, "but this is my first trip to England. I've just come of age, and I'd like to celebrate with a charming companion."
"Now that depends on your tastes, young sir," he chuckled and touched his cap with a knowing wink. "Everyone has a definite peculiarity. Mine, if I may be pardoned the intrusion of a personal note, is a charming creature with very long hair."
"A longhair fetishist, I see," I smiled at him to let him know that I was cognizant of what went on behind closed doors when the sun descended in the west.
"Exactly! You strike me as being a lively and intelligent chap, sir," he went on jovially. "And I don't mind admitting that times have been mighty hard. I'm too old to get a job as a traveler again and I daresay I shouldn't care for the life now. My missus dies last year and I'm forcing myself to work, not only to survive but to forget, if you understand me."
I expressed my condolences and then let him do the rest of the talking. He proposed that I take a look in the window of a certain stationer not far from the Soho district. He explained that open soliciting by girls of the night was forbidden by law and that the bobbies would run the girls in and might even embarrass and arrest their would be patrons.
However, in this stationery shop I should find, he told me, cards pasted upon the window which would detail for me the talents of those young women of easy virtue and therefrom I should undoubtedly find the ideal partner for my little holiday.
It was an excellent suggestion and I gave him another pound note as we drove off towards the area he had designated. I noticed a few other men walking by the window very slowly, stopping to look at the cards which I saw Scotch taped to the glass. I got out of my cab, lit a cigarette and began to peruse them. They were highly enlightening to an American Puritan, for I could not consider myself much more than that for all of my theoretical erotic knowledge. Whereas in America we peeped through keyholes and shuttered windows, or read "art study" magazines with half an eye on the newsstand proprietor and the other on any companions who might know us in the vicinity, the Europeans complaisantly and contentedly went on fucking and whipping and buggering as much as they liked and had no need to write literature on the subject.
There was a card which struck my eye at once. It read: "Expert in French and Greek cultures. Very submissive. Call May, 28-1037. 462 Whitechapel Road, second floor back." And then the price, which seemed to be a minimum of ten pounds. That was about twenty-eight dollars in American money and certainly it was worth investigating. On the card also, this complaisant and very businesslike young woman had listed her age as twenty-six and her dimensions as five feet six, weighing 131 pounds, with dark-brown hair and blue eyes.
I was about to ask my friendly cabdriver to drive me to her address, when I reflected that perhaps others might have already beaten me to a rendezvous with so obviously attractive a handmaiden of joy. So I took the precaution of going to a public telephone and dialing the number. A soft husky voice at once replied, "This is May."
I introduced myself, said I was from the United States and then mentioned that I had seen her advertisement in the stationer's shop.
"That's just ducky, love!" she giggled. "And you're in a right bit of luck, old chap. I've nothing to do till at least midnight, maybe not even then. D'you want to come right away?"
"I may as well since I have a cab waiting for me. See you soon," I told her.
My ex-officer cabdriver winked at me as I got back into the cab, because obviously the expression of my face showed that I had scored a signal triumph in finding this delectable morsel of passion goods accessible at the moment I had taken it into my head to call her.
"Good hunting, old chap," he said in traditional English style as he whisked me through the narrow streets till he arrived at the number I had given him. I paid him and added still another tip and he remarked that perhaps in two or three hours if he were cruising by he would keep an eye open for me in the event that I needed transportation back to my hotel. I told him I would take my chances, bade him a pleasant goodnight, and went into the flat building. It was a two-story house and there was only a single name of "May" opposite the bell for the second floor, so it obviously must be she. I touched it and was rewarded by the same husky voice coming from the speaking tube. I identified myself, the buzzer was pressed admitting me to the inner lobby. Up a flight of thinly carpeted stairs I went until I found myself on the second floor. Far at the back, with a tiny bulb burning dimly overhead, I saw a door open and what looked to be a delightful young woman in a Chinese orange, black and blue peignoir, buttoned and belted.
I advanced and saw that her face was really exquisite. It had a kind of cheekiness to it, which I suppose one might call Cockney. Her eyes were dark-brown and very large, widely spaced. Her nose was almost classic in its Grecian style, with delicately flaring wings to denote her sensuous temperament. Her hair was a rich dark-brown and she wore it in a sort of gamine coiffure, rather frizzled along the left side of her forehead, then drawn strictly back on the other side and parted down the middle, with a few fluffy curls straying at the nape. She ushered me in and I at once took out my wallet and handed her not ten but twenty pounds. "If we get along satisfactorily I should like to engage your services for considerably more than an hour," I said politely.
She giggled and her voice had that lovely bedroom vibrancy which I have come to appreciate through the years. It was obvious that she was no hypocrite and also, I sensed, that she might even enjoy the world's most ancient profession. She offered me some sherry which wasn't bad and she explained, "I keep this for toffs like you, sir. And now, what's your pleasure, Greek or French?"
Now it was my turn to blush a little, for what I had in mind was an application of the traditional English method, of which one might have read in the chronicles of Mrs. Berkley, inventor of the Berkley horse. In the nineteenth century of fashionable and flourishing London, this enterprising madam contrived an apparatus on which a girl might be whipped in almost any position that suited the client, which of course would accentuate all the voluptuous enticement of her nether charms. And yet I paused a moment, because this was commercial sex, in which there would be no love and perhaps nothing more than mechanical cohesion. I know that back in high school I had the theory that it was far healthier for a young man to use his hand than to attempt insertion into the love-cleft of a prostitute for the very good reason that he would have considerably more stimulation if only through his own imaginative powers. I found this to be true in my own case, certainly. But this girl was so charming and radiated such exuberance and sauciness that I had the happy premonition that perhaps all might be well, after all.
"Oh, I see, sir," she twitted me. "You're the bashful sort no doubt. Come on, don't be afraid to say it. I've been on my own since I was sixteen, when my stepfather took a strap to me and wanted to take something else I found I could sell more dearly."
I chuckled, for she smiled when she said it and she had such a delightful inflection to her voice that it put me straightaway into an excellent humor. Decidedly, the evening would be well spent--and I mean that literally!
"Then I shall be frank with you, May. Yes, I'm an American, but I've read a good deal about the English way. I mean, the kind of thing one finds in a school where a naughty girl is spanked."
"Oh I see! You're not cruel, are you, sir?"
"I should never draw blood, that's for sure. And I certainly shouldn't care to mar such loveliness as yours," I said as gallantly as I could muster.
We were sitting together on her couch in a rather dingy living room furnished in rococo MidVictorian style. Indeed, had time transported us both back to the era of that redoubtable monarch, the living room would have been quite nicely in style. She put her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "I think we shall get along famously. So you want to spank my bum, do you, sir? Well, I have been a naughty girl, too often today, and no one's spanked it yet, so you may as well be first. And the money you've given me, since I probably shan't have another client tonight and I don't feel so inclined, will give you two horns of my services. However, I should like a bit more for some clothes or such for the spanking."
She smiled as she asked me for more money, and she was sincere. Again I took out my wallet and I handed her another ten-pound note. "Will this cover your expenses?"
"La, sir, it'll buy salve for my poor bum if you are too wicked with it!" she giggled. And then she turned serious, "Do you wish to do it first or later? Or shall we sit about a bit and talk? I do like toffs, they're so polite."
"I was brought up that way, I suppose," I chuckled. "I'm in no hurry. And you're a very charming girl and I enjoy being beside you." For that I had another kiss, but this one on the mouth. Her lips were soft and full, and they had a velvety and moist pressure upon mine. Her hands were long and slim, almost aristocratic, like one might say, those of a concert pianist or a painter. They caressed the sides of my jaw lightly as she put her mouth to mine and gave me a long and lingering kiss. And delicately, very delicately, the tip of her tongue prodded between my lips and then retreated as quickly as it hid come. But that slight bit of loveplay was sufficient to make my prick begin to ache with savage longing.
I stared more closely at the peignoir now. It was definitely Chinese, and was of excellent silk. I began to undo the buttons down to her waist, and when the peignoir gaped, I could see her magnificent thrusting titties, firm and round. Her flesh had a delightful carnation tinting to it, half pink and white, and the nipples were full and ripe and a trifle darkish, while the areolae were very narrow and intense. They seemed most sensitive when I bent my head and took one of those tasty lovebuds into my mouth and sucked it gently, and tickled it with the tip of my tongue.
"Ohhh, that's awfully nice, oh yes it is!" May sighed languidly. She sank against the back of the couch, and her slim fingers moved to the back of my neck, gently urging me towards her. I felt my prick harden and vibrate against the fly of my trousers, and I knew that I could have fucked her then and there and that she would have acquiesced with a kind of joyous ambience. But I was already learning the pleasures of prolongation, for a true voluptuary knows that holding off the moment of actual emprise and letting the mind stimulate itself into conjuring up all sorts of erotic images, intensifies both the cerebral and the physical pleasure.
My hands now took possession of that satiny warm round tittie while I turned my head to regale the other nipple with a sucking, lingering kiss. May purred like a cat, and her fingernails scratched my neck, to keep up the analogy. "My," she murmured huskily, "aren't you the one though! I've never yet had a gentleman do all this for me without wanting to be loved back. You must be a rare devil with the girls back in the States, sir."
"Oh no. I've had only one, May, but I've read and thought about it and I've formed my own ideas of what I should like to be to the fair sex," I joked softly.
"Do you know, I'm ever so glad you picked my card from all the rest," she said generously. And once again I felt her to be sincere and not simply a genial prostitute seeking to flatter her patrons.
"I have the same feeling, my girl," I said, to acquaint her with the fact that I could speak the tongue of Shakespeare with as great a consideration as she herself.
Now with her fingers she unbelted the peignoir and let it unfold to expose her lovely nakedness. But that nakedness was made the more intoxicating to me by virtue of the fact that on her long but beautifully rounded legs she wore black silk stockings with red rosette garters, and dainty open-toe sandals with very narrow and sharp heels, about three inches in height. With those heels she was up almost to my own level so that our bodies would fit gloriously, I eagerly surmised.
Her belly was smooth and delightfully rounded without a trace of excess. The navel was deep and very narrow, almost dissembled. But the thick-brownish curls which grew from her lower abdomen and almost gusseted her between her thighs attracted my glittering eyes at once. They hid the soft lips of her pussy, and they made the fair pink and white skin seem even more delicate in tinting.
"You like me?" she asked in a little-girl voice as she widened her eyes and stared at me.
"An unnecessary question, my girl," I chuckled. "And for that impertinence you're to be spanked in good time!"
"Oh my, I can feel my poor bum squirming already," she whispered back in that husky tone which thrilled me so inexpressibly.
Then I drew her to her feet, putting my hands to her soft armpits, and the peignoir fluttered from her and fell onto the couch and she was naked save for hose, rosettes and pumps. She came against me willingly and softly and pliantly, a soft smile on her full mouth. There were dancing little sparks in her eyes, golden and brown, and this was not the response of a common whore. I fancied that perhaps for once, as must every daughter of joy at one time or another in her career, and especially when she is young and feels the warmth of her blood and knows her powers over the male, she may tell herself that out of fantasy she will take this or that patron and endow him with a magical quality that makes him not a customer but a lover from afar, a stranger who comes but once and will not come again. Throughout our lives, we are always playacting and for me that night it was illusion and fantasy and flesh merging into remembered ecstasy.
My hands roamed the satiny round cheeks of her behind, squeezing and palpating luxuriously, and my mouth sought hers and she gave it generously. Once again her tongue delved between my lips as her hands locked at the back of my neck and she arched herself firmly against me. I could feel her furry cleft rubbing against my swollen prick, and the knowledge that I had only to yank down my zipper and liberate my organ to be at oneness with her was truly maddening, a kind of self-inflicted Tantalus which was more exciting than agonizing, simply because I knew that ultimately I should know the constriction and the confines of her ardent cunt.
But I determined to adhere to my program. If I spanked her now, I should be so wildly excited that the very first thrust into her love-sheath would unman me, make me lose all my bubbling juices. No, I would fuck her first, and then accuse her of this or that as pretext, together with her sauciness, inflict the spanking and thus rearouse myself.
"I think, May," I whispered rather hoarsely, "I'll take advantage of your bed. Undress me, like the dear girl you are."
She giggled: "Aren't you the one, you really are, sir! It will be my pleasure, indeed. Oh I do say, you are already waiting for me, and I mustn't keep such a big important gentleman waiting very long, or my bum will smart for it, won't it, sir?"
"That it will, you may be certain," I said with a trembling voice as she began to undress me. It was like having a handmaiden, and it flattered my ego enormously. She knelt down to take off my shoes and socks and left me in my shorts. Through this, my prick was bulging mightily, threatening to burst through the thin material. Delicately now she unbuttoned the shorts and then drew them off, and then, while still on her knees crouched forward and, her hands against my bottom, began lightly to nibble and suck and to tickle my whang.
It was excruciating. I wasn't proof against it, and I had to control myself with all my muscular strength to keep from exploding then and there. "Don't, not now, wait till we--" I gasped.
"Till we fuck, isn't that right, love?" she said in that wonderfully slurred, Cockney accent of hers. She nimbly rose, took me by the hand and like two naked children in paradise ready to explore Eden we walked towards her bedroom.
Here I was in for a real surprise. The bed was enormous, old-fashioned, with a headboard and footboard and even a canopy. There was a dresser across the way in a comer and a loveseat in another, and a big stool in still another. There was a little night table beside the bed where she had a mirror and a package of English Players cigarettes. And there on the stool, just as I glanced at it, I saw a crooked-handle yellow slim cane as well as a leather strap cut into three "fingers" at the spanking end.
"Would you like, after you've spanked my bum, to do it to me there?" she whispered into my ear. "You see, that's what I mean when I advertise Greek cultures. You know, the back door, the little brown place to go into."
"You do?" I was stupefied. Oddly, for all my reading, I hadn't considered doing that myself. Yet now that she had suggested it, it felt wonderfully exotic and particularly spicy to whip a girl to yielding, and then to enter her asshole--yes, of a certainty, this was what I longed for on this first night of passion in Soho!
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, entranced, swing her long lovely stockinged legs onto it and then await me on her back, her knees parted slightly and as slightly upraised, her arms held out to me, a provocative and challenging little smile on her ripe red mouth.
To fuck naked like this was what I had remembered of Phyllis, but hers had been a rather more bovine generosity of flesh. May, on the contrary, was tall, though she had magnificently big bubbies and a lusciously upstandingly rounded bottom, and suggested the svelte in the length of her calves and thighs, so beautifully proportioned. Her long shapely arms with the aristocratic slim fingers, too, surely made a difference in her womanliness. The man who says that all cats are gray in the dark is an unmitigated fool!
I could not hold myself back much longer, I knew. I knew also, from that wonderful weekend with Phyllis, that to take off one's edge was best of all, for then the second coming together would be more appreciative, more lingering, and thus all the senses would participate as well as the mind. At the first onrush of lust, the mind is swept aside by the ferocious hunger of the flesh. And that was surely mine now as I fell upon May like the Turk with his scimitar upon the cowering Greek virgin.
My hands clutched her firm carnation skinned titties, and so then I crushed her firm mouth under mine as I delved for her cunt. The gentle spreading of her knees had facilitated my entry, poutingly opening the lips to receive my sword. I thrust myself almost to the balls in a single massive lunge and she gasped and squirmed under me, then swiftly clamped her legs over mine, locking me in her arms, her tongue plying mine with insatiable digs and frictioning.
Five or six hard strokes were all that I could accomplish before my overladen balls gave up their savings. I groaned and ground my teeth, trying at the last moment to hold back the dam, but it was to no avail. She caressed me and soothed me, as a mother might an errant child, whispering, "Never mind, love, we've all tonight, and I'll make you good and strong again. Oh gracious, I thought you were going to tear me apart, you were that excited, sir!"
It was quaint how she called me "sir", as if she were the serf-girl and I the baronial lord and master: or, a better simile, she the daughter of the gardener and I the son of a squire of the manor.
At last I removed myself from her palpitating body, and we both hastened to what in England is called the watercloset for our ablutions.
As soon as she had finished, she knelt down and took my limpened cock in her hands and bestowed a sweet kiss upon the head of it and then the shaft and then upon each of the balls in turn. Already I could feel life being restored to me!
Then she brought us each a glass of sherry and we sat amiably upon the bed, chatting like two friends. She had come, not from the heart of London as I had supposed, but instead from Devonshire. Her mother had been a laundress there, her father a wainwright. He had died when she was only ten and her mother had held off many of the village suitors because she was extremely good-looking and because she mourned May's father deeply. Finally, a year before May had fled the parental home, she had remarried a dour and suspicious man in his early fifties, and he had been the one who had tried to whip and fuck May and thus driven her into the heart of London to sell her luscious young body to anyone who had the price.
She confided to me that she occasionally sent her mother money from time to time, but never with any return address. It wasn't that she was ashamed of her profession, but simply that she didn't ever want her stepfather to find her. I could appreciate that indeed.
As we talked, her soft hand slipped along my thigh and began to caress it, and from time to time she would touch my prick till I could feel myself slowly becoming strong again.
"I'm much too forward, aren't I?" she teasingly whispered as our eyes met.
"You are indeed and I think the time has come for you to pay the penalty," I said lightly. But my heart was thudding, and I could feel my pulse racing furiously.
She made a little-girl pout and rose from the bed, putting her palms over her bottom as if to protect it. "How do you want to do it to me, love?" she murmured huskily.
I walked over to the stool, my stiff prick bobbing as I went. I examined the strap, which was of course a tawse, and the cane. It was whippy and flexible. She hastened to amend: "If you use that, I don't think I can take more than five, not without awful marks that the other gentlemen won't like, sir. I should have to ask for more money, I'm afraid, if you wished to give me more than five."
"Another twenty pounds for ten in all," I told her hoarsely.
"Done!" she said at once.
"But first I shall give you a good bottom smacking," I said sternly.
Her eyes went very round indeed. "Oh my sir, you do know our customs, don't you?"
"Only theoretically, so tonight you are going to teach me reality, my lovely May," I told her.
I removed both cane and tawse from the stool and ordered her to drape herself across it. She did so, stretching down her long lovely arms till her fingertips touched the floor, while her legs were out slantingly and straight, all the muscles in play from the tautness, her sandaled toes pressing down on the other side. It was a magnificent posture, it impudently upreared the round resilient globes of her voluptuous ass. I put my left palm on her chinkbone, and I began to spank her with the flat of my hand. I gave her about fifty smartly applied and not too rapidly administered spanks, and she was gasping and squirming very satisfactorily from about the thirty-fifth on. Her tiny little squeals of "Ooooh!" and "Aaaah, oh, sir!" made my prick harden back to its original vigor and I knew that this completion would be the most satisfying one of all my life to that point.
Breathless, I stepped back and contemplated my handiwork. I could hear her sniffling a little, and this was not false at all. A glance at her face showed it to be flushed, and the cheeks stained with tears. Moreover, the way she squirmed uneasily over the stool left me no doubt as to the fact that her bottom was smarting quite uncomfortably.
I picked up the cane and flourished it. I understood, from what I had read about the science of caning a lovely girl's bottom, that one did not attempt to slice into the flesh with an heroic stroke. A deft flick of the wrist would be enough, and the sharp "Spattt!" of the rattan on flesh already tenderized by this bottom-smacking would sting and bum cruelly enough yet, without cutting the flesh or leaving permanent marks.
One could tap such a bottom with the cane, rapidly and lightly, and produce the same effect as a good spanking. It was an admirable instrument, one that could, with proper adroitness, attain any part of a woman's bottom that one desired. In spanking one often overlooks the tender lower curves of the behind, especially at the base and the inner edges of the cheeks where the bottom groove begins. The cane can also find these out, depending on what posture you make the culprit take.
Again I had the feeling that May was something of a masochist. She didn't attempt to alter her position, where by now it must have been really uncomfortable for her. When one drapes over a high stool and bends down to balance by palms or fingers and toes, the muscles of the belly, the inner thighs, the hunched-up muscles of the shoulders and the neck, all combine to intensify the ordeal and to sensitize and tauten the naked flesh exposed to the kisses of a whip or a cane or a rod or even the bit of the punitive palm. And yet she made no offer to change her posture but waited there, sniffling from time to time, as I flourished the cane about.
"Ten," I said hoarsely. "Will you please count them, my girl?"
"Oh yes, sir, I'll count--I don't dare let you go beyond ten, oh my, what a smacking you gave my poor bum!" she gasped. "Is it all right like this? Or would you like me to take it another way?"
"After 'the first five, I'll tell you," I said. Then I patted her crimsoned posterior with the cane, straight across the ripest curves of both cheeks.
I could hear her hiss softly, as she sucked in her breath and I could also see her muscles tighten once more to steel herself for the ordeal.
I did not cane her harshly. I have some sense, and particularly in my new profession as consultant who deals with recalcitrant, frigid, snobbish or overbearing wives and sweethearts, I can apply the cane with almost ferocious and punitive skill. But that night in Soho, my prick was aching each time I contemplated that lovely squirming, reddened bottom, I had no cruelty within me. Only a kind of eager lechery which is certainly pardonable and understandable. The cane flicked with a light smack over the tightly proffered hemispheres of her ass, but nonetheless it drew strangled groans and sighs and sobs from the third stroke on.
After the fifth I made her straighten up and walk over to the bed, bow her head down to the counterpane, her palms widely spread on each side of her, thrusting out her flaming behind.
She counted out the last five sobbingly, and finally at the very tenth, "Ohhhh, I can't take any more, truthfully, sir, I can't! Oh dear, how you've cut my poor bum, I'm on fire, I'll be a good girl for you, sir, no fear of that now!"
I flung the cane aside and rushed to her. I straightened and twisted her to me, and then I remembered the dazzling new experience she had promised. "I want to bugger you, you sweet bitch," I mouthed, my hands massaging her very warm bottomcheeks.
"Oh yes, yes, I want you to do that too, I'm fair dying for it, sir," she panted. Her hand reached down to squeeze my prick and then swiftly she disengaged herself, bent over the bed once more and planted her feet as widely apart as she could, offering up that crimson rear to me.
My hands gently squeezed the cheeks, and forced them open. My prick had touched the dainty shrinking fissure of her asshole, and I slowly intruded myself just inside the lobbyway of her bung.
She was groaning and gasping, and I withheld myself a moment. Then I reached out my left forefinger and I began to grope for her clitoris. As I began to frig it very gently, she moaned and sobbed, "Oh, that's heaven, sir, that's the best I've ever been done, oh you're a rare one, young as you are, you'll go far with the girls, you mark my words--oh do me, do please do me, I want it, I want you to give it to me hard and make me come, love!"
It was this tribute from a London prostitute which, I am convinced, had the final influence in shaping my destiny so that this day I am now a trainer of naughty wives and sweethearts, a man who regards corporal punishment as the catharsis of wrongdoing and of improper flirtatiousness of all the adulterous wrongs by which a woman may betray a man faithful to her.
I frigged May and I buggered her. I timed my thrusts so that when I reached the very bottom of her bunghole, my finger tip pressed her tickler back into its tiny cowl of love flesh- She came profusely, shuddering and sobbing, and collapsed over the bed as I shot my bubbling essence deep into her bowels.
Anything else would have been anticlimactic. It is true that we indulged in yet another fuck, but there is no need to mention it here. After my London excursion I went to Paris where Henry Miller had written of the Sphinx and the House of All Nations a generation ago. Would I find similar exotic fantasies lurking in the shadows in the City of Light? That was what I proposed to learn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In Paris, of course, I was even more at home, because I spoke French passably well--I could read it as easily as I could English, but one lacks the conversational facility and doubtless many of my academic and perfectly constructed sentences must have amused the natives. Nonetheless, I once again found a driver of a small fiacre who questioned me at some length about my foibles. He, too, was a man of the world, a Burgundian from the Cote d'Or, where the great and noble wines of France are nurtured under the brilliant sun. He recommended at last that I try a little maison de specialite, with whose proprietress he himself was well acquainted. He warned me in advance that it would be expensive, but I showed him my wallet and gave him fifty francs as a pour boire, which made us brothers under the. skin.
The house he had reference to looked more like a pensionat than a whorehouse. It was a modest little two-story frame building with a charming little garden at the back, complete even to the traditional little white summer house or gazebo. It had shutters and awnings, and it must once have been a jewel of architecture in a newly established suburb of the City of Lights.
I arrived there at eight, since I had dined--though not too well, a precaution which I advise all those who wish to partake of the desserts of Our Lady Venus, since overly rich food and too much wine give one a sense of repletion and somnolence, not fierce passion. I rang the bell and it was answered by a charming mulatress maid, with red high-heeled pumps, smoke-colored opera-length hose, a ridiculously short black satin skirt that barely covered her crotch, and a lace cap. She saw obviously that I must be English or American, and asked, "M'sieu desires?"
"M'sieu most assuredly does." Then, in French, I added, "The driver of the fiacre who tells me his name is Jean Remouille suggested that I might find amusing entertainment here. I was to ask for Madame Gabrielle."
The mulatress curtseyed and stood aside to admit me. Once installed in an armchair, looking at the Louis Quinze furnishings which decorated this room so beautifully, complete with a silver-framed mirror over the mantelpiece, I was further greeted by her bringing me a glass of excellent Taitinger champagne and the news that Madame Gabrielle would be with me in a minute or two.
In precisely four minutes by the clock on a little ormolu table near the mantelpiece the proprietress herself entered and I at once rose, my eyes widening with appreciative admiration. Madame Gabrielle was like an Amazon, fully five feet ten inches in height, wearing lace-on black leather boots to the knee, a man's shirt with little black bow tie and a split skirt which fell just about to a point three inches above her knees, a skirt of gold lame. Her face was arrogant, bronzed, and I guessed her to be Italian or Corsican. There was a fierceness to her brows, which were bushy, and to her jaws, and the aquilinity of her nose. She had a thin, incisive mouth and her eyes were an intense, dark blue. Her dark brown hair was coiffed in an imposing pompadour which made her seem my own height.
She received me with a gracious and even ostentatious smile and words of welcome, and when she discovered that I could speak French, seated herself on a little footstool and proceeded to converse on the "specialties" of her maison. She discovered that I had an interest in discipline, and so then it became an academic question of the type with whom I wished to pursue this subject: should it be a docile, timid little-girl type, or again a haughty and rebellious young debutante who fretted under convention and resented authority? Or again, did my fancy roam towards an embattled young Negress from Saudi Arabia, who had arrived just a week before, who knew all the perversions, yet behaved as if she were an untouched virgin so that the man had to conquer her by force and cunning? I spent a very pleasant half-hour discussing these theoretical possibilities, and my prick was hard as a rock when the conversation was over. It was difficult for me to make a choice. Then I thought that to conquer, not so much by force as by cunning, and particularly one who would resent the humiliation of chastisement, would most fully suit my penchants.
"C'est bon, you have the attitude of a connoisseur, M'sieu Crowe," she told me as she rose. "Audrey, that is my little maid, will take you to a very comfortable salle where you will be introduced to Yvette. She comes from Domremy, indeed, the very village where the great Joan of Arc was born, our history tells us. But she is no farm maid, M'sieu Crowe, but a very wise and temperamental little bitch.
Indeed," here she permitted herself a small wry smile, "she has displeased me the past several evenings by her antics with my customers. I should really be obliged to you if you would thrash her nicely. You will, of course, not spoil her."
"I shouldn't be such a barbaric fool, Madame Gabrielle," I bowed to her, for she was indisputably a lady.
"Magnifique! Then I shall see that the tariff is regulated accordingly, after Audrey has told me of your progress with Yvette. A bientot, and I shall take leave of you when you have concluded your little sport, M'sieu Crowe."
With this she disappeared, and a few minutes later, the delicious mulatress--whom I should not have minded fucking and spanking at all--came to lead me to the second floor of this excellent old house, so luxuriously comfortable and doubtless with a history that would make a stirring novel, if there were only a writer there to accumulate the data.
The very last room to the left at the back was where Audrey paused, took out a key and looked at me, whispering in French, "She is a petite vicieuse, M'sieu. I will tell you this in confidence, Madame is very angry with her. She has slapped my face in front of a customer, simply because I wanted to bring in champagne and Her Ladyship gave herself airs that were out of place with such a fine gentleman as she was serving at the time."
"Thank you for your confidence, Audrey." I took out my wallet and tucked a twenty-franc note into her bodice, for her short dress was cut in a wife V from the throat down to the middle of two magnificently uptilting, chocolate-sheened titties. With this I entered, closed the door and turned the springlock behind me.
The girl whom I had been told was named Yvette sat in a chair staring morosely out of the window. From where I stood it was a very large room with an enormous low bed and even a mirror on the ceiling. I could see that Yvette's hair was short, bobbed, and auburn. The nape of her neck was invitingly bare and she wore only a peach-colored satin slip and sandals with thongs. Her legs were crossed and from the glimpse I had of the one that was flung so carelessly over its lovely, svelte twin, I could divine that she was lithe, supple, and mercurial.
Suddenly she sprang up, turned and stared at me. Then in voluble French she wanted to know who the devil I thought I was and why I hadn't bothered to knock, and that Madame Gabrielle knew perfectly well that at such an hour on such a night she did not wish to take a customer.
I had already paid Madame Gabrielle five hundred French francs, the equivalent of about $100 in our money; in fact, the maid, while escorting me up to Yvette's room, had informed me that the price was generally twice that, but Madame had taken a fancy to me because of my sympathetic attitude and the fact that I spoke French so well.
But when I faced Yvette, I knew that I was going to whip and possess her with a zest and sadistic relish that I had never known before until this moment. Not even the English prostitute May had made me feel so. Her face was insolent, her nose snub and aristocratic. Her mouth was full but disdainful, the upper lip being riper. Her cheekbones were slantingly set, her eyes gray-green with golden flecks. She was about five feet seven inches in height, I should judge, and her skin was tawny, a perfect foil to her auburn hair.
In French I responded to her, "Mam'selle Yvette, I am not here to put up with your nonsense but to do what I like with you. Take off that slip and get into bed, if you know what's good for you!"
Her jaw dropped, because she did not expect so young and unparisian a client to express himself so scandalously towards her. This was, after all, a maison de luxe, as its prices indicated, and she was obviously used to playing the role of the patriciene. In this wise, a man would feel that this lovely whore was doing him a favor simply by giving in to him. Yet, on the other hand, I infinitely preferred this tactic as opposed to the placid, resigned, mechanical submission of our hustlers and streetwalkers, who fling themselves on the bed and spread their legs mechanically, close their eyes and wish they were back in East St. Louis married to that nice boy across the street.
"Va-t'en, saland!" she cried stridently at me. "I do not take strangers. Madame Gabrielle knows this. Get out of my room with your ugly face, you espece de chameau!"
I know that I am not altogether prepossessing, but I am hardly related to a camel. Nor am I filthy scum, as Yvette's first epithet had so rudely intimated. She had behaved exactly as I wished, to put me in the proper mood of conquest and domination. I felt my prick throb with anticipation as I strode towards her, took her by the shoulders and wrenched the slip off her magnificent body. Then I slapped her across the face and plunging my left hand into the curls of her auburn hair yanked them severely as, twisting her towards the bed, I drew back my right palm and applied a sonorous smack on the ripest curve of her right asscheek. She squealed, stumbled forward and tried to twist around and claw at me with very sharp, lacquered fingernails. That earned her another slap across the face and another across the other cheek of her behind, which drew forth a yell of real discomfort from my charming Parisian--or rather, Domremian partner of the night. As I pushed her onto the bed, I saw hanging from a hook a little cord which was passed through the red wooden handle of a kind of toy martinet with five serpentine brown leather thongs, each about fifteen inches in length, tapering at the tip. I seized it and even as she straightened and turned towards me, her claws extended like the talons of a predatory bird, I lashed her first across the belly and then across her titties, which were high-perched large pears, and beautifully resilient.
She uttered a shriek and began to rub her bubbies and I took advantage of this to lash her straight across the loins, so that at least one of the tips darted into the very furry cleft of her cunthole.
"Pas la! Par pitie, pas la!" she babbled, clutching her cunt and rubbing it frantically as tears started in her dilated eyes.
"Then get on the bed, you species of a union between a viper and a vixen," I told her in excellent schoolboy French. Once again her eyes widened at my command of the language and also at my command of her. I raised the martinet threateningly and with a squeal she scrambled onto all fours, looking back over her shoulder at me, her buttocks jutting, broad ovals with a broadening cleft between them which enabled me to see between them the pink fig of her cunt with the frame of that dark auburn hedge of curls and even the dainty puckering inlet of her asshole.
The temptation was irresistible. I gave her three cuts across the bottom before she fell flat and screamed and put her hands over her bottom to cover up. Then, casting the martinet onto a chair, I began to undress till I was naked except for my socks. My prick was formidable.
When I mounted the bed, I had the martinet in my hand and I warned her sternly, "Now then, you are going to apologize for all those insults and quickly, or it will be a good thrashing on those big fessesnnues of yours, Yvette! Commencez de suite! Si non, le martinez!" I warned her.
Sobbing, rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand, die whimpered an apology for having so insulted me. I considered her and she was delicious. Panting, disheveled, completely naked, the marks of the martinet in bright streaks over that tawny skin, her bubbies heaving, the nipples pouting and dark, the flesh of her magnificent ass rippling and tensing, she was like a young wild animal ready to stroke and to rebel no matter how many times she is conquered.
"Before I fuck you," I went on in French, using the proper verb "fouter" I said, "I am going to give you une belle fessee pour ton impertinence. Come across my lap, and hold onto the martinet, because if you don't behave yourself, I shall tie you up to the bed and really thrash you, une raclee veritable!"
She was momentarily cowed, at any rate. She crept across my lap, begging me in patois not to spank her too hard, that she had a dreadful headache, that she and Madame had had the most dreadful argument, that she was misunderstood here although die was the best earner in the house, and that Madame knew perfectly well that this was not her night for customers, but rather for meditation. To this I answered rudely, "Fichez-moide tout ca!" which roughly translated means simply, "I don't give a fuck for all that nonsense." The tone of my voice as well as my use of Parisian slang convinced her. With another sob, she flattened herself on my lap and took hold of the martinet, holding it straight out beyond her with her arms extended as far as they would go, and buried her face in a pillow. How her wonderful bottom flinched and rippled! I was greedy for it, and my left arm curved lovingly around her waist as I began to caress those lovely, perfectly contoured asscheeks. She began to shiver and then to gasp, apparently terrified by the suspense, wondering if I were some infernal monster preparing to render her limb from limb. I had no such sinister designs. But I was going to redden her beautiful ass for her, so that this headache she complained of would be wiped away and her pussy made as hot as her enchanting posterior.
With this in mind, I gave her a deliberately hard spanking. The spanks fell slowly, about thirty seconds apart, and her hips began to jerk and twist and weave frantically as I continued to spank without any apparent intention of relenting, until I had reached twenty-five, when she was begging me in almost little-girl speech to pardon her, to take pity on her, that she could not bear any more, that her flesh was terribly sensitive, that she would do anything in the world if only I would be kind and let up.
I finally stopped at forty, and her bottom was a brilliant crimson. She was sobbing like a child but she still held onto the martinet. I told her to clench the handle in her teeth, to kneel on all fours, then I glanced up at the mirrored ceiling. I saw myself there, a bespectacled young satyr, with this conquered beauty crouching before me in submission. And the touch of having her grip the whip which I meant to use on her later, in her own teeth While she was being fucked or buggered, (I had not yet decided which to do) was, I think, worthy of the Marquis de Sade himself.
Indeed, the good Marquis must have been with me in spirit, and perhaps it was that spirit which prompted me to demand now, in a mockingly ironic tone, "Viens done, ma belle, I shall give you a choice. Would you rather be buggered or fucked?"
"Ahhh--ahhhh--oooh--aaaaah--foutez-moi, M'sieu, je t'en prie," Yvette answered over her shoulder. In so replying, she had of course dropped the martinet.
So I said to her, "You have missed out, ma belle, because you have disobeyed me. I was going to fuck you as you just asked me to, but instead it will be your petit trou de cul which shall take my weapon. After that, you shall taste the martinet on those lovely fesses of yours!"
She began to beg off, but I had already yawned apart the cheeks of her well-whipped bottom and thrust my prick against the crinkly fissure. She uttered a cry and begged me piteously not to do it there, for she was too small. It would tear her terribly, she would do anything else, she would lick my balls and even my ass--but I persisted. Gripping her titties, I forced myself into her. She was tight, just as she had told me, but she did not tear. Once I had begun to frig her tickler, she wriggled and twisted like an eel, panting and gasping, her body glistening with lust-sweat and in her furious French argot mixed with profanity and little-girl words as well as lust-phrases I heard her implore me to drive her towards the precipice of her pussy-passion.
Her orgasm was violent and so was mine. I fell atop her, my sword still bladed in that narrow nether sheath. I could feel the walls of her bumhole grip and clench me more tightly than could those of any cunt. I could feel against my belly the warmth I had laid on with my spanking, and now I would make those lovely cheeks warmer still.
I pulled out suddenly, I seized the martinet, and then, getting onto her back on my knees and facing that lovely, tempting rump, I proceeded to decorate it with about twenty sweeping lashes of the martinet. How she kicked her legs, sometimes almost higher than my head and back towards me until I could see the bright pink fig of her cunt gaping as if begging for another fuck. I would not neglect that either before I left, I promised myself. But for the nonce it delighted me to hear her plaintive cries, to hear her babbled pleas for mercy and her endearments and all her blandishments, couched in the most lascivious and profane slang of the gutter. She had certainly not picked that up in the little village where Joan of Arc was born!
When it was over and she lay sobbing, cuddled on her side in the fetal position, rubbing her bottom furiously, I rang for the maid, and Audrey brought us champagne. She stared with satisfaction at the still whimpering, sniffling redhead, and then said that Madame would be enchanted with my performance and that she was going to report it at once. I locked the door after she had gone, then coming back to the bed, twisted my fingers in Yvette's hair and made her suck my prick clean. Thereupon I fucked her and this time I had her sit in my lap with her back to me while I played with her lovely titties. Her bottom was inflamed but nowhere was the skin broken. The warmth of her well-whipped ass pervaded my own naked thighs and belly, and added to the ecstasy of my fuck.
When at last I left her, somewhat mollified with the present of another hundred francs, I found Madame Gabrielle waiting for me in the salon. She was radiant. "You are a true master, M'sieu, no matter how young you are. Audrey has told me of your success with that petite vicieuse. My compliments. And as a token of my thanks, before you leave Paris, my charming little Audrey would like very much to spend an hour with you, and it is understood that we will not talk of francs. Would you care to set a date for that little tete-a-tete, M'sieu Crowe?"
I set it for exactly a week thereafter and it was memorable. Audrey, wearing only the lace cap and rosette garters and opera-length hose and her pumps, lay over my lap for a sonorous spanking. Then she crouched on her knees between my thighs as I sprawled in an armchair, sucking my prick, while I flicked her lightly with a three-thonged martinet. Then she planted herself astride me, facing me, and I cupped her titties and kissed her lovely mouth and was Frenchkissed by her. I had three orgasms with her and she as many. It was an admirable farewell to Paris and its fleshpots. I had no desire to seek out anything more or to see even if the Sphinx or the House of All Nations existed. I had accomplished my fantasy-desire, and now I knew that without the whip and without the pleasures of voluptuous chastisement, mere coitus would always be empty and puerile for me.
CHAPTER NINE
From Paris I went to Hamburg, and of course the notorious Reeperbahn. I watched the naked girls wrestle in the mud, and I proposed to the cafe owner that I be permitted to take the loser to my little hotel several blocks away for the rest of the night for the sum of five hundred marks, about $250 in American money. He was more than willing, and he too, ironically enough, told me a story very much like Madame Gabrielle's. Freda, the loser in the match I had watched to a tall, black-haired, domineering young woman whose hair was cropped short and who looked very much to be a butch, had not been a favorite of the customers of late. Not only did she lose ignominiously but she was very diffident about accepting dates with men. When I told the proprietor that very likely she preferred her own sex, he agreed with me that this was possible. He would be grateful to me, he said, if I were to give her a good thrashing but not of course to mark her up too much. As that was exactly what I intended I promised that I would compensate the girl for her time and him additionally if it proved to my satisfaction. As it turned out I gave him still another five hundred marks and counted myself happy in the bargain.
Freda Reichen was a sullen-faced, towheaded young woman of about twenty-four. She had been a seamstress' apprentice in a Berlin shop to which a fine gentleman had sent his sister to purchase some lingerie for his fiance and then gone a week later to find out about the order which had been delayed for some unaccountable reason. While at the shop, he espied Freda, made overtures to her, nearly got her pregnant, to her terror, and then abandoned her. The seamstress, who was a very moral woman, drove her out into the street and her parents did the same, taking the side of the accuser rather than her own. She had become a prostitute, been beaten by a sailor rather badly and made her way to Hamburg, where she had a distant cousin. That cousin was a friend of the cafe owner at the Reeperbahn, and so Freda had learned to wrestle and occasionally to take a man between her round, pale-white thighs, but only with diffidence.
What she needed was affection and security, poor girl. I could give her neither, except the transient affection of a man who lusted for her magnificent bottom. The Germans use the word "Arsch" and while it is vulgar it is certainly graphic and satisfying, especially when applied to such a posterior as Freda Reichen's. For hers was a spacious bottom, magnificently rounded, and you would have thought it were that of Juno as painted by a Reubens. Yet nowhere was it excessive and the flesh was wonderfully firm. Add to this, with her pale blondeness a wonderfully thick dark-blonde bush at the apex of long but wonderfully plump thighs, and you can understand why I was avid to whip and then fuck and/or bugger (or better still, both!) the luscious Freda Reichen.
As soon as I got her into my hotel room I gave her a hundred-mark note for herself. At once she began to brighten and stammer her thanks. As we were undressing she began to tell me a little of her story, saying wistfully that she hoped one day to be free of her bondage at the Reeperbahn. What the proprietor had not told me was that he had held back her wages for a fortnight, simply because she had at the outset of her period refused to go to bed with a brutish customer who she knew would thrash her very badly. So he had stopped her wages, complained of her, given her no chance after her period was over to take on milder customers whom she could have accepted.
It also occurred that her own brother had tried to rape her when she was only thirteen, and had nearly succeeded. Freda, therefore, had a kind of abhorrence of men, which was understandable. At the same time she craved passion and she was really a masochist. It was evident in her mournful brown eyes, in the wistful mouth and in the abject, slumped-over posture she adopted when, completely naked except for black silk stockings with purple garters and her shoes, she stood before me with head bowed and arms at her sides.
I felt both compassion and lust, those two exquisite partners which inflame the sadist and incite his imagination to the highest pitch.
I took her across my lap and then tied her wrists behind her with a handkerchief. I then proceeded to spank her plump round pinksheened behind, but rather gently. My left hand sought her clitoris and began to stroke it. This, she told me gaspingly, had almost never been done by any of her customers. And by the time I finished, leaving her bottom a fiery red, she had had an orgasm and lay panting and moaning almost with happiness, across my lap. I let her cuddle on my lap with her arms around my neck and she kissed me passionately. She whispered shyly that nothing like this had ever happened to her before and she couldn't understand it. I explained to her in what little German I knew, together with some English words of which she was cognizant, that what she really yearned for was to be a slave but to someone whom she could love and respect. I was not that one, of course. She said that if she only had a thousand marks of her own she could leave Hamburg and go to a little farm near Aachen, where she had still another cousin who was married and had children and did not have the dissolute and cynical outlook in life which this cousin in Hamburg did.
I promised her the money and told her I would myself take her to the train for Aachen and also pay her train fare. She went down on her knees, clasping her hands, her eyes shining through her tears. It was touching and also roused my lust again. I knew I was exploiting this poor bitch and yet in a sense I was saving her from the degradation of decay and aging and horror which would come to all denizens of Hamburg's scandalously bawdy district. In many ways it was worse than San Francisco's Barbary Coast, except that customers here were rarely mugged or drugged or transported onto a ship or murdered.
I amused myself with Freda then spread-eagling her on the bed and blindfolding her. Crouching in front of her on the bed, thrusting my prick into her mouth, I took a wet towel and began to flick her beautiful bottom and thighs. With my other hand I caressed one of her nipples until it firmed and hardened and there too she was extremely sensitive. She began to twist and jerk and arch her bottom to receive the towel's kisses. I preserved my sperm so that I might fuck her lying atop her in a kind of sandwich, and I put my prick into her cunt and not her asshole. This time she went madly into orgasm almost at the first moment my ramrod entered her quaking cunt.
Before I left the hotel room to take her to the station, we went to her little room near the Reeperbahn to collect her few belongings in a cheap suitcase. She showed her gratitude to me by asking me if I wanted to whip her again but this time tied to the wall and really hard. I could not pass up such a golden opportunity. I tied her, therefore, with her arms in a cross, using the clothing pegs set into the wall as pinioning posts, tying cords around her wrists and the wooden pegs to secure her. Then I straddled her ankles by taking strips from an old shirt which I tore up and tying each ankle, making the other end of the strip fast to a little metal protrusion in the wall. For a whip I used my own belt and I gagged her with a handkerchief so her cries would not annoy the neighbors at my hotel who, happily, (though I did not know it then) were out for the evening.
I gave her thirty lashes and she stiffened each time, her head tilting back, a low, sobbing moan seeping through the handkerchief. But she was fervently a masochist and her bottom seemed to tender itself to the belt even as tears flowed down her cheeks. I could not hold back my yearning to bugger her. Opening the flaming cheeks of her ass I inserted myself into her bunghole and persisted until I was buried to the hilt. Even as she protested and squirmed my left forefinger was finding her tickler and drawing her to orgasm.
An hour later, dressed, her face shining with happiness, Freda Reichen was at the station and boarding a train for Aachen.
A week later I was in Amsterdam, seeking out the pleasures of the Kuylen Strasse. This was a narrow street on both sides of which were cribs and houses, where one could find everything from a cheap whore who would take five minutes to relieve one of one's savings, to an elegant Dutch West Indian brown skinned houri whose tongue and lips and even toes were artfully scienced in the art of how to glean all the substance from a man's overladen balls.
I spent one glorious evening with Annetje, a little doll not more than five feet in height, with wheat-colored hair, a child's rosy face, smiling lips and big blue eyes and a superb bottom of lilylike skin quality. Her breasts were small like oranges, her thighs and calves beautifully proportioned. The madame of the house allowed me to have her dressed in rompers and a pinafore with tiny little socks and open-toe shoes. Her hair was done in a pigtail and a blue ribbon was tied round it. She became my naughty little daughter for that night and I laid her across my lap and pulled her rompers down for a spanking and then, as no daughter ever should do for a father, she sucked me off.
So at last I came back to Los Angeles, and refreshed while at the same time satiated with the lascivious and sadistic joys I had tasted in the Old World, I began to reshape my future life.
I contributed a few free-lance articles to the Los Angeles Times on my travels, and they were well received. A few months later I had a call from the managing editor of the feature department, who wondered if I would be available for assignments. I would indeed and I was hired as a kind of roving reporter. The pay was not great but I had plenty of leisure time, there was money in the bank which was enough for all my needs for many a year, and I could do as I chose. I wrote for this newspaper until I was about twenty-six, and then the man who had hired me left to go East, the new editor decided that he had too heavy a payroll, and I was expunged. I was growing rather bored with it anyway. California is a peculiar state in which extremes become the order of the day.
Aretha was thirty but she acted like a little girl when she had to be spanked and the first time I decided to employ that practice, about a week after we had become lovers, she was shocked and then humiliated. She protested and went so far as to slap my face for degrading her, as she put it. I took her by the earlobe and, swatting at her already reddened bottom, marched her down the stairs clad only in stockings and garterbelt. Then I put her in a pillory, gagged her, and told her she would stay there until she learned the virtue of indulgence of a lover's whims. Then I went upstairs and napped until well after midnight. When I returned, Aretha was sobbing piteously, and as soon as I removed the gag, she babbled that she would do anything I wanted if only I would take her out of this terrible place. She was certain that there were rats: there were none, only the figments of her own very vivid imagination.
I told her that as penance she was to count out thirty spanks with a leather paddle, that number being ideal because it matched her age. She wept and pleaded, but to no avail. She referred to her already well-spanked bottom, the marks on which had not yet faded, but I was adamant. It was that or she would be there until dawn and even then I might not deign to release her.
So at last, weeping piteously, she agreed, still begging me not to spank too hard. Once again I used the method I had used with which I posed her on a glass coffee table on her back, standing at one end and lifting her legs, holding both ankles with my left hand while I applied the bristle side of a long-handled bath brush to her wriggling bottom. We had had a lover's quarrel, she had told me I was a demanding bastard and that, when all was said and done, she had had more satisfactory lovers who could really make her come. She did not leave the coffee table until I had proved the error of her ways. With her bottom flaming and splotched from the bristled spikes of the bath brush, I knelt down, draped her legs over my shoulders and proceeded to gamahuch her till she spent violently. Then I fucked her, perilous though it was across that glass coffee table, grinding her roughly over the edges, all of which seemed to intoxicate her. She wrapped her arms and legs around me and it was one of the most exciting and thrilling fucks of my entire career.
CHAPTER TEN
By the time I was thirty-five, I had my own public relations agency on Wilshire Boulevard. But I had not changed my habitat, for I still resided in the same little bungalow in which I had lived as a boy under the supervision of my beloved Elspeth Cuthbridge. From time to time, as the need seized me, I might visit an attractive call girl or, again, have her visit my bungalow. Or I would have a brief affair with some young, attractive woman whom I met at a restaurant or at the theatre or the orchestra. I have no egotism, except to say that with all the experience I had had, I found it remarkably easy to find a woman whenever I wished. Nor did I have to go into the gutter to find her.
I took occasional vacations in Hawaii, Mexico, Guatamala and even Buenos Aires. In all of these areas, I was able to persuade charming young women--and sometimes mature women as well--to go across my lap for a playful but still rather serious spanking as a stimulant to fucking.
In Buenos Aires, I came across a White Russian beauty by the name of Tatiana Rutitzoff, twenty-seven, who danced flamenco in a cafe on the Boulevard San Martin. Tatiana had been abandoned by her husband in that cosmopolitan city to which so many Nazis fled when it seemed that Hitler's reign was going to end in disaster. She had supported herself by her wits, her looks, her dancing, and her magnificent body. She was about five feet nine, with a pair of pouting, jutting titties, an upstanding rounded and spacious bottom with a broadening crease which made her admirably adaptable to buggering or fucking, and certainly to whipping. She had the fatalism of the Slavs, and was also a masochist, which was to have been expected. The Russians have a proverb--or at least the women do--that if a man does not beat his wife at least once a week, it shows he no longer loves her. Tatiana had no reason to complain of the week I spent in her little villa. She was such a masochist, indeed, that she even had her maid, a darkhaired, brown-skinned Indian woman named Serafina, who was at least forty, to help me prepare her for the whip. She would kneel down and plead with Serafina, and the maid taking her cue from both of us, would take the whip and shake her head and order her angrily to hold out her hands to be bound. Sometimes I would let Serafina take her across her lap, pulling up her skirts and lowering her panties, and then preparing her for the whip with a sound spanking which made her kick her long, lovely legs and cry like a child, before I at last reprieved her with a fucking.
Tatiana, ah, but she was a proud beauty and one that I was proud to fuck. She was such a beauty, such a marvelous girl and I had many evenings of pleasure with her. She would do anything that I asked, because in her mind she was in many ways no better than the dirt.
I primarily played with her using only my bare hand and a whip. There were many times that I enjoyed her body, many times that I beat her with my hand.
On one occasion we were alone, her maid having been told to go out for the evening and I was ready to settle down for an evening of my special sort of pleasure. I was ready to give the young witch anything that I felt she needed. I was in a particularly cruel mood that night, but I knew that it would never bother the lovely Tatiana. I could do with her anything that my heart desired, and if I wanted to beat her with a riding crop, that was alright with her, and if I wanted to whip her with an angry whip then I would beat her with the whip. I would do anything that I pleased and I knew that I would do such things.
She was ready for the brutal sting of the whip that evening, and I thought that I would play a game with her. I would tell her one thing and then give her something else. I would pretend to beat her with the whip and then give her spankings.
I brought her over to the bed and lashed her with a tie. I bound her hands behind her back. She looked up at me and smiled. I told her that she would be pleased with what I did.
"I will play with your ass, beating you with the whip, and if you don't like that then I will beat the hell out of you until you are nothing but a big bruise. Your lovely body will be lovely no more. Do you understand?" I used a harsh tone of voice with her.
I slapped her across the face and my hand stung with the pain that I gave her. I knew that she was hurting because my own hand smarted a bit with the pain and the sting of what I had just done to her.
I beat her with my hand once more and then I stripped her bare of all her clothes. I wanted to fuck her many times that night and I knew that everything would go well. I would do what I wanted. She cried a bit as I slapped her with my hand and then I threw her to the bed.
I picked up the whip and cracked it in the air. She heard the lash of the whip and her body shook with fear. I snapped the whip over her head several times and then I asked her if she knew what I was going to do?
"You're going to beat me on the ass with the whip," she replied, and I chuckled to myself.
"Yes, that is what I'm going to do. Will you like that?"
"Oh yes, yes, please beat me master, please whip my body with that thing."
"And what if I tell you that I won't. That I have no intention of whipping you but rather doing something else. Would that please you?"
"I would rather have you beat me with the whip. Please whip me. I want to be whipped. I must have it. Beat me. Beat me, please."
"No."
"But you must beat me, you have to beat me. I want you to. I have been bad and I need to be punished. Won't you whip me. Won't you bring that whip down on my ass. My rump pleads with you to beat me. I need it so very much. Beat me master, beat me."
I could hold myself back no longer and I beat her with my hand. She was obviously surprised by the way that I spanked her with my hand, but she did so with a shudder that seemed to mean that I had beaten her harder than she suspected. I called her vile things, I told her that she was no good, but each thing that I did to her only seemed to excite her more.
She pleaded with me to spank her as hard as I could, seeing that I had no intention of using the whip on her. I brought my hand down on her divine butt, driving the flesh back and forth with every beat. I paddled her ass faster and faster and then in a heat of passion she seemed to swoon.
I beat her to the point that she was wide awake. I spanked her some more. My hand worked up and down on her bottom, until it was nothing, but a mass of red marks. I worked my ass as I brought my hand down on her again. I spanked her in a new fury. I was going to make her beg to suck me off. I was going to make her beg me for more spankings.
My hand slapped her fleshy butt, and she shivered with passion as I swatted her. She sobbed, but mingled with her sobs were gasps of sheer delight. I was aware of the fact that what I was doing for her was adding to her pleasure.
After all she was a masochist. Masochism is a difficult thing to understand. There are certain things about it, which make no sense to me, but then I suppose there are many people who will never understand my need for sadism.
I really don't understand it myself. Why am I the way I am. Is it something that can be understood just by knowing my childhood? I doubt it. It seems to me that there is nearly something mystical about the experience. I do what I do, not because of my own desires--I have told myself this--but rather because there is something alien living inside me. I am possessed if you will, by some incredible drive, some craving that could exist by its own, separate and foreign to the real me.
This other self has become so much a part of me that I no longer think of it as being another self, but rather as an inherent part of me. I am, I have become one person, in my body both the old self and the sadistic self have fused into one.
Some may think that evil is that thing which has possessed me, that evil is nearly a force like that of heat or electricity or light, and I would find it difficult to argue with them, but I do not really see it quite that way.
I see it almost as if some kind of strange bizarre disease has invaded my bloodstream. I have been poisoned, but unlike most poisoned people this potion mingled with my blood and changed my whole being and I liked the change.
I like the way I am, although I really don't understand it sometimes, and in order to satisfy myself I have had to come up with this rather strange theory. I really don't believe it completely, but it gives me something that I can think about. It is my rationale for being what I am.
Have you ever had anyone ask you why you were the way you were? If you have, then you know why I have thought up this explanation. It is my protection against prying eyes. It is my disguise. It is my mask which hides the fact that I really have no answer at all.
Why are you the way you are? Do you understand now? Can you see what I must go through, not that a lot of people ask me that question, for most people seem really very apathetic and couldn't care less why I am what I am. There is only one person that really bothers me when that question is asked. There is only one person who seems to know that the answer I give isn't really the truth and it is that same person who asks me that one question over and over again: myself.
I have tried to tear away the veil of deception. I have tried to look into the mirror of truth, but all I can see is nothing. There is no reflection. It is as if I were Count Dracula.
Perhaps I am the reincarnation of that Hollywood vampire. I am nothing, but a collection of make-up and fake fangs. My cape is no more than a black cape of rags. I think of myself sometimes as being only an image, like the flicker of a movie projector, flat, and only two dimensional.
There are times, I suppose, in everyone's life, when they feel that what they are is not real. I have been through that same kind of experience, and in a way there was some truth to it.
