Old-Fashioned Values (10 page)

Sally could tell what she felt, at least when she was honest with herself, thinking about the things Mark had done to her, and made her do to him, here on this bed. She could tell herself the truth that way when she was falling asleep later in her own bed, in her own dorm room. But she simply didn’t know how really to think about those feelings, because something fundamental in them didn’t make any sense in the context of anything she knew. How could she want to be spanked? How could she want Mark to make her… go all the way with him—be…
intimate
with him… have
sex
with him? How could she want Mark to take what he wanted, where Sally’s maiden charms were concerned, without regard to how she felt about it?

Mark whipped Sally’s bottom with his belt much more slowly than he had spanked it with his hand when she had been over his lap. He delivered stinging lashes up and down, very methodically. He seemed to want to make sure that every part of her bottom-cheeks and upper thighs had an equal number of lashes. Sally yelped at each lash, closing her eyes and feeling them water at the pain of her chastisement.

Suddenly she realized that the idea that made her tummy flutter more than almost anything else was definitely going to come true: she would have a very hard time sitting down tomorrow. Her boyfriend wanted to teach her a lesson that would last longer than just this whipping itself. He wanted to make sure she remembered how naughty she had been and how important it was to him that she be a good girl for him. The thought made her push her face even further into the soft comforter that smelled of Mark, seeking comfort and forgiveness from the bed itself, and hoping he would hold her in his arms to comfort her very soon. She sobbed cleansing tears into Mark’s covers, and waited for him to decide she had learned her lesson.

The whipping stopped. There was a long silence, and then Mark cleared his throat. “Sally, he said softly, “would you like me to rub your bottom to make it feel a little better?”

“Oh,” Sally said, a little surprised. “Oh… Yes, please.” She turned her face to try to look at him but all she could see was his hip, clad in jeans and oxford shirt.

He had disappeared from view, and she felt his weight settle on the bed next to her upper thighs. Lightly and gently, his fingers met the little crease where her bottom and her thighs came together, and Sally whimpered. Suddenly she realized that she was more aroused than she thought she had ever been. The times when Mark had touched her pussy through her panties had turned her on greatly, of course, but the feeling that spread from the touch of Mark’s hand on her hot, punished backside, forward into the depths of her pussy and her tingling clit, and upward into her nipples in the lacy bra she had worn because she knew he liked it so much and she had been sure that he would want to take off her sweater, made her gasp.

“What is it?” Mark asked, sounding concerned.

Sally didn’t feel like she had words adequate to the occasion. She gasped again, and spread her knees the two inches or so that her bunched jeans allowed. She felt an entirely new kind of fear: what would Mark think about his girlfriend spreading her knees that way, clearly inviting him to push his fingers deeper between her thighs? What would he think about the way she was certainly making his pillow shamefully damp with the wetness that seemed to gush from her pussy?

Another long pause ensued. Mark rubbed very gently, just on her bottom-cheeks and her thighs, and it felt heavenly, but it also made the warmth and wetness grow and grow up front. Finally, Sally whispered, “Please, Mark?”

“Please what?” he said softly. Somehow Sally could tell from the tone of his voice, its very gentle teasing note, that Mark did know what she was asking, but that he wanted once again to assert the kind of control that made their relationship special. Knowing he wanted to control her desire that way, in turn seemed to redouble Sally’s need for him.

“Please touch me,” she pleaded.

“I am touching you,” he said, and now she heard a smile in his voice. Was it all a game?

“Please touch me… in front.”

“In front of what?” he asked.

Sally giggled at that, finding it hard to believe that all of the sadness and anxiety of the whipping seemed to have flown away and to have been replaced by this incredible depth of erotic feeling, and the special kind of love that went with it—a love that she knew wouldn’t make sense to almost anyone else.
Thank God for Rachel,
her mind whispered, as an aside to herself.
At least there’s one other girl who feels like this
.

“Mark! You know!”

“Maybe I do,” he replied, still rubbing, and making her sob now in erotic frustration, “but I want you to say it.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to use bad words,” Sally said.

“You’re not allowed to, except when you’re required to, by me,” Mark said. Suddenly he took his hand from her bottom, and she gave a little cry of sorrow to lose the wonderful feeling.

“I want to know all about your naughtiness,” Mark murmured. “Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

“Mark, I’ve never said that word in my life. Please don’t make me.” But now Sally was sure that Mark could hear in her voice that the thought of having to talk dirty because Mark told her to appealed to her just as much as it did to him.

“Last chance, Sal. If you want me to touch you there, you have to tell me.”

“Touch my pussy,” Sally whispered very, very softly. “Please, sir, touch my little pussy.”

Mark’s hand returned, and now his fingers worked forward between her thighs, and up and down the soaking cleft, pressing firmly against her clit, and making her moan in ecstasy.

“Oh, God, Mark. That feels so good.”

“I’m glad,” Mark said. “I love making you feel good.”

“Are we going to…? I mean, what we talked about? Soon?” Instinctively, and without even meaning it, Sally felt herself begin to ride Mark’s hand, using the traction her elbows gave her to rock her hips back and forth, and push her pussy against his caress, like the kitten after which it was named, hoping for a firmer touch. When she realized what she was doing, she felt her face grow hot, but she couldn’t stop. Suddenly she wanted him to see just how shameless his girlfriend could be, and she even wanted him to spank her for it, on top of the whipping he had given her, the pain of which now seemed a burning pleasure. She moved her hips further and faster, desperate for her boyfriend’s fondling.

“What?” Mark asked in feigned innocence.

But now Sally needed the dirtiness and the submission so much that she couldn’t have stopped herself from saying it if she had to try. “Fucking,” she said softly but clearly. “Oh, God, I’m going to…”

She pictured it in her mind: the hotel room, and the young couple fucking for the first time in a beautiful bed, with the boy on top pounding the girl’s pussy with his cock, not caring about her pleasure or her comfort, just taking what he wanted and fucking, fucking, fucking her. She opened her mouth and screamed, as she felt what could only be the first orgasm of her life wash over her.

Mark was saying “Shh,” but he was also laughing in what sounded like pleased disbelief at the sounds his demure girlfriend made in the throes of passion, as she kept screaming. Finally he actually put his hand over her mouth, and Sally loved that just as much as she loved the climax itself.

When at last the shudders left her body, Mark lay down beside her.

Sally, feeling very bashful all of a sudden, went to try to pull her panties up, but Mark said, “Leave them down, Sal.”

Then he held her close. He rubbed her bottom, and Sally realized that she could probably have come again and again and again if Mark had allowed it. Another part of her said, though, that one orgasm was more than she deserved, because she had been such a naughty girl.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, and he kissed her.

“Saturday, remember?” he said. He swallowed. “I’m going to fuck you on Saturday.”

Sally put her hands out and balled them into little fists as Mark’s words sent spasms through her pussy. She closed her eyes. “Mark,” she whispered, “do you have any idea what it does to me when you talk like that?”

“Starting to,” he said. “I think I’m getting better at it, aren’t I? The trouble is that my instincts tell me that I shouldn’t talk that way to anyone, let alone a woman—and above all, the woman I love.”

“I know,” Sally replied. “And my instincts tell me that I shouldn’t let you. But, oh my God, I love it so much. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Mark said. “This is who we are, and I think we’re just really lucky to have found each other.”

* * *

All Saturday, from the moment she woke up until the moment Mark came to get her at her dorm, the only thing Sally could think about was what would happen in the room in the Mendon Inn: how she would be a virgin when she entered the room, but by the time she came out again she would be a grownup woman, because… because Mark Weaver would have deflowered her. He would have…
fucked
her.

He had been patient with her, Sally thought in her fevered imagination, as she tried to do the reading for her eighteenth-century novel course, but now the time had come; Sally Lanchester would lose her virtue tonight, and become subject to a man, in bed. Like the poor girls who fell prey to libertines, and gave their maidenheads in hope of the rakish nobleman marrying her, her modesty made no match for the power of his lust; Mark would bring her to that hotel room, and he would have his way with her.

In vain would she cry out, if she decided that she didn’t like having Mark’s cock deep inside her, or she begged him to be gentle with her, her first time? Mark would take her clothes off her, and he would tell her to lie down and spread her legs. Sally blushed, thinking about how he would look at her, lying on the bed with her legs apart—how he would see her untried pussy and know that his would be the first cock ever to take manly pleasure there. He would inspect her pussy, and he might say something like, “That cunt looks nice and tight.”

She had thought the c-word, Lord help her. She had imagined the man she loved using the c-word about her maidenly private part. How could he? How could she?

She stood outside Castle Hall, dressed for a nice dinner. She had a bag with jeans, a t-shirt, a change of regular underwear, and the special surprise for Mark, over her shoulder. He would be here soon, and it would begin, and the end would be Sally Lanchester’s defloration. She didn’t think there were many girls who ‘lost it’ this way, by prior arrangement—by command of the dominant young man whom they loved. Maybe she had lost her mind, but she still felt more fortunate than she could ever express.

Chapter Twelve

Rachel had called John that morning.

“Dr. Gammon?” she had said when he answered the phone. Sally had told her to remember that John had a PhD.

“Speaking.”

“It’s Rachel Lowenstein.”

“Hi, Rachel.”

“Do you remember me?”

“I remember you very well indeed. Did you do your homework? Did you write the story I asked for?”

“Yes,” Rachel whispered.

The story was called, simply,
Rachel’s First Spanking.

Rachel had always been afraid to tell anyone that she thought she might like to be spanked. Growing up, her mom and dad never really punished her, let alone spanked her on her bare bottom, because Rachel was a good girl.

Then, one day, she started going out with a boy who told her that if she got bad grades, he would spank her to make sure she knew how important it was to do well in school. All that week, after their first date, Rachel thought about what would happen if she got a bad grade. She thought about it so much that she forgot to work on her English paper until the last minute, and she got a C.

“Rachel,” said her boyfriend, “how did you do on that paper?”

Suddenly Rachel got very afraid. “I didn’t get it back yet,” she lied.

“Why did Sally get hers back, then?” asked the boyfriend. “Rachel, if you lie to me, you’re going to make it much worse.”

Silently, Rachel handed the C paper to her boyfriend. Her boyfriend looked at her very steadily. “Rachel,” he said. “I think you’d better pull down your pants and your panties for a bare-bottom spanking.”

When Rachel wrote the story, this was the part where she couldn’t help unbuttoning her jeans, as she sat typing on her laptop, and thrusting her hand inside her panties, just to take the edge off her arousal a little.

Rachel was so embarrassed, but she knew she had to do what her boyfriend said, so she turned around and started to unbutton her jeans…

At this point, in the original version Rachel wrote, the story went …
but her boyfriend made her turn around and show him her pussy.
Blushing furiously, and thinking of John Gammon, Rachel backspaced and wrote instead,
and her boyfriend said, “Good girl. Get that bottom bare for me.”

To her dismay, Rachel came at that point, just thinking about John telling her to bare her bottom. Her left typing hand curled into a ball, she gave a strangled little yelp, and came, right there at her desk. She quickly typed,
Then Rachel had to lie over her boyfriend’s lap, and he spanked her so hard she knew she must try much harder in school, and she did.

Rachel, her legs still quivering, looked at the end and emended it to,
she usually did.
Then, very self-consciously, she wrote,
The End?

John read the story in silence, at the table of the café where he took her to lunch, while Rachel looked down at the silverware.

“Rachel,” he said softly, “look at me, please.” The salads had just been cleared away, and the waiter was putting down two cassoulets. John had ordered for her. She saw that he had placed the little story, face down, to the side of his knife.