It was quite late when we got to the bar: Nancy, Mark and I. Nancy and Mark began drinking seriously: Nancy was ordering drinks with names like "Slippery Nipple." I was too tired to take much alcohol; but I began to feel a little drunk just by association. Nancy is a pretty girl and when she drinks she talks quite loudly. The result is that, despite Mark's presence, men tend to come around. They never seem to notice me, however.
The first man who came by our table... well, man wasn't really the word I thought of. He was a boy, about undergraduate age. He came around from the back, where the pool tables are, and leaned over the table to talk to Nancy. She knew him by name. "Hello, Guy," she said; but she gave him a repressive look. Still he remained bending way over the table, with his weight on his arms, blowing smoke from his cigarette all over the place so that I leaned back to avoid it. I now had a good view of his body: he was short and compact. His buttocks, as he bent over in black Levis, were somewhat prominent. Yes, he was quite young. His hair was cut boyishly short and his skin was pale, and lovely despite the smoking. When he spoke he had a heavy New Zealand accent-- which automatically turned me on a little because the kinkiest relationship I ever had was with a man from New Zealand. (I'll tell you about that some other time; but he liked to be caned, among other things.)
Guy behaved as if he were continuing a recent argument with Nancy. He was pleading with her to spank him. I exchanged looks with Mark. It was true that Nancy often made jokes about spanking, and she often playfully swatted people's hands, mine included. But once, having been unable to resist asking, I had been told by Mark that Nancy wasn't really into spanking at all. Perhaps this strange boy wasn't either: he was just trying to flirt with Nancy, and possibly annoy Mark. And it was getting to be an annoyance, having this person sprawled all over the table talking nonstop.
"I'll spank him," I told Nancy.
"Be my guest."
I reached over-- it was not far-- and smacked the seat of Guy's jeans, aiming for the middle of the buttock closer to me. He stood up with a jerk and reached around to grab the spot.
In that moment I knew that he had never been spanked erotically before and that this first half-hearted slap from a woman had pierced him like an erotic lance. His hand shook as he put out his cigarette on the top of a beer can.
"Come on," he said urgently. He took my arm and pulled at me. We walked to the back, past the pool tables and into a little hallway, dimly lighted and empty. There were a couple of low tables and Guy bent over one.
As I began to spank I noticed that his bottom was very relaxed: not soft, because he was a very muscular boy; but completely unclenched, even spread slightly because his thighs were apart. I spanked him the way I sometimes like to be spanked: straight across the middle of the bottom. It was difficult to slap hard enough to hurt the surface of his bottom through the heavy denim covering it; so I made sure that my hand landed right over the place where I thought his anus would be. (It was easy to aim there because of the way he was presenting himself, with his back slightly arched.)
I spanked until my hand was quite sore. Guy stood up and rubbed. He didn't say "thank you" or make any other comment; just waited on one side to let me walk ahead of him. For some reason this annoyed me; and just before we returned to the main room I pulled him over next to me, turning him slightly, and smacked his bottom a half dozen times more. He felt pliant in my arms and he was breathing hard; but still he said nothing.
Nancy and Mark appeared quite disapproving, but they talked about other subjects. My own emotions were strange: I was embarrassed and a little disappointed with myself for making such a public display; but I was extremely attracted to this boy, I found. I had never considered myself a spanker; but the molten quality of his body as I turned him around to slap him conveyed the most incredible sense of excitement. And yet on the other hand I was put off by his youth. He seemed likely to behave in a very clumsy and hurtful manner.
Indeed, as my two friends and I were leaving, he rushed over to stop us at the door. "How old are you?" he asked me rudely.
"None of your business," I said; but he put his arms around me and squeezed. Again, even through my overcoat, that feeling that his body was melting onto mine. He put his face close to mine. "How old are you?" he whispered. I tried to think of some plausible number which would be high enough to drive him away. "Thirty-four."
I pushed him off me-- actually I almost had to peel him off. When I got home I had to masturbate immediately. I threw myself down on the bed and frantically pulled up my skirt and tugged at my stockings and panties. I had several orgasms, groaning with each one. The sound of my own voice surprised me: an animal growl, almost angry.
For the rest of the week, whenever I thought of Guy, I did feel angry or at least frustrated. Amazing as it felt to have given him apparently his first sexual spanking, there was a huge component missing because no words had been exchanged. I had one fantasy after another in which we did speak:
"Where do you need to be spanked, Guy?"
"On my bare botty."
Things like that. I imagined Guy swooning over that table where I had spanked him, but with his trousers down and his bottom exposed, babbling to me about how he wanted his naked backside spanked, whipped, beaten.... When I wasn't indulging myself with these fantasies, and masturbating to the point of stupefaction, I was talking compulsively to Nancy on the phone. I didn't even have to mention him-- the fact that she had been present that night was enough-- but Nancy did warn me a couple of times" "You stay away from Guy Chisholm. He's a dangerous child."
Guy Chisholm. It was an easy matter to get his phone number off the Internet; but I knew I would never call him. I only hoped that Nancy would some time give him my name, as well.
What finally happened was much more dreamlike: it fact it took a form very close to one of my recurrent fantasies of Guy.
David and Cathy threw a large party for David's thirtieth birthday. It took place not in their house but at a sort of country club, in a house built for social occasions. For one second, after I spotted Guy there, I thought of asking Nancy, with a show of annoyance, why on earth she had invited him or caused him to be invited; but instead I just said "Thanks, Nancy."
Guy rushed over to me as I was hanging up my coat. He leaned against me, pressing me into the garments in the closet. "Please, Janet," he said. "Please take me into the bathroom or somewhere right now and spank me."
"Not the bathroom. I hate spanking in bathrooms."
We found a small sitting room with a chair, a low table and a sofa.
"What can I use to spank you, Guy? My hand isn't enough." In my fantasies, I had beaten him with a rod of some kind: a switch, or a bamboo cane.
Guy undid his belt, a wideish one of thick black leather, and handed it to me.
"What should I do with this, Guy?"
"Whip my arse hard." Oh, well. About as eloquent as I had expected. Without another word, he walked over to the sofa and started to bend over one arm.
"Trousers down," I said. "I'll spank you on your underpants."
Boxer shorts! I was certain he would be wearing some horrible kind of briefs. These boxers were wonderful, too: thick, light blue cotton, probably Brooks Brothers. Leaning over the padded arm of the sofa, Guy looked like a schoolboy in gym uniform, about to get the slipper or the cane. Unlike last time, Guy was clenching his bottom slightly. It might have been the different position-- he was bent over more sharply-- or fear of the strap.
As for myself, I had never strapped anyone before, and it worried me. Standing to one side of Guy, I took hold of his waistband and pulled a little to tighten the cloth, making the shape of his buttocks more obvious.
"I'll give you twelve," I said "and then take you over my lap and spank you with my hand."
Guy kept his head raised, focusing apparently on some architectural detail of the room in what looked like a habit developed during childhood spankings: a way of maintaining dignity and distracting oneself from pain. I raised my arm not as high as I could, but about halfway.
Under the doubled-up strap, Guy's bottom twitched and bounced. The buttocks squeezed together and then separated almost as if he were engaged in a sexual act. Almost immediately I wanted to stop, turn him over and fuck him. Instead I kept on strapping, even past the twelfth stroke. I suppose there were twenty in all.
I threw myself onto the sofa, half sitting and half lying. Guy more or less fell off the sofa arm and, staggering, sprawled across me. We both tugged ineffectually at his underpants and finally got them down around his thighs. As I spanked him I could feel his penis poking into my thighs, driven down against me by each smack of my hand. I reached under him for a moment and pulled up my skirt so that his erection was now poking against my thighs and stocking tops.
"Please let me up," he pleaded, sounding not as if he wanted the pain to stop but as if he wanted something done about that erect penis of his.
"Do it right here," I said. "I want you to splurge your orgasm out all over my lap."
I kept spanking until Guy's head jerked up higher and he whimpered. The orgasm was heavy and convulsive, and he went on shivering and moaning for a long time after. I rubbed and kissed his bottom which had broken out in goosebumps when he came.