Chapter Six

Virgins

 

 

 

Miranda did not recall her dreams, but they must have been sexual. She woke to twisted bedclothes and a tell-tale stickiness on her thighs. Beatrice’s diary lay on the floor beside the bed. Heathcliff crouched next to it, his amber eyes wide and watchful.

She stretched luxuriously and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. What a night! In some ways, reading Beatrice’s wild tale had been as intense an experience as her anonymous coupling in the alley. She was amazed by the Victorian woman’s daring, not to mention her sexual appetite. Beatrice’s eloquence and acute self-perception were likewise remarkable. Her journal made Walter’s matter-of-fact description of his secret life seem plodding and uninspired.

On her way over to campus, Miranda thought about how Beatrice’s narration cast new light on her other sources. Given a bona fide erotic chronicle from the period, she began to see, by comparison, details in individual texts that confirmed or refuted her theory. The girl in The Maid’s Tale, always conscious of the difference in status between her and her master—that rang true. The pieces from The Oyster, in contrast, full of saucy, willing servants who opened their legs or swallowed cocks with no awareness of social class, seemed more like lubricious fantasies.

She spent several productive hours in her office, sketching out a set of criteria for distinguishing experiential accounts from fiction. Sometime near one p.m., there was a soft knock.

“Come in,” she called gaily, well-pleased with her morning’s progress. She looked up to see the smiling, bespectacled face of Mark Anderson. Confusion and shame swept over her as she remembered how badly she had treated him the previous evening.

“Hi, Miranda,” he said, apparently unaware of her discomfort. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a bite of lunch.” He acted perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened.

Miranda took a deep breath, and launched into her planned apology. “Mark, I want you to know how sorry I am about how I acted last night. It was ungrateful, unsociable, even cruel. You cook me a marvelous dinner, give me a lovely massage, and then I treat you as if I thought you were some slimy rapist.”

“It’s okay, Miranda. I understand that you have some issues. I hope that you’ll trust me enough, someday, to tell me about them. Meanwhile, the last thing that I would want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

“Actually, you were doing a great job of making me comfortable. It’s just that when I saw you…”

“Look, I got carried away. I should never have let my attraction to you get the better of my judgment. I knew that you were kind of—skittish—about sex.”

Miranda laughed a little at his choice of words. It described her so well, nervous, excited, drawn to him and yet shying away. “Mark, I’d like to make it up to you. Let me take you out to lunch. And maybe, after a glass of wine, I can tell you a bit about me, which may help explain my weird reactions.”

“It’s not necessary, Miranda. Really.”

“Please. I’d like to.” Despite his protests, she could see that her sincerity made him happy. “We can go to Iruña. One of my favorites. It’s a little Spanish place, hidden away in an alley behind a wrought iron gate. Very atmospheric, and at this late hour, likely to be pretty empty.”

“Sounds great. Let’s go, then.”

He stood aside to let her out of the door first. She passed very near to him, sensing the heat of his body. It made her feel strange and quivery inside. The sleeves of his plaid sport shirt were rolled to his elbows, exposing the tanned, bare skin of his forearms. She suppressed a sudden impulse to reach out and stroke that skin.

As she had predicted, they were the restaurant’s only customers. After taking their order, the young waiter left them alone.

At first, Mark did most of the talking, about his acting, his travels, his students, his Chinese neighbors. Miranda listened to his colorful tales with half her mind. At the same time, she was studying his expressions, watching his movements, trying to sort out her feelings toward him.

He was unquestionably attractive, if you liked the egghead type. The eyeglasses lent a serious air to a face that otherwise was boyish and mischievous. She liked his body, too, lean, compact, with a frank physicality that both drew and scared her. He used his whole body when he talked, making pictures in the air, reaching across and touching her hand to emphasize a point. The first time he did that, she unconsciously pulled away. As she got more used to him, she found that she didn’t mind it at all.

Miranda finished her garlic soup and took a sip of her wine. She didn’t ordinarily drink at lunch, but she had accomplished so much during her morning’s work, she felt a desire to celebrate. She also hoped that it would relax her. In fact the effect was somewhat more than relaxation—she had only consumed half the glass and already she felt distinctly tipsy.

Time to bite the bullet, she thought, raising her wineglass to her lips again during a lull in the conversation. “So, Mark, I feel that I owe you an explanation. Some justification for why I’m such a cold fish.”

“I’d hardly call you that,” said Mark with a strange smile.

“Well, you know what I mean. You’ve seen how I am. Whenever things get the least bit physical, I freeze. I can be feeling sensual and receptive, enjoying your company as I did last night. But let sex rear its head, and reflex takes over. I become numb, or worse, terrified. And the more I like the man, the stronger the negative reaction.”

Mark listened attentively, but made no comment.

“I actually know why I am this way. I just can’t stop it.” Then she told him about Geoff, her first lover, her first betrayer. The story poured out of her, even the details of her sexual initiation. Surprisingly, it was easy to talk to him about sex, even though the slightest action in that direction immediately raised her defenses.

Mark sat across from her, frowning. “He just disappeared, without a word, without saying goodbye?”

Miranda nodded. “After we spent every night together for three straight weeks. After he took my virginity and my heart. I never heard from him again.”

“No wonder you have some problems trusting a lover,” said Mark. He took her hand, but this time she didn’t flinch. The touch felt brotherly. “Poor Miranda.”

“Well, lots of people have bad relationships. I don’t know why I can’t just let go of the whole thing. It was almost three years ago.”

“A woman’s first lover has a special hold on her psyche. At least that’s what my mother used to tell me. She warned me to be very careful of virgins. ‘They break easily,’ she said.”

They both laughed a little, and Miranda felt the ache in her chest ease. It had been hard to talk about Geoffrey, but now that she had, she felt a remarkable sense of relief. Mark was so attentive and sympathetic. Somehow, she felt sure that he really did care about her pain.

“So, in the three years since Geoff disappeared, you haven’t had any other lovers?”

Images flashed through Miranda’s mind, the curtained cloakroom, the naked twins, the Japanese businessman. “No one to speak of,” she said finally. She sensed that he would be hurt to know that she could burn with fierce desire for a stranger, yet shrank from his slightest touch.

He searched her face for a moment, then shrugged.

“Well, at least your first sexual experience was unequivocally pleasant,” he said. “Mine, on the other hand, was a bit more ambiguous.”

Miranda felt a little thrill. He was going to tell her how he lost his virginity. She swallowed the last of her wine, and then, a bit recklessly, signaled that she wanted another. Mark ordered one, too.

“It was the summer after I graduated high school. We were spending a month up at the family cabin in Minnesota, a rustic, rambling place on Lake Wanepaske. In addition to my parents and me, my aunt Eleanor and my cousin Marilyn had come out from Los Angeles. Eleanor was my father’s sister. She had been married and divorced twice by then. Now I think the count is up to three.

“Though Marilyn and I didn’t see much of each other, we were as close as siblings. We were both only children, and from the earliest I remember, there was always a special bond between us. She resembles me quite a bit, similar hair color and eyes. That summer, she was so beautiful that I couldn’t stop looking at her.”

“I was seventeen. She was a year younger. As you might expect, we were totally at the mercy of our hormones. While my dad was out fishing and my mom was over at the IGA getting groceries, Marilyn and I would lie together on my narrow bed, fondling each other. I can’t begin to describe how horny we were. Marilyn let me touch her lovely teenage breasts. Just running the tips of my fingers over her creamy skin was enough to make me spurt in my pants. She insisted that I allow her to handle my penis, laughing with delight when my semen spilled over her hands. She was remarkably daring and experimental for a sixteen year old.”

“My aunt was quite strict with Marilyn. It was hard for us to find opportunities to be alone together, but each time we did, we pushed the limits a little further. One day we went out ‘fishing’ together. We moored the old rowboat in a cove and lay down together naked on the splintery bottom. It was a hot August day, but her skin felt clean and cool as she pressed herself against me.

“Another afternoon my mom gave me the keys to the Chevy and sent us to the store for provisions. We pulled into a cornfield and climbed into the broad back seat. That was the first time Marilyn let me touch her sex. She sat there, nude, leaning her back against the door with her legs spread wide, and showed me how she masturbated. I loved the ecstatic, desperate look on her face as she held her lips apart with one hand, rubbing her clit furiously with the other. ‘Now you do it, Marcus,’ she said, guiding my hand to the swollen nodule hidden in those pink folds. I felt an electric shock when my fingers brushed that strange, slick flesh. Meanwhile she convulsed with pleasure, gripping my hand with her thighs.

“When we couldn’t be together, there was still this delicious, secret connection between us. ‘Mark, would you pass the corn, please?’ she would say to me from across the dinner table, with a devilish look that had me swollen and hard in an instant. I would jerk off half a dozen times on the days when we couldn’t sneak away.

“If things had continued in this vein, we probably would have gone all the way before too long. For better or worse, though, our idyll was interrupted. We were discovered by my aunt.

“It was a close, sticky August night. My parents were playing bridge at the Herstein’s cabin, just down the road. Aunt Eleanor had gone to the movies with Frank Jackson, the guy who ran the hardware store in town. We didn’t expect anyone back before eleven. We headed for my room as soon as Frank’s truck turned the corner and was out of sight.”

“By this time, we were starting to experiment with oral sex. Marilyn seemed to know a lot more about it than I did, but I was happy to learn. It was probably about nine o’clock. I remember the moon was up, shining on the lake and into my window. I was in heaven. I was sitting on my bed, with Marilyn on her knees between my thighs. My cock was so hard that it hurt. Marilyn was teasing me with her tongue, running it along the length of my erection and flicking at the tip.

“Needless to say, we didn’t hear the footsteps on the gravel path, or the creaking of the porch floorboards. My eyes were closed as I focused on the sensations in my prick. Even when the door opened, I didn’t hear anything. But I suddenly felt a presence.

“My eyes flew open. There in the doorway stood Aunt Eleanor, taking in the scene. By this time, Marilyn had me in her mouth and was sucking industriously. She didn’t realize that her mother was looming over her.

“My aunt stared at me, with an odd, dangerous look in her eyes. I was terrified. My erection shrank to insignificance in a moment. Marilyn looked up at me, about to voice a protest, and caught sight of her mother. Only then did my aunt speak.

“‘Go to your room, young lady,’” she said. Her voice was icy. “‘Wash your mouth out with soap.’” Marilyn looked as if she was going to object, but her mother’s glare cowed her. With one last desperate look in my direction, she slipped out.

“Aunt Eleanor stood there silent, tapping her foot. I still sat on the bed like a fool, my penis dangling limply. I could feel that I was blushing, but somehow I couldn’t muster the energy to move, to stand up or cover myself. After a few minutes enduring my aunt’s stare, I was horrified to find that I was getting hard again.

“I should tell you that Aunt Eleanor was quite a handsome woman. She had the same rich chestnut hair as Marilyn. She wore it short, in a style that was severe but still attractive. While Marilyn was slender and willowy, her mother was more voluptuous. For her date with Frank, she’d worn a tight black jersey, a matching miniskirt, and high-heeled sandals. Her full breasts swelled up from the low-cut neckline. Her hips curved broadly away from her leather-cinched waist. A silver ankh pendant hung in her cleavage.

“In short, she was terrifying, but unbelievably desirable. As her eyes bore down on me, I felt as if she was willing my cock to swell. Soon it was huger and harder than it had ever been with Marilyn. Finally, she spoke.

“‘Marilyn is just an innocent young girl,’ she said, ‘so I don’t blame her too much. But you, my fine nephew, you should know better.’”

“‘Please, Aunt Eleanor,’ I said, ‘we didn’t really do anything. We were just playing around.’”

“‘I could see very well what you were doing, you perverted little jerk-off. Trying to corrupt my daughter.’ I was tempted to tell her that it had all been Marilyn’s idea, but I wouldn’t betray my beloved cousin that way. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Eleanor,’ I pleaded. ‘It won’t happen again.’”

“‘Sorry!’” she half-laughed. “‘I’ll make you sorry, Mark Anderson. I see that you are not so sorry that you can control that prick of yours!’”

“Indeed, it seemed that the more she scolded me, the hornier I got. My cock now pointed up toward the ceiling. I was gritting my teeth, trying to control myself.

“She moved, finally, and sat herself down in my desk chair under the window. Her skirt rode up almost to her crotch. Her thighs were smooth and golden with her tan. She parted them a bit, and I was startled to recognize the distinct odor of woman-sex, which I had come to know so well in my games with Marilyn. Then she reached down and unfastened one of her sandals.

“‘Come here, Mark.’ I couldn’t move. She spoke more sharply. ‘Here, in my lap—now!’ As difficult as it is for me to believe now, I obeyed. She positioned my hips across her lap, like a child about to be spanked. My cock poked down between her thighs. I thought that I would die, from shame, and from frustrated lust.

“‘Now I’m going to teach you a lesson, Mark. Before I start, though, let me warn you, if you allow yourself to come before I say so, your lesson will be ten times as difficult. Do you understand?’ I nodded, unable to speak from embarrassment.

“‘Take a deep breath,’ she said, but before I could, she whacked my butt with the sole of the sandal.

“‘Yeow!’ I protested. ‘That hurts!’

“That’s the general idea,’ she said grimly, and continued to spank me with her shoe until my ass felt raw as a sunburn. It was complicated, first a sharp slashing pain as the leather made contact with my flesh, then a dull throbbing afterwards. I was twisting in her lap, trying to get away from her strokes, but she held me down as if I were just a kid.

“As I writhed, my cock kept brushing against her. I could feel the smooth skin of her thighs against the front of mine. Her flesh felt hot, as hot as my burning rump. It seemed that I would lose control any second. Pretty soon, I was thinking more about my cock than about my sore behind. Her scent was rising, and I realized that thrashing me was turning her on.

“I tried to turn that to my advantage. ‘Please, Aunt Eleanor, please stop,’ I gasped between strokes. ‘I’m sorry, really I am. If you’ll stop, I’ll do something nice for you…’ I was remembering the brief time I had spent kissing Marilyn’s sex. Perhaps if I did that to my aunt, she would show some mercy.

“She slackened the pace of her blows, and finally stopped. Awkwardly, I climbed off her lap. ‘Had enough?’ she asked sarcastically. I nodded. ‘So, what is this nice thing that you want to do for me?’ Simultaneously embarrassed and aroused, I sank to my knees in front of her and tried to nudge her thighs further apart.

“She laughed. ‘You want to eat me?’ she asked. ‘Well, why not? You had better do a good job, though, or I might beat you some more.’ My cock surged at her words. With the most extreme difficulty, I maintained control. She pulled the skirt all the way up to her waist, and I was astounded to see that my stern Aunt Eleanor wore no underwear. ‘Get down there and do it!’ she said, her voice a bit husky.

“I buried my face in her sex, licking and sucking as Marilyn had taught me to do. Eleanor was made very differently from my Marilyn. Her labia were swollen and fleshy compared to Marilyn’s delicate folds. She was much hairier. Her clitoris poked out from those lips like a little penis, twitching and demanding attention. Aunt Eleanor smelled and tasted different, darker, saltier, more complex.

“I’ll be honest—I had never been as turned on eating Marilyn as I was giving head to her mother. Eleanor gripped my hair and pushed my face into her cunt, grinding against me. And I loved it. My cock felt like a huge balloon. I was about to explode. I snaked my tongue down into Eleanor’s vagina, wanting her, wanting to know what it would feel like inside that hot, wet tunnel.

“As if she’d read my mind, she pushed me away. ‘You greedy little prick,’ she said. ‘You want to fuck me, don’t you?’ I stared at the floor, as her juices ran down my cheeks. ‘Well, since that twerp Frank couldn’t get it up, I guess that you are in luck. Lie down on the bed there, nephew. And remember what I said about coming.’

“Eagerly, I followed her instructions. Pretty soon I felt her hands on my organ, encasing it in something tight. It was a condom. I had never seen one being used. My cock looked strange in its stretched latex costume. The sensation was odd, but pleasant. The pressure seemed to make it easier to hold back and stay hard.

“‘You are quite a pretty boy, Mark,’ she said, as she stripped off her top. No bra, either—her breasts jiggled deliciously, the nipples chocolate-dark. ‘Not to mention, lucky.’ With that, she straddled me and forced herself down on my cock.

“I will never forget that sensation. It was as if my cock had been plunged into a bath of molten lava. Heat, wetness, the weight of her solid frame bearing down on me. I came immediately, I had no choice, and that orgasm was like a volcanic eruption. In the midst of ecstasy, I feared her reprisals, and that fear edged and magnified my pleasure.

“Fortunately, my spasms triggered her climax. I understand now that she must have been very aroused by the process of spanking me. She continued to buck and grind her hips, and came two more times, before she was through with me.

“Eleanor and Marilyn left the next day. I didn’t see my cousin again for nearly two years, after we had both started college. Her mother’s and my paths have crossed a couple of times, at family events. She always looks at me with a strange smile. I wonder if she knows that I was a virgin.”

Mark stopped for a moment and searched Miranda’s face for her reaction. In fact, the story had turned her on. Her crotch was damp and her nipples throbbed. He had told the tale in his usual animated manner and she had imagined it all, vividly.

“Wow,” she said, finally. “That certainly beats my story. So, how did all that affect you? Did having such a—brutal—initiation put you off sex for a while?”

“Definitely not,” laughed Mark. “If anything, it taught me early on how much diversity there can be in what people consider erotic. Anyway, I think ‘brutal’ is a bit strong. Eleanor was a bit rough with me, but all in all, there was a good deal more pleasure in the encounter than pain.”

And what about Marilyn, Miranda wanted to ask. Did you and she ever consummate your teenage passion? Somehow, though, she felt too shy to ask this, even though they had shared so much of themselves this afternoon.

She suddenly noticed that it was nearly four o’clock. The waiter stood in the corner, casting impatient looks in their direction. “We’d better go,” she said, signaling for the check. “They probably need to set up for dinner.”

“Well, Miranda, thanks for a very tasty lunch,” said Mark with a grin. “And thank you for being so open with me.”

“I could say the same. I feel as if I know you much better now.” They were outside the restaurant. Mark put both hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

“Not as well as I would like you to,” he said.

Miranda’s heart did a queer little flip in her throat. But she didn’t pull away.

 

* * * *

 

The answering machine blinked at her as she opened the door to her apartment. She still felt a bit woozy from the wine. She still felt aroused by Mark’s story.

There were two messages on the tape. The first was from Lucy.

“Hi, Miranda. It’s me. Sorry I missed you when I came for my things. I just wanted you to know that we’ve arrived safely in Paris, and it’s absolutely beautiful. Our room has a balcony and a view of the Eiffel Tower. The first thing that we did was drink a champagne toast. As for the next thing…” She giggled. “I’m sure that you can imagine! Anyway, be good, and don’t work too hard. I’ll stay in touch.”

Be good, she thought. Yes, that’s what I have been doing, all right.

She did not recognize the second voice. It was a man’s voice, a rich baritone with a hint of a British accent.

“Lucy, this is Big Daddy. From the fetish chat room. I wanted to know whether you are still interested in getting together this evening. I certainly hope so. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you at last. Please call me.” He left his number, then hung up.

Big Daddy? Chat room? What had Lucy been up to? Miranda had always assumed that Lucy had more than enough admirers in real life. Why would she ever venture into the erotic realms of cyberspace? She sat down thoughtfully, idly petting Heathcliff.

Maybe Lucy wanted to pretend, to be someone else. On-line, you could play a role, wear the mask of your choice. Or perhaps she had desires and fantasies that she considered too bizarre to share with the more ‘normal’ lovers she seemed to pick up at clubs, in class, at the Laundromat, and everywhere else she went.

Almost without realizing what she was doing, Miranda picked up the phone and dialed Big Daddy’s number.

He answered on the first ring. The cultured tones of his voice were immediately recognizable. “Big Daddy,” said Miranda. “This is Lucy.”

“Little Lucy! Thank you for calling me back. I was beginning to think that you might be having second thoughts.”

“Well, I’ll admit that I don’t usually get together in the flesh with people I meet online.” Not usually. There’s an understatement. “You sound so interesting, though, that I’m very tempted.”

“Give in to temptation, my dear. Meet me at eight in the bar at the Ritz Carlton. You know where that is, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. How will I know you?”

There was a brief silence. “Don’t worry. I’ll know you.” He sounded so sure of himself. Miranda found his confidence a bit disturbing. Then she had a frantic thought.

“Listen—what did I tell you I looked like?”

“You said that you were petite and blonde, with curly hair, just like a sweet little girl.”

Miranda swallowed hard. “Well, I have to tell you the truth. I knew that was how you wanted me to look. Actually, I’m medium height, and I have long black hair. I’m generally considered to be pretty, though.”

“I am sure that you are absolutely delightful. Now, don’t be late, Lucy, or you know I shall have to spank you.”

Miranda shivered, whether in fear or pleasure she could not determine.

“I shall expect you to dress appropriately. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Big Daddy,” said Miranda. What was she getting into?

“Good girl. I will look forward to seeing you at eight. Goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye, Big Daddy.” She hung up the phone, her heart pounding.

All eyes were on her when she walked into the bar at eight sharp. She had raided Lucy’s closet again, and the effect was startling. She wore a plaid kilt that would have been short on her petite apartment-mate, and a plain white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her long legs were bare down to her white ankle socks and patent leather flats. She had parted her hair in the center and gathered it into two braids, tied with red bows.

In these conservative surroundings, among the hunting prints and the leather upholstery, she knew that she looked bizarre, bizarre but sexy. It felt like Halloween. After a few moments, the eyes turned politely away. A marketing gimmick, they thought, or perhaps some twisted young heiress. They returned to their martinis and their gossip.

Somehow, she recognized Big Daddy immediately. He was a handsome man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He sat in a corner, one knee over the other, swirling brandy in a snifter and watching the door. Their eyes locked across the room. She felt pulled to his corner by some type of magnetism.

He rose as she approached, offering his hand. “Lucy, my dear,” he said warmly. “You’re right on time.”

Miranda felt shy and tongue-tied, but fortunately he carried the conversation.

“Please, sit down.” He gestured at the cocktail waitress. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Red wine, please.”

Big Daddy looked at her sternly. “Now, don’t be naughty, Lucy. You know that you‘re too young to drink wine.” He turned to the waitress. “A Shirley Temple for my little friend here.”

The waitress smirked at Miranda and disappeared.

Miranda desperately wanted some alcohol, to dull the edge of her nervousness and help her to relax. When the fruity drink arrived, the waitress served it with a flourish and a wink. Taking a sip, Miranda thought she detected a hint of vodka under the grenadine and soda. She mentally thanked the saucy young woman.

Big Daddy was staring at her. She found that she liked it. “You look delightful, my dear,” he said at last. She glowed at his approval. “Perfect in every respect. I do expect that I will have the chance to examine you more closely when we go upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Miranda’s voice was almost a squeak.

“I took the liberty of reserving a room for us, where we can be more—private. Of course, if you are not comfortable being alone with me, I will quite understand.”

Strangely, Miranda found that she trusted him. He seemed gentle and courteous, if somewhat authoritarian. His melodious voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. “No,” she said finally, “I think that I would like to be alone with you.”

She wondered what Lucy had told this man, what fantasies they had shared on-line before setting up this meeting. She had to know—needed to be prepared.

“Big Daddy…”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“Remind me, what did I say in the chat room? Sometimes I have a hard time remembering.”

He smiled indulgently. “You told me that you wanted to be my little girl. That you wanted me to spank you if you were bad. That you had nasty thoughts and feelings, and knew that you needed to be punished for them.”

“And what did you tell me?”

“That I had just the kind of firm hand to keep you in line.”

He summoned the waitress with a wave of his well-manicured hand. “Shall we go upstairs?”

The room was luxurious and formal, all brocade drapes, oriental carpets, crystal sconces on the walls. Miranda hesitated on the threshold. The weight of Big Daddy’s hand on her shoulder spurred her to enter.

An oversized bed piled high with fringed cushions dominated the room. Miranda’s stomach flipped when she saw it. However, Big Daddy did not steer her toward the bed, but rather, to the wing chair and ottoman arranged by the window. He settled in the armchair and motioned for her to sit at his feet. Without thinking, she crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap.

“Now, Lucy, you must be honest with me. You must tell me about these thoughts and feelings which disturb you so much.”

Miranda swallowed nervously. It was remarkable, but she felt guilty and embarrassed. “Well, it happens mostly at night. When I lie in bed, feeling the cotton sheets drift softly over my body. Even through my pajamas, I can feel them, as if someone was stroking me. I get all tingly and strange, and then I start imagining things, remembering things…”

Big Daddy leaned forward, a gleam in his intelligent brown eyes. “What sort of things, Lucy? Don’t be afraid—you can tell me.”

“That time in school, when my gym suit ripped. All the boys saw my panties, but later, I wished that I had not been wearing any underwear.” Miranda was amazed at herself. Where were these stories coming from? They felt real—it was almost as if she could really recall the incident.

Her companion gave a little tsk, but encouraged her to continue.

“Then there was that afternoon, when Madeline and I took a shower together. She wanted to touch my breasts, and I let her. She made me touch hers.”

“Made you? Can you honestly tell me that you didn’t want to?”

Miranda blushed, astonished at her reactions to her own crazy stories. “No, Big Daddy. I wanted to touch her, I admit. Afterward, I remembered and wished that I had touched her in other places.”

“Where? What other places?”

Miranda stared down at her patent-leather shoes. “You know, Big Daddy. I can’t say it.”

“Hmm. Is that all?”

“No,” said Miranda. “There’s more. The thing that I remember most is the time when I watched you. It was years ago, but I still remember, and when I do, I get all hot and itchy.” Her companion was silent and attentive. “I stood behind the bathroom door. You didn’t know I was there, but I saw you. I saw your thing. You stood in front of the toilet, with your hands on your thing, jerking it back and forth. Then after a while, you yelled and were quiet. Then I saw you pee, a long yellow stream arcing into the toilet. When I remember that, that’s the worst. There’s this strange feeling between my legs, as if I needed to go to the bathroom myself. But when I try, I can’t. There is just this awful tight, burning feeling that won’t go away.”

Miranda could not believe her own imagination. She knew that this had never happened, that this was pure fabrication. Yet the mingled shame and excitement were as real as the caress of the brocaded upholstery against the backs of her bare legs.

“You watched me masturbate! What a nasty girl you are, Lucy! You pretend to be so good and obedient, but you have a dirty, dirty mind!”

Miranda hung her head. “Yes, Big Daddy. I know.”

“Do you touch yourself when you have these feelings?” he interrogated, leaning forward in his chair. Miranda was suddenly frightened.

“No, never. I want to, but I don’t.”

“Honesty, Lucy, honesty.”

“Well—sometimes I stuff a pillow between my legs. I can’t help it, I have to do something. But I never use my hands…”

Big Daddy sat back in the chair and stroked his beard. Miranda’s heart beat ridiculously fast. “Lucy, you have been exceptionally naughty. Spying on me when I am engaged in my private pursuits! You look so sweet and innocent, but you have the makings of a little slut.”

“No, Big Daddy, I’m good most of the time. It’s only at night, in the summer…”

“Over my knee,” the distinguished gentleman barked. “Now.”

“Daddy, please…”

“You know that I am only doing this for your own good. I get no pleasure from chastising you.”

Like hell you don’t, thought Miranda, but she meekly obeyed his order. She was dying to have him touch her, any way that he wanted. He helped her position herself so that her pelvis lay across his lap. Her long legs dangled awkwardly on one side. He hooked the ottoman with his foot and rolled it over to the side of the chair, so that she could rest her forearms and head upon it.

As soon as she was stable, Big Daddy pulled her brief skirt up around her waist. The simple cotton underpants that she wore fully covered her behind. Still, she had never felt more exposed.

For the longest time, he did nothing but stare at her cotton-wrapped buttocks. She felt his gaze as if it was a laser, burning through the cloth and igniting the flesh underneath. He breathed deeply, a bit faster than normal. Miranda’s own breath came in gasps. Her chest hurt from the thudding of her heart.

Big Daddy began stroking her butt-cheeks in smooth, symmetrical circles. “Lucy, Lucy, what am I to do with you?” he murmured. “You are so enchanting, it is difficult to be stern. However, I must be strong, and discipline you as you deserve.” With sudden force, he grabbed her underwear at the waistband and pulled it down to her thighs.

“No!” wailed Miranda. “I’ll be good.” She could feel his hot breath, now, on her naked butt.

“You will, indeed, if I have anything to do with it,” he replied, and began to spank her with his open hand.

It hurt more than Lucy had expected, stinging with contact, aching after his palm left her flesh. As he tanned first one cheek, then the other, she began to feel as if her whole ass was being held to a raging fire. She twisted in his lap. Little bleating sounds came from her throat, involuntary, infantile.

Now her whole lower half was throbbing. Each smack set up echoes, ripples of pain that sped along the backs of her thighs, singed her nipples, made her sex contract and ache. He was alternately murmuring endearments and haranguing her with criticism, but she hardly heard him. All her consciousness was focused on the white-hot pain-pleasure seething in her body.

Through her mental haze, she gradually became aware of something hard, poking up from his lap and pressing deliciously against her clit. She smiled to herself. Obviously, Big Daddy was not unaffected by the administration of discipline. She wriggled around, trying to rub herself against his emerging erection. For a moment, Big Daddy seemed not to notice.

Then he suddenly ceased his blows. Miranda felt a sense of loss. “You minx!” he said softly. “Even as I work to beat the lasciviousness out of your young flesh, you take advantage of my weakness!” His erection surged against her crotch, even as he made this speech. Knowing that she was sealing her fate, Miranda could not help writhing, stimulating him further.

“Enough!” her companion roared, tumbling her off his lap and onto the carpeted floor. “You will not tempt me, Lucy! Nothing will compel me to satisfy your unnatural lust. Much as you might desire it, I refuse the flower of your maidenhood.”

Miranda lay in a crumpled heap at his feet, her underwear tangled around her ankles, desperately willing him to take her.

“No, I will not sink to your level, Lucy. But I will punish you in a way that you may understand better than my honest beating. I will subject you to a shame that even you can comprehend.”

Fear returned briefly, arcing through her body like lightning, but irrationally, trust of this stranger overcame her terror.

“On your belly, over the ottoman, Lucy. Do not cross me further, or I will have to take truly drastic measures.”

Miranda wondered, curiosity overwhelming fear, what those measures might be, as she extricated herself from her panties and followed his instructions. Her pleated skirt covered her bare buttocks, but only for a moment. Big Daddy flicked it aside, almost in contempt, then stared again at her naked ass. His gaze re-ignited the glow of his spanking. She found herself longing to feel again the delicious heat of his palm on her flesh. Instead, he grasped her cheeks and pulled them apart, so that he could inspect her anus.

Miranda grew suddenly cold. Surely her loving, protective Daddy would not touch her there! But no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she felt a blunt finger, probing her in that most private of places.

“You are a wanton girl, Lucy, a slut in the making. I must show you how sluts are used, the pain and the shame.” His hands left her for a moment, and she heard the unzipping of his fly. No! Some part of her cried, but another part of her burned to know how it would feel, to be penetrated there.

At some level, it was punishment, for he was not particularly gentle. His knob pressed against her sphincter, and she instinctively resisted. Somehow, though, the pressure transmitted itself to her swollen sex, urging her to relax and open, and she could not help letting go, and letting him in.

Her flesh screamed, stretched in ways that she had never known. It felt as though he would tear her apart. “Please, you’re hurting me…!” But he rocked her back and forth, impaled on his cock, letting the furniture stimulate her in front, and her cries died to whimpers of delight.

Yet her shame grew in proportion to her excitement. As he filled her rear cavity, she feared that she would lose control of her bowels. Every time he pulled out, she clenched her muscles, straining to hold herself back. His fingernails dug into her spank-reddened cheeks, and she loved it. He continued to castigate her, calling her harlot, Jezebel, wench, and she loved that too. And the more she realized that she loved it, the more ashamed she became, and the more excited.

He rammed her harder, with an energy that was astonishing given his age, and finally, it was too much. Her cunt and her ass shook with the spasms of her climax. Her wails filled the climate-controlled room. As she came, he removed his penis from her asshole. The sense of gaping violation made her come again.

“Not satisfied yet, Lucy?” her companion almost hissed. “Turn over.”

Weakly, Miranda obeyed, just in time to see him peel a condom off his still-rigid cock. “This is what happens to girls like you,” he gasped and shot his cum all over Lucy’s pristine white blouse.

Later, he cuddled her, holding her in his lap in the armchair and murmuring endearments. Miranda felt small, and safe, and satisfied. Her buttocks were pleasingly sore against the rough wool of Big Daddy’s trousers. He was praising her, telling her what an honest and obedient girl she was, for revealing her evil thoughts and for taking the punishment she deserved.

“And if it happens again, Lucy, that you have these urges, these images, you will tell me, will you not? And I swear, we will cure you of them, together.”

“Of course I will, Big Daddy,” said Miranda, enjoying his strength and thinking that she would have to get her telephone number changed. “You know that I’ll always tell you everything.”