Love on the
Air By Barrie Abalard
Love on the
Air By Barrie Abalard A Newsite Web Services Book Published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved. Copyright 2006 © by Belle This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission of the author or Newsite Web Services, LLC Published by Newsite Web Services, LLC P.O. Box 1286, Loganville, Georgia 30052 USA
[email protected] disciplineanddesire.com
Notices Love on the Air is a work of complete fiction. No character in the book is meant to represent any real person, living or dead. Additionally , WTPD is a fictional radio station, and Burgess, Georgia is a fictional town. Neither is meant to bear any resemblance to any real station, town, or geographical location.
Love on the Air contains sexual fantasies. In real life, always practice safe sex. Love on the Air was originally published on disciplineanddesire.com by Barrie Abalard, writing as Belle.
Photo Credit I found the photo, which has no restrictions on its usage, on stock.xchng (www.sxc.hu). The owner of the photo is Rene Meulenbroek, from Kanata, Ontario, Canada. His stock.xchng handle is wrecker, and his web page is www.mindriot.ca. Thank you, Rene!
Dedication I wouldn’t trade my years of radio personality work for anything. Without a doubt, radio is the most fun you can have with your clothes on (and apologies to adman Jerry Della Femina for riffing on his famous quotation about advertising). Therefore, this book is dedicated to all those who work at small, local radio stations that haven’t yet been gobbled up by national syndicators. Stay local and have a blast!
Chapter One Prologue: Atlanta, a Saturday in Late October I didn't want to be late, and I can't screw up the courage to go in early, so now the newsstand vendor across the street is pissed off at me. Standing there, with some random magazine open to an article I make no pretense about reading, I watch the entrance to the restaurant over the tops of my glasses, carefully scrutinizing every woman that walks in. No, that's not her; too short. No, that one's too tall. Wait; maybe she's wearing heels? No. Sneakers. Damn. Where did all these doubts come from? Not very forceful, nor very dominant, is it? The very soul of self-assurance, that's me. Right. Say, I wonder if she's doing the same thing? Maybe she's sipping coffee at that Starbucks across the street, trying to get an advance peek at me. Heh. Wouldn't that be just like a woman? Some day, I'll have to tell her I thought that. She'll get a kick out of it. Some day? Crap! We don't even know if we can even stand each other's company, and I'm planning on "some day." I pay for the magazine, and after a moment's thought, give it back to the newsstand guy anyway. His confusion is the perfect payback for the guilt he beamed into my head earlier. Jaywalking across Peachtree Street isn't a bright thing to do, even on a lazy Saturday afternoon. It feels daring and reckless, in a very minor way. It's a daring and reckless day, I think, and there's no more dangerous place on the planet than that restaurant in front of me. Ah, adventure. Only two tables are engaged in the restaurant at the moment, both by couples. She's not at the bar, either. So I didn't miss her during my stakeout. Perched at a table where I can see and be seen from the door, I nurse my Long Island iced tea, and
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run a few daydreams through my mind's eye. So dark, and yet so bright. Sitting on my couch, watching television as I stroke the hair on the contented head resting on my shoulder. Her t-shirted form sighing with patient pleasure, ready to serve me whatever I desire. Girlish yelps of pain, dripping with love and pleasure. Wildly undulating buttocks writhing above my lap, glowing redder with each stroke of my bare hand. Suddenly, I am standing, and my daydreams retreat before the five foot seven reality standing inside the door. Her face lights up with joy, and apprehension as she recognizes me, and I can actually feel my smile beaming at her physical presence. Cameras don't like her, or else I put on my rosecolored glasses this morning. She's beautiful. She's got that glow I'd thought reserved for brides and newly minted mothers. "Well, hello there," I manage, surprised that my voice doesn't crack. "Hi, Ron," she breathes in that sultry voice I'm so grateful to BellSouth for bringing me. "I'm late. I'm sorry. Am I going to get punished for it?" Oh, what a pretty pout. "That seems likelier by the minute." Holding the chair next to mine, I offer, "Please, have a seat." Then, in her ear as I scoot her under the table, "I'll wager you won't sit so comfortably for dinner, my dear." Good heavens. She giggled. Why was I so worried? Oh, Lord. Oh, crap. Oh . . . I've run out of expletives. I'm late, as if doing this wasn't nervewracking enough. I slam on the brakes, check my look in the mirror one last time, flip the bird to some jerk yelling at me. Then I make a gesture of apology. I forget sometimes I no longer live and drive in Anarchy Central, otherwise known as the greater Boston area.
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Peachtree Street. As if there weren't about two hundred of them in the greater Atlanta area. Why couldn't he have given me an easier search, say, a needle in a haystack? My heart is pounding. I'm too old for this stuff. I'm fat. I've got stretch marks. The rinse I used this morning didn't cover all the gray. After all, it wasn't that long ago I was traded in for a newer, thinner, prettier model. However, not a smarter one. To hell with him. Think about Ron. Ron, the one to whom I'd been making electronic love for weeks. My dark man. My Southern gentleman, with whom I ached to do things no gentleman would do unless begged. Still looking for the street, my mouth gets dry remembering some of the things we planned to do, If we got along, that is. If. Have to remember it's still an 'if'! Finally, this must be the street. Parking? Now I know I'm not in Boston; I find a space right away, and it's even legal. One last peek in the mirror. Ah, well, here goes nothin'. Climbing out of the car, I hurry up the street. There's the restaurant. I'm dressed somewhat elegantly, but per his instructions, am pantyless. Noticeably pantyless, if one studies my undulating and to my mind way too plump behind. Well, he said he's a butt man. Let's find out if that's the truth. If he is, he'll be in hog heaven with mine. The door opens slowly, so slowly. In fact, I feel like I'm moving underwater. Ah, there he is. I almost double-take. Damn, he's hot. That is to say, just my type. Approaching slowly, I'm caught by his gaze. I could drown in those eyes. Oh, my. I gulp. "Hi, Ron," I manage. Oooo, clever opening! (Oh, shut up, Insecurity. Go back in the closet and snooze.) "I'm late. I'm sorry. Am I going to get punished for it?" Uh-oh; hope I'm not being too forward. I don't even know if he thinks I'm attractive. I see him gaze appreciatively at my bottom before raising his eyes to mine. They're twinkling,
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and I can tell the next thing he says is going to be... well, somewhat expected; "That seems likelier by the minute." As he helps me into my chair, I can smell him. Nice straightforward masculine scent. If the chair weren't under me, I swear I'd swoon. His hot breath tickles my ear and sends a message to other parts of me that are also starting to feel ticklish and hot. "I'll wager you won't sit so comfortably for dinner, my dear." I can't resist giggling like a schoolgirl. I relax. He likes me. This is going to be fun! Wow, now that's what I call eye contact. It's like she's trying to look at the back of my head, from the inside. Not very submissive. It's taking every iota of concentration I've got not to look away. Which, of course, wouldn't be very dominant, either. "Well, at least you found it okay. Eventually." Trying to keep a stern expression and a twinkle in my eye simultaneously is tough, but I think I'm pulling it off. "I assume you got confused over the lack of traffic rotaries. Or was it construction on the loop?" "The loop?" she wonders. "285." I fight back a smile as she finds something fascinating about the menu. "Again, I'm really sorry. I still can't get the hang of driving around here. I'll do better next time." she says. Wow. That was the sexiest thing I've ever heard. The contriteness is tangible, the eagerness to please palpable. "I mean, if there is a next time. We don't even know if we like each other yet." she smiled. "Just now, I mentally tacked a smiley onto your last sentence. I'm spending way too much time on the net." There's that husky laugh I've heard so often over the phone. I adore that laugh. And that giggle.
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And that nervous little laugh she makes when I tell her what I'd like to do to her, even though she's safely on the other side of miles of copper and fiber optic cable. I want to hear them all, live. Over and over. "You know, my file of our email messages is over a megabyte long," she says. "Not bad, for three weeks." "I'm just grateful we're in the same local calling area. I would hate to see the number of minutes we've burned up on the phone." "Or how much it would have cost, if I was still up North." "True. So, do you miss Beantown much?" "A little. I think it's mostly missing the familiar. I certainly don't miss certain parts I left behind." "I can imagine." "We never call it Beantown, by the way. I don't really have time to miss it. I'm too busy revisiting the stuff I remember about down here, from when I was a girl. The people are just the same. Not backward, not like they're in a time warp, but everybody's so nice, and so polite. It's like I was 15 again." She stops to think. "Actually, when I put it like that, it's kind of creepy." It's my turn to laugh, and her face lights up. I guess she's enjoying the familiar sound, too. "A warning. That politeness is usually only genuine up to a point. When you get in somebody's way, and they're polite to you, watch out." "I know. You're pretty polite. Am I in your way?" "Hmm. Not at all. But you'd still better watch out." She tries to hide her smile behind her menu. She doesn't try very hard, though. We're both jump a little when our waiter appears. "Are you ready to order, or would you like a minute?" "I think we're ready. Shall I order for you?" She just nods and grins. My, my, my. I never got to see that look over the phone, of course.
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Nodding so hard, I'm afraid her head will fly off. It's almost comical. Except it's so damn hot. He asked if he could order for me. Asked! As if I would say no! I find myself relaxing more and more. So much fun and so easy to talk with, just like all those times on the phone and on chat. "Ron, do you remember my speaking of feeling bonded to you?" "Sure, sugar. Why?" I look at my lap. "I'm feeling that a bit more intensely at the moment." A silence. Oh, Lord, have I said too much? Scared him off? I peek up at him. Ah, he's smiling and tilting his head down, looking at me over his glasses. "I can see that. Especially in the way you nearly broke your neck nodding a few moments ago." I meet his mischievous, flirty gaze and revel in the fluttering tremble of my midsection. My face is going to split if my grin gets any wider. "Ron, I–" Suddenly I can't say the words. The conversation will take on a more serious tone once I do. Again, I find my hands in my lap the most fascinating thing I can watch. "Yes?" He's still looking at me over his glasses, his smile less pronounced but still friendly. I meet his eyes, finding the courage I need there. "Ron, I find I want very much to please you." My voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "Why is it I feel that you are an oncoming train, and I am powerless to get out of its way? Not that I want to, anyway." Solemn doesn't begin to describe his gaze. He looks me fully in the eye, and then drops his gaze to appraise all of me. It's as if his look left handprints (eyeprints?); my body is hot and flushed under his scrutiny. I have never felt so dominated, so owned, without being touched. I squirm a little as his eyes focus once again on my hindquarters. I'd swear he's
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already got me over his knee in his imagination, because his grin reappears. "Trains? So, we're working on our phallic metaphors already, are we? I guess I should expect that from someone who writes as well as you do." Again, the playful look over his glasses. "What was it Freud said? 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.' Really, Mistah Gibbs, you shouldn't read too much into symbols." Okay, I can be Scarlett for a while. This is fun. "Why, Miss Bailey, are you contradicting me?" "What if I am?" Sassy, that's my middle name. "I might just have to take the matter in hand, so to speak, if you are." Ooooo! He's leaning in closer, as I am. Our heads are almost touching, and his fingers twitch on the tabletop. My tail is doing its own twitching right now. But I press on. "Do tell, suh." Spoken in the most brazen-hussy voice I can muster. A direct challenge. What will he do? He studies his right palm, and I notice with a little thrill how big it is. I wonder how it's going to feel to have that palm make contact with my naked bottom the first time. Ah, here it comes. "Miss Bailey, I do think you should mind your manners. Or do I have to give you a lesson in them?" His voice has taken on a slight tinge of foreboding, that dominant edge I loved hearing on the phone. I giggle uneasily and drop my gaze. "Now I'm even more certain that you won't sit so comfortably by dinnertime, young lady!" Young lady! How wonderful it sounds to hear that spoken by a man who's my junior, chronologically. I keep my eyes lowered. "Yes, sir!" His rich laughter pours into my ears as my face grows hot and I wriggle with nervous anticipation. "Ah, the food!" I blush even redder as the waiter drops off the salads and bread. I feel as if everyone in the restaurant must know what we are thinking of doing. The sexual energy between us is singing
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like a high-voltage cable. In the charged atmosphere, we eat quietly. After the salad bowls are cleared, he says, "Well, that was an interesting exchange." There I go again, nodding my head vigorously, not trusting my voice. It's like he has my head on a string, the way it's bobbing up and down. He laughs. The main course arrives. Our talk centers mostly on the delightful flavors of our orders, which we share, feeding each other off our forks as if we have been lovers for ages, locking gazes and emitting small sighs. With a half-vocalized gasp I realize that my body is way ahead of my mind, if that could be possible: I want him. However and whenever he wants, at least for the next 24 hours. I want him to spank me, touch me, take me. I shiver at the thought of doing all those things we have spoken of, written of, dreamed of. What is that saying? Ah yes, my ass is his. The dishes are cleared. Again, silence. Should I speak? No, he does it first. "What do you want for dessert?" His smile clearly tells me that I am to wait until he is ready. The issue is not whether I want dessert. Rather, he's telling me I am going to have some, because it pleases him for me to do so. "Damn you, you really do know how to torment a gal." "That little expletive will cost you, young lady. Later. Now, as I said, what do you want for dessert? Don't make me ask you again!" Jeez, this guy is amazing! "Salmon for the lady?" Yikes! I hate it when they do that. Didn't even notice him standing there. I was distracted. That's it. "And the shrimp for the gentleman." "Thank you," I say to the waiter. Then, The restaurant vanishes around Anne again. "You ever have etouffee? Kinda spicy and gamy at the same
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time. Don't know why, but I really like it." "It looks delicious! Um, shall we dig in? Or are we going to look at it for a while?" I haven't picked up my fork. As a matter of fact, I haven't even looked at the plate. This is odd. Like I'm not even hungry or something. No, I'm hungry all right. "Awfully impatient, aren't we?" "Oh, no! I was just thinking, we don't want to be at this all night." Uh-oh. What does that mean. Well, she smiled as she said it; maybe it's good. She attacks her food with gusto. Still, she hardly ever looks at her plate. Mostly, she looks at me. "You're not much like your picture," she says. "This is excellent, by the way." "I'm not?" I worry out loud. "Well, you said you were an ex-football player, but it didn't register on me, I guess. And I like the way you move. And you weren't smiling in the picture." "So, is that good or bad?" "Oh, definitely good! "Well, you're exactly what I expected, only more so. You have way too much energy to fit in around here, though." "Ha, ha, ha. You know, if leers made prints, I could have you up on charges for harassment. Especially on my butt." She tries to look serious, but it melts into a smile. "Well, if you end up as my wife, that would be my prerogative, wouldn't it? Besides, it's an especially fine butt." "True," she says, now wearing another broad grin. We eat in silence until the waiter arrives to clear our plates. "Could I have a slice of coconut custard pie? One fork. Nothing for the lady." "Hey! That's my favorite!" "I know."
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Hmmm. My favorite pie. One slice, with only one fork. What could this mean? Certainly he's not so sadistic as to eat it and enjoy it all by himself, in front of me. Then, again . . . He cuts a bite with the fork, tastes it, and mmm-mmm-mmms with his eyes closed. "It's really great. You'd love it." I say nothing, but my eyes are large with begging. "Oh, all right," he mock-sighs. "I guess you deserve a bite or two, since it's your favorite." He cuts another bite, this time for me. "Here you go." What can I say? The pie was better than the sex in my first marriage. I open my mouth wide and sort of grunt for more. Ron cuts another piece, feints moving it in my direction as my mouth opens wider, then routes it to his own. Grinning, he teases, "You can open your mouth pretty wide, can't you?" "Oh, shut up and give me some more pie!" "Hmmmm. For that little outburst, I think you deserve to go without. Unless you might be willing to take your punishment later, another way, and eat your pie now." His mouth is smiling, but his eyes are questioning. There goes my head again, bobbing as if on a string. "Ummm-hmmmm, okay. Some more pie, please, sir." My sneaky smile puts a sarcastic spin on the "please, sir." "Okay." Ron's face relaxes as we both realize the decision to go play together has been made. He pumps another morsel of delight into my mouth. "Sure you know what you're getting into?" "Yes. I'm sure. Are you?" "Well, if I can make you produce the same little "ummm" noises you make when you eat this pie, I think we'll get along just fine. And you do realize that when you lick your lips so slowly after each bite, it makes me crazy?" My own breathing is getting a little labored by now. "Yes. I know. And your feeding me this pie has
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been driving me nuts as well." He takes the last bite of pie while I watch. "Did you bring a pair of panties with you, as I told you to?" "Yes. In my purse." "Go put them on. I'll take care of the bill. Then we can go." I rise and hurry to the ladies' room. After taking care of the natural result of a lot of fluid intake, I remove the panties from my purse - white, stretchy lace - and put them on, sliding them slowly up my legs and over my behind. My hands are shaking. The next time they come down, another pair of hands will do the honors. His hands. Oh, my. My mouth is suddenly becoming as dry as other parts of me are becoming wet. I spot him waiting by the door. I'm trembling a little, and I notice he's not exactly a rock, either. "Shall we go?" "I'll follow you in my car. Where are you parked?" "Just up the street." It turns out his vehicle is directly in front of mine. Is this a sign? I don't believe in Fate, but as I follow Ron down Peachtree, I wonder how far we will go, where we will end up, and whether all my life up to this point was only prologue to my meeting with Ron. Guess I'll find out soon enough.
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Chapter One Burgess, Georgia, a Friday in September "A classic by George Jones coming your way in moments on WTPD!" Anne Bailey, AKA "Annabelle Lee," punched the cart for the first commercial in the 2:18 break and looked out on the heat that shimmered just beyond the downright frosty announcer's booth. She noted the temp on the weather station's readout: 98 degrees. Warm indeed, even for September, even for Georgia. Almost exactly body temperature, she mused to herself, then shook her head with a smile. Lord, she couldn't start thinking about that now! While she was planning the next hour's music and sorting the commercials and promos, the general manager pushed the studio door open and stuck his head inside. "Hi, Henry. What's up?" "Anne, when you get off at 3, come see Tim and me. We want to discuss some things with you." "Will do." Inwardly she sighed. Meetings with those two were the bane of her existence at work. The break was almost up. With an experienced hand Anne cued the recording, gave the time and temperature, and teased an upcoming song before punching up "The Race is On" from a George Jones CD. Again the studio door opened, but this time it was her afternoon drive jock, not that there was really an afternoon drive time this far from Atlanta. "Hi, John." John Bridges, "Johnnie Walker" on the air, casually leaned against the jamb. Tall with a drawl to match, he was dressed in his trademark red and black cowboy boots. "Hi, Annie. What's my production load today?" "As usual, whatever's in your bin, doll. Go see." Her tone was slightly scolding, but she smiled. John was a good guy and a helluva personality. Plus she
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was glad for a diversion so she wouldn't listen to the damn song she was playing. No time to brood on the past from now on; that had been her vow. "By the way, over by the production bins there's a little surprise for you and all the other jocks too, of course. A TGIF thing, you know." "TGIF? Babe, you're the only one around here who gets a five-day work week." Anne snorted. "John, when was the last time you got called at 11 PM because the overnight guy had the heaves? Want to trade?" John rolled his eyes. "Never mind. I think I'll just go check that bin and grab my surprise. Which is it this time, free soda or free fruit?" "Neither. Coffee cake." "Mmm! You bake it?" "Who am I, Sarah Lee?" John cackled as he left the booth, paused, and then stuck his head back in. "Hey, thanks, by the way. For the way you're always thinkin' of your announcers. I feel appreciated." His smile was warm. "You're welcome. I'm glad to do it. Seems a weekly treat for my crew is the least I can do, since Henry won't let me pay any of you the big bucks. Those are reserved for me," Anne winked. "HA!" John's guffaw could be heard clearly outside the booth as he walked away. At 3:05, Anne, WTPD's Program Director, sat in the general manager's office with Henry, the GM, and Tim, the sales manager. She wondered what it would be today: change the music, change the format, fire somebody, hire somebody else, or work her announcers even harder than they already worked. Henry turned the monitor down and coughed. "Anne, Tim and I want you to know that we're thinking of changing engineers." Ah. So it was 'fire somebody'. "Why? You're never going to get anyone as good as Warren for the bucks we pay. That man's a genius at keeping
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our old equipment running! And he lives right next door!" "Anne, he's a little weird, you have to admit that." "Like no one else on the staff is a little off? In fact, we look downright normal compared to that old TV show, 'WKRP'. This is a radio station; give me a break." This time Tim coughed and spoke. "Anne, I found him last night, in the transmitter room, after midnight, with an, ah, young lady." "So what? And what were you doing in the transmitter room after midnight? Taking readings?" Anne was having trouble keeping the contempt out of her voice. Tim wouldn't know a bad transmitter readout if it bit him in the butt. Henry groaned. "Anne, let's not fight about this." "Seems to me you two have already begun the fight. So Warren was boffing a gal in the transmitter room. At least, I assume that's what he was doing, or you wouldn't be thinking of firing him. What's the big deal? No one was here but the overnight guy, and the woman was probably turned on, doing it around all that high-voltage equipment. Reprimand him, but don't fire him. That's stupid and cutting off our own noses. If you want, I'll chat with him." "Yes, we know you two are best friends, but this time he's gone too far." Anne rolled her eyes. "What else?" "He had her on top of his workbench. Um, spread-eagled. Fastened. With leather cuffs." Tim, for all his swinger's demeanor, was a secret prig. Anne burst out in astonished laughter. "So ol' Warren's into bondage, is he? Good Lord!" Anne snorted and sighed. "Was she naked? Was he doing her?" Tim pursed his lips. "I'd rather not say. She was rather unsavory looking." "Meaning what?" "She was pierced in, er, several unconventional
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places." "You must have taken a good, long look, to see that!" "My presence is not the issue. I was doing nothing wrong, unlike our creepazoid engineer!" Tim raised his voice. Henry intervened. "Look, both of you calm down. The issue is whether we can keep Warren, knowing his private interests. I wouldn't have cared, except by doing it on station property, he rather rubbed our noses in it." Henry is obviously pissed at Warren, Anne thought. He's such a good friend, and a great engineer. How can I get him out of this? "Henry, please don't fire Warren. I will see him and talk to him, and get a written apology from him, along with a promise never to, um, play games on station property again. Not only do I like him, you know as well as I do that we're extremely fortunate to have an engineer living literally next door who also knows his ass from a hole in the ground. And he never travels; hasn't he always been available when something's gone wrong? And doesn't he always get us back on the air right away? And doesn't he always keep us in compliance with all of the Byzantine FCC regs? And doesn't he always properly set up all our remotes?" She glared significantly at Tim now. "If we didn't have the stellar engineer we do, you'd not sell remote one. And we make a lot of money on remotes, not to mention the publicity and community goodwill." Tim obviously had forgotten the money angle, and it showed on his face. He spoke. "Henry, I can live with waiting until next week and see what happens when Anne talks to Warren." "Anne? You sure you can bring Warren in line?" "I think I can." "It's settled then. If he provides us with a written apology and a promise never to do this sort of thing again, he can stay." Henry's grimace of distaste said it all. He hated knowing anything
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about an employee's private life that was racier than G-rated. "Oh, and I hope he's discreet in his choice of partners. Make sure you caution him about that, too. Can't have him bringing scandal on the station." "I will. Was that it?" "Tim, you got anything else?" "No." Tim's air was slightly sullen. Relieved, Anne stood. "Okay. I'm going to call Warren now. I'll talk to him as soon as possible." Tim followed Anne to her office. "Hey, would you like to go for a drink at 5?" She couldn't believe her ears. "Whatever for!" Dismissing him with her hand, she picked up the phone and punched the button to speed dial Warren's number. "C'mon, Anne, you've been here six months and we've not yet socialized." "We don't need to socialize. Damn, busy! I'll bet he's surfing the 'Net. I'm going to bug him to get a second line. Or maybe high-speed Internet access. Does Burgess have that?" she thought out loud. "You socialize with everyone but me!" Tim whined. "That's crap, and you know it," Anne snapped. "Warren and I hang out sometimes, but it's only friendship, and I don't hang with anyone else who works here. Why is it so important for me to have a drink with you? We don't like each other, so why pretend?" Tim looked at his shoes. "Well, er, I don't like you, but, you see, I sure would like to like you." Anne sat down, amazed. "Are you saying you want to date me?" "Depends. Will my answer get me brought up on sexual harassment charges?" She giggled. A sense of humor, finally. Some humanity under the suit. "No, Tim, I promise I won't hold your answer against you." "Yes, Anne, I would like to date you." Gently, she said, "Tim, come in and close the
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door." She waited for Tim to comply. "Have you ever heard the expression, 'Don't dip your pen in company ink?'? That's my motto, Tim. I don't date coworkers. Ever. Potentially way, way too messy." "Okay. I can understand that. But you are a sharp woman, Anne, and good-looking, too, and it's so hard to meet people worth dating. Plus, you'd understand what I was talking about if I told you about my work." "Tim, if you really want to be friends, we can do that. Just no dating stuff, no kissy-kissy, no holding hands, no roaming hands. Have I made myself clear?" "Yes. Okay, fine. Can we go for that drink tonight? As friends?" Anne considered. "Tell you what. I really think I should see Warren tonight if possible, and clear all of that up. Let's go to a late lunch some day next week, or for a drink one night after work." Tim opened her door. "You're right, you should see Warren ASAP. Next week, then." He moved to go, then turned back and closed her door again. "What now?" "Anne, if Warren were more like you, the station wouldn't be having this problem. God, it was so, so, sleazy," Tim shuddered. "Thank God you're straight about such things." Anne nearly fell out of her chair. The best she could manage was, "Uh, thank you. I think." If Warren were more like me, she thought, Tim would have had a stroke on the spot.
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Chapter Two Atlanta, Same Day Looking for Love (or at Least Like) ATL SWM, 39, successful software geek, seeking intelligent SF for serious fun and games. I'm talking RL, not video, not cyber. Said games involve you, me, my hand, your bare bottom, perhaps other things, depending on mutual interests. You will be treated as an equal except when you misbehave; justice will be swift and leave you stinging. Red's my favorite color. Is it yours? I'm a gentleman, you be a lady.
[email protected]. Ron Gibbs studied the text. Was he striking the right note? He wanted more than sex, more than fun, but wasn't sure how much more; he didn't want to promise marriage. And would his email address freak out potential partners? Maybe "PolyPerverse" was too creepy. RGB1234 was his personal Web site, so he could choose whatever name he wanted for himself. He'd like to use "PolyMath," but it was unlikely anyone would understand what that meant. Hell, they could look it up in their Funk and Wagnall’s if they didn't know. Changing the email address to PolyMath@ RGB1234.com, he posted his ad on the Internet. He started at the sharp rap on his door. Pissed at his own jumpiness and at being interrupted, he growled, "Yeah?" The door was flung open wide by his business partner, Jeff Rowland. "Ronald Gibbs, meet Tommy LeBarge, your newest team member. Tommy just got his Ph.D.
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from Georgia Tech, and had the good sense to stay in town and come work for us, instead of heading off to an ivory tower somewhere." "Yeah, I know. Hey. Wait a minute. What the hell are you laughing at, President-Boy? What have you been telling my new graphics weenie?" Rowland's chuckles erupted from behind his hand into a roar. "I smell a rat. What'd he say, Tommy?" "That he'd hired me against your recommendations." "Nope. I read your dissertation, picked you out before I saw your resume. He does that a lot. Always tells the women I'm prone to outbursts, just because he knows when I meet them I'm going to be ticked at being dragged away from my code. His own little don't-date-coworkers strategy." The laughter grew louder. "Also, he said you were intimidated by Tech grads, since you went to Auburn." "That's a new one. Nah, why be intimidated about an inferior school? Besides, you ACC guys can't play football." "He also mentioned you thought grad students were a pain." "Well, he got that one right. It'll take awhile to deprogram you. Grad students write code. Real programmers ship. Okay, Rowland, you've had your fun. Take a hike, Mr. President. I want to talk to my fresh meat." "He enjoys that entirely too much. Guess I'm a bit too predictable," Ron said as the scoundrel left to boast about his latest scam. "He knew I was in crunch mode." "Did you play football, Mr. Gibbs? You're certainly big enough." "Ron. Played a bit college senior year, but mostly warmed the bench. You play any sports?" "Too small for football, too slow for track, too uncoordinated for baseball. But I always wanted to. I think of myself as a Chauncey Gardener."
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Ron's grinned widened. "'I like to watch,' huh? Let's blow this dump and go grab a beer. I'll tell you the lay of the land, what I want from you, and we'll map out how it's going to work." "Hell of a first day on the job." "It's not like they have your phone and computer and stuff ready, anyway. If you're going to sit around anyway, might as well make it pleasant. It's afternoon on a Friday. Can't get any more decent work out of anyone till at least Saturday morning." Armed with the order for a pitcher of Killian's, the smiling blonde wearing a bright orange "LeeAnn" nametag departed. The two men enjoyed watching the long, silken legs climb to brief, wellrounded orange shorts. These gave way to a flat, bare midriff, and then to a tightly knotted T-shirt, breasts prominently thrust upward, as if pointing to the perfectly made-up face and coiffed hair. "Hooter's? This isn't very PC, is it?" a bemused Tommy LeBarge observed, looking around and wondering what he'd gotten himself into at RGB Inc. "No, but I figure that's half the charm," Ron grinned back across the lacquered table. "Keeps the knee-jerkers away." "Don't you wonder how they can work dressed like that, in a place like this? Not that I'm complaining, mind you." "It's a lot more innocent than its rep. Bouncers make me look small. And I'm told the tips are amazing." "I'll bet." "I don't think of it as a skin joint anyway. I think of it as a place where cheerleaders have to be nice to you." "You too, huh?" "Yeah. And I was on the football team." The amber ale arrived, and Ron filled the pair of glasses. A taste, a quick grimace, followed by a wide smile. "Good stuff. So, why did you decide to come to RGB? Why not some cushy tenure-track
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academic post? Some nifty-keen computer science lab?" The younger man considered for a moment, and grinned. "You guys offered more money." Tommy waited for the laugh to subside before he continued. "Seriously, I've been in school way too long, and I wanted to get out and do cool stuff in the real world. Real products. Real customers. I got tired of some of the pie-in-the sky ideas that got half-baked." "The last straw, I think was this guy who came to lecture us in a user interface class. He worked at IBM, and was giving us the dirty details about how usability testing worked in the real world. One of my fellow graduate students started taking him to task for not using all these complicated statistical methods and survey questions with odd scaling methods." "Typical." "Bottom line, the IBM guy said, was the project managers wanted a report with three columns: What was wrong, how to fix it, and then a blank space to pencil in who they assigned it to. The thirty-page study report went straight to the scratch paper file. I thought, yeah, that's the way it would work in the real world. Plus, you guys offered more money." Ron chuckled. "That explains why you're going to industry. But why us?" "I saw you present a paper at an OOPSLA conference a couple of years ago. The one where you ripped into traditional methodologies. I cited you in my dissertation." "I thought that looked familiar . . . " A wry smile crept onto Ron's face. "And I wanted to stay in Atlanta. So, I applied to you guys." "Good enough. About that paper: did you see the one I did at this year's conference?" "Sure did." "Well, that one, the methodologies paper, your
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dissertation–all crap, at least the way our strategies are going now." "Excuse me?" More chuckles. "Not really. I'm chasing after some new technology I've done some work on, a couple of steps beyond what's out there now. At least I think. I don't want to say much here, but it has to do with distributed objects. Well get into that tomorrow. "I mainly wanted us to have a chance to get acquainted tonight. But I will tell you this: I liked your work for the creative and lateral thinking it showed, not just the actual work done." "That's interesting, but . . . " "Don't worry about it. You'll be fine. You'll love what I'm cooking up. " "Okay." "So, you're from this area. Folks still alive?" "Mom is. She lives in Decatur." "Married?" "Nope." "Girlfriend?" "Nope. Hey, I'm a computer weenie. I don't have time for a girlfriend." Ron's chuckle sounded a little more forced. "That's true enough to hurt just a little bit, unfortunately." "You?" "Folks both around, live in Charlotte. No wife, no girlfriend, though I'm certainly not opposed to the concept." "All these young ladies seem to know you." "Yeah, well, I come here a lot. And I tip real well. But I don't ask 'em out. They'd find me as uninteresting as I'd find them, I think. Still, it's fun to come down here and not have to be a big brain, y'know?" "I love to watch football games at the Norcross Hooter's." "Aha! You have been here before!" "Yeah, well . . . "
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"You ever read Feynman's autobiography?" "The physicist? Of course. Cool guy," Tommy commented. "Do you remember the part about how, for a period, he liked to go to this topless joint to think?" "And he was so proud of selling one of his paintings to the club's owner." Ron chuckled. "Oh, are we going to get along! Anyway, Hooter's is sort of like that, for me." "Why not a real strip joint? There's one right up the road." "Too dangerous. To my wallet, I mean. A mean trick, putting cash machines in those joints. Besides, I discovered I don't enjoy them anymore." "You're kidding." "Really. I went to one a couple of years ago, and found myself thinking, as this amazing-looking woman shook her tits right in front of my face, that I was never going to actually get my hands on those tits, at least not for any extended period of time. I also wondered why a woman would do that. Is it just the money?" "Hey, I was saying the same thing, before!" Jeff interjected. "Hooter's is, like, an order of magnitude below those places, on the sexist scale. Besides, if it's not the money, it must be some sexual un-inhibitedness which I suspect is way beyond me." "Maybe so." "Hey! How'd we get on this topic?" Ron's grin was now decidedly sheepish. "We're going to be working together. What we're going to be working on we'll get into tomorrow, but I want to see how we're gonna plan to work together. I hope you sleep late. I rarely code before noon." "Tomorrow's Saturday!" Tommy protested. "Yeah, the best day of the week to work. No suits calling. Now, let's go over what we're going to start on tomorrow, buddy. At RGB you have to work for those big bucks we offered you."
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Chapter Three Burgess, Georgia, Same Day It was 4:30 and Warren's line was still busy, damn him. Stalking across a field and then a parking lot, Anne fumed as she stomped up the stairs, sweating in the oppressive Georgia mugginess. She pounded on the door. No answer. She kicked it, yelling, "I know you're in there, Warren. Open up now. I saved your ass today and you'd better open this door to hear about it." The deadbolt disengaged as straight, blondish hair and trendy rectangular glasses framing hazel eyes peered around the door, around six inches above her head. Geez, she always forgot how tall and thin he was. Runner's body, yet topped with powerful shoulders. He grinned. "Hey, what's shakin' besides that bodacious rack of yours?" "Oh, please Warr, can't we dispense with the pickup lines just once?" Rolling her eyes, she pushed her way in. "Have you been on the 'Net? I've been trying to call you for over an hour. Get yourself a second line or high-speed access. I'm getting tired of paying you personal visits to discuss work issues." "Yes, ma'am!" He smirked. "Want to punish the bad widdle boy?" "Oh, please!" Anne groaned. "Warren, do you ever think of anything but sex?" "Well, sure, I think about engineering when I have to." "You're not going to have any engineering to think about if you pull a trick like last night again." "So ol' Mr. Suit was upset by what he saw?" "What do you think?" Anne exhaled loudly. "Look, you know I'm a real laissez-faire kind of gal when it comes to sexuality and personal preferences. But surely you realize what you did last
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night was just pure-D stupid." Warren sat down, his smile gone. "You're right, boss lady. It was stupid. Sometimes my crazy urges completely overrule my better judgment." "Thinking with your little head rather than your big one?" "My little head's not so little," he bantered. Ignoring his comment, she continued, "C'mon, Warr, you weren't fired today only because I begged Henry not to do it. Take this seriously. If you don't want to work at WTPD, at least give me the courtesy of a two-week notice. If you want to keep your job, I need a written apology to Henry and a promise you will never, ever have any kind of sex on station property again. Oh, and Henry wanted to remind you that part of the reason is legal. Suppose the, uh, young lady had gotten hurt? We might be looking at a lawsuit. A transmitter room does have some dangers, as I'm sure you are well aware." "Of course I am. You don't have to lecture me. I'm a smart guy." "Then don't be stupid again over sex. Henry's one of the nicest GMs I've ever worked for. He's not going to do you dirt unless you give him a reason. So don't. Keep it in your pants at the station." "If I do that, how am I going to pee?" Anne sighed and punched him on the shoulder. "You are impossible. Incorrigible. And I love ya, guy. But I can't go to bat for you again if you repeat this mistake. I don't think I can talk Henry out of firing you a second time for such behavior." "All right. I'll write an apology and promise never to be a bad boy again on station property. Satisfied?" "On that matter, I am. I'm still pissed that I can never reach you on the phone. Don't you have a cell phone?" "Yeah, but it's never on unless I want to talk." "Well, gee, Warr, that helps a whole freakin' lot when someone wants to talk to you." Anne sighed
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and continued. "So, does Burgess have cable or DSL for high-speed Internet access?" "This apartment is too far from the Telco central office where they'd have to run the line for DSL. But I do have cable." Momentarily speechless, she glared. "So WHY was your phone busy for over an hour?" "Hey, I took it off the hook. I was busy . . . chatting with someone, you might say." "You took your phone off the hook because you were chatting on the Internet?" "Yes, one-handed chatting, if you get my drift." She tried to look disapproving, but couldn't manage it. Stifling a laugh, Anne said, "I understand. But don't take your phone off the hook again during business hours, all right? You don't work a standard week like the rest of us, not even forty hours some weeks, but you do have to be reasonably available from 9 to 5." "Hey, I've got the station playing in the background; hear it? If the signal was screwed up, I'd notice it before any of you would. So I am monitoring the station. I'm not a total fuck-up. I like my job and I do it well, and you know that." "If your phone is busy for an extended time period again, I'm going to order you to wear a beeper, 24/7. I mean it. The only reason the station hasn't forced you to do that is because you live next door and hardly ever leave the area." "Okay. I promise I won't take the phone off the hook again. Happy now?" "There's just one more thing," Anne said. Warren groaned. "What is it?" "Teach me the Internet." "You use email and the Web at work. That's the Internet, babe. What else do you need to know?" "Well, teach me some very specific things about the Internet, like, how you meet people with certain interests. How I can get an anonymous email address. Stuff like that. Also, I've only got some freebie dial-up service at home. Tell me how I can
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get cable." "Wasn't your ex a high-tech guru?" "Yeah, but near the end I was computer-phobic, mostly because he was such an asshole. I didn't want to like anything he liked. Get it?" "Understood. So," Warren's lopsided grin turned into a leer, "What kind of interests do you have and what kind of people do you want to meet?" "Men people. And as for interests . . . " Her voice trailed off. "Sort of the stuff you like." "Bondage? Wild sex?" "More like spanking." Anne's face flamed. She couldn't believe she was telling Warren this, but she couldn't seem to shut up. Her desires were decades-old and refused to be denied one more moment. "Give or receive?" "What do you think?" Warren studied her. "Receive. Am I right?" Avoiding his eyes, she managed to choke out, "God, my mouth is dry all of a sudden. How about going out for a beer?" "I've got a better idea. I've got plenty of brews on ice. We'll have some pizza delivered and I'll show you what you need to get started on your manhunt over beer and 'za. Sound good?" "Yes." She looked anywhere but at Warren while she nodded frantically. "Damn, woman, that's the sexiest nod I've ever seen. I don't suppose you'd consider . . . " "What?" "Well, our interests are pretty similar . . . " He slapped his hand against his thigh for emphasis. "We work together. No way." "In that case," he sighed, "Let's get started. Go fetch me a beer, woman." "Like hell!" Anne tossed her head. "You go get both of our beers. I'm your boss." "Are you sure you're a submissive?" Anne watched her right foot toe the carpet silently.
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Warren cleared his throat. "Perhaps I should have said, 'Go fetch me a beer or I'll spank you till you can't sit without a pillow.' Better?" An icy thrill cascaded down her spine. It really was a shame that she was Warren's boss, she thought as her blue eyes met his hazel ones. Her mouth felt like the Sahara. "Well? Do I have to put you over my knee or not?" Much as she would have liked to assert her authority, she hustled to the kitchen for their pale ales, her nether regions as humid as the Georgia afternoon.
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Chapter Four Cambridge, Massachusetts, New Years' Eve, 1974/New Year's Day, 1975 1975: the year of the first personal computer, Saigon's fall, and the fateful coupling of Annabelle Lee Bailey and Harold Leibovich. Anne, as she now called herself, looked around the party. She had come to the home of one of the university's most distinguished math professors as the guest of her friend Ted. Since Ted was homosexual (the term gay had not yet become widely popular), he often took Anne to parties as his date and cover, leaving Anne to scan the horizon for interesting but decidedly non-gay men. Despite Stonewall back in '69, Ted knew his best chance for advancement in academia rested on staying in the closet for a while longer. And though neither of them had ever discussed their "dates," they both knew what the other was doing, and both were comfortable with it. In fact, Ted had become one of her closest friends, Anne not being one to concern herself with the sexual preferences or lifestyles of others. Anne had come to Radcliffe at the tender age of 16 in 1972. After a year of dating the fops at Harvard and putting up with vague insults about her Southern heritage, she realized her heart lay further down the Charles–M.I.T., to be exact. So she transferred there as a sophomore, declared herself one of the very few liberal arts majors, and acclimated to the cutting-edge, scientific atmosphere like the local ducks did to the nearby Charles. She also acclimated readily to being one of the very few female students. Anne had a weakness for big in men: big in smarts, that is. And so many male geniuses made her feel a bit like a kid in a penny candy shop with a twenty-dollar bill in hand. Not so bad herself in the smarts department, funny,
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sexy, and outgoing, she would have had a reputation as a party girl at a more conservative school. As it was, she looked so innocent and freshfaced, she had had to show ID to two separate men, to convince them that they were not about to do the horizontal cha-cha with jail bait. She smiled to herself, remembering, while casting her eyes around the party. Hmmm, not that one, he's too dorky, even for me. Him I've already had, and don't want to again. Him, he's married, the sleaze. What's he doing here without his wife? Ahh, so who's the guy over there? Never seen him before. Shit, he's with that blonde woman, but wait, isn't she married, too? Is he her husband? He's not acting like a husband, more like someone who's never been in her pants, but who wants to, badly. That's right, she's another professor's wife, physics, I think. But who is he? Anne, never one to hang back, sidled her way across the room until she was standing next to him. Thin was in, thanks to the 60's and Twiggy, but Anne never apologized for her round, lush figure, and dressed to show it off. She noticed the men didn't seem to mind her slight plumpness. "Hello. How do you know Professor Freedman?" "I am his prize doctoral candidate." An ironic smile, a curious look. "Are you his daughter?" Anne laughed. "No, I'm an undergraduate here. So you're a mathematics PhD candidate. What's your name?" "Harold Leibovich." "Where'd you undergrad?" "Right here at MIT." "Really! I wonder why I never saw you before." Harold surveyed her cleavage and the ripe curves of her hips. "I'm beginning to wonder the same thing. What did you say your name was?" "I didn't. But it's Anne Bailey." "You're not from around here, I can tell that." "I confess, I'm a Southerner. And you're a New Yorker."
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"The Bronx, actually. Not the same thing as New York. Went to Bronx Science." "Good school," she teased. Harold blinked, saying, "Are you the girl genius who's supposed to be fourteen years old who just started going here?" Anne laughed. "I'm no genius, and I'm not fourteen. I'll be nineteen in August." "So you're legal. And I'll bet you're no slouch if you go here. Are you a freshman?" "Nope, junior." "Now I know you're no slouch. Did the same thing myself, only I started here at 15, not 16." "I only wish I could talk with you intelligently about mathematics. See, I'm one of the few liberal arts majors, but I love science and math. And I hated being a Cliffie almost as much as I hated those assholes who think they're God's gift to women just because they're fifth-generation Hahvahd. That's how I ended up here." "You went to Radcliffe?" "The first year. Till I wised up. Started here as a sophomore." "Ah, I was off-campus a lot last year. Might explain why we haven't run into each other before." The blonde woman approached and said something in a low voice to Harold. "Excuse me a moment, Anne." Anne found herself alone. Shit, he did come with her. Maybe they're having an affair. She gazed at him: a little short for her, a little thin for her, but lovely dark hair, gorgeous eyes, and a high sex drive, she could tell. She could always tell. Looks like he wants it all the time, but rarely gets it. Maybe Mrs. Blondie has him on a leash. No, he seems too independent for that. And smart. Oh, so smart. And with big old black glasses. Her professor fantasy come true, and him almost a professor, being a doctoral candidate. Anne momentarily lost herself in a fantasy, about Harold, and her, and something about having to go to his office after
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class, for disciplinary reasons . . . With a start, she realized Harold had returned. "Would you like to go to dinner sometime?" Anne was dumbfounded. "Uh, okay, I mean, didn't y'all come with her?" Her accent always became more pronounced when she was nervous. Damn, I sound like some stupid redneck to him, I'll bet. Harold looked away. "Er, yes, but, you see, I'm not her main interest." Again he looked at the woman as if he would like to carry her off to the nearest closet and . . . He shook his head. "Anyway, as I was saying, would you like to have dinner?" "When?" Anne was not going to let this one go easily. She liked his looks and his manner. And maybe, just maybe, he's like to star in her fantasy. "How about tomorrow night?" "All that will be open is Mary Chung's in Central Square." "I love Chinese food. That okay with you?" Something about the matter-of-fact way he took control made her stomach turn flips. Maybe he would like her fantasy. "Yes, I like it. What time?" "Seven. Where do you live?" "Magazine Street. Here, call me." Anne scribbled her number and shoved it at him. He caught her hand, and they stood, staring at each other, shocked at the electricity generated by such a casual touch. Harold recovered his cool. "I'll do that. And I'll see you at seven." He turned and walked over to the blonde, someone-else's-wife-woman. Anne sighed. He's interesting, all right, but I guess I'm not gonna get to screw him tonight! Perhaps tomorrow night, though. The apartment's buzzer rang promptly at seven. His watch must be synched with the nuclear clock at school, Anne thought to herself with amusement. "Just a minute, I'll be right down," Anne called into the speaker, grabbed her Army-Navy surplus store pea coat, and trotted down the stairs, nearly
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bumping into Harold as he rounded the corner. "Oh! I mean, how did you get in?" His proximity rattled her. She could smell him, a strong, earthy, masculine scent; his pheromones tickled her glands, set them pumping. "Someone else let me in. I thought I might get a look at your place." "Whatever for? We can come back here later." Ah, she was not being too shy about this, was she? "I'm looking for a new place to live. Heard there was an opening in this building. Thought it might be efficient to get a quick look before dinner. You know, see what the general layout is like; your apartment is probably the same as the one advertised." Harold drank in her large, braless breasts under her thick but form-fitting sweater. "That is, while I still have some blood left in my brain." His look and his intention were clear. Anne cheered to herself, deciding she really wasn't very hungry. "Um, if you'd like to look, we can go back up." "Yes, I would." Harold was now busy talking to her shapely behind, clad in tight bell-bottoms, so tight the lack of panties was obvious. They climbed the stairs. Anne could feel his eyes on her body, and she was moving it especially for his benefit. After they entered and she closed the door, the proximity was too much for her. They embraced effortlessly, fitting together like parts that were designed to be interlocking. Groaning, moaning, and mighty grateful her roommates were still on holiday break, Anne gasped to feel his hands touch her with authority, ownership and possession implied in his every movement. Do knees really go weak? Can joints turn to rubber or water? Anne found the old clichés were true as his fingers took control, first over her sweater, then under it, pinching her nipples just a little painfully, to her aroused delight. Then those same fingers were tugging her jeans down and probing deeply, spreading her wetness over all of
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her labia. She managed to walk him to her room while never letting his remove his hand that was providing such maddening pleasure. Her own hands were busy unbuttoning and unbuckling and unzipping him. Falling backward on her bed, she shucked her clothing off in two quick movements, hungry for impalement. She didn't have to wait long for it, as Harold leaped at his chance, taking her in one quick, hard thrust. Cats in heat never made more noise for the next ten minutes. Harold proved himself a real cocksman in Anne's eyes, taking her to the edge over and over, stopping his movements while she teetered on the brink, gradually moving again as her excitement waned a bit. After several episodes of this, Anne demanded, "Damn you, I want to come! Stop teasing me!" So Harold redoubled his efforts, fucking her without mercy until a keening cry bubbled up from her throat while she stimulated herself. Harold's orgasm was simultaneous with hers, pulling guttural shouts from him. The happy couple laid there, finally quiet, finally satiated. Anne's head whirled; she wondered where he had been all her life. Another cliché based on real-life truth. "Dear God, that was fucking great!" "And great fucking, too." Harold still, improbably, had his glasses on, but askew. "You know what they say . . . if a couple manages to come at the same time, it's a sign. They have to get married, because it was meant to be. It's the ultimate," Anne said. Harold arched his eyebrows. "Oh, is that what they say? Just who are this 'they'?" Anne bit her tongue over what she had said. Damn. "Oh, you know, it's just a saying," she recovered airily. Was she wrong, or did a brief moment of disappointment pass over Harold's face? The silence between them became more strained. "Hey, I'm hungry! How about you?" Anne tried
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to recover her lightness of mood. Harold leaped off her. "Yes, me, too!" he commented, with obvious relief. "Hell of a way to start the new year, don't you think?" Anne caught his glance, more serious than he probably intended, and her heart returned from the basement in her soul. So, it wasn't just an evening of fun and games to him, either. She smiled, gazing into his eyes, matching his jocular tone. "Yep, hell of a New Year's Day!"
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Chapter Five Burgess, Georgia, Two Days Later (Sunday) Anne closed her eyes and sighed, stretching her neck and wrists. She'd spent most of her weekend in her bathrobe, poring over Web sites with ads. On Friday Warren had given her a good introduction and a bookmarks file to install on her PC at home, and she'd opened a Web mail account, using fake information as needed. She was still surfing over dial-up, but the cable company w as coming by this week. Bless Warren for his willingness to wait for the guy at her place, though she was bemused over how to repay his kindness. She wasn't going to give him the gift of her bottom, no matter how drawn to him she now found herself, so she'd take him out to dinner or something. Maybe they could spend the day in Atlanta's Virginia Highlands and Little Five Points areas, shopping for amusing fetish clothing and toys, and grabbing a brew and a burger at The Vortex. Junkman's Daughter was just across the parking lot from The Vortex, and checking it out would please them both. God, she was aroused as hell but thoroughly sick of reading ads. She reread the one she'd kept returning to over the past 48 hours. Did she want to answer it, or not? Her fingers began to type before her mind had made itself up. Hi, PolyMath. I saw your ad and decided to reply. I want to try the things you hint at and I do love red in the right context. I don't have much experience. Make that hardly any experience. Do you? NewbieBabe P.S. I know what a polymath is. Studying it before clicking it into cyberspace, she decided that was enough for now. She might
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not get any reaction at all from PolyMath. Still, she could look at the ads again tomorrow night and maybe find another one to answer. For now, she was going to get ready for the workweek and finish the novel she'd been reading for two weeks. An hour later, clean and organized and bored with her book. Anne accessed the Web again. Surely it wouldn't hurt to check her email. The notation "Inbox (1)" rewarded her. Dear NewbieBabe, No, I haven't done this before. Not much, anyway. But I'm fairly certain I know what I like. Do you at least know what you want? Do you understand that our activities are meant to bring both of us pleasure? You go to the head of the class for knowing what my handle means. PolyMath Excited, she typed quickly. Dear PM, Yes, I understand. I've wanted to do this most of my life. How about you? NB P.S. You are talking about spanking me, right? She'd barely begun to look at more ads when the email chime caught her attention. NB honey, You bet I am. You over my lap, aglow with anticipation. Deliciously hard hand swats, teasing little taps, a few lashes with a peach tree branch, a few licks with my belt. Or are you more of a paddle kind of gal? BTW, what do you look like? Are you a babe, NewbieBabe?
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I'm 6'4", used to play a little college ball, still have most of my muscles. My hand span is over ten inches. Imagine what that hand could do when it comes into contact with your . . . PM PolyMath was online the same time as she was. What to write now? Impulsively she began. Dear PM, I am a paddle kind of gal. How'd you know my favorite fantasy? There are many things I want to explore. I was married for over twenty years to a man whose lovemaking became less and less . . . innovative. He thought spanking was either silly or sicko; I'm not sure he ever made up his mind on that. He did spank me a few times in the early days, but it didn't last long. I'm 44, blonde, blue-eyed, and rather innocent looking; this often works to my advantage. I've been divorced for a year. My figure is about what you'd expect from a woman in her forties who has had two children, though not bad. :-) One child is currently doing grad work; the other is working for his father. As for being a babe, I occasionally attract attention of the right kind. Five-seven and full of pee and vee, as Mama used to say. Used to live in the Boston area but moved back here to the old home grounds a few months ago. Are you a lifelong southerner? NB After she sent it, Anne chewed her nails but didn't have long to wait for the answering chime. Hey NB,
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Lifelong southerner, own my own business with another guy, a graphics software firm. Never married nor engaged nor ever lived with a woman other than my mother. :-) Five years younger than you, and that doesn't bother me a bit. And I like that you describe yourself as full of pee and vee. What happened with the husband? The usual drifting apart, or something more active? PM Removing her glasses, she scrubbed her face with her palms. She'd not answer PolyMath any more tonight. Rehashing 24 years of her relationship with Harold just did not appeal to her. Images sharp as razors cut her heart as she recalled her ex-husband's face and how much she had loved him. Loved him still, if she admitted the truth. Signing off and shutting down her computer, she crawled into her ascetic single bed, keenly aware that it was sized only for one.
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Chapter Six Cambridge, Massachusetts Spring and Summer, 1975 "Look, all I'm saying is that you've got to expect that sort of reaction from time to time." Anne, so angry tears were springing to her eyes, cried, "How can you defend the way I get treated! Just because I'm a liberal arts major doesn't make me stupid! I was good enough to get into this place!" "I know you're not stupid, but to a place filled with mathematicians, scientists, and engineers, a liberal arts major seems, well, not as serious a choice, and perhaps the person is therefore not as serious." "Harold! Why didn't you defend me? Why don't you ever seem to be on my side?" He lost his cool. "Anne, if you don't like being treated the way you are, then either leave the school or change to a real major." "A real major? You asshole! And you say you love me!" "Not right now I don't!" Anne was stunned by such a cruel comment. "Get out of my life!" she screamed. Harold, so cool he was ice, left, pointedly closing her door as quietly as he could. He drove her crazy. Why was it that the one man who made her insides feel like molten lava could not talk to her or with her to save his life? Not only did they communicate terribly, he didn't want to talk. Ever. About anything emotion-related, at any rate. And when he did talk, he said things like he just did. And he never backed her or supported her in front of others. Miserably she looked out at the cold April rain. She had a lot of studying to do, but she couldn't, not yet. Never had she loved a man more; never had she successfully shared feelings with a man
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less. Their styles were fire and ice: when she was angry, he froze her out. And he was fond of the blame game. It was her fault; her communication style must be at fault, because it's the responsibility of the one communicating to ensure that they are understood. At least, that's what Harold claimed. Nor did they really seem to have any other interests in common besides the great sex and an ability to laugh a lot with each other. The skills needed to build a life together, well, either they weren't there, or neither of them could find out if the other had any. They might as well have been speaking two different languages, for all the good it did them when they tried to talk. That is, when she could actually get Harold to listen to her and to respond with something other than a sullen look that said, quit bugging me with your problems. Besides, he was still clearly besotted with Mrs. Blondie. He never questioned her decisions, her opinions, and did whatever she demanded. Let Anne make a small request, though, and he flew off the handle, labeling her demanding and controlling. Yet no one else had ever moved her so profoundly before. And, having seen all too many bad marriages, including the one of her parents, Anne doubted that she could find anyone better. We never find our soul mates, she mused with tears running down her face. No, we only find the ones who have the power to tear out our hearts with a single word, but who are either powerless or unwilling to help us mend ourselves again. Early June in Boston is soft and lovely, warm without oppressiveness, the perfect weather for lovers old, new, and reunited. Anne and Harold sat on the front steps of her building, entwined and content. She had swallowed her pride and called him yesterday, and he had turned down Mrs. Blondie to rush to her side. After a long night of lovemaking fireworks, the happy couple slept in, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and now was relaxing in the sun and basking in each other's afterglow.
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"Hey, hon, whatcha thinkin' about?" Harold's grip around her waist tightened and moved north, until his thumb was slyly tormenting one of her well-used nipples, the rest of his fingers cupping the lower half of her breast. Anne moaned slightly and slumped a bit to give him better access to her breast, her nipple stiffening under his teasing touch, the area between her legs already flaring open and wetter than the Charles. "Still want to hear what I was thinking about?" Harold breathed in her ear. "Mmmmm, uhhhh, yeah, okay." Anne's halfclosed eyes clearly revealed that none of her consciousness was concentrated on intellectual pursuits at the moment. "I got an offer to post-doc at Cal Tech." Anne shot upright and impatiently pushed his hand away, all thoughts of sex forgotten. "Why didn't you tell me?" "Well, until last night, we weren't exactly on speaking terms." "Did you accept? Or will you accept?" "Yes and yes." She suddenly felt cold. Soon he would be on the opposite coast. "When do you leave?" "Mid-August. Going to drive across the country." He watched her study her nails, then bite one ferociously. Her private signal of inner turmoil. "When do you graduate?" he asked softly. Anne refused to raise her eyes or take her fingertip out of her mouth. "I finish in January." "What are you going to do?" "Probably try for a job in radio. I've been working at the campus station the past couple of months, riding board, and I start my first announcing slot next week. I like it better than anything else I can think of." Her voice was almost sullen. Harold stroked her hair, petting her, nuzzled her neck, trying to melt her, wanting her to moan once more under his touch. She refused, sitting rigidly,
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biting first one nail, then another. He sighed in exasperation. "Look, I took the post-doc because you told me to get out of your life, remember? How was I to know you'd want me back again?" His voice turned into a near-whisper. "Besides, I had to get away from you. It was killing me to be so near to you without being able to have you." Whipping her head around in amazement, she said, stunned, "It was?" "Yes, of course! You know I love you!" "You do?" "Haven't I told you that many times?" "I seem to recall your telling me you didn't any more." "That was only because I felt that way at the moment. I don't feel love when I'm angry with you. Although that doesn't mean I don't still love you," he hastened to add. Confused, she said quietly, "I wish you wouldn't say things like that, things that have so many specific, technical meanings in them. It's like you're a lawyer, arguing a case, trying to trip me with your semantics." "Hey, hey! Look at me!" Anne raised her watery eyes to meet Harold's. She blinked, and tears spilled against her will. She wasn't sure, but she thought his eyes looked wet, too. He tenderly held her face in his hands and kissed her. "I love you." "And I love you. Dear God, I can't stand the thought of you being three thousand miles away!" Her breath caught in a half-sob. "We can correspond, and talk on the phone. And you can come see me after you finish in January." "What does this mean? Are we a couple?" Anne closed her eyes, afraid of the answer. "Sure, if that's what you want." "What about . . . er, you know, Mrs. . . .." "It's over between us." "Really? Truly?" "Yes. I've been replaced." His voice was bitter. "When did this happen?"
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"Last week." Harold mentally crossed his fingers, not quite telling the whole truth. Yes, she'd taken another lover, but she'd made it clear she was happy to continue jumping Harold's bones until he left for California. Harold had his pride, but it seemed to stop short of that irrational one-eyed monster in his pants. Yes, he'd take Mrs. Blondie anywhere and anytime she wanted it. Didn't mean he didn't love Anne, though; just that the sex wasn't nearly as hot with her. Well, it was good, but Anne was so much work compared to Mrs. B, he mused, who was perpetually ready to fuck, no foreplay required. And she came at least five times to every one of Anne's. Still, he loved knowing that Anne thought he was the best lover in the world. His right hand closed possessively over her left breast, and his left hand cupped her crotch and kneaded. Anne gasped loudly and jerked involuntarily at the thrill shooting through her body, then pushed him away, panting, "We're out in public. We can't do it here!" "Then let's climb those stairs, now." Anne hopped up and turned quickly. On a whim, Harold raised his arm and smacked her smartly across her seat. "C'mon, let's go!" Oh, my, Anne thought, stopping dead. "Harold?" "Yes, what is it? Move!" Once more his palm landed, stinging her. Anne involuntarily grabbed her backside and rubbed it, then quickly removed her hand. "Spank me again, love." "Okay." Two more swats as she climbed the stairs. The small amount of heat on her behind was creating a much bigger heat between her legs. Once they were safely in the apartment, she grasped him roughly and kissed him, hard. "Please, please take me over your knee, Harold! Take my cutoffs down and tan my hide!" He looked at her blankly. "It turns you on for me to spank you?"
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Lord, he could be so impenetrable at times. "Yessss!" she hissed. He moved to the couch and seated himself. Anne approached. "Well, take your pants down." "Ohhh, Harold, you do it, please," she begged. "Uh, okay," he shrugged, unzipping and working the tight cutoffs down past her hips, dragging her panties with them. Anne stood there, transfixed. The moment she'd often fantasized about was about to happen, with the man whom she loved as much as she loved her own life. Trembling, she placed herself across his lap, squeezing her eyes tightly as the slaps began to rain down. Then his fingers explored the crevice between her thighs, and she quickly opened her legs. Expertly he touched her just so, until she was humping with frustration. Then he walloped her cheeks about a half-dozen times. Anne was ready to faint with pleasure. The burning tingle in her nowpink bottom felt so good. "Stand up." She clambered to her feet, exploring her warmed seat with her fingertips, curious, while Harold rapidly divested himself of his shorts, revealing a very erect flagpole. On a whim she mock-saluted it, then giggled. "You know the old saying: Run it up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes." "Get over here and put me out of my misery! Or I'll spank you till you can't sit down." Anne had him inside her before he could finish his sentence. "Would you really spank me till I couldn't sit down? Oh, Harold!" she breathed. His only answer was a soft grunting, and a panted, "I love you," as nature took its course for both of them, Anne fantasizing about a life of sex and spanking with Harold. I've found my dream man! she thought. "Well, Anne, I think we've found the cause of your recent illness." She rubbed her hands together nervously. She'd
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felt so badly lately, kind of like she had a mild flu, only it had been continuing for weeks. And she was so sleepy! "Tell me straight. Do I have cancer?" If she did, what a birthday present! Anne was 19 today and looking forward to an evening's celebration with Harold, assuming she felt well enough. The doctor laughed. "Of course not." "Then, what's wrong?" "Nothing is wrong. You're pregnant, that's all." "I'm what? How can this be? I always use birth control!" "Sure you didn't forget once, say, back in early June? I'd say you're about two months along." With a sinking heart she remembered the day Harold spanked her for the first time. She'd never replenished the spermicide before that encounter, and he didn't use a condom, either. Not that he usually did; they both figured her diaphragm was protection enough. "Am I to assume this is not a planned, happy event?" "You assume correctly." Anne's visage and voice were grim. "Would you like information on, um, alternatives?" The doctor coughed. "No, thank you. Not right now." "Are you sure? You know certain procedures are illegal in this state past twelve weeks, and you're at least eight to nine weeks pregnant. And it will take at least a week to schedule, um, it." "No. I have to go tell the father, first." Funny how the doctor couldn't bring himself to say the word, "abortion." "If you decide to keep the baby, make an appointment first thing, so that we can follow your progress and care for you. If you decide not to, then you have a limited timeframe in which you can arrange things." "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." Out in the blazing August sun, Anne leaned
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against the wall. Pregnant! And her just 19 today! And Harold due to leave for California in three days! What would her family say? What would she do? Where would she go? Did she want to be a mother? Did Harold want to be a father? Dear God! Harold chose that moment to stroll by the campus infirmary, Mrs. Blondie at his side. Although they were clearly taking great pains not to touch each other, Anne could tell from Harold's body language that he'd just had sex. And it sure hadn't been with Anne. She stumbled around the corner, out of sight, bent over as if in great pain. For the first and only time during her pregnancy, Anne vomited. "What do you mean, you don't want to go to dinner? It's your birthday!" Harold's tone became solicitous. "Did you see the doctor? Are you feeling okay? If you're not, we can stay in, that's all right." "Harold, I saw you today, but you didn't see me." "What are you talking about?" "Harold." Anne gulped, then forged ahead. "Have you been fucking her?" She couldn't bear to say the woman's name. He refused to drop his eyes. "Yes," he said steadily and without apology. Anne already knew this, but it wounded her afresh. She dropped her face into her hands. God, what a fool she'd been. "Get out," she spoke quietly but harshly. "But she's only a sex partner. It's you I love." "I thought we were supposed to be a couple, not a threesome!" "You never told me we were supposed to be monogamous." Harold played it cool. "You can't claim that. I never agreed to that." "Oh, Harold, fuck you and your logical, legal arguments. Fuck you very much." "If you're just going to curse me, I'm going." "Fine." Anne's voice was toneless. "Go. Now." "I won't be back to say goodbye before I leave."
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Harold meant California, and Anne knew what he meant. "That's fine. Have a nice life." "You're such a bitch." With that, he walked out of her life. She heard rather than saw the door close. Moving to the window, she watched him leave her building. Would he look up, to see if she were standing there? No, he strode away without a backward glance, a man with a mission. On to California, land of golden sunshine, women, and opportunities. Anne reflexively protected her abdomen with her arms. Abortion was the logical choice, the choice Harold would have made. She, as he had pointed out so triumphantly any number of times, was not logical. On this one occasion at least, she was proud of that fact.
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Chapter Seven Atlanta, a Saturday in Late October I pulled into the space next to Ron's vehicle. I hadn't any trouble at all following him to his apartment, but now that we were here, my insides were shaking. Was I really ready for this? Ron came over to my car as I continued to sit there. "You okay?" "Yes." I opened the door and got out. I hadn't smoked in years, but boy, what I wouldn't have given for a cigarette right then. "Sure you want to do this?" He stood there, not touching me, asking for my consent one last time. I was reassured by this, and knew I could trust him completely to abide by such things as safewords and taboo activities. Looking deep into his eyes, I felt myself grow a little wetter, a little hotter down below. Oh, yes. "Yes, I'm sure. What do you take me for, a newbie?" I mock-scolded, hands on hips. "According to you, you are, NewbieBabe." He smiled that wonderful smile and cleared his throat. "Well, I can see that I've got my work cut out for me, with a smart-mouthed brat like yourself, but pretty soon Miss Smarty-Pants is going to feel plenty of smartin' after those pants come down. Follow me, darlin'." Gulp! This was it. I followed him quietly into his apartment. A normal place, one you'd find in any of two dozen North Atlanta apartment complexes. He shut the door, I put down my purse and my "just in case" canvas bag: just in case, that is, we hit it off, and I stayed the night. Plus, it contained a couple of toys I had; more just in case thinking. "Follow me." He led me to the bedroom. "Turn around." I stood facing the bed, Ron behind me. His fingers brushed my neck as he began to
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unzip my dress, and I could feel his hands trembling. I heard a low, growling moan, primitive and animalistic, and realized it came from me the moment his fingertips grazed my nape. Until that moment, we had not touched each other except to shake hands upon our initial greeting. Now I was the one shaking. I felt the zipper move halfway down my back. "Bend over." More low "unnnhhhh" noises from me as I rested my palms on the mattress. He lifted my dress from behind, and I felt more naked and vulnerable than I had in many years as the air conditioning's breeze whispered across my bottom. More aroused, too. His large palm cracked one pantied cheek. He did not disappoint. It stung. He used his hand on my other cheek. "Is this too hard for you?" "Unnhhh, no," I managed to gurgle. He smacked me harder. Ouch! "How about this?" "Uh, no, um, that's not too hard. But it does sting." "Good!" He cracked my backside a few more times as I began to squirm. Yes, this was definitely smarting. I felt his fingers at the waistband of my underwear. Slowly he began to drag them down over my cheeks, and I heard myself moan as if I were listening to someone else. "Ah, a little color. Already your tail's a bit pink, sugar. But not pink enough." He stroked my now naked behind, then briefly touched me between my legs. I quickly spread myself, groaning encouragement. But instead of stroking, I got spanking. Man, he sure could hit hard! My squirming started anew as my behind began to burn from the repeated smacks. "Stand up." He resumed unzipping my dress, taking it off my shoulders and letting it fall around my feet. I stood there in my bra, panties at halfmast. He unhooked the bra (after a little trouble; I
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smiled to myself) and pushed my panties to the floor. I stepped out of all my clothing and my shoes, still feeling the sting he had raised in my fanny. He blindfolded me. Oh, God, this was incredible! I could hardly believe I was standing in Ron's bedroom, blindfolded, naked, smarting, and horny as all get out. The moment (well, one of a few moments) that I'd hotly fantasized about over the past few weeks was here. I briefly worried whether he found my body attractive. Then all thoughts left my head as he took both my hands. "Follow me." I walked hesitatingly, listening for his directions, walking left and right according to the way my hands were pulled, then stopping when he told me to. He touched me all over with great tenderness before spanking me some more. I was gasping and groaning and felt as if I were hot enough to melt. "Back up." My smarting buttocks touched a table. "Climb on. Don't worry, I won't let you fall," he reassured me as I clambered on. He must have seen the anxiety on my face. I tend to lose my sense of balance when I can't see. He spread my legs as wide as they would go. I was acutely aware that he was studying my genitals, although I couldn't confirm that by looking. Since I was shaved, no hair hid anything, and he could easily see everything I owned, as my mama used to say. I felt strangely embarrassed, knowing he was gazing at every fold, knowing he could see me glistening. Then he dipped a finger into my juicy portal, tracing it around for a while as I wriggled and moaned, acutely aware that I felt very, very much like begging him to touch me some more. "Where's that little nub of yours." "It tends to hide when I'm aroused." Somehow, I felt inadequate to confess that. "Ah, there it is." A tongue. A tongue! Softly he lapped me. When my orgasm began, it felt like finding an oasis after a long trek in the desert. I
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especially liked the way he continued to lick me even after I came, but much more gently, so that I was able to enjoy it without feeling overstimulated. He nuzzled me between my legs a few minutes more after I began to breathe again, then helped me up off the table and removed my blindfold. He kissed me and started the butterflies racing around my tummy again. "Well, hello!" He smiled down at me, hugging me. Here we were, him fully clothed, me completely naked, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. "Hello yourself." I nibbled his lips. "That was wonderful." "I could tell you were enjoying yourself just a little bit," he teased. "Shouldn't I be doing something for you?" "Not right now. I like it just the way we are. I get most of my pleasure from producing pleasure in you, anyway." "That's a strange way for a dom to be. You're in control, but I'm the one who's getting catered to, her every physical whim satisfied." "Oh, you'll get to satisfy me, don't you doubt that. In ways we've discussed, and ways you never even dreamed of. Remember, what I say, goes. And why is that?" Ah, my cue for one of our private jokes. "Because you're the dom, that's why! Sir," I sarcastically added. He wasted no time, whipping me around and spanking my seat hard and fast while I complained and squirmed. "I shall always punish you immediately if you test me, remember that. You and your bottom would do well to tell your mouth to lay off the smart remarks." "Yes, sir, yes!" I yipped, genuinely contrite now as I hopped about, trying to avoid the swats. "Owww, that really hurts! I'm sorreee!" A few more incredibly stinging blows; then he stopped.
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"Be good now, sugar." He sat down and pulled me onto his lap. My butt was hot and a little sore to sit in complete comfort, but perching on his leg and curling up in his arms made me feel safe, secure, cared for, and cherished.
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Chapter Eight Burgess, Georgia, the Following Monday Due on the air in twenty minutes, Anne sprayed gravel as she skidded into the station's parking lot. She'd never heard the alarm this morning after her almost-sleepless weekend with Ron, not that she was complaining. She'd been spanked more times than she could count, and he'd put her to work at satisfying him in some intriguing ways. He'd also done his part to satiate her as well. Now she just wanted to sleep for about fourteen hours. As she shifted her weight to get out of the car, a wince crossed her face. He'd not left a mark on her anywhere, but her fanny was so tender she planned to do her entire show standing. Her workload would be light today, so she could probably claim illness and leave at three when her airtime ended. Bursting through WTPD's front door, Barb the receptionist greeted her with, "You look like Hell, hon." "Feel like it, too. Spread the word that I plan to go home after my shift. I think if I go to bed and rest later today, I'll be all right tomorrow." "Dixie Steve" Carroll, the morning guy, waved at her from the glass -enclosed booth. Sticking her head in briefly, she said, "Steve, I'll be in soon. Not doing too well today." She left him nodding his head while pulling commercials and music for the first hour of her show. She fled to her office and shut the door. Only then did she exhale and grimace, rubbing her backside while checking her voice mail and email. Nothing terribly urgent. Opening her tiny private refrigerator, she removed an ice pack, lifted her skirt, and applied it to her naked bottom, cooing with relief. The voluminous, opaque skirt was the right choice – underwear would torment her to death today. The phone rang; she snatched it up.
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"Programming." "Hey, sugar, how you sittin' today?" "Not so well. Sir," she added quickly. Ron's warm laughter poured into her ear as her body began to respond to the sound of his voice. Damn, but he really had her hexed and sexed six ways to Sunday. "I'll send you some email later. You be good now. You know what happens if you're bad. It's not like I'm so far away I couldn't come down there and whup your behind if you don't behave. And I don't suppose you'd like another whuppin' at the moment, would you?" Exploring her sorest areas with her fingertips, she admitted, "No, sir, I surely wouldn't." Dang it, she was getting wet! "But I sure would like it if you'd, um, come out here and put out this fire you seem to have started between my legs." "Now, shug, you'll just have to wait a day or three for some satisfaction. You do remember the penalty for easing your own tensions, don't you?" "Absolutely, sir." "All right then. Keep your hands off yourself, unless you want me to bring a peach switch and lay down some tracks on your fanny tonight." "No, sir!" Lord, she could barely stand the feel of the cotton skirt brushing against her ass, let alone endure what Ron would do once she was over his lap. "Then I'll talk to you later, darlin'." Eight before ten. Hanging up the phone and putting the ice pack back in the fridge, she felt, thankfully, somewhat numb when she patted her sitting area. Not that the lack of feeling would last. The phone rang again. "Programming." "So, how'd it go? Can you sit at all?" Warren hooted. "It went well. Maybe too well, considering how sore I am." "Shall I come by and rub some aloe gel on your
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delicious bottom?" "Warren, we've had this discussion. I'm not going to have any kind of relationship with you except a platonic one." "Now, tell me the truth: a little rubbing does sound appealing, doesn't it?" "Depends on the part of my body being rubbed. Gel on my bottom would feel great, but not satisfy me, if you get my drift." "Hee, hee. Want to have a beer tonight? You don't have to kiss and tell in detail, but as I sort of coached you through your first Internet affair and your first real encounter of the spanking kind, I'd appreciate a little feedback. Take pity on a horny engineer and let me live vicariously." "Warr, I'd love to, but I haven't had much sleep in the last 48 hours. Tomorrow night?" "Sure thing. I'll bring a pillow for you to sit on. Those booths at our usual hangout have hard wooden seats." "You embarrass me by bringing a pillow and I'll make you eat every bit of the pillow's stuffing." "Was he as hot-looking as me?" "Yeah, right. Imagine a guy as tall as quarterback Drew Bledsoe, only built like a lineman with a John Elway face, and dark hair and eyes. Pretty much drool material. Huge hands, too." "If he's so hot, why does he have to look on the Internet for a partner? I'd think that ladies would be breaking down his door." Anne saw the clock and swore. "God, it's three till ten! Bye, guy." Anne ducked into the ladies room briefly before racing to the studio exactly eleven seconds before her show started.
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Chapter Nine Atlanta, Same Day He was cutting a peach tree branch. A nice, thin, whippy one, sure to leave ouchy stripes and make a young lady step the dance of repentance. No, wait, he would make her cut the switch. Naked. Yes, that would work. He'd enjoy every moment of her embarrassment, her fumbling eagerness to finish the task so that she could duck back safely into his apartment and coincidentally not run over the time limit he'd set for her chore. The tree outside his apartment was hickory, not peach, but it'd do, all right. Ron stared out the window of his office. He preferred to do his coding at home, but while he was playing software-nursemaid to yet another new junior programmer, he needed to be present at RGB. The peach tree's scratching against his window distracted him, whispered fantasies to him. He checked his watch. Two PM. Damn. He wasn't getting anything done. He broadcast an email to all employees before he grabbed his canvas briefcase and strode down the hall to the elevator. Ron's partner Jeff Rowland caught up with him briefly. "Hey, I need you here. Ryan's floundering and I've got to fly out in an hour to Houston." "Can't do it today, Rowland. At least not right this moment. If Ryan's flopping around like the new fish that he is, maybe we made a mistake in hiring him." "Nah. It's just his first day. He needs something to do." The two men reached the elevator. Ron punched the down button viciously. "For chrissakes, have him do some QA or read the company manual or something. Or send him home early. I'll be back tomorrow, Jeff. Jesus. I just can't think here today with our asses on the line with XyGraphic. I have a lot of code to crank out."
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"Okay. Take care of XyGraphic and do what you need to do. But I'm going to be gone for the rest of the week and you are needed here, not at home." Ron nodded to a scowling Jeff as the elevator door hissed shut. The twenty-minute drive home gave him ample time to savor the weekend's memories. On Saturday neither of them had wanted to stop their activities for a restaurant dinner, so he had had some Thai food delivered. He smiled to remember how embarrassed Anne had been, standing in the corner in full view of the delivery guy, covered from the waist up but with her bright red backside on display as she faced the walls. The delivery guy had blushed, stammered, and finally grabbed the twenty, running off before Ron could offer a few ones as a tip. The food had been good, but the sex had been better. And the spanking . . . well, they hadn't been able to get enough of that, it seemed. Sunday morning he had taken her over his knee while she was still drowsy from barely three hours of sleep, peppering her bottom with the wooden hairbrush she had brought with her. Although it had been intended only for her hair, her butt had tasted it thoroughly. Anne had finally broken down and cried, and he had touched her hot zones until she whimpered, but not from pain. He took her from behind, riding her leisurely while she begged for release. He had kept her hungry for her orgasms until the afternoon, when he finally gave her what they both wanted. Bent over the couch, she groaned in relief while he took her anally and fingered her slick little nub until she came, gloriously and repeatedly. His climax followed shortly thereafter; he replaced himself with the large butt plug he'd slapped in. Laughing as he pulled into his apartment complex, he remembered her complaints about the size of the plug, about how it made her tight little hole ache. A thick leather strap had changed her
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protests to pleas for mercy, and he had taken her out to dinner wearing the uncomfortable plug and some welts from the edges of the strap's rough leather. She had squirmed almost constantly on the hard wooden stool until he had whispered in her ear that he'd take her out to the parking lot and "give her what for" if she didn't stop wiggling immediately. My, oh my, he thought, grinning while sitting in his apartment's parking space, lost in memory. Her hushed, "Yes, sir," had roused him when he thought he had no erections left in him. Insinuating his fingers under her skirt, he tickled her until her spasms began. She couldn't help jerking her hips a little as she came, and she had stuffed a big bite of barbecue in her mouth to stifle her moan of satisfaction. He didn't spank her for that hip jerk in the restaurant's parking lot, but he had done so in his apartment's parking spot. Pulling her over his lap, he had bared her fanny and smacked her "sit spot" till he had moved her to sobs once again, her chagrin at being semi-publicly spanked overpowered by her stinging bottom. Looking around, he wondered at the fact that only a few short hours before, he had given her a quick paddling and made her suck him off before sending her, unsatisfied, on her way to work. He'd sure like some more sucking right now; he felt as if he had a cylinder of solid steel wedged in his pants. But work called, and it was half his company. He busted his ass long hours to keep the business growing. He'd love one of those fancy gentrified condos near the High Museum in midtown, but every cent went into the business. A luxury apartment would have to do for now. Still, nothing said he couldn't be pleasured, though he wanted to keep Anne hungry for more of him by depriving her for a few days. He punched an old flame's number into his cell phone and arranged dinner with a woman who
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would give him all the suckee-fuckee they both wanted. He'd always thought it a pity Brandy wasn't into spanking and D/s games, though she'd do just about any kind of "vanilla" activity in any position for any length of time. After making plans for a late dinner and even later sex, he hurried inside to get as much coding done as he could by 9 PM. He wanted to finish the XyGraphic project and still have time to shower before he experienced Moe's fajitas and Brandy's hot little mouth, twat, and anus. After all, it wasn't as if he were married to Anne.
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Chapter Ten Burgess, Tuesday Warren, having arrived first, ordered two Sweetwater Pale Ales. He still couldn't get used to finding his favorite Atlanta microbrew at a glorified pizza joint out in the Georgia sticks. Hell, he could hardly believe they allowed alcohol in Burgess. What a straitlaced town it seemed to be, though he'd heard that a recent wedding between two schoolteachers had been rather wild. Rumor had it that the groom spanked the bride at their reception. Mmmm. Now that was his kind of wedding. Warren closed his eyes, his imagination filling in the colorful details, and wished once more that he didn't work for Anne at WTPD. He'd had a jones for the woman from day one. Ironically his desire for her kept him at the station rather than moving on, even though staying at the station guaranteed she wouldn't consider him as a lover. But why else would he do donkeywork and live in this one-horse dump of a town? He knew he could take his degrees in math and electrical engineering and make big money in the city and drink Sweetwater at any of a dozen watering holes till he was pissing pure ale. But he wasn't at all sure that Anne would date him once they no longer worked together, especially now that she was seeing some high-powered software geek. "Hey, wake up." A "thwock" on his skull opened his eyes into a squinting glare, only to soften once he realized it was Anne hitting him. She slid slowly into the other side of the booth, taking obvious care not to sit down too quickly. "If you were my woman, I'd take you into the parking lot right now and use my belt on you for rapping me on the head." "Well, you're not, thank God," Anne huffed. Warren wilted a little to hear that. "Because my butt's so damned sore, I don't
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think I could bear another spanking in the next 24 hours." As if to emphasize her point, she slid both hands under her and kneaded her nether cheeks while wincing. He smiled. It wasn't him she was rejecting; it was the idea of more spanking. "Well, tell the tale of your tail already," he said after the ales were brought, poured, and tasted. "What's to tell? We met, we liked each other's looks, we went to his place, we played. He kept me naked the entire time we were in the apartment, and he spanked me more times than I can literally count or remember. All I know is that sleep never felt so good last night after the weekend's carryings-on. I took a little ibuprofen to take the edge off the soreness and slept like a baby for twelve hours straight." "Was it everything you'd hoped for?" Warren asked, unhappily watching her face take on a dreamy cast. "Oh, yes. Ron's incredible. I never felt so bonded to someone before, except for Harold, of course. He knew just what to do and when to do it. He's a little bit too into the dominance thing, but the spanking had me swooning as well as crying. And the sex . . . " Anne's voice trailed off. Squirming, she whispered, "Just thinking about it is almost getting me off while I'm sitting here with you." "Well, I always wanted to see you come, so maybe this is my chance," he whispered back. Shaking her head, she murmured, "He'll switch me if I come without his permission." Warren's eyebrows hit his hairline. "What? You're kidding, right?" "Nope." She wiggled a little more and groaned, leaning forward. "Oh, God, let's stop talking about it, before I go in the ladies room here and take care of myself. Oh, Warr, I can't believe I just said that. I've never done such a thing in my life! He's got me in a tizzy." Anne leaned over even farther, giving him a long
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look down her v-necked sweater, moaning and squirming. He gulped to see the luscious swell of her breasts and a wisp of black lace struggling to contain its lusty contents. Damn, he was going to have to go to the mens room himself if she didn't stop her wiggling around. He spoke, his voice rough with frustration. "I can see what you mean by 'a little bit too into the dominance thing'. Spanking you for having an orgasm. Man, I've heard it all now! I thought the point of all this was to have fun." Studying him for a moment, she commented, "Good point. His controlling my sexuality drove me to new heights of arousal, but it was a bit frustrating to leave yesterday morning with no satisfaction. I took my paddling like a good girl and gave him the best oral sex of his life, but I've been in a state since then. I am so horny I could fuck a fence post." "Are you horny enough to fuck me?" "Warren . . . " "Sorry, Anne." "Y'all want any more beer?" the waitress said as she stopped by their table. Exchanging looks with Anne, Warren nodded. "And a pizza with barbecued chicken on it. Large." "You got it, hon." A beat of silence before he ventured to ask, "If I didn't work for you, would I have a chance at all?" "Warren, you're 30. I'm 44." "So what? I thought you liked younger men." "Fourteen years of younger seems like a lot." "Not when you're talking sex. For sex, it's perfect. And you didn't answer my question." Anne squirmed again. "Please, can we stop talking about sex?" "If you don't answer my question, I swear I'm going to spank you, even if you fire me afterwards." "Oh!" Anne's eyes shut while she gulped and shuddered. Exhaling in a rush, she confessed, "Guess I'm going to get a switching now."
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"You mean you just– ?" "Ohhh, yes, Warr." "Wow. I've never known a woman who could get off just talking about it." "When you said you would take me out and spank me, I think that did it. Along with all the grinding of my crotch against the booth's seat I've been doing. Not to mention the way you've been looking down my sweater." His hand crept under the table to squeeze her knee. "I think you answered my question. Thank you," he smiled. She took his hand off her knee, but she squeezed it before she scolded, "Hey, I never said you had a chance with me." "But you never said I didn't, either." His other hand caressed her thigh briefly before he removed it to pick up his glass. She smiled, warming to his touch, telling herself that her enjoyment was due to the beer.
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Chapter Eleven Atlanta, Wednesday Trying to shave around a near-permanent grin when you're sleep-deprived can be dangerous. Thank God for styptic pencils. I have to go into the office today, but if my smile were any bigger my face would split. I've had more sex since Saturday than I'd had in the previous year. First Anne all weekend, then Brandy. Monday night we'd met at the restaurant, taken a look at each other, and forgotten about dinner in favor of getting naked at my place. It was so much fun we did it again last night. I managed to get about six hours sleep, the most I've had in days, mostly because I booted her out around midnight and then wrote software code till about two. Well, not really booted. Brandy eagerly went home for some sleep after our two-night marathon. Running out the door, I vaguely remembered the phone ringing last night. Might as well check the message. I punched the play button as I picked up my canvas briefcase by the door. "Hi, Ron." That girlish but sultry voice could only be Anne. "I'm afraid I, uh, well, came. I wasn't trying to, but I was talking with someone about the weekend, and, um, I just . . . did. I'm sorry, sir. I know what this means and I accept my punishment. Call me on the studio line tomorrow if you don't get this before 11 PM tonight. Please, sir." Well, I'll be damned. She actually told me the truth. I figured she'd get off with her vibrator a zillion times and never tell me. As I left the apartment, I eyed the hickory tree outside my door. No. The peach switch was called for. And I had one of those at work for the taking. It's funny how life can be, I mused while driving a boat of an SUV to RGB, Inc.'s offices on Mansell Road. (We men like big in our SUVs, that's for sure.) I've had sexual dry spells last a year or more.
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I'd meet great women, but something always seemed to derail progress with them before it really started. Work was often the culprit. Females don't tend to understand when you place debugging above a relationship. Of course, back in grad school, I had a Ford Excursion-sized crush on a woman named, improbably enough, Liberty. "Libbie" to her friends. I was one of those, but never managed to be more than that to her. Of course, she was doing it with everyone except me (if I didn't count that one time), and that hurt a little. Well, a lot. Maybe I've never managed to get over her, really over her. I certainly haven't been emotionally close to a woman in many years. And, for the moment, that's fine with me. I have no great urge to pair up or procreate, and pretty much never have. Some of us males were never meant to be monogamous, I suspect. I pulled into my personal parking space at the office and headed in, nodding a greeting to the receptionist and holding off several anxious questions from junior folks, saying only, "Fifteen minutes." I shut my office door behind me and set about calling Anne, watching the peach tree wave its branches around in the October breeze. "WTPD," she said into the phone. Cool and businesslike, but still holding a touch of that sexy huskiness I so loved. "Anne, I got your message." She said nothing. I waited, almost hearing her edginess over the wires. "Just a moment, sir. I've got to do a break." "Take your time, sugar." She put me on hold. Damn, but that peach tree was giving me ideas. I ignored the ads, listened to her talk up a song's intro, and then heard her return to me. "Sorry to make you wait, sir." "Hey, you're doing your job. That's cool." "Well. Er. What next?" she said, punctuating her
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question with a nervous titter. "I'm going to take care of this business on the weekend. Clear your schedule from Friday night to Sunday morning. After that I'm gonna have to work, darlin'. Can't be helped." "Yes, sir. Friday night to Sunday morning, my ass is yours." I chuckled at her turn of phrase. "You better believe it, Annabelle Lee Bailey." I swear I heard her gulp. "Oops. Segue time." I waited a moment till she started a new CD. "I'll see you Friday night. Is seven all right?" she asked. "Seven's fine, eight's even better. I know what Friday night traffic on the loop can be like. I'll pick up some takeout so we can eat quickly. Then I'm going to get medieval on your heinie. Consider yourself warned." "Yes, sir." "And for pity's sake, don't have any more orgasms. You'll never sit again if I have to punish you for more than one that you enjoyed without permission." "Yes, sir," she stressed. "Sorry; got to go now." "Bye, sugar." She broke the connection and was gone. Only now, damn it to hell, that solid-steel cylinder was back in my pants. I forced myself to concentrate on email for ten minutes, giving Little Ron a chance to calm down. Then, I opened my door. It was time to go to work, and newbie programmers needed to have their hands held.
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Chapter Twelve Cambridge, Massachusetts, January, 1976 "Anne! Anne, is that you?" She froze, stopping her lumbering gait. It's difficult to walk in slush and ice when you're seven months pregnant. But what chilled her more than the weather was the voice. It was Harold. She knew it without looking. She stood completely still and waited for him to overtake her, waited for the shock of recognition to play across his face, the moment when he would see that she had put on a little weight. His grin faded indeed upon spotting her protruding belly. "You swallow a basketball? Jesus, Anne, is it mine?" "Of course, you asshole. I wasn't fucking around on you." "When were you planning to tell me? When the kid graduates from high school?" "Why do you care?" "Why didn't you get an abortion?" This last question really irritated her. "Because it was the logical decision, and I'm not at all logical, as you so used to love to point out to me, over and over again." She turned away, moving hesitantly across the slippery surface. "Go away. We don't need you." "We?" "The 'basketball' and I, damn it! Whom do you think I mean?" "How do you plan to support yourself and the baby?" Anne turned and spit out the words, and Harold took a half-step back when he heard the venom in her voice. "It . . . is . . . none . . . of . . . your . . . fucking . . . business . . . asshole!" "Anne!" He called to her back, for she had already turned to go. "Anne," he spoke more softly, more kindly. "Please. Have coffee with me. Dinner.
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Anything. We need to talk." Her voice floated from her retreating form. "You mean YOU need to talk. I don't. Not to you. Go away. Leave me alone." "Anne, marry me!" No, he couldn't have said that. It's too clichéd. Anne kept moving. "Owww! Shit!" She turned and saw him sprawled on the ice, wincing. "Fuck, that hurt." "Good." Anne turned away again and continued her cautious journey. "I was trying to catch up with you, that's why I fell! Please, Anne, please stop so I can talk to you." Suddenly her feet were no longer moving. Move, damn you, she cursed to herself. Brain! Move my feet! Now! Ignore the messages you're getting from my heart! Aw, fuck, here he is! Harold took one of her gloved hands in his, petted her face, tried to look her in the eye. But she was having none of that. "'You know what they say . . . if a couple manages to come at the same time, it's a sign. They have to get married, because it was meant to be. It's the ultimate.'" Her head snapped up and she made eye contact so forcefully he blinked. "How dare you quote that to me at this moment!" The tears dripped despite her angry shakes of her head. "How dare you taunt me like that! I didn't think even you were that cruel." He was crying, too, she noticed. "Anne, Anne, all I have done is think of you. I would have taken you with me to California if I'd known you were pregnant with my child. I never would have left you behind! Please, I want to do the right thing. Marry me." She drew back. "The 'right thing'? Oh, don't worry. I won't come after you for child support. You've no obligations here." Still, she found she could not walk away. Her bravery left her. She was
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cold, and tired, and so weary of hurting over him. He gathered her in his arms, awkwardly but tenderly, and she sobbed on his shoulder, the tears ice crystals on his coat within moments. "Anne, I'll ask you again. Marry me." "No." "I love you." The magic words! "Uh, okay," she relented. "But not until after the baby is born." Harold kissed her with such force that she felt her breath sucked out of her. "You're sexier than ever, did you know that? And I do love you! But why won't you marry me until after the baby is born?" Anne wasn't sure of that herself, but it had something to do with her own independence, and obligations, and choices made because she chose them deliberately, not out of desperation. "Because that's what I want. And furthermore, Harold, marriage means monogamy. Unconditional. And that's non-negotiable on my part. If you can't do the monogamy thing, walk away now." But please don't, her heart pleaded. "Yes. I understand and agree. I will be faithful. Now, tell me, when is the baby due?" "March 15. Beware the Ides of March," she joked feebly. "And did you graduate?" "That's where I was coming from, Administration. Wrapping up the details of my graduation." Anne was eternally grateful that the school had never made an issue of her unwed mother status, but rather chose to benignly ignore her swollen belly. "And what are you doing until then?" "I'm moving back home with my parents until the baby comes." "Oh, no, you're not. You're coming to California with me." "But I said I wouldn't marry you until after the baby is born."
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"So, live with me, instead." Again Anne felt her will melting like icicles in the California sun. "All right. But I have to tell my folks. I don't know how they're going to react, me living with a man outside of marriage." "Can it be any worse than it was when you told them you were pregnant and unmarried?" Harold was unable to keep the grin out of his voice. "Come to think of it, you've got a point." Anne laughed for the first time in months, then frowned. "But, but, my doctor. And health insurance. All that stuff." "What were you going to do at your parents' house?" "Oh, they're carrying me on their insurance." "So, stay on their insurance until we marry, then you can be on mine as the spouse of a student." "Yes. Okay. Oh, Harold, I do love you!" "And I, you. Let's go warm up and get something to eat! Mary Chung's?" The place they went the first time they went out to dinner together, still sweaty, sticky, and tingling in all the right places. That fateful first night, little more than a year before. "Yes, let's go there. Harold, do you know Richard Feynman?" "Not personally, really, but of course, he teaches at Cal Tech, and I've talked to him. Why?" "Just wondered. I've heard he's one of the brightest physicists around, the best since Einstein." "Yes, he is. And a cool guy, too. Anne, you're going to love Pasadena! It was 75 degrees and sunny when I left!" Harold gave her a playful whack on her behind. "You still live on Magazine?" "Yessss, Mistah Leibovich, what do you have in mind?" "Well, I thought, uh, if it won't hurt the baby, that is . . . " "Only if you spank me first." "How will I ever get you across my lap? I'm not big enough to hold you in your current state!"
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"I'm sure we can figure something out." Anne giggled and realized with a shock that she was horny, so incredibly hot and wet, and here was Harold, the cocksman himself, and he still thought she was sexy despite the fact that she resembled a beached whale more than a hot nineteen-year-old babe. "My thoughts exactly." Harold smiled into her eyes, pushed her against a wall, and kissed her. His hands busied themselves under her coat until she thought she'd scream in lust. "Mmmm, I like your body. So full. So luscious," he murmured. "Think we can stop at my place before we go to Mary Chung's?" Anne panted, hooked once more. We will make it work, she promised herself and her basketball-to-be. She felt his hands tease her before he withdrew his hands. "Yes, I'm being selfish. I want you to be comfortable, love. Think that last bit of fondling will hold you until we can get there to do it?" "Yes, only let's hurry!" The two of them scuttled across the icy sidewalks, moving quickly but a little oddly, in deference to their swollen and throbbing genitals. Back in the apartment, he undressed both of them slowly, his fingers exploring every entrance to her body. One of those fingers was probing an area they'd never explored together, but that she had often thought about. And it was driving her insane with desire. She refused to think about where he might have gained this new knowledge, though. "Would you like to try something different? The baby's taking up an awful lot of room, and it might be fun to, um, you know, use a different . . . entrance." Anne couldn't believe it. He was offering to do what she'd been fantasizing about for months, ever since she caught some photos of a couple in a porno mag she'd found on the subway. Her hungry body followed every movement of his fingers.
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"Harold, I've never done any back-door stuff." "But you want to, don't you?" The lust hissed out of her like steam. "Oh, God, yes! Just go ahead and fuck me, Harold, any way you want." "Ah, the old Anne is back. 'Just fuck me.' Music to my ears!" Anne knelt on the bed, hips higher than head, while Harold lubricated them both and stretched her for a few minutes. Once he began, Anne cried out at the invasion. Immediately Harold withdrew, concerned. "Did I hurt you?" "Yes. No. I mean, please, do it again, just not as fast." Again she felt invaded, but more slowly and pleasurably so. "Tell me, good for you?" Harold could barely speak. "Yes." It was all she could say. It felt good, and not good, and dimly she felt his fingers, and their strokings were velvety and warm. She was fogged with pleasure and pain all at once. And one more time, they brought things to a successful, simultaneous conclusion. Yes, Anne said to herself as the waves of pleasure receded. Yes, they certainly had to marry now.
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Chapter Thirteen Atlanta, Saturday, Early November Oh, man, this hurts! He was right; I'm never going to sit again. I lay on the bed, face down, still crying, my bottom and legs burning and throbbing. I itched to touch my stinging areas, but knew better than to do that. Last night I had to confess to one more orgasm. I've never been very good at keeping my hands off my twat. I owned up to it upon my arrival. Dinner turned stone-cold while my fanny grew white hot under his rapidly-moving arm. And I cried. Oh, man, how I cried. My disobedience was also rewarded with a long, hard pounding up my back door. He touched me and kept me just short of my sexual boiling point for the rest of the night. I still haven't received any sexual satisfaction. I'm desperately hoping I'll be allowed some before I leave tomorrow morning. I know one thing: I never, ever want to be switched with a peach tree branch again, especially one that's been soaked in warm water for two hours. The crimson, swollen welts still on me today are going to linger a few days longer. And now I've got a new set of welts on top of the old ones. But I'm getting ahead of myself. After breakfast, I had showered before I reappeared in front of him, my head hung low. Part Two of my discipline was about to begin. "All right, sugar," he said, handing me a Swiss Army knife, "Get on out there and cut two hickory branches. You've got three minutes to cut them and clean them off. I'll choose the one I'm going to use on you. But I warn you: make sure both are sufficiently severe, or I'll cut the branch I'm going to use, and you definitely won't like my choice. Now get to it." He started the timer function on his watch as I flew to the door. I hesitated over going outside
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buck-nekkid briefly, but soon realized my chagrin over my nudity was the least of my problems. Besides, the area was fairly hidden from most of the other apartments. My entire body trembling, I cut two switches and cleaned them off as best I could and somehow made it back inside in a shade under three minutes. He actually looked disappointed, saying only, "Two fifty-eight. You're good at judging time." "It's the years in radio. I'm sensitive to short time intervals. You have to be if you plan to pee during a three-minute song and not have dead air." He bent me over a dining room chair and secured both my wrists and my ankles, with my legs spread as wide as he could make them. That's when I knew that it was going to hurt like blazes. I heard a faint buzzing before I felt a largeish vibrator slammed home. He attached it to a harness to keep it in place, saying only, "You'd better not come." Oh, Lord, the vibrator felt so good. I concentrated on resisting my urges. But coming became the least of my problems. The first bite of the hickory switch felt like a dozen wasp stings. Jumping, I nearly upset the chair and fell because I forgot about my bonds. Ron caught me, growled, "Hold your position," and began whipping me in earnest. Soon my universe was one large red world of pain. I became even more aroused, impossibly enough. Yet I did not come. However, I did bawl like a baby. After what seemed like forever, he took a break. Later, he told me I received about twenty on my sitting area. It felt like five times that. Once my frantic wails had slowed to hiccupping sobs, he took a most distressing interest in my thighs. Long story short, I ended up solidly sore halfway to my knees. Once again he waited until I calmed down, saving the worst for last. Briefly I thought someone
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had set fire to my inner thighs. I shrieked and cried and truly begged for mercy. None was given, naturally. When you hand over your power to a lover and play these sorts of games, he knows not to pay attention to anything coming out of your mouth unless it's a safe word. I have my pride. That safe word was not going to pass my lips unless I felt endangered. Although I was in a world of hurt, I didn't feel the least bit imperiled. Through the fog in my agony-clouded brain, I heard him say, "We're done." Dimly I realized that my bonds had been loosened and that the vibrator had been removed. Grasping me gently, he raised me to standing and held me as I thoroughly wet his shirt, choking out my apologies. Tissues appeared in my hands, so I took the hint. But after wiping my eyes and blowing my nose twice, I continued to sob. With an enormous sigh, he half-carried me into the bedroom, telling me to lie down until I had regained control of myself. I certainly didn't want to lie on my back, so that brings us to the present, me lying on my stomach, crying my eyes out. I felt as if I'd sat on a hornet's nest and then had the nasty insects blowtorched off my butt and thighs. I heard myself swearing fervently that I would never, ever touch myself "there" again without permission. Of course, we both knew this to be a lie. Eventually I would give in to my hungers, seeing as how he kept me sexually starved. "Sugar, you need to calm down now. You're going back over the chair." "NO!" I wailed. "Please, no!" Such refusal earned me ten new stripes and started my howling again, jerking around the bed like a landed fish. "Don't ever say 'no' to a direct order, darlin'. Now hush up and get back over that chair." Sobbing, I allowed myself to be led to it, and didn't resist when he pushed me over it, his
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massive hand gently pressing between my shoulder blades. "You're not going to be restrained, but I expect you to hold your position. I'm going to give you something to think about." He disappeared into the kitchen for several minutes. I was almost quiet by his return. More tissues were handed to me, and I made short work of them when I wiped my face and nose dry. His finger teased me, sliding in and out of me, tracing around my swollen clit wetly, massaging my inner G-spot. Once more I heard the familiar warning: "Don't come." His finger slid around the edges of my anus, then slipped in. Heavenly but less likely to make me come as quickly. The throbbing of my welts lessened; his other hand was busy spreading cooling aloe gel on my bottom and legs. I murmured my gratitude. His only reply was, "Hush now and enjoy it. It's not going to last." So I did, becoming lost in the exquisite sensations, my rear following his finger as he slid it in and out all the way to the farthest knuckle. A second finger joined the first, then a third. Moaning loudly, bucking my hips for all I was worth, I heard him comment, "You're wide open, sugar. It's time." I anticipated being allowed to orgasm soon and waited for whatever wonderful treat I would receive next. When he withdrew his fingers, I groaned in lust. He rammed his largest butt plug home. Yikes! Not only did it stretch me beyond previous limits, a combination burning-astringent feeling seared my anus and my insides. "OWWW!" I felt tears start again. "How have I displeased you, sir? This hurts!" "You haven't displeased me at all. I'm simply furthering your training. Be good now and take it like a grownup, not a spoiled little girl." My poor little hole clenched and puckered,
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smarting both from the size of the plug and its unconventional lubrication. His meaty paw slapped me forcefully on my sit spot. "Fire in the hole, sugar," he chuckled. Whimpering, I said only, "Yes, sir." After a moment of panting to regain my control, I asked, "What are you using for lubrication?" "A combo of chili sesame oil and fresh ginger juice. The oil burns, and the ginger juice prompts your tissues to contract, the better to feel the size of the plug and the burning of the pepper oil. My own concoction. I'm a regular chef." Ron laughed again. Still panting, I gasped, "What am I supposed to learn from this?" "I'm training you to associate pleasure with pain, so that you will eventually climax while being spanked, butt-fucked, whatever I choose. Our eventual goal is to have you come on command, no matter what." And with that, he knelt behind me and worked on my sensitive nubbin with his lips and tongue. Within ten seconds it was too late. "Sir, I'm sorry," I cried out as wave after wave of pleasure racked my shuddering body. "I couldn't hold off any longer." No words from him, just more licking and sucking and three fingers caressing my spongy Gspot. A second wave hit me almost as hard as the first one. I literally wept from the gratification as my entire genital area clenched around his fingers and the plug. "Sir!" I half-sobbed. "Please, don't spank me for this. I've tried my best to resist." The burning and spasms in my ass had settled down to a dull throb, and I felt his mouth leave me, only to be replaced by one finger tracing lazy figureeights around my clit and vagina's entrance. "Ohhh," I gasped, "You're going to get a third one out of me if you don't take your finger away. I'm begging you, stop now."
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He bent down, whispering in my ear, "It's all right. Relax. I want you to come. I told you I want you to associate pain with pleasure and eventually come on demand. At the moment I'm attempting to find out just how many orgasms I can wring from you in one session." So, with his permission, I let myself ride the waves as they crashed to shore. At some point I realized he was inside me, slipping in and out of me slowly till I came, then pulling out and sucking me until I came again, only to repeat the process. We thought the final answer was seven. After a good ten minutes of unbelievable fucking, followed by another ten of the best oral sex in my life, it seemed that my tank was empty at last. "My turn now." He grabbed my tender buttocks and jammed himself up my cunt roughly, taking me fast and hard, pulling me to him using his grip on my cheeks. Complaining about his cruel grasp, and nearly falling off the chair from his violent thrusts, the improbable happened. I came one final time, finishing just as he began. I had learned my lesson well.
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Chapter Fourteen Burgess and Atlanta, Sunday, Early November Warren cursed loudly to hear the phone's insistent call at eight AM. "Yeah?" He grumbled. "This is Jimmy." "Who?" he snarled, now truly pissed if this was a wrong number. "Jimmy. I run the Sunday morning 'Jesus shows'." "Oh, yeah. All those prerecorded preachers. Gotcha. Please don't tell me you woke me up over a missing tape. If that's the problem, call the PD, Anne." Warren was taking the phone away from his ear, ready to hang up, when Jimmy blurted, "I wish it were that simple. We're off the air." Warren bolted from his bed, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt as fast as he could, stepping into his battered running shoes, not bothering with socks. "Say no more. I'll be right there." Throwing down the phone, he raced from his apartment to the station's transmitter room. Repeatedly trying to power up had no effect. Jimmy had told the truth; it was as dead as last night's roadkill. As Warren was grabbing his toolkit and opening the main panel, Jimmy stuck his head in the small room that resembled an engineer's dream toybox, with patch cords, wires, and circuit-related odds and ends scattered about. "All kinds of angry callers are phoning to find out what happened. Guess these tapes are more popular than I would have guessed. What do I do?" Warren, knowing that this Sunday morning parttimer was the greenest announcer at the station, said gently, "Tell them we're working on it. We'll be back on the air within ten minutes." "We will?" "I don't know if we will or not. But you have to
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tell them something, so tell them that. Or call Anne and ask her advice. Now go. I've got work to do." Anne. He remembered she wouldn't be home yet, and the thought of her snuggled in bed next to another man was a kick in the kidneys. Tamping down his feelings for her, he yelled after a vanished Jimmy, "Call her cell first." An insistent cell phone brought Anne to consciousness. She'd nearly passed out at midnight, exhausted from yesterday's total of twelve orgasms and intense play sessions. Rolling over to grab her phone, she yelped when her backside and thighs rubbed against the sheets. Standing quickly, she answered the phone. "Bailey," she snapped, wincing to see her colorful marks in the closet's full-length mirror. She was as striped as a zebra and had no idea how she'd sit long enough to drive home. "Miss Bailey, this is Jimmy." "Who?" "Jimmy, your Sunday announcer?" The young man's voice shook and Anne calmed down. She remembered the nervous little seventeen-year-old local boy, stars in his eyes, trying to start a career in radio. He seemed scared of his own shadow, and her compassion came to the fore. "Jimmy, what seems to be the problem?" "Miss Bailey–" "Anne, Jimmy." "Uh, Anne, the station's off the air." Immediately she was all business. "Jimmy, did you call our chief engineer?" "Yes'm. He's here, working on the transmitter." "Then why are you calling me?" "I don't know what to tell everyone who's calling. People are all upset that we're not on the air and they're demanding answers. What do I do?" Jimmy cried in real anguish. "Tell them we'll be back on the air in about ten minutes and not to worry." "What if we're not on the air in ten minutes?"
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"I've never had Warren fail yet. Tell them fifteen or twenty if you want. The important thing is, reassure our listeners, Jimmy. Treat it as a minor thing, easily and quickly fixed. Talk to them calmly and respectfully. If Warren can't get us back on the air within twenty minutes, we'll have bigger problems than what to tell our listeners." "Okay, Anne. I'll do what you said. Will you be here soon?" "I'm . . . not at home. It may take a while for me to get there, maybe more than an hour. Tell Warren to call me ASAP when he gets the station back on the air. If he can't get it on the air within the next twenty minutes, have him call me then to discuss our options." "Yes'm. Goodbye." "Sugar, for waking me up early, that's going to cost you." Anne turned to see Ron, his face full of thunderclouds. "Sir, I had to answer the phone. You know what my job entails." "I don't give a flying fucking squirrel, Miss Annabelle Lee Bailey. Fetch me the big paddle." Anne felt tears of frustration and anger well up. "But sir, I–" "No 'buts' except yours over the back of the couch. Go on now. You've earned at least thirty for arguing and stalling. Thirty-one. Thirty-two . . . " Anne rapidly fetched the heavy wooden frat paddle and took her position, bending over the back of the couch and gripping the cushions. She was not at all sure Ron was within his rights as her disciplinarian to punish her for this. The more she thought about it, the more resentful she became. The dull thud of the paddle's impact belied how very much it smarted. Gasping loudly, she tried again. "Please, sir. My job requires that I be on call. I'm so sorry I woke you up, but please don't paddle me for doing my job." Ron whacked her sitting area repeatedly, lecturing her. "How much longer do you plan to
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argue with me? I'm going to give you five more each time you open your mouth, unless it is to apologize. You're up to thirty-seven, darlin', and with that welted tail of yours, you're not going to enjoy this at all." Anne closed her eyes, bit her lip, and tried very hard not to cry. But this punishment hurt her heart as much as her bottom; she couldn't stand the injustice of being paddled for being a responsible employee. It seemed so unfair and counterintuitive. Her crying soon drowned out the soft thwacks of the thick wood. Instead of feeling more and more submissive, which is how she usually felt during a spanking, she was feeling more and more rebellious. Finally, she blubbered, "Sir, unless you can tell me why it is wrong to do my job well, I am going to use the safe word." That brought Ron up short. He paused in midswing. "You feel endangered? Abused?" "Yes, sir, I do. Punish me for sassing you, for arguing, but not for answering my cell phone. I get paid to solve station programming problems. It's my job. I warned you that I must leave my phone on 24/7. I don't think doing my job is a spankable offense, and I resent that you are punishing me for it," she finished with a cry. Suddenly Anne found a wad of tissues thrust into her hands. Cleaning up her face as her sobs lessened, she asked, "Sir, may I please rub my bottom? The throbbing is killing me." "Tell you what. Let me get an ice pack." Moments later Anne found herself lying on the couch, her sore backside iced, Ron petting her hair and apologizing volubly. "I messed up, shug. I'm so sorry. You are right. Doing your job properly is not grounds for any kind of punishment. Want to paddle me? What should I do to make it up to you?" "Just don't ever do this again," Anne pled, her heart breaking. Her trust in Ron had been eroded by
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his impulsive actions. "Aw, let me take you out for breakfast." Raising herself up, she snarled, "Eggs and coffee will not solve this problem. Besides, I have to get going." Ron's mouth tightened. "That was uncalled for. You just earned another switching." "Yeah, yeah, go to hell. I think I've earned a 'be a bitch once free card,' don't you? After the paddling I just endured for no reason?" Still peeved, he said, "All right. No switching for being a bitch. But stop the attitude right now, or I will blister you properly before you leave." "Yes, sir," Anne replied woodenly. Doubts about this man's suitability for her now ran rampant through her mind. Her cell phone's ring broke the tension. Warren had managed to get the transmitter up and running, but he would need to take it down within hours for maintenance to prevent another episode of sudden failure. Anne and he agreed that midnight Sunday to 6 AM Monday would be the best time to do so, and that she would clear it with Henry, the GM, and tell the overnight guy not to come in. She felt vaguely guilty, talking to Warren while lying naked on Ron's couch, even though she and Warren were 'just friends,' as the saying went. His voice sounded a bit strained as well, because, of course, he knew where she was this weekend. Telling her friend goodbye, Anne ended the call and stood. "I'm going to get dressed and go home now." "All right, darlin'. You don't want to shower or eat before you go?" Ron's eyes were unreadable as they searched her face. Walking slowly towards the bedroom clutching her throbbing bottom, she said simply, "No." Ten minutes later she was attempting to sit down in her car. Sore, oh, so sore! It wasn't only her fanny; her thighs still burned, especially the inner areas when she walked. She'd forgotten and
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brought her tightest denims with her, and jeans were about the least forgiving piece of clothing to wear. She'd skipped the underwear, of course, but the rough cloth felt like sandpaper when it rubbed her inflamed areas. Not only that, her poor little butthole was stinging and raw from all that it had endured, both pleasurable and painful. He'd taken her that way at least four times, and he was not a small man, nor did he believe in spending a lot of time stretching her out. Oh, she loved it, even the hurt of it, but the thought of putting one more thing in that particular orifice made it clench involuntarily. She looked in her tote bag, seeing the plug that Ron had insisted she insert once she got home, and shook her head. Her anus was much too tender for that enormous thing. She'd take another switching before she'd use the butt plug today. Sighing, she vainly attempted to position her sitting area comfortably. The first flex of her left leg to clutch and shift made her grimace, telling her it was going to be a very long drive back to Burgess. Warren lay on his work table in the transmitter room, staring at the ceiling. Automatically he glanced at the readouts every few minutes, but his mind was anywhere other than his work. He'd hated calling Anne while she was with another man and drove himself nuts with his imaginings. She sounded the same, of course, businesslike and brisk. But he just knew she had been naked with a freshly-tanned fanny. He ached to be the man she was seeing now. Hell, he didn't know if it was love, but he had never been this interested in a woman before. Her angelic face, her lush curves, her keen intelligence: he wanted her, and not just sexually. Sex, he'd discovered, was not difficult to find, even in Burgess. But finding a friend whom you also wanted as your lover, who even shared your sexual kinks–now there was someone worth holding on to. Assuming he could get hold of her in the first place.
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Hearing quick, light steps making their way to the transmitter room, he sat up. Only one person walked with that pattern. "Hey, buddy," Anne said, "You are the best. I can't believe you got that old dinosaur running again. But shouldn't you be home taking a nap or something? If I know you, you didn't go to bed until four, and you're going to be up half the night tonight fixing the transmitter permanently. So go on home." Her voice scolded slightly but her glance did not. Swinging his legs around, he hopped off the table. "Nah. Not tired. Wanna go get some breakfast?" Anne hesitated a moment, then said, "Would you mind getting some takeout and bringing it to my place? Right now all I want is not to have to sit, and to get these scratchy jeans off. I need to eat, but I want to do it lying on my tummy, if you catch my drift." "Are you sure you can eat that way?" "I'm not all that hungry, anyway, and I certainly would rather starve this morning than set my butt down in a hard restaurant chair." "He really worked on you, didn't he?" Warren took a step closer, sensing Anne's distress. "Warr, I don't want to talk about it. Not right now." Noticing an extra glimmer in her eyes, he turned away, confused by her sudden tears. "Okay. How do bagels and coffee from Dunkin' Donuts sound? "Like heaven. I'll meet you back at my place. Please, take your time. I need a shower badly, and I'm not moving too swiftly at the moment." She walked to the far corner of the transmitter room, opened a tarnished, dusty tin, and tossed a key to him. "Here. I keep my spare key at the station. If I don't answer your knock, let yourself in. But please stay in the kitchen and let me keep what's left of my admittedly tattered modesty."
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Warren stood before the front door of her small but neat home. The lawn could use a mowing, but the bushes and flowers looked fine. He noticed she'd hung a new decoration featuring a cartoon ghost and the legend, "Have a Ghostly Halloween!" He knocked. No answer. He pushed the bell and called, "Anne?" No answer. Shrugging, he used the key she'd given him and let himself in, calling before his approach, "Yo, fair maiden, it is I, bringing thou royal personage her sustenance." A muffled voice from the far end of the house replied, "Go sit in the kitchen. I'll be out soon." He sat at the breakfast bar, popped the top off his coffee, and took a big swallow. Next he unwrapped the two cream-cheesed bagels and placed them on paper plates he'd found above the microwave. He nibbled on his onion bagel while waiting for an 'all clear' from Anne to leave the kitchen. The swishing of soft fabric made him glance up in mid-bite. She was wearing a dark blue sweater and the most voluminous pair of pale pink slacks he'd ever seen. "Are you in a harem or something? Those look weird," he mumbled with a half-full mouth. "No, just the softest, largest pair of pants I could find. They look ridiculous but I'm much more concerned with comfort today." Her pants swishing audibly, she walked to the freezer and removed a large bag of frozen peas. "These will do till I can manage to buy a real ice pack." "I'll go get you one once the drugstore opens." "That's sweet, but you've done enough for me already." "No argument, young lady, or I'll turn you over my knee." A bittersweet expression flashed across her face. "Warr, I know you're trying to cheer me up with your usual jokes, but at the moment I don't want to be cheered up. All right?"
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"You the bosslady, boss," he drawled, determined to make her smile. Ignoring his comment, she said, "I'm headed for the couch. Would you please bring the bagels and coffee with you?" Within a few moments he had moved everything to a nearby coffee table and helped her settle face down on her couch, the frozen peas molded to her lower behind. And a very attractive behind it was, he mused. She might as well be naked, considering the way the thin silk draped her curves. After a few moments of quiet, she hoisted herself onto her forearms and attempted a sip of coffee after her first bite of raisin bagel. "Well?" he asked. "Well, what?" "When do you plan to tell me what happened?" "How does never sound? It's really none of your business." Heatedly, he replied, "I think it is. We're pretty tight, and I know a friend in trouble when I see one. So spill it, lady. What happened?" Dropping her face into her arms, she muttered, "He punished me for answering my cell phone." Warren's eyebrows shot skyward but he remained silent, watching her. "He was mad that Jimmy's phone call this morning woke him up, and he decided to paddle me for doing my job, near's I can tell. I didn't like it. I thought and still think it was wrong, and after about twenty of the damnedest whacks I've ever had the misery to experience, I threatened him with my safe word. So he stopped. But I'm not sure he gets it. Am I making any sense?" She raised her head and stared dead center into his eyes, almost challenging him to disagree with her. "I'm not much into all the dominance head-trip stuff, but it seems to me he crossed a line." Warren's reply was mild, but inside he was steaming. He'd like to kick this asshole around like a soccer ball. What a pompous ass he must be, not to
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mention selfish and maybe a little cruel, also. "Warr, would you ever do something like that?" Her question stunned him. Usually serious conversation involving his spanking her was offlimits. "What do you mean?" he stalled. "You know friggin' well what I mean, Warren Aloysius Clay." She threw a pillow at him, which he ducked. "Ouch. You must mean business if you're using my stupid middle name. Why did I ever tell you what the 'A' stands for." "C'mon, quit dodging the question. Would you paddle me for doing a good thing, like my job, even though the result was bad for you, like I woke you up too early by accident?" Her stare intensified. He met her gaze levelly. "No, Anne. Doing so would be abominable to me." "So . . . you think I'm right to be wicked upset over this morning?" He smiled to hear her lapse into Bostonese expressed with a thick Georgia accent. "Absofreakin'-lutely," he answered. "Can this relationship be saved?" she joked. "With him or with me?" he bantered. Her expression sobered. "With him, I guess." The kindling of hope in Warren's heart died. "You'll have to talk with him to know that. Can't help you there." Anne rolled onto one hip and raised herself up. "I think I want to try eating now. And I sure need some more coffee–OW!" she cried, grasping her sitting area. "Damn, it really hurts!" "Did the bastard beat the crap out of you? Dammit, Anne, let me see. I'll go kick his ass for you," he growled. Starting to protest, she shut her mouth for a moment, then said, "Yes, you can see. But only for medicinal reasons, all right? Tell me how to heal what he did so I can manage to work the next few days a little more easily." Blinking with surprise at her change of heart, he
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knelt beside the couch. "Lie down on your stomach. Relax," his voice soothed as he delicately pulled the elastic waist away from her body and down past her quivering bottom and thighs, biting his lip to keep from roaring in outrage. He'd never, ever done anything like this to any woman. Magenta stripes ran from the top of her backside to halfway down her thighs, with deep purple on her 'sit spot' area. The bastard. Unable to control himself, he tentatively touched one of the swollen areas. "Hey! No touching!" she fussed. "This wasn't an invitation to sex." Still, she raised her hips ever so slightly to encourage his gentle fingertips. "My touching has nothing to do with sex. I thought you'd enjoy a little tender stroking. You have some serious bruises back here, Anne. Are you sure you want to see this, this, dom again?" he sneered, unable to keep the anger from his voice. He heard a big sigh. "Yes. No. I don't know. I'm so confused. Friday night and yesterday hurt a lot but I loved it; that's when I got the stripes. This morning hurt a lot and I hated it. I'm not surprised my sitting area is bruised, considering how hard he was paddling me." Sitting back on his heels, Warren felt the tightness in his groin area, painful in its constriction. Frantically he tried to distract himself by thinking about some Fourier series equations, willing his erection to ease. He didn't want Anne to notice and think he was aroused by all this damage. No, it was touching her soft skin, finally seeing her magnificent ass, battered though it was, that excited him. God, how he wanted her. Unable to stop himself, he ran his right index finger lightly down the length of her bottom's cleft, exploring ever so slightly between her sore-looking inner thighs. He heard her breath catch but, remaining silent, she again raised her hips toward him and pulled her thighs apart the tiniest bit. Probing further, he encountered moisture, heard her gasp something that sounded
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like, "Ohhh, yessss . . . " Well, this wasn't exactly discouraging his stiffie, but he no longer cared. Lowering his mouth to the area he had just touched, he insinuated his tongue into her wetness, moving it ever closer to the quivering nub hidden in damp creases. When the tip of his tongue finally found her, she opened her thighs wide for a moment, only to jerk away suddenly, crying, "No! Stop!" "Why?" he asked huskily, knowing she was but moments from her climax, his index finger still petting her most intimate area, her musk in his nose. "We've been through this. We work together." Frantically she grabbed at her pants, now way below half-mast, and dragged them up rapidly, hysterically eager to hide herself. In the process, he glimpsed her tantalizing, glistening folds as she rose up, legs spread wide with effort. "Damn it to hell!" she whimpered, patting her aching fanny and thighs after accidentally waking up the sleeping embers of soreness. Standing up, she continued clasping her bottom, sadness in her eyes. "Warren, I'm sorry. I know I encouraged you, then told you no. That's not right. I'm not the kind who teases. I hope you know that." Shaking his head, he said, "I shouldn't have touched you first. I was out of line. I'm the one who should be apologizing here." He noticed the way her eyes dropped to the tented area below his waist and could swear she was thinking about reaching out and pulling down his pants as well as her own. As she raised her eyes to his, he answered her implicit question. "I'll go buy you an ice pack. I've also got some arnica at home. It's good for bruises. Don't worry, I won't insist on rubbing it on your bottom myself. You can keep the bottle for as long as you need it." "Warren, I– " she stopped to exhale loudly. After a long moment, she nodded. "Thank you, friend," she said, hugging him.
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"You're welcome," he murmured, holding her tightly. He left for the store, closing the front door quietly behind him. Anne sighed. She didn't think her fanny looked that bad, but Warren had sounded outraged. She'd better go look again. The back of her bathroom door had a full-length mirror. Gingerly pulling down her pants so as not to rub the sore spots like she did before, she bent over and craned her head around for a better look. He was right. It looked terrible. Somehow knowing this made it hurt more. Kicking her pants entirely off, she took her bottle of ibuprofen and a washcloth to the kitchen. After wetting the cloth, she tossed it into the freezer, and swallowed three capsules while waiting for the cloth to get cold enough to do some good. Whoops. She was naked from the waist down. She'd better go put her pants back on before Warren returned. Recalling his touch, his tongue, and his tantalizing bulge, she felt an ache deep inside that yearned for him. Her fingers stole to her groin and explored. Lord, how she wanted some sex. No. She didn't want just sex. She wanted Warren. The realization stopped her diddling finger. Ron and Warren and her. Damn, but it was messy. However, like Scarlett, she'd think about it tomorrow. And, like Warren was sure to do, she'd steal away for a little solitary satisfaction. Pulling the large plug out of her tote bag, she smiled. She'd put this to very good use somewhere other than her butt. Picking up her pants along the way, she retreated to her bedroom to find her release, closing the door behind her.
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Chapter Fifteen Southern California, Summer, 1994 Walking the Santa Monica Pier and the nearby beach before hitting the bars had become his evening habit. Jogging about mid-morning followed by weightlifting kept his body in shape. And in between, Warren Clay thought of nothing but sex and women. Not that he was ever going to have sex with one of the bikinied beauties he ogled every day. They always spoiled it by opening their mouths. Here he was, an L.A.-area native , blond and mostly buff, with Cal Tech degrees in both mathematics and electrical engineering, taking the summer off after his Masters' degree. Here he was, living the good life in a slightly seedy apartment near the Pier, drinking beer every night in the seaside joints, sleeping late every morning. And here he was, still a virgin. Every time he'd spy a woman who got his Erector Set moving, she'd open her mouth and spout something like "OmiGOD!", her inflection rising and falling like one of the Pier's rides. He'd grown up in the Valley and had dated a few of the local bimbos, which explained why he was still a virgin. He could not abide stupid. He'd had his chances to party hearty with more than one nubile Val-Gal, but short of gagging them, there seemed to be no way to shut them up. And as soon as they began babbling, his equipment began drooping. So Warren worked out and ate right and lived a life way too chaste for his tastes. Too bad his cock seemed so picky about intelligence in a bed partner. He lectured himself for being a hopeless geek. At this rate, he'd never be laid before his fortieth birthday. He'd managed a fair amount of oral sex, since they had to shut up to suck him, and he could block out their silly comments while he was lip-deep in their musky folds, an activity he truly enjoyed.
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But actual intercourse he'd just about given up on. No intelligent women within miles seemed to want him. Only the hot-looking but 'dumb and dumber' ones seemed to want his package. He realized that many men would not see 'hotlooking but dumb' as a liability in a woman. As the summer wore on, he noticed that he preferred older women to young bimbos. He'd had drinks and a little groping in dark bars with a couple of bored thirtysomethings, but not the full spread, so to speak. And once while loaded he'd stumbled upon a couple in a dark alley, the woman moaning in desire while the man walloped her bared bottom with his hand. That definitely intrigued his Erector Set. He'd had many times of solitary pleasures after that, recalling the red, glowing handprints on her big, round backside. Actually, with some of his lesstalented oral partners, he'd used the fantasy to good advantage as well. Now here it was August already. In a month he planned to go to Atlanta to pursue work opportunities. He had a scant four weeks left to pop his cherry before he had to buckle down and work every day like every other poor slob not getting enough sex. Today he was drinking margaritas, and strong ones at that. It was barely afternoon; usually he didn't drink this early, but he was depressed over his virginity. Might as well get royally fucked up, then go home and beat off to his favorite fantasy. Man, this was one sucky summer. He should– The floral fragrance of Charlie mixed with earthy female scent tweaked his nose. Turning his head, he found the woman at the next table eyeing him. Smiling at him. Adjusting her neckline for him. Warren gulped a huge amount of margarita while sustaining eye contact. When he set his glass down, she inserted her index finger between her red, lipsticked lips and sucked. Pulling her finger out with a pop, she blew an air-kiss, raised her martini in salute to him, and sipped, never taking her eyes
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from his. Placing her glass on the table, she crossed her legs so that her dress fell open in the upper thigh area, relaxed back into her chair, and displayed the most salacious grin he'd ever seen on a woman's face. He stood carefully, his Erector Set fully engaged. Thankfully he was wearing jams, though it wasn't difficult to see his bulge. Dragging his chair to her table, he sat close enough to indicate interest, but not so close as to indicate a presumption of bedding her. Give him credit for some class. She wriggled a bit, then adjusted her halter and leaned towards him, thereby exposing most of her breasts, round, plump, and tanned, her firm nipples boldly poking through the thin knit material. Unlike ninety percent of the women in southern Cal, her hair was jet black, almost a blackberry color, and pulled back into an old-fashioned bun. Ice-blue eyes met his frankly. This lady had no bullshit in her. She knew what she wanted, and Warren suddenly realized it was he. "Huh–hello," he stammered. He thought he felt something brush the tips of the golden hairs on his leg, and he shivered. "Hey. What's your name? I'm Elaine." The blackhaired beauty looked firmly in possession of herself. Her red lips curved into a suggestive smile. Save lipstick, her perfect roses-and-cream face wore no makeup, and her nails were smooth but unpolished. Cocking her head, she watched his reaction as she ran her index finger's nail down the nape of his neck, then across his throat, leaving a trail of fire that made him squirm. "I'm, uh, Warren." "Pleased to meet you, Warren. How old do you think I am?" Her gaze challenged him. "Oh, uh, I'd rather not say." "You can't offend me, Warren. No matter what age you guess, I'm still going to have sex with you. Now, how old?" She dropped the sandal from one of her feet and daintily set her leg down across his
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thigh. He glimpsed gold toenails just before he felt her toes teasing his aching erection. "Uh, you are? Going to have sex with me?" "Warren, I thought you looked intelligent. Have I picked up one of the beach's blond male bimbos by accident?" She began to withdraw her inquisitive foot, only to have him grab it and press it against his bulged jams. He found his voice. "Elaine, I have a bachelor's of science in math and a master's of science in electrical engineering, both from Cal Tech. With honors. As for your age, I guess you are 31; I'm 24. As for your foot, it is a talented one, indeed. Please don't take it away." "Thank you. I won't remove it, mostly because it likes what it feels, very much. I'm 42, cannot get pregnant, also have an EE degree from Cal Tech, and am married to a man that owns a dozen radio stations. "And you're the hottest thing I've seen all summer outside of the pavement on I-5. My husband will be in Europe the entire month of August, and I'm looking for a playmate. No strings, though. Think you can handle it?" Grinning, Warren slipped a hand under her skirt, but dropped his jaw when he felt no panties and no pubic hair. Her toes began to manipulate him obscenely well. "Surprise, baby. Mama doesn't believe in underwear, and she likes to keep certain areas hairfree. You got a problem with that?" "Nuh–No, ma'am." "Don't call me ma'am. I'm not going to fuck a young stud that does. Got any questions?" "Why can't you get pregnant?" "Hospital stay, snip-snip, worry-free. Had it done years ago, after my son was born. He's also in Europe for the month of August, 'finding himself' before he begins college." Her foot and toes worked on him so skillfully he feared that any minute his Erector Set might explode. "Anything else?" "Talk to me in double-E," he challenged.
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Elaine sat up, took her foot away, downed the rest of her martini and his margarita, and whispered in Warren's ear: "I can tell you all about the analysis and synthesis of analog and digital circuits, as well as the various transform techniques using Fourier, Laplace, and Z-transforms. Know anything about radio and RF? It's my specialty. We could talk for hours about the modulation and filtering of signals." Biting his earlobe fiercely, he yelped as she continued, "That what you're looking for, stud? Have I impressed you enough with my brain? Want to fuck me yet?" Warren felt like he was melting into a warm puddle. Oh, please, Lord, let this not be a dream, he begged silently. "Well? You got the stones, or not? My car's right outside. Want to try driving a Boxster? I'm afraid I've had too much to take the wheel. "Oh, one more thing: you'll have to spank me first. You'll have to chase me, catch me, then spank me into submission before I'll do you. Maybe I'd better ask you again about the size of your stones." He looked fully into her face. No, it wasn't a dream, but a dream come true. He slid his hand under her skirt once again, not stopping till he had two fingers fully inside her wetness. It was her turn to gasp as he pressed his thumb against her clit and massaged her G-spot. "Where are the keys?" he snapped. "Not up there, sport." "Very funny. For that I'll use my belt on you." "You're not wearing a belt." "I'll use one of your husband's." He felt her quiver, ready to come, but he withdrew his fingers. "Bastard. You left me high and dry." Both of them stood. Man, she was tall, he thought. He was well over six feet, but she was at least six in her sandaled heels. Taking in her willowy height brought more throbbing down below. "I think I left you high and wet, dear. But don't worry, the night is young." Slapping her bottom
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hard, he asked again, "Keys?" Producing them from a tiny bag, she dropped them on the floor, smirking at him. "Yes, sir, here they are." He crossed his arms, smiling edgily. "Pick 'em up." "Make me." He pulled her to him, saying quietly in her ear, "You know I can't tan your hide in public. But if you don't pick up those keys and hand them to me properly within the next ten seconds, I will spank your cute bottom so thoroughly you won't be wearing a bikini anytime soon–unless you want the world to see a welted tushie." A soft moan escaped her lips. She kissed him briefly, then picked up the keys and handed them to him. "Here you are, sir." Contrition dripped from her voice. "Thank you, Elaine. By the way," he said as he led her out of the bar by her hand, "What's your last name? Mine's Clay." "Robinson." He stopped abruptly, laughing. "Mrs. Robinson? Like in The Graduate?" "That's right, 'Benjamin'. Only I didn't think you were old enough to know about that cultural landmark." "Just show me the way to the Porsche, young lady. You can tell me how to get to your place, but we're going to make a stop at my apartment first." "Whatever for?" "I've got a thick wooden hairbrush I think I'll need later tonight." As September neared, Warren found it hard to believe that less than four weeks before, he'd still been a virgin. He'd come, literally and figuratively, a long way since then. He and 'Mrs. Robinson' had had sex of every kind in every position, every situation, every fantasy either of them could dream up.
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And though he had been a complete novice at spanking, he'd caught on quickly. He'd actually developed calluses on his hands from spanking Elaine, and her bottom's skin had toughened quickly, too. So much so, in fact, that he had taken to making her sit in a tub of the hottest water she could stand, then exfoliating her bottom and thighs, all to make her skin as sensitive as possible before taking her over his knee. Three days before Mr. Brady Robinson was due home, Elaine treated Warren to a day of total sexual indulgence. After sixteen hours of the hottest sex and kinky play she could dream up, she crawled into bed next to him and murmured something into his ear that made him the happiest Cal Tech grad in Los Angeles. "Do you want a job around here?" she asked. "What? As your pool boy?" "No, Warr. At my husband's radio stations. He needs a chief engineer who's willing to travel among his many holdings. Each station already has an engineering staff. You'd simply be overseeing them and making sure they kept the stations in top shape and on the air." "You screen all your husband's employees like this?" Warren swept his arm to indicate the entire X-rated scene. She rolled her eyes in response. "Elaine, why don't you do it? You've got the credentials." "Because if I take the job, how do I keep you around?" "You want me around?" Warren wondered. "Aren't you having fun?" she challenged. "Hell, yes. But how do we manage to have our fun with your husband in town?" "I'll help you find a nice place to stay, as my house will be out of the question once he returns home. You won't have regular hours or an office to go to and you'll be on the road constantly, so we'll have plenty of opportunities to do the usual and the unusual. Not quite as many as in the past 26 days,
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but hey, you will have to work, after all." She continued, lost in thought. "Maybe we can visit that kinky little motel in San Luis Obispo. He's got a station nearby." "Elaine, tell me one thing." "Anything, you double-E stud." "Why do you stay with your husband and take on lovers? Why not, you know . . . ?" "I love my husband. You'll understand when you see him." "Huh?" Warren was confused. She kissed him with lots of tongue, then knelt on the bed, her hot, smarting bottom facing him, hips high in the air. "No more about Brady Robinson right now. I have a wide-open slot that needs filling, sir." Sighing but not in the least unhappy, Warren obliged her.
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Chapter Sixteen Auburn University, 1988–1991 Ron stopped on his way to a seminar and sucked in a lungful of the muggy Alabama air. Hot damn, a new school year. He loved September, even though in 'Bama it still felt like August. Striding along, cocky as hell about his success so far in the Computer Science and Software Engineering's Ph.D. program, he nearly ran into the attractive coed swinging her delectable hips in front of him, walking quickly across the Broun Hall quad. Man, he thought, smiling, her butt looked like the proverbial well-known gelatin dessert on springs. Of course, the clingy shorts she was wearing and her obvious lack of panties accentuated the effect. Hurrying his own steps, he managed to catch up with her, grabbing the Broun Hall door and holding it wide for her. "Hello there," he smiled down at her. "Hey, y'all," she breathed. "You as new here as I am?" "'Fraid not. I'm a second-year doctoral student and I did both my B.S. and M.S. here as well. Where are you from?" he asked as they continued down the hall together. Her breasts were bouncing freely under her scoop-necked knit shirt, and he was trying not to stare at them too much. "N'Awlins, Loosiana." "You undergrad or grad?" "Undergrad. Freshman." "Well, you have any problems understanding this stuff, you can always ask me. I'm Ron Gibbs, doctoral candidate. What's your name?" "Liberty. Liberty Rogers. Friends call me Libbie." Not sure what else to say and flummoxed by her figure, he blurted out, "Hot today, ain't it," all the while kicking himself mentally for such an inane comment. Liberty Rogers smiled at Ron, threw back her
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shoulders to emphasize her bodacious rack, and said something that, in his mind, summed Libbie up perfectly: "Do what I do. Don't wear any underwear. You're just as hot but the clothing rubbing against your damp skin makes you horny as a toad. Just one of the many pleasures of summer in the South." Over the next three years, Libbie and Ron became best friends. He was the person she could tell all her troubles to, such as when she was "late" after banging the football team's captain without birth control, or the night that the captain of the basketball team proved his reputation for having the longest, most limber tongue on campus by giving her eight orgasms. Ron smiled through it all and hinted heavily that he'd like to be the next one she got down and dirty with, but she never took the hint. At least, she pretended she didn't. So he would listen and hold her when her heart was inevitably broken, then go back to his place and curse while he relied on his own right hand to ease his tensions. Libbie Rogers was the only woman he'd ever wanted for keeps, and, it seemed, the only woman he couldn't have. Apparently, he was the only unmarried male in the state of Alabama she wouldn't do. He'd nursed her broken heart through so many others, he had permanent tearstains on his shoulders. And he couldn't figure out why she wouldn't go out with him. He'd never had any trouble getting prime nookie since he learned a trick or two back in his teens; his winning streak was years long. He even dated one woman exclusively for a year while still lusting after Libbie. Libbie of the long red hair, hourglass figure, and the strict "no underwear" policy. Just thinking about the sight of her bouncing down a flight of stairs made him bite his fist and groan.
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And, of course, Libbie was absolutely the smartest engineering student he'd ever had the pleasure to lust after. She almost ran rings around him, and he was the doctoral student, she the undergrad. Spring 1991 saw Ron finished with his dissertation and Libbie about to complete her junior year. Though he had taken care of all of his requirements and didn't need to be on campus again until graduation day, he continued to find excuses to hang around Auburn–and Libbie. One night in May, after she had finished her exams and diploma day loomed, Ron took her out to dinner, then back to his place for some serious celebratory drinking. He wasn't much of a drinker, but it was the only thing left he hadn't tried in order to get into her pants. "Bourbon, eh? Libbie eyed the bottle of Wild Turkey and grinned. "You know how crazy I get on the Turkey." Ron chuckled, saying, "Actually, I don't, but I hope to find out," before affecting a Dracula accent. "I vant to suck your . . . , he drawled, pantomiming exactly which parts of her he wanted to suck. Howling with laughter, she fell off the bed, slightly slurring her rejoinder: "When Wild Turkeys fly, Ronnie Ramrod." "How would you know about my ramrod? You've never deigned to try it out." Suddenly, she whipped off her t-shirt and shorts, stunning Ron. "Go ahead. You've had your tongue hanging out around me for nearly three years. You want to do me, do me." His fingers craved her skin the way a bird craves flying. As he loosened her long, red hair, it fell across the most perfect breasts Ron had ever seen. A little on the large side, but it wasn't their size that made them perfect: it was their shape and their fat, erect nipples, like cupcakes with cherries on top. Her waist tucked in so sharply she gave Barbie a
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run for her money, and the flare of her hips would cause a monk to renounce his vows. Seeing her dark red triangular patch for the first time had him instantly stiff, aching for release inside her. "Sugar, would you mind standing up for me and turning around?" he panted. Shrugging, she turned, revealing a creamy white back and a perfectly round, high, and firm backside. "Now bend over and spread your legs." She complied. His hand lightly brushed her pubic hairs before he dipped a finger into her. Wet, hot, and tight enough to bring him to the brink, and that was just his finger in there. Diddling her moist clit made her moan. Laving it with his tongue, sucking it gently, had her gasping. "Please. If we're going to have sex, give me some proper foreplay. I don't want to come so soon." "With pleasure." Removing his mouth, he decided to find out her reaction to his most secret fantasy: he walloped her once on each cheek, hard, leaving bright pink handprints. "Oh! Oh!" she panted. "It hurts but I like it. Do it again." Ron stripped his clothing off, sat on the bed, and drew her across his lap, giving her a proper hand spanking. The crisp sound of quick slaps punctuated her continual keening. As her hot, pink hindquarters slowly turned to red, he placed his left hand under her and explored her wetness while his right hand continued to darken her fanny. After a dozen intense swats to the center of her bottom, he lifted her up and sat her on his knee. "Oooo. It burns and I'm sore," she said as she squirmed. "God, you love it as much as I do, don't you?" he wondered. "Spanking? Oh, yes, darlin'. In fact, if you wanted to use your belt on me, I wouldn't mind." Glancing at the thick leather of the belt held by his pants' loops, he was tempted. But her taut
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nipples tempted him more. And he figured he'd get to use the belt on her another time once she'd experienced his talents. He sucked and licked and pinched both her stiff peaks for long minutes while she straddled one of his thighs, rubbing herself against him and fondling his erection. Whispering into his ear what she wanted to do next, she placed her knees on either side of him and slowly lowered herself onto him. They kissed for the first time as they rocked. Slow didn't last, however, and soon they were rutting wildly. On a whim, he snuggled a finger up her anus, only to have her come immediately and explosively. Her strong spasms triggered his own orgasm. They held each other close, breathing rapidly. Ron was the nearest to heaven he'd ever been. Libbie was even more amazing than he thought she would be. He had to have this world-class piece of ass permanently. "Libbie, marry me." "What?" She bounced up and off him, alarm on her face. "Well, sudden marriage might be skipping a step or two, I guess. At least date me seriously. Why not? We're best friends and the sex we just had can only get better, though I'm not sure how, because this was the best I've ever had. You clearly enjoyed yourself, too. Anyway, we can see each other till you finish your B.S. and decide whether you want to go on for another degree. I'm a modern guy; I've got no problems with you having advanced degrees and a career. Maybe we could even found a company together. I'm sure my buddy Jeff Rowland consider a triumvirate. So, whaddaya say, shug?" He had been so caught up in his own happiness that only now did he see her frown. His smile drooping a little, he cajoled, "Well, speak up, girl. Why the long face?" Libbie sat on his lap, took his face in her hands, and kissed him roughly. He noticed a glimmer in her eyes before she put the knife in his heart.
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"Ron, you lust after me because I'm unavailable; you know I'm never going to get serious with you. I don't have enough self-esteem to date a guy who actually respects me, while you don't have enough emotional courage to succeed at true intimacy, so getting hung up on me is safe for you. We fit together like some perverse hand in glove, but it would never work between us. The sex was great, and we can do it again anytime, but don't start talking marriage or dating or any of the rest of it. I know I'm a great lay. Take advantage of that and let the rest go." The pain crushed him. She might as well have kicked him in the chest with combat boots. Picking her up and setting her down on the bed, he dressed, Libbie saying nothing, snuffling as fat tears ran down her face. Before he left, he turned to say, "I never want to take advantage of you, ever. I care about you too much to do that. Please, Libbie. My offer was sincere. I . . . I'm very fond of you." She laid down on the bed and spread her legs, pointing at her genitals, grinning grotesquely. "C'mon, sport, it's yours for the asking. I give it away to everyone else, so I might as well include you among my ever-expanding circle of fuckmates." She tried to laugh but her face screwed up in agony. Just before she collapsed into heaving sobs, she said, "I noticed that even you couldn't manage to say the "L" word to me." "Say it, Ron," she cried. "Say it and I'll be all yours." Her choked howls of misery followed him out the door. He was out of her life forever.
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Chapter Seventeen Burgess, Sunday, Early November I knew I needed to get some sleep before I stayed up all night messing with the transmitter, but I couldn't get Anne out of my mind. The things she told me and the images of her wounded bottom haunted me. It wasn't abuse, but it wasn't right, either. Why did she let this happen? A good, hard spanking is one thing, even one that leaves marks, but the reasons her current lover busted her butt were bogus. Hmmm. Why was I obsessing over this? Admit it; you're in love with her, my inner voice chided. Groaning, I pulled the pillow over my head. Now I knew I wouldn't sleep. The closest I'd come to love was Elaine. I hadn't seen nor heard from her in over a year, the amount of time I'd been working in Burgess, and part of me still missed her. Although I've found some kinky friends in Georgia that don't talk stupid, none of them are girlfriend material. They've all made that clear to me. And, though Anne seems interested, she has real issues over pursuing an affair with anyone she works with. I admire her principles, I really do, but it seems the only way for us to get together is for me to quit working for WTPD. If I do that, though, it's going to make her life worse, because finding a talented engineer willing to work for a small station qualifies as a needle in a haystack search. And I certainly don't want to make her life more stressful. Perhaps I can find my own replacement before I give my notice? I wonder if Brady might know of an unemployed engineer nearby. Anne. Thoughts of her stirred me. Never mind I'd already used a hands-on approach to solve my arousal problems three times today. Anne. What to do?
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For the moment, nothing. Anne. I hope she wakes up soon and throws the Atlanta jerk out of her life.
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Chapter Eighteen Atlanta, November I'm so steamed. How could Anne walk out on me that Sunday? Hadn't I said I was sorry? Aren't I allowed to make mistakes? Why can't she see that she hurt me? I thought she trusted me completely, and that trust really had me going. Once I finished paddling her, I was going to plunge right in. My dick was so hard I could have used it for a hammer. Then she had to threaten to use her safe word. And my erection shriveled to nothing. She doesn't trust me. Damn her. And her bitchy comment just tore it. She's topping from the bottom a little too much for my tastes. I had tried to go back to sleep, but I was too pissed off, so I took a shower, went out to breakfast, and on a whim called Brandy. At least I've got something fun planned for later today, after I finish some code. We'll eat out in more ways than one, and we'll rock my bed off the frame. As for Anne, I don't think I'll call her for a while. Let her stew. Let her worry that I'll never see her again. Let her go without sex and pine for me. In the meantime, I'll have my fun and get some work done for RGB.
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Chapter Nineteen Newton, Massachusetts, New Year's Eve, 1998 Anne looked around proudly, taking in the seasonal decorations, the baby grand piano, the solid-cherry furniture, the exquisite Aubusson rug, the mirrors, the crystal. She and Harold had toiled for many years to create a home as wonderful and warm as this one. For the moment she didn't want to think about their constant conflict over her job, their strained marriage, their tepid sex life. No, tonight they would celebrate with friends and clients, and, she hoped, they would celebrate privately later as well. New Year's Day would mark 24 years since the two of them had first made love. Max and Tessa were home, and she felt grateful to have them here. When the kids were young and she and Harold were broke, she'd felt trapped, staying home alone with them while he worked 80hour weeks. But that was past now. Harold's and Isaac's software engineering firm, HALIPP, Inc., had become reasonably successful, and the partners were millionaires several times over. She sat in a wing chair in their formal living room, sipping sparkling water from a Derwent crystal goblet. She'd rather be drinking a Harpoon IPA from the bottle, but Harold refused to keep beer in the house, calling it "declassé." It bothered her a little that she couldn't drink what she preferred, but it seemed a small price to pay for her husband and their two extraordinary children: Tessa, a secondyear doctoral student, as brilliantly serious in archeology as her father had been in mathematics, and Max, recently graduated from Brandeis, now toiling happily at HALIPP as a junior engineer. He was as goofy as Tessa was somber. Perhaps he'd entertain them all with his improvised songs, for only Max used the piano these days. She'd never learned to play, and Harold, a decent player, seemed to have lost interest several years back.
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Harold's focus on his pleasures had become increasingly narrow over the years, to the point where about all he did was work and invest, the better to grow their wealth. Money. She didn't care that much about it, though she was certainly thankful not to have to watch her pennies any more, thankful to have plenty for retirement and for the kids to inherit. She'd mentioned the "R" word to Harold more than once, but he reacted as if she'd asked him to dishonor himself. No, he'd probably not retire anytime soon, she sighed. Thank heavens she had her radio gig. Her husband, ever the night owl, resented her schedule; as the morning person for a suburban station, her 4:30 AM rising time and 8:30 PM bedtime were mandated. They didn't really see each other except on weekends, and even then he was either at the office, playing chess with his business partner, Isaac, catching up on his Investor's Business Daily papers, or watching CNN, thwarting her efforts to talk with an impatient "Shhh!" She'd offered many times to have lunch with him after her shift ended, but he always put her off with excuses of meetings and fires that needed fighting. And, of course, he volunteered to do most of HALIPP's business traveling. Sometimes the loneliness of her afternoons and evenings plagued her like a toothache. She'd tried suggesting that they have dinner together at least once a week, so they could share some time together before she went to bed, but Harold had vetoed that, too. Of course, what he wanted was for her career choice to have such unpleasant consequences that she would give it up. He wanted her home, at his beck and call, every evening from 8 PM on. Her job had become his excuse for many things: why they never saw each other during the week, why they rarely made love, why they hardly ever spoke at all any more, let alone discussed anything of importance.
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She shifted in the silk-covered chair. Yes, he wanted her to quit, or at least take a midday shift, but she was damned if she would give up her passionate love of radio for him. After all, morning shifts had the most prestige; her career would backslide if she pursued a midday shift. Plus, she loved the hectic pace, she loved chatting on and off the air with listeners, and she loved her sports reports once an hour. She didn't like getting up at 4:30, but no job was perfect. Besides, she was no freaking trophy wife, to be stored under glass at home, to be trotted out for important occasions. She had a brain, and she had talent. She'd stayed home for almost seventeen years before she went to work, and she was not going to chuck it all now for a sulking husband. Harold wandered into the living room, frowning and saying, "Is everything ready for tonight? Our biggest clients will be here." Patiently she said, "Yes, hon, it's all under control. Why don't you relax and sit down with me? I can get you something to drink if you'd like." Shaking his head, his glance was sharp. "Are you working tomorrow morning?" "No. I managed to find someone to do my shift. I told you I'd take the day off. It's our anniversary." "Our anniv–? Oh, yes. Well. I can spend the morning with you, but Isaac and I are meeting later in the day." She turned her head so he wouldn't see the sudden tears in her eyes and attempted to keep her voice steady. "You promised we would spend the day together if I didn't work." "I said no such thing. Besides, tomorrow's meeting takes precedence." "Over the woman you love?" she said, her voice bitter. "Don't start with me, Anne. Today of all days. Don't start." "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
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"You know what 'don't start' means. You're not dumb." "No, the 'today of all days' part," she cried, tears now running down her cheeks. "You have some special plans my love for you might ruin?" He turned away, waving her off. "I'm not going to dignify that ridiculous statement with an answer." He walked out of the room. Weeping silently, Anne finished her water. She raised the glass as if to throw it, to shatter it in the fireplace, but lowered her arm. Harold would consider such an act just a manipulative ploy , not a gesture of her true hurt and frustration. Closing in on midnight and 1999, the party was a roaring success. Anne played the perfect hostess while Harold performed as the perfect host. Their children had been suitably beautiful and intelligent, impressing every guest. Why, then, did she feel so terrible? What was wrong with her? She had everything, she lectured herself as she took a break from the festivities in the guest bathroom. Tears kept springing into her eyes at the oddest moments, so she was repairing her makeup for the nth time, it seemed. Why couldn't she be happy with what she had? As she began to open the bathroom door, she heard her husband's voice and that of another woman. Some little warning voice in her head told her to keep the door closed and to listen. She shut off the light. "Hal, do you really think we should be doing this?" The female voice was sultry with need. "Mmmm, whether we should or not, we're going to," Harold crooned. Anne's tears began to fall again. This time, however, she didn't bother to wipe them away. Sliding down the door, sinking to the floor, she heard every detail of something she had never wanted to hear. She waited silently through all the rich sounds of explosive sex, recognizing Harold's victory cry, hearing his partner exclaim her way
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through what sounded like six orgasms. Huh, she thought. No wonder he's always too tired or busy to do it with me. After the room on the other side of the bathroom door was quiet except for murmuring, Anne rotated the doorknob quietly and peeked out at the half-naked couple lounging on the bed. She knew she had recognized the woman's voice; her memory for voices was excellent. It was one of the marketing types from HALIPP. Anne had seen her before, both at the company picnic and around the office. Laura something. Her body was truly astounding; round in all the right places, but thin and taut and heartbreakingly young. She wasn't over forty and hadn't had two kids, like Anne had. She noticed that Harold was erect again. She hadn't gotten a second erection from him in years. Hell, she hadn't been getting any first erections either, not recently. Not only that, he was happily giving Ms. Perfect Body what sounded like her seventh Big O, only with his mouth instead of his cock. Hearing the wet sounds and Laura's squeaks, Anne could almost feel her husband's tongue and lips on her own sex, recalling how he had given her such pleasure in the past that she'd weep afterwards. She pulled the door shut and sat on the toilet in the dark, hoping the happy couple would leave soon, Anne's mascara-stained tears dripping down her nose and onto the bathroom floor. "I'll see you later, Laura, all right?" Harold said while opening the bathroom door and turning on the light. The shock on his face morphed into anger when he realized his wife had heard everything. "Are you done?" he asked his wife, his mouth set in a petulant line. She stood, wiping her face, and stared at him. "Oh, yeah, buddy boy, I'm done all right. When can I expect you to move out?"
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Chapter Twenty Southern California, Summer, 1999 "You're probably wondering why I asked you to come see me," Brady Robinson said. "Well, yes," admitted Warren, Chief Engineer for West Coast Wireless, Robinson's chain of radio stations. Brady looked Warren dead in the eye. "I know you sleep with my wife." Warren stopped breathing, briefly wondering if his boss was about to reach for a gun. Swallowing hard, he decided not to insult him by lying. "Yes, sir, I am. But I never meant–" "–For me to find out?" Brady jerked his wheelchair back and forth, his white-knuckled hands on the wheels. "Yes, I never meant for you to find out, but that's because I respect you. I also know your wife loves you and would never leave you for me or any other man." Brady sighed. "Yeah, I know. Life would be so much less complicated if she had just divorced me after the accident. She tries to hide her affairs from me, but a man knows when his wife is being sexually pleased. Especially when he's no longer able to do the pleasing." Warren pulled his work pass out of his pocket and removed an enormous ring filled with keys from a leather loop attached to his belt. Placing them on Brady's desk, Warren turned to leave. "Hold on. Where are you going?" Brady snapped. Warren found he could no longer look his boss in the eye. He genuinely cared for the man. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Aren't I fired? Even if I'm not, I don't think I can keep working for you. Not if you know about me and Elaine." "I've known about you and Elaine for a long time. You know I spank her too, right?" Uncomfortable and embarrassed by the word
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'too', Warren looked out the window and said, "Yes, sir." "Certainly you don't think I never noticed the marks on her fanny? The marks I never put there?" "Uh, no, sir." "Warren, look at me." He swung his gaze around, trying to sustain eye contact with a man he liked but had cuckolded for nearly five years. "Sit down again," Brady ordered. Warren complied. "Warren, after the accident, when it was clear none of my sexual function was going to return, I told her to divorce me. Made a generous offer so she could be independent and never have to work, if she so chose. She refused, and kept refusing, no matter how much money I offered. I then ordered her to find pleasure with other men. Yes, that's right," Brady confirmed when shock covered Warren's face. "I wanted her to have what I couldn't give her. In compensation, I guess you might say, I insisted on the chance to spank her for her infidelities. So, even though I can't have any real satisfaction, I still wallop my wife's lovely ass as often as possible. This expiates her guilt, as I always leave her sobbing, but also feeds her love of spanking. Sometimes she even wants me to . . . " He sighed. "Glad I've still got the use of my hands and tongue. So the two of us can share at least that much, and when it's that or nothing, it's not a bad choice. "I know Elaine is crazy about you, Warren. None of her other lovers lasted more than six months. But we have a chance to make love again. You've heard of Viagra?" "Who hasn't?" "The doctors think it might work for me. I've taken it once or twice, and had successful experiences by myself. I want to try it with Elaine. If we could make love again, I know both of us would be happier."
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"Sir, after hearing this, I really don't think I can work for you now." "I agree. But let me help you find a new job. You're a hell of an engineer, and if you want to stay in radio, I'll find a spot for you, as long as I never have to see your face again or worry that you're sleeping with my wife." "That's generous, sir. But I can find my own job." "No, Warren. Let me do this. It will be the biggest favor I can do all three of us. Where would you like to go?" Warren's mind raced. He loved southern California but knew staying around here was out of the question. He didn't want to bump into Brady, and he didn't want the temptation of Elaine. He wasn't in love with her, but he certainly was emotionally involved after nearly five years of spanking, sex, and secrets. It would hurt never to see her again, but it was what he had to do. Brady spoke up. "Let me help you out. Some place two or three time zones from here. All right?" "Okay, uh, how about Atlanta? That's where I was headed before I, uh . . . " "Before you met Elaine?" Brady tried to smile but only grimaced. "I was going to say, before you hired me." Warren's voice was soft. Brady rubbed his hand through his thinning hair. "Hell, you've been the best engineer I've ever employed. If it weren't for the promise that the Viagra holds . . . Well. Atlanta, you say?" "Or someplace close by. I've been there and think I'd like it." "And it's at least 2000 miles away. Atlanta works for me." Warren stood, offering his hand to Brady, who didn't shake but placed a folded note in it. "From Elaine. She's sorry she can't tell you goodbye in person. We both thought it was better this way. I hope you understand."
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Warren nodded, slipping the scented paper in his pocket, to be mourned over several times later while imbibing too many margaritas, and said the only thing appropriate to the moment. "Thank you, sir."
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Chapter Twenty-One Cyberspace, a Week before Thanksgiving Hey Ron, Is there some reason you haven't called me? I haven't heard from you since that Sunday I had to leave early, and I'm wondering what you're up to. Anne Anne, Seems to me you didn't really want to submit. Do you? Or are you just jerking me around? R. Ron, No jerking around. Just don't want to be punished for doing my job. Doesn't seem right. Don't you understand that? A. Anne – Wasn't punishing you for doing your job. Was punishing you for waking me up. Don't YOU understand THAT? Or are you too wrapped up in your own little world? I have serious misgivings about continuing as your disciplinarian. R. R– <SHRUG> I don't get it. Tell me why you don't want to be my disciplinarian. A.
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A – No, you don't get it. And you won't get it, or any, till I get back after Thanksgiving. Got to go see the 'rents. Mom and Dad are expecting me. Keep your hands off yourself, y'hear? Or you'll get royally whipped for it. Hell, you're gonna get a whuppin' in any case, for deserting me that Sunday. I'll call you after the holiday. Till then, be a good girl, don't bother me, and wait. Can you do that? R.
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Chapter Twenty-Two Burgess, Late November Here it is Thanksgiving, and I'm sitting here all alone. My son Max is staying with his father out of loyalty. My daughter Tessa is off on some dig in Greece. And I'm extremely pissed off at Ron. Not very submissive, but there it is. He claimed he had to go home to see his parents for Thanksgiving. At his age! And my suspicions have been growing that our couplings didn't make us an exclusive couple in his mind. He doesn't seem like the kind to be sitting around, saving himself for me. Not to mention the last time we were together wasn't exactly happy, happy, joy, joy. It took over a week for my bruises and welts to heal. He said I don't get it, but I think it's he who doesn't understand. Maybe Warren was right when he said, why would this guy need to go to the Internet to find a partner, seeing as how he's good-looking, smart, well-off, et cetera. Why indeed. Maybe because he's a supreme, self-centered asshole? Yeah, that might be why. Sure had me fooled for a while, though. Now I can hardly believe that I actually wanted this guy, wanted what he had to offer, thought some emotional connection was there. Ah, crap. Live and learn. And then there's Warren. At least the day has some compensations. After the high school football games are over, his engineering talents will no longer be needed and he can take the rest of the day off. I put together a small dinner and will heat it up when he arrives. Which ought to be soon, as it's nearly 2 PM. Football was all over by one. The doorbell rang, followed by some pounding. Warren's not exactly subtle, I smiled to myself while
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opening the front door. "Anne, I'm starved. Is that food ready?" "I'm fine, hello and how are you, too?" "Sorry. Didn't mean to ignore the social niceties. Hello and how are you?" "Hungry. You?" "Same." We exchanged hugs. "Let me heat the food up. I'll pop the pie in the oven to bake as well." "You made a pie? What kind?" Warren's eyes widened. "Correction: I'm baking a pie. One that Mrs. Jones or whatever-her-name-is made and put in the grocery store's freezer. Blueberry pie. Got vanilla ice cream, too. And of course, some Ben and Jerry's peanut butter cup chocolate ice cream, the kind that really puts a fresh coating of cholesterol on your artery plaque build-up." Laughing, he teased, "No pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving?" "Neither of us like it, and I love blueberry pie. So do you, I think, else why did you eat half my pie the last time I served it?" I yanked a lock of his silky blond hair, only to have him swat my sweatpants-covered fanny. "Hey!" I objected, though I couldn't help smiling. "Get that butt in the kitchen woman, and feed this man. Not that I don't want your lovely butt out here, with me, on the couch." He tried to smack my seat again, but I danced away. "No spanking the cook," I said airily, "Or you'll go home hungry." "In that case, please ignore me and go cook, woman." I microwaved and baked and boiled and by three I had a halfway-decent dinner on the kitchen table, plus a blueberry pie cooling on the counter. We took our time eating it, not talking much, just enjoying the lazy-day, holiday feeling. "Want to watch the Cowboys?" he asked while
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helping me clear the table. "Nah. The Cowboys suck this year." "True. Plus, they're from Texas. Yuck." "Texas would be a great place without all those Texans," I grinned, turning around suddenly, only to bump headlong into Warren. Both of us lost our balance, so we grabbed at each other and fell against the counter together, him on top of me. Our odd position equalized our height differentials, and I found myself almost lip-to-lip with him. He smelled like a man, he felt like a man, and his lips felt like heaven as they brushed against mine. I kissed back; I never wanted to wake up from my wonderful dream. Gathering me into his embrace, one arm held me close as our lips and tongues became acquainted, while the other sneaked its hand under my sweats and panties. His fingers lightly rubbed my bare cheeks in a circular motion, lighting fires in all the nearby areas. One of my legs wound around his, pressing his groin into me. Oh, the heavenly hardness I could feel, even through his jeans and my thick sweatpants. "Anne," he groaned as his other hand slid under my sweatshirt and soft knit bra, cupping first one breast, and then the other, tweaking the nipples to stiffness. The hand creating little circles on my bottom was sliding lower, teasing the inner thigh area that was dangerously close to my quivering sex. My hands were rapidly finding his belt, his button, and his zipper, and making short work of them. Suddenly, he lifted me to sit on the counter, pulled up my shirt and bra, and took one of my nipples in his mouth, sucking and rolling it while busy fingers down the front of my pants touched me, touched my wetness, caressing my little nub. I felt about thirty seconds from orgasm, and heard his belt tinkle as his pants dropped to the floor. "Anne," he groaned again. "May I tug down your pants? I want to enjoy you right here, right now,
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and I want you to enjoy me, too. I want you to wrap your legs around my waist while I ram–" The damn doorbell rang. I swore. Warren, his fingers insistent, murmured, "Forget it, babe, what I've got is better than what's at the door." I returned to my senses, realized I had been about to knock boots with someone who works for me. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Someone pounded on the front door, rang the bell again. I looked at Warren, imagined what it would be like to have him take me, and moaned, "Warren, I must see who it is, despite the fact that I'm desperate for you to– Never mind. Let me get the door." I didn't want to look him in the eye, but I did. The sadness I saw there said it all. I heard him pull his jeans up and rebuckle his belt as I walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door, hoping I didn't smell too much like sex. I was still rearranging my clothing and smoothing my hair when I looked out the peephole. Gasping in shock, I flung the door open. "Max! Harold! Oh God, is something wrong? Is Tessa all right? Why are you here?" "Hey, Mom!" my sweet, outgoing goofball of a son said, throwing his arms around me and hugging me tight. I could hardly believe that five-seven me and five-six Harold had produced a kid over six feet tall. Harold's greeting was considerably more restrained. "Hi, Anne. No nothing's wrong at all. We just thought we'd come see you for Thanksgiving." "Just thought you'd– ? Boston and Atlanta aren't exactly an afternoon's drive apart. I mean, I'm happy to see Max, and you, too," I hastily added, "But . . . " "Mom, are you going to let us in, or what?" my son mock-scolded. "Uh, yes, of course," I stammered. "Come in. I'm afraid I don't have anything to eat at this point except leftovers and dessert." I could feel Warren's
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eyes boring into my back. Harold and Warren eyed each other the way male gorillas check out their competition. Finally, Warren offered his hand, saying, "Hello. I'm Warren. I'm the engineer for WTPD." I sure hoped Warren had washed my juices off his hands before he shook with my ex. "You mean, where Anne works?" Harold asked, offering a limp hand, shooting me an archedeyebrows look that said, I can't believe you're having sex with this guy. "Warren, meet Harold, my ex-husband, and Max, my son." "Our son," Harold corrected, staring at me. "You're an RF engineer? That rocks," Max said to Warren, shaking his hand. "Well, I'm the engineer for a local radio station, but not technically a radio frequency engineer, like at Motorola or Raytheon." "Max, would you like to go see the station?" I asked my son, ignoring the glare that Warren pinned on me. "Yeah, I would," my son smiled. "Warren, would you please . . . ?" Gracefully, he said, "Okay, Max, let's go see where your mom and I work and what I do," all the while sending me glances that clearly communicated that I deserved one heck of a spanking for doing this to him. As the two of them left, Warren muttered in my ear, "Just you wait, woman. Payback's a bitch, you know." As the front door shut behind them, I turned to Harold. The two of us were still standing in the middle of my living room. "Okay, Harold, what's up? And don't feed me any bullshit about dropping by for Thanksgiving." Nodding, he said, "Anne, I just want to talk with you. But first, could I please have some water or something?" I motioned for him to join me in the kitchen and busied myself with coffeemaking. "Coffee good for
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you?" "Sure. Got any dessert?" One thing my ex always owned, besides my heart and his considerable sexual talents, was a sweet tooth. It was positively unfair how much he could eat and still stay thin, while every bite I took attached itself on my hips and thighs. "Blueberry pie. Which you don't like. Peanut butter cup chocolate ice cream, which you also don't like. I do have some vanilla, though," I offered, thinking how apt it was that vanilla is my ex's favorite flavor of ice cream. "Sounds good," Harold said as he took a seat. I dished up some ice cream for him and sat, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Nothing was said for a few moments until I, irritated with the situation, said, "Look, Harold, spill it. Why are you here? Oh, God, you don't have cancer or anything like that, do you?" I worried. "You always were one to jump to amazing conclusions based on nothing." "I don't call my ex dropping in on me from over a thousand miles away nothing." Getting up, I poured the coffee and bridled my impatience. Harold always takes a long time to gather his thoughts, never saying a word he hasn't deliberated over. After a sip or two of the brew, he made intense eye contact, so intense I felt my heart melting, despite our bitter history. "Anne, I fucked up. I mean, I really fucked up by cheating on you. At the time a divorce seemed to be what I wanted and needed. Now I can see I was an idiot. I've never made a mistake of this magnitude before. Please say you forgive me." "Forgive you? I haven't heard any words sounding like, 'I'm sorry' cross your lips, only statements that you screwed up and how it affected you. Are you sorry for what you did and how you hurt me? Oh, and why the heck couldn't this have been said over the phone?" My eyes were starting
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to sting and the hole he had cut in my chest over another woman ached. "Anne, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I hurt you, I'm sorry I was so stupid, I'm sorry I was a lousy husband, I'm sorry I cheated on you, I'm sorry for all of it. I'll keep apologizing if this isn't enough. I love you, Anne." "Please, let's not go there. I don't want to know you love me. But I do accept your apology. Now, what is it that you want?" "What do you mean?" "You didn't come all this way to hear me say, 'I forgive you.' You want something. I know you do." His hand moved shyly across the table to rest on one of mine. I looked at it and him, but left it where it was. "I want to get back together with you." He fell silent. I waited to hear more than that, his hand on mine. "I want to be your husband again. I want to remarry. I was an ass about your radio job. I can see you need something more to do than hang around the house or shop. Actually, you never have been much of a shopper, have you?" "Harold . . . " I sighed. "Anne," he said as he rose, coming to me, pulling me up to standing, holding me close. "What do I need to say or do to get you to take me seriously?" "I take you seriously. I know you're speaking your mind. I could always count on your honesty in what you said, if not always in what you did." His affair with Laura, and who knows how many others dating back to Mrs. Blondie, still stung me. "Though you have been known to play word games with me." "I guess I deserve that zinger. But you should know I never had sex with anyone outside our marriage, except for Laura. No one else. Nobody." Suspicious of his word-playing ways, I retorted, "And your definition of sex . . . ?" "Nothing physical. No kissing, no fondling, no
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oral sex, no kind of intercourse. What do you think 'sex' means?" "I just wanted to be sure you weren't defining it the way the President did, to get himself off the hook." "Hey, honey, I'm not a Democrat, remember?" he tried to joke. I struggled to smile, but it wouldn't come. "Anne," he whispered, bringing his lips to mine. The same old electric current zapped all the way to my core as he brushed his mouth over mine, his tongue flicking quickly. For a few moments, I lost myself in the good feelings, kissing back, moaning when he cupped my bottom, then my breasts, his palms rubbing my nipples to erection through my sweatshirt, turning me wet as a day in April. Yes, this was the good stuff I remembered. But was it enough to marry him again? Harold, never shy about these things, put one hand down my pants, his talented fingers wringing a cry from me, while his other hand grabbed mine, only to plant it on his hardness. "Let's go someplace to lie down," he breathed. "My God, I'd forgotten how wet you get." I heard his zipper going down and grasped his manhood as it sprang free, hot and stiff. I knew I was going to do it one last time with my ex as I led him to the couch. Fifteen minutes and two orgasms for me later, the first having been produced by his magnificent oral sex skills, we lay across the back of the couch together. He'd taken me from behind, my favorite position, and had made me happy for the moment. "Mmmm," he nuzzled my neck. "Want me to again?" I could feel his new erection poking my entrance as Harold waited for permission. Okay, so I'm a slut for doing it with my ex once. But twice would have led him on, and though he had hurt me, I didn't want to mislead him. He felt awfully good, though. "You tired out right now?" he murmured. "I
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recall we never used to stop at two for you. Or do you want something else? I'll do whatever you want." I thought a moment before deciding to test him. "Harold, spank me." "What?" "C'mon, it's been at least twenty years since you last spanked me, and you know how I love it." I wiggled my fanny against him. "Do what I like. Please?" "Oh, Anne, I thought you were over all that. Do I have to?" I disentangled myself from him, saying only, "You don't have to do anything. But your answer told me volumes about our prospects together." I started putting my clothing back on. I was right. We had no future. "You mean you won't remarry me unless I spank you?" I slapped my forehead. "No, Harold, not in so many words. I won't remarry you because you haven't changed. If you had, you would have at least tried to accommodate me by slapping my butt a few times." "But, Anne, I have changed– " "Yes, I know you have. You wouldn't be there today if you hadn't done a lot of thinking and changed, at least a little. But not enough to make me want to try again. I'm happy here; I love my job and the people who work for me–" "–Including that young engineer, clearly –" Harold bit the words off sharply. "Harold, not that it's any of your business, but I don't sleep with any of my employees, Warren included." I mentally crossed my fingers over our almost-lovemaking in the kitchen that Harold had interrupted. "Oh, and I do, right? You're so ethical and I'm not. Is that what you're saying?" Harold's only fivesix, but he can look awfully upsetting to me when he's steamed.
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I grabbed my purse sitting nearby and pulled out the brush to fix my hair before Warren and Max returned. I really didn't want either of them to guess what Harold and I had been doing. Sighing, I said, "Why are we having an argument? I don't want to fight with you. I still love you, you know; you will always be in my heart. After all, you fathered my children. "But I don't want to try again. That ship has sailed, Harold. I'm sorry, but it has. If only seven months ago you had come to me, before the divorce was final, before I started a new life, things would have been different. But you didn't, and it's too late now. You don't know how much I wish it wasn't too late, but it is." I stopped, the tears in my eyes threatening to fall. He came to me and held me, his own voice choked. "Annabelle Lee, I'm sorry I didn't realize all this sooner. I came to see you literally as soon as I figured it all out; I made the plane reservations just last night. I love you. I always have, and I always will. I was an idiot not to know that before. But if you say it's too late, then I'll accept that, difficult as it is." Both of us cried a little while holding each other. The doorbell rang, meaning Warren and my son had returned. Wiping my eyes with my hands and sniffling, I opened it. Max, of course, could tell that things had not gone his father's way, and his expressive brown eyes showed hurt like a whimpering puppy's. I blinked and tried to put a good face on it all. "Hey, are you going to be around for a day or two?" Harold spoke up. "We can be. Our return date is open." "Then, would both of you like to hang out with me? After my airshift tomorrow, we could visit and go out to eat around here. Then on Saturday we could spend the day in Atlanta." I hugged Max, attempting to reassure him. "Did you book a place to stay?"
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My ex-husband looked away. Suddenly I realized he had been counting on staying here as a prelude to our remarriage. Swallowing hard and not meeting Warren's stare, I offered, "Of course, you can stay here if you want. You and Max will have to bunk together in my guest room, with one of you sleeping on an air mattress on the floor, but if you don't mind that..." Max cheered up a touch. "Yeah, Mom, that would be cool. I can sleep on the air mattress." Harold, his eyes still wet, nodded his assent. "All right. It's settled. Are the two of you hungry?" Both men nodded. "Please go into my kitchen and eat whatever you wish. I'll be along in a few minutes." Harold, bless him, followed my lead and took our son to the kitchen. Turning to Warren once they were out of earshot, I faced my angry almost-lover. "I guess I'm not getting any blueberry pie, am I?" His face flushed with heated emotion. "Warren, I really appreciate that you took Max to the station so that Harold and I could talk–" "–And fuck. You think I don't know what sex smells like, Anne? I know you and your ex had one for the road, maybe even more than one. Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining." The pain in his eyes was real and my heart was breaking for both of us. "I won't lie. We . . . yes. But I turned down Harold's plea that we get back together. He and I don't have any future together –" "–And neither do we, now," he ground out. "Warren, please–" "Don't even go there, Anne." Spinning on his heel, he stalked to the door. "I'll see you around. Enjoy a good fuck or two tonight with the ex. God knows you've told me often enough that he's masterful in the sack." "I'm not going to sleep with Harold again! Please don't go like this," I pleaded as he threw open the door. His shoulders slumped as he lingered in the
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doorway, his back to me. "Anne, I can't play these games. Am I just someone you want to have 'fun fucks' with? Because you are so much more than that to me." "Warren, I can't send them on their way an hour after they arrived. One of them is my son. Can't you understand that?" A beat of silence passed. "I do understand that and I hope you enjoy his visit. Max is a good kid, and pretty smart. You know, you could send just Harold packing. Max is a big boy. He could fly home by himself a day or two later." I stepped closer to Warren, close enough to smell his musk. Touching his shoulder, I murmured, "Harold and I still have some things to work out." He stiffened under my touch. Growling, "I'll just bet you have," he slammed the door behind him. Crying again, I fled to my room. Once I had myself under control, I headed for the kitchen, where I could hear Max and Harold engaged in a lively discussion. Squaring my shoulders, I entered the room, a smile pasted on my face.
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Chapter Twenty-Three Saturday Night Following Thanksgiving She was tired, but also felt closure for the first time since her marriage broke up. Anne brushed stray hairs away from her face as she drove home. It was only 7:30 PM and she was hoping Warren would see her, that he wouldn't slam the door in her face. Max had enjoyed every moment he'd visited. Harold also seemed happy, but subdued, knowing that he was returning home without her. Of course, both Max and Harold had insisted on visiting both Sci-Trek, and the Engineer's Bookstore, topped off by food from The Varsity, the world's largest drivein. Not to mention endless tours of all the high-tech areas, though both men had been good sports during her visit to Granny Taught Us How, a funky crafts place in Buckhead. They had finished up by grabbing a snack at the OK Cafe before she headed back to Burgess and the two men had headed for Hartsfield Airport and home. Smiling, she realized that she had actually enjoyed herself with Harold for the first time in years. He had been relaxed and more like the man she first fell in love with. Her heart still hurt over their divorce, but they seemed to be working on the beginnings of a real friendship, and for her children's sake, she hoped so. She definitely wanted Max to come see her again soon, and Tessa, too, when she returned from her latest dig. Both kids knew that the divorce had nothing to do with them, and Anne had done her best to keep it from deteriorating into a pitched battle. In fact, she'd had to fight Harold not to give her half of their money, nor had she taken alimony. She didn't need it or want it. She accepted enough cash to buy her Burgess property outright, plus enough in bonds and funds that she'd never have to worry about retirement as long as she was fiscally prudent. More
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money would be coming her way once Harold sold their home– the only 'thing' that Anne was sad to lose–and bought himself a smaller property. Mostly likely he'd go for a luxury condo near his work, so Anne's half of the remaining profits wouldn't be large. Still, it would give her a cushy emergency fund, kept in a savings account. She'd probably be able to live frugally on the money for a few years without working should something happen to her. They had agreed to continue to own their cabin jointly, deep in the New Hampshire woods, and would work out a legal agreement as to whom could have the cabin which weeks or months. This made her feel good. She always had an escape if she grew tired of Georgia summers. The past two days had settled some things in her mind, and now she had to act to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was Warren. Pulling into her driveway, she hurried inside and freshened up before she went to beg forgiveness. She prayed with all her might that the two of them might have a future. And, just in case, she ensured she had her big, flat-backed wooden hairbrush in her purse. If she could actually get him to spank her for sleeping with Harold, she figured they'd be on the road to happiness, despite the fact that one of them would have to leave the station. Oh well, one step at a time. Checking her phone messages on her way out, she was surprised to hear two from Ron. The first was seductive as he tried to woo her back as his submissive; the second was more imperious, clarifying that her ass was still his, demanding that she show up sometime this weekend. Ron was in for a shock, she mused to herself. Before she lost her nerve, she dialed his cell phone, figuring she'd be more likely to catch him that way. His distracted "Hello" gave her strength. He didn't exactly sound like a dom. "It's me," she said.
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"Well, hi, you. Listen, can I call you tomorrow?" Anne could hear the sounds of either a restaurant or a bar, and a nearby female voice purred, "Ronnie..." "Nope. What I have to say will only take a minute. You're not my dom any more, Ron. The relationship between us is over." "Now, just hold on a minute, shug–" "No discussion. I'm done with it and with you." "You sound rather angry." "Not really. I just came to some conclusions in the past 72 hours and I am on a different life path now. Good luck finding someone else." "Fine. Screw you." Ron's flat tone and immediate signoff sort of pissed her off, but she wasn't in any danger from him. He didn't have her home address and besides, he was just an asshole, one of the many she'd encountered in life. Feeling freer than she had in months, she checked her look in the mirror, ate a breath mint, and took herself and her hairbrush over to Warren's place. Just as she was going out the door, she ran back to the kitchen for a peace offering. Warren had just begun a cyber conversation with an intriguing woman who called herself "classyredbottom," and was considering suggesting a little one-handed typing when his doorbell rang. With a quickly-typed "BRB" for "be right back," he went to the door, swearing colorfully. When he spied Anne through the peephole, his heart rose as it always did, but sank immediately thereafter. She was probably coming by to tell him she was remarrying her ex. He considered ignoring the bell, only to hear her pound on the door, fussing and calling his name. Sighing, he opened it, fixing a glare on her. "Whaddaya want?" he snarled before he realized he was being way too nasty to his boss. "How was Atlanta?" he asked in a kinder tone. "Warren, I didn't come here to make small talk. Let me in. I have something important to say." Her intense eye contact knocked him back a bit. Still,
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the hurt he'd felt since Thanksgiving came to the fore. "Is this business, and, if so, is it urgent? If both questions are a no, please contact me on Monday. I'm busy tonight," he snapped as he began to shut the door. Something, however, stopped the door's progress. Looking down, he saw Anne's hairbrush. Raising his eyes to hers, he knew that her choice of doorstops wasn't random. "It's like that, is it?" His eyebrows hit his hairline, and he saw her swallow before she continued. "Yes. Please let me in and hear me out. If you still want me to leave after that, I will, but if you were ever my friend, Warr, please let me in now. You may think you know the whole story, but you don't." Frowning, he dropped his face on the arm barring her entrance for a moment. Raising it, he muttered, "Oh, all right. I can't say no to you, it seems," as he opened the door wide and waved impatiently for her to enter. Only then did he notice plasticware filled with what looked like pie. Blueberry pie. "You brought me pie?" He scratched his head and had to fight to keep the corners of his mouth from curving upward. "Yes. I saved a big wedge for you. I know it's two days old, but I hope you enjoy it." Shyly she proffered the container to him, dropping her eyes. "Blueberry pie. And a big hairbrush. You sure know the way to my heart," he chuckled, starting to relax and taking joy in the relief that washed over her features. He took the items from her, settling them on a nearby end table. Still, she stood there, never moving from the doorway, fidgeting. "I think you said you have something to say?" he prompted. "Uh, yes. Yes I do. Yes, sir, I might add." The ghost of a smile played around her mouth. "Please,
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may I sit down?" "Sure. But give me a minute. I need to go sign off on a conversation I was having." She nodded, sinking into an armchair while he sent classyredbottom a message that he had unexpected company and had to go. Standing just around the corner from where she was sitting, he studied her without her knowledge. Her blonde hair fell silky and smooth to her shoulders, the shoulders of a woman who had natural strength in them. Below them the ripe curves of her breasts and hips were fully defined by her clothing, and he felt himself stirring. Dare he hope that the pie and hairbrush were a peace offering and not a goodbye of some kind? Looking his way, she caught his glance. He must have no longer looked peeved, for her smile bloomed fully as she watched him approach. He could feel himself fighting a grin. Grabbing a chair from the kitchen and swinging it around so that he straddled it backwards, he rested his arms and chin on the top of the chair's back. "All right. What have you got to say for yourself?" He tried to look severe but failed. Sighing, he said, "Crap. I can't stay mad at you. You broke my heart, yet here I am smiling at you. Fuck, I'm in deep," he groaned. Anne spoke crisply. "First, I want to thank you again for taking my son to the radio station. I knew he would really enjoy a techie tour, not one from his mother, and I did have to talk with Harold. He wouldn't have shown up on my doorstep unannounced unless something big was up." "I know something big was up, because you jumped on it . . . and him." Warren looked away, sulking. Closing her eyes and shaking her head, she said, "Okay, you want to talk about that first?" "Seems like the most important place to start," he growled. "I can't believe you were ready to jump my bones, and then not fifteen minutes later you
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were humping the ex. Are you just the horniest woman alive, or do you really not care whom you fuck?" Stung, Anne cried, "Of course I care!" Her lower lip quivered and her eyes were unusually bright. Digging into her purse for a tissue, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose before continuing. "Harold told me he wanted me back. He apologized for every awful thing he ever did and practically begged me to remarry him. I told him no and explained that my life was here now. But he and I always had a strong . . . connection, so after he stood me up and kissed me, well, there was no stopping till we had done the deed. "I'm so sorry I hurt you, Warren. I didn't plan to have sex with Harold. It just happened, but it was a shitty thing to do to you, and I'm sorry. I was with that man nearly a quarter of a century, and he fathered my two children. I wish I could have my moment of weakness back. But it's done, and Harold and I are also done. We ironed out the final details and will try to be friends, for the sake of our kids. Harold's really not a bad guy." As she took a deep breath, he said, "Where does that leave us?" "I'm getting there. Hold on," she said. "The past two days with my son and my exhusband were a gift. Harold and I mended a lot of fences, and it was the first time I'd had fun with him in years–not to mention what a treat it was to explore Atlanta with Max. "I've had a lot of time to think about who matters to me, and why, over the past few days. "Just before I came over here, I called Ron in Atlanta and told him to have a nice life without me. Now I'm here, and I want you to know how I feel about you. Warren, one of us is going to have to quit working at WTPD, because I'm crazy about you." Jerking his head up, he stared at her. "You are?" "What, did you think I was coming over here to
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tell you goodbye?" "The thought crossed my mind," he admitted. Anne went to kneel before him, taking both his hands in hers, gazing up at him. "I want you. I might even love you. I don't know. All I do know is that I need you in my life, and not just as a friend. But I can't date you seriously if I'm your boss. If you want me, we need to find a way to make this work. That means one of us has to leave the station. Do you still want me, Warren?" The two of them looked into each other's eyes for a moment, until he nodded mutely. Anne stretched up to kiss him lightly. Warren cupped her face with his hands, kissing back, his tongue skimming across her lips. "So," she breathed, "What do we do next?" "We'll find a way to work this out. How do you feel about the age difference? Honestly?" Though her mouth quivered, she smiled, saying, "Somehow that doesn't matter to me anymore. Unless that's a problem for you?" she added with alarm. "Not to me. I agree with Ben Franklin: older women make the best lovers because they are so very grateful," he teased. Sticking her tongue out at him, he teased back, "Watch out, Anne. Are you sure you want me to add on more smacks for brattiness?" Standing, he helped her rise before he kissed her deeply, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Both of them now breathing hard, he grinned as he unzipped her jeans, pushing them and her panties to her knees. Stepping back, he admired her shaved mound and answered the question on her face by retrieving the hairbrush. Smacking it against his palm once or twice, her eyes grew saucer-like with comprehension. "Now, my dear, I think there is the matter of the 'ex-hubby hump' to take care of." Sitting on the armless kitchen chair, he waved for her to
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approach. "C'mon, now, lie down across my lap. Soon all your debts will be paid in full." Her breath catching, she slowly draped herself over his legs, moaning as he hugged her close with his left arm and stroked her buttocks with his right hand. Goosebumps appeared, as much from nerves as arousal. "You have the most amazing ass, and soon it's going to be the most amazing–and reddest– ass I have ever seen. Are you ready, Anne?" "Yes, sir." Warren looked down, her soft hair hiding her face, her palms and toes on the floor, her body trembling both from apprehension and holding her position. Tucking the hairbrush into his waistband, he brought his bare palm down hard. The CRACK! reverberated in his apartment. He heard her catch her breath, felt her shudder, and saw a hot, pink outline on one cheek. "What do you think of that, Anne? Am I spanking you hard enough?" She choked out a "Yes, sir," as his palm cracked her other cheek. She shifted her weight a little, but otherwise did not respond. "I'm going to get down to business now. Oh, and as this is discipline, there will be no safe word. You will take what I decide you deserve . . . and need. Do you accept my conditions?" A tiny sound he could not make out prompted him to whack her sitting area three times as hard as he could. "I said, do you accept my conditions?" A whimper, then a soft, "Yes, sir, I do." "From this point on I am your disciplinarian. Do you agree and consent?" Again, he smacked the center of her seat three times, hard. "Yes, sir, I do," she sputtered as she began to squirm in response to the intense stinging. "Then hold on tight and feel free to cry all you want." His hand settled into a quick, sharp rhythm,
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spanking her from the top of her bottom's cleft to halfway down her thighs, as hard and fast as he could manage. By the time she was a light red she was struggling, kicking her legs and whining, "Ohhhh, noooooo, sir, I'm sorreee! Pleeease stop! Ow! Noooo! Ohhhh, it burns, stop!!!" He laid on another flurry of hard cracks before stopping. Anne was rolling on his lap, whimpering and begging. He moved his right leg so that he pinned hers tightly. Her struggles began immediately, for she realized the real spanking was about to begin. "It's time for the brush, my darling, my former boss. Warren's in charge from here on out." "Nooooo," she moaned. "I said I'm sorry! Really, Warr, you don't have to use–" SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! She wailed like a siren, unable to move her stinging backside away from his blows. Again and again he whacked her lower buttocks, ensuring that sitting would be mighty uncomfortable for at least a day or two. He could not stop grinning the entire time he blistered her fanny and upper thighs, and was gratified to hear the beginnings of tears, real tears, not whining protests. As he slowed down the tempo of the spanks, he increased their impact, punctuating each blow she suffered with questions. "Are you sorry for hurting me?" CRACK! "OWWW! Yesssss," she blubbered. "Yes, what?" CRACK! "Oooooo, yesssss, sirrrrrr," she sobbed. ”Are you ever going to have sex with your ex again, as long as I am your lover?" CRACK! "Nooooo, sirrrrr!" Her head whipped back and forth quickly in denial. "Are you going to obey me and be faithful to me?" CRACK! "Owwww, yesssssssirrrrrrr!" she cried. Her lovely sitting area was intensely red, extremely hot, and obviously paining her. "Anne, just a little bit more, and you'll be done.
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I want to make sure you have learned your lesson." And so he spanked her with the brush quickly, paying special attention to her thighs and midbottom. By the time he had finished, she was no longer fighting him. She sobbed loudly, completely limp while he admired the amount of red. Deciding a final ten on the center of her 'sit spot' would emphasize his point, he whacked hard as her cries became ever more hysterical. Tossing the brush aside, he shushed her, waiting a moment for her sobs to lessen. When they had slowed down, his fingers explored her wetness. This time they would not be stopped; they would complete their act of love. His jeans were about to burst. Hell, he was about to burst. Slipping his thumb inside her, he massaged her G-spot while tickling her swollen nub in time to her hip thrusts. Her tears gone, she moaned while he brought her to the brink of orgasm, only to take his fingers away, waiting for her arousal to ebb. "Warren," she begged. "Please. Haven't you punished me enough? Besides, don't you want me to, um, make you happy?" Lifting her up to position her on his lap, she hissed when her sore backside touched his rough jeans. "Damn, but you walloped me good!" Anne complained, shifting her weight back and forth, unable to get comfortable. "And I'll do it all over again, right now, if you don't behave," he warned as he unbuttoned her blouse and loosened her bra. Her lovely, full breasts, puckering with dark red, rigid nipples, called to his mouth. Cradling her in his arms, he sucked first one, then the other, until she was squirming heedlessly, her sore bottom forgotten in her excitement. "Oh, Warr, are you ever going to . . . ?" "Patience, Anne," he chuckled as her hands groped for his belt and zipper. He stroked her liquidly between her legs, again bringing her to the
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edge of satisfaction, while she frantically sought his hardness. Denying her pleasure once again, he kidded, "Think it might be time to consummate this friendship?" "Oh, you SOB, would you please just– " Her complaint stopped as he massaged her G-spot mercilessly. She writhed on his fingers, gasping, while he struggled to contain his own lust. She had talented hands; of that, he was certain. Picking her up, he carried her to the kitchen, cleared a counter with a quick sweep of his arm, and set her down firmly. Her "Ow!" and wince were followed rapidly by her exclamation, "Oh, yes!" Her legs wrapped around his hips as he plunged into her, penetrating her deliberately, forcefully, his fingers tweaking her button as they brought each other roughly, loudly, to consummation. Icy fire shot from his groin to his fingers and toes as he wondered whether he would pass out from sheer delight. Anne, he noticed, rocked her hips and milked him for every bit of her own noisy bliss. "Oh, thank you," Warren groaned when he once again had enough blood in his brain to think. "Anne, how did your ex let a hottie like you get away? What an idiot," he murmured as he tugged on her still-erect nipples and nibbled her neck. Anne's only response was a sighed, "Got any other talents you can show me, big boy? And I do mean, big!" "Well, suppose I . . . " His words were lost as he lowered his head, his tongue darting between her wet folds, lightly sucking her into his mouth. Her heels beat a tattoo on his back and she keened as he wrung exquisite satisfaction from her once again, his fingers still tweaking her breasts' stiff peaks. After her undulating slowed, they necked for a long time. "Anne," he whispered, "It's time to take care of that bottom of yours." "Oh, nooo, not more spanking," she begged. "My butt's really sore, as are my legs, Warr. Please,
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sir, no more!" "No more spanking," he agreed. "At least, as long as you're good. No, I was thinking perhaps a little aloe gel might ease some of the distress you're feeling." Five minutes later he had her draped across a pile of pillows on his bed, her bottom sticking up in the air, her voice cooing as he spread the reliefbringing gel on her burned backside and thighs. "You're pretty red, and have a small bruise or two," he worried aloud. "Anne, I hope I didn't exceed your limits." She giggled. "This is the woman who sported a welted, bruised fanny about four weeks ago. I rather doubt it." Stinging smacks took her by surprise and she cried out. "Why'd you spank me?" she pouted as his fingers resumed applying the gel. "Don't ever remind me again of spanking and sex with that Atlanta asshole, or with your ex for that matter, not unless you enjoy doing your air shift standing up," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Deal?" he asked, punctuating it with a hearty smack. "Ow! Deal." Helping her stand, she explored her bottom with curious fingers, nodding her head. "Yep, I'm sore all right. Damn sore." "You deserved every last swat." "I'm sure of that," she smiled. "Hey, want to see how fast I can get you to . . . ?" she said as she dropped to her knees in front of him. "Woman, you're going to kill me with kindness," he groaned before all words left his mind and his entire being was focused on the tricks her mouth, lips, and tongue were playing. Anne freed her mouth briefly to taunt, "What was it you were saying about older women being the grateful ones?" "That's it. You're getting another spanking. Just
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as soon as you finish what you started here," he moaned as her skill took him to the brink and over.
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Chapter Twenty-Four Six Months Later "Twelve noon. The latest news, next on WTPD!" Anne announced before playing the legal ID and raising the network news slider. Just three more hours of show, some commercials to produce, some calls to return, and one quick meeting, and she could return home to the man she loved. Ooo, wait, she recalled. She had discipline coming. Letting her thoughts linger on what Warren would do to her after dinner, they continued naturally to what she would do to him. She squeezed her thighs together involuntarily as she contemplated her lusty, romantic evening plans with her fiancé, though she was a little worried about her coming spanking. She had treated him awfully. "Anne," Dixie Steve said as he pushed open the studio door, "I'm out of here till tomorrow. Unless there's something else I should be doing?" "Nope. If you finished your production load, get on home while the gettin's good." "Hey, I've been noticing that you do almost every show standing up now. A few months back you almost never did. Why'd you change?" Praying she wasn't blushing, Anne tried for nonchalance. "More energy, more excitement, you know that. You do most of your show standing." "Yeah, in the early AM you've got to push it out hard, get people going. You trying to energize our midday listeners?" "Not really, but I found I was starting to, uh, become too accustomed to sitting, you might say. Figured I'd try doing my shows standing, and I do, um, prefer it this way now." Feeling heat rise in her face and her nipples tighten, she smiled. "Go on home now before someone gives you more work to do." Steve waved goodbye just as the studio phone rang.
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"WTPD." "Me, babe. I have to work tonight starting at midnight on the station in Anniston. So I'm taking a nap this afternoon, after which I will make dinner for both of us. Sound good?" "Yes, it does. I should be home between 5 and 5:30. Did you talk with Don at the construction company about the addition yet?" "We came to an agreement. He's going to add on the two rooms we discussed, as well as build a real garage to replace the carport. You've got plenty of land, so I'm sure we won't have any trouble with the Zoning Board." "I'm so happy you're moving in. I love you," Anne added, "And I'm very, very sorry about this morning." "I love you too, babe, and you're gonna be sorry, believe you me. Remember to meet me in the storage shed as soon as you get home. I'll be waiting for you with a surprise," Warren chuckled. "We're not going to eat dinner first?" Her heart thudded with apprehension. "Not tonight. Remember, head straight for the shed when you get home. If I'm not there, assume the position and wait. I'll be along shortly. 'Bye, my naughty, bitchy one." At 5:21 Anne opened the shed door slowly. No Warren. Noting that his work table had been cleared for her, she sighed, pulled her slacks and panties down to her knees, and bent herself over the table, gripping the far edge with her hands. He hadn't ordered her to cut a branch from the old hickory, so at least she wasn't getting switched. She knew she'd pitched a hissy fit this morning and had some serious discipline coming. Her heart pounded when she heard the door creak. Warren didn't mess around. He lectured her, yes, but he usually did it while spanking her. He wasn't one to talk her to death before he blistered her, so her spanking would start within the next minute or two.
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"What do you have to say for yourself, Anne?" Swallowing hard, she feared the sternness in his voice. "I'm sorry, sir. I jumped to conclusions and yelled at you for nothing. I deserve to be spanked hard." Her voice quavered on the word, 'hard.' "I'm going to make sure this never happens again, courtesy of Brady Robinson. Stand up for a minute and look at what he sent me." When she saw what was in his hands, Anne bit her fist. Oh, Lord. "Yes, dear. It's a paddle. A shiny, thick, wooden paddle, with holes. Unbeveled holes. This will become your new disciplinary implement. If I can't bring you into line with this thing, I'm not whacking you hard enough. Or long enough." "You said Brady sent this?" Her voice was faint. "He sure did. He uses one just like it on Elaine and bragged to me recently that she's good as gold for a month after he paddles her with it. He thought it might be just the thing for us. You're a lucky woman to have my employer so concerned about your behavior," Warren laughed. "Oh, Warr, you never have to punish me more often than once a week. I don't think I'm that bad!" Anne stomped her foot. "Oh, yes you are, honey bun. That temper of yours needs to be controlled. Perhaps you'll work harder on holding it if I give you a good whacking with the paddle. Now, bend over, dear, but first, kiss the paddle. It's going to become one of your closest friends." Sighing, Anne smooched Warren, then the paddle, and stretched across the table. She felt him raise her shirttail and started when the cool paddle was patted gently on her sitting area. Soon the area was not going to feel so cool and comfy. CRACK! Gripping the table's edge so as not to grab her wounded bottom, she shouted blue murder. "Don't you ever, ever scream at me again, Anne–"
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CRACK! Yelling again, she bounced up and down on her toes, desperate to ease the burning throb. "–the way you did this morning." CRACK! "OWWWWW!" "You ask me nicely–" CRACK! Her wails filled the air. "–when you want to know something–" CRACK! "AIIIIEEEE!" "–or you don't ask at all. Am I clear?" CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! She managed to shriek, "Yes, sir," between her howls. Twenty whacks later, Anne sobbed uncontrollably and Warren perspired with his efforts. Her bottom was red with a few round welts. He hated to discipline her this severely, but he knew if he didn't call her on her behavior of this morning, it would only grow worse. Why she had jumped to conclusions over the house addition, he'd never know. He shook his head. Women. Handing his future wife some tissues, he lifted her up and held her tenderly as she cried. His fingers played lightly across the scalding-hot surface of her lower buttocks. He'd make her sit on the hard wooden chair for dinner as punishment, but afterwards he'd treat her to a little ice and some aloe. And, later on, once she had recovered a bit, they'd both take advantage of the ocean she always had between her legs after a spanking. When she had quieted, he kissed her hair and asked, "Anne, why did you accuse me of not wanting to marry you this morning?" "Because you seemed to be dragging your feet on getting the addition built," she mumbled. "Sorry, Anne, but I don't see what one has to do with–"
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"I heard you talking to Elaine last night!" she burst out, her sobs beginning again. Warren understood immediately. "Oh, sweetie, is that what's bothering you? I chatted with her, yes, before I talked to Brady, but you are the only woman in my life. I'm not going to leave you for her, or cheat on you, or anything else. I know you can't help being suspicious because of your ex's wandering ways, but I'm not him. Now, please, next time, just talk to me? Don't jump to conclusions and make me have to raise blisters on you again over this. In fact, I wouldn't have spanked you so hard if I'd known what was bothering you. Of course you still would have gotten spanked for your behavior, but if I'd understood what you were thinking, I wouldn't have spanked you with the paddle." "I'm sorry, Warr. I know you're not Harold. But I've never been totally comfortable with you working for Robinson again," she moaned into his shoulder. "I had to get a job somewhere other than WTPD; it was easier for me to move on than for you. And with high-tech companies now in the dumper, radio work truly was the best choice. Brady found me the job and also your new WTPD engineer, so I think we owe him a lot. Believe me, he has the same fears you do. I'm never going to southern Cal to see Brady or Elaine, ever. They would find that as upsetting as you would." "Cross your heart, hon?" she sniffled. "And hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye," he joked. She raised her head to smile at him before nestling her head back into his shoulder, hugging him tighter. "You are such a panic." "Remember, I'm not really working for Brady directly. The three stations I take care of in this area are actually owned by his business partner, even though Brady plans to merge the three stations into his West Coast Wireless corporation." "I'm sorry to have jumped to conclusions and
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yelled at you over nothing this morning." Clinging to him more tightly, she murmured, "I love you so much. I can't bear the thought of losing you. Promise me again you will never, ever cheat on me." Though Warren had to do this at least once a week, he never tired of reassuring Anne. He understood that her heart's wounds would take a long time to heal, and that it was hard for her to trust. "Babe, I promise, now and forever." He felt tears spring to his own eyes, imagining her distress. She pulled his head down to hers to kiss him, their salty tears mingling together as they embraced. "After dinner, let's talk about the wedding," Warren offered, his lips in her fragrant hair. He truly didn't give a hoot if they got married in an alley dressed in rags, but his beloved needed to feel secure in his love. Discussing the wedding would help her. Anne's face brightened. "Really? Oh, Warr, yes, let's talk about the wedding." The two of them walked to the house for their dinner, their arms entwined about each other. The smells of lilacs and love were carried on the evening air.
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