Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/C/CHERYL.TXT

Text File | 1989-04-18 | 66.3 KB | 1,482 lines

                                             September 24, 1985


         Something happened to me this evening that is so mind-
blowing that I have to tell someone.  For reasons that will be
obvious, I can't do that, so I'm writing it down instead.

         It started with a phone call this morning from Cheryl,
a girl in the payroll department at the construction company
where I'm an estimator.  I knew her by sight, but that's all,
so I was a little surprised when she said she had something
personal to discuss with me.  She suggested that we have lunch
away from the office, so we could talk in private, and I agreed
to meet her at a little burger joint a couple of miles from
where we work.

         Cheryl was already there when I walked in a few min-
utes after noon, sitting by herself at a table in the corner.
I'd never really noticed her before, but now I took a look as I
walked toward the table.  She was about my age, maybe two or
three years older.  Short light-brown hair.  A white blouse
with ruffles down the front, primly buttoned to the collar,
enclosed what seemed to be a nice pair of boobs.  With con-
tacts, or maybe a less librarianish pair of glasses, I decided,
she wouldn't be bad looking at all.

         I said hello and sat down.  We made small talk until
the waitress had taken our orders, and then I asked Cheryl what
she wanted to see me about.  She said that she'd been working
late the night before, doing some month-end work, and her com-
puter had started to act up, so she had gone over to my desk to
use mine. Not wanting to damage any of my files, she had looked
to see what was stored on my computer's disk, and had noticed
that some of the file names didn't seem to have anything to do
with the jobs I was working on.  In particular, she said, she'd
been surprised to find "these"; she pulled a manila envelope
out of her purse, opened it, and slid out half a dozen sets of
pages stapled together.

         I didn't need to look at them to know what she had.
When I was younger I'd thought about becoming a writer.  I've
pretty much given up on that idea, but lately I'd been working
on a novel.  Nothing that Book-of-the-Month Club would be
interested in--it was pure, hard-core pornography, as raunchy
as it gets.  I hadn't decided whether to try to sell it to one
of the X-rated book publishers or not; for now, it was just a
private exploration of some fantasies.

         At least it had been private.  But now, here was Miss
Prim sitting across from me, holding printed copies of the
first six chapters of my X-rated book.  No doubt she'd copied
the computer files, too, so grabbing the hard copies wouldn't
help.

         I was dizzy with both anger and embarrassment, and my
face felt about ten degrees hotter than the rest of my body.
"You had no business looking at those files," I said through
clenched teeth, "let alone printing them out."  Cheryl looked
at me coolly and replied "It's the company's computer, and I
don't think Mr. Moore would appreciate what you've been using
it for."

         Bob Moore is the founder of the company and still runs
everything with an iron hand.  He hired me right out of col-

lege, even though I didn't have any real experience, and has
seemed to be pretty happy with my work so far.  He also happens
to be the father of Kathy Moore, who has been the principal
love object in my life for most of the last year, whenever
she's home from school on breaks or vacations.  Besides that,
he's a deacon in the local Baptist church, president of the
Rotary, and a major contributor to the Republican Party and the
Moral Majority.

         I could see it now.  If Bob Moore knew what I'd been
writing, he'd fire me, forbid his daughter to see me, have me
publicly branded as a pornographer, and do his damnedest to see
that I never got another job in his town, or anywhere else for
that matter.

         "What do you want?", I asked weakly.

         "Why don't you come over to my place this evening,"
Cheryl said sweetly, "about seven, and we'll talk about it."
She wrote out her address on a napkin and handed it to me.

         I stuffed the napkin in my pocket, dropped a five dol-
lar bill on the table and walked out.  I wasn't hungry any
more.

         The afternoon was pretty much a waste.  I didn't know
what Cheryl would demand, but I assumed that it would be money,
and I didn't have a lot to spare.  Even if I paid her off, how
could I be sure that she wouldn't keep a copy of the incrim-
inating files and hit me for more later?  I thought about going
to Mr. Moore and confessing everything, but I figured that even
if he somehow could be persuaded to let me keep my job, he'd
put Kathy off limits.  That was an awfully high price to pay,
and I decided that I'd better find out how much Cheryl wanted
before I took that course.

         I knocked on Cheryl's door at 7:00 sharp, and she
invited me in.  She'd changed into slacks and a T-shirt, and I
realized that I'd been right about her boobs.  She offered me a
drink; I started to refuse, and then decided that under the
circumstances I needed one and asked for a scotch and water.

         We sat on opposite ends of the sofa in her living
room, sipping our drinks and waiting, each of us, for the other
to say something.  Finally I decided to go first.  "I gather
that you're planning to give those printouts to Mr. Moore, and
tell him where you got them, unless I give you some reason not
to," I said.  She nodded.

         "You know what I make," I said, "and I don't have any
savings.  I don't see how you could expect me to give you
enough to make it worth your while to risk going to jail for
blackmail."

         "I don't want money," she said.

         "What do you want, then?", I demanded.

         "When I was growing up," she replied, "my parents were
pretty rough with us--with me and my brother, who's three years
younger than I am.  Whenever one of us got out of line, there
was a spanking, a paddling, a caning or a real whipping with a
belt or a razor strap.  If we got in trouble together, like if
we were fighting or something like that, my mom or my dad, or

sometimes both, would line us up and give it to the two of us
together."

         "I don't get it," I said.  "What does your childhood
have to do with me?"

         "Just shut up and listen," she said roughly.  "A few
times one of us got a licking in the middle of the day, but
usually they waited till bedtime, when Jimmy was in his PJ's
and I was in my nightgown.  It was awful, knowing sometimes for
hours that it was going to happen, taking a bath and getting
ready for bed, and then having one of my parents come in, make
me take off my nightgown and work my ass over with a hairbrush
or the strap or something like that."

         I was listening but I couldn't help picturing Cheryl
stripping off a little nightgown and presenting her developing
young asscheeks to her mother or father.  I could feel a defi-
nite tightening in the crotch, and crossed my legs to hide the
situation.

         "It was almost as bad when Jimmy was going to get it,"
Cheryl continued.  There was just as much tension in the air,
and when I said good night to Jimmy, I'd know that in a few
minutes I'd hear him crying and pleading, and then there would
start these terrible alternating sounds as something smacked
into his ass, followed by his shriek of pain, and then another
smack and another shriek."

         "The only times I could say I looked forward to it was
when we were both going to get it.  I'd get taken to Jimmy's
room, or he'd be brought to mine, and then we'd both have to
strip.  One of us would watch while the other got it, and then
the other would watch while the first one got it.  Once--I
remember it very clearly, because it was when I had my first
orgasm--we both got it at the same time; my mom had me across
her lap and was paddling me with a hairbrush, while my dad had
Jimmy over the edge of his bed, blistering his behind with a
cane."

         Cheryl paused and looked at me.  Her eyes were shin-
ing, and I could see little beads of sweat on her forehead.  "I
still don't know where you're going," I said.  "I'm sorry you
had such rotten parents, but I don't see what this has to do
with my stories."

         "It's very simple," she replied.  "We're going to do
some play acting.  You're going to be my little brother, and
I'm going to be my mother."

         It took a minute to sink in.  "Wait a minute!", I
almost gasped.  "You think I'm going to let you, uh, spank me?
I'm twenty-three years old!"  The idea seemed so ludicrous that
I wanted to laugh, but Cheryl didn't seem to be joking.

         "Would you rather I had a talk with Mr. Moore in the
morning?", she asked.

         "Of course not," I blurted without thinking.  "But I'm
too old, I mean, I'm not a little kid!  This whole thing is too
silly for words!"

         "Jimmy wasn't a little kid, either," she said hotly.
"He was fourteen the time I mentioned, when I--when we both got

it at the same time.  And Mr. Moore would think that your lit-
tle stories were a lot worse than anything Jimmy or I ever
did!"

         "Anyway," Cheryl added defiantly, "that's the price
you pay--either that or I go to Mr. Moore in the morning.  So
which is it going to be?"

         My mind was whirling.  If she went to Moore, it would
be practically the end of my whole world, and how bad could a
spanking be, anyway?  I could handle pain; I'd broken bones as
a kid, and played football in high school, until I had knee
surgery and couldn't run any more.  But on the other hand, how
could I, a grown man, stand the humiliation of letting a woman
spank me? Then again, was that really worse than the humilia-
tion of being fired from my first job and being denounced
publicly as some kind of moral degenerate?

         Finally, I told her "If I say yes, I'll want every
copy of my stories back--including whatever copies you've made
of the computer files".

         "When we're through," she answered, "I promise that
you'll have everything back, and you can watch me erase the
computer disks."

         "All right," I said grimly, "let's get it over with."

         Cheryl stood up.  "Take your clothes off in here, and
then come back to my bedroom."  She pointed to the door that
led into a hall at the end of the living room.  "Through that
door and turn right."

         "Just a minute," I said.  "If I'm supposed to take my
clothes off, then you should too."

         She laughed.  "You don't give up, do you?  You think
I'll be so impressed with your big manly body that I'll forget
why you're here and slip into the sack with you?  Well forget
that idea."

         She started toward the hall, then stopped and turned
back toward me.  "I'm not getting undressed, but I do think
I'll change into something else."

         After Cheryl left the room, I pulled my shirt off and
sat down to untie my shoes.  My socks came next, and then my
pants.  I piled my clothes on the end of the sofa, but decided
to keep my jockey shorts on.  I'm not ashamed of my body, but I
wanted to keep whatever dignity I could for as long as I could.
Everything that had happened since Cheryl had called this morn-
ing still seemed unreal, but here I was, standing almost naked
in a girl's apartment, heading for her bedroom.  It was a great
scene, except I wasn't going in to make love to her, but to let
her spank my ass.

         I walked into Cheryl's bedroom and my eyes almost
popped out of my head.  She was standing by the foot of her
bed, and she had indeed changed clothes--she was wearing one of
the tiniest string bikinis I'd ever seen!  It was an aqua
color, and it covered only a few square inches of an absolutely
luscious body. Obviously, no one at the company knew much about
the uptight young lady who cut their checks.  I stood there

gaping at her, and despite the absurdity of the situation, I
could feel myself getting hard almost instantly.

         "I told you to leave your clothes in the other room,"
Cheryl snapped.  I started to reach for the waistband of my
shorts, but then she noticed my erection.  "Keep them on," she
said quickly.  "I'll take them off when I'm ready.  But from
now on, you do exactly as I tell you."

         She walked over to a dresser and picked up a wide,
flat-backed hairbrush.  It was made out of some kind of dark
wood, and looked heavy.  She went back and sat on the end of
the bed, her legs just dangling over the edge, knees about
eight inches apart and feet not quite touching the floor.

         "All right," she said.  "Get over here, across my lap,
with your head toward my left."  I obeyed, clambering over her
until my cock and balls settled into to the space between the
middle of her thighs and my head hung just over the side of the
bed.

         "I've never felt so ridiculous in my life," I com-
plained.

         "You'll feel a lot more than that, in just a minute,"
Cheryl responded.  "When was the last time you had a good hard
spanking?"

         "I've never been spanked, except by hand, and the last
time for that was probably when I was four or five," I
answered.

         "Well, so as not to shock your tender little ass too
much too soon," Cheryl said, "I'll give you some warmups with
your underpants on."

         I held my breath as I felt Cheryl's balance shift
while she raised the hairbrush.  It smacked down on one cheek
of my ass, and I grunted and jerked.  It stung quite a bit, and
the burning feeling radiated out from where the blow had
landed.  Before I really had time to think about the sensation,
the hairbrush had landed again, this time on the other side of
my ass.  I jerked again, and again as the heavy brush smacked
in a different spot on the other cheek.

         The blows went on until I'd received maybe twenty of
them, and I realized that each smack was a little harder than
the last.  The pain wasn't unbearable by any means, but by the
time Cheryl had stopped my ass was really smarting and my
breath was whistling through my teeth with every stroke.

         "That's enough," I said, starting to slide off her
lap.

         She grabbed me across the knees and pulled me back.
"Oh, no, it's not.  Those were just the warmups!  Now, before I
take your pants off and really get down to work, I'll give you
just a taste of how it's going to feel."

         She caught the leg opening of my shorts and pulled the
fabric up until it cut painfully into the crack of my ass and
my right cheek was exposed.  "Just so you remember, here's how
it feels with your pants on."  She brought the hairbrush down
hard on the still-covered left cheek.  "And here's how it will

feel with them off."  The brush landed on my bare right cheek
and felt like a branding iron!  I couldn't believe the differ-
ence one little sixteenth of an inch of cotton could make.
Before I could react, the hairbrush had landed back on the
left, then on the right again.

         "That's enough playing around--now it's time to get
serious," Cheryl exclaimed.  She grabbed my shorts at the waist
and yanked them down in one motion to my knees.  I swore as the
waistband ripped past my balls, and it dawned on me that the
erection I'd had just a few minutes before was gone.

         "Such naughty language!," Cheryl giggled as she
brought the hairbrush down with a fierce "whack" in the middle
of my butt.  I tried to squirm, but she had a firm grip and my
legs were pinioned with my shorts around my knees.  I knew I
could get away, but what was the point of putting up a fight?
Either I'd leave and she would go to Moore in the morning, or
else I'd wind up back in the same position.

         Again and again the back of the hairbrush burned into
my ass.  I was determined not to yell or do anything else to
let her know how much it hurt, but I was beginning to wonder
how much more I could take when she finally stopped.

         "Halftime," Cheryl said.  She put the hairbrush down
and began to knead the burning flesh of my ass with her fin-
gers; under other circumstances it would have been a real turn-
on, but instead it just hurt.  "Your ass gets numb," she com-
mented, "and you don't feel it as much.  We don't want you to
miss out on anything, do we?"

         "O.K.," she directed.  "Stand up."  My shorts dropped
to my ankles as I clambered to my feet.  "Leave your underpants
on the floor, and kneel on the bed, facing the side."  I did as
I was told.  "Now cup your balls with your right hand, and hold
your cock in your left hand."  I stared at her in amazement,
but when she said I'd be sorry if I didn't obey her, I decided
not to take any chances.  "Keep your hands where they are, and
lie down on your stomach," she ordered.  I flopped down, with
both hands under the weight of my body.

         "Spread your legs out--wider," she commanded.  "I want
to be able to see your fingers around your balls.  If either
one of your hands comes out from under you, I'll flatten your
balls with the hairbrush.  Understand?"

         I muttered that I understood.  The new position didn't
make much sense to me, until I realized that with me across her
lap Cheryl could only lift the hairbrush about a foot, but now,
with her standing up, she could swing it three feet or more!

         I lay there, clutching my cock and balls, feeling
ridiculous and more than a little apprehensive about what the
hairbrush would feel like the next time it landed.  I didn't
have long to wait.

         Cheryl put her left hand in the small of my back, sup-
porting most of her weight with it, raised the hairbrush high
with her right hand and swung it down ferociously.  It landed
with a crack like a gunshot on the left cheek of my ass, and
despite my earlier resolve, I couldn't help crying out.  The
pain was more intense than anything I'd ever experienced
before.


         I steeled myself for the next blow, which landed just
as hard on the right cheek.  That time I managed to limit the
sound I made to a gasping groan.  I was still marveling at that
when the hairbrush landed again.  After suffering through about
six more, I decided that I couldn't take it any longer.

         "Stop it, please, Cheryl," I begged.  She stopped in
mid-swing.  "Sure, I'll stop whenever you say," she said
calmly. "Of course, if you make me stop before I'm ready, then
you won't have kept your part of the bargain, and I won't have
to keep mine, will I?"

         She let that thought linger for a bit.  "Well, what do
you say?", she asked.  "Shall I stop now?"

         I groaned and said "No, go ahead."

         "Go ahead and do what?", she demanded.

         "Go ahead and spank me some more."

         "A little more, or a lot more?"

         "A lot more!", I shouted.

         I had barely answered when the hairbrush began its
drumming on my ass again.  It was coming down so hard that my
whole body was bouncing off the bed, almost as though Cheryl
were dribbling a basketball.  After thirty or forty of those,
she stopped again and asked if I were ready for her to quit.
"Not until you're ready to stop," I replied, and so she started
up again.

         Finally she stopped, panting, and took the hairbrush
back to the dresser.  I lay on the bed, still clutching my cock
and my balls, my ass throbbing in time with my pulse, and
watched her walk across the room.  Her whole body was damp with
sweat, her bikini bottom dark at the crotch and along the crack
of her ass.  I was still alert enough to reflect on how incred-
ibly sexy she looked, but I couldn't have gotten it up if my
life depended on it.

         Cheryl looked down at me.  "Get up and get dressed,"
she snapped.  "I'll see you in the kitchen."

         I staggered to my feet and went to pick up my shorts,
glancing in the full-length mirror as I crossed the room.  My
ass looked just the way it felt, an ugly purple from top to
bottom and side to side.  A good thing I had no hot dates
scheduled this week, I thought to myself.  I eased my shorts on
and went out to the living room where I'd left the rest of my
clothes.  Dressing was agony, but at last I finished getting
everything back on, even tying my shoes.

         Cheryl was sitting on a stool in the breakfast nook in
her kitchen.  "Have a seat," she smirked as I shuffled in.

         "No thanks," I said.  "I'll just take my stories and
all of the computer disks and go."  I wondered whether I'd be
able to sit in my car to drive home.

         "I promised you could have them when we were through,
didn't I?", Cheryl said thoughtfully.


         "You're damn right you did!"

         "Well, I'll keep my promise, but this was just so much
fun that I don't think we're through yet."

         "What the hell do you mean?", I demanded.  "You've had
your fun, now give me those files and those papers!"

         Cheryl was opening the front door as I spoke.  She
smiled at me and said "Why don't you come over Friday evening,
and we'll talk about it then?"  She nudged me onto the porch
and closed the door behind me.

         I was tempted to kick the door in, beat the shit out
of Cheryl, if necessary, and demand my papers and computer
files back.  As I stood there in the cool night air, though, I
realized that I couldn't be sure she hadn't kept copies some-
where else--and besides, if she went to the police and gave
them my name, I didn't really want to tell them my side of the
story.  There was no way to keep it quiet in a town the size of
ours.

         Cursing under my breath, I limped back to my car and
eased myself in.  Sitting down wasn't pleasant, and I wondered
how much better it would feel tomorrow.

         Well, that's the story for now.  Somehow, between now
and Friday (this is still Tuesday, for another few minutes)
I've got to decide what to do.  Whatever it is, I won't be able
to tell anyone, so I'll just have to continue to confide in
this journal.

                                             September 27, 1985


         I'm writing this Friday evening, after coming back
from Cheryl's again.  Emotionally, but not physically, I feel a
lot better than I did Tuesday night.  The story is, if
anything, more incredible than the first part was.

         My work suffered all week as I stewed about what to
do, but I finally decided there really wasn't much choice.  I'd
have to confront Cheryl again if I were ever to be sure of get-
ting all of the incriminating evidence back.  I worked late
Wednesday night, and managed to check Cheryl's computer and her
desk to make sure she hadn't kept any copies at work.

         I found nothing, and hadn't really expected to.
Cheryl's power over me depended on no one else knowing what she
knew, so she wouldn't take a chance on leaving anything at the
office.  That probably meant that everything was in her apart-
ment, though she might have put copies in a safe deposit box or
someplace like that; I'd just have to judge how sincere she
seemed to be Friday evening, because there was no way I was
going back for a third session!

         Cheryl walked by my desk this afternoon and murmured
"See you at 7."  I just nodded.  I didn't want anyone else to
get the idea there was something going on between us.

         I knocked on Cheryl's door a few minutes after seven.
She opened the door, stepping aside as I walked in.

         "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind,"
she said.  "I wouldn't have minded talking to Mr. Moore on
Monday," she went on, "but it sure would have spoiled my plans
for this evening."

         I said nothing.  She looked at me for a few seconds,
and then went to fix drinks.  "How're the buns?", she asked in
a conversational tone.  "Bruises all gone?"

         I nodded as she handed me my drink.  "Well, we'll
remedy that in a few minutes," she smirked.

         "No more dirty tricks," I said.  "This has to be the
last time."

         "Okay," Cheryl said--too quickly, I thought.

         "I mean it," I insisted.  "I want to see all of the
hard copies, and all of the computer disks, out here right
now."

         "No way!", she snapped.  "I want you cooperating, and
you won't be if you know that all you have to do is come out
here, grab the stuff and leave."

         "How do I know you won't pull the same stunt as last
time?", I demanded.

         "You'll just have to trust me," she replied, "when I
say that tonight is it."

         That's not good enough, I thought to myself, but I'll
just have to find another way to deal with it.


         Cheryl glanced at my empty glass.  "All through?", she
asked.  "Good.  You can leave your clothes in here--all of
them, this time--and meet me in the bedroom."

         She strode out of the room, and I was left to repeat
the bizarre experience of last Tuesday, stripping off my
clothes to meet a beautiful and sexy woman, for an experience
that was going to be anything but erotic, at least for me!

         I pulled my shorts off, leaving them on the sofa on
top of all of my other clothes.  My stomach felt hollow as I
walked resolutely toward Cheryl's bedroom, my limp cock swing-
ing in front of me and my scrotum tight with nervous
anticipation.  I wondered if Cheryl would be wearing the aqua
bikini again; it didn't really matter, but somehow I hoped she
would be.

         When I rounded the corner and could see into the bed-
room, I was glad Cheryl wasn't wearing the aqua bikini.
                        ______
Instead she was wearing a red one, even smaller--if that were
possible--than the other.  The bottom covered less than half of
each tawny cheek of her ass, and when she turned to face me I
could see her nipples standing out sharply through the filmy
material and the lips of her pussy pressing tightly against the
crotch of her bikini bottom.  Despite my nervousness, my cock
began to salute the vision in front of me.

         "You like it, I see," Cheryl said.  "I don't get to
wear it as often as I'd like to," she added almost wistfully.
Then she turned all business.

         "I have a little surprise for you tonight," she said.
"I want you on the bed from the start this time."

         I clutched my cock in one hand and my balls in the
other, and lay down across the end of her bed, as I had last
Tuesday.

         "Not like that--up in the middle, with your arms out
in front of you," she instructed.

         I obeyed, releasing my genitals and stretching my arms
out as I sidled away from the foot of the bed.  Cheryl bent
down in front of me, giving me a magnificent view of her
delectable tits as she reached under the bed.  She sat back on
her haunches, holding an elastic cord about three feet long--
the kind some people use to strap luggage on the racks on the
back of sports car trunk lids--with metal hooks on each end,
and began to wrap it around my wrists.

         "What's that for?", I protested.  "I'm not going
anywhere."

         "Just a little extra precaution," Cheryl answered
grimly.  She stretched the cord as she wrapped it four or five
times around my wrists, clamping them together, and then
fastened the hook on the other end of the cord to some part of
the bedframe.

         Cheryl stood up and walked around the foot of the bed.
I thought she was going after the hairbrush until I suddenly
felt her wrapping another cord around my left ankle.  That
worried me, and I started to kick and struggle, but she was too
fast and too strong.  Slowly she dragged me backward across the

bed, stretching the cord that held my wrists as she pulled my
left ankle down against the cold metal of the bedframe.

         I tried to kick at her with my right foot, but she
quickly seized it, repeated the wrapping process, pulled my
right ankle down toward the head of the bed and hooked the end
of the cord to the bedframe at that corner.  Then she gripped
me just above the hips and dragged me back another inch until I
felt my balls slide free of the edge of the mattress.

         There was no way I could have been more helpless, or
more vulnerable.  My feet spanned almost the full length of the
bed, my ass just off the side of the mattress, cheeks spread
wide apart, my balls hanging free.  I swore furiously at
Cheryl, squirming in my makeshift bonds.

         She ignored me for a while, then told me to shut up; I
did, but only after she'd reached down and given my balls a
sharp squeeze.  That really took the wind out of me, and I
watched silently as she walked over to the dresser and picked
up the all-too-familiar hairbrush.

         "I told you I have a surprise for you," Cheryl said
smugly, "but I'm going to save it for a few minutes.  I think
your little bummy needs some spanks with this to warm it up."
She brandished the hairbrush as she walked toward the foot of
the bed and stopped behind my painfully twisted left knee.
"You don't have your underpants to protect you, so I'll be very
                                                           ____
gentle," she added mockingly.

         I craned my neck to look over my shoulder as Cheryl
brought the hairbrush back and began to swing its lacquered
face toward my immobilized buttocks.  I lost sight of it before
it completed its swing, but my sense of touch told me exactly
where the swing ended.  The hairbrush landed squarely in the
middle of my right asscheek.  I gasped in pain but, remembering
how annoyed I'd been with myself on Tuesday, I managed not to
cry out.

         The next blow smacked into the left cheek, and I bit
my tongue to keep quiet.  As Cheryl continued to paddle my
helpless ass, I turned my head away and closed my eyes.  I
squirmed and wriggled, but nothing I did could deflect the
hairbrush from whatever part of the target Cheryl selected.

         After about the fifth "SMACK" I'd started counting,
mostly as a distraction from the pain.  Thirty blows later, she
stopped.  "There, now," she asked innocently, "weren't those
nice and easy?"

         "You know they weren't, goddamn you," I spat.  "Now
unhook me and let me get out of here!"

         "But we've hardly started," Cheryl protested.  "And
I'm hurt that you don't give me credit for being gentle.  Maybe
you need a real spanking to help you appreciate the
difference."

         "NO!", I yelled, but it was too late.  The hairbrush
landed low on my right buttock, and even as I bellowed in pain
I had to admit that Cheryl had been right--the first batch had
been gentle in comparison.  She settled into a slow rhythm,
burning the hairbrush into my ass every two or three seconds.
I rocked from side to side, trying to break the cords that

bound my ankles to the bedframe, and cried out shamelessly with
every blow.

         After thirty or forty of those--I stopped trying to
count--she paused and asked if I wanted a gentle one.

         "Yes, please," I begged, and she obliged.

         "What kind was that?", she demanded.

         "An easy one," I gasped.

         The next one wasn't.  I screamed again, and Cheryl
asked "What was that one?"

         "A hard one!", I groaned.

         "Tell me what this one is," she commanded as the
hairbrush slapped again.

         "An easy one."

         "So you do know the difference," Cheryl said
sarcastically.  Do you want some more easy ones?"

         "No, please, Cheryl, no more," I pleaded.

         "Ten more," she said.  "Hard ones or easy ones?"

         "Easy ones, please," I answered.

         "I thought you'd say that," she snorted.  "I'll com-
promise with you," she said.  "Half and half--do you want the
easy ones first or last?"

         I couldn't answer her.  I didn't want any at all, hard
or easy.

         "Hurry up," she demanded, "or there won't be any easy
ones!"

         "Last," I answered quickly.

         The next five were the worst so far, and the final
five weren't much gentler, at least from my perspective, but
Cheryl kept her word and stopped after ten.  I looked over my
shoulder at her, and saw that her bikini was almost transparent
with perspiration.  My cock didn't respond at all; 99 percent
of my attention was focused on the pulsating pain in my butt,
and the other one percent on my aching knees and hip joints.

         "That's enough, Cheryl, let me go," I pleaded.

         "We'll take a break for a few minutes," she answered,
"but you haven't had your surprise yet."

         I wondered what on earth she could be planning to top
the horrendous paddling she'd already administered, but I was
sure I didn't want to find out.

         Cheryl walked over to her dresser and picked up a
leather thong that looked like a boot lace from a hiking boot.
She tied a slip knot near one end of it, passed the end through
the knot to form a circle about two inches in diameter, and

walked back over to the bed.  I could sense her directly behind
me and was mystified until I felt her cup my balls in one hand
and slip the leather loop over them.

         "What the hell are you doing?", I demanded.  For the
first time I was really frightened.  A man tends to be really
protective of his testes, and not just to avoid the pain that
comes from mistreating them--probably some instinct provided by
nature to ensure perpetuation of the species.

         She tightened the noose without replying, and I could
feel my balls squeezed tight against the bottom of my scrotum.
I tried frantically to rock forward and backward, to loosen or
break at least one of the cords that held me, until Cheryl
yanked downward sharply on the leather thong.  I screamed in
pain, and Cheryl said calmly "Hold still, or you're going to
hurt yourself."

         "You're the one who's hurting me, you fucking bitch,"
I yelled at her.  "And why?  You've already got my legs tied
up."

         "I'm going to take the cords off your ankles," she
answered, "but I don't want you going anyplace."  She tugged
hard at the thong again as she tied the lower end tightly to
the frame of the bed.  I groaned and tried to push myself back-
ward to ease the pressure on my balls, but the cord holding my
wrists had already been stretched to its limit.

         Then I felt first one ankle and then the other come
free as Cheryl unhooked the cords and unwrapped them.  I gave a
small sigh of relief as I pulled my legs closer together and
took some of the strain off my knees and hip joints.  My legs
were free, but the rest of my body was even more tightly
restrained than before; the cord binding my wrists kept me from
moving backward, and even the thought of trying to move forward
added to the constant ache in my testicles.

         Cheryl stood up from her labors behind me and walked
over to the closet at the far side of the room.  "Now for the
surprise I've been promising you," she said over her shoulder.

         She reached into the closet and came out with a thin
rod about three feet long.  "I took this with me when I left
home," she announced.  "A family heirloom, as it were, used on
several generations of naughty bare bottoms--mostly younger
than yours, but none more in need of it," she added.

         As she came closer I could see that it was made of
wood, a little bigger around than the diameter of a pencil.
"It's a birch cane," Cheryl explained, "and I can tell you from
personal experience that its effects are really, um,
exquisite."

         She walked around the end of the bed and I felt the
muscles in my ass shudder as she rested the cane across both
cheeks.  "Listen," she ordered.  She lifted the cane, brought
it back and then swung it sharply toward me; it made a
whistling kind of "swish" as it sped through the air, stopping
just as it tapped me.  I jumped at the contact, and Cheryl gig-
gled at my reaction.  "That sound really turns me on," she
exclaimed.  The cane whistled again, and again it stopped with
only the lightest touch on my expectant asscheeks.


         My buttocks clenched and my legs twitched involuntar-
ily, and she laughed again.  "You'll know when its the real
thing," she said.

         "Listen, Cheryl," I said, "this game has gone on long
enough.  Put away the cane and let me go."

         "Oh, no," she responded.  "This is the best part, and
I don't care how much you beg, I'm not going to quit now."

         Her voice distracted me enough that I didn't hear the
swishing of the cane.  In fact, the next sound I heard was the
echo of my own surprised bellow of pain as the cane cut into
both cheeks of my ass.  The cane whistled again, slashing diag-
onally across my right asscheek and forcing another scream from
my lungs.

         The pain was beyond description.  Each time the hair-
brush had landed, pain had radiated out in all directions from
the spot where it hit.  With the cane, it felt as though all
that pain, and more, was concentrated in the tiny strip of
bruised flesh right under the cane.

         In the time it takes to tell about it the cane had cut
into the helpless cheeks of my ass a dozen times or more.  I
was totally out of control, screaming at the top of my lungs
with every stroke, kicking my legs and struggling against my
bonds, oblivious to the pain in my balls.

         Cheryl paused until I quieted down.  "I don't care how
much noise you make," she told me.  "My apartment's at the end,
and the one next door is vacant.  But you ought to take it easy
with that kicking--if you're thinking of ever having a family,
that is."  And with that she resumed the caning.

         I screamed.  I begged her to go back to using the
hairbrush.  I pleaded with her to stop.  I told her to go ahead
and tell Mr. Moore about my stories.  But nothing even slowed
her merciless slashing at my ass.

         Between yells I looked back at her, and realized that
Cheryl's left hand was deep inside her bikini bottom.  From the
movement of her hand I could tell that at least one finger was
plunging rapidly in and out her pussy.  She had a rapturous
look on her face, but even that didn't interfere with the
rhythm of the whistling cane.

         Suddenly the caning stopped, and I was dimly aware
that the telephone was ringing in the other room.  Cheryl
dropped the cane on the bed beside me and said "Don't go away,
there's more to come."

         "Saved by the bell," I thought to myself absurdly.
Then I realized that the interruption only made things worse.
If Cheryl were planning to beat my ass and frig herself until
she came, she'd be a lot more strokes away from cumming when
she came back from answering the phone than she had been before
it rang.

         There was no way I could endure more caning--I would
literally go insane if Cheryl came back and started in again, I
thought.  Somehow I had to get free.



         Breaking the thong that tied my balls to the bedframe
seemed out of the question; I would castrate myself before the
thong broke.  That left only the cord pulling my wrists toward
the far side of the bed.  I strained against it, that merely
increased the tension on the thong encircling my scrotum, until
I almost screamed with pain and frustration.

         But the alternative of lying there quietly until
Cheryl came back and picked up the cane seemed even worse.  I
braced my thighs against the side of the mattress, in the hope
that would keep me from sliding forward, and tugged with all my
strength.  The mattress squeezed in some, letting me move
forward until the pain in my balls was almost unendurable.

         Just as I was deciding to give up, the hook that held
the cord to the far side of the bedframe broke off and my arms
were free!  The cord was still wrapped several times around my
wrists, but I gnawed at one of the coils with my teeth until it
slipped loose, and then I had my hands free as well.  I picked
for a few seconds at the slip knot that was sunk deep into the
skin of my scrotum, and then realized that it would be easier
to undo the knot at the other end of the thong.

         I had just finished untying the thong from the bed-
frame when I heard Cheryl saying good bye to whoever had
called.  I snatched the ankle cords from the floor and the
wrist cord from the bed and hobbled stiffly to a spot behind
the half-closed door, trailing the leather thong from my
ballooning testicles.

         Cheryl gasped in surprise when she saw the empty bed.
I should have been too stiff and sore to move, but my despera-
tion overcame that.  I knew suddenly what I had to do to
prevent any further extortion.  In the half-second while Cheryl
was looking around the room in confusion, I knocked her down
with a tackle my high school football coach would have been
proud of.

         Before Cheryl could catch her breath I had one of the
ankle cords wrapped neatly around her knees and hooked in
place, and was whipping the wrist cord around her wrists.  Then
she started thrashing at me with elbows and knees, and it was
all I could do to drag her over to the bed.

         By the time I had the wrist cord--with its one good
hook--fastened securely to the bed frame, Cheryl had managed to
throw her legs off the end of the bed and was almost on her
feet.

         I shoved her back onto the bed, dodged her flying
feet, seized her ankles and dragged her into the position--
lying across the bed--that I'd occupied three minutes earlier.
I made sure the remaining ankle cord was fastened securely
around her right ankle before loosening the cord with which I'd
bound her knees.  Cheryl cursed, screamed and kicked at me as I
dragged her backward across the bed and hooked the right ankle
cord to the bedframe, but her resistance only fueled the fury
that had been gradually building up in me.

         I caught her flailing left foot, wrapped the last cord
around that ankle, and pulled her left leg inexorably backward
and downward until I could anchor it to the bedframe as well.
Panting, I stood up to survey the scene.


         Cheryl's position wasn't quite right, I decided; her
ass, even her crotch, were still on the bed, because I'd
started with her wrists in the same position mine had been in,
while her arms and torso were shorter than mine.  I loosened
the wrist cord a few inches, then dragged her backward and took
up the slack by tightening the ankle bonds.

         This time the position looked perfect.  I debated a
second or two about whether to leave her bikini top on, but
concluded that since I'd been totally naked, she should be too.
I untied the knot in the middle of her back and jerked the top
out from under her boobs, provoking a yelp of pain in the midst
of the ongoing stream of imprecations.

         There was no question that the bottom of her bikini
had to go--Cheryl's ass was going to be as unprotected as mine
had been.  I undid the tie strings at each side and pulled the
bikini between her legs like a diaper.

         Now I had a pretty good idea of how I'd looked to
Cheryl an hour earlier.  The crack of her ass yawned wide, with
its darker pigmentation spreading to encircle her puckered
brown asshole.  Below that, the exterior lips of her pussy,
glistening with the products of her earlier self-stimulation,
gaped where my balls had hung.

         The thought of my balls reminded me that I was still
dangling the leather thong.  Gingerly, I loosened the slip
knot, wincing as the thong pulled at stray pubic hairs that
had been caught in it, and eased my aching testicles out of the
leather noose.

         I walked around to the other side of the bed and
tossed the thong down where Cheryl could see it.  "I'm afraid
your ankles will have to stay put," I told her.  "You seem to
be lacking the appendages to make this useful."

         "You son of bitch!", she snarled.  "You won't get away
with this.  I'll go to the police, I'll go to the newspaper,
I'll--"

         "I don't think so, Cheryl," I interrupted her.  "I
don't think you'll ever want to tell anyone about what you did
to me, or about what I'm going to do to you."

         "What--what are you going to do?", she asked.  The
belligerence was gone from her voice.

         "To begin with," I answered, picking up the cane, "I'm
going to let you decide whether this feels as 'exquisite' as
you remembered."

         "Please," she whimpered, "not too hard.  I didn't use
it hard on you."

         "Right," I said as I walked around the end of the bed.
"So I won't use it any harder than you did."  I laid the cane
across her ass and adjusted my stance so I could land the cane
in any spot on either cheek without moving.  Cheryl started to
sob quietly, every muscle from her waist down quivering with
dread.

         I decided not to tease Cheryl the way she'd teased me.
I lifted the cane off her ass, brought it back, and swished it

forward onto the left cheek.  Cheryl shrieked and wiggled her
ass helplessly as a dark red welt rose where the cane had
landed.  I swung the cane and gave her a matching welt on the
other cheek.  Again she screamed and struggled against her
bonds.

         It wasn't until the fifth stroke of the cane that she
started pleading with me to stop, and it wasn't until the twen-
tieth that I did.  By that time, Cheryl's beautiful bottom was
crossed with a network of red stripes, and her whole body was
trembling uncontrollably.

         I laid the cane gently across her ass again.  "Now," I
said, "I'm going to ask you a question.  If I like your answer,
I'll ask another question; if I don't, your little tush will
get ten more reunions with the cane.  And we'll go on that way
until I have all the answers I want.  Got it?"

         "Yes," she wept.  "What's the question?"

         "That should be obvious--where are my stories?", I
demanded.

         "In a safe place, where you'll never find them," she
said defiantly.

         I was amazed; I'd thought she was ready to do almost
anything to stop the caning.  My earlier rage had been largely
transferred into the welts that now stood out on her ass, and
I had no particular desire to keep punishing her--but she
wasn't leaving me much choice.

         "I don't like that answer," I told her.  She stiffened
as I lifted the cane from her ass and raised it.  I selected a
relatively unmarked spot on her left asscheek and whipped the
cane down hard.  Cheryl shrieked in real agony, the lips of her
pussy opening and closing as she flexed her muscles against the
cords.  Nine more quick hard strokes of the cane, with the same
reaction to each.

         Again I asked her the same question, and again she
refused to tell me.  By the time I'd given her ten more strokes
with the cane, there was hardly a spot on Cheryl's ass that
wasn't part of one welt or another.

         I rested the cane on her trembling ass again.  "This
time," I warned her, "if I don't like your answer it'll be
twenty strokes, not ten.  Are you ready to tell me where they
are?"

         "All right," she sighed.  "I can't take any more.  The
stuff is all in my old briefcase in the closet."

         I put the cane down on the bed and went to the closet.
The briefcase was in the back, between two stacks of shoeboxes.
I pulled it out and backed into the bedroom, no longer con-
scious of my total nudity.  I put the briefcase on the floor in
front of Cheryl and tried to open it.  Neither latch would
open; both had little combination locks.

         "What are the combinations, Cheryl?", I asked wearily.
She looked at me speculatively until I got to my feet and
picked up the cane.


         "O.K., O.K.," she said quickly.  "I was going to tell
you."  She gave me the combinations and I set the numbers on
the little wheels.  This time both latches released.  I opened
the briefcase and found the manila envelope that Cheryl had
been carrying at our first lunch "date".  Inside the envelope
were the same printouts of my six chapters and two computer
diskettes.

         "How do I know what's on these disks?", I demanded
suspiciously.

         "My god, you ought to trust me by this time," Cheryl
cried.  "I know when I've been beaten!"  It took a few seconds,
and then she gave a hysterical little giggle as she realized
what she'd said.  "You can check them on my computer--it's set
up where the pantry is supposed to be."  Her voice sounded
defeated but there was a glint of triumph in her eyes that
bothered me.

         I made sure each of the elastic cords was holding well
before went out in search of Cheryl's computer.  I checked the
disks one at a time and they seemed to be right.  The file
names were correct and a quick scan of the contents looked
familiar.  I'd shut down the computer and was heading back to
the bedroom when it dawned on me--the diskettes were a
different brand than we used at work!  When Cheryl first copied
my files she would have used disks from the office.  She could
have copied them onto her own diskettes and then conscien-
tiously returned the original diskettes to the office--but the
glint I'd seen in her eyes told me she still had the originals
hidden somewhere.

         Tiptoeing back to the bedroom, I glanced through the
door.  Cheryl was still on the bed, straining against each of
her bonds.  I'd expected that, but I was pretty sure she wasn't
strong enough to break any of the hooks the way I had.

         She stopped struggling as soon as she saw me.  Her
tentative smile of relief changed to a look of alarm as I
strode to the bed and picked up the cane.  I took up my
position behind her and rested the cane on her ass.

         "What's the matter?  Those are the right diskettes,"
she babbled.  "Did you have trouble with the computer?  Let me
go, I'll show you how...."

         "These disks are just fine, Cheryl," I interrupted.
"Now I want to know where the originals are.  And before you
answer, remember the stakes are up to twenty now."

         Five seconds passed in silence.  "Those are the only
copies I have," she said carefully.  "I erased the originals
and took them back to the office, I swear."

         I looked down at her ass.  The welts had sort of run
together, so both cheeks were a nearly uniform reddish purple.
"I don't like it when you lie to me, Cheryl," I said sadly.

         "I'm not lying!", she protested frantically.  "I'm
telling you the truth, I era--"  She interrupted herself with a
howl of pain as I lashed down with the cane.  I left a dozen
fresh welts on Cheryl's discolored rump, and eight more on the
backs of her unblemished thighs.  Between screams Cheryl begged

me to stop, assuring me that she'd erased the original
diskettes.

         I finished the twenty and waited for her sobbing to
subside.  "Look," she finally gasped, "you can fuck me.  You
can do anything you want to me.  Just stop caning me, because
there's nothing more I can tell you."

         "We can talk about fucking after I get those original
disks back," I told her.  "Now where are they?"

         Again she pleaded that she didn't have them, and again
I cut her protests off with the cane.  This time I worked on
the insides of her thighs, moving upward in a steady pattern
until, after fifteen strokes, she could have no doubt that the
next one would cut squarely across her convulsing pussy.

         I paused.  "Five more, Cheryl," I reminded her.  "You
know where they're going to be--or you can have them on your
ass instead, if you tell me where those diskettes are.  It's
your choice."

         "No, please don't, I beg you," she shrieked.  "I
erased them."

         I wanted to believe her, wanted to stop hurting her,
but I was convinced she was still lying.  I shrugged mentally
as I drew back the cane.  Cheryl had made her choice, and now
she would suffer the consequences.  The muscles bulged in her
thighs as she tried futilely to close her legs, to shield the
most sensitive part of her body, but the cane whistled cleanly
onto its target, leaving a furrow that cut diagonally across
both lips of her pussy.

         The scream that tore its way out of the depths of
Cheryl's soul was clearly more sincere than anything else that
had come out of her mouth all week, but it took another stroke
of the cane in almost the same spot before she finally gurgled
"All right, I'll tell you."  I'd promised her twenty, so I gave
her three more across the ass.

         "I'm waiting," I said, laying the cane down.  Cheryl
was shaking all over as she tried to speak, but I finally
understood that she was saying "in the freezer".

         Sure enough, there were two diskettes, the brand we
use at work, sealed in a ziploc baggie, hidden between two diet
dinners in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator.  A very
clever hiding place, I had to admit--not where anyone would
look for computer diskettes.  I didn't bother to check them on
Cheryl's computer; I was sure she wouldn't have held out on
these for so long if they weren't real, and the last real ones
at that.

         I walked back into the bedroom.  This time Cheryl
wasn't struggling.  "Will you please let me go now?", she
begged.

         "Well, I've been thinking," I said.  "We're about even
on the caning, but you're a couple of hundred little love pats
ahead of me with that hairbrush.  Maybe we need to even the
score before I let you loose."



         "No," she wailed.  "My ass couldn't stand anything
more."

         "You didn't seem very worried about what my ass could
stand," I pointed out.

         "I know.  I'm sorry, but please, don't spank me any
more."

         "All right," I agreed, "no more tonight.  "I'll come
back in the morning and we'll see how the situation looks then.
Just to be sure you're waiting for me, though, I'm going to
leave you right where you are now."

         Cheryl pleaded with me to undo her bonds, but I
ignored her.  I found an extra blanket on the shelf in her
closet and spread it over her shoulders and back--leaving her
bottom exposed--said "Good night, Cheryl," gathered up all of
the computer disks and printouts, and turned out the light.

         I dressed in the living room, pocketed Cheryl's keys,
found the thermostat and turned it up to 85 to keep the der-
riere next door from getting too chilled, turned out the rest
of the lights and locked the door behind me.  As I got in my
car and started the drive home, I realized that I was leaving
with a lighter heart--and a sorer ass--than I'd had since
Tuesday morning.

         Now that this is almost finished, I'm planning to
sleep in tomorrow.  Oh, I'll make it over to Cheryl's, all
right, but a couple of extra hours won't make that much differ-
ence.  And I don't have any intention of using the hairbrush on
her, because I don't get any special thrill out of seeing
someone else in pain.  On the other hand, the idea of her
spending ten or twelve hours, realizing how helpless and
vulnerable she is--and worrying about how her own hairbrush is
going to feel on that already-bruised bare ass--doesn't make me
feel bad at all.

         Good night, Cheryl, and pleasant dreams.

                                             September 28, 1985



         The story continues.  I woke up around nine this
morning and took my time shaving and getting dressed--for
obvious reasons.  My butt is still the color of raw meat, and
aches like hell at the slightest pressure.  By ten I decided
that Cheryl was probably getting pretty anxious to see me.

         I stopped by a fast food restaurant and picked up a
couple of scrambled egg and sausage breakfasts to go, and drove
over to Cheryl's apartment.  She was begging by the time I got
the door unlocked.

         "God, I thought you were never going to come," she
complained as I walked into her bedroom.  She was still in the
same position as she'd been when I left the night before,
though she had apparently managed to squirm enough to make the
blanket slide off her back and onto the floor.  "Please, let me
go--I've got to go to the bathroom so bad I can taste it."

         I put the breakfast boxes down on the dresser and
walked around behind her.  Cheryl's ass looked about the way
mine had, shading from dark red on the cheeks themselves to a
series of pinkish stripes on the backs and insides of her upper
thighs.  The lips of her pussy, already darker than the rest of
her skin, were crossed with two black-looking welts where the
cane had done its work.

         Cheryl groaned as I released the cords that bound her
ankles, and stretched her legs out behind her while I loosened
her wrists.  She crawled off the bed and headed stiffly toward
the bathroom.  I went with her, but once I'd glanced at the
window and confirmed that it was too high and too small for her
to escape, I left the bathroom and let her close the door.

         She emerged about five minutes later, having done at
least some minimal washing and combing.  "I brought some stuff
to eat," I said, gesturing toward the dresser.

         "That's terrific!", Cheryl exclaimed.  "Let me get a
robe on."

         "Uh-uh," I responded.  "We've got some unfinished
business, and I don't want you skipping out the front door
before that's taken care of.  You look just fine the way you
are."

         Indeed she did, especially from the front.  I hadn't
had a really good view of her boobs before, but the sight was
worth the wait.  They were round and full without sagging, and
her trim waist and hips were perfectly proportioned.  Perhaps
because of the caning I'd given her thighs, she walked and
stood with her legs well apart, providing a delightful view of
her snatch.

         The smile died on Cheryl's face.  "You're really
serious about the hairbrush, I mean, about getting even?"

         "Can you give me any reason why I shouldn't be?", I
demanded.  I hadn't changed my mind about spanking her, but I
enjoyed the anxiety in her voice and saw no reason to relieve
her worries yet.


         "I guess not," she sighed.  "I suppose I really do
have it coming."

         "Let's eat first," I suggested, handing her one of the
boxes.  She took it and started to sit on the edge of the bed,
but immediately winced and jumped to her feet again.  "I can't
sit down," she cried.

         "You can do what I do," I suggested, sliding onto the
bed and lying on my left side, propped up on one elbow with the
breakfast box in front of me.  Cheryl matched my position,
lying on her right side.  The top of the styrofoam box grazed
her right tit as she opened it.

         We ate the greasy lukewarm food eagerly without saying
anything more.  When we were both finished, Cheryl gathered up
the boxes, plastic forks and knives, and napkins and carried
them into the kitchen.  Again I followed her; my cock stiffened
as I watched her ass muscles ripple, her wide-legged gait
exaggerating the transfer of weight from one leg to the other.

         Cheryl dumped the breakfast debris and headed
resolutely back to the bedroom.  "Thanks for breakfast," she
said.  "Let's get this over with."

         She picked up the hairbrush from the dresser and
handed it to me.  "You're not going to tie me up again, are
you?"

         "Not right now," I answered.  "We'll see how it goes."
I sat down on the foot of the bed, but scooted well back from
the edge, so both legs were straight out in front of me.  My
ass throbbed, but there was no other way to get Cheryl into the
position I'd decided I wanted her to be in.

         I didn't have to tell her to lie across my lap.  She
crawled over my legs until her battered rump was over my right
thigh, and then eased herself down until her boobs flattened
against the bedspread.  "Not too much, O.K.?", she pleaded.  "I
already can't sit down, and I don't know how I'm going to make
it to work on Monday."

         Her ass twitched as I rested my arm across it.  "I
don't feel too sorry for you," I said.  "This whole business
was your idea, remember?"  Then I lifted her left leg at the
knee and swung it suddenly over my head, pulling Cheryl closer
to me at the same time.  She gave a startled yell and tried to
pull her legs closer together, but they were separated by my
body.  "Put your head down on my legs," I ordered.

         Cheryl moved to comply.  "But why?", she wailed.  I
waited for those grapefruit-sized boobs to settle onto my
shins, just below the kneecaps, before I answered her.

         "I liked the view last night," I said, "but this is
more, well, personal."  It was, in fact, extremely personal.
With Cheryl's thighs on either side of my waist, her legs were
spread almost as far apart as they had been when she was tied
to the bed.  I could have bent down and bitten--or kissed--
either blazing asscheek, and her bruised cuntlips were only
inches ahead of the growing bulge in the front of my pants.

         I stroked her ass and said "I have some questions for
you."


         "Oh, Jesus, not this again!", she sighed.

         "Not that kind of questions," I soothed.  "If I hadn't
gotten loose last night, would you have given me the disks
back?

         "Probably not," Cheryl admitted.

         "Just how long were you planning to play the game?", I
wanted to know.

         "I don't know, as long as you went along with it, I
guess," she replied.

         "Would you really have gone to Mr. Moore if I'd
refused to play?"  I continued to massage both of Cheryl's
asscheeks as I spoke.

         "I hadn't really decided yet," she responded.  "I was
pretty sure you'd go along, at least for a while."

         "But why me?", I insisted.

         "You were in a bad spot--you were vulnerable," Cheryl
explained.  She was beginning to squirm under my probing hands,
and I could see her pussy lips beginning to swell and darken.

         "I suppose a shrink would say I was getting back at my
father," she continued unexpectedly.  "I wanted to please him,
get him to care about me, but nothing I did was ever good
enough for him--and when I did something wrong, he really made
me pay for it."

         "Am I the first guy you ever spanked?", I asked,
running my thumbs along the inside of her widely spread thighs.

         "The second," she replied.  "I lived with a guy for
six months or so, and I used to work him over pretty good."

         "What kind of hold did you have on him?"  Cheryl was
beginning to push herself backward against my hands, and her
cuntlips glistened as the pressure of my thumbs at the base of
her ass spread them apart.

         "I didn't need a hold--he liked it," Cheryl said
contemptuously.

         "How on earth did you find that out?"  I was
astonished.  "I mean, did he just tell you he liked it?"

         "Sort of."  Cheryl was breathing faster as I ran my
fingertips down the crack of her ass, across her asshole,
stopping just short of her pussy.  "We were sitting in bed one
Saturday morning.  I was trying to read a magazine, and he kept
reaching over and tweaking my tit.  It really irritated me, and
finally I told him that if he didn't leave me alone I was going
to paddle his ass.  He kept it up, so finally I grabbed my
hairbrush off the night table, pulled him over my lap, and gave
him ten or twelve good ones.  That made him really horny, and
we had a steamy fuck, and the next day he went out and bought
me the hairbrush I have now--the one I used on you."

         "This one here," I said, picking up the hairbrush from
the bed and resting its cool, hard face against one of her hot

ass mounds.  Cheryl's legs squeezed my waist as she clenched
the muscles in her ass.

         "Please," she begged, "not too hard.  I'm so sore from
the caning you gave me last night!"

         "Not yet," I said, putting the hairbrush back on the
bed beside me.  "So, he bought you the hairbrush and told you
he liked the way it felt," I prompted as I resumed massaging
the bunched muscles in her asscheeks.

         Cheryl's ass relaxed and she said "Yeah, it got to the
place where nothing else turned him on.  I used a belt on him,
then the cane, even tied his balls up the way I did yours, and
he loved it all."

         "Sounds like a perfect match," I commented.  "Why
didn't you stick together?"

         Cheryl moaned as I slid my thumb along the slippery
length of her cuntlips.  "I hated it," she answered.  "I needed
him to hurt, the way I had, but all I was doing was giving him
what he wanted.  It got so I never wanted to see his ass
again."

         My thumb slid into her heated pussy and she gasped.
"Don't!", she exclaimed.  "I'm getting so hot I can't stand it.
Hurry up and paddle me with the hairbrush."

         I slid my thumb in all the way as I picked the
hairbrush up with my other hand and laid it atop her ass.  "Are
you sure you want me to do this?", I asked.

         "I deserve it," she insisted.  "I used it on you!"

         "I have a better idea," I said.  My thumb was still
buried in her cunt as I laid the hairbrush back on the bed and
lifted Cheryl's right leg over my head, rolling her onto her
back.  I fumbled one-handed with my belt and fly and dragged my
pants down over my throbbing erection.

         "I never cum this way," Cheryl protested, but her
pussy sucked eagerly as my rigid cock offered itself in place
of my thumb.  Her erect nipples were the size of gumdrops as I
sucked at them, feeling the walls of her pussy clenching at my
thrusting penis.

         Cheryl screamed and clawed at my back, arching her
hips as her orgasm started, and mine was only a few seconds
behind.  Despite the fog in my brain I heard a "thunk" as the
hairbrush fell onto the floor.

         Gradually our bodies relaxed.  "My God," Cheryl
gasped, "I never felt anything like that before!"

         I kissed her mouth for the first time and slid off
her.  I pulled my clothes off, dropping them over the edge of
the bed, and then slid off the bed myself.  Naked, I fumbled
around on the floor until I found the hairbrush.  I picked it
up and walked toward Cheryl's dresser.

         "Let's leave this over here where it belongs," I
suggested.  Cheryl nodded mutely and stretched a hand toward me
as I came back to bed.