SMARTS!

by Jay Lawrence

  I joined in the name-calling and he rewarded me with an even harder pounding that almost pushed my face into the headboard. I was coming. Ken was coming. On, on, hard, deep, pound, pound, pound, bastard, slut, ass, cunt, fuck, fuck, fuck. The bed creaked frantically as we orgasmed, yelling insults and tearing at each other like a pair of tigers.

  "Oh God!"

  "Jesus, Mrs. H!"

  I collapsed on my stomach, my arms aching from clutching the headboard. Carefully, Ken eased his softening prick from my well-pummeled bottom. I began to think of cushions and ultra-soft toilet tissue.

  "That was..."

  "Amazing."

  He finished my sentence and I smiled, wryly. Yes, it was, but I wasn't sure I would be repeating it in the near future. I rolled over gingerly and watched Ken pull on his jeans. For a fit guy, he looked like he'd had quite a work-out. I looked at my shiny, spiky boots, at my naked breasts with their swollen, rigid nipples. I felt oddly powerful and supremely satisfied.

  "And that, dear Ken, is how we British built the Empire!"

  "On all fours with your asses in the air?"

  "Ha, bloody ha. We never did have that tea."

  "Thank God. I'd rather have coffee."

  "Philistine colonial."

  Laughing, I threw a pillow at him.

  "Get back to work. Christ, are we paying you to fuck my ass?!"

  LECHEROUS LIAISONS

  For 'you-know-who', with love.

  "Just jump out here, there's a good girl. Mind Gerald's paint-work. Jesus Christ!"

  The truck slowed down in front of the coffee shop and came to a brief halt, its driver looking over his shoulder to judge the next gap in the oncoming traffic. I performed my usual acrobatic leap, simultaneously knocking the truck door on a nearby lamp post. Oops. The purveyor of my ride gave me a look worthy of Medusa on a bad hair day and I smiled sheepishly. The truck pulled away from the sidewalk and I trotted dutifully into The Bedspring Cafe, carefully clutching my handful of coins.

  "One small dark roast and a mega-size caramel whipped cream Stupendo, please."

  "You want chocolate sprinkles on the Stupendo?"

  The girl behind the counter had short, spiked orange hair and an impossible number of piercings in her left ear. I pondered. It was, after all, a question of some importance. Finally, I reached my decision.

  "Yes, please."

  Awkwardly, I started to count out the motley collection of dimes and quarters. Ginger sighed pointedly and began to drum her long green fingernails on the SPCA tin.

  "It's about time you took your old man's wallet in to Mr. Lube-It. Most people save their small change for parking meters, you know."

  "Edgar doesn't agree with parking meters. He says he pays enough money to the city in property taxes so he should be able to park wherever he wants to."

  Ginger separated a five-franc piece from the assortment on the counter.

  "That'd be worth over a dollar twenty if it wasn't obsolete. Nice try. Well, I've heard of drive-by shootings but firing you out of a speeding truck for a small dark roast is a bit much."

  I yearningly examined the tempting contents of the glass fronted munchie case.

  "I could murder a bun."

  "Dream on. It's not your birthday yet."

  "I should be so lucky!"

  A large silver vehicle crawled past the cafe, its driver gesticulating wildly. I snapped plastic lids onto the two steaming paper cups and grabbed a handful of napkins. Ginger sighed and emerged from behind the counter to open the door for me.

  "Don't want you scalding yourself trying to juggle Java. Have a nice day."

  I set off down the sidewalk at a brisk power walker's pace as Edgar curb crawled, the passenger door open to facilitate my re-entry. The familiar strains of "Camelot" warbled from the truck's tape machine and I cringed inwardly as I clambered on board. I've been a bit leery of Julie Andrews since my mother's "Mary Poppins" fetish. My companion glared suspiciously at the tall cup containing my Stupendo. A dribble of melting whipped cream oozed out from beneath the plastic lid and I deftly stopped it with one finger but – too late! Edgar had noticed.

  "Is that cream?!"

  Miss Andrews trilled on, with well-rounded vowels and crisp e-nun-ci-a-tion. I felt as if we were being serenaded by an elocution teacher. I had to hide that tape.

  "Darling, it's only a teensy-weensy Stupendo. Haven't I been good? Don't I deserve a little treat now and again?"

  Edgar looked as if he might implode with annoyance, his bushy eyebrows almost resting on his aquiline nose. He resembled an old myopic vulture, squinting at a well-picked carcass.

  "You know the rules, missy. Black tea or coffee on weekdays. Skimmed milk allowance, weekends only. Cream is for Christmas. This is just an average Saturday, in case you hadn't noticed."

  "But I'm fading away!"

  This was not strictly true. My worthy Master had put me on a strict regime and, 'though I'd certainly dropped a pound or two, frequent midnight forays to the fridge kept my calorie intake well inside the maintenance zone.

  "There are plenty of carrot sticks if you're hungry. And did you realize that they really can help you to see in the dark? Vitamin A, you know. Beta carotene."

  Edgar had entered education mode and I listened politely, as he waxed lyrical on the intricacies of the human eyeball and the many benefits of ingesting orange roots. It would, after all, be churlish to mention that I had passed Grade 10 Biology. At least, he had stopped fussing about the Stupendo. I wondered what the pay-back would be, however.

  We had been "an item" for two years, Edgar and I. To the uninitiated, we might be mistaken for father and daughter or uncle and niece, such was the difference between our ages; although at thirty-six, I was certainly no Lolita. We were as different as chalk and cheese. Edgar had an unerringly scientific approach to life. Everything in creation could be explained in terms of atoms and molecules, the multiple variations of carbon and oxygen and hydrogen. When he felt a little down, his serotonin uplifters were on a go-slow. Sometimes he chose to live through chemistry, popping various pills to keep his bodily functions bar-chart straight. I was a New Age girl. My chosen lifestyle involved charting the movements of the planets and blaming heavy karma for life's lemons. I wore billowy Indian skirts with tiny tinkling bells and my body was a temple. Not even an aspirin passed my lips. Fortunately, I wasn't prone to headaches. A typical conversation went something like this:

  "I'm feeling a bit tense these days. A nice course of Zoloft should do the trick."

  "Nonsense, darling. It's just Uranus square your Moon. Tranquillizers melt your brain. I'll get you a tonic from the health food store."

  "That tastes like something the cat disgorged!"

  "If it tastes bad, it must be good for you. I'll get you some Valerian tea."

  "That's potentially dangerous stuff, you know. A woman died after drinking that. Kidney failure. I read it in the Post's medical column."

  "It's all-natural, though. I'll get you some tomorrow. If you feel strange, just stop drinking."

  "You're trying to get rid of me again, aren't you?"

  As always, the truck turned right at the lights and headed on down to the beach. I sometimes wondered whether Edgar even needed to steer Gerald the Ford, who could surely find his rumbling mechanical way on auto-pilot. We pulled into the free parking lot with the best view of English Bay. I counted the spaces and knew that Edgar would select the same one as usual, a nice central one by a weeping willow tree. In the summer, when Vancouver was thronged with tourists, our spot was frequently already taken, and Edgar would positively bristle with indignation.

  "Right, Miss Smarty-Pants cholesterol imbiber. In the back."

  Oh-oh. I was for the high-jump all right. Or actually more of a front crawl. Every Saturday afternoon, regular as clockwork, my Master and I drove out to Spanish Banks to admire the undoubtedly gorgeous view and to have a semi al fresco spanking session in the back of the truck. This practice had started dur
ing our courting days and, naturally, Edgar saw no reason to alter what had become an enjoyable and slightly risqué ritual. The truck had a full fitted canopy with the type of tinted glass windows ambulances have, so you could see out from the inside but not in from the outside. One entered through a hatch at the back. My Master knew how to spoil a girl.

  "Come along, Perry. We haven't got all day."

  Meekly, I clambered into the little fiberglass cave, shuffling forward on all fours until I reached the far end behind the cab. An air mattress and a double sleeping bag covered most of the truck bed. Gerald the Ford was a budget passion wagon. Glaring like a pantomime villain, Edgar joined me in the back, crawling inside and then closing the hatch behind him. It was cold inside the canopy, after the moist heat of the cab, and I began to shiver.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake! I'll put the heater on."

  "Thank you, sweetie. My teeth are beginning to chatter."

  The small camping gas heater was undoubtedly something of a safety risk in such a tight and well padded space but there was no way I was going to strip off without its hissing comfort. Edgar lit the heater, located it by the canopy door and then opened the sliding window behind the cab just enough to give us some air. Were there an accident, well, what a way to go. I imagined the headlines:

  Couple Gassed During Waterfront Rendezvous.

  Or maybe:

  Seaside Liaison Proves Fatal For Lovers.

  Or best of all:

  Partners Aflame In West Kitts Inferno.

  Oh dear. I had to stop thinking such thoughts. They made me giggle at the wrong moments. I composed my twitching features as Edgar got out The Kit. At this point, I should explain that my Master was a Disciplinarian. In fact, he had been spanking bottoms since he was in the school-yard. Alas, not being quite so quick to come to my senses regarding my kinky predilections, I was a bit of a late bloomer. Edgar was my first Dom. He was also a mobile Dom. For reasons best known to himself, he chose to carry a battered old hold-all around in the back of his truck. In that slightly mildewed, moth-ball scented bag there was a veritable treasure-trove of home-made correctional implements. I sometimes wondered whether my Master kept them handy (as it were) just in case he happened to come across a stray spankee on his travels.

  "Heyilp! Oh kind sir, could you please correct me? I'm in dire need of a sound bum warming!"

  "But of course, my dear. Just climb in the back. You'll find everything's there."

  (Insert Snidely Whiplash laugh.)

  Or perhaps he ran a visiting Dominant business on the side.

  The Bum Doctor.

  Call 1-800-RED-BUNS

  Slowly, as the canopy hadn't quite defrosted, I eased myself out of my panties and waited submissively for Edgar's command. I wasn't allowed to touch the bag with the toys, nor look inside it. It was to remain a mystery, a Pandora's box of stingy delights. I sat cross-legged, tailor fashion, eyes downcast as Master rummaged in his stash. Finally, I heard the faint blunt click of wood on wood and knew he was selecting a paddle. Paddles were his favorite thing. He had quite a selection, all lovingly created in the basement workshop of his West End home. There were light paddles, heavy paddles, plain paddles, perforated paddles, studded paddles... Quite possibly, he had more paddles than the local canoe club.

  "Right then, young lady. Get over my knees."

  Carefully, I did as I was told, my heart beginning to beat a little faster. My punishment always commenced with a lecture, during which I had to lie very still across Edgar's lap, skirt raised to expose my trembling bare bottom, listening to him preach of cholesterol intake or skipped abdominal crunches. This was a ritual that served two purposes. He got to pontificate with an undoubtedly captive audience and it was also surprisingly effective and subtle foreplay. Occasionally he would place one hand on the small of my back or briefly tap my buttocks with the paddle, as if punctuating his speech. Invariably I would jump like a fish on a hook, my whole body taut and electric with expectation.

  "...so, you're not going to be a greedy young lady again – are you?"

  "No, sir."

  My response was slightly muffled, as I lay face-down on the sleeping-bag. It smelled musty. The little kerosene heater hissed and the only other sound was Edgar's breathing, slow and measured. I could sense his arousal and my heart-rate increased again. I was becoming very wet between my legs. My Master placed the flat plane of the paddle against the sensitive under-shelf of my buttocks and I clenched involuntarily, relishing the cool, smooth sensation of the wood, yet simultaneously bracing myself for the spanking to come. I felt a tiny dribble of pussy dew make its way from my swollen cleft to the top of my thigh. Tormented by the teasing, I pushed my bottom upwards, squirming across Edgar's sturdy thighs. He was prolonging the agony, making me wait for it, knowing full well that the delay would only add to my arousal. Sometimes I felt as if I could beg for a spanking, such was my profound need for a sound bottom warming.

  "Hmm. I think you're enjoying this just a bit too much, Perry. Maybe I should simply give you corner time. What do you think?"

  I didn't reply, my face burning with frustration. Suddenly, with a sharp crack like a pistol shot, Edgar brought the paddle down hard against my vulnerable bottom. I yelped.

  "Answer your Master."

  It was a painful smack and I realized that I really was going to pay for the whipped cream. I mumbled something contrite into the musty cotton beneath my head.

  "Speak up."

  A second wasp sting assailed my rear.

  "Ow!"

  Edgar was using the heavy paddle with the perforated air holes, designed to reduce resistance (in more ways than one). The punishment paddle.

  "What did you say?"

  Slap!

  "Ow! That hurts!"

  "It's supposed to. Are you going to waste your Master's hard-earned funds on artery-occluding fat products?"

  SLAP!!

  "No, sir!"

  My bottom was getting nice and hot. I imagined the twin creamy mounds beginning to blush a rich scarlet. Despite the pain, I started to grind my hips against my Master's thighs. Even an ouchy punishment spanking could get me off. Edgar continued to lecture, administering sharp slaps at the end of each sentence, like a cracking full stop. I could feel the tiny beads of perspiration breaking out on my face but my mouth was dry. Deep between my thighs, my clit was swollen hard and my pussy lips fat and wet. My orgasm began to build. I could come from being spanked, without direct clitoral stimulation, but I had to squirm and grind my hips to the strict rhythm of the paddle's smacks. Surreptitiously, I slipped one thumb in my mouth, imagining I was a naughty adult schoolgirl being bare bottom spanked by a cruel headmaster. I could picture my hair neatly tied in bunches, my pristine white socks rumpled round my ankles and my mini-length tunic, flipped right up to expose my naked rear. He would make me bend across my desk, then take a leather strap, a tawse, to my trembling bottom. As I visualized this kinky scene, I began to come, moaning softly and biting on my thumb. Edgar put down the paddle.

  "Well? Have you learned your lesson, young lady?"

  "Yes, sir."

  My Master began to stroke my throbbing buttocks with the very tips of his fingers, savoring the color and heat of a well-chastised rear. I shuddered, the contrast in sensation eliciting a powerful reaction. We stayed in that position for a minute or two, letting me return to earth, then I eased myself off Edgar's knees and continued to undress. The canopy was reasonably warm and my bottom was positively glowing. Submissively, I stripped naked and knelt before Edgar, enjoying the tingling feeling coming from my behind. I was as wet as a fish, my nipples hard. I waited, eyes downcast, for my Master to unfasten his jeans. His cock was quite big and he maintained a strong libido for an older man.

  "You know what to do, young lady."

  I put my arms around Edgar's neck and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. It was, as always, a slightly prickly, ticklish kiss, as he had a beard. Then I crouched to suckle upon his erection.

/>   "Mmm..."

  To be truthful, giving oral wasn't always my favorite thing, but my Master's cock was out of the ordinary. It was too thick for me to take right into my throat, so I tended to concentrate on teasing the satiny tip. My tongue massaged the little pink helmet, flicking the meatus like a butterfly tasting sugar. A drop of faintly salty pre-come oozed from the tiny slit and I lapped it up, eager as a puppy at chow time.

  "That feels good. You may continue."

  Gratified, I stretched my lips into an "O" and descended over Edgar's steel-like rod. His knob rested on the roof of my mouth as I licked the length of his under-shaft, tracing miniature figures-of-eight on the tight, smooth flesh. A vein stood up, fully engorged, and I sensed it wouldn't be long until he disgorged his load in my mouth. Aroused by his arousal, I pushed my naked, tingling bottom into the air and burrowed my head between my Master's legs. A faint throbbing had recommenced within the swollen curves of my dripping pussy and I wondered if I would come again, through pleasuring my lord.

  "Ahh, yes..."

  Feeling Edgar's excitement approach its peak, I began to suck rhythmically, steadily milking him of every last drop of erupting semen. He slumped against the side of the canopy, a faintly glazed expression in his bespectacled eyes.

  "I'm getting too old for this caper. You'll be the death of me, Perry Gilchrist."

  I giggled. My venerable Master's glasses were slightly steamed up (as were the canopy windows) and his gray hair was decidedly askew. Still naked, I wrapped my arms about his neck and kissed him affectionately. Briskly, Edgar patted me on the bottom and told me to get dressed before I caught a chill. After all, it was almost four o' clock and we still had the rest of our Saturday rituals to complete. Sometimes I found the schedule a bit repetitive but I also needed what my partner gave to me. I knew that, no matter what happened, Edgar would always be there for me, with his oft-repeated quaint old anecdotes and his library of scientific facts. I began to gather my discarded garments from the four corners of our fiberglass den. The goose-bumps crept in as passion subsided.