by John Rivers
The previous afternoon: My first night here
The phone rang, startling me.
“Hello,” I said. There wasn’t an immediate reply. I again said, “Hello.”
“Yes, Hello. Is Burt there?” a feminine voice asked.
“Ma’am, are you a friend of Burt’s?”
“I guess you could say I am. Is he there?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you, but Burt passed away a few days back.”
I heard a gasp on the other end of the line and then a stutter, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, my goodness. What happened?”
“He had a heart attack. It happened suddenly.”
“Oh, my goodness,” the woman said again, sounding as if she was about to cry. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m Burt’s nephew. My name is Gordon Lowell. Could I ask who you are?”
“My name is Ginger.”
“Were you a close friend of Burt’s”? I asked.
“In a business kind of way. I can’t believe he’s gone.” This time her voice quivered.
“I know this might not be the time to ask this,” Ginger said with a deep sigh. “But are you going to continue to do what Burt did?”
“What was that, ma’am?”
“You know.”
“No ma’am, I don’t. Can you give me a hint?”
“Come on, you know. Downstairs?”
That was what I had figured. I decided to stick my neck out a tad.
“Are you talking about the dungeon,” I asked. If she had asked “What dungeon” I was going to laugh and pretend to be joking. I certainly didn’t want anyone who wasn’t already aware of it presence to know what I had found downstairs.
“Yes. Are you going to continue with the dungeon?”
“To tell you the truth, Ginger, I haven’t thought about it. I’ve only been here a few hours. Burt’s attorney contacted me only yesterday.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed.
Out of curiosity, I asked, “What did Burt do for you, ma’am?”
She didn’t answer at first, then with a sigh, she said, “He gave me a spanking once a week.”
Somewhat taken back by her bluntness, all I could think of to say was, “I see.”
“Don’t misunderstand, Gordon—you did say your name was Gordon, right? This is something my therapist recommended. It seems to be helping.”
When I didn’t immediately reply, she added, “I really need my spanking, Gordon. It helps me to relax.”
Well, I thought to myself, how much trouble could it be to give this lady a spanking. Besides, I had nothing better to do.
“Sure, Ginger. Come on over.”
An hour and a half later, my doorbell rang. I answer it to find a woman of about thirty-five. She was rather tall, but not overly so. With reddish-blond hair, she was somewhat cute. Not pretty, but cute. The main thing catching my attention was the fact she was filled out in all the right places with just the right amount of meat on her bones. Already, I was looking forward to seeing her naked if that was the way she took her spankings.
Confirming it was Ginger, I invited her in and asked her if she would like some wine. I had been sipping the stuff just enough to get a slight buzz. I had washed my steak down with ice tea rather than continue consuming alcohol. We stood at the kitchen counter while I poured her a glass of what I had been drinking earlier. We continued standing as she sipped.
“I guess you understand, Gordon. You might wonder why I don’t just pick up some guy in a bar. As you would know, any man picking up a woman in a bar wants to fuck her, not spank her. I don’t need a fucking; I need a spanking. Like I told you over the phone, my therapist suggested this and so far, it seems to be working. Also, I have to be very discreet.” Then as if an afterthought, she added, “Not many people have dungeons either.”
I nodded and said I understood. I admit I was a little nervous myself. At about the same time, I noted the rings on her finger. I started to ask, but didn’t. I also wondered if her therapist had spanked her. Or fucked her.
Setting her glass on the counter with a portion of the wine left, she asked, “Are you ready?”
I simply nodded and turned toward the stairs a few feet away. At the landing, I unlocked the door, turned on the light and motion for her to enter. Once inside, she said, “I’d be more comfortable if you lock the door.”
I nodded and locked the passage lock. We then walked toward the desk. Stopping there, I asked, “How do you want to do this.”
“I’ll show you. Let me take off my clothes first.”
That was fine with me. This place even had a little area where one could hang their clothes on hangers and avoid having to toss them somewhere they might get moved or trampled. I went around to the back of the desk, took a seat and propped my feet on top. I watched as Ginger stepped out of a pair of high heel shoes. She removed her blouse and then her skirt. She wore a pair of thigh-high hose, which she left on. She then removed a pair of thong panties and her bra. Once the panties were off, she stepped back into her shoes.
“Give me just a minute,” she said, now in all her naked glory except for the stocking and high heels. She held up a finger and turned toward the back wall beside the X-frame where the various size whips and crop were hung. I watched her well-rounded bottom sort of jiggle as the heel of her shoes clicked across the floor. I wondered if the stocking and high heels were for my benefit or hers. Probably both. She probably figured if I was excited, I might do a better job. I’m sure she was right.
Finding what she was looking for, she returned to where I had just stood. She handed me a small whip about two feet long, handle and all. It had multiple strand of leather.”
“Burt always whipped me on the ‘horse.’”
Whipped? I thought she had said spanking. This was going to be a little more than an across the lap, bare-hand on bare-bottom birthday spanking. This was going to be the real deal. To me, it made no difference. Either way, I was going to enjoy it. It beat sitting at some casino throwing my life saving away a quarter at the time. Had I gone out tonight I’m sure I would have gone to a casino. Or I could have gone to a show that wouldn’t have been half as good as the one I was presently watching.
She looked at me for a moment as if to ask if that was alright with me. It was. I had also figured out which one of the fixture was called “the horse.” I simply motioned her toward it. I was fully aroused by the time she had crawl atop the implement and assumed a very undignified positon with her bottom turned upward.
Apparently, Ginger was aroused as well. From my vantage point I could see the moisture collecting between the lips of her vagina. Her rosebud shaped anus puckered every so often. Waiting until she was situated and had rested her head on the padded leather, I asked, “Are you ready.”
“I am, sir.”
I was surprised when she called me sir, but I had read where people like Ginger became very submissive in these roles. I was now the master and she was the slave, hence, the “sir.” I suppose my first lash wasn’t much more than like swatting a fly. I swung a little harder the next time, but not much. I still wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to inflict pair or just create a pretense. Ginger answered my question after the third stroke.
“Please whip me, sir. I’ve been bad and I need a good whipping.”
So, I proceeded to whip her good. There were times I was concerned with just how much pain I was inflicting and if I was doing it right. I supposed that if it became more than she could stand, she would let me know. At that time, I wasn’t familiar with “safe words” and such.
Some fifteen minutes and approximately fifty lashes later, I stopped without being told to do so. “How are you doing,” I asked the sweat drenched woman. Hell, I was tired. I needed at least a short break.
“I doing fine. Am I wet? It feels like it.” What she meant was take a good look at her pussy and see how aroused she had become.
Sh
e was aroused. Although I didn’t have to do so to see the moisture, I lay my whip atop the back portion of the horse and used both hands to separate her nether lips and note the excessive secretion.
“You’re wet,” I told her, resting a hand on one buttock to feel the heat. It was warm. I placed my other hand on the other buttock as if for comparison.
“I though so.”
“Are you still enjoying it?” I asked.
“Definitely. What Burt would do about this time or after he had finished spanking my butt, he would spank my butthole. Do you mind spanking my butthole?”
She didn’t wait for my answer. Assuming I didn’t mind, she lay her head back down on the padded surface. Reaching with both hands behind her, she separated her buttocks to expose her anus even more.
“How hard am I supposed to strike now?” I asked.
“Just the way you were doing. You don’t have to do it but a few minutes. After Burt got through doing this, he would take me to the table over there.” She nodded her head the best she could in that position toward the table with the upright post diagonally across the room. “He always laid me on my back. He would spread me out and buckled my legs to the post. Then he would spank my pussy. I usually climaxed then.”
I lashed Ginger’s anal area for about ten minutes before she stated she’d had enough. Although I had lightened my strokes considerably, inside the cleft was almost as red as her buttocks. It was hard to say how many of the strokes had struck her anus or whipped her butthole as she put it. I was glad for the respite; my arm was getting tired.
I backed a few steps and watched as the naked woman with a very red bottom slid down from the submissive position and stood. She still had on the high heels. Again, I silently marveled at her beet red bottom and upper thighs as she led the way to the table. Once there, she sat on the edge and laid on her back. Scooting down, she positioned her bottom just past the edge of the table. She then lifted each leg up to lean it against the post and near the leather restraints. When she had both legs up, they were at a ninety-degree angle from her torso. They were also spread extremely wide, allowing full access to her vagina, which I was supposed to whip or spank, depending what you wanted to call it.
I must admit I’ve done a lot of things over my thirty-five years, but this would be my first time to whip a pussy. I have had more than a few pussies to whip me, however.
After I had strapped Ginger’s legs to the uprights, I located a low stool nearby. I slid it over and had a seat. This put me at just the right angle to do what I needed to do. Asking Ginger if she was ready, I begun to flog her vaginal area and watched her close her eyes with a smile on her face. She was enjoying this. An hour ago, it would have been hard to believe that I would grow tire of doing this, but damn if I wasn’t. I looked for signs that Ginger might be about to climax. I didn’t see any. To take a short break, I paused and separated the lips of her labia to take another look.
I’m not sure why I chose that moment to satisfy my curiosity about her rings, but I did.
“What about your husband, Ginger? What’s he going to say when he sees you all stripped up, front and back?”
“Oh, there’s no problem with him. He’s even watched me take a spanking right here with Burt. He enjoys watching and I enjoy it more when he watches.”
Okay. That answered that question, but I had another one. “Is your therapist a man or a woman?” I assumed all her spanking had been administered by a male.
“He’s a man. I’d never let a woman do this to me. I be embarrassed to death for a woman to see me turned up like this.”
“You say he’s the one who suggested you be spanked. Did he ever spank you?”
“He did a few times. It was nothing like this. I simply pulled down my panties and lay across his lap. He’d spank me for a while and then rub my pussy. We almost got caught a couple of time and he was afraid we would really get caught. I didn’t see anything wrong, it was just therapy I needed, but he said he could lose his license.”
I chuckled silently.
Five minutes later she opened her eyes and lifted a hand for me to stop.
“Gordon, I’m going to have to take back something I said earlier. I said I needed a spanking and not a fucking. I must admit, right now I need a fucking. I guess I never thought about it with Burt because he was older, but you’re a young man. I bet you could give me a good fucking.”
She was right. I could and I did.
Well spanked, and I’d like to think well screwed, before she left, Ginger pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet and laid it on the desk. I almost refused it, but then thought of my financial state. Rather, I pretended not to notice and said nothing as we turned to leave the dungeon. It seemed she was satisfied. I was sure her therapist would also be satisfied to know his prescription had been filled, but I’d bet he would rather have filled it himself.
Chapter Three
Two days previous:
I had just stepped out of the shower when the phone rang. Hoping this might be a job offer, I stopped in the middle of drying off and wasted no time getting to my cell phone. My hands still wet, I almost dropped it. That would be just my luck.
“Is this Gordon Lowell?” an unfamiliar voice asked on the other end of the line.
“Yes, it is,” I confirmed, still hoping it was a prospective employer.
“Mr. Lowell, just to make sure I have the right party; do you have an uncle named Burton Walker?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what this could have to do with an employment application. I was sure I hadn’t used Uncle Burt for a reference.
“Mr. Lowell, my name is Justin Peterson. I’m an attorney and I have some sad news to relate. Your uncle, Burton Walker, has passed away.”
It felt as if a rock had rolled downhill and hit me squarely in the belly. Oh, no, I thought, not Uncle Burt. I had just been toying with the idea of giving him a call. In fact, I was going to ask him if he thought I might find work in Las Vegas where he lived. Before the attorney could continue I was recalling the good times I’d had with my favorite uncle. I was already having a “feel sorry for myself” day long before receiving this news.
“Are you sure?” I asked. That was probably the stupidest question I could have come up with. Of course, he was sure. Attorneys didn’t call unless they were positive.
“I’m absolutely certain,” Peterson replied as sympathetic as he was likely capable of doing. “No doubt whatsoever.”
“What happened?” was my next question. I knew my uncle had not died of old age. The best I could recall he was somewhere in his mid-fifties.
“Your uncle died of a coronary thrombosis. In layman terms; a heart attack. I’m not privy to his medical records, but he might have had a bad heart and was not aware of the fact. You would have to ask the doctors for any details.”
I then asked the next most pertinent question. “When did this happen?”
“It’s been almost a week now. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but, apparently, you don’t have a land line. Cell phone numbers are still hard to come by.”
Having by now accepted this news and struggling through the dark storm cloud that seemed to have enveloped me, I managed to control the timbre of my voice. “I appreciate you calling me, Mr. Peterson. I assume you were Uncle Burt’s attorney, right?”
“Mr. Lowell, I’m an estate attorney. I’ve had your uncle’s will in my keeping for several years. Now that he has passed, it’s my responsibility to handle his estate. That should be simple enough. You sir, are the only heir.”
Somehow that news didn’t overly surprise me. Uncle Burt had sort of been the black sheep of the family. He was a party guy who drank probably more than he should have. On the other hand, any drinking was excessive to my mother and grandmother. Rumor had it he’d spent a few months in jail for stealing a car during his youth. As far as I knew, he hadn’t broken any laws since. Even though he was looked down on by his family, it did nothing to tarnish my view of him. He w
as not only my favorite uncle, but my favorite relative. I looked forward to his visits when I was a child and wanted to be in his company anytime it was practical after I was grown. Of course, once I was married, the comradery had somewhat faded away. That was due to the fact that after I said “I do,” I had to start conducting myself in a more adult manner.
I wasn’t overly interested in what Burt might have left me even if I had suspected it was a goodly amount, which I didn’t. I was thinking along the lines of a ten-year-old car and some furniture. Regardless, I asked, “What was in his estate?” I suppose that sounded better than asking what he had left me.
“Whether he had any money in an account or any stock, I don’t know at this point. I am still waiting for a court order to determine that. At this point, the main known asset is a house and the furn...”
“A house?” I exclaimed before Peterson could finish his sentence.
“Yes, sir. It’s a nice house too. It not a mansion, but it somewhat large. It’s somewhat out of town on the edge of the desert. As you may know, property values are rather high here. I would guess that it’s worth a couple hundred grand or there about.”
My next question was, “Is it free and clear?” Some of the gloom had cleared and I was becoming excited. A couple hundred grand! Wow!
“It is. There is no mortgage.”
I felt the next question I should ask was, “What about my uncle’s body. Has he been buried yet?”
“Mr. Lowell, it was your uncle’s wish to be cremated. After spending three days trying to locate you, I asked that that be carried out. At the time, I had no clue as to when I would find you or if I would ever find you. My secretary has called dozens of people named Lowell in the Los Angeles area. I hope you don’t mind me taking that liberty. As the executor of his estate, I was within my legal right to do so.”
“No, sir. I have no problem with that. In fact, I appreciate you taking care of that detail,” I assured the attorney. I had no desire to view my uncle’s body.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Peterson expressed. “The ashes are at the mortuary.” He paused a moment before asking, “How do you want to do this. Do you want to take physical possession or would you want to lease the property? If you go the latter route, I can have a management company handle it.”