by Don Elliott
So when Paul F. Brubaker came over to her desk during the coffee break and said, "Doing anything tonight sweets?" Ellen knew what the answer would have to be.
He arranged to come over to her apartment around half past eight that evening. He didn't say a word about taking her out to dinner. That part of the deal was all in the past. Now that he had her lined up, he didn't care to spend any of his hard-earned money amusing her. She amused him instead. Ellen felt like a concubine, or maybe like a prostitute. But she didn't have any choice. She had to cooperate with Mr. Brubaker-or else.
That punctured her good mood. She felt so depressed the rest of the morning. And she was still feeling that way just before noon, when Jim McHughes called.
"What are the chances of getting to see you tonight?" he wanted to know. "Pretty slim."
"How slim?"
"Too slim," she said. "It's got to be tomorrow, Jim. I'm sorry."
"Who is it tonight, Ellen?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Brubaker."
"He still won't let you alone?"
"I explained all that to you, darling," she said. "Listen, after we're married-"
"After we're married, after we're married! And meanwhile you flop for every-"
"Jim!"
"It's true, isn't it?"
Ellen took a deep breath. "There are special circumstances involved, Jim. We've had this discussion a million times, and I can't have it with you over the phone at the office. Will you believe me when I say that as soon as we're married there'll be no such problems? Now be a good boy, and get back to your easel. I'll see you tomorrow night."
"All right," he said bitterly. "Tomorrow night."
She couldn't blame him for getting sore at her. But circumstances were circumstances. Right now she had to go to bed with Mr. Brubaker. And there were other men, too-casual one-nighters that Jim didn't know about, specifically. She couldn't help it. She wanted her freedom for a little while. She wanted to be a bachelor girl. She had hopped into a miserable marriage before she was out of her teens, and with another marriage on the horizon right away, she had to experience some liberty first, even if it made Jim temporarily unhappy.
Tonight's date with Mr. Brubaker didn't represent liberty, though. It represented slavery. But there was no escaping from her servitude.
Glumly, she went through the rest of the day, conscious of what was going to be demanded of her in the evening. She finished her work, had her dinner, and went home to pretty herself up for the arrival of her boss.
As she stripped for her bath, Ellen caught sight of the peeper at his usual station across the courtyard. Good old peeper, she thought. As dependable as the sunrise. You need something dependable in your life; everybody does. She wondered if she'd miss her creepy audience after she married Jim and moved to another apartment.
She peeled away her clothes, giving him a good view. Breasts and thighs, hips and stomach and buttocks-everything. The creep! It seemed as though most of the men in her life were creeps in one way or another. Jim McHughes wasn't. He was normal when it came to sex. But there was Ray Dawson needing to be whipped with a belt, and this goofy peeper across the way ogling her so desperately, and some others too.
Including Mr. Brubaker. He had his kink, all right. That was one of the reasons why Ellen was de pressed about having to submit to him. She didn't enjoy his cockeyed style of lovemaking at all.
Ellen did a few exercises to give the peeper his final thrills for the evening. Her bare breasts jiggled about as she went through her routines. Then she scooted into the bathroom to freshen up for Mr. Brubaker's arrival. It was almost half past eight when she emerged, clean and sweet-smelling, perfumed and scrubbed.
She got into a negligee that she knew she wouldn't be wearing for long. She settled down to wait.
At exactly half past eight, the doorbell rang. Mr. Brubaker was an extremely punctual man.
"Evening, Ellen," he beamed at her. "My, you look lovely tonight!"
She took his hat like an obedient little slave. She took his jacket as he shed it. He walked across the room and pulled the blind shut. Too bad, peepo, Ellen thought. Mr. Brubaker smiled. He unlaced his shoes.
"A hard day today," he muttered "I thought the phone would never stop ringing. I could use a drink, Ellen."
"Bourbon?"
"Of course," he said.
Ellen started to go past him to get the liquor from the sideboard. As she did, he reached out and caught her, slipping his soft-fleshed, meaty hand deftly under her negligee to grasp the smooth, plump cheeks of her bare buttocks. He held her there for a moment, fingertips digging in. Then he released her. His ruddy face grew even more flushed than usual, and she saw the perspiration break out on the dome of his forehead as desires rose within him.
Slob, Ellen thought, keeping her face a tranquil mask as he fondled the flesh of her buttocks. Creepy Pig.
She got the drinks. She poured a stiff one for him and an even stiffer one for herself. Ordinarily she couldn't bring herself to play his little bedroom game unless she got half looped. The booze helped. It loosened her up, allowed her to cooperate.
While he downed the drink, he talked, a steady monologue about what a stupid witch his wife was and how nobody at the office understood him. In his own eyes, Mr. Brubaker was an extremely sensitive, intelligent man who with a little luck could have been a dynamic figure in modern American industry, instead of running a two-bit theatrical booking agency. Ellen didn't bother listening to him as he talked. She just nodded her head now and then at the proper intervals.
His little bloodshot eyes were fastened on her all the time. He stared at the big globes of her breasts, half visible under her negligee. He peered at the molding of her thighs and their golden reflections.
Then he put down his drink. He leered cheerfully at her and stood up.
"Time for fun," he announced, and began to take off his clothes.
Ellen didn't like Mr. Brubaker's kind of fun, because she knew it would hurt. She waited patiently as he undressed: undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, stepped out of his trousers, took off his shirt, dropped his imdershorts. He kept his shoes and socks on. He had never taken them off in Ellen's presence. Maybe his feet were deformed, she thought. Or maybe he had this thing about wearing shoes when he made love. Men could be awfully peculiar that way.
She looked at his nakedness. He wasn't terribly pretty. His shoulders were narrow, and his chest was hollow, and then he widened out toward the middle, with a little overhanging pot. His legs were thin as pipe stems. Ellen figured that when he was young he must have been thin and maybe even good looking. But he had thickened around the gut in middle age.
"Come here," he said.
She went to him. He took her negligee by the hem and drew it up, baring thighs and abdomen, stomach and breasts. He pulled it over her head and off. Then he fondled her body, running his clammy hands over her thighs and her buttocks, gripping the firm flesh sensuously.
He cupped her breasts and hefted them in his hands. Despite her inner feelings of revulsion toward him, Ellen felt her nipples starting to grow hard with desire. There was no escaping desire. Even with a man she disliked, a man who disgusted her, her body would respond when the right buttons were pushed. Her body was a traitor.
Brubaker pursed his fingers around the hard little nubs of her nipples. He pressed them, and he squeezed them, making them grow even harder.
Then he said, "You've been a naughty girl, Ellen."
Ellen sighed. Here we go again, the same old nutty quirk again!
"Have I?" she said obediently.
"Terribly naughty. Terribly, terribly naughty. You deserve to be punished, Ellen."
"Punished hard?"
"Punished to fit your naughtiness," he said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Ellen. Being such a naughty, naughty girl!"
The baby talk made her sick to her stomach. And it was always like this
, every time he came here. Brubaker's kink was just the opposite of Ray Dawson's. Ray liked to be whipped, to be hurt. Brubaker liked to do the hurting.
He was a spanker. That was his kick.
He said, "Lie down and take your punishment, Ellen. Right here on my lap. You've got it coming to you, you know, so don't try to wheedle your way out of it."
"Please don't hurt me," she begged, putting on a real act because she knew that that was what he wanted. He liked to feel that he was a real tyrant. "Don't hurt me, please, don't hit me hard!"
Brubaker gave her a Simon Legree laugh. He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted his knees, beckoning to her. Ellen went over. She stretched out across his legs. The bare globes of her breasts hung past his knee. She could feel the pressure of his flesh at the pit of her stomach. Her pink, delectable, nude buttocks were upturned, two tempting mounds of flesh exposed for his eager palm.
"Naughty girl!" he cried, and slapped his hand against her buttocks.
"Naughty, naughty!" He punctuated each word with a slap. The tender flesh of Ellen's buttock? leaped and quivered as his hand struck down. He hit both, cheeks at once, in short, sharp strokes that connected with maximum impact.
Ellen writhed and twisted uncomfortably on his lap. He wasn't just playing a game. He was slapping and spanking seriously, and it hurt. He was giving the ripe globes of nude flesh real punishment.
She gritted her teeth and bit down on her lower lip. The hand descended. Whack! Whack! Tears of pain began to crowd into her eyes. Ellen sniffled a little.
"Naughty girl!" he cried, idiot-like. Whack! Whack!
Her bare buttocks were blazing hot. The pain tingled all through her midsection. She had to fight hard to hold back the tears as he continued to belabor the tender cheeks, turning the milky-flesh an angry red.
And yet there was an erotic effect, too. For her as well as for him. There always was. Ellen wasn't immune to quirks. She couldn't deny that it turned her on to be spanked in this way.
She felt the warmth flooding her body, felt the tide of desire starting to rise.
The potbellied, middle-aged man above her was grunting and gasping, wheezing from the strenuousness of his exertions. But he went on walloping her. Ellen felt oddly like a child again. The last time anybody had spanked her as a serious punishment was when she was thirteen, she remembered. Her father had done it, after she played hookey from school to go to a carnival. She had been bitterly angry at him, because she felt that a girl of thirteen should not have to expose her body to her father that way. But he hadn't paid any attention to her indignant adolescent protests. He had flipped her over his knee and pushed up her skirt and pulled down her panties to lay bare her newly mature, voluptuous young body, and he had whaled away on the pink cheeks of her buttocks until she screamed from near hysteria and her mother had put a stop to it.
That was eleven years ago. Now she was grown up and supposedly beyond such punishments. But here she was, stark naked on the knees of a nude man, who was more than old enough to be her father, and here he was, slamming his hand down again and again on the succulent mounds of her buttocks.
"All right," Brubaker grunted. "Now!"
She got up. He pulled her over on her back, on the bed. His face was flushed beet-red and his eyes were wild, his manhood savagely aroused.
Her thighs moved. She was lathered and hot, and the spanking had turned her on so much that even Brubaker was an acceptable partner at this moment.
His meaty body descended to hers.
He slid into the sizzling, quivering position.
He moved in short jerky motions, and she answered him with countermotions of her hips and pelvis. She locked her legs around his ankles. Her bare-tipped breasts were pushing into his soft, fleshy chest. He drove at her, digging, invading, shaming her and possessing her.
The explosion of his lusts arrived.
And with it was Ellen's own fulfillment, sudden spasms of ecstasy deep within her, and she rocked and quivered beneath him, turning her head away when he tried to kiss her in the affection of his culmination. She lay there with tingling, aching buttocks and throbbing body. While the man above her went on through the first few moments of aftermath, and then he lay still, rolled free of her, and left Ellen lying there nude, alone with her shame and self-contempt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr. Crispian sat by his window, waiting for the nightly action to begin. So far it was shaping up as a pretty disappointing night. It was past nine o'clock, and he hadn't seen a thing.
After last night, with its views of the blonde girl and the unexpected bonus of seeing those two Lesbian girls making love, the disappointment was particularly keen. Mr. Crispian hopefully scanned his regular round of windows, without any luck.
He had missed out on his blonde tonight. For some reason she had decided to get undressed early. He had been sitting at his window waiting for her, and, sure enough, she appeared and started to peel. But she still had all her underwear on when Mr. Crispian's telephone rang, and he was called away from the window. What a frustrating bit that was! He had been tempted simply to let the telephone ring, on the theory that if it was an important call, and none of them ever were, the caller would try again later. But he didn't have the will power to ignore a telephone call.
So he picked it up, and it turned out to be one of his sisters, living in Philadelphia, calling up for her monthly how's-my-baby-brother call. Mr. Crispian simply couldn't get rid of her. Her husband had left her a lot of money, and telephone expense didn't mean a thing to her.
She talked endlessly. Finally he brought the conversation to a close and hurried back to his window. Too late! The blonde's blinds were drawn! So she had finished with her exercises, and taken her bath, and already was entertaining her nightly company.
Thwarted, Mr. Crispian gnawed at his knuckles. Damn his sister! Damn her! Why couldn't she have called an hour earlier? Why did she have to wait until the precise moment when the blonde started to remove her clothing?
Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He would just have to sit here and see what else the fortunes of the night would bring him.
Not much, it seemed.
He checked the window of the Lesbians. There was age girl. Dark. Wasn't she ever home? He decided that it had just been blind luck that he had seen her naked that time, anyhow. Probably it would never be repeated.
He check the window of the Lesbians. There was a possibility there. The lights were on, and he could see figures milling around in the apartment. But there were too many figures. Six ... seven ... eight. The dykes were having a party! They were showing off their new apartment. He wasn't likely to catch a glimpse of anything under those circumstances, unless the party turned into an orgy. Most likely, it would be two or three in the morning before the party broke up and the two girls who lived there went to bed. He might see something worthwhile then, but not before.
He checked the window of the fat middle-aged woman. Nothing here either.
A little desperately, Mr. Crispian checked the window of the thirteen-year-old girl he had once spied on. She didn't have much to offer, with her nubbly little breasts and her thin legs, but it was something. Except her light was out.
What am I going to do, thought Mr. Crispian.
He had come to depend on the blonde girl. Night after night, she had provided him with the vicarious thrills that his nature demanded. But tonight, thanks to the ill-timed telephone call from his sister, Mr. Crispian had missed his chance to see her. He was faced with the prospect of an endless evening of boredom.
He sat. He stared.
And then his luck turned.
The light flashed on in the bedroom of the attractive dark-haired teen-ager. She must have just come home from somewhere, for she was wearing a jacket as she entered the room. She took the jacket off and flung it into a far corner.
She's angry, Mr. Crispian thought. Maybe she had a fight with her boy friend.
Come on, he thought. Take it off!
She looked really sore about something. She was stomping around the room, picking up things and putting them down. When would she notice that the blind was open, he wondered? Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe His heart soared.
