‘Right, come on Greg, it’s time we were off.’
‘Okay, mate.’ He got to his feet. ‘Bye Merrilee, we’ll meet again soon.’
‘Bye,’ she echoed.
She watched the two men as they left her alone in the clearing.
Merrilee, you’ve had a busy day, she told herself. So feeling drowsy yet again, she lay down and was soon oblivious to the world.
When she woke up – it was getting dark.
Then she remembered Jed and Greg. Had she dreamt what happened? But as she moved – she felt her bottom burning and stinging.
She laughed out loud, running her fingers over her hot, sore bottom. Finding the feeling was a real turn-on, she would have continued with her exploration of her newly discovered seat of pleasure, but, noticing how dark it was getting, stopped herself. ‘Wow! That was some dream. Wonder if I will hear from them again?’
Come on now; stop daydreaming, she told herself. You must get home before it gets really dark and the Park Keeper closes the park. She stood up, smoothing down her dress and running her fingers through her tousled hair.
Now what did I do with my knickers?
She looked around the clearing. A slight gust of wind made the branches of the trees sway a little – it was then she saw them, they were caught on a branch half way up a very old creaking tree – waving about like a pirate’s flag.
‘Oh fantastic! How on earth am I going to get them down from there?’
A fleeting thought crossed her mind – leave them there, she had a drawer-full at home. But she soon dismissed that idea, when a playful wind lifted her short full circular skirt – revealing her hot bare bottom. ‘Geez! That would be so embarrassing if it happened in the street,’ she said out loud.
She realised she would have to do something to get them down.
She studied the situation – OK, there were footholds, plenty of them, in the knotted, gnarled trunk of the tree.
Right Merrilee, you’ve climbed higher trees than this when you were playing with your brothers, she told herself.
She started on her upward journey. It was even easier than she thought it would be. It was going to be a piece of cake.
‘You’re doing fine, Merrilee,’ she encouraged herself. ‘Just don’t look down.’
Now she could see the black nylon scrap of material on a higher branch, just to the left of where she was clinging on to the tree trunk. Carefully she reached out to an overhanging branch. Her hands went to grab her knickers – but a mischievous gust of wind blew them out of her reach. She again reached out for them; the branch on which she was standing creaked loudly.
Then, without any further warning, she felt the branch beneath her giving way Reaching out wildly, she managed to grab hold of the one above her. She watched in horror as the branch on which only a moment ago she had been standing fell to the ground below.
She was now holding on to a branch, her legs threshing about in her panic. She could feel her heart beating in her throat. The ground below seemed like miles away. Then the branch she was hanging on to creaked warningly.
‘Please don’t break, please don’t break,’ she prayed to herself.
‘Oh God, what am I going to do?’ she asked out loud.
‘OK, keep very still.’ It was a man’s voice; it came from above her. ‘I want you to let go of the branch with your left hand.’ His voice was so calm; she just knew she could trust him.
He was leaning down towards her. She let go of the branch and a large, sunburned male hand caught hold of her wrist, ‘OK I’ve got you. Now I want you to be a brave girl and let go of the branch with your other hand. I know it’s scary, but I’m here.’
As if in slow motion she obeyed him. He grabbed hold of her right wrist.
‘Good girl,’ he said.
For a moment she was dangling there, then, as if she was weightless, he pulled her up to where he was sitting in a fork of the tree.
‘There’s room for the two of us,’ he said, moving over a bit to make room for her.
Clinging on to him, she burst into tears.
‘Shhh! You’re safe now.’ He cuddled her, rocking her gently as if she was a baby, holding her against his brown hairy chest, until her sobbing had subsided. ‘OK are you ready?’ he asked. ‘ I’m now going to lower you to the ground.’
Slipping a rope over her head, ‘Put it round your waist,’ he told her, when she did, he tightened it.
‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Cos I’m going to let the rope out a bit at a time; you will reach the ground safely. Just don’t struggle.’
‘O-OK,’ she said, with a tremor in her voice.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Now I want you to lower yourself so that you are holding onto this branch.’
She did as he told her.
‘Now let go,’ he said. ‘I’m here; I’m going to be controlling your descent. I won’t let you fall.’
For a moment she felt like a rag doll, as she swayed there, feeling helpless, with nothing to hold onto. Then very slowly he let out the rope inch by inch until she reached the ground safely.
She watched as he came down the tree agilely. Wow! He’s so dishy, she thought to herself.
She was standing, with her back against the tree trunk. He landed on his feet in front of her.
At six feet four he towered over her five feet. She looked up at him. Feeling his raw masculinity, her heart skipped a beat. She found herself wondering what it would be like to be spanked by him?
‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ she said. ‘I must go now.’
‘Not so fast young lady,’ he said catching hold of her arm. ‘Do you realise the danger you put yourself into by climbing that tree?’
‘I was trying to get my …’ she started to explain.
‘It doesn’t matter why you were climbing that tree,’ he interrupted her, ‘you should have had more sense. What would have happened if I hadn’t come along?’
He shook her gently. ‘It’s a very old tree, and it’s beginning to get brittle. That’s why the branch you were standing on broke off under your weight.’
‘Right,’ she answered with a shudder. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be,’ he said quietly. ‘But saying you’re sorry is not enough for me. ‘I’m going to make sure that you really are sorry.’
‘Wh – what do you mean?’ she stammered trying to back away from him. But he just tightened his grip on her arm. ‘Right young lady, what’s your name?’
‘Merrilee,’ she answered. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’ she asked cheekily.
‘I’m the Park Keeper. I have to report anyone I find damaging the park’s property. You could find yourself up before a Magistrate.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ she said.
‘Oh yes I would, Merrilee; it would be my public duty. The Magistrate may send you to a Young Offenders Institution or give you a heavy fine.’
‘I – I – I said I’m sorry,’ she said sulkily.
‘Yes, you did and I said it wasn’t enough, didn’t I, Merrilee?’
She nodded her head.
‘Now, young lady it’s time you were taught a lesson.’
Dragging her over to the tree stump – hers and Pete’s picnic table – he sat down on it, pulling her wriggling body over his knee.
Lifting her skimpy short skirt he gave a gasp.
‘Where are your knickers you naughty girl?’
‘Up the tree,’ she answered. ‘I was trying to tell you, that’s why I was climbing up it.’
‘OK, but I’m still going to spank you for putting your life in danger.’
He looked down at her upturned bottom. ‘I haven’t laid a finger on you yet, but it appears that someone else has already spanked you and not too long ago.’
She said nothing, just giggled.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
Looking back at him over her left shoulder and with a big grin on her face, she said
sweetly. ‘Please sir, can I have some more?’
Ev’rybody Get Together
by Landon Dixon
“Form up!” The men snapped to attention, slamming their heels together, as one.
“March!” The men stomped forward, batons at the ready, a solid blue mass bristling with threat.
The belligerent crowd of protesters retreated, giving up precious street to the advancing army of cops. Then a bottle flew, along with the raucous anti-war chants and proclamations of peace. Then a rock, a brick. A barrage of profanity and debris that deadened all songs of love and brotherhood.
The line broke and the men in the riot gear charged the mob, billy clubs flailing. Hell breaking loose on the downtown streets of Chicago for the fourth bloody Democratic convention night in a row.
Desk-jockey strategies of non-violent crowd control and coffee shop chatterings of non-violent protest were lost in the vicious tumult, the righteous passion firing far past the flashpoint on both sides. Nightsticks thudded against unwashed bodies and greasy hair, fists and feet and pine placards lashing back at the Heat. Cops pounding hippies and anyone else they could lay their clubs on, lovers-not-fighters transforming into warriors and throwing everything they could tear off the Michigan Avenue battleground at the pigs.
Frank Harris butt-ended a tie-dyed Jesus Freak in the stomach with his baton, the long-haired and bearded drop-out doubling over in agony, granny glasses catapulting off his nose to shatter in the gutter. Old Testament meeting New Age in the roaring heat of battle. But just before Frank could administer final justice with a baton shot to the skull, someone dealt him a placard shiver to the ribs from behind.
He grunted, whirled around.
A tiny flower child stood there in the midst of the roiling mob; a teenaged girl in sandals and poncho and leather headband, wielding a Make Love Not War club in her little hands. She gazed up at the big cop in the riot helmet and face shield, eyes wide with what she’d done. Frank lifted his baton to strike another blow for Law & Order. Then froze.
And the war raging right there in America’s backyard was suddenly lost to him. The hate surging through his veins – for the hippies and the freaks and the druggies; the ‘love’ generation that spurned their parents’ way of life and turned-on and tuned-in to all the wrong things, turned their backs on his beloved country – went suddenly chill in his heart, as he stared at the young woman. He thumbed back his face shield and mouthed, “Mary?”
She stared back at the hard-bitten man in the blue battle gear – the fascist fuzz, the enemy of the people, the state oppressor – tears welling up in her pale-blue eyes. “Daddy?” she gasped.
The generation gap yawned before them, a crack in the foundation of America that had ruptured into a gulf, swallowing entire families. And then a wild-eyed cop raised his nightstick up behind Mary’s head and Frank did what any father would do for his daughter, no matter how misguided. He leapt forward and pushed her aside, taking the officer’s baton full-on one of his huge shoulders.
The impact was devastating, and it stunned Frank. It was the first time he’d been on the receiving end, and he didn’t like it. He shoved the cop away and spun around, searching for his little girl. But she’d already been swallowed up in the raging tide of change, lost to him forever.
He fought his way out of the riot, finally finding some peace in a dimly-lit alley that ran off Balbo. He leaned against the well-worn brick, shoulders slumped and head down, breath coming in ragged gasps. An ‘old man’, in the truest sense of the words, at fifty.
“Hey, right on, this is about the coolest place to crash right now, huh?” Frank wearily turned his head. A woman stood in the mouth of the trash-strewn alley. She was wearing a buckskin vest and a pair of jeans, a silver peace sign dangling from her neck, a couple of broken-stemmed daisies in her dark, unruly hair. “It’s, like, crazy out there, huh?” she babbled. “The pigs are running–”
She caught herself. Too late. Even in the dim light, she could see the rage flood into the big cop’s bloodshot eyes.
He grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and jerked her up straight. Then marched her down the alley, shoved her through a red wooden door barely hanging onto its hinges. Back in action again, doing something to clean the garbage up off the streets of his hometown, fight the movement that had broken up his own home.
He kicked the door shut and yanked a chain that shed some light on the scene.
The room was just a dirty room with a couple of broken-down couches and chairs, but it was good enough for the purpose Frank had in mind.
“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to come down on you or nuthin’,” the woman protested, dancing to the cop’s tune on her tip-toes. “I just–”
Frank slammed her against the wall. Then pulled out his baton and struck her – right across the bell-bottomed ass. She cried out, her body shuddering in his clutching hand. He struck her again, and again, his mouth open and eyes boiling, sweat pouring down his stone-cut face.
“What’s your name, freak?” he yelled in her ear.
“Peppermint,” the woman gulped. “Peppermint Pastel.”
He whacked her ass. “Your real goddamn legal Christian name?” “Julie. Julie Diaz.”
He grunted, kept on smacking her with his baton, the rounded cheeks shivering under the skin-tight denim. “And what the hell are you doing out on the streets – when you should be at home? Like a good girl.”
Julie stared blindly at the paint-peeled wall, her teeth clenched and body rocking to the blows the cop was dishing out. “I’m not a good girl,” she gritted.
Frank knocked his helmet back off his head, and it clattered to the concrete floor. “You’re not a good girl, is damn right,” he growled, whacking her ass, wielding the baton like a judgment. “That’s why you need this.”
He struck her over and over, until his arm, and then his entire body, began shaking as badly as hers. And then the yippie-stick struck the floor and Frank collapsed onto a couch, pulling Julie down on top of him, over his knees. He yanked her jeans down and her buttocks sprang out into the open, pale quivering mounds lashed with red stripes.
“You should be at home …” Frank blubbered. He raised his bare hand and delivered a blow, smack on her bare bottom, knocking the daisies out of her hair.
Tears streaked down his face, the girl’s bum flaming red where he’d hit it. He desperately spanked her, hard and fast and angry. Until the blows grew gradually slower and weaker. Then stopped altogether. “What’s the use?” he mumbled, shaking his concrete block of a head.
Julie twisted around and looked at the sobbing man in the sweat-stained uniform, her brown eyes bright and glaring. He was rubbing her cheeks now, but it was too late to undo the damage, stop what he’d started. “Spank me,” she hissed.
He raised his head and blinked his pale-blue eyes, ran a shaking hand over his iron-grey crew-cut. What she wanted was clear to even him in her eyes, no communication gap here.
He tapped her ass, and she whimpered. He smacked one fleshy cheek and then the other, then both at once. And she moaned, dropping her head back down and going limp in his lap, obedient, taking her punishment and liking it. He whacked her young, impressionable bottom over and over, the sharp crack of his hard hand against her soft skin shattering the breathless silence of the room.
“Spank some fucking sense into me, you fucking pig,” Julie screamed, the blowtorch heat from her beaten bum flooding her whole body. Her head spun, and she jumped with the electric shocks that arced all through her with each and every blow of the big man’s big hand on her sensitive bottom, her pussy wetting the crotch of her flower-embroidered jeans.
Frank’s eyes fired with a passion other than hate, as he rained blow after blow down upon the girl. He struck her hard and fast, fanning her ass fire-engine-red and burning, his flaming hand beating out an authoritative tattoo that echoed off the barren walls for all to hear and take heed; his cock filling the front of his police-issue pants.
When h
er bum was nothing but a numbed brick of pain and pleasure, Julie rolled off Frank’s legs and onto the floor. She grabbed his hand, pulling him down to her level. “69,” she rasped, pushing him down flat on his back. “Let’s 69.”
The straight-ahead missionary man was lost. “I don’t–” Julie already had his belt and fly open. She pulled his heavy cock out and quickly bowed her head and engulfed his swollen hood with her mouth.
“Yeah,” Frank groaned. He rubbed the girl’s blistered bottom, thrilling with the feel of her warm, wet mouth sucking on his pulsing cock.
Julie pumped the man’s vein-ribboned shaft and squeezed his big, hairy balls, her lips sliding halfway down his meat and then back up again, head bobbing and hair flying. Then, still sucking, she straddled his head with her legs, positioning her glistening black bush directly over his face.
Frank understood what he was expected to do now. He gripped Julie’s heated cheeks and stuck out his tongue, tentatively licked her moist pussy. Tasting a woman’s sex for the very first time. He licked again, not so tentatively this time. He hungrily lapped at her snatch, as she sucked and sucked on his cock.
Julie surged with the feel of the man’s wet-sandpaper tongue on her sensitive lips, shimmering with the feel of his strong hands on her beaten ass. She popped his dripping erection out of her mouth and murmured, “Spank me. Spank me while you eat me.” Then inhaled as much of his straining cock as she could.
Frank closed his eyes and groaned, slapping one of Julie’s cheeks. The other. She sucked harder, faster, deeper. He flailed her battered bum, square handprints blazing white now on the ravaged flesh.
He smacked her ass and lapped at her pussy, licking up and swallowing the warm juices, the spicy taste and smell of the girl, the wicked strangeness of it all, making his head spin. As she earnestly pulled on his cock with her lips, swabbing his shaft with her tongue and squeezing his balls with her hand, eyes closed and body blazing. The pair of them lost in the sensual moment.
Someone ran screaming down the alley, sandals flip-flopping. While someone chased after them, boots crunching. While out in the streets all around the battle raged on, charge and counterculture-charge, bottles breaking and windows smashing, truncheons and fists flying. But inside, in the eye of the ragged storm of revolution, the only sounds were the fat, wet smack of flesh against flesh, the sloppy, wet sucking sounds of mutual oral sex; the muted moans and groans of a man and a woman getting together and loving one another.
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