Lovers of Spanking

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Besides this inadvertent factor, there was also the voluntary one of them all enjoying having their precious, luscious bottoms smacked -- and not just by mere hand-spankings, either; no, they were all far beyond that stage:

The first girl, who was the model with the firm, was to have her bare ass used for a pair of snare-drums by an ingenious n***o Jazz drummer, who resorted to both his sticks and brushes during the course of a real wild, far-out and hectic jam-session, the likes of which had never been innovated before.

There was a second girl, who was the private secretary to the owner of the firm, who had cravings for strapping's on her bare rump, in conjunction with a wild gang-up on her, plugging all the holes of her luscious body simultaneously -- at once!

Then there was the enticing creature who was married to the boss, who was probably the most wild and depraved of all: She had a predilection for assuming the role of a thoroughbred horse and having a big, hairy Caveman mount her on a saddle which he would dutifully place on her bent-down, squatted form:

Then he would mount her, armed with a riding-crop and run a make-believe race, driving this frenzied little filly on by soundly and continuously whipping both her flanks, until she collapsed underneath him. Then he would finish her off by ramming and jamming his enormous thick prick up her ass-hole and giving her a hot enema until he would make her s**t green:

Yes, he would really f**k the living s**t out of her - and then some!

Of course, this general bondage prevalent between the three lovely girls was neither paradoxical nor coincidental, really, since they happened to be associated with a firm who specialized in manufacturing and selling strictly that kind of costume-jewelry which catered to female-Masochists and were proud of the fact - even willing to go around and brazenly exhibit their enticing persons decked out with slave-bracelets for arms and legs, meshed and link belts tautly draped across their waists - and the like.

And, in accordance with this general bondage existent between the lovely trio was the further intensification and deepening of their basic type in detail, since they all went in for f*****g, sucking and taking it up the ass-hole:

To put it succinctly, they were all game for anything and everything, although they still did have their individual preferences and personal idiosyncrasies to make their hot p*****s really pulsate, throb and cream! ...

* * *

Madison Avenue is irrefutably the most conservative and straight-laced street in all of New York - far more so than either Fifth Avenue or Wall Street - which have unjustly gained this reputation:

No, it is on Madison Avenue that a chance on-looker can witness the droves of nattily dressed business-executives with mostly crew cuts, immersed amongst their own cliques in strictly business-talks, along with the throngs of the snooty, withered, prune-faced women, distinctly from the upper-crust, who have all their attention focused on window-shopping at the exclusive shops along the avenue.

Now, there were many pretty young dolls who worked on Madison Avenue, mostly as office-workers and some as models. But as pretty, trim, fetching and bouncy in their hot-pants and mini-skirts that some of them were, they hardly drew even a casual glance from the cold-blooded men who sauntered along the streets in cliques during lunch-hour and after work was out, on their way home.

Nevertheless, even at that, occasionally there came along a real looker - such a virtual knockout -- that even the likes of these cold-blooded squares were forced to sit up and take notice, their hands automatically and quickly going inside their pants-pockets, to press down growing hard-ons of no small dimensions:

Such a girl was Brenda Courtney, girl number one of the illustrious quartet, and the model in the group:

At 24, Brenda was in her lush, mature prime, being one of those very tall, deceptively lean and lanky types, since she was also quite broad boned. So with swelled melons for t**s and a high-slung and upthrust, firm and curvy ass on top of long gracefully tapered gams, she was built like a brick s**t-house.

She had sharp aquiline features with an acquisition-beak for a vulture-like nose. But it was her eyes which rendered beauty to her most sensuous but hardly beautiful countenance, their being of a deep violet hue - big, bright and almond-shaped, dark and brooding - distinctly reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor in one of her more fiery moods, although, strictly speaking, in both face and body, Brenda bore a much more striking resemblance to Bobby Gentry, the Queen of the Southern-brand of Rock.

However, it wasn't only Brenda's natural attributes which made her so outstanding and stick out like a sore thumb on Madison Avenue, but the outfit she was decked out in which so ideally complimented her:

It consisted of a lavender-shade mini-dress, which perfectly matched her eyes and subtly accentuated them; the hem-line was so audaciously high, that it stopped just short of her delectable snatch which lurked pulsating underneath the dress. Then she had black-meshed panty hose and shiny black patent-leather boots, to complete the ensemble and set her off.

Brenda was a professional model for Bondage Girls' Costume Jewelry, Inc., and indeed, sure looked like one. She was in perfect keeping with the new modern-day type that they prefer in the fashion-field today, which was more of the natural outdoor-girl-look, but one who was inclined to be a bit rambunctious and far better endowed with a pair of t**s and an ass than the skinny, scrawny, flat-chested Twiggy and Audrey Hepburn basic type, which had been its direct predecessor:

For awhile, this type was completely in vogue, until the gals throughout the country, almost en masse, put then-pretty feet down and stubbornly clung to wearing mini-skirts -- especially those who were young with nice legs -- even though they were fed propaganda that this style was strictly passé and outmoded.

At the moment, Brenda Courtney was casually leaning along the concrete-archway of the doorway of a building on 49th Street, obviously waiting for a heavy date. She was meticulously perfumed and powered, and presented a real fetching sight, with her long raven-black hair cascading down her shoulders, her gorgeous orbs for eyes gleaming radiantly like two powerful ultra-violet rays of fiery passion.

Brenda was tired from her modeling-chores during the day, so she had propped up her weight by placing a hand up on the concrete-archway, thereby making the entirety of her long, lean and lanky but curvaceous frame tilt sideways; this made her high, slung, firm ass just out emphatically in one direction and accent the graceful length and sleek curvaceousness of her streamlined gams in the other one.

For her own part, Brenda was seemingly composed -- entirely casual and aloof to all of the males who passed her by. However, a great many of those who came from both directions were forced to stop, as if thunder-struck by a lightning-bolt in their very tracks.

Two young and fledging advertising-executives coming in the direction of the spectacle of her jutting, most inviting behind stopped dutifully in their tracks, their hands simultaneously going deep down in the side-pockets of their pants -- as if by some mutually agreed upon telepathic-signal -- to engage in conversation about her. Their usually assumed most artificial, high-falutin' diction which they affected during working-hours in the office was dropped; in place of which, was low-down phonetic jive-talk:

"Hey, Man, look at that, will ya?" said one.

"I'm already lookin'," replied the other.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," acknowledged the first one pantingly. "Boy, would I like to throw her a stiff prick. I'd f**k the likes of that to death."

"Who wouldn't?" the second rhetorically retorted. "Boy, for my own part, I would rather f**k her in the ass. Man, what a s**t-box she's got; why it's criminal just to use somethin' as luscious as that just to s**t out of."

"Yeah, true. And she's really eatin' stuff."

"Maybe so. But it's Summertime, now, and most p*****s stink like all hell -- like rotten fish in some Lower East Side fish-market."

"So what? I'm game; I'll even eat Summer-fish, then. I don't care; I'm not ashamed. If that there doll asked me and picked up her dress, why I would get right down on my knees -- right here in the middle of Madison Avenue -- and French out her cunt; I'd lick it all out and eat it dry."

"I believe you, pal," the other titteringly replied. "But, she ain't askin' you. She's already got a date; you kin see by the way she's standin' around. She's waitin' for somebody."

"Yeah," agreed the other, "she sure is. Wonder who's the lucky stiff who's goin' to get his itchy c**k wet in that luscious piece o' ass tonight?"

"Well, let's wait here for a few minutes and find out," his companion suggested. "It shouldn't be too long."

"Okay," agreed the other one. "But one thing is for sure with me tonight after seein' the likes of such a sexy vision."

"What's that, chum?"

"I'm goin' to whack my dummy and beat my meat tonight, even if it means that I have to take it out on the mattress. Catch on?"

"Yeah, I sure do. By the way, you live in a furnished-rooming-house, don't you?"

"Uh-huh. Why do you ask?"

"Well then," you'd better be careful that the landlady doesn't discover the stains on the bedding in the morning, move the mattress out and have it sue you for divorce Ha-ha!"

"Ha-ha!" the other echoed his companion, tittering along with the joke at his own expense. "But I still wonder who the lucky stiff is she's datin'."

"Well, we should find out soon enough."

Then, saying that, both companions broke into a rapt period of silence, meditating, with both of their hands placed even further and deeper inside the side-pockets of their pants, rubbing and pressing their respective members which were rigid and ever growing with life and want ...

Unlike most girls who appeared well-sexed but looks being deceiving, Brenda Courtney was a very uninhibited, passionate girl and a real swinger. She was truly game for anything and everything.

It had nothing to do with her family-background, either, as her home-environment had been quite normal and even drearily average. Her father was an ordinary manual-worker. There were two other children besides herself, a younger brother and sister respectively. And while none of them had ever lived in the lap of luxury, they had never been wanting for the basic necessities, either.

Her parents weren't too strict and quite broad-minded. She hardly remembered being hit, except on such a rare occasion when she had gotten her father really flustered. And even then, it was just a quick sharp slap or two across the face. Nevertheless, besides being well-sexed as she was, Brenda also was a Masochist. She wasn't afraid of the he-man, Caveman type, who might get really wild with her and whack her bare bottom mercilessly:

As a matter-of-fact, having her rump whacked peculiarly sent her. It made Brenda come off of her Narcissistic high-horse of being a successful model and brought her abruptly down to Earth. It also made her feel warm and glowing and her t**t peculiarly throb.

Truth to tell, if she wasn't the way she was, she would have never had the nerve to accept a date with a n***o, and one who was a Jazz musician at that.

She had met Don Maxwell casually in a small greasy-spoon down in Greenwich Village. Somehow, they got into a conversation about the good coffee served there. He told her he was a musician. He was quite good-looking and seemed the happy-go-lucky sort. So when he casually asked her for her name and telephone-number prior to taking her leave with a girl-friend she was with, debating with herself, on sudden impulse, she gave it to him - and all the correct information at that.

Then, to surprise herself even further, when he called her for a date, while she had made up her mind for days before, a priori, that she would emphatically turn him down, she tersely accepted. So there she was, standing there waiting for him.

What had made Brenda change her mind, aside from being the wild swinger that she was, notwithstanding?

In all probability, it was to find out, once and for all, if the rumors they said about n***o fellows were really true or not:

Did they really have such big, long and hard licorice-sticks for c***s - much bigger, on the average, than most white fellows had?

And could they perpetually f**k up a storm all night long without stop?

Truthfully, Brenda didn't know, never having had any actual experience with one of their race before. But tonight, she had a date with one, and might find out for sure. Having come this far already, she would go the whole route, if she had anything to say about it herself! ...

At that very moment, a sleek-looking beige-colored hard-top limousine glided up to the curb and came to a smooth halt. A handsome, smiling mulatto face leaned out on the passenger-side and grinned invitingly at her, thereby terminating all of Brenda's fleeting, musing thoughts, as he greeted her:

"Hi, Brenda chick."

"Oh, hello, Don," she replied coolly and levelly.

"You been waitin' here long, doll?"

"No-ooo, not really - not too long, Don."

"Well, I'm sorry, Brenda chick. Couldn't help it. Got tied up for awhile in that awful cross town traffic comin' over here and there's no-place to turn off in this here city anymore. So - "

"Oh, that's all right. You don't have to apologize. I understand completely, Don."

"Good. So hop in, doll, and latch on, so we kin make the scene together; okay?"

"Uh-huh," she acquiesced.

Then she slowly and surely squatted down, showing her streamlined gams all the way up to the crack of the snatch to those onlookers who happened to catch this brief celestial-glimpse of female-pulchritude for that fleeting fraction of a moment.

Then she slid over across the seat, Don Maxwell slammed the door shut with a dull thud, and they drove off together.

The two companions who had been waiting out of curiosity to ascertain what kind of fellow she was dating had been two of the lucky ones to catch that brief heavenly-vision. However, they weren't talking about that, by this time having come to take Brenda's diversity of female-assets for granted. Rather, they were talking about the fellow she was dating:

"Look at that, will ya? She's goin' out with a spade."

"Yeah, we might have known," sighed the other fellow philosophically.

"Why is it that all the really good-lookin' white chicks seem to only want to go out with the spades?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's true that they got such great big licorice-sticks for c***s and can throw a white girl such a mean fuck."

"Yeah, maybe so. But, you know what?"

"What?"

"We should get even on 'em by going out with their ebony-chicks. See how they like it."

"Oh yeah? Well, you just try it and they'll call you 'a no-good mother-fucker' and cut your throat from ear to ear with a sharp razor. Their kind don't mind for their men to go out with white chicks; that's all right. But you just try and reverse the procedure and they don't dig it nohow!"

And even as these friends drooled so, the colored fellow who was luscious Brenda Courtney's date, already had it made and was destined to have a night of hectic f*****g with her such as they could only dream about and perhaps beat their meat into the mattress over:

Life was very unfair to a lot of people at time - very unfair, INDEED! ...