Today I feature yet another classic example of a description of a spanking scene. Now this one is definitely old school, but the author's technique is very recognizable if you have been around for awhile.
A block to the north of Lorraine Demby, Janice Coleman was undergoing a domestic altercation with her bespectacled brown-haired, thirty-two-year-old husband Peter. Just about the same time that Lorraine was teaching Madge Warren the pleasures of Lesbos, Janice was wrangling with Peter over his stinginess in her weekly allowance. She was twenty-four, spirited, slim and about five feet six inches in height, with flowing auburn hair coiffed in a long pageboy with curls turned under. Her breast were highset, closely spaced and like round oranges, with saucy nipples, while her slim waist veered into lush haunches and upstandingly rounded bottomcheeks with a very narrow crevice between them. Her tawny skin was freckled as well as suntanned, for Janice enjoyed tennis and golfing. It was her contention that Peter as her husband of three years' standing owed her not only the grocery money and enough to maintain the ranch-type bungalow they owned, but also enough for gewgaws and her clothes and a few amusements. He was contending that she was extravagant and that he had given her several hundred dollars only two weeks ago and he was demanding an accounting.
[Note the description of the lovely Janice. How's that for lurid?]
“Now see here, Peter, that's not fair!” she protested. “I'm not just your chattel, I'm your wife.”
“Sometimes I wonder if the former relationship wouldn't be better,” he said sarcastically. “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“I'll tell you, baby, since you brought it up. You're a dish, and every time I take you out in public, I can see that other guys are getting stiff pecks just looking at the way your lovely bottom waggles.”
“How dare you use such language to me!” “It's about time I used something strong, to wake you up, if you want to know something,” was his sarcastic answer.
[Unwisely, she smarts off to him]
“I see. Well, then I'm going to resort to my lesson of violence, I'm afraid. Maybe you'll learn.”
And with this, he seized her by the wrists and dragged her over to the couch and flung her across his lap.
“Stop it—what are you doing—you let go of me, Peter Coleman—you'll be the sorriest man alive if you don't—now you stop it!” she wailed.
She started to kick, but he clamped his right leg over her calves, and then, as her hands rushed back to defend her bottom, he pinned both her wrists with his left hand. Now with his right he lofted her pretty blue cotton skirt and the slip beneath it, exposing her magnificently opulent ass encased in a pair of white nylon pantybriefs, so short that it revealed a goodly amount of the swelling tawny-sheened base of those ripely rounded asscheeks of hers.
["tawney-sheened base of...ripely rounded asscheeks"? You gotta love it.]
“Nooooooooo!!! You stop that, don't you dare, if you do, I'll go home to Mother!” she wailed. Janice had made this threat before, since her mother lived on Chicago's North Side. Her parents had divorced about five years ago, and her father had moved to Massachusetts where he ran a small country weekly. In Peter Coleman's estimation, neither of her parents had ever really taken a strap to her big bottom and taught her how to be an unselfish and cooperative daughter. That was her main trouble. She was lazy and spoiled, and she was also too argumentative for her own good. He hesitated a moment, and then suddenly tugged down her panties. Janice uttered a wild scream of frantic shame and indignation: “Ohhhhhhh you dirty bastard—you pull them right up now, I'm going to leave you! I swear I will.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Go ahead and leave. But you can take a nice sore red ass back to Mother.” With this, mastering her attempt to break her wrists loose of his grip he raised his right hand and brought it down with a sonorous “Smackk!” on the right lower summit of his wife's upturned and struggling bare behind. Janice uttered a wild cry, in which indignation and pain were equally mixed and continued her struggles to no avail. Now, warming to the task and excited by the bright red splotch which had sprung up on the tawny sheened hillock of her bare behind, Peter Coleman began to spank her with gusto. No fewer than fifty times his right hand rose and fell, alternating on the cheeks, while Janice at first threatened and swore at him, and then began to cry, and finally to scream that he was killing her.
At the last ten, her bottom bounded every time his hand came down on the reddened flesh, and she finally wailed, “Oh my God, I can't stand anymore, you're killing me! Oh Peter, stop it, whatever do you want, oh my God, can't you talk instead of hurting me like this?”
He paused, out of breath, his hand stinging from the energetic slaps he administered to her voluptuous posterior. Then he righted her, and sat there holding her by the hips while she swayed and sobbed, tears running down her face. As her eyes blinked to clear away the tears, she saw his sardonic face grinning at her, she slapped him again.
“Oh would you now?” he growled. “Back you go, you deceitful little bitch!” “Ohh—noooooooo!!” she shrieked as he flung her back into position again. This time he yanked her panties completely off, and angled her so that her legs were veering out at angles from the couch and her left shoulder pinned against the back, which took care of her left arm. His left hand gripped her right wrist, and now he really began to spank with all his might, flattening her swollen bottomglobes with each new sonorous blow. She wailed frantically, but he laid on twenty more before he finally stopped. “Now do you think you can act like a good girl?” he wanted to know.
“Ohh—ahh—ahhrrr—oh yes—oh my God— you've killed me—oh please, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to slap you, but you hurt so bad—oh you've killed me—let me up now, please, Peter!”
He righted her again. But this time, to her dismay and a wild cry of alarm, he shoved her down onto her back on the couch. Then swiftly, zipping down his fly, emerging his swollen cock, he mounted her.
Whew! A bit politically incorrect, not to mention the criminal implications, but hey, it was a different time, a bygone era. Note the names--Lorraine, Madge, Janice. These are the names of your grandmother's friends. Is this a bit too much purple prose or not? Time to guess the author. Anybody know?