When I went to university, back in the 1960s, my lover was one of the tutors in my college: a youngish man named Charles. I say "lover," but of course I was a virgin at the time.
We could not be alone together in his rooms -- still less in mine -- but luckily he had a car, a roomy estate wagon. We would drive somewhere in the country, park away from the road and kiss.
Once we were both sufficiently aroused, I would move onto his lap, my skirt hitched up, my thighs on either side of him, and we would embrace and rub together. Almost the equivalent of what they call a "lap-dance" today, only with me facing him.
We would kiss and embrace like that for as long as we could hold out -- which often was not very long, because I got to boiling point very quickly. I could often have an orgasm from the rubbing alone. If not, he would reach into my panties and bring me off quickly. By that time he would be almost bursting. He would unzip and reach for a flannel -- there was always a fresh one in the back seat -- after which I or he or both of us together would rub him to a climax.
One day, in the midst of the lap-rubbing stage, I heard Charles whisper. He often whispered to me then -- very X-rated language sometimes -- but it was usually intelligible. This came out in a hot incoherent rush.
"Mmmmm?" I asked.
Finally I made out something like "...over my knee...?"
"You want me... over your knee?"
He nodded, blushing. Well, he was always red in the face at times, like this; now he'd gone scarlet.
In no mood to refuse, I turned over and placed myself across his lap. It felt intensely embarrassing, calling up long-buried memories of my nanny jackknifing me over her lap and smacking me with a hairbrush, sometimes with one or both of my brothers looking on.
But Charles did not whack me nearly as hard as she used to -- just gave me a half a dozen incredibly light pats. Even so, it clearly excited him; his erection grew palpably in the course of that short spanking, and when he came he exploded through my fingers.
Perhaps Charles's excitement communicated itself to me; anyway, that night I kept waking up in a fever -- my panties literally in a knot -- thinking of the few moments that spanking had lasted. The next time we met, and the next after that, at a subtle signal from Charles I would turn over and lie across his lap.
Curiously, even when Charles dared to lift my skirt and swat me a little harder, I found I could feel almost nothing. Arousal had blunted my nerves, I suppose. I would have liked to feel something more; even in those days, I was a sensation-seeker. But I hesitated to spoil the mood between me and Charles -- the intrigue of a tacitly agreed-upon ritual.
It was Charles who brought it up, one afternoon, over tea and cakes. It was a rare meeting in his study; we left the door ajar to avoid suspicion.
"Do you get anything at all out of... you know, that new business?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. Can't you tell?"
He was surprised, though. My breathless silence during the spankings must have made him think I had no reaction.
"The thing is," he said, "I thought it wasn't exciting you, so I couldn't truly enjoy it either."
We fell silent, afraid someone might be eavesdropping, but after that the spankings grew less restrained -- although there was a limit to what we could do in the back of a car, and Charles was too cautious to try exploring the woods and fields.
Winter was approaching in any case, and Charles arranged to borrow a cottage fifteen miles away: owned, he said, by a sometime colleague who was now teaching in France. It was a delightful little place, two up and two down, with cozy well padded furniture and deep Persian rugs. The closest neighbors were by no means within earshot.
I cannot describe everything we tried, in all the rooms of that house and at almost every hour of the day, for the two months that this arrangement lasted. Quite early on I discovered how thrilling it was to be spanked over Charles's lap as he sat in a straight chair. I almost could not bear it at first, because it reminded me so much of those humiliating scenes with my nanny. But physically it was wonderful. When I was spanked while lying almost flat out, as on the back seat of the car, Charles's hand came down on the whole pad of my bottom, the humped-up gluteus maximus absorbing most of the impact. When I bent sharply over Charles's knee it felt very different. My buttocks were stretched and separated so that, when a spank landed down the middle, I could feel it right up through my bottom crack and even in my anus. (I would hardly have been able to use those words at the time.)
The sheer physical stimulation from this kind of spanking was so intense that afterward I would be ready to scream for Charles to relieve my sexual tension. I would stagger to the bed and uncover my bottom. (Don't ask me why Charles still spanked me over my panties; that was just the way we did it.)
A typical scene: Everything we needed -- cold cream; flannel; cushions -- was already in place. I lay face down with a cushion under my hips, which put my bottom at the best angle, Charles said.
He began creaming my bottom in broad, smooth strokes. At times his fingertips dipped between my buttocks, spreading the lotion into those delicate spots which the spanking had particularly inflamed. Soon I heard him moaning voluptuously and realized I was making similar noises.
Charles undid his flies and shoved his trousers down as he mounted the bed behind me and between my legs. We had invented a kind of pseudo-intercourse. Charles lay heavily on top of me while I lifted my head slightly and arched my back, spreading my bottom so that his dick nestled deeply between my buttocks. He began thrusting firmly, pushing my body in the process so that my tummy and mons ground against the cushion below.
The feeling of Charles's penis rubbing against my most intimate spots, still warm from the beating, was so voluptuous that sometimes, unable to stop myself despite considerable shame and embarrassment, I would reach back and pull my bottom cheeks apart so that he could penetrate further.
Orgasm was always shattering and often simultaneous.
In January Charles and I had a chance to spend a week together before the spring term began. We talked about going to Florence or Amsterdam, but in the end stayed at the cottage. It was so pleasant being isolated there in the frozen countryside.
Charles had finally told me some things about the cottage's owner. She turned out to be a woman: Amy Masterson, who taught Modern Languages. That surprised me; when Charles spoke of "a friend" I'd assumed he meant a man.
"Amy is a remarkable person," he said, in a way that made me both curious and jealous.
I did not -- though I was sometimes tempted -- invade Amy Masterson's cupboards or desk drawers, but I tried to form an impression of her. She had a great number of books, in French, Italian and German. There were hardly any clothes or personal effects anywhere, perhaps because, as Charles told me, she had rooms in her college where she stayed during the week. And, of course, now she was in France.
I passed much of our holiday in a haze of alternating lust and satisfaction, my bottom and breasts gloriously sore. I had discovered that I loved having Charles undo my dress and bra and maul my breasts vigorously -- even slap them. My breasts were smallish, but nicely rounded, and if I pushed them together slightly they looked like a tiny pair of buttocks. It thrilled me to watch Charles spank them. Charles also, gradually, began smacking me right between my legs -- on the crotch of my panties -- with the flat of his hand.
We made love so much that I was always sensitive, if not irritated, in all those areas (my breasts and pretty much everywhere covered by my panties) even before we began sex play -- which perversely added to the itch of desire.
I was still a virgin, "technically," as we used to say, although Charles and I slept in the same bed -- Amy's bed. I wore a flannel nightie and panties, which made Charles laugh. "Why do you women always wear panties to bed?" he asked. He wore pyjamas with nothing underneath. Looking back, even with the panties in place it's a wonder we never had intercourse -- every night I woke up several times in a fever of longing, all my limbs wrapped around Charles.
The day before term started, I slept very late, dimly aware that Charles had risen. At some point I began to think I was dreaming. Voices came from downstairs: Charles's and that of a woman. I couldn't make out what they were saying.
After what seemed an age I came fully awake and realized there was indeed a woman in the house. My heart lurched. Amy Masterson, unexpectedly back from the Continent? Would she be annoyed -- or worse -- to find that Charles had been sleeping with another woman here? Charles hadn't said much about their relationship, but I gathered his reticence hid something more or less intimate.
I dressed and put my hair up carefully before going downstairs, only to find Charles sprawled on the sofa, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
"Good morning, Eliza," he said. "I thought you'd never stir yourself. Meet Amy Masterson. Amy, Eliza Raphael."
Amy had the small body and starry face of a ballerina. She remained curled in a corner of the sofa, her long light brown hair spilling over the high neck of her jersey.
She had the oddest way of looking perfectly cordial, even friendly, without smiling at all.
"Will you fetch another pot of tea?" she said to Charles. "Charles wrote to me that you were pretty," she continued as he left the room, "but he didn't say how absolutely lovely you were."
Charles returned with the tea and poured me a cup. He and Amy talked about her term in France, his term in Cambridge. Amy asked me about my studies. She stayed just long enough to be polite, then announced she was going to her college.
"Why did she leave like that, Charles? It's her own house."
"She wanted us to have one more night before term starts."
"One more night..." The idea depressed both of us slightly; then we decided to make that night last as long as possible by starting immediately. We put a bottle of Champagne on ice and another in the fridge.
"This is terrible," I said. "Drinking in the morning."
"It's past noon now," Charles corrected me. We toasted each other.
Charles drained his first glass quickly and went to the kitchen for another. After a few minutes I followed him, worried that he might be slyly swilling extra alcohol. (He seemed nervous about something.)
He was slicing up fruit, white hothouse peaches and strawberries. Amy must have brought them. He separated a peach from its pit with weird expertise, pulling the two halves apart like folds of velvety flesh.
"Mmmm! Charles!" I took the knife from his had, grabbed him by one arm and pushed him against the cooler. His kiss was moist and tasted of peaches. I opened his dressing gown and rubbed up against him with the entire length of my body.
"Eliza..." he murmured, grabbing me by the buttocks and lifting me -- a sort of ballet lift -- off my feet. He hiked up my skirt so roughly I thought I heard it rip, then wedged one of his thighs between mine so that my weight was supported on it.
I started -- there's no delicate way to say this -- fucking Charles's thigh. He kissed me deeply, with plenty of tongue, pausing now and then to whisper something like "You are naughty, aren't you?"
I had never heard him speak that way before: in that deep, almost menacing tone. I would describe it as angry, except that you could tell it was a simulated anger, something like the tone he used to remonstrate with lazy students, but more intimate.
Then he started smacking my bottom. This was also unusual; he didn't normally like mixing sex and spanking, but kept them as two separate stages in our lovemaking.
Charles's novel behavior -- scolding me; treating me like a naughty girl -- shocked and stirred me. After an hour of making love I was thoroughly disinhibited and aching for Charles to penetrate me. Well, I often felt that way, but this time the urge was undeniable.
"Go in," I said. We were on the bed, in that position we usually ended with: Charles rubbing his dick between my well-lubricated buttocks. I heard a sharp intake of breath, but nothing else, and Charles went on as before. "Go in," I repeated.
Now Charles pulled back and away. "Have you gone mad, Eliza? You're a virgin. And we haven't even any contraceptives..."
"I didn't mean.... I mean, go in here. I raised my pelvis and pointed my bottom more sharply at him.
He engaged with me again -- collapsed onto me, more like -- but made no effort to enter. I wriggled under him, trying to position myself so that his dick would simply go in on his next thrust, but he lay too heavily on me. Still I kept straining against him.
"Go on. Bugger me." I hadn't realized I was about to say that. Nor had Charles, clearly, to judge from the way he gasped.
Charles did, finally, ease up enough so that I could raise myself. He pointed the head of his penis in the right direction, pushed gently... and came.
"I'm sorry, Eliza. It was just... what you said." He collapsed next to me.
I turned and kissed him on the shoulder. "Don't be sorry. It will work next time."