by Frank Martinet
When the woman walked past me, my head rotated to follow her. I couldn't believe her. She was probably in her late-twenties or early thirties, very attractive, with the face of a model. She was dressed casually in a plain brown sweater and pants, but with a certain elegance that said she was well off. But those pants!
They were a light brown (slightly darker than tan), the fabric thin and very smooth. The cloth positively clung to her body. And what a body! Slender legs a mile long, topped by one of the most perfect bottoms I've ever seen. We're talking twin rounds of glorious woman flesh pressed together like two cantaloupes side by side. The globes jutting out invitingly, the seam between tight and thin. The pants were so tight I could easily see not only the succulent underhang of the pert bum, but I could detect the distinct bulge of the woman's cunt!
I couldn't help but stare as the cheeks wobbled down the sidewalk. I looked around, half-expecting a riot of lecherous males, tongues hanging out as they followed the woman, but no one gave her a second look. Dressed like that she might as well have pranced down the street naked, yet in this sinful city such a sight was not even worth the trouble of bothering to look. Lord in my day a woman would be horsewhipped to go out in public like that!
The slut deserves a good whipping, I thought, my feet moving without me telling them, and I'd gone three blocks before I realized I was following the woman. By that time I figured I might as well continue. Besides, it was rather entertaining, watching those firm cheeks shift up and down as she walked, and imagining what discipline a long willow switch could do to those hams. Why my mother would have whipped that slut into next week!
I remembered all too well the welts left by my mother's willow switches, both on my own ass and my sister's sitter, and as I watched the brown-panted woman I thought to myself that those pants were so tight and the material so thin that a weal from a switch would probably be visible through the cloth.
Now I might be approaching the century mark, but I ain't too old to know a pretty woman. This girl was sexy and imagining her getting the tanning she deserved had me functioning in no time. No Viagra for me!
The woman turned into a large brownstone. She marched up the stairs and disappeared inside. I wandered to the foot of the stairs, suddenly a ship without a sail. I hadn't been thinking about what I going to do or even why I'd followed the woman, but now I found myself lost and strangely disappointed. I couldn't bear to leave, yet I couldn't go forward.
Suddenly the door opened the woman was there. She was staring right at me, huge brown rabbit eyes so soft and beautiful, yet there was an edge to her. "Do I know you?" she asked.
I shook my head. My tongue was tied - I couldn't speak.
She took two steps down. "You were following me." The way she said this it was obvious she was curious, not afraid. I guess no one's afraid of an old man.
"I..."
"Why were you following me?"
Like a fool, I blurted out the truth. I guess I'm too old for the subtle seduction games of youth.
"Those pants," I grunted.
She beamed. "You like them?" She rotated, showing me her ass from all angles. "They're rather snug but surprisingly comfortable. The material's this new stretchy fabric my tailor found. He custom made these just for me."
"They fit well," I lamely added.
"Thank you. Would you like to come in? I was just making a pot of coffee."
"Sure."
Again I acted without thinking. What was I doing? Why was I going into this gorgeous woman's beautiful house? Her kitchen was the size of my entire apartment! Probably that one painting over there was worth more than I'd made my entire life.
I accepted a small piece of crumb cake and a cup of hot coffee. I could tell from the luxurious scent this was no store brand. This was premium stuff. It tasted like heaven.
As I sipped, I studied the woman. She was a little older than I'd first thought. At least thirty-five, maybe more. But extremely well-preserved. With make-up she could pass for twenty-five in the right light. She was tall, for a woman, about my height. Her face was beautiful, not cute or pretty. There was an elegance to her. But there was a down-to-earth quality as well that attracted me. She wasn't snotty or better-than-thou. Suddenly I realized that she hadn't always been wealthy. She'd probably grown up poor. She understood poor, and while she accepted her wealth, she had never quite forgotten where she came from and that showed in the slight humility that graced her countenance.
"What are you thinking?"
I stared, gulping coffee, and wondering what to say. Again, honesty saved the day.
"I was thinking that you're so beautiful, and obviously well-off, but wondering where you came from. You haven't always lived like this."
She smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile, the kind of smile that says "I like you." She nodded. "You're very perceptive.
"I was born in New Mexico. Lived there until I was six. Then moved to Texas, Oklahoma, Tennessee, several other states. My father was a trucker. When I was ten he drove off and never returned. It was a hard childhood. I have six brothers and sisters, three by different dads. My mom died of breast cancer when I was fourteen. That's when I started modeling. By the time I was eighteen, I was working runways in Europe. I retired at twenty-eight, settled here in the city. I have some investments, a few businesses I oversee. But I don't need to work."
"Your face... it's rather exotic in some way. Your eyes are so intense, luminous, I can't quite describe it."
"I'm part Cherokee," said the woman. "My father. About the only good thing he left me."
The coffee was warming me and I was growing bold. "And men? Where are the men in your life?"
She laughed. "Oh they come and go. I suppose I'm attracted to drifters like my dad. Guys who won't settle down."
I shook my head. "That's not it. You pick men like that because you want them to leave - it's easier for you not to commit if they leave you."
The woman's eyes snapped fire. She stared at me, astonished. "Who are you?"
"Just an old man. Name's Ray, if you need a name."
She smiled again, a soft gentle smile that warmed my heart. "My name's Athea," she whispered, offering me her hand.
I brought the slender well-manicured fingers to my lips and kissed them. "Pleased to meet you, Athea."
"Same here."
"Are you lonely?" I mentally kicked myself. "Shit, I can't believe I just said that. Forget it, it was impertinent."
Athea looked somber. "Yes," she said firmly. "Yes I am."
"That's why you wear those slut pants."
She licked her ruby lips, red tongue slender and moist. She nodded. "They attract attention."
"But not the kind of attention you need."
"I suppose not."
"But you wear them anyway.
"Yeah."
"That's awfully naughty," I scolded gently. "You know they make you look slutty but you wear them anyway."
Athea blushed, smiling at her embarrassment. "You're right again, Ray. I know dressing like this brings in loose men, the kind who just want to screw me and leave, but I keep doing it. I guess I don't know of another way. I've been seducing men since I was fourteen."
"If my mother were alive, she'd take a willow switch to you."
The woman nodded. "My mother, too. She used to tan me with a leather belt. Until she got too weak from the cancer, that is. You know, I think I miss that most of all about her. She was always so strong, just one lick had you in tears. But that last year... a belting didn't hurt at all physically, but it just killed me emotionally."
Suddenly the light dawned. I knew this as well as I knew my own soul. "You need it," I whispered.
"What?"
"A good whipping."
"What are you talking about?"
"That's what you need. It's what you've been searching for all these years. Someone strong to give you what your mother couldn't, at the end."
She stared at me. Her face was a bizarre mixture of shock, horror, fear, excitement, and desire. Every emotion was clearly visible: as a model she was unable to hide anything.
Slowly, Athea nodded. "You may be right."
"Trust me. I am right."
"You are right."
There was a long pause. "So are we going to do anything about it?"
Now she looked alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"You mean... you... here... now?"
"Why not?"
Her pretty mouth hung open, the snow white rows of perfect teeth in sharp contrast with her crimson lips.
"Into the living room," I ordered. "Over the sofa arm."
I could scarcely contain my glee when she obeyed. She hesitated at the sofa arm. "Do I?" She motioned to her pants.
"Take them down?"
She nodded.
"How did your mother do it?"
"Lickings were always on the bare," Athea whispered.
"Then you know the answer."
I was slipping my long leather belt out of the loops of my pants as I watched her carefully unbutton the top of her pants. She glanced back at me nervously, eyes flashing to the heavy belt. Then she stared forward and began to peel off the pants.
She wore no underwear.
"Slut," I hissed. She closed her eyes and nodded.
She lay across the sofa arm, her butt poised at the apex. I waited for a moment, studying the magnificence of her bare ass. What had been promised by those tight brown pants was now amply delivered. Never had I seen a more voluptuous yet firm bottom. Athea's ass was amazingly full and round, yet she obviously worked hard to keep in shape and the taut flesh was tight as a drum. Whipping buttocks like this would be a dream come true.
My belt was thick leather, and heavy to swing. I knew it would hurt. I wondered if Athea was prepared for such pain. I gave her no chance to change her mind and began to lash the belt across her magnificent rump. I delivered three strokes in row, hard and fast, so quickly that she was just feeling the effect of the first when the third landed.
The effect was dramatic. Instantly she knew this was not a game. Three blotches of fiery pain blossomed across her cheeks and she howled in alarm. I paused for a moment to let her recover, then delivered three more stinging strokes.
"Oh God in heaven!" she gasped, writhing miserably over the arm of the sofa. "Please! Not so hard!"
"But a spanking must be painful," I responded. "Would your mother listen to your pleas?"
She moaned and shook her head dolefully, crying out as I struck again. By now her ass was glowing pink but I was just getting started. I let the belt fly at a steady rate, with only brief pauses between strokes. Athea cried, moaned, and sobbed. Her ass quivered and danced before me, but to her credit, she did not attempt to rise up or escape.
"Are you feeling it?" I asked.
"Heavens, yes!"
"Isn't this what you deserve you filthy, disgusting slut?"
"Yes!"
I let fly another rapid series of strokes, this time giving her a dozen in a row. She was howling when I finally slowed, her body shuddering and spasming out of her control.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.