Lady Atherton’s Lover

Lady Atherton's Lover
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 During my hippie days at the University of Virginia,

respectable girls--especially the pretty ones--made a show of

ignoring me.  With my scraggly beard, Jewfro hairdo, and

peacenik earring, I looked like a veteran from the riots at the

Democratic National Convention in Chicago.  When I had the

"audacity" to ask one of those chicks out (What did I have to

lose?), "Get lost, freak," and "Stick to your own kind," were

two of the politer replies they'd send my way.  And the ruling

males on campus made it clear that if I valued my life, I'd stay

away from their women. 

     So my sex life, albeit rich and variegated, was to be found

among the female freaks at school--my companions in UVa's leper

colony.  They weren't much to look at and they smelled like

mouse droppings, but those braless babes in T-shirts and bib

overalls were hot, horny, and best of all, kinky.  The most

strident feminists, ironically, were spankos.  And I gained a

well earned reputation as their favorite top.

     The solid senders at school regarded us as uncivilized,

while we regarded them as pathologically repressed.  They seemed

frozen in the ethos of the Fifties, as though the winds of

change had died out in the slumbering countryside of Virginia,

leaving Charlottesville becalmed in time.  Guys wore striped

ties, buttoned down shirts, and khaki pants with a sharp crease. 

Girls wore floral dresses, bright red lipstick, and yellow

ribbons in their hair.  The sexual revolution hadn't reached

this serene enclave nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge

Mountains.  Virgins lived here.

     My social life did not change until graduation, with one

extraordinary exception.  I, Michael-the-freak-Katz, had an

impossible moment of fame--a date with the most coveted girl on

campus.  And who would have believed that twenty-five years from

that event I would be holding in my hand a perfumed letter from

her saying she wants to see me again?  My hand better stop

shaking, or Michael-who-is-now-a-famous-doctor-Katz won't be

performing surgery tomorrow.

     Kate Atherton--six feet tall, blonde, svelte, with a

creamy, flawless complexion--looked like a model.  To nobody's

surprise, she became a superstar in that profession after

graduation; all of you have all seen her face a thousand times. 

A professional portrait photographer, who was an artist in

residence, described her as the ideal of feminine beauty.  He

also said of her body: "God created this woman to show how He

could sculpt."  Kate turned heads wherever she went.  At the

social affairs of the horsey set, the gentry struggled--with

little success--not to be caught acting like riff-raff, rudely

gawking at her.

     But this goddess was no prize to me, at least not at first. 

She had a nasty personality.  Most people mistook it for

ordinary bitchiness, but I could tell that it went deeper. 

Something was eating her, as though she--of all people--had been

given a raw deal.  

     Ironically, her obnoxious behavior seemed to inflame the

passions of her male worshippers--a cult of masochists if you

ask me.  Since the day of her freshman debut, the pride of

Southern manhood (mainly the ranking studs in the fraternities)

came calling in a steady stream to win her hand.  She would

deign to go out with the most desirable of them, but only once

or twice before refusing to answer their calls.  By her junior

year, Fraternity Row had become a landfill of shattered egos. 

And Kate had attained the status and mystique of a recalcitrant

movie star.

     So how did a pariah like me get a date with her?  I had a

meal job working as a waiter in her sorority house.  She was not

the only bitch in Phi Delt's coterie of pampered belles, just

the worst.  From the very beginning she had it in for me more

than any of the other kitchen help.

     "Oh, Michael," she would say, transmogrifying her subtle

Richmond accent into a condescending George Wallace drawl, 

"Ah'm so-o sorry to both-ah yew, but mah soup is luke wahm.  Yew

know ah like it hot."  

     "Yes, ma'am," I would reply with a pinched smile and

narrowed eye that surely convinced no one of my delight to

serve.  One time, en route to the kitchen with her rejected

entree, I muttered to one of the other waiters:  "I'd love to

spank that bitch."

     He grinned while slapping a spoon against his palm. "Yeah,

Mike, we've heard all about you."

     Unfortunately, one of the girls overheard those remarks,

and news of my insolence soon got back to Kate.  "Mistah Katz

needs to learn some mannahs," she was reported to say.  And so

began a test of wills.  Every evening at dinner, her cloying

voice came floating in my direction like puffs of poison gas

over the hubbub of conversation.  It was: "Oh, Michael," this

and "Oh, Michael," that.  Here, boy.  Jump, fetch.  My defense

was the time-honored weapon of the servant--sarcasm.  "Yes'm. Ah

be mos' happy to bring it back," I would reply with my best

Uncle Tom impression.  The other girls found these contests

between us most entertaining.  The principals did not.

     One Saturday evening during dinner she was called to the

phone.  At a sorority house, this is an ominous sign, which

invariably causes the craning of necks and the muting of

conversation.  She returned moments later with a face that

appeared to have been boiled.  Catastrophe!  Her date canceled

at the last minute on account of illness.  This meant that she

faced the unthinkable prospect of spending Saturday night at the

house with the regular losers, watching TV.  Such a fate was

only slightly less dreadful than death by impalement.  A tantrum

was called for, and she did not disappoint.  Nevertheless, I was

surprised to learn that she wanted to go out that evening for

some reason other than to be seen: 

     "The worst thing is," she wailed,  "I've been waiting all

week to see "The Cell" and this is the last week it will be

playing here! Damn! Damn! Damn!"

     Then she turned to me with slits for eyes and spat out:

"Ah'd even go with you!"

     I grinned, luxuriating in the irony of her predicament.

"OK, let's go," I chuckled.  "I got nothing else to do tonight."

     I expected her to tell me to drop dead, but she didn't do

that.  She glared at me studiously as though weighing her

options.  The sisters fell silent, their disbelieving eyes

rivetted upon her.  The tips of manicured fingernails were

nibbled in anticipation of the impossible verdict.  My heart was

pounding as I stood before her like a poodle being judged in a

dog show.  It was one thing to be disdainful of Kate when she

was a remote, abstract object, like the centerfold in Playboy. 

Quite another when this face that could launch a thousand ships

was thinking about going out with me.

     "All right," she announced. "Ah'll go.  Just keep your

hands to yourself, you he-ah?"

     The sisters gasped, giggled and tittered. 

     "Yeah, sure," I mumbled, a hot blush rising from my neck

and poaching my cheeks.  "I live just a few blocks from here. 

I'll zip home and change."

                              *****

     The theater was about a half mile from the Phi Delt house,

a lovely walk on that balmy April evening.  Kate was wearing a

light blue shirtwaist dress with a navy sweater over her

shoulders.  And flats, to my relief.  Even with them, she was a

couple inches taller than me, which only added to the

incongruity of our appearance.  Without exception, everyone who

passed gawked at her with admiration, then at me with surprise,

then back at her with incredulity.  I was a bit worried that the

frat rats would come after me on Monday with tar and feathers

for defiling the purity of Southern womanhood.  But most likely

they'd learn that I was merely an emergency escort, and let this

incident pass.

     I wanted to get to know Kate, but our conversation was

stilted and awkward.  Thankfully, she was decent enough to drop

the stupid drawl.  Still, nothing I said generated anything but

a perfunctory response, even when I asked:  "What's so special

about this movie?"  That question seemed to rattle her.

     "It's a spy movie," she answered defensively.  "I am

partial to spy movies."  

     The theater was crowded.  We picked the best seats 

available--two in the middle, in the back row against the

projection booth.  Kate was seated to my right.  I felt a bit

awkward, since this was known as the make-out row, but Kate

either didn't care or wasn't aware of it.  The lights dimmed,

and after a brief showing of coming attractions, the feature

began.  It was one of those East Berlin-West Berlin thrillers,

and you could tell from the beginning that it was going to be

good.  

     In the opening scene, a seductive blonde with luscious red

lips and an air of assurance disembarked from a train at an East

Berlin station.  With bag in hand, she strode across the brick

platform towards the checkpoint behind the other passengers. 

But she never made it that far.  She was intercepted by two KBG

agents in trench coats who said, politely, "Miss Goebel, please

come with us."  Her face froze in terror.

     The next scene exploded onto the screen, jarring everyone

in the theater.  The woman, wild-eyed and crazed, was being

interrogated in a back room of the station.  She was tied to a

chair and bitted with a strip of leather.  Her silky blond hair

was matted, disheveled, and streaked with grime.  The top of her

dress had been pulled apart, and a wire ran down the cleavage

between her breasts.  Though nothing X-rated was shown, there

was little doubt where the electrodes were attached. 

     "Again," came a man's business-like voice.

     The woman's nostrils flared in anticipation.  An instant

later the top of her breasts spasmed, the flesh jiggled crazily

and her head flew backwards. 

     My cock rose to attention.  God was this good!  At the same

time a horrible thought crossed my mind--that Kate was revolted. 

I braced myself for her command for us to leave immediately. 

Unable to tolerate the suspense, I sucked in air and turned my

head slowly to see her reaction.  What I saw caused my flesh to

crawl.  Kate was in ecstasy.  

     Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared, and her lips were

moist and parted.  Her chest was heaving, and her hands were

clamped to the arm rests in a death grip.  I paused for a moment

to apprehend what I was seeing.  And then, overcome by the

moment, I reflexively did the unthinkable--laid my hand on top

of hers.  She snapped her head towards me and our eyes met in

the flickering pale light reflected from the screen.  She seemed

not angry but desperate, and appeared to be searching my face

for something.

     "Do you like this sort of thing?" she whispered.

     "More than anything," I replied.

     Then she glanced down at my lap, where my pants were shaped

like a tent.  Overcome with embarrassment, I started to pull my

hand away, but she abruptly seized it with both of hers, and

anchored it in her lap.  So tight was her grip I feared she

would squeeze the blood out of it.  Could it be that Kate and I

were...soulmates?

     There were two other interrogation scenes.  In one of them

a woman was forced to strip, then tied face down to a wooden

bench and whipped with a riding crop.  The camera angle was from

the front, showing the woman's screaming face, her welted back,

and the cusp of her buttocks.  Kate grabbed my arm and dug her

nails into me in reaction to each blow.

     When the movie was over, the two of us were trembling.  Her

face was glowing with perspiration.  We looked at each other

awkwardly.  Unable to stand the tension I half-joked: "I am

partial to spy movies myself." 

     She accepted that remark with deadly seriousness.

     "Where is your apartment?" she asked softly.

     "About halfway between here and your place--a five minute

walk.  Why?"

     "Would you take me there?" she asked.  "I think we have a

lot to talk about."

     So that's where we went.  The brief walk along University

Avenue, now bustling with Saturday night fever, was a blur of

lights and noise.  We turned right and soon were enveloped in

the darkness and serenity of the old neighborhood where my

apartment was located.  To be precise, I lived not in an

apartment but in a rented room in the basement of an old

Southern colonial house.  It was owned by an elderly couple who,

as luck would have it, were out of town visiting relatives that

weekend.

     I took Kate around back, showed her in through my private

entrance, and flipped on the light.  She looked around, sizing

up the place.  With it's dark wood panelling, thick carpeting,

low ceiling, and fireplace, most girls liked the atmosphere.  It

used to be a family room before being converted to a room for

rent.  Unfortunately, it also had the look of a bachelor pad,

with dirty socks, beer cans, and pizza cartons decorating every

horizontal surface.  "Let me just tidy up a bit," I said

sheepishly, scooping up all the flotsam and jetsam.  After

heaving it all in a closet, I made the bed and threw some

cushions against the wall so we'd have a place to sit.

     "It's a bit chilly down here.  Mind if I light the fire?"

     "I'd like that," she replied.  

     She sat down on the edge of my makeshift sofa, facing the

fireplace.  The dry kindling was ablaze in a minute.  As the

flames licked over the logs, I dimmed the lights and joined her.

     "What did you want to talk about?" I asked with

apprehension.

     "Be honest with me, Michael Katz," she said gravely.  "Are

you really kinky?  Does whipping and spanking turn you on?"

     "More than anything else," I blushed.  "How about you?"

     She swallowed hard and said: "It is the *only* thing that

turns me on.  Don't you dare tell a soul.  'Course, even if you

did, nobody would believe you.  And some would surely defend my

honor with vigor, if you get my meaning."  

     "Understood.  My lips are sealed."

     "Have you ever spanked a girl?" she asked.

     "I do it all the time."

     "So I've heard."  She fidgeted with the strap of her purse,

twisting it back and forth between the fingers of both hands. 

Then she sat tall, looked me in the eye and said: "I want you to

spank me, Michael Katz, on my bare bottom, with a hairbrush."

     It felt like a bomb detonated in my chest and my stomach

was sucked down an elevator shaft. "Yeah, I'll do that," I said

hoarsely, my throated fully desiccated.  Though reeling, I was

thinking clearly enough to be nonplussed by the way she kept

addressing me by my full name.  After all, she was asking me to

be...so intimate with her.

     "Nothing else!" she snapped.  "No sex!  I am a virgin and

plan to stay that way."

     "M-Maybe after a spanking you will want to have sex," I

offered meekly. "Some girls need a spanking to get in the 

mood--" 

     "The thought of sex repulses me."

     "Have you ever been spanked before?"

     "No," she answered with downcast eyes and started fidgeting

with her purse again.  "I wouldn't want my people to know I'm

like that."

     My people?  My people?  So that was it.  She was using me--

a stud from the other side of the tracks--the way the frat rats

went into town looking for colored prostitutes.  She was

treating me like Midnight Cowboy.  I was humiliated and fuming. 

     "OK, it's a deal," I said--with my fingers crossed behind

my back.

     She reached into her purse and pulled out a wooden

hairbrush about eight inches long including the handle, and two

inches wide.  She handed it to me, kicked off her shoes, and

said: "Sit back. I want to be across your lap."

     So I settled back in the middle of the sofa, leaning

against the cushions, while she propped herself up on her hands

and knees.  Then she crawled over me, and lowered herself until

I felt the full weight--and body heat--of her hips upon my

thighs.  The underside of my throbbing prick was pressed tight

against her left flank, and it shivered in response to her

slightest movement.

     I raised her slip and dress along the length of her long,

slender legs, over the crest of her bottom to her waist.   Then

in one smooth motion I slipped my fingers into the waistband of

her pantyhose, and peeled them inside-out down to her knees.   

     God, she was exquisite.  Her undercheeks were perfect

hemispheres, the crests of which glowed yellow-orange in the

firelight.  The light coming from a low angle cast shadows,

revealing the subtleties of her form, such as the dimples of her

ass.  But in this light, the deep valley between her cheeks--the

place where I was forbidden from entering--was veiled in

darkness.  I could only imagine what lay there.    

     Her face was turned towards the fire.  Her arms were held

firmly against her sides, and her fists were clenched tight

under her shoulders--apparently in apprehension of her voyage

into the unknown.  

     "Are you ready?" I asked.

     "Yes," she replied through gritted teeth.

     "You can scream if you like," I assured her.  "Nobody will

hear."

     She did not reply.

     I raised the brush, and brought it down not too sharply on

the lower part of her right cheek.  The firm flesh recoiled, her

buttocks tightened, and her legs straightened, which increased

the weight of her hips upon my groin.  Her eyes widened and she

gasped with surprise.  With the heel of my hand resting on the

join between her thigh and cheek, I waited until her muscles

softened and she settled back down again.  There was no rush. 

This was a moment for both of us to savor--the first spank of

her life.

     When she had returned to position, I delivered a

complementary blow to her left cheek.  She was more prepared for

this one, and did not show much reaction.  I slowly increased

the intensity of the blows, testing her pain threshold.  It was

difficult to see the marks by firelight.  All that could be

discerned was a darkening of hue.  After about a dozen smacks,

her hips began to roll from side to side--pounding the shaft of

my swollen cock--and she began to moan and sob.  A half dozen

more was all she could take. "No, wait!" she cried out, and

threw her hand back to protect herself.

     "OK," I said reassuringly, "take a rest."

     She returned her arm to her side, and lay there, gasping

and trembling.  I gazed upon her quivering ass for several

minutes, summoning my nerve.  Then, with a prayer on my lips, I

gently ran my hand over her right cheek.

     "Don't do that," she snapped, as she clenched her muscles.

     "I'm checking to see if you're OK," I replied with

authority. 

     She did not object further.  I continued caressing her

warmed bottom for a decent interval, then slid my hand between

her thighs.  She clamped her legs together and shouted, "Hey!" 

     This was the moment of truth.  Scared to death, but driven

relentlessly by that most primal force, I gathered my courage

and said with a command voice: "Let go of my hand."  

     No response.  

     I had to take the chance:  "Kate! Let go or I'll beat the

shit of you!" 

     I braced myself for an explosion of outrage, but none was

forthcoming.  Her thighs relaxed--and parted, just enough.

     I exhaled, and ran my hand gently along her inner thigh

until I met with the soft resistance of her crotch.  She

whimpered when I made contact.  Her pussylips were plumped and

soaking wet.  The aroma of woman and bath oil rose from there

and filled my nostrils.  

     With my thumb I touched her anus, making it quiver.  At the

same time I slid my middle finger between the folds of her lips

until it came to rest alongside the shaft of her swollen clit. 

"Noooo," she moaned.  "Noooo."

     I started to stroke it, gently, and rhythmically.  She

sighed, and her breathing became deep and heavy.  After a few

moments her hips began to thrust in synchrony with my strokes.   

     "Don't move and don't talk," I ordered her, as I shimmied

sideways towards her feet and got off the end of the bed.  I

stood up, stripped off my pants and shorts and in one quick

motion stripped off her pantyhose.  She was saucer-eyed and

seemingly in a state of shock.  Before she had a chance to

reconsider, I was on top of her, with my prick wedged along the

length of her asscrack like a hot dog in a bun.  "Don't! Please

don't!" she moaned.

     "Relax," I whispered in her ear, the smell of her

expensive, ambrosial perfume driving me delirious.

     "Don't do this to me," she sobbed.

     I reached underneath her with both hands, found her swollen

clit, and stroked it between my fingers.  Her breathing grew

heavy between the sobs and her pelvic thrusts resumed, as if

under autonomic control.  When they became violent and desperate

I whispered in her ear: "Say yes, Kate, or I'll stop."

     "Damn you, Michael Katz!" she wailed.  "Yes!"

     I gently spread her pussylips and inserted the head of my

cock.  There was an instant of resistance and then none.  She

yelped and drove her ass into my groin, tossing me up a few

inches and engulfing my cock to the hilt.  Her pussy was tight

as a fist.  One more stroke of her clit was all it took.  She

let out a long, eerie, guttural moan, and her insides convulsed

with an orgasm that threatened to expel me.  Instinctively I

bore down in reaction, and met the end of her tunnel.  Her waves

of contraction rolled on and on.  Thank God I did not have to

wait any longer; before she was finished, so was I.

     We lay in a heap for a minute, panting, regaining our

senses. "That wasn't so awful was it?" I breathed in her ear.

     "I hate you," she wept.  "You raped me."

     I got off her and sat on the edge of the bed, still shaky,

and unable to respond to that remark.  She struggled to her

knees, then pushed down her dress to cover herself.  "Where's

the bathroom?" she sniffed as she reached for her pantyhose.  

     I pointed the way.  She disappeared into it and locked the

door.  I leaned back and gazed into the flames, hypnotized by

them, and incapable of having any higher level thought.  She

must have been in the bathroom a long time, because the fire had

turned to embers before she emerged.  When she appeared, she was

put back together again, looking as though nothing had happened.

     "Ready to go?" I asked weakly.

     She sat down on the bed beside me with her hands folded in

her lap.  And then she said: "When can I see you again?" 

     "What?" I exclaimed.

     "When can I see you again?" she repeated.

     "Never, at least not on this campus.  I'm too young to

die."

     She nodded her head.  "I suppose you're right."

     I took her home and we never saw each other again socially.

                              *****

     After graduation, Kate had a lucrative career modelling for

the haute couture.  Her personal life didn't work out so well--I

heard she was twice married, twice divorced, and never had kids. 

She still makes a living modelling however, except now you find

her picture in the mail order catalogs instead of the pages of

Vogue.

     I became a doctor--a good choice--and married a vanilla

woman--a bad choice.  She's long gone.  Now I'm sitting here

sniffing this letter from Kate.  It's the same perfume she wore

that night.  She wants to know if I'm interested in getting

together with her.  Yeah, I think I am, especially since the

letter starts with "Dear Mike,..."  

     Gosh, she never called me *that* before.


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