Miss Gilbert unwound the elastic from Bobby’s cock, put the roll down, and picked up the ruler. “You’ve been very good today,” she said. “Should we reduce the punishment to twenty-five?”
As much as he might like to decrease his suffering, he wanted to continue to test his endurance. “No, ma’am,” he said. “I need to be thoroughly punished.”
Swat number twenty-one was a stinger, just hard enough to burn his now-bare ass. “Thank you, Miss Gilbert. That was number twenty-one.”
By number twenty-eight, Bobby’s ass was as red as the backs of his thighs, but he stayed bent over the desk and took it.
Miss Gilbert knew what was expected now. For swat number twenty-nine she raised her arm as high as it would go and brought the wooden ruler down as hard as she could.
It hurt terribly, but Bobby didn’t move. “Twenty-nine and thank you, Miss Gilbert.”
She heard Bobby’s deep breathing and knew he was trying not to cry out. She raised her arm one last time and administered the final swat as hard as she could.
“Thirty and thank you, Miss Gilbert.” Bobby stood up, his hands at his sides, his erection enormous.
“Are you sure you’ve learned your lesson?”
“Oh yes, Miss Gilbert, and thank you. I’m ready for the rest of my punishment now.”
Miss Gilbert went into the bathroom and returned with a large bath towel which she spread over the desk. She tapped the ruler across Bobby’s inflamed buttocks and he moved so the fronts of his thighs pressed against the desk. “I’m going to watch you now. That’s the rest of your punishment, you know. Show me what a bad boy you are,” she said, her voice smooth and soft as cream. “Show me how you rub your dickie when no one’s looking. Show me.”
Bobby watched Miss Gilbert round the desk and sit down in her chair. He saw her ice-blue eyes riveted on his cock, still striped by the small folds that had been in the elastic. He hesitated. This was still the worst and best part.
“Bobby,” Miss Gilbert said, “I want you to play with yourself so I can see. I want to watch everything. Now, wrap your hand around your dickie and rub.” When he still hesitated, she picked up the ruler and snapped, “Now!”
His hands shaking, Bobby took his cock in his hands and began to rub.
“Wait,” Miss Gilbert said. “I have an idea.” She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a tube of lubricating gel. “Hold out your hands.”
Slippery stuff. This was new, Bobby thought, a deviation from the ritual. But it was wonderful. She had guessed what he wanted without his having to tell her anything. That was what made her so special. He held his hands out, palm up, in front of him, and Miss Gilbert squeezed a huge glob of slippery goo into one hand. “Now rub,” she said.
It feels so cold, he thought as his hands surrounded his hot cock. The moment he touched himself, he was lost. He closed his eyes and slid his fingers up and down his cock.
“Open your eyes you naughty boy,” Miss Gilbert snapped. “I want you to see me watching your hands play with your cock.” When he didn’t obey immediately, she snapped again, “Now! Do it!”
He opened his eyes and looked into her face. Her eyes were riveted on his hands stroking his cock. It was sensational. It only took a moment until spurts of come erupted, falling on the white surface of the towel. His knees almost buckled, but he held on, enjoying the afterglow of one of the best orgasms of his life.
Miss Gilbert sat, unmoving, until Bobby swept up the towel and disappeared into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting behind the desk reading when Bobby emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, light blue shirt, and paisley tie. He wore black socks and the Gucci loafers.
Without another word, he checked the time on his gold watch, put a handful of bills on the green blotter, and left the room.
The slam of metal against metal, the impact of her chest against her car’s shoulder belt, and Carla’s “Oh shit,” came almost simultaneously. She shifted the car into park and stared out through the windshield. “Where the hell did he come from? There wasn’t anything there a second ago,” she said aloud, slumping against the seat. The front bumper of her six-year-old Ford had put a significant dent in the passenger-side rear quarter panel of a classy, gleaming dark blue Cadillac. “Oh God,” she moaned. “Oh God, why me?”
Several pedestrians and a bicyclist had stopped to gawk at the tableau. Carla’s car was blocking the sidewalk, halfway out of a Kinney underground garage between First and Second Avenues on East 53rd Street, an upscale Manhattan neighborhood. The Cadillac, which had been heading west across 53rd, sat in the road, the front of Carla’s car resting against its side.
With a deep sigh, Carla climbed out of her car and watched the driver of the Cadillac emerge. As the woman stood up, Carla stared. The driver was a tall, slender statuesque woman with dark blond hair twisted into a perfect French knot. As the classically beautiful woman stared at her through dark, tortoiseshell sunglasses, Carla self-consciously ran her palms down the thighs of her comfortable, well-washed jeans.
The more Carla studied the woman, the more stunning she looked. The woman removed her designer sunglasses and shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun. She had perfectly arched brows over deep blue eyes, a long slender nose, and coral lips. Carla thought that she looked like Grace Kelly at her best.
Carla ran her fingers through her shoulder-length, brown hair, and tucked an errant strand behind one ear. “I’m terribly sorry,” she called as the woman closed the Cadillac’s door. “I can’t imagine how this happened.” Now that’s an inane statement, she thought.
Carla had been so happy when her doctor’s visit had confirmed that all her worries had been needless. The lump in her breast had turned out to be nothing but a fluid-filled cyst. She had been so relieved after a week of suspense that she had almost run to the garage, bailed her car out, and started for home. Why was she going home? She wasn’t really sure. The kids were still at school and her mom and dad were both out for the day. And anyway, she hadn’t told her parents or her three boys about the lump. No need to worry anyone, she had reasoned. Unfortunately, that meant that she now had no one with whom to celebrate.
As Carla watched, the blonde walked around the joined vehicles, calmly assessed the situation, and shook her head. God, Carla thought, I had to hit someone like her. The woman wore a classic dark red Donna Karan suit, a matching red-and-white patterned blouse, and perfectly coordinated Robert Clergerie pumps. She adjusted a gold, red, and white Hermes scarf over her shoulder with long, slender, perfectly manicured fingers. “Oh dear,” the woman said, her voice soft and well modulated. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Carla said.
“Of course,” the woman said. “I was going a bit too fast and I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The woman hesitated, staring. “Wait. It couldn’t be.” She continued to stare. “Carla?”
“Excuse me?”
“Carla. You’re Carla MacKensie.”
“Carla Barrett,” she answered. “But I was Carla MacKensie before I married. Do we know each other?”
“It’s Veronica. Ronnie Browning, now Talmidge.”
“Ronnie? It can’t be.” Carla and Ronnie had been roommates at Michigan State and had graduated together fifteen years before. During their three years together they had shared everything: field hockey, the debate team, the drama club and even, unintentionally, a few boyfriends.
Ronnie’s laugh was a full rich sound. “I’d know you anywhere. You haven’t changed a bit.” She looked