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Back in the 'forties and 'fifties, the idea of spanking a woman doesn't seem to have been thought of as particularly shocking, nor even all that sexy, but just funny. Anyway, that seems to have been the case if you look at some of the artwork from that period. I saw an old magazine recently, published in the US in nineteen forty-nine. "Comedy" says the title, and there it is, a picture of some fat, bald-headed old man with a pretty girl across his knee in a restaurant. Her dress is up, her frilly underwear on show, encasing a fleshy bottom. Her legs are kicking, her big, proud boobs hanging half out of her bodice, her face set in an expression of angry consternation.
Consternation! It's hardly surprising! She's being spanked, in public! Her knickers are on show, her boobs are half out, and everyone's gloating over her misfortune, sniggering behind their napkins, or chuckling in approval of the man's action in punishing her. Even the other women seem to approve, smiling coyly into their glasses or watching with smug satisfaction that it's not them getting their bottoms walloped. Nobody cares. It's just funny. Not for her it isn't!
The scenario is supposed to be that he's taking her to dinner and she's tried to order champagne, so he's spanking her to teach her not to try and take advantage of him. How unfair can you get! There she is, a pretty young thing, maybe twenty, maybe still a teenager. She has been asked out by this dirty old man, who is probably her boss, or in some sort of position of authority over her. It's obvious he's going to try and get her out of her knickers. Maybe she'll have to let him, certainly she wouldn't dare refuse the date.
So the situation is already pretty abusive, certainly enough to get any modern man who tried it sacked on the spot, even locked up. Not in 'forty-nine, no. In 'forty-nine she wouldn't even have been left with the dignity of a graceful surrender. In the circumstances, it's not surprising that she wants to get thoroughly drunk, so that when the old goat is puffing and blowing away on top of her it's at least bearable. It's also not surprising that she want's something expensive and stylish to drink, even if only to salvage some scrap of pride from the situation. Instead, she gets a public spanking. Can you imagine the awful, mind-numbing humiliation of it? The misery as her dress is lifted? The impotent fury as her bottom is exposed? The unbearable shame as her buttocks are slapped by the grinning old pervert? I can, and I just wish it had been me.
Nowadays it just wouldn't happen. Most men think it's wrong to spank a woman, even if she wants it. Even those who like it tend to be sneaky, or embarrassed, or at best playful. Sure, there are a few with the guts to spank a girl in a park, or at a party perhaps. Not just to do it, not just to dish out a firm, panty-seat smacking in front of several complete strangers, but also to know that what they're doing is not merely acceptable, but right.
For me, he would have to be some brash businessman, perhaps a graduate of the university who was thinking of funding research in my department. Better still, a wealthy American, a big man, totally self-confident, used to getting his own way without question, a control freak too, and an absolute pig with women. It would be my DNA mapping he'd be offering to fund, so I'd be the one sent to get him from the airport.
His name would be something out of a down-market romance novel, say John Rider, but he'd insist on me calling him Mr Rider, while to him I'd be just Penny. He'd be really crude, from the start, commenting on my legs, even my bum. It wouldn't even be intentional. In fact he'd think I found it flattering, which would make it worse. With several years of crucial funding relying on his good opinion I wouldn't dare answer him back, which he'd take for assent. As I got into the car he'd take a pinch of my bum, a big one, right under the cheek, hard enough to bruise.
All the way back to the university he'd keep it up, getting more and more intimate and more and more intrusive. By the time we got there I'd be furious, and red-faced with embarrassment. He'd have decided that bedding me was going to be part of the deal for the finance. Professor South wouldn't come to my aid either, far too unworldly to even notice my distress. I'd be more or less told that Rider was taking me to La Dijonais, alone.
Rider, sorry, Mr Rider, would insist I change, into a skirt. I'd be told it should be short, and tight, which I hate. I'd do it anyway, adding silk panties, stockings and suspenders underneath, because I'd be very sure my clothes were coming off later, even though the knowledge would have me close to tears.
In the restaurant things would go from bad to worse. He'd be really loud, laughing and making crass remarks about how stuffy the English were. He'd get away with it though, throwing money around and stuffing notes into the waiter's pockets, even down the waitress's cleavage. I'd be red-faced with embarrassment, absolutely cringing, but it would all be too much for my sense of humiliation, and my panties would be soaking wet.
He'd drink American whiskey, and make me do the same. I'd be drunk in no time, my head spinning, but it wouldn't seem to affect him at all. His comments would be getting worse though, and before long he'd have begun to touch me up, fondling my knee under the table, stroking my thigh, closer and closer to my pussy. People would be able to see, and they'd be whispering about us, and making little, disapproving comments.
When he finally touched my crotch I'd jump and spill my drink down my front. He'd laugh and make a big deal of using a napkin to mop up my cleavage, having a sneaky feel of my tits as he did it. Then he'd whisper in my ear, telling me that it was my lucky night, that he was going to take me back to his hotel room and "fuck the panties clean off my cute little ass".
I'd be so angry, and feel so helpless, almost in tears. I'd be thinking of how it was going to feel, with his big, clammy hands fumbling at my body; having to kiss him, having to suck his cock, having to perform to his order, in a dozen lewd positions as he made full use of my pussy. The thought would be unbearable, but I'd know it was going to happen. I'd want to be drunk, and I'd be well on the way, but I'd want to try and make him pay too, as much as possible for the meal, in a vain effort to salvage what was left of my battered pride.
So when the time came to order dessert I ask for a bottle of d'Yquem for myself, assuming that Mr Rider wouldn't even know what it was. Unfortunately he would, and he'd see the price. Instantly he'd go from lecherous old git to angry patriarch. I'd be told off, sharply, in a loud voice, called a brat and a gold-digger and a bitch. His face would be getting redder, his anger rising to fury, and suddenly I'd have been dragged off my chair and across his knee.
There would be nothing I could do. He'd be too strong, too fast. I'd scream out in shock as I realised what he was going to do. It would make no difference, and nor would struggling and begging as I writhed in an agony of appalling humiliation and consternation, held tight across his lap, with my bum stuck out towards then restaurant.
It would get worse, far worse. My skirt would come up, jerked high around my waist to expose my fancy white silk panties, quite obviously selected for his pleasure. Having those showing would be too much for me, far too much. I'd burst into tears, snivelling and blubbering out apologies, begging him to cover me up, promising to do anything, if he'd only let me off what was coming to me. He'd just call me a gold-digging little bitch again and tell me I needed spanking, and that I was going to get it.
I'd think he was going to do it, on my panty-seat, but he wouldn't. Instead, I'd feel his thumb in the waistband of my panties, and I'd know they were coming down. At that I'd be choking, my control gone completely, unable to breathe properly in my agonising shame. I'd fight too, thrashing and writhing and kicking on his lap. None of it would make the slightest difference.
My panties would come down, drawn slowly off my bottom, with his thumb tracing a slow line down my bum crease, exposing the fleshy cheeks, the plump crests, the chubby tuck, and at last my pussy. My panties would have been turned down around my thighs, and I'd known what I was showing, the tight, hairy lips of my sex peeping out from between my thighs, for everyone to see. I'd be howling, streaming tears, whimpering and pleading, trembling with humiliation. Even that would not be the climax. Mr Rider would cock his knee up, lifting my bum, spreading my cheeks, showing off the tiny brown star of my bumhole, and I'd fart.
There would be gasps of disgust, comments about my lack of control, disapproving sniffs, suggestions to Mr Rider that he get on with it and punish me. He would, delivering a hard, furious spanking to my poor bare bum, making me scream and writhe, bucking and kicking on his lap, bare bottomed, utterly undignified, a little spanked brat. It would be a real walloping, mercilessly hard, delivered with his full strength. How I'd cry, shaking my head in my pain, my face screwed up, tears scattering in all directions. Maybe I'd even lose control of my bladder, pissing myself into my pulled-down panties, over his leg, the floor, other guests.
Mr Rider would probably stop the spanking at that, disgusted by my behaviour, like every other right-thinking person in the restaurant. Not that he'd have finished with me. I'd be taken my the ear, dragged across the restaurant with my red bum on show and panties dripping piddle behind me. He'd take me into the toilet and push me into a cubicle.
I'd have my blouse torn open and my tits pulled out of my bra. I'd be made to suck his cock, down on my knees on the floor with him enthroned on the toilet, wanking into my mouth as he grew hard. I'd have my pissy panties stuffed into my mouth for a gag and my wrists tied behind my back with my blouse. I'd be made to bend over the lavatory, my bum stuck out, my head held into the bowl.
He'd fuck me, his cock jammed up my soaking pussy and pumped in and out as he told me what a little bitch I was, what a tease I was, what a slut I was. He'd know it was true too, because I'd be so wet, and he'd be so drunk, that he wouldn't be able to get the friction he needed to come up my pussy. So I'd be buggered.
My own pussy juice would be used to lubricate my bumhole. He'd use his thumb, really roughly, poking it up my bottom until I was slimy and moist and ready for entry. His cock would go up, stuffed into my rectum until I felt I was going to burst, or to have the most appalling accident. It would hurt too, going up, because he wouldn't be gentle about it, but once it was all in I'd be panting and gasping, in ecstasy yet still snivelling and drooling into the toilet bowl.
He'd bugger me hard, slamming his fat gut into my poor spanked bottom until I was close to fainting. He'd frig me off too, not for my pleasure, but so that he could feel my anal ring tighten on his penis as I came in helpless, uncontrolled ecstasy. As I came I'd be thinking of how I'd been spanked in front of strangers, panties down, and sodomised over a toilet. It would be a glorious orgasm, enough to leave my vision red and swimming, and as my bumhole tightened on his cock shaft he'd come himself, filling my rectum with sperm, grunting and swearing, calling me a bitch and whore, forcing my head ever deeper down the toilet, and at the last moment, when I was at the very highest peak of my orgasm, flushing it on my head.
Try getting that on the cover of a magazine!
Not that it would work. In reality he'd have been arrested about the time my panties came down, and I don't suppose it would really have happened in the 'forties either, but then too much reality is bad for you.
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