Part 3: Just Desserts

Mrs. Dalrymple stalked into Corky's room. "Margaret Dalrymple," she demanded, "just what do you think you are doing to that poor young man!"

"Nothing, mother," Maggie said sheepishly.

"Nothing? Nothing? You call being naked on top of Mr. Brandywine with his prick inside your cunt nothing?"

"Nude, mother," Maggie corrected her.

Mrs. Dalrymple sniffed scornfully. "Naked, as I said, on top of Mr. Brandywine, with his prick in your cunt, and your clothes strewn about his room."

"They're neatly folded," Maggie protested.

"Well, folded, at any rate," Mrs. Dalrymple conceded.

Maggie started to climb off of Corky, and his softening member slipped out of her tender folds. Mrs. Dalrymple slapped her daughters broad white bottom with a loud CRACK. "Stay right there, young lady! I'm not through with you yet, rest assured. Under what circumstances did I tell you you could fuck Mr. Brandywine today?" she demanded.

"None at all?"

"Correct! Since your memory seems to be in such excellent working order, perhaps you could reiterate for me what my precise instructions were?"

Corky, still lying beneath his model, was apparently being ignored for the time being by both parties. Though this seemed preferable to the imaginable alternatives, it can not be said that he was comfortable with the situation at hand.

" said I could play with Mr. Brandywine, and show him my bubbies—"

"Bosom," corrected her mother.

"My bosoms, but I—"

"Bosom," corrected her mother once again."

"My bosom, but I was'n't to let him spend."


"And...I was'n't to fuck him under any circumstances."


And...and I suppose we got rather carried away."

"I suppose you did! And now you're going to pay for it." And she began to land sharp open-handed blows on her daughter's exposed bum-cheeks. Maggie yelped at each smack, and wriggled her hips in a manner that Corky found distressingly pleasurable. As mortified as he was by his current position, another cock-stand could only serve to make the situation worse.

"Oh, oh, oh! Mother!" Maggie cried, as she bounced and shook, fruitlessly trying to avoid the stinging blows. "Could...could Mr. Brandywine punish me instead."

"Oh, he'll get his chance," Mrs. Dalrymple replied, punctuating each word with another smack to her daughter's wriggling bottom. "You disobeyed me and you're paying for it now. You were disrespectful to our new boarder, and no doubt he'll want to give you a piece of his mind for that later."

"Oh, oh, Momma, please I— Oh!" cried Maggie incoherently, one arm wrapped about Corky's torso, the other buried between her raised thighs, her flushed face pressed against his chest, her bottom elevated to receive its proper punishment. "Oh, hold me, Mr. Brandywine!"

Corky gingerly put his arm about the girl and gently stroked her hair as she sobbed and groaned against him. And still the sharp and stinging blows came. Eventually, he was on the very verge of speaking up to protest Maggie's harsh treatment when the spanking ceased, and Mrs. Dalrymple took a step back, rubbing one stinging palm with the other, her countenance flushed and her eyes sparkling.

Maggie sobbed into Corky's chest a moment more before looking up at her mother, who said, in a somewhat gentler tone, "Now clean Mr. Brandywine off, Maggie, and we'll be on our way."

Sniffling a little, Maggie reached for the discarded washcloth. "Not that way," her mother said quietly. Maggie turned herself perpendicular to Corky's recumbent form. As he realized what was about to transpire, Corky finally found his voice.

"Mrs. Dalrymple, this really isn't nec—"

"Now, William, Maggie has behaved quite shamefully toward you, and you really must allow her to begin to make amends. It will only take a few moments."

Meanwhile, Maggie was pulling Corky's legs apart and lifting his cods, to get at their underside. She glanced up at her mother and the bent down and began lapping at the skin of Corky's scrotum, damp with rivulets of their combined fluids. Her hot little tongue worked at the mixture with apparent eagerness, sending exquisite little tingles up his spine.

"Oh my goodness!" he cried, as she moved upward, running her delicate little mouth along the sticky base of his rapidly-thickening member, as her mother looked on approvingly. She steadied the swollen head with her fingertips to prevent its wild twitching as she ran her pointed little tongue around the rim. She took the very tip into her mouth and sucked, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes stealing glances at Corky's flushed and startled face as she plied her skills.

Then she buried her face in his crotch once more, running her tongue along the base, as her hand tugged rhythmically at Corky's straining tool. His hips bobbed uncontrollably at the sensation of her hand and tongue, and her head moved to follow his motions.

He groaned and shut his eyes as her rubbing accelerated, and she murmured in return, her brows knitting as his excitement communicated itself to her.

Suddenly with a yelp she was off him. Corky opened his eyes and found that Mrs. Dalrymple had seized her daughter by the ear and hauled her off of the bed. Suddenly painfully aware of his exceptionally compromising position, he failed to note the exquisite contrast of the two females, one fully clad, eyes flashing, the very image of feminine authority; the other nude, back arched and bosom outthrust from her mother's firm grip on her ear, thighs glistening with fluid, beseeching eyes turned to her mother's stern but delicate features.

"I think your task is complete, dear," said Mrs. Dalrymple. "And you do'n't want to waste Mr. Brandywine's time, do you? Now gather your clothes, and be off to your room. I'm not quite finished with you yet."

Maggie snatched up her garments and scurried out of the room, her reddened bottom showing brightly for an instant as she passed through the doorway.

There was a moment's quiet. Corky snatched up a pillow and held it over his exposed genitals, still shining with Maggie's saliva. He attempted to arrange himself so that his entire lower half would be hidden behind the pillow, meeting with little success.

Mrs. Dalrymple sat down on the bed, and said, with melting eyes, "I am terribly sorry, William. That certainly wasn't supposed to happen nearly so soon."

"So, so, so soon?"

"Certainly," Mrs. Dalrymple assured him. "I'd imagined when you took Maggie for the first time, it could be a special moment for all of us—a private little ceremony, the four of us holding hands as you eased your dear prick into her cunny." She sighed wistfully, "Well, we don't always get what we want, do we? It's the way of the world. And a woman's task is to make the best of the situation she finds herself in." She brightened considerably. "You'll simply have to take her bottom-hole instead. That should make for a memorable evening, don't you think?"

"Her, her, her bah..."

"I'm terribly sorry, William. You must be positively exhausted. I must let you rest up before dinner. Afterwards, Beatrice can play the piano for us, and you can take a hairbrush to Maggie's wicked little posterior. What do you say?"

"Mrs. Dalrymple, I really can't—" Corky began nervously.

"You do disapprove of Maggie's imposition on your good nature, do'n't you?"

"Well, well, well, yes!" Corky answered.

"And you would'n't want her to do it again, I'm sure?" she asked, with a hint of a smile.

"Well, no."

"Then you must demonstrate that you are not a man to be trifled with, you understand?"

Corky nodded hesitantly.

"You must show her that you are firm! Resolute! Do you want Maggie to grow up thinking men are playthings that can be toyed with and manipulated?"

"Certainly not!" Corky said with more vigor.

"Then you must show her the natural authority of the male! You must teach her the respect, nay, the reverence that is a gentleman's due! And you must do it tonight"

"I'll do it!" Corky cried, inflamed by his landlady's inspiring words.

"Excellent, William, excellent. After dinner, then." And she kissed him warmly on the lips, and strode out of the room.

Dinner was a rather quiet affair. Maggie was uncharacteristically subdued, shifting uncomfortably in her seat a great deal, but keeping her moist eyes primarily on the plate before her. Mrs. Dalrymple politely quizzed Corky on his University experiences, interrupting herself occasionally to urge Beatrice to chew with her mouth closed or Maggie to keep her elbows off the table.

After the cheese tray had been put away, they retired to the parlor. Beatrice sat down at the pianoforte bench. "Perhaps something German tonight, Beatrice," suggested Mrs. Dalrymple. "Something with Sturm und Drang," carefully enunciating the foreign words.

Beatrice began to play. Maggie and Corky stood about nervously, waiting for Mrs. Dalrymple to direct them.

"Now, lie across the divan, dear," said Mrs. Dalrymple to Maggie. "Let me help you with your skirts."

In a moment, Maggie was kneeling on the floor, her shoulders supported by the divan, her skirts bunched around her waist, her head bowed. Her mother sat beside her, parting her drawers to expose her plump cheeks, still blotched pink from the afternoon's hand-spanking.

The sight of the girls rosy posterior galvanized Corky into sppech. "Mrs. Dalrymple," he croaked, "I've changed my mind."


"I'm not going to spank Margaret. It's, it's, it's not right, and it's not decent."

"But William—" Mrs. Dalrymple began, when Maggie interrupted her.

Voice a little muffled by her inverted position, she said, "But I want you to spank me, Mr. Brandywine. Wasn't I awfully cruel teasing you like that this afternoon?" She wiggled her hips indecently at him. "Don't you want to give my naughty little bottom what it deserves?"

"Oh no," said Corky, "you're trying to play with my mind again. Well, it wo'n't work this time, Miss Dalrymple! I will have nothing to do with this lascivious so-called punishment."

"You're right to be angry, William," said Mrs. Dalrymple. "The little vixen thinks that if she coaxes you in being the one wielding the hairbrush, you'll let her off easily with a few light taps and she'll be done with it."

"She does?"

"She's underestimated you, hasn't she, William? After this afternoon, she thinks she has you wrapped around her finger. She doesn't realize that you are made of sterner stuff"

"I am?"

"You certainly are. Remember how she tricked you into helping her undress? Remember how she lewdly displayed her body to your eyes, while you were too courteous to prevent her? Remember her mocking little grin when she made you spend in your trousers?"

Corky found that at some point in Mrs. Dalrymple's speech she had pressed the handle of a wooden hairbrush into his clenched fist. Beatrice's playing was reaching a crescendo, performed creditably, though with perhaps more enthusiasm than precision.

"Is that how you want Maggie and Beatrice thinking of you? A figure of mirth and derision?"

"No!" Corky fairly cried, fired with the older woman's inspiring words.

"Then teach that young lady some manners!"

Corky stepped forward nervously, and put his hand on the young woman's waist, over her stays. A curious giddy confidence seemed to flow into him through that contact, and he brought down the back of the hairbrush on Maggie's bottom, with a satisfying CRACK. The soft flesh of her posterior rippled from the blow, and his subject yelped gratifyingly, her muscles jumping.

"Do'n't hold back," Mrs. Dalrymple urged him, "show her what it means to incur the wrath of a Brandywine."

He swung again, harder this time. Maggie fairly shrieked, and her hands flew back to cover her reddened bottom.

Her mother strode around to the far side of the divan, and seized Maggie's wrists. "Ah, you feel it now, do you, you wicked girl?" she asked. "Maybe you'll think twice next time before disobeying your mother."

Corky swung and swung again, the hairbrush making a series of meaty cracks and pops as it bounced off of Maggie's firm and resilient bottom-flesh. Maggie twisted and sobbed as the blows landed, her hips bouncing vigorously, striving in vain to escape.

At long last, Corky came to a stop, panting for breath, his arm aching, his forehead running with perspiration. Mrs. Dalrymple released Maggie's wrists, which immediately sprang to gingerly stroke her reddened hindquarters.

"Thank Mr. Brandywine, Maggie," Mrs. Dalrymple urged.

Maggie stood, her skirts still pinned about her waist, her face darkly flushed, her eyes shining with tears, and threw her arms around Corky, burying her face in his chest. "Oh, thank you, William, for correcting me," she cried out. "Your hand was so awfully heavy, but I felt such a delicious tingling at the end that it quite made it all worthwhile."

"That was magnificent, William," breathed Mrs. Dalrymple. "You were an absolute vision of masculine authority. It was electrifying!"

"well, I'm glad I could help—" Corky began modestly.

"You must do me next!" she cried heatedly. "I have abused and misled you, and you must discipline me as well!" She began to lift up her skirts.

"Mrs. Dalrymple!" Corky cried in alarm, "that's really not— I simply can't— Mrs. Dalrymple please put your skirts back down!"

She did so, but only to seize the lapels of his jacket. She stepped very close, and looked fiercely into Corky's eyes. "Mr. Brandywine," she said in a low tone, "I am a woman in urgent need of gratification. Someone is about to go over someone's knee. The choice is yours."

"Mrs. Dalrymple," Corky pleaded, "I, I, I really couldn't..."

His voice trailed off.

Rather more gently, Mrs. Dalrymple spoke again: "As I recall, this morning you were quite eager to see my punished. Have you so utterly forgiven me since then?"

Corky was silent.

"Well, this is your opportunity, your chance to show me the error of my ways. Mr. Brandywine, I throw myself upon your mercy on the sole condition that you show none!"

"Very well," Corky said, "I'll do it."

Corky seated himself on the divan, and the widow laid herself across his lap rather heavily. He clenched and unclenched his hands several times, girding himself for the daunting task at hand.

"Now lift my skirts, William," Mrs. Dalrymple said.

With trembling hands, Corky did so, discovering that, as on the previous night, his landlady had forgone drawers. From knee to waist was a magnificent landscape of pale womanly flesh. As the crinkly starched material of her gown rose, first her plump tapered thighs were revealed, then the awesome swells of her rotund bottom. Without thinking, Corky ran one hand over the pale curves he had thus revealed, reveling for a moment in their heat and exquisite softness.

But when she arched her hips to meet his gentle caress, Corky came to his senses and jerked his hand away. He lifted the hairbrush, and, after a pause to draw breath, raised his hand and smacked her bottom with the hairbrush. She tensed for a moment, and the spot he had struck immediately began to color. He struck her other cheek, and she made a small noise between closed lips. With his next blow she gasped, "You have a strong arm, William."

Again and again he flailed at her bottom, slowly increasing his speed and force, turning the pale skin to an even crimson, each spank sending a tumult of ripples across the smooth flesh of her posterior. Initially almost impassive, Mrs. Dalrymple was soon writhing and arching on Corky's lap, her legs opening and closing spasmodically, vouchsafing frequent glimpses of the glistening voluptuous labia and exuberant growth of hair between.

The crack of wood hitting soft flesh and Mrs. Dalrymple's ardent cries filled the parlor, along with a sharp intoxicating aroma Corky vaguely remembered from the night before. Mrs. Dalrymple's cries became longer and deeper, until she suddenly shouted "Stop!"

Corky dropped the hairbrush as if stung.

With surprising nimbleness, Mrs. Dalrymple leapt from Corky's lap, and turned to face him. She was breathing rapidly. Tendrils of her hair escaped their confinement to hang in wild disorder about her darkly-flushed face. Corky suddenly realized that the music had stopped some time ago. He looked to see that Beatrice was leaned back on the piano bench, her hands buried within the folds of her skirt, her delicate mouth slack and her dark eyebrows knit with concentration. Maggie, he saw, was bent over the back of an armchair, apparently reluctant to seat herself. Like her sister, her hands were busy beneath her skirts as she watched the drama unfold on the divan.

"Now," said the widow, her eyes glowing, "I'm ready."

As he rose from the divan, she leaned over it, and adjusted her skirts so that they were once again gathered at her waist. The engorged lips of her cunt spread as she parted her shapely legs, presenting a bewitching target. "Hard and fast," she said, "take me hard and fast."

Without his volition, Corky's hands went to his trousers, fumbling to open them and release his rigid prick. A long, agonizing moment passed as trembling fingers wrestled with tiny obstinate buttons. At last, the final button popped off and flew across the room. Trousers about his knees, he hobbled gracelessly to his impatient landlady, the purple head of his pego bobbing with each step, a drop of viscous fluid dripping from its swollen tip.

When he had positioned himself between the widow's flushed thighs, her hand reached beneath her to grasp his member and position it where it would do the most good. With a jerk, he was in her, groaning at the heat and moisture of her excited receptacle. He gripped her waist, crumpled layers of skirts compressing beneath his hands, and pulled her tightly to him, so that her tender bottom pressed against the base of his belly.

He heard a whimper over his shoulder and turned to find that Beatrice had abandoned her piano bench for a better vantage by his side, where she continued to pleasure herself beneath her skirts and watched with rapt concentration as his member penetrated her mother's orifice. Mrs. Dalrymple was squirming her bottom impatiently, and he turned his whole attention to the business of giving her the fucking she had so emphatically demanded.

"Harder, William, fuck me harder," the widow demanded, and he increased the force of his motions. She shrieked as his hips slapped loudly against her reddened bottom, bracing herself against the divan to meet each thrust. Her cries rose into sustained wail as a red mist swam before his eyes, and her cunt clenched spasmodically against his pounding prick; then she slumped to the divan. But he maintained his hold on her waist, and continued to pound her limp body. Soon she was crying out again and pushing back to meet his frantic thrusts.

Corky felt a cool little hand sliding over the cheeks of his bottom. He knew it was probably Maggie, but he preferred to fancy that it was Beatrice stroking his posterior as he vigorously fucked her mother. Unexpectedly, one finger of the hand reached between the clenching cheeks of his bum and pressed up against the little aperture of his bottom-hole, a sensation that caused pleasure to rocket up his spine like a new years firework. He bellowed, spent inside Mrs. Dalrymple's clutching cunt with a series of final violent jerks, and slumped over her, quite unconscious.

"Well girls," she said brightly, "I'd say Mr. Brandywine is shaping up rather nicely, eh?"

END Chapter 3
to Chapter 2: Art for Art's Sake
to the Main Page
to Chapter 4: Just So

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