Jungle After Dark

I came home from work to an empty house, but found a sandwich in the fridge with a note toothpicked into it: "Out with the girls. Don't wait up." And then, like an afterthought, "Or maybe you better." She'd dotted her i's with hearts.

I shrugged and sat down to watch TV and eat. Good sandwich. TV was pretty lame, though. I kicked off my shoes and put my mind on hold.

I must've dozed off. Some idiotic infomercial yammered its drivel at me. I snatched up the remote and was halfheartedly hunting as her key hit the lock.

"Hi baby," she sang. "Miss me?" She was a little drunk.

"Oh, were you gone?"

"Beast," she replied, and came up behind the couch. She bent down and wrapped her arms around my neck and down onto my chest. "Whatcha watchin'?"

"Pretty much nothin'" I said. "Have a good time? With the girls?" I flipped through some more channels of crap.

"Mm-hmm," she said, and came around to perch on the arm of the couch. "We went to Ladies' Night at Captain's Cove." She was dressed for the office: matching gray wool jacket and pleated skirt, white silk blouse. She pulled off her sensible shoes and wiggled her toes in her white stockings. She must've made me that sandwich in the morning and gone out right after work.

She plopped down onto the cushion, so I had to slide over to make room. She put her arms around me and kissed me under the ear, then nuzzled my neck and slid three fingers under my shirtfront.

And then she was gone, and I heard her voice from the kitchen. "Did you like the sandwich?"

"Amazing sandwich, baby." I'd found a late movie. Tarzan & His Mate. Damn, but Maureen O'Sullivan was hot in her day. And this was the one, if memory serves, where Jane swims naked. Tarzan movies were pretty heavily censored after this one. Catholic League of Decency or something. Got their rosaries in a knot. Jane wore a much less skimpy leather outfit in the later ones, and never skinny-dipped again. Even Cheetah seemed less happy after that.

And then it occurred to me: Captain's Cove? Ladies' Night? What is it, Thursday? Yeah. They've got male strippers there on Thursdays. My wife had been—

"Daddy?" It was her voice from the bedroom.

"Mmm?" I answered. On the TV, English bounders in starched khaki safari gear were trying to talk Jane into coming back to London. As if! I muted the sound.

Hmm. She'd been out with the girls. Whoopin' and screamin' and stuffing bills down sequined speedos. That meant—

"Daddy. I've been a bad girl."

Then she was standing in front of the TV. She'd gotten rid of the gray jacket, untucked her blouse and unbuttoned it better than halfway down. A long string of pearls hung between the cups of a wispy black-lace bra.

"I've been very naughty."

The English bounders were showing Jane some fancy satin gown they'd brought her from London. I didn't give a shit.

"What have you done, Susan?" I rumbled as I killed the TV. When my wife called me Daddy, it merited my full attention. She'd backed up against the TV screen and I could hear the static crackle on the wool skirt. She chewed her lip and looked at the carpet.

"No, let me guess," I continued. "You've been out drinking mojitos and staring at naked men again, isn't that it?"

Her hands drifted nervously to her skirt and fidgeted with the hem, and I glimpsed, halfway up her thighs, the lacy tops of her stockings.

"ANSWER ME!" I bellowed, and she flinched, her eyes went wide and her breasts jumped and swayed inside the blouse. Then she flushed and her eyes ignited.

"Yes! Yes, I have! So what?"

I just eyed her with a cool, appraising stare. My look said that I wasn't so much angry as very, very disappointed. Her defiance ebbed away until she dropped her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she murmured, and pouted a little. "I've been naughty."

"Well, that's more like it," I said. "Come sit on Papa's lap and tell me all about it."

She brought her hand up to the necklace and traced the row of pearls down between her breasts with her fingertips. "You won't yell at me anymore?" she said, and her hand lingered on one of the three remaining buttons not undone. She shifted her weight to one hip. My God, she was a beautiful woman.

"Come here," I repeated, gently. She smiled and slowly walked toward me. It was more of a slow strut, really, all the more amazing because she was doing it in high heels—when had she put on high heels?—and she'd had a few pops at the bar. But then, she'd always known how to move. Graceful and sensuous, but not like some emaciated runway model. And that smile, like a sudden sunrise, like a little girl given a pony—and, I noted, like somebody who'd won the fight and gotten their way. Hmph.

Then she blew the illusion by teetering a little too far to the side on one of her heels and almost falling. I was tensed to roll up to catch her, but she recovered and we both laughed, but quickly had to get all serious again or we'd spoil the game. Tonight, apparently, she was in the mood to play Papa Spank.

Suits me...

She crossed to me and stood before me, feet on either side of mine. She looked down at me, eyes half closed, lips parted—Well now, she's freshened her makeup, maybe added a smidge extra—and I reached out and grabbed her shirtfront over her belly and pulled her down to straddle my lap, her knees on the sofa cushions, her throat within nibbling distance. I let go my grip on her blouse and unbuttoned the bottom button.

"Tell me about your night," I said. "Did you see lots of boys in skimpy shorts?"

That smile again. "Yes."

"And were they all very cute, with ripply muscles and six-pack abs and tight butts?"

She blushed again. "Yes."

"Were they all oiled up, and shaved like babies?" I asked as my fingertip circled her navel.

"Babies don't shave." She draped her forearms on my shoulders and stroked the hair at the back of my neck.

"Hush." I unbuttoned the next button up. "Did you pay them for dancing up close to you, with their skimpy shorts near your face?"

"Yes."

I traced the outlines of her hipbones with my fingertips. "You could see the outline of their junk, couldn't you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

I ran my fingers down and up her thighs, just above her knees. "Did you want to touch them?"

". . . Yes. But all I did was look."

I waited.

"But . . . but one of them, he . . . well, he pulled me up on stage . . . and, and all the women were screaming Go on, go on, and he . . . took my hands and put them on . . . on his stomach—"

"On his rock-hard abs?" I prompted.

"Yes!! Yes. And then he slid my hands w-way down his stomach and-and then around behind his back to his . . ."

"His rock-hard butt?"

"—and I grabbed it and squeezed. A little. And everybody screamed some more and I got flustered and sat down again."

"But you stuck a five in his speedo first?"

". . . . A twenty."

"A twenty," I echoed [we would have a discussion tomorrow], "down the waistband of his speedo—"

"It was more of a thong," she murmured. I watched her breasts sway as she took my tie off.

"—and his cock was semi-erect, and you thought it was for you. And all those other bitches wished they were you."

"Yes!"

"Did that make you hot?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Did it make you wet?"

She tossed her head, throwing her long hair back off her forehead, then lay her head back and brought her throat to my mouth. I took a little skin between my teeth. She sighed and said Yes.

"And you wanted to touch his prick," I breathed onto her neck. My hands were on her thighs, well up under the skirt. "Didn't you? You wanted to stroke it, feel it get harder in your hand."

"Oh, Daddy," she moaned. Her hands went again to her necklace, then slid down to clutch her breasts through the silk, pushing them up and together so the lush mounds spread the gaping fabric farther apart. I seized the collar of the blouse and slid it off over her shoulders and down her arms. The last button held.

"Didn't you?" I persisted.

"Oh, Daddy, yes!"

"You had filthy thoughts about some complete stranger's body, and all the things you'd like to do with it, and what you'd like it to do to you. Isn't that right?" I gripped her arms and shook her. A little. A crinkly brown areola peeked out of her bra.

"Oh, Daddy, yes! And I thought about it in the car afterwards; I couldn't stop thinking about it."

I pulled the blouse back up to cover her shoulders again. Her heavy-lidded eyes opened wide. "Just as I thought," I said sternly. "You're a slutty little whore."

She looked me full in the eyes for a moment, and her lips parted to speak, but all at once she looked down ashamedly and sagged back and down 'til her butt rested on my knees.

Barely audible: Yes, Daddy.

"Speak up!"

"Yes, Daddy. I am."

"Yes, you are. You've been a very naughty girl, and you must be punished."

"Oh," she said. "Please, Daddy, no?"

"Oh yes. Get up."

She obeyed.

"Turn around. Face the TV." She did it. "I must consider your punishment."

I found the remote and turned the TV on again. Flawless timing: Tarzan picks Jane up off the branch they'd swung to and effortlessly tosses her into the river, deftly pulling the London-made satin gown off of her as she drops in, naked.

"Get that skirt off," I barked.

Tarzan dives in right after Jane.

She reached for the zipper at her hip, her sweet body making a gentle S-curve—like the S-curves Jane and Tarzan were making underwater—as she undid the snaps and pulled the zipper open. Her perfect ass twitched side to side as she wriggled out of the skirt, let it drop to the floor and stepped out of it.

"Pick it up. Give it here."

Still with her back to me, she spread her long legs and slowly, from the hip, bent down for the skirt. I don't know what you call these kind of panties. They only cover about the top half her ass. Bent over like that, all that was visible from my angle was the strip of lacy fabric that clung to her little mound. Powder-blue. She picked up the skirt and just as slowly straightened up again. Then she turned around and brought me the skirt.

I took it and tossed it to the far end of the sofa. "Now. Get over my knee, you nasty girl."

Murky black & white footage of Tarzan and Jane doing underwater acrobatics unreels.

"No? Please, Papa?"

"GET OVER MY KNEE!"

She whimpered and climbed up sideways onto the couch and over my lap. "I'm sorry Daddy," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Too late for that now. This is what happens when you behave like a little slut."

Her breathing was faster. She pulled a throw pillow to her and held it against her face. I draped a leg over the backs of her calves. Muffled by the pillow: "Please, daddy, no."

I pushed the fabric of her blouse up along her back. Then I put my hand on the back of her neck and gave her bare right cheek a resounding SMACK! She jumped and squealed. Then the left. She bellowed in pain and dug her nails into the cushions. I gave her four more on each cheek and paused. Her backside was now quivering and bright pink, and she sobbed as she gripped the pillow in her teeth. Mascara ran down her cheeks like a cliché. I didn't let her get up.

Meanwhile Cheetah is playing Keep-Away with Jane's satin gown.

"You see? This is what happens to slutty little lascivious girls." [I said that. Not Cheetah.] I gently stroked each buttock with my palm, soothing caresses to ease the sting. "You know I don't enjoy doing this [of course I did] but what else can I do? Nothing seems to deter you from your voluptuous debaucheries, you tawdry little strumpet."

I'm not sure, but the sobbing sounded a lot like giggling at that point.

So the spanking began again. I would spank one cheek, then wait a random few moments before spanking the other. She never knew when it was coming. Screaming and cursing, she bucked and jackknifed, but I kept her down and delivered more spanks. Some of the sobs and screams sounded unmistakably like pleasure. She tried to protect her bottom with her hands behind her back, but I trapped her wrists. I gave her another five per cheek.

As I released her arms and swung my leg up off from behind her knees, she was panting, shaking and twitching, and a shuddering spasm took her from time to time. She made no move to get up.

[Now, okay, listen a second. I wasn't at all into hurting her. I'm all for the idea that "no" means "no," but when she said "no, Daddy," that meant "ignore that 'no' part." This game had never been my idea. But it turns out that every now and then she gets in the mood for a game of Papa Spank, and since I'm not hitting her hard enough to do any lasting damage, I'm willing to play along. Especially given the results:]

I caressed her ass again and my fingers strayed to her inner thigh. It was sopping wet.

"We've got to get those wet panties off," I said, and began to pull them down over her reddened derriere. Still snuffling a little, she arched her back and maneuvered her legs to help get them off over her stockings. She squirmed on my lap as I pulled the damp lace off over her stiletto heels.

Of course by this point I had a raging hard-on, and her squirming had a lot to do with it. And she knew it.

"Roll over," I said. She wriggled around until she was face-up, her back arched over my lap. I put a sofa cushion under her head to support her. She began unbuttoning my shirt.

"Well, young lady," I said. "I hope you've learned your lesson."

She sighed a little, almost a moan, and slid a hand inside my shirt to play with one of my nipples.

"After all," I said, "those dancers you were watching tonight were all gay. If your stripper was getting hard it was because he was thinking about getting back to the locker room and lathering up a co-worker in the shower."

"Mmm," she said.

"No, you're well advised to not have such impure thoughts. So, as I say, I hope you've learned your lesson. Well, have you?"

Cheetah was chattering and doing something chimp-like. Susie turned her head and looked at the TV. She had one foot on the floor and the other rested on the sofa back.

"Well?" I repeated.

She turned back to look up at me. "No," she murmured, and ran a hand down my stomach.

"No? Do you mean to sit there on my lap and tell me you'll continue having filthy thoughts about strange men and their nasty hard dirty throbbing cocks?"

"Yes, Daddy." She unbuttoned the last button on her blouse.

"Scandalous!" I said. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and refused to touch her.

She slid off the couch and stood. She shrugged the blouse off her shoulders and let it drift to the floor. "Yes, I'm afraid I'll need further punishment" she said, and reached around behind her to unhook the bra. Then she slid one bra-strap off her shoulder, and then the other, and took it off.

[Pal, you may think you've seen perfect breasts before. You haven't. I have.]

She brought her hands to her stomach and slid them up, across her ribcage and to her breasts, and pinched the nipples between thumb and forefinger. She then leaned forward towards me and, supporting herself with her hands on the back of the couch, she popped a nipple into my mouth. It was a firm little nugget that I licked and kissed and sucked on. She sighed and shuddered and her lips parted in an O and her head dropped back. I gave it one last lick before she sank to her knees on the floor between my feet.

"But Daddy?" she whispered. "Mostly, I think about your cock." She stared into my eyes as her hands wandered down her stomach toward her little muff. She played with the downy hair for a moment before slipping a finger in, then two. I watched as her head lolled back and side to side, her lips parted, she said Unnngh and Ooo as her fingers played. She brought them to her lips and popped them in her mouth, tasting her juices.

She draped her forearms on my thighs and dreamily regarded the throbbing bulge at my crotch. "Your big, hard cock." She began to slide her fingertips up my inner thighs. "I think about it rammed into my wet pussy, pounding into me over, and over, and over..." Her head was moving closer; I could feel her warm breath on my crotch. I leaned back against the sofa back and my throat let out a soft growl. I slid my ass forward on the cushions. She undid my belt and slowly pulled my zipper down. "So fucking big and hard," she whispered. She gathered the waistbands of my pants and boxers in both hands and yanked both down my thighs. My rigid pecker sprang to attention.

"Oooh, Daddy. Baby loves Daddy's cock," she cooed, and wrapped a hand around the shaft. She inspected it with approval and let her hand slide down to the base, back up the the tip. And again. "Mmm, it's all hot," she whispered. She looked up at me. "Do you want me to kiss it? Do you want me to make your hot prick feel all better?"

[A silly question, really.]

"Ooo, it's so hard," she said, and slid her other hand under my balls. Her cool, soft hand continued its slow stroke up and down my pole as she played with my nuts. The edge of her thumb would catch the rim of my cockhead, just right, at the top of each stroke. Then she brought her lips closer to the tip. "Only your cock, Daddy. Only yours." And her little pink tongue slipped out and the tip of her tongue ran its way along the cleft of the rim. And all the while she held my eyes in hers and continued to stroke the length of my engorged prick with her fist. "Only Daddy's cock," she said again, and now her hand lingered at the head, fingertips playing gently, as she ran her tongue down to the base and swirled her tongue where the shaft met my nut sack. I grunted and my head lolled back.

She'd stopped. I opened my eyes and looked at her. Her fingers still encircled my shaft, and she was tickling the hair on my balls with her nails. "Stand up," she said. "I know what you like. You like when I suck you on my knees like a whore."

[She knew me so well, this adorable creature, dressed in nothing but thigh-high stockings, stiletto heels, and a string of pearls.]

I stood, and stepping out of the puddle of pants around my ankles I kicked them aside. Kneeling at my feet, she kept her hold on my cock. She looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry, Daddy, for being such a slutty little girl. Let Baby show Papa how sorry she is."

She increased the pressure on my shaft as she resumed stroking its length and tickling my scrotum. She raised up and kissed the head softly, the shaft, my balls, then brought the head to her lips and guided the tip of my cock down across her lower lip, down her chin; she tilted her head back and ran my glans along the underside of her jaw and down her throat. She caught up the string of pearls and draped it in a loop over the shaft.

Now she dropped her head between my legs and began again to lap at my balls. Wet licks, and kisses, then just the tip of her tongue circling each ball, then taking one between her lips and pulling it sweetly into her mouth, juggling and rolling it around with her tongue. Then her tongue was licking its way up the shaft again.

"Do you like when I lick your balls, Daddy?" she asked between licks. "Do you like when I suck on you like a cheap little back-alley whore?"

And all at once she took the head in her mouth and I gasped. Sweet Mother of Jeebus! She was SO GOOD at giving head, and so enthusiastic. She made loud slurping noises and happy hums like she was gobbling a delicious dessert. Her tongue was everywhere as she sucked on me. I could barely stand it. I entwined my fingers in her hair-and she pulled my cock out of her mouth.