Linda and the Lash

A week after Gary, the hugely hung and lovely Cambridge professor, and his beautiful wife Carmen had returned to London, Brad picked me outside work on the Friday afternoon as usual, the Ford GT-40 sounding throaty and impatient to be on the freeway and up to what I now termed his "floggery".

Leaning over to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek, the 40-year-old detective story writer looked at my leather jacket, leather jeans and harshly pulled back hair, drawn into a tight bun.

"Heavens, Linda," he exclaimed, "if I didn't know your kinky tastes better I'd have you confused with a dominatrix."

I laughed. "Play your cards right and I might end your confusion," I told him, throwing my overnight bag into the back of the racy big Ford.

"No thanks," Brad grinned, as he gunned the motor and headed off into LA's awful late afternoon traffic, "I'm much more the flogger than the floggee, thank-you very much."

Out on the freeway and crawling along, much to the dark-haired author's frustration, he laid a protective hand on my leather-clad thigh and asked: "Now tell me, are there are more baseball myths which you can dispel to make me wonder if I'm ever going to read anything about my favourite game in future that I can believe?"

I felt mischievous and simply whispered in his ear: "Say it ain't so, Joe!"

"Oh fuck," said Brad, hitting the wheel of the sports car and grimacing. "That's not another urban myth, surely?"

I began to explain, but Brad cut me off. "No, you little minx, this story can wait till I've got a huge bourbon and coke in me. Then you can disillusion me all you like."

Finally, the traffic eased and Brad drove smoothly, but far too fast for my liking, to his hilltop mansion. I went upstairs, stripped off to my usual garb in his home – naked but for my Manolo Blahniks - and walked downstairs.

Brad was sitting naked in a comfy big leather easy chair looking out at the sprawling city way beneath us, its tower blocks glinting in the late afternoon sun. He was nursing a large, dark drink.

"Help yourself to your poison of preference, you witch," he laughed, "then sit in my lap and tell me all about Shoeless Joe Jackson."

I built myself a large Bombay gin and tonic and returned to his seat. I planted myself in his lap and felt his lovely seven-inches of manhood rise to snuggle against my bare crotch.

"All right," he said, taking a sip on his bourbon, then planting a suck on my left nipple, bringing it instantly to erection, "fire away. And don't think I'm going to be very happy about this."

"Well," I said, "I read the book

Eight Men Out

, they based the movie on it, remember?"

Brad nodded, pretending to be highly pissed off, but I knew he loved these baseball stories of mine. "Well, in that, it's said that as Joe Jackson came out of that hearing into the 1919 White Sox World Series scandal a man – not a kid – called out to him 'It ain't true, Joe'. Then, a moment or two later the man repeated 'It ain't true, Joe'."

My author-lover said: "Well, it's almost right."

"Yeah," I said, "but then I read Harvey Frommer's book

Shoeless Joe and Ragtime Baseball

, and Frommer quotes Jackson as saying the 'Say it ain't so, Joe' was never said, but invented by a reporter, Charley Owens, of the

Chicago Daily News.

"In fact, Jackson says the only words thrown at him that afternoon were from a man who yelled 'See, I told you the son of a bitch wore shoes'."

"Say," said Brad, "that's a much better line than 'Say it ain't so, Joe', but carry on you dispeller of dreams, you."

I nuzzled up to my man and chewed on his ear, and felt between my thighs. His cock was still there, but not as hard.

"And anyway," snorted Brad, "Joe Jackson? One of the men who threw the series – how do you know he wasn't lying?"

And then I hit him with my line drive. "Oh, I don't think he was lying about this. See, I spoke to Charley Owens' grandson, he's a lawyer in Chicago," I told him.

Brad's eyes narrowed. He knew I was keeping the best till last.

"And?" he almost snarled.

"Mr Owens told me that his father told him that when old Charley Owens was on his deathbed, he whispered to the son 'You know 'Say it ain't so'? I made that up son, only don't tell a soul, OK?' and then the old man died.

"The Owens son eventually

did

tell someone, and that someone told me. Sorry Brad, there goes another baseball myth."

Brad gulped down his bourbon, took my half-full glass of gin, placed it on the table by his chair, then snapped: "Shit, you've just really, really annoyed me, you luscious little hussy. And for that you're gonna get a spanking. And then a whipping, 'cos a spanking all by itself isn't good enough for you!"

And he forced me over his lap, until my shoes scraped the floor, my hands scrambled for traction on the carpet.

"Thwaaaack". His strong hand smacked down across my left buttock and stung, I mean

really

stung. Again came the "Thwaaack" and again a lovely warm feeling flowed through my buttock.

In between the strokes, Brad slipped his fingers into my sex crevice, feeling for signs of arousal. His fingers didn't have to probe much – I was sopping wet.

Spank. "Ouch, say it ain't so, Brad!" I yelled, cheekily.

"That does it," he almost screamed. "It's down to the flogging bench, you horrible little tart. Come on, I'll give you 'say it ain't so, Brad' you devious little devil."

And he stood, slung my across his shoulder, my head facing down to his buttocks, my buttocks across his shoulder and as he marched me down to his torture chamber and placed an occasional slap with his meaty hand across my ass. I beat a fruitless tattoo on his backside, but they were, of course, merely for show!

Downstairs, my master dragged a whipping bench out from a corner of the room and soon had me splayed down on its cool leather, my hands and feet spread wide. He then walked away and selected a slim, cruel-looking lash and returned to me.

By now, as I could not help but notice, his cock was jutting out in superb erection, his foreskin dragged partly back from the gleaming helmet of his thick shaft.

Stepping behind me, I felt slightly apprehensive as always, but also part of me churned with desire for the caress of his lash. I didn't have to wait long.

"Tissssh", the lovely little leather implement cracked across my buttocks and then I felt the tip of his cock grazing against my cunt. And then he was in me, sliding his manhood deep into my sopping wetness. And just as quickly, he was out again.

"A stroke for a stroke, you dispeller of dreams," he said in a deep, throaty mock growl.

"Tissssh" went the flogger as it again met my helpless but expectant buttocks.

But this time the "stroke for a stroke" wasn't his cock in my cunt. He stepped in front of me, displaying his erection with his foreskin dragged back to the ring, and he pushed it into my grateful mouth, allowing me to suck deep and hungrily on his rampant hard-on.

Then he was behind me once more, and once more the leather lash made its sweet "Tissssh" as leather met flesh, and once more his cock invaded my helpless but extremely receptive cunt.

"Tissssh" again sang the flogger, and once more the tasty, vagina-perfumed cock once more sank deep between my lips as he pressed his erection into my mouth.

And so Brad continued. "Tisssh" and the flogger fell, followed by a thrust of his cock deep into my weeping sex. "Tisssh" again and he presented his prick to my wanton mouth.

The number of strokes must have reached more than a dozen, possibly 24, I don't know, I had long lost count as I revelled in his attentions with the lash, followed by his beautifully-thrusting penis. And then my flogger began to pant. He could hold back no longer.

"Where do you want it, you destroyer of dreams?" he panted, after laying a sweet stroke across my buttocks.

"Where it suits you best, whipmaster," I replied, with a voice a-tremble with lust.

And he sank his manhood deep into my cunt and with two, perhaps three, urgent juddering thrusts, he came strongly within me.

Later, upstairs on his huge bed, Brad uncorked a bottle of Laurent Perrier, filled two champagne flutes and we clinked glasses.

"Well," he said, looking smug, "that's me satisfied for the time being. And now, I suppose you want attending to, you horrible little tart!"

I grinned and kissed him on his sensual mouth. "It's quite obvious the term 'the lady comes first' has no place in this house," I laughed. "An orgasm would be nice, but I can't see any signs of activity down there."

Brad growled his imitation, pretend-I'm-cross growl, and pushed me onto my back and lowered his face to my freshly-showered pussy. It didn't take him long to replace the aroma of sweetly-scented soap down there with another rather lovely aroma – of course, when it comes to feminine aromas, especially mine, I'm rather biased.

And also, as usual, it didn't take him long for me to reach that lovely peak of sexual intensity that means an orgasm is inevitable and then I was screaming and yelling as I flooded into a torrent of excitement, humping and graunching on his sweet mouth.

He kept his face down there as I calmed down and then, when my pants and sighs had faded into silence, Brad rose and placed his cock head to my cunt and once more drove smoothly and silkily into me.

As his prick pulsated back and forth in my sex tunnel, he kissed me softly on the mouth and grinned.

"Now, you horrid little tart, tell me what other myths you've been saving to ruin my week-end with?"

I pondered. "Well, there's that lovely old story about Gaylord Perry and there being a man on the moon before he would hit his first major league home run," I began, just to see what effect it would have on him.

"Fuck it," he groaned, "I've heard enough. OK, bitch, there's only one way to silence you."

I looked in amazement. "Only one? Surely you're more inventive than that my darling whipmaster?"

Brad sighed, although his thrusting maintained its impressive, smooth tempo. "No, you lovely little tramp, I mean the only way to silence you is with this."

And with that he leaned across the bed to the bedside table, dragged the drawer open and pulled out a little box. "Open it," he said, as he continued his lovely thrusts.

I did. Inside was a sparkling diamond. It looked like it must have cost at least a year of my wages. Nonsense, five years!

"Will you marry me?" Brad asked, his cock still driving and thrusting in my wetness.

For an awful moment I was tempted to say "Say it ain't so, Brad", but commonsense prevailed.

THE END