In the spring of 1976 I made some extra money for college by driving for a car service called Lioness Limousine. I was a sophomore at the City College of New York in upper Manhattan, and I commuted by subway to my job in Long Island City. I wound up having a regular customer, a lady named Mrs. Holly Sykes. She was a divorcée who lived in an apartment building near Gramercy Park in Manhattan. I was told that she had specifically asked for me each time.
One sunny weekend in June, I went out to the garage and I found out that I again had Mrs. Sykes for an assignment. It was going to be for the entire afternoon, which seemed to be an anomaly because usually she only needed to do a few errands around Manhattan. She had never booked a car for more than two hours at a time. Also, it was a Sunday, a day she had never asked for service before.
I didn’t know why she requested me so often. She was quite taciturn and never seemed to have much to say to me. However, she didn’t complain and make my job difficult as a few customers did so I didn’t mind driving her around.
On that day I drove a big blue 1975 Buick Electra across the 59th Street Bridge to her neighborhood. I had to make some concession to professionalism by wearing a jacket and tie while on duty. When I got to her building around 1:00 PM I parked by a hydrant and stood outside by the passenger side of the car. That happened to be the side facing the curb.
My customer came down at the appointed time and the doorman opened the building door for her. Mrs. Sykes must have been in her late thirties. To my young eyes she was a lady who could have been one of my professors. She was fairly tall, with dark blonde hair that she usually tied back in a bun. Her clothes and make-up always seemed to be impeccable.
That day she was wearing a blue dress with a white floral pattern, a light-gray jacket, a straw summer hat and white heels. Overall, I thought she was quite attractive although there was something intimidating about her. Her quietness seemed more like coolness and reserve, not shyness. I had started to think of her as Queen Holly.
When I thought back to her in later years I realized she had a resemblance to the actress Kathleen Turner. Of course, in 1976, Turner was still a student at the University of Maryland.
She said nothing as she approached the car and I opened the back door for her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Sykes. I’m glad you decided to use Lioness Limo again today.”
She replied tersely, “Well, I always use them.” I wanted to know why she asked for me so often but I figured it was up to her to let me know the reason for that.
I got in behind the wheel and started the engine. The back seat of the car was rather low and her hem had ridden up when she sat down. As she crossed her legs I noticed that they were bare without stockings. Then she started giving instructions.
“Paul, I don't have an exact destination, but I want you to take me to a place with some privacy.”
I had no idea what she was getting at and I couldn’t come up with a response. She sounded a bit impatient as she explained, “I mean some privacy with the car. Not that long, maybe an hour or so.”
I took a stab at pleasing her, “You mean you want to look at the harbor or something?”
“No, that’s not it. I’ll tell you what - you know Bush Terminal out in Brooklyn? That’s pretty quiet on a Sunday, isn’t it?"
It was odd that that someone like Mrs. Sykes even knew about that particular neighborhood of lofts and warehouses. The only thing I could imagine was that she wanted to meditate or something while I took a walk for a while. She was the customer, so she would get wanted she wanted. I said, “Okay, Mrs. Sykes, I’ll take you across the Brooklyn Bridge and then we can head in that direction.” I assumed that she’d like the view from the bridge rather than taking the quicker Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.
I had assumed incorrectly. “No, take the tunnel, it’s more direct.”
She started talking almost as soon as we turned the corner to head south, “You don’t know that I'm divorced, do you?”
“No, Mrs. Sykes, you’ve never mentioned it.”
“My husband, Desmond, he thought he was really clever. That was until I came home unexpectedly one day and I caught him with one of the girls from his office.”
She had just started and already I missed the previous reticent version of her I had known. I made some non-committal remark. She said, “My timing was perfect. I caught them in flagrante delicto. She was on her hands and knees on our bed and he was taking her anally.”
Man, this is too much sharing at this early stage. I said, “That’s really unfortunate.”
“Yes, really unfortunate for him I’d say. I really took him to the cleaners, as the expression goes.”
I actually felt briefly sorry for poor Desmond. This Holly Sykes was nice-looking but she seemed rather cold. Then she just had to ask about me.
“So Paul, do you have a girlfriend up at City College?”
That was a bit personal. Why can’t she talk about the weather or something? I tried to be vague about it, “Things are a bit unsettled right now.”
“All right, I get it. So what did happen with your last girlfriend then?”
I looked in the mirror and saw that she was smiling. Something about her reminded me of the Phyllis Dietrichson character from Double Indemnity. This woman in the back seat didn’t seem trustworthy either. I decided to answer truthfully because I really didn’t care what she thought, “Okay, this girl met an older guy who has a good job - on Wall Street I think.”
“Desmond worked in a brokerage too. In fact, he was a managing director. Tell her to be cautious.”
“Actually, I do talk to her from time to time.”
Right now we were passing through Union Square which was still very shabby in those pre-gentrification days. I decided to continue downtown on Broadway. Holly Sykes had another opinion, “Girls nowadays have no loyalty or even morals. It’s changed a lot since my day.”
Somehow I didn’t believe she had been a perfectly chaste college girl back then. Fortunately, she changed topics and went on to politics. She surprised me by supporting the Democrats in that year’s election. Or at least she had a grudge against Richard Nixon, whom she called “detestable”, and against Gerald Ford for pardoning him.
When we went through the tunnel it was too noisy to hold a conversation. On the other side she said, “Take that street that runs under the highway.”
“Okay, it’s Third Avenue – Brooklyn’s Third Avenue, I mean.”
She looked around. “Isn’t this place the setting for Last Exit to Brooklyn?”
I had to give her credit for that. “Yes, this is it, Red Hook and Sunset Park, I think.”
Then she was quiet for the last couple of miles. When we approached Bush Terminal on the right I said, “We’re almost there.”
“Just turn in and drive around a bit. I want to have a look.”
We were among several blocks of tall old buildings. Most of the streets were paved with Belgian blocks. Some had tracks so that freight cars could be brought in. The area was rather deserted on this day as I had predicted. I was still half-expecting her to direct me to the harbor which was just a couple of blocks away. Then we passed several trailers backed up to a loading dock. She noticed a gap between two of them.
“Here, that spot looks good. Pull in head-first.” When we were in there she said, “Good, there’s enough room to open the doors here.”
“Are we getting out here?” Meanwhile, I turned the engine off.
"Well, one of us is."
Why does she have to be so mysterious? I couldn’t imagine her walking around the area by herself so I guessed that I would be the one going. Then she could ponder whatever ladies from Gramercy Park contemplated on Sunday afternoons.
I didn’t have to wait long. “Now Paul, the reason we’ve come all the way out here is that there is an issue I want to discuss with you. A complaint, actually.”
My first thought was gratitude that she hadn’t contacted the company, but I also had no clue as to what could actually be bothering her. I turned my head slightly but didn’t say anything. As I expected she was ready with the second part, "The thing is, Paul, I've noticed that you’ve been giving me lascivious looks when I’m your passenger. You’re always trying to look up my skirt, and you’re often checking out the shape of my bosom."
I had the normal reaction of hating being accused of something I hadn’t done. I felt my face burning and I wished she had pulled this on me at the end of the trip, if that was what was really bothering her. I tried to defend myself as politely as possible, “Mrs. Sykes, I’m sorry you think that, but I’ve never done those things.”
“But I know you have; I know you use me for your masturbation fantasies.”
That clicked with me. I was suddenly aware that that this conversation was not on the level; it was a pretext for something else that she was going to reveal to me. All I had to do was listen. She indeed continued, “Rather than complain to the company and jeopardize your job, I’ve decided to handle this in my own manner.”
For a moment my worry was that she was merely going to give me a tongue-lashing out here in Brooklyn and then have me drive her home. But that still didn’t seem to make sense. I decided to give her a prompt.
“Well, ma’am, you’re the customer; whatever you think is best.”
“Of course, and what I think best is some discipline for an impudent young man such as yourself. I intend to take you back here, put you over my knee, and give you a good, sound spanking on the seat of your trousers.”
The first thing I noticed was the oddly stilted, almost ritualized language she was using. The second thought I had was that a veil had been lifted on her real intentions. I was not surprised that someone so uptight was also kinky underneath. I decided to - subtly I hoped - call her out on this. “With all due respect, ma’am, you're playing a game here with me.”
She frowned and then smiled, “I could always tell you were a smart person. All right, you must have played games with some of those girlfriends of yours.”
I felt talkative suddenly, “Sure, some of them played roles with me. Some of them were very good actresses, in fact.”
“Well, don’t get too happy. After I use my hand on you, I’m going to take your pants down and whack you with my hairbrush.”
I dared to reveal something of my own, “That’s okay; I’ve had a girl use a ruler on me more than once. She was pretty kinky; she could take as good as she gave.”
“Really? You’re just making that up.” I looked back and caught her eye. I think I perceived some tension in her, and for a moment she looked away. I also speculated that she was a bit disappointed that I wasn’t a neophyte in this kind of game.
“In any case, come back here and take your punishment."
“Yes ma’am, whatever you say.” I probably sounded a little too enthusiastic, but there was a limit to my acting abilities. Mrs. Sykes was playing her role more convincingly than I was playing mine. When I was in the back seat she guided me over her lap and lifted the tail of my jacket out of the way. Then she started rubbing my bottom in a rather affectionate manner. Her words gave her away too.
“You have a nice taut butt, but it’s a little thin. I think you can take it though, based on what you’ve told me. These pants – they’re some kind of cotton-polyester blend – aren’t going to give you much protection during the warm-up.”
She would be the kind to notice fabrics. I dared say, “Mrs. Sykes, you’ve definitely done this before.”
“Oh yes; I always say, behind every great man is a woman who smacks his ass into shape.”
That actually made me chuckle. Then she put her left hand around my waist and she starting spanking me with her right. It wasn’t really that painful but I did grunt from each impact.
She said, “So what kind of fantasies have you had about me?”
“I haven't had any about you, ma’am.” That was the truth; she hadn’t come into my mental rotation yet, although I was sure she would after this session.
“You’re lying about that. I know exactly what you’ve been thinking." I knew then that I was going to hear her fantasies about me.
My guess was correct. She continued, “You want to nail me right here in the back seat. You’d like me to straddle your cock while you suck on my breasts.”
That was pretty explicit for the first cut. Probably she’s had the hots for me for a while. At that she stopped spanking and began rubbing me again. “I can feel you warming up under there. I think it’s time for a bit of the hairbrush.”
She had it in her purse; the brush was a substantial wooden one. I knew that unlike a hand-spanking this was going to sting somewhat.
“Now young man, things are getting more serious.” She starting whacking me with her implement, and I gasped each time it came down on me.
“Now, sweetheart, you have been running around with too many slutty coeds.”
Nobody uses the word coeds anymore. And did she just call me sweetheart? I decided to defend my own sweethearts, the ones at City College, “Ma’am, they’re really nice girls.”
“I bet they’re very nice, especially when they drop their panties for you.” Well, she had a point there.
After a few more moments she said, “Let’s get these trousers down and see what kind of damage I’ve done.”
I unbuckled myself and she helped me lower my pants. Then she yanked my underwear down too. “Okay, some redness as I expected, but not nearly enough. It’s time for some on your bare rear end. Lift yourself up; I want to get a good angle on you.”
Mrs. Sykes wielded her brush with a sidearm swing. She noticed me squirming and bouncing around. “Try to keep still, you deserve every bit of this.”
Then she revealed another of her sexual reveries, “I’m sure you imagined oral sex; you want to go down on me while I suck on you.” I guessed that she had pictured that while pleasuring herself in her apartment. “I also think you like this paddling more than you’d admit.” She stopped briefly, probably because she wanted to hear a response from me.
I answered, “I admit, I sort of like it and don’t like it at the same time, if you get that."
“You’re obviously perverted; most of your generation is.”
