In August Nora asked me to meet her in a park near her Maspeth house, something we had never done before.

I was sitting on a bench when she came up and stood in front of me. Her outfit was surprising; she had a white blouse, a dark blue skirt that went below her knees, white ankle socks, and brown shoes.  She said nothing, so I just looked her over. Her hands were folded in front of her.

Finally, I said, “What are you supposed to be, a Mormon?”

She looked down as if embarrassed, and said in a subdued voice, “You see, I’ve been a bad girl for too long and now I think I should be a good girl.”

“So you think dressing differently will make a difference?”

“There has to be more than that. I need somebody to take me in hand, and, I’d say, firmly correct me for my unseemly behavior.”

Now I got what her game was. She was making up nonsense, but she was good at it. “Maybe you need a maintenance spanking again, so you don’t slip back into your old ways.”

“That is an excellent idea.”

“Well, I’m your go-to guy for that.”

She had it all thought out. “What you should do is – we’ll go home. Then, put me over your knees and spank me on the seat of my underwear. Then take those down, and give me a good tanning on my exposed behind.”

She was using a weirdly formal syntax. I saw none of her usual brashness. Anyway, I jumped up and said, “Okay honey, let’s get to it.” This is going to be a lot of fun.

I tried to hold her hand on the way over, but she refused to give it to me. Once in the living room, she said “Sit in that chair. You don’t have to pull me over; I’ll willingly place myself on you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The chair was armless, which made it ideal for what I was going to do. She positioned herself on my lap; her movements seemed slow and deliberate. I thought she’d raise her own skirt, but she didn’t. I guessed that was my job. I pulled her skirt up and away, and I was surprised by her underpants. Those were white cotton ones that almost reached her knees, and there were lacy hems at the bottom.

“Where did you get these, at Sears?”

“They’re called pantaloons, and they should be worn by girls like me who aspire to be modest.”

I just love the way this chick is talking. “So, I assume you want it good and hard and long?”

“That’s the only way it can be effective.”

“Indeed.”

I was getting to like this pantaloon thing, and I started rubbing the seat of her underwear.

“Please, don’t rub my buttocks.”

That was a surprise because by now I had rubbed, fondled, and ejaculated onto every part of her body I had access to, which was all of it. She must have sensed my confusion because she said, “You may only use your hands to inflict pain on me, not give me pleasure.”

I almost said, fuck that. Instead, I decided to remind her of our safe word, or phrase really, although she could take a lot of punishment and had never used it. “Do you think you’ll want to have some tuna salad during this?”

“I refuse to eat that.”

“Okay, let’s do this.” I started whacking her on the back of her, ah, pantaloons. She did her usually groaning, wincing, and wriggling around.

At one point she said, “This hurts so much, but I really need it.”

Now I was getting curious, so I stopped. “Nora, baby, what exactly has been on your mind?”

“I must tell you, last night I had the urge to masturbate, and I caught my fingers reaching for my private parts. I was so ashamed of myself.” That was notable because Nora would masturbate on a bus if she could get away with it. I had seen her do just that in the back seat of an Academy Lines bus when we visited her aunt in New Jersey. She was in the end seat when she put her feet up on the cushion, lifted her skirt, put her hands inside her panties, and had her way with herself. I was in a center seat watching all of this.

I was suddenly concerned that she would keep up this pretense all day. How am I going to get laid then?

I redoubled my efforts on her. There was a slit in the back of her pantaloons, and I opened it to get access to the bare flesh of her behind. The whole thing had a very nineteenth-century feel to it.

“Wow, that cotton didn’t give you any protection at all; you’re all red now.”

“I know; I’m actually proud to be disciplined so firmly.”

Where was she getting this bullshit from? I said, “All right then, get your butt up nice and high then.” I went at her until I thought we both had had enough. She had moaned and gasped, but she didn’t start crying. I guess I’m not such a nice guy after all; I had wanted to break her at times so that she would sob, but I had never been able to do it.

She one point she said, “Oh, it’s so humiliating to have to expose my buttocks to you.”

What is it with this “buttocks” thing? She seemed to enjoy saying the word.

Besides, not only had I seen her behind before, I had come on it a number of times. One of her gimmicks was that she would pull down my pants, turn around, lift up her skirt, and then grind her ass into my crotch until I ejaculated all over her. Sometimes she would leave her panties on; sometimes she would take them off. It depended I guess on the riskiness of the location

If we had the opportunity, I would then reward her by eating out her cunt, which she loved. One of the places where we had pulled that stunt was on the highest floor of Finley Hall, where there was a big open tank full of scummy green water. Another variation was that I would keep my trousers up and she would try to get me to come into my pants. She always succeeded in those efforts.

She then had another issue, “Also, you can see my private parts now.”

Actually, I couldn’t; I hadn’t opened her underwear enough. However, I thought of a good excuse to do that.

“Sweetie, I’m going to pull your pants all the way done. I need to redden the back of your thighs too.”

She went for it. “Yes, I fully understand. Please do that; I’ve been so naughty.”

I thought, you’ve been more than naughty. You’ve fucked my brains out, but I’m completely down with that. She had also worked as a whore, but I had forgiven her for that. 

At the end of the spanking, I said, “Go ahead, you can comfort yourself now.” She reached back to grab herself.

“My God, I’m blazing back there.”

“That’s to be expected.” I was curious about how turned on she was, so I put my numb hand between her legs to find out.

“No, absolutely do not touch my private parts.”

I put my hands up, “Whatever you say. It is corner time, you know.”

She dutifully got up, went over to the wall, and stood there holding her skirt up. I knew it was all an act, but I was still trying to understand the motivations of her character. “Nora, what has gotten into you?”

“I want to act like a virgin again.”

“Well, that went out the window a while ago.”

“I said act like one, not actually be one. My lusts and desires need to be suppressed.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m getting a beer; you want one?”

“No, I do not.”

When I came back I said, “Okay, corner time is over.” She carefully pulled up her pantaloons and lowered her skirt. Then came over and stood in front of where I was sitting. She had that strange half-shy, half-haughty look I had seen in the park.

“When you’re finished with your beer, it’s time for you to go.”

“What? I just got here.” It had taken me an hour and a half by public transit to get to Maspeth.

“It’s not proper for a young lady to be alone and unchaperoned here with you.”

“What are you talking about? I just did all of that slapping of your bare buttocks, as you called them.”

“That was different; it was necessary.” She gave me a little smile. “Paul, I really appreciate the way you’ve handled this matter.”

“Well, I don’t fucking appreciate getting thrown out of here.”

“Please do not use foul language around me.”

I was starting to lose it. “I’ll use any kind of language I want, you tight-assed little twat.”

She shook her head; then she went to the front door and opened it. Her gesture indicated I should go through it. As I went over there, I said, “Where am I supposed to go?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Just as I went through, I considered taking a bus to Queens Plaza and the subway from there to Manhattan. But I felt I had spent enough time in my life wandering around there by myself or with my geeky male friends. That gave me a clue for my final plea.

“Nora, come with me into the city. We’ll have some fun.”

She didn’t answer me.

“What are you going to do here? Pray?”

She reached out to close the door, and I had to step back so that it wouldn’t bang into me. Then I heard her engage the lock.

I went to the sidewalk and leaned against a telephone pole. Surely, she’s going to come out and get me now. Twenty minutes went by, and still no Nora.

I remembered how intimidated I had been by her last semester, and how I had written that term paper for her. I said quietly to myself, “Fuck you, and fuck George Orwell, and fuck his stupid Catalonia. He didn’t belong there in the first place.”

Now I was feeling sorry for myself. I imagined her protecting her sore ass and still giving me a cowgirl right on the living room floor. Her modest pantaloons would be lying next to us, her modest skirt would be up around her waist, and her tits would be hanging out of her modest blouse. Yeah Nora, that new virginity thing didn’t last very long, did it?

It was only one o’clock in the afternoon. I now had all of this unstructured time to deal with, and I was in this boring, out-of-the-way neighborhood. Now I might have to go back to my own boring, out-of-the-way neighborhood in The Bronx. I knew that this whole good girl act was completely faked, but I was impressed by how convincing she was. I was also struck by how long she had kept the pretense going.  Although, it was now a good time to give it up and come out and get me.

She’d been a handful since she walked into that classroom the previous January. I gave her another fifteen minutes, then I gave up. I went into the city and found a showing of Death Wish. It was a ridiculous film but entertaining anyway.

In one scene, Charles Bronson shoots a white guy and a Black guy who had teamed up to rob him. One of the two middle-aged Black men sitting behind me said, “Look, integrated muggers.”

*******

Also in August Nora finally got her car, a 1970 Mustang convertible. I knew how she had paid for it, but I didn’t want to think too closely about that. I did believe her when she had said she had given up her on-campus hooking activities or at least had put them on hold for a while.

One day she drove it up to get me where I lived in The Bronx. I saw her drive up my block with the top down. The car was green with a black top and interior. I couldn’t help gushing. “God, it’s beautiful; I’m so envious of you.” I wanted to drive it, but it was way too early to ask for that.

Nora was beautiful too, in her halter top and denim shorts. She came around the front of her vehicle, her sunglasses pushed up on her head and the keys twirling on a finger.

She said, “So if you’re ready, let’s go now.” We were going to Bear Mountain, a state parkway up on the west bank of the Hudson River. Our route took us on the Bronx River Parkway and then the Taconic Parkway. It was all as I had visualized it on our first date in June. Her dark blonde hair was tied up just as I had imagined it would be.

I had never been in a convertible before; I started to notice some downsides. At highway speeds, the wind blast was pretty intense. Also, it was noisy, especially with a lot of other vehicles running near us.

At a rest stop, we talked about those characteristics. She said, “Yeah, it’s pretty noticeable at sixty miles per hour. Probably it’s better on some side road, or at the Jersey Shore or the Hamptons.” I immediately assumed we would have dates at those places too. “Maybe I’ll put the top up for the trip back.”

It was still awesome to cross the long Tappan Zee Bridge. This is great, and the chick is even providing the ride. I guessed that some guys would be irked by that, but I was fine with it.

The pool at Bear Mountain had an interesting setting at the bottom of a gulch or ravine. I was sitting there first when Nora came out of the bathhouse. Her bathing suit was a two-piece, but it was more ample than a bikini. It was blue with white dots on it. She stood there, put her arms out, and said, “I look really good, right?”

I didn’t want to praise her too much because I knew it would go to her head. Instead, I tried for casual indifference, “Yeah, you’re okay.”

“Just okay?”

I decided to call her on that, “You’re fishing for compliments again.”

She was tongue-in-cheek, “That’s because I deserve them.”

“All right, you’re intriguing; how is that?”

“Man, you’re just hopeless.”

“I thought you’d be the kind of girl who wears a bikini.”

“Not me. I like to flaunt myself a bit, but not that much.”

“So you do have some reserves of modesty.”

“Isn’t that a surprise? Come on, let’s get in the pool already.”

On the way back, she had the top up as promised, and we talked about cars. She seemed to really know her stuff.

“They had a V-8 option, including this thing called the Boss 302, but those are more expensive, even used. There was one with this huge engine called the Boss 329, but those are pretty rare.” That was when cubic inches, not the metric system liters, were used to describe engine displacements. 329 cubic inches would be about seven liters now.

I asked her, “So what is this one?”

She knew. “It’s the 250 in-line six. That is more than adequate, I’d say.”

“I’ve always loved convertibles. Like the GTO, that was a nice one.”

“That gets a bit pricey too. How about an ordinary LeMans? They made them up to ’72.”

I said, “And no more Mustangs either.”

“It’s sad, soon there won’t be any drop-tops left. And the new Mustang is a joke; it’s just an overdone Pinto.”

We were crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge again. I looked over at her. She is just amazingly cool, I’m so much in love with her. I didn’t think about her checkered past as a part-time college hooker. She was confident and decisive in the way she drove, but not reckless. More bonus points, I thought.

I said, “It looks like you might really be getting a tan.”

“I see; you’re looking forward to seeing the tan lines.”

I was blunt with her, “Of course; I want to see the contrast with your pale tits and ass.”

“You guys are all the same.”

“I once saw a Playboy magazine that my dad had hidden in his closet. It had all these naked chicks with tan lines sitting on horses.”

“I don’t ride horses. So, did you masturbate while looking at those photos?”

“I couldn’t keep the magazine out, but I certainly thought about them later.”

“Well, now that you have me, you don’t have to jerk-off so much, do you?”

That sounded kind of snarky, and I looked over at her rather sharply. She smiled back at me, and my heart melted again.

I said, “So for our next trip we should go to the Jersey Shore.”

“What, did I get this so I could give you rides?”

“Come on, you know we’ll have a good time. Or would you rather take the bus?” At least I hadn’t asked to drive yet.

“You know I don’t do beaches.”

“They have that Jenkinson’s amusement park at Point Pleasant Beach. We can play miniature golf and go to the aquarium.”

“An aquarium. You really think of some great date ideas.”

But she smiled at me again and I knew she was kidding.

Oh, what is so rare as a day in June – well, actually August – and a fast convertible and a pretty girl to go with it? At that moment life seemed very sweet indeed.

######

The reference he makes is to George Orwell's Homage to Catalonia, which was the subject of the term paper he wrote for her in return for a blowjob.