Murray Roberts writes: ‘CB’ was a phenomenon. His crime publications, well laced with humour and mild sex, sold by the million. This is one of his better spankings.
She turned her head back toward the mirror and brushed vigorously for another ten seconds, then the hairbrush suddenly froze in mid-air. “I have a lovely thought for you,” she announced in a flat voice. “Lieutenant Wheeler – the hand that children love to hold when they cross the intersection!”
A split second later she exploded with a gust of hysterical laughter. “I can’t help it she groaned weakly,” I keep seeing all those sticky little hands reaching out toward you – trustfully, while – “she moaned helplessly and wrapped her arms around her middle ” – while you try to beat them off with a night stick!”
Her whole body shook with silent laughter as she sank slowly down onto her knees. I watched bleakly for maybe half a minute, until she had it under control, except for the occasional wild spasm.
“I’m – sorry,” she gasped. “Maybe it isn’t funny at all?”
She scrambled back onto her feet and shook her head ruefully. “Now I come to think of it, what’s to laugh at?” Her face had an apologetic look on it as her eyes met mine. “A big bunch of small sticky hands all reaching out toward the kind lieutenant – and you beating them off with a – Aha! Ha! Ha! Ha! – I – Oho! Aha! Oh! She sank back onto her knees in a kind of moaning delirium, her body shaking worse than ever.
While I stood watching her with a wooden face, I heard a distinct snapping sound. “There goes my mind!” I observed casually to anyone who cared to listen. And it was true, it started out as a kind of blind fury, but by the time it blew straight out the top of my head, it was real educated.
Without hurrying, I walked across the floor to where Justine was kneeling, still moaning uncontrollably, grabbed myself a fistful of her hair, then dragged her over to the bed. I sat down carefully and made sure I was comfortable before I yanked the fistful of hair up off the floor and over my knees. There seemed to be an awful lot of hair, but after a while her face appeared wearing a thunderstruck expression. But that passed on and was replaced by the nape of her neck in due course. I kept on feeding various parts of her anatomy across my knees until her rear end was strategically poised high in the air. Then I clamped one hand firmly onto the small of her back so she couldn’t wriggle suddenly and throw off my aim, and raised my other hand high above my head. It made a gentle swishing sound as it cut through the air in a curving arc, a nice contrast to the explosive report that followed.
There was some interesting counterpoint harmony drifting up from the floor, too. It was mainly composed of high pitch yelps of agony – frantic pleas for mercy – dire threats of retribution – all punctuated here and there by short explosive giggles.
After a while my arm got tired, so I slowed down a little, and after another little while, I slowed right down to a stop. “Then I realised I was bathed in a warm, pleasant glow, that pleasant self-righteous feeling a guy always gets after taking vigorous exercise he knows has done him good. The rear end felt like it had suddenly grown a lot heavier since I first lined it up across my knees, so I put the flat of my hand against her hip and gave a sudden push.
Justine was suddenly a furious writhing, untidy heap on the floor in front of me. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought I’d rearranged all her anatomy; then a wave of relief surged through me when I realised the bikini bra had long since quit trying and now hung coyly from her left ear.
Her hands fumbled in front of her face, parting the long dark hair that hung down over it until one baleful eye was suddenly exposed.
“I’ll cut your heart out!” she said thickly. “I’ll marinate your liver and feed it to the rats! I’ll – ”
” – sit down carefully for a long while.” I suggested.
Her hands frantically shovelled hair back from her face to where it belonged and, after a time, the second baleful eye joined the first.
“I’ll have them stake you out over a barbecue pit,” she hissed venomously, “and I’ll roast chestnuts in your navel, you hear?”
“You want to hear something really funny?” I asked her happily. “Get a load of this. There’s me, the kindly lieutenant, see? – standing at the intersection while all these kids reach out their grubby little hands to me – and I keep trying to beat them off with a – ”
“Oh shut up!” she snarled savagely.
I got onto my feet and offered her my hands, then pulled her gently onto her feet, while she pulled painful faces and made sharp ejaculations of misery the whole time.
“You know something?” I told her? “I’m not mad any more.”
“I am – you brute!” Her hands made a delicate exploration behind her back. “I think I’m going to need a skin grafting job – you sadist.”
She swayed gently toward me, the mountains collided with my chest, and her mouth clamped against mine. Maybe ten seconds later, Justine murmured deep in her throat, and completely relaxed her body against mine. I wasn’t prepared for the sudden extra weight and the backs of my knees were pressed tight against the edge of the bed, so something had to give, and it was Wheeler.
I found myself sprawled across the bed, pinned like a bug in some weirdos private collection, by the solid weight of Justine sprawled on top of me, her mouth still firmly clamped to mine, while the tip of her tongue made a couple of experimental forays.
Readers are invited to email Murray Roberts with the title/author of any similar scenes they recall.