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KinkyAg's Spanking Stories
Embellished truth makes the best fiction.
West Texas 
8th-Apr-2010 12:52 pm



West Texas
(Part 1)

(Author's note:  This is an incomplete story.  I'll eventually get around to finishing it.  I seem to have developed a writer's block on this project, so I went on to others.  I'll return.)

My troubles started when I left the beaten path in Texas.  Better stated, that’s when the beatings began.  John Denver sang praises of country roads in West Virginia.  From now on, I’ll stick to Interstate highways when traversing the Lone Star State. 
 

I was 22 years old, a shave-tail second lieutenant fresh out of The Basic School in Quantico, Virginia.  A Marine Corps officer for only seven months, I strapped my sea bag on the luggage carrier of my 500cc Honda and set out for Camp Pendleton, California, where the Commandant and the taxpayers of the Untied States would entrust me with command of an infantry platoon.

My orders allowed me nine days of travel by POV.  That’s privately owned vehicle in military lingo.  I also had four days of “proceed,” which is Marine parlance for days allotted to find housing and settle personal business. 

Sorry about the military talk.  Suffice it to say I had 13 days to get to my new duty station, a month’s advance pay in my wallet, a motorcycle on which I hadn’t yet made the first payment, and the wanderlust of a horny young jarhead temporarily loosed of the bonds of military supervision.

It was a recipe for disaster.  Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be telling this story if I hadn’t impulsively taken that turn off of Interstate 10 west of San Antonio.

Young Marine officers say the best view of Quantico can be seen in your rear view mirror as you leave the main gate for the last time, a set of PCS orders in your sea bag.  Oops, that means permanent change of station, and I’ll really try not to use any more military acronyms. 

I hardly had time for goodbyes, sentimental or otherwise, as the Honda sped toward the I-95 south onramp for a straight shot down to Jacksonville, Florida.  That 681-mile detour put me in position for my misadventure in Texas, as otherwise I’d have cut across the Midwest.   But I thought I had a good reason.  Before humping the San Onofre hills as an infantry officer, it was time for another kind of humping, a quick bit of “nookie” with an old college girlfriend.  I’m sure most of you don’t need a translation of that bit of military slang.

I had met Missy, a voluptuous redhead, in the last semester of my senior year at Jacksonville University, but those last few months of glorious undergraduate sex made up for all of the lost years.  God, could she give blowjobs! I don’t know how she avoided choking, so deeply did she consume my member.  Those lips.  That tongue.  What a skilled fellatrice!  Even when I’d feel her perfectly aligned teeth, they gently teased and tantalized the head of my penis.  I’d explode in orgasmic bliss and she’d swallow every last drop.  As her eyes looked up to meet mine, she’d flash that impish cum-sucking smile. 

She also taught me the finer points of eating pussy:  “You’re using your tongue like a typical Marine,” she’d chide.  “My pussy is not a military objective to be captured!  Slow down.  Be gentle.  Lick me like you’re a lesbian!”

Missy introduced me to another, stranger, sexual proclivity.  She loved me to spank her.  Often I’d whack her butt in foreplay, but other times we’d engage in elaborate play-acting.  One day I was her juvenile probation officer.  Other times, I played her mean stepfather or strict school principal.  Each time I’d chew her out for some imagined infraction, order her to strip buck-naked, and then take her over my knee.  Each time she’d apologize for her “transgressions” and beg not to be spanked, but soon she’d lie helpless—a wrist pinned into the small of her back, as I’d give that naughty girl her painful comeuppance.

I’d spank her ass until it turned cherry red and she howled.  She squirmed like a little wiggle worm.  She scissor-kicked her legs.   Neatly pedicured little toes wiggled and curled as my stinging slaps landed on her ass.  Still roll playing, I’d admonish her to behave as the palm of my hand repeatedly smacked her bulbous, bouncy little butt cheeks.   She’d beg for me to stop, but I knew it was only a ruse.  Soon she’s start sobbing, but I knew she still wanted more.

Damn, I never imagined how whacking her cute little bottom could be such a turn on.  To this day I can close my eyes and see the reddish-orange freckles that carpeted her ass, at first prominently contrasting with her lightly tanned skin, but then blending in with her darkening flesh tone as her butt turned progressively redder.  I’d never seen a girl with freckles on her butt, and boy did I have a good time smacking them. 

The longer I spanked, the stiffer my cock became and the wetter her sweet spot got.

It would take a deft wordsmith with better than a mere Marine officer’s vocabulary to adequately describe how good the fucking became after spanking Missy.  Her tender ass in agony, she’d nevertheless lie on her back and receive my rock-hard dick into her well-lubricated twat.  Sometimes I’d grant her stinging butt a degree of forbearance and let her mount me.

The front of my thighs could feel the heat reradiating up from her blistered bottom.  I’d tickle her erect nipples with the tip of my tongue.  Sometimes she’d twist and bury her tongue into my earlobe, then gently nibble my ears with her perfectly constructed, ivory-white teeth.  All the while, staying with the roll play, she’d be apologizing for her “misbehavior” and urging me to continue her “punishment.”

“Fuck me harder, harder!” she’d whisper.  I’ve been a very, very bad girl.”

I wondered if any of the California girls I’d meet would like to be spanked. 

* * * *

Before I knew it, three days of glorious sex and ass whacking had elapsed.  I still had the width of the United States to traverse before checking into the Fifth Marine Regiment.  The last thing I wanted to do is piss off my new company commander by reporting late.  That wouldn’t be a great start to a Marine Corps career.  For months I’d have a “reputation,” that is, until another young second lieutenant screwed up and drew the limelight from me. 

Interstate 10 stretches for 2,443 miles though the southern tier of the American sunbelt, from the beach cities Jacksonville on the Atlantic to Santa Monica on the Pacific.   Its topographic diversity, from the sea-level Atchafalaya River basin swamps of Louisiana to its 4,585- foot crossing of the continental divide in New Mexico, belies its political sameness. 

This is god-fearing, conservative country, a patriotic mother load that spawned the majority of the young Marine officers I trained with at Quantico.  For generations slaves and then sharecroppers harvested cotton in Dixie, while Hispanic migrant workers toiled for a pittance in the irrigated deserts of the southwest. The politics of race and class struggle marked the region’s history, and although issues evolved, right-wing ideology still prevailed.  Today, thanks to the rise of broadcast conglomerates, a motorist can traverse the entire length of I-10 and never lose the ability to tune in Rush Limbaugh.   

That, of course, was what my history and political science teachers had taught, somewhat irrelevant to a young California-bound Marine officer who had the world by the balls.  Now, if I could only find out how to get laid one more time before reaching the west coast!  I wonder if I could find any girls who liked to be spanked in those beachfront cities along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, in the Big Easy of New Orleans, in those teeming Texas metropolises of Houston or San Antonio, or in those sprawling desert cities of Tucson or Phoenix.  It shouldn’t be too hard for a young hard charger.

* * * 

West Texas
(Part 2)

These were only fleeting thoughts as my 500cc bike whined through the scrub oak and pine forests of the Florida panhandle and finally into the Cradle of Naval Aviation, the series of bases and airfields in and near Pensacola where the Navy and Marine Corps train their pilots and navigators.  I checked into visiting officer’s quarters on base, which set me back only nine dollars.  That allotted sufficient cash for a visit to the paragon fleshpot of Pensacola, a hole-in-the-wall but world-famous waterfront bar on South Palafox Street known as Trader Jon’s.

Since 1952, generations of naval aviators hoisted beer mugs, told raunchy jokes, and chased pussy at this dingy but hallowed institution where over the years the likes of John Wayne, Bob Hope, Elizabeth Taylor, Prince Andrew and Brooke Shields have mingled with thousands of aspiring naval aviators, their flight instructors, and the women who chassed them.  The walls are a virtual museum of naval aviation, filled with memorabilia from thousands of training classes that had passed through this gateway to “wings of gold,” the coveted badge of Navy and Marine Corps known affectionately as golden leg spreaders.

Two kinds of women frequented Trader Jon’s.  The West Florida floozies, products the economically depressed surrounding counties and their sub-par educational systems, hoped for a ticket out of town courtesy of an aspiring military pilot.  This was the kind of town where government money lubricated the economy and military and associated civil service jobs were highly coveted.  Marrying a young ensign or second lieutenant provided the only guaranteed route to social mobility. 

On Friday and Saturday nights, young store clerks, secretaries, and even elementary school teachers packed Trader Jon’s and surrounding bars in search of the junior officer who would punch their ticket with a cheap engagement ring purchased on credit from one of a plethora of discount jewelry stores that flourished in such military towns. 

As second class of women visited Trader Jon’s on a more irregular schedule.

Sailors and Marines are well known for their promiscuity while away from homeport in such notorious liberty ports as Olongapo City near the Subic Bay naval base in the Philippines.   Marital status meant nothing.  Among naval aviators, the phrase “throttles up, rings off,” had been common since the USS Jupiter, the first American aircraft carrier, left port in 1912. 

Less well known was the tit-for-tat their wives and girlfriends exacted when the fleet sailed.  In navy towns such as Norfolk and San Diego, navy wives shed tears and blew kisses the afternoon that their husband’s ship put out to sea.  Then they hurried home, freshened up, and got ready for some liberty of their own. 

While their husbands and boyfriends were getting settled into their shipboard routine, officer wives packed the chiefs (senior enlisted) club and enlisted brides showed up in force at the officers club.  By crossing a line of rank-based social demarcation normally respected when their husbands were at home, they trolled for companionship without fear of running in one of their husband’s colleagues.

 Unlike their single counterparts from the local area, these military wives sought spicy, fleeting, one-night excitement to compensate for the drudgery of six months alone with the kids.  They knew well that the part of their devoted husbands’ paychecks not sent home by military allotment would be reserved to pay the bar fines of Filipino hooker-waitresses in the Olongapo flesh pots, a financial inducement that allowed the young girl to leave work early and take her newfound boyfriend home to her father’s house.

Normally observant Catholics, these Filipino parents looked the other way when their daughters brought young Americans home for an evening of steamy sex under their prominent, wall-mounted, crucified personage of Jesus.  The money was just too good to pass up, as so was the small chance of following the sailor home to America.  One out of twenty Subic Bay women actually received serious marriage proposals.  The real irony manifested itself when one of the lucky immigrant Filipino brides, several years later, would visit the officers club trolling for companionship while hubby sailed back to Subic Bay.

It was all part of the post-Vietnam military morality that had yet to suffer assault from the evangelical right of the late 20th and early 21st centuries. Americans of that era didn’t expect their warriors to be choirboys.

In military and civilian terminology, I “got lucky” that evening.  Well, not so lucky, as it turned out.

* * *

Pensacola was a naval base with hundreds of airplanes but only one ship.  The USS Lexington was a restored World War II aircraft carrier used in the final qualification stage for Navy and Marine Corps pilots.  After practicing carrier landings on concrete land-based runways marked off with the restricted dimensions of a ship, the student pilots flew out to “hit the boat.” 

Those who succeeded earned their Wings of Gold.  Those who couldn’t satisfy the LSO’s strict criteria after several tries were sent back to land to land their airplanes ashore and contemplate careers as navy shipboard officers or marine grunts. 

Oh, sorry about the military terminology.  LSO means landing signal officer, a cross between an air traffic controller and a shipboard referee of impending carrier landings.  If he doesn’t like your approach to landing, he “waves you off,” sending you around for another try.  If you run too low on gas, you must return to shore for a landing at a much longer concrete runway.

For those who couldn’t pass this final test, that short flight back to Pensacola was the longest and the last of their careers.  It marked failure to qualify as a naval aviator.  They would soon be assigned less glorious jobs in the Navy or Marine Corps, such as standing watch on ship or slogging through the mud as an infantryman.  In the informal parlance of the surface navy or ground-based Marine Corps, they’d become “fallen angels.”

Well, I was indeed lucky.   Earlier this afternoon the Lexington had put out to sea, and Trader Jons filled with the horny wives and girlfriends of both the ship’s crew and the student pilots who were undergoing this critical last stage of qualification.  They may have wanted to earn their “golden leg spreaders,” that uniform insignia that signified their certification as pilots.  But their women had some more immediate leg spreading in mind.

I caught her eye across the vast expanse of cigarette smoke and primal lust.  There she sat against a wall covered with layers of aviation memorabilia.  She didn’t look like a gunnery sergeant’s wife, at least not the crusty old image I conjured up.  Quite the opposite.

Shiny lace-up imitation black leather boots, adorned with five-inch spiked heals, reached up to each knee.  A short leather skirt road halfway up her thigh, and when you moved you could catch a glimpse of black lace panties beneath.   A biker jacket fully open at the front revealed ample cleavage covered barely by a black halter-top, revealing more than it hid.

Blond hair and blue eyes defined her countenance, an Aryan look straight from central casting for a female concentration camp guard.  Those blue eyes grabbed hold of me like a tractor beam, refusing to turn me loose no mutter how much I wanted to turn away or even blink.  They seemed to penetrate my corneas, staring deep into my consciousness, as if she were reading my thoughts.

The palm of her right hand rotated upward, revealing long, French-manicured nails.  With one stroke of her index finger she beckoned a soft but irresistible invitation, as her lips mouthed and unmistakable:  “Come here, Marine!”

* * * *



My head felt like I had just dismounted a jackhammer.  Damn, I don’t remember drinking that much.

Then I sensed the wetness.  I became aware of the pool of spit that had collected on the black vinyl material that underlay my naked body.  It wasn’t all saliva; some of it was sweat, but I had indeed drooled all the way past my chin and down to my chest.

My greatest surprise occurred a fraction of a second later, when I tried to move my arms and legs. I couldn’t retract my limbs.  A firm, sudden resistance met my attempts to move my arms and legs, concomitant with a distinct metallic clanking. I found myself spread out, hands and feet pointing outward like four cardinal points of the compass.

Jesus, what the hell?  God damn!  I’m chained down! 

Panic quickly set in, as I ferociously struggled against the soft Velcro cuffs that encircled by wrists and ankles, large silver aluminum chain links firmly fastened to each restraint, stretching beyond my blurred field of vision in the dark, damp room.

“Where am I?  What’s going on?  Help!” I screamed in fright.

Hey, I’m a Marine, trained to maintain calm in combat, I though.  But the hell is this, some kind of nightmare?  How can I collect my thoughts in a situation like this? They didn’t teach anything like this at The Basic School, even in escape and evasion class.

Then five long black fingers bore down in the small of my back, and another hand firmly grabbed and squeezed the flesh of my left ass cheek.  These were strong but soft hands, a lady’s hands, with not a rough callous to be felt.

“Hey, Marine, calm down,” came the soft but commanding feminine voice.  “You had quite a bit to drink back there.  Goodness, young man, you’ve been out for quite a few hours.

“But I’ve had my fun with you in the meantime,” she said with a wicked chuckle.  “but not as much as I’m going to have now.”

Then I felt it.  A fullness in my anus I hadn’t felt, even on the occasion of a giant bowel movement.

Jesus Christ, Lord and Savior!  She was sticking something up my ass!

(to be continued)

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