She was standing near the front of the crowd that formed a semi-circle around the flatbed truck where the band was playing. Within the semi-circle a lot of people were dancing enthusiastically and I could see Carol was watching them. She was wearing sandals, a pair of baggy red shorts that came almost to her knees, a white t-shirt, and an oversized man’s long-sleeved shirt in pink, worn unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. I walked up behind her and without speaking or stopping propelled her out into the throng of dancers. She turned around immediately and smiled as she recognized me. We put our arms around each other’s waists and began dancing together.
One thing that I knew made Carol uncomfortable was public behavior on my part that gave any hint of the nature of our sexual relationship—she loved being humiliated but didn’t want anyone else to know because it would be…humiliating. Go figure. So of course I took any opportunity I could find to do things to her in public, such as the incident at the bus stop shelter a few days back, because first it embarrassed her, then it angered her…and then it aroused her.
As we danced I noticed that her shirttail hung down nearly to her thighs, concealing my hands, which were still around her waist. Holding her close with my left arm as we continued to dance, I slipped my right hand down inside the back of her shorts and panties and squeezed her right buttock. She stopped dead still and said “Jonathan!” out loud, almost yelling it in her shock.
Fortunately the band was playing extremely loudly and anyone who heard her must have thought she was simply calling to someone. I immediately removed my hand from her shorts and put my arm back around her waist as I urged her to continue dancing. After a moment she did, looking up to me and hissing, “Cut it out, Jonathan! Not here!”
I gave her an innocent look and said, “What, you mean this?” as I began insinuating my fingers under the elastic waistband of her shorts again. She quickly pushed my arm away from her, her expression becoming thunderous.
“Stop it!” she whispered harshly, her eyes boring into mine.
I held her gaze and grinned as we continued to dance. “Why? Are you afraid someone will find out that you’re…” I leaned forward and down until my nose was nearly touching hers. “…a nasty little girl?”
Her face, already red with anger, suddenly flushed more deeply and she looked down and muttered, “Yes…”
I raised my hand, still hidden under the back of her shirt, and gave her a smart slap on the behind. Her gaze jerked up to mine.
“Hey!” She tried to pull away but I held her to me with my left arm and continued to move her around to the music as if we were dancing. “That’s for being a nasty little girl.” Before she could reply I gave her another open-handed swat on the behind, harder this time.
“OW! Jonathan, what’re you…stop it!”
It was perfect—she couldn’t tell that the stinging blows she was receiving were completely hidden from the dancers around us. She must have thought everyone was watching me spank her while we danced. Her lips were compressed with anger and when she spoke it was through clenched teeth: “I said, not here !”
I said, “All right then, come on,” and, grabbing her by the arm led her out of the crowd of dancers and onto the sidewalk behind the flatbed truck. She struggled to free herself from my grip as I dragged her along—but not hard enough to draw attention to herself.
From the sidewalk I led her into the network of alleys between and behind the buildings there. I didn’t take her far—only taking a couple of turns—and we wound up near the end of a blind alley that was almost as close to where the band was as we had been before—except now there were brick buildings all around us. We weren’t completely concealed, of course; anyone walking through the alley connected to the one in which we were standing had only to look in our direction. Which was why I’d chosen it.
When we finally stopped in that windowless alley she said nothing, just looked as if she wanted to spit in my face. I turned her around so that her back was to the alley’s entrance—that way she would be unable to tell if anyone was passing by—and the sun was in her face.
I stood in front of her, close, then grabbed her wrists and roughly placed her hands around my waist, holding them there until I felt her lace her fingers together and stop struggling. I reached around her and tucked the back of her shirt into the waistband of her shorts so there was nothing to obstruct my approach to her behind. Then I took her chin in one hand and tilted her face up until her eyes met mine.
I held her gaze, angry as it was. I loved that she was furious with me but unable to tear her eyes away. And when I raised my hand and gave her a much harder swat on the behind than any of the previous ones it was fascinating to see how her pupils dilated.
Aside from a sudden huff of breath as the blow struck her she said nothing. But she was getting angrier, I could tell, and when she tried to remove her arms from around my waist I had to forcefully put them back. Even then she continued to stare into my eyes.
Now she knew what she was in for. Or so she thought.
I made her stand there like that, arms locked around my waist, gaze fixed on mine, while I delivered nine more slaps to her behind, sometimes left-handed, sometimes right but each one hard enough to echo through the alley. And each one jerking her loins against mine. She must have been determined to stay silent because, aside from an inadvertent grunt after each blow—Unh!”—she made no sound.
When, after the final blow, I disengaged her hands from behind my back she must have thought that we were done. At least until I pulled the tail of her pink shirt free of her waistband, then lifted the shirt from her shoulders and let it slide off her arms to the ground behind her.
Her gaze was furious as I placed her hands on top of her head, then reached down and gently eased the elastic waistband of her shorts down over the curve of her buttocks, then slowly lowered them until I could let them fall around her ankles. She still said nothing, even though I could tell she was dying to.
I pulled off her white t-shirt and then lowered her arms just long enough to remove her bra, dropping both items of clothing to the ground beside her before returning her hands to the top of her head—leaving her standing before me wearing only her sandals and panties.
Her panties had obviously been inspired by The Little Mermaid —they were ocean blue with bright yellow trim and decorated with Ariel and her friends in full color and were extremely cute. I walked around her a few times admiring them, much to her embarrassment—which only increased, I’m sure, when I suddenly knelt in front of her and addressed her there with my lips and tongue.
She gasped—“Ahh!”—as I worked my tongue between her legs, but she kept her hands on top of her head…although I did glance up more than once to catch her looking anxiously over her shoulder.
When the crotch of her panties was good and wet from our combined juices and she was standing with her head back, panting with her tongue out, I stopped what I was doing and stood. Her eyes, which had been closed, flew open as I put my hands on her waist and pulled her against me.
And when I gave her a sudden open-handed swat on her already tender behind, now protected only by the thin fabric of her panties, she cried out before she could stop herself.
I made her kiss me with her tongue in my mouth and mine in hers while I gave her nine more, pausing occasionally to caress her behind while I pressed her against me. After each blow she would grunt—“Unh!”—her mouth still open against mine, and then immediately try to put her tongue even further into my mouth while grinding her crotch into mine. At first this was all with her hands still on top of her head but soon she was unable to resist dropping them to grab my waist, the better to rub herself against me.
I’d never seen her quite this frenzied. After the tenth blow, without being told she pulled her panties down to join her shorts around her ankles, then fell to her knees on the hot concrete—and nearly stripped the zipper of my pants in her hurry to get my cock out and into her mouth.
I was already quite aroused and she worked so furiously, licking and slurping, that in no time at all I was ready to come. When I pulled my cock out of her mouth she knew immediately what I had in mind, and tilted her head back, mouth open like a baby bird, to receive my come.
I let it spurt onto her face and into her mouth, and let her lick the last few drops as they dribbled down the shaft of my cock. Then I straightened my clothes and zipped up.
When I was done I had her put her hands behind her head and told her to stay there.
Then I left the alley.
I made my way out to the square again and bought an orange popsicle from a street vendor.
When I returned to where I’d left Carol she was, of course, exactly as I’d left her: kneeling on the concrete with her back to the alley’s entrance, hands locked behind her head and naked except for her sandals and the shorts and panties tangled around her ankles. Her behind was still a brick red that contrasted with the rest of her white skin.
When she heard my footsteps approaching she quickly turned her head to make sure it was me, then returned to her position.
I walked around in front of her. It was hot that day and sweat, mixed with my come, was dripping from her face. I knelt down and held up the popsicle in front of her and let her watch as I peeled off the wrapper and broke the popsicle in half. I lay one half down on the wrapper in a shady spot. Then I held the remaining half up to her lips.
She must have been dying of heat and thirst after everything that had happened because she attacked that popsicle with her lips and tongue even more vigorously than she had my cock. I slid the glistening orange ice in and out of her mouth a few times while she devoured it.
When she had eaten it all and licked the stick clean I tossed it aside and picked up the other half of the popsicle, already melted somewhat despite having been left in the shade. I took a few slurps to refresh myself then held it up in front of her as I had the first one. But instead of bringing it to her lips I lowered it slowly, watching her head tilt down as she followed it with her eyes. When I touched the icy tip to the depression in her collarbone she gasped.
But when I dragged it slowly down her chest, leaving a sticky orange trail, she began breathing hard through her mouth. Especially when I used the tip to paint first one breast then the other, tracing a spiral design leading up to each nipple, which I then circled and teased in turn until they were rock-hard and dripping with orange sweetness.
By then she had thrown her head back as far as she could with her hands still locked behind it. Her eyes were tightly shut and her mouth hung open as she gasped and moaned. But she shut it—and began biting her lower lip, breathing quickly through her nose—when I removed the popsicle and began licking the juice from her breasts.
As I continued to scour her breasts with my tongue I pressed my left hand, the one not holding the popsicle, flat against her stomach and slowly allowed it to drift down, gradually turning so that the fingers combed through her pubic hair before coming to rest between her legs and beginning to caress her there—not penetrating, just lightly teasing her lips apart with the middle finger.
It was driving her crazy, I could tell by the way she started gasping my name over and over—“Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!”—as if she wanted desperately for me to do something but had been made so mindless with desire that she could no longer find the words.
This effect was only increased when I took the now dripping remnant of the popsicle and, turning it horizontal, reached behind her and starting at the tops of her thighs began drawing it slowly up over the tender, burning skin of her buttocks, all the while maintaining my attentions to her breasts and between her legs.
Suddenly it was as if she were having a religious experience, her body shaking in place as she began to babble incoherently, her voice getting louder and louder as she neared her climax.
When I judged she was unable to hold back any longer I did three things simultaneously: I seized her right nipple with my teeth; I slid my middle finger deeply into her pussy, pressing the heel of my hand against her clitoris…and I shoved the dripping, ice-cold tip of the popsicle right between the cheeks of her behind.
It was unfortunate that the band was between numbers at that particular moment.
The scream that came out of Carol was so loud, and so long, that I’m sure it carried all over the square. I was forced to grab the rest of her clothes, scoop her up in my arms—even though she was still twitching and jerking in the reverberations of her orgasm—and run, before a mob came looking to see if someone had been murdered.
I carried her as far away as I could without actually leaving the maze of alleys. When I finally set her on her feet she was still so wobbly that she had to lean against a wall, eyes closed, while I pulled up her underwear and shorts and helped her into her bra and t-shirt and wrapped the pink shirt around her shoulders.
Her lips and the area around her mouth were still stained orange from the popsicle and the rest of her face still glistening with sweat and come. I said, “I’ll get you some water so you can clean up before we head for the bus,” and started to leave, but her voice, barely audible, stopped me.
I turned back to face her. Her eyes were still closed. I said, “You want to get on the bus the way you are?”
Her eyes opened to bare slits, their expression glazed with exhaustion, and she answered, “Yesss…want people to see …I’m your…property.”
She used her hands to push herself away from the wall and started to straighten up when suddenly her eyes popped wide open. She exclaimed, “Oh! OH!” and suddenly started jerking her hips from side to side and shivering.
For a moment I thought she was somehow having another orgasm. But then without warning Carol jerked her shorts and underwear back down to her ankles and squatted to the ground, still shaking back and forth.
“Oh! C-c-cold!” she gasped between chattering teeth. She strained for a moment…then suddenly relaxed, her expression one of great relief. As she stood up again I looked behind her and there on the ground was a piece of orange popsicle about the size of a peach pit. It must have broken off inside her when I let go of the popsicle to pick her up.
And it must have been considerably larger to begin with because it had melted all the way through the back of her shorts before she’d noticed. I had to root around in a nearby dumpster to find a plastic bag for Carol to stuff down the back of her shorts and another one for her to sit on so she wouldn’t stick to the bus seat.
Later she had to buy a special plastic page insert to seal her panties in before she added them to her scrapbook. She showed it to me, but before she did she told me she’d made a special trip back to the alley where we’d been. Then she opened the scrapbook to the most recent addition and there, sealed in the plastic next to her stained and sticky “Little Mermaid” panties…was a popsicle stick.