Winter Mix Ch. 11: Bad

"Good," praised Phil. Using the ambient low lighting to see by, he held Becky's chin and wiped away her smeared lipstick as he spoke in a low voice. "First, go to the Ladies' Lounge, splash a little cool water on your face and freshen your make-up. Then come out to the main lobby. I'll be looking at the posters for 'Coming Attractions'... " In his mind, he added, "...To see if you were among them, Lemon Drop." Continuing out loud, he said, "When you see me, walk right up, act surprised, and say, 'Oh, hi, Mr. Maxon!' or something of that sort. I'll take it from there and you just follow my cues." Still holding her chin, he tipped her head back, kissed her bare lips lightly, and asked, "Can you do that?"

Becky was already beginning to rally. Eager to show she was mature enough to discreetly meet a married man, she answered confidently, "Sure, Phil. It sounds simple enough. See you in a few minutes in the lobby."

After Becky split the velvet curtains, passed through, and disappeared, Phil noticed cum splotches on his crotch. Shaking his head with exasperation, because he thought he had kept her plugged as she sat on his lap in her post-coital stupor, he thought, "Looks like my dick fell out before she absorbed all my stuff." Even though he was indoors, he zipped up his knee-length winter jacket to hide the evidence and headed for the lobby.

Phil had to laugh when he saw the first framed poster advertising 'Swiss Family Robinson.' He and Bobbie brought Trixie to the Fine Arts to see that movie during Christmas week. The next poster on the wall was for 'Where The Boys Are'. The third and fourth playbills were for movies he had not heard of: 'The League of Gentlemen' and 'Cimarron'. He mused to himself, "Maybe they only change their posters out every two weeks on a Monday, or something."

Phil liked Glenn Ford and Westerns, but was unsure about 'The League of Gentlemen'. The actors names that he recognized were British, so it was probably going to be hard to understand. He was still mulling over whether he wanted to see that film when Becky popped up from behind him to his right and said, brightly, "Oh, hey! Mr. Maxon! Hi, how are you?" She beamed and bounced up on her toes enthusiastically.

Phil grinned at her hamming it up and pretending they were just meeting by chance. Playing his part, he replied, "Becky? Becky Barnes? Gosh, it's been, what... I don't know how long. I'm fine, thanks." He stepped back and looked her over quickly from her long black curly hair to her glossy black flats. "You've really grown. What are you up to?"

"I'm at NYU, Mr. Maxon," Becky answered. "Just home for Christmas break. I go back tomorrow, so I thought I'd catch a movie. Where are Mrs. Maxon and Trixie? I'd love to say 'hi' before I have to say 'bye'!" She laughed lightly.

"That's too bad, Becky," Phil informed her. "They're in New Haven and won't be home until late." He smiled sheepishly, "That's why I'm here all alone. The movie was a little young and dumb for me, but I had to find something to do." He chuckled and suggested, "Can I give you a ride home? I know it's not a real long walk, but it's pretty cold out there."

Becky risked touching Phil's elbow as she accepted the offer. "Well, you can see I dressed warm, wool socks, skirt and heavy coat. But, sure! Thank you!" She was just about to hook her arm through his when he subtly, but effectively, pulled free from her touch.

"Fine," Phil said. Intentionally raising his voice about five decibels, he went on, "You stay here and watch through the glass doors. When you see my turquoise Chevy Impala pull to the curb, come out and get in. Do you know what a Chevy Impala looks like? It's a 1958 model."

Becky shrugged as she answered, "I know what color turquoise is, and I know what you look like. I guess I can figure out which car to get into." He cocked his head quizzically and left the theater to get his coupe, while she stood wondering, "Why did I say it that way? I didn't mean to sound so snotty."

Fifteen minutes later, Phil stopped the Impala at the corner a half-block away from the Barnes house and said to Becky, "You should get out here and walk the rest of the way." Her heart leapt into her throat as she feared his next words, then joyfully resettled behind her left breast when he continued, "I'll put the car away and then cut through our back yard to your back door. Will you wait for me in your living room?"

"Gosh, yes," Becky affirmed. She wanted to shout, "I'll wait for you anywhere!" Instead, she got out of the Chevrolet and started walking home. She resisted the urge to turn around or, worse yet, to stand and watch him drive away. "Be discreet," she said aloud to herself.

Phil drove around the block and approached his own house from the other end. At the top of his double drive, he parked the coupe in its usual spot, pulled down the overhead door and left the garage through its door to the side yard. Moving past the garbage cans into the larger yard behind his house, he crossed the crunchy grass. Now more glad than ever that he and Ralph Barnes had decided not to erect a fence between their properties, he walked swiftly directly to the back door to the kitchen and entered.

Becky was not waiting for Phil in the living room as he had asked. She stood in the main hall outside the kitchen at the foot of the stairs to the second floor. She exclaimed, with surprise, "Wow! You were fast! I only just had time to take off my coat and hang it in the closet. Do you want a Coke or something? Mom has liquor in the cupboard by the refrigerator."

Phil shook his head. For the second time that day, he took off his his boots and hung his coat on the wall rack. As he walked toward Becky he pointed to the half-filled Cream of Wheat bowls and the souring milk that had been left on the kitchen table along with the used spoons. "Let's get these things washed and put away and not leave any more indicators that you've had company while your Mom and Barney have been gone. There's really no sense in raising questions, is there?"

Becky nodded her understanding. At the table, while Phil scraped the bowls into the sink and flushed the mush with hot water, she sniffed the milk carton, decided it was still okay, and put it in the Coldspot. He hand washed the dishes and spoons then she showed him where they went as she put the cereal box in its cupboard. With everything in apple-pie order, she stepped up and hugged him close from behind while saying, "Thanks for everything, Phil. For waking me up, for the movie, for coming inside after, for everything!"

Phil turned in the embrace, kissed Becky's forehead, then pivoted her about-face and said, "Let's go in the living room and have a little talk. Shall we?" She led the way but, with her back turned to him, he could not see the perplexion in her face as she tried to guess why his tone had sounded different than previously; cool, almost as if he was angry about something.

Phil quickly scanned the living room as he followed Becky through the archway from the main hall. The pimento-color velvet wing-back BarcaLounger and the rust-color heavy cloth upholstered armchair beside it both faced the large wood cabinet Philco television, but were far enough back that they might prove useful later. For his immediate need, however, the heavy cloth-upholstered 3-cushion squash-color couch looked perfect: roomy, sturdy, and comfortable. Walking over to it, he sat on its middle cushion and patted the seat beside his left hip as he said, again in the quiet cool voice she had found so strange, "Come here, Becky. Sit beside me, please."

There was nothing alarming about the words, but Becky was alert to some change. She felt as if the simple request was neither as simple as it seemed, nor a request so much as a command. Nonetheless, she wanted very much to sit beside Phil. As she did, she put her right arm around his shoulders, angled her knees toward his and looked expectantly into his brown eyes as she asked, "What shall we talk about?"

Phil twisted his torso, ducked away from Becky's arm and held both her hands in his in his lap. She smiled inwardly as she felt his lumpy package beneath her palms. Solidly clutching her wrists with his right hand, he placed his left flat between her shoulder blades. A pleasant warmth promptly proceeded through her chest to her tummy as he rubbed small gentle circles through her angora sweater and satin camisole.

Becky's query, oddly, brought to Phil's mind the poem, 'The Walrus and The Carpenter'. A peculiar placid faraway expression came over his countenance as he thought particularly about delectable fat young oysters. Barely audibly, he answered her, "Of cabbages. And kings."

Astonished, Becky furrowed her thick shaped dark eyebrows, and replied, "What?"

This further question jarred Phil back to the current moment and he clarified, "I said, 'of cabbages and kings.' It's a line from Lewis Carroll's 'Through The Looking Glass'. You should read it sometime."

Suddenly the earth opened and Becky fell through the world. Or, more accurately, she fell across Phil as he simultaneously pushed her back forward and yanked on her arms. Her already bent legs pivoted naturally so that she landed kneeling on the living room carpet and laying over his quads at a forty-five-degree angle, facing the couch back. As she stared at the plump overstuffed diamond-patterned rust-and-gold throw pillows leaned up against the broad sofa arm, she wondered, "What just happened?"

Becky's puzzlement was quickly resolved when Phil whipped her window-pane plaid wool skirt's hem high above her hips and landed two sharp slaps in rapid succession onto her naked bottom. She yowled her surprise and pain. Squirming futilely against his restraining iron grip, she chewed her lips as he quickly followed the first volley with two more resounding smacks and said calmly, with no evident ire, "Let's talk about bad girls. Crafty little cunts. Dishonest prick-teasing sluts. And men who make them make amends."

Phil's coarse language hurt Becky almost as much as did his searing spanks. She had never, not even as a naughty child, been subjected to such harsh words or brutal physical mistreatment. Humiliation replaced the good humor which, only moments ago, had been welling within her. Another pair of well-place powerful swats brought tears to her eyes as her face flushed and all four of her cheeks ruddied with heat. Anxiously she awaited additional anticipated assaults which amazingly did not occur.

Instead, Phil slid his hand below Becky's pale bottom, cupped her buttocks' undercurves, and gave each soft glute a slow solitary solid squeeze. Almost immediately, his tender massage gave her afflicted ass relief. The pain dissipated and left behind only telltale handprints brighter than her pink stockings or sweater. She soughed small sighs, blinked back unreleased tears and listened carefully for any clue to the misdeeds that had earned her terrible punishment.

When Phil noticed Becky relax, he let go her wrists and burrowed his right hand into her hairline at her brow. At the same time, he centered his left palm over her butt-crack and extended his long middle finger to her nest's nadir. While he twisted a short manicured nail in her brunette locks and inserted another through her pussy's pearly portal, he recited Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's famous short poem: "There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid."

Despite her conscious shame, Becky could not deny the physical effect of Phil's tender caresses. Once more a suffuse sunniness flowed through her; with it, a familiar welcome sensual tension built in her chest, throat and tummy. She pressed her head against his hand. Lubricating honey flowed freely around his wiggling knuckle.

Pleased by her body's response, Phil withdrew his finger from Becky's cunny and circled its greased tip around her wrinkled caramel anus. At the same time, he dropped his right hand to her chin, pushed his forefinger into her mouth and pinched her right cheek against his thumb. She automatically began nursing like a hungry baby and involuntarily hitched her bottom up against the novel intimate pressure she felt there. He cooed to her, "That's very, very good. But you've been bad. Amends must be made."

As Becky sucked one finger and Phil augured his other one deeper into her rectum, small but significant erotic tremors rippled and crashed. She sniffed short breaths and whimpered behind closed eyes. Meanwhile, carefully repeating key words, he recapped, "You're a crafty cunt; a dishonest prick-tease. You hunted a married man when he was alone and vulnerable. You kissed him, jacked him, seduced him!"

With his left middle digit stuffed two-knuckles up Becky's butt, Phil pulled his fingers from her mouth then fiercely seized her left tit through her satin and angora armor as he continued, "But that wasn't enough. You tried to destroy him. You fucked him in public. Anyone who might have been looking could easily have seen. Amends must be made." Whipsawed, top and bottom, the increasing intensity in his voice plus his manipulations, drove her mad with desire. Her crisis boke.

Becky shrieked. Frantic for anything to grab, she pulled the nearest fat pillow to her and clawed its fabric. She wept freely and wailed words she had heard, but never before uttered, "Yes, I'm a SLUT! I'm a CUNT! I'm SORRY! Oh, fuck me, FUUUCCK ME! Please! I'm SORRY, I'll never do that again!"

Phil stood from the couch bringing Becky to her feet with him. Spinning her about-face in his arms, he walked her to the heavy armchair by the BarcaLounger and launched her on her knees onto its thick cushion. Still shivering in her orgasm's throes, she clutched the chair back's cloth upholstery with white knuckles while he swiftly unleashed his fury. With his slacks and shorts around his ankles, he flipped her circle skirt high onto her mid-back then punched his piston into her combusting cunt with a single long stroke.

Becky cried out louder as Phil's compacted scrotum slapped her taint and his dick head smashed her cervix. "GAWWWD! Yes! Oh, PHILLLL! Uhhhnnn..." Her voice faded to incoherent babble, but her orgasm trebled while her pulsing pussy creamed his caught cock.

Phil grinned over Becky's shuddering shoulders as she tossed her long black hair and perseverated, "Fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckme..." Withdrawing from her vagina, he adjusted his angle upward an inch and pressed his greased glans onto, then into, her still gaping sphincter. She yelped anew as his hard broad shank followed the soft spade. When his pubes were flush to her hot cushy ass cheeks, he cruised his mitts under her flopped cami to her shaking jelly jugs.

Locked in and locked on, Phil rocked his hips and milked Becky's tits. She twerked around his imprisoned prick, arched her back and compressed her breasts yet more within his iron talons. Her ecstasy seemed everlasting as renewed tsunamis pounded her malfunctioning lungs. Gulping like a fish out of water, she tipped her head to the ceiling in a silent scream.

Phil pulled back half his length, drove deep again, then pulled free completely. Quickly re-aligning, he thrust once more into Becky's greedy gash and groaned as his gonads released their horde in a rush. He inhaled deep and held his breath while he reveled in the sensation of his surging semen spurting haphazardly from his slit into hers. He flexed against her contracting Kegels and crunched his abs to force his forces to their extreme limits.

When he had finished and Becky's chest no longer heaved in his hands, Phil leaned forward and whispered sweetly in her left ear, "That was very, very good, too, Lemon Drop. Now tell me again that you're sorry. I'll forgive you. You can go back to school and we'll stay good friends."

Becky fought back tears of relief as a sense of redemption blossomed in her soul. Her lips quivered, but her voice was strong as she said, sincerely, "I'm sorry I was bad, Phil. I want to be your good friend."