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While investigating the murder of Mr. Newberry, Dick's life becomes entwined with Betty's and her sexuality is opened to him. Following the twists of the investigation he realizes that she has become involved as Betty is used as the bait for the next hit. Sorting through the complex entanglements, Dick also realizes he has become obsessed with Betty which now requires that the trail to the killer must exonerate her as well as solve the mystery of the murder.
The route he takes to meet his sexual needs, and ultimately hers combines his world of mobsters and murder with her world of sex, spankings and mental instability. As mystery and sex intertwined, Dick crosses the line and ...
It was ten o’clock.� It was time so I changed from the T-shirt and Daisy Dukes shorts into the red shortie nightdress with matching frilly panty that Daddy had selected.� Then, standing at the top of the stairs I called down. “Daddy.”
“Yes, Betty.”� Daddy’s voice drifted up to me.� I heard the sounds of billiard balls crashing as the men played their game.
“Daddy, I just want to say ‘goodnight’. I’m going to bed now.”
“Come downstairs. We still need to talk about this afternoon.”
“But, Daddy I’m dressed for bed.� I don’t want to interrupt your friends.� Can’t we talk in the morning?”� There really was nothing to talk about. This was just part of the game.
Daddy saved me a year ago, just after I turned eighteen.� At first, the offer of being his submissive seemed little better than mother’s plan of prostitution. �But, I badly wanted to go to college and Daddy promised.� Publicly I would pretend to be his daughter and privately I would be his submissive. I would learn to live in two different worlds.� I could leave at anytime, but if I did his support for college would end.� When he pulled me across his lap for my first spanking I was more than a little afraid.� But the sting of his hand on my bare bottom was mixed with warm caresses.� While the same word � spanking - was used, this bore no relation to the beatings from mother’s boyfriend.� As the sting of the swats increased, so did the depth of the warming caresses. My kitty was giving me sensations I’d never before felt.� I was begging for more when he stopped and had me look at my pink blushing bottom in the mirror.� This beginning made me yearn for more.� He finished stripping me and took me.� This too used the same body parts as the other men, but Daddy did not use my sex like those men mother brought into my bedroom.� Daddy made love to me.� For the first time, I knew ‘making love’, and I knew I wanted Daddy to own me.�
Daddy called to me again. “Betty, you heard me, and I don’t want to say it again.”
Timidly, I slowly walked down the steps until I was in full view of the playroom.� The two men around the billiards table stopped in mid-play and looked at me.� The other two men with Daddy at the bar also turned.� I knew Richard very well from the spanking parties, but he’d pretended not to know me.� Clearly, Daddy had included him in the game.� I had never seen the other three men before.� When they had arrived I was laying on the living room floor doing my homework before the TV, my bottom cheeks peeking from under the hem of my shorts my and bare feet with their cherry red toenails waving in the air.� The nightdress was not of a mature sexy cut as would be found in Victoria’s Secret, but juvenile, frilly and very short.� The red nightdress matched my toenails.� Standing, it barely covered the frills of the matching panty.� The thin lacy fabric only barely concealed my breasts with their rigid nipples.
I stopped halfway down the stairs. “Gentlemen, I’m very sorry to interrupt.� Daddy, really?”� He had told me not to make him say it again.
“Yes, Betty�NOW!”� Daddy put his glass down sharply on the bar and I jumped at the resulting report.� Daddy moved to the center of the room.� Completing my descent down the stairs, I walked to him and stood before him in my bare feet, feeling so very exposed.� My kitty tingled. Daddy liked sharing.
“What did you do this afternoon?”
“I drove the car without permission,” I admitted quietly, but loud enough for all to hear.� “I disobeyed you and I’m very sorry.� It won’t happen again, I promise.”� This was part of the game.� Nothing had happened that afternoon and I certainly would never disobey Daddy.
“Betty, you know we don’t let the day finish with unresolved issues.”
“Daddy, your friends�” I meekly squeaked out.
“They will wait.� They all have children of their own to discipline.� They know what is required.”� They may have had children, but slim chance they did they discipline like Daddy.� “Richard, would you please bring that chair over here?”� Richard picked up the spanking chair and placed it in the center of the room.� No one spoke.� Daddy sat in the chair and motioned to me.� Very slowly I stepped to him and lay across his lap.� I covered my face with my hands and whined as I locked my knees and pinned my feet together. I dug my painted toes into the nap of carpet.� Daddy lifted the hem of the short nightdress and pulled it up, exposing first the frilly panty then about half of my bare back.� I kept arms close and my hands over my face, and whined again.
Daddy placed his hand on my bottom.� “Betty, when you disobeyed me what did I say would be your punishment?”
“Daddy, please�” I whined.
“Betty, it will double if you cross me again.”
I choked back a fake sob then answered, my voice barely above a whisper. “You said I would be spanked on the bare bottom�twenty swats.”� I made this up, giving Daddy a clue as to how far I was comfortable going.� He would do what he wanted, but it was in my favor to give an opinion.
Daddy pressed his fingers inside the elastic waistband and began to drag the frilly panty down slowly exposing my bare bottom.� The men from the billiard table and the bar stepped closer.� Richard was standing right before my nose.� He had seen my bare bottom before and spanked me himself several times.
As the elastic stretched over the last of the cheek’s fleshy curve my kitty tingled again, but I whined and sobbed.� The elastic came to rest at mid-thigh.� Daddy began the swats - which were only tingles - but I shrieked.� After five I was sobbing and he stopped. “Betty, you’re not counting.� If you cannot give me an accurate count we will have to start again.”
I choked back a sob, “Daddy that was five. Five. Thank you for disciplining me, sir.”� Richard returned to his drink at the bar.
The next one was harder - a real stinger - and I kicked up my feet and threw back my hands to cover my bottom.� “Six, thank you for disciplining me, sir.”� He stopped again and grabbed my hands.
“Zack, in the interest of finishing this quickly would you please help me by holding her hands.”� One of the men at the billiards table laid his cue stick down and walked over to stand in front of me. �Daddy passed my hands to him and he gripped my wrists.� Now my head hung down free, as did the front of the nightie.� Through the large armholes my breasts would now be visible.� The third man at the bar stepped closer.� My hair still covered my face.� My crying continued.
Daddy made the next three swats tinglers again, but I continued to jerk my hands against Zack’s hold and kicked my feet.� The tenth was another stinger “Ten, sir! Thank you for disciplining me, sir!”� My feet kicked wildly.�
Daddy stopped and called out, “John, she is being most unruly tonight.� Will you please come and hold her feet still.”� The other man at the billiards table walked over and grabbed my bare feet.� He didn’t hold my ankles as I expected.� Instead he crossed my ankles and gripped the bottoms of my feet, which were now on the outside, in his hands.� His fingers were on the tops of my feet, which were now on the bottom as I was laying face down, with his thumbs pressed into the fleshy part just behind the toe pads.� Then he pressed my feet together.� This touch excited my kitty even more.
Daddy gave me another stinger. “Eleven, thank you for disciplining me, sir!”� I tried to jerk my feet, but found John’s technique to be a most thorough imprisonment for them.� Daddy continued with tinglers, and I continued to count and sob and pull my hands and jerk my feet.� However, John now pressed his thumbs hard into the fleshy bottoms of my feet and this hurt.� For the remainder of the swats I held my feet still and he released the pressure.� The tightness with which my feet were bound excited my kitty even more.� I felt the moisture flow. Daddy would have a wet spot on his pants leg.
Finally we reached the last one. “Twenty! Thank you for disciplining me, sir!”
“You were rather unruly tonight, Betty.� Five more should remind you to better behave during your punishment.”� Without waiting for me to count them, he gave me five quick stingers to make my bottom pink.� I shrieked and jerked my hands in earnest, but I remembered to keep my feet still.� However, John still increased the pressure of his thumbs slightly, not enough to cause the pain as before, but enough to set my kitty on fire!
Leaving my panty at mid-thigh Daddy lifted me up “Go stand, nose into the corner,” he ordered. “Hold the hem up so we can see your pink bottom.”� I obeyed.� After about ten minutes Daddy commanded me to raise my panty.� He gripped my arm above the elbow and led me up the stairs to my bedroom.� Once in my room he had me strip nude.� He touched my sodden kitty.
“You are not to play with yourself,” he said. “You will wait for me, understand?”
“Yes Sir.”� He laid me facedown on the bed.� Apparently he did not trust my self-control, as he then bound my wrists behind my back.� Daddy didn’t like ropes. he used supple thin leather straps for binding.� After crossing my wrists, he looped the straps twice around and twice between and closed the binding with only a single hitch.� The binding was snug but not tight or painful. In an emergency I could easily wiggle free.� Then he bound my legs together just above the knee.� Daddy had sensed my extreme arousal and was serious about preventing self-stimulation.� Finally, he bound my ankles together.� As he finished the final knot I wiggled my toes to taunt him.� He scraped his fingernails along the palms of my feet and watched me giggle and twitch in my bondage.
Pulling the sheet up, Daddy tucked it around my shoulder, kissed my cheek, turned out the light and left.� Daddy had left the door open and I continued to hear the sounds of chatting men and crashing billiards.� As I ground my kitty into the firm mattress, I felt taunted by my own arousal.� I desperately needed the party to end quickly.�
Betty is already seated in the restaurant when I arrive for our lunch date.� Her back is to the door, but the familiar flow of her light brown hair over her shoulders is unmistakable.� The baby in its carrier on the table is rather unmistakable too.� I had first met Betty last Wednesday when my partner Roger and I had interrogated her as a material witness in the Stan Newberry murder.� The baby had been her companion that afternoon as well.� While Betty dutifully cared for her infant, she had made no reference to it.� Betty had, however, made it clear that she was no longer married.� This fact bore a hole through my brain that afternoon as we interrogated her and cleared her as a suspect. That evening, I could not get Betty out of my mind.� With a surprising twist of luck, we identified Mark Lackman as our prime suspect on Thursday.� While he had fled, the case was considered closed and I took the opportunity to trick Betty into joining me for dinner Friday night.� As she had promised, when I called Saturday morning for a ‘for-real date’ she had said ‘yes’.�
As I take the opposite seat her green eyes warm my soul, but she doesn’t give me the expected smile.� Her loose fitting sleeveless pink blouse conservatively hides her medium sized firm breasts that I long to kiss again.� “Hello Dick,” she says quietly.� She looks up to me and her eyes glisten as though she’s been crying.
I want to embrace her and kiss her, but she remains seated deep into the booth out of reach.� Her thin smile is unexpectedly cool.� Her hands are clasped tightly on the table.� The baby’s awake and sucking on a rattle.� I reach for her hands, but she quickly pulls them away and down to her lap.� Rejected, I order iced tea from the waitress.
“Betty, what’s wrong?” I ask.� A mere two days ago she had been the most passionate lover I’d ever known as our Friday dinner had ended with an unexpected climax.� But now she is cool and withdrawn, refusing to even allow me to touch her.� Wednesday, during the interrogation, she had refused to allow Roger and me to touch her as well.� I had thought it odd at the time, but now this is downright quirky.
“Oh, nothing�I’m feeling kind of funny.� Someone is in my head and it’s not me.”� She grins and tries a strained chuckle.� Silence.� I know to just let it hang.� Then she continues, “Dick, I want to be honest with you, but I just can’t.� There’s something I have to get off my chest.”� I’m thinking her blouse as I recall kissing her compact yet firm breasts.� “The ‘date’ Friday night�your plan to kidnap me was rather�exciting�”
“I didn’t kidnap you!”� True, when I invited her to dinner I had implied that Roger and I wanted to continue questioning her about Stan Newberry and his wife Amanda.� When I arrived without Roger I confessed the whole thing to her.� That was when she accused me of kidnapping her.
She squints at me and utters a little “Hmph,” before continuing. “Anyway, the ‘no questions’ thing�I was glad to have the opportunity to impose that.� And I thank you for respecting it.”� She is referring to the punishment she had imposed upon me for my attempted ‘kidnapping’.� I had not been allowed to ask questions for the remainder of the evening.�
The waitress returns with my tea and asks for our order, but Betty asks for more time.� Then she continues her explanation. “I have some quirks - psychological quirks.� For starters, I have a phobia where I can’t talk about myself.� There are some things that�that I just can’t talk about.”� She sips her tea.� “Anyway, the ‘no questions’ thing allowed me to relax and enjoy our date.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
She smiles, “Trust me, not all of the pleasure was yours.”� We both chuckle.� I smile remembering watching her face as the waves of her orgasm flowed through her.� She sips her tea again and retrieves the rattle the baby had dropped.� “The truth is that my psyche is rather messed up.�� My lack of dating experience stems largely from guys’ unwillingness to deal with my quirks.� I won’t be the least bit mad if you decide to walk away too.� Really, there’s no need for excuses.� Just say ‘not my thing’ and we’ll let it go."
Could this have been what happened to end her affair with Taylor?� Betty had somehow become mixed up with the mob favored defense attorney Dan Taylor.� As Stan Newberry and Taylor worked for the same law firm, this connection had led us to consider Betty as a suspect.� She had admitted that they had been lovers, but that the affair was now over yet they remain friends.�
“I live in a glass house,” I say and chuckle in a desperate attempt to lighten the tone of the conversation.
She gives a giggle and smiles again.� I love her smile.� She takes another sip of tea.� “When I say I’m psychologically messed up I know what I’m talking about.� In addition to the associates nursing degree I have a Masters in psychology - child psychology.� I know just exactly how messed up I am.”
“Wow, and you’re a yoga instructor too! “� We both laugh, then I say “Betty, you are only twenty-two years old.� How did you get all this education?”
“I forgive you for forgetting, but my birthday was yesterday.� I’m now twenty-three�”
“Shit, I’m sorry�” I say, then grimace knowing how she abhors cursing.
“Please don’t use that word,” and she glances toward the baby although it is far from being old enough to understand.� After a brief glare she continues, “Anyway�no social life is the key to my education.� School and studying are my whole life.”� Interesting she said ‘are’, not ‘were’.� After a momentary giggle she continues, “You and Roger really freaked me out Wednesday.� Forcing me to talk about myself really got my adrenalin pumping.� That’s why I was such a bottle rocket.”� She grins again.
“I did notice you jumping around a bit.”� Her extreme nervousness had contributed to our perception that she was complicit.
Silence, long silence and then she says, “Thank you for inviting me to lunch.� But, really�if you want to just call it quits it’s OK.”
In response I flag the waitress over and order my usual cheeseburger and fries.� Betty orders the broccoli cheese soup and then changes the subject, “How’s Roger?� I’m actually missing his banter.”
“He’s fine.� Miffed that he has to buy his own lunch.”
“Hmmm, I bet he’s a blast at cocktail parties.”� Roger had been rather abusive of Betty in his questions, accusing her of being a prostitute.
“I wouldn’t know.� In the four years we’ve been partners I’ve never socialized with him outside of work.”
She continues to evade the elephant she herself placed in the room as she again changes the subject, “The details of the Stan’s murder investigation aside, how is Amanda?� I’ve been wondering if it were appropriate for me to call her, or would it be best to leave her alone?� I may not be a memory she wants right now.”� Betty and Amanda Newberry had been together when Stan was murdered.
“If you feel like you are friends, then you should do what friends do.� But from a technical standpoint you’re a material witness and could be called to testify when this finally goes to trial.� You are already in the discovery notes twice - once for the party and again for the shopping trip.� If you have more contact with her it will only attract more attention from the future defense attorney.”
“You documented the party?”� Startled, she locks eyes with me.� Betty had been the hostess of a spanking party attended by Stan and Amanda the Friday before he was murdered.� The two women would be the subject of substantial embarrassment should the details of their spankings at the party become public.
“No details - only that there was a cocktail party where you all met.� However, the defense team will be looking for things to distract the jury.� They may question you.� The details will be blood in the water for them.� They’ll be fishing for something to instill reasonable doubt in the jury.� You need to be prepared.”
“That’s not going to be fun.”� She looks back down to her hands.
“We haven’t caught him yet, and any trial will be a year after that.� Murder trial preparations go very slowly.� Not like on TV.� There is not much there - in my notes - to attract their attention.� You may never be questioned.� So, to answer your question: I think you should not contact Amanda, but if she contacts you just go with the flow.”
The food arrives and we busy ourselves eating.� Betty sips soup with one hand and holds a bottle for the baby with the other.
Following a cue from our Friday night dinner I start. “You have a very interesting business card.”� Betty’s business card identifies her as Betty Kennedy - registered nurse and sex therapist.
She looks at me.� Her smile relaxes.� “You should have ordered the steamed veggies instead of the fries.”� Betty had learned that I hate vegetable during our dinner.� While she refused to allow me to ask questions, she began responding to statements that I made if I accompanied them with bites of vegetables.�
I dip a fry into some ketchup and eat it.� “Ketchup is considered a vegetable.”
“Yes, in some circles that is true.� Okay, I have certifications for sex education instruction and therapy, but I don’t have what could be considered a practice.� I do some professional work now and again - casually.”
“Casually, yes I know,” I say grinning broadly remembering the ‘therapy’ she had given me.
Now she laughs for real and accidentally pulls the bottle from the baby’s mouth, who complains loudly.� Returning the nipple to the hungry baby she continues. “Yes, you do know.� I use the cards for their shock value.� They have the effect of halting a conversation to allow me a moment to get control of myself.�� Like your interview.� You and Roger paused long enough for me to become more comfortable with the Q and A.”
“Yes, it did slow us down.� Takes a lot to silence Roger.”� I pick up two fries and scoop up a big glob of ketchup.� I hold the mixture in the air and she watches me.� I go for the elephant. “I’m sorry to point blank as a question, but I want to know.� Do you really enjoy being spanked?� I mean, I thought I was swatting you rather hard.”� Then I put the ketchup coated fries in my mouth in one giant bite.� Following our lovemaking Friday night, Betty had asked me to spank her.
“Yes, I really do enjoy it.� It’s not really so strange.� People have lots of fetishes.� Technically a fetish is something, such as a nonsexual part of the body or an activity which arouses sexual desire and may become necessary for sexual gratification.”
“Necessary?” I ask.
She looks down and takes in a deep breath, then she says, “It of course varies in degree, but�yes - necessary.� Breast fetish is virtually one hundred percent for men and women.� Fifty percent of women enjoy other women’s breasts and all women are stimulated by their own breasts.� Penises are a hundred percent, too, but don’t count because they are a sexual part of the body.� While people refuse to talk about their fetishes it doesn’t mean that they aren’t common.� For example, while not a fetish everybody masturbates but nobody talks about it.� Spanking is a very common fetish.�� Since people are reluctant to talk about these things hard statistics are not available, but it is estimated that twenty percent of the population engages in erotic spanking.� Now, I’m not talking about wife beating or such.� Just fun spanking.”
“Really? Twenty percent?� I never imagined spanking anyone.”
“Now you’re lying.� Of course you have.� What man has not given his partner a swat while doing her doggie?� Depending on how you define the ‘spanking’ the number may be nearly a hundred percent.”� The baby’s eyes are drooping and Betty swaps out the bottle for a pacifier.
I do remember several times giving my ex-wife Donna gentle swats while penetrating her from behind.� “I can see that.� Where does the pat on the rump during doggie end and actual spanking begin?’
“That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question. It is different for each individual.� The rump is an erogenous zone and most every female likes a pat on the fanny.� The point of physical intensity where the pat changes from pleasure to painful to unacceptably painful is unique for each individual.� My threshold is pretty high.� I would say that the pat becomes a spanking fetish when the individuals see themselves as doing something that they don’t want to talk about.� Technically, this is when the individual feels abnormal in their obsessive preoccupation or attachment.�� Most any woman will admit to enjoying a pat on the rump but only about twenty percent will admit to enjoying spanking, and then only anonymously.
I ponder this for a moment.� “How did you get started with spanking?� I mean, how did you discover that you liked being spanked”
She‘s silent for a while.� I had jumped from the general population to her specifically and I could see her discomfort.� But, she finally starts, “I grew up in a rather strict household with painful spankings for punishment.� There’s only so much you can do with the bare hand.� At some point it really does hurt the spanker as much as the spankee.� Nuns are famous for spanking hands with rulers.� Thus, paddles are used for real spanking punishment and canes�the cane really scares me.”
“Yes, spanking term for the general ‘stick’.� Popularized in Victorian erotic boarding school literature and actually commonly used in Asia and the Middle East.� They can be half-inch diameter wood dowels to slender wood or hard plastic rods.� Those are the worst.� They flex and have the snap of a whip, but can be accurately placed for effect.� With so much energy on so few square inches of bottom flesh, it is very painful.� When Aunt Helen gives you three stripes across your bare bottom for neglecting your homework, you don’t neglect your homework again�trust me!”
“Anyway, Daddy’s spankings were never about pain.� He made his punishment the embarrassment of the spanking.”� She giggles, “em-BARE-ASS-ment�the word was made for this conversation. He already had a spanking fetish and was making some transformation.�� At some point, we admitted we did it because we liked it.� Aunt Helen was always about pain.”
“What do you mean, about embarrassment?� And it is a good word for the day.”
“When necessary, Aunt Helen would come into my room at the end of the day and blister my bottom privately.� But, Daddy took matters in hand on the spot.� In the living room, at the dinner table � wherever we were at the moment he thought it was appropriate.”
“Are you saying he spanked you publicly?”
“Yes, though most of the time it was only in front of the family.� But, it was public.� That’s the embarrassment.� His spankings were not particularly painful.”
“Surely you aren’t speaking of spanking you on the bare butt publicly?”
“Oh, yes I am.� But in the house, not in the grocery store.”� Now had a new image to keep me awake at night.� “Anyway, eventually it was no longer so embarrassing - no longer a punishment.� That’s when it becomes a fetish.”� She pauses and then looks at me, wide-eyed. “The party!”�
“Yes, of course.� Somehow I had forgotten the spanking party.”� Amanda Newberry had described the spanking party where a dozen women, including herself and Betty, were publically spanked.� Amanda had reported that Betty had been completely nude.
In her conversation Betty has made no mention of her mother or husband - a Mr. Kennedy.� And the business with her father, Andrew Turnhill, sounds even freakier.� I wonder if this could be the cause of her damaged psyche, but decide to leave that for another day.� However, reading my mind she continues, “My psyche was messed up long before this.� And I’m not prepared to talk about that further.� Just that the strict discipline is more the glue that held me together afterward.”� After what I wonder?� But, I let it go.
Now I felt it was my turn for true confessions. “My history now seems boring.� While not virgins my ex-wife Donna and I were pretty inexperienced when we became a couple.� We were together for several years before we married.� I was twenty-four; she’s two years younger.� We divorced eight years ago.� It was primarily my fault. I could never keep the job out of the home.� When I am investigating, it consumes me.� It wasn’t fair to Donna or our daughter, Kelly.� For the same reasons, I’ve not had much in the way of relationships since then.� You may well tire of me quickly.”� I pause. “Funny, your story Friday night - about the football player and his girlfriend.� I was a high school running back.� I think I lived your story.”� Betty had demonstrated her sex therapy skills by semi-hypnotizing me using this sexy story to elicit a second erection.
She smiles, “It’s a good story, most everyone can relate to it comfortably.”� I wonder how many men have had this therapy.� Betty sees the concern cloud my face and continues with a scolding squint, “No, Dick it is not like that.”
“This being embarrassment day, I must say that I’ve been told that I’m no good at sex.� Specifically, I’m no good at oral sex.� Donna remarried and Kelly has a four-year-old half brother and a fourteen-year-old step sister.� Donna doesn’t bother with it anymore, but she used to run on about how she now enjoys sex.”
“I’m sure that’s her own brand of punishment.� May have nothing to do with the truth.� She may have been trying to convince herself that it’s true, while it’s not.� You were with her for many years and I’m sure that lots of them were very happy years.� She’s probably a nice woman and a very good mother.� I’m very sorry it didn’t work out for you two, but it’s almost always a combination of failures on both sides.� As for the