SHOCKED JOCKS
By BOS, cashley216@woh.rr.com



The guys at Meta Chi Pi, the jock fraternity at the university, didn't like
all the attention and other rewards the girl athletes were suddenly receiving.
The guys' sports program had been cut back so that the money could be spent on
the girls; girl athletes were suddenly being hit upon by swarms of recruiters
offering scholarships, a fact which made it even more difficult for the guys
to get them than it had always been.

And even the heretofore sacred masculine reserve, the sports page, was
devoting large chunks of space to girls. And things seemed to be getting
worse. The girls were even talking about trying out for some of the guys'
teams, as they had already done at some high schools and smaller colleges,
with some success.

For the MCPs, athletic activity was the major bulwark of their masculine egos.
Now those very identities were being threatened, and something had to be done,
something that would restate the difference between men -- at least male jocks
-- and girls.

That was the situation Tom Waverly walked into. His desire to join MCP was
years old, having been born when his older brother was in it; he would stop at
nothing to get in.

The male jocks fraternity had a counterpart on sorority row, a place where
girl athletes could find other girls of similar interests. It was generally
known on campus that one symbol of unity among the girls was the sorority's
own special panties, the girls' equivalent of a secret handshake. Tom's
initiation requirement was to get one of these panties -- one that had
obviously been worn recently -- and bring it back to the MCP house. Then the
guys could all sit around and listen to Tom explain how he got it and
congratulate him on his victory in a battle of the sexes. They suspected the
girl jocks would not part too easily with their underwear, and they looked
forward to the humiliation of the girls -- knowing one of their private
garments was the butt of fraternity jokes.

Contemplating his task, Tom quickly rejected the possibility of trying to
sneak into girls row, into the sorority house and back out with a stolen
garment. The risk of being caught was just too great. He decided he'd better
try to gain the friendship of a sorority member.

But he had a deadline for his task that was only a week away.

One afternoon, Tom -- a golfer -- went over the bridge to the part of the
course the girls team was practicing at. He was particularly attracted to
Christy Grant, who was known as the best girl golfer. About Tom's height --
5'6" -- with a slim, graceful body that was a joy to watch as she took her
smooth, effortless swing, or even when she just bent over to tee up the ball
-- Christy had long, straight, light brown hair she had to brush back over her
shoulders every time she bent. She wore the usual golfer's skirt -- loose and
just above the knees - which teased the male onlookers with a glimpse of her
athletic body with every move she made.

Christy could have her choice in guys, but she was attracted to Tom right from
the start. She knew he was watching her, and she knew he couldn't help but be
struck by how far she was hitting the ball. After she really clobbered one --
and Tom let out a low whistle -- she walked past him, twitched her ass at him
playfully and said, "I think that ball must think it just got hit by Jack
Nicklaus." With that she gave her shoulders a twist and brushed her hair back
over them.

Tom took the opportunity to follow after her. As they walked down the fairway,
Christy knew he was interested, and she decided to tease him a bit. Tom said,
with what he thought was charming understatement, "I play a little golf
myself, you know."

"I know," she responded. "I've seen you. Did you come over the bridge for a
lesson?"

Tom just chuckled, knowing he couldn't top that one. Tom knew he had to work
fast, and eventually he asked Christy for a date that night. Christy was in no
hurry, though, and she turned him down for that night and the next. She might
have been an athlete, but she still liked playing girl. When Tom asked her
about the upcoming Friday night, she said, "What have you got in mind?"
Desperate to get her for that night, Tom offered a night on the town, the best
show, the best restaurant. The girl said only, "Call me Friday," and she
walked off down the fairway, smiling at the knowledge of where his eyes were.
She thought, those girls who think a girl jock can't be sexy ought to know
what Tom is thinking now.

Waiting for Friday to come, Tom could hardly think about anything else. He
would have been genuinely excited about the date even if it weren't for the
initiation thing. He pictured Christy in evening clothes, and he just took a
lot of cold showers. When Friday came, he forced himself to wait until noon
before calling Christy. Christy, wanting to prolong his agony a bit, told her
roommate to say she wasn't in and she didn't know when she could be expected.
Tom called three more times, finally reaching Christy at 5 p.m. Christy had
him at a disadvantage, knowing how eager he was, and she played that fact to
the hilt. She answered the phone brightly, with an enthusiastic "Hi, Tom," but
then she pretended she had forgotten they had a tentative date. She asked him
to call back in a couple of hours.

Finally, though, they did go out, and Tom didn't regret the wait. Christy was
absolutely stunning in her off-the-shoulder white dress. When they danced, her
slim feminine body relaxed into his arms, and Tom couldn't remember ever being
happier in his life.

However, when Tom drove up to a motel at the end of the evening, she balked.

"Hey, wait a minute," she said, adamant about not going in. Finally, the boy
realized that he had no.choice but to tell her about his task, task and to
hope she cooperated.

"WHAT??" she almost shouted, looking at him as if hewere crazy.

"Come on," he said, "it's just a little thing."

"No way," she said. "No way, no WAY!"

Now it was dawning on her that Tom had been

pursuing her so ardently in part because of his silly and insulting little
fraternity game. She was getting madder by the minute.

Tom's back was up against the wall.

"Look," he said, "you're my only hope. I want this membership more than
anything in the world. And if you don't give them to me..." He paused, looking
at her as gently and apologetically as he could, gulped and said, "I'm just
going to have to take them."

Christy was stunned. She looked at him with her mouth open, finally realizing
that he really meant it.

"HAH!" she said. "You just try it, buster. You just try it. You do, and the
only thing you'll get off me to bring back to your fraternity clods is a fat
lip, courtesy of cute little Christy Grant."

They were parked now, and Tom scooted over next to Christy, placed his hands
gently on her shoulders" and said, "Look, I don't want to hurt you, but..."

More amazed all the time, Christy broke in. "But? But what? I don't believe
it! You're actually threatening me." Then she knocked his hands off her
shoulders. "Get your goddamn hands off me," she said.

Then she said, "All right, Mr. Jock, I'll tell you what. I'll go into the
goddamn motel room with you. How do you like that?" He was surprised. "Just go
get the key," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

Tom didn't know what to think, but he decided this was a step in the right
direction. He did as she said. Christy sat there fuming, thinking. All the
implications of the MCPs' plan were becoming clear to her. She could just see
them listening to some cock and bull story about Tom's victory, glorying in
her humiliation, and that -- symbolically -- of all girl jocks. Well, she
decided, it wasn't just herself she was

defending here. It was a cause, a group, her sisters in sweatsuits.

When Tom came back, they walked into the room wordlessly, Tom holding the door
open for Christy. "Always the gentleman, huh, Tom," Christy said as she walked
passed him.

When Tom had closed the door and helped Christy off with her coat, Christy
shucked off her high heeled shoes, stood before him and said, "OK, big boy,
TAKE my panties off; let's see you try." (Both people present thought they had
heard that line before, but couldn't remember where.)

She stood there, arms outstretched, palms up, fingers beckoning him toward
her. "Come on," she said, as she shifted lightly from one delicate,
pantyhose-covered foot to the other. Come on."

Tom was confused, but willing. "Look... " he said as he stepped forward, again
reaching for her shoulders.

But she interrupted him. She stepped into him, between his arms, and slapped
his face. "Come on," she said again, "You said you were gonna take my panties.
Let's see you do it."

The combination of the sting of the slap of her long, delicately tapered
fingers and the repeated taunts were enough to get Tom steamed. All right, he
thought, if this bitch wants to play by guys' rules, it's OK by me. I can see
what the MCPs mean about them being stuck-up bitches.

Now the fight was on, the male and female golfers facing each other. And in
this time there was no handicap.

In a fit of masculine rage, Tom charged at the girl in the elegant evening
clothes, ramming his body into hers, bowling the slim girl onto the bed.
Burying his head into the soft, perfumed fragrance of her slim, bare neck, Tom
muttered, "All right, tough guy, you managed to get me to do what I've been
wanting to do all night. Let's see how you can handle it."

Christy handled it by bringing her knee up into her would-be rapist's exposed,
swollen crotch. That wasn't enough to get Tom off her, but it was sure enough
to slow him down. Then she grabbed his hair and jerked to the side with the
strong right arm of a golfer. Seemingly surrounded by pain, Tom rolled off the
girl. As he did, she again brought her knee up, this time landing it in his
belly. The once confident boy folded up into a little ball, the thought of any
offensive moves against his feminine opponent temporarily gone from his head.

Christy didn't try to either get away or take advantage of her successes, as
Tom had feared she would. Instead, she kneeled above him on the bed, clucking
at his fetal position, smoothing out her lovely dress.

"Come on, Tommy," she said. "I don't know how you think you're going to get my
panties that way. Maybe you don't know much about girls; my panties aren't
down there. Here, I'll give you a clue about where they are."

With that she straddled Tom. She softly and seductively brushed her bottom
along his body. Then, as he began to stir, she quickly scooted up to his head,
grabbed his hair and shoved his head between her legs. She specifically
pointed his head to her crotch.

"There," she said. "See. That's where my panties are. You think you can get
them now?"

Tom couldn't believe his head was now trapped in the softness of those legs he
had ogled the other day on the golf course, those upper thighs he had never
quite been able to get a glimpse of. They were tremendous. So soft, yet
incredibly strong. The fragrance of her body, the feel of her pantyhose and of
the delicate dress surrounding his ears! It was all overpoweringly sexy,
really his idea of heaven itself.

And she was right: There were her panties, yellow and delicate, and very, very
close. Her panties. Those panties! The thought bought him back to the senses
her sexiness had temporarily robbed him of. The humiliation of it all hit him,
and he began jerking violently, trying to pull his head out of the lady's
legs. Finally, at great cost to his ears and his dignity and the neatness of
his head of styled hair, he succeeded. The final tug carried him all the way
off the bed, dropping him on the floor on his ass with a thud. Christy then
got off the other side of the bed.

She straightened out her lovely dress, and stood with her hands on her hips
and a smirk on her face as he slowly got to his feet. The first thing he
noticed was that she looked as if the evening was just beginning, as if she
had just finished dressing. He felt as though he had been through a wringer.
Then he caught a look at himself in the mirror. His shirt was mostly out of
his pants and partly unbuttoned, his tie completely askew. His normally
healthy hair pointed in every direction, and his face was red, especially his
ears. He lifted his hands to touch them in disbelief.

She said, "Hard to believe a lady's thighs did that to you, isn't it? You may
never be able to go down on a girl again. You'll be too scared."

Then she said, "Well, listen, sugar, I don't know if you'll ever be able to do
any damage to my body, but the dress is another story. You might get lucky and
rip it. So I'm gonna change. While I'm in the john, if you want to do this
right, why don't you use your big, masculine muscles

to move the furniture out of the way. And take off your tie and shirt. When I
come out, I promise you the panties will be just where they are now, and we'll
really go at it. Only this time, I'm warning you: If I win, I'm taking your
underpants. I'll take you and them back to the MCP house and show those pigs
just what happens when they start messing with the wrong chicks. You think
then they'll let you into the fraternity?"

With that, Christy turned her saucy little ass toward Tom, threw her purse
over her shoulder and sauntered into the washroom, where she changed into the
cut-off jeans Christy thought every modern girl should always carry with her.
She also put a halter over her otherwise unsupported breasts. She took her
time.

Tom's mind was reeling. He could hardly comprehend what had happened, much
less come to a rational decision. Finally, though, he reasoned that to leave
now would not guarantee an end to the events of the night. There was no
telling what Christy might do. He had to finish things right there and then,
and he had to end them successfully. He was still certain he could take her.
He took off his shirt, and waited for her barechested.

When she came out -- all fresh and confident -- she faced a room cleared of
furniture and a desperate man. Tom was struck by the change in her appearance.
No more a delicate, enticing embodiment of sexuality, Christy was now the
athletic little thing he had first seen on the golf course.

"Boy, you must really want that membership bad," she said, supposedly
marveling that he was still there. "Let's get it on," she said. "Just you and
me, baby. Winner take all."

They circled in the center of the room. Tom was much more cautious than he had
been earlier. Christy didn't attack. She figured her best bet was to use Tom's
own momentum against him. Tom sensed that, and decided to rely on his own
strength, on slow, deliberate application of it, involving as little movement
as possible.

Christy knew that the best defense a girl has against that strategy is to
strike out with her hands and feet, rather than to wrestle. But that just
wasn't where her head was.

Christy was also not about to play cat and mouse game, not about to run. She
was perfectly willing to lock with him in the center of the room and see what
happened. Tom grabbed her wrist, pulled her in close and wrapped his other arm
around her waist. Then he dropped her wrist and secured a sort of bearhug
which included one of her arms. Then, not worrying about finesse or style, Tom
just dropped to his knees and leaned forward, bending Christy's slim torso
over backwards until she hit the floor. With his weight advantage, Tom was
able to keep Christy fairly immobile. Now he was getting a bit cocky, feeling
that he had found the secret to conquering the confident coed. His male ego
told him she would be no more of a problem.

Relishing both the body contact and his advantage over the girl, Tom began
taunting her. "Well," he said, "it looks like little miss tough guy has gotten
herself into some trouble. Taken on more than you can handle, huh, supergirl?"

Even in her current position, Christy wasn't going to take any of his shit.
"Don't get too cocky, bright boy," she warned him. "I've still got more than
you can handle. Before I'm through with you," she said with a grunt, as she
wrenched her breast away from his grasping hand, "you're going to be pledging
Sigma Ieta Sigma" (the academic fraternity on campus).

Angered by her continued confidence, Tom said, "Well, I know deep down you and
your sisters want to be members of MCP, so I'll just have to devise a little
initiation for you right here. Hmmm?" he said, feigning a discovery. "What
have we here? I do believe it's a girl's ass."

By now Tom was puffing and grunting with the exertion of holding the plucky
girl down. Christy felt sure he was getting more tired than she was. As he let
out a puff, she said, "What's the matter, Mr. Jock? You haven't been skipping
your laps lately, have you?" Christy knew Tom's anger at such a taunt could be
equaled only by his embarrassment over the obvious demonstration that her
implication was correct: Either she was forcing him to work harder that her
(even though he was on top and had a weight advantage), or she was simply in
better shape than him. She also knew that nothing is more debilitating in any
sport contest than uncontrolled anger. She was working on his male ego.

Ignoring her question, Tom went on with his reference to Christy's behind. He
had a few more lines he was going to use about how it looked like a girl's ass
and felt like a girl's ass, but seemed to be attached to somebody who didn't
behave like a girl. But, in his anger, he decided to skip them and get right
to the action.

"I think it'll make a perfect initiation tool, and maybe at the same time I
can teach you something about picking a fight with somebody altogether out of
your league." With the warning stated, Tom -- now lying almost lengthwise
along Christy, who in turn was lying on her side -- began spanking the girl
golfer. He must have hit her 10, 20, 30 times. But, what with having to worry
about holding the girl down, and what with his awkward position, he couldn't
get much power into the blows. He would bring his arm all the way up, and he
would bring it down as hard and fast as he could, but some blows were off
center. Mainly he was exhausting himself.

Still, Christy was seething. Here I gave him a second chance and then decided
not to get too rough with him after I came out of the bathroom, she thought,
and this is how he repays me. Th1s young man is in very big trouble with his
date, Christy told herself.

Finally, Tom stopped, more because he was exhausted than because he thought
Christy had had enough. In fact, he was himself beginning to wonder about the
efficiency of his latest tactic. His hair was completely disheveled, his arm
exhausted so as to be useless for the time being. His hand was even in some
pain. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his chest was heaving as he looked down
at the still fresh and obviously unhurt and unscared girl whose panties he
earlier thought he could take at his leisure.

It was Christy who first spoke. "If that's the best you can do, Mr. Strong Arm
Man, it's no wonder you can't outdrive me." The remark cut deep into the male
golfer's ego.

"You talk pretty big for a girl whose ass is up," he said, resting his
spanking hand on her derriere. Now he noticed that in the scuffle Christy's
jeans had moved down a bit, that the top of her buttocks was exposed to him,
as were those yellow panties. He began to grope her, wedging his hand down
between her shorts and her skin, feeling her up.

That was it. Tom had turned the contest from a fight into something else,
something more personal, more bitter, and more sexual. It was one thing to rub
bodies with a guy in the course of a contest: the fact was Christy enjoyed
that. But to just let him grope you like that! No way, Christy said to
herself.

Suddenly, she used a classic push up to spring to her knees. From there --
without pausing -- she jumped to her feet, her back hitting her male opponent
in the face, knocking him to the floor on his back. She stepped away from him
and turned to face him as he looked up at her. He was stunned by the sudden
burst of energy. (He couldn't imagine himself moving so quickly now.) And by
her display of overall body strength. Suddenly the advantage he had -- which
he has been certain was permanent -- was gone, just like that. What's more,
the look on Christy's face did not indicate she had any fears about coming to
grips with him again.

The girl was definitely not running, as he had briefly hoped she might.
Instead she was standing there, glowering at him, throwing taunts at him,
threatening him, spelling out her plans. She was obviously fresh as a daisy;
even her hair was in place, and -- standing there in strange, stark contrast
to her date -- the girl was not sweating. Tom was a tired young man; he knew
he really didn't want to go on with this, to fight anymore. While he still had
difficulty believing he could lose the fight -- in the sense of Christy
actually getting his underpants (even now the thought struck him as
preposterous) -- he knew that, if he was going to win, the night would be a
very long one. And he thought he just might have to make the humiliating
admission of defeat of his effort to get the fiesty girl's panties. He was
trying, in fact, to think of some face-saving way out of all of this.

But Christy had no interest in getting out of it. She was just warmed up, just
now getting her athlete's psyche into things.

"All right, pretty boy," she was saying as she strutted around him, "you want
to get personal? We'll get personal. You like spanking? OK, I'll show you some
spanking! You thought you were going to humiliate me by that groping? I'll
show you what humiliation is! Get up!" she said.

He started to talk. "Look. . ." he said.

But she was having none of it.

"Get up!" she shouted, shoving him in the chest with her foot. "Get up and
fight with your date, unless you want to take your underpants off right now
and go back to the frat house with me."

The weary boy got up, and the boy and girl faced each in slightly crouched
positions, Tom noting the fullness of Christy's lovely breasts as she bent
over, the smoothness of her svelte midriff when she stood straight, the long,
graceful beauty of her legs. He remembered, too, the sight of her little ass
cheeks jutting enticingly out from her shorts as they had been struggling on
the floor. The thought that he should be locked in serious combat with this
vision of feminine loveliness in a ponytail -- and actually wishing he weren't
-- suddenly struck him, and bothered him horribly, to the point of producing a
pain in his lower gut.

Then something else hit him even harder. It was Christy. She had thrown her
entire body into his -- swarmed all over him, as it were -- daring him to hit
her anyplace, throwing caution to the winds in a display of total confidence.
The Hell with this game playing, she thought. Let's see if he can handle me
when I'm going all out. Her body blow carried the boy into the wall, and
Christy followed. With one arm she reached around his thigh and grabbed his
upper leg, encircling it. With the other she locked his opposite arm under
hers, between her arm and her body. Now she had him in complete control. In
fury, she began banging the boy's body against the wall. She would pull him
out with her arms and bang him back in with her body, pull him out, bang him
back, four, five, seven times.

As the girl was so mistreating her date for the evening, both participants in
this battle of the sexes had a revelation. Christy realized that this was the
first time since she was a kid that she had actually fought with a boy. And
now, she thought, I have complete control of his body. No question about that:
I have complete control. She was very pleased to learn that she hadn't lost
her ability to beat a guy. What's more, she realized she was getting a real
kick -- and adult-like kick -- out of beating Tom up. She wasn't sure she
liked that fact about herself, but she kept telling herself that he deserved
it.

Tom's revelation was even more powerful: He realized he was lost. Suddenly it
was all over. Her power, her determination, her energy, her brains. He knew he
could not match them now. If he had had anything left, this pounding against
the wall -- which he seemed helpless to stop -- was taking it out of him.

The girl had beaten him. This delightful, beautiful girl he had lusted after
-- this sexy blonde whom he would have felt protective toward if some other
guy threatened her, whose slim shoulders he just wanted to put his arm around
and cuddle -- had wiped him out. The realization turned his world upside down,
made him wonder even as he was taking his pounding how he would now be able to
relate to girls. Or to himself. He, too, knew she was in complete control of
his body, that what happened next was entirely up to the lady.

She let him go. He slid to the floor. She stepped back. They looked at each
other. Their looks told each that the other understood everything about the
situation, too. Christy knew that Tom's failure to act or talk was his
admission of defeat, not just in that "fall," but total defeat, admission that
she could beat him up. She could understand why the combination of the head
scissors he had suffered earlier, the pounding he just took and the
demonstration of her superior endurance was enough to convince him.

Totally certain the situation was under control, Christy went into the
washroom for a glass of water. She took her time, straightening her hair and
clothes and doing other things.

Tom, knowing there was no more hope now -- willing to put off consideration of
the implications of his act until he had reached safety -- tried to sneak out
the door, stopping for nothing but the car keys. Hearing something, Christy
looked outside the john and saw him reaching the door.

"Hey, where ya goin'?" she asked playfully. "You're not running away are you?
We're just getting started. The evening's young yet, and you've got a girl in
a motel room. Don't you want to see if you can score with me? What would the
big ole' MCPs think if they could see you running away from a piece of ass?"

That was one of Tom's lesser worries now. He just had to get out, way out of
the reach of this tough coed. His fear made him clumsy, however, and he
fumbled with the locks, which Christy had made sure were all locked. Because
he didn't even have the door open, Christy didn't have to deal with his
retreat by pulling him from the door. Instead, she ducked into a football
crouch, ran almost full steam across the room, and slammed into poor Tom's
back, once again smashing him into the wall. This time was by far the hardest
pounding, and Tom fell hard to the floor. Christy stood over him with her
hands on her hips.

"How was that?" she asked the groggy guy. "Maybe I am ready for the MCPs. I
don't think any of your football-playing buddies could throw a block any
harder than that, do you?" She nudged him with her foot, but he couldn't catch
his breath enough to speak.

But she didn't really care about getting an answer to that rhetorical question
from breathless Tom. She slung one leg over his body so that she was
straddling him. Then she lowered her bottom until she was resting on the upper
thighs of the writhing man. She took his chin in one of her hands, pointed it
at her face and pointed a finger of her other hand into his face and said,
"Now you listen and listen good" in a John Wayne imitation. She wasn't sure if
he was coming out of his grogginess enough to understand. She shook his head
and demanded, "Are you listening to me?" Because of the control her hand had
of his head, he could only gesture by blinking his eyes, which he did. "Good,"
the girl said, "Because I want you to understand this for your own good. THERE
IS NO WAY YOU ARE LEAVING HERE WITH YOU UNDERPANTS ON! Have you got that,
pardner?" she asked, giving his head a shake. "NO WAY!"

The girl lifted her soft buttocks off the pathetic male's legs and looked down
at him for a second. Then she turned her back on him and walked back into the
john. "Besides," she said non-chalantly as his eyes stayed riveted on her
behind as she walked, "you haven't had your spanking yet."

In the washroom, Christy purposely delayed while putting her evening clothes
back on, letting the guy suffer in anticipation and in prolonged consciousness
of the fact that this once cocky jock was too scared even to try to escape
from an angry girl.

Sure enough, when she came out he was still sitting there on the floor,
passively awaiting his fate at her hands, his only hope being that she would
be gentle. Christy savored her victory. She turned her back on the boy;
brushing her hair in the mirror after undoing it from the ponytail she had put
it in during her first trip to the washroom; giving that hair a feminine shake
to allow it to fall properly; dabbing a spot of perfume here and there;
adjusting her dress; checking for spots and wrinkles -- the latter check
requiring running her hands up and down her sides over the sexy material.

She stared at Tom as she slowly pulled on her white gloves. At length, she
walked over to an armless chair, sat down and patted her lap, thus telling Tom
he was to put his body over her legs in preparation for a spanking. Tom,
almost apologetically, lowered his head in delay. "I can't," he muttered.
Calmly, the girl got up and walked over to him. Once again her soft thighs and
rear end settled on and around his thighs, as he just sat there, half propped
up against the wall. Again she took his chin in her delicate hand. But this
time she didn't talk. Instead, she began slapping him with her other hand. He
brought his hands up in protection, but then she brought both her hands into
play and began hitting harder. Slowly he slumped to the floor, his arms
covering his face against Christy's onslaught. She grabbed his forearms and
began pulling and pushing, slamming his torso into the floor again and again.
Then she pulled, lifting his back off the floor, and shoved, so that it was
against the wall. Then she took the weakened man's two arms and placed them
under her legs, encased as they were in the silky nylon. And again she began
hitting the boy, slapping his head back and forth, back and forth. He was
bleeding and crying now. His eyes were puffing like a defeated boxer's, and he
was begging for mercy. When she stopped, she reached down to his crotch, undid
his pants and pulled them off, leaving only his underpants on. Then, she got
up, again straightening her clothes and sitting down very prim and ladylike
and calm and -- again -- patting her thigh.

This time he came over. Her blows to his behind were crisp and -- so it seemed
to him -- endless. "I'll show you what a good right arm is," she said. And she
did. One hundred, two hundred spanks, until he was crying uncontrollably, like
a baby. And yet, even as he was reduced to that level, Tom was comforted,
knowing inside that so long as she was spanking him she couldn't be hurting
him in some worse way. The predictability of the spanking soothed him, made
his position over her lovely nyloned legs seem almost natural. His tears --
the manifestation of his reversion to childhood, the evidence that he had
given up on preserving his masculine pretensions -- were more the result,
then, of humiliation and of fear of the future, than of pain.

The lady stood up, throwing his body to the ground. As he lay there sobbing,
she said simply, "Take them off." He delayed a moment, cringing there, seeing
only her high heeled shoes and lovely, slim, nylon-covered calves. He looked
higher, saw she was every inch a lady, elegant and poised and cool as could
be. He marveled at the variety of her identities. Cute girl jock, tempting
siren, vicious fighting machine, and now glamorous mistress seemingly ready
for a White House reception.

He was delaying too long for her. She bent over at the waist, reaching her
long, feminine fingers into his crotch. He thought she was going to pull his
underpants off. Instead her white-gloved hands seized his skin through his
shorts. He yelped like a puppy. She straightened up and said again, "Take them
off."

He did. He bared his ass and genitals to the conquering coed, feeling a
humiliation beyond any words, but also feeling that perhaps he deserved what
was happening to him, that perhaps he was being put in his rightful place.
Without being asked, he handed the shorts to his conqueror.

She took them and said, "Get dressed. Quickly." Under what seemed like the
watchful eye of his mother -- not a coed his age -- the boy got dressed. She
then drove them back to the frat house in his car. On the way to the car, they
passed another couple going to their motel room. The other couple couldn't
help staring at the battered, cringing boy and the elegant young woman coming
out of the motel room together. Noticing their interest, Christy said to them
as they passed, "Sometimes you just have to get rough."

As they drove in silence, Christy felt no more need to berate the boy. His ego
was as crushed as it could get.

When they opened the door to the house, one of the fraternity guys said, "Hey,
girls can't come in here." Christy brought her nyloned knee up into his crotch
and said, "Watch me." They entered the living room, where a bunch of guys were
watching TV. She flung Tom down onto the floor in the center of the room and
held up his underpants for all to see. They sat there looking from the
bruised, bleeding, obviously battered boy back to the girl. Slowly, the
realization of what had happened sank in. Their mouths dropped in shock.

Christy said, "The next time any of you guys wants to get your hands on a pair
of panties, I suggest you try a department store." She turned her back on
them, jauntily flung the boy's underpants over her shoulder and walked out,
wiggling her ass at the shocked jocks.

END