Cave man And Cannibal Woman

I think perhaps these two newlyweds-for-cash deserve each other:

“I’m quite satisfied that you don’t know the first thing about women and I’m going. Goodbye!”

She staggered back towards the door still clutching her little hat. She sat down on the floor with a bump. Automatically she put her hand on her face, but that side was completely numb from his terrific slap.

Too stunned to scream, she felt herself being lifted like a doll and placed carefully across his knee. He couldn’t mean to – to spank her! The fiend couldn’t get away with this! Not in the twentieth century!

But the fiend didn’t seem to recognize the century. Perhaps his magazine was undated.

With a precise gesture he threw her shirt over her head. She responded gallantly, twisting like a coil spring and seizing a handful of his hair. He grasped her wrist to free his hair and she levered herself up and sank her strong teeth in his arm. If he was a caveman, she would be a cannibal.

The struggle went on. She escaped from him, leaving most of her dress behind. She took off a shoe and threw it hard at him. He caught it in mid-air and dropped it to the floor. The other one came flying and the heel struck him above the eye. He chased her round the dressing table and over the bed. But in the confined space the hunt could not
go on forever.

She began to tire. He was indefatigable. This time there was no escape. His hand descended rythmically and undeniably upon her bare flesh. She squealed and wriggled and twisted but it was no use. Somehow it no longer seemed so shameful. She had been naughty and she was being beaten.

The stinging slaps, finding ever new places, were driving her out her guilt. A new unexpected sensation flooded her body. An inexplicable, half-comprehended wave of–could it be satisfaction?–flooded through her body. She went limp suddenly. Tears of relief and gratitude swept through her and escaped from her eyes.

“Please I will be good. Please I will be very good.”

He felt the change in her. With a skillful movement like an expert pancake maker he turned her over to face him. She looked up at him with a primitive look of adoration. With deliberation he raised her relaxed mouth to his and they exchanged a long, humid kiss. The he threw her lightly into the middle of the vast double bed. He stood up, yawned, and stretched his arms.

“I’m going down to get a drink. You stay where you are!” He closed the door after him with the decisive slam of ownership.

Another fine politically incorrect pulp fiction spanking from The Spank Statement, this time from a short story called The £50 Wife.

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