I love the fifties. It was, in many ways, the “golden age” of spanking. In books, movies and plays it was portrayed as an accepted mainstream cultural practice. That fact that women were spanked by the men in their lives was winked at, chuckled over and generally regarded as a harmless semi-humorous demonstration of sexual dominance without being sexually overt (which was why it got past the censors). Spanking reached its peak in the 50’s before it lapsed into disfavor with the rise of feminism in the 60’s.
This time period is, then, a great setting for a good spanking romance and Cara Bristol has written one.
Here is the book’s product description:
From college coed to professor’s naughty bride…
It’s the 1950s. Never much interested in her studies, Margaret Atwater attends college hoping to graduate with an Mrs. degree instead of a bachelor’s. When she catches the eye of English Professor Henry Thurston, she’s thrilled to marry him, drop out of school, and begin a new life as a married woman and faculty wife. However, Henry is a kinky man who has much to teach his eager young bride—in, and out, of the bedroom. As Mrs. Henry Thurston, Margaret’s sexual education has just begun.
Margaret’s education gets off to a rocky start. The following excerpt brings this famous drawing to mind.
In this scene, college student Margaret has received a bad grade on her English paper. But a bad grade isn’t all she’s going to get.
Dejected, she slid into a vacant desk, still warm from another student’s derriere. She thumbed through her essay. Cliché. More analysis needed. What about…. Red-inked comments in a masculine scrawl spilled across every single one of the eight pages she’d typed so beautifully. Didn’t typing count for anything?
Her heart sank to the soles of her rounded-toe baby-doll pumps. She’d waited until the night before the due date to write the paper, but she deserved better than a D! And she intended to tell Professor Thurston so.
After the last student left, he gestured to the door. “Shall we go?”
She preceded him into the hall.
“Do you have a class now?” he asked.
“No. My next period is free.”
“Good. We have time to talk.”
They exited Delmar Hall, named for an alumnus patron, and strolled down the walkway over rolling grassy hills dotted with stately oaks and flowering shrubs. A few stubborn blossoms clung to dogwood trees outside the library. Over a knoll, she spotted the Whitmore Building.
Some students glanced their way, a few who knew the professor greeted him, but mostly people ignored them. Margaret clutched her notebook to her chest. “You grade me harder than you do everyone else.”
“Please hold the discussion until we’re in my office.”
They entered Whitmore and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She waited while he checked with the secretary for messages then they proceeded to his office around the corridor. Two black nameplates lettered in white read, Asst. Professor Thurston and Asst. Professor Abernathy. He unlocked the door and motioned for her to enter.
The small office contained two battered wooden desks, the left one buried under a hazardous mountain of paper and academic debris, the one on the right neat as a pin. A tall shelving unit, shared by both professors, sagged under the weight of well-used literature and reference volumes. A wall clock ticked.
“Have a seat.” The professor shut the door and assumed his place behind the neat desk.
She perched on the edge of a straight-back chair, ankles together, and adjusted her skirt over her knees.
The man she loved steepled his fingers. “Now, tell me why you believe I grade you harder than anybody else.”
She wet her lips. “Because you do.”
“My standards are no more exacting for you than they are for any other student. I expect excellence from each of you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
He flipped open a record book and ran his finger down a list. “As it stands now, your grade is a shaky C minus. If you don’t do well on the final next week, you run the risk of getting a D in the course.” He snapped the grade book closed. “We had a discussion after your last paper, did we not?”
“I believe I warned you what the consequences would be if you failed to get at least a B.” He opened his middle desk drawer.
Yes, they’d talked about—but he couldn’t be serious.
He withdrew a thick, heavy eighteen-inch measuring stick. “Lock the office door, please.”
Well, a slide rule is a measuring stick of sorts. Later, things are getting hot as the wedding approaches.
Margaret Atwater is goin’ to the chapel, gonna get married… but first, a little advice from mom…
Her mother straightened her already-stiff posture, something she did when she got nervous, and gestured to the bed. Margaret expected a comment about the clothing she had heaped there, but instead, her mother said, “Your father will be bringing the car around shortly to deliver you to the chapel. In the meantime, I have something to discuss with you. Come, sit down.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand so my dress doesn’t wrinkle.” Everything needed to be perfect when she marched down the aisle.
“You’re right, of course.” Her mother nodded and then took a breath. “A woman must always act like a lady, but a wife has certain…obligations.”
“You mean like cleaning the house, cooking nutritious meals, and keeping the children quiet and out of the way?” She would love having her own home. A man ruled the castle, but his wife kept it running.
“Those responsibilities, for sure, but there are other duties a wife must perform to keep her husband satisfied.”
She creased her forehead in confusion, but then a light bulb flashed. “Oh! You mean sex.”
“Margaret Frances Atwater! Your language is appalling. Where did you learn to speak like that? I came to remind you,” her mother said, “that you’re a lady. The indignities and discomfort you will suffer in the marriage bed”— she turned pink—“are a small price to pay for the blessing of children and your husband’s contentment. A man who is appreciated will be less susceptible to the conniving of immoral women.”
Her closed countenance warded off discussion, but the ceremony would occur in an hour, and who else did she have to ask? If the marriage act was anything like Henry’s kisses, which caused surges of heat and wetness in places that were nowhere near her lips, maybe sex wasn’t that bad.
“Does…does marital intimacy have to be uncomfortable? Couldn’t a woman enjoy it as much as a man?”
Her mother’s gasp was likely heard in the adjacent room. “Margaret Frances, if you weren’t getting married in a short period of time, I’d wash your mouth with soap. If you expect your husband to respect you, then you’d better act like a lady!”
Act like a lady? That’s never much fun.What’s fun is bringing your husband lunch in the middle of the day. There can be all sorts of surprises on the menu.
Newlywed Margaret brings her husband his lunch at his college office. But Henry expects more than lunch…
“What did you bring me for lunch?” He peered into the corridor and slammed the door.
“A meatloaf sandwich.”
He twisted the key in the lock and scooted around her to the window. “On white bread?”
“Good. I like white bread. It’s so nice and fluffy. Almost like eating cotton candy.” He turned the wand and plunged the room into dusk. Enough light remained to see the sexual gleam in his eyes.
An answering heat pooled in her core. Yes, some things had changed since her last visit to this room. She might have gotten a C in his class, but she’d aced marital relations. He’d taught her much over the summer, lessons she’d embraced with alacrity.
Henry plopped into his chair and beckoned.
“What if somebody comes?”
“They won’t. It’s only the second week. Students don’t have reason to meet with me yet.” He chuckled. “They’re still searching for their classes.”
“I don’t know.” Did respectable married women do things like this?
He leaned back and spread his legs. His erection tented his trousers. “Do I need to come and get you, Mrs. Thurston?”
She loved being called that. Liquid lust pooled, but she played coy. “Maybe—”
Henry sprang up, dragged her to his desk, and upended her over his lap. The chair arms prevented him from pulling her completely atop his knees, but he was strong enough to hold her half on, half off. She braced her hands on the floor. Skirts flew over her head. A playful swat landed on her bottom.
Thwack. Thwack. “Henreee…” she giggled. “Ow!” she cried as he brought his hand down harder. There’d been many spankings over the summer. Only one had been for punishment after she’d gone shopping and had run late and hadn’t called. The rest had been sexy ones. There was something thrilling about her husband enforcing his will—and her surrendering to it.
“I wish you didn’t put on so many undergarments,” he groused as he spanked.
“I only wear the usual.” Panties, girdle, slip. Petticoats for poufiness, if the dress needed it.
“Maybe I’ll institute an underwear ban.”
“I mean around the house.”
That wasn’t as bad, but still. What if she had to answer the door? A respectable woman was always coiffed, starched, and properly clad. To not wear undergarments would be like not wearing…stockings!
“Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he said.
She hoped he thought about it a long time. He flipped her off his lap into a heap between his legs, undid his trousers, and freed his cock from his shorts. Precum pearled on the smooth head.
Her brown feathered tilt hat had slipped from her head to her ear, despite being anchored with a pin. Henry threaded his fingers through her pageboy. The man was heck on a hairdo. Perhaps she should get one of those short, shaggy cuts like Italian actress Gina Lollobrigida had.
He exerted pressure to bring her face closer to his cock. “I used to think about you doing this when you were my student,” he said. “Suck me, Meggie.”
There is lots more, but you’ll have to read the book. Here is more info.
Educating His Bride by Cara Bristol
Genre: Historical spanking romance, historical romance
Author bio — Cara Bristol
USA Today bestselling author Cara Bristol has published more than twenty-five erotic romance titles, including contemporary and science fiction romance. No matter what the subgenre, one thing remains constant: her emphasis on character-driven seriously hot erotic stories with sizzling chemistry between the hero and heroine. Cara has lived many places in the United States, but currently lives in Missouri with her husband. She has two grown stepkids. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading and traveling.