This changed the summer before I became a senior at WT White High School. The church had a special high school choir workshop at Baylor University in Waco for all high school choir members. Debbie was going to be a sophomore and had just graduated from junior high, putting us in the same choir again. I was now a senior, and had taken most of my required classes during summer school and had planned one last school year generally raising hell with my friends. My remaining courses were trivial and I had already been accepted into the University of Texas because of my SAT scores and high school grades. My parents had just bought me a new Trans-Am Firebird as an early graduation gift and I was photography editor of the school newspaper, so I had a pass to be out of class or away from school anytime that I wanted to be "on assignment." I didn't have a steady girlfriend and most WT White girls were either hippies or aspiring socialites chasing athletes. I had pretty much forgotten about Debbie until the bus trip.It was late July and surpisingly pleasant for a Dallas summer morning: it was a bearable 90 degrees and there was a bit of a breeze as storm clouds were threatening a late summer shower. As we milled around outside the downtown church preparing to board the bus, I caught sight of her. Could that really be Debbie? She had grown her dark hair long, grown several inches taller, and was perfectly proportioned. She was wearing a simple white cotton golf shirt with a short blue skirt looking like she had stepped out of the Neiman Marcus summer catalog. Her almond eyes still sparkled but there was a new budding sensuality to her gaze. I felt my knees go weak and my heart jumped into my throat. It was if the whole world became dim and she was drawing me to her with a powerful magnet that only the two of us could see.I quickly recovered and did my best to casually saunter over to her but I'm sure that it was more like a mad dash. "Hi," was all that I could get out. She almost laughed but smiled instead and gave me a hug. She smelled wonderful, like honeysuckle and roses combined. After a few minutes of somewhat awkward conversation, I asked her if she would like to sit together on the bus ride. She agreed and we began our official dating period under the cover of darkness on the ride back.
We were inseparable from that day forward. A few weeks later, classes started and I'd wait for her to get out of school (I could leave early: journalism was my last class) and I'd drive her to her after school job at Poll Parrot chicken on Marsh Lane. Her parents thought she worked every day; actually she had Tuesdays off whenever she wanted. Our weekend dates were often with other friends. Sunday nights, we would sit together at church above the watchful eyes of parents who sat in pews downstairs while we retreated upstairs to the balcony. Sunday night church always included the direst warnings of fire and brimstone and admonitions against worldliness, favorite sins of Dr. Criswell were what he called "hippie conduct" involving drinking, drugs, and "fornication."
Dr. Criswell looked like the Greek God Zeus. He towered over the congregation and bellowed out his sermons like a tinhorn dictator addressing the military. Of course, he avoided the sins that might lose donations among the wealth congregates like Mary Kay Ash and Ebby Haliday, the Dallas realtor. Business ethics and greed were seldom topics for moral outrage.After enduring this barrage, Debbie and I told our parents that we were going to Harvey Goff's hamburger joint on Forest Lane. Since I didn't have long hair, I was safe going there without being insulted unless Harvey was in particularly rare form. Sometimes we actually did stop by Harvey's, but we more frequently found ourselves speeding West out Valley View Lane to Northlake Park where there was a power plant cooling pond, few other cars, and a great getaway route. Rod Stewart's "Tonight's the Night," (which was reliably played every 90 minutes on Z-97) was our theme song, and we gradually became more bold in our mutual explorations. By Thanksgiving, Debbie was letting me take her bra completely off and feast on her firm, well-rounded charms. But that was pretty much where we stopped. Trans-Am firebirds are great for attracting attention but they leave plenty to be desired for budding romance.
We were both eager to go further but were a little frightened of the experience and more than a little brainwashed by the long reach of Dr. Criswell: I think that we feared that somehow demons would visit unspeakable horrors on us should we cross the threshold from extreme frustration to actual fulfillment. Debbie's older sisters Sharon and Lynn came home from Baylor at Thanksgiving and changed the course of our relationship. Sharon was sociology major and had nearly completed a course on human sexuality. She and Debbie had a long talk that lasted most of the night on Friday. This was irritating at the time since we didn't go out but proved valuable in the near-term.
Sharon told Debbie how wrong she had decided the teachings of the church were and how it was not only natural but healthy for her to begin sleeping with me if she was ready. I didn't realize it, but Debbie was already suffering a good bit of guilt from what we were doing and even more from what she wanted us to do. That Sunday night, she said that she might be willing to slowly proceed in the direction that I had been begging. She started hinting that she might have a Christmas present for the two of us.The next few weeks passed quickly with less time for experimentation. We both had church choir Christmas concerts and my parents insisted that I go on our annual ski trip to Red River over Christmas. So, our present had to wait. Christmas came and went and we finally arrived back in Dallas on about January 3rd, a few days before school started. Debbie was pretty busy with her family and had gone to visit her grandparents in Mineral Wells, a few hours away by car. She finally returned a few days before school resumed. In a long phone conversation, we had decided that next week would begin our next step on the journey to adulthood.
Debbie's parents were conveniently gone during the day and her older sisters were both away at Baylor again after Christmas. Her father was corporate counsel for First Interstate bank, a 25-minute commute down the North Dallas Tollway those days and he was never home before seven. Her mother was a flight attendant for a fledgling enterprise called Southwest Airlines that flew only between Dallas Love Field and Houston's Hobby airport. Her regular schedule had her working four days per week from Tuesday to Friday from 8 AM to 6 PM. Neither of them would have welcomed Debbie entertaining boys in her room when they were absent and even the suggestion that young love had been developing in the house could have had dire consequences. Fortunately, Debbie's house was in the estate area of Farmer's Branch and had a furnished pool house that had evolved into a sort of teen-agers' living room and was pretty much forgotten by everyone-except us. It had a phone extension, parking in the alley and shuttered windows that provided a view of the pool, the house, and driveway and even had a rear entrance off the alley. Perfect. She planned to take off from Poll Parrot the first Tuesday after school started and we would proceed to the pool house for a long afternoon. I had never wanted Christmas vacation to end so badly! Tuesday afternoon's sky was mostly clear with a pale yellow winter sun hanging low in the sky and warming the WT White parking lot to a habitable 50 degrees. After a short wait, Debbie emerged from the East entrance: she had never looked more radiant. Dressed in a short red leather skirt with dark stockings, dark pumps and a beige ribbed wool sweater, she had her long dark hair pulled back and tied with a beret. After jumping in the car and giving me a peck on the cheek, she pulled the beret out and shook her hair loose and kissed me for real. Her smile conveyed that we were still on and I used every bit of self-control to keep from giving the speed trap cop on Marsh Lane a reason to stop me beside the fact that I was a kid driving a Trans-Am.
After what seemed like hours, we arrived at the back of the pool house. We tiptoed in the gate and were greeted by her Collie, Ginger, the only creature stirring: the neighborhood would be deserted for at least two more hours. We checked the garage: it was empty; the house silent. I followed her through the pool house door, blocked Ginger's entrance with my foot, closed the door and turned the lock. Debbie lit a candle and arranged herself at one end of the six-foot leather couch. I switched on Z-97 and, like clockwork, Rod Stewart crooned out, "take off your shoes and sit right down."I joined her on the sofa and started one of the most natural kisses that we had ever shared. I was so determined to treat her with respect that she became impatient and slid her sweater over her head and waited. I gingerly reached back and un-clasped her bra and kissed her again. Then, I took a second to just admire the artistic beauty of the sight of her. Her long dark hair perfectly framed her beautiful young face and decended to rest on the tops of her impeccable breasts. The yellow afternoon sun filtered in through the bamboo shades on the west side of the room and splashed over her erect nipples in bas-relief. I almost cried from the sight.
Wasting little more time, I began worshiping her nipples with my tongue and sucking them to an even more erect state. She began cooing and actually began un-fastening her skirt then slid it off. She was wearing dark pantyhose and was now the closest to being undressed that I had ever seen a woman. I had read plenty of Penthouse letters and had studied my brother's copy of "The Sensuous Man," but was more than a bit nervous when confronted with a real performance. I was not prepared for the amount of passion that burst forth from this normally reserved girl as I began applying my beginner's oral techniques to the new territory that she had presented, first through her panties, then removing them.I guess that she was happy because I was able to bring her to orgasm quickly. After she had finished, she helped me off with my jeans and barely touched me with her hand when the inevitable happened. "Wow, this is so cool," she cried in response. I was prepared for a far worse reaction. Debbie had lots of virtues: patience and tolerence of my inexperience among them.
So began a series of meetings in the pool house. I lived for Tuesday afternoon, and started playing Days of Future Past just to hear the song. But like all stories like this, there was the other side of the story. Debbie started having quiet and somber moods. She wanted to give in to my pleas to experience actual intercourse, but still felt guilty. And Dr. Criswell's sermons on fornication and adultery didn't help any. Fortunately, I was able to convince her that since we weren't really having intercourse that this was not fornication. I prided myself in my persuasive ability and had already decided on law school by that time. Despite the solidness of my logic, I could tell that there was a terrible struggle going on inside this wonderful young woman. At times, I actually thought that I would be doing the best thing for both of us if we broke up. I even broached the subject and she burst into tears because she thought that I didn't want her any more. I was sure not ready to handle something like this. So, we continued with the stormy clouds of her guilt popping in and out for several months.
I must confess that I had been harboring a secret and growing desire to spank her. Letters in Penthouse dealing with spanking gave shape to my rather primal thoughts and preoccupations with female bottoms. I had even thought about being on the receiving end if Debbie was wielding the paddle. But I never really had the nerve to mention them to Debbie in a sexual context. She had told me that her parents had spanked her up until grade school and that she hadn't had one since. Her paternal spankings were never on the bare and there was nothing abusive about her father but he was thorough and applied a wooden clothes brush to her jeans-clad posterior while holding her firmly over his lap. The last counseling session had been years ago when she was in fourth grade. She couldn't even remember what she had done but could talk at length about how close to him and totally free from guilt she felt when it was over. He cuddled her and she cried into his white dress shirt for a long time after her spanking and he dried her tears and took her out for ice cream.
One beautiful late April afternoon found us gazing out at the scarlet blooming azaleas across the pool after a particularly passionate Tuesday session. With no warning, she started sobbing and saying how bad she was and that she needed some way to resolve her guilt. I'm still not sure if this was a set-up or not. After I got her a Dr. Pepper and settled her down a bit, Debbie started talking to me about how she might deal with her guilt and wondered if she should talk to the youth leader at church (a bad idea) or even her parents (a much worse idea.) I was so shocked at the latter suggestion that I blurted out, "What would your parents do if you told them?"
She wondered if she would get a spanking. It was funny but I sensed that she didn't really dread this punishment and her mood lifted quite a bit. I asked her to describe it and she had a fair amount of the details ready. She talked again about how clean she felt after a spanking from her father, as if she had a fresh start. This was what I later learned to call "a defining moment." I swallowed hard, clenched my fists and managed to haltingly ask, "What if I spanked you?"
She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and almost pleaded, "Would you really do that for me?"
Mustering all of the resources I had, I answered, "Yes, but I think it would really need to hurt a bit if it was to work."
Debbie vigorously nodded and told me to stay put and that she'd be right back. I watched her gorgeous form dance around the pool and into the white brick mansion's back door. She returned just a few moments later carrying her purse. When she dashed through the door, she produced her father's clothes brush from her handbag. It was quite a weapon: it was made of rosewood and was about 10 inches long, 2 inches thick, and 5 inches wide. The wide part of the back was a matte patina, suggesting natural polishing from being used on Debbie and her two sisters regularly in years' past.
She blushingly handed the brush to me without speaking, lowered her eyes to the floor, and waited. I gently took her by the arm and led her to the sofa. She surprised me by dropping her jeans to her ankles first, then lowering her panties. I had put my briefs back on which did little to conceal my reaction to her positioning her beautiful bottom across my lap.
I started slow and easy. After ten or fifteen half-hearted swats (after all, I loved this girl and didn't want to hurt her), she turned around and said, "John, you really need to make me feel this so that I'll know I've been punished."
I picked up the pace and started to put my arm into it. Her skin began to turn pink as she gripped the arm of the sofa and started moaning into the cushion. I kept at it and her moans turned to yelps and finally sobs. But she never tried to get away or resist, although I thought that she was going to claw a hole in the leather arm of the sofa.
All at once, she went totally limp. I kept up the spanks for a few more seconds until I noticed that my leg was dripping wet and that she was almost sliding off my lap. It took me a moment to even realize what had happened. I stopped the spanking and started gently rubbing her now deep scarlet bottom. She gradually turned over and gave me the most passionate kiss I had ever experienced. And after a few minutes, I would no longer get to use the argument that we had not actually fornicated. But I didn't need it any more. From then on, Debbie was often spanked as a prelude to our loving. And I'm not embarrassed to say that I felt the sting of her father's brush on my own bottom every once in a while and found that I wasn't quite as tough as I thought I was. Her years of tennis had equipped her with far more than enough strength to reduce even a cocky guy like me to a whimpering boy. But that's another story.
I'd like to be able to tell you that I married Debbie and that she is still receiving discipline and occasionally handing it out to me. In fact, I think of her every time I hear Don Henley sing, "I'm driving by your house, Lord knows, you're not home."
I sometimes turn my 911 down Marsh Lane across Valley View (taking care to observe the speed limit,) turn into her old neighborhood and cruise down the alley. The pool house is still there and the azaleas even bloom red in April. But Debbie lives in London with her ambassador husband and her parents have moved away.
The details of our drifting apart are familiar themes to young lovers: different colleges, different career goals, and different family expectations. But I'll always cherish the memories of her allowing me to share in her wonderful life and for showing me what a gift that love and spanking shared by two lovers can be.