#281) How I Earned Money in College

#281) How I Earned Money in College

We’ve had so many sex scandals through the years, it’s difficult to keep track of them all. I want to tell you about one from years ago, one I was kind of involved in, in a tangential way, at least. Does the name Alfred Bloomingdale mean anything to you? You can Google him, but be prepared to dive down a rabbit hole of scandalous behavior. He’s best known for having had a sexual affair with a pretty lady named Vicki Morgan. There are some similarities between what Mr. B. shared with her and what he shared with me, but not too many. My involvement with him came before he met Vicki. Here’s my story.
I attended college at UCLA. I loved college life, that school, Southern California, wandering around and shopping in nearby Westwood! I was wandering the streets of Westwood one Friday late-afternoon window-shopping and talking to friends, thinking about attending a movie at the Bruin, wondering what to eat for dinner on the cheap, when a distinguished looking white haired guy in a big Cadillac convertible pulled-up to the curb by the sidewalk.
“Say, you look athletic. Do you play tennis?” he called out to me.
“Some,” I answered and smiled in return to his affable demeanor.
“My young daughter just took up the sport and is looking for a tennis partner. Are you interested? I’d pay you well…”
“How much?” I replied. These kind of things just seem to happen to me; I need a part-time job and one falls in my lap.
“That depends on how good you are, as a teacher and as a player, and how many times you can give a lesson per week.” That made sense to me. “If you’re interested, I can take you to meet her, my daughter… We live just down Sunset Boulevard in Bel Air.”
He was clean-cut, well dressed, driving a barge-sized Caddy; he seemed safe. I got in the car. We introduced ourselves. I was intrigued by his name, wondered if he was affiliated with the Bloomingdale’s department stores back east. But I didn’t get the chance to ask him because he kept asking me questions, about my major in school, my hometown, my interests… And then we were pulling in the driveway of a really impressive mansion. I was liking all I saw.
“Julie?” he called out as he led me through the front door and turned-off the alarm system. “Huh! I guess she’s not home from school yet… Say, are you hungry? I’ve got a fridge full of left-overs…”
“Left-overs” turned-out to be a box of food from famous Chasen’s restaurant, Italian food from my favorite place, Mario’s in Westwood, some Chinese. He got out cartons and Tupperware containers and started to reheat all sorts of cuisines you wouldn’t normally put together. He opened a bottle of chilled white wine. I thought he was fun, uninhibited, a cool dad. We ate and talked more, which meant he kept asking me questions about myself. I felt flattered, as though I was fascinating.
At one point in time he said, “I’m surprised Julie isn’t home yet, but I’m also glad. I’d like to keep you all to myself, Carla…”
I giggled, blushed, returned his smile, let him move in and kiss me on the lips. When I didn’t rebuff these advances, he kissed me more, and we started to make-out. I was actually concerned that Julie would come home and be upset seeing us together on the couch, that’s how naïve I was! He pulled my Lacoste knit top up and took my bra off, cupped my boobies and kissed each nipple. He was so suave, so different from the college boys I’d dated. I knew that Hugh Hefner, famous publisher of Playboy magazine, was seriously dating a college-aged girl, Barbi Benton. What Mr. B. and I were doing didn’t seem so strange.
He looked me in the eyes and I honestly wondered if he’d hypnotized me. I wanted him, I was wet and excited and ready to jump out of my skin.
“I’m serious… I don’t need tennis lessons… but perhaps I can find a way to put you on the payroll… Would that interest you?”
My head was swimming. I put my wine glass down. I wanted to scream YES! but was cautious enough to say, “I’m not sure… I don’t want to have sex… tonight…”
“That’s okay,” he chortled earnestly, “I don’t either, yet. I do wonder if we’re sexually well-matched… Can I just massage you, Carla, make you feel good…?”
“I guess that’d be okay…” so he took me by the hand to an enormous bedroom.
“I’m going to keep my trousers on, so you know that it’s just a massage, so you’ll feel safe,” he said as he took off his shirt and shoes, and I stripped out of my clothes. That seemed to quiet my nerves.
I looked him over. He wasn’t buff, but he wasn’t in bad shape. He was deeply tanned with a full head of distinguished wavy white hair, but with coarse black hair on his chest. None of the guys I’ve ever dated had that. It made up for the slight thickness around his middle. I was down to the last article of my clothing, my underwear. As I started to pull them off, he stopped me, telling me to keep them wound around my upper thighs.
“You look so sexy like that, Carla!” I could barely believe that this wealthy magnate found me attractive. True to his word, he helped me lie face-down on the mattress, where he applied oil to my back as he perched on his knees above my lower back and my bottom, and massaged my shoulders. I could feel my tensions unknot. He moved his body further down my body, and massaged my lower back, and I moaned my approval of his technique. He moved again, I held my breath. But he skipped over my butt and instead massaged my hamstrings (around those lowered panties), my calves, my feet. I melted into a pool of heavenly bliss. “May I massage you here?” he said softly as he touched my bottom.
“I guess so… it’s kind of tough to ignore…” I tried to laugh it off with self-deprecation.
“Are you critical of this bottom?” he said as he kneaded my sacral dimples and I sighed involuntarily.
“It’s just that it’s so round…”
He gave me a playful spank with an oiled hand. “It’s absolutely beautiful!”
“You really think so?”
“I really do! You know that it’s the biggest muscle in the human body…”
“On me it is…” I joked, and he gave me another light love pat there.
“Do you like that?” he whispered by leaning in close to my ear.
“The massage or the spanks…? Never mind, it’s all wonderful, sensual…”
“You know, every man has a trigger, something that turns him on more than anything else. I’m an ass man. The female derriere really appeals to me…”
“If you’re interested in me, it’s a good thing you’re not a tit man!” I laughed, he didn’t. He gave me another soft spank. “You keep doing that!” I mock-protested. He kept massaging.
“Does it bother you?” he asked but before I could respond, he added, “It really pleases me!”
“Then by all means…” I playfully responded and arched my ass up. He gave it another two swats, one on each cheek, this time a little bit harder than the others.
“That’s enough of that,” he concluded, and he helped me up off the bed. I saw that he had an erection in his pants. He really was an ass man. “Do you want to shower off the massage oil?”
“Nothing I’m wearing is going to be hurt by it, and I really should be getting back…”
“I’ll drive you home,” then he produced a huge roll of bills from his pocket and peeled off two one-hundred dollar bills and pressed them into my hand.
“No, that’s not necessary,” I faintly protested.
“I insist, you need to know what that magnificent bottom is worth…”
We both got dressed. I wondered if what I’d just done was prostitution. You didn’t have sex! I kept telling my guilty conscience. I liked the label of sexual outlaw; I didn’t want to get arrested for actually breaking the law.
“Are you worried about your daughter?” I asked, which seemed to puzzle Mr. B.
“Oh, oh, no, she probably went to her mother’s…”
“You’re separated from your wife?”
“Something like that…” and he began the barrage of questions about me again all the way back to my apartment.
“Thank you,” I said, “it was fun!”
“I want you to think about something… I want to see you again. I’ll pay you for your time… No sex involved…” I blinked uncomprehendingly. “Can I have your phone number?”
“I guess,” and wrote it in ink on his hand. “Can I have yours?” and stuck my palm out.
“No. You can’t call me, but I’ll be in touch.”
I put the two bills in a safe hiding place and drew a hot bubble bath. I just kept repeating to myself that he’d paid for the pleasure of my unparalleled company. I no sooner sunk my slippery body into the bathtub than the wall phone rang. (It’s challenging to remember what life was like before smart phones and personal computers, etc.) I must’ve sounded exasperated when I answered.
“Sorry to bother you if this isn’t a good time, Carla. It’s Alfred Bloomingdale…”
“No, it’s okay, hi!”
“I can’t seem to get you out of my mind. I want to see you again. Is tomorrow too soon?”
My mind was reeling, it would be a Saturday, I had no plans, no classes, no date. But why? I was just another co-ed, my butt was big and round, but it wasn’t Marilyn Monroe’s. I’d been lured-in to be his daughter’s tennis tutor, but I didn’t know anything about her, or about him, for that matter.
“I have some questions…” I stammered.
“I’d like to answer them. Let’s say over dinner. You seemed to like both the food from Chasen’s and Mario’s, which appeals to you for tomorrow?”
“Mario’s is a favorite, but I’ve never been to Chasen’s…”
“Chasen’s it is! Wear something dressy. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
So we’re sitting at Chasen’s and it’s marvelous and he asks me about my career plans.
“No! I’ll tell you all about that some other time, but I have to know what this is…”
“A date in an exclusive restaurant.”
“Why, why me?”
“You’re gorgeous, fascinating, articulate, sexy…”
“No more so than a hundred other co-eds!”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Look, I like dating younger women, I’ve dated a lot. You are special in a hundred different ways, when I find someone special like you, I like to help them out financially. I know how tough it can be working your way through school these days!”
“You paid me for giving me a massage. Exorbitantly!”
“Wrong again. I paid for the pleasure of your company. I also spanked you a few times. Did I hurt you doing that?”
“No,” I smirked, and the memory of it made me squirm in my chair a bit. It was sexy and illicit and complimentary of my big bottom…
“I never want to hurt you! I do want to share time with you, and spank your cute butt, and pay you for the honor!”
“Honor!” I scoffed.
“What if I put you over my knee, and pulled up that lovely gown, and pulled down your adorable panties and spanked you right here and now? Not hard, just like yesterday, but in front of everyone…”
I found myself panting and hanging on his every word and wet in the gusset of my “adorable panties” and a million other feelings.
“You see? That’s why I’m with you, I’m an ass man and you have thoughts and tendencies that make you ass-oriented, ones I want to awaken in you, and pay you well for…”
I took a sip of ice water. It didn’t help, I was still parched and cotton-mouthed and unsure of what to say or how to say it. I took a gulp. A waiter was by my side ready to refill my glass.
“As nice as this is… can we get our dinner order in to-go boxes? I want you to take me back to your place. I don’t want to be spanked in front of everyone here… but I do want to be spanked…”
Back in that palatial Bel Air estate, that’s exactly what we did. He told me to stand with my backside toward him, in front of him as he sat on the couch, and slowly lift my long gown, until it was waist-high, then lay across his lap. I felt his boner, but he never got it out. He pulled my panties down to exactly mid-thigh. He caressed my bottom, softly at first, and then like another massage, deeply and vigorously, he parted it, tickled the valley between my hillocks, patted my cheeks lovingly, seemed to worship it, then slapped it, harder this time than any of those swats a day ago but still not what you’d call punishing, just brisk and playful and invigorating. He dug into his pocket, produced that roll, laid five one-hundred dollar bills in front of my nose on the couch cushion.
“I’d like to give you another set of spanks, just like I just did. Are you up for that, or are you too sore…?”
“I’m not sore in the least,” I giggled, wriggling my but in his face. He went through the entire ritual again, that’s what it was like, a devout ritual, a holy litany, a sincere prayer, culminating in more brisk, moderate spanks. Again he counted out five big bills and placed them in a stack on the others.
“I’d like to watch the color in your cheeks fade until you’re back to normal. Would that be okay?”
I stood, held my skirt at my waist and made sure my undies stayed at half-staff. If that thousand dollars was really mine, I didn’t feel as though I’d earned it.
“Listen, I don’t want to suggest that this become anything resembling prostitution, but I’m turned-on, and you’re turned-on… What if we masturbated in front of each other? Would you like that?”
Mr. B. was drooling slightly, not for the last time. He seemed mesmerized as I bent over so that he could see between my thighs. I touched myself. I was excited, but had never done something like this before. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the pulses of electricity zapping and zinging around my core. It felt like a lightning storm blowing up inside me, with rain clouds inside my pussy. I concentrated on the warmth glowing in my ass, but that just got me more excited. I wanted to hold off climaxing until he did, but an orgasm was building inside me fast, a really big one. I concentrated on that stack of bills. That allowed me to forestall the inevitable for a minute. I came with violent little spasms that rocked my world, made my butt jiggle as it shuddered through me, and covered my fingers with a copious amount of cream.
That’s when he finally got his erection out. He reached over to a coffee table to pull several Kleenex tissues out of the box and into his free hand. He jacked his member harshly. It seemed to me that he was lost in a holding pattern, like a jet over the airport. I was approaching another climax by this time. I stepped backward, so that my ass was mere inches from his face. I reached between my legs with my free hand. I trailed my index finger from his testicles up the shaft, and let the pad of my fingertip circle his red cock head. There was a big droplet of pre-cum oozing out of that little hole. My finger spread it around and around his head. His body jerked; Mr. B. came, catching the mighty spurts in the tissues.
We took off all our clothes, sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor and ravenously ate our re-heated dinner.
That was my first real spanking from Mr. B. It was like a gateway drug. I was hooked and ready for heavier stuff. Every visit he’d do a little more, spank me a bit harder, a little while longer, use a paddle, use his belt. What he really loved to do was tie my wrists to a chandelier hanging in the living room and whip my bottom with his belt. The paydays increased exponentially as the severity increased. Over time, I discovered that he kept this mansion just for this purpose, that he lived with his wife, Betsy, across town in a much bigger place. There was no Julie. There were other girls when our “rituals” grew a little too routine. He asked if I knew any girlfriends who would like to join us. I didn’t, but he found some, probably with that same pick-up line about being a tennis tutor for his little girl. Because he didn’t put his erections in my pussy or my mouth or my butt, I convinced myself that it wasn’t wrong, illegal, something to be ashamed about.
One Saturday night, I found myself on tip-toes, tied to the chandelier with another naked co-ed who I didn’t know. Alfred was really whipping us with his belt. It hurt much more to be lashed on ones’ front instead of ones’ backside, so instead of twisting under the beating and letting that happen, I pressed my length against the other girl. I kissed her as he beat our bottoms alternately. Alfred was drooling heavily, cum was dripping from his lurching and twitching cock. It seemed to turn them both on. It freaked me the fuck out. I hit a wall and didn’t want to go any further. I remembered his words from long ago, “I never want to hurt you, Carla…”
I picked up my money and got dressed on my way out the front door. It’d be easy to catch a cab on Sunset Boulevard, I told myself, so turned down his offer of a ride home. I never went back, I stopped taking his calls. A few months later, the big scandal with Vicki Morgan blew-up across the newspapers. The things they said he did with her made our trysts look like patty-cake. The money she sued him for made my paychecks look like chicken feed. But they paid my way through college. I’ve never told a soul about my past until now because I’m still not sure how I feel about it.
It’s true what Alfred said about males and their “triggers.” I’ve known a lot of ass men in my life due to my pert, round butt. I’m married to one, a dentist. I’m his hygienist, that’s what I got my degree in at school. Here (above) is a photo of what I looked like back in my UCLA days, just before I met Mr. B., back when I was innocent and gullible. I’m trying to look coy in the photo, and trying to show my butt off. It’s Jeff’s favorite photo of me, even though he didn’t even know me then. My favorite photos of me are the ones Jeff develops himself, that’s his hobby, photography. In those photos (such as below) I can’t look coy because my butt is exposed, and red, and freshly punished.
I’ll never know if Bloomingdale saw in me a fledging kinkster who he wanted to train to fly, or saw a co-ed with a cute caboose that he wanted to enjoy his way. Maybe both. I do know that he influenced me profoundly. Back when I was seeing him, his belt whippings were too much for me. The red welts covered my ass and upper legs, so that I couldn’t wear shorts or skimpy skirts without announcing that I’d just been beaten. If I made the mistake of letting the whipping turn me underneath that reinforced chandelier, I’d get it on my pussy and tits, lashes that would make me howl for mercy. Now Jeff loves to put handprint-bruises on my bottom, but nothing more. I confess that after he’s gone to sleep, I often think about those memorable beatings, wishing I was with a lover who knew no limits, who would drool with lust. Mr. B. marked me for life.

3 responses to “#281) How I Earned Money in College”

  1. I experienced something like this in Rome 20 years ago. I met a beautiful Sicilian woman there. We liked each other. Each of us was married. In order not to cheat on our spouses we found another way. I stayed in the best hotel in Rome. The Hassler.
    We went to my room. Both of us were naked very quickly. I beat you with my belt. Then each sat in an armchair, naked, we looked deep into each other’s eyes. Each of us began to masturbate.
    It was incredibly sexy and erotic. A very special night and a gigantic orgasm.
    I wish, Jean-Marie, you had been the Sicilian.

    Liked by 2 people

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