An Elvira Education 2 (Patreon)

Eric picked himself up and bounced on his heels, almost in a strange little dance, like he was working loose something adhering to his body. “You remember when you read Fanny Hill? That girl at the office passed it to you and we spent lunch talking about how wicked it was. You actually lowered your voice whenever someone walked by us… and we got to the part about the man beating the woman with a birch-rod. You said you didn’t see how anyone could enjoy that: either the woman getting tanned or the man hurting her?”

Joan’s jaw slackened in disbelief. “You…”

“I’ve worried for so long about you noticing. When I hold you, I remind myself not to squeeze too tight. When my hand’s in your hair, I tell myself not to pull it. I know you enjoy a man that’s a little forceful… that tells you where you’re going for dinner and what dances you do at the party… but you don’t want to be tied down, have dirty things whispered to you. You probably wouldn’t even like to look at a birch-rod. You’re a good girl, Joan, the best… I still can’t believe no one’s made you their wife yet. I guess maybe they look at you something like I do. If you need to put out a fire, you don’t pour Louis XIII Cognac Grande Champagne on it…”

Joan’s eyebrows shot up. “So now I’m too good for you. You’re off to find some girl you can chain up and beat with a riding crop and call all manner of lovely names, huh? That’s a thrill for you?”

Eric sighed. “I’ve said this into the mirror a hundred times. I haven’t been able to talk myself out of it yet. If you want to try, I suppose you’re entitled—“

“Talk you out of it? If it’s such a thrill, shouldn’t I get to enjoy it? You’ll treat some slut to this big gas, but your future wife has to do without? Honestly, Eric, does that make any sense to you?”

“You’d enjoy that?”

Joan went for an endtable: cigarettes, lighter, and ashtray in residence. “The girl in the book did. Why shouldn’t I? You know how many girls I’ve known that complain about men shoving it in like a pipe cleaner? If they can put up with that, I can put up with paddle. At least I’ve got some safety padding in place…”

“I don’t want you to have to put up with something you don’t want to do—that’s why I didn’t want to tell you about this in the first place.”

Joan took her first puff of nicotine. It calmed her immensely, as did the thought of having a solution to this sudden heart attack of a crisis. “Don’t I get to decide whether this is something I do or don’t want to do? How do you know I wasn’t a week away from coming to you with a swagger stick in hand, saying I’d love to give it a try? You won’t know if you don’t ask, Eric. One thing I like about you is you don’t just assume I want to be poked and prodded and pinched like half the Neanderthals at Madison Ave. That doesn’t mean you get to decide that I don’t want to be—that I don’t even get a say in it.”

Eric squeaked a laugh and shook his head. It was all so ludicrous. Here was Joan, telling him he’d disrespected her by not wanting to disrespect her. Women!

“Don’t laugh at me,” Joan said vehemently. “Come on now. Let’s get started. Right now. Tie me to something. Slap me around. Rip my clothes off. Just don’t think you won’t take me shopping for new ones in the morning.”

“You’re serious,” Eric realized.

“You started it,” Joan retorted. “You just about walk out on me; now I’m supposed to curl up with a book and listen to the radio? I’m not letting you out the front door until we have this settled. So either you can use the riding crop on me or I can use it on you, but one way or another, we’re getting this sorted.”

Eric scoffed again: this time it became an admiring smile. “You’re quite a girl, Joan Holloway.”

“No more cotton candy, jack. I don’t recall Fanny Hill hearing sweet nothings when the rod was coming down on her. Start calling me a whore or stop calling me.”

He took a deep breath. “It is a little more complicated than that. I’ve… dabbled around, here and there.”

“European brothels.” Joan rolled her eyes. “Convinced half the GIs they knew how to pearl dive.”

Eric explained the rules as they’d developed since Fanny Hill came out. Saying ‘brakes’ made the other person stop. Rapping your knuckles on something achieved the same effect, if you couldn’t speak for some reason—Joan’s eyes twinkled at that implication.

But, most importantly, Joan wasn’t allowed to be her usual willful self. Not unless she wanted to be punished. As long as they were playing the game, she had no more agency than a chauffeur—all she could do was take Eric where he wanted to go.

Joan was intrigued by the possibilities. Eric was usually a very giving lover… not that they were fully lovers with the honeymoon so close. But he was always conscientious about touching her, kissing her, including her in all the passion she clearly made him feel.

It was nice to be taken care of—but Joan didn’t just want to get off. She could masturbate for that. She didn’t want a selfish lover, but she did want one that was greedy, enjoying himself, desirous of her. The two of them sharing pleasure. She wouldn’t be some sacrificial housewife any more than she’d marry a sycophant to worship her.

So… could she manage to delight in being put to this peculiar use of Eric’s? She supposed it was a good sign that he hadn’t just stomped his foot and told her this was the way it would be. There’d been plenty of necking, fingering… one time he’d sucked on her toes and she’d gotten so into it that she’d almost demanded his cock. It’d ended with her, her vibrator, a soaked mattress, and her blushing for half a week. Maybe this would be the same. She couldn’t know until she tried.

Holding her hands behind her back, Joan swayed on her heels, chest thrust out, a picture of coquettish innocence. “I guess you tell me what to do… so what do we do now, Eric?”

“You mean what do I do?” Eric corrected her. “You don’t do anything here. I do. You simply… take.”

His hands reached out, first caressing her lovely face, then moving down to fondle the enormous globes of her bosom.

“You don’t need to dominate me to feel my tits,” Joan told him in her high, airy voice. “I like it when they get attention—at least when it’s from you. I’d rather have you feeling me up than a million men staring at me.”

Eric chuckled. “I’m going to do a lot more than feel you up.” And he ripped her dress open.

Her breasts spilled out, no longer hindered by her dress’s tight constriction. Even with her bra containing them still, it was like a dam breaking. Joan gasped, feeling as though she were on display in a way that the entire staff at Sterling Cooper couldn’t manage. They could look, but not touch.

But even with her bra still on, Joan felt like it was a certainty that Eric would touch her… that he’d do anything he liked with her. She liked the idea. No more brushing up against limits. They were going all the way. Like some daredevil on motorcycle, they’d sped up the ramp and launched into the air. Now all that was left was to enjoy the ride.