Oh why not then

I started this story many years ago. It didn't work for me. I don't know... it just didn't seem to work. But it costs me nothing to post it. Perhaps one of my billions of adoring readers can do something with it. I guess I'm not a good PR guy. There are a few turns of phrase I like, but damn it, the chapter doesn't work. I fear the story is vulgar at its core and can't be redeemed even with the brilliance we all know I have.

Enjoy!

The Bitter Workings of a Neglected Indentured Servant

(or Sex Slave: The Debate Continues)

by Pallidbust

My second day as a slave began with an early breakfast I didn’t eat, a long bath/shower/Turkish Sauna/shower/hair-skin-nails and girl chat with Simon’s wife, Pam, and then I was propelled into brunch. I, like so few people in the history of the human race, would meet my master over brunch. I know. It sounds ridiculous. Imagine how hard it is to write it. Its harder to write it than it was to live it.

And I did live it.

I sat with Pam on a lush couch in a lush living room in a mansion. Never been in a mansion before, but I supposed it was a lush mansion, but as far as I know it could have been a really crappy mansion as far as palatial palaces go.

Simon sat at his own thrown type giant chair and fought back the urge to gobble down all the brunch. I wore my only possessions. Dark blue tank top that just shows off my mid rift (which I was and am very proud of thank you very much), my blue jeans jacket that has served me since my older brother gave it to me eight years before, and tight-tight-tight low rise blue jeans that I stole from a wicked sorority sister when I dropped out of college because I loved them more than she ever could. Actually, I wasn’t sure they were mine anymore. If I were owned, and I owned the shirt on my back, then it made sense that my shirt was owned by whomever owned me. And what’s the difference between me and my shirt?

Now maybe you understand how confused I am. And was, but still am.

‘Mr. Simon. Missus.’ A tall man in a dark suit (ok, I admit it, an awesome dark suit) walked into the living room with a well practiced stride. Simon pounced and shook his hand and insisted that the new man sit. Apparently his name was Richard. A common enough name.

Richard unbuttoned his jacket and sat. He pulled out a flip notepad and reached for his inner pocket, probably for a pen. I liked his hair. It was very simple except for a slight, natural spiking around the edges only crude oil could keep down. He didn’t oil his hair. He probably had it trimmed once a week, but there was always a little showing to make it unmanageable. Very male.

Simon pressed. ‘You eating? Pam’s afraid you’re not eating.’

‘You look thin.’

‘Pam says you look thin.’

Richard paused a moment, taking in the scene. I could see his eyes avoid me. I’m use to it. Eyes either zero in on me or avoid me. That’s just the way it is.

Richard paused for a moment further after a failed attempt to respond. ‘Yes, I’m eating. So…’It was a pen! ‘How can I help y….’

‘Richard, that job you pulled for me last time… that was above and beyond, man. That was something.’

‘I’m glad you’re satisfied, sir.’

The man captured the whole room. He was so damned… I don’t know. He was very something. He put his notebook and pen back into place and waited. He looked like he never lost blinking games. Simon looked to Pam for something, got it, then turned back to this tall man in a suit that one could curl up in to die or snooze for hours if healthy. I should mention he had darkish blonde hair. Well, sort of brown. Or mostly black. Don’t know why I mention it, it just seems like one of the things one notices.

‘Richard, we’re concerned about you.’

‘I’m concerned about you, Mr. Simon.’

‘Frank! For goodness sakes, Richard, we’re at brunch! If you can’t call a man by his first name at brunch, then the Founding Fathers failed! Right? Of course I’m right.’

Frank Simon was in his fifties, an inch or five past being on the verge of being pudgy, and full of energy.

‘Right, Frank. So the last deal is holding?’ I could tell this Richard knew the deal was holding. He wanted Simon to get to it. Clearly a subordinate, but he pushed.

‘This is Fallon.’ That’s me. ‘See her there? Pam just loves her. Wants to adopt her; I can tell. What do you think? Brand new, right out of the pond. What do you think?’

He looked me over like I was a horse! That does not put you on my good side.

‘She’s very nice, Frank. Pam.’

Very nice? What the fuck does that mean? A new DVD player is very nice. It’s one thing to be humiliated like this, but for the love of God, I wasn’t nice. I was hot! If they were to enslave me, then the least they could do was note me as a high-end slave.

‘Good!’ Simon burst with joy. ‘Then she should suit you fine.’

‘Pardon?’

‘A gift. Enjoy her while she lasts. Only have her for two years. Then she’s off the farm.’ Business over, Simon attacked the snacks. ‘Pam, do I like this? That there.’

‘Yes, Frank. It’s what you gorged on during your niece’s confirmation while Dr. Lee begged you to stop.’

‘Right!’ He munched down. ‘Dr. Lee is a good doctor. He cares. Good catering, baby.’

Richard didn’t eat. He scratched at that bone to the upper left of his right eye and thought a moment. ‘Frank, I have my home just how I want it, and I’m not sure I can accommodate…’

‘Life is conflict, my boy! Greeks knew that even in ancient times. Please, eat, or Pam will talk my ear off. But not this stuff; that’s for me. Pam, what is it called? Find out who invented it, and make sure I make them rich.’

Richard sighed. ‘It was invented hundreds of years ago by an Italian working for the king of Spain. He’s quite dead.’

‘Then I’ll make the delivery boy rich!’

* * *

I sat shotgun in Richard’s black, scary SUV and fumed. It was so clean and empty of fast food rappers it was positively eerie. OK… I’m a sex-slave. That’s a forced situation. Humiliating? Sure. Invoking my righteous indignation? You bet. But this thirty-something bastard not appreciating the gift the great Simon gave him, namely me, that just pissed me off.

By the way, I use both the past and the present tense, because I feel like it. Get over yourself, English Major; this is my life story, and it’s very emotional.

I hid my fuming.

‘So… I’m your sex slave. Any orders?’

‘You’re not my sex slave.’

‘Well, lets review. I have to do everything you tell me, and if you so order, I have to enjoy it.’ He ignored me. Under normal circumstance ignoring me was suicidal. I knew this was not a normal circumstance, so I played it cool. ‘I mean, if you pulled over, told me to strip, bend over the hood, and then took me like a big strong baron, I’d have to not kill you in your sleep later, right?’

‘Why?’

‘Because my asshole ex-boyfriend had a charming little secret -- he was a coke dealer. Hurray! Kept his “supply” in my toilet… it was this or prison. A lawyer gave me the option: be a sex slave for two years, no record at all, or five to ten in prison as a sex slave to a large woman who wouldn’t care about my needs. Wouldn’t you choose free market slavery?’

My new master drove on a bit before addressing me. ‘I’d flee the jurisdiction if I couldn’t get justice, but you didn’t, you opted for me whether you knew it or not. However, you only need to serve me for a certain term. You’re an indentured servant.’

‘A sexual indentured servant.’

‘No. I promise you, if you just keep quite, you’ll breeze through the next two years with your virtue.’

Motherfucker. Look, I’m a feminist. I’m more of a feminist than you’ve likely met. I don’t even think in terms of feminism, that’s how feminist I am. The point is, I’m hot, I’m young, my “virtue” was as dead as my love for my ex-asshole-boyfriend, I’m smart as a whip, charming as a Kennedy, and this bastard isn’t at all grateful for getting me as a gift. Well… we’ll see about that.

‘I’m sorry to put you out. I know it must be a burden to have a nubile girl kneeling at your feet. It’s like having to take in a hapless brother-in-law with a gambling problem.’

‘Fallon, is it?’

‘Yeah. Or, of course, you can rename me.’

‘Fallon,’ he was calm, which upset me, as I was trying to get his goat. He had a big, fluffy, golden fleece goat, and I was going to get it, and gut it, then hire some redneck to roast it old school; but it wasn’t going well. So far he had total possession of his goat, well hidden behind an impregnable fortress guarded by gargoyles and Navy Seals. ‘Fallon, I don’t know what you’ve been told, and I don’t know what you expect. And I don’t care. I’m in this community. I work and live here. You’re my first indentured servant, and hopefully my last. If I want a wife I’ll order one from Russia or Korea. I don’t approve or disapprove of this community’s system. Its an ancient system, it works, it makes the powerful complacent, keeping them from turning Napoleon, and keeps honest young people, like yourself, out of a soul rotting prison. You are a shock to my system, but with patience, equilibrium is inevitable. Let’s be rational, OK?’

‘Ah… yes. Very good. So, are you a robot, or a Vulcan?’

He drove on. I really fucking hate being ignored. I must seem to you, my dear reader, like a vulgar person, given to foul language. Well I’m not. When I’m not entering slavery, I’m a dove. I’m a God damn Pollyanna. Anyways, I like attention. Ladies, you know what I mean. Gentlemen, you know the fucking horror.

‘What do you do for Frank?’

‘Mr. Simon.’

‘He told you to call him Frank.’

‘Brunch is over.’

* * *

Grasslands and corn. Lots of it. Every once in a while we passed a home. All of them nice. One of them had a pony. Boy do I envy the slave in the pony home. I hope Richard has a pony. I’ve never ridden one, but I could spend the next two years, sixteen hours a day, learning how to ride a pony and feeding it sugar cubes. I’d name it Basil if a boy pony, and Audrey if a girl pony.

My new lord and master pulled into a long driveway, but stopped well short of the two story number in the far distance, no pony in sight. Gravel driveway, if it matters to you. He parked, and rubbed that bone above his eye. Either he should see a doctor about that, or he should let me go, because I seem to cause it a lot of pain.

Good.

‘You didn’t put any luggage in my jeep.’

‘Yes I did. The slave-kit.’

‘I don’t like repeating myself.’ Shouldn’t have told me that. ‘You’re not a slave. Slavery is illegal, even here. You don’t have habiliments is my point.’ I looked him in the eyes, refusing to flinch. ‘Necessities.’ Shit.

Well, he had me there. Also, of course, he had me in general. I was had. I’m sorry if I keep getting back to that, but it’s not an easy concept to get accustomed to. Look, I’m ending my sentences in prepositions! I’m really thrown for a loop here.

He pulled the SUV back into the street and headed on down the road.

‘Master, aren’t you going to take me to your home so I can clean the kitchen floor with my toothbrush while you flick me with a riding crop for being lazy and/or insolent?’

‘You don’t own a toothbrush.’

He switched to cruise control. I just saw it… yes. A kernel of annoyance.

‘And don’t call me master.’

* * *

It was adorable. An adorable little main street with little mom and pop stores everywhere. Ah! A Homemade Ice Cream shop… gorgeous Americana.

I followed my lord and master into, what appeared to be, a micro-Walmart of some sort. It sold everything, but only had a few of each, and everything was overpriced by at least two dollars. And everyone looked happy, until they saw my above mentioned lord and master that is. They stiffened up a bit. Then they saw me, and confusion set in.

Interesting.

A sign read, “Welcome to Lauren and Paul’s Emporium!” Lauren and Paul were a couple in their forties. They seemed to run the joint. Richard spoke briefly with Paul, who nodded, confused, then amused. Paul then whispered to Lauren, who pounced! She took my arm, congratulated me on my red hair and being adorable (Lauren got it, what’s the asshole’s problem?), and ushered me to the female section of the micro-Walmart.

I looked over my shoulder, saw Richard approach, then was forced to look over a red sweater that matched my hair… but it didn’t, it was far too bright, but I needed all the friends I could get, so I agreed.

‘So, I guess she’ll need a sweater?’ Richard asked, like he was discussing his car’s maintenance.

Lauren seemed to have lost all fear of my vassal. She was in her element now.

‘One sweater? Mr. Rhodes… we’ll be a while.’

Mr. Rhodes, is it? Mr. Richard Rhodes. Alliteration… like a comic book superhero. A brooding superhero perhaps? One with a dark past that has focused his pain and fear into a brave and skilled crime-fighting persona? Or was he just a Dick?

‘OK. Look, get her what she needs. Put it on my tab. I’ll be back in an hour.’ Lauren shook her head. ‘Two hours exactly; that’s it.’ And the big strong man walked off, no doubt to find some wounded doves to step on.

‘Goodbye, Master Rhodes.’ He stopped on a dime and cocked his head like I insulted his mother. I believe he might have counted to five. He turned sideways. Paul and Lauren watched on, enjoying the newly-bonded spout.

‘Don’t forget her toothbrush.’

Erg. Hope he wasn’t serious about that. Ah hell with it. I’d achieved my first victory: public humiliation, so I smiled and shall smile at the memory as I type. La de ha, I am so pleased. Well, moments of joy don’t last. Back to it then.

I watched him through the windows as Lauren whispered in my ear.

‘The best thing to do, to start it off right, is to buy a lot of stuff. Let him know a woman has needs. He doesn’t have any experience with women that I know of, so how can he set the tabs too high?’ Paul gave Lauren a firm spank on the rear end, something I know old couples were into because none of them half way earned a B.A.’s in Women’s Study at Berkeley before dropping out to star as an extra in a B movie filmed in Thailand that they didn’t finish because of a monsoon but had no regrets because the Key Grip became their ex-boyfriend with a coke habit, but I didn’t hear Lauren object to the smack, or Paul relent, and I needed friends. I suppose people got tired of bickering, and just started smacking backsides to save time. I was in no position to judge, being a slave.

Besides, smack or not, I was winning round two already. I smiled a little wider. Victory two was in sight. Economic victory.

* * *

I don’t know how to describe houses very well. I shall keep this as short as possible, and you, dear reader, can use your imagination. If you don’t want to use your imagination, please watch some TV. I wont be offended. I recommend Desperate Housewives.

Two story, brick and wood. Modern, but not modern art. Brown carpet in living room. Big kitchen. Pool in the back (awesome!). Bookshelves all over the place, all packed. Big TV in front of couch, thousands of DVDs (awesome to a lesser extent). That’s about it. Just imagine a nice place without any plants. It was very clean, and as I carried load after load of possessions up to my room, second floor, I couldn’t help but noticed a heavenly aroma coming from the kitchen, which by the way, was very clean. The lying bastard didn’t need my toothbrush.

I had bought ten just in case.

I finished the moving, decided to nest later, and flopped downstairs. Oh, yeah, I don’t want to forget this part. He doesn’t wear shoes in his home. OK, fine. I would mind if he had pretentious Asian crap everywhere, showing off how “spiritual” he was, but he didn’t. Probably just liked clean floors. However, every time I passed the front door, I had to either take off or put on my sneakers, greatly increasing the time necessary to move my new habiliments from his scary, black SUV to my room on the second floor. I’m proud of my legs, and I’ve made more than one Stairmaster my bitch, but it was a good workout for my legs and glutes I admit.

I mention the barefoot affair as I consider it his victory number one. I’m still one up with my economic victory, but now I knew I’d have to watch him.

Too late. The slave kit, a green suit case, laid conspicuously on the couch table in the living room. It hadn’t been opened. Now… was I Pandora, or was I the cat? Wait… they both were curious, weren’t they? Both got it in the ass? I’m doomed.

Then the smell again and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day, and it was the late afternoon and I was very hungry. I will never turn down a free brunch again.

I peaked into the kitchen. I was very stealthy, but I couldn’t tell if he didn’t notice me or was just indifferent. I watched as he left an elaborate salad making factory to retrieve a marinating steak from the refrigerator. He carried a towel over his left shoulder with ease. Something about that towel over his broad shoulder gave me a… something. Damn you, words, you abandon me! Anyway, the towel over the shoulder piqued some instinct or DNA or something. I liked it, and filed it away in my memory so I would dream about Jeremy Brett in such a towel.

‘So, master, you’re one of those guys, right?’

‘Don’t call me master. What kind?’

‘The kind that are self-sufficient, don’t need any pestering female to take care of them, takes the garbage out without being told, knows how to cook… you know. Grown up, I guess.’

‘If you say so. Thanks for not calling me “master.”’

Shit!

‘You’re welcome, Ma...’ He stuck an asparagus fried in a creamy butter sauce in my mouth… victory number two for Richard Rhodes. We were even. Then I savored the asparagus, and considered unconditional surrender.

‘Is it ready?’

‘Grrhmmmmraahhhhh…. Um, I mean…. Yeah, its good. I mean, it’s as good as its going to be, Master.’

‘Stop it. Sit down while I think. This pestering has to stop.’

‘Why, Master?’

‘Fine. If you insist, you can talk all you want in your room until breakfast.’

Ahhhh…. here it was. The master and the slave. Finally, we were being honest with each other. I knew it. Men were men. They could put on whatever veneer they wanted, but when push comes to shove, they shove. Tall, hairless monkeys, everyone of them, thank the Goddess. Now we can stop playing games and come to some kind of workable if uneven arrangement.

I, of course, sat down in the dining room at a small table fit for four at most, and three of them would have to be skinny. I twiddled my thumbs and looked around the room. Nothing on the white walls. It felt like we’d both just moved in.

To Sparta.

He brought me a salad. Let me describe the salad, and yes, I’m bragging, because I got to eat this salad, and you didn’t, Nah-na, nah-na-na. From bottom to top: a thin layer of roman lettuce, red vinaigrette dressing, a just barely seared in cream and cheese sauce slice of tomato cut from the middle, a bunch of iceberg lettuce, light Italian dressing (my guess was Newman’s Own until I saw him making it from scratch), capers, black olives, the smallest lightest Cherub’s toe tap essence hint of heated feta, and crushed croutons. If that doesn’t sound freaking great to you, then you don’t have a human’s tongue, or you didn’t recognize many of those ingredients. Make a list, take them to the store, and treat yourself. You’ve earned it reading my mad ramblings this far. Or get your slave to do it.

Master ate his…. I’m sorry, excuse me. The man who I call master to piss him off ate his salad in the kitchen. I could hear him performing impressive acts in there while eating, but dared not move from my seat to risk banishment to my foodless room. Unthinkable.

He returned with more of the adequately perfect asparagus and little crackers with tasty stuff on them and… you know what, you’re probably not reading this for the food. Sorry. I’m going to save some time. We ate the pre-steak stuff, he apologized for serving the dishes out of order (he implied it was my fault), he asked if I were a vegetarian (nope, bring the dead animals on), and he gave me a little speech.

Cliffnotes speech: we’re stuck together. Stop trying to piss me off. I don’t want to have to treat you like others in the community treated their indentured servants, but if you push me, I will. I like silence, and don’t call me master again.

Cliffnotes response: Agreed. I’ll try. I’d prefer to avoid that, too, whatever that is. I have earphones, and I’ll compromise with “sir.”

Cliffnotes inquiry: Why “sir?”

Actual answer: Because its silly, and I want the next two years to be as silly as possible, as my ego is very bruised.

He thought about that one for several courses. He brought in the steak. I fought the steak. It was a tie. I destroyed all of the steak, along with the potatoes that tasted like the steak, but it might have delivered me a death blow. Then this Greek summer salad deal… I somehow made it to the couch and slumped and thought about cutting open my stomach. Instead I moaned with equal parts pleasure and regret. If the movie Se7en didn’t prove it to me, then that meal did: Gluttony is a deadly sin.

He brought me coffee. He sat in a chair, drank his coffee, and read a book. Didn’t say a word to me.

‘Sir, why are you being so nice to me, and so rude at the same time?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, you feed me that… adequate meal, then you bring me coffee, but then you… oh my God is this freshly ground? Anyways, then you… oh, God… never mind, God, it is. Anyways, then you just sit there and… I guess its not rude, but it’s not normal, is it?’

‘I don’t know.’ He waited for a reply.

‘I guess not. Hey, what do you think is in the slave kit, sir?’

‘Hmmm? Oh, I don’t know.’

‘I’m guessing loin cloths and a neck collar with studs on it. Oh! You think they’re diamond studs?’ I expected a laugh, or a scolding even. Instead he grabbed the case and made to walk off. ‘Woa, where you going with that. I want to see.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Either I’m Pandora or the cat. Don’t know yet.’ He looked at me critically and hard so I could see his eyes in detail (bright blue). He set the case down, careful not to tip my coffee, and opened the case.

In the case, which comes free with any purchase of me, were an assortment of paddles, whips, a thin stick with a cute leather handle, cuffs, chains, rope… you get the idea. It looked like the briefcase of a perverted Englishman.

And no diamonds. Damn it.

He looked at me. ‘I hope you’re happy. I suppose these are for use on you.’

‘Pretty sure, Sir. Oh, wait. A manual. Let me see…. Well… a lot of copyrights… acknowledgments… index… ah, yes. They’re for use on me. For correction and pleasure. Hmmm…’

He snatched the manual from me, sat down and read. He scanned each page, flipping when he was done with alacrity. He was so intense and fast at reading it, and dead serious, that it sort made me a little goofy in the head. I shook the goof out of my head and handled an equally serious wooden paddle, like the kind the sorority I left had on the wall for decoration, except this one didn’t have a sticker of Snoopy on it. I’d never taken a good close look at a paddle. It didn’t look all that bad. I fell on my ass once Bruised her up nice. I lived.

‘I’ll put it in the closet, and that’ll be the end of it. Reason will rule this house.’

I reclined on my couch (I claimed it as a cat would), and found myself in complete agreement with Sir. Play it cool, entertain yourself, two years would be a breeze. Maybe I’d learn a foreign language. Or get “a degree from home.” Plant a garden. There were thousands to things to do. I would not, however, get beaten like a naughty indentured servant that just ached for attention on my curvy bottom then stick my finger in my mouth and, eye’s wide, say, “have I been a naughty girl, sir?”

No sir, Sir.

POTUS SPANKUS

Is there more to a spank, in the mysterious mind of the female human creature, than the mere physics? Is physical strength via crude muscle alone the decider? Or can, perhaps, gravitas add import to the old sharp crack of hand on butt? Witness Americans in Cathay:


This highly tuned Olympic athlete supplicates and yields to the leader of the free world, inventing the transparent lie that the public spanking she requests is only "a jokey custom between players intended to offer encouragement." Ha! Yeah, right. She is a warrior, and thus can smell Bush's power. She wants it--no!-she needs it. I submit that to women, power is always the new black. And that man knows missile codes.

Bush eyes fresh prey....



















But who among us can blame these Olympians? Look how happy a presidential spanking makes them!!! They burst with energy.
















POTUS exercises his spanking mitts to keep them sharp and hard for the pole vaulters' bottoms:


Look at the cold determination. America's bringing home the gold for female pole vaulting, you can bank on it.

PB

Reform, Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Be Careful When You Spank The Monster, That The Monster

You Do Not Become

Sitting on a beaten ass for six hours is like a whore vacuum cleaner: it fucking sucks. Every inch of my glutes were bruised, plus cane marks of such number that they overlapped into one welt which covered my sitter and bruised all the way to my tail bone, so there was just no way to get comfortable on a wooden chair while Henderson droned on about tax deductions. Cold cream should be tax deductible. And so should puppies and rainbows and Jimmy Page’s music and anything that eats wood. Wood was the bane of my existence. Hairbrushes, canes, armless chairs, sweet and horny Chemists I didn’t want… I hope advanced space alien termites conquer the world.

But the hours did pass and I made it to Snuggle Bunny’s room so she could ‘spank’ me into ‘proof reading’ her ‘homework’, or so everybody thought. Cruelly fully clothed, I lay on my stomach with her sitting at my side, rubbing my back, and we talked about normal girl stuff. You know, boys. Actually we didn’t talk about boys. We planned our first day out of this joint. Unless a boy was making Chinese food (Evelyn) or Chicago style pizza (moi), handing out popcorn at a picture show, selling lingerie, or tending bar, boys were not a part of our plan.

I did still miss boys. I’d like to have a few around, and perhaps one or two old men to impart paternal wisdom and forgiveness a la Yoda, but D Day- PIZZA! Do the Chinese in America make pizza these days? I’ve been out of the loop a long time, and maybe they do because they’re pretty clever. ‘We’ll have a large, full crust, extra sauce, with pepperoni, peppers, and Kung Pow Chicken and a side order of Mazerella Egg Roles please. For here. Do you have forks?’

KnockKnock… KnockKnockKNOCK. Two seconds. KNOCK.

‘Stay put, tough guy. Just Alexia.’ Evelyn was good with such things. I suspected she gave each one of her goonlets a different code. Type A, Type A, Type A. However, Evelyn, like all members of the constabulary, didn’t understand the subtly of crime. I made it to the desk, sat on the WOODEN chair, at great personal sacrifice, and pretended to prey on comma splices. Personally I don’t care about comma splices. A comma represents a pause in speech, but I also didn’t care to be spanked by my English teacher, so I learned how to spot them. When I get out of here, to, Hell, with, comma, splices.

‘Hey, Evelyn, Gregor is going nuts on St. Croix in… Lauren’s room. She’s screaming, and I don’t think she’s in control of herself.’ My heart stopped. ‘I thought you’d like to know. I… I’m not going to talk her down.’

‘What about?’ Evelyn morphed into Evil-Lyn, professional.

‘I don’t know; I just heard the screaming. Something about “where is it, St. Croix!” She didn’t ask for any of our help.’ Alexia left and I watched Evelyn stand in the middle of her room, having her own dinkum thinkum. I had to grab the seat of the chair to pull my aching and swollen bottom down to keep from sprinting to my room. She grabbed her hairbrush.

‘Can you control yourself?’

‘YES!’

‘OK, let’s go.’

My dorm room lay in shambles. Ash stood, indifferent, while Matron Gregor tore my room apart. Lauren sat on her bunk, clutching Dr. Featherstone the teddy bear, terrified and bent like a worm that just got stepped on. Gregor marauded like a crazed titan. Her hair swung loose and wild as snakes, like a Gorgon, to keep the Greek Myth motif. She scared me, and she hadn’t even noticed me yet. I’d moved most of my contraband out of the furniture she tore in half with her hands, putting most of my stash in… ahem, someplace, dear reader, just because everything was crazy these days, so I wasn’t scared of exposure. I was only scared for my life.

Gregor looked like murder.

‘Can I be of assistance, ma’am.’ Evelyn was cool, much cooler than I felt. ‘Perhaps I could…’

‘Shut it! St. Croix, you took it. I turned my back for five seconds, dealing with that thug from Praxis, and I’ve torn your dorm apart! Apart! It’s here! It must be here! You come here so often… Your game is up! Now answer me!!!’

Ash seemed not to have noticed. She stood there and looked dumb and distracted. Lauren whimpered a little.

‘Oh… I haven’t looked in there.’ Gregor, twice the height of Lauren, grabbed Dr. Featherstone, and yanked. I could see it in Lauren’s eyes. She was afraid to clutch because the tug-of-war might damage her stupid stuffed bear that got her through the day since the day her husband mailed it to her. Her husband wrote her every single Goddamn day, and called whenever allowed, on the dot, to tell her to talk about anything because he just wanted to hear her voice like a total sap. Gregor clutched Dr. Featherstone by his fluffy neck.

I wanted to throw up.

Ash slapped Gregor in the face, took the bear, and tossed it to Lauren. She then stepped between the woman and the girl and the bear, cocked her head to the side with her arms folded, and gave off the expression of a girl who just wants an excuse to give a beat down.

Everybody else froze in time. I’ve heard that term, “unthinkable” before, but never believed in it. People can think of truly horrible things, in fact people often think of truly horrible things; horrible things enter the mind out of nowhere—but sane people don’t seriously contemplate doing them. Those are just intrusive thoughts, and a sane person dismisses them as weightless Freudian nonsense.

Ash slapped Gregor. Gregor had been slapped. That was unthinkable. But it existed, and I saw it, so I had to deal. I think I internalized that before Gregor, cheek stinging, did. She did internalize eventually.

‘Evelyn, give me that hairbrush. All of you give me and Ashley the room, please, and shut the door.’

‘Ma’am, perhaps we should discuss this…’ Gregor gave Evelyn the look of death. I was terrified. She didn’t look angry. She looked insane. A little drool seeped out, and the sank, and then hung. ‘Ma’am, I will be happy to correct St. Croix while you…’

‘Get out!’ The drool dollop snapped as Gregor punched Evelyn in the shoulder and snatched the dreaded hairbrush Ash repaired out of Snuggle Bunny’s limp hands. I wanted to burn Gregor alive and I saw in my mind how a leg broken from a chair on the floor would fit into her neck if I jabbed at the right angle, but I stepped back instead. I was so scared I had to give my brain time to play it smart, and from that moment I never thought an army general in history a fool, no matter how stupid he acted or bad he lost. It’s an horrible decision to think first when your blood cried out for blood now. But that’s what some people have to do sometimes, if they’re unlucky.

In the aisle we heard the door lock, and not long after the sound of the fastest, hardest swats I’d ever heard. It was inhuman to me, and my lover spanked me with that very same hairbrush. I blanked during the disaster. My brain escaped me. Fortunately Evelyn snapped out of it.

‘Lauren, look at… look at me! You know where the Praxis guy is? Good. Go get him, tell him a girl is… hurt. Hurt bad. Do it now! Run!’ Lauren ran, happy for something to do.

‘We have to…’ Evelyn thought. The whacks kept coming. Sounded like three thunder cracks per second. ‘He’s all the way on the other end of the building.’ Evelyn knocked on the door. Nothing changed. She gave up on any semblance of etiquette and racked her knuckles on the door, but it didn’t pause the spanks. I couldn’t believe the sounds seeping under that door. Evelyn kicked, but only hurt her foot. I counted two hundred cracks before running away. Evelyn didn’t notice. The door was her enemy.

I turned a corner, covered the glass with my vest, then punched it. I then put my hand on the fire alarm lever. All I had to do was pull down. This is a confession. I knew my friend was being tortured by an insane woman that wasn’t capable of thinking about permanent damage to a girl’s bottom. I knew that. I knew Ash had no idea what she was being spanked for, but wouldn’t yield even if she did, so she would fight back and take a beating no girl in the FA should take. No girl anywhere. I knew Ash suffered terribly for being a good person. No, a great person. I knew I knew what I had to do. But I also knew that a false alarm for a fire would cost me an extra two years, minimum. Damn my weakness to the abject pitch of fortune, I paused because of the threat of those two years. As far as I know I’m the only person on the planet angry at me for pausing, but I’m angry enough for a thousand people and more. I am to the very hour I type these words.

I pulled down but an iron statue grabbed my wrist before I could lock the lever. I used both hands, but somehow Evelyn’s hand was too strong for me. Then I turned, to push her back, but she wasn’t there. Taggart, and Taggart’s arm, controlled me.

‘Where’s the fire?’ His eyes were blue. His face was strong but kind, but I knew he was a bastard.

‘There is a secret room you don’t know about. If you get Gregor off of Ash, I’ll show it to you.’

‘Gregor off of Ash? Ashley St. Croix? I already agreed…’

‘Gregor’s gone insane! She’s going to hurt Ash! For real hurt!’

‘Where?’

‘My room. Number 3…’ but he was off before I could even get the number out.

I ran after him but he was a freaking gazelle. Halfway we ran past Evelyn, who limped by us.

‘What’s going on?!’ Then my bunny made a 180 and followed, but it took her time to catch up because she limped and was built for upper body work while I was built for running the mile like a jackrabbit with Coach’s paddle at its ass. Taggart was built to war on Troy. I turned another corner to see Taggart kick down the door. It snapped like a little bitch before him. I gulped and ran, refusing ever again to show fear in the face of bullshit.

I heard some profanities from Matron that would have had me sleeping on my stomach for a month, and I also heard a thud. I made it to the sill and saw Ash on her hands in knees before an armless chair, gasping and red faced. I couldn’t see her bottom as it pointed towards Taggart, who pushed Matron Gregor to the back of the room like she was an annoying drunk at a bar. She grabbed at him, so he flicked her in the eyeball. That was a new one on me.

The eye burst with crocodile tears. I mean burst. She recoiled in shock, not pain, and had to sit on my bed with a hand over her flooding peeper. Her fingers couldn’t seal enough to keep tears from spurting out in streams. The scary agent forgot about Matron and grabbed at Ash, who resisted out of instinct. I don’t think she even knew what was going on. Ash was formidable, but Taggart was professional, and after only thirty seconds of getting scratched and punched he sat with the crazy penned over his knee as if to spanked her. Instead he inspected her wounds.

Ash continued to struggle. I ran to her face, too afraid to look at her other end, and talked her down. Her brilliant red hair was in the chic style they called “La Savage” I think. I whispered low until the humanity returned to her eyes.

‘You back?’

She nodded, gasping.

‘You going to sue? Cuzz I got this cousin that just passed the bar.’ She coughed out in pain. She tried to tell me not to make her laugh because she couldn’t breath but she couldn’t because she couldn’t breath.

‘How is she?’ I could see Evelyn out of the corner of my eye. She retrieved her hairbrush and hid it in a hamper while Gregor wept without emotion.

‘Fine.’ He still inspected. ‘She’s going to be just fine in a couple of weeks.’

‘I’m…’ The mad woman jabbed between huffs. ‘right(puff) here(wheeze).’

‘You’re going to be just fine in a couple of weeks.’ They were a Vaudeville act. He kept poking her here and there, I guess testing for internal bleeding, but I’m no doctor. He didn’t look like he was taking advantage, if you know what I mean, but you can never tell with men, if you know what I mean. He would have looked cruel if I’d only glanced at him, but after a few seconds I could see deep thought on an unpleasant matter. He was hard to read and I was emotional. In any case, Ash didn’t like it.

‘Let me up.’ She still hadn’t caught her breath.

‘Just relax I’m—‘

‘You said (gasp) I was fine!’

‘Then call me Captain Cautious!’

An impressive growl. I felt it in my spine. The option of dissent never existed. Most impressive of all is that it shut Ash up. She popped her eyes up to feign embarrassment like she likes to do to mock the Man or the concept of guilt. She took on a passive stance and focused on breathing. They must train agents to use that growl to settle down soccer rioters.

* * *

Ash’s legs were still weak from the torture, so me and SB(that’s an acronym for Snuggle Bunny, see how that works? Actually, I’m not going to use it, because I like typing Snuggle Bunny almost as much as I like saying Snuggle Bunny. I used to hate people like what I have become) each took an arm and walked Ash to Snuggle Bunny’s room to use three or four bags of suspect cold cream on her battered buns.

Lauren caught up all in a tilly. I don’t know what that means either. My grandmother use to say I ran up “all in a tilly” all the time to describe my arrivals, and now it’s my turn to confound others. ‘I couldn’t find…’

‘OK, Lauren; he found us.’

‘He rode in on a horse.’ Ash muttered, then sort of half laughed. ‘I like horses.’ We dragged her along.

‘Ash?’ Lauren was all heart. She clutched Dr. Featherstone and followed us like a puppy. ‘Are you ok?’ Ash did sound a little goofy.

‘What Ash is experiencing, Lauren,’ SB began to go pedantic on us, droning on and on like the big know-it-all she was. Adorable. ‘Is euphoria from an overabundance of endorphins and adrenalin the body dumps into our systems during times of stress. She’s not fit to ride a horse.’

‘Yeah, I feel overabundanced alright.’ Ash did seem all hopped up on goofballs. I think maybe I always have an overabundance of goofballs in me because of the rational fear I have of my luck. ‘We should do this every millennium. You know, like a pagan sacrifice.’ She turned to Evelyn, looking at her as critically as a drug doused brain could, then at me. ‘Say… something’s different around here.’

‘Not at all, St. Croix. Your brain chemistry is incapacitated by hysterical body fluids. Now try to conserve your strength by shutting up.’

We rounded a corner.

Ash looked at me, then back at Snuggle Bunny, then me again. ‘No… I’m certain that—‘

‘I changed my haircut.’

‘No you didn’t. It’s…’

‘Ash,’ Lauren decided to be useful, bless her. ‘I’m so sorry, no grateful… I am sorry, but more grateful, and so is Dr. Featherstone, but sorrow exists.‘ Poor thing was taking after me more everyday.

‘Lauren, I love you, and I love Dr. Featherstone. I love everyone. I slapped the bitch because I wanted to make her mad; saving Dr. Featherstone was a good excuse. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Love is like a… like a… balloon. Anyone got a cigarette?’ Ash got heavier. ‘I’d like to stop talking for a little while.’

‘I think that’s for the best.’ Snuggle Bunny took on more of her weight, so I felt the need to do the same, but then she took on even more and gave me a look and I decided to graciously accept the silver medal.

Ash took a nap on Evelyn’s bed while I played M.A.S.H. Her sitter was just one giant bruise, and I knew it would be purple by breakfast, but no break in the skin. I’d never heard of such a beating, but she would be fine soon enough. What the Three Dollar Bill was she made off? Her ass is as the air, invulnerable.

Evelyn rubbed my neck while I painted Ash’s wounds with my ever shrinking supply of Gentle Cloud. This went on for hours, and would have been a peaceful time for me if I knew what Taggart and Gregor were doing.

It got dark. Something about the planet rotating, but I’m no astrophysicist, I only play one on TV.

I'll just blog a little

Tomorrow I should have absolutely no work at the office, so I will have absolutely no good excuse to not write. I'm curious what excuse I'll come up with.

Anyhoo, I think it gives off the wrong mojo to have my top post entitled with the word "horseshit" so I thought I'd point out two important things you might not have known. I'm here to help, after all. Also, I thought I'd get "edgy" and make it plain that, damn it, I'm not altogether a nice person.

First, Johnny Nash can sing. Mr. Nash starts about 50 seconds into it, after Miss Bassey. Now, I've heard this song a billion-jillian times, and every time I was "bleh". But however, however I know not, this youtube recording lets me hear this guy belt it. I mean, damn. If you don't believe me, at least listen to 2:20 and then kneel before this man's pipes. Humans can do this? I also like how he works the camera. None of these MTV frenetics. Chopping shots into ribbons because none of the plastic singers can keep a performance up for longer than two seconds. The man had class, and he appealed to the best in his audience. And he respected his elders.

Second, Paris Hitlon is a lot less helpless than people like to snipe about. I always figured she knew what she was doing. Clumsy, at times, sure. What child isn't? Whorish? Well, that's loaded. If one calls a girl sluttish, one is castigated as a backward Puritan Imperialist closed-minded dinosaur of the era of homophobes scurrying under the paranoia of vagina dentata. However, if one says she's just a girl exploring her body, with the help of billionaire playboys and sex toys, then one has reduced womyn to nothing but sex objects that can only break the glass ceiling via the open use of their body. As if Steve McQueen or Teddy Roosevelt didn't use their bodies.

I don't play games I can't win by design. Unless I can overturn the Monopoly board in a huff and scream, "A specter hangs over Park Place and Boardwalk--the specter of COMMUNISM!!!" Yes, I did that once. No, I forgot last Christmas. Twice. I can't win that freaking game.

Point is, I believe in Paris. Of course, I have no children to be corrupted, but I don't see how that has anything to do with it. I'm not even sure why I brought that up.

As an aside, I happily note that the spell check doesn't recognize the canard "womyn". The day it does, I'm heading to the hills with my gun to wait out the Mad Max hell that follows.

PB

P.S. It has been pointed out to me by an excellent person that the characters in my latest addition to the site, "A Neighborhood in Proper", are all detestable. People, please stay calm. It's the first chapter of an entangled serial--stories are normally about people changing over time. I assure you, nothing as it starts ends the same in my stories. Well... except gravity. And the doppler effect. And... well, except for science crap. People can surprise you if you let them.

What the happy horseshit is this?!

It occurred to me today, for the first time, that I should google "Pallidbust", and I did.

Well, my oh my, guess what I found?

This! What the Hell is this?!

Somebody cut some of my stories (which doesn't bother me, it is the internet after all, but leave a comment about how brilliant I am first, you ungrateful bastards) then pasted them on... I don't even know what this site is about. Its not even a spanking site. Its like a, I don't know, organic food elitist wine sipping "Let them eat cake" snob site, and I hate that crap. I'm a simple man. A Red State American. A man of the people. A common man with common tastes and uncommon talents.

The thief didn't even give me credit. A little "Hey, Pallidbust wrote this, here's a link to his site" would have been nice. No, no... nice isn't the word. REQUIRED, NECESSARY, DECENT, LEGAL all seem like better words to me than nice. Well, Pallidbust is written into one of them... but no link.

Ahhhh heck with it. I should have expected stuff like this. It's not like it's like costing me money or anything, but damn it, it's rude. I feel violated.

Why is someone posting my spanking stories on a food and wine site? My brain hurts just thinking about it. And what wine goes best with a spanking? Red or white? Or does it depend on the instrument?

PB

A Neighborhood in Proper, Chapter One

Chapter One
Enemies Foreign and Domestic

Kennedy stood in the middle of her living room. From the vantage she could see her kitchen, dining room, garden through the sliding glass doors, and the hallway to the rest of her fresh, one story home. She padded barefoot on white carpet through the hallway to find her husband sitting Indian style reading a manual on fixing their washing machine which lay open and gutted beside him. She eased herself down on Rick’s lap and nibbled his ear.

She was cursed for a minx, spanked, and sent off to tend her garden.

She returned to her living room pulling her jeans over a stinging bottom. Kennedy normally enjoyed her rear end. It was full and womanly, Stairmaster honed, and a source of power and pleasure. It had even taken part in a three year operation to fool a truly awesome man into falling in love with her to the victorious proposal of marriage. Many agents played a role, but the butt played its part in the man-nabbing.

Sadly, in times of discipline, a full, womanly bottom only meant more flesh to redden. More bottom meant more neurons. More neurons meant more pain.

On the floor, her aching butt in the air, she put her socks and shoes on, and, rubbing her wounds, obeyed her husband like she told “the preacher” she would.

Spring was new so few weeds yet, making it an enjoyable way to spend a Friday morning. It would have been more enjoyable to grind her husband into the hallway floor with a white bottom, but life is rarely perfect. Kennedy would know, as the ink hadn’t yet dried on her diploma for a Master’s in Philosophy.

Pleasantly warm climate except for the seat of her pants, the roses were red and the violets were blue. They smelled pretty good, too. Across the property line Jessica bathed her bikini clad body with sun and her liver with wine at 9 a.m., which Kennedy judged unwise, as Jessica was an Irish redhead, evolution rendering her utterly defenseless against the ravaging Sun God we mortals know by the name Ra.

‘Try to law talk your way out of a sunburn, lawyer.’ She muttered.

By 11 a.m. Kennedy had mended four broken stems, laid waste to an ant hill, cleansed the field of weeds, buried a half dozen smashed egg shells like in that movie she saw, tilled the soil, and collected several vases of roses whose time had come. Ra must be appeased with youth cut short! Jessica got sunburned and staggered away from her pool to the shade of her home for an undeserved nap.

Dirty, Kennedy decorated her home with flowers; hit the showers; noting, with satisfaction, the clothes washer fixed and operating due to the diligence of her slave male; buttoned herself up in one of Rick’s white business shirts she was supposed to iron but didn’t so it would still smelled like him; and entered her kitchen to prepare lunch.

Rick grabbed her from behind and nibbled her ear, which was unfair because he could do that without fear of a fanny fanning. However, she said nothing because Rick didn’t like the word “unfair”, and often vented his despise on her flank. If Professor Susan Willingham knew the extent to which Kennedy would sell out for the love of a male slave, The Teach never would have awarded the girl an A+ in Women’s Studies. No greater traitor to womankind was Kennedy.

Ah screw ‘em.

Still, he had to be punished for punishing her, so Kennedy pretended to ignore him by leafing through the Yellow Pages.

‘Whatcha doing?’ He liked to ask obvious questions.

‘Preparing lunch. What do you think? Domino’s Pizza or should we support local mom and pop business? The Inzio’s are pretty good.’

‘Female, that refrigerator is stocked. It’s too full. We should use our food before it rots. Cook something. We’ll cook together. You know: bond and crap.’ The nibbling grew a little sharper as his voice grew a little deeper and southern.

‘Can’t.’

‘Why?’ Every hair on her neck felt his breath. It interfered with thinking, as it was calculated to. Kennedy was in danger of unlearning literacy.

‘All the dishes and pots are dirty.’

Rick stopped nibbling. Kennedy, free from the intoxication, ignored this and got back to cooking. She decided to support local business, and reached for the wall phone. Very gently, like the sensitive slave lover with arms the size of tree branches he was, Rick seized her hand, forcing her to put the phone back on its cradle, then turned her around so he could loom down on her by two feet of extra bone length, a craven yet effective method of argument, she thought. Rick had a natural Will to Power. It made Kennedy cling to her mere Will to Life.

‘I thought you said you finished all your chores.’ It was not a question.

‘Yeah.’

Rick’s eyes were brown but somehow not soft. ‘Wouldn’t cleaning dishes be a chore?’ He, with surgeon’s precision, moved some rogue strands of blond hair out of his little wife’s eyes. Now she could not hide, thus she had to attack.

‘I meant I finished all exigent chores. Give me my hand back so I can provide my husband with a fine Italian meal.’ He looked down on her, an infinitely patient smile on his face, and serious brown eyes. He did not release her hand.

‘Jennifer Felicity nee Kruger Thompson, do you want to work or be a house frau?’

‘I told you when I graduated,’ she said, poking him in his chest just above her eye level. ‘I’m a house fraulein. Frau makes me sound dumpy. Come on! I’ll do the dishes tomorrow. Dishes are not exigent like a fire. Or shoe sale.’

‘Tell that to the roaches.’ Kennedy shivered. ‘Hey, we’re not far from swampland. Roaches will come and they will breed and lay eggs in every crevice and—‘

‘Stop!’ She hugged her husband for strength.

‘Come on.’ Rick put his arm on Kennedy’s lower back to lead her to what she assumed would be make-up sex. His hand through his shirt she wore on her lower back had the effect of a mommy cat biting and lifting the back of her kitten’s neck—paralysis. Kennedy’s mind still worked, and knowing her ability to impose her will on the world was checked and mated, she so resigned herself to pleasure that would make the hedonists of yore lime green with envy, the lowest of all emotions, the unmoved mover of all “evil”, though Kennedy preferred the word “un-actualized obsessive thought patterns” over "evil" as it had fewer connotations for the tenured popinjays to carp on and cavil.

Oh Pleasure!, my husband tosses me to you.

Instead, he stopped short in the living room, moved the armless antique chair she grew less and less fond of, and removed his belt.

‘Hey! I already got a spanking today. You can’t just—‘

‘Spankings are not vitamins, sweat heart. They’re taken as needed.’ He sat down, doubled over his leather weapon of sting, and waited. She met his eyes at level with a casual face to hide the excitement – that belt stung like Death onto Dying, her reserves of power to appeal and hide behind an Active Intellect had been wasted on growing inedible plants, and her bottom was already injured to boot. Her blood pressure warred against her mind. Her center did not hold.

Attack sentiment, the untermenschs’ weakness, the tale to wag the dog, the opium of the masses. ‘Well—‘ she mewled. ‘You know, eating pizza with our hands from the box, no plates, would be nostalgia for my college days. Wouldn’t that be fun?’

‘Your college days ended two weeks ago. You’re twenty-five. That’s not nostalgia. That’s immaturity. A few years from now we’ll be nostalgic and eat pizza without plates and drink wine from a box out of paper cups. Agreed?’ Kennedy had no answer. ‘Come on. Over my knee and get your spanking like a good girl.’ Grrr… he could make it a little more melodramatic to sooth her ego. Suffering a whipping, for example, is about one whole universe more dignified than taking a spanking.

‘Yes, sir.’ More unpleasantness. She could get a job, she knew. She even rejected offers, and not just from the local collage -- but damn it, she didn’t want a job. She liked to read in her pajamas at noon. She liked napping after sending her husband-slave off to gather resources for her suburban castle. She liked being worshiped for herself, not her status. But the fuckers at the bank had to complicate things. Stupid materialists…

Thus, her husband was her lord and master in the transient brutish world by Marxist economic reality and student loans. At least it was contract theory and not by divine right. Rawls and Locke were cold comfort against Hobbes, but there were none better. She bent over his knee, lifted his shirt she wore to bare her twenty-five year old ass (already red and sore), and grasped the chair’s legs with both hands with her tightest clasp. She set her face. ‘Ready for my re-education, sir.’

Play it cool, girl, that’s how you’ll get through this. Be cool, calm, and collected.

SWISH/ZING SWISH/ZING SWISH/ZING

Two months before the current leathering, Kennedy found herself in a similar position, facing the same belt with the same butt. She lost that fight too. The memory was fuzzy, but it had something to do with her duel responsibility of turning her thesis in on time and playing XBox. She tried to explain to her recently married lord and master that spankings, even disciplinary ones, should merely be symbolic (i.e., an act of submission and mea culpa and “all that noise”). Humiliation and token pain were all that was needed to admit her inferior position in the household’s decision making process. Thus, light smacking was all that was needed to complete the ritual of spousal correction.

Simple logic.

Rick, an engineer, rejected the smart talk nonsense. If Rick were an architect, Kennedy mused while popping and seizing during her punishment, she’d enjoy the ancient art of sitting more.

Kennedy didn’t like to make noise during her punishments, but this particular utilization of a husband’s pants lifter forced the young wife to make a real effort to keep quite. She bit her lip and grimaced and bounced her soft back-end and curled her fingers -- but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t want the big oaf, patient and loving and giving as he was, to have the satisfaction. And of course he would enjoy her squeals. He was a male, and a male, by nature, enjoys the triumph of domination. He didn’t get drunk and beat her. Kennedy would have killed him long ago if he were that sort. He only spanked her for avoidable cause, and though he was thorough with the scorching of her bottom meat, he never approached within a million miles anything anyone with any sense would call a beating – he was a good man, not merely a male. And a good man slave at that, but that didn’t mean she had to give him pleasure equal to her suffering.

The spankings stung like the very dickens, and should therefore not be reinforced by positive feedback (yelling, begging, and mewling) in accords of the laws of behaviorism.

Normally she simply kept her eyes straight and accepted the pain, but this time, after lick twenty, with no end in sight, she went with the Buddhists and concentrated on her breathing and the nothingness of bliss and wringing her toes while her body bounced and her teeth clinched to a grand total of thirty-nine zingers. Forty save one. She thought it a bit Biblical, but spare the rod…

Five seconds went by without a zap of pain. Breathing hard, she took in reality and realized that her right hand had grabbed Rick’s ankle. She looked at her hand in amazement, and sniffed. Why should she seek support from her punisher? She made a mental note to write that question down later.

Kennedy stood up and rubbed herself, across her back the back of her husband’s shirt rising and falling (like Chinese yin/yang theory of empire) with the petulant act of self-amelioration. She rubbed deep. There was no point hiding it. Rick, still sitting, looped his belt for it’s secondary duty of keeping his pants up. Kennedy looked down at her feet and focused her mind on her blazing rump, making faces of annoyance as her fingers attempted to heal her wounds—but Kennedy was no Hollywood Scientologist, so her cheeks continued to sting.

She wasn’t mad. She knew she should be, but at the same time, she knew she shouldn’t. It was a practical reality that somebody had to be in charge. This was not a nation of free peoples: it was a home that needed harmony. Thus, someone needed to be corrected and accept punishment with grace; as a loving act. Otherwise there would be civil war, and nobody wins a civil war.

But one sacred and unspankable right was the freedom of speech. Kennedy knew Rick would die before spanking her for speaking her mind. He would not live in such a world.

‘I admit I should have washed the dishes and that I was childish in my defense, and I deserved a spanking, but that was a bit rough.’

‘I’ve given you harder. Much hard. And I noticed you didn’t make a sound.’ Rick said as he stood up and hugged her. Ha! She knew stoicism would eat at him.

‘I shouldn’t be punished more because I’m tough as nails.’ Tough words aside, she buried herself into her man. ‘That belt hurts.’

‘Tough guy, you decide if you’re spanked, and you decide how hard. A brat spanks a brat.’ Oh the philosopher was he! ‘Now go do the dishes. I have errands to run. We’ll eat a late lunch. Then we’ll enjoy the day together. We’ll hold off your third spanking till bedtime.’

‘Third spanking!?’

‘Five minutes with my hand for the five shirts you didn’t iron.’

‘Oh damn it!’

Finger in the face. ‘My girl doesn’t curse.’

‘No, sir. Your girl doesn’t curse.’ Cursing wasn’t really speech, as it was just barking out emotion without thought or reason, but damn it, Kennedy thought: I like cursing.

-----

Kennedy, bearer of all of mankind’s wisdom, wore only an apron as she washed the dishes. The air was cool on her back, backside, and legs, which is just what she needed. Also she felt like shocking her husband when he got home.

‘So we both got tanned today.’

‘Ai! Jesus, Jessica! I’m too young to have an heart attack!’

‘But not too old for a spanking it would seem.’ Jessica, in her red two piece bathing suit, closed the sliding door and took a seat at the island desk in the kitchen. She eased herself down on the stool like she’d gotten the lecture by leather Kennedy got. Kennedy could still feel the stripes across her bottom without the use of her hands. She took some satisfaction that the sun god Ra spanked Jessica as well, in His own way, and over the entirety of Jessica’s body.

However, Kennedy doubted the giant fusion reaction was as thorough as Rick.

‘That is none of your…’

‘Please! I saw the whole thing. The first rule of kinky fun is to close the drapes, you sexpot. Say, he really worked you over. Look at that sizzling rump roast!’

‘It wasn’t kinky fun. He disciplined his wife, that’s all. Someday, when you marry, you’ll understand---‘

‘Ha!’

Jessica was only three years older than Kennedy. They shared that special relationship that few knew. On the one hand, they didn’t like each other and openly professed it. On the other hand, they were the same generation and raised in sophisticated Blue States finding themselves freshly planted in an alien, small southern town; and they were neighbors, so they didn’t have much choice but be completely open with each other. Kennedy had never intended to divulge her humiliating matrimonial regime, but she shrugged the disclosure off. Time moved forward, and no truth, no matter how great and embarrassing, made public, can harm a soul as much as a the smallest lie. Kennedy made a note in her mind to write that down later. And improve the wording.

Besides, it’s better to get spanked raw by a Rick than to not have a Rick, so Kennedy considered herself ahead and Jessica behind, even if Kennedy’s behind throbbed. Hell, she thought. What good is having a woman’s body if it didn’t throb? Her mind worked on a treaties…

‘Anyway, what’s with you? You’re fidgeting like I would if I sat down, which I admit I wont be doing for a couple of days, so don’t joke about it.’

‘Sunburn. I’m not here for your charming discourse. I’m not even here to make fun of you for getting spanked like a bad little girl fifty years ago, though I am enjoying it. Look at those cute red cheeks!’

‘Stop it, or I’ll poison one of your trees.’

‘Ohhhh… I’d just have to tell your daddy, oops I mean husband, and he’d take you in hand and… hey, do you think he’d let me watch? You know, watch you get the tanning you deserve? In the same room, not through your windows like I normally do while drinking a martini. After all, it’s my tree you killed. Well, half of the tree belongs to the bank. That’d be fun: the whole committee of old male bankers watching you get spanked for a devaluation of immovable property. Rick will stop and they’ll check their actuaries and say, “Hmmm… thirty-two minutes and twelve seconds corner time should even the account.”’

Kennedy washed dishes and spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Presumably you are here for a reason…’ “You goddamn bloodsucking lawyer” she left that last out as implied. ‘I know you envy my ass. Yours is tight, sure, but we’re living in a J Lo era, so your little Veronica Lake sitter isn’t giving the men what they need, is it?’

‘Please. I walk into a bar, point the guy of my whimsy, and that’s it.’ Kennedy would have mocked her boasting, but, sadly, she had seen Jessica do that very thing a month ago when Rick forced her to have a Girls Night Out with the neighborhood women. Rick had a political bent. ‘Like I said, we both got tanned today. There’s a scorched spot on my back I can’t reach. Be a dear?’ Jessica held up a can of cream. Probably made from the eyes of baby seals or Carebears.

Kennedy removed her plastic gloves with a flop of water, kept her back to her foe, folded her arms, and glared out the window over her sink.

‘No. I refuse. A line must be drawn.’

‘Pretty please?’ The lawyer batted her eyes, but Kennedy refused to see those eyes like a sap jury was forced to. ‘OK! What do you want?’

‘I want you to have sympathy for my recent bout with my husband’s belt. And I want it to be good.’

Jessica sighed. She stood up, shook herself loose, and breathed in and out heavy. Then exploded.

‘Oh, poor baby!’ Jessica rushed like Kennedy was her only child that just fell off a bike. She fell to her knees and inspected the boo-boo. ‘Let me see. Ohhhhhh… men are such brutes! We’re you terribly naughty?’

‘Yes. Well, not terribly naughty. Sufficiently naughty.’

‘Perhaps you did need a little tap on the rear; I suppose we farer sex all do from time to time. But this is cruel and unusual!’ Jessica padded Kennedy’s roasted rump as if to heal it like a scientologist—but she wasn’t an Hollywood actor either. ‘Perhaps not unusual for you, but certainly cruel. Poor little blond headed elf! I should think four or five licks would have been enough to put a smart, good girl like you on notice. Isn’t that how they do it in England? Six of the best? More than necessary for such a good girl like you. The impropriety!’

‘I was thinking the same thing.’ Kennedy looked over her shoulder at Jessica, on her knees, gleefully making a fool of herself, going on and on. Kennedy didn’t like her, but damn it, you have to respect a good actress. Besides, Jessica was funny, and funny goes a long way. ‘Since you seem to like living in the medieval ages, perhaps we should call a midwife? Or snake charmer?’

‘Stop, stop. Stop before I like you. Turn around.’

Triumphant, Jessica bounced to her feet and bent over the kitchen island. The redhead’s lithe body was, indeed, red. She was covered in cream except for that damned spot on the back your own hands can’t reach, necessitating the hands of another. That spot is likely the strongest agent keeping society together.

Life without society—solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, short, and annoying because that spot on the center of the human back above and below the reach of our hands itches.

Kennedy got the cream and got to work while Jessica twaddled on. ‘Must be nice, only getting burned where you can reach. What cold cream do you use after you compliantly bend over as I do now but for you--Hey,’ an happy idea flew into the vixen’s head. She tapped the structure she leaned over. ‘Rick ever bend you over this… what is this thing I’m over called?’

‘It’s a kitchen island. It separates the kitchen from the living room without interrupting the flow as a wall does; and yes, I’ve been spanked over it. Laugh it up.’

‘You must like getting spanked, it’s all you can think about. I was asking if Rick ever, you know, took you over it.’

I’ll get you, sophist lawyer, and your little rhetorical tricks, too!

‘That,’ Jessica screeched as Kennedy accidentally rubbed a burn too hard. Jessica bit her lip, cutting off the screech, and tensed, but kept her submissive position. ‘Is none of your business. And yes, five times. And counting. Hey, you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’

‘What, that you make love in the kitchen? I think all couples do eventually.’

‘No! No. About, you know, how Rick, you know, is traditional.’

‘You mean that spanking Rick bares your spanking bottom for good spankings whenever you need a sound spanking? Spankspankspank. Bah. Who would I tell? You don't have any friends. Hey, thanks for the rub. You’d better get back to those dishes or poppa will take you to the woodshed again. And please, by all means, keep the drapes open. Watching your glutes bounce up and down is better than satellite TV. And free.’

‘Grrrrrrrr…..’ Kennedy reveled in negative thoughts for a few moments; however, negative thoughts were the cobbles used to construct the path to the Dark Side. Kennedy thought about how, should she ever get sun burned on the back, she need only snap her fingers, and her husband would rub her down and tell her how brilliant in mind and body she was while he did it. Jessica, the fool, had to beg her neighbor.

Kennedy was, though sore-of-behind, ahead.

------

Dishes done, Kennedy ironed her brutish husbands shirts in their bedroom. They smelled like him, so they offered a good distraction from her still searing backside and wounded pride. She did, every few minutes, give her cheeks a rub. ‘I understand, you’re hurt. Stop burning already!’ But they continued to burn. ‘You’re being excessive! I’ll behave, body, I’ll behave next time! Or run.’

She even ironed her man’s shirt that she dutifully lifted to accept her man’s butt-bruising brand of justice. So she disrobed and put on a purple g-string and one of her husband’s purple and gold college football T-shirts that ran halfway down her thigh. If she were big, just once, she’d spank him. Not out of revenge, not even to stop her spankings. The spankings worked. She’d rather get it over with than be lectured for hours, which is how the lovable Rick abused his wife before he acted like a big tough man and launched her over his knee for a good old fashion conflict resolution. Spankings hurt ass, but lectures suck ass, and sucking is ten times worse.

Not to mention guilt. It’s hard to feel guilty after a spanking.

But if she could spank him (just once!) maybe he’d know it really only took four or five licks to get the point across. Hell, even Jessica pretended to know that. Of course, then how would she know she was tough as nails? She might grow soft. Complacent. Un-actualized, content to ignore the lack of evidence of limits to her being. Stay in the cave with shadow puppets. Dull of mind, like a cow or Kafkaesque bureaucrat. ‘Hmmm… this is tricky.’

‘JFK! I’m home. Attend me!’

She squinted her eyes, glaring down the hallway to the living room. She could give him the cold shoulder, but then he could give her a the warm bottom. The brilliant thing about this kind of relationship is that it forces emotional engagement. She absolutely had to go in that kitchen, but she absolutely wanted to make him suffer. A little. Enough.

Damn it: a dilemma.

Kennedy had been a content 18^th century wife, happily washing dishes with a throbbing behind until Jessica piqued her ire. Kennedy was fluent in French and German. Had read Kant and Heidegger and Descartes in their own language (except for Latin). She was strong of body, smart, and accomplished, yet she couldn’t think of a better way to keep tranquility in her home but bend over her huge husband’s knee and bite her lip for an embarrassing (and bare-ass-ing) spanking. It was so simple and time tested. The modern magazines were insipid. Women get spanked, men spank, and that’s how we all live together. It worked the other way around, of course, but Kennedy couldn’t be the boss in this world. The real world was vicious and constant, requiring a focus and resolve that Kennedy didn’t want or even understand. Rick did. He was a fortified tower in the face of the enemy, born by woman, and better than any wall constructed by men. Kennedy thought, again, that she needed Rick to reign.

But now Jessica knew! And Kennedy felt stupid!

But oh was a spanking a good way to get her husband in the mood. It didn’t do much for her sadly, but at least it got some of the clothes off.

But it was so freaking humiliating! And Jessica knew! This is insane! How can no world view make me happy, and yet I am?

‘Feminism wasn’t about men and women. It was about women and women, and women lost.’ Kennedy said it as a revelation, to herself, but would have to think it over before knowing what it meant. She needed to write that down, when she got a chance. ‘Wait… didn’t I need to write something else down? It had something to do with…. shit.’

Still, her husband had to be dealt with. It was a time for war.

‘I’m ironing. If I don’t finish ironing, I’ll get flogged to death by this tyrant troll king that thinks violence is a perfectly healthy form of expression. And Nietzschean ubermensch that he is, he obeys only his will, pronounced “vill”, taking vhatever he vants with no morality, no reason; just vill to power. I’m his slave, hamstrung by my own Enlightenment based ethics. I am Belgium, he is Germany. I must do as I’m told or suffer the tortures of the damn, sir. Tortures of the damned.’

‘Female! Stop quoting A Clockwork Orange! The tyrant troll king beckons, and you shall heed!’ Rick used his highfalutin voice when he wanted to make her laugh. Tricky bastard. Wasn’t working this time. Nope, she told herself as she turned the iron off and padded to the kitchen. I will, she thought, do whatever he told me, and be passive-aggressive as a designated driver.

Kennedy got her mind right: No laughing. No smiling. Just obedience to my slave-boy lover. Mindless, selfless foot kissing with no backbone at all.

It will kill him.

She would have said ‘Yes, me Lord’ but she was being passive- aggressive, so she just said “I'm on my way.” She padded to the living room. ‘Oh.’ That armless chair again. She’d hoped that her dear husband would forget about the cruel third spanking for forgetting to iron his shirts, or at the very least give her hinie some time to heal. ‘Yes, Rick? Do you want something?’

She stood by the chair, for some reason next to the kitchen island instead of the middle of the room where he usually spanked her, pulled up her husband’s “GEAUX TIGERS!!” shirt, and awaited her fate. The belt? His hand? The brush? Something new and weird for his amusement, like knotted TV cables? He had said a five minute hand spanking, but she didn’t hold him to it. She put her mind to the idea that he could justly spank her anyway he wanted, anytime he wanted, for any effable reason, F-it. She must be a dull slave to cause her master pain. Then she’d get even, because he hated that crap. He has no defense, so she shall win.

How did she always get amazed at how big he was, she thought. Big shapely slab of iron. He sat down, a towel over his shoulder, and pulled her down. But he did it wrong. She ended up with her thighs on top of his, her bare butt hanging over the side where the cool air soothed. She clutched his chest on instinct. Had he forgotten how to punish? No, for him that’d be like forgetting how to golf. Was he going to spank her lap? No! That would be an evil… un-actualized.

Rick reached over the wife sitting confused on his lap, and put an Inzio box of pizza on her lap. He opened it. Pepperoni, extra sauce, and pineapple. Rick hated pineapple on his pizza. Kennedy, however, adored it. Rick, with his big hard cruel hands, pulled two slices out, closed the box, and used the top as a plate even though his wife slaved to clean all the dishes in his hearth.

He picked up one piece, blew on it, and offered his female a bite.

Kennedy glared at him, but she wasn’t as good an actress as Jessica. She poked him in the chest thrice.

‘This-isn’t-fair.’

‘I don’t want to be fair. I want to win.’

Kennedy bit into the offered pizza, and schemed her revenge. He’d still spank her, and properly whack some noise loose from her because five minutes meant one whole a hellacious amount of spanking, and yeah he probably would have a lot of fun smacking his wife’s butt, but after the punishment, ohmanafter, she’d grind him into jelly with sex. He’d won this battle. Decisively. But the war wasn’t over. She’d break him in bed. Yeah that would show him.

Go ahead, Kennedy thought. Feed me and make me feel special and force me to laugh and be happy because you’re so freaking nice to me I have no defense. The worm will sometime turn, and I’ll have my revenge.

‘What about napkins?’ Kennedy had sauce on her thumb.

‘I’m you napkin. Cleaning up your messes.’ Rick mouthed her thumb, and sucked and made noises like a hungry dog, and Kennedy laughed so loud she would have fallen to the floor if Rick didn’t hold her up.