. 1980.    Sonoma, California.  Una fantasia sulle fantasie.     This is an ADULT story.

I.   red MacIntosh.

But she looked like a rancher.   They're independent, those California ranchers - downright cussed, sometimes.  They don't take too kindly to people telling them what to do.   The light turned to WALK, the boy by her side jumped off the curb without looking, and she grabbed him by the collar as a big sedan thundered past, running the red.    Then she raised her blue-jeaned knee a little, draped him over it, and delivered about ten very hard swats to the seat of his thin cotton shorts.   He scampered off, seeming unrepentant, and not even looking both ways.   Ranchboys can be cussed too.

There were some in California who would have spat at that mother for spanking her child.  But on that day in Sonoma, at that intersection (the only one in the small town to have a traffic light) she was let be, except for a few disapproving stares.  It was all over before the light changed again.

But the sight was a gift to Susan.

As Susan re-ran it in her mind, of course it had to be a bare-bottom spanking.   The mother had to drag the boy to the nearest bench.   Holding him by the ear, she ordered: "pull 'em down."    But there happened to be (in Susan's fantasy) a number of his friends playing nearby.   Facing his mother, with his back to his friends, he shyly pulled his shorts and underpants down a few inches, so there was an inch of bare boy bottom below the hem of his T-shirt, but his penis was not exposed at all.  He looked up hopefully at his mother.   But she was relentless: the shorts at least must come all the way down.   But he was too embarrassed and could not bring himself to expose even his underpants to his friends, who had by now gathered around to stare and laugh.  His mother threatened him with dire punishment, with a severe extra spanking for disobedience, if he did not pull down his pants this instant--but he bent over her lap without pulling his shorts down.  Only then, with his penis hidden by her lap, he wriggled his shorts and underpants down a bit, offering up an inch or so more of bare skin.   She began to spank, ten very hard swats on the bare patch he offered.   But if she was expecting tears, she was disappointed.   When it seemed the spanking was over, he said "You can't spank like Pappa!" and lifted his butt higher.   He looked at his friends to see if they were impressed.  In frustration, his mother pulled down on his pants and when she did that he SQUEELED--shockingly loud.   The whole plaza turned to look; he fought back and squirmed and bit like a banshee.   Now that he was making a noise, the watching crowd started to murmer about child abuse, and seemed about ready to intervene.  But no one would take the first step.  She got his shorts down below his knees, and started to spank very hard indeed, all the way down his legs; spanking now a struggling tornado of flailing arms and legs.   The crowd watched, hissing with disapproval.

But his underpants were getting in the way of the spanking - they were still covering half of his bottom.   So she pulled them all the way down, exposing him bare naked to his friends.   He might have been able to hide his penis agaist her lap if he'd just stayed still, but he was flailing about and it was in full sight.  He shouted "NO!" and squirmed and fought her with desparate strength.   He tried to pull his underpants back up.  He tried to cover his dick with his hands.  He tried to cover himself with the front of his T-shirt, but when he did, the back of the shirt covered his bottom.   For a moment, he stayed still and settled back down to be spanked, and it seemed she would allow the T-shirt.   But then she lifted him up and held him between her knees, and pulled the T-shirt over his head and off.    His struggling made his shorts slide down even more, until they were off one foot altogether.   She held the struggling, howling boy by the wrists, stark naked, facing all his friends, with his underpants like a manacle between his ankles and his shorts balled up around one foot.    His penis was starting to rise.

She shouted over his wailing : "Why are you fighting me, Timmy?   You know it will just mean more spanks!"

But Timmy, if he was blushing already, was even more embarrassed to be asked.   He needed to hide his stiffy from his friends - that was the only reason he was fighting her.    He wasn't trying to be naughty, it was just that he couldn't let his friends see he had a stiffy, he would rather die - and he couldn't possibly explain that to his mother.    He opened his mouth to try to explain but nothing came out.

"Are you ready for your spanking to start, Timmy."

"Yes, Mom.   Please.   Now!"

She let go his wrists, and he stood for a moment, hands crossed in front of his stiff dick.  Then he bent across his mom's knee, happy to burry his face in her lap, and hide his stiffy against her leg.   But he hadn't placed his bottom well, so she yanked him forward by until he was stretched across her spread blue-jeaned knees, with his feet off the ground.   His little penis, now quite erect, was pointing straight down and was very visible.  He reached a hand back to try to cover it.  But he had given up squirming - he lay still.   His bottom was already a dark blotchy red.

"Your spanking only starts now, Timmy.   Everything so far didn't count because you fought me.  These ten spanks are for running into the road.   You will remember them for a long time."

She spanked very hard.   The spanks were with the fingers spread, across both cheeks, right smack on the center of his bottom - blow after blow landing in the exact same place   There would be bruises - the imprint of his mother's hand on Timmy's bottom for days.   The woman's arm was amazingly strong and smacks were so hard that sound of them echoed off buildings; Susan wouldn't have thought that a boy could take such a spanking without crying, but except for being on the bare, instead of on thin shorts, this part of Susan's fantasy spanking was exactly the spanking the real boy had gotten, and the real boy hadn't cried, or even seemed to mind very much.   And so Susan made her fantasy boy as tough as the real boy had been.

"Timmy, you've had the spanking for running into the road.   This one is just for not pulling your shorts down; you could have avoided this spanking if you had obeyed."

Susan fantasized a very different sort of spanking for that.   The spanks were not as hard, but very fast, and Mom's hand ranged widely.   Some blows were so far wrapped around him that they were on his side rather than his bottom.   When his backside was thoroughly spanked, she rolled him over and spanked his front, staying well away from his penis.    Then she took his underpants all the way off, and with him on his side, she made him hold one leg in the air, and she spanked the inside of his thigh, while with her other hand she protected his balls.   She spanked the thigh very hard, with her fingers together.   He found this excruciatingly painful, and let out shrieks of agony, as he hadn't done even for the savage bruising of his bottom.   The tears started, and flowed heavily.  He also got a full erection of his pencil-thin penis.

Then it was the turn of his other thigh, which his mother found awkward to do.  She tried protecting him with her right hand, while spanking with her left, but she couldn't hit hard enough that way.   So she made him protect his own balls.  Now she spanked his thighs alternately, left - right - left - right.   Timmy's hands were wrapped around his stiff dick, and his whole tiny body writhed and was shaken by the hard spanks, and that led to the predictable result - he had an obvious orgasm.  Nothing came out.   He had now been spanked dark red all over, front and back and between his legs - all except his penis.  That was red already. 

"This spanking is for biting me."

"Yes, Mom.   Where do you want me?"

She put his belly on her knees, with his legs on either side of her, and spanked the crack of his bottom, spanking even his asshole.  Face to face with his friends, he grinned sheepishly at them.

"Have you had enough, Timmy?"

"I don't CARE what you do!"

Susan's fantasy had taken a sudden lurch - again.  When she ran a fantasy in her mind, once she started it she didn't know how it would come out.   Her fantasy characters seemed real to her.   Timmy had been desperately embarrassed to be stripped bare in front of his friends, and he had fought his mother about it.  Susan hadn't chosen to make him do that - it was just that Timmy - well, that's what Timmy was like.   Susan wouldn't have thought that anyone, facing a severe spanking, would have cared about being seen bare by his friends, but when she ran the fantasy in her mind, that's how it came out--Timmy cared more about the embarrassent than the pain.  This wasn't something Susan could control--Timmy behaved the way Timmy behaved, and Susan just knew what he would do and what he wouldn't do.  She knew her fantasy characters better than any real person.

But that didn't mean he couldn't surprise her.   She had thought of Timmy as taking his punishment well.  She had thought he was a very brave boy.   But without Susan realizing it, he had come to the end of his braveness, inside.   The young man-to-be who was proud of being so tough, who was showing his friends he could take it, had become - what?   Frightened.  Susan thought: that's it exactly, he's frightened.  He's not sure any more that his mother loves him. 

Susan thought his misery would touch his mother's heart.    It was nearly breaking Susan's - Susan felt as if she had suffered more pain than she could bear; her heart ached with sympathy for a fantasy boy's grief.  But the boy's mother had no sympathy.

She huffed: "Ha.   Well if you don't care, you can have some more."

She put him in a normal spanking position over her knees, and gave him very hard swats on the backs of his legs.   She spanked only a dozen or so swats, but the places she was hitting were already very sore.

At last she set him on his feet, naked except for his shoes and socks.   His friends wanted to look close and touch him, including his dick - they had noticed the stiffy.    He was almost too miserable to care.   Almost too miserable to stand - his legs would barely hold him upright.   But only almost.   He managed to keep standing, and to put his dukes in front of his dick, to fight to keep the touching hands away.   A girl put her hand on his bottom instead, and then they all did, shouting about how hot it was.  They weren't making fun of him for being bare or for getting a spanking.  They were in awe.  Once he saw how they were looking at him, he stopped trying to hide his dick, and began to swagger a bit, showing off his red bottom, boasting that no mom spanked like his mom spanked.  His mother had stripped him and shamed him, but now he was no longer ashamed.  He spread his legs to point out the reddest marks on his thighs, without any embarrassment at all about his dick, and he described to his spellbound friends what it had been like, saying that it hurt "a bit," but if you were tough and could take it, a spanking was cool, and this spanking had been really neat because it was such a hard one.  His friends all believed that they could take it, and would show Timmy who the real tough guy was.

Timmy asked his mother if he could go play with his friends, and she had to call after him to come back for his shorts - he would have run across town bare.   He was now completely unashamed.   With his shorts in his hand, the young nudist ran off with his friends.   His mother picked up his T-shirt and underpants and put them into her big purse.

 The boys decided to start a club where you had to be spanked as initiation.   Randall, his best friend, asked Timmy to do his spanks.

"OK, Randy, I'll do you if you do me."

"How many spanks to get into the club?"  

"It should be a hundred on your bare bottom.   I'll go first."

"You mean now?   You want one hundred spanks on your bare bottom?  Right now?  On top of your spanking from your mom?"

"I'm not chicken!"

"Will you do my spanks, Timmy?"  That was little Suzy.  

Timmy said, "Sure, Suzy, I'll spank you, until you tell me to stop.    But I can't believe a girl can take a hundred spanks!"

Susan finished her lunch as she filled out the details of the imaginary spanking Timmy gave Suzy.  Susan had a good time with it; it always felt so deliciously wicked to sit on her usual bench in the Plaza, smiling at the people she saw every day, while vast oceans of disgusting fantasy fetish sex boiled inside of her.  Little Suzy was tough; or rather she was so submissive, that she didn't make a sound as Timmy gave her a hundred hand spanks to get into the club--and she also submitted when the boys held her down and kept on spanking her, and then whipped her with their little boy belts.  In Susan's fantasy those cute little boys did every cruel thing to poor little Suzy's bottom and she - Susan, not Suzy - enjoyed every minute of it.   Only one boy, nameless, refused to hurt Suzy; he couldn't stop the other boys, but his smile told her he would help her if he could.   He gave her his rabbit's foot, and promised if she stroked it during the spanking, it would help her to bear the pain.   He also promised to kiss the cheeks of her bottom, afterwards, to take the pain away.

The bench where Susan was sitting and eating her lunch, enjoying this fantasy, was the very one where in her fantasy, Timmy had been spanked.    Susan took the apple from her brown-bag lunch - a red MacIntosh from her own tree - and cut it in half.   She put the two halves of the apple side by side on the flattened brown paper bag, to make a picture of Timmy's little red bottom.   It had been as red, and as small, and as cute, as two halves of an apple.

For the next run-through, walking back to work, little Suzy, the girl who had wanted to join the club, was the main character.  It was she, and not Timmy, who was spanked on her bare bottom, and stripped naked in front of all her friends, for running into the street.   But little Suzy didn't get an orgasm the way Timmy had, and she wasn't defiant but submissive.   Susan started the fantasy the same way, but little Suzy behaved differently than Timmy, and there was nothing Susan could do about it.   Susan wanted Suzy to be brave, but Suzy just wouldn't fight back the way Timmy had--it was not in her character.   Little Suzy begged her Daddy to stop, instead of fighting him; fighting him was just impossible for her.   As punishment for even asking him to stop, Daddy invited all the boys watching to give her more spanks, and  they all lined up to take turns.  Timmy gave her a hundred spanks as she howled in pain.   Only one boy refused to spank her, and he told Daddy to stop.    Daddy took off his belt, and tried to catch the boy to whip him, but the boy got away through a secret trap-door.

And then at four-thirty, when she should have been filing, Susan masturbated in the supply closet with her vibrator, to a fantasy of teenager "Suzie Rebel" whipped by her boyfriend's motorcycle gang.   Her boyfriend - "Big Daddy" - rented out her ass, to anyone who could pay in cash or drugs, and Captain Blood (it said "Timothy Bottoms" on his motorcycle licence) paid a hundred bucks to rent her for a weekend of sex and torture.  Suzie Rebel in the fantasy didn't get an orgasm from being whipped, but grown-up Susan Thomas got about a dozen in the supply closet.

Susan liked masturbating at work best of all; the risk of being caught added to the thrill.   She'd made up so many work fantasies, she couldn't keep track of them all; she liked to imagine being caught masturbating.  Her favorite one was set in the record store where she worked before college; her boss caught her and gave her the choice of a spanking or being fired; of course she agreed to the spanking, but her boss whipped her instead, and was about to rape her.   Just then a young customer rescued her, and she ran naked out into the street with her hero, also naked for no particular reason, by her side.

On the bus going home, Susan tried again; this time only dreaming about orgasm - she had her vibrator in her purse but she couldn't masturbate on the bus.   Her fantasies until now had always had a female as the spanked character, but she had really enjoyed it watching that boy get a spanking, and she had enjoyed the fantasy she had made from it, too.   It had been so cute, so endearing, to watch a little boy have a dry come.  She loved little Timmy now.  So now she made up a new fantasy with Timmy as the main character, but grown up.  It had to be a spanking that would really hurt.   She imagined him coming home late from a date, and then getting scolded by his dad, and then having the humiliation of pulling down his pants down to be spanked in the kitchen.   But that fantasy was no fun - she wanted her fantasy Timmy to be the hero.  So she had a better idea of what kind of spanking it should be - Timothy Bottoms, a pledge at Sigma Pi Kappa, is suffering through Hell Week, and during the week has earned 100 points--a frat record.  Timothy has to walk around Sonoma Plaza carrying a paddle that has "100" written on it, so everyone in town will know how many swats he'll get later that night.   He smirks, feeling superior to his fellow worms who have only 22, 19, amd 31 on their paddles.

But on the plaza, there were also some girls from Alpha Nu.   Susan now knew her fantasy was spinning out of her control, and sure enough freshman sorority pledge "Suze" Thomas was there, and when the old girls saw the paddle in a boy's hands, they decided it was too good an opportunity to miss.  Suze was told by her "big sisters" to walk up to the frat boy with the paddle, and flash him the seat of her panties, and ask for a swat - but they didn't know she didn't have any panties on.   When she flashed Timmy him her bare bottom and begged him to spank her, he spanked really hard - a hundred spanks, and then he jerked off and squirted his juice to cool her fiery cheeks.   A policeman came over to protect her, but since the 100 spanks were done by then and Timothy was done masturbating, he just smiled and said boys will be boys and didn't even write a ticket.    Not one of her better fantasies, Susan thought.   It needed some work; it was too unrealistic to think he'd spank her like that, naked and bent over the back of a bench in the plaza.   And this Timothy hadn't been mean enough. 

Older than her freshman year in college, Susan did not allow herself to get, in a fantasy.    But in real life, Susan was 34, and she needed a fantasy about how the real 34-year-old Susan Thomas finally, and whether she likes it or not, is subjected to actual corporal punishment and humiliation - in real life Susan had never been spanked, not even as a little girl.    Susan was determined that Susan Thomas, not little Suzy, not Teen Rebel Suzie, not Suze Thomas sorority sister, but the real Suzan Thomas, a 34-year-old paralegal aide, should get one hundred actual spanks.  She'd been fantasizing about those hundred spanks every time she masturbated since she was nine, and she wasn't turning 35 without them.

But how?  The obvious choice was her boyfriend.   Just ask him.   That was how grown-ups got spankings.   But she would die of shame.   And it was worse than that - her fantasy was worse than just the spanking.  In her fantasies little Suzy was spanked and abused very severely, for no reason.  It was part of her fantasy that the spanking had to be unfair.   In fantasies, she was made to strip bare in front of strangers.   She was made to thank her Daddy for letting other men spank her - men who paid Daddy for the privilege.  Men shot cum all over her face.  Sometimes they fucked her too, although that was never the main point of the fantasy.  Robin would despise her, if he ever found out that child molestation was a turn-on for her.   She despised herself.    But of course the main reason Susan wasn't going to ask Robin for a spanking, was that it would hurt.   She was terrified of the pain.

The best fantasy that day had been Timmy's spanking.   And the best thing of all had been the real spanking, quick as it had been - and the light-hearted way the boy had shrugged it off and dashed across the street.    But when she had tried to rerun the fantasy and make little Suzy be brave too, it wouldn't come out the way she wanted.   For the real Susan Thomas to be brave enough to ask Robin for a spanking?   That was a fantasy too; it would never happen.

When she got home, there was a boy sitting on the front steps of her neighbor's house.    Susan had met him last week at a block party; he was her neighbor's cousin, and he worked on a ranch.   This young ranch-hand could have been the big brother of little Timmy, the ranchboy who was spanked.  He had the same cut-offs and T-shirt.   He had that same look in his eye, that look of brash defiance.   The suburbanites at the block party had been talking politics, liberal politics, and the teenage ranchhand had politely held to his extreme right-wing views, not in the least intimidated by a patio full of very angry college professors and lawyers, all yelling at him.   Susan didn't agree with anything he said, but she'd admired him for sticking to his principles under fire.   He'd been the only actual poor person at the party, except for the band and the waiters, and he'd made the rich liberals - including Susan - seem arrogant in the way they talked about "the poor."   The liberals talked about poor Mexican migrant laborers, as if they thought the waiters couldn't speak English.   The ranchboy was more comfortable with the waiters and the band than he was with the guests - he borrowed a guitar and sang them a new corrido he'd heard on the radio.  Susan had liked him.  But she couldn't quite remember his name.   It was short.  What was it?   Bob?   Oh, of course - Tim.   His name was Tim.

Susan remembered now that she hadn't actually known the name of the boy who was spanked for running into the road - Timmy had just been the name in her fantasy.   And perhaps her fantasy had been based on this this Tim, as much as on the farm kid she'd seen spanked.   The way everybody had hammered at Tim at the pot-luck had been like a verbal spanking.   But he had gone skippingly on his way, un-chastened.   Nasty remarks, intended to crush him, to hurt worse than any physical blow, had been flung at him, and they did hurt him, dreadfully, but he remained self-possessed.  They argument had gotten personal, to shame him, to expose him naked, but he'd made it a source of strength.  He had quality - a firm core of self-reliance.   As if he'd been spanked often - spanked on his bottom, but also spanked verbally, like this, and had learned to handle it.  That was, fundamentally, what bothered Susan about her rich neighbors.  They were spoiled.  They hadn't been spanked enough.    And Susan knew she was more spoiled than any of them.  Even if he was slightly to the right of Ivan the Terrible, Susan wanted to talk to this boy some more.

"Do you want to come in for some coffee, Tim?   From my kitchen you'll be able to see when Mary Lou gets home.  No reason to sit out here in the cold."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am.   I won't take coffee, thank you, but I'd like to come in and sit, if I won't be in the way?"

"Oh I like to have a man in my kitchen, Tim.   I like to smell a man.   I like to look at a man.   I haven't had a man in my kitchen for a month, and I get a real craving to have one.  Just so I can look him up and down all over."

"Do you mean you want to look at me naked, ma'am?"

"Of course I want to look at you naked, young man.   But I do have a boyfriend.    So I don't think I should be looking at naked young men.   But I'll take a hug and a kiss, if you're offering."

"A kiss?"

"On the cheek."

He made the most of the hug.   Then he looked into her eyes, and moved, slowly and steadily, his lips not to her cheek, but to her mouth.   She didn't turn her head.    Her hands strayed down his body and rested on the seat of his Levis.   She broke from the long kiss, and stood for a while, looking into his blue eyes, inhaling his barnyard smell.   She undid his belt, and pulled down his zipper, and slid her hands inside his bvd's and grabbed his ass, feeling the incredible woodlike hardness she had felt, but could not believe, through his pants.

She said: "No."

"No?"

"I won't do it.    I won't do it.  I want to too much.  That was a wonderful kiss, but it just made my craving for a man even worse.   Would you have been willing?   You don't think I'm old and ugly?"

He pulled down his bvd's, and his erection snapped up.   "Ma'am, it seems I am quite willing.    And I don't believe you can even know what a craving is."

Susan could see a bit of his ass, and its beauty hypnotized her.  "There is one thing you can do, Tim, that will satisfy my craving, but I won't count as cheating on my boyfriend.    And that's to give me a spanking."

"Me spank you?"

"My boyfriend gives me slaps on the ass during sex.   It's very arousing.   And when we're horny but we don't have time, like most mornings before he goes to work, he gives me a good hard spanking.   And I have an absolute craving for one now."

"Ma'am, if I spank you, I'll get so horny I'll die.   Do you ever hear of boys dying from horniness?   Sometimes it hurts worse than falling off my horse."

"You can masturbate afterwards.   I'll be doing it too, with a vibrator.   In different rooms of course.   But you'll know that I'm in the next room doing it.  I'll leave the door open so we can hear each other, but not see.  Will that be enough for you?"

"Enough for me?   It will be torture for me!  Can I see the vibrator, and turn it on, and hold it against my body?   That will help me imagine it's you.   I mean, help me imagine it's me, fucking you."

"Are you going to imagine fucking me?   Not some girl your own age?   Who is pretty?  Who isn't wrinkled?   Who has breasts?"

"Of course I'm going to imagine it's you.   Ma'am, is there any way, any possible way, I can see you naked first?   There is no way I'm not going through with this - I couldn't turn this down in a million years! - but really, I mean it, this will be torture for me.  Can't I at least see your naked body before I try to jerk off just imagining it."

"I don't think that would be a good idea.  I have wrinkles all over.  It's bad enough you'll see my ugly fat bottom when you spank it."

"Ma'am, I wish you were sixty-five like my school principal, and I wish you were spanking me and not the other way around.   The girls my own age, the girls I have sex with, they aren't sexy, they're just dumb.   You're sexy.   A woman has to be a little scary to be sexy.  Can we get on with it?   This thing hurts when it's this hard, and it's driving me out of my mind."

Susan brushed the head of his cock, very softly, with her finger.   His eyes bulged.   He choked.   He gurgled and spluttered, trying to speak.   His cock swelled to an even more frightening size, and turned a dangerous-looking color.   His right hand grabbed for it.

Suzan fixed him with her camp-counselor stare, and slapped his hand.    But he didn't react like the girl Susan had caught masturbating and spanked at girl-scout camp.

He said: "Get across my lap, NOW, ma'am!   You're getting a spanking!"

"Good!  That's good!   I mean, um, Yes, sir! I um ... yes, all right, I will, but Tim, ... I want you to do it the way I want you to do it.   And if we do it my way, you can see me naked.   Here's what I want : I'll go in the living room and strip, and pretend to be sunbathing, and you come in and catch Daddy's little girl naked, and spank her for it.  OK?  Only don't just spank me - give a me a scolding first, like a real Daddy.  OK?   Because I like the way you yell at me; it makes me excited.   And don't let me sweet-talk my way out of it - if I say I want you to stop, that just means - spank me more!"

"OK.   But can I be a cop or a lifeguard or something, and not your dad?    When I jerk off afterwards I going to imagine I'm fucking the woman I gave a spanking to.    And gee, I can't pretend I'm fucking you if I'm pretending I'm your dad - hunh?"

---

Alone in the living room, Susan found it sexy stripping for Tim.   Her own fantasy would be Daddy spanking his little girl, and then masturbating afterwards, his cum spurting out on her face.   But Tim was not a filthy pervert like she was.    His fantasy evidently was to be a young cop catching an older woman skinny-dipping, and giving her a big grin and the offer of a spanking, instead of arrest for indecent exposure.  He was so clean and pure and wholesome that being spanked by him would be like taking a shower.

But he made her wait a long time, which she hadn't expected.    She thought about the pain.    It had been all lies, of course, that part about getting a spanking from her boyfriend when she was horny and he had to go to work.   She didn't get spanked in the mornings.  She didn't get spanked at all, ever.  In all her fantasies, spankings were punishments - something that hurt; not something you wanted.   Not something that was sexy and pleasurable.  Susan knew that some woman enjoyed being spanked, but she couldn't imagine it - her pleasure in fantasizing a spanking was in imagining the fear and the pain - not imagining any enjoyment by the spankee.    The girls she fantasized about, never, never ever, got an orgasm from a spanking - it was Susan, having the fantasy, who got that.   Even little Timmy spanked in the Plaza, in the fantasy, although he got a dry cum from his hands wrapped around his dick and jerked up and down, he didn't find the spanking itself to be a pleasure.   So this spanking she was about to get would hurt, and she didn't want something that would hurt.    Of course not.  She started to get dressed.   She would tell Tim she changed her mind.

He came in.   He was naked.    Susan's mind stopped working.   He was muscles all over, and he had a dark red blotchy patch on his thigh, as if he had been spanking himself with his belt, very hard, to get ready for spanking her.   It looked like a very severe spanking, but Susan hadn't heard a sound.

He tried to sound like a grown up daddy.  "What are you doing, Suzy?  What did I tell you about swimming here?   It's dangerous for little girls to go bare.   Some wicked man could see you, and hurt you.    I said you'd get a spanking next time you went swimming bare, and you're going to get one now."

"I don't want a spanking, Tim, I've changed my mind."

"Well you should have thought about that before, little lady.   You'll think twice before you swim bare from now on.   Don't make me come and get you now, you'll regret it.   Come here to Daddy for a spanking!"

Tim was playing Daddy, not the cop.  He had accommodated her fantasy, rather than following his own.   That was exciting.  But this Daddy with real hands was a lot scarier than the fantasy one.   And his voice, scolding and threatening.  Susan wasn't thinking about her fantasy now - she was in it.  She ran from him, but not as Susan.  As little Suzy.  She knew it was only going to get her more spanks, but she panicked.   She couldn't stop herself from running.   She couldn't overcome the terror long enough to be grown-up Susan and not litle girl Suzy.   Daddy came and got her -  cornering her, bending her across his knee.   It was just like the fantasy - and totally different.    The sheer solidness and sweat of his naked body, his muscles forcing her into position by his overwhelming strength, was nothing like a fantasy.   And this Daddy had an erection all the time.  And a look in his eye that said RAPE!  What Susan was feeling was nothing at all like what she felt when she fantasized about little Suzy being molested.  Fantasy characters were paper cutouts.   This was real - and it was terrifying.

In her fantasies, real pain was a whipping or a branding.   A spanking with the hand was small potatoes, even for a child.  But if it was, say, a hundred swats, that at least counted as a punishment.   Five swats was just a joke, so this ...  YAHHH-AHHH-AHHH-ah!

The first non-fantasy spank of Susan's life sent her lurching off his lap, hands clapping to her behind, as an ear-splitting wail wrenched the air.   She was stunned.  With rest and relaxation, she thought she might be able to return to work in a month.   A month at the spa in Calistoga, with hot mud-baths and twice-daily massage.  That's what it had taken her to recover from nervous prostration the time she ran her car into a tree.    But her bruises from her seat-belt hadn't hurt as much as this.   Suffering any more pain was simply out of the question.

"It'll be worse for you if you don't stay still, little girl."

There was nothing she could do.  Nothing at all.  She had tried to run, she had tried to fight, and she had tried to tell him that she had changed her mind.  He was too strong for her, he was too fast for her, and he wouldn't listen.  He was going to spank her; and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.   In a kind of hypnotic fascination, Susan moved her body from the floor onto his lap.    She was very aware of his erect naked male smell.   Of the maleness of his naked body from his feet to his chin.  His male lap she had to bend across.  His deep male voice.  His strong male hand that was going to slap her soft white bottom.  Not to mention his very male thing, rock hard and pressing into her side so much it hurt.  He moved male.  He sat male.  Daddy in her fantasy had been a white-shirted office worker, an androgynous body with a penis.  Daddy in her fantasy did not stink of male sweat, or have ground-in horse manure in the callouses of his right hand; the rock-hard hand that was going to beat her bottom.  Daddy was milky white and corn-fed; Tim was brown as dirt and hard as timber; all black hair and ocean-blue eyes.  There was a sense of excitement, going to get it, now she knew what "it" was, how much it hurt, how male he was.  How steel-hard his penis was. How hard and big and calloused and male his hands were, how much they hurt - she could get to like this.   She could get to like it a lot.

But it hurt too much!    The second blow made her kick and spasm.

"STAY STILL!"

Susan stayed still.   She tried to steel herself to take the third blow without jumping.   Again that intoxicating pleasure of waiting, steeled for it.   And she managed to stay still after that stroke.  It felt good.   The spanking was more than half over, and she started to think that she had, after all, done it.   She had gotten herself spanked.   Her vibrator sessions would be dynamite after this.  She would wear out her batteries in a week.  Spanks four and five passed in a haze of euphoria.   Horrible pain.  Each one hurt more than the last.   But that was good.   She savored the pain and wished for more.

She got it.   Six.  Uh-Oh.   What is he doing?  Spanking me more than we agreed!   Is he going to rape me too?   Susan was deep into panic before she remembered that she hadn't actually told him any particular number.   Five spanks was just the way it was in her fantasy - five was what little Suzy got in the skinny-dipping fantasy, and in her fantasy world you just knew that skinny-dipping was five spanks.   Susan really had sunbathed nude as a girl, and whenever she did, lying there risking getting caught and getting a scolding, she had imagined it would be five spanks if she was caught instead.  But of course Tim had no way to know that nude sunbathing equaled five spanks in Susan's fantasy world.

Spank seven was extra painful.    But then, each one hurt more than the last.   How could she bear them?

Eight was awful.    She was near her limit.   But when she reached it, what?   Tim wouldn't stop because little Suzy broke down and begged him to - begging Daddy to stop was part of the game.  Asking him to stop meant spank more; she'd said that herself.  And Susan didn't know how to be grown-up woman Susan Thomas, telling him she'd had enough, and not little brat Suzy, whose whining and wheedling was just a way of asking for more.

Nine pushed her over her limit, if she had one.   Desperate, she said "Tim, this has to stop," in her most grown-up voice.   He said, "Be quiet, little girl, if you know what's good for you.  You know the rule - two extra swats for that.  And two more every time you open your mouth."

She hoped he'd stop at ten.    He didn't.

But she had an idea.   She was getting this spanking for sexual pleasure - that's what she'd asked for.   As long as she didn't show any pleasure, naturally Tim thought she wasn't yet satisfied.    She began her best, well-practiced, fake orgasms.   Tim slid his right hand to her crotch, and began some inexpert groping.   If he thinks that's my clitoris, Susan thought, California schools really do need better teachers.   But faking orgasms made her think about sex, and that, combined with the crude poking at her cunt, and the hot stimulus to her bottom, brought her to a level of arousal.   Now the pain was easier to deal with.   Spanking was sexy, after all, even when she was in this much pain. Her arousal mounted and she reached a level where the hard smacks were almost a pleasure.    She felt happy.   She was finally getting her spanking from Daddy, that she'd planned for so long.

And then, just when she'd started to enjoy it, after about 15 smacks, he stopped.    He shifted her position, and he gently slid his cock into her.   Then he lifted her off it again.

"Ma'am, do you have any condoms?"

He hadn't exactly raped her.   She could have said no, or pulled away.    But her fantasy had kicked in, she was very aroused, and very obedient, and it had happened so fast.    She took some condoms from the drawer of the TV table, from a box labeled "THUM-TAKS," which guests looking for thumbtacks only occasionally opened.

But though he spanked much harder than fantasy Daddy, in fucking he wasn't as rough.   She was relieved - but then she was bored.   He fucked for a while, softly and gently, and then pulled out of her without cumming.

"Tim, I'm not a china doll."

"What do you mean?"

"As long as you don't bite any bits off, leaving toothmarks is quite normal!"

"You mean, me bite you?   You mean like on your nipples?   No!   I couldn't!"

"Tim, aren't you too excited to mind the pain when I do this?   When I scratch you - like that! - or pinch you - there! - or slap you, or bite you - like that!  And that!   And that!  Bite you on your lip - hard?  On your nipple- hard?   Do you mind it?    Do you mind the pain?"

"Pain?   I can hardly talk that feels so good.   Don't stop.   Do my other tit."

"So why aren't you doing it to me?"

"But you're a woman!"

"We'll see who can take more, a woman or a little boy like you!"  

For a beginner, he was a good enough lover.   And Susan was no more experienced than he was - not in getting nipples bitten, anyway.    When she finally got him to do it, it hurt a lot more than she liked.   But if her hard bites were anything but pleasure to him, he didn't let on.   For each bite she gave, he bit her back - and pinches and scratches too.  And his scratches hurt so much they drove her mad, and in the sudden shock of pain she'd flail out with her nails, or bite him.   Back and forth, harder and harder.   They got into a scratching, biting, kicking, war; it was exhilirating.   And in her whole life, no man had ever had such a lust for what she could do to his body.  When she bit his nipple, he flinched from the pain so horribly that her own nipples hurt in sympathy, and yet, he had such lust for her, that he craved the sensation.

When she got furiously angry at him for a really hard pinch, she lashed out with her sharp nails across the areola of his nipple so hard it bled, and that made his cock shoot from limpness into hardness in an instant, and it was rammed into her, ferociously, hard enough to hurt and meant to hurt, a second later.  He had a condom on but it was a violent fuck, a punishment fuck.   In all her years as a patient, obedient, considerate lover, she had never felt anything like that.  Or seen anything like the way he looked when he came.   Then, not satisfied even with a violent fucking, he said "Revenge!" and  slowly and deliberately bit her areola hard enough to draw blood.    Susan just swallowed and clenched her fists and endured the pain.    It was horribly painful and not in any way a pleasure, and yet she endured it.  If it had been Robin, if it had been any other man, she would have stopped him.     But not Tim.   Not this cowboy.

Susan liked to say men didn't give enough foreplay - but she also hated that tiptoing around, trying not to feel too much, that men did when they were trying not to cum to soon.    Tim hadn't, and so the fucking had been, athough very good, also very, very quick.

But no one had ever told Tim he was supposed to stop when he came.   He didn't even slow down.

He did have one great advantage over Robin - he was sixteen.   They started having sex around six-thirty.   It was ten-fifteen by the living-room clock when he said: "That was nice, ma'am.   Can we do it again now?"

"Mary Lou!    She'll be calling hospitals.   You should go.   No, don't go - phone her."

"What should I say?"

"That you got picked up by an older woman, and will be spending the night in her bed."

"I can't say that!"

"You will say it - or you can get out now.   I can't stand men who lie about sex."

"But isn't that like, announcing our engagement?   Having sex and telling everyone?  It feels like I'm boasting about my sexual conquest or something."

"You don't have to say it was me, Tim.   She won't know, will she?   If she doesn't see you leave my house in the morning?"

"All right.   Here goes.  I'm going to tell her I'm spending the night with a lover.  Gee, spending the night!  I'm doing it now.   I'm dialing.   Or buttoning or whatever you call it with these fancy new phones." 

bip-bip-boop--boop-bup-bup-bahp.     click.    rhuhhhng.     rhuhhhng.     rhuhhhng.     rhuhhhng..     rhu-.

"- - Hello, Mary Lou, it's Tim. - -   No, I'm fine. - -   Sorry I made you worry. - -   No, I'm all right. - -   No. I'm fine, really. - -   I called a woman I know, and she invited me to supper. - -  No, that's fine. - -  We just got talking. - -   No that's all right, I'll spend the night on her couch. - -   I didn't ask. - -  She's a single woman, and I'm sleeping over at her house, and you know what people are like. - -  That's what I'm saying, I'm not going to tell people who I spent the night with. - -   It does include you, Mary Lou. - -  You are more than welcome to talk to my mother about it. - -  Mary Lou, I can't ... - -  O.K, but why do you need to know this woman's name? - -  Yes - - No, I'm not going to tell you, I'm not ... I don't care what you do. - - Sometime tomorrow. - -  See you then.  And I am sorry I didn't call earlier.   Bye."    click.

"So I didn't tell her I had sex with the woman I'm staying with.   Is that lying about sex?   Do I have to go?"

"No.    I was wrong.   You were right.  It would have been wrong if you had told her we had sex."

"Did you really mean what you said?   That I'm going to spend the night in your bed?   Do you really mean it?"

"I suppose we could use the bed.   Not that the coffee table wasn't nice.  And the couch, and the rug, and the stairs.   But Tim -  Men always say they'll call.    And then they don't.   If this was just one night for you, it would be kinder if you say so now."

"You want me?   You really want me?    But I was so ...  Are you telling me you love me?"

"Tim, you are very sweet.  But no.   I do have a boyfriend.   I'm not offering to give him up.   This would be an affair - a fling.   But I really liked having sex with you, and I want to do it again - and again and again.   Not love.   If you don't want me that way, I totally understand.   But please tell me honestly."

"How long would this fling last?"

"As long as we can make it."

"No.   It will last three days and four nights, including tonight.   I have a ranch to run.   That is, Mr. McGurdie has it, I just have to run it for him.  You can't spend the night, ever, in my trailer at the ranch, as my fling.   So when I go back to the ranch, it's over forever.   Until then I get every minute of those four nights."

"OK."

"OK.    OK?   Really?   You can be free all four nights?"

"I will be."

"Great.   That's - that's - uh, great.  Do you want another spanking?   You didn't sound as ... I guess those were female orgasms, hunh?   When I fucked you, you didn't have 'em loud as when I spanked you.   So I guess my love-making wasn't very good.   It wasn't hard enough.   Next time I'll spank you while we're doing it.   Would you like twenty hard swats right now?"

"Do you want twenty hard swats right now, Tim?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Tim bent over the couch arm, and Susan smacked his bottom with her palm.   Tim said, "That doesn't hurt.   Well maybe it does hurt, really.   It's just that I spend all day with a leather saddle pounding my bottom, and I've kind of gotten used to it.   You had tears running down your face.   You were hardly able to bear the pain, I could tell.   But that was what you wanted.   That's what I want too.   It was great when you bit my dick, but I want to try something that really hurts."

Susan's hand hardly made an impression on his tanned rump.   It had the color and appearance of a russet apple.

"Tim, why is your bottom so tan?   There is no sort of tan line."

"If I take a dip in a stock pond, I don't bother with swimming trunks, it's pretty remote.   And then it's just nicer not to put my sweaty clothes back on.  The cows don't care."

"It's not nicer, it's sexier.  You do it because you're so horny.   You strip naked, and pound your bare bottom on the leather saddle until you get saddle sores."

"Not saddle sores.   But yes, until it hurts.   Sometimes I ride bareback, and that hurts even more, 'cause Maryanne's kind of bony back there, but with the saddle my hard cock rubs on the saddle horn.   I had my first cum that way."

"What if your sixty-five year old high school principal caught you naked."

"She'd ball me out, I guess."

"I think she'd take you across her knee in her office."

"Not across her knee; she wouldn't treat me as a child.   She's a cowgirl.   It would be me bent over my saddle.   With her whip."

---

But even his own belt, whipped on his ass, didn't hurt enough for him.

They went to the garage to look for some sort of strap.   Naked.   Out the front door and across the lawn.  It was dark, but there was a street lamp.  It was risky and exciting, if not quite the equal of riding the range in the nude, hoping to be caught by a sixty-five year old cowgirl with a horsewhip.   Then the garage light went on automatically when the door came up, shining on two sweaty naked bodies, and a car passing at that very moment stopped, and then went on.  It parked down the block and a man got out - her neighbor Professor Melman.   Oh, well.   So what?   Suzan hoped the good professor got a charge out of it.   She hoped he had noticed Tim's erection, and her red bottom.    She only wished Melman had seen her getting spanked.

There was no car in the garage - Susan had driven since her accident, but only in a rented car with her therapist in the passenger seat, and although her therapist said she was cured, she had still not bought a new car.   The big empty garage made Susan think of being taken to the woodshed - it was a fit place for a punishment, and she'd often been spanked there in her fantasies.   But they were here to spank Tim, not her; she was the Daddy now, taking son to the woodshed to learn to be a man.  Tim closed the garage door - Susan wanted it open, but she didn't dream of saying so to Tim - she couldn't admit even to him that she had fantasies about a public spanking.  They didn't find any kind of strap in the garage, but there was an extension cord and a coil of rope, and they tried them both.   Tim said the rope really hurt.

"You don't sound excited."

"I imagined a whipstroke as something that really stung.   Thwap!   Yee-Owe!   Thwap!   Yee-Owe!   The rope hurts but it doesn't have that sting.  I still want to go through with it though.   A hundred strokes with the coil of rope.   That should have me in tears."

Five had him in tears, or close to it.   He was a very sorry little boy, at that point.       He gritted his teeth for it and said - "you took your punishment.   I have to take this.  I have to..."    He was frightened, not of the pain, but of not being able to bear the pain.  This was the first real pain for him so far, much more serious than a bite on his nipple.  The coil was heavy and the rope fibers were like needles.  Not being able to take it, after inflicting so much on her, made him disgusted with himself.    But he was in such pain after just five that he just didn't think he could take a hundred.

He would not have to find out.  She said: "I can't any more, Tim; my arm is tired.  I'm trying, but this coil is just too heavy for me."

"Try the buckle end of my belt."

"Ha ha.   We want to punish you, not send you to the emergency room."

"It will not break my thick skin.   It will just hurt like the dickens."

His buckle was a Navajo silver sandcasting, all jags and knobs.   She found it terrifying.   By an effort of will, she hit him with it, but he just laughed.   He looked around and found a burlap bag, put it folded on the workbench, and whipped it a stroke with the belt buckle, much harder than she had.   Then he got back into position over the sawhorse.   She managed to swing the belt with real force.  Tim sobbed.   It did not bleed, but it made an ugly mark, with indentations from the jags of the buckle, which she thought would turn into blood-blisters.

"Huhh.   Uhh.   Ten.  Please."

Susan spread nine more copies of the buckle pattern across Tim's bottom and legs.   Then it was over.   That was it.   It seemed utterly pointless and stupid.    Tim had tears in the corners of his eyes.  It was not arousing for Susan at all, and not for Tim either; he didn't get an erection.   And this was the same Tim who got a  hard-on from the word "condom."

But he didn't care about getting a hard-on: that wasn't what he was interested in, now.   He was no longer ogling her, his eyes swept across her, looking only at the hand holding the belt, as if he didn't even see she was naked.   He said: "Ten more."

In desperation, she picked up and used instead a three-foot bit of scrap lumber, about three inches wide

"Yee-Owe!   Ooo!   That's perfect.   That's exactly what a spanking should feel like."

But he wanted to make it hurt even more, so he cut some grooves in the board with a chisel, making it into a kind of long hand, with ridges like fingers to dig into his flesh.  At Susan's suggestion, he drilled small holes through it.   He complemented Susan on her tools; which had been Susan's grandfather's.  Twenty years of workbench clutter evaporated, without Tim saying a thing, or spending any time on it.   But every time his hand passed over the bench, to put down a chisel or to reach for some sandpaper, another tool was put on its proper hook, another nut or bolt into its proper jar.   It took a great many test smackings before he was satisfied; he wanted the handle comfortable in Susan's hand, and the blade painful on his own bottom.  Ten hard smacks with the front side of the paddle, ten more with the back, and then he would make the bumps pointier or the holes deeper, and take another twenty.  He gritted his teeth before each swat, and groaned when it hit.   He was having a good time though--his eyes danced.  And he grimaced and laughed as he rubbed his bottom.  Susan felt good too, although she felt a bit like a Mom, watching this naked whistling teenager sharpen her grandfather's chisels, and sweep up every shaving and speck of sawdust.   He had such a nice smile, and he smiled a lot - he seemed grateful even for such a little thing as when she held the dustpan for him. 

Gazing at her naked boy, Susan noticed that the red patch on his thigh, which she had thought was from him spanking himself, had not faded, as it surely should have done after several hours.  And when she looked at it more closely, she could tell it was a strawberry birthmark.   How cool : Tim had been born spanked.

When the paddle was done at last to his satisfaction, he wanted to go back in the house, and get a hundred smacks on what he called the "marriage bed."  His face had just the rueful look of a teenage boy about to get a spanking from his mom.

But on the way through the kitchen, he started to yawn.   Practical Susan - Mom Susan - thought about growing boys and their bedtimes, about his early hours on the ranch, about the danger of missing meals.   And anyway she was hungry.  Lust would have to wait.    She got out crackers and cheese, and made him some cocoa, the kind that comes in a packet.    When they got to the bed he hugged her, kissed her; kissed her nose, her eyebrow, her neck - and fell asleep.    His mug of cocoa was steaming on the bedside table.

It was five o'clock in the morning and he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed beyond belief.   He was so enormously self-satisfied about his penis.    She was on her back, with no covers, and he had managed to spread her legs without waking her, and was stroking her cunt with the tip of his condomed cock.   The look in his eye said "ramming speed!"  He had balanced the wooden paddle across her breast, ready for use.  She groaned sleepily; she couldn't take this so early in the morning.   He looked at her face, and his face fell, and then he rolled off the bed and began quietly masturbating on the floor.   Susan felt miserable about the whole thing, and she couldn't properly get back to sleep.

But she must have slept or dozed because when the alarm went off at seven thirty, it woke her up.    She smelled coffee.    Wooly-headed, sour-tummied, she was dimly aware that he'd set out warmed towels for her in the bathroom, tidied up the condoms and wrappers in the living room, and mopped the kitchen floor.   And he had made her a fantastic breakfast.   After breakfast he asked her how many spanks she wanted.   The paddle was on the kitchen counter.

She said there was time for a quickie instead.   But he was fully dressed and had no erection, and under the sudden pressure, couldn't get one.  It was getting late.   Stuck, she asked for ten spanks.   Perhaps she was getting used to it, because the paddle ones were easier to take than his hand ones had been.  Still, they hurt horribly and she couldn't summon up enough sex feeling even to fake an orgasm.   She was a spanked little girl, bawling her head off, as she stumbled out the door.   She was given a hug and a handkerchief at the bus stop, by a complete stranger.

On the bus, she realized she hadn't told him how wonderful last night had been.   Or how deeply touched she was (now) by his kindness and attentiveness in the morning.  She got to talking with the woman she'd met at the bus-stop, whose name was Charlene, called Charlie;  Charlie has just moved to Sonoma but would be catching the same bus as Susan from now on.  Susan made a note to herself to arrange for another block party, and they chatted about the neighborhood, and somehow Susan ended up talking about Tim - lying about Tim, actually.  Talking, Susan came to some decisions.   Charlie's calm, sensible advice was undoubtedly correct.

When she phoned her house from work, there was no answer.    Well, of course - he couldn't very well answer the phone.  After all, for all he knew it might be Susan's boyfriend calling.    And anyway, probably he'd gone back to Mary Lou's already.   But wherever he was, he must have been hurt by her behavior this morning.    She was going to break it off with him, but first, when she somehow did get to talk to him, she would have to apologize for her behavior - and tell him how wonderful last night had been.   How could she describe what was wonderful about it?   What was wonderful about it?    The spanking.   Last night was the sexiest memory of her life.   Sex with Robin didn't come close, even though Robin always did exactly what she asked.  Well, so much for Charlie's sensible advice; so much for her sensible resolution - she was going to get fucked until Tim's cock wore out!   Tonight ...  Little Suzy cried as she heard the footsteps approaching her door.  "Little Suzy's been a bad girl," came Daddy's voice.   "Come downstairs in your pretty PJs.  You can show your bottom to Daddy's friends.  Won't you like that, doing your strip tease?   And then the bad girl will get her spanking, and Daddy's friends will help him spank her.  Nice men who will help you to be a good girl."

Why had she drifted into that fantasy?   A real spanking, tonight.   She didn't need fantasy any more.   Ooo.   She was hot already.   It would hurt so much!    And she would hate it so much!   But she would hate it.   She didn't actually liked being spanked.  Her fantasies were all about spanking, so of course it was very sexy to think about them.   A night of spankless sex - not something to look forward to.    But the spanking had been no fun at the time.   She was aroused by it, but there were less painful ways to do that.   And the spanking HURT!   So, no spanking.   NO!   That was too sad to even think about!    She had to get a spanking!    But right now, she had to get some work done.   She needed to stop fantasizing and concentrate!  She had just filed the Carlos Manzini estate documents under C.

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi.  Have I reached ..."

"Tim, I love you."

"Are you ...?"

"I can't talk.    Meet me at noon, in the Plaza.   One of the benches by the flagpole.   See you there."    Click.

Why had she said that?     OK, she was hot for him.   Poor Robin.   Kind, worthy, deserving Robin.  Sensitive Robin.   Robin who didn't spank her.   Because that was it.   She was going to get the spankings.   She had to.  For all she knew, Robin would have spanked her too, if she'd ever just asked him.  Perhaps he fantasized about spanking her, but was too embarrassed to tell her his fantasies, just as she'd been to tell him hers.   She tried to remember if Robin had ever hinted that he wanted to spank her.  She had hinted to him, hinted hard - she had done everything short of sending him a notarized request - but he had been blindly oblivious: he just would not pick up on her hints that she wanted to be spanked.    But what if, all along, he had wanted to spank her, and had been sending hints to her?   Perhaps she had been the oblivious one.

And then she remembered.    Robin had not hinted, he had asked.   Asked plain.   And she had laughed and said no, and had forgotten the whole incident.   She had considered it a joke.   Because what Robin had asked for, wasn't that he should spank her.    It was that she should spank him.

Poor Robin.  But it didn't matter now.   She was hot for Tim now, because he spanked her, and she wasn't hot for Robin any more.   She had never ever been hot for Robin, not like this.  She had never been hot for any man like this.  She hadn't known a woman could be hot for a man like this.   Animal lust was something men had - only no man ever had it for her.   She had to be spanked tonight.   Not twenty, but one hundred spanks.   The fact that she didn't like being spanked was unfortunate, but it would make no difference.   Sometimes it hurt but you had to do it anyway.   Like the dentist.

When Tim was gone back to his ranch, she would ask Robin if he would spank her - or if they could spank each other.  But Robin would say: "Are you sure you really want a spanking tonight, Susan?"   And she would say no, she wasn't sure, and the spanking would not happen.   She'd had the greatest sex of her life, a memory she'd treasure forever even if she was never spanked again, because Tim had gone ahead with the spanking, even though she'd asked him to stop.   The spanking had happened because Tim had believed her the first time, when she said "if I say stop, that means spank me harder," and had ignored it when she said: "Please stop, I've changed my mind."   Robin would have stopped.

But even spankless sex with Robin was a fantasy.    Tim was gone in four days, and then she was, not back to Robin, but alone and unloved.    Because there was no way Robin wasn't going to know about this.   Strangers on the street knew about it.  Charlie at the bus-stop had known she had man-trouble - just by looking.   When Charlie had handed Susan her handkerchief, the first thing she said was: "He's not worth it, dear."

And Tim?   Could she drive to his ranch, for the weekends?   Wherever that was, exactly.  North somewhere, in the mountains.  There would be bad weekend traffic on Friday evenings, both getting out of Sonoma and on I-80, and then in the north; no traffic, but mountain roads, driving through the night.    Six hours?    Eight, because of the traffic?   Get there at, say, 1 a.m Saturday morning.   Perhaps ten weekends, perhaps twenty, before she fell asleep at the wheel (as she had done once before) and drove off the side of the mountain.   And in the winter!  Black ice!   Susan was a Californian; she didn't know how to drive on ice.   Could she get a job in a town nearer him - waitress, perhaps?   

There was a problem.    Susan's mother's will was being contested by a cousin in San Francisco, and while the case wound its endless way through the California courts, Susan was able to live in her own house, and get money from her own trust fund, only by filing what was called a "hardship application" with the probate court judge.    In spite of the name, she was not suffering any hardship - her house was a mansion in the best neighborhood in Sonoma, and the judge had allowed her an ample income from the trust fund, more money than she earned from her job.  She wasn't sure, but she suspected that what she was doing with Tim was a felony - statutory rape.  No one ever spoke of teenage boys as "San Quentin quail," and she was pretty sure that no older woman in California had ever been prosecuted for having sex with a sixteen-year-old boy, unless perhaps it was a teacher.    But telling the judge that she needed to rent out her house, and use the money to pay rent in another town, so she could commit statutory rape, was not going to happen.

Tim had said: "You can't spend the night in my trailer, ever, as my fling."   So did that mean she could, if she was his - what?    His official girlfriend?   His fiancé?   His wife?    But how could she be his official girlfriend, his take-home-and-meet-mother girlfriend?   She was a cradle-robber.   She was a statutory rapist.   She couldn't live in Tim's trailer as anything

She knew a bit about Tim's life.    At the block party, the combined forces of liberal Sonoma, including Susan, besides being unfair, had gotten personal, and had asked him a lot of questions.  It had been a verbal stripping naked.  Tim's parents had been divorced, and he was passed back and forth all his life.   He seemed ashamed of that, as if the divorce had been his fault, and the way Professor Melman had kept asking him about it when he was obviously ashamed, had made Susan squirm.   When he was with his dad, Tim had earned some money after school as a ranch-hand on the ranch where his dad was the foreman.    Professor Melman had called this a violation of child-labor laws.  But then Tim's dad had stumbled out of a bar at 2 in the morning, and been run over by a truck.   Tim kept on sleeping in his dad's trailer, and the vaqueros every morning would knock politely on the door, and they asked Tim what to do, just as they had done all along, whenever his dad was incapacitated (as Tim put it) in the mornings.  Then Professor Melman had said something about the plight of "poor Mexican migrant labor" and its exploitation by California agribusiness.

"I wouldn't know about that, sir.   I suppose the men I hire are 'migrant' since they work cattle from Jalisco to British Columbia.    You have an accent. sir--aren't you 'migrant labor' too, professor?  Do you want people to talk about you like that?  The way you talk about 'poor Mexican migrant labor'?   I don't believe the men I work with, would take welfare any more than I would."

"Welfare's not for men with jobs.   But not everyone can get a job.  Just because you have ability and talent don't assume everyone does."

"I don't have any talent.   Some of the wranglers can control bulls with only their voices; that's talent.   But I will hire you, professor, if you can ride a horse.   Hablo español?  I mean, professor, I will hire you if you don't get drunk and if you don't beat your wife.   It's very hard work and the pay's not much, the food's not great but it's free, and board's free too - sleeping on the ground.  But if you can work hard from sun-up to sun-down, dangerous work, I will be glad to hire you: I'm never not glad to find a reliable man; he doesn't need to have talent.  Of course there are a few men no one will hire - they start fights, or they steal.   They may have talent and ability, just not character.  Are they the ones you mean, sir, when you say that not everyone can get a job?"

It was obvious that Tim was carrying the responsibility of ranch foreman, while being paid as part-time ranch hand, and still going to school.  It was also obvious he was too young to have lived through a time in California when even the best men couldn't find work.  But a sixteen-year-old wasn't going to get hired as a ranch foreman, however mature and responsible he was.   Probably, he was entitled to welfare, but he wouldn't take it.   Or perhaps his mother collected it, under the Aid to Families program, and Tim never saw a nickel.   Tim's options for bringing in an income were very limited.

Could he live with her?  He could go to school in Sonoma, hang out with friends after school like any other Sonoma teenager?   No.  Her Tim would never be anyone's kept lover.

Or live with her, go to school, work at McDonalds enough to pay his share?    But he had a life!    He loved riding, loved the mountains, loved the stock ponds where he skinny-dipped and the pastures he rode across, wind in his hair and his naked bottom pounding itself sore on the saddle.    She loved him because he was that man.   She didn't want to turn him into a Sonoma teenager.

She would just have to wait for two years.   He would be 18, her estate lawsuit would be over (she hoped), and she would have access to her own trust fund again.  She would be, in a modest way, a rich woman.   He could get a job on a ranch somewhere, and Susan could live with him in a trailer.  She could buy a horse, learn to ride.  But this was the biggest fantasy of all, because he did not love her.   Say it again -  He.  Does.  Not.  Love.  Me.

Well it wouldn't help if she was fired, and there was still all the filing to do she should have done yesterday.    Let's see: the Estate of Carlos Manzini .   Goes under E.  Next?

She wiped away a tear.

And she was late for lunch.

"Do you want to eat at this place?   La Fonda de Sonoma?"

"I don't have time to eat, Tim, I have to be back by one."

"They don't give you time to eat?"

"I lost track of the time, and all of a sudden it was 12:30.   Sorry."

"But if you kept working until 12:30, can't you get back from lunch at 1:30?"

"No.  I have to clock in and clock out.    I just want to tell you how wonderful last night was.   And this morning."

"Was it?   I thought you didn't - that you didn't get any orgasms from it.   I thought maybe it wasn't hard enough, this morning."

"Hard enough?      No, Tim, it was hard enough.    Did you like it last night, when I gave you those hard swats with the paddle in the garage?"

"That was cool.   But it wasn't like what I thought it would be.    When I used to jerk off and think about Miss Heatherton whipping me - I used to shout 'Whap - oh that feels good - Whap - oh that feels good.'   You know, I'd shout it while I was pretending, while I was jerking off.   And when you were jerking me off me last night, - you know that slow teasing with your hand? - I was thinking about you whipping me, and how good it was going to feel when you did.     How each stroke was going to be intense pleasure.   But it hurt a lot and it wasn't pleasure in a luxurious way like I thought."

"So you don't like it. That's OK.  We don't both have to like spanking."

"Don't like it?   But that's why I like it--don't you see what I mean?   Look, you said last night you would give me one hundred on the marriage bed.   That's all I've been thinking about all day, that hundred you promised.    Listen!    When I've masturbated, up to now, I've always pretended I was being whipped.    By a woman.   Then I'd whip my bottom with my belt a few strokes, and then jerk off, pretending I was getting the rest of one hundred strokes.   And I was so brave about it - Oh I'm really brave about whipping when it's just pretend whipping.   But the real paddling wasn't like that.   It hurt.   I didn't have an erection, and I didn't feel any sexual pleasure, from being paddled, just intense pain.   And I  But that makes it--oh I don't know what it makes it.   Um.  I just don't know how to describe it.  More real is all I can say.   I get an erection now from just remembering the paddling, and when I think about getting a hundred on the bed, my dick gets so hard, and I get so excited, I can't stand it.  I don't like the spanking--but the anticipation!    I wouldn't give that up for anything!

"So you like to think about it more than you like getting it."

If the paddling had been pleasure, instead of pain, it wouldn't have been as good because I wouldn't think about it so much--when I think about getting a paddling, my heart pounds; like, how can I think about anything else when I know I'm due for a paddling?   And I'm sorry, but a kiss isn't like that; I like kissing, of course I like kissing better than anything, but dreading the paddle is more intense than looking forward to a kiss.   It's what I've always dreamed about--a woman to whip me.   And the real is so, so much more than the dream.  So much better than the dream.   I hope I can - I will  - I will absolutely, that is, I hope I can - I will go through with it, to the end, one hundred swats.   I swear it."

"Do you really want it so hard it makes you cry?"

"I do want it hard, yes.    Don't you?    When I spanked you, that was incredible -  I was scared of how good it felt to do it.   To make you cry.   I didn't like that.  I mean I did like it - I liked it a lot - but I didn't like myself for liking it.  So I wanted it to be mutual.   I needed to be punished.   Punished for hurting you and for liking it so much."

"You don't need to be punished; I asked you to spank me."

"But I want to be.  I want to say : a hundred spanks, and then not stop until it is a hundred - I can't stop at fifty, can't stop at seventy-five, I have to go all the way.   Don't you understand?   Saying I'll do it, and then having to go through with it?    Because I'm a boy being punished, and so I don't get to choose when it stops.    Those swats in the garage were so cool.  I want to put my ass on the line - to see if I am man enough to do it.      What am I saying? - man enough.   I just hope I can do half as good as you."

"So that's what it is for you?   A test?" 

"No.   I'm not making any sense, I know.  But look, on the range, camping, all alone, I used to sentence myself to something that hurt and then make myself endure it.   Touching my bottom with hot coals, things like that.  But I never actually did anything that hurt a lot - nothing that really hurt for a long time like a belting from Dad.   I couldn't make myself.  But when it's from you, I don't even want to stop.   I didn't count, but we did a lot swats in the garage.  I bet it was a hundred.  And they were hard.   I don't feel ashamed of that.   Not like the times I said to myself: one hundred with the belt, but actually gave myself about five.  It felt good, asking for more and more and more; because they hurt so much."

"Tim, That's exactly what if feels like!  It is very hard for me to bear the pain, too.    It hurts but you want it - that's it exactly.  You're a good spanker.  But it's very sexy for me to be spanked.    I'm not hearing it's so sexy for you.   So if it's not sexy, why do you need to endure it?"

"If you'll let me, I want to masturbate while you spank me, next time.   I'm not sure, but I think it will be really good.  Have you ever been spanked when you had the vibrator going in and out of you."

"Vibrators don't work like fucking machines, Tim.    They don't do in and out; they vibrate.  You can use it on your cock."

"Say it again."

"Cock?"

Tim unzipped his jeans.   Right there on the bench in the Plaza.  

Susan tossed her scarf into his lap as his pink tip emerged thtough his fly, although she didn't think that would help much if he was going to jerk off in a public square.  Everyone would be able to see what he was doing, scarf or no scarf.  But after reaching in to let his erection out, he kept his hands off it.   But you could see there was something lifting the scarf.    Just the way he sat was so suggestive people did a double-take when they saw him.    And he wasn't speaking in a whisper, either.

"Ma'am, I can't stop thinking about your bottom.   It was like a sunset as it got redder and darker."

Susan's face was also getting redder and darker.  "Tim, do you like spanking or getting spanked best?   I think you just earned one."

"Ooo.  I need getting spanked.   But I really enjoy spanking you.   I didn't know I would.   I've never thought about spanking a woman before.   I mean I've thought about it, but it wasn't something I used to think about while I was jerking off.   I only thought about being spanked, not spanking.  But this morning I've come about six times thinking about it.  Thinking about spanking you every time, not about you spanking me.  I want to be spanked, but spanking you is sexier.   You get those really strong orgasms from it.    I really, really hope you enjoy spanking me.   But I was kind of afraid you didn't.   I think I could be spanked forever if I knew it was a turn-on for you.  Do you think about my bottom as much as I think about yours?"

He asked that question in a particularly loud voice.   It echoed across the Plaza.

"I'm thinking about your bottom right now, Tim.   I'm thinking about flogging it.  I'm thinking about you riding, slapping your bottom on the saddle for hours. I'm thinking about you naked, getting a spanking over my lap on this bench.  Not a spanking - a whipping.  My big fat sloppy bottom is a tub of jelly.   Spanking me must be disgusting.   But your bottom!   Imagine a russet apple cut in half - that's how hard and firm you are.    That's what I get to spank."

That was all they talked about.   For an hour.  He said he adored hers, and she said she worshiped his.  It made her late for work and she got a very severe scolding from her boss - all for the sake of a conversation about buttocks.   They hadn't even made an arrangement about that night.   

But all the same, Susan was expecting to find him sitting on her steps.  He wasn't there.  All eveneing she waited.   She played all her Beatles records.  Finally, after Johnny Carson, she went upstairs to bed.    Tim was on her bed, trying to balance a red apple on the tip of his cock.

He said: "I climbed out of my window.   Mary Lou thinks I'm asleep.   I have to get back early tomorrow before she comes into my room to wake me up."

"Where'd you get the apple?"

"There was just one left - not hanging; wedged in a fork - on the tree I climbed down.   There are still lots on your tree.   You should lock your upstairs bathroom window."

"Gravensteins are early.  I doubt that one's any good since it's been in the tree for a month.   You should have picked a McIntosh from my tree when you climbed in."

"Have you been naughty?"

"Naughty enough.   But you're the one that's getting a sore bottom, for leaving me alone all evening."

"Mary Lou thinks I'm sleeping.   I couldn't have come any earlier.  I couldn't claim that I met an old friend, two nights in a row.   Of course if you want to spank me for it ... - but I have something better than that for you to spank me for - Susan."

"What?"

"I told you.  For Susan."

"Tim, you are this close to a thrashing you won't forget in a hurry."

"Ooo.   But let me tell you why I'm getting it.  Last night I didn't know your name."

"That's not possible."

"It's true, Susan.   Of course I should have asked.   But I kept putting it off and the longer I did the harder it got.   This morning I peeked in your mailbox.   All day I've been saying to myself, 'you deserve a hundred stripes for fucking a woman without knowing her name.'   Then I jerk off, saying 'Susan, Susan, Susan'."

"But you must have heard my name at the party."

"That barbecue at Mary Lou's?  You were there?"

Susan had thought they had formed a bond of sympathy and trust at the party.   She was outraged that he didn't remember her.

"Oh, yeah, I guess I do remember you.   In a little white jacket-like thing.  I wasn't paying too much attention.  I made such a fool of myself at that party - I cried about it afterwards."

"I think you made fools of us."    The little white jacket-like thing was Yves St. Laurent, and it had cost Susan a bit more than a week's pay.

"I was still thinking about it yesterday, when I was on the steps.   I was trying not to cry.   I think that's what made me so ornery."

"I thought I was the aggressive one last night."

"Spanking you.     Playing Dad when I spanked you.   And liking it.   I'm not like that, really I'm not."

"You played Daddy very well.   And I'm very glad you like it."

"Back when was a little boy, just starting to masturbate, I'd think about fucking Rosalia Lopez - she was a girl at school who had tits in sixth grade - and I thought about seeing her naked, and about pushing my cock into her.   I didn't know about all that other stuff - biting nipples and hard massage and scratching and cunt-licking and slapping my cock.  And tickling.  I didn't know tickling had anything to do with sex.   I didn't know men and women touched when they had sex.   I don't think Mom and Dad ever touched - and there wasn't any privacy in our shack, so I watched what they did.    So it was easier to cum if I thought about getting the belt.   That was the only kind of touching I knew about, Dad belting Mom and usually pushing it into her afterwards. "

"I think that's terrrible."

"My memories of Mom and Dad fucking are from before I was eight, before the divorce and the restraining order, long before I started to masturbate.  Dad didn't live at home but he would come in to our place drunk and belt me and then belt Mom and then fuck her with me watching.   If they ever had any other kind of sex, they didn't do it when I was there. I knew about kissing, of course, but Dad never kissed Mom.   I sure didn't know about having an hour of kissing and stroking and pinches and slaps and biting - an hour of it! - before fucking and it never occurred to me you could keep on kissing and cuddling afterwards, until you were ready to fuck again.   I only knew about belting; but when I pretended I was giving Rosalia a belting, making her cry, I didn't cum.   Her crying upset me too much - it made me think of Mom, that she was - the times she was - well, raped.  I only came when I imagined I was getting a whipping - but not from Rosalia, it had to be from Miss Heatherton.  Then I fucked her, I mean fucked Miss Heatherton my high school principal, a wrinked old woman; just quickly pushing in and out, and then I would come.  I mean, I imagined fucking her, but I really came, in my hand.   Even in my imagination that was as good as I thought sex could be; in and out of Miss Heatherton.   It got a little better if I spanked myself with my belt first, but I never could spank myself hard enough or long enough.    I was only good at imaginary beltings."

"So you don't really like wrinked women, Tim, I mean, how could you?   But you don't have to be ashamed of it, Tim.  I was the same, when I masturbated at your age.    Boys scared me, because I wasn't pretty.  It was easier to cum thinking about being spanked.   I always thought about being spanked when I masturbated, too.     I thought about sex with much older men when I masturbated.  You don't have to be beautiful for men to want you for a spanking. "

Susan held her breath, thinking : if he says "You are beautiful to me," I'll kill him.   I hate men who lie to get sex.    But Tim wasn't finished talking about himself.

"But Dad did get better after the divorce - he'd go months without a drink.  He raised me - not Mom.  I was supposed to live with Mom but she, um, well ...  And last year I um, ... well let's just say I needed the discipline; I was doing some bad stuff.  Dad had to trust me I wouldn't tell - it was a violation of his restraining order for him to lay a hand on me, and I could have sent him to prison for it, but he gave me a belting.   My first real punishment in six years.  Mom knew I was running with a gang who sold drugs and ripped off car radios, but she didn't do anything about it, she didn't care.   That belting hurt.  I won't say it hurt more than he hurt me when he was drunk, when I was a kid, but his sober belting went on a lot longer.  It just went on and on.  On and off all day.  Much longer than the beltings I used to get when he was drunk.  After that I started masturbating every day, really intense cums, every time.  And not long after that, Dad slipped up, just once, and took a drink.   Just one was all it took; he went on a bender, and later that weekend he passed out in the road in front of Harvey's Bar and a milk tanker squashed him flat the next morning.  I could have been at the door of the bar when they kicked him out, to bring him home, but he would have belted me--belted me right there in front of the bar at two in the morning, with my pants down.   I wasn't just playing a daddy when I spanked you, I was playing my Dad.   I was playing my Dad belting my Mom, and raping her.   And I fucking liked it.   Susan, I fucking liked it."

"Tim - you're a virgin, aren't you."

"Not any more, obviously.   But yes - until last night, I was.   I lied about having sex with girls my own age.   None of them will go all the way with me."

"You must want to, though, with a girl.   You can't really want a wrinkled ugly old woman."

"Is your boyfriend like a college professor or a doctor or something?    If he - well I'm not saying I'd do it or anything, but if he just happened to get his throat cut crossing the campus some dark night, would I have a chance?"

Susan wasn't going to say "I love you" twice.   She was miffed.   She didn't expect "I love you too, Susan," like in a movie; she knew he didn't love her.   But did he think it didn't matter, that she'd been the one to say "I love you"?  Why was he talking like she'd never said it?   Wasn't a boy at least supposed to say "thanks," even if he couldn't say "I love you too" back again?     And not noticing her at the party.   "Little white jacket-like thing!"   What an asshole! 

Tim was watching her face and he knew he'd said something that made her angry.  

And it made him grin from ear to ear.   He changed from being, in his mind, his dad raping his mom, and became again the boy, getting a whipping from his wrinkled cowgirl, with a yee-haw and git-along dogies - and you could see it in his face.  He looked younger.  He looked as if a weight had been lifted from him, to be the one whipped, instead of the whipper.  He turned over, lifting his butt high.  Lost in his fantasy, it was easy to tell when the  imaginary lashes struck his bottom - his body jerked from the pain.   And after each one an imaginary build to orgasm, climbing peak after peak, higher and higher to an explosive climax - which was not of course a real one.  He jerked his arm making imaginary whip-strokes.  But after five imaginary strokes with the belt, he moved his hand - not to rub his hard cock but to slap it hard, while his other hand held it in position to be beaten.   He arched his back and writhed.   The imaginary whipping had been hot and heavy, and so was the real slapping and pounding he was giving to his dick.  That was when Susan noticed the whip.   He had been lying on top of it.

"What kind of whip is that?   Is it for spanking a chihuahua?   Or for whipping your own cock?"

"This?  It's a riding crop.   I bought it at that - that place - well, I don't know what to call it.  That place on Spain Street.   It's like a boutique with pictures of horses on the walls.   They sell cowboy hats too, great big ones because the women have these really big fluffy hair-dos.   No other horse tackle though, besides the whips.  But it's mostly those real short skirts, and they pose the dummies bending over so you can see their butts and they all have these rope panties with a big knot that must be kind of uncomfortable.  You sure wouldn't want to ride wearing something like that, I can tell you that much.  Is that where you bought your jacket?"

"You're kidding.   This is a horse whip?  But a horse has a thick coat of hair - how could it feel something like that?"

Susan had indeed bought her white bolero at Texas Bravo on Spain street.   The bolero was Yves St. Laurent, from their new and very chic see-through collection.    It had been very, very expensive and she was furious at him for not remembering her in it at the party.

He said: "This kind of whip is what Miss Heatherton carries.   It's what they use on horses.    Horses are very afraid of it. "

"They use on horses?    Why do you say 'they'?  What about you?  Don't you lash your horse like any other cowboy?"    Susan was steaming--how dare he not remember a woman who had gone to a party in a see-through jacket with her bare tits under it.

"I would never hit Maryanne with something like that."

"But you want me to whip you with it?" 

Susan was mad at him enough to whip him - with a cat-o'-nine-tails!   She wouldn't bother with a tiny thing like this so-called riding crop.    If her tits were bigger he would have noticed her.  What a fucking chauvinist pig.  

"If we did that, if you whipped me with it, you'd think I was just pretending it hurt.  But really, it does hurt."

"I guess you'll just have to show me that your chihuahua spanker really hurts, then.   Twenty strokes.   Hard."    She'd show him.   She pulled her robe aside and placed her bottom where he could reach it.

"It does hurt, Susan.   You should try one stroke before you say you want twenty."

"That's for cowards.  Play Daddy again, and if the Little Lady tries to talk her way out of it, give her fifty." 

Susan was angry.   She wanted some bottom whipped, some little girl to cry.   It took her a moment realize that the whipped little girl's bottom was going to be her own.

She moved away from the bed.  "Let's just forget about it, Tim.    You wanted a spanking with your wooden paddle, didn't you?   We could do that now."   

And she would really blast him.   The rope bra that went under the see-through bolero was designed to lift, pinch, and push out her breasts.  It was supposed to catch men's eyes by making it look - dimly through the gauze fabric - as if her breasts were being tortured.   Because her breasts were so small, Susan had tightened the rope bra until it really was torture, trying to make her tits poke out more, squeezing them until they turned purple.  She still had the marks.  There were nipple clips too - they covered the nipples under the see-through fabric so you wouldn't show your bare nipples in public and get arrested, but they also hurt like fun by the end of the evening.   The nipple clamps had gold chains attatched to them, and Susan had looped them through the bra so that an arm motion, such as lifting a glass for a toast, tugged on her  nipples, and when she put her arm down again, her breasts bobbed up and down, which looked really sexy in the mirror, but by the end of the evening every slight motion of her arms felt like she was being hung by her tits.  She kept expecting to see blood.  Dancing had been pure torture - and Tim, the bastard, hadn't even asked her to dance, when she'd been flashing her tits at him all evening.   She had broken down and cried, dancing with Professor Melman, because her tits hurt so much.  And now Tim hadn't even remembered she'd been at the party.

Tim swished the riding crop through the air, and looked at her.   He wasn't going to let her change her mind - he was going to give her the twenty strokes she'd asked for, and nothing she could say or do now was going to stop him.  And nothing short of a Colt 45 was going to stop him from fucking her afterwards; he had that look in his eye.  But she was angry and she wasn't in the mood.   Last night, when she asked him to spank her, she was wild with lust from a day of fantasy about the spanking she'd seen on the street.   An hour of expert foreplay couldn't have gotten her any higher than she'd been, when she asked Tim for a spanking.   But tonight, after an evening of waiting for the doorbell, she couldn't seem to get sexy.   It's true she'd asked him for 20 strokes with the crop, and she'd told him to go ahead with spanking even if she said she changed her mind.  But he didn't have to believe her; it was all his fault.  She was standing near the bedroom door, and he was lying on the bed.   She would make a run for it - downstairs and out the door.    If she reached the street, and screamed 'HELP, RAPE!' he wouldn't dare do a thing.

He launched himself from the bed suddenly, with the grace of a man who is accustomed to jumping naked from the ground to the bare back of his horse.    He grabbed the edge of her bathrobe, as it swirled wide as she turned to run downstairs.    Her shoulder hit hard on the brass bedknobs as he jerked her toward the bed.   She ended up bruised and pinned, face crushed into the mattress but most of her on the floor, and he was kneeling on the bed, leaning over her with his crotch on the back of her head, leaning over to reach ... Yeow!

It was only his hand, and not as hard as he'd spanked her before, but he spanked fast.   Susan got very aroused, very fast.   Her moment of fear now seemed silly; of course she wanted to be spanked.   At all times she wanted it, before, during, and after, except for that one tiny moment just before the spanking started, when she didn't want it.  His hard cock was now pushing into her forehead, and she tried to bring her mouth to it, but she couldn't move her head.    She wanted his cock and she wanted his cum.   He'd had so many ejaculations last night she'd lost count, but only the first had shot much cum, and that had been into a condom.   She had tied off that first condom and put it in her purse, but she wanted cum on her face, tonight.    She managed to free a hand, and grabbed his cock, using her fingernails.   And then he stopped spanking her and rolled off her, pulling his penis from her hand.  He said the same thing Robin did : "Don't! you'll make me cum."     The difference was, that Robin saved himself to serve her - Tim was saving himself to fuck her punishingly hard.   And he was going to fuck her whether she said yes or no.

Now the spanking had stopped, Susan felt it had been a pleasure.   The lingering warmth and soreness of her bottom felt good, and she wanted more.   It was like waking up, coming back to earth, when it stopped.    She wanted his cum very badly.

"Get on the bed, Susan.  Face down."   He was swishing the whip through the air.   So far it had just been a spanking; now the serious riding-crop whipping would begin.   Twenty strokes.

She obeyed, still wearing her bathrobe.   She was willing, but glad she was being forced.   As much as she wanted it, she knew she didn't have the courage to go through with it if she had any choice.   That was why she kept her robe on -  offering her bare bottom would have been too much like asking for it.

"I've changed my mind, Susan.    Get on the floor, on your hands and knees."

Susan obeyed again, but this time she made sure her robe hung to the side, baring her bottom.   Her bottom was itching for it now.    She moved a bit so he would have space to take a really good swing.

But that was not what he had in mind.   He sat on her.

"Gie! Aw!"

She began to crawl, but was facing a wall so she had to turn around to go forward.   She had plenty of time to think about the riding crop before she heard the swish.   It hurt like a red-hot poker touching her bottom.  She wasn't surprised the little whip hurt so much; Tim had said it would hurt, and he would know about that sort of thing.   She didn't jump, and didn't scream.    The prospect of nineteen more jabs with a red-hot poker on her buttocks didn't frighten her.  But his hand spankings were nicer. She crawled over to the door and out into the hall.   By the time she got there, four of her promised twenty had landed, and she was very sore.   Like burns with a red-hot poker, they didn't stop hurting once the poker was taken away.

"Tim, I need to take my robe off - I keep crawling on it.   And I'm not sure I can take twenty - I'm very sore already.  You were right about how much it hurts."

"Do you want to do this on the lawn?   You could go faster."

"Not the front lawn.   We could do it in the back yard."

"Anyone might see us on the lawn, Susan, but Mary Lou will see us in your back yard.   Her bedroom window overlooks it.  I'm supposed to be asleep in bed, remember?"

"How about the living room?"

"Not room for a gallop, but it's better than here.  Remember the number sixteen.   That's how many you have left.   No, eighteen.   You did say you changed your mind."

They went downstairs.   Susan dropped her robe, and turned up the thermostat.   Tim handed her the whip.

"Eighteen."

"No Susan, I can't take any more waiting.   Give me five now.   Then I'll give you eighteen."  

And he got down on his hands and knees.   He seemed to expect her to ride, but she couldn't quite see herself reaching back to swing the whip blind - she was afraid she would injure him - maybe even castrate his low-hanging testicles.   She'd never been on a horse.  And she wanted to see it when the riding crop hit, to see the marks.   So she just stood over him and whipped.   He sobbed.  She paid no attention to the fact he had only asked for five - she liked hearing him sob, because she hadn't sobbed from the same whipping.   She hit him some more, trying to do it even harder.   Looking at the marks, she saw there were welts from the shaft of the whip, hitting like a cane, that were worse than the marks of the flap of leather.   So it was really a caning he was getting from the shaft of the riding crop.    She changed her stance, and hit him very hard, but taking care that only the leather flap hit his skin.   He didn't sob from that stroke.   So it was the cane the brought the pain.

She tried to feel and remember the four strokes she had gotten.   Were they canings, or did he just use the flap?   She wanted  to know what her bottom looked like - did it have cane welts?   She wanted to see her bottom in a mirror.

"Tim, I can't stand it that I'm having sex with you, but my hair is in curlers and I have night-time beauty cream on my face.   You have to let me make myself pretty."

"Last night you had lipstick.   It came off on me when you kissed me on my cock.    Put on some lipstick.   Put on all your makeup.   I like fucking you with all your makeup on."

"Damn it, Tim, stand up!  Kiss me!"

But she didn't wait for him.   As he was standing up, she was bending down to grab him, and they ended up rolling over and over on the carpet, lips pressed together.   Then she began to work his upper lip with her teeth and tongue.   She had a leg between his, and his cock was pressing into her kidney.  She moved into position so he could shove it where it belonged, without letting go of his face with her mouth.  She didn't even think about a condom.  But he pulled away sharply, shouting: "condom!" resisting her as she pulled him into home.  She though: well, one of us is a grown-up.   He managed to avoided coming, but then he just lay there.  He didn't go to the THUM-TAKS box for a condom.

"Susan.   I need to tell you how good that feels when you do my lip.   But don't forget the lower lip, too.   I think I like it even better on the lower lip - right in the middle.   And then I want you to bite my teats.  I really like that.  I'm ready for an hour of you pleasuring me before fucking this time."

Susan couldn't remember that Robin had ever given her instructions on how to pleasure him.   Robin only talked about her pleasure.   The only thing Robin ever said about his pleasure was "don't, don't, you'll make me come."    Robin always apologized when he had an orgasm - and he never had more than one a night.   He apologized since it was his job to keep hard for her pleasure.   If she did go back to him - and she had loved him - she did love him - there would have to be some changes.

Tim was pouting.    He could tell, somehow, that her thoughts were not on him, and he didn't like it.   She left him to his childish sulk and went into the bathroom.   The room was a luxury remodel that the judge had allowed her to have done in the "hardship application," and it had a mirror that went from behind the counter up to the ceiling.    She turned around and looked over her shoulder, and then bent over, trying to see the marks on her bottom where he had whipped her during the pony-ride.   But the sink counter was in the way, and she could only see the top half of her bottom; all his whip strokes had struck lowe