This story was inspired by a female friend who sent me a message 
describing a similar, though less out-of-control, bondage/spanking 
adventure.  I hope she, and everyone else, likes it.  -- Imreadonly

 

                       PAYMENT IN FULL

                             by

                         Imreadonly

 


All right, I'll admit it.  I'm a tease. 

Constantly turning you on when we were in public or when I knew you 
didn't have time to respond.  And then turning all frosty whenever 
you were ready. 

What can I say?  I'm a woman, and I love my power over men.  I love 
watching them plead with their big puppy dog eyes...and watching 
them do tricks for me.

You had every reason to be angry with me.  I wanted to make it up 
to you, but how?  What would you REALLY like?

I spent a long time mulling it over.  You were right, I owed you, 
big time!  Yes, "owing you" was the key...but how could I pay you 
back? 

Then I remembered that dark sexual fantasy you had told me about.  
The one I would never, ever fulfill.  It would be the ultimate 
power trip for your shattered male ego, the most wonderful, 
delicious, naughty, wicked "make-up" gift ever.

Friday morning was the first day of our three day "make-up" 
weekend.  When I called you on your cell you were only a few 
miles from the house.  I sprang into action.   

First, I put the note on the front door: "COME IN!  Sorry I'm so 
BEHIND!  Payment in full inside!"  The note was signed, "From 
April, a girl who OWES you!"

Then I quickly stripped down to the buff.  That's right -– totally 
bare.  Birthday bare.  I had nothing on but my naughty, mischievous 
smile.

I opened the front window so I could hear you coming.  Then I 
taped my second note of instructions to the middle of my back.  
I chuckled as I imagined you reading "the directions" while 
staring at my tight butt. 

I spread my legs and cuffed my ankles to the legs of the sofa 
chair.  It was a huge, heavy sofa chair, and it spread me out 
wider than I had anticipated, but it was too late to fine tune 
my plan now.  Besides, I knew you'd be here any moment…

On the theory that what gags best, gags least, I had rush-ordered 
a cheap rubber bit that buckled behind my head.  It was small, but 
large enough to render me unintelligible. 

As per your fantasy I would be unable to impede my impending 
punishment with lots of foolish, irrelevant girlish chatter.  
I couldn't form words and would be reduced to pleading for 
mercy with my big brown eyes (just like you).

I picked up my final restraints -- the handcuffs for my wrists -- 
and waited.  You were close, but I wasn't stupid, and I wasn't 
about to cuff myself butt-naked with the front door open until 
I was certain you were here. 

It felt strange, to be standing in my living room, birthday bare, 
with my legs spread and cuffed.  The oddest part was the sensation 
of being gagged.  I had tried it out when it first arrived, of 
course, and it had seemed fine.  But, as I bit down, I discovered 
it had an unpleasant, rubbery taste. 

I wished that I'd had something more to drink or at least had 
soaked the gag in something sweet before locking it into my mouth.  
However, there wasn't time for regrets.  You'd be here any moment.

At the last possible instant, when I heard your car pull into the 
drive, I bent over the end of the sofa chair and cuffed my left 
wrist to the left arm, and my right wrist to the right arm.

Click, click.  So easy.  A beautiful woman locked into position for 
your viewing pleasure.

My trim, sexy bottom was the highest point of my body and was 
sticking straight up in the air. 

My legs were spread far wider than I had intended, but, now that 
I was bent over, it was even worse.  When I had tried out the 
position yesterday I hadn't actually locked the restraints and so 
hadn't realized how the ankle cuffs would force me to put my bare 
feet so far apart.  

I blushed at the thought of what you would see when you opened the 
door.  I had planned on giving you a little peek, not to spread 
myself out for a gynecological exam.

But I was certain that you, being a guy, would enjoy the view.

I waited expectantly.  I waited.  I waited some more.

Nothing.

The first hint that something was terribly wrong was when I heard 
Mr. Crackle's wind chimes followed by the sound of his front door 
slamming.  In a horrifying instant, I realized my mistake. 

It wasn't you in the driveway, it was Mr. Crackle, my elderly 
neighbor.  Now that senile old man I liked to flirt with was 
sitting in front of his television enjoying a brew while I stood 
cuffed in my living room with my bare fanny pointing skywards.

Despite my predicament I smiled through my gag.  Horny old Mr. 
Crackle had been ogling me for years, and whenever I slipped out 
onto our back deck to sunbathe he would be out in seconds to start 
"gardening." 

If he knew what was behind my front door he would have busted his 
pacemaker racing over to see.

I waited.  And waited. 

I tested my cuffs.  I had done my work well.  I was locked in.  
Trapped!  No chance of escape.

I looked at my purse, which was sitting next to the handcuff keys 
on the coffee table -– 4 feet away from my twisting, wiggling 
fingers.  

I didn't lock the cuffs until you were at the front door especially 
to avoid this.  Where WERE you?

When the phone rang I jumped up.  Actually, I started to jump up 
then stopped abruptly, like a puppy jerked back by her leash.

My pulse quickened as I heard your voice on my answering machine.  
"Hi, April!  Sorry I'm late but my roadster's engine's on fire.  
They're putting it out right now, but I have to spend a bunch of 
time with the police and then get it hauled away.  I'll come by as 
soon as I can.  I am SO sorry!" 

My heart sank as I heard that third fatal "click" -– the sound of 
you hanging up.

Your roadster was burning?  Why couldn't you buy a Toyota or a 
Honda or something sensible.

MEN!

I jerked again as I heard the cell phone in my purse ring...and 
ring...and ring.  My fingers twisted helplessly as I imagined 
answering it and begging you to race over to rescue me.

Instead, the second copy of your regrets was locked safely in my 
purse.

I groaned into my gag as I strained against the cuffs.  Not only 
was I locked and spread, but, in my current position, it was 
impossible for me to get any leverage whatsoever.  I was trussed 
and displayed in the most obscene pose imaginable, and I would 
remain that way for the duration.

They say that blind people can hear better, but in my case it was 
the helplessness of my bondage that sharpened my senses.  I was 
acutely aware of every sound in my neighborhood -– the wind 
rustling through the trees, my neighbor's wind chimes, and the 
sound that cars make as they traveled in the distance.  I could 
even hear the squirrels playing, jumping from the trees to our 
garage roof as they scurried about their business.

Yes, everyone was free -– the wind, the people in their cars, the 
squirrels and the birds and the bees.  Everyone except me.

Every now and then my ears pricked up at the sound of 
voices...masculine voices.  I panicked, as I was butt 
naked and bound, and there was a note on my door that 
started with the now ominous invitation to "COME IN!"

I wanted to be discovered and freed, but I didn't want anyone but 
you to open that door.  As I heard the murmur of the voices I 
prayed that the fire department worked quickly.

I strained to hear.  After several agonizing minutes I realized the 
source of my terror was Mr. Crackle's ballgame, courtesy of my open 
window.  I was hearing the sound of the crowd each time there was a 
hit, or the voice of the announcer when he got particularly excited 
about some stupid thing or another.

I had teased Mr. Crackle for years, flirting with him, posing for 
him in my bikini, then calling his wife to get him in trouble.  He 
had confessed to me once that since I had moved in he had been both 
10 times more horny and 100 times more celibate. 

It might have been agonizing for him, but it pleased me enormously. 
My vibrator got a work out as I relished his frustration with a 
sweetness he would never enjoy.

Now it was my turn to be frustrated as he teased and tantalized me 
with his idiotic ballgame.  Even after my first few moments on the 
griddle passed, and I realized it was only the television, the 
sound of voices, particularly male voices, filled me with dread. 

I wanted to be freed, but I dreaded having someone find me and 
hoped that you would soon be here, flowers in hand, to rescue me 
and apologize for your stupidity in driving to our romantic weekend 
in a flaming car.

MEN!

The next sound that puzzled me was a weird clicking sound, a 
clicking different than the handcuff lock or the phone.  This 
click was sporadic and was followed by a faint buzz.  My present 
position favored staring at the carpet, although I could crane 
my neck up for a few seconds at a time to scan a small section 
of the room. 

This resulted in a stiff neck but no answers.  Finally I saw one 
of those big beetles flying into the walls.  I watched closely as 
it buzzed around me for a few seconds. 

You'll never guess where it landed -– right on my exposed twat.

It was an excellent choice.  I had been using my vibrator liberally 
that morning, and, despite my terror at being discovered, my 
excitement at my bondage was palpable, and my sex was throbbing 
and juicy.

The devilish little critter obviously smelled my musky excitement 
and came in for a landing on the juiciest runway he could find.

I shook my hips, and he flew away...for a moment.  Then he came 
back. 

On the second landing it took quite a bit more movement to shake 
him off.  On his third try, he called my bluff.  He realized he 
wasn't going to get swatted and all I could do was squirm.  I 
shouted into my gag to frighten him away, a cheap trick that 
bought me another 30 seconds before his next visit.

I wiggled my fanny.  I cursed.  I swore.  Unfortunately for me, my 
sex was a horribly, wonderfully sticky place to explore, a beetle 
paradise, with plenty of ticklish hairs for him to grasp onto and 
salty gooeyness to lick up.  Once he realized that the silly little 
human, for all her supposed brains, was utterly helpless and 
totally at his mercy, he investigated me at his leisure.

I tired long before he did, and I lay there, helpless, spent, and 
exhausted, and he slowly tickled his way up towards my little love 
button, which was sitting out open, swollen, and totally exposed. 

I silently wondered if all of the bugs I had swatted over the years 
had somehow created this awful karma.  How humiliating, to be 
bested by a beetle.

When I felt his little antenna tickle the most sensitive area of my 
anatomy, I tried to shake him off, but it was no use.  He quickly 
climbed aboard my little nub, triumphant in victory. 

I had been so distracted by my new master's explorations of my sex 
that I never even heard the truck pull up.  It wasn't until I heard 
the clank of milk bottles that I realized who had arrived.

My heart raced.  It was Milkman Dan!

I should explain.  I always keep my milk account a month behind, 
which forces Milkman Dan to ring the bell and ask for his check.  
Although I am extremely smart, I can play the part of the 
scatterbrained female to perfection, and I love teasing Dan by 
answering the door in a towel or my shortest bathrobe.  Poor old 
Dan is about 50, and portly, and I'm betting he and his wife 
haven't had sex in forever.

In other words, Dan is the perfect victim, another man I can make 
dance to my tune. 

Every month I would invite him in for coffee, then prance about 
the kitchen with next to nothing on as I bent and reached up and 
squatted looking for that gosh darn checkbook.

Eventually, his radio would go off, and his furious dispatcher 
would ask kim where he was.  Poor Milkman Dan!  Horny as hell 
and in trouble at work, too.

After teasing him into a frenzy, I would kick him out and then run 
upstairs for a an extremely satisfying session with my vibrator, 
which, when I set it on high, sounds exactly like my weed whacker.

On those few occasions where I saw him scurrying about later in the 
day (racing to finish his route), I was delighted to see that he 
was still sporting an enormous tent in his pants.  Poor Milkman 
Dan.  Behind schedule and still no relief.

Milkman Dan was here to see me, but I was in no position to receive 
visitors.  The beetle had nothing on the butterflies in my stomach 
as I remembered the note on my front door:

"COME IN!  Sorry I'm so BEHIND!  Payment in full inside!"  Signed, 
"From April, a girl who OWES you!"

The window was open, and I could hear every movement, every sound.  
Him putting the milk bottles in the milk case...his little curse as 
he fumbled for his glasses to read the note on the door...the sound 
of my heart pounding.  My fiendish little LOVE BUG must have been 
listening, too, for I felt the tiny tickle of his victory dance on 
my exquisitely sensitive and totally unprotected clit.

Finally, there was the sound of a doorknob turning.  The bastardly 
beetle, sensing his time was up, flew the coop as Milkman Dan 
entered.

		******************************

Part 2

I was acutely aware of sound, and the silence from Milkman Dan was 
truly deafening.  The first clue I had that I was not alone was a 
soft chuckle, followed by a low, lingering, wolf whistle...and a 
hearty, guttural laugh.

Dan was obviously pleased that he had put on his glasses.  My face 
turned crimson as I imagined his beady eyes burning into my fanny 
and exposed snatch. 

I chewed my gag as I tasted the bitter fruits of all of the bad 
karma I had created.  I had teased him for years, and now he was 
enjoying payment in full.

"What do we have here?" he said stupidly as he drank in the sight 
of my raised bare fanny and my hot, wet, gaping sex.  I say 
"stupidly" because the answer was blindingly obvious.  It was the 
horniest, hottest housewife ever, served up on a platter and ready 
for anything he wanted.

Unfortunately for little old me, the note on the small of my back 
contained directions.  The WRONG directions.  Or the right ones, 
but for the wrong person.  Or...you know what I mean.

The directions were taped on me, and I felt like a stray dog or a 
bag of groceries as I felt him lean over me to read the words that 
sealed my fate:

"I hope you enjoy your PAYMENT IN FULL.  I've been a naughty, 
nasty, mischievous little minx, and I need a good old-fashioned 
fanny-tanning.  If I squirm and squeal, that means spank harder, 
because I'm loving it.  If you have any doubts, just check my 
gooey little honey pot."

He didn't need to be asked twice.  I gasped as I felt his rough, 
pudgy fingers running down the lips of my exposed sex.  I gurgled 
helplessly into my gag as I felt first one, then two, then three 
fingers slip into my shamefully wet pussy. 

"You ARE a randy little minx, aren't you?" he asked, as his fat 
little fingers explored my most secret place.  "I didn't know a 
woman could be this wet.  You're dripping on your carpet."

It was true.  I WAS dripping wet, and, despite my humiliation, I 
was desperate for release.

I was totally at the mercy of a man I had teased and tormented for 
ages.  What made it even MORE humiliating was that his fingers felt 
so damn good. 

He laughed as I pushed back and began humping his hand. 

"Whoa there, missy," he patronized.  "You've been a naughty 
girl, and you're here to be punished, not pleasured.  Now, 
if I'm not mistaken, I believe the note said something about 
a 'good old-fashioned fanny-tanning....'"

I shouted into my gag.  Did you know a frantic, loud, "No, don't 
spank me!" translates into "OH, ON'T ANK MMM" in gag-ese?

He laughed at my desperate struggles.  "Don't worry, we'll get 
started soon.  But I really should do something about this gooey 
pussy.  After all, I don't want you to enjoy your spanking TOO 
much," he snorted.  

"If you're enjoying this, April, and you want me to spank you 
harder, then hump my fingers…"

I didn't WANT to hump his fingers.  In fact, I was mortified to 
have him see me this way, let alone have him touch me, and touch 
me THERE, of all places.

But my pussy was in charge now, and she had a mind of her own.  
His touch was electric, and my tight little pussy gripped his 
pudgy fingers and squeezed in a desperate bid for relief.

He slid his fingers in, then out.  I blushed as I felt my juices 
dribble down my thighs.

When his thumb moved up to my clit, it was all over, and I had the 
orgasm of my life. 

It was an out-of-body experience.  I felt dizzy, humiliated, dazed, 
ecstatic, helpless, fulfilled, joyful, mortified, relieved, and a 
dozen other emotions I can't describe -– and I felt them all at 
once.

It took me a moment to return to earth and remember where I was.  
The first thing I recall feeling was the stroking of the pudgy 
fingers, followed by his mocking voice.  "Oh, that was a good one.  
Let's see if you can do it again.  Get going, girl.  I want to see 
that little pussy hole of yours pucker up and dance."

I had always loved "performing" for Dan, but this wasn't the sort 
of show I'd had in mind.  In the past, I was the one in charge, 
and he was MY pathetic puppet.

But the cosmic wheel had turned, and now he was pulling my strings.

And pull them he did.  And squeeze them.  And stroke them.  

I didn't want to orgasm for him.  "I have to hold on," I thought.  
"I can't cum in front of HIM!  Not the damn milkman!"

It was the most humiliating moment of my life.  Nonetheless, I 
squirmed my hips as the powerful, unstoppable pressure slowly, 
incessantly built…

I danced for his pleasure.  Or to be more specific about it, my 
pussy danced, through my second, then my third orgasm.  As I 
spasmed, his voice burned in my ears.

"Wow, look at that little pussy hole quiver.  Wink at me, April!  
Wink it!"

Wink it I did.  As I write this, I'm blushing as I recall the show 
I put on.

I was still gasping for air as he knelt down to wipe his gooey 
fingers in my hair.  "Now that we've cleared your head, we can 
get down to business.  Your account is $30 in...‘arrears,'" he 
said, laughing heartily at his own pun.  I think 
that calls for thirty spanks."

My head was still swimming, and the casualness of his tone belied 
the seriousness of my sentence.

I was going to be spanked...for thirty measly dollars?

I had gone to the cash station that morning for our weekend 
together, and there was over $200 in my purse.  I was an adult 
woman, with a job.  Was he really going to spank me like some 
naughty teenager who was a few dollars behind on her cell phone 
bill?

The answer to the question was his big, pudgy hand, teasingly 
rubbing my exposed, helpless fanny cheeks....

Spank!  Spank!  Spank!

I wiggled my fanny and shouted into my gag.  Unfortunately for me, 
my note had said that was a signal that I wanted more.  "Yes, I 
know you're enjoying it," he chuckled.  "Well, if it's harder you 
want, it's harder you'll get."

SPANK!  SPANK!  SPANK!

The spanks exploded against my fanny.  I wiggled more...which led 
to even harder spanks.

You and I have a signal; when I curl my toes or pound my fists 
against something it means "stop."  I felt okay writing the note 
because of our "safe" word -- or rather gesture. 

Unfortunately, during the many years I had teased my milkman, I had 
never mentioned this gesture.  Nonetheless, I curled my toes and 
pounded my fist, hoping that my thought waves would convey the 
message.

But the messages were all one-way, and my fanny was on the 
receiving end.  SPANK!  SPANK!  SPANK!

As I chewed on my putrid gag, I had plenty of time to regret the 
way I had treated Milkman Dan...and you, men, and people in general. 

"And one more to grow on!" he said, giving my raised fanny a final 
crackling salute.  He knelt down into my field of vision.  "That 
is twenty.  Now I know you like it hard, so if you want, I can give 
you the last ten with my belt.  Would you like that?  Would you 
like to me to whip your naughty backside with my 'tubby belt?'"

He had put on some weight recently, and, as a result, he had been 
forced to get a new belt.  I had noticed it immediately because it 
was a thick black one that didn't bear the company logo, unlike his 
old belt.  When I asked about it, he sheepishly admitted that the 
company store didn't have a belt in his size. 

From then on I had rather cruelly teased him about his "big fat 
tubby belt," which was "so tubby, it could barely fit through the 
pants loops."  He was sensitive about his weight, but teasing him 
was just too much fun.  Besides, I was his hottest customer, and I 
was bare naked under my towel, so I had the upper hand, right?

Not any more.  The wheel of fate had stopped spinning, and my 
number had definitely come up.  Now I was going to get the tubby 
belt right across my bare fanny.

I bit down on my gag as I stared at his belt.  It was big and thick 
and black and long.  The leather was strong and new, but it was 
soft and curvy too, from being forced to bend around Milkman Dan's 
girth all day.  

My bottom, already tender from the hand spanking, was oh so exposed.

"So what will it be, darling?" he asked.  "Do you want the tubby 
belt?"

My mind raced.  I had spent the last five minutes screaming "No!" 
into my gag and begging him to stop.  Because of the stupid note 
I'd written, he had just spanked me harder.

In panic, in desperation, perhaps in stupidity, I decided to try 
reverse psychology.  I swallowed...and nodded my head up and down.

Dan smiled as he pronounced my sentence.  "Fine.  The belt it is.  
Ten strokes, nice and snappy."

Ten strokes, with the tubby belt.  I shouted into my gag as he got 
up. 

"Hang on there, honey.  I know you want it bad, but you have to 
wait for me to get it out of my pants."

I was trembling and helpless as I listened to the most terrifying 
sound in the world: the sound of a man taking off his leather belt. 

I had seen men do it before, but I had never truly HEARD it until 
that moment.  Sliding the end of the belt out from its place.  
The straining of the leather as he pulled it back to release the 
shiny hook from the punch hole.  The sound of the belt coming 
undone as the ends separated.

Then next sound was even worse...a sound that was so terrifying I 
almost pissed myself.  I listened helplessly to the smooth, hissing 
sound, like a snake, that a belt makes when it's pulled over cloth.

Did you know that Milkman Dan's pants had 9 loops?  I know.  I 
counted each one.

Time slowed to a crawl.  I heard the buckle jingle as he shook it 
out.  I heard the leather bend as he doubled it up.  I heard the 
belt slide across his meaty fingers as he tightened his grip.  And, 
lastly, I both heard AND felt the tap-tap-tap of the leather across 
my exposed backside as he measured out the first stroke for my 
punishment.

"I'm sorry, April, but you're a little tease, and you have this 
coming.  You're a naughty, nasty, mischievous minx, and now it's 
time to pay the piper."

I had written those words.  I had written that I was naughty, 
nasty, and mischievous and that I needed a good old-fashioned 
fanny-tanning.  What made it worse was that I knew that it was 
true. 

A little tease?  Oh, how many times I've been called that?  Okay, 
I'm guilty.  You guys are so much bigger and stronger than us.  
But some of us have great genes, and I'm one of the lucky ones.   
I have a great body, and I make the most of it.

You bet I'm a tease.  It's what I do best.

I was guilty as charged, and now it was time to pay up.  I braced 
for the first stroke.

WHIP!

The first stoke exploded across my bottom.  My head jerked, my body 
jerked.  I made no sound.  I was too shocked to scream.

WHIP!  

Stroke two was worse, dead center.  My fanny was spread open, which 
meant the belt had spanked the inside of my cheeks, an exquisitely 
sensitive area for spanking.  I knew that I would not be sitting, 
or even walking, comfortably for several days.

I couldn't speak, but my mind buzzed with apologies and pleas and 
promises.  I knew that my bad karma had brought me to this point, 
and I hoped that my sincere contrition would earn me mercy.

"I'm sorry, Milkman Dan, for prick-teasing you and prancing around 
with nothing on," I thought.

WHIP!

"I'm sorry about all those bad jokes I made, asking if you had any 
cream for me."

WHIP!

"I'm sorry I called you "tubby."
WHIP!

"I'm sorry I got you in trouble at work."

WHIP!

"I'm sorry I laughed at the big tent in your pants, as you scurried 
to make up the time I cost you.
WHIP!

"I'm sorry this gag tastes like shit."

WHIP!

"I'm sorry I'm always late paying my bill.  From now on, it's going 
on my charge card."

WHIP!

"I'm sorry I'm such a randy, juicy little minx, who diddles herself 
as soon as you leave."  

WHIP!

I knew the end was near as I heard his voice.  "And one to grow on." 

Half-crazed from the spanking I made my final, solemn promise: "I'm 
sorry my vibrator is so noisy, and goes through so many batteries.  
I swear I'll buy an eco-friendly model."

WHIP!

I realized my ordeal was at an end when I felt his teasing fingers 
slowly stroking my crotch.  Despite the shame and humiliation of my 
spanking -- or perhaps because of it -- it wasn't long before I was 
teetering on the edge of another mind shattering orgasm.

Then the radio crackled, and the fiendish caress stopped.

"Sorry, April, but I have to go.  Sorry to leave you hanging, but 
you know how it is."

No!  No!  I don't know how it is.  Milkman Dan knows "how it is."  
He's the one who's supposed to be frustrated, not me. 

But fate, in the form of the dispatcher, had intervened.  Now it 
was my turn to experience a morning of sexual frustration.

I squirmed helplessly as I listened to Dan pull his tubby belt back 
through the belt loops, waiting for him to release me.  "You have a 
good morning, Miss April.  See you next week."

I screamed into my gag as I heard the front door SLAM shut.  
Bastard!
 
Tick-tock.  Tick-tock. 

Time dragged on.  As I whiled away the time, I wondered who my next 
visitor would be. 

Would you extinguish your damn car and come to rescue me?

Would the scent of my arousal draw Mr. Crackle, my nosey, horny 
neighbor?  I blushed crimson at the thought.

Would Bertha Mae, the leader of our church choir, stop by with the 
new music?  I knew she hated me, because of my "obscenely short" 
dresses and "scandalous" teasing.  I had asked her to drop by this 
afternoon because I knew we would be gone on our trip by then, and 
it would really piss her off. 

On more than one occasion she said that someday she'd like to "take 
a hickory switch" to my "saucy cheeks."  Would today be that day?
If she found me, I knew I wouldn't get off easy.  Women can be much 
crueler than men.

Or would the Mexican gardeners, whom I could hear outside mowing 
the lawn, see the note on the door and venture inside?  I certainly 
hoped not.  A few months before, after parading around in my bikini 
in front of them, I had called their boss and threatened to have 
them "shipped back to Mexico" for "being uppity" and "gawking" at 
me.

I knew that they'd taken my amusing but toothless threat seriously. 
They still looked, but averted their eyes when I glanced in their 
direction.  Men can be so much fun.

It was delightful to torment them.  But. as I listened to them mow 
my lawn, my fun turned to fear as I thought of the fanny-tanning 
they'd give the shameless puta who had teased them so!

As I waited I wondered, how long does it take to put out a fire? 

Men!

Just when I thought my torment couldn't get worse, Beetle-Juice 
returned and began his dance anew.  I chewed on my gag and braced 
myself for a very long day.


		******************************

Part 3

I remained bent at the waist, bottoms up, with my legs spread wide, 
listening to the soft buzzzzing noise drifting through the air.  I 
wanted desperately to run away, or at least close my widely splayed 
legs, but I could not.  I was utterly helpless, draped across my 
own easy chair, an urban legend come to life, a cautionary tale 
of a sexual fantasy gone awry.
 
I had bound and gagged myself as a treat for my boyfriend and had 
left a note on the door for him to COME IN and a second note on my 
back for him to spank me.  But he had cancelled and had left me to 
the tender mercies of whomever entered the room.
 
A few minutes earlier I had been spanked by my milkman, a tubby 
chump left hopelessly horny by my constant teasing.  Mercifully, 
he had finally left, but I was alone now.
 
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
 
Well, ALMOST alone!
 
After a few seconds of circling the landing field, the beetle who 
had tormented me previously landed dead center on my right bottom 
cheek.  I was acutely aware of his landing, both because my 
previous agonies had made me sensitive to his power over me, and 
because my reddened bottom, still fresh and smarting from the 
attentions of Milkman Dan's leather belt, was exquisitely sensitive.
 
I swear I could feel each of the pest's little feet as he happily 
trotted across my naked fanny towards the source of the Nile.
 
To me, it was the most sensitive and private part of my girlish 
anatomy, a closely guarded and seldom revealed treasure.  But to 
Mr. Beetle, it was a tropical rainforest, filled with wet grass 
and wonderfully earthy scents and delicious wet nectars for him 
to roll around in and enjoy.
 
I tried to shake him off, but he was onto my tricks and paid no 
attention as wiggled my fanny and pleaded futilely into my gag.  
He was in charge, and he knew it.  My frantic protests, while 
amusing, were utterly beside the point.  My gooey little honey 
pot was his to tease, tickle, and explore.
 
And tease he did.  Gravity had caused my juices to run down my 
pussy-lips and pool around my shamefully exposed love button.  
To my great distress, my new master quickly caught the wave and 
effortlessly surfed on down to the center of the action.  My eyes 
bulged with shame and humiliation as he climbed aboard my clit 
and begin his devilish dance -– walking, sniffing, exploring, and 
licking up the juiciness that was even now flowing in ever-greater 
quantities.
 
I dug my fingers into my palm as I imagined giving him a good swat. 
Just one good THWACK with a rolled up newspaper would do it, and, 
even in my present position, I would have gladly taken the swat to 
have been rid of him.  But it was not to be.  Instead, I lay there, 
exhausted by my struggles, my humiliating spanking, and my own 
embarrassment at the hands one of the little creatures that I had 
spent my whole life stepping on, swatting, and spraying. 
 
Had the bad karma that my zero tolerance bug policy had created 
led me to my sorry fate?  Was there a cosmic irony in my present 
predicament, or was I projecting meaning on an absurd twist of 
fate?  My little buggy master did not care about my musings.  
Nibble, nibble.  Lick, lick, lick.  Now, over to the other side....
 
I screamed into my gag.  He did not care.
 
Rivulets of sweat beaded along my forehead and ran into my eyes.  
I felt strangely grateful for the distraction, as the burning in 
my eyes diverted me from the teasing, tickling, tantalizing 
torment of my throbbing clitoris.
 
Tickle, tickle, tickle!  Mmmm-mmm—good!
 
Under that sort of torment, how long can sixty seconds last?  The 
correct answer is: FOREVER.
 
I prayed for him to finish and fly away.
 
Then I prayed for him to drown. 
 
I prayed to grow a horse tail, so I could brush him away.
 
Finally, in desperation, I prayed for someone, ANYONE, to come in, 
so I could be rescued.
 
Still my heart raced as the sound of the mower grew closer, and I 
realized that my prayers might soon be answered.
 
It was one of the Mexican gardeners, pushing his mower as he 
trimmed my front lawn.  I didn't know his name, of course -– 
why on earth WOULD I?  He was an illegal immigrant, and I was 
an American citizen.  His job was to give, my job was to take.  
Why would I bother with the likes of him?
 
But I HAD bothered, much to my regret.  I'd enjoyed parading around 
in front of the illegals in my bikini.  Once or twice, on an 
especially blistering day, they actually asked me for a drink of 
water.  I had obliged.  I didn't let them use one of my glasses, 
of course, which would have been disgusting, but I did let them 
use the garden hose. 
 
Unfortunately, after a few months of teasing, they had gotten the 
wrong idea and began to ogle me more openly. 
 
They smiled when the saw me and whispered amongst themselves.  
Once, I actually heard them use the word "puta."  Clearly 
they were getting uppity and needed to be taught their place.
 
The point of the game was that I was free to parade past them 
because they were not men, but mere servants.  Then they gained 
self-confidence and ogled me like men instead of invisible lawn 
ornaments my power dynamic had aimed at destroying. 
 
As their social superior it was my job to remind them of their 
proper position.  I called their boss and threatened to have the 
whole lot of them shipped back to Mexico or wherever the hell it 
was they came from if they didn't start treating me with the 
respect that I deserved.  The very next week they averted their 
eyes, made no comments, and in general treated me with proper awe. 
 
I still posed and pranced for them, of course, but I was in 
control, and they were careful to avert their gaze whenever I 
glanced in their direction.  In short, they were totally cowed 
-– like a servant should be.  After all, they WERE my inferiors. 
 
But as I listened to the anonymous, singing Mexicans mowing my 
well-manicured lawn, I felt anything but superior.  In my present 
position I was at the mercy of anyone who cared to open my door.  
If they saw the note and entered, they would find me tied, naked 
and spread.  And, when they found the note urging them to spank 
me, they would set my fanny ablaze.
 
As for my legal rights, I had none.  I had written a note inviting 
them in -- and a second note asking them to whip my bottom.  How 
could I prosecute someone for following my instructions?  Even if 
I wanted to, it would require me to tell my story to the police, 
to the district attorney, to the tv cameras, to the newspapers....
 
No.  There would be no police.  I would be totally at the mercy of 
the Mexicans, and they could do whatever they wanted to me.  I had 
teased them and underpaid them and abused them.  By a twist of fate 
the wheel of justice had turned, and now each of them would have a 
chance to extract payment in full.
 
Furthermore, if the half dozen randy men caught me like this, with 
a sign that instructed them to inspect by gooey, hopelessly randy 
twat, I knew full well that, besides money, I would also owe them 
a more personal service.
 
My mind raced.   I realized when the mower receded into the 
distance that I had only been contemplating what the gardeners 
might do with me for a couple of minutes, although it seemed 
like hours.
 
The mowing noise gone, I was free to concentrate on my other 
miseries.
 
Each sensation made the other worse.  First and foremost, there 
was the tireless tormenter riding my clit, teasing and tickling 
-– and applying just not quite enough pressure to grant me the 
release I so desperately craved. 
 
The anguish was unspeakable, and, in my frustration, I strained 
against my bonds until my shoulders ached.  This in turn triggered 
more sweat on my brow, which dribbled down and into my eyes since 
I was powerless to wipe it away.  The mounting discomfort of my 
sweaty water-torture caused me to wimper in agony, which released 
more of the foul rubber taste of the cheap gag into my mouth. 
 
At the point when I thought the taste would make me puke, my 
six-legged master would refocus my attentions as if to remind 
me who was in charge.  Tickle, tickle, tickle!  Lick, lick, lick!
 
Then the cycle would begin anew.
 
Time and space lost all meaning.  Indeed, I was so 
consumed by the spin cycle of my misery that I never 
even heard the door open.  The first clue I had that 
something was amiss was when the maddening, infuriating, 
delightfully awful tickling stopped.
 
A few seconds later my heart skipped a beat as I heard a familiar, 
whip-sharp, "church lady" voice: "Well, well, well.  What do we 
have here?"
 
My heart sank!  Bertha Mae!  Why did it have to be BERTHA MAE?

		******************************



                       PAYMENT IN FULL

                             by

                         Imreadonly



Part 4

The beady-eyed old biddy had hated me on sight.  She was the leader 
of the church choir and, until I came along, our lead soloist.  She 
didn't like handing the solos to me, but, when I suggested that we 
put it to a vote, I won hands down. 
 
She said I won because of the "shameless" way I dressed.  Can I 
help it that all the men voted for me?  Yes, I wore short, sexy 
dresses to church.  Our choir practices hard, and why shouldn't 
the men have something enjoyable to look at?  Besides, my body is 
God's creation too, and it's not my fault that Bertha (great voice 
or not) eats like a sumo wrestler?
 
Nonetheless, the die was cast.  I knew that she called me a 
"shameless tart" and a "Sidewalk Sally" behind my back.  She 
turned the other old biddies against me and circulated a 
petition on "proper dress" which she thoughtfully nailed to 
my front door. 
 
I think she was surprised when I showed up for choir practice in 
a denim mini-skirt and midriff-baring "Jesus Loves Me!" t-shirt, 
looking sexy as hell.
 
"Obviously someone didn't get the message," I heard her hiss to one 
of her friends. 
 
"I got THE MESSAGE, thank you very much," I shot back, "but you're 
not Martin Luther and I don't appreciate messages nailed to my 
door."
 
Bertha's Mae's beady eyes burned through me.  "You're lucky it's 
not Luther's day.  Then, you would have been hauled off to the 
town square, stripped naked as the day God made you, then bent 
over and locked in the stocks.  The fur would fly when those ripe 
little curves of yours felt the sting of the birch.  I would make 
your saucy bare bottom dance a jig, with everyone watching.  You 
wouldn't look so hoity-toity with every bit of your body on display 
for everyone to enjoy."
 
I was in shock.  It was obvious from the loving detail and the 
glazed-over eyes that she was replaying a carefully memorized 
fantasy.  As her eyes ran up and down my body, I realized that 
she wanted me as badly as any of the men did, even if she would 
never admit it.
 
Bertha Mae, choir leader, President of the Birdwatchers Society, 
and all-around goody-goody, wanted to spank my fanny and make me 
yelp. 
 
Although Bertha Mae was nominally in charge, the choir was mine, 
and I held final sway.  But her imaginary punishment had a definite 
appeal, and, as I looked around, I realized that all of the men and 
many of the women were now lost in the fantasy of the town doxy's 
public, bare bottom scourging.
 
"Perhaps we should put it to a vote.  I can leave the choir and 
join another congregation, if that's the way you all feel," I 
suggested slyly.
 
Bertha, her old biddy friends, and some of the housewives who 
weren't nearly as hot as me voted to have me shunned.  However, 
their pitiful votes were easily overwhelmed by the men (and, 
I'm embarrassed to say, women) who were anxious not to lose 
their favorite piece of eye candy.
 
"I never knew I was so popular," I chuckled.  "Perhaps I should 
run for choir director." 
 
My suggestion was greeted by much applause and encouragement, 
in truth I was happy to let Bertha do all the work.  I chuckled 
as she turned white because I knew my message had hit home: her 
choir directorship, the most precious thing in the world to her, 
was mine for the taking -– so she'd better watch her step.
 
Now my arch-enemy, the terror of our choir, was behind me, and 
I was trussed up like a turkey, with my legs spread wide and my 
fanny raised high for discipline.
 
She could hardly conceal her delight as she read the note that was 
taped to my back: 
 
"I hope you enjoy your PAYMENT IN FULL.  I've been a naughty, 
nasty, mischievous little minx, and I need a good old-fashioned 
fanny-tanning.  If I squirm and squeal, that means spank harder, 
because I'm loving it!  If you have any doubts, just check my 
gooey little honey pot."

My fingers dug into my palms as listened helplessly to her shrill, 
patronizing, school marm voice.  "Well, I certainly agree with 
that.  A good fanny-tanning is exactly what you need, and it's 
long overdue, young lady.  Now let's check out that 'gooey little 
honey pot,' shall we?"
 
Decent people may be shocked to hear this, but they will be no more 
shocked than I was.  Ms. Busybody, the leader of our church choir, 
the paradigm of moral virtue, slid two fingers into my soaking 
wet cunt and diddled me like nobody's business.
 
"My, you ARE a juicy little slut, aren't you?  Did you get yourself 
all hot and bothered parading around in your scanties?  You like 
that, don't you...shaking your cute little butt and boobies for all 
the men to gawk at.  Pity they can't see you now."
 
Unfortunately, if her behavior was shameless, mine was even worse.  
Despite my humiliation, I found myself shamelessly grunting, 
twisting my hips, and humping her pudgy fingers.  As a woman, she 
knew all the buttons to press to drive a girl crazy.  She knew 
precisely how to take me to the edge...and precisely when to stop.
 
That's right, stop.  Cold.  No warning, no mercy.  Time and again, 
when I was a nano second away from the most mind-bending climax 
ever, Bertha Mae would stop cold, all the while scolding me for 
my "wantonness" and "lewd behavior." 
 
At the conclusion of one such cruel denial, she knelt down and 
brushed the hair out of my eyes.  "This note is in your 
handwriting.  You invited me over here, but you didn't expect 
me to find you like this, did you?"

I nodded sadly. 
 
"You did this for someone else, didn't you?"
 
I nodded again.
 
"You tied yourself up for your boyfriend, didn't you?"
 
I hesitated, then nodded.
 
"Don't you see, April?" she said, using a handkerchief to gently 
wipe the sweat off my brow.  "Providence has delivered you into my 
hands.  I said you needed to be stripped naked for your wantonness, 
and naked and humiliated you are.  I said you needed to be bent 
over bare for a good birching, and here you are, tied down, bottom 
raised for discipline.  There is even a birch tree in the front 
yard.  Don't you see?  The good Lord has delivered you to me.  I 
am to take charge of your wholesome and edifying moral correction, 
for your salvation and the good of us all."
 
At this point, I wasn't sure if she was merely tormenting me with 
irony or was just nuts.  But I had to admit that, given her fantasy 
of what she wanted to do to me and the position I found myself in 
now, it was hard not to believe that destiny had taken a hand.
 
I knew that I shouldn't have been such a tease or threatened to 
take the choir away from her.  But did I have to be punished like 
this, by her?  In some strange, kinky way, was this truly justice, 
payment in full for my transgressions? 
 
If so, I was about to learn how stern fate can be.
 
Fate or fancy, my destiny was sealed.  I watched helplessly as she 
took a pocketknife out of her purse and walked out the front door, 
singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers" with great gusto.
 
As soon as she left, the beetle returned, but in truth I did not 
care.  In truth I was so terrified of the birch and so exhausted 
by my dozen near-miss orgasms, that I simply let him have his way 
with me.
 
I listened helplessly to Bertha Mae singing cheerfully as cut the 
switches from my lovely tree in the front yard -– switches that 
would soon be dancing across my bottom.
 
"Hell's foundations quiver at the shout of praise;
Brothers, lift your voices, loud your anthems raise!"
 
I was already quivering -– and in a  moment, no doubt, she would 
have me shouting out.
 
"We are not divided, all one body we,
One in hope and doctrine, one in char-i-ty!"
 
The SWISH SWISH SWISH that punctuated the beat told me that, 
although the song was nearly over, my time to dance was drawing 
near.  Soon, too, it would be my turn to sing, and, knowing her, 
there would be much doctrine and little charity.
 
My heart pounded as she entered the room, and the little beetle 
flew away.  Obviously he didn't wish to mess with Bertha Mae and 
her switches anymore than I did.
 
Much to my surprise, when Bertha Mae entered she did not go about 
her holy work right away.  Instead, in an act of unspeakable 
cruelty, she laid the three birch rods she had selected on the 
carpet, directly under my nose.  Not only could I see them, but I 
could smell their freshness and squirm as the aroma of their sap 
wafted up into my nose.
 
"Something for you to meditate on, while I prepare for your just 
correction," she said.
 
I heard her fumbling through the cabinets behind me, but I paid it 
no mind.  My eyes were fixated on the birch rods, the traditional 
tools for correcting naughty girls -– and shameless strumpets -– 
who had gotten too big for their britches.  I had never imagined 
that I would feel them, but my ignorance was of no consequence.  I 
was simply one more in a long line of naughty miscreants sentenced 
to the birch.  I imagined my bottom in a long row, squirming with 
countless other bottoms awaiting the sting of justice.
 
Was it justice?  Maybe not, but in this room Bertha Mae was now the 
law, and my stupid note had rendered her free to give me whatever 
discipline she deemed appropriate for my various transgressions.
 
For a moment I actually imagined myself back in Salem, stripped 
naked in the town square, quivering as the shrewish old crone of 
a choir director teasingly laid the birches under my nose for 
"meditation."
 
My meditation was interrupted by the sound of Bertha's voice.  
"It's good that you use the same model as I do for recording 
the choir practice.  That should make it easy to set up.  Now 
where's that tripod?"
 
What was she blathering about?  Then the word "tripod" registered 
in my brain.  She was videotaping my punishment. 
 
She laughed as I shouted into my gag and instinctively struggled to 
close my thighs.  "Now, now, my dear, don't strain yourself.  We 
don't have a town square to display that big fat bottom of yours 
in, so I suppose the Internet will have to do!"
 
You can imagine how I strained againt my bonds.  I cursed silently 
and pulled so hard I'm surprised I didn't separate myself in two.
 
A spanking on the Internet, with my legs spread wide and my soggy 
pussy on display for everyone in the world to see.  This was WORSE 
than the town square.
 
"Oh, don't have a tantrum!" Bertha Mae chided, scolding me like a 
small child who didn't want to take her medicine.  "I may show it 
to some of my friends at church who agree that your correction is 
long overdue.  But I won't put it on the Internet...assuming that 
you behave."
 
My heart sank at the word "behave," since I knew that my "reprieve" 
was almost as bad as my initial sentence.  I would be Bertha's 
bitch, under her thumb and (judging from the way she had looked 
at me when she had laid the switches under my nose) over her knee.
 
I knew that my spanking today was not the end of it.  From this 
point on, by ass belonged to Bertha.
 
"We're recording now, April.  Did you have anything you wanted to 
say?" 
 
I knew the camera was pointed at my bare bottom -– and thus up 
between my legs.  I lay perfectly still, determined not to give 
her the satisfaction of performing on camera like a trained seal.
 
She knelt down and picked up one of the three birch rods lying 
under my nose.  "My, this is a nice one!" she said.  I winced as 
she playfully SWISHED it through the air.  "Nice and thin and 
whippy -– perfect for a naughty little bottom like yours, don't 
you agree?"
 
The terror in my eyes answered my question.  I agreed that it was 
the ideal instrument for disciplining a naughty girlish bottom -– 
just not mine.
 
"Still, it would be more effective if I wet it a little.  I don't 
have time to soak it.  Where is that sink?  Mmmm...I don't know.  
Well, I can simply wet it here."
 
Can you imagine where she chose to "wet it"?  I couldn't...until 
I felt the devilish birch rubbing against my pussy-lips.
 
"'Atta girl, get it all nice and wet.  After all, it will do a  
better job on your bottom the more flexible it is.  Water that 
rod, girl.  Juice it up for the camera."
 
What choice did I have?  None!  I "watered" my punishment rod, 
wetting it for my chastisement and the future viewing pleasure of 
whomever she eventually decided to share my most shameful moments 
with.
 
As if using my pussy to wet the stick wasn't bad enough, she soon 
began to use the tip to rub my exposed love button -– with 
predictable results.
 
She thoughtfully provided the color commentary for my shameful 
performance.  "That's it, you little slut.  Juice the switch I'm 
going to beat your bottom with.  Rub yourself like a bitch at a 
fire hydrant, and show us all what a randy little minx you are.  
Does it feel good, April?  Do you like it?  It will feel different 
when it whips your saucy bottom -– so get it nice and juicy."
 
Bertha paused and adjusted the zoom so the camera would catch every 
little spasm, gyration, and quiver of my explosive orgasm.  And 
explode I did, so badly that there was more than enough juice for 
her to work with when she used the second switch to bring me to 
my second orgasm...and the third switch to bring me to my third.
 
By the time the switches were "properly wetted" I was exhausted 
from pleasure and beet red with humiliation at the thought of 
what she had captured on tape.
 
The menacing sensation of Bertha tapping the birch rod against my 
bottom brought me back to life.
 
"I brought one of my favorite songs over for you to hear, one that 
you convinced our choir to reject.  I'm sure that after this you'll 
never hear this song in the same way again."
 
I bit down on my gag as I heard Bertha Mae's boom box strike up the 
first few bars of THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC.  She raised the 
switch high.
 
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the com-ing of the Lord! (SWISH!) 
He is trampling out the vintage (SWISH!) where the Grapes of Wrath 
(SWISH!) are stored. (SWISH!) He hath loosed the fateful light- 
(SWISH!)ning (SWISH!) of His terrible (SWISH!) swift (SWISH!) 
sword. (SWISH!) His truth is march- (SWISH!) ing (SWISH!) on!"

(SWISH!)
 
Tears filled my eyes as Bertha beat out the Lord's justice on my 
naughty fanny.
 
I vowed to be a good girl.
 
I vowed not to think bad things about Bertha Mae, no matter how 
mean or fat or ugly or horrible she was.
 
I vowed to wear panties with bunnies and rainbows, so that when men 
looked up my short little dress they'd think happy thoughts.
 
I vowed to try to think about helping homeless people whenever I 
masturbated.
 
Bertha sang along in a lovely, melodic voice, although she did 
laugh out loud at the phrase "before his judgment seat."
 
I would have laughed too, if I hadn't been so busy crying and 
wiggling and chewing on my gag and promising to be good.
 
Did you know THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC has SIX stanzas?  I 
did, and I bucked and twisted and squirmed my way through each one 
of them.  The song seemed to last longer than the damn Civil War, 
and I didn't even know that it was over until the music stopped.
 
I lay there exhausted, spent, repentant…yet strangely satisfied.  
I took the worse she had to offer, and I was still standing. 
 
Well, actually, I was bent over, but you get the idea.
 
Bertha gave me a moment to compose myself.  She brushed the hair 
out of my eyes and wiped away my tears.  She even let me blow my 
nose in her handkerchief.
 
The first hint I had that everything was not hunky-dory was when 
she set the video camera up so that it was pointed at my face. 
 
"I got some great bottom shots, dear, but now we need some reaction 
shots.  My grandson Steve is 18, and he likes to edit video for his 
friends on the you-tube or whatever they call it.  Anyway, when I 
told him about my little project, he said I should get face shots, 
too, so he could splice them together with the music and the action 
shots, and we could make a proper film of it."
 
My heart raced as she tapped the second birch against my bottom.  
"Ready for Take 2, dear?"
 
I was NOT ready for Take 2, and I screamed into my gag and shook 
my whole body as she playfully tapped the switch against my already 
spanked bottom.
 
Bertha Mae laughed heartily. "I know what you're thinking.  Since 
the camera's on your face, I could just pretend to spank you, and 
you could pretend that it stung.  Unfortunately, I've seen your 
performances before, pretending that you weren't showing off in 
your little short-shorts, and you're not much of an actress.  No, 
we want REAL tears, so I'm afraid a method performance is the best 
way."
 
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord! (SWISH!) 
He is trampling out the vintage (SWISH!) where the Grapes of Wrath 
(SWISH!) are stored." 

(SWISH!)
 
Damn if that old biddy didn't hit me on all the same beats.  What 
she lacked in mercy she certainly made up for in rhythm, and I 
was soon crying and mewing right into the camera and giving an 
absolutely pitch perfect performance of a naughty girl feeling 
genuine regret for her misdeeds as she suffered under the rod 
of correction.
 
Bertha Mae let me cry it out, on camera, as she mixed herself some 
lemonade in my kitchen.  By the time she returned and switched off 
the video recorder I was close to being composed.
 
"If I take out your gag, will you be a good little girl and mind 
your betters and treat me with courtesy and respect?"

I nodded, knowing full well that I was in no position to do 
otherwise.
 
After several minutes of drooling and trying to get the awful taste 
of the gag out of my mouth, I explained to her what had happened. 
 
I gave her my boyfriend's number, and she promised to call him -- 
from her car.  She then left me, ungagged but still bound, with the 
videotape in her hand.  As she went out the door, she said over her 
shoulder, "I'll see you in a couple of days...for your second 
lesson."  

		******************************
 
She did phone my boyfriend, and he rocketed over, just in time 
to save the day.  Actually, he hadn't saved the day, or even my 
bottom, but I didn't say that.  In fact, I was so grateful to be 
let up that I hugged him and promised him the best make-up sex ever. 
 
I was soon over his knee, not for punishment, but for a soothing 
application of cold cream.  The tenderness of my bottom and my 
sincere desire to please him (and others) by being a "good girl" 
led to a very interesting weekend.
 
However that's another story....
 

THE END



Edited by C. Lakewood