Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Backfire: Halloween Metafiction Special

This was meant to be a lighthearted halloween mind-bender using the characters from Backfire. It...um...kind of ran away with itself...

Neither of the girls had expected the party to be quite like this. Sure, it had been made clear that illicit substances would be present, and neither of them had a problem with that (Sara was a habitual pot smoker. April just liked to party, whatever that entailed by local customs), but this was a step beyond what either of them were used to. So, April thought as she looked around at the bearded, strangely dressed young men and women, this is what actual hippies look like. Wow, its just like on TV! The novelty was a pleasant distraction for April, but in the back of her mind she was still dreading the end of their girls’ night out. She kept giving Sara nervous glances when she thought she wasn’t looking.

Sara kept her cool smile on; with her long, straight hair and inexpensive clothing, she fit in with this crowd much better than April. A couple of people smiled and waved Sara over to them.

“I’m gonna’ go talk to Matty,” Sara said to her roommate, her voice taking on that subtly domineering tone that April had grown accustomed to, “don’t get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in.”

A shiver of fear went down April’s spine, even as a naughty tingle rose from her crotch. She met Sara’s eyes, which - as always these days - seemed to take her in and engulf her. April nodded obediently. Sara smiled and gave April’s miniskirted bottom a stealthy pinch, making her whisper a quiet “ow!” before turning away to talk to Matty. 

April stared after her for a moment, wondering how and why she had let her life get like this. If her parents knew half of what had been going on, she’d never be able to look either of them in the face again. She watched Sara talk to Matty for a moment, until Sara looked back over her shoulder and gave April a perfectly innocent smile. A smile that said nothing unusual to the rest of the room, but reminded April that tonight was going to be a hairbrush night, and not a short one either.

Fortunately, there were plenty of distractions, and April was resolved to take her mind off the cruel fate of her helpless buttocks while she still had that luxury. She met Lindsey at the makeshift bar and traded sorority gossip while helping herself to a rum and coke. The two of them giggled and gossiped away until Nancy showed up, and they went into the back room to play beer pong. After gracefully losing, the now very lightheaded April found herself introduced to a trio of hippies. She chatted energetically, positioning herself as best she could in her drunken state to show off her outrageously curvy figure; she had no intentions of betraying her boyfriend, but one of the hippies was really cute, which made her body language mostly involuntary.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She paused to hiccup. “I have to walk home tonight.”

“Do’ worry, hon,” the bearded fellow reassured her as he carefully - almost reverently - fished the bits of dried fungus out of the plastic bag, “nothing bad happens from this.”

“Yeah,” his fellow backed him up, “this isn’t just the usual magic mushroom. Its sacred to the Plains Indians.”

April raised her blonde eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah,” said the first hippy, “it lets you connect to the spirits, opens your mind to the real world behind the universe. The shamans and medicine men say they use it to talk to God.”

April still wasn’t convinced that this was the best time and place to be experimenting with strange drugs, no matter their religious value. Unfortunately, she had always been sensitive to peer pressure, especially when it came from sexy boys. After rewarding her benefactor with an alluring smile, she accepted the fragment and bit off one end.

She felt the same, after swallowing the fungus. A bit drunker, perhaps, as if she hadn’t noticed how strong her intoxication was until now, but still no worse for wear. The boys congratulated her, nibbling their own dried fungus as they did. Funny…why couldn’t she hear what they were saying? It was like their mouths didn’t emit any sound. In fact, nothing was making sound. Her ears seemed to have switched themselves off.

She lay back against the wall they were sitting by, staring, wide-eyed, into the next room. She caught a glimpse of Sara at the bar, and suddenly, impossibly, she heard Sara’s voice from across the silent, crowded party, even if the words she said didn’t make sense. Her vision was blurring at the edges, her body growing weightless…

…April was in an unfamiliar room. Piles of clumsily-folded clothes (boy’s clothes, she observed) were scattered across a futon couch. On the wall by the door hung a variety of abstract sketches in cheap frames, a pre-revolution Iranian flag, and a preserved tarantula in a display case. Outside the window, snow descended on a rural street.

She blinked, quite deliberately. She knew there had to be a reason she was in this place, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember how she had arrived. Wasn’t there a party she was going to with Sara tonight? Or was that last night now? She tried to remember, but it was like tossing her mind against a solid fog. Holy mushrooms. The Plains Indians used them to talk to the spirits. Who had told her that? Well, they must not have worked, because she didn’t recall talking to any stupid ghosts.

Something bumped its nose against her ankle. Startling a bit, April looked down to see a stripey gray cat rubbing up on her leg. Was this her spirit animal? She guessed that shouldn’t be a surprise; she had a cat of her own after all, even if she hadn’t seen it since winter vacation. It was a different color, sure, but who said her spirit cat had to look anything like Nutmeg? The cat looked up at her with an inquiring expression. April transferred the mushroom slice to her left hand and bent down to let it sniff her fingertip. “Hello, kitty,” she said softly.

“What???” a male voice spoke up behind her, startling her, “Who’s there???”

Right, of course. When you’re in a new place, you look around before picking up the cat. Everyone knows that. Mushrooms let you talk to gods. She turned to face the voice. A bunkbed was nestled in the back of the small bedroom, and sitting on the unmade bottom bunk was a young man around April’s age. Fair skin, brown hair, maybe kind of cute if he had a shave. On the bed beside him was a half-open Gateway laptop. His expression was angry. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

April’s lips opened soundlessly as she tried to answer. Should she apologize and leave? No, she’d still be in someone else’s house with no idea how to find her way home. What was she supposed to say?

“S-sorry,” she managed to squeak, “I…I don’t know where I…is the party still going on?”

The boy looked startled. For a moment, he seemed downright stupefied. Slowly, he raised a dark brown eyebrow. “Party?” He asked, his voice more subdued, “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” April took a step back toward the futon, not keeping eye contact, “I was at a party with my friend Sara…do you know Sara?…and I just…I don’t know how I got here, but I’m sorry for coming in without asking.”

As she spoke, his expression grew less defensive and more surprised. When she mentioned Sara, his eyes widened. There was a long, awkward moment after she finished. April was about to apologize again and ask for directions when he spoke.

“Oh no,” he whispered, “No, this can‘t possibly...”

His jaw went slack as the realization hit. Was he hallucinating? Dreaming? How could this possibly be happening? She looked exactly how he had imagined, wearing one of the expensive blouse and miniskirt combos that the richer girls at his college had worn. No, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t.

“Um…” he said, wondering what his next question would have to be if she said yes, “…is your name April?”

The girl nodded, her eyes widening a little, vulnerable. He felt his heart accelerate. Her eyes got so large and blue when she felt nervous or embarrassed. He thought it was sexy, in the “cute and innocent” way, which was exactly why he had made them that way. He counted backward from ten, then ran through the alphabet from Z to V. If he was dreaming, it was an awfully lucid dream. The girl stood there nervously, in obvious discomfort. He had to tell her something, but would the truth be the best option?

“Um. Well.” 

He stopped to close his laptop. It really would not do for her to see what he was writing.

“I‘m not sure how to say this, but…uh…”

This is your last chance. You can make up a lie, that would probably be the best-

“…well, I guess from you’re perspective, I’m sort of like…”


He changed his wording at the last second “…your creator?”

He had meant it as an explanation, but the way it came out definitely had a question mark at the end. Silence. He was about to offer her a seat, but she sat down on the futon before he could open his mouth. She looked as bewildered as he probably did.

“You mean,” she looked at him very intently, a mixture between skepticism, fear, and awe, “you mean you’re, like…God?”


“No,” he said quickly, raising both hands in a “no” kind of way, “Not like a God. Just…” Just the creator and constant omnipotent manipulator of your entire universe. Just the being responsible for thinking you into existence. “…okay, maybe sort of like a God, but I’m not all-knowing or powerful” just powerful enough to completely remake your world on a whim “or anything. I…basically I’m just a kid living in a world a lot like yours, and I made you up.”

She gave a nervous, unbelieving chuckle. Her laugh was musical, lighting a masculine fire in his blood. That sound was the guiltiest pleasure he had ever enjoyed. “What do you mean?” she asked crinkling her dirty blonde eyebrows at him.

He bought himself some time by standing up and very deliberately unwrinkling his shorts. This was going to be a hard pill to swallow. It was hard for him to even say it.

“Okay, well, I’m a writer. I write fiction, or what I thought was fiction.” He paused, asking himself again why he was telling her this. Unfortunately, April’s wasn’t a face he could lie to, though it might damn them both. “You‘re a character from one of my stories.”

He scanned April’s face for any signs of…well, anything. It was unreadable. Queeny jumped up on the futon and put her nose up to April’s thigh. April ignored the cat. He started feeling sick to his stomach. He knew where this line of questioning would go. He knew that she couldn’t learn the truth, and he knew that he didn’t have it in him to lie.


She looked down at her lap for a moment, trying to let it sink in. He watched her reach over and stroke Queeny’s head, her eyes lost in contemplation. He felt like he was about to throw up.

“Am I the main character?”

He looked away. “Yes.”

“Is…is my world real? Like, are the people I know actually…?”

“I don’t know.” That was something he hadn’t thought of, actually. If April was a self-aware entity, did that mean that her entire fictional world was full of self-aware entities? If she was only sentient because of the mental energy he expended in simulating her mind, though, that would mean that only a few of the main characters - the ones he’d really put himself into - were alive. He thought of a girl living an entire lifetime in a world of holograms, being raised by a simulation of a loving family who didn’t actually have souls, and it was one of the most heartbreaking thoughts he had ever had. And what about when I’m not thinking about her? Is she “asleep” when I’m not in her head? Does she DIE every time I delete a new draft and start again? What about Sara, or Kevin, or any of the others? How many of them are real?

She chewed her lip in that completely adorable way she often did. “You don’t know? Didn’t you make them?”

A slow breath escaped between his teeth. “Yes. Sort of. I don’t have everything fleshed out, necessarily,” I spent more time thinking about your ass than the rest of that universe combined “I just assumed that your world was mostly like mine and made up a few specific characters.” He shrugged in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “I dunno, maybe its all real outside of my head. You seem to be, right now at least.”

“So,” she said slowly, trying to wrap her mind around it, “you’ve been…writing me…since I was born?”

Fuck. “No. I only made up a little about your childhood. Just that your parents were wealthy, and that you were an only child. I guess I imagined them having kind of Germanic sounding names, like Martin or Ella?”

April nodded. “Those are my parents.”

Interesting. Were those always your parents, or did I just now do that retroactively? How much of you is there, really? 

He hoped he could change the subject, but she was too fast for him. “So wait…does that mean I’m the most important person in the world-err-in my world, I mean?”

He couldn’t tell if she was hopeful, or afraid. Probably the latter. He didn’t think he could conceive of a realistic character who wouldn’t be frightened by that, and that meant she must be frightened. “I don’t know. If I actually did invent your world when I made it up, then yes, that would…I suppose…make you the center of it.” He was about to offer up the possibility that maybe he didn’t invent her world, but instead was simply being informed about its events through some kind of prophecy, but he only had to think about that for a fraction of a second before it lost its plausibility. Her body was shaped just like a girl he had failed to seduce once in school. She and her friends watched Dexter religiously because it was his favorite show. He had definitely created this. 

He answered very slowly, thinking about every word. “If we’re basing importance off of…” he paused, struggling for the right word. His vocabulary always failed him when he most needed it, “…causation, then yes, the rest of your world exists to tell your story.” He was careful to keep eye contact, so she knew this next part was genuine. “That‘s not to say that other people in your world are necessarily worth more or less, just that you‘re…um…” damnit, it was much easier to express these concepts in writing than in conversation “…well, I…you know what I mean, right?”

April did not seem to know what he meant. On second thoughts, neither did he.

Her hand stroked the cat again, absentmindedly. Her eyes were far away, almost vacant. He realized that this wasn’t as easy for her as it would be for some people; he hadn’t designed her to be intelligent or quick-witted.

“So,” she said, her blue eyes coming a little ways back into focus on his, “if everything is just to tell my story…what is the story about? What am I supposed to do?”

He bit his lip. April stared at him, bewilderment turning to impatience, and trepidation. Beneath her soft, fair-skinned face, a brain was waiting to process information. He put a hand to his stomach, trying not to be sick. She was waiting.

“Okay,” he said, “basically…”

He sat beside the crying girl, staring at his hands in dismay. What could he say to her? What could he do for her? Instinct told him that she needed a hug, but that would be the worst thing he could do. He kept his body a respectful two feet away from hers, and made absolute sure not to glance below her neck, even by accident.

“I made you enjoy it,” he said so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I made sure you didn’t suffer.” That wasn’t entirely true, though. The first chapter had consisted of nothing but misfortune and humiliation for her. The sorority scene in chapter three had also been completely unpleasant. Even if that wasn’t the case, though, it would barely have helped.

The more painful bits of the last fifteen minute's worth of conversation replayed in his head. “Why did I never have a baby brother?” she had asked. To make you more spoiled and self-centered, so that Sara would have more to punish you for. “Why did you make me want a baby brother if you knew I couldn’t get one, and the story doesn’t even show my family?” Because I imagined caring as one of your redeeming qualities, and I always put a bit of thought into what makes my characters tick even if it isn’t apparent to the reader. “Its all just your stupid fantasy?” No, I put it up on the internet for a bunch of other people to jerk off to as well. The interview had lasted until she finally did what she had been threatening and broke down into tears. He felt a sharp sting at the corner of his own eyes as he watched her.

“Y-you said…” she struggled between sobs, “…you said you made me like a…” she wiped her nose, only for more saltwater to drip down it, “…a real girl, who you know? So I’m not…not just a…a…”

“You’re not her,” he said somberly, sitting with his hands in front of him, “she’s not you. Her name was Katie. I knew her in college.” He didn’t tell her the rest of that story, which would have gone something like; she was smarter, more confident, and more emotionally mature than you. I just used her body and gave it a weak, spoiled, co-dependent personality named April so that it could get spanked more often. 

She shook her tangled blonde head, her tears continuing. He wondered if the holocaust had happened in her world, or smallpox, or malaria. Considering that she lived in a twenty-first century United States very much like his own, her world probably had the same history. If April and the other main characters weren’t the only sentient beings in their universe, he had condemned hundreds of millions - no, billions - of people to death.

“I’m sorry,” he said for the hundredth time, looking down at her huddled, shaking body, “I didn’t know. I just never knew.”

Queeny was still perched on the edge of the couch, wondering why nobody was petting her. She had tried sniffing at the half-eaten mushroom slice that April dropped, but he quickly snatched it away; there was no telling what that could do. Minutes flowed into one another. He wondered how long it would be until his brother came home, and what he would have to say if April was still around. Not that this was a significant problem at all, compared to the others on his mind.

“I’ll change things,” he said. “Once I send you back, I’ll make it different. You won’t remember this conversation.”

She looked up hopefully, her normally beautiful face blotchy with tears. He did his best to look confident.

“You‘ll be smart, and powerful, and happy. So will everyone else. No one will get hurt or disappoint themselves or anything.”

Of course, that would only work if the act of writing itself was what caused time to pass in her world, rather than him imagining it. He would never be able to stop his own imagination. Not to mention that rewriting her character might just kill April and replace her with another consciousness with the same name. It was the most comforting lie he could think of.

“Send me back,” she whispered, “make me forget. Please.”

He stumbled to his feet and hurried over to his laptop. Hopefully this would work…

The young man sat on his bed, alone but for the cat. His brother came in, said hello, and left. The young man barely noticed him. He was thinking.

I’ve written science fiction. Horror. I’ve had entire civilizations destroyed. I’ve turned people into tormented ghosts and marauding vampires. I gave terminal brain damage to ten thousand people when the cyborgs poisoned the Washington DC water supply. I’ve created a entire world where people’s souls are eaten by demonic piranhas after they die. And even without his own devised horrors, how many holocausts had he unleashed in the invisible backstories? How many genocides? How many epidemics? How many deaths?

He let his chin sink into his hands. He ignored the bangs that hung in his eyes. They were insubstantial. It was the other side of his skull that had unsolvable problems.

What if its not just me? What if every writer creates worlds with people? What if every person with an imagination and two minutes of free time does?

Then another thought, so chilling it multiplied all the rest.

What about writers who write about writers?

No, he was just overthinking it now. There had to be limits to how far things could scale, in one direction if not both. There had to be a Real world that the others branched off from. There just had to be.

Suddenly, he was looking at a small object lying on the nightstand by the futon. A half-eaten slice of mushroom. April must have left it.

No. No, this wasn’t right. There was no reason to do this. He didn’t need to, he really didn’t.

The mushroom sat there.

What about writers who write about writers?

He felt cold and clammy as he picked up the little pinch of dried fungus and held it before his mouth. It smelled musty, with an undertone of something he couldn’t name. One side of it still showed the marks of April’s teeth, reminding him that even if she was back home, she was still real.

He gulped, sucked in a deep breath, and bit.

The walls fell away. The ceiling vanished. The bed turned to smoke, and he was falling, falling, tumbling through the blackness. But he wasn’t really falling. There was no gravity, he was floating in place. The darkness was as thick as blood, but he pushed through it. He had to see, had to find out.

And then he heard the screams. He turned around, and saw it.

A head, a face the size of a galaxy, the darkness flowed from its pores like sweat. A face that filled the sky, a face that filled all the skies, a head he couldn’t even see. A million, bloodshot eyes stared into the darkness, and in each eye a spinning world. Fire flashed, an eye blinked, and there were screams. Quadrillions of deaths in every one of a million eyes. Mouths ingested universes. Worlds died, to make room for more worlds, which died. The face sang and basked in the music of the endless screams.

A young man lay on the floor of his bedroom. A laptop sat on the bunk above him. A cat sniffed at his shivering face, but he didn't notice. He shuddered, his mouth barely managing to twitch open.


Wednesday, January 4, 2012

In Hot Water

The other girls were already chatting and gossiping by the time they entered the locker room. Most of them were bleached blonde, expensively clothed upperclasswomen who failed to so much as notice Mamta Amani as she filed in after them. Mamta wondered again if this was the wrong sport for her. She had swam at her old school, but her old school had been a whole let less cliquish and a whole lot more ethnically diverse, and the swim team here seemed to be the “popular girl” sport.

“So,” said one of the blondes as Mamta picked out a locker and began undoing her jacket, “I just decided who my favorite actor is.”

Mamta looked up at her teammate, hoping this was a conversation she could get in on.

“Oh?” Asked another blonde. “Who?”

The first one moved her slim body in a way that indicated Mamta. “Tim Curry.”

It actually took Mamta a few seconds to get it, while the girls around her were chortling away. Was that really the best they could do? Really? She felt like she should be offended or something, but that was too stupid to even count. She sucked a slow breath into her petite mouth and thought for a moment.

“I liked him in It,” Mamta offered slowly, wondering if perhaps this could be salvaged, “and the voice acting in cartoons.”

“That’s very interesting, darling,” said Blonde #2, making eye contact with Mamta for a fraction of a second before turning back to her friend. “Anyway, I SO can‘t wait to see the second part of New Moon!”

“I KNOW! I’m rereading the whole series just to get ready!”

Mamta looked around for a sympathetic face, but every head was pointed away. Classes would start in two weeks’ time. Were they also going to be like this?

Well, socializing wasn’t the reason she was here anyway. Mamta pulled off her shirt and skirt and began digging her swimsuit out of her backpack. To do this, she had to bend over the bench that her pack was resting on, with her back to Blonde #1.

“Heh,” Mamta heard a chuckle, “here‘s a fun fact about swimming. If you‘re tall and slim, you go through the water faster. If you‘re short and have…um, what‘s the civilized term…very generous hindquarters, then you just might be out of luck.”

“WHAT?” Blonde #2 looked up in shock, “Are you calling me fa-”

She saw what her friend was smirking at, and her expression changed.

“Oh. Hahahahahaha!”

Mamta’s eyes widened indignantly, and she quickly sat down. Her peers continued to titter.

“Oh god, its actually spilling over the side of the bench! Too much pilaf, huh? Lot of carbs in all that rice!”

She felt a sting at the corners of her eyes. What had she done to invite this? How could she make it stop?

“Check out her back,” said #2 as she pulled off her bra, proudly exposing a pair of breasts that made Mamta’s flat chest all the more depressing, “I’ll bet you can see her blowhole! MAN THE HARPOONS!”

She just barely prevented herself from making a sound. She couldn’t let herself give them that satisfaction. Mamta awkwardly slid out of her undergarments and - still sitting on the bench, worked on her swimsuit. She really didn’t think she was overweight. Her stomach was actually very slim, her breasts were small, and she had a very smooth, almost cherubic Indian face that was absent of chubby cheeks or neck fat. The only thing about her that wasn’t thin was her bottom, but that made up for everything else. For a petite woman, Mamta had quite expansive hips, and each of them supported a soft, head-sized globe that pointed straight out behind her. It really didn’t match her frame at all.

“Speaking of ginormous asses,” said #2, “I can’t believe Cheryl is on Team Jacob. What a stupid whore.”

As they slipped back into their Twilight discussion, Mamta took the opportunity to stand up and quickly pull her suit the rest of the way on. She stole a glance at the mirror. Her tan, bright-eyed face stared morosely back at her. That suit didn’t cover nearly enough of her derriere; her cheeks were almost bulging out at the bottom. Unfortunately, it was the closest fit she could find.

Coach Bartelli was an overweight, mustached man with an all too apparent coat of black body hair. “Welcome back,” his voice echoed across the pool as he glared up at this year’s girls’ swimming team. “Great to see all your young, idealistic faces, however long they last. Welcome to swimming. Obviously.”

The girls lined up by the pool, as was customary. Bartelli frowned at them.

“So, warmups. So that you don‘t pull your muscles, drop off the team, get fed up with sports, and grow up to be a bunch of inanimate lard sacks like me. Jumping jacks! Make like you‘re being electrocuted!”

Mamta went through the stretches and exercises, carefully avoiding looking at the other girls. Fortunately, she was soon given something much more pleasant to look at in the form of the lifeguard, who strode out of the office. Like the rest of the team, Mamta had already met Andy. Andy was a freshman at the community college across the street. Tan, rugged, with smooth muscles that clung to his tall frame like a tight jacket. When Mamta had visited the pool before, Andy’s topless presence at the side of the pool had kept her attention, and probably that of most of the other ladies present. It took a good deal of concentration to remain focused on her situps.

“Alright,” said the coach when they had done their last butterflies, “before we actually get in the water, I need to tell you about our new disciplinary policy. The school can‘t afford to pay me - or any other poor shmuck - to hold detention anymore. So if you screw up, you get treated to the brand new ‘on the spot disciplinary procedures.’ In case any of you didn‘t read the lovingly typed and printed twelve-page activities booklet that I spent days writing for you - and I‘m guessing that‘s all of you - here‘s what that entails. If I say-”

Mamta had no intention of screwing up, and she had skimmed the lovingly typed and printed twelve-page booklet. She knew she should really pay attention anyway, but just then Andy the lifeguard bent over to check a loose rivet in the diving board, pointing one of the roundest, tightest rear ends Mamta had ever seen in a bathing suit right at her. By the time she realized that she wasn’t listening, the coach had finished his speech.

“Time to get in the water now,” Coach Bartelli said, gesturing halfheartedly at the pool. “Don’t worry; if you drown, the school is completely liable.”

The cold water bit at her dark, tan skin as she slipped into the water. The coach instructed them to start with one lap each of crawl, breaststroke, and butterfly stroke, just to “make sure no retards accidentally slipped through the tryouts.” Mamta, as always did well on the breastroke, as her large thigh muscles propelled her quickly. When it came time to do crawl, she had to spend more effort to keep up with her teammates. Butterfly, which was an all but new technique to her and had little to do with leg movements, saw her coming in last.

“Great,” Bartelli congratulated them as he stared at the floor, “real impressive. Now, for this part we’re going to need to pull the cord down the middle of the pool. Um…” He looked at Mamta, who had caught his attention by being last, “whatsyername, Mexican girl. Go help Andy set it up.”

Mamta’s face blushed scarlet under her tan, as peals of blonde laughter rang in her ears. She climbed out of the pool, not making eye contact with anyone as she walked, dripping, around the pool toward the coiled rope.

“How’s it going?” Andy asked as he walked up beside her.

“Oh…” she giggled nervously as she felt his body heat on her wet skin, “…um…I’m having a good day so far.”

He grinned, making her heart accelerate. “So far.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. He just chuckled and shook his head. She felt herself blushing again.

“So,” he said as he hauled the biggest coil of rope to the edge of the pool and put it down, “what have you heard about on-the-spot-discipline?”

“Um…” she blushed again, “I think I know the important parts.”

She bent down to tie the rope to its hook, and immediately felt a hard slap across the underside of her wet bottom, making her gasp and almost fall into the pool. She looked up at him in shock, one small hand darting to the injured part of her rump.

“Mmm,” he murmured before she could say anything, “we’ll see if it worked.”

He chuckled and walked away with the other end of the rope, leaving her with her hand on her butt and nothing left to do. She stared after him for a second, not sure she could believe he had just done that. Then, unsure of what to do about it, she dived into the pool and swam back to her teammates, reaching them just as Andy finished tying it up.

“Circuit time,” said the coach, “crawl edition. Swim up the right side, go under the rope, swim back on the left, repeat. Keep track of your laps, ‘cause hell if I’m going to be bothered. Ten minutes, go.”

For some minutes, they swam (“I said crawl, dammit! Oh, yeah, that’s right, keep snickering at me…”) furiously back and forth, slipping under the rope at each end. Mamta felt herself getting tired. Damn, she really had let herself go over the summer. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, cursing herself and most of the people she had to interact with these days, at the far end of the pool. As she was panting, she suddenly felt a rough hand grab and squeeze the underside of her left buttock where it was poking out from under her suit. Mamta squealed and nearly lost her grip on the edge of the pool.

“Is that a handprint, senorita?” The voice of Blonde #1 came from right by Mamta’s ear. “Does your mommy still spank you for hogging all the rice pudding?”

Mamta looked furiously over her shoulder. Everyone else was swimming. Coach Bartelli was staring at his corpulent belly and miserably shaking his head.

Blonde #1’s face was right in the middle of her vision, grinning with perfect, white teeth. At that moment, something snapped.

A high pitched scream echoed across the pool as a palm smacked across Blonde #1’s face, jarring her head to the side and sending her golden hair flopping wetly around behind her. Everyone stopped swimming and turned around. Andy was staring intently from his perch on the lifeguard tower. Bartelli was peering across the pool with a somewhat bovine expression.

“This,” Bartelli finally said, “is going to be a really long school year.”

Blonde #1 treaded water away from Mamta turning around to make sure everyone could see the pink handprint on her face. “She hit me!” the girl exclaimed as if everyone didn’t already know, “She actually hit me!”

Bartelli’s mustached face disappeared into his hands. Mamta felt her heartbeat echo in her skull. The girls all looked at each other. Over on the side of the pool, Andy was staring at Mamta with an almost dumbfounded expression.

“Everyone, get over here,” Bartelli finally said. The girls swam back to him. He looked at Mamta with hard eyes.

“Did you hit whatsername?” he demanded sternly.

Mamta looked down at the water. She felt her hair drooping limply against her back.

“Yes,” she said quietly. Blonde #1 was about to indignantly clarify what her name was, but Bartelli cut her off.

“Is there a reason you hit whatsername?”

Mamta looked up at him. No one had seen the other girl grab her ass under the water. If Mamta accused her, she would just deny it, and her friends would all back her up. She glanced nervously across the pool at Andy. He was still watching the developments with great interest, leaning forward at his post so he could hear better.

“She was teasing me,” Mamta said, hopelessly.

Bartelli sighed and looked back at the blonde. “Whatsyername, is it true you were teasing the Latina?”

“I was just asking her if she was alright!” the blonde insisted vehemently, “And my name is-”

“Did anyone else see what was going on before she slapped her?” He gestured limply at each of the two girls as he spoke their pronouns. No one said anything.

“Alright,” groaned Bartelli, rolling his eyes at the high ceiling, “everyone, get out of the water.”

As the eleven dripping girls climbed out of the water, Mamta felt her body vibrating, a sense of impending danger coursing through her with the adrenaline. Bartelli motioned for Andy to come over to the bench at the head of the pool. Andy complied, his chiseled face starting to look a bit excited, as if he were looking forward to something.

“In the pool,” said Bartelli, “on-the-spot discipline is the duty of the lifeguard. Figures. Girl who slapped the other girl, come over here.”

The blonde and her friend were grinning from ear to ear. The other girls were watching intently, their expressions falling somewhere on the spectrum of sympathy to cruel excitement. Mamta felt her insides sink as Andy walked over to the bench. Her eyes widened when Bartelli opened the box of swimming equipment and fished out a clear, lexan paddle, and grabbed a plastic folding chair with his other hand.

“Watch this, girls,” Bartelli demanded as he turned his fat, glowering face to the rest of the team, “nobody wants this repeated too many times, or they’ll call a staff meeting and yell at us and I’ll probably miss my reruns.” He handed the paddle to Andy, who took it a little too eagerly, before setting down and unfolding the chair so that its back faced the team. “Ten strokes. Let’s get this over with.”

The terror was rising in her. Mamta looked at Andy. His alluring musculature was a double edged sword, in that it would allow him to swing that paddle viciously hard and fast if he wanted to, and unless she had misdiagnosed the lust in his eyes, he would want to. He had been waiting for this. Hoping for this. She then looked back at her teammates. The blondes were whispering excitedly to each other.

Moaning softly under her breath, Mamta approached the chair and - following the coach’s instructions - bent over it, sticking her oversized bottom up into the air and at the rest of the room. A few droplets of water hung for a moment to the naked undersides of her melon-sized buttocks before dripping down to the floor.

“Um…” Bartelli seemed suddenly very distracted as he beheld her offered rear, “..wow…uh…ten strokes Andy. Start now.”

Mamta closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, gripping the edge of the chair’s seat with her hands as she felt thirteen pairs of eyes feast on her shamefully exposed buns. She felt a hormonal heat in the skin of her back and thighs as Andy came close to her, his body heat touching her skin and causing involuntary reactions. She gripped the seat tighter, digging in her nails.

Andy lost no time. He held the paddle just behind Mamta’s prominent buttocks and straightened it out, making sure that its flat, transparent surface was perfectly opposed to her thickest curves. Then he raised it up, and brought it flying down into her flesh, making her soft bottom splash and spread out under the force. The first crack of the paddle reverberated across the room, echoing dramatically.


Mamta’s fingers gripped tighter at the chair. Her body shivered. Her skintight bathing suit offered little in the way of protection, and its wetness actually served to amplify the force. The sting was immediate, powerful, and fiery.

As the girls watched with wide-eyed enthrallment, Andy lined up the battle again, this time positioning it a little lower, over the part of her bottom that was hanging out. When it connected this time, it bit into wet, naked skin.


Her cry of pain was almost a loud moan. The paddle lick sent ripples of movement down her muscular thighs and caused her to bounce a little on her toes. Her bottom and thighs were pretty tight for their size, but the paddle was still enough to make the former jiggle and bounce.

The third paddle lick was exactly like the second, leaving another layer of pink across her half-naked sit spots and making her large rear end bounce as if it were on springs. The fourth was higher, at the rounded tops of her cheeks, and compressed the flesh in a different direction. After every lick, she cried out and shook her legs, trying desperately to distract her body from the pain. Some of the girls were starting to look a little horrified, involuntarily grabbing their own swimsuit-clad bottoms as they realized that they too might someday be subjected to this treatment. Bartelli’s eyes were almost bugging out of his skull.

The tenth crack of the paddle was like a bucket of gasoline tossed on a forest fire; a sudden spike in the burning pain that then disappeared into the rest of the inferno. Fire! Her ass was on fire! After the tenth stroke Mamta rose to her feet and seized her abused fanny with both hands, breathing deeply and stamping her feet in a frenzied spank-dance. The two, rounded bits of bottom that stuck out from under her suit had been turned from light brown to a sunburned pink.

“Ow! Ow! Ah!”

Andy stood back, trying to suppress a satisfied smirk, and put the paddle back away. Bartelli stood in place for a full ten seconds, mouth hanging a little bit open.

“Um…” he said when he managed to remember where he was, “…yes, so, don‘t do that again. Ass you can see - as, I mean as you can see - I…uh…I‘m not putting up with any…uh…shenanigans.”

Mamta turned her soft, delicate face over her shoulder to look at her teammates with dewy eyes. A few of them looked really sorry for her. The blondes and their handful of cronies were grinning, though a couple of them looked as if they thought this was a little too much.

“We’ve still got fifteen minutes,” said Bartelli, covertly adjusting his swimsuit to make sure that nothing was visibly poking out, “and I don’t want you to suffer any less than I did in high school. Frogstroke, come on!”

They quickly returned to the pool. Mamta avoided making eye contact with anyone as she walked gingerly back to the water. She winced when she bent her hips to jump back in. The cool water felt good on her paddled bum, especially when she took a second to pull her bottoms out to let some water under the fabric, but the leg motions for the frog stroke - which she was normally very good at - were painful. She got off to a slow start, feeling the burn with every stroke. She broke the surface once to see Blonde #1 beside her, smirking toothily. She did her best to ignore it and keep swimming. It was a long, painful, uncomfortable quarter hour.

Finally, the timer rang, and Bartelli motioned for everyone to get out. “Same time tomorrow,” he said, still looking a little distant and distracted, “shower and dry off and go home. I don‘t want to see any of your smug, youthful, all-your-life-ahead-of-you little faces until tomorrow.” He then turned away and whispered a little mumble that sounded almost like “that…ass…”

They filed off into the locker room, Mamta making sure to keep at the back, one hand still clutching her stinging hindquarters as she went. From across the pool, she saw Andy sitting at his post, still watching her. She felt a little flutter of excitement and nervousness in her tummy.

As they entered the locker room, various conversations began to start up around the room. Mamta over to her locker and started pulling off her suit. Her bottom stung and burned deeply as she pulled at the waistline. She leaned forward a bit to help get it down, when a blonde voice (yes, even her voice was blonde) sang out from behind her.

“Rotundo ass is all pretty pink! I guess your mommy isn’t the only one who spanks you!”

The other blonde swooped in beside her friend. “That’s what you get for slapping me, you little bitch! He should have given you twice that many.”

“Don‘t worry, Ash,” said Blonde #2, “he did it really hard. Look at how she’s wincing!”

“Mmm, good point. I wonder if I should say hello to that lifeguard after practice. I’m sure he knows which girls deserve his respect; he obviously knows which ones don’t!” She leaned over and delivered a hard slap to Mamta’s ample rear, making the girl squeak in pain and almost lose her balance. Several girls laughed.

Growling in frustration in rage, Mamta pulled her swimsuit back up and marched back the way she came. She was not going to put up with this. She’d wait in the hall that connected the locker rooms to the pool until the other girls had all gone. She didn’t care how long it took. Mamta stood in a corner in the damp hall and closed her eyes, struggling for happy memories to fill her mind with and drown out the sounds of showers and gossip and vapid giggles from the next room.

Finally, the last of the showers turned off, and she heard her beloved peers finish their exit. Breathing deeply, Mamta went back into the locker room, shed her ill-fitting suit, and turned on a shower. It was a struggle to find the right temperature; at first, the hot water stung her pinkened buns and made her wince and hiss with pain. Then it was too cold, and she danced involuntarily out of the water’s reach. Finally, she managed to hit a happy-ish medium that was warm but not hot, and stood under it.

As the warm water came down on her face and gently cascaded down her smooth body, she closed her eyes and let her mind wander. The sting in her butt seemed to have crept through her torso, and was now causing a tantalizing little prickle in her womanhood. She whined softly to herself as she wrung out her hair, bringing her left hand downward and pushing at the front of her vulva. A lusty tingle rewarded her touch as she found her mind’s eye rest itself on Andy. The way he looked and smiled at her, the way he shamelessly flirted with her earlier in the practice. Warm water coated her skin, giving her a sense of isolation and privacy. Slowly, she crept her hand further down her front…

A strong, masculine arm wrapped itself around her middle, pulling her naked body against a wall of hard, hot muscle. She started to yelp as her soft bottom was pressed painfully against a male body, but another hand clamped itself over her mouth. She tried to struggle, but his arms were like iron bars under a layer of rugged skin. She kicked her legs in a futile attempt to flee as he dragged her out of the shower and toward one of the benches. As he half-carried her across the room, she managed to turn her head up and catch a glimpse of her attacker’s face. Andy’s dark eyes were full of intense determination, his face showing exertion as he steered her to their destination. Mamta felt her heart go crazy.

With a strained grunt, he sat down on the changing bench and pulled the half-struggling Mamta over his lap. His trunks were tight around his crotch, and she felt something iron-hard pushing into her belly through them. Knowing what was coming, she gritted her teeth and clutched the tile floor. Andy pushed her torso a little further over his knees, putting her ponderous, glistening-wet cheeks right over the edge of his lap, so that they pointed at the ceiling. He admired their bounce for just a second, and then started the spanking.

His hand was like sandpaper against her pink, paddled buttocks, rasping and burning her flesh with each loud, wet slap. The sound as his palm connected with her wet, rosy cheeks was like a firecracker echoing in the enclosed locker room, and the pain exploded and sparked in the wake of each smack. Left sit spot, right sit spot, left, right, left right…he spanked her harder and faster than she had ever experienced.

“Ahh! Ohga…I…ahhhh!”

Her voice got higher and higher pitched as she futiley begged and wriggled, but she was careful not to be too loud. The forest fire in her bottom was back, and with a vengeance! She couldn’t yelp fast enough to keep up with the spanks, couldn’t wriggle in any way that would diffuse the pain. She was helpless, bound in place, as her bottom just hurt more, and more, and more…

Andy’s arm had to be getting tired, and his palm was certainly in pain, but he had the willpower to ignore these obstacles. He spanked on and on, faster than the second hand of the clock, exploding volley after volley of fireworks against her bouncing fanny. Her sit spots were red, red like ripe strawberries or lustrous tomatoes, and the rest of her bottom ranged from something just shy of that to hot pink as the layers of sore handprints piled on top of each other. He kept his left arm pressed hard on her back, and his right rising and falling, until the juiciest parts of her ample rear were a shade that bordered on purple and she was almost on the brink of tears. Then, before she lost control and started screaming loud enough to be heard outside of the room, he stopped. She kept writhing and panting over his lap, her abused bottom completely dried off.

“Andy…” she begged, her voice barely a whisper, “Now, right now!”

“Of course,” he whispered back, playing with her wet, black hair. His voice was low and gravelly. “Over the bench.”

Mamta stumbled to her feet and bent over the end of the bench, sticking her red and pink ass up at her paramour. Andy lost no time in scrambling around behind her and - having ditched his trunks at some point - sliding his impressive length of rock-hard penis into its eager socket. Mamta gasped as he pumped his hips into her spanked ass, pushing down on her back and forcing her chest against the bench as he pumped in and out. The sex was fast, furious. Mamta reached around behind her, grabbing his taut bottom and pushing and slapping it to make him work harder. Andy grabbed a handful of hair from the back of her scalp and pulled, making her look up at the ceiling and gasp, as he thrusted deeper and deeper into her slick vagina.

Andy didn’t seem to notice when she had her first orgasm; even as she lolled her head back and clamped a hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet, he didn’t lose speed. Her second climax was stronger, building on the afterglow of the first, as she rose on a wave of pleasure above the agony in her bottom, riding the ocean of pain on a soaring raft of orgasmic ecstasy. She was almost ready for a third orgasm when Andy stopped, his body shuddering, and she felt a spasmodic twitch inside of her as his penis erupted.

The two of them lay, panting, on the changing bench, his penis slowly retracting from her as it shrank back into flaccidity. The bench under her crotch was wet with her emissions; they’d have to clean it off thoroughly before they left. Slowly, her boyfriend of three months brought a hand back to her head and slowly massaged at her neck and chin. She moaned weakly, enjoying his touch.

“You,” Andy said huskily between deep pants, “are completely insane.”

Mamta giggled. “Didn‘t we plan it together?”

“I didn’t think you were going to do it on the first day of the damned schoolyear,” he said, almost indignantly, “and I really didn’t think you were going to physically assault one of your teammates.”

“Those girls are bitches,” Mamta said bitterly, “if it weren’t for you, they’d have kept me off the team.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know. They‘re just jealous of you. Your intelligence, your sophistication, your looks. Heh, one of them tried to flirt with me after practice.”

Mamta purred at his compliments. They always did wonders for her self-confidence.

“But…slapping them across the face? Even if they’re bullies, that’s kinda…”

Mamta grinned mischievously. “I know. She totally deserved it, but I shouldn’t have done that.” Silently, Mamta really did enjoy the irony of her current situation. She could do whatever she wanted to those horrible girls during swim practice, and she’d be rewarded for it with the kind of sexy, public paddlings she had fantasized about for years. But yeah, slapping someone in the face was kind of not okay; she’d be more subtle in her mischief from now on.

“Oooh,” she murmured, changing the subject, “my ass is on fire.”

Andy chuckled, straightening up to massage her big butt with both hands. “Mmhmm,” he hummed unsympathetically.

Mamta closed her eyes and enjoyed the attention her nude Adonis of a boyfriend was applying to her ravaged rear. She had met Andy a few weeks after her family moved to town. They had been sure to keep their relationship a secret, as Mamta wasn’t sure what would give her parents a worse heart attack; the fact that she had lost her virginity before getting married, or the fact that she had lost it to a non-Hindu. It was fortunate that she was eighteen, so she could get The Pill without them being informed.

“You should get back to the pool,” she mentioned after a pleasant minute.

“There’s still a few minutes until the open swim, and I doubt Bartelli cares where I went. Mmm, you’re so beautiful.” His hands moved up to her back and began massaging that as well.

“You too,” she whispered back.

Just then, the door to the locker room flew open, and both the young lovers looked up with a start. Coach Bartelli was standing in the doorway, mouth hanging open under his thick moustache.


Sunday, July 10, 2011

Paddling Team (chapter three)

Alex ignored several social calls that weekend. Partly because he had allowed his classwork to sneak up on him, and now had quite a bit of reading to do. Mostly because if he went to a party in his current state, people would be sure to ask him what he was carrying that cushion around for, and he would really rather not answer those questions. By Sunday night, he had gotten several Facebook messages asking what was up. He answered them cordially, explaining he was busy with school stuff.

In reality, he spent most of his “study time” staring blankly at the text, as thoughts of Jill, Diane, and his paddling predicament ran through his head. He hadn’t been able to sit down at all Friday evening after his encounter with Coach Johnston. By Sunday afternoon he was still tender, and there were some faint - but visible - round bruises on the undersides of his buttocks. Every time he felt them ache when he tried to sit down, or glimpsed his backside in the bathroom mirror, he was mentally brought back to Diane’s office, and reminded of her ultimatum. It made his blood boil with outrage, and his stomach churn with trepidation. He had tried to think a way out of this, but the truth was that, at least for the time being, there wasn’t much he could do that wouldn’t put his ass in even more danger than it was currently. He remembered the big paddle in Diane’s office, and shuddered. Beginning on Saturday, he had started following the coach’s diet and exercise instructions. Most of it was pretty common-sensical, and in all honesty was stuff he had promised himself to start doing six months ago. More vegetables and fish, less white bread, no candy or soft drinks, jog and visit the weight room each day. Her weightlifting regime was a slightly more intensive, scientifically backed version of the one he had already been trying, with emphasis on abs, pecs, and arm muscles. The biggest difference was that she had added three sets each of squats and lunges to his routine.

Come Sunday night, Alex opened Jill‘s Facebook page and stared at it. There was so much about Jill that defied Alex’s understanding. What did she mean when she said she liked him as a bottom? She wasn’t a sadistic bitch like Diane, that was for sure. In fact, outside of practice, she came across as the exact opposite. Alex still had trouble reconciling the paddle-wielding punisher from tryouts with the mild mannered - if unusually tall - Cupcake Girl. Her profile picture showed her making that bashful grin that made her face look even rounder and frecklier than it normally did. Every time he saw that smile, Alex felt something spark a little in his chest. So hard to describe his feelings. Diane had said that she had never been so enthusiastic with the paddle until he showed up. Did that mean that she liked him? Liked him liked him?

After some reluctance, he sent her a message. “Hey, how’s it going? Well, its about to go way the hell better, because I’ve decided to give the team one more shot. Johnston said to do a makeup session with you sometime this week. You free tomorrow after 6?”

It would have to be tomorrow. Even if the bruises on his ass weren’t completely healed by then, doing it any later in the week would mean he’d still be smarting for Thursday’s practice. Alex felt his stomach sink as he realized he would probably be bringing that stupid cushion to class almost every day this week. That night, as the previous two, Alex fell asleep reliving his suffering at Jill and Diane’s forceful hands. As time passed, the pain of the experiences played less and less of a part in his memory, and he began to focus more on the feeling of their soft legs under his body, and that nameless, pins-and-needles sensation that came from a pair of eyes watching one’s vulnerable body. Even the beating with Diane’s hairbrush had a sensual element, as his agonized struggles had ground him against her lap. Lying on his side in bed, he helplessly played his fingers up and down along his turgid shaft, wondering what was wrong with himself until he came. Then he wondered what was wrong with himself while he cleaned up.

The next morning, he read Jill’s response before leaving his room. “Awesome! Can you come to my room at 6:30? I‘m in Kafton Hall #302.” Alex rolled his eyes. Right. Today is Labor Day. There was no need to put it off until six. Now I have all day to look forward to this.

He replied that that would be just fine.

After ten hours of trying to study, trying to exercise, trying to socialize, and trying to do various other things to take his mind off what was to come, Alex changed into some fresh clothes and made his way to Kaftan Hall. He waited in front of room 302. There was a Spongebob Squarepants poster on the door, and a doormat with a big pink heart lying in front of it.

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and taking inventory of himself. He reminded himself that in all likelihood, Jill was going to usher him in, chat for a bit, give him the same treatment he had endured at their last practice, and then send him home. Painful and humiliating, but until he could figure out a way to defeat Diane that was unavoidable. What am I so afraid of? Spongebob seemed to be taunting him.

He rapped his knuckles against the door. There was a very quiet, very sickly pause. Then the door opened, and he smelled baking chocolate.

“Hey! Come on in!”

Jill was wearing a black halter-top and a pair of denim hotpants that left the vast majority of her long legs exposed. Alex was about to ask her if she was sure this was a good time (she wasn’t exactly dressed like he had expected), but she opened the door and ushered him inside.

“Hey. Nice place,” he followed her into the living room and looked around, “I‘m a real My Little Pony fan myself.”

“What? Oh…” Jill looked down and blushed as Alex gestured at the plush animal lying in the bedroom door. “Sorry, its kinda jumbled in here.”

Her room wasn’t terribly messy. Less organized than most girls’ rooms, perhaps, but definitely not as bad as Alex’s. He would be much more ashamed of the Storybell toy than the state of the room. But then, he wasn’t Jill.

“S‘alright,” Alex said as she showed him to a seat by the coffee table, “I guess you‘ve never been in a boys’ dorm.”

Jill looked at him as if trying to make sure she had heard right. Alex quickly realized the implications of what he had just said, meaning it was his turn to blush.

“At least…um…not one that was…um…messy.” God fucking damn it.

Jill giggled and shook her head. Alex decided he had best change the subject.

“Single room?”

“Nah, my roommate has choir practice. She doesn’t get back until ten.” Jill’s face suddenly lit up. “Ooh! Hang on!”

She swiveled around and darted into the kitchenette, leaving Alex with a view of her exposed back. When she turned back around, she was holding a baking tin.

“I made those brownies you told me about. Here, try one.”

He took one of the corner pieces. Mmm, fudge. Jill watched his reactions as he chewed. His hazel eyes narrowed as he savored the taste. She decided that little mustache he was starting to grow looked really cute when he ate.

“Wow. You put something extra in these.”


“What was it?”

“I’m not telling,” she said playfully, twiddling with her hair.

Alex gave her a mostly-joking glare of frustration. “Hey, I‘m the one who sent you this!”

“And I’m the one who baked them.”

He showed his disapproval by boycotting the rest of the brownies (it took all of his self control, and he just barely succeeded). After helping herself to a second one, Jill put them away. Alex’s eyes ventured in her direction when she bent over to slide them into the fridge. Tall as she was, she had to bend over quite far to do this, which meant her rather plump rear end was sticking straight out at him. Her denim short-shorts barely covered it.

“So,” she said after wiping the last couple of crumbs from her mouth, “have you got your uniform?”

Damn, here it came already. Alex tried to keep a poker face.

“It hasn‘t arrived yet. I was late getting my measurements in.”

“That’s okay,” she said as she sat on the couch across from him, “I forgot my paddle at the gym. We‘re going to have to sort of add-lib this.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Without your paddle?” He hoped that this meant she’d be sticking with her palm.

“There’s alternatives.”

That didn’t sound good.

Jill sat a little straighter on the coach. “If you’re ready, go ahead and strip down to your underwear. That should be close enough.”

Alex nodded. He had been expecting this. He unbuckled his belt and pulled down his slacks, stepping out of his sandals as he did so. He stood in front of Jill in his boxer-briefs, tan, moderately hairy legs on display.

“Alright!” Jill smiled gleefully. She patted her naked thigh a few times, making the skin ripple. “Come to mamma.”

Alex gave her a very deep, serious look, his brown eyes conveying a sense of deepest pain. “My mother died two months ago.”

“Oh…” Jill looked horrified. “Oh god,” she put her hand in front of her face, “I’m so sorry, pl-”

“Haha, gotcha.”

Jill stared at him in disbelief for a second, mouth hanging open. Then, jaw clenched in mock-fury, she jumped to her feet and grabbed Alex by the ear, startling him as she dragged him toward the couch.

“You little jerk!” She scolded, yanking him behind her halter-exposed back, “You are going to be so sorry for that!” Her angry voice was convincing enough, but Alex could see the mirth in her smile when she sat down on the couch and pulled him over her lap. The little jean things she was wearing today left much more thigh exposed than her uniform bottoms; pretty much everything under Alex was skin.

“You’re lucky I’m even giving you a warmup after that!”

“Nah, we both know its because you just love me that mu-OW!”

Jill got immediately into the spanking, thrusting her forearm roughly into his back and smacking him hard. His musculature immediately tensed up in response to her first couple of slaps; he had only been going to the gym for a week and a half, but already there was a taughtness to his stomach and chest that hadn’t existed before. Jill probably appreciated the sensation, but she certainly didn’t show it; as far as Alex was concerned, it was all pain.

“Ow! Hey, whatever happened t-AH!-to starting-OW!-light?”

“Your mother!” Jill growled as she delivered slap after stinging slap across the underside of his boxer-clad rear, hitting the same spot just under both buttocks with each smack. “Your poor, dead mother happened to it!”

Alex shuddered and gasped as her hand visited the undersides of both cheeks - hitting both with every single spank - until he was actually starting to squirm and vibrate his legs a little. She just kept smacking that same, sensitive spot, making that junction of buttocks and thighs feel like someone was focusing a magnifying glass onto it. Jill was already spanking full force, and they definitely were nowhere near thirty.

Finally, she stopped. Alex exhaled slowly, his lower butt feeling like it had had nettles pressed against it. Jill reduced the pressure on his back for a moment, letting him shift his weight a little over her thighs. This kind of spanking created a very different kind of pain. Alex decided that Jill was way, way too knowledgeable about her favorite sport.

“Okay,” she said, petting his back like a cat as she let her right hand rest, “now we’re going to start the warmup.”

Alex’s head snapped around. She was grinning in a cruel manner that one wouldn’t have thought her capable of.

“Wait, what???”

“You heard me,” she fingered a strand of her platinum hair as her smirk broadened, “that was for making me feel bad. We still have to do the makeup session, and that starts with a warmup.”

Alex was about to argue, but then remembered Diane’s warning about bruises. After last week’s hairbrush torture, Alex had to admit he was impressed by how minor the bruising had been, and that was almost certainly owed to the hand spanking she had given him first. What Jill had done so far only covered one small part of the area she was going to paddle, and he did not want the rest of it covered in bruises when he arrived at the gym this Thursday.

Jill smiled sweetly at him. Alex narrowed his eyes. Oh that sneaky, underhanded…

Growling, Alex laid himself back against the couch and didn’t look at Jill. He heard her chuckle victoriously before she adjusted him over her legs, pushing him forward a little more so that his butt was sticking higher up across her thigh.

“Ready,” she patted her hand against the fullest part of his round buttocks, tickling him a little, “set…”

Thirty slaps, fifteen across either cheek, followed in the same manner as last time. Since it was the two of them alone rather than in a gym full of other pairs, he had a much easier time concentrating on what was happening to him. She started a little harder than he remembered, her hand circling around his rump as it rose and fell with increasing speed. When she happened to smack toward the lower middle, where she had already spanked him, he hissed through his teeth and fidgeted. Quickly, the sharp burn was being spread across his ass, complimenting the preexisting pain and making his flesh more sensitive to the coming slaps. When the thirtieth cupped palm clapped against his left flank, he was just about ready to start yelping.

“Nice,” she said, resting a hand on his seat and gently squeezing one side after the other, “all warmed up. Get up!”

She gave him a few quick slaps, which made him hurry to his feet. Alex was about to put a hand to his rear, but a sharp look from Jill made him decide against it; apparently, she was going to follow all the rules. What bothered Alex even more, once he realized it, was the manner in which his boxer-briefs were being stretched tighter than they normally fit. Jill had to have noticed the large mass straining itself against his underwear, especially now that he was standing right in front of her. He considered trying to cover himself, but decided there was no way of doing that that wouldn’t be conspicuous.

“There‘s a spatula on my kitchen counter,” Jill informed him, her eyes for some reason not level with his, “can you get it?”

A spatula? What, is she going to paddle me with that? Alex chuckled at the thought; he couldn’t imagine that hurting too much. Well, I’m not about to complain. Jill watched him retreat into the kitchenette, bottom working under his underwear with each step. When he returned with the Teflon spatula, she took him back across her lap.

“Did Johnston tell you about timed paddling?” Jill asked as he tried to arrange himself in a position that minimized the conflict between his arousal and her legs.

“I‘m guessing you set a timer and hit me until it beeps?”

“Its not hitting. But yeah. First round was one minute.” He heard her fumbling with her iPhone. She then bent down to put it on the couch cushion in front of his head, mashing her chest into the back of his head as she did so.

“Oops, sorry about that! Anyway, press start when I tell you.”

She pressed the blade of the spatula against the meatiest part of his tush, bending the handle against his flesh. His muscles tensed up again.

“Keep your butt relaxed; it won’t hurt as much. Okay, ready…go!”

Alex was half a second late in hitting the button, and was already hearing the spatula whistle through the air by the time the countdown started.


Oh. Oh, that stung alright. Okay, maybe spatulas aren’t such a silly thing to…


Jill’s meaty arm lifted itself halfway to shoulder length, letting her wrist do most of the work as she whipped the long-handled kitchenware through the air, the flexible blade fanning her face as it whistled into Alex’s bum.


“Gaaah!” Alex followed his exclamation with a sharp intake of breath, a tremor passing up to his shoulders and neck and down to his ankles. Jill saw fit to put her left arm back in the pinning position as she increased the speed of the paddling. Soon, the snaps were falling almost every time the iPhone ticked off a second.

Alex hissed through his teeth and grimaced as each burning firecracker exploded against his underwear. It wasn’t as bad as the lexan paddle, and certainly nothing like the varnished blade of Diane’s wooden hairbrush, but what it lacked in force, it made up in snappiness. It was a very hot, very shallow sting, short-lived, but surprisingly intense.




Finally, just as Alex was about to lose his composure, the timer rang. Jill let him get up, and - with an approving nod of her head - gave him permission to rub. This he did, his back facing her.

“Hmm,” he heard her muse.

“Hmm?” He asked back, kneading his flesh. The sting was intense, but fortunately it was already starting to subside.

“The spatula is really light,” she explained, “I’m not sure this is really working.”

“Trust me, its working.”

Jill just shook her head. Alex’s reaction to her sixty second paddling was not up to her standard, and she knew it wasn’t for want of trying.

“Not really. I know you felt it a little, but its not the same as the paddle.”

She wore a musing expression for a second. Alex was about to reassure her that she was doing just fine as it was when she cut him off.

“Hey,” she said, “so, this might sound just a little weird, but maybe if you…took your underwear down…that could make up for it?”

Alex laughed and started to make a witty comeback, but then he met her eyes.

“You’re serious?”

She nodded, a little of her easy blush showing itself in her face. “The spatula just isn’t that strong. Diane’s going to want us used to more intensity for this week.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious.”

Jill blushed even redder and shrugged her exposed shoulders. “We’re both grown ups.”

There was a long, silent pause, as Jill sat on the couch and Alex stood in front of her, eyes locked carefully onto each others’. Jill looked a little nervous, as if she might have said something she shouldn’t. Alex looked like he was trying to solve a complex math equation.

Then, he - very slowly - approached her again. Hooking his fingers under the waistband of his boxer-briefs, he pulled them down toward his thighs. Jill watched him. Nerves began eating away at Alex as he, with increasing slowness, took down his underwear. Anxiety had punctured his arousal. By the time his underwear worked their way past his crotch, his penis was mostly flaccid; just swollen enough to hang an inch or so further out then it would limp. Alex didn’t know if this was a good thing or not; did he want to hide his arousal, or did he want to come across as the kind of person who was frequently erect? Which one was “right” in this situation? Alex had been naked (well, okay, mostly naked) in a woman’s presence before, but never in a fully clothed woman’s presence. This was different, and unnatural.

“Okay,” said Jill, “bend back over.”

Something about those words sent a tingle down his spine. He felt his dick start to expand again as he climbed back onto the couch and lowered his now half-naked body onto Jill. Her thighs were soft and warm against him. As Alex laid himself back across the couch, Jill set the timer again.

“Two minutes,” she said, “think you‘re ready?”

Alex shook his head. “I…I really don’t know.”

Jill nodded sympathetically, understanding what he meant by that and probably feeling the same way. Then she said “Let’s find out!” and picked the spatula back up.

Alex’s bottom was already somewhat pink, especially across the lower surfaces. Jill had already made up her mind, however, that she wanted it bright, shiny red. She gently rubbed the spatula against the pink part, where the curve of his buttocks was most prominent. He shivered again over her thighs.

The bite of the spatula on naked skin was a whole different kind of sting. It felt like it was catching his skin and trying to tear it away. Such a high, sharp sting, like a hornet.


The spatula made its tell tall whistle, followed by another loud snap.


The blade left a most amusing red rectangle wherever it landed, patchworking Alex’s target with scarlet squares. Evening things out would be a challenge, but Jill had always been good at coloring within the lines. Alex’s legs were kicking a little, his body going from a subtle wriggle to a series of actual, involuntary jerks.

Whistle. Snap. Pain. Repeat.

“Don’t be such a baby!” Jill scolded playfully as she tried to hold him down, all the while getting as many smacks in as she could with the spatula without sacrificing force, “remember, I can penalize you for breaking position!”

Alex’s body kept jerking itself away from the fiery lash, its gyrations and bouncing grinding him obscenely into her legs. His fists clenched and unclenched. He started to raise his body, but she pushed it back down and held it while administering a quick series of extra hard smacks, making him howl. His dignity was crumbling. The stimulation of her supply thighs grinded into his crotch was growing.

Suddenly, the paddling stopped. Alex blinked his tearful eyes. There was still nearly a minute to go…

“Lift up,” jill commanded, smacking her palm against the side of his hip.

Unsure of what was going on, Alex did as he was told, lifting his waist above her legs. As he did so, he felt the head of his now throbbing cock slide across her thigh, standing straight down now that it had room.

“Back down!” She accompanied her words with an unkindly hard flick of the spatula, landing each half of the crimson rectangle on a different side of his crack.

“AAAAGH!!!” Alex quickly collapsed back onto his belly, and immediately felt Jill’s thighs close, like a pair of pincers, around his penis. He was about to comment on this when she tensed her thighs, tightening the vice and making him gasp.

“Just getting that out of the way,” she explained, “it was poking me.”

Whistle. Snap. “AAAH!!!”

His body cobra’d and jackknifed over her lap as she renewed the spanking at full strength. Alex was crushed between sensations. Burning agony when the spatula landed, muscular exertion when he jerked away from it, and then intense, sexual stimulation as that pulled his dick against her imprisoning thighs. She kept spanking him, bringing the spatula down more and more on his sit spots, which she had already thoroughly reddened with her hand. Alex raised and lowered his hips in symphony with the licks, so that he was thrusting in and out of her luscious thighs, his penis jabbing painfully into the sofa cushion with each push. He started breathing deeply, his yelps of pain interrupting a moan. His bottom was bouncing up and down as he fucked her lap, encouraging her to hit it harder, spatula colliding with it as it lifted to increase the force. Alex couldn’t believe it, but he felt like he was about to-

The timer rang, and Jill stopped. Alex straightened up, and - on a single impulse - they grabbed each other around the shoulders and kissed. Alex felt like he was floating over the pain as he somehow ignored it, focusing all of his awareness on Jill; her naked back under his hands, her hair falling around his neck, her lips and tongue as they fenced and sucked and pulled at his own. Jill grabbed at his shoulders, seeming to compliment their width and texture with her attention. Alex’s own hands ventured under the strap of her top, acquainting themselves with parts of her milky skin that he had long been wanting to touch. Alex didn’t have time to be anxious, or uncertain, or to think any other such distracting thoughts. The only things he was aware of were pain, lust, and Jill.

Jill abruptly pulled her face away, pushing him back. Alex had only a brief moment to be disappointed, however, before she opened her legs, stood upright (nearly spilling him onto the floor), and ripped off her hotpants, revealing a muff of blonde hair between her Amazonian thighs. Then, she grabbed Alex and wrestled him onto the floor, ignoring his squawk of pain when his tormented buttocks hit the carpet. She squatted over his head, pushing her sopping vulva into his face. As his tongue started to sample her labia, she leaned over and pinned his thighs under her hands, relishing his pain as she forced his ass against the floor, before lowering her lips onto the head of his boner. Alex wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her vagina closer into his mouth as her smell overwhelmed his nostrils and her fluids soaked his face. His entire world became her blonde vagina, his smouldering ass, and the torturous sucking at the tip of his cock. He grabbed at her body, fondling her stomach and back and then grabbing and squeezing her big buttocks, all the while spelling his name around her clitoral hood with his tongue. Jill gasped and moaned appreciatively, taking his circumcised head into the back of her mouth and running her tongue up and down his shaft, her hands stroking at its base and fondling his balls. He was too long for her to fit most of him in her mouth, so she locked one hand around the base, pistoning it up and down to meet her own lips, her tongue circling the tip and then running itself along the underside. When Alex suddenly pulled his tongue away from her clitoris and forced it all the way into her vagina, she whimpered. When he began curling it against her G-spot, she moaned. As he worked, he let one hand squeeze her left buttock, while the other delivered a hard slap to its twin. Jill responded by thrusting her bottom outward, inviting another smack as Alex readjusted his face under her pussy, his moustache tickling her clitoris and labia as he pushed his tongue back inside of her. He felt himself trying to cum, but he forced his body to hold out. He tried to shut out the wizardry she was performing on his cock, to put every scrap of himself into penetrating her with his tongue, fingering her clit, grabbing her thighs, smacking her ass. He kept squeezing more of her pungent, female lubricant onto his face, racing to outrun his own need until finally it caught up with him, and he pulled his face out of her before he could suffocate as an explosion of pleasure rocked his body, pouring from his crotch into every extremity of his body. The two collapsed, panting, onto the floor.

“Nutmeg,” Jill whispered.

“Huh?” Alex craned his head to look down at her.

“In the brownies. I added nutmeg.”

“Ah, right,” he panted a few more times, “I knew it was either that or,” he panted again, “cinnamon.”

They made eye contact, Alex’s hazel eyes looking into Jill’s crystal blue ones. They started laughing. Alex flipped himself around so he was lying face to face with Jill. They put their arms around each other and kissed. The taste was odd, but neither of them cared all that much.

“Shower?” Jill suggested.

“Good idea.”

They cleaned themselves off in the shower, hot water flowing over both their bodies as they helped each other scrub and wipe themselves clean. Alex yelped when the hot water touched his ass, making Jill giggle. He kept that part of himself out of the shower as they washed. Alex made a point of sampling both of Jill’s big breasts, tasting and teasing her nipples until she made him stop, fearing things would get out of hand too quickly. It was he, however, who had to pull her hand away from his glisteningly wet penis, as it was still tender and aching from its last assignment. The two dried themselves off and retreated to Jill’s bed, treating themselves to another fudge nutmeg brownie each on the way.

“I told you paddling’s a great sport,” Jill gloated.

“I told you your mind was in the gutter,” Alex gloated back.

“Oh, whatever. You’ve been checking me out since our first day in class.”

“I’m a victim of society; I just do as my peers expect of me.”

“Shut up.”


They kissed again, Alex fondling her shoulders and squeezing her right bosom in the process. When she nuzzled her chin back over the crook of his shoulder, she suddenly saw something that made her face light up.


She got out of bed, giving Alex a fantastic view as she danced across the room, pulling something out from under the nightstand.

“HERE’S where I left that paddle!”

She turned back toward him on the bed, grinning evilly, tapping the lexan blade against her palm. Alex’s eyes widened.

“Oh you wouldn’t…”

“Why not?” She asked sweetly, seating herself beside him.

“Oh you bitch!”

He grabbed her right nipple and twisted it, making Jill squeal in pain and startle back, grabbing her hurting breast and shooting to her feet. Growling, she threw herself back at Alex, tackling him. They wrestled for nearly a minute, Alex fighting dirty, until Jill managed to get his arms locked under his body and herself seated on his naked back. She grabbed the APA paddle and swung full force at his round, red bottom.


Alex roared in anguish. Jill smiled.

“I don’t have my phone, so let’s count to thirty.”

At 10:30 PM, Jill’s roommate came home.


No answer.

After grabbing a brownie (mmm, nutmeg), she peeked her head into the bedroom. The light was off, but she could see Jill lying, asleep, in bed. There was a boyishly handsome and equally asleep male face visible over her shoulder, the body connected to it spooned around hers. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the saw that the blankets didn’t cover all the way to their necks, and that his hand was on her breast. Jill was clutching, as always, her My Little Pony plushy as she slept.

Jill’s roommate smiled, perhaps a bit jealously. She noticed the lexan paddle lying discarded on the floor by the bed.

Okay, she decided, that does it. I’m joining that team next semester.

Saturday, July 2, 2011

Paddling Team (chapter two)

The student activities offices were like a maze. In the six or seven visits Alex had made to them since that fateful Thursday afternoon, he had learned three things:

1. There were a ton of new extracurriculars that had just been introduced in the last year or two, and none of them were really that organized.

2. Either no one else felt like switching out of a team, or - if someone did - that information was lost somewhere on a buried database in one obscure office computer out of a dozen.


3. The activities offices were all on the fifth floor, and the elevator was broken, so he had to walk all the way up and down each time.

The staircase wasn’t the only thing that had been giving his muscles a challenge. To maximize his chances of getting onto another team - any other team - Alex had been going to the weight room religiously. According to the book he had borrowed on the subject, the routine he was following should make him visibly bulkier within two months. Hopefully, his athletic capabilities would increase much faster. The following Monday, he met Jill after Classics and told her his situation. She was, predictably, rather taken aback.

“You thought it was rowing?”

Alex looked at the floor. “Yes…”

“Even when we met at the gym?”

He felt his face turning red. “Yes…”

Jill shook her head. “Dunno how you managed that. Well, now that you‘re in, are you staying?”

Alex had to stop himself before he said something impolite. “Not if there‘s any way I can help it.”

Jill’s face fell. “Are you sure? I really like working with you. I think you could be a great bottom.”

Alex decided that that was the most unwelcome compliment he had received since his uncle had told him he’d make a good garbage man. The look he gave Jill contained an equal amount of outrage and disbelief.

“I‘m totally serious!” she repeated, “You‘re great to work with. With a little more practice-”

“-I’m not getting any more practice than I have to.”

Jill recoiled a bit. Alex realized that he had allowed his voice to get defensive. Damn, he hadn’t meant to sound that angry.

“I mean…” he said quickly, “working with you was cool” (actually, it was boilingly hot for some parts of him, but whatever) “its nothing personal. Just…this really isn’t the team I wanted to join.”

Jill looked a little relieved, but still a bit disappointed. “I know the activities director,” she said, reluctantly, “maybe if I talk to him you‘ll have an easier time.”

Alex smiled appreciatively. They had left the building now, and were in the sun. He really had a winning smile, when he wasn‘t looking antsy. Jill felt herself softening to his plight. “If you would do that, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Sure. I hope you at least come to the next practice though; give it one more chance.”

No. “Maybe. Anyway, I‘ll link you to that brownie recipe. Thanks a whole bunch for this!”

“Heh. Welcome.”

When they went their separate ways, Alex found himself staring after her again. Did she like him? As in, like him like him? Unfortunately, Alex had always been a remarkably poor judge of these things, and he knew it. He was fond of Jill, and didn’t want to ruin their friendship. He decided it best to wait until he got a clearer sign, rather than risk misreading her and making their relationship even more awkward than it already was with all this paddling insanity. In the meantime, it was time to find a different sport.

Alex did not make the next practice, as it turned out. Earlier that day, he had gotten a Facebook message from Jill telling him that the activities director would be in this afternoon, and that he should go in to the office before practice. Alex conveniently procrastinated in the early afternoon, and found himself forced to skip paddling in lieu of round 7 of bureaucratic arm twisting. Only slightly less painful, but hopefully this time he would actually get somewhere. After hiking up to the fifth floor and waiting in line, Alex found the director a reasonable man. He was told to fill out a form at the academic office and come back the following day, and he would be put in the next open slot on either the boating or the rock climbing teams. Awesome.

The next day, he had just ascended the staircase - completed form in hand - when someone called to him from behind.

“Good afternoon, Alex.”

He turned to see Coach Johnston standing in the hall. She was wearing her usual gym clothes, with a jacket over it. She looked businesslike.

“Afternoon,” he said, bashfully. He hadn’t seen Diane since last week’s paddling session, and had been rather hoping he wouldn’t again.

“Have you got a minute?” she asked, “there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. In my office.”

She led him to the hardwood door whose plaque bore her name. Damnit, I’ll bet Jill told her I was switching out. Here comes another speech trying to convince me to keep my ass where Jill can beat it. On the topic of asses, he was working hard to keep his eyes off Diane’s as he followed her into her office. Diane Johnston was a thick, solidly-built African American woman, with a muscular ghetto booty under those tight gym shorts to rival anything on MTV. Alex knew it was frowned upon to oggle one‘s own educators, and Diane’s dominant aura made him feel all the more immature for it.

“I noticed,” she said as she sat down in front of her hardwood desk, “that you weren‘t at yesterday‘s practice.”

“Yes, I’m swi-”

“You have also not emailed me with your measurements so I can order your uniform.”

Her eyes bored into him as she sat in her seat, looking up at him like a judge addressing a defendant. Apparently, she wasn’t going to offer him a seat. After looking away from her piercing eyes for a second, Alex tried again.

“I‘m not staying on the team. I just got the form to-”

“I know,” she interrupted him again, sounding much less than amused, “the director told me. I don‘t think you understand the situation.”

Alex felt the air pressure in the room increase. How exactly was she making him feel so guilty? He found himself acting like a naughty child having to answer to his mother for stealing a cookie, rather than a slightly offbeat young adult trying to make a completely reasonable adjustment.

Before he could think of anything to say, Diane got up from her chair, and - with a lightning quick motion - grabbed him by the shirt collar. Gasping in surprise, Alex tried to pull away, but a quick wraparound from her other, muscular arm put him in a chokehold. Before he even knew what was going on, she had yanked him forward, off of his feet, and was holding him over her chair. Squeezing his neck to silence his protests, she quickly planted her left foot on the chair and pushed him down over her thigh.


She leaned her considerable weight into his back, sandwiching him between her arm and the perfect platform of her leg, and delivered a loud, dramatic slap to his bent-over hindquarters. Alex gasped as the first spank landed. He tried to struggle, but found that his arms were both crossed behind his back, and Diane was holding them against his torso with an inescapable strength. Diane also coached the women’s wrestling and judo clubs; he was totally helpless.

As he struggled, completely disbelieving of what was happening, Diane moved her right arm like a piston, crashing her palm into his upturned buttocks harder than Alex could have possibly been ready for. Each hard smack was like being hit by a palm-shaped hammer, jarring his flesh before the sting could even begin. He was wearing sweatpants, which had to have been making a difference, but the pain of each slap was still enough to make him yelp. Why couldn’t he have chosen blue jeans today?

“Ow! What the! Help!”

“No one’s gonna’ help you,” Diane said, voice strained with determination, as she held the struggling boy over her knee and spanked him much harder and faster than what she would want her team to do, “team penalties are given in my office every month. Everyone‘s used to the noise.”

It took her less than half a second to lift her arm to shoulder length and rocket it back down again, making for two, merciless spanks every time the second hand ticked. Alex writhed his body from side to side, trying to jump or kick with his legs, but her right ankle came around with a practiced motion and pinned his left one behind it, so that three of his limbs were now helpless.

“You and I are going to talk,” she repeated as she drove her hand again and again against the seat of his pants, “and while we do, you are going to do everything I say! Do you understand?”


Alex tried to argue, but the spanking just increased in intensity. Dear god, how much harder could this woman hit? Diane’s large, dark face just stared at him haughtily from atop her mountain of flesh and muscle, eyes pitiless, as her hand continued its barrage.

Alex was stunned. His eyes were watering. His backside was burning. He thought about screaming for help, but what was left of his masculine pride kept him from that. He kept struggling, growling. She kept spanking.


Soon, Alex was bouncing over her implacable thigh, body jerking involuntarily to the beat of her rock-hard palm. She was striking his bottom in a circle, hand straying from the top of his hemispheres down to his upper thighs, moving like a machine. Finally, the pain was too much, and he gave in.

“Okay! I’ll listen! Please, stop!”

He shouted louder than he had to, hoping someone would come to his rescue. True to Diane’s assurance, no one did.

Diane pulled him up off her knee and put him back in a standing position. Instantly, both hands went to the back of his pants, where he tightly gripped his stinging backside and bounced and the balls of his feet. Diane stepped over to the door, placing herself between him and the escape, as she watched his dance of pain.

“Take off your pants.”

Alex, hands still clutching his hot rump, stared at her in renewed disbelief.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

She smiled cruelly, her full lips seeming almost hungry. “After what just happened, you‘d be crazy not to do what I say. I want you in your undies. Ten seconds, or you go back over my knee.”

Ten. Nine.

He stared at her in openmouthed disbelief. This was a crime! A scandal! He could have her job for this!

Eight. Seven.

He could call for help, couldn’t he? In a crystal moment, he suddenly realized why no one objected to Diane’s disciplinary policy. The thick walls. The big, hardwood doors. Jesus Christ, this building is soundproof! It made sense, really. The chemistry labs were just one floor down.

Six. Five.

“We can talk!” He insisted frantically, “We don’t need this!” Her face didn’t change.

Four. Three.

Closing his eyes, almost sniffling with pain and humiliation, Alex looked down at the floor and - slowly, deliberately - undid his belt. He let his pants slide to the floor, revealing tan, well-toned thighs with a fine layer of reddish brown body hair, crowned by a pair of plaid boxers.

“There we go,” said Diane with a victorious smirk, “come over here.”

She took him by the arm and, using her other hand, pulled the office chair behind her by the door. Sitting heavily in the chair, she pulled him down over her lap, using both arms to easily overpower him. Diane wasn’t as tall as Jill (well, no one was as tall as Jill), but she was more stockily built, and probably at least as heavy.

“What are you doing?!” Alex demanded, looking up at the smirking coach. From his current vantage point, her face was framed above a very pronounced chest that jutted out from her rippling body like a solid, meaty shelf. Was he starting to get hard again? Oh god, please tell me I’m not getting hard right now.

“I’m teaching you a little lesson,” she said, maneuvering the helpless young man over her lap, “and I’m going to explain why you can’t quit the team.”

Once again, she forced his hands across his back and held them down with her left forearm, leaning in so hard he knew he could feel that enormous chest against his back. Her right leg came up, scissoring above his thighs and holding his legs down against the armless office chair. He marveled at the thickness and weight of her thigh, and how it felt so strong and yet so soft against his own, naked skin. That thought was quickly driven from his head when she grabbed the waistband of his briefs and yanked them down to where her thigh crossed his, baring his bottom.

“What the-!”

She cut him off by giving him a hard slap on the naked bottom, reigniting the sting from her last spanking. She left her palm on the crown of his left buttock, pressing down to remind him what it could still do. He had never felt so physically violated. Worse than even her hand on his naked ass was the feeling of his cock against her smooth, nylon gym shorts, as it hung down the inside of her left thigh.

“Listen up,” Diane said firmly, “I‘ve got a situation to deal with. And you‘re not going anywhere until you‘ve heard what I‘ve got to say.”

Alex panted and tried to struggle against her body, but it was useless. Did he just hear her chuckle?

“Paddling is a new intramural sport. We‘ve only been on campus for three years, and I promised myself that I‘m going to bring this team to nationals this spring.”

Her left leg, over which Alex was secured, was incredibly thick. It was like lying down on a platform of warm, springy flesh. His proximity to her female skin was having the same effect on him that Jill’s had the other week…only this time, his penis was completely exposed. She could probably feel it starting to harden against the inside of her thigh. If she flipped him over, she would see it. Alex prayed to every god he had ever heard of that he would open his eyes and find himself safe in bed, or that he would spontaneously die. Either one would work here.

“Jill is one of my best girls. Better than Courtney. Better than anyone else I‘ve had on the team. If there‘s anyone in this school who can win us that medal, its her. But she needs to stay motivated.”

Here, Diane took her hand off of Alex’s ass so she could inspect it. If Alex’s chest and arms were in as good a shape as his lower body, she would have had a much harder time wrestling him down. His smooth, rounded leg muscles flowed into each other like a blown-glass sculpture, coming together and swelling into a pair of almost perfectly rounded cheeks. Bent over as he was, his bottom stuck up at the ceiling in a consummate dome, each buttock a thick, bouncy half-circle. Diane thought that Alex definitely had a back porch to be proud of, especially for a white boy. His lightly tanned skin had started to redden after her spanking, making her eager to learn how it would look after a little more mistreatment. She laid her fingertips on the crown of his cheeks, pressing down a bit against their springy tissues.

“I‘ve tried pairing Jill with every bottom on the team,” she went on, “she does better with the boys, which makes it hard for me. It is almost impossible to find men who are willing to bottom. The APA wants each team to have a fifty-fifty mixture of bottoms, but at every meet I‘ve been to there were hardly any boys. The more I have, the more generous the judges are likely to be. And then there‘s Jill.”

Squeezing her right thigh down into his legs, she began spanking him again, just as hard. She didn’t have quite as much room to swing her arm in this position, but with his buttocks held so perfectly in place between her arm and her thigh, her aim was perfect. Alex hissed in pain as the first volley of hard slaps came down on his shamefully naked bottom, loud, wet slaps reverberating around the room as the agony grew.

“I have never,” Diane lectured as she spanked his bouncing domes, “seen Jill put as much of herself into the game as she did last Friday. From the first day I had her in the gym, I could see she had potential. I‘ve tried matching her up with all the boys and half the girls on the team, but until you came along, I wasn‘t tapping all of it.”

She began spanking faster, her cupped palm reaching a machinegun rapidity as Alex’s buns turned from pink, to sunset, to fire engine red. The pain was already at least as bad as it had been after his first paddling from Jill, and Diane showed no sign of slowing down. She didn’t even break pace as she continued to speak.

“With you as her bottom, I can finally get Jill to be the top I know she can be. She’s the one who’s going to make my team work. And I‘m not letting you ruin our chances at nationals because you’re too chicken to get your little booty smacked!”

Alex’s eyes were watering. His body wasn’t under his control anymore, writhing like a fish out of water in vein effort to get his “little booty” out of Diane’s line of fire. The smacks came down twice - no, three times per second, like a hail of incendiary shells setting a defenseless city on fire. Alex could hardly think coherently. How many times had she hit him? A hundred? A hundred and fifty? And still no signs of slowing down!

One minute after she had started the spanking, Alex was barking and yelping. One minute after that, his face was damp. How much pain could someone possibly feel? How much blazing holocaust could she possibly pour into his ass before she ran out of steam? He could barely feel it, but his penis was completely erect, his endocrine system choosing to respond to her female pheromones over his own pain receptors; it was standing at an uncomfortable angle against the length of her thigh.

After two and a half minutes and what had to be several hundred slaps of merciless, bare-bottomed spanking, Diane’s arm stopped descending. Alex was trembling, jaws clenched as he struggled to hold in the sobs. His body was covered in sweat. His buttocks, which Diane had just removed her hand from, felt like a nest of yellow jackets had been convinced it was their mortal enemy. “Red” didn’t even do it justice. Not five minutes after seeing it in its naked glory, Diane had turned her new favorite booty the color of an overripe tomato. She had trouble suppressing a grin. Reluctantly, she removed her leg and forearm from his body.

“Stand up. And don‘t you dare rub your butt!”

Alex extricated himself from her thigh, wobbling shakily to his feet. He quickly moved one hand in front of his crotch, while the other darted toward - no, he stopped himself just in time. His ass was demanding attention, its nerve endings screaming for him to do something. It took every ounce of determination to keep his hand a few inches away from it. Alex looked at Diane through leaking eyes, filled with fear and caution. Diane like the way his large, hazel eyes widened when he was in pain. Like Bambi. It made her want to hug him and make him feel better, perhaps in a motherly fashion, perhaps in certain other ways. She could definitely understand Jill’s affinity for this innocent young male. Unfortunately, the nature of Diane’s job prevented her from acting on these natural impulses. She sighed to herself; coaching this team could be such a clit tease.

“Stand in the corner, facing the wall. Leave your pants and undies down. Hands on your head.”

Alex did his best to keep his privates covered as he baby-stepped (his ankles were still bound by his semi-discarded clothing) over to the corner. His erection had gone down a ways due to the burning pain, but it was still at half-mast. In most situations, Alex took pride in the fact that his penis took both hands to cover at a profile. Right now, he was nothing but mortified at the possibility of Diane seeing its state. He started crying again, not from the pain so much as frustration and embarrassment, as he faced the corner and put his hands on his chestnut hair. How could she possibly get away with this? The more he thought about it though, the more likely it seemed that she could. Punitive spankings sounded like a logical enough punishment for misbehavior in this sick “sport,” and he was still technically on the team. He doubted that she was permitted to take his clothes off, but unless he ran out into the hall half-naked right now, it would be her word against his. That conniving bitch; she knew exactly how illegal this was, and she knew exactly why and how she would never have to face the consequences. Though he had his back to her, he could just imagine that big, white grin.

Diane wasn’t actually grinning as she joted something down on the legal pad on her desk, but she was smiling. Every few seconds, she looked up at her miserable captive, chuckling at the dichotomy between his fashionably clothed upper half and his naked, reddened lower one. She could see his arms tremble as he stopped himself from rubbing his ass. The pain must have been excruciating…okay, now she was grinning.

After a minute or two, Diane tore off the legal sheet and put it on her desk. “I’ve written up a nutrition and exercise routine,” she said, “paddling is a spectator sport, and I want all my team members looking their best. I expect to see the results in six weeks; I can tell if you aren‘t following it.”

Alex hung his head even lower. He was trying to think of a way she could be defeated, but nothing came to mind. It was like being trapped in some barbaric, third world dictatorship in the middle of an American private college.

“Turn around.”

Alex slowly turned, keeping both hands in front of his (now thankfully flaccid) crotch. He felt a bit releived that his naked, crimson ass was no longer on display, but having to make eye contact with Diane made him even more uncomfortable. Her jacket was now hanging on a hook on the wall, leaving her in just a wife beater and gym shorts. Even in his agonized state, her figure -as curvy and voluptuous as it was powerful - was hard to ignore.

“Before I send you home,” she explained, a look Alex didn’t at all like in her dark eyes, “there‘s one more thing we have to take care of.”

She opened her desk drawer and reached for an object inside. Oh god, Alex panicked, what now?

“I’m pretty sure you’re not going to quit the team,” she went on, “if you do, you will soon find yourself right back here in my office, and what happened today will seem like a gentle massage. Understand?”

Gritting his teeth, willing to do anything to get him out of here faster, Alex nodded.

“Very good. But you also skipped practice yesterday. I explained in the email I sent out that skipping has consequences.”

She pulled out the object from the drawer. It was a glossy, hardwood hairbrush, classically oval shaped and at least an inch thick. It gleamed in the fluorescent lighting like a surgical tool, the mottled, blonde wood appearing smooth and well varnished.

Alex’s mouth fell open. No. No, there was no way.

“Bend back over,” she tapped her thighs with the back of the brush, “skipping practice is thirty licks. If you try to fight or argue, you get thirty more.”

Alex’s outrage was immeasurable. That sadistic bitch was really enjoying this, wasn’t she? The mirth in her eyes, that subtle curl at the edges of her mouth that she was trying to hide. Never before had Alex truly felt like he was helpless, at someone else’s mercy. For some reason, he felt his manhood starting to repressurize. Why is this happening to me? What the hell is my problem?

She tapped the hairbrush against her thigh again. “Thirty-five licks. In ten seconds it‘ll be forty.”

As Alex baby-stepped back across the room, his foreboding mixed with morbid curiosity. A hairbrush. A wooden hairbrush, like in some old movie. How much was this going to hurt? What would the back of the brush feel like as it touched his sensitive cheeks? His stomach was churning. His mind was locked up. His face was the very picture of fear and emasculation. Alex wasn’t even sure what he was feeling as he laid down across Diane Johnston’s ample thighs. His cock was starting to pump itself back up; it was lying straight across her legs, so that the hills and valley of her lap could be felt along its length under her nylon shorts. Last week, he had been worried about Jill noticing his reaction, and that had been through his trousers. There was no way in hell Diane wouldn’t feel that. He wished he was back home. He wished he had gone to Washington State. He wished that he had enlisted and been sent over to Afghanistan. He wished he was feeling anything besides those plump, female thighs cushioning his hips.

Diane rested her hand on his back and gently ran the blade of the hairbrush across his buns. He shivered; it was cold, and so unforgivingly hard. She tapped it against the center of each buttock, making him wince.


The pain was like acid, burning acid. His left buttcheek felt like it had been skinned open and bleeding. His arms, head, and legs flew up in the air, his body vibrating in an attempt to diffuse the force.


His right flank was dipped in the lava too. The hairbrush spanks came down about once every second and a half, as Diane leisurely redefined his concept of pain.





She rubbed the blade of the hairbrush in a circle around his ass. His mouth was gasping like a fish. His fingers and toes curling and uncurling. When Diane resumed the spanking, it was twice as fast, and significantly harder.


She leaned into him harder, squishing his torso, his prick, and her lap together into a sandwich of human flesh. She swung the hairbrush faster, catching him right on the underside of each crimson bubble, making his tight buttocks rebound after each lick. Diane felt the line of stiffness crossing her legs; she decided to hammer it a little deeper into her skin, so she increased the force. Alex howled.

At fifteen, she increased the pace again, moving her arm as fast as she had during the hand spanking. Alex’s naked buns were turning dark crimson, with round, purplish marks on the lower sit spots above his thighs where the hairbrush had fallen most often. His butt was starting to swell. At twenty-five, Alex had lost his ability to control himself; he was crying like a baby, no longer able to speak. Diane stopped to rest the heavy, wooden brush against his undoubtedly tender crowns. She prodded at him a little with her finger; making him jump; ohh, that bottom was putting out some heat alright!

Diane delivered the last ten a bit more slowly, making sure each blow landed squarely in the center of the opposite cheek. At thirty five she put down the brush, massaging her right bicep a little. Alex remained lying over her lap, crying softly, his sit-upon a rainbow of reds and purples. With a self-satisfied smirk, she noted that his erection was gone.

“Are you going to bring that form to the office?” Diane asked sweetly.

Alex shook his disheveled head. Diane patted him affectionately on the butt and picked up the form from the floor where he’d dropped it. He didn’t react when he heard her rip it in half.

“Good boy. There’s a bathroom in the back of my office; go there until you’re ready to leave.”

Alex took a few minutes to wash his face and straighten his hair in the back bathroom. While he was in there, he dared to take a look at his rump in the mirror; dark red, with two purple circles right where he‘d have to put his weight when he sat down. Even the lightest touch to his sit spots burned like a hot coal. He tried splashing cold water on them, but that just made him numb.

After stuffing some soft tissue paper into the back of his boxers, he was able to pull up his pants and underwear and walk - wincing with each step - back to the door. Before he left the bathroom, however, he noticed something hanging on the back wall. It was a long, hardwood paddle, the kind you’d expect from some fraternity hazing stunt, with two rows of holes drilled down its length. It was well over a foot long, and hung on the wall like a trophy. Looking at it, he remembered Diane’s warning about what would happen if he defied her again. He trembled. She wanted me to see that thing. That’s why she sent me back here.

As he left her office, Diane looked up from her desk.

“Don’t forget to take your cushion to classes; you’ll need it for the next few days. I tucked your diet and exercise program into your pocket.”

Alex stopped and looked at her. She was sitting behind her desk, working away at something on her computer. Like any staff member having a normal day at the office.

“I also emailed jill and told her to expect a visit from you. I expect you to make up this week’s session with her before next Thursday. I‘m going to be in touch with her.”

Alex reached into his pocket; the paper was there all right. She must have slipped it into his pocket while she was using the hairbrush.

“Email me your measurements. See you next week.”