Spanking Samantha (Chapter 9, M/F daydreams, F/F)
Previously on “Spanking Samantha”:
Ginger gives Samantha a painful jammies-down spanking, then it’s off to the guest bedroom for a heart-to-heart talk. The Sore Sisters have a sense of humor, but it’s not a sit-down act.
Ellie’s ottoman is the setting for Kim’s first spanking. It’s more than she bargained for. Ellie ponders a life of mouth-breathing.
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All that talk in the bar about Samantha’s spanked bottom had gotten Molly Roth worked up.
A grown woman skirt-down over her baby sister’s knee? That was hot. SHAKE your booty!
Especially Sam! She had all these important friends and important responsibilities and important decisions to make. Like me! Kind of. I got promoted to Supervisor last year. I have to keep people focused and motivated all day, and listen to this one complain about that one, and I just got through that whole mortgage refinance hassle, and looking in on Aunt Phyllis twice a week, and Hadassah committees twice a month, and GOD! that was sexy.
Strands of the alcohol-enhanced conversation kept running through her mind as she drove home. “… Sam in THE POSITION … little tennis skirt slipped right off … naughty-girl spanking on her bare bottom … If she pulls another stunt …”
She imagined attentive well-groomed men making not-so-veiled threats to teach her some manners.
Colin – yes, he’ll be Colin, with a ruddy face and big hands – Colin waits impatiently for an explanation.
The one who smells really good, really masculine, politely requests that she peel down her jeans; he has had quite enough of her nonsense.
“Don’t make me say it a second time”, warns the handsome handyman.
Johnny Depp falls at last in love with Molly the frontier barmaid, whose heart of gold is revealed during a disciplinary session under the autumn aspens.
She flirts with Dangerous Dan, tangos pantyless on the veranda with Risky Ricardo.
“If you’re not over my knee by the time I count to five…” threatens the muscular tour guide beside the vineyard. The French vineyard. “Un … Deux … Trois …” Andre pursues her through the ripening fruit. “…Dix-huit, Dix-neuf…”
She squeals when he catches her. Hours later, they climax simultaneously beneath the stars. “Je t’aime.”
She dashed inside and swigged a shot of Tanqueray straight from the bottle. “Shit. They’re right. I do gawk at every nice piece of ass I see.”
“Meow?”
“Okay, sweetie. You hungry? Mommy will feed you now.”
Elijah traced figure-eights through her ankles, mewing as Molly scraped the can of Arctic Feast – or whatever it was – into his glass dish. Phew! How can you eat this? Elijah? Stop! You’ll make me spill it. Oh crap, I got some on my sleeve. Here, Elijah.
She dabbed salt and seltzer on the small stain. “God! I get horny when the fucking cat rubs my leg.”
She caressed the gin bottle and guzzled tall swallows, pretending she was gulping semen from her lover’s pulsing erection. She had been a very naughty girl, but Adam – no, Joshua – knew exactly what to do with young ladies who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. She licked the last sticky drops from the Tanqueray bottle through pouty lips. “Josh? Would you rub my butt, please honey? It’s so sore.” Joshua was not angry.
Elijah lost interest and trotted off to the living room for his bath.
Molly set the coffeemaker for 6:30, brushed her teeth, got undressed.
She conducted a brief midyear performance review before the bathroom mirror. Round, shapely, good color. The dimple is a nice touch. Could be firmer; that’s an area for improvement. But overall, a cute tushy. Very spankable. Meets expectations.
She slipped into her nightgown and checked her e-mail, which turned into Google searches linked to porn sites featuring nipple clamps and caned English schoolgirls who have been caught smoking or have failed malevolently difficult geography tests. She tried some advanced nested queries.
She dashed off a quick ad seeking a self-supporting Lancelot, no dependents, race unimportant, who could sweep a mischievous 28YO attractive SJF, brown/brown, off her feet and over his lap. Spanks a lot :), Molly.
She went to bed. Ten minutes later, she was on her belly, butt raised high to meet the stern blows from Colin’s – no, Joshua’s – cordovan belt, masturbating furiously.
In the morning, there were six disgusting messages in her in-box.
She called the local alternative free weekly newspaper.
“Hello? I’d like to place an ad. In the personals. How does that ‘leave a message’ thing work? Is it just like voice-mail?” She described herself as “sophisticated but undisciplined”.
That afternoon, she went to the studio interview and had her laugh at Kim’s innocent self-flagellation. So it was Ginger who’d gotten her bottom warmed! Very interesting. She was pretty sure she’d prefer getting spanked by a guy, but maybe Heather’s a backup plan. Let’s see what turns up.
On the way home, she concocted scenarios that might lead to a satisfying same-sex encounter. She only wanted to see men with their pants down. But GETTING spanked by a woman? Maybe. Not the same, but maybe. Just a disciplinary reminder and maybe some genital manipulation, not a red-ass special. Heather’s no prude. She might.
“I’ll feed you in a minute, Elijah.”
There were three dozen disgusting responses in her in-box.
She re-worked the ad. Cautious, relatively inexperienced, friends first, no weirdocytes. She set the digital camera on a tripod. On one site, she uploaded an apple-cheeked smiling snapshot from her cousin’s bridal shower. On another, curious gentlemen could consider the merits of a shapely bared midriff, an amply filled brassiere, and a hand holding up a white cotton sweater. The third site displayed a hairbrush and a ruler atop the jeans-down panty-clad backside of a woman (c’est moi!) gripping an off-camera towel bar.
Molly knew a thing or two about market segmentation.
The next day, there were 86 messages in her in-box. Half disgusting, half lying.
The Progressive hit the nightclubs and the bookstores and the Starbucks Thursday evening.
She had eight voice-mails by morning. A foul-mouthed teenager, a loser, a wanker, four maybes, and Mister Perfect. A 29-year-old attorney, likes children, cats, and swimming.
Oh, Josh! Let’s do laps!
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Samantha was on her tummy in the middle of the queen-sized guest bed when Ginger arrived with a tray of herbal tea and a half-used container of floral skin lotion.
“I don’t want to hear a peep out of you, Sam. It’s from Walgreen’s, but it works just fine. Lift up.”
Samantha dropped trou. Ginger gave the bottle a shake and rubbed a large dollop of lotion between her palms. “Ready? It’s a little cool.”
“Good.”
Ginger wiped a palm across the sorest-looking part of each cheek and worked the lotion in with gentle spiral strokes. “Looks like someone got a spanking.”
“Don’t make fun of me. Ow. Careful!”
“Still a little tender? It does have that nice red hot-off-the-lap look.”
“Thanks to you.”
“No, Sam. Thanks to you. You’re the one who earned it.”
“You should see it when Mom gets through with me.”
Ginger wiped her hands on a dishrag. “Yeah, what’s all that about? Aren’t you a little old to be getting hauled across Mommy’s lap?”
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Samantha!” She pressed a palm into the small of her sister’s back. “Are you feeling unmotivated alr
eady?”
“Come on. Quit it.”
“No. Some tea and some lotion doesn’t mean it’s over. I want to know what’s going on.”
They started (“Oh!”) when the phone rang.
“Yeah, she’s here, Bill. She’s not in so
me dark alley. Stop worrying.”
Samantha shook her head “no” and waved off the call.
“She says she doesn’t want to talk … I know … I heard … It was just a story. I’m sorry it caused such a commotion. You know how families are – especially us. We’re working that out right now … Uh huh.”
“So you never spanked my wife?”
(“Son of a BITCH”, Ginger thought. “Not ‘you’re sure she’s okay?’ Not ‘I’m coming over’. Just ‘did my country club wife get spanked?'”)
“Actually, Bill, I DID spank her.”
Samantha gasped and flashed a “How COULD you?” look at Ginger.
“No. Just now. In fact, I’m looking at her nice spanked bottom right now.”
Sam hit the floor, yanked up her pajama bottoms, and ran to Ginger’s bedroom.
“Really? Well, she has some issues, in case you hadn’t noticed. In fact, Mom’s been spanking her for years. Did you know about that?”
As Samantha slammed the bedroom door, she hollered back, “Oh, GOD! Ginger! NO!”
“Hear that, Bill?”
Bill hung up on her.
“Samantha, get out here!”
“NO!” She was crying.
“Samantha, it had to be done. You can’t carry that around.”
“Go aWAY!”
Ginger popped the flimsy lock on her bedroom door with a paper clip. “Samantha! You get out here right now, or I’ll give you something to really cry about.”
Bill Parker didn’t bother knocking when he got to Ginger’s front door twenty minutes later.
He could hear Samantha’s muffled sobs coming from upstairs. “Jesus!”
He ran to the back of the building. The light was on in Ginger’s bedroom.
The hoarse anguished cries burst in sudden crescendos. “No-o-o. Of course not…” trailed off to near-silence.
He cupped both ears.
“…Of COURSE I let her…….”
“…don’t KNOW why……”
Was that “attention”? “I needed some attention?”
The wailing confession subsided.
He ducked behind a tree when a female silhouette pulled back the bedroom curtain. It looked around, saw nothing, and turned back toward where the bed would be. The backlit outline straightened its hair from front to back. It held this weary posture for a moment.
Then it waggled its free arm toward the bed.
“…if you know what’s good for you.”
One of THOSE gestures.
“If I hear one more word out of you…”
“You just wait ’til your father gets home…”
That’s a hairbrush she’s waving at my wife!
The room went dark.
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Ginger shuffled down to the kitchen for leftover chamomile tea and cigarettes by candlelight.
“Hey, I got spanked today, too. Do I get lotion on my ass? No. She can’t even ask me what happened! Five whole hours, and she’s not the least bit curious. Just me me me. That’s Samantha!
“Lock the door, Ginger. Save me, Ginger. Don’t spank me again, Ginger. I’d like some tea, Ginger.
“Thanks for the lotion, Ginger. Want me to do yours? Looks nasty. Who did this to you? What happened?
“No. I’m Samantha. MY problems are what matters. MY fucked-up secrets. I’M running for City Council. YOU’RE an office peon. Who cares if you got your fanny warmed? Me me me!
“But no one can know that I’ve been going over Mommy’s knee for twelve or thirteen years, ’cause then they’d know how fucked up I am.
“Why do you let her spank you, Mrs. Parker? Aren’t you too old to be having Mom peel down your panty-hose?
“Oh, I don’t LET her spank me, Muffy and Buffy and Trixie. I WANT her to pull up my dress and paddle my bottom with a hairbrush fifty or sixty times. Maybe more! Who keeps track? Maybe it’s a HUNDRED and fifty. Who cares?
“I just want a good long cry and a tender stinging tush. ‘Cause that’s the only way I get to feel ANYTHING.
“And it doesn’t matter that I go home with a blistered ass, because my husband never looks at it anyway!
“Oh, yes, I used to have feelings. I was crazy about that guy in college. Ryan Teator. God, he was smart and idealistic and fun and crazy. We’d be up half the night talking about how to stop AIDS in Africa, or foreign policy after the Berlin Wall, or … just everything! I’d be giving him head, and he’d be analyzing Shakespeare’s history plays.
“But Mother didn’t like him. He’s from California. Fancy ideas will get you nowhere. Look at how he dresses!
“And that’s when the spankings started up again. Every time I went home. All summer long.
“And you can guess the rest. I married the man she picked. And a year later, I was dead.
“And I joined this and I did that, and every few weeks I’d go over to Mom’s to mouth off or be an asshole or whatever I had to do to earn another trip to lapland. ‘What are you gonna do, spank me?’ Whack whack whack. ‘Maybe this will teach you some manners.’ Whack whack whack. It’s the only thing I’ve felt for thirteen years.
“And that’s why I couldn’t tell Bill. Or anyone else. And why I hated YOU, Ginger. ‘Cause I’m so fucked up you look normal.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
Samantha had quieted down. The house was still.
Ginger rinsed the tea mugs and headed up the stairs.
“Ten years of therapy, and I’m the one who has to pry it all out of you.”
She cracked her bedroom door. Sam was sleeping on her tummy in the middle of the bed.
Ginger slid under the covers. “Sammie. Slide over.”
“Mmph.”
“Sam! Come on.”
“I don’t wanna go home.”
“You can stay here. Make some room.”
She nudged Sam’s arm. Then her hip. Then she raised the covers.
Sam lay naked on her forearms. She pulled her hands out from her crotch, rolled to her side, and draped a leg across Ginger’s thighs.
“Mm-mm. That was even better than Mom’s spankings.”
A feminine-fragrant finger traced the outline of Ginger’s parted lips.
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In the morning, Bill Parker left an envelope marked “Samantha” on the front door and three packed suitcases on the back porch.
He canceled the joint credit cards and withdrew half the cash from the bank accounts.
He called a locksmith and a lawyer.
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Next on “Spanking Samantha”:
Six weeks later. Who’s zoomin’ who?