“NEXT TIME” by the Crimson Kid
My flattened palm smacked against the seat of Pasquale’s light pajama bottoms at a brisk, steady pace; I could feel his bum-bum cheeks, which were quite firm and fully-rounded for those of a twelve-year-old boy, bounce and squirm under my punitive ministrations as I held my first cousin (“once removed,” to be precise) over my womanly lap and spanked him soundly.
By the end of the three-minute bottom-warming, the good-looking preteen was sobbing softly while teardrops trickled down his face as I pulled him up into a standing position.
“Get that nubbin of a nose into the corner for ten minutes,” I instructed curtly, giving his thinly-covered behind a final sharp slap. “Next time I have to discipline you, sweetie pie, it will be on your bare buns, not to mention for twice as long and quite a bit harder too…Do you understand me, young man?”
He quickly moved into the living room’s one vacant corner, leaning forward to press his nose against both converging walls. “Of course, Aunt Rapunzel,” he affirmed, still sniffling. Then in a half-whisper, he murmured, “But I don’t really believe you.”
I pretended not to have overheard his expression of doubt, and figured that he was convinced that I hadn’t. To a twelve-year-old boy, a woman around twenty years his senior was undoubtedly clueless and close to senile, I told myself. (His “Aunt” form of address to me was honorary, but I did appreciate his mother insisting on it as a form of respect while I was babysitting.)
“Let me reverse your lack of belief in my integrity, Pask,” I addressed the youngster thirty minutes later, while resuming my seated position on the leather hassock where I’d chastised him earlier. I patted my right thigh. “Back across my lap, dear boy, and this time you’ll be bare-bottom-up for a longer, harder fanny-tanning.”
He complied with obvious reluctance. “I was just talking to myself,” he protested as I lowered his pajama pants, in the rear only, to his upper thighs, leaving his plump nether moons nicely exposed.
“Well, I heard you challenge my veracity, so you’ve called my bluff—but as you’re about to discover, I wasn’t bluffing.” The following six minutes were thoroughly enjoyable from my perspective, as my open hand continually cracked down quite forcefully upon my yelping, squealing and eventually weeping victim’s naked buttocks. His facial cheeks were already tearstained by the halfway mark of the punitive proceedings, and his tears were flowing steadily well before the sound spanking was concluded.
I insisted that Pasquale apologize before doing twelve minutes’ worth of cornertime, sobbing with his fire-engine red rump on shameful display. “Ahh-I’m suh-sorry, Aunt Rapunzel, I dih-didn’t think yuh-you’d really puh-pull down m-my PJ bottoms.”
My eyebrows arched. “After you heard your mother tell me that I was free to wallop your hiney, on the bare and even with her walnut paddle if I felt it was deserved, you still didn’t think it could happen?” I propelled him back into the corner with two very smart smacks, one to each shiny nether cheek. “Next time, I will indeed use that butt-whacker on your naked hiney; we both know from personal experience how much it can sting, and I’ll be applying it with extreme prejudice for twice as long as I just spanked you.”
As I shuddered with memories of how my mother’s virtually identical paddle, constructed of smooth, dark hardwood one-half-inch thick with a rounded head, had frequently scorched the exposed posteriors of myself and my younger brother, plus often a hapless male about a decade older than me, during my girlhood, I distinctly heard my cousin mumbling, presumably to himself: “You wouldn’t dare give me a real paddling, I know that.”
So that impertinent young reprobate is currently bent over my knee once again, although this time he’s jackknifed atop my left thigh, while my right leg is pressed down across his kneehollows and my left hand has his right one pinned against his lower back. Propelled by my powerful right arm while grasped by its strong hand, that wicked walnut paddle has been impacting emphatically against the boy’s defenseless derriere for the past six minutes, focused heavily on the fatty ‘sit spots’ at the base of his unprotected buttock rounds.
Pasquale’s precious rear is already glowing with a deep magenta hue, which is darkening with every stinging swat of the hurtful hardwood, while he’s bawling like a baby with his teardrops splashing onto the carpet beneath his flushed face. However, I’m going to keep my promise to administer a twelve-minute, bare-bottom blistering for his long-term benefit, however much he howls and blubbers over my knee; he’s doing so now with increasing shrillness while I’m spanking him with the severity that he’s so richly earned, via calling my bluff a second time.
Why did he do so, was it truly inadvertent or clandestinely intentional? As the old expression goes, “I don’t know and I don’t care.” I’m highly gratified by walloping well-rounded rear ends with vulnerable ‘southern exposure,’ especially boyish ones, so I’m immensely enjoying myself at this moment…