The Jade Runner, Part 13

Tara closed her eyes. It was easy to trust a man with gray hair and honest, blue eyes. Her muscles tensed in response to the sensation of the cool liquid dripping onto her bruised and burning buttocks. She grabbed the edges of the black medical bed and pushed herself upward until a firm hand in the middle of her back pushed her back down. Turning her head to the side, she stared up at the man and tried to relax.

Quinn massaged the liquid into her tortured buttocks, gently kneading her reddened flesh. “I know it hurts,” he said, “but this will help.”

“I know,” Tara said, trying not to wince at his efforts, “I’m a— I mean, I used to be a doctor.”

Quinn added more ointment and continued rubbing it into her cheeks. “The pillory can change a lot of things, especially the way you see the galaxy and the way it sees you, but it doesn’t change who and what you are.”

“I’m not a thief,” she said.

“I know.” He nodded.

“How could you?” she asked, propping up on her elbows to get a better look into his face.

He kept working the ointment into her skin, avoiding looking into her eyes. “I just do.”

Tara considered her situation for a moment and decided she had nothing left to lose. “You’re hiding something from me, and so is the girl.”

Quinn closed the bottle of ointment and turned to put it back in the medicinal cabinet on the wall in front of the bed. “I’m finished,” he said.

She rolled off the bed onto her feet and smoothed her skirt back into place. Her panties laid on a nearby table, but she decided to leave them where they were. She stared at Quinn’s back until he finally turned around to face her. “It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s just that LX did such a good job framing me, my own parents thought I was guilty and yet here I am with you and that girl both telling me you know I’m innocent. How could either of you possibly know that?”

Quinn said, “Because we know the real thief’s identity.”

Tara blinked in confusion. “I didn’t think there was a real thief. I thought it was all manufactured just to get me out of the way.”

“Out of the way?” Quinn asked. An eyebrow raised on his forehead. “Out of the way of what?”

Tara shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it.”

She shook her head. “I’d rather talk about where we’re going and why.”

“Suit yourself,” Quinn said. “We’re headed for a system called Rasa to deliver some supplies they need. It’s nothing too exciting and nothing to be worried about.”

“So you’re privateers,” she said.

Quinn nodded.

“Good,” Tara said, “cause I was thinking you were smugglers considering your familiarity with a thief who apparently got a free ride on me.”

“Nothing quite so glamorous,” Quinn said. “Rasa is a remote system which means our delivery is going to take a few days, but we’ll get a nice load of cash out of it. With your share, you’ll be able to start over any place you like and if you stay off the core worlds, no one will even ask the sort of questions you’ll be wanting to avoid.”

“Why would I get a share?” Tara asked. She gazed into his eyes expecting to find secrets and mystery. If they were there, she couldn’t find them. “What are you people expecting me to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Quinn said. “We just want to help you out.”

“But why?” she asked.

“You got a raw deal,” he said. “Kit wanted to do what she could to make it right and I felt the same.”

Tara asked, “Are you the thieves?”

“I’ve never stolen anything,” Quinn said.

“Alright,” Tara said. “So why was that woman chasing us? Kit said she thought you’d stolen something from her and people don’t jump to those kind of conclusions without reason.”

Quinn said, “The person who used to own this ship didn’t always have ethical dealings. The woman back in the city thought because we we’re on this ship, we were in league with the former owner.”

“But you’re not,” she said.

Quinn wavered, swinging his head lightly from side to side. “It’s not that simple. We weren’t, but circumstances changed. We’re not doing anything illegal though.”

“Was that woman with the police?” Tara asked.

“No.”

“So what are these supplies we’re carrying?” she asked.

“Pharmaceuticals,” he said. “Rasa is apparently in desperate need.”

Tara’s hackles raised. “I imagine that means they could use an extra doctor too.”

Quinn nodded. “I would expect so, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Tara snorted a half laugh. “I’m going to get some rest. It sounds like I’ll need it.”

She left the medical bay and Quinn behind. A few doors down she found an empty room with a bed and stepped inside. She listened by the door until she heard Quinn leave the medical bay and enter the elevator. Alone on the deck, she made her way forward and found the stairwell leading down into the cargo bay. It could all be a coincidence and it was possible the girl and her gray haired friend were just trying to help, but her gut told her such coincidences were unlikely. When she saw the crates and confirmed what was inside, she knew the truth; Her saviors were nothing of the sort. They were smugglers and they were working for LX.

The GIH Solution

It’s solution time! That’s right folks, today we’ll take a virtual walkthrough and discover all those pesky (apparently grotesque and unrecognizable) implements. For all those who played along privately, I hope you enjoy the tour and for everyone else... well, there will be a new story up on Monday.

So, starting on the deck (yep, that’s wood plank decking outside the apartment and it’s supposed to be brown, of the milk chocolate variety) there are two pieces to capture your attention. The first, I’ve called the perch and it would be an extra credit disciplinary tool for all those who were looking for things beyond the basic 20. Essentially, the perch is a nice (or is that unpleasant) place for a spanked schoolgirl to stand with her bare (and likely red) bottom on display for all her dorm / housing mates. More details on that will come in the upcoming stories.

Second, still on the deck, is a nice (are those daisies?) welcome mat. You probably know the sort (unless you live in a cave. Please don’t be insulted if you do.) with the prickly green stuff (no, I don’t know what it’s called, do you?) that would be (cause I swear I’ve never had the experience, honest) incredibly uncomfortable to kneel upon after or even before or far, far worse during, a spanking. (Yeah that was very nearly and quite probably a run-on and 0n and on and on sentence.)

That’s all (folks!) for the outside at least. Let’s take a step inside and see what we see. (Okay, right, I’ll see what I see and you see what you see cause sharing eyes is a little more intimate that we probably are or want to be.)

In case you were wondering, that’s ceramic tile below your virtual feet. (Isn’t it pretty?) I know, I know you aren’t looking at the floor cause there is stuff on the virtual table that’s really caught your eye. Yep on the table, on the left by the window (yes the blue streak is a window or a virtual one anyway) lays a rattan cane (or as I call them, a “rotten” cane). That’s the first of the twenty for those keeping track.

I’m sure the lovely bouquet of flowers in the center of the table has kept you distracted (or maybe it was the cane or the plates or the glasses or the flatware or the horrible depictions of all of thee above), but sitting (no there really isn’t a butt in the chairs) on the right, bottom (still no butts here) of the table is a glorious, world champion’s ping-pong paddle. (Okay maybe it was only campus champion, and in the nerd league to boot, but a champ is a champ or is that a chimp?) I never knew this, but (still no butts) apparently the color of a ping-pong paddle can be imparted onto skin and this is particularly so for red ones, hence this paddle is red because I’m sure no one here has a fetish about blue, green, orange, or yellow butts. (Yep, it’s all about the red bottoms, butts, behinds, backsides, booties, and bums.) Ping-paddle is number two of twenty.

Walking forward a little, we, or at least I, discover a kitchen sink. (Yes, that’s right, not only did I include twenty plus implements, but I threw in the kitchen sink as well.) Now, on the counter, next to the kitchen sink, are three very easily discovered (if not recognized) implements. Starting next to the black box (no it’s not part of a downed airplane telling inspectors what happened in the last thirty seconds of flight) the first is supposed to be a leather tawse. It’s of the two tail variety and I’m guessing it’s next to the sink because it’s just been oiled (probably not with Crisco since no one is on that perch outside). This is our 3rd of twenty disciplinary tools laying around.

Keep going to the right, past the dirty coffee mug and glasses (if they aren’t dirty they really shouldn’t be sitting out on the counter, now should they?) a rather obvious kitchen spanking implement known as a wooden spoon lays conveniently next to the sink. That would be disciplinary tool number four of twenty.

Crossing over the sink, on the right edge of the stainless steel water pit, is a spatula. Looks like it’s the type with a rubber end, great for licking (chocolate cake batter preferred by me, but I think you all know the other kind of licking it gives). So, wood handled, rubber tipped spatula make five of twenty.

And that covers the entry / kitchen area of the apartment.

As we leave the kitchen and enter the main room of the apartment, there are two study (well that’s what most desks at college campuses are used for, isn’t it?) desks. The desk on the left features a lamp, a computer monitor, a book, a notepad, and a pencil. Now what among those innocuous items could possibly have anything to do with discipline? (Okay, so no one reading this is probably having any trouble coming up with the answer to that, but I had to ramp up the suspense some how.) The book, notepad and pencil can be used together for the purpose of writing dull, repetitious phrases in an effort to implode the poor schoolgirl’s mind. (Sure, implosion is a bit strong or strict, but copying out of a book is not only incredibly boring, but it could be detrimental to a schoolgirl’s college career if she decides to do so at the wrong time, like say for finishing homework.) Those three item together make number six of twenty.

The desk on the right is similar to the desk on the left. (Life is fair and balanced until it isn’t. This is a common factor in teacher mentality when dealing with troublesome students. Don’t ask me how I know.) I’m sure the missing book catches your eagle-like awareness. Still a pad of paper and a pencil can be used to write a line (predefined by an uptight, nasally inclined professor) over and over and over and over and over and.... well you get the picture and if you don’t just right click and select save image to disk and you will. That would be unlucky number seven of twenty.

Also, sitting on the desk on the lower right edge is a ruler. It’s not a yardstick, I swear. For those who know (and if you’re reading here, I think you know) a ruler, especially a wooden ruler, is a good way to make a schoolgirl measure up. She can check the length of her skirt, the straightness of her lines, and the distance between two points, but of course that’s not the kind of measuring we’re talking about, now is it? The ruler would be (and is) number eight of twenty.

If you found anything else at the desks, I think your stretching, but I suppose the monitors could be used for punishment if you made the poor schoolgirl watch a dreadful movie or look at spanking pictures. The lamps might be another option if you like making “burn” a reality, but that’s probably a little over the top and really sheds light on your sadistic tendencies. As for the chairs, well I think short of, and you might actually need to be tall, bending over the back of them, they don’t really offer up anything useful to the disciplinary process. Well, I guess you could take them away and make the poor girls stand at their desks, but then the chairs really aren’t a disciplinary tool, just their absence.

Moving on into the apartment and turning our virtual backs to the virtual desks, there exist two virtual beds among other things. The first bed, the one on the left, (yeah the rectangular shaped thingy) has a nice little chest of drawers at its foot. (Don’t ask me how or why beds got feet, but I promise it has nothing to do with my drawing, or lack thereof, skills.) On top of the chest of drawers, there are two implements.

On the left is what was supposed to be a leather strap. It’s short and fat and has a metal hanging loop on one end. Now I’m guessing some might have thought it was a belt, although any schoolgirl that wears a belt that short and fat, needs weight counselling (and we aren’t talking about losing it, unless you were talking about her mind). Straps sting, hurt and should really only be used for spanking because I don’t plan on including any bondage in the story. The strap, leather and brown, is nine of twenty.

Laying over on the right side of the chest of drawers is a grooming tool that often doubles as a disciplinary tool. If you guessed hairbrush, you’re smarter than the average bear, if not, don’t feel too bad, you probably just need to brush. Hairbrushes are wickedly evil implements because they are supposed to be a girl’s best friend (not counting diamonds) but when they start swing with the hard backside (talking about the brush not the girl) it’s like getting stabbed (stung?) in the back (backside?). The hairbrush makes ten of twenty and we’re halfway done. Let’s all take a break here, throw our arms up in the air (not literally unless yours naturally detach) and do a little dance (hopefully not the naughty, “I’ve been spanked red hot” dance or I guess some of you might be hoping to see that dance too).

Done with the first chest of drawers, let’s take a walk down the left side between the closet and the bed. See those cool clothes laying out on the bed? I was really pleased with how they came out, but they do suggest a question don’t they? I mean if the clothes are out on the bed and there isn’t a girl around, where is she and what is she wearing? Was there maybe twenty-one implements in the apartment? Is she under the bed, hiding in the closet, or just a figment of my imagination? All great, wonderful, insightful questions, but we aren’t here to answer those kind of questions, we’re taking a virtual tour and finding the twenty implements, so keep focused or I might have to use one of those implements on you.

Seriously (cause I’m always serious except when I’m breathing), on the bed you might have spied a curious object that mommy might have swung once or twice, especially if she wasn’t the dearest. It’s not wire, but rather a wooden hanger. Is that not the most appropriate implement when the schoolgirl has left her clothes just laying around? Just nod your head and say that’s eleven of twenty.

On the other side of the bed, there is a night stand. (No, that’s not where naughty girls stand all night.) It houses an alarm clock, cause you can’t very well discipline a girl for not rising on time if she has nothing to wake her up but the sun. There is also a lamp (yeah that’s what the weird round and ridged thingy is) and then on the left is a shoe sole-- uh, I mean a leather paddle. Round leather paddles like that are really not so bad as far as implements go. Sure they sting and slap and turn things red, but who would hold that against them? The leather paddle is twelve of twenty.

Lying next to the lamp on the right side of the night stand is a fly swatter. When things get to buzzing or when a girl is just simply bugging, nothing beats a fly swatter (Too bad the same can’t be said for the schoolgirl’s bum). Now, I recommend using a brand new, never been used to swat, squash or otherwise maime or kill a living annoying pest. The thought of a fly’s guts getting smacked into my or anyone else’s bottom is just gross. (You’re welcome for the disgusting imagery.) The swatter makes thirteen of twenty.

Turning to the bed on the right we see, or at least I do, another chest of drawers with fun stuff on top. Look to the top edge and you’ll see a black thingamajig. For the cruel and unimaginative it might appear to be a power cord or extension cord. It’s not. Some folks call it a loopy-johnny (Nope, not talking about your neighbor’s kid) while others call it simply the loop. It’s wicked and leaves marks like a horse trampled your butt (not that I would know, swear). So we’ll call the loop (and maybe your neighbor’s kid) fourteen of twenty.

Wound up and also sitting atop the chest of drawers, albeit on the lower edge, is an actual (well virtual, actual) belt. Keeps the pants up or keeps them down, depending on who is using it. This one seems more like it would work with a pair of shorts or jeans rather than a skirt, so we’ll guess it’s purely there for disciplinary measures (not that it doubles as a tape measure).The belt is number fifteen of twenty.

On the lower side of the bed is a pair of purple slippers. They usually keep feet warm, but on occasion they keep other parts of the booty body warm. Not a bad (well speaking not of the girl’s behavior at least) way to go if say a schoolgirl were out past curfew or a little late to rise in the morning. The pair of slippers will be counted just once, although arguably each slipper could be used independently, making them sixteen of twenty.

Resting on the pillow is some hard wood (and we aren’t talking about a guy). It’s called a paddle and this one looks fit to row a boat up (oar or down) sh*t’s creek. The paddle has got to be a favorite in school spanking stories, especially the U.S. variety (Yes, we know the cane is favored elsewhere and have nothing against it, except the marks it leaves, but then we have that against most of the more serious implements). Hard wooden paddle on the pillow (it’s almost ironic) makes seventeen of twenty and finishes off the main room.

Time to go to the bathroom. What? You don’t need a pit stop? Fine, fine, let’s just all go together. (If you’re expecting a peepshow, you’re on the wrong blog.) As soon as you get inside you look over to the vanity and if you’re really smart, you’ll notice the hairbrush hiding in plain sight. Call it a cheat if you will, since we already had one hairbrush, but hairbrush number two (get your head out of the sewer, just cause we’re in the bathroom doesn’t mean number two refers to anything special) is disciplinary tool number eighteen of twenty.

Move in a little farther and look on top of the toilet tank. If you guessed it was a toilet brush sitting there, you’d be wrong. It’s a bath brush and conveniently laid out to be grabbed from inside the shower. Of course no one wants to feel that thing slapping there bare bottom while it’s (could be there bottom or the brush, take your pick) wet. The bath brush makes nineteen of twenty.

Inside the shower is a little green bar of soap. It looks little here and seems very sanitary and appropriate, but when it’s slipping (suds, slime, and shavings all being left behind) in and out of your mouth, it looks a bit different. Bad words and bad attitudes can get this old-fashioned discipline tool into modern use. The bar of soap is implement twenty of twenty.

Did you find them all? Did you find any of the extras like the liquid soap next to the bathroom sink? Did you find any that I didn’t mention? Did you have a little fun? Well, I did and I hope you all did as well. The Jade Runner returns on Monday as I go back to school. For now, The Jade Runner will post on Mondays and I’ll try to share something else on Fridays, but I can’t promise anything regular at the moment and yes, I know I owe a few emails and some replies to the comments which I’ll get to in the near future.

Thanks for reading and commenting,
Ash

Good Implement Hunting

Some places are just made for spanking. This small apartment layout is an excellent example and even before I decided to lay out a few extra implements, it was already full of possibilities. The layout belongs to a story environment for a small isolated and private university where plenty of authority figures will wield many of the implements found in the image above (for the purpose of correcting naughty schoolgirls, of course, because they would not do it for personal pleasure or enjoyment). Two girls would live in the apartment, treated in most respects as a dorm room, although I doubt they would keep such a convenient collection of implements so easily accessible to any visitors who might happen to stop for a visit or room inspection. I'm a little behind in finishing the first group of stories for this series, but I expect to have them ready for you in the somewhat near future.

In the meantime, why not have a little fun?

How many spanking or spanking related goodies do you see? Can you find the 20 disciplinary tools / implements (The truly devious may even find a few more) ready for use inside the apartment?

Leave a comment listing all the goodies you found and on Friday, I'll post up the answer key and congratulate those with the most interesting and complete lists.

HINT: You'll probably have an easier time finding things if you click on the image to open it up larger.

The Jade Runner, Part 12

Kit took a deep breath and considered her options. She wasn’t willing to allow Tara to stay behind. “We can help each other,” she said. “Whatever your life was yesterday, it’s gone now and neither you nor I can change that, but I can offer you a tomorrow. Maybe, like me, you want to expose LX for what they are to the galaxy or maybe you want to forget they ever existed. Either way, coming with me now gives you the chance to make the choice you want to make.”

“I have a life here,” Tara said. She looked out into the dark streets searching for something familiar.

Kit softened her voice and looked at the ground. “You had a life.” She raised her eyes to meet Tara’s. “If you have someone here who will help you, who can still see you for the person you are and not the criminal that was locked in the pillory, then you have a reason to stay, but if not, give me a chance to help you.”

Tara suppressed welling tears and locked her jaw. “What’s in it for you?”

“Redemption,” Kit said. “Now, I have to go. Come or stay? The choice is now.”

Kit walked out the alcove and paused in the street. She held her breath hoping to hear the sound of footsteps following her. When she thought it was certain Tara wasn’t coming a hand touched her shoulder. Kit spun to see Tara standing behind her.

Tara said, “Alright, I’m coming.”

Kit smiled. They rushed down the street toward the escalators that would take them to the Entertainment sector’s sub-level. There were loading docks, meant for supply deliveries, but in the evening hours as it was, the docks would be mostly empty. Kit had arranged to meet Quinn and hopefully her ship there, so long as nothing had gone wrong. Tara kept pace with Kit despite her physical exhaustion for having stood in one place for a full day and having not slept in nearly two days.

Just as they reached the escalator an energy bolt exploded on the handrail. Kit and Tara tumbled on the stairs nearly falling halfway toward the bottom before catching themselves on the moving steps. Kit pulled her pistol out and twisted her body in order to view the escalator’s top landing. Even in the dim lighting Kit recognized the face at the top; Red headed bimbo with a pistol. Kit aimed and fired.

The red head dove to the side, firing a shot of her own in Kit’s direction. The energy bolt missing, fizzling instead on the stair just above her head. Kit jumped to her feet, pulling Tara with her. They ran the short distance remaining to the lower level and turned the corner on the escalator just in time to miss another energy bolt exploding on the landing.

“I think you forgot to tell me something,” Tara shouted as they ran.

Kit weaved around a support pillar just as another shot hit the pillar. She glanced at Tara, relieved to see her keeping up and relatively unharmed. “She thinks I have something of hers.”

“Do you?” Tara asked, as they slipped around a corner that kept them out of line of sight from the red head.

“No,” Kit said, “not that she cares and it probably doesn’t help that I made her look bad in front of her subordinates earlier today.”

They kept running weaving around as many corners as they could and still stay on track for the loading docks. Behind them, the red head kept coming as well, firing bolts of energy anytime she even caught a glimpse of them. Kit didn’t spend much time thinking about it but, she realized the lack of authorities swarming the area meant whoever the red head’s boss was, he had a lot of power and influence.

The roar of ship thrusters refocused Kit’s attention. A glimpse beyond the end of the sub-platform revealed the Griffinscape moving into position for their rendezvous. Kit grabbed Tara’s arm and pulled her in the direction of the correct dock. They slipped through the arched doorway as another bolt from the red head’s pistol exploded nearby.

Quinn stood at the top of the ramp watching the sparks fly behind Kit and Tara. He pumped his rifle and aimed at the doorway. As Kit and Tara reached the ramp, he fired a blast over their heads into the doorway, catching the red head as she turned the corner. The wave of force hurled her back through the doorway and into the steel wall eight feet behind it.

The three rode the elevator to the Griffinscape’s control deck, making quick introductions. On the fourth floor, Kit exited the elevator first, leaving Quinn to tend to Tara. She rushed to the helm controls and pushed Rex out of the way. His eyes said he was annoyed, but he took the co-pilot’s seat without a word. Kit piloted the ship out of the loading dock and swerved into a quick ascent as soon the ship cleared the traffic zones of the city.

Upon breaking orbit, Kit turned to Rex. “Where are we headed?”

“Rasa,” he said.

Kit raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of it.”

Rex nodded. “It’s only been colonized about a hundred years. They got their first gateway just three years ago.”

Kit relaxed in the pilot’s chair. A long journey wasn’t what she had in mind, but it was better than sticking around. “So it’s remote,” she said.

“Yeah, but not too bad. Take the gate to the Barfora system and we can get to Rasa from there,” Rex said.

Kit nodded and set course for the appropriate gate orbiting the planet. There weren’t any customs checkpoints for going to Barfora and that would make things simple. Of course, it also made her wonder what exactly they were transporting. She should have asked before, but it hadn’t seemed important at the time. The Griffinscape had privateer registry and Rex called himself a privateer. His personality fit a different profile though and all the facts were pointing toward one likely conclusion; Rex Baxter was a smuggler and Kit was about to become one.

The Sore Loser

Her clothing laid in a pile on the floor and her arms were crossed in front of her naked chest. She frowned at her opponent, standing on the opposite side of the pool table. He still held a cue stick in his hand, the butt resting on the toe of his polished black boot while he chalked the tip. She huffed indignation in his general direction. All things considered, she found his lack of interest rude.

“Don’t pout,” he said.

Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek for the briefest of seconds. “You cheated,” she said.

“We had a deal.” He laid the chalk cube on the edge of the table before focusing his gaze on her. “You lost.”

Her eyes flicked to the partially drawn shade and the afternoon sun glistening in through the window. Parked cars filled the street in front of the house, but there appeared to be no one in the immediate vicinity. “It wasn’t a fair bet.”

“You shouldn’t gamble,” he said, “if you’re not willing to accept the consequences of losing.”

She frowned at him. “I didn’t lose.”

He took carefully measured steps around the table, closing the distance between them until the table no longer hindered his view of her naked body. “Then why are you naked?”

She cocked her head at him. “You’re the one who told me to strip.”

His eyes laughed. “Do you always do everything you’re told?”

“Like you were going to just give me my car keys and let me leave if I refused,” she said.

“There are consequences to the choices we make,” he said.

She shook her head at him. “Just get it over with.”

“Alright,” he said and tapped the blue felt of the table with the tip of his cue stick, “lay flat.”

Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling and she sighed. She placed her palms flat on the table’s edge and pushed herself upward, kneeling on the edge of the table. A moment later she eased herself down on the blue felt, shepherding the majority of loose balls in front of her and out of the way.

He laid his cue stick on the felt next to her. His steady fingers unfastened his belt buckle and he pulled the wide leather free of his pant loops with a fast and firm tug. The leather folded easily in half and he took position beside the table in easy reach of her bare buttocks. He smiled to himself admiring the soft roundness rising up from his pool table like a pair of milky white hills.

“This will sting,” he said. “Try not to kick my table.”

She exaggerated a yawn. “Maybe I should take a nap while you prepare yourself.”

He flicked the belt through the air, zinging it down against her cheeks. The sound of the impact fell flat with more thud than snap. Her buttocks bounced in the aftermath and a single red stripe rose up to decorate their central peaks. He flicked the belt again and this time it impacted with a loud, satisfying snap. A second red stripe rose parallel to the first, only brighter.

She gasped and blinked back tears stinging at her eyes.

The belt flashed through the air and snapped against her buttocks ten more times before he stopped. Each lash of the folded leather bit sharper into her fleshy bottom and bounced it harder. The red stripes overlapped each other until the central whole of her buttocks appeared as one wide stripe of redness. She kept her legs still and stayed down on the blue felt. The tears remained dammed in her eyes.

He ran his fingers through her long hair and bent down to kiss her soft cheek. “You can take that nap now,” he said, “if you like.”

She kept her lips flat, but her eyes were full of happy mischief. “Maybe I will, though it seems no matter what I do on this pool table, you always beat me.”

He laughed. “I can’t help it,” he said, “you’re such a good sore loser.”