Tuesday, June 29, 2010

The Spanking Days of Summer: He Was Wrong

There was a smugness about him and I rebelled to it. He sat behind the desk, a cheap aluminum signet of his position with a laminated wood finish decorating its top. The cushion torn chair supporting his significant stature creaked and groaned with his every move. I sat across from him in a straight backed, straight legged, aluminum framed chair with a coffee brown cushion matching the desk’s laminate. My arms crossed in front of my chest. He stared as if he thought his eyes would intimidate me into submission. He was wrong.
“Why did you do it?” he asked, nodding at my purse laying open on his desk.
I kept quiet. The room felt too secluded and his intensity left me uneasy with regards to his intentions. He had in fact grabbed me and dragged me. No one had interfered because he wore the uniform of an official security guard. The assumption was simply made by our respective appearances, but appearances can be deceiving. Were he the guard he purported himself to be, he would have lifted the handset from his almond colored phone and called the police. Instead, he tore my purse out of my hands and dumped its contents on the desk between us. He was wrong.
“I’ve seen your kind before,” he said. “Spoiled little rich kid with too much time on your hands and not a clue what discipline means.”
You might think he would look at my driver’s license spilled out onto his desk. If he had, he would have realized I was an adult, my eighteenth birthday having past only a few days earlier. His eyes were too busy staring at me. I shivered as much at the cold air flowing out of the overhead vent as the repulsion of his gaze drifting over my curves. My bandeau tube top and jean shorts were starting to feel like a bad idea under his leering eyes. He leaned back in his chair, smiling as if he had won some crucial battle. He was wrong. 

Friday, June 25, 2010

Broken Vase, Bared Bottom

Franny throws the best parties. Everyone knows it, but to actually get invited to one was the event of my year. You see, Franny and I went to school together and we were such good friends we could pass each other in the hall and never know it. Back then, I really did not care, but these days, who you know is a little more important and knowing Franny is good for my career. That is where Craig fits in; He used to date Franny, but now he dates me and somehow he managed to stay friends with her. Talk about good fortune.

“Are you ready?” I asked Craig, standing in his living room.

He said, “Give me five minutes and we’ll be out the door.”

I shrugged. Usually it is me we are waiting on and he is not very patient at those times, but I figured a little good behavior now could buy me a little lateness later. I turned my attention to his bookshelf. He collects all kinds of crazy things, knickknacks and random books on everything from Vampires to Ancient Chinese Weapons. A vase caught my attention with a horribly, ugly arrangement of silk flowers sticking out of it. I lifted it off the shelf and musingly turned it in my hands trying to figure out if the flowers were permanently attached or something he added.

Would you believe the thing fell from my hands and smashed on the floor? I stood there staring at it. The shards on the floor, the dust rising from the scene and the reverberating noise of the crash replaying itself in my ears, all told me it was real. I blinked, I pinched myself, I stomped my foot on the floor, but nothing would make the disaster retract itself. That is when I heard his footsteps.

“What the hell happened?” He asked.

I looked at him and the mess on the floor. There was no good answer to his question. I shrugged and stared at the floor. He stepped closer to the mess and pointed at it on the floor. I shook my head. He stood there staring into my eyes, blinking at me. I shrugged again.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” He said.

I said, “I don’t know. It just fell.”

“Since when do things fall off my bookcase and end up three feet from where they were sitting?” He asked.

I shrugged and said, “Now?”

“I don’t think so,” He said, “and you certainly know that’s not what happened.”

I said, “I was just looking at it and it slipped.”

“And you couldn’t say that in the first place?” He asked.

I shrugged.

“That’s what I thought,” He said, shaking his head at me. “You know I ought to give you a sound spanking for lying to me and a bare bottom spanking for breaking my vase.”

I nodded and said, “If you think it would help.”

“I do,” He said.

I fluttered my eyelashes at him and said, “My bottom is all yours.”

“It will hurt,” He said.

“Aren’t spankings supposed to?” I asked.

He sat down in the nearby chair and pointed at his lap. I took baby steps to his side and looked down his lap with mock horror. He grabbed my arm and pulled me downward until I leaned into the force, throwing myself onto his lap. His hard hand patted my bottom. I purred in appreciation.

“I think you’ll know I’m serious in a moment,” He said and I replied, “Ooh.”

The first slap of his hand tingled like electricity sparking against my skin. I pushed my bottom up to meet his hand and he settled into a rhythmic smacking of my backside. I groaned and grunted as the sensations increased. It was nothing like the hairbrush spankings my mother used to give when I was a naughty girl. Craig’s hand was imparting as much pleasure as pain.

He paused and said, “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Would you prefer I cried?” I asked.

“I’d prefer you at least acted like you were sorry,” He said.

“I thought you were punishing me for lying,” I said.

“You’re right. I guess I’ll just have to step this up a bit,” He said.

His hand turned into a cast iron skillet. Okay not really, but the next spank felt a lot like it had. The analogy really held as he continued spanking at that level and my bottom began to burn. I bet you could have cooked a steak on that skillet in less than a minute. Craig just kept going. I squirmed and twisted, even yelped a few times but all for not. He was particularly displeased when I reached back in a futile attempt to protect my backside from his onslaught.

Shoving my hand away, he said, “What do you think you are doing? I told you this was going to hurt and I meant it.”

“Okay, okay, I get it already. I’m sorry,” I said.

He pulled my dress up, exposing my panties to his view and as if that was not enough, he pulled my panties down too. I tried to stop him, but he easily brushed my hand away. Squirming on his lap, there was nothing I could do except wait until he was finished with me. My vision was full of the broken pieces of the vase on the floor and I was honestly starting to feel really bad about it.

Craig resumed his cast iron spanking efforts with gusto. I kicked, I pleaded, I offered sexual favors, and he laughed and spanked and kept on spanking. Every once in a while he would pause and pull my panties down a little farther until he eventually took them off me completely and tossed them to the floor. I held back the tears threatening to come, despite the frustration and helplessness of being trapped on his lap with my bottom on fire.

He stopped and said, “Now, what happened here?”

Frowning, I said, “I broke your vase.”

“And?” He asked.

I shrugged. He spanked my bottom another dozen times.

“And?” He asked again.

I said, “And you spanked me for it.”

He said, “Good now you can get up and go stand against the wall while I finish getting ready.”

Sliding off his lap, I reached back to check and see if my bottom was really ablaze. Against all odds it remained in place and flame free. It was however, hot to the touch and stinging more with every second that past. I climbed to my feet and grabbed my poor bottom with both hands, but they did nothing to assuage the discomfort Craig had imparted. He led me to the wall and placed my hands at my head. It was a familiar enough position; Mom used to make me stand like that, bottom bare and burning too. I guess some things never really change.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

New Covers

The Retreat and The Spanking Days of Summer each got a new look today. Not that a book should be judged by its cover, but we all know it happens every day. The better the cover looks the more tempted we are to see what hangs on the pages inside. Hence, cover making is a stressful process for an author like myself. How do I convey the essence of what is inside my book with an arrangement of images?

I dabble with artwork a little and it can be a lot of fun. Still, this kind of work is more hobby than trade to me. I have had a little bit of success and I have to say, I am happy with the two new covers. Moving photos around, cropping images, fading them all together and adding titling around really is not that hard. Making it look good is a bit harder. You will have to tell me what you think because I am obviously too jaded to judge my own work fairly. Of course, for me it represents something I have imagined with the stories I am telling and those little bits are still mostly a secret to all of you.

Writing is definitely more my cup of java and on that note, 
The Spanking Days of Summer is progressing nicely. I am not firm on a release date quite yet, but I am shooting hard for the first weekend in July. Just to get you in the mood, here are few tidbits:
  • Summer Pratt is the central figure of the story.
  • Summer has gotten herself into some trouble in her hometown and her parents have pushed her off on her Aunt Lillian and Uncle Howard.
  • Summer's Aunt and Uncle live in a small town called Oakville.
  • Summer takes a liking to a bad boy, Jimmy Smythe and the first thing he does when they meet is smack her bottom.
  • Jimmy's father owns the local hardware store and he makes oak paddles. Somehow I doubt they are for canoes.

    Monday, June 21, 2010

    The Spanking Chronicles of Cedar Lake: A Stairwell Surprise

    The blinds were closed. In the corner, the gaudy brass floor lamp was turned off. Light flickered in from the swaying gaps between the slats of the blind. It twinkled in the dresser mirror, flashing in my eyes like sparks of a painful memory. I laid on the bed, curled on my side with the plushness of my sleeping pillow pressed against my naked chest. The door shook with the rumble of a knock from the hall.
    “Go away,” I said in a whisper meant for no one’s ears.
    Cold fluorescent light invaded my room along with the unwelcome knocker. His rubber soled shoes squeaked against the floor. I envisioned black scuff marks on my polished floor, but the door swayed closed eliminating the light before my eyes could adjust to see the proof. He squeaked his way across the room to the window and turned the wand, flooding my brooding darkness with late afternoon sunlight. Shielding my eyes, I propped myself up on an elbow.
    I said, “What do you think you are doing?”
    The smirk on his face was answer enough. His invading gaze walked its way up my body from my curled toes to my propped head. My cheeks blossomed with heated embarrassment. His smile widened in response to my coloring cheeks, forcing me to look away. I held the pillow tighter and sank back down onto my bed. He pulled my desk chair to the center of the open floor and sat backwards on it, resting his chin on the back of the chair. In his hands he held a small notepad and a disposable pen with a well chewed end.
    “I’m Scott Ellis, editor of the school paper,” he said.

    Friday, June 18, 2010

    Mistaken Identity

    “Hailey!” Professor Friedman said, stopping me on my way out of class.

    I turned, smiling at the Professor, curious what he would want with me, but nonetheless pleased he knew me by more than my last name. He held a folded note out to me as I approached and I took it, fumbling to open it. The contents were disturbing, although perfectly printed in bold, black ink; I was to report to the Dean’s office before leaving campus.

    Befuddled, I asked, “Do you know what this is about, Sir?”

    Professor Friedman shook his head and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

    Uncertain whether I agreed, I nodded and said, “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

    The reception of the Dean’s office had the eerie quiet of a doctor’s office. I approached his assistant’s desk with wobbling knees and a quivering lip. The woman behind the desk, continued typing away on her keyboard, seemingly oblivious to my approach or existence. I cleared my throat, standing at attention before her. Her disapproving eyes flickered to my face.

    “Ms. Zephyr?” She asked and I nodded.

    “Sit down, the Dean will be with you momentarily,” She said, pointing at a row of yellow, plastic chairs against the far wall.

    I said, “Yes, Ma’am,” and sat in the central chair of the row.

    The wait was barely worth having seated myself. I had no more finished smoothing the pleats of my skirt than the Dean’s office door opened. He stepped out, a tall, lean man in a tan tweed suit. His lips seemed pursed in a permanent pose of disappointment and his dark eyes appeared to see everything, judging it for the visual flaws. I twitched, uncomfortably aware of my shortcomings.

    “So nice of you to join us Ms. Zephyr,” The Dean said, towering over me. “Won’t you come inside?”

    Rising to my feet, I nodded, saying “Yes, Sir.”

    I watched my feet, forcing them to take the necessary steps into the Dean’s private office. He followed, a mere pace behind me. The door closed with a soft click and I stopped walking, standing between two visitor chairs, angled at the Dean’s desk. He failed to offer me a chair, but quickly sat behind his desk, his hand steepled on the desktop. Those dark, judging eyes bore into me and my legs trembled.

    “Do you know why you are here?” He asked.

    I shook my head and said, “No, Sir. Have I done something wrong?”

    “Is it your desire to be expelled?” He asked.

    “No, Sir,” I said, shuddering at the very thought.

    “Then I would say, yes, you have done something wrong,” He said.

    “I don’t understand, Sir,” I said.

    He said, “Nor do I. If I was a student here wishing to graduate and avoid expulsion, I would not skip my classes to the point of failing.”

    “Sir?” I said, not understanding his inference.

    Leaning back in his chair, he said, “Ms. Zephyr there is no need to play dumb in here. I have your attendance record and your grades right here. Your instructors do not even know you well enough to be disappointed.”

    “There must be some mistake,” I said, looking into his eyes. “I’ve never missed a class, Sir.”

    He said, “Ms. Zephyr there is no mistake. I have already taken the time to discuss you with each of your professors. None of them can recall seeing you more than a handful of times. I had intended to offer you a second chance with academic probation, but if you are going to pursue this farce with me, I shall simply expel you and simplify both our lives.”

    I said, “Sir, please, you have to talk to them again. Ask Professor Friedman, he knows me and I always attend my classes. There has to be some sort of mistake, maybe they don’t know my name, but I swear all my professors would know I attend my classes if they just saw me.”

    The Dean flipped open the file in front of him and said, “Ms. Zephyr, why would I bother speaking to Professor Friedman? You are not enrolled in his class.”

    “But I am, Sir,” I said.

    “One moment, Ms. Zephyr, “ The Dean said, holding a finger up to me and punching the intercom button on his phone. “Ms. Riley, are you certain this file for Dana Zephyr is accurate?”

    I blinked, the realization hitting me like a freight train and I said, “Sir, I’m Hailey Zephyr. Dana is my sister.”

    “Ms. Riley, perhaps you should join us in here,” The Dean said, disconnecting the call before a response could arrive.

    The door opened and Ms. Riley walked in, closing the door behind her. She stood to the side of the Dean’s desk, her hands folded behind her. I glanced between her and the Dean, but neither was paying much attention to my presence. The Dean focused his glare on Ms. Riley and she focused her eyes on his desktop. A faint blush colored her cheeks.

    “Could you please explain to me, why I am speaking with Hailey Zephyr while having the file for Dana Zephyr on my desk?” The Dean asked.

    Ms. Riley shuffled her feet and said, “I wasn’t aware there were two of them, Sir.”

    The Dean’s chair creaked as he leaned back and said, “There are not two of them. There is one Dana Zephyr and one Hailey Zephyr.”

    “It was an honest mistake,” Ms. Riley said. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

    “Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” The Dean said swiveling his chair to the side. “Get over my knee.”

    Ms. Riley turned her eyes to me and said, “But, Sir--

    “Either get over my knee this instant or we can move this out into the reception,” The Dean, said.

    Ms. Riley hurriedly placed herself over the Dean’s lap. His hand immediately descended on her buttocks, echoing in the small office. I stepped back from the desk and averted my eyes, embarrassed to be present and wishing the Dean would excuse me. My movement caught his eye and he paused after the second spank, looking toward me.

    He said, “Please, have a seat Ms. Zephyr. I apologize for the inconvenience to you and Ms. Riley will want to extend her apologies as well before you leave.”

    “I can apologize now,” Ms. Riley said, her voice muffled by the Dean’s chair.

    He said, “Nonsense, you will give a proper apology once you’ve been appropriately dealt with and not a moment sooner.”

    “Yes, Sir,” Ms. Riley said and I reluctantly took a seat in one of the Dean’s visitor chairs.

    The Dean returned his attention to Ms. Riley’s posterior. His hand slapped against her slacks with a fast pace and plenty of force. I watched, transfixed on her bouncing butt cheeks, and embarrassed by her frequent yelps. It was not so much I cared significantly whether she was spanked or not, but that her spanking reminded me all to well of my own trips over similar knees at home. I would never have desired an audience, especially a stranger, to have witnessed my response to the stimulation.

    “Stand up,” The Dean said and Ms. Riley climbed to her feet, avoiding my gaze by staring at the Dean’s lap.

    He said, “Trousers and panties down.”

    She inhaled sharply, but her hands moved obediently to her waist. Bending her knees and still looking anywhere but near me, she pushed her slacks downward, until they fell in a pile around her feet. She stood tall again before grabbing the elastic of her panties and tugging them down to mid-thigh. Her hands immediately covered her nakedness from sight.

    The Dean said, “Fetch me the cane from your desk.”

    Ms. Riley looked pleadingly into the Dean’s eyes for a moment before saying, “Yes, Sir.”

    She shuffled to the office door and opened it momentarily disappearing outside the office. Shuffling back inside she nearly slammed the door closed, making her way back to the Dean. In her hands she held the cane in front of her, still managing to cover herself at the same time. I tried not to be obvious as I watched her, but I am certain she was aware of my prying eyes.

    Taking the cane from her hands and standing aside from his chair, the Dean said, “Bend down and grab the seat.”

    Ms. Riley glanced at me, blushing bright pink as she complied with the Dean’s instructions. I noticed her hands shaking as she gripped the sides of the chair seat. The Dean took a further step back from her and swished the cane through the air, sending a breeze to flutter her hair. She winced as if he had struck her, but the cane had struck nothing at all. He brought it back down to his side and then raised it to rest against her exposed buttocks. She grimaced in obvious reluctant anticipation of the cane’s next touch.

    The cracking of the cane against her butt made me jump in my seat. Ms. Riley cried out and her buttocks tightened with tension as she struggled for composure. It was only the very first stroke and I could see she was already near tears. As soon as the tension in buttocks eased, the Dean delivered the second stroke. Ms. Riley’s head shot upward and she gasped for air, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. The Dean struck her again at the moment her lowered. She buried her face in the seat of his chair, moaning in obvious discomfort.

    “Hold your position,” The Dean said, irritation creeping into his tone.

    “Yes, Sir,” Ms. Riley said, straightening her legs and bring her head back to a level position.

    He swung the cane with blurring speed, crashing it against her bottom with enough force that it hardly bounced back. She raised a single foot in the air for a moment, crying out before resuming the expected position. The cane struck again without pause once her feet were both firmly back on the ground. She yelped, but held steady long enough for him land another stroke.

    With an ear-piercing squeal, she jumped into the air, grabbing her striped backside with both hands. Tears ran down her cheeks and she sniffled like a child, all the while bouncing around in a circle. I could not help, but smile. The Dean was less amused.

    He said, “Stop this foolishness right this instant.”

    Calming herself, she said, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

    The Dean stepped by her and laid the cane on top of his desk. Pulling open a drawer, he removed a leather tawse and stepped back behind Ms. Riley. She hardly seemed in need of any additional discipline to me, but far be it for me to argue with the Dean. Ms. Riley apparently felt the same because while her eyes grew wide with fear, her mouth remained closed.

    “Bend over,” The Dean said and she complied.

    He thwacked the tawse down on her bottom and she yelped. Twisting around with one foot in the air, Ms. Riley looked pleadingly up at the Dean. He remained undaunted in his task, nodding for her to get back down. She glanced tearfully at me before grabbing hold of the desk and bracing herself for the next stroke. The Dean delivered it promptly along with two more on its tail. She squealed in misery, twisting and turning, but staying enough in place to avoid further comments from the Dean. I sympathized with her, laying my hand atop hers briefly before a look from the Dean made me take it away.

    He said, “Stand up.”

    Ms. Riley stood, lower lip quivering, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her gaze drifted ever downward as if searching for the ever elusive black hole to swallow her up. I have stood in such a manner myself, prayed for the very same disappearance and of course it never occurs. She sniffled back future tears and swallowed hard. The Dean stepped back from her, admiring his work on her red bottom.

    “You may apologize to Ms. Hailey Zephyr and then you can go and find me Ms. Dana Zephyr,” He said.

    Ms. Riley looked to me and with a trembling voice said, “Ms. Zephyr, please accept my sincerest apologies for pulling you away from your studies for a matter completely unrelated to you. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, please ask and I will do it.”

    “I accept and appreciate your apology,” I said.

    The Dean said, “Ms. Zephyr you are of course free to go with my apologies as well. Ms. Riley, you may return to your desk and keep your slacks and panties where they are until Ms. Dana Zephyr is sitting in my office.”

    Ms. Riley nodded and shuffled her way to the door. I waited for her to get through the doorway before leaving myself and in the outer office, I turned to watch her wince as she sat at her own desk. From the front it was impossibly to tell she was bare bottomed except for the especially observant. The puddle of her slacks around her feet was just visible below the modesty guard of her desk. I wonder how many students passing by would take notice?

    Thursday, June 17, 2010

    ITS New Again!

    I’m sure you didn’t notice. It really isn’t obvious at all. I’m absolutely certain I’ll be telling you something you don’t know. You would never figure it out on your own. If you are blind that is....

    Okay, so this post is about nothing more than how happy I am with the new look of Imagine the Stories. Do you like it? Do you like it? Do you like it? Huh? Huh? Huh? Come on you can tell me. I won’t tell anyone what you thought, unless you want me to. Promise. Swear. Cross my blog and hope it gets erased if I’m lying. Well, maybe not. I like my blog too much.

    It took me most of yesterday to make it happen. The little things, like the HTML code for my custom gadgets on the sidebar, was enough to drive me totally insane. See the paragraph above if you need proof. But, in the end, not my end mind you, butt—um, but, I finally got everything to work more or less like I wanted it to work. That was no small task. I’m waiting for the applause. Come on, you can do better than that. Much better.

    So, there is like some, uh, like cool, uh, like new features. Totally. It’s like blow my skirt off and whack me with a— oh no, that’s not right. Is it? No. Well, maybe. Anyway, new features, like (that’s like way too many ‘like’s in this paragraph isn’t it?) check out the bottom of the posts and you’ll find (I think, I hope, I don’t pray) check boxes where you can anonymously rate your feeling(S) about a post. It even works. That’s like so cool, hot right?

    On the right, no the other right, there you go. On the right, I added some “buy now” buttons to the ebooks listed there. Okay, so just to avoid confusion, because confusion leads to chaos and chaos leads to something really, really, really bad (don’t ask me what cause I don’t know), the free ebooks are still free and even though the button says buy, you don’t actually have pay for anything. That’s cool, right? Okay maybe not so cool, cause it’s not exactly self explanatory, but it’ll work. Which by the way, if you haven’t read This Night Only or The Winning Goal (which was posted here on Friday, May 28, 2010) you should really download them and give them a good read. It’s free, it’s fun, it’s ah free. Did I mention free? Oh, and it’s fun.

    For the very observant among you, there is something missing. For everyone else I’ll just pretend it was never here. Does that work for you? It works for me. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you can just stop reading here. Really. I mean it. STOP! If you’re still reading, I guess you’re one of those observant folks or just obstinate, either way what’s missing is the links to Quest Five, The Primrose Girls, and 12 From Oblivion in the My Stories section on the right. Quest Five is still accessible from the Recommended Reading List and I’ve decided to drop the other two from this list because they are incomplete stories and unlikely to be completed in the near or far futures. If you want to save the links to them here they are;



    I guess that’s about it for today. My keyboard has run out of letters from my speedy typing. I’m down to using my mouse to cut and paste words from elsewhere and it’s rather tedious. Not really, but I have done that before (mostly for being lazy and not wanting to put something down to type, like my lunch). My keyboard remains intact (it better be, I had to replace it not so long ago) and I continue to work away on my projects.

    Today, I admittedly goofed off and played with my blog, but everybody needs a goof off day and besides, I’m graduating in just a couple days. I deserve to rest. I need to rest. Somebody mentioned graduate school and now I’m starting to feel like a permanent student. You know, one of those people who is smart enough to learn, but not smart enough to work. Oh, please don’t let me turn out so bad. I know, I know, you all have a thunderous solution to that problem. Of course, it won’t work because I’m sitting down.

    Wednesday, June 16, 2010

    A New Series

    Yesterday afternoon I posted the first in a series of short stories which will lead up to the long awaited release of The Retreat. That’s right, you heard—um, read correctly, the Retreat is coming to a blog near you. Well sort of, I’m not really sure if blogs can be considered near or far from anything without having any physical location to call their own. In reality, it will just be linked to from here, because it will be an ebook.

    Are you excited? No? Well wait until you read these stories, then I’m sure you’ll be excited although maybe not in the same way I was meaning.

    So, what exactly are these stories about? The easiest way to describe them is, back story. Essentially, this series of short stories will give a little insight into the characters populating The Retreat and even a few hints about what The Retreat is actually like. I am not going to spoil the fun here and reveal lots of scraps, but I will drop some names and from there you can look forward to their stories.
    1. Daphne Tate & Earnest Little
    2. Jenny Beaumont (Readers of Quest Five should recall this name.)
    3. Helen Tate
    4. Daphne Tate & Troy Higgins
    5. Paige Porter
    6. Norman Moody
    7. Linda Wallace & Brad Keller

    Following the final story in this series, The Retreat will make its opening debut. I know it has been a long time in coming, the idea first entered my head last October or thereabouts. My sincere thanks to all the patient readers, who have stuck in there waiting. If my opinion counts, I think it was definitely worth the wait. The Retreat, is a very exciting and satisfying story and I can hardly wait to share it with you all.

    Tuesday, June 15, 2010

    Hot, Cold & Spanked

    Sweating is for pigs, air conditioning is for angels, and I am an angel. When it is over a 100 degrees outside you can damn well bet this angel is turning the air on inside. Especially when I am expected to slave away over a hot oven, baking sweet little cupcakes for my brother’s idea of a charity event. Do you know what ‘Green’ energy is? I sure as hell do not and I would bet you anything my brother does not even know, but it is the latest and greatest message around. There is nothing like jumping on the bandwagon just to hear yourself playing the fiddle with a broken twig and a banjo on your knee.

    If you have never baked 500 cupcakes at the same time, I seriously suggest you never do. I mean really, do you have any idea how large the oven would have to be? Okay, I am not that dumb, but baking 100 cupcakes is a lot of work and doing it five times over is a lot of work times five. Now, if you happen to have a sadistic brother living with you and he happens to take great pleasure in making you do ridiculous things, like baking cupcakes in absurd quantities, there are a few things you can do to make things go smoother;

    Turn on the CD player, but make sure you load your CD’s first because sadistic brother music just sucks. Next, wear a comfy outfit that is both hot and cool. Skip the shoes, cause standing in shoes only makes you want to stand on cupcakes as they come out of the oven. Turn on the air, crank down the thermostat as low it can go and dance like you just turned 21. Trust me, it makes the day palatable and then you really do not care when your chocolate cupcakes come out looking like marble cake or that you will need an inch of frosting to raise the top of the cupcake above the edges of the baking cups. Last, make sure your sadistic brother is gone while you are doing all of the above and that he does not make it home before you are done. If you screw up on this part, heaven will not help you, angel or not.

    Robert, a.k.a. my sadistic brother, walked through the front door, shivered, set his sights on me and asked, “Why the hell is it so cold in here?”

    I shrugged from the kitchen and said, “Maybe because it’s hot as hell outside.”

    Huffing and puffing, like a big bad wolf, he slammed the front door and marched to the thermostat in the hallway. He stared at it. His hand gyrated in the air while his face turned devilishly red. I think I saw horns coming out of his hair, but that could have just been his ears poking through. He probably counted to ten, his face returned to the pale color of normality and his hands steadily grabbed the thermostat, ripped it from the wall... Okay no, he did not rip it from the wall, but he did turn the air off, which was just as bad.

    He marched over to me and said, “You’re baking.”

    I fluttered eyelashes and said, “Why yes, yes I am.”

    “It’s a miracle you didn’t blow a fuse,” he said.

    I nodded, pursing my lips and said, “I think you’re the one about to blow a fuse.”

    “Do you even have a brain in that head or is it all just hot air?” he asked.

    Scowling at him, I said, “I’m not the idiot who thought it was a good idea to bake 500 cupcakes on the hottest day of the year.”

    “They’re for a charity and you could at least be charitable while baking them,” he said.

    “I am being charitable. I’ve spent my whole day doing nothing but baking and decorating your charitable donation. You’re the one not being very nice here,” I said.

    “They’re for a Green Energy event,” he said.

    I shrugged, saying, “So?”

    “Do you know what irony is?” he asked.

    Rolling my eyes, I said, “Your hand on a bad day?”

    Would you believe he did not even smile? I mean really, what is with the all serious expression? You might think he was constipated or something. I know I was wondering about it, but then it got a little icky thinking about whether he had sat on the toilet anytime in the recent past. He really needs to lighten up, take a laxative and sit on a public toilet. I probably should have made the suggestion when he first suggested I would enjoy baking his cupcakes.

    Robert said, “Irony is the fact you used enough fossil fuel based energy to power an entire metropolis for a week while baking cupcakes for an event designed around the concept of conserving energy and developing renewable sources for that energy.”

    “Whatever, the fact of the matter is I was not going to slave over the hot oven in a 100 plus degrees,” I said.

    “I never said you had to, but why don’t you use your head? The house did not need to be cooled to 55 degrees,” he said.

    “As if it could be?” I said, cocking my head to the side. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know. I just wanted the air to keep running so the house didn’t turn into an oven.”

    “Mission accomplished!” Robert said, throwing his hands into the air. “You turned it into a freezer instead.”

    “You’re not even going to thank me for all the work I did for you, are you?” I said, shaking my head at him.

    “Thank you? I don’t think so. What I ought to do is make you sell these tonight with a red hot backside,” he said.

    “And maybe I ought to tell Dad what a jerk you’re being. What do you think?” I said.

    Robert grabbed the kitchen phone and held it up to me, saying “Let’s call him together. I wonder what he’ll think about the icebox of a house you created today?”

    I glared at him. He really needs to lose that smugness sometime. I swear, if I could wipe that smug grin off his face just one time, I would be happy forever. He always manipulates me into going where I should not and then he drops his nasty net on me. I should have seen it coming, but then so should have Eve when that delicious red apple dropped in her lap.

    “Fine,” I said and he hung up the phone. “You win. You always win. I’m sorry I didn’t bake myself with your stupid cupcakes. Are we good now or do I need to lick your boots clean too?”

    “You actually think our conversation changes anything?” My sadistic brother asked.

    “Well no, no I don’t, but I was hoping you might leave me alone to finish decorating these cupcakes before I decide I would rather see you wearing them,” I said.

    “I’ve got a better idea,” he said and I replied, “I doubt it.”

    “I think you should join me in the living room,” he said.

    “And I think you should pay me a thousand dollars for doing your baking, but it’s not going to happen,” I said.

    “I think that’s the first thing you’ve been right about all day,” he said. “You are going to join me in the living room, if I have to pick you up and carry you.”

    “You wouldn’t dare,” I said.

    “Keep trying my patience,” he said.

    “If you insist,” I said.

    “Move it!” he said, turning devilishly red all over again.

    I stomped my way to the living room. My sadistic brother followed, eyes all aglow, horns bursting through his dark hair and a red, pointed tail dancing behind his back. His breath was so hot and heavy you could see it floating in the air like frost on a cold morning. Well, maybe not, but you get the idea. He was mad, pissed even, and the entire object of his anger was me, but angels do not judge. We simply glide along with the currents and hope our presence is enough to elicit the better side of men. It is usually futile though.

    When I stopped in the middle of the living room, he said, “Now, you are going to get the spanking you so richly deserve.”

    “But it’s not my birthday,” I said.

    “Go ahead,” he said, “keeping cracking jokes, but in the meantime, you are going to strip off those clothes.”

    “And you’re going to stand on your head,” I said.

    He marched straight up to me, yanked my top open and said, “Strip now or I’ll do it for you.”

    I realized he was serious. Something about the total lack of emotion in his face made it obvious. Most people, angels in my case, would have stomped out of the room, fled the house, and begged their Daddy to protect them from the big, bad, satanic wolf. The problem with that theory is sometimes, Daddy is an even bigger and badder satanic wolf. He would definitely blister my bottom for the air conditioning thing and he would most likely use a belt or some other heavy implement that would leave me unable to sit for a couple of days. Big, bad, brother wolf is not quite up to heavy implements. So like any good angel, I chose the lesser evil.

    Undressing in front of my brother always feels wrong. I mean I would rather not undress in front of anyone. My boobs are not particularly eye catching, my body’s curves are far from perfect and my legs are way too skinny. If I was a little more perfect, maybe I would like being naked in front of people, but even then, my sadistic brother would remain an exception. As things are, it is a little too revealing that I am far from perfect. And to think, he thought I did not know about irony.

    Stripped to my bra and panties, I gave a last pleading look to the sadistic bastard. He was unmoved, as all sadistic bastards are unmoved by pleas for mercy. I reached up behind me and unfastened my bra, allowing it to slip from my chest, exposing my small breasts to his dispassionate gaze. The floor seemed much more appealing to look at and so I stared downward, gathering the courage to take my panties down.

    Robert was not in a waiting mood. He grabbed my arm and dragged me with him to the couch. Sitting down, he pulled me over his lap and walloped my backside with the flat of his hand. It may not have been irony, but it was iron-like. My fat wobbled, my muscles tensed and my nerves screamed about the sting and heat emanating from my less than perfect butt. His hand pounded my buttocks like they were a pair of bongo drums. I remained mute and stoic against the discomfort, hoping it would end sooner than later.

    I got all excited when his hand stopped slapping my butt around, but that faded quickly when his fingers slipped inside my panties and tugged them down my legs. It was no surprise when his hand resumed its drum playing a moment later. I did yelp though, but that was entirely a result of the increased sting imparted by said hand. Kicking and squirming, my bottom got roasted and rosy red all at the same time.

    When I started to sing, and we are not talking opera, he increased the rhythm. Sparks were flying at every impact of his hand against my bottom. The air in the house heated ten degrees and kept climbing, but for some reason my nipples remained hard as rocks. I gave up kicking and squirming because it was getting me nowhere and a light sheen of sweat was threatening my forehead. As I am still an angel and not a pig, this was entirely unacceptable. Robert was sweating up a storm, but that was to be expected.

    He stopped for a second time and lifted me up off his lap. I was torn between desires to hold my burning butt cheeks and cover my nakedness. My sadistic brother would allow neither. He raised my hands to rest on top of my head, pushed my elbows until they pointed straight to my sides and marched me to the corner in front of the bookcase. Taking a step back from me, he looked pointedly at my bottom and whistled. I swallowed the commentary threatening to put me back over his lap.

    “I don’t know about you, but I definitely feel better now,” Robert said.

    Looking back at him through the space between my arm and shoulder, I said, “I am so not going to your charity thing tonight.”

    He laughed and said, “Not only are you going, but you are going to be delightful and sell those cupcakes just like you promised.”

    “You can spank me all you like, but you can’t make me go,” I said.

    He said, “I think we’ve already demonstrated what I can make you do, but if you need another example, you can push your luck and see if you end up selling cupcakes with your bottom still bare.”

    Frustrated, I said, “Fine. Can I get back to finishing them now?”

    “No, you are going to spend some time staring at nothing and thinking about your behavior first,” Robert said. “You can also think about this; I sent Melissa Fineman to the Retreat today, because she pulled one of your typical stunts at work.”

    “Daddy would never let you do that to me,” I said.

    Robert laughed and said, “Daddy has been begging me to send you for the last year, Daphne. If you don’t get your act together real soon, I might just decide he is right.”