Triumph of the Forces of Evil

by the Crimson Kid

(All rights reserved. This story is set in mid-afternoon of March 15, 2009 at the Royalton residence in a suburban subdivision in the U.S.A.)

“Triumph of the Forces of Evil, that’s exactly what he called it.” I grinned at my humbled husband, who was jackknifed over the back of our living room couch with his head turned leftward and pressing down against the left seat cushion. Paul’s buttocks, left nicely naked because his sweatpants were tangled around his ankles while he was wearing only a powder blue athletic supporter as underwear, jutted upward atop the couch’s high back. “Isn’t that correct, my darling bare-bottomed boy?”

He snorted softly. “There’s a reason they’re called the Devils.”

I had to admire my mate’s cheekiness, in both the physical and psychological senses of the word, since his ex-girlfriend Brittany was standing to his left with her right hand gripping the leather handle of my black nylon cane as she tapped that slim, fiberglass-centered rod lightly against the wide-open, vulnerably exposed ‘sit spots’ at the base of his quivering bumcheeks. Although in his early fifties, Paul could easily pass for a man fifteen years younger—except perhaps for the silver-gray streaks in his dark blond hair—and his twin nether moons were still firmly muscled although also fully rounded. Since that unprotected ‘spank-me-ma’am’ posterior, as I liked to call it, was about to be striped thoroughly and very vigorously by Brittany, its owner’s willingness to be sassy toward his determined chastiser could be considered surprising—if an observer didn’t know, as I did, that part of Paul’s psyche was looking forward to the bare-assed butt-whipping that his pretty one-time paramour was about to administer to him.

She snickered. “Perhaps you’re right, sweetheart, since this Blue Devil is going to deliver plenty of searing hellfire to that bouncy bare behind of yours.” She grinned at me, licking her lips. “Am I ever going to make you howl like a banshee, my little Tar Heel toddler boy. How many strokes does he get for Carolina missing the Big Dance this year while Duke made it in as usual?”

“Three dozen with the nylon cane,” I stated in a matter-of-fact manner, affecting an aura of objectivity although I was highly pleased that Brittany had won that standing basketball bet and was in a position to make my husband’s defenseless derriere pay a big-time price for his loss, “With the standard penalties—two extra strokes for each instance of excessive squirming or letting his fanny drop down, six additional swishes if he lifts his feet from the floor or otherwise breaks punishment position.”

Brittany adjusted her stance to provide herself with a full arm’s-length swing of the wickedly flexible thin black rod, her last two taps to my mate’s wide rear end were purposeful—intended for precise aiming—rather than playful, as the earlier ones had been. She was decked out in a complete Duke University outfit of royal blue with sparkling white trim—warmup suit (the zippered top having been removed to accommodate her arm’s swinging without hindrance), women’s Keds, even the ankle-high athletic socks, while her likewise colored t-shirt and baseball-style cap were very recent purchases which proclaimed “Duke Blue Devils, 2010 Athletic Coast Conference Basketball Champions.” My husband was similarly attired, although not wearing a cap or shoes and in an ordinary heather gray “Carolina” t-shirt, in University of North Carolina clothing which was light blue in color—from his submissive bare-bottom-up position relative to his ex-lover’s, it wasn’t hard to figure which college was currently enjoying basketball dominance over the other.

She smiled smugly while drawing back the cane to strike. “Keep a close watch for any violations, Barb, no matter how slight, since I’ll welcome any opportunities to extend this Carolina cupcake’s ass-thrashing.” Her right eye winked mischievously at me. “Believe me, I’m going to make him wiggle those bare bum-bum cheeks as much as I can.”

Then she expertly swung that whippy nylon cane forward and slightly downward, snapping it across both of Paul’s upthrust southern hemispheres barely above his thighcreases—SWIIIISH-SWAAP!! His exposed asscheeks shuddered with the intense sting as a thin scarlet weal appeared where the burning lash had landed.

“Ahhhhowwww!” he cried out frantically, struggling to stay in position after only the first stroke of the cane.

“I’d better hear some proper counting and thanking, young man,” Brittany admonished curtly, “Or this caning will go on all afternoon.”

Her ex-boyfriend gasped. “Ohhhh, that smarts! One, thank you, ma’am.”

“Address her by name,” I instructed my seemingly backward spouse.

He gulped. “Thank you, Brittie.”

I frowned. “Her name during a bet-payoff session is AUNT Brittany, not Brittie, you insolent child. Since you were disrespectful in two ways, that first swish doesn’t count and neither does the next one coming.” Looking into our guest’s soft brown eyes, I winked back at her. “Give him another good cut with that nylon terror, Brittie, then you two can start over at one.”

She dimpled in delight while drawing back the cane again. “My pleasure, Barb.”

Her second sizzling slash with the slender rod of correction impacted almost directly atop the stripe left by the first one—SWIIIISH-SWAAAACK!!—making my hapless husband howl from its blazing intensity.

“Owwwwch!” he wailed as his legs churned—although his toes retained contact with the floor’s thick carpeting.

“Count it,” Brittany ordered, “It’s number zero.”

Paul knew better than to argue. “Zero, thank you, Aunt Brittany.”

My eyebrows arched. “With no ‘ma’am’ included, honeybun? That’s another instance of blatant disrespect, as the official arbiter of this wager forfeit I’m assigning you another couple penalty strokes—so now you’re at minus-two, you’ll have to take two more swishes from Brittany to bring you back to the starting spot.”

I could tell from his eyes that he was upset with my ruling and started to protest verbally, which would’ve earned him additional penalties via the diabolically punitive instrument of corporal discipline in Brittany’s hand, but he somehow managed to choke off his complaint. “Buh—uhhhh, yes, ma’am, I understand.”

My deep blue eyes must’ve been twinkling with satisfaction at the obedience training my lifemate was evincing. “You don’t have to address me as ‘ma’am,’ sweetie pie, I’m not the one whipping your bare bottom at the moment—but it does show manners to respect the woman who’s going to make you cry so completely childishly for her, don’t you think so?”

“Ohhhh, okay, ma—uhh, honey.” His facial cheeks flushed endearingly at being reminded that he would very soon be bawling like a baby in front of his wife, thanks to his former lover’s chastising expertise.

Brittany casually flicked the cane in the air, then drew it back once again. “Then let’s get our count back up to zero, Paul darling.”

Instead of allowing about ten seconds between lashes of the cane, her usual procedure to allow the sting to increase and then lessen slightly just before the next stroke connected, my adult girlfriend slashed her pliable nylon implement more rapidly across her victim’s trembling naked buttocks, leaving thin dark red welts that were oppositely angled so that they crisscrossed smack on his buttcrack a quarter-inch above the first two weals.

Strangely enough, Paul didn’t seem to appreciate the exquisite artistry of those dual caning cuts nearly as much as I did, although his reaction to them was certainly energetic.

“Owwww! Oh, that—Ahhhhouch! Huuuurts!” He obviously wasn’t prepared for two cane strokes snapping against his bare behind only four seconds apart, his hips twisted wildly as his body tried to process the intersecting lines of fiery-hot pain, a sight that Brittany apparently found as amusing as I myself did.

We both tittered before she spoke. “Let’s hear your count for each cane swipe, dear boy,” she told my husband.

“Uhhhh, minus one, th-thank you, Aunt Brih-Brittany, ma’am… Zero, thank you, Ahh-Aunt Brittany, ma’am.” Amazingly, I could see that a glint of moisture had already formed in the corner of each of his eyes—it was obvious how very much his lovely disciplinarian was able to hurt his helpless hiney with that devilishly-effective nylon seat-scorcher.

She chortled, her eyes shining with anticipation. “You’re quite welcome, Paul dear, now we’re back to our original starting point no worse for wear—well, my arm’s still feeling fine, I’m not so certain about your naked fanny with those angry-looking stripes painted on it.” Once more she drew back her ‘weapon of ass destruction’ to swing at her doubly-rounded target. “Now it’s time for weeping and wailing, mister Tar Heel, from your point of view.”

True to her prediction, Brittany then proceeded to administer an old-style ‘ass-whuppin’ that did indeed quickly reduce my beloved spouse to tears, he was sobbing by the time she took a thirty-second pause after delivering her initial half-dozen (not counting those first four extras) searing strokes to his nicely-exposed undercheeks—those six lashes were applied at her standard ten-second intervals, allowing their intensively stinging sensation to deepen and spread before the next cut slashed across her victim’s squirming bare bumcheeks.

By the end of the second set of ‘six of the best’ cane strokes that snapped across his increasingly wealed posterior, Paul was shamelessly blubbering like a well-spanked kindergartener. It’s greatly gratifying to me that my frequently-chastised husband has such emotionally puerile reactions to being corporally corrected even though his muscular backside can endure an extensive amount of severe chastisement—I truly love that combination, which allows for very lengthy, highly intensive and extremely entertaining (from my perspective) bare-assed blisterings for my favorite marital spankee.

The third group of a half-dozen cuts with the thin nylon rod actually turned out to be ten sizzling slashes, my darling mate being penalized twice with two penalty strokes each time—once for wriggling his hips too uncontrollably and the second time for letting his throbbing rear end sag somewhat from its original upward-jutting orientation. He was clearly having trouble maintaining proper punishment position, although at that point he’d managed to keep his toes on the floor even while his legs were bending and shaking every time the cane cruelly impacted against those sensitive ‘sit spots’ at the bottom of his bare bottom.

The fourth set of six caning lashes left Paul literally bawling like a baby, albeit in a man’s baritone voice, and it also resulted in him lifting both of his feet up from the carpet after a particularly painful stroke of that nylon punitive implement which clipped right into his thighcreases, the borderline areas between his thoroughly-wealed derriere and his pristine thighs, via a swift, wrist-snapping upswing on Brittany’s part. Her tone was smugly satisfied as she announced “That’ll be a half-dozen penalty strokes after these regular ones have all been delivered, mister spankybuns, and I’ll be sure to administer them with extra intensity.”

I even started to feel sorry for my humbled, openly crying husband as he stuttered “Yeh-Yes, muh-ma’am, Ah-Aunt Bruh-Brittany, I’m s-sorry for muh-moving out of puh-position, ma’am,” until I reminded myself that he was undoubtedly receiving subconscious gratification from submitting to his old flame’s sound chastisement.

If Brittany herself felt any inclination to be merciful to her highly-embarrassed one-time lover she certainly didn’t let it affect the iron determination with which she continued to whip his defenseless derriere with my slim, ultraflexible nylon cane. Both the fifth and sixth groups of ‘six of the best’ whistling strokes applied to Paul’s unprotected ‘seat of learning’ resulted in two additional penalty cuts being delivered there, once for frantically bouncing his blazing backside atop the couch’s back and the other time for again letting his punished posterior drop down rather than keeping it pointed at the ceiling as his cane-wielding chastiser insisted that it be. Even worse for my distressed lifemate, he was assessed another six penalty swishes when his sock-covered feet again broke contact with the floor following what was officially the thirty-sixth caning stroke—although in actuality it turned out to be number forty-eight.

“Last swipe of the cane, at least for your regular bare-assed thrashing, and you unbelievably earned yourself another half-dozen penalty strokes,” lightly taunted the youthful-looking brunette—she was fifty-one but appeared even younger than Paul did, most new acquaintances figured her to be in her early thirties due to her trim, athletic figure and unlined facial features. She beamed at me. “Well, that just means more fun or all of us, including our sweet witness—right, Barb?”

She was completely correct, of course—even though Paul’s rump was absolutely ravaged by the deep maroon stripes crisscrossing it and overlapping each other in numerous doubly-painful places while he blubbered loudly without any semblance of self-restraint, I was looking forward to watching Brittany deliver another dozen extra-hard lashes across those quivering naked buttocks of his. I loved him dearly, but it always struck me that his wonderfully rounded nether cheeks were made by Mother Nature to be thoroughly chastised by feminine disciplinarians on an extremely frequent basis—which he himself appreciated at some level of his inner persona.

My head nodded in agreement. “Really set his chubby caboose on fire, Brittie, since he’s claimed you’re truly a Devil then you’d better make his bare behind experience the flames of Hell itself.”

She chortled as she lifted up that ultraflexible nylon-encased fiberglass rod. “I can’t dispute you there, Barb, you’re right as rain.” The cane’s tip touched the middle of her victim’s ravaged right buttcheek, causing an involuntary twitching there, as she addressed him. “I’ll keep the count this time. You’d better get this sassy babyfat bottom high up in the air right now and keep it there while I’m whipping it for you, young man, if you know what’s good for you… Is that understood?”

He sniffled while obeying, pushing his poor welted posterior upward and presenting his ‘sit spots’ as ideal targets for his chastiser’s punitive attentions. “Yes, Aunt Brittany, ma’am.”

Thereupon his former lover resumed caning Paul’s openly-exposed undercheeks, lashing them fiercely with sweeping strokes of the thin black cane, but she showed him an ironic mercy by delivering those devastating swishes at intervals of only five seconds. Thus the final dozen lashes took only a minute’s time to be applied with extreme prejudice atop the base of his frantically wriggling naked buttocks, although strangely enough my spouse didn’t seem to appreciate Brittany’s brevity in administering his corporal comeuppance—indeed, his reaction was a single continuous high-pitched wail that seemingly lasted for the whole sixty seconds of blistering-hot, seat-striping intensity.

My socially backward spouse failed to demonstrate any gratitude, however, first devoting his energies to whimpering and gasping for breath and then, upon being told by his smiling disciplinarian, “Stand up and rub those scorched seat cushions of yours if you wish,” raising his torso and reaching backward to gingerly massage his blazing bare bumcheeks with both hands.

“If you don’t want an extremely emphatic leathering with my whipping strap before getting the rest of your bare-bottom blistering from Brittie,” I warned him forebodingly, “You’ll stop this pathetically childish carrying on immediately and thank her for giving you those last dozen caning cuts so quickly and painlessly.” I chuckled briefly. “They struck me as painless anyway, although of course they weren’t physically striking my naked nates—perhaps you had a differing perspective, honeybun, but that still doesn’t excuse rudeness toward someone who’s done you a favor.”

Sobbing raggedly with teardrops trickling down his bright pink facial cheeks, he nonetheless faced his grinning punisher, who was bending the nylon seat-striper into a semicircle with her left hand grasping its tip. “Thuh-uhhhh-ank y-you fuh-for fih-nish-shing uhhp m-my cay-caning so fah-fast, Aunt Brih-hittaneey,” he managed to stammer blubberingly to her.

Her expression brightened even further, her face was glowing with accomplishment at humbling my husband—although its glow didn’t come close to matching the deep magenta and maroon weals that gave Paul’s trembling southern hemispheres a shining, fiery-looking radiance. “You’re more than welcome, dear boy, but I’m going to want you to demonstrate your gratitude by kissing my delectable derriere for ten minutes—then I’ll put you across my lap to collect our annual standing bet on the ACC tournament, and I expect that you’ll be doing plenty of standing yourself once I’m finished paddling those chubby bum-bum cheeks of yours.” She arched an eyebrow in my direction. “Is that okay with you, Barb?”

I nodded pensively. “Why not? What’s a little seat-smooching among close friends like us?” Stepping forward, I delivered two sweeping, openhanded slaps, one to each of my naughty boy’s red-hot nether moons—SWAP! WHOP!—that made him yip like a punished puppy.

Two minutess later, Brittany had taken her ex-boyfriend’s former position, leaning forward against the back of the couch, with her warmup bottoms lowered to her kneehollows to expose well-toned, athletic asscheeks that were separated by a royal blue thong band that mostly disappeared into her buttcrack. My mate was kneeling behind her and gently gripping her hips as his lips sweetly peppered her smooth, pristine posterior with tender light kisses. Every time he paused and leaned back slightly to catch his breath and give his lips a break, I briskly snapped the wide tip of my plaited leather riding crop against the lower swells of his unprotected backside, twice on each striped buttock round—CRACK!! THWACK!! THWAP!! CRACK!!—which made him yelp with each sizzling lash. “Get back to butt-kissing or I’ll keep on ass-whipping,” I threatened him on each of those occasions.

By the time that pleasant period of bottom-bussing was finally finished, my girlfriend’s bare buns had received several hundred sweet, affectionate smacks from my spouse’s respectful lips while his own naked buttcheeks had been the recipient of several dozen stinging whipcracks courtesy of my wickedly applied instrument of corporal correction. She was purring with contentment while he was sniffling continuously, although his pale blue eyes were shining from more than the moisture overbrimming in them, and I was snickering at the way his welted gluteal globes rippled from my disciplinary ministrations.

“Thank you kindly, Paul sweetie, that was terrific fun,” Brittany noted cheerily as she pulled her sweatpants back up.

“For me too,” I affirmed, “And down deep this ass-kissing little rascal enjoyed it every bit as much as we did, both his loving treatment of your girlish glutes and my providing him with encouragement that must’ve really hurt on his whipped hiney.”

Brittany turned and ruffled her former paramour’s sweat-soaked hair. “Is that true, my poor punished Tar Heel fan, does your bare behind hurt just a tad right now?” She tittered condescendingly. “Well, it’s about to sting and burn a whole lot more, I’m guaranteeing you that. Take the cane back to your bedroom and get back here posthaste with the Vermont Country Store bath brush, but I also want you changed into your powder blue ‘Doctor Dentons’ before you return.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m giving you two minutes to follow these directions, you’re getting two extra swats for every five seconds you’re tardy beyond that… Oh, and leave your sweat bottoms around your ankles until you reach the bedroom.” Her eyes focused sharply on the timepiece. “Your time starts now!”

Feeling mischievous, I picked up the slender nylon implement from the couch seat and tossed it towards our kitchen, which was in the opposite direction from the master bedroom; it landed on the thick carpet twenty-five feet away while Paul climbed awkwardly to his feet.

“Why did I throw it that way?” I laughingly asked myself out loud as my right foot stepped onto the warmup pants bunched between his feet. “I’m so confused, Brittie,” I told my fellow female in self-deprecation as I gazed playfully into my darling hubby’s eyes.

“Honey, you’re standing on my sweats,” my beloved spouse told me, sounding rather dismayed.

Picking up the riding crop, Brittany rapidly delivered six slashing strokes with it against his quivering buttocks. “Ahhhowwww! Ohhhhh! Owwwwwwch!” He danced rather lewdly in place, twisting his hips but desperately keeping his feet pressed to the floor.

“Just ask Barb politely if you want her to move that foot,” she lectured him curtly. “By the way, stepping out of those bottoms before you reach the bedroom will cost you five dozen bare-assed whacks with the Spencer paddle, just so you know.” She pointedly looked at her watch. “My oh my, this isn’t faring well for the state of your chubby caboose, Paul darling.”

Teardrops once again sliding down his facial cheeks, my desperate soulmate addressed me in a choked voice. “Please, sweetheart, would you move your foot so I can get going?”

I pretended to ponder his request. “Well, you were a bit disrespectful to me just now, but I suppose we could work out a trade-off here… How about a half-dozen more cracks with the crop to your bouncy bare buns in exchange for my cooperation in stepping away, does that sound reasonable to you?”

“Another half-dozen?” he sputtered in disbelief.

My foot twisted atop his warmup pants, reminding him that I was in control of the situation. “You’re right, sweetie pie,” I cooed playfully, “A full dozen lashes would be much better… Perhaps you’ll want to bend over and grab your ankles, then I’ll step off your sweats and administer your pants-down whipping so you can get going in your race against the clock.”

Reluctantly Paul did as I’d suggested, but unfortunately for him—his surface awareness anyway—I was in no hurry and delivered the twelve sizzling-hot whipcracks to his backthrust bare backside at eight-second intervals, using up well over a minute’s worth of precious time while he howled helplessly from that additional corporal chastisement.

“Three minutes and counting,” Brittany noted clinically as her ex-boyfriend, tears streaming down his face and sobbing pitifully, shuffled over to retrieve the black rod of correction from near the kitchen entranceway.

Neither of us ladies interfered any further in his progress toward fulfilling his instructions, but the damage to his timeline for their completion had already been done. By the time Paul had picked up the cane, hobbled slowly back across the living room and down the hallway to the master bedroom, replaced the nylon implement in our closet, obtained the bath brush from the vanity, stripped down then put on his ‘Doctor Denton’ sleeper outfit and finally padded back into the living room in his cute footies, thereupon to hand our honored visitor the oval-backed wooden brush—well, Brittany’s mock-severe scolding said it all: “Five minutes and forty-five seconds, you dawdling disobedient boy, that’s an additional… ummmm…ninety smacks, I believe, for being so slow and inefficient. I certainly hope that you’ll appreciate receiving them on that naked fanny of yours as much as I’m going to enjoy delivering them—and that will be with extreme prejudice, young man!” (At a deep subconscious level of his psyche, he was indeed going to savor each and every extra blistering-hard paddywhack that he’d been assigned for his lateness, I was quite certain about that much.)

My cheerful bell-chime chuckle lightened the mood. “Speaking of Paul having a naked fanny, Brittie, may I do the unveiling honors?” I asked.

She seated herself on the armless but plushly-cushioned ‘spanking chair’ that I’d brought in from the kitchen. “Be my guest, then let’s get your bare-bottomed baby boy over my knee so I can wallop his plump little rump to a sizzling-hot fare-thee-well.”

It took me only seconds to unbutton Paul’s ‘trap door’ seat flap and lower it to nicely expose his already-ravaged rear end for further extended chastisement, and it took only another half-minute for his determined womanly disciplinarian to place him into a restraint position—bent far forward over her left thigh with his defenseless derriere starkly upthrust, her right leg pressing down on the backs of this thighs, her ankles interlocked tightly and his right wrist upturned, pinned against the small of his back by her strong left hand. Brittany’s right hand was of course gripping the slim handle of the sturdy oaken punishment brush as she lifted it above her shoulder to strike swiftly downward.

I giggled gleefully. “Oh, I just adore seeing my hubby in this kind of predicament, his nicely uncovered hind end about to be totally thrashed with a hard-whacking wooden implement until he’s bawling like a baby—and in fact for a long time WHILE he’s wailing so shamelessly. The bet was five dozen smacks for each round in which one team won while the other one didn’t—so that’s one hundred and eighty stingers to my honey’s bare hiney as the wager payoff, since the Tar Heels lost in the first round while the Blue Devils won the tournament title.”

Our guest snickered smugly. “Plus the ninety penalty swats he earned for being so ridiculously slow in obeying my orders, of course, for a total of two hundred and seventy butt-burners—and they WILL blaze like the flames of Hell itself, this Devil will promise him that.” She met my gaze, her soft brown eyes twinkling merrily. “Please do the counting for me, Barb, silently so that this naughty toddler won’t have any idea when it’s finally going to end—and if you lose track and have to go back a bit to where you’re certain of the count, that’s not a problem for me. After all, what’s the effective difference between two hundred and seventy swats and say three hundred—or even three hundred and fifty instead?”

I couldn’t help chortling, fully aware that Paul knew better than to protest the potential unfairness of the situation, given his bare-bottom-up vulnerability and the fact that he’d already had his undefended posterior soundly whipped with the riding crop for exhibiting contrary behavior.

“Fine, Brittie, I understand perfectly—and I’m certain that Paul does too, he knows that you’re calling the shots here and that he’s catching as much ‘ass-whuppin’ as you decide to administer to his naked nates. Before you start busting his bare butt plenty good and hard, though, I want to tell him something—if you don’t mind.”

She shrugged, the paddling brush still held high in her right hand. “Just make it quick, it’s spanking time and I’m itching to take him on a quite lengthy, red-hot trip to Sorebottom City.”

“Paul honey,” I informed him breezily, “Before Brittie begins blistering your bare behind I want you to be aware that tonight I’m going to be exercising my option regarding the new clause that we added to our Spousal Correction Contract on my fiftieth birthday—you’ll be undergoing an extremely extended leathering with my whipping strap, dressed exactly as you are now, based on the ‘Showing Him Who’s Boss’ addendum to our Contract that allows me to royally tan your naked fanny at my personal discretion.”

Brittany giggled gloatingly. “Oh, that sounds like such a good time. I’ll bet he’s going to figure out who rules the roost in this household once you get underway with that bare-assed strapping tonight.”

My head nodded briskly. “I just want him to remember, while his hot, stinging south side is throbbing intensely from this bet payoff that you’re collecting so thoroughly smack on his cute caboose, that I’m still his number-one bare-ass butt-whipper—he’ll be drifting off to sleep thinking of being chastised by both of us today, that’s my intention.” I flashed my girlfriend a sunny smile. “Now give it him really good, make him realize that you’re not actually a Devil but something much more devastating to a bad bare-bottomed boy who deserves severe discipline—that’s an avenging angel.”

Brittany smiled fondly back at me. “You got it, sister—and now Paul’s going to get it!” She swung the hardwood bath brush downward, cracking it forcefully against the center of his vulnerable right buttock—SMACK!! The next vigorous swat plastered his equally exposed left nether moon—WHACK!!

As my beloved husband’s one-time ladylove resolutely paddled his already sore seat, quickly reducing him to yelps, then howls, then sobbing wails and finally to hapless blubbering, I witnessed that process in gleeful shared glory with her. Watching his striped southern hemispheres steadily become a brilliant scarlet, then eventually a deep magenta hue that his fresh caning weals temporarily blended invisibly into, I idly pondered how many blistering-hard paddywhacks via the spanking brush’s smooth back I should allow to impact upon his squirming, bouncing bare bottom before finally a halt calling to the over-the-knee fanny-tanning festivities—three hundred and fifty stingers, I initially told myself, but ultimately I decided that four hundred blistering-hard wallops was a nice round number for the chastisement of my hubby’s naughty but equally-round rump.

And deep down inside his psyche, I reminded myself, Paul had a mischievous devil of his own who deserved, desired and desperately needed as much intensive, highly embarrassing, pants-down ‘ass-whuppin’ discipline as his strict-but-angelic womenfolk could provide for him.

I giggled as my beloved boy’s naked buttcheeks bucked wildly but vainly under the continued onslaught of his pretty spanker’s furious yet measured paddling with the punishment brush’s thick, flat back. Was that two hundred swats so far? No, I calculated on second thought, I’ll say no more than one hundred and sixty.

Barbara girl, I assured myself, Brittany and I have a demanding yet enthralling job to do in the best interests of that relentlessly naughty child residing within the spankee-submissive depths of Paul’s inner persona.

It was turning out to be a long afternoon for that impish, misbehaving little mischief-maker down there—and I was determined to make it an even longer night…

{The End}