Her first attempt

“Oh my god. It’s huge!”

“I told you. You probably figured I was exaggerating.”

“I did. But you actually understated it. I can hardly fit it in my hands. There’s no way, seriously, that it’ll fit in my mouth. I mean… just look at it… bigger than my face for sure.”

“I just asked you to try, just once. I know it’ll be a stretch, and take some… enthusiastic effort. But it’s not like I’m asking you to swallow the whole thing on your first try.”

“My mouth doesn’t open that far. My jaw doesn’t open that far!”

“Here… I’ll hold it. Just open up your pretty little mouth and let me feed it to you — just a little bit at first.”

“Ok. Here goes…”

“Oh, good girl! See, you can do it! Just a tiny bit more now…”

“My mous is so ull I an’t reathe!”

“Breathe later. Enjoy this moment.”

I let go with one hand. I stole a couple of waffle fries from her plate.

“I told you. They don’t call it the Five Monsters Burger for nothing.”

— Frenulum

Directness

We had been dating long enough, and feeling strongly enough about each other, that I decided… it was time.

I invited him to dinner at my place. Before he arrived, I put on carefully selected lingerie, and a white, sleeveless, low-cut dress. Heels as well, of course.

He brought flowers and wine — such a gentleman. I served dinner and we sat down to enjoy it together. Our conversation was entirely about each other, and about us. When I started saying some rather suggestive things, he definitely took notice, as I had never departed from modesty before. Soon our banter was less playful than it was steamy and replete with possibilities.

He offered to help me clear the table, but I insisted that he sit and enjoy the last of the wine. “I’ll serve dessert in just a minute.”

I got everything I needed from the kitchen, and while there, slipped out of my dress. I wore a white lace body-suit underneath, and the white spike-heeled sandals I’d worn all evening. My nipples showed through the lace. So did my lips. So did my wetness.

I came up behind him. As I laid dessert at his place, I came into his field of view. His eyes got huge and he tried to say something, but — pussy got his tongue, I guess. I found that endearing.

He glanced at his plate, and then did a double take. For on the plate there was a single, ripe, red cherry, and on the table was a hammer.

“What? I — I don’t…”

I leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“If I wanted you to pop my cherry, I would have brought you a pin.”

— Frenulum

Point of View

She always sucks me first, so I’m nice and wet and slippery, before I work my way into her cunt. Slipperiness hardly helps, though, because she’s so very tight and I’m… more than adequate.

A gradual advance is always necessary. Her hot, clinging cunt stretches just a little, and each thrust advances only a bit deeper than the last.

Oh, she’s so hot! As if that snug, sucking sheath were furnace-fed. Her body is a constant wonder to me.

At last, all the way inside. That is to say, as deep as she can take me — cervix deep. There’s still plenty left outside her pussy for her hand to fondle, stroke, and squeeze. Her fingers are so delicate, compared to the single-purpose grip of her cunt. I know it hurts a little each time I hit bottom — but I also know that turns her on even more.

My excitement is so intense it feels like I’m vibrating all over. Our pace increases. She’s nearing orgasm — all the signs are there. Faster, faster, all the way deep, now vigorous to the edge of violence. She tenses. Incredibly, she squeezes me even tighter.

She cums.

I feel every pulse of her climax, the innate rhythm coursing through her body. A second crest overtakes her.

In time, our coupling slows. I slip out of that beautiful warmth. She sucks me, lapping up her juices, as she does without fail every time.

Then she twists my bottom, quieting me, and slips me back into the nightstand drawer, ready for the next time she needs me.

— Frenulum

Wants and Needs

“Sir?”

“Why, there you are, my love. Don’t you look pretty!”

“Thank you, Sir! I do know what you like.”

“Indeed you do — to every detail.”

“Sir?”

“Mmmm?”

“I would like something, please.”

“Oh?”

“I really, really want it. Enough to kneel for you and make pleading puppy-eyes that you can’t resist.”

“And what is it that you would like, my darling?”

“Ummm...”

“I love you blushing. Such a lovely pink.”

“Yes, Sir. Please... may I have a mouthful of your thick spicy creamy cum — if I do a very good job of sucking your precious cock?”

“That’s what you want, is it? Some cum in your mouth to savor and play with and swallow?”

“Yes, please, Sir. Please please please feed me lots of your delicious cum. Please? I’ll earn it by sucking you in all the ways you taught me. Oh, Sir, I want your cum so much!”

“Want, belovèd, or need?”

“I need your cum, Sir. Your reward. Your praise for being a good girl. When you feed me, or glaze my face, or fill my adoring eyes, that’s when I know I’ve truly served you as I am meant to.”

“You need this.”

“Yes, Sir, please.”

“I think...”

“Sir?”

“That what you need, right now, is a spanking.”

“Umm...”

“I do know what you need, my own.”

“Yes. I know that. You’ve shown me so many times.”

“So a spanking it is.”

“Umm...”

“Yes?”

“Sir? Will it be a hard spanking, and a long one?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“If it’s not hard, it’s not a spanking. If I’m not crying, it’s not over.”

“Good girl.”

“I am a good girl for you, Sir, a very good girl.”

“So you’ve earned a good girl spanking... and if a good girl deserves a long, hard, spanking until she’s red, and sore, and crying, what would a very good girl deserve?”

“I... well... she, umm, I mean...”

“Just so.”

“Oh, Sir.”

“Over my lap now, sweetheart. Let’s get these panties out of the way.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, love of my life?”

“After?”

“Yes?”

“You’ll praise me then, won’t you? With cum all over my face and in my mouth and all the wonderful ways you decorate me? Because I’ve been a good girl?”

“If your gratitude is clear.”

“Oh, Sir. Of course. Always. Forever. When you give me what I need but... all the time, my center, my owner, my lover, my teacher, my friend. All the time, every second, I am so grateful for your love.”

“And I for yours, belovèd. Bottom up and legs apart, now.”

“Sir.”

— Frenulum

Relaxing Reading

She sat in a comfortable chair, reading the latest novel by a favorite author, dressed in nothing but pink-and-white striped bikini panties and five-inch heels. A fashionable lady would never omit proper footwear.

Wherever her tongue could reach, her face was clear of cum, but plenty was left on her cheeks, chin, and eyelashes, with a single thick stripe drying in her hair. A driblet of cum had fallen from face to nipple, where it clung in a short strand, every page turn causing a brief wiggle of the creamy pendulum.

From time to time the sound of her husband’s voice prompted her to send a smile his way. She loved hearing him help the other patrons of the public library.

— Frenulum

Evening

He sits in the living room in a wing-back chair. To his right is a small table, upon which is a glass of red wine. There is a book open on his lap; whether he is reading or not is unclear. He wears a suit, conservative, with a tie, too colorful for business.

To his left, she waits, kneeling, facing toward him. She wears shoes she can barely walk in: heel trainers that will, after much practice, make a four-inch spike feel like running shoes.

Her head is bowed. Her long hair is held back at the sides by blow-job clips, known to the unenlightened as bobby pins. They ensure that her face is visible despite her posture.

She waits, motionless, without even a hint of impatience or discomfort, for if he wants her kneeling and silent, soft and small, then what thrills her most of anything imaginable is to serve as he wishes. Her obedience alone makes her drip, and she can feel trickles of her honey cooling on her thighs.

She wants to be in his lap, wants him to hold her, wants him to read to her, to give her sips of wine, to stroke her back, to toy with her nipples, to talk to her with the most erotic voice in the universe. But above all else, miles and miles above, she wants to be a good girl for him, for that is the essence of her being. She kneels in joy, serves with pride.

He puts a finger under her chin, lifting gently, and she tips her head up until she meets his eyes.

He smiles and nods. She swallows.

— Frenulum

Let It Snow

Some girls like the snow for downhill skiing. Speed and adrenaline, danger and success.

Some girls like the snow for cross-country, instead. Crossing a drifted lake just after sunrise, warm from the effort, surrounded by beauty.

Some girls like the snow for snowshoe hikes. Following trails through chiaroscuro forests, quiet as a rabbit, spotting a fox, hearing birdsong.

Some girls like the snow for the way it softens. Landscape edges become curves, sounds are blunted, all seems slower, calmer.

Some girls like the snow for the sparkle. Cities and parks and shops are coated with crystal glitter, reminders of past holidays, celebrations, and families.

Me? I like the snow for the way it drifts in my back yard. When I have been given — it is a gift — a long, severe, needed spanking, I can dash outside and sit on my custom-fitted winter throne, letting it numb the pain without diminishing the effect.

I wonder what the neighbors think.

— Frenulum

Two Not Sleeping

One Christmas break. Ten senior girls. One overnight party. Two parents retiring early due to noise fatigue. Ten smartphone cameras for hundreds of candids, poses, and selfies. Six varieties of pizza to choose from; seven soft drink flavors; two kinds of cupcakes, creating laugh-until-it-hurts frosting mustaches (more photos).

Ninety minutes from “It’s late, we should pro’ly go to sleep” until all ten girls were tucked in, in one fashion or another, and the lights were turned off. The interval had been spent in shedding clothes and donning sleepwear, in brushing and braiding and otherwise fiddling with each other’s hair, in renewed bursts of laughter as reminders of the evening were voiced.

Living room furniture pushed to the walls. Emptied space filled with sleepers. Two with sleeping bags, eight content with blankets and pillows.

Zero girls in shamefully un-cool purpose-made sleepwear such as pajamas or nightgowns. Ten girls in various assortments of panties and shirts — three tees, seven tanks — four with shorts and six content just in panties.

Two hours of deep breathing, gentle snorts, and sporadic somniloquy.

Nine girls asleep.

Maddie among them. Erica not. One slow, silent approach.

One gradual realization of being touched — no, more like caressed. One gentle “Shhhh” with a finger crossing two lips. Once sure, a hand moving to stroke a face.

One idea. One unexpected flush of… of what, exactly, Maddie wondered. Something new.

Two breasts never touched by another. Two lips, ending that. More boldness from silent Erica. More acceptance from softly moaning Maddie.

Oh. My. God. There? Really?

One clock on the mantel, ticking softly.

One slow retreat in the absolute darkness. One girl feeling triumph and promise. One girl dizzy from epiphany, yearning for more, baffled both by darkness and by the similarity to the touch of the other nine.

One girl, Erica, thinking: “How can I tell her?”

One girl, Maddie, thinking: “How can I find her?”

Night time. Quiet. Peaceful… for eight.

— Frenulum

Seasonal songs that never need to be played again

In no particular order. Does not include novelty songs, just the standard playlist.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

My mother is a whore for presents and my father is clueless. And somehow that’s funny.

The Little Drummer Boy

Nobody likes drum solos, kid. Especially not parents of an infant. Get lost in a hurry. Also, see somebody about those animal hallucinations.

Feliz Navidad

I want to wish you a merry funeral pyre lit by the sheet music of your mindless, repetitive, pointless crap. Oh god not another repeat, seriously?

Little Saint Nick

“Christmas comes this time each year” — oh, is that it? Really? It’s been hitting me by surprise for decades — could this truly be the secret? Oh my goodness. It’s so clear now.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

The seasonal version of “99 Bottles of Beer.” Start with verse 12 and get it over with.

It’s Beginning To Look a Lot Like Christmas

“Mom and Dad can hardly wait for school to start again.” Well, maybe in the severely dysfunctional family you grew up in, but I happen to love and enjoy my children and wish them close.

Away In a Manger

“No crying he makes.” As a child, I felt that this set an unreasonable standard. My resentment lingers to this day.

— Frenulum

Panties du Jour

Every morning, after her shower, still naked, she waits for me to choose a pair of panties for her. Her collection is large and diverse, so it often takes a while to decide.

Lace, silk, or cotton? Pattern or solid? Playfully little-girlish or provocatively sensual? Brief or bikini or cheekies or boy-shorts or thong? Some days, my choice reflects my mood. On others, it might just be a question of variety — we haven’t had these in a while.

I fit her panties into place, with her help; inevitably this leads to familiar signs of her arousal. We head downstairs to the kitchen, where the first thing I do is switch on the elixir-of-life machine and select a K-cup.

The coffee brews and my cup fills. As soon as it’s ready I take the first invigorating sip. I am no good to anyone, and thoroughly antisocial, until the first cup is down. I need to be left to myself in peace and perfect quiet.

I take the last sip, and pull the soggy panties from her mouth.

“Good morning, my love!”

—Frenulum

Other services available

It was my turn to drive the babysitter home. It was late; the streets were empty.

Bri — Brianna — had been our only sitter since she was thirteen and our Jasper was six months. She was seventeen now, and Jasper was half angel, half weapon of mass destruction. They got along famously; sometimes I wondered if she was the third parent in his view of the world.

Bri interrupted the quiet. “I do more than just babysitting,” she said.

“I know you’ve minded our house a couple of times,” I said, otherwise puzzled. “Is that what you mean?”

“No. I’ve discovered that there are three things I really like.”

I just waited.

Bri continued, “Money of my own, and sex, and adultery.”

How I kept the car in the lane is anyone’s guess. I just started stammering some sort of response, with nothing but confusion behind it. What finally came out was, “Adultery?”

“Yes. That means my customer…” I winced at the undisguised commercial reference. “…Is healthy, and experienced, and can’t afford to gossip or brag.”

“So… so, you’re… um…”

“Selling sex. At least for the summer. I’ll reconsider in September.”

Bri’s very matter-of-fact attitude was apparent in her calm voice. No hint of embarrassment or shame.

I drove on in silence for a moment, coping with this sudden and profound change. Bri is quite a beautiful girl, and I confess that I’ve discreetly admired her body: long, perfect legs revealed by tiny cutoff shorts, breasts barely hiding beneath a tank top, lips that seemed designed for kissing. Or not exactly kissing.

I was shocked to realize that I was actually considering her… availability. Me with a beautiful young girl. I had never imagined it, but… really?

“What… I mean… uh…” I didn’t know how to say it.

Bri filled in the blanks. “Fifty bucks for my hands, a hundred for my mouth. And so on. Or just tell me what you want, and I’ll give you a quote.”

My god, I thought, how can she be so cool about it, so detached? Was it some generational shift that had escaped my notice?

I pulled up in front of Bri’s house. The porch light was on, the rest of the house in darkness. She didn’t open her door. I was frozen between morals and desires. I’ve never so much as run a stop sign…

When I broke down and told her what I wanted from her, she was unfazed. She told me the cost in dollars; figuring the cost to my self-respect and my marriage would be up to me.

I arranged to pick her up at noon. I’d take the afternoon off, while Jasper was at daycare, and we would have the house to ourselves.

When all was settled, Bri got out of the car. Before she closed the door, she stuck her head back in.

She said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, Mrs. Westbrook.”

— Frenulum

Beauty at Long Odds

While they waited for the walk signal, he said, “See the girl across the street?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied.

“What is she doing?”

It seemed too obvious, but all she could think of was, “Waiting to cross?”

“What is her left hand doing?” he asked, patiently.

“Holding her skirt, because it’s windy, and she doesn’t want it to blow up and show her panties to everyone.”

“Yes. ‘Clutching’ is my shorthand for the grip and the reason.“ He led her away from the corner, so there would be more time to talk. ”It’s extremely rare for a skirt to fly up that high,“ he continued. ”If it’s a tight skirt, or one below the knee, that won’t happen. If the fabric is heavy, like the lined wool skirt of a business suit, it won’t blow up. If she’s carrying something like a purse or a briefcase, the skirt won’t have enough freedom to move. And if it’s just plain windy, rather than full of unpredictable, swirling currents, the skirt won’t have enough lift.

“Now, if all the right things come together: length, style, fabric, freedom to move, blustery breezes… there’s a very small chance that her skirt will fly up and anyone who happens to be looking at that exact moment will get a nice view.

“In that event, a good girl yields to nature, and allows herself to increase the beauty of the universe.”

She took in every word with perfect attention, and felt her cunt grow wet and slippery, the inevitable, submissive reaction to his voice, words and tone alike. “I understand, Sir,” she said.

Having missed a few cycles of lights, they returned to the corner to wait.

“If all the right factors combine, against the odds, then you will allow your beauty to be shared. If you clutch, I’ll spank you then and there, in public, and continue when we’re home.”

His mention of discipline had its usual effect: her cunt-honey overflowed; she felt it meandering down her thighs.

He hadn’t allowed her panties that day. She felt the strong wind swirling around her legs.

— Frenulum

P.S. All of the above is my own stance on the matter of clutching. For the record, the wind-blown revelations I have seen amount to roughly 1.5 per decade. So, ladies, if it happens, consider it a message from the universe that you were chosen for your beauty.

Proctor

One of two proctors at the Seniors’ comprehensive examination, Mr. Acer alternated between scanning the room from the front, looking for unusual movements or turned heads, and strolling along the rows and columns of desks, looking for cribs or, now more likely, cell phones with dimmed screens. He varied his path to keep it unpredictable.

The girls were silent. Most were bent over their blue-books, writing in great haste; a few were staring at the ceiling as if inspiration could be found there, or rubbing eyes tired by all-night cramming.

He had just strolled between two girls, Kenzie and Celine, who had been vying all year for Most Likely to Get in Trouble. They were both quite familiar with the effects of a maple paddle on a bare bottom.

They seemed attentive to their writing. Mr. Acer passed the next pair of desks, then turned about-face without warning.

Just in time to see a piece of paper, folded repeatedly until small, pass from one girl to the other. He snatched it in transit before either girl could react.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the other students, he said, “You two, in my classroom, in five minutes.” Kenzie started to reply, but he hushed her. “No arguments. Go now, without any disturbance.” As they stood up, he collected their blue-books.

As the girls left the hall, Acer asked the other proctor to cover the exam for a while. When that was settled he left as well, and headed to his classroom.

Celine and Kenzie were standing side by side, facing the door, when he entered. They looked discouraged and anxious, which Mr. Acer expected, and embarrassed, which he had not.

He tossed the exam books onto his desk, and took the note from his pocket.

“Please don’t read that!” Kenzie exclaimed.

“Please!” echoed Celine, “It’s super private.”

“We know we’re in big trouble already,” Kenzie added, “So just assume that whatever we wrote was the worst thing it could be. Then you won’t have to read it before you punish us.”

“Please, Mr. Acer, you can paddle us every day for a week,” said Celine, beginning to cry. “Just please don’t open that.”

Their distress and pleas had, naturally, the opposite of the intended effect. Acer unfolded the note as the girls watched in horror.

He read it; his face was expressionless. Celine and Kenzie looked at each other, mortified, sick with worry.

Mr. Acer picked the blue-books off his desk, and flipped through them. “A page has been torn out of this one, which is…” Back to the first page. “Yours, Kenzie. So presumably the first message is from you.”

The girls, blushing, wishing fervently to wake from the nightmare, heard him read what they had written.

“Kenzie: would you fuck Mr. Acer?” he read.

“Celine: OMG yes yes yes!!! he’s so hot!!! you?”

“Kenzie: I would let him do anything to me.”

“Celine: like what?”

“Kenzie: IDK, but he would.”

Acer put the note down and looked at the girls: heads down, contemplating their toes, silent, squirming from shame and dread, anticipating the horrible meeting of maple paddle and bare ass.

“Are you young ladies aware that, if a teacher files an excused absence report, it’s possible to re-take the exam?”

The girls looked up at him, and then at each other. “Would you do that, Mr. Acer?” asked Kenzie, a hint of hope in her voice.

Acer took in the sight of two pretty schoolgirls, desperately pleading, ripe for the picking.

“Well,” he replied, “That depends.”

— Frenulum

Independence day

It started as some griping among a few Senior girls, about the uniform dress code. Specifically, the requirement that they wear plain, white, brief-style panties. No colors or patterns, no lace or frills, no bikinis or cheekies or boy-shorts or, god forbid, thongs. The general theme was: we should be able to dress how we want to, where nobody can see anyway — completely unaware of how often they casually exposed themselves.

The first plan for rebellion was to set aside a day when the whole class would wear their prettiest panties. That was received enthusiastically, until one girl pointed out that they would all want to show off their choices and see what their friends wore, which would certainly lead to detection and discipline.

So the plan was changed: a day for everyone to go without panties. Nobody would have anything unique to show off, and the faculty would be none the wiser.

Word spread around the Senior class, and a day was named.

Perhaps, when the day arrived, some of the staff noticed some extra whispering, giggling, or blushing faces. I imagine that most were oblivious.

I teach science. My students do lab projects quite often — I think the hands-on learning lasts longer than lectures. The lab tables are not particularly high. To look at a specimen, a scale, a graduated cylinder, a microscope, or anything else on the table, requires the girls to bend over.

They wear their kilts as short as possible.

I took in the view with the greatest pleasure. So much beauty! So much variety! My mental notebook filled with details.

I didn’t report the uniform infractions. I’m hoping that the rebellion calls for defiance to be repeated regularly and often.

Ah… here come my second-period students.

— Frenulum

The best laid schemes

Uncle Steve isn’t really my uncle. He’s, like, my dad’s best friend since they were roommates in college. Back then they both got called “Tim-and-Steve” because there was no point trying to keep them separate. Anyway, he’s been Uncle Steve to me my whole life.

He lives far away, but if he flies in, like for work or something, he spends a few days with us.

Yeah, so he showed up Monday night, which the pares knew about but hadn’t bothered to give me a clue. He brought me a present, like always, which was ok but still kinda like, y’know, for a kid, like he lost track of how I’m practically an adult now.

So that night I thought up this great way I could get him to notice that and maybe up his present-giving game. Next day when the growns were just gabbing, I put on my jean skirt which is, like, crazy short. I sat facing Uncle Steve and fooled around with my tablet, like I was all distracted and everything. Then after a while I spread my legs, so from Steve’s angle he’d get a perfect look at my panties right over my pussy.

I’m sure I got the details right and Uncle Steve definitely glanced my way a few times, but he wasn’t staring or anything, and he didn’t act like anything was unusual.

The next thing I tried was a loose top without a bra. It showed my nipples as bumps but also the darker circles showed through a little bit. If Uncle Steve payed attention he could see my boobs bouncing and my nipples, and through the arm holes or down the neck when I bent over, he could see them bare. My friend Chelsea says I have the best boobs in our class.

I was pretty frustrated when that didn’t work either.

I put on my sort of private-back-yard bikini, and walked to the kitchen to ask my mom if I could wear it to the beach. She said no for the millionth time, and I only argued to seem normal. But I got to pass by Uncle Steve twice, and if he didn’t pick up on my bare bottom and the tan-lines from what I can wear in public and my legs all the way up and everything… then what, ok?, what was I s’posed to do? God, I practically shoved my bare ass right into his face.

So, yeah, one last try.

Late that night he came into the guest bedroom and there I was, under the covers on his bed. When he turned the light on he saw me, and he was all “Tracy, what are you doing here?”

So I sat up and let the covers drop, and he could see my boobs with nothing on. He kinda froze there so I figured what the hell, and I pushed the covers all the way off so he could see, like, everything. I didn’t even have my legs together, so, yeah, all that.

He definitely looked at me then. Actually it was pretty intense and it almost felt like he was touching me. Really weird.

It’s not like I expected he would do any sex things with me, being my pretend uncle and my dad’s friend and all. I just wanted him to think of me as grown up and treat me that way and maybe, I don’t know, next time he’d bring me my own car or something wicked cool like that. He doesn’t have a wife or kids and my dad says he’s got money out his ears, so, y’know, why not?

He finally unfroze and came over to the bed. He was standing really close and it made me pretty nervous. For some reason I stood up, I don’t know, maybe in case I had to escape or something, but anyway we ended up facing each other. It really hit me how he was much bigger than me. I would’ve had to tilt my head up to look him in the eye but I found myself looking down instead. All of a sudden I felt like my whole plan was fucked-up stupid, and I wished super hard that I could undo it.

That’s when he put his hands on my waist. Oh god oh god what’s happening, I thought, what have I done? Is he going to pull me close, feel my body, kiss me? Is he really going to do sex with me? Like, for real? I never -- I don’t even know how. And then… oh my god, Tracy, you complete fucking idiot.

He held me. He turned me. Hands everywhere, warm, large, solid, making me tremble. I was helpless. He suddenly sat down on the bed, and then he was pulling… I didn’t even notice every move, but in seconds I was lying face down across Uncle Steve’s lap.

He started spanking me.

I reached back to protect my bottom and he moved my arm out of the way and kept going. He didn’t say anything for a long time, he just smacked my ass a thousand times. I think I probably started crying after the first few.

Then he said, “Tracy, you know I love you -- have since you were a baby. I don’t know what you’ve been up to all day, exhibiting your body and trying to provoke me. I hope you can tell me later. But you must understand that your body, your privacy, your dignity… those are valuable, and I can’t let you get in the habit of thinking they’re just playing pieces in some sort of game.”

I was crying too hard to answer. But I understood, I think.

He kept going on my ass, then. I should probably think that humiliating myself and acting like a mega-loser jerk and disappointing a guy who had always been super good to me was worse than the pain. But at the moment, pain won.

I couldn’t see the door, so when Uncle Steve said, “Well, Tim, what do you think?” I absolutely totally freaked out. But I was still held in place and there was nothing I could do.

My dad said, “That’s a good start. I think you can turn her over to me, now.” Then Uncle Steve stopped holding me. I started to get up, looking for something to cover up with, but my dad said, “Go straight to the office, Tracy. Don’t wander, don’t stop for anything. Now.”

So I had to leave the room naked with both of them watching. And my bottom hurt worse than anything I ever felt.

I wanted to find some PJs or at least panties but I wasn’t allowed. My dad’s home office is where he keeps the straps and the paddle, so I pretty much knew what was coming.

I don’t think this idea of being all grown up is working out like I hoped.

-- Frenulum