We reached a bench.
He sat, and tapped his knee.
But you know you shouldn’t doubt me. And now I’m going to spank you.
Not here, I said
Yes, here. He smiled. And yes, someone could see us. But they probably won’t. It’s late. Panties down.
He wasn’t letting up. And the park was wooded. It was 8pm and the sun was a murky amber. I pulled down my tights. I pulled down my knickers.
He was cute. Wearing jeans, converse. A Ramones t shirt he was too young to pull off. He was devilish and innocent-looking.
Over my knee, little one.
He’s four years younger than me, the prick.
I need a wee.
Cute story. I’ll count to three and if you aren’t over my knee you’re going to stand there until you piss yourself.
Red cheeks, climbing over the bench, chipped green paint under my knees. His bony thighs. There’s dog shit on the ground below us. Dried. White. Nostalgic. I save the high calcium of bone-rich diets causing the chalky appearance fact for after he’s beaten me, and brace my hands against the narrow strip of metal under the seat.
He pinches ounces out from each buttock, down along the thigh. He takes his time, relishing the snap and pull of my flesh.
Just get it over and done with, I hiss but he only pinches harder, where the skin will take less, feel more, and harder still, until I weep. Only then does he raise his palm to punish.
Birds scatter. Leaves swirl. Thunder crashes in the yellow summer sky. Salt stinging pain. Red cheeks. Red cheeks. Sodden. Weeping still.
He soothes, Good girl. His fingers on the back of my neck, light and protective.
Good girl, almost done.