Flamingos Ch. 17

It's funny, really, how things work in the Flamingo Life. I never saw my Nubian Goddess again, never caught her name. And Ashley, my Earth Mother, and Fertility Goddess was becoming, well, not actually "boring," but it was starting to feel like we had been married too long and had become too comfortable with each other.

We were eleven months into our year and a day, and I was starting to look forward to Paula returning to my life and my bed.

Ashley and I never talked about it, but I'm pretty sure she felt the same way. Which is why, I suppose, it turned out that this was the last time we would share a bed.

I woke before she did, and rolled up onto my elbow to watch her sleep. And the magic was gone. My Earth Goddess was gone. Instead, this old woman, well, not as old as me, but old, was snoring beside me. The drool wasn't sexy anymore, the snot bubbles weren't either. The bubbly fart she let as I watched wasn't cute and the smell was beyond merely earthy. Her tits still looked tasty, but I could look away. The belly apron covering her sex wasn't sexy, it was just a roll of fat with a deep belly button crease.

I searched my memory but couldn't find why I had been so thoroughly captivated by this woman.

But I kept watching her and when her eyes fluttered open I kissed her. The slightly salty taste of her saliva still got to me and I started to get hard.

She smiled, coughed, cleared her throat, and said, "you feel it too, don't you?"

I kissed her a second time and said, "yes."

"Well," she said, and there was some sadness in her eyes, "let's make our last time a good one then."

She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me, an excellent kiss, full of anticipation, full of need.

And there was that womanscent, her pheromones attuned directly to my DNA. I was hard, instantly.

She rolled up and met my eyes. Her fingertip brushed my forehead, very lightly. "How is it," she asked, her voice soft, "that you never wanted to spank me?"

She wiggled her big ass.

"I've been told, more than once, that an ass like mine just begs for spanking," she added, her eyes on mine.

I caressed the roundness she was talking about. "It IS magnificent," I said.

And then it hit me, proving that sometimes I'm just plain slow on the uptake.

"You like that, don't you?" I asked.

She giggled very prettily and wiggled that big ass. "As long as you understand that if it doesn't hurt and I don't cry it's not really a spanking."

I grinned.

"Hold that thought," I said, rolling out of bed, stepping into the jeans laying on the floor, and going out the door. In one of the storage compartments that riddle the travel trailer, I found the fold-up chair I was looking for. This one had no arms but a good set of cushions. I had bought it specifically to play guitar but I figured it could have other interesting uses.

I set up the chair and then went back into the bedroom.

She had struck a pose, something out of a 1950s Playboy shoot. She was on her side, chin propped on her palm, her left leg bent, showing off her ass, her left arm carefully covering up her boobs.

I crooked my index finger, beckoning her. She smiled very prettily as she stretched and then rolled out of bed. She took my hand and I led her to the front room.

I picked up the remote from the stereo and roamed through the FM band until I found a soft rock station, something I figured would make a nice background.

Then I sat and pointed to a spot on the floor to the right of the chair.

The smile that spread across her face was happy as she came to stand where I had pointed.

I handed her the small decorative pillow I had in my hand. It was decorated, I thought appropriately, with flamingos. "If you need to yell, yell into this," I said, "we don't want the neighbors calling 911."

"Assume. the. position," I said, with all the snap they had taught me in NCO school in my voice, trying to make each word a separate sentence.

Her smile became even happier as she laid herself across my lap in the classic over the knees position.

I KNOW how to administer a proper spanking. Paula and I had experimented since her ass really does beg for a spanking, but it had turned out to not be the turn-on for her she had thought it would be. But I was always a good student and researcher and I had learned the proper way to do it.

The trick is to remember the old story about how you boil a frog.

If you haven't heard it - you put the frog in a pan of cool water and THEN turn on the heat. By the time the critter realizes it's getting hot, it's too late. He's all relaxed and can't jump out. Drop him in boiling water and he'll jump right back out.

A spanking works much the same way. The expert spanker starts with very light strokes, almost touches, barely pats. Then, as each stroke gets harder, the spankee is slowly warmed up and can accept a longer, harder, more painful, and more meaningful spanking.

And a proper spanking lingers.

This one lasted over an hour.

I watched her body, feeling the changes. She was counting each stroke. By 15 her big ass had two almost perfect circles of red, right where she sits, and the strokes were hard enough to land with an audible slapping sound.

I could feel the slight tension as each stroke landed, and then the relaxation as I caressed where I was hurting her.

By 30 I could smell her arousal. Her hands were hooking into claws that would squeeze and relax as I rubbed between strokes.

By 40 she was crying and at 45 she held the pillow to her face and screamed.

I could feel her struggling and thought she was probably trying to hold off her orgasm by 50.

Her legs were kicking by then, and she was crying. Tears and snot were dripping onto the floor.

When she came, at stroke 78, it was breathtaking. She didn't exactly squirt. A sudden burst of thick white nectar spattered onto the door to the bathroom, running down thick and slow. Her back arched. She was gasping for air as if she had been underwater for too long. A second and third blast followed.

As soon as she relaxed I resumed the spanking, but with no rest between strokes.

"OH JESUS," she sort of wailed, her voice thick and hoarse.

She came again at 82, 85, and 91 before she just collapsed across my knees, her legs kicking weakly, whimpering, gasping.

I made it an even 100 before I figured we were both finished.

I rubbed where she was red, round bruises forming. By the end, I had been hitting pretty much as hard as I can. She continued whimpering, trembling in waves.

As I said, we never shared a bed again at night. But for the remaining month of our year and a day, every morning when she came home she knew there was a spanking waiting. She was smiling, every morning, when she came through the door.

I think it was a smile of happy anticipation.