Dallas Mayo

Girl-crazy girl

CHAPTER ONE

Let's face it. I am – to begin with – a girl-crazy girl. Which just naturally leads to the assumption that I love cunt, and all appurtenances thereto. Which I do. Let's face it, cunt and tits and soft thighs and satin-sleek ass-cheeks, oooh, the mere thought gives me leaky plumbing! I like tongues, too, of course, daintily feminine or luridly female – tongues are uniquely adapted to the needs and nuances of my kind of love, all warm and moist and wondrously flexible in the curves and corners of kinky eroticism. Anyway, what reasonably sensuous lover would dare disagree?

Basically, then, I'm equipped with all the usual desires and sex-drives ascribed to the gay sisterhood. I mention this only in passing, though – it is not the main theme here. Oh no, I'm obsessed by a far more freaky twist, one that casts me in a somewhat different light altogether, adding another dimension to my lesbian life. Because of my name, no doubt, my curiously conducive name! Or could that be just an excuse, a fiction of my mind? Well, even so, I'd rather go on preserving it intact, a lovely romantic fiction. Or maybe a lovely freaky truth…

My name is Loi Morlock. It's my real name, exactly as on the birth certificate, no phony. My father used to read a lot of fantasy and science fiction, a fan from way back. And with a name like Morlock, well, I guess his lifetime ambition must have been to sire a daughter whom he could legitimately call Eloi. Eloi Morlock, get it? – out of that old H. G. Wells classic, The Time Machine – the names of those two separate races of the future, the innocent Eloi and the wicked Morlock. (It's been done in the movies, incidentally, with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, an okay flick!) But my mother wouldn't stand for Eloi, seeing it as a half-baked Eloise – or so the story goes; wise woman! And somehow, by some obscure logic, they compromised on Loi. Which was fine with me – Loi Morlock, a very nice name, very distinctive – until I got a little older and began to see myself freaking out over its meaning. Like a kind of split personality – the original meaning, Eloi in conflict with Morlock – demure and submissive in one guise, evil and domineering in the other. Only it was already pretty well ingrained by then, rooted in unforgettable scenes from my childhood. Pre-teen childhood. Long before I understood the association with my own name. Long before I was even aware of it, oddly enough.

Childhood, then. Late childhood, a time of drowsy glands and awakening curiosity. A time when my first fumbling attempts at such an understanding could only fail, obviously; at that tender age, who could cope with X-rated transgressions? Actually, my first real experience did come by way of a book, though, only it wasn't any science fiction classic, not that one! Not with those pictures of nearly nude ladies, some even all bare, naked! – and wasn't it clever of me to snoop around and stumble upon such a rare grownup treasure? In the middle drawer of Bernadette's dresser, of all places, tucked underneath a neatly folded stack of pink nylon things, underwear and stuff. Snooping was always fun there, everything smelled of sachet, as sweet as baby powder but a lot spicier, the kind of woman-smell that could almost make me dizzy. Somehow, even in the farthest reaches of my memory, I had always managed to find that warm scent – or something quite like it – in the silky-stuff drawer of every maid who ever stayed long enough to unpack. Even the skinny old prune-face, the one who practically had a nervous breakdown the year before, keeping house for my father and taking care of me and complaining about her backache as if all three were symptoms of the same illness. Not that I did much sniffing of her silkies. I was glad to see the old witch replaced, especially by someone like Bernadette, so soft and plump and good-natured – and much younger, of course, almost too young for that motherly sachet smell.

Funny about that. The smell, I mean. Looking back at those childhood days, it seems fairly evident that I must have been nosing around in search of my dead mother, unconsciously associating the sweet sachet with the bygone sweetness of maternal love. I wasn't two yet when she died, hardly out of the infant stage but still old enough to be already conditioned to the sweet-smelling shelter and security of her loving arms. As an only child then, lovelorn and lonely – brought up by a busy father and an endless succession of maids and housekeepers – was it any wonder that I pawed through silk-soft dresser drawers for a sniff of that lost intimacy? There was always just one grown-up lady living at our house, the maidservant of the moment, the one and only possible source of that nice dreamy woman-smell; was it any wonder that I usually adored her and curried favor like a pet pussycat starved for affection?

I curried well, too. The door to the maid's quarters was seldom locked against a poor little motherless waif, the room as familiar to me as my own. A very cozy bedroom, small but attractively furnished and decorated – and with a private adjoining bath, no less, all in back of the kitchen, as comfortable as anything upstairs and a lot more convenient. Even a telephone, an extension phone right at her elbow in case my father called from the office or on one of his out-of-town business trips. And a good color TV set, naturally, since that was his business, the biggest and best television shop-in the county. We weren't exactly rich, but were still unable to afford more than one sleep-in servant, so dear Bernadette had to put in a full day's work to earn her keep. But it didn't seem to bother her, except maybe when she fell behind in the housecleaning and had to scold me for getting under her feet. Nor did it bother me either, considering how gentle her scoldings were, always with a mock frown and a twinkle in her eye. Besides, whenever she got into that work-work-work mood, the noise sounded throughout the house, an all but certain indicator of her exact whereabouts. Which was just fine for me, the perfect time to sneak in a little undisturbed secret investigation of any secrets important enough to be hidden so carefully beneath a piled-up mess of pink underwear. A more leisurely look at that untitled thing in the middle drawer; what a thrill!

Oh yes, I saw it as a thrill somehow, even though the word itself had never rung a sex-bell in my innocent and inexperienced young mind. I had spent only a few minutes with the book so far, a hasty run-through followed immediately by a prudent and ever-so-painstaking return to its nylon nest – exasperating but executed with a wisdom beyond my years. Even if the pictures hadn't shocked me, the hiding-place alone was a dead giveaway, a sign that I was meddling in some mysterious province forbidden to inquisitive little girls. My snooping escapades required extra caution now, the prize was too precious for any but the most calculated of risks. And as I shivered and opened the fearful volume again – with one ear cocked for the comforting hum of the vacuum cleaner upstairs – the sensation became almost unbearable. The pages fell open to an illustration in color, three women, all naked, a chaotic but strangely beautiful entanglement of bodies; and in that single instant of insight I learned the difference between a scary thrill and a sexy thrill. Only how could it be sexy if there weren't any men, how could they fit together and make babies?

Fascinated but still somewhat dubious, I settled down to solve the mystery. The book consisted of pictures mostly, reproductions of oil paintings and watercolors. A scattering of photographs, too, real snapshots of women in all kinds of crazy positions. And a few black-and-white ink drawings, simpler than the rest and easier to understand. Easier for a kid like me, anyway. I couldn't make much sense out of the accompanying text, it was a mixture of English and French and some other foreign languages – sometimes just the name of the artist and a gallery or museum. At first I couldn't even tell if it was supposed to be an art collection or a book about sexy women without men. My reading ability was pretty good then, and I even knew some of the French words, drummed into my head at an early age by another of the long line of maidservants, one who must have fancied herself a high-class governess. And the French sure helped, I soon discovered, adding just enough to explain some of the scientific English. (Phony scientific, I found out later, but still loaded with goodies for a beginner like myself!) So after a while I got the hang of the thing and could look at it for pure enjoyment as much as for information. And that was the extent of my progress by the time I realized the vacuum hum had quit.

I didn't notice it right off, the sudden silence. It sounded eerie now, eerie and ominous and crackling with suspense as my ears strained for some telltale clue. Nothing reached me, though, and I leaped into action and got the all-important book put away in a mad rush. In its proper place, I hoped. With just the right tilt to the covering heap of silky panties and such. Only I was pretty panicky by then, too much in a hurry to stop and calm down and get everything perfect, especially with my hands shaking and my tummy full of butterflies. Anyway, it looked okay when I slid the drawer shut and finally strolled out into the kitchen, all smiles and coy innocence, hiding the secret that I knew about her secret…

False alarm. Bernadette was nowhere in sight. I even considered going back in there for one last check, wondering now if the spread on her bed had been left noticeably wrinkled. And were the throw-rugs on the floor any different than before? Then, with a nervous little giggle, I simply shrugged the whole thing off and found myself almost wishing that she would catch on. After all, the mystery was no longer quite so mysterious – and what kind of woman would even dare own such a naughty book?

Hmm. What was that word again? Lesbian?

CHAPTER TWO

It was routine almost, something we went through at least twice a week, and I should have felt relaxed and comfortable in front of my junior-size vanity table as the brush made a few preparatory glides. She looked relaxed enough. Brushing my hair was a job that Bernadette must have really enjoyed, always cheerful, always working with gentle patience, no matter how many snarls and tangles I had. And she did it often too, her own idea – the full treatment, not just a quick once-over to get me ready for school in the morning. As if I were a grown-up young lady. But that was how she usually acted toward me anyway, never bossy or mean, never taking advantage of her position. As if she knew I was advanced for my age. So even though it could get pretty tiresome just sitting still like that, I seldom raised any objections whenever Bernadette suggested it might be time for my hundred strokes of the hairbrush. Like now. For that matter, only moments ago I had even thought of suggesting it myself. Strictly routine. So why couldn't I calm down and relax? Couldn't I even keep my mouth shut?

"Hey, you're not counting!"

"You noticed that, eh? Don't worry, Missy, I've got my eye on the clock. I'm timing it. Unless you'd rather count the strokes yourself?"

"No, thanks. I think a hundred is too much, anyhow. Doesn't your arm get tired? I mean, for ugly hair like mine…"

"Hush now, your hair is pretty."

"Bernadette, it's so red. Not even a nice red."

"It's a very nice red. And it'll be even nicer in a couple of years. You'll see. Hair like yours gets a shade darker after a while, a real auburn color, you know? Beautiful. It's enough to make me jealous. Mine is like dirty old straw."

I wasn't so tense and jittery now, just that little bit of conversation helped. The mirror still showed brassy red hair, though, and I wondered what auburn would look like on me. Maybe it would go all right with my brown eyes. I was pretty, sure enough, and I'd be getting even prettier in time – a dozen grown-ups had said so. But it was still nice to hear it again – beautiful – especially from someone like Bernadette, someone who really meant it.

The brush-strokes helped, too, so smooth and steady, a lovely familiar feeling – all the lovelier for what it signified, clearing up my last remaining doubts. Nothing to fret about anymore! My secret was still safe, apparently, everything was the same as before – the naughty book and the pink underwear and the secret within a secret. And meanwhile I had seen one of life's mysteries unraveling, the kind that, other kids just didn't know about. Only in pictures, of course, but a lot more interesting than those dumb stories about the birds laying eggs and the bees buzzing around and carrying pollen from flower to flower. Who cared about naked birds and bees? Or even naked babies! But naked grown-up women…

Lesbians. A book about lesbians. A naughty one, too – all that hugging and kissing and sticking tongues into each other – why would sweet Bernadette even have such a book?

Out of curiosity, I took a sneaky look into the mirror, angling for a different view this time. Her hair really was a mess, not as bad as dirty old straw exactly, just a dingy darkish blonde with no shine at all. Then, suddenly, something changed right then and there, her skin turned rosy, a real deep blush, and I realized that our eyes had met in the glass for one tiny instant. And it transferred itself to me, whatever it was – now I could only wonder if my own blush was as visible as hers. There was something hot and quivery crawling around inside me, something just outside the edge of my mind, a kind of secret excitement that seemed to grow bigger with every stroke of the hairbrush, the long down stroke that I could have sworn was getting longer each time. I got dizzy and had to close my eyes, letting my whole body sag and go limp, my head lolling out of balance, the start of a sway that could tumble me right off the vanity bench. And it sure would have, too, except for a little welcome support. Most welcome! She must have moved up closer behind me – I was leaning against her now, the back of my head sinking into softness, the soft prop of her breasts. Like a huge foam-rubber pillow, only warmer, much warmer. A cloud of perfume surrounded me, all mixed up, the powder-sweet sachet smell along with some of that deliciously tangy woman-smell…

Downstairs a door slammed – the front door! – snapping me out of my feverish daze. My fattier was home. And for the first time in my life I found myself almost resenting him; couldn't he have stayed away just a few minutes longer? It affected Bernadette also, she became brisk and businesslike and finished the job quickly. Only I couldn't help wondering what might have happened if we hadn't been interrupted. Nothing, probably, not even if she was like those naked grown-up ladies in the book. Or could lesbians do all that naughty stuff with little girls too?

It was quite a while before the opportunity arose for another sneaky visit to her room. There were numerous possibilities, of course, but none that seemed safe for any length of time, no chance of an undisturbed hour or so with the fascinating volume. And I knew dam well how easy it would be to become engrossed and get caught in the act. So I waited somewhat impatiently, unwilling to take the risk, until at last Bernadette went into the city on one of her Saturday shopping trips, an all-afternoon affair usually, with a slow bus ride both ways. We lived on Chelsea Hill, a quiet suburb of Springfield – where my father had his business – and ordinarily I might have gone along with her, glad to see the sights of the big city. I begged off just this once though, making up an excuse about going to the library with some friends from down the street. It wasn't far from the truth, actually, since the kids were supposed to come by for me, but I got on the phone and canceled out after she left. And then, proud of my shrewd strategy but feeling a bit guilty too, I had the house to myself and wasted no time getting back there and into that middle dresser drawer.

What a disappointment! The big beautiful book was missing; in its place was a dog-eared old paperback with no illustrations at all, not even a front cover picture. Both covers had been torn off, for that matter, and so was the title page – deliberately, it appeared – leaving no clue to its contents, no indication of what the thing was about. In any other place, I would have passed it over without a second glance. But after waiting so long for this moment, I had to stay and give it an honest try at least, especially with the whole afternoon ahead of me. And I couldn't just thumb through this one, my reading ability wasn't that developed yet. So I stretched out on the bed and began resolutely, frustrated but still hopeful, still conscious of the secret hiding-place.

Midway through the first chapter, my frustration started to fade slowly as the story took shape and showed signs of life. And pretty soon – what a surprise! – my disappointment turned to delight. In its own unimpressive way, this well-worn paperback might prove to be a real help to my education, an interesting supplement to the arty picture book, a kind of sequel almost. Some of the words gave me trouble and I thought about fetching a dictionary to work with, maybe even the fat one from my father's study. But I had a feeling those particular expressions wouldn't be listed anyway – and besides, it was growing easier to figure them out just from their repeated use. Even more important, I could feel myself getting all warm and tingly inside, quite familiar now, hardly the mood for looking up words in the dictionary.

I went on reading eagerly, stirred by the central idea and practically squirming around on the bed as the tale unfolded – all about a pleasure resort for women only, all lesbians, wealthy old guests served by lovely young girls. Or the other way around sometimes, whenever some beautiful waitress or bellhop got cocky and demanded service herself, sex-service from some worshipful old biddy who eventually wound up on her knees like a slave. Oh, it was weird! And even though I had all afternoon to finish it, the time rushed by so fast that Bernadette's clock seemed to be leaping from hour to hour. I had to zip through the last few chapters in a hurry, leaving a lot of blanks here and there – too great a hurry to get the full meaning and enjoyment out of those juicy end-scenes. And when the time finally came to play safe and tuck the book away, I was already impatient for my next chance to sneak back again, even more so than I'd been for the big one with all the naughty pictures.

Until then, though, I had plenty to think about – just as naughty and twice as shocking, it seemed like. A lot more educational, too, since most of the words had become pretty clear to me. I knew what a cuntlapper was. And I had a pretty good notion about sadists and masochists and that sort of thing. Like the rich bitch who couldn't be happy unless she was walloping some beautiful young girl's ass. Or the maid who turned around and began to dominate her mistress, getting her toenails polished and her feet licked just for an extra thrill. And more, so many more, all in this pleasure resort for women only, a luxury hotel that catered not just to lesbians but to perverted lesbians…

CHAPTER THREE

The next opportunity came sooner than expected. Or so I thought, anyway, having seen Bernadette go out to spend her night off with a relative who lived some thirty miles away, down in the farmland area. And when my father got tired of watching television and went to bed early, wel…

I waited awhile, making sure he was asleep, and then tiptoed downstairs in my pajamas. As always, the hall lamp was on, throwing enough light through the kitchen doorway so that I didn't have to click any switches. Not that it made much difference, considering what a sound sleeper my father was, nothing short of an earthquake would wake him up before morning. I felt guilty, though, a guilt mixed with excitement – after all, I was doing something naughty. I even had an excuse ready, just in case, an excuse about coming down for a glass of milk and then deciding to use the maid's bathroom first – not very farfetched really, just the sort of thing a kid my age might do. That way I could read far into the night, keeping one ear open in case of emergency. A perfectly logical excuse. I had to congratulate myself on my cleverness, feeling guilty and excited and a little bit smug too; oh yes, I had everything worked out just fine! Or so I thought.

Breathlessly, nearing my goal now, I glided across the kitchen floor, pausing only to check and make certain that no light peeped out from under Bernadette's door. Again, just in case! There was always the possibility that she had changed her mind and returned early, coming in quietly through the back-porch entrance. Possible but doubtful, and I only stopped for a quick glance – just to catch my breath mainly – before turning the knob and pushing the door open, eager to begin my night of grown-up fun. My night of grown-up naughtiness…

It was naughty, all right, only I sure hadn't figured on anything that naughty. Even the light seemed sinful, a single red bulb that bathed everything in a rosy glow, bright enough for vision but too dim to be seen through the crack underneath the door. She was bare naked, standing in front of the full-length mirror, angled so that I could see part of her for real and the rest of her as a reflection. I stood there without a sound, paralyzed, looking at those two rose-colored Bernadette's and wondering if it was all just a crazy dream. Only it wasn't, of course, and I didn't have to pinch myself to remember lying in bed and waiting for my father to fall asleep and start snoring. Besides, what dream could present such a strange sight, what kind of dream could make my eyes bulge like this?

I saw her big bare bottom and her big bare breasts, round and swollen and sexier than any picture in a book. It turned me all warm and shaky inside, that nice itchy-quivery feeling, and I had an urge to touch myself, to scratch the itch, the deep-down-inside place where it itched the most. And then her hands moved a little and I saw what she was doing with them – just a little, not much, just enough to prod my mind wide-awake and bring back memories of both books. It came in bits and pieces, the words, the pictures, all that storybook stuff; could it really be real?

Even my schoolbooks weren't about real life. Geography books were full of faraway names and places, never Springfield or Chelsea Hill or Oakwood Street. Never anyplace deep down inside. The same went for history books, all about things that happened long ago and far away. Like a lady named Betsy Ross who sewed the American flag. Never about old Mrs. Yates, the lady who sold dresses and did alterations in her shop next to the supermarket. And as for storybooks, well, Dick and Jane and their dog Spot weren't any more real than Hansel and Gretel and the wicked old witch running a gingerbread bakery in the middle of the forest. And now all of a sudden I was seeing storybook stuff come alive! I was even an important part of it – me, little Loi Morlock – standing there and watching our maid Bernadette frig herself…

Uh-huh. I had never seen Mount Everest or a lady flag maker or a gingerbread oven, but this was for real, and right in front of my eyes. Because that was what she was doing with her hands, frigging herself. I knew the word. Oh shit, I knew all the words. I wanted to say them out loud, to tell her how beautiful she looked with that big bare ass shining and those big bare tits shaking and shimmering, all rosy-red in the lamplight. Fingerfucking her own cunt, imagine! Was that how to scratch the itch, the itchy-quivery feeling, the horny feeling? She had both hands down there, down between her legs, working the fingers up and around inside her slit, the hairy cunt-slit that refused to show itself for more than a quick glimpse now and then, no matter how hard I squinted and strained for a better view. Each hand had its own job to do, I noticed, each with its own speed and style, the lower one always in motion, sliding in and out, fucking – while the hand above remained pretty steady, cupped and curved to give the fingertips a chance, caressing her clit, no doubt, the little love-button that was supposed to be hot stuff, at least according to most of the experienced lesbians in that book about the pleasure resort. Anyway, it was good to see a demonstration of something that I had read about with great enjoyment but not much conviction. (Let's face it, there are times when you gotta believe!) And it was even better to see how simple and natural it was, much easier to understand than all that silly nonsense about the birds and the bees and the flowers.

True, she was doing it alone, solo, and that was possible for any woman, not just a lesbian; it said so in the book. But the way she panted and kept her attention focused on the mirror, gazing as though it was more than just an image of herself – well, I was almost convinced that those two rose-colored Bernadette's were lesbian lovers. I felt embarrassed watching them in such intimacy, embarrassed even beyond my original mistake in opening the door. And I started wondering if there was a chance of my slipping out unnoticed. Only I couldn't tear myself away, not while the show was still going on and getting better, hotter, as that fuck-hand seemed to grow stronger and penetrate deeper – not hard, just long and slow and sexy. By that time I was craning my neck for improved visibility, hopeful of just one clear and conclusive glimpse of her cunt, a gleam of red maybe, a glistening flash that meant cunt and not just another reflection of the light bulb. It was something I was dying to see, something I had never seen before, a cunt, a real grownup woman-cunt…

"Loi! Don't you knock any more?"

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't know you were home. I thought you went to visit your…"

"Never mind that now. Come in and shut the door. You got yourself an eyeful, huh?" Still panting, she grabbed for her robe and then tossed it aside with a shrug. "Hmph! Maybe you like looking at naked females. How long have you been watching me?"

"I-I don't remember. Not long."

"Shut it tight. Before your father hears us and wakes up. That's better. Now stop fidgeting and come here. I guess you think I'm pretty naughty, hmm?"

"N-naughty?"

"Naughty. I was only having some fun, really. But it's not the kind of fun I'd care to have anyone know about. Especially your father. You wouldn't want to make trouble for me, would you, Missy?"

"Trouble? Golly, no. Of course not."

"Good girl. When grownups are naughty, their punishment can be a lot worse than just a scolding. Or even a spanking. If you told anybody about me – about what you just saw me doing, you know? – I might even lose my job here. You don't want that to happen, do you? Then you'd have another maid to keep house and take care of you, maybe someone like that old prune-face, remember?"

"Ugh. I won't tell. Cross my heart, Bernadette, I won't say a word to my father or anybody else. I like you, honest. You're the nicest maid we've ever had. I'd cry if you left."

"You darling. And you're the nicest little girl. There now, that's settled. Only you must learn to knock, my dear. I can't understand why you didn't."

"Well, uh, I thought you were… uh…"

"You thought I was spending the night with my cousin, hmm? I changed my mind. Good thing I did, too. Now I know who's been snooping in my room. So you thought I was out, that's why you didn't bother to knock. But if that's so, what did you come for? To poke around in my dresser drawers? To learn some secrets that were never meant for children? Secrets that even a lot of grownups would find shocking? Hmph! I won't be spied on, you hear?"

"I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. Don't scold me any more, I'll be a good girl from now on, I promise."

"Of course you will, you always are, darling. Even when you're naughty sometimes, you're still my good little girl."

"Oh. Then you're not mad? Bernadette?"

"Silly. How could I be mad at my little angel?"

"But-but the way you just scolded me…"

"Hmm. I was rather harsh. Well then, there's only one thing to do now, and that's to even the score. It's your turn to be harsh to me, I guess. How does that sound?"

"I-I don't understand."

"A bit complicated, is it? Listen. You were naughty and I scolded you, that was your punishment. But I was naughty, too – when you first came in, remember? Playing with myself like that, standing in front of the mirror, and with this red light on; don't you think that was naughty? Not terribly naughty, but enough so that I ought to be punished. So it's only fair that you punish me for my naughtiness, wouldn't you say so, Missy?"

"You-you mean I should scold you?"

"No, dear, I'm afraid that wouldn't work, you're a little too young to give me a proper scolding. But if you think you're big enough to give me a proper spanking…"

"Huh?"

"Right on my bare bottom, a good hard spanking, as hard as you can hit. I deserve it, I deserve to be punished; will you do it for me, darling?"

"You must. Then I'll feel as if I've paid for my naughtiness. And that's all the more reason not to tell anybody about it, too – a good spanking will take away my guilty feelings. Once the punishment is over, my conscience will be clear and I'll just forget all about it."

"Oh. But-but you're so much bigger than me…"

"Bigger but weaker. I'm a naughty girl, that's all. And since you're the one who caught me, well, that gives you the right to use a little discipline to straighten me out – and what better discipline is there?"

"A spanking… golly…"

CHAPTER FOUR

I was pretty mixed up by then, confused by the way her attitude toward me had switched back and forth, the way she kept changing from nasty to nice and then back to nasty again. Then too, she had never put her robe on and was still naked; her body seemed so big in that small room, much bigger than with clothes on somehow. Or maybe that was because of the red light, so weird! – it made everything feel close, confined. Her tits bobbed and swung with every gesture, every movement, the nipples practically poking into my face. And with the door shut I could really smell her, the powder and perfume and the sexy woman-smell. I was conscious of her cunt all the time, conscious of it but afraid to look, too embarrassed to let her see me yield to childish curiosity.

But she wasn't being nasty any more, only nice now, calling me her darling little angel in a sugar-sweet voice. And I had to admit that the idea of spanking her sounded kind of cute, almost like a new game she had just made up for us to play together. Exciting, too, now that she was actually begging for it, exciting enough to be more than just some kid game…

"Won't you, Missy, won't you punish your naughty girl? Give me what we both know I deserve. Look…" She spun around. "See? See this naughty bottom of mine? It won't feel better until you slap it with your dear little hand. Good and hard, too. Or I'll never be able to sleep tonight, not with my guilty conscience."

My excitement flared at the sight of her buttocks, big and bulgy, all that grownup woman-flesh! Just touching it would be fun. And so would stroking or patting or caressing. But slapping it – spanking those plump cheeks – wouldn't that be even more fun? A noise burbled up inside my clogged throat, all but unintelligible, more like a grunt than a word of willingness. She must have gotten the message though, waggling her hips and twisting at the waist to glance back and utter one final plea.

"You'll do it then? Oh, you darling! How do you want me, over your lap? I might be too heavy for you, maybe I'd better just lie down on the bed, okay?"

"N-no… wait…" I managed to speak at last, spurred by an almost vehement need to object. Her backside was the target, sure, but there were things in front I didn't want to lose track of, things too interesting to bury in a bed sheet. "Not on the bed. Just stand there, right where you are, Bernadette. Just stand still and stick your bottom out, that's all."

"Oh. You-you mean like this?"

"Uh-huh. Fine."

She peered back over one shoulder, looking a bit nervous now, and then went into position again, bending even lower to make those dimpled cheeks jut out. They remained like that, tense and expectant, the skin drawn tight, certainly an inviting target. Even so, it was still too much of a muddle for me, the whole business, too strange, too sudden, too much for my inexperienced young mind to cope with; after all, how could a little girl hit a big grown-up woman? And my swing was halfhearted, hardly more than a tap.

"Missy? Is that the best you can do? Tsk, tsk. Afraid of hurting your hand maybe? You're sure not hurting me."