Sunday Morning

Distracted by church bells chiming outside, bored while masturbating in bed, his mind was flitting about: Jolie nipples peanuts, brown rose yellow, chinks chicks chickens, farms horses whips, whispers MrWhippy MadamSpanky,

- this is ridiculous. Give it a rest, I told him, enough is enough.

- stop complaining, Fist, answered his Will.

In hushed tones, his Imagination and Memory were huddled together, colluding in a dark corner of his head. Then in chorus they sang to his Soul, slyly:

- those ex's loved a good spanking. Didn't they? Bent over the table or bed, pretending to be school girls. Perhaps there was something in that, Mr Teacher. Maybe a little spanking will expel this daydreaming, pass you through the pain barrier and into pleasure. Go on, Mr Fist, spank!

The idea runs around his body. Sirens of clichés sing about experience, and never knowing unless you try. Curiosity affirms his ass is not a cat, and so cannot be killed by this. The left fist complains (in demotic French) about having to depart his comfy corner, perched upon the warm cave of his anus. His butt stays silent, but wobbles up and down, perhaps in a nodding motion. The lungs breathe out a resigned sigh, while cumming spanked women are hung like a picture on the inside of each eye,

- and so, a conspiracy is born. The torso twists him prone. The knees lift him up like an eager dog. The face assumes a look of innocent excitement, like an expectant child.

And then, the brain tells the arm: Action! And up I go, like a mad kid on the end of a fairground ride, or a huge weight on the end of a crane, or a child's kite waiting to collapse, all the way up there. Taut and straight, open palm-position like a kung fu cliché, up I go.

And then I am flying down through the still bedroom air, hurtling through the warm haze of the morning, dive-bombing down, down, down, dropping like a piano through the sky in a cartoon, until -

SLAM. Spank. Smack...

And then, shudder. Shuddering, along his juddering frame, from the waist and up to the face. And then, the burning. O the burning, burning, burning. First, burning the ass, hot and red and throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. And soon the eyes, all optimism gone, them on the verge of spitting out their bitter salts, crying, wailing, sobbing.

"What was that noise? You ok in there?" housemate 1 called through the bedroom wall.

"Ahh, I..." is all the agonized mouth could muster.

"No don't go through," said housemate 2. Then quietly: "I think he's -"

Silence. Enough time for a simple gesture?

"O," said housemate number 1. "O."

His face is on fire. His ass is agony. He is populated with pain. Except for I, Fist. In the shocked fleeting silence, I raise my solitary central finger. Here endeth the lesson, I preach, here endeth the lesson.