Dozing in the shade by a babbling stream with a book resting on my chest, I soak in the beauty of my quaint countryside town. Trills and twitters of birdsong unravel like ribbons on the air. The emerald canopy above sparkles with glimmers of sunlight, leaves rustling amid wisps of a light breeze. You’d never even suspect society was falling apart.

 

Lazy quarantine days. I’ve started coming here to read in the evenings for a change of scenery. Home feels so lifeless lately, like a drafty old dollhouse. The seconds tick by there as I shuffle in a heap from one room to the next. Kitchen to front yard to backyard to bedroom to bathroom to kitchen again. I had to get out. So glad to have found this quiet haven. 

 

A harsh yell cuts through my reverie, fierce and aggressive.

 

“HEY!”

 

My head whirls around and I bolt up, dropping my book. Down the path, you approach in a storm of fury, tall and intimidating. Flannel shirt, jeans, tan work boots, scruffy five o’clock shadow. Built like a fucking house. You’ve got the whole lumberjack vibe down, that’s for sure. Everything but the ax.

 

Run, my mind tells me. He’ll hurt you. But fear has already taken hold and I start shaking, frozen in place, struggling to speak. Nothing comes out.

 

“Can’t you read, girl? No trespassing. There’s a goddamn sign at the end of the road!”

 

Your gaze penetrates, dark eyes wild. You keep it fixed on me as you close the space between us, stopping a few feet away. I backpedal and bump into the trunk of the tree behind me. Why are you so angry?

 

“This is my property. I’ve seen you walking around here all week.” You glance up and down my body, sizing me up. “Pretty sure you know better.”

 

“I’m… I—” I’m already crying, I can’t even help it. You’re scaring the shit out of me. “I’m sorry! I’m your neighbor. I live over on 4th Street, just up the road.”

 

“You think I give a damn, honey?” You step closer, scowling and shaking your head. “I didn’t put that sign up for nothing. I don’t want strangers tromping around my land or coming here to read or smoke weed or whatever the fuck you’re up to. I could call the police, you know. Have you cited.”

 

“Please don’t call the cops! I’m sorry!” My work’s been cut down to practically nothing in the wake of the virus. I can’t afford to pay a fine of any amount right now. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

 

“You’re right about that,” you say, getting closer, crowding my space. Your huge hand reaches out and I bat it away.

 

“Don’t touch me!” I snap, turning to run in a panic. You snatch me firmly by the upper arm and I squeal. A sharp, abrupt blow hits the seat of my jeans. Then another, and another and another and another. Holy shit, you’re fucking spanking me!

 

I cry out and try to run, but it’s no contest. You’re far stronger and yank me to you easily, hugging my torso to yours with your left arm. Deft fingers unzip my jeans and tug them down to the middle of my thighs, exposing my panties. You hold me to you and look down over my shoulder, whapping my cheeks.

 

“Ow! OW!! Please stop! Please!”

 

You don’t.

 

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK…

 

I can’t get over the audacity of what you’re doing, out of all the things you could do. No one’s ever spanked me in a serious way. The sting of it is immense, but it’s nothing compared to the rush of emotions coursing through me. It feels... violating. Intimate, even. I note the musky smell of your sweat while I bawl into your chest. You, a total stranger, putting your hands on me.

 

You finally stop, thank God. Voice low, you hold me and chastise for a moment, hand cupping my ass. 

 

“What makes you think the rules don’t apply to you? You just go wherever you please all the time, like you own the place? Huh?”

 

I’d react, but can’t form words fast enough to keep up in the midst of my shock. Bringing your foot up to rest on a gnarled knot of the tree, you lift me entirely off the ground and pull me over your thigh. Upside down with my jaw hanging open, I watch my own feet dangle in the air, pants around my ankles. The warm breeze kisses my legs. 

 

And then, you do the unthinkable. 

 

With a hand on my waist to keep me still, you pull my panties down, peeling them all the way to my knees. Hiding my reddening face in my hands, I sob as you take a moment to rub my butt, squeezing and inspecting. I’ve never felt so mortified in my life. 

 

“You’re gonna remember this,” you assure me as you start anew with a flurry of biting swats across my hot, bare skin. It hurts the most at the tops of my thighs. Every now and then, your hand lands directly over the center of my bottom, catching the sensitive flesh between my cheeks. I cry harder.

 

I should fight like hell, but provoking you further seems like a dangerous idea. Each strike makes me jolt, but I try to stay balanced atop your thigh. You’ve got me secured with your arm wrapped tightly around my waist, but the position feels precarious all the same, like I’ll topple over and crack my head open if I struggle too much.  

 

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK…

 

“We beginning to understand each other?”

 

“YES!” I wail. “I’m sorry! Please! I won’t come back! Please don’t hit me anymore!” 

 

The word ‘spank’ is too accurate. I don’t want to acknowledge the reality of what you’re doing: punishing me over your knee like a petulant child. You do, however. You want to talk about it.

 

“People don’t spank nearly enough these days,” you say, like it’s some philosophical matter. Seems kinda odd. You look roughly my age but lecture me like a teacher or my uncle or something. “There’s a whole plague of entitled little brats just like you, running around acting like the world’s their fucking oyster.”

 

Hooooo-kay. This isn’t just about me. You’ve clearly got some issues. I bet you’ve been watching me from your window each day, biding your time, just itching to come bend me over and make me cry. Mission accomplished, you weirdo. 

 

With the same ease used to throw me over your knee, you let me down suddenly, steadying me while I catch my balance. I stand there and hiccup sobs as you crouch to grab my book. You then reach out for my arm once more.

 

“Pull your pants up and come with me. We’re not done.”

 

Not done? What the fuck?!

 

Wherever it is you’re trying to take me, I don’t want to end up there alone with you. You’re gonna rape me or do something crazy. I full-on thrash, yelling and trying to get you off me as I trip over my jeans. “Let GO!”

 

You don’t like that one bit, eyes hardening at my impertinence. With a forceful snatch on your part and a terrified scream from me, I find myself slung over your shoulder with my ass raised in the air. You start walking from the grove with an arm clamped around my thighs. I ball my hands into fists and do my best to punch your back and your ass, but the pain doesn’t faze you. With your other hand, you raise my own book and smack my butt with it. WHAP!

 

“Behave yourself.”

 

I carry on struggling to no avail while you make your way through the woods. My tears feel out of place here. It’s eerie hearing myself weep against the soundtrack of birds and bees peacefully swooping about. I just pray no one’s around to see my bare pink tush on display.

 

You say nothing while you walk. Casual, taking your time. Not a word. 

 

Within a few minutes I spot your barn behind me, huge and timbered with fading red wood. The perfect place to slaughter some poor defenseless girl and hide her decapitated body. Lit with fear, I scream for help as loudly as I can. You promptly put me down and hug me to your body again, clapping a hand over my mouth. 

 

“You want me to call the cops, honey?” you snarl into my ear. “Have them come arrest you?”

 

I shake my head and cry into your palm. Cops are unpredictable. Don’t want to deal with them. Don’t have money for bail or fines or lawyers. Don’t want to end up catching the fucking virus in custody. I want my house and my shower and my warm, comfy bed.

 

“Then you’re gonna cooperate and take the rest of your punishment. Are we clear?”

 

I nod. Crystal.

 

You carry me the rest of the way to the barn and slide the door open. I note the darkness of the interior, dimly lit by a few knifelike beams of sunlight streaming through cracks in the ceiling. Silence closes in and I remember, no one else knows I’m here. Didn’t even bring my wallet or phone with me today. This is the worst shit I’ve ever gotten myself into. 

 

In the middle of the space, you set me on my feet and pause, assessing the state of my soul ahead of what you’re about to do. Your hands go to your waist and undo the buckle of your cracked leather belt. I watch it slide out through the loops of your jeans. 

 

You can’t be serious. “Please don’t do this.”

 

But your eyes have me captivated, anchoring me to the ground. The spell of your authority holds promise of something dark and nebulous, maybe even beautiful, though I can’t fathom what exactly.

 

“Turn around,” you tell me calmly. “I want you to bend over with your feet apart. Hands on your shins.”

 

If I don’t do it, I figure you’ll make me somehow. It takes every shred of strength in my terrified heart, but I comply and get into position, shaking miserably. 

 

You approach from behind and correct me to your liking, nudging my feet just a liiiiiittle further apart, bending me lower with your hand on the small of my back. Your fingertips gently angle my hips upward. 

 

“Stick your bottom out for me. There you go.”

 

I watch my tears fall into the dirt as I do. This is gonna hurt.

 

WHOOSH, CRACK!

 

Holy fuck, it’s like a line of fire licking across my ass. I yelp and sink to the ground, holding my burning cheeks. Behind me, you wait. Christ, maybe I should offer you sex to try to appease you. It might be preferable to additional attention from your belt. I slowly stand and get back into place, wondering how many more you want to give me.

 

“Good,” you say quietly, in praise of my submission.

 

WHOOSH, CRACK!

 

No. No way. I can’t hang. It’s too much. I scream again and turn around, completely hysterical, babbling and begging you. No more no more.

 

You watch, impassive. “We’re not done yet, and I don’t like repeating myself. Do I need to restrain you?”

 

My stomach twists in knots and I wonder what you mean by that. I just want to go home.

 

Your eyes dart to something behind me and back again. You nod down toward my jeans, still bunched at my feet along with my panties. “Let’s get these off.”

 

I’m stripped half naked and guided to the far end of the barn. A wooden sawhorse waits there, old and rough with sharp little splinters. You bend me over it lengthwise. The board is hard and uncomfortable against the front of my body, but seems to support my weight. 

 

“Stay right there,” you warn, stepping over a pile of hay to head into one of the stalls. I don’t even see any horses in here. Maybe you ate them or something like the unhinged psycho you appear to be. I weigh the idea of making a mad dash sans pants, but have zero faith in my ability to outrun you. As I try to convince myself obedience is my best option, you return with a few coils of rope. Shit. This bodes poorly.

 

“Good girl,” you murmur, regarding me fondly with your eyes on my behind. Your broad hand caresses my swollen red cheeks, then hovers for a moment over the heat of my sex.

 

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray harder than I ever have in my life. Please don’t. Please please please please please. 

 

You don’t touch me there, however. Not a single crass word about my pussy. No threatening to fuck me. Instead, you tie my arms and legs to the four posts of the sawhorse, then secure my midsection to the length of the board. The spanking is your priority.

 

Once you’re done with your preparations, you come around to crouch in front of me, seeking eye contact, folded belt in hand. Gently, you wipe back the stray hairs plastered to my face by tears and sweat.

 

“I bet you’re probably a sweetheart. Just spoiled. Maybe in the future, you’ll be able to accept it when something’s not meant for you.”

 

I hate your assumptions and look at you bitterly, lip quivering. I am not spoiled, you mean fuck.

 

My anger amuses you and you smile, nodding slightly. “Let’s see if I can teach you that lesson.”

 

The next few minutes are a savage blur of biting lashes and helpless screams. Over and over and over and over and over again. My voice goes raw with apologies and promises. I won’t do it again. Never ever.

 

At some point I look back and catch a glimpse of you, arm swinging as you deliver what feels like an endless succession of blows. You don’t look happy. You don’t even look angry. Your expression is, rather, one of intense concentration. Commitment to your task. What you’re doing is apparently very important to you.

 

Giving up happens at some point, on my part. The pain is too overwhelming alongside the frustration of immobility. All semblance of control over my circumstance slips through my fingers and I let go of my dignity. The sound of my sobbing fills the barn. That poor girl, I think. She’s not me. I’m somewhere else. 

 

It ends eventually. Silence resumes again. You untie me and gather me in your arms and I cling to you, ironically enough, seeking that anchor I saw in you earlier. You’re an asshole, no question, but I don’t know what else to do.

 

Carrying me and my book and my clothes, you walk out of the barn to sit on a bench out front, facing the sun setting over the ocean in the distance. There, you lay me on my stomach across your lap like you’re getting ready to swat me all over again. I tense up, but your hands are kind. Softly and slowly, you rub my bottom, fingertips sweetly rounding my curves. I sniffle and hold still. Feels nice.

 

An awkward stretch of time goes by while you do… whatever it is you’re doing right now. Caressing and looking, calm and serene, shoulders relaxed. Nothing like you were ten minutes ago.

 

“Is that the first time someone’s spanked you?”

 

I blush at the intrusive nature of the question but nod for you anyway, hiding my face in my crossed arms.

 

“Thought so.”

 

In the distance, people start hooting and hollering and setting off fireworks. Must be 8 o’clock. The whole neighborhood’s done it every night since lockdown began. I love it. It puts a silver lining on my lonely days.

 

You take a deep breath and let out a long howl, grinning playfully as you finish. You’re really quite good looking, but I don’t want to think about that. 

 

“Don’t feel like howling, darlin’?”

 

I shake my head.

 

After helping me get dressed, you escort me up the road to the border of your property. We amble in silence, walking at my pace as I wince in pain, avoiding your eyes when you look at me. The fact that you didn’t try to fuck me is confusing and I can’t help wondering things. What kind of person are you? What do you do? How many people have you spanked? Why do you like it so much? 

 

We reach the main road and that fucking sign. NO TRESPASSING. You stop and look down at me, expression warm yet stern somehow.

 

“If I catch you on my land uninvited again, you’ll get more of the same. Understand?”

 

I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. You’re silly, thinking I’d be dumb enough to ever come back here.

 

“You gonna go home?”

 

“Yes,” I mumble.

 

“You should be more careful. There are folks with shotguns out here. Some of them could be even meaner than I am.”

 

I purse my lips to keep from crying all over again. You hand me my book and I take it sheepishly. “Thanks.”

 

“Go,” you say. “Be good.”

 

You don’t have to tell me twice. I walk briskly down the road, head spinning over what just happened. As it bends out of sight, I turn and take one last look. You’re still standing there in the fading purple glow of dusk, leaning against your sign and watching me leave with that unreadable glare.

 

At home, I shower and check out the bruises. What was I thinking, waltzing onto private property day after day all willy-nilly? You were right, someone else might’ve shot me dead instead. I google the cost of the fine for trespassing. A thousand fucking dollars and up to six months in jail, or both. The spanking starts to seem like a relative mercy.

 

You cross my mind constantly as the marks heal. Every night at 8, I go outside and listen to the din of howling voices, trying to make yours out. Visions of your dark eyes fill the corners of my mind and I wonder what you’re doing at this moment. What you’ll do tomorrow and the next day, and whether I’ll ever see you again while I’m out and about. 

 

“Don’t feel like howling, darlin’?”

 

I want to know your name and everything about you. I wish I didn’t, but I do.