What Now?

"Hey metalmouth, don't go near any magnets," his sister and her best
friend Stacy chant. Dalton is twelve, they are seven. In coming
years, they will tease him about his height, haircuts, friends.

He seeks comfort in his fantasies. Women with perfect bodies
stroking, sucking, lying across his lap as he spanks them.
He is in bed alone. His hand and a box of Kleenex.

       *        *        *        *
"I hear Daltie's girlfriend's a real . . ." Stacy whispers the word
to his sister, who recoils in mock horror. Now teenagers, the girls
collapse in giggles.

Dalton's a senior. His girlfriend is not a slut, not really. "A
virgin, technically," she says, "but we can do everything else."

They do. Hands, mouths.

"You know what I'd really like?" he says.

"What?"

"To spank you."

"Ew, no way," she says. Then more softly, "Sorry."

       *        *        *        *
He is thirty-six. His wife consented once, reluctantly, years ago,
but she allowed only a few taps. He rarely mentions it, but now,
dressing for his sister's wedding, he feels expansive. "That outfit
is so sexy," he says. "Makes me want to spank you."

"Don't you understand?" she snaps, "it's just not my thing."

       *        *        *        *
At the wedding, he dances with Stacy. It's late. They've both had
too much to drink.

"Long time," he says.

"Fifteen years."

"You turned out O.K. though."

"Meaning?"

"You're married, doing all right financially, a kid. And you seem,
well, nice."

"But wasn't I before?"

"Don't you remember? How mean you were, teasing me?"

"I guess we were . . ."

"You were horrible." He's married, but he's drunk and doesn't care.
"I should have put you across my knee and spanked you."

Her fingers on the back of his neck press him closer. Her lips brush
his ear. "You still should," Stacy whispers.

       *        *        *        *
Two p.m. They are the only ones in the motel. He stares down at her
bottom. He feels something in him about to burst. His cock. His
heart. Still he is tentative..

"Do it like you mean it," Stacy says.

That's all he needs.   His hand comes down squarely again and again.
She gasps, writhes on his lap. He loses sense of time, place. He
sees only her bottom, senses only her body, hears only her moans.
Finally, he pauses, caresses her fiery bottom, strokes the slick,
downy folds of her sex.

"Mmmm," she purrs.

"Later," he says. "Get up and bend over that chair."

"But. . . ."

"Do as you're told."

She lowers her head. "Yes, sir," she mumbles.

He uses his belt, firmly but without leaving marks. Her hips grind
against the upholstered chairback.

When it's over, she turns, buries her face in his chest. They kiss,
fall onto the bed, make love like wild animals. Furious, wordless.

The second time is more gentle. Tender, loving.

"It was always you I wanted," Stacy says. Dalton hugs her, .

Sleep envelops him for a few minutes. He wakes, his arms still around
her. She is crying, silently. Her hand strokes his chest.

"What do we do now?" she asks.