A day on the farm

The picture gives it away. I mean, even if you hadn't read this, I suppose you'd guess that somewhere along the way this story would lead to a switching of my poor, almost-bare behind. Stay with me, reader; I'll get there.

This tale begins where my Friday post left off. I arrived at his house, a bit nervous, and was promptly ordered into position for my deserved paddling. I waited on all fours with my dress hiked above my waist and my bottom in the air. The wait wasn't long due to my predictable tardiness and soon he was next to me, hiking my dress up further and paddling away. He's a multi-tasker -- lecturing while he paddles. An admirer of efficiency, I was impressed by his ability to soundly and memorably make his point.

A few minutes later, amid apologies and tearful pleas, we were finished and all was forgiven. Time to hit the road!

Through rush-hour traffic and hours on the road, my bottom retained its glowing warmth, frequently causing me to shift on the front seat and to imagine the pleasures of the evening ahead when we'd stop mid-way for the night. The details of our overnight stay deserve a post all their own, but suffice it to say that my earlier tardiness was dealt with and forgiven in a most satisfactory fashion (i.e. another round with the paddle over his knee interspersed with tenderness and a strong finish).

Upon arrival to the working farm on Saturday afternoon, we were greeted by warm friends, cold drinks, and vigorous card-playing. (I may not be a redneck but I play a FIERCE game of cards.) Eventually we made our way through the woods that surrounded the farm and, stealing glances over our shoulders, were delighted to see birch trees, their white trunks like lighthouse beacons drawing us near.

Spoiler: here is where the switch enters the picture.

Because he is gracious, and I was wearing inappropriate footwear, he waded through the tall weeds and selected a branch to use for...a walking stick? a dog toy? a souvenir? Well, sort of the latter, but the branch was most definitely a switch-in-the-making. And I could tell that his intent was to use it right then, with the sounds of the party on the other side of the trees.

I had never been switched. I'd never even cut a switch. But, having seen pictures of them, I knew that the leafy protrusions and knobby remains should probably come off. So I set myself to making it as smooth as possible. Translation: not smooth at all.

And then, with an eye for wandering party-goers, I dropped my jeans and bent over. His hand yanked my panties into my crack, forming an embarrassing wedgie, and I was treated to at least three hard swats with this new implement. (Here's where our stories differ. He says "medium" and I say "hard". He says "three" and I say "one bazillion".)

Holy ouch! A switch really stings! I mean it really, really stings. I stood up between each stroke; I couldn't help myself. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I tried to shake off the burn of the thin, whippy branch. His hand on the small of my back would reposition me while I sucked in air and awaited the next bite. This happened eleventy-billion times, at least.

And then, hand-in-hand we rejoined the party, the memory of our little jaunt fresh on our minds and hidden beneath the seat of my jeans.

Yep. It was hot.

(Artwork by Endart.)