Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Once Upon A Spanking, Chapter Two
Presented here for your review is part two of the story of a time during my college days when I made a particularly poor choice.
I found a spot that gave me a good view of the activities in the house while keeping hidden. Or so I thought. I was enjoying the sights of a lady in a t-shirt and thong bending over another lady while pummeling her with a pillow, and the gentlewoman with the failing short wrestling with another dear gal whose midriff shirt had been pulled up well above her midriff, and not seeing a bra anywhere to be found, when I heard a noise behind me.
I spun around to see a tall, curvaceous, dark-skinned girl glaring at me. Okay, in truth, that is what I eventually saw. Upon first look, what took up my entire focus was the very large shotgun barrel that was pointed at me.
The girl (and I use the term “girl” only to differentiate her with the other females in this story) raised the gun until it was pointed directly at my face. “What the fuck are you doing,” she asked, none too gently.
I thought of a clever lie to explain my presence. I was going to tell her that I was part of a neighborhood watch program, and that I heard the shrieks coming from within, so I was investigating to make sure that no one was being the victim of a sexual assault.
That was what my brain did. My mouth, however, issued forth, “Umm … err … well… (cough) … I unhh ….” If you have read any of my other adventures, you’ve probably determined that this disconnect between my highly evolved brain and my rather unintelligent mouth was a common problem for me.
“Bullshit!” she said. “You were looking in the window!”
“No … I mean … I was ….”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Seeing that she had deduced my motives accurately, I decided that silence was my best option at that moment.
We quietly stood there for some moments. At that point, I decided that, whatever else happened, I had to defuse the situation enough so that she would lower her very scary weapon, and so that I would not embarrass myself further by urinating on myself. I raised my hands to about shoulder height and took a long, slow, deep breath to steady myself.
“My dear,” I began, “I understand that you believe me to be trespassing on your property. I must confess, there is some validity to that assumption. However, I mean you absolutely no harm. I simply let my college hormones think for me for a moment, and I made a very poor decision. Now, why don’t you lower that shotgun. I’m sure that you’re scared and angry with me, but I’m sure you don’t wish any violence.”
She and her shotgun stared at me for a bit. I turned my hands palms-up to try to show her that I was not a threat. It was her turn to take a cleansing breath. Slowly, she let the gun barrel fall until it was pointing at the ground.
At this point, I noticed that the other house residents had discovered what was happening and were now watching us from the window. They were, to both my relief and disappointment, more appropriately covered. One of the shouted through the window, “Bring him inside so we can call the police.”
The word “police” once again almost caused my bladder to lose control. “Come on,” said the girl with the gun. While getting very nervous, I decided that following her instruction was the best way to further calm things. It was also the best way to get the girl to divest herself of her shotgun.
Part three will be posted here just as soon as I write it.
I found a spot that gave me a good view of the activities in the house while keeping hidden. Or so I thought. I was enjoying the sights of a lady in a t-shirt and thong bending over another lady while pummeling her with a pillow, and the gentlewoman with the failing short wrestling with another dear gal whose midriff shirt had been pulled up well above her midriff, and not seeing a bra anywhere to be found, when I heard a noise behind me.
I spun around to see a tall, curvaceous, dark-skinned girl glaring at me. Okay, in truth, that is what I eventually saw. Upon first look, what took up my entire focus was the very large shotgun barrel that was pointed at me.
The girl (and I use the term “girl” only to differentiate her with the other females in this story) raised the gun until it was pointed directly at my face. “What the fuck are you doing,” she asked, none too gently.
I thought of a clever lie to explain my presence. I was going to tell her that I was part of a neighborhood watch program, and that I heard the shrieks coming from within, so I was investigating to make sure that no one was being the victim of a sexual assault.
That was what my brain did. My mouth, however, issued forth, “Umm … err … well… (cough) … I unhh ….” If you have read any of my other adventures, you’ve probably determined that this disconnect between my highly evolved brain and my rather unintelligent mouth was a common problem for me.
“Bullshit!” she said. “You were looking in the window!”
“No … I mean … I was ….”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Seeing that she had deduced my motives accurately, I decided that silence was my best option at that moment.
We quietly stood there for some moments. At that point, I decided that, whatever else happened, I had to defuse the situation enough so that she would lower her very scary weapon, and so that I would not embarrass myself further by urinating on myself. I raised my hands to about shoulder height and took a long, slow, deep breath to steady myself.
“My dear,” I began, “I understand that you believe me to be trespassing on your property. I must confess, there is some validity to that assumption. However, I mean you absolutely no harm. I simply let my college hormones think for me for a moment, and I made a very poor decision. Now, why don’t you lower that shotgun. I’m sure that you’re scared and angry with me, but I’m sure you don’t wish any violence.”
She and her shotgun stared at me for a bit. I turned my hands palms-up to try to show her that I was not a threat. It was her turn to take a cleansing breath. Slowly, she let the gun barrel fall until it was pointing at the ground.
At this point, I noticed that the other house residents had discovered what was happening and were now watching us from the window. They were, to both my relief and disappointment, more appropriately covered. One of the shouted through the window, “Bring him inside so we can call the police.”
The word “police” once again almost caused my bladder to lose control. “Come on,” said the girl with the gun. While getting very nervous, I decided that following her instruction was the best way to further calm things. It was also the best way to get the girl to divest herself of her shotgun.
Part three will be posted here just as soon as I write it.
