Single's Blues

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

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Single's Blues

(****, M/F, Intense, semi nc paddling)

A young man gives a brat her comeuppance. (Approximately 3,055 words. Originally published 1998-03.)

Okay, okay, I'll admit that I'm 29 and still single, but the rumor that I live with my parents is _not_ true. Sure, I visit them regularly, but that's all. In truth my 48-hour-a-day database consulting business keeps me more than occupied, and going to my parents' house is a great way to get away from it all. If I hang out at home I end up working.

Mom and Dad both teach at Riverside University, which is about a three hour drive for me. Just enough so they don't pop in on me unexpected, but close enough that I can visit every few weeks.

I guess since I'm revealing all this truth I'll have to also admit that I'm the classic computer geek. I started with computers when I was a kid and never stopped. Thus I'm a social moron. So giving up a weekend to stay at Mom's and eat real food isn't a sacrifice.

Now don't think I'm completely clueless about women. I've had my dalliances. It's just that I have no patience for the typical boy-girl let's-play-games crap. The second a girl starts getting mysterious with me I'm gone. I need honesty.

Thus, therefore, and hence: I'm single.

That's why Rob and Greta drove me over the edge. I put the blame entirely on their shoulders.

My parents, you see, had invited them to stay over the same weekend I showed up. Rob was a former student passing through town for a job interview in Phoenix. He and Greta had been a couple for nearly a year. Rob was a chemistry major, like my father. The two of them got along great, sitting in a corner and talking in a language no one else could understand (or wanted to).

Greta was the opposite of Rob. She was a giant Swedish girl. I'm not that short: a stocky five-ten, but she was easily two inches taller. She was heavy, well-built and athletic, but with voluptuous curves that begged to be touched. There was something magnetic about her. As I was introduced I had an irrational desire to hug her, to wrap my arms around her magnificent body, and I nearly did so (it seemed logical at the time).

Fortunately I contained my emotions, but I was forlornly jealous of Rob. He was a quiet, nice-looking boy, but he didn't have any idea what a catch he had in Greta. He treated her like shit. The two had that most dreadful of relationships: they were Shouters.

She'd gripe at him about something and he'd wouldn't answer, so then she'd shout, which caused him to shout, and two minutes later one or the other would leave the room and the house would shake at the door slam that resulted.

Worse, Greta was a tease. She played all those female games I can't stand. Those subtle winks, little pouts, and mysterious over-pronounced words as though you're supposed to read between the lines and know whatever the hell she's talking about. Rob was as clueless as I was, but a lot more tactful at showing his displeasure. It drove me up the wall just listing to the two of them.

Greta also displayed an alarming oversensitivity for someone of her stature. For example, Saturday afternoon she showed up in the living room where Rob and I were playing with my old Nintendo set. Greta was dressed in a short skirt and wearing a heavy coat. She didn't say a word but stood by the door for ten minutes. I glanced at her a couple times and she seemed to be impatient, stamping her foot and looking at her watch, wiggling and fidgeting a great deal, and walking back and forth between the living room and the front door.

Finally Rob seemed to notice her for the first time. (Why this was, I don't know. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Even when I wasn't looking at her I could see her.) Rob stared at his girlfriend with a blank expression. "Are you going somewhere?" he asked dully.

Greta just burst into tears, sobbing and running to her room. The door slammed loudly, rattling the windows. Rob and stared at each other. Then Rob shrugged and we continued our game.

"Shouldn't you go see what's wrong with Greta?" I asked.

"Aw, she's always pulling crap that like. I don't know what gets into her."

"She looked upset."

"It's just an act. You watch, in ten minutes she'll be back looking as though nothing happened."

Sure enough, a half hour later Greta was back, calmly getting a drink from the fridge, humming a little tune as though nothing was the matter. She sat down with us for a few minutes. I offered her my game controller but she shook her head and left, looking bored.

That was typical of Greta and Rob. She fussed, whined, and yowled, and he ignored her. Half a dozen times she swore at him, saying things like "You fucking hate me!" and "I'm going for a walk!"

It drove me nuts. I wanted to slap the bitch (just before I kissed her). Rob usually just ignored her. Occasionally he got into it himself, ordering her to fetch him a beer or something, a growing furious when she refused. Then he'd rant and rail at her, calling her a slut or a whore (and once both), and then _he'd_ leave, and go outside for a smoke.

The scariest thing about this relationship was that neither of the principals seemed to find anything wrong with it. Inevitably, five or ten minutes after a tremendous spat, the two would be cuddling and giggling like children, their faces glowing with that "young love" look. I hated to imagine what the couple would be like when they were married. My Mom and Dad couldn't stand to be in the same room as the two of them, so Mom quickly came up with plenty to keep her busy in her room, and Dad decided he had some work at school he needed to finish.

Unfortunately I had nowhere to go. I was stuck in the middle of the couple, dragged into arguments I couldn't even begin to follow. One moment Rob would shouting at Greta and then he'd turn to me: "Come on, tell her, Steve. Tell her I'm right."

A moment later Greta would be calling me to her side. "You're a fucking moron!" she'd scream at Rob. Then she'd smile sexily at me and whisper, "Steve knows what I'm talking about, don't you, Steve. You'd never treat a girl like Rob, here." And she'd come behind me and rub my shoulders, leaning to whisper in my ear, her magnificent chest just inches away from the back of my head, and her heady perfume making me all confused and gooey inside.

"Uh, well, I'm not sure," I'd mumble. "You both have valid points...."

But as soon as they saw I wasn't supporting their side of the argument, they'd draw away, snapping at each other with renewed venom, totally forgetting I was even in the room.

After 24 hours of this I was nearly insane. I seriously considered going home, and even argued with my Mom to kick the couple out. She refused, saying it wasn't our business if they fought, and besides, it would be rude to treat them so.

"Okay, just kick Rob out," I said. "Greta's not bad when he's not around."

Mom just gave me one of those classic no-nonsense looks -- you know, the kind mothers give you when you are about four years old and think your little "excuse" is brilliantly logical. She knew what I was thinking. I shriveled up and left, still fuming.

That evening, after dinner, Greta and Rob got into a huge fight over which movie to go see. My parents had pleaded other obligations -- they had to visit a sick neighbor -- so it was just the three of us. But when Rob and Greta couldn't agree, Rob left the house in a storm, threatening to drive home and leave Greta stranded, and she told him "Good riddance!"

I had been looking forward to a movie -- with my work schedule I rarely get out myself and usually go with my parents when I'm home -- so I was more than disappointed at the evening being ruined. I was mad.

My anger turned to rage when Greta popped up out of her room ten minutes later, all trace of argument wiped from her pretty face. Her long blond hair was perfectly in place, wrapped in a bun behind her head, and her startling blue eyes were clear and alert. She looked far too pretty and content to have ruined so many lives.

Without even considering the consequences, I walked over to Greta and wordlessly took her hand in mine, pulling her down the hallway. She followed, puzzlement and curiosity on her face.

I led her into my room and closed the door behind us. I guided her to the bed and seated her. Still puzzled, she had a soft smile on her face. She obeyed me easily, watching my every move with the alertness of a backyard squirrel.

I walked over to my desk and opened the bottom drawer. Mom's paddle was still there, after all these years. Even now it gave me a twinge of fear looking at it. I took it out and carried it over to Greta. In an exaggerated manner I placed it on the bed beside her.

It was a large wooden rectangle, five by fourteen, plus the stout handle. Greta's express was unknown to me. It wasn't fear or disgust or anger. I couldn't place it all. I narrowed it down to curiosity, which wasn't quite it, but close enough.

I sat on the bed next to Greta and picked up the paddle. I still had not spoken a word. Greta looked me, a hint of smile playing around her lips. Without speaking, she seemed to be asking what I thought I was doing. In answer I patted my lap.

Still smiling, the daring Swede got up and sat on my lap, placing an arm around my neck for support. She was heavy and tall. Even with her on my lap I had to look up to see her face. She was wearing a knee-length, flowing skirt, and through the thin material I could feel the firmness of her thighs and buttocks.

"You know what this is for," I said gently, nodding toward the paddle.

Greta beamed at me, her smile filled with amusement. She didn't for a second think I was serious. "I believe I have a good idea," she said.

"Good."

"But I don't believe it's a good idea," she continued.

"Why not?"

Her checks pinkened the faintest amount. "I barely know you. It's not appropriate."

"I think I know you more than well enough," I said firmly. "You've been begging for this all weekend."

With those words I began to guide the girl around, spinning her on my lap and rotating her so she was lying face down, lengthwise across my legs. My chest ached with tension as I felt the warm body in my arms. Greta was still smiling, but she was cooperating fully. She made no protest or hesitation but lay quietly, waiting.

"Hand me the paddle," I ordered.

"Look, Steve--"

"Hand me the paddle."

"But--"

Placing my left hand in the middle of Greta's back to hold her still, I put my right hand on her bottom. The flesh was warm and soft. I made my voice hard. "The paddle, Greta. Now!"

There was a moment of silence. I could feel Greta heaving on my lap. Her breathing was deep and labored. She hesitated. "Please..."

I did not move or speak. A few slow seconds passed, and then Greta reached forward and took the paddle in her hands. She held it briefly, then passed it over her back. I took it.

"Very good, Greta. I can see how badly you need this."

"Oh, God, Steve," moaned the girl, suddenly attempting to turn. "You can't be serious!"

"Be quiet!" I snapped, stiffening my left arm to hold her still. "I want you to take your punishment like a big girl."

I was the holding the paddle with my right hand, resting it on Greta's plump backside. When I lifted it I heard her exclaim: "Oh God."

"This is nothing personal, Greta," I said softly. "I am simply doing my duty as an American citizen, righting wrongs where I see them."

With my left hand I began to raise the bottom of Greta's skirt. I could feel her stirring to life beneath me, but she said nothing. Slowly the skirt went higher and higher, and soon I could see taut white panties stretched across twin bulging cheeks. The panties were high cut, revealing a great deal of flesh. Greta whimpered faintly.

"Shhh," I whispered. I took a deep breath. The girl's skirt was fully raised, her buttocks suitably exposed, and there was no turning back. I lifted the heavy paddle shoulder high. Greta lay quietly, her breathing frozen.

The explosion startled both of us. Greta let out a yell and I felt a curious wave of emotion pass through me. Part of me was thrown back to my childhood, when I'd experienced similar sounds under completely different circumstances. Part of me was aroused by the suddenly very much alive-and-kicking being stretched across my lap.

Then it hit me. It wasn't until that moment, as the echo of hardwood smacking soft flesh faded, that I realized the dire situation in which I'd placed myself.

Surely I'd gone insane! What the hell had I been thinking? Did I seriously believe that a beautiful girl would take my hand and allow me to spank her? It was nuts! Any second now she'd be on her feet screaming a lawsuit. Maybe at first it had been a game, but that paddle wallop had been real. There had to be no doubt in Greta's mind that I wasn't just kidding around.

An icy chill settled into my chest. I was terrified. Greta had every right to be furious, livid at the liberties I'd taken. I stared in disbelief at the gorgeous bottom and bare legs in front of me. What the hell had I been thinking?

I waited, but Greta did not get up. She did not begin to curse me, or threaten legal action. In fact, she said nothing, but moaned loudly, kicking her legs and pressing her body hard against mine.

Suddenly my terror became a longing, an urgent desire to see those gentle globes quivering and turning pink under my ministrations. Throwing away all caution, I brought the paddle down again even harder. This time I gave Greta no time to back out -- the paddle was up and descending again in a heartbeat.

BAM! BAM! BAM! I spanked the big Swedish girl. She yelped and moaned, wiggling frantically in my lap, but still did not protest. I brought the paddle down harder, faster, admiring the way Greta's cheeks were turning pink. The girl was gasping now, moaning so loudly it frightened me, but I was too excited to stop. She squirmed in my lap, crying out in pain at each cracking blow. Her bottom was very red, the scarlet skin peeking out from under her skimpy undergarment.

"Oh, God," cried Greta after a particularly harsh blow. "Oh oh oh!"

Raising the paddle high I brought it down as hard as I could. She groaned, her body writhing in agony. "Had enough?" I asked.

"Oh, please," she moaned, but gave me no indication of what she meant. I spanked her some more.

"Ouch! Oooh! Oh, that hurts! That hurts!"

"Of course it does." BAM!

"It burns!"

"I should think so." BAM! BAM!

"God, I can't take any more."

"Sure you can," I laughed, rubbing Greta's bottom with the paddle. "I think you need a good, _long_ spanking to make up for all your naughtiness."

"Oh, Steve," gasped the girl, "please, my bottom is on fire!"

BAM! I replied. "Does that help? How about this?" BAM! BAM! BAM!

"Eeeeek! Oh please, that's enough!"

Finally Greta was beginning to struggle. Her arms and legs flayed wildly, and at first I was worried her cries to stop were legitimate. Then I saw that her struggle was with herself -- she was straining to control her emotions. Tears dripped down her face and onto the bed. She was sobbing, her body shuddering with terrible jerks and fits. I was scarcely spanking her now, mostly just rubbing her bottom with the paddle, but she moaned and kicked as though I was shoving hot coals up her ass.

Suddenly with a loud cry Greta collapsed, sobbing and panting, all tension gone from her body. She lay limp and exhausted. I froze, the paddle resting on Greta's thighs. After a minute I set the paddle aside and placed my hand on her rump. The heat was astonishing. Greta moaned and shifted her weight, arching her back to thrust her bottom up. I grasped it more firmly, massaging it gently, enjoying the glorious roundness of it. Greta panted and moaned, muttering incoherently.

"Does that feel better?" I asked.

"God, yes," came the reply.

For a while neither of us spoke. Greta lay quietly across my lap and I rubbed her bottom. Then Greta suddenly rolled away and stood to her feet, hastily smoothing down her dress. There was a faint stain near her crotch. Her face was blotchy with tears and her eyes were red. She gleamed with happiness, however, flashing me a wonderful smile.

"Thank you," she whispered so softly I scarcely heard it. Then she leaned forward and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and was gone.

Ten minutes later Rob returned from his walk, and I saw Greta emerge from her room, spotless and perfect as usual. There was no trace of her experience on her face, though I noticed she hesitated slightly before sitting on the couch with her boyfriend. She was also very quiet, and for once, didn't argue with anything he said.

I never saw Greta again after that weekend, and that is why I've got the Single's Blues.

The End

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