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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(****, M/F, Intense, attitude adjustment)
A spoiled brat gets hers. (Approximately 488 words. Originally published 2000-08.)
I'd just gotten wet when the doorbell rang. Cursing and dripping, I grabbed a towel and opened the door. A whirlwind marched past me.
"I told Daddy to stuff it!" cried the apparition.
"My father's turned into a real bastard. He actually _yelled_ at me! 'Enough of this,' I said, I don't care how much money he's got. I wouldn't have made it here except for those nice friendly truck drivers. But oh, those trucks! So noisy and smelly and _uncomfortable_! My body aches!"
"You HITCHHIKED from New York!"
"Well, Daddy's men were at the airport, and I wouldn't be caught _dead_ on a bus. I didn't have any money: Daddy froze my accounts. You won't mind if I stay here for a few days, at least until I get a place of my own. Nice, small but serviceable. You should get a decorator. Morise is the best, but he's usually booked solid. I could probably get him, but it would cost."
My head spun, but she was off again.
"Is that a _shower_? I haven't had a shower in THREE DAYS. God, I think I even smell! Oh, and my luggage is downstairs."
By the time I'd managed the third load of cosmetic cases and huge suitcases (damn third floor apartments!), she was through showering, wet hair glued to her bare back, the skimpy white towel swelling around her chest exposing more thigh than allowed by law. She was complaining that I'd run out of hot water.
God, she was beautiful. Wide, open face with those huge, glorious eyes, and those teeth so perfect and white they were light spotlights. Damp, her skin gleamed.
For a moment my resolve faltered, then I saw she was eating my breakfast.
I kicked the door shut. "Amelia, I know we had a little fling way back in high school..." Should I tell her I'd moved to L.A. to _escape_ her? Bruising her ego might do some good. But then Amelia only believed what she wanted to believe. There was only one way to get through to Amelia.
"Time for an attitude adjustment!" I growled.
In two seconds I'd yanked her from the chair, taken her place, and pulled her across my lap. Both our towels slipped off in the shuffle. With Amelia's curvy bottom exposed, I began to spank. I spanked and spanked, the creamy flesh turning pink and hot, while she squealed and swore and wept crocodile tears, her flat belly rubbing my erect member. I spanked until she'd quieted, and then I spanked her some more. When I finally resorted to caressing her lovely steaming ass, she was putty, sniffling, ready to do anything I asked.
"If you stay here," I warned, wondering what the hell I was doing, "you can except frequent attitude adjustment."
Her response was a meek whimper. She spread her legs for my hand. She was sopping.