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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SSC: The Bad Dog 6
(*****, M/f, Intense, spanking)
A girl is spanked by her neighbor. (Approximately 483 words. Originally published 2000-08.)
After being spanked with a wooden spoon, naked, in my own house, I couldn't take a shower without a tremor of fear and anticipation that maybe Mr. Vidinsky would show up. Every time my parents left me alone I'd shiver, listening to the silence for his knock.
I relished his appearance, and yet it unnerved me. Would he or wouldn't he? The suspense was killing me. A week slowly passed. I became obsessed, watching Mr. Vidinsky's house out of the windows, noting when he drove off to the grocery store and when he returned. I watched him work in his garden, and I left Sambo out for longer and longer periods, but Mr. Vidinsky didn't come.
I became daring. When I was alone in the house I'd strip off all my clothes and go dancing through the living room. I just knew at any moment there'd be a knock a the door and he'd be there, those eyes glaring at me sternly, melting my resolve, and I'd go willingly over his knee.
But Mr. Vidinsky didn't show. I tried spanking myself, standing before the mirror in the bathroom so I could watch the skin turn pink. It wasn't the same. I wanted, no, I _craved_ a thorough, deep spanking like the kind Mr. Vidinsky always gave me. I ached for it.
Finally, after an eternity of nothing but my brain's ribald fantasies, I snuck out of the house one night and crept into Mr. Vidinsky's garden. It was midnight and his house was dark. For five terrifying minutes I dug up his roses, certain that any second his floodlights would go on and I'd be caught with dirt on my hands.
At dawn the next morning, Mr. Vidinsky was there. My mother answered the door. I heard them chatting as I came down to breakfast and the blood in my veins froze.
Mom waved me over. "Looks like Sambo was a naughty dog last night."
I gulped, staring at Mr. Vidinsky who smiled harmlessly.
"He tore up some of Mr. Vidinsky's prize roses."
"Bad dog," I said, without conviction.
"Why don't you help Mr. Vidinsky replant them," Mom said, in a tone that meant it wasn't a suggestion.
Two hours later my back was aching and my fingernails were permanently black with dirt.
Mr. Vidinsky smiled at me. "Tired?"
"You should have thought of that last night."
I froze. "Last... night?"
"When you tore up my garden."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth was so dry I couldn't even swallow.
"Dogs crave the attention," he said.
I stared at him in obvious puzzlement.
"That's why they misbehave. They tear things up for the attention."
His eyes told a slightly different story than his words. I nodded silently, and followed him into the house, my heart going like mad bongo drum.