by Frank Martinet
Madeline was thrilled with her new purchase. It was a modest home, older, and in desperate need of upgrades, but most of the issues were cosmetic and she could change things over time. It was certainly livable and with her tiny budget, she couldn't ask for more.
She'd gotten it for a song. The former owner was elderly and had been put in a care facility and the place was a quarter mile out of town, in the woods, without reliable anything. Even cell service was iffy. Being semi-retired, that suited her just fine. She was self-sufficient and independent. Her main priority was to get out of the rat race of the city and have some peace and quiet and work on her novel.
A high-powered advertising manager for two decades, Madeline was sick of the endless hours, the pressure, and the relentless stab-you-in-the-back competition. She'd made great money and had saved enough to quit working, at least for a while. If she was frugal, she could stretch it out for a few decades. She was still relatively young at 42, healthy and fit, and still had enough wits left to enjoy life. So why not do it?
She set herself a miser's budget, determined to make her savings last, and vowed to do as much of the remodeling as she could herself. So what if it took her several years? She didn't need fancy under-floor heating, a bathroom the size of a bedroom, or a French chef's kitchen.
The back deck with its wraparound porch was her office. Sure, she had a real one inside in one of the tiny extra rooms, but there was nothing better than sitting outside in the warmth with a view of trees and nature and her laptop. When she wasn't inside doing some painting or hammering, she was out there, working on her outline, fleshing out her characters and plot.
That was no doubt why she didn't hear the doorbell. That and the fact that she hadn't repaired it. She was startled by the footsteps and looked up to see a man coming around the porch from the front.
Her first reaction was terror. All her senses went on alert as though she was about to be attacked by a wild animal. Then she calmed. The man was old, ancient, stumbling about like a zombie. For a second she wondered if that was what he was, for he had a baffled look on his face, but she hadn't been out of contact with society that long, had she? Wouldn't she have heard something about a zombie apocalypse?
"Ah, there you are, Patricia," sighed the man. He looked infinitely relieved, almost in tears. Madeline felt her heart go out to him. He seemed lost and frail, though he moved well enough now that he was more confident.
"My key didn't work," he explained, his expression puzzled.
"Excuse me?" Madeline said. "Who are you?"
"You don't recognize your own father?"
"Uh, I would, but he's not here."
"Patricia, it's me," he said. "Are you teasing me? That's very naughty of you. You know what happens when you're naughty!"
Madeline was getting a creepy feeling. It was mixed with sympathy, for clearly the old man was missing a few bolts. She picked up her cell phone and cursed. 'No signal', it read. She sighed. The damn thing was as finicky as hell. One minute she could get one bar and make calls and the next the thing was as useful as a brick. Must be these hills.
"How did you get here?" she asked, wishing she'd activated the land line. It was on her list, but since the cell worked much of the time, she hadn't gotten around to calling the phone company.
"I walked, of course. I'm not an invalid!"
"Would you like some lemonade?" She had a pitcher on the table and poured the man a glass. He drank it greedily and thanked her.
"You always make the best lemonade, Patricia. Just right between tart and sweet, not too much of either."
"Thanks. My name is Madeline Brynne. I just moved here two weeks ago."
He gave her a strange look. "I warned you about teasing your old man," he said sternly. "You're not too old to go over my knee!"
The idea was so absurd Madeline had to giggle. She could picture her forty-something self draped over the man's lap and having her heinie warmed. It was ridiculous. What would her colleagues in New York think?
Apparently laughing was not the proper response to a spanking threat. The old man set his empty glass down firmly and before she knew what he was doing, he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her over to the bench.
"Hey! Sir, you can't-"
But he could. He was old but wiry, with fierce strength in his spindly arms. He had once been a robust man, but even in this aged state he was still taller and heavier than petite Madeline. He had the advantage of surprise, too, and she was across his lap before she could fight.
Once she was there he tilted her so far forward she had to use her hands to brace herself against the deck below. This made it almost impossible to right herself since it felt like she was doing a handstand. She squawked in dismay when she realized she couldn't get up.
"Hey! Come on, mister, this isn't-"
Madeline broke off, her eyes going wide with alarm, as she felt him pawing at her backside. Her first thought was of a sexual assault - decades of city life had her always on the alert for that - and she wished she had her pepper spray. The old man was dragging the back of her sweat pants down, baring her bottom. She was mortified and outraged, but that was nothing compared to when he began to slap her naked cheeks.
She sputtered and swore, kicked her legs and fought like a drowning cat. But the man seemed to know her every move before she made it and countered with an ease that alarmed her. She felt like a child held by an adult. It was crazy, but she couldn't get away.
The spanking was distracting. Her ass was tingling and she felt each cheek bounce and wobble as it was smacked. The man worked hard, expertly alternating buns, throwing her off balance. Tears of shame filled her eyes. She hadn't been spanked in over 30 years. Hadn't she been ten years old when she got in trouble for letting Brownie get away?
She remembered that spanking well. She'd deserved it and wanted it. She'd been lazy and irresponsible, letting Brownie go out without a leash to do his business, and she hadn't even paid enough attention to notice he'd wandered off. He'd been hit by a car and she felt terrible. She'd actually insisted Daddy spank her. She'd brought him the hairbrush. He hadn't wanted to do it, suggesting that the loss of the dog was punishment enough, but she needed the pain to feel forgiven.
He'd finally done, a real spanking, long and hard. She'd cried buckets and felt better afterward, but to this day the guilt still nagged at her slightly. It had been a major growing-up experience. Responsibility was no joke. In real life, there were consequences.
Madeline started, realizing she'd been lost in her memories for several minutes. And she'd just been lying there, letting the old man spank her!
At her age, it didn't hurt that much. In fact, it felt sorta good, rather sexy. Her bottom tingled all over and was nice and warm. If it had been Brad Pitt doing the spanking she'd have been orgasming, but she wasn't attracted to this ancient man twice her age.
She tried to roll off his lap again, but his left arm held her pinned tightly. He'd wrapped his right leg around hers so she couldn't even kick. She strained and pulled, but she had no leverage. She was stuck. She'd just have to wait until the guy tired out. Surely at his age that wouldn't be long.
No one gave him that memo. He spanked on and on, the tingle in her cheeks becoming a hot burning. Tears glittered in her eyes and finally she began to weep. There wasn't much else she could do, so she let herself have a good cry. It felt wonderful. All the tension of her move, her worries about her finances, the future, her novel, and her single status all faded in the sting of palm against bottom.
She sobbed, her shoulders shuddering, and the man patted her on the back and whispered that he loved her and she needed this.
Madeline knew the delusional man wasn't her father - Dad and Mom had retired to Arizona for health reasons - but it still felt nice. That was bizarre. This stranger had just smacked her ass bright red and now was comforting her as though someone else had done the damage.
"Let me up," she grunted.
"Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yeah, definitely."
"I'm not so sure. I think a few more. Another dozen."
"No!" she shouted, but the noise of the spanking drowned out her cries. He slapped her left cheek, then her right, hard stinging blows that made her eyes water and bottom jiggle.
When he got to 12 she sighed with relief... only to realize he'd meant 12 per side. She had to endure another dozen stingers, both cheeks steaming, before he set her back on her feet. She danced then, her sweat pants falling unnoticed to her ankles. She rubbed her butt urgently, blowing air out of her mouth as she hopped in place.
"Ooh, wow! Yikes that's hot. I'm burning up. Where'd you learn to spank like that?"
"You've given me plenty of practice, Patricia," laughed the man. "Why hardly a week passed when you were growing up I didn't have to tan your hide. Here you are all grown up and I'm still having to teach you lessons."
Madeline realized she was gyrating her half-naked body before the guy and released her butt to dive down and retrieve her pants. She hadn't even bothered with underwear, this morning. How naughty. Maybe she really did deserve this spanking!
She grabbed her cell from the table and was grateful to see that this time there was a signal. She wasn't sure this qualified as an emergency, per se, so she dialed the local police station directly instead of going through 911.
The old man was pouring himself more lemonade - apparently spanking was thirsty work - so she managed to step away and whisper the situation to the officer who answered the call. She left out the spanking business, of course. No need to embarrass herself. She wasn't mortally wounded, except for her pride.
A cruiser arrived about 30 minutes later. She'd kept the old man talking, distracting him, listening to his stories about the past. He was quite interesting. She'd finally extracted his name - James Janez - which sounded familiar. Then she remembered seeing the name on the papers she'd signed. He was the former owner of her new house!
The officer made some calls and found out where the man was supposed to be. He'd escaped custody of his caretakers, which didn't seem to be difficult, as they were understaffed and weren't permitted to restrain patients.
"It happens," shrugged the policeman. "Sorry if he bothered you. I'll take him back. It's not far, just a few miles up the road."
"Really? I don't remember seeing a nursing home anywhere around here," said Madeline.
"It's a house. They have five or six rooms, I think. Much cheaper than a nursing home in the city."
"I bet."
"More comfortable, too. Less like a hospital. But there isn't security, as such."
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