Note: This autobiographical account was written by Meryl, who's modeled for me a few times before.

...

The back of my maplewood hairbrush is a fat, thick, heavy round thing, and perfect for a pair of fat, thick, heavy round bottom cheeks. Even in his looser denim shorts, you can always see the shape of that boy's caboose. No matter how inappropriate to the time and place, it's always just sticking out there, bouncing with each step and bulging up like a big, tangly weed whenever he picks up something he dropped, which happens frequently (and I've never seen a young man wear his "freshman fifteen" quite so well). Along with the long hair and small frame, it's a contributing factor to people mistaking him as a girl, but not the dainty and lovely kind of girl like my little baby sister Yoko! It's an improper bottom, on an improper boy, and it invites every last bit of my own impropriety. We're all cruel, savage, greedy creatures, underneath the mask of society. After that first time I pulled Rowan over my knee, I knew I would do it again very soon. He would annoy or irritate me, and I would vent that other side of me and his juicy, bouncy cheeks. The rooftop garden ended up becoming our little spot after all, but not for the reasons one might normally think.

After every punishment, with his eyes wild and teary and his bottom cheeks as bright a glowing red as my favorite dress, he'd swear to never require another reminder. He always did, though. I made sure of it! There was always something wrong with how my scattered, disorganized, bubble-bottomed renter did something, even if I had to look harder as October moved on by. This isn't a part of me that can be reasoned with, after all. There's no fairness or understanding in how I treat Rowan. At least once a week, and usually more, I'd have that tushy over my lap and reduce the boy attached to it to something as wild-eyed and savagely howling as my own id. I made sure Yoko wasn't home whenever I spanked Rowan. For her, I'd be nothing but a sweet, caring, and worldly hostess.

When he didn't resist, or show any sign of trying to relocate, I started moving forward. I'd set higher and higher expectations for him - all completely disproportionate to what I asked of Yoko, and justified by all the nuisance Rowan had been so far - and soon I could always count on having a reason to punish him when I wanted to. Not all punishments are as severe, of course, but there's no such thing as a "minor" spanking with my maplewood hairbrush! Most times, I work those naughty cheeks over with my hand until Rowan is squealing and squirming before the brush even comes out to banish his buttocks to the flames of hell where they deserve to be, for my amusement. He could have left at any time, of course, but he didn't. The fact that I started wearing shorter skirts and lower cut tops when I invited him up for our non-negotiable rooftop chats may have had something to do with that. I wasn't thinking of that at the time, though; I just dressed that way because I loved watching him go red faced and nervous when confronted with my scantily-clad self holding the hairbrush, and luxuriated in the way I forced his eyes to linger on me. Knowing I can make a young boy salivate does help me cope with being forty-nine, and Rowan's spankings are my time for shameless self indulgence!

Feeling more of his bare skin against mine when he bent over my thighs was also a contributing factor to my wardrobe choices for "tushy time" as well, I can't pretend otherwise.