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One to Grow On

Category: BDMS
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Becky bends over, leans into Paul’s ear. “It’s stuffy in here,” she says. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Paul looks up and watches her retreat around the coffee table. He pardons himself to his two bookend sofa-mates – the gregarious Auntie Lou and the diametric Grandma Claire, a stick with permanently down-turned lips and hardened scowl. Paul is relieved to escape her still life painting.

“Let me get rid of my jacket,” he says after Becky and pops into the guest room. After tossing it atop the heap of collected shawls and handbags, he catches up. “That’s better. It must be pushing ninety.”

“I’m glad the sun finally came out,” Becky says as they squeeze their way through the branches of their family tree scattered around the vast living room. “I thought that nasty wind would blow all day.”

The pair flies out the back screen door like two kids off to play, as they often did three decades ago. They pick their way through the scattering of lawn chairs nesting the post-lunch crowd. The two carefully avoid groups over three and single minglers, not wanting to be dragged into another round of interrogations: “So how’s the job?” “Ya seeing anyone?” “Really? A looker like you ought to be able to…”

When Becky and Paul were kids, this was a yearly event. They celebrated Becky and her twin sister Bonnie’s birthdays along with their Grandpa Ray’s. When the girls became adults, the focus shifted away from them to celebrate the milestones of their aging elder.

“Hey, Becks,” Paul says when they disappear into the woods behind the house. “Happy Birthday.” He gives his cousin a squeeze around the shoulder and a peck on the cheek. “Not quite the hubbub it used to be, is it?”

“No,” Becky responds with a pang of envy. “Thank God.”

“Thirty-four.” Paul strikes a tragic pose. “Ah, to be so young again.”

“Cut it out,” Becky laughs. “You were 34 last year.”

“Yeah? I guess my mind is failing me now, too.”

They walk on autopilot through the woods, having made the journey countless times in their youth, until they come to a creek, still roiling with winter’s melt. Across the water and over the next rise spreads a clearing. Hidden among the pines the old playhouse and rusty swing set waits.

Paul follows the shore trying to locate the large step-stones that bridge the crossing. “I guess they’re under water.”

“Look there,” Becky says, pointing upstream. “A fallen tree. Do you dare?”

“Like riding a bike.” Paul motions Becky ahead. “Ladies first.”

Instead of walking, Becky doubles over in shrieks of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Paul can’t decipher what could possibly be so humorous in what he said.

“I just remembered my sixteenth birthday out here. You, Bonnie, and I were way over by Carlson’s pasture looking for a place to sneak a smoke and you were trying to convince us that the reason men hold doors open for women and let them go first is so they can cop a peek at their fannies.”

“I did not say that,” Paul retorts, chuckling now, too.

“You did. I remember it like it was this morning.”

Becky steps onto the log and starts across the ten-foot span. Her arms flap and her hips wiggle, but she quickly finds her center and traverses with a gymnast’s grace. Halfway over she calls out, “Getting an eyeful?”

Admittedly, his eyes have zeroed in on Becky’s subtly striped cotton pants, stretched across her curvy bottom. Becky always had a thing for stripes, for which he is now supremely grateful. Paul loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar. With an explosion of energy, he bounds across the log in four strides, nearly slipping off on the last.

“You’re crazy,” Becky teases.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Becky looks at him intently. “I guess I don’t. A lot happens in ten years.”

Paul suddenly finds himself at an awkward “Y” in the conversation. It doesn’t feel like the right time wallow in the ups and downs of his life since college. Nor can he confess that he’s been so eager to see Becky over the last month he has scarcely thought of anything else. “Too bad Bonnie isn’t here,” he says choosing a neutral path.

“I’d rather be in Hong Kong, too, the lucky shit. I want her job.”

“Aw, you’re doing alright. You always wanted to be a…”

“Hey,” Becky says, “there it is!” She points to the little house glimmering in a pool of sunlight. Large for a playhouse, the eight by twelve, single room structure appears like a fairy tale cottage with wavy, random shingles, a mock chimney, and arched door.

“It’s been painted,” Paul notices. “And the swing set’s new.”

“Bonnie said Grandpa Ray had it done when Chucky was born. They’d be all over this place if they were here.”

“Just like we were,” Paul says.


Becky stops to soak in the view and its rich memories. “I’ll race ya to the swings,” she says suddenly and takes off running.

Paul reacts a second later and passes her in the last 20 yards. He dives at the first swing making the entire apparatus shudder.

“Whoa, big boy,” Becky giggles. “You’re not the bean pole you used to be.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Paul pushes the swing backwards, retracts his landing gear, and soars toward the clouds. Becky follows suit and their two bodies, incongruous in scale and dress, sweep in alternating arcs back through time.

“Do you remember the games we played out here?” Becky asks gleefully. “You, me, Bonnie, sometimes Wally and Sam playing house, and school. And doctor. Not a care in the world.”

“Best education I ever had,” Paul says scraping his feet in the sand to stop.

“What do you mean?” Becky asks as she flies by. She catches his grin on the next pass. “Oh, yeah. That’s what you mean. We were pretty curious weren’t we?”

Her face turns a bright scarlet, Paul’s just a shade lighter.

“The time I remember the most,” Paul begins, “was on your thirteenth birthday…”

“Oh, yes,” Becky smiles sheepishly, “I remember that very well.”

“You were finally a teenager and we decided to celebrate your passing from childhood to teendom in high style.”

“My first beer.”


“My first cigarette.”


“And my last spanking.”


“I couldn’t sit comfortably for three days thanks to you and Bonnie,” Becky laughs, still swinging.

“That was a fun birthday,” Paul says as he stands up and stretches.

“I miss those days.” Becky scratches to a halt.

Paul touches her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Becky.”

“For what?”

“This isn’t much of a party for you. Everyone’s fussing over Grandpa Ray.”

“And rightly so,” Becky says.

“Still, this is a special day for you, too.”

Paul hangs from the angled swing set legs, his bent legs inches off the ground.

Becky stands up and looks at Paul. “Tell you what. I’m going to check out the inside of the house now. If you think of anything ‘extra special’ to help me celebrate, that’s where I’ll be.”

Paul, still hanging by his arms, stares after Becky as she walks to the little house. Just before she opens the door, she reaches back and rubs her bottom.

Paul’s muscles turn to jelly and he drops to the ground. “Holy shit.”

Inside, the space is rustic, but spotless. A bank of sagging shelves line one wall crammed with toys of broad vintage. A window on each other wall brightens the room despite the dusky wood walls, floor, and rafters. The furniture is simple, flexible to accommodate a child’s wildest fantasies, which it often did. A couple old chairs, a small table, and a long wooden bench stand haphazardly placed. In one corner, a curious assortment of stuffed animals and dolls inhabit an old crib mattress while in the other corner a half size wooden play kitchen is built-in.

Paul closes the door behind him and latches the bolt intended to lock out unwelcome siblings and other monsters. He finds Becky standing by the kitchen, toying with the plastic food, her back to the door. He walks up behind her, holds his mouth an inch from her ear. “Becky needs her birthday spankings.”

She juts her butt into Paul and steps away.

“That will cost you.” Paul grabs her wrist and pulls her to the bench. As he straddles it, she wrings free.

“You’ll recall,” Paul says calmly, “how last time Bonnie and I got pretty creative with the toys in this place. 13 swats with each…”

“And one to grow on.” She backs against the wall, unable to conceal the mischievous grin spreading across her face. “I remember.”

“Well, if you don’t get your little hiney back over here in two seconds, I’m going to get creative again. I see all kinds of interesting new toys here.”

Becky bites her pinky nail and shuffles sheepishly to Paul’s side.

“After that display, these are coming down.” Paul unbuckles her narrow leather belt and lowers her zipper.

Becky closes her eyes, either to deny her predicament, or revel in it.

In short order, Paul and gravity sends her pants to her ankles. Paul is not surprised to see red and white, candy-striped panties. He is stunned at how perfect they showcase Becky’s round cheeks. This is nothing like when they were kids, though the swelling he feels is no different. Paul offers his upturned hand and Becky takes it, allowing herself to be led over his lap.

Paul is awash with resurfaced memories of Becky on her thirteenth birthday – leaning over the table, alternating between his lap and Bonnie’s, and then standing against the wall. It was a time where play and experimentation were tightly entwined, the budding hints of sexuality drawing their explorations into uncharted, less innocent realms. Those timid forays did not come close to the humid anticipation hanging in the air now.

He looks down at his cousin’s very mature behind awaiting acknowledgement of her first year. Wider in the hip, rounder in form, and so much more enticing, this was a woman he had never known as a boy.

“We’ll count together,” he says.

Paul lands a moderate blow across both orbs.

“One,” they say in unison. Becky laughs nervously. “Jinx,” she yells.


“Two,” she yelps from the immediate response. “Jesus, that hurt.”

The third, fourth, and fifth spanks were Paul’s way of re-acquainting himself with the intimate details of her behind – the jiggle of each cheek, how his palm and fingers fit over each summit.

“Six?” Becky taunts. “Was that six of your best? I remember you being strong as an ox back when we – yeowch! Seven! Eight, oh, nine, ow ten, eleven, ow, ow, twelve. Okay, okay. God damn it you’re an ox, already.” Paul stopped a moment and Becky whimpered, “It stings.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, then.” Paul rubs her very pink bottom.

“Okay, so that part you’re doing now? That feels really, really nice,” Becky purrs.

“Hmmm, can’t have that.” Paul spanks her squarely above the thighs. “Thirteen,” they say together.

“Ah, yes,” Paul continues, “thirteen, a momentous number. One we should pause to reflect on.”

Paul takes hold of Becky’s panties by the waistband. “This was the year you began your evolution from a snotty brat,” he yanks her panties to her knees, “into a snottier woman.”

Becky yelps in protest. “Hey, what are you doing? I’ll tell your Mom and Dad. Ow! Fourteen. Fifteen.”

“Snotty, yes,” Paul continues. “But what a magnificent woman you’ve become. Sixteen.” He gapes in awe at Becky’s upturned moon. He whacks it again. “Seventeen.” It jiggles in response. He has stop and simply admire how Becky has transformed, head to tow, indie out. He rubs some of the heat from Becky’s bright red buns and is greeted by a low, droning moan.

“We’re halfway there, girlie. Let’s take a break and assess the damage.”

Paul begins a series of long, sweeping strokes over her curves, neck to knee. “A few small welts here and there,” he remarks as he fingers several points on her red skin, admiring the white ghosts he leaves upon release. “We have a nice fade from white at the base perimeter to a stunning, deep crimson at the summits.” Paul suddenly falls into his roving reporter voice, which he used to tirelessly taunt his cousins with. “How is the situation down by you, Miss Becky?”

“Well, Paul,” she says, mocking him to a tee, “Here on location I can report that the recent heat wave has had a devastating effect on the residents of this little hamlet. I’m sensing a little precip on the outskirts but I understand flash flooding is imminent. Back to you, Paul.”

Paul struggles for words. In a suddenly low voice, he continues. “Great…uh…job on your team report. I’ll… uh…take it from here.” He touches the wisp of dark curls between her legs. Becky’s thighs part and he discovers her skin is slippery. Precip indeed.

The next six spanks are so rapid, sharp, and unexpected that Becky is left gasping for air and only belatedly counts them off.

“Twenty-four. Jesus.”

He lets the sting linger. Paul has learned a thing or two in the years since they saw each other last. The next one sends a small tremor through her body.

“Spread your legs more,” he says.

She complies and numbers 25 and 26 darken the as yet white skin just above her thighs. Paul’s hand lingers, teasing the damp lips that have unveiled. Becky responds with an upward thrust of her bottom. Entranced, his finger ventures deeper.

“Hey,” Beck yells, “I ain’t getting any younger.”

Paul freezes, then laughs. “You little shit,” he says and takes off with a volley of dozens of spanks that Becky doesn’t even try to count. She kicks and squirms, but Paul holds her firm against his lap. Going well past 34, he doesn’t stop until he hears a quiet sniffling.

“I guess that last bunch was for Grandpa Ray, but you get one to grow on anyway.” Paul fires one more slap across her backside. “What do you say to that, young lady?”

Her husky voice catches him again off guard. “Whatcha gonna use next?”


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