Shooting Dogs

She’d given me a look that said “I dare you, Cotton Wilson.” Now, she knew I couldn’t resist a dare and while she might not have said the words, she knew what look she was giving me. So I slapped her.

I’m not proud I did it but I’m not sorry either. Heck, if you knew the whole story, you’d know she’d asked for it. Even so, one of the first things my father taught me was that a man, under no circumstances, hits a woman. He’d go further to say that any man who does isn’t a man; he’s a mangy dog who deserves to be shot on sight.

So, there I was, buck-naked except for the tiny mask she’d made me wear, wrestling with my moral senses, while a doe-naked Gracie Purdue urged me to slap her again. I looked down at her gorgeous naked bottom, rearing up in the air. The first slap glowed on her butt like a hand-shaped beacon.

“Will you get on with, Cotton,” she’d said breathlessly, an expression of pure wanton pleasure on her face.

So I slapped her again. She yelped in delight and I didn’t feel as bad as the first time. I certainly didn’t feel like a mangy dog. But then a picture of my father bursting into the room with his rifle popped into my head. I burst out laughing.

“Oh yeah, baby, you’re so mean. You think my pain is funny. Hit me again; I’ve been a naughty girl.” Gracie had slipped fully into her role. Unfortunately, though, I lost it. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard.

Gracie was disgusted when I nearly pissed myself. She stalked out of the room and out my life. I tried ringing her a couple of days later, hoping she might have cooled down but she wouldn’t answer my calls.

I ran into her about four months after. She was with some douchebag who looked like he would enjoy hitting women. I longed for my father’s rifle.