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Kelly-Ann on Vacation
We were in South Carolina driving east on Hwy 17, a two lane affair that winds its way though scenic country side until it finally reaches Charleston on the coast. We had in fact just passed the sign that put Charleston ten miles down the road. I glanced over at my beloved Kelly-Ann. She had her bare feet propped up on the dashboard, as was her habit during long car trips, and her nose buried in one of those romance novels women like. This one had something to do with pirates, but then it seemed like they all had something to do with pirates.

"Almost there, Honey," I informed her. Charleston wasn't our actual destination. We were going to near by James Island where a friend had graciously loaned us the use of his beach house for a week.

"Yeah, vacation," she said. "I can't wait to lie on the beach."

"We have a beach at home," I reminded her. We live in South Florida near Fort Lauderdale.

"Which we never go to," she countered. It was true. Getting all the stuff together, finding a place to park, fighting the crowds; it was a hassle. We were lucky to get there four or five times a year.

"Well, we'll get to this one," I assured her. "It'll be right outside the back door."

"Yep, and remember we're going to go out every night too. You promised, Tom. No sitting in front of the TV."

"I have every intention of keeping my promise, sweetheart," I assured her.

"You better, mister. I don't want to have to take those britches down," she warned sternly. She was being sarcastic of course. Those of you who have heard me speak of Kelly-Ann before know that it is she who routinely has her britches taken down.

Yes, it turns out the love of my life has herself a little spanking fetish. I was in my mid thirties when we met and I'd been around the block a few times. I fancied myself to be pretty savvy about the fairer sex, but Kelly-Ann was my first, and to date only, spanko. I have to admit I was quite surprised when she confessed this dark little secret to me. I was also more than a little intrigued. Still, it was a pretty sharp learning curve for me those first several months, but I must admit I've come to enjoy tanning her plump little fanny cheeks.

I took the turn off for James Island. "Speaking of britches coming down, I'm afraid we're going to have to have a little discussion when we get to the house," I informed her.

"No way!" she said. "What for?"

"For that spit ball fight in the Stucky's restaurant in Georgia," I reminded her, giving her my best stern look.

"What? He started it."

"He was a twelve-year-old boy. You're supposed to know better."