Q, writing on Tamar’s blog here, has a world view very much aligned with my own:
I can’t even remember what we’d been up to that day but I wandered into the bedroom after her because hell, she’s pretty and I like watching her butt. Moreso when it’s all red and welty but what the hell, I’ll take it any way. She was doing something, and wham. I just whacked her on the butt, as one does. She yells, she turns to me, and she has this indignant little look on her face, and puts up her hands to stop me with the most -adorable- little “Yipe!”
I went to whack her again on the butt and she made that oh-so-common mistake of thinking “Please don’t!” means anything but “Hit harder!” So I grab her around the waist and -whapwhapwhap- start wailing on her rear end like it’s a bongo drum. She kicks, she flails, she wails beautifully, and then I let her go. And then she gives me that look again. That indignant look.
So, since I love a repeat performance, I haul her over the bed and start to whack her more, whackity whackity. Within a short time her pants are around her ankles and I’m pounding at bare ass and -man- there is no comparison. Clothed butt? -whumpwhumpwhump-. Bare? -SLAPSLAPSLAP-. It’s such a better sound, and I think it’s a sign that man was not meant to spank clothed butts.
Man was not meant to spank clothed butts. Indeed not.