After another stretch of lateness and daydreaming on the road, the cowboy has had enough.

She is turned and arranged in the wheelbarrow position so that the dual-wielded wooden spoons can catch the fullest part of her bottom from a new angle. The cheeks jump and clap together with each blow.

He finishes her with the bathbrush and then the paddles. The brush’s circular wooden back thuds deep; the paddles clap hard and burn until her bottom is a uniform, glowing red, oil-slick and swollen, still jiggling long after the last stroke. She stays in position, breathing hard, the evidence of the punishment written across every bounce of those well-spanked cheeks.

After another stretch of lateness and daydreaming on the road, the cowboy has had enough. He sits and pulls her across his lap. Payzleigh is face-down on the hotel bed, cream dress shoved up over a pair of tight maroon polka-dot panties. His hand comes down on that wide, soft bottom: eft cheek, right cheek, then square across the seat. Each smack flattens the flesh and leaves a spreading pink blotch. She stays over the mattress while the color deepens.

He starts over the panties, firm open-hand smacks that make the flesh bounce and ripple. She squirms, late excuses tumbling out between gasps. When her skin is already pink through the thin fabric, he wedgies the panties up, scoops coconut oil onto his palm, and works it into both cheeks until they shine and feel slick. The next volley lands wetter and louder. Her bottom quivers with every strike.

The wooden spoon comes next. Short, sharp cracks across the oiled lower curves and sit-spots. When her legs kick up and get in the way, he snatches one of her own slippers and uses the sole on the undercurve of her cheeks until she pulls her feet back down.

He has her lie flat. The leather belt folds and snaps across both cheeks in measured strokes, then the strap follows, broader and heavier, leaving darker bands on already-red skin.

After another stretch of lateness and daydreaming on the road, the cowboy has had enough. He sits and pulls her across his lap. Payzleigh is face-down on the hotel bed, cream dress shoved up over a pair of tight maroon polka-dot panties. His hand comes down on that wide, soft bottom: eft cheek, right cheek, then square across the seat. Each smack flattens the flesh and leaves a spreading pink blotch. She stays over the mattress while the color deepens.

He starts over the panties, firm open-hand smacks that make the flesh bounce and ripple. She squirms, late excuses tumbling out between gasps. When her skin is already pink through the thin fabric, he wedgies the panties up, scoops coconut oil onto his palm, and works it into both cheeks until they shine and feel slick. The next volley lands wetter and louder. Her bottom quivers with every strike.

The wooden spoon comes next. Short, sharp cracks across the oiled lower curves and sit-spots. When her legs kick up and get in the way, he snatches one of her own slippers and uses the sole on the undercurve of her cheeks until she pulls her feet back down.

He has her lie flat. The leather belt folds and snaps across both cheeks in measured strokes, then the strap follows, broader and heavier, leaving darker bands on already-red skin.

She is turned and arranged in the wheelbarrow position so that the dual-wielded wooden spoons can catch the fullest part of her bottom from a new angle. The cheeks jump and clap together with each blow.

He finishes her with the bathbrush and then the paddles. The brush’s circular wooden back thuds deep; the paddles clap hard and burn until her bottom is a uniform, glowing red, oil-slick and swollen, still jiggling long after the last stroke. She stays in position, breathing hard, the evidence of the punishment written across every bounce of those well-spanked cheeks.