Authorís note: This arose from a challenge to a number of spanko writers who used to be found on the old alt.sex.spanking group in the days before spam and feuding caused us all to be cast out of Eden. The contest: write a spanko story that began with the words "If I had to do it over, I wouldn't do it in Paris". Well, your correspondent is fond of Paris, and somehow those words just struck a chord that resulted in this little 'jeux d'esprit' . . .
If I had to do it over, I wouldn't do it in Paris. Paris had always been somewhere special to her. She used to say: "One day I'm going to Paris, and I'll marry well, you'll see. A lord, at least, more than just the son of a country gentleman like you, Jean." And she would smile devastatingly, and turn away. It was a ploy, of course, designed to make me angry, so that I would grab her, and flip up her loose petticoats and thrash her well. She loved that, she was always getting herself into trouble so that she would be switched. It made her hot for a man.
When I discovered her secret, of course, I made sure that I had plenty of
opportunities to give her what she desired. How she would squeal as my hand fell
on those creamy buttocks, as her face and her behind grew redder in tandem.
Sometimes I would cut a green willow withe and switch her with that: I knew from
personal experience as a youth just how much those thin red stripes across her
thrusting rump must have stung, like being cut with a knife, but although she
cried out and wriggled in my grip her womanly juices would flow sweet and full
when I gave it to her. And afterwards, of course, poor
So when my father asked me to go to Paris, to oversee the house and his legal
affairs there, it seemed like the natural thing to do, bringing
Well, bon Dieu, you would have thought that I had tried to sell her as a Turkish slave girl, the way she carried on when I told her. And she threw my gift back at me, and stormed out into the Paris night, would you believe, the silly little fool. As I say, I should have told her back at home, in the country: it was bringing her up with me that filled her silly little head full of big ideas. I expected to find her contrite on the doorstep the next morning, ready to be forgiven (after a suitable thrashing, of course - I'd even selected a rather handsome horsewhip to do it with). But no, no word. After a few days I had discreet enquiries made, to no avail, but heard in the end that she had changed her name and fallen in with a fellow named Delafarge, or Defarge, something like that. She married him eventually, I believe. And that, I thought, was the last of it.
So imagine my surprise, all these years later, when all this happened. I was foolish to come back to Paris, I suppose, but it never occurred to me that any one would recognise me, or be bothered with me come to that. I never expected to find myself in a position like this !
Almost there now - yes, yes I can see her. She's - she's knitting there, there right at the front of the crowd, the bitch, as if she hadn't a care in the world. Probably hasn't, after the reward for informing on me. And - ah she sees me ! What a world of triumph in that smile, as the tumbril sweeps past, into the shadow of the guillotine . . .