Cool Air and Warm Butt Cheeks in Tasmania part 1
Jules Herbert Marlu was a 12 year-old English German Indonesian Palawan boy living on the outskirts of Hobart, Tasmania. he lived with his entire immediate and extended family in a trailer park. They, with the exception of children under the age of 18, all worked as trackers tour guides, Hunter-gatherers, and survival instructors, mostly for white Australians and foreigners, but sometimes for their own people as well. This is because they had trouble finding jobs in other fields due to the systemic disenfranchisement and racism against aboriginal Australians. When he wasn’t at school on weekdays, on the weekends, he would ride his bike to the library or the bookstore and indulge in his hidden fantasy: Reading books and magazines involving femdom BDSM and CP.
He was currently reading an erotic novel that included photos of a woman who blackmailed adult men into being spanked by her using her hand, her hairbrush, belt, etc., by threatening to reveal immoral or illegal things they had done. This could be cheating on their wives, viewing pornography, stealing thing, smuggling drugs, lying, vandalism, etc. The woman was a rich business , vandalism, etc. The woman was a rich business lady who created her own company which she operated online having employees work from home and other places. She had gained a fascination with spanking when she would babysit younger children starting from 10 years old, reveling in the power she had over the smaller kids, especially the boys. Due to misogyny, She had to fight twice as hard as men to gain and hold onto Authority positions, and there was nothing quite as empowering as making an adult man cry like a baby while she roasted his buns.
Jules was sitting at one of the cushioned grey wool-lined seats in the bookstore, covering the cover of the book with his hands and arms while smiling lustfully at the material. He suddenly heard a woman's voice, low and smooth, saying, “I think that book is a little too mature for you, young man."*
His body went stiff, his fingers freezing mid-page-turn. Slowly, he turned around to see a lady standing behind him, her sapphire-blue skirt matching the jacket suit draped over her shoulders. The white silk shirt beneath it had clear silicone buttons that caught the light, and her cinnamon-sugar hair curled just past her shoulders like freshly shorn wool. Her eyes—amethyst, rare enough to make him blink—locked onto his with amusement. A few wrinkles framed her smirk as she tapped one polished orange nail against her hip.
“Young man,” she repeated, plucking the book from his hands before he could protest, “let’s go somewhere else to talk.”
Jules’ breath hitched as she turned on her heel, the click of her black heeled-sandals muffled by the burgundy carpet. He scrambled after her, pulse hammering, half-expecting her to march straight to the front desk and report him. Instead, she pushed open the door to the women’s restroom—a spacious, tiled room with pale yellow walls and the faint scent of lavender disinfectant. She checked under each of the three stalls, then glanced at the row of urinals lining the walls, her smirk deepening when she found the room empty. The woman turned her body sideways and ushered the boy she got red-handed into the bathroom with her.
“Now,” she said, leaning back against the green-marble sink counter, folding her arms beneath her chest. The book dangled from her fingers like evidence.
“Tell me, my boy, were you simply reading that genre of literature as A guilty pleasure like some people do when they drink or do you actually have those desires? Would you like to indulge in female domination, adult, spanking, and bondage-sadism-masochism? Do you know what sadists and masochists are? I think I already know the answer.”
His throat went dry, and he stammered, “Y-yes m-ma’am, I do know what sadism and masochism involves! The former involves pleasure from inflicting pain. The latter involves pleasure from having inflicted on you. Some people are both. To answer your second question, yes, I am into kinky stuff like that, and I would like to be involved in those things in real life. I have been fascinated with femdom, adult CP, and BDSM since I was seven years old.”
The woman nodded with a victorious expression on her face and identical look in her eyes, before asking him, “And are you a giver or receiver? Would you like a pretty lady or whoever spank you and dominate you, would you like to do the dominating and spank her or whoever?”
Jules shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt.
“I-I'm more of a receiver, ma'am," he admitted in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I... I like the idea of being spanked. But I don't have the guts to dominate anyone. I'm too shy—can barely look people in the eye most days." His gaze flickered at her and he admitted, “ even talking to you right now is a big struggle for me.”
Shy guys, whether adult men or boys are so fun to play with! I LOVE making them squirm and shake, the lady said to herself.
“ Do you have a preference when it comes to being spanked or dominated? Do you only want a woman or girl to do it or is anyone fine?”
“I specifically want an old woman or girl and she can be a teenager or preteen like me to beat my butt or dominate me man. Guys are always expected to act macho and totally confident and strong and fearless and good fighters and score as many chicks as they can and deny all weaknesses vulnerabilities and shrug off pain. But in a femdom context, men don’t have to get on the stage and put on a charade, they can be themselves. They can talk about their flaws and feelings, and more importantly they can cry and achieve emotional release. Another way of putting is that for a boy to be dominated by an adult lady or a little lady would allow them to be out of control and helpless in the world that expects them to be control freaks and totally self-reliant.”
The female adult nodded at his words, not disagreeing with any of them because she knew all too well the truth in them, and said, “Indeed, my boy.”
"Have you ever told anyone about your desires, Jules?" she asked, her voice softening just enough to sound almost maternal. He swallowed hard, shaking his head while staring at the glossy tiles beneath his scuffed black sneakers. "No, Miss, " he mumbled. "My parents would flip out—they think any kind of spanking is abuse, especially since..." His throat tightened.
“Especially since our people know what it’s like to be hurt for real. Not—not for fun. When I fantasize of being held down, or tired or chained up, or a dominant female ordering me around and treating me like a servant, it becomes awkward… to say the least. Blackfellas, like myself and my family, have been treated like slaves in real life, and have had metaphorical and literal feet on our necks and have been constantly kept down by a corrupt colonial system.”
Miss Sweetwaters’ expression softened as she folded her arms tighter, nodding slowly. “Ahh…you feel guilty don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Her gloved hands—soft black leather, smelling faintly of lavender—settled on his shoulders, weighing him down like warm river stones. she wore them along with her suited jacket and warm skirt because it was August, which Tasmania meant the end of winter in the beginning of spring, and while not freezing, it was still chilly outside. “
“Listen close, child,” she murmured, her breath stirring the fine hairs at his temple.
“Fantasy is where we rewrite the rules. Where ropes aren’t shackles, tears aren’t shame, and a red backside is a gift, not a crime.”
Her thumbs brushed the hollows of his collarbones, and Jules shivered despite the radiator hissing in the corner. “Now tell me your full name. Properly.”
“J-Jules Herbert Marlu,” he stammered, toes curling in his sneakers. The woman tipped her head, lips quirking. “Sød Forår Farvande,” she replied, the Danish syllables rolling like honey off her tongue.
“But ‘Miss Spring Sweetwaters’ will do. My parents had a flair for the poetic.”
Her chuckle was low, conspiratorial.
“And so do I. Which brings us to our…arrangement. Here’s the deal, Jules Herbert Marlu,” Miss Sweetwaters said, her silk jacket rustling like dry leaves as she knelt down to his level and leaned in—close enough that he caught the warm vanilla-and-clove bite of her perfume.
“You come home with me. My house has an excellent view of Hobart from the hills—perfect for reflection, don’t you think?” Her gloved fingertip tapped his chin, tilting his face up. “I’ll give you the spanking you’ve been daydreaming about. Proper discipline. Thorough. No shortcuts. And in exchange, I won’t mention your little bookstore escapade to anyone. Not your parents, not the librarian. Nobody.”
Jules swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears like the tide against the docks outside. His palms prickled with sweat, torn between bolting for the door and dropping to his knees. He hadn’t expected her to propose this—hadn’t dared hope someone would offer what he’d only imagined in stolen magazine pages. When she arched one cinnamon-sugar eyebrow and murmured, “Well?” it burst out of him in a rush.
“Yes! Yes, ma’am, I’ll do it.”
Miss Sweetwaters’ smile widened, her amethyst eyes glinting with triumph as she peeled off both gloves, one finger at a time, letting the leather whisper against her skin before tucking them into her jacket pocket. Her bare hands—pale, faintly veined, nails gleaming orange under the fluorescent lights—reached up and ruffled his ginger locks— Jules hair was straight and a mop top— with playful roughness, the warmth of her palms lingering even after she withdrew. Jules shuddered at the phantom heat, his scalp tingling where her fingers had been moments ago.
“That’s marvelous to hear, my boy,” she purred, straightening the collar of his shirt with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Though I must confess, finding you today was not pure serendipity. I do enjoy… patrolling the city. Seeking out naughty children who require a firm hand. Most of them protest, of course—until they realize I have proof of their mischief. Then they’re all too eager to bend over my lap.”
*She must be rich, or have a lot of free time* Jules thought. As if sensing what he was thinking, Spring Sweetwaters said, “I run my own online company, which has made me very wealthy. As such, I have a lot of time on my hands which I spend on the prowl for deviant youth.”
She then reached forward with her left hand and grabbed his left one, leading him out of the woman’s bathroom. Jules immediately felt how soft and smooth her palm was against his, Reciprocating her grip and making the woman smile. They walked away from the bathroom and she asked him where he found the book. He showed her and she put it back in his proper place. Then the unlikely duo walked to the bookstore entrance. Before going out, she asked him did he have gloves and he said yes, taking some red mittens out of his long tan khaki pants and putting them on. She nodded, putting her own gloves back on. Jules was also wearing a matching tan khaki long sleeve shirt with dark brown buttons.
Spring Sweetwaters and the misbehaving boy she had cornered walked out of the bookstore, and then she asked him, “how did you get here, honey? Did your parents drop you off, did you take the bus or a taxi, or did you ride your bike here?”
“I rode my bicycle here, ma’am. It’s right over there,“ he answered, pointing to a handicapped parking sign near the sidewalk in front of the bookstore in a British flag-designed bicycle with a shamrock green bike lock wrapped around in the bicycle.
“Smart boy, “the Danish woman complemented him.
“There’s so many thieves around these days a adult 10 children, that you can’t leave anything unsecured.
She led Jules to her car, which was a hot-pink Hummer parked near the bookstore’s entrance. The seats were covered in chinchilla fur—soft, warm, and smelling faintly of lavender—so The car wouldn't freeze when it's owner got out and turned off the heat. Jules marveled at the vehicle, tracing a gloved finger over the seat’s plush surface as she unlocked the doors with a click of her key fob.
"Go on, hop in,” she murmured, nudging him toward the passenger side with a playful tap of her heel. The engine roared to life, vibrating beneath them like a living thing, as she adjusted the rearview mirror with one hand and fastened her seatbelt with the other. Jules fumbled with his own belt, his fingers clumsy with nerves, until she reached over and clicked it into place for him with a knowing smirk.
As the Hummer pulled onto the road, the heat vents blasting warm air against their legs, Jules couldn’t help but steal glances at her profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the way her amethyst eyes flicked between the road and him with amused precision. Swallowing hard, he blurted out, “Miss Sweetwaters…if you don’t mind me asking…how old are you?”
Her laughter was rich, filling the car like syrup. “Seventy, darling,” she said, and Jules’ mouth fell open.
“B-but—you look *forty*!” She grinned, reaching over to pinch his flushed cheek.
“Flatterer. Clean living, almond milk, and a *very* active lifestyle has guarded my body against aging.”
Jules couldn’t help but stare as she smoothly navigated the Hummer through Hobart’s winding streets, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. Her wrists were delicate, yet he noticed the subtle strength in her fingers when she shifted gears—no hesitation, no wasted movement. The scent of lavender and vanilla clung to the car’s interior, mingling with the warmth radiating from the chinchilla fur seats, making his skin prickle with anticipation.
The house came into view as they rounded the final bend—a sprawling white-brick estate with moss-green shutters framing every window, perched atop the hill like a queen surveying her domain. The jade terra-cotta tiles shimmered under the afternoon sun, each one perfectly aligned, pristine. *She must have cleaners,* Jules thought, eyes darting to the manicured hedges lining the cobblestone path. When she parked beside a garage converted into what looked like a laundry room—steam curling from a vent near the roof—he barely had time to process before her gloved fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging him toward the mahogany front door.
Gold keys flashed in her hand, turning with a click so smooth Jules felt it in his teeth. The door swung inward, revealing a foyer that made his breath hitch—walls painted in swirling strawberry patterns, alternating between ripe red and cream-white, while the carpet beneath their feet exploded in tie-dye fractals of violet and indigo. Spring Sweetwaters chuckled at his slack-jawed stare, nudging him inside with her hip before locking the door behind them with three distinct deadbolt slides.
"Come along, pet," she murmured, already ascending the staircase without checking if he followed. The steps groaned faintly under her heels, though the sound vanished as they reached the second-floor landing—where, instead of turning toward the bedrooms, she grasped a brass pull-chain dangling from the ceiling.
The attic hatch unfolded like a blossom, revealing a narrow staircase. Jules hesitated, gripping the rail as it trembled under their combined weight. The scent of cedar and lemon oil rushed down to meet them. She didn't speak until they'd reached the top, where afternoon sunlight streamed through circular windows onto polished orange-brown floorboards.
“Wait here," she commanded, gesturing to the clover-patterned bed.
Jules stood rigidly, his fingers twisting into his shirt hem again as Miss Sweetwaters vanished downstairs. The attic groaned faintly with each step she took—or was that his pulse drumming in his ears? The scent of lemon oil and cedar clung to the air, thick as honey, making his throat dry. When she returned, the hairbrush glinted in the afternoon light streaming through the circular window—its blueberry-designed wooden back and red bristles absurdly cheerful for an instrument of punishment. Jules swallowed hard at the sight of it, his thighs squeezing together instinctively.
She smiled sweetly, setting the brush on the clover-patterned quilt beside her.
"Don’t worry, honey, I’m gonna warm you up first. Hands on your head, young man," she murmured. Jules obeyed, locking his fingers together against his ginger hair, his elbows trembling outward like broken wings. Her chuckle was warm as she circled behind him—slow, deliberate—the click of her heels swallowed by the attic’s thick cedar planks. "Turn around," she added, tapping his hipbone with a polished nail. He pivoted stiffly, catching a whiff of her perfume—clove and something like burnt sugar—as she crouched to unbutton his khakis. The zipper’s rasp was deafening.
Then she froze, a stifled gasp escaping her lips. His underwear—tight cotton, stretched over narrow hips—bore a cartoon koala clutching her baby.
"Oh, *Jules*," she cooed, fingers hovering over the print.
"Do you *want* me to think you’re precious?" His flush deepened, creeping down his neck as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband. One sharp tug and the fabric pooled at his ankles. Her breath hitched.
"Lord, those *cheeks*," she breathed, tracing a nail down the dimple above his thigh. "All that bike riding paid off, didn’t it?"
He swayed when she stepped around to face him—then choked as her fingertip flicked his erection.
"And *these*," she mused, rolling his balls between gloved fingers like marbles.
"Plump as quail eggs. Tell me, darling, do they *always* tighten up this pretty when you’re embarrassed?" Jules whimpered, his hips jerking involuntarily as she pinched the base of his shaft.
“Your dick remind me of a smoked hotdog, and your skin is the same color as yoohoo milk Jules. Every part of you looks so tasty. I could just eat you up!”
Miss Sweetwaters’ grip shifted to his waist, steering him backward until his calves hit the bed’s edge. She took off her gloves and dropped them on the floor. "Over my lap, *now*," she ordered, hiking up her sapphire skirt to reveal kiwi designed panties and her smooth thighs.
Jules obeyed impulsively, knowing hesitation would unravel his resolve. As he draped himself across her thighs, the scent of her lavender gloves flooded his senses—warm leather and something crisp, like winter apples. The danish woman quickly closed her thighs around his cock, making him gasp, while his balls rested on her left one. She pulled his pants, underwear, shoes, and socks completely off before leaning down, her hot-pink lips brushing his ear.
"My bra matches these little panties, darling," she murmured, tapping the lace-edged waistband. "And if you ever want another spanking—or *plenty* more games—just ask. I’ll give you my number." Her promise coiled in his belly, molten, just before her right hand rose high. He braced for pain—but the first contact was a featherlight tap, barely a whisper against his skin. Fifty-nine more followed, each landing precisely every second, a torturous countdown that left his muscles twitching with anticipation.
Then her left hand snapped down like a guillotine blade. The smack cracked across his left cheek, sharp enough to send a shockwave through his hips. Jules yelped, his voice ricocheting off the attic beams, fingers clawing at empty air—no pillow to muffle himself, no escape from the king-sized bed’s expanse. Another slap detonated on his right side, and his scream fractured into a sob. By the eighth strike, tears streaked his cheeks, hot and unstoppable, while Miss Sweetwaters crooned above him.
"Good boy," she purred, delivering slap nine with pitiless precision.
"This is *exactly* what you deserve for sneaking porn—filthy stuff for *adults*, not little boys!"
Her palm cracked do
He was currently reading an erotic novel that included photos of a woman who blackmailed adult men into being spanked by her using her hand, her hairbrush, belt, etc., by threatening to reveal immoral or illegal things they had done. This could be cheating on their wives, viewing pornography, stealing thing, smuggling drugs, lying, vandalism, etc. The woman was a rich business , vandalism, etc. The woman was a rich business lady who created her own company which she operated online having employees work from home and other places. She had gained a fascination with spanking when she would babysit younger children starting from 10 years old, reveling in the power she had over the smaller kids, especially the boys. Due to misogyny, She had to fight twice as hard as men to gain and hold onto Authority positions, and there was nothing quite as empowering as making an adult man cry like a baby while she roasted his buns.
Jules was sitting at one of the cushioned grey wool-lined seats in the bookstore, covering the cover of the book with his hands and arms while smiling lustfully at the material. He suddenly heard a woman's voice, low and smooth, saying, “I think that book is a little too mature for you, young man."*
His body went stiff, his fingers freezing mid-page-turn. Slowly, he turned around to see a lady standing behind him, her sapphire-blue skirt matching the jacket suit draped over her shoulders. The white silk shirt beneath it had clear silicone buttons that caught the light, and her cinnamon-sugar hair curled just past her shoulders like freshly shorn wool. Her eyes—amethyst, rare enough to make him blink—locked onto his with amusement. A few wrinkles framed her smirk as she tapped one polished orange nail against her hip.
“Young man,” she repeated, plucking the book from his hands before he could protest, “let’s go somewhere else to talk.”
Jules’ breath hitched as she turned on her heel, the click of her black heeled-sandals muffled by the burgundy carpet. He scrambled after her, pulse hammering, half-expecting her to march straight to the front desk and report him. Instead, she pushed open the door to the women’s restroom—a spacious, tiled room with pale yellow walls and the faint scent of lavender disinfectant. She checked under each of the three stalls, then glanced at the row of urinals lining the walls, her smirk deepening when she found the room empty. The woman turned her body sideways and ushered the boy she got red-handed into the bathroom with her.
“Now,” she said, leaning back against the green-marble sink counter, folding her arms beneath her chest. The book dangled from her fingers like evidence.
“Tell me, my boy, were you simply reading that genre of literature as A guilty pleasure like some people do when they drink or do you actually have those desires? Would you like to indulge in female domination, adult, spanking, and bondage-sadism-masochism? Do you know what sadists and masochists are? I think I already know the answer.”
His throat went dry, and he stammered, “Y-yes m-ma’am, I do know what sadism and masochism involves! The former involves pleasure from inflicting pain. The latter involves pleasure from having inflicted on you. Some people are both. To answer your second question, yes, I am into kinky stuff like that, and I would like to be involved in those things in real life. I have been fascinated with femdom, adult CP, and BDSM since I was seven years old.”
The woman nodded with a victorious expression on her face and identical look in her eyes, before asking him, “And are you a giver or receiver? Would you like a pretty lady or whoever spank you and dominate you, would you like to do the dominating and spank her or whoever?”
Jules shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt.
“I-I'm more of a receiver, ma'am," he admitted in a voice barely above a whisper.
“I... I like the idea of being spanked. But I don't have the guts to dominate anyone. I'm too shy—can barely look people in the eye most days." His gaze flickered at her and he admitted, “ even talking to you right now is a big struggle for me.”
Shy guys, whether adult men or boys are so fun to play with! I LOVE making them squirm and shake, the lady said to herself.
“ Do you have a preference when it comes to being spanked or dominated? Do you only want a woman or girl to do it or is anyone fine?”
“I specifically want an old woman or girl and she can be a teenager or preteen like me to beat my butt or dominate me man. Guys are always expected to act macho and totally confident and strong and fearless and good fighters and score as many chicks as they can and deny all weaknesses vulnerabilities and shrug off pain. But in a femdom context, men don’t have to get on the stage and put on a charade, they can be themselves. They can talk about their flaws and feelings, and more importantly they can cry and achieve emotional release. Another way of putting is that for a boy to be dominated by an adult lady or a little lady would allow them to be out of control and helpless in the world that expects them to be control freaks and totally self-reliant.”
The female adult nodded at his words, not disagreeing with any of them because she knew all too well the truth in them, and said, “Indeed, my boy.”
"Have you ever told anyone about your desires, Jules?" she asked, her voice softening just enough to sound almost maternal. He swallowed hard, shaking his head while staring at the glossy tiles beneath his scuffed black sneakers. "No, Miss, " he mumbled. "My parents would flip out—they think any kind of spanking is abuse, especially since..." His throat tightened.
“Especially since our people know what it’s like to be hurt for real. Not—not for fun. When I fantasize of being held down, or tired or chained up, or a dominant female ordering me around and treating me like a servant, it becomes awkward… to say the least. Blackfellas, like myself and my family, have been treated like slaves in real life, and have had metaphorical and literal feet on our necks and have been constantly kept down by a corrupt colonial system.”
Miss Sweetwaters’ expression softened as she folded her arms tighter, nodding slowly. “Ahh…you feel guilty don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Her gloved hands—soft black leather, smelling faintly of lavender—settled on his shoulders, weighing him down like warm river stones. she wore them along with her suited jacket and warm skirt because it was August, which Tasmania meant the end of winter in the beginning of spring, and while not freezing, it was still chilly outside. “
“Listen close, child,” she murmured, her breath stirring the fine hairs at his temple.
“Fantasy is where we rewrite the rules. Where ropes aren’t shackles, tears aren’t shame, and a red backside is a gift, not a crime.”
Her thumbs brushed the hollows of his collarbones, and Jules shivered despite the radiator hissing in the corner. “Now tell me your full name. Properly.”
“J-Jules Herbert Marlu,” he stammered, toes curling in his sneakers. The woman tipped her head, lips quirking. “Sød Forår Farvande,” she replied, the Danish syllables rolling like honey off her tongue.
“But ‘Miss Spring Sweetwaters’ will do. My parents had a flair for the poetic.”
Her chuckle was low, conspiratorial.
“And so do I. Which brings us to our…arrangement. Here’s the deal, Jules Herbert Marlu,” Miss Sweetwaters said, her silk jacket rustling like dry leaves as she knelt down to his level and leaned in—close enough that he caught the warm vanilla-and-clove bite of her perfume.
“You come home with me. My house has an excellent view of Hobart from the hills—perfect for reflection, don’t you think?” Her gloved fingertip tapped his chin, tilting his face up. “I’ll give you the spanking you’ve been daydreaming about. Proper discipline. Thorough. No shortcuts. And in exchange, I won’t mention your little bookstore escapade to anyone. Not your parents, not the librarian. Nobody.”
Jules swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears like the tide against the docks outside. His palms prickled with sweat, torn between bolting for the door and dropping to his knees. He hadn’t expected her to propose this—hadn’t dared hope someone would offer what he’d only imagined in stolen magazine pages. When she arched one cinnamon-sugar eyebrow and murmured, “Well?” it burst out of him in a rush.
“Yes! Yes, ma’am, I’ll do it.”
Miss Sweetwaters’ smile widened, her amethyst eyes glinting with triumph as she peeled off both gloves, one finger at a time, letting the leather whisper against her skin before tucking them into her jacket pocket. Her bare hands—pale, faintly veined, nails gleaming orange under the fluorescent lights—reached up and ruffled his ginger locks— Jules hair was straight and a mop top— with playful roughness, the warmth of her palms lingering even after she withdrew. Jules shuddered at the phantom heat, his scalp tingling where her fingers had been moments ago.
“That’s marvelous to hear, my boy,” she purred, straightening the collar of his shirt with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Though I must confess, finding you today was not pure serendipity. I do enjoy… patrolling the city. Seeking out naughty children who require a firm hand. Most of them protest, of course—until they realize I have proof of their mischief. Then they’re all too eager to bend over my lap.”
*She must be rich, or have a lot of free time* Jules thought. As if sensing what he was thinking, Spring Sweetwaters said, “I run my own online company, which has made me very wealthy. As such, I have a lot of time on my hands which I spend on the prowl for deviant youth.”
She then reached forward with her left hand and grabbed his left one, leading him out of the woman’s bathroom. Jules immediately felt how soft and smooth her palm was against his, Reciprocating her grip and making the woman smile. They walked away from the bathroom and she asked him where he found the book. He showed her and she put it back in his proper place. Then the unlikely duo walked to the bookstore entrance. Before going out, she asked him did he have gloves and he said yes, taking some red mittens out of his long tan khaki pants and putting them on. She nodded, putting her own gloves back on. Jules was also wearing a matching tan khaki long sleeve shirt with dark brown buttons.
Spring Sweetwaters and the misbehaving boy she had cornered walked out of the bookstore, and then she asked him, “how did you get here, honey? Did your parents drop you off, did you take the bus or a taxi, or did you ride your bike here?”
“I rode my bicycle here, ma’am. It’s right over there,“ he answered, pointing to a handicapped parking sign near the sidewalk in front of the bookstore in a British flag-designed bicycle with a shamrock green bike lock wrapped around in the bicycle.
“Smart boy, “the Danish woman complemented him.
“There’s so many thieves around these days a adult 10 children, that you can’t leave anything unsecured.
She led Jules to her car, which was a hot-pink Hummer parked near the bookstore’s entrance. The seats were covered in chinchilla fur—soft, warm, and smelling faintly of lavender—so The car wouldn't freeze when it's owner got out and turned off the heat. Jules marveled at the vehicle, tracing a gloved finger over the seat’s plush surface as she unlocked the doors with a click of her key fob.
"Go on, hop in,” she murmured, nudging him toward the passenger side with a playful tap of her heel. The engine roared to life, vibrating beneath them like a living thing, as she adjusted the rearview mirror with one hand and fastened her seatbelt with the other. Jules fumbled with his own belt, his fingers clumsy with nerves, until she reached over and clicked it into place for him with a knowing smirk.
As the Hummer pulled onto the road, the heat vents blasting warm air against their legs, Jules couldn’t help but steal glances at her profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the way her amethyst eyes flicked between the road and him with amused precision. Swallowing hard, he blurted out, “Miss Sweetwaters…if you don’t mind me asking…how old are you?”
Her laughter was rich, filling the car like syrup. “Seventy, darling,” she said, and Jules’ mouth fell open.
“B-but—you look *forty*!” She grinned, reaching over to pinch his flushed cheek.
“Flatterer. Clean living, almond milk, and a *very* active lifestyle has guarded my body against aging.”
Jules couldn’t help but stare as she smoothly navigated the Hummer through Hobart’s winding streets, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel. Her wrists were delicate, yet he noticed the subtle strength in her fingers when she shifted gears—no hesitation, no wasted movement. The scent of lavender and vanilla clung to the car’s interior, mingling with the warmth radiating from the chinchilla fur seats, making his skin prickle with anticipation.
The house came into view as they rounded the final bend—a sprawling white-brick estate with moss-green shutters framing every window, perched atop the hill like a queen surveying her domain. The jade terra-cotta tiles shimmered under the afternoon sun, each one perfectly aligned, pristine. *She must have cleaners,* Jules thought, eyes darting to the manicured hedges lining the cobblestone path. When she parked beside a garage converted into what looked like a laundry room—steam curling from a vent near the roof—he barely had time to process before her gloved fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging him toward the mahogany front door.
Gold keys flashed in her hand, turning with a click so smooth Jules felt it in his teeth. The door swung inward, revealing a foyer that made his breath hitch—walls painted in swirling strawberry patterns, alternating between ripe red and cream-white, while the carpet beneath their feet exploded in tie-dye fractals of violet and indigo. Spring Sweetwaters chuckled at his slack-jawed stare, nudging him inside with her hip before locking the door behind them with three distinct deadbolt slides.
"Come along, pet," she murmured, already ascending the staircase without checking if he followed. The steps groaned faintly under her heels, though the sound vanished as they reached the second-floor landing—where, instead of turning toward the bedrooms, she grasped a brass pull-chain dangling from the ceiling.
The attic hatch unfolded like a blossom, revealing a narrow staircase. Jules hesitated, gripping the rail as it trembled under their combined weight. The scent of cedar and lemon oil rushed down to meet them. She didn't speak until they'd reached the top, where afternoon sunlight streamed through circular windows onto polished orange-brown floorboards.
“Wait here," she commanded, gesturing to the clover-patterned bed.
Jules stood rigidly, his fingers twisting into his shirt hem again as Miss Sweetwaters vanished downstairs. The attic groaned faintly with each step she took—or was that his pulse drumming in his ears? The scent of lemon oil and cedar clung to the air, thick as honey, making his throat dry. When she returned, the hairbrush glinted in the afternoon light streaming through the circular window—its blueberry-designed wooden back and red bristles absurdly cheerful for an instrument of punishment. Jules swallowed hard at the sight of it, his thighs squeezing together instinctively.
She smiled sweetly, setting the brush on the clover-patterned quilt beside her.
"Don’t worry, honey, I’m gonna warm you up first. Hands on your head, young man," she murmured. Jules obeyed, locking his fingers together against his ginger hair, his elbows trembling outward like broken wings. Her chuckle was warm as she circled behind him—slow, deliberate—the click of her heels swallowed by the attic’s thick cedar planks. "Turn around," she added, tapping his hipbone with a polished nail. He pivoted stiffly, catching a whiff of her perfume—clove and something like burnt sugar—as she crouched to unbutton his khakis. The zipper’s rasp was deafening.
Then she froze, a stifled gasp escaping her lips. His underwear—tight cotton, stretched over narrow hips—bore a cartoon koala clutching her baby.
"Oh, *Jules*," she cooed, fingers hovering over the print.
"Do you *want* me to think you’re precious?" His flush deepened, creeping down his neck as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband. One sharp tug and the fabric pooled at his ankles. Her breath hitched.
"Lord, those *cheeks*," she breathed, tracing a nail down the dimple above his thigh. "All that bike riding paid off, didn’t it?"
He swayed when she stepped around to face him—then choked as her fingertip flicked his erection.
"And *these*," she mused, rolling his balls between gloved fingers like marbles.
"Plump as quail eggs. Tell me, darling, do they *always* tighten up this pretty when you’re embarrassed?" Jules whimpered, his hips jerking involuntarily as she pinched the base of his shaft.
“Your dick remind me of a smoked hotdog, and your skin is the same color as yoohoo milk Jules. Every part of you looks so tasty. I could just eat you up!”
Miss Sweetwaters’ grip shifted to his waist, steering him backward until his calves hit the bed’s edge. She took off her gloves and dropped them on the floor. "Over my lap, *now*," she ordered, hiking up her sapphire skirt to reveal kiwi designed panties and her smooth thighs.
Jules obeyed impulsively, knowing hesitation would unravel his resolve. As he draped himself across her thighs, the scent of her lavender gloves flooded his senses—warm leather and something crisp, like winter apples. The danish woman quickly closed her thighs around his cock, making him gasp, while his balls rested on her left one. She pulled his pants, underwear, shoes, and socks completely off before leaning down, her hot-pink lips brushing his ear.
"My bra matches these little panties, darling," she murmured, tapping the lace-edged waistband. "And if you ever want another spanking—or *plenty* more games—just ask. I’ll give you my number." Her promise coiled in his belly, molten, just before her right hand rose high. He braced for pain—but the first contact was a featherlight tap, barely a whisper against his skin. Fifty-nine more followed, each landing precisely every second, a torturous countdown that left his muscles twitching with anticipation.
Then her left hand snapped down like a guillotine blade. The smack cracked across his left cheek, sharp enough to send a shockwave through his hips. Jules yelped, his voice ricocheting off the attic beams, fingers clawing at empty air—no pillow to muffle himself, no escape from the king-sized bed’s expanse. Another slap detonated on his right side, and his scream fractured into a sob. By the eighth strike, tears streaked his cheeks, hot and unstoppable, while Miss Sweetwaters crooned above him.
"Good boy," she purred, delivering slap nine with pitiless precision.
"This is *exactly* what you deserve for sneaking porn—filthy stuff for *adults*, not little boys!"
Her palm cracked do
31-35, M