(c) 2009 by Grace Brackenridge

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A deaf mother guards the restroom door as I spank her son. The author does not in any way endorse the spanking of real children in real life.
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"You're not my mom," observed the diminutive, brown-eyed, freckle-faced moppet when I told him my intention.

Outside, the roar of freeway traffic provided white noise as background. The rest room reeked of industrial pine scent. The Central Valley heat made the disinfectant even more pungent, leaving an acrid taste in my dry mouth.

"Your mother sent you in to ready yourself for a spanking," I said, stepping into the handicapped stall. "And I see you're ready."

Indeed, the boy had stripped down to his underpants and flip-flops. His T-shirt and summer shorts lay neatly folded on the floor, sucking up foul disinfectant from a shallow puddle.

"But you're not my mom!" he whined as I scooted him to the side and sat down on the toilet seat.

"Austin, did your mom specifically say she would personally spank you?"

"No."

"Well, I'm in charge of this spanking. Want me to tell your mother you resisted?"

"No," he replied sullenly.

"Good! Then let's get this over with," I said, pulling him over my lap. "Does your mother spank on the underpants? Or bare bottom?"

"Underpants."

"Good!" I exclaimed, immediately exposing two cute cheeks with a sharp snap of elastic.

Telltale marks of my corrective would remain hidden.

"Stop! You're not my moth..."

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Kicking vociferously, Austin sent a flip-flop flying high in the air. It landed elsewhere with a splash. Somebody would have to retrieve Austin's flip-flop from one of the toilets.

But not me.

I hadn't spanked a little boy's bare behind since my high school babysitting days. After all these years, I still thoroughly enjoyed my little spanko fetish.

Serendipity means finding something you aren't looking for.

I had stopped at the interstate rest stop to wash my face and hands, sticky from hours on the I-5.

"Go in!" I heard the matronly woman shout at the little boy as I reached the restroom door.

She pushed him inside. "Get ready for a good spanking, Austin. I give you just one minute!"

From her pronunciation and loud volume, I could tell she was (1) deaf and (2) sizzling mad. In my profession, I often work with the hearing impaired.

Using ASL, I communicated with my hands, "May I use the restroom first? I have diarrhea."

As I spanked her son, the mother stood outside, detouring sweaty motorists with bloated bladders to the other women's restroom.

"Wait right here for your mother," I told the sobbing child, once I had spanked him enough -- and maybe a little extra. "Do not come out."

At the restroom door, I signed his mother, "I see you are angry. Please wait five more minutes to calm yourself. Your son is scared. He is crying. Let him calm down too."

"Thank you," she signed back, her face red from anger and the San Joaquin Valley heat. "I wait."

The extra five minutes gave me plenty of time to merge back onto the freeway and lose myself in the dense holiday traffic.