Copyright 1997 to <Pablo.Stubbs@newsguy.com> Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

The third eye
does not weep
It knows.

- Cherrie Moraga, Last Generation

"Surfing" is a very special story to me (not that all the P/M stories aren't special - but this one much more so) because it was written at a time when I was quite ill and my life seemed at a rather low point. If I for some reason could only choose one of the four P/M stories to have and keep, this would be the one I'd save (fortunately this is not a choice I'm going to have to make!). Although we call these stories "collaborations," I think of this one as a love story, one which reveals a great deal about Pablo and myself, and reflects my feeling toward him and spanking outside of any sort of role play.

(It is also as clever and well written as all-get-out imho.)

He knows Mija is likely to be asleep, so Paul steps lightly up the stairs to the bedroom. He's missed her, and worried about her all day - he suspects she doesn't realise how much he worries. Although she does love to tease him about it, sometimes, the mischievous child in her breaking through to the surface, the unfettered rays of summer sunshine through the clouds of adulthood.

Paul opens the bedroom door quietly - it squeaks loudly if it's allowed to. Mija isn't there. The bedclothes are a mess; slept in, but not currently. But there's a tap-tap-tap, click, tap-tap-tap. The door opens further, and Paul sees Mija at the computer, face close to the screen, still in her pyjamas, hair unbrushed. Aye, and bottom unbrushed, Paul thinks.

Paul is seized by conflicting, interfering emotions: anger, frustration, sheer overpowering love. If Mija is out of bed, surfing, she must be feeling somewhat better. Paul remembers the fevers she's been through, her hot head cradled in his arms.

But then Mija coughs, and spasms shake her small body for far too long. Paul lays down the parcels, goes to her, holds her until she's recovered herself. She's okay, though. The worst was over days ago. But she still needs as much rest and sleep as she can get.

Which means, they both know, no e-mail, no Usenet, and no web surfing.

Paul brushes back Mija's hair, kisses her on the forehead.

'Are you okay now, angel?' he asks.

Mija nods.

'Good. Now, do you remember what you promised me before I left this morning?'

Mija's face is a sudden picture of alarm, her brain scans for a plausible excuse.

'There...um...there was an e-mail! Came in about ten minutes ago! I had to check; it might have been something urgent!'

'Show me,' Paul says, evenly.

Mija swallows hard.

'I...I deleted it,' she explains, putting on a good show. 'It was only junk after all.'

Paul looks sternly into Mija's eyes. Mija shrinks. Why did she think she could get away with lying?!

'Tell me the truth, Mija,' Paul says.

Mija's eyes drop, but then she starts to gabble with sudden energy and conviction, knowing that it's her last chance to avoid a trip over Paul's lap.

'I was bored,' she says. 'I'm sick of bed, and I'm sick of this room, and I'm sick of being sick! S'not fair! I'm better! Honestly, I'm all better. I was only surfing, sheesh!'

'Mija,' Paul asks once more, with a even voice which chills Mija's blood, 'do you remember what you promised me before I left this morning?'

Silence.

'Young lady?'

Mija mumbles something, inaudibly.

'Mija, this is your last chance.'

And she knows it. She's all but resigned to a hard paddling anyway.

'ThatI'dstayinbedalldayandnotusethecomputer. Jeez!'

'So you broke your promise?'

Mija nods, sadly.

'And you lied to me?'

Mija nods again. Her eyes overflow with tears, and two salty trails appear down her soft cheeks. Mija sniffs.

Paul lifts Mija's chin with the index finger of his right hand.

'Sweetheart, I love you so much, and it hurts me to see you sick. I do everything I can to get you better, but you have to trust me, to do what I say.'

'I tried, Paul, I did!' Mija pleads.

'Okay, sweetheart,' Paul says, seeming to accept Mija's explanation. 'But maybe there's something I can do to make you try a bit harder.'

Mija's tears redouble; she rubs her eyes with her fists. Two weeks of sickness and fever have left her emotionally as well as physically underpowered.

Paul picks up the smallest of the parcels he brought back, and unpacks Mija's medicine. He takes out the bottle, breaks the seal, and unscrews the cap. Then he pours some of the thick mixture into the plastic spoon. 'Open,' he says to Mija, whose mouth opens, accepts the spoon, swallows. Mija screws up her face in distaste. Paul measures out another spoonful, and this too disappears into Mija's throat with a childish scowl. Paul wraps up the medicine once more.

Paul sits beside Mija, holds her warm little hands.

'I want you to get a couple of hours good sleep this evening,' Paul says, 'while I make us some supper. Okay?'

''kay,' Mija whispers.

'But straight after supper, there's a different type of medicine that you need to take.'

'Do I have to?' Mija asks with a whine, but it might just as well be a rhetorical question.

'Yes, Mija. For the lying, and the broken promise, and because I love you and don't want you to lie and break promises, you'll be spending some quality time over my knee before bed.'

Mija's mouth forms itself into a mean pout, which Paul cannot help but find amusing in its extravagant self-indulgence. But amusement or not, he lifts Mija quickly across his lap, her legs kicking with an energy she wouldn't have possessed a week earlier, whisks down her pyjama pants, and hand-spanks a pink hue into her bare bum.

'And if I see so much as a single sulk or pout from you for the next week, young lady,' Paul warns, 'you'll be sitting on a pile of pillows until Christmas.'

Mija tries her very hardest to avoid pouting at this threat, as Paul lifts her across to the bed, shaking the pillows and rearranging the bedclothes to give Mija a comfortable sleep.

Paul switches off the main light, leaving only the desk-lamp by the computer. He sits, and begins to type a few, selected, purposeful commands, as Mija curls onto her side, her right hand slipping inside her pyjamas to rub away the smart, her tongue sticking out ever so bravely in the direction of Paul's back. But she's soon asleep.

Paul switches off the desk-lamp, and heads downstairs to prepare supper.

And Paul can see how hungry Mija is, and it warms his heart. She is getting better.

With a big, resigned sigh, Mija gobbles up the last of her supper, then hands the plate back to Paul.

'Thank you,' she says, and means it. 'That was nice.'

'Good. I'm glad you liked it. Now, I'm just going to wash the dishes. You know where I'll expect to find you when I get back.'

Mija sighs again, watches Paul take the plates, forks and glasses downstairs. She slips out of bed, and pads quietly, glumly, to the corner, where she stands, waiting to be disciplined. She listens to the flow of water, the clank of plates, the chink of glasses, then - her stomach feeling uneasy - the swooshing as the dishwater drains away, and then the last, ominous gurgle.

Paul's footsteps approach, and then he's in the bedroom once more, sitting at the computer. Mija hears the machine boot, and wonders what he's up to. After a little time, and much whirring of the internal disk, there's silence again.

'Come here, Mija,' Paul says.

Mija turns. Paul has moved the straight-backed desk chair away from the computer, so that he's facing her, and the machine is to his left side, but out of reach.

Mija goes to him, knowing the procedure so well, finding a warmth and comfort in the total absence of any uncertainty. What will happen now is an irrevocable, unstoppable process, as delicate and precious as any sacred rite.

Paul takes her hands, moves Mija to his right, then forward, draping over his lap. Mija gasps, the last breath of resistance leaving her body as her mind submits to the child within, the simple balance of hugs and spanks that made up the childhood long-remembered filling her thoughts, overpowering the trivialities of here and now. She feels Paul take down her pyjamas, and her brain bursts with simultaneous desire, dread, fear, yearning, like a flower releasing pollen to the wind.

'Sweet Mija,' Paul whispers, any sternness washed away, 'this will hurt very much, but never forget that I will love you always, no matter what.' And then, stern once more: 'Take the mouse, Mija. If you want so much to surf, then go ahead.'

'But...what?...'

'Take the mouse. Surf. Do it!' Paul commands.

Bewildered, Mija reaches out for the mouse. The screen-saved monitor springs to life, Netscape throwing perpetual shooting stars. Mija gasps. In the main window, there is a single link, in simple, huge letters:

_A SOUND SPANKING FOR MIJA_

'Surf, sweetheart,' Paul says.

So Mija does just that. She clicks. A second window appears, filling the screen. Its contents: a pair of pale, bare cheeks, framed by white pyjamas.

'Oh!' Mija squeals, turning, seeing the mini-camera which Paul has slotted into the band around his head, beside his right temple. A third eye.

Paul covers Mija's bare bum with warm-up pats, and Mija becomes hypnotised by the moving images in front of her, seeing the hand on the screen rise and fall, feeling her bottom bounce and sting exactly like the virtual one.

The spanks come harder, impacting crisply, quickly, moving up and down, from cheek to cheek. Mija's eyes fill with tears, but she wipes them away so that she can still see the screen, see her bottom paddled by Paul's hard hand, see the handprints left by each smack merge into a rosiness across the entire surface of her bare bum.

It goes on and on. Mija is spanked hard, the tempo of the paddling never changing, her sore bottom throbbing in counterpoint. Mija cries great big wet tears, which fill her eyes faster than she can wipe them away.

And it stops. In front of her, the screen shows a pair of bright red, well-smacked cheeks, glowing with the application of disciplinary medicine. Mija catches herself reaching forward, to rub away the sting, rather than back.

But the picture changes, as Paul reaches down to the floor. Mija cries out, 'Please! I'm sorry!', as she sees the image of her wooden-backed hairbrush on the screen.

'Shhh, Mijita,' Paul soothes. 'Hold on.'

And Mija can hardly bear to watch as the back of the hairbrush wallops her bright behind, but there's something stopping her taking her eyes from the screen, painful as she finds it. Is it really her, up there? The brush paddles away the last traces of naughtiness. Mija sobs with complete release, innocent remorse, submitting to the cleansing pain, the simple justice of a childish bottom-smacking.

And then, through the waterfall of tears, she sees Paul's hands rubbing tenderly on the cheeks, feels a surge of energy shoot through her body as her pyjamas are replaced, Paul pats her tender bum for the last time, and the screen is wiped.

And finally Mija lets the tears flow. Paul turns her over, gathers her to him, carries her over to the bed, where the two of them share precious time, their souls merging for a while, Mija crying into Paul's chest as she's rocked gently to and fro, Paul's voice singing her softly to sleep. He holds her in his arms long after she's away to dreamland.

Back to the treehouse