I walk into her bedroom, and hate everything about it. Everything in the room is ornate, ostentatious, over-done. Including Gwendolyn, whom I call Goldie because her given name is too much, too. Most of the furniture is trimmed in gold-leaf, which I think makes it simply look cheap, gaudy.
Goldie has a firm, hard body, well-toned, athletic, attractive. But she’s chosen to adorn it with frilly lingerie. Her femininity is self-evident without all the frou-frou. Her lady-bits are delicate as is, they don’t need lacy accent. She languishes on the floor, stretched out like a Persian cat. I hate cats, too, especially those pushed-in-faced Persians.
“What you did back there,” I tell her, gesturing with my head toward the living room, where the others are gathered, “that was just plain…” I’m too angry to try to find the right word.
“Stupid? Yeah, I know, it was stupid. But I couldn’t care less.”
She’d hurt innocent people’s feeling cavalierly. If she had shown even an ounce of remorse, it might have appeased my anger. Instead, she clearly couldn’t care less about that either. I reach down with both hands and take Goldie by the wrists. This makes me look momentarily at the shag carpet. It wasn’t satisfied just to be a shag carpet, it was shaggy, like some alpaca or llama’s fur. I hate it, wondering how you’d even vacuum it; the long strands would get sucked-up and choke the vacuum-cleaner.
Back in the present, I lift Goldie from the foolish floor. I sit in the wing-backed chair, not deep into its tufted, overstuffed upholstery, just on the edge of the golden seat. I pull Goldie over my knee, and pull her lacy thong down off her ass as I did.
“You know I’m going to spank you…”
“So it seems,” she returns lackadaisically. And then thinking about it for a second, asks, “for what exactly?”
“For everything,” I reply and channel all of my feelings, all of my disgust and anger with her and all of it into that spanking. Therefore, I spank her fit little fanny harder than it can withstand. I spank her past all the shades of tomato and cherry and strawberry to magenta and near purple. I spank her to tears and then sobs, through her urge to resist, and well past when she just lay there, her bottom bouncing beneath my palm like a basketball, but nothing else moving or flinching. I wore her deserving ass out.
I was hoping that, at some point during it all, she might offer the faintest of whimpers of an, “I’m sorry.” Gwendolyn does not. I deposit her on all fours on the carpet.
“This isn’t going to work between us,” I tell her shoulder blades. She doesn’t look up. I leave her there like that, go out into the other room. “I’m sorry that Goldie can be such a gold-plated bitch,” I tell them. “Let’s go.”
(I like this piece! I like that it is not specific in who Goldie’s lover is, a man, a bull dyke, a femme lesbian paramour… I hope you like it, too!)