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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
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Subject: NEW STORY: "Show Us All, Sarah Jane"/Mr.Spraycan

Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like exhibitionism and spanking, this
isn't for you.
	This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended.
	*Copyright* is claimed (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and
for the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment
purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission. Do not
repost. Store only with this notice intact.

Note: This story first appeared as a guest post on Topbit's famous xib site
a couple of months back. This is an extended version that went to the
spanking groups in past two weeks. Full of reverence and respect for
women's dignity, as ever.
	Dedicated to the dozens of readers who requested I keep on posting
here. [And to the one or two pinheaded flamers: "Go fuck yourselves,
because no one else will."]



SHOW US ALL, SARAH JANE/Director's Cut
by Mr.Spraycan

	Time to reminisce. Did I ever tell you about Sarah Jane? Well, she
was the most 'show me' girl I ever met, in the 'show me' state.
	We're talking about Missouri in the early 1980s. Sarah Jane's about
the least voluptuous retired cheerleader you ever saw. Normally, these
girls are all tits and teeth, and stay that way. Not her. In fact, they
must have been pushed for a squad to have let her in. But they had: she had
several photos of herself in the stupid slutty get-up. And not looking so
bad, meaning, the others were pretty rough-looking too! I bet the team
never won a damned thing. But I digress.
	And I'm not being nasty about her. She may not have been a beauty,
but she made up for it in many ways.
	When this story takes place she's matured into a tall skinny woman.
With small, slightly sagging breasts -- but big chocolatey, highly
responsive nipples -- and a wide, spankable ass. She has spindly unshaven
legs, skinny thighs that don't touch at the top, a very hairy muff, and
signs of a little potbelly, because she is very fond of Budweiser and
french fries. She has some stretch marks from up-and-down diets, but
remains pretty thin from hyperactivity, I suspect. She's no beauty queen or
supermodel, you've gathered. She has some adult acne and scars from teenage
zits, and always looks a little dirty. That's compounded by her big mop of
straggly frizzy hair, which she mostly wears up, pinned elaborately.
	Fashion hasn't passed her by when it comes to clothes, but there's
something 1950s about her. I suppose being in rural Missouri has a lot to
do with it.  She wears cheap, big plastic framed bifocal glasses, and
makeup to her is confined to lipstick, in fairly minimalistic colors, like
pink. Not that make-up is going to change her much: she has a
Streisand-like big nose, big lips (yes, mouth and fanny!). Her teeth are
okay, a bit yellowy from smoking too much, not all that even, but she has a
nice smile. Which goes with her naturally friendly disposition.
	She is in her early 30s. We grew up together, almost, living on the
same suburban block, then parted when we both went away to college. She did
a year or two in the Army, and didn't like it. I worked for IBM, designing
brochures,  ditto. She was briefly married, but doesn't say much about that
now.
	Now I'm at the local high school, heading the art department, and
she's working at the local bank, as head teller.

	Sarah Jean likes sex, it's her principal hobby. She fucks and
sucks, all the time. But she just loves to show. She's a classic
exhibitionist. It must be something she picked up at college or in the
Army, because I don't recall her being that way as a teenager. And me? I
don't mind the occasional crazy stunt, but I prefer to watch her, set
things up for her. We do dares. The night time streaks, various 'no pantie'
things at bars in neighboring towns, skinny dipping, lots of driving around
nude.
	One day, when she was stuck with drive-up teller duties, I sat in
the back of the tiny air-conditioned lock-up booth and watched.	She was
being her usual friendly self, but I wonder if even one of the hundreds of
customers knew that all she was wearing was her tee-shirt and the slide in
her hair?
	Exhibitionism has a point for her: it makes her horny, gets her
juices dripping. She knows it's a perversion, and usually talks about being
spanked for it. We don't do that every time, because circumstances aren't
always right (Like, I've got such a boner I can't wait, or she's having
contractions that would bend a steel pipe and can't lay still long enough
to have her backside reddened.) And we talk about it a lot when we're
fucking, and at other times.
	She always wants it to be more daring. Being left naked on a back
country road is her favorite fantasy. Apparently, this really happened to
one of her girlfriends in school, though not one I knew. The local football
team had watched her strip her on the bus, one night, and on a whim had
turned her off in the middle of nowhere. Of course, you know the rest of
the story. An hour later, a car appears in the distance, she thinks she's
going to be rescued, and flags them down. The cops? No. Her parents? That
would have been funny. No, it's the ringleaders, hungry for sex. Which they
proceed to extract from her, in exchange for the ride.
	Sarah Jean rubs herself into a frenzy over this, out of belated
jealousy. I tell her it's a rather disturbing story: a gang bang at least,
maybe rape if you complained and found the right prosecutor. She argues,
no, that the girl had wanted it that way all along. Had maybe even planted
the idea. And being multiply penetrated in a seething clusterfuck by a pack
of horny teens was something so astounding, her friend still thought fondly
about it, every now and then, even though she was a mother with four kids
herself.
	So, it's inevitable that we'll be trying something along these
lines. Eventually.
	We do it. But in style. I drive her 30 miles out of town, into the
middle of nowhere, deep into farm country, off the main state highways,
heading for the marginal land near the Ozarks.
	I invite her to get out. And she doesn't need much persuading. She
stands in the middle of the highway, and takes everything off, slowly.
She's savoring it. It's spring, a little chilly, but the sun is warm
enough. She's smiling charmingly as she gets nude. Seen like this, she's
quite pretty, and her obvious excitement makes her prettier.
	The clothes are gathered up, put in a wicker hamper, and locked in
the trunk. She sits on the hood of the car, makes a big gooey kiss mark on
the shine. I invite her back in. We drive a bit more, while she rubs
herself, which she loves to do. It perfumes the car beautifully.

	She thinks she ought to keep her shoes on. I tell her 'no,'
reminding her: "we've had this discussion already. Being barefoot will
increase your sense of vulnerability." She unlaces them, puts them on the
back seat. Her feet are big and bony, like the rest of her. Rather dirty,
too. Then, sensing that I've found the right kind of area I stop, and let
her out. We're on some half-made back country road, so little used it has
grass growing in the middle. There's nothing for miles in every direction
but fields, barbed wire fences, circling crows, a hawk. A few cows, miles
off in the distance. I promise to be back long before sundown, but remind
her she's completely on her own till then. As I drive slowly off, she's
standing spread-legged in the middle of the road, fingers of one hand sunk
in her cunt, rubbing wildly with the other. A nice sight for a rearview
mirror.

	Now, as you've guessed, I don't show up. For a while it doesn't
bother her, she's having too good a time. But eventually, common sense
comes over everyone who exhibits, even the craziest. Just how *will* she
get back from here, anyway? The hours pass.
	She gets desperate as it gets later. She tells herself, she has to
do something. Barefoot, she can't walk the ten or so miles to the nearest
houses. And if she did, what would they think of her? A bedraggled naked
woman, stinking of sex.
	Once or twice, cars are heard. First time, she thinks it's me. Then
seeing it isn't, she dives into the ditch. She regrets it after. Brambles,
tangled overgrown bushes, oh, not what you want to leap into at all. It
takes her a half-hour to pick all the thorns out of her, and she has some
good scratches to show for it. Later, she watches another truck filled with
teenage boys cruise slowly by, eyes scanning in every direction. They have
rifles, and are hunting. She's hidden herself more carefully, and squats
low and stays very still. Suddenly, she doesn't want to meet up with them,
at all. Even though it represents a perfect 'gang bang' opportunity. Isn't
that strange? She masturbates wildly after they've gone, though, regretting
this loss. Hunters, naturally cruel. She'd have been fucked raw, driven
home trussed up, naked, tied to the hood of their truck, she fantasizes.
She comes three times, and licks her fingers. There are flies buzzing round
her, and she's very sweaty and dishevelled.
	Finally, she decides she has to act. To get brave enough to leap
out and stop a farm truck. It's one she thinks she recognizes, and as it
chugs closer, she sees it is driven by someone she knows, Jack Henderson.
He pulls up with a screech of brakes and leaps out, doing the whole "What
in the hell's going on here, Sarah Jane?" routine. He seems really
concerned, distracted. He rages about stupidity of college boys and their
pranks -- that's his guess, and she doesn't correct him -- and he gives her
a cardigan and a blanket to drape round herself. But despite this show of
empathy he's interested in her, and it shows, with a big bulge becoming
increasingly obvious in his pants.
	They talk. She says it was just a crazy dare, nothing to get
excited about. He decides she has three choices, as he sees it: first, to
be driven back to her parents. She vetoes this with a quick "No!"
	Her hard-drinking ex-Navy dad will go crazy, she explains,
diplomatically. Or, second, he'd be happy to take her to his own farmhouse,
where some spare clothes could be rustled up easily enough: he has four
teenage daughters and a wife. Or, the final choice is for him to get on the
CB and find me, the bad guy, and have me fulfil my bargain and retrieve
her.
	To her, it's obvious. Choice #3.
	I'm found with a few calls. I apologize, say: "I clean forgot about
the time, damn! Tell her I'm sorry, and I'm just getting on my way."
Henderson laughs, and says she is hopping mad. I counter: "Yes, I'm sure.
Well, since she has a lift now, how about saving a few minutes? You can
just come back to town with her, and drop her off. It'll be okay."
	I hear his disappointment, but does she? It's something to do with
his wife, but he won't say.
	A few miles further on, he pulls into a side road, stops. He's
emboldened. He says that she looked good, leaping out into the road naked.
She blushes. He asks her for "a little show." Which, inevitably with her,
turns into a big one with her rubbing herself until she's drooling, talking
dirty, really debasing herself. Before she'll be allowed to go on  -- it's
the truck or walk, after all -- she's easily talked into giving him a blow
job. Which is her favorite way of saying 'thanks,' learned the hard way
from drill sergeants in the Army's basic training program.
	To prove I'm genuine, there's a single article of clothing waiting
in a brown bag stuffed in the mailbox at the end of the driveway to his
house, before they get on to the road to town. He gets it for her. There's
a $50 bill in it too, for him. It's a beret, raspberry colored. Pinned
inside, an invitation. It says merely "Sarah Jane: Come to the high school,
art department, back entrance, wearing just this."
	She puts it on, unpins her hair, lets it down. He's amused to see
her repeatedly looking at the note, then touching herself, all the way to
town. He tells her with a chuckle: "Man, I don't believe this. I always
thought you were such a nice young lady, when I came by the bank to cash
checks. Now look at you. You just can't leave that hairy old thing of yours
alone, honey. You're a real nympho for sure."
	The strange thing is, she agrees with him. She often argues with me
about that, saying she isn't, really. But it's only a question of
interpretation or degree. Before long, she hands him back the blanket and
cardigan. She's often driven through town naked with me, so it's not such a
big dare, though his truck windows aren't tinted anything like as dark as
mine. Shamelessly, she plays with herself again.
	He drops her off in the car park. She climbs out, stands there
nude, hands on her hips and says, teasingly: "Next time, Jack, don't be so
good-mannered. Please? I'm not infectious or anything. Fuck me, okay?" then
races away to the back entrance, her hair flying, her little tits bouncing.
	I'm waiting there for her, and seeing me, she remembers she's
supposed to be mad. The door's locked. I fold my arms while she rages about
being abandoned, where was I?, etc. Until she realizes where she is and
what she's doing, and calms down. Then I unlock, and let her push pass.
	"Where are my clothes?"
	"Oh, do you really want them? It smells like you've been having far
too much fun like this, without them."
	She rages again, for a second. "You bastard, I'll kill you!!"
	I grab her wrist, and with a gesture I point out that she has semen
in her hair, round her mouth, some dripmarks in the road dust on her neck
and tits. She's very embarrassed, because she hadn't noticed. She's also a
bit pinker than before, from the sun.
	"Calm down, " I order. I lead her down the hall, toward my office.
School's over, so there's no one around. We stop, I pin her against the
wall, kiss her, stroke her tits and ass. She's still annoyed, but she can't
help responding. It's been a long, sexually charged day for her. I get
three fingers in her cunt without any effort at all. She's overflowing, and
she's wriggling with pleasure.
	"Has this been good for you?"
	She's making little grunting noises, humping her hips busily. "Oh,
baby . . .yes, yes. I can't believe I did it . . ."
	I sniff her a little more. Sarah Jane is always a little fragrant,
but today she's in spectacular form. As smelly as she is when she's spent a
night with me. Maybe more so. Who knows how many times she's come, already?
The smell of sweat is strong, because she doesn't like deodorants much, and
they've all worn off. And pussy? And how! Her normal shrimpy odor is now
full-fledged fish, all metallic and enough to make the hairs in your
nostrils quiver. Rather disgusting if it wasn't sending so arousing a
message. White streaks on her thighs, snotty dribbles in her matted pubic
hair tell the reason why she smells so strongly.
	"You've been very naughty, Sarah Jane," I tease her.
	"Yes!" she gasps. "Please . . ."
	"I think you deserve to be spanked, young lady . . ."
	"Ohmigod, yes!! Please, do it. Please?"
	"This way." I lead her through a darkened doorway, up three or four
steps.
	"Look through here," I say, pulling a curtain back a tiny bit.
We're looking into a brightly-lit room. An adult student mixed art class,
about 30 people, just setting up for the evening.
	"They were planning on doing still life. But, they just finished
life class a week or two back, so they're well set with technique. They
won't mind a switch of plans. I mean, I was thinking, why waste a chance to
try out a new model . . .?"
	She's staring at me, her nostrils flared, turning quite pale.
	"W-What are you saying?"
	"Isn't it obvious, baby? I think it's an excellent idea. I think
you ought to go in and pose for them, sweetie."
	"O o o oh! No!!" The expression on her face is priceless. She knows
she's been had, but doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of admitting
it.
	And how did I plan it? Well, I knew she wouldn't go home, and
Henderson was a set-up, frankly. And likely to yield a good result, either
way. If she'd gone there with him, she'd have gotten an equally big
surprise, because his wife and four daughters are something else, as I'll
tell you some other time . . . Violent, predatory, very disturbed. And, to
my way of thinking, quite fun.
	So, If Sarah Jane had showed up there in Jack's truck, naked, then
there could only have been one outcome. The five harpies would have
righteously professed shock and rushed her to the barn for an old-fashioned
whipping, under the pretext that public nudity was a sin that must be
properly punished. In reality, the women of this household get off on this
kind of thing. My consolation: Jack would have called me, and he and I
would have been invited to witness her whipping, and even to join in. Well
you can't have everything. Some other time, maybe. And I do have a good
plan for her, here.
	She stares at me. I see tears in her eyes. Anger, other emotions too.
	At the far end of the room on a desk, there's the hamper, with a
little padlock. I show her the key, tucked in my hand.
	"See the basket? Remember it? Your clothes are in there. You can
have it if you want to walk in . . ."
	"No, that's enough. I can't do it. Please, be reasonable. You go
and get it."
	"No, it's not enough, Sarah Jane," I correct her. "You haven't
exposed yourself to my satisfaction, or even your own, if half of what you
say to me is true."
	It is true, and she knows it. She's really torn.
	"But I know so many of these people! I went to school wth some of
them!"
	"That's good, then. I'm sure they'd like to see you without the
silly outfit and the pompoms. In fact, they'll love it. I'll give you the
key when they're through with you."
	She shakes her head, but she's staring in the room again, breathing
deeply. I can see she's tempted, just a little. She's touching her slit
gently. She swallows, turns to me.
	"How long?"
	"Only a few hours, hon, we're supposed to shut at 11pm."
	"What will I wear?"
	"Right, very funny. Nothing, of course. Just like you are, that's
perfectly fine . . ."
	"Oh, Jesus. Are you going to pose me?" A loaded question.
	"Yes . . . you know I am."
	"How?"
	"The way you're always talking about. How else? Legs wide apart, so
you can be a freshly fucked whore. Up on the table on the stage, at
eye-level so they can see your juicy underparts, perfectly."
	"Oh my god. No! That's disgusting!"
	So disgusting, she's got one hand on her pussy, the other squeezing
a breast. She has her mouth open, and she's nervously wriggling her tongue.
	"That's the entire idea. Complete exposure. And it's your own idea,
as I recall."
	"I didn't mean it. . . "
	"There's no such concept, when it comes to sex. You always mean it
. . ."
	"Please, you can't really want to see me to do that. I'm all dirty
and smelly."
	"Good. Authenticity. They'll like that a lot, seeing your cuntjuice
dribbling down your legs. Your twat hair all sticky and matted. And yes, I
do want it. A lot."
	"Oh, no, please . . ."
	"Oh, yes, Sarah Jane. It is kind of revolting, but it'll intrigue
everyone . . ."
	She shakes her head in disbelief.
	"And you can make it even better. We'll stop every 15 minutes or
so, let you touch yourself, for even more authenticity. I want you nice and
bedraggled and sweaty, darling. Those nipples and pussy lips are going to
be purple and aching, lovely and sore, when you're through. No one'll mind
if you keep rubbing until you come, in fact, I think it'll be better for
you, and much more fun for everyone else, if you let it all hang out and do
so . . ."
	"Please. no, don't ask me to. I can't."
	"Okay, we'll leave your clothes there and I'll drive you home to
daddy's, drop you off nude in the driveway. Perhaps I'll call to warn him,
so he can get ready for you. Remember what he said about 'whoring around,'
Sarah Jane? What he promised? The strap next time, however old you are.
Wasn't that it?"
	"No! You mustn't!"
	"But you like to be spanked, Sarah Jane, don't you?"
	"Not by him!" she protests, then presses closer. "By you, yes. You
know I do! And I want it tonight. I've been so bad! Don't cheat me, baby.
Please?" Her tongue is in my mouth again. She is not giving up on this.
	I pull back. "You won't be disappointed, sweetheart. But you have
to do what I want first . . ."
	"In there, you mean?"
	I nod. She takes a deep breath.
	"Go on, then. Get your slutty ass in there. And do as you're told .
. ."
	She kisses me, hard. I know she's going to, now.
	"Baby, I'm scared," she whispers.
	"Good," I tell her. "But you'll live. Total exhibitionism, Sarah
Jane. What could make a pervert like you happier?"
	I open the curtain a little. She hesitates, then steps out onto the
stage. Now, she's committed. No going back. There's polite applause from
the women, a first flurry of nervous laughter from the men. There's more
leering as I lead her down the steps, and around the class, introduce her
by name to the few who don't know her quite well already. There's a lot of
licking of lips and staring going on. People who'd seen her dressed, and
maybe even had a thought or two about what might be under her clothes, were
now seeing her shamelessly naked, and even more shocking, sexually aroused.
She's getting some old-fashioned looks for her big untrimmed pubic bush,
not to mention its rather aromatic and sticky nature. The women are also
trading glances about her unshaven legs, her underarm hair. I hear one, of
her own age, scold her with a little smile: "My word! Sarah Jane, you're a
disgrace! You need to wax. Come by my beauty parlor this weekend . . ."
	Guys are a bit tongue-tied in these circumstances, with other women
watching them anyway, but there are some comments about how 'liberated' she
is, and how 'hot' she looks.
	 Then I lead her back to the front of the class, and up on the
stage. I have her climb up on a low table there and lay down. I have her
open her legs wide and pull on her pussy lips for them.
	"Come on, Sarah Jane. Pull your crack open. Lots of pink. Don't be
a prude. Show us what a slut and an exhibitionist you are, hmmm?" I whisper.
	"Can you all see her okay?" I ask loudly. There's a hoarse request
from a guy at the back for her to spread her thighs more, "uh, so we can
see her asshole, too?"
	Several others murmur their interest in this, and in seeing her
show more of the landscape of her crease.
	We figure out a pose that's not too uncomfortable, and shows her to
perfection. There are some wry smiles at how hairy she is, and at how messy
she is too.
	"Ah, that's so good," I hear one woman say, as she sketches furiously.
	 They catch on quickly. No ordinary model would do this, and sights
as blatant as this haven't even been seen in biology class here.
	Sarah Jane is flushed and excited, though she has a look of hurt
confusion on her face as she sees just how many of the portraitists have
adopted the new idea of bringing a camera along. Click click, snap snap. Oh
no, she whispers to herself. But she touches her cunt as she says it.
	I think, how nice for her, and for the guys at the local photo lab.
Will there be many in town, outside of the most stiffnecked churchgoers,
who won't have a perfect idea of what she looks like naked, soon? Doubtful,
I think. And how appropriate for someone who wanted to show off, so badly.
She's going to inspire a lot of masturbation in, ha ha, coming days.
Buckets of cum, that's for sure.
	It's even better. She's also rather taken aback by the frank sexual
interest several of the women are showing. There are some whispered
propositions, murmured promises that the rigidly heterosexual Sarah Jane
finds quite shocking. How lovely!
	I had half-wondered if she would be shameless enough to masturbate.
Why did I doubt it? There's quite a bit of excitement in class, some
nervous laughter, as she rubs herself to a hearty climax, even yelping out
"Oh oh oh, fuck!" as she comes.
	When it's time for her to take a bathroom break after an hour or
so, two of the older women follow her. She's gone a while. When she comes
back she's trembling, tearful, even more bedraggled than before. She sobs
to me: "They fucked me! The bitches!"
	"Good," I tell her. "Now, back in position please, and hold those
big fanny lips open until they're pouting properly again."
	She's shaking with anger, but she does, opening up for everyone
again. I ask gently: "What happened?"
	She whispers: "It's too disgusting. They put their fingers in me.
Told me I stank. That I should stop rubbing my cunt and get busy with
theirs, oh . . ." she was stroking herself, and the sight of her huge
floppy clitoris, like a slice of raw liver, was provoking some excited
comments.
	The paintings and sketches are good. Better than I've seen here in
years. Oh, there's nothing like inspiration, is there?
	At the next break I escort her to the men's room instead. The row
of guys peeing at the urinals get to see her squat, because I hold the
stall door wide. And they see her wait while I wash my hands, comb my hair.
When we're back in the art room, I have her change her pose. There's some
giggling as I maneuver her into a kneeling, head down position, holding her
ass cheeks wide open for them to show off all her underbelly. Someone's
been to the Value Drug and brought back lots of refills for the cameras,
which is just as well. And at the last break, I have her switch to a
standing pose, legs and arms flung wide in greeting, head back. After all
her selfish pawing, this yields a disgusting flow of juices down her legs,
and she's blushing with shame at the filthy spectacle she presents.

	Just before the class breaks up, one of the two female abductors
comes over to me. Joan, a neighbor of mine. I hadn't suspected. She has a
proposition. Could they borrow Sarah Jane for an hour or two?
	Maybe. Why? She tells me: "Take her to my place, the wedding photo
shop? So we can video her, rubbing herself off. Get some good quality
close-ups of her pussy. And as it's late, maybe we could get her to walk
down Main Street in the nude."
	It's not much of a dare here, the place is so quiet. We'd done it
ourselves once, holding hands, a little later at night. But I agree.
	"There's just one thing," I tell them, gesturing at the
spreadeagled model. "Sarah Jane is piddling herself in anticipation of
having her ass paddled, and I've made her a promise. So, can I come along
and watch? And then I'll let her have it, afterwards. Just so long as I can
get her home before 2:00 or so. Oh, and you'll need to give her a bath when
we're done, judging by the state of her."
	"The horse trough in front of City Hall?"
	"Perfect! Cold, though."
	"Exactly. In the janitors' room, we found a bucket with some big
scrubbing brushes, and some liquid detergent and scouring powder . . ."
	"You're reading my mind," I laugh.
	"Do you paddle her hard?" The other abductor asks, appearing at
Joan's side, her eyes narrowed with anticipation. Oh, these spankos,
they're everywhere.
	"Yes, pretty hard. Bare handed over the knee, or with a paddle. Or
my belt. All depends on the situation. She's very into it, sees it as the
right penalty for her sexual perversions . . ."
	"Would you let me . . .?" she asks, quietly. "I'd love to."
	"Provided you're firm with her. No playing, or just teasing. Yes,
it could be good. She's scared of you two, I think."
	"Pleased to hear it," says the newcomer. "Well, look, you do what
you want with her. We won't be embarassed. Fuck her if you like, spank her
before and after. Then, give her back to us. We'll probably tie her up . .
."
	"Ah, good, she likes that . . ."
	"Do you tell her in advance how much spanking she'll get?"
	"No, it's always 'until she's had enough.' Why play games? It's
always quite a lot . . .I like tears."
	"Good, me too! Well, I'll promise her fifty, or something, but I'll
spank her as long and as hard as she needs. Oh, she's going to feel sorry
for herself in the morning!"
	"That sounds just right. She's been shameless today. A good
punishment. She wouldn't expect any less . . ."
	"I have a cane I could use, too. . ." Joan intervenes. Her as well?
	"That could be very exciting for her. Yes, good idea. After her dip
in the trough, maybe? Oh, I think she'll be getting home very late tonight
. . ."


	And so she did. But where's Sarah Jane now? She moved away just a
few weeks after that eventful night, though I wasn't surprised. The stares,
the whispers, the public comments. Few in the little town didn't know, and
most had seen too, either in person, or in photos. She couldn't hold her
head up any more. It was a shame, and I accept the blame in some ways. But
she needed to move on, anyway.
	We still keep in touch. Right now, she's working in Germany, as a
video technician. Great job. Still single. Quite unapologetically bisexual,
very much into spanking.  Hasn't changed in many ways. Still exhibiting
herself whenever an opportunity presents itself. Every now and then, I get
very erotic 150KB JPEGs, always of her, attached to E-mail. Next time I see
one, I'm going to post it somewhere, and put a note here so you can all
share. She'd like that. After all, she's still a 'Show Me' girl.

Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997.

 	Note: There's a homepage at <http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan>,
with lists of dozens more stories, synposes and reviews.
	Feedback is welcomed and encouraged. If you want to talk to the
author, in a virtual sense of the word, send e-mail to
<mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>.



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