"A tussel of hands & buttocks, of punitive blows and clenched muscles"

A DOWNMARKET AREA OF TOKYO: Old Man apparently frail is sweeping leaves. Girl gang, some of them in leather jackets with the typical (for Japanese youth) red and orange streak marks in their hair, move in on him mocking, jeering, a couple shoves. Man rears back, starts wielding broom like kendo staff whacks girls on head and shoulders but mainly their corduroy covered fannies. Corrals them into a tight bunch while shouting at them in excited Japanese. Crowd, mainly store holders from the area gather crowd the girl clump. Verbal abuse on both sides. Suddenly a couple of kimono clad woman wrestle one of the girls prone over a nearby seat and starts unbuckling her jeans. Idea spreads and over tables sitting on stone steps even the sweepers upended bucket a dozen or so olive colored buns taste the Polluted sub-tropical Tokyo sunlight but a bad sun-tan is not what these girls have to fear.

Big peasant bolster bums, small petite geisha flower blossom derrieres of femme wanna-bes, lithe muscular asses of of those who knew the wearysome tedium of training all treated with equal-handed no-nonsense shall we say palmed off in the same way; a regular spankfest. Pic pak sound of hands hitting cheeks fill the square. A tussel of hands & buttocks, of punitive blows and clenched muscles. Calloused hands, hands soft and manicured, old hands, middle-aged hands. Glancing stinging blows centred thunking home blows resolve-crumbling plied with gusto. Shrill yelps of feminine pain & outrage; curses, threats, and resolves of payback. On one side joyful, methodical, wrathful; on the other anguished, stoical, affronted. Pic pak. A 20 minutes hands eternity of painful humiliation ends as slowely hands becomes tired and sore and rears pinked colonized by deep throbbing ache. As parental anger fades to solid satisfaction of revenge catharted.

Bad girls get what's coming to them! Illustration by Fabianspanker specially commissioned by Mr. Sherwood for this publication (click to enlarge).

As youthful arrogance is tested by pain. Then the crowd disperses. Girls where they've been dropped like rag-dolls sniff, smooth back tangled hair, affect desperate faux-cool pull up corduroy or leather jeans inch by inch over wound-tender flesh. Their time of involuntary mooning over. Moons no, rather a throbbing sun trailing behind them (why doesn't the cloth smoke and char?), a private clawing beast at their nates. Slink off with a desperate attempt at pose waggling their hips across the plaza. Fragments of teeth-clenched-bravado under-cut by involuntary agonised flinches at a touch, pain stopped breath, as puffy rump-flesh abrades. Rubbing themselves covertly, being awfully stiff upper lip (and stiff legged) about it as dishonour is accepted or revengefully denied.

Old Man finishes his sweeping chortling with secret glee. □