Some other people have been sharing personal memories with the group; here's mine. Ninety-five percent of what follows is true. Regrettably, the five percent that we will all find most interesting is not.

This is a work of fantasy intended for an adult audience that enjoys stories about spanking. If you don't fit all these categories, please find another newsgroup.

I wonder, sometimes.

It isn't easy, being in the same Guard unit with you, and seeing you once a month. It always reminds me of the time we spent together, and that special relationship we once had.

I still recall those wondrous evenings; I'd arrive at your apartment, and we'd stroll downtown for a fine dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. Depending on the time, and the weather, we might wander through the Park blocks or along the waterfront before heading for the theater for the night's entertainment: a play, the Symphony, an opera, whatever. You always chose; it didn't matter to me what we did, as long as I was with you.

What glorious times those were, you enjoying the performance, me seated next to you in the darkness, enjoying you enjoying yourself. And then that time, during intermission, as we stood in the lobby admiring the crystal chandeliers, when you would softly whisper to me all the awful things you'd done since last we got together.

Were these sins real or imaginary? I don't know. It wasn't important. They were real enough to you; that was all that mattered.

After your confession, I'd smile, put my arm around you, and assure you I knew the proper act of contrition. Then we'd go back in the theater for the remainder of the performance. I don't recall much of the conclusion of nearly anything we attended; somehow, my attention was always focused elsewhere.

We'd make our way back to your apartment; you'd hang up our coats, and we'd relax on the sofa, perhaps have a cup of herbal tea, and dissect the entertainment. Some time during the discussion, as I felt the mood appropriate, I'd say, "Well, young lady, I believe it's time."

You'd get up off the couch and stand before me, head down, arms clasped behind you, looking like a repentant schoolgirl. I'd repeat the list of transgressions you'd given me earlier, doing my best to remain serious as you eyed your toes, shuffling your feet, with the cutest pout on your lips. The recitation complete, I'd order, "All right, young lady. Over my knee, now!"

You never hesitated. You'd climb back onto the couch and lay down, stretched full length, your bottom across my right thigh. I'd take my time, slowly, oh-so-slowly pulling up the ankle-length skirt you always wore, revealing, inch by tantalizing inch, your shapely calves, thighs, and buttocks. Once your skirt was up to your waist, I'd pause a few seconds, then, again slowly, lower your panties down to just beneath your buttock cheeks -- if, that is, you wore panties that night. Sometimes you did, sometimes not.

Once your backside was completely bared, I'd sit still for a few moments, simply admiring the view. You always referred to your bottom as "fat", and your legs as "stubby", but I didn't think so. To me, they were ideal.

Eventually, I'd lift my right hand and place it directly, dead center, on your rump. I'd lightly pat it, a few times, then gently rub; then I'd slowly pull my hand back to shoulder height. That was the signal. You'd grip the arm of the sofa with both hands and bury your face against the cushion.

I'd leave my hand raised for a few moments more, to heighten our mutual anticipation, then I'd begin. I'd start slow and not too hard, gradually increasing both tempo and force, building the intensity, building the color, building the sting. You always reacted at first with low squeals, muffled by the cushion; as the barrage went on, you'd start squirming and wriggling across my lap. By the time I was spanking full force, you'd be kicking your feet against the other sofa arm. Then I'd stop.

I'd gently rub the hot, flaming red surfaces of your nether cheeks, massaging some of the sting away, carefully keeping my hand on the upper surfaces of your buttocks, resisting the almost overwhelming temptation to dip lower. As soon as your breathing slowed down and your sobs and squirms subsided, I'd start in again.

How long did those sessions last? How many times would I spank and rub, spank and rub? I don't know. When I spanked you, we weren't in that apartment. We'd been transported somewhere out of normal space and time, to a special, secret place that we alone shared; a place I'd never been to before -- and haven't been since.

Eventually, some how, we'd both know it was time to stop. There was no overt signal; we had a safeword, but you never used it. We just knew. I'd give you one last, loving massage, then release my grip on your waist. You'd slowly climb to your feet, your skirt dropping to cover your charms. I'd also stand up. We'd give each other a long hug, then ... I'd get my coat and leave. That was how you wanted it. When the spanking was over, so was the date. I don't know what you did after I left. I know what I did after I got home.

I suppose the outcome was inevitable. We were just too different. You're very outgoing, very gregarious, very much a "people person". I'm a reticent loner. You have strongly held religious convictions. Mine are practically nonexistent. And, I am substantially older than you. Maybe now our ages wouldn't matter so much, but at the time they did. In retrospect, it seems our special time together was the only thing we had in common.

I should have known something was up when you started declining my invitations. You'd never been "too busy" or "too tired" to see me before. You had informed me, in no uncertain terms, that you weren't interested in expanding our relationship; but I was stubborn. I kept hoping that, if you spent more time with me, you'd change your mind. Silly me. More time in my presence probably only confirmed your opinion. After enough refusals, I decided you needed a break, so I didn't call you for over a month.

When I found out you'd gotten married, well, that was the hardest pill to swallow. The monthly drills were the roughest; seeing you with his name on your uniform, your belly swelling with his child, felt like a knife right through my heart. At first I thought of dropping out of the Guard, just so I wouldn't have to see you any more. Later, after I'd gotten sane again, as I listened to you talk about your family, hearing the pride in your voice and seeing the joy in your eyes, my bitter feelings eased. And, when I finally met your husband and sons, I knew for sure. If I was ever even in the running, you made the right choice.

That was eight years ago. I try not to spend too much time with the If Onlys; If Only I'd done this, If Only I hadn't said that. No point in going there. I _didn't_ do this, and I did say that. It's all in the past, and it can't be changed now.

And yet ... I can't help but wonder if your husband knows about that special need you have. I wonder if he takes you to that special, secret place we visited together so long ago.

I'd like to think so. I'd like to believe you've found the happiness and contentment you deserve -- in all aspects of your life.

But, I still wonder.