From: misslilyo@aol.com (MissLilyO)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
Subject: The Lone Ranger (M/F, nc)
Date: 20 Jun 1996 11:02:20 -0400

Hi, y'all.  This bit o'nonsense just sort of crept into my mind.  No
resemblence to persons living, dead, or televisional is at all intended. 
And if you believe that, there's this bridge.....The story focuses on the
spanking of a young lady, so if that bends your mind, it would be best to
run for cover.  Otherwise, if you're 18 or older and actually *like*
spanking, read on.  Hope you like it!  Love,  Lily
_________________________________________________

THE LONE RANGER by MissLilyO

"Hi ho, Silver, Awaaaaaaay!"

The cry resounded through the walls of Grubner's Greasy Spoon, grubby
little pitstop in a dusty little Western town, echoing in the
stillness of the hot desert afternoon.

"You know it's getting really old, your saying that all the time,
King o'Slobby," remarked Pronto acidly.

The masked man shot his faithful Native American companion a look
that would have quieted a stepped-on rattler.  "Not as old as your
calling me 'King o'Slobby'," he retorted.

The taciturn red man shrugged, and looked out the window of the beat-
up Chevy convertible with the fading silver paint job.

Back in the woe-begotten burg of Desert Flats, a young lady was
drying her tears.  Actually, it would be accurate to call her "the"
young lady, as she was the sole resident of the town under the age of
60, stuck there only because her crabbid, aging father threatened to
disinherit her if she didn't stick around and see him through the
twilight years of his life.  She had already inherited her mother's
beautiful face and head-turning figure, including her unfashionably
round, womanly backside.  Her father's disposition made it's way into
her genes, and now, because of that very disposition, the masked man
had made his way into her jeans.

More specifically, she had turned a caustic tongue on the masked man
and his befringed companion, causing a scowl to wrinkle the smooth
perfection of the black silk that covered the stranger's eyes.  The
two men had come into the little diner/general store/gas station her
father owned in Desert Flats, and had ordered greasy burgers and
orange Nehi's from the big old fashioned cooler.

Miss Mary Jean Grubner had a mouth on her that could take the paint
off a building faster than the blowing sand.  People around town, and
salesmen and truckers on regular routes through that part of the
desert knew better than to cross Mary Jean.  Several of them still
bore the emotional scars, and now simply slunk in, found a fly-
specked table and gave their orders to her with exaggerated
politeness.

The masked man had come in and immediately requested his table be
wiped off.  Mary Jo had turned her China-blue eyes in his direction,
her baleful stare going unheeded by the strangely dressed man.  "You
don't like the condition of your table, is that what you're saying,
geekmeister?" she asked.  The other patrons tensed, knowing a
slaughter of the innocent would soon ensue.

"Yes, Ma'am," replied the masked man.  "That's exactly what I'm
saying.  This table hasn't seen the clean side of a wet cloth in
years, and if I'm to sample the vittles in this fair city of yours,
I'll need to have the table spic and span.  A fresh cloth would be
nice."

" 'A fresh cloth would be nice'" she sneered.

"Pronto, do you detect an echo in here?" said the masked man.

The tall Native American got up and headed for the curtained cubby
hole with the sign "MEN'S ROOM" over the door frame.  The sound of
his musical tinkle blended with the sizzle of the grease on the
griddle and the whir of the ancient fans overhead.  No one seemed to
notice, as they were too busy waiting to see what would happen next.

"Well, young lady?" said the stranger.  "I'm waiting."

"Yeah?  And you can wait till you turn 100 and that needle dick of
yours withers up and falls off, you dumb-assed, black-masked fairy
princelet.  Where'd you get that outfit, Morons R Us?"

The masked man got a faraway look in his eye, remembering how it was
that he had to hide his face behind the silk mask.  Robbed of his
chance to settle down in a quiet town with a picket fence, a sweet-
faced nag of a wife and a brood of snot-nosed little rangers by a
confrontation with desperados gone terribly wrong, he was resigned to
his nomadic fate.  But he was a man of principle, a man of integrity,
and he would brook no such impudence from this little bully of a
small town beauty.

"That was disrespectful and uncalled for, Ma'am, and I demand that
you take it back.  It doesn't set a good example for the other fine
citizens of this community and it diminishes you as a fair flower of
the feminine persuasion."

"Take it back?  You can kiss my candy ass, you stupid twit.  Now you
take that Injun and get the hell outta here before I use you for
target practice with my .38.  You look like a damn raccoon."

The masked man drew himself up to his full 6'2" in height.  He made
an impressive figure in his white western-cut clothing, the holster
with the silver bullets lined up like little soldiers for his heavy
six-shooter, and his big white hat.  The feisty Miss Grubner curled
her lip in an expression that suggested she'd just eaten a mouthful
of really old cottage cheese.  "I'd recommend you take back those
words, Missy, or you'll know the taste of my wrath."

"Aawww siddown, you big ape, or you'll be singing soprano in the
Dork's Club Choir," she spit at him.

"It's not enough that you insult a former member of the fabled Texas
Rangers with your nasty mouth and ill temper.  You've called my
friend and faithful companion by other than a politically correct
ethnic term, thereby casting aspersions on all the native cultures and
indigenous peoples of  this great land."

"I thought I told you and Sitting Boil here to take a hike, you
masked moron.  This is my dad's place and I can say anything I want
to.  There isn't another joint for the next 103 miles and you can
just hold your water till you get to Lizard Gizzard Gulch.  Now hit
the road."

"The only thing that's going to be hit around here is you, young
lady.  I can see the only answer to your abominable behavior is a
proper spanking, something your father should have delivered to you
in large doses long before this.  It is my duty to administer such a
spanking to you at this time."

The whoops of laughter erupting from the pretty, shapely young woman
in the stained uniform nearly caused the stranger's white hat to blow
off his head, and indeed, several flies buzzed away, irritated, from
the area to light in the dripping french fries of a pot-bellied truck
driver at the end of the formica-topped counter.  "You and what army,
pansy boy?" she hooted, hands on her ample hips defiantly.

Quickly, as was his wont, Pronto stepped forward and said,  "I'll be
rendering the masked man assistance with this task, young lady."

Making the "time out" sign to the impudent girl, the masked man
pulled his friend aside.  "Pronto, how many times have I told you
it's 'Me help masked man'?"

"Gimme a break, King o'Slobby.  Nobody really talks that way.  In
fact I'd don't know a single Indian who EVER talked that way.  Well,
except for Dances with Stacked Heels, and everybody always thought
his parentage was questionable."

"We've been over this and over this," snapped the masked stranger.
"And quit calling me King o'Slobby."

Turning his attention back to the laser-lipped little lady, he said,
"I'm going to give you a bare-bottomed spanking that will progress
from my hand, to my silver-handled paddle, to my belt and will
continue until you apologize for your rude and dishonorable remarks."

"If you take one step toward me, Racoon Face, I'll sic my daddy on
you!" she said, narrowing her blue eyes to slits of glacial ice.

"No need to tell yer Daddy, Mary Jean.  I done heared everythin' from
out back.  The masked man is right.  Consarn it, girl, you DO need
yourself a good hard spankin'.  I shoulda done it long 'fore this,
but yer look so much like yer mama I didn't have the gumption.   She went
and tore my heart right outta my chest when she runned off with that
dental floss salesman one night an' left me and you all alone.  Why,
I used ta have me a fine disposition till she up an left us.  Smilin'
Jack I was knowed as in them days.  But I turned mean as a junkyard
hog after that."

"Dog," said Pronto.

"What's that, Injun?"

"Dog.  It's 'junkyard dog' not 'hog'," said Pronto.

"Yeah, well, whatever.  Point is, this here gal o' mine has got so
sassy and mean-tempered ya cain't hardly stand her.  Goes off to the
big city and gets all these high-falutin' ways.  I know the onliest
reason she come back here was to wait for her old papa to kick off
so's she could inherit my gold.  I done a little prospectin' here an'
there over the years and got me a little nest egg down to the bank in
Dunn's Landing.  Go ahead an' spank her if you's a mind to."

Mary Jean turned her terrible glance on her father who, to his
credit, shrank back but a little and then raised his grizzled chin in
a set expression.

"Get over here, Mary Jean," said the tall man in a quiet and
authoritative voice.

"Get screwed," replied the girl.

With one long-legged stride he had gone to her side, grabbed her
wrist and dragged her over to the chair he'd been sitting in when the
confrontation began.  She fought and struggled like a wounded
mountain lion, but he easily grabbed her hands and captured them at
her back in one of his big ones.

"Pronto, get her skirt up and those panties down," ordered the masked
man.

"Sure thing, King o'Slobby," replied the copper-skinned man,
suppressing a grin at the other man's clear irritation.

The girl found herself face down over the tall man's knees, her arms
secured at her back.  A string of invective spewed from her ruby lips
until her father stuffed a hamburger bun in her mouth, thereby
effectively silencing her razor rhetoric.  Pronto slowly lifted the
squirming girl's uniform skirt, revealing a plump bottom encased in
white nylon panties.  There was a subdued shuffling around them in
the room as all desultory conversation died away completely and the
few patrons in the little diner moved closer to view the action.  It
was a scene straight out of all their collective fantasies to see
this rotten-mouthed girl get hers.

"Get the panties too, Pronto."

Flashing a grin, Pronto reached for the elastic waistband of the
panties and gave them a tug, drawing them down from her gorgeous
globes and down to the dimpled knees, thus helping to cut down on the
scissoring of her muscled legs.  Wisps of her chestnut curls could be
spotted by the assiduous observer peeking out of her pouting nether
lips.

"Mary Jean," intoned the masked stranger, "I am delivering this
punishment for the cause of truth, justice and the American way."

"Pssst!" hissed Pronto.

"What?  What?" asked the masked man, irked at the interruption.

"That's not your line."

"What?"

"That's Superman, King o'Slobby.  Truth, justice and the American way
is Superman's line."

If looks could kill, the Great Spirit would have had company that
afternoon.  Instead, the masked man turned his attention back to the
furiously-sputtering wildcat over his lap.

"I'm going to paddle your sassy butt until you apologize to me, and
to Pronto, and to your father for your unbelievable behavior.  And
then you're going to apologize to your customers here whom I suspect
you've insulted and verbally abused since you arrived in Desert
Flats."

The small group of people in the diner all gave a heartfelt round of
applause to the masked man.  The girl tried to scream out a string of
insults in response, but the dry hamburger bun in her mouth stayed
the words.  The stranger raised his big palm and brought it
stingingly down on the girl's upturned asscheek.  The resulting noise
rattled the heavy stonewear coffee cups nearby.  The girl's shrieks
were muffled, but clearly audible over the hum of the fan and the
ancient airconditioner.

WHACK!  SMACK!  KERSPLAT!  The stranger dressed in white was quick on
the draw, his hands hitting bullet-like the tender flesh of the
wicked-tongued waitress. In short order, her nailed nates blushed
crimson from the blows.

"Are you going to say your sorries to the people, Mary Jean?" he
asked her at length.

Her words were unintelligible but her meaning perfectly clear.  Both
hands, though clasped firmly behind her back, had formed the
universal symbol suggesting the recipient of the sign perform sex on
himself.  "Very well, then," he told her.  "Pronto, the paddle,
please."

From a traveling bag, Pronto extracted a handsome wooden paddle with
several holes drilled in it.  The handle of the paddle was covered in
beautifully-tooled silver.  The holes formed a "Z."   Holding the
implement up for Jack Grubner to see, the masked man remarked that a
good friend of his had given him the paddle.

"Yeah, *he* wears a mask too," commented Pronto, and then fell silent
when his friend shot him another dirty look.  Mary Jean managed to
roll her eyes at that and mutter "mpiggurs"

"I think she said, 'it figures'," interpretted her father.

With only a little further ado, the man in white raised the paddle
and brought it singing through the air.  The girl's reaction was
instantaneous.  Her head and feet shot up and she nearly jerked clear
off the broad lap over which she lay so vulnerably.  The bite of the
good hard wood was beyond anything she'd ever experienced.  Each
little hole seemed to have a sting of its very own, and she was sure
a "Z" had been branded across her buttocks from the blows.

On and on he spanked her, and on and on she bucked and groaned and
whinnied and fumed, but nary a tear escaped her eyes.  At last, he
stopped to rest his arm.  The color of her bared cheeks had turned a
deep and shiny red.  He'd spanked a lot of bottoms in his time, but
none had ever worn his colors better than Mary Jean Grubner's.  The
crowd ogled in awed admiration for his artistry.

"Will you apologize?"

Her weak shake of the head prompted him to pull her upright.
"Pronto, put her over that stool there.  I'll use my belt."

"Noooooooooo!" screamed Mary Jean.

She had finally managed to swollow the bun and had found her voice
once more.  "Noooooo.  Not the belt!" 

"Will you apologize?" he asked again.

"When Rush Limbaugh makes the Olympic Track Team, I will," sputtered
the paddled pitstop princess.

"That's what I figured."  He slowly drew the wide leather belt from
the loops of his white western cut pants.  They began to fall off his
hips.  Holding them up with his left hand, he gathered the two ends
of the belt in his right and waited while Pronto pushed the girl down
over the stool and forced her feet widely apart.  The sight was a far
cry more delectable than the limp apple pie in the nearby clear-
topped container on the counter.  The plump buttocks were beet red,
the taut thighs were pinkened from some stray paddle strokes, her
little chestnut curls were dampened with Mary Jean-juice.

Unable to resist, Pronto moved a finger in leisurely fashion through
the forbidden fruitage between the girls wide-spread legs and drew a
juicy trail of moisture up between her cheeky globes.  The girl
moaned and pushed her bottom out against his intruding caress a
little.

"Look out, Pronto.  We have a strapping to finish here," said the
masked man sharply.

"Listen, King o'Slobby, how come YOU always get to do the strapping?
Huh? I mean, where is it written.  Hell, we were here first.  You'd
think sooner or later I'd get the chance to paddle one of these
chicks, wouldn't you?"

"Pronto, now is not the time for treaty negotiations.  There'll be
plenty of time for you to resolve your cultural conflicts later."

Pronto curled his hand as though holding an invisible rod and moved
it up and down in the general region of his groin a few times.  "Bite
me," he said tersely.

Ignoring his sarcastic sidekick, the man in white pulled back his arm
and sent the belt whistling through the air.  When it connected with
Mary Jean's upturned tushy, the sound was terrible.  SSSSSNNNNAP!!!
Her wail of pain caused a mouse to die in its tracks as it munched
happily on the corn meal on the second shelf of the diner's pantry.
WWWWWHIIISTLECRACK!  Again a blood chilling scream issued from Miss
Grubner's lungs.  He had to give her credit.  For an outlaw, the girl
had stamina.

But at last, as he knew she would, the girl buckled.  No naughty
young lady, spanked as expertly as she had been, could resist
forever.  At long last she cried, "OOOOOKKAAAAYYEEEE!  I'm
SOOOORRREEEEEEE."

Relieved that his spanking arm wouldn't need to be in a cast for a
month, the masked man stopped in his delivery mid-stroke and said,
"What was that, Mary Jean, I couldn't quite understand you."

"I said I'm sorry!" she cried, big tears coursing down her pretty
cheeks.  Her other pretty cheeks glowed in the dim interior light of
the dusty diner.

"Stand up, girl," he told her.  "Now apologize to Pronto and to your
father."

"Sorry, P-P-Pronto," the girl hiccupped.  "I'm sorry, Daddy."

The grizzled old man had tears in his own rheumy eyes at his sweet-
faced little daughter adopting a more compliant attitude.

Without being asked, the girl turned to the astonished but still
slack faces of the people in the diner and uttered an apology to them
for her rude ways as well.  Several of them nodded their acceptances.

Lifting her chin with one finger, the masked stranger said, "Very
good, Mary Jean.  Let this be a lesson to you.  We live for honor.
To have honor, you have to have respect for yourself.  To respect
yourself, you have to respect others.  To show respect for others,
you have to have respect for..."

"Yeah, yeah," cut in Pronto.  "Save it for the primaries.  We gotta
hit the road, King o'Slobby.  There are wrongs to be righted in
Lizard Gizzard Gulch."

"Mr. Grubner.  If this young woman gets out of line again, I'd
suggest another session over lap for her." 

"Thank ye kindly there, stranger.  I'll do it.  I kinder like my girl
with this new attitude.  I'm beholden to ya.  Here's a couple burgers
for the road."  He handed the men a grease-soaked brown paper bag.

Nodding his thanks to old Mr. Grubner, the masked man took one last
look at the de-pantied damsel, waved to the crowd and strode out of
the diner, followed by his faithful fringed friend.

Everyone gathered at the begrimed windows of Grubner's Greasy Spoon
to watch the silver Chev fishtail off down the dusty trail.  Not a
word was spoken for a moment, and then someone asked timidly, "Who
WAS that masked man?"

Ed Reutters, a pharmaceuticals salesman from Amarillo, spoke up
quietly.  "He's everywhere simple folks need a helping hand.  He's
everywhere there is an injustice to set straight, a bully to
belittle, a snotty, mean-mouthed little bit...uh...waitress who needs
a lesson.  Why, people, that's the Lone Ranger."

"Hi ho, Silver, awaaaaaaaaaaaay!" came the fading cry from the cloud
of dust.

Pronto rolled his eyes.

MissLilyO@aol.com)