The Trailkeeper

If anything, the new outfit looked even better on her than it had in the store’s fitting room. Trish (“Patsy” to her husband, “Patricia” to the rest of the world, but “Trish” back in school and still in her internal monologue) was especially happy with the papaya-colored lycra shorts. They were made by an athleisure wear company that seemed to have her prominent bottom’s exact shape programmed into its patterns. The fresh shorts presented the part of her figure of which she was proudest to best effect, and the white, form-fitting tank top made the shorts pop, while framing her attractive tits (she’d never refer to them that way out loud, but liked the vulgarity of the word) that had largely retained their shape through months of breast feeding two children and years since.

Trish posed in the large mirror of the family’s beach vacation rental bedroom. The early morning sun filtered through translated blinds and sheer curtains with enough light for her self-appraisal. She looksd, as her husband, then softly snoring in the bed a few feet away, liked to say, “painfully hot.” He means it as a compliment, like it hurt to look at her, so it was a sweet thing to say. A shame though that he didn’t mean her sex appeal would ever prompt him to administrator what she’d always craved and thought about hourly. Nor had he, even when she’d politely suggested it, because, kind, conventional guy that he was, he couldn’t bring himself to “hurt” her. And that was the missing ingredients in their otherwise satisfying casserole of a marriage.

She’d bought the shorts for this beach week, and Husband hadn’t seen them on her yet. Trish expected he’d express his approval by gently caresing her ample, shaped bottom, as long as nobody else was around. He might even give it a two-handed squeeze While pulling her close against his solid frame. She liked it when he did that. However, he definitely wouldn’t cite some recent misdeed as an excuse to pull her over his knee to spank herin them, nor would he roll them down her tighs to continue the spanking, ignoring her protests and holding her rebellious body in place while he –

Trish pushed pause on her unlikely revery. The quiet time before her family awakened was her time, and she had a goal.

She’d ride the bicycle Husband rented her for the week on a newly-constructed loop from the beach town they visited every year to a neighboring town and back. Not counting the Peloton, which she’d made a habit of spinning during the Pandemic and keep as part of her routine since, Trish hadn’t been on a bike since she was a freshman in high school, up until boys with driver’s licenses started noticing her. This bicycle rod smoothly, though, back and forth between the house and the beach, and she was confident that the fitness base she’d maintained between the stationary bike and her regular yoga and Pilates sessions would be more than enough to conquer the flat, fifteen-mile loop described by the man at the bikeshop.

She’d checked him out while Hubby completed the rental paperwork. Older than Trish by maybe a decade with gray at his temples and in his goatee, Bike Guy was obviously fit and had the easy physical presence of someone used to making things happen as planned. During their brief visit, Trish found time for a momentary fantasy featuring him lecturing her for returning her bike in damaged condition, then matter-of-factly ordering her to the back of the shop, and finally punishing her pale bare bottom with his strong, grease-stained hand. She didn’t have time to develop her daydream just then, but her evening shower lasted a few minutes longer as she filled in the make-believe details while pleasing herself.

This is how it’d always been for Trish; she’d had flash spanking fans running in the background of her perfectly acceptable, generally above-reproach life for as long as she could remember. The compulsive habit used to worry her, but she’d finally made peace with her secret pervy side. As long as spankophilic Trish stayed in the background, in the shower, and out of the way.

Trish brushed her hair back, popping an elastic tie around her ponytail. Then she quietly slapped the back of the wooden brush against her derriere, three times each side, just hard enough to trigger a sensing, before replacing it on the dresser. The secret ritual boosted her mood for reasons that she wouldn’t have wanted or even been able to explain.

Trish hustled quickly and quietly down the stairs and into the back yard, where her rental bike was leaning against the home’s vinyl picket fence.

Pedaling away on quiet neighborhood streets, she enjoyed the feeling of the still-cool salt air on her skin. After a few minutes, she turned onto the dedicated bike path, paved for the first mile or so, and then followed it as it became a dirt trail with a layer of fine gravel. She pedaled at a relaxed pace through pine woods, the sound of her tire treads theOnly noise. Hitting the occasional bump, Trish felt the tip of her pony tail brush the nape of her neck. She began to sweat as the woods opened to fields and the path crossed bridges over canals. Her breathing settled into a regular rhythm in time with her pedal strokes.

The path nearly another neighborhood, and she started passing cyclists, joggers, and walkers, some of them on leisurely outings, chatting along the way and others all business, pursuing their respective fitness goals. Trish collected a few lingering appreciated stars in passing. Proud of her unapologetically feminine physique, including the stubborn pounds of mommy weight that had amplified her curves, Trish decided to indulge herself by catching as many eyes as possible. She stood up as she pedaled along the straight stretches and coasted around bends, giving her fellow travelers a show. She imagined those with their romantic partners stealing glances at her full bottom or general tits, and especially likedit when she rode over a rut or root, giving her display the benefit of an extra jiggle.

Trish’s legs began to tire from cycling out of the seat, but the feeling of being on display and lusted after by strangers fueled her. She sped up, planning to stop for a rest after the next turn. Maybe one of those she’d distracted would make precious eye contact with her when they passed by during her break…

Trish accelerated into the turn before realizing it was tighter than it’d appeared. She squeezed the break levers and twisted the handlebars, losing traction for a moment and nearly skidding into a three-person group standing on the other side of the bend.

She came to an abrupt, barely controlled stop, reflexively calling out, “Sorry! So sorry!”

Within arm’s reach of her now were two men and a woman, middle-aged, fit, two around Trish’s height and the third taller. The shorter man, well-muscled with blue eyes, had put his hands on her bicycle’s frame, steadying it, while the woman had hoped back a step. She was a voluptuous blond with long hair pulled back through her baseball cap. A spandex top strained to contain her impressive breasts while her shorts accentuated pleasantly swollen hips and thighs below a trim belly.

The man holding her bike released his grip. “Easy there. You OK?” He smiled.

Trish, flustered and embarrassed, instantly regretted her curt reply. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The closer man shrugged while the taller one behind frowned. “You’re going too fast. Slow down and look out for others out here,” he said, fixing her with a level gaze. Trish looked directly at him. Unlike the other two, he was straddling a bicycle. He must’ve stopped to talk to them. Even though he was wearing loose fitting shorts and a t-shirt, she could see the signs of a lean, athletic body. The dork was wearing a helmet, though, and the gear bags, water bottle cages, and lights attached to his bike detracted from his appeal. Noticing the salt and pepper whiskers, she recognized him as the bike shop manager. She saw him glance down at her bicycle and knew he clocked the bike as being one of his. She wondered whether he remembered her.

Suddenly feeling her already flushed face growing hotter, Trish replied with a more-surly-than-intended, “Yeah, got it,” and stomped down on her pedal. She felt the rear wheel spin for a moment as she pulled off, accelerating as quickly as she could.

She heard the woman speak for the first time, her voice fading in the growing distance, “Well, that was rude.” And it was, Trish admitted to herself. Sometimes she was unintentionally impolite in awkward social situations. She thought about returning to the group to apologize but quickly lost it in the pleasure of the breeze, the feeling of her lungs filling with oxygen-rich air, and the pleasant burn setting into her muscles as she powered along the trail.

Back up to speed, Trish slalomed around walkers, while making sure to give eyes of her now sweaty and especially fetching figure to those fortunate enough to share the trail with her.

Crossing another bridge, Trish decided to push her pace for a minute or two longer before stopping to check her phone for time and location. She applied maximum effort, feeling a heavier burn in her legs as the wind whipped sweat from her salty face. Just as she let off, coasting while looking for a comfortable stopping point, perhaps one of the occasional benches she’d noticed along the trail, she felt a jolt. Her handlebars jerked, her pedals seized up, and she topped off the bike, landing on her hip and tigh, sliding a few feet to the edge of the path.

Trish sat for a moment, collecting herself. She spotted the low stump, marked with a badly faded orange “X,” that had suffered her. She felt the sting of scrapes to one palm and the outside of a knee and then a duller ache behind the side pocket containing her phone. She gingerly pulled the phone out ofher shorts to inspect its spiderwebbed screen and repeatedly pushed the power button on and off.

“Sonofabitch!” she said, too loudly for a couple pushing a sporty looking strroller in the opposite direction. The phone still worked, but Trish couldn’t navigate anything on the mangled screen. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to control her frustration and rise above the low moment.

The sound of tires approaching prompted her to look up to see (Of course! Who else?) Bike Guy coasting to a controlled stop, swinging his leg out and over his bike frame and leaning it against the nearby benchmark in one fluid movement. He casually walked over and lifted hers off the ground, rolling it behind her to a tree. Embarrassed, Trish started to object, “I don’t need your-” when she feel his arms lifting her up from behind.

“It’s too dangerous for you to sit here,” he warned, “Another daredevil might come along any second, and you could cause someone to get hurt.”

Trish snorted. “Daredevil? OK, Ranger Rick. And by the way, I’M hurt,” she said, gesturing to the patch of road rash on her knee. She’d instantly liked being lifted up by the bike guy; it made her feel giddy and safe at the same time. But it was outrageous of him to just grab her. She decided to call him out. Trish put her hands on her hips and snarked, “I don’t know what makes you think you can just manhandle strangers out here.”

Bike Guy didn’t reply but opened one of the pouches on his ride, pulling out a small spray can, some gauze, and tape. As he closed the distance between them, Trish repeated, “I said I don’t need your-” but he picked her up like a farmer hauls a small bale of hay and carried her to the benchmark, lowering her onto it with a soft exercise. He immediately went to work cleaning and bandaging her knee.

As he administratored aid, he softly learned her. “You should be wearing a helmet. If you’d gone over those handle bars, I’d be calling an ambulance for you right now. Also, slow it down. We’re all sharing this trail…”

He moved on to her hand, still without asking permission and all the while continuing his lesson on safety and courtesy. As Bike Guy tended to and scolded her, Trish felt confusingly cared for, patronized, and turned on. The morning wasn’t going at all as she’d planned. She’d have to reclaim control of her situation, as soon as Bike Guy finished his ministers. Just then, the couple she’d almost run over came into view, walking vigorously and talking animatedly. They got pretty close to Trish and Bike Guy before noticing them and stopping short.

“Steady,” said the man, looking at Bike Guy, “need anything?”

The woman, eyeing Trish disapprovingly, commented, “Sweetheart, I’m sure Steady has this in hand. Let’s leave him to it.”

Bike Guy answered up, “Thanks, Lee, but I’ll get her sorted. You two enjoy your walk, and I’ll see you later.”

Trish could’ve sworn she noticed a wink from Lee and a knowing look from his buxom partner as the couple resumed their walk, and Bike Guy, now Steady, put the finishing touches on the tape securing a gauze pad to her hand.

Perturbed by a conversation in which she was referred to but not addressed, Trish decided to assert herself. “This was very considerate of you, um, Steady, but I have to be going now.”

She pushed up from the bench and tried to suppress a limp as she retrieved her bike.

Steady, zipping up his first-aid pouch, responded, “That’s a bad idea.”

Trish, having had enough of being told what to do and carried around and talked about but not to, swung her uninjured leg onto its pedal and stood up while stomping down. The bike dumped to the side, dumping her awkwardly back on the path. Only then did she notice the bike’s chain jammed between the sprocket and frame.

In a fit of pique, Trish kicked the bike away and rolled over, away from her banded knee until she was on all fours, preparing to stand.

A bolt of lightning from the clear blue sky struck her bottom, sending an electrical current up her spine to her scalp. Trish frozen, trying to process the sensing, when she feel Steady’s large hand encircle her upper arm, assisting and insisting her to her feet. He spoke directly into her ear, “Get back on that bench.”

As Trish realized what he’d just done to her, she turned to look in his face. Two more lightning bolts, one on each chef, lifted her on her toes. He accompanied each spank with a single word. “Bench! Now!” he commanded.

Trish had no ready protocol for a strange man spanking her in public, so she bit her tongue and shuffled to the seat, lowering herself onto her suddenly tingly bottom. She watched Steady pick her bike up, balance its top bar on his shoulder, and carry it over to his own. As she turned Her head to follow him, she noticed a small plate on the backrest of her benchmark. It read, “Donated by Stedman Hanson, Trailkeeper.”

Suddenly feeling very much out of her element, Trish tried to negotiate a dignified exit. “Look, Steady, I’m sorry I messed up the bike. We’ll pay for any damages. Thank you for patching me up, and I won’t say anything about the…” She falsetered, searching for a polite way to refer to his assault on her rear end.

Steady looked Trish in the eyes until she dropped her gaze. Her frustration and embarrassment were reaching a critical mass, and she could feel the pressure of tears welling up. Trish resolved to maintain her composition; she wouldn’t cry in front of this bullying stranger. Then she felt his hand on her arm again, pulling her up and guiding her down a small walking path behind the benchmark, past a metal No Trespassing sign.

The path would soon take them out of sight of the bicycle trail and whatever protection the likelihood of passers by might afford her, and Trish became alarmed for her safety. She stopped and pulled back against Steady’s grip, saying with confidence she didn’t feel, “I don’t know where you think you’re taking me, but I’m not about to -” And then it happened.

Steady grabbed her around her waist with one arm and between her legs from behind with the other and hoisted her off the ground. He took two steps towards a downed tree beside the path, put his foot on it, and tilted her over his raised thigh. Trish tried to gain purchase with her feet against something, anything, but her legs flailed in open space. She felt his muscle thigh under her hips, and his hand on her back firmly pressed her upper body down so that her head was below them. She reached down and grabbed the tree trunk, holding on for dear dignity.

The sound was like a rifle shot echoing in the woods, with the pain following a moment behind the report. Trish had a moment to imagine what she must look like, topsey-turvey with her bottom presented for whatever treatment he had in mind, her legs kicking and tits swinging. She resolved in that moment to maintain as much composure as she could and tightened her grip on the tree trunk, digging her nails into its bark. She would be silent and still, denying him the satisfaction of her acknowledgement.

Trish’s plan lasted about as long as it took to come up with it. The pain Steady visited upon her helpless fanny quickly overwhelmed her willpower and senses. She involuntarily kicked her legs, rocked her hips, and reached an arm back to protect her Posterior, but he kept her in place over the fulcrum of his thigh, pausing only a second to gather her interposed arm and pin it to her waist. As he established a rhythm alternating between her cheeks, she felt herself rocking with the force of the blows. With her free hand, she first tried to brace herself against the downed tree trunk, then grabbed at Steady’s raised calendar, and finally wrapped her arm back around his waist, bunching his shirt in her clnched fist. Unable to end her punishment in silence, Trish heard herself gasping, then voicing nonsensical interferences, and finally waiting incoherently, generally providing vocals for the soundtrack to her comeuppance.

Trish quickly became convinced she couldn’t take any more punishment; she tried to tell him that she was truly sorry, that she’d never do anything like it ever again, that she’d be so good if he’d only stop right this second, nownow… Except she couldn’t form a single word around the sobs tumbling out of her. Steady continued spanking her without slowing and seemed to have unlimited stamina available for her mortification.

Trish, her Pilates strength notwithstanding, felt exhaustion consumption her and, in the course of another half-dozen strokes, she went limp over Steady’s leg. She felt the blood pooling in her head, tears falling from her eyeshes, and an unladylike amount of snot dripping from her nose. But more than anything she felt pain beyond pain in her bottom’s cheats. She visualized Steady’s broad palm pulverizing her flesh beneath the sexy shorts and expectedthat he might just spank her into oblivion. She lost herself in those moments over his knee. It seemed like this was her only existence; she couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t being punished. It was impossible that she could outlive it, because there was no more end than beginning.

And then, after what could have been 90 seconds or as many years, he stopped.

As her brain began to reboot, Trish first noticed the comforting pressure of Steady’s hands, one on her hip and the other on the back of a thigh. She tasted the salt from tears that had found her tongue. An involuntary full body shudder passed through her, catching her open mouthed breathing.

Then Trish heard footfalls mere yards back up the trail behind her. She peeked through the space framed by Steady’s bent leg and saw two pairs of hiking shoes with slender legs, one pair hairy and the other shabby smooth, growing out of them. She imagined how she must look to the couple of strangers and immediately tried to recover from the humiliating position they’d discovered her in. Steady held her fast, though, letting her ineffective scrambling go unrewarded and unremarked. She went limp again, her shame complete.