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“Do. You. Understand?” repeated John, more sternly.She nodded and he lifted her skirt, rolling it up over her back. Without hesitation and almost in the same movement he pulled her panties down and left them halfway down her thighs. He raised his hand to shoulder-height and brought it down in a swift swing.The smack of his palm thudded against her cold ass, causing her to draw in the freezing air with a sharp gasp, the warmth of the impact numbing her to the frost and snow beneath her knees and between her fingers on the logpile.“Th-thank you”, she said through gritted teeth.Has hand swung back again, and then forwards and landed with a smack hard enough to send electricity through her whole body. Another gasp fought its way out as she threw her head back.“Thank you,” she said after a moment.John wrapped a handful of her hair around his fist and spanked her again with his other hand, this time eliciting a wince and a yelp.“Thank you.”She was oblivious to the cold now, the snowflakes. Paris was everything London wasn't. It remained intact for one. And its presence took our breath. And the people were as rude as the Londoners were polite. Having been given a sizable amount of cash by the producer, Mother pocketed most of it. We rented an apartment for cheap on the West Bank for a month. I translated for my mom, though even with three years of French, I struggled. Conversational and literary French are like apples and oranges. In school I thrived on French. It enabled me to read Artaud and the Symbolists and the Surrealists and the Dadaists directly. My attempts at conversation helped soften the innate rudeness. The Parisians appreciated my struggle.Days we spent being tourists. Nights I searched for the Avant Garde. Mother accompanied me occasionally, but the long walks and the abundance of things to see, art and fashion and architecture during the day more often tired her out. For me, Paris flowing through my senses and into my blood constantly stimulated. Though.
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