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[Image of Little Miss Naughty] The Sea-Shore II
by Mija

The girl sniffled, clutching his shirt.

The boy held her, then gave her pen and paper.

"Write a letter telling what happened here."

She wanted to ask him for her glasses back, but couldn't. Instead she wrote as if dreaming, unable to read her own words. She told of this wild, private place, the spankings, his name, hers, their history and stories.

The wind blew around them as the page filled.

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The boy and the girl had again crossed the links, this time under bright sunshine, odd for this Northern place. Dogs barked in the distance, calling impatiently to owners for balls and sticks and play.

She too longed for play, longed for privacy from families and work and people. Toward that, she could have done without the sunshine. The blue reminded her of home where she'd too soon return without him. Hands stuffed in her jeans pockets, the girl walked along next to the boy. He walked faster so she struggled a bit to keep up.

As they ventured onto the breakwater, the girl scowled. There were others here, trespassers. That was wrong. This place was his. No, it was theirs.

"We're not alone," she said, disappointed.

The boy looked at her and then across at the power plants. He watched the ships moving in and out of the river's mouth.

"We are. No one else matters."

He helped her down a stony alley carved between the breakwater's rocks. Soon she stood facing him, hugging her small backpack.

He said nothing, just watched. He always watched. Always saw her.

"Give me your brush," the boy said, not asking. She had it. She always did.

The girl nodded and fumbled, fingers suddenly stiff and awkward. Her heart thudded, eyes shy as she handed it to him. He took it, pocketing her glasses.

Voices floated around them, swirled by the wind. The boy put his arm around her waist, bending her over.

The brush made a quick sharp tattoo, the small pops hardly audible. The girl squirmed, feet strabbling for purchase in the sand. The boy pulled her closer, smacking the brush down her thighs.

Right. Left.

Once. Twice.

The girl cried out, but he held her fast.

"Be still. If you lift up your feet again, your jeans come off. Clear?"

The brush returned to her thighs.

"No," she cried, the wind catching her words. "No please!"

The hairbrush again rained down hard. Made to stand fast, the girl started to cry as the hairbrush paddled her. The boy punished on and on, his arm holding her bent and close.

At last, he stopped and pulled her to him.

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Finally, the girl finished. The boy read over her words then slipped the pages into a plastic bag. They buried it under a heart-shaped rock on the spot where he'd spanked her.

As they walked back, the girl suddenly wished she'd moved her feet. Silently she wondered if the boy wished the same.

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