She Slapped My Ass is a remembrance by Jack Rusher, published here Monday, February 16, 2004. It is part of Memories.
On the importance of communication.
When she slapped my ass I thought it was an unorthodox entreaty to giddy-up, so I did. She slapped my ass again, a little harder. “Well, alright,” I thought, “why not go with it?”
This process of ass-slapping and pace quickening continued until things were at a fever pitch and my tolerance for spanking was quite worn out, at which point I did the first thing that came to mind, which, being the sort of man for whom the veneer of civilization is a late-attached and poorly constructed façade, was to pin both of her hands over her head.
In a few seconds she burst into tears, all sex-play stopped and cuddly conversation began. She explained that there was, sometime before we met, an incident where men forced themselves upon her and she still carried the scars of that experience. Scars that I was leaning on much too heavily by holding her down.
The first slap was an accident, a missed attempt at an ass-grab. The second was a response to my response, an unfortunate feedback loop of somatic misunderstanding that led inexorably to this tear-stained denouement.