Oh My! Not Again!(Jennifer’s Story)
NOTE: read “bottom-to-top” (wink*:o)

Jennifer on The Beach;Cabo San Lucas (1989)

Jennifer on The Beach;Cabo San Lucas (1989)

“So,..Is it all true? I mean, did all this stuff really happen? Tell me,” Sam said, “it’s some adolescent fantasy, in words, and pictures. I don’t believe it. I know!: It’s Teenage Rebellion; it’s a total exhibition, and expression, of individuality, right?~~’Momma gets naked, caught, and spanked into orgasm, and YOU ARE THERE! Read all about it!’~~Come on, Jenny..tell me this is NOT a True Story.”

“Well…What? Why are you looking at me that way?..of course, it true. Every word.”


By this time I’d kicked the fallen bath-towel, across the bedroom floor, and into the hallway, using the toes of one, bare foot, in order to do so; giving my bare butt a good shaking, all the while. Stark naked, I leaped, across the room, and fell onto my tummy, smack-dab, upon the quilted coverlet.

I snuggled close to Sam. Lazy thoughts, of Deja-vu, fluttered across my mind..

Wet, bare, skin.

I’m my mother’s daughter, am I not?

“You haven’t seen nothing yet, Sam.  Take a peek, at the other contents…there, on the night-table; the manila envelope..go ahead….

“…I don’t believe this,” Sam, repeated, “This stuff REALLY happened!?”

He just couldn’t picture it. My drawings~~(naughty, pencil sketches of my momma [blush*]) must have seemed to fantastical to be true…

“The camera doesn’t lie, hun,”  I replied, shifting my backside a bit; cocking my head at the evidence, lying in wait..the night-table, and the remaining contents of a manila envelope.

(Stay tuned..more to come. L8r)



That Manila Envelope was now, calling out for Sam’s eyes. Further “proof”

He placed my “account,” (“15 Years Later”), across my two buttocks, open. I felt the cardboard cover, fall open, against the crack of my ass. Now, my yellow-colored, spiral notebook, was perched upon my raised ass as if it were a magazine rack.

Sam, turned away from from me now, and picked up the manila envelope. From this moment on, his focus would rest upon my mother….or, so I hoped…


Shaking the contents onto the quilted bedspread, the photos ~~all 4 of them!~~were revealed, once again; tracing back, in time, to a backyard in 1969; Long Island, New York; the muggy summer; and, the click-click of Mr. Carpenter’s Brownie Camera. Paula Parkstone, my mother, was exposed, once again..I’d forgotten, in five years, just how amazingly, beautiful and naughty, she was.


(more to come>>L8r)



Okay, I’ll tell you. It was Friday night; last night, to be exact. It was the night he pulled out the yellow-colored notebook from my night-table, and read those words I’d written five years ago. A smile, sneaked, and turned up, the corners, of his mouth; his reaction exposed, by his full lips. He was reading, while shaking his head, in disbelief.

I knew he was shocked by what he was reading. Sam, ..dear Sam, was smiling, all the same.

Me? Where was little ole me? Well, I was standing in front of the open bedroom door, wrapped in a big, fluffy, bath towel; warm, and nude, I’d just got done lifting myself from the tub.

As I stood in the doorway, and watched him read, my mind flashed back to the young girl I once was: 15 years old,~~it didn’t seem that long ago!~~getting an eyeful of my mother and writing the “True Story,” all scribbled into that yellow notebook Sam now had propped upon his lap, lying in bed.

Quite frankly, I was speechless; however, also feeling quite naughty..naughty, enough, to side-step any blush of embarrassment, for myself, (..I knew I’d stretched the truth, in a very naughty way! ~~

~~Pornographically, so!) or, my mother (who, most certainly, bared her privates, in the backyard..unashamed, and for the eyes of her “young hunk,” of a neighbor.)

My husband, looked up from the notebook, and said, “Well, well, Jenny. You surely never told me this story.

It seems to me, dear-heart, you got your momma into some real hot water.”

In reply, I dropped my bath-towel to the floor. Nude, with bottom wet; both breasts, pert and glistening. Warm water, mixing with my own juices..my sex, dampened by such naughty visions, remembrances.

“Yeah,” I said, standing oh so provocatively, in my exposure now, “I guess I did.”




** When? That’s the kind of question a Journalist would ask; along with, who-what-and-where, so I’ll start there…with, the “When” of it all.



Wait a sec…I have to get comfortable for this. Okay: I’m going to place the key-pad on the pillow, and stretch-out on my tummy.
Ahh, that’s better.


My name is Jenny Palmer. I’m married now; got married, two weeks ago. I never thought the day would come when I’d have to write an “appendix,” to “15 Years Later.” I mean, when I wrote it, I was 15 years old; and, its contents were an update of my mother’s experiences, along with what she’d presented to my eyes, (and, my father’s) in the form of nude exhibitionism. Five years ago, as I was writing, I never gave a thought to my words coming back to haunt me. All I did, at 15, was write what I witnessed, what happened. After that, I put the story in a file-folder, and tucked it away in a drawer.


If you were to see me now, what you’d see is a very naked lady, stretched-out on a brass bed, tapping the key-pad of an HP Pavilion, (knowing that the very red bottom she has; the very sore ani, and peri-area, she possesses at the very moment, is the just comeuppance~~The Consequences~~of her own brand of naked abandon.
**What you might be asking yourself is: “Come on, Jenny, just tell how it happened?”

Well, that’s why I’m writing: Mostly, to right a wrong; mostly, as punishment, for my “own lapse”..in truth-telling. The spanking I received was the end result of the lies I told. This “appendix,” then, is a Testament to my lapse in morals. I’m setting the story straight, for my husband, and for my mother; but, mostly, for me too~~after all, if it were not for those words I’d written 5 years ago; if it were not for my own pangs of wondering about what it’d be like, I would’ve never found out how naughtiness, always, ~~always, always~~gets found out, in the end. Believe me, I found out pretty quick, and it was all the result of my own forgetfulness.
**As simple as it sounds, I forgot it was Saturday Morning.

Read on, to find out, the truth..and, then some!
My ass is crimson. I deserved every spank of the palm; every, good smack, of the sandal,…

…just like Momma.


What you are about to read is a work of fiction.

In the following posts, a story will be told by Jennifer Palmer. It is an “appendix” to a story she wrote 5 years before the setting of this tale. In the story she wrote, “15 Years Later,” she related an incident which occurred before her birth; however, the scandal of that incident, and the “truth” which emerged from it, cast an embarrassing light upon her mother, [Paula Parkstone]

Now, Twenty years old, and married, Jennifer’s little tale, it seems, needs a revision. The “appendix to 15 Years Later,” will begin with a revelation, move forward, with a dream, and end, with a justified comeuppance.

Next Post: An Appendix, to “15 Years Later, by Jennifer Palmer.”



“Many times, when you are asleep, there is no line between it and waking, and the thoughts that you have meld. In their own reason~~so satisfying. So full. So renewing. Like heat, or a perfect day,when there is just the right sun on you. On the back porch, say, and the equilibrium of sun and breeze, so that you couldn’t say
if you were warm or cool, so you couldn’t say.”

~~David Mamet~”The Village”

“The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.”

~~Wallace Stevens; American Poet.

Stay tuned..a very long story is about to begin.
One post, at a time…each night.

~x~Will. o7/o8/o8