The gods are displeased

Last weekend we were nearly interrupted again during our spanking fun. Ron was using his favourite wooden shoehorn, alternating with a large wooden spoon, and I was just over the initial shock of the assault to my posterior. When he switched to one of the leather paddles, I breathed a sigh of relief and settled in to enjoy the thwack of skin on skin.

All of a sudden we heard a rumbling noise. The lamps on the bedside tables shook. What was that? A heavy truck passing through our neighbourhood? Earth-movign equipment? Not likely on a Sunday afternoon. A low-flying plane? Thunder? An earthquake?

We waited, poised for flight. No further rumblings happened, the lights stayed on, and we decided there was nothing to worry about.

"The spanking gods are angry," Ron surmised.

I laughed. "Then what can we do to appease them?" I asked.

"I can think of something." Ron illustrated his point with the shoehorn on my bottom.

"That ought to satisfy them, but let's make sure," I agreed.