Crack! I hear the unmistakable sound of a hand swatting a bare bottom.
First there is a throaty moan, and then a muted, “Yes, Miss Baxter.”
“I do so love the color pink,” Miss Baxter says. “Particularly, when it’s laid out in the shape of my hand. And on such a lovely canvas as yours.”
I hear a chuckle and then, “Thank you, Miss Baxter.”
I straighten up and smile, carefully pulling the drinking glass away from Miss Baxter’s heavy wooden bedroom door as I do. I turn to my partner in crime, my girlfriend, who is kneeling in the darkened hallway, right beside me.
“Moona, your mom’s a freak,” I whisper. “But in a good way. It sounds like she’s really enjoying herself. Here. Listen.”
I pass the glass over. Moona sits up straight, cradling the glass in her delicate fingers, rotating it aro
