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I suppose you have never had a damn good spanking?"

I could not believe the direction the Sheriff's questions were going. I remained silent, staring at my feet, hoping desperately he would let up on me. Given my luck, I should have known better.

"Well?" the Sheriff enquired sternly

"Well, what?" I mumbled my response, still looking down at my feet to avoid eye contact. "Look at me young lady!"

I raised my eyes timidly to meet the Sheriff's glare.

"Have you ever had a damn good spanking?"

"Yes, sir." I responded.

"And when was the last time you were spanked, young lady."

"Very recently, sir," I mumbled, embarrassed at the admission.

Sheriff Stone raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. "Is that so. Well I never."

I knew I was blushing. Almost as an innate reaction, I reached behind me and tried to pull my skirt down further over my buttocks. I could hear my three drunken inmates chuckling amongst themselves, obviously delighting in my predicament. Thankfully the Sheriff returned to his paperwork without further questioning.

Time seemed to stand still. I stood, gripping the bars, not even trusting myself to look at my drunken cellmates. Eventually the considerable bulk of Sheriff Stone raised itself from the desk and meandered over to the cell, unlocking the door.

Without looking at anyone in particular, he barked, "Out!"

I looked around but no one had moved. "Me, sir?" I asked timidly.

"Yes you. Out. Go and stand beside my desk."

Despite my fear of the Sheriff I could not wait to get out of that cell. In a flash I was standing beside his desk, awkwardly gripping the bottom of my skirt with both hands in an attempt to preserve my modesty.

The Sheriff sat down at his desk, the chair groaning under the considerable strain. He briefly shuffled some papers around until he found what he was looking for. He glanced up and me, and I responded with a sheepish grin.

He picked up a pen "Name?"

"Please, Sheriff Stone," I pleaded, "Do we really need to go through with this. There has been a big misunderstanding, and if you just take a moment to speak to my husband or my Mother in Law it will all be cleared up."

The Sheriff let out an exaggerated sigh of frustration and slowly looked up from his paper. For a long moment he fixed me with an intense stare, but said nothing. My hands began to fidget with the bottom of my skirt.

"Name?" he repeated in a slow drawl, his eyes unblinking as they locked into mine.

"Kym Rose Barclay," I mumbled in defeat. "Age?"

"29 years, sir."

This clearly surprised the Sheriff, and he shook his head as if in disgust. "29 years?"

"Yes, sir," I repeated, embarrassed. The Sheriff was clearly bemused as to why a mature 29-year-old woman was parading herself around town in clothing more befitting an 8 year old.

He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward towards me, as if not wanting to miss a word. " Time for your explanation. This had better be good."

I squirmed like a young child desperate to relieve herself. "Wwwwhat.' I mumbled. I had heard the Sheriff clearly but was trying to stall for time. I looked up desperately at the front door, praying Michael would sweep in and rescue me.

The Sheriff gave another of his exaggerated sighs, but the look on his face suggested he was clearly enjoying seeing me squirming in embarrassment. "Do you have a very good explanation for the following, young lady? One: you are not registered as a guest in our hotel, yet were found trying to leave the guest area. Two: you tried to flee when spotted by myself." The Sheriff was counting them off on his fingers as he went. "Three: you were frequenting a hotel commonly used by prostitutes. And four: you are dressed up provocatively like a young girl to attract the punters." Sheriff Stone cupped the palms of his hand together. "I rest my case."

I pinched my forehead with my fingers.

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