Everyone,
Here begins today’s entries for the ‘Spanking Wish’ contest .~~
Enjoy!
– Dana
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“Dinner and Dessert at the Heart Attack Grill”
DISCLAIMER: While The Heart Attack Grill is for real, everything after paying the bill for dinner is pure fiction. If you came across this story via a web search for “Heart Attack Grill,” don’t expect anything but the standard paddling ritual if you don’t finish your meal there. Beyond that, nothing you read here ever happened, though I can hope, can’t I?
Dinner and Dessert at the Heart Attack Grill
I was sitting alone at my dining room table on a Friday evening, the evening of my thirty-third 39th birthday (like Jack Benny, I stopped having birthdays after 39). I had made a pan of chocolate cupcakes earlier in the day and, after a delightful dinner, was about to light the lone candle I’d put on a cupcake and call it a birthday dinner, Thinking about when I was a kid and made a wish after blowing out the candles on my birthday cake, I leaned back, took a deep breath, and POOF!!!
One blow, one candle, one wish: “I wish that one year I’d actually get one of those birthday spankings that they talk about but that I never had.” And wouldn’t it be suitable for me, as an engineer, not to have just 73 spanks (72 plus the traditional one to grow on), but rather to have one spank for the first year, two spanks for the second year, three spanks for the third year, and so on. “Hmmmmm” he says, getting out his slide rule, “two thousand, six hundred, and twenty-eight.” That’d make two very sore pieces of skin. But I’m just wishing here.
I never believed in fairy godmotherspankers. I didn’t really expect a knock at the door any minute, opening it to find an angel with a hairbrush in hand asking “Who’s the birthday boy?” So I read the newspaper, watched a little TV, and went to bed. My wishes never seem to magically come true, though some have eventually been fulfilled after I’ve made some effort to make them happen.
Well, two months later, I was in Las Vegas for a trade show and that thought about a birthday spanking came into my head again. I considered calling Dana Kane. She’d probably be delighted to deliver a belated birthday spanking, but when I checked her web site, I saw that she was out of town. Probably a good thing since even though I was staying at a cheap hotel off the strip and I don’t gamble, this was a fairly expensive trip for me. I hadn’t pre-sold any articles that might have come from the show, so I had to watch my budget, and she charges too much anyhow. If she had been available, I might have come home with a busted budget as well as a busted behind.
A couple of days at the show and that thought about a spanking was still in my head. I’d read about a local restaurant, The Heart Attack Grill, where they make no attempt to serve healthy food and they’re darn proud of it. There are multi-deck hamburgers loaded with cheese and bacon, French fries cooked in lard, deep fried Twinkie and maple bacon shakes, and not a green salad in sight. Furthermore, the waitresses, who dress as nurses, spank you if you don’t finish your meal. I thought, “Well, I have to eat dinner somewhere.” If I can’t have a real birthday spanking from a friend or even a professional disciplinarian, for dessert I can get a few swats on my behind from a waitress wielding a wooden paddle, so off I went.
The place is a real trip. They dress you in a hospital gown when you come in (no, you don’t take off your clothes first), and the waitresses are cute and flirty. When I ordered my food, my waitress looked at me sternly and said “Are you sure you can eat that double? You know I’ll have to spank you if you don’t finish it.” I winked at her and said, “I hear that’s the best part of the meal,” and added an order of fries just to be sure of earning a spanking.
Sure enough, with a couple of bites of my burger left over, my waitress came back to my table with paddle in hand and led me off to the spanking station, a slightly raised platform with padded rails to grab when bent over. I assumed the position and she gave me three quick but fairly hard smacks. I looked back at her quizzically, and she gave me three more, saying “I think you like this!” I nodded and took a couple more before she put down the paddle and escorted me back to my table to collect the bill (of course I tipped her generously).
It was a slow night at the HAG, so when she brought me my change, she sat down at my table and started some casual chit-chat. She asked if this was my first time there, where I was from, what was I doing in town, and so on. I asked her a few questions, one of which was whether the waitresses there got any training about how to give the spankings. She just laughed and said: “No, they just tell us to whack away.” She’d been working there for over two years, which made her an old-timer, told me that, crazy as the place could be some times, she really enjoyed her job – all aspects of it, especially the spankings.
That’s when I confessed to her that I was a spanko and was really looking forward to my visit to the restaurant. I’d seen the videos on the Heart Attack Grill web site, and quipped that I wished that company policy allowed her to haul me over her knee right there at the table instead of bending over “on stage.” Her eyes opened wide at that comment and she smiled warmly. She said (obvious as it was) that the spanking platform was part of the show, and that’s how they did it at the restaurant.
But . . . I held my breath as she moved a little closer to me. She said that working at the restaurant gave her a taste of spanking, and that she occasionally enjoyed a bit of friendly spanking play outside of work. I swear nothing like this has ever happened to me, but she gave me a little hug and said “I get off work in less than half an hour, and I live just a few blocks away. My roommate is out of town and I have the place to myself. Would you like to come over for a little ‘refresher’?”
Strange town, a lady I’d only met less than an hour before, but what the heck, what’s the worst that can happen? So she brought me a Coke (with real sugar, of course) and when her shift was over, I got into my rental car and followed her home. She put a kettle of water on the stove to make tea, and said: “Give me a minute to change into something more comfortable. This uniform gets to smelling pretty greasy and sweaty by the end of the night.” Just as the tea water came to a boil, she came back out to the living room, wearing a lacy satin slip, and brushing her long blond hair.
I thought I was going to have a heart attack right then and there!
We talked a while over tea about living in Las Vegas (she grew up in Los Angeles), good places to eat where the food wasn’t blatantly unhealthy or outrageously expensive, spanking, travels, spanking, college days, books we enjoyed, spanking . . . and eventually, she patted her knee and said “It’s time. Drop your pants and get over here.”
Insert your favorite blow-by-blow spanking-in-progress phrases here. Some examples: “Whap, whap, whap!” “Ouch, that hurts!!” “Well, it’s a spanking. It’s supposed to hurt.” “Please, please, stop, I’ll be good.” “Don’t make me get my belt.” “You really should know better by now.” . . .you know the drill. I don’t want to bore you with 45 minutes or so of the same old dialog.
Eventually she asked if I’d had enough. It seemed as if she could keep going all night, but I was wearing out fast. I hadn’t mentioned the birthday or my calculated number of swats, but I’ll bet she came close to that number. She polished me off with that hairbrush that I’d seen her use for its intended purpose after she changed, and she finally told me that I could get up. I was burning back there, but I had a smile on my face, and she was grinning, too, thanking me for the good workout.
After one of the best spankings I’ve ever had, and I’ve had plenty, we chatted a while longer about this and that, she gave me a hug, her e-mail address, and phone number, and said to be sure to get in touch with her the next time I’m in town. It’s nice to have a new friend in Sin City, and it’s always a wish come true to get spanked, and for only the price of a hamburger.