Spankings in Zombieland - Chapter 2

Froggy

Later that night, Froggy returns the strap to her knapsack as GM, who had been watching silently from a nearby tree, takes on the task of comforting poor Juno, whose bottom is as red as a summer tomato as she tries to find a comfortable position in their sleeping bag. Froggy can hear her sniffling and whining, but she can’t make out the words. She hears GM’s response and marks, with satisfaction, that her tone is not at all sympathetic. She can’t make out the words either, but from the sound of it, she guesses that it was probably something along the lines of, “Oh, suck it up.”

Deep down, Juno knows that the spanking was for her own good. Froggy is sure of that much: for all of her complaining, Juno had been practically pulling off her pants already the minute she returned to camp. She knows the rules. All of them do, which is why the rules work.

Froggy has been de facto leader of the Doomsbury Squad ever since she found GM and Bobbi-Rossi siphoning gas from her pick-up truck. That was right near where Sunset Boulevard becomes Cesar Chavez road. She had parked the truck in the private garage of what had once been an expensive apartment complex (although the only way she could tell it had been expensive, now, was that it had a pool full of scummy water on the building’s East Side, and also a jacuzzi) while she went scavenging through rooms. She was between squads in those days, and food was scarce: her long and voluptuous legs had started to turn lean from walking, and she had to pull her belt down to the final notch to keep her cargo pants from sliding right off her ass. Still, even living off pigeon meat and water she was a force to be reckoned with – and she looked it, too. Her dusky hair had grown into a wild and frizzy afro, kept out of her her eyes by a blue bandana streaked with dried blood. Her arms were (and still are) muscular and her shoulders are broad. You could see scars on just about every bare patch of her mocha-brown skin except for her face, which was largely obscured by an over-size pair of mirrored sunglasses.

Needless to say, when GM and Bobbi Rossi (who were kneeling on the asphalt beside her pick-up truck with a siphon in the gas tank) heard a shout and turned to see her, standing 6’1 in combat books and looking like a guerilla warrior, they nearly pissed themselves.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

GM lowered the siphon slowly from her lips. Just then, a spurt of clear gasoline dribbled out, tapping out in drops on the pavement. Bobbi-Ross watched the drops, her already pale face whitening, green eyes wide with horror. 

Froggy took a step forward, then lowered her glasses. Her eyes over the tops of the lens are hard, her brow darkly lined. “Oh hell no,” she says. Her voice is low, but it seems to echo through the parking lot. “You did not just waste my gasoline.” She unbuttons the cuffs of her canvas-blouse and rolls the sleeves up to her elbows. “Girl, you are going to pay through the ass for every drop of that gas.”

“Run!” Bobbi-Ross had cried, and she and GM sprang to their feet. They sprinted away, making a break for the parking ramp, hoping to god that there was another exit on a higher floor. GM was still carrying the siphon, and it dripped gasoline as it flapped loosely at her side.

The heavy clomp of combat boots followed closely behind.

As Bobbi-Ross recalls it, she looked sideways at GM once and saw her pint-sized companion keeping stride, then looked forward, then heard a sharp cry. When she turned to look again, GM was gone. 

The saying goes, “There is no honor among theives.” Although it isn’t true all of the time, it certainly was here. Bobbi-Ross didn’t even spare a glance over her shoulder for her unfortunate friend. In fact, she tried to pick up speed, putting her head forward and muttering a prayer to herself as she ran. She could see, straight ahead, just beyond the end of the incline, a doorway leading into the hotel second floor, a labrynth of possible escape routes and hiding places. She might have even made it there, too – were it not for the trench drain she didn’t see at the top of the ramp.

“OoFAH!” Bobbi-Ross’s shoe hits the raised grate, and she surges forward, losing all balance. “Guh!” She crashes to the earth, and, not even having enough time to put her hands out in front of her, she lands face first and scrapes her chin. That was a nasty abrasion, and it took a long time to heal…but it was nothing, as she tells it, to what was in store.

The next thing that Bobbi-Ross knew, there was Froggy, coming up the hil behind her with calm, even strides. She was carrying GM – and the way she was carrying her still makes GM tear up a bit to this day. 

GM, who stands about five foot nothing on a good day and weighs maybe a hundred pounds sopping wet, likes to travel light, and her jean shorts are – well, very short. When she was running, they sort of jogged her undies up a bit, and Froggy was able to grab her by the waistband from behind. So then, Froggy lifted her clear off the ground by her white panties, the seat of which formed a deep and unforgiving V leading to the cleft between her butt cheeks, a wedgie so merciless that GM had frozen in place like a kitten being carried in her mother’s mouth. Froggy carried her this way clear to the top of the incline, nearly a fifty yards. With every step, poor GM would bounce like a yo-yo at the end of its string, her jean shorts would slide further down her butt, and the undies would ride further up it. Bobbi-Ross still says that was the first time she saw all of GM’s lily-white ass, and she didn’t even have her underwear off.

It wasn’t lily-white for very long. 

Having taken her siphon out of GM’s clenched fist, Froggy hoisted her higher, higher, higher, until her feet were dangling nearly her entire height off the ground. She hung GM by her wedgie on the frame of a sign at the top of the ramp over the exit side that said WRONG WAY, and GM’s cries hit a decibal that can only be heard by dogs. Then Froggy lifted Bobbi-Ross by her shoulder and threw her forcefully over the hood of an abandoned car. 

“Ow! What the fu –“

“Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, bitch!” Froggy declared. She stepped alongside Bobbi-Ross and gave her another shove so she was flat against the surface of the 2000 Toyota Camry. Bobbi-Ross was already feeling out-of-sorts from the tumble she took over the drain trench, not to mention being slammed twice against the hood of a car. She claims she even started drifting out of consciousness…but when she heard Froggy loosening her belt-buckle, she felt suddenly wide awake.

“What the – what the fuck are you doing?!”

“Didn’t I tell you not to ‘what the fuck’ me?” Froggy said. She snaked her belt out of the looks and folded it over itself in a loop. “Now, I’m about to teach you why you should never wear a skirt.” 

She stepped forward and lifted Bobbi-Ross’s fashionable pleated skirt onto her back. Then, noting her nakedness underneath, she gave a low whistle through her teeth.

“And why you should always wear underwear.”

To this day, Bobbi-Ross has never worn a skirt since. It was a solid point Froggy was making: wearing a skirt after the end-of-the-world can only mean cons. Underwear, though, she determined, could have pros and cons. Her friend, still swaying gently in the breeze by the waist of her panties, could have told her that.

It took about a minute for the belt to turn Bobbi-Ross’s ass a bright shade of strawberry-ice cream pink, then maybe about another two to make it raspberry-sherbert red. Froggy wailed on her with the belt in a criss-cross motion, each follow-through becoming another fiery swing, until her backside was a mass of crossing diagonal lines from other side, and Bobbi-Ross was in such pain she could hardly tell which cheek was being struck. At about the point when Bobbi-Ross’s screams were loud enough to be heard from the other side of the city, Froggy took her by the shoulder and said in a warning whisper, “Now you go and sit in the front seat while I deal with your friend. Any funny business and I’ll you over my knee.”

Bobbi-Ross didn’t have to be asked twice. She stood obediently and went to the driver’s side door and tried to yank it open. The first time she tried too hard, and the handle came off in her hand. The second time, though, using her fingertips, she was able to pull the door open and slip inside. The leather seats were hot on her bare ass, and she had to bite her lip to stop from crying, but it never crossed her mind for a second to complain and risk seeing what it meant to go over Froggy’s knee.

While Bobbi-Ross squirmed on a hot car seat, GM took her spanking with quiet resignation. Her panties were completely stretched out and ruined, of course, and her frantic kicking had sent her jean shorts flying off the building, so she saw no sense in arguing when Bobbi-Ross told her to bare her ass. GM’s small booty took about 20 hard, deliberate whacks (to this day, GM swears it was 40) before she was reduced completely to tears.

Then Froggy tied the girls together by their wrists, facing away from each other, and tossed them like twin duffle bags into the back of her pick-up truck. For a long while they rode like that, sniffling in silence with red bottoms and red faces, until at last Froggy decided what she wanted to do with them.

“A Squad,” she said. Of course, they knew what she meant. It didn’t even take them long to come around on the idea. In spite of the humiliation, one thing was clear to both Bobbi-Ross and GM that day: Froggy was a person to have on your side.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Juno was sitting on the shore of Venice Beach, watching the waves drift in, when the threesome met her. She explained that she’d had a Squad, but that they had managed to find a boat and get it running, but only had enough supplies for two to make the trip to Mexico, and, well, Juno had drawn the shortest straw. Homer had come along later on in San Francisco, where he proved just how useful he could be to the team by (1) changing a flat tire, and (2) incinerating a Full-On Screecher with a lighter and some spray-on deoderant. Rudolph came later, although he went by Michael at the time – GM called him “Rudolph” on account of a particularly large red zit he’d had on his nose at the time, and though the zit eventually went away, the nickname never did. They were a merry band of misfits alright, and since Juno swore on her life that “all Squads have names,” they decided that their squad ought to have a name too. Rudolph had suggested “The Doomsday Squad” because it sounded cool, but Bobbi-Ross misheard him and said, “Doonesbury? Like the comic?”

So now Froggy is on the Doomsbury Squad, and for better or for worse, she’s no longer alone. The title is far from official, but if you asked any of the members in private who was in charge, they would almost certainly point to her. After all, she’s the one with the pick-up truck, and she’s the one who drives: no exceptions. 

With that said, the power structure in the Doomsbury Squad is less lopsided nowadays than their first meeting with Froggy would suggest. All Squads (Juno reminds them) have a Code, which is just another way of saying a set of rules. The rules are decided on by everyone, and you have to agree to the rules if you want to stay on the team. In the Doomsbury Squad, the rules are as follows:

1. 1. DON’T BE A DUMBASS.
2. 2. IF YOU FIND SOMETHING GOOD, TELL EVERYONE – NO SECRET-STASHING.
3. 3. EVERYONE DOES THEIR PART.
4. 4. EVERYONE GETS A SHARE.
5. 5. ANYONE WHO DOESN’T DO THEIR PART DOESN’T GET A SHARE.

Simple enough, right?

The rules aren’t written down anywhere. A couple of members have tried to draft up an official-looking document, but the paper always eventually gets lost or destroyed. On one or two occassions, Froggy has threatened to tattoo the first rule on Juno’s left ass cheek. But ultimately, no one needs to write down the rules, because everyone knows them by heart.

It doesn’t matter who you are, anyway, so even if Froggy was the official “leader” it wouldn’t make a difference. If you break a rule, you pay the consequence. Sure, the specific number of spanks is subject to change, but the end result never does. Bad girls and boys gets punished, it’s that simple.

And it works. So far.

Froggy goes to sleep late that night after Juno came back. She lies on her side in her sleeping bag in the flat bed of the truck, sharing it with Bobbi-Ross, since it’s their turn. She eyes the closed knapsack at the corner of the flatbed, thinking about the way Juno’s butt cheeks jiggled under the hard leather strap. Does her butt jiggle the same way?

She sleeps well, a smile on her lips, and has no dreams.