Why So Serious Mode?

Jango’s gaze drifted past Nami for a moment, spotting a conveniently wide tree stump just beyond the fence. Sunlit, smooth, and perfectly seated at the edge of the field like it had been waiting for exactly this kind of moment.

“Well now,” he said, jerking his thumb toward it. “Looks like fate’s giving us a perfect place to handle your little attitude.”

Nami followed his gaze, rolled her eyes, and let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Ugh, can we just get this over with? I’ll bend over, you give me a few swats, and we both get on with our day, alright? Some of us have lives to get back to, you know.”

She shot him an exasperated glare, then hiked her satchel higher and ducked gracefully between the fence’s rails. She shimmied through with practiced ease, yellow skirt fluttering behind her legs.

She marched over to the wide tree stump, and bent herself neatly over it, hips squared, elbows braced, hair flicking in the sun. “There. Five quick ones, then I’m done.”

But Jango, ever the showman, just sauntered over after hopping the fence—moonwalking the last two steps for no reason but his own amusement. He circled the stump, then, instead of going for her conveniently offered ass, dropped himself onto the other side of the log and patted his lap with both hands, spreading his knees with a flourish.

Nami gave a long-suffering groan. “Ugh.” She stomped over, hands on hips. “You want the whole lap routine?”

Jango threw both arms wide in a mock bow.

“Only way to keep things official! ‘Sides, this is your show as much as mine. All proper-like. Or so I’m guessin’—I’m just a humble traveler, after all!” His tone was playful, but there was an unmistakable curiosity in the tilt of his head—a pirate used to reading the room.

Nami rolled her eyes but stepped around, flopping herself across his lap with exaggerated annoyance. “Just get it over with, moon-man. And if you get fresh, I’m breaking your nose.”

Jango’s laughter rang out, sharp and high.

“Uhyahahya! No tricks here, just a little old-fashioned discipline. You’ll be back on your feet before you can say ‘Jan~go!’”

Jango peeled back her skirt—revealing the unmistakable gleam of some bright amber bikini panties stretched snug over her perfectly rounded cheeks, the fabric shimmering as it hugged every inch.

He took a moment to appreciate the sight—those vibrant panties sculpted against her, each subtle movement making her bottom flex with youthful defiance.

But when Jango reached for their waistband, Nami shot upright with a snap.

“Hey!” she snapped, glaring over her shoulder, fiery as ever. “Hands off the panties! I didn’t say you could undress me!”

Jango let out a long, dramatic sigh, as if she were the one being unreasonable. Then, with casual authority, he spoke aloud: “It’s normal that all spankings for rude adult women are done on the bare bottom, in full view of everyone. Of course it is.”

The effect was instant. Nami’s eyes flickered with momentary confusion—then she just rolled them, huffing in annoyance at herself.

“Oh, duh,” she muttered. “Obviously it’s supposed to be bare. I’m pissed because I can do it myself, you perv!”

Without further complaint, she reached back, thumbs hooking the band, and slid her panties down her thighs in one smooth motion, letting them dangle from an ankle as she resettled herself across his lap.

Now, her bare bottom gleamed in the dappled sunlight—smooth, plush, and deliciously exposed. The skirt bunched at her waist, a bright yellow frame for flawless, unmarked skin. Her cheeks jiggled ever so slightly as she found her position, perfectly at ease with the new reality.

Jango let a slow grin curl across his face, admiring the view and the spirit alike. “Now that’s more like it,” he crooned.

Then he delivered the first firm swat.

SMACK!

Nami jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips—but it was her left buttcheek that stole the show. The impact sent a ripple through the soft flesh, a hypnotic jiggle that danced in slow, exaggerated waves. It quivered like a bowl of pudding in a cartoon earthquake, bouncing once... twice... before settling back into place with a defiant little twitch, as if it had opinions about being struck.

Jango whistled low. “Damn, Red. That’s some premium recoil.”

Nami quickly regained her composure. "There's one. Keep it moving."

Jango delivered another swat, lighter this time, then paused. "Y'know, Red, I've been thinking—"

"Don't strain yourself," Nami shot back, impatient. "Can we hurry up, please?"

"Uhyahahya!" He giggled and laid a hand to rest casually on her butt. "Why so serious, babe? If everyone believes something is right—if nobody remembers things being any other way—then is it really wrong to shape their thoughts a little? Morality’s just a puppet show, and folks are the sock-puppets."

Off to the side, perched near a fencepost, a tiny creature blinked back at him- no taller than a loaf of bread, with a ridiculously fluffy chest, twitching ears as big as its head, and a wide-eyed stare full of judgement. Its tail, thick and downy, swished like a feather duster.

Jango winked at it.

She groaned loudly into her palm. "Really? You're getting philosophical again? Just spank me so we can move on."

Jango chuckled and declared firmly, "It's normal that once a spanking starts, it doesn't stop until the man is satisfied."

Jango’s words rippled through the air like a bell toll— The effect was instant, unnoticeable to anyone but Jango himself: Nami’s body language shifted, her scowl twisting with **** patience, as if she’d just remembered an annoying truth.

“Of course it doesn’t,” she muttered, as if repeating something obvious from childhood. “So just hurry up and be satisfied, will you?”

He grinned, hand resting warm and heavy across the curve of her backside, savoring every inch of that view and the snappy fire behind it. He delivered another swat—this one with a practiced flick of the wrist, making both cheeks jiggle in a rhythm that felt almost musical.

SMACK!

Nami let out a stifled “Tch!”—but her hands stayed forward, chin braced on her forearm, as if she’d settled in for a long ride.

“Now, about those puppet strings,” Jango mused, drawing lazy circles with his palm, “What if all it takes is one person sayin’ ‘this is normal’ and—poof!—nobody remembers it ever being different? What’s right or wrong if nobody can remember the old rules, Red? Morality, memory, custom—aren’t they all just… what folks say today?”

Nami groaned again. “Ugh, you’re actually serious with this? Look, I don’t care if you hypnotize chickens or turn villages upside down, mind control’s still dirty pool. You can paint it up, call it normal all you want—but it’s still cheating. You can’t sock-puppet people and call it freedom.”

Jango smirked, giving her a gentler smack—just enough to get another ripple. “But if nobody knows you’re pulling strings, isn’t it the same as them pulling their own? You ever wonder if any of your rules were real to start with, or just what you got told?”

She shot him a withering glare over her shoulder. “Are you done? Philosophy makes my butt hurt more than your hand, you know that?”

He laughed. “Not till I’m satisfied, Red. That’s the rule.”

She huffed, but there was a grudging acceptance in her posture—a memory as old as her own pride, as if she’d always known you couldn’t rush a man through his satisfaction when it came to a rude-girl spanking. The sun caught the golden arc of her hair and the creamy swell of her cheeks, framed in yellow and shadow.

“Fine. Then stop talking in riddles and finish up, genius,” she snapped. “I’ve got maps to draw and idiots to rescue.”

Jango just grinned, savoring her defiance, and raised his hand for another musical smack—feeling every bit the showman in the sunshine, already planning what it would take to see this spicy redhead join the long list of moonflower girls blooming in his garden.

Jango smirked, savoring the way her words fired back at him even as he worked his hand across her bare skin. “Sock-puppets or saints, everyone’s got a string, Red. I just know how to pluck the tune.” Another swat, firm and showy, set her cheeks rippling again.

Nami huffed, voice taut. “Maybe you like thinking you’re some kind of maestro, but all I hear is noise.”

He chuckled. “Funny, critics love to cry foul, then pen whole sagas of the same spice they condemn. Maybe they oughta loosen that neck‑tie and enjoy the tune.”

Another spank rang out; Nami gasped but kept her glare. “Some people just like preaching from the crow’s‑nest. Doesn’t make ’em saints.”

Jango hummed approval. “Why so serious, I say? A story’s a story—let a body groove.”

Another swat snapped her hips; she bit her lip, cheeks blazing. “Tell that to anyone robbed of choice.”

He leaned close, heat in his grin. “Choice is you still arguing, still flaming—means I ain’t beaten you, and that’s beautiful.”

Jango let his palm rest on her warm, blushing cheek for a moment, enjoying the way her body shifted with each breath—subtle tremors and tension rolling through her hips. Her skin was flushed and smooth, her ass perched high and perfectly framed by the drooping line of her panties around one ankle.

He gave a low hum and casually said aloud, as if musing to himself, “Y’know… it’s normal for you to like a little fingering with your spankings. Especially from men with big dicks.”

The change was immediate.

Nami’s back arched just a little deeper, almost subconsciously. Her thighs parted without a word, slowly spreading wider over his lap to steady herself on the stump. The subtle angle shift gave him a teasing glimpse between her legs—just enough to see her glistening folds nestled beneath the soft swell of her ass.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

But her hips gave a tiny, intentional roll. An invitation wrapped in a dare.

Jango’s eyes sparkled behind his lenses, and he chuckled softly.

“Well,” he murmured, sliding his fingers along the inside of her thigh. “Wouldn’t want to break with tradition, now would we?”

Nami’s breath caught—but she didn’t stop him. Her lips twitched with a smirk, half-hidden in her hair as her head hung forward.

Good, she thought, heat pooling low in her belly. He’s not completely stupid.

She bit her lip, stifling a moan as his fingers finally brushed over her folds—exploratory at first, then purposeful, tracing her slickness with practiced ease.

Another smack echoed across the field.

She jolted—but this time, her moan wasn’t subtle.

Her hips pushed back in a slow, deliberate grind against his hand.

It felt good.

It felt right.

And most of all… it felt normal.

Jango leaned over her, the brim of his hat dipping low as his fingers explored her slick warmth and his cock stiffened, rising up her belly like some pale, impossible monument. The crown—broad, swollen, and flushed a deep, playful pink—nudged just above her navel, the tip peeking out past her side. She could see it, could feel it, pressing insistently against her bare stomach as his hand worked her open with slow, sure strokes.

Two fingers buried to the knuckle, pumping with a rhythm that left no doubt he knew his business.

He grinned, voice honey-smooth, “Don’t get shy now, Red. Tell me—how’s a sharp girl like you get so at home over a man’s knee? Was it always this way?”

Nami drew a shaky breath, every muscle in her body alive with sensation, but her tongue stayed sharp. “You want to talk childhood trauma while you’ve got your fingers in me?” She tried to sound annoyed, but it was breathless, ruined by a moan when his thumb found her clit.

Jango’s laugh rolled out, warm and wicked, his fingers circling and teasing, dipping just right—never too rough, never too soft. Nami clenched her jaw, desperately trying to keep her composure, but it was impossible to ignore the skill in his touch. The man might be a shameless pervert and a world-class pest, but there was no denying he knew his way around a girl’s pussy. Every flick, every subtle curl of his fingers sent jolts of heat spiraling up her spine, and it pissed her off how quickly her body responded. She pressed her lips together, cheeks burning, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of another moan—but inside, she had to admit: damn it, he was good.

“Can’t help digging for the roots, babe,” he murmured, fingers twisting just so—forcing a gasp from her lips. “Hypnosis, right and wrong, these spanking customs… how’d all that get wired into a sharp girl like you? Where’s it start in that clever head of yours?”

She didn’t fight the memories; they surfaced unbidden, as clear as his touch. “Belle-Mère always said a good spanking beat a long lecture,” Nami breathed, eyes fixed on the swaying wildflowers. “She’d line us up—me and Nojiko—bare-bottom across her lap with the window wide open. Mouth off, and you got it twice as hard.”

He kept working her, and she found herself rambling, the topic suddenly fascinating, her mind hungry to puzzle out the lines between memory and common sense. “Never thought much of it until I got older. It was just… normal. Everybody got their ass smacked. Only thing that mattered was if you deserved it.”

Jango’s cock pulsed against her skin, hot and insistent. “And now? Still feel fair?”

She arched back, pushing against his hand, her answer half a gasp, half a laugh. “If I deserve it? Maybe. If you deserve to enjoy it? Jury’s still out, moon-man.”

He grinned, giving her another sharp, playful swat, his fingers not slowing in their steady, hypnotic rhythm. “That’s my Red. Always got a comeback.”