It was just like my fantasies from all those years ago. I was ten years old and my husband was in my bed, ready to take me - except that now my husband was real and my little-girl self was the fantasy.

And I was sharing the fantasy with him on his birthday.

With John leaning over me, there was no need to do naughty things to myself. John would do all the naughty things that needed to be done - and we definitely needed plenty of naughtiness.

It was a slow process. There were many pleasures for him to enjoy and he wanted to savor every one of them. His hand grazed the bottom hem of my flannel PJ top, feeling the individual cotton fibers against the ridges of his palm and fingerprints. It would have tickled me except that I was completely relaxed and ready for him.

Slowly, carefully, his hand advanced up my tummy, caressing the cotton, touching every inch of fabric from the buttons to the bed, as if he were lightly sanding the finish with his bare palm. As he approached my left breast, my breathing turned to gasps. The anticipation built until the first time his fingertip brushed the under-curve.

My body shuddered with a single throb of a momentary orgasm. The scent of warmth and moisture between my legs made its way to John's nose, despite the pajama-bottoms' attempt to reign it. His nostrils flared, sampling it in combination with the juvenile fragrance of my perfume.

His fingertips traced a spiral around my breast from the bottom, advancing a hair's breadth toward the nipple on each pass. My nipple throbbed, aching for its turn to be touched - even though it would have to feel the touch through the fabric. When his fingers reached the areola, my body stretched to bring the nipple to his fingers - but after one brief touch, the fingers backed off and made the nipple wait its turn.

When the nipple's chance finally arrived, I felt two or three more pulses of another mini-orgasm.

My eyes opened. I'm not sure when I had closed them. He was studying my body, lusting after what he saw, craving the chance to fuck my inner-child - without the inconvenience of my outer-adult getting in the way.

"I was never molested as a child," I said.

His face cringed. I smiled, stuck out my tongue a little and bit it, enjoying the impish pleasure.

"Why did you say that?" he asked. "I already knew."

I giggled. "I want it to be real for you," I said. "When I was this age, if you had come back in time to visit me - if I knew you were my future husband - you could have done anything you wanted with me. I would have gladly given you everything."

He cringed again. "This is so wrong on so many levels."

I could barely contain my feelings of satisfaction, accomplishment, success. It was exactly what I had hoped for. He was allowing it to be real, allowing himself to see me as a little girl.

His eyes fastened on the small patch of bare skin above the top button. His hand left its place on my breast and opened the button along with the next one. That was just enough to expose actual cleavage, but not enough to bring the dark circle around my nipple into view.

I looked down and saw the valley that was now open to him. His hand hovered, poised to touch the creamed-coffee skin highlighted by the pure white of the framing fabric. "That's about what it would have looked like," I said. "This top has my breasts pressed together nice and tight, but they would have been like that on their own back then."

He didn't look up at my face. In fact, he said, "Close your eyes. I don't want them accusing me."

I giggled, letting my little-girl voice take over. "My eyes won't tell. I promise!"

His eyes looked into mine and saw an impish little-girl face, not the accusatory look that he feared. "Are you scared, Lindy?"

A grin took over and I could feel the blood swarming just beneath my skin from my hairline to my shoulders. John rarely uses my name and when he does, he calls me "Linn" or "Linda" - not "Lindy". Nobody calls me that anymore, except my grandmother. The tingle continued down through the rest of my body. I really felt as if I were ten years old.

"No, John," I responded, letting him remain an adult. "I'm never afraid of you." The little-girl voice came effortlessly. My body wiggled with nervous excitement.

He smiled, licked his lips and looked back down at my breasts. His face had its own kind of slightly-childish, naughty delight as his hand reached in to caress the curves and valley of my breasts - sending ripples of mini-orgasm through them and down to my soaking pussy.

I thrust my hips and spread my legs, remembering the instincts I had even as a girl.

John saw it. His hand slid down toward my waist, then past it and onto my cotton-covered thigh, bypassing the part of me that most wanted to be touched. His hand wasn't ready to venture inside quite yet.

My legs spread further, hoping that his hand would fall between them. Instead, it stayed atop my thigh, but mercifully it soon found its own way to the damp area that covered my dark triangle. The fabric was smooth and snug, letting me feel every bit of texture as he approached.

I came again, this time with a couple of full-body quakes. My pussy reached up to press into his hand as it arrived. I moaned - somehow with my little-girl voice - and finally had a proper, but brief orgasm. It wasn't enough to satisfy me - not nearly enough - but it was all he needed to abandon his attempts at savoring the foreplay.

He reached over to my left hip and pulled it toward him. "Turn over," he said.

Of course I complied. I would have done anything he asked. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but my first guess ended up being correct - his hand came down hard and flat against my pajama bottoms, right at the roundness of my bottom. I grabbed the pillow with both arms and buried my face into it.

Another spank came down in the same general area, full strength, bare hand, flat palm. He kept going, not moving very much nor getting very creative. It wasn't fast. Actually, it was at a nice deliberate pace. I could take it easily, but I still cried out into the pillow with each spank.

There were no tears and no fear. It was a good, healthy, erotically painful spanking - absolutely nothing like anything my mother would have done.

I didn't count, but I think there were probably fifteen or twenty spanks before he stopped and pulled down my pajama bottoms. He left them just a bit below the bottom - enough to expose it and just the very tops of the thighs to the cool air of the bedroom. My naked bottom was nicely framed for him to see and touch.

And spank.

He resumed the same methodical, hard, bare-hand spanking while I yelped into the pillow with each swat. These stung a lot more, of course, and I wanted the full effect. I raised my bottom to meet his hand for each spank. There was no doubt in his mind that I was willing.