He had even warned her that he could read all the signs of her duplicity, so there was no possibility her lies would be effective and, in the end, she would surely suffer more.
She apparently thought additional practice would make her a more artful dodger.
It did not. Although it was not for lack of trying over a period that left him with a right arm so sore he had learned, of necessity, to be just as effective with his left.
His next approach was to separate the punishment for the lie from the punishment for the transgression. The hated hairbrush became the instrument of correction, reserved exclusively for a lack of honesty, and it bit deeply only when the sting of the initial punishment was about to wear off and her tears were dried.
She was still willing to gamble. Consistently.
And then he had found, quite by accident and thanks to a nasty strep infection, the only halfway effective curb to her seriously forked tongue ...
He had come home from work to find her almost delirious with a high fever and a throat so swollen he could barely understand her when she struggled to speak. Bundling her into the car, he had driven to his friend’s clinic office in a panic, praying he could catch the physician before he left to make evening hospital rounds and that he would agree to see her immediately. Luck had been with him, and he had made contact by phone just as they were wheeling in to the almost-deserted clinic parking lot.
Dr. Bennett Scott had met them at the clinic’s back door and brought them through to a treatment room. He could still recall carrying a moaning and listless Vallie who seemed oblivious to her surroundings.
He had held her in his lap as though she were 5 while the good doctor and good friend had poked and prodded and evaluated and nominated a virulent strep infection as the culprit, even without benefit of a lab test.
“So what’s the treatment?” he had asked, snuggling her close once again as though her recovery were directly tied to his proximity. Which she had seemed to feel it was, if her burrowing instincts were any indication.
“She needs a massive dose of an antibiotic. You don’t want to fool around with strep. I’ve got a wonder drug that will have her feeling like a different person within twenty-four hours, but you’ll need to keep her full of fluids and make her take it easy the rest of the week, even though she’s going to think she can pick right back up where she left off once the drug washes all that nasty stuff out of her system,” Dr. Ben had said. “My nurse has gone for the day, but it will only take me a minute to get the meds.”
Vallie had nestled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin and her face resting against his chest. She had turned her body in to him and curled her legs up onto his lap, heedless of the fact, in her misery, that her knee-length sleep shirt had ridden up around her hips and exposed her panty-clad bottom.
So when the physician had re-entered the treatment room with a hypodermic in one hand and a cotton ball doused with alcohol in the other, she had unwittingly presented him with the most obvious target for his medical ministrations.
The doctor had sought approval from the guy in charge, whose only concern had been the launching of an immediate attack on the germ that had dared assault his darling, and he had received it immediately. It had been a simple move to edge the hem of her nightclothes up a few inches and to stretch the elastic waist of her panties down a few inches and then to prepare the creamy skin of her upper hip with the cold cotton swab.
It was a move that had launched Vallie instantly upright and determinedly hostile.
“What are you doing?” she had shrieked from the depths of her swollen throat while the one who loved her best in the whole world had struggled to keep her from falling off his lap in her hysteria.
“It’s just a shot to make you feel better,” he had told her reassuringly. “It’ll be over in just a second.”
“No-o-o-o.” she had wailed. “I want a pill. I hate shots. You know I hate shots. Don’t let him stick me,” she had begged piteously, while she had slapped, and even kicked, ineffectually and comically at Dr. Ben.
Had either of them been able to see inside her mind, they would have been treated to a journey back through time to another doctor’s office — one in which a tiny, defenseless girl was held facedown across her mother’s lap while warm hands divested her bottom of protection and something cold and sharp delivered a searing trail of long-lasting, stinging pain she would never forget and would always dread with everything in her.
Oblivious to such background knowledge and focused only on a cure, however, her troubled husband had simply raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his workout buddy, who held all medical knowledge.
Ben had shrugged. “It will get into her system much quicker this way. If she won’t take it, I can’t force her, but you may end up in the hospital with her before it’s over, otherwise.”
It had been all he needed to hear. He had forcefully pulled the weeping sick girl back into her former fetal curl on his lap, secured her hands as he knew how from long practice and forestalled her kicks by simply scooping her legs up beneath her knees with his right arm.
Thus restrained, Vallie had had no defense but her sobs and unladylike threats, which he was finally moved to silence by a simple approach he would have hesitated to use in most instances but which seemed called for under the circumstances.
“Hush that right now and be still, or I promise you I will spank your bare bottom here and now in front of Dr. Ben and then I’ll have him give you two shots,” he had promised in exasperation.
“And I’ll make sure they sting a lot,” the physician had added for good measure, with a wink at her protector-turned-threat.
She had compressed herself into a tense ball of resistant flesh then, despite the warning that clenching would only make the needle’s bite sharper, and had wailed like a five-year-old even after the miracle-working drug had been delivered, a cleansing final cotton dab had removed a tiny drop of blood and a flesh-colored band-aid had been applied to the site.
In fact, she had still been crying real hicccuping tears and rubbing frantically at her throbbing hip with a gesture she usually employed surreptitiously slightly further down when he had replaced her clothes, stood up with her still in his arms, and edged out the clinic’s back door. With Dr. Ben’s help, he had gently laid her down on the back seat and tucked a blanket from the clinic’s treatment room around her while she snuffled, sounding remarkably just as she usually did from her place in the corner about fifteen minutes after an unhappy encounter with his belt.
On the drive home, with her piteous, damp sniffles as accompaniment to his thought processes, he had reviewed her response to the injection with interest.
As promised, the injection did its work beautifully. But Vallie had pouted and complained for days following and tried to make him promise he would never again subject her to such medical treatment.
He had promised nothing of the sort. Instead, with Dr. Ben’s assistance, he had purchased a large supply of sterile syringes and large gauge needles, along with sterile saline solution — his own version of truth serum. Then, with careful tutoring from his physician friend, he had studied anatomy charts, while envisioning his own beloved’s very familiar plump backside, and mapped a plan.
Such careful preparation was necessary so that he could make his future lessons about lies stick a little farther down the cheek than usual under ordinary circumstances without risk to her sciatic nerve. He estimated there would be ample space for several doses, if necessary, in the area of her oh-so-vulnerable spank spot, which would probably be just as sensitive to sticks as to smacks.
Because Vallie had, of course, written her own prescription for a liar’s cure. And he was dedicated to healing her of that particular nasty malady.
A ‘Top’-rated Show
By Ashlynn Kenzie and Devlin O’Neill
Breschetta Fontaine, host of top-rated TV talk show “Personal Preference” (and real-life BRAT): “Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming Pro
fessor Devlin O’Neill — author, actor, Website host, educator, and behavioral therapist — to the show this evening.”
(Polite applause, in accordance with prop card directives, as O’Neill strides confidently onstage, attired in a pale blue long-sleeve broadcloth shirt, crisp jeans accented by an inch-wide belt in soft brown leather, a casual-cut light-weight beige jacket, and brown suede boots with tasteful silver buckles over the ankle bone. The very blonde and very green-eyed Fontaine extends a languid hand in greeting and then waves O’Neill to the guest couch, taking a seat at right angles to him.)
Fontaine: “Now, Professor O’Neill, tell us a little about yourself.”
O’Neill: “Well, I —”
Fontaine: “About your books, I mean. I believe you have two currently on the New York Times best-seller list.”
O’Neill: “That’s right. The first —”
(Reaching in front of O’Neill and obscuring him from the camera, Breschetta Fontaine seizes the books from the set’s coffee table, where they have been positioned for her to display, but instead of holding them toward the camera for a close-up, she deposits them facedown in her lap.)
Fontaine: “Some people are rather surprised to find your books on that list, I must say, Professor.”
O’Neill smiles politely and tries to address the audience. The host arches an eyebrow and favors him with a condescending stare, interrupting her guest yet again.
Fontaine: “Some people wonder, Professor — and, by the way, is that an honorary title?”
O’Neill: “No, it isn’t, Miss Fontaine. I earned three degrees and have been on the faculty of —”
Fontaine: “If you insist, Mr. O’Neill. Now on to your books. Don’t you have to admit that the titles are — let’s be honest here — little more than overworked clichés?
O’Neill: “On the contrary, I think they speak to —”
Fontaine: “You say that with a straight face, Mr. O’Neill. I am amazed, quite frankly. Surely you could have been more creative than ‘At the Top of His Game’ and — what’s the follow-up? Oh, yes, ‘Hitting Bottom and Loving It.’”
She turns to the audience and rolls her eyes. There are scattered sniggers. The Professor considers her politely, but the muscle in his jaw insists on clenching briefly. He makes another attempt to discuss his work. Alas …
Fontaine: “This appears to be a book very much directed toward men, Mr. O’Neill. Most people are aware that better than half the population is female and women make up more than 60 percent of the book market in this country. So why this approach? Did you deliberately set out to ignore women, or were you simply ignorant of the demographics?”
O’Neill: “Actually, Miss Fontaine, the books were written as instructive for both men and women in dealing with —”
Fontaine: “So you say. However, let me quote from page twelve in your first effort: ‘A man who refuses to confront such a situation smack-on and take charge is asking for trouble in the future, since he will have sent a clear signal to the lady in his life that he is unable or unwilling to offer her what she is clearly requesting.’ You seriously contend there is a message for women here? Isn’t this just a little behind the times? I mean, women clearly are no longer willing to be thought of in such condescending fashion.”
O’Neill: “Certainly there is a message for women, and a valuable one, I might add. I have applied the advice I give in the book in hundreds of situations where it was important to get to the bottom …”
The host interrupts again with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Fontaine: “And then there’s this, from the follow-up volume: ‘While it may be painful to contemplate, the simple fact is that the sweet blush of success stems, always, from a willingness to lovingly and firmly deal in the barest realities, even when it stings a little.’ Now really, O’Neill, where is the message for women there? This hardly qualifies as sparkling spanking repartee.”
O’Neill: “Perhaps if you quoted from page fifty-two in the second paragraph where I provide some straight-from-the-hip talk about —”
Fontaine: “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were attempting to top me in this discussion. Perhaps the producer forgot to mention our roles. I am the host. I call the shots. You are the guest. You answer my questions. After all, one of us is paid six large numbers to be here today. And that person would not, I think, be you.”
The host simpers at the audience, who begin to look uncomfortable. O’Neill’s blue eyes narrow and he assumes a more erect position on the guest couch.
Fontaine: “Bottom line, O’Neill, you’re doing nothing but whipping up hostility toward women with this trash.”
There is a collective gasp from the audience as Breschetta Fontaine glares at O’Neill and tosses his books toward him. He manages to catch them and places them carefully back on the table, with the titles readable on camera. His smile is firmly in place as he makes eye contact, but his right hand strays to his belt momentarily and he caresses it, lovingly, before leaning forward and balancing his forearms on his knees, with fingers steepled.
O’Neill: “If my books did, indeed, whip up hysteria toward women, it is difficult to believe sixty percent of the book market would have contributed to their success. What I do advocate is simple, disciplined, and heart-felt attention to relationships. Sometimes, those ideas find their reality in —”
Fontaine: “Don’t try to switch the focus here, O’Neill. I can almost see you envisioning yourself steering this ship in the direction of your own choosing, but the reality is, Prof, you’ve got no real power behind you at all, just a mighty small paddle.”
O’Neill: “That may be true, but I have vast experience in using it effectively. I think many women who have benefited from my expertise and experience could attest to that.”
Fontaine: “Let’s be frank, shall we? I’m outraged at your chauvinistic attitude. And you’re taking my concerns and brushing them off as though they are of no consequence.”
O’Neill: “To the contrary, Miss Fontaine, I’m deeply concerned about your concerns. But I’m also concerned about the one-sided view of my work you are presenting. You’ve made some unsubstantiated accusations based on some knee-jerk reactions to carefully selected portions of my books. It wouldn’t hurt you to bend a little, Miss Fontaine. Or at least, it wouldn’t hurt too much.”
The audience murmurs in apparent agreement with the Professor and he smiles warmly at them as he sits back and spreads his arms wide, laying one of them along the back of the couch and balancing his right ankle on his left knee. Unflattering color climbs high in Miss Fontaine’s cheeks as she glares at her seemingly relaxed and very comfortable guest, who has swung favor in his direction.
Fontaine: “It’s clear you are nothing but a bully, and just because you’re a strapping big man you think you can get the best of me.”
O’Neill: “Not at all, Miss Fontaine. But if you’ve read the books in their entirety, you know I’ve enjoyed great success putting my theories in place from top to bottom. There are certain behaviors and attitudes that cane — excuse me, I meant ‘can’ — only be effectively managed with a firm hand and a highly disciplined approach. That approach — the one I advocate and practice — has proven dominant time and again when compared to other relationship models.”
Fontaine: “There’s nothing submissive about you, is there, Professor? But that’s clearly what you expect from women. All this thrashing about you do over attitudes and the gratuitous licks you take at assertive females … But you’re not going to back me into a corner over this. It’s still my show. I’m still calling the shots. And I’ve got you beat on this. Everything you advocate — it all smacks of sheer brutality toward women and you know it. Well, I’m not having it on my show one second longer.”
Miss Fontaine reaches for O’Neill’s books and hurls them to the floor, where they land open, with pages fluttering. The host then jerks to her feet and proceeds to stomp all over the hardbacks, ripping out pages with
her high heels. She underscores this punishing behavior by calling her guest several foul names, while the audience reacts first with bewilderment at her inexplicable behavior and then with growing distress at her public tantrum.
O’Neill moves to the edge of the couch and speaks calmly, but with great authority, to the still-ranting host, whose actions are becoming more childlike by the moment.
O’Neill: “Stop. This. Instant. You are behaving in a most unseemly and unprofessional manner, Miss Fontaine, and I believe you will have cause to regret it bitterly in the not-too-distant future.”
The host abandons her efforts to censor Professor O’Neill’s books. She stomps over to stand in front of her guest and bends over to look directly into his eyes. Her own are blazing and her hands are clenched furiously at her sides.
Fontaine: “Oh, yeah? And who’s going to make me?”
(But we all know they answer to that. Don’t we?)
And here is how it happened, in Devlin O’Neill’s own words.
I was far past my normal breaking point with this fire-breathing brat, and when she demanded to know who was going to make her regret acting like a three-year-old who ate too many sweets, I finally had had enough.
Her eyes got very wide but she held her ground when I stood and slipped off my jacket, rolled up my right sleeve, and then propped my left foot on the table, and tossed her bodily across my upraised thigh.
She weighed hardly anything since her diet and mild workout regimen were geared more to keeping fat off than actually building muscle tone, so it took less than five seconds to wrap her arms at her waist, and secure her firmly, her bottom up and her legs pointed toward the audience, who after a very brief silence erupted in cheers and applause.
Finely Disciplined Thoughts Page 5
