"Yes, sir."
"It was NOT stolen!" asserted Mary. "I demand..."
The Manager held his hand up so suddenly in a silence-demanding gesture that Mary stopped in mid-sentence. He nodded to the guard who left the office, closing the door behind him.
The Manager sat down, introduced himself as Mike, asked for her name and ID, and offered Mary a seat. Still bursting with indignation, and feeling rather frightened at the appalling turn of events, Mary was grateful for the calm and reasonable manner he was adopting. She took a deep breath, nervously flipped her hair away from her face, and poured out her story.
Mike listened impassively, his long, elegant fingers steepled beneath his chin. In an attempt to convince him it had all been an accident, Mary gave as much detail as she could, knowing how important detail is in creating a believable fiction - not, of course, that this was in any way a fiction.
It was with some dismay therefore that, as she finished her description, she noticed Mike shaking his head.
"Mrs Jones, I'm afraid there is no way to corroborate your story. We don't have cameras covering the hairbrush section. Whilst I am sympathetic to your dilemma, I have to say that the bald facts of the matter are that you left my shop with goods you hadn't paid for. Not only that, but you were caught red-handed with the very item I saw you weighing so lovingly in your hands just minutes earlier. I'm afraid this is a criminal offence which I cannot overlook." He gazed at her as he spoke, and Mary patted her hair unconsciously. Her blush deepened. She gulped.
"So ... what does this mean?" she asked. "Surely you don't intend to involve the police? My husband is a doctor ... I have two sons ... the shame ... I mean ... Oh God!" She bowed her head and started to sob.
Suddenly, Mike was standing behind her. "There, there," he said, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Oh!" cried Mary. "This is so unfair!"
There was a long silence before Mike cleared his throat.
"Mrs Jones ... Mary," he said, his deep voice seeming to suggest a question. "Perhaps there is a way ..."
Mary looked up. "A way?"
"Yes, a way ... a way we might solve this, without ... calling the police."
Mary turned eagerly. "Yes?" she enquired, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
He leaned forward and picked up the hairbrush by its handle. He held it before her face. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her blush deepening even further. Pretending not to understand, she croaked, "What ... what do you mean?"
"I think you know very well what I mean, Mary. It's time we put this brush to good use. Stand up," he commanded quietly. His tone brooked no refusal. Slowly, Mary stood. She smoothed down the creases on the front of her grey slacks. Her heart was pounding. She couldn't believe what was happening - and what were the chances? The Manager - a spanko! Ruefully, she reflected that if she hadn't picked up the damned hairbrush in the first place, she wouldn't be ... wouldn't be what? About to get exactly what she wanted?
Taking a deep breath, Mary stepped forward so that the top of her thighs were touching the edge of the desk. She reached forward to grasp the far side, feeling her slacks tighten across her buttocks. Her tummy was melting with a million butterflies; she could feel herself wet in Womb Approach. She felt so vulnerable: so afraid, yet so excited. She savoured the delicious, zinging energy that coursed through her veins. She felt so alive, in this moment, so mindful of every minute aspect of her experience.
Surrendering herself completely, she flattened her breasts against the desktop and thrust her bottom as high as she could, already wincing in anticipation of that first stinging blow. How many would she get? Would he smack her hard?
"Er ... Mrs Jones?" she heard.
She turned. "Y...Yes?"
"Um ... what are you doing?"
"I ... I'm ..." She rose and turned. "I thought you meant ..."
Mike was looking at her quizzically, holding the hairbrush up. "I ... I just want to brush your hair. Only for a minute or two." It was his turn to blush. "If you don't mind? It's ... so beautiful." He paused. "But what did you think I meant?"
She stared at him for a moment in confusion. "Oh! Nothing," she said, silently cursing her bad luck. She straightened her shoulders and sighed. "Be my guest."
As he began tentatively drawing the brush through her luxurious locks, Mary thought to herself, Damn! Right implement, wrong fetish.
Spanking Gazette, Mrs JGC, May 1989
The Willows
Nether Redhampton
Wilts
May 8th 1989
Dear Mr Stilton
I write to you in your capacity as editor of the Spanking Gazette.
Two weeks ago, I discovered 14 years' worth of back copies of your magazine in a box in our garage. My husband Eric had hidden them under some Car Maintenance Weeklys I gave him a subscription for last Christmas. Silly man. I only stumbled across them because he'd lost his glasses again, and he's as blind as a bat without them. I won't hold you to blame for his short-sightedness, though you know what they say.
After I got over the shock, I glanced through your latest edition, and, I must say, I was quite intrigued. But surely nobody believes those 'Readers Letters' you publish? They stretch credulity to breaking point (as our ex-vicar used to say, during his crises of faith). You'd think we British do nothing but go around spanking each other!
So I confronted Eric angrily, and the poor man cringed and blushed and stammered like one of those naughty schoolgirls in your stories.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded. It wasn't the magazines I was angry about so much as the ten years we haven't had sex because he was going solo with the help of your colour photos of pretty girls pretending to say 'Ouch!', and those silly, made-up Readers' Letters.
Anyway, we had a cup of tea and a custard cream, and I told him a story I'd never told anyone before (it was an experience I was all too eager to forget). It was about the time I got the cane when I was eighteen. It wasn't easy, remembering such a painful event, and it didn't help that Eric (despite his sympathetic noises and kindly pats on my knee) had a gleam in his eye I hadn't seen for the past decade. When I'd finished and he said it was just like one of the letters in the Gazette, I nearly hit him.
"Those totally implausible stories they pretend they get from their readers?" I cried. "Don't be an arse, Eric! They're nothing but make-believe! Mine's real! I had the stripes to prove it, thank you very much, and it was real tears I shed!"
We argued, and he ended up saying that if I thought your readers' stories were so obviously invented, why didn't I send in my own story and show you what a real one sounds like? Never one to duck a challenge, I said, "Right you are, then! I will! I'll do just that!" So here it is:
It was 1949, after the war, and we still had rationing. Sweets were like gold dust - just 12 ounces a month was a family's allowance - and of course there was a bustling trade in the coupons for them; not strictly legal of course, but that didn't stop those of us with a bit of sense and a sweet tooth.
At the start of that summer term, our Headmaster (a traditional sort called Humbolt) made a big speech after morning prayers about civic duty, and how trading in coupons was unpatriotic and selfish, and that any pupil found doing so would be 'in very hot water indeed'.
I was going steady with a lad called Albert Cummings at the time, in the fifth form like me. His father was a bit of a wheeler-dealer, so Albert often turned up with a wad of sweets coupons in his back pocket. One lunch time, Albert and I were doing a roaring trade behind the trees at the back of the playground, when who should appear out of nowhere but Deputy Head Lewis!
He marched us off to the Headmaster, where we got a very frosty reception indeed: hadn't he just warned the whole school about this? Did we think we were special cases, and his words didn't apply to us?
"Cummings' involvement comes as no surprise," he said. "But you, young lady ..." He eyed me severely. "Well... I can only say that I'm extremely disappointed."
I'd be
en such a law-abiding youngster till then, I'd never even had the slipper which the Senior Mistress, Mrs Goldthorpe, used to apply to the bottoms of wayward girls.
Looking daggers at Albert, Mr Humbolt said he was sure I'd been led astray, but, nevertheless, I'd known it was wrong, and I had to suffer the consequences.
Then he announced what those consequences would be: we were both to be caned, that afternoon after school. We had to report to his study at four, dressed in our gym clothes.
You can imagine what a nervous wreck I was during the intervening lessons. My tummy fluttered non-stop and my bottom tingled all the way through Chemistry with Mr Wright - almost as if it knew what was coming!
I met Albert outside the changing-rooms at five to four, both in our tee-shirts and shorts. I was shaking by now, my hands and knees quivering uncontrollably. Albert was as cool as a cucumber, of course - he'd been there before. He didn't even mind the looks and giggles that followed us down the corridor to Mr Humbolt's study. But I was mortified, especially when my bitterest enemy, Sandra Burton, asked, with exaggerated sweetness, if I'd like a cushion for class the next day.
By the time we got to the large oak door, my heart was thumping and I was ready to faint with fright.
"Enter!" we heard, in answer to Albert's knock.
Mrs Goldthorpe was there, standing with arms crossed. After a short lecture, Mr Humbolt pronounced that I would be 'dealt with' first, and Albert was to wait outside. The Senior Mistress, he said, was there both as a witness and to hold my arms, 'should it prove necessary'. I wanted to cry, but I was too scared - tears wouldn't come.
When Mr Humbolt produced the cane from a drawer behind his desk, I stared at it, hypnotised; I just couldn't tear my eyes away. It was long, yellow and bendy, and when he swished it through the air, I jumped and clutched my backside in reflex, much to my embarrassment.
"Bend over the desk," he said.
This was it. My mouth was dry, my palms wet with sweat. As I leaned forward, I felt my shorts tighten over my bottom (which was quite plump even in those days). I felt so helpless and vulnerable. I held on to the far edge of the desk and turned my head: I wanted to see what was happening behind me.
Mr Humbolt was standing to my left, facing away and adjusting his grip on the crook of the cane. His black gown rippled as he rolled up his sleeve. Then he turned towards me. I took a deep breath and faced forwards, shutting my eyes tight.
I heard it even as I felt it: the swoosh, and the sound of it hitting the seat of my shorts, seemed to come almost at the same moment. And then I was just thinking, 'Oh! That isn't so bad', when this awful stinging tore across my bottom in a burning line. It grew and grew, spreading its pain up and down my back and legs.
"OW!" I yelled. I was so shocked I sprang up and grabbed my bum, skipping from foot to foot, my mouth wide open.
"Mrs Goldthorpe, if you please," I heard, and then,
"Bend over the desk, girl, this instant!"
I opened my eyes to see the Senior Mistress on the other side of the desk, reaching for my hands. I clutched them to my chest, wanting to refuse, but she looked so fierce I knew there could be no escape. Whimpering and reluctant, I bent forward again and let her grasp my wrists. She pulled me forward so firmly that I was even more stretched and vulnerable than before.
Then the second stroke hit me and another streak of pain ripped across my rear. I yelped and tried to twist away, but Mrs Goldthorpe held me tight.
The third was the worst yet, because my poor bottom was stinging so much, and throbbing too in time with my pounding heart.
"Please, sir, please," I squeaked. But the cane struck again, and I shrieked so loudly I'm sure they must have heard me out in the street across the playground. Oh, it was unbearable! I thought I would die. In fact, I was all set to beg for my life when I heard the Headmaster say,
"You may release her now, Mrs Goldthorpe ... get up, girl."
Tears soaked my cheeks as I sobbed. I reached behind, dabbing gingerly at my shorts where the stripes burned angrily underneath. Then I felt a hand on my arm and noticed the Mistress offering me a handkerchief. Dazed by pain, I took it gratefully and blew my nose.
"I trust you have learned your lesson, young lady," I heard. I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
I was allowed to go straight to the changing-room then, so I didn't hear the six that Albert got. We split up soon after, and from that day I was the best-behaved pupil in Wiltshire!
Now I let Eric spank me before bed - not too hard, mind you, but enough to make him nicely frisky. I quite enjoy the warm glow it brings, and the afters are just what the doctor ordered, and about time too!
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Eric won't be subscribing to the Spanking Gazette any more. He doesn't need to - he's got the real thing.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs JGC
---oOo---
Dear Dave,
Thanks, it's a good one; reads well.
Just one thing - I'm taking out the bit at the end about not subscribing - I'm sure you'll understand.
John Stilton, Editor.
The Master and Margaret
Paul's thin, high-pitched voice continued soothingly. "Now feel your chakras spinning ... your aura changes from red as the energy cycle reverses ... and ... breathe in ... now sense your aura become yellow ... and breathe out ... try to control the breath, Margaret. Your aura's going red again... "
Margaret sighed: not the 'right' kind of exhale perhaps, but the top of her head was throbbing from standing on it for so long, and she was beginning to wonder if this Auric Reverse Chakra Therapy really did help to speed up the journey to Enlightenment, as Paul and the others seemed so fervently to believe.
At thirty-six, Margaret yearned for deeper meaning in her life. Auric Reverse Chakra Therapy wasn't the first 'New Age' activity she'd tried since breaking up last Christmas with Gary. In fact, she'd thrown herself into several. She'd sat for hours in a Bio-Rhythmic Meditation Pod; had immersed herself in Hydro-Energetics; had even paid £50 to learn about Conscious Mastication. Yet none of these had brought about that sense of profound understanding and contentment for which she longed.
It was after a lecture on Crystal Energy Inhalation in Neasden a month later that she bumped into Susan. Susan was about forty, and her aura seemed to glow with just the kind of inner peace that Margaret sought for herself.
When asked for the secret of her happiness, Susan looked long and deep into Margaret's eyes, before whispering, "Yes, I believe I can ... I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"You must visit the Master. Then you will know."
Margaret's heart swelled with excitement. She did not have to ask what it was she would know - from the twinkle of joy in Susan's eyes, she felt instinctively what it must be: surely, nothing less than that precious answer to the riddle of life's mystery; that secret meaning that, once felt and understood, would make her life flow with the serene bounty of inner bliss.
The Master, explained Susan, was an Indian guru who had chosen to bring the wisdom of a lifetime's spiritual practice to England; more precisely, to Croydon, a suburb in South London where he lived in simple obscurity, bestowing enlightenment upon only the truest seekers, those whose destiny drew them, as if by some hidden guide, to the front door of his semi-detached two-up, two-down.
"But don't be fooled by appearances," whispered Susan conspiratorially. "The greatest saints have always appeared to Humanity in the humblest of guises."
"Yes, that's true!" whispered Margaret eagerly.
"You tithe him £49 and, if you are worthy, he will give you the gift of his hands."
"His hands?"
"Yes, he has hands like no other. You will see. And the £49 represents seven times seven - the ancient Aramaic number of forgiveness."
Margaret obtained the Master's details from the beguiling Susan, and went straight home to make what she felt sure would be a life-changing appointment.
---oOo---<
br />
Having followed Susan's instructions to the letter ("Telephone ahead, ask for The Master, and say 'Teach me, Master' ... nothing else, just that") it was with mounting excitement that Margaret turned into nondescript Palmers Road and made her way to Number 42.
The front garden certainly matched the humbleness Susan had spoken of: weeds grew tall from the cracks in the paving-stones and a rusted old pram lay rotting on its side.
The doorbell appeared not to work, so, heart in her mouth, Margaret knocked as loudly as she dared on the frosted glass-panelled door and waited.
And waited.
She knocked again, and waited some more. She felt tears of disappointment rising as she thought of how deeply she longed for the Enlightenment this man could bestow upon her, and how unfair it would be if he had decided, without even meeting her, that she wasn't 'worthy'.
But then she heard a sound, and saw the outline of a figure approaching the door.
It opened, and there before her stood a smiling, middle-aged Asian man of medium height with neatly combed black hair. His eyes danced merrily as he briefly appraised her. Then he raised his palms and brought them together in holy greeting, bowing slightly as he did so. Margaret was immediately transfixed by his hands: they were the biggest hands she had ever seen, quite out of proportion to his fairly average build.
The Master - she assumed it was he - continued to smile kindly.
"Come in, my dear. You are most welcome." His voice sang liltingly, laughter echoing behind it.
As she followed him into the narrow hall, Margaret's heart swelled with love: all the pictures she had ever formed of gurus coalesced in her mind and projected themselves onto his humble person. She remembered something someone had said during one of the many courses she'd attended: "To be special is so tempting; but do you dare to be ordinary?"
At the end of the hallway, the Master turned, still smiling, and indicated an open door. Blushing, Margaret passed him and entered the room. It was furnished simply with a sofa, some chairs, a display cabinet, some bookshelves.
Aunt Sarah's Slippering: and other short stories Page 5
