They were laughing with Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh when they were jolted out of their drunken amusement by a harsh voice through a tannoy. It cut barking through the night in that pinched Afrikaaner accent, accompanied by the sudden dazzle of headlights from the dunes.
"This is an illegal gethering. You are under arrest. Stay exectly where you are." Men in blue fatigues carrying sjamboks moved in from the darkness of the beach on either side. A girl screamed; a guy called out "Oh, shit!" Figures darted off towards the shore, a couple of police breaking away to give chase. Dagga cigarettes were thrown into the fire. The policemen spread through the crowd, efficiently handcuffing the men and corralling the women up towards the dunes. Rachel also saw two black guys dressed as judges being manhandled towards the vehicles. She shivered.
Standing on the shore side of the fire, the two city gents were among the last to be approached. And then Simon was between them, an arm on each shoulder.
"Quick!" he said, pushing them forwards. "Go with the women! They'll spend the weekend in a cell and get a fine, but if you stay -" But a burly white giant with a pockmarked face and the broken nose of a rugby player was already upon them, grabbing their arms and snapping on cuffs with a practised swing and a click.
"Hold on -" Rachel protested, but he put his nasty potato face two inches from hers and bellowed,
"Hou jou mond, you kaffir-loving draadtrekker! [Shut your gob, you nigger-loving wanker!]" Spittle spattered her face. Placing a huge hand on a shoulder each, he forced Rachel and Susan irresistibly to the ground.
"Officer, they're -" tried Simon, bravely, but a slap in the mouth sent him reeling backwards into the sand. Susan noticed the sjambok. It was made of a smooth hide and tapered down to less than a centimetre's width at the tip. She'd not seen one before, but a horrible thought now entered her mind: Simon's unfinished warning - but if you stay...
"Rachel..." she whispered, but the Tannoy cut her short.
"Sergeant Pretorius, get yours over that log. Van Rooyen, yours too." Potato Face dragged the two girls across the sand towards the longest of the driftwood logs. "Jordaan! Bring the poles!"
"Yis Captain!"
Their arms nearly wrenched out of their sockets, Susan and Rachel scarcely had time or breath to protest before they were dumped unceremoniously over the log. Hands cuffed behind their backs, their faces hit the ground and their mouths filled with sand. Potato Face went to fetch Simon, and Susan whispered, in a sandy lisp,
"They're going to whip uth!" Rachel, trying to spit out sand herself, turned slightly and nodded.
"Oh, God!" wailed Susan. "But we're not men!" she hissed. "We've got to tell them."
"We'd miss our plane," whispered Rachel hoarsely. "You heard Simon ... court on Monday ... we can't afford new tickets." And at that moment they heard the sound of engines coming to life, vehicles driving away. Susan groaned.
Simon was thrust down on Susan's right, and the guy who'd mistaken Rachel for a man was dumped on Rachel's left. They heard the grunts of others being thrown down further along.
Within an efficient minute they'd been re-handcuffed and found themselves prone over the log, arms stretched and secured to a pole in front, legs held in place by a pole behind their knees. Well and truly trussed up, Rachel felt the pin-striped trousers tight around her bum and thought ruefully of her joke about the Etonian. The captain spoke again.
"Listen, you moffies [fairies, wimps]! We're going to save the judge a lot of bother. He'd sentence you to twelve with a cane, so we'll go easy and give you six with the sjambok instead." He laughed derisively. "And you can keep your costumes on." His men laughed with him. "Let justice be done!" he ordered.
Looking to her left, Rachel saw two sjambok-wielding officers stand astride the log, facing each other about eight feet apart, their first victim between them.
"Ready, Piet?" the nearest one asked.
"Ready."
Rachel heard two rapid thwipp-CRACKs and a terrifying scream from the victim. She winced in sympathy. Two more pairs of strokes followed quickly, eliciting more shrieks of pain before the two officers shifted themselves along to Rachel's neighbour. The nearest officer backed up till his legs bumped into Rachel's left side. The tail of the sjambok was six inches from her face. It looked meaner than a cane, harder yet more flexible. Rachel realised she was in for the worst hiding of her life, or at least the most intensely painful. She turned to her right. Susan gave her a pleading look. Rachel tried to smile reassurance, mouthing, "Be brave!" and turned back. She needed to see what was in store.
She watched as the snake-like sjamboks whipped down onto the second man's upturned backside. He emitted a blood-curdling scream. Involuntarily, she pushed and pulled at her restraints, trying to get up. No chance. Her heart was pounding heavily, her bottom tingling with the danger signals emanating from her fear-swamped mind.
She was only dimly aware of the other two sets of strokes her neighbour received and his agonised yells; her mind could register only her own imminent doom. Soon now.
The first policeman steps backwards over her, the end of the sjambok sliding over her lower back as he does so. The other one steps over her writhing neighbour, and they're in position. She holds her breath and grips the pole in front for dear life.
"One! Two!" (an old habit) fills her mind as the two whips cut across the middle of her buttocks, two inches apart, in rapid succession. Pain sears through her nervous system. She manages to swallow her scream, voicing only a strangled, gasping gargle. But this hurts like nothing she's ever experienced. She's sure there'll be blood.
The next two strike at angles, the two tails slicing into the lower sides of each cheek. She can't hold back an agonised wail. Intolerable pain engulfs her consciousness and sweat breaks out all over her body. Her hands are slippery on the metal pole. She feels panic rising; she pictures her buttocks literally sliced open, wounds gaping.
The last two match the same angles but in reverse: the tails bite from the middle into the upper sides of her buttocks. The pain is hardly greater, so thoroughly is her whole arse already a cauldron of molten agony, but now it is fear that elicits the high-pitched scream and makes her keep screaming. It helps keep her consciousness away from the burning torture in her bottom. But it has also alerted the policemen to her gender.
Her head was suddenly yanked back and Potato Face was there in her face again, examining it closely. He wiped at the charcoal, now smeared with sweat, and groped clumsily at her breasts.
"Bloody hell, Ceptain ... he's a ... she!" he exclaimed.
"Voetsek! [Fuck off!]" came in disbelief.
Policemen gathered round and examined Rachel's involuntarily twitching bottom with awed interest. The pinstripe cloth and the panties underneath had been shredded in places.
"And this other English gent?" asked Potato Face, standing over Susan, admiring her smaller but, once you knew it, also clearly feminine arse.
"Yes," wailed Susan, "I'm a girl too!"
"Fok!" said the Captain. "Here, Piet, give me your shammy!" He spoke threateningly in Susan's ear. "I'll be easy on you, girl, but if you try to complain, then you'll both regret it big time, ja?" Susan nodded vigorously. Piet handed him the sjambok. He stood up, stepped back, and whipped it down with a smart thwack across the upper part of Susan's prominent pin-striped rear. It wasn't as vicious, not that Susan could tell. She screamed and jerked furiously, handcuffs rattling against the pole, legs and bottom bucking. He gave her three more sharp swipes, parallel and slightly lower each time and each produced squeals of outraged pain. Rachel was still moaning, struggling to endure, but was aware enough to thank God Susan wasn't getting the six she'd had.
Crying sorrowfully, Susan was released and lifted to her feet. Rachel too was uncuffed and helped up. The captain, eager to make this potential embarrassment disappear, grabbed their collars and marched them, past the dying fire, twenty yards down the beach in the direction of town.
"Now get out of here," he said, pushing them r
oughly on their way.
Limping unsteadily towards town, like Lot and spouse in reverse, they dared not look back, even when they heard the thwacks of the sjambok start again.
"Ow ... Ow ... Ow," muttered Susan after a safe distance. Rachel was in too much pain even to express it.
At the hotel, Susan treated Rachel's cuts with Dettol and infinite care, her own bruises with arnica cream. And Rachel, buttocks stinging madly, was already feeling proudly brave and tentatively sexy...
---oOo---
After their last, uncomfortable night in Durban, sleep overcame them on the plane. Waiting in transit in Nairobi, where they mostly stayed on their feet wandering the terminal, Susan turned to Rachel and asked,
"So, my darling, where shall we go next summer?"
Rachel thought for a moment, and with a wicked smile and twinkling eyes, said, "How about Saudi Arabia?"
Much Ado about Spanking
"Serve God, love me and mend."
It was Monday morning, the week of Thanksgiving. Mary Williams, secretary to Principal Woodward, was cleaning her desk in the small office that acted as a buffer for his own more imposing one when the outer door flew open and Beatrice Natiche marched in.
"G'morning, Mary. Is he in?" asked the statuesque Geography teacher and volleyball coach. Mary would have replied but at that moment the sound of paddle meeting butt came through the closed door beyond, answering Beatrice's question for her.
"Tsk! At it again, is he? Does the man have nothing better to do?" Beatrice looked at her watch and took one of the seats across from Mary's desk. "I suppose I'll have to wait ... again."
The sound of another swat was heard, followed by a high-pitched yelp. Mary watched as Beatrice crossed her legs and tapped her fingers impatiently on the knee of her dark blue skirt. She liked Bea (as she was known to all but Principal Woodward) - she was, by all accounts, an excellent teacher respected by staff and students alike, and she was an attractive woman too, with an athlete's trim figure - she excelled at racquet sports and was a keen cross-country skier. Unmarried of course ... and didn't she let everyone know it! "A woman needs a man like a crocodile needs a toothbrush!" she was fond of announcing. She wasn't gay - Mary's 'gay-dar' was second to none, and she'd known the moment they'd met years before that Bea was straight - no, she was simply, doggedly, independent. And that, mused Mary, was the only thing Bea and the Principal appeared to have in common - they were both determinedly single and scathingly skeptical of anything that smacked of sentimentality, let alone romance: the very word made them cringe and unleash a diatribe against the follies of love.
The Principal's door opened and a red-faced teenager emerged, wiping away tears with one hand while the other rubbed the back of her skirt. She was followed by a tall man, perhaps 50, slim of build and handsome in a craggy sort of way, with thick eyebrows standing guard over piercing brown eyes.
"Ah! Miss Natiche! What a pleasant surprise!"
Mary could see that the barely concealed sarcasm of Ben Woodward's greeting was not lost on Beatrice who frowned as she stood up.
"Yes, Mr Woodward, well, I'm afraid I have an urgent matter to bring to your attention," she said, eyeing the departing teenager with sympathy and curiosity.
"Of course you do, Miss Natiche, of course you do." He stepped back with a superior smile on his face as she strode grimly past his exaggeratedly gallant bow.
"Principal Woodward," she began, as soon as he'd closed the door. "I must protest at the manner in which you dealt with Sally Trent on Friday. The girl was ..."
"Miss Natiche," interrupted the Principal. "If you've come to ..."
"Mister Woodward," she broke in, raising her voice over his. His eyebrows rose but he maintained the smile. She went on quickly. "We lost the game on Saturday because my best player was in such discomfort after the paddling you gave her, as well as the dose she got at home, that she couldn't perform! You know very well the parents often follow up a padd-"
"Enough!" he shouted. Beatrice's mouth fell open in shock. He quickly regained his composure, the corners of his mouth turning up in the direction of that smile again. "I apologize for raising my voice, Miss Natiche, but..."
"Principal Woodw- ..."
"But I must insist," he continued, ignoring her outrage, "that you accept my authority in this matter. I run this school, Miss Natiche, not you, and I will run it as I see fit. I'm well aware of what some parents do after a punishment received at school, but the Trent girl had played truant again and she knew exactly what would happen, both here and at home. That, as far as I'm concerned, is the end of the matter."
"But..."
"I'm sorry that Glenview High's volleyball team was unsuccessful on this occasion, but I'm sure we'll be victorious in games to come."
"Princip-"
"Thank you, Miss Natiche," he barked. "I have noted your complaint. Now, if you don't mind ..." He avoided her eyes as he opened the door. Beatrice glared at him anyway, fists clenched at her sides. She marched out past a bemused Mary, slamming the outer door behind her.
He sighed and shook his head. "I tell you, Mary, sometimes that woman just ... just ... if she wasn't such a good member of faculty, I'd... I'd ... oh well, never mind. Anyway, I'll welcome the Thanksgiving break!"
Mary smiled. "Yes, Ben. Got any plans?"
"Oh, not really - just heading up to the Creek - if the roads are passable. They say it'll snow some more on Wednesday. Anyway, the usual." He smiled weakly, a little sadly.
As he closed the door behind him, Mary sighed. Such a lonely man, she thought. Such a waste.
---oOo---
Mary settled herself over the pillows, bare buttocks in the air, a delicious flutter of excitement melting her belly. Steve Dean, Head of Social Studies at Glenview High and her lover for the past six months, stood naked by the side of her bed tapping a hairbrush against the palm of his left hand. Fans of classic movies, they liked to play. Tonight he was Marlon Brando to her Vivien Leigh, Stanley to her Blanche.
"We've had this date from the beginning," he said, kneeling beside her and raising the wooden-backed implement.
Mary gasped, then squealed, as the hard wood smacked into her soft curve. An oval appeared on her left cheek like a ripe red mango.
"Mmmm!" she moaned as the sting tingled and spread.
Steve settled into a more comfortable position and set about reddening the rest of her ample bottom. Mary's yelps became ever more pained as Steve's punishing arm laid on whack upon whack, his firm hand in the small of her back holding her in place as she squirmed and bucked.
From happy experience, Steve knew just when to stop. In a moment he'd flipped her over, thrown the pillows aside and pinned her arms above her head. He sank down into her and they merged, riding that streetcar all the way to Elysian Fields.
Half an hour later, on their backs and thoroughly sated, Mary said, "Steve, don't you think it's sad - Ben and Bea?"
"What's sad?"
"Well, how they're both so ... alone."
"Hm. Seems that's the way they like it."
"I know, but what if ..." She stopped. "You do realize Bea's a spanko, don't you?"
Steve roared with laughter. "What?! You gotta be kidding me, M! That woman would sooner die than submit!"
"It looks that way, I know, but I've noticed a few things. I'm not saying she knows it exactly, but ... anyway, I've had an idea."
"Uh oh!"
She slapped the top of his thigh. "Shush, you! Yes, I've got an idea, and you're going to laugh even louder at this!"
"OK, let me hear it then."
Mary turned and snuggled up against him, fingering his chest hair. "Well, a woman's intuition and fifty bucks say Ben and Bea will be married before New Year's."
Ben laughed again. "Mary, my love, I must've spanked you too hard! Married? Those two? No way!"
"Yes way! And I'll tell you how, too!"
She got up and went over to her clothes which were draped over a chair. She came back holding
up a key. "This," she said, "is the key!"
"Oh, I've got to hear this!" He laughed. "This should be really good!"
And it was. And after she'd finished outlining her plan, he had to admit it too.
---oOo---
Late the next afternoon, Beatrice Natiche was in a corner of the school library alone. It was freezing out, and not that warm inside either. She was looking for a text on the formation of the Mississippi delta for her twelfth graders when she heard the door open, and voices. She turned, but the shelves obscured her view.
And then she heard her name. She froze.
"Bea? She'd laugh in his face!" a man's voice said.
"I know!" came a woman's reply - it sounded like Mary Williams. "It's so sad! But he's desperate! Oh, Steve, you should see him when he's talking about her - he can't help himself - he's like a kid, so excited and then ... so forlorn! I can't bear it! And I'm the only one he'll confide in. I just want to march up to Bea and tell her."
"No, Mary! For God's sake! You mustn't. You know how scornful she can be - 'specially about the paddling. She'd destroy him! He'd never live it down, poor man."
"I suppose you're right, but it seems so ... such a shame ... such a waste."
"I know. It is."
"And d'ya know what he said yesterday?"
"No, what?"
"After she came in and ripped into him, he said to me ... he said, 'Mary, I love that woman but sometimes I just want to give her such a paddling!'"
Steve chuckled. "I don't blame him - she can be really annoying when she's got a bug up her ass about something - and you got to admit, that's quite a lot of the time!"
"Well, I guess there's nothing we can do. He says he's thinking about moving on, looking for a school back east maybe."
"Aw, that's terrible, Mary. He's the best Principal I've ever worked under, and this school is going places."
"I know, but what can he do? He's dying of unrequited love, and that hurts, Steve, it really hurts. 'Specially when you know it just ain't gonna happen!"
Spanking Cheat: ... and other short stories Page 3
