And now, on the first full day of their honeymoon, in a sleepy whitewashed pueblo north of Alicante, there was this, the purchase of a hair brush, a promising development, she thought. It was a classic wooden brush displayed with other bathroom items in the window of a pharmacy in the old town a few blocks from the beach.
"It's perfect," he told her, enigmatically. She said nothing but smiled and squeezed his hand. In the heat of the afternoon, with the siesta ahead of them, she was aroused, which seemed a blissful semi-permanent condition since they had boarded a bucket shop flight at Gatwick and spent their first night together as husband and wife.
As George paid for it, exchanging pleasantries with the pharmacist in his passable Spanish, she appeared to show indifference, positioning herself strategically behind a rack of designer sunglasses, all the time watching in a display mirror until the transaction was complete.
Behind the beach now packed with sun worshipers the little town slumbered in afternoon siesta. Pem took his hand and they swung their arms like soldiers in a marching band as they made their way back to their hotel through narrow, deserted streets. Little was said as George fumbled with the packaging, but she teased him, asking to hold it, feeling its smooth back, the heft of it, nodding her approval. He responded by whispering something in her ear that made her shudder and kiss the tip of his nose. It was 4 p.m. Outside, the sun beat down with that Mediterranean intensity that gives shadows even to ants on the cobblestones, but their little room with its candy-striped wallpaper and black and white prints of the Pyrenees was cool and inviting. Later, in the hour before midnight, they would join the crowd eating tapas and sipping sangria at one or another of a dozen beachfront bars, honeymooners holding hands, watching the moon climb into the starry sky. But the siesta was a time for love.
There was no rush. Prolonging the moment they stood with their arms around each other at an open window caressed by a cooling offshore breeze, gazing out over the panoply of bright umbrellas to the dancing sea. Out of the corner of her eye she watched George put the brush on the bedside table on her side of the bed and the precise way he did so made her heart race. Then in the shadowy and dusty light that filtered in through drawn curtains they undressed. He cupped her breasts and gently kissed her nipples, teasing them until he felt them erect between his lips. Then he knelt and slowly pulled down her panties, nuzzling her pubic hair with his nose, inhaling her aroma. He turned her and as she bent a little he patted her bottom, the flat of his hand lingering on its perfect contours. Was that a signal? She thought so. On the drive from the airport in their rented car she had got them lost. Now as he led her to bed she felt certain her cleverness would be rewarded. She allowed herself a sideways glance at the brush anticipating its chastening sting and instinctively her hands felt for her behind, cool now but soon, she imagined, to be warm and blushing. For delicious seconds he kept her waiting. "You got us lost on purpose, didn't you?" he said. "Pass me the brush." Her heart pounding, Pem did so at once, then she laid across him thrusting up her bottom for their mutual enjoyment.
Over the years el cepillo, the Spanish word for brush, made a regular appearance in their love life. Spanking her with it, or with his hand, or with a switch from a birch tree, became an essential part of foreplay at their little flat in Pimlico and they choreographed various scenarios. Sometimes she would slip on one of her old uniforms, in another she would be a negligent secretary, or he would surprise her emerging from the shower, her skin shining and slippery, chastising her for some concocted domestic transgression as she bent over the bathtub. And of course there was a price to be paid for any infraction, however minor, of the municipal bylaws. During weekends in Gretchen, their camper van, his joy at administering to her shapely bottom was unconfined and for her part she craved the way it tingled beneath his touch. She loved exposing it for him, the total surrender, the way he worshiped her and the pleasure it gave them. And when he spanked her by hand the noise it made resonated like an ovation, the sound, George said, of one hand clapping. Invariably, their love making reached a noisy climax with George entering her from behind, Pem on her knees guiding him between blushing cheeks.
And now on this late summer Friday morning, as she applied her makeup and got ready for work, Pem caught a glimpse of el cepillo reflected in the bathroom mirror and felt a little frisson of excitement. An improbable thought occurred, perhaps if they were quick, there might be time.
"George, you awake?" Her enquiry was a little louder than was necessary to carry into the bedroom next door. It had no effect. There was only the sound of snoring and the rustle of the duvet as George turned over in is sleep.
"Bless him, he needs his rest," Pem thought. "He's probably dreaming about an amendment to the official community plan." She sighed and put el cepillo back on its shelf.
She put the kettle on and slipped back into bed alongside him. George stirred and rubbed his eyes.
"You still here, love?" he asked, sleepily. "Shouldn't you have left by now?"
"I'm going, five more minutes." She paused.
"George?"
"Go on."
"I'm sorry I dinged the van, it's just a scratch. I told you the chap in front slammed on his brakes. Honestly, it wasn't my fault. It was just a tiny bump."
He sighed. "You were on your mobile weren't you? You know you shouldn't talk and drive."
"I know I shouldn't."
They let the admonition hang in the air between them.
Pem allowed her hand to reach for the little fella, as George called it, and was delighted to find it standing to attention. When they first met, when Pem's English was not so good and not quite so attuned to George's self-deprecating humor, she felt constrained to defend its honor. "Little fella not so little," she told him after their formal introduction. "Good size. Good moves too, like a dancer."
She put her lips to his ear and breathed slowly out.
"George?"
"I'm listening."
"Are you going to give me a spanking?"
He slipped his hand under her panties feeling her arousal.
"I think that would be appropriate given the circumstances don't you?"
"Mmmm, I'll have to think about that. Right now I had better get going. I'll meet you after work in the pub around six." She planted a kiss on his cheek. "I can't wait 'til tonight."
She jumped from the bed, flashing him briefly as she ran towards the wardrobe.
George drained his cup and propped himself on one elbow.
"Where are you going? Who said anything about tonight?"
"But George you said you would, right? Don't tease me, okay. I'm in a hurry."
He had that look in his eye.
"I decide when."
"No, George, not now. Can't it wait until tonight? Really. I'll be late for work. I've got a management meeting at 10 am. I absolutely have to be there. Please, darling. I'll be sooo late."
George leaned back against the headboard and patted his lap, inviting her to assume the position. "You should have thought of that."
"But George, I have to sit on a hard chair for an hour. Please, can't it wait?" They both knew this was just play. George closed his eyes pretending not to hear. Then he felt the warmth of her body as she lay across him.
Next morning, Saturday, they drove to the coast where he had booked their favorite spot at the Lazy Daze Campground on the cliff top at Shoreham-on-Sea. It was raining as they packed everything they would need. The van's cupboards were filled with provisions and the little fridge was well stocked. The space between driver and passenger seats was piled high with a cooler, two folding chairs, a case of beer, a portable barbeque and the propane tank, but finally everything was in its place. On the drive out of London the wipers batted rhythmically at persistent rain, but by the time they reached their destination it had slowed to a soft summer drizzle. Pulling into the campground they made for the high ground as usual, crawling in low gear up a gentle grassy slope that led away from the main encampment where rows
of caravans bristling with antennae were packed together like suburban condos distancing themselves from the tents of the more modestly endowed spread out at the bottom of the hill. George reversed the van close to the edge of the cliff so no-one could approach from behind. It wasn't quite level, but he would level it later and they put the bed down and opened the back window where they lay together watching seagulls riding the wind above the jade green waters of Pevensey Bay.
Their camper van is their love nest. Sometimes, when the mood takes, she drives them over the Chelsea Bridge to Battersea Park, chooses a quiet parking spot away from others, draws the curtains, cranks up the sound and opens a bottle of wine carefully chosen for the occasion. For George, a Gewürztraminer, slightly sweet and spicy on the nose, is the perfect accompaniment to oral sex, while her choice of a white Zinfandel signals her desires in a subtle, unspoken way. When the doors are locked, the world is at bay and the aromatherapy fumes of an organic candle suffuse the air with sweet patchouli, they enjoy noisy and uninhibited trysts.
These were the best of times. At scenic spots such as Pevensey Bay, where William the Conqueror landed in 1066, George and Pem described their lovemaking as "a screw with a view." From the CD player came the mournful voice of Willie Nelson singing Sunday Morning Coming Down, and although it was only Saturday afternoon it seemed like a fine idea and as Pem stretched out naked on the bed he knelt before her like a supplicant at the altar, parting her legs and drawing her to him. Teasingly, he kissed the inside of her thighs, first one then the other, his tongue tracing patterns on her skin, gradually moving higher until she could feel the warmth of his breath. She arched her back, moaning with pleasure. But as he made one final positional adjustment his left leg inadvertently kicked the beer cooler, which knocked into the propane tank, which jolted the van's gear shift into neutral, an act of misfortune that George would later describe as a defining moment in Anglo-German relationships. He had meant to fix the faulty handbrake but he had not, and inexorably the van began to roll down the grassy slope picking up speed as it went. At first Pem thought the earth was moving then she realized it was the van that was moving – and it was headed for the campers below.
"George! Christ! Do something!" she screamed.
"Holy fuck," he said.
But the awful truth dawned that he could never reach the brake pedal through the pile of camping gear stacked between the seats. His only hope was to lean over and grab the steering wheel like the helmsman of a tall ship running before the wind. Witnesses would later give differing accounts of what happened in the next 15 seconds, but by most accounts Gretchen's descent was fairly stately, never reaching more than 10 k/m, although somewhat erratic in its progress. Pem could see little except George's backside as he bent to his task of trying to steer them to a safe landing. His best hope, he decided, was to head left of the tenting area towards a slight upslope that would have halted their descent and indeed he might have succeeded until a course adjustment on the wet downslope launched Gretchen into a spin knocking over a portable toilet to the dismay of the occupant, an elderly lady from Willesden who was caught with her knickers down. According to her lawyer, although she suffered no physical harm, she was several months in therapy and to this day has a pathological fear of all outside facilities. The good news was that the impact righted the ship slowing its momentum and had the wing mirror on the passenger side avoided a guy line of the last tent in their path all might have ended well. But it snagged. Gretchen, sailing on, ripped the tent from its moorings spilling out a motor mechanic from Baden Baden who was quite naked sporting a huge erection that he was waiving at a female companion who mercifully was still mostly clothed. Trailing their flimsy abode like a parachute behind a space shuttle, Gretchen finally came to a stop.
Several events followed that years later are still talked about around campfires throughout the land. Pem was so concerned that someone might have been hurt that she jumped from the van to tend to the wounded quite forgetting she was naked. Suddenly realizing she was on public view she did her best to hide behind George who had also abandoned ship and while this more or less took care of her frontal privacy it left her fully exposed to the rear where, coincidentally, most of the male bystanders were assembling. Tentless – but still erect - Herr Schitler was incendiary with rage.
"Sie blutiger Idiot!" he bellowed. There were several more admonishments that Herr Schitler wished to convey.
"Inkompetenter Dummkopf," he raged. It transpired that he was only just getting started on the subject of George's incompetence.
From her position behind George, Pem peered around in astonishment, not at the level of Teutonic invective, but at the sight that now confronted her. Herr Schitler's erect member was of truly formidable dimensions and, in spite of the trauma, had miraculously remained fully primed.
The little fella, in contrast, had long since retreated although as George would later recount at his local it had not surrendered, but instead had joined the Home Guard as clearly in any kind of a contest it was massively outgunned. One of George's heroes is Winston Churchill and although he was fairly sure that in the famous wartime speech about fighting them on the beaches Churchill had not specifically alluded to campgrounds, George nonetheless felt impelled to mount a spirited defense.
"Look, mate, it was an accident, brake failed, no damage done," he said. "Here, you can have your tent back."
Later, it would transpire from official reports that Herr Schitler's howitzer was artificially boosted by a prosthesis inflated by a pump embedded in his scrotum. In the heat of battle with what remained of his groundsheet flapping at his ankles he had been unable to locate the deflate switch and thus restore his rampant member to default setting. All this was subsequently reported in the Sunday papers. For at that moment the local constabulary arrived, attracted by shouting and a general clamor seldom witnessed in the sedate environs of Shoreham-on-Sea. Sgt. William Johnson, returning to duty after a leisurely lunch, was not pleased at having his afternoon rudely interrupted. "Bloody visitors," he muttered to himself as he dismounted from his bicycle. "Comin' 'ere, shoutin' and carryin' on." Surveying the scene, he came to the not illogical conclusion that Herr Schitler was the root cause of the disturbance. "That, sir," he intoned, pointing his notebook at Herr Schitler's member, "constitutes indecent exposure and might also be construed as wielding a dangerous weapon in public." This would lead to a summons being issued to Herr Schitler, which did little to improve his disposition.
When the dust settled and a measure of order had been restored to the Lazy Daze Campground and Sgt. Johnson had pedaled off shaking his head, George bundled Pem back into the van, giving her rear a little pat as he did so. By this time, they were both helpless with laughter. "Oh, George," she said. "I didn't know knew you could be so… so commanding. You should have seen the look on his face when you said he could have his tent back." George, who had seen the look on Herr Schitler's face, swelled with pride as did the little fella who apparently decided it was now safe to re-emerge. "And you my love," he told her, "were heroic beyond the call of duty. For that you shall be rewarded with the field marshal's baton." Pem reached across and gave it an encouraging squeeze. "To the high ground," she said.
Later that evening while it was still light they walked back down the hill to the camping area to apologize to the German visitors whose tent they had briefly highjacked. They walked slowly hand-in-hand because the grass underfoot was still slippery. The toilet that Gretchen had knocked on its side had been righted and restored to its foundation and peace and good order had returned to the Lazy Daze Campground.
They halted at the entrance to Herr Schitler's tent, which was tightly zippered. They could hear voices within and concluded it was safe to intrude.
"Ahem," George coughed loudly, there being no knocker. "Excuse us, may we have a word?"
The zipper moved encouragingly and Dieter's tousled head appeared. "Oh, it's you two," he said. "What do you want?"
"We came to apolog
ize," George said hurriedly. "If there is any damage, please let us pay for it. Meanwhile we just wanted to say we're sorry. What happened must have been a terrible shock to you. And it was our fault. Well, mine, really, I should have fixed the hand brake on our van."
The German couple emerged from their domain and stood to confront their visitors.
"I'm Dieter Schitler and this is my wife, Anagrette."
Pem thought he had a nice smile, that they both did.
"How do you do?" George said. "Pleased to meet you. We're the Browns, George and Pem, although Pem uses her Balinese name, Surjani.
"Bali?" said Dieter. He looked delighted. "We were in Bali just last year. We loved it. Wonderful people. We enjoyed it very much. Won't you sit for a moment, join us for a drink?"
So they sat together at a picnic table and Dieter produced a bottle of schnapps and four plastic glasses. Soon they were laughing hysterically at what had happened.
"Would you believe I got a charge of indecent exposure?" Dieter said. "I told the policeman: 'It's not my fault. When it's pumped up it has to be deflated,' I told him, 'I didn't mean to expose. I couldn't find the down switch.' Dieter glanced at Pem who was smiling, wide-eyed, and he felt suddenly embarrassed.
"I'm sorry, ladies I don't mean to offend," he said. Pem glanced at Anagrette and raised her schnapps, giving her an extravagant thumbs up. This started them both laughing and George kicked her under the table. Pem was not ordinarily much of a drinker, apart from the occasional glass of Zinfandel rose, and tended to lose her inhibitions if she drank too much. She ignored him.
"I give evidence in court," she told Dieter. "I tell judge: 'I don't think 'indecent, I think 'impressive.'"
"All right, that does it, we're leaving," said George. He made as if to get to his feet, laughing along with the others. "Next thing, she'll be asking for the brochure." They all laughed. "Pem has a point, though. We will go with you to court. In order to convict, they have to prove intent to commit an offence. And clearly that is not the case here. We can give evidence if necessary. What time are you due in court?"
Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown Page 3
