Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

by Daniels, Alan

  "Yet you remain fascinated at the thought of being erotically disciplined. Am I right?"

  "Yes, I suppose so. I had fantasized since puberty of being spanked on my bare bottom. When it finally happened, I was overwhelmingly relieved that the reality was as satisfying as the fantasy."

  Scarlett laughed, a tinkly sound like a temple belI. "I think we'll get along just fine, darling. Cup of tea?"

  "Yes, thank you, that would be lovely."

  Her flat and everything in it is designed, as might be expected, for someone who lives life in a wheelchair: The kitchen and laundry appliances, the cupboards, the bathroom sink, the toilet with its grab bars, are all within reach. In the combination lounge and workroom where Scarlett has her television, is a shelf full of books and a gallery of her works, a showcase of hand-crafted rattan canes. While the water was boiling I took a closer look at them. The beauty and craftsmanship astounded me. These were works of art. Some had silver handles, others were bronze, or were gilded, or shone like polished steel. Some had glass handles showing striations of color that changed and winked in the afternoon light filtering in from Sloane Square. Some were set with jewels: amethyst, mother of pearl, gemstones, moonstones, jade, malachite, quartz, topaz. One was decorated with teardrops of lapis, another with tiny silver bells. I took it out of the case for a closer look.

  "One of my bestsellers," Scarlett said, wheeling in with the tea and biscuits balanced on her lap on a silver tray.

  "It's beautiful," I told her. "But what's with the bells?"

  "You have to understand the market, my sweet, to appreciate the appeal of the bells. Let's say you're the head of Formula 1 racing, or the Archbishop of Wherever, or a cabinet minister, or High Court judge, doesn't matter who, you crave punishment, you yearn for it, so you come to me. Once you're here the rest is theatre but the curtain doesn't go up immediately. Oh, no. You must wait until I am ready and the waiting is almost unbearable. Imagine, you're in the punishment position, blindfolded, bound hand and foot. You know you will be caned, but you must wait. Then suddenly from somewhere out of the blackness you hear the tinkling of tiny bells and you know the time has come. I'm not selling pain, or power, although that's part of what I do. I sell theatre, fantasy, desire, I never forget that. Me and Disney are in the same business. We sell illusion to people who believe. Did you know that one in ten of educated, middle and upper class men and women have experimented with this genre? I forget who it was that said it, but some people have to be tied up to be free."

  The tiny sculptures carved on the handles are miniature masterpieces, no two exactly the same. There are gods and devils, prehistoric monsters, demons, gargoyles, angels, grinning death heads, their faces frozen in the agony of the damned. I have seen the same figures, the harbingers of hell, on the alter friezes in great cathedrals. Not all are menacing. Some are set with hearts and flowers. One, I particularly like is a tiny figure of a naked submissive, on her back the wings of an angel.

  "The rattan is imported from Malaysia," says Scarlett. "It's the best on the market. Most of it is end pieces left over from the manufacture of rattan furniture. I ship it in by the box load. I make my canes to order, about two a week, on average, although if I have it in stock you can buy it off the website. The more intricate the design the longer they take and the more they cost, ranging in price from a few hundred pounds to a thousand or more, plus VAT and other applicable taxes. Over the years, I've made a comfortable living. Now I have got orders coming in from America and that's why I am growing the business. I need to rebrand for the Los Angeles market and that's where you come in, my sweet."

  By this time, although the beauty of her work was impressive, I find my thoughts drifting to the rattan, the business end of the product. I remember how it felt to wield it, the empowerment, the swishing sound it makes through the air. I felt suddenly aroused.

  "Scarlett?"

  "Yes, dear."

  No turning back now. "I've been thinking. It might help the creative process if I sample the merchandise, after all. What do you think?" I blurt this out before I can change my mind. The truth is that at that moment I desperately wanted it.

  "I was kind of wondering what took you so long."

  She wheels her chair to her work bench. "These are my most recent creations, oiled and ready to go. Choose one that you like and present it to me. It's yours to take with you when you leave."

  Trembling with excitement, I did as she bid, selecting the one with the silver bells. As instructed I hand it to her. She flexes it carefully. I can't take my eyes off it.

  "Good choice. The cane, like your schoolboy classic, is 31-inches by five-sixteenth, nice and whippy, but it won't cut you. See that cupboard over there? Behind those doors is a wooden horse clad in antique leather, the kind you probably remember from your school gymnasium. Bring it out for me, sweetie, if you please, and place it in the centre of the room."

  Barely breathing, I do as I am told, already moist with anticipation. The horse has two semi-circular rings set into the top of it about three feet apart.

  "Now, remove your skirt and panties and bend over the horse between the rings."

  I feel a tremor of fear as I do so. When I am blindfolded and precisely positioned as instructed, legs slightly apart, she binds my ankles and wrists with leather restraints. I can no longer see or move. Scarlett whistles appreciatively. "That's the prettiest I've seen in a long time, a worthy canvas for the master craftswoman." Lightly, she runs her fingers over my buttocks. Her hands are soft and sensuous. Seconds pass in darkness and silence. And then I hear the sound of tiny bells as she taps the cane three times on my bottom. I thrust it out as far as I can.

  "Be careful what you wish for, my sweet," she says. "I can lay a hundred strokes on a single freckle, or I can stripe you neat and tidy like a zebra's haunch. That's my call, not yours when you're over the horse. Either way you will experience the pleasure of pain. But I think six strokes will be sufficient for the day."

  I take a deep breath and hear the whistle of Malaysian rattan.

  The pain of each stroke is biting, but I also feel a warmth, a longing I hadn't felt since my school days at the Chiltern Hills Academy and the schoolgirl crush I had on Jen. I count to six. Then Scarlett removes the blindfold and unties me without a word. I feel a sudden yearning I can't explain. I take off my blouse and unhook my bra, which join my panties on the floor. I mount the horse and sit chastely, knees together, like a mannequin in a shop window awaiting the couturier. Scarlett, meanwhile, has wheeled away, carefully replacing the cane in its place. Perhaps sensing my needs or indulging her own, she turns to confront me, smiling. What I feel is unstoppable now and I lean back, grasping a ring in each hand for support, spreading my legs and closing my eyes. I hear the squeak of rubber on laminate as she comes to me and I feel her ears cool against my thighs, the warmth of her breath. She licks me slowly, rhythmically, her tongue expertly finding my clit, bringing me time and again to the point of orgasm before allowing the waves of pleasure to subside like surf on a rocky coast.

  "Take your time, my sweet," she says. "You tell me when." The way she says it, the gentleness of her tone is the tipping point. Hungrily, I grasp the back of her head with both hands pressing my fingers into her tangled hair, drawing her to me. "Now," I gasp. "Please, now."

  When I have recovered my composure, put my clothes on and put the horse back into its paddock, Scarlett Dolor is sitting at her workbench.

  "Tea time's over, my sweet," she tells me. "But I can offer you a glass of wine?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled to her fridge and pulled out a bottle of late harvest Sauterne. I recognized the label. She didn't buy this one at the supermarket.

  As we sat sipping wine together I asked her how she had become paralyzed. "Horse riding, my sweet," she explained. "Or, more specifically, falling off during a hunt. I broke my back, but not my spirit. My interest in discipline came later. The smell of leather, the snap of the crop on a horse's shanks s
tayed with me, is still with me. The whistle of the whip is the mantra of the horsey set. Ever been to a hunt ball? Believe me, my sweet, there are more trousers around ankles after the dancing stops than there are foxes in an unguarded henhouse."

  She looked at her watch.

  "You had better leave. I've got a visitor coming in an hour. Julian says you will have something for me to look at by the end of the week." She wrapped the cane in tissue paper and put it in a slim cardboard tube lined with velour. Then she tied a ribbon around it and presented it to me with a smile.

  When I left her flat it was raining, one of those downpours that blows horizontally making you wield your umbrella in front of you like a shield. Head down I was running towards the shelter of the tube station and I never saw him until we collided. The impact knocked the breath out of me and the cardboard tube flew from my hands and rolled into the gutter.

  "You okay?"

  Head still down, I nodded assent, while gallantly he retrieved my parcel. Only then I looked up to thank him and found myself staring into the eyes of R.C.Montgomery.

  He was first to react.

  "My God, Catherine. I don't believe it. I never thought I would see you again It's been what…. five years? Are you finished university? I'm still in Hong Kong, on home leave for a month. This is amazing."

  My hair was tangled by the wind and rain and I imagined I reeked of sex, but if only to get out of the rain I allowed myself to be bundled into a coffee shop and now we are sitting in a corner booth warming our hands on a latte, my precious parcel propped up against the wall.

  "It's not your birthday," he said. "I remember that date, last day of school for both of us. Have you taken up sword fighting?

  "It's just a poster," I told him. "Canaletto. I love Venice, don't you? When I wake up in the morning the first thing I see is the Rialto Bridge."

  And that was how it began. We started dating. Within a month I had joined him in Hong Kong. When Julian agreed to my taking a leave of absence, I couldn't wait to phone Jen. A year ago she emigrated to Australia to work for a pharmaceutical company in Sydney doing research in organic plant compounds. I miss her terribly.

  "I don't know Cat," she said, after I had told her what had happened, how we ran into each other and his invitation to join him in Hong Kong. "It's certainly a great opportunity. Hong Kong's fabulous. But there's something about this that bothers me."

  "Like what?"

  "Like his depression after what happened in Iraq."

  "He says he's over that. He's fine."

  "I hope so, sweetie. Still, if it doesn't work out you can always come to Sydney. Or I'll come to Hong Kong to visit you. I miss you."

  "Me, too. It's not the same here without you. Did I tell you I'm writing a book?"

  "No. That's exciting. What sort of book?"

  A romance, of course"

  "Of course. What's it about?"

  "I'm not sure yet. I'm still working on the outline."

  "Well, Hong Kong would make a perfect setting. Love among the lotus blossoms. What could be more romantic than that?"

  And for a while it was. Life is good for ex-pats if you have housing and money and RC has both. His penthouse apartment is on the Peak, the social summit of the Hong Kong scene. Across the harbor, sprawling Kowloon-side bristles with skyscrapers housing millions of people in warren-like units that stretch all the way to China. And yet here we are emperors of all we survey. We lie in bed luxuriating under the covers and flip the remote to raise the blinds, revealing, seemingly to our eyes only, the lights of the city laid out before us like diamonds. Far below, bobbing at anchor in the crowded harbor, freighters, cruise ships and rusting China coasters seem like playthings in a celestial pond.

  We are as giddy and carefree as newlyweds. On Sundays we go for dim sum with his Chinese colleagues in one or other of the huge downtown restaurants and afterwards, to walk off the meal, we hike for miles on the Hong Kong trail over the Dragon's Back to Big Wave Bay on the other side of the island. The trail winds across scrubby hillsides through stands of bamboo with views of the old village of Shek O, across the South China Sea to Tung Lung Island and the Clearwater Bay Peninsula. We sometimes see kites or eagles hunting, riding the thermals. It is hauntingly beautiful. This is the China of the ancient tapestries and it is inconceivable to us that we can be so completely alone in the most crowded place on earth.

  If we feel less energetic we drive the company Mercedes to the Hong Kong Cricket Club, where RC has a membership, and play tennis or lounge by the pool sipping Singapore Slings like characters out of the colonial past. RC works out every day, preserving the lean muscular body of a man half his age. The problems he suffered during the Iraq war are happily a thing of the past, although strangely we never discuss what happened between us during my last days of school. Yet not quite all has been lost to the past. Sometimes, when I'm in the bathroom getting ready for bed I hear the soft opening refrain of Ravel's Bolero and it never fails to make my heart race.

  He has taught me a simple digital code and we use it to text messages to each other to spice up our day. It makes me hot to confess my most intimate desires to him knowing that he alone can read them and I imagine him sitting in his office, or even in a meeting, or the metro, casually scrolling my messages up and down.. I tell him, as if he doesn't know, that I can't wait to assume my favorite position over his knee so he can stroke and caress my bottom or run his fingertips up and down my spine. Later, when fantasy becomes reality and I am in the position I crave we are totally at ease with each other. Keeping me waiting heightens the sexual tension between us. When he is ready he pushes down on the small of my back holding me firmly in position. I am his captive, his submissive angel, and I know he is about to begin. In response, I moan with desire and rise up to meet his hand.

  But sometimes, sensing the intensity of my desire, he is rougher, suddenly grabbing me by my wrists and thrusting me over the back of the love seat in our bedroom. I am utterly defenseless in his grasp. Then he stands behind me, with a single tug ripping off my panties, discarding the shredded garment at my feet. Now I brace myself for what I know will be a harder spanking which he administers until my cheeks are burning red. Then he enters me noisily from behind. When we are both sated, he gently turns me, kisses the tip of my nose and carries me to bed, laying me on my tummy so he can rub soothing balm on my stinging buttocks.

  I buy thin cotton panties by the dozen.

  Strangely, there is no suggestion of his own need to be punished. Something in my head says, don't ask, so I never question him about it. But one day I was idly skimming through the ads in the morning paper looking for rattan furniture for our balcony when a display ad for the Wang King Rattan and Camphorwood Chest Emporium on De Voeux Road East caught my eye. At the end of the ad in 6-pt type, it read: "Also available, products by RattanAmour."

  I can hardly believe my eyes, Scarlett Dolor exporting to Asia? I don't believe it, the Stradivarius of Discipline (a slogan I came up with) now for sale on the streets of Hong Kong. I am suddenly weak-kneed as memories of the extraordinary encounter with Ms. Dolor flood back. I can hear again the swish of rattan, feel its sudden sharp sting, the pain slowly giving way to a feeling of intense pleasure. I had come up with the brand name, RattanAmour, (where fine art meets serious pain) and built an entire web campaign around it. Then a wild thought intrudes on my reverie. His birthday is approaching. I would buy one as a gift for RC, a surprise, a link with the past and, dare I say it, on the right occasion it might serve to punish me too. I shuddered deliciously at the prospect.

  Next day I stroll down from the Peak to board a tram in Central, just another foreign tourist going shopping in Hong Kong. The trams are a throwback to the 1930s, green painted clanging antiquities that have somehow survived into the 21st century. Forget the luxury malls and the international high-end bling of Central, this is how to enjoy Hong Kong, at street level, trundling eastwards towards the Happy Valley racetrack and the Wong Nai Chung Gap Road
that winds over the mountain to Repulse Bay. Here you are totally immersed in the sights and smells of what's left of old Hong Kong: Bamboo scaffolding framing highrise buildings, delivery boys on bicycles buried under impossible loads, honking taxis, pushcarts, a jumble of advertisements in Chinese and English – the Fuk U Kee Umbrella & Toothbrush Manufacturing Corporation side-by-side with Welcome Market. There is chaos on the streets. My tram narrowly misses a pair of skinny farm boys, a bamboo pole slung across their shoulders, carrying a squealing pig to market.

  The proprietor of the Wang King rattan furniture emporium is a veritable smilin' Buddah, perched cross legged on a rattan glass-topped desk. He is wearing baggy shorts and a grubby white vest that only partially covers an extravagant pot belly. The locals seem to eat constantly day and night and this one is slurping from a bowl of noodles, gold teeth flashing.

  "Welcome, Missee," he says. "Good stuff inside. You wan' cold beer, cup of tea?"

  I politely decline and instead pretend to study the furniture. After what seems like a decent interval, I casually ask him to show me his line of RattanAmour.

  "Ha ha. You want buy cane," he says. "For you, or for master? Ha ha. No matter. We have for cane for lady and cane for gentlemen. Best quality. Lady one shorter. Gentlemen bigger ones, longer, more whippy, make good mark. Very fine canes. What you want? Come, I show."

  I follow him through a beaded curtain to a room in the back of the store. He opens a drawer and pulls out a selection, spreading them out like gems on a black velvet cloth.