Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

by Daniels, Alan

  But instead of leaping from the table to summon the palace guards, Cleopatra assumed a position on her knees and elbows, laying her head on her pillow, her arms outstretched, hands clasped together as if praying.

  "Punish me," she said. At once the Doctor moved to her bidding. Holding her firmly around her waist, he stroked her buttocks which were writhing and flinching. And this time he did not keep her waiting.

  His hand rose and fell making her cry out with each delivery. He spanked her hard until her cheeks reddened and still she urged him on. Then he gently pulled her to him, placing his hands on her shoulders as he entered her and she moved rhythmically against his loins until her whole body shuddered and she climaxed time and again.

  At that moment the Doctor withdrew, his seed spilling onto the marble beneath his feet. He knew his duty. Cleopatra had a son and heir by Caesar and she would have three sons with Mark Antony. But to have a bastard child with a slave of her household would cause a scandal that would resonate for centuries. Altering the course of history was not an option, even for the Lord of Time.

  Satisfied, so far, George hit the print button and in his office in the breakfast nook across from the fridge he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his kitchen table. It was five o'clock, time for a pint. He assembled the folios as they clattered off the printer and read and re-read what he had written. Not bad, he thought. Well, at least it was a start. Then he put on his hat and coat and strolled to the pub. It had been a good couple of days. He had made a start to his novel and for no other reason he paused at the bottom of the stairs to perform his little Chaplin jig.

  Cleopatra's Other Lover, he said to himself. From the novel by George Aloysius Brown.

  He liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pall Mall, west of Trafalgar Square, is home to some of the finest clubs in London, among them the Athenium, the Reform Club and the Royal Automobile Club, magnificent structures clad in Portland stone dating from the 19th and early 20th centuries, inspired by the great palaces of Venice and Rome and later by French Renaissance architecture during the era of the Entente Cordiale. Less well known, but no less splendid, is the Donatien Club, its presence at street level announced by a discreet silver plaque embossed with the club's coat of arms. There is not the slightest hint of the activities practiced within, although its name says it all to the club's rich and powerful members. Donatien Alphonse Francois (1740 to 1814), after whom the club is named, is better known as the Marquis de Sade.

  George is not a club man, indeed not much of a belonger of any sort, except for a brief spell in the '80s as social secretary for Pimlico Labour Party and its regular meeting place in the basement of St. Saviour's Church would be swallowed up in the entry hall of any one of these splendid west end palaces. But when George saw a discreet classified advertisement in The Times announcing that the Donatien Cub was inviting applications for membership and would be holding an Open House, he saw an opportunity to broaden the scope of his research.

  "It won't do any harm to go along and see," he told himself.

  And so on a drizzly Thursday afternoon, bowler-hatted and carrying his rolled-up umbrella, he boarded the number 24 bus at the top of his street and settled in on the upper deck for the 15-minute ride. As the bus weaved through traffic on Victoria Street, past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament before turning into Whitehall, he was able to reflect on his progress to date. He had made a friend and formed a literary alliance with a Cambridge University graduate; he had done some useful, although somewhat dispiriting research at Olympia; he had appointed a librarian to his editorial advisory committee; he had learned something of the demographics of the adult video market; he had formulated the genesis of a plot and written a couple of chapters.

  "So far so good," he told himself, as he got down from the bus at Trafalgar Square and set off along Pall Mall. A few minutes later and with some trepidation he found himself at the club's imposing entrance and there being no knocker or bell to signal his arrival he pushed open the door. He had fully expected to be challenged by a uniformed doorman wearing kid gloves who would brusquely require him to state his business, but to his surprise there was no-one in sight, not counting the Marquis de Sade himself, or at least his portrait in oils that hung imposingly, although George thought somewhat menacingly, on the far side of the entry hall. To his left and right there was a marble staircase that spiraled to a wide gallery at first floor level. Here, tall casement windows opened onto balconies, their balustrades linked by pedestals each decorated with an elaborate frieze and topped by a molded cornice. George had not expected such opulence.

  "Can I help you?" A sharp female voice sounded more like a warning than a welcome.

  George turned in her direction and was confronted by a slim and immaculately dressed receptionist, elegance personified in a dark business suit worn over a white silk blouse that showed just enough cleavage to merit a quick appraisal. She regarded him quizzically through horn-rimmed spectacles.

  "I saw your ad," George said, by way of introduction. "Thought I'd drop by to check you out, I mean to check the club out," he added hastily.

  "Quite so," she said. "Are you interested in taking out a social or full playing membership? We have vacancies at this time only for players."

  "Yes, of course, I'm sort of a player," George found himself saying, with more conviction than he really felt. "Er, what games specifically are we talking about? I assume, given the club's patronage, that there are no limits."

  "Quite so," she replied. This seemed to be her favorite expression.

  "Our members enjoy the full spectrum of sado-masochistic and bondage activities from mild spanking to torture and humiliation. Whatever you seek you will not be disappointed. It's all in our brochure."

  "Well, yes, I see," said George. "Well my late wife and I enjoyed a little spanking play, just as an appetizer you understand, I mean it's normal isn't it, a lot of people do it."

  "Are you a top or a bottom?"

  George hated labels, but he said he supposed he was a top, most of the time, anyway. He didn't tell her what sometimes happened between them on dark and stormy nights.

  "Well, I think you will be well pleased with our facilities," she said. "We have several playrooms, all beautifully decorated. One of our most popular is the Headmaster's Study, which is authentically furnished and equipped with a full range of disciplinary accessories. And believe me there's no a shortage of delinquent female bottoms wanting to be administered to. Our club is open to men and women. Our role here, with the utmost discretion, is to bring like-minded people together. For our Open House we have another playroom available to prospective members and this is our fully-equipped Dungeon – the finest in London I might add. Unfortunately, our Dungeon Master is off sick today, but feel free to look around and there are others of our staff who will be pleased to answer any questions you may have. You have an hour before our members start arriving, judges, barristers, bishops, members of parliament, that sort of person of quality. I take it that you yourself, Mr. Brown, are a professional person."

  "Senior civil servant retired," said George proudly. He didn't tell her he was with Putney & District.

  "Very well, you are welcome to sample either of our play rooms. Walk in. You will find people there to help you."

  "I walk in, just like that? "George asked, suddenly feeling a pang of anxiety.

  "Quite so. You can hang your hat and coat in this closet here. Turn first left past the next corridor then first right to the Dungeon. First corridor on your left, then second door on the right, takes you the Headmaster's Study. Enjoy."

  Now thoroughly confused, but not wishing to appear disoriented, George deposited his hat coat and umbrella and stepped briskly in the direction she had indicated. But what had she said? Was it right, then left, or left then right? He couldn't remember. There were people to help, she had said, so he could always ask and it wouldn't hurt just to poke his nose in. He pushed
open a heavy door in front of him and took two steps into the gloom. Uh oh. Sensing at once that he had made the wrong choice, a moment of unease turned into full-blown panic when he heard the door clang shut behind him. Turning abruptly, he tripped on the uneven flagstones and fell to his knees. His spectacles flew from his nose and skittered across the floor out of sight.

  Next thing, a jackboot placed squarely on his neck forced him to spread eagle on the floor and he felt the full force of a riding crop delivered to his prone posterior.

  "Lick my boots, slave," commanded a female voice.

  "No, no," George said. "You don't understand. I'm awfully sorry, I'm in the wrong..." But far from relieving his predicament, he received another hearty whack. George didn't like the dungeon at all. He thought he had better change his tack.

  "I would lick your boots, honestly I would, but I can't while you're standing on my neck," he gasped.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  "Gosh, So I am," said the voice. "God, I always get it wrong. Look, I'm really sorry. When you're on your hands and knees I am supposed to haul you to your feet and handcuff you to the wall. Then I beat you. The boot on the neck bit is supposed to be come later. Honestly, I don't think I'll ever get the hang of it."

  She began to cry.

  "Please don't cry," said George. "Honestly, it's quite all right. My glasses fell off, that's all. Help me find them, will you? Ah, there they are."

  He popped them back on his nose, hauled himself to his feet and turned to confront his attacker, whom he now saw outlined in the ambient light that filtered in from a high barred window. She was a young woman, pretty as a waif in a greetings card, incongruously clad in full leather dominatrix gear. In one gloved hand had she clutched her riding crop like a wand while the other dabbed at her eyes where tears were forming little rivulets of eyeliner that cascaded down her cheeks, pooling on the flagstones at her feet.

  "There, there, it's alright, don't cry, look, I found my specs," said George. He was horrified at somehow being the cause of this young woman's grief. He wondered briefly about the etiquette of consoling a dominatrix then gave her a little hug anyway.

  "Here, let me get you a seat."

  The only one he could find came with arm restraints and leg irons, but he hauled it over to where she slumped against a wall and gently helped her into it.

  "I'm George," he said when she was comfortably seated. "It's okay. I'm not a real member. I don't even know what I'm doing here. I'm in the wrong room, anyway. Look, I won't tell anyone. Honestly, you were jolly intimidating. You really were. If I really were your slave, I'd be shaking in my tunic, let me tell you. Jolly menacing you were. Here, let me take this." He took the crop from her and hung it on the wall with the rest of the whips and floggers.

  As he did so, he had a chance to look around.

  "My goodness," he exclaimed out loud.

  If Disney made dungeons, he supposed they would look – and sound – something like this. From the flagstones beneath his feet to the cobwebs on the ceiling, the room, the dungeon, oozed menace and rank despair from every crevice. The far wall, furthest from the high barred window, dripped with brackish water oozing over slime. Dotted throughout, displayed like sectionals in a furniture warehouse, every conceivable kind of equipment – and some George, frankly, could not conceive of – gave it the subterranean terror of a mediaeval torture chamber. And the sound system, which he now clearly heard, invoked the cries of tormented souls, the scratching of rodents, the squeak of bats, the crack of whips and the dragging of chains, looping constantly in the background like Muzak in a department store.

  George shuddered. "My God," he thought, "this is this poor girl's work place?"

  "I'm Solace," she said, composing herself and taking a deep breath. "Solace Miseria. Mummy, Mistress Divina Miseria, you've probably heard of her, is the most famous dominatrix in Europe. She desperately wants me to follow in her footsteps. Why work for wages, she says, when you can earn thousands of pounds a day beating and humiliating rich men. I love her dearly and I know she has my best interests at heart, but all I ever wanted was to go to ballet school."

  The apparent injustice started Solace crying again and George fervently wished he could make her a nice cup of tea. He told her he was a writer and a visit to the Donatien Club was part of his research.

  "Perhaps if you explained to her that you tried it and aren't any good at it," he ventured. "Look, if you think it would help, I could talk to her, you know, be a disgruntled customer, tell her I want my money back, that I used to work at city hall, and you know, tell her I could revoke her business license, that sort of thing. Maybe if she heard first-hand how hopeless you are she would agree to your going to ballet school. After all, top dancers are highly paid too."

  Solace smiled, wiping the last of her tears from the corner of her eyes.

  "Mummy would eat you for lunch," she said. "But it's very sweet of you to offer your help. My friend Connie who works here has also been helping me. Man, she's good. Me, when it comes to being a dominatrix, I can dress the part, but inside I'm scared spitless, a quivering mess. Not Connie. She's absolutely marvelous at it. She could easily be as good as mum one day, although actually this kind of bothers her. She sometimes wonders if she has a heart, although she really does, she's one of the kindest people I know."

  Solace looked at her watch. "I'm sorry, I kind of wrecked your afternoon, didn't I?"

  George shook his head.

  "Look, it's almost 5 pm. I'm off shift. Mum takes over in half an hour when the club members start to arrive. Me and Connie are going for a drink and a bite to eat. You'll like her. Would you like to join us? Please say yes."

  "Thank you, that would be very nice," said George.

  Connie was up for it too. Any friend of Sol's is a friend of hers, she said, but socializing with members was forbidden.

  "You're here for the Open House, right? You're not a member. Are you thinking of joining?"

  "I'm not sure, yet. I shouldn't think so," said George. He wasn't sure what to say.

  "Well, that's all right then," Connie said. "Pleased to meet you."

  "George was a bit of an accident," said Solace, hastily. "He's researching. He stumbled into the dungeon by mistake."

  "I was actually looking for the headmaster's study,|" George confirmed, suddenly blushing. Was this too much information?"

  Connie hooted with laughter.

  "Don't tell me. Before you knew what was happening Sol had cuffed you to the wall and…."

  "It wasn't like that at all. Actually, I got it wrong as usual, and…."

  George leaped to her defense. "What happened was I tripped on the flagstones and lost my glasses. Solace helped me find them. It was all my fault really."

  Connie gave a friend a little dig in the ribs.

  "I get it. Pretty soon you're having a friendly chat and you're telling him you want to be a ballet dancer," she said. "I dunno what I'm going to do with you, Sol."

  "That's just about it," said George. "Except, I wanted to make her a nice cup of tea."

  They laughed. And the three of them, a girl on each arm, walked to a pub at Leicester Square.

  "I know this place," George said. "There's an Indian restaurant just around the corner. Do you girls like Indian?

  "We do, we love Indian, don't we Sol?" Connie said. "We always say there's nothing like a chicken tika masala after an agonizing day at the office."

  At this the girls high-fived and laughed, George joining in the merriment. His day had not been wasted after all and he felt a glow of happiness. He had accomplished little, but what did it matter. He was going for beer and a curry with two delightful young ladies for company. He did his little Chaplin jig, the girls responding by hoisting him aloft to the astonishment of passers-by.

  Next morning after a good night's sleep and a late breakfast of shredded wheat, George reflected that his research so far had all gone rather splendidly. He made himself a cup of hot chocola
te and plumped down on his living room sofa. Although it was barely noon, he felt he was on a roll and was ready to do some research into telephone sex. The classified advertisements offered a range of possibilities and he spread out the paper in front of him. Even so, it was all a bit puzzling. Thumbing through the ads he was clear on the concept but not entirely convinced of its merit. "How can you have a sex with someone who is not even in your postal code?" he wondered. Only one way to find out, he decided. And that was to make a phone call.

  There was one ad in particular that intrigued him. "For a good time, call Sadie." George said it out loud. There was a lyricism to it, a cadence. It sounded good. He remembered seeing a variation of that exact same invitation, with different names of course, scrawled in telephone boxes just about everywhere when he was growing up in the seventies.

  "Well, why not?" he thought. "Everything is retro these days, so why not retro telephone sex?" He drank the last of his hot chocolate and with credit card, notebook and pen at the ready, he dialed Sadie's number. "Was he in for a good time?" he wondered. Frankly, he didn't know what to expect. He doubted it.

  Ring ring, ring ring.

  Across town in the London borough of Islington the phone rang in Andrea Anderson's rented flat. Sitting at her kitchen table calculating her quarterly VAT payment, silently cursing the government for leeching on small business, for the many disincentives it inflicts on hardworking entrepreneurs such as herself and for generally squandering her tax money, she was not immediately inclined to answer.

  Ring ring.

  "Sod off, I'm busy." she said out loud, thinking it's probably some pimply-faced youth with his father's credit card and a mouth full of pizza, sitting with his testosterone-fuelled mates grinning like morons at a speaker phone.

  Andrea is 42, pretty fading to plain, with short bobbed hair and a figure that once had curves in the right places, now gone pear-shaped with neglect. Although it was almost noon she was still wearing her nightie and a fluffy white bathrobe embroidered with the logo of a hotel in Biaritz where she once spent a weekend with a guy she met as a wrong number.