Subject: New Story: Incident on 8th Street
From: klick <klick@sanctum.com>
Date: Sun, 09 Feb 1997 18:38:11 -0500
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This is my first post anywhere so please be kind. The story is fiction and the usual disclaimers apply.
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Incident on Eighth Street
He lies on the foot of the single bed in the sparsely furnished room. He wears white pajamas on which are printed small cartoon characters, he is on his side with his knees against his chest, arms tightly gripping his shins. He sobs occasionally and hiccoughs, his face is tearstained. They are tears of dread; he knows from agonizing experience that soon they will be tears of intense pain and humiliation. He sobs at the thought. He hears footsteps in the hall outside the door and buries his head in his knees. The door opens.
"James...James, look at me."
She is tall, well over six feet, with wide shoulders and large hands. Her waist is thick, her thighs heavy. She wears her iron-gray hair pulled back severely into a bun around a lined face with no make-up. Her dress is plain and hemmed below the knees, her stockings are opaque, her shoes lace-up and sensible.
"All right, James, Why are we here?"
He sobs again and finds his voice. "You're gonna 'pank me. You're gonna 'pank my tushie and make it burn and make me cry." The last comes out as an accusation.
"That is exactly right. I am indeed going to spank your bottom, it will be very painful and you will most assuredly cry." She moves the straight chair to the center of the room and turns back to him.
As she steps to the bed he scuttles crabwise to the head, retreating from her. She takes two more steps and grasps his arm. She tugs and he comes reluctantly off the bed toward the chair, the grasped arm straight out, toes dragging in the carpet. She seats herself in the chair.
With wretched reluctance he lays himself across her lap.
"Please Miss Finch, I'm sorry I said those things and I promise I'll do everything you tell me." The voice is high-pitched, the words rapid. "I promise!"
"Oh, I'm sure you're sorry now, but that isn't quite enough, I'm afraid. Your behavior this afternoon was absolutely unacceptable. You know I won't tolerate disobedience and insolence because we've discussed it before in exactly this fashion."
"But sometimes I forget." The last word descends into a whine.
"So today I have something special which will help you remember."
She hooks a thumb into each side of the waistband of the pajamas and quickly slides them down to his thighs. She ignores his pleas, slips her left hand under his stomach so his waist is encircled. Her right hand reaches as far as possible above her shoulder and comes down with all her strength. The report echoes in the small room, he jerks and cries out. Her hand descends again and again and again, powerful, biting blows whose sound almost drowns out his cries. After twenty he is wriggling and sobbing desperately, by thirty he is in full cry, his body in constant motion, his buttocks bright with color.
She stops, waits for him to quiet somewhat and reaches her left hand into a pocket on the side of the wide skirt. She pulls out an object and holds it where he can see it. He howls in misery.
"I promised you last time, James, that if there was another spanking I would use the hairbrush. I keep my promises."
He protests frantically between sobs and kicks and bucks strongly as she moves the brush to her right hand.
The swing is shorter, the hairbrush lands with a "pop" and his body is galvanized. She must hold him strongly now as the hairbrush plods a constant pattern. It begins at the juncture of buttock and thighs and, first one side then the other, moves well up his buttocks, then back down to the thighs and back up. Over and over the pattern is repeated. She doesn't stop until he lies almost still across her lap, his voice a high keening.
She stands him up by main strength and goes out the door closing it behind her.
He stumbles to the bed where he writhes in torment for several minutes rubbing frantically, sobbing and wailing. With an effort he begins to get his breathing under control and moves to the second door which reveals a small bathroom. He runs cold water on a washcloth and bathes his eyes and then his face. Breathing deeply until his sobbing is inaudible, he goes to the dresser, picks up the cellphone and presses two keys.
"I'll be leaving here in about fifteen minutes. Have Wilkins meet me with the car at the corner of Eighth and Florio." A pause. "Yes, I expected them. Put them in the conference room, give them coffee and let them wait. Anything else?" He shuts down the phone, goes back to the bathroom for a quick shower. Clad in clean underwear he opens the third door and pulls the gray custom-tailored suit out of the closet. There is a bright necktie draped around the shoulders.
He allows himself a small smile. The Rush Limbaugh tie adds exactly the right touch of color.
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