Hot ticket
By Michael O'Connor
Gillian Graves enjoyed a well-earned reputation as the bitch queen of traffic wardens, though she was officially employed as a "traffic control officer". Unlike many of her kind, she loved every minute of her job. Not for Gillian any traces of self-loathing or the bothers of conscience. When she donned her crisp dark blue uniform, fitted her cap over her boyishly short black hair and tugged the peak low on her brow, she switched on an aura of righteous authority. Wielding her pen and notebook like lethal weapons, she strutted the streets of Dukesbury, administering justice with a hard-faced, ruthless efficiency.
Gillian had not always wanted to be a traffic warden. But a minor, dope-related indiscretion at college had ruled her out of a career with the police. Fortunately, the vetting procedures employed by Dukesbury council were somewhat less stringent. Though she was twenty-four years old, Gillian retained a vivid imagination. She treated her job as a game, in which she was the hunter, stalking the four-wheeled beasts that dared infringe even the most minor parking regulations. Each vehicle ticketed was a "kill". Tickets resulted in fines, which meant increased revenue for the council and generous bonuses for the most productive traffic warden they had ever employed.
Saturday was her favourite day. On a good afternoon, when the town was filled with shoppers and parking spaces were at a premium, she frequently notched up more "kills" than in the rest of the week combined. Regardless of whether her victim was a boy racer in a turbocharged XR3 or a pensioner in an ancient Mini, once the hunter had unsheathed her pen, all protestations fell on deaf ears. Authority without mercy was Gillian's motto.
She was in a particularly vengeful mood when she espied the fire-red Ferrari, double-parked, engine running, like a getaway car in a gangster movie. What a way to crown the most productive Saturday for months! she thought elatedly, as she homed in on her quarry, notebook already in hand. Catching a glimpse of the uniformed figure in the rear-view mirror, the blonde in the passenger seat turned around. The realisation that the traffic warden was a woman caused her appealing smile to fade somewhat. As she moved around to the front of the sports car, Gillian was unable to resist a lingering glance. The exceptionally attractive blonde was in her early twenties and dressed for the hot July afternoon in ripped denim shorts, reflective shades and a black bikini top that could scarcely contain her ample breasts.
"Hey, hang on, please!" she cried, as Gillian began noting down the personalised registration of the Ferrari. "She'll only be a minute. My friend just popped into the shop for a newspaper."
Gillian displayed not a flicker of response.
"Aw, give us a break!" the blonde pleaded. "Look, she's at the counter now, just inside the window. Hey, what's the matter with you? Do you understand plain English?" Gillian finished writing, ripped the ticket from her book and clapped it on the windscreen.
Then, mission accomplished, she turned on her heel and proceeded onwards, like the stone faced, silent stranger in a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. She had taken only a couple of steps, when the owner of the Ferrari - an elegant and attractive red-haired woman in her forties - burst from the shop, brandishing her rolled up newspaper like a truncheon. "What do you think you're doing?" she shrieked, in a West Coast American accent.
Gillian almost smiled as she turned to face her. Few things gave her a better adrenaline rush than a heated confrontation with an irate, motorist. That which most traffic wardens dreaded, Gillian savoured.
"You're double parked, you're booked," she flatly replied.
"I was parked here for three minutes maximum!" the woman stormed. Pavement traffic ground to a halt, as a crowd gathered eagerly around the protagonists in the high-street confrontation. "I don't care if you were parked for three seconds," Gillian retorted. "You've been given a ticket, end of story." The woman stepped up to her on six-inch stilettos, until only a few inches of air separated their faces. Her expensive perfume was intoxicating.
"Do you know who I am?" she rasped.
"I couldn't care less if you're the Queen herself," Gillian answered, keeping her stare locked on the emerald-green eyes behind her gold rimmed spectacles.
At this point, even an outraged sixteen-stone skinhead would have retreated. But the American offender was obviously made of sterner stuff.
"You think that uniform makes you something special," she sneered. "Lady, you're nothing but a jumped-up little street sweeper. Now, either you take that ticket off my car, or you'll be fucking sorry."
"Are you threatening me?" rasped Gillian.
"Damn right I am," the woman snarled. "Well, are you gonna take it off or take the consequences?"
"Ma'am, if you don't like that there ticket on your windscreen, I suggest you take it off yourself and shove it up your fat ass," Gillian drawled, in a crude pastiche of her adversary's accent. The woman's jaw dropped and her eyes appeared on the brink of exploding from their sockets. For a moment, Gillian thought she was going to strike her.
"What did you say?" she demanded, her voice trembling with rage.
"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" Gillian retorted, loud enough to coax a titter from several bystanders.
"You haven't heard the last of this, you foul-mouthed bitch," the woman growled, before turning abruptly away.
"Traffic Nazi - one; Yankee - nil!" brayed a voice from the crowd. As the Ferrari screamed away from the kerb, Gillian could not resist bidding the incensed driver farewell, by raising the middle finger of her right hand in the universally recognised American gesture of contempt.
She basked in her triumph until the following Tuesday afternoon, when she found herself unexpectedly summoned to the office of the Chairman of Dukesbury Traffic Authority. One look at her superior's face provided sufficient warning that she was not about to receive yet further praise for her continued good work.
"Miss Graves, I have received a serious complaint," he began, having invited her to sit. "Last afternoon, in full view of several dozen witnesses in the high street, you were involved in an altercation with a member of the public."
"She was double parked and I was just doing my job," Gillian replied.
"Your job does not involve subjecting members of the public to verbal abuse," snapped the chairman.
"The woman in question was abusive to me," she retorted. "She shouted at me and threatened me."
"In which case, you should have warned her that you would call the police," he replied. "You've been in this job long enough to know that you do not retaliate in kind to an angry motorist, under any circumstances."
"I tried to explain that I was only doing my job," said Gillian.
"It might interest you to know that I have seen the entire disgraceful episode," he told her. "It was captured on a street security camera. You may well be able to claim that you were merely trying to placate the woman, but I'd be interested to hear your explanation for the obscene gesture you used as she was driving away." Only then did Gillian realise she was in serious trouble.
"Perhaps I did overreact," she murmured. "But....."
"This isn't the first incident of its kind," the chairman interrupted sharply. "Up until now, I have overlooked your unacceptable behaviour, because of your obvious dedication to your work. Efficient traffic wardens are difficult to find, but this time you have gone too far. I don't suppose you realise who that woman was?"
She shook her head.
"Tabitha Wakeman, the American writer," he continued. "She has only recently moved into this area and she's the closest thing to an international celebrity to take up residence in Dukesbury. You might be able to intimidate the local breed of errant motorist, but Miss Wakeman is a different story. This morning, I received a letter from her solicitor. As a result of your heroics, she is threatening to sue Dukesbury District Council. With plenty of witnesses and the video-taped evidence, she has a watertight case for substantial damages. The council has a similarly strong case for your immediate dismissal."
"Perhaps she's only bluffing," Gillian said, in desperation.
"A woman like that doesn't bluff," he retorted. "Were I to dismiss you this instant, I would be quite within my rights. However, in view of your service record, I'm prepared to give you a chance. Persuade Miss Wakeman to change her mind about suing the council and I'll let you off with a written warning."
"How can I do that?" she wailed.
"An apology would be a good place to start," he replied.
Late that evening, Gillian drove slowly up the driveway to Tabitha Wakeman's ivy-walled mansion. The sight of a silver Alfa Romeo parked next to the Ferrari was almost enough to make her turn around. It would be humiliating enough to have to apologise to the bitch, without doing so in the presence of a visitor. Despite her reluctance, she knew she had no choice but to swallow her pride. There was no denying she had given the council ample grounds to dismiss her. She had a horrible fear that, no matter how abjectly she apologised, the American woman would not be placated. As she climbed the steps to the front door, she reflected that it might have been a good idea to change out of her uniform. Despite the fact that wearing it gave her a greatly increased sense of confidence, it was likely to merely antagonise the other woman. She rang the doorbell, then steeled herself. Humble pie was a dish she was not accustomed to and the humility required for this particular ordeal was going to prove difficult to muster.
A few anxious moments later, the door was opened by the young blonde who had been in the passenger seat of the Ferrari. Her hair was tied up in a bun and she was wearing only sandals and a gleaming red swimsuit that made love to her long-legged and amply-proportioned body. "What do you want?" she curtly demanded."Is Miss Wakeman in?" asked Gillian.
"She's in, but I doubt she's got anything to say to you," the blonde replied.
"I'd like to apologise to her, if I could," she said. The girl studied her derisively.
"Would you now? Perhaps you'd like to apologise to me first."
"Of course." Gillian cleared her throat. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you. I was having a bad day and......"
"I didn't ask for excuses," the blonde snapped. "And you don't sound very sorry either. But come in anyway. Tabitha could do with a laugh."
As she followed her down a long hallway, Gillian could not help admiring the girl's rear view. The back of her swimsuit was practically non-existent, leaving the tanned globes of her bottom almost as bare as if she were naked. She opened a door at the end of the hallway and Gillian followed her into the room beyond. Tabitha Wakeman was draped across a black leather covered couch, a seductive vision in purple silk kimono and matching panties. She was engrossed in applying scarlet varnish to the toenails of her right foot, but the appearance of the uniformed figure caused her to almost drop the bottle.
"Well, well, if it isn't the ticket happy traffic Nazi!" she cried, springing from the couch. "And what brings you slithering into my home?"
"She's come to apologise," her friend giggled.
Gillian nodded. "That's right. There's no excuse for my actions last Saturday. I was rude and obnoxious and I want to apologise."
"Your boss sent you, right?" Tabitha demanded.
"No, I'm here of my own free will," she lied. "I've been thinking about what happened and..... well, it's not right that I behaved the way I did. You have every right to be angry with me, but I just want you to know how truly sorry I am."
"You're a fucking liar!" the other woman spat. "I've informed your boss that I intend to sue and he sent you crawling over here to try and persuade me to change my mind. Come on, look me in the face and tell me that's not the real reason you're here."
"Please, I could lose my job over this," Gillian pleaded, forcing her rising anger to remain in check.
"You should have thought of that before you publicly humiliated me," Tabitha retorted. "Go back to your boss and tell him I don't accept your half-assed apology. Nobody shits on Tabitha Wakeman and gets away with it."
"You arrogant bitch!" Gillian snarled, unable to restrain herself a moment longer. "What's a twenty quid parking fine to you, with your fancy Ferrari and your big house? You think you can come over here, treat people like dirt and park where you like. Well, fuck you, Miss big shot writer!"
"Mandy, show this insolent slut the door, before I do something I may regret," Tabitha said, in a trembling voice.
"Maybe we should give her a chance to show us if she really is sorry," the blonde suggested. "What exactly do you have in mind?" said the other woman.
Mandy smiled. "You know, what you said you'd love to do to her. It'd be a lot more fun than suing her out of a job."
"What are you two talking about?" Gillian demanded.
"The sweetest revenge of all," Tabitha replied, her anger suddenly evaporating. "I'll do a deal with you, Miss Ticket Fuhrer. In return for me dropping my lawsuit, you come with me to the naughty girls' room, where my friends and I will be glad to teach you the error of your ways." "Friends!" Gillian cried.
She nodded. "Mandy, why don't you go see if Jo is awake?" She turned to Gillian. "Well, I'm waiting for your answer."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she pleaded.
"You'll find out soon enough," replied Tabitha. "Sufficient to say it will be quite painful, though the effects will not be as long term as losing your job." Only then did Gillian begin to get the picture. Her first instinct was to storm out of the house, with a few choice phrases in parting, but the very real possibility that she would never again wear her beloved uniform was too distressing to bear.
"Show me to this naughty girls' room of yours," she finally murmured.
Without further ado, her hostess led her upstairs and into a large bedroom that resembled the set of a blue movie. Strong beams of yellow light glared from several strategically placed lamps. The window was shielded with thick red drapes and the walls and ceiling covered in mirrors. The large wooden bed in the centre was flanked by a pair of huge iron chairs. Dangling from chains bolted to an overhead beam was a timber contraption that resembled a swing. But it was the rack at the foot of the bed that caused Gillian to gasp in astonishment. The wooden branches were hung with an appalling arsenal of whips, canes, straps and numerous other implements of similar sadistic potential.
"My God, this can't be for real!" she cried. "Oh, it's all too real, as you're about to discover," Tabitha assured her. "This is the place where I like to teach naughty girls manners and you have a lot of manners to learn. At this point, you can either leave or take off your uniform. What's it to be?" Gillian felt a tremor run down her spine that was more than just fear. She felt as though she had just stepped into some kinky lesbian's bizarre fantasy. Almost unconsciously, she began unbuttoning her jacket. Tabitha breathed heavily as she watched her slowly remove her uniform.
When she was stripped down to her dark stockings and lacy black underwear, she directed her to bend over the swing and clasp her hands around her ankles. As Gillian adopted the position, her panties rode up into the cleft of her bottom and half-moons of creamy flesh lay helplessly bare below the lace trimmed edges.
"Very nice," Tabitha mused, selecting a long, sleek birch rod from the rack. "Last chance to change your mind."
"Just do what you have to do," Gillian whispered.
An instant later, she was yelping at the top of her voice as the birch slashed across the unprotected portions of her buttocks, branding a fiery red furrow across the full expanse of flesh. She had only a second to catch her breath, before the evil rod bit again, with a resounding thwack!"Owwwwwww....!" she yelled.
"Not such a strutting figure of authority now, huh?" Tabitha sneered, drawing back the birch for another swing.
Fourteen blistering strokes creased Gillian's buttocks and thighs, before Tabitha's young blonde friend appeared in the doorway. She was accompanied by a dusky skinned girl of similar age and stature, who was naked but for a tiny G-string of shiny white silk. Her curly black hair cascaded untidily about her shoulders, partially obscuring her bare breasts.
"Ah, Jo, thought you wouldn't want to miss this," Tabitha greeted.
"Is this your traffic warden friend?" the girl demanded, in a smoky voice.
"In the soon-to-be very sore flesh," she replied. She swished the rod sharply across Gillian's backside as she started to rise. "Stay as you are, Missy. We've only just begun. Well, don't just stand there, ladies. Help yourselves from the rack. We're going to have a thrashing party." Gillian wondered just what the hell she had let herself in for. To be chastised by one woman was her idea of fun, though she would prefer the punishment to be dished out by somebody she at least liked. Three sadistic ladies was an altogether more terrifying prospect.
"Let's have her pants off, for starters," said Jo. "Mandy, my favourite strap, if you please."
Hooking a finger in the waistband of Gillian's panties, she yanked them all the way down to her ankles. The already punished portion of her buns contrasted sharply with the remaining pale flesh. The blonde handed her a stout black leather martinet, upon which the legend BITCH was engraved in round silver studs. Jo ran the leather strip over her outstretched tongue, then cracked it across the perfectly-presented rear end of the trembling traffic warden. Gillian's response to the stinging whack was a satisfying cry of pain.
While she proceeded to vigorously flog her quivering checks, her two companions stood to either side of Gillian, holding their own weapons at the ready. Tabitha had swapped her cane for a leather-padded wooden paddle, while Mandy flexed a particularly fearsome-looking riding crop. Jo's right arm was a near blur, the three hard leather tongues of the flailing martinet striking Gillian with a rapid-fire rhythm. Long before this instalment of her punishment ended, she had lost the battle to hold back the tears that stung her eyes. When Jo finally laid down the strap, every inch of her bottom glowed an angry shade of sunburn. Gillian's brief respite lasted as long as it took her to stagger to the bed and lay herself on all-fours on the rock hard wooden base. Mandy then cut loose with the riding crop, counting out the lashes aloud as she stoked the fires of Hell across her sobbing victim's hindquarters. At the count of twenty. Gillian finally screamed for mercy."Had enough already?" demanded Tabitha.
"My arse...... oh my poor arse!" she blubbered.
"It sure is red," the bespectacled woman agreed. "But we're not through with you yet, not by a long shot." She indicated the chair to the left of the bed.
"Let's try another position."
"Haven't I been punished enough?" Gillian pleaded.
"Has she been punished enough?" Tabitha asked her friends. Both were adamant that she had not. Gillian continued to protest, until it became obvious she was succeeding in only further humiliating herself. If she backed out now, the sufferings she had already endured would have been in vain. Gritting her teeth, she climbed from the bed und lowered herself gingerly onto the chair. The cold metal against her throbbing buttocks was as welcome as a bucket of ice.
Her comfort was short-lived. After she had relieved her of her bra, Tabitha ordered her to hook her legs over the arms of the chair and raise her tits with both hands. In this uncomfortable position, her bottom was once again vulnerable.
"Two asses for the price of one," Tabitha grinned, drooping to one knee in front of her. "Make the most of those juicy titties, ladies." Gillian squealed again as the wooden side of the paddle beat a rhythmic whap! whap! on her scalded cheeks. Mainly and Jo each selected a slender leather strap, then took up position to either side of her and began whacking her breasts. Tears dripped onto the helpless globes as they were strapped from rosy pink to raging red, the razor-sharp sting fusing with the raging inferno in her nether regions. Tabitha paddled her until her aching arm finally forced her to stop.
Smiling proudly, she touched a fingertip to Gillian's roasting hot cheeks, then traced it slowly up between her thighs. When it touched the dewy pink slit that pouted from her thick thatch of dark pubic curls, the punished woman shuddered and moaned softly, her dark brown nipples swelling beneath the whacks that continued to rain down upon her. Tabitha continued to stroke and probe her with her finger, until the exhausted pair finally laid down their straps. Leaning over Gillian, they each fastened their lips around a rock hard nipple. The pleasure that rocked her was as intense as the accompanying pain. "Ohhhhh, that feels so good!" she moaned, thrusting her breasts against the faces of the two girls and urging Tabitha's finger deeper into her hungry sex.
A moment later, in a supreme act of sadism, the trio stepped abruptly back from her, leaving her stranded on the brink of blissful release.
"Time to go," Tabitha announced.
"You're so cruel!" Gillian sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
"And you're so lucky," the American woman retorted. "You can tell your boss I've accepted your apology and I'm dropping the lawsuit. So, you can go on dispensing justice in your own inimitable fashion."
"Thank you," whimpered Gillian, wincing as she bent down to pick up her clothes.
"One more thing," said Tabitha. "Next time you see me double-parked and you're tempted to write me a ticket, think of the consequences for your bottom, if not your career."
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