Story from Februs 36.
Lonely & Far From Home
A Short Story by Colin Weaver
The quarrel seemed to spring up out of nothing. Sharp words passed and then the bosomy Latin beauty slapped the smiling young man's face. He seized her and pulled her face-down across his thighs as he sat down on a handy tree stump. Her straight skirt stretched tight across her opulent rump and his hand smacked down on it six times, with the girl showing no response beyond a startled squeak. Then the scene faded and was replaced by the two of them walking along a woodland path, apparently on the best of terms.
Gina sighed and aimed the remote control; the screen went blank as the video stopped. The rest of the film, a musical comedy made in 1932, was of no interest to her. Should she rewind and watch the spanking again? Gina shook her head. Four times in one afternoon, she decided, was enough. Instead, she lay back in the armchair, closed her eyes, and played the scene through again in her mind, with herself in the girl's place.
It would have been much better, of course, to have had the real thing, to have gone thrillingly, breathlessly across the hard thighs of Jeff, instead of fantasising about an actor who, by this time, was certainly too old lo deliver a good spanking. But even if Jeff had been here it would have been useless to hint at her desires: she had learned that in three years of marriage. Not that Jeff was sexually selfish or, within his own limits, unimaginative, but any suggestion that a spanking would be an exciting change would be greeted with a roar of laughter. 'You don't want to bother with that kinky stuff!' he'd say. There's nothing like a bloody good screw, Gina my love!' – and in fact it was always very good indeed. But Jeff was not here and would not be for another three weeks. When he got back from the oil rig there would be love and laughter and whatever this cold Northern town could offer in the way of riotous celebration. But for the present he was there and she was here, and she was lonely and bored, and there was this irrational craving to have her bottom tanned!
Back home – she still thought of Oxford as home, though God knew when she would go back – she could have gained satisfaction and relief from her secret hoard of CP magazines and videos. But she had scrapped the lot, afraid that they might be discovered during the hasty packing when they had had to move North so abruptly to seize the career opportunity which might never come Jeff's way again. All she had now was the one old film with its brief spanking scene, taped from the TV.
Gina jumped to her feet and started to pace the room, pausing to scowl in self-mockery at the mirror on the wall. The face in the glass grimaced back at her, even wearing that discontented expression it was an extremely attractive face, with it's short, skilfully cut fair hair, well-proportioned features and the dimpled chin which made her look younger than twenty-six.
'You should be ashamed of enjoying such kinky thoughts!' she scolded the reflection. 'What would a psychiatrist say?'
Despite her ill-temper, Gina smiled at the mental picture of herself reclining on a couch while some solemn, bearded figure hovered over her, note-book in hand.
'Tell me, Mrs Morgan, when were you first aware of these desires for – ahem – correction?'
'Well, Doctor, when I was in my teens there was this Youth Leader...'
No! No! No! She could never tell anyone about Marjorie Fenn! It would be betrayal, treason, profaning the memory of a happy, loving though often painful relationship which had lasted until Gina was almost twenty. Gina was not the only one, of course. After the twice-weekly meetings of the Youth Club it might be Caroline who was invited to go home with Mrs Fenn for coffee and a chat. Or Kim or Melanie, Christine or Denise. Gina was never jealous of the others. There was a kind of invisible bond, an unspoken understanding between "Mrs Fenn's girls" although they never discussed their experiences except for careful hints and oblique allusions. They certainly never compared marks!
Gina's turn had come every three or four weeks, and she still remembered vividly the quivering mixture of fear and excitement as she went with the handsome, black-haired widow in her secluded bungalow. There had been coffee, certainly, and relaxed friendly chat, giggling together like schoolgirls despite the twenty year age gap, about the gauche young men of the neighbourhood and their clumsy attempts at romance. Marjorie could give good advice, too, about problems arising in Gina's first office job, or about parents who sometimes seemed unreasonable.
But then Marjorie's tone would become more serious, and Gina would wriggle uneasily on her chair under the older woman's steady gaze.
'Even though you're such a grown-up young lady, Gina, I think you still need to be spanked, don't you?'
Marjorie always said "need", never "deserve". Somehow that made it easier to stammer out, 'Y-yes, Marjorie, I suppose so.'
'Very well, Gina. Come upstairs, please.'
In the bedroom, with its subdued pink lighting, cheerful floral curtains securely drawn, it seemed so natural for Marjorie to sit on the end of the bed and smilingly beckon, for Gina to submissively take her place across Marjorie's lap, her slim young body resting securely on the plump thighs beneath the neat black skirt. Then there had been the uncontrollable fiery blush, the little mewing noises, half protest, half appeal, as Marjorie calmly turned Gina's skirt up waist-high and took her knickers down. The incomparable, unforgettable mixture of shame and fear and excitement as the pretty teenager meekly awaited the spanking which she would never have dreamed of accepting from her parents.
Marjorie's spanking were always extremely thorough, even when she had a girl across her lap for the first time and knew that the pertly rounded teenage buttocks bouncing and burning under her firm hand had never experienced the sting of punishment before. She had once remarked to Gina that the expression, "a playful spanking" was as great an absurdity as to speak of a dry shower or a cool fire. Since Gina had just spent five extremely painful minutes having her bare bottom soundly smacked, and was tearfully pleading with Marjorie not to continue the spanking with a slipper, the comment had been impressed on her memory.
The uncomplaining acceptance of a well-smacked bottom placed a girl on the first level, so to speak, of Mrs Fenn's exclusive little group. After she had taken half a dozen spankings she would be considered ready for promotion to the second level, which meant punishment with a substantial, three-tailed leather tawse. Gina winced and reminiscently caressed her shapely posterior as she recalled those occasions in Marjorie's bedroom, the feeing of the candlewick bedspread under her hands and knees as she knelt there, waiting. Marjorie strapped with a vigour and enthusiasm which would have won warm approval from an old-time Scots schoolmistress. The blubbering young lady who had endured a dozen of the scorching best across her crimson, welted backside invariably vowed, 'Never again! Never, never again!' and yet, only two or three weeks later she would be impatient for Marjorie's next invitation.
For the girl who reached the third level there was the cane, not only across the bottom but upon the sensitive flesh of the thighs, with a spanking before or after the caning. 'How she used to make me howl!' thought Gina, in rueful recollection.
Gina had invariably arrived home late from an evening with Marjorie, but oddly enough her parents never complained. Nor did they comment when her reddened eyes showed that she had been crying or when she obviously found it uncomfortable to sit down. At the time, Gina had thought them unobservant. Now it seemed clear to her that many of the local parents, her own included, knew more about Marjorie Fenn than their daughters suspected. Presumably they were, for their own reasons, grateful to her. At any rate, Mrs Fenn was still a popular and respected Youth Leader without a breath of scandal about her.
Gina shook her head. Memories were all very well but she needed more than that. Was it possible, she wondered, to buy CP magazines here? She had not seen any since she came to Bannerston but there must be a demand for them here as elsewhere. Then Gina remembered a shop on the outskirts of the main shopping area, which she had once entered to buy sweets. There had been a lavish display of top-shelf girly magazines. She had not looked at them closely – there could have been CP mags too.
She reached for her handbag to check that her car keys were there, but then she hesitated. Parking space in the centre of Bannerston was always hard to find during the working day and she couldn't think of anywhere near the shop in Todhunter Road where the car could safety be left. Better to trust to the local bus service.
Half an hour later she stepped off the bus behind the Arndale Centre and made her way down Todhunter Road until she found the shop she remembered. She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and entered. There was only one other customer, an old woman buying a lottery ticket at the counter. Gina walked over to the wall where the magazines were and started to look along the top shelf. She felt half indignant, half amused. She had often been aware of such magazines in one shop or another, but this was the first time she had deliberately paused to inspect them. She had never realised that there could be so many different poses for the display of nineteen year old breasts, bottoms and thighs. Gina was gazing with astonishment and a little undeniable envy at a particularly explicit issue of "Big Tits" when a voice in her ear said, 'Looking for anything special, love?'
She couldn't help jumping and blushing as she looked round into the face of the shop owner, a gaunt young man with prematurely receding hair and two front teeth missing. For the life of her she could not bring herself to ask, 'Have you any spanking magazines?' On the other hand it would be absurd to pretend that she was looking for a copy of Good Housekeeping. She took the first magazine which came to hand without looking at it and said as calmly as she could, 'I'll take this one please.'
The man's scanty eyebrows twitched briefly, but he just said, 'That's five pounds, please. I'll put it in a bag for you, shall I?'
Walking out of the shop, fare burning, Gina felt like the startled person in a National Lottery commercial who finds an enormous finger pointing down from the sky. Common sense told her that passers-by could not be aware what was in the plain brown paper bag but when she came to a small snack bar she was glad to go in and order a cup of coffee to give herself a chance to recover her self-possession. There were no other customers and the girl behind the counter disappeared into an inner room as soon as she had served Gina.
When Gina took the magazine from the bag it was a relief to find there was no lurid picture on the cover. Just 'Contacts! Contacts! Contacts!' in bold black type, plus the month and price. Gina opened it to see what she had wasted her money on. It contained many small advertisements from friendly young ladies who wanted to meet generous, good-natured older men with various forms of entertainment in mind. An editorial note warned primly that entries from ladies seeking financial gain would not be accepted, but Gina was in no doubt that she was holding what she thought of as a tart's shopping catalogue. She shook her head as she looked at the photographs which accompanied many of the adverts. Like many women who occasionally entertain brief fantasies about "going on the game" she had never realised just how low a standard of physical attractiveness was needed to make a living of sorts in that way.
Then Gina realised that some of the women pictured were holding canes or whips. They tended to be more mature than the others, their homely, middle-aged housewife faces sometimes combining oddly with plump bodies squeezed into tight basques and black-stockinged legs poised uneasily on high, stiletto heels. Others were dressed more conventionally: a combination of full-sleeved white blouse with straight black skirt seemed popular. Their advertisements varied in style. Some were commanding: 'Madame Domina orders slaves to report for strict discipline. No wimps tolerated.' Others favoured a milder approach: 'Aunty Rose will teach naughty boys a lesson. Firm but understanding. Special consideration for first-timers.'
Gina found herself blushing again and was grateful that no-one else was there. The idea which had come to her took a little getting used to. The women who advertised were, after all, professionals. So long as they were paid, would it matter to them whether the bottoms they chastised were male or female? And what did they charge anyway? Gina had drawn a hundred pounds from a bankcash dispenser, intending to pay a couple of bills and do some shopping. Surely that would be enough.
Gina knew that if she spent too much time thinking about it she would lose her nerve. Men did this kind of thing all the time, didn't they? All right, she would take a chance too. Passing over both Madame Domina and Aunty Rose, she decided on, 'Sandra. Discipline in all forms, mild to severe. Full equipment available.' Gina made a note of the phone number and rose to leave.
Once outside, she headed for the nearest phone box. With shaking fingers she inserted the money and called the number. The phone at the other end was lifted but nothing was said. 'Hullo? Sandra?' said Gina.
'Yes, I'm Sandra.'
'I – I'd like to pay you a visit,' said Gina.
'Look,' said the wary voice, 'if your man's been to see me, that's something...'
'No, no!' protested Gina. 'It's nothing like that. I just want to come to you as a man would. For – for the same kind of thing. I saw your advert in a contact magazine.'
'Oh! Oh, I see!' The voice sounded faintly amused now. 'You know you have to pay, don't you?'
'I usually charge the men sixty pounds,' said the unseen Sandra. 'I don't know, perhaps you should get a special rate.'
'Sixty will be all right,' said Gina. 'Now, how do I get to you?'
Half an hour later, having followed precise directions, Gina was approaching the front door of a house in one of the older suburbs. She felt very nervous. Suppose the woman tried to blackmail her afterwards?
Or perhaps Sandra had a male protector who might rape and rob her! Gina told herself firmly that Sandra couldn't stay in business if that kind of thing went on. She rang the doorbell.
Sandra had not been one of those who included a photograph in her advertisement. When the door opened, Gina saw a pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman wearing black-rimmed glasses and soberly dressed. She looked, thought Gina, a little disappointed, more like a respectable librarian than a tart.
'Come in!' said Sandra, smiling. Gina caught a glimpse of a neat, clean hall with flower pictures on the wall. 'Upstairs, please, and turn right at the top.' Gina followed the instructions and found herself in a conventionally furnished bedroom. The curtains provided privacy but admitted adequate light.
'Well,' said Sandra. 'This makes a nice change from podgy middle-aged men playing at naughty boys. Do you want to tell me your name, dear?'
'I'm Gina.' She laughed, shakily. 'I – I suppose I'm playing at being a naughty girl. Do women come to you?'
'Sometimes,' said Sandra, 'a man and a woman come together, and I punish the woman while the man watches. I always talk to the woman first, thought, and make sure she's here of her own free will and knows what to expect. You're the first one who's come on her own. I should tell you, I usually ask for the money in advance.'
'Oh yes, of course.' Gina handed over the notes.
'Thanks, Gina. Now, what did you have in mind? Shall I just go through the motions to give you a thrill without really hurting you? Or shall it be the real thing? I can be quite strict, if that's what you want.'
Gina licked her lips. Now that the moment of decision had been reached she found herself shaking, but the idea of backing down now was unthinkable.
'The real thing, please, Sandra. I should warn you, I'm not sure if I can keep quiet if it really starts to hurt.'
'Go ahead and yell!' said Sandra, cheerfully. 'The old lady next door is a good friend and she's stone deaf anyway. Hadn't we better agree on a code word, though?'
'I don't understand,' said Gina.
'When I began in this business,' explained Sandra, 'I used to stop whacking a man as soon as he asked me to. They used to be furious, say I shouldn't have taken any notice. Then once or twice I half-killed some poor sod who really did want me to stop! So, now I get them to agree on a special word to use when it's definitely getting too much, instead of 'Please' or 'Stop' or 'Don't!' One of my regulars always says 'Banana!' when he's had enough.'
Gina laughed nervously. 'That sounds like a good idea. But – when I used to be punished, I just had to take what came, there was no way of stopping it. I think I'd rather leave it to you.'
'As you like,' said Sandra, serenely. 'Now, one more thing.' She opened a wardrobe and Gina gulped at the sight of the canes, straps and whips within. 'As you can see, I've a fine assortment of equipment and it's liable to leave some spectacular marks. Could that be a problem for you?'
'There mustn't be any marks three weeks from now.'
Sandra nodded. 'I'll bear that in mind. Well, are you ready?'
'You will call me Miss!' There was no trace of good-nature in the tone now.
'I'm sorry, Miss.'
'You will be! Take off your clothes.'
Gina kicked off her shoes, removed her expensive black jacket and matching trousers, took off her burgundy silk shirt. Timid and hesitant in bra and briefs, she glanced at Sandra.
'That's pricy underwear, Gina. Where did you steal it?'
'But I didn't...'
'Don't you dare argue with me, girl! I told you to strip!'
Naked and shamefaced, Gina watched as Sandra moved to the dressing table and picked up a short leather paddle before sitting on the bed.
'This comes a little later, Gina, after a good hand-spanking. You'll find I can smack a lot harder than Mummy used to do.'
'It wasn't my mother!'
'Don't answer back! And I told you to call me Miss. You are making me very cross indeed, Gina. Come here!'
A few moments later Gina was face down across the older woman's lap. Her position brought back memories of her evenings with Marjorie but the humiliation was worse than anything she remembered. Sandra, she realised, was an expert in making her clients feel guilty, in convincing them they deserved correction. Gina remembered the intimidating contents of the wardrobe and she squirmed unhappily.
'I'll give you something to wriggle for, young lady!' said Sandra, with obvious enjoyment. Gina felt a hard, stinging slap on one cheek of her defenceless bottom, then, a moment later, on the other. 'It's quite a long time since I had a naughty girl to deal with and I'm going to make an extra special effort for you.'
Then the stinging hand descended again and again, settling into a steady, methodical spanking rhythm with extremely painful results for Gina's quivering buttocks. Gina was sure that Marjorie's spankings had never hurt so much, severe though they had seemed at the time. The fact that she had paid to receive such treatment seemed to make it all the harder to bear. As Sandra spanked, she scolded, reprimanded, reproved, not for any specific faults but for Gina's alleged bad character and shameless behaviour. Gina found that she was crying, not just with the pain of her smacked bottom but because of the injustice of being so unfairly lectured. When Sandra realised that Gina was weeping she began to tease her cruelly.
'Oh, poor Gina, have you got a sore botty, then? You shouldn't be such a naughty girl, should you? You needn't think I'm going to let you off because you're a cry-baby! It's time for the paddle now.'
There was a momentary pause, then Gina yelled with shock as tough leather thwacked down on the smarting flesh of her tender bottom. Sandra's hand had stung badly enough but the paddle inflicted a scorching pain which had her howling and wriggling across Sandra's lap in utter indignity, pleading and imploring.
'Your poor bottom does look sore, Gina,' mocked Sandra. 'Shall I smack your legs instead?'
'No, don't!' sobbed Gina. 'Thai's enough! Please Sandra, that's enough!'
'You know I can't take any notice of that,' said Sandra, sternly. 'It's your own fault, you should have agreed on a code word. And you're forgetting to call me Miss, aren't you? Right my girl, it's red-hot smacked legs for you!'
With resounding whacks of the paddle Sandra methodically worked her way down Gina's right thigh from bottom-curve almost to the knee and back again, then punished Gina's left thigh in the same way, ignoring Gina's frantic entreaties. For the rest of the spanking she alternated the paddle-smacks between Gina's roasting bottom and her scorching, scarlet thighs.
'All right, Gina,' she said at last. 'You can get up now – but don't think I've finished with you.'
Weeping bitterly, Gina scrambled to her feet, clasping her tormented buttocks. She could hardly believe that this relentless disciplinarian was the pleasant lady who had greeted her.
'I've got a brand new cane here,' said Sandra, turning to the wardrobe. 'You shall have the full benefit of its first use.'
'Please, Miss,' whimpered Gina, 'I'm so sore already. Do I have to be caned?'
'When you used to be punished,' said Sandra, 'were you never caned after a spanking?'
'Yes, Miss,' admitted Gina.
'Then you can certainly take it from me! I'd make you touch your toes but I doubt if you could stay down. You'd better lie face down on the bed.'
Gina miserably obeyed. 'How – how many am I going to get, Miss?'
'Sometimes I let my naughty boys off with six,' said Sandra. 'But you're such a bad girl I think you'd better have twelve.'
'Oh, but Miss...'
'And three more for arguing! Now, will you have them all on your bottom or shall I give you some on your legs?'
'All on my bottom please, Miss,' said Gina, squirming unhappily. She was aware of Sandra moving round to the side of the bed and then she felt the cane drawn lightly across her glowing buttocks.
'Don't you wish you'd been a good girl, Gina?' teased Sandra. 'I'll do better, Miss!' said Gina, desperately. 'I'll try so hard, I promise I will – Aaaaaah!'
She writhed, gasping, as the searing weal rose upon her shapely rear. 'Good intentions are not enough, Gina,' said Sandra, severely. The cane descended again, and again, the carefully aimed strokes dealing out their blazing admonishment in slow, deliberate sequence. The weeping, writhing woman on the bed, the flushed, bright-eyed woman wielding the cane, performed the age-old ceremony of stern retribution and agonised repentance. And then, at last, it ended.
When her sobbing had died down a little, Gina became aware that Sandra had joined her on the bed, that the other woman too was naked. Raising a tear-stained face she blurted, 'Sandra, I'm not gay!'
'I didn't say you were,' was the soft answer. 'But when you used to be punished, didn't anyone comfort you afterwards?'
Gina remembered Marjorie's gentle kisses, her consoling caresses, the long, skilful fingers which rewarded Gina's endurance with ecstatic delight.
'Oh, yes, Sandra!' she said. 'Oh, please!'