As Mrs Chantelle Templeton was escorted to the manager’s office, it was all that the poor woman could do to keep herself from bursting into tears.
She had tried to explain that she must have absentmindedly put the bottle of vodka into her handbag whilst she looked for her purse, but of course, the security guard had heard it all before.
It was all a terrible mistake. She’d never steal anything! She was a respected pillar of the community, a devoted wife, member of the parish council and treasurer of the local Christian women’s association. If the fact that she was being arrested for shoplifting, for stealing vodka no less, ever got out, then her reputation would be completely destroyed. If only the security guard had been a man, she might have considered showing a bit of leg in return for his turning a blind eye. It would have worked, but unless this woman was a lesbian, it didn’t look like anything was going to go her way that day.
For all her prim and proper suburban reserve, the fact was that despite being nearly thirty, Chantelle was still very attractive. Tall and slim with a gorgeous figure, if only she’d stopped dressing like such a fuddy-duddy and let her long chestnut hair down once in a while she would have been a real show stopper; more than enough to talk her way out of a little misunderstanding like this. As the situation stood though, she had to endure the public humiliation of being marched past the tills to the manager’s office by a life size ‘security guard Barbie’ who was probably only just out of school. Then, to add insult to injury, her next door neighbour, Mrs Robins was stood in one of the queues, and though she tried to cover her face, Chantelle was sure that she’d been spotted.
“I can explain everything,” blurted Chantelle as she was led into the office, baring her soul to the woman who sat behind the desk. “It was an honest mistake. I must have put it in my handbag when I …” “What, so you’re not going to blame it on PMT, then, are you, madam?” interrupted the manager sarcastically. “Do you have any idea how many times we hear that in one day? The fact is, whether by stupidity or design, you left a shop with a £27 bottle of vodka concealed in your purse without making any attempt to purchase it. Anything else is a matter for the police.” “Please no!” said Chantelle, leaping forward to stop the manager from picking up the phone. Then looking down at the name bar on the desk, she made a feeble attempt to connect with her. “Look … Ms Crosby. Surely there must be some other way to settle this?” The manager pondered for a moment.
“Sonia,” she said finally, addressing the security guard.
“You can go back to work now, I’ll handle it from here.” And as Sonia left, closing the door behind her, the two ladies looked at each other for a moment as if they were each waiting for the other to blink.
The manager sat thoughtfully in her leather swivel chair, the very embodiment of calm; resting her fingertips together as she decided whether or not to give this haughty little mare a second chance.
Wearing a well-tailored two piece navy blue skirt suit, white blouse, opaque tights and black court shoes, she was as smart and well groomed as the woman who stood before her.
But whilst Ms Crosby kept her long red hair in a bun to denote her authority, this woman who stood awkwardly before her with her hands in her lap did so solely to impress the neighbours.
Yvette Crosby hated women like this. She was dressed like it was 1958 in a ‘lady-like’ calf-length skirt and white cotton blouse, pearls and four inch black stilettos. They were nearly the same age, but whilst Yvette had climbed the ladder and been put in charge of a large supermarket, this woman’s highest achievement was probably getting a new kitchen before anyone else in her street. As far as Yvette was concerned, this type of woman’s entire life could be summed up with one phrase; ‘dull women have immaculate houses’.
Smiling politely, Yvette decided to have some fun and hold out an olive branch for the little tealeaf.
“Well, Mrs Templeton, is it? If you feel that it’s not necessary for the police to get involved, then I’m sure that we can come to some sort of an arrangement.” Chantelle felt her heartbeat return to normal as a wave of relief washed over her. She was just about to thank Ms Crosby when the manager issued her terms.
“Let your hair down, take off your skirt and your knickers and lay yourself across my knee.” Chantelle stared in disbelief. Had she heard her correctly? “Let your hair down, take your skirt and knickers off and lay across my knee,” reiterated the manager, speaking slowly and clearly, as if patronising a wayward toddler.
Chantelle obviously refused. There was no way that this cow was going to treat her like a twelve-year-old. But of course, the second that the manager reached for the phone to call the police, the steadfast, prim and proper housewife couldn’t get her knickers off fast enough.
Naked from the waist down, Chantelle then delicately lay across the manager’s knee, resting her hands on the floor and presenting her firm ripe bottom to Yvette like a trophy.
“Now I understand that you are going to have to spank me,” she stuttered nervously, brushing her chestnut long hair out of the way and looking over her shoulder at Yvette. “But I must insist that you …Oww.” “Quiet you pilfering cow!” snapped the manager, obviously losing her patience with her. “You’re in no position to make demands. So stay quiet and take what’s coming to you. And don’t be such a baby. I only gave you a little smack and there’s plenty more where that came from.” Coming to terms with her situation, Chantelle bit her lip and did her best to be brave as Yvette began to put some colour in her cheeks. Not since her twenty-first birthday when her Auntie Sylvia had caught her drinking had she been spanked by a woman, but Yvette’s firm manner and swift, expert strokes soon brought it all flooding back to her.
On her birthday, with her parents away and Auntie Sylvia in town shopping, Chantelle had felt free to invite three of her less respectable university friends to come and celebrate with her. After a quick set of doubles tennis however, this had soon degenerated into a drinking binge, care of the mini bar in her father’s study.
As fate would have it however, Auntie Sylvia had arranged to return early and treat the birthday girl to a meal. But when she had walked in on the four girls sitting plastered and giggling on the floor in their tennis whites, she was too furious to care.
Storming into the room and screaming so much that two of the girls burst into tears then and there, Sylvia had pulled Chantelle’s friends up onto their feet and chased them out of the house. Then, making the girls stand in the driveway and touch toes, she had smacked each girl’s bottom in turn, making it clear that she never wanted to see any of them again.
And then with a few dozen smacks each across the front of their thighs to emphasise the point, she had sent the girls packing and marched back upstairs to deal with her wayward niece.
Realising how angry her auntie was, Chantelle had used the few minutes she had been given to try to clear up the room before she returned. It was a feeble attempt to curry her favour and she knew it, but what else could she have done.
As her heart pounded like a drum, she had been desperately trying to clear away all the bottles when she had heard Sylvia’s footsteps on the stairs.
It was too late, she had run out of time. So realising that she had to take what was coming to her, she stood politely with her hands in her lap just as she always had and awaited her auntie’s arrival.
Only nine years older than Chantelle and virtually her spitting image, Sylvia was still by far the more mature of the two of them. Dressed in a smart two-piece skirt suit with matching handbag, shoes, hat and gloves; with not a hair out of place or a smudge on her makeup and with the seams of her stockings as straight as a ruler, she put the little strumpet to shame.
Sighing disappointedly as she removed her hat and gloves, Sylvia ordered Chantelle to take her knickers down and remove her skirt. Then perching herself upon the leather swivel chair in an elegant and ladylike fashion, Sylvia had taken the trembling waif across her knee and proceeded to spank her in an equally formal and ladylike manner.
Striking each cheek in turn, she had made Chantelle count along with the strokes, repeating them if she was too busy gasping with pain to do so.
As she exquisitely punished her drunken niece, the expression on her face said it all.
“Your mother and I would have thought that you’d have learnt your lessons by now. But if you’re going to be difficult, then I guess that I’m just going to have to repeat myself.” And now, eight years later, Chantelle was receiving yet another refresher course.
Having set the pace with two dozen firm and rhythmic strokes across the middle of Chantelle’s bottom, Yvette set to work setting her whole bottom ablaze; striking each cheek in turn with relentless horizontal and vertical strokes, ensuring that every inch of her flesh stung like hell.
Tears began to well up in Chantelle’s eyes as the stinging sensations in her bottom grew. She was doing her best to be brave, to bite her lip and take it like a woman: but it was all just becoming too much. Yvette’s strokes were as inevitable and rhythmical as a swinging pendulum. It was almost as if she were counting along to an invisible metronome and giving Chantelle a second to savour the sting as it bloomed, spreading over her bottom before she administered the next stroke. But then, just as she thought that Yvette was never going to stop, out of the blue, the manager ordered Chantelle to stand and let her inspect her handiwork.
Standing half-naked and posing for a complete stranger with her hands crossed in her lap to hide her shame, Chantelle felt hopeful nevertheless. Her cheeks were as rosy as cherry blossom and the throbbing sting was so intense that it took all her courage to keep herself from weeping like a baby. She had taken her punishment, and so any second now Yvette was going to say that she was free to go, all she had to do was be patient. But then in an instant, her hopes were smashed like a piece of cheap Greek crockery.
“That’s lovely,” said Yvette. “A wonderful warm up if I do say so myself. Come and lay across my knee again and we’ll get on with your punishment.” Her hopes of an early release now completely shattered, Chantelle’s brave front crumbled into dust and the poor, beleaguered woman began to sob uncontrollably. She wanted to go home, but Yvette was determined that she would learn her lesson.
“Get back over my knee!” demanded Yvette, more stern and forceful than ever.
Chantelle refused.
Practically pouncing on her detainee, the manager leapt up from behind her desk and began to smack Chantelle’s thighs, holding the woman’s wrists up out of the way as she did so.
“Get. Back. Over. My. Knee!” But Chantelle was determined, and wriggling like a worm on a hook, she struggled to get free.
Ms Crosby had had enough. Dragging the pilfering little mare back to her desk kicking and screaming all the way, she pulled her down over her knee, held her hands together up behind her head and proceeded to beat her bottom with all of her furious might.
Chantelle kicked like a mule, but to know avail. As long as her bottom was perched over Ms Crosby’s lap she was helpless.
The malicious spanking was absolutely relentless. Gone were the precise and perfectly timed strokes, and in their place a barrage of unfiltered rage spanking her rump as hard and as often as humanly possible.
Her cheeks now ablaze, the anguish had long since become far too much and Chantelle’s shrieking pleas for mercy filled the room.
“Please, Ms Crosby! Stop it!” she wailed, but the more she squealed, the angrier the manager became.
At last the manager stopped, but sadly it was only a brief intermission. Having caught her breath and taken a wooden ruler from her desk drawer, Ms Crosby continued to punish the woman’s cheeks, ferociously paddling her with the crude makeshift implement.
As the welts began to rise, covering her bottom in angry, swollen purple marks, Chantelle’s pleading finally ceased and she hung her head and wept. It was all just too much to bear.
Too exhausted to continue, Yvette finally stopped and ordered Chantelle back onto her feet. Then handing her a Kleenex, she told her to stand in the corner with her hands behind her head and savour the stinging consequences of her attempted theft.
Despite the intense pain of the stinging welts that covered her bottom, Chantelle stood motionless for a full half an hour whilst the manager decided what to do next. Yvette was quite impressed with her discipline and wondered why she had behaved so childishly earlier. But then, Chantelle had spent many nights standing in the corner, displaying her freshly punished bottom to her auntie and in later years to her husband, and so she had had a lot of practice.
After much deliberation, Yvette called Sonia on the intercom and asked her to come to the office, and as she entered, the sight of Mrs Templeton stripped to the waist, spanked and stood in the corner like a naughty schoolgirl made her burst out giggling.
“Ah, there you are,” greeted the manager, still rubbing her sore hands together in an attempt to soothe the sting. “As you can see, Mrs Templeton’s rehabilitation is already well underway, but I’m afraid that I’m too tired to continue, so I wonder if you wouldn’t mind taking over?” Sonia thought for a moment, biting her lip to try and hold back her sniggers. She hadn’t done anything like this before, and frankly, she was a bit embarrassed. But in the end though, she agreed. After all, it looked like fun.
Making the suspect stand in the centre of the room with her hands behind her back, Sonia smacked the haughty little bitch’s thighs as hard as she could. All the time, she barked at her like a drill sergeant, making her feel utterly wretched as Ms Crosby sat back and watched with a satisfied grin on her face.
Taking off her belt and folding it into a loop, Sonia then began to whip Mrs Templeton’s thighs, letting her turn away after each stroke only to whip another part of the skin with the next stroke.
For a first timer, Sonia was doing incredibly well. She obviously had the cruel streak of a disciplinarian, and once she had got started, she definitely seemed to be in her element.
Nevertheless, Yvette decided to offer a few helpful suggestions.
“Excuse me, Sonia,” she interrupted. “You’re doing really well, but letting her keep her hands behind her back means she can rub her bottom better. Maybe you could make her stand with her hands behind her head; it’s more efficient and quite fun as well.” Thanking Ms Crosby, the security guard followed her advice and made Chantelle keep her hands out of the way as she continued to lash her thighs with the belt, completely ignorant of Chantelle’s beseeching whimpers.
She remembered standing there in her father’s study, humiliated and frightened with her chin up, her hands behind her head and tears streaming down her face as her auntie marched back and forth in front of her, demanding to know every detail of what had happened. And if she was slow to answer, stuttered or Sylvia didn’t like what she heard, the painful smack across her thighs soon had her weeping and begging for mercy.
As well as being a humiliating ‘sissy girl’s’ punishment, when Sylvia had smacked her thighs it had really hurt. After every stroke, a burning pink handprint would develop that sometimes lasted for days.
She had been forced to stand there for two hours, never being allowed to ease the sting or to wipe the tears from her eyes as her auntie punished her, till finally she was sent to stand in the corner. And now, trapped in a similar situation, the thought of reliving the whole experience terrified her. She didn’t think she’d be able to take it again, not for two hours.
Never daring to put her hands down, Chantelle did her best to avoid the venomous leather by moving further and further away from Sonia; first by turning away, then by shuffling and then by trying to step out of reach.
As the sting in her thighs intensified, Chantelle became more and more desperate, stepping further and further away, until eventually, the security guard was literally chasing her around the room.
Sadly though, it was all completely futile. Hobbling along in her high heels, Chantelle was just too slow and too clumsy to escape, so the security guard was thrashing the backs of her thighs every step of the way.
Still sat behind her desk watching the display, Ms Crosby wasn’t enraged as you would probably expect her to be, nor did she try to stop and punish Chantelle for her insolence. On the contrary in fact, she was having so much fun that she didn’t want it to stop.
So desperate was Chantelle’s desire to flee that she didn’t notice that she was being herded like a goat. Driving her around the room with her belt, Sonia toyed with the poor frightened woman for a full five minutes, chasing her around in circles and in zigzag lines, much to Ms Crosby’s amusement, before finally trapping the thief in a corner and beating her thighs till they glowed.
Ms Crosby gave her young novice a standing ovation, and grinning wickedly, Sonia took a bow. She was talented and eager, and in Yvette’s opinion, she had a lot of potential. But despite all this, Sonia was still a little rough around the edges, so taking another Kleenex from her desk, Yvette walked over and let Chantelle dry her tears before giving Sonia a couple of pointers.
Making Mrs Templeton stand touch her toes and borrowing the security guard’s belt for a moment, the manager demonstrated a few precision techniques, using Chantelle’s swollen purple bottom as a target.
The poor woman bit her lip and held on for dear life as a barrage of hard, well-centred strokes rained down on her sore cheeks. Even though it was enough to make welts form on her welts she still held on, but when it came time for Ms Crosby to demonstrate her famous double lash technique, Chantelle simply couldn’t take it any more.
Swinging the belt in a perfect “figure of eight” motion, the manager beat each cheek in turn, one after the other with barely a quarter of a second between strokes. Chantelle screamed like mad, begging her to stop, but of course she was completely ignored. Yvette was busy talking to Sonia and so until she had finished, the irritating little wimp would have to wait.
Chantelle had had enough. Putting her hands behind her to cover her cheeks, she stood up, turned around and demanded that they let her go.
Snorting with complete contempt for the woman, Yvette slapped Chantelle around the face to remind her who was in charge. And like a timid schoolgirl who had been ordered to clean her room, she slowly turned round and bent back over to take the rest of her medicine. At the end of the day, Chantelle was all bark and no bite.
Next came Sonia’s opportunity to put what she had learnt into practice. And when she had finished, Yvette asked Chantelle to critique the security guard’s performance.
“It was very good, Ms Crosby,” wept Chantelle.
“And how did it compare to mine?” “A little sloppier perhaps, but still just as painful. She needs to work on her ‘figures of eight’, but that’s just a matter of practice.” Yvette was quite impressed with her analysis. But then, if there was one thing Chantelle was qualified to speak on, it was the impact of corporal punishment.
Finally, at long, long last, Chantelle was told to put her skirt and knickers back on, take her handbag and get out of Yvette’s sight with a firm warning never to set foot in her supermarket again, or she would show Sonia a few more tricks of the trade.
With an ultimatum like that, she was only too happy to oblige.
Chantelle then scurried home, stopping in the ladies toilets to clean herself up on the way. But as she got closer to home however, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of reception she could expect from her husband when she got there.
A firm disciplinarian himself, since their honeymoon Chantelle had spent many hours laid over John’s knee or bent double ready to take the cane. And if their gossipy neighbour had indeed told him that she’d been taken to the manager’s office for stealing liquor, she was sure that he wasn’t going to be happy.
Shaking with nerves as she put her key in the latch, Chantelle walked through her front door to find her husband stood in the hallway with a face like thunder.
“Out on police bail, are you?” he snapped sarcastically. It was clear that the neighbour had let the cat out of the bag.
“No, darling,” replied Chantelle. “The police weren’t involved.” Then closing the door behind her, she took her skirt and knickers down to show him the marks.
“The manageress and a female security guard punished me and said that I was never to go there again or they’d punish me again.” John nodded.
“Well,” he said. “It doesn’t look like you need any further correction this evening, although I will need you to go to the supermarket tomorrow and every day for the next week. Don’t worry, I’ll call the manager and arrange everything.” Chantelle stared at John in disbelief, but quickly put her head back down and complied. After all, what did she expect? “Oh, and by the way,” he continued, smiling a little as he did so. “I rang your Auntie Sylvia, and when I told her what happened, she agreed to come and stay with us next month.
She may have said something about ‘correcting unladylike behaviour’, but I guess we’ll just have to see.” Chantelle sighed dejectedly. The next time this happened, she’d ring the police herself.
Erotiske noveller skrevet af Teresa Joseph