Friday's Scream Queen
4 hours ago
Like most Americans, I was raised to believe two things: that I am a very, very bad boy, and that I must be properly punished for my transgressions. But in recent years, I've become deeply disillusioned with the American justice system. After an overview of federal sentencing guidelines and meticulous study of the Departments of Corrections of all 50 states, I have found that our nation's criminal courts routinely resort to fines, imprisonment and community service as restitution for wrongdoing—punishments I, for one, find less than satisfactory. Aren't there any crimes punishable by public spanking?
Take one recent case from my own neighborhood. Last fall, a city policeman observed a 1995 Mercury Sable station wagon moving at 35 mph in a school zone. This is not only speeding, but reckless endangerment. You might think that such dangerous driving would warrant a good, hard spanking on the part of the stern and neatly uniformed arresting officer, and so did I. But, no! Instead of the 10 to 15 crisp, flat-handed smacks to the bottom the offense would seem to call for, I was given a ticket for $50 and instructed to appear in traffic court. This is justice?
At my court appearance, things got even worse.
I felt embarrassed and ashamed, but worse than that, I was disappointed. Here I thought I was finally going to experience what I'd been fantasizing for about as long as I could remember, and this was how it ended up. After all the buildup and anticipation, the frustration was unbearable. And I couldn't talk about it with anyone. How could I? It was my nasty little secret.
Going back to work the next day sucked. I still felt like hiding, but that wasn't an option. It was hot that Monday and I wore a sleeveless shirt, not realizing that I had finger bruises on my right arm. My boss commented on them, concerned, and I was mortified. As the day progressed, I felt like this secret was going to burst out of my chest like an alien and if I didn't tell someone, I'd go mad. I called my therapist and left a message, asking her if I could have a phone session when I got home. Upon my arrival, I found a return message from her, telling me when to call.
I was so shaky, I felt sick. But it knew I had to do this--I had to get it off my chest, out of my head. So I called Susan and with little preamble, I told her everything in a big tumbling torrent. The years of desire and the fantasies, the endless fixation and how I felt stigmatized and apart because of it. Meeting Ken and my encounter with him. And how, despite how poorly it had gone, it left me craving more. What the hell was wrong with me?
Finally, I wound down, grateful this was on the phone because I couldn't have looked her in the face. When she spoke, her voice was incredulous. "That's it? This is the big, terrible secret you had to tell me? Erica, do you have any idea how many women out there have thoughts like this?"
Come again? This was not the reaction I expected. After so many years of thinking I was a freak, here I was confessing it to my shrink--and she was telling me I was normal? That hundreds, thousands of others shared this with me? My brain struggled to wrap around this concept, and tears of relief gushed as we discussed it. Not only did this person whom I respected and trusted tell me that my desires were okay, she encouraged me to explore further, safely. I wasn't sure how I was going to do that, but it was nice to have someone grant me permission to do so.
Von's eyes lingered on the curve of her butt in tight faded blue jeans. He let out a sigh. She swirled her head back and caught him. She gave a broad smile as Von's eyes met hers.
Von looked down her left arm; one eye took her ring finger and surveyed a rock that could bend an oak branch. Like a lizard, his other eye revisited the shape of her butt. Perfect.
The waitress was a lithe gazelle of a woman with bright red hair caught in a pony tail and cool white skin. Von avoided his compulsions through the appetizer and the better part of the main course, but his eyes finally betrayed him after she came for the dessert order. The waitress' bottom danced beneath a smooth, shiny black skirt. Von's eyes snapped back to Madeline's. Apologetically, he turned his eyes down to the empty table. When he looked back up, Madeline grinned. "Yours is nicer, Madeline."
He lingered at the door he had opened and watched her butt dance away.
He let out a Dizzy Gillespie sigh as her rounded butt disappeared toward the restroom.
Her bare back angled to a valley that rose up to the two perfect peaks of her butt covered in the silver top sheet. He gripped the sheet in his toes and slowly pulled them down until only her left calf was covered. She was more perfect than he had imagined.
He gripped her legs up to hips and squeezed her butt tightly... He released one hand from her butt and stretched his fingers wide. He exhaled and bit his lip. He returned to softly stroke her soft butt cheek.
I don't know how to let it go."
Von got a creepy feeling -- suddenly in the eye of a hurricane, its heavy green air comforting but with a silent menace. "So channel it," his heart throbbed.
"Have you ever acted?"
"Yeah, in school, why?" She replied.
"You can't do it to him, so find a surrogate."
"What kind of surrogate?" Her face compressed.
Von's heart pounded like a jackhammer. "Someone to punish, let out your frustration on."
"You think it will work?"
"What do you have in mind?"
There were so many ways to go, and Von knew them all. He'd used a paddle, a yard stick, even a whip. Bend them over a desk or a table, leaning against a counter, wrists gripped to heels. Clad in leather, cotton, lace and linen. But the best had always been a lava red hand on a ripening bare bottom, draped across an enforcing lap. The classics never go out of style.
Von convincingly played the part of a randy spouse recently caught. He unhitched his jeans and bent over her lap. Madeline's tiny hand stretched wide and clapped across his bottom, and a small shudder of emotion blasted from her like a controlled explosion of live ordinance [sic], then her hand cut loose. Von grimaced. Madeline gasped at the stiffness that grew against her lap. She spanked him harder, as the inner wall of the hurricane struck, a torrent drained from her eyes. Von's butt burned with champagne sparkles...
"I've been a bad girl, haven't I?"