From the Top Shelf - Carnaby Calling

As a special Christmas gift to you, dear readers, today I am sharing one of my rare attempts at fiction. It was written for the Library of Spanking Fiction's "Through the Keyhole" challenge. The idea was to write a spanking story of between 500 and 2,500 words in which a spanking is secretly observed by an unseen witness. I drew upon my own recollections of the British Invasion of the sixties, combined it with my love of kitchen implements, and a story was born.

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And now, on with the story.

Carnaby Calling

We’re pretty well-off now, but times were tough back in the Sixties. I had just graduated from university and my husband Jeff and I were struggling to make ends meet. We lived in a small, sparsely-furnished apartment on the edge of a middle-class neighbourhood, and Jeff had a pretty good job with an insurance company, but it didn’t pay much. There weren’t many jobs for women with degrees in English, and I was getting discouraged with my job search. I needed some part-time work to bring in a little money. Most of the time I got turned away from entry-level jobs as over-qualified. I needed some part-time temporary work that paid reasonably well, and that meant selling products door to door.

I could have sold cosmetics, but I didn’t wear makeup myself, didn’t know the first thing about it and didn’t care either. Patent medicine products were too old-fashioned and made me think of the snake oil salesmen who peddled elixirs with questionable ingredients in them. Selling brushes was an idea, but they were only hiring men for door to door sales. Besides, the sample cases were heavy and we didn’t have a car. So I got a job selling Carnaby Cookware. The company was named for the popular Carnaby Street in London in the hopes that its trendiness and affinity with the British invasion would somehow induce women to buy its line of kitchen wares.

They carried aprons, tablecloths and matching napkins in the popular psychedelic prints of the day, as well as stainless steel knives and cutlery with similar patterns imprinted on the handles. There was a complete range of kitchen tools too: mashers, strainers, whisks, flippers, slotted and solid spoons, spatulas and the like. The utensils were distinctive, with an orange braided plastic loop for hanging, and a tassel on the end. All the items had names that included the British slang of the day, like “Mod Masher”, “Groovy Grilling Fork”, “Fab Flipper” and Trendy Turner” and we were encouraged to describe the products in similar terms, like “gear” and “heavy”. So much for my English degree!

Over time I learned when I was likely to make the most sales. In the morning most homemakers ran errands or did their housework, so that was when I devoted myself to scanning the papers for job opportunities, writing application letters, filling out applications and taking copies of my resume to potential employers. Evenings were out; women were usually too busy with helping their kids with homework or presiding over social events. Anyway, I wanted to spend my evenings with Jeff. (We couldn’t afford to go out often, but we managed to make our own entertainment, if you know what I mean.) Early afternoons were best, just as the soaps were coming on. If I happened to see a television from my position in the open doorway, I would usually say “Oh, that’s one of my favourites. Isn’t he (or she) something?” no matter what was on. That usually led to a lively conversation and eventually to a sale.

One fine October afternoon I was making the rounds of my neighbourhood. My clipboard with order forms and the delivery list was under my left arm and over my right shoulder was a bag with some merchandise to be delivered. As I walked along the quiet shady street, the leaves – yellow, gold and red - scrunched under my feet. I checked my list against the numbers on the houses as I passed them.

My first stop was a large, split-level house where Monica and Peter Foreman lived. Monica was one of my best customers. In her mid-thirties, she was an excellent baker and always offered me homemade cookies or cake whenever I stopped by. I think she felt kind of sorry for me, because she never failed to make a purchase, even if it was only a small one.

As I walked up the brick path to the front door I noticed a car in the driveway. I guessed that it was Peter’s but I had never seen it before because he was usually at work during the day. I reached the door, put down the heavy bag of merchandise and reached out to press the doorbell when something made me stop. It was a sound coming from inside the house; a slow, rhythmic slapping sound. What on earth could be going on? The drapes were drawn across the big front window, obscuring my view of the interior. The large front door was made of wood, but there was a small panel of glass near the top. Luckily, I am tall, so I could see inside the home if I stood on tiptoe and squinted.

I could make out the furniture in the living room to my right, and that seemed to be the source of the noise. Then I got the shock of my life. Peter was sitting on the couch with Monica draped across his lap. Her skirt was hiked up and Peter’s arm rose and fell rhythmically as he slapped her white cotton panty-covered bottom. But that wasn’t what surprised me most.

In his hand he had one of our more popular items: a long-handled spoon with a wooden handle. The bowl of the spoon was extra-large, for serving stews and things, and it was called the Super Swinging Spoon. The trademark orange tassel and loop fluttered as the spoon collided with Monica’s backside with a loud SMACK, followed by a squeal from the recipient. I watched Monica twist and turn, trying to slip out of her husband’s grasp, while he held her tightly with one arm and continued his efforts with the other. He seemed to be speaking to her, and although I couldn’t make out the words he seemed to be questioning her, because whenever his voice rose at the end of a sentence, Monica would shake or nod her head in reply.

Peter then put the spoon down, and I thought with a stab of disappointment that the spanking was over, but he only did so to free his hand so he could pull her panties down to her thighs. Monica reached back with a yelp and tried to recover the underwear, but that earned her a sharp slap on her hand. After receiving what I assumed was a warning, she resumed her position and Peter adjusted both panties and skirt so he had unimpeded access to her naked buttocks. I saw that they were already a dark shade of pink, and when the spoon recommenced its work, the skin turned dark red.

I suppose I should have been worried that someone might have seen me spying through the door, and I did glance around once or twice, but I was determined not to miss this spectacular show that was exciting me in ways I had not thought possible.  I did have my merchandise with me so if anyone approached I would say I was making a delivery and did they know if anyone was home. In the meantime, I was feasting my eyes on what I saw.

The pace had quickened, and Monica’s curvy bottom jiggled and wobbled as the wooden implement whacked it faster and faster. There was a final flurry of hard, rapid strokes that made her shriek, then the disciplinary session was over. As Peter lay the spoon down beside him, I could see that his face was flushed and he was breathing heavily. Monica slithered off his lap onto the couch beside him and, with a big smile, reached out, put her arms around him and gave him a passionate kiss. Peter’s arms went around her and he caressed her punished cheeks. Then he stood and helped her to her feet, and once more they embraced. Monica kicked the panties aside as the couple turned and headed towards the stairs that were on the other side of the front door.

I stepped back before they could see me, grabbed my bag, turned and walked briskly away from the house and back towards home. I had some serious thinking to do. I wondered what Jeff would say when I told him what I had seen, and how he would respond when I asked him to recreate the scene with the Super Swinging Spoon that I had in my bag of deliveries.  I would tell Mrs. Custers that hers was on back-order.