An Hour In Common: Chapter One

An Hour in Common

Chapter One

What do We Want?

Amy Border neared four miles of running without one foot of displacement. The treadmill, a gerbil cage for urban bipeds, told her how many mochas she burned, and thus, how many she could drink to keep her current height/weight ratio, but it couldn’t tell her how to get the four-flushing union leaders to get off their collectivist fat proxy asses and build the fucking East State Polytecnic Billboards and Promenade project on deadline. She wasn’t “allowed” to use her cell phone while on the treadmill to yell at another human being, so instead she sped the machine up a half mile-an-hour hoping the machine would whip-her-ass so hard she’d stop thinking.

Along side Amy, trapped in her own gerbil torture device, ran her boss and inspiration, Heather McClane: uberwoman. She didn’t run so much as glide.

‘That’s it. I’m taking you in for a session, Amy.’

‘A what? I don’t like mud baths. Morbid.’

‘This club, well, we can’t talk about it here.’ Heather affected a conspiratorial look around at all the other poor unfortunates that made so much money sitting down that they had to work out to placate their doctors and vanity. ‘But this club has a few things to offer we don’t brag about in the brochure.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, you’ll hate it at first, but you’ll thank me later.’ Heather took a swig out of her bottle of vitamin enriched water and sped up her treadmill to catch up with her hungry protégée. ‘It’s for your own good.’

---

Bill Teller whacked the snot out of the racquet ball, sending it an any damn direction Bill didn’t give as shit. It just made him angry that he couldn’t whack the crap out of the damn ball immediately again. He wanted a machine gun to shoot thousands of balls at him to hit and whack and maybe even smack. Cotton-brained corporate clients were going to kill him or drive him to murder with their damn red tape. Murder/suicide!

The ball slammed every wall in the room before hitting Tom Allegro’s hand. He gasped, released his racket, and checked his manicure. ‘Ok… ok…’ Tom Allegro, an Ad Man, had had enough of the charade. ‘You win. I don’t even know what the score is, but I give in. You’re going crazy, and I know just the cure.’

‘I’m not calling one of your call girls.’

‘No—hey—no! This is better. And legal.’

‘You said the call girls were legal.’

‘Yes, they are legal. It’s just what they do for money that isn’t legal. Come on. We’ll hit the showers, power down some protein shakes, and I’ll introduce you to your first session. Going to be great. You’re going to name your kids after me, and put it in your will that they don’t inherent unless they name their kids after me; that’s how much you’re going to thank me.’ Tom took a swig out of his bottled water. His manicure was uninjured.

‘I warn you. It’s going to get a little weird.’

---

‘Heather,’ Amy looked around the locker room, not faking it. Finding no snoops, she leaned into her boss and inspiration. Amy stood 5’11”, so leaning into the averaged sized female put stress on her already stressed lower back, but that was the situation. She stood in her black bra and panties, with a hand on her back as if that could somehow stop the ache. ‘Is this some sick test of loyalty?’

‘Nope.’ Heather toweled her body. At forty-nine, three beautiful kids under her belt, Heather could, annoyingly, body double for Heather Locklear; without a wig or dye job. How? How?! Amy, flirting with almost close to thirty, suspected Heather was a day-walking vampire, but as yet lacked proof. Heather ate red meat, she drank (at night and business lunches and all day Friday), no doctors imbued her with any plastic, she gorged Italian carbs like she had to load up for hibernation… vampire. Only. Logical. Explanation.

Amy sat and bored holes in her boss with her most bewildered face.

‘Heather… I’m a feminist. So are you!’

‘What, dear Amy,’ Heather cast aside her towel for some plebian to pick up and combed her hair with a flat-back hairbrush made of wood that costs more than a equal weight of what they use to tile a space shuttle. ‘What is a feminist but a woman that knows what she wants, and takes it? Don’t be a loser waiting for a cure to come on a horse with a sword to fix you. Losers debate wanting what is good for them. Take the good in life. There’s too precious little good in life to let some out-dated John Wayne male concept like “pride” filter it down. Ahh… I miss John. He was a real man. Old school, tough and assertive, but sweet about it. Very positive nature. I told you I knew him, right? Fun guy.’

‘I—‘ Amy stifled her scream. She looked around again, but the rest of the females in the locker room were far away and gorging in gossip. ‘I don’t want to be spanked!’ She hushed emphatically.

‘Who does? Amy, we’re women. We want to about to get spanked, we want to be just a minute ago spanked, we want to be generally spanked naughty girls; but the logic breaks down if we aren’t actually spanked, and spanked harder than we want at the time. Men think we’re strange creatures. I prefer to think that we’re dynamic open systems. I feel sorry for men. They have to deal with us, which must hurt their cute linear brains. In any case, we’re not getting spanked today.’ Heather put her hairbrush aside and unfolded her cotton panties. She looked at them like a knight looks at his armor.

‘We’re getting paddled. Totally different.’

---

‘Look,’ Bill said, standing on a machine to weigh himself, including his fake smile. ‘I am in total equilibrium. I just freaked there for a second because of an adrenalin overdose. I don’t need to dominate a female with father issues to feel good about myself.’

‘Bullshit!’ Tom clasped Bill by the shoulders, making Bill weigh more on the machine, and led the young man to their lockers. ‘Not that you’re wrong; just that you’re off. This isn’t about feeling good about yourself like one of my ads in a Goddamn magazine sells the bored masses on. This is about catharsis. Young man, I was where you are—learn from me. Whacking a ball around doesn’t cut it. This city eats people alive. Literally. The more you put in, the more this city takes, and the more the city takes the more the city expects. So, the club comes in, puts us back in nature. Right back where our central nervous system feels at home. Pain, giving pain, but with ritual and order like Clan of the Cave Bear. Hey, look-it,’ Tom turned Bill to the full length wall mirror opposite their lockers. ‘This young man look relaxed to you?’

‘No…’

‘No, he looks twitchy and ready to take hostages. So whacking an inanimate object around and besting a man twenty years your senior isn’t catharsis. You need something a little more visceral. So, the Club, sensitive to the needs of her clients, facilitates.’

Bill took out his contacts and put on his glasses. He looked at his feet in deep thought. He concluded. ‘I have this horrible feeling this is a prank, and I’m the sucker.’

‘Man… listen to me. It’s not about sex. It’s about physical catharsis.’ Tom looked Bill in the eyes, invoking a moment of honor shared by men. ‘Hot, sexy catharsis. You’re going to love it.’

---

Heather guided Amy to the esoteric inter sanctums of the Club. There was a sign over the corridor. “Original Amateur Poetry Reading Section”.

‘Well this is even worse than a sp…’ Amy caught herself, again looking around, but no one was about.’

‘Don’t mind the sign. That’s there to make sure no sub-premium member wander into the Playground. Oh, that reminds me, don’t use our real names. My name is Claire Underwood. Hmmm… you know, you look so much like an Amy, I don’t know what to call you.’

‘Doesn’t matter, I’m only doing this once. To placate you.’ Heather stopped Amy at a full length mirror in the hall (the Club was full of the damn things in order to get members back to the machines. Shame is a powerful motivator). ‘Amy, your hair grows thin. Your beautiful alabaster skin grows pale. You twitch like a junky without a fix. Worse, your work is getting brutal. Where’s the clever girl I took under my wing? Answer? Buried under modern stress. Trust me, dear, a little ridiculous physical pain is just what you need to remember that work is life, and life is fun. Hell, look at me? I wake up ready to go, loving all the roadblocks work throws at me. So did you. Now, everything is just a frustration. You, dear, need to be taken in hand a tad.’

Amy looked at her image sideways, idly rubbing a strand of her long, brown hair. It had grown a little thin. Amy assumed some horrible hair disease that she hoped would go away if she ignored it long enough.

‘Fine, I need to go out more. Or get a cat or something. But spanking is just…’

‘Yes, cat gods are splendid, but you also need this. Now, let’s see.’

Heather looked over a schedule board next to the mirror. ‘I did the French maid thing last week and you’re not in the mood to play a princess captured by pirates… ahhh… perfect for us. Nice, simple, bad attitude—just what you need for your first time.’

‘And last.’

‘Yes, that’s why I’m so rich: because I know nothing about people.’

---

‘What’s wrong with my business suit that you loaned me?’ Bill asked, looking in the mirror of the Club’s costume room, adjusting the Club’s red tie and straightening the club’s black like deep space suit.

‘Not serious enough. We’re supposed to be strict school teachers from the days of yore. You know: tools.’

A neat pile of school boy suits caught Bill’s eye. Creeped him out. ‘Man, screw this. Let’s get pizza and beer at Luigi’s. I don’t like the idea of taking advantage of girls with issues.’

‘Bill, listen to what I’ve been telling you. Chances are, these “girls” went to better schools and make more money than me, and I went to Yale. They are not victims, got it? Even smart chicks like a smack on the ass from time to time. No, no, let me finish. I’m not talking about them asking for it and fear of freedom and all that daytime talk show bullshit. I’m talking about human evolution. Endorphins, a little safe danger; thrill of harmless, secret embarrassment. I mean, it’s Rush week all over again. These chickadees are going to have a better time than we are. They should pay us, that’s how much a few whacks from us is going to help out. Believe me.’

‘Chickadees?’

---

Amy and Heather stood in a windowless, serious white brick and otherwise mostly featureless room. Two of the features, however, hung on the wall next to the only door. Twin wide wooden paddles as long as one of Heather’s leg, thicker than Amy’s thumb. Amy’s gaze vacillated from the fearsome weapons to the jeans she got from the Club’s costume wardrobe.

Dressing, Heather picked, with an air of familiarity, a pare of jeans riddle with holes and radical patches (British flag, anarchy symbol, “Stop the War!”, etc…). Hers were tight, but Amy’s were down right obscene. Amy had, since puberty, been more than a little self-conscious of her butt. It was firm, well toned, and often complemented, but big none-the-less. J Lo big. Most guys said they liked it, but guys lie and also guys like all female ass, but in any case the buns were just so obvious that she always dressed to downplay the beast. Gwyneth Paltrow’s skinny little ass on the cover of every magazine didn’t help, either.

These jeans, which were very dark blue and rid high on her hips, framed off the whole package without the first inkling of shame.

Heather had that perfect little tight butt. At forty-nine. And Heather thought it was a good idea for an independent, smart, go-getter gal of the 21^st century to occasionally get her tight little perfect ass paddled.

Vampire.

‘The great have their whimsies.’

‘What was that, dear?’

‘Nothing. I mean,’ Amy studied Heather’s T-shirt (Peace!), then her own (Che!), and stamped her foot. ‘This is retarded! I can’t believe I’m doing this! I don’t even like Che… I was a College Republican! Then I became an independent, then I went Green for a month but I still hold with the tenets of—no! Heather, I—‘

‘Claire.’

‘Claire, I can’t—‘

‘And you’re Sally Forlorn. I’ve decided. Perfect name. It’s a paradox, like you.’ Claire lit a cigarette. Sally Forlorn gawked. Her mouth, which she strictly and consciously kept either shut or near shut in public because it was too big for her or anyone’s face, almost hit the floor. ‘Ahhh…’ Breathing out smoke, Claire looked at the universally hated stick of death. ‘I miss high school. What?’ Amy continued to gawk, her hands open and out in outrage as if she watched a cop key her legally parked, and almost paid for, BMW, like in that one nightmare Amy had the night after doing her 2004 taxes.

‘You smoke?!’

‘Not anymore, not since I bought into the Club fifteen years ago. Very effective program for quitting, believe me. But I need to get into character. Which reminds me. Here. You don’t have to smoke it, child. Just hold it and the lighter like you’re about to smoke it. Just as good for the drama, and better for your young lungs. Oh really, please, you’re holding it like a total dweeb.’

Amy held the cigarette out like it were a bubonic flea ridden rat. Claire took another drag. ‘So good. Sally, be sure to do as you’re told, or you’ll get more smacks. Unless you want more, of course. If you need a break, just say so. But don’t wimp out on me, girl. Let’s show those boys we double XXs can’t be pushed around.’

Amy/Sally watched her boss and idol, her smoking arm resting by the elbow on her other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her cigarette out, smoking like a character in Greece, a devious smile overwhelming her beautiful face.

‘Boys, in the final analysis, don’t really respect victory, wealth, smarts, or even power. Boys only really respect courage.’ She turned her smile on Amy. ‘Let’s show’em some.’

---

‘Showtime.’

Bill wanted to scream “WAIT!” but Tom opened the door and stormed on in. Bill, not sure what other options he had, followed.

Bill liked to think of himself as a modern, enlightened man, but when he was honest with himself he had to admit that the first thing he did when seeing a woman was decide if she was good looking enough to fuck. To the left was a lady, perhaps in her forties, who was shockingly well preserved. Hot, even. However, the real shock was the younger lady on the right. When Bill unfocused his eyes, she emitted light.

Long brown hair. Huge eyes. Very fit but not a rail, not a rail by half. He thought her mouth was perfectly human, in a good way, but didn’t know what his thought meant. But he thought it. Speaking of thoughts , Bill looked at her a second longer than he thought he should, then turned to close the door as an excuse to look away, not wanting to look like he looked away because he didn’t want to look like he wanted to stare. Turning as he did, he came eye to eye with the paddles.

Here he did stare.

---

Amy/Sally didn’t hide her feelings on the proceedings. She thought this whole thing absurd, and expressed that thought with her body. Incredulous face, hand on hip, sneers… everything in her book. Ironically, she acted just like a teenager.

The older Italian looking man seemed to be having the time of his life. He walked around as if the most powerful man in the world. Then he spoke in calm confidence. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t raise your eye. It’s ooooonleeeeeeeeee teenaaaaaaage wasteland.’

The younger one (more than a year or two older than Amy/Sally) had a quite way about him. He was perfectly symmetrical, tan, and strong looking—but without the bulk Amy liked to nozzle with her face when she had time in college. She smirked at his stare at the paddles. He was new to this too, and he didn’t seem any more enthusiastic. However, he wasn’t about to get his butt whacked, so he could afford to be bemused to Amy/Sally’s pissed.

‘Miss Underwood… what a surprise.’ The Italian guy walked around the two naughty girls, smiling the smile of those drunk on power. ‘Burn any army recruitment centers lately?’

‘No, Mr. Hillbreaker.’ Heather/Claire played it up, using that sarcastic tone all people with teenagers know all too well. The younger man turned from the paddles to Mr. Hillbreaker to silently mouth “Hillbreaker?” Amy/Sally thought it was kind of cute, as she also thought the name ridiculous.

‘This is Mr….. Finch. Mr. Ambrose Finch, the school’s new History teacher.’ There he went again. The younger man mouthed “Ambrose?”, this time a little put-off because now the ridiculous name belonged to him. ‘Mr. Finch, you’ll be seeing a lot of Miss Underwood.’ Mr. Hillbreaker handed a paddle to Mr. Finch, then took one for himself. He patted it, smiling. ‘Well, you’ll be seeing a lot of her from the rear, which is more pleasant. Now, hand it over, bad girl.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Mr. Hillbreaker?’ Claire asked.

‘Come off it.’ Mr. Hillbreaker held out his free hand, palm up. Rolling her eyes, Claire slapped down her pack of cigarettes, but continued to smoke the one she had lit. ‘Enjoy it. And you.’ Sally looked at him deadpan, refusing to play the game. ‘I don’t recall seeing you in school before. New?’

Sally continued to give him the flat affect for five or so seconds before saying, monotone, ‘Spanking new.’ Mr. Finch snorted, then coughed to cover it up. Sally wanted to meet his eyes with her own, as he seemed the only other rational player in this farce, but he was shy, hiding his laughter and eyes. He was just a tad older than her, like she liked men, and in that suit he looked to be well on his way in the world.

On the other asshole, Mr. Hillbreaker was not to be tripped up. He smiled, held out his hand for the cigarette and lighter, tossed them aside, and leisurely swatted his hand with his paddle, making stomach twisting “SMACK” noises. Sally definitely felt it in her stomach, but refused to show fear.

‘That’s Sally. Sally Forlorn.’ Claire said. ‘She also thinks “the man” should “stick it.”’

‘We don’t “stick” it, Miss Underwood as you know full well. We beat it. Into compliance. That’s why we’re in charge. Speaking of which, how long has it been since my paddle has made some quality time with your bottom?’

‘Ohhh…..’ Miss Underwood put a finger in her mouth and mocked deep contemplation and innocence. ‘Must be too long, for the establishment at least.’ She brought her finger out after a few seconds and enthused. ‘Hey! Instead of taking your frustration out on me, why not just cop up the bucks for some Viagra? I’m sure Missus Hillbreaker would approve.’

‘What’s Viagra, Miss Underwood?’ Claire stamped her foot, not playing this time. Amy/Sally tried to figure it out as the two played. ‘Some new rock band?’ The smooth Italian said, and Amy/Sally figured out that Viagra was anachronistic in this period piece. This was the sixties, when schools still beat the crap out of teenagers like a Bronte or Twain novel. Claire had screwed up the improv.

‘Miss Underwood, it is clear that you’ve been sitting down reading seditious propaganda. I don’t believe in book burning, so I’ll just have to keep you from sitting. Come on, assume the position for a sound, well deserved spanking.’ Hillbreaker stood over her, looming, but Miss Underwood regrouped, refusing to back off. She kept eyes on Tom’s, even as he patted her thigh with the paddle. ‘Spanking is the best thing for a girl, don’t you agree?’

‘Enjoy yourself. I don’t even care.’ Miss Underwood smiled up at him, begging him to grab her. Un-grabbed for three moments, she took three steps back, stamping her feet, then turned, spread her legs, and grabbed her ankles. She took one last drag before flicking her smoke. Mister Hillbreaker enjoyed the sight with no attempt at restraint. He smacked the paddle against his palm.

‘You too, missy.’

‘Missy?’

---

This Sally had the most expressive face Mr. Finch had ever seen. No! Bill. He was Bill. All to Hell with it. Sally’s cheeks burned red as she stood up to Mr. Hillbreaker… Tom. She was magnificent.

‘Let’s get a few things straight, Mr. Hillbeeker. My name is Am… um, Sally. As in Sally Forlorn!’ Mr. Hillbreaker stood his ground and kept his face in a solid lecherous smile, smacking his massive paddle against his palm. The noise of a paddle hitting skin is a universal archetype. Though Sally had never been paddled, or even witnessed a paddling, the regular SMACKS took a great deal of wind from her sails. Claire, bent over, her tight little swat receptor high and prone as she grabbed her ankles with the ease of a gymnast, found it difficult to intercede. Submissively open to the inevitable swatting, she twitched along with the noise. She craned her neck to implore Sally to not make it worse for them, but Sally, continuing to impress Bill/Ambrose, kept her eyes on the oppressor.

‘Er…’ Bill wanted to feel useful. ‘It’s, ah, Hillbreaker, not beeker.’ The girl Sally shot him a sarcastic wave of her eyes, but snapped right back to The Man.

‘Hillbreaker. Wasn’t that the name a of a Nazi?’ Sally cocked her head, making small talk, awaiting a boring answer to a boring question.

‘Well, Miss Underwood,’ Tom/Hillbreaker disengaged from the new upstart to take a position behind and to the right of the positioned Miss Underwood. He patted her tight jean clad caboose with the intimidating paddle. ‘I can see you didn’t waste any time corrupting Sally here. I think—‘

‘Why are you calling her Miss Underwood, but me Sally? It’s Miss… shit-oh-it’s-something-like… Miss Forlorn.’ Sally nodded, taking charge of her fury. ‘Miss Forlorn is what they call me.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Tom/Hillbreaker murmured, patting Miss Underwood’s fanny a little harder. Bill, needing to know, took a step to the right to see past Sally at Claire’s face. She had given-up beseeching the younger girl, and now just looked straight ahead, scared. ‘So, we start at six licks, for the smoking—that’s standard. One for Miss Underwood for listening to communist Viagra rock music. One for teaching Miss Forlorn the “S” word. Then another stroke for corrupting your attitude. Hmmm… math isn’t my specialty, but I’m pretty sure that adds up to nine. Perhaps you’d like Miss Underwood to receive a solid ten by not apologizing and asking Mr. Finch for an extra hard, well deserved six spanks on your soft, girl bottom?’

Bill stepped back to watch Sally’s amazing face. Not only amazing, but also amazed. She gawked, gaping her beautiful mouth more than Bill would have thought possible, wide enough to bite a puppies head off, but then she snapped it shut, twisted her whole body as an act of self restraint, biting her lip while she studied this horrible man. She could go from arrogance to self-conscious faster than a duck could go from flying to shot dead.

Mr. Hillbreaker stopped tapping the sexy bottom of the sexy woman of his own age, letting the wood rest on her sitter as a constant reminder. Amy came to a decision. ‘If I get nine… fine.’ There was nothing that evinced the girl thought nine smacks with that monster of a paddle was fine. ‘But… her… Claire, didn’t do anything. Anything more than smoke. And she’s going to quit. She should only get, you know, the standard business practice. You know, six… paddles. Paddle hits or whacks or whatever.’

Tom shook his head, slow and sad. ‘I’m afraid I’d be doing a disservice to the repeat offender we all know and love, Miss Forlorn, if I didn’t drive a lesson in humility home. Besides, a naughty girl’s bottom, like yours and Miss Underwood’s here, can’t be spanked too much, or too hard.’ Sally seemed more than a little pissed to Bill. ‘So, Sally, take a hint from Miss Underwood here, ask Mr. Finch nicely for what you really want—no—need, and assume the position, or I’ll give her 18 licks, and have a great time doing it.’

Bill stepped to the right again. Claire’s eyes widened. She looked over and this time made contact with Sally’s. She beseeched the younger girl, but didn’t move or run or anything. Would she take 18 strokes? Could she? She looked very fit, but what good was body tone against a paddle of that size? How painful was each lick?

Still, there was a resolve in those eyes. Bill believed this Underwood would take whatever Hell came.

Sally, in bridled fury, turned to Bill. Her eyes were such that Bill thought he then understood a moth’s love of open flames. ‘Mr. Finch, I’m asking for… would you spank my soft, girl as—bottom six… spanks—times, because I need a correction to be a…’ -- grit teeth filtered -- ‘Good. Girl.’

Sally, tensing and shaking with rage, spread her legs, and bent over, grasping her ankles with as much ease as Claire. Bill wanted to tackle her and make her feel really, really good. Maybe shove chocolate down her throat. Her face was perfectly forward, so he could leer at her body and womanly ass, safe from her gaze. The room was quite until it wasn’t.

WHACK!

---

The powerful master of industry was spanked, and everyone in the room, except the spanker, jumped. Amy saw the long arc of the swing out of the corner of her eye while debating looking back at the younger of the men she knew stared at her ass, which annoyed her almost as much as it delighted the very core of her being. However, the speed of the paddle and the incredible teeth shaking crash of it put things in perspective for Amy. Delight was dead.

The powerful master of industry, Heather, sometimes called Claire, buckled her legs and twisted her face in pain. Amy came out of her shellshock as she watched her idol revert to her inclined position with perfect confidence, though her face gave away her fear. Could the boys see her fear? No, Amy thought, Claire wouldn’t look so concerned for her most lamentable Fate if they could see.

WHACK! Then WHAAACK!! Then WHAAAAACCCKKKK!!!!

Claire had managed to pop back into position, but Amy didn’t know by what strength, even though the younger woman revered the older. The bastard Hillbeeker swung with all his might, striking every inch of Claire’s rear end. AND THE NOISE! Still, Claire made not a sound to the fourth swat, only a sharp intake of breath, yet put her ass back where it didn’t want to be.

Hillbreaker allowed a few moments for Claire to stop jittering before WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK.

‘OH! Ah….’ Claire cracked a little on the last, then moaned a little, but didn’t move. She didn’t even crumple in between the spanks, but kept her buns right in the fire, though she shook. The skin of her face, already tight as a co-eds, stretched the limits before sagging in weary self-pity. Claire stared at the floor, exhausted and gasping. She sniffed once.

Hillbreaker walked a circle around the naughty girls, then sat on the floor, as one would at the picnic, right in front of Claire’s floor facing face. He idly inspected his paddle.

‘One more. And it’s going to be a seat scorcher, trust me. Must be horrible, being a rebel I mean. Can’t win; afraid to win. Wouldn’t know what to do with society if it were a plaything. Don’t even know what to do with yourself. Still… there is pride. All those square customs and oppressive rules. Hmmm… I, like most squares, am an optimist. Like to think people can learn, even naughty young girls like you. How about this.’ Claire could hear him, and Amy could see that the words made her burn, but she was too tired to stare him down, though he sat so close. Hillbreaker lifted her chin with his paddle until she could look squarely at his smug face. ‘If you begged me to stop, and promised to be a Betty Crocker girl, and obedient and quite for all the rest of your days, well… I think we can forgo this last swat. What do you say?’

Amy wanted to kill the man. Bent over, she had the perfect view for the farce, but she also had the perfect position to scratch his eyes out with her thumbs nails. Then eat them while kicking his begging, blind body.

Hillbreaker, son-of-a-bitch that he was, was patient. And smoooooooothhh. He sat on his ass, his legs out, and smiled at Claire as she regained her composer.

‘You---uue could go ahead and mah-make it-it ten, sir. If you’ll skip the moralizing. Sir.’

He smiled all the way around his head, and in no time Claire screamed out twice in quick procession, but didn’t move anything below her neck. She took it like a champ, kept her position, and turned her tired face to Amy.

‘Wow,” she mouthed, not looking happy at all.

---

‘This paddle is heavy.’ Ted said. ‘But the hook is all the way over there… hey, I know.’ Ted placed the paddle on Underwood’s back. ‘There, you’re being a useful member of society already. Mr. Finch, I believe you have some work to do.’

Bill, though he tried to think of himself as Mr. Finch, took a spanker position behind this gorgeous Sally. Her bottom was so womanly, and her attitude so mean that, God help him, he wanted to smack it. But he also didn’t. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to talk to her, but how? Maybe she did want to get spanked… she seemed smart enough to be weird. Bill knew he wasn’t smart himself, but he knew enough to recognize smarts in others, and he knew enough smart people to know that all smart people are kinky in some way. He saw a British movie once that claimed that Beethoven liked to get urinated on. Or was it Mozart? No, Mozart liked to get spanked. Himself, Bill liked Chicken McNuggets with that mustard sauce they have. Oh, and Animal Planet.

The great have their whimsies, Bill thought.

He tapped the paddle against Sally’s amble backside. She stiffened, but kept her place. Bill had to admit that this was interesting.

‘So I just… backhand her?’

‘It’s not complicated, Mr. Finch.’ Ted said, leaning on Miss Underhill. She sagged a bit before meeting the new force pushing her down. She was a proud old bird. Well, not old. ‘The only thing you need to worry about is spanking the naughty little Miss Forlorn too soft. She’ll never forgive you. It would be an insult.’

Sally and Bill turned their eyes to the madman, matching each other’s incredulity.

‘Really. See, if you don’t give Sally’s bottom a solid six smacks, well, we’ll have to start all over, wont we? If you do something, you need to do it right. Right, Miss Underwood?’ His elbow still on the poor lady, he leaned over to put his face closer to hers, putting an almost unbearable pressure on the bent over lady. ‘It’d only be fair to give you another spanking if Mr. Finch needs to learn how to spank naughty girls, right? It’s not like you care, or anything. Tough girl like you.’

Bill and Sally looked at Miss Underwood’s face, which, on bent frame, stared straight ahead in perfect fury. She spoke with bitter control.

‘Mr. Finch, I’d just assume you get to spanking. Spank hard. My back hurts.’

The tone was more than bitter. It was the tone used by fallen angels. The Sally girl, of course, felt betrayed, but bit her tongue. Then she released it.

‘Look, Mr. Finch, just whack my butt as fast and hard as you can so I can go. Please, have fun!’

She was frustrated to the point of snapping. Her words hurt Bill a great deal. He didn’t like this any more than her, but they were all adults trying to play a game, for good or bad. She acted like he was the bad guy, which just wasn’t fair. He didn’t force her to bend over. There was no blackmail or anything. If she didn’t want to get paddled, why was she bent over?

Bill stopped himself. He was there to spank because his patron wanted him to spank. So maybe Sally was there to get spanked for the same reason. He had it easy in comparison. She had every right to be mad.

“Don’t be a jerk,” Bill told Bill’s brain. “Pretend your John Wayne and get to spanking so the poor girl can start forgetting this whole thing.”

Still, a little annoyed, Mr. Finch spanked Sally Forlorn six times in fifteen seconds. WHACK—AHH! Her head thrashed with each, and she yelled with each, but otherwise didn’t move a muscle. She looked beautiful.

Bill couldn’t believe he’d done it. He made her scream in pain.

‘OK, spankings done.’ Ted said, taking his paddle off Underwood’s back. ‘You’re good girls again, so stand up.’

---

Amy shot up and rubbed her ass. She bore into Mr. Finch with her eyes. He looked away, but Amy continued to firehose venom at the man. That really bad kind of venom that monsters in Australia have. The kind of venom that, if you get one dollop on our skin, a week later your testicles explode. She grabbed her cheeks, and squeezed, but the pain was absolutely inedible. It didn’t even occur to her to cry. She was too fucking pissed to cry. There was nothing climatic about it. No spiritual awakening. Her mind and heart and soul were unchanged. The only difference was that her ass burned like Hell. Seared to the bone. And she felt like an idiot. And the cheeks in the face burned as well, making her high.

Heather—Amy was done with this Claire Underwood bullshit—stood up with a slow grace, and adjusted her jeans as if she’d been sitting too long. She looked at the smiling Mr. Hillbreaker with a calm, almost bored face.

‘Thank you, sir.’ She said it like people say “thank you” to bank tellers. ‘I’ll be good.’ Amy, still squeezing her ass, wanted to strangler her boss. At the very least she could act submissive; if not pissed! She just looked calm. Serene, even. Jesus, her butt burned.

‘Our work here is done.’

The men left first. Then the women. Nobody talked in the dressing room. The younger ones were introverted, and the older patient.

Bill didn’t own a car. Ted drove them to the Club in his Mercedes. Bill sat shotgun, staring into space, while Ted gunned his sweet ride.

‘So, you still want to get a pie?’

‘Ambrose Finch?’

Men are only tall boys, it is often said. Bill and Ted gasped into hilarity. Ted sunk his head into the steering wheel, activating the horn in frenetic “BEEPS!” while Bill clasped his own face and leaned all the way back into the leather of his chair, his mouth open to the limits. They couldn’t breath they laughed so hard. They stamped their feet, Ted once kicking the accelerator, making the car lurch and the boys laugh all the harder.

‘Wait… wha…’ Ted regained himself. ‘Listen… listen.’ The two men half controlled their breathing. Ted looked onto Bill’s eyes, dead serious, as Bill smiled like a monkey, still gasping. ‘You know how we’re sitting here, about to drive home?’

‘Yah…. Yeah?’

‘Well… Claire and Sally have to – have to sit driving home too!’

Ted almost broke his steering wheel with his head, and Bill thought he might have broken a rib. It was, to Bill, the best “You had to have been there” joke in all of human history. He didn’t know it, but that laugh added forty-three days to his life because stress is a killer if you don’t purge it out.

Amy dropped Heather off at the hotel Heather owned. Heather lived in the penthouse yet the joint made a profit every week. Amy lived near the top floor, under only Heather and an oil Sheik playboy. They hadn’t said a word; only fidgeted in the BMW’s leather seats. Amy thought her big butt would flame hot enough to burn holes in pants that cost hundreds of dollars, but were worth it because they downplayed the size of her ass. What burned her even worse was thinking about how those men must be laughing at her and her burning cheeks.

‘Amy, if you want to call me, then you call me, understand?’

Amy looked at Heather and wanted to cry. She didn’t of course. She kept her defiant face on. She almost lost it when Heather patted her cheek. ‘Don’t play tough with me, sweetheart. The fellas, sure, but not with me. Call. If you want.’ Heather had a celebrity auction to auction, again invited Amy, and again accepted Amy’s declination.[1]

Amy took the elevator, cleaned the drapes, vacuumed, folded the laundry, brushed the walls, cooked, ate while listening to public radio, washed the dishes, then sat on her aching ass, drank a bottle of wine, and thought about how nice it would be to have a man around to focus on so she wouldn’t have to think about herself after work. She didn’t think like this in public, or when there was work to do.

She had nothing to do.

Alone, with nothing but her thoughts and single glass, all she could think about was the great nothing that was the universe, the occasional dot of matter here and there, each dot infected with entropy and doomed. She thought about Heather’s friend John Wayne. Sure, he’d spank Amy from time to time, but he would always have something for her to do. Always needing taking care of. Gun shot wounds and blood stained cowboy hats that needed cleaning and whatever. She hadn’t slept next to a man in over three years. Just too busy. No snoring or movements to adjust to, or hand grabbing to calm his nightmare. Just a perfectly creased bed sheet and five hundred dollar pillow that nestled her head just right, with no complaints, giving her nothing to think about.

Amy bet that Mr. Finch didn’t feel lost. He probably knew his place in the universe, even knew Einstein type physics, and slept like a baby. Then woke up and made millions of dollars for the fun of it. He probably worked really hard all day then hit the sack, falling into sleep like falling off a log. Or into the arms of three of the highest paid supermodels in the city, all at the same time, all of them laughing. Licking Champagne off each other. Or maybe not. Mr. Finch probably didn’t fold his clothes right, and tossed his jacket on the arm of his couch, and he probably ate too much junk food because nobody dared enough, or cared enough, to make him eat right. Amy wandered if Mr. Finch had someone to take care of him. Party girl sluts couldn’t take care of a man. Girls were death to men. A man needed a woman, someone to make sure he ate vegetables and visited the dentist twice a year.

Amy finished her last glass of wine, ripped the phone’s cord out of the wall, and cried.

---

[1] Yes, “declination” is a word.