Tessy Plinkerton Saves Proper

Tessy Plinkerton Saves Proper

By PallidBust

Chapter One

Welcome, Adult, to Adulthood

My name is Tessy Plinkerton, and at the dawn of our meeting, I was having a rough 21^st birthday. Your hero (that’s me, call me Tessy) was and am a diminutive, blonde, and innocent country girl in the small liberal arts college town of Proper, away for the first time from my home and loving family, yet everybody was beating on me like I was a red headed stepchild.

I yipped and eeped while sawhorsed over Busboy Greg’s knee in the kitchen of O’Shannon’s Bar and Grill, my place of vocation. The busboy grew up corn-fed and tall, and with his foot planted on a carton of booze as it was, I dangled in midair, my feet kicking a feckless three feet from terra firma. I was helpless and he knew it. Like rats can.

WHACK

‘GHRAAHAA!’

’19!’ the fry cooks and passing waitresses yelled out.

WHACK

‘Cr-Grap!’

’20!’

‘Damnit!’ Most of the line chefs and fry cooks had had their turn at my normally snow white and pert little 21-years and eleven hours old butt, and I had long lost count of the spanks I’d suffered. That’s 21 whacks times… a shit load of people plus a billion “to grow on” licks, equals the sorest ass I had ever had the pleasure of the introduction, and I had my gratuitous teenage rebellion years with a daddy that had an Honest to God woodshed with a razor strop. He’d only ever used it on me the one time, when I mouthed off to momma, but once was enough. Oh, the whipping didn’t make me perfect, but it made me perfect enough to make the woodshed gratuitous. The threat of its existence, along with lectures and extra chores and that horrible disappointed look he took on when I stooped below the categorical imperative, made me disciplined and virtuous enough to hide my vices.

My rebellion years ended in the Establishment’s total victory. I called him “sir”, still call him “sir”, and plan to call him “sir” until I’m collecting social security or have my ass surgically removed. Sometimes I call him “daddy” when I’m feeling low and want a hug.

Speaking of which. WHACK

‘Nfffff…’ I refused to call the Busbuy Greg “daddy”.

‘21!’

‘And one to grow on.’

WHACK

‘One to grow on!’ Everyone yelled as everyone had a nice ’ol, grand, Bourbon Street, V-Day of a time. Greg let me fall a few Empire State Building’s to my feet, my cute Sunday clipperclapper shoes impacting on concrete, shattering the bones in my feet, and I can’t figure if my medical insurance covers for feet bone replacements because I can’t read the Latin written by Smurfs with nano-lasers at the bottom of the contract.

I bent over and rubbed my wounds. Sean O’Shannon knew how to use the silent promise of sex to attract business, so all the waitresses were college girls, and we all had to wear these tight, black blouses and matching in color and modesty little skirts which were, I now know, easily lifted for a spanking and a serious rub after that spanking. The female customers thought we were just adorable, and told us so. The male customers thought things not fit for family viewing, and told us so when their wives powdered their noses. It was not in the employee training video that girls are spanked by all employees upon achieving the magic 21 years-of-age so that we can tend bar and earn serious green.

It. Was. Not.

So, skirt easily lifted over the last few hours, my only remaining operational defense, funny enough, were my high school cheerleader red “spanky” panties, which the manufacturer claim provide “moderate rear coverage”, which means they cover half the ass. That’d be great, splendid, if they covered the right half. They shouldn’t be called “spanky” panties because they didn’t help a girl take a spanking. I suppose that moniker works if you were giving the birthday spanking, in which case they must be great for spanking because they framed that fat part of the butt into a perfect target, and the bright red coloring gave the spanker a good swatch for measuring the color of my flesh. However, I didn’t know any of this for sure because I’m just a girl, so I just get spanked. Damn sexiest gender constructs… my womyn’s studies professor Dr. Yielding is right! Society must change! Before my next birthday!

I bit my lip, rubbed, and collected myself until Greg pinched the back of my arm.

‘OOOOOOAAAAACCCHHHHHH’

‘Forgot to wear—‘

‘Yeah I know! I’ve only been crabbed two-dozen times today.’ I rubbed my butt with my pinched arm and my pinched arm with my other arm and hopped from sore foot to sore foot and I looked just ridiculous.

He had a green clover necklace on because men in the city can wear jewelry even if it isn’t a Cross. I couldn’t pinch him back. He was pinch-immune by way of his magical rune.

He spoketh, ‘You’d think working at an Irish bar and grill, you’d remember to wear green on-‘

‘Go. Clean. Something. Greg.’ He was tall and a second string line backer, and usually a nice guy when he wasn’t whacking all the 20-year-old out of my 21-year-old ass with his freak giant hand, and as I’ve said, I’m small, but any hunter will tell you that the most dangerous kind if prey is wounded prey, so I channeled my inner spanked badger at him through my spanked badger eyes until he fled. Oh, and did he flee! Well, he fled so at an easy gate while laughing, but he only laughed to hide his fear, I say.

‘Can I take table 14 their food now, or would someone else like a go? Really?’ I lifted my skirt and poked out my money maker. That domain of my modesty firebombed all to Hell. ‘Here, there it is, carpe diem; I’m not just flesh and bone after all. I’m a punching bag, you superstitious, pagan practicing druid savages!’ They laughed at my mooning and scurrilous polemic (I didn’t have great grades in high school so I studied for the SAT verbal hard). Of course they laughed; it was a brilliant defense. I couldn’t very well be angry at them if they thought I was a good sport, could I? Everyone was so bummed that morning because we had to work on St. Patty’s Day while all their friends started drinking at sunrise—but now everyone whistled while they worked. Bastard polytheists (read multiculturalists). If I got real mad and made a real fuss and cried, I’d spread depression.

I bit my lip, smiled with my most beach bunny brain dead expression, and took one for Team Bastard.

I bit too hard and broke some skin against my bottom teeth. Nothing to be done about it, so I straightened my adorable and suggestive uniform, checked my pony tail, grabbed my trey which, loaded, equaled half my body weight, and got like the ant of parable.

‘Here you go, folks. How does everything look? OK, great. I’ll be back in a few minutes to check up on ya.’

The boss, a likely dyslexic, never turned music on in the back for us proles unless we were already so happy it put him in a good mood too. On my return, Junior Brown belted out “Highway Patrol” from the kitchen radio, everyone was joking and dancing while working, and felt I like an invincible baddass, so I opened the door to the empty storage room, waved away the illicit smoke, and screamed, ‘Jimmy, I need that Death And Damnation By Chocolate with low fat Vanilla Swirls, trademark, now; so if you could hurry up breaking the law in here, I’d appreciate it.’ I closed the door behind me and sprayed myself down with the anti-odor bottle the stoners kept on the nearby shelf, and ran my elfish-self into matching set of Long Island silver spoons: Kitchy Culpepper and Veronica Cul’ Demore. They were very tall, brunettes, and bled blue as Vulcans. The beamed at me as if I were a baby with spaghetti on her head.

I eyed them. Kitchy’s earrings were emeralds, real ones; and Veronica wore a green jewel bedecked necklace around her ankle. What’s that called? An anklet? Must be, because my spellchecker didn’t put a little red squiggly line under it like it did for “Kitchy”, so I guess Kitchy didn’t really exist and was just a psychosis in my addled brain.

But she appeared to exist.

‘Yes?’

‘Happy birthday,’ Kitchy said, literally bouncing with excitement, and grabbed my arms by the elbows to bounce me right along with her. She was taller than me, even without that tall horse, so a few of those bounces lifted me a good bit up and down, up and down, and up and down in my damn shoes.

I stamped my foot in protest! Then moaned. I needed to find a new form of civil disobedience, but all I could think of was a sit-in but that was out for at least three days.

‘Ohhhhhh,’ Kitchy said into my face. ‘You’re just like my waif of a pledge that left me to get married. Sniff. I miss having a little sister.’ She looked at me like I were a puppy to replace the family’s dead dog. It’s funny how an objective compliment can feel so freaking insulting.

‘OK, fine. Whose turn is it?’ I craned and looked from one beaming face to the other like I laid on my belly in the grass to watch a tennis game. I’m always looking up, you see, so I have strong neck muscles. Someday I’m moving to Japan.

They turned their smiles to each other, flashed their eyes in WASP Code, then turned back to me. Realization hit me center mass: they had, oh sweet God, an idea.

The Yankees jumped me!

I never stood a chance. Kitchy had my arms, so I was stuck as Veronica velociraptor-ed my flank. Before I knew it, I found myself bottoms up over both of their knees, Veronica’s left knee right along side Kitchy’s left, the assassins facing each other. Kitchy was left hand dominate, you see, so each had a dominate hand on my six. They braced their feet on a crate of tomatoes, so once again I dangled. Instead of “whose a jolly good fellow” I got regaled by raucous giggles. That’s right—raucous giggles. Don’t you question my syntax until you’ve survived this kind of absurdity.

‘We’re both trying to leave early, and our ride is almost here, so we’ll both claim our rights together to save time. Hold tight.’ And skirt up.

Kitchy beemed, ‘I’m a lefty!’ like it was an accomplishment. Horizontal, I noticed Jimmy stumble by, not too doped to miss a look at that less and less private end of my body.

‘Just hurry,’ I said, filtering the words with my clenched teeth. ‘Table Four needs its Death And Damnation By Chocolate with low fat Vanilla Swirls’ trademark. I looked up at the wall, inches from my face, and my face so hidden, allowed myself to express sorrow and great self-pity. I just didn’t want anyone to see how much I hurt. They seemed so happy. Then I remembered that both the girls were raised in country clubs, daily working on their tennis serves. My eyes tearing up, I hung my head and moaned.

‘And one!’

‘And one!’

‘And two!’

‘And two!’

And eternity…