"Come, my dear, and don't be afraid."
The voice startles her out of her paralysis - it is calm and deep, the accent surprisingly English, and strangely familiar. Sarah approaches, once again awkward, embarrassed. The Swami indicates cushions a few feet in front of him. She sits.
When she raises her eyes to look at him, it takes a moment to register what she's seeing. She utters a startled cry, and stares in amazement. Framed by the flowing white locks, and amidst the full white beard and moustache, the Swami's face has slowly changed into the face of her father. Never mind the photographs, she knows instinctively that it's his. But before she has time to put words to her shock, the Swami speaks, and his soothing voice has a clarity and sharpness that awakens every sense in her. Never has she felt so present, so calmly alert.
"Sarah, what is the sound of one hand clapping?" asks the Swami with her father's face.
Her gaze wrapped warmly within his own, she replies, "I ... I can't remember. I know I've been hiding ... this secret ... all my life." She gulps. "Or at least ever since ... since ..." She feels tears welling up.
"Since?" asks the Swami gently.
Sarah's heart is so full, she cannot speak. She stares helplessly into the face of her father, and her tears overflow and trickle down her soft cheeks.
"Come here, Sarah." The voice is stern, commanding. He beckons her with his forefinger.
She knows what's to happen. She rises and steps over to him, drapes herself across his lap. At first, she catches the exotic scent of some Himalayan oil from the Swami's robes, but then the smell changes; it takes on a tweedy, pipe-smoke quality, and she catches her breath as the memories flood back.
"Oh Daddy," she murmurs.
She feels her cotton skirt being lifted away, and then her skimpy panties pulled gently down to her thighs. The cave's cool air caresses her newly bared buttocks, and something in her simply surrenders. She exhales deeply. It's as if she is breathing out the twenty years of lost and helpless yearning.
"I love you, Sarah," she hears. "Promise me you won't ever forget that again."
The firm, sharp smack to her right buttock makes her squeal. It stings, and she shifts her weight. The next, to her left, is harder.
"Ooof! I promise!"
And again, another, firmer still, and more, and now she's squirming, her eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard.
Each impact of the large hand creates a flash of light in her mind, and the delicious stinging spreads like warm love down her legs and up her spine. She writhes and twists but thrusts her bottom up to meet each blow while the man's other hand presses down between her shoulder-blades, holding her safely to her promise. The warmth grows to heat and climbs her spine like a sacred serpent. Her neck tingles hot and then her mind bursts, bursts in a brilliant white light, and she's lying there, gasping, crying, laughing ... released.
---oOo---
When Sarah emerges from the cave, everything shines - the rocks sparkle and the pine trees glisten. She looks around for Charlie. No sign. She turns to the old man. No words needed, he shrugs, grins and indicates the path down the mountain.
Back at the dormitory, there's a note.
Gone travelling. Enjoy Goa, and stay at the house as long as you like.
Charlie.
P.S. It was about your father, wasn't it?
Yes, she thought, it was.
Home at last.
Something for the American Market
Lillian Carrington-Smythe was, it had to be admitted, a young woman for whom the epithet ‘snob’ might have been invented. As is often the case, her double-barrelled family name had in fact until quite recently only shot from one: Smith.
Her father, John Smith (yes, really!) had made and lost his fortune short-selling non-asset-based virtual derivatives from a swanky office in Canary Wharf in London's Docklands, and somewhere between the 'made' and the 'lost' he had by deed poll acquired the 'Carrington' (watching TV's Dynasty having been the sole measure of his cultural capital) and adapted the spelling of Smith, a habit not uncommon among the less self-assured middle-class English.
Expensively (but largely ineffectively) educated, Lillian had acquired all of the airs but none of the graces of the mostly aristocratic girls with whom she'd hobnobbed at school. Daddy's fortune lost, she found herself increasingly marginalised in the social circles she aspired to and obliged, to her chagrin and her former schoolmates' pitying distaste, to make her own living. That she was such a snob was a shame, for Lillian was also strikingly attractive, with a curvaceous figure that caused cars to swerve and wives to curse.
After a series of humiliating jobs - typing, serving, assisting - at twenty-four she reached what she felt was the nadir, even though the money was better: personal assistant to Yorkshireman Harvey Grimethorpe, owner, Chairman and Managing Director, along with several other self-aggrandising titles, of Rednates Creations, based in Stepney, an insalubrious quarter in the east end of London, not far in fact (though all too distant in status) from the now sadly abandoned swanky office her disgraced father had once occupied.
That I loved Lillian Carrington-Smythe, despite her snobbery, or perhaps even because of it, I freely confess. The day she walked into the grimy 'Head' office (Harvey's surname somehow leeching into much that he touched) of Rednates Creations was the day boredom walked out of mine. I was the only employee at the time, exploited to the bone by the dour Yorkshireman's work ethic (so long as it was other people's work).
That Lillian Carrington-Smythe did not love me, indeed that she fairly despised everything about me, she made deflatingly clear from the start. However, she needed me in those early weeks to help her understand the job and Harvey's idiosyncrasies, which were legion, so a grudging respect of sorts was established and I sensed, behind the air of disdain, that she may even have liked me despite herself.
As you may already have surmised from its name, Rednates Creations supplied corporal punishment implements. We sold canes, straps, paddles, floggers, you name it, to sex shops, mail order customers, anyone who'd buy them, mostly in the UK and Germany (the most, or the least, repressed Europeans?) but with a trickle of trade in the US too. It was a seedy business in a seedy market, and Harvey, as I may already have suggested, managed to add his own-brand seediness too.
It was in February, about six months after Lillian had made us a trio, when Harvey, just returned from a visit to his sick mother in Yorkshire, announced one morning, "I'm sending you both to America!"
This was an announcement so absurdly unlikely that we both laughed politely, and a little bitterly, at what we assumed to be a characteristically lame attempt at teasing humour, and resumed our tasks.
"I mean it!" he exclaimed, peeved by our reaction. Lillian hated being made a fool of, and tutted disapprovingly, continuing to ignore him. But knowing our grimy boss better, I wasn't now so sure it was a trick.
It transpired that Harvey had discovered the ‘breakthrough product’ that was going to ‘storm the American market’. The idea had come to him at his mother's house when she'd reminisced (lost in time-gapped dementia, poor dear) about her young days on a farm, where one of her jobs had been to pat and shape the butter prior to sale. And the instrument used for this preparation? Harvey produced one from a bag.
"It's a butter-pat," he announced excitedly, holding it up to the light. It was a rectangle of hardwood about eight inches long and four wide with a handle. It had, on one side, several grooved serrations running lengthwise. "You know how the yanks worship their paddles? Well here's a handy-sized English version, complete with these nice grooves - you see here?" he asked, thrusting it in Lillian's face. (Harvey drooled over Lillian much less discreetly than I did, but he was if anything even more in awe of her air of superiority, so thus far she'd held him successfully at bay). "They'll make lovely marks, those will." Lillian turned her head away in disgust, exclaiming,
"Really, Harvey! I do think you might keep your perverted opinions to yourself. And anyway, I can't see our
American cousins getting that excited over a little bit of wood, even if it is English."
"Little bit of wood?" he spluttered, tiny flecks of spit spraying the surface of his small desk (his false teeth tended to compromise his spittle retention). "This here, I'll have you know, little Miss Prim-and-Proper, is the all-new Handy-Pad, made of the finest Scottish pine, hardened by a special process known only to MacDougal's, butter-pat makers by appointment to Her Majesty since 1865! But then they wouldn't teach you that at Benetton, would they?" he added sarcastically.
"It's not Benetton, Harvey, it's Benender," I interjected tactfully, knowing how irritated Lillian became when Harvey mistook her exclusive boarding school for the clothing label. Lillian stiffened, but pretended not to notice.
"Whichever," he mumbled. "Anyway, I expected a little more gratitude from you two - I'm sending you to bloody America, for Christ's sake."
And so, it turned out, he did. And how our lives changed!
We arrived in New York on a freezing Thursday, ill-clad for the icy snow that carpeted the city. It was the first time I ever heard Lillian swear (though by no means the last, and it wouldn't be too long before the experience was repeated).
"Bloody hell it's cold," she exclaimed as we made our way from the taxi to the foyer of our hotel on West 23rd Street.
Our appointment with Jed Nixon, CEO of Woodshed Products, was set for that afternoon so we had time only to shower and change and quickly remind ourselves of Harvey's instructions - though threats would be a more accurate term.
"Do whatever you bloody well have to and don't come back without an order for at least a thousand Handy-Pads, or I'm not sure there'll be a job for you when you do," he'd said as he saw us off at Stepney Tube station.
Woodshed Products was a distinctly classier outfit than Rednates. We were shown from a spacious, modern foyer into a large open-plan office area populated almost exclusively by shapely, good-looking women. From there we were escorted to Mr Nixon's office door, which was guarded by perhaps the shapeliest and most beautiful of them all.
"Hi, Charlene," said our escort brightly (though the question she'd asked Lillian about how many executions the Queen ordered per year suggested the brightness was confined to her voice). "These are Big Jed's visitors from England."
"Thanks, Darlene. I'll take it from here," said the pageant princess. I felt Lillian stiffen at being referred to as 'it'. I could almost hear her thinking 'the manners of these people!'
"Hi! Welcome to the Big Apple," said Charlene. "I'm Charlene. If you'd like to come this way..."
Big Jed was not inaptly named. His voice was as big as the bulk of his big six feet six frame which was topped by a crew cut of silver hair all pointed in one direction: up.
"HI!" he boomed in capitals, approaching me with huge outstretched hand and big, wide-open ultra-blue eyes. "Big Jed Nixon. You're Harvey's man!" The handshake sent spasms of pain as far as my knees and I made a note to avoid it at all costs on departure. Turning to Lillian, he exclaimed, "My, my, and what a fine assistant you have!" He circled her, whistling admiringly as he took in the curves beneath her well-tailored skirt (curves I confess I'd dreamt of wetly many-a-night). "And you are...?"
I could sense Lillian beginning to boil: her eyes widened in outrage and her face reddened. She was about to express her grave displeasure when I hastily interjected, "This is Lillian Carrington-Smythe, Mr Nixon, my partn-"
But he was already moving away and interrupted, "So, what ya got to show me? Old Harv said somethin' 'bout a Pandy-hand or somethin'?" He sat in the throne-like black leather chair behind his very big desk while we stood uncertainly.
"The all-new Handy-Pad," said Lillian, emphasising the correction as she began the pitch we'd worked on with Harvey, "is a fine example of-"
"Thanks, honey," interrupted Big Jed, "but let me hear it from him, will ya?"
Lillian was about to explode when I discreetly grabbed her arm, squeezed and took up the reins,
"Erm ... yes of course Mr Nixon. The all-new Handy-Pad is ... er ... a fine example of traditional Scottish craftsmanship going back even to Victorian times. The ... er-"
"So where is it?" he interrupted again. "Ya got one to show me?"
I froze for a moment, then fumblingly opened my briefcase and felt around for the butter-pat. Reaching across the acreage of completely unadorned desk to pass it to him, I tried to continue the script, "The original use for this magnificently carved..."
"Mm, not bad," he said, turning it over in his hands. "Bit small, ain't it?" he said rather aggressively looking me suddenly smack in the eye.
"Er ... well ... yes, but, of course, the point is..."
"It's a handy-pad!" Lillian almost shouted. "It's supposed to be fucking small. If it weren't small, it wouldn't be handy, would it?"
I knew she was trying her utmost to maintain self-control, to remain polite, professional, but the truth was her voice dripped with arrogant sarcasm and her blazing eyes belied any pretence of respect for this big American client, and the anglo-saxon expletive sealed the deal, as it were.
Big Jed was not a stupid man: he knew when he was being patronised and it didn't happen often, and never - more than once at any rate - at the hands of a woman. His shocked expression was replaced within seconds by a narrowing of ominously glinting eyes and a smile that twisted leeringly into a gleeful grin.
"Waddya say ya name was, honey?" he asked as he rose from the throne, Handy-Pad in hand. Lillian blushed furiously, aware of her mistake and of the latent threat emanating from Big Jed.
"Lillian ... Lillian Carrington-Sm..."
"Well, Lil, I don't care how fancy ya accent is, or how long ya name, it's obvious nobody's ever taught ya any manners, an' where I come from there's a way we teach these things so they don't get forgot." He turned to me and waggled the butter-pat. "Any objections if I give this little baby a try-out?" I was trying to find diplomatic words to explain Lillian's definitively non-spankable status when, at a nod from her boss, Charlene stepped forward and firmly grasped Lillian's upper arms and marched her forward.
"What? Hey ... let me go!" protested Lillian. "You can't..."
Big Jed had turned one of the upright chairs facing the desk and sat down. Despite a determined struggle to break free, Lillian was deposited by Charlene over his lap, where he pinioned her by deftly switching his right leg to outflank hers and using his huge left forearm to push her shoulders down so that her face was well nigh on the carpet. His final move was to pull her left arm up and secure it behind her back with his. These manoeuvres, of course, resulted in Lillian's delectable bottom being presented in prime target position for the easy swinging of Big Jed's bulky right arm, the huge hand at the end of it and the paddle in that hand. Thus trussed, Lillian tried to reason with him.
"Mr Big ... Mr Jed ... I can assure you that..." He gave her a firm swat and she squealed.
"The less we hear from you, Lil, the easier this is gonna be for all of us," said the giant, quite amused now, bringing the butter-pat down with another loud CRACK on her other side. Lillian yelped again and tried to buck her way free. I stood there helplessly and guiltily looking on, but there was something somehow so right about what was happening that my instincts told me to let nature take its course. Charlene, I noticed, stood quite detached with note-pad and pencil in hand.
"Whoa there, Mustang Lil! Sorry, girl, but you ain't goin' nowhere till I've heard at least fifty 'pologies." He winked at Charlene, who grinned and recited, as if it were a mantra, "One for each state of the Union, yessiree!" The Handy-Pad came down on her skirt again, a little harder, and Lillian let out a high-pitched "Yeeow!"
"I protest!" she shouted, "I demand, as a British cit..."
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! came a flurry of blows shared fairly between left and right and middle and low.
"You can demand an' protest all ya like, Lippy Lil, but I ain't stoppin' till I got those 'pologies." So saying he continued to pepper her wriggling backside w
ith a series of firm whacks that elicited a matching series of yelps and cries from the furious Lillian. Charlene looked on, nodding approval and jotting some sort of marks on her pad.
"Charlene!" boomed Big Jed. "Time to hit Downtown Buttsville!"
At floor level, Lillian turned her head, as uncomprehending as I was. Were they going somewhere? A prior appointment perhaps? But I'd studied the city map quite thoroughly on the plane and couldn't recollect any district of New York by the name of Buttsville. All was, of course, soon revealed.
Charlene popped her note-pad between her teeth, knelt and adroitly unzipped and unclipped Lillian's skirt. Big Jed hoisted her up for a moment so Charlene could manoeuvre skirt and panties down, away and off, revealing the glory of the already impressively reddened buttocks.
"NO!" screamed Lillian with her loudest protest to date. The indignity of it was unthinkable! I knew this baring of her bottom, this unravelling of her self-assured superiority, must be worse for her by far than all the swats she'd had till now. I sensed that this moment was a crossroads, a wendepunkt.
"I'm sorry," we heard, very quietly, coming from the direction of Big Jed's left foot.
"Did ya hear somethin' there, Charlene?" asked Big Jed, cupping his ear with his right hand.
"No Big Jed, I can't say as I did hear anything there," responded Charlene. "What kindova sound was you thinking you heard, Big Jed?"
"I'm sorry!" called Lillian loudly from below. "Alright? Now can we put an end to this ... this outrage immediately, before I-"
"Oh, we'll put an end to somethin', don't you worry 'bout that, Missy," said Big Jed angrily. "An end to your stuck up sassiness! And I'll put this," he said, shaking the Handy-Pad, "on your end till you learn you some manners."
Big Jed held up the Rednates product and examined its two sides. "Mm," he said, observing the side with the grooves. Turning to me, he asked, "I guess this side's designed for Downtown, huh?" My enhanced American vocabulary allowing comprehension now, I nodded reluctantly. "Neat," he said, raising it high and bringing it down with a loud SPANK onto Lillian's proud bottom.
Aunt Sarah's Slippering: and other short stories Page 8