"Yup. I guess."
"You want to get a quick coffee before we head out?"
"Sure."
Beatrice heard the door close. She leaned against the shelf for support. Her heart was racing and her mouth dry from standing there gaping for so long. She remained motionless for several minutes, the conversation tumbling over and over in her mind, her feelings as much of a jumble. Scornful ... destroy him ... annoying ... bug up her ass...
She flushed with shame. But what preoccupied her most was the stunning novelty of the very idea ...
Oh my God! He ... loves me!
---oOo---
On Wednesday, the promised snow arrived on schedule, soft and silent like a lover's prayer. Principal Woodward made his way across the parking lot and into the Admin block. He stomped his boots on the matting inside the door, shaking snowflakes from his overcoat.
"Oh! Good morning, Mr Woodward!"
He looked up. It was Beatrice Natiche. He groaned inwardly but put on a smile.
"Good morning, Miss Natiche."
He was about to head off down the corridor to his office when she asked,
"Did you ... did you sleep well?"
He stopped and turned. He looked at her curiously. "I beg your pardon?" he said, more in surprise than challenge.
"Oh!" She was blushing. "I just wondered if you'd slept well, that's all." Her eyes were wide with ... something, and he couldn't quite decide what it was - mockery? No, it didn't seem like it, though God knows he'd had plenty of that from her.
"Er ... yes, thank you, Miss Natiche. And you?"
"Oh! Yes ... fine, thank you," she replied eagerly.
Again, he turned to go. Again, she waylaid him.
"Last day before Thanksgiving!" she said, a little desperately. "I hope the snow doesn't ... keep people from their loved ones. That would be a shame."
"Yes," he replied. "Still, we have much to be thankful for, don't we? Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Natiche...?"
She stood there, smiling foolishly as he made his getaway.
Beatrice was left in turmoil.
He asked me how I slept! He did! And he said ... he said we have much to be thankful for. What could that mean? Much? Thankful for what? Could it be...? And then he said, 'don't we?' He said 'WE'! He must mean US. Oh dear God! What ... what do I do?
---oOo---
Ben was just opening the first item of the morning's mail when Mary knocked and entered.
"Some student case notes," she said, coming forward, "and those School Board recommendations you asked for."
She placed the pile of folders and papers on the edge of his desk.
"Thanks Mary," he said without looking up. She turned and left, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
After dealing with the mail, Ben started on the pile of case notes. He'd read and annotated three - all due a paddling - when he noticed a smaller sheet of lavender-colored paper on the pile. He picked it up. It was faintly scented and had handwriting on it - looked like a letter. He realized it must be Mary's. Curiosity got the better of him.
Dear Sandra
I'm so upset! That lovely woman Bea I was telling you about in my last letter is getting worse by the day. She often comes to me in tears and there's nothing I can do! It's so frustrating! I wish I could tell her she had some kind of hope, but Ben - my boss - would never think of dating, and even if he did, poor Bea would be the last woman in the world he'd choose. But she loves him sooo much, Sandra. It's really quite pathetic. I tell her she must get a grip on herself - that it is never going to happen, that he'd just laugh in her face, but that just makes her cry even more.
Actually though, she doesn't help her own cause. She was in his office again yesterday telling him off for paddling one of her volleyball girls too hard. She knows perfectly well that's part of his job, but she just won't let it alone. Between you and me, I wonder sometimes if she's not looking for a good paddling herself...
Ben looked up at the door, his eyes wide. He looked down at the letter again, spellbound.
...but that'll never happen. He's so proud. I like him - he's a great boss - but he's too stuck up for his own good sometimes. Ah well...
It stopped there.
Ben held the sheet in his hand, staring into space for at least a minute. He lifted it to his nostrils and sniffed. Then he came to himself, looked around in panic for a moment and inserted it just under the next folder in the pile which he picked up and took next door.
"Mary, this lot can wait till next week." He dropped them carelessly on her desk, ensuring that the top folder slipped aside to reveal her letter. Then he stood there awkwardly, looking away.
"Ok, Ben." She suppressed the desire to smile. "So ... when are you off to the cabin?"
He turned. "Oh ... well, I've got to meet someone for lunch tomorrow first, so I probably won't set off till three or four."
"Anyone nice?" asked Mary.
Ben looked distracted. "Eh? Oh, no, just an old colleague." He drummed his fingers on the edge of her desk and then turned to the outer door. "Right! Time to do my rounds - yes, that's it, rounds. See you later, Mary."
"Bye, Ben."
---oOo---
Steve caught up with Bea that afternoon on her way out.
"Bea! Wait up!"
"Steve! Hi!"
"Hi!" He stooped to get his breath back. "Bea, we were wondering ... Mary said you'd probably jump at the chance ... we've got the use of Ben's cabin for the long weekend. They say the roads are clear. We thought we'd try some cross-country skiing? Snow should be perfect for it. But ... well, neither of us are very experienced and we wondered if you'd come along and sort of hold our hands?"
Beatrice looked surprised, then doubtful. He continued quickly.
"We'd love it if you came, Bea - please?"
The warmth of his invitation settled it for her - that and the thought of getting a peek at the inside of Ben's cabin.
"Sure, Steve. That'd be good. When were you thinking of ..."
"Well, that's another thing - would you mind going on ahead of us? We promised Mary's mother we'd drop her off at her brother's first, so we can't leave till about three or four tomorrow. If you wouldn't mind taking the key, getting a fire going, that kind of thing. You don't want to be driving up in the dark anyway. We'll bring all the groceries for Thanksgiving dinner."
"Ok, Steve, sure. I'll drive up in the morning then."
"Great!" He felt in his pocket and brought out a sheet of paper and a key. "Here - these are the directions, and ... the key."
"OK. Well, I guess I'll see you there then. This is exciting. Thanks, Steve."
"Yeah - see you there, Bea."
---oOo---
Thanksgiving dawned sunny and cold. The roads were passable, but only just, and it wasn't until about two o'clock, after a cautious drive, that Bea finally saw the last turning on Steve's map. A small arrow-shaped board saying 'Paddle Creek' pointed up a narrow trail blanketed in virgin snow untracked by any vehicle yet. She decided to park her small Toyota back at the gas station she'd passed a minute ago and hike from there with her backpack.
Wrapped up warm, Bea was so lost in thought about Ben - everything about Ben - that she was almost upon the place before she looked up and saw it. She stopped, brought sharply back to the present by the breath-taking scene.
Its roof layered with a foot of snow, the cabin was a picture of wintry solace. She stood, staring and listening. A faint wind whispered through the pines and she heard the soft rustle of snow sliding from a branch behind her. Then a movement in the sky up ahead caught her eye: it was an eagle, gliding high, riding the currents above the forest tops. She followed its graceful, unhurried flight, admiring the regal luxuriance of its command of the air.
Turning to the cabin again, she took a deep breath before approaching, her mind once more on Ben and her feelings about him. To say they'd been transformed was an understatement. Three days ago she'd have guffawed at the name of the creek, he
r scorn for Principal Woodward more utterly confirmed than ever. But now? Now the word 'paddle' produced a tiny flutter in her stomach and she thought of the student last Monday, walking past her, tearful and sore ... punished ... well paddled ... paddled by Ben.
She let herself in. There was a mat saying 'Welcome' and she stamped the worst of the snow from her boots. She eased her backpack off and looked around.
She stood in a large room the width of the cabin. There were two doors in the far wall, either side of a fireplace and its chimney-breast, which led, she assumed, to kitchen and bathroom. To her right stood a solid-looking pinewood table with three chairs. Arranged before the hearth, with its logs, pokers and kindling, were an old sofa and two well-worn armchairs; and on the left, a bed strewn with cushions. Bookcases and framed prints lined the walls. All was woody, browns and reds.
She stepped further into the room and then she noticed it - hanging on the wall above the bed - a paddle. She went over and lifted it off its hook. It was long, rectangular with slightly rounded edges, of some heavy-ish wood - she had no idea what these things were made of. Grasping the handle she waved it, imagining. She put it on the bed and took off her down jacket and scarves. Then she picked it up again and stared at it. Her heart pounded hard. She went to the door and looked out, peering round, then she closed it and came back to stand in the middle of the room.
She stood, frozen in indecision and then, shifting her feet slightly apart and bending forwards, she raised the paddle behind her and gave herself a swat.
"Ooh!"
It stung. She rubbed the spot on her right buttock and looked at the paddle again. She shook her head and smiled, stepping over to replace it on the wall.
Her breath was visible in the cold air and she set about making a fire. While she waited for the warmth to spread, she explored the rest of the cabin. There was no electricity, so she prepared candles for later, lit a fire in the stove in the kitchen and made tea which she sipped before one of the bookcases, perusing Ben's small library. She liked his taste: there was an eclectic mix of fiction - everything from Dickens, Crane and Faulkner to Bellow, Vonnegut, Heller - and non-fiction, some biography, history, anthropology, psychology. She sighed and moved on.
On the mantelpiece above the fireplace she noticed a collection of small carvings - on closer inspection she saw that they were all of eagles, some perching, some in flight. They were carefully crafted and polished - rather beautiful. At the end nearest the kitchen door was a framed photograph of a young man, clearly Ben, aged about 15, standing awkwardly by a fierce-looking woman whose arm was firmly round his shoulders, almost as if pushing him down.
She'd been settled on the sofa with Cat's Cradle for a half hour when she heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. She looked at her watch. They were early. She jumped up and went to the door.
What she saw when she opened it made her heart skip a beat.
Ben was just climbing out of his 4 by 4. He hadn't seen her yet apparently, having gone to retrieve some bags from the trunk.
Bea stood paralyzed. What the hell was he doing here? Could she make a run for it? Her backpack sat unopened by the door. But she didn't have her boots on ... those laces would take ages. Could she hide maybe? In the bathroom? Grab her boots and bag as she went, then hope he went out in a while so she could slip away?
But it was too late. Ben was standing there gaping at her.
He came forward. She tried to read the expression on his face but it wasn't revealing much. Hers was obvious - mortified embarrassment.
"Er ... hello," she stammered. She was starting to shiver, standing there in the cold on the doorstep in her jeans and woolly socks, her shirt untucked.
"Miss Natiche," he said, stopping in front of her. "What a pleasant surprise!"
She flinched at that familiar phrase but his eyes were not mocking this time, nor was there that superior smile. She gazed at him questioningly.
"Mr Woodward! I ... er ... I wasn't expecting you."
He raised his eyebrows - those eyebrows. "I was about to say the same thing." His eyes bored into her, bright with a kind twinkle. "And as this is, I believe, my cabin, I think perhaps it's you who's got the explaining to do?"
She gulped. He stepped forward and took her by the arm. "But you're cold. Let's go inside."
She was grateful for the respite. Her mind was scrambled with a multitude of strong, conflicting feelings.
"So, Miss Natiche?" he said, after closing the door behind them. "What brings you here, and ... er ... how did you know how to get here?"
She told him about Steve and Mary and the skiing, how there must have been some misunderstanding. It was perfectly reasonable, and, hell, it was the truth, yet somehow she felt like a sophomore desperately explaining why she shouldn't get paddled.
"I see." He stood in thought. "Miss Natiche ... may I ask you something?"
"Y-Yes, of course."
"Do you ... er ... are you ... I mean to say ..." He was very flustered. "Dammit!" He turned away.
"What is it?" she asked, putting a hand on his arm. "Please ... go on. Whatever it is ..."
He turned back. His face was flushed and anguished. "Miss Natiche ... Bea ... is it true that you love me?"
Her eyes widened. She removed her hand, stepping back. "Why! Mr Woodward! Whatever gave you that idea?" She managed to convey shock, but she couldn't meet his gaze - she felt it coming at her in waves of steady heat.
He took a deep breath and told her about Mary's letter. He apologised for having read it, admitted he shouldn't have done that. "But I did, Bea, and that is what it said."
She stared at him, open-mouthed, the truth dawning and bringing with it a flush of anger. "Well, let me tell you what I overheard Mary and Steve saying about you, Ben," she said.
When she'd finished her indignant account, he shook his head and smiled ruefully. Then, after a pause, he said quietly,
"So ... you don't love me?"
"Why, no! Of course not! Not really ... I mean ... no!" She was bright red. "Do you ... love me?"
He looked down at his large, graceful hands. "Do I love you? Do I love Beatrice Natiche?"
Her heart was in her mouth. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more in the world than to hear him say, 'Yes' and she felt a surge of shame at her own cowardice.
"Well," he said, "I didn't but ..." He looked at her with a solemn, sad expression. "But when I read ... I thought ..." He shook himself. "But never mind. It's all nonsense, isn't it? Steve and Mary having a bit of fun at our expense, eh? Silly romantic nonsense!" He tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.
Bea stepped forward, reached up and took his face between her hands. "Oh, Ben!" she said, and then she kissed him - fully, deeply, passionately.
"Whew!" she gasped, pulling away after a minute. He stroked her hair. They were grinning fit to split their ears. Suddenly, Bea frowned and looked down.
"Ben, I'm sorry."
"What is it?" He looked crestfallen again.
"I lied. I said I didn't love you. I let you be the one who..."
"Oh that!" he said, relieved. "Hey! Don't worry about..."
"No!" she said firmly. "It was cowardly and cruel." She pulled away from him. "I don't deserve your lovely kisses."
"Bea, that's nonsense, please..."
But she'd backed away, toward the bed, where she turned and reached for the paddle.
"No, Ben ... Principal Woodward ... I must be taught a lesson." She offered him the paddle on her upturned palms. He stared at her, amazed. She bowed her head.
He took it and smiled. "If you only knew, Miss Natiche, how I've longed for this moment! Bend over and grasp your ankles!"
She turned and obeyed.
---oOo---
Steve and Mary had places in the front row.
"You okay, love?" he asked.
"No, I am NOT okay," she pouted. "It's not fair. You owe me fifty bucks and what do I get? A butt so sore this pew is killing me!"
Steve smiled
. "Sorry, but you definitely said before New Year's, and you've got to admit you did go too far last night."
She sighed and snuggled up against him. "I s'pose," she said. Then she turned to look up into his face. "Anyway, Happy New Year, Steve."
"Happy New Year, darling."
And the organ launched proudly into the Bridal March.
Dangerous Relations
The following correspondence was discovered recently in an attic storeroom at the Ecole de Sainte Vierge in St Denis, north of Paris. The translation from the French is by Stanlegh Meresith of the Institute of Languages.
Sister Madeleine to the Vicomte de Malcoeur
March 3rd 1782
My dear brother
Your account of your latest adventure left me breathless. How delicious to hear that the reputation of the Marquise de Gravelle's daughter is so completely destroyed! It was, I think, a fitting revenge on that odious woman, and I thank you for it - the Marquise was ever a hypocrite and a liar, and the scandal of her daughter's disgrace gives me enormous pleasure. Truly, you outdid yourself this time!
I did not, however, take kindly to the scorn you showed for my assurances regarding my own desires. I know my mind, and you may be sure that, where it leads, my heart follows obediently. Be in no doubt: I have found the one who will be my delight, and you, brother, will assist me in securing her by means of the plan I have formulated.
The young woman in question leaves the convent within the month to rejoin her mother, the Contesse d'Aubers, in Paris. She has learned nothing here, of course, but what I have taught her - she is a capricious, yet innocent, coquette, and Mother Superior will be most relieved to see the back of her (you must pardon my word-play, but my own sights of the curviest parts of the young woman's back have, as you know, been most plentiful and pleasing these past two years - she squirms and moans under the birch like no other, and thanks me for it too, with the most becoming groans and tears!)
I will send word of my scheme with your man when next he comes with my delivery, for I prefer not to impart such details here. Suffice to say that you will marvel once more at my ingenuity, and will not be disappointed in the role I assign you. My plan has the added benefit of providing you with the opportunity to avenge yourself on that pathetic creature, Matilde d'Aubers, for that slight you suffered last summer at her hands.
Spanking Cheat: ... and other short stories Page 4