Getting even after suffering false information.

By Art West

Back in the 1990s, I was involved in several social clubs. One group had split into two factions; those in the Chairwoman’s personality cult, and those who just wanted it to work for everyone. As the AGM approached, I learned the Chairwoman had forced out the treasurer and was looking to get a devoted follower elected. The selected girl wasn’t that good with money and had no idea how to run a set of accounts. As the group had a large membership, it turned over several thousand pounds a year.

A dominant and unchallenged Chairwoman with a weak treasurer would be a very bad combination. I was persuaded to stand as an ‘independent’ treasurer as I had been treasurer of other groups in the past and worked in finance.

The Chairwoman and her cronies weren’t going to have any one outside of the clique keeping any eye on them. They put all sort of false stories around about me. It was hardly surprising that I wasn’t elected. In the months following, the group’s finances fell apart, culminating in a special general meeting where the Chairwoman and her cronies were finally kicked out.

It was a late September Saturday afternoon when my doorbell rang. I opened the door and found my caller was Samantha. I was surprised as she was one of the ex-chair’s cronies and someone I rarely spoke with.

“I really need to talk about recent events. There are some things you should know. Look, if it’s an inconvenient time I can come back.”

I was curious, so I invited her in. Once we were seated, she explained that when I was nominated as treasurer, the now ex-Chair had freaked as she correctly assumed that she wouldn’t get away with much. They had decided to trash my reputation and Samantha had been given the job of organising the campaign. She concluded her explanation of events by explaining that she had now had time to reflect on what had happened and realised that she had done something that must have hurt, was unfair and had damaged my reputation. She concluded with a fulsome apology.

“Thank you, Samantha. I appreciate the apology and it took some guts to come and apologise in person, but why now?”

“Since the special general meeting, and now I’ve been away from Emma and her gang, I’ve realised what a crazy time I was caught up in. It’s not what I’m like and I feel bad about a lot of what went on. I am hoping that by apologising for my actions I can stop feeling guilty and move on. Perhaps we can become friends, as I’ve learned more about you recently from other members.”

“Well, I had wondered who was behind all the stories, and yes, I was and still am upset about some of the things that were said about me. In many respects, what you did could have had serious consequences for me, given who I work for and the access to sensitive financial information that I have.”

“What do you mean?”

“As you know, I work for a Swiss finance house and I have access to a lot of sensitive financial data about companies and rich individuals. The company runs regular background checks on staff and we have a yearly security interview. They have a team of investigators who follow staff around and it’s quite possible that one of the investigators would have come along to the groups evening posing as a potential new member. The idea is to make sure we aren’t likely to be placed in a compromising position by mixing with wrong sort of people.”

“I don’t see how that would relate to the stories I made up about you.”

“There were several potential new members that came along in the run-up to the general meeting, and most of them never joined. One of those guys could have been an investigator checking out what I declared on the security form. We have to list every group we belong to. They take this stuff seriously.

“One of the guys I know on another team was a member of a photo club. An investigator came long to one of their evenings where they had a guy talking about micro-film cameras that spies use to photo secret documents. He was called in for a special security interview the next day.

“A girl had her promotion turned down because security had her followed and noticed her visiting sex shops. They thought she might be involved in dubious sexual practices, so making her open to bribery. In reality, she was looking for some fun items for a friend’s hen night.

“If they heard any of the stories you started, then I could be in for a rough time at my next security interview.”

“Oh, I see. it never occurred to any of us that there could be consequences for you. Now I feel really bad. I guess I need to face some consequences of my own.”

We discussed several options, including a charitable donation or having Samantha read a letter of apology to the group. However, for various reasons none of our ideas worked for one or both of us.

My phone rang, and, as it was an account manager for one of our big clients, I left Samantha while I took the call in another room. What I thought would be a quick question turned into a twenty minute conversation. When I returned, Samantha was reading the newspaper I had left on the coffee table.

“Have you read the story on page 5?”

“No, I’ve only looked at the front page, business and sports section, why?”

“On page 5, they have reprinted an article from 1962 where a small factory used to give their workers, mostly ladies, corporal punishment instead of docking pay, warnings or the sack. The union wanted to stop it and the workforce were telling the union they like the arrangement and wanted it to continue.”

“What sort of punishments were given?”

“The slipper for minor offences such as being late, and the cane for more serious stuff; not using a machine properly which could have resulted in somebody being hurt.”

“Interesting, but how does that help our conversation?”

“Perhaps you should give me corporal punishment.”

“I think I had better read the article.”

Samantha handed me the paper and I quickly read the article that had been reprinted on the back of a current story about a boss being taken to an industrial tribunal for threatening her staff with corporal punishment. The article went on to state quite clearly that punishments were administered to the bottom. A loss of modesty was part of the punishment, with ladies expected to raised their dresses or skirts before bending over. Repeat offenders were required to lower their knickers for the slipper. A thick cane was retained for very serious punishments such as using a machine in a way that might have resulted in an injury.

The article included some quotes from the workforce. Most said it was no worse than they had at school. Everybody got it. The article had a quote from a lady in her early 50s who had been slippered on her bare bottom for letting a machine run on instead of closing it down for maintenance, and had come close to causing it serious damage as a result. She said the punishment had been humiliating and painful, but fully deserved as she should have been paying attention to her work and not talking to her friends. The slipper, it turned out, was a size 9 plimsole.

When I had finished reading, Samantha looked at me.

“I know what I did was wrong, and I need to face some consequences for my actions. I think corporal punishment would be a fairly serious consequence.”

“Samantha, if I punish you it would be for real. I mean it would really hurt. Have you had corporal punishment before?”

“No. I mean I got my legs smacked by my mum in my teens, but I think we’re talking about something much more painful and across my backside. Have you spanked people before?”

“This would be my first time. Like you, I’ve only heard about this sort of thing. I am pretty upset by what you and the others did, and while I appreciate the apology, I do think a more traditional punishment is appropriate. I believe I have a suitable gym shoe to use as a slipper.”

I left Samantha and returned a few minutes later with an old gym shoe.

I handed the shoe to Samantha who looked it over, paled slightly, and gave it back to me.

“Wow! That should make an impression on my bottom. How many times will you whack me with that?”

“I don’t know. Until I think you’ve had enough, I guess.”

“The article said the slipper was never less than 12 and rarely more than 24 whacks.”

“So we take the minimum as 12 and, if you forgive the pun, a hard stop at 24?”

Samantha nodded.

“I think you will you need to bend over. I have a wooden stool that would be suitable.”

“OK, but I am getting this over my jeans.”

“If we are using the article to guide us, then a loss of modesty is part of the punishment.”

“I am not in the habit of exposing myself to people I don’t know that well. I am willing to be punished but not giving you a free look at my most intimate areas.”

“Another time and place I might, but for now I am only interested in punishing you. If you find the loss of clothes uncomfortable then that would the same for the ladies in the article who were punished by male and female supervisors.”

“Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I could lower my jeans, but my knickers are staying put. No way are they coming down. I don’t think keeping them on will make the punishment any less painful and, anyway, the article said that knickers were taken down for repeat offenders.”

“OK, your punishment will be given over your knickers.”

There was an awkward silence. It seemed the point had come to administer Samantha’s punishment.

“Stand up, go and face the wall, hands on your head.” Leaving her standing facing the wall, I went to the kitchen and collected the stool, which might be better described as a traditional wood chair without a back.

Samantha complied. For the first time, I noticed she was a nice-looking girl with a good figure. However, that didn’t soften my annoyance or the possible difficult discussions at work.

“Over here, stand in front of the stool, lower your jeans.”

She undid her belt and waistband button, then unzipped her flies and lowered her jeans to just below her bottom. She was wearing a rugby top which extended slightly below the waistband of her black and white striped tanga style knickers. She folded her jeans and placed them on the seat of armchair next to her.

“I think your jeans need to be lower, perhaps mid-thigh.”

Samantha responded by pushing her jeans down a few more centimetres to expose the top of her thighs.

“Bend over the stool. I suggest you take hold of the far side of the seat.”

She bent over the stool. I pushed her shirt clear of her knickers and noted they had stretched tightly across her pleasingly curved bottom. I positioned myself on her left side, resting the back of the gym shoe on the lower part of her buttocks.

“Ready?”

“Yes sir.”

I raised the shoe up and bought it down with a hard smack across her bottom.

“Ah!”

“One,” I announced, then waited a few seconds and repeated the action, adjusting the area of impact slightly, and was again met with another: “Ah!”

I continued in this vein, whacking her bottom and counting the strokes. With each whack her cries of pain became more pronounced after each sharp crack of the shoe biting into her bottom. Her lower buttocks, not covered by her knickers, were turning various shades of red. Samantha was wiggling about and had started to cry when 12 whacks arrived. She made no objection when I said I was carrying on to 24. At 17 whacks, I decided to complete her spanking with a final barrage of hard whacks across her sit spot to ensure she would suffer some level of discomfort. She yelped, wriggled and cried out during that intense period of whacking. After the 24th whack, I left Samantha bent over the stool until the worst of her sobbing had stopped.

“May I please stand up?”

“You may, but hands on your head. Look straight ahead. You have 10 minutes to reflect on your actions and the punishment you have received as a result.”

There was no complaint or protest. Still sniffling, she slowly stood up. Her hair and make-up were a mess.

I busied myself with some chores for 10 minutes before returning.

“Your punishment is now concluded; you can dress and use the bathroom to tidy yourself up.”

Samantha pulled her jeans up but didn’t fasten them. She grabbed her bag before making her way to the bathroom. She emerged some fifteen minutes later having dressed, fixed her makeup and hair.

“Are you OK? I was worried I might have been too harsh.”

“My bottom is very sore.

I didn’t come expecting to be given corporal punishment, but I am truly sorry for spreading lies about you. I had no idea it could affect you. If anything, you let me off lightly.”

“Look, I feel the air’s been cleared, so perhaps we can start again with a clean slate. Can I call you tomorrow to make sure you are OK?”

“Sure,” and with that she scribbled her number down on the newspaper, we had a quick hug, and she left. Over the coming months, Samantha and I became friends and events led to several more spankings.

The End

© Art West 2020