A puzzling antique from a junk shop has mystical properties.

By Fenton Creek

I’d been working late and was on my way to the station when I stopped at a ramshackle junk and second hand furniture store, picked up a couple of paperbacks from the stand outside and wandered in to pay for them. A grey haired woman was sitting behind the glass topped counter.

“You’re open late,” I remarked.

“Oh,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to supper just around the corner at 7, thought I might as well stay open. Just those, is it?” She indicated the books I’d put down on the counter.

Below the glass, some jewellery and the odd watch were displayed. As I handed the books over, a strange little figurine caught my eye.

“Could I have a look at that I asked?” Pointing down at the figure.

“What, the crucifix?”

“No, the little woman next to it.”

She retrieved the item and handed it to me. It seemed to be of stone, about two inches high. A woman, naked apart from a sash around her waist, both hands raised above her and tied at the wrist.

“Unusual,” I said. “What’s it made from?”

“I think it’s soapstone. My husband thought it might be Egyptian but I think it’s just a bit of 19th century erotica. But it is unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How much?”


“A bit steep, how about £25?”

“I can’t go that low. £35?”

“£33 including the books?”

She gave me a smile. “OK Sir, you have a deal.”

She wrapped the figure in tissue paper and put it into a little cardboard box.

Back at home my wife Gemma was in a bad mood. “You’re meant to tell me when you’re coming back late.”

“I did text you.”

“I know, but not until quarter to 6. Why couldn’t you have told me earlier?”

“I didn’t know earlier. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“Well it’s not good enough, and…,” she got up and pointed up the little figurine from where I’d left it above the fireplace. “I don’t want this tat on my mantelpiece either.”

“OK, OK,” I said. “I’ll take it away.”

Picking up the figurine, I consoled myself with a vision of Gemma wearing nothing but a sash with her hands tied aloft.

I felt a momentary dizziness, could see nothing but blackness for a second, then inexplicably found myself standing in a passageway with a door in front of me marked ‘Punishment Room 2’. The figurine was gone, replaced by a clipboard. Looking down, I appeared to be wearing some sort of blue uniform with lettering over the breast pocket. A few seconds upside-down reading told me that it said; ‘HMP Wincanton’.  I’d never heard of that one.

‘This is most strange,’ I thought to myself. ‘It must be one of those lucid dreams where you know and can control what you are doing. Oh well, let’s go with it!’

I looked at the clipboard which had today’s date then a series of times and names.

Room 1: 10:00 Pauline Summers, 6,

Room 2 10.30 Mary Walters, 8,

Room 2 10:45 Simone Brown 10.

I looked at my watch which seemed to have found its way into the dream, or whatever this was, with me. 10:31.

‘Oh well, Mary Walters,’ I thought. ‘Let’s find out who you are and what this is about.’

I opened the door and stepped inside. As I did so, a young woman stood up from the bench which ran alongside one wall of the room. The first thing I noticed was that her legs were bare. She turned to face me. Gemma! This was weird.

Gemma was dressed only in black socks, white knickers and a pale brown T-shirt with white lettering which said ‘HMP Wincanton. Inmate’.

“Sir!” She said, a slight tremble in her voice. “Mary Walters. I’m here for my punishment.”

I looked around the room. On the bench where Gemma/Mary had been sitting was a neatly folder pair of trousers. On the floor beneath, a pair of plimsolls.

Elsewhere in the room there was a large table, firmly bolted to the floor, with some sort of rubber padding covering the surface and the edges. On top of it lay a leather strap, a bit like an older barber’s shop one, but a little bit longer. To one side, incongruously, a box of tissues.

I looked back at Mary. She had her thumbs in the waistband of her knickers.

“Er, please Sir, it’s my first time. Do I take my pants off as well?”

‘Well, why not?’ I thought.

“Yes please Gem, er, Mary.”

Mary pushed her knickers down and stepped out of them. She gave them a little shake then laid then neatly on top her trousers. Turning back to me, she crossed her hands modestly across her groin.

“Hands by your sides!”

She reluctantly let her hands drop, revealing a rich triangle of curls.

‘Hmm!’ I thought. ‘Gemma is always shaved down there, perhaps razors aren’t allowed in prisons.’

“What are you being punished for, Mary?”

“Arguing with a prison officer, and for rudeness.”

“So what do think is going to happen now?”

“Well Sir, I think I’ll have to lean over the table, while you punish me using the strap.”

‘Sounds good to me,’ I thought.

“Very well Mary, over to the table.”

Mary turned, walked across to the table, and leaned across it, resting on her elbows and forearms. I picked up the strap then stood behind her.”

“Right down over the table, push your bottom out more.”

She wriggled forward. As she raised her posterior, her buttocks flared a little giving a tantalising hint of her intimate areas.

I stepped to my right (I am left handed) and whipped the strap hard across her bottom. There was a crack of leather on flesh and a sharp “Yow!” from Mary.

‘Oh, this is quite enjoyable.’

I delivered the strap again, eliciting a louder yelp.

‘How many?’

“Mary, how many strokes were you told to expect?”

“Er, eight Sir.”

‘Must be the number 8 on the sheet.’ I recalled.

I brought the strap down again.

“Yeeooow! Please, no more!”

“About five more by my calculations.”

Mary’s bottom was turning a bright shade of pink. I brought the strap down again.

“Owww! Oww! No, please!”

Halfway there now, Mary.”

I could see that Mary was trembling a little as she waited for the 5th stroke. I waited for a few seconds then aimed a little lower, the strap striking the top of her legs.

“Aaaargh! Please, I’m sorry.”

“Almost there, this is the 6th.”

“Er, thank you, Sir.”

I aimed a little higher.

“Oww! Please no. I won’t do it again, Sir. Please stop.”

“It’s not for me to say, Mary. 8 strokes is what you get. Ready for the next one?”

“Y-y-yes sir, thank yowww!” There was a sob. Mary was now softly crying, her shoulders shuddering.”

I pointed out the box of tissues. “You can use those, compose yourself.”

She busied herself with a handful of tissues, then: “What shall I do with these now?”

I looked around. “There’s a bin in the corner, use that.”

Mary walked across to the bin, disposed of the tissues, then walked back, her half nudity seemingly forgotten.

“There’s still one stroke left. Back over the table please.”

“Oh Sir, no!”

“Mary, get on with it, almost over.”

Reluctantly she turned and bent over again. I raised the strap and delivered the last stroke.

“Owww! Ow, ow! Is that it, Sir?”

“Yes, but stay there for the moment.”

I spent a few seconds studying her reddened bottom then: “OK, stand up and turn around.”

Mary turned round, covering her femininity with her hands. Then, remembering my earlier instruction, she let them drop back to her sides. I looked her up and down; her face streaked with tears and as red as her posterior; her exposed pubic triangle.

“That’s all Mary. Get dressed and on your way.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

The scene dissolved and the dining room shimmied back into focus. Gemma was silent, wearing a frown, eyes looking about as if she didn’t know where she was.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“Er, I think so.”

She sat back down at the table and squeezed her temples. “I had a dizzy moment then, sort of a funny daydream.”

“About what?” I prompted.

“I can’t remember, it’s faded away. I think I was in prison in a little room and had to take my pants off. I can’t remember any more.”

“Sounds interesting.”

She paused. “Sorry about earlier, I’m going to take a shower. There are leftovers from that thing you made last night.”

I went into the kitchen, spooned some pasta into a bowl and put it in the microwave. I’d just finished eating when Gemma came back in wearing her nightie.

“Can you look at something for me?”

“Er, sure.”

She turned and hitched up the back of her nightie. “Can you see?”

“Yes, your bottom’s suddenly gone all red.”

“I know, and it’s a bit sore as well. Do you think it’s a rash or something?”

“I’ve no idea. Are you sure nobody’s been giving you a good spanking?” I joked.

She turned and smiled. “I think I might have noticed. I’ll put some cream on and see if it goes away.”

As soon as Gemma had gone I took the figurine out of my pocket and quietly addressed it.

“Young lady, I don’t know who or what you are, but you’ve got some explaining to do!”

To be continued.

© Fenton Creek 2016