How one shopkeeper dealt with a thief. By a new writer to us.

By Paul Cabbell

My name is Paul Johnson. I am 62 and own a gift shop in a small seaside town in Norfolk, England. The shop barely makes enough money to cover the bills, and nothing angers me more than shoplifters stealing from me and putting my livelihood in jeopardy. What makes it worse is that even if you do catch one, the local police won’t do anything about it. The last time I did and called them, they wouldn’t even attend, and told me that it was a civil matter. This has left me with no alternative but to deal with this problem myself.

Two weeks ago I was in my shop, it was 10 minutes to closing time and I had only one customer in, a woman browsing the jewellery section. I was sat at the till watching the security cameras I had fitted, wary as the customer had deliberately avoided eye contact when she entered the store, which wasn’t a good sign. I could clearly see her turning the display carousels, looking at the necklaces and rings on display. She then turned her back to the till, so I zoomed the camera in and watched more closely. Not suspecting I was recording her movements, she quickly slipped two necklaces into her jacket pocket, turned and strode head bowed towards to the door into the street.

I stepped in her way, putting my hand across the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The woman raised her head. She was, I guess, in her early forties, quite attractive with large brown eyes and shoulder length, slightly curly auburn hair. She spoke with an eastern European accent.

“No, what do you mean?”

“I have CCTV fitted,” pointing to the cameras. “I saw you put two necklaces into your pocket. You were going to steal them from me. What have you got to say for yourself?”

I expected her to deny it or brazen it out, but her faced started to crumble and she sniffed back: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

I pulled the door closed and locked it. I then put my hand in her jacket pocket and pulled out the two necklaces.

“You have broken the law, and thieves like you are putting me out of business.”

I could see that she was close to tears as I walked her into my office. I made her stand in front of my desk, as I sat in my chair. I told her that I didn’t care that she was sorry and I was going to call the police.

I picked up the office phone, the woman looked up.

“Please, please don’t call police, I am sorry, I will never do this again, I promise. If I am arrested, they will take my son away from me.”

“That is your fault, not mine. You stole from me. You must be punished.”

“Please, please give me chance,” she pleaded.

“Do you admit that you committed a crime stealing from me and that you must be punished?”

“Yes, but please no police.”

I paused for a second. “Well, there might be an alternative. You could take the punishment from me instead.”

It took her a couple of seconds to realise what I meant. “You punish me? What would that mean?”

“I would cane you, six strokes, on your bare bottom. It is your choice?”

I knew that the bare bottom part would be terribly humiliating to a woman of her age, but I was adamant that it should be a punishment she wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

The woman look shocked and started to cry a little harder.

“I don’t want police. I take punishment from you, but please not on bare. Let me keep my underwear on.”

“No, you need to be punished and humiliated. I am sorry, that is the deal. It is that or the police, what is your decision?”

She looked at me in silence, her eyes pleading, hoping I would change my mind. I said nothing; it was her decision to make.

She lowered her head. “Ok, I take punishment on bare and no police.”

“Yes, you take the punishment from me and you can leave. I won’t call the police, now strip.”

“Please no, not everything,” she whimpered.

“Yes, everything, or I call the police.”

The woman looked horrified, but slowly she unzipped her jacket, then eased it off her shoulders. I could now see her figure more clearly; she was well proportioned and quite curvy. Next, she slowly raised her arms and lifted her tee shirt over her head, bringing into view her full breasts held firmly in place by a blue lacy bra. She laid the tee shirt on the table, then reached in front and unbuttoned her tight-fitting jeans. She had to wriggle to ease her tight jeans down over her full hips and, as she did, I could see that her knickers matched her bra. She bent and pulled the jeans off one leg at a time, making her breasts wobble as they pulled free. She then folded them and placed them on top of her tee shirt.

She paused for a moment and looked at me, one last attempt to see if I would offer her mercy and change my mind.

I just looked back at her: “I said everything.”

She let out a sigh of inevitability and reached behind her back, releasing the first then second clasps of her bra. Her breasts dropped at little as their support loosened, she then slid the straps down her arms and dropped the bra on the pile of clothes.

Her breasts appeared larger, now they were free and unsupported. They sagged a little, but they still had a lovely shape to them and they had large light pink nipples. She stood upright and hooked her fingers into the waist band of her knickers. In one motion, she slid them down over her knees to her ankles and stepped out of them. This time she didn’t bend but crouched and with one hand she lifted them from the floor to complete her stack of clothing. With the other hand, she covered her crotch, fully naked and obviously humiliated.

“Please place your hands on your head while I get the cane.”

I could see her face redden in shame at being exposed. “Bastard,” she uttered and slowly raised both her hands above her head.

The woman was quite fair-skinned with freckles on her face and both arms.

“I wouldn’t have to be a bastard if thieves like you didn’t try to steal my property.”

I stood and walked around the desk into the shop. As I passed, I couldn’t resist looking back as her bottom, which was beautiful, round and very pert for her age.

I walked through the shop to the bucket holding the children’s fishing nets. I stocked two sizes; one with a 5 foot cane handle, and one with a 3 foot one. I selected one of the shorter ones and pulled off the net at the end.

I gave it a swish through the air and it made a nice sound. This would be perfect.

I walked back into the office and slapped her left buttock. A little noise escaped from her mouth as her cheek wobbled in reaction.

“Right are you ready for your punishment?”

“No,” she uttered almost inaudibly. “Just get it over with.”

“Ok, bend over the desk, grip the far edge, and spread your legs a little.”

She shuffled her feet apart and bent over the desk in front of me, her breasts and stomach flat on the wood.

I stood behind her and admired the sight of her bottom. I have to say that the sight in front of me was slightly erotic and, while I was angry that this woman had attempted to steal from me, I was also glad that it was her bottom and not some scrawny teenage lad’s I was looking at.

I swished the cane through the air for effect and watched as the bottom tensed up and the cheeks clasped together. I brought the cane down and tapped her ample bottom a couple of times.

“Now, make sure that you grip the desk tightly. If you get up, I will start again. Do you understand?”

The woman responded with a muffled ‘yes’, as she tried to bury her head in the desk.

“And don’t forget why you are bent over this desk naked.”

I finished tapping her bottom and pulled the cane back, raising it level with my shoulders. I looked at the round target, waited a couple of seconds, and just as she relaxed her cheeks, I brought the cane whistling down hard, flicking my wrist just before impact to increase the speed.

Thwack!

The cane landed perfectly across both cheeks.

“Arrgghhh!” The woman lifted her head and screamed out. “Nie Proszę, please I beg.”

She then reached back and desperately rubbed the red line that had immediately appeared across her fair skin. I watched as she rubbed her cheeks up and down.

“Put your hands back on the desk!”

She turned to look at me, tears in her eyes. She removed her hands and, as she moved them back to the front edge of the desk, I raised the cane again. As soon as she had taken grip, I brought the cane swishing down again.

Thwack! It landed just below the previous mark.

The woman cried out again. Immediately, I lifted the cane and gave her stroke three.

Thwack! Then followed with stroke four. Thwack!

The woman screamed out and stamped her feet on the floor. Her bottom, now with four angry red lines across it, quivered in time with her sobbing.

“Two more to go, then you are free to go.”

The woman was really crying now and didn’t respond, her mind consumed by the pain burning across her bottom.

I rested the cane on her bottom between the red four welts, the woman let out a light gasp.

Again I drew the cane back, about three feet away from her bottom and, without hesitation, whipped it down, bisecting the four existing red horizontal marks.

The woman screamed into the desk: “Oh my god, oh my god!” as she bucked her stomach and buttocks up and down in agony.

I returned the cane to her bottom, this time diagonally across the five existing lines, ready to gate her last stroke.

For the final time, I pulled the cane back. This time my hand was above my shoulder. With my eyes, I drew a line between cane and target, as I wanted this stroke to be both hard and accurate. I paused for what must have seemed like an age to the naked woman prone in front of me, then with more speed and power than I had used before, I thrashed the cane down, ripping diagonally across the five red swollen lines. The woman’s head shot up and she let out a deafening shriek. Immediately, her hands went back to her well-punished bottom, delicately touching it as it was too tender to rub this time.

I walked around the desk, placed the cane down and sat back in my chair.

“The punishment is over. When you are ready, you can get dressed and leave.”

The woman stayed in position, sobbing for about a minute before slowly and gingerly standing. Her breasts jiggled up and down as she stood there crying, her hands behind her feeling the damage to her bottom. After another 30 seconds or so, she reached across to her clothes to dress. I watched as she stepped into her knickers and then grimaced as she slid the material up over her swollen cheeks.

“Ahhhhh, it hurts!”

“Good, then you will never steal again.”

I rose and walked back into the shop. I picked up some paper and a marker pen and sat by my till, leaving her to finish dressing. After a while, the woman slowly walked out of the office to the front of the store.

“Can I go now?”

“Sure you can, but on the way out, can you place this in the window?”

I handed her the paper now fresh with writing; ‘SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PUNISHED’.

The End

© Paul Cabbell 2019