by Lucy Appleby
Bradley Carter admired his reflection in the mirror. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man, grinned back at him, white teeth contrasting with tanned skin. "You've got it made, mate," he told himself.
It was true. Since he had married Emily Graf he had elevated his accommodation from a grubby one bedroom bachelor pad in an insalubrious area of the city, to a spacious four-bedroom detached house in the 'Millionaire Belt' to the west of the city. The house was luxury personified with landscaped gardens, a double garage, and an outdoor swimming pool. Emily had cleared his overdraft and other debts, opened up a joint current account, and provided him with a platinum credit card. Consequently, the new house was rapidly filling up with his latest acquisitions - designer suits and shoes, state-of-the-art home cinema, hi-fi, billiard table and two new electric guitars (why buy one when you can have two?). In the garage was a gleaming Lancia sports car and a set of golf clubs to go with his expensive annual membership to the local club. Yes, life was good. And it was all thanks to Emily.
At 25, Emily was seven years younger than he. She was an intelligent, bookish girl who was petite, shy, and sweet natured. She wasn't remotely pretty, but what the hell did that matter when she was filthy rich? She also adored him. Not so his mother-in-law, Gretchen.
At the thought of his mother-in-law, Bradley frowned. That woman was the one single blot on his ever expanding horizon. Gretchen and her parents emigrated from their native Germany in the 1960's as Gretchen's father had secured a high-ranking government job. He was surpassed in salary by Gretchen's mother who as a qualified barrister, earned considerable amounts of money. Gretchen followed her mother into the legal profession and owned a thriving law firm - the same firm that employed Emily as a solicitor. The Graf family were wealthy beyond measure.
Bradley had met Emily's parents early on in his relationship with their daughter, and he knew at once that they had hoped for someone better for their only daughter. His future father-in-law, Otto, had asked some searching questions concerning Bradley's financial affairs and career prospects. Unfortunately, Bradley lied in his responses - a fact that was easily spotted by Gretchen Graf.
Gretchen was a statuesque woman with blonde hair and cool grey eyes. Those eyes darkened to hard slate when she looked at him.
"So, Bradley - you are an accountant? That is a very noble profession. When did you qualify?"
"Oh, um ... last year," said Bradley.
"And where did you study?"
"Cambridge," lied Bradley.
"I see. Which college?"
"Erm ... do you know, Mrs Graf - I can't quite remember. This wine has quite a kick to it, doesn't it?" He gulped down a few more mouthfuls and tried not to panic. "The stuff has addled my brains," he said lamely.
"Clearly," snapped Gretchen.
Two weeks later, Bradley was most disturbed to open his door one afternoon to find Gretchen Graf on the doorstep. Without waiting to be invited in, she barged past him, removed a pile of porno mags from a chair and seated herself.
"Er ... can I get you a coffee or something?"
"No. You cannot."
"Oh." He was discomfited by her withering stare. "Then how may I help you?"
"It's more a case of how I may help you." Those gimlet eyes bored a hole in his skull. "We had you checked out, Mr Carter. You do not hold a degree and have never studied accountancy. Your academic qualifications are practically non existent. On leaving school at 16 you had a succession of jobs, beginning as a clerk in a bookmaker's, then working behind the counter of a wet fish shop, followed by window cleaning, pizza deliveries, and various odd jobs, culminating as a trainee garage mechanic. You were sacked from the garage for gross inefficiency two months before you began seeing my daughter. By that time, being a beneficiary of Emily's generous disposition, you obviously thought you would no longer need a job as you could live off your rich girlfriend, soon to be your wife. Correct?"
Bradley gawped, his mouth fell open. A very unpleasant feeling began to curl in the pit of his stomach. He felt slightly queasy. He plonked himself down on the sofa and stared at his feet, not knowing what to say.
"I shall take your silence as agreement. In this envelope is a cheque made out to you for £25,000. Take it, and sever all contact with Emily. Her father and I don't want you to ever set eyes on her again."
"That's a hell of a lot of money." Bradley blinked. "I could do a lot with that. But ..." A rather sly and devious look crossed his face as he realised that to the Graf family, £25,000 was a drop in the ocean. They wouldn't even miss it. Whereas, if he stuck with Emily, he would share the family fortunes and have a life of luxury. So he shook his head. "I'm not open to blackmail, Mrs Graf. I'm going to marry Emily. And that's that."
"I see." Her smile was wintry.
"I do love her, you know," he added spontaneously. It was true. He did love her - in his way. But he loved her money even more.
"I have no doubt you feel some small affection for her. Unfortunately, she returns it a hundred fold. I want the best for my daughter, Mr Carter - and the best most certainly is NOT you. You are an unprincipled lazy shirker, and an unscrupulous liar."
"Hey, steady on with the insults -"
"Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking." Gretchen glared at him so fiercely he began to fidget, shuffling his feet and squirming around in his chair. "Your decision does not surprise me in the least, given the monetary greed you have exhibited thus far, it stands to reason you will hold out for more." She rose to her feet and looked down at him from a lofty height. "But let me tell you this, Mr Carter ... not a penny more will I offer you. But what I will offer you is a spanking."
"Eh? A what?" Bradley thought he had misheard. Surely she didn't say a spanking?
Apparently so.
"I am going to spank you now, Bradley. I am going to blister your bottom. It is going to hurt."
"Oh come on now - this is a joke - right?"
"Absolutely not. It is YOU who are the joke," she said as she swiftly sat next to him on the sofa, and with a very strong grip, hauled him over her lap so that he was bottom-up and facing the carpet.
"Hey! Hey! What is this?!" He heard a slight noise as she felt for something in her shoulder bag. "What's that? What are you doing? What ... HEY!!" He screeched loudly as he felt his sweat pants being pulled down to his knees along with his underpants. He was so shocked he couldn't speak. Indeed, for a moment he found it very difficult to even breathe. "Stop that!" he squeaked in a falsetto voice that sounded nothing like his own.
The next sound he uttered was a yelp of shock and pain, as he felt the effects of his future mother-in-law's leather paddle. It slashed through the air menacingly and landed with a loud crack on his bare bottom. The noise sounded like a pistol shot. The pain was unbelievable.
Here he was, draped over Gretchen's lap bare-assed like a baby. As the paddle descended time after time, Bradley began to howl like an infant. He had never experienced anything remotely like this in his entire life. Even the abject humiliation of having his underpants pulled down and his bottom bared had faded into insignificance. All that filled his head now was pain. It came in great waves, blistering and burning. It didn't recede, instead it gradually built, and before he had time to process the level of pain, another vicious swat descended, propelling him ever closer to a monstrous crescendo of sting.
Gretchen began paddling in earnest. She got a nice little rhythm going, her arm rising and falling, the paddle flying through the air and cracking and splatting down hard on bare flesh - flesh that was no longer pristine white but red and mottled and angry looking. She smiled grimly as she carried on with her task.
And then she began to chastise him.
"This place is a pig sty - a real slovenly mess. How dare you bring my daughter into this putrid hole."
The paddle cracked and whacked, moving closer to the top of Bradley's thighs. He hollered loudly in protest.
"The apartment isn't the only thing that stinks either. When did you last change your sweatshirt?"
In response, Bradley howled as that awful paddle pummelled his thighs.
"When did you last buy deodorant?"
Bradley began to gasp and kick his legs. "AAaaargh - my arse is on fire!"
"I'm working on it. I think we'll give you a bit more treatment on these thighs. Like this." She whacked the paddle down hard several times over the exact same spot. "And this." She did it again.
"Nooooo! Aaaaargh! Stop!" wailed Bradley.
"Certainly not. I've barely begun. You want to join the family? This is the price you pay."
"Oh feck," gasped Bradley, and then emitted another high-pitched squeal as she whopped him again on the under-curve of his buttocks.
"Swearing earns you extra," said Gretchen disapprovingly.
It was a long morning, and when the spanking was eventually over, Bradley found himself in the unenviable position of hoovering up stark naked. It didn't end there either - after that he washed the dishes (a whole week's worth) dried them and put them away, and then stripped and changed his bed and put a load of soiled laundry in the washing machine.
"Can I get dressed now?" he panted. He hadn't worked as hard as this for years.
"No." She grabbed his semi erect penis and, using it as a handle, tugged him into the bedroom. "I want all the furniture in here dusted and polished; and when you've done that you can do the same with the sitting room. Then you can scrub the kitchen floor. It must have years of grime impregnated into every crack."
Every time he protested, she followed him round and whacked his rump with the paddle. He caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror and gasped, for his bottom was red and shiny with traces of faint purple bruising beneath the skin.
"You've killed me!" he wailed.
"Nonsense, no one ever died from a spanked bottom. Now stop complaining and get on with the cleaning or I shall go and fetch my cane."
Bradley's eyes bulged at the thought of a cane. The woman was mad. Nuts. Completely bonkers. He began to get some understanding of the character of his future mother-in-law, and he didn't like it one bit. Only the tantalising thought of all that lovely money he would have when he was married spurred him on.
Very soon his apartment was transformed - neat and clean and tidy - every surface gleaming like a new pin.
"That's better," sniffed Gretchen. "I shall be back to inspect it regularly and woe betide you if there is so much as a saucer out of place."
He didn't believe her of course. Silly Bradley. She turned up four days later, found a mountain of unwashed dishes and greasy pans in the kitchen, and piles of debris in the sitting room.
"This is disgusting," she said acerbically. "I warned you, didn't I?" From her umbrella she produced a slender rattan cane. "Let's see how you get on with this little beauty," she said with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Trousers and underpants down and I want you bending over the end of the sofa,"
"You're kidding!"
"NOW!"
There was something in her tone. She was scary. Her face was hard and strict and her eyes gleamed with threat. He obeyed, and presented his bottom for a caning. After the first two strokes had made their mark, he was up and hopping up and down (to the mild amusement of Gretchen) with his penis waggling and bobbing about obscenely.
"Ow! OWW!" he shrieked. "It's murder! I'm on fire!"
"Get back into position, boy!" thundered Gretchen.
How he endured a further eight strokes, he never knew. The wicked cane sang as it whistled through the air, and when it landed, Bradley felt as though he was being cut in half. Stripes of molten fire descended. Pain exploded inside his head, and all he could do was howl out his anguish.
Over the weeks, Bradley endured seven more such sessions. And after each one, Gretchen asked him if he still intended to marry Emily, to which his response was always an emphatic Yes. His poor bottom had been spanked and strapped, cropped, paddled and caned. The monstrous woman also used anything to hand - a wooden spoon, a carpet slipper and a gym shoe, a plastic fly swatter ... it seemed anything she set her eye on could have some alternative use as a spanking implement.
The wedding went ahead, followed by a honeymoon in Barbados. Then there was a week of bliss in his new home where he went on a spending spree. Life was good. Life was very good indeed. He had it made. He looked at his reflection in the mirror once more and frowned. He frowned because his mother-in-law was calling in to pick up some wedding photos.
"Oh there's no need," he had told her on the telephone. "Emily can bring them into the office tomorrow."
"Emily is far too busy to be concerned with trivial domestic matters whilst at work. And speaking of work - have you got yourself a job yet?"
"A job? Me? Um ... no ma'am." He was gob-smacked. What the fuck would I want a job for? he thought.
"I see. Then we shall have a little discussion when I arrive." There was a click on the line as she hung up.
Bradley couldn't settle. He moped about the house and was almost relieved when the door bell rang. His mother-in-law steamed in as though she owned the place (actually, she did).
"Kitchen, Bradley," was all she said as she made her way to the luxury kitchen and took a seat by the granite-topped breakfast bar. "Coffee. Black. One sugar. Serve it in a china cup."
Bradley scowled and retrieved a china cup and saucer, then set about making coffee. He could feel Gretchen's eyes boring into him as he worked.
"I'll take an arrowroot biscuit with it, if you please." She watched as he pulled out a packet of biscuits from the cupboard and dumped it on the table. Her eyes went from the biscuits to Bradley. "Have you no finesse, you great ape? How about a plate?!"
Bradley took a deep breath, removed the biscuits from the table, and arranged three or four on a china plate. He didn't like the way she was looking at him. Acting on impulse, he produced a paper napkin and presented it along with the plate of biscuits. This little touch seemed to both surprise and please her.
"Sit." She nodded to a vacant stool. "Tell me what you have been up to since you returned from honeymoon."
Bradley cleared his throat. "Ah, well, I... er ... um, I've done a bit of shopping."
"A bit of shopping?" There was an acerbic edge to her tone, and her right eyebrow arched in mock puzzlement.
"Um, yes. A few essentials, you know."
"Oh yes. I know. I have the details on your credit card statement. I can see that everything you have purchased is absolutely NOT essential."
"Oh." He shrugged. Bloody mother-in-law. Abominable old cow. Interfering old dragon. "Well, they seemed essential at the time," he said sulkily.
Gretchen sipped her coffee, nibbled a biscuit, and appraised him coolly. "You really have no idea, have you, Bradley?"
"No idea of what?"
"That when you were signing the paperwork for the joint bank accounts and other financial incentives, you also signed a pre-nuptial agreement."
"A what?"
Gretchen's lips curved into a sneering smile. "You signed a form saying that if you ever overspent on the weekly budget, you would be subject to rigorous discipline throughout your married life."
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.