by Leland Mays
The master of the house, Mr. Wilson Mayes, watched it unfold. He was finally compelled to speak. "Miss Reid, what on earth are you doing?"
What she was doing was indeed a puzzle. Her maid's cap slightly askance, she had stepped to the divan and pulled her apron, black dress, and petticoat up to her waist. She then bent over and placed her arms on the divan. Wilson gazed in surprise at her womanly derriere, now covered only by thin cotton drawers.
"Oh, ye'll be wantin' to punish me, sir," she cried, looking over her shoulder at him. "Ay, and I deserve it. Me clumsy hands, I blame. But faith, I won't shirk from takin' me medicine. Tain't no more than I warrant."
The man glanced over to broken glass shards on the parlor floor, all that remained of a Waterford vase that Miss Reid, the downstairs maid, had dropped as she was cleaning it. He then looked back at her plump bottom.
"Now really, Miss Reid," he said, "that isn't necessary. Accidents will happen, you know."
The woman rose up, turned, and looked at her master. "Oh but sir, I feel awful, it bein' such a lovely vase, and now busted to smithereens on account o' me. If ye don't punish me, I'll just feel guilty, and fret over it the livelong day. But if ye give me the hard wallopin' I deserve, well sir, then it's over 'n done with, 'n I can go on with me cleanin'."
Wilson, a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid fifties, drew a hand down his salt and pepper goatee. He gazed at Miss Reid, who was some ten years younger than he. "Hmm. May I assume this is how you were disciplined by Sir Owen MacTavish, your previous master?"
"Ay sir. Now there was a man who could lay into a lady's bum. Me poor arse would burn for an hour."
Unfamiliar with the terms she used, Wilson was nonplussed. "I presume you are referring to parts of your anatomy, Miss Reid. But this is Brooklyn Heights, New York, not ... Where in Scotland did you say you hail from?"
"Ayrshire, sir. Ah, tis a wee bit o' heaven here on earth."
"No doubt. But you see, my wife Clara is in charge of our servants, and she believes in enlightened treatment of hired help. This is, after all, 1890; the modern age." He paused, then went on. "If only she weren't gone for the day to the stores along the Ladies' Mile over in Manhattan. Perhaps we could deduct the cost of the vase from your weekly salary."
Miss Reid's blue eyes grew wide in dismay. "Perish the thought!" she exclaimed. "With me supportin' meself and me poor sickly mum on a maid's salary? Barely enough to put bread on th' table as tis? Oh no, sir! A sound spankin' is th' way, and then we'll call it even."
The woman turned her back to Wilson and once again raised her outer clothes. She bent over to await her fate.
Wilson reluctantly approached her and placed his left hand on her shoulder. He glanced at her wide derriere, then to the ginger tresses covering the woman's head. "Miss Reid, I've never before even imagined spanking a woman. I must say, I feel an utter fool."
"Ay sir. But give it a try," the woman said.
The man then drew back his right arm and landed a tentative smack on the middle of Miss Reid's round bottom. He followed with another, saying to himself, This is absurd. What would Clara say if she walked in? I'd never hear the end of it.
He gently whacked his servant's bottom several more times. Well now, he began to think, I never realized how soft a lady's buttocks are. I must say, it's not altogether unpleasant, the feel of my hand smacking them this way. Rather satisfying, in fact.
Without realizing it, Wilson began to spank Miss Reid with more vigor, for the first time eliciting from her a gasp or two and a muffled "Aah!" as his hand punished her ripe bottom.
Hmm, I like the way Miss Reid's entire behind quivers and shakes when I strike it, the man now mused. My word, this is most enjoyable. And as my father used to say, whatever you do in life, my boy, give it your best effort.
Now Wilson's hand became a blur as he rained down hard smacks onto Miss Reid, one after another without pause. The woman shuddered and gasped at this stern chastisement. Good heavens, this is truly fine! Wilson thought. Why, I should have been correcting our servants' misdeeds with thorough spankings all along!
He thought of young Millie, the upstairs maid. She never cleaned the cobwebs from around the windows. Well, we'll see about that! After her sweet young butt has absorbed a dozen smacks from her master's hand, she'll dedicate her life to clean windows, I dare say!
Although Wilson was not aware of the concept, a positive feedback loop was now established. The harder his hand came down on Miss Reid's derriere, the more pleasurable it was. And the more enjoyable it was, the stronger was the urge to punish her supple cheeks with yet more force.
Thoughts began to explode in Wilson's mind like fireworks as the full spectrum of possibilities was revealed. Now, take our daughter Esther, he thought. She may be a grown woman, but the next time she speaks so rudely to her mother or me, why, I'll teach her the consequences! Indeed I will! After I've given that young lady a fiery red bottom, she'll honor her father and mother, no question about it!
And what of Clara herself! The way she kept belittling me at our last soirée. Making jokes at my expense. Did that not earn my wife a good spanking? I should say so! Oh yes, my dear, we shall see if a few sharp whacks on your fine behind makes your bosom swell with new respect for your long-suffering husband. Without a doubt it shall, my love!
By now Wilson was whaling away at Miss Reid's bottom like a madman. Her entire derriere was now ablaze with heat; with stinging pain that she had never imagined could be meted out by such a mild-mannered gentleman. She cried and squirmed to no avail. "Ooh, aah!" she gasped. "Please sir, 'twas only a vase! Already chipped at that! Oooh, mercy! I beg ye!"
As quickly as it began, the spell was broken. Wilson paused in mid-smack; then, released the woman. At once she stood up, pushed down her clothing, and turned to face her master, just in case this was only a brief respite from the hand that had so reddened her bottom.
Miss Reid's normally rosy face was now deep crimson, the same hue, in fact, as her burning nether cheeks. A faint layer of perspiration covered her brow. She noticed that her master was likewise red in the face and breathing hard.
"Ah Mr. Mayes," she gasped, "ye started off slow there, but heavens, ye made up fer it. Me thinks you've a talent for tanning a lady's bum. Sir Owen, God rest his soul, would be proud, ye carryin' on the old tradition."
Wilson was torn between apologizing and maintaining a stern demeanor. As is often the case with people, the more harsh of the two impulses won out. "Well then, Miss Reid, we'll have no more shattering vases or ceramics, shall we?"
"Oh no sir," replied the woman with a curtsy, "none a'tall!"
Miss Reid continued her chores, while Wilson returned to his reading and his meerschaum pipe. The feeling of quiet contentment that settled over him after spanking his maid lingered as he contemplated how much easier life could now be.
As was the custom at the Mayes manor, Miss Reid served his afternoon tea at four. On this day, her every movement was careful and precise. At about that time, Wilson heard their cabriolet pull up in front of the door. Soon came the sound of his wife's voice.
"Ah, there you are, Wilson," Clara chirped as she bustled into the parlor like a little whirlwind. The lady was bedecked in a bonnet, cape, ankle-length day dress, and high topped leather shoes. Following behind was their butler Davis, laden with packages.
Wilson rose. Husband and wife exchanged a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Miss Reid served tea to her mistress. Clara removed her bonnet and cape, and was soon settled on the divan, tea cup in hand. "Wilson dear," she began, "Margaret and I had such a lovely time shopping. And oh, the wonderful new chiffon gowns that Macy's have got in. Poor little me, I just could not resist them!"
"Indeed."
"Now, I know I was dreadfully over budget last month on clothing, but when you see me in my pretty new gowns, you won't begrudge a lady her finery." She paused, aware that Wilson had risen and now stood before her, gazing at her somberly.
"Why, sweetie pie," said Clara, "such an odd look on your face. Whatever could you be thinking?"
Wilson held out his hand. "Come, my dear. Let us continue this discussion upstairs in the master suite. Once there, I shall make perfectly clear to you what I am thinking."
This is no time to hesitate, Wilson Mayes thought. He grasped his wife's hand, pulled her up from the divan, and led her from the parlor to their carpet-lined mahogany staircase.
Clara found her voice as they mounted the stairs. "Wilson, really. I don't like that sour look on your face. Nor do I care to be led about like a wayward schoolgirl."
"I fear you will like even less what awaits you in the master suite," said Wilson.
"If you're upset over my spending so much on clothing, dear boy, just remember that I must dress fashionably. I am a lady of some standing in the community."
"In a few minutes, you will not be standing."
Clara gave a woman's sigh. "Wilson, I do wish you'd stop talking in riddles. Now let go of me. There is much to be done before dinner."
"Indeed there is, my love," said Wilson. By now they had entered the master suite. Shaking her head in exasperation, her arms now crossed in front of her, Clara said, "Well, we're here, so lecture me on my spendthrift ways. I'm waiting."
Instead, the man looked intently at his wife. Drawing a hand over his goatee, he finally spoke in a low voice, one that had an edge of menace to it. "It occurs to me, my pet, that for decades now, your finery, as you call it, has been paid out of my pocket. Yet I have never seen some of your most charming purchases."
"What on earth are you babbling on about?"
"The unmentionables beneath your dress, for example."
Clara's hazel eyes grew wide as she understood. "And you never shall, sir!" she gasped. "I am a lady!"
Wilson's own eyes narrowed. "Yes. A lady whose hour of reckoning has come." As if to underscore the point, he turned and locked the door, pocketing the key. He then approached his wife.
Scarcely believing that it was his voice, the man spoke. "You will now disrobe, and hand each garment to your husband, so that he may ascertain for himself if he has gotten good value for money spent."
Clara, a rich rose blush now arising on her cheeks, gaped at him open mouthed. Finally she breathed, "Wilson Lee Mayes, have you gone completely mad?"
"No, dear wife. I have never been more lucid. Now strip. You may do so with or without my, shall we say, assistance."
For a full half minute the man and the woman stared at each other in silence. Long years of marriage, some longer than others, had honed the skills of each in reading the intent of their spouse. Now Clara saw a steel resolve in Wilson's blue eyes that she had never before seen. At last she yielded.
Her face dark with anger and a tinge of fear, she reached back and began to undo the buttons of her floral print day dress, complete with pleats and gathers, that extended from neck to ankle. Soon she stepped out of it and handed it to Wilson. She then untied her shoelaces and removed her shoes.
"There!" she snapped. "Are you happy now?"
"Yes. I shall be even more pleased when you remove your outer petticoat."
Clara staggered back in amazement. "Ooh sir, you go too far!"
"I've only just begun," came Wilson's terse reply.
The air in the room was now tense. Glaring at her husband, Clara undid the stays and let her outer linen petticoat fall to the floor. She then stepped out of it and handed it to Wilson. He in turn looked at her bosom.
Again she gasped. "Not my corset cover too!"
"I must insist. If you please, dear Clara."
"Oh, you truly are a cad," she snarled. But at once she undid the buttons to her white embroidered corset cover and drew it over her head. She gave it to Wilson, who glanced at it and murmured, "Hmm, quite stylish indeed. Now your other petticoat as well."
Looking as if she might faint at this latest indignity, the woman undid the stays to her inner petticoat and removed it, dutifully handing it to Wilson.
"Oh please Wilson, no more!" Clara now cried, holding her hands to her body. "You cannot imagine my humiliation, standing here almost naked." The lady was, in fact, still wearing her corset and, beneath it, a silk chemise that reached from her shoulders to her knees. Below the chemise could be seen the ruffled hem of her loose underdrawers that extended below the knees. Her calves were covered by long cotton stockings.
Well now, Wilson thought as he gazed at his wife, Clara is still a rather fetching little bundle. Her corset, in the short style known as a waist cincher, had the effect of exaggerating the thrust of her ample bosom. Her nipples, which in thirty years of marriage Wilson had never seen, were plainly outlined by the thin chemise.
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