by Rick Marlowe
"CSA call center. How may I help you?"
It had been a long day at the Central Spanking Administration headquarters, but the calls kept coming.
"Yes, ma'am... I see... uh-huh... I understand how you feel... oh, you're absolutely right... yes. And may I have your address please? Ok... ok... ok." he replied, typing continuously. "Got it. Yes, ma'am, we'll be sending an agent right out. It's up to you, ma'am, whether you want to be there. Yes, soon. I understand completely."
Sighing heavily, the dispatcher hung up the phone. "So, Charlie," he asked his partner, "who we got available in Zone 23?"
"Just a sec - pulling it up. Uh, is it a juvie?"
"Nope - Class III. Definitely a Class III."
"You're not going to believe this - only Agent available in 23 is Palmer."
"You're kidding, right? We can't send Palmer on a Class III."
"No, I'm not kidding. And why can't we? She's been here two years. Two. She's got to step up some time."
"Damned budget cuts. I knew something like this was going to happen. You call her then. I want no part of this."
Charlie dialed. The phone rang... and rang... and then a pick-up. "Hello, Palm-... uh, hello? Hello?" The line had gone dead. He tried the number again, but this time there was no answer. Now what?
The other dispatcher motioned to him. "Palmer on #2 for you, via a land line."
"Stein here. Yes, Palmer. What the hell happened? Your cell phone... in the toilet? Oh, great. Now listen here, I have a Class III for you. Yes, you heard right - a Class III. Now pay attention, I'll give you the specifics." Charlie slowly read the details of the complaint off the screen. "You'll be going to..." Click. Charlie leaned back and sighed, shaking his head.
"Palmer for you again, Charlie, on #4."
Recovering his composure, he spoke clearly and deliberately, "The address is..."
Sarah was almost giddy from excitement. Her first Class III assignment - solo! For a year and a half now, following training, she had been stuck handling juveniles and 'assisting' other agents on other cases. It had been so frustrating when her boss, just two days earlier, had said it would probably be yet another few months before she'd get even any Class II cases on her own. And now, here she was with a Class III! Someone must have finally recognized her skills and told ol' walrus-face to quit holding her back
Finishing dressing, she checked herself out in the full-length mirror behind her closet door: black business suit (the standard CSA uniform), high-heeled pumps (to raise her up to just under 6' - physical presence was important), and the final touch - dark glasses (not exactly an agency requirement, but how she loved the look!). She was ready to kick some ass! Or smack it, actually.
The elevator was nearly to the lobby of her apartment building before she remembered that the key for the CSA minivan was still hanging on its hook in her kitchen. So it wasn't until she'd made the trip back up and down again before she was finally on the road. She plugged her iPod into the stereo, which soon was churning out the Hawaii Five-O theme song. This music really helped her get pumped.
Following a couple of wrong turns and a near-collision with a bread truck, she finally found her way to Mapleshade Drive. Number 133 she was looking for. Ah, that must be it. She squeezed into a parking space, only slightly nudging the bumper of the car behind. Making one last check of her hair in the mirror, she exited the van, and marched confidently up the front walk. She rang the doorbell, Hawaii Five-O still echoing around her brain.
"Hello?" A little old lady had poked her head out the door.
"May I please speak with Daniel P. Bledsoe?"
"Oh, that would be next door, miss," the woman said, smiling.
"Oops, sorry," Sarah apologized, noticing that this house number was actually one-three-five. Having had a few delays already, and not wishing her first big assignment to take too awfully long, Sarah decided to skip the long walk back to the street, instead cutting across the lawns through a gap in the hedge.
Once Janet had slammed the front door on her way out following an epic shouting match, Dan calmed down in the manner he usually did. He downed a couple of beers before busying himself on a household project, this one being the new crown molding in the upstairs hallway. Hearing a crunch from out front, he looked out the window to discover that a black minivan had backed into the front of his car.
From his perch on the ladder, he watched as a brunette in black, with legs 'up to there,' sashayed up to Mrs. Grimble's front door. He was about to hurry down to check out his bumper and intercept the visitor, when he saw her heading towards his house. She appeared to catch her leg on something while slipping through the hedge and then step awkwardly onto the edge of the driveway. She had either hurt herself, or broken her heel, because she limped the rest of the way to his door. Well, at least she had the decency to come over to report the little accident.
"Shit," Sarah muttered. Not only was her left heel broken, but she had snagged her stocking on that damned hedge, leaving a run all the way up her leg. But she had a job to do here, no matter the state of her outfit, regrettable though it might be. She adjusted her sunglasses before ringing the bell once, twice. The door opened, revealing an unshaven man in t-shirt and jeans. They eyed each other for a few moments, sizing one another up.
"I'm looking for Daniel J. Bledsoe," she announced at last.
"You've found him. And?"
"Um... well... may I come in?"
"Suit yourself." He stepped aside so that she could walk in, through the foyer into the living room. "Yes?"
"I'm Sarah Palmer, of the Central Spanking Administration, and I..."
He gave a chuckle. "Oh really?"
"Well, yes really. I know, a lot of people don't believe we really exist, or haven't even heard of us, but we're real. See - I even have my Spank-o-Van outside - that black mini-van there? Oh, I know you can't read it from here, because the lettering is really small, but it's there. You can go out and look if you want. Oh, we're real, all right."
He shook his head. "I wasn't doubting the CSA. But you? An agent?"
Sarah stood up tall on her one good heel, making herself taller than he, by a couple of inches. "You betcha. And I bet you're wondering why I'm here."
"The thought did cross my mind, yes."
"Well, we got a call from your wife today and she told us all about the big fight you had. And believe me, Mister, your butt is gonna be sore." Sarah knew it was rather unprofessional for an agent to talk in that tone, but something about this guy just irked her.
At this he fairly burst out laughing. "Oh, it is, is it? And who's going to do that? You? Look at those little hands of yours..."
"Just wait, buster. It's not going to be just my hand. It's going to be... um... oh dang. I left my thingy - my bag - out in the van. Hold on - let me run get it. Now don't you go anywhere."
"I wouldn't dream of it. This is my house, after all."
Sarah hobbled out the door and down the front walk, while Dan ambled into the kitchen for a beer. He returned in time to watch out the front window as she, after pulling a black satchel out of the back of the van, did a quick double take when spotting the crumpled bumpers. She looked around furtively, as if to see that no-one was watching, and then hobbled back up to the house.
"There!" she said, setting the bag down with an emphatic thump. "And wait until you see this." She unbuckled the bag in order to pull out a black lacquered paddle, about 15 inches long and maybe four inches wide, with a double row of holes. "A bit more worried now, are you?"
"Oh, without a doubt," he answered calmly.
"So come on," she directed in her sternest voice, motioning toward the couch.
He didn't move.
"I said... come on. Come here this second."
He rolled his eyes. Now Sarah was really getting perturbed.
She grabbed hold of his wrist, the hand without the beer, and pulled. He didn't budge. This Bledsoe guy was stronger than his rather short stature would indicate. Wiry. She considered whether to call for back-up, before remembering the unfortunate accident with her cell phone earlier. And Bledsoe wasn't likely to allow her to use his phone. So it was all on her. Gritting her teeth, she pulled harder on his wrist, accomplishing nothing. All she did was to nearly lose her balance.
"So, Ms. Palmer, when you receive a report of such allegations, aren't you supposed to try to investigate them, check out the other side of the story, before taking action?"
She pushed her dark glasses back up on her nose. "Well, technically, yes... but..."
"A-ha! And have you?"
Inside, she did a slow burn, knowing he was right. He had gotten her so annoyed that she had forgotten that little detail. So annoyed, in fact, that despite knowing he was right, she wasn't going to back down.
"Ha. Like I could expect someone like you to tell the truth about what happened. You'd rather just play a game of 'gotcha.' Well, that's not gonna work with me."
Here she dropped the paddle onto the couch in order to grab his wrist with both hands, determined to give him a huge yank to get him in position. Much to her surprise, he stepped right by her, sat down and, with a deft tug, deposited her neatly over his own lap - all the while taking a sip from his beer, no less.
"Hey - you can't do that! Let me up! I'm an official agent of the CSA!"
Her struggle was fruitless. He merely repositioned her so that her bottom was good and high, holding her securely in place.
"Yes, an agent who doesn't follow the rules," he began, giving the seat of her skirt a few hard swats. "Doesn't even do the simplest investigation into the facts of the case." He paused every couple of words to punctuate his comments with a few solid whacks. "Oh, you're an agent all right... but you're going to be a very sore-bottomed agent by the time I'm done with you." More spanks. "It’s about time you learned how to do your job."
With Sarah squirming, trying to get free, Dan found his opportunity to pull her skirt up and over her hips, to reveal lacy black panties and garters straining to hold up her stockings.
"No! Don't you dare!" she screamed. But dare he did.
Recounting the story of what really happened between him and his wife that morning, Dan peppered his victim's bouncing bottom with volley after volley of hand-spanks.
"Ok, ok," she squealed, “So she lied. Owww- owww. How was I to know? Ow! Ooooo."
"How were you to know?" came his reply, as he peeled her panties clear of her pink derriere. "You should have damned well investigated, that's how!" He had to hold her tightly to keep her in position while his hand whacked away mercilessly at her bare tush.
Her feet flutter-kicked in the air as her cries filled the air. She had no idea a spanking could hurt like this. At long last there came a pause in the punishment. Was he done?
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.