by Theo Jones
The I.D. card had saved her from the police many times. It was like a talisman, protecting her from misfortune. It had been an audacious yet simple plan, carried out in a matter of minutes. She had presented herself at the Citizen's Bureau with four up-to-date pictures and her old card, looking very tatty, on her twenty-first birthday and been issued with a new one.
All very routine, except that the clerk had knowingly issued her one with the wrong date of birth, knocking seven years off her twenty-one. The card was duly officially stamped and she now had 'proof' she was fourteen whenever she was stopped.
The Bureau clerk was taking a real risk for the Cause, secretly striking a blow against the regime. As I.D. cards were utterly essential to controlling the population, the work of the Bureau was carefully managed, the workers stringently vetted and monitored.
Olga Hagitz was a dissident, part of the underground Resistance in an Eastern bloc country. Through the usual highly guarded comments and conversations she had been recruited and her value immediately recognised. Olga looked young, five or six years younger at least than her true age. Even carefully made up and in her best clothes she was often challenged by officials in bars and cinemas, even once by a Truancy Officer in the street.
It wasn't just her size... she was a bit under average height, or her figure... which was pleasingly pert rather than full and rounded, but her face, which had remained clear and innocent. The leader of her local cell had told her what they had in mind.
"Communication is our biggest problem, how to stay in touch and coordinate ourselves. You could be priceless. You're old enough to remember detailed messages and to look after yourself, but you can easily look like a kid. The police won't give you the same attention at all. We've just got to make it official.
"Don't forget to use your old card when appropriate, though, otherwise whenever you go to a bar you'll be more likely to get a spanking than a drink!" He laughed, sounding like a chain rattling round a metal bucket.
She laughed too. "Oh, all my spankings are long gone! Unless you'd like to give me one now."
He went a deep red from the neck up, spluttering as she made her escape.
Olga was a lost soul, an orphan. Her father, an army veteran, had been fifty-eight when she was born and had died of a stroke before she was two. Her mother, her sweet loving mum, had died in a car accident when she was eight. She'd been brought up by her aunt, Dad's sister, cold, distant, dutiful, until she'd died too when Olga was nineteen.
There was a little pension; her dad was a decorated veteran, and she had her aunt's tiny flat. She had the usual useless job, part-time, passing bits of paper around about copper production. 'They pretend to pay us, so we pretend to work,' was the old joke.
Olga knew there was a better world to be made. She was a dissident before she even knew there were other such people.
After she'd got her new I.D. she'd had an amazing six months working to link the separate Resistance cells together, carrying carefully rehearsed messages across the city. She was often stopped, but her card and her guileless face disarmed even the most hard-bitten police officers.
She had only been close to real trouble once when a heavily built policewoman had stopped her after evening fell. Looking like one of the regime's prized weight lifters, she had barked at Olga.
"Card! What are you doing? Where are you going?"
Olga had handed the card over, explaining she was out for her mother buying some potatoes.
"Very late, much too late! I'll have to report your mother to the Bureau. I'll take you home, now."
She felt her bladder weaken. That could not happen! If she was reported or taken back to her place it would all come out. She swore at herself for not thinking more carefully about cover, a 14-year-old shouldn't be out so late!
"Oh, I'm so sorry. My mum is ill, we're all alone, and she doesn't know I'm out. I wanted to get the potatoes so she can stay in bed tomorrow and get better. She'll be so worried if she knows I've been out. Can't you just let me go with a warning, please?"
All her training would have led Lidmilia Svoboda, a local security officer, to dismiss this heartfelt plea, and yet there was a heart beneath the stiff uniform. She was a mother and had a mother. This poor innocent child was appealing to her for a little mercy, some understanding. She softened.
"Very well, but you must go straight home. I'll walk with you until it's in sight. Also, you may have meant well but this foolishness can't go unpunished. You should have asked the neighbourhood committee for help."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. Thank you so much."
Olga was so relieved that she'd managed to talk her way out of a tight spot that she hadn't wondered what this forbidding woman had meant by 'can't go unpunished'. Her right arm was taken in a firm grip above the elbow, there were clear fingertip bruises there later, and she was pulled stumbling into a nearby alley.
Olga let out little yelps of fear and surprise as she was tucked under the officer's burly left arm and roughly bent over, lifted on to her toes. She found herself looking out to the grey street. Passers-by heard the noise and looked in, briefly met Olga's pleading eyes, saw a police officer and hurried on, faces lowered. It was how people survived: don't get involved, mind your own business.
Olga felt her skirt being lifted and tucked under the officer's arm. Her heart sank as she realised the policewoman was going to spank her! She was twenty-one years old, a sophisticated political activist, a grown woman, and this brutal apparatchik was going to smack her bottom, like, well, a naughty fourteen-year-old girl.
"Please..."
"Be quiet, you're lucky that I'm dealing with you off the record."
Olga swallowed hard. It was true, she needed to shut up and take whatever was coming, while still maintaining her role. She let out a whimpering sigh as her thick tights and knickers were roughly tugged down to her knees, her pale round bottom and trembling thighs suddenly goose-pimpled in the cold air.
She found herself doing little anxious hops from one foot to the next, mouth dry and stomach knotted. Her poor bare bottom felt so vulnerable exposed to the chill air, a slight hint of rain adding to the cold.
Then, with no warning, other than a tightening of the officer's arm around her, it started. The slaps were hard and relentless, two or three a second, landing all over her writhing bottom and scissoring thighs. She felt as if had been sitting on a lava flow almost immediately. With each smack a new wave of flame washed over her soft flesh.
If the woman hadn't been a shot-putter then she should have been, because the brute strength she was able to put into spanking Olga was breathtaking. She clutched at the officer's coat, the thick rough material hard to grasp. She hopped about, she waved her arms, covered her face, even bit one of her own hands to try to control herself.
She was making a constant stream of grunts and little cries, sudden sharp intakes of breath and pathetic whimpers. She cried out loudly at one point and the officer hissed at her to be quiet, she was disturbing people and if she couldn't shut up she'd have to report her to the Bureau anyway.
Olga couldn't imagine what her bottom looked like, but it felt bruised, almost numb; all she could feel was the impact of the leather-like palm thwacking her naked backside. At this point the officer started paying more attention to the backs of her legs, landing hard, deliberate slaps from just above her knees up to the under-curve of her bottom.
Olga was sure that if this agony carried on she would wet herself as she writhed under the onslaught. Her jaw was tightly clenched to try to minimise the noise, although it was still a loud process. The heavy slaps echoed off the high, damp walls, sounding at times as if there were perhaps a dozen spankings going on, each slightly out of time with the other. Her grunts and whimpers reverberated around the alley.
People still hurried by but one young couple stopped for a minute or so and watched her face contorting as the stout, menacing officer smacked away like a machine. Tears ran down Olga's face as her yelping became a long drawn out keening noise. The couple looked at each other and kissed, the man clutching hold of the young woman's bottom as Olga's public spanking continued.
She closed her eyes, shuddering. How long had this ordeal been going on? How much more could she take? When she opened her eyes, the cruel lovers had gone.
Suddenly it was over. Her pants and tights were roughly pulled back up and her dress lowered.
"There, that's done! Now, I'll walk you back."
This sounded caring and gentle. In practice, she was taken by the upper arm and marched through the streets, tottering desperately in her wake, rubbing at her bottom and thighs with her other hand, still sobbing. Passers-by looked generally sympathetic, casting the odd concerned glance to convey their feelings.
Some were dreadful, though. A middle-aged man running a food stall gave a running commentary as they passed.
"Oh, you've leathered her arse good and proper, officer, well done. Little madams like that don't understand anything other than the palm of your hand or the flat of your belt. I could put some more custom your way, if you like, there's a few round here that could do with their pants pulled down, no mistake..."
A few others had chuckled maliciously. She'd heard one making loud smacking noises after they'd passed.
The officer stopped at the corner of her street and looked at Olga expectantly. She was hopping from foot to foot, wet-faced, breathing hard and her bottom feeling as if there was some little fiery dragon clawing at her cheeks, between her cheeks and at the backs of her legs. Something was expected.
"Thank you, officer, thank you for being so understanding and dealing with things off the record."
"That's fine, young lady. I have always had a soft heart! Now, go, before I change my mind."
With that, Olga was let go to limp across the street and up the stairs to her flat, where she lay on her sofa and wept. She got up stiffly after a good cry, and soaked a hand towel in the sink, wringing it out so it was cold and damp. She poured herself a large brandy and lay back down, draping the towel over her bottom and the backs of her legs, sucking in her breath at the soothing coolness.
She'd had to make sure her legs were covered for more than a week as vivid bruises bloomed, including some obvious finger marks. She was careful about sitting down for a few days, having to keep her battered cheeks from too much direct contact with hard seats.
She was more circumspect after that, but there was only so much care that could realistically be taken. The role of courier was inherently risky, they were most likely to be stopped, most likely to come under suspicion and so most likely to be caught. A lot of effort was put into making sure the couriers knew as few identities and addresses as possible.
It wasn't surprising that Olga, eventually, after a good, long run, was investigated.
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.