by Louis Woodley
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"OW!"
"I warned you what was going to happen, didn't I?"
"Yes sir you did."
"But you didn't listen, did you?"
"No sir, I'm sorry. Oh, it hurts."
"You're damned right it does. I'll be leaving blisters behind on that backside of yours by the time I'm finished. What do you think about that?"
"Oh God, I'm so sorry... please..."
Harold O'Conner was venting his frustrations over his wife's transgression through the vigorous application of a wooden hairbrush to her backside and thighs. The pair of naked buttocks across his lap were transitioning from pink to red under the assault. He was certainly teaching his wife quite a lesson.
However, at that moment, his wife Sarah was sitting several feet away watching the punishment intently with Rachael Gibson. Tiffany Douglas' audition as the latest candidate for Whipped Wives, Inc. was well underway.
Ever since the Neo-Conservatives had overwhelmingly taken over the country they'd pushed for a return to 'traditional values'. And that, of course, included recognizing the man as the master of the household and sanctioning the use of domestic chastisement to curb the wayward behavior of their significant others. Likewise, schools were sanctioned to utilize corporal punishment to deal with unruly students, a definite blessing to the purveyors of paddles and canes.
But, as always, if you have enough money or power the rules don't necessarily apply to you; there are ways you can tap dance your way around them. And this is the story of how an attempted evasion of punishment, combined with the blurting out of an unexpected response, came to create an organization that was forced to expand to meet demand.
The Brushwood Country Club was one of those locations where high-ranking government officials and captains of industry hobnobbed safely away from the poor and downtrodden. But even in such a lofty environment, the women discovered that they weren't exempt from the new way of doing things. Sadly, their husbands were used to being in positions of power, and so when the government said 'Thou shalt beat thy wife's ass for her transgressions' there was no sympathy or mercy.
Women used to sitting around the pool all day drinking now found it hard to sit down when they got home. Brenda Nesbit almost got laughed out of the club because her bathing suit failed to cover up the results of a husbandly beating.
Their old way of life was over and they were unhappy; consequently they spent more time sitting around getting drunk and bitching, which in turn led to thrashings for being drunk in public when they returned home. It became a vicious cycle. Until the day the right complaint was heard by the right person at the right time to create a solution that would protect their pampered derrieres.
Claire Boone had been holding forth with her usual cronies, already well hammered and heading towards passing out. She knew her husband was going to be pissed off at her. He'd become such a tyrant lately that being tipsy made him easier to tolerate. But she realized that she'd gone overboard today and could barely stagger to her feet to loudly announce, "Trevor is going to blister my butt when I get home!"
Her friends all nodded in sympathy; their husbands had all climbed aboard the 'domestic chastisement' train as well. That was when she issued the fateful words, "God, I'd pay for one of you to take my place."
Rachael Gibson was a 19-year-old college student, struggling to make ends meet. The 20-25 hours she worked at the club every week provided just enough to keep her living from paycheck to paycheck. The job paid $10/hour, which wasn't much considering how grating the indolent rich bitches could be towards the workers. They could drop thousands of dollars shopping yet were notably miserly tippers.
She happened to be their server and was standing close enough to blurt "I'll do it" before she could think.
The ladies were so used to looking past the wait staff they hadn't even noticed Rachael's presence. Now Mrs. Boone tried to get her brain to focus; someone had answered her, agreeing to face her husband's wrath! She squinted at their waitress.
"You'll do it?"
Rachael now regretted opening her big mouth in front of half a dozen members like she was their social equal or something. Oh God, had she just talked her way out of a job? But she couldn't walk away without offending them now.
"Um... yes ma'am," she said. "If the pay is good enough."
"Would $500 do you?"
$500? That was essentially two weeks' worth of pay slaving away around here. Before Mrs. Boone could withdraw the offer, Rachael quickly accepted.
"Um... that works for me. Yes!"
Then Sarah O'Conner spoke up. She was the acknowledged grand dame of the club, and frankly scared Rachel and the rest of the staff. "You do realize that she's asking you to go home with her and let her husband beat your ass instead of hers?"
"Yes ma'am, but I need the money," responded Rachael.
"Okay, it's your funeral. By the way, he enjoys whipping her with a belt until she's purple."
Rachael gulped. What had she just talked herself into?
"What's your name girl?" demanded Mrs. Boone.
"Rachael Gibson, ma'am."
"Alright, Rachael Gibson, this is your last chance to back out."
"No ma'am, I'll do it for you."
Rachael's manager wasn't thrilled to be informed that one of his staff members was being co-opted to assist a member and would be leaving immediately. However, you don't rise to becoming the manager of a club like that without learning to accept the vagaries of those who provide your paycheck (and could have you gone in a heartbeat).
Rachael might have made a rash decision, but she wasn't about to go through this without a guarantee of payment. It would be typical of someone like Mrs. Boone to let her take the fall and then stiff her on the payment. So she insisted on the money being electronically transferred to her account before she agreed to step into the provided limo.
Mrs. Boone, for her part, wanted assurances that Rachael wasn't going to take her money and then abscond without fulfilling the agreement. Rachael rightly pointed out that Mrs. Boone held all the cards; not only could she get Rachael fired from her job, but her husband had the wherewithal to make her life a living hell if she dared to steal from him. Mollified, she made the transaction.
The pair rode in silence for several minutes before Rachael asked what she should do to prepare herself.
"Oh, you won't have to do anything. He's probably been home for a half-hour by now and seething mad that I'm not home and don't have supper ready for him. He's become such a fuddy-duddy about expecting me to cook when he knows that all I can make is reservations. So he'll blow a gasket about being disrespected, and then I'll explain that he gets to beat the stuffing out of your little hiney while I go to bed. He can fix himself something to eat; he's a grown boy. But I'll bet when he sees your naked bottom he's going to forget all about food."
Minutes later they arrived at a large home. Mrs. Boone was right; her husband started ranting at her the moment they arrived. He didn't even notice the sacrificial lamb behind her before Mrs. Boone pointed her out and explained her purpose for being there. He was thunderstruck, but was used to making fast business decisions and quickly recovered.
He weighed his choices: wallop his wife's butt once again for her failings, or take out those same frustrations on a backside younger than his children? It wasn't a hard decision, although he felt that his wife had overpaid for her surrogate. He would have haggled her down to about half of that; but if it was costing him $500 then he was going to take $500 worth out of Rachael's flesh.
The Boone couple maintained separate bedrooms. He would go to her bed should he desire conjugal relations (why mess up his bed?). Mrs. Boone tottered off to her room and got herself in bed, unconcerned about the fate of her substitute. She was getting well paid, so if her old goat of a husband wanted to paw all over her, then at least she would not have to worry about him barging in later and disturbing her sleep. The alcohol had done its work, and she was snoring before her husband delivered the first swat to Rachael's bottom.
Mr. Boone escorted his surrogate wife to his bedroom and closed it behind them. His wife had become an irritant with her slowness to accept how things needed to change around here, despite his constant reminders. But for the moment he was feeling inclined to be slightly more forgiving towards her after she'd delivered this unexpected treat for his pleasure.
The girl looked nervous so he took full advantage as he said, "Claire, I've told you that the drinking has got to stop, haven't I?"
Rachael did a double-take, almost saying that wasn't her name, before realizing that it didn't matter; as far as Mr. Boone was concerned, she was his wife now.
"Um... yes sir," she replied in a deferential tone, which he found pleasing. His real wife tended to argue that she wasn't drunk despite her wobbling.
"And yet you continue to come home late, drunk-as-a-skunk, day after day."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"You don't act very sorry to me. I come home from working hard all day to find an empty house and no food waiting for me. I provide for you, yet you can't be bothered to show me any respect in return."
Rachael could only apologize for his real wife's failings.
"So, what do you think I need to do to teach you some respect?" He stepped closer as he asked.
"Um... a spanking... sir?"
"Yep! A nice, hard, long spanking on that bare bottom to remind you to submit to your husband. That's exactly what you need and what you're going to get."
"I'll do better, sir."
"That's nice to hear, but right now the best way for you to prove it is to get that bottom bare and across my lap."
In reality he only bared his wife's backside and then immediately thrashed her while she leaned over on top of pillows. But his wife had spent a lot of cash to provide this girl for him and he intended to savor the experience.
There was no turning back for Rachael, although she was momentarily confused. Mrs. O'Conner had been quite explicit that she was going to be beaten viciously with Mr. Boone's belt, but instead he was telling her to go across his lap instead. Oh well, for $500 she'd play the game his way.
Trevor Boone was almost salivating as the delectable young buttocks were bared. They were small, firm, and lily-white; they would need plenty of attention to insure that his 'wife' was properly chastised.
He patted his lap. "I'm waiting, dear."
Rachael wasn't used to subjecting herself across a man's lap, but the government would expect her to assume that position whenever ordered to once she had a ring on her finger. Now that she'd blurted out her offer to be a substitute wife, she was about to receive some heavy premarital training from her pretend husband.
She crawled up onto the bed and then across the older man's lap. She tried not to flinch when she felt his hand caress her flesh.
Yes, Trevor was elated with the feel of the nubile flesh. It seemed almost a shame to turn such perfect white skin beet red, but he believed in getting a good return on his investment.
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