This short story is an entry in the 2002 Soc.Sexuality.Spanking Summer Short Story Contest and is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice. The author would appreciate your comments
Category: Period
After Dealey Plaza
By
Mara Maharakshasa <MaraMahaRakshasa@aol.com>
The Tokarev sniper rifle is broken down, stuffed in a cardboard tube in the bottom of my cart. I continue my rounds with the mail and folders, just as I would normally after my lunch break. There's too much fuss outside, and eventually, the boss gives word that we should finish for the day. As I leave the Federal Records Building, the tube in my long shoulder bag, no one takes any notice. I'm a well-known local halfwit.
The bus drops me on a corner in Deep Ellum. I walk into the scrapyard, and drop the tube and its contents into the barrel of wet cement waiting there, as arranged. Soon, with many others, it'll be shipped Houston and on to a chemical dump site in the Louisiana swamps.
Now it's time for my visit to Miss Ellen. Her shanty house is two blocks away in this rough neighborhood.
She opens the screen door, and waves feebly.
"What's up, Miss Ellen? You been sleepin'?"
Her eyes are all swollen.
"I been watching the TV. Someone done shot that President Kennedy! He dead!"
"What?"
"I seen it. It was in downtown. Dealey Plaza, near the freeway."
"Oh, my. There'll be big trouble, then."
"There's always big trouble. Come on in, Lester, and get yourself comfortable. Kin I gets you a beer?"
Miss Ellen is always welcoming. And it's quiet here.
After a while, I say: "Miss Ellen, can we turn the TV off now? It's kinda hurting my head?"
"Sure honey. Nothing else we need to know right now, is there?"
She's right. The patsy, Oswald, had fired early from the next-door book depository, throwing me off. And got a lucky hit on Connally. The Cuban shooter on the grassy knoll, he'd put one in Kennedy's throat. With all this swaying going on, it had taken me a couple of seconds to realign the sniperscope, and pop him in the head. Target down.
Miss Ellen takes the $20 bill and smiles. "Now, you take all those clothes off for Mama, and I'll make you a happy boy."
She watches me strip, eyeing my pale body. It contrasts with her own chocolate skin.
"Jes' look at you, with that rude hard-on! Mama's giving you extra swats for that!"
We pass an eventful night, with her spanking me until I'm bruised and swollen, other times letting me climb aboard her ample thighs and belly and fuck her.
Next morning, I awake in her arms, smothered by her bosom.
"Lester's gotta go to work, Mama," I tell her. "The Man gonn' get on my case if I'm late."
"You wash up an' run along then, Lester. Mama's tired. Happy tired, though."
I'm happy tired, too. At work, I play the simpleton, as usual.
Folks are talking.
"Who coulda done it?"
"Commies! Cubans!"
"This asshole they caught?"
Me? I don't know either.
The $10 million is in the numbered Zurich account.
Soon enough, I'll shed this identity and leave.
But until then, there's Miss Ellen.
The End
© This story is copyrighted (c) by Mara Maharakshasa, 2002. All rights are reserved by the author. Do not retransmit, store (except for personal use) or publish without permission.
Reviews
Abrat4you <abrat4you(at)aol(dot)com>
The story idea was good...but the idea seems to get lost in just aimless words...the spankings in your stories seem to violent and mean for me.
Kate <ecattiva(at)aol(dot)com>
Interesting take on an actual event. I wish the relationship between Miss Ellen and the narrator had been better fleshed out. I think it'd have made for a more compelling read.
Owen Williamson <ashthorn(at)maildulf(dot)com>
I found this a slightly confusing tale. It felt as though the spanking reference was just put in to fit the newsgroup, though. I had to read it two or three times before I thought I understood who was shooting at whom.