This short story is an entry in the 2003 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: Adult
Archivist's note: This was posted under the additional pen name Velindre <velindre@starmail.com>
The Desk
By
It was an old rambling Victorian style house with heavy gables and small windows, and was surrounded by extensive unkempt grounds. It had set me back three-quarters of a million, which had stretched me, but what the hell.
I couldn't immediately afford the repairs that were badly needed. No matter. I was raised in a slum. But it's quite a house for the fifth son of a Madras-born taxi driver, I thought.
The agent found me a charlady cum cook, and I settled in.
There were several old pictures on the walls, but most were so thick with dirt that I could not distinguish any details. One in particular, however, struck me; a picture of a happy young girl in a frilly dress and white apron. "Rather like Alice, by Tenniel," I thought and hung it in the room I used for my office.
One day when exploring the empty wine cellar, I noticed a crumbling partition at the far end. I put my fingers in a crack, and pulled a large piece of the plaster away. A hole appeared. I got a flashlight and peered through. In the dusty space stood an enormous desk. Why had it been sealed away, I wondered?
After restoration I had it ensconced in my office. It was the sort known as a partner desk, with drawers on both sides. Being the owner of a nation-wide chain of Indian curry restaurants (Averatnam's) I needed a big desk.
One day, purely from idle curiosity, I tried sitting on its other side. Almost immediately everything went dark. Typical English thunderstorm, I supposed. Then to my surprise I saw Alice bent flat over the desk, face down, arms outstretched. A man in a black frock coat lifted her skirt and her several petticoats. He undid the waist ribbons on her pantaloons and pulled them down. Somehow a cane appeared in his hand and he whipped the poor girl fiercely.
Alice's mouth opened but no sound emerged. Neither was there any sound as the cane lashed her bare bottom. All I could hear was the wind whistling in the badly fitting window.
There was a sudden lightning flash. The girl and the man vanished!
My knees shook. Beads of sweat glistened on my forehead. I was trembling. I now realised why the desk had been sealed away.
Then the thunder came. The old house, solid though it was, seemed to shake to its foundations. The storm now roared and raged through its many chimneys and queer old gables, producing strange unearthly sounds in the empty rooms and corridors.
I pulled myself together, and moved to my usual side of the desk, glancing at the picture. Alice looked cowed now, and there were tears in her eyes.
I've witnessed Alice's beating several times since, but only when sitting on the other side of the desk, and only when there's a thunderstorm. But I've lost my fear, and now experience only enjoyment. It gives me a terrific erection every time.
The End
© Copyright Ebro, 28 August 2003
Reviews
Warm Hand Jack
This is an excellent entry: very well written, and paced and phrased for maximum effect. The plot device – a lively illusion, seen only in certain circumstances – is not believable, of course, but the reader's credulousness is not stretched much more than is absolutely necessary. (The limits to when the illusion appears help the credibility; the change in the painting, whether real or imagined, does not.)
This writer makes good dramatic use of various sentence lengths, as in the short paragraph: «My knees shook. Beads of sweat glistened on my forehead. I was trembling. I now realised why the desk had been sealed away.» (I wasn't looking for little flaws in punctuation, but one does jump out. In the fourth paragraph, «One...struck me; a picture....» is one of the classic constructions that calls for a colon, rather than a semi-colon.)
The opening scene-setting is clear and complete – it identifies and places the writer, and describes the estate in a vivid but straight-forward manner (carefully avoiding any note of foreboding or spirituality that would telegraph the coming apparition). Effective details abound throughout: for example, the description of the storm, the « many chimneys and queer old gables....» and Alice's period attire. (The name of the curry chain struck me at first as a gratuitous detail; however, on re-reading, I decided that it adds to the character-picture of this man from humble beginnings, now proud and wealthy, who remains at heart a simple, if successful, merchant.)
Although not particularly deep, this entry is effective, interesting, and well composed: fine qualities for a story on any theme.
Jon <mrheadmstr(at)yahoo(dot)com>
I really enjoyed this story. It has a unique plot line and appeals to me also in the Victorian atmosphere evoked. That it includes a bit of magic harms it not at all, and adds to the quaint sense of mystery. A charming tale well told.
Jessie
Nicely written, evocative story. The last line seems to take place outside the story though!