Author: Jack Crawford
Title: The Inheritance
Summary: Nothing makes the worst in people come out than fighting

   over an inheritance, but PI Jake Jernigan gets to the bottom of things
...  several bottoms, in fact!  Keywords: dom, MF, humil, md, spank, exhib
<!--ADULTSONLY--> Copyright: 2010



   Part 1 - The Heiress

   So maybe I'd had a little too much to drink, a little too early that
day. I felt lousy and I'd been into the bottle of scotch that I keep in my
desk drawer.  There ain't a private detective worth his drippy dick that
doesn't hit the booze hard from time to time.  Problem was, those times
were getting closer together for me.  There hadn't been any business, no
cases, for nearly two weeks and I was pretty fucking depressed so I decided
to give myself a reason for feeling so shitty.  My secretary left early
that afternoon.  What the hell?  She didn't have anything to do and wasn't
very good at it anyway.  As luck would have it, I was pretty well on my way
to getting plastered when she walked in.  Typical.  I want to be alone and
feel sorry for myself, get stinking drunk and some broad waltzes into my
office.  She's probably a process server from one of my creditors, I
thought, as I studied her silhouette through the frosted pane of glass in
my door.  "Hello?  Hello?" she called out.  Her voice was low and husky. 
Too much smoke or too much whiskey.  My cynical mind figured it was
probably more than likely it was too much of both.  "The door was open.  Is
anybody here?" she called out again.  Real Einstein, this broad.  Who in
their right mind would leave a door unlocked in New York City in this day
and age.  It's been eight years since the `29 crash, too many guys out of
work, Hitler making a stink over in Germany like he thinks he's going to
rule the world and this broad thinks there is no one home when the door is
wide open.

   What a moron.  I let the broad continue to call out as I nursed my
scotch.

   Finally, Einstein figures she ought to look around and opens my office
door, peeking inside.  "Oh!" she says, really startled, "No one answered so
I thought there was no one here."

   "So you just thought you'd have a little look around and see if there
ain't something valuable to take as a souvenir of your trip up thirteen
flights of stairs.  That right?" I asked.  Her sparkling blue eyes hinted
untold volumes ...  or at least that's what my alcohol induced state lead
me to believe.

   "Not exactly," she replied as she stepped into my office.  A normal man
would have choked on his scotch when he got a glimpse of the broad's
complete package.  She was a stunning blonde, built like the proverbial
brick shit house.  I blanched momentarily, but not so she would have
noticed.  Casually lighting a Camel, unfiltered, of course, I studied her.

   Long, really long, legs with gams that were perfectly turned.  Hips
flared nicely, accentuated by her not-so-fashionably tight dress. 
Breastworks were impressive: cleavage from New York to Chicago that caught
my attention.  That's hard to do since I'm a leg and ass man, myself. 
Finally, I did focus closely on her back porch.  The reflection in the
window glass was magnificent.  I could really go for what I saw!

   Giving her a look of indifference, a sneer of sheer boredom that
teetered on contempt, I said nothing more to her.  It made her nervous. 
That look always does.  Finally, Einstein of the celestial body asks the
obvious, "Are you Mr.  Jernigan?"

   "Depends," I growled.  "Who wants to know?" This is it, I figured.  She
has to be a process server.

   "I'm Marsha Saunders," she said like it should mean something to me.  "
A friend of yours, Dick Dietz, recommended you.  May I sit down?" I nodded
towards a chair on the other side of my desk and fantasized about being the
seat cushion.  Einstein sat, taking her time crossing her legs and giving
me an ample show of thigh.  Even with my detective skills it was hard to
determine if she was coming on to me, or just showing off ...  sort of a
teasing "look, but don't touch" type of show.  I hate when broads do that.

   Then her name registered.  "Marsha Saunders," I repeated casually, like
I'd known it all along, "As in the heiress to the T.  Wilson Saunders
fortune?" "Actually, only half of Daddy's estate," she clarified.  "My
sister, Phyllis Wilks and her husband Reggie, got the other half." Then,
almost as an afterthought, she added, "And it really isn't a fortune.  Most
of the value of the estate is tied up in hard assets.  Cash and liquid
assets are a very small portion of our inheritance."

   "So what's a rich, uptown broad sitting in my office for?" I lit another
cigarette, deliberately not offering her one.  She was loaded.  Let her buy
her own fucking smokes.

   Ignoring my rude behavior, the tall blonde recrossed her legs and
answered.  "I have a little problem.  Simply, the bulk of my inheritance is
tied up in Saunders' Galleries.  My sister, Phyllis, got the real estate;
Daddy's home in Scarsdale, the estate in Connecticut.  Very little cash for
either of us and I think Phyllis has been stealing some of the art work in
my Galleries for cash.  It's very expensive to maintain the homes with
little real money."

   "And, you want me to prove that's what she's doing.  Right?" I stated,
but I was suspicious as hell of her story.  "Why not go to the police?"

   "Yes, I want you to prove she's stealing from me," she responded,
adding, "And, I can't involve the police.  It would be simply too
embarrassing!" She fidgeted in her seat, but her gaze was steady as a rock.

   "If you're so cash poor, how do you propose to pay my fee?" I asked,
getting right to the heart of the matter.  "I charge $100 up front, plus
$50 a day and expenses." Now we would see how serious she was about the
matter.  The blonde goddess opened her purse and tossed out a small stack
of notes.  Ten $100 bills - a thousand dollars!  "I have enough to retain
your services," she noted dryly.  "There's a thousand up front and I'll pay
your $50 per day.  If we prove Phyllis has been stealing from me, then
there's a $10,000 bonus.  Fair enough?"

   She could have been the ugliest woman on the planet, but the sight of
all that money and the promise of ten grand gave me a skyscraping girder of
a hard on.  But, hey, I do have my ethics to consider.  "I think we better
check with your husband before I accept this retainer," I advised.

   "I'm not married."

   "How much do you think your sister stolen so far?" I asked, trying to
get some rational idea what would justify a $10,000 bonus.

   "So far, there are four paintings missing and one sculpture," she
answered.  "Worth about $100,000." Bingo!  That explained the size of the
bonus.  "I'm not really one to run an art gallery," continued the most
beautiful woman I ever saw, "but I don't want to have all these expensive
pieces disappearing until I can sell the gallery or the art."

   Scooping the pile of cash into my desk drawer, I laid down my rules so
we wouldn't have any misunderstandings.  "First," I told her, my index
finger extended upwards, "I run this investigation my way.  You don't like
something, well, that's tough.  Tell me and I stop right then." No
acknowledgement from her, which I took to mean she accepted that term.

   "Second," I added another finger, "I have to have complete access to all
your records." She nodded.  Extending another finger, I continued.  "Third
- I have to have complete access to all physical locations.  The art
gallery, your home, everywhere.  You'll have to provide me with keys."

   "What does my residence have to do with the investigation?" she asked.

   "Fourth," all four fingers now upraised as I ignored her question.  "I
have the investigation experience so you don't question my requirements."
She rolled her eyes slightly, so I pressed her.  "Do you have any questions
so far?" She shook her head "no".

   "Finally," My thumb joined the four fingers of its hand, "Complete
honesty.  You do not want to be around if I catch you in even the smallest
lie, misstatement, mistake, error or omission." My eyes narrowed and I
peered intently at her, "Are we clear about that?"

   "Absolutely," she answered, a thin smile crinkling her face.  I didn't
like the way that smile made her smirk.  It confirmed a nagging feeling
that she was patronizing me ...  like she knew something I didn't.  Again,
she recrossed her legs.  Nervous habit?  Or, was she just an exhibitionist?
No ...  probably just a fucking tease.  I hate teasers.

   "How much insurance coverage do you have on the gallery?" I asked. 
"There isn't any," she answered, her musky, whiskey voice lowered.  But,
her answer was a big mistake.  It was her first mistake and I had every
intention of nipping her scheme in the bud, if in fact it was a scheme.  I
stood up from behind my desk and walked to the front side.  Leaning on the
edge of the desk I could tower over her.  It was an intimidating pose I had
learned.

   It also gave me a great view down the front of her dress.  Good thing my
left thigh was resting on the top of the desk.  It gave my woody someplace
to expand.  "Miss Saunders, by the way, call me Jake an I'll call you
Marsha," she nodded her agreement as she leaned forward a bit to give me a
better view.  "I need to remind you of a couple of my rules."

   "They were pretty clear," she said, eyes sparkling with a hint of sexual
promise.

   "Oh, but you are wrong," I corrected her with a very stern voice, "They
obviously were not very clear at all!" I took hold of her upper arm and
lifted her off the chair and pushed her over my knee.  Her feet came right
off the ground and her body was resting comfortably (for me, at least) over
my thigh.  Her dress clung tightly to her bottom and she gasped with the
suddenness of my move.  Then I gave her upturned bottom two resounding
swats.

   My slaps echoed about the small office, sounding like a backfiring old
Ford on a cold day.  "How dare you!" she complained indignantly and I gave
her two more solid spanks in response.  She sputtered with outrage and
tried to get out of her delicate predicament.  All she succeeded in doing
was raising the hem of her dress, which I thought was a good idea.  So I
helped.

   She began cursing and threatening as she felt her dress bunch up about
her waist.  Now her lacy french panties were visible, the succulent cheeks
of her bottom peeking out from beneath.  Her bottom was framed with a white
garter belt that suspended honey colored hose, but it was the visible
portion at the tops of her thighs that tantalized me.  I celebrated my good
fortune, and her mistake, with a half dozen eye-popping spanks to her panty
covered bottom.

   The luscious goddess continued to curse me until I stopped her. 
"Remember what I said about my rules?" I taunted, goading an answer from
her with a few more spanks.  Her luscious bottom wiggled and jiggled with
each swat, her hips grinding into me.  I was beginning to sweat, but not
from the exertion.  She was an angel, and a heavenly sight in her current
position.

   "I told you that I required complete honesty and you just lied," I noted
for her, punctuating the last two words with hard slaps to her bottom. 
"Now tell me who the insurance company is, and how much coverage you have."

   "There isn't any insurance!" she screamed at me, a little too loud for
me to believe her.  What is it that Billy Shakespeare wrote, I think she
protesteth too much, or some such silly sentiment.  "Have it your way," I
said casually.  But, she wasn't so casual when I hooked my fingers in the
waist band of her panties and jerked them down to her knees.  As soon as
she felt the action, and the cool air kissing her hot pink bottom, Marsha
Saunders began to kick and scream and threaten for all she was worth.  She
was worth a lot, but not enough to get me to stop.  I already had a
thousand bucks in my drawer and I was spanking her.

   SLAP!!  SPANK!!  WHAP!!  SMACK!!  My hand spanked her furiously, her
bottom really jiggling now that it was no longer encumbered by her panties.
My palm now spanking bare skin, the sounds of the spanking were much more
satisfying.  The spanks were crisper and sharper.  Of course the feeling in
my palm was more satisfying, too.  I could feel her own bottom skin grow
hotter with each spank.  Most satisfying, however, was watching her rich,
hoity-toity, ass turn colors.  It went from an alabaster white (probably
the color of the marble in her bathroom) through various shades of pink and
red (undoubtedly the color of the roses on her dining room table.) This
experience confirmed what I've always known, the sight of bright red finger
prints on a naked ass is the biggest turn on in the world!  I didn't want
this spanking to stop, although Marsha apparently did.

   "OKAY!  OKAY!!" she squealed.  "I've got $2 Million of insurance through
National Union.  Now would you PLEASE let me up and stop spanking me!??!"
Who, me?  Stop?  I really didn't want to stop.  I wanted to give this rich,
spoiled bitch a good lesson.

   So I did.  Despite her recurrent cries and pleas my hand rose and fell
like the firing pin of a Thompson sub-machine gun.  The heavy slaps
ricocheted off the walls.  Finally, her pleas became more legitimate in her
request for leniency and promises not to withhold anything further from me.
She no longer sounded like a snotty brat, indignant at the suggestion of a
spanking.

   Her bottom was fire-engine red when I stopped, her white thighs still
kicking, but more from the pain in her butt than any attempt to escape what
she deserved.  And, she had just gotten exactly what she deserved, but now
she sounded like she knew it, too.  "I'm sorry, Jake," she blubbered.  "No
more stories or lies between us.  I promise!"

   I helped her to her feet, and enjoyed the show she made of rubbing her
hot bottom.  It was a few delicious moments before she realized the display
she was making and she pulled up her panties and smoothed out her skirt. 
"Wow!" she exclaimed, drying her eyes with a dainty little hanky.  "I
haven't been spanked in years.  I had forgotten what they were like."

   "You better remember that one," I warned, "Or you'll find yourself with
a quick refresher course over my knee." I let that sink in then added, "I
need keys to your apartment and the art gallery."

   Marsha's face contorted into a look of concern.  "I don't know if that's
such a good idea ..." she started to complain.

   "You have the keys here, in this office by tomorrow morning at 9:00
A.M." I told her, index finger wagging a warning, "Or you'll get a taste of
the paddle I keep in the desk!"

   "I'll be here at 9:00," she said with a gulp,"But, tell me something. 
How did you know I had insurance?  And, how did you know I lived in an
apartment?" "Insurance claims are the only kind of case my buddy Dick Dietz
refers," I answered.  "He can't stand all the high brow, nose in the air
crowd that those kinds of cases attract.  And, since your sister got the
house, and your expensive high heels are a little worn, I figured you for
an apartment in the city.  Now beat it!  I got work to do!" She scooted
quickly out of my office and I settled back into my chair and poured a
couple of fingers of scotch.  That was fun, I thought.  This whole case
could be pretty fucking interesting!

   Part 2 - Evidence At The Gallery

   Late the next afternoon, I was escorted about the Saunders Galleries
located up town at 5th Avenue and 61st Street, by one Julia Gaspar.  Miss
Gaspar was the manager of Saunders Galleries and was the really
knowledgeable art expert who ran the gallery for Marsha Saunders.  I
disliked the gallery immediately.  Most people wouldn't notice, but the
aroma - no, that's too kind - the stench of stale cheese and spilled wine
was overpowering.  I could imagine all the "high society" types gathered to
discuss art, munching on little sandwiches with no crust on the bread,
popping little hunks of cheese into their overfed faces while sipping and
spilling some fancy white wine.  The thought made me want to puke.

   Miss Gaspar did her level best to make me feel totally out of place as
she talked down her nose to me.  Remembering my encounter the day before
with Marsha, I thought that Julia Gaspar would benefit from a similar
session.  I hate women with condescending attitudes.

   "What do you think of this piece?" asked Miss Gaspar, pointing to a
large oil painting.  The way she posed in front of the exhibit, I was hard
pressed to tell if she meant the useless waste of good tent canvas that
covered the wall, or her own lithe body.  Julia was a damned attractive
brunette.  She had cute perky tits that she displayed to their full
advantage, but as I have already admitted, I'm a leg and ass man, and those
were her dominant features.

   Yes, Miss Julia Gaspar had a beautiful face, despite the tacky "beauty
spot" on her right cheek that was obviously fake.  I hate fake beauty
spots! But, I was mesmerized by her shapely legs and firm round ass.  I had
been fixated on her bottom all afternoon, watching her gluteal muscles
ripple and roll beneath her skirt like two well-oiled ball bearings. 
"Well?" she asked, snapping me back to attention.

   I thought I could fake some rudimentary knowledge of painting.  "It's
interesting," I noted dryly.  "I think this is a bold statement for the
artist.  Notice the prominently rounded double moons?" I asked
rhetorically, pointing out two mauve spheres, "And, the starkly contrasting
parallel lines?  There are four lines, apparently representing the
separation between the fingers and thumb.  The artist is clearly pointing
out the lack of discipline in our society."

   "Hmm," Julia mused aloud.  "I see what you mean, Mr.  Jernigan, but I
think you must have something else on your mind because this particularly
poor excuse for art is an unmitigated piece of garbage!" She smiled smugly
at me, crossing her arms just daring me to take issue with her.  I really
hate condescending broads!

   "I suppose it depends on your taste," I responded non-committally.  "How
much does this `piece of garbage' sell for?"

   "It's listed at $15,000, but we'll probably only get $11,000 or $12,000
for it." Again, her snooty attitude grated on me, not unlike the sound of
fingernails scratching a chalkboard.  She sniffed and took me to a back
room that had housed the stolen items.  I followed her, appreciating the
fine work of art that she probably called her "bum."

   The room was poorly lit, not exactly conducive to showing art, I
thought, and I mentioned it to the snotty Miss Gaspar.  "The stolen pieces
were `Zmbotbes'," she said as if that explained everything.  Seeing that
her explanation was of no use to me she sighed heavily with obvious disgust
at my ignorance.  "Zmbotbe is an African artist ...  from the Belgian
Congo," she explained.  "Because of the very dense jungle, Zmbotbe is most
comfortable with dark surroundings and it is very noticeable in his works.
They actually glow in poor light because of the unique pigments in his
paint.  He is a very popular artist right now, each of his paintings would
sell for $40,000 or $50,000 each."

   That's about $200,000, I thought, the beautiful Miss Saunders was
holding out on me.  "What about the sculpture?" I asked.  "Did Zmbotbe do
that as well?" "Oh, yes!" The subject really revved her engine ...  I could
smell her excitement.  "And, it wasn't really a sculpture.  I don't know
how many times I have to explain that to Miss Saunders!  Anyway, it was a
clay urn, handcrafted and hand painted by Zmbotbe.  It was what is called a
`tbostilitbti' or a funeral urn.  Very rare to see one outside the Congo."

   "How much would the urn go for?" I wanted to know.

   "Another $50,000.  Easy!" So, Miss Saunders was definitely holding out
on the value.  Why?  It would seem that she would want to inflate the price
to get as much as possible from the insurance company.  And, they would
know what the real value was anyway.

   "Who do you think stole the artwork, Miss Gaspar?" I asked.

   "You're the private dick.  I thought you were here to tell us," she
rudely replied.  Her hands rested on her hips, again, challenging me.  My
temper was boiling, but I worked to keep it in check.  Julia must have
noticed the struggle and she gave me a better answer.

   "Apparently, Miss Saunders feels her sister, Phyllis Wilks, is
responsible," offered the tantalizing Julia.  "Mrs.  Wilks had keys to the
gallery before the theft - we re-keyed the building afterwards - because
there was no sign of a break in.  That's why the insurance company won't
payoff."

   "Yeah, that's what they told me this morning," I confirmed.  "But, do
you think Mrs.  Wilks is behind the thefts?"

   "Why not?" Julia answered caustically, "She is so fond of Zmbotbe's
works and that's what is missing." I waited her out, not wanting to
interrupt her casual testimony, knowing from experience that the silence
would make her uncomfortable and she would fill in the void on her own. 
She did.

   "And, then there is the other material," Julia offered.  I asked what it
was.

   "Well," she expanded, "Let me turn up the lights for you." As Julia hit
the light switches, the room illuminated with harsh white light.  After my
eyes adjusted to the brightness, I noticed the graffiti.

   "You cheated me, bitch!" was neatly painted in the spot where the first
missing painting had hung.  "Now we're even", "Daddy really hated you!",
and "Maybe I'll get more!" were painted where the other paintings had been
displayed.  Julia pointed to the display stand where the urn had rested. 
"Fuck You, Bitch." was also neatly painted on the surface.

   I hadn't noticed the grafitti before because it was painted onto the
surfaces in colors similar to those surfaces: off white for the walls, and
dark grey on the stand.  It was visible only in bright light.  "What did
the police have to say?" I asked.

   "Oh, they did their little investigation," said Julia, almost too
casually, "And they said they didn't have enough information to do
anything. Said all the evidence was a little too convenient and even
accused me and Miss Saunders, claiming we are prime suspects." I had been
thinking the same thing since I met Julia.

   "Did Miss Saunders get along with her sister?" I wanted to know. 
"Heavens no!" came an emphatic answer.  "They never got along.  I had to
make sure which one would attend any particular showing so that I could
avoid having the other present.  There was always a scene when they got
together."

   "But, Miss Saunders doesn't really like art, does she?"

   "No, Mrs.  Wilks was always much more interested in the gallery," Julia
confided.  "Miss Saunders was more interested in the people who attended
the showings ...  they were society events and she wanted to be seen, but
she really doesn't like this art.  She doesn't even understand it."

   "Odd, don't you think," I noticed, "That Mr.  Saunders left Marsha the
gallery rather than Phyllis."

   Nodding in agreement, but with a somewhat puzzled look on her face,
Julia agreed.  "Did you steal the art work, Julia?" I asked, suddenly
giving her my best piercing gaze.

   "Fuck you," she responded hotly, the bitchy side of her had returned. 
"Of course not and neither did Miss Saunders, Sherlock Holmes.  God!  You
detectives are all so stupid!" That's all it took to push me over the edge.
Normally, I can be a pretty reasonable guy, but nearly an hour of
condescension and insults had pushed me to my limits.

   Taking hold of her arm, I propelled Miss Julia Gaspar out of the exhibit
room and back to her office.  The gallery was quiet, and we were all alone.
No customers, but I caught a faint whiff of lilacs in the air.  Somehow a
familiar odor, but the air was also pierced with Julia's righteous curses.
Indignant, she insisted I let go of her immediately.

   Of course, I did not.

   Pushing her into her office, I nearly threw her towards the large couch
opposite her desk.  I took her purse, then pushed her back down onto the
couch as she stood up threatening me and beating at me with her fists. 
Women can be pretty fucking pitiful when they are upset and about to be
spanked.  "Aha!" I announced with some satisfaction as I found what I was
looking for in her purse.  A large hairbrush, oval shaped wooden back, and
sturdy enough to do the job I had in mind.

   Miss Gaspar's eyes were wide and suddenly filled with fear and
apprehension.  She clearly understood my intentions without my having to
say a word.  She was kneeling on the couch, arms folded protectively over
her chest and hands balled into fists in front of her face.  "You wouldn't
dare!" she hissed at me.  Her voice gave her away, though.  She knew I
would dare!

   Having her cornered on the sofa made it almost too easy and she reacted
much like a deer standing in the middle of the road, mesmerized my the
onrushing headlights of a car.  She was paralyzed with trepidation and I
moved quickly and forcefully.  As I moved on her, I noticed just how small
she really was.  Yes, she had a wonderful build, but the framework was
small.  If she stood over 5 feet tall, I was a geisha girl.

   Julia Gaspar didn't snap out of her trance until I had her well in place
over my knee, my right leg draped over her legs to keep her in place.  She
slowly returned to conscious thought as I raised the hem of her skirt, and
pulled down her remarkably youthful cotton panties.  Her fully exposed
spanking region prompted one last threat.  "You'll regret this, Mr. 
Jernigan," she snarled, "I'm going to have your ass in court so fast your
head will spin!"

   I laughed at her hollow threat.  "Well, Miss Gaspar, like the Good Book
says, `An ass for an ass', so I'll have your ass right now." WHACK!!  The
hard wooden hairbrush fell heavily through the air and smacked her left ass
cheek soundly.  She squealed with shock.  Then, WHACK!!, a second heavy
spank and Julia squealed with pain.

   It doesn't seem unusual to me, that I have a great fondness for shapely
female bottoms.  And, the act of spanking them only enhances their
attractiveness.  A methodical spanking not only warms the target, but
causes it to jump and jiggle in a manner so seductive that it would be
impossible for the recipient of a spanking to reenact the movements without
the requisite and proper physical motivation.  I enjoy every opportunity I
have to view this type of seductive dance, and this occasion was no
different.

   Grasping Miss Gaspar's waist tightly with my left arm, I bent into my
task and gave her ten or twelve really hard spanks really fast.  She
hollered and cussed and swore, but I ignored her words.  I was too focused
on her bouncing, reddening bottom and her scissoring legs.  The legs
couldn't move too far, tethered as they were by her prim and proper
panties, but her thighs did provide an excellent show.

   Another dozen hard spanks with the wicked hairbrush, and her pinkened
bottom turned bright red.  Now her cries were for leniency, her threats
having worked their way out of her system.  I stopped the spanking just
long enough to lecture her on her snotty attitude.

   SPANK!  WHACK!  CRACK!!  Another volley of a ten spanks had her ass
really jumping, the flames of punishment licking her exposed bottom.  A few
darker splotches appeared at the crown of her buttocks and I felt that she
was now in the proper frame of mind to truthfully answer my questions.  I
stopped and she lay limply over my knee, gasping for breath and muttering
unintelligible comments.

   "Tell me who you think stole the Zmbotbes," I ordered in a calm and
quiet voice.  But, getting no immediate response I was forced to spank
Julia's upturned and tortured bottom a few extra spanks before she
answered. "Ow!  Stop!  It's pretty clear that Mrs.  Wilks is behind this,"
she gasped.  "Oohh, my bottom really hurts.  Please stop spanking me!  And
let me up!  PLEASE!" "Not until you answer all my questions to my
satisfaction," was my answer.  Then another question as I greedily admired
my handiwork.  Julia's saucy bottom was really hot!  Bright red cheeks with
darker, bruising spots at the summits of both cheeks.  She wriggled her
hips, ineffectively trying to sooth the pain that she felt, inadvertently
arousing my interest in her actions.  "Why Mrs.  Wilks?" "She had access to
the gallery, she's interested in the artist, she hates her sister," were
Julia's rapid fire answers.  "And, I think she is cunning to the point of
making it so obvious she is the culprit that no one would really suspect
her."

   "What else," I coaxed, rubbing the hated hairbrush over her upraised
mounds.  The threat was unmistakably clear.

   "The police found a scarf monogrammed with the initials, PSW, Phyllis's
initials," she added quickly.  "But, I can't say that the scarf wasn't here
before the heist or not.  There was also a piece of material caught on
something near the door.  Apparently it is leather used for gloves, but the
police couldn't put it together with anything in Mrs.  Wilks wardrobe."

   "Or yours or Miss Saunders," I added.

   "That's correct," she confirmed, still shifting uncomfortably on my lap.
"Is there anything else that you think I ought to know about?" I tapped her
bottom lightly with the brush.  Given the amount of bruising that was
beginning to show, I didn't want to spank her any more.  But, if she gave
me any trouble, I resolved to let her have a few spanks on the backs of her
thighs.

   "Only what you probably already know," she said contritely.  "No one has
an air tight alibi.  Phyllis, Marsha, and I apparently don't have anyone to
independently confirm our whereabouts the night of the theft.  So, I guess
we are all still suspects."

   "That you are," I confirmed before helping her off my lap.  "That you
are."

   Part 3 - The Sister

   Phyllis and Reggie Wilks were away from home the next day, so I found it
convenient to drive out to Scarsdale to check out their newly inherited
estate.  Reggie, a modestly successful attorney, was at work and Phyllis
was out horse back riding that morning, as was her newly acquired habit. 
Marsha had said that they quickly moved out of their apartment and, in
fact, the old apartment had already been rented out to another couple.

   The drive upstate irritated me.  I hate upstate New York.  Still
suffering through the Depression, not many other cars were on the road. 
Most people could not afford the gas, so the other cars tended to be big,
imported cars from Europe.  That's probably why I hate upstate New York - I
really hate big, imported European cars and the snobs who drive them.

   It took longer than I thought, figuring that Reggie Wilks must take the
train into work every day.  If I hadn't needed a certain freedom of
movement, I probably would have taken the train, also.  Not in the best of
moods, I arrived at the estate.

   It was a large Victorian home settled into a large wooded tract. 
Pulling off the road, I studied the area from my car.  Stables were visible
well behind the home, so I would have to change my story a bit to get a
look around the home.  I started up the car, and drove down the long
driveway to the house.

   A young lady, apparently the maid, answered my ringing of the Wilks'
doorbell.  "Good morning," I told her, "My name is Jernigan and I'm here
from the county tax assessors office.  Is Mr.  or Mrs.  Wilks home?"

   AARGH!  I got the answer I feared.  "Yes, Mrs.  Wilks is home, but she's
out riding right now.  Would you care to wait for her?" The maid was
obviously a holdover from Mr.  Saunders employ, an old battleaxe that would
not be easy to fool.

   "That would be fine, Miss," I smiled.  "Would it be alright if I started
the measurements?" I held up a tape measure to show her I meant business,
but she wasn't buying it.

   "I'm afraid I can't allow that, sir," the shriveled old hag of a maid
replied.  Her rheumy voice cackled with phlegm that sprayed all over my
coat when she said `sir'.  "You'll have to clear it with Mrs.  Wilks, but
you're welcome to wait in the front parlor if you're of the mind." She eyed
me suspiciously.

   "I'm quite busy," I offered.  "I really need to finish this one task and
be on my way." I hoped she would see the sense in letting me get on with my
inspection right away.  My ploy did not work.  Drat!  I hate overly
officious domestic help.

   "If you're in that much of a rush, sir, you might try going down to the
stables," she pointed in the direction that I knew the stables were.  "You
might catch the Missus down there." I grumbled a thank you and trudged off
in the direction of the stable, knowing that I would later have to break
into the Wilks' home some night when they were gone.  I'm not really a B&E
guy, but if that's what the job calls for, I'm pretty well qualified.

   I entered the stables, but there was no one there, so I looked around.
It was an ordinary, every day barn with stables for horses.  There were a
couple of horses in their stalls, but no sign of any other living thing. 
Checking various little rooms and sheds, I found one interesting item.  It
was a long leather coat, and it had a rip in it at the right hand pocket.
The coat was made of the same buttery brown soft leather that the "glove"
material was made of.  It was clearly the same material that was discovered
at the gallery.  The police had missed the coat because they were looking
for gloves!

   I sat down on a nearby bench to await the arrival of Mrs.  Wilks. 
Unfortunately for her, I had to wait nearly forty five minutes and my
euphoria at connecting a clue turned to anger and frustration at having to
wait.  I was really steaming when Phyllis Wilks rode into the barn on a
beautiful roan.  "Can I help you?" she asked as she dismounted and removed
the saddle and bridle from the horse.

   "Your maid said I could wait here for you," I told her, jerking my thumb
in the direction of the big house.  "My name is Jake Jernigan, Mrs.  Wilks,
and we need to talk." I studied her as she coolly ignored me.  Phyllis
Wilks was clearly Marsha Saunders' sister.  They had the same beautiful
face and mane of long blonde hair.  They also shared the same magnificent
body that featured incredibly long, sexy legs.  Not to mention a nice,
round, firm ass.  I am a leg and ass man, you know.

   Putting up her riding tack and getting the horse into the stall took a
few minutes and Phyllis said nothing.  That's OK, I said nothing, too.  I
had practice and I could wait her out.  It was easy as I watched her
shapely body move about the stable.  She wore a traditional riding outfit:
high, dark leather boots, jodphurs that accented her bottom nicely, a white
blouse and dark jacket and that funny little helmet-like hat that the rich
sport when riding animals.  "So, Mr.  Jernigan," she said with that
all-too-familiar condescension, "I suppose you're here about my sister's
robbery." I nodded affirmatively and she continued.  "Let me tell you what
I told her and what I told the police and what I told the insurance
investigator.  I don't know a damn thing about a robbery.  I do know of,
and appreciate the work of Zmbotbe - I have some of his work in the house.
I was home alone the night of the alleged burglary." She turned, her weight
leaning mostly on her left leg, arms crossed defiantly.  "Now you know what
I know and you can get your busybody nose off my property."

   Yep.  Definitely Marsha Saunders' sister: same face, same hair, same
body, and same imperious tone of voice to us little people.  Well, not so
little in my case as she quickly discovered.  I figured the various
investigations had bogged down because of poor interrogation techniques. 
That wasn't going to be my problem.

   Jerking her roughly to a saddle rack I easily forced Mrs.  Wilks down
and over a saddle on the low rack.  It was an English riding saddle, one of
those saddles that doesn't have a "saddle horn" like real cowboy saddles. I
always thought they were for wimps.  I hate those wimpy saddles.  Not
having a saddle horn was convenient in this case ...  it wasn't there and
therefor wasn't in the way.

   Quickly I had her wrists secured to the bottom of the rack.  I used the
reins from a conveniently located bridle and the flexible leather worked
very well to secure Phyllis' wrists.  She didn't go mildly or easily, and
although she and her sister are both tall, I had no real difficulty forcing
her into position ...  then keeping her there.  I had her just where I
wanted her: immobilized with her saucy bottom up raised and waiting for my
encouragement to get to the truth.

   Phyllis noisily and bitterly complained about my treatment and
threatened me with all sorts of dire consequences.  Frankly, I've heard it
all before and it didn't phase me one bit.  Well, rantings encouraged me to
get right to the bottom of things, so I stepped in close, and reached for
the button on her pants.  As I loosened the jodphurs and began to pull them
down, she kicked out, striking my shin.  Hard.  Very hard.  I hate getting
kicked in the shin.

   The pain did not deter me from my objective, and I quickly had her bare
bottom gloriously revealed and vulnerable.  The pain in my leg did,
however, cause me to search for an implement of correction that would be
effective.  I thought about using my belt, but I discovered one of the
benefits of the English riding system: a nasty looking riding crop.

   I stood behind the fidgeting, squirming form that was tightly secured
over the saddle bench.  Her threats went in one ear and out the other as I
raised the crop up high.  Phyllis looked up and over her shoulder, and her
eyes widened in terror as she saw the crop begin its slashing journey to
her naked butt.  The crop cut through the air with a terrifying ripping
sound and a wickedly sharp SNAP!!  as it bit hungrily into her juicy full
moon nates.

   Phyllis, the snooty, high society dame shreiked, but before her wail had
died I struck her hard a second time.  "Jesus Chriiiiisssst!" she yelled,
"Stop it, you animal!!"

   "Flattery will get you nowhere," I assured her, tapping the crop lightly
against her bottom.  Two long and angrily red weals creased her shapely
bottom.  "Those were general purpose lashes," I informed my captive.  "They
were for kicking me and to get your attention.  Do I have your attention,
now?"

   She struggled against her bonds, wriggling her bottom - much to my
delight - and said throatily, "Yes.  What do you want?" She still
struggled, but her efforts were slowing as she realized she was not going
to escape.

   "Just the truth," I said calmly.  "Tell me everything you didn't tell
the police or the insurance investigator." The tip of the riding crop
tapped her bottom, then I tapped it inside her thighs and she really
squirmed.

   "I told them everything already," she protested.  Wrong answer, Phyllis.

   SSSWWWIIISSSHHH-TTHHWWAACKKKK!  I rapped the riding crop just at the
base of her sexy ass, then repeated the cut not more than a quarter of an
inch higher.  She screamed and kicked her feet and I enjoyed watching two
more livid red welts appear across the creamy white surface of her
spectacular ass.

   "Want to try again?" I asked and she nodded her agreement, barely able
to speak.  I gave her a direction to go.  "Were you really home alone on
the night of the burglary?  Why did you tell the police that?"

   "I was at home," she managed to gasp, "but I wasn't alone.  Reggie and I
had a few friends over having a party."

   "I suppose there's a reason you didn't want to reveal that to the
police," I suggested, lazily tapping her upraised bottom with the tip of
the riding crop.  She squirmed, uncomfortable with talking to me but more
uncomfortable at the prospect of further cuts from the riding crop.

   "We got a little, uh. . .  uh, high," she said uneasily.  "We were
smoking reefers and drinking." I could see her face blush at the admission.
"So you can see why I didn't want to tell the police."

   "Okay," I said reasonably.  "I need the name of someone at the party who
can verify the story."

   Now her body sagged.  She really didn't want to have to get someone else
involved, but my incessant tapping with the crop urge her to suggest
something.  "Talk to Hermione, our maid," she said.  "She cleaned up after
us all night.  That kind of party is one my father never held.  Hermione
saw me at home all that night."

   "I'll do that, right on the way out," I said.  "I hope that she can
verify the story." I tapped the crop a little harder, emphasizing my point.
"Tell me about the leather coat that's hanging in the room behind us."

   "What?" she said quizzically.  "I don't know anything about a leather
coat." Oops, Phyllis.  SSSWWWIIISSSHHH-TTHHWWAACKKKK!  I hit her bottom
with the crop so that it cut on a 45 degree angle across the other stripes.
Then a second cut on the other 45 degree angle.  Phyllis screamed out
again, insisting she knew nothing about the coat.  I watched as the
intersection of the two new stripes on her ass raised.  Where they
intersected earlier strokes, huge angry weals raised.  Phyllis was sobbing
uncontrollably now and I had the odd feeling that she might be telling the
truth.

   I located the coat, and brought it around to where Phyllis could see it.
She insisted that she didn't recognize the coat.  Clearly it was a woman's
coat and I didn't believe her, but Phyllis noticed something that I hadn't.
"Let me up, please," she pleaded.  "I think I can prove that the coat isn't
mine." I looked at her septically.  "I'm not in much of a position to run,
am I, Mr.  Jernigan?" The broad had a point.

   "Okay.  I'll untie you and let you up, but you leave your pants around
your ankles.  Capisce?" She nodded her agreement.  I whisked her pants
totally down to her ankles and her panties, too.  With the jodphurs tucked
into the boots, she could not easily step out of the pants and make a run
for it.  Neither could she run with her ankles hobbled as they were.

   I untied her wrists and she stood up, oblivious to the nakedness below
her blouse.  She rubbed her wrists momentarily then held out her hand for
the coat.  She tried to put it on, but couldn't.  It was much, much too
small.  "It doesn't fit," stating the obvious to me.  "I'm afraid it can't
be mine."

   "Then how did it get here?" I asked.

   "Whoever is trying to frame me for the robbery did it, of course.  Check
my story with Hermione.  I'm certain she'll tell you the same story." Mrs.
Wilks dried her eyes by rubbing her sleeve over her face.  "May I?" she
asked, pointing to her pants.

   "Yeah, go ahead," I growled, adding, "And, I ...  uh ...  uh ....  I'm
sorry about whacking your ass." God, I hate apologizing ...  even when the
apology is not quite sincere.

   She turned to face me as she tucked her blouse into her pants.  "Oh,
don't be sorry about that," she said smiling sweetly.  Then, leaning
forward she said with a conspiratorial whisper, "Us rich folks can be a
little peculiar.  I absolutely love having my bottom warmed.  When Reggie
gets home he'll have a nice surprise since his wife will be hot and wet
waiting for him!" I was stunned.

   "Be sorry that you got to look at my bottom, and to spank it," she said
teasing me.  "Be sorry knowing that it makes me so hot I want to be fucked
hard right now and you won't be the guy to do it!"

   I hate horny broads who tease!  But, there was nothing I was going to do
about it.  Taking the small leather coat, I left.  The coat conveniently
hid the tent that had appeared in the front of my trousers.

   Part 4 - Meanwhile, Back At The Gallery

   Hermione confirmed Phyllis Wilks' story about the party, and then did
the normal thing.  The tight lipped maid opened up and spilled all the
details.  It was no wonder Phyllis didn't relate the story to the police.
There were close to 30 people at her party, all artsy types, either artists
or patrons.  And, the party got pretty wild.  They were drinking, and
smoking those funny brown cigarettes, but it degenerated from there.

   Someone introduce a packet of nose candy and everyone started snorting
cocaine.  As everyone started feeling really good, the party fell further
into the depths of depravity and become an honest-to-God orgy that the
Romans would have been proud of.  As if the illegal drugs weren't enough
reason to with hold information from the cops, the list of attendees and
their conduct was another reason.  Phyllis couldn't conceive of mentioning
any of her prominent friends and guests, particularly our honorable Mayor
and two State Representatives.

   Most revealing, however, was the fact that Julia Gaspar had been one of
the partiers.  If I could verify that fact, I was left with one very
promising suspect: my client, Marsha Saunders.  Fortunately, I happen to
know the Mayor.  I had helped him out of a rather nasty and potentially
embarrassing blackmail situation and he trusted my discretion.  "Jake," he
said to me when first engaging my services, "Discretion wears the cloak of
silence." I had to look up what a fucking cloak was, but I got the point
and Mr.  Mayor discovered I know how to keep my mouth shut.  I hate old
fashioned terms that aren't used in modern society.

   Our esteemed Mayor confirmed the party story and confirmed the
participants.  He was especially gleeful when relating Julia Gaspar's
participation.  "That little minx," he gloated, practically giggling on the
phone, "Screws like a bunny rabbit.  If you haven't tried her, Jake, she's
well worth the effort." I thanked his honor for the info, and the
recommendation.  Now it seemed clear, that all I had to do was get the
goods on Marsha Saunders.  The picture was coming clearly into focus as I
accumulated the facts.

   The insurance company told me that, given the very high value of the art
works insured, the policy was, none the less, somewhat limiting.  There was
a collective $2.5 Million coverage for the potential destruction of the
pieces.  However, theft was for 100% of the value of any piece worth less
than $20,000.  If a stolen piece was worth more, then a claim could not be
paid unless and until the police and the insurance company's investigator
could prove theft.  In this case, they could not, so no insurance proceeds
would be paid.  It was unusual, since an insurance company would normally
assign a high deductible for that type of coverage, but apparently Miss
Sanders wanted 100% coverage.

   Then there was the matter of the deflated claim.  The insurance company
had seen through Miss Saunders' ruse of claiming lower values and they were
suspicious of her motives and involvement.  Usually, my high ethical
standards don't let me take on a competing client, but this was a special
case.  The insurance company hired me on contingency: 10% of the true value
of any of the art I might recover; 15% if I somehow manage to get it all
back.

   Hey, a guy's gotta make a living.

   Using the keys she had given me, I checked out the gallery on my own
late that night.  There was no one there so I had free run of the place. 
To make a long story short, I spent several hours tearing the place apart
and found nothing.  Well, not exactly nothing.  I did note that Julia's
calendar had very precise and neat printing in it.  It was familiar and
when I carried the calendar book into the Zmbotbe exhibit room, it was
clear that her handwriting was the same as the graffiti on the walls.

   Suddenly, the leather coat came to mind and I realized that, although it
was too small for either Phyllis or Marsha, it was probably a great fit for
the diminutive Julia Gaspar.  It had to be her coat!

   This was very confusing and blew my neat little theory all to hell.  I
hate it when there is a conflict with my theories.  My next stop was Marsha
Saunders' apartment.  For a $5 bill, the doorman confirmed that Miss
Saunders was not home.  Apparently she hadn't been home last night either.
I took the elevator to her penthouse apartment and checked it out.

   Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.  I couldn't find the slightest shred of evidence
suggesting any wrong doing.  Dejected, I turned off the apartment lights
and turned to leave.  That's when something caught my eye.  In the light,
it was not noticeable, but in the darkened room, there was a hint of a glow
in a dark smear on the sofa.  It didn't take long to figure out that it was
some paint from one of the Zmbotbe's ...  probably one of the stolen
Zmbotbe's.

   Now I was back to two suspects, and one had a pretty good alibi ...  or
did she?  Could Julia have left Phyllis Wilks' party and returned after
removing the art work ...  and after writing in the graffiti "evidence"? 
Probably, and the paint smear suggested that perhaps Marsha Saunders was in
on the scam as well.  I left the apartment, knowing what my next step would
have to be.  Somehow, I had to be able to prove who the guilty party was.

   In my line of work you rub shoulders with all types of people, including
those types that the society folks would call "unsavory".  Only a couple of
guys in the New York area were big enough players to fence high cost art
work, and they both owed me some big time favors.  They both indicated that
they had received inquiries about some Zmbotbe works that might "be
available." I agreed to pay a small piece of the recovery commission to one
of the fence's, Dutch Leonard, if he'd help me set up a little sting.

   Dutch put the word out that there was a European buyer interested in
Zmbotbes and was looking to add to his collection.  It wasn't long before
he received a call from a "Mrs.  Ditzledorf" who was interested in selling
several pieces.  Dutch set up a meet at his place.

   "His place" is really nothing more than a pretty sleazy pawn shop, but
it's a nice cover for a high class fence.  "Too obvious," he claimed.  The
cops knew pawn brokers fenced stolen goods, but never suspected such a
place for high end investment art works.  "They're always nosing around for
cheap stolen jewelry," cackled Dutch, "and they don't even notice a
$100,000 painting hanging on the wall right in front of their noses!"

   Sitting among the musty and mildewed detritus resulting from years of
Depression, I waited and watched for "Mrs.  Ditzledorf" to appear.  She was
timely, arriving precisely at 4:30 P.M.  as arranged.  She was also Marsha
Saunders, hidden by a not so clever disguise that consisted of dark
glasses, a large floppy hat and a rain coat.  As she approached the front
of the pawn shop, her sexy form screamed out her identity ...  or that of
her sister.

   Dutch discussed the items that "Mrs.  Ditzledorf" was making available
and gave her the terms of the deal in the most professional manner that all
gentlemen of his occupation employed.  "Fifteen cents on the dollar.  It
had better be in mint condition and it had better be in my hands no later
than ten o'clock tonight." When his client tried to negotiate he cut her
off quickly.

   "Take it or leave it, honey," he said caustically.  "And my advice is to
take it.  `Cause if you don't, I go straight to the cops and make a claim
for the reward money that is bound to be due on this lot." Marsha just
stamped her foot in frustration, then agreed with a snarl in her voice to
meet Dutch at a nearby warehouse.

   I followed Marsha for the rest of the evening, noting her preparations
for the transaction.  It should come as no surprise that Julia Gaspar met
Marsha at the latter's apartment.  Both women reappeared from the apartment
building with carefully wrapped packages that had to be the stolen
paintings.  They loaded a truck, taking several trips to get all of the art
work out to the truck.  By observation, I noted that I had missed a locked
storage area in the basement which was where the objects d'art had been
stored.  I really hate when I miss the obvious!

   By ten o'clock I was waiting in the darkened warehouse and I heard the
truck approach.  Staying out of the headlights, I managed to open the large
doors and the truck pulled in.  As Marsha and Julia pulled the truck to a
stop, I quietly jumped into the back of the truck and verified the
paintings were there.

   They were, and now I had the goods on both of them!  My sudden
appearance from the back of the truck startled the two lovely ladies. 
"Well, well, well," I snickered as the nearly jumped out of their skins. 
"The robber and the victim are one and the same."

   Julia attempted to reach into her purse, but I was prepared for her and
knocked it from her grasp.  Retrieving the large purse, I discovered the
pistol that I had suspected was hidden there.  Holding out my hand, Marsha
understood the gesture and handed me her purse.  Fortunately, she wasn't
packing.  Only Julia had thought to bring some sort of protection.

   Close to tears, Marsha stuttered the obvious question, "What are you
going to do now, Mr.  Jernigan?" I almost laughed at the two of them. 
Marsha was a pitiful sight while Julia was simply steamed at having been
caught.

   "I've got two choices," I mused as I led them away from the doors as I
closed them.  We found several chairs around a table and I had them sit
down as I explained my options.  "Because of my strict sense of honor, I
really have only two choices." Both of them gave me their full attention.

   "First, I can turn the two of you in, with the recovered stolen
paintings, which I guess are worth something around $400,000.  That would
net me somewhere in the vicinity of $60,000.  Maybe more.  There is more
art work here than you made a claim for with the insurance company.  Or, I
could turn in the stolen art work and say the criminals escaped and I can't
identify them.  In that case, I still net something near $60,000."

   Julia had a better grasp of the situation than the very upset Marsha. 
It was Julia who, after several long moments of silence asked, "So what do
you want to let us off the hook?" She leered at me, her condescending
attitude sweating from every pore.  "That's what this is.  You just want to
blackmail us!"

   "That's an ugly term," I noted dryly, "coming from a thief." I looked at
both of them sharply.  "Yes, I want the cash and anyway you slice it, I'll
get the big pay day.  I'm, believe it or not, more interested in seeing
justice done.  I want you two to be punished for what you tried to pull
off."

   Our prior experiences and their set of circumstances suddenly sank in.
You could have lit up the whole warehouse with the lights that suddenly
went on in their two heads.  "You mean that you either turn us in," Marsha
said in a weak voice, "Or ...  or ..." Julia cut in, "Or we take our
punishment from him!" Julia was a sharply, and she knew the better end of a
deal when it bit her on the butt.  "Isn't that it, Jake?  You want to whip
our butts in return for keeping silent about our part in the heist?"
"That's about the size of it," I nodded.  Why drag this out?  Why pretend
some high-minded purpose?  I had the opportunity to spank some sexy female
tail, and I was going to take advantage of it.  Hey, a guy's gotta get his
kicks whenever and where ever he can!  "So," I asked, cutting right to the
chase, "Who's first?" Julia stood up, saying, "Let me get this out of the
way!  I can't believe I let her talk me into this in the first place!"

   "OK.  Then here's the deal," I said, putting on my sternest voice, "Both
of you will strip naked and hand me your clothes.  I want to be sure no one
tries to make a quick escape.  Now!" I really barked out the last word and
even the supremely confident Julia cringed.  They both scurried to undress
and I gathered their clothes from them, locking the last shreds of their
dignity in the cab of the truck.

   I took Julia by the wrist and pulled her over my lap as I sat on one of
the old wooden chairs.  Pointing to a makeshift corner where several large
crates were stacked I ordered Marsha to stand with her nose against the
rough wood and her hands at her side.  Turning my attention back to Julia,
the reality of her situation had broken through her thin veneer of
confidence.  Julia's small, but highly desirable, body trembled with
apprehension.

   SMACK!  My right hand crashed against her upturned bottom and the sound
of the spank echoed around the huge warehouse.  I gave her pert bottom a
very thorough fanny whacking that made her twin mounds dance and squirm and
jiggle as they slowly roasted to a bright shade of pink.  As I spanked her,
Julia tried to remain stoic and quiet.  But, as the hand spanking
progressed her body tried to dodge my punishing palm and she wriggled and
squirmed over my lap.

   But, my onslaught continued until her bottom was a fiery red and real
tears dripped onto the filthy warehouse floor.  I set her on her feet, then
briskly escorted her to the corner where Marsha was standing.  Pushing the
tearful Julia into the corner, I grasped the haughty blonde and dragged
Marsha back towards the chair.  But, haughty or not, Marsha had already
begun to beg for leniency.

   "Not a chance, sweet cheeks," I told her as she felt the opening salvo
from my hand artillery.  "You're going to feel the results of this spanking
for quite awhile!" SPANK!  WHACK!  SMACK!  I was now finding a rhythm, but
that isn't so hard when you have a voluptuous bottom jiggling over your lap
as the long sexy legs attached to the bottom kick and scissor with each
spank.

   It didn't take long to reduce Marsha to tears, and to put a hot fire
into her backside.  I sent her to stand in the corner with Julia, as I
searched the premises for something useful to complete my task.  I found
what I was looking for in a dingy office at the back of the warehouse.

   Returning to the two women, the hot glow in their bottoms was visible
from quite a distance, and I felt a stirring of pride in the fine job I had
done so far.  But, my job was not yet completed.  I stopped at the table
area and arranged two chairs so that they were facing each other.  I
ordered the women from the corner and they reluctantly complied, but both
stopped short of coming right to the chairs as they saw what was dangling
from by right hand.

   The razor strop I had found was rather well worn, but was wide and
heavy. It would do very well when brought to bear against a naked female
bottom with the amount of force I could muster ...  and both ladies knew
it. I finally had to tell them, in very simple terms, "Either you bend over
and take your lickings or we go to the police right now!"

   Reluctantly, they complied.  Now, they were bent over the backs of the
two chairs facing each other.  They were almost close enough to kiss.  What
I would have given for a camera!  Even then, the memory of the sight is
clear in my mind, and will probably remain that way until I die.  True,
they had two different body types, one being much taller than the other,
but they shared several commonalities.  Both exuded sex appeal like sweat
drips from a race horse and both had glorious bottoms that any spanker or
would-be spanker would die for.

   I was in heaven.

   Drawing back my right arm, I let the strop dangle from my hand
momentarily before the adrenaline surge forced me to strike my target. 
Marsha screamed as the strap bit sharply into her already reddened bottom,
and a wide stripe began to etch itself on this canvas of my own making.

   I walked behind her, surveying the results and allowed my left hand to
casually caress her scorched backside.  Then, suddenly, I let fly with the
strop again, and made Julia jump in shock and scream from the pain.  She
too, I walked behind, inspecting the damage, feeling the heat and slightly
raised weals over her bottom.

   There was no hurry and I took my time.  Truly, I do not recall how many
strokes each woman received, though I savored each.  By the time I had
finished my job, each lady was sporting a bright red fanny that was
cris-crossed with numerous bluish welts and stripes.  And, before I
finished, each lady was promising anything, and actually begged to do
anything if only I would ease up.

   Marsha was allowed to dress and to leave quickly, having to walk through
the deserted warehouse district on her own.  After she left, I gave Julia a
few more heart felt strokes with the razor strop that rekindled her offers.
Taking advantage of her willingness, and our good Mayor's earlier
suggestion, I relieved a throbbing tension that had been building in my
trousers all evening long.  It's my plan to allow Marsha to similarly
comfort me soon after I collect my reward.
   Hey, a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do!  
