Friday, March 27, 2020

Stir Crazy Relief #1 -- "Lucia's Affair" by Ken Charles



Lucia’s Affair

"Damn, where is that damn school bus," Lucia muttered to herself. "Do they want all the babies to catch a cold?" Despite her complaints, the bus was just coming into view, and right on time. But it was Thursday, and she was unusually impatient.

Lucia grabbed her daughter's tiny backpack. "C'mon, Maria! The bus is coming! Give Mommy a hug and kiss." Maria, like a little duckling in her yellow boots, rain slicker and cap, splashed over to her mother, and tried without success to lift her face for a kiss without getting it wet.

"If it's still raining tomorrow, Mommy, can I wear your big raincoat?"

Lucia smiled, and gave her daughter a kiss on the nose. "We'll see, baby. Now get on the bus before you have to swim to school." They both laughed, and Maria blew her a final kiss as she jumped on the bus. Lucia waved goodbye, and thought that even if it is not raining tomorrow, I will not need this big coat to keep you from asking me why I keep squeezing my legs together!

***

He looks furtively both ways as he exits the delivery van, as if any of the neighbors have nothing better to do in this deluge than to watch him slink up the walk. Of course, even if they do not actually see him, it would be difficult not to notice the bright green Morales' Florist and Gifts van parked in Lucia's driveway for the third Thursday in a row.

Lucia is waiting shyly by the door. She cannot believe that it has only been three weeks. It seems like forever. She shivers slightly at the cool wet breeze coming in through the cracked door.

She is not wearing much in the way of protective apparel. But she is warmed at the thought of that first Thursday. Lucia smiles as she remembers how he arrived with the large colorful centerpiece for her dinner party. He complemented her on her dress. They made small talk. Then he told her she had such pretty ankles. She had giggled like a schoolgirl, then on a devilish whim, had slowly lifted her hem to reveal her lovely calves. He nodded with greater interest. She lifted her dress above her knees. Without a word, he came to her, seized her with his huge powerful arms and kissed her deeply. He lifted her dress up to the small of her back. His strong hands squeezed her firm ass, and lifted her to meet his fiery kisses. She has no recollection of how he freed himself from his slacks, but she vividly recalls being bent over the counter, having her panties ripped away, and the crashing waves of pleasure that assaulted her with each pulsing thrust as he took her fiercely from behind.

Lucia finds herself flushing, and short of breath as he enters the hallway. Without a word, he crushes her to him. His jacket is wet and cold against her diaphanous nighty, causing the brown nipples on her small firm breasts to harden like marbles against his chest. She breaks away to catch her breath, but grabs his hands and puts them on her chest. "You're so cold! Here, warm your hands. Do you want some hot coffee?"

He smiles and squeezes her breasts, causing her to moan. "You know what I want!" She knows, and wants the same. He does not bother to hang his jacket, but tosses it on the hallway settee. He picks her up, causing her to squeal in delight, and carries her to the bedroom. She nips his ear, and undoes the buttons on his shirt as they move down the hall. She is surprised as they enter the bedroom when he stops and sets her down at the door. She does not understand the scowl on his face.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"You aren't excited to see me," he replies quietly.

Lucia is confused. She met him at the door dressed in next to nothing, kissed and fondled him passionately, and practically undressed him with her teeth. What more does he expect?

"Wh-what do you mean?"

He does not say a word, but merely points to the unmade queen size bed in the middle of the bedroom.

"Oh, I'm sorry. The little one couldn't find her boot, and we had to run for the bus. Then I just forgot when I got home, you know ..."

He puts a finger over her lips. "We must work on your memory." He takes her by the hand, and leads her over to the unmade bed. He sits on the end of the bed, and pulls her over his knee.

"Wh-What are you doing?"

Without answering verbally, he gives her firm round bottom a sharp smack. Satisfied with her surprised yelp, he promptly gives her another smack. Her surprise starts giving way to anger as he smacks her again.

"Okay, next time I'll remember!"

"Oh, I'm quite certain of that," he assures her giving her another loud smack.

"Ow," she complains, covering her stinging rear with her hand. "That's enough! You'll leave marks!"

He laughs, and removes her hand. His powerful grip prevents any thought of her pulling away. Although it offers virtually no protection, he turns up her nighty, and gives her another smack. He likes the feel of her hot round cheeks under his calloused square palms. Rhythmically, he smacks her again and again, causing her to cry out and kick her legs. Although the pain is extraordinary, she finds herself lifting her thighs to raise her bottom up to meet his punishing hand. She derives a perverse pleasure upon her descent, grinding her pelvis against the ever-hardening rod beneath her. When her bottom is red and blazing, he lifts her and effortlessly impales her. She throws her arms backwards around his neck and locks her fingers in his hair, pulling his head down to kiss away her tears. She grinds her fiery tail into him until they both explode.

***

Lucia watches the van pull away. She rubs her stinging bottom, and wonders whether to skip tennis this afternoon. Of course, it was her girlfriends who suggested that she have an affair. Mrs. Morales smiles wickedly, and wonders, what would happen to her naughty bottom if she ever had an affair with someone other than her husband?

Copyright KC 2012

"Lucia's Affair" can be found in:


Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Ken Charles' Halloween Treat--"The Walnut Hairbrush"


THE WALNUT HAIR BRUSH
     Micah looked over at the display case one last time, before turning off the lights. He winced at one of the all too common twinges of pain in his joints. Micah sighed, if she's coming it had best be soon. He picked up his cane, locked the door to the curio shop, and began his slow walk home.
***
     Cheryl Albans was thrilled when her standby travel club called with a chance to leave Los Angeles and fly to London for three days for pennies. The club booked special deeply discounted deals for members who could travel on a moment's notice to fill underbooked tours or charters.
     She was an interior designer and consultant. She did not have any particular set work schedule, which allowed her to take trips virtually whenever she wanted. She jumped at the London trip.
She had been tracing her family roots, and had discovered that her great grandmother, Mary Wellington, came to the United States from London in the 1880's. Since her mother died, Cheryl was unaware of any other living relatives. The trip to London was her chance to look for other family. Before leaving Los Angeles, she called London and made arrangements to view archived vital statistics. Something told her that she had to take this trip, and that for some unknown reason, time was of the essence.
     One of the problems with discount packages is that they did not always include world class accommodations. But Cheryl was satisfied with her room. It was clean and bright, and smelled faintly of lavender. She was exhausted after a long day of travel, and had trouble falling asleep. She kept thinking that she had been brought to London, and that she really had no choice in the matter.
     In the morning, Cheryl set about the business of being a tourist. She went to Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London. She lunched at a pub, and had fish and chips and a pint. She took photographs of everything, and had a wonderful carefree time, unburdened by any thoughts of any deeper purpose. However, around four o'clock, she experienced a firm conviction that she had to be somewhere in Kensington, and that she was running late. She started to hail a taxi, but stopped short when she realized that she had no particular destination in mind.
     She had planned on having dinner, and then going to a show. But her need to find something, who knew what, in Kensington left her uneasy. She returned to her room, read for a disinterested while, then went to bed early. Her last thoughts before, or perhaps her first thoughts after, falling asleep were of perfume.
***
     Cheryl devoted her second morning in London to searching public records for Mary Wellington and her kin. After several hours of hunting, she located vital statistics for her great grandmother, but was sorely disappointed to find that Mary Wellington was an only child like herself. Mary's mother had died in childbirth. Mary had one child, Cheryl's grandfather. Her grandfather had only one child, her mother. Cheryl, in turn, was an only child, and the last surviving descendant of Mary Wellington. She left Vital Statistics feeling small and abandoned.
     After lunch, Cheryl decided to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum. Wandering museums always inspired her. Maybe she could write part of the trip off as a business expense. She hailed a taxi, and rode to the museum. As she headed to the door, Cheryl suddenly felt that she was close to her appointment, and that the appointment was not at the museum. She turned and started walking down the street, with no idea of where she was headed. she walked for half an hour and took several turns. She had no idea where she was at when she spied the curio shop. It had a plain well aged brown awning out front. The front window read "Smithson's Antiques and Gifts".
     She crossed over to the shop and opened the door. A little bell over the door chimed brightly. Micah looked up and smiled. A young woman was signing in the Guest Registry by the door. American, judging by her dress. Definitely the right age, with long, silky auburn hair, Micah was satisfied that she had come at long last. He unlocked the display case.
     Cheryl began looking around the shop. The material was all of high quality, and reasonably priced. Cheryl the tourist was replaced by Cheryl the business woman. She saw two small bronzes, and a nice landscape that she knew she could place immediately. In fact, her practiced eye revealed that there were enough pieces, possibly, to justify the whole vacation as a buying trip. Still, she felt that she was missing something important. The last time she got this kind of feeling, she picked up the thirty thousand dollar gem from Edouord Leon Cortes that was hanging in her living room, for four hundred dollars. She decided to make a closer inspection of the stock.
Micah watched Cheryl surveying the stock. She had a pen and a small notebook in her hand. Occasionally, she would bend over and examine one piece or another, make an entry in her notebook, then move on to another work. He noted that she had a good eye. With very few exceptions, she examined only the best of his stock. He thought, wistfully, that if he had had a daughter, this is how she would have turned out. Of course, for all practical purposes, although she did not know it yet, this woman was closer to him than even a daughter could ever have been.
     Micah knew that she was hunting. He had every confidence that she would find it without any help. He noted that his pulse was rising, and that he was short of breath. He reached into his vest and located his pills, but decided that he would be fine without them. Be patient. She is coming this way.
     Cheryl nodded to the elderly proprietor, but suddenly turned away when she spied a lovely Venetian blown glass vase. The piece was exquisite, as was the price. Maybe after she sells the first shipment, she thought.
    Cheryl was beginning to feel a little frustrated. The stock was great. There was plenty of room for profit, but there were no apparent steals to be found. The owner clearly knew his business. She smiled at herself. She was acting like a spoiled child turned loose in a candy store. Surrounded by sweets, she was fussing because she could not find a particular chocolate. But Cheryl was certain that that particular chocolate was, indeed, here! With a slight pang of regret, she put down the vase, and walked back to talk to the owner. She needed to talk about volume purchasing and shipping.
    It was time. She had seen all she needed to see, but not what she wanted to see. She would come back at any moment. Micah again considered his pills, but decided that this meeting would not take very long. He would close the shop as soon as she left. He could go home and take a nap, and rest up for her return.
     Micah rose to greet her, "Good afternoon, I am Micah Smithson, III, at your service." Cheryl shook his hand and introduced herself. She started explaining that she was an interior designer, when she found the object of her desire. She stopped speaking right in the middle of a sentence. Naturally, Micah was not surprised or offended. Cheryl leaned closer to the display glass. She found herself short of breath.
    Cheryl knew that she had found the source of all of her recent confusion. But she could hardly believe that this piece was worth all the trouble. It was an old fashioned wooden hair brush. The brush was well preserved. It was a dark, hard well-polished wood. The bristles were all in fine condition, definitely natural, probably boar.
     "What kind of wood is the brush?"
     "Walnut. It was made here in London in 1876."
     "It's lovely. May I see it?"
     "Of course."
     Micah handed her the brush, and watched. As Cheryl took the brush, she was overcome by waves of emotion. First, she felt unconditional love. She felt warm and content, enfolded in a sea of lavender. But just as quickly, the brush turned icy in her hands. Cheryl cried out, then almost fainted, overcome by fear, pain and a sense of betrayal. A thin sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead. She quickly passed the brush back to Micah. She apologized to him, saying that she just felt a little dizzy for a moment, but that she was better. He told her to sit for a moment, and offered her some water. She refused, assuring him that she was fine. In fact, she was anything but. She definitely did not want to touch that brush again, yet knew that she could not leave the store without it!
     "How much is the brush?"
     Micah smiled. "In many ways, the brush is priceless. I have refused offers of up to sixty pounds. But that is because the brush was not intended for those individuals. It was meant for you. It is my gift."
     "Oh, I couldn't! No, really, I'd be happy to pay for the brush. Please, how much is it?"
     "Then, the price is one pound. And if you are unhappy with the brush, for any reason, bring it back."
    Micah carefully wrapped the brush in tissue paper, and placed it in a gift box. With great ceremony, he accepted a one pound note from Cheryl, and placed it in his antique cash register. He escorted her to the door, then closed the shop, and left for the day.
***
     After drying her long auburn hair, Cheryl took her expensive Crabtree and Evelyn brush out of her travel kit to give her locks their nightly one hundred strokes. As she was about to start, she paused and set the brush down. She went over to her suitcase and took out the Smithson's gift box. She sat on the end of her bed, her back straight, her feet flat on the floor, the box held with two hands in the middle of her lap. Sitting there barefoot and in her nightie, trembling slightly, she resembled a naughty little girl awaiting impending discipline. Cheryl sat like that for several minutes, afraid to open the box, and equally afraid to set it down. Steeling herself, she opened the box and removed the dark walnut hair brush. Nothing happened.
     Cheryl realized that she had been holding her breath. She released it with an audible,
     "Whew!" Setting the box aside, she began brushing her hair. The brush felt like it was made for her hand. It was firm and strong, and separated the strands of her hair without any pulling or tugging. The brush massaged her scalp, and felt tremendous. As the strokes mounted, she increased her speed and the power of her strokes. At times, she imagined that she could hear a little girl laughing and singing. As the nightly ritual drew to a close, she became aware of a strong scent of lavender. With the final strokes, she clearly heard a child's laughter, and a little girl's voice counting with her own,      "Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... One hundred! See Miss Wellington, your hair is so pretty!"
     Suddenly Cheryl was very sleepy. She carefully placed the brush back in the box, and went to bed wondering why a little girl was talking to her ancestral link to London. She slept, or least lacked consciousness. The contentment that she experienced while brushing her hair, gave way to darker thoughts as she entered Morpheus's realm. She was in a long, poorly lit hallway. She could not see to the end. Somewhere up ahead, she could hear a little girl crying. Cheryl called to the little girl, but the girl continued to cry. She started to walk down the hall, but could get no closer to the girl.
     Cheryl cried out in her sleep. She kicked off her covers, and dug her fingers into her pillows. She found herself near the end of the hallway. Running just ahead of her was a little girl, clutching an overly long night shirt. Cheryl called out, and the little girl looked back over her shoulder in her direction. As she looked back, she lost her grip on the night shirt. The little girl tripped over the night shirt , and fell forward and down a flight of stairs. Cheryl and the little girl screamed in unison. She awoke, sobbing and drenched in sweat.
     After some time, Cheryl became aware of someone knocking on her door. "Hello, in there? Miss, are you all right?"
Cheryl called out, "just a moment, please." She peeled off her drenched nightie, and quickly threw on jeans and a tee shirt. She ran into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, went to the door, and found the Porter checking out reports of a guest screaming. Cheryl blushed deeply, and apologized for disturbing the other guests. She explained that she had been reading horror stories before bed, and a moth landed on her face just after she fell asleep. Naturally, the moth became a fierce creature of the night. The Porter, who already knew that all Yanks had too much money, too little common sense, and no manners or sense of propriety (but the no bra look works for you), just smiled and told her he understood, and was there anything he could get her--some tea perhaps, and no-- then I'll be on my way, and good night (and try not to wake the rest of the guests, and tomorrow read a bloody romance novel).
     Several hours passed before Cheryl was able to go back to sleep. As she drifted off, she swore she never touched the perfume!
***
     Cheryl sees herself sitting in a huge cathedral, with two young children, a boy and a little girl. No, it is not Cheryl. But the woman could pass for her sister. The little girl is poking at her brother. The woman leans over and whispers to the girl. After several moments, the girl again starts poking at her brother. The woman places herself between the siblings.
     Cheryl sees a drawing room. A man in a waist coat is seated reading a newspaper. The door to the room opens. Cheryl sees her look alike leading the little girl by the hand. The little girl's face is red and wet with tears. The man folds his newspaper as the girl comes to his side, and says, "I'm very sorry that I was naughty in Church today, Poppa, but I never touched the perfume. Really!"
***
     As Micah expected, Cheryl was waiting outside the shop when he arrived. She held the gift box with both hands. "You knew I'd be back."
     "Yes, I did. Please come in."
      Micah opened the door and let them in, but left the blinds drawn, and the closed sign on the door. He told Cheryl to place two straight backed chairs by the rosewood coffee table in front of his desk, and to place the walnut hair brush in the middle of the table. He then walked back to his office and started boiling water for tea. When the tea was finished, he poured two cups, and rejoined Cheryl.
     Micah sat down painfully, and set his cane aside. He took a long sip of his tea while he studied her. He began slowly, "I did not know your name, of course, but I have known of you since your conception, just as I knew of your mother. I know that you are the last of your blood line." Cheryl shuddered and her eyes widened, but she dutifully remained silent. "Even though you are still young, and may yet have children and many descendants, my bloodline dies with me. A war wound ensured long ago that there would be no blooded Micah Smithson, IV. And my health is failing rapidly. So it was time for you to come and break the cycle, since I am Micah Smithson the Last. I waited for your mother, but she never came. But God has sent you to save our souls."
     Cheryl was watching the walnut hair brush. It glowed, with an intensity that varied with the cadence of Micah's words. She knew with absolute certainty that whatever the old man was telling her would be the truth. And that thought petrified her! He paused and took another sip of his tea. She desperately wanted to sip hers also, but was certain that her hands would shake too much to hold the cup. Micah continued, "I am the last direct descendant of Micah Smithson, the brother of the little girl in your dreams." Cheryl gasped.
     "Oh yes, dear, I am quite familiar with the dreams. I have had them every night for the last forty years since my father, Micah Smithson the Second, died. He was quite mad by the end. But he never knew that there is a way out, which has saved my sanity.
"It was shortly after the onset of the dreams, that I first became aware of your mother. She was still too young. But her mere existence filled me with hope! At that time, your mother was the sole living descendant of Mary Wellington. As she came of age, my spirits soared. But her window of opportunity came and passed all too quickly. Your mother never came. I fell into a deep depression. Just when I thought that I would soon follow in my father's footsteps to the sanitarium, I saw once again the faintest glimmer of salvation. Redemption came from across the sea, as I sensed that your mother was pregnant. I remember that day. It was thirty years, two months and four days ago. Yes, dear, I even remember the time of day. And your twenty-ninth birthday brought me indescribable joy."
     Micah winced over a twinge in his hip. He paused and took another sip of tea. "The little girl in the dreams is named Sarah. She was aged nine. She would have been my great-aunt, had she lived. But you already know that such was not the case.
     "Sarah's mother died in childbirth leaving Sarah and her older brother with a father who loved them, but could not care for them. My great grandfather took on a nanny, a twenty-year old named Mary Wellington, to raise his small children. Mary was the only mother that little Sarah ever knew. And they adored each other! Every night they would brush each other's hair, one hundred strokes each."
     Cheryl heard a little girl's voice echoing "ninety-eight...ninety-nine...one hundred!"
     “Mary was very loving to both children, but at times seemed to dote on little Sarah which would make Micah jealous.
     "My great grandfather was a bit strict with the children. However, it devolved on Mary to administer discipline. Mary was always fair, but firm. As by now you've come to understand, severe infractions received an application of Mary's walnut hair brush, which was always received in the bare.
     "On several occasions, Mary had found a curious little Sarah playing in her room with her personal belongings, particularly her cosmetics. Mary was partial to lavender. After several warnings, one afternoon she once again found Sarah seated at her vanity, sampling her toiletries. Although Mary admired Sarah's perseverance, she nonetheless promptly turned Sarah over her knee for a light smacking, but promised her a dose of the hair brush if it happened again.
     "On the night of the accident, which was her night off, Mary returned home late after an evening at the theater. Upon retiring, she discovered that her toiletries had been moved about on her vanity. In particular, Mary observed that the stopper to her favorite lavender perfume was setting next to the bottle. She was shocked! Only days before, she had warned Sarah of the consequences of playing with her belongings without permission. Despite the late hour, Mary decided that correction could not wait until the morning. Wrapping herself in righteous indignation, she stormed down the dark hallway to Sarah's room. She pulled the sleepy and thoroughly bewildered Sarah out of her bed, and quick marched the little girl back to her room to view the scene of the crime."
     Micah paused again for another sip of his tea. He felt a pang of sorrow for Cheryl as he watched the tears forming in her eyes. He wanted to hold and comfort her, but there was precious little time left!
     "Poor little Sarah was terribly confused. She cried and begged, 'Please, Miss Wellington! I never touched your perfume. I swear it! Oh, please, please, please, not your hair brush! I really did not touch it this time!' But Sarah's protestations of her innocence fell on deaf ears. Mary picked up the walnut hair brush, took little Sarah by the ear, and pulled her over to the bed. However, in an unheard of fit of defiance, Sarah broke away from her and ran from the room. Mary could have caught her easily enough had she tried immediately, but she paused, astounded by Sarah's insolence.
"When Mary started after her, Sarah was half way down that long dark hallway between their rooms. Sarah looked back to see where Mary was, and dropped her hold on her night shirt which was too long for her. She tripped over the night shirt. Her momentum carried her down the stairs, where she fell, and broke her neck."
     Cheryl was crying openly now. Micah paused and reached across and patted her hand. He handed her his own handkerchief, which she unashamedly filled. When she had regained some of her composure, he concluded his story, "The Coroner's inquest ruled the matter an accident. No one, but Mary herself, ever blamed her for anything. But Mary could not live in that house with her memories of Sarah. She resigned her position, and shortly thereafter moved to America.
     "In fact, of course, Sarah never touched Mary's perfume that fateful day. It was my grandfather Micah, who craved an application of the walnut hair brush every bit as much as poor little Sarah feared it. And that is why Mary's walnut hair brush, the lovely brush there on the table in front of us, serves as an anchor for Sarah's restless spirit, and for ours as well. This hair brush was a symbol of Mary's and Sarah's unconditional love, and the focal point of their nightly bonding ritual, but it was also the central focal point of Mary's betrayal of Sarah's love and trust."
     Her voice choked with tears, Cheryl asked, "B-but what am I supposed to do?"
     "In order to release Sarah's spirit, we have to acknowledge our ancestors' guilt, and reaffirm their love for poor Sarah. I had hoped to accomplish this exorcism with your mother when she was twenty-nine, the same age as Mary Wellington on the night of the accident. But your mother never came. You are my second and last chance."
     Cheryl suddenly understood the ultimate purpose of her trip, and her awesome responsibilities. She rose, and without saying a word, lifted the walnut hair brush and kissed it. She handed the brush to Micah, who had pulled back his chair, and removed his jacket. She started to place herself over his lap, but Micah held his hand up. "I am afraid, dear, that the walnut hair brush was always applied to the bare bottom."
     Cheryl blushed deeply, but dutifully unsnapped her jeans. With great embarrassment, she pulled the jeans down to her ankles and stepped out of them. However, she could not bring herself to lower her panties while standing in front of the old man. Micah understood and nodded. She placed herself over his lap. She lifted her hips slightly to allow him to roll her panties down to her thighs. She whispered, "I love you, Sarah," and nodded for him to begin.
Micah raised the walnut hair brush, then brought it down with considerable force given his infirmities. The brush landed squarely across the center of Cheryl's upturned backside with a resounding crack! The crack was accompanied by a lightning flash of pain for both Cheryl and Micah, emanating simultaneously from her bottom and his shoulder. But the pain immediately was subjugated by a sense of cold, darkness and isolation. Cheryl could smell lavender perfume, as Micah raised the brush to continue the spanking. Although one part of her mind duly registered each smack, she was barely aware that she was being spanked over the next dozen blows. She was lost in a long dark hallway, drowning in the overpowering scent of lavender.
     Cheryl heard her own voice as a little girl of nine, pleading over and over, "I swear I did not touch your perfume! I swear it!" Her own little girl pleas became a sort of mantra which she sobbed out after each blow. Crack! "I swear it!" Crack! "I swear it!"
     Micah was not counting, because he knew that he would sense when it was time to stop. Sweat soaked through his shirt and vest. The pain in his shoulder felt like a hot poker. He was certain that he had torn something that would have taken months, if he had had months, to heal.
     Micah feared the strain on his heart, and for the briefest moment considered stopping. But this pain was only temporal, while damnation was eternal! So ignoring the telltale signs of an impending coronary event, he continued to raise the walnut hair brush again and again, only to send it crashing once more down onto Cheryl's crimson mounds.
     After thirty or forty cracks, Micah's arm lightened, and the blows started falling in a natural rhythm. He felt a kind of bond with Cheryl as if they were sharing something special. He even imagined that he heard a little girl's laughter! However, after several more whacks, that sense of closeness was supplanted by feelings of anger and disappointment. He became aware of her chanting. Crack! "I swear it!"
     Although she did not know exactly what Micah was experiencing, Cheryl could tell that something had changed by the sudden increase in the intensity and rapidity of the smacks. In addition, she had experienced a similar shift in her perceptions. For the briefest period, she imagined that she heard a little girl laughing. She felt incredibly close to him, almost as if they were lovers. During these periods of virtual respite, Cheryl found herself raising her bottom up meet the next kiss of Micah's brush, then crashing back down to grind her pelvis against his leg. But all too soon, those periods would dissipate, and the laughter would turn again to cries of sorrow and repentance. Her mounting pleasure would once again turn to shame and embarrassment, and an instinctual desire to flee.
     There came a point as the spanking drew to a close, where Micah's and Cheryl's separate visions coalesced into a single reality. The smell of lavender filled the shop. An overall sense of comfort and well-being filled both Micah and Cheryl. She sobbed openly, tears spilling down her cheeks, both as a result of the extraordinary pain radiating from her scorched bottom, and as a result of a sense of immense pride at having fully discharged her ancestral debt to poor Sarah. The little bell over the door started ringing, and the Venetian vase resonated harmonically. The shop was filled with a little girl's laughter.
     Crack! "Ninety-seven."
     Crack! "Ninety-eight."
     Crack! "Ninety-nine."
     Crack! "One Hundred!"
     Micah set down the walnut hair brush. The back of the brush was hot to the touch. The fullness of the little girl's laughter bounced around the shop, then slowly faded away. Cheryl smiled through her tears, and sobbed, "Good-bye, Sarah! We love you!" He lifted her up and held her while she cried.
***
     Poor Cheryl's bottom was too sore and swollen for her to squeeze back into her jeans. So Micah gave her a lovely antique 1880's floral dress, which fit her perfectly. Cheryl looked at Micah who smiled and said, "Of course, it was one of Mary's favorites. But now, it is time for you to return to America."
     Cheryl shuddered at the thought of sitting on the long flight home. Micah carefully wrapped the walnut hair brush, and packed it in a new gift box. At the door, he took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead. As he closed the door behind her, he felt in his coat pocket for the paper with the name of his Solicitor who held his final will signed yesterday afternoon, designating his God-niece Cheryl Albans of Los Angeles, California, United States of America, with her full name and address carefully copied from the Guest Registry, as his sole heir.
     Micah locked the door to his shop for the last time. He could no longer see, but it hardly mattered. Instinctively, after fifty years of practice, he turned off the shop lights and made his way slowly back to the rosewood coffee table. Settling himself in his chair, he felt for his tea cup. He took a sip, then carefully found the saucer and replaced the cup. His last thoughts were of his love for Sarah and Cheryl, that the tea was cold, and so was he.

KC Copyright 1997
***************
You can find "The Walnut Hairbrush" in 


WICKED MYTHS, FAIRY TALES, AND THINGS THAT GO WHACK IN THE NIGHT by [Charles, Ken]



Sunday, January 27, 2019

Ken Charles' Valentine--"The Widow"


This story is not intended for those individuals under the age of eighteen, or for those individuals who are unusually sensitive to adult or sexually oriented materials. For the rest of you, enjoy.


THE WIDOW
By Ken Charles

     Captain Frederick J. McAndrews, R.A.F., was young, dashing, heroic, and an absolute fraud. Everybody loved him. Every girl, whether bar maid, nurse or steno clerk, would kill for his smile. Everybody watched his every move. But only I took the time to observe him. I suppose that is why he chose me when he could have had any birdie in town.
     It was like any other Saturday night in March, 1944. Everyone was drinking a little too quickly to get it in before curfew, laughing a little too easily, and pretending that Hitler was going to fall any day. Everyone was pretending to ignore the build up around the base. Everyone was watching everyone who might be a Nazi spy while pretending not to watch. So it did not surprise me that no one really took the time to do more than simply watch Captain McAndrews while he chatted up the locals, or pretended to drink the Yanks under the table. However, it was my job to watch the watchers and the watched.
     I was extremely discrete, nursing a pint at the end of the bar, never looking at him directly, but never taking my eyes off of him in the mirror behind the bar. It was the same as always. In the last hour, he had bought two rounds, and been spotted two more, but he had never finished more than a couple of sips from any glass. Although some people came and went, Captain McAndrews was always the center of attention. After the first round or two, he rarely said a word, but it was apparent that he never missed one either. Two or three times, he was accidently jostled by blushing patrons on their way to the powder room. It did not work three weeks ago, two weeks ago, or last week either, but that would not stop them from trying it again next week. It was becoming so predictable that I was considering just adding additional dates to last week’s report.
     Mercifully, he decided to make an early night of it. Before he finished putting on his coat and making his numerous farewells, I was out the door. The early evening drizzle was now a downpour. I was still three blocks from home when the wind reversed and ripped my umbrella. I was two and half blocks from home when the car pulled up.
     “Say, can I give you a lift?”
     It was wrong. The simple and obvious answer was no thank you. Double pneumonia was still better than being shot.
     “Thank you. You’re a life saver.”
     “Well, I’ve been called many things in my day, but that is a first. I’m Frederick
McAndrews.”
     “Julie Winters. Pleased to meet you Mr. McAndrews.”
     “Pleased to meet you as well, Miss Winters. But call me Freddie.”
     “Fine. Julie, then.”
     He nodded and smiled. I smiled back. He was much larger than he appeared in the mirror, and his smile was markedly different. It actually appeared to be genuine. I shivered.
     “Sorry, Julie. But I’ll have you home long before there’s any heat.”
     I nodded and told him not to worry about it. In a minute, he pulled up in front of my flat. I never told him where I lived.
     “I’ve been watching you, too.”
     They can only shoot you once.
***
     “Lordy, what time is it?”
     “A quarter to five. You can go back to sleep, but I have to get going. And I’m going to need that.”
     I was snuggled in his shirt. I liked it. I did not care to give it back. I informed him,
Sorry, but you simply cannot have it.”
     “Now see here, Missy...”
     I giggled and pulled the comforter over my head.
     “If I have to come in there after you, someone is going to get her naughty bottom
smacked.”
     “You wouldn’t dare, you brute!”
     “To the contrary! One... Two... Three!”
     I gripped the comforter as tightly as I could. But that only proved to be another Maginot
Line. Before I knew what was happening, the bottom half of the comforter and a bundle of sheets flew up from the bottom of the bed. Freddie grabbed both of my ankles in one large hand and lifted both legs up. As his shirt dropped, is other hand landed three sharp smacks on my poor inverted bum.
He dropped my legs and uncovered my head. “You’re a beast, you know.” I pouted and was rewarded with a kiss. So I pouted again.
     I leaned on my side and watched him finish getting dressed. Unshaven and wearing a wrinkled shirt, I would have bet a pound that he could have reported for duty just like that and escaped a reprimand. As he tied his tie, I rolled out of bed. I walked over and hugged him tightly. I did not plan them, but tears started anyway.
     “This is wrong, you know.”
     “Yes, it is. But not for the reasons you think.”
     “How do you know what I think?”
     “Don’t worry about that. Suffice it to say that you have not done anything wrong or
anything to feel guilty about.”
     I hugged him tighter. “But still I do.”
     Freddie hugged me and stroked my hair. He leaned down and gave a long deep kiss. Then he took his jacket off and laid it over the chair. He took me by the hand and led me back over to the bed. He sat down on the half stripped bed and pulled me across his knee. I did not resist.
     He raised his hand and paused. I held my breath. When I exhaled, he gave me a
frightful whack on the right cheek. I would have cried out, but I had no air. He gave me
another fearful smack on the left cheek. But I was ready now. I whimpered but did not cry out.
Smack! Crack! Freddie alternated back and forth leaving no part of my poor bottom untouched. I did not kick or try to pull away. This was a gift, and I recognized it as such. After about two dozen fiery cracks, I fully embraced its solace and with a small sob, let loose a torrent of dammed up tears.
***
     After my final goodbye kiss, I told Freddie that dinner was at 7:30. He shook his head and told me that he could not promise anything. I nodded and told him I understood. We performed this ritual every morning for the next six weeks.
***
     I do not know how he found them, but the package contained six lamb chops. I smiled weakly, kissed him, and told him that it was a wonderful surprise. I refused to start crying. But there was an extra clean shirt at the bottom of his bag.
     We made love three times that night. The first time I raped him. The second time I rode him for as long as I could. The last time, I took him as deeply as I could so that that much more of me would remember him. I did not sleep that night. I held him until dawn.
     I laid out his clean shirt with his other clothes. I made a pot of coffee, then woke him at a
quarter to five. I refused to cry while I watched him dress. Tears would come soon enough.
Freddie finished adjusting his tie. I walked over and hugged him tightly. He bent down, stared into my eyes for hours, then gave me a long kiss.
     “This was not wrong.”
     “No, Freddie, it wasn’t. But not for the reasons you think.”
     “How do you know what I think?”
     “It doesn’t matter. But I know you love me.”
     “Yes, Julie, I do love you.”
     “Mark me, Freddie.”
     “Pardon me?”
     “I want you to mark me, Freddie.”
     I broke away from him and walked to the closet. We both knew this day would come. So several weeks earlier, I had prepared myself. I took out the antique whale-bone cane that I had purchased. I brought it over to him, kissed it, and placed it in his hands. “I want you to mark me, then leave. If I see you to the door, I won’t let you go.”
     I kissed him for the last time. Then I took the pillows and put them in the middle of the bed. I laid down over the pillows and turned Freddie’s shirt up.
***
     June 24, 1944. The marks had faded. The next outward signs of our relationship would not be apparent for a few more weeks. I was not surprised to see the MP’s waiting by my desk. In fact, I was relieved. They took me directly to the Colonel’s office.
     All of the papers were laid out on the Colonel’s desk. I was surprised at how much material was there. And I was correct that Captain Frederick J. McAndrews was a fraud.
     “Do you have anything that you would like to say, Julie?”
     I shook my head no. What was there to say?
     “Fine, then I have a few things to say. James Frederick Browne was a fine man, and a great patriot. I served with his father, and I knew James his whole life. I hand picked him for his mission. Though I cannot give you any of the details, I can tell you his work saved a lot of lads on June 6th.
     “James was a very thoughtful and dedicated man. But I never would have described him as happy until he met you. The family solicitor will help you with James’s estate. But here are a couple of things that James left with me to give to you.”
     I had never seen it before, but the signature at the bottom of the marriage license from April 14, 1944, for James Frederick Browne and Juliette Winters, was mine. The stone on the ring was small, but perfect. Captain Frederick J. McAndrews, R.A.F., was young, dashing, heroic, patriotic, an absolute fraud, and first and foremost, my husband.

KC Copyright 2004; Moral rights to be identified as the author of “The Widow” asserted worldwide (including in Great Britain in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act of 1988)

Sunday, August 21, 2016

A Tale of Two Prepositions

AUGUST 2, 2016
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
A TALE OF TWO PREPOSITIONS OR WHY REPUBLICANS WILL SWEEP ALL STATEWIDE ELECTIONS IN NOVEMBER, UNLESS…
By Bruce C. Cohen
            This is the tale of two tiny prepositions, “to” and “by”. Between them, they have the power to decide all statewide elections this November. As it stands today, “to” is winning which means that if nothing changes between now and the November elections, Republicans will sweep all statewide contests.

            There are 115 counties (including St. Louis City) in Missouri. The election authorities for these counties is established in Missouri Revised Statutes Section 115.015 which provides, “The county clerk shall be the election authority, except that in a city or county having a board of election commissioners, the board of election commissioners shall be the election authority.”  Section 115.017 establishes the counties where a board of election commissioners can operate. Six counties qualify, including St. Louis County, St. Louis City, Kansas City, Clay County, Jackson County and Platte County. According to the Official Manual State of Missouri 2015-2016, as of 2014, these six counties had a total of 1,647,478 voters out of a statewide total of 4,081,259, comprising approximately forty percent of the electorate.

            In 109 of 115 counties, the county clerk serves as the election authority. In the other six counties listed above, however, a board of election commissioners serves as the election authority. The problem is, these six boards of election commissioners have no constitutional authority to act. Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Section 12 provides in relevant part, “Unless discontinued all present or future boards… of the state exercising administrative or executive authority shall be assigned by law or by the governor as provided by law to the office of administration or to one of the fifteen administrative departments to which their respective powers and duties are germane.” (Emphasis added) On its face, this section applies to “all” executive branch boards without exception, including boards of election commissioners. This is where the preposition “by” comes into play. Boards may be assigned “by” law or “by” the governor as provided “by” law.

Nothing in Missouri Revised Statutes Chapter 115 assigns the boards of election commissioners by law to the office of administration or to an executive branch department as required by Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Section 12. Accordingly, the responsibility for assigning these boards falls on the governor. The law providing for assignment of a board by the governor is the Omnibus State Reorganization Act of 1974, Missouri Revised Statutes Appendix B (hereinafter “OSRA”). Under the OSRA, if a board is not assigned by law to the office of administration or a state executive branch department, then the governor may assign the board. All it takes is a one page letter. It is so simple, even John Ashcroft could do it (see e.g. EXECUTIVE ORDER 86-03).

This is where the preposition “to” comes into play. Unfortunately, no governor has ever assigned the six boards of election commissioners “to” the office of administration or an executive branch department. The Official Manual State of Missouri 2015-2016, at page 871 lists the six boards of election commissioners as “Boards Assigned to the Governor”. Under Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Sec. 12, there is no such thing as a “Board Assigned to the Governor”. Boards may be assigned “by” the governor, not “to” the governor. Until such time as the boards of election commissioners are assigned “to” the office of administration or an executive branch department, those boards have no more authority to conduct election activities than a Wednesday night coed volleyball league.

In the governor’s election in 2012, Democrat Jeremiah W. (Jay) Nixon defeated Republican David (Dave) Spence 1,494,056 to 1,160,265. Governor Nixon outpolled Spence 725,825 to 366,058 in the six board of election commissioner counties: St. Louis 324,748 to 185,704; St. Louis City 117,979 to 19,478, Kansas City 107,474 to 23,806; Jackson 94,008 to 73,518; Clay 57,962 to 43,398; Platte 23,654 to 20,154. Without these six counties, Spence won 794,207 to 768,231. Similarly, in the Secretary of State election, Democrat Jason Kander defeated Republican Shane Schoeller 1,298,022 to 1,258,937. But if you subtract the votes from the six board of election commissioner counties (Kander 675,103 to Schoeller 382,293), Kander lost 876,644 to 622,919.

In short, democrats cannot win a statewide election without the votes from the six board of election commissioner counties. But without a constitutional election authority, the forty percent of the Missouri electorate residing in those six counties are disenfranchised. Their votes cannot be counted.

There are two ways to return the franchise to the voters in the six affected counties. First, Governor Nixon could assign the boards of election commissioners to the office of administration or an executive branch department in accordance with Missouri Constitution Art. IV, Section 12 and the OSRA. Second, the legislature could assign the boards by a new law. Unless one of these two things happen, Republicans have already swept the statewide elections in November. All that is left is the final paperwork.

******************
Copyright 8/2/16 by Bruce C. Cohen
Permission granted for reproduction with proper attribution.
            *****************

Bruce C. Cohen and Doni R. Miller are currently challenging the 2014 elections for St. Louis County Executive and Prosecutor at the Missouri Supreme Court, CAUSE NO. SC95793. Electronic copies of Appellants’ Brief are available upon request at bccohen1@earthlink.net.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Trump Campaign Shake Up Press Release

AUGUST 17, 2016

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:


The Trump campaign announced a major shake up for the second time this political season. The executive chairman of Breitbart News LLC, Stephen Bannon, replaced Paul Manafort as the campaign's chief executive following Manafort's recent Ukrainian difficulties manufactured by the DNC and the Clinton campaign.

Mr. Trump explained, "We are absolutely thrilled, absolutely thrilled to bring Stephen Bannon on board. Breitbart is the world-wide leading publisher of right wing fantasy and fanfic. The world-wide leader. With Stephen here, we can finally start ignoring facts altogether."