A Bit of Holiday Froth

I know, it's trite, but Roberta really did write it: a "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" send-up with a spanking theme. Forgive her, she adored Christmas, but I guess she couldn't resist. I think it has a youthful brashness and cheer about it, although she wrote it in her middle years. Think of it as a piece effortlessy tossed off by a master of the craft at the height of her powers!

Off to London

Roberta set "Spanking Pamela" in London, as a lark, I think. She did enjoy the English novel--weekends at the manor, pink gins in the drawing room, adulterous bishops, etc., and so she thought she'd try her hand at something like it. It's also one of the very few stories Roberta chose to write from the male point of view. It's not that she didn't like men. She was married to Ray Barnes--who cheats at cards--for 44 years! It's more that she thought that not a lot happened, for the most part, in the male psyche. At least not until a woman came along, and focused his mind for him.

Unfortunately, as you can see, our story is posted backwards. It looks a little funny there on the screen, but it's not a problem, really, now that the nights are chillier. Print the story out (on nice paper), make yourself a cup of hot chocolate, get in your jammies, get under the covers, and enjoy!

Spanking Pamela (part II)

"Thanks ever so much for dinner, Ian, but you needn't have, really. I invited you, after all."

He had picked up the check. Pam's protestations, he felt, had been half-hearted.

"What would you like to drink?"

He requested coffee, and looked about Pam's fashionable flat. She thought it necessary, "for business reasons," to maintain a posh address. He thought it a frivolous expense, but they'd had that argument before, so he kept his silence.

"You look fabulous, Pam. Smashing 'do and-- new suit?"

She had on a cream-coloured blouse with a navy wool suit rich and elegant enough for evening wear. It had been chosen with care for the occasion and set off with a showy silver pin.

"Thanks. Yes, from Harrod's."

"Not on the credit card, I hope."

It was none of his business, really, but he felt he had a right. Just three months ago he had lent her a tidy sum, and now here she was buying new and obviously expensive clothes again.

She took it ill.

"Don't lecture me, Ian," she snapped. "I can manage."

She was as headstrong as ever. But also very defensive. Knowing Pam's history with credit cards, he was suspicious.

"You can't be doing that well from the Duncannon contract. He's a notorious tightwad."

"Ian, please, I didn't invite you up here to ask for a loan."

"Well, I'm surprised," he stated, suddenly very angry, "since that's the usual reason."

"How dare you, Ian! I thought you were concerned about me."

"I am, Pamela. I want you to get on your feet financially. But this has been going on for too long."

"Finances? Do you think that's all I care about?"

"Well, yes, isn't that what we're discussing?"

"Ian, you're impossible!"

Pam turned to stalk from the room but he was in no mood for a display of temper. Before he knew what was happening he had her by the arm.

"You've got the rent for this fancy joint on your credit card again, don't you?"

"Ian, that's none of your business."

"It's true, then. You pretentious little snip!"

"Let go of me, you...you... dusty, loveless old bachelor!"

He couldn't remember exactly how he had gotten her over his knee so quickly, nor why he felt it necessary to raise her skirt; only that it had done his heart good to crush and rumple that sumptuous fabric as he bunched it above her waist. Good it would be, too, to worry the sheer silk of those panties.

"I'll show you what love is about, young lady."

"Ian, let me up!"

Of course, being Pamela, she would not cooperate, and Ian was hard put at first to keep her in position. But he was determined to see it through. Ian spoke between strokes.

"Love is..." SPANK! "patience..." SPANK! "prudence..." SPANK! "...hard work." SPANK! SPANK!

"Ouch! Ian! Stop it! Love is...is... just love! It doesn't have to make sense!"

His hand sounding loudly on her derriere was his only reply. She wiggled and squirmed, but the elegant panties provided scant protection, and he managed to turn her pink pastel bottom a bright shade of cherry red before he loosened his grip. Let her, he thought smugly, wear that for a while!

"Ian, Ian, how could you?" she complained bitterly, regaining her feet. As she rearranged her skirt there came a rush of furious tears. With a great sob she made for the bedroom. She stopped at the door, though, reached down and took off a shoe.
"Clueless bully!" she wailed.

The wicked, spiked heel missed his head by inches.


His gaze fell on the shoe, now lying spent in the middle of the floor.

'Clueless'?

Now he saw it all. Good Lord, he thought, what a fool I've been! Blind, silly, unfeeling, pompous old fool!

Of course, the whole evening had been a romantic set-up. Pamela felt as strongly about him as... as... yes, as strongly as he felt about her.

He got up and tapped on her door.

Her reply was soft and light. She was in her pyjamas, sitting upright in bed.
He stood at her threshold and began hopefully.

"Pam, can you ever forgive me?"

A cautious smile began to light up her face.

"Dear Ian," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Dear, sweet, methodical Ian! Have you finally thought it all through?"

"Not really," he replied. "But love, you know, doesn't have to make sense."

"Oh, Ian, Ian," she laughed as she reached out to him. He bent to take her in his arms, first softly closing the bedroom door.

[Photo by Carlos A. Martinez at flickr.com]