Part 1
The accountant, business consultant and spanker Geoffrey Parslow was not a great gardener. Although his house in the Hertfordshire stockbroker belt came with quite a bit of land, he had rented out a field commercially for the feeding and exercising of horses and the rest was dominated by lawn and big bushes, which needed little attention. Moreover, he employed old Mr Banks to come in and do what was needed.
The big garden shed, though, was another matter. The previous owner had used it for carpentry, and Parslow had not bothered to change the benches, shelving and other features. For him the shed served to store various do-it-yourself items and other bric-a-brac, plus that repulsive huge fake Chinese vase Aunt Mary had left him because she knew he loved antiques. The thing was worth £30 at most, but Parslow did not have the heart to throw it away and it was not worth the effort of selling. The shed also contained the few tools Banks needed and some rather different tools of Parslow’s own – canes, whips, a table tennis bat and a tawse. Although most of his spankings were carried out indoors, he did enjoy some al fresco exercises in the warm weather and it was convenient to have the necessary items to hand.
That day Parslow was clearing a few unwanted items from the shed. He stacked a few things just outside the shed door and paused for a rest before stepping back inside, removing his ragged old pullover as he was getting hot. As he did so, though, someone grabbed him by the crook of each elbow; then he felt the unmistakeable sensation of big, warm female breasts pushed into his back. His regular spanking partner, Tracey, was well-endowed, so his first thought was that she had arrived and was playing a trick on him. Then he noticed that the arms which were struggling to secure his own elderly limbs were dressed in crisp white material just like a uniform, just like… but his assailant had given up trying to pinion his arms and instead kicked him just above the heel while grabbing hold of his collar. Parslow fell backwards. Fortunately his fall was slowed by his head hitting a large, soft object on the way, but he still cracked his head painfully on the lintel. Then he was dragged right inside the shed, and saw for the first time that the attacker was an extravagantly curved young blonde policewoman. Parslow began to thrash around, and as she tried to subdue him, her ample rump struck a section of shelving. The ugly vase slid off its perch and smashed on the floor. He heard something else follow with a dull thud, and then the policewoman was sitting on his head while she tried to pull his wrists together and handcuff them.
Parslow was shocked, but not entirely horrified. He managed to shift his face so that his nose and chin exactly bisected her generous, trousered orbs and pushed into the crack. Part of him was thinking this was not bad at all; part was saying “Sniff, sniff! Something fishy here, ha ha!”, but most of him was wondering what the devil was going on. He sniffed a deep draught of her feminine essence, but unfortunately something in the fabric of her uniform trousers disagreed with him and he sneezed on them. At that moment the policewoman managed to handcuff him. Secure at last, she got off his face, giving him an impressive view of a huge but firm arse in tight uniform trousers, disfigured dead centre by a dark blotch where he’d sneezed. She turned to face him, revealing that her breasts were on a similar or even larger scale, and also that the second object to fall must have been that torn bag of cement, for she was covered in white dust. He could now see clearly why she had struggled to secure his arms: the standard police method, he had gathered from various TV programmes, was to grasp both arms and twist them behind the criminal’s back, but if this young lady tried that, her tits would get in the way. She started to proclaim at him in a cultured, quite posh voice:
“Anton Ionescu, I arrescu, sorry, arrest you, for…”
“WHAT? Who the devil is Anton Ionescu?” Parslow’s interruption stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him wide-eyed with doubt.
“Aren’t you Anton Ionescu?”
“Never heard of him,” snapped Parslow, sitting up. “My name is Geoffrey Parslow, we are on my land, in the grounds of my house. If you doubt that, we can go into the house where I can show you passport, driving licence, accountancy qualifications, business correspondence…”
“Oh, gosh. Oh.” A doubt crossed her mind and showed in her open face. “Do you own a car?”
“Certainly. A silver Volvo…”
“Registration?”
“I was about to quote that, young lady, when you interrupted.” It took only a moment for the policewoman to check the number he gave her on her radio and confirm that the vehicle was as described and belonged to a Geoffrey Parslow of 91 Forest Ride, Brookman’s Park.
“Oh gosh, I am really sorry! You see…” She broke off. Parslow had felt the back of his head, which was sore after the impact with the lintel, and his hand had come back with blood on it. She bustled round the back of him with expressions of concern and checked the wound. “Oh, that’s awful. I’m sorry, but it’s only a slight scalp wound, I think, better clean it up, though, then…”
“All in due course, young lady! First I want these handcuffs off!” She apologised, sounding flustered, and freed him. He stood up and stared at her coldly.
“Right, now let’s just run through the undisputed facts. Do stop me if you disagree with anything. I was entering my garden shed, minding my own business, when you seized me and assaulted me without saying you were from the police or giving me a chance to submit voluntarily. You kicked me and pulled me over, giving me a head wound and shattering that Ming vase I’d put in here pending minor repairs.”
“Ming vase?”
“Do you always repeat what people say to you? Yes, Ming vase.”
“Oh, that’s awful. I am awfully sorry, I’ll make it up to you personally…”
“Do you have £30,000 to dispose of?” Parslow asked with mild curiosity. “Of course, if you don’t, I can seek reimbursement from the Police, but that will mean complaining against you.”
“Thirty…Oh.” She was silent now, looking at him as if she was a rabbit caught in headlights. He said nothing, but stared at her levelly, letting her stew. Finally she found her voice.
“Oh, no, this is awful, please. The sexist men in the station already say horrible things about me. This will mean the end of my career – and I did so want to do well and to help people, that’s why I joined…”
“You haven’t done very well so far,” Parslow pointed out. “One more thing – who is Anton Ionescu?”
“We’re hunting for him. He looks awfully like you! He’s a half-German Romanian businessman involved in all sorts of horrible things. We think he had those illegal secret cameras hidden at Wimbledon. He runs strip clubs and suchlike, legal but only just, and puts out all sorts of disgusting stuff on the Internet, ‘Horsegirls and the Whip’, ‘Policewoman Bound and Gagged’, ‘Punishment Day at St Martha’s’, ‘Eastern Girls Orgy’ and so on. He operates from Russia now, from some place just inside the Finnish border, and he’s on very good terms with Russian top politicians and business people, so we can’t touch him there. But if we can catch him here, we can hold him while we investigate the Wimbledon business and lots of other things. We saw him clamber into the gardens and all the rest thought he went right, so they ran off that way, but I thought maybe he went left after all, and if I could catch him on my own I’d be famous.” She stopped and seemed on the point of crying.
While Parslow had never heard of Ionescu, he was familiar with two of the items the policewoman had listed, and did not share her opinion of their creator. He kept this to himself. Instead he continued to stare at her while speaking slowly, as if to a child:
“To be compensated for the damage I must complain. You will deserve whatever you get. But here is another option…”
“Oh, er, yes, please, what?”
“You speak disparagingly of certain interests. I am myself a spanker, a longstanding and very keen one. Instead of reporting you, I could, with your free agreement, spank and cane you. But of course, you have a low opinion of such things and will not be willing to comply.”
The policewoman stood silent, obviously weighing up her choices. Parslow’s face was impassive – he had long practice in hiding his feelings – but inside he was in turmoil. “Go on, go on! Say yes!” he was repeating to himself. This was a glorious opportunity, but it might slip through his fingers. After all, he had no intention of taking cheap revenge by complaining about the policewoman to her superiors, especially as the vase was worthless and she was surely right, he knew as an old soldier, that the cut in the head was nothing. So if she said no, he’d be helpless.
“Oh. Er – all right then. I’ve got no choice. Yes.” the young woman said.
At those glorious words, Parslow’s weapon rose stiffly to attention in his loose old trousers. The policewoman’s gaze was fixed on it, but he had no reason to conceal it.
”Well now, on the whole I think for an officer of the law to be punished, we must have restraints,” he mused, taking his time. “Let me see…(he pottered around looking at various things in the shed and then at various parts of her, even producing a tape measure and comparing measurements of her body with the proportions of the bench and other fixtures)…no, I don’t see how we can make that work, not without making it unduly uncomfortable for you. I think we’ll just have you over the bench. Now get over it, my girl, sharpish!” She obeyed. He slid a large square of foam rubber under her belly just in time to give her a little comfort and push her bottom up. No, that did not look quite right. The girl’s breasts were so big that they pushed up the top half of her just as much as the bottom. He ordered her to shift while he added two more foam squares. That was better. Her magnificent arse stuck up, tightly constrained in the dark blue material, while her legs hung down helplessly. He inspected the arse closely, kneaded it to check its consistency, picked up an old trainer and brought it down with a dramatic whack full on the meat of her right cheek, which flattened and rebounded.
“WAAAAAAH!” she wailed. Parslow let the sound gradually die away before landing a blow of equal force on the left cheek. This time he provoked more of a squeal; but the third blow did not force any noise from her at all. She had resolved to resist him! After the sixth whack Parslow discarded the trainer.
“Enough of that. I had meant to be mild with you, but you are resisting me. That is unforgivable. Stand up! Now strip!”
He watched with fascination as she obeyed. First she discarded her belt, truncheon, handcuffs, gas spray and radio; then her crisp white blouse came off to reveal a frilly pink bra perched on the end of her fine breasts. Off came her sensible shoes so she could wriggle out of her trousers. She proved to be wearing no tights or stockings, so the frilly-edged pink knickers whose elastic bisected her huge orbs were immediately visible. As she struggled to get her feet out of the fallen trousers, her arse wobbled about comically. Finally removing the trousers revealed a pair of elasticated thin white socks reaching halfway up her calves.
“That’s enough for now!” Parslow instructed. “Now step between these two benches, open your legs and bend right over!”
He had spotted an opportunity: set in the wall between the two benches was an iron ring about eight inches off the floor. Once there had been a similar ring set much higher, and the pair had held garden canes, an umbrella, brooms or somesuch, but the higher ring was long gone. He handcuffed her surprisingly slim wrists to the ring. Then he picked up some cord and pulled her legs a bit wider apart so he could tie each ankle to the nearest leg of one of the benches. Finally he tied a rope in with the folds of her hair, already tied up in a bun, and secured the other end of the rope to a strut of some high shelving, so that while her breasts hung down, her head was forced up. He checked this arrangement carefully to make sure it was not hurting her and politely asked her if she was comfortable – he was taken aback when she not only confirmed it was comfortable but even thanked him - before stepping back and considering his handiwork.
Next he tore off her girly pink frilly bra by the simple method of pulling at it until the elastic strap snapped, and then removed the matching knickers in his usual way, gripping them at the top and tearing them right down the back so they fell to the floor. The big plump arse, already somewhat reddened, was one of the most delightful canvasses he had ever been able to decorate, and he was resolved to make a good job of it. The policewoman did not say anything, but as she waited the smooth, pink underbuttocks trembled slightly.
“You know my name, my dear, I am Geoffrey Parslow, and I do prefer the personal touch when I cane a young lady. What is your name?” Parslow asked, taking his time.
“PC – I mean Julie Partridge,” she replied, willingly enough. “Partridge! What an appropriate name – plump, vulnerable, delicious!” Parslow thought. Now he approached and touched the cane ever so lightly against the presented rump. Julie screamed dramatically, but the scream tailed off as she realised she had been tricked. He stood back and raised his arm. When the thin cane bit into the butterplump arseflesh, she made a small noise, a kind of “Oh!”, but no more. Thinking he had not struck hard enough, Parslow struck with more venom. An impressive red line appeared, but Julie stayed almost silent. She was deliberately showing her courage by staying silent! Respecting this, Parslow set himself to marking the delicious target with a series of neat lines in a herringbone pattern on either side of the Great Divide. Still she did not scream or sob. When the work of art was complete, Parslow paused, letting her think he had finished – and then, crouching, he landed a sizzling crack on her right underbuttock. That broke the dam.
“WAAAAAA!” she wailed. He let the noise begin to die away before punishing the left underbuttock just as hard. Now the wail was followed by a soft, confused, mumbled sobbing, the most glorious sound he could imagine. One more, he thought. It took expert aim, and reduced force, but her meaty cheeks were well parted and her pink treasure was peeping out shyly.
THWACK! The cane landed right in the crack, right above her secret garden, and the conscientious young officer was bucking most provocatively, wailing and moaning. He walked round to look her in the eyes, watching the tears plop on to her huge breasts, staring into her humiliated big blue eyes.
“Do you want me to stop punishing your arse?” he asked her.
“Yes! Please!”
“Say, ‘please stop punishing my arse’!”
“Er – oh – please stop punishing my, um, arse, please, Geoffrey!”
“Very well – I will do what you ask. But as I have not finished, I shall punish your tits instead!”
“Oh!” Julie could find nothing else to say.
Parslow took a good look at the target before starting to tap her magnificent breasts with her own truncheon. He was careful not to overdo it, but was fascinated by the way the things bobbled about. Then he discarded the truncheon for the cane. Not wanting to stretch her beyond endurance, he restricted himself to two moderate blows on each breast before deciding she’d had enough. Nonetheless, the girl was sobbing constantly like a child. Parslow broke off as he realised his enjoyment was getting out of control: a marvellous familiar excitement spread through his body as his weapon tingled. He was going to have to dump his load somewhere. Right in front of him was the obvious place, the only one Professor Dawkins would have approved of – but Parslow had standards, and screwing a bound and defenceless young woman without her express consent was in his book ungentlemanly. He needed something, though, in a hurry. He seized her crisp, white uniform blouse and pumped powerfully into it. When he had finished he used it to wipe himself and then threw it on the floor, no longer crisp and neat, and no longer quite so white either.
It was then that his mobile phone rang. A posh, self-assured voice spoke.
“Mr Parslow? Victoria Harrison. Where are you? We’re at your front door and your bell seems to be working. You did remember we were coming, didn’t you?” Parslow did remember. He’d agreed to see the woman about renting out his small field for feed and exercise for their horses as the previous tenants had moved.
“Very sorry about that, Mrs Harrison. It’s my memory, it goes with age, you know. There I was pottering about in the garden shed! I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
As he put the phone away, he saw with amazement that another man had appeared in the shed from behind some boxes, and the man was holding some kind of camera. A small rucksack lay at his feet. He might have been standing in the open for ages, as Parslow had been totally preoccupied with punishing the policewoman. The man was of similar age to him and of remarkably similar appearance though a fraction darker-skinned and a little slimmer. He was wearing dark blue jogging kit with white trainers, much like Parslow’s own clothes though undoubtedly more fashionable. Ionescu! He had been hiding in the shed after all! Perhaps realising that Parslow might be afraid, the man smiled amiably. Parslow smiled back. No words were spoken, but a kind of understanding, a bond of brotherhood, was established. On impulse, Parslow handed him the cane; the Romanian bowed politely and smiled again. Parslow hurriedly pocketed the policewoman’s torn pink knickers and bustled from the shed to meet Mrs Harrison, pausing briefly at the water-butt for a strategic wash.
Part 2
Parslow hurried round to the front door to receive Mrs Harrison, hoping any shortness of breath would be attributed to an ageing man moving too fast. The woman standing at the door was about forty, but fit as an athletic girl half that age. She wore a white scarf, presumably as a fashion statement as the day was warm. Her classy pale yellow blouse revealed a rather flat chest, but her smooth pale grey trousers clung closely to those long, well-proportioned legs and the swell of the hips implied a fine arse. The face, though, was forbidding – high-cheeked, haughty and almost expressionless beneath the expensively-treated brown hair. Two teenage girls, one in jodhpurs, the other in jeans, stood behind her.
“Mrs Harrison! So sorry to keep you waiting! Do come in! And these are your beautiful daughters?” Parslow gushed. The woman nodded and allowed herself a faint half-smile.
“This one is Penny,” she said, indicating a tall but rather plump and mild-looking blonde in jodhpurs, “and this is Karen.” The short, slim but curvy dark-haired one, who had been slouching behind her mother, grinned and gave Parslow a rather disconcerting look.
“The delay is no problem at all,” Mrs Harrison gracefully informed Parslow. “Where is the field?”
Regretting that he had to lead rather than follow, Parslow led them round to the horse field, which lay behind the house on the opposite side from the shed. Mrs Harrison asked him a series of brisk, well-chosen questions about the arrangement he was offering and then bent to check the quality of the grass, allowing Parslow to check the quality of her arse, which was indeed beautifully-proportioned, pear-shaped and very firm for a mature woman. She did not immediately rise again, which was unfortunate. Parslow’s best friend was rising at the sight, and it was then he realised with horror that he had failed to zip up his flies and the parting in his underpants was too strategically situated. The process is not easy to reverse, and any attempt to stuff the thing away and pull the zip up hurriedly was fraught with the most dreadful danger. Mrs Harrison was still bent over invitingly, studying the quality of the grass, and her taller daughter was staring dreamily at the sky where an invisible skylark was singing, but as Parslow tried to establish where the shorter one was, he caught her eye. She was watching, wide-eyed and grinning: as she held his gaze she made little jerking movements with her hips and smiled. Fortunately this doubled Parslow’s embarrassment and speeded up the decline and fall. Just after he felt safe to zip up, Mrs Harrison straightened her long form and turned round.
“The grass is all right, I’d say,” she reported. “Now can we discuss the various arrangements?” Parslow threw himself into the discussion, though he could not quite forget that on the other side of his land a bound, helpless, well-thrashed policewoman had been left to the tender mercies of a rich foreign pornographer. He decided not to dwell on that in his mind, in case of further embarrassing problems.
Parslow being a stickler for written records of business, there was some paperwork to be concluded in the house, and Mrs Harrison had also accepted his offer of a dry martini. It was as they began to walk back towards the house that Mrs Harrison discovered Karen had disappeared.
“Where has the wretched girl gone to? Oh, well, she’ll turn up,” she remarked.
On the journey back Parslow was able to note that the blonde daughter Penny had inherited her mother’s rear beauty and the jodhpurs showed it off to perfection. Inside the house, Victoria Harrison, evidently impressed by the décor and antiques, became quite chatty and even smiled at Parslow. He learnt that Karen was adopted (“We couldn’t have another one, and we got Karen as company for Penny. Actually Karen has turned out much the cleverer: I need to keep her in order and teach her to mind her tongue from time to time, but I don’t need to push her to do well. Penny does need pushing sometimes, don’t you?”) and that both girls had just finished gap years: Penny would be off to Liverpool University to read Mathematics, but would be home and riding in the vacations, while Karen was due to start a course in design technology at the local university, Hertfordshire. He deduced from various comments that Mr Harrison was no longer around. Parslow was in no hurry to end the conversation and it seemed Victoria Harrison was of the same mind. Then the doorbell rang. “I expect that’s the little wretch Karen”, Mrs Harrison commented as her host hurried towards the door.
She was right. Karen Harrison stood at the door. She eyeballed Parslow with something of the look of a wine buff searching for a rare vintage and almost certain he was about to find it.
“That fat-arsed weepy girl in your shed,” she began, “she isn’t real fuzz, is she?” For a moment Parslow, who somehow was not amazed the girl had found the shed and its contents, foolishly thought the girl was suggesting Julie wore some kind of pubic wig. Coming to his senses, he replied,
“On the contrary, she’s an absolute genuine prize porker.” He hoped he’d got the argot right: anyway, Karen seemed to understand it. She looked at him with awe.
“And that man there – is he your brother?”
“Yes”, he confirmed, deciding any other answer would involve him in too much storytelling. Karen said nothing more, but as she brushed past him, she managed to push her tight little rump against his hand.
The amazing girl joined the rest of her party with a matter-of-fact manner, merely saying she’d gone to make friends with a pussy. As they all chatted, he heard the loud throbbing of a helicopter coming closer and closer.
“That must be the police,” Mrs Harrison commented. “They were all over the place as we arrived. Some robbery, no doubt.” She might be right, he thought, in which case if they found Julie his best hope was to pretend he had never been in the shed when she was there, and hope against hope the girl herself said it was all down to Ionescu. On the other hand, it was perhaps even more likely the helicopter was Ionescu’s escape route and was manned by Russian heavies. In that case, it would definitely be wise to stay out of the way. He tried to keep the conversation going while the sound effects indicated all too clearly the helicopter was landing. Finally Victoria, Karen and Penny Harrison made their polite and quite friendly goodbyes and left. Parslow waited till the throbbing of the helicopter had faded into the distance, waited a further ten minutes to be on the safe side, and then set out to revisit the shed.
He did not know what he might find. It seemed quite possible Ionescu might have spirited Julie away in the helicopter for business purposes: it could be a good business decision, something Parslow respected. The shed door was shut but not locked. He opened the door quietly and was relieved to see Julie’s huge plump arse still bent over as before. He could hear her soft, continual, muffled sobbing, and the arse-cheeks trembled slightly with the sobs. He entered quietly and took in the scene. Ionescu had vanished, as he had expected; there was no sign of any police, so the helicopter must have been Ionescu’s.
A number of other things had changed. Julie’s head was trapped in her own trousers: the bottom and cunt receptacle part of them had been lowered over her head; the legs had been twisted round it and then tied together at the top. That was why her sobbing was muffled. There were changes at the other end too. The cane projected like an exotic plant stalk from her bottom crack and Parslow could see white material, presumably her blouse, shoved in there too, just below her truncheon which also protruded from the crack. Ionescu had, with considerable skill and artistic flair, decorated her arse with weals that cut neatly across Parslow’s lines. He had also evidently proceeded to punish the plump backs of her thighs, and he had not been so sparing of her big tits as Parslow had. This touch of ruthlessness Parslow regarded with understanding, almost approval: after all, if you saw it from Ionescu’s angle, the girl had been trying to deprive him of his liberty and had made derogatory remarks about his line of work.
There was something else about her bottom and tits: on each buttock and on each breast there was now a large, dark-blue rubber stamp mark proclaiming her in English “PROPERTY OF ANTON IONESCU ENTERPRISES – IF FOUND RETURN TO UNIT 17, GROZHNY INDUSTRIAL ESTATE, VYBORG”. Her left cheek was also inscribed, apparently in black biro, “KH WAS HERE”: from this message an arrow pointed in and down.
The policewoman was still unaware of Parslow’s presence.
“Oh, goodness me, my poor little thing, what on earth has happened?” he clucked as he removed the trousers and finding that her forehead too had been stamped as company property. Julie looked at him with wide, tearful eyes and before she spoke he knew the silly girl was going to treat him as a rescuer.
“Oh, Geoffrey – I can call you Geoffrey, can’t I?” she began. Parslow consented to this familiarity and she continued, “After you left – I heard you on the phone, you were called away to see some people – as soon as you’d gone BHBVBRRRUR, HUR, HUR…”
“Take your time,” said Parslow, checking his watch.
“Thankyou. As soon as you’d gone this evil man Ionescu came out! He must have been hiding in the shed all the time!”
“Goodness gracious!” Parslow responded, hamming it shamelessly. “I might have been murdered! But you, my poor dear – surely he didn’t harm you?” This provoked another bout of sobbing, but Julie was nothing if not persistent and conscientious, and she controlled herself enough to continue:
“Geoffrey, he caned me even more! He did it MUCH harder than you!” Parslow made sympathetic noises while secretly feeling annoyance. Was Ionescu a stronger whacker than himself, or had he himself culpably not given this young lady the vigorous punishment she deserved? Meanwhile Julie had continued and he had lost a few words: “…he forced his big WAAAAAA, HUR,HUR, HUR, HUR up my bottom, and then he WAAAAABHBVBHRRR, HUR, HUR, HURIURGH in it for AGES!”
“Well, that’s crystal clear then,” thought Parslow. The girl still had not finished.
“Then someone else came, a woman, and she WAERRR, HUR, HUR! And then, oh Geoffrey, I thought they’d all gone, but WAH, HA, HA, HUR, HUR, WURHURHURHURHURHURHUR!” Once again big tears plopped on to her breasts.
“Thankyou for explaining all that to me,” Parslow said. “Just stay still while I remove some objects from your, er, back, and then I’ll untie you and you’ll be right as rain.”
The handle of the cane proved to have been inserted neatly into her arsehole, and from the deep recesses of her arsecrack he fished out her now thoroughly unsuitably stained blouse and one white sock. A quick check round failed to locate the other sock, or her bra for that matter: presumably Ionescu, like himself, took pleasure in little keepsakes that reminded him of some special occasion. He removed the truncheon, untied her at the back, untied her head and was about to unlock the handcuffs when he saw that the key which he had left on the nearest piece of shelving had vanished. A reasonable question to Julie about the whereabouts of the key merely provoked another burst of sobbing. There was no sign of it on the floor. Instead of unsystematic searching, he engaged his logical brain. He and Ionescu had a lot in common. In the Romanian’s shoes, what would he have done with the key? Taken it off to Russia, perhaps, or… Telling Julie on all account to stay still and bent over, he fished deep, feeling round with his fingers. She did indeed go very still, after a little muffled squeal. He found something, but not what he was seeking; but then his fingers touched something small, hard and of a complicated shape. Taking great care not to cause unnecessary distress, he drew out the key.
A moment later Julie was free and standing up.
“Oh, Geoffrey, thank you, thank you,” she burbled, falling into his manly arms, squashing her big breasts in the process.
“There, there,” he said softly, patting her head gently but trying to avoid contact below the waist as his rising weapon would have given the game away. It had happened a few times before that he had manoeuvred some young lady into a spanking, given her a thorough thrashing till she was a sobbing, quivering lump, and then on offering some small conventional words or acts of kindness had found her reacting as if he was her guardian angel. In a sense he was now quite used to it, but he still could not really understand it. He took pleasure in helping her into her one sock, uniform trousers, blouse, hat and shoes; he scooped up the tools of her trade into a large B&Q bag, and then, holding her hand, led her towards the house to “freshen up”, pausing only to pick up his pullover and lock the shed.
“Without a doubt you need a bath,” he informed her, “We’ll soon clean you up.” He politely motioned her to go up the stairs first, and followed close behind, enjoying the sight of her swaying uniformed arse inches from his face. He preferred luxuriating in a hot bath to prancing around under a shower, fiddling with the controls and getting alternately scalded and frozen, so he had never obtained a shower unit, only a shower attachment to the bath. Soon a steaming hot bath was ready – and Parslow too was ready, holding a short, bristly scrubbing brush and a sponge. Making no objection to his continued presence, Julie stripped off, dipped a toe into the water, scrambled in, her breasts swaying and knocking against one another, gingerly lowered her bottom towards the water, screamed, shot upright, slipped, fell in backwards, screamed again, thrashed around, managed to get up and scrambled out glowing pink as if she’d been microwaved at low power.
“The water’s a little on the hot side, is it, considering the state of your bottom?” Parslow asked. “Let’s try a little colder.” He pulled out the plug, let the hot water out, and then bent over the taps, chatting away about the weather and the undisciplined youth of today while he ran the cold tap only.
“Now the best thing, take my word for it, is to jump in and not play around testing the temperature. I guarantee it’s not too hot now,” he told her. She jumped in trustingly and screamed again. As she started to thrash around again, Parslow calmly told her the water was cold, not hot, that it would do her hot bottom good, and she had better get used to it while he cleaned her up. A moment before, Julie had believed the water was scalding hot, but now she knew it was cold, she started shivering. This caused her breasts to wobble in a rather enticing way, almost diverting Parslow from his errand of mercy. Almost. He had soaped the sponge and now he set about trying to remove the ink-marks from her bottom. The KH came off easily enough, but the sponge made no impression at all on the Anton Ionescu Enterprises stamps.
“Unfortunately, I’ll have to use the brush,” he told the quivering policewoman. Although he did his best to concentrate the bristles’ action on the two stamp marks on her cheeks, he could not avoid the marks of the cane. Julie screamed loud and long, but bravely took a grip on each tap so she could hold in position for the scrubbing. After two long minutes Parslow’s wrist was quite tired, Julie’s arse was redder than ever and the proprietory marks of Anton Ionescu Enterprises were as clear as ever. Parslow considered admitting defeat, but one look at her magnificent soft tits decided the matter. Even his tired wrist seemed quite all right again.
“Now I want you to be a brave girl while I scrub your titties,” he told Julie.
“I’ll be brave, Geoffrey,” she responded gamely. Parslow began to scrub her breasts while she moaned and quivered. He found that the brush kept slipping, so he took a firm grasp on each tit with one hand while he worked the brush with the other. As he had expected, the vigorous scrubbing did nothing to remove the stamp marks.
“I’m afraid these won’t come off – they’re in some kind of indelible ink,” he admitted, letting his considerable bulk subside on to the bathroom stool.
“Oh no! How long will I have them on for?”
“Oh, until the skin is replaced by the normal, natural processes. Two weeks, maybe.”
“Oh, NO!”
“Of course, the claim of ownership by Anton Ionescu Enterprises has no legal validity, at least in the U.K.. It might be valid in Russia, I suppose. Best not to go to Russia, that’s my advice. Now to complete the clean-up, you really need to sink right into that water and stay there for at least five minutes. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Geoffrey,” she said bravely. She was as good as her word.
Finally the ordeal by cold water was over. Parslow rubbed her vigorously all over with a big bath towel, taking far more care to do a thorough job than he would have taken for himself. She thanked him for his kindness three times more and was even more grateful when he found her one of his own white towelling robes to wear while he had a go at cleaning what was left of her clothes. She had forgotten to pull the plug out of the bath, and Parslow bent to pull it out himself; but as he did this, by a quite remarkable coincidence, he stepped on a bar of soap he had dropped on the floor, slipped and tumbled into the bath, almost with the grace of a footballer diving for a penalty until the big splash came. As he climbed out, his clothes sopping wet, Julie gave him a helping hand – despite her robe coming open and unrolling – and apologised several times for being the cause of his misfortune. Parslow changed quickly into another towelling robe, reassured Julie that his accident was of no importance, and led her solicitously downstairs to his living room, instructing her that she should set herself up with a good warming drink.
“Thankyou, Geoffrey, that would be lovely!” she burbled, but looked taken aback when he returned not with tea or coffee but with a bottle of whisky and a large, bowl-shaped glass.
“Glenfarclas 18-year-old cask strength,” he explained as he poured, “a superb single malt. Just a spot of water in it,” he added, pouring in the colourless contents of a small second glass. That was almost the last of that Finlandia vodka, Parslow thought to himself. Mental note for the supermarket next week. “Here,” he concluded, handing her the half-full big glass, “do you no end of good.” Julie sipped cautiously, paused, and took a second, bigger sip. Then she coughed and spluttered so that much of the spirit was wasted on the furniture. Parslow was irritated at the waste, but said nothing. Under his watchful gaze, Julie slowly drained the glass. It was at this point that he noticed something out of place: Mrs Harrison had left her white scarf behind on the arm of an armchair.
Julie’s lips and tongue felt numb but a wonderful, warming sensation like a gentle fire was spreading in her belly. She really did feel grateful to Mr Parslow for taking so much care with her after she’d wrongly arrested him and broken his valuable vase. He had been so big-hearted in getting over the loss of the vase and not even mentioning it any more! For a while when she was being punished she’d begun to suspect he was some kind of pervert who was merely using her, after all he’d admitted to being a spanker, but now after all his expressions of concern and kind ministrations she knew this had been an unworthy thought. As the glow spread, she felt better than she had done at any time since her brief moment of triumph when she thought she’d caught Ionescu. Parslow watched her with satisfaction. Then, to his intense irritation, the doorbell rang.
By the time he had reached the door, it had occurred to him that the caller was quite likely a police officer looking for Julie. He was relieved merely to see a smiling Mrs Harrison.
“I’m afraid I left my scarf behind,” she said. Then she looked at him with an almost roguish expression. “Where’s that vulgar little policewoman? Have you got rid of her yet?”
Parslow was struck dumb and merely stared at the woman, who looked amused.
“Oh, yes – Karen is a wild child but sometimes a remarkably helpful one, Geoffrey. She drew me away from Penny and told me what she’d found in your shed – so I really had to go and look for myself while Penny drove Karen back home.”
“Look, and what else?” Parslow thought, before concentrating on the vital information that not only Karen but also her adoptive mother had promising interests and attitudes.
“No, actually, er, Victoria, she’s still here. Look – just as a personal kindness, could you possibly slip into my office here and let me, er, finish dealing with her as she deserves? Right now if she saw or heard you it’d put a proper spanner in the works!”
“Put what in her works?” Victoria whispered as she complied. Still amazed at how quickly her upper-class mask of superiority and indifference had been abandoned, Parslow padded back to Julie, making some irritated remarks about Jehovah’s Witnesses. Julie began to mumble further thanks to him for his kindness, mixed with apologies for being so stupid as to confuse him with Anton Ionescu and praise for his big-hearted refusal to resent the loss of his Ming vase.
“Right, now, young lady – there’s just a couple more things I can do to help you recover. First, I’d like to give you something, a nice surprise. Could you kneel on the floor, shut your eyes and open your mouth?” he said chattily. Unquestioningly but clumsily, Julie obeyed. Her pink lips, unmarked by lipstick, were invitingly open as Parslow parted his robe. He took firmly hold of each delicate ear and pushed in. Up to this point he had not known whether the tipsy Julie knew and welcomed what was coming, or was really so incredibly naïve that she had no idea. The way she stiffened and the look in her big eyes as they opened told him the answer. Fortunately the instinctive reaction when something is shoved into your mouth is not to bite it, but to gag. A moment later he had pushed right in, reel as well as rod, and his instructions about Julie’s role were being obeyed.
“Good. Now stay there, please, move your knees a bit further apart, lower your head and stare hard at that whirly red thing in the rug pattern,” he instructed her. She complied, but miscalculated the downward movement of her head and gave herself a black eye on one of her own shoes. As he rose to walk round the back, a very slight movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Mrs Harrison had left the office and was at the living room door watching. He decided for the moment to ignore her. Arriving at the back entrance, he peeled the soft white robe up to her waist, revealing yet again the generous, plump, well-thrashed arse marked clearly as the property of Anton Ionescu enterprises. He remembered that someone had said that the law was an ass. Beneath the deep, dark mysterious cleft, where one could imagine miners finding gold or disappearing never to be seen again, an even more mysterious and enticing object peeped out, another pair of delightful pink lips but without any teeth to worry about. Parslow gripped the front of her thighs and pushed powerfully and disrespectfully into the secret temple of the law. PC Partridge spoke just one word – “Oh!” As Parslow fell into a rhythm and felt the divine pull as she responded, he wondered if this was the ultimate act of disrespect to the majesty of the law, the putting into action of many radical banners and spray-painted graffiti, or whether he counted as a “have-a-go hero”. A few minutes later, his gaze rose to meet the expressionless, watching eyes of Victoria Harrison, who smiled almost imperceptibly and silently left the room.
“Excellent!” Parslow declared, pulling out. “Now I’m sure with that inside you, young lady, you’ll be ready to face the big, bad world outside. I suggest you dress before you leave.” With no words, but a frightened, respectful glance, PC Partridge got up, took off the robe and began to gather together what was left of her things. She wobbled round comically and slightly unsteadily (though with few obvious signs of inebriation) looking for her knickers under various pieces of furniture before abandoning the search and pulling on the one white sock, now a little stained. Another comical search followed for the second sock. Failing to find it, she started to cry.
“Oh, Geoffrey, where’s my other SOCK?” she wailed.
“Halfway to Russia, I fancy,” Parslow replied helpfully. “Want one of mine?” She thanked him gratefully and he started off to find a replacement; but before he had left the room she had made other unwelcome discoveries:
“Oh, no! Where’s my TRUNCHEON? And – Geoffrey, oh no, oh no, my WARRANT CARD! Where IS it?” Parslow half-turned.
“Your truncheon should be there somewhere – I distinctly remember removing it from your bottom-crack and later taking it downstairs. I expect Ionescu’s taken your warrant card, quite understandably: in his line of business, I don’t imagine you miss a chance to acquire genuine police I.D.!” As he bustled off and up the stairs to his bedroom, he could hear Julie sobbing again.
Parslow did have a couple of pairs of white socks, purely for leisure wear, but he saw no reason why he should risk losing one of a perfectly good pair. On the other hand, there was that old thick woolly grey sock all on its own, its lifelong partner having mysteriously disappeared two or three months ago. That would do very well. As he came down the stairs he heard a door shut, and then, from his office, Julie’s raised, hysterical voice:
“Who are YOU? What are you DOING here? What are you doing with my TRUNCHEON? That’s police property! I’ve got to WEAR that! STOP IT IMMEDIATELY!” There was a brief pause, and then “I’ve WARNED you! Now…” The voice broke off and was replaced by a scream. Then a series of knocking, thumping, grating noises, mixed with human screams and groans, suggested to Parslow that Julie and the mystery person (presumably Victoria Harrison) had begun to fight. He hoped his computer, printer, copier and shelving would escape damage. Taking his time as he approached the office door, he was amused to hear the two women interspersing their blows and writhing with a verbal argument.
“You appalling little oik! Let go of my hair!” ordered Mrs Harrison.
“I’m NOT an oik! I’ve got a LAW degree, only I joined the (UMMNF!) Police to (GOT YOU!) help people! My father’s a (URRGH!) vicar!” Julie protested. Victoria’s reply was simple:
“OIK, OIK, OIK! OINK, OINK, OINK! AAAAAH!” As suddenly as it had started, the noise of battle stopped. Instead Parslow could hear a familiar sound – the vigorous whacking of a plump bottom. If there had been any doubt in his mind as to who had won the fight, the continued triumphant cries of “Oink, Oink, Oink!” which punctuated the loud cracks and squeals settled it. The fat arse of the law was in trouble again. Very carefully and quietly, he opened the door.
Victoria Harrison was seated on an office chair. Over the top half of her long, slim legs a now familiar object faced Parslow – a big, round, pink arse, clearly marked not once but twice as the property of Anton Ionescu Enterprises and decorated with neat red lines. Mrs Harrison put down the truncheon and carefully chose from the desk top a red, leather-bound A5 notebook which Parslow recognised as an old account book. She began to beat the arse with it. The notebook was rigid enough to hurt, but flexible enough to curve a fraction around the target, which flattened amazingly, momentarily moulded into a totally different shape, and then rebounded. On Julie’s official secret a pink flush spread and deepened. Each whack was followed by a scream and a little pointless writhing. Mrs Harrison looked up, saw Parslow, and smiled – a fathomless smile of superiority, triumph and carnal joy. He concluded Mrs Harrison was almost as interesting as the divine target she was punishing. Before long PC Partridge had for at least the third time that day been reduced to a soft, mumbled sobbing, the best music in the world for Parslow’s ears. With every sob the huge bottom wobbled. With every whack the red blush deepened. Mrs Harrison spanked on as though in a trance. Finally, she glanced at her watch, caught Parslow’s eyes, and nodded slightly. He returned the nod, silently closed the door, stomped heavily outside and noisily opened the door again.
“Good heavens! What IS going on? Is that Julie? MRS HARRISON! I am surprised at you! Unhand that poor young lady immediately! Don’t you know she’s a police officer? We should show more respect! Now take your scarf and leave my house IMMEDIATELY!” he hammed, and winked at Victoria who returned the honour. The tall woman pushed the plump young officer away from her and pulled back the chair, so the officer fell in a quivering lump on the floor. The punisher strode out of the room and Parslow heard the front door slam. Julie was still quivering and sobbing: he let this continue for a couple of minutes before lifting her up with many solicitous little remarks and helping her back into the living room, setting her down on an armchair and returning to pick up items of uniform which Victoria had torn off her.
The fight had done Julie’s uniform no good. Her navy-blue trousers were now torn at the back, not just with a split but with a big, broad tear. Her white blouse, already marked by Parslow’s spunk and its pushing into her bottom crack, had at least been entire, but now all but the top button had popped. The only thing left whole was her chequered hat. Somehow it seemed inappropriate that it alone was left pristine, and, feeling himself reacting to the fascinating sights he had just seen, Parslow turned the hat upside down and unloaded into it before bringing all the items back to the shaken policewoman. She did not appear to notice the tear in the trousers, but she stared at the blouse with dismay.
“Geoffrey! What on earth can I do? My titties are poking right out! Do you think you could be awfully nice and call a taxi? I won’t say anything about you.”
“I’d be very happy to, but unfortunately in this wealthy place, we have to rely on taxis from Potters Bar and Hatfield, and at this time of day there may be none to be had,” he lied. “Still, I’ll certainly try.” He wandered off back into his office, raised the phone, and recited into it:
“Mary had a little arse
Its skin was white as panties
Her uncle made it flaming red
And so did all her aunties.”
He returned to meet the beseeching gaze of Julie.
“Sorry, they were busy for at least two hours,” he told her. “However, I can do something to preserve your modesty. We don’t want any Tom, Dick or Harry seeing your breasts, especially as it’s so important to preserve the dignity of the law! Sit there and relax – I’ll be back in a moment.”
Upstairs again, he considered the options. He did have a couple of sweatshirts which might just have contained Julie’s extravagant curves. No way could her tits be jammed into one of his vests. He could lend her a shirt, but it seemed wrong to wear a shirt under a blouse. Ahah! He rummaged among his underpants, which divided about half and half between boxers and Y-fronts, selected an old pair of scarlet Y-fronts and brought them down to Julie.
For the first time since she tried to maintain her dignity under his cane, Julie showed signs of insubordination.
“You want me to wear THOSE? Isn’t there something else that would fit me?” she asked plaintively.
“No, there is not,” Parslow replied sternly. Your measurements are such that nothing else will fit you.” Then, more softly, “Come on, try them on – they’ll do till you get back home.”
She tried them on and, wonder of wonders, the scope of the elastic was just right and her magnificent breasts pushed against but did not break through the other end. Under Parslow’s indulgent eye she dressed again: white sock, grey sock, red underpants on her tits, soiled white blouse, torn trousers, sensible shoes, CS spray, radio and finally the uniform hat placed neatly on her blonde head hair. There was one more small problem, as her handcuffs had also disappeared, but she soon gave up looking for them when her tits popped out of the legs of the Y-fronts and she made several vain attempts to stuff them back in again. A little unsteadily, she walked to the door. Parslow patted her rump encouragingly. She turned, thanked him, and waddled down the gravelled drive on to the quiet suburban road. Parslow watched her receding arse wobbling into the distance, pursued by two small boys on bikes and an elderly gent walking his dog. He turned and went inside to meet the calm, knowing eyes of Victoria Harrison.
As Geoffrey and Victoria shared a glass of a fine Chilean cabernet sauvignon, he relaxed in his favourite armchair and her long legs stretched out on the sofa, she confided:
“Oh, by the way, Geoffrey – I rang the local police and told them one of their officers, or at least someone partially dressed in police uniform, was stumbling into Lower Acacia Avenue evidently the worse for drink. I think that’s neat.” If she was looking for approval, she did not get it. Parslow had enjoyed humiliating and punishing the naïve young policewoman, but he had quite firm ideas about limits and he had expected her to reach the sanctuary of her home, or some other safe place where she could change, before running into other officers. Still, that was spilt milk, water under the bridge and so on. He could not reverse what Victoria had done, but he could use it.
“That poor, simple young girl!” he said. “What have you let her in for? That is a disgraceful action, Mrs Harrison! Over my knee immediately!”
19.11.11