Here is a story by an author who wrote for a time on the old SSS newsgroup on USENET. The author’s handle was BCC or sometimes BCCFafnir. This is a cute little story about some interesting coupons that fall into hands other than those for whom they were intended.
“I’ll need your last appointment of the day. How late are you open?”
“Well, someone is usually here until 6:00. But, I can give you just
about any time you need.”
“6:00 would be great, if it is not too much of an inconvenience.”
“It’s not an inconvenience. I’ll see you at 6:00 on Thursday.”
It was not an inconvenience, but it was damn passing strange. Sure,
it is possible. But it is unusual, and in my experience
unprecedented. Kids just do not think much about trusts and estates.
“Miss Worthington is here to see you. Are you sure you’re not going
to need me?”
“No, that’s fine. Please show her in, and then lock the door.”
I think I recognized her. At least, I think so now. She was quite a
bit taller, but the face was the same as I remember. I rose to meet
“Please have a seat, Miss Worthington. I’m Michael Patel.”
“Rebecca Worthington. Bekki.”
“Your initial call did not give me a lot to work with. So, what can I
do for you?”
She took a moment and just sat looking at me. That was fair enough.
A client needs to have faith in the attorney, so a couple of moments
of assessment are not unwarranted. In this case, however, she was
entitled to take days.
“My mother died recently. Her name was Ellen Worthington. But you
knew her as Ellen Frey.”
Ellen Frey. It had been almost twenty years since I last saw Ellen.
It had been almost eighteen years since I gave up trying to find her.
“Don’t be. She had cancer, and it was eating her alive.”
We both sat quietly for a moment. I think Miss Worthington just
watched me. I do not recall what I was looking at, or whether I said
anything else. I was caught in one of those interminable flashbacks.
The night before I left for Chicago, we should have held each other
all night. Instead we fought. We fought over everything. But most of
all, we fought against our own unwillingness to compromise. If Miss
Worthington had not started speaking again, I would probably still be
reliving that last night.
“I was born Rebecca Frey. Mom married my dad when I was six. He
adopted me. He’s a wonderful man, and I love him with all my heart.
But he isn’t my real father. I’ve always hated my real father for
abondoning me. But when Mom died, she left me her diary. She never
told my real father about me. He never knew. So all the years that I
spent hating him were wasted. I have been feeling guilty about that.”
“So, what can I do for you, Miss Worthington?”
“There was something else in her diary.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out the card. It was a silver,
standard sized business or calling card, of exceedingly high quality
cotton paper. I had not seen one like it in over twenty years. She
passed the card across my desk.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Yes. I do.”
I was at an estate sale. The deceased had been the last in a line of
family printers going back to the 1800’s. The sale was winding down.
I was among the last rummagers. There were still reams of paper, some
odd typeset, and various assorted boxes and bags of miscellanies. But
at the back of a shelf was one long box of five hundred unprinted
silver business cards. The lady at the checkout took two dollars for
the box. I returned to my apartment with five hundred silver business
cards, and no clue what I was going to do with them.
We were not living together, yet. But we were lying, spooned, in
bed. I was lying behind Ellen. I was holding both of her wrists over
her head with my left hand. With my right, I was alternately teasing
her breasts, or massaging between her legs. We still were making up.
Up until a few hours earlier, Ellen had been in active pout mode.
She had been well spanked by hand first for smoking after she agreed
to quit, and then by the broad wooden hairbrush that we had bought
solely for that purpose, for lying to me about it.
“I’ve got it,” I exclaimed, while pinching her right nipple.
“Yes, you fucking do! Now let it go!”
“Quit fussing,” I warned her, as I released the nipple and cupped the
small, pert breast.
“I’m not fussing, dammit.”
I released her breast, and gave her well marked bottom a smack.
“Be quiet for a moment and listen. You know that box of silver
“You mean the ones that I asked you, ‘What the fuck did you buy those
“Yes, those. I figured out the perfect use for them,” I explained,
as my right hand drifted back between her legs. “When you leave, I’m
going to give you a stack of those cards. Then whenever you
misbehave, all you have to do is come over and present me with one of
those cards. You don’t have to explain. Just mark down the appropriate
punishment. For example, you decide to sneak a cigarette. Then you
mark down, say, twenty-five smack reminder. If you do it twice, then
you mark down fifty smacks, and ten with the brush. You know, mark
down whatever is reasonable. If you don’t get an assignment in on
time, mark down fifty with a belt.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s sounds really reasonable. Ohhh. Not so fast!”
“Well, I suppose if you’re having trouble, we can work out an
“Oh. A schedule, huh?”
“Right. And then there is the matter of fees.”
“Fees. You want fees?”
“Absolutely. Fees are certainly appropriate, since I will be
providing such a valuable service.”
“This is a service?”
“Right, a valuable service.”
“Okay. So what, are, the fees,” she asked breathily.
“Hmm. Let’s see, for a simple over-the-knee reminder, one French
“I thought so. For a serious infraction warranting more than ten
strokes with an implement, or for a second violation in a fortnight,
one blow job. And finally, for two serious infractions, or three or
more violations in a month, one full fuck,” I explained spreading my
fingers so that my pinkie could tease her anus while I continued to
probe in front. “Client’s choice, front or back.”
“Fine, I’m a four time loser. Front then. Now!”
When she left, I gave her a dozen cards. She questioned my parentage.
I, in turn, threatened to wash her mouth out with soap, and give her
another twenty-five smack reminder. Ultimately, however, I settled for
a simple, off the shelf, good-bye kiss. I did not think about the
matter again until a knock on my door at 11:00 p.m., about two weeks
Her name was Cindy. I do not recall her last name. She was one of
Ellen’s suite mates in the dorms. I knew her in passing.
“Hey, Cindy. What’s up?”
She did not say a word. She walked past me into the apartment. As I
closed the door, I saw her shoulders twitch twice. Cindy burst into
tears. I had no idea yet why she was standing in my hallway crying,
but I went over to comfort her.
“Hey. Shhh. It’s okay. C’mon in.”
I led her into the living room, such as it was. I shoveled books and
potato chips off of the couch, and invited her to sit down. She did.
“What’s going on?”
“I f-failed my midterm.”
“Okaaaay, ” I replied tentatively, still unsure how this pertained,
in any manner, to myself.
“E-Ellen s-said to give you this,” she clarified, holding out an
unprinted, standard sized silver business card.
“Oh. Really,” I replied as enlightenment spread simultaneously
through my brain and my groin. I turned the card over. In neat,
clipped hand printed letters, the following was written, “Fifty
cracks–Hair brush; Corner Time.”
Now Cindy was not known for her sense of humor. Further, her major
was engineering, not drama. Still, I remained dubious. I excused
myself, and ran back to the door. I went out into the hallway, and
looked carefully both ways. I ran down to the stairwell, and checked
both above and below the landing on my floor. Ellen did have a sense
of humor, and a key to my apartment.
I walked back into the apartment and closed the door. Cindy had not
moved from the couch. She also had not stopped crying. I brought her
over a box of tissues.
“Look at me, Cindy,” I instructed. She looked up as she wiped her
eyes. “Did Ellen put you up to this?”
“N-no. Since I got the test b-back, I’ve sitting in my room c-crying.
I know I have to get back to w-work, but I c-can’t. Ellen said that
she knew s-someone who could help.”
“Did she tell you what that card is supposed to mean?”
“Y-yes, she did. Everything. That’s my handwriting.”
I took her head in my hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Look me in the eye, Cindy. Do you really want me to fetch my
“N-no, I’m scared. B-but go g-get it anyway.”
I went back to my bedroom and retrieved the brush. I returned to the
living room and placed the good chair, that was the untorn card chair,
in the center. I handed the brush to Cindy.
“Are you sure?”
Cindy handed me the brush and nodded. I sat down on the card chair.
Cindy rose from the couch, and came over and stood in front of me.
She unsnapped her jeans. I unzipped the jeans, and lowered them to
her knees. I took her hand, and pulled her over my lap. I started to
pull her undies up into the crack of her ass, but Cindy stopped me.
“No, please. Just take them down.”
I did. I laid the hairbrush down on her bottom. She clenched both
cheeks. I raised the brush, and waited.
She nodded. I smacked. Crack! I did not live in the best of
neighborhoods. But gunfire was still unusual. I was surprised that
the first crack did not bring the police. I think Cindy was surprised
also. As bad as she thought it was going to be, reality was much
After half a dozen smacks down the middle to warm her up, I settled
into a nice rhythmic left smack, right crack pattern. From the very
outset, Cindy showed her roseate appreciation.
After about a dozen of the alternating smacks, Cindy settled in for
some serious crying. The preliminary tears on the couch were just a
warm up. Screw Boardwalk. With each fiery crack, Cindy demonstrated
that she owned the Water Works. Crack! Smack! Whack! Hell, living on
the third floor, I never imagined that I might need flood insurance.
Crack! By the time I reached thirty, Cindy’s bottom was glowing, and
her legs were kicking wildly. I hooked my right leg over hers. Whack!
I was tempted to stop. She certainly had plenty to think about. But,
then again, she had set the number. Smack! It was only fair and
proper to give her what she had requested. Crack!
After forty-five blazing whacks, I paused. I set the brush down on
her back. I ran my hand over her rubescent globes.
“Cindy, quiet down. We’re almost finished. I want you to listen to
me.” It took an hour or two, but Cindy was finally able to shut down
enough valves to reduce the tears to a trickle. “That’s a good girl.
Now, before I give you the last five, I want you to take a moment to
remember why you’re here. Then after I give you the last five, I’m
going to put you in the corner for half an hour to think about it.
Now I want you to count down these last five. Do you understand, me?”
Cindy nodded. I lifted the brush. Cindy tensed. I waited
I set the brush down. I lifted Cindy up off of my lap. I took her by
the ear, and walked her over to the wall. There was no way to get past
the clutter to the corner. I placed her facing the wall with her hands
on her head, then went to the kitchen to set the timer on the stove
for half an hour. I walked into the bathroom, and threw cold water on
The buzzer finally sounded on the stove. I turned it off, and
returned to the living room. I walked up behind Cindy, took her hands
off her head, turned her around and hugged her. After holding her for
a few moments, and letting her cry on my chest, I realized that she
was still bare bottomed. I reached down to help pull up her undies,
but Cindy stopped me.
“I told you. Ellen explained everything. I still have to pay.”
Cindy took several cards with her when she left. For the next year
and a half, a couple of times a month, a lady caller would arrive
bearing a silver card. On two occasions, there were multiple bearers.
In the fall of my final year of law school, Ellen moved in with me,
much to the chagrin of her parents. Ellen agreed that I should
continue to accept cards, but insisted that all services be provided
“Do you recognize it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Mom’s diary was very explicit. It explained everything about the
silver cards.” She reached out, and turned over the silver card.
Neatly written on the back were two lines, “Twenty-five hand” and
“Twenty-five brush”. Miss Worthington opened her purse and took out a
wooden paddle hairbrush. It was not quite the same as the original,
but it was damn close.
“As I told you, I’ve been feeling very guilty about years of ill will
towards my real father, when he never even knew I existed. Are you
still accepting cards?”
I did not reply. Taking my silence as an affirmation, Miss
Worthington rose, and unfastened her skirt. She removed the skirt,
and laid it over the back of her chair. She turned, and held out the
hairbrush across the desk. I reached for it, but she did not release
her grip on it. Instead, she pulled it back gently, drawing my hand
with it. Without releasing my grip on the brush, I rose, and walked
around the desk. Miss Worthington turned her chair around to allow
more space. I sat down in the chair. Miss Worthington finally
released her grip on the hairbrush.
Without further instruction, Miss Worthington placed herself over my
lap. I set the brush down on the small of her back. Although Miss
Worthington was a good head taller, the pear shaped buttocks under her
nylons definitely came from Ellen Frey. As I raised my hand, I heard
Ellen whining, “I said I’ll be good.” I closed my eyes, and gave Miss
Worthington a resounding smack across both cheeks.
I used my own handkerchief to wipe away the last of her tears.
“You said that Ellen’s diary explained everything?”
“And how will you be paying for this appointment.”
“Actually, this one is pro bono. According to the diary, until I was
six, my mother only slept with one man.”