A spanking story

It was a distinct surprise to Mr. Duchose to find himself in the empty white room, still lying in bed, but clearly not the bed, nor the room, where he had fallen asleep.

He didn’t seem to feel entirely himself in other ways. When he’d retired for the night, he felt a distinct soreness in the throat which usually indicated the onset of a bad cold or flu, accompanied by a feverishness and headache. His body had the normal aches of a 68-year old man, but more intense tonight, more persistent, and he had tossed and turned for some time before falling into a dreamless and feverish sleep.

Now, awake, Mr. Duchose felt refreshed, fever-free, pain free, and somehow much younger. He felt as if he were twenty-one again. And, glancing at his hands, he was startled to find that the liver spots and wrinkles to which he had been accustomed in his declining years were gone. His body felt much younger and more alive; in fact, he noted that, for the first time in more years than he wished to think about, he was possessed of a waking erection of considerable firmness.

What in the hell was going on?

**

A door, previously unnoticed, opened opposite his bed, and a tall, balding man in a gray uniform entered. “Good day, sir, and welcome,” he said. “I trust you had an easy passage.”

“Passage?” said Mr. Duchose. “Passage? What do you mean? Where am I?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” responded the stranger. “You don’t realize yet. Oh, dear, I do dislike these explanations and . . .well, it can’t be helped. Mr. ah, Mr…” He fumbled in his pocket for a notepad and studied it . “Mr… yes, here were are… ‘Duchose. Age 68. Massive heart attack. Single. Lived alone. No previous health problems. Will probably be unprepared’ I see. Yes. Well, Mr. Duchose, I am here to inform you that you are now at a new stage of your existence. That is, you are what you would describe as ‘dead.’

“Actually it is the wrong term, but that is what you would probably call it. Your other life ended last night, and you have now arrived here. I am your personal servant, and this is your room, and for quite some time, perhaps for all ‘time’ you will ‘live’ here, and I will tend to your needs. You ask for whatever you wish, and I will arrange to see that you have it. You are here to enjoy whatever you want, and I am here to provide it for you.”

Mr. Duchose had never been a religious man, nor had he ever seriously contemplated what might be in store for him, if anything, after death. He had lived a fairly decent life, with a normal share of deception, fornication, gluttony, greed, and duplicity, especially around his sexual life. He had not been, in his opinion a bad person, but he had not been especially good, either.

He was certainly an inherently selfish man, living his life for his own satisfaction with no interest in marriage or family or the welfare of his fellow man. In fact, he was regarded by those who knew him as a striving businessman, a bit over-competitive, perhaps, always willing to screw anyone who stood in his way, but not atypical in this regard.

Had any of his business associates know, of course, that Mr. Duchose had a secret fascination with spanking, a life-long obsession with all the literature and art he could collect in this regard, a vault of videotapes from Shadow Lane, Calstar, Redboard and others, a library filled with everything from Victorian birching novels to the most recent issues of “Spank Hard,” “Ma’am,” and “Stand Corrected,” he might have been vulnerable as a corporate executive.

Had anyone ever learned of his many trips to local establishments which allowed him to indulge his passion for stripping young women of all types and delivering sound spankings to their bared bottoms, he might not have been able to remain in the position of power he occupied. Yet he never felt that these excursions, or his out-of-town liaisons on business trips with ladies both professional and amateur, ladies who allowed him to spank them, or who, on occasion, put him over their knees to redden his backside, and generally followed such activities with cunnilingus, fellatio, and sexual intercourse, were really sinful, in spite of establishment morality.

He felt that such activities were his own business and no one else’s, and had he ever thought of an afterlife, he would not have expected to be visited by any heavenly retribution for his sexual proclivities. Looking about him, and now contemplating what seemed to be his apportioned due for the life he had led, Mr. Duchose was gratified to see that he had been entirely correct in this assumption.

Mr. Duchose had never failed to provide for his own desires, and his adjustment to his new circumstances was rapid. He quickly had his new liveried servant, who called himself “Beals” provide his room with comfortable furniture, a complete media center, stocked with video tapes and CD’s, a closet full of silk suits cut in an Italian fashion as well as a full variety of sports clothes, formal and informal outfits and shoes, and a Cuvier’s bathtub.

Before the day was out he had taken a long and luxurious steaming bath, dressed in pajamas of gossamer quality, and ordered a meal of steak and lobster with exquisite soups and sauces to accompany it, followed by a rich chocolate dessert, feather light, and freshly-brewed coffee of a richness he had never tasted before. With some trepidation, he asked Beals if there was any way he could have some feminine companionship, and within a minute was introduced to a young lady of perfect proportions, dewy skin, honeyed lips, and, he discovered later, pelvic thrusting which was awesome in its strength and unflagging in its duration.

Mr. Duchose spent the next few days exploring the space outside his room which seemed to change from day to day in ways which fit his desires. If he wished there to be a country club at his door, with a freshly trimmed golf course, there was. If he preferred a sandy beach with Nubia’s maidens scattered about, the beach was there for him, and so were the maidens.

He could, simply by asking for it, conjure up a street of shops with goods of every description the highest quality, and he could take whatever he wished from any of them without paying. There were theaters to visit, and restaurants to try, and always willing female companionship, willing to spend his days in leisure and his nights in lustful explorations, and every morning his companion would vanish without recriminations on her part or any obligations on his. It was, he realized, his life as he had wished it to be without obligation or concern for anyone but himself.

Of course, after a time, it became a bit dull. But Beals was at his hand to supply work when he wanted it, and Mr. Duchose was able to work as he had when he wanted to, and he did not let himself be too worried about whether or not that work had any real purpose.

Still, it was not too long before Mr. Duchose became a bit restless. He also felt a familiar longing come over him, one which had surfaced regularly throughout his life, and one which, even though Beals knew him quite intimately, he was embarrassed to share with him. But before long, the urge became too great to resist, and Beals had to be consulted.

“Beals?” Mr. Duchose inquired, “I would like to visit a bookstore today where I can find a somewhat special kind of literature, related to, uh, well, actually, spanking. You know, stories about spankings, drawings, childhood experiences, that sort of thing. It interests me.”

“Oh, I am sorry sir,” said Beals. “We don’t have any of that here for you.”

“How odd,” said Mr. Duchose. “Nothing? There must be some such place, even here. You do have porno shops don’t you?”

“Oh, yes sir. We do indeed. But they do not have any of that kind of material. No books, no video tapes, no magazines concerning spanking. Nothing. Not for you, sir. Sorry.”

“I don’t understand this,” said Mr. Duchose. “I thought you could get me anything I wanted.”

“Not quite,” said Beals, with what seemed to be the hint of a sly grin.

“Well, how about a girl? Not one for sex, at least not just for sex. Beals, can you get me a girl I can spank. I mean, I know it may seem odd, but that happens to be what interests me, and, well, that’s what I want. Make her about 18, in a little school-girl uniform, with white cotton panties. And get me an old fashioned wooden hairbrush while you are at it, and…”

“Sorry. sir. I cannot do that. No spanking here. No one will allow you to spank them. No one will spank you. No books. No magazines. I cannot discuss it with you, sir. No one can. That’s the way it is.”

“But, Beals, what is this? I have to admit it – spanking is the one thing I have always been passionate about. Is it really such a bad thing? It’s outlawed here? Have I been wrong in believing it to be an innocent pastime?”

“Oh, yes, sir, it *is* an innocent pastime. Many others enjoy it in the afterlife. It is a wonderful pleasure for those who practice it, I understand. In fact, it can be especially enjoyable when it can be done openly, and endlessly, in front of others, with all ages and sexes, in so many ways. It is a delightful erotic pleasure. But not here, sir; at least, not for you, sir. Never.”

“But Beals, I love spanking. I think of it all the time. It has always been the central passion of my life. If I can’t enjoy spanking, I might as well be in hell!”

“Yes, sir. Well, sir, where did you think you were?”