'A story by Tomas'
My role as parish warden may seem to many to be a rather boring position, an unpaid voluntary job. Running around making sure that nobody is breaking our archaic by-laws, a bit of a joke really. It does however have it's little perks, albeit ones that I prefer to keep quiet. Take for example our local pub, I was already aware that a new landlady had taken over, and that she had ideas to increase business. Nothing wrong with that, as long as she stays within the law, and of course the parish by-laws. It had been brought to my attention that she was having a Halloween fancy dress party, so of course I would have to check to make sure there was nothing amiss. On arriving at the premises I was charged a three pound entrance fee instead of two pounds for not being in fancy dress, needless to say this did not put me in the best of moods. A quick look around the room, and everything seemed to be in order, a nice buffet arranged on two trestle tables. The room decked out in predictable fake cobwebs, with glowing eyed plastic rats dotted about the place, on shelves and under tables etc. The clientele a mixture of vampires, witches, and one mummy whose costume looked particularly impractical and uncomfortable. On the whole though I must say to my disappointment, all seemed to be in order.
Then it happened, as soon as the first few bars of the Crypt Kickers Monster Mash started playing a coven of witches made their way to the dance floor. Gotcha! I thought to myself, now the fun can start. I made my way to the bar and ordered a pint of Guinness from a pretty young nun with fang marks on her neck. "I was wondering if you could tell me who the landlady is please, sister." I asked her.
"Yeah, you want Clair, she is the purple haired witch in the big black boots," she replied pointing to a witch complete with broomstick.
Clair Eno, so that is what she looks like, time to introduce myself I think. I wait for the song to finish, after all I'm in no great hurry. I sip at my pint watching her closely, a nice outfit, short little black dress, black tights and knee length black boots. As she moves under the lights, the black and purple lacy covering catches the eye and draws you to her. Very fetching indeed, a single lady as bar manager also a very unusual appointment. Two songs later she leaves the dance floor and starts to make her way to the bar, I intercept her.
"Hello, I take it you are Miss Eno?"
"Er... yes but that's a bit formal, just call me Clair." She replies with an unsure smile.
"Well you see I'm here on formal matters." I say, fishing in my wallet for the correct business card, and handing it to her.
"Thomas Harold, like Elton John?" She says grinning at me.
"Sorry I'm not with you."
"Your second name sounds like it should be your first name," she says with a teasing look in her blue eyes.
"Well that's as maybe," I say starting to get a little annoyed, "as you can see I am the parish warden, and I am here in that official capacity."
"And how can I help the parish warden?" She says, her tongue darting across her purple lips.
"I'm afraid to say that you are infringing parish by-laws," I say firmly, trying to regain the high ground. "if you had bothered to read them you would realise that."
"What... which by-law?"
"No dancing on a Sunday without express permission from the parish council." I say in triumph, as I watch a frown replace her grin.
"That can't be right, we have a dancing license." She says as if trying to convince herself as much as me.
"Yes but not for a Sunday, surely when you were given this post your employer told you to check out all the by-laws?"
"Well yes... but I don't....." Her voice trailed off in confusion.
"Have we somewhere a little less noisy, and public, to discuss the ramifications of your actions?" I ask, reeling her in.
She nods, solemn faced.
"I'll just go and tell the girls, then we can go to my living quarters."
I watch her bottom swaying as she heads to the bar, all is going to plan.
We both enter the living room of her flat, I seat myself on the sofa, she sits on an armchair opposite me, her skirt riding up as she does so. It is tights that she is wearing, my initial guess confirmed as she gives me a good view of her upper thighs, before realising and pulling her skirt back down.
"The parish council take our by-laws very seriously," I start my little speech. "we tend to look upon any breaking of the laws as a direct insult to the community. As such we always act swiftly, and we have the full backing of the local constabulary and magistrates. How do you think your employer would feel if he loses his drinks license through your ignorance?"
"But it wouldn't.... couldn't come to that!"
"Why not, can you give me any reason why it shouldn't," I watch her fumbling for an excuse, "as far as we are concerned it is no different to you serving underage drinkers."
She stares at me doe-eyed, I know it is now time to feed her the get out clause. "Of course if you were contrite, and were to assure me that no such infractions would take place again, I'm certain I can convince the parish council that the matter has been dealt with, then no further action would be needed."
"You could do that for me?" she asks, her purple finger nails scratching nervously at her knees, her voice almost breaking.
"As I said if you are contrite," I say, now to the catch, "and you are willing to accept our traditional sanction."
"Yes, as I said we are very traditional here, sometimes a good sharp shock can work wonders."
"Sharp shock, I don't follow you." The nervousness returns to her voice.
"A good firm spanking, then things need go no further."
"Spanking? You are joking." Her voice betrays the fact that she knows I'm not joking, her fingers now trail through the ringlets of her purple wig and she becomes newly aware of her fancy dress.
"Yes, it is better than the alternative surely?" I ask her.
"Well it's a bit.... harsh." Say says, but her voice and body language tell me she is now accepting her fate.
"Harsh?" I ask her.
"Yes, harsh." She confirms.
I point to my lap by the way of an invitation. Biting at her lower lip she stands and removes her pointy hat and veil. Slowly she drapes herself across my lap. First I lift back the black and purple pointed lace meshing. Then slowly ever so slowly peel her dress up uncovering her two nylon covered orbs. Then my fingers reach for the waistband of her tights.
"Please.... no. I've nothing on underneath!" She pleads.
"It makes no difference, this was always going to be a bare bottom spanking, just less clothing for me to remove." I tell her.
As I pull down her tights to the back of her knees, she lift her hips with a little sob resigned now to her humiliation. I look down at her almost creamy bottom, so pale like a porcelain statue. I start to spank her slowly, letting each little slap sink in, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing through the room. She grunts a little in discomfort, as I slowly build up the heat to her seat. Then I start the punishment for real, I increase the speed, flicking from cheek to cheek. I alternate from using my palm to using my finger tips. My palm brings a resounding slapping noise, but my fingertips bring forth a cry of shock. It doesn't take long till a mesh covered arm finds it's way back, her hand trying to protect her bottom. I pull it back high upon her shoulder, then recommence my castigation.
"Please stop... pleeeeease I've had enough... I'll read all the rules... I promise!" Clair cries out.
I continue, I know when I will need to stop. After a couple of minutes she is sobbing for real, her pale bottom now bright red, and hot to the touch, but I continue ignoring her tears and her pleas. I've now totally roasted her bottom, so I move a little lower and start at the top of her thighs.
"HARSH!!!!" She shouts out, and I stop.
"I was thinking you had forgotten the safe word." I tell her.
"No," she laughs between the tears. "I was just caught up in it all."
My fingers now trail down over her hot buns, she parts her legs to accommodate my hand as I seek out her wet slick lips.
"It's funny meeting like this," I say. "I've never employed a bar manager before just by interviewing them by emails."
"The parish council, is that all real?" she asks me between sniffs.
"Oh yes, and I'm really the warden." I tell her, my finger now stroking at her firm clitoris. "and by the way, Boxing Day is on a Sunday this year."