The Supermarket (A Short Story By Dave Wallace)
Copyright 1997 Electronic Manuscript Publishing Company, Inc. Indianapolis, Indiana 46227
Have you ever been in a hurry, joined the line in the 'Express Lane' at the market, and gnashed your teeth over the oaf in front of you - with $50.00 worth of groceries (in perhaps fifty items)?
Such was my situation, earlier today, running late for an appointment, and picking up a couple of things for the wife. As I shifted from one foot to the other, I imagined how I would enjoy thoroughly spanking the comely young lady in front of me - along with the cashier, who was complicitous through her acquiescence to the woman's wish to check out in the 'Ten Items Or Less' lane.
I was startled by the appearance of four burly security guard types seemingly materializing from nowhere, two of them pulling the lady out of line in front of my incredulous eyes, the other two seizing the cashier by either elbow.
Accompanying the four guards were two additional security personnel, also in uniforms, perhaps in their mid-twenties, each carrying a wooden paddle. As the guards pulled the customer and the cashier into an open area in front of the check-out lanes, I could hear the frantic protestations of both 'culprits'.
"How dare you. Let me go. I'll sue. You can't do this. What have I done?"
Then, suddenly, a voice over the store's public address system. "Attention shoppers, you will notice that one of our cashiers and a customer have been taken into our new punishment area. They will be disciplined in a moment, pursuant to a new city ordinance regulating the conduct of supermarket express lanes.
"Parents with small children are advised that, while we encourage your children's observation of this punishment, as a valuable lesson in proper public conduct, you should understand that these ladies' discipline will entail severe corporal punishment, specifically the application of a wooden paddle to their bottoms. Further, you should understand that this punishment will be administered on their bare buttocks, City Ordinance 4-7614-B dictating that all such punishments shall be applied in public, in the nude."
In the nude? Jesus, I sure didn't want to miss this. My fantasies were finally going to come true. My eyes followed the progress of the security personnel as they hastily stripped each of the women, securing their naked bodies to old fashioned, wooden pillories. A small crowd was gathering around the punishment area as the 'condemned' continued their ceaseless crying and begging.
"Please, don't do this. I'll never try to sneak into an express line again," could be heard from the hapless customer. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that I couldn't check out this lady at my lane. I'm new and don't know all of the rules," was the poor excuse for an excuse that the cashier lamely tried.
Ignoring the pleas of the two women, the guards had finished fixing their wrists and necks into the pillories and secured their ankles to floor moorings, effectively removing any possibility of escape. Their work accomplished, they stepped back as the two 'spankers' stepped forward.
The voice on the intercom continued. "While each of the women that are now pilloried at the front of the store will receive a severe paddling, the customer's behavior is seen as slightly less reprehensible than that of the cashier. Therefore, the sentence for the customer will be fifty swats of the paddle to her bare buttocks and immediate release; the sentence for our cashier will be fifty swats of the paddle to her bare buttocks, followed by a one-hour display period in the stocks. Customers or store personnel wishing to fondle or abuse the cashier after the completion of her correction are encouraged to do so."
I could feel the front of my trousers tenting in response to my excitement at the spectacle before me and reached into my pocket to surreptitiously stroke my hardening cock, not for a second taking my eyes off of the drama being played out no more than fifty feet away from me.
It became quickly evident that the women's paddlings were to occur simultaneously when the two 'executioners' stepped to the outside of the two pillories, readying their paddle arms, and shifting their feet to find a comfortable, firm stance. The women were both crying, having given up any hope that their lamentations would be to any avail.
Their nude bodies were incredibly erotic, their breasts hanging vertically to the floor, their torsos bent at the waist, with their spines parallel to the floor. Their legs had been spread perhaps three feet apart at the ankle, with the overall effect to be the positioning of their hips probably six inches higher than the crossbar holding their heads and wrists.
Their legs and buttocks quivered as they each presumably contemplated their imminent fate. The 'icing on the cake', as it were, was the provocative glimpse of pudenda, framed within the trembling, soft, secret, inner thighs of each penitent.
While the cashier's embarrassment had to be acute, at the gross indignity visited upon her by this outrageous affront, I could only imagine the mortification of the young, nude customer, her body shaven as smoothly and completely in her pubic area and between her legs, as it was beneath her straining arms and down her athletically-slim legs.
She seemed even more nude than the cashier, her labia looking distended and puffy, deliciously obscene in the glaring lights of the store. I think, though, that whatever degree of discomfort her unexpected public nudity was causing her, it was nothing when compared to her apprehension about her paddling.
One of the two paddlers seemed to be senior, judging from his comportment and manner, and it was a nod from him to his partner that began the chilling sound of the paddles' impacts upon the two naked, gyrating, female bottoms.
Once, twice, three times and four. The paddles fell in perfect syncopation, the resultant, strident cries of the two recipients of their fiery kisses, no less choreographed. The men wielding the paddles worked as a perfectly synchronized pair, their motions metronomic in constancy.
I'd lost count but knew that the women had probably suffered a dozen swats each and my imagination boggled at the thought that they had yet to endure another thirty-five-plus strokes of the paddles' wrath. The testament to the paddles' efficacy was evident in the tears falling from the two rueful ladies' cheeks and, the reddened buttocks of both as their skin became inflamed from the repeated assault.
Still, though, the paddling continued. I was somehow viscerally connected, it seemed, to the tableau before me. I could feel the paddles' impact in a pulsing in my erect penis - a repetitive swat/throb'swat/throb'swat/throb, and I knew, without thinking about it, that I was going to ejaculate into my trousers. I'd never done such a thing in all my life, the only spontaneous ejaculations I'd ever experienced being the ecstasies of nocturnal emissions as an adolescent.
Twenty - then thirty - then forty times the paddles fell, the women becoming nearly delirious in their screaming and begging. I was ******* of any other participants, save the women, the paddlers, and myself. I'd blocked out anyone else in the crowd, other customers and store employees.
As the paddle count approached fifty, I realized with a sudden insight, that I was going to cum in tandem with the last swing of the paddlers' arms.
I was abreast of the count, the chief guard, as I'd come to regard him, having loudly announced the count every ten strokes. It'd been six strokes since he'd called out, "Forty" and my excitement mounted as the forty-seventh fell.
Forty-eight, and my balls tightened in their sack, forty-nine, and the muscles in my cock began to spasm, and, fifty, my cock began its spurting into my cotton jockey shorts, filling the small space with jism, undoubtedly soaking through to my light-blue slacks.
"Sir. Sir. Please, sir. Are you okay, sir? Someone was shouting. I could barely hear them, feeling in a mental fog, as if awakening from a deep sleep.
"Sir. That'll be fifty-six forty. Sir? Are you okay? You must have been day dreaming, huh?"
I wish that I could have checked my downward glance, after having realized that the cashier had brought me out of an almost trance-like state, her bemused grin implying a knowledge of something I suspected but needed to confirm.
That downward glance, then, was necessary. Necessary to verify my suspicion - my intuition, bullshit, my wet, soggy feeling in my pants, that told me that not all of it was a dream. From a glance to my wet slacks, back to the cashier's smiling face, to the bag person's (you guessed it, another female) chuckling face, to the outraged, offended glare of the young customer - who, without her cognizance, had been soundly paddled, in the nude, not fifty feet from where we were standing - as she smirkingly huffed at my embarrassing condition.
People who know me will tell you they've never caught me at a loss for words. Thankfully nobody that knew me was present to hear the words of the young lady in front of me as she turned to the cashier and spoke. "Naughty boy, he deserves a spanking. If he was mine, that's what he'd be getting when he got home."
I wanted to protest. Assert my manhood. Somehow, though that seemed a bit far fetched when I considered the condition of my light-blue dress trousers.
After I'd stashed the bags in the trunk, started the car, pulled out of the lot, and was cruising down the freeway, on the way home, I found myself pondering. In spite of the embarrassment, in spite of how much it'd probably hurt, would I have wanted that young lady to take me home and deliver that much deserved spanking?
Copyright 1997 Electronic Manuscript Publishing Company, Inc. Indianapolis, Indiana 46227
Have you ever been in a hurry, joined the line in the 'Express Lane' at the market, and gnashed your teeth over the oaf in front of you - with $50.00 worth of groceries (in perhaps fifty items)?
Such was my situation, earlier today, running late for an appointment, and picking up a couple of things for the wife. As I shifted from one foot to the other, I imagined how I would enjoy thoroughly spanking the comely young lady in front of me - along with the cashier, who was complicitous through her acquiescence to the woman's wish to check out in the 'Ten Items Or Less' lane.
I was startled by the appearance of four burly security guard types seemingly materializing from nowhere, two of them pulling the lady out of line in front of my incredulous eyes, the other two seizing the cashier by either elbow.
Accompanying the four guards were two additional security personnel, also in uniforms, perhaps in their mid-twenties, each carrying a wooden paddle. As the guards pulled the customer and the cashier into an open area in front of the check-out lanes, I could hear the frantic protestations of both 'culprits'.
"How dare you. Let me go. I'll sue. You can't do this. What have I done?"
Then, suddenly, a voice over the store's public address system. "Attention shoppers, you will notice that one of our cashiers and a customer have been taken into our new punishment area. They will be disciplined in a moment, pursuant to a new city ordinance regulating the conduct of supermarket express lanes.
"Parents with small children are advised that, while we encourage your children's observation of this punishment, as a valuable lesson in proper public conduct, you should understand that these ladies' discipline will entail severe corporal punishment, specifically the application of a wooden paddle to their bottoms. Further, you should understand that this punishment will be administered on their bare buttocks, City Ordinance 4-7614-B dictating that all such punishments shall be applied in public, in the nude."
In the nude? Jesus, I sure didn't want to miss this. My fantasies were finally going to come true. My eyes followed the progress of the security personnel as they hastily stripped each of the women, securing their naked bodies to old fashioned, wooden pillories. A small crowd was gathering around the punishment area as the 'condemned' continued their ceaseless crying and begging.
"Please, don't do this. I'll never try to sneak into an express line again," could be heard from the hapless customer. "I'm sorry, I didn't know that I couldn't check out this lady at my lane. I'm new and don't know all of the rules," was the poor excuse for an excuse that the cashier lamely tried.
Ignoring the pleas of the two women, the guards had finished fixing their wrists and necks into the pillories and secured their ankles to floor moorings, effectively removing any possibility of escape. Their work accomplished, they stepped back as the two 'spankers' stepped forward.
The voice on the intercom continued. "While each of the women that are now pilloried at the front of the store will receive a severe paddling, the customer's behavior is seen as slightly less reprehensible than that of the cashier. Therefore, the sentence for the customer will be fifty swats of the paddle to her bare buttocks and immediate release; the sentence for our cashier will be fifty swats of the paddle to her bare buttocks, followed by a one-hour display period in the stocks. Customers or store personnel wishing to fondle or abuse the cashier after the completion of her correction are encouraged to do so."
I could feel the front of my trousers tenting in response to my excitement at the spectacle before me and reached into my pocket to surreptitiously stroke my hardening cock, not for a second taking my eyes off of the drama being played out no more than fifty feet away from me.
It became quickly evident that the women's paddlings were to occur simultaneously when the two 'executioners' stepped to the outside of the two pillories, readying their paddle arms, and shifting their feet to find a comfortable, firm stance. The women were both crying, having given up any hope that their lamentations would be to any avail.
Their nude bodies were incredibly erotic, their breasts hanging vertically to the floor, their torsos bent at the waist, with their spines parallel to the floor. Their legs had been spread perhaps three feet apart at the ankle, with the overall effect to be the positioning of their hips probably six inches higher than the crossbar holding their heads and wrists.
Their legs and buttocks quivered as they each presumably contemplated their imminent fate. The 'icing on the cake', as it were, was the provocative glimpse of pudenda, framed within the trembling, soft, secret, inner thighs of each penitent.
While the cashier's embarrassment had to be acute, at the gross indignity visited upon her by this outrageous affront, I could only imagine the mortification of the young, nude customer, her body shaven as smoothly and completely in her pubic area and between her legs, as it was beneath her straining arms and down her athletically-slim legs.
She seemed even more nude than the cashier, her labia looking distended and puffy, deliciously obscene in the glaring lights of the store. I think, though, that whatever degree of discomfort her unexpected public nudity was causing her, it was nothing when compared to her apprehension about her paddling.
One of the two paddlers seemed to be senior, judging from his comportment and manner, and it was a nod from him to his partner that began the chilling sound of the paddles' impacts upon the two naked, gyrating, female bottoms.
Once, twice, three times and four. The paddles fell in perfect syncopation, the resultant, strident cries of the two recipients of their fiery kisses, no less choreographed. The men wielding the paddles worked as a perfectly synchronized pair, their motions metronomic in constancy.
I'd lost count but knew that the women had probably suffered a dozen swats each and my imagination boggled at the thought that they had yet to endure another thirty-five-plus strokes of the paddles' wrath. The testament to the paddles' efficacy was evident in the tears falling from the two rueful ladies' cheeks and, the reddened buttocks of both as their skin became inflamed from the repeated assault.
Still, though, the paddling continued. I was somehow viscerally connected, it seemed, to the tableau before me. I could feel the paddles' impact in a pulsing in my erect penis - a repetitive swat/throb'swat/throb'swat/throb, and I knew, without thinking about it, that I was going to ejaculate into my trousers. I'd never done such a thing in all my life, the only spontaneous ejaculations I'd ever experienced being the ecstasies of nocturnal emissions as an adolescent.
Twenty - then thirty - then forty times the paddles fell, the women becoming nearly delirious in their screaming and begging. I was ******* of any other participants, save the women, the paddlers, and myself. I'd blocked out anyone else in the crowd, other customers and store employees.
As the paddle count approached fifty, I realized with a sudden insight, that I was going to cum in tandem with the last swing of the paddlers' arms.
I was abreast of the count, the chief guard, as I'd come to regard him, having loudly announced the count every ten strokes. It'd been six strokes since he'd called out, "Forty" and my excitement mounted as the forty-seventh fell.
Forty-eight, and my balls tightened in their sack, forty-nine, and the muscles in my cock began to spasm, and, fifty, my cock began its spurting into my cotton jockey shorts, filling the small space with jism, undoubtedly soaking through to my light-blue slacks.
"Sir. Sir. Please, sir. Are you okay, sir? Someone was shouting. I could barely hear them, feeling in a mental fog, as if awakening from a deep sleep.
"Sir. That'll be fifty-six forty. Sir? Are you okay? You must have been day dreaming, huh?"
I wish that I could have checked my downward glance, after having realized that the cashier had brought me out of an almost trance-like state, her bemused grin implying a knowledge of something I suspected but needed to confirm.
That downward glance, then, was necessary. Necessary to verify my suspicion - my intuition, bullshit, my wet, soggy feeling in my pants, that told me that not all of it was a dream. From a glance to my wet slacks, back to the cashier's smiling face, to the bag person's (you guessed it, another female) chuckling face, to the outraged, offended glare of the young customer - who, without her cognizance, had been soundly paddled, in the nude, not fifty feet from where we were standing - as she smirkingly huffed at my embarrassing condition.
People who know me will tell you they've never caught me at a loss for words. Thankfully nobody that knew me was present to hear the words of the young lady in front of me as she turned to the cashier and spoke. "Naughty boy, he deserves a spanking. If he was mine, that's what he'd be getting when he got home."
I wanted to protest. Assert my manhood. Somehow, though that seemed a bit far fetched when I considered the condition of my light-blue dress trousers.
After I'd stashed the bags in the trunk, started the car, pulled out of the lot, and was cruising down the freeway, on the way home, I found myself pondering. In spite of the embarrassment, in spite of how much it'd probably hurt, would I have wanted that young lady to take me home and deliver that much deserved spanking?
