I have agreed to do the spanking A to Z challenge, and will publish 26 stories over the month, each containing corporal punishment, starting with "A" and ending with "Z".
Sorry, this is a bit of a rushed job; I’ve had a busy, traumatic week.
New Job. Same old shit.
That was what was on the card that adorned the top of my monitor in the soulless office of dreariness and disinterest. I got that card on my first day from my last job, and in many ways it was correct.
It was the same old shit: I still had ex-offenders who would spend thirty minutes convincing me that they would never offend again, before checking the time on the mobile phone they had mugged from a teenager on the way to their meeting with me. I still had a 45 minute commute into work, and the occasional death threat. I still had the Police telling me I offered nothing of any value or I was a “softy, liberal type.” It was the same old shit.
But it was also something very different. Rosie.
I had Rosie Marshall on my books and I had to try and get young Rosie through her probationary period without re-offending. I was told that this was impossible, and she was the reason there was a vacancy: the last probation officer quit. The one before that had a nervous breakdown, and the one before that tried to kill her. It was a long list of failures, but it was easy to see why.
Rosie looked like most nineteen year-olds: fashionably untidy with a sneer of righteousness and a vocabulary from a drunk Glaswegian docker. She had long, black hair and a small frame with an innocent-looking face that belied the fact that an entire town were petrified of her. She didn’t look dangerous.
But she was. Expelled from ten schools, and arrested dozens of times, she was a relentless rule-breaking machine. Arson, check. Attempted murder, check. Assault, check. Battery, check. Witness intimidation, theft, fraud, smuggling, joyriding, all check. She was a one-woman crimewave.
And only me – a probation officer with three years experience – stood between her and the cliff of crime.
If I said my first meeting could have gone better, that would be an understatement. She arrived late, threatened me, stole my wallet and escaped from the window of a first-floor toilet. I was reprimanded.
If I tried the softly-softly approach for my first attempt, the angry probation officer approach fared little better with the hardened criminal: a hand around my throat and I was pinned against the wall, suffering the ire of the teenager as she retaliated against my domineering. With my final breath, I called for help by the panic button and she was arrested by my rescuers: attempted murder.
Against my better judgment, I declined to press charges as I was interviewed by the Police. They released her, just as I was leaving the Police station. “Wise choice,” she sneered at me on the steps of the imposing building. “You wouldn’t want me as an enemy.”
I snapped; something inside of me, snapped. I grabbed hold of the back of her neck, propelling her over the black railings. Several people stopped to watch as I slammed my right hand against her denim covered buttocks, yelling at the errant teenager. “You could cost me my job,” I cried, barely pausing for breath as all of my problems over the past two weeks came to a head.
It felt liberating; the firm smacks of the hand subdued the struggling woman as strike after strike landed squarely onto the rump of her backside. They stopped to watch: loads of people did. Here was the town villain being publicly humiliated and they were not going to miss it for anything.
She struggled but I was stronger; I found a superhuman strength from somewhere. Her cries of pain were exciting me, her threats I ignored. Suddenly she wasn’t an evil tormentor but just an errant teenager, feeling the wrath of society on her clothed backside. “Get in the car,” I barked at her, releasing my grip and standing back as her arms flailed around to try and strike me.
It was wild, and hopeless; I grabbed hold of her wrist as it flashed past me and pulled it behind her back. “Ow!”
“This is nothing to what I could do with you!” I yelled. “I’ve had enough of your games … you’re nothing but a naughty little girl. Get in the car!”
She screeched as I held her arm tightly to her spine. I laughed at the threats of violence before pushing her towards my aged Volvo estate. Suddenly, she was weak. Everyone in the street could see it: humiliated by a stranger, spanked and humbled. She wasn’t the strong, imposing, driven woman who terrorised her neighbourhood but an errant teenager.
“Get her!” A voice shouted from the crowd. “She burnt down my shop!”
“She stole thousands of pounds from me!”
“She put my brother in hospital.”
“She wrote off my car.”
“She …” She had done something to everyone, and they wanted payment. They wanted retribution. They wanted revenge.
“Get in the car!” I barked for a third time. “Or face this lot!” She whimpered. It was the first time I had seen her scared, and she froze. She had never been in a position like this before and it terrified her.
And her weakness gave me a position of strength; the panic in her face as she seized my car door and bolted it shut behind her. The quiver of her finger as she experienced what she had inflicted on dozens of people over the years. The panic in her eyes, the startled expression was glorious.
I adored that moment, driving away as a mob descended upon us. “I need to get out of here,” she squealed as my vehicle stopped at some traffic lights, hundreds of yards down the street. “I need to get …”
“You’re going nowhere,” I snapped, indicating to turn off onto her estate: a rabbit warren of hard working families and inhospitable individuals. She grunted as I pulled up outside her house. “Things are going to change. Every time, you mess up. Even a little bit, I’m going to spank you.”
“Fuck off!” She cried, her confidence returning. But she forgot how much I had brought about her humiliation. I stepped out of the car, opened the passenger side door and had her over my car bonnet in seconds. She screamed her profanities again, drawing a small audience as my hand left a dozen sore spots on her backside. She screamed as they laughed; her neighbours guffawed openly as my fingers gave her the lesson she deserved.
“If she causes any problems,” I yelled to the assembled crowd. “Any problems, I’ll bring her right back here and punish her again! In front of you all.” Rosie looked forlornly at me. “I mean it,” I snapped. “I’ll do it bare-bottomed if I have to.” She gulped. “One way or another, I will make a law-abiding citizen out of you!”
So that’s the secret behind getting a 100% success rate at being a probation officer.
The featured image comes from here.