Readers,
Here is a fine entry to the Spooky Spanking Story Contest: ‘The Book of Craig J. Applegate’ – and a perfect example of why it’s so very difficult to choose just one winner each time. Excellent!
*****
The Book of Craig J. Applegate
This story told by the two main characters, Jane and her husband Craig. It’s mostly fictional….
JANE
He was driving fast. Too fast. He often did.
CRAIG
I’m entitled. Dusk was settling like a blanket over the New England countryside—a Norman Rockwell of scarlet and yellow fading as it blurred into a streaked Jackson Pollock on the windows of the 911. Jane turned from the scenery.
“It’s so pretty here. Why don’t you slow down?” my wife asked.
I downshifted around a corner and my right foot punched 424 Teutonic turbo-boosted horses. They did what they do best and the air-cooled engine growled in delight.
“And you never know, there might be trick-or-treaters,” she continued, this time louder.
JANE
I thought he had finally paid attention to me as his ridiculous big boy toy slowed and came to rest on the gravel by the side of the road.
Craig had a concerned expression. “It died,” he said. “The engine.”
“Maybe you were going too fast for it,” I said, pulling the phone out of my purse.
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“It should.” I said, as I took out my frustrations by pounding the buttons on my phone.
Nothing happened. “That’s weird. I can’t get a signal.”
A branch scraped across the top of the car. In the distance lightning flashed. A few tentative drops of rain hit the windshield.
CRAIG
So we walked.
JANE
And walked. It was dark now. I was wet.
CRAIG
We’d been trudging down the road a good twenty minutes. Jane saw the lights of the house first. A jack-o-lantern sat on the porch—as I knocked on the door, the candle flickered out. The door opened.
I don’t know why I said it, but I did. “Trick-or-treat.”
The woman at the door was, in a word: hot. Young. Maybe twenty-six. Dark hair. Porcelain skin. She was wearing a witch costume. A sexy witch costume.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Applegate,” the witch purred. “Come in, get dry.” She looked out at the storm, “Trick-or-treating is over.”
With that she flipped off the porch light, turned and sashayed into the house. We followed. The view was spectacular.
JANE
“How did y—” I began.
“Know your names? I’ve read his book,” she said. “I can’t say that I’m a fan.”
The room was warm. A fire crackled. There were books everywhere.
“Well, you’re young. Maybe when you have a little more life experience, you’ll appreciate it more,” Craig said.
“However,” the young woman continued, and looked at me, “Mr. Applegate does have potential.”
CRAIG
Potential? A house in Los Angeles, an apartment in Manhattan, two movie deals in the works, nine bestsellers. Potential? Yeah right. I’m already there.
JANE
There are things my husband does that I’ll never understand. Flirting for example. The constant flirting. The woman wearing the witch costume in front of us was easily in her sixties. More life experience? She has plenty, babe.
“Do you have a phone?” I asked as water dripped from my hair onto the hardwood floor. “Our car broke down.” I pointed in the general direction of the storm outside, as though I needed to explain that my husband’s Porsche was, in fact, sitting a couple of miles down the road.
“No,” she replied, continuing to look at me, “I don’t believe in them.” Then as if to explain, “Phones that is—hate ‘em. Never got used to the whole concept.”
She looked at Craig and I swear she winked, “Porsches, however? Love them. ‘There is no substitute,’” she quoted.
The flirting was working, even on kindly Witchypoo Grandma, but my feeling of unease had nothing to do with the smile spreading across Craig’s face. I turned to the rain streaked window. How’d she know what we were driving?
CRAIG
The minx liked fast cars. Maybe I could take her for a ride. My latest novel sat upon a small end table next to an overstuffed leather couch.
She noticed me looking at it.
“Oh, not that book. In fact, that book I loved—stories about sin and redemption are my favorite type.”
“You make a good witch.” Jane said archly.
“Actually, I’m a wiccan these days,” the young woman replied. She held out her hand to Jane. “Bridget Bishop.”
I had a distant memory—a bell tolling a warning in the recesses of my mind, just out of hearing. I decided to ignore it and focus instead on the woman in front of me. I stepped forward, picked up the book, opened it to the flyleaf and pulled out a pen.
“You should have loved it Ms. Bishop—thirty-six weeks on the New York Times Bestseller list.” I said. “And counting.”
I signed my name with a flourish. She took the book from me, her hand brushing mine and I felt a chill that spoke of bone turning to dust and headstones under New England snow and death and decay.
“Thank you. For such a beautifully written book, I’m not surprised,” she said. “No, I’m talking about this book. Your book.”
The word “your” hung in the air as she walked over to a bookcase and pulled out a thick, dust-covered tome.
JANE
The old witch handed me a book, that if it were possible, looked even older than she did. The leather was cracked with age. It felt warm and well worn. It was heavy. But those weren’t the things I noticed first. It was the title of the book, embossed in gold on the cover:
THE WYCKEDNESS
of
CRAIG J APPLEGATE
A Catalogue of General Maleficence,
Lasciviousness, Drunkenness,
and Debauchery
I looked at Craig.
“Yes,” Bridget said, “it’s his book. Your husband’s book. Open it.”
I did so and read aloud: “‘We describe herein all the churlish, boorish and naughty behaviors of Craig J Appleton, a free man, aged 46, of the county of…’”
Bridget spoke up, “It’s quite the read.”
My eyes scanned down the page, taking it in.
“Oh, Craig.” I said softly.
“Yes, this book has everything. Every lie, every sin of omission, every bad and naughty thing he has done.”
She began to circle my husband, speaking to him.
“It’s all there—from the clock he broke and blamed on his sister…
…to the petty misdeeds, like a filched candy bar…
…to the more serious crimes. Like the woman that he claimed to love merely to fulfill his own carnal desires, when he knew he didn’t…you weren’t even confused, were you, Craig? You knew that you didn’t love her, but you said it anyway…
She shook her head. “I could show you her tears, but I am not cruel…
…to what happened on a trip to Vegas in 1998…let me give you a bit of advice Craig—it doesn’t stay there.”
She stopped circling and turned to me. “If you’re curious Jane, that one’s on page 128.”
CRAIG
How?
JANE
I was wiping my tears when I noticed Bridget behind me. I felt like I’d been reading for hours and my trust had been sandpapered. Her voice brought me back to the present.
“There are many instruments of correction that would be suitable for your husband, but I think this will work best. It’s a most serious punishment for some serious wrongdoing.”
She was holding up a slender rod. It was half-an-inch or so by about 3 feet. Bridget bent it in her hands, showing its flexibility before she swished it through the air. She handed it to me and turned toward Craig.
“Remove your clothes,” she commanded. “We dealt with miscreants in my day.”
Craig hesitated, and—it must have been some trick of the light or maybe I was still lightheaded from reading the accusations of the strange book—but the next thing I saw was my husband, half-naked, prostrate over the back of the couch.
I looked at Bridget.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“You know what to do,” she said softly.
“I do?”
“Yes. You’re to hit him across his naked, bared buttocks, very hard. Like this.”
CRAIG
I heard the cane cut through the air, whistling a tune filled with condemnation, authority and reprimand. The sound was only eclipsed by the pain. The stomach-turning splat as three-quarters of an inch of correction hit my flesh was lost on me. The shame of unforgivable moments past was now brought to life as a purely physical agony that was equal parts awful and awesome in its transcendence.
I couldn’t move. Inches away, but sounding like it was miles and years distant, I heard Bridget continue to instruct my wife.
“You are to allow him to pay for his misdeeds in flesh,” she said.
The streak of sting was now exploding into me, barreling deeper into my bottom, and as its pain grew my shame dissipated by an equal measure.
Bridget continued, “Allow him to pay for his many transgressions.”
And with that, she brought the cane down again and again and again and again.
JANE
Angry red lines grew from and across the pale, white bottom. My husband’s bottom. It made me think of something. It took over the images of him skipping school, of that extra shot or two or three of Scotch, of his evasions, and of an almost-infidelity in room 387 of the Bellagio.
“Must be all the fertilizer in there.” I said, my voice rising.
“Huh?” Bridget questioned.
“He’s full of it. Been that way for a long time. Give me the stick.” My voice was shaking.
Bridget smiled. “It’s called a cane my dear. And please, do not stop until…well, you’ll know when to stop. It shall be neither too many or two few.”
I took the cane and raised it high and as I did, I felt just a touch of worry, a short hesitation—what if I hit him too hard? It lasted but a moment, and I brought the cane down.
CRAIG
Through the haze of sting, soreness and throbbing, it changed. It all changed. Yes, the pain was there—strips of fire, laid one after the other on my bottom—but so was something else. Forgiveness. Redemption. The scales were tipping back to balanced.
Jane raised the cane again.
And another stroke of the cane.
And another.
And another.
More pain. More equanimity. More forgiveness.
Bridget bent down to my face. I barely noticed her.
“Who….who are you?” I stammered.
She moved in even closer. Her breath was warm against my cheek.
“Don’t you know? I’m the witch of your dreams,” she cooed and laughed quietly.
JANE
I was done. My arm was sore from the exertion. I was sweating. Craig lay over the couch, crying softly. What had I done?
“I…I just allowed stuff to get out of control,” he croaked, trying to stand.
“I know. It’s over now, “ I said.
“No, it’s just the beginning.” It was Bridget talking.
“The cane is yours to keep…” she said as she faded from view.
The room in fact was fading too. Everything but Craig, the book, and the cane in my hand was changing. Turning to mist. It was getting colder.
“As is the book.”
And she was gone.
CRAIG
We were alone in a clearing. It was daylight. The sun shone. My pants were still around my ankles. My bottom was a mass of welts and agony, but I was at peace.
With a start, I realized I was resting across a slab of granite jutting from a low stone wall. I fought my way to my feet. The granite was a memorial of some sort. I read the words:
“BRIDGET BISHOP. HANGED. JUNE 10, 1692. SALEM, MA.
I looked over at Jane. She held the cane in one hand and a very old book in the other.
Visit my premium video, DVD, and products website at DanaKaneSpanks.com.
What a marvellous story! Thank you for sharing it with us – you write so very well. I loved it – it had everything a good spanking story could ever ask for – thank you too, Mistress Kane, for bringing all these talented authors to our attention!
hh