The absinthe flows freely as young flapper Rebekah and her friend mingle with a handsome artist at a bohemian arts society centered around a charismatic writer, all the while defying her industrialist daddy. A spanking story. [M/F, some light bondage]
Paddled Young Things
a spanking story
by Pygmalion, Esq.
Copyright 2012
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Paddled Young Things
by Pygmalion, Esq.
The sun rose again above the party that never slept.
Rebekah put a hand in front of her face to shield her eyes as she stepped onto the balcony, New York City, greatest city in the world, spread out in front of her. The music continued behind her, dancing to greet the sunset, and she felt a glass pressed into her hand. She could already feel the beginnings of a hangover, and so she was happily surprised that the glass contained water. She downed it, and nodded to Toby, the deaf-mute servant of the feast. The large black man made a sign, and she refused a refill with another. He nodded, took the glass, and disappeared back into the crowd, a crowd which Rebekah began to scan, looking for her friend.
She found her at the center of the feast, upon the sea-green chair where the founder of the feast directed the fun. Jillian was sitting on Jon Jerome’s lap, the skirt of her too-short silvered dress showing a scandalous—well, that is, if anything were scandalous at the party that never slept—amount of long white leg. As Rebekah watched, Jillian accepted a kiss from the great writer, and giggled as he whispered in her ear. She nodded, and Toby appeared from nowhere, carrying the absinthe tray. The crowd immediately surrounding the chair hushed as Jillian hopped off the writer’s lap and set herself in front of the tray. She looked over her shoulder at the Jon Jerome, who nodded. A loose circle formed around the tray, giving her room to work.
Rebekah groaned, walking forward, hoping that her friend had been practicing. She herself knew the penalty for an improperly prepared absinthe. Although—and she could feel her cheeks going red—the aftermath was altogether more pleasant. She looked around the crowd for Henry, who called her Reba, but she couldn’t find him.
Jillian had laid out all the equipment, and now she set the large tulip glass in the center of the tray. Jon Jerome steepled his hands as he watched. The absinthe poured in, a small amount—perhaps too small, thought Rebekah, remembering her failure—then Jillian used tongs to put a cube of sugar on the absinthe spoon, placing it on top of the glass. There was a small pitcher of water, and Jillian picked it up and began pouring it over the sugar cube, dissolving it into the absinthe below. A hush fell over the crowd as she let it sit, inspecting it, then she stood and picked up the glass, carrying it over the Jon Jerome. He took it, swirled it, then sipped. There was a long pause as he tasted it—and Rebekah saw her friend’s hand move down toward her bottom—then the great writer swallowed it, and smiled.
Applause, as Jillian sighed with relief and Jon Jerome finished the glass. He placed it on the tray and stood, taking her hand and kissing it, then he offered her his arm and she followed him through the swirl of the party toward one of the side rooms.
Rebekah felt lonely, and wanted Henry. Instead, with his usual impeccable timing, Toby provided her with a drink as the party that never slept went on without her.
***
They were calling it the Roaring ‘20s, and her father was the Lion. Rebekah’s mother was dead, victim of the post-war influenza, and Rebekah had been raised alone by a succession of maids and housekeepers, hired under the distracted parenting of her industrialist father.
He never asked me, Rebekah thought. And that’s what made her angry. He’s just arranged it, and expects me to jump, like an employee. Not like a daughter.
The letter was even typed, like a business memorandum, not hand-written, like an engagement announcement should be. Rebekah read it again, wondering when she’d agreed to all this. She hardly knew the boy’s name, a scion of steel mills somewhere.
He never asked me. He just took. And gave me away, for money.
Rebekah, even at eighteen, knew enough to know that money was important, and to know that money alone was not important. She didn’t want to be married for a business deal. She wanted to be married for love. She was no virgin—although in one of their walks in the garden, Jon Jerome had told her most men couldn’t tell the difference, being too drunk on their wedding night to care. She’d made a note of this—but she was no prostitute.
She wanted Henry, but she needed advice.
So she had the maid run a hot bath—there’s the importance of money again—and washed and dried her hair, which took hardly any time at all, it being bobbed. She chose a wonderful dress that cascaded, if she did say so herself, like a waterfall down her thin figure to cover her knees. She selected her most uncomplicated hat, then, looking herself in the mirror, she ran her hands from breasts to hips and around to bottom, still a little sore, but not unpleasantly.
She called Jillian, who had the car, and they were off.
***
SnaaAP! The crack of the bullwhip, just as she entered the garden, made Rebekah start in surprise. Jon Jerome was picking leaves off the bushes in the enclosed garden—more a greenhouse, in the winter—behind the mansion. She waited for the great writer to coil the whip again, then she coughed. He turned, bored green eyes boring (ooh, that was clever, she thought) into her mind, then, almost as if he’d just recognized her, he put the whip in the clip at his side and beckoned her.