A Punishment for the Avon Agent - (F/f, no sex)

You are visiting old Mrs. Silver who is over eighty but still wants to look
nice. You have got this special collection for elderly people mostly
comprising articles they remember by name from twenty, thirty years ago.
But this time a lady, and I mean a lady, opens the door. She is about
fourty and wears one of these timeless (and pricey) Coco-Chanel-tweed
costumes, has a somewhat European hairdo and a cigarette holder in her
hand. It emerges that she is Mrs. Profumo, the British niece of Mrs.
Silver. Mrs. Silver had to go to the hospital for a checkup and, though she
had tried several times, 'couldn't raise you on the blower', as Mrs.
Profumo puts it. You take it nicely and come in because Mrs. Profumo asks
you to ('Do come in, deah', all with this nice snooty upper-class English
accent). 'Do you have brought your suitcase ? Smashing, my dear, show me
what you have, there's a good girl, frightfully sporting of you.'

But as you open your little suitcase you realize it contains only things
Mrs. P. wouldn't possibly like. As she looks into it her eyes return to
your face with a curious mixture of very different feelings. Obviously she
finds what she sees ridiculous and disappointing. But there is another
expression as well. She has realized perfectly well that you are looking at
her with awe and respect and that you are impressed by her elegant and
authoritative appearance. The look in her eyes though you are not yet able
to classify it seems to you somehow familiar, from long times back. At last
you realize what is on, and Mrs. P. recognizes the growing knowledge in
your face. She says, 'You know, don't you? I knew you were a rather
intelligent little girl, my dear. But rather chaotic, aren't you? We can't
have you running about disappointing customers by showing them the crap you
are selling in old-age-homes, now can we?' You shake your head slightly.
'No.' You barely recognize your own voice, it is suddenly like a small
girl's. That meets with a satisfied nod on the part of Mrs. P. In a
realistic, no-nonsense voice she says, 'All right, my dear, let's get to
the business at hand. Would you mind very much to put yourself over my
lap?' With that she pulls up her skirt a bit, ostensibly in order not to
crease it. But you see her upper thighs and her undies, very elegant and
ladylike, and somehow you like the sight. Obediently you lie down on her
lap. Talking to you of all things about how her flight was and why she came
and how she is acquainted with Mrs. Silver she carefully folds back your
skirt. Then you feel her finger in your pantie-gum. You are mortified. Will
she really? She does, and down glide your bloomers until they nearly reach
your knees.

Whack Whack Whack. Astonishingly hard hands, you thought this would be
more of a game. It's definitely not that. It hurts like hell from the beginning.
Whack Whack. Switch-whack. You forcefuly close your lips, keep down your
feet, withstand the terrible longing to guard your buns with your hands.
You don't want to look weak to a Brit even if she's a lady. But the pain
grows and grows. Every time she hits a spot that has been hit before the
burning and stinging gets worse. In the end, the whole world centers round
your throbbing cheeks, round her ever returning, hard, hard hand, round the
soft, nearly inaudible and yet so menacing noise of her silk sleeves before
each loud and painful explosion. You do not know when exactly you have
broken down, but you realize you are not sobbing or weeping anymore but
howling, constantly. That makes her stop. 'There you are, my dear. ' Her
hands, suddenly soft and soothing, caress your behind. 'There, there. It is
over, little girl. You were very brave, at least most of the time.' You
raise to your knees. Hugging you, she dries your tears with her
nice-smelling handkerchief and gives you a peck on your cheek, very
matter-of-fact. Slowly you begin to dress. At the end you ask (again the
little girl's voice), 'Will you stay longer, Madam?' 'Oh yes, Susan, by all
means. And come back whenever you want to. I know you will need this
again.' You smile through your tears.

J.R.