Vicki learns a lesson

Vicki did a slow, graceful pirouette in the confines of the dressing room, seeing herself from different perspectives in each of the three full-length mirrors. She was, she told herself happily, absolutely stunning in the emerald-green bikini. Danny couldn’t fail to notice her—not if she wore this to the senior class swimming party!

The thought of Danny made her knees go weak. She saw the top of the bikini in the mirror sprout little knobs as her nipples hardened abruptly. Her face reddened at the thought that a swimming suit could advertise her feelings so readily.

For four years—all her life, really—Vicki had maintained what her teachers called a “wholesome” image. She’d behaved in class, done her homework, made good grades, lettered on the girls’ track team, joined after-school clubs, never cut classes, said “no” to booze and drugs. It had always been a foregone conclusion that she would go to college after high school, and in the past few months she’d received an almost embarrassing variety of scholarships, based both on her scholastic record and her civic contributions.

At the same time she knew, as a matter of calm certainty, that she was the best looking girl in her class. Most of her fellow students would agree that she had the prettiest face, but a number of girls were commonly regarded as sexier. That was because they tended to have dirty mouths and wore clothes that her parents had taught her to regard as “trashy.” Vicki had seen those girls taking showers after gym class, and there was no doubt at all that her breasts were fuller and rounder, her stomach flatter, her thighs trimmer and her butt firmer, than those of any of those “sexier” girls.

No one else knew that, because Vicki wore clothes that, while attractive, did little to call attention to her figure, just as her reputation as a good student and all around “nice girl” tended to discourage boys’ speculative attempts to get inside her clothes. The last two years she’d dated a lot, going out with a number of the most popular boys but never limiting herself to one exclusively. Kissing, even French kissing, was OK, but she had never let a boy feel her, not even her breasts. It wasn’t that she was a prude, she was sure of that. She wasn’t determined to be a virgin when she got married, or anything so extreme, but none of the boys she’d met so far seemed all that special to her.

Until Danny. Danny who’d transferred to her high school midway through senior year, Danny the third baseman, Danny the soccer forward, Danny who washed his car on Saturday morning wearing only ragged cut-offs. Vicki suppressed a giggle as she remembered thinking, five minutes after she’d seen Danny washing his car, that her pants were probably wetter than his!

The problem was that Danny had never seemed to notice her as anyone special. He’d say hi to her in the hall, but he had never asked her out, and she never caught him looking at her the way a lot of the boys did. Vicki knew he’d gone out with other girls, but he didn’t seem to have anyone special either.

To get Danny’s attention, Vicki was prepared to relax her nice-girl image. (In fact, Vicki knew, if Danny suggested it she was prepared to relax more than her image!) The senior swim party looked like her best opportunity. It was two weeks away, after senior exams but before graduation, and everyone would be there. All she had to do was be more noticeable than any of the other girls. The swim party would, in a sense, be her “coming out” party, and no one who saw her wearing the emerald bikini would ever see her again, no matter what she wore, in the same way they’d seen her before.

Vicki was pretty sure her parents wouldn’t approve of a suit like this one—the bottom wasn’t much bigger than the top—and she felt guilty about having to deceive them, but they weren’t very likely to find out. What made her feel even more guilty was that, for the first time in her life, she was about to steal something.

The price tag on the strapless bikini was an even sixty dollars, and Vicki had exactly $38.47. She’d brought several cheaper suits into the dressing room and tried them on first, but none of the others looked even half as good on her. Her mother would probably advance her enough money, but not without asking why, and Vicki decided that she would rather steal the bikini than lie to her mother about why she wanted the loan.

Her purse seemed to be the only place to conceal anything, and Vicki decided that if anyone got suspicious, her own underwear would be less conspicuous in her purse than the bright green of the bikini. She stuffed her bra and panties deep into the purse, covering them with her hairbrush, her pocketbook and a package of Kleenex, and quickly zipped herself into her skirt and buttoned her blouse.

She was pretty sure that no one was using the dressing room next to hers, so Vicki took the hanger on which the bikini had hung and dropped it over the partition separating the two rooms. It landed with a soft “thud” on the carpeted floor, but there was no other sound. So far, so good.

Vicki gathered up the other suits and their hangers and stepped out of the dressing room. A sales clerk was ringing up a purchase at the counter twenty feet or so away, but she seemed to be paying no attention to the dressing rooms. Vicki walked over the counter and waited until the clerk had finished with her customer.

“I’m sorry,” Vicki said. “None of these really seems to be ‘me’. Should I put them back on the hangers?” The sales clerk thanked her for offering but said that she’d had more practice and could do it quickly, so Vicki left the tangle of cloth, plastic and wire on the counter and started toward the front of the store. Her heart was pounding, and she expected at any second to hear someone shout “stop, thief!”

The dreaded shout never came. Vicki stepped out the front door and shuddered with relief. Involuntarily she looked back into the store and saw a young man walking calmly toward her. “Excuse me, miss, didn’t you forget your purchase?”, he asked politely. He stopped several feet away from her.

“No,” Vicki responded, walking toward him to avoid raising her voice, “I tried some things on but decided not to buy anything.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” the young man said apologetically, “but would you mind opening your purse for a moment?”

Vicki felt her face turn scarlet. Thank God, she thought, that I decided to wear it. She stepped closer to the young man and handed him her purse. He opened the clasp and began removing the items on top. Then he lifted her bra and panties out and looked at her questioningly.

“Those are mine,” she croaked, blushing furiously.

“Please put them back.”

The young man complied, and replaced the other things he’d taken from her purse, but he didn’t hand the purse back to her.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with me to the manager’s office,” he told her. He sounded a little less polite now. Without waiting for a response from her, he turned and started walking toward the back of the store.

Vicki felt a nearly irresistible urge to turn and run outside the store, but where could she go, what could she do? The man had her purse, her car keys, and he would know who she was and where she lived as soon as he looked in her wallet. She forced her rubbery legs to follow the man.

He strode the length of the department store without looking back until he had pushed through a swinging door marked “Employees Only.” He held the door open briefly for Vicki, then knocked once on a closed door before turning the knob and ushering Vicki into a small office. He closed the door behind her and took her purse over to a desk at the side of the office.

“This is Frank Jameson, the general manager of the store,” he told her, nodding toward the man seated behind the desk, and then backed out of the office and closed the door quietly. Jameson said nothing, but opened Vicki’s purse and began spreading its contents out across his desk. When he came to the bra and panties, he pushed the other items to one side.

He straightened the bra and laid it out in the middle of his desk, cups upward and shoulder straps toward himself. Then he smoothed the panties and placed them flat on the desk, waistband toward the bra and about the same distance away as they would have been if Vicki had been wearing both. Vicki felt as though she, and not just her underwear, had been stretched flat on Jameson’s desk for him to gaze at.

When Jameson finally spoke, his voice was as cold as his expression. “Why were you carrying these in your purse?”, he demanded, gesturing toward the lewdly arranged lingerie.

“I-I was going to a swimming party,” Vicki stammered, “and I wanted to change into those later.”

“So you’re wearing your swimsuit now?”, asked Jameson.

Vicki nodded weakly.

“Let’s see it.” Jameson’s words were a command, not a request, and with trembling fingers Vicki unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it open. Suddenly the emerald cloth seemed too insubstantial to protect her from Jameson’s leering eyes.

“Show me the rest of it,” Jameson snapped, and Vicki wondered whether he wanted to see the rest of the bikini or the rest of her body. She thought about lifting her skirt to let him see the bikini bottom, but somehow that seemed even more degrading than taking the skirt off, so she unzipped it and let it fall to the floor.

Vicki stood silently as Jameson made a complete circle around her. She was sure that the brilliantly coloured cloth had turned as transparent as Saran Wrap under his probing inspection.

“Where did you get this bikini?”, he demanded sharply.

“I got it here, a couple of weeks ago,” Vicki answered. It was her first outright lie, but she had a faint hope that Jameson would accept it, even if he knew the suit had come from his store.

Jameson’s eyes gleamed. Suddenly, with a movement faster than Vicki would have thought possible from someone of his bulk, Jameson’s hand snaked out and caught the front edge of the bikini’s waistband and rolled it halfway down. She cried out in surprise and pain as his fingers jabbed through the flimsy cloth into her abdomen, and then her heart sank—for there, nestled among the upper wisps of her pubic hair, was the bikini’s $60 price tag, still attached by its nylon filament!

“This suit,” Jameson told her, jabbing at the tag with his other index finger, “was just put on display yesterday.” He pulled his hand away and let the bikini snap back against her skin.

Vicki began to sob. “All right,” she choked, “I took it, this morning. I didn’t have enough money with me, but it was just perfect, and I really needed it. I’ll find some way to pay for it.”

With tears streaming down her face, Vicki stepped out of her skirt and stumbled over to Jameson’s desk. She found a Kleenex among the things Jameson had pulled from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. Jameson said nothing.

“Please,” Vicki pleaded, “I’ve never stolen anything before and I’ll never do it again. Let me give you the money I’ve got now and I’ll bring the rest no later than the day after tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid that’s not our policy, Miss . . . .” Jameson opened her wallet and glanced at her driver’s license. “Wilkins,” he finished. “Shoplifting costs us so much every year that we’ve made a firm policy of turning anyone we catch over to the police, and making sure they’re prosecuted with maximum publicity, in order to deter other thieves.”

Vicki began to cry again. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “I’m graduating in two weeks. If you prosecute me, I’ll get suspended, they won’t let me graduate, I’ll lose my scholarships. And it will just kill my parents! Please don’t do that!”

“It’s a little late to be thinking of those things now,” Jameson responded. He listened to Vicki’s weeping and pleading for a minute or two, and then asked her “Would you like to know how we knew you had stolen the suit?”

Vicki nodded, not sure why that made any difference now, but willing to do anything to delay her inevitable doom.

“Come with me to the security office,” Jameson instructed, and opened the back door of his office. Vicki followed him out the door and down a flight of stairs that led to the basement under the store. The stairwell was drafty and Vicki could feel Goosebumps springing up all over her barely covered body.

Jameson led her through an unmarked door and into another office. This one was considerably bigger than Jameson’s, and nicer as well. The walls were panelled, the floor thickly carpeted. The furnishings included a sofa, several easy chairs, a huge desk with glass to protect its wood surface, and wooden shelves stacked with electronic equipment, including a whole row of what looked like small television sets. Below them was one of the largest television screens Vicki had ever seen.

“Those little TV screens,” Jameson told her, “are hooked to cameras above each of our dressing rooms.”

Vicki was horrified. “You mean you sit here and spy on people trying on clothes?”, she demanded.

“I don’t,” Jameson answered. “We have a woman who monitors the cameras for the women’s dressing rooms part of the time and a man who monitors the men’s area part time. I only get called when they see something like this.”

Jameson punched some buttons and snow appeared on the big TV screen. The snow turned into some wavy lines, and then the picture cleared.

Vicki gasped as she recognized herself on the screen.

She watched herself remove first her blouse and then her skirt. She saw her breasts spring into view, and then the dark thatch of her pubic region. The camera was well above her, but every detail was shown in perfect clarity, even the little mole on the right side of her bottom. She felt nauseous as she watched her-self trying on each of the different suits, stripping it off and putting on the next, until finally she put her clothes on over the green bikini.

“My God, that’s outrageous,” Vicki hissed at Jameson after the screen had gone dark.

“We will, of course, have to give that tape to the police,” Jameson observed, “to prove to them that we had good cause to detain you. And I’m sure it will be very effective evidence at your trial, too.”

“Oh, no,” Vicki moaned in horror. In addition to all of the other humiliations she had foreseen, God only knew how many people would see her totally naked on the tape. Half the cops in town would get copies to show on their VCR’s at home, and everyone would know about it.

“Please,” she begged, “there has to be some way, I mean, I’ll do anything you say to make it up to you, but please, please don’t go to the police.”

Jameson looked at her for perhaps two minutes, though it seemed like two hours to Vicki, without saying a word. Finally he sighed. “Look,” he said, “you’re a thief, and as far as I’m concerned you deserve all the things you say are going to happen to you. There’s no way I’m going to let you just walk away from this.”

Vicki broke into despairing sobs again, but stifled them when Jameson continued speaking.

“On the other hand, I suppose if you get kicked out of school you’ll probably wind up on welfare, living on my tax dollars and stealing besides, and I don’t need that either. So, Miss Wilkins, I’ll give you a choice.”

“What kind of choice?”, Vicki asked hesitantly. Not that it mattered a whole lot, because anything had to be better than being turned over to the police.

“You can take your punishment publicly, through the ‘system’, or you can have it privately, right here,” Jameson replied.

“What do you mean, what sort of private punishment?”, Vicki inquired.

“A spanking, Miss Wilkins, that will be as painful to you as being prosecuted publicly—that you will remember the rest of your life, and will remember especially clearly if you ever think of stealing anything again.”

Vicki was both shocked and relieved. She’d been expecting Jameson to demand that she have sex with him, and she thought she probably would have agreed; as loathsome as the idea was, it would have been less ruinous than the alternative. But a spanking! Vicki couldn’t remember the last time she’d been spanked, though she recalled that she had received a few spankings as a small child, for running into the street, poking things into electric sockets or really dangerous behaviour like that. Being spanked like a child would be humiliating, but it was better than what she’d feared, and certainly better than having that tape spread all over town.

“Well, Miss Wilkins,” Jameson interrupted her thoughts.

“Which is it going to be? Public discipline or private?”

“Private, please,” Vicki whispered.

“All right,” said Jameson. “Then let’s get a couple of rules straight right now. First, the kind of spanking I’m talking about will take more than one session. Today is Monday, and we’ll start today, but I want you back here at four o’clock sharp each afternoon this week; our last session will be on Friday. Is that clear?”

Vicki felt the muscles in her bottom tighten involuntarily. This was going to be worse than she’d thought, but what other choice was there? She nodded to Jameson.

“You’d better be on time,” he continued, “because if you’re five minutes late I’ll think you’ve changed your mind, and your file will go to the police.” Jameson looked to be sure she was listening.

“Second rule,” he went on. “When you come here each day, you are to be wearing that bikini you have on now—I want to be sure you remember the connection between the crime and the punishment. Do you accept those rules?”

Vicki nodded mutely, and Jameson walked over to the sofa and sat down. “Good,” he said, “let’s get started. Take your clothes off.”

Vicki shrugged out of her already unbuttoned blouse but begged to be allowed to leave the scanty bikini in place.

“I don’t see what you’re so concerned about,” Jameson told her. “I’ve already seen you on television, wearing nothing. Besides, I’m not going to spank you with your clothes on.”

“Please,” Vicki pleaded, “I’ll take the top off . . . .” She matched her words with the action, exposing her breasts for the first time—intentionally—to a man other than her doctor. “But let me keep the bottom on. No one’s ever seen me, down there, I mean, and you couldn’t see anything on the tape.”

Her face and upper body were crimson with embarrassment, and Jameson finally relented. He stood up, walked over to the big desk and reached into one of the lower drawers. “You can keep the bottom on,” he said. “However,” he interrupted her thanks, “instead of spanking you by hand, as I had intended, I’m going to use this.”

He held up a black paddle-shaped object. It was a little more than a foot long, with a round handle like a tennis racquet. The “business end” was maybe two inches wide and seven inches long; one face of the paddle part was smooth while the other was perforated with holes about the size of a pencil.

Jameson returned to the sofa and sat on the edge. He beckoned to Vicki, who walked shakily toward him, arms folded across her chest. When she came within reach, Jameson grabbed the waistband of her “monokini” and pulled her around to stand beside his right leg. “Down,” he instructed, “across my knees.”

Obediently Vicki draped herself over his lap so that her pelvis rested on Jameson’s right leg and her breasts just cleared the outside of his left leg. His arm rested heavily across the small of her back, just above the bikini bottom. Her hands were touching the carpet and she felt the blood rush to her head. She tried to picture how she looked from Jameson’s position, and started trembling as she recalled how much of her bottom the bikini left uncovered. Maybe she should have taken it off, she thought, and avoided the paddling that was about to start.

Her fear was reinforced when Jameson rested the smooth, cold face of the paddle on the right cheek of her bottom, partly on the bikini and partly on her skin. Vicki sucked in her breath sharply as she felt the paddle lift off her behind.

The paddle returned to the spot it had left, but it was moving with all the speed and force Jameson’s beefy arm could give it. He watched with satisfaction as the firm roundness of the girl’s half-covered asscheek flattened under the thick paddle.

“OWW!”, Vicki yelled as the pent-up breath burst from her lungs. Her eyes filled with tears as the pain suffused her whole right buttock. She wasn’t sure she could make herself come back for five days of this, even if he only gave her one a day, and that didn’t seem likely.

The paddle landed again, this time in a symmetrical spot on the left side of her butt. Again Vicki yelled in pain, but Jameson paid no attention. He began peppering her backside with a steady series of blows, moving randomly from spot to spot but concentrating on the areas that were left uncovered by the skimpy bikini bottom. Low and outside, he grinned to himself, but still a strike.

He wished the girl hadn’t been so squeamish about taking off her pants—he would have loved to feel the sting in his hand as it landed on her exposed ass, and he knew he could have spanked her nearly as hard bare-handed as he could with the paddle. On the other hand, if she hadn’t been so virginal he probably couldn’t have conned her the way he had.

Jameson knew that if he’d turned her over to the police she could have copped a plea to a minor misdemeanour and gotten nothing worse than probation, maybe even a deferred prosecution so the charges would be dropped if she stayed out of trouble for a year. The school wouldn’t have found out, because minors’ names were never released. And of course he couldn’t have turned over the videotape—he couldn’t very well let the public know that he was taking movies of naked girls in the dressing rooms!

He’d accumulated quite a collection of those movies; it was incredible what people would do when they thought no one was looking, especially if you gave them enough mirrors to see all sides of themselves at once. Jameson had thought many times about using shoplifting charges as leverage to get some broad down here, even bought the paddle and some other toys in anticipation, but he’d never before found one who was both scared enough and beautiful enough to be worth the risk. Miss Victoria Wilkins, whose gorgeous ass was now writhing under his paddle, was the first, but well worth the wait.

Jameson’s musings had not disrupted his rhythm. By the time she’d received eight or ten spanks Vicki’s yells had merged into a continuous wail that rose to a wordless cry each time the paddle struck. She began kicking her outstretched legs and rolling her hips, hoping to throw herself off Jameson’s lap, or at least to dodge some the force of the blows, but he merely tightened his grip around her waist and swung the paddle a little harder.

After the paddle had landed a couple of dozen times Jameson decided to give her a rest. Vicki was begging him incoherently to stop, and Jameson was breathing a little heavily himself. She lay sobbing and shaking across his lap for a minute or more before crawling sideways onto the floor and then standing up.

She touched her bottom gingerly with both hands and looked at him pleadingly. “Please, can I go now? It hurts so bad!”

Jameson snorted. “Don’t be silly! We’re a long way from done. I just decided to give you a five minute break.”

Vicki broke into renewed sobs, assuring Jameson that she was sorry, that she’d learned her lesson and would never steal anything again, and telling him that she just couldn’t take any more. When she saw that Jameson was adamant, Vicki said “Please, just use your hand, then. I’ll take off my bottom, just don’t spank me with the paddle any more, please.”

Jameson was tempted to agree. He wanted to see her totally nude, and he wanted to spank her bare-handed, but he decided that it could wait until later in the week. Better not to let her think she could negotiate her way out of anything. “I don’t care whether you take your bottom off or leave it on,” he told her. “You decided on the paddle, and that’s what you’re going to get. And your five minutes are up.”

This statement provoked a fresh round of protests and wails from Vicki, but in less than a minute she was back in position across his lap. This time, before picking up the paddle he pulled the edges of her bikini bottom up and toward the center, so only the crevasse between the cheeks of her ass remained covered. This provided him with a much larger target, milky white in contrast to the angry red of the areas he’d paddled earlier.

Without any preliminary contact this time, Jameson brought the paddle down with a sharp “SMACK” in the middle of her left asscheek. Vicki howled in pain and rolled toward him in an effort to hide the burning flesh from another blow. Jameson spanked her equally hard on the other cheek, and Vicki obligingly rolled the other direction and exposed the left side of her ass to his next blow.

By the time Jameson decided to give her another rest, Vicki’s entire ass had turned a fiery red. Again she begged him to let her leave, and again he refused. “I told you this would be a spanking you’d remember for the rest of your life,” he reminded the sobbing girl as he pulled her across his lap for the third time.

He had given her only a dozen spanks or so when he realized that she’d had enough for one day. Although Vicki cried continuously, and jerked each time the paddle struck, it was clear that she no longer felt the pain of individual strokes. Jameson gave her five more, bringing the paddle down on her bruised buttocks almost as hard as he could, and then told her to get up and get dressed.

Vicki pulled the bottom of the bikini back into place, refastened the top, and began buttoning her blouse while Jameson put the paddle back into the desk drawer. She wondered how she could ever make it back up the stairs, but it proved to be easier than she’d expected.

In Jameson’s office she retrieved her skirt and put it on, then gathered her panties, bra and other things from his desk and put them back in her purse. Only then did Jameson speak.

“Tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock,” he reminded her. “Come straight to this office and knock on the door—and be sure you’re wearing that bikini!”

Vicki’s began weeping again at the reminder that she’d only experienced the first of five days of indescribable pain. But she nodded through her tears before opening the office door and going back into store that had changed so quickly from a place of delight to one of dread.

THE END