The Supermarket
(A Short Story By Dave Wallace)

Copyright 1997
Electronic Manuscript Publishing Company, Inc.
Indianapolis, Indiana 46227


      Have you ever been in a hurry, joined the line in the 'Express
Lane' at the market, and gnashed your teeth over the oaf in front of
you - with $50.00 worth of groceries (in perhaps fifty items)?

      Such was my situation, earlier today, running late for an
appointment, and picking up a couple of things for the wife.  As I
shifted from one foot to the other, I imagined how I would enjoy
thoroughly spanking the comely young lady in front of me - along
with the cashier, who was complicitous through her acquiescence to
the woman's wish to check out in the 'Ten Items Or Less' lane.

      I was startled by the appearance of four burly security guard
types seemingly materializing from nowhere, two of them pulling the
lady out of line in front of my incredulous eyes, the other two
seizing the cashier by either elbow.

      Accompanying the four guards were two additional security
personnel, also in uniforms, perhaps in their mid-twenties, each
carrying a wooden paddle.  As the guards pulled the customer and the
cashier into an open area in front of the check-out lanes, I could
hear the frantic protestations of both 'culprits'.

      "How dare you.  Let me go.  I'll sue.  You can't do this.
What have I done?"

      Then, suddenly, a voice over the store's public address
system. "Attention shoppers, you will notice that one of our
cashiers and a customer have been taken into our new punishment
area.  They will be disciplined in a moment, pursuant to a new city
ordinance regulating the conduct of supermarket express lanes.

      "Parents with small children are advised that, while we
encourage your children's observation of this punishment, as a
valuable lesson in proper public conduct, you should understand that
these ladies' discipline  will entail severe  corporal punishment,
specifically the application of a wooden paddle to their bottoms.
Further, you should understand that this punishment will be
administered on their bare buttocks, City Ordinance 4-7614-B
dictating that all such punishments shall be applied in public, in
the nude."

      In the nude?  Jesus, I sure didn't want to miss this.  My
fantasies were finally going to come true.  My eyes followed the
progress of the security personnel as they hastily stripped each of
the women, securing their naked bodies to old fashioned, wooden
pillories.  A small crowd was gathering around the punishment area
as the 'condemned' continued their ceaseless crying and begging.

      "Please, don't do this.  I'll never try to sneak into an
express line again,"  could be heard from the hapless customer.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know that I couldn't check out this lady at my
lane.  I'm new and don't know all of the rules," was the poor excuse
for an excuse that the cashier lamely  tried.

      Ignoring the pleas of the two women, the guards had finished
fixing their wrists and necks into the pillories and secured their
ankles to floor moorings, effectively removing any possibility of
escape.  Their work accomplished, they stepped back as the two
'spankers' stepped forward.

      The voice on the intercom continued.  "While each of the women
that are now pilloried at the front of the store will receive a
severe paddling, the customer's behavior is seen as slightly less
reprehensible than that of the cashier.  Therefore, the sentence for
the customer will be fifty swats of the paddle to her bare buttocks
and immediate release; the sentence for our cashier will be fifty
swats of the paddle to her bare buttocks, followed by a one-hour
display period in the stocks. Customers or store personnel wishing
to fondle or abuse the cashier after the completion of her
correction are encouraged to do so."

      I could feel the front of my trousers tenting in response to
my excitement at the spectacle before me and reached into my pocket
to surreptitiously stroke my hardening cock, not for a second taking
my eyes off of the drama being played out no more than fifty feet
away from me.

      It became quickly evident that the women's paddlings were to
occur simultaneously when the two 'executioners' stepped to the
outside of the two pillories, readying their paddle arms, and
shifting their feet to find a comfortable, firm stance.  The women
were both crying, having given up any hope that their lamentations
would be to any avail.

      Their nude bodies were incredibly erotic, their breasts
hanging vertically to the floor, their torsos bent at the waist,
with their spines parallel to the floor.  Their legs had been spread
perhaps three feet apart at the ankle, with the overall effect to be
the positioning of their hips probably six inches higher than the
crossbar holding their heads and wrists.

      Their legs and buttocks quivered as they each  presumably
contemplated their imminent fate.  The 'icing on the cake', as it
were, was the provocative glimpse of pudenda, framed within the
trembling, soft, secret, inner thighs of each penitent.

      While the cashier's embarrassment had to be acute, at the
gross indignity visited upon her by this outrageous affront, I could
only imagine the mortification of the young, nude customer, her body
shaven as smoothly and completely in her pubic area and between her
legs, as it was beneath her straining arms and down her
athletically-slim legs.

      She seemed even more nude than the cashier, her labia looking
distended and puffy, deliciously obscene in the glaring lights of
the store.  I think, though, that whatever degree of discomfort her
unexpected public nudity was causing her, it was nothing when
compared to her apprehension about her paddling.

      One of the two paddlers seemed to be senior, judging from his
comportment and manner, and it was a nod from him to his partner
that began the chilling sound of  the paddles' impacts upon the two
naked, gyrating, female bottoms.

      Once, twice, three times and four.  The paddles fell in
perfect syncopation, the resultant, strident cries of the two
recipients of their fiery kisses, no less choreographed.  The men
wielding the paddles worked as a perfectly synchronized pair, their
motions metronomic in constancy.

      I'd lost count but knew that the women had probably suffered a
dozen swats each and my imagination boggled at the thought that they
had yet to endure another thirty-five-plus strokes of the paddles'
wrath.  The testament to the paddles' efficacy was evident in the
tears falling from the two rueful ladies' cheeks and, the reddened
buttocks of both  as their skin became inflamed from the repeated
assault.

      Still, though, the paddling continued.  I was somehow
viscerally connected, it seemed, to the tableau before me.  I could
feel the paddles' impact in a pulsing in my erect penis - a
repetitive swat/throbswat/throbswat/throb, and I knew, without
thinking about it, that I was going to ejaculate into my trousers.
I'd never done such a thing in all my life, the only spontaneous
ejaculations I'd ever experienced being the ecstasies of nocturnal
emissions as an adolescent.

      Twenty - then thirty - then forty times the paddles fell, the
women becoming nearly delirious in their screaming and begging.  I
was unaware of any other participants, save the women, the paddlers,
and myself. I'd blocked out anyone else in the crowd, other
customers and store employees.

      As the paddle count approached fifty, I realized with a sudden
insight, that I was going to cum in tandem with the last swing of
the paddlers' arms.

       I was abreast of the count, the chief guard, as I'd come to
regard him, having loudly announced the count every ten strokes.
It'd been six strokes since he'd called out, "Forty" and my
excitement mounted as the forty-seventh fell.

      Forty-eight, and my balls tightened in their sack, forty-nine,
and the muscles in my cock began to spasm, and, fifty, my cock began
its spurting into my cotton jockey shorts, filling the small space
with jism, undoubtedly soaking through to my light-blue slacks.

      "Sir.  Sir.  Please, sir.  Are you okay, sir?  Someone was
shouting.  I could barely hear them, feeling in a mental fog, as if
awakening from a deep sleep.

      "Sir.  That'll be fifty-six forty.  Sir?  Are you okay?  You
must have been day dreaming, huh?"

      I wish that I could have checked my downward glance, after
having realized that the cashier had brought me out of an almost
trance-like state, her bemused grin implying a knowledge of
something I suspected but needed to confirm.

      That downward glance, then, was necessary.  Necessary to
verify my suspicion - my intuition, bullshit, my wet, soggy feeling
in my pants, that told me that not all of it was a dream.  From a
glance to my wet slacks, back to the cashier's smiling face, to the
bag person's (you guessed it, another female) chuckling face, to the
outraged, offended glare of the young customer - who, without her
cognizance, had been soundly paddled, in the nude, not fifty feet
from where we were standing - as she smirkingly huffed at my
embarrassing condition.

      People who know me will tell you they've never caught me at a
loss for words.  Thankfully nobody that knew me was present to hear
the words of the young lady in front of me as she turned to the
cashier and spoke. "Naughty boy, he deserves a spanking.  If he was
mine, that's what he'd be getting when he got home."

      I wanted to protest. Assert my manhood.  Somehow, though that
seemed a bit far fetched when I considered the condition of my
light-blue dress trousers.

      After I'd stashed the bags in the trunk, started the car,
pulled out of the lot, and was cruising down the freeway, on the way
home, I found myself pondering.  In spite of the embarrassment, in
spite of how much it'd probably hurt, would I have wanted that young
lady to take me home and deliver that much deserved spanking?



