My last post reminded me of this story I wrote a few years back, and I've been meaning to post it. So, here it is. Enjoy. :)
CRANKY AT TRADER JOE’S [M/F]
Yeah, I admit it. I was pretty damn cranky by the time I got to Trader Joe’s. I had a cold, so my sinuses were practically swollen shut. The traffic around town had been about as congested as my head. And now they were out of the cereal I had been craving – Organic Wheat Squares. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I cursed and whined under my breath as I stamped my foot. This always happens. They just had them the other day and now that I wanted them they were gone…
Within my peripheral vision I could see the solemn man, who I had earlier cut in front of to grab a cart, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I saw him first in the parking lot. He had his hands in his pockets, sort of strolling along. Late thirties, maybe. Gray Dockers and a stripped, short sleeved shirt. Not too much like the Reedies, leftover hippies, or soccer moms who usually patronized Trader Joe’s. I huffed and slammed on my brakes while he sauntered out of the way.
You would have thought he’d have long been in the store already by the time I got to the entrance, but I could see him perusing the produce along the sidewalk into the store as I half staggered from fatigue and half marched with purpose from the car to the door. He was one step ahead of me to the pile of carts, but I darted into the corral, pulled out a cart, and whipped it around into the store. Now this same guy had caught me in a temper tantrum over breakfast cereal. I shook it off and shrugged. Whatever. I had cough drops and chicken noodle soup to get…
I noticed him a few more times around the store. I guess he stood out because he didn’t have a cart. Not even a basket. Didn’t even seem to be really there to buy anything. Just look. Weird. I shook my head again and closed my eyes to review my mental shopping list.
I was still revisiting that list when I got in the check out line and a tight voice pricked my ear.
“You know, if you were my girlfriend…” I turned around to find that same guy holding two bananas and a baguette. Then realized I’d just cut him off again. I bit my lip and blushed. “…I’d spank you.” That one eyebrow still reached for his scalp.
“Oh really?” I asked. Half guilty. Half amused. “And why’s that?”
“I think you know why, Miss…” His face was somber. Stern. Then a slight, wry smile twinkled his eyes. “You’ve acted like a perfect brat from the moment you got here.” I smiled too. And took my turn at the check out counter.
He was coming out the exit by the time I’d parked the cart and pulled out the sack of groceries. I blushed as he brushed past me.
“Hey, I’m, um, sorry I cut you off in the check out line. I’d never do that on purpose. I wasn’t really paying attention…I’ve got this cold and…” I stood gripping the paper handles of the bag, facing him but looking down at the pavement.
“Hmm, well, colds are rather nasty, I suppose.” His face softened. “Still you should pay more attention. And cold or no cold, you should never throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store. You’re not a two-year old.” I giggled and bit my lower lip.
“I know…” I still vacillated between the pavement and up at him. Then I smirked. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing for my backside I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Yes, well, just because you’re not doesn’t mean I can’t still take you over my knee.” More raised eyebrow action. “Tell you what, put your groceries in your car and meet me in the corner of the parking lot over there.” He pointed to the far southwest corner. A forlorn crook of pavement and fence over which the first branches of spring hovered.
“Huh?” This was a joke. Had to be. Right?
“You heard me. Now get going. My car’s in front of that produce store next door, so I’ll drive over and you meet me there.” With that he turned and headed off. I stood agape as I watched him walk several cars down to a black Volkswagen Passat, pull out keys from his pocket, open the door, get in, pull out the car from it’s space and then drive to the appointed meeting spot.
It’s funny, because at that point I could have just gotten in my car and driven off without a thought. But it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Instead, I put the groceries in the back of my beat up, white Chevy Sprint and headed for the Passat in that lonely corner.
He was moving the front seats forward by the time I tottered over. First the driver’s side, then the passenger side while I stood in front of the trunk, arms folded over my chest. Then he opened the back door on the passenger side and beckoned me. He slid in onto the backseat. Patted the black leather next to him. I sat down and closed the door.
“Now, young lady, we’ve already reviewed why you deserve a spanking, so let’s just get on with it, shall we? Take down your pants and panties and lay across my lap.” I looked up at him for the first time since the exit of the store. His face was severe, but not mean. No trace of a dirty guy looking forward to some free naked ass. Just very grave. Very focused. I did as I was told and soon had an intimate view of the leather grain.
I’m not sure which registered in my brain first. That smacking sound of his hand hitting the lower middle of my bare buttocks or the pain it produced. I blinked hard. Another spank came. And another. Fierce. Unrelenting. My squeaky whimpers competed with the clapping of his hand against my skin. I clasped my hands together underneath my forehead as he slapped with precision on that spot where my bottom and thighs meet. Curled my toes inside my shoes. Pushed my feet against the door.
After a solid several minutes, he stopped. Reached over me, opened the compartment between the front seats and pulled something out.
“You’re in luck, my dear. It just so happens that I have a good, sturdy hairbrush with me today.” My breathing stopped for a moment, then I gulped and lay my head on my hands.
This is luck?
“I suspect from your behavior today that nobody’s done much of this for you.” He laid the smooth, wooden side of the brush against my bottom, which instinctively clenched. “Indeed, if anyone had, you wouldn’t be throwing a fit in a grocery store at your age. Or rudely cutting people off in the check out line.”
He lifted the brush and crashed it down hard. I started screeching before I realized I was, but settled back down to loud whimpers punctuated with “oweeee” after every couple of whacks. My legs began to fly back and forth between my bottom and the door. My stomach tried to pull my backside out of range, without success.
It had probably only been a few minutes. He probably hadn’t smacked me more than 25 or 30 times. But it felt like I had been through time and back again. I wanted to cry. Wanted tears to release some hidden hurt that lay beyond my raw behind. But as they would not come, I simply liberated the dry sobs that came. It was probably just as well. Real tears would have made my sinuses throb even worse…
“There now, it’s over…” He gently patted the back of my head. My moans subsided into deep breaths and soon I lay relaxed. Sore as hell, but relaxed. “Well, now. I think that’s enough to make you think twice before you throw another fit.” I nodded. “And I trust you’ll be kind and considerate from now on to your fellow shoppers.” I nodded again. “Alright then, you can pull up your pants and go.” He tugged them up from my knees as far as he could. I turned, slid into an upright position -- but not without visible wincing – and pulled them up the rest of the way. Took another big breath.
“I really am sorry I cut you off. I hate it when people do that…” He smiled and put the hairbrush back into that front divider. I opened the door and climbed out. He followed. “Well, uh, hmm… well, I guess, uh, have a nice day.”
“You too.” He closed the back passenger door.
“And uh …” I looked down at the pavement. Bit my lower lip. The looked up and nodded slightly. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He winked.
I giggled and headed back to my car.