Long Acre is one of my favourite London streets – the road from Leicester Square to Covent Garden full of lovely shops, like the quite wonderful Stanford’s (the travel bookshop), Muji or – a stone’s throw to the side – the London Graphic Centre. It’s also perhaps that I associate the walk with heading towards the delights of Belgo, to top up on mussels and frites, or the soon-to-be-gone CCK.I now have quite a different image in my mind, after walking back late-ish the other night from the aforementioned hostelries. Passing one of the clothes stores – Next, maybe? – we noticed a young shop assistant inside the door. On the floor before her were two huge bags, from which spilled garments galore. And, sifting suspiciouly through the garments, receipt in hand, was the uniformed security guard.
It didn’t take much to imagine where this was heading. “You’ll need to accompany me to the security office” would follow the discovery that her late-night working had seen a few extra items slip into her bag. There, they’d discuss the options: “I should call the police, but they’re awfully busy at this time of the evening. And then the management would need to know in the morning, of course – assuming you’re out of the cells by then.”
She’d readily agree to the alternative. A dash round the shop would see the almost-stolen items returned to the racks. By the time she returned, a chair would be positioned in the middle of the room, a cane on the desk.
“Lift your skirt and bend over.”
She’d comply. He’d tug down her knickers.
He wouldn’t offer her the solace of knowing the number of strokes in advance, so that she could find comfort from the nearing end of the caning. Rather, he’d punish her until he was sure that she was suitably repentent. And then he’d stripe her more, to be doubly-assured of her penitance.
She’d stand on the tube journey home, of course. Other passengers would notice her discomfort: observing her smudged make-up, watching sympathetically as she wiped away her tears.
And the following morning, after a painful and restless night, it’d be back into the store – where the security guard would be waiting, barely acknowledging her as she walked in, keeping true to his word that the incident would never again be mentioned.
You know, I would so love it if one day we could gather up all these poor innocent people and show them all Abel’s posts that they don’t even know about… It would be so fun!
LOL That would be funny, Smudge. All these previously clueless individuals who have been de-knickered and had horrible things done to their backsides… 😉
“He wouldn’t offer her the solace of knowing the number of strokes in advance, so that she could find comfort from the nearing end of the caning.”
I like that line. I’m definitely finding that I quite like not knowing when the spanking ends. That feeling of helplessness and desperation — in this context — is really cool.