Our Viennese guidebook informed us that, just a few minutes’ walk from our hotel, we could find the site of a major weekly flea-market.
Abel immediately lit up with the idea of finding a pile of implements discarded by retired Austrian disciplinarians, parents of teenagers who’d left for university, and other folks who may not need their collections any more.
Although we didn’t discover a great deal of spanking paraphernalia amonth the mountains of delightfully insane stuff the locals were selling off that day, we were not disappointed on our quest. We came across a weaver’s stand, and were immediately drawn to his vast display of carpet-beaters in all sorts of sizes and designs.
The one we picked up was a perfect specimen: of a medium size, so that it can cover but not dwarf a naughty girl’s bottom, nicely woven, but not too paddle-like in density; all the knots in the rattan were polished away, all the joints sanded smooth. It came back with us, and waited for its hour.
This didn’t come until we were installed in our hotel back in Heathrow, free of our delightful, but limiting vanilla company. Abel rummaged in the suitcase and emerged with the carpet-beater at the ready.
I was suddenly not sure I liked it any more.
“What, now?”
“Yes, now, young lady. Over the bed. Quickly now, I need to re-pack.”
This last made us both giggle. Ah, the romance of a relationship in its seventh year! I assumed the position with no more protestations.
The delicate-looking toy cracked into my skin with a vicious bite. I belatedly remembered its original purpose. No wonder it hurt; carpets world over would quiver before its wrath.
“Ouch!” I complained when it struck again. “That’s nasty!” I attempted to stand up, but Abel lightly pushed me in the back.
“Stay down,” he said sternly. “You didn’t think you would get away with any less than six of the best?”
My argument was going to be that, although made of rattan, this was hardly a cane, so traditional numbers of strokes didn’t apply, but I had no time to express this complex objection. Abel took a swing and gave me a great whack, which he followed with three more in a quick succession. I wailed, jumped up and clutched my bottom. The sensation was not unlike being caned with 5 canes at once must be like.
“I think this works,” said Abel smugly. Hmm, yes, I think so.
The carpet-beater was zipped away into the suitcase, and our Austrian adventure was truly over. However, writing this on the train home, I can feel a ghost of sting as I shift in my seat. As far as holiday mementos go, this one is proving quite lasting.
“I attempted to stand up, but Abel lightly pushed me in the back.
“Stay down,” he said sternly. “You didn’t think you would get away with any less than six of the best?” ”
Abel can be strict, can’t he?
I have to admit I find it hard to imagine that carpet beaters actually hurt that much. I know they must, because everyone keeps saying they do, but I still can’t wrap my head around the idea. My mom has one in a cupboard here somewhere, so perhaps I should try whacking myself with it and see what it’s like. But whenever I look at it I go, that can’t hurt! It just can’t! But then sometimes things that you expect to hurt a LOT don’t really hurt, either, I guess. Weird how that happens.
Hope you had a good time in Vienna!
“The sensation was not unlike being caned with 5 canes at once must be like.”
“Ouch” is all I can say. You’re a braver woman than me Haron. Are you never tempted to have some of these implements make the acquaintance of a box of matches?!
Kate – It was testing a carpet beater out on myself that made me think they didn’t hurt, because it didn’t! ….But! In the hands of one such as my man or as Haron has told us, Abel, it’s a very different story!
Ok, I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever come across a guy holding a carpet beater! 😉