All drawings by Paula Russell
"I want that brief finished before you leave, Pratchett," said Evelyn Scroob, the managing partner of Scroob and Associates. She had ascended to the top of the firm when her husband Mark had died. Some said she had had driven him to an early grave. A dark haired, voluptuous vixen whose appearance belied her starkly predatory and often insensitive nature, her ruthlessness and aggression were legendary as was her disdain for her employees, especially the associates.
Bob Pratchett sighed. "But it's Christmas Eve, Ms Scroob. I'm trying to get home to fix dinner for my invalid mother. After Alice died I have to do everything now and I haven't finished shopping for little Timmy's present. He wants an Xbox so bad, and..."
"Spare me the whining, Pratchett, just get to it."
Bob got back to it, wondering when he was going to get out of there.
She pointed a warning finger. "I'm going back to my office now, Pratchett, but I'll be back." And she swooped out of the room.
Alone in her 30th floor corner office, she slugged down a tumbler of Gentleman Jack from the bottle she kept in her desk. "Just something to get me through," she mumbled to herself. "Gotta get back to work. Those lazy slobs, especially Pratchett, better get this done. All this Christmas bullshit." It was downright annoying.
Instead she fell asleep in her chair. Then a sound awoke her. With a start she raised her head and gasped. It was her husband Mark, just standing there.
"What do you want?" she gasped. "You're dead."
"True," said the figure. "No thanks to you, I might add. You were cold as ice and hard as nails. Every time we wanted to have fun, you nixed the idea and went back to tearing some poor dweeb's guts out in the courtroom. You could never make enough money or cause enough misery. Look at the way you treat your associates. And it's Christmas, too."
"Go away! This is just a bad dream."
"No it's not," said the figure. "And I'm going to show you exactly what you need."
Mark's figure faded, but a new one took his place. A figure in the outfit of a schoolgirl.
"W-who are you?" stammered Evelyn, staggering to her feet.
"I'm Patsy," she said. "From your past. C'mon, I have few things to show you."
Evelyn couldn't move. Patsy's hand grabbed her and the interior of the condo melted away. She was back at Strathmore, where she'd gone to school in her teens.
"Recognize where we are?" said Patsy.
Evelyn squinted. It looked like Dean Hedly's office. She had been the oft-feared disciplinarian at Strathmore. Evelyn had avoided an appointment with Dean Hedly during her tenure, but only by pinning blame for her many offenses on others.
"In a minute Sally Camden is going to come through that door. And do you know why, Evelyn?"
Evelyn thought she remembered. Oh God, no. She'd stashed the stolen necklace in a panic-had put it right in Sally's things when they had started searching the dorm. Sally had no explanation. Her denials were not believed.
"The thing that iced it," said Patsy, "was when you said that you thought you saw her stuff something shiny under her pillow." Patsy chuckled. "Her goose was cooked then. They gave her a choice though--suspension or ten good licks with Hedly's paddle."
The procession marched into the office. It was Sally followed by the dean and two witnesses.
"You never saw the actual paddling she got," said Patsy, "just the aftermath." Indeed Evelyn had only seen Sally's bruised and vivid red behind after it was over. Sally had sobbed herself to sleep as Evelyn had congratulated herself on how clever she'd been in covering up her crime. It had been a close call.
But now she was going to witness the reality. Dean Hedly took out a book and wrote in it. From her desk drawer she produced the dread paddle, a wooden implement about four inches wide with holes down each side. She moved to Sally's side and gave a command as she swished the paddle through the air, apparently limbering up.
"Painful looking, wasn't it?" asked Patsy.
"Yes, it was." It sure did look painful. She'd had no idea. Evelyn felt very uncomfortable being shown this.
"If you had owned up, it would have been you. It should have been you...." And Patsy's image faded. In her place a new apparition appeared.
"Who the hell are you?" sputtered Evelyn.
"I'm Presley," said the tall guy with the slicked back hair. He did look like Elvis. "From your present."
"I'm here to show what's happening now, little mama." Evelyn stumbled in shock when she heard that familiar sounding baritone. "Whoa, mama, don't step on those shoes---they're blue suede."
"Wha-what are you going to show me?"
"Take a look," said the figure.
It was as though the corner apartment in the building across the alley had projected itself into her office. She was there as an observer, this time close up and not through that telescope that stood by her window. The telescope looked to all who were allowed in, like a fanciful prop. It wasn't. In fact she used it frequently to spy on neighboring apartment buildings. And sometimes she got an eyeful. This time it looked hot. The young blond wife of the guy in that corner apartment was dressed in a baby doll nighty-a red and green thing trimmed with fake white fur. She handed her husband a box with wrapping paper while she knelt at his feet.
"She's been more naughty than nice lately," said Presley, "so she's making up for it."
The sexy looking husband pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was some sort of leather paddle. It was oval in shape and the husband's eyes twinkled as he patted his palm with it. The naughty wife rose smiling and laid herself across her husband's lap as he sat on the couch. She lifted her hips to allow hubby to peel down her panties, revealing a very shapely bare bottom. Settling herself in, she looked back at her husband and licked her lips. She thrust her bare behind upward as if begging him to begin. He did. He began to apply the little paddle with brisk wristy swats that landed on alternate cheeks, making them ripple. She squirmed as the paddle connected in a volley of sharp spanks causing her to writhe about on his lap.
Evelyn was mesmerized. Good God, this was hot. She could feel her own juices start to flow. Why hadn't she done this with Mark? Their arguments had ended in cold silences. If only, she thought. Look at her grind her pussy against his leg. She was raising her hips now, lifting them to meet the descending paddle. Her bottom went from pink to a vivid red color as the smacking continued. She imagined she could hear the moans in response to the crack of the leather paddle. But her face bespoke of pure lust. She was reveling in the spanking being meted out by her husband. Finally neither could contain themselves and the husband threw the paddle down and swept his wife into his arms. He ripped off her nighty and tore off his own clothes revealing an erection that made Evelyn swoon. He tumbled her back on the couch. She raised her hips in readiness, her eyes pleading.
"A pretty hot time, looks like, hunh mama?" Presley grinned. "Stings, but it's a good sting, they say. I guess they made up. Reminds me of a time in Vegas...." He started to say, but the apartment image faded. Presley faded. A new apparition appeared.
This one was a leather clad woman flicking a riding crop. She looked like one of those dominatrixes she'd heard about. She'd heard the staff snickering, calling her Mistress Evelyn, the whipmistress.
"Oh. No. Somehow I think I'm more afraid of you than the rest," said Evelyn, her hands clutching at her throat.
"You should be. Take a look."
It was the lunchroom. Staff and associates were having a party, whooping it up. "Ding dong, the witch is dead," several sang as they popped champagne. People were dancing around, doing the bugaloo. The sounds of Elvis singing "Blue Suede Shoes" could be heard on the boombox.
Evelyn slumped into a chair, her face in her hands. "No, no. It can't be," she cried. She looked at the black-clad figure. She raised her hands in supplication. "Please, please. Tell me how I can avoid this terrible fate, Miss er Mistress....."
"Futura," said the figure. "Mistress Futura. $350 for a one hour session...or...look, there is poor Bob Pratchett down there slaving away. And it is Christmas eve." She gave Evelyn a meaningful look with raised eyebrows, then handed her the riding crop. Then she vanished.
Bob was in a daze. His mother, his sisters, and his children including Mary and little Timmy stared in shock as he shuffled into the house carrying bags of presents, a turkey, a ton of groceries for a Christmas feast and accompanied by none other than a smiling Evelyn Scroob, humming Christmas carols as she blew into the house hugging everyone in sight.
"What got into her?" asked little Timmy. He'd heard stories about the famous slave driver, Ms Scroob.
What indeed, thought Bob? Just an hour ago she'd entered his office all contrite, apologizing for keeping him from his family on Christmas Eve. The attitude had been surprising but what came next had been startling. She'd said how sorry she'd been to everyone, how she'd erected a shell to keep people away and had berated people for no good reason. Then she'd handed him a riding crop, had bent across his desk and raised her skirt. She had asked his forgiveness for her being such a bad person. She had peeled down her panties and had asked him to thrash her on her bare bottom with the crop to help her atone for her obnoxious behavior to everyone. Well what was he supposed to do? She was the boss---and she was hot. He'd watched those swaying hips in the tight sheath dresses she wore. Many's the time, he told himself, he'd wanted to put her right across his knee and spank some manners into that shapely ass of hers. And here she was, bare bottoms up, over his desk and actually asking for it.
So he'd whipped her. At least ten good zingers with that crop right across the crowns of those sumptuous bottom cheeks had had her writhing. He'd obliged, amazed at the sight of the way her bottom cheeks rippled with the swish of the riding switch. But she had stuck her bottom out and asked him to please continue until she was striped with red weals. Then he'd called a halt. But that wasn't all, oh no. After he'd stopped, she'd been a woman possessed by lust, it had seemed. She'd grabbed him and kissed him and torn off his clothes in a mad frenzy. She'd gotten naked herself and had had him right there on the desk. Then when it was over and they'd dressed she said she'd start making it up to everyone, starting with him. And that was why they were here now. His head was still spinning.
They finally got little Timmy away from his Xbox to sit down for Christmas dinner. His dad brought a pillow for Ms Scroob to sit on. He didn't understand that part. "Timmy why don't you say grace tonight?" said Aunt Debbie, Bob's sister.
Timmy thought for a minute, then said, "Bless daddy and mommy in heaven. Bless grandma and Aunt Debbie and Aunt Cathy. And bless Ms Scroob, most of all. Bless us one and all. Amen."