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I don't believe in faries


lydia2

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She annoyed me, that shop girl.  They sometimes do.  Didn’t seem to be paying attention.  And I have a short fuse.  I know.  I explode with anger and then regret it.  And this was going to be another one of those times.  I could feel it coming.

 

And then there were tiny, faint bells, glingleglingle, and I was somewhere else entirely.  A cloudlet of dry white mist danced round my feet.  But the floor was solid enough.  There was a large ornate desk and a smiling white-clad lady behind it.  She spoke.

 

“Ah, Dorothy.  Welcome.  You may be a little confused.  Don’t worry.”

 

Behind her shoulders I caught a glimpse of tiny wings.  Not big enough to fly with, certainly.  Must be some joke shop thing.  But where was I and who was she and why was I suddenly not where I had been?

 

I looked for words to ask these questions, but she answered before I found the words.

 

“We’ve taken you out of time for a while.  A time-out, if you like.  I don’t suppose you believe in fairy godmothers?

 

“No, of course not” I spluttered.

 

“Good.  We’re not them.  Don’t worry who we are.”

 

From the desk she picked up a short wand.  Like the wings.  Joke-shop tat.  A little bell on one end and a glittery star on the other, a few flakes of glitter even falling off as she picked it up.  What nonsense was this?  She waved the wand off-handedly and the bell gave a tuneless tinkle.

 

And then immediately I was in a different room.  Still a little mist swirling around my feet.  A different desk; a different lady, a little older; black dress but same joke-shop wings.  What IS this?

 

“Ah, Dorothy” she spoke.  “In the world you just stepped out of, you’re about to be very nasty to that poor girl, and that won’t help either of you, will it?  In fact, it will make both your days worse than they need be, hmmmm?”

 

I was lost for words.  She was right, of course.  But could I help it?  And who was she and how did she know?

 

She continued.  “When you go back you will still have the choice what to do.  We deal with consequences, not choices.  You don’t believe in fairy godmothers, do you?”

 

The same question the previous lady had asked.  The same answer.  “No, of course not.”

 

“Good” she said.  “We’re not them.  We may or may not exist.  You may or may not believe in us.  Think of me as …. your fairy spankmother, if that helps.”

 

“My … what?”

 

“This is what you deserve if you’re nasty to that poor girl, as you plan to be”.

 

She picked up another joke-shop tat wand, identical to the other, and waved it.  A tinny single bell sounded.  And I was facing carpet.  Over her knee.  Skirt up and knickers down.  I hadn’t moved, and yet I was there.

 

A firm smack landed on the left side of my bottom, followed by a twin smack on the right.  Then the spanks rained down, without pause, fast and hard and building to glowing soreness.  I wriggled.  She held my waist and smacked and smacked, relentlessly.  Tears spurted.  Mine.  Wriggling, kicking, but nothing could alleviate the fire consuming my bottom.

 

Until suddenly I was standing again, in front of the desk, and she behind it, with the silly wand and the silly wings.  She spoke again.

 

“Now, Dorothy, you are going back to the place and time we took you from.  If you do as you were going to, you will have deserved the spanking I just gave you, will you not?”

 

This was absurd.  “But” I stammered “what if I don’t?”

 

“Ah” she almost smiled.  “The paradoxes of time and choice.  Do we exist?  Did this happen?”

 

She waved the joke-shop wand and there I was, back in the shop.  Nothing had changed.  I took a breath, ready to vent my exasperation at the girl.  And then I became aware.   A millisecond ago, my bottom wasn’t sore.  Now it is.  Very.

 

I shivered.  The world spun.  I forced a smile where the angry voice would have been.  A “sorry; let me try to help” in place of the anger.

 

And struggled through it, and home as quickly as I could, still not quite knowing what had happened.  Drop the shopping.  Quickly to a mirror.  Skirt up, tights and knicks down; what’s real?  Red or white?

 

Red.  And sore.  Every sign of a spanked bottom.  But did it really happen?

 

Briefly and faintly, the word ‘yes’ appeared in the mirror, then faded.  Or did I imagine that also?

 

A good spanking, by somebody who couldn’t possibly exist, for something I didn’t actually do, but something I would have done if I hadn’t been spanked for doing it, which I didn’t.

 

Fairy godmothers.  How silly.  Ouch.  Ouch.

 

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