From davewl@indy.net Sun Mar 30 20:43:45 1997
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From: davewl <davewl@indy.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: zzz New Story - The Supermarket, Dave Wallace
Date: 31 Mar 1997 01:43:45 GMT
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Since Davidzac was kind enough to comment on The Supermarket (I 
emailed him a copy directly), I guess we'll let this story 'out 
of the closet'.

The Supermarket
(A Short Story By Dave Wallace)

Copyright 1997
Electronic Manuscript Publishing Company, Inc.
Indianapolis, Indiana 46227


	Have you ever been in a hurry, joined the line in the 
‘Express Lane’ at the market, and gnashed your teeth over the 
oaf in front of you - with $50.00 worth of groceries (in 
perhaps fifty items)?
	Such was my situation, earlier today, running late for 
an appointment, and picking up a couple of things for the wife. 
 As I shifted from one foot to the other, I imagined how I 
would enjoy thoroughly spanking the comely young lady in front 
of me - along with the cashier, who was complicitous through 
her acquiescence to the woman’s wish to check out in the ‘Ten 
Items Or Less’ lane….
	I was startled by the appearance of four burly security 
guard types seemingly materializing from nowhere, two of them 
pulling the lady out of line in front of my incredulous eyes, 
the other two seizing the cashier by either elbow.
	Accompanying the four guards were two additional 
security personnel,, also in uniforms, perhaps in their 
mid-twenties, each carrying a wooden paddle.  As the guards 
pulled the customer and the cashier into an open area in front 
of the check-out lanes, I could hear the frantic protestations 
of both ‘culprits’.
	"How dare you.  Let me go.  I’ll sue.  You can’t do 
this.  What have I done?"
	Then, suddenly, a voice over the store’s public address 
system.  "Attention shoppers, you will notice that one of our 
cashiers and a customer have been taken into our new punishment 
area.  They will be disciplined in a moment, pursuant to a new 
city ordinance regulating the conduct of supermarket express 
lanes.
	"Parents with small children are advised that, while we 
encourage your children’s observation of this punishment, as a 
valuable lesson in proper public conduct, you should understand 
that these ladies’ discipline  will entail severe  corporal 
punishment, specifically the application of a wooden paddle to 
their bottoms.  Further, you should understand that this 
punishment will be administered on their bare buttocks, City 
Ordinance 4-7614-B dictating that all such punishments shall be 
applied in public, in the nude."
	In the nude?  Jesus, I sure didn’t want to miss this.  
My fantasies were finally going to come true.  My eyes followed 
the progress of the security personnel as they hastily stripped 
each of the women, securing their naked bodies to old 
fashioned, wooden pillories.  A small crowd was gathering 
around the punishment area as the ‘condemned’ continued their 
ceaseless crying and begging.
	"Please, don’t do this.  I’ll never try to sneak into 
an express line again,"  could be heard from the hapless 
customer.  "I’m sorry, I didn’t know that I couldn’t check out 
this lady at my lane.  I’m new and don’t know all of the 
rules," was the poor excuse for an excuse that the cashier 
lamely  tried.
	Ignoring the pleas of the two women, the guards had 
finished fixing their wrists and necks into the pillories and 
secured their ankles to floor moorings, effectively removing 
any possibility of escape.  Their work accomplished, they 
stepped back as the two ‘spankers’ stepped forward.
	The voice on the intercom continued.  "While each of 
the woman that are now pilloried at the front of the store will 
receive a severe paddling, the customer’s behavior is seen as 
slightly less reprehensible than that of the cashier.  
Therefore, the sentence for the customer will be fifty swats of 
the paddle to her bare buttocks and immediate release; the 
sentence for our cashier will be fifty swats of the paddle to 
her bare buttocks, followed by a one-hour display period in the 
stocks.  Customers or store personnel wishing to fondle or 
abuse the cashier after the completion of her correction are 
encouraged to do so.
	I could feel the front of my trousers tenting in 
response to my excitement at the spectacle before me and 
reached into my pocket to surreptitiously stroke my hardening 
cock, not for a second taking my eyes off of the drama being 
played out no more than fifty feet away from me.
	It became quickly evident that the women’s paddlings 
were to occur simultaneously when the two ‘executioners’ 
stepped to the outside of the two pillories, readying their 
paddle arms, and shifting their feet to find a comfortable, 
firm stance.  The women were both crying, having given up any 
hope that their lamentations would be to any avail.
	Their nude bodies were incredibly erotic, their breasts 
hanging vertically to the floor, their torsos bent at the 
waist, with their spines parallel to the floor.  Their legs had 
been spread perhaps three feet apart at the ankle, with the 
overall effect to be the positioning of their hips probably six 
inches higher than the crossbar holding their heads and wrists.
	Their legs and buttocks quivered as they each  
presumably contemplated their imminent fate.  The ‘icing on the 
cake’, as it were, was the provocative glimpse of pudenda, 
framed within the trembling, soft, secret, inner thighs of each 
penitent.
	While the cashier’s embarrassment had to be acute, at 
the gross indignity visited upon her by this outrageous 
affront, I could only imagine the mortification of the young, 
nude customer, her body shaven as smoothly and completely in 
her pubic area and between her legs, as it was beneath her 
straining arms and down her athletically-slim legs.
	She seemed even more nude than the cashier, her labia 
looking distended and puffy, deliciously obscene in the glaring 
lights of the store.  I think, though, that whatever degree of 
discomfort her unexpected public nudity was causing her, it was 
nothing when compared to her apprehension about her paddling.
	One of the two paddlers seemed to be senior, judging 
from his comportment and manner, and it was a nod from him to 
his partner that began the chilling sound of  the paddles’ 
impacts upon the two naked, gyrating, female bottoms.
	Once, twice, three times and four.  The paddles fell in 
perfect syncopation, the resultant, strident cries of the two 
recipients of their fiery kisses, no less choreographed.  The 
men wielding the paddles worked as a perfectly synchronized 
pair, their motions metronomic in constancy.
	I’d lost count but knew that the women had probably 
suffered a dozen swats each and my imagination boggled at the 
thought that they had yet to endure another thirty-five-plus 
strokes of the paddles’ wrath.  The testament to the paddles’ 
efficacy was evident in the tears falling from the two rueful 
ladies’ cheeks and, the reddened buttocks of both  as their 
skin became inflamed from the repeated assault.
	Still, though, the paddling continued.  I was somehow 
viscerally connected, it seemed, to the tableau before me.  I 
could feel the paddles’ impact in a pulsing in my erect penis - 
a repetitive swat/throb…swat/throb…swat/throb, and I knew, 
without thinking about it, that I was going to ejaculate into 
my trousers.  I’d never done such a thing in all my life, the 
only spontaneous ejaculations I’d ever experienced being the 
ecstasies of nocturnal emissions as an adolescent. 
	Twenty - then thirty - then forty times the paddles 
fell, the women becoming nearly delirious in their screaming 
and begging.  I was unaware of any other participants, save the 
women, the paddlers, and myself.  I’d blocked out anyone else 
in the crowd, other customers and store employees.
	As the paddle count approached fifty, I realized with a 
sudden insight, that I was going to cum in tandem with the last 
swing of the paddlers’ arms. 
	 I was abreast of the count, the chief guard, as I’d 
come to regard him, having loudly announced the count every ten 
strokes.  It’d been six strokes since he’d called out, "Forty" 
and my excitement mounted as the forty-seventh fell.
	Forty-eight, and my balls tightened in their sack, 
forty-nine, and the muscles in my cock began to spasm, and, 
fifty, my cock began its spurting into my cotton jockey shorts, 
filling the small space with jism, undoubtedly soaking through 
to my light-blue slacks.
	"Sir.  Sir.  Please, sir.  Are you okay, sir?  Someone 
was shouting.  I could barely hear them, feeling in a mental 
fog, as if awakening from a deep sleep.
	"Sir.  That’ll be fifty-six forty.  Sir?  Are you okay? 
 You must have been day dreaming, huh?"
	I wish that I could have checked my downward glance, 
after having realized that the cashier had brought me out of an 
almost trance-like state, her bemused grin implying a knowledge 
of something I suspected but needed to confirm.
	That downward glance, then, was necessary.  Necessary 
to verify my suspicion - my intuition, bullshit, my wet, soggy 
feeling in my pants, that told me that not all of it was a 
dream.  From a glance to my wet slacks, back to the cashier’s 
smiling face, to the bag person’s (you guessed it, another 
female) chuckling face, to the outraged, offended glare of the 
young customer - who, without her cognizance, had been soundly 
paddled, in the nude, not fifty feet from where we were 
standing - as she smirkingly huffed at my embarrassing 
condition.
	People who know me will tell you they’ve never caught 
me at a loss for words.  Thankfully nobody that knew me was 
present to hear the words of the young lady in front of me as 
she turned to the cashier and spoke.  "Naughty boy, he deserves 
a spanking.  If he was mine, that’s what he’d be getting when 
he got home."
	I wanted to protest. Assert my manhood.  Somehow, 
though that seemed a bit far fetched when I considered the 
condition of my light-blue dress trousers.
	After I’d stashed the bags in the trunk, started the 
car, pulled out of the lot, and was cruising down the freeway, 
on the way home, I found myself pondering.  In spite of the 
embarrassment, in spite of how much it’d probably hurt, would I 
of wanted that young lady to take me home and deliver that much 
deserved spanking?

Your comments are welcome at:

davewl@indy.net

Dave Wallace
Indianapolis, Indiana