fiction by Matt Anglen, July 2007
Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...
She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?
And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.
She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.
Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.
Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.
Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.
And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.
Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.
Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.
Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.
Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.
One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.
"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.
"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.
"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."
Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."
"Did you proof it?"
"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"
"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"
"Welllll... "
"Oh? Did you change it?"
"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.
"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"
"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.
"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"
"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.
"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."
Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.
Katy blinked as she opened the e-mail, already knowing what awaited her tired eyes. First-person fantasy, no problem. Older man, younger woman; that was all right. Almost certainly biographical – hey, write what you know, right? But the grammar... please, God, not another "they finished the evening on the bare skin rug in their birthday suites." How was she going to read this? Why was she going to read this? Why did her brain automatically absorb every instance of the printed word? Maybe if she unfocused her eyes a little...
She focused again after only three lines, went back and read those three over. She had expected to, had even wanted to, hate this story, sure to be full of crude blunt language and hot sweaty sex. Yet that was not the case. The only things dangling were the participles – he may live in a rustic home but clearly he didn't build the Mississippi Valley himself. The story itself was a sensitive tale; an older man, as noted, exasperated, desperate; a wayward teen, eighteen for the sake of political correctness, a good heart but no boundaries. Katy shifted as he reached and passed his breaking point, knowing, of course, what was coming as certainly as sitting down to a romantic comedy with two big stars. His inner uncertainty while outwardly so resolute, his attempts at moderation, his self doubt. And her – was she secretly grateful? Her mute, grudging, halting acceptance each time she made him remove his belt – over-the-knee being too intimate - did she recognize the benefits?
And, Lord give me strength, why is the grammar so poor? "You know what you're problem is, young lady? You cut lose just when you need to hold you're tonuge." Katy pressed her thighs together and pressed on.
She'd hidden out all night, not for fun, just to worry him. At his wit's end, he had strapped her – hard. But afterward he petted her and promised to help her keep herself safe. Nothing he would do, Katy filled in from a persistent memory, would hurt her as much as so many things out there could.
Had this guy been reading her college diary? Katy asked herself. And who was she kidding – it wasn't just college but high school, grad school, and beyond. Make a mistake, get the strap; make a mistake, get the strap. Whatever the reality, the fantasy was still strong. Katy tried to stretch, knit her fingers together, felt as if she was being watched.
Caroline, the girl's name was, learned slowly. Coming home, thinking she was being so discreet – okay, I did that, Katy thought, but I was ten, for Pete's sake! Of course he's going to catch you! Catch Caroline and punish Katy by saying "you'll lay across the arm of that sofa over their." Over their what? Katy wanted to scream. But lie across it she did, bare-bottomed even as he fought down the uneasiness her young sexuality gave him, steadfast in his approach, meticulous in his accounting. This many were hard, this many were low, these few were past her point of contrition. How he pointedly turned his head, allowing her to "assemble" herself before being comforted.
Lay and lie, lay and lie. Now here was Caroline, telling a lie. A small lie, impossible to check, merely that she had worn shorts under her indecently short skirt. Except she had no shorts to produce when challenged. Ridiculous explanations filled her head just as they did Katy's but Caroline, at least, had the sense to confess. His disappointment was palatable, her regret, if possible, even greater. "For this her bare flanks had to feel the switch and for three days they would they bear it's marks." Katy blinked – was it only for the second time? knowing that this phrase would stick in her mind long after the girl's name had been forgotten.
And so it was Caroline matured, stabilized, began to truly come into her own. Minor infractions dealt with by quick punishments, unbegrudged. Major difficulties that transcended punishment; apology, forgiveness, grace. His own feelings of tenderness as she transformed, slowly, from a burden thrust upon him into a companion, a friend. His pride in what he had nurtured and in how she had blossomed under his care. His ceaseless recognition of the path she would take, ultimately leaving him and leaving him alone. In Anglo-Saxon words of one and two syllables the story conveyed the quintessence of this timeless tale as unrelenting in its course as an oracle. With a lot of spankings thrown in.
Katy could stand it no longer. Copying it off the screen she pulled it into Word, starting with Spell-Check. Praise to you, dear Lord, for Spell-Check. Nothing to change the tone, she told herself, careful, careful. Careful-ly, even, as she allowed herself to breathe. Just the worst of it, then stop. Just the little things, the things that make a difference. A few apostrophes. Even as she watched the individual words the story played in her mind; he was faced with spanking her a second time that week and so just lectured her instead; in a burst of tears she had run off and locked herself in her room, leaving him bewildered. The walls and floor surrounding Katy's desk turned to wood; she rocked with tension, embarrassed by her reaction to such an intimate perspective on two strangers' lives, anxious to re-read the parts she knew would most affect her. On her screen she changed "effect" to "affect." No difference, just right.
Two days later she was choosing between reading her e-mail or continuing to memorize the now-sanitized story when she recognized the address on a new missive. Another story? she wondered. All of her searches had not turned up a single work attributed to this man – or at least this name – nor a single reference to his address. Anxious for more, she opened it, just as she saw the size, an unpromising 2KB.
Was my story okay? it asked. Would she think about posting it on her blog? It had never been posted, not anywhere, the e-mail assured her. It would mean a lot to him, but if she couldn't, he'd understand.
Katy barely hesitated. Within the hour she had the story on-line. She hoped he wouldn't be offended by the corrections, but he would have to understand. Her blog wasn't perfect, but it was excellent and all the posts had been proofed. By her. People would love his story and he would see their comments full of compliments and be rightfully proud.
One more evening passed and she was in chat as a window popped up with a private message. Recognizing a friend of some standing – who had caused her some standing, from time to time – she responded cheerfully.
"Will I see you at the party this weekend?" he asked.
"I sure hope so, I'll be there," she promised.
"I saw the story you posted. Interesting."
Feeling a shiver run through her she typed "That's one adjective."
"Did you proof it?"
"A little, why? Is there a mistake?"
"One, I think. Not bad for a backwoods author who calls himself 'Rustic Walter.'"
"Welllll... "
"Oh? Did you change it?"
"Not substantially," she dodged, knowing how ineffective that was.
"Young lady, what have I told you about that?"
"That I should lighten up?" He had said that. He'd also called her a psycho-semantic and made many other recommendations, some impressively.
"How many corrections did you make?" her screen asked, and before she could form a sufficiently evasive reply, it went on with "How many corrections do you need?"
"You're not... " she began with dawning realization.
"I've warned you," he managed to cyber-growl. "I guess we'll have to have a talk about your English vice."
Katy thought a moment, and then another. What could she say? It had all been a trap, and now she was caught in his English Vise.
No comments:
Post a Comment