Café Comeuppance
When haughty débutante, Miss Ronnie Worthington, is pushed into taking a temporary job at the Cherry Blossom Tearoom, she doesn’t expect the menu to include a blistering lesson in manners. She concocts a cunning scheme to extricate herself from this unwelcome employment, but the plan backfires spectacularly, resulting in an unforgettable spanking from the cafe’s no-nonsense manager. Café Comeuppance is a steamy vintage tale of mischief, discipline... and a tasty pair of well-warmed buns!
from 📚 Vintage Spanking
Ronnie slouched against the counter, rolling her eyes at the tinkle of the door-chime, which heralded the arrival of every new customer. She styled herself as a sophisticated débutante of impeccable breeding, but here she was, reduced to two weeks of drudgery in the Cherry Blossom Tearoom. It was all because her aunt, Lady Worthington, had decided it would be character-building.
“It’ll be a marvellous opportunity to learn some of life’s lessons in a hands-on fashion,” she’d proclaimed. “Just for a couple of weeks, before you return to finishing school in the autumn.”
As if the tedious tasks of preparing tea and wiping down tables weren’t bad enough, even the uniform was an affront to dignity, being both far too snug and scandalously short. The apron strings strained to encircle the rounded curve of her hips, and she could feel the skirt trying to ride up with every step. Privately, Ronnie thought the locals might be coming in for the Victoria sponge, but they were probably staying for the view.
Still, she had a plan. Not a brilliant one, but serviceable.
Lady Worthington, her aunt and godmother, wielded enough influence over the family purse-strings (and consequently, over Ronnie’s finishing school allowance) that a straightforward resignation was impossible. But while quitting was out, provocation was in. A little backchat here... a touch of sass there, and soon the cafe manager, Ms Tilly Dover, would be delighted to see the back of her.
It was a strategy that could almost have worked, though she was soon to discover that the Cherry Blossom Tearoom specialised in serving its most memorable dish piping hot, and on the barest of platters. Ms Dover, buxom and immovable, proved to be a woman for whom the term bottom line struck a literal, as well as a financial note.
Slipping a small notebook from the bulging constraints of her breast pocket, Ronnie trudged over to take the order, with little pretence of any actual interest.
The customer was the vicar’s wife, Mrs Forsyth, who had evidently slipped away from the Sunday morning service a few minutes early. Jotting down the prim lady’s order for a large pot of tea, and two servings of currant buns, Ronnie sniggered.
“Heavens!” she gasped. “You must be feeling rather peckish today.”
Mrs Forsyth glanced up, unamused. “My husband will, of course, be joining me shortly.”
“Yeah, well, I hope you’ve both sharpened your false-teeth this morning, because the currant buns here are like bricks!”
Ronnie was careful not to moderate the level of her voice, since being overheard was the bedrock of her plan, but Ms Dover’s voice surpassed her own volume by far. The reluctant waitress turned away, unconcerned by Mrs Forsyth’s irritated frown, and saw Ms Dover storming across the cafe floor.
“Miss Worthington! A word if you please.”
The stern manager disappeared through the rear storeroom’s bead curtain with an emphatic beckoning gesture of her index finger.
Daisy Thatcher, the cafe’s regular waitress, stepped up to placate the affronted customer. She was a petite and shapely young woman, who was far more inclined towards excellent customer service than Ronnie Worthington was ever likely to be.
“I wonder, Mrs Forsyth, do you enjoy warmed buns?” Daisy asked. Her tone was innocent, but she cast a knowing glance towards the storeroom as she spoke. “There are some folk around here who are practically begging for their buns to be toasted.”
The cafe’s telephone was mounted on the wall of the storeroom, between a sturdy wooden tea-crate and several flour sacks. Ms Dover was already lifting the earpiece and tapping the cradle impatiently.
“Eileen? Is that you? Connect me to The Manor please. I require a word with Lady Worthington at once.”
While she waited for the call to be put through, Tilly eyed her disinclined temporary waitress with weary exasperation.
“Let’s face it, Ronnie,” she said. “I don’t think you’re exactly waitress material. You may be trying... in fact, you certainly are, but I think it’s for the best if I ask Lady Worthington to release you from our arrangement. Perhaps she can find an alternative occupation for you?”
Ronnie glanced down to conceal her delight. She couldn’t believe her scheme had come to fruition so quickly. It had only been two days, and her calculated impertinence had already secured her freedom. She could picture herself back at home, in a proper Sunday frock, and receiving tea, instead of serving it.
As the telephone conversation commenced, Ronnie could pick out a few words as her aunt’s voice squawked over the handset, but it was the tone that caught her attention. The angry proclamations, becoming increasingly amplified, suggested the prospects of an imminent pick-up, courtesy of Lady Worthington’s chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce, were diminishing fast.
“I will not hear of it!” came the tinny but clearly infuriated voice. “She is there to learn, and if she is not meeting your expectations, use your initiative and ensure that she does. You have my permission to motivate her however you see fit!”
The call terminated with an emphatic click, and Ms Dover was left stunned, still holding the telephone receiver to her ear. As she replaced it on the hook, a sly smile spread across her lips.
“Well-well, Ronnie. It seems we’re stuck with each other for another fortnight. In that case, we really must clarify the terms of your service and begin a training plan to help get to the bottom of things. In my experience, thorough training should leave a lasting impression.”
Ronnie winced at the prospect of a scolding from this formidable, but unmistakably provincial, cafe owner.
“Sunday is our busiest day,” Ms Dover explained, “so we’ll keep this brisk, and get directly to the seat of the problem!”
What followed came in such a blur that, even afterwards, Ronnie was uncertain how it had happened. She had a fleeting vision of storeroom shelves whisking by, followed by a close-up view of tiled flooring. An unfamiliar pressure against her hips and tummy confirmed the startling realisation that she had been unceremoniously deposited over Ms Dover’s ample thighs.
“What on earth?” Ronnie exclaimed, kicking ineffectually. “Oh no, you don’t! You wouldn’t dare!”
Her frantic squirming, as she made a hopeless bid for freedom, simply resulted in Ms Dover hoisting her further across her knees, and tightening her grip. The nubile débutante found herself pinned into the angle of her employer’s broad lap. In a move that put the final seal on her fate, Ms Dover hooked a foot over her ankles, securely trapping her legs.
“I certainly do dare, Ronnie. You’re about to learn that this isn’t a posh finishing school, and you might be unaccustomed to my methods. There may even be a few ups and downs in our relationship before you settle into your role.”
Helpless to resist, Ronnie turned her head, unsure if she wanted to witness what was coming next.
“For instance,” Ms Dover announced. “This goes up... and these come down!”
Ronnie’s shriek of alarm rose to the pitch of a whistling kettle as she felt her figure-hugging skirt dragged up over her hips. With a resigned grimace, she braced for the agonising indignity she knew was about to follow.
Ms Dover took a firm grip on the thin elasticated waistband of Ronnie’s ivory nylon panties. One moment, the sheen of glossy fabric tightly wrapped the delectable orbs of her buttocks. A moment later, they descended slowly, tormentingly, all the way to her knees. Tradition appeared to dictate that this was a dish which should be served without dressing.
Ronnie’s mouth fell open in a tumultuous blend of disbelief and umbrage. The mortifying downward swoop of fabric finalised her fall from fine débutante to a tragic heroine. She was powerless to resist, and knew she was about to face a spectacular and painful comeuppance.
By any measure, Ms Dover was not a dainty woman. Ronnie pictured her sturdy arms, and the broad right palm, toughened and calloused by years of handling hot baking trays and kettle lids. She winced, doubting that the soft and supple curves of her pampered posterior would be a worthy match for the ministrations of a hand that was so well acquainted with applied warmth.
And she was correct.
Without further ado, Ms Dover’s right palm unleashed a rain of fiery spanks upon her poised and defenceless derrière. The chastening onslaught came smartly to the boil and held its scalding simmer for almost five minutes.
With the precision of a woman accustomed to kitchen techniques, every crack of hand upon bare bottom was firm, hot, and perfectly timed. The resounding smacks reverberated around the close confines of the storeroom until even the shelves’ contents were trembling in sympathy.
“You can’t do this to me,” Ronnie wailed in furious indignation. But the physical evidence contradicted her assertion.
The commotion was an unnerving contrast to the usual cafe sounds. Customers of the Cherry Blossom Tearoom were used to the hiss of a kettle, and the delicate clink of cups upon saucers. Or even the genteel plop of a sugar lump plunging into a cup of strong English breakfast tea. That background ambience continued, but now it was accompanied by exuberant, rhythmic smacks and increasingly doleful yelps.
While Ronnie endured the escalating, smarting pain within her upthrust undercarriage, she also had to endure that infuriating doorbell chime. With increasing regularity, she heard its smug ding, and guessed that the congregation had been released from morning service and were gathering for refreshments. She was all too aware that every cheery chime signalled the arrival of another pair of ears, no doubt eager to overhear her humiliation.
Ms Dover was renowned for taking a pride in her work, and she noted the ripening hue of the bouncing cheeks, well-risen, across her lap with distinct satisfaction. Whether she was icing cakes, or tanning hides, her skill and thoroughness were beyond question. Such was the intensity of her focus that several seconds elapsed before she noticed the figure of Daisy, retrieving a packet of scones from a shelf.
The girl’s sideways glances, and her expression of blushing amusement, suggested that scones might not be the only reason for her presence. Curiosity, it seemed, had won out over discretion.
Allowing her hand to come to a momentary halt upon Ronnie’s scorched cheeks, Ms Dover arched an eyebrow, fixing Daisy with a stern glare.
“I suggest, young lady, that you get back to the cafe and attend to the customers... before you find that it’s your turn to be attended to!”
Daisy’s blushes intensified, and she scurried back through the bead curtain, although not without a final unapologetic glance, lingering upon Ronnie’s exposed and cherry-red behind. It was the sort of immodest display that might make even a jam tart blush.
The Reverend Forsyth was waiting at the counter, his expression caught somewhere between moral perplexity and pastoral concern. He had an uneasy feeling that Ms Dover’s delivery in the storeroom was more fiery than any of his sermons.
“Is that the new girl?” he asked. “There’s really quite an awful commotion going on back there. I suppose it’s some kind of vigorous kneading, perhaps?”
Daisy gave a sweet smile. “Please don’t concern yourself, Reverend. I believe Ms Dover is delivering some hands-on training.”
The vicar had his doubts about this explanation, but his wife seemed positively serene, as if each resounding report from the storeroom reinforced her faith in divine justice. In the case of this insolent young waitress, Providence had intervened quickly, and with miraculous vigour.
Meanwhile, Ronnie’s roasted backside was encouraging a comprehensive rethink of her entire attitude towards customer service. Ms Dover’s right hand was heavy and relentless. In slow, inexorable increments, as the young woman continued to squirm, its focus began to migrate from her blossoming red cheeks to the tops of her tender thighs. Ronnie already knew there would be no sitting down on the job for the rest of the day.
After a conclusive volley, rattled off with blistering rapidity, Ms Dover leaned back and surveyed the results. Ronnie’s rear resembled a rolling landscape, a pair of glowing peaks separated by a deep valley, rendered throughout in vivid crimson hues and mottled scarlet bruises.
“There. Done to perfection,” Ms Dover announced, with the air of a pastry chef admiring a glazed strawberry tart. She released her grip and restored the red-faced, red-bottomed débutante back into an upright posture.
Ronnie grasped and rubbed her smarting cheeks, her eager fingers making a desperate effort to massage away the worst of the throbbing sting. With her skirt cinched in a stubborn, lopsided bunch above her hips, and her panties puddled around her ankles, she was a sorry sight indeed. The experience had re-educated both her posterior and her pride.
“I’ve never been treated like this in my life before,” Ronnie declared, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “It’s simply barbaric!”
“Well then,” Ms Dover replied with a wry chuckle, “it seems your aunt was quite right. Since your education is unfinished, I’ll be happy to teach you an extended syllabus... if that should prove necessary, of course!”
Ronnie cringed as she gathered up her underthings and tried to restore herself to a modicum of only slightly dishevelled dignity.
Whatever she might learn at finishing school this term, Ms Dover had already introduced her to Lesson 1 of an advanced and thoroughly specialised curriculum.
“Now then, Miss Worthington. Return to work. I suggest you apply yourself diligently and keep your cheek well in hand, or the next time we have one of these little discussions, it won’t be my hand that’s applied to your cheeks.”
From the shelf beside the cutlery trays and mixing bowls, she plucked a heavy wooden spoon. Ronnie cringed at the very sight of it. If this was one of Ms Dover’s secret disciplinary ingredients, its stout construction offered little in the way of mystery.
But calm had, at last, returned to the Cherry Blossom Tearoom, and Ronnie shuffled meekly to the cafe floor and resumed her duties. Her sulky pout gradually eased into pink-cheeked compliance. The persistent prickling of her smarting sit-upon, coupled with the knowing glances of the regular patrons, helped keep her mind focussed on the job.
From boarding schools to governesses, only Ms Dover had proved able to rise to the occasion, and discovered how to shape-up this impertinent débutante.
With visions of wooden spoons still dancing through her mind, Ronnie promised herself that, from this day forth, she’d try to cool her tongue, in order to preserve her buns... un-toasted.
#FF #Hand #OTK #Held #Uniform #Underwear #Bare #Waitress #Audio