Cold Caller Hot Bottom
When eager saleswoman Laura ignores a No Cold Callers sign, she soon discovers that door-to-door marketing can be a perilous profession. Upended over a stern gentleman’s lap, she learns the hard way that clothes-brushes have more than one practical use. Cold Caller Hot Bottom is a saucy suburban frolic of misplaced confidence, simmering embarrassment, and the rueful consequences of a thoroughly spanked bottom.
There were several signs along Victoria Avenue which Laura felt she could manage without. Mind the Step, Please Close the Gate, No Junk Mail. They were common sense, although a nearby electricity distribution box bore a Keep Out – Danger of Death sign, which she grudgingly admitted might be justified.
At number 42 the commandment No Cold Callers caught her gaze, but she dismissed it with breezy indifference and pressed her finger to the doorbell. It was a decision she would soon look back on with a rather different outlook. A hot and smarting bottom would be a salutary reminder to take proper notice of such notices. But of course, she didn't know that yet.
Inside, Patrick had finished breakfast and was sipping his second cup of coffee. A pre-dawn flight home from a client visit had prompted a well deserved day off and he had every intention of relaxing in the garden, enjoying what looked set to be an unseasonably warm spring day.
Consequently, the sound of the doorbell was not an interruption that he welcomed.
“Good morning Sir,” Laura began. “You have a beautiful home, immaculately maintained, and I thought some of our products might be of interest to you.”
It was a variation on one of half-a-dozen opening lines. In this case, the well rehearsed compliment appeared to soften the home-owner's stern expression. At the very least, she saw she had caught his attention.
With a touch of pride she felt his admiring gaze take in her profile. A clingy summer dress with a knee length hem, and a light floral design, traced her hourglass curves. Cinching around her slender waist, it revealed the shapely curve of her hips and bottom, accenting the swell of her firm breasts. Chestnut brown hair tumbled around her shoulders and framed the low cut V-collar that revealed a tantalising hint of cleavage.
“I represent SparkleCare and we carry only the highest quality home-care products.”
She lifted a black clipboard from her samples box revealing a selection of dusters, sprays, bottles, and other items.
“With such a beautiful home, perhaps you'd like to take a look at our catalogue?”
There was a long pause while he appeared to consider this, looking over the samples. It gave Laura a moment to examine this tall, quiet man, framed in the doorway that opened into a wide hallway.
Barefoot beneath slim linen trousers, he looked relaxed and casual, a pale blue polo shirt hugging his athletic frame. Laura noticed a subtle, musky aroma. For a moment, she imagined him emerging wet and dripping from a shower... but, she quickly put that distracting daydream out of her mind.
“I don't get many of these visits,” he began, and meeting Laura's eye, he said. “Most people seem to take note of my 'no cold callers' sign.”
Laura felt herself glance back at the sign.
“Yes. That one.” he admonished.
Despite her 30 years, she was beginning to feel rather like a chided schoolgirl, nervously awaiting her fate under the gaze of a stern headmaster.
“Well, I just thought...” but her words trailed off and, looking shyly back to Patrick's face, she took hope, deciding that he was teasing her.
“You have every right to look guilty young lady,” he continued, although his tone had become more jovial. “But, you've caught me with some free time, and as it happens I'd like to take a look. I must say, one of your sample items caught my eye, so please do come in.”
He gestured along the hallway towards the kitchen-diner, it's broad French windows propped open to reveal a stone patio that stepped down towards the lush green of a neat lawn. The rustling of leaves, sounds of birdsong, and the drone of distant traffic gave the room a lovely suburban ambience.
Beyond the dining table, a chaise-lounge stood beside the open French windows. As they sat, Laura felt the cooling breeze stir the light fabric of her dress. With pen and clipboard in hand, she was about to speak when Patrick plucked a single item from the samples box.
“Now that's a very fine choice in a gentleman's clothes brush,” Laura complemented him. “Boar's hair bristles that won't damage your suits. It can cut down on your dry-cleaning bills too.”
Noticing that Patrick now seemed to be inspecting the back of the brush and its long, smooth handle, she continued. “And, of course, it's made with only the finest materials. That's natural cherrywood, and the polished finish really shows off the grain.”
Confident that she was on the verge of a sale, she smiled.
“What you see there is our extra-large model, and with the additional length and breadth, a few strokes are all you need to keep everything in order. Can I take it you're interested?”
Patrick smoothed his fingers over the flat, high-gloss surface and smiled.
“I do believe it's exactly what I'm looking for, but perhaps you'd permit me to give it a brisk trial run?”
“Of course,” she replied, “and I noticed your suit jacket on the hall stand, so allow me to...”
But, as she stood, Patrick caught her by the arm and in one smooth motion he swept her across his lap, where she found herself sprawled in a most unladylike fashion.
“Well really! I must protest!”
In her initial brief struggles she felt his right leg hook around her ankles, pinning her legs down.
“For starters, you shouldn't use a clothes brush on cotton delicates! And secondly, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you can't go pushing me around like this!”
Flinging back her head, Laura caught a glimpse of the brush hovering close to her upturned bottom, bristle side facing upwards.
“You're not even using it right,” she declared in a tone of exasperation. “You've got it upside down. Don't you know anything?”
“I think,” Patrick declared in a calm tone that Laura's insolence scarcely deserved, “that you'll find I know exactly what I'm doing.”
As he laid the oversized wooden brush against the fabric that tightly wrapped the firm, rounded orbs of her bottom cheeks, the magnitude of her predicament finally dawned on her.
Her skimpy Brazilian briefs that had boasted no visible panty-line were suddenly failing to deliver on that promise. Through the tightly stretched sun dress, Patrick found himself treated to the embossed impression of lace trim scooping out a saucy line high across each buttock.
Laura made a grab for the brush, but to her dismay she felt her slender wrist caught and pinned against her back.
“Now,” Patrick began, “this will not take long. But, I assure you, you'll think twice before ignoring signage instructions in future.”
Raising his right arm, the polished back of the clothes brush landed squarely with a sharp whap.
With a gasp of surprise at the intensity of the sting that rippled through her bottom, there began a flurry of spanks that dotted around her cheeks. The rapid impacts flooded her backside with heat and an insistent, buzzing throb.
Patrick was, by nature, a thorough man. The firm, biting correction encompassed every inch of her bottom. With particular relish he delivered a crescendo of swats to the crease where her slender toned thighs met her glowing red cheeks.
Laura's howls of protest gradually subsided into a grudging acceptance of the spanking that she knew her presumptuousness had so richly deserved. Her squirming resistance felt as though it were draining away, and she slumped lower upon his supportive lap as the rhythmic discipline played out.
When Patrick finally relented and guided her back to her feet, a deep prickly sting pulsated through her backside and the cooling breeze from the patio offered little in the way of comfort. She clasped both hands to her tender behind and massaged vigorously, desperate to ease the stinging. Even through the cotton dress, Laura could feel the radiant heated skin against her fingertips.
Casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, Patrick laid the brush on the dining table and picked up his wallet from the kitchen.
“You know, I think this is perfect for my requirements, and I'm sure you'll agree that it's most efficacious. Here, and keep the change,” he added, tucking the approximate cash value of the brush under the transparent sleeve inside the cover of her clipboard. “Let me help you with that box, and I'll show you to the door.”
Laura was clutching her bottom, red faced, and left utterly speechless by the events that had transpired. In all her years at SparkleCare, she had never imagined her products could serve double-duty as a line in domestic discipline tools.
“Thank you,” he said, “and do feel free to call again if you're in the area. Especially if you have any new products that you think I might find useful.”
Ushering her out of the house, Patrick watched the young woman limp down the garden path, clutching her sample box under one arm. With evident satisfaction, he observed that her free hand still frantically rubbed and squeezed at her well scorched rear.
His neighbour, Mrs Hargreaves, was trimming her rose bushes in the front garden and observed the uncomfortable departure with sly amusement.
“Another cold caller,” Patrick said, by way of explanation.
“Well,” Mrs Hargreaves chuckled, “she might be the first cold caller I've seen departing with steam rising from her bottom!”