Strictly Overdue
When enthusiastic efficiency expert, Tamsin Clayton, descends upon Little Dithering's public library, she aims to deliver a modern, automated solution to an age-old problem. But, when her computer system goes rogue, she finds herself on the receiving end of the most old-fashioned solution imaginable! With furious patrons demanding satisfaction, it requires the hands-on intervention of a very strict librarian to interface with Tamsin's software modules... leaving her back-end dangerously over-heated!
from 📚 Contemporary Comeuppance
After twelve years service as Little Dithering's head librarian, Ms Beamish thought she'd seen it all. However, of all the initiatives and innovations that were handed down from the council offices, she'd decided that efficiency drives were her least favourite.
There had been the time, a couple of years earlier, when a bureaucratic big-wig suggested supplementing the success of the mobile-library van with a Library-Lambretta rapid-response delivery service.
All had gone well until the scooter, its suspension wholly inadequate for the cobbled street, careered into the village pond, injuring several ducks, and depositing an entire Mills and Boon box-set into the pond's emergency outlet pipe. It seemed that the chilly pond was enough to transform the throbbing desire of a hot romance novel into a limp and soggy mess. The resulting three days of flooding wasn't the sort of damp patch that authors of saucy paperbacks usually dwelt upon.
Ms Beamish had no reason to believe that Tamsin Clayton's aspirations for a computerised overdue reminder system would be any more successful. But, she had to admit, there was no faulting the young woman's enthusiasm. And, at least so far, she had been quieter than the Lambretta.
In Ms Beamish's mind, the application of a stern accusing stare, was the only overdue reminder that most library patrons ever required. She was a traditionalist and this personal touch had earned her respect from the community.
“Are you sure you've got it all wired up properly?” Ms Beamish asked, glancing at her watch. Much to her chagrin, it was already five minutes past closing time.
Tamsin had spent most of the afternoon tangled in computer cables and muttering about exposed underlying vulnerabilities. The usual silence of the library had been filled with the whirring clunk and hum of the new computer terminal.
It also hadn't escaped Ms Beamish's attention that several regular patrons had been distracted from their reading by the sight of Miss Clayton's pinstripe pencil-skirt, stretched taut around her shapely derrière. The young lady had a most undignified habit of bending over the equipment, trying to tease another of the floppy-disks into action.
“Nearly done!” the pretty consultant assured her. “I know you're not a lover of technology, but I'm convinced you'll be astounded when you see the results. This latest ReturnBot overdue reminder system can have quite an impact!”
Ms Beamish remained unconvinced, but chose to keep these views to herself.
When they eventually closed the library, it was fifteen minutes past the hour.
While the head librarian hurried home, Tamsin strolled to her hotel for a hot shower before dinner. Her hair was tousled, her charcoal-grey power-suit looking dusty and creased. Yet, even in this slightly dishevelled state, her urbane appearance cut a striking impression, turning-heads along Little Dithering's high-street.
She slept peacefully, unaware of the electronic troubles that were brewing within the logic and memory circuits of the ReturnBot computer terminal. With lightning efficiency, it clicked and whirred, triggering reminders and sending out notifications.
More alarmingly still, and without deference to rank or station, it compiled a list of the most recalcitrant overdue recidivists.
In an overzealous algorithmic leap, the computer emailed the finalised list to the editor of the Little Dithering Gazette. Committing an error of profound optimism, it had calculated that this data would be worthy of nothing more than a discreet footnote; probably nestled somewhere towards the bottom of the Parish Notices section.
The following morning greeted Tamsin with bright sunshine, and a singular lack of any forecast for the storm she was about to walk into.
Meeting Ms Beamish outside the hotel, the two women made the short walk to the library building together. They were surprised by the annoyance and volume of the three customers who were already waiting beside the library door.
The vicar, reverend Bernie Frame, brandished a copy of his newspaper.
In the tone normally reserved for his most fiery sermons, he demanded, “What is the meaning of this? According to the Gazette's front page, I'm two weeks late returning my copy of The Joy of Sex. If I ever borrowed such a book, and I'm certainly not confirming that I did, it ought to be a private matter for myself and Mrs Frame!”
The second figure stepped forward, waggling an accusing index finger. She was Mrs Thompson, headmistress of Little Dithering College, a statuesque woman in her mid-thirties.
“And- how do you think I feel?” she interjected. “The same article claims that I'm overdue returning The Art of Striptease. A rather embarrassing bombshell for someone in my position, wouldn't you say?”
Tamsin blushed, feeling an uncomfortable shimmer of warm perspiration beneath her arms.
“Oh- dear. I suppose when I set up the application, I must have accidentally enabled the experimental public-notice module.” Her voice felt a little shaky as she tried to defend the computer's behaviour. “We designed it to be helpful. It makes it much easier to find out if your book's overdue.”
Mr Burnley, the local magistrate, frowned.
“You mean, it's easy to remember your library book when it's plastered all over the front page of the newspaper? How fortunate they reminded me I'm two-days late returning Breaking Free of the Law. Helpful, maybe, but the breach of trust and privacy is appalling!”
“Well- the logic can only deal with facts and rules,” Tamsin protested. “I really don't think you can blame the computer!”
Even as she spoke these words, Tamsin noticed Mrs Thompson's cheeks were turning the colour of beetroot.
“I suggest we all go to the council offices, right now, and demand satisfaction,” she announced. “Bring your copy of the paper, Reverend. Someone is going to face a disciplinary over this!”
She didn't specify Tamsin by name, but her furious look, said it all.
Tamsin's heart sank. She knew, if her boss ever found out about this carelessness, she would never be trusted with another installation project. But, as if to reclaim her professional home-ground, the librarian took charge.
“Wait- I've heard enough!” Ms Beamish declared, taking a firm hold of Tamsin's arm. “I don't think any of us believe the computer is the one to blame for this dreadful situation. You, young lady, are coming with me! And, if you can give me five minutes, Mrs Thompson, I think you'll have ample satisfaction without the inconvenience of lodging a formal complaint.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and led the flustered young efficiency consultant into the library.
The hurried shuffle of footsteps that followed in their wake, arrived just in time to see Ms Beamish bringing out the elevated wooden stool from behind the library reception. It was tall, rather like a sturdy oak bar-stool, and with low-level horizontal rails that acted as a convenient footrest while working at the counter. She positioned it close to the desk, beside the No Talking sign, its feet dropping onto the parquet-flooring with a heavy clunk
“What on earth are you doing? You have no right to push me around like this!” Tamsin insisted, finding herself drawn closer to the stool.
“Remember where you are, Miss Clayton,” Ms Beamish reminded her. “No Talking, if you recall.”
With startling nimbleness for a lady of her maturity, the senior librarian hopped up onto the tall seat. Seconds later, Tamsin was hoisted upwards and deposited over her raised lap!
For an anxious moment, she teetered, hands and feet flailing well above floor-level, before Ms Beamish's arm en-wrapped her hips, locking her into an immovable position. She barely managed to avoid a personal system crash onto the library floor, and was grateful for that, but the secure clamp of the librarian's inescapable grasp sent a chill along her spine.
“Really! Ms Beamish!” Tamsin exclaimed, aghast and making a grab for the foot-rail in a desperate bid to stabilise herself. “You can't do this to me!”
Ms Beamish was unmoved by Tamsin's earnest protests.
“I beg to differ, Miss Clayton,” she replied. “I'd say that a timely public reminder is precisely what you need young lady. It's something I'm sure everyone here would agree that is long overdue!”
Tamsin felt a flash of indignation at the position in which she found herself, but when it came to feeling undignified, her troubles were just getting started. Ms Beamish was already tugging at the hem of her skirt, exposing the white cotton panties beneath. The embarrassment grew for the helpless Tamsin as the tight fabric of her skirt was dragged up and over her hips.
With dawning horror, she cringed, knowing that a raised skirt was merely a stepping-stone along this disciplinary route. To make matters even worse, she felt horribly aware there was nothing she could do to resist.
Without inhibition, Ms Beamish's fingers plunged beneath the waistband of Tamsin's panties, sweeping them down to her knees! The humiliation caused the girl's panic to rise even faster than her underwear descended! The shameful exposure was accompanied by an intimate rush of cold library air, wafting between her thighs, and beyond.
For the audience, observing in triplicate, her delectable posterior was raised up, presented almost literally upon a pedestal, like some sort of indecorous exhibit!
“No! Ms Beamish... please!” Tamsin wailed.
The librarian sighed. “Perhaps our village-ways might seem somewhat archaic to a sophisticated city-girl, but in a few minutes' time, you'll be able to judge their efficiency for yourself.”
“But- I'm far too old for a spanking! I mean, it's simply outrageous!”
Ms Beamish gave a wry shrug. “If it's anywhere close to being as outrageous as the behaviour of your software, then the application of this remedy will be all the more apt, wouldn't you say? I may not know much about computers, but I think you'll understand when I tell you there's about to be some robust interaction with your back-end interface.
From the desk beside her, Ms Beamish plucked a fifteen inch wooden draftsman's ruler, marked along each lightly-bevelled edge in inches; one scale running forward, the other in reverse. It was rarely used in the library nowadays, at least not as a ruler. But, its heavy-duty construction, two-inches wide and tipped with polished brass end-caps, had led to it being re-purposed as a highly effective paperweight.
The chill of a hefty wooden ruler pressed against the uplifted curve of her exposed cheeks was unmistakable. Tamsin instinctively tightened her grip on the foot-rest, bracing herself for the agonising indignity that was about to follow.
She was experiencing the horrible, sinking sensation that this was going to be no mere symbolic restitution but a true, old fashioned punishment, sufficient to placate the injured pride of the library patrons. Her own pride, or rather – what little was left of it, would seem to be expendable!
When the ruler broke contact, there was a perceptible movement in the air. This was followed by a swoosh of motion as the ruler's smooth, well-buffed surface descended landing with an almighty crack that violated the usual quiet sanctuary of the library.
It took a moment for the pain to fully register. A surface sting – ripping, biting – came first, followed by the rush of a deeper, penetrating sting.
Quite contrary to library regulations, Tamsin let out a squeal of surprise, her body jerking forward upon Ms Beamish's lap. Her earlier humiliation at the thought of her naked bottom being placed on display in such an ignominious fashion, paled into insignificance alongside this overwhelming, agonising sensation.
With a degree of expertise that would have done credit to Mrs Thompson's own headmistressly duties, the determined librarian unleashed the full fury of the ruler upon poor Tamsin's defenceless derrière.
The splitting crack-crack-crack of a ruler being applied to rosy, smarting skin, echoed from the wood flooring and between the columns of bookshelves. The girl's howls of protest provided a persistent accompaniment, yet Ms Beamish remained resolute, oblivious to Tamsin's freely flowing tears as she wobbled and kicked across the staunch lap.
The vicar and Mr Burnley gazed, almost hypnotised in astonishment, as the rippling impacts danced upon the glowing red cheeks. Even Mrs Thompson, a firm advocate of the very strictest discipline, had to give credit to Ms Beamish's unflinching technique.
Tamsin felt each prickling whack amplifying the lingering heat and stinging. It wasn't only the pain of each slap of the ruler, but the sheer cumulative rapidity of the spanking. The blossoming heat and stinging was blistering, becoming unbearable as she squirmed within the restricted confines of Ms Beamish's resolute grasp.
The silence, when the ruler finally came to a halt, was deafening. The unfortunate young woman couldn't recall any previous spanking of this severity and longed to massage her smarting rear.
“I trust you have learned a valuable lesson here today?' Ms Beamish asked, the awful implement poised, ready to begin again, if Tamsin's reply proved unsatisfactory.
“Yes- yes, Ms Beamish. I absolutely have! I promise!” she sobbed.
With an appraising glance over the young woman's bruised and quivering buttocks, Ms Beamish relented, and helped her back to her feet.
“Hands on your head, and straight to the corner, Miss Clayton.”
For a moment, Tamsin considered protesting, but the throb of her blazing and smarting backside told her that, in the interest of self-preservation, unquestioning obedience was the wisest choice!
“I trust,” Ms Beamish announced, “that the three of you are now satisfied this regrettable matter has been addressed appropriately?”
Facing the wall, but listening intently, Tamsin heard only an indecipherable muttering, before the Reverend Frame spoke up, apparently acting as the spokesperson for the vexed group of customers.
“Yes, Ms Beamish. And we don't think there'll be any need to complain to the council, but there is still the matter of the newspaper to be addressed.”
Ms Beamish gave a wry smirk.
“I have just the answer for you,” she assured the group. “I shall contact the newspaper immediately and explain there has been a data-entry error. The vicar's book was, of course, not The Joy of Sex, but *The Joy of Sect, a perfectly respectable interdenominational guide to different branches of the Christian faith.”
Reverend Frame nodded in approval, admiring the creativity.
“And, I'll explain that Mrs Thompson's book wasn't The Art of Striptease, but The Art of Sipped Teas, an Encyclopaedia of loose-leaf tea-brewing methods.”
Turning to the magistrate, Ms Beamish rounded off her summary with a final flourish. “And I'm certain Mr Burnley never intended to borrow Breaking Free of the Law, and his choice of book was, in fact, Breaking Free of the Lawn, a popular guide to suburban rock gardening.”
With final glances towards Tamsin, standing dolefully in the corner like an archetypal red-bottomed naughty girl, the three mollified library patrons filed out. The matter, had indeed, been settled to their entire satisfaction.
Ms Beamish left the sullen and thoroughly chastened efficiency expert in the library's improvised naughty corner, knowing that her sit-upon had to still be fizzing with a pulsing sting of warmth. Unhurried, she retired to her private office and made a call to the newspaper editor.
Tamsin felt the loneliness of the silence, keeping still, nose to the wall and her fingers intertwined on top of her head. Compliance did not feel optional. At least, not if she wanted to avoid a repeat dose of Ms Beamish's unflinching brand of corporal punishment. As much as she longed to let her fingers soothe her raw skin, she simply didn't dare to move.
That wooden ruler had delivered a devastating spanking, but Tamsin couldn't help feeling a certain sense of professional awe at the single minded effectiveness of the approach. Without the use of computer technology, Ms Beamish had secured full submission in less than three minutes! The only hardware was a chunky wooden ruler, and the only application was its hard-coded interaction with her own back-end.
Her raised arms were beginning to ache, and the cool air wafting across her bare behind was doing little to soothe the fiery thrum as the smarting continued to torment her.
“Are you still there, Miss Clayton?” came an imperious call from the office several minutes later.
“Yes, Ms Beamish,” Tamsin replied into the wall.
“You may lower your hands now, and I suggest you reset your wardrobe! Luckily for you I have resolved the newspaper scandal, and a correction will appear tomorrow.”
Self-conscious and blushing, ashamed of her partial nudity, Tamsin hurried to restore her panties, wincing as the elastic rubbed her reddened rear. She saw that Ms Beamish was polishing the ruler with a white silk hanky and gave a nervous swallow, still fearful of a possible return trip across the librarian's knee.
“Might I ask,” Ms Beamish enquired, “what you intend to do next?”
“Well- the first thing will be to disable the automatic public warning system.”
“Very good, Miss Clayton. In that case, you may proceed with my blessing.”
As the consultant returned to her work, quite unable to sit down on the job for the foreseeable future, she reflected that Ms Beamish's straight-edged, tactile application of hardware upon software had been a true marvel of operational efficiency. There are some hands-on legacy systems, Tamsin decided, that no modern algorithm could ever truly replace...