The Firm Hand of Justice
Keen to make her mark, Lower Bramblethorpe’s young and beautiful traffic warden, Maisie Trent, takes enforcement a step too far. Unable to hold her tongue, she soon pays the price in the most intimate of ways... with a very thorough spanking! The Firm Hand of Justice is a saucy tale where petty infractions lead to tender consequences.
The clock beside the blackboard in the police-house duty room struck nine. Sergeant Hatch stood at ease, eyes skimming the Lower Bramblethorpe village wall-map with studied boredom.
Beside him, on a long wooden bench, sat Maisie Trent, the district's newest probationary traffic warden. Her back was straight, shoulders square, and her proud chest was provocatively accentuated by her cinched uniform jacket. The notebook clutched in her lap, and her polished shoes, drew attention to her shapely legs, while her peaked hat perched on a radiant tumble of platinum blonde hair. She carried herself with the air of someone who knew all the rules and was eager to enforce them.
At one minute past the hour, WPC Stroud tumbled in, cheeks flushed and hair in disarray.
“You're late again,” came a stern voice.
Lady Worthington peered over her glasses. “One minute past, Constable. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings, and of constables who wish to keep their rank.”
Stroud muttered an apology and slid into her seat, wincing at Maisie’s smug gaze.
With a faint quiver of his moustache, Sergeant Hatch sensed that trouble was brewing, and he considered how best to fan the flames. Those contemplations were interrupted however, as Lady Worthington began her stern lecture.
“This morning, I want to address the lax enforcement I've noticed all around the village. Sergeant Hatch — I saw your bicycle chained to the town hall railings earlier. It's an unacceptable obstruction and a clear violation.”
Hatch shifted. “The lamppost was already taken ma’am.”
“That's no excuse. When your bicycle is not in use, put it in the yard. We must set a good example. How does it look if we can’t obey the rules ourselves?”
Maisie struggled to hide the triumphant turn of her lips as Lady Worthington’s gaze fixed on WPC Stroud.
“And as for you Constable, instead of cautioning the greengrocer for shouting his prices far too loudly, you appeared to be flirting with him.”
Stroud blushed and twisted her skirt. “But, it did stop the shouting ma’am.”
“That is not the point. The law should not be enforced by fluttering one's eyelashes. Overlook the small things and chaos soon follows. I expect far more zeal in future.”
Maisie’s eyes gleamed. She smoothed her skirt and raised her hand with the poise of a school prefect, certain she was about to impress the headmistress, and look pretty while doing so. The way her uniform hugged her curves had been known to cause motorist’s hearts to race even faster than their speedometers.
She cleared her throat. “If I may, ma’am — I have already performed such a duty this morning.”
Lady Worthington gave the smallest of nods.
“I noticed a vehicle in flagrant breach of parking rules,” the observant traffic warden declared, sitting straighter. “Two wheels on the pavement, inconveniencing the public. I issued a penalty notice at once.”
She paused, letting the image of herself — guardian of road traffic virtue — settle over the room. Her rosy cheeks dimpled with satisfaction.
Lady Worthington permitted herself a rare smile. “Splendid. That vigilance is exactly what we need. I commend your efforts.”
Maisie glowed, brushing an invisible speck from her skirt as if polishing her own virtue.
Sergeant Hatch coughed into his sleeve, though whether from private amusement, or from his earlier cigar, was not clear. For her part, WPC Stroud crossed her arms and kept her gaze on the floorboards, lest her rolling eyes betray her inner thoughts.
“That's excellent work Officer Trent,” Sergeant Hatch declared. “As Lady Worthington has been reminding us, we must take a firm hand against this sort of behaviour. Incidentally, what sort of car was it? I wonder who on earth would be so inconsiderate.”
Relishing the opportunity to take centre stage, she continued. “It was a luxury model Sarge. A Bentley, and very posh. Black paint, cream leather interior. I think it's dreadful how these rich folk think the law doesn’t apply to them. It's nothing but pure selfishness.”
She beamed at Sergeant Hatch, eager to accept further praise, completely blind to the thunderclouds gathering in Lady Worthington’s expression. WPC Stroud looked up, sensing the peril, and tried in vain to catch Maisie’s eye with a frantic shake of her head.
“Of course, it’s only a fine of two shillings and sixpence,” Maisie continued, oblivious to the escalating danger. “I don’t suppose the driver will care. People like that never do.”
Stroud, unable to contain herself, blurted out a strangled half-whisper. “Maisie! You don’t mean Lady Worthington’s Bentley? Do you?”
The impetuous young traffic warden froze. “Her what?” she gasped, the colour draining from her cheeks.
Lady Worthington’s wry smile hardened into porcelain. “Precisely so. And you do not suppose the driver will care? That's a rather sweeping judgement Officer Trent. Well, I assure you that I most certainly do care!”
Maisie drew herself up, though her fingers twisted in her lap, fidgeting with her notebook. “With respect, ma’am, two minutes ago you asked how it would look if we can’t obey the rules ourselves. Overlook the small things and chaos soon follows. That's exactly what you told us. Perhaps you've conveniently changed your mind?”
The deathly hush that followed felt as brittle as glass. Hatch glanced towards the ceiling, his moustache twitching with amusement.
Lady Worthington’s tone hardened. “That's correct Officer Trent, and I accept that. But, what I will not accept is your impertinent tone.”
Maisie folded her arms, emboldened by her sense of duty. “So, I suppose you want me to make an exception and cancel the ticket?”
WPC Stroud sucked in her breath, eyes darting between the two adversaries like a spectator watching a high-stakes tennis match.
Lady Worthington’s voice cut through the air. “Enough. You presume far beyond your station. There is a manner in which one addresses a justice of the peace, and this is not it.”
Maisie shifted in her seat, though her chin remained high. “I only meant—”
“Do not answer back! And, do not presume to lecture those in authority over you. No constable of this parish will address me in such a manner.”
The room felt as though it were contracting around her. Maisie’s trembling hand, still resting on her notebook, fidgeted with the corner of a page.
“Sergeant Hatch, and Constable Stroud”, Lady Worthington called, slipping out of her jacket with a measured calm. “Leave us, if you please. I require a private consultation with Officer Trent. Five minutes will suffice.”
Maisie blinked, her confidence faltering as Hatch and Stroud traded a knowing look. Hatch was already suppressing a grin, while Stroud gave the foolhardy warden a sympathetic backward glance. The pair hurried from the room at the double, the door clicking shut behind them.
Left alone beneath Lady Worthington’s steely gaze, the trainee warden felt the stillness pressing in, until the magistrate’s voice sliced through it, cool and deliberate.
“How dare you speak to me in that insolent fashion young lady,” she said, her tone dropping into the unmistakable cadence of a schoolroom reprimand. “And in front of your superiors. Officers of the law do not conduct themselves with cheeky backchat.”
On the bench, Maisie squirmed, hands fidgeting in her lap. “I only meant that fairness should be applied to everyone ma’am.”
“Silence!” The single word cracked like the sound of a cane whipped across a poised seat. “If I want your opinion, I will ask. Until then, you will speak only when spoken to.”
Maisie’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. The sparkle of her earlier triumph had drained, leaving her pale and wide-eyed.
Lady Worthington stepped closer, folding her arms. “It is not only your judgement that I find wanting, but your tone, your manner, and your entire attitude. I assure you, your impertinence will not end well.”
Maisie’s heartbeat fluttered as she tried desperately to backtrack. “Honestly ma’am, I promise I'll try to be more respectful in future.” But, the words sounded feeble, even to her own ears.
“You certainly will,” Lady Worthington replied. “I intend to see to that personally. And when a polite reminder does not suffice, sterner measures are required.”
“Sterner measures? I don't think I understand.”
Lady Worthington’s eyes glinted. “In that case, allow me to elaborate. Before this morning is out, I shall pay my fine. And you shall pay the penalty.”
Maisie had barely drawn breath after hearing this chilling declaration when the older woman’s hand seized her by the wrist. With an irresistible tug, she found herself pulled from the bench and propelled towards the high-backed chair at the head of the room.
“Ma’am!” she squealed, stumbling in her sensible shoes. “Whatever are you doing?”
Before her protests could shape themselves into coherence, Lady Worthington had seated herself and, with the precision of one who was well versed in disciplinary procedures, swept the young woman across her lap. The sudden movement caught Maisie off guard and she found herself draped over a pair of unyielding thighs. By instinct her hands shot forward, her fingers scrabbling against the polished wooden floor as she fought to maintain her balance.
“Really!” she gasped. Her face flushed scarlet as her skirts were raised, exposing the creamy silk of her flimsy lace-edged French knickers. “This is outrageous! You can’t treat an officer of the law this way.”
In reply, the first resounding spank rang out. The fierce clap of Lady Worthington's hand meeting a softly yielding bottom, echoed through the panelled room. Maisie let out a shriek of pure disbelief as the warmth of the sting began to tingle and spread. How could this be happening? She was a traffic warden, not some naughty schoolgirl.
“I must protest! This is indecent!” she cried, her voice tinged with desperation. This was not the sort of rear-end collision they had ever taught her about at traffic school.
A second crisp impact landed sharper still, drawing another shriek of alarm.
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Lady Worthington said, delivering a third smack, square and decisive.
Maisie's retorts faltered as the spanks continued, each one landing with crisp, unyielding precision. She squirmed and spluttered, her yelps of outrage mingling with the sound of Lady Worthington's palm striking her behind.
“You’ve made your point, ma’am! Please stop!” she pleaded, her voice wobbling between impotent fury and despair.
“On the contrary,” came the swift reply, as the determined palm ramped-up its speed and intensity. “You are an officer of the law and your behaviour must be corrected. One who enforces rules must first learn respect.”
Earnest protests soon became resigned cries, as defiance was reined-in by the sting that burned across the upturned seat of her knickers.
Outside Sergeant Hatch leaned in towards the door frame, chuckling with undisguised amusement. The rhythmic sounds from within told their own tale. Even through the door, the unrelenting crack of a merciless palm striking a defenceless bottom was unmistakable.
“Well,” he murmured, “it seems Lady Worthington has the matter firmly in hand. This sounds like the applause at the end of a concert.”
Blushing, WPC Stroud felt half-appalled, half-fascinated, and shifted uneasily. For all her rivalry with Maisie, the young constable felt herself wince in solidarity at every sharp report of palm on posterior. Yet, ashamed to admit it, she also felt a delicious thrill stirring inside her at the thought of that golden-haired know-it-all squirming over Lady Worthington’s lap.
“I really don't think we should be listening, Sarge.”
“You’re right,” Hatch agreed, but his tone was jovial as he cocked his head even closer to the door.
Maisie’s world was upended in every sense. Dangling helpless over Lady Worthington’s knees, she stared at her own polished shoes wobbling in mid-air behind her. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the duty room door easing open a few inches, and two familiar faces peering through the crack.
Observing their barely contained amusement, a fresh wave of mortification began to scorch poor Maisie, almost as much as the spanking.
“Oh my goodness!” she cried. “Lady Worthington! Please tell them they mustn't watch!”
Lady Worthington tightened her grip around the girl's slender waist, pinning her tightly into place. “Eyes forward young lady. I should have thought you already have quite enough to occupy you.”
With a deft tug the unsympathetic magistrate stripped away the last shred of dignity. Maisie gasped in horror as she felt her knickers yanked down to her knees, the cool air against her skin sending a shameful shiver up her spine.
“No! Not my knickers! Please don't spank my bare bottom!”
Lady Worthington remained steady, her calm demeanour a stark contrast to the younger woman's flustered state. “Bare-faced cheek — deserves bare-cheeked correction Officer Trent. You would do well to remember that.”
In the doorway, Stroud clasped a hand to her mouth. “Oh heavens! Sergeant, if you were a true gentleman, you would avert your eyes.”
Hatch’s grin widened. “That’s just it, Constable. I didn't become a sergeant by being a true gentleman.” He gave a low whistle. “And it looks as though young Maisie didn’t become a traffic warden by being a true blonde.”
Stroud found it hard to stifle a giggle, despite herself. Inside the duty room, the verdict was being handed down with considerable force, and Maisie had no recourse to appeal her sentence. The indignant flailing of her legs resembled wild semaphore signals, but her parted thighs served only to reveal even more of what she most wanted to conceal.
Lady Worthington's final stinging salvo struck with brisk, businesslike precision. Each resounding smack rippled across the flesh of Maisie's exposed and reddened cheeks. The magistrate's right hand delivered the full weight of her authority, like the crisp lecture of a governess correcting a wayward charge.
Maisie, cheeks blazing above and below, wriggled miserably. Her indecently exposed behind still prickled and pulsed, even though the spanking had, at last, drawn to a close.
“That concludes your correction, Officer Trent. You may rise. And, in future, I hope you will think twice before tarnishing your official duties with insolence.”
The chastened warden scrambled to her feet, skirts askew, trying to adjust herself with as much dignity as could be salvaged. She could feel the heat radiating from her painfully throbbing rear, and could sense the mirth of Stroud and Hatch, who were no doubt still watching from the doorway.
She sniffed, blinking back tears of outrage, her cherry-red lips set in a sulky pout. She knew the intense smarting would leave her own parking arrangements in jeopardy for a considerable time.
Opening her purse, Lady Worthington settled the fine and in cool tones called out. “Sergeant Hatch, Constable Stroud. You might as well come all of the way in now.”
They stepped back into the Duty Room with exaggerated solemnity, as though they hadn't been observing from the doorway.
Maisie perched gingerly on the bench, as if trying to balance on a pair of hot buns — which, in a manner of speaking, she was. Her face was a picture of indignation, her pride bruised almost as much as her bottom. Shifting in discomfort, her every movement betrayed the tender truth.
Hatch inclined his head gravely, noting that Officer Trent was cradling the exact sum of two shillings and sixpence in her lap. “I presume all appropriate penalties have been paid, and accounts are settled ma'am?”
“Indeed,” Lady Worthington confirmed. “The matter is concluded, and we will call this meeting to a close. I trust that you will all reflect on today's message.”
She swept from the room like a departing headmistress, leaving Maisie simmering in sulky silence.
The clock ticked, dust motes danced in the morning light, and calm returned to the Duty Room. Unfortunately, pride, and posteriors, tended to take a good deal longer to recover.
The law might allow no exceptions, but Maisie decided she could exercise a little more professional discretion over Bentleys in future. Better to fall behind on her paperwork, than to present her behind for another blistering. Two-and-six might have been the cost to Lady Worthington, but as she reflected on the incessant discomfort washing over her tender and burning bottom, Maisie knew that the price she herself had paid, was far higher.