The Video Nasty

A photo-story from Janus 27 featuring Tracy Wilkes, a.k.a. Liza Lane. In the 1980s, Razzle magazine had a feature titled “Liza Lane on the Job”, where she went out and about in search of sexual adventure. The startled looks on the faces of passers-by as they realise they have been unwittingly cast as extras in a porn shoot are very amusing.

Cecil Brimpton was perturbed. It wasn’t an unusual state of affairs as far as he was concerned, because anything which interrupted the ‘oiled-bearing’ efficiency of his tiny company was anathema to him. It was a situation which he faced a dozen times a day, not that he panicked you understand, that simply wasn’t Cecil Brimpton’s style. He would simply grow redder and redder in the face and become more and more flustered. These were the danger signs. Woe betide anyone who said the wrong thing whilst the visual warnings were there to be heeded. He always coped no matter what the problem. Perhaps he ruffled a few feathers along the way, but a solution was usually found and almost always to the detriment of whoever stood in his way. Often this would be his long-suffering secretary Tracy Wilkes.

He pushed the letter to one side. The problem this time was the most serious he’d had to cope with for over six months. Six months of Tracy Wilkes as his secretary. Naturally it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d now received five letters complaining that orders had not been received. In all five cases his customers had enclosed cash with their orders and it seemed to Cecil Brimpton that it was beyond the realms of probability that the post office had lost all five letters. One thing he knew for certain was that he had not misappropriated the money! The answer was obvious. Miss Wilkes had a lot of explaining to do!

Seething rage gave way for once to icy calm. Cecil Brimpton settled back in his chair and began to plan a very careful campaign of action. He took his time, which was unusual, but fifteen minutes later he knew exactly what had to be done. To say that he felt pleased with himself would have been an understatement. Cecil Brimpton was positively overjoyed. He knew that his plan couldn’t fail, it simply required a right approach and the necessary degree of careful handling.

Tracy Wilkes carried out her work with a rare efficiency. She was a good secretary, perhaps the best that Brimpton Video (Mail Order) Ltd. had ever employed. She did far too much work for the pittance that Cecil Brimpton paid her, but Tracy was uncomplaining. She put up with his moods and did work that no other girl with her qualifications would have tolerated. It wasn’t that she enjoyed working for old Brimpton, it was in Tracy’s nature to be conscientious and hard working. She had no inkling of the wrath that was about to descend on her from the office above.

Cecil Brimpton was unaware of the problems that weighed heavily on Tracy’s young mind and even if he had been it probably wouldn’t have made much difference to his course of action. He had rechecked all the figures and was convinced that the five letters complaining of non-receipt of orders were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. According to his calculations and personal records, 32 of his ‘special offer’ E180 blank video tapes were unaccounted for. This was beyond belief — the girl was a criminal!

Desperation was not a motive but it was a reason for Tracy’s uncharacteristic waywardness. The ‘fairy tale’ of marriage had been the start of her problems. Everything had gone wrong during the twelve months she had been Mrs Derek Wilkes. In the euphoria following an ecstatic honeymoon, Derek had taken out a mortgage which stretched their combined wages and a week later was made redundant. Tracy had become a reluctant breadwinner and Derek faced the humiliation of the ever-increasing dole queue. She loved Derek of course, but lady luck had not only deserted them, she had kicked them in the teeth!

During the first two months of Derek’s enforced unemployment they had spent what meagre savings were left, following the hefty mortgage deposit. Feeding the two of them on Tracy’s wage and Derek’s Social Security giro proved too much even for Tracy’s shopping expertise. She loved Derek with a devoted desperation and rather than cut down on the food she adoringly cooked for him each night, Tracy had begun to ‘divert’ the occasional cash order. She didn’t overdo it of course and she only took enough to enable her to stretch the housekeeping just far enough. Naturally, Derek suspected nothing. He had always thought that his lovely wife was a financial genius. Now he was sure.

Cecil Brimpton reached for the intercom line on his telephone.

‘Miss Wilkes, come to my office!’ he barked, ‘and bring your ledgers and cash book with you!’

Tracy was petrified, mortified. He knew. HE KNEW! Her mind raced faster than her own fingers on the electronic typewriter. What could she do? She picked up the ledger and cash book and with pounding heart started to climb the stairs to Brimpton’s tiny office.

Cecil Brimpton was not pleased. The ledger and cash book (which Tracy had tried to conceal behind her back) confirmed his worst fears. There were a number of missing entries in the cash book which when checked against his stock control ledger showed an alarming deficiency — way into three figures.

He had planned it well and delivered it perfectly. His voluble harangue had all but reduced Tracy to tears.

‘And what’s more, girl,’ he stormed, ‘I shall damn well ensure that charges are brought to bear and you receive the sentence you so richly deserve. You have one week’s notice to find a new job and clear out your office!’

Almost in tears, Tracy pleaded in vain.

‘Please sir, please give me another chance,’ she whispered. ‘We need my money so badly, what with the mortgage and everything and Derek out of work and on the dole and I just don’t know what to do…’ Her voice tailed off in a pathetic little whimper.

He was unrelenting, of course, but it was all part of his perfect plan. ‘And just what am I supposed to do about the small matter of £235, young lady?’ Brimpton snarled.

Tracy bit her lip. ‘I could pay you so much back each week, sir,’ she implored. ‘You could stop it out of my wages. I promise I won’t ever do it again!’

‘You most certainly won’t do it again,’ spluttered Brimpton, with mock indignation. ‘I shall ensure that!’

Tracy was silent. There really wasn’t much else she could say. She knew that her future was completely in his hands. She felt frightened and very small and although he sat back in his chair contemplating her fate, old Brimpton had grown in stature to become the most powerful man in her uncertain young life. Her bad luck had turned into a bankruptcy of misfortune and if poor Derek ever found out, he would lose all his respect for her. He might even stop loving her! Tracy shuddered at the thought.

‘Now,’ said Cecil Brimpton after much apparent thought. ‘There is just one alternative, Miss Wilkes.’

Tracy’s heart leapt. He was throwing her a lifeline. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all!

‘Ww…what’s that sir…’ she whispered.

For a moment he didn’t answer her and her pulse rate doubled at the awful delay. Finally he said, ‘I could punish you myself,’ and there was emotion in his voice. Tracy nodded in resignation. Really, she had little choice and she waited helplessly for him to continue.

‘You are obviously in need of strict discipline — in fact, very severe discipline. I suggest that only good old-fashioned correction is a suitable punishment. You will return at 5.30 for the first of a number of such punishments, yet to be determined.’

With a mixture of relief and trepidation Tracy left the office. Cecil Brimpton sat smugly back in his chair. It had been quite easy really. Easier than he had dreamed. He closed his eyes and a multitude of images flashed across his mind’s eye. He graciously accepted his own management abilities and imagined himself at the pinnacle of success. Time was running out and in his retirement year he saw himself addressing the luncheon for the Businessman of the Year Awards. Of course it wasn’t really a pipe-dream, with his ability anything was possible.

At five-thirty precisely Cecil Brimpton heard a timid knock on his office door. Aha, the time had come! Well, he would make the little bitch wait — she could stew in her own juice for five minutes. It would make what he had in mind all the more effective. His excitement was mounting and he felt flushed again. Damn it he had to calm himself, the big moment was something to savour, something to remember. Fifteen years he had been waiting for this moment and he was beginning to tremble. Easy, easy… open the drawer… that’s it — the whisky! Not too much… just enough… ahhh, that’s better. Now relax… good… good…

Even through the office door his bark made Tracy jump. Her breast was heaving and her heart felt like a pendulum of lead, thumping and frightening her with its intensity. She opened the door and entered.

At first she couldn’t bear to bring herself to look at him, but when she reached the desk she had no choice. Her eyes lifted and then froze, wide with horror. Instinctively she took a half pace back, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of realisation. He stood, cigar in his right hand and a thin whippy cane in his left. It dug into the desk bending like a rapier of Toledo steel!

He wasted no time, scuttling around the desk and brandishing the cane right in front of her, causing her to recoil in shock-horror.

‘GET YOUR KNICKERS OFF!’

Blindly and numb with confusion Tracy lifted the pencil skirt.

Brimpton turned her round. The skirt was split at the back, showing tight, white knickers over two ripe, fleshy buttocks. He was in a daze of euphoria. Fifteen years was a long time to wait — fifteen years of fantasy! But now the fantasy was reality and the bottom that was displayed for his delectation and punishment was beyond his most imaginative plotting. He savoured the moment, licking his dry lips with an arid tongue. How he needed that whisky now.

The white purity of the knickers gave way to the pink perfection of ripe, swollen cheeks. He raised the cane.

For a moment he sighted the target, frozen like a statue of stone. He could scarcely remember drawing down the girl’s knickers and he felt cheated of this essential pleasure. Little needles of excitement crept up his back from the base of his spine and insinuated their pricklings down along his right arm. His breathing halted and he felt the flush wash hotly across his flaccid face. With a sharp exhalation of breath he released the tension.

The cane whistled and then cracked. The pink buttocks juddered and recoiled and the tiny squeal was agonised and resigned.

Tracy screwed up her eyes with the sheer agony of the lancing pain. Her bottom undulated with involuntary nerves and the pink flesh was marred with a single vivid red stripe. Oh God, how it hurt!

Brimpton struck again. The cane moved with the speed of a cobra’s strike, biting into the soft flesh like a single fang of pain. There was no antidote and Tracy’s knees buckled.

‘Stand still girl!’ he cried with impatience. ‘Keep those legs straight!’

There was nothing left for Tracy but to obey. The smart was excruciating, but she knew she had no choice but to do what the crotchety old bastard demanded of her! She tried to console herself by thinking of Derek, but concentration was impossible because of the agonising pain. She bit her lip. She only wished she could turn back the clock and replace his bloody precious money. It was all right for him, he didn’t have to scrimp and save to survive and work in a rotten job to make ends meet. She was suffering this indignity for Derek. She would go through hell to stop him finding out that his loving wife was a common thief!

Brimpton’s third and fourth strokes were, if anything, harder. He was visibly excited now, puffing like a train and working up a fine head of steam. He almost thundered with the indignation of the righteous. He was striking a blow for his own generation — a blow against the undisciplined and irresponsible youth of today. A youth that had lost its way and repudiated respect; a youth that abused its freedom and stole from its elders! It was his duty to administer punishment that in his generation had proved so effective. It was his duty, also, to prove that the old-fashioned values were the right ones. This girl needed to be reformed and by Jove he was just the man to do it!

CRACK! The cane bit for the fifth time. Then again. And again. He paused and then with a measured deliberation delivered the eighth and the best!

Tracy catapulted upright. The pain was too much to bear and she rubbed her buttocks, vainly trying to ease the stabbing heat of the scorching cane.

‘That’s enough sir!’ she cried, ‘I can’t take any more. I just can’t!’ Her voice broke.

He was breathing heavily. ‘You can and you damn well will, young lady! You’ve only just started to pay me back and unless you want me to go to the police you’ll bend over again and take your medicine with dignity.’

He pushed her over the photocopier and raised the cane. Tracy held her breath and the thin rod slashed hard and deeply into her tender flesh. She cried out, unable to suppress the sound which exploded from between her parted lips. The next three were even worse and then it was over and he was telling her to adjust herself. In a dream Tracy pulled her knickers over her smarting, stinging buttocks, aware of the tender ridges of flesh and thinking of only how she could conceal them from Derek when they were making love. When she left the office her whole body seemed to be on fire.

----//----

The next day he gave her a small parcel and told her to wear what was inside when she reported for her punishment at 5.30.

Wearing the PT kit he had given her, Tracy felt absolutely foolish. She had to stand before him like a naughty schoolgirl, whilst he sat impassively in his chair, holding a table tennis bat! Worse was to come!

 ’All right, young lady,’ Cecil Brimpton said evenly, ‘I think we will have a little physical exercise — it’s time you got yourself fit. Far too much easy living isn’t good for the circulation and if the circulation slows down, so does the brain. Come on then — look sharp! Knees bend… hands above your head… bend stretch, bend stretch… quicker, quicker!’

For fifteen minutes he kept her moving and Tracy became very hot and agitated. Eventually, when she stopped, she was beginning to perspire, despite her flimsy clothing.

‘Come here girl!’ he ordered and Tracy stood meekly before him. Coldly, he ordered her to remove her knickers and she obeyed silently. For a moment he surveyed her and then with a sudden movement, caught her around the thighs. She was taken completely by surprise and in a trice was lifted off her feet with a strength that she could not fight against. She tried to struggle, but with no purchase for her feet she was hardly able to move. Her balance had gone and she found herself staring down at the floor from over his shoulder.

SPLAT!

‘OWWWWwww…!’

The table tennis bat slapped home, making the soft buttocks wobble like two pink jellies. Her whole body stiffened as the breath was expelled from her tummy and she kicked vainly, trying to escape the dull pain. He grabbed her flailing hand, all but immobilising her, and brought down the second blow on her defenceless rump.

This time the hurt was more intense. The peculiar, dull throb was beginning to spread and Tracy gritted her teeth in awful anticipation. She didn’t have long to wait.

The bat slapped down again and again and yet again. The strange noise of its flat sound mingled with Tracy’s gasping sobs, filling the tiny office with an odd resonance.

BLAP! ’AAGH!’… BLAP! BLAP! ’OOHHH!’… BLAP! BLAP! SOB… BLAP-BLAP-BLAP! ’OOOHHH!’…

Tears were beginning to stream down Tracy’s cheeks and her eye make-up was starting to run. Helplessly and with total resignation, she submitted to the humiliation.

Cecil Brimpton lowered her none-too-gently back onto the threadbare carpet. Sobbing and weak with pain, Tracy’s knees began to buckle.

‘Stand up straight girl!’ he barked, jamming the previously forgotten cigar back into the smugly set mouth and climbing with some effort back to his feet.

He made her put her hands on her head again whilst he strutted around her, lecturing and berating her with supercilious indignation. He was a pompous old sod, but what could she do? She was trapped in a web of her own construction. All she could do was to take it — take everything and anything he wished. The punishment was bad enough, but to have to listen to his ranting was nearly as bad. Finally, he said, ‘… now you may go.’

As she reached the door, he called for her to wait.

‘So far I have given you 28 strokes and at a pound each, you still owe me £207!’ He was gloating, eyeing her young but tormented body.

‘You will return to this office every alternate night until your debt to this company is repaid, with interest accruing at ten percent per week.’

 

Here’s a picture on Tracy “on the job” as Liza Lane: