Spankers Gallery — The Hitchhiker

Story from Roué 35

Jane’s friends said she was out of her head leaving home to go off in search of fame and fortune in the Big City. They couldn’t understand why she would want to leave her cushy, if undemanding, job at the supermarket. What was also a mystery to her mates was her keenness to move away from her lovely home. But, then, what they didn’t know was that Jane’s father was a strict disciplinarian; that, unlike them, when she got home late from the disco, more than a telling-off awaited her; that her father’s thick leather army belt would be applied with great force to her 17-year-old rump.

To her chum’s incredulity Jane set off one Monday morning with nothing but her suitcase. She walked about a mile-and-a-half out of town before setting her case down at the side of the London-bound road. She’d never hitch-hiked before, and was aware of the dangers this practice could hold. The money she possessed though was little, and she reckoned she’d need as much as possible of it to get herself started down south.

Her friends had never seemed to have any difficulty hitching lifts whenever they had to make their way to London or Manchester or one of the other big cities to see rock concerts, so Jane didn’t expect it to be too long before some kind driver would stop and offer her transportation. If she had been aware of just how inviting a picture she painted standing at the roadside she would have been even more optimistic.

Her short, blonde-hair with its scarlet band framed a pretty, impish face, but this feature — along with her small, firm breasts in their tight T-shirt, and her long, bare, shapely legs paled into insignificance when compared to the comeliness of a perfectly rounded teenage backside clad in drumskin-tight cut-down denims. So alluring was this part of Jane’s anatomy that the wait she had for her lift was no more than a couple of minutes. A mustard coloured Mercedes pulled up some yards further down the motorway and, realising that she had found success, she picked up her suitcase and scampered off towards it.

‘Where are you bound, miss?’ the driver enquired of her as he leaned across, the electric window having opened.

‘London… eventually,’ she replied, reckoning that she’d not be fortunate to do the entire journey in one or two stages.

The passenger door opened, the man telling her that he was going as far as Luton. Jane slammed the door shut, and settled down into the comfortable seat. The car sped along, the two in silence at first, but after a few miles starting to chat and learn a bit about each other. It turned out that her companion had booked in at a hotel for the night after he had done a little business, and would be going on to London the following day. He offered Jane accommodation for the night (‘No hanky-panky, of course,’ he’d been quick to add), and safe transportation to her ultimate destination the next morning.

By the time they had reached Luton, Jane had agreed to this most welcome proposal, stressing that he mustn’t ‘try anything on’. They checked in at the hotel and, after he’d shown her the room, the man went off to his business appointment.

At six o’clock that evening he returned, and the couple went down for a meal and drinks. During this time the conversation had turned around to Jane’s reasons for leaving home. ‘Dad’s a right sod,’ she’d announced. ‘Belts hell out of me, he does.’

The hotel room had two single beds and, true to his word, the chap resisted any temptations of the flesh. The following morning Jane bathed and dressed, choosing from her smallish collection of clothes a shirt that was tighter and another pair of denim shorts that were even shorter than those she had worn the previous day.

Watching her as she stood brushing her hair in front of the full-length mirror, he tried to picture that voluptuous bottom undergoing the sort of thrashing she’d told him her father administered to it. ‘Still,’ he mused, ‘won’t be long before I find out for myself.’

‘Before we go down to breakfast,’ he said, ‘I have something to say to you, Helen. Using the name she’d given him. He went on to inform the girl that his own daughter had done the same as she was doing some years back, that it had caused his wife and himself great anxiety and worry, and that, when she eventually returned home, he had greeted his ‘prodigal daughter’ with a ‘damn good hiding’.

Before she knew what was happening he, perched on the edge of the bed, had flung her over his lap and was spanking the tight seat of her shorts, some of the blows landing on her bare thighs and the lower cheeks of her bottom that the material of the shorts failed to cover.

His business meeting of the previous evening had, it turned out, made unnecessary the trip to London, and, when the two of them had got back into the car, it was back to the north-west that they travelled, Jane being told that she was being taken back to her ‘poor parents’.

‘I’m not telling you where I live,’ she informed him, ‘so you’re wasting your time.’

‘Naughty girls trying to leave home,’ he told her, ‘shouldn’t have tags with their addresses on them attached to their luggage. Just think, in a couple of hours you’ll be safe and sound in your parents’ care… And I wouldn’t mind wagering that your father’s belt will be put to good use before the day is out, Jane…’