I was reminded of an imagined but unfilmed Naughty Abby movie, a fantasy never enacted, by a picture sent to me by a fan who encouraged a film in which I was a slave girl, cleaning like Cinderella but punished while working because my feet had been found to be dirty. Therefore, I had not cleaned well enough. Little did he know, I had already envisioned such a film, and though we are we no longer filming, nor are we living in the house where the scene could have been set, I can't help but allow myself the memory of the fantasy now.
The story is set in the basement of the old Portland house, the first house we lived in together. Built in 1902, the house was a maze of doors and ill-advised windows and ceilings. Even our bathroom had two doors and a window looking into the laundry room. The basement was only accessible from outside. To get inside, we had to go down a short flight of concrete steps set into the earth of the backyard. The first door had to be both locked and unlocked with a key. This opened into a crumbling short hallway, where we kept our yard and garden tools. To the right, leading to the actual basement, was a second door, its padlock latch missing the padlock. Someone had painted on the unfinished wood-slatted door in dripping white paint, “Keep Out.”
The floor, once inside, was dirt. There was a rusted push-style lawn mower and a rake in the corner. On the opposite side of the room was a sink that was connected to nothing, a remnant of the remodel that surely created the bathroom window anomaly. A ladder no one dared climb rested against the wall. There was one window that looked out onto the street, but it was at ground level and a rhododendron bush prevented light, or anyone’s gaze, from getting inside. There were two dim ceiling lights, 40 watt bulbs at most. They were enough to see by if one needed to change the filter in the furnace, or imagine the terrible scene that could take place at the far end of the basement.
I imagined the film would begin with Mr. W entering the basement, but it would be shot from his point of view. He wouldn’t appear on film, thus heightening the abandonment of the film’s victim/protagonist/star. Down the stairs, through the locked door, through the wood door and its message of “Keep Out,” letting the viewer know this wouldn’t be like the previous films with their yellow walls and carefully chosen panties.
He looks around, catching the various oddities on film, then sets his gaze on the most unexpected object in the room - Abby, in a long white nightgown made of thin white gauze, its straps slender over her shoulders, her arms and her upper back exposed. She is lying on a tarpaulin, curling auburn hair covering her face. The bare soles of her feet are exposed and dirty. She has clearly wandered around the room but found no escape. The camera walks toward her.
A cane comes into view, alights upon her backside lightly. Tap, tap, tap. “Wake up,” we hear him say. He is not angry or gentle. Matter of fact. She will wake up.
She looks up at him, the camera. She doesn’t speak. She is afraid of smiling because it’s her fantasy come to life. She looks up pitifully then casts her gaze back down, awaiting command.
“Get up,” he says, again with little tone in his voice. He points towards the ladder against the wall just a few yards away. “Go stand before that ladder. Grab the highest rung you can reach. Lean forward against it.”
She does what he commands as he walks slowly behind her. “Six strokes,” he tells her. The point of view is now a little from her right; he is left-handed. We see her spread her legs beneath the sheer nightgown. Her arms are extended fully over her head, grabbing a rung of the surely antique ladder. “Count them.”
The first stroke makes her unexpectedly cry out. She’s so much in the head space of being the victim, held hostage in the basement, that she forgets how much she loves this.
“Quiet,” he says.
“I forgot,” she whispers. A hand reaches in front of the camera towards her hair, touches her, caresses her gently. “I know,” he whispers back. Then again, “Count them.”
“One, Sir,” she says. She takes the second stroke quietly, and moans on the third. She counts each diligently. He is caning her firmly but not excessively. His force is just enough to sting and, hopefully, raise a few welts beneath the fabric.
“Hold tightly,” he advises for stroke four. As it lands she throws her head back, then turns just her head to face him, the camera. Her eyes are brazen, enraged. We hear him try not to laugh. “Four,
sir,” she says, still facing him. She loves this little dance before she completely gives in, the illusion that she is in control before she lets go and no longer wants to control any of it. It’s the moment between playacting and truly experiencing the punishment her body is receiving. Her gaze taunts, begs to be taken over the line.
He taps her again, more firmly than when he woke her. “Face back to the wall.” She obeys. He draws the cane back and though he wouldn’t usually do so, he raises his arm just slightly, a few inches higher than he normally would, and we hear him exhale in anticipation. The cane lands directly where he’d intended. She inhales so deeply that we can hear it, then breathes out in a sound that cannot be titled sigh, moan, breath, or even silent scream. It is all these things, a depth of feeling so intense that there is no one way to react. Her breath coming shorter now, she murmurs, “Five, Sir.”
Anxious to see his handiwork, he reminds her, “Just one more.” He strikes her with a sharp crack against the center of her bottom, glancing the blow so that it raises a welt and makes her gasp but does not incite the pain of the last stroke. “Six, Sir.”
He steps back and places the cane down on the tarpaulin. He turns to her. For those who know them, this is his wife, trembling against a ladder before him, waiting for the next command. For those who haven’t read her blog or seen their previous films, this is just some woman who hasn’t exposed her bottom yet in this particular spanking video. Will the viewer still be watching?
“There’s so much more to come,“ he says aloud, so there is no doubt that the film is not over in six strokes. He knows she wants, and he wants to give her, more than this, but it had to begin this way, with this conflagration of violence and innocence. This is her fantasy. Above ground, they lie together happily, making love even when they’re fucking. But now they are enacting this scene she has been rambling about for months, trying to plan what he would do to her, when and how, and he knew the whole time that it wouldn’t be up to her when the time came, but he’d let her buy her gown and plan her scene. And then he’d thrash it all.
“Step back from the ladder and raise your nightie,” he tells her.
She steps back, still facing the wall, and raises her nightgown to her waist. Six distinct welts are visible, with the brightest and thickest, stroke number five, placed exactly where her thighs curve into her ass. He had aimed to spread the caning over the full of her backside and now that the strokes to her flesh are fully visible, he prides himself in their spacing, even when administered over fabric. After a moment of admiring the welts and letting the viewer do so as well, he says flatly, hiding his pleasure, “Turn around.”
The dust and years of the ladder have left stripes against the front of her nightgown where she leaned against the rungs. He knows she will be so pleased when she sees the footage, how perfectly her scene played out, how unusually striped she is both front and back. “You’re filthy,” he tells her instead. “Take that off.”
“Please, no,” she begs.
He can’t remember if this was part of the plan. “Take it off, I said.”
Hesitatingly, she slides the gown over her head and holds it out. He takes it and places it on the tarp alongside the cane. She stands before him, tears only sliding down her cheeks now that she’s naked. “Touch your nipples,” he tells her. She does it awkwardly, leaving dark smudges on her breasts. “Touch your clit.” She pretends to, but her hands are dirty and he knows she won’t. She'll leave it for him, for when her bottom is a far more raw and complete set of raging red strokes. For when the camera is off. “I’m going to come back in two hours and beat you again. Harder. Longer. Remain unclothed. If you‘re dressed, it‘s an extra dozen. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” she says, eyes downcast, head nodding.
He turns off the camera. “Happy?”
“Not nearly.” She grins, then gets down on her hands and knees on the tarpaulin. “What position do you want me in for the beginning of scene two?”
