suppose the letters have been encouraging,” he admitted.
“They don’t have editorial restrictions at Augie Rose,” she suddenly remembered. “Maybe I’ll go and work for them!”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, young lady,” he said, taking her across his lap and giving her twelve of the best with the back of a wooden hairbrush through her robe.
“I will if you don’t give me back editorial control of my magazine,” she stubbornly declared, simultaneously smarting and rushing from the spontaneous paddling.
“Oh, very well, do as you please with the magazine!” he said, lifting her off his lap and scowling blackly. Hazel laughed and cuddled against him. He folded his arms and did not hug her, unable to believe that she had won such an important victory so easily. Hazel pulled back and looked at him.
“You won’t be disappointed.”
“Well, I suppose I haven’t been disappointed in you so far,” he unbent a little and even smiled. It was painful giving in, but now that he had done it he felt ready to move on to something more pleasant.
“Oh, and I will take the car,” said Hazel gaily.
Hugo Sands had all but forgotten that he had a niece until her letter arrived one early Spring day.
“Dear Uncle Hugo,” it began, “You probably don’t remember me because the last time you saw me I was only 3. That was 15 years ago, at the last family Christmas dinner you attended.
It’s too bad that you decided to dump the family, because you’re the most interesting person in it. My mother has told me repeatedly that you are Satan’s avatar. I finally think I understand why.
I must tell you that I have always been into spanking. Ever since I can remember (about age 3 or 4) I have entertained spanking fantasies. The subject of spanking preoccupied me throughout my childhood and once puberty set in, nothing changed.
I’ve been writing spanking stories for my own amusement since age 8. From ages 11 through 15, I would share them with my girlfriend and we would act them out. We’d pretend they were spy stories, but they always ended in one of us spanking the other one.
Then, I got a boyfriend and stopped playing games with my girlfriend. I initiated spanking foreplay with my boyfriend and received some attention in this area, but he was mostly interested in sex. You know how that goes.
Now I’m about to go to college and boyfriend is about to do the same.
But to get to the point. About a week ago I was in the Combat Zone looking for spanking magazines in an adult bookstore. There was a lot of stuff there, but nothing really pleasant. Then I saw The New Rod Quarterly. The cover illo was so perfect my heart almost stopped.
I bought the magazine and dismissing my boyfriend, rushed home. The instant I opened to the first page, I was in heaven. The writing was so reflective of what excites me and the illos were just charming. And then there were the letters from people just like me, and those fabulous personal ads. (I already have 3 dates lined up for next week!)
Finally I noticed the masthead: Editor Hugo Sands. I remembered that my mother’s maiden name was Sands and that I had an uncle Hugo. My heart went bumpety bump again.
I called my mother to ask her where you lived. She sounded suspicious but told me that she thought you lived out on the Cape. No one I knew had ever heard of or had been to Random Point, so I called information and asked the operator whether it was out on the Cape. She told me that it was.
In September I’ll be traveling to California to matriculate at U.C.L.A. If you allow me to visit for the summer, I could work for you writing stories, inputting, doing anything you needed in return for my board. I’d be a model houseguest and never make a mess or play loud music. And I’d be so grateful for the opportunity to get to know my favorite relative better.
Sincerely,
Bettie Brandon
P.S. If you say yes, Mother and I will probably have a big fight over this, but nothing bad will happen. My late father left me a trust fund for college, and I was planning on working away for the summer anyway.
B.B.
”
Bettie was thoughtful enough to include a photo, which showed her to be a small, slender, olive-skinned sprite with extremely delicate, Mediterranean features and a long mane of tight, glossy, black curls.
Hugo tossed the letter on his desk and lit a cigarette, trying to consider the possible calamities which might arise from granting her wish. In the end he turned to his keyboard and wrote a short, friendly reply, telling her to come whenever she liked.
“Well, I guess it’s true that the spanking fetish does run in families,” Laura commented that evening as she examined the photo and letter.
“It might run in your family,” said Hugo, “but I doubt it does in mine.”
“How do you account for this Bettie then?’
“Bettie isn’t really a blood relation of mine. Her mother, my sister Louise, was adopted.”
“I see,” said Laura, not exactly happy to hear this news.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch her.”
“She’s sure to get a crush on you.”
“We’ll make sure it gets transferred to someone else as soon as possible.”
Laura wasn’t pleased to be called out of town the eve of Bettie Brandon’s arrival. Having submitted a chapter of her graphic novel to a publisher in New York, she was now being summoned to that city to show them the rest. Unwilling to postpone such an important interview, Laura had reluctantly departed from her lover only moments before he drove down to the railroad depot to collect Bettie, who was due on an early evening train.
It was a warm day for early June and Bettie was wearing khaki shorts, hiking boots, sox and a sleeveless, white, cotton halter top that showed a bit of smooth, olive midriff and molded daintily to her small bosom. She was very slender, by no means tall and appeared fragile. The slightness of her frame unsettled Hugo, forcibly reminding him of how young Bettie was.
Bettie had written a fairly spunky letter, but she felt properly timid upon debarking at Random Point. She expected to be met on the platform by a distinguished older gentleman, who was perhaps a bit daffy, in the manner of John Lithgow. Yet the only forty-something male pacing the platform was a tall, sandy haired, custom tailored boomer, sophisticated in the manner of Cary Grant. Deciding that someone this savvy could never be her Uncle Hugo, Bettie walked straight past him, hauling a backpack almost as big as herself.
“Bettie?” the striking man said and she turned in disbelief, almost knocking someone down with her pack.
“Uncle
