“A Fuck of a Night”

Art by Yoko Tanji

Art by Yoko Tanji

Sam was a small man even among regular folk. Out here, tonight, he felt like a bug. Still though, he was happy to step out of the darkness of the tree-lined avenue into the open square where the buzzing lights cast a monochrome silver tableau before him.

He was relieved for a moment to see what had to be a man in the far corner of the square, leaning one-legged against an old wooden telephone pole smoking. His other leg was crooked back behind him, foot on the pole, affecting the rakish, relaxed look of a model in an old cigarette ad.

Sam’s fingers weren’t sticking together anymore. The blood that was left had dried and would have to be washed off if there was water or scraped it there wasn’t. He shuffled toward the tall man, one shoe on, one missing, hesitating only when he realized how large the fellow really was. Up close, he looked less relaxed and more gaunt, like an anxious scarecrow.

For a moment Sam wondered if it really was it a man he was seeing before him or an apparition leaning against the pole. Standing before him he had to crane his neck back to see his face.

“Excuse me”, Sam said, looking up. “I’ve had a fuck of a night. Can I bum a cigarette?”

The head above him swiveled his way then pitched downward carefully, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t smoke”, he said in a flat guttural voice that betrayed no accent. A streetlight glinted in his dark eyes-the light glancing off the dead one like a skipped stone-the other flaring hot for an instant, then fading.

Sam backed into a shadow away from his gaze but the head had swiveled away.

“I wanted to see if he’d give you one.”

He turned and noticed the girl against the wall. She was even smaller than he was-but not a child. Just a girl in bare feet and torn back dress.  Nothing special-plain. In fact, in the light, she looked like a pencil sketch of what a plain girl should look like.

“He said he doesn’t smoke.”

“I know him. He doesn’t.”

He looked back once more at the cloud circling around the pole. She took his hand to lead him down an alley out of the openness of the square. At her touch he felt himself thickening.

“I’ve had a fuck of a night”, he said letting himself be led.

“I know. Come on.”

The apparition didn’t turn to watch them go. They mattered not a whit to him. He smoked in peace, scanning the sleeping world above their heads.

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Front Nine

“Then”, he said, after striking his ball cleanly and watching it disappear over the top of the crest before them, “She said I was an alcoholic…and mean.”

Peter gave no immediate indication that he had heard. He approached his ball with a seven iron, comfortable that he could get to the green. “But you are”, he said casually measuring with an easy practice swing.

“Yeah but it wasn’t a problem until…” Evan paused to allow Peter to hit.

“Fuck!” He topped the ball and it skated up to the top-almost got over-then rolled back a foot, then settled.

“It wasn’t a problem”, Evan went on, “Until….”

“She quit drinking.” Peter finished the sentence for him. “I know. You’ve said.”

That was the bitch about golfing with your internist. There were no secrets.  “Go ahead, hit again.”

Peter walked to the top and looked over scanning for Evan’s ball. “Where are you?”

“I’m betting ninety yards down-ten o’clock…”

Peter squinted down the fairway and, satisfied, stepped to his ball. He looked comfortable on the hill, one long leg bent on the uphill side-the other straight. One practice swing then a clean stroke and with the clear CLACK of a well hit shot the ball flew up and out of sight.

“One twenty”, Evan said turning abruptly toward the cart. “You got me by thirty but you’ll never make up that stroke.” Peter grinned as he got in and they whirred silently down the cart path.

Peter reached into his bag and pulled out two cigars handing one to Evan. He admired it in spite of himself-it was a favorite but he wouldn’t buy them. No matter how much money he had, spending thirty bucks on a cigar was stupid especially when his old man happily smoked himself to death on generic cigarettes. He took the offered cutter and sliced the end, then lit up. It was a Wednesday morning and they were not pressured. There was time to enjoy a smoke. Even a thirty dollar smoke.

“There was the time you told me you didn’t fear cancer because you were married to her”, Peter said picking up a thread of conversation that should have died.

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Many times”, He said exhaling a plume skyward.

Evan puffed deeply and considered the lighted end of the Cuban. He flicked the ashes from the red glow gently and blew on it, suddenly swallowed by the thought of jamming the fiery tip into someone’s eye. Reflexes would win out and undoubtedly the eyelid would close and there would only be a burned eyelid and the requisite screaming.

But what if he were quick enough to get the smoldering tip into the eye proper-would it sizzle like water hitting hot grease and fall into itself? Or would it pop like an egg, oozing down the face and dripping from the cigar like yolk from a burnt toast tip?

Peter stepped out of the cart and picked through his five thousand dollars-worth of clubs. Ridiculous clubs-he wasn’t a good enough golfer to be outfitted this way. Evan came out with eight clubs in an old bag he’d had since college. That’s probably one of the things she liked about him-he was flashy. She’d come to like flashy it seemed.

“I imagine you’re going with your wedge for this one, right?” Peter asked from behind him.

Just don’t pick today to tell me you’re fucking her, Evan thought darkly. Not today.

Peter chose his club and walked brightly to his ball eyeing the flag on the green. He didn’t really notice that Evan hadn’t answered as he was distracted by a sumac leaf. It was a beige sumac leaf shaped birth mark that Evan’s wife, Janie, had right along the inside of her ass cheeks. It was hardly visible until she opened to him-her favorite sex position was face and knees. He ran his thumb over it as he rode her, imagining the skin felt rougher there. It didn’t though; the inside of her crevasse was as soft and luscious as the rest of her.

“How about double or nothing on the next hole?” he called back over his shoulder without really looking.

“Sure. Why not?” Evan answered. He was up fourteen hundred over the first seven and wasn’t giving anything back. He watched Peter take that lazy practice swing of his and smoked.

Scenes From An Italian Restaurant-Finale

(Continued from Scenes From An Italian Restaurant- Three)

Antonio lay the spatula across her back and held it with his left hand. With his right, he cupped her bottom gently. “This is going to be good one”, he said.

“I know”, she peeped.

“But when you’re done-it will all be over.”

“Clean slate!” she said softly to the floor.

Marie saw the first swat coming and still jumped, startled by the sound at impact. She hadn’t settled when the second landed in the same place; fully on the right globe which after only two smacks was flushing pink. The third landed more in the middle of her butt resonating down her shallow crack and between her legs. Then the other cheek. Marie’s eyes wandered nowhere else but she kept her hand at her breast as if to keep her heart inside.

Connie, for her part, hung on gritting her teeth and trying to dig her fingertips into the hard floor tiles. She was surprised that her eyes were stinging already. Yes, his hand was heavy, yes his hand hurt, yes her ass was burning. But not enough to make her cry. She blinked when a smack landed low, where the bottom meets the leg, and a tear splashed delicately between her hands. Her mouth, already open, betrayed her with a small cough. Then another and finally a whispered “Ouch”.

“Well” said Tony, “I’d say that’s enough for the warmup.”

“Oh Dear…” thought Marie and, with no thought of sitting, slipped behind the bar table as if behind a battlement protecting her from what she was seeing. And what was she seeing-or feeling? It was strange how her own bottom was itching. Connie gave no outward sign of crying, just the drops that were sprinkling silently onto the floor. She felt his movement and the spatula was gone from her back.

“Are you ready for this Constance?”

“Yes, Chef. Please.”

She exhaled and relaxed, softening her clenched bottom.  At the first stroke of the spatula she allowed a wall to buckle and cried “Owww…” Then, after the third, began crying in earnest. The swats burned and she reacted to each with a yelp or a twist but all under the soft veil of tears that had seemingly come forth unbidden-on their own.

Chef Tony was nothing if not precise. The welts he was leaving on her bottom were adjoining but seldom overlapping. Connie was not a kicker but couldn’t stop her legs from scissoring nor her toes from dancing, bundling her jeans and panties at her ankles. As she cried beneath his hand, Antonio twisted his arm around her waist and increased the tattoo on her aching bottom to a loud fast “Rat-tat-tat”. Marie’s hands had moved from her breast to her face. When she told about it later she would swear later that Chef’s arm was a blur.

“Tony!” she called to him after another moment. “Tony?”

He stopped what he was doing and looked up as if surprised to find someone else in the room. Without the loud cracking, slapping and wailing, a silence colored only by Connie’s soft sobbing, settled over the room.

“Yes Marie?”

She was holding out a handkerchief toward Connie’s head. Antonio nodded. She approached and held the hanky down where her friend could see it. The floor between her hands was puddled.

“Thanks”, snuffled Connie taking it and drying her eyes as best she could. Marie stood a moment next to the furnace that was Connie’s backside. No longer pink, it was a mottled red and burgundy-the color of spilled wine. She retreated back to her spot behind the table but there was no need.

“Are you done sweetheart?” asked Tony softly, gently cupping her bottom.

She took a deep breath, thinking about it and wiped her nose. “Yes, Chef.”

He patted again. “Good. Come on….”

He helped her up and she stood shakily beside him patting her bottom. He stood and wrapped his strong arms around her squeezing. Her rear glowed like a brazier in the dim light and Marie eventually looked away. “Beautiful”, was all he said kissing Connie on top of the head.  “Now pull up your pants…”

“Can’t I leave them down?” she sniffled, patting her glowing butt.

“No you can’t”, he said lightly. “Not that kind of place.”

He turned his attention to Marie.

“Now, you….”

“What?” she asked in a gasp. He said nothing else. She felt a need to fan herself but didn’t move.

“What Chef?” she asked again having slid back behind the table.

“You’re never too old you know.”

“For what? For…no way Chef! I’m too…” she stopped herself.

“No you’re not.”

“Chef. Tony. I couldn’t…”

“Then why are you here?”

The truth nearly escaped when she opened her mouth, but instead she said, “For her!” and waved her hand toward Connie hoping for some support. Her friend was seemingly paying no attention, engrossed in gingerly pulling up her panties then her jeans, trying not to scrape unduly across her hot skin.

“Connie?” she asked.

“I think you should,” she said in a small voice not looking up.

“What?! I…Chef…”

“If not now, when?”, asked Connie finally looking up.

“O Jesus”, she said to herself. The room seemed to be moving around her.

“Take off your jacket Marie…” said Tony, feeling that she needed a direction.

Words died in her mouth. She desperately wanted to tell him that she did want this-that she’d wanted it for a long time but couldn’t imagine how to ask. She might have been able to live her whole life out without this if he and Connie hadn’t started playing like this. Was it their fault? Was it hers? Was it anyone’s? This is what she was thinking as she was saying nothing…and unbuttoning her jacket.

Chef Tony sat back down and beckoned her over. She slid out from behind the table dragging her hand across the top. It took an hour to cross the three strides. She waggled a finger and Connie who was now, fully clothed and watching. “You, you….”

Connie smiled through her tear streaked face and leaned against the bar.

Marie stood before her seated boss with her hands at her sides not resisting as Tony reached out and unsnapped her jeans. He unzipped them and worked them down over her hips.

“You might need a bigger spatula for me.”

Connie giggled…

“I think my hand will cover enough ground.”

He helped her into position. “I don’t fit as well as that one…”

“You fit fine. Now lift up”.

“Tony-Really?”

He patted the tight cotton encasing her bottom. “Really.”

She lifted up, and squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment as he slowly pulled down her underwear. She mouthed a nasally “Ooohhh…” to convince anyone listening including herself that she wasn’t giving into this easily. She breathed deeply as the cool air washed over her naked bottom. Then she felt his hot hand on the back of her thigh.

“Tell me again what I’ve done to deserve this.”

“Lived too long without it.”

She relaxed and felt her body form to his lap. He wasn’t in a hurry. “Yes…Too long…” she sighed just loudly enough to be heard by both.

Those are beautiful sandals she thought absently as she grabbed Antonio’s ankle and waited.

Don’t be THAT mother-in-law…

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“That’s right Tim. I said I will help you two over this rough patch and we will definitely do it together. But before we can work as a team, we’ll have to go over some things individually. As soon as I have this little discussion with my daughter I’ll come into the drawing room and speak with you. Run along now. Oh-before you go, would you be a dear and hand me the hairbrush on the bureau there? Thank you honey.”

…On second thought…

Image uncredited on Tumblr.

Scenes From An Italian Restaurant- Three

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Uncredited from Tumblr

(Continued from Scenes From An Italian Restaurant – Two)

At six sharp the staff was gone, the door locked, house lights out and the bar dimmed. Connie and Marie moved through the room staying busy-wiping the clean bar or counting cheese in the fridge for the fifth time. At 6:10 Connie looked at the clock and sighed, untying her apron.

“Jesus, Tony”, she whispered.

“Yeah, right…” Marie answered tightly peeling her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t have been more nervous if she were the one awaiting a spanking.

Then, ten minutes later, they heard the kitchen door swing open and their eyes settled on Antonio striding into the room. He had changed into a white logo-T that clung to his chest and shoulders and carried a long wooden spatula with three holes drilled down the center. Every time Connie happened into the kitchen she would glance at that particular tool hanging innocently above the stove with all the other utensils at the ready to stir a deep pot of sauce or anything else the chef saw fit to do with it.

Antonio pulled an armless wooden chair into the open space behind the barstools. “Good day today, Ladies. For a Sunday. Everything turn out OK?”

“Yes, Chef”, they echoed.

“Money?”

“All good”, Connie answered with a wry smile. “Counted and in the safe.”

“No more broken glasses?” he looked at Marie and she almost jumped-she had forgotten that.

“No Chef.”

Antonio sat. “Good, good…One question Connie”, he said looking up, seemingly taller than she even when sitting. “Seriously. And the truth. Were you drinking last night?”

“No!” She said quickly. Then, “well no more than usual…a glass of wine at close. Same as always.”

“That’s no problem. You’re a forty year old woman, if you can ‘t have a drink what’s the world coming to?”

“I’m thirty seven”, she chirped knowing she was being teased.

“So I round up.”

“You could round down to thirty five, you know.”

“Thirty seven, thirty five-what’s it matter? You run rings around the twenty five year olds.” He nodded over to Marie, “Between you and Sophia Loren over there you’re the best I got. Best I ever had. Without you two, I close down and go back into retail.”

Marie nodded a small bow. “Thanks, Chef”, said Connie standing like a penitent before him, eyes downcast.

“But that’s why what happened last night is so wrong. You know better-you know what to do but you don’t do it!”

“I do most of the time”, she said almost whining with her head down. Marie, watching intently, almost expected her to kick at the floor.

“People don’t come here because we’re good ‘most of the time’ do they? This is not a forgiving business. We have to be on the razor’s edge all of the time, right?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Sometimes I have to help you focus, right? To…help you keep your thoughts on the tasks at hand right?” Then, when she didn’t answer, “Right?”

“Yes Chef”, she said softly.

“You have to be…what is it? ‘In the moment?’ Don’t think of something else until the one thing is done. Right?”

“Hundred percent right Chef.”

“Oh, you agree then…”

“Yes, Chef.”

“You weren’t in the moment last night were you?”

“Jesus”, thought Marie. She might cry if she were ever scolded like this. Antonio might yell-but she never knew him to lecture. She glanced at Connie who looked for all the world like a chastened, naughty child and felt tremendously uncomfortable. She had slipped into a memory that she couldn’t exactly remember, but could feel.

“No Chef.”

“Why not?”

“I…don’t know, Chef”, she said miserably. “I’m sorry….”

“That’s OK. I’m going to make it right. See? I’m focused. I’m in the moment. The only thing I’m thinking about right now is paddling your bottom. Only thing on my mind.”

“Mine too, as it turns out.”

“Come on then.” He waved her over with the spatula that Connie was trying to avoid seeing. She moved to his right side and unsnapped her jeans. She would typically lay over his lap and he would pull them down when he was ready-usually well into the spanking. But now, “You might as well take them down”, he said.

“Oh, OK”, she said with nary a pause but a small gulp. She unzipped them and let them slide, with little prompting into a pile around her feet. He had put the spatula down and reached up to take her hand. Gently, as if leading her onto a pitching boat, he helped her settle across his lap.

“I don’t know Connie,” he said patting the back of her leg. “It seems like a long time since you’ve been here but you fit so well.”

She shrugged a rueful smile that no one could see, staring as she was at the ceramic tiles and Antonio’s leather sandals. It was true though-she had been with him for close to twelve years and two restaurants-started when she was twenty five. How many times had she had this view of his footwear?

But it had never gone beyond that. When she was married-which happily she hadn’t been for six years now-her husband never knew that her boss spanked her. He would have assumed what everybody assumed; that a good spanking was a prelude to a good fucking. It had never been like that for her. Or for Antonio.

“It’s probably been too long”, Connie said upside down.

“Probably. I’ve been neglectful…Forgive me. ”

She wriggled as he pulled her panties down easily over her slim bottom. “Oh, oh”, she thought. He had never started in on the bare-he always worked up to it. He pushed them all the way to her knees leaving her exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Oh, oh”, thought Marie from the pub table where she leaned. The generalized flutter in her chest grew into more of a drumbeat. Without realizing it she had lifted her hand to her breast like an old woman with the vapors. She had told herself that she was here to support Connie-maybe comfort her in her time of need. She had told herself that to make it seem like she was here for more than to watch her friend being spanked. But now, seeing her bare bottom just feet away, she wasn’t so sure her intentions were all that noble. She suddenly had trouble trying to figure out where to put her eyes.

To be continued…

Scenes From An Italian Restaurant – Two

(Continued from Scenes From An Italian Restaurant – One)

By the time Connie returned, most of the wait staff was in place and William, the regular bartender, had called off. So she, along with Marie would cover the bar which wouldn’t be a big deal on a Sunday PLUS her regular tables. When people asked how she stayed so thin she’d tell them, “Come watch me work!” But she was smooth and flowing; not herky-jerky the way some looked when they were rushing about.  She’d done this long enough to anticipate where she was needed and had an amazing memory for faces and particularly drinks.  Nobody was thirsty in her bar.

She caught Marie watching her once and raised her eyebrows in a “what’s up?”

“You OK?” Marie mouthed. She answered with a tight smile and a nod. But now that Marie had brought it up, thank you, she wasn’t completely OK. Being busy stopped her from thinking about last night-from trying to remember what caused her to leave the cash out…to forget the change this morning…whatever had scattered her. And she wasn’t crazy-she knew what was going to happen to her after close and every time she looked at the clock her chest felt a little lighter and her stomach gurgled. But really, what Chef was going to do to her paled in comparison with how she was beating herself up over last night.

She saw herself the way she was right now: handling tables and the bar-dancing and moving and making money for herself and Antonio. Not as the absent minded waitress who left cash out on the bar overnight. Or forgot to go to the bank this morning. She sidled over to Marie during a lull.

“We’re busier than I thought we’d be.”

“We’re moving them through…”

“Yeah…Well…some are comfortable. Uh…How late you think the staff will be here?” She was concerned about Antonio coming out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon while waitresses were still counting tips.

Marie shrugged, not even looking up. “I told them they had to be gone by six. That there was a private party coming in and we had to turn quick.”

“You did that?” asked Connie smiling.

“You really don’t want to get spanked in front of Dominic”, she said, waving to the pizza guy manning the oven across the room who had no idea what they were talking about.

She squeezed Marie’s arm. “I love you! You…you’re staying?”

“You want me to?”

“Yes.”

Why?

“I don’t know exactly….”

“Nervous?”

“I don’t know. A little, sure.” She leaned against Marie and whispered. “Hurts like hell, I’ll tell you that.”

“I imagine it does. I’ll stay.”

Connie ran her hands back along her temples and patted the tight helmet of jet black hair that sprouted a tight pony tail in back. “Thank you…” she said before turning back to the bar where ‘Chianti in the leather jacket’ was almost empty.

Marie had seen Connie spanked once, years before. She had happened into the restaurant before opening on her day off and heard the two of them arguing in the dining room. By the time she made her way to the archway to see what the ruckus was, the sound of the first swat stopped her cold. Two more steps and she saw them. Connie, leaning against the wall with her butt pushed back and Tony, holding up her skirt smacking her hard on the panties with a wooden spoon, each loud “thwack!” answered with a small “Ow! Ow! Ow!” She had quietly backed out of the room, then the restaurant, feeling what she thought was embarrassment. Maybe fear. But she worried it might have been something else.

Over drinks a couple of weeks later Marie confessed to what she had seen. Connie smiled wistfully over her Negroni. “Yeah, he was pissed…I can’t even remember why…”

“But he….”

Connie reached over and patted her friend’s hand. “Chef and I have…an understanding. It’s OK.” She took another sip in silence then asked, “Did you ever…I mean, did he ever…?”

“Me? No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Did you ever…at home…?”

“What? Charlie? He won’t even yell at the dog. “

They had giggled like schoolgirls and for the first time Marie began to feel that she was on the outside of something that she wasn’t sure she wanted to be inside of. Wasn’t sure but wasn’t sure she wanted to be on the outside either. Was she missing something? She had known other times when Connie was “going to get it”- that’s the way Connie put it. “I fucked up the wine order and William had to go pick some up-I’m going to get it later”. That was always Marie’s cue to make herself scarce.

But that was her call-she was the one who didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to know what really was going on. Or didn’t want to think about it. She was the matriarch here-the boss was fifteen years her junior. The rest were kids. Connie was closest…she sighed. She couldn’t imagine how that would work. Just couldn’t. But she wondered.

Lost in thought she picked the bottarga from the cooler and put it on the mandoline. Thin even slices. Thin even cuts. Breathe-slice-breathe-slice-thin strokes. “How the hell would that even work?” asked her mind refusing to be lulled.

To Be Continued…