Summary Justice
A fantasy at law by Lizzie Huckleberry, Esq.
Editorial assistance by Devlin O’Neill
Fate granted me one small favor today – your secretary left early, your outer office is empty. I cannot expect this discussion to go well, but at least she won’t see me cry. I have seen you reduce other attorneys to tears when you deliver a stern lecture from the bench. It isn’t that you yell, of course, but your disappointment is evident in your tone and expression. I’ve had tears well up in my eyes as I sit in the back of your courtroom when your scold isn’t even directed at me.
No doubt I should have told you about the error sooner. If I hadn’t set the motion aside to “deal with later” I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this mess. Even if I had simply owned up to my forgetful procrastination as soon as I noticed it, surely that would have been better. As a last resort, I might have told you before it blew up into an argument with the other attorneys.
I force down all my excuses and wishful thinking. I didn’t do any of the things I ought to have done, but you can still fix the problem. I need only endure your lengthy lecture, apologize profusely, and obtain your signature on the remedial order and the problem will be resolved. I can smooth things over with the attorneys, and my guilt will dissipate.
I carry the case file in one hand, the order I prepared placed on top. I dressed carefully for this confession, a short flippy skirt and matching jacket. Semi-professional, with my hair pulled into a high ponytail and curling down my back, I hope to remind you of my youthful vulnerability. To complete the outfit I’m wearing the mary-jane style Skechers that always make you smile because your teenage niece has a similar pair.
When I enter your office, you give me a look that makes my knees weak. I’ve seen that look directed at wayward attorneys and cocky witnesses. I expected this response, but its ferocity is overwhelming and my prepared explanation flees before I say a word.
“What happened? I’m sure I gave you this motion some time ago.”
You did. I can see your handwritten, dated note clearly despite the fact that it is attached to the motion buried in the file I’m holding.
“I … you said there was no rush, so I set it aside.”
“I meant that you didn’t need to drop everything to finish it. I did not intend for you to set it aside for six months, and then proceed to infuriate both attorneys with your sarcasm and total disregard for procedure. Did you know they both complained? Mr. Bath sent me an email and Mark stopped by this afternoon. What were you thinking?”
I press my lips together. I have nothing to say, no excuse that will end this lecture. My offhand remarks have already compounded the trouble I am in. My eyes feel hot with unshed tears and I am certain my face has gone red. I catch my lower lip between my teeth in an effort to stall the tears.
“Sit,” you command, and then stand and go to the door.
I do as you direct, sitting in one of the chairs opposite your desk. You close the door that separates your secretary’s office from the hall, then the door to your chambers. It’s nearly four o’clock on a Friday afternoon; surely you know that no one will venture up to your top floor office when you aren’t the on-call judge. Even so, I appreciate the privacy as much as I dread it. I wish you would actually yell, then I could lose my temper in my own defense. But there is no defense to your solemn disapproval. At least it will be over soon.
“You’ve written the order?”
Suddenly you are standing next to me – too close, too tall, and entirely too imposing.
With shaking hands I offer the order, my throat too tight to speak. You stand in front of your desk, leaning your weight against the solid wood. You cross your ankles as you read through the document, the very image of calm.
“That at least is up to your usual standard.”
You lean back on one hand, dropping the order near your computer and taking up a single sheet of paper, the printout of an email. I know at a glance that the email is the response I sent to the attorneys. Frustrated, annoyed with my mistake, and throwing a little tantrum, I violated my personal email rule, never put something in an email you don’t want everyone to read.
Seeing that I recognize the email, you pull it back to consider it.
“I never heard you talk like this, thank God, or I’d have been looking for a bar of soap a long time ago – but you put this in writing? Knowing full well it could be forwarded to anyone?”
I can only look away and find a spot of floor to stare at as I force myself to remain calm. You haven’t any idea the effect you have on me when you say these things. I know it is just the generation gap that makes you so matter-of-fact about punishments that fell into disfavor before I was born. I might have braced myself for the lecture, but I forgot the way my tummy drops whenever you say such things. I am glad to be seated, but you startle me when you take hold of my chin and turn my face toward yours.
“I expect an answer, young lady.”
“I didn’t mean …” My answer dies at the look in your eyes. “I just, I wasn’t thinking and I … I made a mistake, Judge. It won’t happen again.”
“I intend to ensure that it does not. You realize that instead of forwarding this to me, either of them could have taken a complaint to the Court Administrator, the Chief Judge, or even the attorney discipline committee.”
“I didn’t … I wasn’t …” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Not yet, but you will be.”
I open my mouth to respond, but quickly close it when you flash a look at me. I want to tell you that I am already sorry, that I will never do anything like that again, and that I might cry if you keep scolding me like a child. But I know what happens when attorneys argue with you while you’re in this mood. Your lectures get longer and the target of your frustration ends up in tears.
“I could let them make their complaints. You would probably lose your job, but I expect you would keep your license. You could find another job, but I would miss you. I would miss your clear-headed advice and your even clearer writing style, and I would have to train another new clerk, teach another new lawyer how different reality is from law school, and that would put me to a great deal of trouble.”
“Yes, sir. I could … maybe I could apologize to them. I’ll do anything to make this right, really.”
“Mr. Bath would accept your heart-felt apology, but Mark thinks something more is required. Would you agree?”
What something more? How could I agree without knowing? And yet, how could I not? I love my job, love working for you and the other judges, and certainly I do not want the taint of losing my job or facing a discipline committee.
“Whatever it takes, Your Honor.”
You shake your head. “Full disclosure first. I intend to give you a spanking you won’t soon forget. Once you agree there is no second chance. You’ll get every bit of the punishment you deserve until I decide you’ve learned your lesson. Still rather face me?”
I am not sure, but I agree readily enough. I trust you, respect you, and maybe even have a tiny crush on you. I am willing to do nearly anything if only you’ll forgive me, but I have to ask one thing.
“They won’t make any formal complaints if … if you do that?”
“You will apologize to both of them, they will delete the email and forget this ever happened. You didn’t have plans tonight, did you?”
“I …”
No, but I can hardly be expected to agree happily to an immediate spanking, and even if I could make you to believe a hastily concocted story I would only delay the inevitable.
“Nothing you can’t cancel, then.”
A hint of a smile flashes across your lips, and I realize my mouth is still trying to form the words of that useless story so I shut it. You take a straight-backed wooden chair from the other side of the room and carry it to the open area near your desk, then sit and pat your lap.
“Come here now.”
My tummy drops again. You are serious about this. I’ve thought about it, fantasized about it even. My mind whirls and I look at the books of case law, the overhead light fixture, anything but you.
“If I have to get up and bring you over here, young lady, neither of us is going to be happy.”
Startled, I jump to my feet and then scramble to pick up the pen I drop. I glance at you, put the file and pen on my chair seat, and with hesitant steps I walk to your side. You watch, again that ghost of a smile appears and I wonder what you find so amusing, and then you take my arm and pull me over your lap.
“You’ve never been spanked before, have you?”
Without waiting for an answer, you drop the first of many crisp hand smacks on my skirt. It feels so odd, the unusual position, the brisk but not yet uncomfortable swats. Counter-intuitively, it feels safe – you are holding me tight around the waist, and I know you are doing this because you care. My mixed emotions keep me silent and still even when you flip my skirt onto my back. Your fingers trace the lacy edges of my panties and your hand smoothes my skirt before you take up spanking me again.
“That, um, that kinda hurts.” My words sound trite and my face flushes.
“That is generally the idea behind a spanking, young lady, and it will hurt a good deal more before I’m finished.”
And at once it does hurt more. I’m not sure if you’re striking with more force or if it’s the cumulative effect of the swats, but I’m becoming truly uncomfortable. I wiggle despite my best efforts to accept my punishment, and you tighten your hold around my waist and spank on.
There’s another pause and my panties slide down my legs before I can even think to protest. I wiggle harder as the spanks increase in strength and frequency. You are lecturing now, but I am not listening to your words. I know why you are scolding me, so my answers and apologies are automatic.
My bottom is burning when you stop and help me to my feet, but I am a bit confused. The spanking hurt, though not as much as I always imagined it would. I reach back to slip a hand under my skirt and feel the heat radiating from my backside.
“No rubbing.” Your command makes me clasp my hands together in front. “Take off your jacket and get my ruler from the desk.”
I begin to remove my jacket, still a bit dazed from my first spanking, but stop when the impact of your order reaches my brain. You aren’t done spanking me, and now you’re going to use your ruler!
I will never forget the first time I saw your ruler. I was sitting in your office discussing the random case of the day when your court reporter popped in and asked if you had a ruler she could borrow. The one you removed from the drawer was 18 inches long, made of dark wood, and thick enough to make any closet-spanko’s heart stop. She expressed surprise at its size and wickedness, and you responded by slapping the ruler hard against your palm.
“It’s good for smacking unruly children,” you said. “Among other things.”
I could have sworn you gave me an odd look at that point, but I later decided it was simply wishful thinking on my part.
“Go on now. I’m sure you remember where I keep it.”
I toss my jacket over a chair and stumble to the desk. Apparently my fascination did not go unnoticed.
“Step out of your panties, too. You won’t need them for a while.”
I do as you direct, barely in control of myself. I fumble with the desk drawer and take the ruler in my suddenly sweaty palm. I manage the return trip with a bit more grace, but still have no idea what you expect of me. Thankfully, you take the ruler from my hand and guide me back over your lap.
This time you lift my skirt before you began, so the first burning cracks of the ruler land on my bare bottom. I complain while you scold and demand answers. The few times I don’t answer, you aim the ruler at my thighs, inducing a hasty response. Eventually the combination of my whines, wiggles, and moans force you to give up the lecture and let the ruler do the talking. The ruler is very persuasive and I feel like a well-punished little girl when you help me back to my feet.
You stand and lift my skirt, and make me sit with my bare bottom on the chair. I protest but you shush me and give me a look that keeps me seated. You retrieve the hateful email and place it in my hands, then you lean on your desk, cross your ankles and watch me.
“Read it to me.”
“I don’t … I didn’t …” I stammer on, unable to explain my objection clearly with my sore bottom on a wooden chair and the evidence of my misbehavior in my hands.
“You wrote it, young lady, now I expect you to read it. Do you need another round with the ruler?”
I am convinced and yet extremely reluctant to read the curse-riddled missive aloud. The message would not have been professional even without those particular words, and I knew without being told that you would not appreciate my word choice. I try skipping the first four-letter word, but you interrupt and tell me that was not how you remember it and I will do best to read exactly what I wrote. I do so, wincing at the tone of the email and cursing myself with every curse I read out. I am sure the email was not a tenth this long when I typed it during my temper tantrum.
“Do you know what happens to naughty little girls who use that kind of language?”
“They, um, they get spanked?” How I manage to utter those words I have no idea.
“Indeed, and we will return to that shortly. But girls who spew that sort of filth need their mouths washed out with soap, wouldn’t you agree?”
“No!” How could I? I stand and take a step toward the door.
“Sit right back down, young lady.” Your glare ensures that I do exactly as I am told, “Now think about it while I get the soap.”
You disappear into the small bathroom while I can only sit, attached by fear to the chair. I heard you mention this remedy for cursing miscreants whenever such appeared in your courtroom, but I never imagined it was more than a joke or a less-than-fond memory from your childhood. But I listen to the water running and the remote possibility takes on a frightening reality. You return, working a washcloth against a soap bar. I smell the scent of Ivory and real terror keeps me perfectly still.
“Relax,” you say as you approach. “This won’t hurt and it only takes a few minutes. It won’t be a pleasant few minutes, of course, and I expect you’ll remember it, but you will be fine. Open up for me.”
I shake my head, but then you raise an eyebrow and I do as you say. Immediately the soapy rag is in my mouth, spreading the disagreeable taste over my tongue and lips. I want to beg you to stop, but my mouth is full and I am close to gagging. My eyes fill with tears while you scrub away the filth, then you take hold of my arm and pull me from the chair, and march me to the sink.
“Rinse,” you say, and give me a cup half-full of water.
I want to stay at the sink forever vainly rinsing soap taste from my mouth, but you direct me back to the office.
“Please, sir, I’ve learned my lesson, really I have. Please?”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
You smirk slightly, the humor of your statement lost on me because I realize that means there will be more spanking.
Firmly grasping my arm, you bypass the chair and lead me instead to your desk. It takes only a gentle shove and a few softly spoken commands to bend me over the desk, grasping the far side, my feet neatly spread, and my bottom thrust out. You lift my skirt out of the way and examine my backside thoroughly with your hands.
I turn to look when I hear the clink of your belt buckle and the swoosh of its passage through belt loops.
“No please, sir, please don’t …”
“Hush, now. You know you’ve earned more than the warm-up I gave you.”
Resigned, I press my forehead against cool wood and you put your free hand on the small of my back. When the first burning stripe hits I yelp and try to stand up. You hold me easily, murmuring a combination of threats and reassurances until I resume my position. I keep almost still throughout the strapping, but protest loudly until tears threaten. I give myself over to them, and when my bottom is throbbing and red, you finally stop. I don’t notice your disappearance until you return with a cool, blissfully Ivory-free cloth that you use to wipe my face until I quiet.
“There now,” you say as you help me to my feet “Put yourself together and we’ll meet Mr. Bath and Mark for dinner. You can make your apologies tonight and put all this behind you.”
I know we will go to the local tavern you favor for after-work drinks and meals. I know that the two attorneys will have saved a high-top table for us, because that is where you always choose to sit. And now I know why your favorite place for dinner has high stools with hard, wooden seats and no foot rests.
Then too her drawings make excellent book covers, so when you and your editor are casting about for just the right image to grace your new novel, or your rewritten one for that matter, don’t make a decision without first perusing Paula’s collection. She is quite approachable and lovely to do business with.
