For rare book dealer Eve Loughton, a trip through New England's quaint musty used book stores starts out like most others. But everything changes when she walks into a shop simply called Old Books, and happens upon a box containing several illustrations of a woman - a woman with an uncanny resemblance to her - being subjected to corporal punishment in a variety of different settings and time periods.
The box contains spanking implements, too, but also something else. A blank journal with the words "My Secret Life" written on the cover. Eve, who has a secret spanking fetish, can't resist; she buys the book and that evening decides to pen stories to go with the illustrations. But this is no ordinary journal. As soon as Eve puts pen to paper, she is transported through time and space on a journey that forces her to acknowledge her hidden desires, and - through a series of increasingly 'real' encounters - draws her ever closer to the disciplinary reality she's always wanted. This book contains three brand new illustrations drawn exclusively for this story by Patty.
Chapter One
I always loved the smell of musty books.
I know, it’s weird, but the smell of an used bookshop triggers the hunter in me, and I’ve been doing this long enough to know fertile hunting ground when I smell it. Upscale used bookshops - the ones who smell just slightly musty, nor not at all thanks to Shaper Image air purifiers tucked in dark corners - hardly ever yield anything good. The owners are too savvy to let a treasure go for a song. Signed first editions are stacked neatly beside each other, the most valuable ones locked behind glass.
But shops like these, run by laid back old men who stack teetering boxes of estate sale books one atop the other - these are where you can hit the mother lode. It was a simple shop, just sitting there on the outskirts of a little town in Maine. Even its name was simple - Old Books.
I’d pushed my way to find myself in sort of a book dealer’s Wonderland. Never before had I seen a place so overrun with books. But it wasn’t messy. It was sort of a coordinated chaos. Every available amount of wall space had been taken up with books. What wasn’t on shelves sat in wooden crates. There were two crates of books on the desk by the front door. It was an old schoolmaster’s desk. Behind it was a card catalog. No computer. I couldn’t imagine keeping inventory by hand, but it didn’t surprise me that someone still did.
I looked around, and when I didn’t see anyone I called out. “Hello!”
“Hello there, young lady!” This old man was surprisingly agile, and I startled as I followed the sound of his voice to where he stood on a rolling ladder near the ceiling. He was holding a blue volume in his hand.
“Ever see one of these he asked as he descended the ladder?” When he reached the bottom he handed me the book. Like a lot of book dealers, I can tell almost immediately upon touching a book if it’s worth something. This book was putting out “valuable” vibes.
I smiled at the old man, pushed my glasses up on my nose and gently opened the worn cover. Nice marbled boards for an older book, I observed. Then on the title page, there it was: Moby Dick or The Whale. Underneath was the inscription - not of author Herman Melville; that would have been too good to be true. But it did have the second best inscription: that of illustrator Rockwell Kent. For a book printed in the 1930’s it was in surprisingly good condition.
“How much?” I asked, but in response he took the book from my reluctant hands.
“You’re too late, my dear.” He smiled back over his shoulder as he shuffled to the desk at the front of the store, and the twinkle in his eye was that of a man it would be impossible not to like, even if I couldn’t talk him out of the book. “It’s already sold - to a feller down in Manhattan.”
My heart sank a little; I’d misjudged him. This man knew his books - and what they were worth. I’d not likely find any real bargains here.
He shook his head as he laid the book down and rubbed its cover gently before beginning to cover it in foam wrapping. “It’s a shame, really. That fella bought it for a librarian he wants to court. But apparently she’s none too interested in him, and he thinks the book will win her heart.” He sighed as he began taping on another layer of wrap. “I can see it now. She’ll feel awkward, getting a gift from the fella and later, when she finds out what it’s worth she’ll either give it back out of guilt. Or put it up somewhere.”
He placed the padded book between two stiff boards of cardboard, tamped them together and laid the whole thing in a box. “Yes, it’s a shame. A book needs to be appreciated. It always works best when it finds it’s owner rightly.”
“That was beautiful,” I said, realizing that I couldn’t help but to like this wry little Northeasterner who didn’t just know books, but also loved them. I extended my hand. “I’m Eve. Eve Loughton.”
He took my hand and shook it with a surprisingly strong grip. “Name’s Isaiah. Isaiah Smith.”
“So, how long you been a book dealer?” He had turned away to retrieve two chipped cups from the shelf behind them, and began pouring tea from a pot sitting on a little burner.
“Is it that obvious?” I laughed.
Smith turned and handed me the tea. “To someone who’s run a bookshop for 50 years, yes. I get all kinds in here - the readers, the collectors, the browsers, and book dealers. I figured either as a collector or a book dealer. Besides, I noticed the Points of Issue sticking out of your coat pocket.”
“Oh.” I looked down. He was right. The edge of the bright orange booklet - the industry standard guide to differentiating between valuable and not-so-valuable first editions - stuck out like a flag.
I laughed. “Not very savvy, am I?”
“No, you’re not. But at least you’re honest.” The shopkeeper shook his head. “You’d be surprised by the people who come in here thinking I’m a dotty old man and pretend to be my best friend in hopes I’ll sell them a rare first edition for a song.”
“How do people find you?” I asked. “I kind of got here by accident. I was at some shops in Bangor and on my way back when I thought I’d check out some off-the-path antique places.” I looked around. “So many books! I can’t believe I’ve never heard of you!”
“Don’t advertise. Don’t need to.” Smith topped off our cups. “People looking for books eventually find them. They’re drawn, no matter where they be.”
I pondered his comment until he spoke again. “So, what are you looking for?” he asked.
I casually handed him the list, and watched as he perused it. “They’re all for clients,” I said, but that was a lie. The first edition Dr. Doolittle’s Garden, by Hugh Lofting, and a vintage Edgar Rice Burroughs’ novel The Chessmen of Mars were for others. But the third book on my list, Sublime of Flagellation, by Henry Thomas Buckle, was for me.
I’ve been a used and rare book dealer for fifteen years. It’s a decent living, and fun, but it also has allowed me to expand my collection of erotica - specifically spanking-related erotica. And it didn’t have to be actual erotica to appeal to me. I loved one-room schoolhouse tales populated by strict schoolmasters - stories that carried even the hint of discipline. My vintage copy of Legend of Sleepy Hollow was one of my favorites because of the unwavering Ichabod Crane, even if the tale ended badly for him. Stories of maids locked in the service of stern employers - all wonderful. Even Heathcliff, with his cruelty,,,..It was a guilty pleasure that something about him drew me.
To my delight, Isaiah Smith had a copy of The Chessmen of Mars. But alas, he did not have the other two. But as he was looking at my list, he tapped it and said, “You know, this last title is a bit unusual and makes me think of a box of items I just got in. I haven’t put them out, seeing as they’re for someone of..unusual taste. Perhaps your client would be interested.”
“I…he would, I’m sure,” I stammered, not trying to sound too eager.
Smith waved for me to follow him as he walked to the back of the store. A curtain separated the main part of the store from the back room. Beside the curtain sat a hand-written sign that said, “Don’t come in here.” I felt honored to be allowed entry.
It was a surprisingly big room, and obviously where Isaiah Smith sorted an inventory gleaned from area auctions and estate sales. Boxes and boxes of still dusty books sat on the floor and on tables lining the wall. One of the tables was filled with bookbinding equipment.
“You repair books?” I asked, amazed. In all my years of dealing I’d never met anyone who bound books by hand.
“Yep.” came the one word answer as I perused pots of glue, sheets of gold leaf, rolls of leather, sheets of endpapers and stiff, new boards sitting there along with an array of cutting instruments.
“Here it is.” I turned at the sound of the shopkeeper’s voice to see him toting a medium-sized box in my direction. “I know you deal in books but there are some old lithographs and things in here that might appeal to your adventurous client. It’s all or nothing, so if you see something you want, you‘ll have to take it all. $55. ” He put the box at my feet and a cloud of dust erupted from it.
“Sorry,” he said, waving the dust away.
“It’s not a problem,” I replied with a laugh, stooping and pulling the box towards me. “I hardly notice anymore.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to look at this while I go busy myself up front,” he said. “If you please, don’t touch anything else.”
I promised I would not, but hadn’t planned to. As soon as I’d looked in the box I knew I was going to be plenty busy. The first thing to greet my eyes was a detailed drawing of a man spanking a woman over his knee. He was stern looking and handsome, with wire-rimmed glasses and schoolmaster’s garb. He was also wielding a cane and the only odd thing about the picture was that the girl crying prone across his lap looked a bit too old to be a student. In fact she looked more like a woman than a girl and I noticed with some amusement that she resembled me, with her straight chestnut hair, pointy nose, slim waist and generous thighs.
I laughed and put the picture aside but stopped laughing when I picked up the next one. It contained the same characters, but this time the man and woman were dressed in Victorian garb. She was in the corner, her pinstriped dress raised high above the bustle and off a round bottom covered in red, oval blotches. Their origin was no mystery. The man - a gentleman of the day - stood behind her, his stern countenance juxtaposed against her downcast and tearful face. In his hand was an oval hairbrush.
The last picture depicted the couple again, only this time she was in a maid’s outfit and he was dressed as a butler. The woman was bending over what looked like a kitchen table and was drawn as if the artist was facing her, so while I could see the man leveling a strap at her bare bottom - the fabric of the skirt appeared to be bunched at her waist - I could not see the impact they made. But it was obvious by her distress that the spanking was in full progress. The woman’s mouth was open in a bawl, and tears coursed down over her cheeks, which I noticed had a smattering of tiny freckles - just like mine.
I felt a chill I could not explain as I looked at each photo again and again, mentally drinking in the details. I dug down further in the box. There was a slim, yellowed catalogue from a Walcraft Cane Co., based in England. “Fine English Canes for Fashion and More,” the cover said. I looked at the picture of the schoolmaster again. I’d missed the writing on the side of the cane the first time I’d looked at the picture: Walcraft Cane Co. The artist obviously was a stickler for detail, but that thought led me to another realization; none of the prints were signed. How odd, I thought, to put so much work into these drawings and not sign them.
A small pamphlet called “The Obedient Wife” was beneath the catalogue. It was crudely printed, probably on a small press. It contained advice on how to live a pious, domestic life. “Anticipate what your husband will need to wear based on his activities of the coming day and have the clothes prepared, free of spot or wrinkle.” “Avoid gossip,” another page advised, “lest you shame your family and hurt your husband’s reputation.”
“If summoned for correction, present yourself willingly and without defense,” it read. “A man who chastises his wife truly loves her. A man who allows his wife to become a scold will soon avoid her, turning to drink and the company of harlots.” At the bottom of the page were two pictures. The first showed a woman gossiping over a fence to a older neighbor, both with wicked expressions, as a man looked on angrily.” The next picture showed that man hugging his gossiping wife, apparently post correction. Her face was tear-stained and she was smiling as he embraced her, a cane in his hand.”
I wondered for a moment if the pamphlet was put out by the Walcraft Cane Company, but it was not. It was printed by one Rev. Millard Bennett. I wondered how much it was worth and was satisfied that if I ever did need to recoup my investment, I could easily do so from the sale of the pamphlet alone.
I blinked hard when I saw the next item, and withdrew it with almost a reverence. It was the heaviest hairbrush I’d ever felt, and for its age the bristles were still firm and clean. But then again, I imagine it hadn’t been used for brushing. I ran my fingers across the back. It was smooth, and I wondered if the couple in the picture were real and whether this was some sort of chronicle of their disciplinary life. I looked at the brush handle. “Made in Exeter, England,” read the tiny print.
On a hunch I fished through my purse for the magnifying glass I always carried. Picking up the print of the Victorian gentleman spanking his wife, I put the lens up to the brush in his hand. On the handle - in tiny, meticulous print - were the same words: Made in Exeter, England. I got chills.
There was another implement in the box, too, a strap similar to the one being used in the picture of the maid and the butler. In my hand it felt butter soft, which surprised me because I’d expected it to be dry and cracked with age. I slapped it against my head and marveled at how something so soft could sting so fiercely.
Then I picked up he last item, and my heart leapt for joy. In my hands now was a small, leather-bound book with an ornate lock on the front. On the cover of the book were the words, “My Secret Life.”
It was coming together now. The book belonged to the same artist who had painted the pictures. But was the author and artist the man or the woman? Looking back in the box, I fished through the items until I found the key and eagerly put it in the lock, which snapped open as if it had been waiting for release. I settled onto the floor, unwilling to wait to read the first of it, but it was with grave disappointment that I found the pages were all blank.
“What….?” I asked, leafing through them frantically before finally giving up with a disappointed sigh. So the book was empty. Oh well, you can’t have everything, can you?
Carefully, I placed everything back in the box and took it up to the front. Isaiah Smith was putting on his coat. “Just in time, young lady,” he said. “I was about to close up for awhile to run to the post office before the end of business hours.”
I looked outside. It was later than I thought, and I was disappointed that I wouldn’t have more time to browse in the shop.
“Are you going to be open tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yup, at nine o’clock.”
“It’s a bit late for me to drive back into town and I’d like to look around some more tomorrow if I could,” I said.
“Certainly, young lady.” He nodded to the box in my hand. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that, then?”
“Oh yes,” I replied and put the box on the desk.” Along with the other book.”
Smith wrote a meticulous receipt and handed me my purchases along with a flier containing directions to a nearby Bed and Breakfast up the road.
I thanked him and headed out, inhaling the chilly New England air as I got into my Volvo station wagon. The inn was just a few miles up the road, just past the bend of a picturesque covered bridge. On the way I called a few clients with the good news of book acquisitions, and disappointed two with news that I was still looking for what they wanted. Tomorrow, I decided, I’d arrange sales for some of the other purchases I made. But for this evening, I’d relax.
The innkeeper, a thin woman in a charming calico dress, directed me to my room and bought me tea which I enjoyed along with a hot bath.
It was getting dark when I emerged from my tub. I’d requested supper in my room and enjoyed baked chicken, asparagus and creamed potatoes while watching the sun set behind the apple orchard behind the house.
I took the dishes back to the kitchen along with instructions that I not be disturbed for the rest of the evening. I wanted plenty of time to examine every detail of my treasure box and I did just that by lamplight, my eyes absorbing the details of the pictures - the girl’s flattening buttock as the brush landed, the furrowed brow of the irritated husband. The distressed face of the student as she tried in vain to shield her bottom with one hand, the gingham print of her simple dress and the folds of fabric bunched at the back of the chastised maid.
The book was beside me and I picked it up, wondering why the stories the pictures illustrated had never been written. I opened the book. How ridiculous, I thought, to leave it blank.
“My Secret Life.” I read and reread the cover in between glances at the pictures. Was this the artist’s secret fantasy life, I wondered, because it was mine as well. And if the artist was the woman, wouldn’t it honor her to pen stories to illustrate these wonderful drawings? What could it hurt? I’d already vowed not to sell the drawings or the empty volume.
I dug a pen out of my purse, opened the book, and began to write. I’d done a little writing, and it had never come as easy to me as it did now. Before I knew it, I’d filled half a page with the first person fantasy account of a school mistress in training, one of only ten girls in a class headed by a strict teacher. I had pondered his name for just a moment until it came to me as I was looking at some of the wooden sculptures on the mantle of my room: Carver. A strict teacher named Andrew Carver who brooked no disobedience and dealt with my daydreaming by applying his Walcraft cane to my bottom as I thrashed and cried my shamed apologies.
I yawned suddenly, and realized I’d grown very sleepy. It was frustrating, for my story wasn’t complete. “Oh well,” I thought. “I can finish it tomorrow.”
I closed the book, locked the lock with the ornate key and laid down on my bed, drifting immediately into a sleep.
I don’t know how long I’d lain there before I heard his voice. “Miss Loughton. Miss Loughton.” And then louder. “Miss Eve Loughton!”
I jerked myself awake and opened my eyes. How? Where? I looked around the schoolroom and down at the top of the old-fashioned desk, where I was inexplicably sitting. Then I looked around at the curious faces of nine other girls before forcing my gaze to the front of the room where the schoolmaster - the one from the picture and my story - stood at the front of the room, staring angrily in my direction.
“Miss Loughton, I have told you time and time again to pay attention in my class and yet you persist in ignoring me. You have tested my tolerance for the last time, young lady. Come to the front of the room this instant.”
