The Repairman
by Alec Clayton
I was the AAA man for broken down computers. I really was not a PC minded geek, but I could fix the small problems I ran into since most of the machines I worked on were brand new. There was a new electronics store in town, and the only way they could make it was by giving away 6 months of in-home repair for all computers sold. That’s where I came in. Most of the trouble was a program didn’t load correctly, or a wire went bad.
This was a Saturday morning call. The lady who needed her machine fixed had a tight schedule, so I had to be there much earlier than I was used to. I found the house, a nice small Cape Cod, and pulled into the driveway. I looked at the service call list: a Ms. Jennifer Macass. I picked up my repair bag of tricks and pushed myself out of my van. When I rang the bell, it seemed to make the door swing open by a spring action.
“Well! So you finally got out of bed and decided to show up. I thought I asked for a ten o clock appointment. You’re 20 minutes late!”
I was used to this sort of thing. I simply smiled my “I’m doing my best” smile, and stepped into her home. She was not a cover girl. But she wasn’t a bad looker. She had on a white bathrobe, which fell down to her knees, and she had her wet hair wrapped in a towel, which spiraled upwards. It gave her the appearance of being an Egyptian Queen. Her legs were her strongest feature. Or was it her mouth?
“I hope this won’t take all day,” Ms. Jennifer said as she led me through her house as if it had been my fault that she was having problems. “I have better things to do than hang around waiting for you to figure out how a machine works.”
I just smiled again, and asked where the “machine” was. She led me past the kitchen, to a small office at the back. One thing was for sure; she lived alone. There was no sign of any male influence in what was laying in perfect order around the different rooms. The machine was next to a desk, with the keyboard and monitor sitting on top.
“I’ll be going out in a few minutes. See if you can be done in half an hour!” she ordered as she turned and walked out of the room.
I had read the repair slip. I did not tell her, but her repair might be very easy to fix indeed. This model of computer had a habit of connecting the user to the Internet, checking the password, and then disconnecting and rebooting about half of the time. Since I had seen this problem before, I knew what to do.
I logged onto the Internet with her password, which she had saved in her computer to keep from bothering her to type it in every time she used it. I waited, and this time I was lucky; I connected and did not have to go through the process of starting up the computer again. I typed in the website for this model computer and downloaded in about 2 minutes, the patch needed to fix this glitch.
I clicked on the patch, allowed the computer to refresh itself, and then tried 4 times to connect. Success every time. Little Ms. Jennifer’s problem was over. At least her computer one was solved.
I was about to click off, when that voice from the other room spoke out again. “I don’t hear much going on. You’re not getting paid by the hour; I expect you to have started by now. “
I decided to see what made this gal tick. I clicked onto her Favorites, and looked down the list. My jaw almost hit the keyboard. “Red Fanny,” “Bad Little Girls,” “Paddles and Switches,” “Moving Targets Are Harder To Hit.” She was a spankee. I made sure by clicking on a couple of sites. There was the chance she was into the dishing out, but no. Two of the sites were definitely Male to Female.
I closed down the PC and went into the kitchen where she waited. By this time her hair towel was draped across a chair while she sat at the table, newspaper in one hand, coffee mug in the other. With her hair hanging down, I could see maybe she was a cover girl after all. She had the look of a sweet, young girl. And then she spoke again.
“Don’t tell me you’re finished already. You have only been here 15 minutes. I am not going to sit here again some other day waiting for you to fix what you should have done right the first time.” Her eyes caught fire, and her bony finger reached out to me and pointed between at my nose. “Look friend, I have wasted more time on that piece of junk this week than I can afford. You better not leave here until you are sure my problem is fixed.”
I can take anger, and I can take words that are far from kind. But the finger in my face pushed one of my hot buttons. And seeing the websites gave me the idea. I quickly considered how much I needed this second job, glanced down at her finger, still pointed like a gun at my head, and I moved.
Like a snake striking, her wrist was caught by mine in a flash. Expecting her to pull backward, which she did, her arm went straight. Now when I pulled her in the other direction, the rest of her had to follow her wrist. I spotted a chair on the other side of the table, and quickly I sat there as if in a game of musical chairs. She practically fell into my lap as the momentum kept her moving forward.
With this sweet young woman across my knees, I froze a second, taking in her very shapely form. She was off the ground, supported solely by my legs. I easily tossed the bathrobe over her back, uncovering the cover girl’s bashful side, and glanced down at a breath of violet panties covering her newly showered bottom. She must have had an idea what was coming and started to kick her legs up and down in protest. The movement made the curve of her bottom change form; but it never lost its attractiveness.
I’m sure she was saying something as well, but I was paying her words no mind at the moment. I was looking down upon a playground where my hands were itching to run and jump upon. She suddenly twisted in such a way that I thought she was going to drop off my lap. I quickly reached out and supported her center of gravity, and held her snugly against me.
I snapped out of my admiration and got down to business. With one swift movement, her panties were pushed down enough to reveal her tan lines. With every nasty word she had said, ringing like a bell in my ears, I started to swing.
With the first meeting of hand and rump, her sentence stopped in mid-word and a sound like someone saying “Haaa!” escaped her lips. It surprised her that I was right on target.
The kicking started again, but I had her. There was no escape, and she knew it. After the first two dozen or so smacks, my ears suddenly tuned in to her somewhat softer voice, mixed with an occasional halting of her words as she registered another impact in her lower regions.
“If you stop now, I won’t report you.” she bargained.
Not what I was hoping for, and I never missed a beat as I considered and rejected her very nice offer. But her upturned backside, now slightly pinkish, was a better offer.
I moved my left hand from holding her back down to holding her hips snugly. I figured I was in this for the long run, and I might as well get comfortable and make sure she was steady. I had never done this to a lady before, but it didn’t take a great deal of knowledge. Take hand A; apply steady, firm, hard strokes to backside, B. But it did take a great deal of C, confidence. If I had any desire to keep my job, I never would have had the nerve. Now I was striking hers.
I moved my aim from one hand sized spot on each cheek, to making a tour of her whole bottom, and back again. Either way felt warm, and getting warmer. Either way felt like this was wild.
I realized she was not speaking, but making sounds like a puppy dog when it wanted to be picked up. This sound was saying it wanted to be put down. I figured she had learned a little something she would not soon forget, and with one good slap to conclude the lesson, I released my hold on her hips, and leaned back, allowing her to push herself up and regain her balance on her feet. Her bathrobe fell back down over her bared little tush, as she seemed a bit unsure of herself for the first time.
Standing directly before me, rubbing her reception area gently, she looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“I deserved that! I should have shopped at Acme Computer instead.”
I moved to get her back over my lap again. She was still hungry; I would serve her seconds. But she expected me to react, and she moved back from me, toward the sink. But I was faster than she expected, or she was slower than she expected. I kind of figured walking for her felt a little strange at this moment, not to mention the violet panties still not fully pulled up. I grabbed her upper arm near the sink as the chair I had been on tipped over. I reached and pulled my chair over to me and sat down again, with her atop my knees once more.
Being near the sink, I spotted a wooden spoon lying on the counter. I could not believe this gal would have such an ancient utensil. I started cooking again, and it must have tasted a bit spicy; for she was twisting and protesting like the message was finally getting through. I tried to smack her with a rhythm, but then thought better of it. Why let her expect the next impact. If I hit her little rump in uneven time, she would be waiting for it, not get it, and then it would arrive. Keep her guessing is what I always say.
The warm April morning was seeing two of us working up quite a sweat. She would need another shower when this was all through, a cold one most probably to cool the fire. The spoon was like a drumstick in my hand, and I could hear the music playing in my head. And the soft, low howling from my friend who was sipping from the spoon made a song even the robins outside could only stop and listen to.
When my poor sense of judgment said she had had enough and my next computer repair was nearing as well, I removed my restraining arm which had been leaning none to gently on her back, and sort of eased her to her feet a second time. Saying nothing, she quietly moved from the kitchen and headed to parts unknown.
I got up and went back into the small office where her computer and my bag of tools were keeping company together. I sat at her desk and filled out a report of the service call, showing accurately the time spent on the job, as well as time spent giving instructions to the owner. As I tore off her copy, I heard her at the doorway. She was wearing a lavender sweat suit, which I am hoping was very loose for her sake. And she had glasses on pretty face; they gave her the look of a professional woman on her day off. A woman in charge of many things and knows how to run them perfectly. A woman who can decide in an instant what she wants to do and thinks quickly who she is going to get to do it for her. An in control, calm, never raises her voice, because she is the authority, lady.
But in her hands were a piece of apple pie and a mug of coffee. She looked up at me as if this were a special offering to appease the giant nuisance disturbing the peace of her home. I stood up and went toward her slowly, looking only at her eyes. I could not read a thing that they may be thinking.
I took the mug and the plate from her, and went back to the kitchen to enjoy them. I expected her to follow me, but she left me alone. I wondered if she was fearful of entering the room again, or just had something that needed doing. I finished quickly, since my excitement level had still not returned to normal, and I had used a considerable amount of energy.
Seeing I was really falling behind in my work, I put the dishes by the sink, went to the office and picked up my bag, and headed for the door. We met at the door at the same time.
“I was wondering,” she started to say, with a slight hesitation “if you could come back next week and fix my laptop?”
I smiled and said “I take two sugars in my coffee.”
I think she smiled, but I was still looking only at her eyes. I opened the door, and started walking toward my van. I was halfway down the path, when she called out and came after me. I waited for her, and when she got to me she took my bag from my hand, opened it and took out her wooden spoon. The PC man, who was such a professional in every way, had his mind not on his work and had packed it away.
“Can you really fix things with this?” she said, and for the first time I saw her smile.
“My dear lady,” I said, trying to rescue my composure, “it’s not the instrument, but the touch of the master’s hand.”