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Thursday, 2 January 2020

Carla Schiano: An American Tale

Story from Janus 107 by Jacey Deigh
Carla Schiano took the elevator for floor thirteen and found herself followed by some fat guy of fifty-some­thing. Hard to say which was worse, his breath, his suit, or his rug. Carla soon discov­ered all three were kinda cool compared to his patter.
‘So, what floor you want?’ says Carla, chewing gum, which ain’t really polite, but what the heck, Carla Rosanna Maria Schiano didn’t build her rep. on being no Miss Manners.
‘Any floor of yours is a floor of mine, sweet cheeks,’ says the fat guy, giving her cute ass and long legs the once over, and leering like a pump­kin at Halloween.
‘Jeez,’ says Carla, lifting her nose to Empire State height, ‘don’t tell me you’re Woody Allen and me a flat-on-my-back sucker for the neurotic intellectual approach.’
She punched the button for floor thirteen then stood back, arms folded across her off-white summer jacket, hips jaunty in a short and sassy black lycra dress, and legs like a stockings ad in match­ing four-inch heels.
Treating a four-mile exclu­sion zone like an invitation to a party, the asshole sidles up to her from behind. Next thing, he’s grabbed a fistful of bun, drum-taut in lycra, and he’s halitosing in her ear.
‘Mmm, baby, no panties or just a G-string?’
‘Move it or lose it. Ya got till ten,’ says Carla, weary and not outraged. So she gives the jerk till ten and then has him by the pinkie, twisting his whole arm and sending his head bouncing off the wall. The rug peels off his gleam­ing pink pate as Carla scolds him schoolmarmishly.
‘Now Chester, did your Mommy not teach you that it is no nice thing to do that to a lady on a brief first acquaintance?’
The door slides open at floor thirteen and Carla releases her excruciating hold, pops the gum from her mouth onto the fat jerk’s head and reattaches his dislodged rug. As she leaves, he lay nursing his numb arm and practically sobbed:…
…’You fuckin’ bitch, you ball-break­ing fuckin’ bitch…’
Carla wheeled round to face him once more, one hand on her hip and the other wagged a finger.
‘Now Chester, is Mommy gonna hafta come in there and wash out your dirty-bird mouth for you?’ The speed with which he jumped up and reached, with his still-working arm for the escape button, suggested not.
As the elevator doors began to close, Carla turned her back on him and announced, pouting over her shoulder, ‘And for your information and subsequent morose delectation…’ and bending forward from the waist with her dress hitched high on her hips, mooned him with her whole, sumptuous butt, ‘… see, G-string panties. Dream on them and die, donkey-breath!’
Having dispatched the ass­hole, Carla smoothed her dress back down and clicked along the corridor, haunches swaggering and balanced confidently above the four-inch heels. She was approaching a door flanked by two heavily-armed square-jaws and reaching into her shoulder bag, plucked out her identification and pinned it on her lapel. At the door she was weapons searched respectful­ly, the guards addressing her as ma’am, just kids really, easi­ly flustered by her knowing wisecracks and in awe of Carla Schiano, a genuine globetrotting secret agent and so drop-dead sexy, it hurt.
Carla entered Centre of Operations and made for the office of Jack Washington, Head of Division, Western European Affairs. She entered without knocking. He was on the phone so she sat herself on his desk and waited. Ignoring the conspicuous sign in front of him she took a pack of lights out of her bag and lit one. Jack went through his usual routine, holding his nose and fanning the smoke away, while he wound up the call.
Jack Washington, twice divorced, currently unat­tached and celibate, in therapy to try and get in touch with his feminine side, and work­ing hard at being politically correct, was groaning inward­ly. He always had a literally hard time thinking straight with Carla Schiano perched decorously on his desk and showing half a yard of shim­mering thigh in sheer, luxuri­ous silk stocking. Which she knew, of course. He had been adamant in the face of patri­cian persuasions, had refused to be threatened by the strong arm of the mob, and came through psychologically unscathed from torture in a variety of hostile locations. But Carla Schiano, 29, 57”, 130 pounds, just tossed her thick brown hair, wrinkled the feisty nose on her beautiful face, unleashed the full, lethal length of those stockings-ad legs and he crumpled like wet cardboard.
But not today. He put the phone down after a flurry of apologies and exploded, ‘Jesus Christ, Carla, you’ve just assaulted a senator in the goddamn elevator!’
So that’s who the fat jerk was, thought Carla. Unfazed, she acquainted Jack with the circumstances. The guy was way outa line, Jack agreed, but what about reasonable force?
He continued. ‘For crying out loud Carla, you’re in line to become the Agency’s first ever, first female, Deputy Head of Division. Your record in the field speaks for itself. But the evidence is mounting on your files that you’re headstrong, impetuous, mouthy and lack­ing in respect for any kind of authority.’
Carla tried not to sound sulky, but knew that she did. ‘That’s ‘cause I’m a woman.’
‘Horseshit, Carla. I take more downright insubordina­tion from you than I’d ever take from a man, and you know it.’
Carla did know it and, despite her flippancy and insolence, respected Jack more than any man she’d ever met. She was feeling kinda tingly at the way he’d scolded her. Jack was similarly fifty-something, like the Senator, but was still in good shape, his greying hair sparse but well-cut and his features craggy and wise. Carla couldn’t help but also contrast him with her own weak, foolish, drunken ex-husband. She was thinking, I could go for this guy for fuck’s sake. I must be contracting some sort of complex.
She shook the slightly dis­turbing thought from her mind and, changing the sub­ject to the reason for her visit, hauled out a file from her bag and slapped the thick sheaf down on Jack’s desk.
‘Incredible what these bas­tards are getting away with,’ says Carla. ‘Send me in undercover and let’s nail their sick asses!’
While Jack was weighing the file in his hand and read­ing Carla’s assessment she had lit up again, and again he went through the nose-hold­ing, smoke-fanning routine and added, ‘You smoke too much. In fact, you shouldn’t smoke at all. Also, it seems reasonable to expect someone with an M.A. to be able to read.’
Carla was, for one rare moment in her lippy life, stunned into silence by the way he took the cigarette from her hand and stubbed it out in what was supposed to be a purely decorative ashtray.
Jack put the file and Carla’s assessment down and leant back in his chair. ‘No Carla, I’m not sending you in, it’s too dangerous. And before you open that sassy mouth, it’s not ‘cause you’re a woman. It’s too dangerous for anyone, period. A single undercover operative is not the appropriate response.’
Carla had edged herself nearer, deliciously invading his space with her subtle Calvin Klein perfume. He shifted in his seat, uncomfort­ably aroused, trying to look anywhere but at the supple contours of her mile-long thighs, flexing in a second skin of silky sheen.
‘Jack, come on, gimme a break. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.’
‘You may be a big girl but you ain’t Superwoman. These are major league psychos with powerful connections. I said NO. That’s my decision and it’s not open to discus­sion.’
‘Jack…’ Carla wheedled coquettishly, leaning her chest forward. Now his eyes were striving to avoid the just visible cleavage of her pen­dant breasts, small but plumpish and perking their nipple through the straining lycra.
He stiffened his resolve in defiance of the stiffening that now awkwardly distended his loose-cut trousers. ‘I said NO, Carla, and I mean NO. Any further dissent will be deemed a disciplinary offence under Section 24A, para 4.2, and will be entered on your file.’
Jeez, Jack had given her a formal warning for insubordi­nation! That had happened a few times with her previous boss and twice she’d pushed it till it went down on her file. In coming up to two years with Jack Washington, she had kept her nose clean — or rather, he’d kept it clean for her. Another entry for insub­ordination, together with beat­ing up on that asshole Senator, and next appraisal she could kiss Deputy Head of Division bye-bye for a few years. Shit, Carla Schiano, she was think­ing, you can sure be one hel­luva dumb bitch.
Untypically crestfallen, Carla sat on the desk, legs now uncrossed and swinging in a chastened way. ‘Aw Jeez, Jack, don’t get heavy with me. I just thought…’
Jack cut her short. ‘One more word from you and, pro­cedure be damned, I’ll put you over my knee and spank your sassy buns redder than a baboon’s in heat!’
Jack’s inner disbelief at what he’d just said actually exceeded that which Carla expressed openly. ‘Jack, you cannot be serious, you would­n’t dare…’ Then Carla’s disbe­lief suddenly turned to wilful provocation, mischief twin­kling in her big brown eyes. ‘Well sir, if that’s the price, it’s worth it to tell you that you’re a scaredycat shitferbrains…’
Carla squealed girlishly, butt-hopping off the desk in time to avoid Jack’s lunge. His voice was hoarse through clenched teeth. ‘Why you lit­tle minx…’
He chased her around the desk, his eyes focused eagerly on the gauzed undercheeks which half-mooned from beneath her high-riding dress, while she threw chairs in his way, and papers too, emptying his desk all over the floor.
As Jack finally roped one brawny arm around her trim waist, Carla flashed a glance to the four corners of the ceil­ing where video cameras scanned the room, blinking beadily. Oh boy, she thought, the guys in security will never let me live this one down. They’ll probably be selling the videotape tomorrow.
The thought gave her a shameful frisson, as did the masterful way Jack threw her over his shoulder, her fists beating feebly on his back, and her high heels cocked and kicking in a dainty femi­nine tantrum. While Carla could not match Jack for brute strength, in a straight fight she would have the moves to run him close, maybe even take him out. Yet here she was, giving in so easily, play­ing Maureen O’Hara to his John Wayne, and loving it.
He carried her over to a set of sofas and chairs around a low conference table, then, in one smooth motion, straight­ened her up, sat down and pulled her across his knee. She gave a few pathetic kicks for the benefit of the security guys, while Jack pinioned her arm behind her back and rucked her hemline over her hips and past her scanty-pantied behind.
Bridging the fingers of her free hand on the plush execu­tive carpet, she steadied her­self and stretched her sheer stockinged legs to tiptoes, raising her butt in exquisitely quivering submission, the lush cheeks bare beneath the flimsy gauze of charcoal.
Then his hand began to smack, swatting powerfully at her squirming fanny and chaf­ing upper thighs, the percus­sion of flesh on flesh resound­ing so embarrassingly loud it must have been heard in the corridor, as also her plaintive melody of yelps squeals and little girl squeaks. Ow, he was really making her buns smart and sting but, ooh, it sure made her clit throb and her pussy leak. It felt so damn good in just the strangest, most stomach-turning way. She could feel also, against her flank, the crowbar erec­tion in Jack’s lap, he as tor­mented as she when each meaty hand-spank set her hips bucking and her cheeks bouncing in perverse, erotic abandon.
Jack kept pounding until her sweet cheeks were hotter than a pepper sprout, and Carla felt like the whole of the fourth of July had exploded on her poor, tenderised butt. He landed maybe another thirty good ones and stopped. Carla craned her neck round, her expression the sweetest mix of lip-bitten wincing, and undiminished mischief shin­ing through the mist of her widened eyes. ‘Oohh, Daddy,’ she pouted, not completely insincere, ‘You spank hard and I’m just the sorest, sorriest, naughty little girl who ever went over her Daddy’s knee!’ That earned her a couple more which simply reignited the fire in her glowing orbs and vibrated her clit like the string of a well plucked harp. ‘Carla Schiano, you are the sassiest minx in all of cre­ation. I swear I could spank you from here to eternity and you still wouldn’t learn your goddamn lesson!’
Jack gazed admiringly at his handiwork, she was so cutely red-assed, visible even through her panties, that his cock was pounding fit to bust. She lay still across his lap, a fragrant feminine dead­weight, ruefully rubbing her hand-paddled full moons and giving little jerky kicks of dis­may. He swept her up onto his lap where she sat uncom­fortably, cupping her buns in her hands, while he whis­pered huskily in her ear. ‘If it wasn’t for those security cam­eras, I’d have a piece of that red ass over my desk, young lady.’
Carla, spirit unbowed by the indignity of her first ever spanking at the age of 29, twitted at him. ‘Aw Jack, you’re such an inhibited, old-fashioned, fuddy-duddy kinda guy…’
He propelled her squawk­ing from his lap with a final swipe. ‘Out! Out of my office this instant, you sassy bitch!’ She left quickly, the swagger in her haunches a little stiffer than when she had arrived, just hearing his panting shot as she closed the door behind her. ‘And next time I’ll take a hairbrush to your hussy hide…’
Carla Schiano, a woman of the 90s, strong, witty, intelli­gent and resourceful, walked out into the corridor and got some funny looks from the huddle of gawkers and listen­ers, hanging around outside. She sailed past them imperi­ously and then, once more lift­ed the dress she had not long smoothed down. She mooned them a swaying pair of blush­ing, red cheeks and almost crowed, ‘Yeah, yeah, so I’ve had my ass spanked, pardon me while I cool my buns…’

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