Mariette the Spy: Part 1

The story you are about to read is fiction.
It has been posted with the consent of the original copyright author.
Please do not repost or republish without the express written consent of Uncle Kent.

Mariette Wilcox clung tightly to the tree, brushing the leaves away from her face again. A spy's life wasn't always easy, she reflected grimly, and at times like these it was downright miserable. But Mariette was determined to become a spy, so she had to take the good with the bad.

Mariette's fascination with the spy business began two weeks ago, when her class finished reading "Harriet the Spy." The book was a revelation to the fifth-grader. The idea of surreptitiously watching other people, learning their secrets, while remaining concealed herself . . . Mariette knew she'd found her calling. The fact that Harriet got found out was no deterrent; Mariette just plain wouldn't get caught. Even the similarity between their names was amazing, although Mariette considered her name much cooler than "Harriet", which sounded like an old lady's name to her.

Okay, so she was going to be a spy; now, who to spy on? The natural choice seemed her next-door neighbor, Mr. Meadows. An aloof, somewhat reclusive bachelor, he'd been a bit of a mystery in the neighborhood since moving in three years ago. No one knew for sure what he "did"; some days he never left the house, while at other times he'd disappear for weeks on end. Other than a few brief "Hellos" when he happened to be in his front yard when she went by, Mariette couldn't remember exchanging more than five or six words with him.

Mr. Meadows made the ideal subject. Mariette relished the idea that she, and she alone, would be privy to his deepest, darkest secrets. Of course, once she'd found them out, she wouldn't be able to tell anyone else . . . that came with the territory. It didn't matter, though. *She* would know, and nobody else would.

Once she had her target identified, Mariette had to work out a methodology. With a little thought, she soon hatched a palpable scheme. A large tree grew in her back yard, situated close to the fence dividing the Wilcox property from Mr. Meadows'. Mariette found, if she climbed the tree, she could see into one of the upper-floor rooms on the back of Mr. Meadow's house. And, by happy chance, this particular room seemed set up as a home office, complete with a computer work station.

So, every night for the past week, after dark, Mariette snuck out of the house (when she was *supposed* to be doing her homework), climbed the tree, and peered into Mr. Meadows' window. And, every night, he sat before the computer for most of the time she watched. Some nights he typed diligently; other nights he stared almost listlessly at the screen, occasionally moving and clicking the mouse. Unfortunately, the computer screen angled away from Mariette's view, so she couldn't see what he was working on; but she felt confident it was only a matter of time before she figured it out. Concealed in the tree's thick leaves, Mariette had no worries about Mr. Meadows seeing her.

Tonight, though, he was late, Mariette thought grumpily, pushing her thick glasses back into place on her nose. She wished she'd been able to change out of her school clothes; the bark felt rough against her bare legs. But that might have aroused her mother's suspicions. At least there were no boys around to look up her skirt and see her Winnie-the-Pooh panties (a constant hazard at school).

Wait . . . there he was. Mariette watched intently as Mr. Meadows took his usual seat at the computer desk. Instead of switching it on, though, he picked up a pad of paper. He wrote for a few minutes, pausing every now and then to chew on the end of his pen, then tore off the top sheet, folded it, and sealed it in an envelope. Then he got up and left the room.

A confused Mariette pondered these developments. This wasn't like Mr. Meadows at all! She wondered if he would come back. He had left the light on, which was unusual for him.

Mariette was about to give up her vigil when the door opened and Mr. Meadows re-entered the room. The girl's eyes widened as she saw him carrying a length of rope, one end knotted around his neck. Surely he wasn't planning to . . .

With a growing sense of panic, Mariette watched as Mr. Meadows pulled a chair into the center of the room, climbed atop it, and tied the free end of the rope to a light fixture. He stood on the chair for a few seconds, then stepped off into space. The rope held.

Mariette barely repressed a scream as she watched Mr. Meadows' suspended, swaying body. She couldn't believe he'd committed suicide right before her eyes.

Faced with this situation, Mariette adopted the usual response for any child: she sought the nearest adult. As fast as she dared, she slid down out of the tree, ran into her house, and located her mother. "Mom, Mom!" she cried. "Mr. Meadows just hanged himself!"

"What? What are you saying, Mariette?" Mrs. Wilcox replied.

"Please, you gotta do something! Maybe he's not dead yet! Please!" Mariette pleaded.

"What makes you think Mr. Meadows is dead?"

"Please, I'll explain later! Please, Mom, hurry!"

"Oh, all right. But we 'will' discuss this later, young lady!"

Her mother's tone reminded Mariette that she'd better come up with a suitable explanation for her knowledge, or face potentially drastic consequences. Right now, she was so frantic with worry over Mr. Meadows, she could hardly think straight at all.

Mrs. Wilcox led her daughter to Mr. Meadows' front door, where she rang the doorbell. "Shouldn't you call 911 or something?" Mariette inquired.

"If he doesn't answer, *and* you give me a good explanation, I will," the woman responded.

"Mom, I'm telling you, I *saw* him." But, at that very moment, the door opened, and there stood Mr. Meadows. "Yes?" he inquired pleasantly.

Mariette's jaw dropped wide open. Just moments ago, she'd seen -- she 'knew' she'd seen -- his body dangling from a rope. But, here he stood, apparently none the worse for wear. "But -- how --" she sputtered.

"Well," Mrs. Wilcox stated, her tone decidedly frosty. "I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Meadows, but my daughter here assured me that you'd hanged yourself." She fixed her gaze on Mariette. "I believe you've got some explaining to do, young lady, and now would be a good time."

"It's chilly out here," Mr. Meadows replied. "Why don't you come in?"

"Thank you, I believe we will," Mrs. Wilcox answered.

"Er, Mom? Can't we just go home?" Mariette asked. It seemed she was in for some embarrassing moments, and the fewer witnesses, the better.

"Oh, no. You've involved Mr. Meadows in this, and I think he's entitled to hear your explanation. And it 'better' be good."

Swallowing hard, Mariette followed her mother and Mr. Meadows into a comfortably furnished living room. The Wilcoxs took seats on the sofa, while their host occupied an easy chair. "Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Wilcox?" he offered.

"No, thank you, Mr. Meadows. And, please, call me Gloria."

"All right, if you'll call me Norman."

With the amenities disposed of, Mrs. Wilcox focused her attention on her daughter. "Well, young lady? We're waiting."

Thinking desperately, Mariette grasped at the first available straw. "I, uh, I was -- was looking out my bedroom window -- and I saw -- I thought I saw --"

"You can't see into Norman's house from your bedroom window, Mariette," her mother interrupted. "I made sure of that when he moved in." She smiled at the man. "No offense."

"None taken, I assure you."

"Now, Mariette, I think it's time you started telling us the truth -- the whole truth. Believe me, you're in enough trouble as it is."

She 'did' have a point, Mariette thought glumly, before breaking down and confessing. "I -- I've been looking into the window -- of his computer room. I can see it from the tree in our back yard."

"Why would you do such a thing?" Mrs. Wilcox inquired, aghast.

"I -- I wanted to be a spy. Like in that book we read. 'Harriet the Spy'? I wanted to be Mariette the spy."

"*Well* Mr. Meadows -- Norman -- I apologize. I had no idea she was up to such mischief."

"But -- Mr. Meadows -- you hanged yourself! You did! I saw you!" Mariette burst out, unable to contain herself any longer.

"Don't be silly, Mariette. How could Norman have hanged himself when he's sitting right there?"

"But I saw him, Mom! I did!"

"I think I can clear up some of Mariette's confusion," Mr. Meadows interjected. "Be right back." He left the room briefly, returning with a length of rope. "For your collection," he said, tossing the rope to Mariette.

She examined the rope closely, noting it had three loops. Three . . . not the one she'd witnessed earlier.

"The large loop goes around your neck," Mr. Meadows explained. "The two small loops go around your armpits, under your shirt. It's an old theatrical trick."

Well, some of the mystery was cleared up, Mariette thought. He hadn't really hanged himself; he'd just pretended to. But why?

"Oh, and, next time you go peeking in somebody else's window, you might want to invest in a set of contacts -- or something that doesn't reflect the light as much as *those*," he concluded, indicating Mariette's glasses.

The remaining confusion fell away. Despite what she'd thought, he'd known all along. By pretending to hang himself, Mr. Meadows had actually led Mariette into hanging 'herself'. She could almost feel the noose tightening around her neck . . .

"There won't be a next time, Norman, I assure you of that," Mrs. Wilcox stated. "I'll make sure Mariette learns her lesson . . . starting right now." Straightening her legs, she patted her right knee.

Mariette's heart sank. "Mom . . . please . . . can't we go home first?" she pleaded.

"Absolutely not. You've violated Norman's privacy, and he deserves to know you've been properly punished for your actions. Now, quit stalling!" She patted her knee again.

Mom does have a point, Mariette thought, and I do have this coming . . . I just wish it didn't have to be in front of Mr. Meadows. Sighing heavily, she stood up, crossed over to her mother's right side, and laid down across the indicated lap, supporting her head and upper body on the sofa.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather be alone?" Mr. Meadows asked, starting to get to his feet.

'I' would, Mariette thought, but her mother overruled her. "No, Norman, I insist. Having you as a witness will add a good dose of embarrassment to Mariette's punishment. Please, sit down."

"Well, if you're sure." Mr. Meadows resumed his seat.

Mariette blushed deeply as she felt her skirt lifted up onto her back. Mom was right about the embarrassment, she thought, knowing that Pooh, Piglet, Tigger, and the whole Hundred Acre Wood lay exposed for Mr. Meadows' inspection. But Mrs. Wilcox apparently felt a mere panty exposure wasn't sufficiently humiliating. She inserted her fingers under the elastic waistband of her daughter's underwear and began drawing them downward.

"No, no, Mom! Please, not like that!" Mariette protested, wriggling about in an attempt to preserve what modesty she had left.

"Now, Mariette! When have I *ever* left your panties up for a spanking?"

"Never, but -- this is different. 'He's' here."

"Mariette, I *told* you that Norman would be watching your punishment. There's no reason to change anything just because there's a witness. Keep that in mind, next time you think about spying on somebody." And, without another word, Mrs. Wilcox peeled Mariette's panties down to the tops of her thighs. The girl moaned and buried her face in the sofa, trying anything to avoid Mr. Meadows' eyes. She swore she could feel his gaze on her exposed, all-too-naked rump.

SMACK! SMACK! In remarkably short order, Mariette felt something 'else' on her exposed, all-too-naked rump, something which made her forget Mr. Meadows' presence -- namely, her mother's palm. Mariette still got spanked on a somewhat-regular basis, and she knew, from experience, she was in for a long, painful session.

Mrs. Wilcox kept up a brisk pace, alternating hard swats to each buttock with sharp blows to Mariette's sit spot. Mariette tried to control her reactions, but, inevitably, as the heat and sting built, her tears welled up, overflowing and running down her face as she sobbed quietly.

Mariette had just about reached her breaking point when Mrs. Wilcox paused. "I think my hand must hurt more than your rear end," the woman commented. Mariette had her own opinions on the matter, but wisely kept them to herself. "But I'm not finished with you yet. Norman, would you happen to have a hairbrush handy?"

"NO, MOM, NO!" Mariette exploded. "Please, not with a hairbrush! I've learned my lesson now! Please, no!"

"Quiet!" Mrs. Wilcox cautioned, emphasizing her words with a hard swat. "If we were home right now, you know you'd be feeling the hairbrush. There's no reason things should be any different here."

"Well, I'm afraid I don't have much use for a hairbrush," Mr. Meadows declared, running his hand through his thinning hair. "But, if you want it for what I think you want it for, I may have a suitable substitute. Wait right there." And, as before, he got to his feet and left the room.

Mariette suffered through the drawn-out interval, awaiting Mr. Meadows' return. Her hindquarters throbbed and burned. She knew better than to reach back and rub, though. Anything that might ease her discomfort wasn't permitted until her punishment ended -- and, from her mother's words, she still had more to come.

All too soon, Mr. Meadows showed up again, carrying a ping pong paddle. "Will this do?" he inquired, proffering the paddle to Mrs. Wilcox.

"It will do nicely, Norman. Thank you," she replied, taking the implement. Mariette cringed as she felt the cold surface pressed against her hot bottom. "No, Mom, please --"

CRACK! The paddle's impact interrupted Mariette. Larger and somewhat lighter than her mother's hairbrush, the paddle carried a substantial sting, especially on the girl's preheated backside. Gritting her teeth, Mariette braced herself and dug in.

It wasn't long, though, before the constant battering wore her down. Losing her grip on the sofa cushion, she reached back to defend herself; her mother, anticipating her reaction, seized her wrist and pinned it to the small of her back. Her legs developed minds of their own, kicking as if she were swimming the English Channel. Her faint outcries grew louder and louder, interspersed with her usual pleading and promising. CRACK! "OWWW! Please, Mom, no more!" CRACK! "OUUUUU! Mom, please, it hurts!" CRACK! "I'll never do it again, I promise!" CRACK! "I promise!" CRACK! "I promise, I promise, I PROMISSSSSSE!"

Finally, Mrs. Wilcox decided that Mariette's hindquarters had acquired the requisite shade of red, and ceased paddling. She let her daughter cry herself out over her lap for a few minutes, then helped her to her feet. Mariette reached back to rub, but Mrs. Wilcox stopped her. "Not yet. There's something else you have to do first --" and she whispered a few quick sentences in the girl's ear.

Mariette's eyes widened and her red face actually lightened a few shades. "No, Mom, no," she whimpered.

"Do it, Mariette," Mrs. Wilcox commanded.

"Mom, I can't --"

Without another word, Mrs. Wilcox yanked Mariette back across her knees, flipped her skirt up, and administered a dozen rapid-fire swats to the already-well-paddled nether cheeks. "Don't you tell me you can't!" she said when she'd finished. "Are you ready to do as you're told, or do I have to keep paddling you?"

"No! No! I'll do it! I'll do it! I'll do anything, Mommy, only please don't paddle me any more!"

"Very well." Once again, Mrs. Wilcox lifted her daughter back to her feet, then stuffed the paddle into her hands. Trying to keep her panties from sliding any further down her legs, Mariette shuffled across the room to stand before Mr. Meadows. She took a deep breath, wiping fitfully at her eyes, then stammered out the speech she'd been instructed to give:

"M-M-M-Mr. M-M-Meadows . . . I-I'm s-sorry I s-s-spied on y-you. P-p-p-please . . ." (gulping audibly, she cast a pleading look back at her mother, who motioned for her to continue) "p-please t-take the p-p-paddle and . . . and . . . f-f-finish m-my p-p punishment." With quivering hands, she extended the paddle to him.

Looking over the girl's shoulder, Mr. Meadows asked, "Gloria, are you sure this is really necessary?"

"I insist, Norman. Mariette needs to learn that she can't go around invading other peoples' privacy. And this is how she learns best. Go ahead."

"Okay, then, let's get this over with." Mr. Meadows took the paddle from Mariette and guided her across his lap. For the third time that night, Mariette felt her skirt inverted. Her embarrassment grew as she knew Mr. Meadows now had a close-up view of her bare, battered nates. She braced herself again, waiting for her second paddling to commence.

He didn't keep her waiting long. CRACK! CRACK! Two solid swats, one to each cheek. Perhaps wishing to give Mariette a break, Mr. Meadows didn't paddle her as hard as her mother had; but, given the pre-tenderized state of her rump, *any* additional punishment would be very painful.

Mr. Meadows administered a dozen stout blows to each buttock, then put the paddle aside. Exhausted from her struggles, Mariette simply laid limp across his lap, making no effort to control her weeping. When she was finally able to regain her feet, she looked across the room at her mother. "Now, Mom?" she asked plaintively.

"Now, Mariette," Mrs. Wilcox answered, nodding. Mariette massaged her tail frantically for a few seconds before gingerly pulling her panties back up, wincing as the cotton rubbed against her sore flesh.

"Well," said Mrs. Wilcox, rising to her feet, "I believe we've taken enough of your time. Thank you, Norman, for your patience, your understanding, and your . . . participation."

"You're quite welcome, Gloria. It was a pleasure to finally meet you," he replied, meeting her halfway across the room to shake hands.

"It was my pleasure too." She turned to her daughter. "Mariette, don't you have something to say to Norman?"

"I'm sorry I looked in your window, Mr. Meadows. I won't do it again," Mariette said firmly.

"And?" Mrs. Wilcox prompted.

"And . . ." Mariette blushed anew when she realized what her mother meant. "T-thank you for punishing me," she finally murmured.

"Glad to help out, Mariette. Why don't you come over tomorrow, when you're feeling better? I think we should probably have a talk." He suppressed a chuckle at the girl's frightened expression. "Don't worry, all we're going to do is talk."

"Mariette will be over right after school," Mrs. Wilcox stated. "Won't you, Mariette."

"Yes, Mother," Mariette responded. Her mother's tone left her no options in the matter.

"Let's be on our way, then. Good night, Norman."

"Good night, Gloria. Good night, Mariette. See you tomorrow!"

"Good night, Mr. Meadows," replied Mariette, in as polite a voice as she could manage.

"Well, young lady," remarked Mrs. Wilcox as the two walked back to their house, "I certainly hope you learned something tonight."

Mariette reached back once again to rub the seat of her skirt. "I sure did, Mom," she affirmed, adding mentally, next time I pick out somebody to spy on, the first thing I'm going to do is find out whether they own a ping pong table.

Find out what happens next in Mariette the Spy, Part 2

If you'd like to email Kent about Mariette the Spy, write: kentls001@worldnet.att.net