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It has been posted with the consent of the original copyright author.
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Mariette Wilcox trudged slowly along the sidewalk towards her home and her impending doom. She paused, seeing the now-familiar figure of Mr. Meadows, her next-door neighbor, watering his front lawn. On an ordinary day, she'd have been happy to see him; today, however, was definitely not an ordinary day. Besides, Mariette thought, he was at least partially to blame for her current predicament . . .

Mariette recalled when she'd first visited Mr. Meadows by herself, the day after she'd been spanked by him and her mother for spying on him. He'd requested that she drop by the next day, so they could "have a talk". Mariette hadn't looked forward to the visit, but it turned out quite different than what she anticipated.

When she rang his doorbell that afternoon, he'd opened the door, said, "Oh, good, you're here. Hang on, let me get my coat," and disappeared back inside. Mariette stood on the doorstep, confused, until he reappeared a few moments later with a parcel under one arm. She'd been expecting to be invited inside for a lecture on respect for privacy and other whatnot. Instead, he led her to his car, opened the passenger side door, and motioned for her to get in.

She hesitated. "It's okay," he reassured her. "I called your mother and explained what I had in mind. You'll be home in time for dinner."

Still somewhat reluctant, she climbed into the vehicle. Mr. Meadows drove in silence to a nearby park. He escorted the girl to a vacant bench, buying her an ice cream cone along the way. Mariette's confusion grew. Mr. Meadows was acting more like a kindly uncle than somebody who'd paddled her bare bottom the day before.

Mr. Meadows waited patiently until Mariette finished her ice cream, then initiated the conversation. "So," he said slowly, "you like spying, eh?"

Feeling a slight flush in her cheeks, Mariette nodded.

"All right. Why me?"

Her blush deepening, Mariette searched for an acceptable answer.

"You can tell me the truth," Mr. Meadows continued. "You got punished plenty yesterday, so you won't get in any trouble - unless you lie to me."

Might as well, Mariette figured. She didn't have anything to lose. "Well . you've lived next to us for a long time, and nobody seems to know what you 'do'."

"I see." He chuckled. "And you thought you'd solve the neighborhood mystery?"

She risked a smile. "Y-yes."

"I'm a staff writer for Encyclopedia Britannica, and I do some free-lance writing on the side. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

It 'did' fit in with what she'd seen through his window. "I - I guess so. But why didn't you ever tell anybody?"

"Is it really anybody else's business what I do?"

Her smile fading, Mariette shook her head.

"Well, enough of that. Do you still want to be a spy?"

Somewhat shocked, Mariette sputtered, "Well, yes, but - I thought - after yesterday -"

"If you're 'really' interested, I can give you a few pointers that may make your next experience a little less painful. "

"Okay!" the intrigued girl replied.

"All right, then. First and foremost, if you're going to be a spy, you can't let yourself get caught."

Made sense to Mariette. "You mean, pick a better hiding place."

"No, I mean you shouldn't hide at all."

What? "But - how - "

"Listen to me, Mariette. What people do in the privacy of their homes is strictly their own business, and you have 'no' right whatsoever to pry into that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," she mumbled, stung by his harsh tone.

"But," Mr. Meadows went on, softening his voice, "when people are in 'public', that's another story. Then, they're fair game. So what you need to do is find a nice, open, public place . . . a park, say . . . and spy on the people there."

Understanding began to break through Mariette's muddled thoughts. "Like 'this' park?"

"Exactly."

"But - won't people see me spying on them?"

"Not if you make yourself inconspicuous enough."

Mariette started feeling confused again. "But you said I shouldn't hide!"

"You don't 'need' to hide, Mariette. In fact, it's not a good idea to hide. If people see you sneaking around in bushes, or climbing trees, they'll know you're spying on them - and that can have some pretty drastic consequences."

The girl flushed again at this reminder of last night's activities.

"On the other hand, though," Mr. Meadows continued, "if you don't call any attention to yourself, people won't know you're watching them, and you can spy to your heart's content. You've got a bit of an advantage there, because a lot of people tend not to notice children."

He had 'that' right, Mariette thought.

"So," he concluded, "nobody's going to suspect a young girl sitting on a park bench in broad daylight, writing in a notebook, of being a spy."

He'd lost Mariette again. "Notebook? What notebook?"

In reply, Mr. Meadows opened up the parcel and handed Mariette a spiral-bound notebook with a plain dark blue cover. "This notebook. Your very own spy notebook."

"Wow," she breathed, finally seeing where he'd been leading her. "But couldn't I have a Backstreet Boys notebook - or Pokemon - or -"

"Remember, you don't want to call attention to yourself," Mr. Meadows reminded. "A flashy notebook wouldn't be very inconspicuous."

Nodding her agreement, the girl opened up the notebook. All that fresh white paper, just waiting to be utilized. She looked up at Mr. Meadows. "What should I write about?"

"Write about the people you're spying on. Write about what they're doing. Or, rather, what you 'think' they're doing."

"What I 'think' they're doing?" she repeated. He sure was being obscure today!

"Well, let me give you an example. See that fellow over there?" He pointed to a middle-aged man who munched on a sandwich while reading a newspaper, with a crowd of pigeons perched expectantly at his feet. "What do you think he's doing?"

"He's reading a newspaper while eating his lunch," Mariette replied.

"That's what it 'looks' like," Mr. Meadows chuckled. "But what would you say if I told you he was really engaged in some top-level industrial espionage? The crust of that sandwich actually contains a microchip with his competitor's top-secret business plan encoded on it. And those birds are really highly trained homing pigeons."

As the two watched, the man took a last bite of his sandwich and nonchalantly flipped the remaining crust to the pigeons, then folded his newspaper, got up, and walked away. A pigeon seized the crust and flew off, followed closely by the rest of the flock.

"See?" Mr. Meadows said. "That pigeon will deliver the microchip to his employer, where the information will be decoded and used. The other pigeons will escort it, to make sure nothing happens along the way."

"Really?" Mariette asked as she watched the man's retreating back.

"Since I made it all up just a few seconds ago, probably not," Mr. Meadows answered.

"Oh, rats!" Mariette exclaimed. For a second, she thought she'd been on to something.

"But it did sound good, didn't it?"

"Yes - it did - but -"

"When you were spying on me, weren't you hoping I was an undercover cop or secret agent - anything other than a boring staff writer for some dusty old encyclopedia?"

"Well - yes -"

"So you see? What you can imagine, what you can make up, is often a whole lot more interesting than the truth."

Mariette finally saw where he'd been taking her on this convoluted road. His version of "spying" involved her watching people in the park, making up stories about them, and recording them in her notebook. It wasn't 'really' spying, but, on the other hand, she'd be a lot less likely to get in trouble. And it did 'sound' interesting . . .

"A couple more rules," Mr. Meadows said. "Don't spy on anybody you know, and don't use anybody's name. That's what got Harriet in trouble, remember?"

Mariette nodded, remembering 'that' part of the book all too well. Although Harriet didn't get spanked when 'she' got caught.

"When you make up a name for the person you're spying on, use a color. That man with the pigeons could be Mr. Orange, for instance. That way, if anybody else reads your notebook, they won't be able to tell who you're writing about."

Mr. Meadows waited a few moments, for Mariette to absorb the wisdom he'd imparted, then pushed himself to his feet. "Well, I think I'll stretch my legs a bit," he said. "That'll give you a chance to break in your notebook."

"You want me to start spying now?" she asked.

"You've got the opportunity," he replied. "Might as well take advantage of it."

"But . . . who should I spy on?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Pick somebody. It's your notebook, Mariette, it's your choice. I'll be back in a few minutes." And, with that, he was gone.

Mariette looked around the park, trying to decide. Which one should she choose? There was a young couple in deep liplock on the bench across the way, oblivious to everything except each other . . . some joggers, in brightly colored Spandex and Walkmans . . . two blue-haired old ladies, watching birds through binoculars and making notes on a spiral-bound pad.

Wait a minute. Those old ladies were looking directly at a high-rise office building that adjoined the park. Could it be they weren't bird watching at all . . . they were watching whoever was in the building?

She pondered the possibilities. The building was so far away, the women likely wouldn't be able to see what the employees were working on, even with their binoculars. Mariette was about to discard the idea when another thought occurred. Maybe the old ladies couldn't see what the employees were working on - but they 'could' see whether the employees were working at all!

She grabbed a pen out of her backpack, opened her notebook, and hastily scribbled down the tale of Mrs. Vermilion and Mrs. Magenta, hired by the owners of ABC Corp. to spy on their employees. She was just putting the finishing touches on the story when Mr. Meadows reappeared.

"Looks like you've been busy," he remarked, taking the notebook from her. "Let's see what you came up with, eh?"

Mariette sat nervously as he scanned her work. For some reason, his approval seemed crucially important to her. When he'd finished, he handed the notebook back to her with a smile. "Well, your handwriting is a little sloppy," he commented, "but that's probably due to how fast you were writing."

She nodded.

"And it looks like you've been relying too heavily on a spell checker."

Mariette winced; he'd hit her particular weakness.

"But, all in all, this is a very promising beginning."

"Beginning?" Mariette protested. "I thought I was done!"

"Well, let's think about this. What did the women find out? What did their report say? What did the company's owners do? What did the employees do when they found out they'd been spied on? Those are all questions your readers would like answered."

"Readers? What readers? Nobody else is going to read this!"

"That's right, Mariette. Nobody else will read 'that' story. But you do other writing for school, don't you? Themes, compositions, that sort of thing?"

"Yes . . ." Mariette replied, starting to see where this was going.

"And, believe me, you'll be doing a lot more as you continue through school. Writing is something you'll 'have' to do, so you may as well get good at it - and have some fun while you're doing it. You're very bright and very imaginative, Mariette, and it'd be a shame to waste your talents."

The girl blushed under the unaccustomed praise. "Do I 'have' to finish this story?"

"Not if you don't want to. It is 'your' notebook, and it's up to you what you write in it. If you're really not interested in that particular story, it'd be better to walk away from it now."

"Well . . . I'll think about it," Mariette mused.

"That's all I can ask." He checked his watch. "Okay, I guess I better get you home before your mother starts worrying."

As they walked to his car, Mr. Meadows laid down a few more guidelines. "Be sure and get all your homework and other chores done you do any spying. It's never good to put aside what you 'have' to do for what you 'want' to do. And, don't 'ever' take your notebook to school. There's no sense in your repeating Harriet's mistakes."

"'Kay," Mariette replied, but her mind was elsewhere, already planning her next "spy" report. That young couple on the bench . . . were they 'really' that enamored of each other? Or, could they have been exchanging top secret data along with spit?

In the next few weeks, Mariette filled many pages in her notebook. When she felt she'd come up with an exceptionally good "report", she showed it to Mr. Meadows. With his guidance, she'd rewritten one of her stories and had it published in her school's literary journal. The citizens of her city would have been astonished to know how many covert activities were going on in that ordinary-looking park.

Unfortunately, the spy notebook proved addictive, and Mariette succumbed to its temptations too easily . . . which led to her current predicament.

Glancing up and noticing the girl's approach, Mr. Meadows gave her a friendly smile and wave. She brushed by him without a response.

"Mariette? Is something wrong?"

The concern in his voice made her stop. He 'did' deserve an answer; anyway, she wasn't really ready to face her mother just yet. "I . . . I got a detention," she mumbled.

"You did? Why?"

"For writing in my notebook during History class."

His smile faded. "Didn't I tell you never to take your notebook to school?"

"Yes, but - history is so 'boring', and I'm working on this really neat story -"

"That's no excuse, Mariette."

She 'hated' it when he was right. "Sorry, Mr. Meadows."

"Okay, so you got a detention. That's not the end of the world."

"No, but . . ."

"But what?"

Still, she hesitated.

"Mariette, what is it you're not telling me?"

She looked around; she 'really' didn't want to do this where there was even the slightest chance anyone else would hear. "Could . . . could we go inside?"

"Sure." He led the girl into the house, got her settled on the living room sofa. She accepted his offer of a glass of lemonade.

Seating himself in the easy chair, he asked, "Now, what's so terrible?"

"Well . . . my mom's going to find out about the detention . . ."

"I see," he interrupted. "You're afraid your mother's going to let you have it?"

She was 'sure' her mom would let her have it. But that wasn't all. "No, that's not it, Mr. Meadows."

"Ah. I'm sorry. Please, go on."

Mariette stared at her shoes for a few moments while Mr. Meadows waited patiently. This next part was going to be 'really' embarrassing. Eventually, she screwed up her courage and confessed.

"This . . . this isn't the first time I've gotten detention for taking my notebook to school. The first time, Mom gave it to me good with the hairbrush. She said if I ever did it again, not only would I get the hairbrush again, but she'd take my notebook away. I don't want to lose my notebook, Mr. Meadows! Please, isn't there anything you can do? Please?"

He sat quietly, his fingers tented before his face, evidently mulling over his options. Then he sat up and said, "Okay. If I help you this time, do you promise - and I mean 'promise' - never to take your notebook to school again?"

"I promise," Mariette replied, seeing a ray of hope pierce her gloom.

"I'm serious about this, young lady! If you 'ever' do 'anything' like this again, you're on your own. Understand?"

"I understand!" she shot back, stung a bit by the "young lady" label.

"All right. I don't like keeping things from your mother, but I don't want to see you lose your notebook, either. So let's see if we can fix this." He took a deep breath. "When you're in detention, what will you have to do?"

"Write an essay about the stupid battle of Gettysburg," Mariette said grumpily.

"I see. How long is your detention?"

"A week."

"An hour a day?"

Mariette nodded.

"Okay. It just so happens I'm revising the Encyclopedia's entry about the Civil War. How about I hire you to research the Gettysburg part of it?"

"I . . . I guess I could do that . . ."

"Of course, I'd have to pay you for your time . . . shall we say four dollars an hour?"

Mariette calculated quickly . . . twenty bucks for sitting in detention? Was he kidding? "Sure!"

"All right, then. We'll tell your mother I asked you to do some research for me, using the school's computers. That'll explain why you're staying at school late."

"Great! Looks like we're all set!" Mariette started pushing herself to her feet.

"Not so fast! There's still one more item. I'll be right back." Mr. Meadows got up and left the room. Mariette sat nervously until he returned, wondering what surprise he'd bring back 'this' time.

When the man returned, Mariette gasped at what she saw in his right hand. "What's that for?"

"This?" He raised the ping pong paddle, eyeing it bemusedly. "I thought that would be obvious."

"No, Mr. Meadows! Please, don't do that!"

"Listen, Mariette. You can't just go around breaking the rules without any consequences."

"But I'm being punished already!"

"Really? And just how are you being punished?"

"I've got detention!" Mariette stated hotly.

"Which you're getting paid for," Mr. Meadows pointed out.

"This is so unfair!" She crossed her arms and pouted.

"It's not open to debate, Mariette. You can tell your mother, get spanked by her, lose your notebook, and not get paid for your detention; you can get paddled by me, keep your notebook, and get paid; or you can work out something on your own. Those are your choices."

Mariette thought desperately. She didn't want to get paddled; on the other hand, if she tried some other excuse, and her mother found out about it, she'd 'really' be in for it! Mr. Meadows' plan seemed foolproof. With a heavy sigh, she accepted her fate. "I'll . . . I'll take the paddling from you, I guess."

"Very well. Let's get this over with." Resuming his seat in the easy chair, he beckoned to the girl. She got up and walked towards him on unsteady legs.

As Mariette crossed the room, another aspect of the situation occurred. "Uh, Mr. Meadows? I've got to go home soon. Mom'll know I got spanked. Won't that ruin everything?"

He picked up the telephone off the end table and hit the speeddial. "Gloria? It's Norman . . . fine, fine . . . listen, I've got Mariette here. She's going to help me with a research project, and I'd like her to get started right away. What time should she be home for dinner? Six o'clock? Okay, she'll be there."

He hung up the phone. "You don't have to be home until six. That's almost two hours from now. There's plenty of time for you to get paddled and recover before you have to face your mother. Any other objections?"

"I guess not," Mariette sighed.

"Well, then?" He patted his knee, a gesture she found all too familiar.

Sighing again, the girl draped herself across his waiting lap, balancing on her fingers and toes. She gritted her teeth as she felt her skirt whisked upwards.

"You really like Winnie the Pooh, don't you?" Mr. Meadows chuckled.

"Yes," Mariette admitted, her facial cheeks blushing. If this was going to be a regular occurrence, she might have to consider investing in some less embarrassing underwear.

When he inserted his fingers under the elastic waistband of her panties, though, Mariette lost her cooperative nature. "No, no, don't!" she squeaked, kicking and squirming on his knees. "Please, Mr. Meadows! Can't you leave my panties on?"

"Now, now, Mariette," he cautioned, "settle down. You know very well your mother always takes down your panties when she spanks you. There's no reason for anything to be different just because I'm the one doing the paddling. Besides, it's nothing I haven't seen before."

Once again, Mariette found herself forced to accept her fate. She'd hoped, she'd really hoped, that Mr. Meadows wouldn't paddle her bare bottom; but her hopes descended along with her panties.

As her underwear reached its destination around her upper thighs, Mariette willed herself to relax. After all, she'd been expecting to wind up in this position - just over a different lap. She laid still, perfectly balanced, awaiting the paddle.

SMACK! "OH!" Mariette bucked upwards, more from surprise than pain. Instead of the light, stingy impact of the paddle, she'd absorbed a solid blow from Mr. Meadow's hand.

SMACK! SMACK! Two more swats landed. The girl wiggled in place as the burn began to build. Although her mother usually warmed her up by hand before turning to the hairbrush, Mr. Meadows spanked much harder than Mrs. Wilcox. Besides, Mariette wasn't sure she liked him touching her in such an intimate area. She'd almost rather get the paddle right away.

As her spanking progressed, though, Mariette realized (again) she had no choice in the matter. She'd opted for Mr. Meadows' punishment; now she had to take her medicine.

After a healthy dose of his palm, Mr. Meadows paused. Mariette laid in place, sobbing quietly. Her backside prickled and throbbed. She knew, though, he hadn't brought the paddle out for nothing, so she didn't try to reach back and sooth her aching flesh just yet.

"You're taking this quite well," the man commented. "Just a few with the paddle and we'll be done, okay?" Mariette had a few seconds to wonder what would happen if she said "No" before he raised the paddle and brought it crashing down.

CRACK! The girl howled as fresh waves of pain washed through her. As her brain struggled to deal with that impact, the paddle fell again. CRACK! Mariette now knew just how much easier he'd gone on her the first time he paddled her.

CRACK! CRACK! The next two swats broke Mariette's resolve, and she reached back with both hands to protect herself. That bought her a few seconds' respite, long enough for Mr. Meadows to gather her wrists in his left hand and pin them at the small of her back. Then the paddle started landing again, if anything harder than before.

Mr. Meadows kept up a brisk pace, paddling each cheek alternately, about three or four seconds apart. Mariette squirmed on his lap, her legs kicking frantically, trying anything to lessen or avoid the blows. Each swat, though, landed directly on target.

Finally, just as Mariette reached the absolute limit of her endurance, he stopped. The girl cried herself out over his knees while he waited patiently.

After an interminable delay, Mariette, slowly, with Mr. Meadow's assistance, regained her feet. She stood over him expectantly; when he didn't say anything, she asked, "Are we done?"

"Yes, Mariette, we're done."

"Can I rub, then?"

"Oh. Yes, go right ahead."

Mr. Meadows averted his gaze while Mariette vigorously massaged and kneading her burning, throbbing bottomflesh before pulling up her panties. When she'd finished, he got up himself and handed her his handkerchief. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Mariette wiped her eyes and blew her nose before nodding. She'd be sore for a while, but there was no long-term damage.

He put his hands on her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. "I didn't want to have to do that, Mariette, but I made that rule about taking your notebook to school for a reason. When you break the rules, you have to expect to pay the price. And I think you know, it could have been a lot worse."

Considering she could have both gotten spanked and lost her precious notebook, Mariette had to agree.

He held her for a few more seconds, then, almost reluctantly, let go and turned away. "I suppose you'd best get started. I suppose you remember where the computer room is?"

"Up the stairs, last room on the left," Mariette replied automatically.

"That's right." He picked up a sofa pillow and handed it to her. "You might need this."

Mariette accepted the pillow with a rueful smile.

"And I'd better not catch you on that Backstreet Boys website, unless you want more of this." He brandished the paddle again.

"Don't worry," Mariette responded. "I've had 'quite' enough of that for one day."

"I would hope so. Go on, get going."

Giving her bottom another rub, Mariette started up the stairs.

"Oh, Mariette?" he stopped her. "When you're researching, I'd like you to concentrate on the third day. Pickett's Charge. Look at how many men took part in that battle, and how many got killed or hurt. Then tell me if you still think it's stupid."

While the computer booted up, and Mariette squirmed in her chair (despite the additional padding), she considered the afternoon's events. Mr. Meadows, she decided, wasn't a bad guy - although he did give a fearsome paddling! He was tough, but fair - and he'd bailed her out of a very dire predicament. In fact, she thought, if she had to choose again between getting spanked by her mother or Mr. Meadows, she'd choose Mr. Meadows.

Mariette shook her head angrily. What was she thinking? Today was strictly a one-time affair. She wouldn't have to make that decision because (she swore to herself) she'd never, 'ever', put herself a position where she'd get spanked by Mr. Meadows - or her mother, for that matter - again.

Read the conclusion in Part 3 of Mariette the Spy!

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

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