The Enigma of Mavis

The Enigma of Mavis

I had wronged her. Pure and simple. This much I knew. This much was fact.

I'd always had a tight circle of friends to draw on, and inevitably quite a few of us found ourselves floating out to Southern California at some point. If you were looking for opportunity, comfortable faux-bohemian suburbs, and less weather in the winter, you ended up here hosting get-togethers in back yards illuminated by Christmas lights. My husband and I had been here since our late 20's. We'd gone from following underground Americana bands in hipster dive bars to raising children and embodying the suburban life of the 2020's.

Mavis was part of our social circle. She was a friend of a friend of friend of a friend who'd just become part of our night-time garden party vibe in the summers. She wasn't married like most of us, or separated or divorced. If she was a lesbian, she was deeply closeted in a way that made zero sense in this day and age, especially in our upwardly mobile liberal enclave. She was just Mavis, a successful interior decorating business owner who was always there. I didn't know her well. I'd been in hundreds of conversations with her at parties, dinners, and girls-night-outs, but I could probably count our one-on-one encounters on one hand...that is if I could have recalled any to begin with.

Mavis always looked the same. Most of us were staring down middle age now, but I swear it's like she'd been born that way. She'd always had that same greying blonde hair, short with bangs that covered her ears, but barely touched her neck. The hair consistently framed a pair of vintage cat-eye spectacles. Her ensembles ranged from casual slacks and blouse to fancy dinner dress. But everything she wore had a slightly retro feel to her. It was as if she were a mid-century creation walking among us, but doing so subtly, never flaunting it. The only name that would even come close to fitting a creature like this would be Mavis. It was as if she'd curated a persona to go with the name, or picked the name after she'd come into her own.

Mavis's voice matched her look and personality. She was never loud, never demonstrative. She had an even, calm manner of speech that recalled a librarian, but with a more authoritative spine backing it up. Maybe a quiet headmistress. There was a New England flatness to it. When she talked, most quieted down to hear what she had to say. Even though she was in our general age group, there was something about her that seemed older, more experienced. It was as if we were all little sisters to her. There was also a haughtiness to her, just the barest hint of arrogance. She was always unfailingly polite. She knew her manners well. But knowing her for several years made a difference. I'd started to see what I thought were cracks in the façade, little signs of when she was disgusted with someone, as if they were beneath her. I'd wondered if it was just my imagination at first. But then Mavis' name came up on a text thread...

If I could take anything back, it would be the things I said on that text thread. It was a collection of the friends I socialized with the most: most of them mothers, or married. Some of them dated back to college, or even before, some of them I'd met in school pickup lines or at kid's birthday parties. We were all like minds that gravitated together. The thread had probably been a daily part of my life on the phone for years. We joked around, shared tips, and well, we gossiped...a lot. So of course, someone was bound to bring up Mavis' name. She was one of us, yet not one of us. I mean, come on, she was Mavis.

The enigma of Mavis soon became a big topic among us. No one could remember how she'd entered our orbit. The topic soon became bigger, as we all tried to recall our first encounters with her. Most of us couldn't. It was like she had always been there. Of course, we got a bit catty as we gossiped, but then I went too far. I didn't even realize I had at first. I innocently thought out loud that she was probably "a buttoned-up, closeted lesbian who trolled the garden parties for hook-ups, yet never went through with them, because she wouldn't even admit her sexuality to herself."

Innocent, right? Surely plausible at least. Worthy of further discussion, right?

I couldn't have been more wrong. After some "!!" tap backs, the thread just sort of died. So did my social life. I didn't even notice it at first, but gradually, as the spring wore on, I started hearing about parties I'd just missed. Parties I'd known nothing about. Parties I pointedly had not been invited to. The text thread dried up, and texts from friends dried up as well. I woke up one morning next to my sleeping husband, and suddenly realized that I'd been ostracized, but in that sneaky SoCal way, where you don't even realize it until it's far past being a done deal. It's kind of like being a lobster in nice warm water.

I had no idea what had happened. I hadn't put it together yet with that text. So I started beating the bushes. But I had to be strategic about it. I couldn't just come out and ask anyone. That would just seal the dirt over my grave. No, I had to be smart about this. I started shopping a lot. I knew my friend's habits, where they shopped, when they did it. And I started bumping into them at places like Gelsons, Trader Joes, Neiman's...Most of them did the thing of seeming really happy to see me, but of course they were on a schedule. But hey, we should get together soon. Finally, a few friends dropped a hint or two, and I gradually put it together. Now, what to do...

I started by drafting a heartfelt letter of apology, and texting it to Mavis personally.

Crickets.

Ok, so then I texted an apology to every common friend of ours I could think of on a text-thread.

More crickets.

Well, that was it. My social life was over. I would just have to shop at Trader Joes in the early morning or late at night until I could convince my husband to move somewhere else. And that's how it stayed. Until...

I was literally shopping at Trader Joes early in the morning when my phone actually chirped. A text! I looked at it cautiously. This was bound to be just spam, right? Wrong.

It was Mavis!

She invited me to join her for coffee just down the street. I dropped my shopping basket right there in the frozen food isle and practically skipped on down to see her. There she was, sitting upright at a table with a fresh café latte she hadn't touched yet. I swear I could feel her penetrating stare as I made her wait while I ordered my own latte. Once I sat down and thanked her profusely for asking me to meet her, she took her first sip of her latte, and got right to the point. My text comments had gotten back to her, and really hurt her feelings. She thought we were friends. It didn't even occur to me at the time that nobody else's comments seemed to matter. It should have.

Of course we were friends. Of course I couldn't be sorrier. Really, I wanted my life back more than anything. But I also was genuinely sorry. This whole mess was my fault. So I gave her every variation of sorry I could come up with.

Whelp, I'd now metaphorically groveled on my knees to apologize over lattes. Should be a case of problem solved, right?

Of course not. If that were the case, this story would end right here. And you wouldn't want that, would you?

After I'd finished my one table-apology tour, Mavis just sat there. She took a long sip of her latte that was surely exaggerated for my benefit. She seemed to be in deep contemplation, and then she let me have it.

"Donna", she said, "I really want to accept your apology. I really do. I can tell it's heart-felt. But when someone wrongs another to the extent that you have wronged me...it takes more than an apology to put things back on track."

I'm sure Mavis heard my audible gulp.

"Please, Mavis. Whatever you say. I'm ready to do anything. What would you suggest?"

Another theatrical, contemplative sip of that latte, and then she said...

"I think you need to be punished."

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Sorry, it's not like that's the dramatic end of a chapter or anything. It just mirrors the way I sort of tapped out when Mavis said that thing about being punished. Don't worry, I was still at that table watching her take petite sips from her latte while mine grew cold. But believe me, it took a long moment before I could rewire my brain enough to accept this apparently new reality. She didn't really say that, did she?

"Um...did you say punish?"

"I believe you heard me clearly, Donna."

Ok. I still had no idea what she could possibly mean by that.

"I guess I'm...just having trouble understanding what that could entail. Would this be like doing your dishes for a week, or cleaning your bathroom, or...?"

No answer. Mavis just stared at me, leaving me to work it out on my own. I suddenly had a flash of another context for that word, from that book everyone was reading at the beach a few years ago (everyone but me, of course). It was too weird to be a possibility of course. But still, I was at such a loss, so...

"Is this...is this like one of those 50 Shades things?" I asked, in the quietest voice I could possibly conjure.

Mavis was completely motionless of course, but something flashed behind those 50's Librarian spectacles. She set down her latte and rose from her chair abruptly.

"Look, if you don't want to put this right..."

"No, no, I do. I really do", I said, all flustered now. "Whatever it is, whatever you want, I'll do it. I swear. Please, give me a chance."

This stilled Mavis from her abrupt exit. She fixed me in a steely gaze (I know, but if you ever met Mavis, you'd understand. These are the kind of descriptions that she inspires. Believe me, she has a steely gaze). Anyway, she fixed me in a steely gaze, and held me in for a long moment, as if searching inside my eyes for something. Then she said...

"Fine. I'll pick you up at noon tomorrow. Be out in front of your home ready. You need to be presentable, so dress up a little. Showered, hair, makeup, and no pants. Skirt or dress only."

"Oh...okay, Mavis. Noon tomorrow. I'll see you then."

As I'm sure you've already figured out, I had quite the sleepless night. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and there wasn't anyone I could talk to about it. I sure couldn't discuss this with my husband. I was still persona non grata to my local social circle, and even the friends I could reach out to weren't of any use. What would I have possibly asked them about? I just had no clue. Even the Internet and Google were useless. Sure I could enter a search for the word punishment, and probably go from Webster's definitions to porn sites, but what good would that do me? Mavis had given me a single word to work with: punish. I simply had no context beyond that to work with.

After that largely sleepless night, I slept right through as my husband left for work in the morning. It was nearly 11:00am when I finally woke up. 11:00am? I got out of bed in a flash and got to it. I showered and primped, and shaved my legs and, uh, other places too. After applying makeup carefully and agonizing over a dress, I just made it out the door as Mavis turned the corner. I chose a pale garden-green summer dress that I felt would fit with Mavis' style. It was low-cut, which really showed off my cleavage, for whatever that would be worth today.

I saw Mavis turning the corner as I stepped out the door and rushed to meet her at the curb. She handed me a fresh latte as she pulled away. I took a few sips of the latte and set it down. I was so wired and pumped by the strangeness of not knowing what I was on my way to, that I really didn't need any caffeine for once in my life. As we drove, Mavis asked me if I was ready. I said that I guessed I was, but really how could I know? There wasn't really any conversation beyond that. I mean, what would we have talked about?

The drive was blessedly short, from Silverlake to Glendale. We pulled up in front of a Craftsman-style house in the suburbs. Mavis led me to the door and rang the bell. A woman answered the door, about our age, greeted Mavis, and led us through the tastefully decorated living room to "the study." It looked to be an add-on room in the back. She left us at the door to wait. A few moments later, the door opened.

Standing on the other side of it was a man in his early 50's. He was handsome enough, but there was nothing remarkable about him. He had a full head of hair at least, shortly cropped. It was a sandy grey/brown. He wore dark blue jeans and a crisp white t-shirt. It was a classic look. He had the feel of someone who would rather be working his table-saw in the garage. He motioned us in. As Mavis led me past him, she introduced us.

"Paul, this is Donna. Donna, Paul."

"Hello, Donna."

"Hello."

Paul closed the door as Mavis sat us both down on a nice leather couch. Paul leaned against a table across from us, and crossed his arms. I took in the room. It was an open A-frame with an off-white paintjob and wide windows. It was designed to be airy with lots of natural light. Since it was an obvious add-on, I wondered if Paul had designed it himself. I noticed that the room was arranged around the couch and table, which were opposite each other in the center of the room. Curiously, there were no chairs for the table, nor anywhere else in the room. A tall cabinet was set against the wall off to the side of the table, with another small table to the side of it. A pitcher of ice-water and three glasses were on that table.

"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Paul" said Mavis. "I really appreciate it. Did you have to cancel anything to fit us in?"

"Oh, I moved a few things around, but nothing important. It all worked out, and I'm happy to help, now..."

Paul fixed his gaze on me.

"So this is her."

"Yes."

"And she knows why she's here?"

"As much as anyone ever does...their first time."

First time? What did THAT mean? No answers were being offered of course. There was just this dreadful silence as Paul stopped talking, and just stared at me. It was like he was looking me up and down, sizing me up, trying to look inside at something. And of course if he wasn't talking, nobody else was. He held the power, even over Mavis.

God, it was hot in here. I ran the back of my hand over my forehead, and came away with a hand covered in sweat. Why was it so hot in here? I looked around for any open windows, but they were all closed. I could feel the sweat increasing. I was wearing the same sweat-resistant makeup brands that everyone in LA wears, but still...with it being so hot in here...

I could feel my dress starting to stick to me. Than I suddenly realized something as I was looking for an open window: the air conditioner was on. A steady flow of cool air had been coming in this whole time. And as I had that realization, I turned back to see that Paul was still staring straight at me. Right at me, right through me. His eyes had been on me the whole time I was looking around, wiping my brow, and trying to settle on this couch. His arms were still crossed, too.

"So, Donna, do you know why you're here?" he asked.

"Uh...uh..." I stammered and stuttered and sputtered, but couldn't manage to say anything. Mavis was starting to lose her patience fast.

"Paul asked you a question, Donna. I expect you to answer it."

"I'm...I'm here to be...punished?"

"Quite right, Donna, you're here to be punished. I suspect you have something very serious to atone for. Whatever that is, is not my concern. If Mavis feels she needed to bring you here, that's good enough for me. Now, I expect you have no idea what your will punishment consist of...?"

"No, Paul."

"Why don't you address him as Sir, Donna?" Mavis suggested. "That's usually proper in situations like this."

"Oh...okay, Mavis. No Sir, I don't know what my punishment will consist of."

Paul stopped leaning against the table to stand up as he spoke, and gestured to it.

"It's very simple, Donna. I am going to have you lie over this table and grip the other side. I am then going to lift your dress up, pull your panties down, and spank you with my bare hand."

Oh...my...God! He was going to spank me. He actually said it. This really was one of those 50 Shades things. I couldn't...I couldn't...this was just insane. This wasn't what adults in the suburbs did. I opened my mouth to say something, but it was just dry. I didn't know what to say. So, Paul, er, Sir, continued on.

"After I'm done, it'll be up to Mavis to decide if the level of your punishment was acceptable. If she feels you need more to atone..."

As Paul talked, he went to the cabinet, unlocked it, and opened the double doors. I saw all sorts of things in there. Disturbing things, at least as far as I could tell. I really didn't recognize most of it. He pulled something out and then turned to show it to me. It was a long, leather something-or-other.

"...Then we'll use this strap for some additional whipping on your behind. Don't worry, it's fine leather, hand-tooled personally by me in my shop. It's the finest implement for punishing an errant woman that you'll ever feel. Now, about your safeword: we'll keep it basic. It's Red."

"Safeword? What's that?"

"A safeword is there for just that purpose: to keep you safe."

"Why would I need something like that?"

"Because not everyone can take a punishment, and that's fine. So we have a safeguard to keep us both secure. Once we've started, I won't stop if you say stop, or scream or cry. I'll just keep going for as long as I feel it's necessary, no matter what you say. But use your safeword, red, and I stop instantly. However, I have to warn you: if you use your safeword, we're done. I stop punishing you, send you on your way, and we never see each other again."

That didn't sound that bad to me.

"And...that means that whatever it is between you and Mavis, remains unresolved."

Unresolved. There's the catch. I'd be no better off than I am now.

Paul and Mavis allowed me a few moments of silence to digest all this. My mind was swimming with so much, but really, it all came down to two choices: either I went through with this punishment, or I did not. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was suddenly very dry. Then Paul was right there offering me a glass of water. I hadn't even noticed him pour it as my mind wandered. I accepted it, took a nice long sip, and said...

"Thank you...Sir."

Paul took the glass from my hand. There was a hint of a gleam in his eye.

"Sounds like someone's made a decision" he said.

"So", I asked, "how do we begin, Sir?"

"Just like this."

Paul took my hand, gestured me up, handed my glass to Mavis, and led me to the table. I was now standing against the edge.

"I would like to say that I will be gentle, but that's not how this works. If it's any consolation, it's best to keep the reason you're being punished in your head while it happens. It makes it easier."

Paul put his hand between my shoulder blades and gently pushed, guiding me down over the table, all the way down, until I was bent over it completely. I felt the hardness of the wood on my stomach as my breasts were mashed down. He turned my head so that my cheek rested on the table, and instructed me to stretch my arms across to grip the edge on the other side. This table had a homemade, deeply stained look to it. It also looked quite old. I imagined him building it years ago for just this purpose. Maybe it was just my imagination. Who knows? The dimensions were certainly right for bending women over it. My palms rested right on the other side, where I gripped the edge easily. The edges of the table were rounded on all sides, to make it more comfortable to lean against or grip.