The Hemingway Dialogue

We had been lazily arguing all afternoon, wasting away a winter Sunday. The weak sun amused itself on the rows of books lining the walls, shafts of golden light playing on the spines of volumes of lost worlds and hearts.

‘I’m sure it was James Jordan,’ Helen yawned, almost knocking over the teacup beside her elbow.

‘We are talking about For Whom the Bell Tolls?’

‘Of course we are, Catherine,’ Helen said, an irritable tone creeping into her haughty voice.

‘Then you are wrong.’ I took a calm sip of my tea, watching her from the corner of my eye.

‘No, you are wrong, quite wrong, it was definitely Roger Jones. You can be wrong sometimes, Catherine.’

‘Not when it comes to Hemingway. Robert Jordan.’

‘Rubbish, I know my Hemingway! Robert Jordan was the lieutenant in Farewell to Arms.’

‘You obviously don’t know it as well as you claim, Helen. Let’s prove it. Surely your aunt would have a copy of the book in those bookcases?’

‘She has every book under the sun, I suppose it’s bound to be there.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s gone upstairs for her nap, she has a little sleep every afternoon. She’ll be at least an hour.’

‘How delightful for her. Do we have to wait?’

‘I’m afraid so, I haven’t given her my mother’s letter yet.’

‘Of course, I had forgotten.’

Muffled sounds of traffic crept in through the windows and sunlight lay on an old glass lamp on the side table, photographs in gold frames clustered around it.

‘It was a surprise running into you on the Boulevard St-Michel, Catherine. How long have you been living here?’

‘The Parisians call it Boul’Mich. I’ve been here almost five months,’ I answered, suddenly realising just how long it had been. ‘How extraordinary, time has flown so quickly. Do you see any of the old crowd?’

Helen shook her head. ‘No, only at weddings and there seems to be an awful lot of those recently. You’re not getting married, are you?’

‘Me?’ I laughed at that. ‘No, I’m not planning a marriage. You?
Helen shook her head and we lapsed into silence for a while. ‘Definitely Robert Jordan,’ I teased. ‘I should find the book.’

‘Let’s have a wager,’ Helen said slyly.

‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

‘Just a small one, if I’m right, you buy dinner tonight.’

‘And when I’m right?’

‘When?’ Helen arched an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t changed either, Catherine.’ She made her point with a small laugh. ‘If you’re right, and I emphasise if, I’ll buy you dinner.’

I rubbed my finger around the rim of the cup. ‘No,’ I stated slowly, ‘not dinner, a spanking.’

‘What was that? I thought you said spanking?’

‘I did.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘It’s rather simple, really. You lay over my knee; I pull your skirt up and spank you. It’s not a difficult concept to understand.’

‘Are you mad, Catherine?’ Helen laughed nervously. ‘A spanking? Here? Now?’

‘That’s the bet, unless you know you’re wrong.’

‘I’m not wrong!’

‘Then what does it matter? Get the book, I’m looking forward to spanking you.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ she finally declared in a low voice.

‘Is it?’

The silence hung over us like a damp Sunday while many emotions flickered over Helen’s round face, a lock of her blonde hair falling loose to decorate her aristocratic forehead.

‘All right, Catherine,’ she finally agreed, swinging her legs down from under her. ‘We have a wager and I’m not wrong.’

I watched her as she strode confidently to the bookshelves, her fingers running over the spines until she came to rest on a small volume. ‘Here it is.’ Helen glanced at me as she opened it and then back to the book, her eyes keenly scanning the first pages. ‘Oh,’ she softly exclaimed, her finger resting on a page, and I saw a faint blush colour her throat. ‘Here it is.’

‘Robert Jordan, isn’t it?’ I said calmly.

‘Yes,’ Helen admitted, the blush deepening.

‘Of course, I’m never wrong about Hemingway. Come here, Helen,’ I commanded firmly, patting my lap.

‘Now, Catherine…’

‘A wager is something we keep, isn’t it?’ I interrupted. ‘You remember the wager I lost with you at school?’

‘Not really,’ Helen murmured, head bowed.

‘I had to run naked through the gymnasium? You must remember, Helen, because I can’t forget it. Now, come here,’ I snapped.

Slowly, Helen stood in front of me, face burning. ‘Catherine, I’m sorry about that stupid bet at school but it was a long time ago. Let me buy you dinner?’ she added hopefully. 

‘A bet is a bet, Helen,’ I said coldly. ‘Didn’t you say that in school? Now, lay down here.’

Helen’s face was bright red as she reluctantly lay over my lap. ‘Comfortable?’ I asked sarcastically, my hand resting on her bottom. A gasp escaped her as I jerked her skirt up and folded it back over her waist. A small triumphant feeling ran through me as I examined her plump bottom in white cotton panties with stockings. ‘Stockings without a garter belt?’ I mocked, and she shuddered as my hand gently caressed her thighs. ‘How thoroughly modern of you, Helen, is it the Paris influence?’

‘What if my aunt comes down?’ she croaked, ignoring my jibe.

‘Then it will be very embarrassing for you. Lift up,’ I instructed and hooked my fingers in the top of her underwear.

‘What are you doing?’ Helen shrieked.

‘A spanking is not acceptable on underwear, darling,’ I laughed, ‘it must be on bare skin, it’s the done thing. Lift up so I can pull down those frightful panties.’

‘Catherine,’ she moaned in a small protest and I gave her bottom a small slap.

‘Up.’ The panties came down and I smiled down at her plump white bottom. The first slap caught her by surprise and Helen shrieked. She kicked her feet a little with the second and third slap, her bottom wobbling slightly with the exertion, and I admired the red marks my hand had left.

Helen was moaning gently with the fourth, fifth and sixth slaps, the noise of my palm connecting with her skin loud in the room. Her legs kicked through the seventh and eighth slaps, her breathing loud and ragged, and I slowly caressed her burning bottom with my hand.

‘I think you’re enjoying this,’ I murmured, my hand making little circles on her bare skin. ‘I think you enjoy being over my knee, your skirt up and panties down. Don’t you?’ I demanded in a louder voice, my hand smacking down for the ninth time.

‘Yes,’ she moaned in a guttural tone, her eyes clenched shut in anticipation of the tenth slap. It was the hardest so far; my hand stung and the noise cracked through the room as Helen stiffened, moaning loudly. In quick succession, I spanked her another five times as she writhed on my lap, small tears rolling down her cheeks as she moaned.

I could smell her arousal; a deep musky perfume hung over us as my finger easily slipped inside her, crooking down to rub against her inner wall. ‘Catherine!’ she moaned softly, my fingers moving inside her as she rubbed against my thigh. As she came, I reached around with my other hand to spank her lightly, leaving her bottom bright red.

Shamefaced, she stood to pull her underwear up and straightened her skirt. Smiling, I also stood, and adjusted my skirt before taking her hands to pull her close to give her a sweet and gentle kiss. ‘I don’t think you’ll argue with me about Hemingway again?’ I smiled.

‘No,’ she admitted softly, ‘I don’t think I will. Are we still having dinner?’

‘Of course.’

‘We could discuss Fitzgerald?’ Helen suggested, gingerly sitting back down in her armchair.

‘Why not? ‘Gatsby’, perhaps?’

‘Yes, ‘The Great Gatsby’. What was Gatsby’s first name?’

‘Jay.’

‘No it wasn’t, it was Tom.’

‘Shall we have a small wager?’