It was a distinct surprise to Mr. Duchose to find
himself in the empty white room, still lying in bed, but
clearly not the bed, nor the room, where he had fallen
asleep.

He didn’t seem to feel entirely himself in other ways.
When he’d retired for the night, he felt a distinct
soreness in the throat which usually indicated the onset
of a bad cold or flu, accompanied by a feverishness and
headache. His body had the normal aches of a 68-year old
man, but more intense tonight, more persistent, and he
had tossed and turned for some time before falling into
a dreamless and feverish sleep.

Now, awake, Mr. Duchose felt refreshed, fever-free, pain
free, and somehow much younger. He felt as if he were
twenty-one again. And, glancing at his hands, he was
startled to find that the liver spots and wrinkles to
which he had been accustomed in his declining years were
gone. His body felt much younger and more alive; in
fact, he noted that, for the first time in more years
than he wished to think about, he was possessed of a
waking erection of considerable firmness.

What in the hell was going on?

A door, previously unnoticed, opened opposite his bed,
and a tall, balding man in a gray uniform entered. “Good
day, sir, and welcome,” he said. “I trust you had an
easy passage.”

“Passage?” said Mr. Duchose. “Passage? What do you mean?
Where am I?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” responded the stranger. “You don’t
realize yet. Oh, dear, I do dislike these explanations
and . . .well, it can’t be helped. Mr. ah, Mr…” He
fumbled in his pocket for a notepad and studied it .
“Mr… yes, here were are… ‘Duchose. Age 68. Massive
heart attack. Single. Lived alone. No previous health
problems. Will probably be unprepared’ I see. Yes. Well,
Mr. Duchose, I am here to inform you that you are now at
a new stage of your existence. That is, you are what you
would describe as ‘dead.’

“Actually it is the wrong term, but that is what you
would probably call it. Your other life ended last
night, and you have now arrived here. I am your personal
servant, and this is your room, and for quite some time,
perhaps for all ‘time’ you will ‘live’ here, and I will
tend to your needs. You ask for whatever you wish, and I
will arrange to see that you have it. You are here to
enjoy whatever you want, and I am here to provide it for
you.”

Mr. Duchose had never been a religious man, nor had he
ever seriously contemplated what might be in store for
him, if anything, after death. He had lived a fairly
decent life, with a normal share of deception,
fornication, gluttony, greed, and duplicity, especially
around his sexual life. He had not been, in his opinion
a bad person, but he had not been especially good,
either.

He was certainly an inherently selfish man, living his
life for his own satisfaction with no interest in
marriage or family or the welfare of his fellow man. In
fact, he was regarded by those who knew him as a
striving businessman, a bit over-competitive, perhaps,
always willing to screw anyone who stood in his way, but
not atypical in this regard.

Had any of his business associates know, of course, that
Mr. Duchose had a secret fascination with spanking, a
life-long obsession with all the literature and art he
could collect in this regard, a vault of videotapes from
Shadow Lane, Calstar, Redboard and others, a library
filled with everything from Victorian birching novels to
the most recent issues of “Spank Hard,” “Ma’am,” and
“Stand Corrected,” he might have been vulnerable as a
corporate executive.

Had anyone ever learned of his many trips to local
establishments which allowed him to indulge his passion
for stripping young women of all types and delivering
sound spankings to their bared bottoms, he might not
have been able to remain in the position of power he
occupied. Yet he never felt that these excursions, or
his out-of-town liaisons on business trips with ladies
both professional and amateur, ladies who allowed him to
spank them, or who, on occasion, put him over their
knees to redden his backside, and generally followed
such activities with cunnilingus, fellatio, and sexual
intercourse, were really sinful, in spite of
establishment morality.

He felt that such activities were his own business and
no one else’s, and had he ever thought of an afterlife,
he would not have expected to be visited by any heavenly
retribution for his sexual proclivities. Looking about
him, and now contemplating what seemed to be his
apportioned due for the life he had led, Mr. Duchose was
gratified to see that he had been entirely correct in
this assumption.

Mr. Duchose had never failed to provide for his own
desires, and his adjustment to his new circumstances was
rapid. He quickly had his new liveried servant, who
called himself “Beals” provide his room with comfortable
furniture, a complete media center, stocked with video
tapes and CD’s, a closet full of silk suits cut in an
Italian fashion as well as a full variety of sports
clothes, formal and informal outfits and shoes, and a
Cuvier’s bathtub.

Before the day was out he had taken a long and luxurious
steaming bath, dressed in pajamas of gossamer quality,
and ordered a meal of steak and lobster with exquisite
soups and sauces to accompany it, followed by a rich
chocolate dessert, feather light, and freshly-brewed
coffee of a richness he had never tasted before. With
some trepidation, he asked Beals if there was any way he
could have some feminine companionship, and within a
minute was introduced to a young lady of perfect
proportions, dewy skin, honeyed lips, and, he discovered
later, pelvic thrusting which was awesome in its
strength and unflagging in its duration.

Mr. Duchose spent the next few days exploring the space
outside his room which seemed to change from day to day
in ways which fit his desires. If he wished there to be
a country club at his door, with a freshly trimmed golf
course, there was. If he preferred a sandy beach with
Nubia’s maidens scattered about, the beach was there for
him, and so were the maidens.

He could, simply by asking for it, conjure up a street
of shops with goods of every description the highest
quality, and he could take whatever he wished from any
of them without paying. There were theaters to visit,
and restaurants to try, and always willing female
companionship, willing to spend his days in leisure and
his nights in lustful explorations, and every morning
his companion would vanish without recriminations on her
part or any obligations on his. It was, he realized, his
life as he had wished it to be without obligation or
concern for anyone but himself.

Of course, after a time, it became a bit dull. But Beals
was at his hand to supply work when he wanted it, and
Mr. Duchose was able to work as he had when he wanted
to, and he did not let himself be too worried about
whether or not that work had any real purpose.

Still, it was not too long before Mr. Duchose became a
bit restless. He also felt a familiar longing come over
him, one which had surfaced regularly throughout his
life, and one which, even though Beals knew him quite
intimately, he was embarrassed to share with him. But
before long, the urge became too great to resist, and
Beals had to be consulted.

“Beals?” Mr. Duchose inquired, “I would like to visit a
bookstore today where I can find a somewhat special kind
of literature, related to, uh, well, actually, spanking.
You know, stories about spankings, drawings, childhood
experiences, that sort of thing. It interests me.”

“Oh, I am sorry sir,” said Beals. “We don’t have any of
that here for you.”

“How odd,” said Mr. Duchose. “Nothing? There must be
some such place, even here. You do have porno shops
don’t you?”

“Oh, yes sir. We do indeed. But they do not have any of
that kind of material. No books, no video tapes, no
magazines concerning spanking. Nothing. Not for you,
sir. Sorry.”

“I don’t understand this,” said Mr. Duchose. “I thought
you could get me anything I wanted.”

“Not quite,” said Beals, with what seemed to be the hint
of a sly grin.

“Well, how about a girl? Not one for sex, at least not
just for sex. Beals, can you get me a girl I can spank.
I mean, I know it may seem odd, but that happens to be
what interests me, and, well, that’s what I want. Make
her about 18, in a little school-girl uniform, with
white cotton panties. And get me an old fashioned wooden
hairbrush while you are at it, and…”

“Sorry. sir. I cannot do that. No spanking here. No one
will allow you to spank them. No one will spank you. No
books. No magazines. I cannot discuss it with you, sir.
No one can. That’s the way it is.”

“But, Beals, what is this? I have to admit it – spanking
is the one thing I have always been passionate about. Is
it really such a bad thing? It’s outlawed here? Have I
been wrong in believing it to be an innocent pastime?”

“Oh, yes, sir, it *is* an innocent pastime. Many others
enjoy it in the afterlife. It is a wonderful pleasure
for those who practice it, I understand. In fact, it can
be especially enjoyable when it can be done openly, and
endlessly, in front of others, with all ages and sexes,
in so many ways. It is a delightful erotic pleasure. But
not here, sir; at least, not for you, sir. Never.”

“But Beals, I love spanking. I think of it all the time.
It has always been the central passion of my life. If I
can’t enjoy spanking, I might as well be in hell!”

“Yes, sir. Well, sir, where did you think you were?”