Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Feature Title: THE SHOEMAKER’S DAUGHTERS

Published: Copyright© 2011 by Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Story Codes: Young, Spanking

Illustrations: By Bruno Traven

Comment from XP: Just wanted to add that Jacqueline is one of my favorite writers; this story — though not extreme, in many ways, is more erotic for its “story telling” qualities. Below are links to her other well crafted stories — and check out her interview …

The Little Prisoner | Blessed Sacrament 1 | Blessed Sacrament 2 | Blessed Sacrament 3 | The Saint Agnes Passion 1 | The Saint Agnes Passion 2 | The Saint Agnes Passion 3 | The Saint Agnes Passion 4 | The Saint Agnes Passion 5 | The Saint Agnes Passion 6 | The Saint Agnes Passion 7 | The Saint Agnes Passion 8 |

The Shoemaker’s Daughters

There once was an old shoemaker with two young daughters. The girls were twins, and so much alike their own father could not tell them apart.

The shoemaker had married late in life. His bride, a mere girl herself, accepted him only because her parents were poor and he agreed to pay them a handsome sum. He was a gentle man, however, and, desiring no more than a helpmate and cook, never demanded his rights as her husband. They lived together as chastely as father and daughter for more than a year, until one day, the young wife began to feel her own strange stirrings within her and, in gratitude for the shoemaker’s kindness, invited him into her bed.

Their love wrought a profound change in the old man. For the first time in many years, he greeted his neighbors with a smile and a clap on the shoulder, telling them to find happiness while they could, lest the Lord call them home before they had tasted it fully. He worked at his trade with renewed zeal, although he thought nothing of closing the shop at a moment’s notice and rushing to his wife for a goodly bit of tail. Some days, she said, it was hardly worth the trouble to dress herself in the morning, and indeed, many were the days she did not.

And so, when she died bringing their daughters into the world, it was as though the shoemaker’s spirit died with her. He returned to his gloomy, taciturn ways, warning his neighbors never to look for happiness, for it would only lead them to grief.

His sole comfort was his daughters. He called them Alfa and Omega, for that is what they were to him, although as they grew, their names were misheard and corrupted, and they became known simply as Anna and Olga. It hardly mattered, since no one could remember whose name was whose, and each of them answered to either.

They were the most beautiful girls the townspeople had ever seen, with ivory skin and raven-black hair that made them the image of their mother. In their character, however, they were the antithesis of that dutiful treasure, who had given her life for their sake. It was sometimes said that death had rescued her from shame, for in truth, her daughters grew up spoiled and mischievous. Their father just could not bring himself to discipline them. Striking them would be like striking his own true love, he said, and since they were identical, he never knew which one to punish. And the twins learned early to use their resemblance to advantage, taking care that only one of them would be seen misbehaving at any time. When Anna stole apples from a neighbor’s tree, Olga could be found sitting in the cottage, reading her lessons. When Olga threw mud at the washing that hung in the neighbor’s yard, Anna would be diligently sweeping the floor in the cobbler’s shop. And when the neighbor came to complain, and the shoemaker asked which of his daughters was guilty, the neighbor could not be certain. Then the shoemaker would ask the girls to confess which of them was the culprit, and they would only point at each other.

“I am afraid I will punish the one who is blameless,” the old man said. “And I cannot bear to make an innocent girl suffer.”

This situation dragged on for several years. The shoemaker’s old friends fell away one by one, taking their custom elsewhere. He barely noticed, however, as he thought only of his grief and the solace he took in his pretty daughters.

Then one day, the Lord Mayor of the town burst into the cobbler’s shop, where the old man was sitting idle, and demanded he take action.

“One of your daughters is a shameless wanton,” he said. “Not fifteen minutes ago, I was driving along the woodland ride, when through the trees I saw a flash of white. Thinking it was the tail of a deer, I descended from my cart and set off in pursuit. But what did I see? A young girl cavorting in the wood, and she was utterly naked.”

“Utterly?” the old man said.

“As the day she was born, though that was some time ago.”

“And you are sure it was one of my daughters.”

“No other girls in our town are as beautiful,” the Lord Mayor confessed. “No other young breasts are as firm and pointed, no other buttocks as shapely.”

“You obviously paid close attention,” the shoemaker said.

“For the sake of accuracy,” the Lord Mayor replied. “When the girl saw me, she flew up the hill like a hind. It was a hard climb for a man of my—”

“Girth?”

“Of my years. I gave up the chase. But I saw her plain as day above me. When she reached the summit, rather than covering herself, she placed her back against a solid oak tree and touched herself in the most lascivious manner.”

“How, precisely?”

“She caressed her maidenly breasts, and, parting her legs, moved her fingers between them, not once, but repeatedly, all the while smiling at me with the most devilish expression.”

“Scandalous,” the shoemaker said.

“A sight I shall not soon forget.”

“Anna! Olga!” the shoemaker called. “Come here at once!”

The young girls entered the shop from the residence behind. They were dressed modestly, in gray linen frocks, and they folded their hands before them, bending their gaze humbly toward the floor.

“Yes, father?” they said together.

“The Lord Mayor swears he saw one of you cavorting in the nearby wood in a state of nature.”

“’Twas not I,” said Anna.

“’Twas not I,” said Olga.

“It must have been Olga,” said Anna.

“It must have been Anna,” said Olga.\

“There you have it,” the shoemaker said.

“So you will do nothing?” the Lord Mayor fumed.

“What would you have me do?”

And the Lord Mayor departed in a huff, the medallion of his office swinging impotently about his neck.

“I shall overlook this one transgression,” the shoemaker told the girls. “But please, promise me you’ll bring no more shame on our little house.”

“I promise,” said Anna.

“I promise,” said Olga.

One of them fibbed, for in the days that followed, word spread of more sightings of a naked girl — here by the brook, there in the meadow — who touched herself in shameful ways while blaspheming mightily, declaring to her Lord and Savior that apparently she was about to arrive somewhere.
Superstitious women believed she was a spirit, perhaps the ghost of the shoemaker’s wife, come to lure the young into sin. The men knew better. They organized a patrol, scouring the countryside with nets and ropes, determined to string her up and prove she was flesh and blood.

It was then she staged her most daring provocation, for, with the men tracking her off in the hills, there was no one to stop her from taking a stroll through town. Suddenly, as if materializing out of the air, she appeared at the fountain in the square, barefoot in sackcloth. She looked about. No one paid her any mind until, with a knowing smirk, she drew the sackcloth over her head and dropped it in the dust.
Women gaped as she marched up the street, shielding the eyes of their small children. Young boys crowded in her wake, each daring the others to smack her bare bum, or squeeze her titties, or merely tap her leg. Yet each was too frightened to do it himself.

“You first!” cried one.

“No, you!” cried another.

“Fraidy cat!”

“You’re the fraidy cat!”

“Well, if you’re not afraid —”

They touched themselves as they followed along. Those who were old enough made a mess in their trousers. Those who weren’t could only wonder at the discovery that their little organs were good for something other than relieving themselves.

Then, as suddenly as the apparition had appeared, it was gone. As the parade approached the cobbler’s shop, the girl broke into a run, her bare behind flashing around the corner and down the alley. The boys, caught by surprise, hesitated a moment, then dashed after her, but when they reached the rear of the cottage, she was nowhere to be seen. (She had, of course, slipped in the back door.)
Toward nightfall, the men of the village returned, only to learn they had been duped. Once again, they confronted the shoemaker, who once again called upon his daughters, who once again blamed each other for the spectacle.

“This must end,” the Lord Mayor said. “If you cannot control your wicked daughter, whichever one she may be, we shall ship them both off to a convent. Let the sisters beat the devil out of them.”

“Very well,” the shoemaker said. “Give me one more day.”

The Lord Mayor agreed, and the men dispersed.

That night, the shoemaker stole into his daughters’ room as they slept. In one hand he held a sheepskin rag. In the other, he carried two shallow bowls whose contents were indistinguishable in the darkness. His daughters lay side by side on their stomachs, their faces turned toward one another. Each wore a brief white shift with nothing on underneath, and it was but the work of a moment to dip the rag into a bowl and apply it to a bare fundament.

The next day, it seemed, the town had given up the hunt for the naked gamine. The women kept their houses, the men plied their trades, the children played in the lanes, all as usual, until, toward evening, the raven-haired girl appeared beside the fountain in sackcloth, as she had the day before. Once more, she flung her rough covering to the ground and set off in the altogether — this time at a brisk trot.

“There she is!” the children cried.

“But look! Her heinie is blue!”

These last words were on everyone’s lips, but if the girl heard them, their meaning was lost on her. She scampered happily through the village, pleased that all eyes were on her bottom, though unaware of the reason. Upon reaching the town’s little church, she darted through the front doors, which stood open in preparation for vespers. Witnesses were sure she would be struck down for such sacrilege, showing herself naked at the altar, and while that did not happen, a stranger, unexpected marvel was attested to by all: when the girl emerged from the church’s south transept, her blue bottom had mysteriously turned to red.

“Witchcraft!” the women exclaimed.

The scarlet-assed girl continued her run. Some men tried to chase her down, but she was swift, and soon lost them at the edge of the wood. (Meanwhile, unnoticed, another, identical girl snuck out of the church in a black robe.)

At sunset, the Lord Mayor came to the cobbler’s home and described what the townsfolk had seen.

“Even I’m beginning to think she’s a demon,” he said. “When the naked sprite ran into the church, her backside was blue. When she ran out again, her blue backside had turned to red. There has been nothing like it since the days of the weeping statues.”

“She is a demon, but not the kind you think,” the shoemaker replied. “Bring everyone together in the square at noon tomorrow. Until then, leave me in peace.”
The following day, at the appointed hour, a crowd gathered as the shoemaker had instructed. Just as the church bell finished striking the angelus, the old man marched his daughters into the square. Under his arm, he carried his cobbler’s bench, which he set before the fountain.

“I have been foolish and blind,” he announced to the crowd. “I believed one of my daughters was innocent, and the other was wicked. Today, I understand they are two of a kind. Anna, Olga, front and center!”

The girls obeyed and stood trembling before him. Each was wrapped in a dirty white sheet. These the old man abruptly snatched away, and the crowd gasped to see the truth revealed. Not only were the girls naked, but their bums were different colors. One was azure, the other gules — as, gentle Reader, you were surely expecting.

The shoemaker sat on his bench.

“Anna,” he said, “you first.”

The girl with the red bottom stepped forward, and her father hauled her across his knee. He spanked her twenty times, the crowd clapping along with every blow.
When justice had been done, and tears were streaming down the girl’s face, he threw her aside and turned to her sister.

“Olga,” he said, patting his thigh ominously, “you next.”

With a frightened whimper, the second girl bent over her father’s lap, whereupon he vigorously laid another twenty resounding thwacks on her quivering blue behind. Once again, the crowd applauded every stroke.

“Now,” the shoemaker said, “you may both stand here, like wicked children, and let the people gawp at you until I call you to prepare my supper. I am returning to my last.”

So saying, he picked up his bench, as well as the discarded sheets, and strode away, abandoning his naked daughters to the leering of the crowd.

The townsfolk were happy that at last a vexing mystery had been solved. The old cobbler was happy, too, for he had won back the respect of his friends, who would soon be returning to his shop. Even the naughty sisters were happy, for they’d had a good spanking and were standing naked in front of the whole town, which is all they really wanted in the first place.

Moral:
A firm hand is needed
When words go unheeded,
And the guilty can’t hide
When their bottoms are dyed.

THE END