Confessional

"Wear this double triangle symbol, Wanda dear," the redheaded older prostitute instructed, handing the metallic neck chain to her compatriot.

The blonde twentyish woman slipped it over her head, noting that hanging from it was a Star of David.

"This guy sounds like a nutjob, Marie," she noted, "Is he safe?"

Marie nodded. "He's harmless, only wants to confess his mistakes while you wail on his bare backside."

Wanda's eyebrows arched. "That's all? No intercourse?"

Her mentor's head shook. "No, just blister his ass good and listen to him babble."

"Will it make sense?"

Marie shrugged. "Maybe to a college girl like you, it's beyond me. The other man wants it kept secret."

"Other man?" Wanda asked uncertainly.

"You'll see, dearie," the redhead stated, "I'll listen from the bathroom. Really whomp him, strap then paddle."

The man entered the hotel room only seconds after Marie disappeared from sight; he had once been ruggedly handsome and still looked solidly built, but his face looked careworn and his disheveled hair was prematurely gray.

"You're new," he remarked while undressing.

"I'm Wanda, Marie's moving to California so I'm replacing her," she explained.

"All right." The client finished stripping and bent over the three pillows piled at the bed's end, elevating his naked buttocks; Wanda picked up the razor strop from the nightstand. "Please punish me while I confess…"

"Certainly." Moving to directly face her target, she cracked the supple leather across his quivering asscheeks.

"Ahhhhowww!" His face contorted. "During the war I was a top-secret operative for FDR, only he and two others knew my role…"

The strap slashed wickedly and repeatedly, making its victim howl. "Go on!"

He gasped. "Uhhhhhh…Late 1943, I was in contact with German underground, Social Democrats supported by Wehrmacht officers–quick revolt was planned to overthrow the Nazis, replace them with democratic republic…"

Wanda delivered additional sizzling strokes, leaving the man's hindquarters covered by blazing crimson bands. "Sounds far-fetched."

"Couh-Could've wuh-worked," he blubbered, "Ihh-If FDR would've may-made peace with a democratic Germany. Thuh-That was the required guarantee, a nuh-negotiated peace; German people knew they'd loh-lost the war, they'd support any government we'd deal with…"

Switching to the Spencer paddle, his chastiser whacked the outthrust posterior with a vengeance before finally pausing.

"What about our allies?" she demanded.

"Thuh-They couldn't wih-win without ahhhour mih-military forces and Leh-Lend-Lease," he whimpered. "The war could've ended twenty months earlier, the death camps shut down, the Russians kept out of eastern Europe."

The hardwood resumed connecting resoundingly to his glowing glutes.

"The president wouldn't agree, I suppose," Wanda postulated.

Her spankee sobbed. "Shuh-Should've said he dih-did anyway, fuh-forced his hand if the ree-revolt succeeded…"

She was appalled. "You'd have been imprisoned, FDR deeply embarrassed, our allies furious–"

"The Eurpean war over, millions of lives saved," he interjected. "Finish up, make it seriously hurt."

Wanda gasped, recognizing the other man as he handed her ten crisp twenty-dollar bills.

"Classified top secret," he warned her, "One word and you're arrested."

Her brows furrowed. "Isn't it just a crazy fantasy?"

George Marshall nodded grimly. "Between us, let's keep it that way.."

Historical note: George Marshall was the U.S. Army Chief of Staff during World War II (1939-45). After the war he became Secretary of State under the Truman Administration, eventually winning the Nobel Peace Prize as the architect of the Marshall Plan for rebuilding western Europe. The other person I was referring to who would've known the confessor's wartime identity was Harry Hopkins, FDR's top political adviser who died in 1946.