Wednesday 19 December 2012

Sailor Beware (M/m)

This is the second of my two Christmas postings. A little late due to my computer crashing last week. Preview readers, including a couple of old boatees, have given it the thumbs up. Won't appeal to those who like the F/m variety, no ladies here, but may amuse the rest. Will make an alternative to endless rubbish on the TV over the next week or so. But whoever takes your pants down or whichever bottom you bare, may you all have a good Christmas and prosperous New Year. And many thanks for clicking on my blog. Alfred Roy
 
I thought it was an interesting and exciting offer and it did not take me long to agree and make the necessary arrangements. One of the regular customers in the shop I worked in on Saturdays, Tesco if anyone is interested, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Didn’t want to refuse it anyway. A week on the canals in a narrow boat sounded fun and the weather forecast was good. Short notice he said but it’s free other than lunchtime meals in a variety of pubs. A six berth boat on the Kennet and Avon but only a crew of four. So plenty of room. One of the crew had pulled out at the last minute and a crew of three makes all that locking difficult. He was looking for a replacement and thought of me. Probably because with his portly figure and splendid beard I always called him Captain when he came in for his cigs and paper. He used to laugh at that, never been to sea in my life he said but I know all the canals of England. And once he said I would make a good cabin boy. Or he thought I would. I reckon that is why he thought of me when someone pulled out. But whatever the reason I accepted and dropped college the following week. A free week in May on the canals, sunny weather, against a course I was finding more and more difficult. No contest. Arrangements hastily put into place, even if my mother didn’t approve, and I was off to Wiltshire. Monday morning, a clear blue sky, me a passenger in the Captain’s car, and a week of watery bliss. Heaven. And then, arriving at the boat basin around noon I met his fellow crew members. And that is when I had my first doubts.
I was nineteen for God’s sake. The Captain was about fifty, maybe more, but I hadn’t thought about the other two crew members. I suppose I was just so taken with the proposal. But they were ancient. The one called Lionel, broad Scottish accent and a passion for whisky and opera, must have been at least sixty five or seventy and, I swear, the one they called Cloggs was at least ten years older. They seemed very nice, especially Cloggs when he winked at me every time someone mentioned my age, but they were so old. The gap in age between us was so wide I could not possibly see how we would gel. We sat in the local pub waiting for our boat to be got ready and I felt so out of place. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. But I do have to say that my spirits lifted for two reasons. First they were great fun, they might be old but they were mischievous devils and full of life. And their salacious comments about looking forward to seeing me in boating shorts appealed to my gay nature. It struck me then that these old fellows might, in their younger days, have preferred their own sex. It did not occur to me, naive being that I am, that they still did. But the gentle banter made me relax and when Christian came into the pub, Mr Christian they exclaimed in silly voices and burst out in school boyish laughter, I relaxed even more. He was nearer my age, even if over thirty, and was tall and slim whereas Lionel and Cloggs were smaller and wiry. And he was a fifth crew member; I knew that because over introductory drinks the Captain had said that the defaulter had been able to change his plans. Don’t look so worried, he said, we shan’t send our cabin boy home. There is room for five. Looking at Christian, suntanned and smiling, I did not want to leave. And in staying I was, at that moment, christened Cabin Boy. It amused them all, especially the Captain.
The first inkling that these narrow boat cruises had a structure and tradition that I was unfamiliar with came on the second day of our trip. We had just passed Melksham, a lovely Wiltshire market town, and a grass covered swing bridge blocked our progress. Mr Christian, I now called him that, and I were instructed to open it. We jumped off the boat and opened the bridge to allow our vessel, Iris, to pass through. As soon as it had done so we both jumped back aboard eager for afternoon tea and cakes, supplied by the elfin Cloggs. Tut and tut, Mr Cloggs said, the bridge has not been closed. That won’t please the Captain. Canal courtesy, as I was learning, was that bridges were closed and lock gates were shut. Nothing else was said but when we stopped for the evening in a remote area a few miles outside Bath, the Captain said a small matter needed to be addressed. Mr Christian and our cabin boy had failed to close the bridge. There were more tut and tuts from Mr Cloggs and Lionel, the latter highly amused as he smoked his enormous pipe, and our bearded Captain issued his judgement. Mr Christian was to be caned, six strokes. Not being familiar with narrow boat discipline the cabin boy, me, was to escape with a warning, this time, but Mr Christian had no excuse. I was both shocked and transfixed. Surely our young Mr Christian would object? But he didn’t, he clearly knew the form and the ritual. He stepped onto the canal bank and bent over; offering his tightly clad backside for what was obviously a familiar routine. The Captain, my Tesco customer now seen in a totally different role, produced a vicious looking cane, about two foot six in length, and stepped off the boat. As we all watched, me in awe, he approached the bending miscreant and delivered six hard and meaningful strokes to a prominent backside covered and enhanced by the tightest of tightest of light blue jeans. Mr Christian gasped and, after the sixth stroke, rose and ruefully rubbed his bottom. And they all laughed, including Christian, and they did so even more when the Captain said, and next time boy those jeans will be around your ankles. I was both fascinated and fearful. This was clearly a routine. What had I let myself in to? As if answering my thoughts Cloggs, still full of mischief, said think yourself lucky boy. The last cabin boy got twelve of the strap the first time he left a bridge open. Reckon the captain likes you. And as he said this I saw the disconcerting gleam in his eye.
I slept badly that night. My cabin was at the rear end, nearest the kitchen, as it was my job to make the early morning tea. My price for being aboard for free someone said, but without malice. They were a friendly lot, the first two days made that clear, but they had their strange rules and it seemed I was part of them. Cloggs had hinted as much and after the evening meal and a few drinks, Mr Christian confirmed it. You will get whacked at sometime on this trip he said. Nobody under thirty escapes. The Captain likes to do it and the other boys, Lionel and Cloggs, like to watch. It is part of their fun and, as you saw this afternoon, maintains discipline. You don’t get much arguing when the one in charge wields a cane or, in your case I think, a hefty strap. He laughed at this comment and wiggled his behind at me before retiring to his own cabin. It was the comment about the hefty strap that particularly bothered me. I liked the Captain, thought he was a great bloke. But I was seeing him in a different light and now I was a little fearful of him. I would have to work very hard to make sure that my behind, very small, and that unseen strap never became acquainted. The thought perturbed me but, strangely, it did not evoke a wish to leave. I was not going to abandon this ship whatever the consequences.
The consequences came in mind boggling fireworks across my backside on the fourth day. Wednesday had been pretty uneventful, the weather was unexpectedly dull and drizzly, and we had moored in Bath for most of it. Mr Christian and Cloggs had gone exploring the Roman city and Lionel and the Captain played endless games of chess. I suppose I got bored, that is my excuse anyway. I wandered off and got chatting to some local fishermen. I must have been away longer than I thought because when I got back the boat had gone. And then I remembered. The Captain said we were setting off at four, ten miles and six locks, so we could reach a very nice canal side pub, highly recommended, before it got busy. I looked at my watch. It was four thirty five. I looked along the canal and there was no sign of Iris, they had gone without me. I reasoned that it was probably to teach me a lesson but I could easily catch them up. But it was the teaching me a lesson bit that perturbed. As I walked along the canal, the sun finally trying to break out, I held an unwelcome vision of an annoyed Captain and a wavering strap in my mind. I need not have worried. They were at the second lock when I got to them and they all burst out laughing when I scrambled aboard, mumbling apologies. At least he walked the right way Lionel said, and Christian ruffled my hair and called me a clot. Make us some tea Cloggs said and at least you may not have to walk the plank. So all was forgiven, so I thought, especially when the Captain bought us all a splendid meal at the promised canal side pub of recommendations. It was only as we were retiring that I was brought back to earth. Christian was washing up glasses in the kitchen. The others had gone to their bunks and I was having a read before I put out my light. I hope you are ready for tomorrow he said. For your baptism. I looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He came over to me and ruffled my hair again, just as he did when I had sneaked aboard earlier. It will be about ten o’clock I think, if I know the Captain. When we are all on the tiller sailing the open seas, he said, and gave a small laugh. Twelve strokes at least, with his heavy strap. And all on the bare arse. He only ever straps cabin boys on their bare arses. And then he ruffled my hair again and put out my light. Strangely, I slept well that night.
Mr Christian was right. The Captain joined me on the back of the boat whilst the others were on the tiller. He had clearly arranged things that way. Given the sunny weather, a change from dull Wednesday, I was back in my usual gear of black cotton top and light blue cotton shorts and enjoying a mid morning coffee. Chores were done and I was off duty for the rest of the morning. Are you enjoying the trip he asked. I said I was, and it was true. I had settled into the routine and accepted the bizarre rules and regulations. I knew what was coming and the Captain did not waste time in getting there. You let us down yesterday he said. Not good, not good for discipline. I can’t let it pass, in spite of your age. I think you know what that means. I looked at him, nervously. But with acceptance. He was a long way from my customer in Tesco’s. Last Saturday suddenly seemed a long way away. Out here he was in charge and I had transgressed, big time. I waited, knowing what was coming. Go and put a pillow on the middle bunk and lie over it. I will be with you in a minute. I nodded and did so again when he offered a further instruction. And take down your shorts; you will not be needing them for a few minutes. My head was spinning but something compelled me to obey. This was the deal, I thought. This was the deal from the moment he invited me to join his crew. Nothing to do with being a free trip. This was what it was all about. Strangely I did not mind and as I made my way to the middle cabin bunk, the only one on the boat with room to swing whatever took your fancy, I realised I still liked him. He was going to thrash my backside, deservedly so Cloggs and Lionel would say, but I still thought he was a great bloke.
I am not sure if I still felt the same when he was doing it. The situation made me obey and I did so with a mixture of fear and anticipation. I went into that middle cabin, the one conducive to the swinging of a strap, and moved a pillow to the centre of the bunk bed. As I lay down, stomach placed over that now significant pillow, I noticed that the small curtains had been drawn over the even smaller boat windows. Boats pass on canals and, even fleetingly, no one would be allowed to peer in. They probably would not believe what they would see. But why take the chance. I heard him come, my Captain from Tesco, and remembered his final instruction. I quickly pulled down my light blue cotton shorts to my knees and waited. Do your worst Captain, I was saying, however much it hurts I do not regret this trip. My resolve wavered over the next few minutes but, thankfully, it was soon to be over. Not before he had stood over me, breathing heavily and looking, and said twelve strokes boy. Twelve strokes with my strap for being late coming back. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. And hoped. What was it Mr Christian had said? He only ever straps cabin boys on the bare arse. Perhaps this would be different. I was only nineteen and I did serve him every weekend in the local supermarket. He was nice, we chatted, he knew me in other places. He was a customer for Christ’s sake. He liked me. Surely he wasn’t going to take my pants down? The hoping was all to no avail. My underpants came down, slowly but firmly, and my small and fleshy bottom both pale and inviting was revealed in all its innocent glory. I blushed at the revelation, even though I could not see. I could only hear that continuing heavy breathing. My virgin skin had no blemishes and the two matching cheeks would make a welcome target for a Captain’s wrath that was clearly mingled with a heady anticipation. I prayed it would not hurt, not cause me pain, but I knew that it would and, in hurting it would make a peculiar sense. His strap and my behind were, at that moment, always destined to meet. And when it landed, painfully and accurate, across my naked behind for the first time I would know why I had been invited to cruise this Wiltshire canal. He placed his hand on the small of my back, shirt lifted to ensure an unimpeded view, and delivered the first whack across the centre of my backside. I audibly reacted. Not loudly, but enough to make me realise that this was for real. The sting across my bottom created a burning sensation I had never previously experienced. I was having a strapping on my bare backside and it was not pleasant. He waited a second, waited for me to compose myself, and then he slashed my bottom for a second and third time. Both cut and hurt and created an intense warmth in my lower portions that was alien to me. Is this what being whacked means? It was awful and I gripped the bedclothes on the bunk. Three more strokes quickly followed and I howled and asked him to stop. This cold leather strap on my naked bottom was something I neither desired or wanted, and, at that moment, also felt I did not deserve. But I did not get up. I was living part of this boat’s rituals. I had to take the remaining six strokes. That was my reasoning. Or I thought so afterwards when I reflected that, in spite of my protestations, I recovered my calm and pushed the pillow further into my stomach and raised the all consuming target of the strange scenario. I was offering my bottom to him. It may hurt Captain, it may make me cry, but as I absorb the earlier sting I await my final six. Is that why I pressed on that pillow and lifted, almost provocatively, my naked and reddened bottom? Is that why I offered this private part of my body, ignominiously stripped, for its painful avenger? Whatever the reasons the Captain completed his job with vigour. Six more times that relentless strap unerringly found the centre of my cheeks, and six times I gasped and squealed. It hurt like hell. I was tearful and I was sore and flamed. I had been well and truly strapped by the Captain of Iris. Cabin Boy. Whacked on his bare bum, twelve times, by a most vicious strap. At that moment I was convinced the sting in my backside would remain for weeks and, in distant innocent supermarkets, I would never look this man in the face again. A man I admired had shown a different nature and the proof continuously throbbed behind me. You took that well boy was all he said. Nice bottom and a strapping well deserved. And then he left, lighting a cigarette before he did, and I was alone to recover and reflect. In the silence I could still hear the strap hitting my behind. I could still hear his heavy breaths. He had enjoyed what he did and I had, reluctantly but willingly, succumbed. I had been given my baptism. I lay on that bunk for a good five minutes, maybe ten, shorts and underpants still adrift. Head and bottom throbbing, bare and shamed, I was serene. I knew not what it meant. I know it hurt, painfully so. But somehow, as the distant engine chugged on that quiet Wiltshire canal, it seemed so right. In a funny sort of way I felt I had finally earned my keep. Earned my stripes you could say. Rubbing my hand across my very warm backside that last thought seemed very appropriate.
I suffered a lot of teasing for the rest of that day. When I went to take my turn on the tiller Lionel said, who has been a naughty boy then, and Cloggs, delivering what was now a customary wink, said that someone must be very grateful that tiller duties were done standing up. And both agreed that the captain would probably buy lunch again. He usually does when he has whacked a boy, so was there any chance of me missing the boat again. I smiled weakly but entered into the schoolboy spirit by giving my shorts a rueful rub. Mr Christian laughed and, expertly instructing me on the tiller when the others had left, added to the teasing and said pity we haven’t got a strong cold wind. The gist was I could drop my shorts and enjoy a welcome and cooling air. The rest of our conversation is worth recording in full. It seemed to sum up this strange trip I had embarked on.

‘Wishing you hadn’t come?’ he said.

‘No. Far from it.’ I replied.

‘You didn’t mind?’

‘It hurt, but I was expecting it.’

‘Part of the rules and regulations. You saw that when I got caned for not closing the bridge.’

‘And you didn’t mind?’

He thought for a moment before answering. I suspected that what he had to say would fill in a few gaps.

‘I have known the Captain for a long time. He first invited me about ten years ago. He sussed out, as Lionel would say, I was one of the faith.’

‘One of the faith?’

‘A boy who would not mind having his bottom whacked, if circumstances warranted it, might even enjoy it in a funny sort of way.’

‘And you do?’

I was thinking back to the Tuesday on the towpath when the Captain caned him, very hard, on his jeans.

‘Not the first time, when I got it like you just did, shorts and underpants down and twelve of his strap. But he is very good at assessing people. He knew it was something I always had a hankering for, even if I didn’t recognise it at the time.’

‘So you still come?’

‘These boat trips are super, heavenly canals and good company, and having a sore arse occasionally is a small price to pay for it.’

I laughed and ruefully rubbed my backside again.

‘I didn’t think so when I was lying on that bunk with my bare bum in the air.’

‘But you don’t mind now, now it’s all over?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly. That is why he chose you. He told us sometime ago that there was a boy who served him in Tesco’s who might make a suitable cabin boy. He is very good at spotting the type.’

I pondered this for a moment and asked Mr Christian something that had been bugging me for a couple of days.

‘Did you always intend to come?’

He laughed, so much so that for a moment I lost control of the tiller and wandered to the far bank. Watch it, he said, if you don’t want to be on the strapping bunk again. Not today. I didn’t, at least not until my backside had recovered its usual bloom.

‘You never dropped out, did you?’ I said.

‘No. That was a small ploy by the Captain to explain the invitation. He wanted you aboard.’

‘It all makes sense now.’

‘And he wasn’t wrong, was he?’

I steered the boat back into the centre of the canal, keep right for passing boats, and with my free hand rubbed my light blue cotton shorts again. The shorts that had recently been taken down. No, the Captain wasn’t wrong.
The teasing continued, on and off, for the rest of the day. Lionel bought lunch, surprisingly in view of what had been said, but he explained when picking up the tab that the Captain had promised him a ringside seat the next time I transgressed and my pants came down. Cloggs tut tutted a false disapproval and, mischievously, produced a small cushion for me to sit on. I reflected that whatever else the day bought having someone whacked clearly lifted a collection of spirits. And in spite of everything, or because of it, the Thursday was a good day. Probably the best to date. We all retired in excellent and exhausted mood. And when I lay in my bed the teasing took a more sensuous and interesting turn. Mr Christian bid me to turn over and, pulling down my pyjama bottoms, rubbed some gentle oils into my recovering backside. It was not strictly necessary as the worst excesses of the Captain’s strap had long faded. I know, having looked in the only mirror on the boat. Just a few marks, Mr Christian said, but you must still be sore. I made no comment. His request for me to turn over came as a surprise but it was a welcome end to a flagship day. His large hands on my bare cheeks was heavenly, a sharp contrast to the morning. Twice in the same day I was baring my bottom for masculine attentions but I had moved from a stinging strap to a gentle sensation. I knew then that I desired him to bring me off. Sadly he didn’t, the hands only fleetingly brushed against the back of my filling balls, but it was intoxicating all the same. But he did spend a long time massaging his hands across the naked curves of my cheeks. Far more than was necessary. After about ten minutes, legs shamelessly spreading and a last fleeting touch of balls I had now fully exposed, he pulled up my pyjamas and told me I had a super bottom. Much the best cabin boy bottom he had ever seen. Then he gave it two gentle smacks and left. Alone, and in the dark, I wanted so much to masturbate but I resisted. I had a healthy nineteen year old’s erection but to spill the contents may prematurely undermine an interesting week. There were three days to go and I wished to save all for what it had to offer.
Mr Christian got caned again on Friday and I, along with the others, got to watch. We were approaching a remote lock and, jumping off the boat, he slipped and dropped his lock key in the canal. He easily retrieved it but the act itself was deemed almost a capital offence. Lock keys on canal trips are precious for obvious reasons. Cavalier attitudes in regard to them invoked severe condemnation, at least four tut tuttings in Cloggs’ case, and statutory retribution. With the boat still in the filling lock the Captain stepped on to the bank, cane in hand, and beckoned Mr Christian to him. We other three watched in fascinated silence as the thirty year old miscreant lowered his jeans and underpants and, bending over, received eight vicious cane whacks, or so they seemed to me, to his bare backside. He rubbed the violated area vigorously and quickly rose and pulled up his clothing. That bloody hurt he said. But he grinned when he said it and the ordinariness of his reaction seemed to break the watchers spell. Or at least it did for Lionel and Cloggs, tongues loosened by the delightful sight. I remained silent. It was all right for them, at their ages they were unlikely to be in Mr Christian’s position. They could enjoy the pleasure with no threat to themselves. For me it was different. There were two days to go on the trip and by now I had accepted that I was sure to get walloped again before it ended. I didn’t mind, there was something peculiarly intimate and touching in being strapped on the bare bottom by the Captain. I liked him, he was a gentle and generous man even if he did have a strange penchant for disciplinary activities. But I did not want that cane. As Lionel and Cloggs chatted and steered the boat out of the lock I reflected on that fearful thought.
The last two days were wonderful. It rained all day on the Saturday but with only two locks and a swing bridge, the one that on the outward journey had caused a little grief, there was little to do. Given the poor weather the Captain decided to moor the boat and treated us all to a taxi trip into Devizes and a promise of a sumptuous pub lunch. Mr Christian insisted on paying for the lunch and I, not unreasonably, bought a round of drinks. I had so far spent nothing on the trip and it was the least I could do. Besides, my mother, in spite of her reservations, had given me a small sum for that eventuality. We summed up the week over desserts and all were eager to know how I had enjoyed the experience. Apart from ten minutes on Thursday I said and they all burst out laughing. A small price to pay said Lionel, filling his pipe in readiness for a routine puff, and Cloggs, wolfing on a disgustingly overfilled cream profiterole, agreed. What a pity we did not see it, he said. The rumour on the canal he added, without saying who had spread it, is that our Cabin Boy has a most delectable bottom. Almost made for the strap. The Captain, beaming at what had clearly been a successful trip, said that it isn’t over yet. Six locks tomorrow to get back to the boat basin and the last day is always fraught with problems. In the taxi back I asked Mr Christian if that was true, was getting back to base a problem. No, he said, but it is the Captain’s last chance to whack a few arses. So something always goes wrong. He arranges it. I slept well again that night. Partly because it had been a lovely day in spite of the rain. In the evening Cloggs initiated me in the complexities of Sudoku and Lionel produced a supper of his personal twist on Welsh rarebit. And there was much talk on the joys of being whacked. If that conversation had taken place on Monday I would have squirmed in embarrassment but, given the strange week with this weird but lovely crew, it seemed perfectly normal. As I say, I slept well. Given all the comments I knew I would get strapped on the last day at some time. That I was prepared for. I was not prepared for anything else.
The sun shone beautifully on the Sunday and created enough warmth for me to don the black top and light blue cotton shorts for the final time. The first three locks went without mishap and we found a nice pub for a simple lunch. Families were out in force but we managed to find a quiet corner where we could blissfully thank the unpredictable weather for sending us home with a warm glow. I think Lionel conjured that phrase. Whoever did, it prompted Mr Christian to make reference to warm glows of another kind. Is our Cabin Boy not due for his traditional farewell Captain? I knew what was being referred to and felt a churning in my stomach. Mr Christian was supposed to be my friend. The captain smiled and concurred. Indeed, he said, and he has earned it. Morning tea was late, the third lock was slovenly done, and the breakfast crockery is still unwashed. His job. Our cabin boy has a lot to learn. We shall do so , on the boat, after this lunch. And, this time, you can all watch. I said not a word. I was expecting it, almost welcoming it, and this time there would be an audience. And looking at Cloggs and Lionel, eyes gleaming, I expected little sympathy. My final price for this trip, or so I thought, would shortly be paid. We moved out of the pub area and moored about a hundred yards from the next lock. Being Sunday the canal was busy and we waited almost thirty minutes before there was a convenient hiatus. When it came the Captain summoned me to the only bunk where a strap could be swung in earnest. But this time there was no one on the tiller. This time as I stretched on the pillow and pulled down my light blue shorts the heavy breathing was fourfold. One would wield the strap but the other three pairs of eyes would watch and absorb. The Captain pulled down my underpants, matching light blue, and I am sure someone gasped. Strangely that was comforting. Four men, collective age over two hundred, were about to witness a nineteen year old getting his bare bottom thrashed. And I was that nineteen year old. A head mixed with heavy and alien sensations could absorb the fleeting pain. And I did. The Captain gave me twelve strokes again, less hard that on the Thursday, and as that strap whacked into my naked behind I consumed it all. That first is for you Lionel, that second and third for Cloggs, you all deserve to see this. And the fifth, the sixth, the seventh? They were for Mr Christian; the man who had a couple of days ago caressed these same cheeks. I did it all for them. And when the intensity increased, the last few stung and made me gasp, then they were for the Captain. My Tesco customer. I had loved this trip and this was small price to pay. This crew were getting their reward. I was both the victim and the prize. I pulled up my pants, bottom throbbing as before, and gave them all a small kiss on their cheeks. All we still laughing as we moved to that fourth lock.
That really should have been it. I had played the role of Cabin Boy and, in accepting my two strappings, had fulfilled the price demanded. With no regrets. All that remained now was to moor on that last night and take the boat back to its home. But the build up of the strange week and last night alcohol extracted a heavy toll. When Mr Christian came to say goodnight to me I was sleepily drunk and warmly sensuous. I did not resist when he peeled down my pyjama bottoms and removed my top. In a few minutes my new nakedness was matched by his own. In the morning we would say we only cuddled. That was true in a sense. We held on to each other, enjoying the sensation of our combined male flesh, and then he turned me over and gently stroked his hands over my bottom cheeks. The warmth of the afternoon strap had faded to be replaced by a searching more urgent than the previous experience. This time, when I parted my legs and thrust out my backside, he allowed his delicate fingers to probe deeper than before. I felt his touch on my balls and then, gently, on my stiffening prick. I did not take long to come. A few gentle up and down strokes on my shaft and I readily shot out the desire of a heavenly week. It had been a long wait. He sighed, brushed my bottom again, kissed my back and fell asleep. I quickly followed. Alcohol had got the better of us both. And that is how the Captain found us. At six o’clock on our last day. Both naked in my bunk. We were on a charge, he said. We would both be caned.
I ate an uneasy breakfast. Tradition had it that on the last morning the Captain cooked a full, artery clogging, feast before we departed. It smelt delicious and tasted even better but I could not fully appreciate it. My mind was on others things and it did not help that the elfin Cloggs and the twinkling Lionel, puffing on his pipe indoors for once, were full of anticipatory banter. I thought of absconding, being strapped was one thing but I was fearful of the Captain’s cane, but readily dismissed the idea. It would spoil the week and, besides, the Captain was driving me home. So I resigned myself to this third and last experience vowing that I would not come on a trip again. I liked the Captain and I liked his crew but I had no desire to be caned. Prior to breakfast I had pumped Mr Christian for information. We were sitting outside whilst the bacon and eggs and sausages sizzled, and I was eager for details. I wanted to know what was going to happen. At least I thought I did. I might have enjoyed my breakfast more if I had not asked. Mr Christian fleshed out all the salient points and a few more. Again it is a conversation worth recording.

‘Do you think he means it?’

‘He does for me, corrupting the young he said. I expect at least six or eight strokes. Probably twelve.’

‘And you don’t mind?’

He laughed, a throaty laugh I had grown to like over the last few days.

‘No. I expect it; I have a taste for it you could say. If he doesn’t do it on my bare arse I shall be so disappointed.’

‘And me?’

‘Not so many, young un. But given you have such a delectable behind I can’t see him letting you retain your pants.’

‘I’m scared.’ I said and meant it.

‘Don’t be. It’s all part of the game. And it got you a free trip, remember. He was always going to cane you at some point. Just needed a reason.’

‘And we gave him one. Last night.’

I thought back to Mr Christian’s warm hands around my shaft and, in spite of my fear, regretted nothing. What he said next surprised me.

‘Oh, the Captain engineered that. He had packed a lot of boxes on my bunk. Will save time in the morning he said. Suggested I sleep elsewhere.’

‘He’s a strange man.’ I said.

‘He’s a lovely man. Generous and kind hearted to a fault. Just has this penchant for whacking boys.’

‘If there is a reason?’

‘There has to be a reason with him. That is why he does boat trips. So much can go wrong. So cheer up and go and drop your pants when called. It won’t take long.’

He lit a cigarette and offered one to me. I took it; I rarely smoked, but suddenly felt the need. I had become very fond of Mr Christian. It was not just our ages and that, literally, we were the boat’s whipping boys. He had a gentleness that, the previous night, I had fully appreciated. I would have let him take me, he knew that, but had the sense and restraint to know it would have been too much and too soon.

‘What happens?’

‘It varies, but I imagine over the breakfast table. That’s the usual routine.’

‘Will it hurt? I mean really hurt?’

He drew on his cigarette and gave me a meaningful look. It was almost as if he was summing up the strange week before he answered.

‘Yes. The Captain does not know any other way. He canes for real. It will be a lot worse than your strappings. But it will be over very quickly. So grit your teeth and think of Tesco.’

‘And last night.’

Mr Christian laughed and ruffled my hair. Lionel called that breakfast was ready. The trip would soon be over.

‘I guarantee’, he said, ‘I guarantee that when you are driving home you will be glad he did it. Remember, he sussed you out. However much his cane hurts, and boy it will, you will like having your pants taken down again.’

I smiled weakly and with no confidence and, as Lionel called again, we went in.
 
I had to stand outside the boat door while the Captain caned Mr Christian. It had started to drizzle again and the rain seeped into my shorts and top. The dampness of my inappropriate clothes, ordered to wear, depressed my sinking spirits even further. They seemed to be taking an age and, perversely, I wondered for a moment if it was not all an elaborate joke. They knew I was fearful of the cane and I fruitlessly grasped at the thought that it was not to happen. But then I heard a dull thud followed by a faint gasp and, ears attuned by the trip, I pictured the scene. Mr Christian was getting whacked by the Captain with the motley duo in attendance. I could not tell if he was getting it bare or not but, by the third or fourth stroke, I knew it was hard. I heard him cry out and I heard the resounding swish. I counted. Carefully and fervently. It seemed important. Seven, eight, nine. Would they ever stop? As the numbers increased my agitation matched it. Logic said that whatever Mr Christian got I would get at least half and my mind had numbed at more than three or four. I could not take six with that cane, laid on hard, and no doubt laid on bare flesh. Across a bottom that had never felt a cane. I wished at that moment, still counting the distant and unseen thuds, that I had never accepted this invitation. And then it stopped. Was that twelve or had there been more? My agitation had made me lose count. A silence followed and then Mr Christian emerged, smiling and ruefully rubbing his jeans. Fourteen, he said, two extra for jumping up. I suggest you do not do the same. I blanched as he hastily added that I would not get as many. He wants you to come again he said. He will make them hurt but they should be few. With that less than comforting thought I stepped into the cabin. As I closed the door I thought, weirdly so it seemed, that for once Mr Christian had not ruffled my hair. I hoped it was not significant.
Driving back home with the Captain I looked back on that last significant few minutes in the cabin and realised I would never truly recapture what had happened. I was in too much of a state and my swirling mind had buried most of the details. I remember standing before them, Lionel and Cloggs and the Captain, the latter brandishing a fearful weapon that I had dreaded all week. I remember the Captain muttering something about unseemly behaviour and me, when instructed, taking my damp shorts and underpants completely off. I remember being over the kitchen table and someone, I think it was Lionel, lifting my equally damp top. And I remember my nakedness and jumping around that small cabin kitchen shamelessly holding my flaming backside. But I do not remember the actual caning. My mind had blanked it out, both then and afterwards. It was four strokes, I knew that because I looked in the only mirror and saw the livid weals, but I only remember the first. All the others merged into a continuing fire across my bottom that all the cavorting around the kitchen could not expunge. I had closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as that cane lashed into a backside that no longer belonged to me. I felt the pain as it transmitted to my brain but I had reduced it to a single violation. My cabin boy bottom, bare and bent, gave the Captain his final moments. And even though I could not remember each individual searing thrash, I did not begrudge it. It was still throbbing when we said our goodbyes. Lionel and Cloggs, if they realised, would say that is as it should be on such a boat trip.
I didn’t see the Captain for a few weeks. When he eventually came into Tesco again he said he had been abroad. I had blushed deeply when he entered and served him nervously, afraid that he would say something I wanted none to hear. He didn’t but he did wait for me to finish my shift and we chatted outside. I was a big hit he said and he hoped I would come again on a future trip. Mr Christian was especially looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. I was expecting this, particularly as he said on the way home that I was the best cabin boy he had ever had. Yes, I said. Of course I will come. I had given it a lot of thought.  He paused for a moment and looked at me with that mock severity that had been so familiar on the canals. It will be the same rules and regulations he said. You know what that means? Yes sir, I said. I would not have it any other way. He left, smiling and satisfied, and I walked off to catch my bus home. I had learnt a lot about canals in that invigorating week. Locks, and bridges, and weirs and tillers. Wiltshire towns and country pubs. And I had learnt a lot about myself. Particularly with my pants down.
Alfred Roy (2012)

 

Tuesday 27 November 2012

Fifty Shades of Pink


This was meant to be an update on the whacking tales blog statistics but I ain’t stupid. ‘Fifty Shades of Pink’ sounds much better than ‘Statistical Analysis – Part the Tenth’. Or whatever. It was musing on statistics, another fetish of mine, which got me thinking on the variety of folks who, over the years have spanked or caned my bottom. This was not totally an idle thought as following a quiet, bug induced, spell I have been fortunate enough to drop my pants for a multitude of reasons over the last few weeks. Doctors and wives aside, ageing pleasure comes from a good massage (everything off) or a good whacking (pants off). Being naked for a massage is heavenly and it is not unknown for the odd operator to give my bare and blushing behind a few friendly whacks with their expertise hands. Not the same as a true CP situation, but pleasant all the same. But the real fun comes from scenarios when you have all your chosen clothes on and the bits that cover your bum are lowered for disciplinary pleasures. I like being naked, but I like baring my bottom in a schoolboy scene even more. There is something very special about being prepared for a whacking and those who have done it to me have, over the years, come in many colours. Authority figures wear a variety of cloaks. The result was always a reddened behind for me. In many shades. Here is a taster.
 My Primary Schoolmistress. A real dragon, or so she seemed to me when aged 5 or 6, and not averse to smacking a behind when the mood took. Did it to me a few times, most memorably after I threw sand at a girl I particularly disliked. Her method never varied. She pulled you to her, holding you under her left arm, and with her right hand lifted up the right side of your small pants. Holding you tightly to her she whacked that same right hand across the conveniently bared cheek. It stung like hell, never more than five or six or maybe less, but you howled like a banshee. I did and so did all the others, girls as well as boys, who got it. Not a true bare bottom spanking but it always seemed like one. As I approached my teens I fantasised about those peremptory whacks. The 1950s has a lot to answer for. (1)
My Father. Only ever belted on the bare behind and did it to me at least three times between the ages of 7 and 11. He whacked quickly and vigorously and, although I never counted, I reckon I never got less than forty or fifty on each occasion. Always in my bedroom, pants pulled off and shirt lifted, and always on my bed. I remember the last occasion because he kept coming back to give me more because I would not say sorry. No idea why I should. Only stopped when my mother said my backside had taken enough. I was howling and my bum was flaming. We lived in a semi detached council house. Everyone in the street must have heard it. But it was the 1950’s so I need say no more. (2)
Mr Beasley. The years 7 to 11 again. I remember this man because he was my form master in junior school and was the first to kindle a childish desire for disciplinary pleasures. Had a penchant for taking his favourite boys over his knee, in a mixed class, and gently smacking or slippering the upturned shorts. From memory the spankings rarely hurt and evoked much giggling. My only meaningful punishment from him was on a red letter day when I was about 9 and he lined four or five of us up for a spanking. Last in the line, I watched in horror as he took down shorts before taking each boy over his knee and giving a variety of underpants a few stinging smacks from his heavy hand. We must have done something pretty bad. I cried. Not because I feared my turn but because I did not wear underpants. No money in our house for such luxuries. I mumbled this truth as I bravely undid my snake belt. He spared me classroom humiliation but nothing else. I was taken to a private room and, shorts pulled down, was taken over his knee and given my dues on my bare bottom. His hand stung like mad and I cried again. For the rest of the day I was the classroom star, especially when I filled in the details. I learnt that day that a smarting bottom has many compensations. (3)
Secondary School Teachers .Too many of these to mention by name. Not that I would, some may still be with us. And I don’t blame them for what they did. This was the late 1950s and 11-15 year old boys were easy meat for latent sadists. And no come back. Your folks wouldn’t listen even if you told them. My most hated was a games teacher who thrashed the bottom with a short version of a cricket bat and a science master who did the same with a piece of rubber tubing. I experienced both, over trousers, and both hurt like hell. Bending down for such appropriate weapons was not fun. The favourites were a student PE teacher who whacked the flimsy covered bum with a vicious plimsoll on which a backwards FRED had been chalked, think about it, and a house teacher who shall go by the name of Mr Dee. The latter gave me my two most memorable canings and both are seared in my ageing memory. The first, when about 11 or 12, was four strokes of the cane on my bare behind in a sports changing room and the second, I reckon I was 14, two strokes on my trousers in a classroom. The first experience stung and shocked, I was naked at the time; the second was excruciating and burning and induced a throb in my backside that I constantly wished to relive in later life. I learnt a lot at school. The Tudors, Stuarts, the Civil War and how to do quadratic equations. But thanks to those long lost teachers I also learnt about masochism. Anyone beating a young behind today, clothed or bare, would be in clink. In those days we who got it just shrugged and revelled in our unexpected and welcome notoriety. How times have changed. (4)
Sundry Adults. Since those days I have, thankfully, found a number of people more than willing to beat my behind. Hard wired from school and home I entered adulthood with a constant desire to have my pants taken down and my bare bottom thrashed. For most on my adult years a male was required to give the scenes verisimilitude but, as I age, I care little for the gender of the cane or strap wielder. Most of my male acquaintances have whacked for fun and free. Females charge and the type I like, mature and dominant, are hard to find. Whipstock Grange is an exception because there, whatever their age, a school environment is paramount. But whatever the situation I reckon that every time I lower my pants for a heavenly sting across my bare behind I am paying a silent homage to all those who did it to me when I was very young. I am glad they did. I still have fun and many folks of my age, bereft of such perverse pleasures, cannot say the same. (5)
Lots of my stories were inspired from the above. A few are listed below and many are on this blog or on the MMSA website. And the statistics? They must await another day. Let's say I got distracted. Worth at least six of the very best from one of those distant ghosts.
(1) The Law of Miss McKindrick
(2) Rainy Days
(3) Master Kennedy’s Slippering. The Pecking Order
(4) Yesterday’s Boy. Tomorrows Child.  Mistress Fredericka. The Games Club.
(5) I Have Never Seen Whipstock Grange. Whipstock Revisited. Ten Days. A Visit to Miss Court.  Room Service.
Alfred Roy
 
Next Month - Sailor Beware (M/m) A tale of a cabin boy being whacked whilst on the lovely canals of England.

Sunday 11 November 2012

The Woman in the Window (F/m)

This is the first of the two promised new stories for Christmas. Sailor Beware (M/m) will follow next month. This one is F/m and the anonymous 14 year old boy eventually gets the spanking he clearly desires. An early Christmas present for readers who, in less than a year, have given this blog nearly 15,000 hits. And on the subject of early Christmas presents I shall shortly be visiting a mature and severe lady who dishes out all that is in this story, and more. When my pants are down and her strap thwacks into my bare and upturned bottom I shall silently say I have earned it. Writing stories has its compensations.There is no substitute for real, and exquisite, pain on that most important place. Alfred Roy
 
Part One
I knew it would come to this. I suppose I always knew, at least after the third time I passed her house. Actually I didn’t pass it. On that third time I stopped and, for a dare, I went into her garden and picked a couple of apples. Whilst she was looking. Standing by an upstairs window, dressed in black, she watched me take the apples and return, giggling, to my friends. And then we all did it in the following days, walked into her garden and pinched her apples. On a second and third occasion, possibly a fourth. And we all giggled and left. And she stood at her window and watched. Dressed in black. And whoever was there, she was always watching me. It was when I went back on my own to pinch an apple in a now compulsive game that I saw the window was empty. For the first time she was not standing there. Suddenly pinching her apples lost its appeal. If she wasn’t at her window, silently watching and waiting, the apples lost their taste and the game dulled. I knew then, if I hadn’t before, that the prize was not the hanging fruit. The prize was the woman herself. In black, silent and still at her window. But now, on my lone visit, she was not at her window. She was at her door. And she invited me in.
It was all so long ago that the details are blurred in my mind. A long late summer vacation in an obscure Cotswolds town or hamlet. I think my father was on some equally obscure project. The days were long and hot and generally boring. I made friends easily and quickly latched on to the local boys. They lacked my London sophistication but made engaging companions, especially when they realised that my pocket money stretched considerably further than theirs. Most of our days were spent aimlessly wandering the streets of that small town. The few shops did not interest us and we would regularly make our way to the hills and fields beyond. A fourteen year old imagination can run riot in such unpromising circumstances, especially if discovering a mediaeval burial ground or, even better, an old hanging tree where a seventeenth century villager struggled to an untimely end. Boys can be so brutal. The journey to the open fields often took us past the rich and imposing houses that scattered the edges of the small town. Large houses with large front gardens and, with elaborate iron gates or decorated concrete posts, a suggestion of country riches. I had been there a couple of weeks when I first noticed her watching us. Then I saw her again as we passed her house a few days later. I mentioned her to my friends and by the third visit to the distant fields she had been christened as the local witch. Still and silent, standing at her upstairs window dressed in black she almost invited the soubriquet. And calling her a witch led to the dare and the apple stealing.
I realised towards the end of my month long stay in the Cotswolds that I was becoming obsessed by this enigmatic woman. Every time we passed her house or gone into her garden, three or four times, she was there watching us. She never banged her window or expressed any emotion. Just watched and always, or so it seemed, had her eye firmly fixed on me. It was that fact that decided me to make a secretive visit on my own. I had been dared by my friends and I rose to the challenge when they were all away on a cricket excursion. I did not tell them I was going, I did not know why I was going, I only knew that going alone added an inexplicable thrill. I would see the woman in her window, I would enter alone to her garden, signalling what I did not know, and await developments from our adopted witch. But when I entered her garden she was not at her window. She was at her door and, as I say, she invited me in.
I did not go. I stood rooted to the spot as I heard the woman’s voice for the first time. She was younger than she had appeared in the window, no more than thirty five, and though her dress was the severe black I knew so well, her voice was not unpleasing. She reminded me of my late mother and, thinking this, my innate fear abated slightly. I cannot remember exactly what she said, it is so long ago, but it was along the lines of ‘I think we should discuss why you feel the need to steal my apples’. So prosaic, so ordinary, and yet filled with something I could not define. But hearing her voice I knew she was no schoolboy’s witch. She was a joyous person; I had sensed that from my first fleeting view of her, a mixture of severity and gentleness. I was only fourteen but I was falling in love. The moments passed, it may have been minutes, and I stood mute and awestruck in the silence. One of us needed to speak but I knew it would not be me. Fear and warmth combined to still my tongue. My emotions were in turmoil but her next words dispelled them. ‘I know your name’, she said, ‘and I know your father’. Still I said nothing and, in my confusion, backed away. This was not part of my schoolboy plan. This was meant to be a game with the local witch, going where I knew not. But seeing her close, hearing her voice, smelling her, had undermined the adventure. I needed to get away, to forget, to abandon the silly vendetta of rich houses and garden apples and strange women. So I did, clumsily and apologetically, with her presence invading my senses. Her smell, her voice, her black dress. Her words. ‘I know your father, I know your name’, she had said. And as I left, blushing and incoherent, her final comment rang in my ears. ‘He needs to know about the apples.’ The afternoon, bereft of cricketing mad friends, had not gone entirely as planned. It was when I arrived home, breathless, that I realised I had no idea what that plan had been.
I told my father about her a few days before we were due back in London. He looked puzzled. She must be confusing you with someone else, was all he said. The woman meant nothing to him and, besides he had never visited that part of the Cotswolds before. Strangely though he did not ask me what I was doing in her garden, did not question me on my obsession. Just be careful, he said, you may get more than you wished for. That final comment rang a small bell as a couple of the local boys had said the same thing when I told them she had spoken to me. They teased me about the enigmatic woman in the window, mercifully so when we passed her house and she wasn’t there. Flown off on her broomstick with the village cats, or in her kitchen boiling frogs. It was the teasing that led to a further dare, boys are dangerous on long summer days with nothing to do. Go back to her house they said, go back into her garden, and this time, if invited, go in. I told them no, I would not, or not unless one of them was willing to come with me. Safety in numbers, or so I thought. One of them eventually agreed, the oldest of the group at fifteen, and we privately arranged to go to the witches house the following afternoon. I say privately because he said nothing at the time, did not want the others to know. I should have been warned because when I was invited in a second time my companion fled. I did not realise he had gone until she closed the door and I was alone in her house with the woman in black. Alone with the woman at the window.
I said nothing to my companions the following day, my last in that Cotswolds town. I said nothing to anyone. They knew I had been in her house, the elder boy seemed pleased that he had lured me into it. They questioned me but I said nothing. I was too ashamed. And the following day my father and I left. In all the following years I have never been back and I have never seen any of those Cotswold boys again. I had a good relationship with my father but I never told him I had been back to the strange house and the strange woman. And I never told him what had transpired. And he never mentioned it. Until a few weeks ago. He does not have long to live but still manages to get about and I often drive down to his place and take him for a drink or a meal or sometimes both. Like many older folks, especially when sensing a life beginning to reach its close, the tongue loosens and reminiscences flow. Something about wanting to be understood, before he goes, was how he put it and then laughs ruefully into his drink. Over the last few months he has told me many things I did not know. About his job, about my mother, about his own parents, and about himself. And then, the other week, about her. The woman in the window. I did know her he said. He had known her a long time. She was the reason he stayed in the Cotswolds. He knew my woman in the window and he knew what she had done.
 
Part Two
The door had closed and I realised I was alone. My companion had fled. She stood at the end of a long dark corridor, hidden from the afternoon sun, dressed in her definitive black dress. Come into the lounge she said, I have been waiting to talk to you. I thought of running, of pulling on her door and leaving, searching for welcoming air. But something stopped me, something about her dragged me forward. This woman, this witch, mesmerised. She looked both frightening and welcoming, a mixture of veiled threats and indefinable promise. I was on a strange adventure and she was my goal. Or I was hers. I thought this latter point as I followed her tall and slim figure into her lounge. I was no longer in control; all my actions of the past few weeks had been for this meeting. I wanted whatever it was she was offering even though, at fourteen, I had few clear thoughts. She sat down in a large chair and looked at me, seemingly examining every inch of me. She spoke my name and I stood before her and mumbled something in reply. I think I may have asked her how she knew or it may have been something else. An apology for being a nuisance. I know I said the latter at some point. She smiled and said I was not a nuisance, besides it did not matter, but I was interesting. She asked me about myself, was I enjoying my summer holiday, what I was doing at school. I answered all dutifully and relaxed a little. This was no local witch about to eat me; this was more like an interested aunt enquiring about her nephew. She said she was amused by my apple stealing exploits and the games I was playing but, and she looked very closely at me as she said this, all games come at a price. I clearly flinched at this comment and she laughed, gently, and told me to sit down. As I did so she said that she would make us some afternoon tea and I must tell her all about myself. And after I had told her all about myself, and before I left, she would punish me for the apple stealing. Spank me was what she said. I looked shocked and she laughed again. Don’t look so surprised she said, that is what you expected wasn’t it. That, or something similar, is what this is all about. Your game. Before you leave I shall spank you and it will be an experience you will never forget. And, one day, you will thank me for it. And then she left to make the tea. Her words rang in my ears and the fear rose in my being. But I did not run. I sat in her lounge. Transfixed.
Spank me? Is this why, deep down, I had stole her apples in an elaborate game? I did not think so. I had never been spanked and did not desire it. At least I did not think so. Physical punishment was painful. I knew so from school. Twice I had been caned at my boarding school and neither experience was pleasant. I remember my father saying on odd occasions when I annoyed, laughing while he did so, that a good spanking would do me good. Every boy should have one, at least once in their life. But it was a woman’s job, he said, and a fleeting tear entered him. My mother was dead and unspoken thoughts combined. There was no woman in our lives, only me and him. I thought of my mother as I sat uncomfortably in this woman’s lounge. She never hurt me and she died when I was seven. I had never been in close contact with any other woman. This woman, the woman in black preparing the afternoon tea, was the first female I had any close contact with. When the realisation struck me I felt a strange churning in my stomach. And I came to an adult decision, or it seemed adult at the time. After the afternoon tea and the polite chats I would let her spank me. I doubted if I had much choice anyway. But I would let her and making the decision gave me a fearful thrill. My father had said everyone should be spanked, by a woman, at least once in their lives. Well this was mine. I do not know why I stole her apples, why I played her elaborate game, but the ending made for a certain logic. I would take what she had to offer and even if I did not tell my father, or those Cotswolds boys, it would be something I could carry with me for the rest of my life. I was scared, I was in turmoil, I feared for the unknown. I feared that it would be painful and humiliating but I was prepared. When she came back, tea and cakes splendid in their promise, I knew I would not resist. A proposal that initially shocked had moved to one of acceptance. Not desire, I was too young, but an agreement that I sensed would please my father. Even though he, and those Cotswolds boys, would never know. And knowing this, recognising that this was something only between myself and the woman at the window, gave all that was possibly to follow a special privacy. I did not say, or think, let battle commence, but it would probably have been appropriate.
She did not disappoint. Given my musing anticipations all else could have been an anti climax. But this Woman at the Window, observer of fourteen year old apple stealers, knew what she intended and what she was determined to do. She served the tea and cakes and asked me more about my fourteen year old life to date. She asked me about my school evoking special interest, or so I thought, in my two painful experiences of the dreaded cane, and she asked me about my late mother. That was the most difficult bit. Especially when she asked me if my mother had ever spanked me. I said not as far as I could remember. What a pity, she said. Every boy should be spanked at least once in his life. It is an experience you can carry with you to the grave. She sounded like my father. I squirmed, fearing the way the conversation was going. The tea and cakes were nice and the conversation unthreatening. But the raising of disciplinary matters, however obliquely, increased my nervousness. I sensed the moment of truth arriving. My fears were not unfounded. I think it is time, she said. I think it is time for you, she emphasised the you, to have your bottom spanked. It is what you have wanted ever since you stepped into my garden. You may not think so but one day you will thank me for it. And saying this she rose and moved to an upright chair that had been placed in the centre of the room and, sitting down, she beckoned me to her.
I did not resist. If I did not know this what was what was going to happen when I first invaded her garden I had worked it out whilst awaiting the innocent afternoon tea. I was going to be spanked, whether I wanted it or not, and this anonymous woman was going to do it. And there would be no eyes or ears to witness the deed. That fact made it both bearable and welcoming. I moved to her with eyes fervently closed. If I could not see my humiliation then there would be no others also. That was my logic. I stopped when my trembling leg pressed against her thigh. I had arrived at the source of my distress. I was not alarmed when she undid the buttons of my trousers, I was expecting it, and I did not resist when she pulled the freed clothing down to my knees. I knew, my father’s distant laugh told me, that spanking was a woman’s job and in such circumstances trousers were not retained. He had not said it in so many words but the gist was there. So I was not alarmed, neither was I when she pulled me over her knee and placed her hands on the inside of my underpants. They quickly followed the journey of my trousers and in five seconds, was it only five seconds, my small bottom had been exposed for the worst this woman could do. I was, at fourteen, placed over a woman’s knee and, with all covering adrift, was about to be spanked on my bare backside. I felt no particular shame, in a sense it all seemed so right, and when she laughed and said my bare cheeks reminded her of her apples I knew it was. My father would approve even if, as events were to show, the rich round and smooth apples of my naked bottom were to turn a darker red than any on the woman’s tree.
My enigmatic woman in the window was no novice. I do not know, to this day, whether my being upended over her knee was the intended plan. But whether it was or not she was not going to waste the opportunity. I was well and truly spanked. Her bare palm, tantalisingly resting on my virgin skin, hit my naked bottom at least a hundred times over the next few minutes and I squirmed and squealed with the decency that any fourteen year old would show. By the end my bottom was on fire, burning in an intensity I could previously only imagine. Each sting of her palm, at least a hundred remember, slapped across my rear and caused considerable pain. I cried to be let off and gripped her legs in an unseemly fashion. I was conscious of staring at her floor, of being stretched in a strange position, and of my trousers and underpants brushing my lower legs. But most of all I was conscious of her, the woman in the black dress and her perfumed smell, and of my nakedness. One should marvel at the picture of a bared and prone boy and a severe woman bent on retribution. I had no such visions, but each time her angry palm hit into my nakedness, my bare and boyish upturned bottom cheeks, I was conscious of the smarting pain and the woman who was causing it. Nature had designed the place for such savage kisses and I both wanted her to stop and to go on forever.
 
Part Three
When my father told me he knew the woman, a woman I had never forgotten, I told him what had happened. He knew he said, he knew everything. The woman was his mistress. His lover. She wanted to meet me and when she told him about the boys stealing her apples, he laughingly said that if I was one of them she should give me a good spanking. On the bare backside. She took him literally and told him all the details when they next met. It amused him; he told her he hoped I enjoyed it in spite of the pain. I think it was then that I suspected that they had an interesting relationship. But he also told her he would never discuss it with me, unless I mentioned it. But I never had. Until now.
I had lay crying over her lap for many minutes. I did not want to rise. The heat in my bottom mirrored the burning in my head and a stirring elsewhere. I had been taken on an experience that defied understanding and I did not want it to end. I relaxed my body as her soft palms traced across my backside. The warmth of her stinging wrath mingled with the gentleness of her touch. Each inch of my nether curves was explored and I consumed the sensations. Not a word was said and I drank in every exquisite and innocent touch. I felt no shame when I rose at her bidding and allowed her to pull up my underpants, not even flinching or deflecting when she lifted them over a boyish appendage filling with desire for release. She smiled as she pulled up my trousers. I have always wanted to spank a real boy was all she said. I am pleased it was you who stole my apples. Then she rose, lightly smacked my trousered bottom, and departed with the afternoon tray. I sat in her lounge for about ten minutes, reliving all the livid pictures, and when she returned I bid a hasty goodbye. I suspected she wished to talk but, bottom still burning, I was in no mood for polite conversation. This unknown woman had just spanked me, here in her lounge, with my trousers and underpants around my knees. I had no wish to engage in prosaic chats. My father and I left the following day for London and, regrettably, I never saw her again.
I told my father all this. I told him about my visit on the last day and I told him everything that had happened, all the details. And now, thirty years later, he was filling in the gaps. We are two of a kind he said. And she was a very special woman. He did not elaborate. They lost touch over the years and the last he heard of her she was living in America with a lecturer in philosophy. For some reason this made him laugh. But he had never forgotten her, and clearly neither had I. Other than my mother she was the only woman who meant anything to him. Which is why he had never married again. She was a bit special. As he said this, finishing his drink, his eyes misted over. It was only a dying man with another memory but I knew what he meant. She was special. Certainly to me. The woman in the window. Dressed in black. The woman who, when I was fourteen, bared and spanked my behind. And I never knew her name. I still don’t. My father never told me.                                                      
Alfred Roy (2012)
 

Wednesday 31 October 2012

When you can't drop your pants, write about it.


Blogging CP stories has its compensations when you are laid up. I have hankered for some disciplinary action in recent weeks, the mood comes when you least expect it, but that strange need has coincided with a winter bug that refuses to shift. Not much fun lowering your pants for some loving whacks when you are sneezing all over the place. Two appointments, one with a beloved professional mistress and one with an enthusiastic amateur master have had to be cancelled. The lady charges, the male doesn’t, but each thwacks with consummate expertise and I was looking forward to both. I am lucky, I have said so before, as when my bottom is bared and my jewels dangling I care nothing of the gender of the strap or cane wielder. Male hands on those jewels will always evoke more pleasure but as long as the cane is true and hard across my bottom, both a master and mistress can please. Probably explains why I like Whipstock Grange. In that place, male and female teachers, bottoms are bared and trashed but all other areas remain tantalisingly untouched.
But, as I say, a persistent early winter bug has thwarted disciplinary expectations. Other folks must have the same problem and no doubt they solve it in their own private way. Excuse me doctor I have a nasty cold and a desperate urge to be thrashed on my bare bottom. Can you give me a cure for both? Unlikely. But I am lucky and a few weeks of enforced monastic solitude have driven me to my computer. The result is two tales of discipline that will be my Christmas offering to my story blog. I am pleased about that. New stories always please me more than regurgitated old ones. I detail them both below, one F/m and the other M/m, as I wish to please both types of readers. But most of all I wish to please me. And if I could not get physically whacked when I had a consuming need at least I could put myself in the place of the two boys in these stories. I am both of them, the Cotswolds Schoolboy and the Cabin Boy, and that is why writing has such wonderful compensations. Even when you are sneezing, and desperate for the real thing.
The Woman in the Window (F/m) A schoolboy on holiday in the Cotswolds steals apples from the garden of a woman who watches from her window. All is not what it seems in this enigmatic tale. He gets both a spanking he clearly desired and a later, uncomfortable, understanding of his dying father.
Sailor Beware (M/m) Inspired by an e-mailer who requested a story on sea scouts being strapped. It happened to him and he wished for its recreation. But on the sensible adage of write what you know I shifted it to the canals. Lazing on narrow boats on sundry canals was one of the joys of my life. And I got thrashed on some of them. So for sea scout read Cabin Boy and his strange companions.
I shall post them both here shortly, well in time for Christmas. I mean, let’s face it, much as all on this blog are united by smarting bottoms we all still have to shop for those bloody Christmas presents. Alfred Roy

Tuesday 16 October 2012

Floral Designs (F/f)

Have been musing about this one for a while. Could stop my healthy hits at a stroke. Lesbian story with very little bottom smacking. Hang on, I hear you say, isn't this a story site where nice male bottoms, preferably bare, get whacked by authoratitive figures, preferably female? Well, yes it is but Floral Designs came about as the result of a challenge. One of my CP friends reckons I am a good writer but equally reckons that my stories are based on personal experiences or personal fantasies. A good test of my creative abilities, he said, would be to see how I got on creating a story outside of my own experience. I took up the challenge. This is it. Posted here in spite of my doubts. My only rationale is that if I was an 18 year old Jilly I would quite like to have met a 35 year old Laura. But as my profile says, I like kinky. If you don't grab it show it to your partners, especially those who fantasise about female knickers falling in the moonlight for moments of the bizzarre. Alfred Roy
 
 
 
I suppose I should have realised something at the time of our first meeting. Should have known that she wasn’t exactly as she seemed. But you don’t think, do you? At least not along those lines. Not along the lines that say, hang on, take it easy. This woman isn’t all she is cracked up to be. She don’t play with a straight bat, or any sort of bat for that matter. And certainly not straight. I know that now. But at the time, well you don’t think do you? You just go along with everything and it is only when it is too late, only after the train has left the station with you on it, do you begin to regret the journey. And I did regret the journey, or at least I think I did, and am glad to be back home. In every sense. I have changed my mobile number and my e-mail address and if I never hear from her again it will be too soon. I think.

I met her when I went for an interview for a job. Well, actually, we met before the interview. In a café across the road from the offices where I was hoping to land the post of temporary PA to the Marketing Director of a small, but growing and innovative, company. A bit ambitious really. I was after a summer job before going to University, and if my head said go for a checkout girl job at Sainsbury’s my heart was aiming much higher. I told this woman this over coffee. Finding no free places I had asked her if she minded if I sat at her table. She seemed very nice and very smartly dressed. Over coffee I discovered that she was thirty five and her name was Laura. She wished me luck when I left for my interview and when I came back, convinced that I was not going to become the youngest temporary PA on the planet, she was still there.

Thinking about it now I can see that she had stayed in the café deliberately, waiting for me to come back. I hadn’t said I would. In fact I think I told her that I had two more interviews. But I had found her interesting. She laughed at my attempts at a joke and gave me a couple of pointers to help me impress prospective employers. And she exuded warmth. All over a quick coffee before we both, I thought, went our separate ways. But thinking about it she must have hoped that I would return. That is why she had waited. Not that she said so. All she said was ‘So quick, how did you get on?’ And I told her. And that is what was so strange. It was almost as if I was talking to a lifelong friend rather than a woman, twice my age, who I had only just met. I told her about the rather pompous secretary who eyed, and disapproved, the slip of a girl seeking a job beyond her powers. I told her about the self important Marketing Director who, amusingly, considered that this was one interview that was wasting his precious time. It was the amusingly bit I didn’t like. And I told her about the Human Resources robot who took my prosaic details with the disinterested air of someone who knew that all were destined for the dustbin of this small, but growing and innovative, company. I told her all this and when she said that if it didn’t work out maybe she could help, I could not have been more thrilled. She passed me her card and, exuding a beautifully warm smile, rose and left. I drank my second coffee of the morning convinced that a job was in the offering. The door of the small but growing and etcetera company may have closed but, unexpectedly, another was about to open.

I phoned her midway through the following week. None of my job applications had hit the bull’s eye. Too young, too inexperienced and, in one case, too ambitious. How can you be too ambitious when you are only eighteen? I needed work and I needed it soon. With each rejection I took another look at Laura’s card. It hadn’t particularly appealed when I first studied it after she left the café. ‘Laura Mowbray – Floral Designer.’ Posh name for a florist, or so I thought, and I didn’t fancy selling pansies or petunias to old ladies or geeky young men. I wanted to be a PA in a small and innovative something. But they didn’t seem to want me so, a week and three days after I met her, I gave Laura Mowbray a call.

It all went very well at the start. She was delighted to hear from me and immediately offered me a trial. Three days a week in her shop and, more interestingly, extra days assisting her on floral displays. I didn’t much fancy the shop but the promise of visits to large corporations and up market hotels appealed. And the money was so good I couldn’t afford to turn it down. Looking back I suppose that should have rung some alarm bells. Why was this stranger offering someone she knew nothing about a PA proportion salary? For selling and arranging tulips? But if bells did ring I didn’t hear them. I had the offer of a well paid job and all those vinegar faced robots who had ditched my carefully worded applications could go to somewhere hot and constricting. This Jilly girl had arrived. That’s my name. Well it’s Gillian actually, or Gill for short. But I never liked the G so I changed it to J when I was fourteen. The Y came later, probably because of that Cooper woman, and seems to have stuck. So I am Jilly to my friends and Jilly to my family. Except for my mother who insists on calling me Gillian all the time. And I was Jilly to the woman who had offered me a job. And two days after my call to her I embarked on my unexpected, and ultimately brief, career as a florist. Correction, Floral Arranger.

My first inkling that she saw me in more than the role of trainee florist came the day she came back from a spectacularly successful local business conference. Me and this other girl who worked in the shop, a quiet mousy thing, had helped her with the display the previous evening and were in the process of closing. Myra, that’s the mousy girl, rushed off to catch her bus and Laura, clearly high on business and alcohol, chatted endlessly about her day. I was standing by the counter finishing off a late order, twelve peachy pink carnations being collected at six o’clock, when one of them fell on the floor. Laura, still in a stream of recollections, bent to pick it up and, as she did so, lifted it to my face. I turned to take it as it brushed my cheek and that was when she said a strange thing. ‘It’s just like the colour of your skin’, she said, ‘Peachy Pink.’ She paused for a second and then it came. ‘God, I should love to see you naked.’ And then she laughed, gave me the carnation, and disappeared into the back of the shop. ‘Ignore me’, she said, ‘I’m drunk.’ But I couldn’t ignore her or what she had said. Before she laughed, before she handed me back the flower, I had seen the intensity in her eyes.

I am going too fast. It wasn’t the first inkling or it shouldn’t have been to anyone with half a brain. What is it the clever folks say? You have to be awake to smell the coffee. Well in some matters I was definitely comatose. But there was something else, something that a couple of weeks before should have started those bells clanging. Something that should have told me that one day the genie would come out of the bottle. And even drunkenly wrapped in carnations it should not have shocked. A couple of weeks before, mousy Myra and me were having a well earned tea break. Well it might not have been well earned but we were having it anyway. I had been working at the shop for about two weeks and whilst Myra would never become a close companion, far too quiet, she was fine as a colleague. And she enjoyed cooking and kept us all in a plentiful supply of unfriendly calories, disguised as cakes. She asked me what I was doing at the weekend. As she knew that Laura was taking me with her to a big wedding reception she was doing in Doncaster I considered it a peculiar question. But I answered it anyway. Be careful she said and, taking a bite out of a crumbly piece of flapjack, gave me what I can only call an adult look. The quiet ones are so maddening. She never said anything else, even when pressed, just be careful. But as we were locking up I asked her what she meant. Doncaster may not be everyone’s idea of heaven but it is hardly New York, or even London.  All she said was ‘Lock your room. Assuming you have your own.’ And that was it. Nothing else was said and we didn’t see each other the rest of the week. On Saturday morning Laura drove us to Doncaster, very early, and we spent three hours arranging flowers in an enormous tent. The bride’s father was a friend of hers and she had arranged for me to attend the reception. In the evening we went to the small hotel she had booked for the night and, two drinks later, we went to our separate rooms. After breakfast on Sunday a tired but contented Laura drove us back home. It was an uneventful weekend and until she brushed my cheek with that flower I had not given it, or Myra’s warning, a single thought. But I thought about it a lot afterwards, especially what Laura had said. But it didn’t stop me going with her again on another weekend trip. Another wedding reception but this time in the more glamorous Georgian town of Bath. It was halfway on the journey that she told me that the hotel she had booked only had one available room.

I still wonder why I agreed to go after all those signals. Myra had told me to be careful and hinted that hotel rooms with Laura usually came in ones. And a couple of weeks later the woman told me that she would quite like to see me in the buff. And I had thought on these things and other bits and pieces. Not least on how I had landed the job. It was becoming crystal clear that the refined, thirty five something, Laura had designs other than the floral variety. Innocent comments made in the café, in the flower shop, even in that Doncaster Hotel started to take on significant meaning. When someone tells you that they would love to see you naked you start to examine everything they said. And she had said she thought I was pretty, she had said I had lovely hair, she had said that she liked young girls in business. And, in Doncaster over an evening drink, she had said that men did nothing for her. I thought she meant that she’d had a lousy marriage but, no, she meant it literally. She didn’t like their shape. And as I rose to go to my room she said, distinctly and clearly, that she very much admired mine. And in spite of everything I still went with her on the weekend to Bath and heard what I half expected to hear just as we passed Reading.

She did see me naked. In a funny sort of way I thought it was the least I could do. The woman had given me a job and accompanying her on her floral displays was more interesting than I had, at first, thought. And her designs on me didn’t really faze me. I was no quiet, repressed, Myra. I was in your face Jilly, young and pretty and ripe for adventure. Once the seed was sown the idea, but only the idea, of being pursued by an attractive middle aged woman had an appeal to my adventurous side. I liked boys but had yet to experience them, too dangerous and messy, and a predatory and temporary employer in a fleeting summer experience had a certain charm. I wasn’t excited by the prospect of sharing a room with Laura but neither was I repulsed. I liked her, she was fun. And having a warm cuddle could be nice as long as her hands kept away from my knickers. A couple at school had tried that with no success. I wouldn’t hide from her when I showered but my body was definitely mine. So we did the reception and, with no invitation this time to join the party, toured the sights of Bath. At five o’clock Laura had to go back to the reception to finalise some business arrangements and she dropped me off at the hotel and left me to book us in. She said she would be back about seven so I arranged to shower just beforehand. I wanted to get this bit over with prior to drinks and dinner. See me naked, see it is no great shakes and let’s have a pleasant weekend. And it worked. She laughed when she saw me walk out of the shower with a towel round my head and the rest of me as bare as the day I was born. ‘So I get my wish’ she said as she took off her coat and went to the bathroom I had just vacated. I dressed quickly, satisfied that if one barrier had been taken down another, more subtle, had been erected in its place.

It must have been about two or three in the morning. I knew that because I vaguely heard a church bell chime and I didn’t hear four. Besides it was still dark and the light comes early in summer. But I was not conscious of the distant church or of the darkness pressing on me in that hotel room. As I awoke, confused at the strange surroundings and windows in the wrong place, I was first aware that my duvet had fallen off my bed. My first befuddled instinct was to lean out of the bed and pull it back but, a second from this instinctive action, a sickening fear stopped me. A hand was caressing my right leg, gently running down the lower thigh to my ankle. My senses came into crystal clear focus and it was only that heightening that suppressed the scream. A scream which, in other circumstances, would have filled the room. In the space of a couple of swirling seconds I realised three things. My nightdress had been pulled up to my waist, the hand was Laura’s, and I would relax and stay asleep. I was no longer afraid, but equally I wasn’t excited. I suppose intrigued was the best way of looking at it. But whatever happened I was not going to respond. Only time and the morning which must surely come would show the wisdom or otherwise of that.

The hand continued brushing my right leg for a few moments and then, imperceptibly, moved nearer to the top of my thigh and the elastic edge of my knickers. A second hand, as smooth and gentle as the first, joined it in caressing my left leg and both massaged a warmth to my skin which was not unpleasant. And then the hands joined across my waist and continued to explore the lower part of my body. They weaved gently across my waist and tummy and lightly played with the top of my knickers. I could feel both palms urgently pressing into this private covering and then, briefly and lightly, drawing themselves across the centre of my sex. I held my breath and kept perfectly still. After a few moments the long, well manicured, fingers of those hands inserted themselves inside my knickers and gently pulled on the clinging sides. This was it I thought. This was what the silent and anonymous Laura wanted. A revealing of her personal, compliant, Jilly. Let her do it, I said. It matters more to her than to me. Let her see me, touch me. I shall stay still and quiet. And I shall remember.

I felt the private cloth coming down, peeled off with no help from me. I did not lift myself but I did not reach out a hand to stop the progress. A few gentle tugs and the knickers were down my legs and over my feet. A layer to my inquisitive innocence had been removed. And still I lay motionless. I was conscious of my lower nakedness and could feel the air on my skin and cool cotton sheet under my bottom. And as I lay, the searching hands lifted my nightdress almost up to my breasts and then continued the gentle and minute exploration of my lower body. Not an inch of me remained untouched but not an inch was violated. The most benign was the light squeezing of my toes, the most invasive a playful twirling of my pubic hairs. It went on for only a few minutes and while it lasted I absorbed each feathery touch and examined each sensation. And when she turned me over and lightly spanked my bottom, gentle smacks mingled with equally gentle explorations, I thought this was a small price to pay. I heard the church bell chime the quarter hour as her palm smacked my cheeks for about the twentieth time. And after those few minutes I heard a wistful sigh, felt my nightdress being lowered and the duvet replaced, and sensed the owner of the searching and inventive hands return to her own bed. I lay awake until the morning light came through. By which time Laura was fast asleep.

If I was a sensible sort of person I suppose that was the point when I should have given in my notice. Lovely job Laura, but flowers aren’t for me. I want marketing and PA not marigolds and petunias. That type of thing. A quick smile, a friendly handshake and a limp goodbye. Knickers intact. But any sense I had was negated by an adventurous spirit attracted to the unknown. And besides, unlike boys, women weren’t dangerous. And also, shame to admit, I had not totally disliked what Laura had done. I had not got excited but after the initial fear I had relaxed into a passive acceptance. Her hands exploring me had released an unknown tension, enhanced by the knowledge that a shameless nakedness in the dark let me deny any culpability. And that gentle spanking had been surprisingly pleasant. You learn a lot about yourself when your pants are peeled off. I could almost hear myself saying that I ain’t a lesbian but I do like women. Or at least this one. Which is why I never said anything about the previous night over breakfast. And which is why I didn’t give in my notice.

It was Myra who first mentioned the weekend. We were making up some funeral wreaths the following Wednesday and funeral wreaths were Myra’s speciality. I reckon that’s why Laura kept her on. That and her cooking. It certainly wasn’t for her conversational skills or bedroom possibilities. But mousy Myra was a dab hand at wreaths and her immersion in this mystifying joy occasionally loosened her tongue. Well not exactly loosened, but unclamped it enough for her to speak before you did. A bit of probing whilst she wired some white lilies elicited from me that yes, we did share a room, yes, Laura did make a pass at me and no, nothing serious happened. Two truths out of three was as far as I was prepared to go. Not that the nocturnal fumblings were that serious, but I suspected that supplying details to the enigmatic Myra would be akin to confessing that I had been raped. So the knicker lowering moment remained unsaid. It didn’t stop Myra from giving me a reprise of that adult look and a re-iteration of the need to be careful. And as we were tidying up and tucking into another of her freshly made cookies she told me something else. About a year before there had been another girl, very much like me. She liked Laura very much and stayed in hotels with her. She knew Laura fancied her and, like me, was amused and intrigued by the situation. Then one Monday she came into the shop early, collected her few belongings, and left. Six weeks before she was due to start at University. Nobody had seen her since and Laura never referred to her. Never mentioned her name, never mentioned their last weekend. And never mentioned the fact that both of them had scratches on their faces.

We were driving to Alderley House, an imposing mansion in Cheshire, when Laura first referred to the weekend in Bath. Three weeks had elapsed since that significant weekend, at least to me, and for half of the time since I had been holidaying with my parents in France. Ten days of sun and beaches. And on the few occasions our paths crossed, she rarely came into the shop, the conversation was pleasant but light. I can only recall one slightly oblique reference. Myra went off sick one afternoon with a mousy migraine and Laura called in to see how I was coping on my own. She had just returned from a London trip and was pleased with the new contacts she had formed. Good for business she said. Means more weekend trips. And, looking intently at me, she said ‘And I have enjoyed taking you with me. Especially to Bath.’ I think I blushed. I am not sure if I did but I ought to have done, but I know that when my mouth opened I heard myself saying that Bath was nice. Nice. This woman had peeled off my knickers and played with my bits. I should have hit her with her floral arrangements. But I couldn’t. I liked her and I didn’t totally dislike what she did. So I said Bath was nice and, the following day, agreed to go with her to Cheshire. And it was on that journey that she asked me why I had never mentioned the fact that I went to bed in Bath wearing knickers, and when I woke up they were on the floor.

I need to take a pause here because Alderley House in Cheshire was both the real beginning and the end of my relationship with Laura. I wasn’t stupid. Laura had lit up when I agreed. Alderley House was a regular and lucrative commission. An imposing hotel, five stars and more Michelin rosettes than you could shake a stick at, and set in grounds that you could willingly die for. Myra told me all that. In addition to a substantial fee Laura got the use of one of its upmarket rooms for the night. She stayed for free and more to the point, following her invitation, so did I. Oh yes, all right, there was a cost to me and I wasn’t blind to it. A little more of the Bath experience but, in my naivety, in seemed a small price to pay for a super posh weekend in a super posh hotel with a woman I both admired and liked. And, in addition, I was being paid. A no-brainer as they say. And this is why I am pausing. I couldn’t see a downside. I was not revolted by what Laura did to me in Bath. Perhaps it was the dark, perhaps it was the early hours, but when she pulled down my knickers I realised that it was not unpleasant. That is why I stayed awake until the church bell rang for six o’clock. A woman can be so much gentler than a man. It was only when Laura asked me about my discarded underwear that I remembered that Myra had said that the girl who left suddenly the previous year did so after a weekend at Alderley House. Thankfully, I didn’t need to answer because, as she posed the question, we arrived at our one and only stop.

The big confrontation came when we were having drinks in the Alderley House lounge after a hectic but wonderful day. Laura Mowbray certainly knew her flowers and how to arrange them and, if I hadn’t guessed from other venues, the eulogies to her skills flowed as easily as the wine. She had earned an abundance of kudos and, one supposes, a serious amount of cash. And her eighteen year old assistant came in for her own bit of praise. The compliments, the surroundings, and the early evening alcohol must have softened me up. I didn’t blanch when she said that I must have known that my knickers had taken a downward journey at her own hands. I didn’t flinch when she said that a repeat was very much anticipated and desired. And I merely nodded, in an attempt at maturity, when she informed me that her Alderley House suite’s central feature was the most sumptuous and accommodating double bed. If I did not know it before I knew now that the predatory Laura was in sight of her intended goal and the target was me. I heard myself tell her I was willing and, as she smiled, I saw for the second time that intensity in her eyes that had, weeks before, stilled the peachy pink carnations.

If the evening could have ended with the dinner which followed our drinks and intense conversation my memories of Laura would not have turned from a golden glow to a miserable ash. If it had ended after our first few, tantalising minutes, in that awesome suite then the glow might have tarnished but the memory would still be positive. A reprise of our night in Bath was a passing pleasantry I could desire or accept. But nothing could prepare for the intensity of a passion I neither wanted nor expected. ‘Be careful’ Myra had said and those words mocked me as I struggled to retain an element of sanity and, simultaneously, to resist a violation of my body I both hated and rejected. And it had all started so well. We had gone to the suite after dinner, Laura had studiously kept me away from it when she deposited our overnight bags, and I changed into bedtime attire that I knew would not remain in place too long. I deliberately wore some non sexy cotton pyjamas on the basis that if you make the goods uninteresting the buyer might lose interest. It mattered not a jot. Within five minutes the pyjama top was over my head and, light mercifully extinguished, the bottoms very quickly found themselves at my feet. I was naked and waiting. So far I didn’t mind too much. As the pyjama bottoms drifted down my body I was reminded of the sensation in Bath when my knickers took the same journey. But here the similarity ends. In that distant hotel I had experienced the sensation of subtle hands fluttering across my sex and lightly raising my anticipation of sensual delights. Featherlight touches and gentle spanking. This was full blown. Laura was as naked as I was and, stripping in the dark, she was intent on fulfilling a passion I could neither imagine nor wish to experience. She clawed my breasts with a violence I found disturbing. She scratched her fingers down the side of my body with an intensity that both hurt and frightened. And as her breathing rose to a volume that unnerved me, she thrust her fingers into that part of me that should welcome an instrument of release. I could not resist. I did not want to resist. I hated what she was doing but the juices of one’s body has its own agenda. As she scratched and clawed at my nakedness, pressing her own body against mine I clutched at her ample buttocks and allowed myself to be taken. I allowed her to fill me with her perverse desires and, as I came for probably the first time, I hated myself for it.

Myra has a wonderful way of putting things. For someone who doesn’t say very much she certainly has a knack of finding the right words to dispel or illuminate a situation. She reckons that anyone who cooks can face all that life has to throw at them. Nothing can compete with four pans on the boil and a grill refusing to heat to order. Face that and you can face anything. She would make a wonderful PA for some snotty nosed, unamused, director. She said it all as I was packing my few things and preparing to leave the shop for the last time. ‘The Laura’s of this world don’t realise that life is a marathon not a sprint.’ That is all she said but I knew what she meant. Laura had ruined everything for both of us. Just like she had for that unknown girl, scratches and all, who had departed a year ago. I could cope with any number of nights of gentle lowering of my knickers or pyjamas and a fleeting touch of lesbian spanking or feminine love. But the rest was too much. I wasn’t ready. And if I ever am it will be no thanks to Laura. But I shall miss Myra’s cookies.

 

 Alfred Roy (c) 2008 Revised 2012