Gillian Jones was an extremely bossy girl. She was also a very assured one. Those who didn’t know her would be surprised by this statement. She was only fifteen and very slight in build. And given that she adopted a short, close cropped, hairstyle and regularly wore jeans she looked like an elfin, mischievous, boy. First impressions suggested that a vigorous puff of wind would blow her away.
But Gillian Jones was a young lady who knew her own mind. Highly intelligent and rich in the confidence alien to many of the confused young, she was her own person. She had an enormous sense of fun, a yearning for adventure, and a passion for theatre. And she also took more than a passing interest in boys.
And one particular boy had been engaging her attentions for a number of weeks. Andy Styles, star of last years musical, was the object of her intentions. Her delight at being cast in this years show was only matched by the knowledge that he also had a part. Andy Styles had impressed last year. She was only in the chorus but she enjoyed the impact he made, both at rehearsals and on the stage. And she was not deaf to the talk backstage concerning his transformation. The rumour was that Connie Wilmer, the director, had given him a bad time and he only kept the part by the skin of his teeth. Gillian Jones was hungry for information.
And in this new show she had a key part, opposite Mr Styles. The sub plot they called it. Juvenile romance mirroring the machinations of the stars. And Connie Wilmer, the fearsome Connie Wilmer, was directing. Gillian Jones, the bossy but likeable girl from the chorus, had three pressing reasons for engaging the affections of Andy Styles. She wanted to know him better, she wanted to know how Connie Wilmer worked, and most of all, she wanted to know what brought about his transformation last year. The pecking order of these inquisitive desires were not formally arranged in the orderly mind of Miss Jones but, if the truth be told, the last question raised the greatest interest. Know that, she thought, and everything else would fall into place. And Gillian Jones, whatever her faults, was a devotee of order and method. She was, as had been observed, an extremely bossy girl.
Andy Styles never stood a chance. He was captivated by Gillian Jones from their first rehearsal. At their second run of their parts to block their moves he couldn’t take his eyes of her, and somewhere during the third or fourth run of their scenes he fell hopelessly in love. Books were still in hands, Mrs Wilmer’s direction more concerned with positions than emotion, but Gillian Jones had captured her first teenage heart. She was much too assured to let such things go to her head but she liked Andy, and with careful calculation she invited him out to tea.
So, a few days later, Andy and Gillian Jones found themselves sitting in the same tearoom that Connie Wilmer had frequently visited with her teacher friend. Gillian Jones enjoyed the grown up feel of the English tearoom, Andy Styles was distinctly more uncomfortable. But the adult world beckoned, and Miss Jones enjoyed playing the part. And she enjoyed the company of a young man who both interested and fascinated. And, more to the point, a young man besotted with her. She sipped her tea and went straight for the jugular.
‘So. What happened?’
‘What?’
‘You and Mrs Wilmer? We all want to know’.
Andy Styles looked at the young lady sitting opposite him. She had a provocative twinkle in her eye and a beguiling smile on her lips. Both signalled his falling into her trap. He had enjoyed this afternoon interlude, their first time alone since rehearsals started. Personally the local café would have been more to his style but just being alone with Gillian Jones was enough. She was both enormous fun and very talented. And she excited him. He was far too young to do anything about it but, blushing and shaking in her presence, he knew he was in the blissful throes of a first love. He desired nothing more than to walk along the local riverbank holding her hand. She clearly wanted more. She wanted to talk and tease. And in their talk they came to Mrs Wilmer.
‘We all want to know.’ She said it again, testing him. ‘Or at least I do. What did Mrs Wilmer do to make you such a good boy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s the truth. She threatened me with the sack from the show, that’s all.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing more?’
Gillian Jones giggled. ‘Then why are you blushing. You are. Your face is almost beetroot.’ She stopped and looked at him gently. ‘Sorry, only teasing. Do you want some more cake?’ She signalled the waitress as if to the manor born, and ordered some more cake before Andy had a chance to answer her. The switch in focus gave him an opportunity to gather his thoughts.
There was no way he was going to tell her, the girl he loved, that Connie Wilmer had spanked and strapped him in her house. And done it on his bare bottom. The penance he had to pay to get back into the last show, There was no way he was going to tell Gillian Jones any of that. And there was no way either that he was going to tell her that, deep down, he would be more than willing to go through it all again. That, deep down, he wanted to go through it all again. Connie Wilmer had ignited a special fire in Andy Styles. But being dominated by an older woman was a separate, private, desire far removed from the joys and sorrows of a teenage love. Gillian Jones and Mrs Wilmer occupied different compartments of his life. He wanted to keep it that way.
And he did keep it that way, at least for the rest of that afternoon. They finished their tea, and ate their cake, and talked about the show. They also talked about school, and parents, and trips abroad. But they mainly talked about the show. But they avoided any mention of Mrs Wilmer. Until they were leaving. As they stepped outside the tearoom, Gillian Jones took Andy’s hand in hers and turned to him. The eyes that previously mocked and teased had a disconcerting intensity.
‘I don’t mind if she spanked you. I won’t tell anyone.’ She said it breathlessly, intimately. And, having said it, she kissed him, gently smiled and walked away. And Andy Styles loved her even more.
Things went on a fairly even keel for the next few weeks. Rehearsals for the show went smoothly. Andy and Gillian enjoyed each others company but never alluded to the tearoom conversation and never met outside of rehearsals. Gillian Jones still teased and Andy Styles still blushed, but their teenage romance stalled. Life had too many distractions to allow such a complex relationship to flower. The test would be when the show was over. That was the general form in such matters. They would either go their separate ways or arrange to meet and explore an incipient love. But for the foreseeable future the show was everything.
In four weeks they were on. And their director was honing in on inherent weaknesses. And for Gillian Jones and Andy Styles that meant a private rehearsal. At Connie Wilmer’s house. They weren’t the only ones. Most of the principals were going to be put through their paces in private. It was the usual way of such things. But for Andy Styles a private rehearsal at Mrs Wilmer’s brought back painful memories mixed with inexplicable excitement. As Mrs Wilmer made the announcement and arranged the appropriate dates he experienced a surge of unwarranted anticipation. Unwarranted because Gillian Jones would be there as well. Mrs Wilmer wanted to go through their key scenes. This was not like the last time. He looked across at Gillian Jones and smiled. The three of them alone, in Connie Wilmer’s house, would be a pleasurable experience.
And Gillian Jones smiled back. She knew what Andy was thinking. His beetroot blush in the tearoom had said it all. He was remembering events passed. And it was just possible it might happen again. And if it did she wanted to see it. In fact she wanted to see it so badly, she was even prepared to go through it herself. She had thought about this ever since their afternoon tea. Connie Wilmer had private rehearsals. It was almost inevitable that she and Andy would explore their intensive scenes in the privacy of that imposing house. He had been spanked there. And he had enjoyed it. His whole demeanour broadcast it. He would enjoy it again. And to be spanked with him would be an exciting, exquisitely, different experience.
She had seen a boy spanked at school last year and was absolutely fascinated. He had been stealing things in the cloakroom and a suspicious teacher laid a trap for him. The teacher was so incensed that he didn’t realise she was there. He upturned the boy and whacked him a dozen times on his shorts. With a strap. The boy howled and Gillian Jones watched in rapture. He had such a nice, tight, bum and seeing it being walloped was the most exciting incident of her young life. So Gillian Jones planned, in her determined and single minded way, how best to bring to fruition such an unlikely bizarre event as the wrath of Mrs Wilmer.. And the smile she sent back to Andy Styles spoke volumes.
But, whatever her plans, Gillian Jones was to be singularly disappointed. The rehearsal round Connie Wilmer’s imposing house was just that. A rehearsal. They read through their scenes, listened intently as Mrs Wilmer took them through the lines point by point, and then played each one for all it was worth to their sole audience. Only one late scene, requiring a first passionate kiss, caused problems. But eventually they found the level that Mrs Wilmer was looking for.
‘Perfect dears, perfect. You are both going to be very good. Just a little more concentration on that last scene and it will be there.’ Mrs Wilmer closed the rehearsal book and, simultaneously, lit herself a cigarette.
Just for a moment Gillian Jones was tempted to say that being so good had escaped them both a spanking but, observing the relaxed director, she thought better of it. It was a small opportunity, indeed the only opportunity of an intense theatrical afternoon, but discretion determined it was best to let it pass. Besides, a beetroot Andy spoiled his looks. And she was convinced that he would blush. Connie Wilmer had a habit of smacking her hands together when she was pleased, and every time that sound filled the room Andy stiffened. It might have been her imagination, but she didn’t think so. They both started to leave. Andy was very quiet whereas Gillian Jones was extremely chatty. It had been a good rehearsal and they would both be a success.
She was thinking along these lines when Andy turned back to the house.
‘I’ve left my script. I need to go back and get it. You go on, I’ll catch you up.’ He said it mechanically, almost as if the words were programmed.
‘No, it’s all right. I’ll wait’. Gillian was in no hurry.
‘No. Carry on, I’ll catch you up. Really.’ And then what followed put Gillian Jones on full alert. ‘Or if I don’t, I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow night.’
Gillian was about to say okay, but before she had any chance he was gone. On his way back up the path. She stood there, thinking. Why shouldn’t she wait? He was only going back to pick up his script. And if she walked on, why shouldn’t he catch her up? Why should he say he might not? She slowly walked down the county road musing on these particular points. Andy had gone back to collect his script. But he thought he might be a long time. What had Mrs Wilmer said to him as they were leaving? Gillian searched her mind. There was nothing. She hadn’t said anything. Except. Yes there was one thing, when they were picking up their coats. What was it? She closed her eyes in concentration, picturing them all in Mrs Wilmer’s hallway. Mrs Wilmer had said something. Something that had registered with Andy? Some signal. What was it? And then she remembered. It was some comment about the antique clock in the hall. It had stopped at five o’clock .
‘My husband is going to take it in tomorrow to get it fixed. When he gets back from Germany
That was what she had said. When her husband gets back from Germany
Connie Wilmer knew nothing of the drama that was being played out in Gillian Jones’ young mind. She had bid them goodbye and waited. She was well aware that her disciplining of Andy Styles before the previous show had been a defining moment in both their lives. She had found it incredibly ecstatic and, judged by his demeanour, Andy Styles was equally affected. She had dropped the occasional, oblique, hint that she was not averse to a repeat. What was it she said during a break at the rehearsal two weeks ago? Something about him being very good. Something about no need for sharp lessons this time. And seeing him blush when she said it. Seeing the memory of that chastisement etched in his eyes. So, after this rehearsal she had dropped him a small, inconsequential, hint. She was alone. If he wanted to come back to fulfil the need in both of them, she was more than ready. It wouldn’t be like last time. That was scholastic. That was a penalty. If Andy came back today it would be pure pleasure, for both of them. She said none of this as she stood by her antique clock. Merely that her husband was on business in Germany
So Andy Styles had gone back to Connie Wilmer’s house. He rang her bell and, when she answered, mumbled something about leaving his script behind. And Connie Wilmer had called him a naughty, forgetful, boy. And she had taken his hand and led him to her living room. The room where, some weeks ago, she had lashed his bare behind with a vicious strap. And she sat down on her sofa and drew him to her. Without saying anything she undid the top button of his jeans. Without saying anything she unzipped the jeans and pulled them down to his ankles. And without saying anything she placed her fingers in the top of his underpants and sent them on the same journey. He stood before her, living the moment he had so often yearned for since that February afternoon.
‘This spanking is long overdue, Andy.’ She said it as a matter of fact and pulled him over her knee.
‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’ He waited, willing the next act of this private drama.
As if on cue Connie Wilmer lifted his light sweater away from his bottom and, as she tucked it around his waist, she admired the beauty revealed. The two delicate, quivering, cheeks displayed their marble white glory. The smooth and hairless buttocks of Andy Styles cried out for the hand of chastisement. And her hand this time would be enough. This would be pure pleasure for her and exquisite pain for him. His excitement was obvious, an uncontrollable eager boyhood had started to press against her thighs, and that alone deserved a spanking. So she did. With relish. And only with her mature and womanly hand.
For a good five minutes she smacked the boyish cheeks from a gentle pink to a scarlet red. She smacked the crown of his left buttock, the crown of his right, the top of his thighs and that lower point where all private desires met. After the first minute he wiggled, after the second he squirmed and by the third, erection dispersed, young Andy Styles was a bawling and begging boy. But he stuck it out for the full five minutes of Connie Wilmer’s ministrations. It was what he wanted, what he most desired. To be over this woman’s knees, pants down, having his naked bottom severely spanked was a joy beyond explanation. And if he sobbed, as he did by the end, they were tears of painful joy. And for a few moments, after Mrs Wilmer had ceased the delicious dance on his young behind, Andy Styles was content to remain across her knees. The throb in his bottom was more than matched by his inner peace. A tranquillity enhanced by the delicate stroke of her hand that, having inflicted searing pain, now gently soothed. Neither said anything. Words were superfluous. Only his quiet sobbing broke the silence. Until Connie Wilmer, still stroking the surface heat of the wonderfully naked and fiery backside of her favourite boy, looked up to her window. For gazing in at the picture, mouth open and eyes ablaze, was Gillian Jones. And Gillian Jones had seen all.
The exact sequence of the next few minutes was never precisely determined. Ask Andy Styles and he would probably say, assuming he was prepared to say anything about such an afternoon, that Connie Wilmer abruptly brought matters to a close. One second he was lying blissfully over her knee in that state only a few are privileged to savour, and in the next his jeans were yanked up and he was being pushed out of her door. Conscious only that his underpants were ill placed for a hasty exit, he left convinced that husbands on business didn’t always stick to well defined plans. Ask Connie Wilmer and she would say, after suppressing her initial irritation with herself for failing to draw the curtains, the girl got what was coming to her. If Andy Styles made a hasty exit, the girl seemed rooted to the spot. The least she could do was invite her in to explain.
Ask Gillian Jones and she would say, and probably embellish it, that having strapped a boy, the woman desired to repeat the experience with a girl. When Andy Styles took flight she made a futile attempt to follow. A firm hand stayed her departure and before she had chance to offer any protestations she was in the house, with the front door firmly shut.
The truth of the situation, especially concerning the mysterious Mrs Wilmer and the teasingly tomboyish Gillian Jones, was somewhat different. As Andy Styles disappeared down the county road, a warm glow in his jean clad bottom reminding that most of today’s events were welcomed, a variation on an old theme was about to take place.
Gillian Jones was sitting on Connie Wilmer’s sofa. The same sofa on which Mrs Wilmer had sat with Andy Styles over her knee. And Gillian Jones had seen it all. Exactly has she had hoped. Well almost. She would have preferred to be in the room. To hear the smacks and the squeals. But she had seen enough. Her Andy had been spanked. By Mrs Wilmer. And she had seen it all. Including his bare bottom. His blushes would be even deeper the next time they met. And now she was here. Connie Wilmer had brought her in and sat her down. And then she had disappeared. Without saying anything. She didn’t seem angry. She didn’t seem anything. She was very composed. She had just sat Gillian Jones down and told her to wait. And then she had gone. And then just as suddenly she was back. And in her hand she had a strap. A long and very thick strap. A vicious looking strap. And she put it down on her coffee table and crossed to her window and drew the curtains. Then she crossed to the door and put on the living room light.
‘Take off your jeans.’ It was the first thing she had said since entering the room.
‘No.’ Gillian was surprised with the emphasis of her refusal.
‘I said take off your jeans, Gillian.’
‘No. You can’t make me.’
‘Oh I think I can. Besides it is what you want isn’t it?’ Mrs Wilmer smiled as she said this.
‘No. I don’t want that.’ Gillian looked across at the strap.
‘I’m sure you don’t. Neither did Andy. But I gave him no choice, and I am giving you none either. Now take off your jeans.’
‘You can’t spank me. I haven’t done anything.’ Gillian, in spite of her usual poise, was getting concerned. It was not meant to be like this.
‘I am not going to spank you. I think you would enjoy it too much. I am going to give you a well deserved strapping. That little behind of yours has been crying out for it for weeks. You have trespassed on my property. So, for the last time, take off your jeans. Now. Your introduction to my sturdy friend is going to be memorable.’
‘I haven’t trespassed. I came back because of Andy.’
‘I know why you came back. You have made that pretty clear over the last few weeks. Well, tease Andy Styles any more and I shall be able to tell him that you had a taste of the same medicine.’ Connie Wilmer waited, assessing the affect she was having on a girl who was usually so composed.
‘And if I refuse?’ The words came out hesitatingly. For once in her young life Gillian Jones was not in control.
Connie Wilmer considered. This young lady had been amused by the talk in the rehearsal room about Andy. Rumours abounded as to how he had been brought into line. Her innate intelligence and sense of fun had, unerringly, pinpointed the special hold that his director had over him. And it excited her. So much so that, very subtly, she had hoped to engineer a repeat.
Connie Wilmer had seen this in the way spoke to Andy, and in the various hints she had dispersed. And, failing all else, she had come back and played the voyeur. Witnessed a private moment between two like minded souls. And she would go away and taunt and tease him more. From imagining the pain and joy of Andy’s experiences she would be able to say ‘I saw you being spanked. I was at the window.’ She would taunt and tease him even more, and his blushes would grow ever deeper. Mrs Wilmer considered all this before replying, and determined that Gillian Jones should have no advantage over Andy Styles.
‘If you refuse I shall dismiss you from the show.’
‘No. You can’t do that.’ Gillian Jones was mortified and incipient tears filled her eyes. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘Oh, I can.’ Connie Wilmer said this with a confidence she did not feel. Replacing this girl at this late stage would cause her untold problems, and she had no intentions of doing so. But in these special, private circumstances, it was a worth saying in an attempt to achieve her aim. ‘I can, Gillian. And I will if I have to. So I think you had better do as you are told for once. Take off your jeans.’
Gillian Jones knew, or thought, she had lost. The tears welled in her eyes. In the abstract she had been amused by the thought of Mrs Wilmer collectively spanking her and Andy. The reality, alone in this room with the determined woman and her formidable strap, was somewhat different. But in admitting her defeat, she threw out one last plea.
‘Please Mrs Wilmer. I didn’t mean anything. I just wanted to see you spank Andy. Let me keep my jeans on. I promise I won’t struggle.’
Connie Wilmer picked up the strap. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying seeing this young, assured, girl squirm. The teasing, taunting eyes that had mesmerised Andy Styles for many weeks were beginning to fill with tears. There was no one to show off to now. She was alone. Alone with Mrs Wilmer and her strap. And Mrs Wilmer was waiting. Waiting for her to take down her jeans. And Gillian Jones was terribly afraid that it would not stop there. She tentatively started to undo her jeans.
‘Please Mrs Wilmer.’
‘Take them off. And your knickers,’
‘No. Oh please, not that.’
‘Yes. You are going to get this strap on your bare bottom. Just like Andy.’
‘No. No. I can’t. That will hurt. Please Mrs Wilmer. Not on the bare. Let me keep my clothes on. I promise I’ll behave.’
‘Take them both off. I am getting impatient.’ Mrs Wilmer illustrated her impatience by tapping the strap against her side. ‘I have seen Andy’s bottom and he is a boy. Surely I am entitled to see yours.’
‘You can’t do this, you can’t do this.’ Gillian Jones said this but, in contradiction, did as she was bid. The jeans came off followed by a small pair of white cotton knickers and the, by now tearful girl, stood in front of Mrs Wilmer dressed only in a fetching pair of pink socks and an equally pink small tee-shirt. So small that Mrs Wilmer idly noted the tiny, light and soft down which covered her obvious sex. Realising her vulnerability Gillian placed her hands in front of her and, simultaneously, registered the more pressing vulnerability behind. The pink tee-shirt covered naught and Gillian Jones cursed her fashion choice. She tried a final plea.
‘Please Mrs Wilmer, give me a spanking. I can take that. I am sure I can. But, please not the strap. Not that strap on my bare bum. I can’t, I can’t.’
‘Yes you can. Bend over the sofa’
Connie Wilmer blessed her luck. Never had she had such a feeling of power. And with a girl. This was a first and it was most enjoyable. And strapping this particular girl was going to be a particular pleasure. This was the company tease. A young and tiny, boyish, tease. And she was standing before her, tearful and bare bottomed, waiting her due. And Connie Wilmer was going to teach her a lesson she would never forget.
‘I can’t. Honestly. I shall scream. They will call the police.’ Who they were, Mrs Wilmer didn’t ask. As Gillian Jones continued her pleading she put her hand on the girl’s neck and pushed her over the arm of her sofa. The pert and boyish bottom stuck out provocatively. The small pink top fell no further than the young slim waist. Connie Wilmer’s target area was ready for the worst her strap could do.
‘Think yourself lucky. I made Andy touch his toes. You have my sofa to hold on to.’
And, as she said this, Connie Wilmer thought about the vicious strapping she had given Andy Styles. After his spanking she had bent him over and thrashed his upturned backside. With him she was conscious of the dangling penis and the bulbous testicles. Looking at Gillian Jones she was acutely aware that such boyish manifestations were absent. But in all other respects these pert bottom cheeks, smooth and hairless, were enticing in their allure. She gently laid the strap across the quivering cheeks and measured her aim.
Gillian Jones tensed, conscious of cold leather stroking her naked bottom. This was it. It wasn’t the spanking she had envisaged, almost desired. This wasn’t the gentle dance of chastisement that her fertile mind had conjured. This was a more serious and vicious scenario. As the leather tapped impatiently, searching for the most appropriate place on Gillian Jones behind, the girl’s tears flowed. Never had she felt so vulnerable, so exposed. She was about to be strapped on her abject nakedness and she was afraid. As Mrs Wilmer searched, with her uncaring strap, for the area of Miss Jones’ buttocks which would feel the greatest effect the girl held her breath.
And then Mrs Wilmer struck. The strap lashed down and Gillian Jones screamed. The searching weapon cut across the centre of her buttocks and created an unbearable fire. The effect was so electrifying that the second and third strokes fell almost immediately. ‘Thwack’ ‘Thwack’ ‘Thwack.’ Gillian Jones screamed, writhed and pleaded. But it did no good. With her left hand Connie Wilmer held Gillian Jones in place, with her right hand she wielded the strap onto the inviting cheeks, and as the eighteen strokes fell she discovered an indescribable joy. Thrashing a girls backside could be as pleasurable as thrashing a boys. And, devoid of any overt sexuality, it could be even better. As her strap contacted with the bare and vulnerable rear of this tearful girl, Connie Wilmer discovered a new aspect to her dominant character. This was pure chastisement. Gillian Jones didn’t see it that way. To her there was nothing pure about the chastisement that her backside had suffered. To her it was eighteen excruciating strokes of a strap across her bare bum. As each stroke fell across her cheeks she screamed and screamed. That leather strap joined with her bottom in an extravagant and exquisite kiss. It created a fire in the rear of Miss Jones which would remain for a long time. Every one of those eighteen strokes said to her bare behind that Andy Styles was special. You tease him at a cost to yourself.
And those eighteen strokes meant, for a couple of weeks and more, that Gillian Jones carried a number of unsightly weals. For a few days, she had a throbbing soreness in her behind as a constant reminder. And, to her obvious chagrin, she had the memory of how she had tearfully pleaded to be let off. That was the worst memory. Being strapped by Mrs Wilmer was one thing. Begging for forgiveness stuck in her throat. It didn’t fit with her image of herself.
Bending over Mrs Wilmer’s sofa, jeans and knickers lost, had realised a different Gillian. And when that strap did its work on her naked behind she had abandoned any sense of decorum. Gillian Jones had discovered, by the courtesy of a dominant lady, she was no more assured than the blushing and hesitant Andy Styles.
So when they met in her favourite tearoom a couple of weeks after the latest show, Gillian Jones was a little subdued in the company of Andy Styles. Her taunting was of a lower key, and her teasing almost non existent. She had seemed less than her usual ebullient self for the last two weeks and, whilst the show had gone well, Andy was both surprised and relieved when she had suggested a post production meeting. He was still besotted with this enigmatic elf and a chance to be alone together, to talk and reminisce created a welcome frisson of anticipation.
And for a little while they did talk. They talked about the show, they talked about their success and they talked about Mrs Wilmer. Both agreed she was an amazing woman, both agreed that she brought out the best in you, and both agreed that they wanted to work with her again. But neither talked about their own personal experiences with Mrs Wilmer, and Gillian Jones certainly dropped no hint that she had seen things denied to most young girls. But when Mrs Wilmer suddenly appeared, in that very English tearoom, and approached their table both felt a sudden feeling of inexplicable excitement.
‘I am glad I find you here,’ she said. ‘It will save a few phone calls. I am casting a new show. I can see you both in it. How do you fancy coming to tea one afternoon to discuss it?’
And that was it. She smiled sweetly, left them copies of the script, and departed as suddenly as she had arrived. But that brief meeting fired off more detailed conversations regarding the mysterious Mrs Wilmer. Conversations in which Andy Styles gave details to Gillian Jones of his introduction to an unwelcome strap. And, as she replied in kind, Gillian Jones confessed the voyeuristic role which preceded her come-uppance. And, forgetting the pain of their introductions to Mrs Wilmer’s vicious friend, they both laughed.
And that really is it. Three weeks later they, together, went for tea at Mrs Wilmer’s and discussed the new show. And after further discussion on other matters, they both found themselves, together, bent over the bottom of Mrs Wilmer’s bed. Andy Styles’ jeans and underpants were at his ankles and Gillian Jones shorts and knickers were similarly placed. Their two bare and white bottoms were similarly upturned, side by side, quivering in mutual anticipation. Gillian Jones closed her eyes. Andy Styles closed his. Both thought intently about their naked rears, cool to the afternoon air. Gillian Jones thinking about the coming strap on her naked behind. Andy Styles fearing he would get it worst. And as Mrs Wilmer entered the bedroom, strap in hand, they squeezed their combined hands and looked hopefully at each other.
‘Ladies first, I think.’ said Mrs Wilmer. ‘And then we shall have tea.’
And as she said it, that relentless strap cracked down on the young and naked behind of the previously assured and bossy Gillian Jones.
Alfred Roy