There is something very special about being fifteen. You are only there for a year of your life but, in some peculiar way, those twelve months encapsulate a lifetime. I mean, being five, or seven, or nine is just part of a childhood tapestry. Thirty six or forty two merge into an ill defined ‘middle age’. And nineteen, twenty eight, or sixty three are just numbers on that journey we all, if we are lucky, make. And pick a few others. Was eleven particularly special? Did thirty four mark you out as somebody different? Can you remember anything you did when you hit twenty two? Or fifty one? No., most are just numbers marked by yet another inappropriate card, or a few too many beers. But fifteen? That is different. That is the age when you were a divided self, on the cusp of the adventure of life. Not yet a man, but waving goodbye to boyhood. That is the age when you press you nose against the window of the grown up world and still take comfort in the grubby knees of a close and familiar childish yesterday.
So life is difficult when you are fifteen. You don’t realise it at the time but it is your year of change. One day, during this difficult year, you will fall asleep a boy, but wake up nearly a man. For most folks it just happens and, in an imperceptible blink, they move from gobstoppers and conkers to the world of smoke filled pubs and girls without anyone noticing when the change took place. Least of all themselves. You file away the toys of childhood and enter a new and harsh world and, even if you live to be ninety, have no insight into that day when all changed.
But some are different. Some are luckier, or more unfortunate, depending on the point of view. Some can mark, almost to the minute, certainly the day, when that change in their life took place. When they stopped being a boy and emerged, after some significant experience, a man. And one such boy was Andy Styles. Like many of his kind, swirling in that confused world of the young ‘teenage’, Andy Styles was always being told to ‘grow up’. To ‘act his age’. To follow the rules of adults. But at the same time, to ‘know his place’, to ‘have respect for his elders’, to ‘do as he his told’. Well they couldn’t have it both ways. He either ‘grew up’ or he ‘did as he was told’. Trouble was he had no inherent gift for the former or any incipient desire for the latter. Boyhood still beckoned and adulthood mocked an invite, and to step from one to the other required a definite push.
And Andy Styles got that push. Unlike many of his contemporaries Andy Styles crossed the divide on a day that would remain forever etched in his memory. Not for him a vague and distant past when youthful confusions melted into adult certainty. Not for him a feeling that, somewhere along the line, he grew up. For him, for Andy Styles, it was one particular day. One particular day, just before his sixteenth birthday. Or more particularly, one late February afternoon. For on that typically dull and dismal February afternoon Andy Styles got his comeuppance. He got it with the help of a formidable lady. A lady who went by the name of Connie Wilmer. And Connie Wilmer, single-handedly, thrust Andy Styles into manhood. And not by any conventional method suggested by boy and woman together on some February afternoon. Connie Wilmer had her own methods. And to discover those methods, to peer into the special relationship of young Mr Styles and the mature and assured Mrs Wilmer, we need to wind back a few weeks.
To a few days before the previous Christmas when a teacher friend of Mrs Wilmer’s singled out Andy Styles and held forth the offer of juvenile lead in the local society’s latest musical. Mrs Wilmer was a resident director. The society needed a boy, one with enough talent to sing and dance as well as act, and Andy Styles fitted the bill. He was the right age, he was the right build, and he showed enough in school productions to convince his teacher that he had a natural talent for the stage. Whether he could transfer his promise to the disciplines and rules of a full blown adult company remained to be seen. Connie Wilmer was warned that he had the natural unpredictability and unreliability of fifteen year olds. Someone a little older may be a better option. But she was also assured that he had the talent. She was prepared to take the risk. The youngest male in her company was twenty three and touched the scales at fourteen stone. A long way from the slight and wiry leprechaun’s figure she had in mind. She considered using a girl, the society had a surplus of those, but such options were not to Mrs Wilmer’s taste. If she could get a talented boy, even an undisciplined and unreliable one, she would take the chance. She had a good cast and she had a good reputation as a director. Moulding this company round a young male lead would be an exciting project. And neither she nor he would let the company down. Mrs Wilmer would make sure of that.
And initially it was all plain sailing. Connie Wilmer and her teacher friend were both delighted with the way matters progressed and relieved that nagging fears were not realised. Andy Styles turned in an almost perfect audition, pleased the company at the early rehearsals with his punctuality and dedication, and in a short time dazzled his fellow actors with his natural staging skill. A new young star was definitely on the local musical block. If anyone had any doubts about the advisability of placing so much trust in one so young they both kept it to themselves and, grudgingly, recognised that the doubts seemed to be ill placed. This particular fifteen year old was a professional to his fingertips. And due praise was regular showered on him during early rehearsals.
Reflecting on the situation long after the show was over, Connie Wilmer considered this adulation to be the real culprit in a few fraught weeks. A combination of relief and delight in finding an unexpected winner had led the company to drop their guard. They still praised Andy Styles when some rehearsals pieces were little more than adequate. They sympathised when a couple were downright bad. He was only fifteen. He did have a lot of homework. He had stepped in to an adult world with no preparation. He was going to be good. But the damage was done, and Connie Wilmer was as much an architect as all the others. The early praise had fed a youthful ego. Andy Styles might be good, but talent and hard work go together. That is why you have rehearsals. And, fuelled by that early praise, Andy Styles considered he could ease up. Rehearsals are hard work when you are fifteen. And life has many other distractions. He could do the part but he wasn’t going to sweat for eight dreary weeks. Some rehearsals were boring, especially those when he had little to do or say. They didn’t need him all the time.
So Andy Styles stopped going, or turned up late, or took little interest in the proceedings. He mucked about when others rehearsed and held on to his book long after others had put theirs down. Occasionally he gave glimpses of the talent seen in the early days, when discipline and dedication had an unfamiliar novelty, but overall his commitment suffered. And it suffered so much that tongues began to wag and fingers started to point.
Even Connie Wilmer, loathe to publicly amplify her disappointment, bawled him out after he turned up half an hour late for a key scene. And she bawled him out again when she discovered he had been in a local café celebrating a friend’s sixteenth birthday and missed the scheduled time. And, when he missed another rehearsal and sent a friend to give his feeble excuse, Connie Wilmer resolved to do something about it. And that something was to threaten young Mr Styles with the sack.
It was a bit of a risk. He might be relieved, glad of the excuse to walk away. Happy to leave her to face a few smug company faces and the task of finding a late replacement. But Connie Wilmer was an astute judge of people, especially actors. All her instincts told her that not only would Andy Styles be very good in the part but, deep down, he wanted to do it. And seeing the shock and disappointment on his face when she gave him her news, Connie Wilmer knew she was not mistaken. Andy Styles wanted to do this show. He loved being the centre of attention, and he loved the praise he had initially received. He just found it difficult to give the level of commitment required. He always intended to, but friends could be very persuasive. And, besides, the show was still over a month away. And when you are fifteen, a month seems an awfully long time.
But he got the message. Loud and clear. And he made a big effort to improve. For the next few rehearsals he arrived on time, even got their early on one occasion, and did his scenes without his book. He concentrated, worked on his lines when others were doing their bit, and stayed late for big number scenes in which he had little to do. But the effort took its toll. By the fourth rehearsal following his bawling he was becoming restless again. So he didn’t turn up for the fifth, arrived very late for the sixth, and sent a feeble message with a friend on the seventh. It was half term week and he didn’t think they rehearsed, so he had gone to the pictures with some friends. He turned up for the eighth, but he needn’t have bothered. At that rehearsal, privately, away from the whispering tongues and searching eyes of the others, Connie Wilmer gave him the sack.
To say that Andy Styles was devastated was to put it mildly. But as the teacher friend of Connie Wilmer put it, he was his own worst enemy. He had the talent, he had the ability, but he was congenitally incapable of giving the necessary commitment. All his teacher’s sympathies were with her friend. Connie Wilmer had put her faith in him and, after fleeting initial promise, he had let her down. She had to go back to the company, tell them she had been wrong and rapidly search for a late replacement. And whilst doing so she would be conscious of the silent disapproval of those in the company who had questioned the wisdom of her choice. And the show would take a decided dip with only three weeks to go. And she would have to work that much harder to pull it together. And pull it together with a new and different juvenile lead. And all because of him. Because he couldn’t commit. No, all the sympathies of Andy Styles’ teacher were firmly with her friend.
And she told her so when she and Connie Wilmer met for afternoon tea a couple of days after the sacking. Andy Styles had learnt a hard lesson, in the long run it would do him good. Connie Wilmer agreed, but also pointed out that in the short run she still had a show to put on. And she had to find a replacement. In her view an unnecessary replacement. All her instincts told her that this boy would be good for the show, and the show would be good for him. But he had given her no choice. They sipped their afternoon tea and considered the situation. And over the delicate cakes and refreshing tea in the ambience of a very English tearoom, they agreed that Mr Styles should be given one last chance.
There were still three weeks to go. The show committee had not yet been told of Andy’s sacking. She sent him home that night because he had a virus. That’s what they thought. Or if they thought otherwise, no one expressed it. So they both agreed that, on balance, the boy should be given just one last chance. And his teacher left her friend both pleased at the rethink and full of admiration for the stoicism. The Andy Styles of this world task the patience of everyone. Connie Wilmer clearly has a generous nature. But as her friend left the tearoom, Connie Wilmer was thinking along very different lines. Yes, he could come back. Yes he would be a star in her show. But he would learn a dear lesson before he next stepped into her rehearsal room. He would come back on her terms. This boy was due for a comeuppance. It would do him good. Perhaps, subconsciously, it was what he wanted. Both he and she were about to find out. Because Connie Wilmer phoned him the same night. She asked him if he still wanted to be in the show. At his positive response she told him to come to her house the following afternoon. At four o’clock . For a private rehearsal. And before he could sensibly gather any questions in his mind, she calmly put down the phone.
Andy Styles spent most of the following day musing on that phone call. He had to go through a number of dreary lessons, but his mind was elsewhere. The call was unexpected and the conversation brief. In fact other than saying yes to most of Mrs Wilmer’s questions and instructions, Andy had contributed very little. He was both amazed at her offer to keep him in the show and a little inhibited by her forceful and determined manner. And he was also a little afraid. She sounded like a woman on a mission, like someone assured by a definite plan. And the way she said ‘Private Rehearsal’ seemed to be invested with an awful lot of meaning. Andy Styles thought a lot about Mrs Wilmer that day, and he thought a lot about the large house she lived in on the county road. And he thought about four o’clock . And that initial fear grew and mingled with an inner excitement that he could not explain.
It may have surprised young Andy, but Connie Wilmer was going through the same emotions of excitement and fear as him. She knew she was going to undertake a tremendous risk. The risk induced the excitement; the possibility that it could all go wrong induced the fear. She had planned very carefully. Her husband was away on business, her daughters at college, and her daily help always finished by two o’clock . The house was very large and detached, set imposingly in its own grounds. She was very much alone. And at four o’clock a young fellow was going to walk up her path. And before he left, if she had her way, he was going to be soundly beaten. That was the risk, that was the excitement.
Connie Wilmer had thought about this latter point very carefully. She wanted Andy Styles in the show but he had to display the necessary commitment. Events had progressed too far to blandly accept his word that things would be better from now on. He had to show that commitment in some concrete term. He had to convince her that for these last three fraught weeks leading up to opening night, he was with her and the company one hundred and ten per cent. Anything less and she would go for her second, albeit unsatisfactory, option. One of the company girls would do it. She inwardly shuddered and, simultaneously, stiffened her resolve. No, Andy Styles must do it. But he had to pay a penalty. And if he did, if he accepted that which was long overdue, Connie Wilmer had the definite feeling that his commitment would be sealed. And in settling on a penalty of chastisement as opposed to any other kind, Connie Wilmer was coming home. She would undertake a task, subject to the agreement of the participant, for which her nature had spent a number of years preparing her for.
For Connie Wilmer had been here before. And as she watched Andy Styles slowly walk up the path to her doorway at the agreed time, she fleetingly thought back to her student days some thirty years before. What was his name, that first boyfriend of her teenage years? It didn’t matter. She remembered little about him. He said he loved her, but she knew he didn’t. He just loved bossy girls. He was seventeen and she was two years older. He worked in an office, she was still at college. She was the elder, the more mature, but he was the one making his way in the adult world. But to her, he was a boy. That was the attraction. For both of them. They didn’t know why. They went out with each other, spent afternoons at the pictures, took long evening walks after an evening drink. Their romance, such as it was, went through the usual motions. But it lacked excitement. Something, indefinable, was missing. That which initially drew them together, as boy and a woman, was kept apart by their conventional playing of romantic man and girl. And then, one day, he asked her to spank him. It was all he desired. From her, from anybody. He had no all consuming passion for the usual coupling. He did not desire her in that way. His was a more private and personal want. All he had ever required from her was a spanking. On his bare behind. If she would do that, he would be content.
So she did. Initially shocked at such a perverse request, she nearly ran away. But, looking into that forgotten boy’s eyes, she realised that it had taken a great deal of courage for him to amplify his thoughts. To utter words which for him were very personal and intense, but which to an outsider seem absurd. In a strange way the look in his eyes, almost a pleading for understanding, gave them their first and only moment of an incipient love. They were not meant for each other, they would inevitably drift apart, but for a few unifying minutes they engaged in a secret rapture. And Connie Wilmer never forgot. That relationship crumbled after the defining consummation. A chapter closed on both lives. She grew up, she got married, and she had children. She became respectable and admired. But she never forgot. That one incident was never repeated, but it remained in her memory.
After that initial shock, she had enjoyed what followed. A feeling of power, a feeling of indescribable closeness. She smacked her boyfriends behind, bare in all its glory, and enjoyed the experience. She didn’t initially get as much out of it as he did, but as she whacked away a growing feeling of heady dominance filled her mind. And by the time she had finished dealing with him, roles were reversed. From dancing to his perverse tune he was, at the end, wriggling in pain to hers. And she never forgot. As the years past those moments faded. But Andy Styles had brought all those feelings back. And he was walking up her path. She moved to the door to greet a boy who had, by his unwelcome behaviour, rekindled a long dormant fire.
Andy Styles’ finger nervously reached for the doorbell but before he had any chance to press it, the door opened wide and Mrs Wilmer, immaculately dressed in a designer label two piece, filled the entrance.
‘Come in’ she said ‘I have laid out some tea in the drawing room. I trust you like tea’.
Before Andy had any chance to answer she turned her back on him and walked down the long, and beautifully furnished hall. Andy closed the door and followed, impressed by the antique furniture and ornaments which filled the hall. The Wilmer’s clearly had money. This was way out of his league. Intimidated by such an obvious display of wealth his initial nervousness moved to new levels. He became acutely conscious that his jean clad figure, topped by a cheap and garish sweater, cut a poor dash in such a setting. No chance of a fag here, he thought, ash and dust seemed alien to Mrs Wilmer’s glistening home.
On the latter point he could not have been more wrong. As he entered the drawing room, Connie Wilmer was sitting down on the most expensive sofa he had ever seen outside of a shop, and after pouring the tea, took a cigarette from a gleaming box on the table and lit it. She beckoned Andy to sit down in the chair opposite her, passed him his tea and then offered him a cigarette.
‘I assume you smoke, most youngsters do’.
He took the cigarette gratefully, lit it from a splendid glass table lighter, and nervously sank into the chair indicated. Placing his jean clad backside onto such a plush receptacle seemed almost sacrilege, but Mrs Wilmer affected not to notice. She seemed to be enjoying herself, taking pleasure in his company. The cool control of last evening’s phone call was clearly in evidence.
‘There is sugar on the table if you require it. Unlike you, I can’t afford a sweet tooth’.
Connie Wilmer drew on her cigarette and eyed Andy Styles carefully. So far he had not uttered a word. She watched him reach for the sugar, nervously extracting three lumps, and dropping them carefully into his cup. Unable to think of anything to say he peered into his cup and, swirling his spoon, willed the lumps to dissolve. He continued watching the lumps, paying undue attention to the only action in a silent room, and simultaneously sucked on the cigarette.
‘Do you know why you are here?’
The question cut the silence.
‘Yes, I think so’. It was the first time he had spoken since entering the house. His words sounded thick and strange. ‘You want to rehearse me in private. I have brought my book, just in case’.
‘You won’t need your book’. Connie Wilmer smiled. ‘It is not that sort of rehearsal’.
‘Oh’. Andy Styles paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘I am back in the show, aren’t I?’
‘That depends’. Connie Wilmer flicked the ash of her cigarette into the ashtray and poured herself some more tea. ‘Do you deserve to be in the show?’ As she delivered this question she stared directly at Andy and registered his extreme nervousness. He looked so young and confused. He clearly had no idea why he was here but, and this thought struck Connie Wilmer for the first time, the mystery surrounding his summons excited him. There was not the demeanour of a boy innocently taking all at face value. He knew he was stepping into the unknown, had done ever since her phone call. And the fear and excitement of this mysterious appointment glistened in his eyes. He may not be a willing partner in what she intended to follow but he would clearly dance to the verbal game she was about to display. She repeated her question. ‘Do you deserve to be in the show, after the way you have behaved?’
‘No’. Andy said it emphatically, so much so that it needed no amplification. After the way he had behaved both knew that little else needed to be said.
‘But you want to come back?’
‘Yes’
‘Why?’ The question came quick and sharp, giving the boy little time to consider.
‘Because I know I would be good. You know I would be good. And I can do it. I won’t mess you about anymore.’
Connie Wilmer smiled; this was going just as she hoped. She chose her words very carefully. ‘So, you agree that you have been messing me about?’
‘Yes.’
‘You agree that you have made my life as director of this show difficult?’
‘Yes.’
‘You agree that you deserve to be sacked?’
‘Yes’
‘And yet you want to come back, hope to come back.’
Andy Styles paused and gulped his tea. ‘Yes’.
For a moment Connie Wilmer considered that the boy’s responses had echoes of that boyfriend from so long ago. But it may be her imagination, she mustn’t push too hard, she mustn’t reveal her cards too soon. ‘Do you want some more tea? There is plenty left.’
‘No. Thank you’. Andy Styles breathed a little more easily. Mrs Wilmer had relaxed, so he relaxed. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Wilmer’.
She took his cup from his hand and, collecting up all the tea things, disappeared from the room. He watched her go and wondered. What did she want from him? She didn’t want to rehearse, that was clear. She hadn’t even said he was back in the show. But she wanted something. She wanted him to squirm, and he was certainly doing that. A combination of the house he was in, the woman who inhabited it, and the inner turmoil he was suffering, ensured that. She reminded him so much of those teachers who had terrified him when he was six years old, threatening him with unspoken deeds and demons when he stepped out of line. As he grew up this fear of authority diminished, but Mrs Wilmer had rekindled those fears during rehearsals. And he had deliberately, subconsciously, tested her patience. And now he was here, squirming in her awesome presence. Waiting for what? And as he waited and thought about these things, Connie Wilmer came back into the room, crossed to the window and drew the curtains.
‘It wouldn’t do to have any peering eyes, would it?’ She said it so normally, so assured, but the movement added to the electricity that had been present in the air since Andy Styles’ arrival. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. ‘You know why you are here Andy. Oh all right, you don’t know why you are here, but you knew something was going to happen. Well it is. And in a way, what is going to happen, what I hope is going to happen, is something that you have been crying out for ever since you took a part in my show. I will take you back, am willing to take you back, but on my terms. You can come back into the show but only if you agree to take what you deserve and need.’
For a few moments there was a total silence. Connie Wilmer stood impassively watching the boy. The only sound was of the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. One of the many antique pieces Andy had so admired when he first stepped into this house. He broke the silence, slowly, carefully.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’
At the moment he said it, Andy Styles didn’t know, but the next statement of Mrs Wilmer made all crystal clear.
‘I am going to spank you. Well actually I am going to do a little more than that. I have a very nice strap lent to me by a friend of mine. I told her I needed it as a prop. It will do very nicely. I intend to give you a long overdue spanking and follow it with a well deserved strapping. Your bottom is going to be pretty sore for a few weeks, just about the period of the show. That is if you are in it. If you refuse, if you get up and leave, as you are perfectly entitled to do, you won’t be in it. But if you stay and take what I am convinced you deserve, the part is still yours. You have the choice. But there can be no negotiations. My mind is made up. Has been for a long time.’
Andy Styles stared at Connie Wilmer. He said nothing, just stared. He couldn’t believe his ears. This middle aged woman, a posh lady in an even posher house, was calmly proposing to spank him. Here. Now. At four o’clock on a February afternoon. She had drawn the curtains in preparation. She waited his response. His role in the show depended on his answer. He wanted the part but did he want it that much. Well of course he did, and deep down he didn’t really find the idea she proposed unexciting. It filled him with fear, it created a notch in his stomach churning insides, but it would be an experience. He would let her spank him, and everything else, and if it hurt too much he would scream. But even showing willing would ensure he kept the part in the show.
‘What do you want me to do?’ He said it so quietly, he was surprised she heard.
‘Take off your jeans, that’ll do for a start’.
Andy stood up and started to undo his jeans. Then he stopped.
‘Can’t you do it over my jeans? I’ll let you do it, but can I keep them on.’
‘No, you won’t feel a thing through those.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then you can go home.’
She looked steadfastly at the boy. This was the defining moment. This was the moment when he might run away. She held his gaze.
‘I have no intention of doing this any other way than the way I have planned.’ Connie Wilmer had said there were to be no negotiations, and there weren’t. It was all or nothing. ‘I intend this spanking to hurt’.
Andy Styles flinched.
‘But I can keep my underpants on?’
‘Yes.’ She nearly said ‘for the moment’ but decided against it. ‘Yes, you can keep your underpants on.’
Andy sensed the huskiness in Mrs Wilmer’s voice. In spite of her outward calm, her composure, she was having difficulty keeping control. He took off his shoes and slowly removed his jeans, revealing the small and tight white underpants which could have been designed for the occasion. Why had he chosen those that morning? They cried out for attention. He placed his jeans on the plush chair and stood before Mrs Wilmer. The simple act of taking off the jeans moved this scenario to a different level. He stood before her in his sweater, underpants and socks awaiting her bidding. This was a defining moment. The draft script, rehearsed in Connie Wilmer’s mind many times over the last few days, was about to be enacted. She had this fifteen year old boy at her mercy. Please God that she could carry it through.
It should come as no surprise that Connie Wilmer did carry it through. That initial nervousness at the enormity of what she was about to undertake dissipated the moment she took Andy Styles over her knee. The memories of thirty years before came winging back. She saw those upturned buttocks, wrapped in their clinging white pants and rediscovered feelings long buried. A surge of sensual power electrified every part of her being. She stroked and explored the proffered cheeks, tapped and patted a behind that seemed to willingly enter into the bizarre dance to come, and contemplated the beauty of the relationship. And, as her senses and desires rose to a peak that cried out for this special and particular consummation, she hit out. She smacked first one buttock, and then the other. Then she hit out at the centre of Andy Styles’ cheeks. She smacked, and smacked, and smacked. Only with her hand. But the more she smacked, the more young Mr Styles squirmed and wriggled.
He ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ on cue as each descending smack reached its mark. He had two very pronounced buttock cheeks and they were well visited for a good five minutes. Under those tight, white, pants a behind was taking on a very rosy glow. And after those five initial minutes Connie Wilmer was eager to see it.
So she stopped. And Andy Styles breathed a sigh of relief. It was all over and the pain hadn’t been too bad. He had suffered this indignity and it wasn’t that unpleasant. And he was still in the show. But just as he was thinking it was all over, he felt her fingers on the top of his pants. She was taking them down. He was going to get some more. On his bare arse. She was taking down his underpants. She was going to see things his mother hadn’t see in years. His behind was going to be naked to Mrs Wilmer’s gaze. She was going to continue. On his bare bum.
‘You said I could keep them on. You didn’t say anything about this.’
Andy Styles wriggled and reached round to pull up his pants. Mrs Wilmer pulled his hand away and yanked the underpants down to his knees. The boy’s beautifully rounded backside, resplendent in the blushing pink of her handiwork came into view. Connie Wilmer inwardly sighed at such a delectable view. Those two velvety smooth cheeks, with their hint of boyish down, cried out for chastisement.
‘I said you would get what was coming to you the way I planned. And this is very much part of it.’
As she said this Connie Wilmer took Andy’s right hand and pulled it up his back, lifting his sweater further away from her delicious target, and with her right hand continued her attack on his rear. And now Andy did squeal. The first few minutes had been bad enough, but this was agony. The smack of Mrs Wilmer’s firm hand onto his naked bum was causing him excruciating pain. First one cheek, then the other. Then three to one side and four or more to its friend in distress. And he didn’t have any idea where they would land. Some hit high on his buttocks, some hit low. Some were on the outside of his cheeks and a few, disconcertingly, were very close to his crack. And they all stung. And as Connie Wilmer gathered speed and energy, Andy Styles started to bawl. And wriggle. He jerked his bum this way and that, thrashed his legs around in an attempt to absorb the pain, and generally struggled. But all to no avail. As the pain in his rear cut out all other thoughts, he bawled and bawled and struggled, exposing his penis to Mrs Wilmer with an abandon that, in other circumstances, he would find mortifying. But all he could think about was his ravaged bum and his desire to avoid any more pain. But Connie Wilmer was a woman on a mission, and she didn’t stop until that gentle blushing pink on those exquisite cheeks had been turned into a savage and searing red.
And then the exertions stopped and the two players in this mini drama froze in exhaustion. The boy made no attempt to rise from the knees of his attacker, and the woman was content to leave him there, quietly sobbing. She placed her hand on the burning cheeks and gently stroked them. Andy stiffened slightly, fearful of more, but relaxed as he realised that the worst of this spanking was over. The hand that had unmercifully chastised was now gently soothing his throbbing cheeks. He continued to sob but now his pain was almost bearable. In the weeks to come it was these few moments he would remember most.
Half an hour later, gingerly walking down the county road, he didn’t even try to recall those few intimate moments. Twelve searing strokes of a strap had brought the afternoon’s events to a close. With an agonising throb screaming at the outside world through his jean covered rear, he could think of nothing but that singular sensation and its cause. The pain was so acute he was convinced that passers by could hear it.
And when he got home, dropped his jeans and underpants and looked in the mirror, the emanating cause of his pain was writ large. The welts from Connie Wilmer’s strap had painted a lasting picture on his behind. When the last marks of the spanking were long gone and his cheeks started to return to their youthful white, the fading welts remained to mock him and remind him.
To remind him that after the painful spanking and its pleasant aftermath, Connie Wilmer made him stand up and touch his toes. She then pulled his underpants down to his ankles and lifted his sweater high upon his back. She made him stick his bottom fully out and, when she was satisfied that the naked target of his inviting cheeks were well positioned, she lashed into him with the borrowed strap. And she did it twelve times. Twelve times the thick leather strap slashed across the delightful youthful buttocks. Three times Andy Styles rose clutching his bum to ease the pain. Three times she made him get back and grasp his ankles, repositioning him, ensuring the object of her delight jutted provocatively. Three times Andy Styles vowed he would stay put, would absorb each searing thwack. Three times he failed but, eventually, he took all twelve of those savage kisses to his upturned rear. At the last he leapt up and, rubbing his hands vigorously into his very sore bottom, danced around Connie Wilmer’s drawing room. He cared little that in doing so, he exposed his private bits to her gaze. What did a mere penis matter when you have so much suffering behind? Gradually he calmed down and, tearfully and slowly, he pulled up his underpants and put on his jeans. And as he did so he saw, for the first time, the implement of his distress. Connie Wilmer was still holding it in her hand. He kept looking at it. Anything rather than look into her face. And then, ruefully rubbing his bottom, he left. At the end of her path he looked back and noticed she had already opened the curtains and was standing at the window, watching him. He was sure she smiled. He was incapable of doing so.
So that is it. That is Andy Styles’ private rehearsal at the hands of Connie Wilmer. How it came about and what happened. But most stories have a coda, and this one has two. The first took place in that very English tearoom where, some weeks before the show, Connie Wilmer and her teacher friend agreed that young Mr Styles deserved one last chance. The show was over and one of its many successes had been Andy Styles.
‘So, how did you do it Connie? I am all agog. Not only was Andy very good, I always knew he could be which is why I recommended him, but I am told that he is a changed boy. How on earth did you do it?’
Connie Wilmer listened to the twitterings of her friend. She smiled. She couldn’t tell her of course. Not outright, in all its graphic detail. Either she would not believe her or, if she did, she might have her arrested. Andy Styles was only fifteen at the time. No, she couldn’t tell her. But she could give her an ambiguous hint. If her friend connected to her wavelength, no more need be said. If she didn’t then it mattered little. And if she understood and expressed outrage, Connie would tell her she had misconstrued. So she chose her words very carefully.
‘We had a private rehearsal. I got to the bottom of his problem. I am a good director, a very good director. Whatever I did certainly made its mark.’
Connie Wilmer’s friend sipped her tea and, very delicately, cut her piece of chocolate cake into two distinct halves. She mused for a moment and then picked up the larger piece. She moved it to her heavily painted lips, savouring the moment, and holding it in tantalising expectation she looked at Connie Wilmer, lowered her eyes, and spoke.
‘So you did thrash him.’
‘Yes.’ Connie said it very quietly.
A silence followed, and then her friend ate her cake. And Connie ate hers. And then they both, almost simultaneously, started to laugh. And the others in that very English tearoom looked across to their table and wondered what it was that two very sedate looking ladies found so funny.
And Connie’s friend was not surprised. One or two of the company had mischievously suggested that the change in Andy Styles had been painfully bought. But they were joking. No on could seriously believe that the smack of firm direction had been so literal. But whatever Connie Wilmer had done, she had got a performance out of Andy Styles. And more than that, she had got a commitment, albeit a late one. And no one was more impressed than Andy himself. He’d had a comeuppance that was long overdue. And once the initial pain had faded he was grateful to Connie Wilmer. When he walked up her path on that February afternoon he half expected something to happen. He wasn’t sure what it would be but he knew he would go through with it. And when she was giving him his bare bottomed dues he knew, deep down, that it was the right solution to an intractable problem. He deserved that thrashing. In a way he had been waiting for a Connie Wilmer for the whole of his young life. And now he had found her, and what she had to offer, he had no intention of letting her go. So when he saw an advert in the local paper concerning open auditions for a forthcoming show directed by Mrs Connie Wilmer, he picked up the phone. He nervously dialled the number in the advert and, as he listened to the ringing tones, he very gingerly rubbed his hands over his clothed backside.
Alfred Roy (2008)
Alfred Roy (2008)