Cries From A Distant Cottage (F/m)

Being Valentine's Day it seems appropriate to post a tale of two young, teenage, romantics getting their bare bottoms strapped. Pretty heavily in the boy's case. This is the third in the series of my Connie Wilmer theatre stories and, unlike the first two, was posted to the MMSA website. It is the boy's thrashing that takes centre stage with the girl, listening, merely adding the dramatic touch. Hence the label F/m.

Connie Wilmer’s latest dramatic project had started particularly well. She had the formative ideas during rehearsals for the local society’s new musical. That, naturally, under her astute direction had been a great success. For the second time in less than a year she had produced the proverbial theatrical rabbit from her rapidly expanding portfolio. As a director she was the hottest property in town. Under her very specialised ministrations, fifteen year old Andy Styles had delivered the goods in a defining ‘Salad Days’ and he and the petite and pert Gillian Jones had stunned local audiences in a specially written musical version of ‘Romeo and Juliet’. Everyone, from local cynical theatre critic to rose-tinted family members, was full of praise for her work. And they were particularly fulsome in their praise for her young leads. As Connie Wilmer absorbed the expected adulations she inwardly smiled at her personal recollections of how those performances had reached their ultimate fruition. If the pompous and self important dignitaries effusing their praise at after production parties had glimpsed, even for a moment, a brief and fleeting picture of her methods they would have spluttered, uncontrollably, into their overlarge gin and tonics. For Connie Wilmer, the precise and demanding and matronly Connie Wilmer, was not averse to wielding a strap to the bottoms of her more recalcitrant charges.

She had done so to Andy Styles with great success, and an unexpected repeat involving the young Gillian Jones had reaped further rewards. Their sore bottoms had led to local theatrical successes which warmed family members and justified council funding. And that success, in both ‘Salad Days’ and ‘Romeo and Juliet’, had fuelled a desire for further theatrical projects. Chastising her young leads was, literally, a stroke of genius in the pursuit of theatrical perfection. But to Connie Wilmer it was merely a necessary, if exhilarating, diversion on the road to that elusive goal. And having achieved success, twice, she was eager to capitalise on her rising stock. So she had raised the idea of a new and exciting project. And, initially, it had all gone very well.

Andy Styles was clearly a special talent. He could act, he could sing, and he could dance. And he had those smouldering looks, on the cusp of sixteen, crying out for parts which would be denied in maturity. And in Gillian Jones a perfect, youthful, foil had been found to play against him. This tomboyish fifteen year old acted and sang beyond her years and formed a bond, both on and offstage, with Master Styles which created its own special electricity. Connie Wilmer had pushed out the boats in casting them as ‘Romeo and Juliet’ but, with that success still ringing in her ears, she was keen to test them in even harsher waters.

A close friend had written a dramatic piece on two well documented star crossed lovers who had committed suicide in the eighteenth century. Holding hands they had jumped off a cliff into the local lake. Another friend had composed some music and both were keen to stage the result at the Edinburgh Festival. Connie Wilmer seized their collaboration, ‘A Fluttering of Swans’, with both hands as an ideal vehicle for her young protégées. She may have reservations about the title but as a theatrical project it was a gift from heaven.

Four months after their Romeo and Juliet, and two weeks into intensive rehearsals, a hastily gathered company of eight set off on the long and hopeful summer journey to the centrepiece of Scottish culture. The local council had delivered a generous grant under its youth policy and Connie Wilmer had underwritten the other basic finances. All they needed now was those elusive ‘must see’ five stars from ‘The Scotsman’ to ensure sell out notices for their ten day run.

‘So, how is it going?’

‘Other than that awful title, very well.’

Connie Wilmer’s friend flinched. They were sitting in one of Edinburgh’s more select teashops engaged in the indulgence of an array of mouth watering cakes, washed down with lashings of strong, rich brown, tea.

The last rehearsal had gone well and, opening tomorrow, Mrs Wilmer was glad of a relaxing diversion. Her eager friend, heavy lipstick and fashionable cloche hat redolent of a more innocent age, was an unexpected companion. Having written the piece she had vowed to stay away, at least until the reviews came out, but burning curiosity had ousted artistic discretion.

Sinking her large and gleaming white teeth into her third piece of the establishment’s culinary temptations she ignored the acerbic comment and continued her barrage of questioning. Much of that questioning concerned the young Andy Styles and Gillian Jones. They were crucial to the show and if Connie Wilmer’s friend had journeyed north for the principal reason of seeing the first performance, she was equally keen to ensure that the two young stars were being kept firmly in line.

‘So, they aren’t causing you any trouble?’

‘Trouble?’

‘Being disruptive.’

‘On the contrary. At rehearsals they show a degree of professionalism beyond their years. They will do your ‘fluttering swans’ proud.’

‘And outside of rehearsals?’

‘They are exhausted and sleep soundly.’

Connie Wilmer’s friend wiped some excess cream from her lips and poured herself a second cup of tea.

‘Oh come off it, Connie. They are young, they are in Edinburgh. I know they are very talented but they have both caused you grief in the past. You must worry.’

‘I would have if they had shared the communal flat with the rest of the company. But they are staying with me at a friend’s cottage. Away from Edinburgh and its temptations.’

‘That won’t suit Andy Styles.’

 ‘It suits me, and besides it was the only way that their respective parents agreed to their coming away.’

‘And if they misbehave?’

Connie Wilmer’s friend secretly giggled at her own question and, school girlishly, suppressed it as an immaculately attired waitress approached their table. They both, sensibly, declined the offer of further cakes but, accepting the promise of additional tea, continued their conversation.

‘They will not misbehave. They are rarely out of my sight.’

‘They are not with you now. They could be up to anything.’

‘Really, Paula, you are the limit. They are having a costume fitting. We wanted something different for the suicide scene. I am picking them up in half an hour. Your imagination is running away with you.’

Thinking back to a previous revelation in a similar old fashioned tearoom, Connie Wilmer’s companion continued her dogged attack.

‘But this friend’s cottage, I assume he isn’t there?’

‘He’s a she and no she isn’t. It is just Andy, Gillian and me. I have rented it for the run.’

‘So, if they did misbehave?’

Connie Wilmer’s friend giggled again and looked expectantly across the table. Connie picked up the last piece of cake, studied it, and then reluctantly placed it back on the exquisitely decorated plate. She eyed her friend with an impassive expression.

‘They would not be paid. They are on a profit share with a minimum guarantee. Subject to good behaviour.’

‘Oh.’

‘You sound disappointed.’

Connie Wilmer barely concealed the amusement in her voice.

‘No. No. Just surprised.’

‘You think I should apply my other methods?’

‘They worked before.’

‘That was different Paula. They were children then. Now they are performing at the Edinburgh Festival. They deserve to be treated as adults.’

The following silence from her friend spoke volumes. It was clear that she didn’t agree with Connie. To her Andy Styles and Gillian Jones were still children and if they stepped out of line then Connie should deal with them as she had in the past. She fondly remembered how, eyes wide and mouth fully open, she had digested the details of Andy Styles’ first chastisement.  His superlative performance in ‘Salad Days’ had been delivered courtesy of an old fashioned, bare bottom, strapping. And Connie had filled in all the details for her. She had no desire to involve herself in such ministrations but hearing of such disciplinary tales gave a certain translated excitement. So, yes, she was disappointed in her friend’s response. And Connie Wilmer was well aware of this. They paid their collective bill and wished each other good luck for the next days opening performance. Her cloched hat friend gathered a variety of bags and departed, proclaiming loudly her faith in their young, fluttering, swans.

Connie Wilmer smiled and reflected on the main thrust of their delightful tearoom conversations. Of course she had considered that a re-employment of her trusted methods might be required in Edinburgh. On the journey north to the cottage Gillian Jones had dropped enough hints. The idea of being spanked clearly appealed to her complex nature. As Andy Styles inwardly squirmed at these reminders of a couple of painful and embarrassing experiences, his young companion frequently alluded to the one occasion when she had lowered her knickers for Mrs Wilmer’s strap. Connie Wilmer did not rise to the proffered bait. Her recollection was that, at the time, Miss Jones was far from eagerly compliant. Her pleas and screams suggested a youngster getting just deserts, not playing a game. And both Andy Styles and Connie Wilmer were alive to this subtle disciplinary point.

If Connie Wilmer thrashed her charges, she would do so for real. She did not play games, and fifteen year old Andy Styles was painfully aware of that fact. Gillian Jones may get pleasure at the idea of being spanked and Connie’s tearoom companion may get a certain frisson from hearing of such experiences but, for Mrs Wilmer herself, the thrashings delivered in the past had a specific theatrical and disciplinary purpose. The City of Edinburgh, host to a hopeful company honing its artistic skills to a desired perfection, was unlikely to require such drastic methods. And as Mrs Wilmer had no desire to play games with willing participants, she had dismissed the possibility of such methods being employed.

But when circumstances did engineer a repeat, neither Andy Styles nor Gillian Jones took any pleasure from it. Only the author of ‘A Fluttering of Swans’, a title destined for artistic destruction, would gasp in secondary and sensual wonderment. The young souls on the receiving end of Mrs Wilmer’s vicious strap merely howled.

It is necessary at this point to wind the clock back a little. Mrs Wilmer may be enjoying her afternoon Edinburgh tea but, for the first time, it meant that the young Master Styles and Miss Jones were left to their own devices. The costume fitting had been completed and the two stars of tomorrow’s premiere had a welcome and unexpected free hour before Mrs Wilmer picked them up. The company member allocated as their chaperone was keen to do some private shopping and readily agreed to the pair amusing themselves until the time of their collection. Connie Wilmer may seem to be very strict but these two engaging souls could come to little harm in sixty minutes. The three left the costumiers, delighted at their choices, and waved their goodbyes. For a precious hour Andy Styles and Gillian Jones were alone.

‘We shouldn’t be in here.’

‘Why?’

‘It looks a bit dodgy.’

‘It is a bit dodgy. In fact it is very dodgy. My friend Samantha says it is where all the best ‘artistes’ hang out. And she should know.’

Gillian Jones took a gentle sip on her, totally illegal, glass of warm white wine and confidently played her role as an off duty, working, actress.

‘Relax Andy, enjoy the atmosphere.’

Andy Styles did not share Gillian Jones confidence in their surroundings. The place looked very seedy and most of the clientele would look decidedly out of place in a theatre. They may be writers, or even worse poets, but the furtive glances to any new arrival did not suggest sparkling conversation. And whilst Andy was not averse to the odd, illicit cigarette, the smoky atmosphere he was cajoled to enjoy added to his discomfort.

‘I think we should go.’

‘No. Don’t be a bore Andy. This is Edinburgh, not our dreary town. I am enjoying the ambience.’

‘There isn’t any.’

‘Yes there is. And I am Gertrude Lawrence or Isadora Duncan. Or Vivien Leigh, about to give her greatest performance opposite her Olivier.’

‘Or Gillian Jones about to make a fool of herself.’

‘As a fluttering swan.’

In spite of himself Andy joined in the infectious giggles which followed this last remark. The title of the piece had become a bit of an in joke with the company and, as Gillian Jones lowered her voice and flashed her tomboyish eyes at him, he succumbed to this late afternoon adventure. He could deny her nothing.

And that, of course, led to the downfall of these two young people. The captivating and adventurous Gillian Jones, intoxicated with the heady mix of artistic Edinburgh and dubious wine bars, needed a firm and dependable anchor to curb her excesses. In Andy Styles she had found a boy who both danced to her extravagant tunes and provided a captive, lovesick, audience. More mature heads would have quietly assessed their surroundings, paid the bill, and discreetly departed. These two teenagers, drunk on the promise of theatrical success and warm and potent wine, did neither. They indulged their hour of unexpected freedom. And making friends with a mature rock group of indeterminate morals they both enjoyed a sudden thrust to the adult world and a first taste of illicit temptations. When the local police arrived, conducting a well planned raid on the premises of the aforementioned Samantha’s highly recommended ‘ Oasis Basement Bar’, two unlikely youngsters were rounded up with the more adult and regular clientele of Edinburgh’s most notorious establishment. They escaped a night in the Edinburgh cells but it took all the persuasive powers of Connie Wilmer to ensure that the following day’s appearance in a magistrate’s court did not blight the opening performance of ‘A Fluttering of Swans.’ Andy Styles and Gillian Jones arrived at their venue with ten minutes to spare. Connie Wilmer took her seat as the lights went down and, inwardly fuming, vowed that her young stars would be made to suffer.

When Andy Styles looked back on his experience of Edinburgh he considered it had been the best two weeks in his life. Wandering alone through the crowded streets on the final day of his stay he mentally ticked off the plusses and minuses. The absence of Miss Gillian Jones was clearly a welcome plus. Much has he had generally delighted in her company, that companionship had got him into an awful lot of trouble. Connie Wilmer may have been pleased with their performances and the subsequent four stars from an enthusiastic Scottish reviewer but she had not forgotten the opening day drama. Her sweetly smiled ‘You will pay for this Andy’ at the opening day party, and Gillian Jones’s constant teasing, had taxed the limited patience of a boy full of many confused emotions. He still had strong memories of the first time Connie Wilmer had thrashed him. The thought that he may be in for a repeat both thrilled and frightened him. Throughout the ten day run, both at the venue and the cottage, he desperately tried to read her thoughts. But Connie Wilmer was giving nothing away. The nearest he came to a clue was one morning halfway through the run. Gillian Jones, reluctantly taking her turn, had prepared the cottage breakfast. She had ‘dried’ at a crucial performance point the previous day and, blaming Andy, had carried her ill humour to a serving of undercooked eggs and burnt toast. The ensuing spat between two young and fragile theatrical egos had brought Mrs Wilmer from a long overdue lie in. A wayward piece of toast found its way to the waste bin along with a broken plate and, depositing these two items, Mrs Wilmer reminded her charges that she had not forgotten the grief they had caused her. She said it quietly, seriously, and left a subdued Andy and Gillian to ponder its meaning. And Andy did ponder on it, both for the rest of the day and the rest of the run. And when ‘A Fluttering of Swans’ had flashed its wings for the final time and the rest of the company made their way back home, Andy Styles wandered the streets of Edinburgh and fearfully considered the final day in the cottage with Miss Gillian Jones and Mrs Connie Wilmer.

If the fear of Mrs Wilmer’s wrath was a decided minus in Andy Styles latest theatrical experience, the joy and approbation when performing was a major plus. For all her inner annoyance with her young stars Connie Wilmer was a director to her fingertips. She buried her irritation and praised, cajoled, and offered advice in equal proportions. Andy’s performance as the young suicidal lover grew in depth and breadth under her careful handling and, for all his concerns, he loved her as much as any son could love a mother. It had been a wonderful two weeks and he would do anything for Connie Wilmer. Gillian Jones may have captured his impressionable teenage heart but Mrs Wilmer firmly held his confused theatrical soul. A hundred yards from the cottage, his walk in the city over, Andy Styles was musing on the strengths of Mrs Wilmer’s directing. Fifty yards from the cottage he was musing on the strange hold she had over him. And, still fifty yards from the cottage, he heard the echoing sounds which worryingly suggested chickens coming home to roost. Someone was getting a walloping and if Andy Styles was not mistaken that someone, judged by the howls and pleas, was Gillian Jones.

He tentatively opened the kitchen door to the cottage and, stepping inside, hastily closed it. The sound was now unmistakeable. In a room upstairs a strap was being heavily laid across a particular part of Gillian Jones. He heard the thwack and he heard the screams. And he heard the pleading. But it made no difference. Someone, and it must be Connie Wilmer, was wielding a strap across the behind of his young companion. Andy stood in the kitchen doorway, absolutely transfixed. The sound of the strap thwacking down grew louder and the pleas for forgiveness took on a more urgent cry.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer, no more. Please. My bum, my bum. Aagh.’

It made no difference. Andy Styles reckoned he had heard that strap whack down onto flesh at least ten times as he approached the cottage and, once inside, he had heard it do its work another twenty times. And now as the anguished sounds enclosed his ears he could almost be in the room. By the time the wielding of that strap stopped he calculated that his young companion had received around fifty whacks to her backside. And, although he could not see, he had little doubt that the small, boyish, pants which usually covered her rear would be dangling around her knees. When Connie Wilmer whacked behinds she relished in an exposed target. Andy Styles felt a quickening of his heart and a sickening feeling in his stomach. If Gillian Jones, for whatever reason, was getting whacked his own re-introduction to a bare bottom strapping from Mrs Wilmer could not be far behind. Fearful of such an eventuality he left the cottage, quietly closing the door, and desperately tried to pretend that he had neither heard nor imagined anything that had taken place. He walked around the surrounding countryside for at least half an hour, twice stopping for a nervous pee, but in the evening gloom eventually and reluctantly returned to the cottage. When he did so, Gillian Jones was calmly sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of warming soup. She was in her pyjamas and clearly ready for an early bed. Her eyes were slightly red but other than that her demeanour indicated little of what had taken place no more than half an hour before. She weakly smiled at Andy and delivered the greeting he had, in his agitated wanderings, most feared.

‘Mrs Wilmer wants to see you.’

‘Why?’

‘Go and ask her. She is in her bedroom. Packing. We have to leave early in the morning.’

‘I know.’

‘And she is in a bad mood. We were supposed to help clean up the cottage and one of us has gone missing.’ Gillian Jones shifted her position on her chair and quizzically looked at Andy Styles. ‘Where were you?’

‘I fancied a walk around Edinburgh. On my own.’

‘Then you missed all the fun.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. Mrs Wilmer and I have settled our debts.’

‘What debts?’

Gillian Jones looked at Andy with face full of meaning and, rubbing a hand over her clothed backside, flashed an illuminating riposte.

‘I have been spanked. Very hard. With a strap. On my bare bottom. I am very sore. Now it is your turn. Mrs Wilmer will explain. At the moment I have no desire to discuss the matter. It still hurts. So I suggest you go and see Mrs Wilmer.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Oh I think you will Andy. Now. She is waiting for you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because like me, you deserve it.’ Gillian Jones continued drinking her soup and as Andy Styles slowly made his way to the stairs she called to him.

‘And Andy.’

He stopped and turned to look at her.

‘I shall be listening. So put on a good performance.’

‘Pig.’

Gillian Jones laughed and ruefully rubbed her bottom for a second time. Andy had no wish to stay in her company any longer. Her strapping was over; she was now wallowing in the aftermath. He clearly had that unpleasant experience to come. He reluctantly climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of Mrs Wilmer’s bedroom. As, with her permission, he entered it occurred to him that in their two week stay at the cottage this was the first time he had been in Connie Wilmer’s bedroom. It struck him as very large and sparsely furnished. Other than the spacious bed he noticed the small dressing table and chair and the small wardrobe in the corner. He also noticed in the centre of the room a low backed leather chair which usually resided in the dining room downstairs. Connie Wilmer, sensibly dressed in a loose fitting woollen two piece was standing by the bedroom window looking out on the small garden. On the dressing table next to her sat the familiar two foot long and half inch thick leather strap. Andy Styles absorbed all these details and, gathering his breath, broke the silence.

‘Mrs Wilmer?’

‘Andy.’

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘I do.’

Andy waited, expecting more details. When none were forthcoming he decided to take the bull by the uncomfortable horns.

‘Are you going to thrash me?’

‘I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you deserve it. I take it that you know I have already dealt with Gillian.’

‘She told me.’

‘And you no doubt heard. She made enough noise.’

‘I wasn’t here.’

‘Oh yes you were Andy. I didn’t start her strapping till I saw you walking up to the cottage.’

Connie Wilmer smiled.

‘I wanted you to hear her suffering and to imagine what she was going through. You of course will get it worse. You are a boy after all.’

‘Why?’

‘Boys’ bottoms are tougher.’

Andy visibly paled.

‘I mean why are you thrashing us Mrs Wilmer? I haven’t done anything.’

‘I would have thought that was obvious. You have caused me much grief this last two weeks.’

‘We got you four stars.’

‘I got you four stars. Don’t be arrogant Andy it doesn’t suit you. Gillian is the arrogant one and I saw little of that when she was over that chair.’

Connie Wilmer indicated the low backed chair in the centre of the room.

‘Arrogance is quickly dissipated when your bottom is up in the air. As you are about to find out.’

Andy winced and instinctively put his hand to his jean covered backside. He had seen this determined side of Mrs Wilmer on other occasions and, as always, it engendered a sickening fear. At such moments the awareness of his bottom superseded all other sensibilities.

‘But why must I be strapped Mrs Wilmer? I thought you were going to fine us?’

‘I am. But I have decided it is not enough. My friend is right. You are still children, not yet sixteen, you deserve to be strapped. I should have done it on that first day. I intend to make up for it now.’

Andy, still clutching his backside, took a deep breath before issuing a courageous question.

‘And if I refuse?’

His knees were trembling and his stomach was turning over and over. He knew what was going to happen and all he was trying to do was delay the inevitable. He heard his quavering voice issue the question and, getting no response, he hesitantly repeated it.

‘If I refuse?’

‘We will stay here until you come to your senses. And, if necessary I will tie you to the bed.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Oh yes I can. I am bigger and stronger than you Andy.’

Connie Wilmer was enjoying the situation. Her less than co-operative boy was making his impending thrashing even more enticing.

‘And if I am forced to resort to those methods I shall use a cane rather than the strap. I have one with me. Think about it.’

He did, and weakly issued his earlier plea.

‘It’s not fair Mrs Wilmer. I haven’t done anything.’

Andy was starting to snivel. The fear of Mrs Wilmer’s strap was usurping all other emotions. His backside had started to sweat and, face flushed, his eyes darted from the strap on the dresser to the chair. And in spite of all attempts, holding back tears was becoming more difficult.

‘Don’t snivel Andy. Gillian didn’t. She knew she had no choice in the matter. And neither do you. So take down your jeans and bend over the chair. This strapping is long overdue.’

‘I can’t’

‘Yes you can.’

‘But I don’t deserve it. It’s Gillian’s fault.’

He almost shouted this latest plea, a final plaintive cry intended to excuse the inevitable. A tearful voice, so loud, that his young companion downstairs stilled in the drinking of her soup.

Connie Wilmer left the window, picked up the strap, and came very close to Andy. For the first time since he had entered the room he felt very scared. At five foot nine she was a good four inches taller than him. As she came close to him she seemed to tower menacingly over his slight frame.

‘You have earned this strapping. Don’t blame anyone else, least of all your little companion. Now do as I say’

‘I can’t Mrs Wilmer. I can’t. Can’t you fine me double?’

‘Remove you coat and shoes Andy, take down your jeans, and place yourself over that chair. We can discuss the merits or otherwise of your thrashing after you have had it. Gillian got fifty with this strap, the last twenty on her bare bottom. She made little fuss. If you don’t want double what she got I suggest you do as you are told.’

‘Please Mrs Wilmer.’

‘Now.’

Andy Styles continued his bleating and pleading but at the same time, recognising the futility of his protestations, reluctantly removed his shoes and his coat. He stood before Mrs Wilmer in his stockinged feet and became acutely conscious that, other than jeans and black tee-shirt, he had only a small pair of thin underpants to protect him from her initial onslaught. He was well familiar with Mrs Wilmer’s methods. If past experience was anything to go by his strapping would take many painful stages.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer. I am too old for this. I’m sixteen.’

‘Fifteen, and a tiresome fifteen year old at that. Take your jeans down.’

‘No.’

‘I said take your jeans down now. Or do I have to bring Gillian up here to help you do it?’

‘No. Oh please Mrs Wilmer.’

‘Take them down. You neither deserve nor get any protection.’

Andy Styles was now almost in full tears. He continued his protestations, he knew what her strap could do to his bottom, but her anger flagged his losing of the battle. As the tears rolled down his face and as he offered to pay a tripling of any fine, he nevertheless fumbled with the buttons on his jeans and slowly lowered them to his knees. Seeing his small white underpants come into view, encasing the tight and springy cheeks of a quintessential boyish backside, Connie Wilmer warmed to her task and instructed him to dispense with the jeans completely. Andy took them off and, discarding them on the bedroom floor, stood facing his tormentor. His small black tee-shirt only just covered his belly button and, below the glimpse of naked flesh, contrasting white underpants clung to his boyish form. Conscious of his small, personal bulge, Andy turned away from Mrs Wilmer and tearfully and slowly bent himself over the low backed leather chair. He stretched wide his legs and, still tearful, clung to the leather arms.  Connie Wilmer held her breath. She was going to enjoy this. The twin mounds of Andy Styles buttocks twitched in tortuous anticipation. Compared with this impending chastisement, strapping Gillian Jones was merely a bland appetiser. She loved this boy, her young acting protégée, and she adored thrashing his bottom. And seeing the lithe whimpering youth bent over her bedroom chair awaiting the savage kiss of her strap to his lightly clothed bottom induced a mixture of emotions. She would strap him till he screamed and each thwack to his backside and each ensuing scream would bind them closer to each other. Andy Styles may protest but he would never, ultimately, refuse her wishes.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry. It’s all Gillian’s fault.’

‘You are both equally to blame. Our ‘swans’ almost got cancelled. If ever two bottoms deserved a strapping it is yours and Gillian's.’

‘Please Mrs Wilmer, don’t hurt me. My bum is smaller than hers. I shall scream.’

‘I would be sorry if you didn’t.’

And with that the strap finally landed across his spread, thinly covered backside. Andy Styles did issue the screams of anguish his tormentor knew would be forthcoming. He felt the fire, he suffered the sting, and he squirmed and squealed to each resounding thwack. He held on to the chair, closed his eyes as the strap cut low, opened them and gasped as they cut high, and wished for a bottom that did not feel pain. He begged and he pleaded and he implored Mrs Wilmer to ease his suffering. His bum could take no more he said. But it could and it did. Thirty times Connie Wilmer brought her vicious and thick leather strap down across the creamy and smooth, pant covered, buttocks of her quintessential boy, and having done so she rested. Each one of her vicious thwacks across his backside had landed true and strong. He may have craved mercy but her bent over boy had accepted each searing stroke.

And as Andy Styles both breathed a slight relief and absorbed the throbbing pain in his rear, downstairs a rapt Gillian Jones ceased her breathless counting. And in the silence that followed, a silence filled by Connie Wilmer’s contemplation of a deed well done, all three awaited the second act of this special drama. Gillian Jones could only imagine it. Andy Styles would only feel it. Only Connie Wilmer had the front seat to the best show in town. She laid the strap on the bed and, exhausted and thrilled by what she had done, she approached her boy and placed her fingers in the small waist of his underpants. Slowly and gently she pulled the pants to his knees. Inch by tantalising inch the white cotton covering of Andy’s behind was pulled away. Those small, reddened buttocks were finally revealed in all their exquisite glory. Andy Styles felt his nakedness, his exposure. He felt the release of his personal boyhood, a private dangling that enhanced his submission, and he felt the comforting cool air that encased his enflamed and naked bottom. And as he contemplated his final humiliation, Connie Wilmer revelled in the boyish beauty revealed to her gaze, and downstairs, Gillian Jones relished the conjured picture. All three separately stilled in a moment of anticipation. Mrs Wilmer picked up her strap and prepared herself for the continuing task. She placed the well worn instrument across the naked cheeks of the twitching Andy Styles and, as he nervously shifted his position and raised his wealed bottom in tearful acceptance, she readied herself for the final assault.

It would take an artist of exceptional talent and empathy to capture the ten minutes that followed Andy Styles final unveiling. The white underpants dangled just above his knees and the black tee-shirt enticingly brushed the lower part of his back. In between the naked flesh of firm, taut, legs reached and embraced the small and springy buttocks. All glistened and shivered in fear and anticipation. If ever a bottom was designed to be thrashed and strapped, that bottom belonged to Andy Styles. Thirty times a strap had struck into his rear, thirty times Connie Wilmer had raised her arm and thirty times a young girl downstairs had counted as it swooped to its upturned target.  And now, as he arched his back and offered the naked burning cheeks to Mrs Wilmer’s ultimate ministration, his chastiser gathered in all the tantalising beauty. Red weal marks of the strap were clearly delineated at the edges of each cheek and, across the centre into the delightful parting crease, a sea of scarlet emblazoned the efficacy of her work. Master Styles, still tearfully snivelling and gathering courage from his first thirty strokes, stretched himself in readiness and unknowingly revealed all to the wielder of the vicious strap. A small and tender penis, framed by the smooth and fleshy testicular globes, screamed out that these buttocks and legs were those of a boy. A boy prepared for the ultimate in chastisement. The strap lazily, gently, caressed the cheeks and, drinking in the intoxicating picture, prepared to do its final work. It explored the undulating curves and then, readying itself for the expected strike, momentarily stopped and froze.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer. Don’t hurt me. Not any more. Not on my bare bum’

‘Of course I am going to hurt you Andy. You deserve it. You know you do. And Gillian is listening downstairs. She expects you to get a good thrashing.’

‘My bum is on fire. I can’t take much more.’

‘You will stay there until I say you can get up. And that won’t be until at least thirty more strokes have whacked into your bottom. So grit your teeth Andy, and hold tight.’

‘Please Mrs Wilmer. Please.Aaagh.’

Connie Wilmer cut off Andy’s final protestation with a vicious thwack across the centre of his naked backside. And she continued doing it for all the thirty strokes she had promised and more. He jumped up after the first five or six and, vigorously rubbing his bottom, pleaded for her to stop. Enough was agonisingly enough. She grabbed him by the neck and pushing him back over the chair, lifted his small tee-shirt up his back and rapidly delivered a further dozen thwacks to his naked rear. Andy screamed. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The strap rained down and Andy Styles squealed and squirmed and finally, mortifully, wet himself.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t beat me anymore.’

‘You are a bad boy Andy. Your bottom deserves everything Gillian Jones got and more. Stay still.’

This last command was shouted with emphasis to Andy’s wriggling upturned rear.

‘I can’t. I can’t.’

‘You can and you will.’

And with that Mrs Wilmer lashed into Andy Styles backside with a relish and venom that she little realised she contained within her. She had thrashed him for the grief caused on the opening day of their production; she had thrashed him for the recent breakfast fight with Miss Jones. And, if truth be known, she was probably thrashing him for only getting four stars when she reckoned they deserved a five. And finally she was thrashing him for his juvenile protestations at deserved punishment and for his lack of boyish control. And so her unrelenting strap found every inch of Andy’s naked bottom. It whacked across those upturned cheeks until not a spot of white flesh could be found. All was red and purple. All was blazing fire. And if young Master Styles had been able to count as he screamed and pleaded to be let off, he would have known that the strap had found its intended target fifty five times. A sum total of eighty five strokes, all counted with breathless relish by a young lady downstairs, had visited the exquisitely desirable and boyish rear of Mrs Wilmer’s favourite boy. And when all was done, Mrs Wilmer placed the strap on the bed and left the room and the young and tearful Andy Styles sat down on that bed and, clutching his naked bottom with both hands, copiously howled for at least ten minutes. And in those ten minutes his consuming hatred of Connie Wilmer and Gillian Jones was only equalled by his throbbing and burning pain.

‘I wondered if you would spank them.’

Connie Wilmer’s friend tucked into her second cucumber sandwich and poured herself an extra tea from a gleaming silver pot. She and Connie were having a post Edinburgh meet in their local town tea shop. ‘A Fluttering of Swans’ was five weeks in the past and this was their first chance to catch up on all the news. Unsurprisingly a central part of that news concerned Connie Wilmer’s young charges and, at the friends urging, a few details on the last momentous day in the cottage.

‘I doubt if either Andy or Gillian would refer to it as a spanking. Having a thick leather strap applied to your bare bottom fifty or more times hardly ranks as a gentle spanking.’

‘I wouldn’t know, thank God. ‘

Connie Wilmer’s friend giggled infectiously.

‘I am not into that sort of thing.’

‘No?’

‘No. The idea of having anyone doing that to me fills me with horror. But I am a woman. They are children. We all have to suffer such inflictions when we are young.’

‘Do we?’

Connie Wilmer was always amused by her friend’s coupling of the denial of any interest in such matters with her obvious desire to consume all the precise and exact details. She patiently waited a further twist in their conversation on Edinburgh and all its experiences. The next question, not unexpectedly, continued the absorbing theme.

‘Did you thrash them together?’

‘No I did not. Having a strap applied to your bare bottom by a mature woman causes enough consternation. Both of them together lessens the disciplinary element. I learnt that a long time ago.’

‘During Romeo and Juliet. Yes I heard that rumour.’

‘It was a mistake. It suggested a game. If I thrash I do so seriously. And both Gillian and Andy deserved a strapping for the grief they caused me. And they got it.’

Connie Wilmer’s friend finished her cucumber sandwich and emptied her tea. She picked up the serviette, embroidered with the logo of Riverside Tearooms, and wiped her generous mouth.

‘I knew,’

‘What?’

‘I knew you had thrashed them. I saw Andy Styles a couple of weeks ago. He was signing up for a technical course I am running at the college. I congratulated him on the Edinburgh success and he blushed. Bright beetroot.’

‘Andy often blushes. It is a weakness in the young.’

‘I remarked on it. And when we were queuing up for refreshment after the registrations I mischievously asked him if a certain Mrs Wilmer had made him blush on any place other than his face, and he blushed even more, He was purple. He gathered up his tea and sandwiches and practically ran across the room to his seat. So I knew.’

Really Paula. You are incorrigible. He must have been mortified?’

‘I think he was. But more to the point, it said to me that you had done what I knew you would. Did they mind?’

Connie Wilmer reflected on this final point of a conversation that was becoming a little tiresome. The car journey south with her young charges had initially been a little quiet. They had both retired early the previous night and breakfast the following morning was had been more memorable for the oblique comments than for the sparkling conversation. Respective bottoms were still considerably sore. The active, strap wielding, participant to their submissive roles casually frying eggs and bacon did little to appease their collective muteness. But halfway through the journey south both had suddenly, and unexpectedly, thanked Mrs Wilmer for a wonderful fortnight that neither would ever forget. And following some astute questioning, both agreed that their experience included their well deserved thrashings.

They did not enjoy the walloping, in fact they both confessed to a continuing discomfort in their rears, but they equally agreed that they deserved it. Without Mrs Wilmer’s eloquent intervention the first day of their Edinburgh Festival production could have been totally scuppered. That alone warranted a bare bottom strapping. Never mind the rest. Their tears were real and their pleas for restraint were in earnest but, clutching their four stars, they had no regrets. Ten minutes of humiliating agony brought forth a month of cherished memories. Their confession induced youthful chattiness. As Connie Wilmer continued the journey south she gathered two separate thoughts. For all the initial pain Gillian Jones clearly put Mrs Wilmer’s special spankings into the fun category. Andy Styles, the quiet and more reflective, beetroot blushing boy, conjured more conflicting emotions. He hated and feared the wielding of that vicious strap but, in the aftermath of its ministrations, he could not deny its effect on his person. For different reasons both of her young charges bore no ensuing malice. A strap, well and justly laid, created a special bond.

With all that in mind Connie Wilmer responded to her friend.

‘No, they didn’t mind.’

‘And they are willing to do the production again?’

‘Oh yes. Your play is going to be a great success. I still think we should have got five stars in Edinburgh but this fringe tryout in London for three weeks can’t do it any harm.’

‘I am so excited.’

Connie Wilmer suppressed an obvious comment. The main purpose of this tearoom meeting had been to discuss the impending extra run of ‘A Fluttering of Swans’ at an outlying London venue. Discussions on disciplinary dealings with the young stars had deflected this principal purpose. But much had happened on the journey from their opening night. And Connie Wilmer had some pretty clear ideas on changes needed prior to their new venture. And one of those changes concerned the title of the show. She eyed her friend carefully, and remembering the laughter on a recent car journey south, she delivered an expected decision.

‘But we shall have to change the title. I can’t cope with those fluttering swans any longer.’

‘I like it.’

‘You are alone. Even your collaborator thinks it is crass,’

‘And you have a better suggestion?’

‘I do.’

Connie Wilmer smiled and looked across the tearoom table at her friend.

‘It came to me when I was driving back with Andy and Gillian. Eighteenth century. Suicidal lovers. Bleak cottages and dark emotions. It all fitted.’

‘What did?’

‘The title. What we should call it in London.’

Connie Wilmer’s friend poured herself another cup of tea and looked meaningfully at her companion.

‘Does this have anything to do with Andy and Gillian?’

‘Oh yes. They are the stars. I think my idea of the title is singularly appropriate.’

Connie Wilmer let the following silence fall across the table and then, mischievously and artfully, delivered her encapsulating artistic thought.

‘I think we should call it ‘Cries From a Distant Cottage.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. Think about it.’

‘Cries From A Distant Cottage?’

‘Yes.’

Connie Wilmer’s friend thought about it for a moment. And then she laughed. And her laughter reminded Connie Wilmer of the response that she had got from her young, chastised charges, in the car journey south. Those swans had thankfully fluttered for the last time. In a distant cottage, on the outskirts of Edinburgh, an echoing anguished cry of delivered pain had reached out from a private bedroom to a public and theatrical stage.

Alfred Roy - 2005

See Also: A Private Rehearsal (F/m) and A Lesson For Miss Jones (F/f and F/m)