A Visit To Miss Court (F/M)

I did research for this one. Explanations are unnecessary but we never met on a train.
Alfred Roy

Andrew Bilton parked his car in front of the parade of shops opposite Tompkins Drive, turned off the engine, mentally checked that Wheatfield Road was adjacent to a rather dreary newsagents and lit a much needed cigarette. To say he was in a state of high excitement and anticipation would be to understate an obvious fact. As he studied his map and drew on his cigarette, he reflected that the description given of the dilapidated frontage of the newsagent was unerringly accurate. His first impression of the person he had spoken to for the first time yesterday, was fully vindicated. They were precise and succinct in their directions; they were equally precise in where he should park. As Andrew Bilton stepped out of his car his anticipatory and anxiety levels increased.

The reason for Andrew Bilton’s eager anticipation and excitement was, if you knew this gentleman well, easy to understand. He was paying a visit to someone who was going to give him some old fashioned discipline. Andrew Bilton needed such attention as strongly, and urgently, as drug addicts need their own particular fix. If he didn’t get his backside dealt with at least once a month, he would enter a high state of agitation. His constant search to relive long departed schoolboy experiences took him all over the country.

Some times it involved the meeting of like minds, indulging in mutual pleasure. Some times it involved the transfer of cash, when a professional was involved. But however he met the partner to his own, private, fantasy, Andrew Bilton was always the one on the receiving end. He was the one who dropped his pants. He was the one who left with a reddened bottom. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. To Andrew Bilton, chastisement was the infinite pleasure denied to the many, but adored by a select few. And whenever he made an appointment to meet someone new, someone who had not dealt with him before, his excitement and anticipatory levels new no bounds.

But this time, on this afternoon by the dreary newsagents of Tompkins Drive, his urgency was coupled with a feeling of acute anxiety. Because along that Wheatfield Road, nestling between numbers forty two and forty four, was an alleyway. And at the end of that ordinary suburban alleyway of an equally ordinary town was Number One Wheatfield Place. And inside Number One Wheatfield Place resided a certain Miss Court.

And Miss Court was going to do, both for and to, Andrew Bilton what many had done before. If Miss Court, or to give her full name, Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court, was as precise and accurate in other matters as she was in directions, then Andrew Bilton was in for a very interesting and stimulating afternoon. For, as he constantly reminded himself on that particular day, he was going to be thrashed by a woman for, probably, the first time in his adult life.

As he walked along Wheatfield Road searching for the significant numbers forty two and forty four, Andrew Bilton idly considered what had brought him to this unusual state of affairs. He had been playing the Corporal Punishment game for a number of years and, realising that his nature was naturally submissive and his other desires only marginal, had been content to search out like minded males. All of his schoolboy canings and strappings had been at the hands, or to be more precise the implements, of authoritative men. Continuing the experience into manhood required a replication of old and fading scenes.

And for twenty years he had been content to relive his old desires with those of a similar ilk. He was always amazed, and delighted, that for every bottom that desperately carried a desire to be beaten there was a top somewhere more than willing to wield a cane or strap. And when it was all over and the two participants combined, the throb in his bottom emphatically told him that he had played his part. Without the searing pain of chastisement such activities would be meaningless. But with them, with the fiery strokes of the cane or strap still smarting in his naked backside, Andrew Bilton offered himself willingly to the hands and mind of his tormentor. It was always as if the strikes of justice across his backside opened the doorway to his confused sexuality.

But somewhere along the way he had begun to nurture a desire to be beaten by a woman. It had started a few years before when a friend, familiar with the discipline scene, had told him of a very formidable African lady who took great pleasure in thrashing men. Especially gay men. Presumably because she could couple heady dominance with no threat to her own person. The friend intimated that the lady fancied having a go at Andrew Bilton’s bottom. He had hastily declined. He had no wish to be thrashed by a woman. It was alien to his nature. It did nothing for him. Except, there was an occasion, many years ago when he was only just out of his teens, when a very large German lady had brought a blush to his cheeks and, surprisingly, a surge in his hidden desires.

The circumstances which led to him being draped over this large lady’s knee with his underpants around his ankles are somewhat vague. He had been to a party in London and had suffered a surplus of wine. He had slept it off in the nearest bed. When you are very young salient facts are invariably confused with teenage perceptions. It was a large house and those who lived there took their chance with those who drifted through. He was one of the drifters. She, the large German lady, was one of the tenants. And he had nicked her bed. And when she came to it, after a night out which embraced the early morning, she was ill pleased that a sickly youth had usurped her nestling place. And when he, inadvisably, had told her to piss off, her displeasure took on a sinister tone. Before he knew what was happening she had upended him over her knee, yanked down his underpants, and proceeded to whack his bare bum with commendable German efficiency. It was done so suddenly, so violently, that Andrew Bilton had little time to consider the circumstances that led up to it. But when it was over and he left to search for another, more friendly, bedding place he was not displeased. That unexpected early morning spanking had delivered gentle warmth to his backside and an abiding memory of a formidable female chastiser.

And thinking about the formidable African lady who had desires on his bottom had triggered long buried memories of the equally formidable German lady who had delivered a sound spanking along with the morning milk. And so in recent years Andrew Bilton had fleetingly toyed with the idea of searching out a woman to fulfil his dubious needs. But until today, the day when he parked his car next to the unprepossessing newsagents, he had done nothing about it. But recently he had been writing stories for a discipline website. He had written a couple about his early schoolboy experiences. Sadistic teachers from the late 1950’s doing their worst to innocent and vulnerable boys. He had written later fantasies involving dominant men wielding an urgent strap against the bottoms of the willing and submissive. He had turned out any variety of the age old dance of canes delightfully kissing upturned naked bums. And all male upon male.

And then, for a change, he had concocted a story about a boy and a woman. About a boy being thrashed by a woman. Being spanked. Being strapped. Being caned. On his naked arse. By a woman. A mature woman.  And, unexpectedly, it had turned him on. And, equally unexpectedly, he discovered a desire to try it out. To visit a woman and be spanked and thrashed by her. So he had looked in the local classified adverts, found an appropriate number, and called Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court. Mature Mistress gives spanking good time. That’s what the advert said. So he called her, and three days later he found himself parking his car in a dreary shopping parade and, as he sucked on a nervous cigarette, inexplicably wondered on what he had let himself in for.

It was whilst he was considering all this that Andrew Bilton found himself at the door of Number One, Wheatfield Place. The walk from the car had been short and the houses ordinary. He had arrived at his destination almost without realising it. His finger hesitated over the doorbell; there would be no going back once he had signalled his arrival. He tentatively pressed, but heard no inner ring. He steeled himself to press again and, just before his courage failed, the door suddenly opened and he stood face to face with the precise and succinct Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court.

He knew it was Miss Court from her demeanour. She was clearly expecting him. She took him into a large and gleaming kitchen and offered him a drink. Non alcoholic. He nervously chose water over tea. She led him through to an equally impressive lounge, an enormous television screen dominating the room, and he sat down on a comfortable sofa. She smiled encouragingly and offered him a cigarette. He smoked it gratefully and, sipping the cold water, started to relax. He could be here to discuss her accounts. Except that he wasn’t. He knew why he was here; she knew why he was here. It was just a question of how best to start the longed for proceedings. He handed over the agreed sum, glad that this necessary transaction was conducted with a minimum of fuss, and studied Miss Court. Dressed in a simple loose top and a pair of tight jeans she looked casually confident. As she rose to put the twenty pound notes in a jar by the television he noted her slim figure and her easy manner. This forty something housewife, for she looked no more or less than any neighbour in any street, was signalling that she had done this sort of thing many times before. He had no need to worry. He was in experienced hands. Almost sensing his thoughts she came back, sat down, smiled at him and told him to talk. Not being a mind reader, she said this playfully and gently, she needed to know his innermost desires. That way he would get his money’s worth. She laughed and her mischievous eyes twinkled and Andrew Bilton found himself warming to the woman who would, very soon, be thrashing his naked bottom.

So he told her. In the most intimate detail. Very soon, over two or three more cigarettes, Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court knew all there was to know about Andrew Bilton’s secret and special desires. And very soon after that, no more than ten minutes or so, he found himself in a large mirrored bedroom wearing only his small white underpants and a short dark coloured top. Neither met the other, but then neither was destined to stay in place too long. Miss Court stood at the other end of the room, still dressed as before but holding in her hand a formidable leather strap. Andrew Bilton’s bottom twitched. It was already warm and slightly sore from the delicious spanking he had been given when first entering the room. Five minutes over Miss Court’s knee had reduced him to the requisite frame of mind. This was now a boy fearful of his mistress. The pleasant exploratory chat over shared cigarettes seemed a world away.

‘Kneel down and bend over the bed’. Her voice had a cold unfamiliar edge. ‘And don’t look in the mirror. If you look in the mirror I will double the strokes.’

Andrew Bilton’s admiration for this woman inwardly increased. She had already detected his narcissistic streak, enjoying his prone reflection when over her knee, and this was to be subtly denied for the second, more painful and humiliating stage of his chastisement. He did as he was told and stuck his bottom in the air. A quick glance in the mirror showed that in his white underpants his rear still looked good. And the dark top, reaching only to his waist, framed the waiting target to good effect. Miss Court stepped to his left side and raised the strap. No gentle touch or search here. She knew exactly where her target was.

‘I will give you twelve to start with. I expect you to call out each stroke. If you don’t I will start again’.

And before Andrew Bilton had time to say anything the strap landed resoundingly across the centre of his behind. And then almost as quickly it landed again, this time with double power.

‘Where is the call Andrew. I didn’t hear number one?’

‘One, Miss.’

‘Too late. We will start again. And don’t look in the mirror.’

And it went on like that for some time. Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court continued to strap Andrew Bilton’s bottom, protected only by his thin underpants, for a good five minutes. He got extras for looking in the mirror, he got extras for missing a count and, for putting his hands to his reddening bottom to ease his pain, he got even more extras. In all his twelve strokes of the strap across his covered behind extended to thirty seven. And then he was told to rise and turn to her. And then he was told to lower his underpants to his knees and show her his cock. He did so, reluctantly at first, and then with growing excitement. This was a subtle twist on pain and humiliation. This was a different form of domination. He looked down at himself, at his half formed erection. What would come next?

What followed, in this strange and different scenario in Andrew Bilton’s life, was a mixture of subtle domination and control beyond anything he had ever previously experienced. Miss Court took his growing cock in her hand and played with it and squeezed it. But this was not sex. This was control. He did not desire her and she did not desire him. This was the ultimate humiliation of a shameful boy who could not contain his urges. And so, just as he reached that point when all is released, she stopped and pulled off his underpants. And then she bent him over the bed and, with little formality, delivered two dozen searing strokes of the strap and a further twelve with a vicious crop to his naked behind. And he did count, and he didn’t look in the mirror, and he didn’t cover his bum with his hands. But he did cry, and they were tears of exquisite joy. And as he cried and rubbed his burning rear, she left the bedroom.

For ten minutes Andrew Bilton was left on his own. He stayed exactly as he was, bent over the bed wearing only the small top which failed to cover his reddened backside. He knew it was red because he could see it in the mirror and he could see the livid lines of the crop. And in that silent house he could hear her moving around downstairs. And he wondered what would come next?

He did not have long to wait and, if he had known what was to follow, he may have preferred that ten minutes to be considerably longer. For Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court came back into the mirrored bedroom and, taking his arm, pulled him to his feet. And as she took him into a room opposite, a room heavily padded on all its walls with black leather and adorned with an imposing punishment frame, he noticed that in her hand she carried a long, formidable looking cane.

She ordered him to take off his top and, completely naked, he was tied to the frame and given twenty four strokes of that formidable cane across his vulnerable and ready rear. And if he screamed in agony as each stroke fell across his bottom, he was more than compensated with the exploration of her hands around his private parts when matters came to a close. And throughout this latter scene, throughout this culmination of the terrible agony and ecstasy of his experience, Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court said hardly a word. Only at the end, when he had spent the last drop of his hard earned fluid, did she speak.

‘You have been a very naughty boy. You should not be able to sit down for at least a day. Next time I will thrash you so hard, I expect you to be standing up for at least a week.’ And with that she untied him, kissed his cheek, and left the room.

A couple of days later Andrew Bilton was sitting on his usual train, occupying his usual seat on the journey to the office when he happened to glance at the woman sitting across the aisle. She sensed his gaze and turned to look at him. And this smartly dressed woman of a certain age threw him a discreet smile and lowered her eyes to the book in her hand. Andrew Bilton blushed. It was Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court. And as he blushed he thought about her and their recent meeting. He thought about the picture that had played upon his mind for the last two days and, seeing her sitting opposite him, had returned in sharp and unrelenting focus.

A picture of an assured and pleasant lady, serving tea and biscuits in her lounge. A lounge with a large television screen and a jar crammed with twenty pound notes. And as they had sat there sipping tea and chatting pleasantly about this and that, his mind had wandered back to the half hour preceding this gentle coda. Half an hour earlier he had been spanked, and strapped, and caned across his naked bottom by this woman. The only intimation of what had taken place was firmly wrapped in his city gentleman’s suit. To the outside world it was just two old friends or acquaintances, having afternoon tea.

As he thought about all these things Andrew Bilton smiled again at the woman and silently echoed the remarks he had made as he left her house two days ago. We must do it again, soon. And Miss Tarita Sergeant-Court smiled back, seemingly echoing the same sentiment. And as she lowered her eyes again to her book he was sure, just for a fleeting second, that they seemed to be saying that next time, next time she would thrash him even more. Andrew Bilton blushed again and, very discreetly, as the train pulled out of the station, rubbed his hand gently across his bottom.