Monday, 4 June 2012

The Past is Always Present (F/m) - (Part One)

This is the sixth in a series of stories about young Andy Styles and the woman who thrashed him and defined his sexuality. Three have already been posted here (A Private Rehearsal, A Lesson for Miss Jones and Cries From a Distant Cottage). The fourth, Mrs Wilmer's Dramatic Twist, is on the MMSA website but, frankly, it is not one of my best. That  fifth and best, in the opinion of others, requires a small fee due to its length. Posted on Lulu under the title The Boy in Black Trunks. This one moves Andy on to the ripe old age of twenty two and a reunion with the woman who rekindles old thrashing related desires. Posted in two parts due to its length. No Lulu for this one. I like my blogging and folks into whacking have short attention spans. So I am told. Except when in the usual beloved and familiar situations. Alfred Roy

I hadn’t seen Connie Wilmer for nearly five years. For some reason our paths had not crossed since the film we made for the Edinburgh Festival. The Boy in Black Trunks. I always meant to keep in touch, especially as the film was a great success, but university and the later promise of a career in journalism got in the way. I spoke to her on the phone a few times and we exchanged news. She still did a few theatrical projects but her main interest, or so it seemed to me, were social documentaries for a small TV company. She seemed very busy but always found the time to chat to me and to console me, when needed, over my latest failed relationship. The girl in the Edinburgh film had drifted away soon after it finished and I had never seriously engaged with anyone else. And then, after university, I went to the USA for a year as part of my training and my phone calls ceased. I suppose you would call it growing up. But I still sent her a Christmas card and the occasional postcard. Connie Wilmer, Mrs Wilmer as I always called her, may be a part of my past but it was a past I was not quite ready to let go. Not surprising really. I had first met her when I was fifteen, or thereabouts, and she was a local and formidable theatre director of forty something. Before that film in Edinburgh I did four shows for her. All in the space of less than two years. It was a heady time. One that I will never forget. And not just for the theatre, good as it was. Whenever I stepped out of line, and I often did at that age, Mrs Wilmer took great delight in baring my backside and giving me a good thrashing with whatever implement came to hand. I forget many things about my youth but I never forgot that.

And I still don’t.

So it came as a bit of a shock when I bumped into her, at a conference the small magazine I was currently working for was covering. I blushed when I saw her, all the teenage memories coming flooding back. I might look smart in my formal suit and white shirt but when I saw Mrs Wilmer, elegantly dressed as always, I was a boy again. She had just poured herself a coffee prior to the morning session and when she saw me I blushed again.

‘Andy’, her voice expressed genuine warm surprise. ‘What a delight. Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

‘I didn’t know until yesterday.’

I looked at the badge pinned to her crisp dark top.

‘And even if I had seen the lists, Blacktrunk Films wouldn’t have meant anything.’

‘Then why are you blushing again, Andy?’

She was right, I was blushing. I was also sweating and did so for the five minutes of our brief conversation. Black trunks did mean something and she knew that I was remembering them, and all the other projects we had been associated with. She told me that after the success of the Edinburgh film she and her associate had set up their own company. They hadn’t done anything major and concentrated mainly on social documentaries. Their last one had won some small awards. Mostly about disaffected youth, or that seem to be the gist. I didn’t learn much else as the first session was due to start and we didn’t have any chance to talk again during the first day. But after the evening meal we did get an opportunity to talk for a while over a night cap. She filled me in on what she had been doing and I brought her up to scratch on my limited career. She admonished me slightly for not keeping in touch more and, looking at her in her casual but immaculate evening wear, I blushed again.  I had been doing so for most of our late get together. Especially when she said I had looked very boyish in my conference suit. A boy trying to be a man she said. But she smiled when she said it. And we talked about the plays we had done together and the Edinburgh film we had made. But we didn’t talk about the strappings and canings she gave me. They were the unspoken script. But we both knew they were there, hanging over the evening like an unwelcome guest. But I thought of them when we parted for the night. I went to my room thinking of only one thing. Oh how I would love Mrs Wilmer, the mature and wonderful Connie Wilmer, to smack my backside again. Just as she had done in the past.

It was not surprising I had such thoughts. The few defining moments of my life so far had been with my trousers down waiting for the attentions of Mrs Wilmer’s strap or cane. Except for one occasion when she spanked me with her hand for purely sensuous reasons, or so I thought, all her administrations to my teenage backside had been scholastic. I was a fifteen going on sixteen indolent who learnt a lesson best when something sharp was connecting with his behind. Mrs Wilmer discovered that early in our theatrical collaborations. I both hated it and desired it. Fearful and tingling anticipation was followed by a serene after glow. And in between I cried and squealed as the dreaded implement of her choice stung my naked cheeks. Her chastisements seared with heavenly fire and, pants down, I would not have changed anything. At fifteen I did not truly understand such things but I never resented the pain or the humiliation. Baring my bottom for the woman I revered above all others was an act of essential truth. No matter how much it hurt I would always welcome it. And never more than when she delivered the first twenty or so strokes of her formidable strap and then, gently and carefully, undid my jeans and stripped them and my underpants down my thighs. The throbbing pain and my nakedness would combine in a desperate will for her discipline which I could not understand. I shed many tears as she gave her all to my small and vulnerable bottom. But I never resisted, or I think I didn’t. At twenty two, in America, I had often tried to recreate it but none were Mrs Wilmer and virtually none would do. My past was destined, tantalisingly, to remain there. Until it unexpectedly turned up in my hotel. I slept the sleep of a fifteen year old.

I didn’t see Connie Wilmer at breakfast. I gathered later that she was meeting a friend, the one who collaborated on many of the projects we had done together. When she told me that, I blushed again. Her friend, Paula Michaels, was well aware of Mrs Wilmer’s special methods with teenage actors. We were having dinner together after a long and difficult day at the conference. Mrs Wilmer had only attended the afternoon session and the evening meal was our first chance to chat. The conference had finished and some of the delegates had left. The hotel restaurant had a much more relaxed and open feel. The previous evening we had retired to the bar for our reminiscences. On this second night we remained in the restaurant and filled in details of our respective lives. It was over coffee that Mrs Wilmer mentioned Paula Michaels. It was over coffee that I blushed again.

‘You remember Paula?’

I raised my eyes in some mock grimace but Mrs Wilmer was not really expecting a reply. You did not forget the rich and eccentric Paula’s of this world. A passion for exclusive tea shops and expensive clothes and a willing backer of any project that took Mrs Wilmer’s fancy. Her modest writing talent was honed by Mrs Wilmer’s directorial flair and Edinburgh had brought both some success. Always immaculately dressed I conjured up my abiding picture of her. Cloche hat on head and designer bags surrounding her, tucking her heavy carmine lips into yet another cake. Yes I remembered Paula Michaels.

‘She was very interested in my meeting you here.’

Connie Wilmer paused and smiled.

‘She wanted to know if I was going to spank you.’

I have said that meeting Mrs Wilmer and talking to her had induced any number of blushes to my cheeks. None matched the ones that surged into me now. My chest tightened, my face reddened, and my breathing became difficult. All sensations combined with a surge in my loins I could not explain. The amplifying of that one word was a heady trigger. I reached for my coffee as I considered what to say. When the words came out it was as if someone else was speaking them.

‘Doesn’t she think I am too old for that?’

‘She might, but I doubt it. Paula always took a vicarious interest in my methods of dealing with you. It clearly still fascinates her and she hasn’t changed. She raised the topic a number of times today.’

I drank my coffee, using the moment as an excuse to gather my thoughts. What I said next might be very important.

‘But don’t you think I am too old?’

‘No. On the contrary I think you are still the right age.’

‘I’m twenty two. A bit old to be spanked.’

‘You look about seventeen, Master Styles. Besides, nice bottoms rarely age. My husband still has a very boyish one. And he is well past fifty.’

She smiled, mischievously, and as she said this a strange and fleeting thought entered my mind.

‘Do you spank him?’

‘Good lord, no. I only whacked you. And your theatrical friends. And invariably for good reason.’

‘But you enjoyed it?’

Mrs Wilmer poured herself a second coffee from the elegant flask and considered the question. Of course she had enjoyed it, enjoyed the strapping of the teenage backsides. Young bottoms are so beautiful. I remember her telling me that more than once. But she had disciplined for a reason and, in her heart, she knew it would not work any other way. So she had to tread carefully. I could see that.

‘It was necessary.’

‘But not now.’

I breathed very heavily. I desperately wanted her to say that it was. That it was about time I got a good thrashing. From her. To recreate those distant days as a young teenager whacked on his bare bottom by a middle aged woman he revered. If we each made the right response it would happen. If not we would go our separate ways, ships passing in the night, both filled with regret. I waited silently, and her response did not disappoint. She leaned closely to me. No one in the restaurant could hear the conversation but the closeness added an extra frisson.

‘I don’t see why not, Andy. I am sure there must have been many things you did in America that deserved a strapping. Shall we say Friday night? At my place?’

My mind froze. It was going to happen. Just as I hoped. Another thought, practicality vied with desire, and she answered it as it arose.

‘My husband is away on business in Germany.’

I considered my response. Many times in my year in America I had tried to rekindle the special situations I had experienced with Mrs Wilmer. My sexual urge, generally straight, was pretty strong but it walked in tandem with a deeper and more complex need. However much I copulated, and there were many young and willing females, I had an urge for something else. It never left me, however much I climaxed. So I searched it out. Mature women willing to whack young behinds. It rarely worked because none were Connie Wilmer. The history wasn’t there. But now it was. I could recreate my fifteen year old self with the only woman who could take me there. I was not going to turn it down.

‘Shall we say seven o’clock?’

‘I haven’t said yes.’

‘Oh, come on Andy. It has been written over your face ever since we met yesterday. You needn’t feel ashamed. It is a perfectly normal need.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. For both of us. But especially you.’

Mrs Wilmer said this last bit very quietly and, for the first time since we had met again, I saw a slight blush in her cheeks. She wanted to give what I so desperately wanted to receive. So a date was made and I went to bed with her final comments ringing in my ears. She still kept both the strap and the cane she had used on me in the past. They were ready for use and there would be no holding back. When they landed on my backside they would do so in serious earnest. From Mrs Wilmer I would not expect any less.

The next three days dragged very slowly and my concentration levels were at their lowest. I could not get the promised scenario out of my head. I had similar feelings in America when I had made appointments with mature ladies who specialised in dishing out corporal punishment. But it never truly worked for me. I enjoyed the beatings, the sensation of a cane or strap landing on my bare backside was clearly part of my psyche, but none had that special something. A couple of experiences were clearly seen as a prelude to sexual activity, and that was a separate compartment. One was too motherly and kind and another was obviously only doing it for the money. I left all with a heavy heart. I didn’t know it at the time but I was searching for a substitute for Mrs Wilmer. Perhaps one day I would find her. A woman, stern but fair, who would treat me like a schoolboy and give me what I deserved and needed. There was one who came close and, surprisingly, I discovered her by accident. She was my landlady in Boston. I was working in one of our offices there for a few weeks and she had an arrangement with the personnel department. We got on very well, so well that she used to tease my boyish looks and my propensity for blushing. I often helped her with evening chores, she cooked super meals, and when I accidently broke a special gravy dish she threatened me with a spanking. Then she laughed and left the kitchen. I remember standing frozen by her sink and retelling in my mind every word she said. Every single one. My boy used to get spanked for doing that, even when he was your age. That is what she said and I repeated the words to myself, over and over again. My boy used to get spanked for doing that. I suddenly saw her in a different light. Even when he was your age. Now I knew why we got on so well. In looks and maturity she wasn’t that different from Connie Wilmer. A softer personality but in her own way, landlady rather than theatre director, still a female figure of authority. My boy got spanked, even at your age. Was that true? Was it more than a joke? Was it said with any hidden motive or meaning? Did she know? The questions bombarded my mind as I stood still and sweating by her sink. I hadn’t moved an inch when she came back and it was the insistent sounds and smells of coffee making which brought me back. It took me about ten minutes to vow that I would broach the subject. Her boy got spanked. It took me three hours to ask if what she said was true. Even at my age. It took me another two weeks to ask her if she would do the same to me.

She said yes. It didn’t surprise her. She knew I had a strong submissive nature, so she said. And she was well aware that some folks liked that sort of treatment. She only wondered why it had taken so long for me to ask her. I think it was the wine after a long summer evening and another of her wonderful dinners. And a brand new gravy boat, purchased that morning. I offered to pay for it and she declined but the talk moved tantalising in a direction I wanted it to go. My boy used to get spanked for doing that, even when he was your age. She understood and she was prepared to do it if it gave me some pleasure. But she also assured me it would also involve pain. She wasn’t going to do it unless it was for real, or as real as one could make it. But only her hand. She couldn’t envisage a scenario involving straps or canes or paddles. She could only do it as a mother, the way she walloped her son. My boy got spanked, even at your age. But she assured me her hand and his bare behind were an unequal match. He always squirmed and squealed. And I would do the same.

It was the use of the word ‘bare’ that both prepared and stimulated me for what was to follow. When she left the dining room I knew when she came back I was going to have my pants taken down. Not take my pants down in readiness for sex, but taken down for a more bizarre and heady pleasure. The one means you are a man, the other makes you fifteen again. I think she left me to give me time to reconsider. If I was still standing there when she came back then it would be a signal to start the proceedings. In the wait I felt a surge in my loins that I prayed would not be obvious. This was not about sex this was about me having my bottom spanked, please don’t get the wrong idea. I need not have worried. She came back and placed a high backed chair in the centre of the room and, sitting down, told me to come and stand in front of her. When I did so she spoke quietly, telling me I was about to get what I both needed and wanted, and at the same time started to undo the belt on my jeans. She slowly undid the belt and then the buttons on my jeans and, pulling them down to my knees, audibly confirmed that she only ever spanked on the bare behind. My boy got spanked, even at your age. As if to emphasise the point she placed her chubby fingers in the chessboard waistband of my light blue Calvin Kleins and pushed them down as far as they would go. She could not fail to see my semi erection and I could not fail to see her hands. It was the first time they had truly registered. They did so now because they would soon be connecting with my bottom. Working hands, quite large and thick, and ideal for the task she was to undertake. Dressed only in a light summer shirt which covered nothing I closed my eyes and waited. Never in America had I felt so vulnerable. She said she could see that I was ready and gave a small laugh. It was gentle and understanding and did not detract and when she took my left arm and directed me over her right knee I knew I would not be disappointed. The bending over that knee, the looking at her floor, the sensation as she lifted my shirt, and the surge I felt as she placed her hand across my naked bottom cheeks created a heady faintness in me. And when she gently stroked both my cheeks and said I had a nice bottom, just like her son’s and made for spanking, I felt an eagerness that would surely burst. And then she hit me. Slowly at first but with a firmness that never relented. First one cheek and then the other and then three or four to either side. The intensity gradually increased and after twenty or more of her vigorous slaps I was starting to writhe on her lap. Very soon we were conducting an elaborate dance as I tried to move my bottom away from her relentless hand. But it unerringly found its mark and at every slap I felt a sting that was both delicious and excruciating. My behind took on a fiery warmth that must, it seemed, eventually aflame. And still she did not stop. I suddenly started to feel sorry for her anonymous son. If he got this no wonder he left home. Eventually I started to cry. The pain was becoming too much but I did not want her to stop. I needed it, wanted it, and wanted these tears which were now beginning to shed. And still she continued, her hand exploring ever inch of my naked flesh from waist to thigh, and only gradually did the tempo slow. When it did I had a reprise of the start of my spanking with hard individual whacks of her hand to alternate cheeks. Each exquisite sting announced that the proceedings were coming to a close. If I checked the time I reckon I had been over my landlady’s lap for ten wonderful minutes. Eventually she stopped and gentle massaging of my burning backside accompanied my dying tears. I reckon I lay over her lap for a further five minutes and all she said was that I had a lovely red bottom, so like her son’s, and she could poach an egg on it if so inclined. When I got up, at her bidding, she pulled up my underpants and jeans and fastened the necessary buttons. It was as if she was saying that when I spank I do it all. I bare and I cover. I felt fifteen again.

We never repeated the experience, much as I would have liked to. When I looked at my behind it my bedroom mirror I saw the work of an expert. I was beetroot red from waist to thigh. But we never did repeat it and we only spoke of it once. It was when I was leaving, about three weeks later, to return to England. She told me her son had died, she didn’t say how but thinking about it I reckon it was on that day that America will never forget. And in a funny sort of way spanking me brought back his memory. My boy used to get spanked for doing that, even when he was your age. It was then I told her about Mrs Wilmer and our theatre experiences and her canes and straps. And how I had never forgotten her. She said she was sure I would meet her again. And if she ever took her strap to me I was to let her know. And thinking about the forthcoming Friday I feel pretty certain that my Boston landlady will shortly be getting a letter. A very descriptive letter.

To be continued