Monday 4 June 2012

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


I arrived at Connie Wilmer’s a little early. She was cooking a rather special beef casserole, spiced with oranges and brandy, and seemed very proud of it. She took my obligatory bottle of wine and overnight bag, she insisted I stayed the night, and showed me where I was sleeping. I could shower and change and get ready for a relaxing dinner. She asked me to dress in readiness for the afters, around nine thirty following good food and a long and uninhibited chat was how she put it. As, from memory, she liked me in boyish jumper and tight jeans I had come prepared. I had also packed a nice pair of pure white Calvin Kleins with the chessboard band. If possible we were going to recreate my first visit to her splendid house. On that cold February day, many years before, I had come to her house for a private rehearsal of a play. But I had suspected that something else was on the agenda. This time I knew what it was. I was going to get whacked.

‘So what did you actually say?’

‘I told her that if it was true that she spanked her son, even when he was my age, I would quite like her to do it to me.’

‘Just like that? You just came out and asked her?’

‘I think she was expecting it.’

‘And she wasn’t disturbed by it?’

‘No. I reckon she saw it as quite normal. And totally unthreatening. I have a theory that her son liked being spanked and she missed being able to do it anymore.’

‘And then you came along?’

‘Yes.’

The meal was over and we had been discussing many things. The subject gradually moved towards my sexuality and, understandably, my disciplinary experiences in America. It was inevitable that my landlady spanking would come up. I gave Mrs Wilmer a blow by blow account.

‘I think it was all to do with the gravy boat.’

She had been silent for a while and her conclusion was both measured and decisive.

‘Because I broke it?

‘Because she bought a new one. She was reminding you. You had said nothing for two weeks. A woman desperate to spank has to take desperate measures.’

‘Is that what you are doing with me?’

Mrs Wilmer smiled and I saw a slight change in her demeanour. Her eye became sharper and her face took on a more serious look. I sensed a heaviness in her breathing and, simultaneously a slight churning in my stomach. We sat looking at each other for no more than a minute or so and in that minute I felt the familiar stirring in my loins. A stirring which signalled my strange desire. I was ready to be used and she knew it. It had been building all day. On my journey to her house and while I showered and changed. And throughout the evening meal. My recollections were the opening she required. I sensed myself staring at her, not knowing what to say. It did not matter. For the next half an hour it was best if I said nothing.

‘Stand up.’

She said it quietly but with determination. I obeyed her command. I did not resist. I did not want to resist.

‘Face the far wall and put your hands on your head. I won’t be long.’

I went to the centre of her large dining room and did as I was bid. I heard her leave the room and in the following silence became conscious only of my own breathing. I was sweating and trembling at the awareness of my chosen vulnerability. When I raised my arms I felt my light jumper, her favourite blue, also rise and my mind focussed on my clothed body. The nakedness under the jumper, the tight fitting underpants, the close fitting jeans. All designed to please my Mrs Wilmer. I had dressed for her attentions and the bare skin of my waist, between jeans and raised jumper, heightened my growing senses. I had done this for her, turning back the years, and her instructions to me reflected it. Telling me to stand and wait, hands on head, was a stroke of genius. I closed my eyes and allowed the familiar stirrings to continue their insistent course. The hardening intermingled with a desperate twitching in my bottom and the desire for all aspects of release burned into my mind. When she returned I would be ready. Ready for whatever she wished to do.

I felt the hands, the long fingers, on my jeans. I felt the top button being released and the slight easing of my internal pressure. I felt the hands move from behind me and slowly, one by one, undo the four buttons on my fly. I felt the jeans being pulled apart and slowly pushed down my legs. I sensed the coolness of the room on my skin. And all the while I kept my hands firmly on my head and my eyes closed. I sensed her bending down and pulling the jeans down to my ankles and her fingers gently brushing my skin as she rose. Nothing was said and only silence filled the room. And then she touched my waist and both hands, either side of me, slowly rolled up my jumper until it settled under my armpits. I was aware that, other than my underpants, most of my body was now naked. And still my eyes were closed and still nothing was said. And then the hands, gently at first but then firmer, stroked and cupped my covered buttocks. The warmth and softness of her palms produced a heady response and my erection took on a greater urgency. And then the hands move around my cheeks and slipped inside the waistband of my one remaining garment and gradually made the final downward slide. I held my breath. Slowly all my flesh was released, I sensed a proud stiffness never before matched, and the underpants went to where they belonged. Around my feet. I was completely exposed and ready. The urgency of my desire surpassed anything in my experience. And that desire, in the house of the silent and wonderful Mrs Wilmer, was to be unmercifully thrashed. I truly thought I would faint.

‘You have a lovely bottom, Master Styles.’

I said nothing. After taking down my underpants she had stood behind me for what seemed an age, in no hurry to continue the proceedings.

‘A little chubbier than when I last saw it, but still very boyish. Still two nicely rounded cheeks.’

As she said this she lightly tapped each of my cheeks with her palm. If this was a signal for discipline it was a very subtle one.

‘And still beautifully pale and smooth. You were made to be spanked Andy. I thought so the first time I took your pants down, all those years ago.’

Still I said nothing. The tapping of my backside and the descriptive language merely increased the throbbing in my penis. It was so intense I was afraid that it might explode without any assistance from me. Never had I been in such a situation. The woman I had revered for years, the woman who had strapped and caned me to manhood, had me virtually naked and ready for her bidding in her house. All I had constantly searched for in America was here. I wanted whatever she was prepared to give and I wanted it to hurt.

‘I thought so even more when I took them down for my strap or my cane. So well deserved. And how you screamed when my strap landed on your bare backside. I shall never forget. And we will do it again. I promise you that.’

She tapped my bottom again, a little harder than before, and I felt another surge of desperate desire.

‘But now get dressed and do what you have to do in bed and I shall see you in the morning.’

As she said this she left the room and, momentarily stilled, I turned and saw that the room was empty. I reckon I stared at the door for five minutes. As I was. Jeans and underpants around my ankles and jumper under my arms. I must have looked ridiculous. Shocked and angry and confused I eventually pulled myself and my clothes together and went to my room. I do not know if it was her intention but my erection was but a distant memory.

It took me a while to work out what she had done and when I did my admiration for her trebled. Mrs Wilmer, my Connie Wilmer was still the woman I adored. Her dismissal of me had contained a harshness in her voice reminiscent of when I seriously displeased her in the past. After dinner she had allowed me, briefly, to indulge my fantasy but she had no intention of being an equal partner to it. I was still the boy and she was still the boss. With desire gently returning I fell asleep convinced I was going to get thrashed and it would be as the old days. Pure discipline for a boy who had strayed from the mature woman who had kept him in line in the only way he understood. At seven thirty she called me for breakfast. I entered her large and well fitted kitchen, lots of Pogenpohl fittings, and took a seat at the well laden breakfast table. The smell of bacon and sausages filled the air. I was incredibly hungry for some reason and the table was filled with promise. Steaming tea, rich brown and white crusty toast, marmalade and honey and freshly squeezed orange juice in a very elegant jug. And then I saw it. A dark leather strap. Brown and shiny, over a foot long, and wide and thick it rested on Mrs Wilmer’s side of the table. I had seen it before, I had felt it before. It had a sting that was killing, especially when applied to the bare behind. It was there for me. After breakfast. My whacking was imminent. Just as certain as that the sun would rise. Suddenly, my appetite left me.

‘You have displeased me Andy.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Did you really expect me to indulge your fantasy?’

‘You did a bit.’

‘Don’t get clever with me Andy. You are in enough trouble. I wanted to teach you a lesson.’

‘You still could have.’

‘Not like that. I need you to be a little afraid. Like in the past. There was no fear last night. Only boyish desire.’

I thought very carefully before I responded. We had finished breakfast, in spite of myself I enjoyed it, and Mrs Wilmer had turned on her dishwasher. I kept looking at the strap and my stomach churned as she would have wished. It was a hesitant reply but one thick with anticipation.

‘It might be the same again. I am older now.’

‘I can cope with that. I can cope with a boy’s erection. But it is as a boy that I shall strap you, not as a man.’

She picked up the strap for the first time and ran her delicate fingers along its edge.

‘For last night. Twenty four strokes Andy. And I intend them to hurt.’

‘Twenty Four?’

I said it almost as a whisper.

‘It is no less than you deserve. I even considered using my cane, but not this time.’

I sensed the hint of a future promised threat.

‘Now go to your room. I will join you in a few minutes. And Andy.’

‘Yes.’

She gave me a stern look which echoed so many previous and familiar situations. I sensed that surge of electricity that always entered her when, strap or cane in hand, she had prepared herself for my discipline.

‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’

‘This will be no Boston landlady spanking. I expect to see real tears.’

The fear, missing the last night, shot through me and mingled with the desire. Mrs Wilmer had achieved her aim.

I knew what she was doing. I may be happy to live in the present; she had to rekindle the past. I stood in the guest room, dressed as the previous evening, and waited. Twenty four strokes she had said. With that brown and shiny thick strap which accompanied our breakfast. Twenty four. Would it be all on my bare backside? Or would I have some protection?  I need you to be a little afraid. Like in the past. Jeans and underpants, at least for some of them. She hadn’t said, that was her way, but I was convinced that some of the strokes would be on my bare behind.  I would be disappointed if they weren’t, however much they hurt. It was part of the ritual. It was what I had sought since achieving manhood. And my Connie Wilmer, Mrs Wilmer, had sown the original seed. So long ago. And she was outside, waiting, strap in hand and I could not wait for her to come. There was no fear last night. Only desire. When she did I had been standing in the room for almost ten minutes. She didn’t say anything, merely approached me and bid me to bend over and put my hands on the end of the bed. I did so and positioned myself in readiness. Straight back and legs apart, holding firm. I was well trained and my clothed bottom was raised to the required angle. I knew from experience that her strap would land on my rear with considerable force and I wanted to absorb the shock. No unseemly teenage cavortings. I was older and wiser now and I wished to please. I felt her run her hands over my curves. Not sensuous, merely assessing the target but I felt the familiar surge all the same. And then the heady sensation of buttons being undone. This was it. This was the moment that defies all explanation. I closed my eyes and held my breath. She undid my jeans and pulled them down to my knees. I trembled in anticipation. I was wearing bright coloured Calvins, pink and green with chequered waistband, almost in defiance. The sensation was heavenly. It is as a boy that I shall strap you, not as a man.’ She lifted my bottom, urging me to stick it out and placed the heavy and shiny strap against my covered cheeks. I closed my eyes again and waited. I was ready, she was ready. These are the fleeting seconds you cannot capture. The raised bottom, the avenging strap, the waiting actors. One bent, one poised to strike. Soon the dance will begin, but before it does let us weep in expectation. After that moment the strap connected to my behind with a vicious stinging slap. I winced in pain. God, how it stung. And that was only one of twenty four. Twenty four strokes Andy. And I intend them to hurt.’ And they did. All twelve. Twelve times that strap found my raised behind and twelve times I gasped in pain. Each stroke contained a burning fire that brought tears to my eyes, tears I wanted, but with a penetrating sting that my bottom had not experienced for many years. I held my position, I had placed myself carefully, but Mrs Wilmer tested my resolve with blessed determination. The rising strokes of her strap seared into my beckoning behind with loving savagery. Each time the shiny leather hit my cheeks I squirmed and gasped at its effect. But my hands never left the bed and my feet never left the floor. I was well trained in this art. And then she stopped, still saying nothing, and slowly ran her fingers over the brightly coloured pants. She must surely feel the warmth that she had generated. And then, as the previous night, she placed her fingers in the waistband of my Calvin Klein underpants. It was only for a second or so, but their slow removal to my lower thighs was a heavenly second nonetheless, I am sure I heard a distant sigh. My naked bottom, exposed in all its painful glory, was now ready for her second attack. I drank in the cool air that kissed my bottom and welcomed the freedom her downward movement had brought to my boyhood. I can cope with a boy’s erection. But it is as a boy that I shall strap you, not as a man.’ I sensed that freedom to my genitals and I sensed the rising. This was what I most desired. To be stripped and exposed. To be bent over and willing. To be waiting for a desperate pain to my naked behind. From a woman I worshipped. She lifted my jumper away from her favoured area and, once again, allowed her hands to explore the burning flesh. But, as before, it was not sensuous. This was a woman assessing the damage she had delivered to a boy she was strapping. And then, unexpected, the strap landed across my naked cheeks with a searing blow which took my breath away. It had an intensity that surpassed all that had gone before. This will be no Boston landlady spanking. I expect to see real tears. One by one the second set of strokes hit into my naked behind with a ferocity I had never envisaged. I gasped even louder and squirmed even more. I held on to the end of the bed and prayed and prayed. Every inch of that leather strap registered on my burning and battered backside. And each thwack seemed harder than the last. I both hated it and devoured it. It hurt so much I mixed pleas with the tears which now freely flowed. Please Mrs Wilmer, I am sorry, so sorry. Please stop. Could I stay in place? Could I absorb such devastating pain? I screamed at the eighth and the ninth, low and vicious, and the tenth, shiny leather connecting with naked fleshy cheeks, must surely have cut my skin. But not until the last stroke, not until the twenty fourth lash had imprinted itself into my backside, naked and willing, did she relent. Twenty four strokes Andy. And I intend them to hurt. I fell on the bed, sobbing and clutching my burning bottom, and if I still had an erection I was not aware of it. Mrs Wilmer had whacked her favourite boy. And I, the boy, would forever remain so. I eventually calmed down and, when I did, I lay still on the bed. Unable and unwilling to move I absorbed the cool air of the room and the presence of my tormentor. Such a lovely bottom, Andy, and so compliant. You were born to be thrashed. And with that she left the room. I never moved for at least ten minutes. I lay for five minutes enjoying the sensations in my behind and then, unforgivably but understandably, I lay for a further five spending my desire.

The coda to this exhilarating reliving of past chastisements was a little frustrating. We were sitting in Mrs Wilmer’s kitchen, she smiling and me with the burning behind, both clearly keen to explore our combined experience. There were many things we needed to say. But she was meeting Paula Michaels, the dreaded carmine lipped lady in the cloched hat, and she turned up unexpected and early. Some problem with her car. Her eyes lit up when she saw me and the next half an hour was spent catching up on the theatrical past and my journalistic present. Every now and then she passed a meaningful glance at Connie Wilmer at something one of us said and I have no doubt that she suspected. And that to Paula Michaels meant only one thing. Connie Wilmer implements and my bare backside. It was the heady subtext of a difficult thirty minutes. They had to leave, and so did I, and yet Mrs Wilmer and I had so much to explore. Paula did the decent thing and left us alone while she went to powder her nose, as it is euphemistically called in polite circles. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Sorry about that, Andy. I was meant to meet her at the station.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We can talk more another time.’

‘Yes. But one thing. It was right leaving it until this morning. It made it so much better.’

‘Because I was a naughty boy?’

‘Because you were a boy. My boy. You always will be Andy.’

‘And I deserved it?’

‘You always will, Andy. Boys like you always deserve it.’

And with that she laughed and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She was right of course. People like me always deserve to have their bottoms thrashed. Especially when it is carried out by our Mrs Wilmers. I was no longer the spotty teenager having his pants taken down by a authoritative and disciplinary female. But I and she could recreate it. We did so that morning with her strap. She was right, the previous evening contained too much manly desire. The breakfast morning was boyish retribution. As in the past. When that strap hit my naked behind I was fifteen again. That is where I wanted to be and the Mrs Wilmer’s, and my distant landlady, know it. Such women are to be treasured. We left shortly afterwards but not before I had arranged to visit her again. I was going back to America and visiting Mrs Wilmer before I left was an opportunity I was not going to turn down. I got a pretty severe caning on that next visit if I remember correctly. Twelve strokes on my jeans and twenty four on my bare behind. Her reasoning was that I had twice changed the date and caused her difficulties. I understood that. The Mrs Wilmer’s of this world, like Boston landladies with broken gravy boats, always need a reason to bare a boy’s behind and give it a vigorous smack. And such boys, in America searching for its recreation, would not have it any other way.

Alfred Roy (c) 2012