This is pure older woman and young man discipline. I enjoyed wriing it, partly because the main character, Mrs McLeish, arose from another story and partly because I indulged an old fantasy from my youth. She is big and black and lovable and, in my younger days, I often hankered for the attentions of such ladies. A large black hand on a young white bottom is an evocative picture. I also like her because she spanks for a reason, hence the sad overtones, and when your pants are down it makes the pain much sweeter. At least in my experience.
I never did write the letter. I hadn’t promised I would keep in touch when I returned to England but I had promised she would get a special letter. She being Mrs McLeish and the letter, well I will come on to that later. She was my landlady when I was working on a short term project in Boston. That’s Boston, Massachusetts, USA. Not the town in Lincolnshire famous for The Mayflower and the Pilgrim Fathers. Actually she was a bit more than a landlady. The firm I was seconded to, a branch of the news media organisation I worked for in London, booked her to look after any young trainees they sent abroad. Much better than any hotel, that’s what personnel said, and she cooked mean meals. And they were right. She mothered you as if you were her own son, showed great interest in the work you were doing, and fed you as if you were a King. I stayed with her for six weeks and grew very fond of her. She was big and cuddly, at least fifteen stone, and had a wicked and gentle laugh that was as warm as her personality. And, if I haven’t already said, here or elsewhere, as shiny black as the richest seam of coal. I think by the time I left I was just a little bit in love with her. It was partly the food, partly her infectious personality, and partly the fact that she ticked all my submissive boxes. I was well into mature women laced with an authoritative air and Mrs McLeish registered very high on my radar. Her forty five and something and my twenty two were a heady mix. At least to me.
On its own that would probably be enough but half way into my stay with her she spanked my backside. Over her lap with my behind as bare as the day it entered the world. I loved it and she clearly didn’t mind. It happened because I broke one of her favourite crockery pieces, a gravy dish, and picking up the pieces I never forgot her words. My boy used to get spanked for doing that, even at your age. I could not get those words out of mind and, a couple of weeks later, I plucked up the courage to ask her to do it to me. She did not disappoint. Afterwards I confessed to her that I was well into that sort of thing, mature females whacking my bottom, and the experience with her had been heavenly. Just like a mother spanking her son. My fantasies brought to life. She never did it again but, before I left, I confessed that I often used to get strapped or caned by a woman in England. That is how I got the taste for being disciplined. I remember her laughing and ruffling my hair. If it ever happened again, I was to let her know. In a letter. It did happen* but I never wrote to her about it. I sent her a Christmas card, but the promise made in Boston no longer seemed right. Distance and time had lessened the need.
In fact my one strange experience over the very ample black knee of Mrs McLeish would have become just a small and forgotten coda in my life if I hadn’t got an e-mail from the personnel department. Would I be willing to go back to Boston for a new project, about two months, and would I be happy to stay with Mrs McLeish? I thought about it for a while, two months is a big chunk out of your life. I was twenty three and my previous stay in Boston had been nearly a year before. But the proposal had its attractions. If you want to get on it is best not to say no to anonymous management requirements and, besides, the mention of Mrs McLeish stirred distant memories. I wasn’t particularly attached to anyone so I said yes and waited a response. It came back a couple of days later. Everything was arranged and the projects details were in an attached file. But Mrs McLeish already had a lodger so they had booked me in with another of their contacts. If I wasn’t happy I could move to a hotel but, they assured me, she came very highly recommended.
I was gutted. I was tempted to pull out but for the life of me I could not think of a decent excuse. I could hardly tell them that staying with Mrs McLeish was the main attraction. They might get the wrong idea. So I agreed to all the arrangements but left with a pretty heavy heart. This new landlady might be as dry as vinegar or as sexy and young as a film goddess. But sure as hell she would not be Mrs McLeish and all her connotations. But the project was interesting so I would just devote all my time to that. But the evenings might be dull. So I packed my bags and boarded my plane. Two nights in a pretty good hotel, my company didn’t skimp, and one day in the office before making my way to the lady who would see that I kept out of trouble for the next eight weeks. Actually she turned out to be very nice. Not Mrs McLeish, thirtyish and slim and Spanish, but a very good cook. I was just beginning to get settled in and putting regrets behind me when she told me I would have to leave. Her mother had been taken ill and she had to go off to Spain. She had no idea how long she would be away. She was very apologetic. But she had been in touch with the office and they had rung round all their contacts. A Mrs McLeish, only three blocks away, had a vacancy. I could stay there. Apparently I had stayed with her the previous year so the company did not see a problem as long as I was happy. I could have kissed her. In fact I did, on the day we both left, but not for the reasons she thought.
Mrs McLeish was absolutely overjoyed to see me. She slightly admonished me for not contacting her, she knew I was back in the Boston office, but relented when I told her I had every intention of getting in touch. That is true but I wanted to settle in first, and besides she had a lodger. That didn’t fit in with any plans. At the mention of her lodger she pulled a face and I decided not to pursue it. She would tell me in her own good time. All this took place with lots of warm motherly hugs which overwhelmed me. I might have been pleased to see Mrs McLeish but it was as certain as Christmas that she felt the same about me. She was big and black and I was small, no more than five feet seven, and white but it was like the return of a long lost son. Or that is what it seemed. She chatted endlessly as she showed me my room and reminded me of the arrangements. By the time she left me, the promise of a good evening meal ringing in my ears, I was exhausted. But also, here in Boston, I had come home. I fervently, and ungratefully, thanked the anonymous mother of my Spanish landlady.
I learnt a lot over that first meal. For a start I learnt that she only took in one lodger at a time, even though she had three spare rooms. But she had heard on the grapevine that I was back in Boston, she had a niece who worked in one of the sections, and for me she would make an exception. Besides her current lodger was not happy, the shitbag much preferred a hotel, and she reckoned he would move out very soon. I queried that use of the word shitbag and she pulled that face again. When the office called and she realised it was me looking for a room she decided to break her rules. I can just about cope with two she said, especially when one of them wants to leave. When I asked why she called her other lodger shitbag all she said was ‘he don’t talk.’ You, meaning me, never shut up and the Mrs McLeish’s of this world like their conversations. She laughed her infectious laugh when she said this and I, incongruously, wondered where her mysterious lodger was hiding.
I saw him at breakfast and he hardly said a word. I was beginning to think that my eagerness to lodge with Mrs McLeish was misplaced. If he was around then relaxing evenings, let alone anything else, would be off the agenda. He was little older than me but much buttoned up, and his presence seemed to drain my landlady of most of her personality. He left for his office early and always had his evening meals out so there was little time for conversation with him. I was usually in bed by the time he arrived back so, other than his name and the fact that he was a bank computer analyst from Michigan, I knew nothing about him. He wasn’t important but he hung over my evening meals with Mrs McLeish like a cloud. Three times a week she served me up one of her scrumptious recipes, she had an amazingly exotic way of cooking sea bass, but she never got out the wine. And she never truly relaxed. So it came as a bit of a surprise when on the tenth day of my stay I arrived back from the office to the smell of a gorgeous curry and the sounds of very loud singing. I went into the kitchen and the wine, open and ready, confirmed my growing suspicions. The buttoned up man from Michigan had left.
Over the evening meal I discovered from Mrs McLeish that shitbag had decided to move in with a colleague. She pulled a face when she said this which spoke volumes. Strictly speaking she could charge him two weeks lodgings but she was just glad to be rid of him. He had, in her opinion, as much personality as a neutered polecat. I told her that bankers were like that, although on what experience I based this I have no idea. But it seemed the right response. We had a lovely evening. The curry was delicious, lots of fruit and chicken, and the wine even better. And we talked freely for the first time since my arrival. She even opened up on her son. My boy used to get spanked for doing that, even at your age. He had died on that day that America will never forget. He worked in one of the buildings in investments or something. She was never quite sure what he did but it was important. I saw her eyes mist as she talked about him. Twenty five, such a waste. So he would be thirty five now, calculations were entering my head. So my Mrs McLeish was probably turned fifty although she did not look a day over forty five. I said I was sorry, it seemed a bit inadequate but it was the best that I could do. She took that as a cue to gather up the dishes and tell me I should be sorry for something else. Two things actually.
‘For a start you never sent me the letter you promised and you never got in touch when you came back to Boston.’ .
My boy used to get spanked for doing that, even at your age.
‘That is at least two demerits young man.’
The evening was going even better than I could have anticipated.
‘I tried to write it but it didn’t work. I decided that I would rather tell you. When I saw you again.’
She gave me a quizzical look, one I had got to know very well on my first stay. I first saw it just before she took my pants down for a blistering spanking, never to be repeated. It spoke volumes about how certain mature women dealt with particular compliant youths. To those so inclined you see it and recognise it. My heart surged and my loins stirred.
‘That still leaves you with one demerit. Wriggle out of that if you can.’
Even at your age, my boy used to get spanked for doing that.
‘I wanted to settle in first. And I knew you had a lodger. But I would have come round.’
She laughed out loud and, returning from her ministrations at her dishwasher, ruffled my hair. What she said next created a surge in my being that buttoned up Michigan Man, if he had been there, would have registered. Even in his dull brain.
‘When you wanted to get spanked.’
‘Yes. I know you like me, we get on, but you liked going over my knee even more.’
I thought for a moment. That had been wonderful but we had never talked about it and she had never repeated it. Merely said, as I left for England, that spanking me had brought back memories of her son. I decided that the time was ripe to go for the jugular.
‘And you enjoyed taking me there. I know that. It reminded you of when you used to do it to your son. You told me when I left.
I said it gently, hesitantly, and I saw that mist come over her eyes again. She sat down at the table, poured herself a top up of wine and stared into her glass. She didn’t speak for at least five minutes. Maybe it was only two but it seemed more. When she spoke it was as if she was pouring out her heart.
She loved her son. She loved him so much she could have eaten him. That’s what she told me. He never knew his father and, frankly, she rarely saw him either. She took his name for respectability. Irish immigrant who drifted away when the boy was six months old. She struggled for a while but eventually found a small place and built up some cash by working for a sandwich company, she was very inventive, and taking in ironing. Then she got this place, her boy was about fourteen, and started taking in lodgers. It all went well until one of them got designs on her boy, he was growing up and his dusky looks were very attractive. She caught them together one afternoon. The lodger was over fifty and her boy was nearly seventeen. Nothing had happened but it was going to. Her boy was naked and the man not far behind. She wasn’t stupid. She threw the one out and beat the hell out of the other. Actually, she didn’t beat her son. That was her mistake. If she had taken a hickory stick to him it might have ended there. But she loved him too much for that. So she did to him what she used to do when he was six or nine or twelve and misbehaved himself. She took his pants down and turned him over her knee. And with her hand she walloped his bare backside until it shone like a beacon. Dusky brown skin can redden as much as any white. He howled like a child and begged her to stop. But she didn’t relent until she had whacked his backside at least a hundred times. She ignored his pleas and tears and thought only of what she had denied. Every smack to his naked cheeks expunged a small bit of her distress. They didn’t speak to each other for at least a week. But her boy loved her as much as she loved him and eventually he said he was sorry and he had deserved what she had done. He told her that if ever he stepped out of line again she should do the same. She had laughed and ruffled his hair. Moms stop spanking their sons when they pass twelve was all she said. This was an exception. But what he didn’t say, what she didn’t know, was that it had kindled something him in. He was nearly seventeen when she took him over her knee and bared his bottom. He had the taste for it. So when he confessed the need to her she continued to do it occasionally. Because she loved him and because she wanted to keep him out of trouble. He was twenty two when she next bared his bottom again. Her view was that it was better that she smacked him than some seedy prostitute in an equally seedy flat. She would do it with love and understanding. So she continued to spank her son. Right up until he was twenty five. Right up until those planes crashed into the twin towers. Right up until he died.
‘Fact is I got to enjoy it. My boy had such a lovely bottom and smacking my hand into it gave me such a thrill. Especially as I knew he was enjoying it even more. But mothers shouldn’t get such a pleasure, so I did it very rarely. He had to give me a reason. Just like you with the gravy dish.’
She gave out one of those deep throated laughs that I found so familiar and I readily blushed.
‘Is that why you never spanked me again?’
‘Yes. That and guilt. Much as I would have loved to have had you over my knee again young man, I needed a reason. And you never gave me one.’
I could feel the heady excitement as I said this. Talking about her experiences with her son had brought back bizarre and happy memories. For both of us. The talk and the wine were having an effect.
‘Well I reckon you did by not sending me a letter. If your lady in England strapped you I, of all people, had a right to know the details. But not a word.’
‘I told you why.’
‘And on top of that, not even visiting. Two weeks in Boston and not a sign of you. I knew you were here.’
‘So you should be. Much as I love you I have been itching to get your bottom in my sights for the last ten days. Probably since your plane landed in Boston.’
‘But there was Michigan Man?’
She looked at me and smiled. But it was a harsh gleam and reminded me so much of a lady in England. Just as she was about to discipline me. I knew the look and I knew that I wanted to receive what it was offering. She placed her wine carefully on the table.
‘But he isn’t here now. Just you and me.’
I stared, transfixed and surging with my strange desire. And remembering another Boston summer night.
My boy got spanked, even when he was your age.
She had placed her chubby fingers in the chessboard waistband of my light blue Calvin Kleins and pushed them down as far as they would go. I could not fail to see her hands. She said she could see that I was ready and gave a small laugh. It was gentle and understanding and when she directed me over her knee I knew I would not be disappointed. And then she hit me. Slowly at first but with a firmness that never relented. The intensity gradually increased and after twenty or more of her vigorous slaps I was starting to writhe. 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 the tears which were now beginning to shed. And still she had continued, her hand exploring ever inch of my naked flesh from waist to thigh, and only gradually, very gradually, did the tempo slow to hard individual whacks of her hand to alternate cheeks. Each exquisite sting announced that the proceedings were coming to a close. 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.
I was ready for a repeat.
‘Does that mean what I think it does?’
‘It certainly does young man. Come here.’
‘Of course. I have been looking forward to this. I doubt if you will when your pants are down.’
I didn’t resist, I did not want to resist. I had been wanting this moment for weeks, ever since I got the e-mail from personnel. I moved towards where she was sitting and gently, but eagerly, her black chubby fingers moved towards the waist of my jeans. I looked down at her face and her eyes were gleaming in anticipation. Whatever Mrs McLeish’s motives, she was going to enjoy smacking my behind. And that seemed important to me. My jeans came down in an instant and my underpants quickly followed and as I bent over her lap she reminded me that she only ever spanked bare. As if to emphasise the point she lifted my short top, revealing both of my lily white cheeks, and delivered a firm slap to each of them. I only, ever, ever, spank my boys on the bare. The stinging whacks to my behind coincided with each utterance of ever. Then she shifted her position, her comfort in preparation for my discomfort, lifting her knee to raise my bottom and placing her left hand around my waist. It occurred to me that I could not move, even if I wanted to. And then she spanked me. For over ten minutes. I must have been as red and sore as any chastised child and I howled through most of it. I hoped her kitchen was soundproofed. I reckon she whacked my behind, bare and willing, at least a hundred times. I gritted my teeth and absorbed every heavenly sting. Her naked black palm on my naked white flesh was dynamite. The unseen vision was a heady mix and my mind and body registered an exquisite response. When she finished, six real stingers - three to each blistered cheek - she rubbed my bottom for a couple of minutes and then made me stand up. She looked at my erection, all my control gone, uttered a disapproving sound and ruffled my hair. As I was, pants around knees. Then she did as the first time. She bared, she spanked, she covered up. I sat down on a chair and felt the warmth seeping through my backside. I felt serene, floating. I would have stayed like that for the rest of the evening if Mrs McLeish had not dropped a tiny bombshell. She was opening the venetian blinds of a small kitchen window when it came. Strange, I had not noticed earlier that they had been closed. That’s one score settled, young man. You still have another demerit. I said nothing as I was hoping there was. We’ll settle that another time. With my brand new strap. I stared at her, not sure that I had heard the words correctly. She laughed as she saw my face. It has gone as red as your bottom she said. Yes, I had heard right because she repeated it. She went out and bought it when her niece told her I was back in Boston. I went to bed early that night but I have no idea if I slept.
I stayed with Mrs McLeish for four weeks, the project wound up a little earlier than expected, and in all that time she never referred to my welcoming spanking or the threatened strap. It was almost as if the one had not happened and the mention of the second, inextricably linked, was a product of my fertile imagination. She cooked me breakfasts, did me some scrumptious evening meals, and was as pleasant and homely as I had expected. We talked about my job, especially when I arrived back late and exhausted, and she often filled me in on her busy day. One evening we spent most of our time together talking about the dullard brain from Michigan. Apparently he had come back looking for a room for a week and she told him she was full. It led to lots of speculation and a little bit of guilt on her part. She did have a room but she did not want him back. It might have been an opening for more interesting conversations but, being late, they did not happen. And on the couple of occasions when events could have taken a thrilling turn, an early evening meal together, the conversation rarely strayed from the normal landlady and lodger interactions. On one of those nights I remember dropping a broad hint, something about going out to see if I could find some interesting evening action, but it was either too vague or too explicit. Young men need to get their rocks off occasionally was probably how she interpreted it. But a couple of days before my stay was coming to an end, my flight home was booked, she cooked me a farewell meal. That special sea bass, with peppers and spices to die for. As she put everything away in the dishwasher and poured yet another glass of wine she turned to me and spoke. I have never forgotten what she said. It’s all about guilt of course. I wish I did not have it. I had it with my son and I have it with you. The statement came totally out of the blue. I stared at her and she gave me that winning smile and gleam which evoked special warmth. If I wanted that unspoken strap I needed to tread very carefully. My Mrs McLeish had clearly been brooding on certain matters for quite a long time. If I played my cards right she would brood no longer.
‘Yes. Guilt. It must be my Christian upbringing. Anything that gives pleasure must be wrong.’
‘Are you talking about the sea bass?’
‘It was a fantastic meal, Mrs McLeish. Are you saying I was wrong to enjoy it?’
She laughed. That infectious laugh I loved so much it made my toes tingle.
‘You know damn well I ain’t talking about the sea bass. Or any other fish.’
I gave her my most serious look. It might be useful to be deliberately obtuse.
‘Then what are you talking about?’
‘Oh, I think you know.’
She sighed and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Are you kidding me?’
I can lie with the best of them and innocence seemed the right ploy in these circumstances.
‘Mrs McLeish. Honestly, I have no idea what you are talking about.’
She gave me a meaningful look. It said either I don’t believe you but I will play along with it or, boy are you in for a surprise. Either way I was enjoying my anticipation.
‘I am talking about that strap.’
She paused, waiting for a reaction. When it did not come, I said I was being deliberately obtuse, she continued.
‘You know. The strap I bought when I heard you were back in Boston. The one I threatened you with?’
‘I thought you had forgotten.’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten the strap or the spanking I gave you. I haven’t forgotten that I bought it because of what you told me about your lady in England. And I haven’t forgotten that I still have a reason to employ it.’
She paused and took a sip of her wine.
‘I haven’t forgotten anything. I have thought of little else these last three weeks.’
‘But you haven’t done anything about it?’
‘I told you. Guilt. I wish I did not have it. I had it with my son and I have it with you.’
‘There’s no need. We both enjoy it. I want what you like to give. It does no harm.’
‘It does to me. That is why you have to make me angry, or at least annoyed. I was annoyed when you came back because you hadn’t written and you hadn’t been in touch. You deserved to be spanked, young man.’
‘And now I don’t?’
‘No. I thought at the time I would love to take that strap to you, but ever since you have been so nice. I think I would take more pleasure from whacking that weirdo from Michigan.’
We both looked at each other and laughed.
My Boston landlady may have mixed up emotions concerning me but her warm and friendly personality still had that wonderful sense of humour. I reckon that is why I liked her so much. That and the fact that everything about her ticked all my submissive boxes. At that moment I wanted nothing more than for her to take down my pants and thrash my bare backside. It would be my way of saying thank you for being you. And it would cement the special relationship in the manner than only those who play such elaborate games can truly understand. But my desire for the disciplinary attentions of this mature woman, so close I could smell her warmth, was being challenged by guilt and absurdity. She wanted to give what I wanted to receive but circumstances had dissipated and foiled the situation. Hence the relieving laughter. We were still laughing when we went to our separate beds. A gentle peck on the cheek, a slight ruffling of my hair, and resigned goodnights. Anything else would have seemed so wrong. But I knew only two things when I settled down for the night. One was that I was flying back to England in two days and the other was that before I left I wanted to feel Mrs McLeish’s new and shiny strap, especially bought for me, across my bare behind. I just had to find a way to make her do it. For real, and without guilt.
I got my chance the following day. There was a girl in our Boston office who had been dropping broad hints during my stay that she was amenable to a friendly liaison. She was very pleasant but she did not do anything for me. Having got my flight back home booked I thought I had successfully avoided her clutches. But two things happened. The first was that the London office e-mailed me requesting I stay on for a few more days. Arrangements had to be made regarding changed flights and rescheduled meetings and it was the pleasant but unexciting girl who had the task of doing it. She took her opportunity and made one last pitch to get me to have a meal with her at her flat. I agreed for the following evening. Her face lit up and I despised myself for my ulterior motive. I had a meal with her, very nice, and I didn’t tell Mrs McLeish. And I stayed with her for the night, nothing happened as I was deliberately too drunk, but I didn’t tell Mrs McLeish that either. The next morning I went straight to the office and waited for a phone call. When it came I had that mixture of fear and anticipation that was so familiar. Mrs McLeish, my black and shiny and lovable Boston landlady, was hopping mad. I put down the phone with her words ringing in my ears. I thanked the stars that it was a direct and private line. Her message only had one meaning. My strap and your behind are about to make an acquaintance. I could have added the unspoken bit myself. My son used to get spanked for doing that, even at your age. Except this time it wasn’t going to be a spanking. This time, inspired by a lady in England, it was to be the new and shiny strap. Eagerly bought and never used. Until tonight. I wanted it, I had engineered it. But now it was here I spent a day in fearful anticipation. I was not looking forward to my evening at my lodgings. Unexciting female office companions suddenly had their attractions.
‘We have a little matter to settle before dinner, young man.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘I’m sorry. Truly I am.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Do not get sharp with me. You could have phoned to say you were eating out. You could have phoned to say you were staying out the night. You could have just phoned.’
As she said all this she waved the shiny new strap for emphasis. We were in her living room and a small dining room chair had been placed centre stage. If the wavy strap, quite long and medium thick, was not enough the chair spoke volumes. Someone was going to get strapped and sure as hell it was not going to be the fired up Mrs McLeish.
‘I was so distraught I nearly phoned the police. But I phoned my niece instead and she told me you had gone off with some girl from the office. And not a word to anyone.’
Again the strap waved and threatened.
‘Well I hope it was worth it because when you drop your pants for me I can guarantee that it will not be so pleasurable.’
We both knew this was not true. She desired what I both feared and needed and all combined in a heady anticipation. She wanted that view of my bare backside, submissive and ready for discipline, and I wanted that waving strap to land across it with venom. We only needed a few more moments.
‘You are going to strap me?’
‘Oh yes. I reckon twenty four should just about settle the debt. With your jeans and everything down. I think you know I only ever spank bare.’
‘But you have never used a strap. Not even on your son.’
She flinched and, for a moment, I regretted this introduction. Emotional history was not a part of the scenario. I need not have worried, it merely fired her anger.
‘My son got what he deserved. And so will you. In his case my hand was always enough. I thought it was for you. Until tonight.’
She paused and that familiar gleam came into her eyes. The strap twitched in her hand, eager for use.
‘So drop your jeans and bend over that chair.’
‘Is there anything I can say?’
‘No. Twelve for not phoning and twelve for not phoning again. On your bare behind, young man and you deserve them all.’
I sighed and walked to the chair. A little nervous fumble and my jeans came down. I pushed them all the way to my knees and bent over the hard wooden back. As I grasped the outer legs of the chair I registered that the height was just right. My bottom was raised and ready for the virgin strap.
‘And I mean them to hurt. All twenty four. I have never strapped anyone so this will be a first. But if ever anyone deserved it then it is you. You let me down last night.’
As she said this she put those lovely black fingers in the waistband of my underpants and peeled them down. Baring everything. My naked bottom was now ready for whatever she would do. I twitched and squirmed in fearful anticipation. I had no idea how much she would hurt. I only know that the sensation of being exposed for her wrath was what I desired. I had not let her down. I had done what was necessary to create this situation. And the situation was a hovering, shortly to be christened, strap and my bare backside. May we both revel and enjoy.
‘Close your eyes and pray, young man. Cus this is going to hurt.’
As she spoke the strap landed heavily across my naked rear and the warming sting to my cheeks signalled the commencement of a familiar dance. A Boston landlady and her inconsiderate lodger were combined in an age old connection that surpassed the normal sexual variety. That bare behind, mine, and avenging strap, hers, danced for at least five minutes.
I both loved it and hated it. I loved the sensation of being bent down with my bare backside in the air and the release it gave. I loved the freedom of my semi nakedness, the exposure of my most private parts to a woman I adored. I knew that she could see my penis and my balls as well as my bottom and I knew the latter was offering itself to her strap. I desperately wanted its kiss. So much so that the first few strokes were disappointingly weak. I needed it to cut and hurt and bring tears to my eyes. I needed it to land into my cheeks with a viciousness that would make me gasp. Her tentative whacks, accurately delivered, did not have the confidence that previous experience of her hand suggested they would. But gradually she gathered pace and the strokes landed harder and harder. By the tenth slap of the leather Mrs McLeish was getting into her stride and the battle of bottom and strap increased in intensity. I started to give out small signs of audible distress that spurred her to growing effort. By the fifteenth stroke the thwacks were becoming relentless and the burning in my backside unbearable. Could I take the last few? I had to if this chastisement was to be complete. I gripped the chair and steeled myself to absorb the remaining pain. Unlike when she spanked with her hand all with the strap had connected with the centre of my backside. My two cheeks were aflame and the tears were rising. The power and intensity, along with the speed of delivery, had progressed through my strapping. By the time the new and shiny leather, especially bought for use on me, stung its twentieth savage kiss I was begging for forgiveness. I still tightly held the chair, I still firmly offered my bottom, but I desired an end. It came, but when it did I clenched my teeth and closed my watery eyes. Two slowing strokes had rammed into me and the cause of my discomfort paused and spoke. I used to spank my son, bare bottom in the air, even when he was you age. But never like this. He never deserved this. And then she gave me five more searing strokes across my backside as hard as she could, right across the centre of my naked cheeks, and each landed with a fiery pain which expended all my remaining breath. And then she stopped. I knew she had stopped because I heard the strap fall to the floor and, a second later, felt the warmth of her hands gently rubbing my lacerated skin. All was silence for at least two minutes and then she gently tapped my backside and left the room. I tentatively rose, it was not easy, and added my own rub to my throbbing rear. It had been wonderful. It still was ten minutes later when, dressed and composed, I found her sitting in the kitchen with a glass of wine. There was also one for me. My Mrs McLeish looked serenely happy. But, and this came as a shock, my Mrs McLeish was also crying.
I left her lodgings four days later and it was a pretty emotional goodbye. We didn’t say much about my strapping or the aftermath but I replayed it all in my mind on the flight back home. Her disciplining of me had released so much tension in her that the tears had just flowed. I told her it had been a happy release for both of us even though only one was able to sit down. She laughed through the tears and simultaneously wiped her eyes and offered me the wine. You remind me so much of him she said. I knew who she meant and thought it best to say nothing. So nice, so mischievous, and such a nice bottom. Deserved to be spanked. Again I said nothing. Was she talking about me or him? That’s how all this started. My son use to get spanked for doing that. Even at your age. A casual comment had led to a very special relationship. So much so that after lots of talk and a sumptuous meal, Moroccan lamb and apricots, she requested a peep at my backside. We were putting the dishes away and at least three hours had passed. The talk had been mainly about my future career and was I ever going to return to Boston. Keep me away I said. She laughed and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. And then she made her request. Could she see the damage? So, shamelessly, I dropped my jeans and Calvin Klein’s and allowed her to inspect my bottom. Apparently her son, the distant ghost, never did so it seemed especially important. My, she said. Lots of blue and purple and red. I can almost see every stripe and you will have it for a little while. I wonder what your lady in England would think. I have no idea, but I left vowing to go back. My lasting image is of a Boston landlady I loved inspecting and commenting on my lacerated bare behind. Standing by her dishwasher with my pants and jeans at my knees. I love you Mrs McLeish, you and your sadly missed son, and I will be coming back. I made lots of decisions on the flight home and that was one of them. I shall be going back to Mrs McLeish. I shall be going back to my Boston landlady.
*See ‘The Past is Always Present’
(c) Alfred Roy 2012