This is the first of the two promised new stories for Christmas. Sailor Beware (M/m) will follow next month. This one is F/m and the anonymous 14 year old boy eventually gets the spanking he clearly desires. An early Christmas present for readers who, in less than a year, have given this blog nearly 15,000 hits. And on the subject of early Christmas presents I shall shortly be visiting a mature and severe lady who dishes out all that is in this story, and more. When my pants are down and her strap thwacks into my bare and upturned bottom I shall silently say I have earned it. Writing stories has its compensations.There is no substitute for real, and exquisite, pain on that most important place. Alfred Roy
Part One
I knew it
would come to this. I suppose I always knew, at least after the third time I
passed her house. Actually I didn’t pass it. On that third time I stopped and,
for a dare, I went into her garden and picked a couple of apples. Whilst she
was looking. Standing by an upstairs window, dressed in black, she watched me
take the apples and return, giggling, to my friends. And then we all did it in
the following days, walked into her garden and pinched her apples. On a second
and third occasion, possibly a fourth. And we all giggled and left. And she
stood at her window and watched. Dressed in black. And whoever was there, she
was always watching me. It was when I went back on my own to pinch an apple in
a now compulsive game that I saw the window was empty. For the first time she
was not standing there. Suddenly pinching her apples lost its appeal. If she
wasn’t at her window, silently watching and waiting, the apples lost their
taste and the game dulled. I knew then, if I hadn’t before, that the prize was
not the hanging fruit. The prize was the woman herself. In black, silent and
still at her window. But now, on my lone visit, she was not at her window. She
was at her door. And she invited me in.
It was all
so long ago that the details are blurred in my mind. A long late summer
vacation in an obscure Cotswolds town or hamlet. I think my father was on some
equally obscure project. The days were long and hot and generally boring. I
made friends easily and quickly latched on to the local boys. They lacked my
London sophistication but made engaging companions, especially when they
realised that my pocket money stretched considerably further than theirs. Most
of our days were spent aimlessly wandering the streets of that small town. The
few shops did not interest us and we would regularly make our way to the hills
and fields beyond. A fourteen year old imagination can run riot in such
unpromising circumstances, especially if discovering a mediaeval burial ground
or, even better, an old hanging tree where a seventeenth century villager
struggled to an untimely end. Boys can be so brutal. The journey to the open
fields often took us past the rich and imposing houses that scattered the edges
of the small town. Large houses with large front gardens and, with elaborate
iron gates or decorated concrete posts, a suggestion of country riches. I had
been there a couple of weeks when I first noticed her watching us. Then I saw
her again as we passed her house a few days later. I mentioned her to my
friends and by the third visit to the distant fields she had been christened as
the local witch. Still and silent, standing at her upstairs window dressed in
black she almost invited the soubriquet. And calling her a witch led to the
dare and the apple stealing.
I realised
towards the end of my month long stay in the Cotswolds that I was becoming
obsessed by this enigmatic woman. Every time we passed her house or gone into
her garden, three or four times, she was there watching us. She never banged
her window or expressed any emotion. Just watched and always, or so it seemed,
had her eye firmly fixed on me. It was that fact that decided me to make a
secretive visit on my own. I had been dared by my friends and I rose to the
challenge when they were all away on a cricket excursion. I did not tell them I
was going, I did not know why I was going, I only knew that going alone added
an inexplicable thrill. I would see the woman in her window, I would enter
alone to her garden, signalling what I did not know, and await developments
from our adopted witch. But when I entered her garden she was not at her
window. She was at her door and, as I say, she invited me in.
I did not
go. I stood rooted to the spot as I heard the woman’s voice for the first time.
She was younger than she had appeared in the window, no more than thirty five,
and though her dress was the severe black I knew so well, her voice was not
unpleasing. She reminded me of my late mother and, thinking this, my innate
fear abated slightly. I cannot remember exactly what she said, it is so long
ago, but it was along the lines of ‘I think we should discuss why you feel the
need to steal my apples’. So prosaic, so ordinary, and yet filled with
something I could not define. But hearing her voice I knew she was no
schoolboy’s witch. She was a joyous person; I had sensed that from my first
fleeting view of her, a mixture of severity and gentleness. I was only fourteen
but I was falling in love. The moments passed, it may have been minutes, and I
stood mute and awestruck in the silence. One of us needed to speak but I knew
it would not be me. Fear and warmth combined to still my tongue. My emotions
were in turmoil but her next words dispelled them. ‘I know your name’, she
said, ‘and I know your father’. Still I said nothing and, in my confusion,
backed away. This was not part of my schoolboy plan. This was meant to be a
game with the local witch, going where I knew not. But seeing her close,
hearing her voice, smelling her, had undermined the adventure. I needed to get
away, to forget, to abandon the silly vendetta of rich houses and garden apples
and strange women. So I did, clumsily and apologetically, with her presence
invading my senses. Her smell, her voice, her black dress. Her words. ‘I know
your father, I know your name’, she had said. And as I left, blushing and
incoherent, her final comment rang in my ears. ‘He needs to know about the
apples.’ The afternoon, bereft of cricketing mad friends, had not gone entirely
as planned. It was when I arrived home, breathless, that I realised I had no
idea what that plan had been.
I told my
father about her a few days before we were due back in London. He looked
puzzled. She must be confusing you with someone else, was all he said. The
woman meant nothing to him and, besides he had never visited that part of the
Cotswolds before. Strangely though he did not ask me what I was doing in her
garden, did not question me on my obsession. Just be careful, he said, you may
get more than you wished for. That final comment rang a small bell as a couple
of the local boys had said the same thing when I told them she had spoken to
me. They teased me about the enigmatic woman in the window, mercifully so when
we passed her house and she wasn’t there. Flown off on her broomstick with the
village cats, or in her kitchen boiling frogs. It was the teasing that led to a
further dare, boys are dangerous on long summer days with nothing to do. Go
back to her house they said, go back into her garden, and this time, if
invited, go in. I told them no, I would not, or not unless one of them was
willing to come with me. Safety in numbers, or so I thought. One of them
eventually agreed, the oldest of the group at fifteen, and we privately
arranged to go to the witches house the following afternoon. I say privately
because he said nothing at the time, did not want the others to know. I should
have been warned because when I was invited in a second time my companion fled.
I did not realise he had gone until she closed the door and I was alone in her
house with the woman in black. Alone with the woman at the window.
I said
nothing to my companions the following day, my last in that Cotswolds town. I
said nothing to anyone. They knew I had been in her house, the elder boy seemed
pleased that he had lured me into it. They questioned me but I said nothing. I
was too ashamed. And the following day my father and I left. In all the
following years I have never been back and I have never seen any of those
Cotswold boys again. I had a good relationship with my father but I never told
him I had been back to the strange house and the strange woman. And I never
told him what had transpired. And he never mentioned it. Until a few weeks ago.
He does not have long to live but still manages to get about and I often drive
down to his place and take him for a drink or a meal or sometimes both. Like
many older folks, especially when sensing a life beginning to reach its close,
the tongue loosens and reminiscences flow. Something about wanting to be
understood, before he goes, was how he put it and then laughs ruefully into his
drink. Over the last few months he has told me many things I did not know.
About his job, about my mother, about his own parents, and about himself. And
then, the other week, about her. The woman in the window. I did know her he
said. He had known her a long time. She was the reason he stayed in the
Cotswolds. He knew my woman in the window and he knew what she had done.
Part Two
The door had
closed and I realised I was alone. My companion had fled. She stood at the end
of a long dark corridor, hidden from the afternoon sun, dressed in her
definitive black dress. Come into the lounge she said, I have been waiting to
talk to you. I thought of running, of pulling on her door and leaving,
searching for welcoming air. But something stopped me, something about her
dragged me forward. This woman, this witch, mesmerised. She looked both
frightening and welcoming, a mixture of veiled threats and indefinable promise.
I was on a strange adventure and she was my goal. Or I was hers. I thought this
latter point as I followed her tall and slim figure into her lounge. I was no
longer in control; all my actions of the past few weeks had been for this
meeting. I wanted whatever it was she was offering even though, at fourteen, I
had few clear thoughts. She sat down in a large chair and looked at me,
seemingly examining every inch of me. She spoke my name and I stood before her
and mumbled something in reply. I think I may have asked her how she knew or it
may have been something else. An apology for being a nuisance. I know I said
the latter at some point. She smiled and said I was not a nuisance, besides it
did not matter, but I was interesting. She asked me about myself, was I
enjoying my summer holiday, what I was doing at school. I answered all
dutifully and relaxed a little. This was no local witch about to eat me; this
was more like an interested aunt enquiring about her nephew. She said she was
amused by my apple stealing exploits and the games I was playing but, and she
looked very closely at me as she said this, all games come at a price. I
clearly flinched at this comment and she laughed, gently, and told me to sit
down. As I did so she said that she would make us some afternoon tea and I must
tell her all about myself. And after I had told her all about myself, and
before I left, she would punish me for the apple stealing. Spank me was what
she said. I looked shocked and she laughed again. Don’t look so surprised she
said, that is what you expected wasn’t it. That, or something similar, is what
this is all about. Your game. Before you leave I shall spank you and it will be
an experience you will never forget. And, one day, you will thank me for it.
And then she left to make the tea. Her words rang in my ears and the fear rose
in my being. But I did not run. I sat in her lounge. Transfixed.
Spank me? Is
this why, deep down, I had stole her apples in an elaborate game? I did not
think so. I had never been spanked and did not desire it. At least I did not
think so. Physical punishment was painful. I knew so from school. Twice I had
been caned at my boarding school and neither experience was pleasant. I
remember my father saying on odd occasions when I annoyed, laughing while he
did so, that a good spanking would do me good. Every boy should have one, at
least once in their life. But it was a woman’s job, he said, and a fleeting
tear entered him. My mother was dead and unspoken thoughts combined. There was
no woman in our lives, only me and him. I thought of my mother as I sat
uncomfortably in this woman’s lounge. She never hurt me and she died when I was
seven. I had never been in close contact with any other woman. This woman, the
woman in black preparing the afternoon tea, was the first female I had any
close contact with. When the realisation struck me I felt a strange churning in
my stomach. And I came to an adult decision, or it seemed adult at the time.
After the afternoon tea and the polite chats I would let her spank me. I
doubted if I had much choice anyway. But I would let her and making the
decision gave me a fearful thrill. My father had said everyone should be
spanked, by a woman, at least once in their lives. Well this was mine. I do not
know why I stole her apples, why I played her elaborate game, but the ending
made for a certain logic. I would take what she had to offer and even if I did
not tell my father, or those Cotswolds boys, it would be something I could
carry with me for the rest of my life. I was scared, I was in turmoil, I feared
for the unknown. I feared that it would be painful and humiliating but I was
prepared. When she came back, tea and cakes splendid in their promise, I knew I
would not resist. A proposal that initially shocked had moved to one of
acceptance. Not desire, I was too young, but an agreement that I sensed would
please my father. Even though he, and those Cotswolds boys, would never know.
And knowing this, recognising that this was something only between myself and
the woman at the window, gave all that was possibly to follow a special
privacy. I did not say, or think, let battle commence, but it would probably
have been appropriate.
She did not
disappoint. Given my musing anticipations all else could have been an anti
climax. But this Woman at the Window, observer of fourteen year old apple
stealers, knew what she intended and what she was determined to do. She served
the tea and cakes and asked me more about my fourteen year old life to date.
She asked me about my school evoking special interest, or so I thought, in my
two painful experiences of the dreaded cane, and she asked me about my late
mother. That was the most difficult bit. Especially when she asked me if my
mother had ever spanked me. I said not as far as I could remember. What a pity,
she said. Every boy should be spanked at least once in his life. It is an
experience you can carry with you to the grave. She sounded like my father. I squirmed,
fearing the way the conversation was going. The tea and cakes were nice and the
conversation unthreatening. But the raising of disciplinary matters, however
obliquely, increased my nervousness. I sensed the moment of truth arriving. My
fears were not unfounded. I think it is time, she said. I think it is time for
you, she emphasised the you, to have your bottom spanked. It is what you have
wanted ever since you stepped into my garden. You may not think so but one day
you will thank me for it. And saying this she rose and moved to an upright
chair that had been placed in the centre of the room and, sitting down, she
beckoned me to her.
I did not
resist. If I did not know this what was what was going to happen when I first
invaded her garden I had worked it out whilst awaiting the innocent afternoon
tea. I was going to be spanked, whether I wanted it or not, and this anonymous
woman was going to do it. And there would be no eyes or ears to witness the
deed. That fact made it both bearable and welcoming. I moved to her with eyes
fervently closed. If I could not see my humiliation then there would be no
others also. That was my logic. I stopped when my trembling leg pressed against
her thigh. I had arrived at the source of my distress. I was not alarmed when
she undid the buttons of my trousers, I was expecting it, and I did not resist
when she pulled the freed clothing down to my knees. I knew, my father’s
distant laugh told me, that spanking was a woman’s job and in such
circumstances trousers were not retained. He had not said it in so many words
but the gist was there. So I was not alarmed, neither was I when she pulled me
over her knee and placed her hands on the inside of my underpants. They quickly
followed the journey of my trousers and in five seconds, was it only five
seconds, my small bottom had been exposed for the worst this woman could do. I
was, at fourteen, placed over a woman’s knee and, with all covering adrift, was
about to be spanked on my bare backside. I felt no particular shame, in a sense
it all seemed so right, and when she laughed and said my bare cheeks reminded
her of her apples I knew it was. My father would approve even if, as events
were to show, the rich round and smooth apples of my naked bottom were to turn
a darker red than any on the woman’s tree.
My enigmatic
woman in the window was no novice. I do not know, to this day, whether my being
upended over her knee was the intended plan. But whether it was or not she was
not going to waste the opportunity. I was well and truly spanked. Her bare palm,
tantalisingly resting on my virgin skin, hit my naked bottom at least a hundred
times over the next few minutes and I squirmed and squealed with the decency
that any fourteen year old would show. By the end my bottom was on fire, burning
in an intensity I could previously only imagine. Each sting of her palm, at
least a hundred remember, slapped across my rear and caused considerable pain.
I cried to be let off and gripped her legs in an unseemly fashion. I was
conscious of staring at her floor, of being stretched in a strange position,
and of my trousers and underpants brushing my lower legs. But most of all I was
conscious of her, the woman in the black dress and her perfumed smell, and of
my nakedness. One should marvel at the picture of a bared and prone boy and a
severe woman bent on retribution. I had no such visions, but each time her
angry palm hit into my nakedness, my bare and boyish upturned bottom cheeks, I
was conscious of the smarting pain and the woman who was causing it. Nature had
designed the place for such savage kisses and I both wanted her to stop and to
go on forever.
Part Three
When my
father told me he knew the woman, a woman I had never forgotten, I told him
what had happened. He knew he said, he knew everything. The woman was his
mistress. His lover. She wanted to meet me and when she told him about the boys
stealing her apples, he laughingly said that if I was one of them she should give
me a good spanking. On the bare backside. She took him literally and told him
all the details when they next met. It amused him; he told her he hoped I
enjoyed it in spite of the pain. I think it was then that I suspected that they
had an interesting relationship. But he also told her he would never discuss it
with me, unless I mentioned it. But I never had. Until now.
I had lay
crying over her lap for many minutes. I did not want to rise. The heat in my
bottom mirrored the burning in my head and a stirring elsewhere. I had been
taken on an experience that defied understanding and I did not want it to end.
I relaxed my body as her soft palms traced across my backside. The warmth of
her stinging wrath mingled with the gentleness of her touch. Each inch of my
nether curves was explored and I consumed the sensations. Not a word was said
and I drank in every exquisite and innocent touch. I felt no shame when I rose
at her bidding and allowed her to pull up my underpants, not even flinching or
deflecting when she lifted them over a boyish appendage filling with desire for
release. She smiled as she pulled up my trousers. I have always wanted to spank
a real boy was all she said. I am pleased it was you who stole my apples. Then
she rose, lightly smacked my trousered bottom, and departed with the afternoon
tray. I sat in her lounge for about ten minutes, reliving all the livid
pictures, and when she returned I bid a hasty goodbye. I suspected she wished
to talk but, bottom still burning, I was in no mood for polite conversation.
This unknown woman had just spanked me, here in her lounge, with my trousers
and underpants around my knees. I had no wish to engage in prosaic chats. My
father and I left the following day for London and, regrettably, I never saw
her again.
I told my
father all this. I told him about my visit on the last day and I told him
everything that had happened, all the details. And now, thirty years later, he
was filling in the gaps. We are two of a kind he said. And she was a very
special woman. He did not elaborate. They lost touch over the years and the
last he heard of her she was living in America with a lecturer in philosophy.
For some reason this made him laugh. But he had never forgotten her, and
clearly neither had I. Other than my mother she was the only woman who meant
anything to him. Which is why he had never married again. She was a bit
special. As he said this, finishing his drink, his eyes misted over. It was
only a dying man with another memory but I knew what he meant. She was special.
Certainly to me. The woman in the window. Dressed in black. The woman who, when
I was fourteen, bared and spanked my behind. And I never knew her name. I still
don’t. My father never told me.
Alfred Roy (2012)