Thursday 26 January 2012

A Man of Letters (M/M)

Always looking for story ideas this one came along during a particularly fallow period. A casual remark that I spent a long time on the computer playng my distant son at Scrabble suggested it. I registered the thought, mused on it, and this followed. The mind is very wierd. Alfred Roy

There are some occasions in one’s life when you just have to take stock and ask yourself how did you get where you are? Usually it involves the big things like career, or family, or even where you live. On a lesser scale it involves travel, holidays, or a lousy party to which you wish you had never been invited. And every now and then it is the minor irritations of everyday living like shopping in Sainsbury’s on the wrong day or washing the car when it rains. But with most things, even washing the car, you weigh up the options and make a decision. Get it wrong on the choice of career and you live with it for years. Get it wrong on which train to catch and it just screws up your day. At least you are aware, if only subconsciously, that getting it wrong is an option. But there are some things you do in life which do not seem to have a downside. Walking the dog, buying a newspaper, or listening to the radio. They are just things you do. Like playing games on your computer. It was the last one that got me into trouble, real trouble. And it all started with a game of scrabble.

Let me take you back to the beginning. It is the only way any of this will make sense. I like scrabble, always have. I am not obsessed by it but it passes the time and, since the internet, I can play on line anytime with anyone. My brother got me into it and for a while I only played him. He lives in Australia and it was a good way of keeping in touch as we could text messages during plays. But he went into hospital for a minor operation in May, about two months ago, and seemed to lose interest for a while. So I started to invite people to play. Anybody. As it says on the screen. And that’s how I met Leo. We played a couple of games and I enjoyed our chatting in between plays. By the time I played him for the fifth time, games two each, I felt I almost knew him. Middle aged, divorced, technician. Just like me, except I am younger, single, and a legal assessor. And by that fifth game I also knew we had one important thing in common. We were both gay. Or at least our intermittent chat was. We didn’t go into details but it was obvious. It was during our sixth game that I found out more.

I had been playing games with Leo for about two weeks and, to be honest, had dropped the few other strangers I scrabbled with. Games and chat with him was much more interesting. And it was on that fateful sixth game that things took a weird and enticing turn. I had just played QUEST and scored a healthy number of points but it left my T under the first letter of SNARL (ST counts in scrabble) and that’s when he struck. He played all his seven letters and took an unassailable lead. The word he made was STRAPPING. I didn’t mind that, good luck to him. And I sent him a text to say so. Good word I said. Perhaps he misunderstood, or thinking about it, perhaps he didn’t. But he came back with some comment about me needing one for letting him in. I didn’t respond but just continued playing. Two plays later and he had engineered the word WHACK in the bottom left hand corner of the board. Again I didn’t respond. It was just a word. But when he added SPANK on his next play I forfeited the game and closed down. I didn’t go on to play him again for over a week. And in that time I did a lot of thinking. When I invited him to play again I knew exactly what I intended to say.

I went on my computer last Tuesday, just over a week ago, and brought up half a dozen scrabble boards before I found one that gave me the right letters. I put in the four letters of my word and invited him to play. He had to forfeit twice before he found an appropriate response. I had placed WHEN as my first play and he came back with SOON and on his follow up the word SUN appeared. I played a YES and in the chat box said subject to more information. He said he would send me an e-mail if I would give him my address. I held back for the rest of the game but towards the end, scores fairly even, the only word I could make was SLIP. He turned it into SLIPPER and put an exclamation mark in the chat box. I must have got lucky, or unlucky some would say, as I had enough of the right letters to make BARE. So I did so and sent him a question mark in the chat box. The pithy ‘of course’ immediately came back. Stomach churning I sent him my e-mail address. I left school nearly fifteen years ago and forgot much of what took place there. But twice I got slippered by a sadistic PE teacher, once on the bare bum, and I have never forgotten it. I haven’t exactly been looking for a repeat of the experience but I have always seen the attractions. An old boyfriend mixed mild spanking in our foreplay and it was not unpleasant. And now the opportunity for more serious fun was biting me in the face. I couldn’t resist. It was only when I closed down and went to bed an hour later, no e-mail having coming through, that I realised I was getting kinkily involved with someone I had never met and knew nothing about. In the morning I would send him an e-mail and tell him to forget it and let’s just play scrabble.

I didn’t of course. The more I thought about it the more it excited me. It was kinky and dangerous, or might be, but it appealed to my adventurous spirit. I like men, especially older men, and I like furtive anonymous sex. Okay there was no promise of the latter but the world of CP and SM was no vicar’s tea party. I may not be into that scene but I was well aware of it. When trousers came down all sorts of things could happen. Or so I hoped. And a sore bum was a small price to pay for some activity, especially as for weeks I had been virtually a celibate monk. That is what I told myself while I showered and shaved. That is how I rationalised my reactions. Truth is the idea of being strapped or slippered, recreating those school days, was becoming a bit of a turn on. And it was all because of the anonymous, scrabble playing, Leo. And then, over breakfast, that word anonymous got to gnaw at my vitals. He had told me he was a middle aged and divorced gay technician called Leo and he was into whackie-whackies. Well he might be but, equally, he could also be anything else. From a fifteen year old nerd, winding someone up, to an octogenarian, psychopathic, hillside farmer. I aimed to find out. A middle aged Leo wielding a slipper was one thing. The alternatives were way out of my discomfort zone. I needed to get his e-mail and plan my strategy. Before leaving for the office I checked my in box. It was there. Leo Eldridge. So the name rang true if nothing else. And the subject was ‘Sunday visit.’

I read his e-mail three times. The first time I just scanned it, absorbing only the kinky references. The second time I registered all the other key points. And the last slow reading before going to work convinced me that he was a cagey as me. In view of what happened last Sunday, a Sunday I shall never forget, I need to produce it here in full. I have re-read it since returning home and there is nothing in it to even hint at what I was getting myself in to.

From: leo.eldridgetechlab@hotmail................
To:      philjwebster29@btinternet....................
Re: Sunday Visit
Philip,
Thank you for your e-mail. Have enjoyed playing scrabble with you and shall equally enjoy, I trust and hope, dealing with your bottom. I have a safe place in which to operate and a number of interesting scholastic implements. Noise is not a problem so you can howl if you wish or need to. From our messages I gather you live in London. I am in Surrey, not far from Esher station. I suggest we meet in a café near there, The Green Parrott, around 2.00 o’clock to ascertain that we are suited to each other. Please e-mail with confirmation. I do not have a mobile so will not be contactable before our meeting.
Regards,
Leo Eldridge.

I couldn’t wait. I sent off a reply saying I could be there at the agreed time and, unnecessarily, told him I would wear suitable clothing for our activities. Do not know what made me say that other than the fact that it turned me on again. Small white underpants, tight jeans, and clinging tee-shirts were visualised in my mind. I downed a quick, very hot, coffee and went to work.

We met on the Sunday and I have to say he was everything I had hoped. I don’t look bad, slim and small and slight and only just turned thirty but I am no Brad Pitt. But Leo Eldridge was something else. He was clearly nearer fifty than forty but the wrinkled face had a classic beauty to it. His pale blue eyes contrasted nicely with a distinguished, well trimmed, grey beard and equally controlled silver grey hair. And when he smiled, as he did when I entered the café, his tall figure lit up the place. How he knew it was me I have no idea but he crossed to me immediately and, shaking my hand, expressed his pleasure that I had come. By the time he went to the counter to order tea and cakes for us I was convinced that he could do anything he wanted to me. I could not wait to have my jeans and underpants pulled off providing he was the one doing the pulling. I said nothing of this, of course, I merely thanked him for seeing me and sat down at the corner table he had carefully chosen. We were well into the cakes when he brought the subject around to the true purpose of our meeting. He was a member of a small club and they met once a month at each others places. It was his turn this month and his flat, adjacent to the school premises where he worked as a lab technician was an ideal venue. He thought I might enjoy it so was inviting me to attend. As a guest. To say I was miffed was putting it mildly. The cakes I was enjoying suddenly tasted stale and dry.

‘You never said any of this in your e-mail. I thought it was just you and me.’
‘It will be, if that is what you want. The club meets until about 5.00. I can see you after we have finished our business.’
‘Having made me wait for three hours?’
‘That is the downside, yes.’
I struggled with this new information, toying it all over in my mind, and poured myself a second cup of tea before responding.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this in your e-mail or, better still, just arrange for us to meet later?’
‘I thought of that. But I wanted to give you an opportunity to join us.’
He smiled and picked up a second piece of cake.
‘And, I thought, if I mentioned the club you might not come.’
‘I wouldn’t. I am not into group sex.’
‘We don’t have sex. Or at least not in groups.’

He looked pained at my accusation and, perversely, I found myself feeling guilty. I do not know why because I was the one who was being mucked about. Part of me said I should just go and put it all down as a bad experience. But I liked Leo, I warmed to him in the moment I entered the café, and I still hankered for the sensation of him pulling down the jeans and pants I had carefully chosen. Desire and irritation were fighting an inner battle. Which would win would very much depend on him. He finished his cake and, lowering his voice, leant over the table and spoke.
‘We have all evening, Philip, after the club meeting has finished. You can stay the night if you want to. I just thought, seeing how things were going between us, that inviting you was an opportunity too good to miss. As soon as I sent Sunday on the scrabble board I knew it would cause me problems.’

I thought carefully before I answered.
‘What sort of club is it?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?’
‘CP? A CP club? Is that it?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry, we are all very civilised. It is just like minded folks getting together once a month.’
‘And beating the hell out of each other?’
‘Not really.’
‘And a bit of fresh flesh makes it more interesting?’

I pushed my chair aside and left the café. I was annoyed and confused. Fresh air and a cigarette may help me get things into perspective. I certainly needed to think. And for ten minutes I did. I was clearly getting into something that a week before I would not have considered possible. I was being invited to join in with a CP club and everything that it entailed. It was not what I was expecting and I was still unclear about how the afternoon would develop. But, as I said earlier, I did have an adventurous spirit and I did fancy Leo. And I had come a long way for this meeting. I came to a decision long before Leo joined me outside. And when he did I agreed to go with him. I must have been mad but the thought of him pulling down my pants overrode all other thoughts. We walked to his car and, as I got in, I prayed and hoped that the churning promise of sexual exploration, even the kinky kind, had not totally expunged my usually well honed antennae.

The flat was one of a block of six, separated by a centre arch, in the grounds of what was a very expensive private school. Being a Sunday the place was virtually deserted and only a handful of cars could be seen. Whether these belonged to other occupants of the building or to Leo’s club members I did not know. As if to answer my unspoken questions Leo informed me that only two of the other flats was currently occupied and both the teacher tenants went home at weekends. So the cars, four of them, were all here for the gathering. I was puzzled that no one could be seen but when I entered Leo’s flat, the end one of the right hand block, I immediately saw why. About eight or nine people, perhaps more, were already scattered in various parts of Leo’s flat. A couple were standing in the corridor when we entered and two more, drinks in hand, were avidly chatting in a large kitchen. To the left of that room the opening to an impressive sitting room showed a few others, standing or sitting as the mood took. By the time I reached the sitting room, ushered in by Leo, I had visibly relaxed. My imagination may have run wild in the short car journey from the café but the tension had been unnecessary. These were just ordinary and civilised folk. If there was a psychotic hillside farmer amongst them he kept it well hidden under either a sober suit or smart casual attire. By the time Leo had introduced me to a variety of bewildering names, a special guest he had met on the internet playing scrabble, I had assessed his club members. With a couple of exceptions I was, by some way, the youngest person present. I suppose that should have unnerved me a little. For some reason it didn’t.

I had been there about half an hour when I realised that things were subtly changing. I was standing talking to two of Leo’s friends, and on my second glass of wine, when some unmistakeable sounds suddenly started up in one of the bedrooms. Or I assume it was a bedroom. A couple of people immediately drifted towards it and one of my companions, an elderly retired accountant, expressed delight at the commencement of some action. It was obvious what that action was. Someone, possibly one of those around my age, was getting a strap or something else across his behind. And judging by his howls it was hurting. The accountant was clearly keen to witness the proceedings and he and the other man, equally old, made their excuses and hurried away. Having no desire to see it for myself I went into the kitchen and helped myself to some of the splendid food that Leo had provided. I passed the corridor and saw about five or six people gathered in the doorway of the room currently the centre of attention. I hoped the anonymous young man was giving a good show because he clearly had a very appreciative audience. I had just finished an excellent salmon and cucumber sandwich when Leo entered the kitchen.

‘Not watching the show. Philip?’
‘Not my scene.’
‘He has a very nice bum. I must go back when they take his jeans down.’
‘I have never been much for watching other people, Leo.’
‘Not a voyeur?’
‘No.’
‘Prefer to be involved?’
As he said this he poured himself a glass of sparkling water and, sitting down at his kitchen table, helped himself to one of the sandwiches.
‘Nice spread, Leo. I can see why your meetings are popular.’
‘We do our best.’
He paused and looked at me intently.
‘You haven’t answered my question?’
‘Which was?’
‘Do you prefer to be involved?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘The situation. I don’t like audiences.’

I heard myself saying this and wondered what the hell I was playing at. Leo and me had met through a game of scrabble and it was clear we were now playing a very different game. My only excuse was that I still hankered for his hands on and inside my pants. And I was not averse to him whacking me if that peculiar key unlocked his particular door. The CP club, with all its voyeurism, may not be my scene but if it got me into a room with Leo, just us in private, then I was going along with it. I came to Esher for sex, of some sort, and talking in the kitchen to Leo brought that fact home.

‘But you could go for something private, just the two of us?’
‘If it don’t break some club rule, yes.’
Leo laughed.
‘I don’t think so. What would you like to do?’
He started at me intently and for the first time since I arrived in his flat I felt a stirring in my loins.
‘Anything you want. Within reason.’
He stood up and crossed over the kitchen to where I was standing.
‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else, Philip. Within the rules of the club.’
He had said it very quietly and I felt myself getting very warm.
‘Meaning?’
‘I think you know.’
‘I think I do, Leo. And I doubt if it involves playing scrabble.’
He smiled and not for the first time that day I had a vision of my pants coming off. I shuddered and he must have sensed it because his hand gently cupped my crotch. It didn’t stay there long but it was long enough.
‘Come with me.’

As he said this, quietly, he walked out of the kitchen and, meekly, I followed him. I think I knew, I must have, that when we got to the small room he was taking me to that something was going to happen to me that I had not experienced since I left school. I did not understand why, with that knowledge, I had followed. I understood even less the small fact that inside my jeans I was as hard as a rock.

The first part of the next half an hour went very much as I had hoped and feared and it was pure and blissful heaven. Leo took me into the room and closed the door, shutting out the noise that was still emanating from the main bedroom. He told me that a rule of the club was that closed doors remained closed until opened by the participants. He smiled when he said this and I felt myself getting even hotter. He placed a pillow in the centre of the small single bed, this was clearly a guest room, and told me to lie over it. I did not need telling why. It was a large and firm pillow and lying across it would raise a certain part of me pretty high in the air. So I was going to be whacked, but not like at school, and my insides told me that I might enjoy it. He had a leather belt, I saw it when he picked it up, and when it hit my jean covered backside I confess that the feeling was not unpleasant. My hard on probably helped and after six or eight strokes I was ready for anything else that was to come. This was my first mistake. My erection had clearly addled my brain. He put his hands under me and undid the button of my jeans and, undoing the zip, eased them down my spreading legs. I did not resist as it was what I wanted since he walked into the café. And when my underpants followed, slowly peeled down to release my eager cock and red backside, I almost came. The feeling was one of exquisite joy. The combination of my stiffy pressing into the edge of the pillow and my naked bum high in the air was a volatile mix. I sighed in anticipation and was still sighing when he took my hands, holding on to the steel rails at the top of the bed, and deftly handcuffed them to it. It was only while he was thwacking the belt, and then the promised slipper, across my bare bum that I realised I was trapped. I was enjoying the sensation in my backside, and my cock was still pumping and throbbing, but the long absent antennae finally, and belatedly, came into play. I told him that I had not agreed to this. It was not easy as, sensing a bit of non co-operation, Leo had put his hand between my cheeks and started to manipulate my balls. A surge of desire was dwarfing my other concerns. Relax, he said, nothing is going to happen that you won’t like. And saying this he opened the door and I cursed my gullibility. By the time he had finished giving me thirty whacks with the slipper and a further twenty with the belt to my bare bum an audience of at least ten elderly gentlemen had gathered in the doorway. In some respects the number gathered lessened any nasty threat, psychopaths usually work alone, so I relaxed and let Leo do his worst. But as he whacked me, tee-shirt up my back and jeans and underpants down by my knees, I cursed him. And when they left and, closing the door, he put his hands under me and brought me off I still cursed him. The touch was heaven, the climax full and rich, but it was not anything I had agreed to. I was just working out what I would do and say when he released the handcuffs when a noise from outside the room caught his attention. I was left, alone, handcuffed and dripping, and pants at my knees. None of the words that went through my mind could be played on any scrabble board.

I arrived home late that Sunday night. I spent thirty minutes explaining to a young, and amused, policeman, that the gathering was nothing to do with me and a further hour listening to Leo’s apologies. The policeman, along with one of his colleagues, was still picturing me handcuffed to the bed as he questioned me. He would no doubt dine out on it for years. He had unlocked the handcuffs and his mate, unnecessarily, had helped me pull up my pants. And then they had taken me into the kitchen and asked me who I was and what I was doing there. Given the situation in which I had been discovered I could hardly say I was the window cleaner. So I told them everything. Or everything I knew. They seemed content with my answers, took my address, and left. It was then I realised that the flat was virtually empty. I had been left alone in that room for a long time before the policemen released me. Long enough to resolve that I would never get myself into such a situation again. But also long enough to recognise that, given sensible safety procedures, I would willingly repeat it. I may have cursed Leo when he handcuffed me but I was also cursing my own stupidity. In Leo’s bedroom I had learnt an awful lot about myself and when I accepted I was not in any danger I loved what was happening. But I may not always get to be so lucky. I was just making myself a cup of tea when I heard the front door open and Leo came into the kitchen. The confident smiling face I first saw in the Green Parrot café had gone. In some respects, if not many, it may have been my lucky day but it clearly wasn’t his.

‘I don’t know what to say Philip. I admit I trapped you but I sensed you might like it and you must have known it was perfectly safe.’
‘Even the policemen?’
‘Yes. That was unfortunate, and unexpected.’
He poured himself a tea and joined me at the kitchen table.
‘I certainly chose an unpropitious day to invite you for some CP fun.’
‘So I gather. Do you want to tell me or should I mind my own business?’
‘I think you have every right to know, given the circumstances.’
‘You mean me shackled with my bare arse in the air being admired by the fuzz?’
‘Something like that.’
For the first time since he returned I was given a glimpse of Leo’s disarming smile.
‘You must admit you enjoyed it?’
‘I did, but I still don’t understand why.’
‘I could explain, but I reckon that other matters need explaining first. I suppose you could say that I have been raided.’
‘Raided?’
‘Yes. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so serious. Someone at the school thought that our gatherings here were related to drugs. Thankfully the police lost interest when they realised it was just a lot of ageing accountants and academics indulging in harmless whims.’
‘Good.’
‘And you, in the state you were in, were instrumental in convincing them of that. As was the other young man.’
‘So whacked arses come some way below drugs in the police pecking order?’
Leo supped his tea and picked up one of the few remaining sandwiches.
‘Thankfully, yes. But, regrettably, not in the eyes of the school administrator who reported his suspicions to them. I expect I shall be asked to leave.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Until today you did not know me. It is not your problem.’
I did not know what to say. I was in the house of a man who I did not know yesterday and whose world was falling around him today. And in between he had thrashed my arse and brought me off. Indifference was clearly off the menu but what should take its place was beyond my capabilities. I said what anyone would say in my situation.
‘I think you should drive me back to the station, Leo. You need some time to think.’
Thankfully he did as I asked and for the last few days, on the train, and at home I have been doing a lot of thinking of my own.

‘CANE’
‘WHEN’
‘WED’
‘AYE’
‘TIME’
‘SIX’
‘WHERE’
‘HERE’

Leo and I played these words on our scrabble boards, it took any number of exchanges, and after I played the last word I closed down. I hadn’t heard anything since Sunday and didn’t really expect to. But about an hour ago he sent me an e-mail which included his phone number and the pithy ‘Let’s play Scrabble.’ After our exchanges I phoned him up and he told me that the school had terminated his contract and no school meant no flat. He wasn’t too concerned because they were prepared to give him a reference, providing he went without any fuss, and he had private means. And the police had made it clear they were not interested. Not true in the case of the one who pulled up my pants, judged by the friendly slap he gave my bum as he did it. But I can’t say I wasn’t relieved. All they said to Leo was playing such games on school grounds, even on a Sunday, was not a good idea. So it could have been worse and, as Leo said, the day did have some benefits. And as we said goodbye we both knew what those benefits would be. Next Wednesday.

I knew that I would respond if Leo contacted me. Being raided on the day I met him was hardly his fault and the slight hint of danger in his bedroom had stimulated in a manner I never thought possible. It was the latter that had occupied my thoughts for the last few days. I suppose I should have considered the possibility that I might be a star witness in a school scandal but that was fanciful whereas the handcuff scenario held a more realistic promise. A reprise of those bewildering sensations dominated every idle moment. It had started with an innocent game of internet scrabble. It ended with an unwelcome and embarrassing visit from the men in blue. In between, pants down and trapped, I discovered an aspect of my being hitherto unexplored. Having found it, and Leo, I had no intention of letting it go. I went back on the computer to our latest game and, using then last letter of ‘here’, I played ‘eureka’ and scored fifty seven points. Double letter, triple word. With such a score I could not wait for Wednesday.


Alfred Roy

All the stats that are fit to Print

This blog has now been going for about two months and has already overtaken another, non CP, blog I have had running since last July. Clearly folks are more interested in the infinite variety of bottom whacking scenarios than the more prosaic matters of life. Personally I like both, but there is no doubt that dropping your pants occasionally for a good smacking helps keep the daily grind on an even keel. Those who do not share our passion do not know what they are missing. Whether your thing is a mistress or a master, or something in between, little compares with intermittently baring your behind for those special attentions which clear the air and thrill the senses. Beats any pills the local GP doles out in his surgery. I am old enough to remember the days when I thought I was alone with this particular, generally harmless, kink. Thanks to the internet and its many forums I now reckon that there are as many bottoms bared each day for disciplinary attentions as there are for other reasons. As I said to my understanding son many years ago, if you think I am weird just Google ‘spanking’.


But I have many interests and statistics figures amongst them. So I have been fascinated by the hits that ‘whackingtales’ is getting. Unsurprisingly most are from the UK but, amongst the also rans, the US, New Zealand, and Ireland figure prominently. And Spain, Egypt, Germany, France and Australia get a look in with, most spookily of all, Russia. But I have always liked the Russians, anyone who produces Chekhov and Gorky can’t be all bad, and they do CP with style. But of most interest, in the personal story sense, are the hits my tales are getting. Of the six stories so far ‘Whipstock Grange (F/M)’ leads the field with 33%. ‘The Wall (M/M)’ and ‘Fridays at Three O’clock (F/m)’ aren’t too far behind so, as yet, I have no idea which appeals most. To date I have written nearly fifty and they may all figure here eventually. Am about to post another M/M one (A Man of Letters) so it will be interesting to see how this one goes.


I am lucky, insofar as I do not mind what sex whacks my behind as long as those doing the wielding are mature and authoritative. Both have their charms. But it is my bare bum in the air and accuracy is a must. And that comes with age and experience and explains why old male friends and experienced professional mistresses are high on my list. Mistress Sapphire of Edgeware is particularly good and Miss Switch, of Whipstock Grange fame, rekindled many schoolboy days recently. Being in a realistic classroom may have helped but whatever the reason, her last twelve cane strokes across my bare backside saw me though Christmas. Such is the power of the scenario we all crave. Stories can only suggest it but all will add to the statistics. The most important of which is that all here, including my first official ‘follower’, have an abiding interest in folks having their pants taken down for a bit of pleasurable pain. And in a complex world that simple fact is a statistic I both embrace and endorse.













Tuesday 24 January 2012

A Lesson for Miss Jones (F/m and F/f)

This is the second of my Connie Wilmer/Andy Styles pieces and features in my book 'Scenes From A Disciplined Mind.' It is a sequel to 'A Private Rehearsal' and in it Andy Styles gets spanked again, hence the F/m tag, but the main thrust is the strapping of Miss Jones. I have no experience of such situations, I cannot recall any girl being whacked at my junior mixed school, but I enjoyed writing it. Imagination is all. Alfred Roy

Gillian Jones was an extremely bossy girl. She was also a very assured one. Those who didn’t know her would be surprised by this statement. She was only fifteen and very slight in build. And given that she adopted a short, close cropped, hairstyle and regularly wore jeans she looked like an elfin, mischievous, boy. First impressions suggested that a vigorous puff of wind would blow her away.

But Gillian Jones was a young lady who knew her own mind. Highly intelligent and rich in the confidence alien to many of the confused young, she was her own person. She had an enormous sense of fun, a yearning for adventure, and a passion for theatre. And she also took more than a passing interest in boys.

And one particular boy had been engaging her attentions for a number of weeks. Andy Styles, star of last years musical, was the object of her intentions. Her delight at being cast in this years show was only matched by the knowledge that he also had a part. Andy Styles had impressed last year. She was only in the chorus but she enjoyed the impact he made, both at rehearsals and on the stage. And she was not deaf to the talk backstage concerning his transformation. The rumour was that Connie Wilmer, the director, had given him a bad time and he only kept the part by the skin of his teeth. Gillian Jones was hungry for information.

And in this new show she had a key part, opposite Mr Styles. The sub plot they called it. Juvenile romance mirroring the machinations of the stars. And Connie Wilmer, the fearsome Connie Wilmer, was directing. Gillian Jones, the bossy but likeable girl from the chorus, had three pressing reasons for engaging the affections of Andy Styles. She wanted to know him better, she wanted to know how Connie Wilmer worked, and most of all, she wanted to know what brought about his transformation last year. The pecking order of these inquisitive desires were not formally arranged in the orderly mind of Miss Jones but, if the truth be told, the last question raised the greatest interest. Know that, she thought, and everything else would fall into place. And Gillian Jones, whatever her faults, was a devotee of order and method. She was, as had been observed, an extremely bossy girl.

Andy Styles never stood a chance. He was captivated by Gillian Jones from their first rehearsal. At their second run of their parts to block their moves he couldn’t take his eyes of her, and somewhere during the third or fourth run of their scenes he fell hopelessly in love. Books were still in hands, Mrs Wilmer’s direction more concerned with positions than emotion, but Gillian Jones had captured her first teenage heart. She was much too assured to let such things go to her head but she liked Andy, and with careful calculation she invited him out to tea.

So, a few days later, Andy and Gillian Jones found themselves sitting in the same tearoom that Connie Wilmer had frequently visited with her teacher friend. Gillian Jones enjoyed the grown up feel of the English tearoom, Andy Styles was distinctly more uncomfortable. But the adult world beckoned, and Miss Jones enjoyed playing the part. And she enjoyed the company of a young man who both interested and fascinated. And, more to the point, a young man besotted with her. She sipped her tea and went straight for the jugular.

‘So. What happened?’

‘What?’

‘You and Mrs Wilmer? We all want to know’.

Andy Styles looked at the young lady sitting opposite him. She had a provocative twinkle in her eye and a beguiling smile on her lips. Both signalled his falling into her trap. He had enjoyed this afternoon interlude, their first time alone since rehearsals started. Personally the local café would have been more to his style but just being alone with Gillian Jones was enough. She was both enormous fun and very talented. And she excited him. He was far too young to do anything about it but, blushing and shaking in her presence, he knew he was in the blissful throes of a first love. He desired nothing more than to walk along the local riverbank holding her hand. She clearly wanted more. She wanted to talk and tease. And in their talk they came to Mrs Wilmer.

‘We all want to know.’ She said it again, testing him. ‘Or at least I do. What did Mrs Wilmer do to make you such a good boy?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s the truth. She threatened me with the sack from the show, that’s all.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing more?’

Gillian Jones giggled. ‘Then why are you blushing. You are. Your face is almost beetroot.’ She stopped and looked at him gently. ‘Sorry, only teasing. Do you want some more cake?’ She signalled the waitress as if to the manor born, and ordered some more cake before Andy had a chance to answer her. The switch in focus gave him an opportunity to gather his thoughts.

There was no way he was going to tell her, the girl he loved, that Connie Wilmer had spanked and strapped him in her house. And done it on his bare bottom. The penance he had to pay to get back into the last show, There was no way he was going to tell Gillian Jones any of that. And there was no way either that he was going to tell her that, deep down, he would be more than willing to go through it all again. That, deep down, he wanted to go through it all again. Connie Wilmer had ignited a special fire in Andy Styles. But being dominated by an older woman was a separate, private, desire far removed from the joys and sorrows of a teenage love. Gillian Jones and Mrs Wilmer occupied different compartments of his life. He wanted to keep it that way.

And he did keep it that way, at least for the rest of that afternoon. They finished their tea, and ate their cake, and talked about the show. They also talked about school, and parents, and trips abroad. But they mainly talked about the show. But they avoided any mention of Mrs Wilmer. Until they were leaving. As they stepped outside the tearoom, Gillian Jones took Andy’s hand in hers and turned to him. The eyes that previously mocked and teased had a disconcerting intensity.

‘I don’t mind if she spanked you. I won’t tell anyone.’ She said it breathlessly, intimately. And, having said it, she kissed him, gently smiled and walked away. And Andy Styles loved her even more.

Things went on a fairly even keel for the next few weeks. Rehearsals for the show went smoothly. Andy and Gillian enjoyed each others company but never alluded to the tearoom conversation and never met outside of rehearsals. Gillian Jones still teased and Andy Styles still blushed, but their teenage romance stalled. Life had too many distractions to allow such a complex relationship to flower. The test would be when the show was over. That was the general form in such matters. They would either go their separate ways or arrange to meet and explore an incipient love. But for the foreseeable future the show was everything.

In four weeks they were on. And their director was honing in on inherent weaknesses. And for Gillian Jones and Andy Styles that meant a private rehearsal. At Connie Wilmer’s house. They weren’t the only ones. Most of the principals were going to be put through their paces in private. It was the usual way of such things. But for Andy Styles a private rehearsal at Mrs Wilmer’s brought back painful memories mixed with inexplicable excitement. As Mrs Wilmer made the announcement and arranged the appropriate dates he experienced a surge of unwarranted anticipation. Unwarranted because Gillian Jones would be there as well. Mrs Wilmer wanted to go through their key scenes. This was not like the last time. He looked across at Gillian Jones and smiled. The three of them alone, in Connie Wilmer’s house, would be a pleasurable experience.

And Gillian Jones smiled back. She knew what Andy was thinking. His beetroot blush in the tearoom had said it all. He was remembering events passed. And it was just possible it might happen again. And if it did she wanted to see it. In fact she wanted to see it so badly, she was even prepared to go through it herself. She had thought about this ever since their afternoon tea. Connie Wilmer had private rehearsals. It was almost inevitable that she and Andy would explore their intensive scenes in the privacy of that imposing house. He had been spanked there. And he had enjoyed it. His whole demeanour broadcast it. He would enjoy it again. And to be spanked with him would be an exciting, exquisitely, different experience.

She had seen a boy spanked at school last year and was absolutely fascinated. He had been stealing things in the cloakroom and a suspicious teacher laid a trap for him. The teacher was so incensed that he didn’t realise she was there. He upturned the boy and whacked him a dozen times on his shorts. With a strap. The boy howled and Gillian Jones watched in rapture. He had such a nice, tight, bum and seeing it being walloped was the most exciting incident of her young life. So Gillian Jones planned, in her determined and single minded way, how best to bring to fruition such an unlikely bizarre event as the wrath of Mrs Wilmer.. And the smile she sent back to Andy Styles spoke volumes.

But, whatever her plans, Gillian Jones was to be singularly disappointed. The rehearsal round Connie Wilmer’s imposing house was just that. A rehearsal. They read through their scenes, listened intently as Mrs Wilmer took them through the lines point by point, and then played each one for all it was worth to their sole audience. Only one late scene, requiring a first passionate kiss, caused problems. But eventually they found the level that Mrs Wilmer was looking for.

‘Perfect dears, perfect. You are both going to be very good. Just a little more concentration on that last scene and it will be there.’ Mrs Wilmer closed the rehearsal book and, simultaneously, lit herself a cigarette.

Just for a moment Gillian Jones was tempted to say that being so good had escaped them both a spanking but, observing the relaxed director, she thought better of it. It was a small opportunity, indeed the only opportunity of an intense theatrical afternoon, but discretion determined it was best to let it pass. Besides, a beetroot Andy spoiled his looks. And she was convinced that he would blush. Connie Wilmer had a habit of smacking her hands together when she was pleased, and every time that sound filled the room Andy stiffened. It might have been her imagination, but she didn’t think so. They both started to leave. Andy was very quiet whereas Gillian Jones was extremely chatty. It had been a good rehearsal and they would both be a success.

 If she was disappointed that she hadn’t even glimpsed a moment of the other, mysterious Mrs Wilmer, she didn’t show it. She didn’t really want to be spanked, she was sure it would be extremely painful, and her only interest was in seeing Andy get it again. She was convinced that it would be again. Andy had been here before. Either that or he was Mrs Wilmer’s secret lover. And that thought shocked her. Andy being spanked by Mrs Wilmer was one thing. Going to bed with her was a thought Gillian Jones could not contemplate.

She was thinking along these lines when Andy turned back to the house.

‘I’ve left my script. I need to go back and get it. You go on, I’ll catch you up.’ He said it mechanically, almost as if the words were programmed.

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll wait’. Gillian was in no hurry.

‘No. Carry on, I’ll catch you up. Really.’ And then what followed put Gillian Jones on full alert. ‘Or if I don’t, I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow night.’

Gillian was about to say okay, but before she had any chance he was gone. On his way back up the path. She stood there, thinking. Why shouldn’t she wait? He was only going back to pick up his script. And if she walked on, why shouldn’t he catch her up? Why should he say he might not? She slowly walked down the county road musing on these particular points. Andy had gone back to collect his script. But he thought he might be a long time. What had Mrs Wilmer said to him as they were leaving? Gillian searched her mind. There was nothing. She hadn’t said anything. Except. Yes there was one thing, when they were picking up their coats. What was it? She closed her eyes in concentration, picturing them all in Mrs Wilmer’s hallway. Mrs Wilmer had said something. Something that had registered with Andy? Some signal. What was it? And then she remembered. It was some comment about the antique clock in the hall. It had stopped at five o’clock.

‘My husband is going to take it in tomorrow to get it fixed. When he gets back from Germany.’

That was what she had said. When her husband gets back from Germany. And she was looking at Andy as she said it. Her husband was away on business and she was telling Andy Styles. And Andy Styles had blushed. He was still blushing when he told Gillian he had to go back for his script. And he was still blushing as he walked up Connie Wilmer’s path. And as she thought about all these things, Gillian Jones knew that she had to go back.

Connie Wilmer knew nothing of the drama that was being played out in Gillian Jones’ young mind. She had bid them goodbye and waited. She was well aware that her disciplining of Andy Styles before the previous show had been a defining moment in both their lives. She had found it incredibly ecstatic and, judged by his demeanour, Andy Styles was equally affected. She had dropped the occasional, oblique, hint that she was not averse to a repeat. What was it she said during a break at the rehearsal two weeks ago? Something about him being very good. Something about no need for sharp lessons this time. And seeing him blush when she said it. Seeing the memory of that chastisement etched in his eyes. So, after this rehearsal she had dropped him a small, inconsequential, hint. She was alone. If he wanted to come back to fulfil the need in both of them, she was more than ready. It wouldn’t be like last time. That was scholastic. That was a penalty. If Andy came back today it would be pure pleasure, for both of them. She said none of this as she stood by her antique clock. Merely that her husband was on business in Germany. But Andy Styles read the meaning and felt a surge of inexplicable excitement.

So Andy Styles had gone back to Connie Wilmer’s house. He rang her bell and, when she answered, mumbled something about leaving his script behind. And Connie Wilmer had called him a naughty, forgetful, boy. And she had taken his hand and led him to her living room. The room where, some weeks ago, she had lashed his bare behind with a vicious strap. And she sat down on her sofa and drew him to her. Without saying anything she undid the top button of his jeans. Without saying anything she unzipped the jeans and pulled them down to his ankles. And without saying anything she placed her fingers in the top of his underpants and sent them on the same journey. He stood before her, living the moment he had so often yearned for since that February afternoon.

‘This spanking is long overdue, Andy.’ She said it as a matter of fact and pulled him over her knee.

‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’ He waited, willing the next act of this private drama.

As if on cue Connie Wilmer lifted his light sweater away from his bottom and, as she tucked it around his waist, she admired the beauty revealed. The two delicate, quivering, cheeks displayed their marble white glory. The smooth and hairless buttocks of Andy Styles cried out for the hand of chastisement. And her hand this time would be enough. This would be pure pleasure for her and exquisite pain for him. His excitement was obvious, an uncontrollable eager boyhood had started to press against her thighs, and that alone deserved a spanking. So she did. With relish. And only with her mature and womanly hand.

For a good five minutes she smacked the boyish cheeks from a gentle pink to a scarlet red. She smacked the crown of his left buttock, the crown of his right, the top of his thighs and that lower point where all private desires met. After the first minute he wiggled, after the second he squirmed and by the third, erection dispersed, young Andy Styles was a bawling and begging boy. But he stuck it out for the full five minutes of Connie Wilmer’s ministrations. It was what he wanted, what he most desired. To be over this woman’s knees, pants down, having his naked bottom severely spanked was a joy beyond explanation. And if he sobbed, as he did by the end, they were tears of painful joy. And for a few moments, after Mrs Wilmer had ceased the delicious dance on his young behind, Andy Styles was content to remain across her knees. The throb in his bottom was more than matched by his inner peace. A tranquillity enhanced by the delicate stroke of her hand that, having inflicted searing pain, now gently soothed. Neither said anything. Words were superfluous. Only his quiet sobbing broke the silence. Until Connie Wilmer, still stroking the surface heat of the wonderfully naked and fiery backside of her favourite boy, looked up to her window. For gazing in at the picture, mouth open and eyes ablaze, was Gillian Jones. And Gillian Jones had seen all.

The exact sequence of the next few minutes was never precisely determined. Ask Andy Styles and he would probably say, assuming he was prepared to say anything about such an afternoon, that Connie Wilmer abruptly brought matters to a close. One second he was lying blissfully over her knee in that state only a few are privileged to savour, and in the next his jeans were yanked up and he was being pushed out of her door. Conscious only that his underpants were ill placed for a hasty exit, he left convinced that husbands on business didn’t always stick to well defined plans. Ask Connie Wilmer and she would say, after suppressing her initial irritation with herself for failing to draw the curtains, the girl got what was coming to her. If Andy Styles made a hasty exit, the girl seemed rooted to the spot. The least she could do was invite her in to explain.

Ask Gillian Jones and she would say, and probably embellish it, that having strapped a boy, the woman desired to repeat the experience with a girl. When Andy Styles took flight she made a futile attempt to follow. A firm hand stayed her departure and before she had chance to offer any protestations she was in the house, with the front door firmly shut.

The truth of the situation, especially concerning the mysterious Mrs Wilmer and the teasingly tomboyish Gillian Jones, was somewhat different. As Andy Styles disappeared down the county road, a warm glow in his jean clad bottom reminding that most of today’s events were welcomed, a variation on an old theme was about to take place.

Gillian Jones was sitting on Connie Wilmer’s sofa. The same sofa on which Mrs Wilmer had sat with Andy Styles over her knee. And Gillian Jones had seen it all. Exactly has she had hoped. Well almost. She would have preferred to be in the room. To hear the smacks and the squeals. But she had seen enough. Her Andy had been spanked. By Mrs Wilmer. And she had seen it all. Including his bare bottom. His blushes would be even deeper the next time they met. And now she was here. Connie Wilmer had brought her in and sat her down. And then she had disappeared. Without saying anything. She didn’t seem angry. She didn’t seem anything. She was very composed. She had just sat Gillian Jones down and told her to wait. And then she had gone. And then just as suddenly she was back. And in her hand she had a strap. A long and very thick strap. A vicious looking strap. And she put it down on her coffee table and crossed to her window and drew the curtains. Then she crossed to the door and put on the living room light.

‘Take off your jeans.’ It was the first thing she had said since entering the room.

‘No.’ Gillian was surprised with the emphasis of her refusal.

‘I said take off your jeans, Gillian.’

‘No. You can’t make me.’

‘Oh I think I can. Besides it is what you want isn’t it?’ Mrs Wilmer smiled as she said this.

‘No. I don’t want that.’ Gillian looked across at the strap.

‘I’m sure you don’t. Neither did Andy. But I gave him no choice, and I am giving you none either. Now take off your jeans.’

‘You can’t spank me. I haven’t done anything.’ Gillian, in spite of her usual poise, was getting concerned. It was not meant to be like this.

‘I am not going to spank you. I think you would enjoy it too much. I am going to give you a well deserved strapping. That little behind of yours has been crying out for it for weeks. You have trespassed on my property. So, for the last time, take off your jeans. Now. Your introduction to my sturdy friend is going to be memorable.’

‘I haven’t trespassed. I came back because of Andy.’

‘I know why you came back. You have made that pretty clear over the last few weeks. Well, tease Andy Styles any more and I shall be able to tell him that you had a taste of the same medicine.’ Connie Wilmer waited, assessing the affect she was having on a girl who was usually so composed.

‘And if I refuse?’ The words came out hesitatingly. For once in her young life Gillian Jones was not in control.

Connie Wilmer considered. This young lady had been amused by the talk in the rehearsal room about Andy. Rumours abounded as to how he had been brought into line. Her innate intelligence and sense of fun had, unerringly, pinpointed the special hold that his director had over him. And it excited her. So much so that, very subtly, she had hoped to engineer a repeat.

Connie Wilmer had seen this in the way spoke to Andy, and in the various hints she had dispersed. And, failing all else, she had come back and played the voyeur. Witnessed a private moment between two like minded souls. And she would go away and taunt and tease him more. From imagining the pain and joy of Andy’s experiences she would be able to say ‘I saw you being spanked. I was at the window.’ She would taunt and tease him even more, and his blushes would grow ever deeper. Mrs Wilmer considered all this before replying, and determined that Gillian Jones should have no advantage over Andy Styles.

‘If you refuse I shall dismiss you from the show.’

‘No. You can’t do that.’ Gillian Jones was mortified and incipient tears filled her eyes. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Oh, I can.’ Connie Wilmer said this with a confidence she did not feel. Replacing this girl at this late stage would cause her untold problems, and she had no intentions of doing so. But in these special, private circumstances, it was a worth saying in an attempt to achieve her aim. ‘I can, Gillian. And I will if I have to. So I think you had better do as you are told for once. Take off your jeans.’

Gillian Jones knew, or thought, she had lost. The tears welled in her eyes. In the abstract she had been amused by the thought of Mrs Wilmer collectively spanking her and Andy. The reality, alone in this room with the determined woman and her formidable strap, was somewhat different. But in admitting her defeat, she threw out one last plea.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer. I didn’t mean anything. I just wanted to see you spank Andy. Let me keep my jeans on. I promise I won’t struggle.’

Connie Wilmer picked up the strap. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying seeing this young, assured, girl squirm. The teasing, taunting eyes that had mesmerised Andy Styles for many weeks were beginning to fill with tears. There was no one to show off to now. She was alone. Alone with Mrs Wilmer and her strap. And Mrs Wilmer was waiting. Waiting for her to take down her jeans. And Gillian Jones was terribly afraid that it would not stop there. She tentatively started to undo her jeans.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer.’

‘Take them off. And your knickers,’

‘No. Oh please, not that.’

‘Yes. You are going to get this strap on your bare bottom. Just like Andy.’

‘No. No. I can’t. That will hurt. Please Mrs Wilmer. Not on the bare. Let me keep my clothes on. I promise I’ll behave.’

‘Take them both off. I am getting impatient.’ Mrs Wilmer illustrated her impatience by tapping the strap against her side. ‘I have seen Andy’s bottom and he is a boy. Surely I am entitled to see yours.’

‘You can’t do this, you can’t do this.’ Gillian Jones said this but, in contradiction, did as she was bid. The jeans came off followed by a small pair of white cotton knickers and the, by now tearful girl, stood in front of Mrs Wilmer dressed only in a fetching pair of pink socks and an equally pink small tee-shirt. So small that Mrs Wilmer idly noted the tiny, light and soft down which covered her obvious sex. Realising her vulnerability Gillian placed her hands in front of her and, simultaneously, registered the more pressing vulnerability behind. The pink tee-shirt covered naught and Gillian Jones cursed her fashion choice. She tried a final plea.

‘Please Mrs Wilmer, give me a spanking. I can take that. I am sure I can. But, please not the strap. Not that strap on my bare bum. I can’t, I can’t.’

‘Yes you can. Bend over the sofa’

Connie Wilmer blessed her luck. Never had she had such a feeling of power. And with a girl. This was a first and it was most enjoyable. And strapping this particular girl was going to be a particular pleasure. This was the company tease. A young and tiny, boyish, tease. And she was standing before her, tearful and bare bottomed, waiting her due. And Connie Wilmer was going to teach her a lesson she would never forget.

‘I can’t. Honestly. I shall scream. They will call the police.’ Who they were, Mrs Wilmer didn’t ask. As Gillian Jones continued her pleading she put her hand on the girl’s neck and pushed her over the arm of her sofa. The pert and boyish bottom stuck out provocatively. The small pink top fell no further than the young slim waist. Connie Wilmer’s target area was ready for the worst her strap could do.

‘Think yourself lucky. I made Andy touch his toes. You have my sofa to hold on to.’

And, as she said this, Connie Wilmer thought about the vicious strapping she had given Andy Styles. After his spanking she had bent him over and thrashed his upturned backside. With him she was conscious of the dangling penis and the bulbous testicles. Looking at Gillian Jones she was acutely aware that such boyish manifestations were absent. But in all other respects these pert bottom cheeks, smooth and hairless, were enticing in their allure. She gently laid the strap across the quivering cheeks and measured her aim.

Gillian Jones tensed, conscious of cold leather stroking her naked bottom. This was it. It wasn’t the spanking she had envisaged, almost desired. This wasn’t the gentle dance of chastisement that her fertile mind had conjured. This was a more serious and vicious scenario. As the leather tapped impatiently, searching for the most appropriate place on Gillian Jones behind, the girl’s tears flowed. Never had she felt so vulnerable, so exposed. She was about to be strapped on her abject nakedness and she was afraid. As Mrs Wilmer searched, with her uncaring strap, for the area of Miss Jones’ buttocks which would feel the greatest effect the girl held her breath.

And then Mrs Wilmer struck. The strap lashed down and Gillian Jones screamed. The searching weapon cut across the centre of her buttocks and created an unbearable fire. The effect was so electrifying that the second and third strokes fell almost immediately. ‘Thwack’ ‘Thwack’ ‘Thwack.’ Gillian Jones screamed, writhed and pleaded. But it did no good. With her left hand Connie Wilmer held Gillian Jones in place, with her right hand she wielded the strap onto the inviting cheeks, and as the eighteen strokes fell she discovered an indescribable joy. Thrashing a girls backside could be as pleasurable as thrashing a boys. And, devoid of any overt sexuality, it could be even better. As her strap contacted with the bare and vulnerable rear of this tearful girl, Connie Wilmer discovered a new aspect to her dominant character. This was pure chastisement. Gillian Jones didn’t see it that way. To her there was nothing pure about the chastisement that her backside had suffered. To her it was eighteen excruciating strokes of a strap across her bare bum. As each stroke fell across her cheeks she screamed and screamed. That leather strap joined with her bottom in an extravagant and exquisite kiss. It created a fire in the rear of Miss Jones which would remain for a long time. Every one of those eighteen strokes said to her bare behind that Andy Styles was special. You tease him at a cost to yourself.

And those eighteen strokes meant, for a couple of weeks and more, that Gillian Jones carried a number of unsightly weals. For a few days, she had a throbbing soreness in her behind as a constant reminder. And, to her obvious chagrin, she had the memory of how she had tearfully pleaded to be let off. That was the worst memory. Being strapped by Mrs Wilmer was one thing. Begging for forgiveness stuck in her throat. It didn’t fit with her image of herself.

Bending over Mrs Wilmer’s sofa, jeans and knickers lost, had realised a different Gillian. And when that strap did its work on her naked behind she had abandoned any sense of decorum. Gillian Jones had discovered, by the courtesy of a dominant lady, she was no more assured than the blushing and hesitant Andy Styles.

So when they met in her favourite tearoom a couple of weeks after the latest show, Gillian Jones was a little subdued in the company of Andy Styles. Her taunting was of a lower key, and her teasing almost non existent. She had seemed less than her usual ebullient self for the last two weeks and, whilst the show had gone well, Andy was both surprised and relieved when she had suggested a post production meeting. He was still besotted with this enigmatic elf and a chance to be alone together, to talk and reminisce created a welcome frisson of anticipation.

And for a little while they did talk. They talked about the show, they talked about their success and they talked about Mrs Wilmer. Both agreed she was an amazing woman, both agreed that she brought out the best in you, and both agreed that they wanted to work with her again. But neither talked about their own personal experiences with Mrs Wilmer, and Gillian Jones certainly dropped no hint that she had seen things denied to most young girls. But when Mrs Wilmer suddenly appeared, in that very English tearoom, and approached their table both felt a sudden feeling of inexplicable excitement.

‘I am glad I find you here,’ she said. ‘It will save a few phone calls. I am casting a new show. I can see you both in it. How do you fancy coming to tea one afternoon to discuss it?’

And that was it. She smiled sweetly, left them copies of the script, and departed as suddenly as she had arrived. But that brief meeting fired off more detailed conversations regarding the mysterious Mrs Wilmer. Conversations in which Andy Styles gave details to Gillian Jones of his introduction to an unwelcome strap. And, as she replied in kind, Gillian Jones confessed the voyeuristic role which preceded her come-uppance. And, forgetting the pain of their introductions to Mrs Wilmer’s vicious friend, they both laughed.

And that really is it. Three weeks later they, together, went for tea at Mrs Wilmer’s and discussed the new show. And after further discussion on other matters, they both found themselves, together, bent over the bottom of Mrs Wilmer’s bed. Andy Styles’ jeans and underpants were at his ankles and Gillian Jones shorts and knickers were similarly placed. Their two bare and white bottoms were similarly upturned, side by side, quivering in mutual anticipation. Gillian Jones closed her eyes. Andy Styles closed his. Both thought intently about their naked rears, cool to the afternoon air. Gillian Jones thinking about the coming strap on her naked behind. Andy Styles fearing he would get it worst. And as Mrs Wilmer entered the bedroom, strap in hand, they squeezed their combined hands and looked hopefully at each other.

‘Ladies first, I think.’ said Mrs Wilmer. ‘And then we shall have tea.’

And as she said it, that relentless strap cracked down on the young and naked behind of the previously assured and bossy Gillian Jones.    


Alfred Roy                            


























































































Sunday 15 January 2012

Types of Discipline Stories

I have been musing on the hits I have received on this blog. Surprisingly, given its low profile, over 500 have registered since I first put it up a couple of months ago. At the current rate it will eventually overtake a more public blog I started last summer on local theatre reviewing. On that blog I list many interests and one of them – ‘ain’t telling’ - intrigues some actor types. Perhaps one day they will find these stories and reflect that some performances are worthy of more than a bit of literary criticism.
But back to these stories. I have often pondered on the various categories and, computing all possibilities, they are sixteen different arrangements of the top and the bottom. Only a few appeal to me but I list them all for contemplation. My comments will give you a flavour of the ones that are likely to feature on whackingtales. Fridays at Three O’clock and A Private Rehearsal (F/m) and The Wall (M/m) flag my main writing interest but Whipstock Grange (F/M) and Ten Days (M/M) also appeal. I shall shortly post an F/f story (A Lesson for Miss Jones) as that scenario also ticks my creative boxes (Intellectual wanking I call it) but most of the other eleven categories engender little interest. So you are unlikely to get them here.
M/M I always see myself as ‘the boy’ in my stories so adult males as the receiver are thin on the ground in my writings. Ten Days was an exception, inspired by conversations with a friend, and I do have others I will post. But they are rare.
M/m One of my favourite scenarios, probably because I have never really grown up. I have written over fifty stories and I reckon the situation of a grown authoritative male figure, whacking a small schoolboy behind, figures in around half of them. The Wall is but one example.
F/M These are interesting because they move one into the world of S and M and reality. I have written a number of variations on this particular theme and ‘Whipstock’ is just one of many.
F/m Another favoured scenario and, along with others, I have written five stories involving Connie Wilmer and Andy Styles. A Private Rehearsal was the first. Currently working on a sixth which moves into F/M as the boy is growing up.
F/F I wrote one story featuring this relationship as a challenge. (Floral Designs).May post it one day but it is more lesbian than corporal punishment.
F/f This category surprised me because it is so far outside my experience that I doubted I could relate to it in writing. But on the couple of occasions I have created a scene where a young girl gets her knickers taken down for the attentions of a dominant female I have enjoyed the writing. So expect a couple of these in time.
M/F The internet is full of such stories. I cannot see me adding to them.
M/f Might appeal one day but unlikely.


The other eight categories (it is the pedantic statistician in me) reverse the situation. Young m/f as dominants. I have never written on any of them but came close a couple of times in the m/m field. I reckon that is about as far as it goes. All fantasies have their limits and a young girl, or even worse a young boy, beating an elderly male is not my scene. I do not condemn. I just can’t see myself ever writing a story about it.


To come: A Lesson for Miss Jones (F/f and F/m)
                  A Man of Letters (M/M)    Cries from A Distant Cottage (F/m)