Mrs McLeish, a minor character in an Andy Styles/Connie Wilmer story, was given centre stage in The Boston Landlady. My 27th posting, its popularity has shot that story up to number four on my overall hits list. I thought she deserved a sequel. In this one she gets to come to London and relive old experiences with her favourite boy. If, like me, some of you hanker for going over a large black lady's knee I reckon she will gallop up the table. Whether she does or not I shall continue my futile search for her real life equivalent. If I ever find her it should inspire an interesting post. Alfred Roy
Hi. Remember me. I am Mrs
McLeish. Ariadne Eugenie McLeish to give me my full name. Yes I know they are weird
names but I had weird parents. So weird that after giving me these names they
spent the rest of their lives calling me Blossom. Because I bloomed so much
apparently. You may be black, they said, but you certainly bloom. Like the
blossom in the spring. So Blossom I became and Blossom I am. Except to my
lodgers. To them, in Boston, I am Mrs McLeish. Name of the Irish shitbag whose
name I took when he impregnated me. More years ago than I care to remember.
Needed a surname for my son and an identity for myself. He, my son, died a long
time ago and for the last ten years, here in Boston, I have been making a
living by taking in lodgers. That is Boston, USA, by the way, not that quaint
town in Lincolnshire, UK. Never been to England in my life. Until now, but that
is to get ahead of myself. I admit to 45 years of age, which means I am 52, and
am big and cuddly. Or so some of my lodgers say. Seems young white men, and
most of my lodgers are young and white, have a thing about black ladies of a
certain size. Not saying what it is but I don’t do the bathroom scales anymore.
But my boys seem to like me and my cooking and, one or two of them, like me to
mother them. Actually they all like me to mother them, those I don’t kick out
that is, but one or two of them seem to enjoy a bit more than just being fussed
over. Being young, no more than 22 or 23, they get into scrapes and get very
abject. Nigel is a case in point. Nice young man from Melbourne. Stayed with me
for seven weeks on a secondment from his company. Twice he left the bathroom in
a mess and regularly came in long after I had double bolted the front door. His
latch key wouldn’t work and I had to get up to let him in. Can’t remember how
many times I threatened him with a good spanking. Told him it would do him
good. He eventually agreed and shortly before he flew back to Australia I had
him in my front room and took down his pants. Walloped that naked Australian
behind more times than he expected. Only my hand but it is a big one. By the
time he got up his cheeks were redder than any Australian sun. Loved it, he
said, pulling up his pants. People are strange. I love spanking my lodgers, the
ones who like it that is, but it always amazes me that they do. All that pain.
But folks are folks and business is business and, over the last few years, I
have had more prospective lodgers than I can cope with. I reckon folks talk. And
the talking don’t seem to be about my cooking or my reasonable rates.
My best and most favourite lodger
was Andy Styles. He was not only a nice lad but he had the most wonderful
bottom. Small and slim, his pronounced chubby cheeks were something to die for.
I reckon it was walloping him that really got me into spanking recalcitrant
boys. And he wasn’t averse to a strap. I tried that on him before he went back
to England and it was heady experience. I realised then that as much as I
needed a reason to whack my boys, being annoyed made me hit harder, I enjoyed
it. Baring a young male bottom for deserved discipline brought a light to many
a dull evening. When I spanked my late son for some gross misdemeanour I was
consumed with guilt. Taking Andy Styles’ behind to task changed all that.
Lovely lad and well into being disciplined. Contrived it most of the time. And
in a rare letter told me that there was something very special about going over
my big black knee and having my equally big black hand connecting with his lily
white bottom. And me? Ariadne Eugenie McLeish? I just love it. With a reason,
of course. Give me a willing and young behind and I am in my element. Putting
my boys over my knee, peeling down their tight Calvin Kleins or whatever, and
revealing their delightfully little and vulnerable cheeks. Heaven. I can smack
for America. Lots of my lodgers can bear witness to it and Andy Styles incited
the passion. He has a lot to answer for. Last week I went to England for the
first time. Visiting an old friend. And I
took the opportunity to look him up. You wouldn’t expect anything else,
would you?
He was delighted to see me. You
could tell that from the first moment when we had a big and long hug. Bit of an
unequal contest as he is small and perfectly formed. And me? Well I have told
you all that. But in spite of the fact that mutual affection squeezed the life
out of him he was clearly as pleased to see me as I was to see him. Why are you
here, he said. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Questions,
questions. I just ignored them and hugged him even more. It had been such a
long time. He was living in a nice flat, shared with two friends, and I got the
address from his London office. They know me from taking in lots of their young
trainees as lodgers in Boston, so it wasn’t a problem. Hadn’t seen Andy for two
years but all the old memories came flooding back. And the joy in his eyes at
meeting his old landlady was mingled with something else. You can tell. I
reckon that even before we fixed up a date for lunch he was planning a visit
over my knee before I went back home. The young are so incorrigible.
Trouble is, much as I liked the
idea, it wasn’t going to be easy. For a start the friend I was staying with was
very straight laced and deeply into religion. She lodged with me when she was
on some religious journey many years ago and, surprisingly, we got on well. We
had the same ethnic background but whereas I had spent all my life in America,
she had travelled. Her early adult years were in Nigeria and on graduating from
Oxford, clever clogs, she settled in London. Stayed with me at a difficult time
in her life and our similar senses of humour gave us a good bond. We did
theatre and libraries and restaurants and she helped with chores. In spite of
all that religion she was a great girl and we kept in touch when she left.
Hence the constant invitations to visit. Having a couple of months without
lodgers I accepted the latest. Providing she steered clear of religion. She
laughed and we fixed up the date. Two days in and I contacted Andy. His
circumstances were even less propitious. Propitious? Is that a word? We had the
lunch, he met my friend and enjoyed her company, and the following night we met
the two friends who lodged with him. In a local bistro we must have made a
strange group. Two middle aged black ladies and three young white men. But we
gelled like custard and laughed a lot as the wine flowed. It was just before we
parted that Andy threw out an invitation for dinner at their place. Friday was
the only suitable night but my friend could not join us. One of her religious
meetings and it did not finish until around 10.00pm. But for the rest of us it
was a good time to meet. As I put on my coat Andy whispered that he would like
us to dine alone but it wasn’t possible. I said his circumstances were not
propitious or whatever that word was. But I accepted and, weird thought,
considered the possibility that I could spank them all. I think being in London
on a loose rein had that effect on me.
We had a great evening. Dinner
was arranged earlier than I was used to but as the first hour was spent downing
wine and eating some fancy cheesy horses doofs, can’t do French spelling, it
all started brilliantly. Andy’s friends were excellent company. To some folks
Sean was a bit serious and nerdy but he had an encyclopaedic knowledge about
the seamier side of political history which made me laugh. He made up, or at
least I think they were made up, super tales about Gladstone trawling the
streets of London for prostitutes. Geoffrey, a year older at twenty five, was as
beautiful as he was gay. And all of them, Andy included, had a wicked sense of
humour. Sean’s was more serious and cutting but contained no malice. He loved
the things that made people tick, fascinated him, and it did not surprise me
that the evening’s little bombshell came from him. Geoffrey and I are off to
the pub for an hour, he said. Going to leave you two folks alone. You must have
lots to chat about. I said something, not sure what, but along the lines of that
seeming a bit unfair. Geoffrey laughed and Sean put on his coat, saying as he
did so that it would not be proper if they stayed. Mrs McLeish he said, he had
called me that all evening, Mrs McLeish, we can’t expect you to spank Andy with
us watching. Now can we? It was said so po faced that I laughed even more than
Geoffrey. I was still laughing when they left. I looked at Andy, sitting in a
large chair drinking his wine, and he was grinning from ear to ear. It was only
when I frowned my most serious Boston frown that the grin faded.
I got the whole picture in the
next half an hour, Andy, Sean and Geoffrey were friends and flat companions but
nothing more than that. Sean was the mutual friend and when Andy fell out with
his latest girlfriend, very heavy and serious, he offered a room in the place
he was renting. They all gelled instantly, Sean was very astute in his choice
of friends, and although they had disparate sexualities they had lots of fun.
As Sean was prone to say, he was as straight as a spirit level but he sure
collected weirdo friends. Neither Geoffrey nor Andy totally subscribed to this
view, academic obsessions with Victorian porn suggested a deeper psyche, but
recognised that their own lifestyles were firmly in the unconventional present.
Sean delved in ancient books, Geoffrey and Andy pursued modern desires. And in
Andy’s case, much to the amusement of his friends, that included disciplinary
pleasures with mature ladies. It had all poured out late one night when the
three of them were bored and miserable and drinking enough wine to sink a ship.
I think I mean float a ship, but you get my meaning. Sean said he was useless
with girls, if any of them ever took their pants off for him by the time he had
finished spouting his latest thesis they had put them back on again. Geoffrey
said his problem was constantly falling in love. Usually with the worst kind of
person. He was attracted to eighteen year old males and most of those were
about as stable as jelly on a roller coaster. Reckoned he should try older men
but none he had met appealed. Andy said he did not have their problems. Men did
not attract him, young or old, and girls readily dropped their knickers, thesis
or no thesis. But he did have one
constant nagging difficulty. Amplifying this thought kindled wine soddened
interest. Sean poured out some more and Geoffrey, apparently, went for a pee.
Don’t you just love these details? Anyway the upshot was, when Geoffrey came
back, Andy told them of his strange desires. A mature woman had kindled it all
in his youth and he, as he grew up, regularly felt the need for that teenage
discipline. From a woman, preferably over forty. Often paid for it, he said, but
rarely with success. They both sympathised, Sean especially as he said much of
Victorian erotica concentrated on chastisement, and they both said that it was
not a problem with them. Just don’t scream too loud if you do it here, Sean
said, we are having enough problems with the landlord. But when they heard of
me, arriving unexpectedly, and mine and Andy’s history they were determined to
make themselves scarce. All I ask said Sean, as po faced as ever, is that you
show us your bum and give us every detail. I could not, he said, possibly get
this from any of my books.
‘You mean this is why you planned
an early dinner?’
‘They wanted us to have an hour
or so on our own.’
‘You have considerate flatmates.’
‘I often do the same for them, or
Geoffrey at least.’
‘He can’t bonk with you and Sean
watching. That I can understand.’
‘He can’t do anything with anyone
else in the flat. I regularly make myself scarce.’
‘And now he, and Sean, are doing
the same thing for you?’
‘Yes.’
Andy paused and in the silence I
could hear he was breathing heavily.
‘They thought that we would like
to be alone.’
‘So that I can spank you. Sean
made that very clear.’
‘Only if you want to.’
I laughed. Andy was looking so
serious I thought he was going to burst it to tears. I walked over to where he
was sitting and ruffled his hair. He sank into the large chair, not sure what
to expect.
‘Of course I want to spank you.’
I said. ‘I would also like to strap your delectable behind like I did once
before, except I don’t have that with me. I have been itching to get you over
my knee again and have your pants down ever since I landed. But I did not think
it might be tonight. Not unless I spanked you all.’
‘That would be interesting.’
‘If impracticable.’
‘Geoff might like it but Sean
would just want to make notes.’
‘Hmmm.’ I said, and picking up my
wine from the table sat in the chair opposite Andy. He seemed to have relaxed
again. I looked at him. He was wearing those tight jeans and light top that he
often wore in Boston. I think he had done it consciously. I thought about his
Calvin Kleins. I bet he was wearing a pair of his tightest and loveliest. He
had planned this and his flatmates were accommodating him. I thought of him
over my knee, the most malleable and submissive lodger I ever had, and I
thought about peeling those underpants down and drinking in the sight offered.
I shuddered and I reckon he sensed it. He shifted in his chair uncomfortably
and waited for me to speak.
‘Do you often pay for such
pleasures?’
‘Not often, but sometimes.’
‘And does it work?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Occasionally?’
‘Rarely. They aren’t like you.’
‘Because they charge?’
‘Because they don’t mean it. I
can’t explain.’
‘And I do?’
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t
need to. I knew all about Andy’s desire for true discipline when he first came
to me in Boston. He had this lady who whacked him when he was a teenager and he
had never forgotten her. She was his drama teacher or something. Sown something
in him that never faded. It was there now. Even though we did not have a good
reason for it he desperately wanted what he knew I was willing to give. Ariadne
Eugenie McLeish, I told myself, you have come a long way in the last few years.
‘When are they coming back?’
I said it quietly and with
meaning.
‘Not until I ring them. We won’t
be disturbed.’
‘And you want me to spank you?’
‘Yes. But only if you want to.
Only if you are in the mood.’
The light had faded and it was
almost dark. There was no need to draw any curtains. The gloom of the evening
added to the electricity in the room.
‘Oh, I am, Andy. I most
definitely am.’
‘Then I want you to. I can’t
think of anywhere I would rather be than over your knee, Mrs McLeish.’
‘And Sean would understand.’
‘He wants to see the results.’
I smiled and issued the only
invitation that this private party demanded.
‘Then we had better make it good.
I hope he enjoys the sight as much as I will. Come here.’
He didn’t move. He just sat and
gulped and breathed heavily in anticipation at what was to come. I sensed him
weighing up both the pain and the pleasure.
‘If we don’t do it now, I shall
have to ask you to switch on a light.’
He nodded and rose and walked
towards me, nervously rubbing his hands down the legs of his jeans, and stood
meekly by my chair. I wasn’t angry with him. That always seemed to help in
Boston but here, in London, it did not seem to matter. He had probably been
working up to this moment ever since I arrived. I would not let him down. As he
moved closer towards me he put his hands on his head and closed his eyes. I
undid the belt on his jeans and, releasing the top button, slowly pulled down
the zip. I am sure I heard him sigh. As I did it, revealing the first glimpse
of light blue Calvin Kleins, I thought of my host at her bible classes and
wondered what she would think. I was still thinking of her when I put my
fingers in Andy’s waistband and pulled those same jeans down to his knees. I
reckon she would pray for me. She should. Pulling down the jeans revealed
classy underpants with a large bulge that was unmistakeable. And as I took Andy over my knee and rested my
large black hand on the beautiful covered bottom I reckoned she would do well
to pray for him. The picture of pending chastisement was still and silent but
all would soon change. This might be an act of bizarre friendship but I was
going to make it hurt.
I rested my palm on the silky
cloth of his underpants, exploring his exquisite boyish curves, and prayed that
the landlord was out. I ran my palm over both those lovely cheeks, circling
every inch of Andy’s delightful bottom, and simultaneously stroked his
downturned head. The one connected with the other and it seemed appropriate. I
was going to enjoy this, I thought, and I was going to take my time. What was
it I used to tell him, and my other lodgers, in Boston? Mrs McLeish only spanks
bare. That was true and still is. But here in London, in this flat, whipping
down pants for deserved retribution was not the script. This was love for my
favourite boy, love that would be expressed in the way we both desired. God, I
was so lucky. His bottom and my hand. Black flesh on white flesh. He liked that
picture, so he said, even though it was only me that saw it. But I would take
my time and delay the pulling down of the underpants. I would deny us both that
final, exquisite, thrill until it could be denied no longer. I ignored the
pressing of his thing against my thighs, it is an occupational hazard with
boys, and stroked again the quivering covered cheeks. Not for the first time I
told myself that Andy Styles had a bottom to die for. And it was here, upturned
and submissive, waiting for me to give it those special kisses few understand.
I almost cried in joy and when I could delay no longer I raised my large and
heavy palm and whacked it into the right cheek. The effect was electric. The cheek wobbled, the legs trembled, the boy
sighed, and I felt a surge of power. Andy’s spanking had begun and I reckon
everyone, especially me, was praying.
I don’t know how many times my
hand slapped into his soft and welcoming cheeks. It must have been at least
thirty, probably fifty, but much as he squirmed and wriggled he never let out
even the slightest moan. This was pure pleasure, for both of us, and as my hand
landed on his backside I felt the growing warmth in the connecting flesh. I
stopped and rested that hand now so hot against the heat emanating from his
Calvin Kleins. I rubbed gently against the upturned curves and sensed, again,
the pressing of his now rigid penis against me. It did not deter me from what was
to come next but I knew, as I gently placed a finger in the waistband of his
underpants, that bare bottomed he might lose control. I do not touch my boys, I
am not into sex of any kind, but I ain’t stupid. I understand the need for
release. And when the freedom of peeled down pants encircles the being, the
smacking of the bare behind can have unexpected consequences. I learnt that a
long time ago. But never with Andy. Sure I had seen him rubbing his bottom
after I had dealt with him, especially after I strapped him, and sporting a
long erection. But we usually laughed about it as he pulled up his pants.
Proves you enjoy it I would say, assuaging my guilt. But here, in this darkened
flat, whilst his friends mused in pubs and mine thumped her bible? No. That
would never do. The bare bottom spanking would have to be quick and short. I
could not deny him this, the final experience. But I would not prolong it. So I
peeled the pants down to his knees, releasing both the stiffened appendage
which I could not see and the beautiful, rich red, orbs which I could. I took
my time and allowed those peachy cheeks, pertly divided, to slowly be revealed.
They were so heavenly and inviting I wanted to eat them. I shifted my position,
pulled him closer towards me, and pushed his jeans and underpants further down
his legs. Then I lifted his small top further away from the crown of his
bottom. I wanted to see it all. The smooth back, the pure white thighs and
legs, and the twin joys of the loveliest and perkiest bottom you could ever set
your sights on. Each small cheek of Andy’s backside glistened in readiness. He
arched his back and lifted his bottom, beckoning me, urging me, to begin. I
gently touched the warm flesh and explored every inch of his provocative
curves. I did not explore his crack, that is for ladies he pays, but I
expressed my pleasure. And then I whacked him
and at each slap into his bare and reddened behind, heavy and true, he
squirmed and wriggled and held on to my legs. I did it slow at first, drinking
in each sensation as my hand connected with his bottom, but quickly increased
the tempo and the force. And I would not stop until he cried. That is what we
both wanted. My arm would ache, my palm would sting, but the divine and mutual
pleasure would be consummated in our special disciplinary dance. My, don’t you
just admire this description. Ariadne Eugenie McLeish, you could have been a
writer. But you really needed to be there to appreciate it all. By the time I
had finished, by the time I finally rested my hand, Andy’s little bottom cheeks
were as red as those London busses. We were both exhausted and as he lay still
across my knee, I got my tears, I gently rubbed in the warmth I had created. Eventually
I gave the nearer cheek a slight tap indicating he should get up. Slowly he
rose and ruefully rubbed his bottom and, smiling, pulled up his pants. His
penis was still stiff in spite, or because, of my exertions and as he tucked it
away he mumbled an apology. I shouldn’t worry I said. It happened so often with
my son I eventually got used to it. An occupational hazard for boys having
their tails whacked, I added. Even those who profess not to enjoy it. He burst
out laughing and did up the belt on his jeans. I think we were still laughing
when Sean and Geoffrey came back. By then we had turned on the lights. A middle
aged black lady and a young white man sitting in the dark would never do.
They all came to see me off at
the airport on Sunday. I had my bible thumping friend with me so conversation
was circumspect. At least until she went to the ladies room. When she did the
talk quickly turned to my dinner evening. Sean and Geoffrey were all agog, at
least Sean was, and they told me that Andy was forced to give them a blow by
blow account and, somewhat reluctantly, show them his bottom when they returned
from the pub. I said that I did not believe that Andy would ever be reluctant
to bare his bottom, whatever the situation, but I hoped they were impressed.
Andy blushed and said he thought that they were almost as kinky as him. Geoffrey
demurred saying he would not enjoy such an experience, even from a man, but
Sean was much more interested. Having immersed himself in much Victorian porn
for many years he thought it might be amusing to try an essential aspect of it.
Could he look me up if he ever came to America? You can I said but weren’t the
Victorians into canes and birches? Ariadne etcetera don’t usually do such
things. Far too brutal. Sean, completely unfazed, sad a strap or palm would
suffice. It was purely for research. But a rattan cane was the ultimate
disciplinary weapon. His face was so po when he said it that I laughed and
looked, meaningfully, at Andy and he laughed as well. Before his flatmates
returned from the pub we had talked about English discipline. It seemed
appropriate seeing I was in England. I told him I would buy a cane in readiness
for his next Boston visit. His drama teacher had used one on him, about time I
tried it. I wasn’t about to tell Sean though. If, when I got home, I got to cane
an English bottom I wanted it to be Andy Styles. That hour with him over my
knee had been pure heaven. I was musing
on this when my friend returned and, putting a bible on the cafe table, said
she wished to pray that I had a safe flight. Don’t you just love the
English? Even the adopted ones.
Alfred Roy (2013)