Mrs Wilmer Meets Miss Jones (F/f)

Immediately following on from The New Neighbour (M/m) here is one that is strictly F/f. Pure imagination, of course, and links in with the many Connie Wilmer stories I have written. The young lady in this one first appeared in 'A Lesson for Miss Jones' and is a spanked and strapped regular in others. In this one she is growing up. In many ways. Alfred Roy

 

Mrs Wilmer meets Miss Jones

 The call was totally unexpected.

‘Mrs Wilmer? Connie Wilmer? Hi. Remember me. Gillian Jones. I am in the area. At a conference. Wondered if you still lived here. Looked you up in the book. Hope you don’t mind me ringing. Thought we might meet. Catch up a bit. On the past.’

Hardly a breath. Young girl. Nervous. Prepared speech. No pauses. Hasn’t changed.

‘We did some theatre when I was a teenager. Never forgot you. Love to see you again. I am here for three days. If you are free.’

Urgent. Almost begging. Planned? Maybe. Memories. Interesting.

‘Tomorrow night really suits. At my hotel? Yes, okay. Seven o’clock. Castle Hotel. The Riverside Bar. Great. Look forward to it. Hope you didn’t mind me ringing. Bye’

Connie Wilmer put down her phone and wondered. Why was Gillian Jones contacting her after all this time? Three years? Five years? And never a word. The boy involved in their theatre projects had kept in touch but Miss Jones had disappeared. Not dramatically, but just the way teenagers do. College? University? New horizons? We all move on. How old is she now? Must be twenty or twenty one. She was sixteen, or was it seventeen, when we did the Edinburgh festival. That was five years ago. Yes Miss Jones, Miss Gillian Jones must be twenty one. At least. Haven’t seen her since she was a spiky teenager, impish and mischievous, leading that distracted boy a merry dance. And now, out of the proverbial blue, she makes contact. A bit of a surprise. But then, from memory, Gillian Jones was always full of surprises.

‘It’s fantastic to see you again. I hardly dared. Ringing you after all this time. You may have moved. Or anything. But I was here, in this town, and I thought. Connie Wilmer. My Connie Wilmer. Never forgotten you. You or Andy. Just dying to see you again. When you answered the phone I nearly died with joy.’

The gushing had hardly stopped since they met. Everything hemmed in through teenage years poured out. Relentless, wearing, amusing.

‘They were the happiest times of my life. Doing those plays with you and Andy. And then Edinburgh. I never wanted it to end. Then he got involved with some other girl and we moved to Canada. Daddy’s job. I hated it. Canada. Came back last year. Work for a marketing firm in Woking. I love it. And then they send me here for this conference. Home town I said. And I just had to ring you.’

Because of Andy? Because of the memories? Or because of what? She hadn’t said. All through the initial meet and now dinner she hadn’t said. They had relived the past, the plays, the theatre, the boy. Nothing else. Miss Gillian Jones, the still impish twenty one year old Miss Jones, had said much but told nothing. Or that is what it seemed to Connie Wilmer. It still seemed like that when they parted.

The second call was not totally unexpected.

‘Mrs Wilmer? It’s me. Gillian. Gillian Jones. I loved last night. Meeting you again. Catching up on the past. It was wonderful. And you are a wonderful woman. Andy and I always thought so. I have never forgotten you. There was so much I wanted to say last night but couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.’

They will now. Courage comes from desperation. It was in her voice. Connie Wilmer sensed it. She sensed it on the first call, she sensed it over the hotel dinner. And now it had urgency. And she was ready.

‘I think you know what I am going to say. Coming here, to this town, brought back so many memories. Some I shall never forget. I think you know which I mean. I can’t say it but I think you know. I can think of nothing else. Is there any chance? Is there any chance, Mrs Wilmer, that you would be willing to do it again?’

Twenty? Twenty one? Not sixteen. But still impish, still mischievous. Still desperate for her own pleasures. But now as a young woman, not a young girl. Connie Wilmer had been searched for. And tested. And over the hotel dinner she had passed the test. Nothing said but all clearly implied. Hence the follow up phone call. She responded and Miss Jones gushed. Again.

‘Brilliant. I will come to you tomorrow. It’s my last night before going back. I shall be sixteen again Mrs Wilmer. Promise. I have wanted this for so long.’

Connie Wilmer replaced the phone. Let us hope she is not disappointed was her only thought.

Back in the distant past Connie Wilmer had painfully strapped the tiny bare behind of Miss Gillian Jones. The little knickers of the impish girl had been taken down and Connie Wilmer had whacked the boyish cheeks of the most mischievous girl she had ever known. Not once, at least twice, probably three times. Constantly teasing, constantly disruptive, she had thrown many a theatrical project into turmoil. Before her seventeenth birthday she had suffered the special wrath of a distinctive and mature theatre director on many an occasion. Connie Wilmer’s methods were unusual but effective. Those in the know willingly, if reluctantly, conceded that. And for the Gillian Jones’s of this world it worked wonders. She screamed, she howled, she pleaded to be let off. But when the sting had faded, when the burning ache had gone, she recognised its worth. At sixteen she needed it and she held no resentment. That was always clear. Her strappings were often visibly provoked. And now, at twenty one, she wanted it. Desired it. The special flame, once lit, refused to die. Please recreate it she was saying. Connie Wilmer thought it was worth a try.

The third call followed a familiar pattern from those desperate to be chastised.

‘Mrs Wilmer? It’s me, Gillian Jones. Sorry to bother you so early. Afraid you might be out. I have been thinking about tonight. What we talked about. Can we just go into it straight away? When I arrive. I’ll be dressed ready. Am afraid if we socialise first that I might chicken out. Lose the, you know.’

Mrs Wilmer did know.

‘I have been steeling myself for this and the nearer it gets the more I want it and the more I am scared. Having dinner with you on Tuesday was fantastic. Brought back everything. We can socialise. I want to socialise. But afterwards.’

Afterwards.

‘Is that all right?’

It was all right. Mrs Wilmer understood.

‘Oh, thank you Mrs Wilmer. Thank you ever so much. I won’t let you down. Promise. I’ll do whatever you say.’

There was a pause, an uneasy pause.

‘I so want you to strap my bottom again. Ever so much.’

It was the first mention of what Miss Gillian Jones actually wanted. The first amplification of her true need. Now there was no turning back, could be no misunderstanding. It had taken great courage for her to say it at last and the courage was accompanied by heavy breathing.

‘And I so want you to take my knickers down, Mrs Wilmer. Meeting you again convinces me of that.’

The courage was rising now and details were flowing forth. A confirmation of the time of her arrival stemmed Gillian Jones’s thoughts and Mrs Wilmer replaced the phone. She was ready, she just hoped her erstwhile charge was.

Connie Wilmer had enjoyed strapping Gillian Jones’ delicate little bottom all those years ago. She realised that the first time she did it, even though anger had provoked it. Strapping young bottoms, male or female, gave her a special pleasure. Grudgingly, the more she did it to various theatrical charges the more she understood that it fulfilled a strange need in her. The heady power of holding an awesome strap or cane over a vulnerable young naked bottom was a sensation to be savoured. A visual stimulation that could not be equalled for those with the special taste. Connie Wilmer acquired that special taste in her mature years but rarely indulged it. Circumstances did not generally allow such pleasures. But if ever it came knocking at her door, as it did with the Edinburgh boy and some others, she was more than ready. Those now chastised may be more willing than in the past but the scene was the same. Discipline, seriously applied, to nature’s defined and beautiful target. And boy or girl the sensations were the same. Yes, she was ready. She just hoped that, if she came, Miss Gillian Jones was. Connie Wilmer only strapped for real.

The girl stood before her, meek and silent, waiting for Mrs Wilmer to begin. Her flushed face contrasted with the pale pink of her flimsy top. She wore no bra and the breasts were still small and under-developed, other than the cotton top her only attire was Calvin Klein white knicker shorts. She looked every inch the sixteen years old she had said she desired to be. Mrs Wilmer, carefully dressed in a black suit for the occasion, smiled as she entered the room. The strap was in her hand, a strap that Gillian Jones both remembered and craved. Or so she had said, but on seeing it again her small body had shuddered and her eyes had closed. Mrs Wilmer stood silently in her sitting room, listening to the faint sound of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto and Gillian’s heavy breathing. She was impressed; the girl had chosen her attire with care and determination. It invoked memories of an earlier time when, in this same room, anger had provoked a first strapping of Miss Jones’ pert backside.

‘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 sixteen year old 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 anymore and I shall be able to tell him that you had a taste of the same medicine.’

Sixteen year old Gillian Jones had been strapped for spying on her young friend getting his desserts from Mrs Wilmer. On that distant day impish confidence had visibly drained. Now a slightly more mature girl desired its re-creation. Or so she had said. But the girl who had entered her house that evening displayed anything but confidence. Hesitant, respectful, soft spoken. But still elfin like and engaging. Tight jeans and jumper hinted at nothing. Mrs Wilmer had instructed her to strip to her top and knickers and wait. But before she did she spelt everything out. Gillian Jones must have no illusions, no misunderstandings. If she did as Mrs Wilmer said then, on her return, there would be no going back.

‘Let us get this clear, Gillian. You wish me to deal with you as I did in the past. When you were a teenager?’

‘Yes. Yes Mrs Wilmer. I do.’

‘A strap. My heavy strap. Applied to your bare bottom?’

‘Yes. Yes. That’s what I want.’

‘Want or need?’

‘Both.’

‘You didn’t like it then. You used to howl a lot if I remember correctly. Why would you like it now?’

‘I don’t know. I only know I want you to do it.’

‘With your knickers down?’

‘Yes.’

‘No holding back. Hard strokes across your behind. Strokes that will hurt. As they used to.’

‘Yes. Yes Mrs Wilmer.’

She paused and flushed deeply.

‘I have wanted it for so long.’

She shuffled her feet. Connie Wilmer had insisted she remain standing through these preliminaries. She herself had sat down in an easy chair. Their situations emphasised the roles. She studied the girl. She had a nice, slim, figure and a pert behind. The latter enhanced by the tightness of the jeans. Mrs Wilmer suspected that this was Gillian’s usual casual attire. Her eyes drifted over the girl’s entire body and she warmed to her task. The natural submissiveness added to her growing pleasure. She chose what she said next with care.

‘Gillian.’

‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’

‘Look at me.’

The girl did as she was bid, her eyes alight with anticipation and a touch of pending trepidation.

‘Have you been disciplined by any one, anyone other than me?’

The girl bent her head before replying.

‘Have you? Has anyone else strapped your behind?

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of years ago. Two boyfriends. But it didn’t work out.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. One was too rough and....you know.’

‘And the other?’

‘Kind. Kind and gentle and considerate.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘No. It didn’t work.’

‘It wasn’t what you wanted?’

‘No.’

‘And this is?’

‘Yes. Yes. At least I think so.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so, Mrs Wilmer. I know myself. What I want, what I need, can only come from you. Or someone like you. I know that now.’

Mrs Wilmer studied her again. The girl was trembling, agitated, breathing very heavily. Her face was bright red and she nervously clenched her hands. It would be unfair to delay any longer.

‘Gillian.’

‘Yes Mrs Wilmer.’

Both spoke so quietly that the distant piano sounds of Beethoven virtually filled the room.

‘I shall leave you now. I shall return in five minutes. I expect you to be ready. I expect you to be down to your top and pants. Nothing else. When I return I shall strap your behind. Six strokes across your knickers and then twelve with them taken down. But, in consideration of your inexperience, I shall prepare you with a preliminary spanking. I am afraid that the shock of my strap may be too much otherwise.’

‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’

The girl did not demure and Mrs Wilmer said nothing else. She rose and left the room, puzzling slightly at her sudden decision to tread the desired path slowly. It was a sensible decision, she knew that, but not one made totally devoid of emotion. When her eyes drifted down the girl’s standing form she sensed a strange urge. And the urge was to spank this elfin form. It made perfect sense. For both of them.

She gently took the girl over her knee. There was no resistance. The pale pink flimsy top rose up her back and the small white Calvin Klein knicker shorts emphasised the small buttocks. They clung to the girlish slim thighs and created a heavenly picture. Mrs Wilmer ran her right palm over Gillian’s bottom cheeks and enjoyed the sensation. Gillian Jones shuddered at anticipatory pleasure. Young bottom and mature palm were joined in mutual joy and need. It took all of Connie Wilmer’s resolve not to pull the knickers down and drink in the promised sight underneath. But she resisted and slowly explored all the tiny curves of the impish form. The memories came flooding back. This was a young female bottom that cried out for chastisement. She raised her right hand and delivered one resounding smack to the right cheek of Miss Jones. It was hard and it stung and the girl responded. Connie Wilmer waited and then delivered an equally hard smack to the girl’s left cheek. Gillian wriggled again and raised her bottom slightly. The twin warmth on the two sides of her bottom indicated that her spanking had begun. She relished the sensation and surges of desire swept through her whole body. A desire to be soundly smacked and strapped. To be made to cry. Mrs Wilmer, delivering two further smacks to each cheek, seemingly had the same intention. The smacks became quicker and harder, gradually increasing in intensity and making the young girl struggle and audibly respond. But the more she struggled the firmer Mrs Wilmer held the slim waist with her left hand and pounded the upturned behind, fixed in determined sight, with her right. Twenty, thirty, forty times she walloped Gillian’s backside and the heat from her exertions burned into the young girl’s covered flesh. By the end the prone girl was crying profusely and uttering words of contrition. But never once, as the hand relentlessly smacked her bottom, did she ask Mrs Wilmer to stop. Gillian Jones was taking a spanking she had long desired and only the woman giving it would bring about its end. Eventually, exhausted, Mrs Wilmer did stop and for a couple of minutes those same hands caressed the heat she had engendered. The arching back and jutting bottom of the girl over her knee indicated a desire to have the pants taken down. To allow the naked flesh to breathe, to be spanked again, bare. But again Mrs Wilmer resisted. The knickers would come down, she had said. But not yet. That was to come. For now she indulged the pleasure of the warmth in the curves, the hint of promised flesh, the submissiveness of the spanked girl. All else could wait. But not for long. After two or three heavenly minutes, for both, Connie Wilmer quietly told Gillian Jones to get up and stand in the middle of the room. When she did so, tearful but composed, Mrs Wilmer walked towards her and ran her left hand down the girls back and across the bottom she had just joyously spanked. The girl shuddered and trembled and waited. In Connie Wilmer’s right hand was the strap. Bend down Gillian, she said, bend down and touch your toes. Or as far down as you can go. Six across your knickers and then I shall take them down for twelve more. Across your bare and shamelessly naked behind. And I do not expect you to get up until I have finished. After all, you want this. You have wanted it for years.

The last phone call was expected, if a little late, but the message wasn’t.

‘Mrs Wilmer. It’s me, Gillian. Last night was wonderful, everything I hoped for. And I have some lovely stripes. Everything else has faded but the strap marks are awesome. I shall treasure them. But that is not why I phoned, you know I loved our get together.’

There was a pause and a sharp intake of breath.

‘I have the chance of going to a party. In Woking. It’s called Aunts and Nieces. Never been to one but always fancied it. Just never had anyone to take me.’

Another pause, another intake of breath.

‘It’s in two weeks time. I should be better by then. If you know what I mean.’

Mrs Wilmer knew exactly what she meant.

‘Would you take me? I can put you up.’

Silence.

‘I need an Aunt, Mrs Wilmer. You would be ideal. And it may give you other opportunities. With other nieces.’

Mrs Wilmer put down the phone. She hadn’t agreed, she hadn’t declined. But not for the first time she sensed that she had been manipulated by a devious minx. The party invitation had always been on the agenda, ever since the first phone call. But never mentioned. Until now. If Mrs Wilmer had known, then the previous night’s strapping would have been even harder.

She placed the heavy strap against the willing cheeks. Still covered, still trembling. The strap, brown and worn, was over two foot in length and medium thickness. It packed a heavy sting and, in its time, had visited a variety of submissive behinds. Now it was ready for Gillian’s. Again, after so many years. The girl had bent down as far as she could and the white briefs clung to her skin, shaping and enhancing the two divine cheeks of her rear. She held on to her ankles and gritted her teeth as Mrs Wilmer placed the weapon on the centre of the jutting backside. The strap touched the pants and both participants knew that this was it. This was the moment when there would be a crack and a scream. Or a howl. Mrs Wilmer raised her arm and, as the girl readied herself, swung the strap across the bending form. It hit dead centre, a delicious crack which produced a gasp of pain and a shuffling of feet. It was a sweet stroke, well struck. And well deserved. Five more followed, all as sweet and true, and all were accompanied by more gasps and howls. But Gillian never got up. She remained, bending and ready, as Mrs Wilmer put down the strap and approached her. Slowly, tantalisingly, gently, she placed her fingers in the waistband of the girl’s pants and deftly drew them down to her knees, then her toes, and then off. Only the flimsy raised pink top remained. For the first time that evening Gillian Jones’s bare bottom was totally exposed. Both gasped. One at the exquisite sensation, the other in appreciation of the sight revealed.

The bare flesh of Gillian Jones’s small and perky bottom was smooth and pure and crimson. It cried out for the further attention of Mrs Wilmer’s strap but, equally, it cried out for the exploration of her hands. The girl was spreading her legs, arching her back, beckoning. Touch me, strap me, take me, she seemed to be saying. This was no teenager forced to submit. This was a young woman indulging her desires. Mrs Wilmer pressed her palms against the warm skin and, brushing the tender cheeks, allowed her fingers to drift across the centre of the quivering bottom. Feminine juices flowed. Hands touched the inner curves and as the music in the outer room ceased, a woman sighed. Then silence. For a few seconds, twenty, thirty, silence. Both women devoured the sublime sensations of the exploring. Gillian Jones did not want it to end. But gasps and howls quickly followed as a dangerous spell was broken. Connie Wilmer denied the fleeting pleasures and, standing back, brought the strap down on to the naked cheeks. Twelve times the heavy strap thwacked into the naked skin and, twelve times, the girl struggled to remain in place. The feet shuffled, the gasps and howls increased, and the burning in her behind reached an intensity that cried out for relief. But she never resisted or rose. The hands moved up the legs, the head jerked upward, and the bottom wiggled in disciplinary pain. But each time, after each stroke, Gillian Jones recovered and held again her ankles and offered again her bottom. Beat my pleasures out of me she seemed to be saying. And Mrs Wilmer did, accurate and unrelenting. Twelve times the leather thrashed the naked bottom until all was bright crimson and bruised. This had been a glorious chastisement. When she laid aside the strap she was thinking that Gillian Jones had come a long way in the last five years. The girl rose, slowly, and turned to her. Ruefully rubbing her bottom she tearfully offered a weak smile. That was so good Mrs Wilmer, she said, it was what I have needed for a long time. Needed and wanted. Mrs Wilmer smiled back. The girl was naked from the waist down. For the first time that evening Mrs Wilmer was seeing the centre of her sex. Her girlish and glowing genitals. It was a pleasing sight.

Connie Wilmer took Miss Gillian Jones to the Aunts and Nieces party in Woking. It was a good evening and she got to whack some other young female bottoms. She was a great success.

 

Alfred Roy (2013)