The Late Mrs Brown (F/m)

Just been studying my posts and realised I have not done an F/m story for over two years. Bit of a surprise as they are the most popular reads and great fun to write. The fantasy schoolboy in me enjoys creating situations I rarely, if ever, experienced, but clearly desired. The trick is finding something fresh to embellish and enhance the age old theme. I hope I have with this one.

The Late Mrs Brown

I didn’t know her well. At least not in recent years. She was well over ninety when she died and I had lived in Manchester for most of my working life. But now an early retired and still single, my partner of many years having found new pastures, I sold up and moved back to the small village of my childhood and youth. In all the stress and strains of the move I had not given her a thought. Thirty five years away meant I had lost touch with most in the village and my elderly widowed father was in the nearby care home. One of many reasons why I moved back. Visiting from Manchester was never easy. My main schoolboy friend, Stuart, still lived in the village and still worked on the farm he joined the moment he left school. Muck rather than maths was his motto. It did not take us long to renew old acquaintance and have a regularly meet at the Mucky Duck, the village one remaining pub. It is actually The Black Swan but nobody, locals or visitors, ever called it that. I also re-met Mavis, the girl we both fancied at school. Now fifty plus and plump she reignited nothing in me. Probably just as well as she had married Stuart and produced him three bright and healthy children. Or so they told me over a sumptuous reunion Sunday lunch a couple of months after I moved in to the cottage I was renting. It was at that lunch that I was reminded of Mrs Brown.

We were talking about people I knew in the village when I was growing up. I say we, but Mavis did most of the talking. Stuart was as monosyllabic as ever and Mavis, dressed in Sunday best with a fetching old English apron, effused enough for all of us. I suspected that she rarely had an opportunity to show off and I was marked down as a special occasion. Lots of folks got mentioned, most dead and all forgotten. Mr Pepper who kept the now closed chemist shop. Cyril Jones, who left under a cloud sometimes in the 1980s, and no one knows why. And little Tommy Pemberton who drowned in the village pond when both Stuart and I were still at primary school. As I said, all forgotten and, presumably, all dead. And then Mavis mentioned Mrs Brown. Stuart’s reticence became even more marked and I mumbled something along the lines that although remembered, unlike the others, I presumed that she had also long gone.

I knew that was not true. A few weeks after returning to the village and staying at the Black Swan whilst sorting out my cottage rental, I bumped into her in the one remaining village shop. Her crisp and authoritarian voice quickly evoked old memories. She may have become old and frail, readily witnessed as I turned around, but the strict persona was still there. Stuart’s friend, she said, back in the village at last. It sounded like a rebuke. Not surprising, given that memories of Mrs Brown were never pleasant. And one particular evening after school when Stuart and I were just into our teens is seared, as the saying goes, on my memory. It may have been forty years before, but some things are never forgotten. And judging by Stuart’s less than effusive grunts not forgotten by him either. Mavis twittered and served a splendid pudding and reminisced about Mrs Brown. We both, silently and collectively, just remembered.

It was sometime in the 1960’s. I can’t remember the date but it was around the time of one of many general elections, and posters of Harold Wilson and his ilk figured prominently on many advertising boards. But I do know that it was a Wednesday. I know it was a Wednesday because that was the day that Mrs Brown, a near neighbour of both of us, did evening classes in the village hall. That did not interest Stuart and me. Mainly for old fogies or so we gathered. What interested us was the fact that Mrs Brown’s house was uninhabited between 6.00pm and 8.00pm, as there was no Mr Brown as far as we knew. He was never mentioned or seen in all my growing years. No, Mrs Brown lived alone but she did have regular visitors. Everyone in the village knew this, it was no secret. There was a very posh card in the post office window and an impressive brass plate on the wall of her cottage. Both displayed the same benign message. Camilla Brown. Member of the Institute of Chiropodists and Podiatrists. I remember asking my mother one day what a podiatrist was and her answer intrigued me. Something Mrs Brown isn’t, she said, and following my response issued the usual parental ‘never you mind.’ Stuart giggled when I mentioned it to him. It’s to do with feet, he said, but according to his elder brother Mrs Brown attended to much more than feet.

Early teenage schoolboys have lots of time on their hands. Stuart and I were no different and aimless walks and equally aimless conversations filled much of the hours between school and evening meal. We talked about Mavis, pert and pretty and blossoming, and we talked about Cyril Jones, a smelly schoolboy we both loathed. And we talked about Mrs Brown, the mysterious, to us, Mrs Brown. Who was she and what were her visitors? Fertile young brains decided she was probably a clairvoyant or a witch. Or even a courtesan. I had no idea what the latter was but had heard my father use the term unflatteringly about some actress who was in the news. Stuart didn’t think so. Mrs Brown took exercise classes for oldies and courtesans were lazy. Or so he thought. More likely to be a witch and dance naked with her afternoon visitors to her cottage whilst conjuring up spirits. I did say our brains were fertile, dangerously so as it turned out. I do not know which of us suggested it but on the following Wednesday around 6.00pm, we decided to have a close look at Mrs Brown’s cottage. Excitement eclipsed sense and our road to a very painful, and humiliating, ending was set. And still remembered forty years on.

Cutting to the chase, why not, Mrs Brown caned us both. Twenty strokes, unequally shared, on our backsides. Boy did it hurt and boy did we cry. I thought I would never stop. And we never told anyone. Ever. And definitely not the details. But if I leave it at that you may be disappointed. The why and the wherefore would be left tantalisingly hanging. So, in the interest of 1960’s history and how things were dealt with in those days I shall give you a blow by blow account. Literally. From the moment we entered her cottage conservatory to the moment, twenty minutes later, when I fumbled with my snake belt and lowered my pants. Tearfully regretting my stupidity. A stupidity still remembered but strangely, no longer regretted. Mrs Brown, now known as the late Mrs Brown, introduced me to a painful but ultimately heady experience I can neither explain nor deny. And I have no intention of doing so. I will just stick to the facts in all its fascinating development. We watched her go; it was already getting dark so we were not seen. Or so we thought. Giggling nervously we crept round to the back of her cottage. I swear to this day that neither of us knew what we were going to do. If a plan had been formulated neither of us was aware of it. But we were in luck, or as some would say bad luck. The conservatory had two large windows and one of them had been left open. It was an easy job for me to climb through; I was and still am much smaller and slighter than Stuart, and even easier to release the inner catch on the sliding conservatory door. Within five minutes we were both inside. We checked the back door to the cottage but, unsurprisingly, it was locked. Not being real burglars we had no idea what to do. The conservatory did not seem promising. A small table, a couple of comfy old chairs, a few plants dotted around, and a low long bookcase with drawers either side. All were locked and any attempt to open them would cause damage. At that stage neither of us fancied attacking them. We were not vandals, or so we told ourselves.  The bookcase was filled with a variety of books and, failing anything else to do we decided to explore them. Most were boring, medical books, foot books, history books, and a few novels by such as Dickens and Austen. We were beginning to think that our adventure was a waste of time when, on the bottom shelf, Stuart spotted a couple that looked more interesting. We took them out. Large tomes with lots of pictures. ‘The Art of Massage’ and ‘Sensuous Massage’ were two that I can remember but the one that sticks in the mind and fascinated was called ‘The Kama Sutra.’ We opened it and were gobsmacked by the pictures. Naked folks, male and female, in all sorts of positions. I giggled and Stuart even more so. So much, as he told me later, he almost wet himself. We were so absorbed in our discovery we did not hear the key in the door to the cottage turn. It was only when Mrs Brown, standing in her doorway, spoke that we realised she was there. I dropped the book and saw the grim determination in Mrs Brown’s face and the menacing gleam in her eyes. She stared at us for what seemed an age before she spoke. ‘I was told you boys were here’ she said calmly, ‘you had better come with me.’ And with that she turned and went back into her cottage. I suppose we could have run but it did not occur to either of us. Or not then. So we meekly followed her, fervently regretting our abortive and pointless adventure. If we got out alive we would be eternally grateful.

Mrs Brown, tall and dominating, eyed her two incipient schoolboy burglars with a venomous gaze which chilled. Caught, red handed, in her cottage Stuart and I had little in the way of defence. We waited with bated breaths, in her cosy kitchen, her reaction to the violation of her property. Mercy suggested that she would send us off with a threat to tell our parents if anything like this happened again. Fear induced the frightening thought that she would call the police and we would suffer the awful consequences. Neither prospect appealed. But neither did the one she proffered. It involved neither police nor parents. Retribution deferred, in a sense. Except by her. And we were about to find out what that entailed. I reckon, given what followed, we were either very brave or very foolish.

‘So what do you suppose I should do? Call the police? Or your parents?’

‘No.’

That was me.

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

That was her.

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

That was us, in unison.

‘Why not?’

‘It will get us into trouble.’

That was me again.

‘You are already in trouble. Serious trouble.’

She emphasised the ‘are’ and the ‘serious’.

Both of us twitched nervously.

‘You break into my house, violate my privacy, and disrupt my evening plans and you think I should just tell you not to do it again and send you away.’

‘I don’t know.’

That was me again, Stuart being his usual silent self.

‘You don’t know?’

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

‘Well I do young man. I will send you away and tell you not to do it again and will not tell your parents. Or the police.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Brown.’

We said this together, relieved.

‘After I have dealt with the matter myself.’

Our relief instantly dissipated and I looked at Mrs Brown with a growing awareness of her dominance. Dressed in black top and tight black trousers her short silvery hair contrasted well with the thick gold chain she wore around her neck. She wasn’t young, certainly older than my mother, but her presence and piercing dark eyes gave her an authority most adults of my acquaintance lacked. I feared we were not going to escape unscathed.

‘You stay here.’ she said, pointing to me, ‘And you come with me.’

And with that she turned and left the kitchen and Stuart, as before, meekly followed.

The next fifteen minutes were excruciating. Stuart had followed Mrs Brown into the hallway and the kitchen door closed firmly. I was left on my own, suddenly and unexpectedly. For a few moments I was conscious only of the silence that had descended over the cottage. There was a faint tick from a clock in her hallway and the tiny patter of rain falling on the conservatory roof. But all else was a menacing quiet. And here I was marooned, or so it seemed, in a strange house. I wandered aimlessly around Mrs Brown’s kitchen, examining a splendid Aga that my family could not afford, and studied the variety of colourful plates and cups on her shelves. Somehow it was necessary to fill the time, I told myself. Gradually I was drawn towards the hallway door through which Stuart and Mrs Brown had left. I opened it. Beyond, on the right, was a door to another room. It was closed and I assumed that is where they were. The silence continued, even more menacing, and the ticking of the clock grew louder as it grew nearer. It was as I was wishing that I had never got involved in this stupid caper and desperate for my own familiar home that I heard raised voices. I jumped. It was Stuart, it couldn’t be anyone else, saying ‘no’ and a quieter, indistinct voice, responding. I strained to hear what Mrs Brown was saying, what had prompted Stuart’s uncharacteristic outburst, but to no avail. Everything went very quiet again and then I heard an unmistakeable sound followed by an even more familiar response. I froze for a moment and then went back into the kitchen and sat down on a small stool near the Aga. I was trembling. There was no mistaking it. I was a 1960’s schoolboy after all. Stuart, my taciturn friend Stuart, my erstwhile burglar friend Stuart, was being caned. And that meant one thing. I was going to be next.

‘Well, have you anything to say young man?’

‘No.’

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

‘Then I think we should get this over with. I very much doubt if this is a first time for you.’

‘No. No, Mrs Brown.’

I had lots to say, of course, but I could not see the point. The situation I was in was crystal clear. We were in Mrs Brown’s cosy sitting room, gently lit by a number of old fashioned wall lights. Stuart was nowhere to be seen; I guessed she had let him out through her front door before summoning me. Summoning seemed about right. She stood in the middle of the room, elegantly poised I thought, and in her right hand she held a cane. A familiar sight to schoolboys, if not in this bizarre situation. If I had any doubts about what she intended to do, and I didn’t, they were readily dispelled. I listened to her, transfixed, as she calmly spelt out how this mad evening would end. If I had any regrets, and I had lots, it was the regret that it was not already over.

‘I have dealt with your friend, and I now intend to deal with you in the same manner. The alternative is that I report you to the police and I doubt if either of you would wish that. Stuart certainly didn’t and he took his caning well. A brave boy. I expect you to do the same. So, when you are ready young man, lower your trousers and bend over the end of that sofa.’

I gulped. I had been caned before at school a couple of times but both times by male teachers and neither had told me to lower my pants. Mrs Brown was clearly of a different ilk. Perhaps she thought she did not have the strength of a man, I reckoned she would, and that thin underpants would be enough to compensate. I flinched and stared at her, ready to protest like Stuart had volubly done. At least I reckoned he had before he bent over her sofa. After that all I heard was the swish of a familiar cane and a number of large howls. Annoyingly I had not counted the strokes. But it did not matter because as I stood there opened mouthed and motionless, Mrs Brown enlightened me.

‘I intend to give you twelve strokes as opposed to the eight I gave your friend. You were clearly the one who climbed in through my conservatory window and you were the one who damaged a valuable book when you dropped it. But like him you are also be caned on your bare backside. It’s the only way with boys.’

I was undoing the snake belt on my grey trousers and in the process of lowering my trousers when she said this. The shock hit me like a thunderbolt. Bare. I had never been caned bare. Dad had spanked me a couple of times on the bare, but that was with his hand, and a few years ago. And no woman, not even my mother, had ever laid as much as a feather on me. I blushed deep red and trembled, tears beginning to well. Instinctively I turned away from her. Should I run or submit? Part of me wanted to run but another part, a strange all consuming part, held me in Mrs Brown’s presence and dictated my actions. I would let her cane me, given I had a choice of sorts, and mercifully trust it would be over quickly. Please God it would. Unlike Stuart I have, or had, a very small bottom. And twelve strokes on it, underpants down, was a lot more than it had ever received.

The room fell silent. All I could hear was Mrs Brown’s heavy breathing, I had not noticed that before, and my own sniffles. I steeled myself, pushed my thin grey school trousers down to below my knees, and bent over the arm of her sofa. No way was I going to take down my underpants in front of her. That would be too humiliating. And, vain hope, she might forget or relent. I stared at the bright cushions on the sofa, anything to take my mind off the situation, and waited. What had she said when she told me how I would be caned? ‘It is the only way with boys.’ I puzzled on this phrase as I sensed her move closer towards me. Her perfume was strong but pleasant and her hands when she touched my waist were light and soft. I wondered for a moment what she was doing but did not have long to find out. She eased my shirt and jumper a few inches up my back and I sensed warm air on my now exposed skin. And then, after a moment of hesitation, she placed her fingers in the side of my underpants and gently pulled them down to my knees. It was a slow process and, strangely, I assisted her by raising myself slightly to ease their passage down towards my thighs. I was now acutely conscious of my nudity, or at least the bits that mattered, and I screwed my eyes in anticipation of the coming pain. I did not have long to wait. A cold sensation touched the centre of my naked bottom, a cane readied to do its work registered in my brain. ‘You have a nice bottom, young man. Do me the honour of raising it slightly. It will be so much better for both of us.’ Weirdly, I meekly did as she bid, and screwed up my eyes even more. Tell yourself, I said, the first stroke is always the worst. I doubt that it was but as it lashed across the centre of my naked cheeks it induced an anguished howl. The second stroke, in the same place but harder, induced an equal loud cry. The third and fourth were slightly lower and I struggled to stay in place. The pain in my backside provoked the urge to rise and rub. But it also provoked a sudden and unexpected thought. Mrs Brown had caned boy’s bottoms before.

How I took the remaining eight I do not know. She considerately allowed a rest after the first six and, surprisingly, allowed me to get up and rub the weals. I was shocked at how hot and rough my bottom felt but, mercifully, the throbbing eased a bit. As I rubbed I was conscious, shirt and jumper still tucked up my back, of my exposed boyhood. I blushed at this displaying of my penis to a woman I hardly knew and, at her signally discreet cough, I bent back over her sofa. How strange. My bare bottom had been displayed to her gaze for over five minutes and, other than the excruciating pain delivered to it I no longer registered any embarrassment. My penis, and other bits, were a different kettle of fish. But those and other thoughts dissipated as I sensed and felt the adjusting of my shirt and the cane steadied on my warmed backside for my second six. It was then that Mrs Brown made a second strange comment that registered. ‘You may be in pain, young man, but unlike your friend you seem to think it is well deserved.’ Why did she say that? The searing pain in my backside was awesome. The baring of my bottom was humiliating. Every stroke made me gasp and flinch. A burning cane across my bare bum was an experience alien to me. But she was right. I had revealed myself to her, lifted myself for the lowering of my flimsy underpants, almost welcomed her cane as it hit me on my naked cheeks six times. And readily put myself back for the second six. Now eagerly delivered with increasing strength and intention. I gasped, howled, screwed my eyes, gripped her sofa, and prayed for the end. Every cut registered a fire in my brain and intensity in my bottom which, I was convinced, no amount of vigorous rubbing could dispel. But I took them, tearfully by the end; I took all the twelve strokes she gave my bare bottom and triumphed at my will. Forty years later I still remember it with pride.

I didn’t see Stuart for a couple of days, I think we were avoiding each other, and being half term neither of us was at school. But on the Saturday he called round my house and suggested we went into the local park. He told me that what I heard was true. Mrs Brown had caned him eight times and she had made him take down his trousers and underpants first. Threatened him with the police if he didn’t and the prospect of that, plus his dad’s belt, clinched it. He hoped, being a woman, that it wouldn’t hurt. It bloody well did, he said, and he had eight very purple and red weals on his bum to prove it. I told him he was lucky, or at least luckier than me, as I had twelve long red stripes on mine. I had been looking at them every day in the bathroom mirror and they were still there, emblazoned as scholastic retribution. We agreed we would not tell anyone and that we would avoid the showers at school for a few days. We also agreed that at the first opportunity we would give Cyril Jones a beating up. We could not prove it but we both suspected that he had seen us on the Wednesday and told Mrs Brown. Hence her coming back. It made sense to us. We had both, separately, seen him in the streets since our canings and his sickly grin and eagerness to cross on the other side of the road blazoned his obvious guilt. At least to us. We were both still worried that Mrs Brown might inform the police, or at least tell our parents, but rationalised that she might have some explaining to do if she did. We had the evidence still clearly marked on our backsides. And mine didn’t completely fade for about three weeks by which time I reckoned that the crisis was well past. We never did beat up Cyril Jones. By the time we had the opportunity the desire for revenge had dissipated. But we did scare him into a confession, so honour was served.

And that was that. Except it wasn’t. Sitting waiting for a train a couple of years later I had a decidedly uncomfortable conversation with Mrs Brown. Both of us were going to London but, fortunately, she was travelling first class so our meeting was brief. She never mentioned that Wednesday evening, and I had hardly seen her let alone spoken to her since, but it was written in her eyes. And she asked me how Stuart and I were getting on now we were leaving school. That sealed it. Why equate me with Stuart out of all the boys I associated with if she wasn’t remembering. I blushed and muttered something about staying on. Me, not Stuart, he was going to an uncle’s farm. Mercifully our train arrived and we made amicable partings. I never saw her again until a few weeks after I returned to the village. And again she immediately referred to Stuart. ‘Stuart’s friend’, she had said, ‘back in the village at last.’ Nearly forty years between our two brief conversations and both intertwined two burglar schoolboys. It must have ranked as a high point in her life. In fact I knew that it was. At about the midpoint between those two meetings, I must have been about thirty, I learnt something about Mrs Brown that my maturity should have suspected. My partner and I attended a fetish party in Manchester. Neither of us were particularly adventurous but a mutual friend was keen and so we decided to give it a go for amusement. Our only condition was that we would not dress up, weird or otherwise. It was a surprisingly respectable gathering, almost disappointingly so, most fetish interests being kept firmly under wraps. Other than a few strange gadgets and books scattered about, one or two leather clad folk, and a few whoops of laughter and intriguing noises from separate rooms it could have been any thirty something party. Wine flowed freely and, as we said later, we did enjoy ourselves and met a few interesting people. One of them was a rather imposing female college lecturer of our own age who classed herself as a keen observer of people’s peculiar interests. Especially those of a sexual nature, she had said and laughed heartily. In the way of such meetings, small talk is often the order of the day. My partner was in deep discussion with a couple she knew well, not leather clad ones, and I was left alone with the college lecturer of the hearty laugh.

‘I gather you were brought up in Compton Beasley.’

‘How on earth did you know that? It’s not exactly on the map.’

‘I was talking to some friends about it, just now, and your partner said that’s where you came from.’

‘I do, but why were you talking about it. We don’t have any murders there, as far as I know.’

I was given another reprise of her hearty laugh.

‘I should hope not. And we weren’t exactly talking about Compton Beasley. We were talking about a lady who lived there. Still does apparently.’

‘Oh.’

‘Mrs Brown. Camilla Brown. Do you know her?’

I hesitated, and she registered it.

‘Vaguely. Why is she of interest? Has she done something?’

‘I should hope not, but in her own field, this field....’

She indicated the room and the crowded mixture of people.

‘.......to some of these people, very well known.’

‘Oh.’

‘Very well known indeed.’

I hesitated again and chose my words carefully.

‘I gather she is, or was, a very distinguished podiatrist.’

I now knew what that word meant.

The laugh, deep throated, was even louder this time.

‘Is that funny?’

‘No, not really. She is a podiatrist, in the village. But Mrs Brown is very distinguished in another field. Mrs Camilla Brown is a very distinguished dominatrix.’

‘Really?’

‘One of the best. Ask her clients.’

And with that she laughed again and walked away.

I suppose in a way, I was one of her clients. Albeit a young one.



It is the only way with boys.



You have a nice bottom, kindly raise it, it will be better for both of us.



Unlike your friend, you seem to think it is well deserved.



The voice of a professional.

I said as much to Stuart when we attended her funeral, a few weeks after the Sunday lunch with Mavis. Mrs Brown had died peacefully in her sleep at the grand old age of 93. Retired village podiatrist and physical instructor. And so much more. And only a few, my mother amongst them, had suspected as much. I found it quite comforting. My trousers and underpants had been taken down by an expert of the disciplinary craft and twelve very hard cane strokes had christened my bare bottom. And it had not cost me a penny. Stuart and I retired to the Black Swan, Mucky Duck, and drank her health. I reckon she deserved it. Especially from me. A caned bottom was, and still is, very pleasant.

Alfred Roy