The Gardener's Boy (F/m)

In one respect this is a little bit of fantasy. A young boy agreeing to be caned for a fee by an older woman. Would the young, he is only about seventeen, so readily accept such a strange proposal? Surely pure fiction. Not so I think. At that age, many moons ago, I often hankered for such a scenario. It never materialised but I can think of situations when it might have done. If only some of the interesting mature women (or men) who crossed my path had been so inclined. So not so strange really.

It is time I did a chatty blog. One will follow shortly but, in the interim, I hope you enjoy this and, possibly, think of those long summer days when you were seventeen and ripe for adventure. Especially the disciplinary kind. Alfred Roy

The Gardener's Boy

She looked at him. Again. She had been looking at him most days. He had been working in her garden for nearly a week. Hired hand. For the summer. A hot summer that never seemed to end. He was so young. And strong. Stripped to the waist his skin glistened. A student. Sixteen, seventeen, but with a boyish face and a gentle demeanour. She had seen him close up, cold and sparkly drinks in hand, and he had smiled and thanked her. Such a help and so nice. Her gardener said he couldn’t do it all on his own, couldn’t clear out all the weeds and the rubble for her project. Not on his own, not in time for the laying of a summer house. Needed help. So she advertised and got one. A student. A boy of sixteen, seventeen, with glistening skin. And he toiled in the summer sun and smiled and gratefully accepted the sparkling and cold drinks. And she watched him. Close up and through her window. Watched that glistening skin, registered the contours of his body. Imagined the glistening covered by the tight jeans. The boyish buttocks filling a growing body. Imagined how they would glitter, exposed to the shining sun. Imagined how they would react to her thrashing them. For that is what she desired. Not sex, not a sensual meeting of bodies in copulation. Not sex between woman and man. Thrashings, discipline, her womanly cane and strap connecting with the hidden boyish behind. That is what she desired as she watched. That is what she hoped, and intended, to happen.

 

The taste for disciplining boys had been kindled and fired at the school she worked at in South Africa. Rules were lax and the legislation confusing. The headmaster, a kindly but practical man, indicated that a smack on the behind was often the only language that some understood. Be sparing and discreet, he said, but if necessary do it. So she did. Tentative at first, but with increasing vigour and enthusiasm. And when, the first and only time, she told a boy to drop his pants for four strokes of her cane the thrill she experienced was both heady and life changing. Bare bottom caning happened at that school, she knew albeit they whispered it. Needed for some, a last chance. And the boy had been to her before, three times. So she told him to drop his pants and her breath caught in her throat as his fear flashed in his eyes. But he did. Drop his pants. Expose his small pale brown buttocks and she lashed her cane into his skin. Four times. And as the weals rose and screamed she registered her joy. To beat a boy on his bare bottom was the ultimate heaven. And she never forgot. Although she never did again, always after she allowed the pants to remain in place, she never forgot. A step taken, but not repeated, was seared on her mind. And however much she beat boys afterward, and for two years more many bent to her cane, none were stripped bare. But she never forgot. And now she was home, in England, making a home. And garden. And a young student, glistening in the sun, rekindled old desires. She had to cane him. She had to have him in her power.

 

She got her chance in the third week of that summer. Her gardener caught a summer bug, not serious but debilitating, a few days in bed prescribed by his doctor. A long and confusing telephone call ensued. No, it was not a problem. No, she did not wish for a replacement, things were coming along nicely and the summer sun showed no signs of fading. The boy could manage on his own for a few days, she would ensure no jobs undertaken requiring two men. There was only one disturbing moment, a suggestion to come and sit in the sun and keep an eye on the boy. Just for a couple of days. No, it would not be necessary and two days rest in bed would be much better. By the time the phone call ended both parties were satisfied and the plans of one were already beginning to form. For two days the boy would be working at her house on his own. Long enough for what she planned.

 

‘You disappoint me Simon.’

 

‘Sorry Miss.’

 

She registered and liked the Miss. It was the second day of the boy working in the garden on his own and, early in the afternoon, she had called him to her library. She was casually dressed in a light summer frock after a welcome shower. The weather still being hot Simon was dressed in a light short sleeved top and fetching cut off jean shorts. He looked concerned.

 

‘I have just finished showering. When I retired I left my purse on the kitchen table. It had fifty pounds in it to pay my cleaner. It has gone.’

 

‘I’m sorry.’

 

‘So you admit taking it?’

 

‘No. No, definitely not. I am sorry for you Miss, but I did not take it.’

 

‘So who did?’

 

‘I don’t know. Someone must have come in while you were taking a shower.’

 

‘The back gate is locked, isn’t it?’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘So how did this someone’, she emphasised the word, ‘How did this someone get in?’

 

‘I don’t know Miss. I was down the bottom of the garden. I wouldn’t hear.’

 

‘Or see?’

 

‘No Miss.’

 

‘I have checked the gate. It is still locked. I do not see how anyone could get in the house, unheard and unnoticed. Besides, why would they?’

 

‘I don’t know Miss.’

 

‘I do. No one came. The only two people in the house are you and I. Just before I showered you came to the kitchen to get a cold drink. You must have seen my purse and took your opportunity.’

 

‘I didn’t.’

 

‘You must have.’

 

‘I didn’t, honestly. It must be someone else.’

 

Simon was beginning to look distressed. Tears were beginning to form and his fingers agitatedly pulled at his thin top. She studied him, excited by the situation but also sympathetic at his dilemma. He threw out a small plea.

 

‘I would be daft to. You noticed straight away, you were bound to suspect me.’

 

‘Yes, but that could be your bluff.’ She paused reflectively and rose from her library chair. ‘I could search you of course, you and your belongings. I could even do a strip search. Would you like that Simon?’

 

‘Please Miss.’

 

‘Please Miss yes, or please Miss no?’

 

She knew by the discomfort of his demeanour that he wished, fervently, to be anywhere but in her house. She gave a final twist to her interrogation.

 

‘I have done it before. Stripped a boy suspected of stealing. Such crimes were frowned on at my last school.’

 

The boy looked shocked and squirmed in his own chair. He was in a situation with which he could not cope. She knew that and her stern eyes relaxed and hinted forgiveness. Confusion spread across his face and she laughed, a gentle throaty laugh. The sudden change surprised him. One moment she seemed as an avenging angel, unjustifiably, the next she exuded an enticing warmth. Sixteen or seventeen year old hormones swirled in perplexity. She passed him, ruffling his hair, and crossed to a library cabinet and poured out two ample glasses of a rich red wine. She handed one to him and then sat down again, studying the flush faced boy with disconcerting intensity.

 

‘Do not worry; I won’t do a strip search. No need to. There is no fifty pounds. No theft. I was teasing you. Drink your wine.’

 

‘I’m sorry Miss, I don’t understand.’

 

‘There is nothing to understand.’

 

‘So you are not accusing me?’

 

‘No.’

 

Inexplicably Simon relaxed, even though he knew he was guilty of nothing.

 

‘Why?’

 

‘Let’s say for my amusement, just for now. And I wanted an excuse to give you a rest from gardening. Hence the wine.’ She paused and gave him a warm and inviting smile. ‘How old are you Simon?’

 

‘Seventeen. Nearly, next month.’

 

‘So you are sixteen.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Too young for wine then?’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘But old enough for other things?’

 

His flush face deepened even further and he squirmed again in his chair. Was that, she thought looking at his crotch, the early signs of an erection.

 

‘Don’t worry’, she said, ‘I am not going to seduce you.’

 

‘No Miss.’

 

‘Or strip you for a search.’

 

For some reason those words shot a surge through the boy.

 

‘But I am interested in you Simon. I think you should take the rest of the afternoon off, paid of course, and have a chat with me. So finish your wine and go and freshen up. You know where the shower is?’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

He rose, looking a little dazed. The sudden changes of his situation, the being alone with this mature but attractive woman, and the heady wine all combined to confuse his own immature senses. She wanted something, he wasn’t stupid, but he did not know what. He half expected her to follow him to the shower room. She didn’t, she remained seated and amused and as he left she fed out another disconcerting question.

 

‘Tell me, Simon. What do you think would have happened if you had taken fifty pounds from my purse?’

 

‘But, I didn’t.’

 

‘I know, but let us assume that you had. Just for amusement.’

 

‘I don’t know. Sack me, tell the police, something like that.’

 

‘I might sack you, yes, even though that would set my garden project back. But I doubt if I would report you to the police, not for fifty pounds.’

 

‘You could take it out of my wages.’

 

‘On the assumption you had hidden, or even spent it?’

 

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

 

Simon sounded vague and she gave him a beaming smile.

 

‘But unless I fined you, you would be no worse off for committing a crime.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Off course, if you were a pupil at my school in South Africa the solution would have been simple. In South Africa you would have been caned.’

 

Simon stared at her.

 

‘Go and have your shower. Call me if you have any problems with the controls.’

 

All in all that had gone well. Her false accusation had put the boy off guard. All else had comes as relief and a combination of heady wine and suggestion of strip searches had played havoc with his emotions. Most importantly he had not run away, got angry, or just gone back to the garden. He had stayed and, somewhat meekly, allowed her to explain her teasing. And in that close and private proximity there had been stirrings of excitement. It would be too much to say it was a desire for the unknown but the boy, an intelligent boy, was intrigued. She listened as he showered and then poured two more glasses of wine. Her own excitement at how the afternoon had progressed was increasing and, by her calculations, the effects of a second glass would release any remaining inhibitions in a vulnerable boy. He may not know it yet but she reckoned he would agree to any reasonable proposal she offered. And that proposal was about to be laid before him.

 

‘Nice?’

 

‘Yes Miss. Making me a bit dizzy. Not used to it.’

 

‘Then go easy, it is your second glass.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

Simon supped his wine and then put the glass, still half full, down. He had showered but put on the same clothes as before. Hardly surprising as the afternoon’s turn of events could not have been foreseen. By him.

 

‘Besides you need a reasonably clear head for what I want from you?’

 

Simon looked up, questioning.

 

‘I have a proposal to put to you. A nice easy one in some respects. Agree to it and I shall give you one hundred pounds.’

 

‘One hundred pounds. One hundred?’

 

‘Yes, one hundred.’

 

‘Who do you want me to kill?’

 

She laughed. She knew it was a lot of money to Simon, a week’s wages as the assistant gardener, but not to her. Not for what she wanted.

 

‘No one, nothing like that. Be good and I might make it one hundred and fifty.

 

Simon gulped.

 

‘Sorry Miss, but do you wish to take me to bed? Do you wish to be...you know.?

 

‘Fucked by you Simon? Is that what you mean? No, you are much too young and, unlike some women, I get no pleasure from training the young in sexual matters.’

 

‘Sorry Miss, I should not have said.’

 

He picked up his glass and took a sizeable gulp.

‘But I do like training them in other ways.’

 

Her eyes gleamed and Simon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 

‘When I was in South Africa, a teacher of English and History, things were different from this country.’

 

She paused but the boy made no response. His eyes remained fixed on her.

 

‘No political correctness at the private school I was employed by. If boys, it was a boy’s only school, transgressed it was perfectly permissible to cane them. On their bottoms. I did it often, not initially, but as I grew to realise that it was a sensible deterrent. In three years I must have caned over fifty boys. Many more than once.’

 

‘Why are you telling me this Miss?’

 

‘Is it not obvious?’

 

‘I’m not sure.’

 

‘I got a taste for it. Do not look shocked young man. It is wired into the English psyche. I miss it. This last few weeks I have had the urge to do it again.’

 

‘On me?’

 

‘On you.’

 

‘For one hundred and fifty pounds?’

 

‘One hundred. The extra is only if you are particularly good.’

 

She held her breath. Acutely conscious of her rising desire for corrective action, she knew that the boy’s response was key to the afternoon. An afternoon long planned and fortuitously available. She thanked God for summer colds on ageing gardeners. She may have been deluding herself but there was a suggestion in Simon’s demeanour that he was growing up.

 

‘Can I speak frankly Miss?’

 

‘Please do.’

 

‘I’m a bit scared. When I was in the shower I still thought that you wanted something else. I have never done it but I often think of it. But it scared me. But at least I understood. This I don’t get.’

 

‘You do not need to, you only need to agree.’

 

‘Or run like hell.’

 

‘You can, but in doing so you say goodbye to one hundred easy pounds and a nice summer job.’

 

‘You make it sound like blackmail.’

 

She studied him. Clearly his mind was in turmoil. She wondered, briefly, if he had played with himself in the shower anticipating the taking of his virginity. Whatever he expected it was not this. But he had not run. Had not told her she was a nutter. He was calmly debating. In an atmosphere that was charged with an indefinable electricity. Again she saw the incipient rising in his crotch. Something excited him in an afternoon situation that was both bizarre and inexplicable. Against her better judgement she poured a third glass of wine for herself, adding the remainder of the bottle to his unfinished drink.

 

‘Finish your drink and think about it. Nothing is at risk except your bottom.’

 

‘Or my job.’

 

She smiled, was this boy coming round?

 

‘Tell me Simon, have you ever been caned?’

 

‘Yes Miss. By an uncle, when I was thirteen.’

 

‘Tell me.’

 

‘Nothing much to tell. He was headmaster of the school I went to. Couldn’t whack me there, but my mother let him when I got home.’

 

‘Did you deserve it?’

 

‘Probably, but none of the others got caned.’

 

‘What did you do?’

 

‘Drugs. Silly really, we were caught with them in a classroom.’

 

‘And the caning?’

 

‘At home, in my bedroom.’

 

‘How?’

 

‘On my bum. Four times.’

 

‘Did it hurt?’

 

‘Yes. I howled if I remember.’

 

‘And?’

 

‘And what Miss?’

 

‘How were you dressed Simon?’

 

Simon sipped his copious glass of wine. Would he speak the truth or what she wanted to hear? Or would both be the same? He grimaced.

 

‘He did them on my bare bum. Pyjamas pulled right down. I was shocked, embarrassed. I have never forgotten.

 

She smiled, a knowing smile.

 

‘That, Simon, is how it should be.’

 

‘And you want to do it to me?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘On my bum?’

 

‘Bottom, Simon. A much nicer word.’

 

‘Bottom, Miss. Sorry.’

 

He eyed her squarely and firmly, assessing the situation.

 

‘How many Miss?’

 

‘You want all the details?’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘You surprise me Simon.’ She paused and rose to look out of the window. When she turned back to him her face was flushed and her voice thick and trembling. ‘Thirty strokes of my cane. The one I used on the boy’s in South Africa.’

 

‘Thirty?’ Now Simon paused and when he spoke his voice was even higher pitched than before and some of his later confidence had ebbed away. ‘I shall die.’

 

‘I doubt it, boys have the most resilient bottoms.’

 

‘I couldn’t.’

 

‘I think you can Simon. Think of it as a small discomfort for a large fee.’

 

‘Will it hurt?’

 

‘Of course.’

 

‘So you will cane me hard.’

 

‘There is no other way Simon. No point to it if it does not hurt.’

 

‘For me, not for you.’

 

‘Naturally. I will lead you in gently but, make no mistake, you will be howling by the time I am done.’

 

She noted again the rising bulge in the boy’s crotch and the heavier breathing.

 

‘The idea excites you Simon?’

 

‘No. It scares me.’

 

‘But it also intrigues you?’

 

‘A bit. How will you....how will you do...you know?’

 

She laughed, gently but with anticipation.

 

‘That’s for me to decide young man. But, since you ask, I intend twelve strokes as you are and eighteen with those lovely shorts taken down.’

 

‘On my underpants?’

 

‘Oh no, definitely not. Not for one hundred pounds.’

 

‘On my bare bum. Bottom?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘For one hundred and fifty pounds if I am good.’

 

He chuckled at his bravado, the wine and the situation having the desired effect.

 

‘You are full of surprises Simon. But let me surprise you. I shall take my time, we have all afternoon, but if you fail to take all the thirty strokes of my cane, for whatever reason, then your fee is halved. Agreed?’

 

Simon stood up and gulped down the last of his wine.

 

‘Agreed Miss.’

 

‘Then go upstairs, first door on your left, and wait.

 

 

 

As he left the room she involuntarily shuddered. The boy was drunk; there was no doubt of that. Drunk and excited. Not so intoxicated that he would ruin her fun, she had sensibly removed the second glass of wine after his initial sip, but enough to lower or remove all his inhibitions. A surge of desire shot through her as she realised he would be a toy in her hands for the next hour or so. And she would have no guilt. She would handsomely pay for the stripes that would paint his behind and afterwards he would most likely sleep off both pain and the wine. She smiled at the irony of the situation. In later life, if he got a taste for correction, it would be him doing the paying. But at nearly seventeen and with a delectable bottom she was sure most disciplinary eyes would die for, financial roles were reversed. She mused on these thoughts as she climbed the stairs and entered the first door on the left. He was standing in the middle of the room, hesitant, unsure of what to do. She closed the door and studied him. It was a small, sparsely furnished, room containing bookcases, a writing bureau, and sundry comfortable chairs. It was her retreat and, chosen for this particular purpose, a low backed and heavy leather chair had been placed in the centre of the room. Simon was looking at it, touching its black sheen as she entered. He stiffened as she entered the room and, pleasingly, she sensed a small air of submissiveness. The small top, pale green, clung to his upper body and the distressed denim shorts fitted admirably for her purpose. The contours of Simon’s bottom were well defined in the tight clinging cloth. Almost ideal, she thought and approached him. His heavy breathing became more audible and, once again, she registered the swelling in his groin. The wine, the situation, possibly his own personality, was turning him on. She mused on whether such stirrings invited a further erotic twist before proceedings began. It was a risk, but one she was prepared to take and her cultured long fingered right hand brushed the boy’s clothed behind. Soft and firm and delightfully bouncy. All combined. He did not resist, showed no response other than a greater effort at stillness and, confidence growing, she rubbed the full palm of her hand up and down both of the plump and beckoning cheeks. Exquisite. Or that is what she thought, Simon’s opinion was not asked but the twitching bulge in his shorts suggested approval.

 

‘Nice.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘So do I take it that you are ready?’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘Then bend over the chair. Twelve strokes of my cane across your delicious bottom.’

 

She was surprised that he did as told so readily. The leather chair was suitably low and, gripping the arms to steady himself, Simon’s bottom presented a pleasing picture. Raised and curved, tightly covered in denim which veiled little, the twin cheeks twitched in anticipation. Whether through fear or excitement she still did not know but ready the boy was and she was eager to commence a chastisement of financial inducement and consent. The reasons mattered naught to her and, breathing deeply, she crossed the room and extracted hers scholastic cane from a drawer. Medium thick, brown and shiny, its two foot six length had seared many a South African bottom. Now her gardener’s boy would receive the same treatment. Only more so. This was thirty, not four, and this was agreed by both parties. She sighed and approached the chair. She touched the cane to the boy’s bottom and tapped gently on the bare flesh just below the small shorts. He stiffened and took a deep breath. She then lifted the cane and tapped the centre of his clothed bottom, memories flooding back, and spoke gently to him.

 

‘Are you ready Simon?’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘I’ll go gently at first, unlike with my schoolboys, as you have so many to come. But they all will sting, Simon. Try not to get up.’

 

He didn’t. Amazingly he took all twelve strokes with agreeable deference, so much so that she made the last three really whip into his behind. These brought a rising of his body and shuffling of feet but his hands never left the arms of the chair. Each of the twelve strokes hit the centre of his bottom and each of the twelve brought forth rising gasps and signs of distress. But none made him jump off the chair. It was with growing admiration that she bid him rise. South African schoolboys cried more for less.

 

‘You took those well, Simon. I am impressed. You must have a very tough bottom, my South African schoolboys used to jump up yelping after one or two.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘How does it feel?’

 

‘Sore Miss. Very sore.’

 

‘So not such a tough bottom?’

 

‘No Miss.’

 

‘And eighteen to come.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘As we agreed. On you bare behind.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘So, with or without your permission, I think I had better continue and get those shorts down.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘Get to the bottom of things.’

 

‘Yes Miss.’

 

‘Right. Place your hands on your head and stand up straight. Your real caning is about to begin.’

 

She smiled, relishing the situation, and Simon gave an involuntary twitch but did as instructed. She noted as she approached him that he had closed his eyes. His face was flushed, either from the wine or his initial caning or both, and like her his breathing was heavy and anticipatory. She placed her hands on the top of his shorts and undid them, slowly undoing each button down to his crotch. Released, the shorts easily fell away and she deftly peeled them down to his lower thighs and instructed him to take them off. When he had done so she picked them up and held them, almost as a trophy of her planned afternoon. A pleasant surprise awaited her. Simon was naked from the waist down, no underpants unlike as indicated earlier, and a display of off white skin from waist to thigh contrasted with the rich brown of his legs. She touched that skin, warm and soft, just below his waist and pressed her palm in a smooth action across his middle. The genitals below twitched in eagerness. Already tumescent, her gentle caress produced a quickness of rigidity to be envied in the young. Smiling, her hand moved to his back and softly caressed the exposed bottom. Perfectly white, except for the warming marks of her ministrations, Simon’s bottom was ripe and as full as a summer peach. The pureness of the flesh, the beauty of its shape entranced and excited her. She ran her fingers and palm across both cheeks, exploring every curve, every crevice, drinking in the exquisite shape of an almost perfect behind. She had no idea where Simon was at this moment, she only knew that she had gone to heaven.

 

‘Beautiful, Simon, beautiful. You have the most perfect bottom. I shall enjoy this.’

 

Sensing the moistness in her being, enjoying the surge of disciplinary desire, she uttered her favourite words. Words that she had uttered so many times at the school which had kindled that desire.

 

‘Bend over. Bend over the chair, Simon.’

 

Adding the words never issued at a school, only here on a private summer afternoon.

 

‘I am going to beat this lovely bottom Simon. Beat it, cane it, eighteen times. Eighteen times I am going to cane this boyish beautiful naked bottom and eighteen times you will howl. I shall be disappointed if you don’t. But remember with each cutting sting the promised fee. It will be worth it.’

 

And, taking a deep breath, unable to contain herself any longer she lashed her cane across the centre of the bending, willing, bottom. Lashed it with a vigour not seen in the previous twelve. The exposed flesh had spurred her desire and increased her strength. The boy gasped and twitched and a livid red line spread across the centre of his cheeks. But he did not rise. He gripped the arms of the chair and swore not to get up, however much the cane stung. And it did. Time after time after time. Each stroke seemed harder than the previous one and with the increasing pain and fire in his behind the boy struggled more and more to remain in place. He half rose after the sixth stroke and stood completely, clutching his bottom, after the tenth. She had been amazed, given the force she had used, that he had stayed in place so long. By that tenth stroke his bottom was seared with savage red lines from the top of his cheeks to the lower crease and the fiery pain, throbbing and thumping, had brought watery tears. But he did not linger, did not rub his behind for long, just uttered an apology and immediately bent again. Thrusting his bottom higher in the air as if to urge the completion of the task. Naked, shamed, exposed. His boyhood hanging free between the dusky legs. Such a vision needed no urging. One by one the remaining eight strokes rained down on the boy’s submissive behind, a behind that seemed to represent all those South African boyish bottoms of her past. And this was here, and bare, and willing. Albeit in increasing distress. But it mattered not to her, and seemed not to him, and those last eight strokes fired their searing burns across that naked and youthful lower flesh in a joyful climax. Her Simon, her boy, had danced to her rod and her satisfaction was beyond understanding. And he had played his part. Exhausted she threw down her cane, held herself intimately, and listened quietly to his gentle and intermittent sobs. His lacerated, bending, bottom glistened in the summer light. Framed by his short light top and his rich brown, sun kissed, legs his bottom still cried out innocence and purity. But now it had been well and truly spanked with her purest cane. Just at that moment as she sat and studied, exhausted and drained, and he remained bent, exposed, and submissive it seemed so right. So, so right.

 

 

Coda One

She paid him the promised one hundred and fifty pounds. He had earned it. He had been so good. She also, because he deserved it and she had been so fired with desire when caning him, allowed him to ejaculate. And she had helped. When he rose from the chair she had soothed his burning bottom and the earlier rigidity had quickly returned. Once again she admired and envied the young. She placed her hand around the thickened shaft of his penis and, merely with no more than twenty or so elongated movements, released a teenage spurt. As she did it she kept her other hand firmly on his burning and naked buttock cheeks. Combined sensations in the boy readily sent forth his spray. Neither spoke. There was no need. It had been a perfect summer day.

 

Coda Two

The gardener was eager for information. Was he right he had asked? Was he right to absent himself for a couple of days? Give the boy a chance to earn himself some additional cash. It was clear how the woman of the house had looked at him that she had designs on the boy. So did she? Did she offer something and did she pay for it? Oh yes, the boy had said. She had offered something. And he had accepted and earned one hundred and fifty pounds. Great said the gardener wishing that someone had paid him one hundred and fifty pounds to lose his virginity. Paid him one hundred and fifty pounds to get into his trousers. Mind you, he said sucking on a pipe long out, she was a schoolteacher as I warned you. More likely at your age that she whacked your arse. The boy smiled ruefully, said nothing, and surreptitiously rubbed a behind that was still very sore.

 

 

Alfred Roy (2016)