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