This is the first of the two promised new stories. Both sequels. This is the boy, now grown up, who received his one and only spanking from 'The Woman in the Window'. Thirty years later he now craves its recreation. An early previewer likes the story but regrets the slight lack of disciplinary detail. The second sequel 'The Boston Landlady in London' will follow in a few days and, I am told, that spanking is so detailed you almost feel you are in the room watching. (Quote). All I know is that I enjoyed writing both. Putting boys of any age over dominant female laps is so much fun. Especially when pants come down. Alfred Roy
My father died in 1986. I can
remember the date very well. It is engraved on my mind. August 12th.
The glorious twelfth of grouse shooting fame. Not that either of us ever
indulged in such pastimes. Both city boys. But I remember the date because the
day before we had lunch in his favourite restaurant. A small bistro in Putney,
about half a mile from his flat. Very French, very olde worlde, and rich in old fashioned food. He loved their
heavenly duck casseroles and fine wines. And he loved the ambience. His cancer
was beginning to take a grip but he always made a special effort whenever I
suggested lunch. It had become important to both of us in his declining years.
I can’t remember him ever saying he couldn’t make it. Strange really. For most
of my adult life we had kept in touch only briefly. He retired and I took on
more and more responsibilities. The obligatory weekly phone call was our only
point of transitory contact. So many lives take the same well trod course. But
then he got ill and it drew us closer together. We both got a wake-up call on mortality.
It is on everyone’s agenda, even if they do not know it. It drew us together
and in my father’s case it loosened his tongue. I learnt things about his early
life I never knew. I learnt about his ambitions, his job, and his regrets. And
my mother. She was long dead and we had rarely talked about her in the past. I
learnt so much, including what made him tick and who mattered. I reckon I was
just seriously getting to know him when he died. He did the inconsiderate thing
and went home and, full of that rich duck casserole, died in his sleep. I still
miss him.
Talking to him, right up to the
unexpected end, I learned much about him and even more about myself. One lunch
time when the wine had flowed even more freely than usual he told me about his
relationships since the death of my mother. He had never remarried but had lots
of female friends. Some of them very strange, he said. But, and he only hinted
at it, he liked ladies who occupied a bizarre and dark world. He had one, he
said, who always had a strong desire to spank his son. He laughed when he said this.
You were only fourteen or fifteen, he said, and she reckoned taking your pants
down and spanking your bottom would be an exhilarating experience. I often
wondered, he said, if she ever did. In spite of his illness and age I saw a
brightening gleam in his eyes and I blushed and shifted uneasily in my seat.
There was an electric pause and he sipped his wine and wiped his mouth.
‘Can I take it that she did?
Often wondered.’
‘I told you, or I think I did.’
‘One of you may have done. Memory
isn’t what it was.’
He paused, conjuring up an old
vision.
‘So she got her wish.’ he said,
after much reflection.
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting.’
‘And I have never forgotten.’
‘Pants down?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your bare bottom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not surprised. She was a
remarkable woman.’
‘A remarkable woman.’ I
reiterated.
‘And you have never forgotten
her?’
‘No.’
He took another sip of wine.
‘And you enjoyed it?’
I didn’t answer but the memories
came flooding back. My father continued his probing.
‘You liked the sensation?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You were only fifteen.’
‘Fourteen.’
‘Yes.’
He reflected and then continued.
‘I think I once said to you that
every boy should get spanked at least once in his life.’
‘I reckon that is why I went
through with it.’
‘It must have taken some
courage.’
‘It did.’
‘And you have never forgotten it.’
‘No.’
He paused, considering carefully
what he would say next.
‘I think we are two of a kind.’
He said.
‘Are we?’
‘Oh yes. Two of a kind. And she
knew it.’
In the ensuing silence we painted
our private pictures. In that moment I felt very close to him.
We didn’t say anything else but
on a later lunch I told him again all about the woman in the Cotswolds. My
woman in the window.* I told him everything. How when I was fourteen and we
took a cottage in the Cotswolds for the summer. And how I got my one and only
spanking. On my bare bottom. And he was right. I have never forgotten it. And
when they laid him to rest, thirty years after the event, I thought about it
again. My life had been pretty aimless since the break-up of my marriage. I
craved excitement and all I had was a demanding job and financial commitments
to an ungrateful ex wife and daughters. It was time I indulged myself.
Reminiscences with my strange father had re-kindled buried desires. When I was
fourteen I had dropped my pants and bent over a ladies knee because he had said
that every boy should get spanked at least once in their life. I had done it
for him. Now, thirty years later, I would tell myself that I would do it again
in his memory. I would get myself spanked. The idea excited and, using his
demise, I could rationalise it. I would find a lady who would spank my bare
bottom and revive memories of that fifties Cotswolds experience. And I would
enjoy it. This time. That is what I told myself and that is when my problems
started.
Trouble was I did not know any
such ladies. I had a couple of close female friends and, confession time, I had
indulged in the odd tryst with those who charge for sexual favours in foreign
hotel rooms. But those were conventional and horizontal activities and spanking
or being spanked was never part of the curriculum. Even if the thought had
entered my mind, it didn’t, they were not the right type. If I had such
inclinations they did not envisage an equal sexual partnership. The picture in my
mind, occasionally triggered by readings or drunken conversations, was always
my woman in the Cotswolds window. A pure dominant. That picture had unnervingly
cropped up from time to time in my adult life and was logged, secretly and
privately, as my special unrealised fantasy. We all have them. Talking to my
father had just cranked it higher on my wish list. But I remember telling a
close male friend of my desire. It was some years before my father’s death and
the friend’s marriage was going through a bad time. He had fallen for someone
in his office. Not unusual except that the someone was very young and very male.
He opened up to me, we were in the lounge of a posh business hotel, and I
opened up to him. Bit of an uneven conversation as he told me everything,
including salacious details of the boy showering with him in his office flat, I
just fleetingly said that we all had unexpected desires and mine was a wish to
be spanked by a dominant woman. That fact seemed to lighten a heavy evening and
when we parted he appeared much more composed. We rarely met after that
particular date, not significant as we moved in different circles, but when we
did he often alluded to it. He had sorted himself out and his marriage was back
on an even keel. Had my fling, he said, and got it out of my system. Said I
should do the same. I never had I said. And I never did. But conversations with
my father had brought it all back and the urge was now compelling.
I rang a couple of ladies I found
in carefully worded adverts in specialist magazines but readily curtailed
proceedings. Voices too young and services on offer too explicit. I seriously
considered one of the few discipline schools that were occasionally featured
but the more I discovered the less they appealed. I needed and wanted a one to
one, no witnesses to my desperate humiliation, and these were too public. Being
in a class of schoolboys was not for me. I did find one lady who seemed exactly
right, middle aged and severe, and not too far away. Booked an appointment and
would have gone. But then I studied her profile on a detailed letter she had
sent in response and discovered she was a man. I rang her up and said sorry but
it would not work. I felt very guilty as he, or she, was very nice about it.
Perhaps one day, she said. Maybe, but not now, I said. I needed a woman, a real
woman like the one in my past. Nothing less would do. I was beginning to get
frustrated and then I read of a local lady, no more than five miles from where
I lived, who had been raided by the police. Suspected of running a brothel. I
read the article the interest. She went by the name of Aunt Mildred and it was
clear from the overly journalistic piece that she offered special services to
men of a certain persuasion. Not wanting to offend readers of local papers the
nameless hack had wrapped up the details but it was obvious that she
specialised in spanking men. The interest died, no charges were levied, but the
story lingered in my mind. I had almost forgotten it when, two months later, I
met her at a fund raising dinner for our local conservatives.
‘And this is our local star.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘Sheila Davenport. Bit of a
personality in these parts.’
I look puzzled and my ignorance
was obvious. My companion, in fact my host and entrance to a very upmarket
evening, whispered in my ear.
‘Caused a bit of a stir recently.
Introduce yourselves. Give yourself a relief from politics.’
He paused and added.
‘Ask her about Aunt Mildred.’
Saying this he beamed and whisked
himself away to another small gathering. A combination of the importance of the
occasion and liberal helpings of wine were clearly evident. I introduced myself
to a striking woman who was both composed and amused. Already I felt a churning
in my stomach. The name Aunt Mildred had registered even if I had no idea why
it had been amplified.
‘You must not mind Nigel. He gets
a bit carried away with these evenings. Puts so much into them.’
‘I can see why he got me an
invitation. Nice chap, but likes to show off.’
‘Lots of men are like that.’
‘Are they?’ I said.
‘In my experience. But it is
easily extinguished.’
She smiled and I found it a
little unnerving. She was mature and enigmatic, and so composed. Reminded me of
Oscar Wilde’s Mrs Chevely. Her own woman, cross her at your peril. I took the
drink from her hand and suggested we sit down. I knew no one at this gathering
and meeting Mrs Davenport was the first suggestion that my time would not be
totally wasted. Rightly or wrongly I took up the earlier challenge.
‘He called you Aunt Mildred.’
‘He said you were to ask me about
Aunt Mildred.’ She corrected.
‘But you are her?’
Yes. It amuses him to let certain
people know.’
‘Do you mind?’
She did not respond, merely
asking me if I knew the significance of the name. I considered for a few
moments and decided to continue.
‘I read the article in the local
paper.’
‘Yes. It is surprising the number
of people who did.’
She paused.
‘Did it interest you?’
‘I think that is why he
introduced us.’
She laughed, the volume a little
at variance with my overall impression of her.
‘Nigel is a consummate scholar
regarding human foibles. The antics of our species amuse him. But any
manifestation would shock him.’
‘You mean he likes the idea of
what you do but could not cope with the reality?’
She smiled and studied me
carefully. I got the feeling she was assessing me. It wasn’t pleasant.
‘You clearly have read the
article.’
‘Yes. I thought it was a nonsense
story.’
‘But it interested you?’
Before I had time to reply Nigel
re-appeared and said that we were about to take our seats for an expensive
dinner. Mrs Davenport, Aunt Mildred, was sitting with a group of local dignitaries
and Nigel and I were in a disparate party he, with consummate fund raising
skills, had gathered together. It would be a long evening and there was no
opportunity to speak to her again. But she was constantly on my mind. Nothing
had been amplified but the threat, or promise, seemed to be there. Perhaps it was
my imagination but I desperately desired to say something, anything to her,
before we left. One phrase dominated my mind throughout the meal. Men may show
off, she said, but it is easily extinguished. The meaning was clear and I
wanted to experience it. From Mrs Davenport. From Aunt Mildred. I rang her
about a week later. I had been running it through my mind for a number of days
and when I picked up the phone my nerves were in shreds. She had given me her
number as we left the dinner. Nothing was said, just a card with her details on
it and a knowing smile. I had studied the card, over and over, for a whole
week. Aunt Mildred. Spanks and canes and
straps mature men who like to be reminded of schoolboy days when bottoms,
suitably bared, solved all childish problems. An invitation not to be
ignored by those so inclined. The fee was mentioned and it was not an issue. I
conjured up simultaneous images of the Mrs Davenport I had met and the Aunt
Mildred, boy over her knee, who replaced her. The picture was compelling and I
knew that the phone call would be made. When she answered I was consumed with
both relief and fear.
‘You have a desire to be
spanked?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me. I have
met too many men with the same need to be surprised.’
‘It just seems a bit strange.’
‘Why? You are very school boyish.’
‘Am I?’
‘At least you were with me.’
She gave that voluminous laugh
again, the one that had disconcerted me at the dinner gathering. It suggested
both a mocking detachment and enjoyable involvement. I could feel myself
sweating.
‘Is that why you gave me your
card?’
‘That and the fact that Nigel
suggested earlier that you might be a possible client.’
‘But he doesn’t know me. At least
not that well.’
‘Nigel has a remarkable gift for
sussing people out.’
‘And it amuses him.’
She did not immediately respond.
I sensed her considering whether she was happy for the conversation to continue
on personal lines or whether a strict professionalism should intervene. Her
next comment indicated the direction she wished to take.
‘Do you want to make an
appointment?’
I said I did.
I was a bit disappointed that the
call to her had been curtailed so quickly. I suppose I had a deep down wish to
talk about my desires to someone who would understand. But, thwarted, I made an
appointment for the following week at her house. I replaced the phone with a
feeling of heady anticipation. Thirty years of my secret fantasy were about to
be realised. For the next three days I went about my duties and
responsibilities in a daze. I counted down the hours and minutes to that moment
when I would be over her knee with my pants down. In my mind I created pictures
that were invigorating and unnerving. I so wanted what she offered, for a
price. And then the doubts set in and I crystallised an alternate view. The
whole thing was ludicrous. I was a grown man and she was a woman who I had
instantly admired and liked. She was probably forty or forty five but she was
no doubt younger than me. How could I bare my backside and ask her to spank it.
Or even more, as her card suggested. It could not work, not unless I told her
about my Cotswolds lady. Then she would understand. So I rang her back and
suggested we met for a meal and a drink on neutral ground. She declined and we
cancelled my appointment. Her final comment was that I needed to commit. My
final emotion was one of disappointment and relief. I wanted to talk to her
but, at this stage, I was not ready for anything else. But the urge did not go
away and before long I was trawling magazines again. Even hastily wrote down
details from London phone boxes. I had
done a bit of rationalising and one conclusion was that meeting ‘Aunt Mildred’
before the event doomed it to failure. I had not known my Cotswolds lady, not
even the sound of her voice, before she invited me in. I needed to recreate
that scenario.
It happened twice but neither of
them worked for me. The first was one of those I had hastily noted from a
London phone box in the Euston Road. Mature lady, German, spanks to perfection.
Older gentlemen preferred. I like the mature bit. I liked the nationality,
suggested old fashioned discipline. And I liked the fact that she preferred the
older person. Indicated that spanking was all that was on offer. Serious and
realistic stuff. I booked an appointment and made my way to the address
indicated. My heart sank when she opened the door of a most unpromising flat.
She may have been German, I did not stay long enough to find out, but to her
maturity meant twenty five. Frankly I would have preferred a session with her
maid. Large and ageing and with eyes so big and black they could peel your
pants off before you knew it. But she was not on offer. Merely the young lady,
big and blonde, who oozed unwanted sexuality. As those Sunday tabloids
euphemistically used to say, after teasing and tantalising in salacious
reports, I made my excuses and left. The second experience was even worse. The
lady I booked an appointment with, the right age but with empty eyes kindling a
life of suffering, clearly saw spanking bottoms as a quick prelude to
masturbatory activities. Realising this before I lowered my pants I said it had
been a mistake and stopped the proceedings. That time though I did pay the
agreed fee, suspiciously small. I think I felt sorry for her. After both
experiences I went home with a heavy heart and a feeling that my fantasy was
never likely to be realised. A few weeks had passed when I got an unexpected
phone call from my friend with the marriage problems. He had sorted that out
and untangled himself from the predatory young male in his office but he was
clearly, as the call indicated, still in the world of adult fun.
‘It doesn’t interest me but,
thinking about our talks, I thought it might appeal to you. If you aren’t doing
anything?’
The last comment hung in the air
with undefined promise.
‘There is a party in Woking you
might fancy. Auntie Night it is
called. A few mature ladies are inviting malleable men for an evening of adult,
old fashioned, entertainment.’
He emphasised the ‘old fashioned’
in an attempt to kindle my enthusiasm.
I said I would think about it and
took the details. When I put the phone down I had no intention of going.
Especially when he said I should wear some boyish underpants to entice teacher.
His laugh indicated amusement from those who do not understand. It wasn’t
unfriendly but it annoyed. No, I would not go. I had better things to do. But
the nearer Saturday, the day of the party, came the more I thought about it.
Woking was not that far away and the timing, 4.00pm to 8.00pm, suggested a
certain comfort. Explicit sexual gatherings took place in the night. Afternoons
and early evenings sounded safe. That was my rationale. So I took the plunge. I
booked a place, mentioning my friend as reference, and journeyed to Woking. I
still have no idea why I went. My personal fantasy was unlikely to be realised
and, in a gathering of strangers, I knew nothing of what was expected. But my
jaded senses, constantly fuelled by old memories, were in need of uplifting.
Thwarted by the enigmatic Aunt Mildred I had sought other, futile, outlets for
my increasing need. Their failure only enhanced my craving. On my drive I clung
to the faint prospect that maybe here, maybe in Woking, I would find something.
I did and I didn’t. Any doubts that this might not be the sort of gathering I
hoped for were immediately dispelled on arriving. The venue was a large
detached house on a pleasant estate and a very nice and efficient lady
exchanged introductions. She knew my friend and I was expected. She led me to a
large room at the back of the house, someone was seriously rich judging by the
panelled walls, and a small group of people bid me welcome. Mainly men, all of
my age, but three or four rather formidable looking ladies. Two of those ladies
were in the process of strapping the backsides of two men who were bent over a
very large desk. Side by side they were down to underpants and shirts and, the
shirts lifted, they were being whacked across their backsides. It all looked
pretty painful and jolly. I watched with mild interest. I may have similar
inclinations, I was still not sure, but the camaraderie did nothing for me. I
was offered a drink, a pleasant and expensive wine, and watched the proceedings
convinced I had come to the wrong place. I had no desire for communal and jolly
whackings. The two men were eventually replaced by two other willing volunteers
and the process was repeated. This time, as a variation, the ladies operating
took down the upturned underpants. Let us see the rabbit, one of them said, and
raucous laughter filled the room. I was just beginning to think that I had
completely wasted my time when a door at the far end of the room opened. I had
not noticed this door before but it was clearly a private room and its intention
was clear. A young man came out, no more than thirty, followed by a mature and
striking lady. In the context of this party it was obvious what had been
happening behind that door. The boy, he was little more than that, was rubbing
his bottom in exaggerated distress and the woman was holding a cane. My first
thought was that privacy was an item at this party. That appealed. My second
thought was that he was much younger than the rest of us. That deflated me for
some inexplicable reason. But my third thought, and observation, was a mixture
of bewildering emotions. The lady holding the cane was Mrs Davenport. Aunt
Mildred. She wasn’t my woman in the Cotswold window but she was the nearest I
had ever met.
‘So the urge still dominates. It
does not surprise me.’
‘I am trying to get it out of my
system.’
‘Is that why you are here?’
‘No. I came out of curiosity.
What I have seen does not appeal.’
‘Not your particular fantasy?’
‘No.’
I looked at her and took a deep
breath. We were having nibbles during a slight hiatus to proceedings and it was
my first chance to talk to her. What was it she had said to me on the phone? I
needed to commit.
‘No. Too public and jolly for
me.’
‘You prefer a one to one
arrangement.’
‘Yes.’
She looked at me closely and took
a decision.
‘Then come into one of the
private rooms. After all, you have paid for it whether you use it or not.’
‘I think not.’ I said. ‘It would
not work.’
She laughed, that incongruous
loud laugh which seemed at variance with her subtle personality.
‘Still the reluctant schoolboy?’
‘I suppose so. But I would like
to make another appointment with you.’
‘Really?’
‘I think I am ready.’
She smiled and studied me again
and we agreed a date for the following week at her house. But she made two
conditions. No discussions beforehand but I could talk all I wished afterwards.
I found that strangely comforting. Her second condition caused me more
consternation. I needed to go into one of the private rooms with one of the
other ladies. Her rationale was that if what transpired totally repelled I
could cancel but, if it appealed, I would be ready for what ‘Aunt Mildred’ had
to offer. I could not argue with her logic and, as she said, I had paid in
advance for these services. I finished the pleasant wine in one gulp and agreed,
providing she selected the appropriate lady. Unsurprisingly she selected the
oldest in the room and introduced us. The woman was big and buxom but her
severe face was fresh skinned and youthful looking. She went by the name of ‘Aunt
Edith’ and her soft voice was precise and uncompromising. Registering her role
in the introduction she spoke to me in scholastic tones. It was a good pitch
but it was light years away from my memories. But I did my best to respond in
the manner expected. I wasn’t very convincing but when the communal activities
recommenced, three completely naked gentlemen bent over a large desk, she led
me to the room selected. My last vision before I left the raucous gathering,
heavy straps making painful contact with willing targets, was of Mrs Davenport
smiling in my direction. For some bizarre reason it gave me unexpected courage.
‘Aunt Edith’ was very good even
though what transpired was not totally fulfilling. The door closed and I
realised we were in a very small and private room that was clearly a study of
some sort. There was a beautiful leather topped desk, quality prints on the
walls, and numerous books rich in gilt emblazoned titles. Whoever owned this
house operated in a serious world. But
what took my main attention, in the centre of the room, was a large straight
backed chair evidently placed for special services. It could fulfil a variety
of roles. Mine was made abundantly clear the second the door closed and shut
out the extraneous laughter. I was a boy due for a spanking, and possibly a
slipper. Aunt Edith was a no nonsense lady and punishment would not be deferred
or delayed. I entered into the spirit and, at her peremptory bidding, took
everything off except my vest and underpants. Before I had time to reflect I
was over her knee and a large hand smacked into my slighter smaller behind. I
did not dislike the sensation but the distant laughter and the suddenness of
the proceedings mitigated any real pleasure. And then she took my underpants
down and continued her smacking on my bare bottom. This was very pleasurable
and, hand replaced by an uncompromising slipper, even more so. I wasn’t
completely in the disciplinary zone, it was all too quick and perfunctory, but
I relished the sensation. When she stopped, almost as suddenly as she began,
and lifted me off her knee and pulled up my underpants I realised I was ready
for Aunt Mildred. If I could combine the physical joy experienced with the
anticipatory and menacing ambience of a long lost Cotswolds day then all
desires would be fulfilled. I was going to Mrs Davenport.
Truth to tell I enjoyed that
minor spanking excursion more in the reliving than the actual experience. I
replayed it over in my mind a number of times in the following days and, on
each occasion, a distant enigmatic figure replaced the lady who had taken me
over her knee. I desired that recreation and, returning to the party, I also
realised something else. The young man who had had a private session with Aunt
Mildred when I arrived was bent over in the centre of the room surrounded by
avid onlookers. It was not surprising. He was wearing only a small dark blue
top and fetching, high quality, underpants of similar colour. The latter were
pulled down to his knees and the two items of clothing framed a pleasing
schoolboy bottom. One of the ladies, tall and athletic and young, was giving
that bottom some vigorous whacks with a nasty looking cane. It clearly stung
and, as red lines registered on white flesh in commendable symmetry, he
squirmed and shifted his position. I was both impressed and interested. Not in him,
but being in his place. The thought both shocked and excited and I found myself
staring at a youthful behind absorbing relentless strokes. He had taken about
ten or fifteen of the cane when I sensed Mrs Davenport looking across at me.
She was smiling and sipping a glass of wine. And in her hand she was holding
the cane I first saw her with when I arrived. Its incessant tapping against her
calf mesmerised as much as the one that was causing so much distress to the bending,
naked, bottom.
I now knew I was hooked. I wanted
what Aunt Mildred was offering. The fleeting session with the other lady was a
small, but interesting, appetiser to a fulfilment I long desired. It confirmed
my need but only fuelled my wish for a true creation of past events. And I was
wishing for more. The suggestion of a cane had both thrilled and feared me. It
had formed no part of my fourteen year old experience in the Cotswolds but,
over the next few days, it came to dominate. I wanted, needed, the exquisite
sensation of being spanked over a particular female knee but I also craved to
feel the sting of her cane. Vivid pictures bombarded my mind and my state of
agitation increased as the week progressed. My days and years of denial were
over. I would finally take a route that my late father had clearly trod. Two of
a kind, he said. And he was so right. Yet on the night before my appointment
for a defining session with Aunt Mildred, Mrs Davenport, I phoned her and
cancelled. I replaced the receiver with a heavy heart.
‘So you still haven’t had your
fun?’
‘No. It didn’t work out.’
‘You make too many excuses.’
‘Probably. But there were good
reasons.’
I was having a long arranged
lunch with the friend who had introduced me to the adult party. Its particular
slant had not interested him but he was keen to know how I had got on. The few
details I supplied amused him. His philosophy of hedonism was well developed.
‘Sounds as if your Aunt Mildred
may have given you a rewarding experience.’
‘She would, she still might. But
not yet.’
‘’Because of the newspaper
article?’
‘The timing was unfortunate.’
He supped his wine and gave a
short and rueful laugh.
‘Not very lucky are you. The
night before your visit to her and the local paper prints a piece about local dignitaries
abusing tax payer’s money.’
‘At her house. With a nice big
picture. Following on from the first piece it has made her life hell.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Yes. And understood why I
cancelled. I reckon she would have done so anyway.’
‘It will blow over. Tomorrows
fish and chip paper.’
‘It might, but it doesn’t help
me.’
‘No.’
My friend took another sup of his
wine and looked at me seriously.
‘There are other alternatives,
you know. I mean, to get what you wish for. It doesn’t have to be this particular
lady.’
‘You sound as if you know’
‘It’s a big wide world. I know
from experience. Not the sort that you fantasise about but there are lots of
opportunities. Believe me.’
I did believe him. I knew
somewhere out there I could find another person willing to give what I wanted
to receive. I had thought about it enough since cancelling my appointment. But
I thought about those other appointments in seedy London flats and the lady who
turned out to be a man and realised I did not wish for a repeat. And I thought
about the party in Woking. No, for me, it was Aunt Mildred or nothing. And just
at this moment only nothing seemed to be on my horizons. I told him I would
have to be patient and, seeing the puzzled look on his face, I realised that
patience was a state totally alien to him. I smiled, thinking of him showering
with his office boy. I am sure he misinterpreted it. I did very little over the
next few weeks, work kept me busy, but I did take up a further invitation to
another Woking party. I suppose I went because I was hoping to see Mrs
Davenport. She wasn’t there but the lady who called herself Aunt Edith was. I
declined an invitation for a repeat of our earlier session, preferred to watch
I said, and she relaxed and chatted with me as an equal. The subtle change said
a lot about the complexities of human relationships. The boy from the previous
party was there again and, as before, he was taking a serious caning. I think
that was the other reason I went. I enjoyed watching him get what I so dearly wanted.
But only from a special woman. As I was leaving Aunt Edith, I now knew her as
Chrissie, gave me Mrs Davenport’s number. She was temporarily living in
Cambridge, until the dust settled, but still had to earn a living. She smiled
as she said this. Why didn’t I give her a call? I was a prospective client she
was sure would be welcome. I sang very loudly in the car on the way home.
The room was large and spare and
I sensed, rather than heard, the door closing behind me. This was the moment
from which there would be no turning back. I had found the Cambridge flat very
easily. Pleasant area, near the River, and on the third floor of an imposing
house. She smiled when she opened the door and, just for a moment, I remembered
another door in another house from many years before. It helped my nervousness.
She led me up two flights of well carpeted stairs to a large mahogany door with
bright gold fittings. A sharp contrast to the seediness of those London flats I
had visited in vain. She turned a key and bid me enter. Other than asking me if
I had a good journey she said nothing. We entered the flat and I was struck by
its spaciousness and opulence. The reception area, rich with tasteful Victorian
cartoon prints of long dead politicians, was complemented by equally tasteful
reproduction furniture. Or at least I assumed it was reproduction. The writing
bureau and small table, bedecked with pleasing flowers, may have been Queen
Anne’s for all I knew. Beyond this area, there were doors to both left and
right, was a large living area and an equally large and impressive open plan
kitchen. Marbled steps led up to the kitchen and beyond both this and the
living room was an expansive balcony which overlooked a large and private
garden. Three floors below. I registered all this very quickly and, at her
bidding, registered a door to the far left of the living room. This was where I
was told to go and get ready. This was where I was when the door closed. Given
the size of the room and the sparse furnishings I assumed that this was where
the anonymous, like minded, owner of the flat had their special activities. The
whole place reeked of that Woking ambience. I did as I was bid and changed into
white shorts and top that suggested readiness for the local gym. I was of a
small build and still reasonably slim so that the wearing of such apparel did
not suggest absurdity. I looked in the one mirror and was not displeased with
the picture. I could pass for an ageing schoolboy and for the next half an
hour, or however long it took, a schoolboy was what I longed to be. I felt a
surge of anticipation and waited. It had been a long time since I had first
pinched apples from a Cotswolds tree. It had been a long time since I had been
spanked, bare bottom, for the deed. In the silence I savoured the promise of
its recreation. Please do not fail I said. Please do not let me down. I was
still saying it when the door opened.
She took me very gently over her
knee and expertly moved me into the desired position. At that moment, two equal
partners in an unequal situation, I became acutely conscious of the stirring in
my loins and the vulnerability of my bottom. My manhood pressed against both my
shorts and her skirt, severely black as appropriate, and my bottom quivered in
anticipation. It quivered even more so, as did the loin stirring, when I sensed
a large and firm palm press itself against my upturned cheeks. The hand moved
itself across both my cheeks in its private assessment of a target that had
been waiting for a long time. She was not in any hurry, even if I was. I stared
at the carpet, as expensive as everything else in this house, and steeled
myself for the wanted experience. And then she slapped me. Slowly at first, but
with a steady rhythm. I absorbed each hard smack to my cheeks and wallowed in
the sensation. Yes this was what I had so desired. Please do not stop, even
though it may hurt. And hurt it did. The slaps got harder and increased in
tempo and my stinging buttocks, so eagerly offered, were now wriggling in
protest. They did so even more when she rested her hand and continued her
attack with a small strap. I do not know how many times that lashed into my
behind but, although I could not see, I sensed a burning fire. Eventually she
stopped, surprising tears were beginning to fill my eyes, and for a moment only
our combined breathing broke the silence. And then slowly and deliberately she
started to pull down my shorts. Deftly she placed her fingers in the waistband,
I squirmed at the sensation, and inch by inch dragged then down my buttocks and
thighs. I lifted myself to ease their release and drank in the joy of both the
uncovering of my bottom and the airing of my fully gorged penis. She did not
stop until the shorts were around my knees and I was ecstatic at its sensation.
I had closed my eyes some time since and all senses were in my head but the
incredible feeling of freedom and submission were complete. It had happened
when I was fourteen, I have never forgotten, but whereas that erection was
unwanted and embarrassing this one was consumed with abiding gratitude. In such
a state the lifting of my top merely added to my joy. Please thrash my
Cotswolds bottom was what I seemed to be saying. And thrash it she did. It was
almost as if the exposing of my buttocks had released an intensity in her that
I had hardly envisaged. She whacked my naked cheeks with hand, and strap, and
even a slipper for what seemed an eternity. And throughout it all I howled and
pressed my rock hard member into her skirt. If the bottom was a schoolboy all
else was a man. Pain and desire combined in relentless discipline. When she had
finished I was bid to stand and bend over for twelve strokes of the cane. She
could have had no illusions when she did this. The firmness of my reaction
lifted my top and revealed all. I bent as far as I could and apologised. All
she said, and she had said little throughout the proceedings, was that it was a
constant problem with schoolboys. And with that she lifted my top and gave me
twelve stinging and accurate strokes with the cane I had seen at Woking and
left the room. I rose and rubbed my naked bottom, easing all that had gone
before, and sank into a chair. It would be a long time before I got dressed.
‘You have a very nice bottom. One
of the best I have seen.’
‘And you have seen a lot.’
‘Don’t be cheeky. There may be a
next time, remember, and I may not go so easy on you.’
I flinched, thinking back to my
afternoon in Cambridge.
‘I wasn’t aware that you had
treated me lightly.’
‘Then you have a lot to learn.’
Mrs Davenport, Aunt Mildred, and
I were having a quiet reminisce during a break in proceedings at yet another
fund raising evening arranged for political friends. Nigel, her perspicacious
friend, had just left us. He had congratulated her on sorting out her little
problems, as he called it, and made more than one allusion to the fact that he
wondered if I had taken advantage of her special services. He had laid great
emphasis on the special services and I was not sorry to see him leave us and
join some other dignitaries. I was enjoying Mrs Davenport’s company. And it was
during our discussions that I discovered it was Nigel who had rented her the
flat in Cambridge. A lecturer in philosophy he had a civilised and cultured
approach to human foibles.
‘Will you come again?’
‘To Cambridge?’
‘No. My new house in Saffron
Walden. I am starting anew.’
‘As Aunt Mildred?’
‘Of course. She fulfils a need.’
I nearly asked if she meant the
need in her or her clients but decided it was unwise. Aunt Mildred, Mrs
Davenport, clearly enjoyed what she did but I was convinced it was mainly an
upmarket service for those who could afford her fee. I was still pondering her
question when she repeated it.
‘So shall I see you in Saffron
Walden?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Still the reluctant schoolboy?’
‘I wasn’t in Cambridge.’
‘No. But always the inner
battles.’
‘Yes.’
And then she said something that
so shocked me I asked her to repeat it.
‘So like your father.’ she said.
‘My father. You knew him?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Twenty years ago.’
She paused and smiled.
‘You are two of a kind.’
We went in for dinner and my mind
was still reeling at the revelation. She had been friends with my father twenty
years before and, though she did not say it, I suspected that he had taken
advantage of her special services. She recognised me at our first meeting
because she had been to his funeral. She had not said because, as she put it,
seeing my interest it could cause complications. I did not know whether to be angry
or grateful. If I had known then Cambridge may not have happened and, about
that, I had no regrets. But I was my father’s son and a repetition was
unlikely. The situation would amuse my father, how I so wished I could take him
to lunch again in that favourite bistro, but it inhibited my desires. It was
when I got home I saw the ironic side. I had been spanked, bare bottom, twice
in my life. Once when I was fourteen and then again thirty years later. And
both times by a woman who had probably done the same to my enigmatic father.
Two of a kind Mrs Davenport had said. My father had said the same thing just
before he died. Somewhere, I think he is laughing.
*See ‘The Woman in the Window’ story for full details.
To Come : The Boston Landlady in London (F/m)