Tuesday 27 November 2012

Fifty Shades of Pink


This was meant to be an update on the whacking tales blog statistics but I ain’t stupid. ‘Fifty Shades of Pink’ sounds much better than ‘Statistical Analysis – Part the Tenth’. Or whatever. It was musing on statistics, another fetish of mine, which got me thinking on the variety of folks who, over the years have spanked or caned my bottom. This was not totally an idle thought as following a quiet, bug induced, spell I have been fortunate enough to drop my pants for a multitude of reasons over the last few weeks. Doctors and wives aside, ageing pleasure comes from a good massage (everything off) or a good whacking (pants off). Being naked for a massage is heavenly and it is not unknown for the odd operator to give my bare and blushing behind a few friendly whacks with their expertise hands. Not the same as a true CP situation, but pleasant all the same. But the real fun comes from scenarios when you have all your chosen clothes on and the bits that cover your bum are lowered for disciplinary pleasures. I like being naked, but I like baring my bottom in a schoolboy scene even more. There is something very special about being prepared for a whacking and those who have done it to me have, over the years, come in many colours. Authority figures wear a variety of cloaks. The result was always a reddened behind for me. In many shades. Here is a taster.
 My Primary Schoolmistress. A real dragon, or so she seemed to me when aged 5 or 6, and not averse to smacking a behind when the mood took. Did it to me a few times, most memorably after I threw sand at a girl I particularly disliked. Her method never varied. She pulled you to her, holding you under her left arm, and with her right hand lifted up the right side of your small pants. Holding you tightly to her she whacked that same right hand across the conveniently bared cheek. It stung like hell, never more than five or six or maybe less, but you howled like a banshee. I did and so did all the others, girls as well as boys, who got it. Not a true bare bottom spanking but it always seemed like one. As I approached my teens I fantasised about those peremptory whacks. The 1950s has a lot to answer for. (1)
My Father. Only ever belted on the bare behind and did it to me at least three times between the ages of 7 and 11. He whacked quickly and vigorously and, although I never counted, I reckon I never got less than forty or fifty on each occasion. Always in my bedroom, pants pulled off and shirt lifted, and always on my bed. I remember the last occasion because he kept coming back to give me more because I would not say sorry. No idea why I should. Only stopped when my mother said my backside had taken enough. I was howling and my bum was flaming. We lived in a semi detached council house. Everyone in the street must have heard it. But it was the 1950’s so I need say no more. (2)
Mr Beasley. The years 7 to 11 again. I remember this man because he was my form master in junior school and was the first to kindle a childish desire for disciplinary pleasures. Had a penchant for taking his favourite boys over his knee, in a mixed class, and gently smacking or slippering the upturned shorts. From memory the spankings rarely hurt and evoked much giggling. My only meaningful punishment from him was on a red letter day when I was about 9 and he lined four or five of us up for a spanking. Last in the line, I watched in horror as he took down shorts before taking each boy over his knee and giving a variety of underpants a few stinging smacks from his heavy hand. We must have done something pretty bad. I cried. Not because I feared my turn but because I did not wear underpants. No money in our house for such luxuries. I mumbled this truth as I bravely undid my snake belt. He spared me classroom humiliation but nothing else. I was taken to a private room and, shorts pulled down, was taken over his knee and given my dues on my bare bottom. His hand stung like mad and I cried again. For the rest of the day I was the classroom star, especially when I filled in the details. I learnt that day that a smarting bottom has many compensations. (3)
Secondary School Teachers .Too many of these to mention by name. Not that I would, some may still be with us. And I don’t blame them for what they did. This was the late 1950s and 11-15 year old boys were easy meat for latent sadists. And no come back. Your folks wouldn’t listen even if you told them. My most hated was a games teacher who thrashed the bottom with a short version of a cricket bat and a science master who did the same with a piece of rubber tubing. I experienced both, over trousers, and both hurt like hell. Bending down for such appropriate weapons was not fun. The favourites were a student PE teacher who whacked the flimsy covered bum with a vicious plimsoll on which a backwards FRED had been chalked, think about it, and a house teacher who shall go by the name of Mr Dee. The latter gave me my two most memorable canings and both are seared in my ageing memory. The first, when about 11 or 12, was four strokes of the cane on my bare behind in a sports changing room and the second, I reckon I was 14, two strokes on my trousers in a classroom. The first experience stung and shocked, I was naked at the time; the second was excruciating and burning and induced a throb in my backside that I constantly wished to relive in later life. I learnt a lot at school. The Tudors, Stuarts, the Civil War and how to do quadratic equations. But thanks to those long lost teachers I also learnt about masochism. Anyone beating a young behind today, clothed or bare, would be in clink. In those days we who got it just shrugged and revelled in our unexpected and welcome notoriety. How times have changed. (4)
Sundry Adults. Since those days I have, thankfully, found a number of people more than willing to beat my behind. Hard wired from school and home I entered adulthood with a constant desire to have my pants taken down and my bare bottom thrashed. For most on my adult years a male was required to give the scenes verisimilitude but, as I age, I care little for the gender of the cane or strap wielder. Most of my male acquaintances have whacked for fun and free. Females charge and the type I like, mature and dominant, are hard to find. Whipstock Grange is an exception because there, whatever their age, a school environment is paramount. But whatever the situation I reckon that every time I lower my pants for a heavenly sting across my bare behind I am paying a silent homage to all those who did it to me when I was very young. I am glad they did. I still have fun and many folks of my age, bereft of such perverse pleasures, cannot say the same. (5)
Lots of my stories were inspired from the above. A few are listed below and many are on this blog or on the MMSA website. And the statistics? They must await another day. Let's say I got distracted. Worth at least six of the very best from one of those distant ghosts.
(1) The Law of Miss McKindrick
(2) Rainy Days
(3) Master Kennedy’s Slippering. The Pecking Order
(4) Yesterday’s Boy. Tomorrows Child.  Mistress Fredericka. The Games Club.
(5) I Have Never Seen Whipstock Grange. Whipstock Revisited. Ten Days. A Visit to Miss Court.  Room Service.
Alfred Roy
 
Next Month - Sailor Beware (M/m) A tale of a cabin boy being whacked whilst on the lovely canals of England.

Sunday 11 November 2012

The Woman in the Window (F/m)

This is the first of the two promised new stories for Christmas. Sailor Beware (M/m) will follow next month. This one is F/m and the anonymous 14 year old boy eventually gets the spanking he clearly desires. An early Christmas present for readers who, in less than a year, have given this blog nearly 15,000 hits. And on the subject of early Christmas presents I shall shortly be visiting a mature and severe lady who dishes out all that is in this story, and more. When my pants are down and her strap thwacks into my bare and upturned bottom I shall silently say I have earned it. Writing stories has its compensations.There is no substitute for real, and exquisite, pain on that most important place. Alfred Roy
 
Part One
I knew it would come to this. I suppose I always knew, at least after the third time I passed her house. Actually I didn’t pass it. On that third time I stopped and, for a dare, I went into her garden and picked a couple of apples. Whilst she was looking. Standing by an upstairs window, dressed in black, she watched me take the apples and return, giggling, to my friends. And then we all did it in the following days, walked into her garden and pinched her apples. On a second and third occasion, possibly a fourth. And we all giggled and left. And she stood at her window and watched. Dressed in black. And whoever was there, she was always watching me. It was when I went back on my own to pinch an apple in a now compulsive game that I saw the window was empty. For the first time she was not standing there. Suddenly pinching her apples lost its appeal. If she wasn’t at her window, silently watching and waiting, the apples lost their taste and the game dulled. I knew then, if I hadn’t before, that the prize was not the hanging fruit. The prize was the woman herself. In black, silent and still at her window. But now, on my lone visit, she was not at her window. She was at her door. And she invited me in.
It was all so long ago that the details are blurred in my mind. A long late summer vacation in an obscure Cotswolds town or hamlet. I think my father was on some equally obscure project. The days were long and hot and generally boring. I made friends easily and quickly latched on to the local boys. They lacked my London sophistication but made engaging companions, especially when they realised that my pocket money stretched considerably further than theirs. Most of our days were spent aimlessly wandering the streets of that small town. The few shops did not interest us and we would regularly make our way to the hills and fields beyond. A fourteen year old imagination can run riot in such unpromising circumstances, especially if discovering a mediaeval burial ground or, even better, an old hanging tree where a seventeenth century villager struggled to an untimely end. Boys can be so brutal. The journey to the open fields often took us past the rich and imposing houses that scattered the edges of the small town. Large houses with large front gardens and, with elaborate iron gates or decorated concrete posts, a suggestion of country riches. I had been there a couple of weeks when I first noticed her watching us. Then I saw her again as we passed her house a few days later. I mentioned her to my friends and by the third visit to the distant fields she had been christened as the local witch. Still and silent, standing at her upstairs window dressed in black she almost invited the soubriquet. And calling her a witch led to the dare and the apple stealing.
I realised towards the end of my month long stay in the Cotswolds that I was becoming obsessed by this enigmatic woman. Every time we passed her house or gone into her garden, three or four times, she was there watching us. She never banged her window or expressed any emotion. Just watched and always, or so it seemed, had her eye firmly fixed on me. It was that fact that decided me to make a secretive visit on my own. I had been dared by my friends and I rose to the challenge when they were all away on a cricket excursion. I did not tell them I was going, I did not know why I was going, I only knew that going alone added an inexplicable thrill. I would see the woman in her window, I would enter alone to her garden, signalling what I did not know, and await developments from our adopted witch. But when I entered her garden she was not at her window. She was at her door and, as I say, she invited me in.
I did not go. I stood rooted to the spot as I heard the woman’s voice for the first time. She was younger than she had appeared in the window, no more than thirty five, and though her dress was the severe black I knew so well, her voice was not unpleasing. She reminded me of my late mother and, thinking this, my innate fear abated slightly. I cannot remember exactly what she said, it is so long ago, but it was along the lines of ‘I think we should discuss why you feel the need to steal my apples’. So prosaic, so ordinary, and yet filled with something I could not define. But hearing her voice I knew she was no schoolboy’s witch. She was a joyous person; I had sensed that from my first fleeting view of her, a mixture of severity and gentleness. I was only fourteen but I was falling in love. The moments passed, it may have been minutes, and I stood mute and awestruck in the silence. One of us needed to speak but I knew it would not be me. Fear and warmth combined to still my tongue. My emotions were in turmoil but her next words dispelled them. ‘I know your name’, she said, ‘and I know your father’. Still I said nothing and, in my confusion, backed away. This was not part of my schoolboy plan. This was meant to be a game with the local witch, going where I knew not. But seeing her close, hearing her voice, smelling her, had undermined the adventure. I needed to get away, to forget, to abandon the silly vendetta of rich houses and garden apples and strange women. So I did, clumsily and apologetically, with her presence invading my senses. Her smell, her voice, her black dress. Her words. ‘I know your father, I know your name’, she had said. And as I left, blushing and incoherent, her final comment rang in my ears. ‘He needs to know about the apples.’ The afternoon, bereft of cricketing mad friends, had not gone entirely as planned. It was when I arrived home, breathless, that I realised I had no idea what that plan had been.
I told my father about her a few days before we were due back in London. He looked puzzled. She must be confusing you with someone else, was all he said. The woman meant nothing to him and, besides he had never visited that part of the Cotswolds before. Strangely though he did not ask me what I was doing in her garden, did not question me on my obsession. Just be careful, he said, you may get more than you wished for. That final comment rang a small bell as a couple of the local boys had said the same thing when I told them she had spoken to me. They teased me about the enigmatic woman in the window, mercifully so when we passed her house and she wasn’t there. Flown off on her broomstick with the village cats, or in her kitchen boiling frogs. It was the teasing that led to a further dare, boys are dangerous on long summer days with nothing to do. Go back to her house they said, go back into her garden, and this time, if invited, go in. I told them no, I would not, or not unless one of them was willing to come with me. Safety in numbers, or so I thought. One of them eventually agreed, the oldest of the group at fifteen, and we privately arranged to go to the witches house the following afternoon. I say privately because he said nothing at the time, did not want the others to know. I should have been warned because when I was invited in a second time my companion fled. I did not realise he had gone until she closed the door and I was alone in her house with the woman in black. Alone with the woman at the window.
I said nothing to my companions the following day, my last in that Cotswolds town. I said nothing to anyone. They knew I had been in her house, the elder boy seemed pleased that he had lured me into it. They questioned me but I said nothing. I was too ashamed. And the following day my father and I left. In all the following years I have never been back and I have never seen any of those Cotswold boys again. I had a good relationship with my father but I never told him I had been back to the strange house and the strange woman. And I never told him what had transpired. And he never mentioned it. Until a few weeks ago. He does not have long to live but still manages to get about and I often drive down to his place and take him for a drink or a meal or sometimes both. Like many older folks, especially when sensing a life beginning to reach its close, the tongue loosens and reminiscences flow. Something about wanting to be understood, before he goes, was how he put it and then laughs ruefully into his drink. Over the last few months he has told me many things I did not know. About his job, about my mother, about his own parents, and about himself. And then, the other week, about her. The woman in the window. I did know her he said. He had known her a long time. She was the reason he stayed in the Cotswolds. He knew my woman in the window and he knew what she had done.
 
Part Two
The door had closed and I realised I was alone. My companion had fled. She stood at the end of a long dark corridor, hidden from the afternoon sun, dressed in her definitive black dress. Come into the lounge she said, I have been waiting to talk to you. I thought of running, of pulling on her door and leaving, searching for welcoming air. But something stopped me, something about her dragged me forward. This woman, this witch, mesmerised. She looked both frightening and welcoming, a mixture of veiled threats and indefinable promise. I was on a strange adventure and she was my goal. Or I was hers. I thought this latter point as I followed her tall and slim figure into her lounge. I was no longer in control; all my actions of the past few weeks had been for this meeting. I wanted whatever it was she was offering even though, at fourteen, I had few clear thoughts. She sat down in a large chair and looked at me, seemingly examining every inch of me. She spoke my name and I stood before her and mumbled something in reply. I think I may have asked her how she knew or it may have been something else. An apology for being a nuisance. I know I said the latter at some point. She smiled and said I was not a nuisance, besides it did not matter, but I was interesting. She asked me about myself, was I enjoying my summer holiday, what I was doing at school. I answered all dutifully and relaxed a little. This was no local witch about to eat me; this was more like an interested aunt enquiring about her nephew. She said she was amused by my apple stealing exploits and the games I was playing but, and she looked very closely at me as she said this, all games come at a price. I clearly flinched at this comment and she laughed, gently, and told me to sit down. As I did so she said that she would make us some afternoon tea and I must tell her all about myself. And after I had told her all about myself, and before I left, she would punish me for the apple stealing. Spank me was what she said. I looked shocked and she laughed again. Don’t look so surprised she said, that is what you expected wasn’t it. That, or something similar, is what this is all about. Your game. Before you leave I shall spank you and it will be an experience you will never forget. And, one day, you will thank me for it. And then she left to make the tea. Her words rang in my ears and the fear rose in my being. But I did not run. I sat in her lounge. Transfixed.
Spank me? Is this why, deep down, I had stole her apples in an elaborate game? I did not think so. I had never been spanked and did not desire it. At least I did not think so. Physical punishment was painful. I knew so from school. Twice I had been caned at my boarding school and neither experience was pleasant. I remember my father saying on odd occasions when I annoyed, laughing while he did so, that a good spanking would do me good. Every boy should have one, at least once in their life. But it was a woman’s job, he said, and a fleeting tear entered him. My mother was dead and unspoken thoughts combined. There was no woman in our lives, only me and him. I thought of my mother as I sat uncomfortably in this woman’s lounge. She never hurt me and she died when I was seven. I had never been in close contact with any other woman. This woman, the woman in black preparing the afternoon tea, was the first female I had any close contact with. When the realisation struck me I felt a strange churning in my stomach. And I came to an adult decision, or it seemed adult at the time. After the afternoon tea and the polite chats I would let her spank me. I doubted if I had much choice anyway. But I would let her and making the decision gave me a fearful thrill. My father had said everyone should be spanked, by a woman, at least once in their lives. Well this was mine. I do not know why I stole her apples, why I played her elaborate game, but the ending made for a certain logic. I would take what she had to offer and even if I did not tell my father, or those Cotswolds boys, it would be something I could carry with me for the rest of my life. I was scared, I was in turmoil, I feared for the unknown. I feared that it would be painful and humiliating but I was prepared. When she came back, tea and cakes splendid in their promise, I knew I would not resist. A proposal that initially shocked had moved to one of acceptance. Not desire, I was too young, but an agreement that I sensed would please my father. Even though he, and those Cotswolds boys, would never know. And knowing this, recognising that this was something only between myself and the woman at the window, gave all that was possibly to follow a special privacy. I did not say, or think, let battle commence, but it would probably have been appropriate.
She did not disappoint. Given my musing anticipations all else could have been an anti climax. But this Woman at the Window, observer of fourteen year old apple stealers, knew what she intended and what she was determined to do. She served the tea and cakes and asked me more about my fourteen year old life to date. She asked me about my school evoking special interest, or so I thought, in my two painful experiences of the dreaded cane, and she asked me about my late mother. That was the most difficult bit. Especially when she asked me if my mother had ever spanked me. I said not as far as I could remember. What a pity, she said. Every boy should be spanked at least once in his life. It is an experience you can carry with you to the grave. She sounded like my father. I squirmed, fearing the way the conversation was going. The tea and cakes were nice and the conversation unthreatening. But the raising of disciplinary matters, however obliquely, increased my nervousness. I sensed the moment of truth arriving. My fears were not unfounded. I think it is time, she said. I think it is time for you, she emphasised the you, to have your bottom spanked. It is what you have wanted ever since you stepped into my garden. You may not think so but one day you will thank me for it. And saying this she rose and moved to an upright chair that had been placed in the centre of the room and, sitting down, she beckoned me to her.
I did not resist. If I did not know this what was what was going to happen when I first invaded her garden I had worked it out whilst awaiting the innocent afternoon tea. I was going to be spanked, whether I wanted it or not, and this anonymous woman was going to do it. And there would be no eyes or ears to witness the deed. That fact made it both bearable and welcoming. I moved to her with eyes fervently closed. If I could not see my humiliation then there would be no others also. That was my logic. I stopped when my trembling leg pressed against her thigh. I had arrived at the source of my distress. I was not alarmed when she undid the buttons of my trousers, I was expecting it, and I did not resist when she pulled the freed clothing down to my knees. I knew, my father’s distant laugh told me, that spanking was a woman’s job and in such circumstances trousers were not retained. He had not said it in so many words but the gist was there. So I was not alarmed, neither was I when she pulled me over her knee and placed her hands on the inside of my underpants. They quickly followed the journey of my trousers and in five seconds, was it only five seconds, my small bottom had been exposed for the worst this woman could do. I was, at fourteen, placed over a woman’s knee and, with all covering adrift, was about to be spanked on my bare backside. I felt no particular shame, in a sense it all seemed so right, and when she laughed and said my bare cheeks reminded her of her apples I knew it was. My father would approve even if, as events were to show, the rich round and smooth apples of my naked bottom were to turn a darker red than any on the woman’s tree.
My enigmatic woman in the window was no novice. I do not know, to this day, whether my being upended over her knee was the intended plan. But whether it was or not she was not going to waste the opportunity. I was well and truly spanked. Her bare palm, tantalisingly resting on my virgin skin, hit my naked bottom at least a hundred times over the next few minutes and I squirmed and squealed with the decency that any fourteen year old would show. By the end my bottom was on fire, burning in an intensity I could previously only imagine. Each sting of her palm, at least a hundred remember, slapped across my rear and caused considerable pain. I cried to be let off and gripped her legs in an unseemly fashion. I was conscious of staring at her floor, of being stretched in a strange position, and of my trousers and underpants brushing my lower legs. But most of all I was conscious of her, the woman in the black dress and her perfumed smell, and of my nakedness. One should marvel at the picture of a bared and prone boy and a severe woman bent on retribution. I had no such visions, but each time her angry palm hit into my nakedness, my bare and boyish upturned bottom cheeks, I was conscious of the smarting pain and the woman who was causing it. Nature had designed the place for such savage kisses and I both wanted her to stop and to go on forever.
 
Part Three
When my father told me he knew the woman, a woman I had never forgotten, I told him what had happened. He knew he said, he knew everything. The woman was his mistress. His lover. She wanted to meet me and when she told him about the boys stealing her apples, he laughingly said that if I was one of them she should give me a good spanking. On the bare backside. She took him literally and told him all the details when they next met. It amused him; he told her he hoped I enjoyed it in spite of the pain. I think it was then that I suspected that they had an interesting relationship. But he also told her he would never discuss it with me, unless I mentioned it. But I never had. Until now.
I had lay crying over her lap for many minutes. I did not want to rise. The heat in my bottom mirrored the burning in my head and a stirring elsewhere. I had been taken on an experience that defied understanding and I did not want it to end. I relaxed my body as her soft palms traced across my backside. The warmth of her stinging wrath mingled with the gentleness of her touch. Each inch of my nether curves was explored and I consumed the sensations. Not a word was said and I drank in every exquisite and innocent touch. I felt no shame when I rose at her bidding and allowed her to pull up my underpants, not even flinching or deflecting when she lifted them over a boyish appendage filling with desire for release. She smiled as she pulled up my trousers. I have always wanted to spank a real boy was all she said. I am pleased it was you who stole my apples. Then she rose, lightly smacked my trousered bottom, and departed with the afternoon tray. I sat in her lounge for about ten minutes, reliving all the livid pictures, and when she returned I bid a hasty goodbye. I suspected she wished to talk but, bottom still burning, I was in no mood for polite conversation. This unknown woman had just spanked me, here in her lounge, with my trousers and underpants around my knees. I had no wish to engage in prosaic chats. My father and I left the following day for London and, regrettably, I never saw her again.
I told my father all this. I told him about my visit on the last day and I told him everything that had happened, all the details. And now, thirty years later, he was filling in the gaps. We are two of a kind he said. And she was a very special woman. He did not elaborate. They lost touch over the years and the last he heard of her she was living in America with a lecturer in philosophy. For some reason this made him laugh. But he had never forgotten her, and clearly neither had I. Other than my mother she was the only woman who meant anything to him. Which is why he had never married again. She was a bit special. As he said this, finishing his drink, his eyes misted over. It was only a dying man with another memory but I knew what he meant. She was special. Certainly to me. The woman in the window. Dressed in black. The woman who, when I was fourteen, bared and spanked my behind. And I never knew her name. I still don’t. My father never told me.                                                      
Alfred Roy (2012)