The Reluctant Schoolboy (F/M)

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 12^th. 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.

 Alfred Roy (2013)

*See ‘The Woman in the Window’ story for full details.

 

To Come : The Boston Landlady in London (F/m)