Thursday 14 December 2017

The Folk Next Door (F/M)


This was meant to be my Christmas blog. Given all the white stuff that has been falling, and the strange facebook and youtube pics inevitably generated, I had conjured up my own version of winter antics those cold flakes  inspired. Let's face it, in my youth, I rolled naked in the snow many times. Beats anything on modern over sensitive websites. Worthy of a kinky blog I thought. But Christmas thwarts all the best intentions. Time pressures mean that well intentioned blog has to wait until bleak January days and the story intended for that slot goes up now. I enjoyed writing it, hope you enjoy reading it. And in spite of those times pressures I shall shortly fit in a pre festive visit to a favourite disciplinarian. I put off a lot over Christmas but baring my bottom for a serious whacking is not one of them. Happy Christmas, whatever you get up to. Alfred Roy

The Folk Next Door

 

Did I hear that? Did I hear that right? Thought it was DIY at first, do it yourself. A bang, a nail in the wall, home improvement. But then, no, more like a whack. A whack of something. Listen carefully. Yes a whack, a whack of something. On a behind. Possibly, I hoped, a bare behind. Listen carefully, listen, listen for a howl or a whimper. That would clinch it. Yes. Another whack, definitely. Another whack and a low key howl. Someone next door was being whacked, with a strap or a belt I thought, but definitely being whacked. And it must be on the behind. But who, who lived there? My mind worked overtime. A mother and her son. No one else. I should be shocked, I should be incensed. I wasn’t. I was intrigued. And, sad to say, I was jealous. Jealous of the behind that was being whacked. I would so much like to be him. How I would so much like to be him.

I had seen her a few times since she moved in. Nice woman, not more than forty, and definitely my type. My type in the sense that she seemed to be both nice and stern. A no nonsense woman I thought, and thought it even more when I found out that she was deputy headmistress at a local private school. That really kicked in all my juices. I have a thing about the headmistress type, have done ever since I was an impressionable youngster and got severely spanked by one. Fixed my sexuality and personality in one defining ten minutes, which have stayed with me for the following twenty years. She may be around my age but I dropped most of them when I saw her shortly after she and her teenage son move in. And listening to his whacking, no doubt about it now, I dropped the remaining few. By the time she stopped, and it must be her whacking that whimpering behind, I was twelve or thirteen again. The thing is, or was, would I ever get the chance to tell her.

I first spoke to her a couple of weeks after they arrived. Thinking back, I should not be surprised at what I heard. She was full on, a woman of statements rather than questions. We have just moved in, she said, you must be Justin. I was told you lived next door, she said, on your own. Estate agents are very helpful. I trust we won’t disturb you, she said. I have a teenage son, Andrew, but he is very well behaved. Most of the time. My house rules do not allow loud music after eleven o’clock, she said. And smiled. A disarming mile which made me feel about ten years old. A strange thought I considered as she waltzed off to her car, an upmarket Renault. A strange and exciting thought. And now I know why.

It was two days after the evocative noises from next door that I had my first chance to speak to her again. She was offloading her weekend groceries. Waitrose I imagined, she did not seem like a downmarket shopper. I was wondering how I could subtly allude to the earlier day without raising suspicions, but I need not have worried. She went straight for the jugular. Hope we didn’t alarm you on Thursday, she said, Andrew has been difficult lately. We had an argument. I was concerned about the noise. A pause followed by a smile preceded the last statement. Her son had been difficult, they had an argument. It happens. But the pause and the smile before her remark about the noise unnerved me again. That noise, a strap on a behind, was unmistakeable and she knew it. Was she testing me or was it just a statement of edited fact intended to deflect? I just nodded and said something about kids growing up needing control. Not a problem. And it wasn’t. Except my blushing and sweating when I said it. If she registered it she did not respond. Just thanked me for my understanding and went indoors. I just stood there, admiring her car and thinking that I must start shopping at Waitrose.

Our paths did not cross for a few weeks. I went away on business and, shortly after returning, her and her son took a summer vacation in France. Her ex husband lived there and they met up during the holidays apparently. They came back on a miserable early September weekend whilst I was in the middle of some overdue decorating. I was working on the bedroom wall which divided our terraced houses when I heard it again. And this time there was no mistaking the scene. Raised voices made things absolutely clear. The boy was tearful, pleading almost, but the muffled angry voice of the mother did not allow for interpretations. I said I would strap your backside if it happened again, she said, and I do not break my promises. Lay still, she said. And then I heard it. A resounding whack and a howling shriek. Louder than before, as if all inhibitions of both chastiser and chastised were released. He knows. Him next door knows, or guesses, so I can whack with abandon and you can scream. And they did, and I stood transfixed for at least five minutes. Listening to every stroke of that strap across a trembling behind and soaking in every howl and cry. Fourteen year old Andrew suffered for those excruciating minutes and I relished every second of it. I imagined flaming eyes and indefatigable resolve from a determined woman, I imagined a boy bare and distraught with bottom flaming red, and I imagined a merciless strap combining the two in a picture richer in intensity for being unseen. And when it stopped I imagined, or heard, the quiet sobbing and the heavy breathing. I could not see their exhaustion but I could feel my own. I sat on my bed, quiet with my thoughts, and re-imagined it all. If only I could tell her.

Tell her what, I thought. That I had heard it all, that I knew what she did. That it had re-kindled desires in me that had lain dormant for years. Not true. Those desires were far from dormant. I had never indulged in such practices but I had read books and magazines about them. Men and women disciplining each other. Did not do much for me. I was firmly in the schoolboy camp. And hearing Andrew being whacked fired both imagination and wish. When I was his age a dragon of a headmistress hauled me out of class one day, I had spit at a particularly obnoxious girl, and dragged me to her office. Disgusting child, she said, one of the worst in the school. As I did not have a reputation this seemed unfair. But I did not protest. And I did not protest when she told me to pull down my trousers and underpants and bend over her chair. A broad leather one if memory serves me right. I did so and as she lifted my shirt I saw out of the corner of my eye the large strap she had taken from her desk. It was at that moment that I realised that I was going to be whacked on my bum, my bare bum, by this dragon whom I both feared and respected. And the thought brought a strange warmth and excitement to my being that was not expunged by any of the searing six strokes of the strap she whopped into my small and naked backside. They stung, they hurt, they made me sob, and standing I rubbed hands over burning cheeks and sobbed even more. But as her tongue gave additional stings and trousers covered the attacked rear I felt an inner contentment. It may have hurt, it may have been unexpected, and it may have been humiliating, but being strapped on the bare bottom was nice. That was my fourteen year old assessment. And I have never changed.

I did tell her, but not immediately. Two days after her son’s strapping I spoke to her in her garden. We were both doing a bit of tidying up in mid September sun. She thanked me for taking in her post whilst she was away, three overlarge parcels if I remember correctly, and apologised for not telling me that they would be away for nearly four weeks. Not a problem I said and smiled my most sincere smile. A few more pleasant exchanges whilst we did our respective weeding and then, unexpectedly, an invitation to pop in for afternoon tea. Time we got to know each other, she said, and Andrew is on a course and my school is still out. A surge, inexplicably, thrilled my body. I knew not why. It was merely an invitation for a neighbourly chat. But the way she issued it, the way she looked at me, suggested a hidden agenda. I felt commanded, and going inside allowed imagination to run rife. Tomorrow afternoon. Tea and chats. With a mature woman not averse to strapping a behind. If I could not prise that subject, and my own desires, into the conversation it would not be for the want of trying. But I was not scared, or cautious, because something in the invitation told me it would be a road worth following. Lying in my bed that night, re-running all in my fevered mind, I sincerely hoped so.

It was easier than I thought. We were only five minutes into the tea and biscuits, and preceding chat on respective backgrounds easily prepared the ground. I was a private individual with a long distant failed marriage and she was a divorced woman relieved to be out of a relationship which never worked. But unlike me she had the baggage of her fourteen year old Andrew. Not that she put it like that. Just that having a teenage son limited her freedoms. Freedom to do as she wished. What did she wish I asked? In retrospect I am sure that was an innocent remark, and again I saw that disconcerting smile before she replied. The smile when she had offloaded groceries and apologised about the noise. I blushed to my toes and felt an inexplicable surge run through me. Truth be told I felt like this ever since I stepped into her lounge. I had dressed deliberately school boyish, white shirt and grey jumper with pale blue tight jeans, and seeing her in a severe black dress only enhanced my fantasy. Was she playing up to it or was she completely unaware? I fervently hoped she was on my perplexing wavelength. What did she wish I asked again, filling a weird and unexpected silence? She smiled again and poured more tea. And then she said it, and it was almost as if I had written the script. It wasn’t what she wished that was important, she said, it was what I wished. What do you wish for Justin? That is what she said. I know because I have replayed it in my mind many times since. And her eyes, pale blue, pierced into me and conjured up visions of the long past dragon headmistress. She didn’t comment but she must have seen the sweat pouring off me. I cannot say, I said, it seems so bizarre. But you fascinate me, and as I said this, I almost held my breath. If one can hold one’s breath and speak at the same time then I managed it. She merely smiled again and said tell me, tell me what you wish. So I did. Something about that room, the afternoon of cosy chats, the way we were both deliberately or inadvertently dressed, something released long suppressed inhibitions. And I told her. Told her about my long gone headmistress, my fourteen year old experience, and my long years of denied desires. Desires kindled or rekindled by evocative sounds through a brick wall. Imaginations fuelled and emotions crystallised. And she listened. Attentively and patiently. We must talk again she said. Next weekend. Andrew will be visiting his father. We will have more time. I felt both elated and deflated. Elated that she had not thrown me out as a dangerous pervert, deflated that she had not taken matters further. But, rationalising, her son was due home soon I thought. We finished our tea and she tidied up as I made to leave. The tension had dropped considerably and prosaic matters regarding off street parking, noisy neighbours and ridiculous house prices filled the next twenty minutes or so. So what she said as she opened her front door both surprised and thrilled. And also unnerved. You may get your wish Justin, she said. You may get what Andrew gets. And she smiled that disconcerting smile again, only eclipsed by the closing door. The note dropped through my door exactly seven days later.

Come tomorrow, it said. Dressed as you did last week. Three o’clock. Celine. That was all. Ten words. Come tomorrow, dressed as you were. So she had noticed. She had registered the white shirt and grey jumper, the retreat to childhood, and understood. Or so I hoped. I read and re-read those ten words over and over again. Come dressed as you were. As you did last week. Last week when I confessed all in a moment of private madness. Confessed that for twenty or more years I had bottled up a secret desire. A desire to be thrashed, thrashed on my bottom, my bare bottom, with a strap. And I had confessed it to her, distant sounds and cosy conversations combining in release, confessed and hoped. I would come, Celine, at three o’clock as commanded. I would come and I would be prepared. The thrilling surge in my body as I read her words again told me that I would not want it any other way. Tomorrow, tomorrow after many long years of waiting I would get my desire. Tomorrow I would be thrashed. Thrashed on the other side of our dividing wall, a wall that had re-awakened that strange desire.

I found out a couple of days later, long after the fire in my bottom had dimmed, that there was no Andrew. No Andrew, no teenage fourteen year old son, and no private school headmistress. She did not tell me at the time, at the time of my three o’clock appointment, did not tell me that there was no Andrew. No anyone. Just her, working her special trade from the terraced house attached to mine. Looking back I should have guessed. I had never seen the boy, never seen anyone, except her. Driving her posh Renault to Waitrose. If she had visitors they were men, or women, I had never seen. But it all makes sense. Now. She never flinched at my confession, expressed no surprise at my interest. The noise beyond the dividing wall, the deliberate howls and raised voices. And how it inflamed my latent desires. All designed and natural, to her. And she, Celine, was willing to fulfil those desires. Willing to put me in the place of the anonymous and fictional Andrew, if only for half an hour. Entering this fiction made our private connection work in a way it could not on any other basis. I was thrashed as a surrogate son, not as a willing and paying client. And it made it special.

It was very special. She said nothing as she opened her door. Just that smile, the smile that had unnerved me when she had apologised for the noise. She indicated her living room and I walked in, trembling and anticipating. I could have got this so wrong but I did not think I had. And she and the room confirmed it. Severely dressed in a black dress she pointed to a small table in the middle of the room. On it was a large and thick strap. Threatening shiny leather designed for one purpose only. It is for my Andrew she said. All my Andrews. I did not register that strange phrase at the time, all my Andrews, but it makes sense now. And it seemed to make sense as I followed her instructions. No preliminaries, we did not need them. Instructed I lowered my jeans, transfixed at the bizarre development of unexpected events, and bent over the small table. She lowered them further, expert hands, and pulled down my underpants. No preliminaries, she said. Just what you want and desire. She pulled my underpants down to my knees, leaving me exposed from the waist down. A naked bottom, as naked as I had dearly wished when first hearing the sounds from her house, naked and desperate to be thrashed. A nice bottom, she said, a very nice bottom and so eager to fell pain. I said nothing, I had floated to a separate heaven awaiting the culmination of my long held fantasies. Jeans and underpants down at my knees, my bare bottom in the air, and a vicious strap I had noted and absorbed brushing my naked skin. And, unseen, a woman whom I desperately desired to do her worst. To make me howl and scream as she had done through our mutual terraced walls. For the next few moments or minutes, I would be her Andrew. And I was. She thrashed me expertly and I did howl and scream. But not too loud, more gasps and pleas. The strap whacked into my naked behind around thirty times, light at first but increasingly severe, and I gasped more and bellowed pleas of mercy. But I did not relent, and neither did she. It was as if we both knew that this was an affirmation of a consuming desire. By the end in which I sensed a burning bottom inflamed by her unrelenting strap I was almost crying out for the strokes to be harder. When you have waited twenty or more years the appetite can be ravenous. I said that I had floated to a separate heaven, that was no truer than when I arose. The pain had been awesome, the sting in my backside burning and fearful, and the incessant throbbing mesmerising. And as she pulled up my underpants, a gentle touch much appreciated, I registered a slight stiffening in that private area which had dribbled in appreciation. You may have howled, she said, but my strap clearly inflamed your juices. I blushed and mumbled something. I know not what but, inside, it was a blessed thank you. I had waited for over twenty years to have my pants taken down again and to be strapped, bare bottom, by a fearful woman. Headmistress, Celine, a mother next door. No matter. Fantasy had been fulfilled, ambition satisfied. I went home content. And I still had not met Andrew.

A second note came two days later. Clearly this was a woman who did not use phones. The first had been a summons, come dressed as you did last week, this was merely a polite request. Was I up for coffee that morning? I could not refuse, did not want to, the memories of two days before still etched in both my bottom and my mind. I loved what this woman did and her presence, for whatever reason, thrilled my being. To be close to her and near to that perverted promise eclipsed all else. I knocked on her door within an hour of the note arriving. Coffee, she said, nothing else. But she smiled when she said it and, once again, I was ten or twelve years old. Those alien to such a mindset could never understand, but she did. I think that is why the ‘nothing else’ suggested ‘not yet.’ In both our minds. It was then she told me, over coffee, that there was no Andrew. She lived on her own and practiced an age old trade. It suited her, regarding me, to suggest a fictional son. Explained the noises. What she did not know, could not have, that those noises would resurrect and fire long suppressed desires. How could she know that the man she had moved in next door to had never forgotten a dragon of a headmistress who had whacked his bare behind when he was fourteen? Never forgotten and never wanted to. And was desperate to re-live it. It was a bonus to both of us, her moving in. She got a compliant neighbour and I got a free session. I amplified these thoughts and she laughed. Laughed not smiled. A ‘one off’ she said, you intrigued me. I have to earn a living. But providing you don’t cause me neighbourly problems, and here she smiled again, I might give you a special Christmas present when December comes around.

And she did. A severe caning the like I have never had, nor would ever want again. On a Christmas Eve I shall never forget. Thirty six strokes on my bare behind. I floated and squealed in equal proportions. As we sat drinking a very nice vintage port afterwards, she smiling her enigmatic smile and me comforting my burning bottom, a small thought passed through my mind. She asked me what it was. I was just thinking about Andrew, I said. He must be very glad he doesn’t live here. 

Alfred Roy (2017)