Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

by Daniels, Alan

  "First offence – a spanking."

  Again, the oratorical pose.

  I think that I shall never find

  A bottom needier than thine

  This is wonderful. The first time was to Ravel's Bolero. Now apparently I'm going to be spanked in iambic pentameters. I'm not about to appeal the sentence, but two can play the poetry game. I strike an oratorical pose of my own.

  Good Sir, I bow with due submission Bottoms up to your petition So saying, I slide over his lap, thrusting up my buttocks. I feel them caressed by the breeze and I waggle them enticingly until I feel a restraining hand in the small of my back. In this position I can reach behind to hold him. How long and slender his cock feels, how soft, yet so hard. He pauses a few seconds, stroking my bottom, then begins, three on the right cheek then three on the left in quick succession. This is a harder spanking than the last time and I feel my cheeks instantly reddening. The sting is exquisite. The pace quickens, then slows, then quickens again. After a few wonderful minutes he pauses and I feel his lips and tongue. I'm on fire and close to coming. He senses this, clever boy, and lies back, holding his cock like a mast for me to mount at my leisure, which I am just about to do, when suddenly we hear a rustling in the bushes and someone bursts on the scene. From my vantage point over Ryan's knee I can see only of a pair of sensible walking shoes, brown wool socks and knee-length khaki shorts. Instinctively we scramble under the blanket pulling it up to our shoulders, hiding our nakedness, salvaging what dignity we can.

  We need not have worried. Her eyes – behind powerful binoculars – are fixed on the canopy of a tall elm tree. She seems aware we are there, but has no interest in what we are up to.

  "I say, did you see it?"

  See what? We are not sure what to say. Apparently she didn't see anything, either.

  "There it is," she is saying, "look, top branch of that elm tree right in front of us, at nine o'clock. See it? It's one of the family of spotted flycatchers, Muscicapa striata, a female. Very rare in these parts. Oh you little beauty. Come to mummy. Number 947 on my life list. I can't believe it. This is fantastic. I say, are you two bird watchers? You should be. With your luck, rare birds find you. Ha ha ha."

  She plunked herself down on the tree stump in front of us and produced a lace handkerchief with which she dabbed at her brow.

  "Allow me to introduce myself, Geraldine Warmington. Don't get up. Ha ha. Jolly rude of me to intrude, really. But I didn't expect company out here." She offered an elegant hand which we shook, still clutching the blanket for cover. We introduce ourselves.

  "Catherine Mallory Jones," she intones. "Mallory, Mallory, rings a bell. You wouldn't be related to Jefferson Mallory, landscape artist, would you? Married Norah Burton, the actress. Great gal, went to school with my mother. Come to think of it, there is a resemblance. She's your grandmother, isn't she? Lives near Shoreham-on-Sea, last I heard."

  It transpires that Lady Geraldine Ponsoby-Warmington J.P., of Warmington Manor, chairman of the Little Upton Parish Council, treasurer of the Sussex constituency Conservative Party, secretary of the Greater Upton Bird Watching Society, is in hot pursuit of a blue winged marbled flycatcher. The many pockets of her combat vest (a gift from the St. Luke's Church ladies sewing circle) of the type beloved by television news cameramen on foreign assignments, are stuffed with an ordinance survey map, a well-thumbed copy of Birds of Southern England, a digital camera, spare batteries, a railway timetable, a copy of the Racing Form and a mosquito net from a recent trip down the Amazon. Her ladyship's gaze remains skyward.

  If she wonders why two young people are cowering under a blanket, their clothes tossed onto the tree stump on which she is sitting, she doesn't say. Consulting the book that she pulled from one her pockets she sallies on.

  "Listen to this. The blue winged marbled flycatcher is a rather nondescript greyish-brown bird with a beady eye, a thin bill and delicate streaking on the crown and breast. Young birds are obviously 'spotted' on the breast." Ryan is glaring at her I know what he is thinking. He's thinking, 'thanks a lot, lady, my girlfriend was about to jump my bones before you interrupted us.' He has lost his erection, which is a probably a good thing under the circumstances.

  What he actually says is this: "Yes, jolly interesting." He is hoping by saying something innocuous she will go away. But her ladyship is at full throttle. She reads aloud: "It's a rare summer visitor but will take up residence in larger gardens and woodland areas where there are good insect populations. Ornithological studies show that numbers visiting Britain declined by 85 percent between 1974 and 2001. It is one of the last migrant birds to arrive, often not reaching England until May. Nevertheless, it sometimes raises two broods of young before leaving for Africa in August."

  I know what Ryan is thinking. He is thinking that the damn thing gets laid more than he does and fervently wishes her ladyship would leave for Africa.

  A sudden gust of wind lifts the blanket on my side and I slap it down before she can see anything, but the old biddy has eyes like a hawk.

  "I say, you should put something on, you'll catch your death of cold. Ha ha. Another ornithological first for me. The bird and the bush. Ha ha. That's a good one, the bush of the variegated university bird. Sorry, couldn't resist it. I suppose I am rather intruding aren't I, spankus interruptus and all that." She howls with laughter, slapping her thigh with Birds of Southern England.

  Ryan and I look at each other, both thinking the same thing. Did she see what we were doing? How could she have known?

  "What it is to be young, eh? I remember when I was at university. Didn't know a dartford warbler from blue footed booby in those days. Didn't care, much either. Too busy having fun. You young people didn't invent sex, you know. Ask your grandmother. My tipple in those days was babycham, little bottles of bubbly, guaranteed knicker dropper that one, don't suppose they sell it now. Worked like a charm I'll tell you. Couple of babyshams and my inhibitions toppled like a house of cards in a high wind. I remember once in the car park at Woburn Abbey, bent over the bonnet of a 1934 Morris Oxford. My God, yes. Remember the car, can't remember the chap. Jolly good show anyway. Now instead of being atwitter, I'm a twitcher. Well, nice meeting you. Carry on."

  And she was gone.

  We gave her five minutes to be out of range, then emerged from under the blanket.

  "Now, where were we? I said.

  Ryan laid the blanket out at the foot of the stump and sat, legs outstretched, leaning against it. Then abruptly he grabbed hold of me and pulled me across his lap. The suddenness with which he did so took my breath away.

  "I believe this is where we were," he said.

  I could feel the sun on my body. I could hear the murmur of the river and the wind in the trees. For a few delicious minutes he ran his fingertips up and down my spine, then he massaged my calves and thighs, stroking my bottom. I could feel the warmth of his hand, his cock stiff against me.

  "You are going to be spanked. You know why, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, tell me, please. I want to hear you say it."

  "For distracting you, back there on the river."

  "In what way did you distract me?" I felt a finger slide between my legs, teasing.

  "I put on some sunscreen. You were watching."

  "What else?"

  He wanted me to say the word. It was a game we sometimes played, saying it, hearing it said, was part of the excitement. But it wasn't something to be rushed.

  He adjusted my position.

  "Higher, please."

  I raised my buttocks.

  "Hold that position. Now, Catherine, tell me what you did."

  "Nothing, I didn't do anything."

  "You did. You showed me something. What did you show me?"

  I took a deep breath. It was time. Do it. Say it now.

  "I showed you my cunt."

  And then he spanked me.

  He began lightly, his hand soft and caressing. My cheeks were still blushing from the
earlier session and I rewarded his tenderness by moving my hips and moaning softly. Then, as before, I reached behind me to hold him, my fingers closing lightly around it.

  I held him for a few seconds, then I relaxed back into position, arching my back. I was in charge now.

  "Harder," I said. "Spank me harder."

  Telling him, feeling his instant response, gave me a sudden rush of pleasure.

  When I had had enough, we scrambled to our feet and kissed long and hard. He pulled me to him and we made love on the tree stump, me sitting in his lap, our arms around each other and the river flowing by.

  Chapter Five

  Joanne, 21, naughty young lady from Essex, looking for assertive gentleman over 55. Discreet accommodation provided. Tribute required. Available Monday, Tuesday and Saturday, noon to 8 pm. Enquiries to essexgirl@hotmail.uk.

  He had chosen her from the classified ads more or less at random from among a dozen enticing invitations. George was not certain that being assertive was a strong point, although he was proud that a performance evaluation by the human resources department of Putney & District municipality during the early days of his management aspirations, had defined his leadership skills as 'average' and as his experiences at Olympia had taught him he qualified in the age demographic. He had no idea in what form the required 'tribute' was to be paid, but he was fairly sure a kind word, a compliment or two, plus the discreet transfer of a couple of hundred pounds or so would do the job.

  And there was a degree of comfort – although he felt somewhat nervous – in beginning with an activity he knew something about, the erotic spanking of a consensual female bottom, although since Pem's death five years ago his talents in that department had alas not been called upon, nor in fact had he had a relationship of any sort since the Bali tragedy, partly because he had never met anyone who remotely matched up to her memory. And let's face it, he told his bathroom mirror, who is going to be attracted to a short, pudgy, balding, 55-year-old retired civil servant? So he joined a book club instead and immersed himself in writing short stories, and when the opportunity arose to sign up for a creative writing course taught by a distinguished poet, he had seen it as an alignment of the stars and had leapt at the opportunity.

  And look where's it got me, he reflected, morosely, although he was determined that while answering the challenge of writing erotica, his work would at least be literate and its titillating content, he consoled himself, would be offset by comedy, wit and satire.

  He set to work. It did not begin well. Drafting an e-mail in response to the ad proved more tricky than he thought. He couldn't get it right. "Look here, young lady, I will not tolerate such behaviour," seemed sufficiently assertive by way of introduction, but he was not sure it struck the right tone. "Allow me to introduce myself, I am researching for a book on…." seemed wimpy and improbable and finally, after innumerable deletes, he opted to keep it simple. He wrote that he, George, 55, a professional, refined and generous gentleman, was available for 'behavioural modification consultation' on Saturdays between noon and 1 pm. Any later than that, he reflected, and he would miss match of the day on the telly. At the back of his mind he wondered that even if the young lady of the advertisement were to take him on as a client whether spanking her without a love interest might be like watching a football match in which, however entertaining the fixture, he didn't care about the result. Where would be the satisfaction, he pondered, without the love and the love making. Nonetheless he felt a twinge of excitement as he hit the send button and cast his fate upon the ether.

  Her response was prompt and professional. She would meet him on Saturday next at 12 noon at the Sunrise coffee shop on the high street in Basildon, Essex, a 30-minute train ride from Fenchurch St. station. She would wear a bright red scarf. He should carry an umbrella and a copy of The Times. If he were late she would wait no more than 15 minutes.

  In fact George made sure he arrived early and was already seated in a corner booth when a red scarf came bobbing through the door. Clasping his umbrella in his left hand, its handle plainly visible above the formica, he casually waived his newspaper and stood to greet her with an outstretched hand. She was taller than he, slim, very pretty, wrapped in a leather bomber jacket and squeezed into a pair of designer jeans which, George noted with barely disguised satisfaction, revealed a pert and plump derriere. She was black and this he had not expected. From the confines of his Marks and Spencer underwear, the little fella stirred.

  "How do you," he said. "I'm George. "Can I offer you a coffee?"

  "Joanne. Yes. Pleased to meet you. Tall skinny decaf latte, thank you."

  When he returned, she was immersed in his newspaper as if she had been waiting for him all her life. "Can you believe those MPs and their bogus expenses?" she asked, rhetorically. "One minister billed the taxpayer the cost of building a duck house on his castle moat. I don't believe it."

  "Shocking," said George and he sat down across from her. Their eyes met. George paused, a pivotal moment. "Rather naughty of him, wouldn't you say?"

  She smiled. "Very." She laughed. They both did. "Tell me a bit about yourself, George. You say you're a consultant in behavioral modification. Like, am I really expected to believe that?"

  George permitted himself a wry chuckle.

  "Not exactly, I'm a retired civil servant. And what do you do?" As soon as he spoke he could have kicked himself. "What do you think she does, you idiot," he told himself. "She's a sex trade worker."

  "I'm a librarian," Joanne said. "That's my day job. Meeting assertive older gentlemen is a sideline, although a lucrative one. She lowered her voice to a whisper. Two hundred quid, if I trust you and take you on, and that's yet to be determined If I don't trust you, I walk – I'm out of here – and all it has cost you is a coffee. And while we're into true confessions, I'm not 21, I'm 25."

  George supposed lying about her age in the classifieds was naughty, but they'd already been down that road. He wondered if he would pass the interview. He had almost forgotten he was supposed to be researching and at least as a librarian she would be clear on the concept, so he told her about the writing class, the redhead, Wanda's challenge – and the 20,000 pound prize. And he told her about Pem. Now it was his turn to lower his voice. "She loved to be spanked. It was our thing." His eyes misted. "It was sweet and loving and I miss her so much….." She put her hand on his arm. "Finish your coffee. I can help you. We'll go to my place, it's just around the corner."

  Her little bedsit above the post office was charming, full of books as might be imagined, comfortably but not elaborately furnished, prints by Gaugin and Mondrean on the walls adding bright splashes of color to the drab landlord green décor. Joanne sat primly on an armchair beside the gas fireplace and motioned for him to sit on the sofa at a respectable distance.

  "So you're researching – that's what they all say," she ventured. "Just kidding. That's a first for me. But it makes no difference how you spend your money, my fee as a literary consultant, or in my more traditional role, is what I told you. I take cash or credit cards. No cheques. She averted her eyes as George counted out 200 pounds in fifties and handed it to her in an envelope. "As it happens I am open to suggestions," she said. "I do role playing if you wish. I also do costumes if that turns you on, teenage slut, secretary, meter maid – that's a best seller for some strange reason. In the dress up department I can put together practically anything. But I don't see you as a role player. Am I right? If you have preferences, fire away."

  George decided to come straight to the point. "Do women secretly like to be spanked?" he asked. "I read a piece in the New Yorker by an American journalist who claimed they do. Apparently she herself did and for a while she became obsessed by it. Pem, that's my late wife, did. Loved it. Nothing hurtful, just playful and loving. It was all about love for us. Do you enjoy it.? If so, you have a great job."

  She smiled.

  "First of all, I am able to separate my personal and professional life and I set strict boundaries
with my clients as you will see. Secondly, I can't speak for all women, but many of us do enjoy it, probably most us who have been spanked erotically. The sexual tension, the anticipation, the tactile stimulation, offering our bare bottom to our lover, is highly pleasurable. Daphne Merkin, who wrote the essay you're referring to and included it in a book, by the way – we have it in the library – describes being spanked as 'a facilitating prelude to the enactments of lust.' The act of erotic discipline evokes a very complex set of emotions by both giver and receiver, but I think Daphne pretty well sums it up. Did your wife ever share with you her feelings about it, beyond desire?" George thought about this and wondered how much he should say.

  "She did a little bit," he said. "She liked to be dominated. To be told to fetch me a hair brush and to bend over my knee excited her tremendously. If I told her before she went to work that she was going to get a spanking at bedtime she would think about it all day. I had never done it before I met her. Now I can't imagine foreplay without it. I suppose I'm lucky that we had ten wonderful years together."

  Joanne was beginning to like this unassuming little man, with his twinkling eyes and the gentle way about him.

  "Many people would agree with you," she said. "Erotic discipline is a noble art, central to the sexual pleasure of millions of people over a very long period of time, at least 2,000 years. What do you know of its history?"

  "Not much, I've never thought about it. You're in the business, (he flushed, suddenly embarrassed), what I mean is you're a librarian, I assume you've done some research." She laughed at his diffidence. They both did.

  "As a matter of fact, I have. The best article I ever read was based on a book called Chastisement, by John Barry, published more than 40 years ago in California. I haven't been able to track down the book. I suspect it's out of print. Apparently in Ancient Greece it was customary for childless women to visit the temple of Juno in Athens to be cured of sterility by the priest of Pan. They had to lie down on the temple floor to be whipped by a lash made of goat's hide."