by Steve Rayer
Hello folks: remember me, Judith of the unsmacked bottom, Judith who was always moaning on about how she couldn't get her husband to spank her? Well, I have some heart-warming news for you. Here I am, sitting in a plane on the way back to England and I don't know about my heart but my bottom sure is cooling down after yesterday's warming and believe me, I'm feeling great, on top of the world. Yippee!!!
O.K., now settle down Judith, stop squirming around in your seat and attracting the curious sidelong glances of the guy sitting next to you. It's not easy to sit still on an aching bum particularly after the attention mine received (and it certainly got the full treatment!) But now wait for it, this is the big secret I'm going to let you in on... the guy who warmed my backside was not my darling husband, no, but goodness what a whipping master I had there! Wow! Oh naughty, naughty Judith and in case you're wondering what happened afterwards and are asking yourselves 'did we'? Well yes, we did; we had wonderful, wonderful rip-roaring sex such as I haven't enjoyed in years and I'm bursting to tell someone about it.
As if this wasn't enough, three weeks before, I got to play the role of Madame (remember her?) and gave a darn good spanking, several in fact, to a young lady who was sorely in need of them and you can bet your last dollar on how much I enjoyed myself... such a sweet little bottom and so well deserved!
Anyway, to begin at the beginning. The Easter school holidays were approaching and I had arranged through Sandrine for my two teenaged children to stay with a French family outside Paris in order to improve their knowledge of the language. I badly wanted them to be as fluent as I was but progress was slow and what better than to dump them for a month in a French- and nothing-but-French-speaking situation?
Then it turned out that my husband would be away for days at a time at some conference or other during the same period and I was facing the prospect of being on my own for most of the Easter vacation when Petra phoned for one of our little chats. You remember Petra, my flatmate in Paris, she who had been horrified (justifiably so) at my tiger pants? Well, ever since I left Paris we had stayed in touch and she even acted as bridesmaid at my wedding. A year after that, she herself had got married to a doctor from Barcelona who was working in Paris (I had introduced her to Sandrine and Xavier and this guy happened to be working at the same hospital as Xavier which is how it all came together, small world!) and they had gone back to live in Barcelona. Unfortunately for Petra, the marriage didn't work out but luckily she collected a fair sum of money from the divorce and with the proceeds bought herself a flat in the coastal town of Sitges, about half an hour on the train from Barcelona. She'd been fortunate in landing a good job in Barcelona, there were regular trains from Sitges, she got on well with the Catalan people, she was content with her lot, and good for her, I say.
Petra listened to my tale of woe.
"Why don't you come and stay with me for the month?
"Eh? Seriously?"
"Of course, quite serious."
"But Petra, won't I be in the way?"
"How? I work in Barcelona don't forget. You'll have the whole place to yourself for the day. True, I'll be here at weekends but we can organise a few trips. It depends on you really."
I was still trying to get my head around the idea.
"Well it's very kind of you. Only, at this moment I can't think what I would do with myself all day."
"Oh for heaven's sake! There's a fantastic beach. I don't think the water will be warm enough yet for swimming but you can sun yourself, read books. There are lots of bars, have the occasional aperitif. You could even go rollerblading. You used to be good at that as I recall."
"Rollerblading: where?"
"Ah yes now, this is the real surprise. There's a wide smooth promenade that starts at the headland by the old town and runs all round the bay. They say it's nearly three kilometres, putting it well over a mile and a half. It's a rollerbladers' paradise, believe me. Lots of people turn up for it. It's rather like the Miami beach you see on telly."
"Well, sounds fascinating but aren't you forgetting I'm not young any longer, middle age fast approaching?"
"Judith, this covers all ages, both sexes. I've seen people much older than you having a go, some of them very good too. You wouldn't be short of competition. Who knows? You might attract the attention of some handsome male escort to attend to your needs for the month!"
"Petra!" She was giggling now.
"So you'll come then?"
"All right, it sounds a good idea. Yes, I'd love to."
We agreed on dates and later I phoned back with my arrival time at Barcelona airport and she promised to meet me.
In truth, mention of rollerblading had got me strangely excited all of a sudden. Ever since I had given up my job at UNESCO in Paris and returned to England, my rollerblades had lain unwanted in their original packing case. They were unwanted for two reasons. There were the demands of a growing family on my time and, quite simply, where we were living, not much quiet open space with a suitable surface and all the roads were too busy. I went up into the loft and rooted them out to find them fine, still in good working order, only needing a judicious drop of oil.
Next it was the turn of my tights. You will remember - the dark grey ones with the vertical ribbed pattern, last worn in Paris when I skated with Harry. For the umpteenth time I found myself wondering what had become of him and what if? What if I hadn't behaved so stupidly, would I now be married to an architect instead of a solicitor and would my life be any more fulfilled? I pulled them on, no trouble at all, and turned to survey my view from the rear in the dressing table mirror. Well now, come on Judith, what could there possibly be as cause for concern? Despite the march of time and bringing two children into the world, my bottom was still neat and firm and without a doubt slim enough to grace a girl twenty years my junior. True, it had lost some of its pertness but I reckoned it would attract even now the attention of a Xavier, as it did all those years ago on the Paris skating rink. Good old Xavier and my, how he had walloped me when I sulked at my first attempt!
You can see why I had got excited. Thinking of rollerblading put me in mind of all the soreness experienced as a consequence of that particular activity. First the spanking that Xavier gave me, then the one I myself inflicted on Sandrine (a lovely experience and she is still one of my closest friends), after which came Harry's firm treatment that afternoon in the flat. Heavy-handed, deservedly so, and to this day I blush with shame at the reason for it. Nor will the memory of Madame's subsequent thrashing with the strap ever quite succeed in cancelling out the trauma.
So I looked at my dark grey, tightly-swaddled bum in the mirror, not bad at all for a woman nearly turned forty, but that was the problem was it not? My age, and, Judith, you can forget about all the Xaviers of this world, you're not a young lady any longer. Mutton dressed up as lamb I decided. My bottom would need to be modestly covered by something like a track suit top or an anorak if I was to wear those tights and yes, frankly I was determined to wear them, the feel-good factor and stimulus they brought to me were so strong. I confess at that moment I really wanted to be spanked, to feel once again the warmth of a soundly smacked bottom and my gaze fell on the bed, the side my husband slept on. Why wouldn't he understand? If only he would walk into the room now, saying, "Judith, you look gorgeous," lay me across his knee and give me the sort of spanking that had me kicking and yelling and set me on fire for the raw uninhibited sex that would be sure to follow! What we were missing, both of us!
I changed back into my day clothes. The children would be home from school soon.
A week later, I was seeing them off on the Eurostar at Waterloo station. I had prepared the ground well, having on two previous occasions taken them with me to Paris when I went to stay with Sandrine for a few days. So there were no tears on departure but with Petra's permission I had given them her phone number in Sitges and they had a mobile phone to share between them, with strict instructions to be used only for emergency purposes. Then it was back home to prepare for my own departure and the next day husband drove me to the airport, plus one reasonably sized suitcase and, much to his bemusement, a bulky cardboard box containing rollerblades, pair of, one. I wondered if both of us weren't relieved to be going our own separate ways for a few weeks; certainly I had to struggle hard not to appear over-excited at the prospect and our parting kiss at the airport had all the passion of a solicitor saying goodbye to his wife on the front doorstep as he left home for his usual routine day at the office. 'Has our marriage come to this?' I wondered.
Petra met me as arranged and drove me to her flat in Sitges. I was really pleased to see her again. Despite the agony of a divorce, she had lost none of the jollity I had known so well in Paris and she was ready to laugh off the clear evidence of middle-age spread around her hips.
"How do you do it Judith? How do you keep your figure? I'll bet you could still squeeze easily enough into those ghastly tiger pants you once wore in front of me. What became of them by the way?"
Thank you Petra, thank you for reminding me of a most painful incident, both physical and mental, one which I had always hoped the passage of time would help me to forget and now here I was being reminded of it and scarcely an hour into my holiday. Well, there was no harm in talking, confessing. Perhaps it might help to talk after all these years.
"I dumped them Petra. I only wish I'd done so when you first saw me in them. I looked ridiculous and you did your best to tell me. They were at the heart of my break-up with Harry."
Petra, unusually for her, had turned serious.
"Not only ridiculous, you looked plain stupid. If I had been Harry, you'd have had a bloody good hiding off me."
"Oh but that's just what I got: two in fact. One for trying to provoke him, and a follow- up for crying blue murder and calling him all the filthy names I could think of."
"Did he now? Good for him! So what stopped you making up after it? I would have done."
"I left it too late. I sulked in my bedroom and by the time I decided to come out, he'd gone. I wrote to him several times but he never replied. It hurts me now to think of it, in more ways than one. I was in love with him you know, really I was."
She was silent for a while.
"Yes I remember you were down in the dumps for weeks afterwards. But then you went out dressed up as Tiger Lily again one afternoon. What was all that about? I made you put a skirt on."
It was my turn to be silent. How could I possibly explain my need at the time for Madame's punishment, the only way of consolation open to me?
"My mentor, the lady you knew I used to go and see every now and then, my guardian angel. I went to her for help. She was shocked when I broke the news to her about Harry. She had met him and liked him very much and I'm sure she believed we were ideally suited to each other. She wanted to see me the way I showed myself to Harry. She wasn't pleased to say the least."
Petra was musing to herself. "Funny now I come to think of it. I remember at the time how you suddenly seemed to perk up, but then you always seemed to come back in a better frame of mind after you'd been to see her. What was her secret, Judith; what was her course of treatment? She must have been a strong willed lady as I don't remember you ever suffering fools gladly."
"She had her own way of doing things."
I looked at Petra. She was no fool herself and I wondered just how much of the truth she had grasped. There was a wise little smile playing about her lips. Perhaps she had noticed something odd about my movements when I got back to the flat after one of my visits to Madame. Perhaps I hadn't been all that successful in disguising the sudden twitch of pain from a sore bottom and only now had she understood the symptoms. What the blazes, let her think whatever she wanted, I was a grown woman verging on middle-age. Better to think about the future.
"Look here now, what are we doing talking about the past? I've come to enjoy myself, not to open up old wounds. What about this rollerbladers' paradise you promised me?"
Petra laughed. "Let's go walkabout. I'll show you the sights of Sitges."
From the start I had felt at home in her flat. Set on the fourth floor of an apartment block in a residential part of the town away from the tourist area, one looked out from the balcony over roofs towards the sea. To the right a small headland jutted out with an old church perfectly sited on it. 'Go round past there and your paradise begins,' Petra had told me. There were several food shops close by. Yes, she had all that was needed for a comfortable quiet life, although knowing Petra I didn't doubt that with her bubbly personality there was a man somewhere in her life. This was later confirmed when I found myself sleeping all alone in the flat on the occasional night she had decided to stay in Barcelona.
We walked up the hill to the church on the headland, through some narrow streets of the old town, whitewashed buildings on either side, and on to a sort of balcony in front of the church. The view was fantastic. To our left the sea at the foot of the cliffs and in front of us the whole bay of Sitges lay spread out. Palm trees, sandy beaches, hotels and restaurants were set back discreetly behind the trees and, starting below us a wide smooth promenade that went on and on round the bay. Petra was right - it was a rollerbladers' paradise.
We went down a flight of steps (so close to the sea spray!) and sat in a little bar. People were strolling past taking the early evening air. There was even a rollerblader, not very proficient and I said as much.
"What are you going to wear?" asked Petra. "No scruffy jeans here you know."
"Well, yes, I've brought along those grey tights I got for the Bois de Boulogne. I'm sure you remember them. They still fit me perfectly and I thought to wear an anorak or tracksuit top to cover my bum, otherwise I would be looking stupid at my age don't you think?"
She considered this. "The tights are a good idea but why not a simple little skirt if you're worried about showing your bottom and I think you are right from a good taste point of view. A plain denim mini would look fine with them and a simple top - quite de rigeur!"
I weighed the idea and finding it good, we walked up into the town and with Petra's approval I added a short denim skirt to my wardrobe, more suited to a teenager than to a mature woman. However, back in the flat I tried on the combination and have to say it worked brilliantly, giving me all the confidence I would need to sport myself in the public eye round the bay of Sitges the next day.
"Yep, full marks," said Petra, "nice long legs, a real man puller I would say. You'll have them queuing up. One at a time, don't forget!"
"Petra, I'm nearly forty!"
What with one thing and another, we stayed up late that first night with rather too much wine being consumed so the sun was bright and shining when I wake up next morning and Petra had already gone off to her work in Barcelona. I had coffee and croissants in a bar below and, dare I say it, a teeny weeny glass of cognac by way of Dutch courage; for my confidence was on the slide again. Well, it was years since I had last skated and here I was about to do battle without even the chance of private practice.
Later, arrayed in my sporting gear, I walked past the church and down to where the promenade began, carrying my skates. I had brought with me a small backpack to hold my shoes whilst skating, a nuisance but there was no other way. Finding an unoccupied bench with not many people about (good), I got myself all prepared for the ordeal, took several deep breaths, stood up, tried a few tentative lunges and, finding I didn't end up on my bottom, set off to conquer the Bay of Sitges.
Do you know - it went surprisingly well! As my confidence increased, I was soon striking out with some of my old vigour. Sure, the muscles were protesting through lack of use but what a beautiful morning and my new found freedom had me grinning like a Cheshire cat. I caught the eyes of several people out for a morning stroll who, one and all, smiled back. I was so happy to be alive for once, that I laughed out loud and an artist type gentleman, sporting a wide-brimmed hat. whom I overtook, turned and stared at me bewildered as I shot past him. O.K. Judith, settle down, we don't want any mishaps. I reached the far end of the bay without any tumbles and paused for breath in front of the big hotel there, mightily pleased with myself. Then it was back on the return journey, this time starting to sway and wiggle my hips, the way Sandrine and I used to do to attract attention in the Bois de Boulogne. I met the arty type gentleman again who raised his hat as I approached. How charming I thought, so I obliged him with a little wave in return.
For the rest of the day I was quite happy doing nothing after the morning's exertions. I went down to the beach below Petra's apartment and dozed in the sun, pleasantly warm at that time of year though not warm enough for swimming or serious sunbathing. I bought food and had a meal ready prepared for an appreciative Petra in the evening. Next day followed the same pattern. This time I managed two laps of the bay, really getting into my stride now and all the old flair returning. I was full of joy, stretching out my arms, palms upwards, swinging my body in time to the rhythm of my feet, a kind of private ballet on wheels and the arty gentleman, out for another of his morning constitutionals, laughed and waved as I went by.
On day three, everything changed including the weather, with a sudden drop in temperature aided by an unpleasantly chill wind. Definitely a wrap-up warm day and I put on my big anorak and battled all round the bay and back against a stiff wind blowing off the sea, with just me and no one else for company. Not my idea of fun and I found refuge in a bar close under the church balcony, sheltered from the wind, and sat with a glass of lager wondering how to pass the time for the rest of the day. The bar was crowded and, glancing round, I recognised a few people I had seen from previous days out on their morning stroll, including my artist-type friend. He looked English to me, certainly not Spanish or Catalan. He was writing in a large notebook. I gave myself up to several minutes of quiet contemplation of the world outside whilst the level of lager in my glass neared the bottom, when it occurred to me that aforesaid artist-type would keep on glancing across in my direction, often, too often for comfort's sake. All the while his pencil or pen was moving and I wondered if the man was drawing, not writing. Of course he was; wake up Judith, the blighter is drawing you! Well of all the nerve! I gulped down what lager remained and marched across to his table.
"Excuse me, do you speak English?"
"I do. Why do you ask?" No trace of a foreign accent; he was English all right.
"I have reason to believe you are drawing me."
"Quite right, so I am." He was very calm but I held on to my indignation.
"Why, may I ask?"
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