by Steve Rayer
Mabel's nose was six inches from the carpet. Had she wanted, she could have been proud of the cleaning job she had done on the coffee stain, the spot on the carpet right under her nose. She even had the faint smell of the cleaning fluid in her nostrils. She could also have been proud of the high quality garter belt and knickers that she always wore, for Mabel, a cautious woman, was mindful of the time she might have to visit the doctor for an examination, or worse suddenly find herself in hospital being undressed by nurses. That was why two neatly laundered and pressed nighties were wrapped up ready in a parcel and stored away, just in case an overnight or longer stay would be needed. Her pride demanded nothing less.
At present however, these considerations were not in the forefront of her mind. She was having her bottom smacked for the first time in her life. Incredibly, unbelievably, she was being held down across a man's knees, her skirt raised and with only those expensive knickers for protection her bottom was being seriously, properly, repeatedly, spanked. But how could she have let it happen?
Despite early summer, the breeze off the north sea in that small coastal town had been chilly and Mabel with her friend and playmate Edith had taken refuge in a local teashop: two respectable ladies, both over the hump of middle age, both widowed, Mabel by three years and Edith, well, she walked out on her husband years ago and now presumed dead. Mabel was relating a tale of woe. Since Gerald's death and her grown-up children flown the nest she had fulfilled a life-long ambition and begun learning to play the flute and was doing well at it. True, she had started playing whilst still at school but work and marriage had intervened and it was only in the last two years that she was able to find time to practice in earnest. Then her present teacher, Mrs. Witherspoon had suddenly announced she was departing the area leaving Mabel without even the luxury of a piano accompanist. What was she to do?
"It's so boring playing on your own," she wailed and Edith had clucked in sympathy.
"Can I be of any help?" said a male voice from the neighbouring table. They were both too polite to say a word and ignored him. The voice however persisted. "I couldn't help overhearing your problem. Forgive me for butting in. I've had some experience of accompanying, I'm staying here for a few weeks so if you want to make use of me, feel free to do so."
This time they did both look at him. He was about their age or older perhaps, greying hair, ordinary looking, neat grey suit, and that's all there was to see: ordinary, and of course respectable, which is what really mattered.
"Say yes," whispered Edith.
"Shut up!"
"My friend is too modest. She plays very well."
Edith would have been hard pressed to recognise the tune of 'Onward Christian Soldiers' so how the blazes should she know? The ordinary man had introduced himself as Mr. Palmer and somehow Mabel couldn't find it in her to refuse and they had fixed for two o'clock that same afternoon at her house.
"Don't worry," Edith assured her. "I'll phone you after an hour and you can give me a safe word," and noting Mabel's puzzled look, "in case he tries to rape you, even at our age."
He came promptly at two o'clock. Mabel had dusted the upright piano and cleaned the ivory keys. Fortunately the piano had been tuned recently, something Mrs. Witherspoon had insisted upon. Her new accompanist sat down and with practised efficiency tested it with a few sweeping arpeggios and quick repeated notes. He seemed satisfied.
He's good, thought Mabel, he doesn't look like a rapist. Not that she had ever knowingly looked at a rapist in her life.
They began with the slow movement of a Bach sonata and with Mabel reasonably confident, initially that is, but a confidence that dwindled as they played on. He was putting in little twiddly bits, no doubt something Bach would have done in performance, only they didn't appear in the standard figured base as published. Yes, Mr. Palmer was good, very good indeed and Mabel was growing seriously disconcerted. Who was she to be blowing a flute in her amateurish way alongside such an accomplished musician? She struggled to the end of the movement and should have called a halt but he swept straight into the final quick one and Mabel was too proud not to follow. She had played through it several times with Mrs. Witherspoon, difficult as it was, blundering through the hard parts, promising herself she would work on them later and oh how she wished she'd paid attention to her promises!
The performance was rapidly turning into disaster - wrong notes, whole phrases lost in mid breath, harmonics blown. She stopped suddenly and tossed her flute onto the well-cushioned settee.
"Right, that's enough thank you. Let's not waste any more time on me. You're too good for me. We both know it. Would you go please!"
He half turned on the piano seat. "And leave a great man's music unfinished? Do you really believe you could play it properly the first time, or the second, or the third?"
She was losing control of herself. Who did this man think he was, lecturing her in her own home? She was just an ordinary amateur, not a bloomin' professional.
"Will you please go!" she snapped, "And leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you. Now go please, just go."
She watched as he got up and walked out of the room. Her behaviour had been appalling and she knew it
"You've left your coat," she called after him but it was the kitchen he had made for, not the front door, and she heard him rummaging around in it. What on earth was the man doing: should she phone Edith? He was soon back, clutching a roll of kitchen paper towelling and the wooden spatula she used for mixing batter for her cakes. What on earth?
He resumed his seat at the piano, this time with his back to it.
"Come here."
Out of sheer innocent curiosity she went over to him...
It had all happened so quickly: his arm round her waist, the pressure on it causing her to stumble forward across his knees, he calmly lifting up her skirt and that initial resounding smack with at least a dozen more following before her brain caught up with the situation. Completely taken by surprise and true to form her first thought was of her knickers, thank heaven she had on a decent pair or what would Mr. Palmer be thinking of her? Then as the pain built up, retaliation set in. How dare he! And she a respectable woman in middle age, how dare he!?
"I'll report you for this," she squawked into the carpet. "You'll go to prison."
"Will I?" The voice was calm and collected. "In that case we must make sure the job is properly done."
Down went her smooth expensive knickers, falling to her ankles as she struggled. 'Splat' went the spatula on her now bare bottom: well it must have been the spatula, the sound was different and it hurt more than his hand. Much, much more!
"Stop it, stop it," she yelled, her 'ows' her 'oohs' her 'ahs' matching the splat, splat, splat of the spatula. She found herself able suddenly to kick out with her legs at random. Good, must have kicked off her knickers, now she could free herself. He'd no business to be treating her like this. Some hope for he simply crossed his leg over both of hers and she was well and truly pinioned.
Was there any part of her bottom, not forgetting the tops of her thighs, that he failed to chastise? It seemed not. The whole area had become one burning fiery mass and despite her yelps and screeches her mind was seeking desperately the way to stop him. She suddenly hit on it.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she yelled.
"Sorry for what?"
"Whatever it is you want me to be sorry for. Honestly, I'm really sorry!"
He considered this, meditatively resting the spatula on her bottom.
"Listen, and listen well. When Bach wrote his music, the qualities of the performer were the least of his worries. His whole attention was to the music, that wonderful music he was creating and consequently we are sure to find it difficult to play, whatever the instrument. It is our duty whether professional or amateur to give of our best and that means we approach it in humility, not as though our pride will be injured if playing it doesn't come easily to us."
Mabel, in spite of herself, had begun to cry. Injured pride? What was pride to her, held down over a man's knees, unable to move, her bottom bared and smarting from the spatula? Yet this little speech had found its mark. She really had behaved very badly.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled again through her tears.
He was gently smoothing his hands over her bottom now and Mabel rocked slightly from side to side, offering it like a cat wanting to be stroked. There was a deep sensual pleasure welling up in her, one that she had enjoyed in her early days with Gerald but which marital duties and respectability had extinguished over the years, and now here she was, bottom on fire and almost ready to purr as he caressed it. Never would she have believed that a woman of her age could experience naughty feelings such as these and obedient to their calling she let herself relax over his knees. Mr. Palmer was in control and she loved it.
"Would you like us to carry on making music together?"
"Yes please," it came out as a whimper.
"Are you prepared to concentrate on the weak points, no more tantrums because they don't come easily to you?"
"I promise."
"Then we must ensure your promises are convincing."
She sensed him take up the spatula once more. That a man of his ability should take an interest in her! She would do her best to lie still and quiet. There was fired this tiny spark of determination. Splat! Splat!
Was the second session as severe as the first? Truth to tell she had lost all sense of comparison. Once more every part of her bottom was subjected to blistering attack. Splat, Splat! She cried and sobbed her way through it, unable to move, only this time there was no thought of escape, no verbal protest, just a meek acquiescence, as though a powerful presence was dictating procedures, something she needed yet didn't need to understand - accept for once what your body demands of you.
"You can stand up now."
Slowly she got up and holding her bottom went over to the window, gratefully accepting the several sheets of kitchen roll which he offered to her. She was snuffling into the tissue she held in one hand, the other carefully rubbing that part of her which until Mr. Palmer made his presence known she had considered personal private property. He'd begun to play a Bach fugue and Mabel, despite her soreness, stayed quiet and still, the better to hear his performance. He was playing for her benefit, she was sure of it, to draw her back to the world of music, her folly paid for in fine style, and she marvelled at the clarity with which he played, all the interweaving lines shining through in this most complex of musical forms. It was a masterly performance.
He finished and she gave her eyes one final dab, blew her nose and without asking took up the flute and went to the piano. No more tantrums!
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