by Arthur James
At the start of the summer holidays I found myself away from school and once again back in the bosom of my family. I think my parents had grown appreciative of my absence, for I had literally no sooner walked through the front door before I received the surprising news they were planning to go and stay with my Aunt Caroline for a long weekend. Aunt Caroline was always my least favourite aunt, so it was no disappointment that I was not included in the invitation. My younger sister, Elizabeth, was holidaying with friends, so it was arranged that I was to stay with a neighbour, Alison Bellamy. I protested that at my age I was really quite capable of looking after myself, but I didn't protest too hard as I had long held a secret crush on her. Ever since the days when I had worn short trousers and believed in Santa Claus, I had loved the elegant and divinely beautiful Mrs Bellamy.
Alison Bellamy lived next door, although her house was altogether much grander than our humble dwelling. It had eight bedrooms, a billiards room and massive grounds including orchards and a stable containing several horses. Mrs Bellamy was very fond of horses, and was more often seen out riding than walking. As soon as she knew I was returning from school, she had kindly volunteered to look after me for the weekend. Her husband was away on business for a week, and she reasoned we would be pleasant company for each other. My father thought Alison Bellamy was a most admirable young woman, although he had never warmed much to her husband, whom he said possessed a rather limp-wristed way of shaking hands. He preferred men with firm handshakes, who looked you in the eye when they talked to you. I am sure Mrs Bellamy possessed a firm handshake, as everything else about her seemed very firm indeed, including the look she gave me as I waited impatiently beside her to bid farewell to my parents.
As usual, my father warned me to be on my very best behaviour, whilst my stepmother just looked at me and smiled to herself. Perhaps, she thought, Mrs Bellamy was more than a match for her thirteen-year-old stepson so why waste your breath in telling him to be good? Besides, I was usually an amiable child and was happy, as long as I could find a quiet corner to read a book. Just as they were about to drive off, my father wound down his window and said in the sort of voice jolly uncles use when telling bad jokes,
"Alison, if the boy misbehaves you have my full permission to give him a good hard thrashing!"
Both the women seemed to find his feeble joke most amusing. Mrs Bellamy laughed as if my father had suddenly been transformed into a wittier version of Oscar Wilde, and I could see my stepmother chuckling to herself as the car crunched up the gravel drive, and she almost never laughed at my father's jokes. We went back into Mrs Bellamy's house. I was annoyed by my father's unfortunate comment. Unintentionally, he had struck a raw nerve, as I had an interest in the subject of corporal punishment. Despite my father's humorous comments, he had never in the past spanked me, nor in fact had my stepmother, and now of course I was, I felt, too old to be spanked anyway.
Without doubt, Mrs Bellamy, with her tortoiseshell spectacles and her short gently curling dark hair, disproved the theory that men never made passes at girls who wore glasses. All the men in the neighbourhood would stop whatever they were doing when she walked by, to discreetly stare at her well-rounded bottom as she passed. She had a preference for wearing black. In fact, I can never remember seeing her dressed in any other colour. Usually, close fitting riding breeches or skin-tight trousers caused men of all ages to turn their heads and stare, wherever she went. I think you could have called her bottom the area's most admired attraction, at least for most of the male population. Even at my youthful age, I was a keen observer of my fellow man and I could see for myself just how attractive Mrs Bellamy was. The glasses, in fact, seemed to add to her charms, as she looked both intelligent and beautiful. She reminded me slightly of Miss Thomas, the strictest teacher at the first infants school I had attended as a rather cheeky small boy. I didn't remain a cheeky small boy for long, I can tell you. Miss Thomas only had to glance in my general direction and my heart would immediately skip a beat, and I would at once sit up a little straighter in my chair!
When I entered the impressive looking lounge, having taken my pyjamas and things upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms, Mrs Bellamy was seated elegantly in a large green armchair, her small, pretty feet comfortably resting on a small round table. She held a book in her hands, but was quite obviously not reading it. I was suddenly uneasy, as I felt her dark eyes rest upon me. Mrs Bellamy was a strange woman, and something about her I found unsettling. As I turned, I glanced at the two portraits above the mantelpiece. It looked like someone's noble ancestors, probably Mrs Bellamy's, as the house had been in her family for years. Then my attention was caught by a picture on the next wall. In it, a young woman, possibly a schoolmistress, brandished a thin cane in one hand whilst a slim blonde haired boy bent over a table, weeping, his bottom at a perfect angle for a caning. In the background, a black cat sat and watched the proceedings with a contented expression on its face. I couldn't take my eyes from this picture. The boy bore an unmistakable resemblance to me, when I was perhaps two or three years younger. Furthermore, I have a tiny dark mole on my left cheek, the boy had a mole in exactly the same place!
"Do you like my little painting, David?" she asked, smiling at my shocked expression. She had lit a cigarette, its smoke curled up towards the low wood-panelled ceiling. She knew, for sure, that I had at once recognised myself in the painting. What an unusual woman she is, I thought to myself. Obviously, she has an interest in corporal punishment too. I was still shaking, with both fear and excitement, as I replied to her question.
"Yes, it's very n-nice," I stammered. She put the book down on the small table and stood up. She was fairly tall for a woman, almost as tall as I was, and I was only a few inches short of six foot, even as a thirteen-year-old. She came and stood beside me, placing a slender arm gently on my shoulder.
"I should be ever so careful that something like that doesn't happen to you! After all, you heard what your father said," she whispered, confidingly. Softly, she stroked my blonde straight hair with her finger tips. Her face looked as solemn as a vicar at prayer. Finally, she briefly kissed my cheek, her lips softly brushing my skin. Obviously, she was just enjoying a little sport in teasing me. Perhaps she was trying to put me at my ease. If so, her words had the opposite effect. I could feel butterflies fluttering around in my stomach, and I was both intrigued and terrified at the same time. Surely she was hinting strongly that I might be dealt with like the boy in the picture? If only; I could have swooned with pleasure at the thought.
"Now, perhaps you would like some tea, David?"
We went into the kitchen together and had an excellent tea. There was dark brown bread cut into thin slices, a large salad and various types of cheeses. I can't remember what we talked about, but by the end of the meal I felt a good deal more at ease. Perhaps I had begun to get used to her manner, which was strange, as she always seemed to be just on the verge of laughing. Almost as if she found me amusing in some way. Whenever I turned to glance at her I would see her dark brown eyes already looking at me. When she turned around, I couldn't resist glancing at her bottom. The magnificent buttocks, in the tightest black cotton trousers imaginable, looked more beautiful than ever, especially when she bent over for some reason or other. In fact, she seemed to find lots of excuses to bend over. I was not sure, but I sensed she was aware of the fact I couldn't take my eyes away from her behind. Everywhere I looked, it was there, swaying, wriggling, bending, until I could hardly breathe. I definitely felt an almost pleasurable tension in the air between us.
Later, as it began to get dark, we played a game of Scrabble together. It was very civilized, she even poured me out a very weak dry Martini which, I must admit, made me feel a trifle light-headed. I played Scrabble often with my parents and sister and usually played well, but she was in a different class to anyone I had played with before. At the end, when we totalled up our scores, I realised she had scored three times as many points as I. She shook her head, as if she couldn't quite understand how I could have played so poorly.
"I thought you told me you were rather good at Scrabble, David!" she said, looking at me accusingly over the top of her glasses, which had slipped down her nose. I wished, now, I hadn't boasted of my skill as a Scrabble player. My abject defeat showed clearly I had been outclassed. I felt my pale skin turning pink with embarrassment. I could see there was no point blaming it on the poor letters I had received or the dry Martini.
"Sorry!" I said laughing. "I suppose I shouldn't have boasted!"
"Well perhaps you should be punished for being such a boastful boy?"
She breathed. I couldn't quite believe my ears. Quickly, I looked up at her; she was still looking at me, her eyes lit up with a strange mixture of cruelty and joyfulness.
"What would be a suitable punishment do you think?" she asked. I thought she might be playing little mind games with me, but I wasn't sure. From somewhere, I found the courage to say hesitantly.
"I don't know, perhaps a spanking!"
She laughed. It was not a gentle laugh either. I must admit her reaction stung me a bit and I quickly blushed a rich pink colour. She then picked up her glass of Martini, looking at me as she did so. There was no drink left, but it contained a bright red cherry, shaped like a heart, on a cocktail stick, which she bit into hungrily, her small white teeth quickly tearing it in two.
"How old are you?" she asked. Her lips were slightly twisted but still beautiful and crimson red. I felt an overwhelming desire to embrace her, to take her in my arms and hug her tightly.
"Thirteen," I replied huskily. By now, I was more nervous than ever. I felt like a rag doll, limp and drained of all emotion.
"Thirteen might be a little too old for a spanking!" she was laughing. She took her glasses off and placed them carefully on the side table. Still her eyes seemed to consume me. Not for a second did she avert her gaze.
"A boy of thirteen must be caned! And caned hard too. Just like that boy in my picture!"
I caught the humorous look in her eyes and trembled with emotion.
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