Well, if this is Monday then it must be time for another new story, and this is my favourite of my recent works; I really like the characterisation, and I fell a little in love with Stevie as I wrote it (despite her many faults).
Anyway, here it is, complete and unabridged.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, and come back next Monday, for another new story.
Incidentally, if you want to see more of my older stuff (there's some posted here on the blog but not all of it) please check out The Kilahara Library of Spanking Fiction, where I have 9 serials and 23 stories. A few other people have posted the odd story too!
Moving on then. Oh, and one word of warning - it's a bit long.
Please welcome into your hearts......
Anyway, here it is, complete and unabridged.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, and come back next Monday, for another new story.
Incidentally, if you want to see more of my older stuff (there's some posted here on the blog but not all of it) please check out The Kilahara Library of Spanking Fiction, where I have 9 serials and 23 stories. A few other people have posted the odd story too!
Moving on then. Oh, and one word of warning - it's a bit long.
Please welcome into your hearts......
My Tomboy Bride
It was a pleasantly warm early Summer afternoon; I lay on the sofa, feet dangling over it's arm, head on a cushion, and tried to decide exactly when I needed to start cooking Sunday tea.
I was calculating the cooking time for a 2 kilogram piece of pork loin; I'd had a beer with lunch, and, warmly sleepy, concentration wasn't coming easy to me.
I had another beer balanced on my chest, one hand gently gripping the neck of the bottle, and my index finger tapping on it's rim.
CRASH!
The noise, glass shattering nearby, made me throw myself sideways, off the sofa. My beer bottle flew, sending a sudsy stream across the wooden flooring. I hit the ground with rather less grace, spinning as I fell so that my nose smacked against the varnished grain.
CRASH!
The noise came again; what the hell was going on? I scrambled, a little unsteadily, to my feet, and tried to decide exactly where the noise had come from. It seemed to me that it was from the garden, which was strange as we only had a plastic bunker type of shed out there.
Then I remembered that I had last seen Stevie heading for the back door, and a sense of panic set in. It wasn't that I was worried she had been hurt; it was much more that I was terrified as to what my wife had done now.
I ran through the kitchen, and into the utility corridor; at the end of it stood the back door. I skidded to a halt in front of this, and for a moment, I just waited. I didn't dare to actually open it.
I took a deep breath; it was time for all good men to come to the aid of the party or some such crap. I grasped the handle, pushed it downwards, and smoothly swept through the opening.
At first glance there was no one in the garden. The decking was empty, as was the patio that lay beyond it, and our oval of well-groomed lawn stretched out undisturbed. At the end of the garden stood our ageing and rather impressive apple tree, and movement within it caught my eye.
About half way up, standing on a sturdy branch, one arm pulled back as she prepared to hurl the apple that was clutched within it, stood my wife, Stephanie. She was resplendent in tight denim shorts, above which she wore a t shirt that declared “The Ramones – It's Alive!”. Stevie was bare foot, with lovely long legs and bobbed blond hair, and she turned as I gasped.
"Stevie! What the bloody hell are you doing?”
"Oh hi, darling. Umm, nothing.”
“Nothing? Really?”
“Well, next to nothing then.”
By this point I knew exactly what she had been doing; our garden backed onto that of Mr Pettifer, and near the end of that was his greenhouse, in which he grew his prize winning tomatoes. He and Stevie had not quite hit it off.
Stevie was bombarding his prize produce with apples.
“Get out of that tree, you idiot! And drop that apple, at once.”
“Oh, this one? Okay, if you say so.” and saying this, with unerring aim, she pitched the apple through another panel in the greenhouse. The resounding crash revealed that it had been one of the ones that she had yet to break. It had been.
With an elegant grace, she dropped from branch to branch, eventually swinging down from the lowest one, to land lightly on her toes. She extended her arms, like a gymnast at the end of a successful routine, and smiled her wonderful winning grin, wide, toothy and infectious.
Oh, Stevie, what was I going to do with you?
…...........................
We had met only 2 years earlier, when Stevie was 22 years old, and I was 43. I had never looked covetously at younger women; I had married young to my first love from college, and we stayed together until she was taken from me in a car accident, 6 years later.
Since then I hadn't dated; I wasn't still mourning, but I couldn't picture another women in Veronica's place. I was content enough; I had a good job, a lovely house, and a circle of friends who accepted me the way that I was. It had been years since anyone had even tried to set me up with a date.
I did have an active social life though, and one of my friends, a guy who had been named Arthur by old fashioned parents, was a bit of a paintball fiend. He would get a group of around 8 of us together, every month or so, and arrange for us to compete against another team from the area.
Apparently paintball was quite popular around the town, as he never seemed to struggle to find a team to play with, and it was a different one each time.
Stevie burst into my life when she dropped from a tree into the midst of a group of us, as we stood around and planned our strategy. She was screaming, and spinning, and firing wildly, but before any of us could react we were all daubed with her yellow paint, and thus out of the game.
She grinned, saluted, and darted between two trees, and away, to seek out the reminder of our group. I couldn't see a lot of her, clad as she was in a protective blue boiler suit, but even through her thick goggles her eyes just seemed to sparkle.
At first glance, Stevie was entirely bewitching.
It turned out to be the shortest paintball round we'd ever had, as Stevie created havoc diving in and out of the wooded area, and in very little time at all she had tagged the lot of us.
Arthur wasn't awfully impressed by this; he was rather a sore loser, and he demanded that the captain of our opponents tell us where this wild woman had come from. He was a little uncomplimentary in the way that he described her, which was unfortunate because as he began his tirade she emerged from cover, and heard all of it.
Her revenge came swiftly; she tapped Arthur on the shoulder, and, as he turned, she levelled her pistol at his groin, and shot him. The pellet hit him hard, especially as he wasn't prepared for it. Or the five additional shots she placed in the same area.
As Arthur writhed on the floor, his attempts to grasp his genitals only smearing paint all over him, Stevie dropped her weapon, removed her goggles, and apologised to the rest of us.
Arthur she ignored; clearly she was implacable in her wrath.
It was our custom that the losers should buy the winners a drink, so we all, with the exception of Arthur, who felt quite sick and whom in any case we were shunning in view of his bad manners, adjourned to the local pub, The Slaughtered Lamb (it's landlord at the time was a big film fan).
I always enjoyed these drinks; over the years I had found a good deal of pleasure in meeting new people, and I loved to chat about almost anything. Politics and reality shows excepted, of course.
My intentions towards Stevie were benign; I just wanted to get a better idea of what made her tick. Looking back, she must have seen something more in me, as she approached me before I had a chance to seek her out.
“Hi, I'm Stevie. Going to buy me a drink then, old man?” She wore faded skin tight jeans, a hole in one knee and a Led Zeppelin patch over the other, topped by a purple sweat shirt that once bore a logo now long since faded.
Her lower legs were encased in black leather boots, more functional than fashionable, and she took my breath away.
“Um, yes, of course. Oh, I'm Alan, by the way. What would you like?”
Somehow I was unsurprised when she asked for a pint of Becks; it was hard to imagine this girl sipping delicately at an alcopop, or savouring a sweet sherry.
“How old are you anyway?” she asked, with no sense that she prying, or being inappropriate.
Reluctantly I admitted my age, which she just shrugged off with a comment about not quite being twice as old as she was.
When her drink came she downed almost half of it with a series of thirsty gulps, and then she wiped foam away from her mouth with a swift swipe from the back of her hand.
“You're not married then?” I confirmed this. “At your age? Are you gay then?” She didn't seem concerned by the prospect, just idly curious.
For the first time in years I told my story to a stranger; she listened, head on one side, in between finishing the pint and ordering another. She offered no comments, and made none of the sympathetic noises, well meant but annoying, that most listeners did.
When I finished she waited for a moment; she seemed to be giving what I'd said a lot of thought.
“Well, that's just sad.”
“Thank you.” I said, accepting her condolences.
“No, no. I mean, what happened to your wife was sad. But no, I meant, your life. You stopped living it. That's sad.”
I should have walked away, angry at being so harshly analysed by this child who had surely never seen anything of real life, but I didn't. I was already at least a little in love with Stevie.
“Okay.” My tone was probably a little harsh, but Stevie wasn't concerned. “So what's your story then? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Oh, I don't have much of a story. Or a boyfriend, come to that. Let me give you my potted history; all you need to know in as few words as possible.”
She took another swig of her drink, spread her feet slightly, straightened her shoulders, and cleared her throat. She looked like a Shakespearian actor about to declaim, or at least the Black Adder version of one.
As she opened her mouth I half expected her to roar.
“I'm the only child of a lovely couple who live in Devon; I was raised there, but sent away to boarding school in Town.
“I have 14 GCSE's, 4 A levels, and a degree in American Literature and Cinema, from Bristol University.
“I like film and books, obviously. I also like football, climbing, hill walking and paintball.
“I have had three serious boyfriends, but I haven't dated since I left University.
“Oh, and people say I'm a tomboy, which is probably true.”
She took another drink, and nodded. “There. That's me. All you need to know. All you need to decide whether to take me home with you.”
I blinked, and shook my head. Christ, I was too young to have developed hearing problems.
“Um, sorry. I think I missed that last bit.”
Her grin was the very soul of mischief. She chuckled, a lilting airy laugh that lifted the spirits of everyone around her.
“Oh, I don't think you did. I hope this isn't a problem, but I'm very direct.” She wasn't kidding. “Life is too short to wait and see. If I want something I try and get it in the most direct way that I can. If it doesn't work out I haven't wasted a lot of time, and I move on.
“An old guy like you should appreciate that.”
“You cheeky little brat! You should have more respect for those, um, with more experience than you.”
“More experience? You mean, like, older, don't you?”
“Yes, I do. I'm twice your age.”
“Nearly.” she injected, sotto voce.
“And I certainly have enough years on you to give you a good spanking, young lady.”
Her grin was a picture of genuine pleasure.
“Well, old man, we'll have to see how the rest of the evening goes, won't we?”
She took my arm, and looked up me. Apparently she still liked what she saw there.
“Are we going then?”
I lead her out to my car, and into my house, and into my heart. And she never left.
…...................................
Stevie (or more properly, Stephanie Rose) really was a tomboy. Whilst her willowy frame could bring the best out of designer dresses, she hated to wear them, much preferring to wear jeans, leggings and shorts.
When, some 4 weeks after we first met, she formally moved in with me, I was shocked to find that, amongst her wardrobe, she had exactly one dress and two skirts. Not that I ever saw her wear them anyway.
If we went out for a meal to a showy restaurant she would wear tailored slacks, often with one pair or another from her quite impressive boot collection. She looked stunning in whatever she chose to wear anyway.
At first I did try to buy her dresses, but she always refused.
“I wasn't looking for a sugar daddy. I have a good job, and I make decent money. I can buy whatever I need. Don't spend money on me.”
I accepted this, but I was at least a bit convinced that this was a rationalisation; she just didn't like pretty clothes.
We had been together for 2 months when I finally got to meet her parents; I admit that I had been putting off the experience, a bit worried as to how they would feel about their only daughter taking up with a much older man.
On first view her parents were unremarkable; a couple at various stages of their fifties, who clearly felt huge affection for each other.
Her mother, Rosemary, had never worked outside of her home in her life. Well, not for money at least; she did spend a lot of time helping around the village in which they lived, and in the three days that I stayed with them she seemed a ball of energy, whirling from one task to the next.
She had a slim figure, a little wiry from the amount of running around she did, and, apparently, it was a common sight in the village to see her hurtling across the Green on her bicycle. Her loud authoritarian voice announced her arrival well in advance of her physical presence.
Jonathan was a much quieter type, a few years older than his wife. He was a respected expert on genre magazines of the 1930's and 40's, and had a huge collection of them, stuffing the shelves on the walls of his study. He came from money, and passed his time writing articles around his area of interest, and advising collectors of the value of their purchases.
As we sat, sipping malt whiskey on the evening of our arrival, I admitted to him my worries, about how the gap in our ages might be seen.
“Well, at first, when Stevie emailed us about you, I admit I was a little concerned. But then, I remembered my daughter.
“I mean, do you really think that anyone could make her do something that she didn't want to? She has the strongest, oh, I don't know, um, character I guess, of anyone that I have ever known.
“If Stevie is with you she has seen something in you. It could only ever be her choice. With Stevie, you just have to accept that she has decided on a course, and then you go with the flow.”
“Calling her strong minded doesn't do her justice. I mean, for years we tried to get her to behave more like a girl, and then a young lady. Whatever we said was water off a duck's back.
“At one point her mother got so fed up of seeing her around the village in shorts that she threw away every pair Stevie owned. When she found out, Stevie didn't say a thing. She just went up to her room, and shut the door.
“An hour later she came down in a pair of denim shorts; she had taken a pair of scissors and cut the legs of all of her trousers, including the ones that she wore for school.
“Her mother is a bit traditional; it drove her to tears sometimes, when Stevie just refused to do the things that her Mom felt were ladylike. Eventually even Rosemary gave up; she was the last one to stop calling Stevie Stephanie, but finally she gave in too.”
I digested this, for a moment. I loved Stevie exactly as she was, but what if she decided to do something that I couldn't bear? What if she wanted to start taking The Daily Mail for instance? How would I cope?
I'm pretty sure that Jonathan could see exactly what I was thinking; in fact, I think that what he had said had been a scarcely veiled warning.
He leaned over and patted me on the leg.
“Maybe you'll be the one to tame her.” he laughed, buoyed by the sheer impossibility of anyone ever getting the better of Stevie.
…...............................................
We got married in the village where her parents lived, almost exactly 12 months to the day after first meeting.
The country church was tiny, with hard wooden seats, and an isle that was slightly crooked. As I stood next to my best man (and, no, it wasn't Arthur) I felt a moment of disassociation; I wasn't really here again, was I? Standing up before Man and God to join my fate to another's.
I wondered what Veronica would have made of Stevie; I'm sure that she would have wanted me to move on, but would she find my choice of partner odd?
The organ began to play, and I looked towards the back of the church; there stood Jonathan, in full morning suit, and on his arm was a vision. My Stevie, in full wedding dress and veil.
For a moment my knees went weak, and I had to clutch my best man's arm to prevent me from falling. A sob clutched at my throat, for what I had lost all those years ago, and for what I was now gaining.
Stevie began her walk up the aisle, and my life changed forever.
….....................
I loved my life with Stevie, but as with any relationship, it wasn't always smooth sailing.
Three months after we married the quiet atmosphere of our little cul de sac was rent by the burbling roar of a large motorbike, Initially I ignored it, but after a couple of minutes I realised that it's idling was coming from outside our house.
I walked to the front window and looked out. There on the drive was a huge black machine, engine occasionally revving, and astride it, clad in tight black leather, was a frame I recognised all too well.
I hated motorbikes; always had, always would. I like the feeling of having a metal cage around me when I venture out onto the idiot filled roads of our country. I suppose that's a little ironic, given how Veronica died.
I rushed to the front door, and threw it open. Stevie removed her helmet, tousled her blond hair, and smiled.
“Look what I bought.” She awaited my complimentary response, as though it were her due.
“What the bloody hell did you do that for?”
“What? What? Um, what do you mean?”
“Sorry, let me use small words. Why did you buy a motorbike? And how do you even know how to ride one, anyway?”
“Why are you cross? I learned to ride at Uni; my boyfriend taught me. He had one. They're fun; I always meant to get one.”
“Why am I cross? Out of the blue, you turn up with that...monstrosity. Without a word first. Without so much as a by your leave or..”
“You are not my father!” As though she would have listened to him either! “I wanted a bike, so I bought one. Out of my own money. It has nothing to do with you!”
Clearly I had disappointed my wife. I tried to explain why I didn't feel motorbikes were safe, and that they were too noisy, and that it would leak oil all over our granite paved drive.
It didn't matter what I said. Stevie had decided. The bike stayed.
That wasn't our only disagreement. One year she decided that we should attend the music festival at Glastonbury. At some expense I used a number of contacts and got us VIP passes, so we wouldn't have to wallow in the mud that habitually formed there.
Without telling me Stevie just swapped them for tent passes; she wanted “the full Glastonbury experience”, mud and all. When I refused to go she simply called up a friend and went anyway.
All of this sounds like Stevie was spoiled, and that really wasn't the case. She was, however, very strong willed, and, as she said when we first met, she wanted what she wanted.
Most of the time we had an easy untroubled existence. We each did our thing, and we met in the middle. I was happy; more than that, for the most part I was blissful.
...........................................
And into the Garden of Eden a snake did slide, a serpent called Mr Pettifer.
No, wait, that's grossly unfair. For one thing, Mr Pettifer owned his house in the next close for years before Veronica and I bought ours.
For another, Mr Pettifer was actually a decent enough bloke; he was just a bit set in his ways, and his opinions had been formed when he was young. He believed that the Man ruled the household, and that a woman's place was in the kitchen.
Stevie totally stumped him.
They first met when I asked him if he'd like to pop round for coffee. He had been a relatively frequent visitor after Veronica's accident, and his slightly bluff, no nonsense approach really did help me start to rebuild my life.
By the time Stevie entranced me he must have been around 75 years old; an ex-military man he still bore himself with dignity, marching everywhere that he went. His head was now largely free of hair, apart from a few very grey tufts, but his mustache was full and luxurious, and twitched when he was annoyed.
He spoke perhaps a little too loudly, the inheritance of years as a drill sergeant, and he did have a tendency to interfere, but his heart was generally in the right place.
When I introduced Stevie to him for the first time, she was wearing, as usual, rather small denim shorts, a tight t shirt advertising some band or other, and black leather ankle boots. He solemnly shook her hand, but he still radiated disapproval.
Stevie sensed this at once, and adopted a somewhat hostile and distant attitude. She asked if he wanted coffee, and then, instructing me to get it, she led him to the living room where she selected his seat for him, sitting down across the room, and crossing provocatively long legs.
Her small talk was stilted, and disinterested; you never got a second chance with Stevie.
I joined them, with coffee poured from our filter machine into large mugs; I'd added cream to each, and a single small spoon of sugar to Mr Pettifer's.
He drank from his mug with a satisfied sigh, and, leaning forward, enquired in his stentorian tone
“Did you make this coffee, Mrs Steele?”
Stevie looked at him as though he were a rebellious insect she intended to crush beneath the scuffed soles of her boots.
“I'm sorry? Did you not just see Alan bring it in?”
“Well, yes, but I assumed he just poured it out. You prepared it, of course?”
I was not sure if this was genuine enquiry, or if he was belittling her in some way, but I could see how Stevie took it.
“Oh, I stay out of the kitchen.” she said, rather airily. “Alan is a much better cook, and, after all, he's had years of practice.”
“So you spend more of your time on the housework? I must say that I've never seen Alan's house look neater.”
“What? Oh, no, I go out to work. Alan works from home, as you know, so he does the housework. It gives him a break from the computer.”
Mr Pettifer pursed his lips. He tutted, quietly and to himself, but Stevie heard it and reacted.
“Something the matter, Mr Pettifer. Is your coffee too hot?”
“Ah, no, it's fine. Lovely in fact.”
“Oh yes, Alan is a splendid house husband. I' never have to do any housework. Much more fun to be out drinking with the girls.”
This last part was a bit disingenuous; since we had been together she had left me alone to see her friends exactly once. The other few times she'd asked me to tag along, and I'd been happy to do so.
Mr Pettifer drew himself up on the sofa. He tried to look down at Stevie, but she rose to her feet, and stared at the top of his head instead.
“Well, enjoy your coffee; I need to see to our apple tree.” This was code to tell me she was going climbing in it; her curt dismissal was not lost on our guest.
For a time we were silent, each lost in our thoughts. I admit that I was a little irritated at both of them; I had never found it a good idea to judge a new acquaintance too quickly.
“Umm, well, she's an unusual young woman, isn't she?” I had no doubt that Mr Pettifer found Stevie's dress, behaviour and attitudes to be far below those he expected from a respectable young woman.
“She's a breath of fresh air. I love her.” It was the first time I'd uttered the last sentiment in the presence of any one other than Stevie, and my urgent need to defend her startled me.
We made small talk for a few minutes more, and then Mr Pettifer took his leave. Our visits to each other's houses became much less frequent after that.
Over time Stevie and Mr Pettifer clashed frequently. He hated the sound of her motorbike, he hated to see her skateboarding down the hill at the end of our cul de sac with the local kids, and he hated that she flaunted her legs in shorts so frequently.
Between his greenhouse and the back of his home, Mr Pettifer had several trees of different heights, and, despite his age, he spent quite a lot of time up a stepladder pruning them.
This meant that he could not avoid seeing into our back garden from time to time, and Stevie always delighted in rushing to taunt him by changing into and lying around in the skimpiest bathing costume she could find, sipping a can of beer and reading British war comics or borderline pornographic novels.
If they passed each other in the street, each would ignore the other; if I were with Stevie and stopped to speak with Mr Pettifer she would just keep on walking.
It had been two years now, and hostilities seemed no closer to easing.
….............................
All of which brings us to that fateful Sunday afternoon, and my wife's vandalism of Mr Pettifer's greenhouse.
“What on Earth possessed you to do that? That's not mischief Stevie; that's actual vandalism.”
Stevie shrugged this off.
“Oh, he deserved it.”
“What could he have possibly done to make you want to destroy his pride and joy?” Mr Pettifer really was a very keen gardener.
“You know that stray dog? That Irish Setter that all of the kids have been looking after?”
I did, of course. It had turned up, beautifully groomed but with no owner's tag on it's collar, a few weeks ago. The dog, which everyone simply called “Dog”, had been instantly friendly to anyone that approached him, and he was clearly good natured.
The kids, 9 or 10 of them, who lived within 2 or 3 streets, rallied around and decided to look after him, as a communal effort. They pooled their pocket money to feed him, took it in turns to groom him, and each persuaded their parents to allow him to sleep in their garage or shed, at night.
By day he wandered free, and became something of a local attraction. The kids put up posters for miles around, advertising for his owners, but no one had as yet claimed him.
Stevie had suggested we might take him in if no one turned up soon, an idea I was quite keen on, but for now everyone around helped out, and looked after him.
“Yes. What about him?”
“Mr Pettifer reported him to the police. Said he was a stray, and had been making a nuisance of himself. The dog catcher came and got him. They'll put him down.”
“Well, we won't let that happen. We'll go down tomorrow, and offer to take him.”
“Really? Oh Alan, that's lovely.” She came to me and hugged me tightly. I could feel the warmth of her smile against my chest.
Grasping her shoulders I pushed her away from me. Holding her at arms length I stared hard at her.
“And while I wish Mr Pettifer hadn't called the police, that does not justify destroying his greenhouse.”
“He's just a nasty small man! I was so angry!”
“And just think how he'll be feeling now. I keep expecting to hear a police car pull up outside.”
“Oh, sod him. I can talk my way out of it.”
Stevie actually had talked her way out of speeding tickets twice, when pulled over whilst riding her motorbike. I suspect that her looks were a huge help in this.
“I don't think you'll talk your way out of this. Remember, Mr Pettifer was a magistrate; he has friends in the Police, quite high up ones. You'll end up in court.”
“And they'll tell me off, and give me a fine. I have money; I'll just pay it.”
“It's not as easy as that. You'll have a conviction on you record; you won't find it so easy to convince traffic cops to let you go when they see that.”
“Well, what's done is done. I can't very well take it back now, can I?”
“Not exactly, no. I'll go and see Mr Pettifer, and pay him for the repairs, and hope I can convince him you're sorry.”
“Well, I'm not sorry. Should I come with you? Do you think?”
“Good God, no! I want a decent shot at placating him; you'd be like throwing petrol onto a fire.”
“I don't like someone else having to do my dirty work.”
“Well, that's what husbands are for. Apparently. Just let me talk to him, and try to set things right.”
Stevie pouted; I honestly think that she'd have been happier to justify her actions in court. I fetched my jacket, and my chequebook, and went to see Mr Pettifer.
…...............................
I knocked the old brass knocker, and waited. His house was twenty or thirty years older than ours, and built more solidly. No noise from inside carried to the outside world, so when he opened the door it seemed very sudden.
He looked me up and down with disapproval, and then failed to invite me inside.
“Look, John, I need to talk to you.”
He actually humphed. I hadn't realised people really did that. He shook his head, and a sour expression crept across his face.
“I don't know.”
“Oh, come on John. You've known me for a long while. Surely we can talk about this?”
Mr Pettifer thought about this. The door swung fully open.
“I suppose you better come in.” This was a relief; a conversation on his doorstep, with the volume his voice regularly displayed, would have been embarrassing.
I followed him through his long narrow hall to the living room at the back of the house. Everything was arranged along straight lines, with nothing so much as an inch out of place, and dust had been banished entirely.
He sat in a large leather armchair; by it's side was an occasional table, on which stood a glass of whiskey, and a telephone.
Mr Pettifer gestured me towards the adjacent chair; I noticed that he didn't offer me a drink.
He sipped from the large chunky crystal glass, and then carefully replaced it on a square mat, the edges of which were parallel to the sides of the table.
“I think I shall have to call the police.” I was relieved that he hadn't yet done so. There was still time.
“Look, John, there's no need to do that. I'll pay for the damage, and Stevie's really sorry.”
“Is she? I doubt that, somehow. If she were sorry, why isn't she here to apologise? In person?”
That was hard to argue with. Of course, we both knew Stevie wasn't sorry at all.
“Well, she's upset about Dog. She'll want to apologise when she's calmed down.”
“She's upset? What about my tomatoes? My greenhouse? I'll happily accept your money to pay for the repairs, but that won't do anything for the fruit that I lost. All of the work that I put into them. At my age every hour is precious; I don't have that many left.”
Mr Pettifer was clearly genuinely disturbed; this wasn't the sort of petty anger that he and Stevie had been sharing.
“I really think that I shall have to call the police. I'm sorry, Alan. I am. But your wife needs to be taught a lesson.”
“Look, John, I know what she did was wrong. Stevie knows it too.”
“Well, I'm not sure that she does. I want to make sure that she does.”
“What she did was childish. It was petulant. It's honestly not worth calling in the police for.”
“Well, if she were a child, you could at least tan her backside for her. I think that the police is the only option.”
Now it was my turn to think. Perhaps there was a way out of this, and perhaps it would be appropriate too.
“You agree that she acted childishly?”
“Yes, of course. Totally inappropriate in a grown up young woman.”
“Yes, but she still is a young woman. Not much more than a child.”
“Alan, I don't know what you're getting at.”
“Well, you agree that she acted like a child. Would you be satisfied if she were punished like a child?”
“What, how they treat naughty kids nowadays? You're proposing that you'll ground her? Don't be ridiculous!”
“No, no. I was thinking of what you said before. What if I gave her a good old fashioned spanking?”
Mr Pettifer's eyes grew wide, and his mouth dropped open.
“You can't do that!”
“Why not? You said that she deserved it. She acted like a child. What could be more appropriate than treating her like a child?”
“Why not? You said that she deserved it. She acted like a child. What could be more appropriate than treating her like a child?”
“Yes, but, um,she is a grown women, after all. Wouldn't it be wife beating?”
“Well, wife spanking more like it. I'll offer Stevie a choice; either she takes a good sound spanking, or you call the police. So it's up to her.”
I could see that Mr Pettifer was warming to this idea.
“Yes, then, but it would need to be a proper spanking; something memorable, not a dozen or so pats on her bottom.”
“Oh, I assure you, it would certainly be a spanking that she wouldn't forget. I'd make her wriggle.”
“Oh, I hate to ask this, but.... Well, a proper spanking needs to be flesh on flesh, I always believed. So, a bare bottomed spanking?”
“Really? Well, I suppose so. I'll need to see that the lesson is, erm, sinking in, anyway. So yes, I suppose so – bare bottomed.”
Mr Pettifer rolled his head, and I could hear his neck crack with released tension.
“I really didn't want to call the police, so, if your wife will take a spanking, a proper sound one mind, then I'll let the whole thing drop. Oh, and you'll still pay for the repairs, of course.”
“That sounds like a deal to me. And you'll accept my word, that I've spanked her? If she chooses that option?”
“Of course. And you'll let me know if she decides on the police?”
We shook hands on our bargain, and now Mr Pettifer did offer me a glass of whiskey. I took it gladly, and, whilst we sipped in comfortable silence, I wondered whether Stevie would see sense.
I was certainly happy to put off the rather awkward interview for as long as I could.
…...............................
An hour or so later I unlocked the door to our porch, and entered our house. It was worryingly quiet within; Stevie regularly blasted loud rock music between rooms, which I rather enjoyed, and its absence was quite jarring.
I found Stevie sitting on the sofa in the lounge, deep in thought. It occurred to me that, for once, she did realise that she was in the wrong. That might make what I was about to do easier.
She looked up at me as I entered the room, her face oddly solemn. It was strange to see it not split with her usual grin.
“Well, did he call the police?”
“No, he hasn't.”
“So, you fixed it then?” Stevie's head came up. And tilted quizzically to one side. “I didn't think you'd be able to.”
“Well, it's sort of fixed. It depends on you.”
“Oh, do I have to go and beg for the old fart's forgiveness? I won't. I'd rather be locked up!” Stevie sounded distraught.
“Come on, you know it wouldn't come to that, even if her did call the police. But anyway, hopefully that won't happen. It's up to you though.”
“You said that already! How is it up to me? I won't apologise!”
“Even thought you know that you over reacted? That you're in the wrong?”
“Yes, even then. My pride wouldn't be able to take it.”
“Well, lucky for you then, he didn't ask for that. We have another suggestion.” I wasn't quite brave enough to own this idea on my own.
“What then? Do I have to volunteer at the Shelter for Orphaned Tomatoes, or something?”
“This is the situation. Mr Pettifer feels that you acted like a child, who didn't get her own way. To be fair sweetie, I agree with him.”
Stevie stamped her foot, and then looked down at the offending limb, slightly startled. She was self aware enough to realise that she wasn't behaving in a terribly adult manner.
“Oh, I suppose you're right. Both of you.” She spat the second sentence out; it left a bad taste in her mouth. “So, I was childish. It happens. What about it?”
“Well, he feels that, because you acted like a child, you should be punished like a child.”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Well, when you were at that fancy boarding school, what would they have done?”
“Oh, I dunno. Given me detention, or lines. Probably both. Limited my privileges; no leaving the school premises, no socialising, I'd be confined to my room outside of class hours. What, you're going to ground me? Take away my bike keys? Insist I come straight home from work? You've gotta be pulling my...”
I jumped in; Stevie never said leg.
“No, no, that's not it. You've got to remember how old Mr Pettifer is. In his day they didn't mess about with half hearted punishments. As he sees them.”
“Well, what then? I don't know what you can.... Er, hold on. In those days they beat kids, didn't they? He wants you to hit me?” Her voice rose incredulously. Think Ian Gillan doing Child in Time on Made in Japan. A bit piercing.
“No, not hit you. Well, yes, I suppose. He wants me to put you over my knee and give you a good spanking.”
This was something new. For the first time in my experience of her, words failed Stevie. The only noises she could come up with were sort of strangled gulps; there might have been the intent to produce words, but the ability evaded her.
“Yes, a good sound spanking. Like you were a naughty child.”
Stevie just shook her head in disbelief.
“Surely your Dad must have spanked you, when you were young. He says you were a wilful child.”
Stevie shook her head more firmly.
Standing, she turned away from me and left the room, heading for the kitchen. I watched her go, convinced I would have to tell Mr Pettifer to call the police.
I heard the kitchen tap, and presently Stevie returned, a half emptied glass of cold water in her hand. She gestured with her free hand; a sort of repeating circle.
“You don't seriously mean that you've agreed to spank me? For that horrid old man?”
“That old man was a friend of mine long before I met you, and he did a lot to help me through some rough times after Veronica's accident. You know, I regret shutting him out, just because you two don't get on. That wasn't the way to treat a friend.
“That old man was a friend of mine long before I met you, and he did a lot to help me through some rough times after Veronica's accident. You know, I regret shutting him out, just because you two don't get on. That wasn't the way to treat a friend.
“So yes, my tomboy wife, I have agreed to spank you. And, by God, I'm pretty sure that you deserve it too.”
Stevie looked at me in the utmost disbelief. While we did have disagreements from time to time, I rarely spoke harshly to her. It wasn't really in my nature; I was soft spoken and avoided confrontation as a rule.
“But, but.....you don't really think I deserve to be spanked? You can't. This is a joke, right?”
“Stevie, my love, you have to know that I hate to see you hurt, in any way. But it seems to me that it has got to the point where you need to learn to curb some of these impulses that you have.
“You know that I like, and admire, your parents, but they really should have done a better job of instilling some self control in you when you were a kid. Still, better late than never, and I think that this is a lesson you need to learn. Now.”
Stevie put down the water glass, and walked towards me. She was clearly bewildered by the turn of events. Reaching me, she placed one hand against the side of my face, and then she kissed me gently on my lips.
“Well, if you think I need it. I suppose. I just hate that it's because of that old bastard!”
“You know, really, it has nothing to do with Mr Pettifer. Anything that happens now is as a result of your own actions. If you were more prepared to take responsibility you wouldn't need to be spanked.”
It was hard for Stevie to digest this, further proof, I suppose, of why she really did need it.
She took a step back, and regarded my stern expression.
“Well, we should get it over with then.”
“Yes, we should.” I reached out and took her wrist in one hand, and led her to the sofa. It was a huge four seater, firm and supportive.
I sat back in the middle of it, and pulling Stevie around to my right side, I drew her across my lap. She followed my wordless directions with a similar silence of her own.
I paused, finding it hard to believe that I was about to do what I was about to do. Stevie's splendid bottom, encased still in tight denim shorts that were really too small to cover her cheeks, lay raised across my right thigh. Her legs stretched out, almost to the end of the settee, and, in the opposite direction, she peeped back over her shoulder, a wounded look on her face.
I placed my left hand against the small of her back, and my right one naturally snuggled against her left buttock. I considered; should I lecture her whilst I spanked? My Mom had always kept up a stream of recriminations when she spanked me as a kid.
“Look Stevie, I don't want to be doing this, but you know that you deserve it, and that you need to learn to control your impulses a bit better.”
Still looking back over her shoulder she huffed, and nodded tersely.
I raised my hand, and, fingers spread slightly, I whacked it down as hard as I could. It smacked against one side of Stevie's butt, and drew a gasp.
“Bloody Hell, Alan, that hurt!”
I added a similar second smack to the other side of her bottom.
“Yes, Stevie, it's supposed to.”
I added two more smacks, one to each side of her bottom.
“Yeoww! What about a warm up?”
“A warm up? Do you think this is some sort of game?” Every couple of words my hand fell again; I had started to spank almost reluctantly, but my annoyance was growing with every word Stevie uttered.
“No, but, ow! It hurts! Bloody stop it, Alan!”
I continued for another minute or two, accompanied by Stevie's increasingly furious and pained interjections. As I finished I took a deep breath, and expelled it slowly.
“You're done? About bloody time? Alan, that really stings! You bastard!”
I helped Stevie to her feet, and reaching across I unbuttoned the clasp at the waist of her shorts, and pulled down the zip.
Stevie tried to bat away my hand. Then she tried to step back, a move which I foiled as I retained a grip on the front of her shorts.
“What are you doing? Let go of me. Alan, you vicious sod, I mean it!”
I pulled her back towards me, and transferring my hands to the side of her shorts, I tugged them down. Whatever her feelings about external wear, Stevie did like feminine underclothes, and her pants were brief, and made of shiny red silk.
As her shorts dropped to her ankles I grasped her flailing right arm and deposited her back across my lap.
With her denim defences removed I could see that my spanking had begun to have an effect; there was a hesitant pink glow in her cheeks where they peeped out from under her knickers.
Well, it was time to conclude my bargain with Mr Pettifer. I seized her pants, and, with one smooth pull, they reluctantly departed her bottom, and slid down smooth flesh.
“No! NO! Don't you dare....”
Her cries came too late. My right hand rose to shoulder height, and then descended very promptly to thwack against the sit spot on her right buttock.
Stevie uttered a banshee howl of despair, shock and sudden pain; at least it had quietened her protests.
I repeated the caress, on her left side. This time her body lifted slightly as my hand rebounded. Even against the already pinked flesh my handprint stood out.
The banshee spoke once more; I gave it further opportunities to fly free as my hand spanked repeatedly against her defenceless bottom. On my lap Stevie bucked, back and forth, and up and down, as the screaming spirit shot from her mouth again and again.
I paused for a moment, and, reflectively, I rubbed my palm against the abused flesh. Pinkness had been overcome by a fiery red glow, and I could feel it's heat against my hand.
Stevie lay still, body marooned across my lap. A small sigh, perhaps of relief, tripped from her mouth, as I gently smoothed the skin on her glowing backside.
I nearly stopped there, but I had promised to deliver a memorable spanking, and I hoped that one really good punishment might be enough to improve Stevie's ways.
I lifted my hand, and saw an instant increase in tension across her bottom. Idly, I examined the palm of my hand; whilst not nearly as red as Stevie's cheeks it had taken on a pinkish hue, and rubbing the thumb of my left hand across it, I noticed that it was a little tender.
I suppose that all of that exercise, up trees and across meadows, and bouncing around on her mighty motorcycle, has toughened Stevie's bottom up.
With no further warning I slanted my angle of attack, to strike home across the very base of her right cheek. I reawoke the haunting spirit, and it gambolled from her mouth. As usual, I made a similar assault on the other side of her behind.
I kept up a barrage, varying my target with each smack, painting Stevie's bottom in a pallet it had never previously seen. Soon it glowed like a rich deep sunset, beautiful across the Navajo Desert, and Stevie's echoing cries had become periodic gasps.
Reaching my left hand out, to brush yellow hair away from her face, I felt the rivulets of tears, tracing a grimy path down, to fall from her chin onto the sofa.
Stevie turned her face, and uttered one quite heart rending sob. Her face dropped onto the arm of the sofa, and her body shook.
Tenderly I pulled her pants back up; chameleon like they merged with the glow from her bottom. Stevie winced as the thin material fell onto bruised flesh.
I lifted Stevie onto her feet, remaining sitting as I did so. She looked down at me, shook her head to send tears flying in all directions, and hissed three bitter words.
“I hate you.” There was no venom, no anger, no raising of her voice. Just a simple statement. With one further sob she turned, and fled from the room towards the stairs.
Sinking back into the sofa I looked again at my right hand. Had it really just done so much damage to the woman that I loved? Suddenly that bullshit about “this will hurt me more than it does you” made total sense; Stevie's bottom was certainly sore, but I was sure that my spirit hurt more.
Spanking was supposed to be a turn on, for some. I just felt disgust, a little nauseous and, as I stood, my legs shook with expelled tension.
Oh, God, I needed a drink.
I walked over to the sideboard, and picked up a heavy whisky tumbler. It had been a present from Veronica, and it was one of the few material things that I honestly treasured.
I reached for the Aberlour A'bunadh, rich, dark and 60% alcohol; a fitting drink in which to drown one's sorrows. As I popped out the stopper I realised that it needed a little water, to cut it's strength, and I liked to use chilled still mineral water to do so.
I set out for the kitchen, the fridge my destination. We had a huge American style fridge, and I opened the right hand door, stooping to reach for a bottle of water from near it's base.
As I straightened up I felt a body press against my back, and a feminine hand, devoid of nail varnish, reached around and grasped my penis through my thin cotton trousers. The hand gently moved up and down, as I grew hard.
Stevie's voice was quiet and small, as she pulled herself more firmly into me.
“I love you.”
I turned, an operation that was made much more difficult by her hand on my dick, and a grip that she refused to relinquish.
“Oh Stevie, I love you too.”
I hugged her, as hard as I could, her arm still grasping it's prize, trapped between our bodies. We stood, together, for several minutes, breathing as one, and eyes closed.
Occasionally one of us would declare our love again, always echoed by the other. My hand carefully caressed her bottom, still covered only by red satin. I gently rubbed, to take away the sting I had so recently imparted.
Finally Stevie drew back slightly; looking up at me she smiled, bravely, and she gave a slightly harder tug on my now extremely firm erection.
“Let's go to bed.” she said, and so we did.
THE END
