Aunt Sarah's Slippering: and other short stories

by Stanlegh Meresith

  Margaret suddenly remembered the money and fumbled in her coat pocket. "Master?" she whispered, as she held out the notes and coins.

  Smiling still, and bowing slightly, he accepted her offering. "Thank you," he said, with humble gratitude.

  He went to the first of two upright chairs by the wall, from which he picked up a long white dress.

  "If you will please be dressing yourself in this?" he said, holding it out gracefully over his outstretched arms. "Please to remove all other clothings. It is necessary for the ceremony. I will leave you, and return when you are ready."

  Slightly surprised, Margaret took the garment and watched as he turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Margaret felt a subdued joy glimmering within her as she began to undress. Item by item, she folded her clothing neatly on the chair whence the gown itself had come, until she stood naked. The room was warm, so she attributed the shivers she felt more to spiritual anticipation than anything else. Solemnly, she took up the ceremonial dress, found the sleeves and lifted it over her head, letting it fall into place. It fitted well around her shoulders and breasts and hung loose below. Its starched, bright whiteness gave her a sense of innocence, and the freedom of the air against her skin beneath it felt like a taste of the inner freedom she imagined would soon be hers.

  There was a gentle knock on the door, and Margaret went to open it.

  "Good," beamed the Master. "Come, my dear," he said, moving past her to the other upright chair, which he lifted with his huge right hand and placed in the middle of the room. He gestured her to join him.

  "Are you trusting me?" he asked, his smile now shaded a little by a more concerned expression. Margaret looked into the deep brown of those twinkling eyes and nodded vigorously.

  "Yes, Master."

  "Very good," he said, seating himself gracefully. He patted his knee. "Come - lie over my lap."

  Not wishing to appear lacking in faith, Margaret hid her momentary surprise and bent forward across the Master's lap, lowering herself onto his thighs and resting her hands on the carpet below.

  She felt the back of the dress being lifted away, exposing her naked bottom. Before she had time to voice the doubt that crept like a heresy into her mind, she felt and heard an almighty SMACK!

  "OW!!"

  Almost as soon as the shock of this sudden assault had passed through her body, Margaret felt an extraordinary wave of energy radiate out from the stricken area. Her eyes jerked wide open and she gasped, as much from surprise and pleasure at the zinging buzz that shot up through her head and down to her toes as from the pain of the fierce stinging that prickled her left buttock.

  She had barely a moment to register these different sensations before the giant hand struck her again, repeatedly, bouncing from buttock to buttock with lively force.

  "OW! ... OUCH! ... AAIEE! ... AARGHH!"

  Her cries scarcely kept pace with the speed of the seven blows whose impact jolted and scorched her. All thought was driven from her mind, her attention divided equally between the heat and pain building rapidly in her bottom, and the heat and light filling the rest of her body. When thought did return, it came in a confusion of impulses: outrage, excitement, fear, delight.

  As she lay gasping and gulping over the Master's lap, she felt a new sensation - his hand was softly smoothing the hot surface of each cheek in turn. She allowed herself to bathe in the welcome comfort. She felt like a child, surrendering gratefully to a parent's embrace. Then sorrow rose to sting her eyes with tears, as she thought of all her lost innocence.

  "Good," she heard. "Be feeling everything, my dear."

  She was about to consider the meaning of this when a second flurry of seven resounding spanks began. Again she screeched at the top of her voice as she rolled and squirmed on his lap. Oh, that hand! She had no choice but to be feeling! Her mind was flooded by fiery heat, and her tears began to flow in earnest. She wept for the separation that had grown between her parents and herself, for the blind egocentricity of her teenage years.

  And then the large hand was soothing her again; warmth flooded her being. She moaned in pleasure and felt forgiveness lighten her mind.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  The agony of the third assault brought with it waves of sorrow at memories of lost loves - all soothed away thereafter by the Master's great hand. At the fourth round, she found herself yelling in rage, remembering every injustice she had ever borne; and the fifth set of seven smacks deepened that rage until, to her surprise, a great roar emerged from her mouth in a hot stream of fury.

  "Very good," he said, when finally she quieted. He soothed her again.

  In a state of complete abandonment by now to the wild ride of her experience, Margaret felt herself surrendering more and more completely to whatever it was calling to her from deep within.

  With the sixth set of spanks - fast, hard, flattening each cheek in turn - the pain brought an intensely bright white light behind her eyes. She was so stunned by its beauty that she hardly noticed when, once again, his fingers gently flickered over her hot, red skin. His words, though, came through:

  "Are you ready to understand, Margaret?"

  Abandoning the light, she opened her eyes. She felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of imminent enlightenment. "Yes!" she cried. "Yes, Master, I'm ready!"

  His hand circled her buttocks for some moments while she waited, hardly daring to breathe. The hand cracked down, harder than ever.

  "NO!" he cried. "Foolish woman, you are not ready!"

  "OUCH!"

  What? What is he saying? But I am! I am ready! I am!

  SMACK!

  "You are not ready at all!"

  Nooo! Please ... please don't say that! I AM ready ... I saw a light ... I feel different ...my aura ... I...

  SMACK!

  "You will never be ready!"

  No, no! I must be! I am - surely I am. Please let me be ready ...!

  SMACK!

  "It is impossible for you to be ready!"

  What does he mean? Why, why can I not be ready? I want to KNOW!

  SMACK!

  Margaret howled. Shame and despair swamped her mind as all her high hopes crumbled to useless dust.

  "You can never be ready to understand, Margaret!" he said, more gently, though the hand struck harder than ever.

  SMACK!

  "AAEEEEIIIIOOOOOWW!" she screamed. Pain wracked her body, but her heart was breaking into pieces. "But why? Why? ... Why?" she cried, with the soulful despair of many lifetimes.

  "Because, my dear," he said quietly, with a chuckle, "... there is nothing to understand."

  And SMACK! The seventh of the seventh set swooped down upon Margaret's burning bottom, searing her consciousness as each and every one of her long-held illusions melted into nothing in the fire of ancient truth.

  As the Master's hand began softly to circle her cheeks once more, Margaret felt a peace such as she had never known. She was empty of thought, and behind her closed eyes her vision was filled again with that same dazzling white light.

  The Master's last words echoed in her mind. Something stirred in her depths and began to rise: at first, she didn't know what it was, this moving, growing thing. Then it came stronger and her shoulders shook, and she began to laugh, a great belly laugh of liberating relief. Lying limp on her Master's lap, her bottom glowing and throbbing, Margaret laughed so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks once more. Slapping her palms against the carpet, she cried, "Nothing! ... nothing to understand! Of course! That's it!"

  Alive with joyous energy, Margaret pushed herself up and stood. The Master sat beaming, looking up at her with eyes serene.

  "Thank you," cried Margaret, clapping her hands and laughing still. "Thank you so much."

  The Master stood, put a huge hand gently on each of her shoulders, leaned forward and placed the lightest kiss in the centre of her forehead. Then, without a sound, he turned around and left the room.

  D
ressed, sore and happier than she had ever been, Margaret let herself quietly out of number 42, Palmers Road.

  Who cares about auras? she thought. It's time to LIVE!

  Vanilla Surprise

  co-authored with Janine Burrell

  Vanilla was brought to Europe from Mexico by the Spanish, who named it vainilla meaning ‘little sheath’.

  ---oOo---

  "Yes! OOUCH! ... Aaarghh ... YES! ... Oh my GOD, YEEEES! Don't stop ... AAOOWW!"

  The belt flew and cracked, and Helen's cries grew ever wilder. Her scarlet bottom squirmed and bucked over the arm of the settee as her hands scrabbled wildly at the cushions in front of her. Strands of hair stuck to her forehead and temples, sweat and tears merging on her agonised, ecstatic face.

  Higher and higher rose the hand with the folded belt, and louder and louder she screamed, until, stretching taut from head to toe, she began to shudder and jerk as her orgasm spread, huge spasms rocking her before she collapsed and groaned in glorious release.

  In a moment he was there, behind her, the already beltless trousers around his knees, clutching her hips, raising her, and ramming himself into her welcoming depths. She gasped delightedly and began to gyrate around his shaft, pressing her bruised and crimson arse into the bones of his pelvis, pushing and squeezing, palpating him with vulvic bliss until he too stretched taut, flung his head back, teeth bared, and ejaculated with spasmodic, final thrusts.

  Outside, on Acacia Avenue, its cargo unloaded, the milk float hummed past on its way back to the depot.

  They grinned at each other. He ruffled her blonde hair.

  "Won't Herbie-boy notice the marks?" he asked, buckling his belt.

  "No - I make sure he doesn't."

  "Silly sod. He doesn't know what he's missing."

  "Well, he had his chance," she said. "Him and his bloody vanilla mentality."

  Helen was still throbbing pleasantly as she saw him out. She went back to the living-room, pulled the net curtain aside and watched him climb into the silver Rolls Royce and drive away.

  ---oOo---

  "So, Herbert, the long and the short of it is buck up, or ..." Sir Cyril raised his eyebrows and waved his cigar in the air, "... or we'll just have to find someone else to handle the new accounts, old boy."

  "Yes, Sir Cyril."

  Herbert struggled to hide his resentment. After fifteen years with the company, he felt that one year's flagging figures did not justify his boss humiliating him like this. Herbert disliked everything about this self-made man and his vulgar manners and taste: the gaudy suits, the silver Rolls, the suffocating clouds of cigar smoke.

  "Sorry, old chap, but ... well, you know how it is."

  "Yes, sir, quite."

  He watched as Sir Cyril reached out to pick up the heavy bronze statuette on the side of his desk. It was a figurine of a naked and buxom young woman, with full, high breasts and a remarkably round, protuberant bottom. Herbert thought it in very poor taste - in fact, almost obscene - and it reminded him uneasily of Helen, and this thing that had come between them.

  "No hard feelings, eh?" smiled Sir Cyril as he caressed the back of the statuette sensuously. "In fact, why don't you and the lovely Helen come up to the Hall on Saturday? Having a few friends round, drinks by the pool, that sort of thing. Let your hair down a bit, Herbert - do you good, and I'm sure Helen will love it - jolly good sport you've got there, old chap; bloody fine filly - lucky devil." Sir Cyril punctuated this last remark with a knowing wink. Herbert attempted a smile. Inside, he seethed.

  "Yes, well, thank you ... I'm sure she'll be delighted."

  He knew Helen would indeed enjoy it, but the thought of her disporting herself coquettishly amongst Sir Cyril's vulgar guests filled him with a jealous dread. He didn't like the way she'd taken to looking at other men recently - there was something a little too ... hopeful about it.

  Herbert's misery had all started on the night of Helen's fortieth birthday some weeks before, when, quite out of the blue, she'd asked him to spank her; said she'd had this desire for some time, and she knew for a fact that lots of people did it to spice up their sex lives.

  He'd refused, of course - she wasn't a child, for God's sake, and at their age sex was bound to get a bit ... moribund; anyway, he was doing his best. And then she'd accused him of being a 'vanilla', whatever that was supposed to be. He'd told her to grow up, and refused to discuss the matter any further.

  A knock at the door brought Herbert back to his equally uncomfortable present.

  "Come!" boomed Sir Cyril.

  A handsome face above a chauffeur's uniform appeared. "The car's ready, sir."

  "Thank you, Simpson. I'll be right down." Sir Cyril turned to Herbert. "So, old chap - see you on Saturday then!"

  Herbert nodded.

  ---oOo---

  "This should be fun," exclaimed Helen, as Herbert guided their Vauxhall through the grand gates and up the drive to Granville Hall that Saturday. "But I wish you'd join in for once, Herbert. At least have a swim."

  Herbert remained silent. As they reached the gravelled forecourt, Helen suddenly exclaimed,

  "God! Just look at that, Herbert. What I wouldn't give for a silver Rolls Royce!"

  Herbert glanced across to the ivy-clad garage where Simpson was leaning against the angular bonnet of Sir Cyril's car, idly polishing the statuette at its head.

  "Now look, Helen ..." began Herbert, as he pulled up the handbrake, but she was already out of the door and getting the holdall with her swimming things from the boot. "Helen," he called. "Can I please ask you not to ...!"

  "Oh, do try and relax, Herbert," she trilled, as she skipped over towards the large front door with her bag, leaving Herbert to follow.

  As soon as he gained the cavernous hallway, with its antique portraits and Persian rugs, Herbert found himself greeted by a boisterously drunken Sir Cyril, who led him through the conservatory to the garden at the back where some thirty or so scantily-clad guests were gathered, champagne flutes in hand, around a large swimming-pool.

  "Play, Herbert, play!" said Sir Cyril, disappearing almost immediately back into the house. Herbert stood awkwardly, feeling overdressed in his customary weekend tweed jacket and corduroys. He looked around for Helen, but she seemed to have vanished too.

  Fortunately, before long, Herbert found a colleague from Accounts named Robinson. They parked themselves in deckchairs away from the splashing and gaiety and discussed the potential in the Northern market. Robinson had commandeered a bottle of bubbly and after a few glasses Herbert was feeling a lot lighter. When Robinson nabbed another bottle and suggested a walk round the copious grounds, Herbert was delighted. He liked nothing better than a good debate on the economic issues of the day, and Robinson was a worthy foil.

  When, some hours later, they returned within view of the hall again, the light was fading. Herbert was relieved that it would be quite in order now to find Helen and say their goodbyes.

  Thanking Robinson, Herbert went in search of his wife. Most of the swimmers were dressed again and chatting animatedly round a barbeque. Helen, however, was not among them. Nor could he see Sir Cyril anywhere. His meek enquiries met with shakes of the head, so he wandered into the conservatory. A sweet odour rose from candles on the windowsill - with a twinge of annoyance, he realised it was vanilla.

  He was just appraising a rather garish watercolour when he heard footsteps hurrying across the hallway. Helen appeared. She was flushed, and her eyes looked glazed. When she saw Herbert, she stopped, startled. They stared at each other. The alcohol in Herbert's veins stirred a mounting rage.

  "Where have you been?" he asked, in a tone more peevish than commanding. "I've been looking for you for half an hour."

  She straightened her summer dress, covering her confusion.

  "Nowhere, dear, just ... just having a look round."

  Herbert glared at her. She looked down.

  "Do you know where Sir Cyril is?" he asked, accusingly.

  Again, she loo
ked flustered. "No ... I haven't seen him since ... since much earlier."

  Herbert grunted disbelievingly. "Well, we're going. Now!"

  To his surprise, she agreed, and they were making their way to the front door when Sir Cyril's booming voice caught them.

  "Herbert! Helen! Off so soon?" He came down the stairs, looking considerably flushed himself, and strode over to shake Herbert vigorously by the hand. "So glad you could make it, old boy." He turned to Helen. "And the charming Helen! Always delighted to see you!" He leaned across and planted a big kiss on her cheek, rather too close to her mouth for Herbert's liking, and then, to Herbert's even greater chagrin, gave her a playful, but quite firm, smack on the bottom.

  Helen winced momentarily. "Oh, Sir Cyril," she said, recovering herself quickly with a smile. "You're so naughty!"

  Herbert turned and walked out. Helen followed, and Sir Cyril called after them, "Do come again some time!"

  ---oOo---

  The following Wednesday, Herbert was sitting at his office desk, head in hands, unread documents scattered beneath his elbows. The torture that had gnawed at him for days was becoming intolerable, yet his fear of confronting Helen held him in a limbo of helplessness.

  Images of her with Sir Cyril - that oafish fool, that ... utter bastard - swirled feverishly in his mind. On Monday night he'd come upon her by surprise in the bathroom and was sure he'd caught a glimpse of red marks on her bottom. She'd obviously got the swine to do what he himself had refused to do.

  Sick with thwarted rage, he stood suddenly, grabbed his coat, and left for the car park.

  As he drove, he tried to frame what he wanted to say: Helen, there's something I've been meaning to ... Helen, I must tell you that...

  He continued these feeble mutterings all the way home. When he turned into their street, however, and saw the familiar Rolls Royce parked outside his house, he was struck dumb. He braked sharply and sat there, his Vauxhall blocking the road, staring in horror at the shining silver monstrosity that confirmed, with a terrible reality, his worst fears.