Unexpected demonstration of affection
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
The lawyer detected the uneasiness in his reply and
sought to reassure him. “I am dealing with the estate of Mr Eric Stanhope.”
That didn’t help. “I know no one of that name,” he replied, anxious to put the
phone down and continue staring at the fading wallpaper in his front room.
“He was a pupil of yours in the early
nineteen-seventies,” the lawyer continued, “At Brocklehurst High. I am sorry to
say he has passed away. Lung cancer. I should like to invite you to a reading
of the will.”
Wallace wanted to retort, “Reading of the will.
Is there really such a thing? I thought they only happened in crime novels.
Agatha Christie. A group of strangers get called to the reading of a will at a
creepy mansion and one by one they get bumped off.” He wasn’t given time to
speak as the lawyer was anxious to conclude business. He gave a date, a time
and a venue for the event.
“No thanks,” Wallace was adamant. He had no wish to
travel half way across the country on a fool’s errand. What interest was a former
pupil of forty years ago to him? The lawyer did not press the case. He was used
to such refusals. He could inform Wallace of the details of his legacy at a
later date. “But,” he added, “He has left a letter for you, may I forward it on
to you?”
“Bah!” Wallace croaked. Despite being a cantankerous
old man (indeed, he had always been cantankerous) he did not add “What should I
care?” The lawyer wished him good day and ended the conversation.
So it was that the next day a registered letter
arrived at Wallace’s home. He had to admit (to himself, since he was alone in
the world) that he had become intrigued. Who was this Mr Eric Stanhope and why
did he want to remember him after so many years? He pulled out a printed
transcript from the envelope and settled back in his armchair. This is what he
read.
“Dear Mr Wallace,
“You probably don’t remember me since so many young
men have passed through your hands over the years but I have never forgotten
you. There is no doubt in my mind that I owe my life to you. Please don’t think
I am being over-dramatic. I don’t mean that you once dragged me from a burning
building or conducted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after I had been pulled from
a river. I mean that it was the help and guidance you gave to me at school that
made me the man I became.
“It was the sense of discipline that you instilled in
me back at Brocklehurst that set me on the path to success. You almost
certainly won’t know that I went on to build a great financial empire. This
brought me great wealth and happiness. Believe me when I say without you I
would not have a wonderful wife and three fantastic daughters.
“What I have just said probably puzzles you. You have
never met my family and in all probability you think you don’t know me from
Adam. Let me explain. When I arrived at Brocklehurst I was already eighteen
years old and bumptious. I was smug and conceited. I had come from humble
origins. I had not studied hard previously but I had a knack for passing exams
with minimal effort. I had no intention of working hard and expected to cruise
through the final year of my schooling. In the early weeks of my first term I
hardly attended classes, I spent my time in the bars of Brocklehurst and
introduced myself to many young ladies of the town. I did not know it but I was
heading for failure. You saved me.
“I remember the first time you summoned me to your
study as if it were only yesterday. You were not only a teacher, you held the
post of head of department. I didn’t have the sense I was born with. I was self-satisfied
and arrogant. What could you, an old man teach me? (Old man. Ha! Now I look
back I see you were probably still in your thirties). Well, you soon showed me.
As my memories flood back, my bottom tingles as I write this.
“Your speech was word perfect. You listed my faults
and there were many. You were never a tall man, nor especially large. But you
had a presence about you. Much to my surprise I found myself cowered. I
clenched my hands behind my back. My feet wriggled with embarrassment. I showed
an intense interest in the carpet beneath my feet. I had never experienced this
before.
“What you did next was also a novelty for me. It was a
shock. I had no expectation. I had never been called to your study before. I
had heard no other student speak of their visits. I was completely unprepared. Your
study wasn’t too big and along one wall were a series of shelves and cupboards.
I forced my gaze away from my feet and my eyes followed you as you took the
stately walk across the room. You stopped at a cupboard. Did you feel my eyes
burning into your back as I stared? You fumbled in the pocket of your trousers
and found a small key. This you used to unlock a cupboard door. You reached in.
“Your back obscured my view, but when you straightened
up and turned back towards me I saw you were carrying what looked like a block
of wood. No, not carrying; brandishing. You were flaunting it. It was a
rectangle of wood with a handle and you were waving it at me. How naïve was I?
I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was. It looked like a miniature
cricket bat. I had never seen a spanking paddle. They weren’t so common in
England. Schools might use a whippy rattan cane or a rubber-soled gym plimsoll,
but not a paddle. I now know they were more favoured by our American cousins. I
had never seen a cane close up, nor seen a plimsoll smacked across a boy’s
stretched backside, my previous school did not use corporal punishment.
“I think you might have guessed I was a novice to this
sort of thing. My behaviour might have given you a big clue that I was
unpunished (as well as undisciplined) as a child. You approached me still
brandishing the paddle and I had no doubt about your intention. You had me in
your spell. I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced and my mouth dried. I am
not much of a writer, but ‘like the Sahara Dessert’ springs to mind. Even
today, I remember what you did.
“With one hand you picked up the straight-backed chair
that usually stood in front of your desk and you plonked it down in the middle
of the room. You gave me one of your steely glares. I blanched. I looked away.
I could not compete with you in a staring contest. You nodded towards the
chair. You spoke no words, but your message was clear. You tapped the paddle
into the palm of your hand with menace. ‘Bend over the chair,’ was your
unspoken command. I was bemused. You wanted to spank me. Could this be true?
Was I dreaming? Me, an eighteen-year-old adult. I didn’t say any of this, of
course. I daren’t. At that moment all my bluster and arrogance had melted. I
was timid. You were my master. I would not say that I was your ‘slave’, but I
was your subordinate. You were in charge. Your word was law. What could I do
but obey?
“I wanted to obey. I intended to obey, but again my
innocence let me down. I had never been spanked. I had never seen a boy
spanked. Bend over. But, how exactly was this done? Bend over the back
of the chair? Lay my stomach on the seat of the chair with my arms ahead of me
and my legs dangling behind?
“You read my mind. ‘Stand to the front. Bend over,
place your hands on the seat of the chair,’ you commanded. Of course. It was
that simple. I did not stop to think that now was my last chance to flee the
room, to run helter-skelter back to my home and lock the door behind me. I did
not contemplate what the consequences might be if I refused to obey. Refusal
was not an option. I stepped up to the chair, then hesitated for a moment
before leaning forward as you had instructed.
“It felt mighty strange, bent over a chair, offering
up my backside to an older man to spank with a wooden paddle. I don’t suppose I
had ever felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know it at the time, but realised later
that you took account of my lack of experience in such matters. I wore heavy
jeans. They fitted snugly and showed my buttocks. But, denim is a thick
material and offers quite a protection against any spanking. You allowed me to
keep my jeans on. I am thankful. I think on that first time a spanking on my
underpants – or God forbid, on the bare! – would have been an embarrassment
(no, a humiliation too far).
“You delivered six, very hard swats across the lower part of my buttocks. I suppose that’s what was known as six-of-the-best back in those days. Each one landed on top of the previous swipe. My bum was on fire. You got me right on the ‘sit-spot’ and I couldn’t sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Only later, was I to realise what an expert spanker you were.
“My bottom wriggled and writhed as the paddle hammered
across the seat of my jeans. Your strong left arm pushed into my shoulders and
forced me to remain bent over. Otherwise, I would have been jumping up and down,
rubbing my bum, hopping about like some demented Red Indian.
“I don’t think I cried, but my eyes would have been
pretty moist by the time you finished. You let me stand and then you lectured
me some more about my future behaviour and the consequences I faced should I be
summoned back to your study.
“It took the better part of a week for the bruises to
clear completely. Each time I went to the shower I was reminded of the penalty
for bad behaviour. I resented you. I could go so far as to say I hated you. How
dare you treat me like a little kid. I was eighteen, legally an adult. I fumed
a lot, but I didn’t miss any of your classes for the rest of the term. But, I
was young and stupid and I liked my beer. And, the girls. Although I was afraid
to upset you again I had less concerns about my other teachers. That’s what got
me in trouble again.
“Looking back, Mr Lowry had every right to report me
when I failed to complete his essay, even after he had granted an extension on
submission. I didn’t think so at the time. How I hated you when I received that
second summons to your study. I knew what to expect. You had made it clear
enough. Of course, I only had myself to blame. I was going to wear my football
shorts and swimming trunks and a couple of pairs of underpants under my jeans.
My jeans were always tight and when I tried it was a battle to get the zipper
to close. When I looked in the mirror my bum was massive. Just as well I
abandoned that ruse, considering what you made me do in your study.
“You gave me a right telling off, but – and I’ll never
forget this – you said you thought I was bright and intelligent and could make
something of myself. But I had to pull my finger out (my words, you were too eloquent
to speak like that) and concentrate on my work. Nobody had ever said that to me
before. No one at school, and certainly not my parents. It gave me something to
think about.
“Naturally, you didn’t leave it there. You made a
return visit to that cupboard. This time the paddle you choose was larger and
heavier. It was some kind of dark wood and it was so highly polished it
reflected the light from the ceiling. I can still see the way you held it in
your hand, demonstrating its power. How many holes were drilled into it: six or
eight? I can’t quite remember.
“Then, you had me take down my jeans and spread-eagle
myself across your desk. Oh boy! Luckily, I was only wearing one pair of pants.
We wore tiny briefs in those days and they hardly covered my buttocks. Most of
the underside of the cheeks were bare to the wind. You exploited that. I don’t
suppose you could have left me in any greater pain if you’d made me take my
briefs down.
“Twelve swats with that paddle across the half-naked
bum. Oh how I howled. I just about absorbed the first two, but by the third I
was gripping the edge of the desk for dear life. My head butted the desktop. My
legs kicked. My hips swivelled and swerved. I almost bit through my bottom lip
in my failed attempts to stop myself yowling. They must have heard me down in
the street below. I’m surprised someone didn’t burst into the study to see who
was being murdered.
“By the time you let me climb back into my jeans my
bum was throbbing raw. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I
have never sat down on top of a blazing coal fire, but if I ever did it would
not hurt as much as that paddling.
“You gave me time to calm down and before you sent me
on my way you told me again how talented I was. That you had confidence in me.
That you wanted me to achieve. That night as I lay on my side in my bed, trying
not let my savaged buttocks brush against the mattress, I thought about what
you had said. As I said nobody had shown such faith. I realised then that you
were not a bully. You had power over me, but you didn’t exploit it. You spanked
me for my own good.
“I worked hard that term and passed the exams and was
doing well. It looked like the paddling had worked. Then, I fell off the wagon.
It was a girl, of course. Or more truthfully, girls. I was a good
looking lad back then with an easy charm and a sexual appetite. I spent too
much time in bed (but not alone) and not enough in the library. I failed a
couple of mock exams.
“I remember how you shook your head with disappointment.
I can’t explain how that stabbed at my heart. You told me how proud you had
been when I bucked up my ideas and passed my exams the previous term. You said
you had hoped I had turned a corner. I was on the straight-and-narrow path to
success. Alas, no! I had veered to the side of the road and broken down. I
needed maintenance. A maintenance spanking!
“You were no longer my school teacher. Is it too
fanciful to say you were a father figure? You certainly showed you cared more
than my real dad. What you did next confirmed this. You were back at that
goddam cupboard and this time you brandished a small block of wood that was no
bigger than a paperback book. I blinked in disbelief. Compared to the whopping
paddle you used to take my backside off last time, this was puny. I almost
smiled with relief. This one wouldn’t do much damage. I had forgotten what an
expert you were.
“You had finished lecturing me and without a further
word you took that chair I had been ordered to bend across on my first visit
and once more you placed it in the centre of the room. I was waiting for your
command ‘Bend over’, but you had other ideas. You sat on the chair and made
yourself comfortable before with an imperious click of the finger you
instructed that I should come and stand beside you. I did so. You peered at my
feet and then ran your eyes up my legs, stopping when you reached the fly of my
jeans. ‘Take them down,’ you said. My heart skipped. Only then did your
intention become clear to me.
“This was not to be a teacher-pupil spanking,
something delivered at arm’s length. At a distance. Dare I say this was to be
more personal, more intimate? It was to be like a loving father with his erring
son. My hands shook so much I fumbled
with the clasp at the top of my jeans and I couldn’t get a grip on the zipper.
At last the front of my jeans were open. They fitted so tightly that they would
not easily fall to my feet and I had to roll them down my legs. I was now
standing by you wearing only a shirt and underpants. I did not feel shame, nor
embarrassment and certainly not humiliation. I felt respect. My respect for you
– and dare I say it, your respect for me? You had my best interest at heart. I
deserved this spanking. It would pull me up sharp. As you had already told me,
it would put me back on the straight-and-narrow path to success.
“I had never been across the knee of an older man. It
is a more submissive position than being across a chair or spread across a
desk. My body was close you yours. I could feel your breathing. My stomach dug
into your thigh and my chest rested against your legs. I didn’t have a view of
myself but I sensed that our bodies fitted together perfectly. I spread my arms
ahead of me and rested my palms in the harsh carpet. My nose was inches from
the ground. My bottom was raised at an angle of about forty-five degrees which
allowed my legs to dangle behind me with my toes hovering above the floor. When
I moved my head I could see under the chair and look at my own feet encased in
denim.
“I felt your body move. You had taken hold of my shirt
and gently pushed it up my back until it was scrunched at my shoulders. By now
you must have had a perfect target. I braced myself for the heat of the paddle.
But, you were not quite ready. You rested the paddle on the small of my back.
With both hands you gripped the elasticated waist of my underpants. Ha! I’ve
read in books where a character was said to have ‘gasped with surprise’. I had always
thought that was a stupid expression. Not anymore. I gasped. I inhaled a great
mouthful of air and I held it there. What were you doing? Of course, I knew
full well what you were doing; that was what made me wheeze so!
“You had to take a firm grip of my waist to keep me in
place. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why I was being spanked. I deserved
it. I needed it. I was prepared to submit to you, but my body had other
ideas. My head was low and my bottom high and you had positioned me so that I
couldn’t get my hands behind me to protect my poor, exposed bottom. There was
nothing I could do but wriggle and kick. It did me no good. Did my protests
spur to on to greater deeds? Did you spank me harder and longer because of it?
“That was the last time you spanked me. There was no
further need. You had transformed me. I worked hard for you. It wasn’t
that I feared further paddlings. I certainly did not welcome them. But, the
spankings were incidental. What drove me was that you had faith in me. You cared.
You wanted me to do well. The spankings were supplementary.”
At this point Wallace let the letter drop onto a nearby
coffee table. He hauled himself from his chair and edged his way into the
kitchen where he flipped a switch and waited for the kettle to boil. He busied
himself finding tea bags and sugar. He opened the fridge and carefully tested
the milk for freshness. Then, with his tea he returned to the front room and
picked up the letter once more. He stared at it intently as if it could answer
the question on his mind. Who was this Eric Stanhope? Which one had he been? Wallace
didn’t have the least recollection of these events.
Picture credits: Unknown.
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