After my first year at University, I returned home for the summer holidays. I needed money as, although these were the days of grants, I had spent all of my grant and had no cash. My parents lived in a semi-rural house, so obtaining unskilled work wasn’t easy. I did, however, pick up gardening and odd-job work from the area.
One such job was with a retired couple, Joe and his wife. They lived about 2 miles away, but that didn’t seem far on my bike. Joe was in his late 70s and had a large garden that was becoming too much for him. He still enjoyed gardening, so I would help with the heavier tasks and any high job that required the use of a ladder etc.
Often his next door neighbour, Mrs P, would also be in her garden, and all 3 of us would chat over the fence. I would also burn some of her garden waste if I had a fire going and also help her with jobs requiring two sets of hands. Joe was happy for me to do this as they clearly all got along well and Mrs P would frequently offer to do shopping for Joe and his wife when going in to town.
I actually recognised Mrs P, as her son had attended my school, although he was 4 years younger, but I would often see her picking him up from school as I also waited to be collected. Joe told me she was divorced as her husband had got another woman pregnant and then left to set up home with his new family close by.
The son split his time between both parents, and Mrs P travelled a lot but also had a wide range of friends, (not all female Joe stressed!).
I liked my chats with Mrs P. Whilst probably in her late 30s or early 40s, which seemed old to a 19 year old, she was confident, always smelt so good, and, in my eyes, was glamorous. She had dyed platinum blonde shoulder length hair, but suited it, and whilst perhaps not with model good looks, she had the most wonderful smile and her outgoing personality captivated me.
In the middle of the summer, Mrs P told me she was going on holiday for 2 weeks and would I water her plants while she was away? Joe had always offered to do it, but she now felt guilty about asking him to do it. I was happy to do so, at which point she said: “Well, let me show you around the house.”
I was assuming she wanted outside plants watered, but she had numerous pots inside also. No problem, and after she had gone I was quite excited to unlock the house and go in to water her plants as instructed.
Now, I know this sounds dreadful, but I couldn’t help but have a good old nosey around on my own. This included going upstairs and eventually finding Mrs P’s bedroom. It was huge and very feminine, as you might expect, and I rummaged around looking for her panties and bras.
Appalling, I know, but I was a sex crazed young man.
On leaving, my eyes caught sight of what looked like a school cane hanging on a hook on the back of her bedroom door. My eyes did a double take, but I lifted it off the hook and had a few swings with it. I almost instantly got an erection; just the feel of the cane in my hand, being in Mrs P’s room, which still had the smell of her perfume, and touching her panties.
Over the next two weeks I couldn’t get the thought out of the cane or Mrs P out of my mind and went back a couple of times to play with the cane.
Soon after Mrs P returned from holiday, I was at the bottom of Joe’s garden dumping grass clippings when Mrs P came across to chat. After pleasantries about her holidays, she casually asked if I had been in her bedroom whilst she had been away. I went scarlet and was almost lost for words, but blurted out that I thought I had heard movement upstairs so went to check.
She just laughed and said something like: “Good job I didn’t leave anything incriminating out.”
Trying to divert attention from the fact I had rummaged in her drawers, I blurted out about the cane.
She said in a very matter of fact manner, that it was ‘a gift to help me control my son.’
I then asked if she ever needed to use it, to which she replied quite curtly: “Only a couple of times, but not for a while. I do however keep it there as a useful reminder. Boys will be boys.”
She walked away, clearly unwilling to take the conversation further. On subsequent meetings, Mrs P was as cheerful and confident as always.
However, I still couldn’t get the image of the cane out of my head. I once asked her if she felt she would every use the cane again. Mrs P replied somewhat sharply that the last time she used the cane, it was for quite a serious matter, and she doubted her son would ever want to go through that experience again.
About a week later, whilst helping Mrs P again, I managed to steer the conversation to the cane and said something like: “You must cane hard then.”
She stared daggers at me and said: “Of course. That is the whole point.”
She walked away, but about 10 minutes later reappeared and said: “I’m making a coffee. Come and join me.”
It was a very hot day. I would have preferred a cold beer, but I couldn’t resist, so joined her in the kitchen. Mrs P had taken off her shoes and it was then I noticed she was actually quite short, probably around 5’3” or so. She had jeans on and just a t-shirt, and again I noticed her womanly curves. I then froze when I saw the cane lying beside the coffee percolator on the counter top.
Mrs P, in an irritated manner said: “What is your problem with this cane? You keep asking me questions on this subject. You shouldn’t have been in my room, I know what you were doing and this is a somewhat private matter. I want to put an end to this today, as it is now disturbing me.”
I didn’t know what to say, so out of nerves just started grinning. This infuriated Mrs P and she again exclaimed: “What is your fascination? Have you ever been caned?”
I then admitted I hadn’t. Corporal punishment was in the process of being banned and, in the run-up, was used very sparingly in our school. The slipper, dusters, rulers, rapped knuckles etc had all been used when younger, but very few of my friends had experienced the cane. As children, we had been punished at home, which was the norm then, but never caned.
Mrs P then blurted out: “If you want me to cane you I will, but I can assure you it won’t be something you will enjoy.”
I remained absolutely silent, not really knowing what to say.
Mrs P then, in exasperation, said: “OK, give me a yes or no answer. Would you like to ask me more questions about the use of this cane?”
I almost silently said: “Yes,” at which point Mrs P almost exploded.
She grabbed the cane and then said: “Follow me.”
We entered he large drawing room and she pulled the piano stool away from the piano and placed it in the middle of the room. She touched the seat of the piano stool with the end her cane, at which point my slowly growing penis became erect.
Mrs P then told me to pull my trousers down and bend over, resting my forehead on the stool seat and to grab the small handles on either side of the seat. My jeans were quite tight and, as I was pulling them down, my pants also came partly down my cheeks.
Mrs P noticed, and jumped in by saying: “Pants as well. If you want to act like a boy you should be punished as a boy.”
There was no humour or charm in her voice and, as I eased my pants over my erect penis, bending over and hoping she wouldn’t notice, she impatiently pulled both jeans and pants down from behind and said: “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
I bent right over, holding the piano stool handles, and with my forehead on the seat cushion.
Mrs P was directly behind me, and pushed my loose fitting t-shirt right up my back. She slowly moved to my left side, paused, and muttered: “Oh, for goodness sake.”
I didn’t want to look her in the eye but knew she was referring to my erection which was now no longer hidden by the t-shirt. I could see the lower half of Mrs P, upside down from my position over the piano stool seat. The cane was by her side, but she raised it and moved two paces backwards, tapping my bottom. I then heard one heavy footstep, the whishing of the cane and then my bottom almost exploded.
I let out an ‘F’ type exclamation. It hurt beyond anything I had felt before. I just never imagined a stick of that size could sting so much and cause so much pain.
Mrs P quietly said: “Keep your bottom still and stay exactly where you are until I am finished. I told you this would not be enjoyable.”
Once again, I could see her move back a pace, raise her arm and then in one motion move forward and then another thud and stinging line of fire erupted on my bottom.
Again, I shouted out, only to be met with: “Four more, and don’t you dare move.”
I watched Mrs P swing the third stroke and none of this was getting any better. The pain from the earlier strokes wasn’t lessening at all before the third bit in.
Shamefully, I begged for her to stop and said: “I’m sorry, I really am. I can’t take any more.”
Mrs. P was in no mood for mercy and coldly said: “I intend to soundly thrash your bottom so you never raise this topic again. Now, take your beating like a man.”
I felt very small and pathetic at that point, and just buried my eyes in the seat. I couldn’t bear watching the strokes coming. The three remaining strokes had me on the edge of screaming.
After the sixth stroke, there was a long pause. Mrs P quietly said: “OK, you have been caned. I warned you that if I caned you it wouldn’t be pleasant. Now you can get up.”
My legs were quite wobbly and my bottom was a mix of stinging and all-round excruciating pain.
Mrs P said: “Turn around and face me.”
I did so, at which point Mrs P pointed the tip of the cane at my soft penis and said: “He doesn’t look so happy now. Pull up your pants and trousers and leave the house. This matter is closed and won’t be discussed ever again, unless of course you wish me to mention to Joe what you were doing in my bedroom when I entrusted my keys to you.”
I noticed Mrs P’s breasts heaving under her t-shirt, which made them look somewhat larger, and for the first time I noticed the outline of her nipples. Unfortunately she caught me looking, and proceeded to push me towards the door.
I made an excuse to leave early with Joe and then almost hobbled home pushing my bike. When I got home, I looked at my buttocks in the mirror. I was convinced there would be blood, but no, just prominent red and purple ridges and marks. These lasted almost two weeks and went through all sorts of colours. The next time I spoke to Mrs P, she acted as if nothing had happened.
She was always grateful for any help I gave her. I did see her dressed up ready to go out one early evening. She looked absolutely stunning and I couldn’t take my eyes off her, thinking about the caning she had given to my bare bottom. She caught me looking at her and smiled, that beautiful smile, but with a wry side glance this time. I most certainly never wanted to have my bottom caned by Mrs P again, but I thought about it a lot. Unfortunately, her caning of me had not ridden me of my fascination of the subject.