Erotic Story Submitted by Jim Beatty - Mar 23, 2009 - From Spanking stories - Views - 2959
The urge came upon him in the early hours of the morning. It was a week since he last visited his landlady's parlor, and he felt the growing need to call on her again for the treatment. As he entered the dining room for breakfast he caught sight of her in the kitchen, cooking eggs and bacon. ‘Good morning, Jack. Do you want a full cooked breakfast this morning?’ ‘Yes please, Mrs. Smith.’ When she brought the plate of bacon and eggs to the table, she asked him what he had been the night before. ‘You came in late last night. I hope you were not out drinking with your workmates again.’ ‘We went to the snooker hall for a couple of hours, then I came home. I know from last week that you disapprove of me drinking at night, but I was tempted to go drinking with my friends. Please would you help me again, Mrs. Smith, to avoid the temptation?’ ‘Have your boozy friends have been on at you again to join them, Jack?’ ‘Yes. They went to the pub after we had played snooker and they tried to get me to join them.’ ‘Well, you didn't go, did you? You resisted the temptation, so I can't see why you need to blame yourself.’ ‘I need your help and encouragement, to avoid future temptation.’ ‘So you would like me to repeat the treatment, then?’ ‘Oh, yes please, Mrs. Smith.’ ‘Come straight home after work today, Jack my dear. I will expect you at six o'clock this evening and I'll prepare a light supper for us. Tell your friends that you have to stay in tonight.’ She walked away from the table to return to the kitchen and Jack had a rear view of the close fitting tweed skirt beneath her apron. He stared at her retreating backside, admiring her shapely buttocks, outlined by the folds of her skirt, which undulated beneath them with the sway of her hips. The sight of her, and the memory of the beautiful painting that he saw in her room, aroused him. He imagined the power of her plush posterior, that image so finely captured in that painting of the dancer. Throughout the day, Jack could barely concentrate on his work. His thoughts kept straying to the ordeal that he would undergo on his next appointment with his landlady.
Mrs. Smith was a widow in her mid forties. She was a long-standing friend of Jack's mother, ever since they were at school together, and they had kept in touch despite leading quite separate lives. Her husband died five years ago and she lived on her own. She decided to take in lodgers to supplement her income, and also for company. When Jack was taken on as an apprentice draftsman in a local engineering firm, his mother arranged for him to lodge with her friend, knowing that her son would be well cared for. Jack was a curly headed good-looking young man. He was happy in his work, though he had a routine job, but suitable for his artistic talents. His mother told her friend that Jack was a good lad, but easily influenced by others: a dreamer rather than a practical person. She hoped that he would become established in a career, meet a nice girl and settle down, but she had worries about his character. ‘He doesn't seem to be interested in girls’ she said, ‘though he was popular at college.’ Mrs. Smith tried to reassure her: ‘Don't worry, it may be that he's just shy. He'll have plenty of time to meet girls at work.’ Jack went to the pub most evenings to meet his workmates, and played sports at the weekend. Mrs. Smith noted that it was always his men friends that called for him. She tried to find out what he got up to when he went out with them; whether he had any girl friends or dated any of the girls he met at work. But like all young men, he was reticent about his social life, though he would talk quite freely about his work and how well he got on with his employers.
One evening during supper she asked him directly. ‘Do you like girls, Jack?’ ‘They're all right’ he replied, but unenthusiastically. ‘I can take them or leave them. They don't have any interests that I share, so I don't have much to do with them.’ ‘Don't you find some of them attractive to look at?’ ‘Not really, Mrs. Smith. None of the girls I’ve seen look any prettier than my, and some of them are downright ugly.’ Mrs. Smith could sympathize with Jack's jaundiced view of the modern young woman. Many of the girls didn't do much to make themselves attractive. In the days when she and Jacks’s mother were young women, they always put on their prettiest dresses before they went out to a party or a date. They took care over their hairdo and makeup and tried to look their best. Nowadays, young women didn’t seem to have any fashion sense at all. They generally wore dowdy clothing or jeans that exposed the tops of their bottoms: plump puppy fat on display. Even if a young man met a nice girl in a pub or nightclub, there was little opportunity to engage her in conversation, because of the surrounding din and frantic pointless activity: very loud music and the so-called dancing was mere jigging of arms in the mêlée of the dance floor to a cacophony of amplified noise - nothing like the civilized venues that she and her companions frequented in her younger days, the dance halls and intimate night clubs. But she understood Jack’s mother's concern for his future way of life. She too was widowed, but tragically early, and Jack was raised without the benefit of a father. Her friend’s other worry was that her son would turn out to be an alcoholic. She told Mrs. Smith friend that when Jack was studying at the art college he often came home late looking much the worse for wear, having drunk too much with his student friends. ‘I'm afraid that this will affect his work if they lead him astray’ she said.
Though Jack was generally quiet and well behaved when he started lodging with Mrs. Smith, she first saw the dissipated side of his character soon after he started work at the factory. One evening he went out with his work mates, to celebrate someone's birthday, and came back late having drunk too much. He had a hangover the following morning and so he stayed in bed. When she came upstairs that morning to tidy the room, she found him still under the sheets, snoring away. She woke him, saying ‘Why aren't you at work today, Jack?’ He groaned and mumbled that he had a heavy cold. ‘Fiddlesticks, you were drunk last night. Your mother told me to keep an eye on you when she brought you here. What am I going to say to her?’ ‘Please don't tell my mother, Mrs. Smith!’ ‘Well, I ought to, but I will give you one chance. Come and see me this evening and make sure you are clean, bathed and sober. You are a good-looking intelligent lad and it will be a shame if you spoil your life by indulging in the demon drink. Now get up and go to work, and apologize to your employers for being late.’ He came home from work that day, let himself in and had a bath. When he came down to the dining room he saw a cold meal on the table with a note telling him to come up to his landlady’s room after he had eaten. He ate his meal, a cold ham salad, then went to Mrs. Smith's parlor and knocked on her door. She invited him in and he saw that she wore a long black satin gown with a corseted bodice and a fringed black pinafore tied round her waist. Her hair was done up in a severe bun, like an old-fashioned schoolmarm. Here appearance reminded him of an early photograph of his great grandmother, taken in the early Edwardian era. A fashions only seen in historical period films and old photographs. Ladies then wore elegant gowns, with tight waists and bustles to emphasize their femininity. She led him into her parlor and offered him a cup of tea. ‘When you first drank alcohol, wine or beer, you found the taste bitter, didn't you? Then you became used to it, and began to enjoy the after effects: the loosening of inhibitions, the dulling of the senses. Well, Jack, I'm going to teach you a lesson and reform you. My remedy will be bitter at first, like the drink. But in time you will begin to anticipate the after effects. Unlike those of alcohol, which cause a hangover, lassitude and self-loathing, you will experience a heightened sensitivity and feeling of release. Now follow me.’ She took him to an alcove at the end of the room, which was hidden behind a set of curtains. In the alcove was an antique prie-dieu, a bench with a low seat and a tall sloping back, used a prayer seat or stool, with a kneeler and front panel - like a section of a church pew. ‘This is the shrine of correction. We will pray together for your release from the grip of the demon drink. Remove your clothes and put on this gown.’ Jack was curious about her intentions, but did as she requested, and put on a long cotton nightgown ‘Kneel at this bench, I am going to administer correction to you.’ His curiosity turned to apprehension and he was about to refuse her command, but this incipient rebellion was quelled by her stern glance. When he was in a kneeling position, she reached beneath the seat and drew out length of what appeared to be flexible sponge rubber. It was about two feet long, an inch wide and half an inch thick. ‘I am about to apply this thong to your buttocks - it will sting, but not draw blood or bruise. But you must exercise discipline, a quality you sadly lacked when you took to the booze last night. Hold onto the front ledge of the pew and on no account reach back to rub the pain that your bottom will feel. If you do, then my treatment will become more severe.’ Jack thought she was joking. How could such an innocuous looking strap, that appeared to be made of latex foam, hurt him? Perhaps she was just trying to humiliate him, but he decided to go along with her, for if she got rid of him as a lodger, he would cause a great upset to his mother. He felt Mrs. Smith lift the back of his gown, to expose his bare bottom. Then he heard the swish of the strap as she applied the first stroke. It made contact with his buttocks with a sharp 'thwack', but for a few seconds he felt nothing, for the stroke had temporarily deadened the nerves near his skin. As the shock of impact spread through his flesh the pain made itself felt through the delayed reaction of his nerves. My, how it stung! He let out an involuntary cry, but remembering her admonishment, did not to reach back. Instead he drew in his breath and gripped the front of the prie-dieu, clenching his buttocks until the pain subsided. ‘There, my dear, I bet you thought it wouldn't hurt, didn't you?’ ‘Yes, the strap looks so soft and flexible. The sharpness of the blow surprised me, what is it made of?’ ‘It's a strip of rhinoceros hide. When it strikes your bare skin, the impact at first anaesthetizes the nerves beneath the skin, but this only serves to delay the pain when the shock of the strike penetrates deeper. Now you took that well, my dear, but I am going to complete your chastisement with a further ten strokes.’ She applied them regularly, systematically covering each section of his buttocks. She waited a full minute between each stroke, so that Jack could experience the cycle of anticipation, followed by the initial numbness on the impact, then the crescendo of pain as the effect of the stroke penetrated deeper into his flesh. On completion of the tenth stroke, she said: ‘Well done, my dear, you've had enough punishment and you took it like a man. Now shuffle forward and let me come behind you and I will apply some salve.’ He felt her silk gown rustling against his back as she edged into the prie-dieu, to kneel behind him. Then a blessed relief as her fingers smoothed the cream over his buttocks. Her left hand strayed from his buttock, to lift up the front of her gown and drape it over his shoulders. Her perfume filled the enclosed space, rising to his sensitive nostrils, and he became aroused. She continued to caress his tender skin and the pain gradually diminished, to be replaced by a growing feeling of pleasure in his groin. She pressed herself against his bottom and he felt the coolness of her bare belly against his hot buttocks. She wore no panties or foundation garments to cover her pudenda, so that her thick pubic hair crinkled hard against the cleft of his buttocks. With her left hand she reached underneath to fondle his hanging scrotum, then took hold of him gently in the fingertips of her right hand. Her touch was cold against the fevered heat of his stiffening cock. ‘How strong!’ she whispered, leaning her head forward to nip his left ear between her front teeth. She was reassured, that whatever his sexual inclinations were, at least he was well equipped. The contrast between his former pain and the intense pleasure now coursing through his nerves was too much for him to withstand. He involuntarily made a copious emission that spattered inside the front of his gown. ‘That's a nice big boy,’ she said, ‘Now we shall pray together for your reform, for your release from the clutches of the demon drink.’ She reached forward to pull apart the curtains of the shrine that they knelt before. Jack expected the image of an idol or a saint to be revealed. Instead, there hung a pastel painting, about three foot high and two foot wide, illuminated by a spotlight. The image was that of a young dancer, posing with her back to the viewer and her arms raised above her head. She wore silver shoes with high heels, and a pink satin two-piece costume with long tassels hanging from the lower hem of the peplum. The painting caught the movement of her tassels, swaying in sensuous curves beneath her projecting rump, as though in the dance she had turned away from her dance partner, to display her beautiful rear in a provocative pose. ‘What a delightful painting that is, Mrs. Smith! Who is the dancer and who painted her?’ ‘That is me as a young woman, painted over twenty years ago. I wore that dress for the Latin American dance competition. An artist who saw me dancing was so taken with it that he asked me to model for him. When my husband saw the finished painting he bought it, though the artist was reluctant to sell.’ Jack looked at Mrs. Smith in a new light. Though her hair was now gray, there were still traces of the blonde tresses that were depicted in the painting, done up in a bun in the prescribed style for Latin American dance competitions. It was a severe style, but a style that revealed the classic beauty of her cheekbones, the smooth curves of her slender neck and shoulders. There were some lines in her face, around her eyes and mouth, as would be expected in a forty five year old matron, but hers were the pleasant features of a fulfilled life. Her figure appeared to be unchanged since her dancing days: a little bulkier, perhaps, but she still had that sumptuous pelvis. ‘I wish I were the artist. I can see why he was unwilling to part with it and why your husband placed it in this alcove, as a shrine to your beauty and grace.’ ‘When he reached his fifties, his vigor declined. I was then in my late thirties and my womanly needs were strong. To revive his desire, he had to imagine me in the bloom of my youth, when he first saw me dancing. So when he made love to me, we knelt in the prie-dieu where we are now: he knelt behind me, so that he felt my bare bottom against his loins. I arched my back, in the Grecian Bend, the pose that I adopted for that painting, so that he could enter me from the rear. He called our lovemaking 'Worship at the Shrine of Aphrodite'.’ And so she brought his visit to an end and told him to get dressed. ‘Now I have finished your chastisement and you may leave. Try and behave yourself in future, Jack, my lad, otherwise I will have to take a more drastic remedy. If you are tempted again, come up and see me’. Thus admonished, he left her parlor and for the rest of the week came home straight from work and stayed in for the night, apart from one evening when they went out together to the cinema to see a new James Bond picture.
He was content, but over the days the image of the painting of her as a dancer kept reappearing in his mind. He wanted to feast his eyes on it once more, and that is why he told her at breakfast that he needed to visit her parlor again. The temptation to go drinking with his friends was a fiction, a pretext to experience again the exquisite thrill of her chastisement. So that evening he knocked on her parlor door and she invited him in. He saw that she wore the same black Edwardian dress that she wore when he first visited her parlor. ‘Come in Jack and take off your clothes.’ She looked appreciatively at his genitals. Though flaccid, they were substantial - much larger than her late husband's, as far as she could remember from the years since his untimely death. It was a shame, she thought, that they weren't employed in satisfying a nice young wife. It would be a tragedy if he were to turn out to be a homosexual, as his mother feared. ‘Put on this gown, as before, and kneel at the shrine.’ He knelt at the prie-dieu and she opened the curtains to reveal the painting. He gazed at it again, fascinated by the beauty of the young dancer depicted. ‘I know that you have behaved yourself this week, Jack, so I'm not going to chastise you. Instead, let me relieve you another way.’ She sat behind him and held his cock, but there was no response from it, even when as on the first occasion she leaned forward to nibble his earlobe. Jack turned his head to her with a pleading look and said ‘Mrs. Smith, please, I need to be whipped. I've been wicked, having impure thoughts.’ ‘Impure thoughts about what, Jack?’ She feared that he was becoming prey to what his mother suspected - latent homosexual urges. He was obviously reluctant to reveal his feelings to her, but she urged him to confess. ‘Please don't be angry, Mrs. Smith. I used to dream about my teammates in the shower after a game of soccer. But now I've started to dream about you chastising me.’ At his words she sighed inwardly, relieved that there was some reassurance for the worries that his mother had expressed. It was not ideal that he had become fixated on her, but as far as his mother's wishes were concerned, it was better than the alternative. She resolved to confirm the new direction of Jack's fantasies, but at the same time indulge her own long suppressed needs. She reassured herself that life was too short to deny her own pleasure. She was still in her prime and still had womanly urges, but with no opportunity to satisfy them since the death of her husband. Jack was a handsome young man, and surely his mother wouldn't begrudge her taking her pleasure of him. After all, she was fulfilling his mother's wishes, to keep Jack to the straight and narrow and turn him away from drink and an unhealthy desire for his male companions. ‘I'll chastise you, Jack, but you must also indulge me.’ ‘I'll do anything for you, Mrs. Smith. Tell me what you want me to do.’ ‘Come with me to the bed.’ She took the rhino hide whip from the shrine and sat on the edge of the bed. She made Jack kneel at her feet, and then she lifted her skirt and petticoat. ‘Place your head between my thighs and kiss me in my secret place.’ She parted her thighs, inviting Jack to explore the dark recesses of her nest. The tops of her thighs were bare above her dark silk stockings, which were attached by suspenders to the hem of her black girdle. Jack moved his mouth towards her crutch and she grasped his curly hair, pulling his face closer to her vulva, and then lowered her petticoat and skirt, to cover his head within their folds. She opened up to him and sighed. ‘Don't hold back, dear. Press your mouth right into me. Feast on me and get ready for your first blow.’ Jack felt it sting as it landed on his exposed rump. Though he had been warned, it still had the power to shock. ‘Was that nice, dear?’ Jack could only grunt, as his head was pressed against her crutch, now damp with his saliva as well as her own juices. ‘Don't say anything, Jack. Just continue your licking and sucking, you're doing a great job. Only let me know when you want me to stop.’ Encouraged, Jack pressed his mouth harder against her. He smelt her musty odor and felt the swelling of her mons under the dark crinkly bush of her pubic hair. The next blow came, to enhance the enjoyment of his oral exploration of her vagina: a heady combination of pleasure and pain. His own crutch started to respond and after a few more blows he was fully erect. He continued his feasting, instinctively sensing what she wanted, what most pleased her. His tongue licked her clitoris and probed the inner folds of her vulva. Encouraged by her grunts and the occasional blow of the whip, he nuzzled her labia, lapping her juices. He sensed her ecstatic enjoyment of his ministrations, which drove him with an overwhelming desire to lose his own identity, giving himself entirely to her pleasure. Her mons became swollen and she ceased her blows on Jack's buttocks in order to lie back and raise her knees, giving his mouth more intimate access to her. Jack continued to minister to her under the frothy cover of her petticoat. His need for chastisement abated and he became totally absorbed in exploring the mysteries of her sex, feasting on the juices that were stimulated when he nuzzled her hidden pearl. She unbuttoned the top part of her gown and bared her breasts, to caress them, in the same self-comforting way that she often did on her bath night, ever since her husband died. He continued to administer cunnilingus until, sated, she called an end to their deadly embrace. ‘Enough, Jack. Come up for air or you'll suffocate. Join me on the bed.’ He reluctantly removed his face from her pudenda and climbed in beside her. ‘Lie back, Jack, let's see what you have for me.’ She was not disappointed by the extent of his arousal. She placed some pillows beneath his head, then moved on top of him, sat astride his lap and shuffled her bottom forward until her moist labia were kissing the end of his cock. She lifted her bottom to let it rise, and then carefully lowered herself, skillfully absorbing him into her receptive vulva, gradually working him into her until she became fully impaled. ‘Here, my baby, taste this’ she said, leaning forward and offering her jutting breasts to his lips, where he took suck. In response to the electric thrill from her suckled tits, her vagina, already tighter than it had ever been, gripped him even harder. It triggered his climax and in the intensity of his passion he cried out. ‘Mum-mee, oh my lovely Mum-mee!’ ‘There, there, my baby - so good to Mamma. Come, dear, come into your Mummy!’ Even when fully spent, he continued to throb deep inside her. She held his head close to her breast, gripping his hair and savoring his prolonged thickness. She smiled, content that her mission was accomplished and that she had weaned him off the demon drink. Within a year those very breasts that he now sucked so eagerly would yield mother's milk, to both her babies: the one who was now dying inside her, and the other who had just entered her womb. Jack's manhood was confirmed, reserved to lodge only in its true home and not stray to the gay. She had converted him to her own; he was now a reformed character.
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