Jean opened the double doors of her wardrobe and considered what to wear for her date. The selection was much more limited than what it would have been at one time, but she had not been on a date for over twenty years, and never one of this kind. What would be appropriate - the trouser suit? Too everyday. Maybe the little black cocktail dress - but it was too short to wear with stockings and suspenders; overtly sluttish was definitely not the right style, and Jean had already determined her hosiery selection. It would have to be the grey skirt and white blouse, then - it made her look a little like a secretary, but that was not perhaps a bad way to look, for later that evening she would, at the age of forty-three, be willingly going across a man's knee to receive the first spanking of her adult life.
There was still a small corner of her mind which wished it could have been Rob who would be there to turn his blue eyes onto her and melt her into submission, but Rob's blue eyes had also proved irresistible to a whole string of other women, the last of whom had destroyed their marriage, then claimed and kept him four years ago. But Rob wouldn't have given her the damn good spanking she craved, he had always been too wrapped up in his own pursuits and the fulfilment of his own fantasies to spare any thought for hers, and she had been left to wander the imagined corridors of girls' borstals, slave-training castles and futuristic punishment centres by herself. And, since he had left, she had watched too many men cast glances at her and, finding nothing of great interest, move on to sweeter eye-candy. Until she felt the unswerving eyes of one man, focusing intently on her tautened buttocks as she cleared weeds from her front borders, and she knew. She offered him tea and biscuits, and willed him to toss her across his knee and tear down the gardening jeans and the everyday knickers and wallop her black and blue, but all he did was blush and smile and make small talk, especially when she had contrived to make a light comment about spanking which appeared to have been unfruitful at the time. But, later, he had telephoned and tentatively suggested a meeting...
She emerged from the bath an hour before the agreed time, and set about blow-drying her hair; she could endeavour to attain the smooth sheen of shampoo commercials to counteract the wisps of grey which were beginning to proliferate. She found the suspender belt at the very back of her underwear drawer, relic of a more fun-filled past and part of a co-ordinated set whose other components had long since worn out. Knickers ... nothing too skimpy, something white, full and matronly demanding imminent removal. Bra ... oh, would he be seeing her bra? That would be going too far, wouldn't it - but she knew that if he demanded that she strip naked she would be compelled to obey, and if he then roughly thrust inside her in her own home she would also submit, but cry bitterly later. She wanted wooing, tenderly and romantically; she also wanted a stinging hot bot delivered by a man who wouldn't draw back when it came to hurting her - was it possible to have both? When the doorbell rang, she was trembling and had to breathe deeply to compose herself. There was a blur of red showing through the frosted glass; she opened the door. Roses, a whole bunch of them.
"Hello again," he said shyly.
She made them both tea in the best china cups, though hers was tinkling like a fire bell as she tried to hold her hand steady to drink it. He looked nice - and, oh, those blue eyes ... but she had learnt to see into the eyes to the person beyond. No hint of calculation, cruelty or deception, those things which etch themselves into the face as the body and mind conspire together against others. Suddenly she felt guilty; surely there was some nice straight girl who could see the things she now saw and would love him and want to bear his babies, and here he was wasting his time with a silly old spanko like her. As if on cue, he brought the upright chair filling one corner of the living room into the centre, sat himself upon it and patted his knee invitingly; she put her cup down with a clatter, smoothed her skirt (why??), flashed him a brief nervous smile and settled into position with her bottom across his legs and her fingertips touching the carpet.
She felt the coolness on the back of her bare thighs as he carefully lifted her long skirt and folded it over her back; well, maybe she wouldn't be cool much longer. He began to spank, slowly and rhythmically, cupping his hand to the contours of her behind - why, this hardly hurt at all - then on to her thighs, gently smacking the two hands' width of bare flesh between her stocking tops and her panties, and finally raising a slight sting, but the real joy was caused by finally feeling a man's hand roving into areas which had not been caressed for so long. She opened her legs slightly, and the hand moved upwards and stopped as it reached an area which was becoming damper by the minute. What would he do now?
"You're a bad girl - a dirty girl!" he said in a deep reproving voice; ooh, well, she was, no question about that!
"What do bad girls deserve?" he continued. What did he want to hear?
"Punishment," she said hoarsely. "Dirty bad girls should be punished severely, spanked hard and made to cry!"
"Precisely!" he said, and pulled down the modest white knickers.
He began to spank harder and harder, ignoring her spread legs except to direct a few slaps to her inner thighs, and his hand was no longer loosely cupped but the fingers held splayed and rigid as he rained down heavy smacks. She began to wince, then yell, then kick her legs involuntarily, but he did not relent, not until her bottom and upper thighs were crimson and the yells turned to pleading sobs. Then he yanked her upright.
"Keep your skirt lifted and stand in the corner! And no touching!" he ordered. She shuffled slowly into the corner, impeded by the knickers which hung around her ankles. Then, after five minutes of throbbing corner time, he made her turn round, skirt still lifted, and display her thatch of pubic hair as he watched with apparent unconcern as her face flushed scarlet as her behind.
"Not too bad," he said, "now pull your knickers up and make yourself decent!"
Jean couldn't believe her luck; he'd spanked her thoroughly, but not cruelly; he'd noticed her arousal but kept his mind on the matter in hand and refused to be sidetracked; he'd humiliated but not crushed her - when, oh, when would she get to see him again? She looked into those blue eyes, trademark of the family into which she'd married. They had lost the imperious air, and were now filled with a strange wonder, and his firm commanding voice took on a tone of entreaty:
"I was just thinking, Auntie Jean ... would you like to come to my twenty-first birthday party?"
