{ASSTR 17} Maidens Beta and Omega, or Virgins the Second and Last {Big Billie} (m/F & M/F sex, F/F spank, controversial) Maidens Beta and Omega Or Virgins the Second and Last By Big Billie © Big Billie 2004. Not to be distributed or sold for monetary gain. Author' Statement: Big Billie is opposed to spanking except for consenting adults. However, spanking sexually excites him, so he writes about it. Part the First: Beta Girl *************************************** My name is Bill Rooney and I was born in Shoreditch in the East End of London in 1927. When I was 13 the Blitz began. The German bombers were particularly thick above my family home in the Thames docklands, so I joined the exodus of juvenile evacuees and, in November 1940, was billeted on a family in rural Dorset. Oh, my dear young reader! You who have lived in times of peace and prosperity! I am so happy for you! I hope that you are my friend, but even if you were my worst enemy I would not wish you to be subjected to the trauma of those terrible days. I was lucky; I was not old enough to fight, and I was too young to be left to the tender mercies of Hitler's Luftwaffe. I got out. But, even so, to be torn from a happy family in a bustling and exciting metropolis, and to be dumped in a quiet country backwater among strangers, well, at first it devastated me. There were five of us children, my brother, my three sisters, and I, and the War scattered us to the four winds. I well remember our last night together as a family. There were tears aplenty from mother and the girls, and us lads too had lips that were quivering. We did not live together again as a family until 1945, and I will never forget the exhilaration of our reunion, the ecstatic joy of the armistice celebrations in central London, and the gigantic relief that none of our close relatives were killed or injured. But these mighty and tragic themes are not for my pen. I am no Euripides, Tolstoy or Ibsen. My tale is in a lighter vein; I aim merely to titillate and amuse. I hope that you like my story. At least it shows that, even in those dark days, the human spirit was not easy to crush. Girls will be girls; boys will be boys. Young blood runs hot, and young flesh is passionate. I was billeted on the family of the Rev. Thomas Stokes, an Anglican clergyman. In 1940 he was about 40 years old. His wife, Mrs Sarah Stokes, was younger than him. She was in her early thirties and her daughter, her only child Anna, was 16. For a few weeks we all lived together in the large vicarage, but then the vicar volunteered as an army chaplain. He spent the rest of the war in various barracks in England and then, after the opening of the Second Front in June 1944, he followed the troops as they advanced on Germany. For the first few weeks I was thoroughly miserable in my new home. I was a working class lad and the restrained, genteel environment of a country vicarage was hard to take. I found it very difficult to fit in. The only bright spot was my schooling; I was quite an intelligent young chap, so they sent me to the boys Grammar School in a nearby town. Opposite my school there was a sister institution for girls where Anna studied, and where her mother Sarah spent part of her time teaching Geography, and the rest of it being one of the PT (physical training) and games mistresses. After a month or so I settled down and I became a bit happier. The first good news was that just before Christmas 1940 the vicar left to take up his army duties. He was a stiff, stern, formal, unbending man with no discernable tenderness or sense of fun, and I was not sorry to see him go. Then, over Christmas, there were carol services and children's parties at the Church, which was now serviced by a much friendlier and more pleasant vicar from an adjacent parish. Meanwhile I was making some good (indeed lifelong) friends at school, where my cockney accent and my streetwise anecdotes from the Big Smoke (as we Brits sometimes refer to our capital city) gave me a certain aura and cachet. Anna, however, was a problem. She quickly discerned from her father's attitude towards me that I was, in class terms, her social inferior; and in those more structured and formal days there was a certain stigma attached to that. Then I was three years younger than her. She played the sophisticated adult lady to perfection. She patronised me, and treated me as a child. Even worse, I had no experience at surviving in a middle class environment and I possessed none of the necessary social skills and graces; I made gaffes and faux pas aplenty, and Anna teased me mercilessly about them. As for the usual middle class cultural accomplishments, well, I lacked those too. Anna was a good pianist, with a beautiful singing voice; as for me, it was as much as I could manage to play the paper and comb. Anna could make a very passable stab at knocking off a Scarlatti sonata, a Mozart minuet or a Chopin prelude; at that time my knowledge of music was limited to the Music Hall, and to Al Bowly, George Formby and the other popular entertainers featured on the BBC's Light Programme wireless service. Oh, yes! Anna was a shrewd and intelligent social observer. She soon picked up the nuances. She delighted in keeping me firmly in my lowly niche, and she soon slapped me back into it with her mocking and vituperative tongue if, in her opinion, I began to show tendencies that were above my station. And yet, dear reader, and yet! Despite her haughty aloofness, I was infatuated with my persecutor. She was the only youthful female to whom I had ready access. I was randy and frustrated, and she was beautiful. In those days of hardship and poverty some of the girls in my native East End were pasty, scrawny, small, stunted and malnourished. In contrast, Anna was tall, big- boned and meaty. For a girl of her age she had a beautifully curvaceous, well-developed body and she exuded an easy grace, amplitude and charm. Her hair was long, black and crinkly, her skin milk white except for a healthy ruddiness in her cheeks, and her bright blue eyes shone like sapphires. In a way her aloofness and her unattainability added to her charms. I fancied her like mad, but all I looked set to get from her was rejection, ridicule and contempt. Well, I was not the first working class lad to be infatuated with a youthful middle class lady, and I do not think that I shall be the last. I suppose that my torment, and my degradation, might have lasted for the entire war. But then, in the dark days of midwinter, Anna made a mistake, an error that was to prove pleasurable for both of us but in the short term also quite painful for her. She began to inject a sexual component into her persecution. It all started on Christmas Eve, when I was on my way to bed. The door of Anna's room swung open as I passed by, and there, inside, was Anna in her long flannel nightdress. "Come in!" she said imperiously. I meekly obeyed, and she quietly shut the door after me. "Do you know what that is?" she asked, pointing to a twig that was hanging from the ceiling by a string. "Mistletoe," I answered. "Correct!" replied Anna in a particularly irritating and patronising tone of approval, as if she were a schoolmarm praising a small child. "And you know what?" "No." "Well, you can kiss me under it if you like. Yes, that's right." (As I stood wide eyed in astonishment.) "A Christmas kiss." Well, there was more offensive persiflage from Anna along the same lines, but soon we were both under the mistletoe and I was about to do the business. Now this, dear reader, is where, at long last, I had the advantage over my temptress. For all her airs and graces and her age advantage, Anna was still a callow and naive virgin. I, on the other hand, was not. In the East End the lower orders used to start snogging and bonking at an early age. I had experience, of heavy petting and of more, in bus shelters, behind bike sheds, and in a hut that we used to break into on our local allotments. Young as I was, I was the proud possessor of a thick, reusable rubber condom, and I had already put it to good use. I had deflowered one of my female acquaintances, and I had had sexual intercourse with several others. I now resolved to put this superior expertise to good use. Anna's contemptuous concession had really got my goat. In the absence of any more suitable or eligible young man this frustrated virgin intended to use me as her sexual plaything before, no doubt, tossing me aside as a creature of no worth. But no, I thought. If I have anything to do with it that is not the way it will go. This could be my chance to turn the tables on Little Miss Stuck Up. If this goes to plan the Crafty Cockney may yet prove more than a match for the naive, well-bred country girl! But first, I thought, I must do this bit right. I must try to use this one opportunity under the mistletoe to set up something for the future. Like Anna, I too was tall for my age. In fact, I was about the same height as her. I now took advantage of this fact to stand close to her and slowly extend my arms around her waist. Then I embraced her tenderly, and gently placed my lips against hers. To lull her into a false sense of security I then left the next move up to her. What my new paramour did next surprised me. I was to learn later that this was Anna's first proper kiss with a boy. She told me in retrospect that she had no idea how to play it, but that, having set the situation up, she decided that she had little choice but to go for it. And go for it, dear reader, she did. She kissed me hard and long, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and forcing her closed lips against mine with considerable force and enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I was in ecstasy as I caressed the small of her back, her sides, her tummy and her lower ribcage with my opened palms and fingers. Well, madam, I thought, as our lips finally parted. That showed enthusiasm and initiative, but there is, I think, a certain gaucheness there, and a definite need for further practice and training. Now, let me show you how it is really done. While Anna was still savouring the memory of that first kiss, I gave her another one, and this time I, not she, was the owner of it. I started far more gently than she had, tenderly pushing and probing, working my lips into hers slowly and seductively. Then came the nerve-racking moment when I opened my lips slightly, pushed my tongue through them and, very tentatively and delicately, probed past Anna's lips, between her teeth and into her mouth. I knew that the next few seconds were crucial. Would Anna break off our kiss in outrage and shock, slap my face for me, and eject me from her room? Or would my gamble succeed? Well later, when we had got to know each other and were on much better terms, Anna told me that I had been in luck. She was at that time in her monthly cycle when she felt at her most randy, and at her most desperate for physical contact with a man. She gasped, and her eyes flew wide open in shock. But she did not withdraw for a second or two, and that was just long enough for her to become addicted to the voluptuous wetness of my probing French kiss. For thirty seconds or so she clasped me tight, but remained the passive recipient of my amorous, seductive advances. Meanwhile, my tongue became ever bolder as it discovered the warm, moist, deliciously seductive inner membranes of Anna's cheeks, of the roof of her mouth, and, finally, of her pert, twitching tongue. Then, at first slowly and hesitantly, but then more firmly and enthusiastically, Anna began to return my kiss. Her tongue started to confront the invader, and then to entwine and enwrap him. Then she pushed him back, beyond her own teeth and lips, out of her mouth, and back into his own territory. Now her tongue was the invader, exploring and probing into my mouth; and thus the tongue tennis continued. Oh wow! I love kissing almost as much as I love fucking. It is a delicious sport, a delightful art, and throughout my life I have done my best to improve and perfect my skill. Kissing is the perfect hors d'oeuvre to a sexual feast. There must always be an element of selfishness in orgasm. The pleasure to the sexual organs and to the central nervous system is so intense that it must distract you, even if only briefly, from serving, from the gift relationship with your partner. There is always a fraction at least of orgasmic pleasure that is an individual indulgence. Kissing, however, is different. It is so romantic. The pleasure is less obvious and intense, but incredibly unitive. Oh, my dear young readers! Please allow an old man to give you a few well-chosen words of advice. Take the time, take the trouble, to learn how to kiss; and do not kiss for yourself, but kiss for your partner. Let your kisses be selfless gifts, generous and open. Think of your partner's pleasure, not your own. Kiss slowly; take plenty of time, and never rush. Have a buffer, a lengthy time zone devoted to kissing and cuddling before you proceed to intercourse; and sometimes, to prolong the sexual intensity, do not proceed to intercourse at all, at least not until later. Then, when you do fuck, let the foreplay, the kissing, and the selfless giving and taking of sexual favours, prepare you well for it. Whatever the time constraints and the pressures of life, try not, in our English phrase, to "whip it in, whip it out, and wipe it." No. "Wham, bam, thank you ma'am," as you Americans say, is not the way. Sometimes, a "hot, sticky quickie" can be a turn on. I particularly like it when there are undertones of submission and domination. "Strip naked, young lady, and bend over the arm of that sofa. Now, thrust up your bottom, open your legs, and think of England. You are going to get it, and you are going to get it hard." But for me that kind of thing, exciting and stimulating as it is, is fantasy and role-play. What really holds a marriage, a union, together is giving, not taking, unity, not individual go getting, selfless love not self-serving pleasure. (Yes, O.K! I admit it! Selfless love, but, in addition and for good measure, a very large dose of crude, sexy, sweaty, animal lust!) But oh my dear! Even this early in my tale I find myself meandering. Please allow me to return to the events of that memorable Christmas Eve in 1940. Well, after my triumphant victory in getting almost to first base with my paramour, I tried my luck further. Starting at the small of Anna's back I started rubbing the opened palms and probing fingers of my right hand lower down, across the tops of her buttocks. Meanwhile my left hand left off caressing the midriff area around Anna's belly button and roved up to gently squeeze and tweak her right breast and nipple. Until that point Anna had been moaning gently and returning my kisses with fervour. But that nipple jog was a tweak too far. Even though her thick flannel nightdress protected Anna's bare skin from my invasive hands, she clearly thought that I was getting cheeky and that I needed to be slapped back into line. And slap me back into line she did, with a stinging smack across my left cheek from the flat of her right hand that sent me reeling backwards. Ouch! It was hard, and it came sharp, very sharp. "You insolent young cub! How dare you?" Anna fumed, and her eyes flashed fire. "Go on, get out! Get out before I give you the sound spanking that you so richly deserve! I warn you, little boy! If you ever dare to goose me again I will take down your trousers for you, turn you over my knee and smack your bare bottom, hard, with a hairbrush. That's what a naughty child like you deserves!" However, despite Anna's simulated anger I could tell that she was sexually excited, both at being goosed, and at her threat to discipline me. As for me, I was shamed and sexually stimulated in more or less equal measure. I was captivated by the feel of Anna's wet, delicious mouth and firm, nubile flesh, and deeply shamed and hurt by her merciless tongue-lashing. Now that sex had reared its head in the interactions between us it changed things forever. My humiliation entered a whole new dimension, as did my sexual frustration. I was shrewd enough to realise, however, that if I was patient, and if I played my cards right, I was in with a chance. I knew that I had got to Anna with my kisses and caresses. She had enjoyed them, and, if she wanted more, well, there was no other man around to supply them. Thus things continued until February 1941. Many times Anna allowed me clandestine kisses and fumbles. She would lead me on and then, when I was all hard and rampant, she would slap me, push me away, and put me down with her coruscating tongue. She now had me eating out of her hand, like a tame pigeon, and I was on a hectic roller coaster ride between elation and despair. In mid-February 1941 I celebrated my fourteenth birthday. The morning post brought a letter, with a card and a postal order in it, from my parents. Then, after school, Anna's mother organised a little party for the three of us. There was a homemade carrot cake with a thin filling of jam and ersatz cream, and a glass of red wine each. Then, as usual, we were sent to bed early, since it was school the next morning. As I lay in my bed I snuggled my ears and face beneath the bedclothes. It was a cold, wet night, and rain was lashing against the windowpane. Then, I heard a light click as the catch on the bedroom door was turned. Next the door swung silently on its hinges and there, silhouetted against the doorframe, was Anna. She entered silently, closed and bolted the door after her and approached the bed. "Bill," she whispered. "Are you awake?" "Yes!" "Well move over then, and let me in!" The single bed was not wide enough to accommodate two well- developed young people adequately so, when Anna climbed in beside me, our bodies were thrust up against each other, and firm, meaty thighs and pneumatic breasts were pushed into me. "Thanks for the visit," I said breathlessly, "But what do you want?" "Isn't that obvious?" replied the object of my desire as, to my amazement, she thrust her hand beneath the bedclothes and through the open flies of my pyjama bottoms; then she groped and fondled at my tumescent manhood. "I have come to give you your birthday present." Oh dear! I am not so sure that I understand females any better now than I did then. Why, oh why, ladies, after you have long denied us will you sometimes suddenly decide to give us a taste of what we have been lusting after? Later Anna told me that this delicious birthday gift was carefully planned. She herself had passed seventeen in January; she was nearly full-grown, with the healthy sexual appetites and needs of an adult woman, and she was tired of life without a man. She craved romantic action and I was her only chance of getting any. She now pulled up her nightdress and placed my hand onto her naked vulva. Already her crotch was wet, and I could detect the musky smell of her female sex. The same smell, I noticed, was on her fingers since, as she later admitted to me, she had almost brought herself to orgasm by masturbating in her own bed immediately beforehand. Has anything like this ever happened to you, gentlemen? Has a scornful lady ever relented, quite suddenly, and given you relief? It has happened to me two or three times in the course of my life, and on each occasion it has completely thrown me. By now I did not know if it was day or night. My caressed manhood was rampant and my probing fingers wet. Meanwhile, reason battled with lust and, as it did so, one overwhelming priority impressed itself upon my brain. I must not snatch at this chance. I must take it slowly. I must prepare my virgin well for her deflowering, and take her as gently and as considerately as I could. Anna had been a cow to me, and she deserved little courtesy. But, even so, tonight I would treat her with deference and respect. What she was now offering paid all accounts; indeed, it put me deeply in her debt. Well, that is what my head was telling me, but it took it all of its time to enforce the interpretation upon my rock hard fourteen-year-old cock, which by now was barely controllable. The good news was that I managed to keep to my game plan; I took Anna's maidenhead beautifully, to the satisfaction of both of us. Even now, when we meet as an elderly gentleman and an even more elderly lady, we reminisce fondly over the events of that night. I began by taking off my pyjamas so that I was completely naked. Then I carefully removed Anna's nightdress to put her into the same condition. Then we kissed and cuddled, and, though she was goading me on with urgent body language, I refused to be rushed. Oh yes! I kept my virgin waiting and I kept her hot. I rubbed her, I pinched her, I tickled her and I playfully slapped her. Our kisses were long and deep, and our embraces firm and passionate. Soon wads of pre-cum were oozing from my throbbing member and, tickled and enticed by my eager, probing fingers, Anna's virgin rosebud was as hard and stiff as a matchstick and her vulva was dripping wet with her love juices. As our foreplay escalated I felt a dull, throbbing ache in my balls, the price I had to pay for my unnatural self-restraint. Then I reached out of bed, and, through the darkness, groped for the drawer in my bedside cabinet. Inside, fumbling around with my fingers, I felt the smooth rubber contours of my reusable condom. Soon it was pulled down the length of my rock hard cock as I explained to Anna what it was, and the need for care and precautions. By now our foreplay had lasted for more than an hour. I remembered from the time when I had deflowered my previous lover, Mary, in the allotment shed one Friday evening in June 1940, that the rupturing of her hymen had hurt her, and that she had bled profusely. I had therefore been doing my best to prise from Anna's love channel any coating of impeding skin. But I need not have worried. Anna was a keen horsewoman, and this, together with a liking for candles and masturbation, had already opened her up nicely. It was a tight fit, but when my condom-covered cock entered her, I discovered that she could take it. These snatched moments of illicit bliss, of course, were not perfect. I felt like screaming in delight as I reached orgasm, but we had to keep silent to avoid detection, since Mrs. Stokes, Anna's mother, was a light sleeper. Then the old-fashioned, thick, reusable condom was not the ideal; it took away much of the sensation of skin-to-skin Nirvana. But hey! We were only young, and we had certainly never had anything better. There may have been an element of luck about it, but we both climaxed together, and we both climaxed hard; and there is something about stolen, forbidden delight that makes it even sweeter than the more relaxed and comfortable pleasures of a respectable marriage bed. Well, from that night onwards Anna and I were plunged into what, I suppose, you might describe as an affair. Anna still enjoyed playing the dominatrix, but after I had taken her cherry she did so much more gently, even playfully. She still irritated me from time to time, and she thoroughly enjoyed doing it; but now I did not really mind. I knew that in the near future we would both be naked and together between the sheets again, and that soon another brisk, sharp sexual workout would make my lover pliable and pleasant again. This brings me, dear reader, to the next part of my tale, and this features Anna's mother, Mrs. Sarah Stokes. The lady of the house was of dark complexion and medium height, with a neat trim figure. Her breasts were fairly small but pert and inviting. Her waist was slim and nicely tapered, her bottom big and meaty and her thighs and legs muscular. As might have been expected of a gym mistress, she was an excellent sportswoman. Even to me, a lad in his teens, she still, into her thirties, exuded youth and energy. Unlike her husband, she seemed to be fond of me, and she always treated me kindly. What first dumbfounded me about her though was an incident in November 1940. It occurred in the playing fields, which were shared between the boy's and the girls' grammar schools. I had been playing football (or, as you Americans call it, soccer) for my house team. It was a good, tight game that we had managed to win by a narrow margin, and, after I had showered and changed, I was walking back to the main school buildings feeling pretty smug and pleased with myself, and with my mid- field performance. I was in no rush, since our games session was in the morning, and there were no lessons to attend until after the lunch hour. My teammates walked ahead of me, and I loitered idly, casually watching the fifth year girls playing netball. In those days, girls' games attire was far more modest than it is now but, even so, I occasionally glimpsed with interest flashes of naked knees and thighs as the girls jumped up and their gymslips flew into the air. Unlike the more abrasive game of basketball, I mused, netball is a graceful pastime. The players can only run off the ball, and every time a successful pass is made the game is paused into a static tableau, like a group of dancers posing at the end of a sequence in a classical ballet. Then, suddenly, my sporting conjectures and the graceful flow of the game were both rudely interrupted. Two girls collided and knocked each other over. They were both unhurt, but one of them uttered an indecent expletive against her adversary, and threatened that she would "get her" later. Her opponent not only responded in kind, but also decided on a trial of strength then and there. In the bat of an eye two big, strapping sixteen-year-old girls were into a catfight. Now, dear reader, to understand what happened next you will need a little background information on corporal punishment in English schools in the 1940s. At that time physical chastisement was rife throughout the educational system, and it was used routinely, not just as a last resort. In secondary schools the boys caught it the worst. They were usually caned, either on the hands or across the bottom. The fate of the girls was much more variable. Male teachers in particular were often chivalrous, and would let the girls off, either completely or with lines or detentions. Occasionally girls might be caned, and on the bottom too, if, for example, they fell into the clutches of a male or female pervert; but most teachers considered that the stick was inappropriate and excessive for the fair sex. Instead, if they were hit at all, girls were usually smacked across the bottom with a plimsoll. A female teacher most commonly carried out the sentence since, in those more innocent and courteous days, it was considered ungentlemanly, as well as inappropriate, for a male teacher to smack a young lady's bottom. Finally, during PT and games sessions, where there was a risk of injury, summary on- the-spot bottom smacking of both boys and girls was frequently used to preserve order and safety. Anyway, to return to our story, by now our two strapping sixteen-year-olds were flailing around on the grass, kicking, biting and pulling each other's hair. Then, suddenly, an angry and extremely loud voice rang out: "Stop!" It was the supervising teacher, Mrs. Stokes, and I would never have believed that so many decibels could be emitted from her averagely proportioned frame. The voice was both loud enough and sharp enough to shock the two assailants and to end their catfight. They both rose to their feet from the grass and looked apprehensively at their teacher. Mrs Stokes was incensed at their behaviour and the next few minutes were taken up with a savage tongue lashing of the miscreants that left them looking very sheepish, and very sorry for themselves. "Catherine," said Mrs. Stokes to one of the offenders, "My sports bag is on the grass over there. Inside you will find my gym slipper. Bring it to me, please. Good. Now, both of you come here. Yes, you too, Patricia." Next, I watched spellbound, with a rapidly stiffening cock, as Mrs. Stokes positioned the two girls a short distance from each other, and got them to straighten their legs and touch their toes. Then up went their gymslips over their backs. The girls were facing away from me, so the effect of this was to display to me perfectly their bare, shapely calves, their naked thighs, and their two meaty nubile bottoms, tightly encased in dark blue cotton knickers. All this happened so fast that I could scarcely take it in. I certainly got the gist of what happened next, however. Mrs. Stokes raised the gym slipper into the air and then brought it round, very hard, onto Catherine's rump. It fairly whistled through the air before landing, with a loud ear-splitting crack, slap across her beknickered bottom. It struck just above the thighs, to the area between the vulva and the anus where the buttock meat was at its most plump, tender and smackable. Under her knickers I watched entranced as Catherine's big, meaty, womanly bottom wobbled, shuddered and quivered. Shocked and taken aback by the force of the blow, the victim let out a shrill, high-pitched scream. Then, over the next few seconds, as the initial sting was supplemented by a sharp tingling, Catherine let out a series of urgent, angry-sounding grunts: "Ngh! Ngh! Ngh!" Meanwhile, another high-pitched crack rang out as Patricia's bottom got the same treatment. Her figure was more svelte and trim than that of her adversary, but, even so, she caught it just as hard, and her reaction was much the same as Catherine's. Then, long before Patricia's cries had subsided, Catherine's bum took it again. And so it went on. Catherine took it, and then Patricia took the same, as Sarah leant across Catherine's rump to give it to her second victim: Slap! Slap! Slap!! Slap!! Slap!!! Slap!!! _Slap!!!!_ _Slap!!!!_ The whacks seem to ring out louder and louder as the punishment progressed; they re-echoed around the field as bum flesh shuddered and the victims' shocked, pained and outraged cries filled the air. Each miscreant took eight slaps, and by the end of their ordeal the seats of their navy blue knickers had been well and truly dusted. By now I was in a catatonic state. I had always been sexually turned on and amused by the spanking of females, but never like this before. I walked back to the main school building with a cock like a rock, and then went into a toilet cubicle to masturbate. As you will have noticed, dear reader, in the USA, in Britain, and in Europe, the sexual protection of children is currently in the news. Every court case featuring a man having sex with an underage girl is extensively reported, ostensibly in the public interest, but mainly because most readers find it titillating and sexually exciting. In no area of law enforcement is there more hypocrisy and doublethink. Contrast this with old fairy tales. If you read the originals of stories from, say, Spain, you will often see that the sexually desirable princess is aged at, say, 15, or 1 to 3 years below what is now considered adult and fair game. Then look at some of the old ballads. Child 2D ("The Elfin Knight") has an eleven-year-old girl going off to bed with a man, and a nine-year-old expressing a wish to do the same. Then Child 15A ("Leesom Brand") has a twelve or thirteen-year-old boy who gets an eleven-year-old girl pregnant; and the girl is not depicted as a child, but as "a gay ladye." More recently, Nabokov's "Lolita" dealt with themes that were once considered appropriate for serious literature, but which have now been edited off the agenda by the new sex fascists. Hey, we are great democracies are we not? Any threat to free speech, whether from army dictators, from politically correct authoritarians, or from misguided, muddle-headed liberals, must be confronted; we have a right to write about, to debate, and to exchange ideas and feelings, on such questions. After all, not everyone who reads about death in a murder mystery is a murderer; not everyone who watches a Dracula film is a vampire. So why should it be presumed that everyone who reads about underage sex practices it? Think straight, Uncle Sam; think straight, John Bull; because at the moment, on this one, your heads are up your arses. On the other hand, dear reader, I do not myself condone underage sex, or sympathise with men who prey on young girls. In my view such men should be punished, and punished severely. But I am also saying that most people can understand why older men sometimes succumb to jailbait. But what should happen to women who have sex with young boys? The current politically fashionable consensus seems to be that they should be treated equally with the men and suffer comparable penalties. Well, perhaps they should; but please keep an open mind on the question until I have finished my tale. One Saturday afternoon, towards the end of March, Anna was staying at a friend's house overnight and I was alone in the vicarage with her mother. I had just returned from a nature walk. I had been caught in a torrential downpour, and I was soaked to the skin and frozen. Mrs. Stokes sent me to my bedroom to shed my wet clothes, and told me to come downstairs in my dressing gown. When I arrived, she sat me in an armchair before a blazing fire in the main living room, and gave me a large mug of hot sweet tea laced with a generous quantity of whisky. Then she herself sat in another armchair opposite to mine, and started to talk to me. At the start of our conversation, the situation was difficult and embarrassing for me. A vicar's wife, who was also a teacher, was far above the social milieu of the terraced houses of East London, and at first I was unsure how to talk to Mrs Stokes. But she was free, easy, and friendly, and, partly under the influence of the whisky, I soon began to lose my social awkwardness and my inhibitions. It is strange what people will sometimes say to comparative strangers. Even more so was this the case during the War, when the stuffiness and formality of the middle classes could be swept away in the urgency of the moment. I remember how, on Armistice night in May 1945, a beautiful and very well dressed and well spoken young lady standing close to me in Trafalgar Square threw her arms around my waist; she then kissed me passionately on the lips, thrust her tongue into my mouth, and let her hands rove all over my body, even invading the area of my crotch and tweaking at my cock and balls. Then she briefly separated from me, hugged me tightly for a second time, and promptly disappeared into the night. Well, Mrs Stokes too had clearly concluded that the times were too urgent for the normal social niceties. She was lonely, she wanted someone to talk to, and I was the only person to hand. Her first request, which was rather remarkable from a schoolmistress in those more formal days, was that I call her Sarah. I, of course, complied, hesitantly at first, but then more easily. After all, I thought to myself, us Cockney Sparrer's are supposed to be cheeky, chirpy, and non-deferential. (Note for US readers: folk from London's East End, to this day, are sometimes referred to as "Cockney Sparrows," since, in their stereotypical caricature, they are lively and resourceful, with an eye to the main chance, just like the house sparrow, passer domesticus, one of the most common, widespread and successful of the world's birds.) Sarah began by telling me her life story. She was raised, she told me, in Bristol, where she had attended an exclusive, all-female academy. However, her educational career had come to an abrupt end; when she was 15 years old she had fallen pregnant. A swift wedding to her seducer (the Rev. Stokes) followed shortly after her sixteenth birthday, but the marriage had not been a happy one. At least, she concluded, she would make sure that her own daughter did not make the same mistake. Sarah continued more positively. A vicar's wife did not have a bad life, she added. Her father had owned a small corner shop, and her early years had been spent in humbler circumstances. In contrast, the large, spacious vicarage seemed like a palace. Then, while Anna was small, and with the support of a nanny, she had attended a local college and gained a teaching qualification validated by Exeter University. She had also played for the college hockey team, from where she went on to gain several county caps. But, she concluded, life in a marriage without love was hard; or rather, she added with a girlish giggle, it often was not hard enough! Sarah clearly thought that I would not get the sexual innuendo in her merry quip, or I do not think that she would have uttered it. But I did, and I was flabbergasted. From then on I felt a new edge to our conversation. The edge continued and sharpened as Sarah, having now broached the subject of sexual relationships, continued along the same theme. A lady needed a man, she concluded; Thomas had not been much of a husband to her while he was there; now that he was away he was no husband at all, and she felt bereft. "But enough of me," Sarah continued at last. "Tell me about your life." As our conversation deepened and became freer and more intimate, we began to engage each other with long, lingering eye contact. Not much had happened in my life, really, and some of what had I at first tried to conceal. But eventually Sarah drew it all out of me. I spoke of my aspirations for the future. I was fond of English literature, I added, and one day I hoped to study it at college, if I could find the money. Then I liked football, both playing it and, when I could raise the entrance fee, watching our local club, West Ham United. "What about girlfriends?" asked Sarah, so I gave her a report of my relationships with young females, editing out the sexual content and all reference to Anna. "Well, what kind of girls do you find attractive?" And so it went on, with our exchanges gradually becoming more personal and intimate, and with me becoming more and more engrossed at the sexual chemistry between us. I could not believe my luck. Here was a beautiful, mature, sophisticated and experienced lady showing more than a passing sexual interest in _me_, an unsophisticated, callow, 14-year-old geek. "Come on, young man," said Sarah at last. "We shall be here all night and into tomorrow morning unless we are careful. Let me run you a hot bath. We need to sweat that cold and damp out of you." Soon I was luxuriating in hot water and lounging on my back in a big, beautiful, ornate Victorian bath with large brass taps. "Stay in there until I tell you to get out," shouted Sarah from the corridor on the other side of the bathroom door. "You need to let the warmth suffuse through you or you will not get the benefit." "Yes ma'am," I answered obediently; and I luxuriated in the tub for the best part of 20 minutes. Then I got a shock. Suddenly, as I lay there naked and exposed, Sarah entered the bathroom, stood at the side of the bath and eyed me up and down. At first she could not see much through the soapy foam. But my cock, galvanised into activity by her presence, began to grow rock hard. Then, to my utter chagrin, it thrust itself above the water level, stiff, upstanding, rock hard and engorged. Sarah looked at my newly exposed member with interest. Then she gazed into my eyes, and a twinkling smile flickered across her face. "I see we have company," she laughed, as her eyes turned back again to my embarrassing tumescence. She had entered the room with a bucket of hot water to maintain the temperature of the bath, and she now lifted it into the air and poured in, in one go, straight over my cock. The effect, if anything, was to make it even stiffer, as it was caressed and rubbed by the cascading torrent. "I thought you might be getting cold," said Sarah, "But you seem hot enough to me!" Then she took the sponge, rubbed it on the soap that she had lifted from the soap holder, and started to cleanse and massage my chest and stomach, stopping, agonisingly, just short of my protruding manhood. Then, slowly and seductively, she turned her attention to my arms and afterwards, starting at my feet, worked her way up to my thighs, again stopping just short of my rampant member. Next, she told me to bend my knees and lie on my front, while she sponged my back and my buttocks. Meanwhile, my cock was pushed into the bottom of the bath, and my frenulum rubbed deliciously against the warm enamelled metal. When she had finished her slow and luxuriant working of my body with the sponge and soap, Sarah pushed her flattened hand into the small of my back to hold me in position, and unceremoniously yanked out the plug. Then, when enough water had drained away to expose my bare bottom, she gave me a slap, sharp but playful, across my nether cheeks. "Come, on!" she said. "Out you get!" By now the effects of the stiff whiskey that I had drunk in my cup of tea were beginning to wear off, and I was embarrassed at the prospect of standing erect, in more ways than one, in front of an older, but very attractive, lady. However, as my sobriety increased, lust took over and I began to see the possibilities of this interesting scenario. Deciding to try my luck I stood up in the bath, with my stiffened cock so hard and excited that it protruded like a stick of wood, almost flat against my stomach, stretching upwards towards my belly button. "Hurry along!" cried Sarah briskly. "Step out!" And she gave my bum another sharp slap. "Hey! That stings!" "If you are not quick about it, young man, you will find out what stings is!" Then a third spank really sizzled my bum. "Aaaagh! Easy!" Sarah's use of her flattened hand was deft and sharp, and it galvanised me out of the tub. "Stand on the bathmat please. Now I am going to dry you." The drying process was slow and seductive, and this time, to finish me off, Sarah rubbed dry my erect, throbbing manhood, stimulating it almost, but not quite, to orgasm. By now a thick globule of pre-cum was slowly oozing from my beleaguered prick tip. Sarah herself had changed into a bathrobe, and she now stood in front of me and seductively undid the belt. Then she let it fall open, lifted it over her shoulders and dropped it to the floor behind her. Oh my! Naked she was gorgeous! Her trim, fit, athletic body did not have an ounce of fat on it, but was shapely and meaty in all the right places. I eyed my paramour up and down slowly, and as I did so I lingered over her assets. Her breasts were slightly pendent, but pert, her waist trim and shapely, and her hips curvaceous. Between her lower tummy and the tops of her fleshy thighs I could clearly see her vulva, dark and inviting, through a thick, curly, generous clump of pubic hair. Sarah gazed at me wistfully with big, brown, wide-open, come- to-bed eyes. Then her lips confirmed the message. "Come on," she said gently, "Come to bed." The nanny, who also acted as the cleaner and charlady, lived in the local village, and, as of Saturday afternoon, had been given the rest of the weekend off. We therefore had the house to ourselves, and we made good use of it. I used the same amatory techniques in seducing the mother as I had employed to deflower the daughter, and again they seemed to work. I held myself back, and I took my time, but oh wow! Despite the condom that Sarah skilfully rolled down the length of my erect cock, I will never forget that first mutual orgasm! I have never experienced sharper sexual ecstasy in my life, and, as for Sarah, she ended up screaming and wailing like a banshee from the sharp, incomparable pleasure that engulfed her. The next morning we awoke early and lay in bed talking. "You enjoy smacking bottoms, don't you?" I said, trying to sound casual. "Why do you ask?" I recounted to Sarah the incident on the hockey field, and the sound slippering of Catherine and Patricia, which, I added, I had witnessed. Sarah replied that she had not noticed me on the day, but that she hoped I had enjoyed the spectacle. "Enjoyed? You bet. I was rock hard all the way back into school. Ouch! That must have stung! Your three hand spanks yesterday were as much as I ever want to take! Thus commenced a most stimulating discussion on the corporal punishment of schoolgirls, a topic I have ever found interesting, salacious and funny. Sarah openly admitted to me that she was a spankophile, and that she thoroughly enjoyed the work. "I think that Anna shares your proclivities. She once threatened to turn me over her knee, strip me bare and tan my hide big time." I paused. "I wonder. Have you ever spanked Anna?" "No. Perhaps I should have done. She has a few too many airs and graces sometimes, and I think that she has been less that totally hospitable and welcoming to you." By now, a saucy plan was slowly forming in my mind. It seemed a long shot, but worth a try. I abruptly changed the subject. "I think that you are too hard with yourself over your teenage pregnancy. It could happen to any girl of that age." "Well, all I can do is to look after and safeguard my own. I am trying to make sure that Anna does not go down the same path." "But you cannot guarantee that." "Oh yes, I can! For all of her faults, Anna is a good girl really, and she has much higher moral standards than I had at her age." "But any lady can succumb in the heat of the moment. I think that, given the right circumstances, I could probably seduce Anna myself." Sarah smiled archly. "Would you like that?" "I have one lady now," I said chivalrously. "I would never bed another without her involvement and consent." (Liar!) "But what would you do if I ever did seduce your daughter?" "You say that she threatened to tan your hide. Well, if I ever catch Anna _in flagrante delicto_ with you I will spank her so hard that she will not sit down for a week"; and Sarah, finding the prospect risqué and sexy, grinned broadly. Well, dear reader, you get the picture. If her mother inflicted on Anna the same punishment that Anna had proposed for me it would be incredibly sexy, very funny, and a real turn-on. On this both Sarah and I agreed, and before we went to church that morning we had made a pact. If I could seduce Anna while Sarah was a clandestine observer, Sarah undertook to spank Anna hard, on the bare bum, with a big, broad, flat-backed hairbrush. The deal was that I was to be allowed actual intercourse with the victim as long as I wore a condom supplied by Sarah. "But what if you intervene and interrupt me in pre-ejaculatory mid-thrust? Very frustrating!" "If I do that, you can have your will of me. I agree to become your sex slave for the rest of my life! Yes, I am joking; but yes, I promise that I will keep my word." And my lover smiled impishly, as if she found the prospect of paying such a penalty exciting and far from unpleasant. The rest, as they say, is history. Sarah did not know that I was regularly bonking Anna, and that it would not be too hard to engineer one of the bonks while she was watching. A few days later, prompted by me, Sarah slipped into Anna's bedroom and secreted herself in the wardrobe while her daughter was cleaning her teeth at bedtime. She was in there for more than an hour until, as if giving Sarah and the nanny time to doze off, I gently knocked at her door. Soon, Anna and I were naked under the sheets, locked into a lascivious embrace. My plan, however, was not to go all the way with the younger of my two lovers on this occasion. Instead, I wanted to goad her mother into fury, so that she would impetuously discipline her daughter before she had been fucked. If I could succeed in this I was interested to know whether Sarah would keep her vow and become my sex slave. The agreement was that I would reach for the condom from the top of the bedside table about five minutes before I attempted entry. This I did, and then nestled my hardened cock into Anna's bottom from the rear, to feel her short hairs protruding from the back of her vulva, rubbing against and tickling my frenulum. Or at least I tried to do that. But as my chopper attempted to nestle itself flat against and between Anna's bum cheeks, I got one of the biggest disappointments of my life. Instead of the lips of a warm, taut, hairy vulva, the base of my cock and my bollocks were pushed into the sharp metal spikes of a large hairbrush, as the flat side was pushed against Anna's naked arse. Then, suddenly, the darkness was scattered as Sarah turned on the electric light. The pupils of our eyes were dilated in the darkness, so, for a few seconds, the light seemed blindingly powerful, and we blinked helplessly. To make her point, Sarah then pushed the sharp metal spikes of the hairbrush firmly into the place where my cock and balls met, painfully indenting the skin. Then, still pushing into me, she roughly raked the spikes up the full length of my engorged shaft, stopping when she reached the frenulum to spike me even harder, right where it mattered! "Jeez!" I yelped, and I recoiled off my paramour in pain and frustration. Before I could work out what was happening, Sarah grabbed her naked daughter by the hair and flung her over her knee. _Crack!!!_ Sarah brought down the flat back of her large, heavy hairbrush across Anna's lower bum cheeks. The sound of the slap was deafening. It echoed around the room like an exploding firecracker. "Aaaaagh!!!" Anna's high-pitched scream rang out almost as loudly as the slap that had elicited it. Jus before Sarah had grabbed her victim she had sat down upon a bedside chair. She had thrown her daughter across her knee with her head towards the foot of the bed and her bottom pointing towards the bed head. I was thus in the ideal viewing position as I propped myself up on my pillow. The bright, naked electric light, shining from a powerful, 150 watt clear glass bulb, left nothing to my imagination as it shone down fiercely from directly over the victim's derrière. That first spank caused Anna to wriggle her bum and kick her legs, and, as she did so, I have a beautiful rear view of her dark, hairy vulva and of her neat, puckered anus. I noted that, as when she had spanked Catherine and Patricia, Sarah brought down her implement of correction slap across the undercarriage of both buttocks, to the back of the area between the cunt and the bum-hole. At the force of the impact, Anna's bum shuddered and wobbled deliciously, and the breeze from the hairbrush scattered the bushy black hairs of her vulva like feathers flying fast in a hurricane. At first, however, the sizzling spank seemed to have made little impression. It took about 4 seconds for a deep red, livid weal to appear, etched right across the back of Anna's milk white, meaty buttocks. At the moment that it did so, Anna felt the full, escalating tingling, and she cried out a second time. "Oh! Oh!! _Oh!!!_" _Crack!!!_ Anna's naked bum cheeks took it again. This second slap fell in exactly the same place as the first one, across both bare buttocks, onto the plump, succulent strip of meat between the pussy and the bum hole. The result was that the sting from slap number two was incrementally added to that from slap number one. Plump, nubile arse flesh wobbled, shuddered and quivered and pussy hairs flew. Anna yelled out lustily, with all of her strength: "_Aaaaaaaagh!_" Then she started furiously kicking out with her legs as, after about four seconds, another red mark was stencilled into her bum, right on top of its predecessor. Then, _Crack!!!_ Anna's butt end cried "_Spanko!!!_" to another hard, well-aimed slap. It was with this third smack that Anna broke. The hairbrush struck yet again across exactly the same piece of arse that had taken spanks one and two, onto meat that was already red raw, and stinging and tingling sharply. The victim could not take it; she burst into tears, and began to blubber helplessly. Sarah, however, was not finished yet and, after a brief pause to allow the meat to fully feel the previous swot, she landed a fourth one. This smack was every bit as hard as the previous three but, to give the victim a little respite from the merciless trip hammering, Sarah inflicted it higher up, across the middle of the rump, onto an area that had previously been left unchastised. Anna briefly left off her helpless sobs and cries to scream out against this latest painful indignity. And so it went on. Wow, but Anna's bum was well smacked! Plump buttock meat wobbled and quivered, pussy hair flew, and succulent milk white flesh blushed and reddened. Big, strapping, nubile 17-year-old lady that she was, the victim was soon bawling like a baby. Meanwhile, my own attitude towards the proceedings was changing. To start with, as Anna was unceremoniously yanked across her mother's knee, and as the first sharp crack of the hairbrush landed on her bare butt and echoed loud around the room, I was exultant; and I continued to luxuriate in my sexy and kinky victory until slap number three. But when Anna burst into tears my opinion was altered. You see, dear reader, despite my addiction to the violent sport of spanking ladies, I am really quite a gentle person, and I am usually kind and courteous to ladies in general, and to young ladies in particular. True, Anna had treated me very badly in the earlier stages of our relationship; but she had made her amends and her behaviour had improved since then. I was by now deeply concerned for Anna's welfare. Her mother was slapping her very hard, and with the flat back of a seriously large and heavy hairbrush. I recalled how sharply Sarah's three playful love swots had stung _my_ unclad sit-me-down, and they had been administered with the flat of the hand not with a fearsome instrument of correction. My sexual arousal was undiminished, still just as fierce; despite my distress at Anna's plight my rock hard cock was still straining upwards, pushing against my tummy and towards my belly button. But, after 6 slaps, I decided to keep my options open, and also to have a bit of fun with Sarah. I rose to an upright sitting position on the bed, put my lips to Sarah's right ear, and gently whispered into it. "Stop this when I tell you to, sex slave!" Sarah paused, the hairbrush held high in the air. For a few seconds, she seemed angry and confused, but then she demurred. She looked me in the eye and nodded obediently. Despite my tender feelings towards the victim, my rock hard cock would not allow me to call the proceedings to a halt until Anna had taken a full twelve of the best, six across the undercarriage, and six administered higher up, ad lib to the rest of the bum; but then I got a grip on myself and did the courteous and gentlemanly thing. I grabbed Sarah's right wrist as she raised her arm, and started to plead urgently with her. To conceal from Anna my true relationship with her mother I expressed myself respectfully, in a tone of deferential pleading. "Please Mrs. Stokes, that's enough! Please stop! Anna has been punished enough now!" I continued along the same lines for some time, partly to reassure Anna that I was on her side; but at my very first request her mother, like a good sex slave, immediately complied with my instructions. From my point of view, the aftermath to Anna's sexy comeuppance was gratifying in the extreme. Anna, of course, soon twigged that I had set her up, and, when she asked me about it, I freely admitted as much while concealing the details of my intimate involvement with her mother. Understandably, for a couple of days or so the victim of my merry jape was so sore in a certain place that she failed to appreciate the joke; but after that she began to see the sexy and the funny side, even though it was _her_ bum that had taken the rap. Indeed, the incident seemed to indicate to me that the best way to tame a would-be dominatrix is to dominate _her!_ In this case, thanks to me Anna had felt the smack of firm government, and it did her nothing but good. She gave me no further trouble, and from then on was a very sweet, gentle, considerate and respectful lover. She had concluded, I think, after my dramatic triumph that I was a good friend, and that if she was ever in distress I would protect her, as I had when I had curtailed her bare bottomed spanking. On the other hand, as my sexy revenge had amply demonstrated, I could be a dangerous enemy. Anna got the message, and she never, ever, played Miss Hoity-Toity with me again. In retrospect she was also fiercely turned on by the way I had fitted her up. On many occasions, she relived her comeuppance with me, and ruefully thanked me for slapping the crap out of her, and for giving her the discipline that she so badly needed and deserved. Anna was particularly fond of talking dirty on this subject in moments of intimacy, of which, I am pleased to report, there were a very great number, as and when we found the opportunities for them, between my fourteenth birthday and the end of the war! I continued to conceal from Anna my ongoing affair with her mother, which I conducted alongside my Aphroditic antics with her. After all Sarah's kindnesses and generosity towards me, I concluded that it would be ungentlemanly of me to hold her to her promise to be my sex slave. But, like her daughter, Sarah was yet another dominatrix who was turned on by being dominated. Eventually, alas, in the years after the end of the war, Anna went her own way. She married someone else and my amorous relationship with her ended; but, right up until she died at an advanced age, Sarah professed herself my slave. As for me, I was a very liberal, gentle and undemanding master, but I would not have been a real, red bloodied male if I had not gone along with it. On the weekend after Anna's spanking, for example, she went for another weekend sleepover at a friend's house, and Sarah and I were left alone again in the vicarage. On the Saturday afternoon, immediately after the charlady had left for her weekend break, Sarah bathed and went to her bedroom to complete her toilette. When she eventually joined me before the coal fire in the living room she was completely naked. She approached and bowed low. "What is your pleasure, master?" Well, the opportunity, as I am sure you will agree, dear reader, was too good to miss. "Mrs Stokes," I replied in my best formal and legalistic voice, "I have been very concerned recently at your lack of respect and at your crude horseplay. I ask you, is it right to insouciantly administer unauthorised slaps to the bare bottom of your lord and master?" "No, sir." "Well, I am glad that you agree with me. I am also hoping that you will agree that appropriate chastisement is called for to atone for your peccadillo." "Yes, sir." "You are a vicar's wife, so I think that a Biblical retribution is the most appropriate. The Pentateuch teaches us that if a man steals a sheep a fourfold penalty is due; he must return the original sheep plus three others. Now, how many unauthorised smacks did you deliver?" "Three, sir." "And what is three times four?" "Twelve, sir." There was more persiflage along the same lines, but I am sure that you get the picture. The denouement, of course, was that Sarah ended up across my knee and took twelve of the best from my descending, flattened, right hand; I smacked her pretty hard, too, for a love spanking, and I made her sting and tingle. But oh, wow, that spanking sent me into seventh heaven! Sarah, remember, was a superb, county standard sportswoman. Her body was fit and hard, and her bottom muscular, tight and taut. My hand made a series of delightful cracks as it struck Sarah's firm buttock meat, and then seemed to bounce back off with a delicious, springy recoil. It was quite different from the experiences that I enjoyed in my play spankings of Anna. Her bottom was bigger, plumper, floppier and more vulnerable than her mother's, so that my descending hand would slap right into it, and Anna's voluptuous derrière would passively take it, without trying to fight back. I have long considered which of the two bottoms was the sexiest to smack, and I still cannot make up my mind. I think that it is like comparing Claret and Beaujolais. They are both equally great wines; but they are different. Anyway, after my sexy spanking of Sarah's bare bottom on that Saturday afternoon, firm but playful, we spent the rest of that Saturday, and a long time on Sunday, in bed together, naked. In the ensuing jousts of Venus, Sarah continued to act out her kinky slave-girl role. It would be ungentlemanly of me to narrate the precise details of the wanton and lascivious antics of this respectable middle class lady during that wartime weekend; so I will restrict myself to the more general observation that our sexual pleasure was intense, wild and abandoned. I will add, however, that Sarah was made to pay for her sharply painful pricking of my balls and cock with the metal spikes of that pesky hairbrush. She spent several other sessions over my knee, both during that weekend, and on several other occasions; indeed, it took quite a few bare bottomed spankings, playful but sharp, before I adjudged that she had fully atoned for her shrewd and effective assault on my wedding tackle! The same considerations of gentlemanly decorum also prevent me from detailing and itemising Sarah's slavish submissions to me in subsequent decades. When the war ended the homecoming of Sarah's husband, my return to London, and my two years of compulsory military service for a while severely curtailed our trysts. But the Rev. Thomas Stokes died young, in his early fifties, and after that things were easier for us. You might think, dear reader, that as Sarah was nearly 20 years older than me the affair must have fizzled out. But it never did, really, at least not until my lover was into her sixties; and our firm friendship continued until Sarah's death, as a very old lady. I particularly remember one playful bare bottomed spanking that I administered to my slave in the early 1960s, when she was well into her fifties; and the love-making afterwards was divine. Sarah retained her athletic physique, trim but meaty, and she had more than sufficient physical charms to keep me interested right into her old age, especially when she supplemented her love making with saucy anecdotes of her exploits as a gym mistress, and of her disciplining of schoolgirls. (End of Part the First.)