The Girl Next Door

[henry999]

30 years ago. Cheshire.

I was just coming up eleven when we moved into Pooley Close. My brother Ricky would have been nine, he was two years my junior. This was our first “proper” house. We were air force brats, dragged all round the country with our long suffering mum who put her foot down when it was time for me to start senior school. Dad left the RAF and got a well paid job with a private company. We’d be well off I gathered, well comfy anyway, but it would mean he’d be away from home a lot. Mum was OK with that, she said we needed stability, whatever that was.
The house was lovely, especially after all the rather institutional houses we’d been in. Detached, built of old looking brick with a good sized garden. I know mum liked the idea that it was new little estate as everyone there would be new. She said she would be bound to make new friends because everyone would be moving in at the same time, and she was right enough about that. The family next door, the Mellings, were in much the same boat as us. The dad was what was then called a commercial traveller, what you’d call a rep nowadays, and he was away all week and often at the weekend too, so we didn’t see much of him, same as we didn’t see much of our dad. Mrs Melling was a big, dour miserable Scotswoman but mum seemed to take a shine to her and they became pretty good friends. We were two boys, the Mellings had two girls. Jillian was the same age as Ricky but Lorna was 13, nearly 3 years older than me. She was already at the High School and I was starting at the Grammar. Ours were the first two houses built and I guess because we were the only kids around Lorna and I became buddies. Ricky wasn’t so lucky: Jillian was a total pain in the arse. Whingey and built like a stick insect she was misery personified. Long angular face, miserable expression and long stick thin arms and legs. It seemed her only interest in life was getting Lorna in trouble with their very strict mother. Rick and I detested her and wouldn’t give her the time of day.

Mrs Melling was an old fashioned strict “spare the rod” type of woman and I was bloody glad she wasn’t my mum I can tell you. The slightest offence and it was off to bed with no supper for my friend Lorna. That was bad enough but the rub was that Lorna knew that being sent to bed was just part of it. An hour or two later she would come upstairs with, if you were lucky, a big old leather slipper. If you were unlucky, or her mood was bad (often) or she judged the offence to be serious, it was a nasty swishy cane that hung on a hook behind the pantry door. Lorna said the one saving grace was that her mum never whacked on the bare behind. Having said that a thin nightie or pyjama trousers wasn’t much protection. Also Lorna always knew Jillian was the favourite. Mrs M was more lenient with her and Lorna was pretty sure from the noises coming from the next bedroom that she just got hand spanked.
A quick note here. This was the 50’s. Corporal punishment in school was totally the norm. I liked the grammar school I’m sure, my memories of those days are mostly happy. But the teachers, or masters as they were known (there’s a Freudian name if ever there was one) would whack you at the drop of a hat. The slightest bit of naughty behaviour, an essay missed, anything really, it was out in front of the class, bend over, three whacks with a plimsoll. One or two of the teachers were feared, but mostly it was almost a joke. The more we got whacked the more we got used to it. To be honest most of them couldn’t whack for toffee, especially the three female teachers who were truly hopeless. Funnily enough we had more respect for the teachers who hurt when they slippered. (Mainly Geography and Science teachers: go figure.) Prefects were different: senior prefects were allowed to give up to 3 strokes with a slipper (usually a wicked old plimsoll sole) and believe me it was always three. For some reason I cannot explain they beat much harder than the masters, every one of them, and they were duly feared. A prefect beating was to be avoided but if it came your way, and it did, you grinned and bore it. The Head could use a cane but that was a rare occurrence saved for really serious things like theft and bullying, not common in those days. The same applied to the High School where my friend and neighbour Lorna attended. She told me there were a couple of teachers who would whack naughty girls but funnily enough there the convention at her school was that teachers would send the miscreant to the senior prefects’ room. The duty prefect (they took it in turns) would be judge jury and executioner. The thing they did have in common with our school was you were always guilty and the sentence was always 3 (at least) with the plimsoll. The girls took it as we did. That’s life, bend down, take your whacks, rub your sore bottom and get on with it. The thing is, it was no big deal. It was just accepted, the way of the world.

Happily for me and Ricky there was no CP at home. Mum was a sweetheart, a real pushover, and Dad an absent figure who, on the rare times he was home, had no taste for being an autocrat. More houses were built, more families moved in. There lots of kids, Ricky had lads his own age and made friends. There were half a dozen or so his age, but none mine. . An eleven year old boy and a 13 year old girl can be friends, but a 13 year old boy and a 15 year old girl? No. Never. We didn’t fall out, just drifted quickly apart, as you would expect. Lorna was very clever, a great musician and a good athlete, specialising in cross country running. One day she was my playmate, the next day that mature aloof girl who lived next door. Julian, who was still a stick insect and still annoying, but somehow not quite as annoying, kept us up to date. Lorna was a fast track, that is a pupil who was so clever that she missed the upper fourth and went straight into the lower fifth. She got brilliant O levels, won a prestigious piano prize, and, almost unheard of, was appointed a senior prefect while still in the lower sixth. When I hit 13 my ex play pal was a 16 year old in the position of an 18 year old. She had decided to become a music teacher and from what gangly Jillian told us she was getting plenty of practice: the high school girls had nicknamed her “The Slipper Queen” which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about her attitude to her duties. A freckly tomboy called Jane who had moved in a few doors down from us went to the high School and I often sat next to her on the bus home. I asked her about Lorna, what the girls thought about her. Jane said she was quite admired, because of the sport and the music, a few of the girls even had a bit of a crush on her. She had the rep of being very quick to use the slipper but also of being very fair. She slippered hard and often but never gave the impression of enjoying it. I asked Jane if she’d ever fallen foul of her. “What, a good girl like me?” she laughed. “Not likely.” Hmmm, I still wonder about that.

Sitting here I’m trying to remember what she looked like, and the funny thing is I only have half a picture. She was reasonably tall, I know she was fit from her sportiness, but I can’t picture her figure. Face sort of round, pleasant but nothing striking. Hair was fair but not blonde, conventional cut. I think the thing I do remember above all was her demeanour. She was a serious girl. It came as no surprise to me that she had become a disciplinarian. She would reach for the slipper not with relish, not with pleasure, not with regret. It was just logical. You do this, I do that. Bend down. One, two, three. Justice served, off you go.

I guess with no father figure around plus being a bit of a natural rebel, at 15 I must have been a pain in the arse. My younger brother, starved of friends when we first moved in, now had an abundance. I was struggling a bit. My friendship with the girl next door had inevitably withered away, but in clinging on to that I’d missed hooking up with my peers, not that there were that many anyway. Too old to socialise with Ricky and his friends, too young for the sixth formers on the estate. I was becoming a troublemaker at school and try as they would to wallop that out of me I was becoming worse. Even the prefects had no fear for me now: my backside was steel! (That was my boast. Reality was I’d been slippered so much that I could just shrug it off.) I was giving my poor mum a hard time: she didn’t deserve it and I always felt lousy about being so nasty to her. I knew I was on a slippery slope but somehow I just couldn’t stop myself. On the outside I was hard, rebellious. Plain nasty I guess. Inside, I wished something, someone , would snap me out of it. Be careful what you wish for………………………

A lovely sunny day in the school holidays. We’re all in the garden, Mum’s talking to Norrie Melling over the fence. I’m listening to them and , as always, I have to make a cocky comment. They ignore me. I make another. Ignored again. Next thing I say is so rude and embarrassing that I’m not going to repeat it, but it has the desired effect. Norrie Melling says “that boy needs a good skelping.”
Mum: “skelping?”
Norrie: “A good hiding. A thrashing. If he were mine I’d give him such a tanning.”
You know what’s going to happen now don’t you? Mum goes “I wish you would. He’s got me demented.” “Right!” Mrs Melling’s face has high colour and she positively sweeps the gate open and comes bowling through like a ship on the high seas. She’s a big woman and I’m like a frozen rabbit as she bears down on me. I know I’m in for some kind of walloping but this is new to me. Far from the ritualised slightly bored attitude of a school slippering, this is a woman who is seriously annoyed. Next thing I know she’s gripped my ear between thumb and finger and she’s gripped it bloody hard. It hurts, it’s humiliating, and it’s scary. I’m rock hard and unyielding when some form teacher or prefect is reaching for the slipper, but here I’m out of my depth. I find myself pleading, apologising, explaining. What a joke, I might as well ask a bomb not to explode. The angry woman pulls me by my ear across to the settee where she sits down and absolutely flings me across her lap. I put my left hand back and shield my bum but she grabs my wrist and pins it up my back. So I put my other hand there but this big strong woman pulls that one up by the other and amazingly circles her big left hand round both my wrists. I feel her right leg lift and she swings it over so I’m pinned below my knees. This happens so fast, one minute I’m struggling, the next I am totally helpless. I struggle, nothing happens. I struggle harder. Nothing. I stop. OK, this is hopeless, I’m completely held in the position she wants me. BUT. Wait. So I’m over this miserable Scotswoman’s knee. And, obviously, she intends spanking me. But what’s the panic. I’ve bent in front of the head boy/rugby captain and taken 6 huge blows from his slipper. I’ve had 4 off the dreaded Mr Nixon. What can this woman do to me? It’s just the unfamiliar situation, the unknown. Shit, it’s just a hand spanking, though I’m, a little discomfited by how helpless I feel.. Never mind, “Get on with it, get it over with.”

To be continued (if anyone’s interested)

[telmac69]

I think this is a really good start to what could become a whole series of spankings for this young lad..Please continue.

Terry Mc, London

[hairbrushedhubby]

Yes, yes, eagerly awaiting part 2.

[wicked_boy]

I'm very interested ...

[DisciplinaryArtSpanks]

I will bite, sure let's have another. I am intrigued with the slipper queen and you set it up so well for us, perhaps she could come up on the scene and help mom.