On the art of living, learning and forgetting

29Jan14

the art of livingActually this story should be called ‘that thing you really, really want until you get it and then you definitely don’t want it anymore until a long time after when you forget what having it was like and you want it all over again.’

It could also be equally called ‘one summer so long ago that I have probably forgotten so many details that I have mixed a lot of it up.’

Reading the first draft back I realise that I come across in the story as very young, which I was of course, but not as young as all that. I was old enough to know better, but then maybe it didn’t actually happen exactly as I tell it here, which rather fits the notion about wanting all over again after really forgetting what it was like.

Who am I? You may well ask. Jane will do, although I always fancied Candice or… anyway let’s stick with plain Jane. Not that I am plain, well not very. Okay I am probably very ordinary looking with nondescript blondish hair that I used to wear longer than I do now. In my mind I was golden blonde, but in reality I was a dark honey at best.

I can’t decide what colour my eyes are, it always seems to depend on the light or what mirror I am using. On forms I always put hazel, but then someone told me that was a kind of brown. I don’t have brown eyes, definitely not. They are more like greyish-blue with mottled browny bits. You know, ordinary human eyes. Anyway, I am a bit on the short side. My breasts are too small, my mouth is too big (in every regard) and so is my bottom, not that anyone ever says so.

These days I work in project management for a manufacturing company, but back in the day, quite some time after college, I was a temp for a few years.

Okay check notes. Tick characterisation. Sorry I should leave that bit out of the final draft, but my writer’s course said I should describe all the main characters.

Oh, I missed out Carol.

Carol was my best friend, well still is, and this particular summer we went to stay with her cousin in Shropshire.

Carol was, is, taller than me and dark haired and kind of curly. She has greenish-blue eyes and, most especially back then, she has classic curves in all the right places; so the pretty one in the outfit.

The other main character in this story is him. Should that be capped-up? Him? That’s better.

He is actually called Russell, but I hated that name, so for creative purposes I’ll call him Brad or Peter? Can we settle for John? I’ll probably just keep calling him Him anyway, but great big tall hunks with broad shoulders, dark heavy hair and eyebrows and lantern jaws (I actually don’t know what a lantern jaw is outside of a Mills & Boon but let’s say he had one) have to be called John at the very least.

Now I fancied Him from the absolute minute I saw him. But being linked in his mind with Carol, his kid cousin I got the sense that he hardly noticed me.

He had a stern paternal manner with Carol and she absolutely hated it. I loved it.

“You girls going somewhere nice today?” he would say as we gathered in our shorts by Carol’s car.

Carol would shrug and I would get tongue-tied. Then we would get into a breathlessly hot car where bare thighs stuck painfully to old PVC seats and we’d choke on that hot car smell while the worn air-con wrestled with the climate.

At this point I should expand the narrative with colourful scenes of Shrewsbury, stately homes and long winding country lanes with old-world pubs and summer butterflies. Maybe I will, but in truth I don’t remember where we went or what we did.

Every night we would come back with conflicting agendas. Carol would try hard to avoid John and I would contrive to include him in our evening plans.

“What’s wrong with him anyway?” I asked her once.

Carol wasn’t exactly forthcoming and started blushing.

“His mother sort of brought me up for a while,” she mumbled, “And he sort of helped sometimes.”

It was another week before I found out what her beef was.

One evening we drove into Market Drayton. We thought one glass of wine with dinner and we could drive home. But it never stops there does it?

Now I am not saying we got drunk. But we had more than one and it was near midnight when we got home. John’s exterior lights were already out and Carol very slightly knocked three ‘bricks’ out of the stone wall out front and totalled the left headlight on her car.

I knew something was up because Carol went quiet as soon as we got out of the car. Nor did she want to talk and instead of a nightcap she went straight to bed. So I did too, leaving the car where it was. In the end I think John must have parked the car that night, but in any case the wall and front headlight told its own tale. I found out all of this the next morning when I got up to look for Carol who wasn’t in bed.

Now at the back of the house was this shed-outhouse thingy. It was brick and had its own loo. It was nice really, all done out with scatter cushions and old paintings. So we used to hang there when we wanted to smoke or have a few beers without John frowning at us. I presumed that Carol had ducked out there for a crafty one and headed out.

I got halfway across the lawn when I heard ‘clapping’ and some yelling. I think now maybe I knew what it was, but that wasn’t how I remember it. Puzzled, I ran along the path and down the side to look through the back window rather than the door.

I must have known mustn’t I? Or else why did I not go in? Anyway, I am round the back peeking in the back window.

In the centre of the room was an old settee covered with an old Union Jack as a throw. John was sitting there with Carol draped over his lap. It took a moment to take it in, then I realised that her denim shorts and knickers were down at her ankles and her bottom was completely bare and mooning up from his lap.

He must have been spanking her for some time because her bum was totally scarlet and she was yelling in this weird wail. One moment high-pitched and then throaty and hoarse. She was completely helpless across his knees and even from my angle I could see she was bawling. I mean sobbing for her life with tears and snot down the chin. Sorry, but she was.

John was spanking her with this old blue canvas shoe and the noise of each impact was terrific. But as I watched the scene it was hard to say what I felt. I remember some tingling in my tummy and some light-headedness. I also felt the heat rise on my face as I blushed in embarrassment for her.

Obviously I should have either run in there to stop him or slipped away quietly and leave them to what was after all a family matter. But remember we were not exactly kids. I mean not by a damn sight. So what did I do?

I hunkered down and watched the rest of the spanking while my heart raced in time to the relentless rise and fall of John’s arm. At any moment I thought it would be over, but it went on for a long time. All that while Carol was bawling and kicking her legs.

Finally John said, “You ever going to drink drive again?”

She wailed out with a long drawn out ‘no’ and he asked her again with swats. This went on for a bit before he said, “Don’t ever tell me you are too old again because you know I will prove you wrong.”

“I know,” Carol replied in a small miserable voice.

“You know what happens now,” he scolded.

Carol nodded meekly.

“Shorts and knickers stay down and you can go and face that wall,” John said sharply, his strait arm ending in single finger.

I was amazed at how quickly Carol pulled herself together.

“And if you move before you are told you can stand in the corner in the kitchen where Jane can see,” he reminded her.

I was totally amazed now and gaping to myself. Even more so when she said quietly, “I’m sorry John.”

“Good girl,” he said with a smile.

As soon as he was gone I just had to talk to her about it.

“Carol, are you alright?” I gushed excitedly as I burst in.

The look on her face as she half-turned from the wall was priceless.

“Piss off,” she hissed, snatching her hand away from a blatant admission that it had hurt.

“What did he do?” I asked, as if I didn’t know, then with now a closer look at her bottom I gasped, “Oh my God.”

“What do you think he did?” she groaned, turning back to the wall.

“Was this about last night?” I pressed.

“What do you think?” she breathed.

Then she started to cry again.

“Listen,” she sniffed, “Please just go away, it’s alright, I deserved it I suppose.”

“But… why are you just standing there?” I asked. It seemed so juvenile.

“Jane, just piss off will you?” she yelled at me over her shoulder.

I took the hint and left her to it.

Of course after that I was absolutely obsessed with everything to do with it, not least John. Did he spank her often? When was the last time? Does anyone know? Did it really hurt that much or…? And a thousand other eager questions about Carol’s spanking history with John.

Finally she admitted that it was just a thing between them and sometimes it cleared the air. So I asked if that was why she didn’t like him. Carol actually laughed at this.

“I do like him. It is just so embarrassing. And well, if you must know, last time he spanked me for… well, something else. He said if I didn’t behave when you were here he would spank me again and make sure you knew about it,” she said sheepishly.

“But he didn’t say a word,” I protested.

“Yeah well thanks for that, he didn’t need to did he?” she said and rolled her eyes up.

I did notice that after that she and John seemed to get on much better. Even when she sat uneasily for a few days after, she was much more pleasant, cheerful even, when he told her to behave herself.

“Yes John,” she would sigh.

None of this eased my obsession and if anything it fed it. Finally I broke.

“John,” I said to him one day when Carol was in town shopping, “I know what you did to Carol.”

“I thought you did,” he chuckled.

“Well it wasn’t really her fault, you know, I mean I bought the wine, she said a glass not a bottle…” I let the words hang.

“But she was driving,” he said sharply.

But I noticed that I had his full attention.

“I know but…”

“And you aren’t exactly part of the family are you?” he said in a neutral tone.

I shrugged. I was also blushing.

Then he heaved a sigh.

“So you think you need a good spanking do you?” he growled.

I noticed he was folding his arms and staring at me like an old school teacher. It was enough to make me gulp, but I felt all gooey inside.

What followed was a blur. He took my arm and led me to the little shed out back. Once there he sat down on the flag-covered settee and hauled me over his lap. It happened so fast, as did the tugging down of my shorts. Instinctively I made a grab at them to keep them up, but he responded by taking down my knickers and pushing both shorts and pants all the way to my ankles where I couldn’t reach them.

I remember looking back and seeing my big bottom sticking up in the way. Then he grabbed that canvas shoe from somewhere and walloped my behind with it. I have since read spanking stories where it is all lovingly described and people talk of a ‘million bees’ or searing pain. My memory is of heat. Sudden and overriding and rapidly getting hotter. In about a minute flat I went from being stunned to going mental.

There was an odd distant wailing sound and it was a moment before I got that it was me. Then I was crying too, more even than Carol I think. My only other clear memory was of being sorry. Sorrier than I had ever been about anything.

I ran a gamut of emotions I think. Anger came and went quickly to be replaced, as I said, by regret. But it was all so intense. When he was finally done with me I felt like I had been emptied out and refilled with something better.

When he told me to go and stand in the corner I obeyed without question. In fact it wasn’t until Carol came back and started to laugh that I felt at all embarrassed or ridiculous.

“This is too much fun,” she giggled, “Please try and leave, oh please. See what he does.”

I didn’t. In fact just to put me in my place, John left me facing the wall for a good long while. And unlike with Carol, when he came back it wasn’t to release me, but to sit and admire his handiwork.

John and I spent more and more time together after that, although it wasn’t the last time he spanked either of us. But I noticed more and more that it was me who was the object of his ire.

I have to say that the space between spankings was about as long as it took to forget how absolutely unbearably horrible a spanking was. Then I would test him until he obliged. That’s what I mean see about wanting and forgetting. It is an endless cycle.

Three years later I married Him and it has been this way with us ever since. Well I just had to, didn’t I? Oh and yes, his name is really Russell. But I kind of like that, it suits him.

The end



9 Responses to “On the art of living, learning and forgetting”

  1. 1 Johnxc

    Enjoy your happy marriage.

  2. 2 paul1510

    Damian,
    very nice. 🙂
    Much more realistic. 😉
    Paul.

  3. sweet. also true–that forgetting part..

  4. 4 Karl Friedrich Gauss

    Lovely. And totally believable. Even though I suspect it’s made up.

  5. 6 jimisim

    A very enjoyable, consensual romance; a very good read.

  6. 7 DJ

    I am glad one or two weren’t sure if this was a forum grab or not. I wrote it as if by a woman compiling the first draft of a memoir.

    Thanks for your comments. 🙂

  7. 8 saram

    Wonderful voice.


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