The Quality of Mercy

At the start of the summer holidays I found myself away from school and once again back in the bosom of my family. I think my parents had grown appreciative of my absence for I had literally no sooner walked through the front door before I received the surprising news they were planning to go and stay with my Aunt Caroline for  a long weekend. Aunt Caroline was always my least favourite aunt so it was no disappointment that I was not included in the invitation. My younger sister, Elizabeth, was holidaying with friends so it was arranged that I was to stay with a neighbour,  Alison Bellamy. I protested that at my age I was really quite capable of looking after myself but I didn't protest too hard as I had long held a secret crush on her. Ever since the days when I had worn short trousers and believed in Santa Claus I had loved the elegant and divinely beautiful Mrs Bellamy. 

 Alison Bellamy, lived next door, although her house was altogether much grander than our humble dwelling. It had eight bedrooms, a billiards room and massive grounds including orchards and a stable containing several horses. Mrs Bellamy was very fond of horses and was more often seen out riding than walking. As soon as she knew I was returning from school she had kindly volunteered to look after me for the weekend. Her husband was away on business for a week and she reasoned we would be pleasant company for each other. My father thought Alison Bellamy was a most admirable young woman, although he had never warmed much to her husband, whom he said possessed a rather limp wristed way of shaking hands. He preferred men with firm handshakes, who looked you in the eye when they talked to you.  I am sure Mrs Bellamy possessed a firm handshake, as everything else about her seemed very firm indeed, including the look she gave me as I waited impatiently beside her to bid farewell to my parents.

As usual my father warned me to be on my very best behaviour whilst my stepmother just looked at me and smiled to herself. Perhaps she thought Mrs Bellamy was more than a match for her thirteen year old stepson so why waste your breath in telling him to be good. Besides, I was usually an amiable child and was happy as long as I could find a quiet corner to read a book. Just as they were about to drive off my father wound down his window and said in the sort of voice jolly uncles use when telling bad jokes,

“Alison, if the boy misbehaves you have my full permission to give him a good hard thrashing!”

Both the women seemed to find his feeble joke most amusing. Mrs Bellamy laughed as if my father had suddenly been transformed into a wittier version of Oscar Wilde and I could see my stepmother chuckling to herself as the car crunched up the gravel drive and she almost never laughed at my fathers' jokes. We went back into Mrs Bellamy's house. I was annoyed by my father’s unfortunate comment. Unintentionally he had struck a raw nerve as I  had an interest in the subject of corporal punishment. Despite my fathers humorous comments, he had never in the past spanked me, nor in fact had my stepmother and now of course, I was, I felt, too old to be spanked anyway.

Without doubt Mrs Bellamy, with her tortoiseshell spectacles and her short gently curling dark hair disproved the theory that men never made passes at girls who wore glasses. All the men in the neighbourhood would stop whatever they were doing when she walked by to discreetly stare at her well rounded bottom as she passed. She had a preference for wearing black. In fact I can never remember seeing her dressed in any other colour. Usually close fitting riding breeches or skin tight trousers which caused men of all ages to turn their heads and stare wherever she went. I think you could have called her bottom, the area's most admired attraction, at least for most of the male population. Even at my youthful age I was a keen observer of my fellow man and I could see for myself just how attractive Mrs Bellamy was. The glasses, in fact, seemed to add to her charms, as she looked both intelligent and beautiful. She reminded me slightly of Miss Thomas, the strictest teacher at the first infants school I had attended as a rather cheeky small boy. I didn't remain a cheeky small boy for long, I can tell you. Miss Thomas only had to glance in my general direction and my heart would immediately skip a beat and I would at once sit up a little straighter in my chair!

When I entered the impressive looking lounge, having taken my pyjamas and things upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms, Mrs Bellamy was seated elegantly in a large green armchair, her small, pretty feet comfortably resting on a small round table. She held a book in her hands but was quite obviously not reading it. I was suddenly uneasy as I felt her dark eyes rest upon me. Mrs Bellamy was a strange woman and something about her I found unsettling. As I turned, I glanced at the two portraits above the mantelpiece. It looked like someone's noble ancestors probably Mrs Bellamy's as the house had been in her family for years. Then my attention was caught by a picture on the next wall. In it a young woman, possibly a schoolmistress brandished a thin cane in one hand whilst a slim blonde haired boy bent over a  table, weeping, his bottom  at a perfect angle for a caning. In the background a black cat sat and watched the proceedings with a contented expression on its face. I couldn't take my eyes from this picture. The boy bore an unmistakable resemblance to me when I was perhaps two or three years younger. Furthermore I have a tiny dark mole on my left cheek, the boy had a mole in exactly the same place!

“Do you like my little painting, David?” She asked, smiling at my shocked expression. She had lit a cigarette, its smoke curled up towards the low wood panelled ceiling. She knew for sure that I had at once recognised myself in the painting. What an unusual woman she is I thought to myself. Obviously she has an interest in corporal punishment too. I was still shaking with both fear and excitement as I replied to her question.

“Yes, it's very n-nice,” I stammered. She put the book down on the small table and stood up. She was fairly tall for a woman, almost as tall as I was and I was only a few inches short of six foot, even as a thirteen year old. She came and stood beside me, placing a slender arm gently on my shoulder.

“ I should be ever so careful that something like that doesn't happen to you! After all you heard what your father said.”She whispered confidingly. Softly she stroked my blonde straight hair with her finger tips. Her face, looked as solemn as a vicar at prayer. Finally she briefly kissed my cheek. Her lips softly brushing my skin. Obviously she was just enjoying a little sport in teasing me. Perhaps she was trying to put me at my ease. If so, her words had the opposite effect. I could feel butterflies fluttering around in my stomach and I was both intrigued and terrified at the same time. Surely she was hinting strongly that I might be dealt with like the boy in the picture? If only, I could have swooned with pleasure at the thought.

“Now perhaps you would like some tea, David?” 

We went into the kitchen together and had an excellent tea. There was dark brown bread cut into thin slices, a large salad, and various types of cheeses. I can't remember what we talked about but by the end of the meal I felt a good deal more at ease. Perhaps I had begun to get used to her manner, which was strange, as she always seemed to be just on the verge of laughing. Almost as if she found me amusing in some way. Whenever I turned to glance at her I would see her dark brown eyes already looking at me. When she turned around, I couldn't resist glancing at her bottom. The magnificent buttocks, in the tightest black cotton trousers imaginable, looked more beautiful than ever, especially when she bent over for some reason or other. In fact she seemed to find lots of excuses to bend over. I was not sure, but I sensed she was aware of the fact I couldn't take my eyes away from her behind. Everywhere I looked it was there, swaying, wriggling, bending, until I could hardly breathe. I definitely felt an almost pleasurable tension in the air between us. 

Later as it began to get dark we played a game of Scrabble together. It was very civilised she even poured me out a very weak dry Martini which I must admit made me feel a trifle light headed. I played Scrabble often with my parents and sister and usually played well but she was in a different class to anyone I had played with before. At the end when we totalled up our scores I realised she had scored three times as many points as I. She shook her head, as if she couldn't quite understand how I could have played so poorly.

“I thought you told me you were rather good at Scrabble, David!” She said, looking at me accusingly over the top of her glasses, which had slipped down her nose. I wished I hadn't boasted of my skill as a Scrabble player now. My abject defeat showed clearly I had been outclassed. I felt my pale skin turning pink with embarrassment. I could see there was no point blaming it on the poor letters I had received or the dry Martini. 

“Sorry!” I said laughing, “I suppose I shouldn't have boasted!”

“Well perhaps you should be punished for being such a boastful boy?” 

She breathed. I couldn’t quite believe my ears. Quickly I looked up at her, she was still looking at me, her eyes lit up with a strange mixture of cruelty and joyfulness.

“What would be a suitable punishment do you think? She asked. I thought she might be playing little mind games with me but I wasn't sure. From somewhere I found the courage to say hesitantly.

“I don't know, perhaps a spanking!”

She laughed. It was not a gentle laugh either. I must admit her reaction stung me a bit and I quickly blushed a rich pink colour. She then picked up her glass of Martini, looking at me as she did so. There was no drink left but it contained a bright red cherry shaped like a heart on a cocktail stick which she bit into hungrily, her small white teeth quickly tearing it in two.. 

“How old are you?” she asked. Her lips were slightly twisted but still beautiful and crimson red. I felt an overwhelming desire to embrace her, to take her in my arms and hug her tightly.

“Thirteen.” I replied huskily. By now I was more nervous than ever. I felt like a rag doll, limp and drained of all emotion.

“Thirteen might be a little too old for a spanking!” She was laughing. She took her glasses off and placed them carefully on the side table. Still her eyes seemed to consume me. Not for a second did she avert her gaze.

“A boy of thirteen must be caned! And caned hard too. Just like that boy in my picture!”

I caught the humorous look in her eyes and trembled with emotion. I could feel my heart beating hard, thudding against my ribcage. Still she had that twisted smile on her face as if some part of her delighted in teasing. I could feel the searing agony of the cane in my imagination. I shivered, attempting in vain to conceal my nervousness.

“Would you like me to cane you?” She asked gently. Her eyes shone with a wicked devilment. I knew she was toying with me.

“Yes please!” I answered. Always polite, like a well mannered boy asking for extra sweeties.

 She beckoned me over, coaxing, patting her thigh invitingly as if she was calling me over to sit on her lap. For a few moments I felt paralysed, not daring to breathe. I stood up and on unsteady feet, like a drunken man, walked over to her. I could smell the faint aroma of alcohol she had been drinking on her breath. She then, still sitting down, reached over and patted my behind. She looked so comfortable and pleased with herself. I had a feeling of delicious anticipation as I stood their patiently, still ill at ease.

“Are you ready then? She asked indulgently. Licking her pink lips. I felt her hand slide down my thigh.

“I do think all young boy's need a jolly good caning every now and then!” She chuckled, giving my bottom a hard smack, as if to emphasise the point.

“But not today! Perhaps tomorrow. I shall watch very closely and see if your behaviour improves at all!”

It left me slightly crestfallen. Unsure whether a caning might be my reward for good or bad behaviour. As I stood there dithering, suddenly unsure, I didn’t know what I wanted. In my heart I did but I was scared of this tall attractive woman. She then moved with astonishing speed and caught me by my wrist and despite my attempted resistance pulled me next to her lap. I could feel the power in her strong, slender arms as she twisted me over her lap so my bottom was uppermost. I lay across her lap grinning foolishly, as if I was playing the part of the village idiot in the school pantomime. 

“Now you are to get one smack for every point you lost by. Is that fair? She asked.

“But that is over three hundred smacks!” I said. I am unable to believe that she intends to give my behind over three hundred smacks. However I am looking forward to my punishment with the same enthusiasm small children look forward to presents from Santa Claus on Christmas day.

“No! No! No!” I cry, I am laughing but scared, already it is too late. I pretend to struggle as my trousers are expertly taken down. I am sure she is in any case so much stronger than I am. I am like a puppet in her capable hands. Then she firmly grasps the waistband of my white cotton underpants. I cannot believe she intends to smack my bare bottom but I am secretly  delighted. All my childhood I have waited for this moment. Again I feebly protest.

“No! No! please don't take my underpants down!” I plead laughing. 

“Are you sure David?” She suddenly stops, I can feel my underpants are still firmly held in her grip, one sharp tug and all will be revealed. I can feel her strength as she holds me securely in her grasp.

“If you don't want me to take them down, I wont!” She says, in a matter of fact sort of voice. Suddenly there is silence in the dark wood panelled room. I lie over her lap my heart racing. Not wanting to say the words. I can't help smiling to myself.

“Pull them down please!” I say, my voice almost faltering. In fact I want her to pull them down more than I want anything. I hardly dare breathe. She gently runs her fingers through my hair as I lie there waiting. I stare at the red carpet and wait.

“I am so glad you said please, David!” She replies. I cannot see her face but I am sure she is smiling also.

My underpants are pulled very slowly down to just above my knees. I hear the snap of the elastic. My bottom feels suddenly cool and vulnerable. I can hear her soft breathing as she waits. I can hear the small carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticking loudly. I have almost given up hope of her ever beginning when I feel the cool touch of her hand on my behind.

It is by no means a severe punishment and although my bottom is doubtless a delicate shade of pink afterwards, I am sure it is nothing like as pink as my face. In all about thirty quick hard smacks land before I am allowed to squirm away to safety. I take the punishment in something approaching silence but find it painful. I am over her knee for only about two minutes at the most. She leans back on the sofa, looking very pleased afterwards whilst I stand, gingerly pulling up my trousers and my underpants, red faced with embarrassment, my bottom tingling pleasantly, feeling secretly rather delighted.

“Did I tell you, you could pull you trousers up? Take them down at once and go and stand in the corner! You still haven't been properly thrashed!” 

She says severely. I shake my head and pull my trousers and pants down again, turning away in modesty as I do so. I shuffle over and stand in the corner resting my head gently against the wood panelling. Every so often I can hear her turning the pages of the book she is reading, or possibly pretending to read. My behind is tingling pleasantly and I feel compelled to say something to break the monotony of  silence that is beginning to oppress me.

“Is it a good book,” I ask somewhat lamely. I hear her put the book down and get up from the sofa. I can smell the scent of the soap she uses as she leans over me. She pulls my ear softly increasing the pressure until it begins to hurt.

“Did I tell you, you could talk?”

“Ow-w!” I cry.

“Do you want me to whip you now?” She asks viciously. Her voice suddenly trembles as if she is in the grip of some powerful emotion. She is still holding my ear.

“Yes-s,” I answer.

“Yes what?” She asks angrily. Her finger and thumb acting like pincers on my ear still.

“Oh, yes please!” I reply.

“Maybe tomorrow. If your really a lucky boy.” 

The next day I  go downstairs to breakfast at about seven thirty, which was early for me. I wasn't usually an early riser but the delightful smell of bacon and eggs was wafting up from the kitchen.

“Ah,” she said. “I was just about to call you. Your porridge is ready,” 

My face fell. I was no great lover of porridge, I could hear the bacon and eggs gently sizzling in the frying pan.

“I wouldn't mind bacon and eggs!” I replied.

“Oh wouldn't you!” She said smiling. “Perhaps after you have eaten your porridge I might just consider letting you have some!”

“Yes, but I never eat porridge!” I say in case she has missed this most important point. 

“Would you like me to beat you this evening, David?” She asks, in such a gentle voice I was unsure of how serious she was. She was facing the stove with her back towards me. Suddenly she turned and with one hand cuffed me gently round the back of the head, The other hand held a steaming hot plate of bacon and eggs which she placed down beside me.

“We will have a little chat about this, before you go to bed!” She didn't smile as she said it. In fact she looked rather cross although I am sure she was not. Without question she is an excellent actress.

As I finished the bacon and eggs by wiping my plate with a piece of bread Mrs Bellamy carefully put down the cup of tea she had been drinking and gave me the full benefit of her most penetrating gaze. A strand of her curling dark chestnut hair had fallen across her face.

“Usually plates are cleaned in the washing up bowl rather than at the dining table.” She remarked. I sensed she was criticising my table manners but I was unsure if she was amused, as if she had never watched a hungry thirteen year old eat breakfast before. Whilst she was removing the plates to the kitchen I left the dining room, intending to go out. I heard her voice, sharply calling me.

“Aren't you forgetting something!” She said. Her small beautifully manicured hands rested on her slim hips. She gazed sternly at me.

“Thank you for the very nice breakfast Mrs Bellamy!” I said. 

“Yes, I am glad you enjoyed it. Don't you dare forget to do the washing up before you go out!”

I returned late in the evening, all day whilst playing with my friends I had been thinking about being caned by the beautiful Mrs Bellamy. Though no mention of any   caning to come was made as we enjoyed our evening meal together. The lights were turned off and we dined by flickering candlelight. My mind was a blank and I am unsure what we chatted about. Anyone watching us would have thought we were perfectly ordinary diners enjoying a delightful dinner and amusing conversation. After we had cleared away the plates and I had completed the washing up I heard Mrs Bellamy calling me

When I arrived in the sitting room I could see the usually icy cold Mrs Bellamy was not her usual calm self. By the mantelpiece there was a long rope with a small round wooden ring on the end. It looked like the sort of thing one would pull to summon servants in the old days.

“Pull the rope!” She commanded. I quickly did as I was told and pulled on the rope. Much to my surprise the shelves next to it were smoothly hoisted and a glass fronted cupboard came into view. A neat rack of a dozen canes of various sizes was revealed . I took a deep breath and gazed at Mrs Bellamy. Her dark eyes flickered strangely. She sighed deeply as if overcome with strong emotion and said.

“This will always be our little secret you understand!” Of course I understood completely. I nodded my head suddenly overwhelmed, willing to swear to anything. With a small silver key she carefully unlocked the cabinet.

“Right David. Before we begin I need three things from you. First you must tell me which cane you prefer.”I could see the tension and excitement in her pale face. 

There was a dark brown crook handled rattan cane, long and somewhat thinner than the rest that had caught my eye at once. Something about it's dark smooth patina made me think it had been well used. Although I was scared, I was filled with a feeling of ecstasy as I handed her the cane down from the rack. She smiled at me and said.

“An excellent choice my dear. Now secondly you must tell me how many strokes of the cane you would like to receive. The minimum, I am afraid, is six of the best!” Without really thinking about what I was saying I said,

“Twelve please!”

In the dimly lit sitting room she raised her eyebrows then unexpectedly drew me close until my face was so close to hers we almost touched. Giggling like a young schoolgirl she asked.

“And how hard shall I cane you. Hard, Very Hard or,” she hesitated, “Extra Hard!”

I was like a moth flying too close to the flame. I was about to reply instantly when she stopped me with a look and a motion of her finger. 

“Please David, don't say anything you may soon regret. Once we agree I shall not allow you to change your mind. Perhaps you have been caned before? Maybe at school!”

I nodded my head. Indeed I had just the once.

“Did it hurt much?” She asked. She tapped the thin dark cane against her palm as she spoke.

“No, not much!” I lied. I had been given four of the best a year ago by my housemaster. The pain had been excruciating and I had had the marks on my backside for a good week afterwards.

“I think you may be lying to me David. I rather think it hurt a great deal. So what is your choice then!”

Without the slightest hesitation I said.

“Extra hard please.”

She shook her head and sighed. As if both appalled and delighted at my foolhardiness.

“Goodness me you are a foolish child. And a dozen too! I promise you, you will not be able to sit down comfortably for a week at least.”

“The cane is best for a boy of your age David and may I say your bottom is so perfect it would be a crime not to give it the full attention it deserves.” She said holding the long thin cane like a fencing master would hold his sword.

“First you must lower your trousers” She said. After I had completed that small task I half turned and caught her eye and she smiled as if she too had been waiting a long time for this moment.

“Now your underpants if you please,” she pointed with the cane as if my white briefs were something that were in some way offensive to her. Both my trousers and pants were caught above my knees. I felt self conscious standing there under her Medusa like gaze. She grinned at me as if she found me suddenly amusing.

“Bend over the arm of the sofa.” She instructs. I feel the muscles in my calves stretch as I bend over. My bottom is upraised, the highest point. Two round pale smooth cheeks represent the target area. The cane seemed at first to be almost caressing, cool against my skin. She flexes it in her small delicate hands. I cannot help trembling in anticipation. Any moment I know I will feel a terrible searing pain. When it comes it catches me by surprise. It paralyses everything but my vocal chords and I give a loud gasp. A gulp of air. The pain is so awful, so dreadful. I know there is no way I can keep still, as this thought enters my consciousness the second stroke arrives hot on the heels of the first. 

I manage somehow to suppress a scream, although it requires a gigantic effort of willpower. Three foot of whippy rattan, as thin as a pencil lands like a small explosion and my mouth seems to explode in a scream. My entire attention is focused on one thing and one thing only, the pain in my backside. All I can hear is the whistle of the cane as it cuts like a knife through the air and the crack like a bullet as it lands on my bottom. The rest is a dreadful inhuman silence, although somewhere far away I can hear sobbing interrupted by screaming. I am conscious of her enigmatic smile, which is not without sympathy. Still her arm is raised again. The cane descends faster than the speed of sound, or of light even.

With each breath I take I sob. My eyes are blinded by my own tears. Finally all twelve strokes have been given. Twelve strokes of the cane with no mercy shown. I am laying face down on the sofa, my head on her lap, she is stroking my hair and saying something which I cannot quite hear. Her voice soothes me, caresses me. The tears will not stop. It is like a flood that will never cease. Catharsis has been reached. My bottom has many pink stripes across it, by the morning they will be red or purple, by next week, peculiar shades of blue and yellow. My bottom will have more colours than a rainbow.

“I have always wanted to do that you know! Ever since you were a little boy I have wanted to give you a good hard caning!” She says, in a conversational tone. She still has that wicked look in her pretty dark hazel eyes, as if she still might pounce on me and devour me at any moment.

“Why?” I asked tearfully, surprised by her confession. She laughed and shrugged her shoulders, as if the question was completely unanswerable.