The ball that started it all.
The window that resulted.
This drawing from comixpank is a babysitter, but she deputises nicely for Aunty Pip, who was also a babysitter of sorts.
Betty Blaze paddles a naughty young man, she also makes a good Aunty Pip with the grown up Peter.
CRASH! The tranquility of the suburban afternoon in the quiet cul de sac was shattered, just like the window that the bright red cricket ball sailed through. Philippa Jackson had been preparing afternoon tea, and the alarming noise that came from her living room nearly made her drop the plate she was putting some biscuits on.
Arriving in the comfortable lounge room and looking down to see a cricket ball laying innocently amongst the glass shards of her window made the plump, pretty dark haired window purse her lips in annoyance. “I have told and told those children not to play cricket on my lawn or near my window, and now look what’s happened!”
Philippa or ‘Pip’ as her friends and neighbours called her, got to the window just in time to see the rapidly disappearing backs of the juvenile cricketers responsible for the carnage. All bar one of the children had run for cover. The remaining boy held a cricket bat in his hand.
Peter Andrews watched almost mesmerized as the ball hit the edge of his bat, and sailed through the air, to hit and break Mrs Jackson’s window. He and his friends had been repeatedly asked by the lady not to play on her lawn or near her window. She never really gave any solid reason, just accepted that if she as an adult told them to do something they would do it. Peter ran his hand through his mop of coal black hair, and then turned to see an angry Mrs Jackson looking out at him through her broken window.
Everyone else had run home, Peter was the only one left. No skin off his nose, it wasn’t his ball, and as his mother worked two jobs and wouldn’t be home for hours it wasn’t like anyone could tell tales to her, not that she’d do much if they did, she was generally too tired when she got home from her second job to have much interaction with her son beyond making him some dinner, asking if he’d done his homework and then sending him to bed.
“Hi,” he said to the justifiably annoyed women glaring at him through the remains of her window, Peter turned on his cheeky smile, which often got him what he wanted and made him instantly forgivable, “can I have the ball back, please?”
Philippa did not say anything initially, she was trying to get her temper under control. First the boy and his friends had broken her window and now this cheeky little creature was asking for his ball back as if he’d just accidentally knocked it over the fence!
“Why don’t you come in here, young man, and we’ll discuss this.”
Peter shrugged, he had been hoping she would throw the ball back, but he may as well go in and get it off her, discussion probably meant he was going to get told off, but she wasn’t his Mum, what else could she do?
Peter was ushered into the comfortable, neat, if decorated in an old fashioned style, house. Mrs Jackson made him wipe his feet before setting foot in the house and leading him into the living room.
“Peter,” she began, standing in the middle of the room, hands on hips, “it is Peter, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” The boy answered, wondering where this was going.
Philippa sighed “No, Peter the correct form of address when I ask you a question is yes ma’am or yes Mrs Jackson. Now, let’s try that again. Your name is Peter am I correct?”
Peter started to become uncomfortable, Mrs Jackson was a little like the strictest teacher at his school; Mrs Hardacre, she was the one who still threatened to hit kids, there were even whispers on the playground that she had obtained permission to spank from some mothers, and taken kids to her house to do just that. Peter counted his lucky stars that he and his mother had moved into the area when he was too old to wind up in her class. “Yes Mrs Jackson.” He replied dutifully.
Philippa looked at the boy and wondered how best to handle this. Most kids would have been desperate to get home in Peter’s situation, but he seemed unconcerned. “Peter, what’s your phone number? I should call your Mum and discuss this with her.”
“She’s not home, ma’am.”
“Where is she?” Philippa asked, her smooth brow furrowing.
“Work?” Philippa queried.
“Mum works two jobs, Mrs Jackson.”
“So you’re regularly left to your own devices in the afternoons?”
Peter didn’t totally understand the question, but he figured out it meant was he left alone after school, so he replied “Yes.”
“Your mother has a cell phone, correct?”
“What’s the number, dear?”
Peter sighed, this wasn’t going to be fun if Mrs Jackson rang his mother, she couldn’t do much, but she’d be upset and he didn’t like that.
“Hi Alice, it’s Philippa Jackson from down the road. Peter and his friends broke my window when playing outside today, he’s here with me at present. I’ll just wait for your call.” Philippa put her phone back in the cradle and offered the boy a smile, “She’s busy at the moment, I left a message.”
“She’s probably working, Mrs Jackson. She’ll call back in a break.”
The widow nodded, and then offered “I was just about to have some afternoon tea. Why don’t you come through into the kitchen and we’ll have a chat.”
Peter took a seat at the kitchen table, while Philippa made tea. “What would you like to drink, Peter?” she asked the boy.
“What do you have, ma’am?” Peter asked politely.
“I have tea.”
Peter’s nose wrinkled in distaste, and Philippa suppressed a laugh. She should have known that any nine-year old boy wouldn’t accept a nice hot cup of tea as a beverage of choice.
“Do you have Coke?” Peter asked hopefully.
Philippa shook her head firmly “I don’t keep any soft drink in the house, it’s too sugary and does you no good whatsoever. I have water and milk.”
Peter seemed to be weighing up the choices, when Philippa remembered “Oh, there’s a pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator. I made it fresh earlier today. Would you like some of that?”
“Yes please.” Peter answered.
“Lovely.” Philippa purred, taking the lemonade from the refrigerator, pouring a glass for Peter, and putting it in front of him, then bringing her freshly made pot of tea and a plate of biscuits to the table.
Philippa Jackson watched the boy sip his lemonade and crunch into a biscuit, over the rim of her teacup, before speaking. “Peter have you ever heard me ask you and your friends to not play your test matches on my lawn or near my window?”
“Yes Mrs Jackson.” Peter nodded and said around a mouthful of biscuit.
“So you actually did hear me?” Philippa probed.
“Then why did you continue to do it?”
That question seemed to stump Peter, and like many boys when asked a question they can’t answer, he shrugged his shoulders in the universal gesture for ‘I don’t know.’
“Do you know why I asked you not to play on my lawn or near the window?”
“No, ma’am.” Peter asked, with the air of someone who was going be given some very important information.
Philippa pointed towards her living room with her teacup “That’s why, young man. I’m not particularly worried about the broken window. It’s going to be tedious to get a glazier and it will cost me, but accidents do happen. There’s no stormy or wet weather forecast for tonight and I have a piece of cardboard that will cover the window until I can arrange for someone to replace it, so we’re fortunate there. I ask you and the others not to play there not just because you may accidentally break a window, but because of the danger. You do realize how dangerous flying glass is? You or I, or any of your friends could have been hit and cut by an errant piece of glass, someone may have even been blinded.”
Peter’s head dropped and he murmured “I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson.” at the tablecloth.
Philippa nodded sagely “I’m sure you are, young man, I intend to make certain of that after I have spoken with your mother.”
Peter did not know what the rather maternal widow meant by that last comment, but it didn’t sound good.
“When we’ve had our tea you can put on some gloves and help me clean up the glass.”
Philippa and Peter knelt carefully on the carpeted floor and picked up the glass, placing the shards in a bucket. As they worked they chatted. “You don’t have any adult supervision all afternoon?” Philippa asked the boy, dropping some more glass in the bucket.
“Uh huh.” Peter replied, concentrating on the task at hand.
“So, you could get into all sorts of mischief?”
“I guess.” Peter conceded.
Before they could get any further the phone rang loudly.
“That’s probably your Mum.” Philippa said, getting to her feet and brushing the knees of her apron off.
Peter continued picking glass out of the carpet as he listened to the one-sided phone call taking place out in the hall where Mrs Jackson had her telephone “Hello Mrs Andrews. I can call you Alice? Lovely. It was a bit of a shock, yes. I won’t hear of you paying for the window. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll be calling the mothers of the others involved and I’m sure they’ll be properly punished for it. It was just how dangerous it can be that bothered me. I do agree that Peter needs to be disciplined, and that is largely why I rang you, I’m rather old fashioned and I thought the old fashioned method might be best. Oh you agree? Alice, I am so glad to hear that. Well, now I have your permission I’ll do what needs to be done and you can pick Peter up from here on your way home.”
In the living room Peter frowned. He would have given a lot to know exactly what his mother was saying on the other end of the phone. He had heard the word punished mentioned more than once and that couldn’t possibly be good.
Mrs Jackson had a rather predatory smile on her face when she reentered the living room. “Glass all picked up?” she asked her young guest.
“I think so, Mrs Jackson.”
“Sweetie, after speaking to your Mum we thought you could call me Aunty Pip, it’s so much less formal than Mrs Jackson or ma’am and I’d like it.”
“Ummm okay, Aunty Pip.” Peter said, trying the new name out and finding that he liked the sound of it. Mrs Jackson looked a lot like an Aunty Pip, more than she did a Mrs Jackson.
Philippa was seated on her couch with Peter standing by her knee. She looked earnestly into his brown eyes, and said “You heard me talking to your Mum, and I’m sure you heard me speak about punishing you for playing near my window and breaking it.”
Peter had a sudden flash of inspiration that may get him out of this, and blurted out quickly “It wasn’t my fault, Aunty Pip!”
Philippa blinked, and regarded the boy in surprise “Peter,” she started reasonably, “when the window got broken you were standing nearby, bat in hand, how exactly have you arrived at the conclusion that it was not your fault?’
“It was Scott’s,” Peter explained, “Johnno told him not to bowl a full toss and he did, so I had a whack at it and it went off the edge of the bat. If he hadn’t bowled a full toss I’d never have hit the ball through your window.”
It was all Philippa could do not to laugh at the ‘little boy logic’ being employed by young Peter, she instead said levelly “I actually blame all of you, dear. You and your friends. Rest assured I will be calling their mothers and letting them know what happened and I think there will be some very sorry young cricketers come bedtime tonight, don’t you?”
Peter sighed and nodded. He and his friends had discussed discipline at home before. Most of his friends were spanked by their parents when they were naughty. In fact Peter was the subject of some envy amongst the neighbourhood boys because his mother didn’t spank him. Peter did feel relieved in some ways, because they didn’t sound like they were much fun, but on the other hand he often felt excluded when the rest of the boys swapped war stories.
“Now, Peter,” Philippa said, “do you think it’s fair that your friends will be spanked for what happened and you’re not?”
“I guess not, Aunty Pip.” Peter said reluctantly, his head dropping.
“Do you think it’s fair that I have to pay for a broken window?”
“Do you think it’s fair that I have to wait around tomorrow for a glazier to come and replace my window, when I may have other things to do with my time?”
“No, Aunty Pip.”
“None of those things are fair, young man. You can’t pay for the window, and I wouldn’t think of charging your mother for your recklessness, but both she and I think that you need to learn that your actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences aren’t particularly pleasant.”
“Does conse…conscience…” Peter’s tongue stumbled over the long and unfamiliar word, “mean I’m going to get spanked?”
Philippa had to work hard not to laugh, but she kept her face stern, and replied “Yes, it does, dear. Now let’s get these pants down and get you over Aunty’s lap.”
“Pants down!” Peter exclaimed. His friends had spoken about this. Some were spanked bare bottom and others were allowed to keep their pants up. It was the general consensus that being allowed to keep them up was the preferred option. Not just because spankings hurt a little less on the covered bottom, there was actually debate over whether or not this was the case, but because it was much more embarrassing being smacked on a bare bottom than it was over pants or even underpants.
“Yes, pants down.” Philippa confirmed, her sure hands competently unsnapping the buttons on Peter’s jeans, drawing the zip down and lowering the trousers to his knees. “All proper spankings are given on the bare bottom. Mine always were, and so were my brothers.”
Peter tried to hold his underpants up, but Philippa slapped his hands away, telling him “Don’t be a baby, you don’t have anything that I haven’t seen before, young man. I grew up with a brother.”
Fortunately for Peter’s modesty as soon as Philippa had dropped his underpants to his knees she turned him over her lap, so that all she could really see was his marble white bottom. Phillipa looked at the pristine white cheeks nestled in her lap and considered them. She had been in this position on a regular basis during her own childhood and she had seen her mother paint her younger brother’s cheeks a bright blushing bright red on many occasions. When she had entered her older teens she’d done some neighbourhood babysitting and had been given permission to spank most of her charges, it had not been something she’d had to do often, but she had done it. In fact her last customer had been a boy of Peter’s age, but that was twenty years ago. One of her mother’s friends had once remarked that spanking children was like riding a bike, once you learned how to do it, you never forgot. Philippa was about to put that little nugget of wisdom to the test.
For his part Peter had been intensely embarrassed when Mrs Jackson had taken his underpants down to his ankles. He couldn’t remember when the last person, who was not his mother had seen him nude, these days he didn’t even like it when it was his mother and he took pains to do his best to hide any nakedness from her. Mrs Jackson was practically a stranger, even if he had started calling her Aunty Pip quite naturally. On the other hand she could only see his bottom and her lap actually felt kind of nice, it was warm and soft and she had a lovely perfumed smell about her.
Peter’s eyes widened a little and he tensed as he felt a hand glide across his bare and very vulnerable feeling rear end. His buttocks tingled and he felt gooseflesh rise in the path of that palm. Philippa fondled the boy’s cheeks gently, and smiled as she felt him tense a little and saw the pimpling of gooseflesh. He was nervous and that was quite natural, especially considering this was his first ever spanking. However she knew from her own limited experience, and from listening into conversations between her mother and her aunts and their friends, that it was best if the recipient of a spanking relaxed their cheeks first, it made the spanking hurt a little less and reduced the chance of a bruised bottom, plus it was also a little easier on the spanker’s hand. She tickled the boy’s backside, and he giggled a little and shifted in her lap, she also saw the cheeks relax and nodded contentedly. That was what she had been looking for. Philippa’s hand lifted off Peter’s bottom, and raised in the air, she flattened the palm out a little to make a solid spanking surface and tightened her grip around the boy’s waist, because once he felt that first smack he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself struggling, that was just a fact of any well administered spanking.
SMACK! Philippa’s hand cracked across one of Peter’s plump white hemispheres. The woman watched her hand lift off and saw the imprint of her palm fill with pink. Peter heard the report of the hand, but did not initially feel it, then he let out an “Ouch!” as the sting of the blow registered. By that stage Mrs Jackson had delivered an identical spank to the boy’s other buttock, that one seemed to register on the miscreant over her lap a little quicker, he yelped in pain and jerked. Philippa tightened her grip around Peter’s waist, and drew the young man in a little closer as she sprinkled hard stinging slaps all over the bucking mounds, and made certain to include his tender upper thighs as well.
As Philippa diligently reddened Peter’s frantically pumping and weaving bottom she remembered exactly how vigorous young boys struggled during a sound spanking. As it was Peter’s first such experience he was probably a little more desperate than most. However the older woman was bigger and stronger than the boy and was able to hold him in position while she lit a very hot campfire on his caboose. The descriptions that Peter’s friends gave their playmates of their own spankings in no way did the experience justice. They mentioned the sore hot bums, Peter felt like he had just sat down on a glowing stove hot plate, but they never said anything about the stinging eyes from tears or how your nose ran and your throat burned from swallowing tears and snot. Peter kicked his legs about, trying to get off Aunty Pip’s lap and ease the constant stinging pain that her relentless palm was putting there. Peter had been bitten by a bull ant a few days earlier, this was like the entire nest were biting his backside all at once.
Suddenly the palm stopped. Peter was dimly aware of Aunty Pip’s hand resting gently on one steaming cheek, the other hand that had held him so securely was patting and rubbing his back, and Aunty Pip’s soft voice was telling him that his spanking was over, he had been a good boy and she was proud of him for taking it so well, the window was all paid for now. Peter sobbed and hiccoughed, he told his new Aunty how sorry he was for not listening to her earlier and breaking her window. Knowing that some of his friends were going to be getting the same treatment over their mothers and fathers laps this evening made his own punishment a little more palatable and easier to bear.
Peter felt Aunty Pip’s strong and sure hands helping him up off her lap and setting him on his feet. Once he was standing up, Peter’s hands flew to his abused rear and he began to dance around the room, hand vigorously rubbing his freshly spanked buttocks, tears still streaming down his cheeks. Philippa sat back and watched the boy perform the ‘spanky dance’ with an indulgent smile. She let Peter hop about for a minute, all earlier modesty completely forgotten, as he attempted to quench the bushfire her hand had ignited on his hindquarters. “Peter,” Philippa said clearly and loudly, her voice firm, “I think we’ve had enough dancing for now, sweetheart. Come here to Aunty Pip.”
Peter obediently stopped his wild gryations and hopping up and down, but kept his hands firmly clamped to his backside. He approached Philippa warily, his eyes nervous. “It’s okay, darling,” Philippa reassured the child, her tone becoming maternal, “you’ve been properly spanked for what you did now. Aunty just wants to gentle you down a little.”
Peter sniffled and angrily wiped his dribbling nose with the back of his hand.
Philippa clucked and took some tissues from a box on a small table next to the sofa. She held them up to the boy’s nose and instructed “Blow.”
Peter blew his nose noisily, Philippa wiped his nose, discarded those tissues and used some more to clean the boy’s tear stained, mucus and saliva covered face. Her arms enfolded the boy in a loving embrace ,and she murmured soothingly in his ear, letting him cry into her bosom, before disengaging and putting him in corner with the instruction to put his hands on his head and stay there until she gave him permission to move.
Peter was still in the corner, letting his superheated rump cool down and getting his crying under control, his bright red bottom shining like a beacon, Philippa enjoying a fresh hot cup of tea, when the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be your Mum, Peter love.” Philippa told the boy, as she rose, and opened the door to admit the young working mother.
Alice Andrews was a little surprised to see that her son was still in the corner following Philippa Jackson’s spanking, but she had to admit she liked the look on the boy. She really should have spanked him from time to time. “It looks like you really paid the price for that window, baby.” She told her red-bottomed son.
“Yes, Mamma.” He blubbered.
“I’ve told you before that you need to listen to adults when they tell you something, and now you know why.” Alice gently scolded the boy.
“I’m sorry, Mamma.” He sniffled.
“I know, baby.” She told him, settling herself on the couch.
“Why don’t you two have a cuddle and I’ll get you some tea.” Philippa offered.
“Oh thank you, Philippa.” Alice said.
“It’s Pip or Pippa.” The woman told her guest she disappeared into the kitchen, and heard Alice calling Peter out of the corner and into her lap, as she put the kettle on.
Philippa reentered the room with tea, and smiled at the sight of Peter, still bare below the waist, curled up in his mother’s lap, the edged of his still rosy buttocks peeking out cheekily.
“I’ll be mother, shall I?’ Philippa offered, as she inquired to how Alice took her tea and poured it for both of them.
“How much do you think the window will cost to replace?” Alice asked, cuddling her drowsy son.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t think of it, Alice.” Philippa put the women at ease. “If you mention it again maybe I’ll have to take you over my knee.” She warned playfully.
Alice laughed and thanked the older lady.
“I did have a matter I wanted to discuss with you, though.” Philippa said.
“Oh?” Alice asked, sipping her tea and raising an eyebrow.
“I understand Peter is completely unsupervised from the time school gets out until you arrive home.”
Alice’s green eyes clouded over, and she nodded “Child care for a boy Peter’s age is so expensive.”
“The council don’t have any options?”
“They do for younger children, but not ones Peter’s age.”
“I have a proposition to put to you, then.”
“I’m all ears.” A clearly interested Alice said.
“My husband died before we could have children, but I do love them, and I’ve always wanted some of my own,” Philippa began, “Peter and I connected this afternoon, and if you were agreeable I’d be delighted to look after him until you get off work and can collect him.”
“Oh my goodness!” Alice exclaimed, her eyes going wide. “Pippa, you don’t know how marvelous that would be. Such a weight off my mind. How about that Peter? Would you like to come to Mrs Jackson’s after school, honey?”
“He’s started calling me Aunty Pip.” Philippa confided with a blush, and sipping her tea.
“Ummmm…yeah.” Peter murmured.
“Excellent.” Alice smiled at her new friend.
“I may have to punish him occasionally like I did this afternoon, though.” Philippa admitted.
“Oh, I expected that. I got plenty of smacked bottoms growing up. I think it does a boy Peter’s age good. I never did it because I have so little time with him and didn’t want his memories of me to be of a vengeful spanking harridan.”
“Oh, I hope you don’t think that’s me!” Philippa exclaimed.
“Oh no!” Alice laughed. “I think you’re the strict aunt that Peter needs.”
Philippa Jackson looked at the photos on her living room table and then at the window the table stood under. Two things had pride of place on that table. One was a picture of her with Peter Andrews. The boy was smiling and holding up a silver medal. That had been at his school sports day, and he’d just taken out second place in the 100 metre sprint. Philippa had attended in place of his mother, who had been unable to get time off from her second job to go to the event. To one side of the photograph was a rather battered old cricket ball. It was the same one that had crashed through her window all those years ago and brought her and Peter together. The boy had forgotten to ask for it back and Philippa thought it provided a poignant reminder of exactly why she babysat Peter after school. Peter was her first ‘client’, but far from her last. She had exclusively sat for Peter Andrews every afternoon from that day until he and his mother had moved away when the boy was fifteen years old.
Although Peter had been fifteen when he and his mother had moved, Philippa still looked after him each night following school, and even at that age he still went over her lap for the occasional spanking. When she first started caring for the boy rarely a week went by without Peter getting his bottom smacked by Aunty Pip, in fact there were a number of weeks where more than one spanking was not uncommon. Peter gradually learned what sort of behaviour earned him a hot sore backside and modified it accordingly. The frequency of the chastisements decreased. As Peter grew older Philippa felt that her hand was no longer sufficient to teach him a lesson and supplemented it with at first a wooden spoon from her kitchen and later her mahogany wood hairbrush. Peter hated the brush, but he still felt it across his rump once a month or so, this dropped to every three months approximately when he hit his teens. The last time Philippa had spanked the boy had been a few weeks after he turned fifteen, and it was only two weeks before Peter and his mother left. Philippa had tried to keep in touch, but Alice had been busy settling and with her new job, and the phone calls had become less and less frequent before stopping altogether as the younger woman settled into her new life. Initially Peter had Philippa had written to each other, the older lady had never gotten the hang of email or text, and the letters had gradually stopped.
Looking after Peter had earned Philippa a reputation in the neighbourhood, and she was often called on for sitting after school duties among the working parents. Philippa had a few rules when she agreed to look after a child. She wouldn’t take any child younger than six, the parents had to make alternative arrangements on Wednesday afternoons, she wanted that one to herself, although in certain circumstances and if the parent agreed to pay a little more she could be persuaded to relax that particular stipulation, and in some ways the most important to Philippa was that the parents had to accept that in some cases she may find it necessary to spank the child, and this had to be agreed to before she would have the boy or girl under her care. Peter’s photograph wasn’t the only one of Philippa’s ‘nieces’ or ‘nephews’ that sat on the little table under the window. She scanned her eyes across the array of fresh, young smiling faces and grinned. She felt that she was providing a necessary and much wanted service in the neighbourhood, it was almost as if she were giving something back to the community. She got paid for the work, but it was really a token amount and much less than any professional childcare organization would charge. Some parents who had used those had actually told Philippa that she did a far better job. Philippa felt that had a lot to do with ratios. Professional crèches and aftercare institutions had one carer to a number of charges. Philippa never took on more than three children at a time, although she had hosted a few birthdays for some of the children.
Philippa pulled herself out of her trip down memory lane, and looked at the clock. It was afternoon teatime, the woman had just turned towards the kitchen to put the kettle on when her doorbell rang. “Oh bother!” Philippa said. “I do hope that’s not a salesman.”
She opened the door rather cautiously, expecting to encounter someone trying to get her to change her electricity or phone provider, possibly a charity collector, and saw a couple in their mid twenties. They were both dressed neatly and well groomed. Philippa wondered if they were from a religion, the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Latter Day Saints were known to go door to door. Philippa had met people at the door from both faiths, but something about these two didn’t look right for that.
The young man spoke first “Aunty Pip?”
Philippa took a closer look at him, and the years rolled away “Peter? Peter Andrews? Oh my goodness! You’re all grown up. Come on in please, dear. Who is with you?”
The attractive young woman with Peter smiled at the older lady, who was self consciously patting her hair into place “Katy.” She answered smoothly. “I’m Peter’s wife.”
The three stood in Philippa’s cozy living room, looking at each other and wondering what to do now. Philippa took the initiative and invited “I was just about to put the kettle on for afternoon tea. You’ll stay for tea?”
“We’d be delighted, Mrs Jackson.” Katy replied.
“Oh call me Aunty Pip, Katy. Peter always has.”
“Thank you Aunty Pip.”
“I’ll be back soon with some tea, take a seat on the couch. We have so much to discuss.”
Peter and Katy were seated next to each other on Philippa’s comfortable two seater couch, when Philippa arrived back with a gently steaming pot of tea, cups, saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of home made biscuits.
“How do you take your tea, Katy?” Philippa asked setting the tray down.
“Dash of milk, two sugars.” Katy responded. “Peter’s the same.”
Philippa poured the tea and added milk and sugar as Katy had advised, she smiled as she handed a steaming cup to Katy, and said “Peter was never a tea drinker really, he preferred Coke, which I never allowed him to have, but he was also partial to my home made lemonade.”
Peter blushed as he took a cup from his ‘Aunty’, picked up a biscuit and bit into it to hide his embarrassment.
Katy sipped her tea and regarded the woman her husband referred to as Aunty Pip. She was a very maternal looking sort of woman and she could see how Peter had forged the bond he had with her and her sort of after school care made total sense to her just judging the lady on her appearance and the way she had invited them in and provided refreshment. Her actual aunt was not unlike Philippa Jackson, and Katy usually ended up getting a spanking nearly every time she had stayed with the woman. According to Peter, Aunty Pip spanked over her lap, bare bottom and did not stop until she had obtained a hot glowing bottom and a flood of tears, just like her own Aunty Josephine.
“I have to admit while I’m very eager to hear what Peter has been up to these last few years I’m still rather a puzzled by what I owe the pleasure of this visit to.” Philippa said, sipping her own tea and studying the young couple over the rim of her cup through the rising steam.
Katy looked at her silent and rather nervous looking husband, and said “I think we’ll let Peter answer that. Darling?”
Peter looked into his cup and then up at the ceiling and finally answered in a soft voice “I broke a window, Aunty Pip.”
“That sounds rather familiar,” Philippa said, putting down her teacup, “whose window was it, dear?”
“Mine.” Peter supplied, beginning to blush.
“How exactly was it broken, Peter?”
The tall, handsome young man sighed, and tried to explain “I was playing cricket with some of the kids nearby. I threw the ball to the wicket and the keeper missed it, it went through the window.”
Philippa’s lips pursed as she was about to frame a suitably scolding response. Katy broke in “I can’t remember how many times I’ve told Peter not to play the games near the windows. I don’t mind him playing with the kids, they’re good boys and I like them, but I knew sooner or later they were going to break a window if they kept it up.”
Philippa shook her head sadly “Yes, I had the same trouble with Peter and his friends as boys, didn’t I, sweetheart?”
“Yes, Aunty Pip.”
Katy sipped her tea and explained “That was how I found out about you and the role you played in Peter’s life, Aunty Pip.”
Philippa raised an eyebrow in query.
“Peter and I met in college, we were both on varsity teams. After the window, when I’d read him the riot act and arranged for it to be replaced, we sat down and had a talk about things and it all came out. The story about your window, the spanking he got for it and how you looked after him and disciplined him when Alice was at work.”
“I like to think I played some part in helping him grow up to be a responsible and valuable member of society.” Philippa said modestly.
“Oh, you did!” Katy was quick to assure the older woman. “Apart from lapses like the other day, Peter is a wonderful husband and provider and I know he’s going to make a great Dad.”
“There’s a but there, Katy dear.”
“Yes, there is,” the younger woman agreed, “he has the occasional incident like the window where he doesn’t think and needs to be reminded.”
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, young man?” Philippa asked Peter, sternly.
“No ma’am,” Peter whispered, hanging his head, “I’m sorry.”
Philippa had to avert her head, so that the young couple wouldn’t see the smile on her face. Despite his age and size Peter looked exactly the way he had when he was nine years old and in trouble with her for some sort of boyish mischief. It was usually the look that appeared on his face not long before her was turned over her lap to have his firm, round bottom spanked to a deep, rich red.
“We discussed it, ma’am.” Katy spoke.
“Oh please tell me the outcome of that, dear, and call me Aunty Pip or Pippa if you wish.”
“Thank you, Pippa. Peter agrees that as well as replacing the window he needs to be taught a lesson about taking responsibility, and you were always the best person in his life to teach those lessons.”
“Yes, Peter did tend to learn at…or rather over my knee.” Philippa agreed with the young woman. “Are you saying that you and Peter have agreed that I should spank him the same way I did when he was a child for this incident?”
Katy took a deep breath and a quick sip of tea, Peter remained silent, but his brown eyes were concerned. The young couple looked at each other and they both nodded.
Philippa also nodded ‘Very well. I have some questions for you, Katy.”
“Yes ma’…Aunty Pip,” the pretty brown haired girl corrected herself, “okay.”
“Were you raised traditionally?”
“Spanked, sweetheart. Did your parents spank you when you were naughty?”
“Oh yes,” Katy replied, with a blush, “whenever I or my brother acted up we got a hot bottom over Mummy or Daddy’s lap. My brother got a spanking for breaking a window once. I never broke any windows, but I did break a lamp and got Mummy’s hairbrush for it.”
Seeing as the girl was so open about her childhood discipline Philippa decided to press a little further. “How old were you the last time you got spanked?”
Katy’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall the incident “Hmmmmm…it was for breaking curfew, I was sixteen, it was the last time I broke curfew.”
“If you’re aware of spanking and you both agree that Peter needs a smacked bottom for breaking the window why haven’t you spanked him, Katy?”
Katy swallowed, and licked her lips nervously “We thought about that, Pippa. There are a few reasons. I’ve never spanked anyone, much less a grown man like Peter. I could spank him, I mean I understand the theory behind it, but we both thought seeing as you are someone Peter accepts as an authority figure, and that you’ve spanked him for the same thing before, it may have more effect coming from you this time.”
Peter shifted uncomfortably as a familiar tingle started in his buttocks.
“This time?” Philippa echoed. “You’re anticipating that you may have to do it again?”
“I think so, Aunty Pip. Peter missed out on a lot of your lessons over the past ten years.”
“Peter?” Philippa asked the young man across from her “Are you okay with this, sweetheart? Taking another trip over Aunty Pip’s lap? It’s been some time after all.”
“Yes, Aunty Pip.” Peter stammered. “I do deserve it and seeing you give me a spanking will help Katy know how to do it in the future.”
Philippa was impressed by Peter’s natural submissiveness, and thought that she may have helped to instill that quality in him. It helped that like her, his wife, seemed rather dominant. Philippa had no doubt that the young woman would bare Peter’s bottom, take him over her lap and spank his firm rear end to a scalding scarlet if she thought it was what was needed.
“Very well,” Philippa said firmly, “I’m a firm believer in not waiting to do things and striking while the iron is hot, so let’s get this underway as quick as possible. If you’d like to show Katy where things go you two can clean up the tea things and I’ll go fetch my hairbrush.”
“The brush?” Peter asked in a small voice, his face ashen.
“You’re not nine years old anymore Peter. I doubt my poor little old hand will have the desired effect on your bottom by itself.”
“No, ma’am.” Peter murmured, his blush deepening and eyes brimming with tears.
Peter and Katy came out of the kitchen, to see Philippa seated neatly on her couch, hairbrush laying bristle side up on the sofa arm. The young couple were a study in contrast, Katy was smiling and chattering brightly, Peter was quiet and nervous.
“You can settle yourself in my chair, Katy. With Peter being such a tall boy I find it easier to spank him while seated on the couch, it will help support his upper body and legs and make it easier for me to hold him when he starts to wriggle.”
“Will he?” Katy asked with interest. “Wriggle, I mean.”
“Oh he’s sure to,” Philippa reassured her guest, “he was a little worm when he was a boy I can’t imagine he’s changed that much in the intervening years, they all tend to squirm about once the fires starting burning on their botties.”
All the baby talk about spanking and his probable reactions to it was combining to make Peter feel very uncomfortable and the tingling in his hind quarters had settled in for good until Philippa’s hard experienced palm was cracking across them. This was something that she and his mother had often done post spanking. Alice Andrews often stayed at Philippa’s house for a cup of tea or coffee when she arrived to pick Peter up, and if he’d been spanked then he was often in the corner, and had to listen to the two ladies calmly discuss his chastisement, what he’d done to earn it and his reactions to it, over refreshment, while he stood in the corner, both sets of cheeks burning fiercely.
“Come over to Aunty, please Peter.” Philippa ordered, gently.
It was amazing the change that had come over the young husband once his punishment had been decided and Philippa had slipped back into her role of stern, chastising aunt. The tall young man who had looked so grown up and mature, had now become a pre teen child, concerned about the fires that were very soon going to be kindled on his naughty posterior. He shuffled slowly over to Philippa, while his wife settled back into the older lady’s armchair, and watched the proceedings with interest.
Philippa looked up at Peter as he stood by her side, she put her hands on his hips, just resting them there and said calmly “Had Katy told you not to play near the window, Peter?”
“Yes, Aunty Pip.”
“Then why were you playing there, sweetheart?”
“I dunno.” Peter replied, drawing a circle on the rug with the toe of his shoe.
Philippa’s lips pursed and her eyes hardened. One hand left Peter’s hip and smacked his denim clad bottom hard. Peter jumped, and his eyes opened wide in shock, although through his thick jeans he probably hadn’t really felt the slap. “Peter that is not an acceptable response, young man, and you know it. You will answer me properly and do me the courtesy of looking at me when I’m speaking to you, do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Peter said with a hard swallow.
“Much better. Now we’ll try that again. Why were you playing near the window when Katy had told you not to?”
“It’s the best spot for a pitch, Aunty.”
“So was my garden once, but that doesn’t excuse you, does it?”
“What happened when you played your games on my garden near my window?”
“I broke a window, Aunty Pip.” Peter answered.
“And what did Aunty do to you?”
“You spanked me, Aunty Pip.” The boy replied, his blush deepening.
“How did I spank you darling?”
“Do I have to, ma’am?”
“Yes, you do, dear. Tell Katy how I spanked you that time.”
Peter sighed, and a tear slid out of his eye to trickle down his cheek “You spanked me over your knee on my bare bottom.”
“Yes, I did,” Philippa confirmed, “I bared your naughty little bottom, put you over my knee and spanked your tender little caboose long and hard until it glowed like a stoplight and was as hot as a stove.”
Katy’s eyes had gone wide and she licked suddenly dry lips to moisturize them. She had not expected this experience to be so intense or so arousing. She turned her attention back to the tableau taking place at the couch. “We’ve had a confession of guilt and Katy and I have decided that my methods still seem to have an effect on you, so we’d best get to business hadn’t we?”
“Yes, Aunty Pip.” Peter whimpered.
“Hands on head.” Philippa said peremptorily and Peter did as he was told. He stood there obediently, with a familiarity borne of long practice, hands clasped over his dark curls, while Philippa’s nimble fingers unsnapped his buttons, undid his zip and lowered the jeans to the boy’s ankles. There was a moan of despair as his underpants joined them around his legs and he was fully exposed to the room.
“Kick your shoes off, darling, and we’ll get you settled over Aunty’s lap for your smacking.”
“It’s like I never stopped spanking you, sweetheart.” Philippa remarked as she settled Peter into place over her lap. He was obliging, raising his legs with the slightest prompting, so that they dangled over the edge of the couch, and his upper body was supported by the other end of the furniture. She looked down at his firm, white, round buttocks and ran her hand across them. Peter shivered, and a line of pimpled gooseflesh followed the path of her palm. “Peter’s a kicker and a wriggler,” Philippa informed Katy, as she rested her hand on the boy’s right buttock, just gently kneading the pliable flesh under it, “once the heat builds the legs start waving and he begins kicking. Most of them do once you get into a good rhythm.” Philippa half mused, thinking back on the many bottoms she had chastised over the years.
Philippa delivered the first volley of smacks, making them hard and deliberate, she spaced them out, letting each one fill in with a blooming pink. Katy sat on the edge of her seat and watched, her eyes fixed on the rising and lowering hand of the older lady and her husband’s pinkening rear end.
As the sting and heat built in Peter’s rump his legs started to kick lazily and he was rolling his bottom to try and avoid Philippa’s loud stinging slaps. The colour of his bottom went from pink to a roseate glow. Katy had been in that position more times than she cared to remember growing up, so knew exactly what her husband was experiencing, and certainly sympathized with him. His gyrations did him little good, Philippa just tightened her hold around his waist a little, and seemed to hold him position with little trouble and never missed a beat in her spanking.
Philippa could tell from Peter’s grunts and groans, which had replaced his earlier squeals and yells that he was close to tears. She felt a certain pride that one of her spankings could even now bring a fully grown man to tears, and redoubled her efforts, she could feel the heat rising in waves from Peter’s madly wriggling, glowing buttocks, and she listened for the tears. She preferred her ‘victims’ to be crying before she introduced a new player into the game, generally in the form of the hairbrush. Most of the children she sat for were under 13, so therefore did not require any more than the hand to give them a sound smacking, sometimes a good old wooden spoon came in handy, but she generally didn’t bring out her hairbrush unless they were at least over 10 years old. She doubted that anything less would make an impression on Peter, and as she had looked after him right until he had moved away aged 15, he had been the most regular recipient of the business side of her trusty old mahogany hairbrush.
For Peter’s part, he genuinely feared the brush. Katy had one that was very similar, and when he saw it laying on her dressing table at times he could not even bring himself to pick the item up because of the memories of laying over Aunty Pip’s lap having his disobedient derriere firmly dealt with by the brush.
Philippa heard Peter’s floodgates break, and reached over his simmering bottom to pick up ‘old mahogany’ as she had named the hairbrush. Quite often when ‘old mahogany’ was introduced into the punishment the child’s struggles became very vigorous. On this occasion Peter’s eyes were so full of tears and he was dealing with the throbbing heat in his bottom so he did not know that Philippa had the hated implement of pain in her hand. Philippa rested the brush, back down on Peter’s stinging hams and let him work out what the cool weight was.
It didn’t really take that long, and Peter was wriggling madly and begging “No, Aunty Pip. Not the brush, please. Not old mahogany, I’ll be good, I promise.”
Philippa’s fingers curled around the hairbrush’s handle and she lifted it, while saying “You still remember your old friend, Peter?”
“Yes Aunty Pip,” Peter sobbed, “please don’t brush me!”
Philippa looked across at a rapt Katy, and asked “What do you think, Katy? Has our little man learnt his lesson yet?”
“I never got let off until my parents had done exactly what they planned to do to me, and once I was 14 a hand spanking never seemed to be enough.”
“I agree. A boy Peter’s age could use a good dose of old mahogany.” Philippa said benignly. “Now Peter you know how much this hurts, so hold on tight. I do hope you’ve kept some tears because I think you’re going to need them, young man. Now try and be a big brave boy for Aunty Pip and Katy.”
SPLAT! OOOOWWWWWW! The report of the hairbrush’s solid wooden back striking a tender bottom cheek, and the answering howl of anguish rang out in the cosy living room. Philippa applied another stinging stroke to the buttock’s twin and was rewarded with a pained yell from Peter. The bottom introduced to brush, Philippa settled into a steady rhythm with the haircare product. It had been a while since she’d had the opportunity to administer a hairbrushing, but like many things learnt you did not forget how once you started. High, low, across the crowns, sit spot, upper thighs, Philippa let the brushes punishing surface roam all over Peter’s sizzling cherry red hindquarters. Initially Peter’s reaction had been highly animated, his bottom pumping frantically as he tried to escape the brush’s sizzling kisses. Now that Philippa was well into the brushing Peter lay limply across her lap, simply bawling, his nose was also streaming, which was generally the reaction to an exceptionally torrid journey over Philippa’s broad, comfortable lap. Philippa paused in her spanking, wiped her brow, spanking was hard work and it did make one perspire a little, the crackling fire in the grate also kept the room’s temperature high.
With the brush hovering over the boy’s tomato red, furnace hot bottom, Philippa asked “Are we sorry, Peter?”
“Yes ma’am!” Peter cried.
“What are we sorry for, sweetheart?”
“Breaking the window!”
“Is that all?”
Peter knew it was a mistake, but he was not thinking clearly, and blubbered “Yes, Aunty.”
Philippa unleashed another scorching volley with the brush, stopped and asked once Peter had some control over himself “What else are we sorry for, darling?”
“Not doing as Katy told me?” Peter guessed, remembering a similar spanking when he had been a teenager and how Aunty Pip had not finished it until he admitted he thought have done as he was told in the first place.
Philippa took care to properly scald Peter’s lower buttocks and sit spots with the back of the brush once he had given her the confession she wanted. She put the brush aside and let him sob and blubber over her lap, his long body totally limp and spanked to submission. She could see his scarlet globes pulse and throb and feel the waves of heat emanating upwards from them. Katy sat back in the chair, one of her shapely legs crossed over the other and watched with brightly shining eyes.
“Are we cried out, darling?” Philippa asked gently.
“I…uh…I think so, Aunty Pip.” came the reply in that little boy voice from Peter.
“Do we have some apologies to make, sweetheart?”
“Why don’t you hop up and make those Peter.” Philippa suggested.
Peter levered himself carefully up and off Philippa’s lap, he had to take care when doing this, he had in the past fallen off and he knew from experience that landing heavily on a freshly spanked bottom was both painful and humiliating. Once he was on his feet his hands started to automatically go to his bottom, he managed to stop himself and look questioningly at Philippa. She nodded with the ghost of a smile and gave permission “You may rub and dance for a little, darling. That’s quite the fire ‘old mahogany’ lit on your behind.”
The gratitude was evident in the young man’s eyes and he vigorously rubbed his burning backside as he did a cute little on the spot dance to try and put out the fires Philippa had carefully kindled. Katy was fighting hard to hold back laughter, although she knew she’d presented her parents with a similar picture when growing up.
“That’s enough, Peter.” Philippa cautioned after a few minutes of rubbing and dancing. Reluctantly Peter moved his hands away from his scorched rear end, and stopped hopping up and down. “Now what about those apologies, young man?”
“I’m sorry for not doing as I was told and making you spank me, Aunty Pip.”
“Very good, Peter. It was my pleasure to give you the long overdue correction you needed. Now do you have anything to say to your lovely wife?”
A blush suffusing his cheeks Peter turned to face Katy, and said in respectful tones “I’m sorry for playing near the window, Katy. It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not, young man. You’d fit nicely over my lap, mister. I have a hairbrush, too.”
Peter took a deep breath. He knew that Katy was more dominant than he was when he met and married her, she had never mentioned spanking him until the window incident, and he knew that this meeting with his Aunty Pip may very well awaken those feelings in her and if something similar occurred she would be the one administering the spanking.
“Peter, you can do your corner time while Katy and I discuss your behaviour over a cup of tea. If you’re a good boy in the corner, Katy may let you cuddle in her lap after. Somehow I doubt this is the last time I’ll see you here, darling.”
The throbbing of Peter’s bottom was not entirely painful, he felt a feeling of closure and relief that he had not had since leaving the area years ago. He was almost pleased to hear his wife say “Oh, Pippa I think I can speak for both Peter and myself when I say that we’ll most certainly return every so often for my little man to get a refresher over his favourite aunt’s lap.”