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Tuesday, 22 May 2018

A Gentleman’s Pleasures

Memories of an English Summer by Gerard Graythorpe from Janus 47
Up to town today to see my bankers… or at least that is what I told Hilda. In fact of course it was to enjoy what London has to offer in such marvellous abundance at this season, and this year in particular with the heat wave It has been an abundance which I cannot previously recall.
I refer, naturally, to my own very special pleasure, my fetish some would say although I hate that word. Yes, the real purpose of my visit, like so many this summer, was to admire, indeed to rapture over, the generously exposed legs of young ladies.
This hot weather combined with the tourist season itself have, as I say, brought them out in great droves in the capital. The astonished eye is virtually bombarded with them on every side, so much so that at times I wonder if the excitement will be too much. Fortunately I retain excellent health and have no real fear on that score, but those legs, those exquisite girlish limbs, thronging every street really do keep the pulse racing in, at times, a seemingly alarming manner. Their net effect upon me is so often one of erotic shock.
I am blessed in my pleasure not only by the weather but by the vagaries of female fashion. In my youth, whatever the temperature, young ladies would never have displayed what they display today. Today they heart-stoppingly (almost!) show it all, right up to their you-know-what’s. Indeed they not infrequently go beyond even that from the rear aspect, for some of these shorts do not even fully cover the bottom and so in addition to the marvellous legs one has two nice wedges of bare bottom-cheek tictacking in front of one. Mostly, though, their shorts, which seem almost ubiquitous, stop at the very top of the darling thighs. Tight-hugging that soft and tender flesh as I myself yearn to hug it. I have spent many happy hours discreetly following choice pairs of such flagrantly revealed legs through the streets of London and on unintended journeys all over the Underground.
There are skirts of course but they are invariably almost as short as the shorts. The object seems to be to display the full length of the female lower limb in its entirety, and when this is the very part of a young female person which above all others gives one pleasure… well, one can only offer up profound thanks to the Gods at one’s great good fortune to be alive today and endowed with excellent eyesight
Today I was privileged to observe some truly mouth-watering specimens. For full perfection in a young female of course the legs do not stand alone: I cannot quite ignore the other parts. My perfect young lady must have a pretty face, a softly feminine one ideally with full, bee-stung innocent lips; and what I modestly describe as her bust must be in evidence though I do not desire a big one, more what one might describe as ‘pert’. Her bottom is naturally important, if only for its intimate association with the legs. A firm rounded one is my ideal and today’s shorts do leave very little to the imagination in this regard, delineating as they do the separate cheeks most effectively even when they are not leaving part of them uncovered.
Yes all these anatomical parts are important but the key item, the crowning glory, in my perfect young Miss must be the underpinnings, her legs. At times I almost feel I could die of rapture for those exquisite calves, those delicious knees, those oh-so-soft but trembling-taut thighs.
My eyes caress and my hands I must admit twitch. Naturally in the crush of our metropolis one does at times come into physical contact: in the rush of the Underground, on the crowded street, in the department store. One’s hands could anonymously fondle, and I have no doubt that some men do, for those bare thighs are at times an almost impossible temptation. I must confess that the temptation is well nigh overwhelming for me, but I do resist. But on the other hand sometimes without any action on one’s own part the thighs do accidentally press up and make their own contact. Then one cannot take one’s hand away, that is too much to ask. It stays there, transmitting what seems like thousands of volts of electricity.
Today I had such a contact in the lunch-hour crush all the way from Green Park to Leicester Square on the Piccadilly Line; perhaps not many minutes but it seemed like a glorious eternity of heart-surging intimacy with the thigh of a youthful tourist. And then not long after that the high spot of my day. In St James’s Park as I sat observing the scene from a deck chair; three youthful Misses, laughingly chasing each other, all lovely downy legs and thighs flashing in the sun, when one of them suddenly yelped and stopped, sitting down on the grass.
She had twisted her ankle. She was the choicest of the three, short blonde curls and a rapturous soft mouth and quite heart-stopping thighs in those shorty shorts. I instantly sprang up — in more ways than one I admit — and went to her aid. Kneeling, I tested this divine Miss’s injured limb… all quite legitimate of course. She wore white high-heeled sandals (probably the cause of her downfall) and no socks so her ankle was bare. My hands, I confess were trembling.
And then, also more or less legitimately my trembling hands ventured up. It was possible she had twisted that mouth-watering knee as well. And the silky-sweet thigh?… Could it also perhaps be injured in any way?
She looked up, with big blue eyes, voicing I must say not very ladylike expressions of pain (‘Shit!’ was one…) while I, in my private Elysium, carried out my manual testing’s. It was only a twisted ankle but one does have to make quite, quite sure.
Sitting now in my study with a relaxing glass of port I relive the scene, crystal bright in my memory. And not only that scene, for my imagination runs on. Did it perhaps not end there? Did I perhaps buy her an ice-cream… and then invite her here, to my rather pleasant residence in the Sussex countryside? She would make a quite heavenly maid, a brief-skirted silky black dress perhaps replacing the shorts and blouse. She would be at my beck and call, to do with as I will.
Not that I would do anything at all outrageous but there is one thing, and I feel quite weak at the very thought of it. Those divine thighs. The thought of having her across my lap and smacking, quite sharply, the backs of those heavenly, heavenly limbs…
It is two days since I wrote the above. I must record at the outset as I now write again why the characters are not in my usual firm script. My hand is shaking, from emotion, overexcitement.
My frequent visits up to town have always been occasioned by a distinct lack of such gratification on my home territory. The village which is a mile distant from my place does produce females in the same way that it produces young males but the specimens I have seen always seem almost a different species from those visiting and inhabiting our metropolis. Possibly pleasant enough girls but invariably gawky or lumpy, too fat or too thin; besides which their mothers seem to place a complete ban on short shorts. I have therefore long ago quite written the place off. Until this morning…
She was in the main street with a lady known to me, Mrs Greenaway, who is active in the church. They indeed were heading in that direction with armfuls of flowers of some sort. I had driven over to pick up the papers and I must admit was thinking of making another trip into town, and there suddenly she was. A vision. A London-type vision in pink blouse and high-heeled white sandals and smart white short shorts. A blonde head and heart-rending, breath-taking, bare calves, knees, thighs. It was a miracle I did not crash the Daimler.
I abruptly parked and got out, on trembling legs. I caught up with them in the churchyard. Mrs Greenaway was her usual charming, somewhat deferential self (I am of course seen as a person of some note in these parts). She is somewhere in her forties I suppose and a not unattractive example of that age group. Her young companion, this creature seemingly, in Little Barkham, from another planet, was her niece, Pamela.
‘Say hello to Mr Graythorpe, Pam…’
I quivered as I got a shy greeting from adorably full, slightly pouting lips, while big blue-green eyes flashed a quick darting look. She was utterly, utterly divine, and her bare legs. her thighs… Only with the greatest difficulty could I stop from staring and leering, at them.
Dear diary, I learnt that this vision is to stay with her Aunt Dorothy for a month. Not only that but Mrs Greenaway was worried that poor Pam might be at a loose end in our quiet little village and might get bored…
With my heart in my mouth and the world seeming to swim before my eyes — it is ridiculous, I know, that a sane 60-year-old man can get in this state — I heard myself suggest that I could use someone to help in the gardens. No skills required. If young Pam would like to earn a little pocket money… 
Mrs Greenaway greeted this offer quite rapturously. Pam herself seemed pleased, blinking those big blue eyes and blushing adorably. Mrs Greenaway arranged her flowers in the church and then I drove them back here, half fearing, like a bashful schoolboy, that they might find it unacceptable in some way. The truth is, though, that for Dorothy Greenaway, and I imagine for Pam too, it is very grand. I left the aunt with my sister Hilda while I went into the garden with my adorable, blonde-headed, so-exquisite-that-it-hurts-thighed Pamela.
She at first proved shy, but improved under the efforts of my gentlemanly charm. Pam is a dream cutie, and the sweetest one could ever imagine. She comes from Essex (O fortunate county that you are!) and her friend Sue wants to be a pop star. Pam herself is not sure what she wants yet. The glorious creature offered the opinion that the gardens are very lovely. They are indeed very good at the moment but today they were transformed… simply radiant.
In the summer house. in a purely avuncular manner, I briefly slipped an arm round her darling waist!!
Oh yes. As we walked back to the house Pam inquired, innocently wide-eyed, if wearing shorts would be all right when she started in the morning. Would they be all right!! She went on to tell me that she had a denim pair that perhaps would be more suitable for gardening. I looked again at her tight, brief, white shorts (I had been looking, hot-eyed — though not too obviously I hope — throughout our tour of the gardens).
I wanted to say that as long as they were just as brief and tight and showed the whole of her heavenly thighs as her white ones did, it would be quite all right. But unfortunately one could not say that — not, at least, after a mere hour’s acquaintance.
Pam arrived this morning for her first day’s work, riding a bicycle borrowed for her by Mrs Greenaway. Oh the thought of those rapturous bare legs flexing rhythmically along the road from Little Barkham. I am consumed almost with jealousy of any other male eyes which may have observed her!... For yes, the denim shorts are fully as tight and brief as the white ones. My heart was going like an express train as I awaited her arrival. I had scarcely slept a wink since yesterday’s heady events, fearful that something could happen to prevent her arrival. But no, at 9 o’clock — at one minute 32 seconds past to be exact — there she was. A blue check blouse today and tennis shoes and her denim shorts. A blue ribbon in her blonde curls.
My sister Hilda had made a couple of sharp remarks yesterday. She has some idea that I like young ladies — but it is not a crime. Anyway Hilda was going off to her chum Audrey’s for the day. And my gardener, Jim Gribbins, from the village, would not be coming until the afternoon. So I had all the morning alone with my exquisite young assistant.
I gave her some weeding to do in a strawberry bed. I didn’t want her to do anything — except, shall we say, lie over my lap and let me languorously stroke her thighs. But perhaps that would not do at the very outset!
I provided Pam with a kneeler for those delicious knees and some gloves. She knelt, pert bottom up… I was in some kind of paradise even if I wasn’t stroking those silky thighs. I must say she worked assiduously, while telling me something of her friends at school and of some local boys… these spoken of scornfully but I could see also with some interest. My young charmer was evidently reaching the stage of interest in the male sex.
Pretty Pam was at least quickly losing her shyness with me, the friendly, charming older man who as she worked and talked feasted his eyes on those sublime legs. By mid-morning a shower had given an excuse to retreat to the summer house. I brought out coffee, and lemonade with a straw for Pam. We sat on one of the benches while outside the rain fell softly. My sweetest girl was inches from me, her innocent bare thighs the world’s greatest temptation. I put on a grin like a Cheshire cat while my voice croaked out, ‘What happens to naughty girls these days? In my time they got smacked.’
Writing it, it looks inane but it was all I could think of. She flushed and gave a shy smile. The erotic girlish thighs seemed to glow in the heavy atmosphere. Another grin, inane I am sure, from me.
‘Is Pretty Pam ever naughty by any chance?’
Pretty Pam gave me a quick glance… ‘I ‘spose so.’
‘And does she…?’
She shook her head, then gave an innocent big-eyed look. ‘But my friend Debbie worked in a shop last summer and when her till didn’t add up, this man there smacked her bottom’
I shivered with excitement, it was a heady out-of-the-blue opening.
‘Pretty Pam wouldn’t like that.’
She shook her head, smiling. My hand reached out, it seemed with a will of its own, to land gently on the near-side thigh. It was another of those thousand-volt contacts — but this one surely a million volts. I struggled to control myself.
‘So we’ll just have to smack these lovely legs then, won’t we?’
The big blue eyes met mine in a bolder look, it was almost as if she had been expecting my hand there. It stayed put, continuing to transmit its fantastic voltage. At last I gave a squeeze, then a couple of pats. I was sweating and it wasn’t the heat. But I had to press on.
‘Well?’ I asked, croakier than ever.
She shook her blonde head flirtatiously. ‘Will it hurt?’ she giggled. Then got up and sweetly went over to look out of the window. My eyes followed as if held by a magnet. It seemed to me she swayed her denimed bottom just a bit more than was strictly necessary. Every part of me was throbbing. I got up and followed her over to the window. My arm went round her lissom waist... then slid down onto the slim curve of denim flank. There was no way on earth I could have stopped myself. And then further down onto the sleek bare thigh.
Pam giggled again. ‘Will it hurt?’ she repeated, then moved away.
Outside it had stopped raining… ‘Shall I get back to work now, Mr Graythorpe?’ she asked in a softly innocent voice. But her eyes met mine with a quick bold look.
After lunch in my study I smacked Pam’s legs.
I have to write it down, I cannot delay it any longer. It was so marvellous, so sublime, almost unbelievable. But with that most supreme pleasure my head is a jumble of emotions. I am desperate for more, but should I ever have done it on this her very first day? What if Pam tells dear Aunt Dorothy… and Aunt Dorothy forbids her to come again?
It was right after lunch, prepared as usual by Mrs Simpkins who comes round about 11. Pam had been subtly different following our visit to the summer house, giving me frequent sharp wide-eyed looks and, I am sure, conscious now of my eyes continually on her. This simply made my state worse. By lunchtime I was ravenous. Not for lunch but to get my hands properly on Pam’s downy thighs.
We retreated to my study immediate afterwards. I had said I would show Pam some books. But as soon as we were in there with the door closed my arm went around her waist and there was my croaky voice, trying to make my hot desires sound jokey.
‘Perhaps Pam should have worked just a little harder this morning. Perhaps she deserves just a little smack.’
She giggled coyly. It was a giggle which certainly did not say… ‘No, don’t you dare put your hands on me.’ And the next thing I was sitting in my wing chair and Miss Silky Thighs was over my lap. I thought I was going to faint.
I did not faint, though. I kept full control as my hand stroked and caressed and then duly started smacking the backs of those trembling sweet thighs, while my other hand held her firmly round her waist. Pam made squealing sounds and squirmed and kicked her legs. It was just as I had dreamt it a thousand times: an almost unbearably exquisite pleasure.
I gave her quite a lot, making her lovely legs rosy red and really not wanting ever to stop. It was such a fabulous sensation, my hand sharply slapping her smooth, delicately soft flesh over and over again, and the sound of it was equally wonderful. But in the end I did stop. Fortunately I have some self-control left. She wriggled off my lap and stood up and rubbed those heavenly legs.
‘That did hurt,’ she told me with an adorable pout.
I could, as I have indicated, have gone on doing it all afternoon but there were other factors to be considered beyond my delectable sensual pleasures. Jim Gribbins had arrived and needed instructions, and there was Mrs Simpkins about too. I took darling Pam outside and introduced her to Jim and then, feeling a pang that he would be gazing at those legs (now not glowing quite so pinkly, thank goodness), asked him to find her a job. I cannot afford to have him… or anyone… see how besotted I am.
She left at 4 on her bike without our having had another intimate get together. But as I saw her off I got that big bold-eyed look again, and what seemed like a knowing smile.
‘I’ll be back in the morning then, Mr Graythorpe. Will it be just the two of us again then? You did hurt me a bit. But I didn’t mind it’
How can I expect even a wink of sleep as I endure the interminable hours until 9am tomorrow?
She arrived again right on time at 9, this morning not in shorts. ‘Is my skirt all right, Mr Graythorpe?’ The big blue eyes were bright, expectant.
I could hardly complain about the skirt (black cotton) which though slightly longer than the shorts was full and thus as Pam moved around — and certainly as she descended from her bike — managed to show at least as much as the shorts. Fortunately Hilda was going out again… just leaving, with a rather accusing look at me, as Pam arrived. Hilda’s look made me squirm somewhat. What did she think I was going to do with the girl?
What was I going to do? As Hilda’s little car disappeared down the drive my charmer turned to me, eyes shining.
‘Do I get spanked some more today, Mr Graythorpe?’
My head spun. I had of course been racking my brains for a way of leading up to this very subject and here was this sublime young Miss presenting it to me on a plate. With difficulty I kept myself on an even keel.
‘I think I shall,’ I pronounced. ‘So we know where we are.’
Where we shortly were was in my study again with Pam meekly laying herself over my lap as I sat in my chair. Saying nothing, her two hands came behind her and grasped her short skirt and without prompting she dragged it up, exposing a wicked-looking pair of brief pink pants, virtually transparent so that nothing was left to the imagination. Her voice came from down near the carpet.
‘You can take my knicks down if you want to smack my bum, Mr Graythorpe. My friend Debbie had it done on her bare bottom’
I gazed, struck dumb. I could hardly believe my eyes, or my ears. But unbelievable or not I know it was an offer that many men would have seized on. I am not one of them, however. Pam’s scanty pink knickers were undeniably arousing and so was the pert bottom they so skimpily covered; but I had no wish to bare that bottom or indeed to spank it. For me a girl should always be allowed to retain her modesty. Certain parts of a young lady are her own affair and should remain unviolated.
I know some men will find this attitude strange; all I can say is that I have my standards and that is one of them. A girl’s legs, her thighs, are of course something else entirely. There is no real invasion of modesty involved and I consider them a fit and proper region for chastisement. To me they are often far more erotic than any bottom can possibly be.
Recovering my equilibrium somewhat I drew Pam’s skirt back down to veil those somewhat scandalous knickers while explaining that it was not her bottom that was to be chastised. It was to be, as before, those lovely legs. And the lovely legs it was as I proceeded to my mind-stunning pleasure.
Sometime later and the immaculate, quite utterly fantastic spanking over, I must confess to feeling distinctly sick. Some sixth sense caused me to ask Pam if she had ever been spanked before on her bottom. She hesitated and then gave an embarrassed smile. And then admitted that she had made up the story about her friend Debbie. In fact it was darling Pam who had worked in that shop and got in trouble with the till. It was she who subsequently had been made to take her knickers down for the manager.
Yes I felt sick, at the thought of my pretty Pam… and that man. Baring her exquisite intimate flesh. His male hand outrageously smacking down on it. I felt sick and I still do when I think about it. So I try to dismiss it from my mind. And anyway I can see that it is because of this experience that Pam is so prepared to accept what I want to do.
Later in the morning I had the delicious girl over my lap for another session. Each time the pleasure has been even more sublime. I have told her she must not tell Aunt Dorothy (or indeed anyone…) and I have also told her she is to be paid twice the amount agreed with her aunt. I am a craven fellow I know but I cannot help it. I am aware that I am in the grip of a hopeless addiction… and I am quite deliriously happy with that fact
I am wondering if I might tell Jim Gribbins to take a week’s holiday and possibly suggest that Hilda do the same.
Four weeks the adorable creature is here for… and then…?
I must not think of that.


  1. A very enjoyable piece although I cannot quite come to terms with the idea of a pretty young lady offering to remove her knickers for a spanking and then this chap refusing her! Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! (Well, a gift something - a horse doesn't really seem an apt metaphor when one is talking about such an exquisite example of young female loveliness).

    The story also made me reflect on something else. Yes, it is nice in summer to see so much young, nubile, female flesh on open display. Ultimately, however, it is all rather frustrating. In an ideal world, one characterised by order and discipline and not lawlessness and cocking a snook to one's elders and betters, especially one's gentleman elders and betters, I don't really think pretty young ladies would be permitted to go around inflaming men's passions like that. It's not good for public order and morality, especially where the younger generation is concerned. For this reason I am in favour of young ladies dressing in more demure and modest attire when out in public. Nothing too extreme, just that obvious displays of bare female flesh should be proscribed. Any girl who flouted such regulations, who flaunted herself like a wanton Jezebel, would be in very grave danger of having her transgression very rapidly and painfully dealt with by the gentlemen of the public morality inspectorate.

    No doubt some might decry the thought of there being less public eye candy to gawp at. But, as I say, such prick teasing displays only cause resentment and frustration in the male of the species, and are actually symptomatic of a society in which young women are rather dangerously given far too much of the upper hand in gender relations. For after all, why would we gentlemen disciplinarians and girl trainers be desirous of such transitory and ephemeral excitements when we have business, or should I say 'pleasures', of a far more substantial nature to attend to out of public view? Indeed, such might be the pleasures that even a sunny day might not be enough to lure one outside!