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Saturday, 27 April 2019

Theresa — The Best Seat in the House

Story from Janus 104 by Richard Manton
Jeremy turned a corner and saw the house. A 1960s box of cheap brick and aluminium windows, in a road of identical bunny-hutches. Each des-res was just detached from its neighbour. Each had a little concrete drive-in and lawn in front, the sort that a well-trained long-jumper would clear in a single leap.
A melancholy business, clearing out Aunt Em’s. Decent old trout, really, and good of her to leave him the lot. That last night in the nursing-home, she looked up from her pillow, the twinkle still in her eyes, her words indistinct. ‘Be a real young fast card, Jerry,’ she gasped, her final act of admiration. The others assured him of her parting thoughts. Fast card? Were they still with crinolines and steam-boat gamblers? Jeremy, his hearing more acute than theirs, heard, ‘Be a real young bastard, Jerry!’ Aunt Em said it with malicious encouragement. The language these old girls picked up from the day-room television! And then Aunt Em smiled, closed her eyes, and snuffed it.
Jeremy slid the Yale into the lock. A house of outmoded furniture and bric-a-brac, sentimentally appealing from school holidays spent with Aunt Em and Uncle Stan. He toured the rooms, noting the casualties of her declining years. Dripping taps pleaded for washers. Rubber insulation crumbled from bare wire. Windows were edged by contours of damp. In a casement corner, under cracked flashing, a fall of coffee-coloured powder looked appallingly like dry rot.
Five days to sort the dump out. Sorry, Aunt Em, but it really is a dump, a tip. Poor old girl. The worse he behaved, the more she had spoilt him.
He leant his elbows on the windowsill, among the dry-rot spores, staring through net curtains at uniform houses across the road. There were tall trees beyond, parkland breaking up the suburban wastes. A council estate would have been better-built. The area reeked of pensions, home-helps, low-level employment, repossession, and social dependency. And it was like living in a car park. At one end, by the main road, overnight lorries parked. Elsewhere, a car or two filled every pavement drive-in. Surplus vehicles lined the kerb, a Maginot-line of Fords, Rovers, Fiats, Vauxhalls… Small wonder that young and gabby Mr Reardon, the house agent, wanted the property on the market at ‘a bit of discount’. The whole neighbourhood had been discounted at birth.
Five days to clear the house. No point lingering. Nothing for fun in this place. He thought of the other night with Josie Phillips. Her cry of discovery had blended outrage with helpless wonder at his ruthlessness. ‘You beast, Jerry! Look what you’ve done to me!’ He smiled at the memory. Thank you, farewell, and adieu, Ms Phillips. More careful next time, sweetie-pie.
Aunt Em and Uncle Stan’s retirement shack was not at the hub of high society. The couple opposite, for instance. Cleaning the car in their regulation fifteen-foot concrete drive-in. Two cars in fact. And the chap then walking out to the road and opening another hulk that was obviously a re-sprayed insurance write-off. Three cars in that cosy little slum. No, four. He was opening the boot of the next clapped out hundred-thousand-miler and taking out the spare wheel. How could two people drive four cars?
‘Got the foot-pump, T’resa?’ the man yelled, drowning Radio 1 on a car stereo.
Jeremy scanned the house-front for Theresa. Golly! How had he missed that lot? It was a while since he had seen a figure quite as splendid. Taller than the man, she appeared to advantage in a tight red blouse and shorts that looked like swimwear or white elasticated briefs to be worn under a skirt. Stretch-briefs and blouse met, tightly-belted, at the waist.
Theresa could be 30, more or less. Jeremy bet himself that she had been a professional dancer when she was 20 or 25. A showgirl figure like that, she had to be. He lifted the net curtain an inch, his chin on the window ledge and peered through the chink. Uncle Stan’s field-glasses that used to hang on the hall-stand, Barr and Stroud 20 x 20, purloined by Petty Officer Stan from the Admiralty on demob in 1946. He went downstairs two at a time. There they were in their scuffed brown case.
Upstairs, two at a time. Curtain up again. The weight of twin black metal tubes resting on the sill. Turning the focus of the eye-pieces. Let’s have a good look at you, Theresa. She was facing the man, saying something, showing fine but rather narrowed hazel eyes, narrowed perhaps against strong summer light. Her cheekbones were quite broad. There was a firm but neat and pretty line to her nose and chin. This portrait was set off by a stylish tumble of fair ringlets to her shoulders. An appointment at the hairdresser every week or two, he guessed.
Now she turned away, shammy in hand, to wash down the back of the Mini in the little drive-in. Tall and long-waisted, a lithe and beautiful mover. Long and graceful bare legs, her hips and her legs showing a firm lightly-muscled maturity. An active young woman, not a couch-potato.
A slight movement of the glasses caressed the taut white web of elasticated briefs as she bent, lingering on the bottom-cheeks of a firm-figured woman at 30. Regular sex and perhaps the necessary exercise of child-bearing had given Theresa’s body a seductively worldly-wise look, her bottom showing a proud self-assured swell, a Spartan erotic maturity. Something suggested that the young tart had married early enough to have a daughter in her teens.
Jeremy’s eyes caressed Theresa’s long, lightly suntanned thighs, as they branched upwards and outwards a little from her knees. They were not fat or even plump but well-fleshed and well-exercised. The tight elasticated cotton of her white stretch-briefs left her legs completely bare. As she polished, her head turned in profile, the fair ringlets tumbling. He studied her face through the glasses, the stylish curls whispering aside.
To polish the roof of the Mini, Theresa shook back her coiffure and lifted one gracefully agile calf, resting her foot on the rear bumper, stretching forward over the car roof. The white cotton of her knickers was splittingly tight above her bare thighs, cut too high to cover the handsome well-fleshed cheeks of her backside completely.
As she worked with the cloth in a slow flesh-creasing rounding of her bottom-cheeks, the elastic hem of her briefs was drawn higher, exposing the pale lower curve of her arse.
Jeremy edged the net curtain higher, training the lenses more closely as the young woman bent forward. Her hips swelled. Theresa’s tightly-knickered bottom-cheeks and parted thighs strained and surged. She worked with a sinuous curving of her tall, trim, long-waisted figure. Once, self-consciously, she reached back, pulling the knickers into place over her rear cheeks.
The proud self-assured swell of Theresa’s bottom-cheeks arched towards the near side of the road. Several houses down, builders’ men stopped for tea by their van. Grins and glances. New erections there all right. Theresa’s firm willowy thighs and handsome backside would cause a sleepless night or two.
He studied her as she polished, one foot on the bumper. Theresa’s arse was spread and thighs tensed apart in the humid cotton of her briefs. She paused. He lifted the glasses to her head and shoulders. She had frozen in her posture but her face was turned. She was looking back towards him. Jeremy kept still. The young woman called the man to her. They conferred together. Theresa put her foot down from the car’s bumper and turned, facing Jeremy.
They were standing side by side now, looking up at his window. Damn it! He had just begun to enjoy himself. Could they really see the lenses poking under the curtain? They moved behind the Mini and looked over the top at him. Theresa said something to her man and nodded towards the window where Jeremy crouched. The man went indoors. He came out carrying what looked like a mobile phone.
Staring across the road, he tapped in a number and spoke to someone briefly. Who? A couple of heavies among his unwashed friends? The police? With a sense of apprehension and regret, Jeremy let the net curtain subside very gently. Really, officer? Binoculars, you say? Surely not! A couple of glass ornaments that my aunt had. Two little pear-shaped globes of smoked glass to hold a couple of flowers each. On her bedroom window ledge. Not unlike binocular lenses at a distance, I suppose. Gone to the Oxfam shop, I’m afraid. Oh, really? How very amusing! They thought that? Well, these things happen, don’t they. Not a bit, officer. Always pleased to help.
Who was he kidding. Unrepentantly, Jeremy longed to stand over Theresa as she worked, a genial slave-driver, hands shaping her thighs and rear cheeks, guiding her, bottom-smacking her… Reluctantly, he left the binoculars and thought wistfully of one or two of the lessons he would like to teach Theresa with her tall dancer’s figure. For the moment, he returned to business.
Mr Bradshaw, from the valuation department, arrived next morning before Theresa in her shorts had appeared to brighten it. Jeremy opened the door. Bradshaw’s dark hair was neat as if set by a blancmange mould. His dark grey suit required only a matching cap to qualify him as a hearse driver. To Jeremy, he represented fiscal confiscation of Aunt Em’s legacy.
‘Not bad,’ the valuer sniffed appreciatively, touring the house and making notes. ‘Fair nick, I’d say. Top end of the range.’
‘You know dry rot when you see it?’ asked Jeremy pleasantly. ‘While you’re about it, go up into the loft and have a look at the rafters. Batten nails rusted far enough to let the roof slide into the back garden any minute.’
Mr Bradshaw shrugged. Not the type to climb ladders and crawl round lofts in his funeral suit. He had had a go, done his best for the Revenue, and flopped.
‘Come out here,’ said Jeremy sharply, and Mr Bradshaw came. They crossed the lawn and the pavement. Jeremy snatched at his alibi for the binoculars. Concerned citizen monitors destruction of neighbourhood quality-of-life by thoughtless car-crazed yobbo and his missus.
‘Look at these bloody cars.’
‘What cars?’
‘That lot! Every driveway! Blocking every inch of pavement. Days you can’t think in this house for the row from these D-I-Y motor mechanics. Not to mention motor-bikes. You reckon amenities here are top of the range? And look at the state of the paintwork on that slum opposite. Top of the range?’
‘Complain to them, then.’
‘You complain to them,’ Jeremy said. ‘Take your turn for a fat lip.’
Mr Bradshaw in his undertaker’s suit looked carefully at each car opposite and scanned the facing house-front. A curtain moved and a door opened cautiously. Theresa came out with a waste bag, glanced at them and bent over to open the dustbin. Mr Bradshaw’s head went forward like a game-cock, eyes fiercely keen on the cleft where the tightly-knickered Amazon cheeks of Theresa’s bottom curved into her crack. His nostrils twitched, as if scenting a dry-rot spore or a rusted batten-nail concealed in the intimate declivity.
‘Sought after area,’ he said, watching the self-confidently rounding cheek-movements of Theresa’s backside in brief-cut knickers as she went indoors.
Jeremy saw him off. Bradshaw revved up his loony-tune limo and drew slowly away. Jeremy closed the door to an inch gap. He was able to see Theresa’s partner, walking to the nearest banger, leaping in, squealing from the kerb and racing for the road junction as if besotted by Mr Bradshaw’s exhaust pipe.
If he was ever so careful, there was no way they would see the double-barrel of the glasses. Surely? In any case it wasn’t a crime to look at something happening outside your own front door. Civil liberties and so forth. He spent a pleasant half-hour which ended with Theresa pushing at the back of the Mini, towards the car port, the man shouldering the driver’s door and steering. A glorious two minutes through the lenses, long showgirl legs bare, tensed and straining. How many men would love to feel those wrapped round them, bare and urgent? Theresa’s firm swelling bottom-cheeks flexing and clenching, as if trying to roll a golf ball between them. On a sultry day like this, those knickers must be clinging wet to her agile arse-cheeks with all the exertion.
They finished, turned and once again stood looking at his window. But how could they see he was there? He moved back and, as if for the first time, saw the long oval of the dressing-table mirror. Reflecting light back through the net curtains.
Reflecting to the outside world the image of anyone who happened to be standing in its view. In other words, they had been able to see him all the time, perhaps. Not in detail, just him there watching through binoculars. He went thoughtfully downstairs.
Twilight thickened. Street lamps flickered on. A white car cruised up the road, long red and yellow flashes down the sides, a blue lamp on top. It slowed outside the house, turned a corner and stopped. Like a stunned fish, Jeremy’s heart flipped and sank. The driver was walking back, bareheaded, the unmistakable cut and buttoning of his uniform showing where his civilian mac hung open. Jeremy shrank as steps paced the path and the doorbell trilled.
Weaving implausible stories, rehearsing his civil rights, he opened the door. The policeman grinned, reached out, took his hand and shook it.
‘Charlie Sharpies,’ he said cheerily. ‘Sorry to hear about poor old Em. Friend of Stan’s, I was. Angling club. You got an electric blanket I lent Em last winter? Glad to have it, if it’s not wanted. If I’m not interrupting.’
‘Come in! Do come in!’ Delight and relief soared bird-like through Jeremy’s apprehension. They found the blanket.
That’s a good old pair of binocs,’ Charlie said as they stood by the stripped bed. ‘Not getting rid of those, I suppose.’
‘Probably,’ Jeremy said. ‘Interested?’
Charlie picked them up, drew the net curtain wide and stood in the window, trying them on the view. Jeremy could swear Theresa’s bedroom curtain moved.
‘Take them.’
‘Sure? You really sure?’
‘You were good to Uncle and Aunt.’
‘Well, thanks.’ Charlie tried the glasses on the view again. ‘Souvenir of Em and Stan. Lovely old couple. The best.’
In the doorway, Charlie tried them once more on the opposite view, thanked Jeremy, and walked back to his car with a wave of gratitude.
He stood in the downstairs window, a little faint from the reaction. Half an hour passed. Pity about the glasses. Hello! The chap opposite. Coming out, opening the boot of an old banger, throwing things in. Turning to Jeremy’s window. Shouting something. ‘Fast card’, perhaps. Driving off! Theresa alone in the house. Lights on behind curtains. Presently Jeremy went upstairs to the ledge where the binoculars had been. As he gazed across he saw a curtain move. She had been looking at him as he looked towards her. Bloody hell! There she was in that blouse and knickers outfit, coming across. The bloke probably gone to fetch his heavies… The doorbell rang and they exchanged their first words in Aunt Em’s hall.
‘Don’t think we can’t see you. Why are you doing it? What have we ever done to you?’
‘I think there must be some…’
They aren’t stolen, you know, the cars. Every one legit.’
‘I never said…’
‘You were planted here by that little sneak this afternoon. We followed him. We got the building now. Tax inspectors, VAT, giro snoopers. Now the police! Spy on people trying to make ends meet on UB40! Oh, we know you!’
He was safe! Oh, joy! He need only be the upright and implacable taxpayer — and the battle was won.
‘Laws,’ he said sternly, ‘are made to be obeyed.’
‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘just how long that’d last if I offered you something you couldn’t refuse. You enjoyed those binoculars. Every time I bent over, my partner reckoned…’
‘Crime is followed by punishment, not pleasure,’ he said with a frown.
‘Oh,’ she said. That’s it, is it? Fancied tanning me when I bent over. That what you want, is it?’
‘All right. I’m free now and on Saturday. As long as he’s still away. Let’s see you have a go at tanning me. Supposing you’ve got the nerve. And then you see what happens to you if you try to make a case as well.’
‘I’m not saying that chastisement has no place in…’
‘I bet you’re not.’ Theresa picked up an eighteen-inch plastic ruler from the hall table. ‘You tan me with this and then cry off. Right? You like the idea, don’t you? Least the front of your trousers does. Chastisement! Don’t make me laugh! You’re a kink. All right, do it. Then tell your fairy friends what you like. But you and them fuck off. See! Else you’re in trouble, not me.’
Jeremy said nothing. He went into the unfurnished sitting-room, closed the curtains with a swish and pointed to the centre of the floor.
‘Bending,’ he said and took the ruler from her. ‘The pants first.’
‘The pants stay on.’ Theresa shook her tumble of fair curls into place. The narrowed hazel eyes, broad cheekbones and pretty features were resolute.
‘The legs, then,’ he said philosophically, ‘since they’re bare.’
Theresa bent over, the first doubt in her eyes. He curved his left arm over the waist of this tall mature young woman to steady her, looking down at the willowy length of her firm sun-browned thighs and rather girlish bare calves.
She flinched as he flicked his fingers roughly across the backs of her thighs, rippling the satiny flesh which was both firm and well-exercised yet softly warm. He shaped the long dancer’s curve of her legs down from the hips to the knees. A short hand-smack to the back of the thighs. Another. The tumble of ringlets moved as she half-turned her face. Smack! His view of her profile showed how she winced and bit her lip as she waited for him to do it again.
Jeremy drew back, studied the beauty of the young woman bending, then slapped hard across the backs of her upper thighs with his open palm. She clenched her behind and jerked up a little.
‘Bend over!’ he said abruptly. ‘Properly!’
He brought the palm of his hand down hard enough across the backs of her legs for the smack to ring loud on the walls of the emptied room. Theresa cried out at once in pain and protest. Without another word he slapped the backs of her legs again really hard. She cried out and tried to twist from his arm over her waist but he held her firmly and reached for the plastic ruler, waiting then until he felt her slowly relax.
He brought the supple transparent ruler down sharply on the lower and slimmer gracefulness just above the backs of her knees. It stung her enough to make her twist her legs, jamming one knee into the back of the other to contain the smart. Again he saw her bite her lip. Settling into his rhythm, he chopped the ruler down smacking hard aslant each thigh in turn, downward swathes of ruler-red from bottom-cheeks to hollows of her knees. Blushing paths showed where the ruler had measured its length. But what made her yell, as her words confirmed, was the little hole for hanging the ruler up, which dotted the backs of Theresa’s legs with intense discipline. And then he saw that the lettering on the rule was actually embossed in black on the underside which was tanning her. As the glow intensified, the words ‘Shatter Resistant’ blushed neatly and repeatedly across the backs of her dancer’s streamlined legs.
Six sharp impacts on the smooth and fullest thigh-swell just below her arse, catching the flesh crease which divided Theresa’s bottom-cheeks from her thighs. A fine rosy harvest blooming. The seventh he brought down very hard, catching the crease between her right buttock and thigh with great accuracy and making her hit the top of her vocal range. He smacked the ruler very firmly across the middle of her right thigh. She wobbled and wriggled, bending with his arm over her waist, protesting but managing to cut short the yell. He tanned her hard again, this time catching both legs and bringing a long stripe to her upper thigh-backs. Then two clips across her calves, severe enough to make her high-step, each knee touching her belly in turn.
He stung her right leg high up and then the left leg almost at once. She moaned and bit her lip. Then she yelled at the smart of the ruler low down, just above the backs of her knees. Whack! High this time, more than she could take, her knees bent almost dragging them both to the floor.
He stopped. No sense waking the entire neighbourhood.
‘If we stop now, we shall continue later.’
‘Just stop! I don’t care! Just stop!’
He let her stand up, Theresa trying to walk tall and clutch the backs of her legs at the same time. She writhed to the hall and stood with her back to Aunt Em’s long mirror, staring distraught at the rear of her showgirl thighs.
‘Oh, shit!’ she wailed. ‘If he comes back, he’ll see… Look what you’ve done!’
‘Extraordinary thing,’ Jeremy said casually. ‘Someone else was saying that to me only last week.’
But Theresa was not listening. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
‘What’s that!’
‘It says “Shatter Resistant”,’ he said helpfully. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of. Shows you’ve been tanned by a ruler of quality. You wouldn’t care to finish?’
‘Saturday then.’
‘Don’t count on it!’
‘Oh but I do,’ he said wistfully, ‘I really do.’
Next day he saw that she was working alone on the Escort, polishing the blue coachwork and determinedly never looking across the road. Hubby or whoever he was had done a bunk at the sight of Charlie Sharpies in uniform. Taking her punishment was apparently Theresa’s own idea of how to avoid the sentence that a giro or tax inquiry might bring. She wore a long cotton skirt today, right down to her ankles. Not proud of being shatter-resistant after all. Jeremy sighed. There was her backside too. He liked what he saw of Theresa’s bottom. Firm, full cheeks. Statuesque even. Shame about Saturday. It seemed she felt the penalty had now been paid.
Mr Bradshaw returned that afternoon.
‘It’s not going below fifty thousand,’ he said firmly.
‘Forty-seven, the agent says.’
‘You need to get rid of your agent,’ Mr Bradshaw chuckled.
‘Not half as badly as you need to get rid of that suit,’ Jeremy said. Mr Bradshaw left, pausing to gaze at the house and cars opposite. Two minutes later the phone rang.
‘You bastard!’ Theresa said. ‘You told them! After you made promises to me.’
‘Told them nothing so far,’ Jeremy answered. ‘You could have seen the last of men with binoculars. You choose. We’ll talk about it on Saturday night.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘About ten,’ she said ungraciously, ‘I shan’t finish before.’
Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week! sang the crooner on the teatime Golden Oldie Show. May be lonely for you, Sunshine.
At 10.34 that evening the bell rang, or rather squeaked from the brevity of her pressure. Theresa wore her long skirt. Under it he had commanded on the phone that morning skin-tight translucent panties, the price of remaining covered. To see the long skirt come down, stepped out of, folded on a chair, would be a tonic.
He guided Theresa’s tall long-waisted figure to the sofa, her legs and hips moving with well-controlled maturity, her lightly-muscled and suntanned body against him with its suggestion of a physically active young woman. He glanced at the fine, rather narrowed hazel eyes, cheekbones quite broad and the firm neat line to her nose and chin, the stylish tumble of fair curls to her shoulders. He made her kneel on the sofa and then lie forward over its arm, supporting herself by her palms on the floor. The skin-tight pearl-grey translucence of her knickers encased the strong swell of her backside and hips in its gloss, the cleavage between her rear cheeks mistily suggestive. He ran his hand over the full and firm swell of Theresa’s bottom-cheeks, feeling her body warmth through the nylon gloss.
‘Just wait like that,’ he said.
In the kitchen, he looked among the detergents for what he wanted. A sponge for Theresa. Lux, Vim, Persil… There it was! He soaked it under the tap and returned to the front room. She tried to look up and back at him.
‘What’s that?’
‘A sponge he said. ‘I need those panties wet-tight on your behind. And that way you’ll feel it more.’
Not easy to push herself up from palms-on-the-floor. As she gasped and reared, he sponged over the cheeks of her glossy pearly-grey panty-seat until the trickles ran down her bare thighs. Suggestive wet-look nylon, tight and clinging translucently to the broadened curves of Theresa’s bottom-cheeks. He stood over her, hand on the back of her waist. A plimsoll used in the garden lay to hand. The heel was only a little muddy. He touched it lightly to the nearer cheek of the young woman’s backside, teasing, warning. Then the tanning. Whack! … Thwack! … Whup! …
He made sure she really felt them, Theresa emitting a sharp puppy-like yelp at the third. He tanned the nearer cheek of her bottom first. Whap! … Thwack! … Whack! …
‘Keep your arse properly still for it, Teresa! Or do they call you “Trace” or “Tracey” or “Terry”?’
Her piercing protest was no answer to his question.
Whop! … Whack! … Smack! … Intrigued, he saw that the garden-plimsoll heel had printed its rubber ribbing muddily on the wet seat-cheeks of Theresa’s translucent panties. He paused to draw the thin panty-hem up over each cheek, gathering the nylon twist in her intimate rear-cheek cleavage. The proud swell of each buttock was bare now, resilient maturity a little fuller when freed from the constraining nylon. The backside of a trim-figured woman in her early thirties perhaps. His hand mapped one bare curve of Theresa’s posterior, appreciating the sleek smoothness of it.
‘You don’t want your knickers spoilt, do you?’ he answered to her dismay.
He stroked her smooth bottom-cheeks gently and felt her relax a little. He ran his hands up her flanks, down her willowy legs and up again over her long-waisted midriff. Her head turned in profile, fair ringlets disordered.
Free of the nylon, Theresa’s bare bottom-cheeks jumped and quivered under the rhythmic impacts of the rubber heel. Jeremy tanned her unsmilingly and hard. He paused for breath. His watch bleeped eleven. He touched the heel to the rather fatly swelling and flesh-creasing cheek of Theresa’s bottom, warning her to be ready, touching, teasing, coaxing the swell of panic in her belly until waiting was almost worse for her than getting it…
Whack! … Smack! … Thwack! … Whap! …Whack! … Whup! … Whap! … And then the other cheek… At last he straightened up, ordering her to stand in the corner, facing the wall, and wait. Theresa obeyed, moving slowly, catching her breath at each step. Her lips were parted, as if after exertion, and she blinked moisture from her eyes. Jeremy watched her stand in the corner. He studied the sleek double swell of Theresa’s bottom, her knickers still twisted in her rear crack. Each bottom-cheek showed a deep blush and the corrugated rubber heel of the plimsoll was muddily printed and reprinted on the swelling glow.
He kept her facing the corner for an hour. Theresa lowered her face and the tumble of light ringlets cascaded in disorder. He saw the tension of anticipation in the bare length of her thighs. She pressed them together and her head was bowed a little more. The firmly-swelling cheeks of Theresa’s bottom tightened once or twice, as if in sudden fright at the thought of worse to come. She half-looked round, and he just caught the narrowed hazel eyes and pert profile, the wide-boned cheeks. He let her see a length of sash-cord dangling in a loop from his hand. Her cheeks contracted in crawling panic, so that Theresa’s bottom-crack was pressed to a thin tight line. Jeremy stood up.
‘Bend over to touch your toes!’
She looked round uneasily.
‘At once!’
Cautiously and reluctantly, Theresa stooped, one hand on her knees. Her head was turned so that he could see her eyes slanting an uneasy look at him. As she stooped, she held her other hand over her bottom, its cheeks bare as the nylon remained twisted in her crack.
Take your hand away from your arse, Theresa! Bend right over. At once.’
She lowered her head and obeyed him, bending until her extended fingers touched her toes and the fall of her collar-length ringlets hid her face. The strain of the posture showed in the tight lines of her thighs. Old sash-cord held in a loop was ideal. The cheeks of Theresa’s buttocks swelled suggestively fuller and broader.
The cord tanned her squirming and twisting bottom-cheeks with a hushed Swit! … Swit! … Swat! … until the sash left a light pattern of curling spank-prints on each dancing-girl bottom-cheek. Swit! … Whip! … Whip! … Swit! … The crack of the cord curling and clinging agonisingly around both bare cheeks excited his passion. Theresa’s bottom, broadened and surging, was cheek-creasing and writhing as if in a deliberate attempt to seduce him! Her bottom-cheeks were beautifully patterned and arabesqued by punishment, there was more.
Swit! … Swit! … Swit! … Tanning her now, Jeremy murmured the admiration he had felt while watching her Amazon-girl backside through binoculars as she bent and stretched in her tight cotton briefs to polish the Mini. It was as if his feelings were coming full circle. Much later, as she gave another and more urgent muffled cry, he put down the cord.
Without rebellion, she allowed him to raise her and was led mournfully to the sofa to lie face down. Quite unable to keep still just yet, of course. Jeremy studied the swelling, writhing and cheek-creasing of Theresa’s backside, patterned by the loop. There was only one remedy for a young woman with such a smarting bottom. Theresa was in just the state to be taught a lesson or two.
He left on Monday. The cars stood idle, not a curtain twitched. No sign of hubby. Theresa was still keeping herself to herself. On the bus, he felt in his pocket for change and to his surprise touched a folded handful of nylon gloss. Then he recalled that she had preferred not to put them on under her long skirt in her disciplined state and he had forgotten them. Their place among his souvenirs was assured.
Two weeks later his phone rang. It was Reardon from the house agent’s.
‘Good news. Had an offer. Forty-seven exactly. Just what I predicted. No dry-rot, apparently, and the batten-nails are fine. Saves you five grand on repairs, knowing that. No survey. Client seems to know what he’s talking about.’
‘Well, if that’s the best you can do, I suppose I’d better take it.’
‘Should if I were you. Purchaser has a firm mortgage offer. Name of Bradshaw. Moving to a new post. Bit hush-hush, I think. Keen photographer. Not short of cash. Seems to have enough money to ride at weekends, anyway. Hunting crops and dog-whips in his hall-stand. Keep the neighbourhood in order, eh? Ha-ha! Quite taken with the house. And very much likes the outlook — no accounting for taste. Spent an afternoon at the upstairs window taking notes and a few photographs before he finally made his offer.’
Jeremy felt a strange sense of contentment.
Tell him it’s a deal,’ he said. ‘I’d like the old place to go to someone who can exploit the possibilities of the view.’

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