Miss Sven­son sat at her kitchen table, idly stir­ring her cof­fee. She glanced at the clock but it was still not yet 10 past 9. 5 past 9, just before her rather dull but oh so Eng­lish neigh­bours in the house to the left would have gone for the day, the wife to do what­ev­er it was mid­dle aged women did all day whilst their hus­bands worked, some­thing wor­thy with a char­i­ty no doubt. And the hus­band, well off to the job that kept them in their lifestyle of 2 sons at uni­ver­si­ty and 3 for­eign hol­i­days a year.
10 past 9, mark­ing the time Miss Sven­son could go for her morn­ing stroll around the gar­den. Nude of course, so com­mon­place in her native Swe­den, but rather too lib­er­al for the prim and prop­er next door neigh­bours she feared.

The sound of an engine start­ing and then slow­ly dis­ap­pear­ing lift­ed her mood and with her oth­er neigh­bours in the south of France for sev­er­al months, she start­ed undo­ing her dress­ing gown and let it slip off her body onto the floor. She took a mouth­ful of cof­fee and, pick­ing up the seca­teurs lest she find any plants in need of tend­ing, opened the back door and walked into the ear­ly morn­ing sunshine.

The cool air on her body made her think wist­ful­ly of her home­land and the free­dom one was grant­ed there and she began to idly won­der from bush to bush, tak­ing in the fra­grance of her gar­den. A move­ment in the cor­ner of her eye dis­tract­ed her, just a brief flut­ter and then noth­ing. She lin­gered over a Rhodo­den­dron that seemed to be on the wane and there again, a move­ment of mate­r­i­al, from her prim and prop­er next door neigh­boursí win­dow. She looked intent­ly at the win­dows, but could not dis­tin­guish any­thing in par­tic­u­lar when there, again, a slight tug on the cur­tain. A peep­ing tom next door! But how, when she had heard their depar­ture? Then it struck her, Mrs Prim and Prop­er had gushed with pride about how one of their sons was soon to be back from uni­ver­si­ty for the hol­i­days. The lit­tle swine, he had caught her at her leisure and rather than decent­ly avert­ing his eye after the first no doubt acci­den­tal glimpse, had sought a sec­ond and third view of her naked­ness. She strode indoors, pulled the dress­ing gown around her and, stop­ping only to put her slip­pers on and put her house keys in her gown pock­et, walked out of the house and strode next door.

She rang two, three, four times on the door­bell before it opened slow­ly and a young man in his twen­ties stood before her, clad in shorts with the rem­nants of an erec­tion dimin­ish­ing, pressed against the material.

“Erm hi” he splut­tered “Mum and Dad are out at the moment, i can take a message”.

“You most cer­tain­ly can” said Miss Sven­son stern­ly, “You can leave the mes­sage that I am most unhap­py their son is a peep­ing tom and i want to know what pun­ish­ment they will be giv­ing you.”

The colour drained from his face as he realised his cur­tain twitch­ing had been seen.

“Wait, erm, no” he bum­bled “That’s real­ly not nec­es­sary, i’m real­ly sor­ry, it wonít hap­pen again”.

“You can be sure of that; I shall ask your moth­er if she knows her son is a per­vert, whether her friends at the local Wom­enís Insti­tute know.”

“No, please, you can’t, i’m real­ly very sor­ry, how can i make it up to you” he pleaded.

Miss Sven­son’s tone soft­ened and her mind wan­dered to the con­tents of the third draw­er in her bed­room side dress­er. “Well” she said slow­ly, “If you were pun­ished to my sat­is­fac­tion then per­haps there would be no need to involve your par­ents at all.”

“Yes, yes, that is fine” he blurt­ed in relief.

“Very well”, Miss Sven­son barked, “Come with me at once”.

The young man fol­lowed her with some trep­i­da­tion, won­der­ing what sort of menial task or house­work he would have to do.

Once inside her house, Miss Sven­son closed the front door and turned on the mis­cre­ant. “Such an affront to my dig­ni­ty deserves a suit­able pun­ish­ment, one you will not read­i­ly for­get by this after­noon like mere yard work. I shall be treat­ing you as if you were my own son caught in such an act…”

A puz­zled look crossed the stu­den­t’s face and the look turned to one of shock as she con­tin­ued “…tell me, have you ever been spanked”

“Spanked?” he said in a daze

“Yes boy, spanked, pad­dled, caned, tawsed, slip­pered… has your moth­er ever had occa­sion to pun­ish you properly?”

“My, er, my moth­er does­n’t believe in it.”

“Well my boy, i do and i will nei­ther spare the rod, nor spoil you to teach you a les­son”. She grasped his ear and twist­ing, led him upstairs to her boudoir. “I am going to pun­ish you and next time you approach a cur­tain with the promise of a naughty view, i can promise you your back­side will start to sting instinctively.

She cajoled him into a cor­ner of the room, fac­ing a full length mir­ror. After pulling his shorts down and away from his feet, she spread his feet wide and made him grip his ankles such that his gaze would be on the car­pet between his legs. She exam­ined his unmarked, taut bot­tom and reflect­ed on the fun she was about to have.

“I will be pun­ish­ing you with a vari­ety of instru­ments” she said in a stern voice “and after i have shown you the instru­ments, we shall begin. I expect no backchat from you, any lip or wrig­gling or pulling away and we shall be talk­ing to your moth­er when she returns.”

“Ok” he said.

“and from now on, you will address me only as Miss Sven­son, when answer­ing me you will start Miss Sven­son and then say what you have to say, is that clear And in this house we say yes or yes Miss Sven­son, not vul­gar­i­ty like ìOKî, is that understood?

“Yes, I mean Miss Sven­son, yes”.

“Good” and smil­ing to her­self she went over to the dress­er and, pulling open a draw­er, began to select the instru­ments she would use this morn­ing. A favourite rub­ber soled slip­per, a tawse, a light pad­dle, a par­tic­u­lar­ly flex­i­ble and whip­py cane and an old wood­en ruler. Ahh, and a present she had received from a friend back home that very week, a love­ly birch.

She walked over to the boy and slow­ly, placed the instru­ments one by one between his feet. An invol­un­tary flinch was noticed on a cou­ple of items and Miss Sven­son felt the sever­i­ty of the crime and the pun­ish­ment was start­ing to be brought home to him.

She pulled up a chair and placed it in the mid­dle of the room. “Come here” she said “and lay over my lap”. “I will not be jump­ing straight to the instru­ments that will give you most cause for reflec­tion, I must pre­pare you for that first”.

Gin­ger­ly he laid him­self over her lap, still some­what aroused she noticed. “well, she thought to her­self “We’ll see about that”.

Arrang­ing him on her lap, she pulled one of his arms up behind his back to lessen any wrig­gling and addressed the quiv­er­ing but­tocks. “Some­times I will expect you to count the blows, if you do this incor­rect­ly, then I will start again and again until you get it cor­rect. Am i clear?”

“Yes Miss Sven­son” he said meekly.

She start­ed off at a fast pace, pep­per­ing both but­tocks with well judged thwacks from her hand, such that he could not guess where the next was com­ing from. 20, 30, 40, 50 swats from her and he was already start­ing to move around in some discomfort.

“Have you learnt your les­son?” she asked dryly.

“Yes Miss Sven­son, it won’t hap­pen again Miss Sven­son” he panted.

“we’ll see”. Fetch me the slip­per and the pad­dle. He took him­self off her lap, the sting­ing spank­ing dis­pelling his impu­dent arousal and pick­ing up the items, sheep­ish­ly hand­ed them back to her.

“Resume the posi­tion” she ordered, and he did so. The old rub­ber soled gym slip­per was next on the agen­da and again she swat­ted his but­tocks even­ly, but not too hard, lest she over­do it and deny her­self the plea­sure of the cane and birch. 50 method­i­cal strikes from the slip­per was a change of pace for the boy and he start­ed to squirm around on her lap, restrained by her grip on his arm. “Strug­gling will not help you” she mut­tered and she laid the slip­per beside her and picked up the pad­dle. The cool breeze on the but­tocks before each stroke was fol­lowed with a harsh sting and the stu­dent began to cry out occa­sion­al­ly. Miss Sven­son ignored his cries and com­plet­ed the 50 strokes with the pad­dle she felt he merited.

“Stand back in the cor­ner in the posi­tion” she com­mand­ed. and he returned to the stress she had orig­i­nal­ly placed him in. His bot­tom glowed red, but Miss Sven­son knew that her duty was incom­plete and only after the appli­ca­tion of some oth­er instru­ments might the extent of his mis­de­meanour be brought home to him.

She posi­tioned a large bol­ster pil­low onto the mat­tress at the foot of her bed and posi­tioned him over it, face on the mat­tress, legs spread and bot­tom in the air.

“We move now to the lat­ter stages of your pun­ish­ment” she said cold­ly, “but do not think the end is in sight yet, there is more oppor­tu­ni­ty for reflec­tion yet”.

“Yes Miss Sven­son” he said meekly.

She picked up the tawse and felt the smooth­ness of it against her hand. ìThis is a tawseî she instruct­ed him, ìan orig­i­nal Lochgel­ly, not that you would appre­ci­ate its prove­nance. You may well come to appre­ci­ate the work­man­ship how­ev­erÖî, and with that, laid a fierce stripe across his cheeks. He vis­i­bly jumped and it must have dawned on him this was again a change in the lev­el of admonishment.

“I would like you to count out these strokes for me, stat­ing my name and the num­ber of strokes after each blow.”

“Yes Miss Svenson”

She laid anoth­er stripe on him.

“Miss Sven­son, One”

“That is incor­rect” she chuck­led, “that was the sec­ond blow, so we must start again.” Miss Sven­son raised her arm and began admin­is­ter­ing the blows again.

“Miss Sven­son, One”, “Miss Sven­son, Two, “Miss Sven­son, Three”, “Miss Sven­son, Four”, “Miss Sven­son, Five” ‚“Miss Sven­son, Six”, “Miss Sven­son, Sev­en”, “Miss Sven­son, Eight”, “Miss Sven­son, Nine”, “Miss Sven­son, Ten”.

With each blow his reply became more fal­ter­ing and the shock and pain in his but­tocks could be heard in the trem­bling tone of his voice.

She looked close­ly at his but­tocks, now almost blis­ter­ing­ly red, no blood drawn giv­en her skill, but the skin had been tak­en almost to its limits.

Almost.

“To fin­ish I will give you a taste of my home­land, and I don’t mean some some non­sense you might buy in Ikea. I have a friend who makes fine birch­es and as my luck would have it, I have received a new one today, made of wil­low rather than hazel luck­i­ly for you, but it will be rather breath­tak­ing i’ll wager. As before, i would like you to count.”

ìTen strokes young man, and then i think we are done here.î

She thought he breathed a sigh of relief, but per­haps was just steal­ing him­self for this new unknown. She felt the tex­ture of each twig and then whip­ping her arm quick­ly, swished the birch across his bottom.

“Miss Sven­son, One”, “Miss Sven­son, Two, “Miss Sven­son, Three”, “Miss Sven­son, Four”, “Miss Sven­son, Five” ‚“Miss Sven­son, Six”, “Miss Sven­son, Sev­en”, “Miss Sven­son, Eight”, “Miss Sven­son, Nine”, “Miss Sven­son, Ten”.

As he reached sev­en, eight, nine, she could sense she had tak­en him to his thresh­old and with the tenth blow, she felt him break, she had accom­plished he goal, he would remem­ber this pun­ish­ment for some time to come.

“I shall leave the cane for anoth­er day I think, but rest assured, any repeat of today’s behav­iour and it will be brought into play and I may con­sid­er can­ing you in front of your mother.

“No, no, i’ll nev­er let this hap­pen again, I swear Miss Svenson.”

“Very well then, begone and reflect on what you have learnt today” The naughty young man slow­ly walked down­stairs and gin­ger­ly walked around to his par­en­t’s house and the pre­sumed relief of ice on his now bright red cheeks.

A new day and Miss Sven­son went to her porch to fetch the paper. “Hul­lo” said Mirs Prim and Prop­er from next door. “How are you Miss Svenson?”

“Well my dear” she replied, “but a lit­tle sore in my arm for some rea­son today.”

“Must be some­thing going around?” Mrs Prim replied “young David has been in bed all yes­ter­day and this morn­ing, says he feels very sore and unwell.”

Miss Sven­son smiled to her­self “well, I hope he gets well soon,” and as she walked back to her front door she paused. Look­ing up she saw David peek­ing at her from behind the cur­tain, a faint smile on his lips. Per­haps, Miss Sven­son mused, one les­son may not be enough with this one. But that is anoth­er story…

 

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