Strange and new (M/F story)

Julia wasn't sure why she'd never spoken to her next-door neighbour before. True, she knew he had a reputation for being odd, but she saw nothing wrong with that.

She was sitting in the living room of his spacious house, enjoying an interesting conversation. She'd learned he wasn't that much older than her own 40 years, a widower with no children, and a man of some charm. He was giving her a tour of the house when something caught her eye.

"What's this?" she said, pointing at a strange-looking object standing in a corner in the kitchen.

"Ah, you don't want to know about that," he told her.

There are few things more likely to cause curiosity than being told you can't know about something, so Julia studied it closely. It looked like a gym horse, but thinner and lower. A little shorter than waist height for her.

"It's just something I keep around in memory of my wife," he told her, his tone indicating that he didn't want to talk about it.

Julia asked him anyway. "What is it?"

He sighed. Well, if she really wanted to know... "It's a whipping horse."

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. "Pardon?" she said, convinced that she had misheard him.

"A whipping horse," he repeated. "You bend over it and grab the legs on the other side, and someone whips your bottom. Or canes, if you prefer."

After a few seconds of silence, Julia responded, "And you keep it around as a memory because…"

"Because my wife enjoyed being caned from time to time," he said calmly, as if they were discussing the weather.

They'd finished the tour rather quickly after that.

Hours later, Julia was turning in her bed, unable to sleep. She tried telling herself she just wasn't tired, but that wasn't it, and she knew it. She was thinking about the whipping horse.

Her neighbour seemed like a nice enough man. Why did he keep it around? Why did he own something like this? What about his wife? How could she live with a man that beat her? That kept a symbol of her punishment around as memorabilia? The next thing she knew, she had put on her jeans, reaching for a nearby top.

Most people around here kept their back doors unlocked, and her neighbour was one of them. There it was, leaning against the wall. The object that had rattled her so much, kept her up all night. Looking so peaceful and so intimidating at the same time.

It was heavier than it looked; she managed to lift it up on her own, but not without struggle. She placed it in the middle of the room. To get a better view, she told herself. Although, since it was already out...

She was going to lie down over it. She knew it, even if she didn't want to admit it. That was why she had come here. That was why she had been unable to sleep. With a slight trembling, she approached the horse, leaned forward, and grabbed the legs on the other side.

She could feel her posterior being lifted high in the air, ready for whatever awaited. She imagined an angry husband standing behind her, cane lifted to punish her, to thrash her bottom soundly. It was an intimidating thought. Wasn't it?

"Enjoying yourself?"

Julia's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't heard him enter the room. She tried getting up as quickly as possible, but ended up almost tipping the whole thing over. He had to rush forward to keep both the horse and her from falling to the floor.

So, she asked herself when she was finally back on her feet. What do you say to a guy when you're in his kitchen, in the middle of the night, bending over his dead wife's whipping horse? She didn't know the social protocol.

She realized that the first thing he had seen when he entered the room, was her own rear end, bending over, in a pair of the tightest jeans she owned. Oddly enough, her prayers for the earth to swallow her up went unanswered.

"You didn't answer my question," he told her as he examined the whipping horse.

"What question?" she said, her heart still pounding in her chest.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

She didn't answer. Mainly because she didn't know.

"Well, I don't think it sustained any damage." He turned to look at her, a strict glare creeping into his eyes. "Which you should be very grateful of, young lady."

Young lady. The words had a strange effect on her, causing her heart to pound even faster.

"Couldn't get it out of your head, could you?" She shook her head. He smiled. "Katherine was the same way. She saw it in some antique shop one day, and couldn't stop thinking about it. In the end, I bought it just to get her to shut up. I don't know how many times she went over it, wriggling her rear, wanting me to whack it, but it was a lot."

"Wait a minute! She WANTED you to cane her?"

"Of course," he told her. "I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

So you could want canings. You could desire whippings. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense.

"Do you want one?"

"One what?"

"A caning."

She looked at him. There was no indication in his eyes that he was kidding. She stared at the floor, afraid to answer, and even more afraid of admitting to herself what the answer would inevitably be.

"Why would you come her otherwise?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know."

"I do." He opened a nearby drawer, pulling out a long, intimidating object that she recognized as a cane. She had seen one before, on the wall of her teacher's office when she was a little girl. That had been a relic, a silly memory of more barbaric times.

When it was being held by a handsome man intending to use it on her, it suddenly seemed a lot less silly.

"Will it hurt?"

"As much as you want it to. If you tell me to stop, I will."

That sounded reassuring. She bent over the horse again. He helped her forward, lifting her rear even higher. She felt vulnerable, exposed, visible. And excited.

He moved to her side. Partly to get a better swing, he explained, and partly because he needed to see her face. "Comfortable?" She nodded. "Prepare yourself, then." And he lifted the cane.

The first stroke was light, not much more than a tap. She realized that she was trying to ease her into it, and she was grateful. The next stroke was harder. A handful of light strokes followed.

He could tell that she found the cane much less intimidating now. Which meant he could increase the severity. The next one was hard, and Julia cried out. It was like a line of fire broke out on her bottom.

He looked at her. "Do you want me to stop?"

He cared about her reaction. She found that comforting. "No, go on."

He gave her a couple of hard strokes, and she could feel the cane biting into her bottom. Now that she was prepared for it, however, it wasn't so bad.

Five hard strokes landed on her bottom, and she hissed in pain. The parts were the strokes crossed each other were particularly painful.

"So, how does it feel?"

"Strange," she told him. "It hurts, but not in a bad way. Was this how you caned your wife?"

"With one or two minor differences, yes."

"Such as?"

He smiled. "I never caned her jeans."

"What was she wearing, then?" she said, smiling back.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" she repeated, nervously.

"Nothing at all." He shrugged his shoulders. "She preferred it that way."

Again, Julia felt those butterflies in her stomach. She had wanted what Katherine had gotten, a true caning, and it felt like cheating over her jeans. But could she do it? Could she take off everything in front of this man? She could just lower her jeans, it would be just as painful. He would let her do that.

But she wouldn't.

She rose to her feet, starting to take off her top. He reached a hand forward, as if to stop her, until he realized that he was trying to interrupt an attractive woman taking her clothes of in front of him. He stepped back again.

As she undressed, she could feel his gaze on her body, hungry eyes drawing in every inch of flesh. She blushed. It was good to feel a man's eyes on her again.

At last, her panties joined the rest of the pile. The floor was a little cold, she noticed. With a confident smirk at him, she bent back over the horse. He stepped over to her, rubbing her sore cheeks a little. She sighed. His hand felt good.

"Your bottom is marking nicely. No bruises yet. How does it feel?"

"Sore," she told him. "A burning sting."

"And yet, you're enjoying yourself."

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

He stepped back into position, sent her a reassuring smile, and lifted the cane again.

She cried out as the cane burned into her bottom. Without the protection of the jeans, it burned like fire. He sent her a quick glance to confirm that she was okay, and then continued.

He gave her another stroke, and even when she mentally adjusted for its new sting, it was painful. A few more strokes cut into her cheeks, and she could feel tears rolling down her face.

Again and again, the cane landed, and she started to cry out with every single one. The pain was starting to become unbearable. Then, when she was debating with herself whether to throw in the towel or not, she heard him place the cane on a shelf.

"I think we'll say that's enough," he told her.

She tried to stand up, but felt her knees grow weak. Suddenly, he'd picked her up and was carrying her away. "Where are we going?" she asked him.

"Upstairs. I've got a cream that'll do wonders for the sting in your bottom." That sounded wonderful.

"So how did I compare?"

"To what?" he asked her.

"To your wife. Can I carry a caning like she could?"

He furrowed his brows, staying silent for a few seconds. "You can't compare yourself to her. I caned her for years. This was your first. You'll be able to take a lot more strokes in future sessions."

"What makes you think I'll ever agree to such a barbaric treatment again?" she said, pouting.

He just smiled.