Aunt Beatrice (F/F story)

Recently, I got a phone call from my dear old Aunt Beatrice, and what she told me might be the strangest tale I think I will ever hear. Aunt Beatrice has told me lots of interesting things through the years – all of them, to my knowledge, true – but this one has to be by far the strangest.

First, I think a little background is in order. Aunt Beatrice is my mother's sister. She's in her sixties, but still manages to keep in shape, and mentally she's as alert as she ever was. She's never married, and I can't recall her even dating someone, but she's one of those people that can spend a lot of time alone without ever being lonely. She was the kind of friendly, not-too-serious aunt that every kid loves.

She filled me in on what had happened with her and her friends since we had last spoken, and most of it, though interesting, has nothing to do with the tale at hand. Once we had chatted for about ten minutes, she started telling me about something that had happened late at night last Friday.

"I had woken up in the night, and since I was unable to get back to sleep, I decided to go for a small walk. It's so refreshing, walking around in these bright, warm spring evenings.

Anyway, I decided to go through the park, and sat down at one of the benches to enjoy the night. After a short while, a girl of about eighteen, possibly a little older, walked over. She was wearing a short black skirt and a leather jacket, and her hair was bright purple. Rather odd-looking, but I've seen stranger. I've LOOKED stranger, come to think of it." I thought back at various outfits I had seen her in over the years, and had to admit, she was right.

"Anyway, this girl walked over to me, and would you believe it, she pulled a knife on me! She told me to hand over my purse! Now, I am not normally a violent woman, but I was not about to let some thug get her hands on my money. So I stood up, grabbed her arm, and disarmed her." She described this as if it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. I knew she was a lot quicker and stronger than she looks, but disarming robbers was not something I expected to find among her many skills.

"I thought about dragging her to a police station, but I felt that what this girl needed, wasn't jail. I sat back down on the bench and dragged her over my knee. I flipped her short skirt up and pulled down her panties. If you can call that bit of string ‘panties’, which I shouldn't."

At this point, I wondered whether I was hallucinating, or if I was actually having this conversation. I asked her to repeat the last few sentences, and she did so. Then, she continued.

"I started smacking her bottom, but she kicked fiercely and tried to fight her way off my lap. I grabbed her wrists with my left hand and locked her legs in mine, meaning that she was trapped until I decided otherwise. I kept on spanking her, hard and fast smacks against those pale cheeks.

At first, she started threatening me, telling me how she was going to hurt me when she got loose. Not too bright, I must say. I mean, that's not much of an incentive for me to let her go, is it? And she had quite the dirty mouth on her. If only there was a bar of soap available, I would have corrected that."

I had a mental image of my dear old aunt Beatrice putting a mugger in the corner, bar of soap in her mouth and hands on her head, displaying a red, well-spanked bottom.

"Anyway, I kept on smacking her, alternating cheeks, and pretty soon, those white cheeks turned pink and those threats turned to pleas. She started telling me how she had learned her lesson, and would I please let her go? I didn't, of course. This girl needed a good lesson, and I was just the woman to teach it to her.

To make a long story short, her bottom turned red and her pleas turned to crying, then loud sobbing, and my hand was stinging. I looked in my purse to see if I had remembered to bring my hairbrush, but I seemed to have left it at home. A pity, really. I think it would have done her a world of good."

Naturally, I thought to myself. It's always a good idea to bring a hairbrush in case you run into muggers. Everyone knows that.

"I asked her if she had learned her lesson, and she assured me she had. She was quite insistent on that, in fact. I helped her to her feet, and she ran away, both hands rubbing her sore bottom furiously.

Once she had left, I discovered that she had left her knife behind. Since it would be difficult to track her down, I decided to take it home, though I'm not sure what I should do with it."

I smiled. Not many old ladies can walk away from a mugging with more property than they had previously.

"Aunt Beatrice, listen to me," I told her. "Take that knife and hang it on your wall. You hear me?"

"I hear you, dear."

"And if anyone asks you why you have that thing, you tell them what you told me, OK?"

I went over to visit her again a few days later, and the knife was up on the wall. We amused ourselves for quite some time wondering if the girl told anyone about the crazy old lady who disarmed her, spanked her and sent her running.

Probably not.