Sylvia, part II (M/F story)

Two weeks ago, I was visited by Sylvia, the mother of my ex-girlfriend. I was surprised to learn that she had known that I often spanked her daughter during our relationship, and downright shocked when she admitted that she wanted me to do the same to her – Sylvia asked to be taken over my knee and spanked. After overcoming my bewilderment, I saw no reason to refuse her request, so I gave her the long, hard spanking she craved. Afterwards, as she stood facing the corner with her bare, red bottom on display, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I disciplined her.

And tonight, my prediction would come true.

Sylvia had told me that she’d sat quite gingerly for a few days after visiting me, and had sported some lovely marks. However, the bruises had faded, and she was now eager for another dose of discipline. We agreed that she should visit my flat on Saturday evening.

When she arrived, she was dressed in a relatively modest shirt and a nice skirt, and there was something in her eyes that suggested she'd been looking forward to this for several days. I asked her if she wanted a cup of tea or a glass of something, but she declined, saying that she was eager to get started right away. I led her into the kitchen, where I’d placed a pen and some sheets of paper on the table. She cast me a questioning glance.

“You are going to sit down and write, Sylvia,” I explained. “You will write ‘I have been a bad girl and deserve a good, hard spanking’… let’s say two hundred times.”

She raised an eyebrow and gave me an impertinent look. “I’ve never written lines before!”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it before you’re done. Two hundred times, and you’ll get extra punishment for each error. Do I make myself clear?"

She glared at me as if she wanted to challenge me, but she must have seen from the expression on my face that this would not end well for her. With a sigh, she sat down on the kitchen chair and began writing.

I sat down behind her, where I could keep an eye on her without being observed. She worked on her task for a few minutes before she shook her hand, turning and looking over her shoulder at me. “Ouch. I’m out of practice. It’s been years since I did much writing by hand – decades, possibly.”

“Keep your eyes forward,” I instructed her. “Don’t look at me.”

She pouted, but obeyed. “You know, I came here hoping for a sore bottom, not a sore hand.”

I grinned at the petulant tone in her voice. “Don’t worry – you’ll get that as well.”

The knocker-upper (M/F story)

Knocker-upper: "A person whose job was to go from house to house in the early morning and wake up workers by tapping on the bedroom window with a long pole or similarly convenient implement. " - Wiktionary.

 

It was early Monday morning, just before dawn, that I was awakened by a loud, insistent tapping on my bedroom window. Wondering who it was, and how on Earth someone could be knocking on the window of a second-story flat, I eventually managed to force myself out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I staggered over to the window, which my sleep-deprived brain took some time to open. When I looked out, I saw a young woman grinning up at me. She was a lanky brunette somewhere in her early twenties, wearing a woolly jumper, a matching skirt, and a flat cap balanced on her head, and was joyfully waving a long pole in greeting. Clearly, the stick was how she'd managed to tap on my window.  "Finally, you're up! Good morning, sir!"

 

I stared back at her, stunned at this behaviour. Before I could think of a response, the woman had walked away, cheerily whistling a tune. What on Earth was going on?

 

I stumbled back to bed, once again reflecting on the strangeness of Londoners. I already had enough of that from my neighbour Sheena, with whom I had a couple of disagreements – I had not expected to find another madwoman so close to home.

 

 

The following day, around the same time, I once again heard tapping. I rose, making sure I was properly awake and ready to speak before moving over to the window. If it turned out to be the same woman, I wanted to be able to ask her to explain herself before she left. I hoped it was – the thought of there being more than one hooligan roaming the streets rapping on people's windows in the dark was too much to bear.

 

"At last!" she laughed when I opened the window. "You were a lot harder to wake today. Good morning," she said, tipping her cap and turning to leave.

 

"Wait a second," I called out. "What's going on? Why are you doing this?"

 

"Well, I'm the knocker-upper, sir!" she exclaimed. When she realized from the look on my face that this meant nothing to me, she explained, "It's a service you find in big cities. I go from flat to flat, waking people up so they can go to work on time!" There was more than a hint of condescension in her voice; presumably, she'd realized from my accent that I wasn't a Londoner.

 

"Well, I am a night watchman, and I don't need to be at work any time soon – in fact, it's only a few hours since my shift ended. So you can stop knocking on MY window," I informed her as civilly as I managed.

 

"Oh no, sir," she said, shaking her head. "When I'm hired to do a job, I do it."

 

"I haven't hired you," I told her, still trying to keep my voice calm.

 

"Oh, I know, sir," she grinned. "Your wife did."

 

"I'm not married!" I called out, but she'd already started to walk away, looking for her next victim.

 

 

When I was awoken on Wednesday by the familiar knocking, I buried my face in my pillow and resolved to ignore her until she went away. When you work all night, having some stranger wake you up after only a few hours of sleep, on the orders of an imaginary wife, is not particularly pleasant. However, as the minutes slowly dragged on, it was clear that she was not stopping until she'd wished me good morning. Sighing, I admitted defeat and rose from bed.

 

"Good morning! Wow, you slept soundly today! No wonder your wife needs help walking you up. Or maybe she doesn't need to get up as early as you do."

 

"I DON'T have to get up early – and I don't have a wife," I repeated, once again trying my best to keep my voice level. "So I suggest you stop bothering me, never knock on my window again, and go find someone who DOES need to be woken up."

 

"Oh, no, sir!" she said. "I've been paid to do my job, and do my job I shall! See you tomorrow!" Before I could respond, she'd tipped her cap and left.

 

I leaned out of the window, sighing my frustration. How could I get through her dense skull? Glancing up, I could see a hint of red curls from one of the other windows, and I realized that my neighbour Sheena was watching me through her window, a smirk on her face. Like I said, we'd had quite a few disagreements, so I wasn't surprised to see the young woman taking pleasure from my suffering. She'd shown a sadistic streak on occasion.

 

 

On Thursday, when I was once again wrenched from my pleasant dreams by an insistent knocking, I decided I was done being nice. Slamming my window open, I did not let her call out her customary greeting, but yelled "Stop knocking on my window! I have told you repeatedly that I do not need your services. I have not hired you, and I don't have a wife. If you knock on my window again, young lady, you will regret it. I warn you." I glared down at her, hoping she'd finally got the message.

 

The girl only laughed. "Yes, a lot of people are grumpy in the morning. See you tomorrow," she called before leaving, whistling merrily.

 

I shook my head as I returned to bed. She'd finally pushed me too far. She'd decided to test me, and I was going to show her that I meant what I said. She'd been warned, and now, she would suffer the consequences.