A Gift from Great Aunt Kate

This story actually won some kind of award once. I forget where. It’s a ghost story and I like ghost stories. In ghost stories your characters can do just about anything and it still makes wacky sense … if you believe in ghosts. Anyway, it’s October and time to haul out the spooky stuff, so this month I’ll be featuring some of my stories that have a paranormal element or two.

                         A Gift from Great Aunt Kate

Today was her day to visit Great Aunt Kate. She rotated the responsibility with her sisters Abby and Claire, but today it was her turn. It wasn’t so bad really. Great Aunt Kate was the family historian and told such interesting stories that went back generations, a visit was both entertaining and enlightening. A visit would help in another way, really. With Tom recently having been ordered to the Middle East, she was alone. No husband to talk to, no one to share the day with; hell, no one to share the night with either. He’d only been gone three weeks and it was starting to get to her. It had been awhile since she had been this horny, and when she was she could always count on Tom to come through. Not now, though, she sighed. The fate of an Army wife.
Great Aunt Kate must have sensed her mood. “Is anything wrong, dear? You seem out of sorts,” she commented as she laid out the tea service. Aunt Kate was traditional. You served guests tea, day or night, when they came to visit. Always very proper, things prepared just so.
“It’s Tom,” confessed Missy. “He’s been deployed overseas and I miss him so. He’ll be gone for months. It’s only been three weeks and already I’m lonely.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you miss him. You’ve been married only what, two years?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Well, you are practically newlyweds, then. I imagine,” she said. Then with a wicked gleam in her eye, “I bet that you miss that man in more ways than one. Am I right?”
It hadn’t taken her long to guess that. Aunt Kate may have been past her prime, but she no doubt remembered what it was like having a man about. She blushed. “Of course, Aunt Kate.” Actually she felt like climbing the walls, but she wasn’t going to share that with her great aunt.
Aunt Kate digested this for a moment. “A problem that young women have faced since time began, my dear. Men going off to war.”
They chatted for a time about the family, each relating what they knew about things that had happened recently. From time to time Missy couldn’t help but voice her frustration about Tom’s absence. Kate replied sympathetically. Before Missy knew it, nearly three hours had passed.
“For goodness sake,” said Missy, “look at the time. Aunt Kate, I’ve got to get going soon. I had no idea we’d been talking so long.”
“That’s quite all right” she said. “I have things to do as well.” Then she paused. “But, you know, come to think of it, I have something for you. Wait here, it will take me just a moment.” Kate bustled out of the room.
Missy wondered what it could be. Aunt Kate returned with a flat bundle. “I’ve had this for some time and I certainly don’t need it any more. I’d like for you to have it.”
Aunt Kate held up a painting. It was a still life of a room. It showed a chair, a table, a fireplace with a cast iron stove, a couch in a corner and the portraits of a man and woman over the fireplace. It looked like a room that might have existed in the late 19thcentury by the appearance of the décor.
“It’s very nice, but what is it?” asked Missy.
“Well,” she began, “if you have a few more moments, it has some family history to it.”
Missy looked up expectantly. “Yes, of course. Tell me.” Missy could not resist one more of Aunt Kate’s stories.
“It was a present. Your great, great grandfather Charles Rockman gave it to his wife Madeline before he was posted to London as military attaché during the Great War. Actually Charles’ mother had commissioned it, and she gave it to Charles for Madeline. She had it done on special commission by an artist who, I fear to say, is unknown. Charles’ mother was quite a character, you know. She was a spiritualist. That movement was quite popular in its day, and she knew many of its devotees and practitioners—mediums, magicians, hypnotists—she knew them all it seems.”
Missy perused the painting. It was nice enough but nothing special. “It’s a still life of a room. It seems an unusual thing for a husband to give to a wife.”
“Yes, indeed. Considering that Charles and Madeline had a marriage which was by all accounts, stormy. Even more unusual for Charles’ mother to have had it made, but then she had always been critical of Madeline.”
“How do you mean?”
“It was the early nineteen hundreds when they married. As a young woman Madeline fancied herself as modern. She was hardly the model subservient wife. She was a suffragette. Charles, of course was scandalized. He forbade her to attend rallies, go to meetings and such, but she defied him. She was into one scrape after another. Still they loved each other deeply. Eventually they had seven children and nineteen grandchildren. It’s all in her diary.”
“But a picture of a room. Why? And what kind of room is it?”
“Well, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a drawing room. In those days a man had his retreat, to smoke cigars, have a brandy, read the paper. The children and the wife would be forbidden to enter without invitation.” Aunt Kate then gave a dry chuckle. “If you were invited inside it might not be so pleasant. Perhaps invited is not the word. Summoned, you were more likely summoned.”
“What do you mean?”
“A father’s study or drawing room would be where family justice was meted out. I have experience in this area.” She admitted ruefully. “You would enter fearfully and exit tearfully, often vigorously rubbing your bottom.”
“Seriously?” Missy had heard about such things, but had never experienced as much as a spanking from her father. Well, not counting a firm pat or two to the seat of her shorts when she’d been a young child.
“In matters of familial discipline it was a different era. The father was the disciplinarian of the family and he would get to the seat of the problem, if you know what I mean. I know mine did. The only omission that I see in this painting is the absence of a strap hanging on the wall or a birch rod in a bucket.”
Missy looked at Aunt Kate wide-eyed. “What on earth is a birch rod?”
“In our house it was five or six whippy switches tied at one end with ribbon to form a handle. The miscreant would be ordered by father to bend over and bare their bottom for a dozen or more well applied strokes.”
“Wow! Did something like that hurt?”
“Oh, my yes. Not all at once at first, but with repeated strokes it would sting very intensely. A child would know she’d been punished. I never left my father’s study without a face full of salty tears and a flaming behind. Pardon my language, but that’s how it was.”
Both women stared silently at the painting, Missy trying to imagine and Aunt Kate remembering.
“So your mother might have been in this very room,” said Missy.
“To her dismay, I believe she was from time to time.”
Both women laughed, breaking the spell. Missy thanked Kate again for the painting, but couldn’t help but think it was an odd gift.
At the door Aunt Kate called to her. “I do hope it gives you some pleasure, dear. Put it in a place where you can look at it while you relax with a glass of wine at the end of the day.”
Missy did not think about the painting very much for several days but then remembered it. There was a vacant spot over the fireplace in the den, just opposite the couch. She hung it there. It seemed appropriate. In the den there was now a picture of a den.
At the end of a particularly trying day, she took Great Aunt Kate’s advice, and armed with a glass of wine, she sat on the leather couch facing the painting. It was odd, she thought. The painting was so warm, it seemed to draw you in. She felt sleepy and caught herself nodding off. Finally she decided not to fight it. A quick cat-nap then she’d fix dinner.
She awoke, feeling light headed. The room was dimmer now. And different. She was seated, not on her couch but in a chair. The walls were different somehow…and the fireplace. There was an iron stove. She was trying to process this information when she heard approaching footsteps and a voice.
“Madeline, where have you been?”
Missy turned her head. A young, handsome man of about 35 years was standing before her, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. He wore odd clothing, the type she’d seen in old turn of the century photographs. And, he looked familiar. The man in the portrait—could it be? Missy realized that she too was wearing clothing that did not fit her own era. A long gown with ruffled sleeves, a choker collar—it all felt so strange yet so familiar.
“You were at a suffragette rally. You were seen there. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Missy couldn’t even think straight. “I….I…” she stammered.
“Stand up, Madeline. It’s time you were taken in hand, wife. I’ll not have you bring shame upon this family by engaging in these silly shenanigans with your suffragette friends.”
Missy stamped her foot. “Women shall get the vote, Charles, and you shall not stop it. I’ll go where I please.” Had she said that? Who was talking?
“I think not. And in the meantime, chastisement is in order.” His scowl darkened. “Come here.”
“What do you think you are going to do?” Missy and Madeline, it seems, both spoke with one voice this time.
“It is clear to me that the time for talk is over.” Charles grasped Madeline/Missy by the wrist and pulled her toward the chair. He sat on the footstool in front of the chair and pulled his wife across his knees face down. Gathering her skirts he raised them past her hips exposing her buttocks which were encased in knee length silk bloomers. Missy felt shamefully denuded. The realization struck that he intended to spank her like a child!
“Stop this, Charles. Stop it at once and release me!”
“I’ll release you after the lesson, dear, which commences now.” Missy felt a hard smack right across the center of her bottom delivered by a hard masculine palm. It stung! Then ‘smack!’another. Then another.
“Owww!” she yelped, kicking her legs up in distress.
But Charles maintained an iron grip on his errant wife, and proceeded to apply a volley of hard spanks to her tender bottom, alternating right and left cheeks, sometimes smacking her right across the center.
The noisy smacks rang out in the cozy room. Missy kicked and struggled. Her bottom burned under the relentless spanking, the sting building to an unbearable level. This certainly felt like no dream she’d ever had. Then to her horror she felt Charles fingers inserted into the waistband of her bloomers. He was going to pull her bloomers down and bare her bottom. She renewed her struggles in a panic at this new indignity, but it was futile. Charles was too strong. She felt her bloomers being lowered baring her rounded bottom globes to Charles’ gaze. She blushed with shame, but strangely at the same time, felt an erotic thrill. Her husband was stripping her.
“I’ll have your lovely seat bare, Madeline, like a naughty child,” he said grimly. Then he resumed the slapping of his wife’s gorgeously rounded bottom, cracking his hand against the resilient globes as she wailed at the pain and indignity of it. The pain was even more intense on her bare bottom. Charles continued to spank his pretty wife with vigor bringing his palm down with some force again and again as she wriggled helplessly over his strong thighs. Missy could not believe this was happening. The spanks landed at a steady tempo, building a bonfire in her bottom. For an eternity, it seemed, her world contracted to the crack of a masculine palm on her flaming derriere and the atrocious sting that each one imparted. But at some point another sensation began to take hold. She was becoming aroused sexually. The fire in her fanny had spread to her sex. It was involuntary but she could feel herself actually raising her hips in time to meet her man’s descending hand.
“There! There! And there!” Charles exclaimed delivering the final spanks with gusto.
“Yeow! Yeow! Oww!” wailed Madeline, for now Missy understood that she was Madeline, sucked into some strange dream. For it had to be a dream, right?
Charles pulled her to her feet. She stared at him in disbelief that he had just put her across his knee and spanked her hard. For a moment neither of them moved. Then impulsively Madeline threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Missy knew she was no longer in control. This was Madeline now, but she also felt Madeline’s sexual arousal which had started during the spanking. Fueled by the stripping of her of bloomers and the furious spanking of her naked bottom she was like a woman possessed by lust for her husband. And he had her, right there on the settee in the drawing room. Charles stripped her of her gown and the rest of her lingerie. He tore off his clothes and together they coupled for what seemed like an eternity until they both erupted in climax. Finally satiated, Madeline relaxed her grip on Charles and fell back….and Missy awoke.
She was wet with perspiration and felt exhausted. Yes, it was her den. There was the picture. She was here, not there. But she felt a strange lassitude, a fulfillment. Then she jumped up out of her seat, cognizant of an odd physical condition. Her bottom was burning like she’d sat on a hot stove. What had happened? She went upstairs and lowered her pants, looking over her shoulder into the mirror. Her bottom cheeks were a bright red. Had she done this to herself? And the strange sense of sexual fulfillment. Had she tossed herself off in her sleep?
It was all too strange and over the next week she kept coming back to the dream. What exactly had happened? It wasn’t as though she minded—the sex had been just what she needed, and the spanking beforehand had made it even more intense. But she put it down, finally, to a weird daydream. It was the only thing that made sense.
She went about her normal routine, her job, the business of living. She went to the gym, saw some of her friends. A few of her friends were in fact in the same boat. Tom was in the local national guard and she had met several of them. Now with their men gone, they tended to commiserate with each other and socialize more than before.
She hadn’t repeated her “nap” in front of the painting, but it was never far from her mind. She’d glance at it from time to time as she bustled about the house. It was then that she noticed a curious thing. The painting seemed to have changed. There was something new. The new thing was sitting on the hearth. She was nearly certain that it hadn’t been there before. It was a basket and sticking out of the basket was what appeared to be a bundle of switches tied together with a ribbon at one end. As she looked closer she realized that it was what Aunt Kate had described, a birch rod.
At about the same time, her feelings of sexual deprivation were returning. The “dream” of several weeks previously had whetted her appetite, it seemed. Dare she try this again? After telling herself how silly it was she nevertheless found herself on a Friday night sitting in the den contemplating the painting again. The warm tones of the work drew her in and she fell once again into a dream-like state. Her eyes were drawn to the portrait on the right—Charles with his stern demeanor and flashing eyes. She closed her eyes for just a moment. Ok, she thought, this was silly. She stood, thinking to refill her glass, but she was stopped by the figure of Charles blocking her path.
Before she could react, he spoke. “I thought that the last time, you might have learned your lesson, Madeline. Regrettably, though, you continue to disobey. This unfortunately calls for sterner measures.”
“I am not your chattel Charles, I’m your wife.” Madeline spoke back, defiant.
“And as my wife you will not subject this family to ridicule. My God woman, do you realize? This time you were arrested. The only way that I could secure your release was to assure the magistrate that this would not happen again. And you, I recall, agreed–if I could only bring you home. Well I did, and here we are. And what did the magistrate say? Surely you haven’t forgotten so soon. ‘I’ll release her if you can assure me that she will receive a good thrashing at your hand, Mr. Rockman. She deserves no less.’ I agreed and you, tearfully at the time, also agreed. Well now we are home and it’s time to give the devil his due.”
Missy held her breath as she watched Charles reach into the basket and withdraw the rod. There were five lean switches, about three feet long, bound together. Her eyes widened as he swished it through the air.
“You will now disrobe, Madeline. Take off everything.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Charles, no, please. It’s too shameful.”
“Take your clothes off, Madeline. I want you bare as the day you were born.”
With a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, Madeline slowly doffed her dress and petticoats with trembling fingers. She was clad now in stockings, a chemise and bloomers.
“The rest of it, Madeline. Remove your chemise and take your bloomers right down.”
Madeline tearfully stripped. Charles allowed her to retain her stockings held up by ruffled garters.
Missy stood there powerless to prevent Madeline from taking the punishment which was now imminent, having been ordained by the magistrate. Charles commanded her to place her hands on the mantle of the fireplace and bend forward, thrusting her buttocks out to receive the rod. She shivered as Charles tapped her bottom then she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. There was a swoosh sound and a thwack! followed by a searing heat. Then she felt another, and another. The switches imparted a sharp sting to Madeline’s bottom. It was all she could do to maintain her position. Charles fell into a lazy rhythm, striping her with the birch every few seconds, then pausing while she composed herself to resume her position. Swishh….thwack! Each swipe felt like hornets stinging. She wriggled shamelessly, wagging her bottom back and forth. She must be a sight. Naked, her bottom globes jiggling with each smarting stroke. Charles just commanded her to be still.
“Assume the position, Madeline. We are not done.”
“Oh, Charles, please! Ouch! Oh! It stings so.”
“You should have thought of that before you got yourself arrested,” said Charles as he struck her delectable rear with another firm swish of the birch.
“Ow! Ow!” It was all Madeline could do but yelp in pain. Charles made her count off another dozen strokes which she did, sobbing all the while, before he dropped the rod.
 But soon it was a rod of a different sort that he applied to Madeline as she knelt on the ottoman, bottoms up. Missy was soon swooning with pleasure as Charles entered her from behind and made vigorous love to the wife that he had so thoroughly chastised with the whippy birch not minutes before. The same thing had happened again. Madeline had become thoroughly aroused under the birch. Charles vigorously rode her to a shattering climax. She slumped across the ottoman, spent completely…and Missy awoke.
Snapping out of her reverie, Missy was astonished to find that once again she had, in fact, been soundly whipped. The picture was as it had been originally—no objects in the room. No birch rod, just the furniture, the fireplace and the portraits. Her bottom was wealed with stripes, but sexually she was aglow with satisfaction.
In the days that followed she began to come to grips with this conundrum. When she started to get horny, the picture would change. Always it showed something different. Missy knew that the object that appeared would soon be used on Madeline, if she invoked the painting. For that is what she felt she did when she relaxed gazing at it, and fell into a meditative trance. So the question was, was she willing to suffer Charles punishments meted out to his disobedient headstrong wife and take a whipping in order to receive the lusty lovemaking that came after? The answer was, yes.
In the months that followed she endured lashes with a strap, a spanking with a small paddle and a dozen strokes with a whippy cane. The power of the painting was alluring, but it seemed each time that it demanded an acceptance of punishments of increasing severity in exchange for the release that followed. But now she was coming to the end of her time alone. Tom was returning soon. And, more alarming, the new object in the painting was a painful looking dressage whip. She decided that it was time to have another talk with Great Aunt Kate.
“You wish to return the painting, dear?” But Kate had asked the question with a knowing smile.
“Did you know?” asked Missy.
Kate chuckled. “I found out. My sister gave it to me when my Harold left for Korea .I found it strangely compelling, like all the Rockman women do. It’s in our genes I suppose. But I can’t take it back now, dear. It should be used or passed on. A family tradition, you understand.”
So Missy had to think, but just before Tom’s joyful return she decided to give the painting to her sister Abby whose husband had been temporarily assigned to handle a bank closing in Topeka. He’d be gone for six to eight weeks at least.
 “It’s very nice, but what is it?” asked Abby, when Missy brought it over.
“Just an old heirloom. Great Aunt Kate gave it to me, but I really don’t have a good spot for it. See how warm the tones are? It just sort of draws you in. Put it somewhere where you can look at it and relax. You know, have a glass of wine at the end of the day.” Having foisted off the painting on Abby, Missy beat a hasty and guilty retreat. She’d have to remember to supply a pillow for Abby to sit on if she came for supper any time soon.
But what had begun cannot be undone as Missy soon came to realize. Still, she had to be thankful that when he returned Tom took to the new regime like a duck to water, she thought. Tonight she had donned her sexiest baby doll nighty, getting ready for bed. Earlier he had threatened to put her right across his knee and paddle her bare bottom very soundly, for “general wifely naughtiness” as he put it. So she felt a thrill, a delicious tingle at the base of her spine as she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs. He had told her to get ready for him.
 “Missy, have you been naughty again?” She turned at the sound of his voice to face him. He had a wide smile on his face as he absently tapped his palm with that little leather paddle she’d given him. “Well, have you?”
The real thing, she decided later, snuggling up to her husband in a warm bed and sporting a well warmed bottom, was better than Aunt Kate’s gift, but would not have happened without it. So she mentally thanked Great Aunt Kate. I wonder how Abby is doing, was her last thought before drifting off to sleep.

4 responses to “A Gift from Great Aunt Kate

  1. I have so enjoyed your stories. Thank you. Harry uk


  2. Well thanks Harry. Stop by anytime. And if you'd like them for your Kindle, visit the gift shop to your right.


  3. cool story, kinda like the one I wrote titled “Spanked From Beyond”


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