Friday Night Discipline Part 3
The next week there was no dinner party at the Stephenson’s. But the girl was in trouble this time. Tammy’s spankings were almost always delivered in the privacy of the basement. Because of this preferential treatment, Tommy harbored serious resentment towards his parents and his sister. He knew his father preferred Tammy over himself. He knew he went light on her, while he whipped the daylights out of him in front of the congregation. Why didn’t Tammy get the same treatment? Why on only certain occasions was she punished like he was, he thought to himself.
The punishment would take place for Tammy’s week-long transgression list, which was always posted side-by-side next to Tommy’s on the refrigerator. There were three misdeeds: Talking back to her mother; failing to complete her chores one night and, the most serious, smoking at school! For this her father would apply the board of education to her bum cheeks.
The next Friday afternoon had been long anticipated by young Tommy Stephenson. After mowing Miss Genovese’s lawn and changing the oil in her car, she motioned for him to come inside and share a pitcher of homemade lemonade she always made for the two the day after his whippings. She had stood at the door frame, watching him the whole time – sweat glistening off his hardened bronze tan and tight body. He hesitated to go to her, all sweaty and hot. But she insisted. Once inside, Theresa Genovese quickly closed the door behind them, pinning Tommy up between herself and her ornate front door. She pushed his hot, sweaty, shirtless body up against the frame of the door and kissed him deep and hard, thrusting her sweet, luscious tongue into his mouth. She felt that cock – oh, that cock! – rising quickly in his skimpy, undersized shorts. Their tongues melted into one another’s as Tommy let out a deep moan of pleasure as he came up for air. Miss Genovese pulled back and surveyed his stunned gaze with an elegant smile.
“Do you know what, Thomas?” Miss Genovese said, her sexy voice dripping with an “I want to get fucked” tone.
“What?” Tommy stuttered.
“I want you.”
“It’s … it’s just I never … I mean I never thought you. …”
“Never thought I would what, Thomas?”
“Never thought you liked me like that.”
“I’ve been watching you, fantasizing about that big, thick cock now for years. Ever since I watched you get your first whipping I knew I had to have your cock inside me,” Miss Genovese stated calmly, still barely above a whisper in her sexy, Italian accent.
“The spanking you endured last Friday night,” she continued, “was highly erotic. Did you know that? You’d like to be punished – by me – wouldn’t you, Thomas?”
First I want to show you something. It’s only fair, after what you endured last week. I think you’re going to like this. I know you and your sister get punished every Friday night. Your mother speaks about it all the time and gives me the details of Tammy’s and your punishments. But you were put through quite an ordeal last week, especially with, well, you know. … I’m going to help you get even with your sister.”
“How?” Tommy stammered out.
“Come with me …”
Miss Genovese, who lived next door to the Stephenson’s, took Tommy gently by the hand and escorted him out into her backyard and the fence separating the two houses. Tommy looked bewildered. Then, suddenly, she flipped up a board much like in a movie and, much to Tommy’s disbelief, she and her young friend entered into the Stephenson’s backyard.
“I don’t’ understand, Miss Genovese,” Tommy said, calmly.
“You will. And start calling Me Theresa, for God’s sake. But just when we’re alone, okay? I wouldn’t want to be the reason your father takes the switch to you again.”
Miss Genovese pointed to the window that showed the basement in its entirety and put a finger to her lips silently telling Tommy to be quiet and tread lightly.
“If you squat at the edge of the window sill,” Miss Genovese stated, matter-of-factly, “you can see everything.”
“You mean Tammy’s punishment?” Tommy said.
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes, sometimes I do it myself. Your mom tells me about your – what do you call them, ‘transgression lists?’ – and how Tammy gets punished every Friday night at six promptly by she and her father.”
Tommy looked down at his watch. It was 5:57 p.m. as she and Miss Genovese each crouched beside one another on the far side of the window sill, out of sight. Just like clockwork, Tammy descended the steps in her nightie carrying the old fashioned, straight back chair, followed by her mother, with a stern look. Dr. Stephenson came next, following closely behind with a fierce-looking paddle with holes drilled into it. First, Mrs. Stephenson took her errant daughter and draped her across her knee, raising her nightie onto her back, exposing her daughter’s creamy white, firmly rounded, buttocks. This elicited a shocked expression on Tommy’s face. Miss Genovese noticed this and couldn’t help but comment:
“So you’ve never seen this?”
They watched in hushed silence as Mrs. Stephenson slowly and methodically whacked away on Tammy’s bottom first with her hand, then with a huge, oval wooden hairbrush that had been used on her as a girl. Finally, she let her up after she was sobbing incessantly. Then her father made her kneel up on the dining room chair much like Tommy did the previous week and paddled her with just a few quick symbolic swats. Afterward, the three hugged tightly and went back upstairs, Tammy rubbing her sore behind al the way, still crying visibly.
Miss Genovese marched Tommy back through the secret board in the fence and immediately took the boy to the shrubbery in her own yard.
“Pick one,” she said, her arms folded and a serious look glaring down at Tommy.
Tommy obeyed. And picked a nice, firm, pencil-thin green switch.
In the cool, air conditioned confines of Theresa Genovese’s pastel-colored bedroom, elegantly furnished, of course, she had Tommy, nude, over her knee whipping him into a sexual frenzy with the switch. The boy was putting up a mild struggle, so Miss Genovese “scissored” his legs with hers, pinning his right arm in the middle of his back – securing him tightly for the remainder of the whipping. Tommy buried his face in one her pillows, which smelled so good, so much like her perfume – and lost himself in the huge expanse of the King Size bed with the gold satin sheets. It was the fist time he’d experienced “subspace.” The switch, which just seconds before was landing with a biting sting, almost unbearable, was now resonating sheer, unadulterated pleasure beyond Tommy’s belief. Never before had he felt so at peace; so in tune with a woman; so overtaken by a sense of total well-being. He climaxed hard on Miss Genovese’s silk stockings and rubbed back and forth instinctively, feeling his hard cock glide against the silkiness of her thigh and hosiery. In his entire life, he’d never come like that. Not even by his own hand – or Jennifer, his girlfriend. He wanted to lie there forever, as Miss Genovese ran her long, elegant fingers through his soaked hair, nearly putting him to sleep like he’d never slept before. It was a foreign type of lovemaking, but one he could definitely get used to.
“It’s okay … it’s okay,” Miss Genovese calmly whispered in Tommy’s ear. “I know there’s more where that came from.”
A short while later, after Miss Genovese had allowed Tommy to enjoy his newly found “space,” Tommy composed himself. Then he and Miss Genovese made love till just a few minutes before his 11 p.m. curfew – almost a full four hours!
Tommy entered the house, huffing and puffing, as his father looked down at his watch, then back up at him.
Somehow, Tommy thought, he didn’t fear the switch as much anymore. As long as it was Theresa Genovese wielding the correctional implement – with he over her firm, sexy thighs in full nylons.
Thirty-five years later, when Theresa Genovese died of “suspect causes,” Dr. Thomas Stephenson held her hand on the cold, metal autopsy table for a solid thirty minutes, crying the tears of a teenager, before conducting the most painful post-mortem of his career. He took blood samples first, not wanting to desecrate her body in any way. And his initial guess had been right, the analysis came back positive – she had committed suicide with Valiums and alcohol – Valium which he had been prescribing for her for years in hopes she would see a psychiatrist and eventually a therapist to exorcise the demons of her four divorces – all which she wrongly accused herself of being the crux. Thomas Stephenson’s heart sank that day; lower than it had ever been. Her blood alcohol level at was listed at a stunning 5.3. – enough in itself to cause pulmonary death, shutting down the central nervous system. Dr. Stephenson found no traces of DNA semen stains on her stockings, or in her vaginal cavity or anus to indicate rape or any other perpetrated sexual acts against her. Nor did he find any bruising on her still near-perfect body – indicating a potential struggle. Afterwards, he placed her stockings, engulfed with the smell of so long ago – Chanel No. 5 – in an evidence bag and surreptitiously slipped it into his coat pocket – replacing it with an exact replica of her brand of hosiery, which he knew all too well. This was a keepsake he would cherish the rest of his life. He reverently prepared the body for the mortuary, after stroking her lovely gray-brown locks, which framed incredibly beautiful facial features, even at her age. The final report, signed by Dr. Thomas Stephenson, Coroner for the County of Los Angeles, read “death by accidental alcohol intake.” Theresa Genovese’s family was relieved to know their relative did not take her own life during the last troublesome days spent in a wheelchair, suffering from advanced stages of Multiple Sclerosis.
Thomas Stephenson threw out the M.D. after his name for a few short moments and returned to that eighteen-year-old teenager as he gazed into her peacefully closed eyes – and the memories came flooding back, and so did the tears. He remembered the countless nights they made love till dawn and what invaluable teachings she patiently night after night gave to him as secret lovers – an experience only a special type of person can give to one so inexperienced. It was she who taught him to go slow, to savor the foreplay, to hold hands, take the time – yes, the time – to look into a lover’s eyes and feel the moment, cherish the warmth of the hug and not hop straight into bed. Yes, it was Theresa Genovese who was responsible for teaching him about making ultimate love to a woman; something he never forgot. How lucky he was. How lucky, indeed, to have known such a vibrant, loving, sensual and good woman for the brief, wrinkle in time they shared together.
Coming next week: Don’t miss Mark E. DeSade’s next story ‘Mrs. Clark’