If Only Houses
     Could Talk
 

by Jamie Phillips
copyright © 2006

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“Go to your room NOW, young lady,” Keith, Beth’s husband of only three weeks, snapped at the end of a long lecture about her snarly attitude.

Beth obeyed promptly with her heart pounding and mouth dry with excitement. Their honeymoon, two weeks in a hotel at a sun-drenched beach, had been wonderful but it was nice to get back to their new home. She’d spent the past few days working him up to that tummy-tingling command. A command she’d dreamt of since she was a kid and never experienced until one weekend when she’d stayed over at Keith’s apartment, shortly after they’d started dating. From then on, she knew she was going to marry Keith and obviously he felt the same, because here they were, married.

She slowly mounted the stairs, running her hand along the oak banister, smoothed by countless hands, and maybe a few bottoms, for the house was an old Victorian home in a quiet part of town. Most of the neighbors were elderly, which suited the newlyweds. When they’d finished their final tour before deciding to buy, Keith had said, with a grin and a pat on Beth’s bottom, that the neighbors would be too deaf to hear her yelping. Beth hoped tonight would confirm Keith’s prediction; she longed to let go and really yell, which she hadn’t been able to do in his or her thin-walled modern apartments. Pushing open the door to their bedroom, Beth switched on the light and entered. Light from a streetlight shone in through the room’s one window, glistening on the raindrops running down the glass, before Beth drew the drapes and shut out the wet, wintry night. Such a change from their two weeks in the Caribbean sun but imminently more suitable for what was to come, because despite all those nearly naked bottoms, sand, sea and spanking didn’t go together.

With trembling hands, Beth lifted her skirt and slipped her panties and hose to her ankles. She stepped out of them, folded them neatly on the bed where he would see them, before shaking her skirt back into neatness. She walked nervously to the corner he’d designated as ‘hers’ on their first night back from their honeymoon. She’d tried it out more than once during this past week, whenever she was alone. Just to see how it felt, she’d told herself as the fluttery feelings in her middle went wild with anticipation. The feelings were there now, like liquid fire in her veins. Placing her hands on her head, Beth began the long wait.

The silence in the room grew until she thought she could hear her own pounding heart echoing from the walls around her. It sounded like the house was excited too. She stared at the wallpaper in front of her, an old Victorian pattern, and imagined the winding curly-cues on the paper as voluptuous, heavy, endless breasts and buttocks in red velvet. A loud sigh made Beth jump in surprise. She hadn’t heard Keith come in. She longed to look round at him but it was forbidden. He would tell her soon enough when she was to leave the corner.

The house observed the new young woman standing so straight and tall in the corner. Why did they never learn? She seemed an intelligent girl, pretty too with her raven hair, green eyes and slim figure. Yet here she was, not a week after they’d moved in, standing, waiting, as all the previous naughty girls had. Some of the others you could understand, that young madam back in 1955 for instance. She’d led her parents a merry dance with her Beatnik boyfriends and their rock and roll parties. She spent half her young life in that corner and the other half over her Mum or Dad’s knee getting her backside walloped with a round, shiny wooden spoon. How she howled! Remembering the sound of her cries, the house shivered, dislodging dust from the picture rail high up near the ceiling. But the brat never learned. Every Sunday morning before church, whack, whack, whack… and then she’d miss her curfew again the very next Saturday night. They were all just memories now and the house had so many locked up inside its solid brick walls…

The first owner, back in 1895 when the house was newly-built, was a middle-aged businessman with a young wife, Emily. She was a pretty girl in that English Rose way with golden hair and blue eyes, a trophy wife people say nowadays. They had two servants, a maid for the house and a man for the garden and the heavy jobs about the house. He was the butler too, when they had important guests. The two servants didn’t live in; the maid was married and the gardener too young to live in with a pretty young mistress and the master so often away. Business, it seemed, was slow and, on those nights when the master was out of town, the butler would stay late. He and Emily would retire for the evening with a brandy bottle, and a remarkable transformation took place. The butler, in his best black suit would become the Master and Emily, dressed in the maid’s every day robe, the chambermaid.

“A brandy, gal,” the butler said, stretching out his long legs as he slouched in the armchair, “and get yourself one. Put a smile on your whey face.”

Emily poured the drinks and brought his on a tray, standing nervously before him. “Will you be needing anything else from me, Sir?” she asked plaintively.

“Drink your drink, like I told you,” the butler answered. “I’ll tell you when I need something.”

Emily brought her glass from the dressing table and knelt at his feet, sipping the fiery liquid as though she never touched alcohol normally, which the house knew wasn’t the case.

“Should I turn down your bed, Sir,” she asked after a moment’s silence.

“Why would I want that this early?” the butler demanded. “Don’t tell me you’ve failed to do your jobs again, gal! I’ll skin you alive if you have!”

“I-I-I’ve been so b-busy t-today, Sir,” poor Emily stammered.

“By thunder, gal, I should turn you off without a reference,” the butler roared. “You are useless. What are you?”

“U-useless, S-sir, b-but please don’t fire me,” Emily begged. “I’m learning and I’ve nowhere to go.” She placed the glass on the floor and knelt before him, her hands clasped in prayer.

“Bah! Enough of your whimpering,” the butler said, “get back to your duties. I’ll see you make the bed and make it right. Jump to it.” He lightly slapped her face, which sent her sprawling (under her own momentum).

“Thank you, Sir,” Emily gasped and scrambled to her feet, scurrying to the bed, where, under the butler’s beady eyes, she made and re-made it until he said stop.

“Finally, gal, finally,” the butler snorted, “but it’s taken half the night to teach you.” He grabbed her arm and marched Emily back to the armchair.

“Please, Sir,” she whimpered, “you’re hurting my arm.”

“You won’t feel your arm hurt in a minute, my gal. You’ll be too busy worrying about your backside.”

“Oh no, Sir, please…”

She may as well have saved her breath for what was coming. The butler plunked his own behind down on the chair and flipped her over his left knee. Then, despite her even more tearful protests, up went the maid’s dress and Emily disappeared into the tent of heavy material that hung down from her waist to the floor. Her feet drummed the floor when she felt him undoing the drawstring of her bloomers but his right leg clamped her so tightly she couldn’t escape. Soon only Emily’s white bottom could be seen, with its neat golden oval of fur between her thighs. Something he always reminded her of by tickling it with his fingers. The butler took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve with deliberate care while his young mistress awaited the onslaught with piteous mewing from down by the floor. When he was ready, he’d pull a thick two-tailed strap from his jacket pocket and leather her with it.

He never failed to spank her anything but soundly, turning her round white orbs pink, then red, as red as her face when she was allowed up. It was strange that she’d object to him pulling down her bloomers when she was over his knee but she couldn’t wait for him to get them off her feet when she was on the bed and welcoming him in.

It’s as well Emily never really had to earn her living as a maid, the house felt. For in all the years they played these games, she never seemed able to do the jobs right, whether it was cleaning his shoes, dusting the shelves, or sweeping the carpet, it was never to his satisfaction and her poor bottom suffered accordingly. Until, some ten years later, her husband died suddenly and left her everything. She sold up quickly and the house never saw her, her children or the butler again.

Oh, Emily knew what she was doing and what she wanted all right, the house felt, not like the quiet mouse of a wife who came after. She quaked and cried as her husband, unbuckling his belt and sliding it from his waistband, pulled her to him. After bracing himself against the bed, he would push his left knee between her legs, lift her dress and lower her drawers. Her thin buttocks would clench tight as a drum while his doubled-up leather belt cracked smartly on them, beating a rapid tattoo to the accompaniment of her pleading wails and dancing feet. His arm around her waist, forcing her to bend over, kept her hips steady, but, occasionally, her wriggling would have the belt land short, its tip striking the tender parts between her cheeks and she’d howl even louder. It seemed she was so sore when he let her go, she couldn’t put her behind on the bed. She just scrambled onto it and knelt there -- scarlet tail in the air and her face buried in the pillow -- until he climbed up behind and gave her another kind of seeing to. You’d think with the way she behaved, so frightened towards him, that she’d be as good as gold after, but no. In two or three weeks she’d be fidgeting and fussing him, her sharp little tongue snapping at his heels until they’d go through the whole teary thing again. Really, it was pathetic…

Beth heard her husband’s footsteps on the stairs and smartened up, placing her feet together and setting her back straight. She noted with a wry smile how she’d thought ‘her husband’ rather than Keith, making him more formal, scarier, and less her kind, easy-going everyday Keith, who wasn’t scary at all.

The house noted approvingly that she was a model of wifely obedience, unlike the last young woman who lived here, the redheaded Irish girl. She was a holy terror; her personality veered from quiet loving to furious anger, sometimes without any provocation. All her quarrels with her boyfriend, Gerry, ended in fierce fights started by her with punching and scratching but, after he’d physically overpowered her, ended by him with hard spankings…

“You bastard,” Kate screamed,  her normally attractive face contorted with fury as she flew at Gerry, who was in the act of locking the door behind him. She crashed into him, sending him staggering back with the force of her attack, her nails trying to gouge skin from his cheek.

Gerry thrust her away forcefully. “What’s the matter with you now?” he demanded.

Kate didn’t reply. She returned to the fray, her fists pummeling Gerry’s head and chest. She kicked his legs, aiming for a knee in his groin.

“You’ve been with her again,” she screamed her arms and legs landing frustratingly ineffectual blows on her boyfriend’s body.

“I’ve been working late,” Gerry replied steadily, holding her at arm’s length with his free hand. “As I told you I would be a week ago when we won the contract. I told you so I wouldn’t have to go through this nonsense again when I came home.”

“Liar,” Kate spat out, “liar.”

Gerry stepped sideways, his years of football training coming to the fore. Grabbing one flailing arm he twisted it up her back, all the while dancing lightly on his feet to avoid the stamping heels that threatened to break his toes. Swinging his free hand up to the ceiling, he brought it down to land with a loud S-M-A-CK on her denimed backside. Kate struggled against her twisted arm, trying to break his hold, but Gerry was used to her tricks and held on tight. He knew she wouldn’t stop her attack at this stage. He walloped her bottom again and she swore at him, kicking backwards with her foot, hoping to catch his shin.

“You, Miss, are in serious trouble,” Gerry said evenly, maintaining a tight grip on her arm and his temper, as he hauled her away from the door, up the stairs and into their bedroom. Kate’s struggles to delay the inevitable were fruitless. Her small frame, half Gerry’s weight, wasn’t built for fighting ex-football players. Gerry sent Kate sprawling face down on the bed before pressing his left knee on her back. With her pinned, he let her arm loose and began looking for the button of her jeans under her waist. Kate went wild. Now that her arms were free, she twisted and swung a fist back at his face. Gerry dodged and grabbed her arm again. This time he wedged her arm under the knee on her back before undoing her jeans and sliding them off her hips.

Kate, bucked and twisted, enraged by her impotence and his easy subjugation of her body, all the more bitter while her mind was still furiously free. She knew her wriggling only made it easier for him to remove her clothes, but she wouldn’t stop. Her panties soon followed her jeans down her thighs and the evening air was cold on her butt. Tears of rage blurred her vision as she strove desperately to escape from the hard hand she could see descending on her upturned bottom.

To Be Continued...