Housework, cleaning etc. in return for an adopted aunty.NO Sex or slavery.I'm looking for a GENUINE aunty.Mature age preferred.
I am a 42 yr old male from Sydney, Australia, who occasionally lacks self discipline, is looking for an old fashioned aunty, kind but firm, to give me guidance, discipline and if necessary - appropraite correction. I'm very good at housework and find the dsicipline good for me.
References available from a highly reputable catholic order for I have performed voluntary work for 8 years.
After Jack left, I turned off the light as required. Everything was dark. This may seem pretty obvious, but it was then that I realized there was darkness and darkness. I opened the curtains and looked out. My God, who put all those lights in the sky? Of course I had seen stars before, but that is all I had ever done - saw them. I didn't think how pretty they were or nice they looked, they were just there, like the painting on my office wall.
But tonight I saw them. Could they really be so far away? Surely I could reach and touch them? Maybe in some ways that's what I wanted to do - always wanted to do.
I lay on my bed, my mind filled with thoughts. This was not unusual, my mind was always filled with thoughts at night. Tonight though was different.
I wasn't thinking of how I could get results, or who was trying to screw me or the people I represent. I wasn't thinking how I could negate them, who I could use, who I could turn against others.
I was thinking of a cute, naive boy who I had taken advantage of. I was thinking of Father Brian and what he and the nuns represented. I was thinking about who smiled through joy and laughed for pleasure.
I was not proud of what happened with Jack. This time he was not a conquest. I felt guilt. If I have to feel guilty, at least I was in the right place.
My eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. For some reason, this simple, empty room devoid of any luxury felt incredibly sexy. I did not know why at first, then I realized it was because it represented discipline, and also the simple things in life.
I removed the hospital style pyjamas that had been left out for me and lay there naked. It was not a warm night, but it felt right to remove the only vestige of comfort I had with me in the room.
I thought about Jack hanging out of the window getting caned by Father Brian. I had heard about caning but never thought much about it. It was not my concern. I didn't have children and if some teacher whacked some brat, I wasn't going to worry about it.
But I found that my thinking was contradictory, for although I claim not to have taken much notice, there was always something lurking below the surface.
I realized that now as I recalled Jack yelling as he was caned. Father Brian was singing My Way, and my body was singing a Bohemian Rhapsody.
I turned on my stomach, rubbing myself against the coarse bedspread. My bottom arched in the air, offering myself to some unknown person. Was it Father Brian or Mother Superior.
Exhaustion set in, and eventually I slept. I slept like an innocent child who knew little of the world beyond school or home. A child ignorant of what goes on behind closed boardroom doors, or cabinet offices. Knowing there were nice people and not so nice people, but not realizing what shits there are out there; those who would sell their mothers or even their country if it suited their purpose.
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Read the rest of this hideous, perverted story here
From: Mike Hitchen (newperspectives@goconnect.net)
Copyright 2000 Mike Hitchen. All Rights Reserved. The right of Mike Hitchen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Australian Copyright Act 1968. The author has asserted his Moral Rights.
Part 1
They say "You should never go back", but that is exactly what I did. I had no great expectations that everything would be the same, after all it was thirty years since I visited my home town.
Yet I stood on the pavement on a cold and wet afternoon looking at a sign on a shop. "The Candy Box". Amidst new and strange architectural nightmares that made me want to start singing "Little Boxes", an old and familiar sign. Sure, the shop had been modernized. Plate glass windows displayed sweets and chocolates that had never been heard of thirty years ago, but the shop was still there. I wondered what happened to the people who used to run the shop?
Mrs Evans was the first owner, and when she died her daughter Miss Evans took over. I suppose they did have first names, but to us kids it was always Mrs and Miss. We never knew about Mr Evans. Our mums would talk in hushed voices about him, then suddenly change the subject when little flapping ears came too close. "Died in the war" my mum told me when I asked; then told me to go and wash my hands and be quick smart about it because tea was ready.
I never did believe he died in the war. Kids are not daft, they pick up on atmosphere and exchanged glances. Miniature Sherlock Holmes. Anyway, what we didn't know, we invented.
Miss Evans was 25 and very attractive. It was the age of mini-skirts and I remember the furor that erupted when Miss Evans first wore a mini skirt in the shop. "Disgraceful, shouldn't be allowed" or "No discipline that's her problem; her mum was far too soft on her". Mrs Jenkins even informed my mum that "No good will come of that girl, you mark my words."
I didn't mind the mini skirt and neither did Billy Jenkins who got a clip across when the ear when he told his mum so.
It was the bit about no discipline that puzzled me. It was well known to us that Mrs Evans had her own way of dealing of schoolboy and schoolgirl shoplifters. We didn't actually think of it as shoplifting, we just thought of it as "knicking something from the old woman". I laugh at that now, as "The Old Woman was the same age as I am now on this cold, wet afternoon."
Those days were yesterday, but how long ago was yesterday? Sometimes it seems like a hundred years ago; others - well, it seems like yesterday. Too many times perhaps, I wish it was.
Her method was simple and swift. Into the back room for a damn good hiding. Once finished no more was said - it was over and done with. Boys and girls both felt the weight of Mrs Evans justice; equal opportunity I suppose.
She had two implements which she collectively called "The Avengers". This was in the days when boys imagined themselves to be John Steed and the girls, Emma Peel.
If you pinched anything under a shilling it was six with the slipper (called Emma). If it was over a shilling, it was up to nine with the cane, which she named John. Very sexist I suppose, but in those days if you mentioned "glass ceiling" you would either think of a greenhouse, (without even thinking of what effect it may have), or your mum would say "Very nice, but a devil of a job to clean".
Many a young boy or girl would come out from the back room rubbing their bottoms. They always said how hard she whacked, but that they didn't cry. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't, but no one ever seemed to be in the same distress as when Mr Williams the Headmaster (he was a fuuny man), or Mrs Thomas his Deputy gave the cane - and they did it over clothes. Mrs Evans did it on the bare!! .
Read the rest of this rivetting story here
