Morning all and welcome to the debut appearance of a new spanking tale, which I hope will meet with your approval. I quite like it, and I think that, whether you like the story or not, you'll find it well written.
So, with no further ado (oh look, there goes a fleet footed pile of ado!) let the fiction commence.
The Mother-in-law Solution
Ivy Bradshaw hummed happily to herself as she buzzed around her kitchen, rolling, kneading and shaping dough for her signature iced buns.
Life, she felt, was good. She had worried a little that the house would seem too large to her once Cheryl, her only daughter, left, but it had been nearly two months since the wedding, and the solitude still seemed like a blessing.
Of course, she rarely went even half a day without seeing one of her friends or neighbours, and the Parish Council were always delighted when she visited, carrying a large basket from which the smell of baked goods escaped. It was nice, however, to have her refuge to return to, and her own company to enjoy.
No one disrupted the gentle organisation of her life, and her kitchen reflected that. She knew just where everything was, and everything that she needed was there. It had not been like that when Cheryl had lived with her; that girl had been forever taking the last of the dried fruit to munch, or swigging away the last drop of milk, and putting the empty bottle back into the fridge.
Still, Ivy was happy that Cheryl had found a good husband; Tom was a gentle man, slow to anger and, well, steady. Ivy was sure that his influence would gradually work to settle Cheryl down.
Ivy stretched up to reach her cooling rack from off the top of the cupboard where she kept her baking tins; she stood five feet eight inches in bare feet, with her worn rubber soled slippers adding little. The women of her family has always been fairly tall, and tending towards the buxom.
No matter how many items she bought from the local supermarket, Ivy never needed any help to carry them home. She was an easily recognisable figure as she strode purposely around, her bulging bags swinging along beside her. She had an easy natural grace.
There was a knock at the back door, which stood at the end of a short passage running from the rear of the kitchen. Ivy was not given to fancy, but somehow it seemed to her to be a noise full of despondency and surrender.
She stood for a moment, head on one side as she thought about that. And who would be knocking there? Neighbours and tradesmen would come to the front door, and ring the bell. Cheryl used the back, but she would have burst in unannounced.
Ivy was puzzled. She wiped flour from her hands on the apron tied tightly around her midriff, and then reached behind her to untie it. She could never meet a visitor dressed in such a manner.
Tugging it away from her, she folded it neatly and placed it on the large wooden table that stood at the centre of the room. Her straight green skirt, falling to just below her knees, framed her well rounded bottom, and into was tucked an ivory coloured silk blouse. Ivy took pride in her appearance.
There was only one way to see who this unexpected visitor was. She set off towards the back door.
As she approached she could see the outline of a square shouldered figure through the twin frosted glass panels that occupied the upper half of the door. Instantly she had an idea as to who stood there, although surely he would have just entered once he had announced his presence?
Ivy grasped the handle, and pulled open the door. She had been right! There stood her son-in-law, Tom.
She took him in with a glance. He seemed barely himself, standing slouched, shoulders hunched and chin very nearly on his chest. There was a little light drizzle in the air, and his usually neat hair seemed lank and miserable.
Altogether he seemed desperately fed up.
“Tom. Don't just stand there like a wet weekend. Get on inside, at once.”
“Hello Ivy.” The words struggled to escape from lips that seemed to tremble as they moved. He took two steps into the house, and shook himself, like a sorrowful Great Dane that had chased a bouncing ball into the deeps of a duck pond in Winter.
Ivy reached out and took hold of his arm. She pulled him further into the house.
“Come on. You'll catch your death out there. I'm just in the kitchen; it's lovely and warm in here.”
Tom allowed himself to be directed into the kitchen; it was like entering a new world of good cheer.
Ivy looked at him appraisingly.
“Go on lad. Sit by the table. I was just making a brew. It'll be but a couple of minutes. A good cuppa can always drive the worries of the world away.”
Tom pulled out a chair that was placed at the end of the table, and sat obediently. His shoulders slumped, and his face had a rather awful blank expression. He looked, to Ivy, like a man who had given up.
She busied herself making tea. The pot had already been warming, so she emptied it and put three good big spoons of tea leaves into it, before adding just the right amount of hot water. Four firm swirls of a spoon to mix it, and then she could let the natural goodness ooze out into the liquid.
She placed the pot onto a mat, in front of where Tom sat. She brought milk from the fridge and two large solid mugs that had adorned a large wooden mug tree; Ivy had no truck with fancy little china cups when a healing measure of tea was needed.
A second solid chair stood to the left of the table, at the end by Tom. Ivy sat on it, and looked carefully into Tom's face. From the outside she seemed calm, but inside her heart raced. Had something happened to Cheryl?
None of her fear showed in her voice, which was calm and forceful.
“Alright now, Tom. Tea'll be a couple of minutes. What's the matter?”
Tom shook himself again, and sighed a sigh as deep as the valleys of the Cheddar Gorge.
“Oh Ivy, I don't know what to do.” His voice was a whisper of despair, the last thread from which his reason dangled.
“Tom. Look at me.” Her words came a little more sharply than she had intended, but now even Ivy had been driven to the edge of panic.
Her tone rocked Tom. He sat straighter, and made eye contact with his mother-in-law for the first time.
“I don't know what to do about Cheryl. I....just don't.”
Ivy relaxed a little. That didn't sound like Cheryl was hurt. Picking up a silver tea strainer she poured tea for them both while she thought about what to say next.
Tom gratefully reached for his mug, and took a large swig of the restorative fluid. Both of his parents had died six years before, within a month of each other, but he still remembered the faith that his Mom had placed in strong tea.
The beverage was still extremely hot, but Tom didn't notice the sting in his mouth and throat as he gulped it down. The heat was a comfort to him.
“What's that lass done now?” Ivy, who well remembered how wilful her daughter could be, was now sure that nothing untoward had happened to her. Not just yet, at least.
“I can't...She just never listens...How do I....?” Tom gabbled, his words tripping over each other as they gamboled off his tongue.
“Hey!” Ivy snapped. “Calm now. Slow down. What has Cheryl done?”
“Anything she bloody wants!” Tom shocked himself. He was an old fashioned lad, and not given to swearing in front of women.
“Ah, that sounds like our Cheryl. What exactly has she been up to?”
“She won't listen to me. She won't cook, or clean. She wants me to get a woman in. She stays up 'til all hours. She's been drinking at lunchtime. She keeps spending the housekeeping money on clothes!”
Ivy grimaced. Cheryl liked to get her own way, and it probably hadn't helped that her Dad had left when she was still a toddler. Kids learned to respect a man when they had a strong father around.
“Have you told her how you feel?”
“Of course I have. I don't want much; I'm happy to get someone to do the cleaning. I just want her to behave like a wife!”
Now it was Ivy's turn to sigh. It seemed to her that Cheryl was behaving like a child, suddenly given her freedom, and pushing to find the point where someone finally said no. There seemed to be one obvious answer.
She looked Tom over. He was tall and solid, a strong man in the best sense of the phrase. Ivy knew his parents, from when she first married, and she knew that they had been firm believers in discipline. That Tom had grown up so well in spite of losing them when he was only fifteen years old proved that.
Ivy hesitated. She didn't really want to condemn her twenty year old daughter to being treated like a naughty child, but she could see no other way.
“Have you tried smacking her bottom?”
The words seemed to have a life of their own; they hung in the air, defying gravity, like a word bubble in a cartoon panel. Ivy felt that she could walk around them, examine them from all sides. Perhaps if she pricked them with a needle they would burst, and it would be as if she had never uttered them.
Her heart fluttered, like a trapped bird. She almost wanted to recall the words, cast out her net and drag them back before Tom could hear them.
Tom shook his head, not so much to say no but more to clear his ears; something was obviously interfering with them, as the words that slipped through made no sense to him.
His mouth flopped open, but the words he tried to form emerged merely as a series of gulps.
“Well, have you?” Ivy was committed now.
“What? Hit her?” Tom was astounded. How could his true love's mother suggest such a thing? He wiped his hand across his mouth, and then took a further slug of tea, as though trying to flush away an unpleasant taste. “You mean, smack her?”
“Yes Tom, I mean smack her. She's acting like a spoilt child, like she has no respect for you. What would you do if she were your child? You expect to have kids?”
“Well, yes, but...I dunno. Never thought about it. Ummm...”
Ivy liked Tom; she had always felt he was upright. A straight back, a rock. She had no higher praise than to think of someone as a person upon whom one could rely.
She did not feel that these were the characteristics Tom was showing at present. In fact she was becoming rather annoyed at his guppy-like expression.
It was time that he grasped the nettle.
“Come on, man. It's easy enough. Open palm, swing arm, slap on bottom. Well, a lot of slaps, I suggest. Still, it's not a difficult principal.”
“Eh, but..she's my wife. How could I...?”
“You're not telling me your parents never tanned your backside. Are you?”
“Lord, no! My Mom was a terror with a carpet slipper when I needed it.”
“Well then. Do that.”
“But. She's my wife.”
“Who's acting like a spoilt brat. Put her over your knee and spank her bottom.”
Tom shrank back. This time the shake of his head definitely implied a negative. He folded his arms, and the back that had gradually grown straighter, began to hunch once more.
“I wouldn't know how to go about it. What would I...? How would I...?”
Now Ivy really was impatient. When a task needed doing she believed in getting on and doing it. She had no time for any wishy washy doubts, any buts or maybes. When action was required, action was taken.
She stood and pushed her chair a little way back from the table.
“For God's sake. It's not rocket science. They don't teach classes in it, yet parents for thousands of years have been doing it, when it's needed. Do I really have to show you how?”
This last question came probably a little too late, for Ivy had taken a step towards Tom, and leaning forward, she had grasped his earlobe between two powerful fingers.
She straightened, taking the ear with her, and, in the natural course of events, the rest of Tom followed too.
“What?” The question was stretched far beyond the bounds of the four letters that made it up, and did little to mollify Ivy.
With an absolute sense of exactly where everything lay in her domain Ivy took a single step back, one to her left and then sat, her plump bottom landing squarely on the seat of her wooden chair.
The laws of physics continued to apply. Tom was dragged forwards, sidewards and then down, as Ivy guided his long frame across her lap.
The chair was quite a high one, and, placed precisely across Ivy's legs, he dangled in space, his bottom clothed in faded blue jeans facing up to the Heavens.
“That's how you put a naughty child over your knee.” Ivy regarded him a little ruefully. Some of her anger had slipped away already, but she knew that she needed to pound at least a little backbone into her sorry son-in-law.
“What...what...what are you doing?” It was almost a wail, and it's only effect was to stiffen Ivy's resolve. Tom looked back over his shoulder, with large bewildered eyes.
Ivy flattened her hand and waved it towards his face.
“Look. Like this, see. Flat palm.”
She drew it back, and raised it high in the air. Time stood still; the movie camera swirled around, framed the shot, as the well built women in her neat skirt sat atop a tall wooden chair, a grown man balanced across her lap.
Time and sound rushed back in, as her hand fell, propelled by the full force of an arm used to wrestling with recalcitrant bread dough. Ivy had large hands; her right one smacked across the centre of Tom's upraised bottom.
Tom gave a little jolt. Words seemed to have deserted him. His head was a mess of cotton wool; his thoughts were struggling feebily to force their way through. None of this seemed even slightly real to him.
Ivy's hand fell, again, and again. It danced around the surface of his jeans, each step a heavy thumping slap, that stung his rump even through tautly pulled denim. Less of a waltz, and more of a heavy metal stomp.
Tom continued to utter largely wordless gasps, as Ivy spanked away. She felt that this was a good start, but further action was needed if Tom was to be given the necessary impetus to act.
Ivy reached down with her left arm, under Tom's chest, and tilted him back on to his feet. He stood, his face a bewildered mask; she felt sure the true and steady Tom was concealed close behind it.
“We're not done. This is a job that needs doing, and it needs doing properly.”
“Hush. This needs doing.”
Ivy turned slightly, and, with a firm tug, she unhooked the belt that curled around his jeans. A slight jerk, and with the eager aid of gravity his jeans slid down well muscled thighs.
Tom's bottom was guarded now only by a tight pair of black briefs, and Ivy took a moment to assess her son-in-law's frame. Briefly her eyes paused on the bulge in his pants; well, she thought, Cheryl has done very nicely there, indeed.
Snorting in amusement she shook the thought off, and, reaching for Tom once more, she pulled him back over her lap. She had expected at least a token of resistance; that he made no attempt to stop her confirmed that she still needed to impart a bit more fire.
She knew exactly where the heat would do the most good.
Ivy knew that, to drive the lesson home, she needed to spank Tom's bare bottom, and, as ever, she saw no point in delaying the inevitable. What can't be changed must always be faced.
She grabbed the waistband of his pants, and stretched them away from his body.
“Hang on. Ivy. What're you...?”
“You know good and well what I'm doing. Shut up and lie still.” There was a crack of authority to Ivy's voice, and, as Tom's pants slid down to lie pooled at the back of his knees, it was matched by the crack of her palm slapping down onto his smooth right cheek.
This time Tom clearly felt the sting, and Ivy added a quick flurry of half a dozen more to the same spot. Her hand was a powerful weapon, and as the white print of her fingers faded a red blush appeared..
Turning her attention to the left side of Tom's bottom she repeated the dose, each smack echoing around the tidy room, bouncing off cabinets and cooker.
Ivy's mouth was set in a firm concentrated line; she took to her task with the same dedication she brought to everything that she did. Her arm arced upwards time and again, before splatting her hand against the rapidly reddening rear.
As she spanked she kept up a commentary; her instructions to Tom.
“See, this is how you do it. Full swings, open palm. One side then the next. Half a dozen here, half a dozen there. Cover the whole bottom. It's like painting – don't stop until the whole area is nice and red.”
She spoke firmly and slowly. After each word she administered another smack. The pace was relentless, and the force of her slaps didn't alter in the least.
Tom felt his head clearing, as the heat in his bottom grew. He had not been spanked for nearly ten years. On reflection perhaps it was nearer to eight; the growing pain in his rear served to concentrate his mind admirably.
Yes, that was right; his school's Headmistress had bent him over in her office, and administered 6 of the best with a heavy plimsoll. Funny but in his memory that stung rather less than Ivy's hand did.
He wriggled; oddly the surface of his bottom seemed to be growing numb, each smack instead reverberating through his entire body. Tom gasped and rocked as Ivy tattooed a further volley of smacks across the width of his behind.
Suddenly there was silence.
Ivy looked down at the glowing red rump, and felt that, as usual, she had done a good job. Or, at least, the best job she could. Now she had to gauge how Tom would react.
Lovingly she caressed the battered flesh; a gentle kiss from her hand serving to punctuate the punishment.
Ivy pulled Tom's pants back up over his bottom. He sucked in his breath as they covered the glowing fires that pulsed there.
Once again Ivy tipped Tom onto his feet, and, with no conscious thought whatsoever, his hands leapt around to clutch the burning globes of his bottom. He rubbed vigorously at them, trying to massage the fires into submission.
As Tom stood, his back pulled into a slight arch by the actions of his hands, Ivy peeked once more at his underpants. She was pleased to see that there was no evidence of arousal; she knew that some men did get turned on by being beaten.
Tom was still incapable of forming a coherent sentence. Ivy regarded him thoughtfully.
“Alright Tom, pull up your trousers. Time you were on your way while that memory's fresh.” Ivy felt that it would be best if Tom confronted Cheryl whilst the sting of his punishment was still raw. She felt sure it would motivate him to be firm in his turn.
Tom was far from convinced that letting go of his bottom was a good idea. He feared that, without his hands to restrain them, his buttocks where likely to explode. The look on Ivy's face though.....Probably best to do what she suggested.
“Now Tom. You know what you need to do. Go home, and tell Cheryl what you expect from her. And then show her what happens to naughty brats who won't behave like grown ups.
“She's a married woman. Past time she started to act like it. Oh, I know. The idea of hurting her pains you. You love her. But a little pain, in the right place at the right time, won't harm her. It'll be a wake up call.
“Just like the one I've given you.”
Tom certainly felt wide awake. And, just at present, the idea of giving his wife a good long spanking pained him rather less than his own punishment had.
Ivy took a long look at her son-in-law. He already stood straighter than when he had arrived in her kitchen, more his usual self. Looking within herself she found no regret for her actions, and no regret for what she was sure would soon happen to her daughter.
“Ivy, I'm sorry about...how I was when I got here. Everything had just gotten too much for me.”
Ivy shook her head.
“No, don't worry lad. This is what family's for; somewhere to go when the world is too much. Somewhere to get straightened out.”
“Well, you certainly set me straight.” Tom chuckled and rubbed gently at his bottom. The sting seemed to have hardly faded at all. “I best be off. I need to talk to Cheryl.”
Ivy moved closer to him, and took hold of his arm. She raised his hand, and turned it over, palm up.
“Well, that looks strong enough to do the job. Look, though, if you don't think the message is getting home, don't be afraid to use a good solid slipper as well. My Cheryl's like me; pig headed, and built solid.
“I got a good tanning often enough at school, and it never did me no harm. I just laughed it off. Seems like Cheryl's the same, so make sure she can't sit comfortably when you finish.”
“Alright Mom. You're the boss.” Ivy's heart glowed; she had been telling Tom to call her Mom for months, and this was the first time that he had. Ivy felt warm inside, fully content. She had done her bit to make sure her family survived.
“I'll give you a call, to let you know how it goes. Well, unless Cheryl gets here first!”
“I reckon you'll find that she'll be keen to be with you, once she's learned her lesson. But feel free to call me. Goodbye Tom. Good luck.”
Tom nodded his farewell, and, pulling his jacket back on, he marched down the passage, full of fire and purpose, and propelled by the burning that lurked right behind him.
Ivy stood; there was still baking that needed doing. Reaching for her apron once again, a sprightly melody came to her, and she once more began to hum happily to herself.
Tom will be back in The Mother-in-law Solution Part 2
Well, I hope that you enjoyed that. Writing it was almost sheer pleasure, a busy 2 or 3 hours one Sunday afternoon recently.
Please comment as you feel fit.
All the best