Gemma and the Heating Engineer

A short spanking story introducing Gemma…..

The doorbell was the old-fashioned ding-dong type. She could hear the chimes echo about the interior of the house, on the other side of the white front door.  Stepping back from the windowless door, she waited. A quick glance down to examine her red high heels, the shiny sheen of her pull up stockings and the ebony leather skirt. Flicking her hair back, she grimaced at the skirt. It was ridiculously short and not one of her favourites.  She had to stand on the bus, which meant she constantly yanked the hem down to try to ensure her bottom was covered. She knew it was sufficiently protected from prying eyes, but the skirt still felt too revealing.

The semi-detached house was narrow. A slither of a building on a street of matchbox ended houses.  The bay window at the front had the curtains drawn across even though the evening was swathed in dusky sunshine. The tiny front garden had been replaced with gravel and the weeds poked up indiscriminately.  She itched to heave the dandelions out.  As she reached up to ring the doorbell for a second time, the lock was drawn back and the door eased open.

“Gemma, sorry, please come him.”

The man opening the door was short in stature, with a close-cropped hairstyle masking his baldness. He worn plain blue slacks with a polo necked t-shirt.   His face was clean-shaven, slightly chubby cheeks and a multitude of wrinkles about his eyes. He could not hide the developing pot-belly, a paunch that came close to resting on his waistband.  She could see a tattoo of a rose on one upper arm. An old tattoo with washed out red colours.  The man stood to one side to let Gemma in.

“Thank you, Gareth,” said Gemma brightly.

She had to admit the inside of the house managed to appear spacious compared to the outer walls. Her heels echoed on the laminate flooring and she turned to wait for the door to close behind her.

“You’re on time, good,” said Gareth with a nod. “Come into the kitchen. Would you like a drink?”

“Just water, tap water is fine,” said Gemma tottering behind. She truly hated the heels as much as the skirt.  She watched him fill a tumbler glass with water from the kitchen tap and he placed it on the worktop before her.

“Thanks,” said Gemma taking a few sips. She noted he had not joined her.  “Um nice place.”

She scanned about the kitchen. At some point, it probably had been a contemporary design, now it was past its best. The granite worktop was stained in places and the wooden cupboards looked tired and scratched.  At first glance, the room appeared to be clean. However, Gemma’s keen eyes tore down the façade of cleanliness and sensed much grubbiness lay beneath the surface. Grimy marks about the hob, stains of coffee about the sink and there were crumbs of food pressed against the plinths. Somebody cleaned, but not very thoroughly.  She did not comment; it was not her place and it would have been rude. The house was superficially cleaned because once there had been a dutiful wife to do it and there was no longer. Gareth was a widower.

How had she come to be in his house, dressed so scantily and waiting patiently for something to happen?  They were not strangers but neither were they friends. They had met through mutual acquaintances a few weeks earlier and then they arranged to meet in a pub. A public arena to discuss what was intended. She outlined what was acceptable and he told her his expectations. They agreed she should go to his house and follow up with his plan. She was obliging as it was in her nature to be that way.

“Not nervous I hope,” said Gareth noticing Gemma fidgeting.

“No, fine,” said Gemma lying.

“What’s your safe-word?” asked Gareth.

“Rhubarb,” she said with a faint quirky smile. “I’m working my way through my favourite fruit and veg. Not that I’ve used it yet,” she added quickly.  Gareth raised an eyebrow at her choice of word but said nothing in reply.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s move on.”

He led Gemma into the sitting room. It was an open plan room adjoining the dining room through an archway and then on to patio doors and the small back garden. The blinds were drawn across the patio doors. Privacy was important to both of them. Gemma dropped her handbag down on a nearby chair and waited. The room, like the kitchen, had once been smarter. The bookcase was half-populated with books and she suspected he had removed many.

On the mantelpiece, in pride of place, was a photograph. A picture of a happy couple on their wedding day. Gareth was noticeably younger looking with a mop of hair and his suit had flares.  Gemma reckoned they had been married in the seventies and the fashion showed clearly in the design of her wedding dress. A petite woman with a beaming smile. Gareth’s arm was tucked tight about her body, his hand gripping her upper arm.

Gemma knew they practised a particular form of partnership. The kind of traditional marriage that her grandparents might of recognised.  Gareth had been the head of the household, controlling the day-to-day life of his wife in some shape or form. She had happily gone her about tasks knowing she was doing as he asked. Perhaps it helped avoid unnecessary arguments or maybe she was simply comfortable having her husband as the rooster. Turning away from the photo, Gemma was about to find out a little of what Gareth used to expect from his wife.

Gareth cleared his throat. “It’s a little spartan I know.”

Gemma gave a little shrug and then she caught his face out of the corner of her eye. “But I bet the plumbing is in good order, heh?”

Taking a step towards Gemma, Gareth’s eyes narrowed and her response was to remove hers from his face.

“I am a heating engineer, Gemma,” he said carefully. “I design and install heating systems in factories.”

“I know, but I thought, you know, it involves fitting pipes and hitting things with hammers…” her voice trailed off at the end. She gave a slight grimace. “Sorry, didn’t mean to imply anything else.”

“Lift up your skirt,” he said clearly.

Gemma heard the change in his voice. She immediately lowered her hands and lifted up the hem of the leather skirt. It was stiff and did not want to rise up past her thighs. Tugging she lifted the fabric over her bottom so he could clearly see what she was wearing beneath. A plain white thong, just as he had asked.

“Good,” was all he said. “Bend over.”

Gemma looked about, wondering where he meant.

“No, here, in the middle of the room. Touch your ankles.”

Oh crap! Thought Gemma. She much preferred to bend over something and have it support her. Instead, she was going to have to balance herself. Reaching down she spread her legs a little and managed to grasp her ankles. She could feel his fingertips adjust the skirt, ensuring her bottom was exposed to him.

“You have been disrespectful to me, Gemma,” said Gareth firmly. “Twice now. You will be disciplined.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Gemma between her legs. It was happening. The little tingling in her flesh and the buzz in her head, as if a button had been pressed. Taking a deep breath, she waited for him.

He had gone to fetch something close to hand and when he returned, she could see it was a crop. At the end was a small heart shaped piece of leather.  Gemma guessed it had not been purchased by Gareth but by his wife, perhaps as a gift.

It began as a repetitive tapping, first one cheek and then the other. Gemma remarked to herself he was precise, as she expected from an engineer.  Gradually he began to use more force and movement, the tapping became clear blows and she heard the crop as well as felt it.  She was tempted to wriggle her bottom enthusiastically but decided it was not Gareth’s style. Instead, she had to start processing the growing, nagging pain.

The first thoughts to rush through her head were always the unwanted ones. The annoying events at work, the politics and constantly changing targets, which had bombarded her email inbox. Then last night, there had been the frustrating conversation with her mother. Gemma had gritted her teeth as her mum re-iterated her little foibles and disappointments over Gemma’s stagnating life. The primary bone of contention – wasn’t she due a promotion? Finally, Gemma managed to prise her mother off the telephone and speak to her father. Another unsatisfactory exchange as he merely grunted a few words.

For a few brief minutes, Gemma was impervious to her stinging bottom. As spankings went, it was not on her radar of distress and she coped with his deliveries.

“Good heating systems, Gemma,” he said with clarity, “require regular maintenance, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” she gasped after another swipe of his crop descended, “absolutely.” She suppressed the desire to giggle. So far she was enjoying her spanking. Focusing on the pattern of blows, both in time and location, helped her divest her mind of worries. Her job, her inquisitive mother and her uncommunicative father. A plug had been pulled and she was emptying nicely down the drain.

There was a pause. Gemma did not believe they had finished. He had merely ramped her up, warmed up her posterior ready for the big tools. A paddle.  A long wooden paddle. The kind that whooshed and thudded on impact.  Gemma grimaced; she did not like paddles. However, the choice was his and not hers to make.

The blow made her jolt and she had to tighten her grip on her ankles. The next made her gasp audibly. The third bounced off the marble fireplace and echoed back. There was a definite pain to her bottom; a hot fiery burning sensation. She was being heated up, like a cauldron on a fire.  Did she think she was enjoying herself; she really could not describe how she was feeling. It was a not always about pain nor pleasure, sometimes it was simply a need, which had to be fulfilled. An indescribable yearning to have somebody spank her and make her lose herself.

She uttered her sounds of pain and discomfort. They were not said for his benefit, she had to release them to cope with the impact of the paddle. He was not being stingy or complacent, even though it was their first time. Some liked her to count aloud, others to say a thank you after each blow and the odd one wanted her to ask for each and every one. She catered for all types as long as they did not go too far.  She consider herself robust and durable. Spanking did not push her limits, not those that concentrated on her bottom.  If she wanted to be taken to her edge, her boundary of endurance, she picked her provider carefully. Experience was critical as well as the expertise in the craft of kinkery.  She was beginning to wonder if she should be more adventurous and lift some of her limitations. Seek out somebody who would dare her to be that bit more submissive, more yielding and tackle the riskier things about which she fantasised.

“Why you think plumbers require your derogation, Gemma, I don’t know,” he began to lecture. “Where would we be without them? Heh? What is wrong with being good with your hands, providing a service, helping people?” he landed another thud of his paddle and Gemma yelped.

Gareth had heard the lack of insincerity in her voice. She had made a similar comment in the pub when they met. Her voice had giggled slightly when she asked if he wore all-in-one overalls and a cheesy grin. Did he keep his tools hung on a belt? She had added. It had been years since Gareth carried a toolbox about with him. Nowadays, it was a computer, elaborate blueprints or documents containing complex specifications. He managed a team of engineers who built his designs and he worked with manufacturers to improve equipment. He used to do plumbing, between contracts to bring in extra cash, but it had been years since he have been called out in the middle of the night to fix an overflowing toilet.

Gemma did not answer, her mouth firmly shut.

“I train, I oversee and I innovate. Plumbers are problem solvers and thinkers. A good one is,” he clarified. “Just because you went to university, doesn’t give you the right to belittle people. Does it?”

“No, sir,” said Gemma and she almost lost her balance as he slapped the paddle against her crimson buttocks.

“You are a prissy little thing, aren’t you?” he said. “Strutting about, wanting the world to land on your platter all dandy.”

“Yes, sir,” she wheezed.

Gareth went quiet. He did not want to insult Gemma. He wanted her to think about what she said before she opened her mouth. Hearing her spouting away in the pub, bitching about her friends, vanilla or otherwise, he thought she needed to be reminded how bratty she sounded.

Gemma could just about make out the silver framed photograph on the mantelpiece.  The smiling faces, the protective embrace.  She realised why she was not bent over Gareth’s knee. It was where his wife would have been put. The intimate chastisement conducted over his lap so his hand could caress between blows. There in her position of humility, his wife would have listened to his little lectures and been apologetic.  She might have kicked back at him, struggled and cried, but ultimately she would have agreed to his disciplining ways. It was the nature of their relationship. Gareth would have felt the sense of control, of being in charged and creating a happy household.  In return, his meals were cooked on time and the house kept clean and tidy.

A sadness descended over Gemma. She had been fussing over inconsequential matters while Gareth had to deal with bigger losses in his life. Tears collected in her eyes, unshed they made her vision watery.

As Gemma wriggled and squirmed, the blows became harder but infrequent, he was building to the end. The final coda of energy was being expelled and the pain was clawing at her.

“I am sorry!” she cried out.

Gareth halted. Unlike her previous apology, this one was sincere and genuine. “Stand up.”

He had put down the paddle and held her elbow as she straightened up, making sure she was not dizzy. Letting go, she turned to face him. He saw the watery eyes.

“Are you OK?” he asked gently.

“Fine, just smarting tears, you know,” she smiled faintly to cover up her lies.

Gemma was not Gareth’s wife, nor never would be her substitute. He knew it and as he had spanked her bottom into a fiery mass, he had realised he was not recapturing those memories.  The connection was not there, the intimacy and the closure were absent. Gareth pursed his lips. He knew Gemma was lying but he did not think it was her pride that kept her from telling the truth. He sensed it was her pity and she was ashamed about her attitude towards him. Well, he thought, the spanking had worked then.

“I didn’t hear any rhubarbs?” he said with humour and she gave him a pretty smile in return, like his wife used to years ago.

“No, somebody else might get my rhubarb,” she said jokingly.

“Would you like me to rub cream into your bottom? Something soothing?” he suggested.

Gemma was touched by his proposal. She could envisage it was something he did with his wife, as they kissed and cuddled on the sofa. Finally, she and Gareth were making some kind of connection. She had submitted to his spanking to please him and he had reminded her not to dwell on trivial matters. His little lecture was about her sassy side, the one she fought to control and not let run rampant. He barely knew her, but he had spotted her weakness quickly.

“Thank you, that would be nice, sir,” she said demurely.

Gemma did get to lie across his lap as he applied a cool lotion to her burning buttock cheeks. When she laughed at the coldness, he did not mind her silliness and once applied she rolled off him and pulled her skirt back down.

He made them both coffee and there in his sitting room, they sat opposite each other and chatted about his wife. Gareth gradually opened up to speak about his marriage. How his wife had been submissive from the moment they met and how they had agreed to include rules and brought spanking into their relationship. Nobody else, their children, relatives or neighbours, knew about their secret lifestyle.

“Of course, we got a computer and eventually stumbled on the world of domestic discipline, realising there was a name to what we did. It was not long after she fell ill, and well, other things became more important,” said Gareth distracted.

Gemma left a little afterwards, the night sky had settled in and the buses were not as frequent. Even so, she chose to stand rather than sit. This time not because of hoards of people, but because she was more comfortable on her high heels than on her bottom.

She did not anticipate another spanking from Gareth. Sometimes it was like that- a one off. She drifted between her dominants, the kinky lovers, the sadistic types and the spanking ones. There were her regulars and occasionally she found one who she cleaved to for a longer period.

“So, no one owns you?” had said Gareth as he accompanied her to the front door. He understood her submission went beyond spanking; she had told him her penchant for bondage.

“Not yet, not in that way. One day, hopefully,” she had said with sincerity.

Gareth did not doubt she would find somebody. He could not deny she was beautiful and beguiling.  Somebody was bound to be tempted into possessing her.


Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.