Mr. Wilberforce would not have called himself a fussy man, but he did like everything to
have its place and to be in it. Inside the house was easy enough. Every space, nook and
cranny was his.
Towels naturally gravitated to the towel drawer. Socks were where they belonged. He had
trained his daily help to iron his shirts the way he liked them and hang them in order of
prestige – from casual through business to dress. His suits went to the cleaner to be
pressed. He took pleasure in shining his own shoes to a luster of perfection.
The kitchen contained the ingredients he wanted where he wanted them. He never ran out.
He knew his way round the grocery store blindfold. He could even predict where the next
shuffle of goods would leave the balsamic vinegar or the teriyaki sauce.
Mr. Wilberforce was in charge inside his house. His garden, however, suffered from
neighbors. Not that they deliberately invaded his garden or purposefully damaged its
symmetry. They just overflowed on occasion from their own territory. This was a
neighborhood without fences or walls, so it was easy enough to stray.
The wind caught grass cuttings and blew them onto Mr. Wilberforce’s patio. Barbecue
smoke found its way into his bedroom. Toys and bicycles migrated to the fringes of his
lawns.
Mr. Wilberforce could handle grass on the patio. He was handy with a brush. He enjoyed
a good barbecue. And thoughtlessly abandoned bicycles could be quietly wheeled back to
their own enclave. He could handle most things. But not all.
On this evening Mr. Wilberforce met his bête noire. He was dressed, for a formal dinner
at the Business Club, in tuxedo, bowtie and brilliantly shined shoes. His face still stung
slightly from a close shave. As he went to lock the back door he glanced out of the
window. And froze.
Slowly he started to move, through the door, and into the garden. Stunned, he stared at
the pool. Two footballs floated at the shallow end. A child’s garden rake bobbed at the
deep end.
These invasions he could deal with. The other invasion spelled long hours of labor to
return cherished order to his life.
A thin film of grass cuttings turned the pool a delicate shade of summer green. Mr.
Wilberforce shuddered.
“Sorry!”
He heard the voice of Sally the next door neighbor approaching.
“The wind caught the cuttings before I got the lid on the bin. Don’t worry, the robot
filter gizmo will clear it.”
Mr. Wilberforce turned to look at Sally.
“The ‘robot filter gizmo’ is in the shop being repaired. It got indigestion after the
last load of your escapee cuttings! This lot will have to be cleared out with the net. I
don’t suppose you’d like to do it?”
“No sir! I got enough to do keeping my own place in order. It won’t take you long.”
“It will take hours. It is hardly neighborly of you to spread your garden waste in my
pool then walk away.”
Sally placed one hand on her hip. She was wearing tight denim shorts and an
outrageously skimpy cotton top. She tossed her head to clear her thick blonde hair from
her eyes.
“So smack my ass!”
Mr. Wilberforce stiffened. In fact, to his surprise, he stiffened in more ways than
one.
“Must you be so vulgar, Mrs. Roberts? This is not the Bronx. This is Connecticut.”
Sally threw her golden mane back and laughed so hard that Mr. Wilberforce could see her
tonsils. They looked very pink and healthy. As did the full, plump pair of breasts that
squeezed voluptuously from the plunging neckline of the tiny top. Mr. Wilberforce
stiffened even more. So much so that he had to shift his weight from one shiny shoe to
the other in a vain attempt to adjust his comfort. Sally caught the action and a knowing,
taunting look entered her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she ran the tip of her tongue over
her full pink lips. Mr. Wilberforce’s cock twitched and he jumped as if from an electric
shock. Sally pouted theatrically and tried to look contrite.
“I really am sorry, Mr. W. I know how meticulous you are. I’ll just take that little
net over there and put things right for you.”
Mr. Wilberforce watched as Sally swayed over to the very edge of the swimming pool and
picked up a small child’s fishing net, left behind by her brood. Slowly, sensuously, she
bent forwards and began deftly skimming the surface of the water to remove the grass
clippings. Mr. Wilberforce gasped. A sizeable expanse of Sally’s broad, plump bottom was
exposed by her almost unnecessarily gymnastic position. Her sturdy tanned thighs were
spread wide, thong-clad feet planted firmly on the tiled pool rim. A small tattoo of a
rose began just above her left ankle and coiled its way upwards towards the back of her
knee. Her calves were strong and smooth. Mr. Wilberforce’s cock throbbed.
“How am I doing? How does it look from where you’re standing, Mr. W?”
Mr. Wilberforce smiled at his neighbor’s muffled question. It was an interesting sort
of smile, rather sardonic, as if he knew something that Sally didn’t. His cock was a
solid, pulsing rod in his pristine Egyptian cotton underpants. His cock liked the look of
Sally’s broad, round buttocks, spilling wantonly from the measly confines of the
outrageously tiny shorts. It enjoyed the way they wobbled slightly as her body flexed
rhythmically, idly drawing the little net across the pool. It especially enjoyed the
thought of spanking those glorious sun-kissed orbs. Cocks always have minds of their own
and Mr. Wilberforce’s cock was, naturally, a most particular creature. Still smiling and
with a steely glint in his eye, Mr. Wilberforce approached his neighbor from behind. He
stood so close that he could smell Sally’s perfume, something rather fruity, almost
tropical, mixed with the warm musky scent of her body. Sensing his proximity, she dipped
forwards even more boldly than before, pushing her ample hips against Mr. Wilberforce’s
swollen crotch. His rigid cock rested against the delicious crevice of her ass and he
swallowed hard.
“Feels nice, hmm?”
Sally ground her bottom in Mr. Wilberforce’s crotch. His trousers were cut fashionably
tight and were barely able to contain a monstrous erection.
“Like that, honey? Mmm, I can feel you do . . .”
Mr. Wilberforce clasped his hands behind his back, hesitated a moment, then reached for
Sally’s barely covered buttocks. Sally bent over even further, leaning out to reach a
stray clump of grass.
“This makes toys on your lawn worthwhile, heh? You don’t mind grass in your pool now,
do you, Mr. W?”
Mr. Wilberforce’s hands stopped short of Sally’s rear. He had a vision of his pool full
of grass cuttings, twigs, branches, bushes and whole tree trunks. The whole lightly dusted
with tricycles and footballs.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Roberts. I mind very much!”
Mr. Wilberforce placed his hands on Sally’s half-naked rear and pushed. He was a large
man, with arm muscles well developed from regular lawn-cutting. Sally flew through the
air, and landed breasts first in the cool water. She disappeared under the surface for
several seconds then burst upwards, her hair plastered all over her shocked face. She
spluttered and blew, then turned as she treaded water to show her furious face to Mr.
Wilberforce.
“You bastard! I’m soaked! I’ll get you, you . . .”
Sally swam with a firm breast stroke to the side of the pool where the wrought iron
garden table stood on the tiles.
“Well, help me out, Mister Woman-beater!”
Mr. Wilberforce smiled at her description of him, though he’d have preferred
woman-spanker. His hand itched to complete Sally’s punishment. He felt Egyptian cotton
stitching give way under the pressure from within.
Mr. Wilberforce walked round the pool to Sally. The front of his trousers preceded him
by a respectable distance.
“Give me your hand, Mrs. Roberts.”
He leaned down to take Sally’s hand and pulled her easily out of the water. She dripped
on the tiles. Her top clung to her breasts and molded wetly to her large hard nipples. The
soaking denim shorts crept between her ass cheeks.
Sally put her hands on her hips and looked up at Mr. Wilberforce. She opened her mouth
to speak . . .
. . . and Mr. Wilberforce placed his hands on her shoulders, spun her round and
ignoring her surprised shriek bent her over the sturdy wrought iron table!
“I can see you still need teaching a lesson, Mrs. Roberts. Do pardon the cliché but
this will hurt you more than it hurts me.”
He took the waistband of Sally’s shorts in one large hand and tugged. He expected the
shorts to slide down her bottom and thighs after some resistance, but to his surprise and
to the delight of his barely restrained cock the water and sun-weakened seams gave way. He
found himself with Sally pressed against the table with one hand, the remains of her
shorts in the other, and a plump bare wet backside wriggling furiously inches from his
rampant erection. Decisions, decisions…
Mr. Wilberforce raised his spanking arm. It had been quite some time since he last
disciplined a young lady but spanking was like riding a bicycle, once learned, never
forgotten.
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