Comic erotic short story in which Mavis Beauchamp’s secrets are revealed

Mavis Beauchamp had a very guilty secret or, to be more precise, she was a guilty secret.

Mavis Beauchamp took her Spaniel Alfie for a walk every day. In the winter she wore jeans, a red padded jacket, fur-lined boots and a grey bobble hat and in the summer a blouse, a skirt, sensible shoes and a cardigan if it was chilly.

If you met her on her walk and said, “Good morning,” because she always walked Alfie in the morning, she would smile, just slightly, as she looked back at you over brown-rimmed glasses and say, “Good morning”.

Seeing her bob of straight nut-brown hair that was just starting to show the grey you might take her for a librarian, a bookkeeper, maybe a secretary to a dusty solicitor or even, as they used to say, a spinster of this parish but she was none of these. Mavis Beauchamp had a very guilty secret or, to be more precise, she was a guilty secret.

On Tuesdays at two o’clock she would put on a smart dress that was low cut but not indiscreet, a navy blue tailored jacket and black high heels. Picking up her large black leather bag she would pat Alfie and tell him to be a ‘good boy,’ before walking briskly through the small town where she lived to Mr Montgomery’s house.

She always arrived at precisely two fifteen and let herself in with the key she carried in her jacket pocket. Once inside she would go straight upstairs to the spare bedroom and carefully unpack her bag, laying out the contents on the flowered quilt of the bed.

She would then take off her shoes and place them neatly beside the bed before removing her jacket and her patterned dress which she hung neatly on a hanger on the back of the door. Then she would unhook the white bra that confined her small breasts and slip down her white pants and place these on the bed beside the items she had removed from her bag.

She would then dress in the underwear she had laid out; a small pair of knickers that consisted of two triangles of a black shiny material joined by ties as thin as shoelaces and a small black bra made of the same material that pushed her breasts together. Then she would slip her feet into a pair of knee-high black polished boots with spiky heels. From the top drawer of the dresser in the bedroom, she took a short riding crop and a silver chain dog lead with a black leather handle.

Pausing to check her appearance in the full-length mirror she would commend herself that her tummy was still flat and, despite a few wrinkles and lines, her body still had the feeling of the toned athleticism of her youth. She would then go in search of Mr Montgomery.

“Come,” she would bark, her high heels click-clacking on the polished wood floor of the hallway until silenced as she stepped onto the rug in the bedroom.

Mr Montgomery was nearly always in the bedroom, curled up on top of the quilt in the centre of the bed, naked except for a black, silver studded dog collar around his neck.

‘You bad boy,’ Mavis would say, her voice full of venom, and thwack the whip across his naked behind.

This usually caused Mr Montgomery to leap from the bed and crouch on all fours on the carpet unless he was feeling extremely naughty in which case she may have to apply a second or even a third stroke. Once he was on the floor Mavis would clip the lead to his collar and walk from the bedroom, her heels clicking again on the hall floor.

If Mr Montgomery did not obediently follow at heel in precisely the right place the crop would flick across his pink behind turning it slowly red with a mass of welts. Down the wide staircase they would go and around the ground floor of the house with the crop flicking at regular intervals.

Sometimes Mavis made herself a coffee, sometimes she poured herself a small glass of sherry which she sipped in a leisurely manner in the drawing room. All the time Mr Montgomery followed her at heel or sat on the floor beside her obediently. If he didn’t choose exactly the right position, which oddly he frequently didn’t, the crop would flick again.

After an hour or so, if he had been a really good boy, Mavis would sit back in one of the cavernous armchairs and order Mr Montgomery to sit on the floor in front of her. Spreading her legs wide was his cue to move forward and tug at the ties of her knickers with his teeth.

Sometimes he struggled for minutes and Mavis gave him no help save for the occasional whack on his back to spur him on. Finally, when he had pulled the knickers away with his teeth he could bury his face between her legs and lick at her. On some occasions, if the mood took her, she would throw back her head and emit tiny little sounds of pleasure. If he performed very well she would grab at his thinning grey hair and force his mouth against her.

When they had finished she would order him into his bed in the kitchen and go back upstairs to the spare bedroom where she would remove the black underwear and boots, pack them carefully in the bag and put on her white underwear, dress and jacket. Placing the lead and crop back in the top drawer of the dresser she would remove a thick white envelope and place it in her bag.

She would then walk slowly down the wide staircase, glance into the kitchen to see Mr Montgomery now sitting up in his bed, sigh, step into the kitchen, pat him on the head and say, “Good boy,” before turning and walking out of the door and locking it behind her as she left.

Now all of this may be considered enough of a guilty secret but on some afternoons her phone would ring. When she answered it a voice would say, “Nurse I don’t feel well could you pay me a visit?”

“Certainly Mr Henderson,” she would reply, “I will be there in half an hour.”

She would finish her cup of tea and go upstairs to the spare room in her cottage, pull on a pair of black tights and pick up a second black bag from her collection before walking briskly through the town to his house. On arriving she’d let herself in and call out “Mr Henderson, I’m here”.

“I’m in the bedroom,” Mr Henderson would call back.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she’d say as she climbed the stairs and went into the bathroom.

There she removed her jacket, and her dress and hung them on a hanger on the back of the door. Taking a nurse’s uniform out of her bag she dressed carefully and checked that everything was in place, just as it had been when she worked in the hospital.

Picking up the black bag she would march into the bedroom with a brisk, “Good afternoon Mr Henderson.”

Mr Henderson was always lying on his back on top of the bed, his balding head propped up on two pillows and dressed only in a striped set of pyjamas that struggled to conceal his spreading waistline. Sometimes there was a conspicuous bulge in his pyjama trousers and sometimes his erection had escaped through the opening at the front.

Mavis would take his hand and feel his pulse.

“Oh dear,” she’d say smiling at him over the top of her glasses, “We are tense today. Never mind I have a cure for that.”

Unclipping her bag, she’d take out a pair of thin plastic medical gloves and, standing close to the bed so that Mr Henderson could see every detail, she’d put these on very slowly and deliberately, making sure that they fitted tightly over each finger. Then she’d slip a clear plastic apron over her head and tie it carefully round her waist.

“An enema first I think Mr Henderson.”

At which point he would obediently roll onto his front, pushing down his pyjama bottoms as he went whilst Mavis took a large teardrop shaped silver butt plug with a flared end from the bedside table. Adding a small blob of KY jelly she parted his cheeks and pushed it, not too gently, into his anus causing him to emit small sounds of pleasure. ,

“There,” she’d say practically, “That takes care of that.”

Mr Henderson would then dutifully roll over onto his back, neglecting to pull up his pyjamas.

“Tut tut, look at that all swollen and hard. I expect that needs some attention,” Mavis would say as she stroked his erection with her gloved hand.

Then curling her fingers around his shaft she moved her hand up and down in perfect synchronisation with his thrusts until white semen jetted from its head.

“There Mr Henderson, doesn’t that feel better.” She’d say as she peeled off the gloves and untied the apron before dropping both into a plastic bag.

“Thank you nurse . . . yes it does. Such a relief.”

“Now just call me when you need me again.” Mavis would say as she left the room, collecting a white envelope from the top of the dresser on the way.

Fridays were Mavis’s favourite day. On Fridays, she would visit Mr Smith. She sometimes thought to herself that Mr Montgomery was entertaining; she rather enjoyed playing the mistress and occasionally he managed to satisfy her with his inexpert slurping.

Mr Henderson with his childhood fantasies was pleasant but, quite frankly, boring. Mavis lived reasonably well on her nurse’s pension but Mr Henderson and Mr Montgomery kept her and Alfie in treats and paid for the nice things in life after she had paid her tax and insurance.

Mavis was scrupulously honest in paying what was due and the only problem had been what to put under ‘Job Title’ on the revenues form. In the end, she had settled for Dominatrix. If, as a resident of the small sleepy town, you had ever referred to her visits both she and her gentlemen would have told you she was their bookkeeper.

Mr Smith however was different. Mavis always arrived at his house at two o’clock just as the bell rang in the school across the road. On entering she usually found Mr Smith smartly dressed in a jacket and tie sitting at his desk in the study or occasionally in the living room; his silver grey hair neatly combed.

He always stood as she entered. “Good afternoon Miss Beauchamp.

“Good afternoon Smith.”

If she had found him in the living room she’d tell him he was late and order him to get to his desk. Once he was seated she would lean over him and ask, “Have you done your homework, Smith?”

The answer inevitably was, “No.”

“Then stand up and assume the position.”

Smith would then remove his jacket and hang it over the back of his chair before dropping his trousers and shorts and bending over the desk.

Taking a leather strop from the top drawer of the desk Miss Beauchamp then proceeded to administer his punishment. She took her time swinging the strop in a slow leisurely fashion, marvelling as the redness spread across Smith’s cheeks.

It was a process she found very stimulating. If her pupil had been late she would then take the cane down from a hook behind the door and administer a good six of the best with that as well.

When the punishment was complete and they were both aroused she would say, “Today’s subject is sex education.”

The subject was always ‘sex education’ although once she had said ‘history,’ which had caused an outburst of protest from Smith resulting in another round of punishment before they resumed the usual subject.

When they had first reached this point she had taken off her jacket, her dress and her white panties and instructed him how to touch her with his fingers. The next lesson they had progressed to the use of his mouth. She had taken off her blouse and her white bra and told him how to use his tongue on her nipples and breasts and then she had coached him on how to kiss her sex, telling him to run his tongue around the outer lips and when to push it inside.

Then she instructed him when to address his attention to her clitoris and when to complete her climax by pushing his fingers inside her. They had completed several lessons on this subject before she had taken his erection in her hand and guided him into her.

After that they had then enjoyed many happy Friday afternoons as she instructed him on how to fulfil her desires in practically every sexual position a fifty-two-year old woman and a sixty-three year-old man can get into. Now she was like a piano teacher with a virtuoso student; she merely instructed him what to play and let the music wash over her.

When the lesson was over they would sit and talk. Sometimes he would ask if she still visited Mr Montgomery and Mr Henderson as he had introduced her to both of them.

She would smile and say, “Yes, they are the same as ever,” to reassure him that the relationship with them had not changed.

Sometimes he asked her to move in with him but she always said, “No. That would change what we have and besides Alfie and I are quite happy in our little cottage.”

When she left Mr Smith’s there was no longer any white envelope, she had told him that was not necessary many lessons ago, although, despite her protestations, he always lavished expensive gifts on her at every opportunity.

If you saw her walking home you might think she looked very cheerful for a retired spinster and if you said, “Good afternoon,” to her she would return your greeting with a cheery smile.

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