Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

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Previously…

The incident with the horse and the spanking taught me that I needed to be much more careful. It became more and more difficult to avoid being alone with Mel, it started to feel like a rather macabre dance. Mel’s parents certainly noticed; I overheard Mel’s mum telling her to give me a little space.

University kept me busy and out of reach of Mel; I told her that I would move if she continued to come into the garage. She ceased doing that – she wasn’t a bad girl; it was just a difficult time for both of us.

But it wasn’t all hard: we went to the pictures, and on bike rides, and, as the other children got bigger, a little pony trekking.

Her brother and sister acted all unconsciously as wonderful chaperones, although Mel knew exactly what I was doing and didn’t like it. Mel was nearly sixteen and hot to trot, her body was making demands that her mind and emotions couldn’t really cope with.

When I looked at Mel, my body was also making demands! By this time Mel was fully physically developed as a female, and she had all the wiles of Eve. There were times when it was necessary for me to do the necessary four or five times a day.

A troubling habit she developed when swimming with me and the family, and no-one was looking, was that she would let a breast pop out of the top of her suit; she was often rewarded with a couple of hard swats on her suit bottom! But I soon realised that it was indeed a reward and instead ignored her. Once I spotted her coming out of her mum’s sowing room; she looked upset, she disappeared upstairs … and after that she never flashed me again. She told me after we were married that she had flashed me, and I hadn’t noticed, but her mum had! Mum never spanked, but the telling off she received was worse than a spanking for a nearly-sixteen year old!

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A Boy and a good (bad) Girl
OR
A lesson in loving

I was sitting at a table in the Black and White Milk Bar on the Odeon side of the Edgware Road, just a hop, skip and a jump away from Marble Arch.

It was late October of ’52 I don’t remember the day; it was about a week past my 17th birthday.

I was dawdling over my cup of coffee: it was the only one I could afford, and when I drank it, I would have to go back to my lonely room. I was about to take the last swallow when a woman, at least 25 years old, entered the bar. What’s so unusual about that, you may ask? Well, the bar is a teenage bar, we don’t normally see adult women in here.

She wore a white coat and red shoes with 2” heels, and an air of confidence.

She looked ‘round and smiled, I imagine every boy in the place was gaping at her, I know I was.

She looked at me and touched her chin, I realised my mouth was open and shut it, nearly biting my tongue in the process. “Are you looking at me?” she asked.

“I’m looking at you, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are worth it,” was the first thing to come out of my mouth. She shook her head, and went and ordered a white coffee.

She brought her coffee over to my table and looked down at me. “May I join you?”

I stood up, and said, “Of course, be my guest.” She stuck her hand out and said, “Eve. “A little overdressed aren’t you…?” I asked, trying to make a little joke. She smiled. “And I’m Paul, very pleased to meet you…” my hand was a little sweaty when I shook hers.

“To what do I owe the honour,” I asked, as she settled down in the chair across from mine.

“I beg your pardon…?”

I looked around slowly at the other tables. “There are empty tables and better looking boys. I may have just come from the country, but I’m no hick, are you after something? You don’t feel like a Pro, and if you are, there is no one here who could afford you.”

“If you will walk with me I’ll tell you,” she replied. Fascinated, I decided a walk with her could not hurt, and we left her white coffee untouched.

“My boyfriend is away on business abroad; he only returns twice a year … you appear to have some of his qualities, when you looked at me you looked straight at me, you weren’t shy about telling me that I’m attractive, and you joked about my name.”

“Where is this leading, Eve? I don’t do one night stands.”

She answered sharply, “Neither do I!” She took a deep breath. “Look, I need to explain, and I can’t do this in the street. I live just ‘round the corner … will you trust me for an hour? I have real coffee and even some biscuits.”

“Lead the way, Miss Mysterious, you’ve talked me into it. It was the biscuits that did it, you know. Always my downfall, biscuits!”

We entered a house with only one bell on the door, brass fittings on the door, very smart.

Eve took of her coat, hung it on a coat rack, underneath she wore a calf length skirt and a sweater, a tight sweater, both were muted green. I liked what I saw. She took my jacket and hung it next to her coat. She kicked off her red heels, and left them by the door.

She led into a sitting room with some very expensive furniture. She seated me and went and drew the heavy curtains. I wondered at that.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Strong, no sugar and a little cold milk.”

I heard her walk down the hall, shortly she returned bearing a tray with cups, saucers, a dish with biscuits, and milk and sugar. “The coffee will be about ten minutes,” she said.

“Why don’t you start explaining what this is all about?” I asked her.

“Can it wait until we are settled?” she asked, seeming a bit nervous.

“Alright – but at least sit down, you are making me nervous.”

She sank down to the floor, half kneeling next to me. It was surprisingly graceful and strangely comforting, her head was level with my thigh, she looked up at me and smiled, she was calm and composed as if she had finally come home.

I took the opportunity to look her over. Long shining brown hair which hung halfway down her back, continuing down the top half of her bum. As I looked, she leaned forward to pluck a loose thread from the rug letting me see the whole round of her bottom, beautiful. She looked up at me again, clear grey eyes under well-formed and defined eyebrows, a sweet, rather long face with full lips, and a firm chin. Her neck seemed long and slender, resting on good shoulders. A very good chest: nice breasts, double B or perhaps C, and then a slightly rounded tummy sitting on nicely rounded hips, the thighs were firm and the legs long. “Like what you see, Paul?” she asked somewhat acerbically.

“Yes, Eve, very much – your boy friend is a very lucky fellow.”

“He thinks so. Oh – I’ll fetch the coffee.” As she walked away, I had a perfect view of her posterior; it had that tilt and sways that called out for a pair of male hands on it, yes I thought, very nice indeed.

Eve carried in a silver coffee pot, the steam coming from it smelled divine. She put the milk in first and then poured, and I took a sip: first class coffee.

Eve sat down again, next to me, this time she kneeled upright with her hands open on her thighs. Looking up to me she said, quickly as if nerving herself, “Paul, the reason I’ve asked you here, is to put a question to you. Now I want you to give me an honest answer, don’t worry about my feelings.”

“OK fire away.”

“If I was your girl and I told you that I’d been a very bad girl, what would you do?”

“Well, obviously I’d spank you. But to make sure that you got what you deserved, I’d need to clear a few things up. Are you sure you mean bad, not just naughty? Bad gets you a real spanking … naughty gets you a fun spanking. And furthermore, have you broken faith or trust? These aren’t cured by punishments, but by splitting up.”

“No, Paul I have not broken any faith, but I’ve been bad, and I need to be punished.”

“Are you quite sure? This isn’t a game, if I punish you will know it, and might regret it,” I warned her.

“I understand, Paul.” Eyes downcast.

“Well then, Eve, I need to know your offence before I can punish you.”
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Previously…

I moved in during the week-end, and every time that I went in or out, Mel seemed to be there.

I called her over, “Sweetie, is there something that I can do for you?” She blushed, giggled and moved away.

Mrs S— had stocked the fridge, bread, butter, milk, eggs and other comestibles. I knocked on the kitchen door to thank the lady and ask what I owed her; a voice that I recognised said, “Come in Sergeant-Major!” I asked, “Afternoon, Mel, is your mother in?”

“Yes, she is in the front garden, would you like me to call her?”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll walk ‘round.”

“I’ll come with you….”

“OK.”

As we walked round I explained to Mel that she need not use my rank, that Paul would be fine, or if that made her uncomfortable, I would answer to Mr Paul, “but why,” she asked, “aren’t you proud of your rank.” “Not really, it was necessary for my job, military titles belong in the army, and you don’t call your daddy general all the time, do you?” “No” she replied, “he wouldn’t really like it,” “I feel the same; in a civilian environment it isn’t appropriate.”

After about a month the children and I got on like a house on fire, Mrs S— mothered me, I didn’t see a lot of the general, his duties kept him fairly busy.

All this time while I was settling in, the children had more or less accepted my presence, Mrs S— tended to treat me as a grown-up son; this felt strange, nobody had done that for me before.

The feelings between Mel and I weren’t going away.

I had bought a bicycle and had permission to take the children on rides in Regents Park, and occasionally I took them on the boating pond. Mel was good with her brother and sister; she wouldn’t let them play me up.

After about nine months, I’d been in the army nearly six years. I had signed on for twenty-one years with the option, of discharge, should I wish, at the end of every three year period. Mrs S— persuaded me to discuss my plans with the general. I told him that I needed to go to university and that I had seen an opening for a career: I was very interested in the new and growing science of Information Technology. I wanted to get degrees in Computer science and Language, and see if I couldn’t set up an agency.

The general agreed, he considered that as far as promotion went I’d be marking time in the army, so I ought to go for it. In July ‘58 I applied for and obtained a place in the first IT degree course offered by the London School of Economics; I also applied for an honourable discharge from the Royal Army which went through with no problems.

In June of ‘58 Mel was fifteen, and her parents bought her a pony – well a small mare. She called it Suki. I bought her a hard hat and riding gloves.

Teaching her to ride was a thrilling thing; she was a very responsive pupil. I had learnt to ride as a child at the orphanage, and it was a good way to get round during the war, since hay wasn’t rationed.

The Saturday morning after Mel’s birthday weekend I was lazing about the flat. I’d been out the night before and hadn’t got to bed before two AM. There was a ring at the door, and I when looked down the stairs, there was a very nervous Mel. “Mel? What are you doing here? You know the rules.”

“Oh please, Paul, I’ve got to speak to you!”
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An Oriental Fantasy

The Emir reclined in his Chair of State; he was a man of late middle age with wise brown eyes and many laughter lines. His beard was full and streaked with grey; he was sipping a sherbet.

There was a stir and much murmuring at the audience hall door. A plump – nay, fat – chamberlain hurried forward and bowing low, said, “Mighty Lord, your Vizier seeks audience….” The Emir raised his hand and beckoned, the chamberlain still bowing and stepping backwards signed to the door warden to admit the Vizier.

The Vizier was a frail old man of many summers advanced, supporting himself with his staff of office. In a surprisingly strong voice he asked, “May I approach, O Mighty Lord?” The Emir who loved this old man said, “Come forward, O Fount of Wisdom and Support of My Throne.” The Vizier approached close to the Emir, because the Vizier was as a second father to the Emir, and he was allowed privileges given only to equals.

Speaking in a much softer voice he said, “My Prince, knowest thou that thy favourite wife, and my own beloved niece, the Princess Willow hath 25 years this very day.” “Hath she indeed,” said the Emir. “Hmm, what doest thou advise?” “My Prince, thou knowest that thy Willow loves thee greatly and mourns that affairs of state keeps her from thee. Grant her the privilege of entertaining thee in a manner of her choosing.” The Emir with a smile, clapped his hands and said, “Let this be done.”

The Vizier left the audience hall after instructing the chamberlain to clear the hall, as the Princess would be unveiled. He walked to the Emir’s harem, knocked at the entrance; a wicket in the door opened and the Harem Mistress looked out. Seeing the Vizier, she instructed the slaves to open the door.

The Vizier entered and said to the Harem Mistress, “Our High and Mighty Lord desires the presence of the Princess Willow: lead me to her.” The Harem Mistress bowed her acquiescence, turned and lead the way to an inner chamber; there she despatched another slave to inform the Princess that her Uncle the Vizier wished to see her.

The Princess hurried out, as she hoped that the Vizier bore a message from the Emir her husband. “What news hast thou, mine Uncle,” she asked, looking rather nervous. The Vizier smiled, “The Prince your husband graciously awaits your presence and the divers entertainments that you offer.”

“But now tell thou to me, Niece, the nature of the divers beguilement that you offer your sovereign lord.”

“I will enter the audience hall with mine attendants, and with musicians in the blind gallery. I will dance while mine attendants remove my own garments with their whips, leaving my very skin unblemished.” “Hmm,” quoth the Vizier, “And the next…?”


“As the dance continues, Uncle, the attendants’ change their whips for the Dragon’s Tail, heavy straps with a six inch slit at one end, which as you know is generally used to punish disobedient concubines and wilful wives, and the straps will be used on my back, my buttocks, and my thighs until I collapse in supplication before my Prince….”
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It was the summer of ’57.

I had just been posted from Libya back to Blighty. I was expecting to be posted to a REME or RAOC depot as my field was safety, explosives, and ammunition. Instead of which I was seconded to the War office to help in the recruiting drive, as one of the youngest Warrant officers in the army.

I used to visit the better class schools in the London area and talk to the fourteen year olds who might be interested in a career in The Royal Army. At this time the official school leaving age was fifteen.

I’m due to give a talk in, let’s call it St. Stephens Grammar School, all the pupils who might be leaving school after their next birthday attend; I like to think it was voluntary.

I give my usual talk, about the training opportunities, but especially about the education the army offered. I told them that I left school at fourteen with nothing under my belt except a willingness to learn and an expectation of hard work; I told them that I stood before them with such good qualifications that any University would accept me, could I but afford it. The Service also offered saving opportunities, so in fact I would be able to afford it, just.

I threw the floor open for questions, there were questions about what unit to join, and as always lots of questions about the Marines and Red Berets, very few questions about education.

Suddenly a clear young voice broke the silence. “Excuse me Sergeant-Major,” I looked up in surprise, I’m rarely addressed by my correct rank at these meetings, “Yes, young lady,” there was a smile in my voice.

I looked down at the teacher chairing the meeting, “Melody S –,” she said.

“Yes Melody?”

“ ‘Mel,’ if you wouldn’t mind, sir.”

“Not a problem Mel,” I replied. For some reason my heart skipped a beat, Mel proceeded to ask some well-thought-out questions, which led me to believe that she knew the answers and was testing me, this wasn’t the first time this had happened, she really knew her stuff, fortunately so did I.

“One last question sir,” she asked. I looked down at the teacher; she held up five fingers. “OK, but make it brief –” just then the bell rung, there was a scraping of chairs … suddenly a stentorian bellow cut through the noise, “Hold still, say thank you to Sergeant-major Paul and go quietly!”

“Thank you sir,” they said, and filed out slowly, all except one.
I looked at the teacher, “That voice would do justice to a parade ground!”

“Thirty year’s teaching,” she smiled.

She turned to the girl; I really looked at her for the first time, 5′0” in her shoes, shining brown hair, sparkling green eyes and the face of a William Bouguereau angel and possibly the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen. The teacher spoke to her as if she were a normal mortal woman, “Well Mel – more questions, doesn’t your father answer yours?”

“He has taken to avoiding them, miss.”

The teacher turned to me, “Brigadier General S – is Mel’s father.” “Ooops!” I thought to myself: the boss.

Mel turned round and saw a woman standing at he door, “Good! Mum’s here, come and meet her sir, she doesn’t bite.”

Mel started off almost running, her mother gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, Mel stopped, turned and waited for me; we approach her mother together, “Mother this is Sergeant-Major Paul, he is here to try and persuade us to join the army! Did daddy send him? Sergeant-Major, my mother Mrs S –” who gave a slight bow.

“Ma’am, a pleasure to meet you, you have a vivacious daughter, not to mention intelligent.”

“You are very welcome sir and thank you; she can be a little trying.”

I smiled, “fourteen,” I said. She nodded ruefully.

Mel was almost dancing on the spot, “Mother please invite him to tea, there is so much I want to ask him!” “Really Mel, you know better!” But she looked at me, “Will you?” I nodded, “If it’s not inconvenient.”
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