I retired to Jennifer’s kitchen, arranging crockery on a large tray and awaited our ‘guest’.

She was late, of course, and I sat, restlessly, for almost half an hour before the door chime rang loudly in the entrance hall. I straightened my tie, cleared my throat and went to open the door. Jennifer’s mother waltzed straight inside, without invitation. Despite this rudeness, I immediately perceived her aura of subtle sexiness. She was petite, slim and though perhaps into her sixties, a very attractive lady.

She turned to me, “You must be Jennifer’s little helper?”

“Err, yes, well, I, err, I do some jobs around the house,” I spluttered, “Madam,” and bowed (I remembered!).

“Well, don’t just stand there, take my coat!” She turned her back to me as she unhooked her light, semi-transparent summer ‘coat’.

Clumsily, I did my best to remove the delicate garment from her bare arms and folded it carefully over my arm.

She was wearing a rather severe, tight, sleeveless, tailored black dress in what I took to be silk taffeta. Her nylons were barely black and (I have a 'nose’ for these things!) a pair of red-soled, black patent-leather Louboutin shoes with four-inch heels. Her ensemble was completed with elbow-length butter-soft black leather gloves, a pearl necklace with a matching pearl bracelet, worn over her glove. Her hair seemed to be a streaked ash blond, worn in a stylish chignon.

“Make sure you put it on a hanger,” she instructed, turned and strode confidently into Jennifer’s drawing room, closing the door behind her.

I found the hall closet and luckily, also a suitable padded hanger which I used to drape her coat, with extra care! I returned to the kitchen, and, somewhat shaken and certainly aroused, waited for the call.

Once again, there was a significant wait. I was on tenterhooks, but eventually, I recognised the distinct tinkle of Jennifer’s hand-bell. I re-boiled the kettle, filled the cafetiere and finished loading the tray. Luckily, there was a helpful table in the hall. I rested the tray there and gently knocked on the drawing room door.

Jennifer responded with a “Come in!” I stepped inside and announced refreshments. I returned with the tray and set it down on a large coffee table in front of the ladies. They barely looked at me, but continued chatting. I couldn’t help but glance discreetly at Mrs. Crawford. Her knee-length dress had ridden up slightly, and I was able to appreciate a small expanse of her nyloned thighs.

“Will that be all, Miss?” I asked. Jennifer looked up briefly and simply dismissed me with a wave of her hand. I suppressed the natural feeling of humiliation and steeling myself, returned to the kitchen. I was furious with myself for being manipulated into this ‘impossible’ situation. How could Jennifer be so off-hand, after almost begging for my help? I sat there fuming and sulking, when the hand-bell rang again.

“Peter, there are some cream-cakes in the refrigerator. Could you fetch them?”

“Yes, of course, Miss,” I replied. (Well, at least she used my name this time!) I returned with the cakes, displayed on a large serving dish and bent down to place it on the table. As I did so, my eyes were irresistibly drawn again to Mrs. Crawford’s legs. Oh hell, I could see clearly; she was wearing stockings and suspenders. Then, I got the shock of my life!

“My god, Jennifer – he’s actually looking up my skirt!!!”

Jennifer calmly turned to me, “Well, Peter, were you looking up my mother’s skirt?”

I blushed crimson, clearly conveying my obvious guilt. “I’m ever so sorry, Miss and, err, Madam, I wasn’t thinking; please forgive me. It was terribly rude of me.”

“Thinking is exactly what you were doing, Peter. Thinking dirty thoughts as usual,” she countered. “I really must apologise, Mummy, for exposing you to Peter’s lecherous, perverted gaze. I’m afraid that I’ve noticed this kind of behavior from him before, but should have corrected it much sooner,” she stated, “Don’t think I don’t see you spying on me as I get in and out of the car! You walk about my home with a permanent erection in your trousers. Frankly, I find it disgusting. What on earth would Caroline say if she found out?”

I tried to respond, “Please, Miss, I can only repeat – I am very, very, sorry.”

Mrs. Crawford then announced, “You know how I would handle this, don’t you, Jennifer!?”

“Yes, of course, Mummy,” Jennifer replied. With that, she stood up and, unbelievably, ordered me to take down my trousers and underpants.

I stared in shock.

“You had better face the consequences of your perverted behavior, Peter, or I will be having a very cosy chat with your wife!”

Swallowing hard, I unzipped and slowly peeled my trousers and underpants down my legs. Mrs. Crawford was staring openly at my actions with a cruel smirk on her narrow lips. In the meantime, Jennifer left the room, but soon returned, incredibly, carrying a school cane!

“You will receive twenty-four strokes of the cane on your bare buttocks, Peter. Twelve from me, for the embarrassment and then twelve from my mother, for the invasion of her privacy. Do you understand?”

“Is this really necessary, Miss? Can’t we sort this in some other way?” I replied in desperation.

“No, Peter, you have crossed a forbidden line and you will be suitably punished. Now, bend over the end of that sofa, and present your bottom for a caning. I’m afraid this will hurt badly, but if you move or try to get up, we will start again from the beginning.”

Sheepishly, I shuffled over to the sofa, my trousers around my ankles and bent over as instructed.

Jennifer’s caning was firm and quickly dispensed, but almost bearable. Unexpectedly, my penis began to erect, in full view of the ladies.

“Look at him, said Mrs. Crawford – he’s getting off on this. How disgusting! Well, it’s my turn now!”

Her strokes were delivered with considerable venom, at one-minute intervals. After four, I reacted in severe pain by standing and rubbing my bottom.

“Oh dear, looks like I’ll have to start again, Jennifer!” she smirked.

I managed to steady myself and took the twelve further strokes, with searing pain and tears streaming down my cheeks and needless to say, a flaccid penis.

I was instructed to stand in the corner, facing the wall, with my trousers at ‘half-mast’. Unbelievably, the ladies sat down again and continued chatting and drinking coffee as though nothing were amiss.

Eventually, Jennifer instructed me to dress, saying that the slate was now wiped clean.

“Now, clear away the dishes, oh, and you said that there were some urgent jobs to finish in the garden, Peter. You had better run along and get them finished. Don’t you think?”

Utterly cowed, I could only utter, “Yes, Miss.”