The Swishing Sixties-Waterloo Sunset

The next in the series. A girl lies to keep out of trouble.

by Dick Templemeads

Julie was, to say the least disappointed, the eighteen year old, who worked at the Foreign Office, had been delighted when the allocation of leave dates had meant she could accompany he best friend Sophie on their first ever all girls holiday.

This being 1967, Julie and Sophie were only going to Butlins in Minehead, Club 18-30 not yet having been invented. But, at least this meant she would not have to make the annual dreary pilgrimage to the same old Devon campsite that her parents had dragged her to for the past ten years. Moreover, with her parents away at a different time to her, she’d have the house to herself and be able to bring Terry back. She wouldn’t be daring enough to allow him to stay the night, the neighbours were too nosy, but at least they’d have some time and privacy to take the final steps in their dating.

Thus it seemed that her parents had read her mind when they decreed that while they were away for their fortnight’s break she would have to stay with her grandmother. Julie liked her granny, but this had put a spoke in her plans.

The first week had seemed to drag, although Julie did enjoy granny’s cooking, but she felt suffocated in her grandmother’s flat every evening watching boring TV programmes when she’d normally be out with Terry, Sophie or some other friend from work.

Granny had agreed that, with the arrival of the weekend, Julie could make her weekly Saturday morning shopping trip with Sophie and that she could go out with Terry on the Friday and Saturday providing she was home by 10.00. Ten! Normally at home she would not expect to get home before midnight on a Friday, but seeing him until ten was better than nothing.

So, as she always did on a Friday night, Julie met Terry at Waterloo station at 5.30 and they crossed over the river to taste the delights of the West End. Something to eat and a film were on the agenda, but once they’d accomplished that they were way past the ten o’clock deadline.

After returning south of the Thames, the pair had to pass Julie’s parents’ house en route to her grandmother’s and, with the door key in her handbag, she decided she may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and thus invited Terry home where, needless to say, her deflowering that they’d both been longing for was accomplished.

Setting off again, now more than an hour late, the couple remained full of amorous yearnings and so they stepped into the telephone box on the other side of the road to her grandmother’s house, where they continued to canoodle for several minutes with Terry’s fingers ringing round more than the numbers in the yellow pages.

Across the road, Julie’s grandmother was waiting in a mixture of concern and anger, though not completely surprised, after all she had been young once and had experienced the same angst with her own daughter, Julie’s mother. In the darkened front room she watched as the couple returned along the road hand in hand, the elderly lady may not have been young but she still retained perfect vision so she was far from pleased to see her granddaughter and her boyfriend enter the telephone kiosk to engage in more than telecommunications.

Finally, an hour and a half later than stipulated, the young couple disentangled themselves, and crossed the road. Terry gave her grandmother some trumped up excuse about the film breaking down part way through, which her grandmother seemed to accept, and Julie kissed her goodnight and went to bed to sleep, blissfully unaware that her grandmother was far more worldly wise than she’d thought.

Julie was up early Saturday morning, had bathed and dressed in a cream blouse and skin-tight black jeans ready for her shopping jaunt  with Sophie, where the two friends would look for the latest fashions and records. But Julie was not as early as her grandmother, who had done some washing and made Julie toast.

Julie sat at the kitchen table sipping tea and munching toast with granny. Then when she’d finished she washed up the few breakfast things and bade her grandmother, “goodbye”.

“Not so quick young lady,” said her grandmother. “I want to know more about why you were so late last night.”

“Terry explained that,” came the girl’s feeble reply.

“He gave a cock and bull story which I don’t really believe.”

“You don’t granny?”

“No, I don’t. For a start, you could have phoned me to say you were being delayed. Secondly, I saw the pair of you necking in the phone box for fifteen minutes, and thirdly, I’ve just done your washing and judging by your knickers you got up to more than what I saw in the phone box, so I imagine you stopped off at your home. Am I right?”

Julie hung her head in shame. “Yes, granny.”

“As I thought,” answered the elderly woman, her angered tones starting to display some of the Scot’s accent that she’d lost after fifty years living in London. “Well I think I’ll deal with this the way your great granny did with me and I did with your mother.”

Julie felt a shiver run down her spine; she’d learnt from her mother about the spankings that she’d felt from her mother, and on two occasions her mother’s mother.

Julie’s grandmother opened a drawer in her kitchen dresser and was withdrew a thick black Lochgelly tawse which she’d last wielded twenty-two years ago to Julie’s mother’s naked bottom, when, like Julie she’d been late home and lied about the reasons.

The elderly woman tested it against her own palm, noting it was still effective. “Twenty-four of the best, I think, young lady.”

“Twenty-four!” Gasped Julie.

On the occasions that she’d been spanked by her mother, who’d only ever used her hand, the most she’d received were ten slaps to her bare bum. Twice, when she’d been very naughty, her father had slippered her bottom, eight whacks each time, though in deference to her age and gender he’d left her knickers in place. At school, she’d felt the ruler across her palm twice, and had once had one stroke of the cane across her knickered bottom, but twenty-four with a belt; that was horrendous!

“Twenty-four,” repeated her grandmother. “Six for being late, six for salacious behaviour at your home, six for snogging in the phone box in full view to me and my neighbours, and six for lying.”

Julie already felt tears welling up in her eyes, and only felt worse as her grandmother commanded: “Trousers and pants down and bend over the kitchen table.”

With trembling fingers, Julie undid her skin tight jeans and pushed them down to her ankles, then lowered her brief cerise pink panties to her knees. Shaking like a leaf, she leant over the table and waited for the torrent of pain that was sure to follow.

Julie’s grandmother was meanwhile going through a mixture of emotions from her own memory. The tawse with which she was about to punish her granddaughter had been handed down through her family for generations. She’d often used it to strap Julie’s mother and her other daughter, while her husband had used it on Julie’s uncle’s bare bottom. Likewise, she herself had often bent over, bloomers lowered, to be punished by her own mother, who herself had felt the same strap as a girl. Now Julie was about to become the fourth generation of the family to feel its stinging glow.

Any early concerns her grandmother had that she might not be an effective punisher any longer were quickly dispelled after she had delivered three whacks. It was like riding a bike, the knack never left.

Meanwhile, the young woman bent across the kitchen table could certainly testify to the elderly lady’s ability to punish. Julie had gasped at the first stroke, repeated the act on the second, had yelled at the third, and started to cry from six onwards. Now with teeth gritted, eyes closed, her hands grasping the opposite edge of the table it was all she could do to stay in position as whack followed whack. She was sobbing profusely and had lost count after twelve. She’d also given up trying to reduce her yells and now gave full vent to her pain as the strap fell again and again.

Finally, to her relief, her grandmother told her to stand. She pulled her knickers straight back up as if to ensure that no more strokes would fall, and then thrust her hands down inside her panties massaging the burning flesh and dancing and cavorting in pain.

Finally, she lugged up her jeans. Not bothering to clasp them closed, she clutched them together as she stumbled upstairs to her bedroom.

Removing her jeans and panties, she looked in the dressing table mirror to see a bottom that was coloured nothing but a vivid red. Her face was almost as red and her mascara blotched and runny. Drying her eyes, she repaired the make-up.

Deciding it was too uncomfortable for jeans and tight panties, she opened her underwear drawer, selected a pair of pretty cream-coloured and loose-fitting French knickers, and a dress which was short enough to be fashionable but long enough to not reveal anything of her burning bum on escalators or stairs.

Finally, having phoned Sophie and telling her in a voice still wracked with sobs that she’d be late, she set off to meet her best friend.

It was immediately clear to Sophie that Julie was walking very uncomfortably, and, as the two crossed the Thames, Julie told her the full story, how she’d surrendered her virginity to Terry, how they’d got back late and then lied.

Sophie was agog; she’d never heard of anybody being punished with a strap before, although at school she’d felt the cane on her bum five times more than Julie’s once. “Was it like the cane?” She asked.

“No,” replied Julie, “the cane stings more but the strap burns and covers your whole bum and it doesn’t leave stripes like the cane. It leaves you really red just like…”

Before Julie could continue, Sophie interjected with: “Beetroot?”

“No,” replied the other girl. “Beetroot is not a suitable simile, because they are more purple than red. I was going to say, as red as a ‘Waterloo Sunset’.”

The End

© Dick Templemeads 2014