Miss Amelia's Vanity

I spent my undergrad years at Tulane, a history major. No, I didn't end up flipping burgers, but I did end up with an obsession about the French Quarter. As a well-traveled Air Force brat, I had lived in the U.S., Europe, South America, and Japan. I had a sense of regional peculiarities. Despite her origins, New Orleans felt like no other place on earth, and that's what captivated me. She had a life of her own, a melting pot of cultures seasoned to please just about everyone's palate.

Almost every weekend of my first two college years I spent wandering the Quarter, a quick streetcar ride from campus along St. Charles Avenue. I spent my share of nights face down in the gutters along Bourbon, but I also spent hours on end simply wandering. I got to know every Creole townhome and shotgun shack. Name any address and I can still visualize the street façade.

It was on one of these meanderings in the late spring of my sophomore year that I discovered the home of Miss Amelia Theriot. A classic brick townhouse on Dauphine with a wrought-iron balcony over arched windows and entry; it immediately became a favorite of mine. After a few weekends passing it, sketching details, and taking notes for later research, I knew the front intimately. But not as intimately as I would eventually know the interior.

That Sunday afternoon, with the weight of pre-summer air soaked through my shirt, I stopped under the balcony for a moment of shade. I noticed a small note taped to the door. "Room for rent. Students preferred."

I stared a full minute. My jaw dropped when I saw the price. It was cheaper than the dorms. If I didn't disdain clichés, I would have pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. I had just talked on the phone to my parents the week before about how I desperately needed to get out of the dorms. The relentless pounding music, late night ruckus, and ungodly stink of barely post-adolescent men without a clue about their future had worn paper thin. Fraternities promised more of the same, only on a higher budget. This note appeared as if I had rubbed an old lamp and received my one and only wish.

I looked down at my state of dress. My shirt clung to my skin, my shorts had grass-stains from a nap in Jackson Square, and my favorite old gym shoes sported paint splatters from recoating my parent's kitchen over Christmas break. In this state, knocking was out of the question. I wrote down the number and walked a block to a café where I borrowed their phone.

"Hello?" The woman's voice was curt, but pleasant. "How may I help you?"

I introduced myself and asked to make an appointment to see her room. She fired off a series of short questions and seemed to perk up when I said I was a history major. When I said her house was one of my favorites in the Quarter, she asked if I could come by in a couple hours. I would have to hop the streetcar back to my dorm, shower if I had time, change, and then ride back. It would be close, but I had a feeling about this place. I didn't care what shape the inside was in. I had to get out of the dorms and I desperately wanted to live in the Quarter. This was my chance.

At three o'clock sharp, I again stood at the door on Dauphine. After a short pause following the doorbells' faraway chime, I heard measured footsteps approach from the other side, quicker than the usual New Orleans lope. I figured they came from thin heels, tall from the cadence. I felt my breathing match up to the clicks as the last steps slowed on what I surmised to be a well-worn brick passageway to the courtyard.

The door opened and I faced a crisp woman in her thirties I guessed, dressed in a flattering white blouse, fitted with simple details, and unbuttoned to the point where I wanted to lean forward a bit. Between her blouse and as predicted high stilettos, a deep scarlet skirt molded over her graceful hips. This I noticed, without my eyes leaving hers. I didn't dare.

Dark, like chocolate candies, her eyes betrayed a spectrum of emotions that I sensed, with prescient accuracy, could swing from proper sun and smiles to anything but candy-sweet. Her smile though, held me aloft, ready to float after her.

"You must be Grady," she said. "Come in. I'm Amelia Theriot." We shook hands. "You may call me Miss Amelia. Please close the door while I fix you a lemonade."

The heavy wood door thundered shut and I turned to follow her. Before she turned the corner, I couldn't help but notice how well her skirt fit. Like a dog on a leash, I padded after her, nearly panting in the rising heat.

My inner voice suddenly made me stop. "Grow up," it said. "This isn't some sorority sister to chase. This is the real world. An opportunity." Which I could easily blow if I acted like a horned-up cat.

"Did I lose you?" I heard her say from the sunny courtyard ahead.

"No, sorry. I was just admiring the ... wow!" The courtyard garden spread before me, a masterpiece. Brilliant flowers, bushes tall and squat, everything perfectly framing an aged stone fountain in the center. To the side, under the shade of a precisely trimmed understory tree, sat Miss Amelia, her tan legs crossed. She sipped from a tall, sweating glass. I felt a trickle down my back as well. No question. I had to live there.

Miss Amelia offered up a few minutes of polite small talk, further drawing out my personal history. Then she slid a two-page lease in front of me. I read it quickly. There were a number of rules itemized. Nothing unusual: no loud music after ten, no more than two friends over at a time, respect for the property, pitching in with cleaning, and providing two meals a week. She would cook the remainder. It sounded perfect.

The last line required a second reading. "Infractions will be handled expeditiously without appeal." I looked up at her. "Does this mean if I screw up I'm kicked out?"

Miss Amelia smiled. "Of course not, Grady. I'm a firm believer in second chances. We learn from our mistakes. You'll find whatever consequences I bring to bear are appropriate and fair."

I nodded, mesmerized by the way her lips moved. Yes, everything sounded perfect. "Great! Where do I sign?"

* * *

Three weeks later, finals were an ancient memory and I had settled into Miss Amelia's house. It felt like home. And man was it great to not have a roommate. While both our bedrooms were upstairs along with a small but well appointed bathroom and a small sitting area overlooking the garden, I had all the privacy I needed.

I took a full time summer internship at the Historical Society, but still tried to help around the house as much as possible. If nothing else, so I could catch a glimpse or two of Miss Amelia. She was a remarkable distraction, impeccably pulled together. I found more and more of my thoughts revolved around her. I read more than ever that summer; camping out near whatever space she happened to hover in so I could admire the sensual artistry of her dress.

Miss Amelia turned out to be easy to live with too. Cordial and proper sure, but underneath, a loving softness peeked out. I sometimes felt like something kept her distant, but she never ventured too far into the past in our dinner conversations. Speaking of which, her cooking amazed me too. I learned more that summer about preparing food than before or since.

One evening during my second week there, I repotted several plants in the garden while she whipped up a soulful spread of marinated chicken, collard greens, and corn bread. The aroma teased me all the way out in the courtyard. I was ravenous.

She finally appeared in the doorway and I started toward her. "Time to eat?" I asked. "Smells wonderful."

"What happened to the rug in the dining room?"

"The rug? I don't ... oh, yeah. I accidently tracked some dirt when I went to the bathroom. I cleaned it up though."

"Rewind," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "You tracked dirt into the house?"

"Yeah, sorry. I thought I cleaned it all up. Did I miss a spot?"

"What did you clean it with?"

"A little soap and water."

"Oh, my God," she shrieked and ran back inside.

I thought something was burning so I ran after her. Instead, I saw her crouched over the spot I had cleaned, rubbing her hands across the rug. "This rug is over a hundred years old. You can't just wipe up a spill. It has to go to the cleaners. Otherwise, the dirt gets pressed into the fibers and accelerates the deterioration. This is going to cost a small fortune."

It was like she had slapped me. I felt horrible. "Wow, Miss Amelia, I'm really sorry. I had no idea."

She turned to me and was about to speak when her face drained of color. "Get out!"

I jumped. "Out? But...aren't you overreacting?"

"Your shoes," she barked. "They're still on.

"Oh. Jesus. Sorry." I was outside in two steps and pulled them off. This was not my day.

When I came back inside, Miss Amelia was in the dining room mumbling and pacing. Note to self, I thought, stay off the damn rug. Suddenly she grabbed a chair from the table and turned it around. Odd, I thought. She sat down, facing away from the table. Now I was convinced she had completely lost it.

"Come over here, Grady." She still sounded angry, so I complied. She looked up. "We had an agreement that you would respect my property."

"Of course," I said. "This was an accident."

"My things are too delicate for accidents."

I felt stuck. There was no way to reason with her so I kept my mouth shut. She was bent on being mad at me.

"You need to be punished so this won't happen again."

I stared at her. "Okaaay. I'll gladly pay for the cleaning, do extra chores."

"I'm going to spank you."

I laughed. How could I not. What a ridiculous thing to say. "No, seriously, let me pay for it."

"That is the consequence I choose. It is appropriate and fair, per our lease."

I couldn't believe it. She was serious. Suddenly I felt sick, dizzy. This was surreal. "You can't," I barely managed to say.

"Listen, Grady. I'm very serious about preserving the old items in this house. They have a lot of meaning to me."

"I get that. But a spanking?"

"That's the consequence."

I folded my arms and exhaled a measure of up anxiety. "When?"

She patted her thighs. "Now. Bend over."

I almost rolled my eyes, but quickly thought better of it. Shaking my head, I awkwardly crawled over lap. This was stupid. Then I felt her grab me and push me farther over so my ass was really up. She was stronger than I imagined. A tremor of dread rippled through me.

Without a word, she started swinging. And man did it sting. I was glad to have jeans on. She didn't let up and soon I was squirming around trying to avoid her hand, but then that iron grip clamped around my waist and held me firm against her lap. I actually started kicking. How humiliating.

The pain got so intense I finally yelled out, "Stop. Stop." To my surprise, she did.

"Stand up," she said.

It was hard to get up. My head was spinning and my legs felt wobbly. "Listen, I'm very sorry," I started to say.

"I'm not done."

"What?"

"Take down your pants."

"I don't think that's a good idea." This had gone far enough. I folded my arms again and tried to look large. "That hurt plenty."

"Fine," she said. "I'll do it then."

Before I knew it her hands were undoing my belt. I was so shocked I couldn't move. At that moment, I caught a glimpse down her blouse. My eyes froze on her round breasts nested firmly inside. Then I noticed a slight bump on each summit. Miss Amelia!

While she had practically torn open my belt buckle, she was almost gentle when she went for my button. I felt her finger go inside my waist band and slowly twist the button through the hole. When she pulled down my zipper, it was almost seductive. What was going on?

One thing that was going on was a swelling in my pants. That was the last thing I needed. I was already completely humiliated. I looked at the ceiling, thinking about nuns and dead kittens as she pulled my jeans down to my knees. Despite my best efforts, I knew a small tent was rising.

"Okay, Grady. Back over," Miss Amelia said. Her voice was softer, almost in her throat. I looked down and at that moment, she slid the hem of her skirt all the way up her thighs exposing two beautiful legs wrapped in black herringbone stockings. My heart pounded. I felt all the blood rush from one head to the other. No!

She reached out and touched the bulge on my briefs. A soft caress from her added a dimension to my embarrassment.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked.

"Uh, yes, Ma'am."

"Me too." Then she grabbed my wrist and I was over her lap again. This time her legs spread slightly and I felt my stiffy wedge between her thighs.

"From now on, you will address me as Miss Amelia. Understood?"

"Okay."

A stinging swat landed on the thin microfibers stretched across my already soar buns.

"What?" she said harshly.

"I mean, yes Miss Amelia."

"That's better," she said and rubbed her hand across my backside. That didn't help my confused feelings and sensations.

It hardly registered when she started spanking me again. The pain was in a different universe. My thoughts were on the sensation of slippery nylon that my thighs slid across and the gentle squeeze I felt every time I pushed against Miss Amelia's thighs when her palm landed. It felt like she squeezed her legs with each of my thrusts. I felt like my cock was going to tear through my briefs. It didn't get better when she pulled them up between my cheeks. Everything tightened.

But man did that hurt. Now she was hitting bare skin. The pain came back with a vengeance and I started wiggling again, but that only turned me on as my restrained cock ground against Miss Amelia's thighs. I was suddenly racked with the fear that I might cum of this kept up. That would be beyond embarrassing. I stopped moving and instead threw my hand back to cover my burning butt. Bad move.

Miss Amelia grabbed my wrist and pinned it against my back. Then she wrapped a leg behind mine completely pinning me against her one thigh. She really wailed then, very rhythmical and I couldn't help myself. I was completely immobilized and a hot flash spread through me, complete sensory overload. Each sharp smack pushed me into her and I knew it was going to happen. I tried to wriggle free, to get off her lap, but she clamped down harder and that was all it took. With a growl, my body convulsed and I had an orgasm like no other I ever experienced. I seemed to spasm forever.

When the last shudder left me, a wave of shame and guilt came over me and I broke free. I had never lost control before. Without looking at Miss Amelia, I grabbed my pants and ran upstairs and fell on my bed. I didn't feel like crying or anything, I simply didn't know how to piece together what just happened, any of it. So I did what I always did when I felt overwhelmed. I went to sleep.

* * *

It must have been a couple hours later. It was dark. I awoke to movement in my room. A shapely silhouette sat on the edge of my bed. Miss Amelia. Her hand found my bottom and rubbed it. She was so gentle now. I waited for her to begin wailing again. Instead, she rolled me onto my back, took my underwear in both hands, and pulled them slowly off. She had a warm, damp towel and cleaned off my pubic hair. I felt something grow again. So did she.

Miss Amelia crawled in and lay next to me. That's when I realized she was naked. Before I could react her mouth was on mine and we went at each other like freed animals. So much for prim and proper, the wildcat in Miss Amelia unleashed and I learned a few more things from her that night.

Ironically, our day-to-day relationship remained the same. But I was frequently spanked and we always ended up in each other's arms, or legs, or whatever configuration Miss Amelia desired to introduce. We became lovers, but only when I did something wrong. It was a strange and beautiful arrangement. It worked.

I have more amazing memories from my two years with Miss Amelia than I will ever remember. But one will always stand out among the rest. The last time that she spanked me. It was the day of my graduation and the day before I moved to Boston where I would begin graduate school in the fall.

I woke up that morning, put on my robe and slippers, and set about making Miss Amelia breakfast as was now my routine. I was pulling out the mixing bowls when I caught something and the pans and bowls crashed onto the floor. Nothing broke, but as I carefully placed the pans back into their proper spot, I heard, "Grady!" waft through the courtyard from upstairs. My heart jumped and I knew with a mix of trepidation and excitement I was in for it.

"Coming," I hollered back and hurried upstairs.

Miss Amelia wasn't in her bedroom, a place where I had found myself over her lap more times than I can count. She also wasn't in the bathroom, another locale for bottom warming. I really felt like a bad boy when she dragged me in there, put down the toilet lid, sat down, and yanked me over like a little kid.

"Grady!"

"Where are you?" I said nervously.

"In my dressing room."

Huh. Miss Amelia's dressing room was actually a bedroom she had converted into an enormous walk-in closet. I went through her bedroom and paused with a start at the door to her private room. Flanked by hanging clothes around the perimeter, she sat in the middle of the room on an old wooden chair, like a throne. She wore my favorite silk robe. It felt very sexy when I lay bent over her lap.

Her vanity dominated the wall behind her. French Empire vintage, walnut, pristine condition, it was a rare work of craftsmanship. I knew it well, not only for its historic pedigree but because I was frequently sent to fetch her mean wooden hairbrush out of the drawer.

"No," I whined, with real worry. "Not the hairbrush."

"Grady," she said sternly. "There's nothing to discuss. I was sleeping soundly until you started with all that racket. What on earth are you doing down there?"

"Making you breakfast."

Her whole face softened. A smile found its way out. "That's very sweet." She paused to think a moment. "You still need a spanking, but I won't use the hairbrush."

"Thank you, Miss Amelia."

"I want you to take off your robe. Leave on your slippers."

The last was an odd request. Why leave on my slippers? I said nothing and did as she asked. I knew better than to question. The hairbrush was still in proximity.

I loosened my terry belt and slid off my robe. I hung it on the door knob. It felt strange with my slippers on. It made me feel even more naked. Because of that, I walked toward Miss Amelia with part of me arriving at her side about six inches before the rest of me.

Miss Amelia smiled. "What have we here, naughty boy?"

"Sorry, Miss Amelia, I couldn't help it."

I waited for the order to bend over. Instead, she reached out and stroked me. Her warm fingers felt magical, like velvet feathers. To my surprise, she pulled me closer and took me into her mouth. She had never done that before a spanking. I felt like my knees might buckle as I got lightheaded. Her hand moved behind me and caressed my ass. Her fingers slid up and down my crack, ventured into my hole. I almost came from that but shook it off. Maybe I wouldn't be spanked after all. Just then, I felt a sharp smack against my backside. I was so startled; I thrust deep into Miss Amelia's mouth. She did it again, harder. In I went again. She kept this up, faster and faster. A few more searing smacks and it was all over. I grabbed Miss Amelia's shoulder to steady myself and shot right down her throat.

Suddenly, my flagging cock popped out of her wet mouth, and I found world upside down, bare butt arched high over her lap and then her palm raining fire all over it. I felt cum drip and worried it would stain Miss Amelia's robe or her highly polished floor. She didn't seem concerned. Her focus was on my punishment now and she really went at it.