This story includes graphic descriptions of consensual corporal punishment in the form of strapping and caning and alludes to non-consensual birching. If you find this distasteful, please do not read on.
All protagonists in this story are over eighteen years old. None of the characters depicted are real; any similarity to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
As always, any grammatical errors or typos are mine alone. Whilst I am sorry that they happen, they are almost inevitable on a site hosting stories written by amateurs for fun. Contrary to what the occasional critic may believe, I proofread, many times over, what I have written. Unfortunately, however hard I try, something always slips past. Hopefully, any errors will not prevent readers from enjoying the story.
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The Music Room
It was a chilly November day when Marjorie and David moved in next door. I had met them once before when they had just viewed the house, and Marjorie approached me to ask about the neighbourhood. I got the impression of a very disciplined and organised woman as she asked about local amenities, traffic noise, and whether any "ill-disciplined children or youths " lived nearby. She had smiled when I answered to her satisfaction and thanked me politely before turning to her husband, David, who had been standing quietly and attentively close by.
"Come along, David," she snapped impatiently. Look sharpish. We haven't got all day."
On their moving day, David and Marjorie arrived first, followed a few minutes later by a large delivery van, and shortly, a team of workers started to unload the vehicle. As I watched from our front window, a never-ending stream of identical cardboard boxes was carried into the house, followed by many pieces of furniture.
Emptying the van took several hours, but by midday, the van and the four blue-overalled men had driven away, their job done.
By ten past twelve, my natural curiosity had got the better of me, and I put on my coat and shoes and went next door. I rang the doorbell and waited, and shortly, Marjorie answered it.
"Hello, welcome to the neighbourhood," I said. "I'm Susan. I saw the furniture van earlier. I wondered if you'd like a cup of tea and some sandwiches."
"Hello, it's nice to see you again. I'm Marjorie. And that's exceedingly kind of you. The kitchen is a total mess. We've scrubbed the floor and cleaned the cupboards and surfaces, but we haven't started to unpack the kitchen things. I haven't got a clue where the electric kettle is...... So, yes, please."
"Milk and sugar?"
"Milk and two sugars for both of us, thank you."
"Will ham sandwiches be all right?"
"That would be great."
***
Fifteen minutes later, I returned with a tray containing two mugs of tea and a plate of ham sandwiches. This time, Marjorie invited me into the house. In the hallway, cardboard boxes were stacked against the wall. Each box was labelled neatly, in block capital letters, with a black marker-pen.
I followed Marjorie across the polished parquet wooden floor into the kitchen. In the centre of the room was a modern Scandinavian-style table with four chairs stacked with boxes marked with a large letter, K. There were more boxes on the kitchen surfaces, and at the far side of the kitchen, a man was cleaning the tiles. He had his back to us and did not appear to notice us as when we entered. Marjorie moved a box, and I set the tray down on the glass-topped table.
"David," she said, "Stop and say hello to Susan. She's made us tea and sandwiches. She lives at number eleven, next door."
David stopped what he was doing, turned to face me, and extended his hand.
"Hello. Thank you for the refreshments. We've met before, haven't we?"
"Yes, when you came to see this house."
"Why don't you sit down?" said Marjorie.
"I won't thank you. I can see you are very busy, and I don't want to get in your way, so I'll leave you to it. I'll pop back later for the mugs and plate. If that's OK?"
"Of course," replied Marjorie.
Whilst we were talking, David reached down between us and took a sandwich, which he chewed enthusiastically. I saw a flash of anger cross Marjorie's face, and then it was gone.
"I'll find my own way out," I said and turned towards the front door.
As I walked away, behind me, I heard Marjorie's voice. I couldn't make out all of what she was saying but could distinguish a single word repeated several times - "rude."
***
Later, in the early evening, as promised, I returned. Marjorie answered the door and invited me in. The kitchen had been transformed. The boxes had disappeared. The stainless-steel sink and draining board were sparkling, and a red mixer, with a matching toaster and kettle, stood on the grey granite worktop. The kitchen wall tiles were now a pristine white, and in place of the old, tired lampshade that had hung from the ceiling, a modern white frosted glass fixture now took its place.
"Wow, you have been busy. It looks great."
"We need to fix the blinds, but now, at least, we can eat and drink. The kitchen was easy, though. I want new carpets and new curtains throughout the house. All the rooms need repainting too. It's going to take a while, but we'll get there. David is going to be remarkably busy.
The last owner, Mr Simms, was a widower and left to his own devices he appears to have been quite typical of his sex - dirty and untidy. When we saw the house filled with his clutter, I had to work hard to see how beautiful it could be."
"I never met him. He was a strange man. We moved in next door three years ago and never spoke to him."
"So, you've not been in this house before?"
"Never. But he was a music teacher, and students were here constantly. The strange thing was, although I heard he taught piano and the drums, we never heard a sound."
"That's not surprising. There's a soundproofed music room in the basement. It's one of the reasons I liked this place when I saw it."
"Are you musical then?"
She smiled.
"Heavens no, but David sings."
***
That night, after my partner, Matt, had fallen asleep, I lay awake in bed, and my thoughts turned to my new neighbours.
In many ways, they were a mismatched couple. She was a plain-looking woman with an unremarkable figure and carried several extraneous stones in weight on her short, big-titted frame. I estimated her to be around the same age as my mother, in her mid-forties. He was much younger, in his early thirties, and a few years older than me. In contrast with his wife, he was a good-looking guy, and certainly fuckable. He was around six feet tall with a good physique and a nice tight arse.
Although I hardly knew either of them, it was clear that Marjorie was the boss, and I wondered if she would object to me fucking David. As I reached down between my kegs. I imagined he was long, thick, and uncut.
***
Matt and I were well-matched. People who didn't know us well, described us as the perfect couple. If that meant a pair of individuals bound to one another in a loving monogamous relationship, with eyes only for each other, that was far from the truth. We were live-in fuckbuddies, had an open relationship, and I had fucked over forty men and approaching ten women in the ten or so years I had been sexually active.
I was twenty-nine years old and figured to pass the century mark for men well before reaching fifty. I don't have a target for women. Fucking them is pleasant enough, but given a choice, I will choose an individual with a penis every time. Five ladies I bedded were all lesbians, and I shagged them out of a combination of curiosity, horniness, and charity. It is difficult to say no to a woman with need in her eyes and an itch in her cunt particularly when you are horny yourself - and I am pretty much always both horny and up for it.
I do not believe in false modesty and know that I'm considered extremely attractive. I have long brown hair and big brown eyes that make me look innocent. I am five feet eight inches tall, with a perfect hour-class figure and firm forty-inch tits, and as I have explained, I am anything but "without sin."
I didn't know how many women Matt had screwed. I wasn't counting, and I didn't care. We fucked who we liked, when we liked, and one another when the mood took, us at least twice or sometimes three times a week.
