Some of you may remember my posting part of this story back in August. Quite frankly I'd forgotten I'd posted it, and only found it on hear by accident when searching for something else. It seemed to be quite well received at the time, so apologies for leaving you all hanging in mid air! For convenience I've re-posted it from the start and I'll add to it over the next few days. My wife Elizabeth and I have lived very happily in a Perthshire village for over 20 years, during which time our sex life has deteriorated to the stage where sexual contact is now very rare indeed. Like many other older men, I find myself just as horny now as I was as a teenager, but my very loving wife seems to find the whole thing rather tedious, as if her sex drive has simply evaporated. So now I have to content myself with wanking over Internet porn while my wife is at work, never really having had the opportunity to do anything about my lack of sex. I have for some time browsed the pages of Adult Work and even entered into brief e-mail correspondence with some of the girls there that I find attractive, suggesting we meet and asking them whether they would accommodate my sexual whims. I have never dared to actually meet one however, and until recently I had resigned myself to wank away my remaining years while remaining faithful to my darling wife. And then Margaret moved in to the house next door and all that changed. A widow in her early sixties, she had chosen to move to the countryside from Perth shortly after her older husband Peter had passed away following a long illness. Elizabeth and Margaret soon became friends, but it was clear that she missed her husband greatly, and in many ways. I soon found myself helping keep her garden in order and doing small repairs around the house. She was almost as tall as I, pleasantly plump, with large, quite conical breasts and a truly magnificent bottom. She almost always wore a skirt or a light dress in the summer and I’d occasionally noticed seams on the backs of her nylons suggesting the fulfilment of another of my fantasies – stockings! I was eventually able to confirm this with a quick rummage in her laundry basket, which produced several pairs of tan and grey stockings but no suspenders. Slightly puzzling, as the stockings weren’t hold ups, but my mystery was solved the following Saturday morning, as when rounding the corner of the garage, I walked straight into a cream coloured open bottom girdle hanging from the washing line! Although I had always considered Margaret to be an attractive woman my thoughts towards her were becoming increasingly sexual, and I often found my cock hardening in her presence, especially when she hugged me tightly when I arrived each morning. At first I found her hugs quite embarrassing, but latterly I had become a willing participant and would often drop my hands down on to her ample bottom and give her cheeks a bit of a squeeze. If I was already erect this action caused my stiffness to press against her, but if she ever did notice, she certainly never reacted to it. I suppose she was just a very kind and touchy-feely sort of person, and the prospect of my getting to ride her was purely a figment of my very vivid imagination. But holding her close, with my hands clutching her very firm behind and her fine tits pressed against me did nothing to calm my ardour, and I’d have happily bent her over the kitchen table for a good seeing to, given the slightest chance. We now talked often on my regular morning visits, and it became clear that Margaret was quite self critical, verbally chastising herself over her weight and appearance or perhaps her forgetfulness. She was always in a hurry and often set herself unrealistic targets for what she might achieve in a day. I tried to help by suggesting she take a longer-term view and how she would be surprised what could be achieved when one made plans over a longer period. She remarked how I often sounded so much like her late husband with my considered advice and how much she missed his direction and discipline. Naturally I was intrigued by her comment but chose not to press her on it. It wasn’t until some weeks later when we were unpacking the last of the removal van boxes out in the garage, that things became clearer. One box I opened contained an old brown leather holdall and as I lifted it clear and placed it on the bench between us, Margaret’s hand came up to cover her mouth and a gasp of recognition. “Shall I open it?” “I’m not sure” “Do you know what’s inside?” “It was Peter’s” I unzipped it and peered inside. There were a couple of large dildos, three hairbrushes, a bath brush and a couple of leather straps. I looked up at Margaret’s face, which had become quite pale. I lifted out one of the straps to inspect it more closely. It was a heavy, black Lochgelly tawse, the type that had been used in Scottish schools for generations, right up to the 1980’s before it’s use was outlawed. I’d been a fairly regular recipient in my own school years, and I still remembered trying to rub the sting out of my hands following a particularly severe administration by the games mistress, for looking over the top of a partition into the girls changing area. Rather than being emotionally scarred by these beatings I now found the whole thing quite exciting on reflection. My only regret was that she hadn’t asked me to drop my shorts that day, before applying a good leathering to my bare bottom. Standing there now, with the tawse in my hands, my cock was like an iron bar, and I stared deep into Margaret’s eyes before I spoke. “Did Peter use this on you?” “Yes – quite often actually” “On your hands?” “Yes. On my hands, and on my bottom too.” “Why was this?” “Peter was very strict, a real disciplinarian. He was a schoolteacher at a boarding school in Aberdeenshire when we met and he also taught in Perthshire before he retired. He believed in firm discipline at school and at home, and he made it quite clear to me at the outset that he would stand no nonsense from any girlfriend of his! We got on very well however, and his meticulous planning and strict discipline actually suited me very well. By the time we married I was completely at ease with his disciplinary regime. He was extremely kind to me and very loving, but I knew if I overstepped the mark I’d be over his knee in a flash. He always spanked hard, and on the bare. He knew how to keep me in order and that’s one of the reasons I miss him so much now. “ I was at a loss for words but I could see that Margaret was taking comfort from sharing her thoughts with me. “How often did he spank you?” “Every Friday evening he would administer what he referred to as a maintenance spanking. I’d come to his study where he’d be seated behind his desk. I’d raise my skirt and he’d slip down my knickers and bend me over his knee. He’d then spank me quite hard for two minutes or so before sending me to stand in the corner. After five minutes he’d bring me back and have me bend over the end of his desk. I’d get a dozen good hard ones with that tawse. As soon as he’d finished he would usually give me a good seeing to. Although it stung like hell I always enjoyed the sex afterwards. If we’d no plans for the evening we’d often retire early to bed for some extended, gentle lovemaking so I always looked forward to Friday’s maintenance spankings, or at least the afters.” “Did he punish you at other times?” “It didn’t happen very often but if I displeased him, or broke one of his golden rules, he might decide I deserved a punishment spanking. These were usually more severe and could happen at any time. He was very particular about how I dressed and only allowed me to wear skirts and dresses, “like a proper lady” he used to say. My undergarments were also under his jurisdiction. I’d to wear stockings and suspenders at all times, and latterly I was allowed to wear a girdle, but never, ever was I allowed to wear tights. He simply hated them and would not tolerate me wearing them.” “It seems a bit draconian but I don’t suppose it was a great hardship?” “Well no – I actually prefer stockings, but sometimes tights are all you can get, especially back then, when everyone was wearing them. The worst time was when Peter called in at my office as a surprise, to take me out to lunch. I’d laddered a stocking that morning and had borrowed a pair of tights from a colleague, intending to buy more stockings at lunchtime. I nipped to the loo, leaving Peter in my office, but when I returned there was clearly something wrong as his face was like thunder. He closed the door behind me and instructed me to lift my skirt. I shook my head and he simply said “come with me”. I knew I was in trouble. We got into his car and he drove me home. He parked in the garage and then opened the door for me. He walked me to the front of the car and bent me over the bonnet. He then lifted my skirt up my back and tore off my tights and knickers. He left the garage but returned a minute later carrying a fearsome cane that I’d often been taunted with, but had never actually felt. He had a few practice “whoops” through the air before placing it across my bottom. I got 15 strokes in total – the intended dozen plus three extra for jumping up and clutching my bottom. They hurt like hell, but he simply drove me back to my office and dumped me off, without tights, stockings or knickers. He never spoke a single word to me. I cleaned myself up in the loo and spent the rest of the day squirming in my seat, avoiding my colleagues and cursing my stupidity at leaving the tights wrapper in my waste paper bin. When I got home that night he took me across his knee and gave me three minutes with the hairbrush before pulling me to my feet and telling me the account was settled, and we would not be referring to it again. He then pleasured me with his tongue before taking me to bed for some vigorous love making.’