That’s not an ironic title. There’s nothing sexier than a good woodshed, and they’re not easy to find these days.
Alice rented a room in a house with three other people. Not wanting the others to know about her predilection for spanking, bondage and calculated roughness, she was uncomfortable with the inevitable noises of kinky sex. That’s why she was thrilled to get the opportunity to housesit out in Hertfordshire. The place was a modest two-up-two-down at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, normal as could be, except for one feature:
“There’s a woodshed in the back!!!” She texted me urgently, possibly including more than three exclamation points.
I trekked out there one evening to see what she was so excited about.
The woodshed was a sturdy thing, remarkably roomy. The flimsy door could be shut with two of us inside, so long as Alice got in first and bent over the much-diminished stack of firewood. It was late April – this would not have worked in October.
It was chilly that evening. The grass was wet, so Alice put on an incongruous pair of wellies with a white and pink flower pattern. She switched the light on over the woodshed door when she stepped in, then bent over the stack, looking at me with an intensely serious expression.
This was something she’d really thought about. Wanted. It was not the moment to make fun of the wellies.
The shed was nice and dry, smelling faintly of earth and wood musk.
I stepped inside, pulled the rickety door behind me and stroked her bottom for a moment before I pulled up her black wool dress. She was wearing thick, opaque stockings, no knickers.
With no preliminaries I slapped her bottom a few times. She arched her back, closed her eyes… I hit her harder, spanking her so that I felt the sting of every stroke on my palm.
Her skin reddened slowly…
And he’s right … it was not the moment to make fun of the wellies.