NEVER TOO OLD, PART 8
March, 1982
by Gene Hyatt

Never Too Old, 1
Never Too Old, 2
Never Too Old, 3
Never Too Old, 4
Never Too Old, 5
Never Too Old, 6
Never Too Old, 7

Martha Maxwell threw her wet towel in the general direction of the hamper and hurried into the bedroom. She glanced at the bedside clock. I'll never get dressed before he gets here, she groaned, let alone get my make-up on. And, of course, he'll be on time. I've never known anyone to be so hung up on punctuality. Well, at least I'm consistent, she thought as she took out a set of her sexist underwear, six dates with Bill and I haven't been ready on time for one of them.

She glanced at David's picture on the dresser. "Sorry darling," she said aloud, "but all of the results of your good training left me when you did."

She spread her panties and started to lift a leg then paused, in spite of the time, to gaze at her image in the mirror. Not bad for a sixty year old broad, she said to herself as she surveyed her nude body. Even the stretch marks had faded in the twenty-three years since she had been pregnant with Davey. I'm sure glad I took up aerobics; those fifteen pounds I've put on since David died would all be around my tummy if I hadn't, she thought.

She caressed her breasts and smiled at all of the times in her younger years she had wished for larger ones. Now she was grateful for the small, brown tipped mounds that still stood proudly with only a hint of sag.

She turned her back and looked over her shoulder at her rather prominent bottom. The shadowed valley separated two chubby cheeks which David had always described as her ripe peach. She shivered a little as she thought of what she would be in for if it was David who was going to have to wait for her. Thirty with his paddle would be the least she could expect. Bill hadn't even expressed displeasure at her previous latenesses, well not vocally anyway, never mind doing anything about them. I just don't understand him, she mused. He knows how David used to keep me in line. Doesn't he realize that I need my caboose painted red once in awhile just like Peg did. I know she went to bed with a sore butt many a night. She sighed, maybe I've misinterpreted his actions, maybe he doesn't love me, maybe he doesn't intend to propose after all, maybe--

Her reverie was interrupted by the door chimes. "Oh hell!" she exclaimed. She tossed the panties and bra on the bed, quickly ran a brush through her long black hair, grabbed a robe from the closet and hurried down stairs.

She was still knotting the sash as she opened the door and smiled at the tall, blonde, robust man standing there with one finger extended toward the bell button. "Hi, Bill," she said with a smile, "Come in.

He self-consciously stuffed the extended hand into his pants pocket as he entered. "Hello, Martha," he replied in a flat voice, and then with just a touch of sarcasm, "Am I early?"

She did not miss the tone. "Of course not I'm afraid I'm running a little late," and then with a small laugh added, "as usual."

He did not fall in with her attempt at lightness. "You'd better hurry; the curtain goes up in an hour," he said, keeping his voice flat.

Her eyes dropped. "Yes, Bill," she said softly and turned toward the stairway. "Fix yourself a drink. I won't be long."

He watched her ascend the stairs then moved through the double doors into the den. He picked up the bottle of Old Overholt from behind the bar, poured a half inch into a glass and added a cube from the small refrigerator. He sat on the couch and took a swallow of the strongly flavored, but mellow, straight rye whiskey. He sighed as he remembered the many times he and David had shared a drink of Old Overholt in this room.

Now, what am I going to do about Martha, he asked himself. I think I'm in love with her--hell, I know I'm in love with her. Was even back in high school. Probably would have married her instead of Peg if David hadn't of got to her first. Don't know why I waited so long to ask her for a date; she certainly dropped enough hints. Guess I was feeling guilty for letting David drive home that night when he was so tired. Well, I'm sure making up for lost time. I want to marry her, but I don't know . . .

He glanced around the den. At least three days worth of newspapers lay here and there; a plate on the bar held a half eaten sandwich, and a blouse and skirt were inelegantly draped over the back of a chair. From his other recent visits he knew the rest of the house would be equally messy in spite of the fact that Martha didn't work and had the services of a cleaning lady twice a week. He shook his head, "I certainly couldn't put up with that," he muttered.

And her chronic tardiness was even more of a problem to him. He couldn't remember the last time she'd been punctual for their monthly meetings with the company accountant, and she had yet to be ready when he called for her. Not even tonight when she knew that if they missed the opening curtain they wouldn't be seated until halfway through the first act. He knew that he couldn't put up with these faults of hers for very long.

She had certainly not been that way when David was alive, and he was well aware of why. He had been tempted to spank her after every date they'd had, but he wasn't sure she'd accept discipline from him as she had from David, and he couldn't bring himself to chance losing her.

He sighed deeply. Well, there's only one way to find out, he told himself. She certainly deserves a damn good spanking for being late tonight, and when we get back I'll tell her so. I'll let her attitude decide our future.

Martha entered the room as he was washing his glass at the bar. "Now that didn't take long, did it?" she said brightly, still trying to keep things light.

"I guess not," he replied with a slight smile, "but we don't have any time to spare." He hurried her out the door and down the steps to his car.

They were both silent as Bill threaded his way through the suburban Chicago street traffic on the way to the Tri-State. He managed to catch most of the lights on green, and when he turned onto the entrance ramp there was a good chance that they would make it with some time to spare.

"Heard from the kids lately?" Martha asked, sensing that the tension between them had eased.

He deftly swung around a semi before answering, "Letter from Nancy yesterday. Didn't say much. Jerry's business is doing fine. Dave's brought in some new clients since he became a partner. You?"

Martha smiled at his characteristic abruptness. "Melody called me a couple of nights ago. She said about the same thing. She and Davey are beginning to make final plans for the wedding." She started to go into details, but decided to be as abrupt as he.

She sat back and watched the traffic patterns as they shifted around them. I wonder why it took him almost three years to ask me out, she mused as she often had the past two weeks. I certainly hinted often enough, shamelessly actually. She didn't consider the occasional lunch after their monthly board meetings, or his infrequent short visits to "see how you're doing" as dates. And then when he had finally asked her to dinner and a show, he had used the excuse of celebrating their decision to sell the business.

Her thoughts took a turn. That was a wise decision she told herself. They both knew that it had been David's business acumen that had taken Jackson and Maxwell from a simple carpentry shop to a small but highly profitable contracting company. Bill could handle men and was a top notch carpenter (He still worked alongside his crew a couple of days a week.); but when it came to business, well, they had made the money the last three years on David's hard won contracts; but Bill would not be able to make a go of it alone.

Her thoughts were interrupted by squealing brakes and the pressure of the seat belt across her breasts as Bill brought the car to a near stop.

"What's the matter, darling?" she asked anxiously, not realizing she'd used the term of endearment.

Bill glanced at her in surprise "Traffic stopped ahead. Damn! The cops are sending us off at the exit."

He followed the line of cars for several minutes then rolled down the window. "What's the trouble, officer?"

"Two semis and a bunch of cars tangled up. It'll be hours before they're cleared. Please keep moving, sir."

"When did it happen?"

"About ten minutes ago. Please move on, sir."

"Damn it!" Bill exclaimed as he moved down the exit ramp, "We'll never make it now."

Martha blushed as she realized that if she had been on time they would have missed the accident. She reached to put a hand on Bill's knee. "It's all my fault. I'm sorry, Bill."

He looked at her and frowned and saw her drop her eyes and begin to rub her behind just as Peg always had when she knew she deserved a spanking.

Her hand remained on his knee as they rode on in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

He unlocked the door and stood aside for her to enter, handing her the keys as she did so.

"Be back in a couple of minutes. Pour me a small one, please."

He watched her climb the stairs then visited the half-bath at the back of the house before pouring his Old Overholt and her brandy. He was halfway through his drink before she returned.

She stepped out of her heels and hitched a hip onto one of the bar stools. They were both quiet for several minutes. Finally, Martha broke the silence. "That really was a good play, wasn't it?", she said nervously, swirling her brandy.

"Yes it was . . . what we saw of it."

"Bill, I've apologized at least a dozen times. What more can I do?"

He slowly took a sip of his drink. It's not what you can do, it's what I should do," he said, staring into her large, brown eyes.

She stared back for a full half minute then downed her brandy in one gulp. "Do you want to do it here or upstairs?" she asked softly.

He placed his glass firmly on the bar. "Upstairs," he answered, managing to keep his voice steady and authoritative in spite of his sudden nervousness.

She nodded slightly, slipped off the stool and walked to the stairs. Holding the rail with one hand and gently massaging her swaying bottom with the other, she began the familiar long climb.

He removed his jacket and placed it on the bar stool then began rolling up his sleeves as he followed her up the stairs.

He hadn't been in the bedroom since the day of David's funeral. It was still as he remembered it, but here too, she had allowed clutter to creep back.

Martha indicated the bench that sat in front of her make-up table, "David always sat on that when . . . when he . . . ," her voice trailed off and she glanced around the room as though looking for a place to hide.

Bill nodded and moved toward it. She watched as he placed the bench in the center of the room, sat down and loosened his tie before looking at her again.

"May I, uh, take off my . . . my dress. The skirt is, uh, very tight and I don't want it, uh, wrinkled." Her hands went to the buttons at the back without waiting for an answer.

He nodded and looked slightly to one side, trying not to make it obvious that he was watching, as she pulled the dark gray linen dress off of her shoulders and pushed it down the length of her body, wiggling a little to work it past her hips. She stepped out of it and folded it carefully over the foot of the bed.

She was well aware of the effect of the black underwear against her pale skin and that the lacy, black bra barely covered her pert breasts as they moved with her rapid breathing. In spite of her approaching ordeal, she smiled slightly when she saw his eyes move over her body. She stood and waited, eyes downcast, hands at her sides, fingers working, just as she had for David the afternoon before he--she forced her mind back to the present.

He stared at her, seeing Peg the last time he had spanked her--so many years ago . . . "You are going to get a bare butt spanking. Get ready!" he said gruffly to cover his confusion.

She stared at him. Did he expect her to prepare herself? She knew that Peg always had, but could she bare herself in front of him? Well, David always said that naughty girls forfeited their modesty, she said to herself, and if I have my way I'll be forfeiting mine a lot from now on, so I guess I might as well start us off right.

She looked directly into Bill's gray eyes as she slowly raised the black slip and tucked the lacy hem into the waist band. She hooked her thumbs into the top of the black panty hose and quickly lowered them to her knees. Straightening, she stood for a few second, a nymph covered in alternate black and flesh colored bands, before taking a deep breath and pushing her hip hugger panties down to meet the panty hose. This time when she straightened she could not stop her hands from covering the small, sparsely covered valley between her thighs. She stood, blushing slightly, waiting for his next command.

He had given the order to get ready out of habit, and when he realized that she was going to bare herself before coming to him, his first impulse was to stop her. She was not family after all, even though he hoped that she would be soon; and his rather conservative attitude toward nudity dictated that he remove her panties after she across his knees to spare her as much embarrassment as possible under the circumstances.

But as he stared into her eyes it suddenly came to him, as though he had read her mind, that this was her way of telling him that she would not object to future discipline from him. He smiled inwardly. "Turn over," he ordered, pointing at his lap.

She hobbled the two or three yards and laid her lithe body across his knees, waiting until the last moment to remove her hands in order to support herself. She groaned in humiliation. God, that was awful, she said to herself. What a sight I must have made trying to walk with my underclothes around my knees.

She felt his legs shift as he leaned over her bottom and wondered what he was doing. Oh, no! she exclaimed to herself as she felt her underwear move down her legs and off her feet. The next moment they dropped on the floor in front of her and she shivered and contracted her muscles as she pictured her state of nudity.

"You know why you're getting this, Martha."

It didn't sound like a question, but she looked over her shoulder at him and replied softy, "Yes, for being late tonight and causing us to miss part of the play." Then in spite of the humiliation, she couldn't help pleading, "Oh, please, Bill, darling. Don't spank me too hard. I'm so sorry I was bad!"

She saw his hand go up and turned her head to stare at her underwear several inches in front of her nose. The muscles in her bottom cheeks contracted automatically in anticipation of the coming spank.

He picked a spot and brought his hand down in a long swift arc. The resulting noise filled the room but did not quite cover up the yelp of surprise traditionally given by spankees when they feel the first sting.

As she received five more real stingers, delivered slowly on the same spot, she could not stop the reflexive humping of her bottom or the loud yelps that welled up from her throat. Her right hand flew back, but she had been well trained, and she managed to stop it before it reached its goal.

Having gotten off to a good start, Bill increased the pressure of his left hand in the small of her back and began to deliver rapid spanks that covered her wriggling, twisting hind end with pink hand prints that gradually spread into one large area of light rose, then dark rose, and finally red as the spanking approached the five minute mark. Still he did not stop but kept up the steady rain of smacks. He watched her skin grow a deeper and deeper red and listened to her increasingly high pitched vocalizations delivered in counterpoint to the harsh noise of his hand slapping her bare skin.

She had not expected Bill's hand to hurt as much as it did in spite of what Peg used to claim, and her spanking song and dance were as energetic as any she had ever performed for David. By the time he was nearing the seven minute mark her shapely legs were in constant motion, both up and down and sideways, and her hips pumped and arched in time with the rain of spanks falling on her plump cheeks. Her vocals were mostly of the scat variety consisting of grunts, howls, hoots, and other unintelligible sounds. Close listening, however, would have revealed an occasionally interspersed "please", "stop", or "no more" and even some "I'll be goods" and "I'm sorrys".

Her body relaxed when she realized the smacks had finally stopped. She didn't know how long he had been putting heat into her behind, but it seemed like an hour. She was not used to such long punishments. David had seldom given her more than fifty--never more than a hundred--with the paddle; and he always swung rapidly and hard, so that she was in bottom-up position no longer than a couple of very painful minutes.

She shifted her hands around on the floor, finally pushing and extending her arms full length to raise her head and upper body. She took deep breaths as the pressure on her chest was relieved and felt her face go cool as the excess blood ran back to her body.

Her rest was all too brief. She felt his arm circle her waist and his palm splay across her stomach, holding her tightly. She lowered her body and squirmed and whimpered as she realized her punishment was about to start again.

This time his aim was on her left thigh, and her reaction was swift and violent. Her leg kicked back as it felt the sting, quivered in a straight out position for a few seconds then collapsed again. His large, calloused palm fell on the other thigh and got the same reaction. He slowly delivered two dozen heavy swats to each fleshy thigh, one dozen down and one dozen back up, spacing them side by side as Martha hooted and did her tap dance in the air.

Once more he paused, withdrew his left arm and allowed the slender body to collapse across his lap. He watched with a sad expression as the tortured nerve endings in her thighs caused her legs to continue to kick in time to her moans and sobs. He did not relish giving spankings to those he loved; but he had found, as his father and grandfather before him, that Jackson women seemed to need the on a regular basis; so he had always done what had to be done. And now it seemed that Martha was from the same mold. Well, if that's what it takes, that's what it takes, he said to himself and prepared to finish her well deserved punishment.

Without warning he withdrew his right leg from under her and, quickly pushing her farther over his left leg, clamped her legs with it. It was a position that David had favored when he wanted to make a paddling especially memorable. Her remembrance of the hellish pain of the paddle landing on her bottom's overhang caused her to struggle frantically as she tried to lower her hips to make the target area less accessible. She was not successful and endured another two dozen of Bill's powerful, bare hand smacks on each side. Before he was half through, tears were streaming down her face, and she was crying uncontrollably.

Without a pause, he returned to the dark red crowns and finished her off with a final two minutes of rapid swats as her body collapsed across his left leg, jerking with a reflexive movement as his palm bombarded her behind.

Finished at last, he removed his leg. He expected her to roll to the floor as Peg, Nancy, and Melody had always done; but instead she continued to hang over his knee, her hands back and rubbing gently, as she sobbed her heart out.

He did not quite know what to do. Before he could make up his mind Martha slowly pushed herself up and with a quick turn sat on his lap. She gasped as her sore, burning cheeks contacted his legs then threw her arms around his neck.

He listened to her sob for a couple of minutes, feeling her body quiver, his left arm around her waist, his right hand lightly resting on her thighs. Realizing that she was still naked from the waist down, he untucked her slip and covered her in front then did the same all the way around so that it would cover her when she stood up.

"Th . . . th . . . thank y . . . you, dar..darling," she stammered as she continued to sob into his shoulder. Then a couple of minutes later, "God! You spa . . . spank hard. My p . . . poor b . . . butt's on f..fire. But I . . . I deserved it. I . . . I promise never to . . . to be la . . . late again."

He smiled. He had heard many such promises from freshly spanked women and knew just how long they usually lasted. He put both arms around her and hugged gently, feeling her response. Suddenly he blurted, "Will you marry me, Martha?"

She was silent for a minute, then raised her head and looked at him with a serious expression, "Will . . . will you spa . . . spank me after we're married?"

He hesitated, then replied, "Every time you need one."

A smile lit up her face. "I was hoping you'd say that, darling," she said happily then suddenly pressed her tear-wet lips to his. He stiffened in surprise then relaxed ad responded to her ardent kiss. Their tongues played with each other until, finally, Bill broke away.

He smiled at her. "You didn't answer my question," he said giving her a playful swat, "Do I have to add a few?"

"Ouch!" she yipped and then with a shudder, "God, no! The answer is yes, but what took you so long?"

"Some day I may tell you. Why don't you get, uh, straightened up while I go down and fix us another drink."

She nodded, stood up and headed for the bathroom. "There's some good champagne in the wine cellar, but I'm not sure where the ice bucket is," she said over her shoulder.

In the bathroom, she quickly stripped off the rest of her clothes and looked at her bottom in the door mirror. Gently she patted the red skin that extended from her tail bone to her knees but was darkest on the crowns of the chubby cheeks. Damn, it hurts, she said to herself. Casting her eyes upward she smiled and murmured, "Peg, honey, I apologize for ever doubting you. It took longer, but the finished product is every bit as well cooked as David's."

The sink mirror gave back an image of the face of a well spanked woman: red eyes, sniffly nose, and streaks of mascara and eye shadow. "I guess I'll have to go back to spank-proof make-up," she muttered as she wet a cloth and began to undo the damage.

After cleaning her face, she suddenly realized that the beads of perspiration that had formed during her ordeal were now trickling in rivulets down various parts of her body. She turned on the shower jumped in and out and quickly toweled off.

Back in the bedroom she hurriedly put on fresh lipstick, sprayed deodorant and ran a comb through her hair. Finally she reached for her robe, paused, thought a minute, nodded her head, and rummaged on the top shelf of the closet. She brought down a box, opened it, and removed a white, filmy negligee and matching baby-doll pajamas. They had been bought for a fourth honeymoon that never occurred. She put them on and looked in the mirror. The material was so thin that even through the two layers the red of her spanked cheeks was visible as was the shadow between her thighs and the dark circles at the tips of her breasts. If the kids can screw before they're married, so can we, she said to herself.

She stepped to the door and called downstairs, "Darling, why don't you bring the champagne up here."

His reply was so long in coming that she thought with a sinking heart that she had gone too far. Then his voice floated up the stairway, "As soon as I find the ice bucket."

She smiled in relief then dimmed the lights with the control panel by the bed. She twirled a couple of times, stopping in front of David's picture. "I hope you don't mind, darling," she said, "Bill was your best friend, after all, and I'll sure be in good hands--in more ways than one."

She started another twirl then stopped and looked back in puzzlement. She could have sworn that David had nodded his head and winked.