To the south-east of London lies the hamlet called Pratts Bottom, and the name of this unfortunate locality has provided cause for mirth over the generations. So when I moved down to Littlehampton on the coast and heard people mention 'Ted's Bottom', I naturally assumed it was the name of a nearby place, a name less evocative perhaps but still with something of a ring to it.
But not so. I soon learnt that Ted's Bottom belonged to Ted, a senior citizen whose life in retirement seemed to centre round the task of getting his behind well and truly spanked - why I do not know - and it would be more near the mark to say it belonged not to him but to every man for twenty miles around. It was known to all, from the local posse of evangelicals to the stalwart band of winos, who could hardly have been in a fit state to focus on the target, I would have thought.
From various comments I pieced together a description of the old rogue. Still active, he could be seen walking the length of the prom and back, wearing in winter a rather frayed wax jacket, or perhaps indulging in a mug of tea and the stodgiest of cakes on the other side of the river, where there stood a sort of refreshment booth or shack. I was curious, I confess, and I did not seem able to spot him, however well I kept my eyes peeled.
But then, of course, I finally did. He had just finished his tea and was standing at the rail, staring down into the river as it hit the sea. What did one say? I took the plunge and said "Can you tell me the way to Ted's Bottom?"
"Where do you want to deal with me, Sir?"
I was a bit taken aback by the sheer simplicity of it. But I got my wits together, suggested the woods, and in no time at all he was in my car and then we went up to Fiveways. Into the thickets till we reached a suitable spot. He stopped and I stopped. He stood and I stood. Then covering my embarrassment with an assumption of severity, I said "Strip, boy!" and he did. In obedience to my gesture, he draped himself over my knees. You cannot expect perfection from an old man's body, but the arse was well-shaped and deliciously soft and yielding. I went to work.
To start off, I patted the cheeks in a rhythmic motion, but then upped the tempo and the force of the contact. Soon Ted's bottom was pink and puffy. I paused for a while to get my breath. He was breathing heavily too. Some more and the cheeks were red and hot to the touch, quivering as my hand descended, and there were gasps coming from him now. I persevered, and finally we got to the stage where he was uttering whimpering sounds while I concentrated on moulding the butocks into a fine display of deep purple fruit, like a basket of juicy plums, enough to make your mouth water in greedy anticipation.
Well, that was it. I had done what I had to do. Twenty minutes later I dropped him near his home. My hand was quite sore and I had to douse it in cold cream on arriving back at my place. He had not said anything of consequence all that time - although on parting a smile did hover round his lips as he bent his head close to my ear and said in a natural enough way "Thank you very much, Sir!"
So the bottom now belongs not only to the evangelicals and the winos, it belongs to me too. I am rather proud of the fact.