I'm a big chap anyway, and over the years I'm afraid I've got fat, with pendulous breasts, a beergut that sways from side to side uncomfortably as I walk, and a great big, bulging, beefy bum. I'm quite hairy too, so I suppose I do look odd when I've got my pink frilly knickers on, with the matching bra.
I was wearing them the other day when I heard a noise in the kitchen. I realised too late that it must be Krishnan, who does my garden. I'd forgotten it was his day. He opened the door into the living-room where I was standing.
"Sir, I put these ... ?" he stopped in mid-sentence and a big, broad grin slowly spread over his delighted face. "Oho! Now I am wondering if all your neighbours know this."
I shook my head, wretchedly. I couldn't speak, but I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair. He stepped up towards me, bounced my breasts several times and said "I know how it is said - you don't get many of those for a pound." And he chortled. He then undid my bra and caught hold of my rather generous nipples, twisting them till I screamed with the pain.
He now turned his attention to my knickers, inching them down and pinging the elastic front and back so that I yelped and thrust my loins now back, now forward, as a sharp sting ran first through my genitals, then across my bottom.
He then bent me over, right over till my head was at the height of his knees - I suppose I'm too heavy to go over his own knee, as he's quite tiny - and began to finger my arse, then slap it, then smack it, and he was soon making the gross, fatty cheeks wobble to and fro. His hand travelled up and down each cheek, stinging them into life. They began to get hot, then hotter, and soon I was begging him to stop. They were on fire. But he only redoubled his smacking.
"Stay there, lady", he said. He went out and came back with the garden canes he was supposed to be using that day. I groaned and felt even more miserable. "I give you thrashing with cane, or everyone know."
I was mortified, but I could do nothing but say "Yes, Sir, cane, Sir, please ... "
So he thrashed me till the tramlines crossed this way and that over my quivering arse like the Elephant and Castle junction used to be. But then he dropped the cane and started slapping again. "Make arse more sensitive", he said. And he had.
I thought at every swipe on my swollen cheeks that I couldn't take any more, but I had to and I did, and again, and again - till with every inch of my ample arse raw and bruised he let me stand up to attention, while he gave himself a wash. He contemptuously tossed me a towel to mop up the water he'd spilt, then off he went to his evening curry.
He still comes regularly, but he does very little gardening. I still have to pay him though. I also have to 'amuse' him, and the session always begins with him clapping his hands to some eastern rhythm while I lumber on to the table and do a dance of the seven veils. And he has brought round a set of his wife's old lace undies for me.