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The First Time (M/M-autobiographical)

I reckon it took me about fifteen years to work out my kink. From bending down for a schoolmaster to bending down for pleasure, however ob...

Wednesday, 14 December 2016

Taking Care (F/m F/f)

This is not a Christmas story but it does hint at the end of one to come. I have been suffering for a few weeks, shingles, which has made me very unsociable and grumpy. Two folks usually give me a Christmas spanking and both have had to be cancelled. Hence this pretty long story and, unusually for me, a good deal of semi sexual detail. Pure fantasy of course although, I suspect, nurses such as Miss Nettles figure in many an over active male mind. Happy Christmas. Shingle bells, shingle bells, shingle all the way. Alfred Roy

Taking Care



I should be embarrassed. I was the first time but, when you have been bathed half a dozen times, you get used to it. Well I did anyway. My brother said it’s because I am only fifteen and don’t have his hormones. I also don’t have his arms. Well one of them. My right one. Have to wank left handed, he said, when you start, or get someone else to do it for you. He seemed amused by this but I reckon he was covering up distress. That’s what my sister said. She’s my twin and we are two years younger than Adam. They were both gutted by my accident, you could see that in spite of the forced hilarity. I lost the arm in a car accident about eighteen months ago and, to compound the difficulties, my saved left arm is taking yonks to heal. But, eventually, the hospital let me home and dad employed a nurse come home help to see us through. Had to really as mum, in the car with me, is back in hospital and not likely to come out again for months. Can’t have three teenagers causing riots, he said, during the long holidays. You’ll all need a firm hand. Not sure, then, if he meant that literally but, looking back, it was a portentous comment. That summer was one never to be forgotten.

I suppose you could say we were an incredibly lucky family in some ways. We had a fantastic house in the country and we all went to private schools. Never any money problems, mum had inherited wealth and dad a highflying job which took him all over the world. We wanted for little. But in other ways, we also had our fair share of bad luck. The car accident was just one of many. Adam spent two years in hospital, on and off, when he was little with heart problems. Thankfully, now fixed. And Sophie, bane and love of my life, was the twin I nearly lost when our holiday boat capsized about five years ago. Adam said we were jinxed and repeated it after the car accident. True I said, but we have all survived. Unlike Tom he reminded me, as is he needed to. Tom was the eldest of the four of us, five years older than Adam. Or would have been. About two weeks before my accident he was killed in Afghanistan. Dad reckons that mum was thinking of all that when she lost control of the car. As I said we are an incredibly lucky family.

But what we lack in luck we make up for in humour and resilience. We get the resilience from dad and the humour from mum, or is it the other way round? Thing is they both had both qualities so we, Adam, Sophie and me had double portions of the two. That’s what Adam said, and Sophie repeated it when Miss Nettles arrived. The nurse come home help. Miss Nettles. Ambrosine Nettles. Thirty five, serious, old fashioned. In manner and dress. You’ll need your humour with her Sophie said and giggled. And your resilience Adam said, in spades. Glad she’s not my nurse. I just looked open mouthed. I’m Simon by the way and I have just got off to a bad start with dad’s little helper. We all stared in amazement as Miss Nettles walked up the garden to the house. What had dad done?

She had arrived on the Wednesday afternoon of the start of a long and glorious summer. We three were in the garden drinking beer. That might sound a bit strange for two fifteen year olds and their seventeen year old brother but it was homemade stuff, one of dad’s passions, and we had been virtually weaned on it. Miss Nettles, our Ambrosine, in starchy nurse’s uniform and light brown coat seemed singularly unimpressed. She carried a small case, a holdall, and a distinct frown. Are one of you children, not Simon obviously, going to help me with these, she said. No introductions, no hellos, just a veiled instruction. Adam looked nonplussed and Sophie smiled her widest and most insincere smile. I don’t like you it said, almost instantly. I looked at Adam and said I would lend a hand but it’s at the hospital. We all corpsed and Adam spluttered in his beer. Our Ambrosine merely smiled icily and said, unnervingly calmly, then Adam, it is Adam isn’t it, can show me to my room. We can introduce ourselves at tea. And with that she flounced, or something equally dramatic, to the house.

We questioned dad closely that evening. Who and what is she and where does she fit? Simple he said. He was to be away for six weeks and she was to run the house and nurse me. She came highly recommended and it would be best if we co-operated. Apart from her, Miss Nettles, and a cleaning lady who came in three mornings a week we would be on our own. It was either that or shutting up the house for the summer and sending us away. He reckoned we would prefer this option. We did but not because of Our Ambrosine, as we called her behind her back. She seemed to have little sense of humour, was over efficient, and insisted on us obeying a few house rules for her stay. As the latter included being in bed by ten and not drinking dad’s beer in the house we were unimpressed. But other than that she generally left us alone. Except for me. She was a qualified nurse and tended to my remaining arm with a professional expertise. In fact in her nursing role she was almost likeable, it was the unfamiliar role of controlling three teenagers which caused her most discomfort. There was just one aspect of that nursing role that caused me some initial concern. She was determined to carry on where the hospital left off and that included me showering at least twice a week. For some reason that didn’t bother me too much at the hospital, different nurses on different days and a sense of anonymity. But at home with a person I was seeing regularly unnerved me a bit. And hormones were beginning to kick in, in spite of what Adam said. I’ve got used to it now, and other things, as she has been here two weeks and made me shower at least six times. But I still shudder at the first time, especially as, bizarrely, I got what I reckon was my first ever serious erection.

I had been getting pretty good at most everyday things. I could dress myself and go the lavatory without help, thank God. Both tasks took five times as long as normal but it was better than the alternative. But showering, as they told me in hospital, was difficult if not impossible. Mainly because I needed to keep my damaged arm dry. So I used to close my eyes and let them get on with it. Initially bed baths but, as I got stronger, trips to the shower with the available nurse. Usually an older, no nonsense, one. I got used to it so did not get too agitated when, on her third day, Nettles said I needed to shower. To save time she took my clothes off in the bathroom and that, I reckon, was her first mistake. In hospital it was just a case of taking off the pyjama top and pulling the cord on my pants. Within a blink I would be naked. But at home the command, that is what it was, came at the end of a day when we had all been having fun in the garden. She had to strip an awful lot more. Shirt, shoes, socks, jeans, underpants. One by one. I found it exciting as well as embarrassing. Especially when she pulled my underpants down and off. Sorry Miss, I said, looking at the stiffness in my cock. She ignored it. You are a boy she said, it is to be expected. I stepped into the shower, hoping my strange growth would go away. It didn’t and it got worse when she turned on the water and started to rub me with the soap. First my back and chest and then my legs and buttocks. The last bit took my breath away and I closed my eyed firmly and tightly when her hands went to my private bits. They need cleaning as well she said, even the stiff bit. I thought I would die. She did it briskly and efficiently and quickly moved on to washing my hair, taking care to keep my one arm away from the water flow. I had survived and breathed thankfully when I realised my unexpected erection was subsiding. I learnt two things that day. One was that no boy has any control over his appendage. It rises and falls at will. The second was that some folks, some women, have strange habits that please. This one certainly did. As I stepped out of the shower she delivered a sharp and resounding smack of her hand to my wet and naked bottom. They must have heard it downstairs. Ouch, I said, what was that for? For failing to control yourself, Simon, for having unclean thoughts. I had not a clue what she meant, all I knew was that I had a sharp sting on the left cheek of my bottom and, truth be told, it felt rather nice. Nettles by name, and Nettles by nature. How much so I was yet to find out.

The first clue came from Adam, my older and so called wiser brother. She’s Nettles by name and nettles by nature is our Ambrosine, he said to me one morning, adding, I reckon that’s why dad employed her. The phrase struck me as the one I had called to mind after she first showered me. After that she took care to ensure showers took place in the morning before I dressed. No slow and hormone inducing stripping and no subsequent hand stinging slap on bum. Don’t you know he said, pouring himself a second cup of disgustingly thick Turkish coffee and lighting a cigarette, much frowned upon by Our Ambrosine. He looked at me quizzically. She’s out, he said, shopping with the cleaner. And, proceeding to puff on his clandestine weed, told me what I clearly did not know. You must have been on one of your hospital visits, which is why you missed the drama. What drama, I said. Our Nettles got cross with Sophie, he said. Last Tuesday. She came in late the night before and gave her some lip. Asked to apologise the next day more lip spurt forth. Upshot was Miss Nettles gave her a spanking, Sophie, right there and then in the kitchen, in front of the cleaner. No messing, knickers down and on her bare behind. She howled for England. I heard it. All over when I got to the kitchen but no doubt what had happened. Sophie was bawling and rubbing her behind and threatening Miss Nettles, utterly calm I might say, with all sorts of dire threats. The cleaner looked gobsmacked, as I was. But amusing all the same. Do Sophie good. But today she threatened me with the same. You are not too old at seventeen, she said, to get what Sophie got. Just because she caught me smoking one of these, he waved his cigarette around to emphasise the point. Just let her try, he said. Just let her try I echoed the thought. Sophie spanked by Miss Nettles and hating it and Adam threatened with a spanking from her and dismissing it. And me? Listening to all this. What did I, Simon, think? Fifteen year old Simon remembering the showers and the smacked behind, albeit fleetingly. I thought it might be rather nice. Might be rather nice to be spanked by Miss Nettles, especially if she did it on my bare behind.

She did. Only a few days after Adam related the story of Sophie’s spanking. And she did it exactly as I had wished, exactly as I had fantasised. On my bare behind after a serious lecture and slow and deliberate preparation. Could she read my mind? It was my own fault. Adam had said, amongst other things, that he thought Miss Nettles was a bit of a sadist. Her flushed and animated face after spanking Sophie clearly indicated a woman of strange passions. He had read too many dubious books I said. She was strange but not a sadist. He disagreed. Wouldn’t surprise me, he said, if she had straps and canes buried in her bureau ready to wreak havoc on our behinds. Such women exist and not just in books. It got me thinking. Dad had made it clear that Miss Nettles had been employed to keep an eye on us. And he had said something else which did not register at the time we questioned him but was beginning to take on a special significance. You either accept her, he had said, or I shut up shop for a couple of months. She comes highly recommended and I have given her full powers. Full powers. Now what did that mean? Did she have disciplinary implements buried away in her room, ready to whack us with? I decided to find out. I decided to search. My timing was bad and, being so, I discovered that Miss Nettles, Our Ambrosine, was indeed a woman not to be messed with. No canes, no straps, either discovered or used but a hand of vicious and stinging qualities. Especially when applied to a fifteen year old backside. As the first smack landed emphatically into my bared bottom my fantasy died.


‘You do know I have spanked Sophie?’

‘Yes, Adam told me.’

‘So it will not surprise you, Simon, that I intend the same for you.’

‘That’s abuse. You are my nurse. Besides I don’t have any arms.’

‘Not strictly true and not relevant. I do not intend to spank your arms.’

‘I am too old to be spanked.’

‘No boy is too old, not even Adam if he deserves it. You certainly deserve it, invading my private space. What did you expect to find?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do, but I am not interested. You have stepped out of line and your father has given me permission to deal with such matters as I see fit.’


As she said this she drew me closer towards her and started to undo my trousers. We were in her bedroom, the room in which I had been caught. She had closed the door and locked it. A sure sign that I was in serious trouble. As my pants were pulled to my knees I registered what she had said about dad. He’d never spanked us, and neither had mum, but both had said that it would probably do us all good occasionally. Well they were getting their wish. I thought that as my underpants followed my trousers down my legs. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and pulled me towards her and over her knees, my bare bum upended and ready for action. I shouldn’t feel too embarrassed as she had seen all I had many times. But not like this, not as a little boy over her knee waiting to be spanked. I had mused on the possibility many times since she spanked Sophie and the idea appealed. That appeal faded the moment her left hand lifted my shirt and her right connected with my bare bottom. My howling was about to begin. Boy could our Miss Nettles spank. Both of my poor cheeks were walloped at least a dozen times and I struggled manfully, arms or not, to wriggle free. But her left arm was firmly around my waist, holding up my shirt to ensure that the area to be spanked was well exposed, and my soft and vulnerable bottom was well and truly smacked. I could not see but the heat rising from my bum suggested a picture of vivid red. By the time she stopped, and the spanking could not have taken more than a couple of minutes, I was in tears. She raised me up and, as she lowered my shirt, did the decent thing and gently massaged my bottom. After all, she said, I could not do it myself. Standing there, pants still at my knees, her soft hand on my naked bum almost made the earlier stings worthwhile.


‘Dry your tears Simon, it wasn’t that bad.’

‘Tell my bottom that.’

‘Sophie took it better, even if she was abusive afterwards.’

‘Maybe she has a tougher bum.’

‘Nonsense. Boy’s bottoms are much more resilient. You will be fine within half an hour.’

‘Doesn’t feel like it at the moment.’

‘Good. Will teach you to behave yourself.’

‘And if I don’t.’

‘Then perhaps you will feel my cane.’


‘The one you couldn’t find.’


She was redressing me during all this and she could not have failed to notice the erection I was displaying. It had started as she rubbed my bottom after the spanking and, as much as I tried, I could not control it. Pulling up my underpants and trousers was an exercise in physical delicacy. She made no comment but, when dressed, she patted my burning bottom again and said that I was a strange but interesting boy. My cock twitched again. It might only be fifteen but it was getting weird sensations. I told Adam all this the following day. You are a masochist he said, nothing weird about that. Lots of men like being spanked and they got their fixation in childhood. I reminded him that I was not a child but, wafting away the smoke from another of his revolting cigarettes, declined any other comment. Sophie joined us and smirked that she had heard that I had suffered as she had and mused that only Adam was now a Nettles virgin. Unlike you, Adam said, our Simon quite enjoyed it. I was about to protest when Sophie said something that got me thinking. It runs in the family, she said, all at least amongst some of us. We both asked her what she meant and she just pulled a face, one of her most irritating habits. I discovered the facts behind the enigmatic comment later. I overheard the Pauline our cleaner, she said, talking to Our Ambrosine on the day she spanked me. Full of admiration, the cow. Said it was long overdue. We were all nice kids, she said, but spoilt, and a few smacked behinds would do us all good. I didn’t say anything but in Sophie’s case I was inclined to agree. I loved her to death but she could be a monster on her bad days. Bloody cheek, Sophie continued, she wouldn’t have been so eager if it had been her bare bum getting walloped. But the most interesting comment came from Nettles. Their father agrees, she said, which is partly why he hired me. I can combine nursing with old fashioned correction. A smacked behind can help to develop an individual on the right path and he should know, she said. I reckon she would have said more but they saw me in the doorway and stopped talking. Now my darling Simon, my ‘armless brother, what do you make of that?

I didn’t know what to make of it other than the fact that Nursie Nettles had arrived with a dual mission. Tending to all my medical needs was the obvious one, with a not now so hidden agenda to discipline us when needed. With ‘old fashioned correction’ to quote Sophie quoting Nettles quoting dad. And dad should know, she had said. That was the most perplexing comment and as such I dismissed it from my mind. Besides I had other things to think about. Our Ambrosine said I was well overdue for a shower, she had not had time that morning, and it would be the first one since being spanked the day before. A strange surge went through my young body. Apart from the first time she had given me a shower my appendage had behaved itself. She had been quick and efficient and professional and, being early morning, my mind was only slowly awakening. But today’s was late morning and followed both the previous day’s private and personal walloping and the discussions with Adam and Sophie. I flinched when she made the announcement, just before lunch, and blushed profusely when my revolting siblings both gave knowing smirks. I don’t need a shower I said. I’ll be the judge of that, she said, in a manner which defied contradiction and engendered a sense that this lady was finding her feet. Upshot was that ten minutes later I was standing in the bathroom in my birthday suit, eyes closed and fervently praying that nothing of me would rise to the auspicious occasion. The prayer failed.


‘Your bottom seems to have recovered remarkably well, Simon.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘One would hardly know it had been spanked.’

‘No Miss.’

‘I shall have to do better next time, if there is a next time, I usually leave shining beetroot cheeks for at least a  couple of days.’

‘It hurt Miss, and Sophie agrees with me.’

‘It is meant to Simon. There is no point otherwise.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘And Sophie would have felt more discomfort, such a small and tender girl’s bottom.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘You seems very dutiful today, Simon. I am pleased.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘I shall have to take your pants down more often.’


And on that point she laughed and turned on the shower. The water, thankfully, engulfed me and took my mind off a penis which had stiffened more and more as she had chatted. I think she knew the turmoil she was creating in my mind both by the situation, me naked and waiting, and by the conversation. Fixated as it was on my spanking of the previous day. As the soap and water, and her soft and large hands, went to work I concentrated on the task in hand. Trying to forget the heady conversation and the memories of the previous day I sensed those hands doing their expert job. Cleaning all of me, all my orifices and personal bits, washing my hair, massaging my bottom and legs, cleansing my back. If I had been capable I reckon I would have spurted on that day and I reckon she knew that, hands exploring my young body interspersed with comments on my spanking. By the time I stepped out of the shower and a warming towel dried my body I was ready, and she knew it, to be spanked again. To be spanked, or anything else she had in my mind. What I did not know, and in fairness neither did she then, what she eventually had in mind was a damn sight more than a spanking. And this next time it was not private and personal. This next time was a threesome. I got caned and I did not get it alone. When I bent over the leather chair with my bottom in the air I was following fifteen year old twin Sophie and seventeen year old Adam in a painful disciplinary dance. By then we definitely knew that dad would be pleased. We knew because we found a letter that he had written to her. We knew because she caught us reading it. And we knew because all of us, sentenced to a caning, reckoned she had left it lying around as a trap. Sophie read it out and her eyes widened in amazement as she did so. Adam and I just stood transfixed as a veil was lifted from our eyes. Dad had planned this and the realisation coincided with our realising that Nurse Abrosine Nettles was both watching and waiting. A short hiatus in this narrative will allow that letter to be displayed in full. It explains a lot.


‘My Dear Ambrosine, it has been so long since I saw you last I hesitate on how to begin. Life has been pretty dire for my family over recent months. First Tom being killed and then the car accident. It has taken us months to get back on an even keel and now my lovely wife is back in hospital. I should close up the house and send my kids off to relatives for the summer but I know they would hate that. They are mad but lovely and will make for fantastic and amusing adults. We are all a bit bohemian and all we lack, as I often tell them, is a bit of old fashioned discipline. I know that your special services have helped me through many traumas. My wife understands, always did, my need to visit you every few months. Always put me back on an even keel and helped, even enhanced, my coping with the commercial world. I reckon it would help my kids if they got a taste of your special medicine. Not that I want to be around to see it. Much too soft with them. I hinted that you would fit the bill when we spoke on the phone. Simon needs nursing care and the fact that you have that qualification as well makes you a bit of a shoe in. Contact me at my office and we can finalise the details. Basically I would like you to live in for the month or so I am away, look after Simon and sort out the other two delightful reprobates. And smack the bottoms, hard as you like, of all three when they need it. They will thank you in later life. Regards, Nigel.’


Sophie was singularly unimpressed by the reference to being reprobates and Adam thought it a bit off that dad was sending strange letters to a strange woman advocating that she smack his seventeen year old son’s bottom. I felt it all made sense given what I had experienced at Our Ambrosine‘s hands. Not only had she spanked me but she regularly bathed me, and on the last occasion she seemed to relish talking about it. The spanking not the showering. To talk and reflect on smacking bottoms to a naked and tumescent boy. I was getting hooked on the things my dad needed, must be genetic, but the prospect did nothing for my siblings. Sophie desired not a repeat and Adam abhorred an introduction. But the variety of feelings from thrill, to fear, to distaste, mattered not a jot. Three siblings with mixed emotions turned and listened as the incriminating letter dropped from their hands. All three, eyes firmly fixed on our Ambrosine Nettles, learnt very quickly that they were going to be caned. We were lined up in book laden study so revered by our dad. By now the scenario was well established. Musings and clandestine letters, not to say the earlier spankings of me and Sophie, spelt out what was expected. Miss Nettles had been given carte blanche to our undeserving bottoms by dad and she was not to be thwarted. She made that clear. He loved us and hated the thought of sending us away when circumstances conspired against us. Him on serious commercial business and mum in hospital. But his arrangements had a downside. At least for us. A stinging Nettles bent on fulfilling her brief. If we refused to accept her sentence, six strokes each, she would resign and throw the house into confusion. We had no choice. Sophie cried at the thought, Adam gulped in resignation, and I both hated and thrilled in equal proportions. But we accepted. Report to the study, she said, for six cane strokes each on the place that nature intended.  And then the house could come to some sort of order. We slowly and fearfully made the small journey, all of us thinking we had to do this for dad. I said we were a weird family.


To an outsider it must have looked very strange. Three teenagers, the eldest only seventeen, standing in only their underclothes in front of a crisply uniformed nurse. Why she was wearing her nurse’s uniform I do not know but, with a vicious looking cane in her hand, it added a special frisson. At least for me. Nurse Ambrosine Nettles was in her element, full disciplinary power sanctioned by an absent parent, was about to give consummate vent to her special remedies. She said she would deal with Sophie first. Well she was a girl and the youngest by twenty minutes. On that basis I thought I would be second in line but for some reason she decided that Adam would be next and I would be last. When bid, Sophie stepped forward, already in tears, and bent over the leather chair that had been conveniently placed in the centre of the room. Its low back made it ideal for its intended use. I can’t remember the last time I had seen my twin’s knickered bottom. I must have over the years but in this situation it fascinated, especially as I was to receive what she was currently getting. Her knickers had been pulled up tightly and smoothed across her cheeks and her top lifted, expertly. Nothing, other than flimsy cotton, stood in the way of Our Ambrosine’s cane. She rested it on Sophie’s cheeks and, unsurprisingly, they twitched in nervous anticipation and the tears enhanced. Be grateful these are not coming down, Nettles said, emphasising the point with a couple of light cane taps. Sophie twitched again and immediately followed with a loud and piercing scream as the cane lashed across the centre of her bum. A second stroke joined the first and Sophie jumped up, tears flowing and screams pleading, and rubbed a bottom that was clearly on fire. I was transfixed as Adam, standing next to me, shivered in teenage fear. Get back Sophie and stay down, came the command, otherwise I shall not spare your modesty. The threat worked and Sophie took the final four strokes, if not stoically, at least with grim resolution. Nurse Nettles allowed her to leave the room, still clutching her bottom and howling, and I considered her lucky that we did not get to see her bared bottom. The whole process had taken no more than two or three minutes and it was with flushed face and steel in the eyes that our chastiser summoned Adam to the chair.


‘Adam you know what to do. Bend over the chair.’

‘And if I refuse this assault on my person?’

‘Then I shall resign my position. It is as simple as that.’

‘Perhaps I don’t care.’

‘Oh, I think you do Adam. It isn’t just that you and Sophie will go away. Simon will have to go back into hospital.’

‘He might like that.’

‘I doubt it, he is getting used to me and my methods.’

‘Unlike me?’

‘And it is what your father wishes.’

‘He wishes us to be caned? I doubt it.’

‘He wishes you to stay together and, though you don’t agree, he thinks having your bottoms smacked occasionally will do you good.’

‘I don’t call what you just did to Sophie a bottom smacking.’

‘It was deserved Adam. As is yours. And if you keep me waiting much longer I shall take down your underpants as extra punishment.’

‘You wouldn’t.........’

‘What. Wouldn’t dare Adam? I think you know me better than that. Now bend over the chair and let us get this over. It will hurt but it will not take long.’


I listened to all this, fascinated. Adam was trembling, in spite of his superficial bravado, and Our Ambrosine Nettles had the determined look of an avenging nurse. Adam was going to be caned and he knew it. I was enthralled, both at the prospect and that I would be next. My big brother was about to get his bottom whacked and when he bent over I could not help but admire his shapely backside. Fuller than Sophie’s small backside and distinctly boyish. And enhanced by the tight white trunks which clung to every curve. Nurse Nettles took her time, I think she appreciated the male bottom on the cusp of manhood and her hands smoothed out the covering cloth and, erotically, made Adam spread his legs and lift his backside. A good target, she said, and a good bottom. Well qualified for discipline. And discipline he got. She walloped that cane into him six times, about ten seconds apart, and Adam gasped at every stroke. But though he wriggled and squirmed he absorbed each one and never attempted to get up. When he did, after the last stroke had seared the centre of his behind, he had tears in his eyes and hands rubbing away almost as vigorously as Sophie had done. She let him go, to recover his composure in private and so it was just me left in the room with the medical woman from whom I had no secrets. And this time it was not for a showering or a spanking, or all the other many things she did for me. This time it was for a caning. Six times. On my bottom. And I had seen what she had done to Sophie and Adam. I was both scared and thrilled and now it was my turn. I have to say I was a little disappointed. I bent over meekly, unlike Adam. I lifted my bottom, as instructed, and enjoyed her rearrangement of my underpants. I fearfully awaited the cane and screwed up my face when the six strokes struck. And when I rose I had a few tears and lots of rubs to my behind. I had taken my caning better than Sophie but not as well as Adam. And she said so. I mumbled something and gratefully left when she dismissed me. The pain in my bum was excruciating and I knew it would throb for a while. But I did not mind that. What I minded, what disappointed, what left me with a sinking feeling of emptiness was one thing. One thing that I most desired when I bent over in readiness for the cane. I desperately wanted my Nurse Nettles to take my pants down and do it on my bare bum. For that, all pain would be bearable. And she didn’t. She did not take my pants down and cane me on my bare bottom. So, later, it was left to my boyish fantasies. I mused on this for a long time afterwards and eventually, somewhat reluctantly, raised it with Adam. We were in the library playing chess, about two days after we had our caning threesome. Unlike me he had not spent time examining his marks. It won’t happen again was all he said. I said I had found it all exciting, in spite of the pain. And the marks on my bum are amazing. You are a pervert, he said, just like dad. But, I shouldn’t worry, he added, it was just a strange normality and indicated high intelligence. Except in my case, he added. I reckon he was right, not the intelligence bit, and something that happened a couple of weeks later made me think even more so. Nurse Nettles gave me an enema and, discomfort or not, the experience was thrilling.

I was standing in front of her dressed only in underpants and top. No need to get dressed, she had said, after an early morning shower which, thankfully, had not sent my jimmy pointing up to the ceiling. Wisely she had decided that early morning showers caused less embarrassment. I had ignored the instruction even though she had amplified the reason. My tablets were causing havoc with my insides and an enema was well overdue. Her words. I had been given a couple in hospital, not pleasant, and was not really looking forward to a repeat from nasty Nettles. My bottom had recovered from my caning but the memory lingered. But she was insistent and, before breakfast, I found myself on my bed wearing only my top. She had taken down my underpants and when I lay on my bed, turned away from her with my knees up to my chest, I was conscious of an unwanted incipient erection. She had seen it but made no comment. Only my bottom seemed of interest. The cane marks have cleared up nicely, she said. I hope you have learnt your lesson. I made no reply, conscious only of the oiling of my anus and the slow and gentle insertion of the cold and unkind tube. Warm water gradually flowed into me and I steeled myself for the inevitable reaction. She made me turn to her and her hands gently massaged my stomach. They were no more than inches from my penis, thankfully now declining, and the feeling was not unpleasant. When you are ready, she said, and shortly I was. She helped me to the bathroom and, in spite of the excitement at exposing myself to her again, I was glad when this incident was over. I took vicarious enjoyment from her seeing my naked bottom but, deep down, I wished it prior to being disciplined. Showering and enemas were not the same. And I particularly wished her to see that naked bottom just before she caned it. I thought it might have happened when we were left alone after she caned my siblings but, in that desire, I had been frustrated. A week after the enema I was to get my wish. Thinking back, I realise now that such desires should remain in fantasy.


‘You have engineered this Simon.’

‘No Miss.’

‘Oh, I think so.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘You get Adam and Sophie drunk by lacing your father’s beer, very dangerous I might say, you persuade them to join you in running naked around the garden, and you post photographs of the event on my website. You must have known you would be caught.’

‘It was a laugh.’

‘Not very funny. Fortunately nothing gets posted until I have checked it. You must have known that.’

‘I said it was just a laugh.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘What? Miss.’

‘My website.’

‘It was in dad’s letter to you. Your professional name.’

‘Very clever. But not so clever with the photographs. Apart from your arms, you were all clearly recognisable.’

‘How? I didn’t show faces.’

‘But you showed bottoms, Simon. Especially yours, with which I am very familiar.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘So you will get your wish. I will cane you, twelve strokes on that bottom. On your bare bottom, which I think is what you most desire. But for lacing your brother and sister’s drink. Nothing else. So I should say take down your pants but, as things are, I shall have to do it for you.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss.’

‘You will be, but as I said Simon, you have engineered it.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘You really are your father’s boy.’


And I was. I desired nothing more than what was proposed. A pervert was what Adam had called me, a chip off the old block. He was right. At fifteen I had discovered the joys of being whacked. I did not understand the thrill, but thrill it was. Standing waiting for her to do what she intended was nothing short of heaven. Rich in my imaginations and overwhelming in the reality. The fear of pain, and I was scared, was eclipsed by the heady anticipation. She approached and I drew in my breath as she undid the top of my jeans. All buttons quickly followed and she dragged those same jeans down to my knees. The low leather chair had been pulled to the centre of the room, the same room in which three siblings had been caned in their underclothes, and she walked me to it and bent me over. Not three siblings now, not two watchers and one with covered modesty, just the one, me, and modesty was not on the agenda. I felt her warm and large hands caress my bottom, very pleasant, and drew in my breath as the fingers teased the waist band of my underpants. Within a moment I felt them being pulled down, slipping down my flesh, exposing all I had. I was captivated. She had seen all before, seen my bare bottom many times, but this time it was not for a showering., This time it was to feel her cane, twelve times. I could hear her heavy breathing, sense the tension in her body, and responded by raising up my bottom. Signally my acquiescence in what she intended to do. I desperately wanted her to cane me, and I desperately wanted her to do it like this. My jeans and pants at my knees, my top lifted, my bare bottom begging for her savage kisses across it. I sensed the feeling in my loins with which I was becoming so familiar and told my mind I did not care. As long as she caned me I did not care what happened. Or I thought I didn’t. When the first stroke lashed into my bottom I could have screamed with agony. It was vicious, much worse than when she did it on my underpants, and tears welled in my eyes at the searing pain.


‘Aagh. That hurts Miss.’

‘It is meant to Simon. I am not doing this for fun.’


‘Aagh. It stings. No more please, Miss.’

‘You brought it on yourself, Simon.’



‘So stay still.’


‘No more please, no more, I am sorry.’

Thwack! Thwack!

‘Oh my God. Aaagh. Oh my God. It hurts.


I rose, clutching my bottom with my one good arm, turning towards her and begging for forgiveness. I told her I was sorry, told her that I did not think it would hurt so much, said it was all a mistake. I was in tears, disconsolate, the searing pain in my bum throbbing for all it was worth. I told her I was not enjoying it. She laughed and said she never expected me to. It was clear then that if I had a childish fantasy she was bent on destroying it. Reluctantly, pain still throbbing, I bent over the chair again.



‘Aaagh. Please Miss, no more.’

‘That was quite gentle, Simon.’

‘It hurt.’

‘It is meant to.’



‘Only four more to go.’


‘And all deserved. Your bottom is looking lovely, beautiful stripes.’


‘Aaagh. Oh God.’

‘You should have them for a few days.’

Thwack! Thwack!

‘Aaaaaaaagh. Christ.’

‘And hopefully you will be cured.’


I looked at my bottom in the bathroom mirror. Three days had passed since my caning and on each of those three days I had, with an effort, undone my jeans and pulled both them and my underpants down to my knees to inspect the damage. On the first day I lifted my top to see the reflection of my naked cheeks I had gasped at the sight. The stripes on my bum were vicious, purple and red lines across both white bottom cheeks. They fascinated and the fascination grew as each day passed. The pain had been worthwhile and Our Ambrosine’s attempt at a cure had failed. She knew that herself by then. My most recent shower from her had made that clear. The stripes are hardening, she had said, I had better wash your bottom with care. They will be there for days yet and however much soap I apply they will not go way for a while. As she said this, and as the soap rubbed against my lacerated cheeks, she and I noted my erection. I had been stiff from the moment she undressed me and soap and words merely enhanced it. It was as she washed my genitals, delicately as always, I came. For the first time in my life. I said sorry, I could not help it. I did not truly understand it either but I knew that the feeling had been pretty special.  She merely smiled and turned the shower water to freezing cold and gave me a hard smack on my naked and bruised bottom. It was the last time we had any contact that summer. She left the following day.

Adam questioned me about it. All a bit sudden, he said, did I know the reason why? I said I didn’t but perhaps she was feeling guilty about whacking us. I didn’t believe that and neither did Adam. It was left to Sophie to come up with some sort of solution to the mystery. Dad was coming home early, later that day, and Our Ambrosine was going to meet him at the airport and then head off home. She had lots of catching up to do apparently. Sophie saw her packing and waiting for a taxi whilst we were still in deep sleep. Don’t disturb them she said, just say good bye and tell them I will be seeing them again, especially Simon. Sophie  looked at me and grinned. Sounds like a threat, Adam said, but one that our little pervert would like. I said nothing. I just closed my eyes and drifted into memories. I think I know why she left.


It was a strange Christmas that year.


I spent it with her, Nurse Nettles. Dad and mum, now out of hospital, and Sophie and Adam left for a much deserved skiing holiday. I couldn’t go, not in my condition. So I spent Christmas and the New Year with Nurse Nettles, Our Ambrosine. But that, as is said in the best stories, is best left for another day. It was a heavenly two weeks.


Alfred Roy (2016)




















































































Wednesday, 26 October 2016

Chemistry Lessons (M/m)

This story, working title The Bunsen Burner, is a mixture of fact and fiction. The first part actually happened although whether I got four or six strokes with an unusual implement the second time I bent over time has blurred. The second part is pure fantasy but it is based on what that Chemistry teacher said the second time he whacked me. 13 words which haunted me for years and loosely inspired this piece. Enjoy, but please do not be tempted by rubber tubing. It is not nice. Alfred Roy

Herewith the facts


When I was about 13 or 14 I had an idiosyncratic chemistry teacher. He was very short sighted, bottle top glasses, had a rich and comic nasal voice, and avidly supported Stockport County. Perhaps those facts are related. He talked for England and was easily distracted. Chemistry lessons regularly morphed into the respective merits of his beloved County and their league rivals, all it took was a classroom wag to float the latest football result. I was an arch wag in his class and, my speciality, was to pretend consummate obtuseness and perplexity at the simplest of chemical experiments he conducted. How my inane questions on litmus testing lead to a Stockport drubbing from Plymouth Argyle or Accrington Stanley only time and history knows. But, believe me, it regularly did. Egged on by fellows, I and others easily distracted. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew who those wags were and me, and those others, fairly regularly suffered another of his idiosyncrasies. That strangeness was his rubber tubing, usually attached to a Bunsen burner – chemistry’s standard prop, but applied in the 1950’s to a special purpose. Simply, he whacked us with it. And that was not fun. A couple of foot in length his special piece of rubber tubing slammed into upturned behinds frequently, but not excessively by the standards of the time. It stung like hell and on the couple of occasions I got it, comic class repartee overstepping the mark, tears filled eyes and burning throbs filled bottom. Laughter faded quickly on such occasions.

One whacking I particularly remember is the day that a close friend and I decided to play at marbles. I need to explain. Chemistry lessons require lots of paraphernalia and, even in those days, an element of health and safety. So forty boy classes were split into two and half did physics and half did chemistry. In the same lab complex divided into two with a linking corridor. Doors were often left open and, one day, my friend in Physics and I in Chemistry, went in for a little bit of marble rolling. We could see each other so something was bound to happen. Silly, but fun. Until we were caught. We were whacked, not for what we had done – pretty harmless, but for our unspoken and collective disrespect for authority. That’s my interpretation anyway. The doors were closed, and always afterwards, and I was summoned to the front. I know not what my friend suffered but Mr Bunsen, let’s call him that even though he was always known as ‘Pop’, told me in no uncertain terms that I was to get four from his favoured implement. Such pronouncements always produced a hushed tone in class, someone being whacked was serious, momentous, exciting. I enjoyed it. Except when it was me. I stepped forward, bent down as instructed, felt my coat being lifted, and waited. It did not take long. That rubber tubing whacked into my behind with venom. God, he might be comic, with a comic implement, but he could lay it into a behind. Mine. With stretched trousers fitting tightly to my boyish curves. I held onto ankles, gritted teeth, and absorbed each of the four fiery stings. By the time I rose, face flushed and tears welling, the room was totally silent and the bottom, my bottom, throbbed all the way to Stockport. I rubbed the rear and listened to the lecture and gingerly sat down, Vowing never to muck around again, or at least not until the pain and burn in my buttocks faded.

One thing I do remember from those far off days, and this will lead later into the fantasy element of this piece, was that the marks on my behind fascinated. They were so unlike thin vicious lines from a cane or red splodges from a PE slipper or paddle. They had their own distinct charm, thick and rich marks evenly spread across the buttocks. Red and raised with rough edges the four marks on my backside told a special story. If I did not masturbate to them I reckon I must have tried. They were so erotic. I remembered that coda the next time I suffered the rubber sting. I reckon ‘Pop’, Mr Bunsen, was in a particularly bad mood and I, idiot, had been particularly obtuse. We were doing some strange and, obviously important, experiment and were all told in no uncertain circumstances not to pull out a particular glass plug. Red rag to a bull really. I couldn’t resist. On our table, at our experiment, I of four boys did exactly that. Just to see what would happen. That was what I said later after chaos had ensued, that was my excuse. Did me no good. Rubber tubing, on the behind, six this time. But a little different. Not in front of the class, not this time. In a separate room. And when he did it, when Mr Bunsen bent me over and whacked me six times with that strange implement on my little bottom he said something as I rose. As I rubbed my behind, throbbing with distressing fire, he said something I have never forgotten. If I have you in here again, he said, I will take your trousers down. You wouldn’t dare I said through tears. Just try me, he said, just try me boy. I never did.


Herewith the fantasy


Those words mesmerised. If I have you in here again I will take your trousers down. They rang in my ears and tantalised and teased for weeks afterwards. What would it be like, would he really? Would he really bare my bum and whack me with that rubber tubing. It scared and fascinated. Trousers and underpants around my ankles, everything exposed, and his Bunsen burner tubing smacking into my naked cheeks. So erotic. The experience would be worth the pain. I had to have it. The incipient fourteen year old masochist would grasp the opportunity and never regret. A real schoolboy, a real schoolboy’s bum, getting a real school punishment. On his naked behind. Heaven. It became an obsession. I could think of nothing else. All my hours seemed to be filled with this heady prospect. I played out the fantasy. Called into that back room. Undoing my trousers. Pushing them down to my knees. And then my underpants. Lifting my shirt, exposing my behind, white and pure, and my penis and small balls. Smooth and hairless. Boyish in front of a man. A schoolmaster with his weapon of choice. Designed to mark and pain my bottom. If in those days I could have come, I would merely at these thoughts. I so desired it. So desired to be thrashed on my naked flesh. My naked bottom. I could not explain, then or now.

It happened of course, and unexpectedly so. The young mind is so easily distracted and one lunchtime I transgressed badly. Three or four of us had been left to tidy up the chemistry lab. It was an easy task and gave opportunities for mischief. One boy, not me, decided to search in Mr Bunsen’s desk. He found his pipe, the man was an avid pipe smoker, and proceeded to smoke it amongst lots of chortles and noises of disgust. Another boy, not impressed, produced some cigarettes. Much more suitable. We were all eager to try. We did. We were caught. Mr Bunsen had returned for his pipe. He raged. Four each he said, four each across your behinds with my tubing for smoking. Disgusting at your age. And then he caught my eye. Not you he said. I will deal with you later. After these he said. So three boys, three fourteen year olds, were bent over and got four whacks each to their trousered bottoms and, ruefully wailing, summarily dismissed. They may have been puzzled at my reprieve, if that is what it was, but they said nothing. Smarting bottoms still tongues. They left and Mr Bunsen and I were alone. You had better step into the back room he said. Why, I said, knowing the answer. I think you know what I promised you boy, he said. No, I said, trying to prolong the situation. Well let me remind you, he said, if I had you here again I think I told you I would take your trousers down. You wouldn’t dare, I said. He looked at me and the rubber tubing flinched in his hands. He was no longer the Stockport fan with the bottle glasses and the nasally voice. He was a master intent on filling a promise that had obsessed me. And we were alone and nothing, absolutely nothing, could stop it happening. And deep down I did not want it to. You said that last time I thrashed you, he said, we shall now find out. Yes sir, I said. Then go into the back room and take your trousers down. I nearly fainted.

I didn’t faint. If I had I would have missed the heady experience. I walked into the back room and undid my trousers. It was as I was pushing them down to my knees that he entered, rubber tubing at the ready. My face was flushed with rising tears, his flushed for other reasons. Bend over he said. What, I thought. There was no desk or chair to help me so I bent forward and grasped my knees and, realising this was not enough, my ankles. He lifted my coat, I should have taken it off given the intimacy, and then my shirt. They hung heavily on my shoulders and enhanced the weirdness of the situation. I sensed him coming closer to me, heard his breathing, felt his hands on my waist. And then he pulled down my underpants. The mesmerising sensation, long imagined, mingled with his words. My bottom, naked and exposed, felt the surrounding air and my boyish parts embraced the freedom of exposure. The pain to come would almost be worth such clandestine schoolboy thrill and his words, rather than adding fear, merely encapsulated. I warned you boy, he said, I warned you that if I had you here again I would take your trousers down. I ought to give you six but I shall give you the same as the others. But on your bare behind. So hold on to your ankles as these shall hurt. And they did. All four, not six. His rubber tubing lashed into my bare cheeks four times, and four times I gasped and vowed never to give him another opportunity. Four times they savagely kissed my bottom and four times they burned their distinctive marks on my flesh. How I stayed I never will know, but I did. And when he had done I rose, sobbing and rubbing, and not caring that he could see all I had. Don’t test me again he said, it will be twelve next time. And I shall have you stripped naked. Pervert I thought as I pulled up my pants and trousers. Pervert I thought as I looked into his flushed face and left, never to return. Looking back, years later, I reckon he thought the same of me. Alfred Roy