Wednesday, 8 June 2016
A Wakefield Detention – a visit to Miss Hardcastle and friends.
I gets around on my travels, always willing to try new experiences in the interests of my blog. Venturing to Wakefield was a journey I never expected to make but well worth it. Age may wither but the spirit remains and a sore behind was a small price for this northern pleasure. They whack bottoms hard in that part of Yorkshire. This report is for Miss Hardcastle but all are welcome to read. Who knows, if she don't like it, I could be baring all near the Pennines again. Alfred Roy
Given that the staff on this visit to the notable Miss Hardcastle’s equally renowned detention class numbered three I suppose I could have called this piece The Wakefield Trinity. An incorrigible threesome of the severe headmistress herself, a delightful matronly watcher christened by me the Ofstead Inspector, and a fun loving head girl who went by the soubriquet of Violet Bubblegum. Or something similar. An awesome trinity indeed. Unlike the motley collection of pupils who them in charge spent a pleasant afternoon dealing with. In a variety of creative and painful ways. Including yours truly, who journeyed 180 miles to accompany a close northern friend to a disciplinary class long desired. By him, if not me. But, given that I have had much fun on occasions at its southern cousin, Whipstock Grange, I ventured on the long travel up the boring A1. 180 miles to have your bottom smacked. I must be mad but if I am, to quote someone else, it is a fine madness.
If I learnt anything at the school detention it was stand up whenever Miss Hardcastle entered the room and don’t, ever, end a sentence with a preposition. So that is something I ain’t about to put my pen to. The other thing I learnt, long ago and continue to do so, is that blogging such shenanigans here needs lashings of descriptive disciplinary antics to capture the reader. A pant lowered and raised gets more hits, so to speak, than any number of examples on the corrective use of a pronoun. Shallow lot, pupils and readers alike.
Fortunately pants and underpants were regularly lowered for a variety of indiscretions. Most deliberate, like my northern friend stating that the King who named a spaniel was called Cocker. Think about it but not too long. If he was dealt with first it was but a brisk flick before my own small shorts and nether garments were around my ankles for a dozen cane strokes from Bubblegum across my bare backside. Raised high in the air as I bent over an accommodating stool. Not sure of the transgression which caused my initial whacking but as said Bubblegum alluded to me as motor mouth it may be something to do with giving her a surfeit of lip. A little later, first visit to headmistress Hardcastle’s private room, more serious thwacks were given to my now warming bottom. First a strap and then a cane and shamefully naked cheeks stung like bees on a bender. That registered, but not as much as the fact that large uncovered windows gave a bird’s eye view to the overlooking offices. They do things differently in Wakefield.
One unexpected difference was a splendid afternoon tea of sumptuous cakes and resumption of proceedings under the control of the Ofstead inspector. Deceptively gentle, kind and cuddly, she transmogrified into a harsh disciplinarian of awesome power. My motormouth is still gobsmacked. She had, from the back of the class, oozed friendly persona. From the front her cane and strap, and her voice, fired venom to both ears and backsides. None escaped. Even if a pupil from the wilds of Berkshire begged, and received, only gentle strokes to his pleasingly rounded naked bottom. By my calculation his journey was even longer than mine. I still wonder if it was really worth it. Mine was, both from her and a final castigation from Miss Hardcastle. She had us all bent and bare over a dividing rail in the large and scholastic hall and a candy striped cane left marks on behinds that will take longer to fade than the memory. Two weeks later, Sudocream profits soaring, I still have mine. They fascinate, like they did in schooldays, a bare bottom violated with scholarly wrath. The fee paid is redeemed in full every time I look. And I still do.
So Miss Hardcastle, Miss Bubblegum, my Northern friend, and all others delivered their promise. I drove home, all 180 miles, very sore in the nether regions. But it was worth it. We into corporal punishment in all its guises may be very odd folks. But dropping your pants, offering your bare behind, and being whacked by enthusiastic mature ladies beats lots of the alternatives for oldies. And with like minded fellows in an old fashioned schoolroom, thoughtfully arranged. And as a bonus that Ofstead lady sent me off with a farewell spanking. My behind glowed like a beacon and, as I left, my smile lit up the streets of Wakefield. Old ladies walking dogs will never know the reason why. Alfred Roy
Saturday, 2 April 2016
This one is a bit different. Mainly a series of conversations regarding a special bit of corrective therapy for a troubled mind. I hope it makes sense (the narrative is in italics to help) as it does to me. The nearest I got to this in reality was with The Leicester Governess. All delightful woman and a vicious expert with an awesome cane. Her sixty stroke therapy did things to my bottom that I had often dreamt about. I saw her twice a couple of years ago and constantly hanker for a third visit if circumstances allow. This is the sublimation whilst I continue to dream. Willing bottoms, bent and bare, were made for such people. Alfred Roy
It was a large building. A large block of flats and offices. Dr Strange, MD PhD DScPT, was on the third floor. Black lettering on gold plate. Impressive. Hence the exorbitant fee. For a consultation. Introductory rates. A deep breath and I enter. Booked over a month ago. Referred I suppose, in a way. Not by my GP. By a friend. A friend and a colleague in theatre design. He knew my proclivities, my interests, my obsession. Get it sorted he said. Go to Dr Strange. She’ll help. So I looked her up. Not easy. Easy to find, not easy to digest. Nothing, no hints, in her blurb. Lots of psychological babble and reference to medical conditions I neither knew nor cared about. But sexual therapy cropped up, buried in the text. So I booked and now, black lettering on gold plate resplendent, I enter.
You have an appointment?
Then not now?
In ten minutes.
You are early.
I did. Sit and wait. For twenty minutes, not ten. I should ask but she looks daunting. Secretary? Receptionist? Hard faced. Young, glasses, severe. Hair straight back in old fashioned bun. Crisp white blouse. Is it her? Is it her who does it? Doubt it somehow. The phone on her desk rang and she ceased her prodigious typing to answer it. Someone else making an appointment. For two weeks time, the earliest available date. Dr Strange is fully booked she said. Until then. A forty five minute appointment, same fee as I am paying, is recorded in the diary and she puts the phone down. Looks at me, doesn’t smile. Dr Strange is running late, she says, can happen. No apology. I nod and still wait. For a further ten minutes and then the receptionist’s internal phone rings. I am ushered in to a large and airy, very expensively furnished, room. More like a penthouse flat. Except for the imposing desk.
I am running late.
And I was early.
My last patient arrived late.
He won’t be late again.
I shall be on time, if I come again.
Ah yes. This is your first visit
A consultation, yes.
To find out?
To find out, yes.
To find out if what I supply is what you need.
You are twenty two.
Nearly twenty three.
One of my younger patients.
Yes, but surprisingly not the youngest. She is nineteen.
Girls have the same needs as boys.
And the same problems. Are you are on medication?
I was ready for that. I was on lots. For depression, anxiety, insomnia. All the usual suspects. I showed her the list; my friend said it would help to be prepared. She studied it and I studied her. Attractive in a manly way. High cheekbones and strong jaw. But also very feminine. Slim tall figure, I saw that when I entered the room. Taller than me by at least three or four inches and I am average build. Short blonde hair and pale lipstick. Nice slim hands with elongated fingers. But it was the shoulders and arms I most noticed, cloaked as they were in expensive cashmere top. They could swing a cane, I thought, and as I did I shuddered. I think she read my thoughts.
But it is not helping.
With your problem?
Would you like to tell me?
I would, if I knew where to start.
Why not try the beginning?
When you first felt the urge to be punished.
Disciplined. Whatever. The form you filled in is very vague.
The questions were vague.
Some of them.
Give me an example.
The ones asking me about my dreams.
My parents. My schooling.
Were they not relevant?
Then tell me what is.
My drives, urges.
To be caned.
On your bottom?
I don’t know.
Yes. Yes definitely guilt.
I knew all about the guilt thing. My theatre friend and I had discussed it often enough. I had never been caned, at school or at home, but I knew of people who had been. And it fascinated me. I read books and articles on it and, sensuality apart, the assuaging of guilt seemed to be a major drive. Better than pills one blogger said and it struck a chord. So much so that I thought it might help me. Black clouds had dogged me most of my young adult life. I was desperate to try it, and truth be told the idea also excited me. I confessed as much to my GP. He was very understanding but warned me to tread carefully. Suggested, not totally convinced, that I get a friend to do it. First time. We discussed it, my theatre friend and I, and he just laughed. You need a professional he said, but a good and legitimate one. And, said with all seriousness, one who knows what they are doing. Having your arse whacked needs an expert. Two weeks later he found me one. Or so I was hoping.
I think, or hope, it will clean a slate. Help me to adjust.
And give you pleasure?
Is that important?
I don’t know. Tell me?
I don’t think so. Or at least not....
The first time?
So what is important?
That it helps.
Even if it hurts?
Especially if it hurts.
Have you ever been caned?
Suffered any form of corporal discipline?
As a child?
As an adult?
Indulged in any sadomasochism for pleasure?
Even mild forms?
So how do you know it will help you?
But you want to try?
What is it that appeals?
I don’t know. It just does.
Being made to do things you are afraid of?
Being made to feel pain?
In what way?
I don’t know.
No. Yes. Being made to......
Being made to what?
I would have to tell her. After all I was paying a lot for her time. Bruce, my theatrical friend, had said that there was no point in holding back. Tell her all the things you would never tell anyone else. All your desires, your fears. Get your money’s worth. Ain’t much point in forking out so much and clamming up. No one, other than you and her, will ever know. Bruce said. He is very sympathetic, very understanding, but also a little amused. I could see that. The way he smiled when he poured some wine and said he hoped the skin on my backside was thicker than the one on my personality. I knew then that, as part of my consultation, he expected me to be caned.
Being made to do what?
Take my trousers down.
And my underpants.
You tell me.
Being made to take everything down and bending over.
As they did at school?
Not my school.
In the olden days.
And being caned.
Say what you are thinking.
I thought I had.
Being made to take my trousers and underpants down.
And being caned.
Being caned. On my bottom.
On your bottom?
On your bare bottom?
Yes. On my bare bottom.
On your bare bottom.
Good. That wasn’t so bad was it?
Say it again?
On my bare bottom.
No. All of it.
From the beginning.
Being made to take everything down. Trousers and underpants. Being bent over and caned on my bottom. On my bare bottom.
And that is what you want?
A strange thrill surged through me as I said the words. I had lived this possibility so many times, books, magazines, videos, and now it seemed so tantalisingly close. Talking about it openly seemed to act as a heady release to my emotions. A sympathetic stranger, albeit one being paid, was unearthing my buried desires. My craving as Bruce called it. I knew as I watched Dr Strange write copiously in her notepad, elegant fingers holding a shiny gold pen, that I would be disappointed if I left this consultation without a small taste of what I was convinced she offered. Mingled with the heavy breathing I tried to disguise and the sweat I tried to ignore was the first, unwelcome, signs of submissive stirrings. I tried desperately to deflect my thoughts. This is not the time, I thought, to be getting an erection.
I can help you, but it may take time.
How much time?
How well you respond at first.
To being caned.
You mean, if I don’t like it.
I mean you liking it too much. I offer therapy, not gratification. There are many practitioners who offer the latter.
So, if I like it you refer me elsewhere.
As I said it depends on how you respond.
I don’t understand.
You will. I do not hold back.
Meaning I might scream.
I would hope you do, or at least cry out. Only with serious pain can their being any hope of helping you with your depressions.
And my guilt?
So what happens now?
My secretary will book you in for six thirty minute sessions. Weekly. After that we will assess where we are. You are familiar with my terms?
And you are happy to sign the consent form?
I already have.
Good. Then let us not waste any more time.
Yes. As part of your consultation. A preliminary session.
I didn’t think.
Call it getting to know you.
And saying that she pressed a button on her desk. A door at the far side of the room, a door I had not noticed, immediately opened and a young woman entered. She was dressed in a smart white uniform, very medical, smiled at me and beckoned me to accompany her. I rose. Somewhat in a daze. The last part of my interview had flown by and not prepared me for this. From hoping that I might get caned I now, suddenly, realised I was about to be. And the thought sent shuddering fear, mingled with inexplicable excitement, through my being. I meekly followed the assistant, taking one last look at Dr Strange as I did so. She was still writing copious notes.
Do you need the facilities?
The bathroom. Before you get ready.
Oh yes. No.
Are you sure?
It takes about fifteen minutes.
And you are tied down.
But you are comfortable?
Yes. I think so.
Then take off your clothes.
All of Them?
All of them except your underwear.
You can keep them on for now.
Do you wear a vest?
You can keep that on, but remove your shirt.
And your shoes and socks.
And I will get you ready.
Dr Strange likes her patients ready.
A small smile and she left me to undress. It was as she did so that I noticed the small bench in the far corner. It was dark brown leather, medium height and length, and sloped downwards so that it was a good foot lower at one end. Any doubts I had about its purpose were dismissed by the leather straps at each end and a larger one in the middle. So that is where you are caned I thought and I was still thinking it, fearfully, when I had dutifully stripped to my vest and underpants. I had come so far I would have to go through with it, or at least for this introductory session. I was still fixed on the bench when the assistant returned.
That is where you are tied down.
It is necessary. The cane strokes are painful.
They are meant to be.
How many will I get?
Thirty. The first time.
In three sets of ten. After that each session is sixty.
In four sets of fifteen.
And if I scream?
It is good. Don’t worry, this room is soundproofed.
She thinks of everything.
You need to get ready.
I thought I was.
On the bench.
To be tied down?
Yes. The straps on your wrists and ankles.
Yes. I thought so.
And then the large strap across your back.
No wriggle room then?
A good target?
Yes. And then I shall prepare you.
For Dr Strange.
For her to do her worst?
Or her best.
Yes. This is meant to help me.
So you prepare me?
I get you ready.
I take down your pants of course.
Dr Strange likes to see the bottom, the target, when she enters the room.
She gave a small laugh at that comment. It was the first time she had raised more than a slight smile. Her sheer professionalism had never, for a moment, hinted at any lack of normalcy in the situation. Perhaps there wasn’t, at least not here in Dr Strange’s therapy room. I moved to the bench and bent over it. It was very comfortable and the leather was soft and warm to the skin. She strapped me down, remaining silent throughout, and if the straps on my wrists and ankles were tight they were not uncomfortable. The thicker one across my back was. She had lifted my vest to my upper back and pulled the strap tight. No wriggle room I guessed. And if I was conscious that my bottom was raised on the sloping bench and pretty vulnerable I soon registered the final act of the preparation drama. Excuse this, she said, it is necessary. And her fingers linked into the waistband of my underpants, clean and white I am glad to say, and pulled them down to my lower thighs. I doubted if they would go down farther, given that my legs were splayed out to the legs of the bench. Pulling them down so far meant that my lad bits were on show behind. Maybe that is why she then lifted my pants up a fraction. I didn’t ask. I was just conscious that my bum was totally bare and about to be caned. Thirty times. And, I reckoned, Bruce my theatrical friend would want details of every stroke.
Thirty? All on your bare bum?
That’s what I said.
Christ. Screamed it. Many times.
Can I see the marks?
Then keep wondering. Suffice to say it bloody well hurt.
So you won’t go again?
I didn’t say that.
So you will?
Do I take that as a yes?
I take it that it helped.
Yes. It did. I floated home.
With a stinging bum.
You may laugh, but yes.
And a large erection.
Not even when she did it?
Especially when she did it.
Pants down, bare bum, cane whacking down on your arse. Were you asleep?
It released something.
The pain, the submission, the sensations. Daft as it may sound but that few minutes were the calmest I have been for ages.
In spite of the pain?
Because of the pain.
And tied up with your pants down.
Then you should go again.
I think I will.
And I still think you should show me your bum?
I did of course. I knew I would. The marks had fascinated me when I first saw them after Dr Strange had dealt with me. Searing red lines crisscrossed pale cream cheeks. I didn’t count them, not possible, but I had felt them landing. All thirty. And I had screamed and yelled as they cut into me. If the first stroke was the biggest shock, the other twenty nine had cut and stung as I could never imagine. Dr Strange did not pull her considerable punches. I didn’t know she had entered the room until her assistant spoke. He is ready she said and I heard a door close and assumed she had left. There seemed to be a long silence and, for a moment, I imagined I had been left alone. I could not see, bent as I was over the angled bench, only a dull coloured wall filled my vision. And then a hand, a cold long fingered hand, touched my right bottom cheek and gently drew its palm across my bare skin. I held my breath as those hands lingered and then, tantalising, lifted my vest away from an increasingly vulnerable bare bottom. Bizarrely I was enjoying this ritual, rich fantasies graphically being realised. My lower nakedness was fastened to Dr Strange’s bench and my whole being seemed to strain in readiness for a cane which now tapped impatiently on sweating skin cheeks almost crying out for its sting. ‘I think you are ready’ she said, ‘I think you are ready for your thirty strokes. Do not be afraid to cry, it will be best to cry. They are going to hurt. It is the only way.’
I am ready.
Say it again.
I am ready.
And That? (Thwack)
And that? (Thwack). And that. (Thwack). And that. (Thwack).
Is that all you can say?
It is meant to.
By Christ it hurts.
Are you crying?
No. Not yet.
It will help if you do.
I think I will.
And scream. Screaming out can be very good.
I thought I had.
Give way young man. Don’t worry this room is soundproofed.
Then scream (Thwack).
And scream. (Thwack)
Aagh. Aagh. Christ. It hurts.
Give way. (Thwack). (Thwack). (Thwack). Give way.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Enough.
No. Not enough. Only ten. You have twenty more to come.
I cannot take any more.
Yes you can. Your bottom looks very nice.
It is on fire.
It is meant to. And you can take it.
You can. Tell yourself you can. Your bottom was designed for this.
Yes. You need it and you can take it.
I need it.
And I can take it.
Your bottom can take it. It is springy. Resilient. A nice bottom to thrash.
Oh yes. This caning is well overdue.
I think I have wet myself.
I have wet myself.
I am sorry.
That is good. (Thwack). (Thwack). (Thwack).
That is very good.
It just happened. I am sorry.
It means you are giving way. (Thwack). (Thwack).
And I am crying. Oh my God. It hurts . It hurts.
Giving in. Ridding yourself of guilt.
My bum is on fire.
Yes your bottom is on fire.
Expunging your guilt.
Of course. So give yourself up.
Get ready for the other fifteen.
You can take them?
Even if they hurt.
And you want them to hurt?
Say it. I want them to hurt.
I want them to hurt.
I want them to hurt. I want you to cane my bottom and I want them to hurt.
You want them to hurt.
I want tears in my eyes. (Thwack) Aaaaagh.
To hurt your guilt.
I want them to hurt.
To wash away your guilt. (Thwack)
Guilt, (thwack). Hurt, (thwack). Pain (thwack).
Yes. Oh yes.
Then get ready.
Because these will wash away the guilt. These last few will really hurt.
These will really sting your backside.
Do not be afraid to scream
Yes. Yes. Yes.
These will cut your bottom in half. Do not be afraid to scream.
They did and I did. Scream. Through all of the remaining strokes. It should have been thirty overall. I reckon I got a few more. But it seemed to work. The intensity of her words coupled with the intensity of the pain in my bum released a pleasure in my being which was akin to floating on a golden cloud. That is how I felt on the way home, that is how I described it all to Bruce. He laughed, but kindly, and I slept well that night. I somehow knew I would. The fifteen minutes of therapeutic verbal exchanges intermingled with the slash of Dr Savage’s cane across my naked bottom was a heady mix of mental and physical emotions. She certainly knew her job. I said that to the assistant as she slowly released me from the bench and I rose and cleared my head and dried my eyes. My hands caressed my bottom, burning and hard to the touch, and I apologised both for my accident and the disconcerting acknowledgement that my penis was responding to the afterglow. I pulled down my vest in a futile attempt to cover the growing appendage. She smiled. Do not worry, she said, both responses are quite normal. It is s sign that you are relaxed, at ease. I did not feel so and hastily pulled on the underpants that she considerately handed to me. My nakedness, my erection, my ravaged backside fazed her not at all. Her only concern was that I had received benefit from my caning. Dr Savage is very good, she said, but her methods do not suit everyone. I let that understatement pass but, obliquely, gave her the re-assurance she required as I left. I booked, and paid in advance, for my second appointment. And that, as the hard faced receptionist reminded me, would be sixty strokes. I didn’t like her. For all her interest she could have been booking my car in for a service. But the assistant who prepared me and the Dr Savage who warranted the excessive fee were different. If you take up the therapy, the assistant said as I dressed, and Dr Savage agrees to treat you then you do realise that the strokes are doubled. I nodded. Doubled, she said, sixty strokes of her cane across your naked bottom. If she hadn’t said it so matter of fact I would have been thinking this was some sort of verbal turn on. I know I said. It was as I left that a smile was put in my face and a spring in my step. We both agree, Dr Savage and I, that you have a lovely bottom. And such a nice one to cane. Those echoing words and all else which had preceded them gave me a departing thrill. Now I knew. I desperately needed discipline.
You do know she is a man.
Dr Strange. Or at least she was.
Dr Strange was a man?
Some say she still is.
You are winding me up.
I think you are Bruce.
Does it matter?
Yes. No. I’m not sure.
The caning worked?
Yes. I think so.
And you will go again?
Yes. I think so.
So it doesn’t matter.
No. As long as she is a woman now. No.
Because you enjoyed it.
Because it worked. What she, her, did worked.
But you wouldn’t want to be caned by a man?
It wouldn’t have been the same.
That’s not an answer.
I prefer to be caned by a woman. I think. How did you find out?
About Dr Strange being a man. If she was.
I doubt it.
You should know.
How did you find out?
A friend. The one who gave me her number.
Why didn’t you tell me?
I didn’t know, then.
I might not have gone.
Yes. No. I don’t know.
I reckon you would have.
Shame if you hadn’t. Whatever her sex, then or now, Dr Strange has made you float.
I still do.
Bruce’s revelation about Dr Strange both disturbed and excited me. Was she once a man? Was she still a man? I thought of our first meeting and my initial impressions. Attractive in a manly way. High cheekbones and strong jaw. But also very feminine. Slim tall figure with nice slim hands and elongated fingers. But it was the shoulders and arms I had most noticed, cloaked as they were in expensive cashmere top. They could certainly swing a cane. That is what I thought and my thirty stroke consultation confirmed it. Male or female she was very good and, virtually naked and deftly secured, she had caned my exposed bottom with skill and consideration. Yes, it had hurt. Yes, I had screamed and embarrassed myself. But at the end, bottom bruised and throbbing, I had floated for the rest of the day and evening. For the first time in a long time I felt at ease with myself. So I went back, went back for all my therapy sessions. And I have never regretted doing so. And I have never regretted not asking about her gender. Somehow, bent over her bench, tied down and underpants deftly lowered, it never seemed relevant. Especially when I screamed.
Alfred Roy (2016)