Wednesday, 26 October 2016
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
Thursday, 1 September 2016
In one respect this is a little bit of fantasy. A young boy agreeing to be caned for a fee by an older woman. Would the young, he is only about seventeen, so readily accept such a strange proposal? Surely pure fiction. Not so I think. At that age, many moons ago, I often hankered for such a scenario. It never materialised but I can think of situations when it might have done. If only some of the interesting mature women (or men) who crossed my path had been so inclined. So not so strange really.
It is time I did a chatty blog. One will follow shortly but, in the interim, I hope you enjoy this and, possibly, think of those long summer days when you were seventeen and ripe for adventure. Especially the disciplinary kind. Alfred Roy
The Gardener's Boy
She looked at him. Again. She had been looking at him most days. He had been working in her garden for nearly a week. Hired hand. For the summer. A hot summer that never seemed to end. He was so young. And strong. Stripped to the waist his skin glistened. A student. Sixteen, seventeen, but with a boyish face and a gentle demeanour. She had seen him close up, cold and sparkly drinks in hand, and he had smiled and thanked her. Such a help and so nice. Her gardener said he couldn’t do it all on his own, couldn’t clear out all the weeds and the rubble for her project. Not on his own, not in time for the laying of a summer house. Needed help. So she advertised and got one. A student. A boy of sixteen, seventeen, with glistening skin. And he toiled in the summer sun and smiled and gratefully accepted the sparkling and cold drinks. And she watched him. Close up and through her window. Watched that glistening skin, registered the contours of his body. Imagined the glistening covered by the tight jeans. The boyish buttocks filling a growing body. Imagined how they would glitter, exposed to the shining sun. Imagined how they would react to her thrashing them. For that is what she desired. Not sex, not a sensual meeting of bodies in copulation. Not sex between woman and man. Thrashings, discipline, her womanly cane and strap connecting with the hidden boyish behind. That is what she desired as she watched. That is what she hoped, and intended, to happen.
The taste for disciplining boys had been kindled and fired at the school she worked at in South Africa. Rules were lax and the legislation confusing. The headmaster, a kindly but practical man, indicated that a smack on the behind was often the only language that some understood. Be sparing and discreet, he said, but if necessary do it. So she did. Tentative at first, but with increasing vigour and enthusiasm. And when, the first and only time, she told a boy to drop his pants for four strokes of her cane the thrill she experienced was both heady and life changing. Bare bottom caning happened at that school, she knew albeit they whispered it. Needed for some, a last chance. And the boy had been to her before, three times. So she told him to drop his pants and her breath caught in her throat as his fear flashed in his eyes. But he did. Drop his pants. Expose his small pale brown buttocks and she lashed her cane into his skin. Four times. And as the weals rose and screamed she registered her joy. To beat a boy on his bare bottom was the ultimate heaven. And she never forgot. Although she never did again, always after she allowed the pants to remain in place, she never forgot. A step taken, but not repeated, was seared on her mind. And however much she beat boys afterward, and for two years more many bent to her cane, none were stripped bare. But she never forgot. And now she was home, in England, making a home. And garden. And a young student, glistening in the sun, rekindled old desires. She had to cane him. She had to have him in her power.
She got her chance in the third week of that summer. Her gardener caught a summer bug, not serious but debilitating, a few days in bed prescribed by his doctor. A long and confusing telephone call ensued. No, it was not a problem. No, she did not wish for a replacement, things were coming along nicely and the summer sun showed no signs of fading. The boy could manage on his own for a few days, she would ensure no jobs undertaken requiring two men. There was only one disturbing moment, a suggestion to come and sit in the sun and keep an eye on the boy. Just for a couple of days. No, it would not be necessary and two days rest in bed would be much better. By the time the phone call ended both parties were satisfied and the plans of one were already beginning to form. For two days the boy would be working at her house on his own. Long enough for what she planned.
‘You disappoint me Simon.’
She registered and liked the Miss. It was the second day of the boy working in the garden on his own and, early in the afternoon, she had called him to her library. She was casually dressed in a light summer frock after a welcome shower. The weather still being hot Simon was dressed in a light short sleeved top and fetching cut off jean shorts. He looked concerned.
‘I have just finished showering. When I retired I left my purse on the kitchen table. It had fifty pounds in it to pay my cleaner. It has gone.’
‘So you admit taking it?’
‘No. No, definitely not. I am sorry for you Miss, but I did not take it.’
‘So who did?’
‘I don’t know. Someone must have come in while you were taking a shower.’
‘The back gate is locked, isn’t it?’
‘So how did this someone’, she emphasised the word, ‘How did this someone get in?’
‘I don’t know Miss. I was down the bottom of the garden. I wouldn’t hear.’
‘I have checked the gate. It is still locked. I do not see how anyone could get in the house, unheard and unnoticed. Besides, why would they?’
‘I don’t know Miss.’
‘I do. No one came. The only two people in the house are you and I. Just before I showered you came to the kitchen to get a cold drink. You must have seen my purse and took your opportunity.’
‘You must have.’
‘I didn’t, honestly. It must be someone else.’
Simon was beginning to look distressed. Tears were beginning to form and his fingers agitatedly pulled at his thin top. She studied him, excited by the situation but also sympathetic at his dilemma. He threw out a small plea.
‘I would be daft to. You noticed straight away, you were bound to suspect me.’
‘Yes, but that could be your bluff.’ She paused reflectively and rose from her library chair. ‘I could search you of course, you and your belongings. I could even do a strip search. Would you like that Simon?’
‘Please Miss yes, or please Miss no?’
She knew by the discomfort of his demeanour that he wished, fervently, to be anywhere but in her house. She gave a final twist to her interrogation.
‘I have done it before. Stripped a boy suspected of stealing. Such crimes were frowned on at my last school.’
The boy looked shocked and squirmed in his own chair. He was in a situation with which he could not cope. She knew that and her stern eyes relaxed and hinted forgiveness. Confusion spread across his face and she laughed, a gentle throaty laugh. The sudden change surprised him. One moment she seemed as an avenging angel, unjustifiably, the next she exuded an enticing warmth. Sixteen or seventeen year old hormones swirled in perplexity. She passed him, ruffling his hair, and crossed to a library cabinet and poured out two ample glasses of a rich red wine. She handed one to him and then sat down again, studying the flush faced boy with disconcerting intensity.
‘Do not worry; I won’t do a strip search. No need to. There is no fifty pounds. No theft. I was teasing you. Drink your wine.’
‘I’m sorry Miss, I don’t understand.’
‘There is nothing to understand.’
‘So you are not accusing me?’
Inexplicably Simon relaxed, even though he knew he was guilty of nothing.
‘Let’s say for my amusement, just for now. And I wanted an excuse to give you a rest from gardening. Hence the wine.’ She paused and gave him a warm and inviting smile. ‘How old are you Simon?’
‘Seventeen. Nearly, next month.’
‘So you are sixteen.’
‘Too young for wine then?’
‘But old enough for other things?’
His flush face deepened even further and he squirmed again in his chair. Was that, she thought looking at his crotch, the early signs of an erection.
‘Don’t worry’, she said, ‘I am not going to seduce you.’
‘Or strip you for a search.’
For some reason those words shot a surge through the boy.
‘But I am interested in you Simon. I think you should take the rest of the afternoon off, paid of course, and have a chat with me. So finish your wine and go and freshen up. You know where the shower is?’
He rose, looking a little dazed. The sudden changes of his situation, the being alone with this mature but attractive woman, and the heady wine all combined to confuse his own immature senses. She wanted something, he wasn’t stupid, but he did not know what. He half expected her to follow him to the shower room. She didn’t, she remained seated and amused and as he left she fed out another disconcerting question.
‘Tell me, Simon. What do you think would have happened if you had taken fifty pounds from my purse?’
‘But, I didn’t.’
‘I know, but let us assume that you had. Just for amusement.’
‘I don’t know. Sack me, tell the police, something like that.’
‘I might sack you, yes, even though that would set my garden project back. But I doubt if I would report you to the police, not for fifty pounds.’
‘You could take it out of my wages.’
‘On the assumption you had hidden, or even spent it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Simon sounded vague and she gave him a beaming smile.
‘But unless I fined you, you would be no worse off for committing a crime.’
‘Off course, if you were a pupil at my school in South Africa the solution would have been simple. In South Africa you would have been caned.’
Simon stared at her.
‘Go and have your shower. Call me if you have any problems with the controls.’
All in all that had gone well. Her false accusation had put the boy off guard. All else had comes as relief and a combination of heady wine and suggestion of strip searches had played havoc with his emotions. Most importantly he had not run away, got angry, or just gone back to the garden. He had stayed and, somewhat meekly, allowed her to explain her teasing. And in that close and private proximity there had been stirrings of excitement. It would be too much to say it was a desire for the unknown but the boy, an intelligent boy, was intrigued. She listened as he showered and then poured two more glasses of wine. Her own excitement at how the afternoon had progressed was increasing and, by her calculations, the effects of a second glass would release any remaining inhibitions in a vulnerable boy. He may not know it yet but she reckoned he would agree to any reasonable proposal she offered. And that proposal was about to be laid before him.
‘Yes Miss. Making me a bit dizzy. Not used to it.’
‘Then go easy, it is your second glass.’
Simon supped his wine and then put the glass, still half full, down. He had showered but put on the same clothes as before. Hardly surprising as the afternoon’s turn of events could not have been foreseen. By him.
‘Besides you need a reasonably clear head for what I want from you?’
Simon looked up, questioning.
‘I have a proposal to put to you. A nice easy one in some respects. Agree to it and I shall give you one hundred pounds.’
‘One hundred pounds. One hundred?’
‘Yes, one hundred.’
‘Who do you want me to kill?’
She laughed. She knew it was a lot of money to Simon, a week’s wages as the assistant gardener, but not to her. Not for what she wanted.
‘No one, nothing like that. Be good and I might make it one hundred and fifty.
‘Sorry Miss, but do you wish to take me to bed? Do you wish to be...you know.?
‘Fucked by you Simon? Is that what you mean? No, you are much too young and, unlike some women, I get no pleasure from training the young in sexual matters.’
‘Sorry Miss, I should not have said.’
He picked up his glass and took a sizeable gulp.
‘But I do like training them in other ways.’
Her eyes gleamed and Simon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘When I was in South Africa, a teacher of English and History, things were different from this country.’
She paused but the boy made no response. His eyes remained fixed on her.
‘No political correctness at the private school I was employed by. If boys, it was a boy’s only school, transgressed it was perfectly permissible to cane them. On their bottoms. I did it often, not initially, but as I grew to realise that it was a sensible deterrent. In three years I must have caned over fifty boys. Many more than once.’
‘Why are you telling me this Miss?’
‘Is it not obvious?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I got a taste for it. Do not look shocked young man. It is wired into the English psyche. I miss it. This last few weeks I have had the urge to do it again.’
‘For one hundred and fifty pounds?’
‘One hundred. The extra is only if you are particularly good.’
She held her breath. Acutely conscious of her rising desire for corrective action, she knew that the boy’s response was key to the afternoon. An afternoon long planned and fortuitously available. She thanked God for summer colds on ageing gardeners. She may have been deluding herself but there was a suggestion in Simon’s demeanour that he was growing up.
‘Can I speak frankly Miss?’
‘I’m a bit scared. When I was in the shower I still thought that you wanted something else. I have never done it but I often think of it. But it scared me. But at least I understood. This I don’t get.’
‘You do not need to, you only need to agree.’
‘Or run like hell.’
‘You can, but in doing so you say goodbye to one hundred easy pounds and a nice summer job.’
‘You make it sound like blackmail.’
She studied him. Clearly his mind was in turmoil. She wondered, briefly, if he had played with himself in the shower anticipating the taking of his virginity. Whatever he expected it was not this. But he had not run. Had not told her she was a nutter. He was calmly debating. In an atmosphere that was charged with an indefinable electricity. Again she saw the incipient rising in his crotch. Something excited him in an afternoon situation that was both bizarre and inexplicable. Against her better judgement she poured a third glass of wine for herself, adding the remainder of the bottle to his unfinished drink.
‘Finish your drink and think about it. Nothing is at risk except your bottom.’
‘Or my job.’
She smiled, was this boy coming round?
‘Tell me Simon, have you ever been caned?’
‘Yes Miss. By an uncle, when I was thirteen.’
‘Nothing much to tell. He was headmaster of the school I went to. Couldn’t whack me there, but my mother let him when I got home.’
‘Did you deserve it?’
‘Probably, but none of the others got caned.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Drugs. Silly really, we were caught with them in a classroom.’
‘And the caning?’
‘At home, in my bedroom.’
‘On my bum. Four times.’
‘Did it hurt?’
‘Yes. I howled if I remember.’
‘And what Miss?’
‘How were you dressed Simon?’
Simon sipped his copious glass of wine. Would he speak the truth or what she wanted to hear? Or would both be the same? He grimaced.
‘He did them on my bare bum. Pyjamas pulled right down. I was shocked, embarrassed. I have never forgotten.
She smiled, a knowing smile.
‘That, Simon, is how it should be.’
‘And you want to do it to me?’
‘On my bum?’
‘Bottom, Simon. A much nicer word.’
‘Bottom, Miss. Sorry.’
He eyed her squarely and firmly, assessing the situation.
‘How many Miss?’
‘You want all the details?’
‘You surprise me Simon.’ She paused and rose to look out of the window. When she turned back to him her face was flushed and her voice thick and trembling. ‘Thirty strokes of my cane. The one I used on the boy’s in South Africa.’
‘Thirty?’ Now Simon paused and when he spoke his voice was even higher pitched than before and some of his later confidence had ebbed away. ‘I shall die.’
‘I doubt it, boys have the most resilient bottoms.’
‘I think you can Simon. Think of it as a small discomfort for a large fee.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘So you will cane me hard.’
‘There is no other way Simon. No point to it if it does not hurt.’
‘For me, not for you.’
‘Naturally. I will lead you in gently but, make no mistake, you will be howling by the time I am done.’
She noted again the rising bulge in the boy’s crotch and the heavier breathing.
‘The idea excites you Simon?’
‘No. It scares me.’
‘But it also intrigues you?’
‘A bit. How will you....how will you do...you know?’
She laughed, gently but with anticipation.
‘That’s for me to decide young man. But, since you ask, I intend twelve strokes as you are and eighteen with those lovely shorts taken down.’
‘On my underpants?’
‘Oh no, definitely not. Not for one hundred pounds.’
‘On my bare bum. Bottom?’
‘For one hundred and fifty pounds if I am good.’
He chuckled at his bravado, the wine and the situation having the desired effect.
‘You are full of surprises Simon. But let me surprise you. I shall take my time, we have all afternoon, but if you fail to take all the thirty strokes of my cane, for whatever reason, then your fee is halved. Agreed?’
Simon stood up and gulped down the last of his wine.
‘Then go upstairs, first door on your left, and wait.
As he left the room she involuntarily shuddered. The boy was drunk; there was no doubt of that. Drunk and excited. Not so intoxicated that he would ruin her fun, she had sensibly removed the second glass of wine after his initial sip, but enough to lower or remove all his inhibitions. A surge of desire shot through her as she realised he would be a toy in her hands for the next hour or so. And she would have no guilt. She would handsomely pay for the stripes that would paint his behind and afterwards he would most likely sleep off both pain and the wine. She smiled at the irony of the situation. In later life, if he got a taste for correction, it would be him doing the paying. But at nearly seventeen and with a delectable bottom she was sure most disciplinary eyes would die for, financial roles were reversed. She mused on these thoughts as she climbed the stairs and entered the first door on the left. He was standing in the middle of the room, hesitant, unsure of what to do. She closed the door and studied him. It was a small, sparsely furnished, room containing bookcases, a writing bureau, and sundry comfortable chairs. It was her retreat and, chosen for this particular purpose, a low backed and heavy leather chair had been placed in the centre of the room. Simon was looking at it, touching its black sheen as she entered. He stiffened as she entered the room and, pleasingly, she sensed a small air of submissiveness. The small top, pale green, clung to his upper body and the distressed denim shorts fitted admirably for her purpose. The contours of Simon’s bottom were well defined in the tight clinging cloth. Almost ideal, she thought and approached him. His heavy breathing became more audible and, once again, she registered the swelling in his groin. The wine, the situation, possibly his own personality, was turning him on. She mused on whether such stirrings invited a further erotic twist before proceedings began. It was a risk, but one she was prepared to take and her cultured long fingered right hand brushed the boy’s clothed behind. Soft and firm and delightfully bouncy. All combined. He did not resist, showed no response other than a greater effort at stillness and, confidence growing, she rubbed the full palm of her hand up and down both of the plump and beckoning cheeks. Exquisite. Or that is what she thought, Simon’s opinion was not asked but the twitching bulge in his shorts suggested approval.
‘So do I take it that you are ready?’
‘Then bend over the chair. Twelve strokes of my cane across your delicious bottom.’
She was surprised that he did as told so readily. The leather chair was suitably low and, gripping the arms to steady himself, Simon’s bottom presented a pleasing picture. Raised and curved, tightly covered in denim which veiled little, the twin cheeks twitched in anticipation. Whether through fear or excitement she still did not know but ready the boy was and she was eager to commence a chastisement of financial inducement and consent. The reasons mattered naught to her and, breathing deeply, she crossed the room and extracted hers scholastic cane from a drawer. Medium thick, brown and shiny, its two foot six length had seared many a South African bottom. Now her gardener’s boy would receive the same treatment. Only more so. This was thirty, not four, and this was agreed by both parties. She sighed and approached the chair. She touched the cane to the boy’s bottom and tapped gently on the bare flesh just below the small shorts. He stiffened and took a deep breath. She then lifted the cane and tapped the centre of his clothed bottom, memories flooding back, and spoke gently to him.
‘Are you ready Simon?’
‘I’ll go gently at first, unlike with my schoolboys, as you have so many to come. But they all will sting, Simon. Try not to get up.’
He didn’t. Amazingly he took all twelve strokes with agreeable deference, so much so that she made the last three really whip into his behind. These brought a rising of his body and shuffling of feet but his hands never left the arms of the chair. Each of the twelve strokes hit the centre of his bottom and each of the twelve brought forth rising gasps and signs of distress. But none made him jump off the chair. It was with growing admiration that she bid him rise. South African schoolboys cried more for less.
‘You took those well, Simon. I am impressed. You must have a very tough bottom, my South African schoolboys used to jump up yelping after one or two.’
‘How does it feel?’
‘Sore Miss. Very sore.’
‘So not such a tough bottom?’
‘And eighteen to come.’
‘As we agreed. On you bare behind.’
‘So, with or without your permission, I think I had better continue and get those shorts down.’
‘Get to the bottom of things.’
‘Right. Place your hands on your head and stand up straight. Your real caning is about to begin.’
She smiled, relishing the situation, and Simon gave an involuntary twitch but did as instructed. She noted as she approached him that he had closed his eyes. His face was flushed, either from the wine or his initial caning or both, and like her his breathing was heavy and anticipatory. She placed her hands on the top of his shorts and undid them, slowly undoing each button down to his crotch. Released, the shorts easily fell away and she deftly peeled them down to his lower thighs and instructed him to take them off. When he had done so she picked them up and held them, almost as a trophy of her planned afternoon. A pleasant surprise awaited her. Simon was naked from the waist down, no underpants unlike as indicated earlier, and a display of off white skin from waist to thigh contrasted with the rich brown of his legs. She touched that skin, warm and soft, just below his waist and pressed her palm in a smooth action across his middle. The genitals below twitched in eagerness. Already tumescent, her gentle caress produced a quickness of rigidity to be envied in the young. Smiling, her hand moved to his back and softly caressed the exposed bottom. Perfectly white, except for the warming marks of her ministrations, Simon’s bottom was ripe and as full as a summer peach. The pureness of the flesh, the beauty of its shape entranced and excited her. She ran her fingers and palm across both cheeks, exploring every curve, every crevice, drinking in the exquisite shape of an almost perfect behind. She had no idea where Simon was at this moment, she only knew that she had gone to heaven.
‘Beautiful, Simon, beautiful. You have the most perfect bottom. I shall enjoy this.’
Sensing the moistness in her being, enjoying the surge of disciplinary desire, she uttered her favourite words. Words that she had uttered so many times at the school which had kindled that desire.
‘Bend over. Bend over the chair, Simon.’
Adding the words never issued at a school, only here on a private summer afternoon.
‘I am going to beat this lovely bottom Simon. Beat it, cane it, eighteen times. Eighteen times I am going to cane this boyish beautiful naked bottom and eighteen times you will howl. I shall be disappointed if you don’t. But remember with each cutting sting the promised fee. It will be worth it.’
And, taking a deep breath, unable to contain herself any longer she lashed her cane across the centre of the bending, willing, bottom. Lashed it with a vigour not seen in the previous twelve. The exposed flesh had spurred her desire and increased her strength. The boy gasped and twitched and a livid red line spread across the centre of his cheeks. But he did not rise. He gripped the arms of the chair and swore not to get up, however much the cane stung. And it did. Time after time after time. Each stroke seemed harder than the previous one and with the increasing pain and fire in his behind the boy struggled more and more to remain in place. He half rose after the sixth stroke and stood completely, clutching his bottom, after the tenth. She had been amazed, given the force she had used, that he had stayed in place so long. By that tenth stroke his bottom was seared with savage red lines from the top of his cheeks to the lower crease and the fiery pain, throbbing and thumping, had brought watery tears. But he did not linger, did not rub his behind for long, just uttered an apology and immediately bent again. Thrusting his bottom higher in the air as if to urge the completion of the task. Naked, shamed, exposed. His boyhood hanging free between the dusky legs. Such a vision needed no urging. One by one the remaining eight strokes rained down on the boy’s submissive behind, a behind that seemed to represent all those South African boyish bottoms of her past. And this was here, and bare, and willing. Albeit in increasing distress. But it mattered not to her, and seemed not to him, and those last eight strokes fired their searing burns across that naked and youthful lower flesh in a joyful climax. Her Simon, her boy, had danced to her rod and her satisfaction was beyond understanding. And he had played his part. Exhausted she threw down her cane, held herself intimately, and listened quietly to his gentle and intermittent sobs. His lacerated, bending, bottom glistened in the summer light. Framed by his short light top and his rich brown, sun kissed, legs his bottom still cried out innocence and purity. But now it had been well and truly spanked with her purest cane. Just at that moment as she sat and studied, exhausted and drained, and he remained bent, exposed, and submissive it seemed so right. So, so right.
She paid him the promised one hundred and fifty pounds. He had earned it. He had been so good. She also, because he deserved it and she had been so fired with desire when caning him, allowed him to ejaculate. And she had helped. When he rose from the chair she had soothed his burning bottom and the earlier rigidity had quickly returned. Once again she admired and envied the young. She placed her hand around the thickened shaft of his penis and, merely with no more than twenty or so elongated movements, released a teenage spurt. As she did it she kept her other hand firmly on his burning and naked buttock cheeks. Combined sensations in the boy readily sent forth his spray. Neither spoke. There was no need. It had been a perfect summer day.
The gardener was eager for information. Was he right he had asked? Was he right to absent himself for a couple of days? Give the boy a chance to earn himself some additional cash. It was clear how the woman of the house had looked at him that she had designs on the boy. So did she? Did she offer something and did she pay for it? Oh yes, the boy had said. She had offered something. And he had accepted and earned one hundred and fifty pounds. Great said the gardener wishing that someone had paid him one hundred and fifty pounds to lose his virginity. Paid him one hundred and fifty pounds to get into his trousers. Mind you, he said sucking on a pipe long out, she was a schoolteacher as I warned you. More likely at your age that she whacked your arse. The boy smiled ruefully, said nothing, and surreptitiously rubbed a behind that was still very sore.
Alfred Roy (2016)
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)