Ten Days (M/M)

This story was inspired by conversations with a friend who, in illness, surfed the net for excitement. It led to discussions on CP and my storywriting. He admires my output without being enamoured by its content. But the discussions suggested the fantasy.

Preamble

It would all be so different this time. That is what he said. This time we would not hold back. All barriers were down. All desires and wants would be explored. This time we would not get off the train until it reached some undefined station. He said this and, smiling, handed me my third cup of tea. We had been chatting, and drinking tea, for over an hour and as he settled in his large and comfortable chair he said this time the journey would be complete. He had been waiting a long time. He was right. We had been taking a ride into the unknown for a number of weeks and if the early explorations were both tentative and inhibited, they nevertheless contained a sensual power that surprised us both. We had our first meeting of our strange journey just after Christmas. From then on all our meetings contained new, indefinable, electricity. Everything that went before counted for nothing. Let me explain. We had met over fifteen years before but for most of those fifteen years we were just friends, drinking pals, social acquaintances. We stayed friends because I entertained him and he made me laugh. We drank in the same pubs, went to the same football matches, and shared many opinions. He didn’t understand my sexuality. Far too complex, old boy, was his opinion. He liked his sex straight, with women, whereas I liked mine gay and kinky. I confessed the first to him about two years after we first met; the second took another two of a friendly, if casual, relationship. The first didn’t faze at all. Always suspected in spite of your marital state was all he said. The second merely raised a small eyebrow. Having your bottom whacked sounds extremely painful. Much rather put the old donger in a warm and friendly place. And that was it. Until that Christmas.

 First Day

We had just finished a pre Christmas dinner party. We being me and him and our respective wives. I hadn’t seen either of them for a while. He had a heart attack, just a mild one, early in the summer and after a short stay in hospital he and his wife went on a long convalescence. The dinner party was our first social before me and my wife repaid the invitation on Christmas day. None of us had any children and, all in our late thirties, were unlikely to. Regular get togethers were a regular part of our social lives. Until his heart attack. The usual routine was that the wives cooked the dinners and we chaps did the washing up while they caught up on all the female gossip. I usually washed, sinking my hands in warm soapy water was a mild fetish I always enjoyed, and he dried. It might help to give him a name so let’s call him Adrian. It isn’t his name but it will help the narrative. Adrian dried and it was just as he finished a particularly difficult pan that he made a surprising comment. At first I thought I had misheard him but when he repeated it I realised my ears weren’t deceiving me. Have been amusing myself looking at some spanking sites. That’s all he said but it was enough to start a flood of questions from me and, in doing so, I learnt an awful lot about how Adrian had been passing his free time since coming back home. Working part time gave him a lot of free time on his computer. That and a lack of interest in sexual coupling had developed a latent interest in the dark world of BDSM. He had explored dozens of sites depicting domination in all its infinite varieties. As we put away the pots he said, don’t tell the wives, but one day I must find a woman I can practise on. And he smiled.

Second Day

I can’t say I gave that washing up conversation much thought over the next few days. We had been knocking back the wine, unwise for him, and he had often teased me in the past for my penchant for having my pants taken down. The only surprise was that he fancied doing something similar himself, albeit with a woman. And he was clearly bored with his general lot. I told him about a couple of sites that I went on from time to time and we left it at that. And then, about five days after Christmas he phoned me and started asking me all sorts of questions. His wife was clearly out but mine wasn’t so the exchanges were a little stilted. My wife understands my needs and doesn’t complain when I indulge them but I still felt inhibited. Whether it was because it was Adrian doing the probing or because I like the secrecy I don’t know but, suffice to say, my responses were monosyllabic and non committal. He wanted to know about various implements, what the difference was between SM and CP, and when I got it did it hurt. He asked me all these questions and many more and I could sense myself being turned on. When my wife went upstairs to get a book I said perhaps we should meet to discuss his new interests more fully. Over tea one morning. At his place. Alone.

Third Day

We got together about a week later. He was working from home on some financial plan and I took a day off work. I train people in software management and my time is fairly flexible. For some reason I did not tell my wife I was taking a day off and Adrian did not tell his that I was going round. In fifteen years we had only met as a foursome at their house and it might raise a few eye-brows. Or that is what I told myself. In truth I wanted to keep this new side of our relationship secret. At least for now. I must have been there about two hours and, over four cups of tea and a delicious cake his wife had made the previous weekend, we discussed endless aspects of each others sexuality. It became very clear to me that he was developing a yearning to be dominant in some sort of new relationship. The searching and surfing of internet websites had both kindled and fuelled the desire. And he was curious to know more and more about this special world. As I was the only person he knew who played in it he had to ask me. Besides I was a very good friend. So I told him about my desires and my needs. I told him I wasn’t into heavy slave things with torture and whips and that my fixation was very much on the schoolboy element and all its variations. And I also told him that in such situations I was very passive. The gay side of my nature truly flowered when the right man took my pants down to beat me. He wanted to know if it hurt, if it was important to hurt, and what did I feel, inside, when someone was standing over me with a strap or cane. When I asked him if he wanted to drop his pants so I could show him he just laughed and said definitely not. He didn’t want to feel it but he very much wanted to do it. He had seen so many naked bottoms being whacked on websites he couldn’t wait to try it out on real flesh. Just would never have the opportunity. He did not know any woman who would be interested and paying for it did not appeal. Perhaps it was the situation, perhaps it was confessional style of our tea drinking conversations, or perhaps it was because my juices were stirring. But whatever the reasons they combined for me to say to Adrian, platonic friend for over fifteen years, that perhaps he should start with me. I wasn’t a woman but I was willing and, in the abstract, he would at least get to experience the sensation of whacking a bare behind. Fifteen minutes and much discussion later we arranged to meet again the following week.

Intermission One

I really need to take stock before I go any further. I have rattled so much out on the new twists and turns of an old friendship, perplexing and exciting, that I am in danger of missing a few important points of reference. I am about to go into Fourth Day and I realise I haven’t even told you my name. What’s the point you say, Adrian is a false one, why should the one you give yourself being any better? Well you may be right but I am going to give myself one anyway. Neil. There, you have it now. And it is my real name whether you believe it or not. I am Neil and I have been married for fifteen years. I met Adrian at my wedding. He was a colleague of my wife. We hit it off instantly. I probably fancied him, may have even mused with the idea of him beating me until I realised he was totally straight. I can’t remember. But we get on very well. Have done for fifteen years. And we like each others wives and they like each other. All very civilised. I have never enquired into his sex life and, other than teasing me on liking my bottom spanked, Adrian has never enquired into mine. Surprisingly I have never had a problem in that area. I love my wife and loving someone means giving yourself. The gay beating thing is a separate compartment. That desire, the desire to be dominated and thrashed by a man is always there. Something to do with my childhood and schooldays. Nothing to do with loving your wife. But everything to do with why I told Adrian that if he wanted a bottom to beat perhaps he had better make it mine. Even though it was male.

Fourth Day

I dressed very carefully for our first meeting in disciplinary roles. It was a beautiful early spring day and I decided to walk. A forty minute stroll to Adrian’s house attired in small white underpants and tight jeans gave me a sexual surge that induced headiness. I had dressed in such a manner and walked in such anticipation on many previous occasions but playing my very private role for this particular friend heightened all the senses. Usually the idea of corporal punishment games with someone I knew well in other circumstances was a complete turn off for me. But Adrian seemed different. And I can only assume that it was because, in my mind, he had subtly shifted from casual friend to potential chastiser. And in our final discussions before I left him the previous week I made it very clear that in whatever we did I would play the only role I knew.

And I did play that role. I was his boy from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. The tea and chats were a gentle precursor to what we both knew was to follow. The unspoken agreement of the previous week filled the air with exquisite expectation and, after the third tea, I was taken upstairs and told to lie on his bed. Adrian is nothing if not considerate and careful, and a bolster was laid on the bed for me to stretch myself over and, on his dresser, a large jar of some indefinable cream was covered by a thick leather strap. First the one and then the other he said. He may be a novice and he may be dealing with a bottom of the wrong gender for him but he was clearly going to enter into the spirit of the occasion. He positioned me in the manner of an expert, made me raise my jean covered bottom in the air, and picking up the strap gave me a few tentative whacks across the centre of my cheeks. I wished for it to be harder but said nothing. After a short pause he whacked me a few more times but, in spite of my signalled wiggling, still struck with little venom. He clearly did not realise that this slightly built friend could take it hard. Perhaps he would increase the action when he took my jeans down. As I thought this I suddenly had the disappointing feeling that maybe he would not go any further. That I would hate. In such situations I strongly desire to be free and having my pants taken down is an essential. I need not have worried. A few more whacks with his strap to my behind and the command came to lower my jeans. I still sensed his tentative approach and my pleasure was more in the revealing of my tight and white underpants than in the anticipation of his attentions. I was right not to expect too much because although the strokes stung more on my underpants they did not seem any harder, or less tentative, than the ones on my jeans. He gave me about two dozen, most at the same light intensity, and all my wiggling and arching did little to stir him to serious action. Pleasant as the whole thing was I was beginning to think it was a mistake. Adrian was my friend, he could not be anything else. And then he slowly removed my underpants. He placed his fingers in the waist elastic and gently pulled them down. Nice bum he said. Very boyish. I can see why you are popular. And your cheeks are so red. I didn’t respond. I was enjoying the sensation too much and when he placed his strap on them and whacked me again I enjoyed both the bare flesh contact and the fact that, at last, he was hitting me harder. Was it the sight of my bare bottom that had finally released something in Adrian? I like to think so. He had spent so many weeks surfing his computer and fuelling his imagination and now at last he had a willing bare backside to thrash. Alone, in his bedroom, a naked bottom was saying fulfil your fantasies and desires. Oh all right it was a man’s, a boy’s; it had that dangling appendage at the front. But you couldn’t see that and it was rounded and firm and smooth. And naked. And you could thrash and release your dreams. And Adrian did so. With a little help from me, wiggling the cheeks, arching the bum, and finally amplifying my previous silent requests for him to hit me hard, Adrian rained a fire in my behind that was joyous. When he stopped, exhausted, I knew I had been well and truly thrashed. He didn’t do anything else, or at least not much. He gently ran his fingers over my burning cheeks and he tentatively rubbed a little cream on them. But he did nothing else. And for a first session he was probably right not to. I dressed and returned downstairs in silence. I say very little after I have been thrashed and he did not seem inclined to talk either. Ten minutes later I left, promising to give him a ring or send him an e-mail. Confusion in me rained and it would take a week to sort it all out. I could not speak for him but when I left he was smiling.

Fifth Day

I could not get that thrashing out of my mind for days. Had I really bared my backside for a friend I had known for years and allowed him to thrash it with a leather strap until it was as red as the purest beetroot. And after it was over, cheeks gently creamed, had I really allowed that same friend to both study the results of his work and see how he had stirred my sexuality. Semi-erect and dripping with fluid I had made sure that Adrian saw the effect he had on me. When he saw my genitals, when he saw my lower nakedness and the submissive look in my eyes Adrian knew that our previous fifteen years of friendship was over. From now on everything about us would be different. We met again about a month after that first session. We would have got together earlier but circumstances always conspired against it. But he phoned me, out of the blue, and said he had a free afternoon and could I get some time off. He didn’t say why but he didn’t need to. It was raining so I drove over and interrupted him cooking a tempting chicken casserole. We chatted in his kitchen while he finished all the preliminaries and then he said, matter of factly, shall we go upstairs and continue our interesting journey. I said I was ready if he was but, this time, could I change into some shorts first. He smiled and then said go and get ready and, after a pause, he said boy. With emphasis. It was so much better than the first time. I lay over the bolster as before and he whacked my behind with the strap. I could feel his growing confidence in the strokes. They were more accurate and with more force. He not only knew I could take it, wanted it, but he also was becoming aware that he could supply it. Adrian was becoming a natural top. After a couple of dozen whacks he took down my shorts, nice tight dark blue rugby ones, and proceeded to whack me even harder. And then he sprung an unexpected variation. He was wearing jeans and as he undid it I noticed the thick black belt around his waist. It must have been hidden by his top in the kitchen otherwise I am sure I would have noticed it before. I have a thing about belts. Either it was hidden or he had put it on while I was changing into my shorts. It did not matter, it was clear he was going to use it on me. And he did so. Thinner than the strap it stung like hell and when he pulled my underpants down and lashed it across my bare cheeks it stung even more. I both hated it and loved it. It was like my dad used to do it when I was ten. The more he thrashed the more I writhed and he didn’t stop until he had given me at least forty with it. And when he stopped he surprised me again. He told me to raise myself up so that I was just kneeling on the bed and to put my hands on my head. I did so and with my shorts and underpants at my knees he lifted my top and admired his handy work. I do not know how you can take it he said, your arse is crimson. But you clearly enjoyed it and so did I. And as he said it he rubbed my exposed burning cheeks with one hand and gently touched my, equally exposed, balls and cock with the other. I closed my eyes and wished.

Sixth and Seventh Days

It was the Wednesday after Easter when we next got together and the ever surprising Adrian introduced another variation. This time I was to be blindfolded for the whole of the session. He told me this on the phone the weekend before. Yes he knew I was more into the schoolboy CP stuff than the darker S and M but experimentation was the name of the game. I was to report to him and go to his bedroom and strip to my underpants and vest. He would then enter and tie my hands behind my back and place a leather mask he had bought over my eyes. And then he would amuse himself. He would do whatever he wanted and would only stop if I used a safe word we had previously agreed on. I had no problem with his instructions. S and M was a separate world from my CP fantasies but, providing the two did not overlap, I could go along with it. And being dominated by Adrian, especially if he enjoyed himself, was a real turn on for me. When I put the phone down I was dripping with sweat and indulging in the pleasure that had swamped my loins. If the session did not exceed my expectations in certainly matched and exceeded anything that had gone before. In a short time Adrian had moved a long way from those first tentative strap strokes across my jeans. I did as I was told and knelt on his bed with my hands on my head. For some reason putting my hands on my head always enhanced my submissiveness. I was facing away from the door so when he entered after a few minutes I could not see him. He took my hands and put them around my back and tied them together with some material I later discovered was one of his old business ties. He then placed a thick, black, mask around my eyes and the simultaneous smell of leather and loss of vision stimulated my excitement. Not a word was said by either of us and all I could hear was the sound of his breathing and the gentle tinkling of piano music from a downstairs radio. For a few moments nothing happened and then I felt his cold hands on my waist as slowly, very slowly, he slipped down my underpants to just below where the buttock cheeks meet the upper thighs. In doing so he released an erection from me that he must have known was there. The next five minutes were sheer heaven as he explored every inch of my lower body and, for variety, intermingled it with lifting my vest and gently tweaking my nipples. Adrian may not be gay but he was giving a very good impression of someone who might be. Confusion mingled with desire as I drank in every exquisite sensation. And then he stopped again and in the stillness all I was conscious of was the blackened silence and the aching thrust of a penis desperate for release. And then the belt hit my buttocks. A savagely hard blow which made me gasp. It was the first disciplinary stroke of this particular session and the unexpected pain ran through my whole body. He waited a few seconds for me to absorb the glowing aftermath so essential to my sexuality and then he struck again, quickly followed by a third and fourth. All in all, in that kneeling position, he must have whacked my naked backside about thirty or forty times and, much as I was tempted, I never uttered the safe word. Eventually he stopped and I held my breath and clenched the burning cheeks, wondering what was going to happen next. Was anything going to happen next? I hoped so as I did not want this session to end. It didn’t. After a couple of minutes I felt the touch of his gentle and large hands, now warmed through his exertions, on my still tumescent cock and the full and heavy balls. Within seconds I was full rigid again and for what seemed an eternity he alternately stimulated my boyhood and touched and caressed my heavily reddened bottom. I almost fainted with the sensation, a sensation enhanced by the total blindness from the mask. Three weeks later we repeated this session with a couple of variations. That time he made me wear a pair of pale blue satin knickers of his wife’s and that time, after he had taken them down and done everything he had done before, he allowed me to come. For the first time on our journey he allowed me to explode our private passion. As I did so, released and spent, I cried.

Second Intermission

I had to go to Canada on business a couple of weeks after my last visit to Adrian and could not see him for a month or so. We sat in the corner of an anonymous out of town pub on the Saturday afternoon before I flew out and, quietly, discussed our experiences. Our wives had gone shopping together in London and I welcomed the chance for us to renew an old habit. Adrian suggested it and when he did so I realised we had never got together since Christmas other than at his house. And they were not meetings of equals. The pub was spacious and the few customers were mainly sitting around the bar. We could speak freely. Adrian started chatting about this rare opportunity to enjoy a real pint and asked me about the project I was undertaking in Canada. I gave him a few details but knew that neither of us really wanted to talk about that. And dwarfing everything we were likely to discuss was one question which had remained fixed in my mind since Easter. Particularly since my last visit to his house. Why had he done the things to me that he had? He had told me he wasn’t gay, that he wasn’t interested in men, and that he had never touched another man’s genitals until that first occasion when he had gently stroked mine. Using my bottom as a real live flesh substitute for what he really desired was one thing. I accepted that aspect of our relationship quite easily. But all else was perplexing. I could enjoy, I could submit and hope, but I could not understand. So I asked him to explain and he told me it was all about power, or was to him. His desire to dominate was increasing so rapidly it overrode all considerations of sexuality. And having a fully fledged, card carrying, submissive alone and willing in his house was a heady cocktail to his emotions. When he thrashed my bottom he knew, that for those few minutes, he was in total control and he wished to savour the moment. All else he did was as part of that control and power. My sex was irrelevant. He realised that on my second visit he said. He realised it when he took off his belt and thrashed my bare behind. After that there could be no turning back. I dwelt on our pub conversation on the flight over to Canada. We had to curtail our discussions when a young couple came and sat near us. To move would draw attention to us and would seem discourteous. And shortly afterwards we had to shop for the evening meal we and our wives were having at our place. It was a good evening and Adrian was in good form but it gave no opportunity for a continuation of our private talk. Not that there was much more to say. It made sense and had its own internal sexual logic. But it did raise a couple of points I wanted to discuss with Adrian when I next visited him. And that would be a few days after I got back. We did manage to arrange that while we doing our washing up duty. And next time dear boy, he said, I want you to bring a cane. I trust you have one.

Eighth Day

It was clear when we spoke the day before I went over that we were going back to our beginnings, but beginnings with a difference. There were to be no blindfolds, no tying up, no satin knickers. No kneeling submissive already half undressed. We were going back to the schoolboy days with me in tight trousers or jeans covering a small pair of clean cotton underpants. Black or white. Whichever I preferred. The instructions were precise as was the reissued order to bring a cane of my own choosing. I would have never let Adrian cane me in the early days but his growing confidence with the strap and belt made this next step inevitable. He could hit hard and he could hit accurate. At least in his mind. And he wanted to put it into practice. An old friend had made me a present of one many years before. It was smooth and supple and long and lay at the bottom of my wardrobe. Rarely used for lack of opportunity. It sat disguised in a long tube and as I placed it in the boot of my car I dually feared and hoped that it would not remain there for long. Adrian was waiting at the door to greet me. It was a hot early summer’s day and he was attired in a pair of grey baggy shorts and a highly coloured and garish top. The smell of a barbecue burning some anonymous dish drifted along the side of his house. I relished the idea of the latter whilst instantly regretting the lost opportunity to don some shorts of my own. I became aware of my incongruous tight and thin grey cloth trousers and convinced myself that all of Adrian’s neighbours would see and in seeing suspect. I went in and he closed the door and giving me a big hug said I looked just like a naughty schoolboy. I blushed and, in another place, simultaneously stirred. He explained that his wife was in Doncaster on a one day seminar so would not be back until late and we had lots of time. Hence the barbecue. We would eat and drink, no alcohol for obvious reasons, and after the meal had gone down he would go to work on me with the implement he trusted I had brought with me.  He had considered reversing the situation but decided it would be nicer, much nicer, if we both savoured the day. Three hours of delicious anticipation was how he put it. Three hours in which the danger of moods passing was how I saw it but I declined to say so. In such situations the best thing to do is switch off and rekindle the fire later on. In the interim I was stuck, on a hot summer’s day, in a pair of educational supply trousers. I did amplify this latter point and Adrian surprised me yet again. Take them off he said. You are wearing a sensible light top and besides I am not overlooked. And don’t worry you can put them back on before the fun starts. So I followed his suggestion and ten minutes later we were having a first cool drink with the schoolboy companion wearing only a light pale blue sweatshirt and, just revealed, a tight pair of leg hugging jet black trunks. I fervently prayed that seminars in Doncaster did not finish early. I enjoyed the barbecue. The food was good and the companionship even better. Adrian was on fine form and he made me laugh as in the old days. Except this wasn’t the old days. This was another step on our journey of discovery and, dressed in only light top and clinging underpants, I was conscious that before too long a new variation on an old scene would be played out. And it could not come soon enough for me. The odd allusion to what would happen later in the day filled me with longing. A nice bum, he said at one point when I was bending over to retrieve a glass, I am so privileged to have seen it in all its glory. And later in the day, in his kitchen when we were washing up he patted it and said I can’t wait to land your cane on that. If we hadn’t gone through the past few weeks I would swear he was winding me up as it was a bit like the old days when he used to tease me about my particular predilection. But this was no wind up, this was for real. And twenty minutes after we put the last cleaned plate away I put the thin grey trousers back on and went upstairs to await his presence. This was it I thought. No going back now. He was going to cane me and, as I dressed, he had gone to my car to collect the weapon of choice. He would find it thin and supple and that it could cause much pain, I imagined him holding it in his hands, feeling its weight, assessing its possibilities and musing on the marks it would leave. No reddened bottom this time. This time there would be livid angry weals. Or at least there would be if he hit me as hard as he had with the belt. And if he didn’t he and I both knew I would be disappointed. I had no need to worry. Adrian was becoming a master of the craft of discipline. He entered the bedroom and turning me round, made me touch my toes. The bedroom was large enough for me to bend over and, more importantly, for him to get a good swing. He lifted my top and pulled on the waist of my trousers. As the cloth pulled into the crease of my buttocks I was conscious of those teachers of old creating a second skin on the boyish behind of insubordinate youth. And then he laid the cane across the trousered seat and, after a gentle tap, hit me with some force. It stung like hell and it took all my resistance not to rise. I had forgotten how much the cane stung and hurt, even through trousers, even when done fairly lightly. And in spite of the pain I knew that Adrian had not struck me with the force applied with the belt to my naked behind. He was not stupid. This was to be a gradual build up. He gave me five more, evenly spaced, and then told me to take off both the trousers and the underpants. I was surprised at this but realised that he must have thought that a dozen was enough and he wanted the second six on my bare behind. I did as he said and then bent back over, my bare backside in the air. He lifted the top again even though he didn’t need to. I always wore a size that never totally covered my cheeks. I had played this game before. Nice weals he said, I can see all six. And then he placed the cane again and delivered the first of the second six. I remained bent over and absorbed both the force and sting of this and the five which followed. All across my naked behind. The burn in my buttocks was uncomfortable but bearable and was made even more so when he told me to stand up and place my hands on my head. For the next five minutes, and I closed my eyes to savour more intensely the moment, he caressed both the cheeks and delicately fingered the weals. If I was disappointed that he did nothing else I was fired by his finishing comment as he rubbed in a cold and soothing cream and, completing the action, gently smacked my bum. Next time, dear boy, it’s back to the masks and everything else. But we shall definitely use this cane. And saying this he left me to get dressed. I had been given only twelve strokes but I had received the promise of so much more.

Ninth Day

I had to keep my bottom well covered for the next few days. As understanding as my wife was she got upset if she saw me with a seriously marked behind. And it was marked, I had not been caned for a couple of years and Adrian had not held back once he got into his stride. There were only twelve but most of them were clearly visible and it was over a week before they cleared up. Not like school days when even a couple of strokes over trousers could leave a twelve year old boy marked in purple lines for anything up to a month. I suppose, looking back, I was a little deflated by this latest session. Our earlier get togethers had been rich in intensity, a snatched two hours in the middle of the day. The latest experience had been a long gentle and relaxing day with merely ten minutes of scholastic pain. And nothing else. I put it down to the fact that Adrian was, literally, feeling his way with the cane and was unsure how to continue a scene which had clear schoolboy connotations. I could not believe that he had regretted our earlier explorations. Besides he had an acute antenna and masturbating schoolboys did not have the essence of truth. I told myself that was why he did nothing else. But his imagination was fired and the late delivered promise excited me. He phoned me in early August, just before our respective and separate holidays, and said how did I fancy a get together before we went our separate ways. Both our wives were out at different evening meetings and we could chat freely. He told me that he wanted to do the blindfold and binding again. And this time he wanted me completely naked from the start. And he would use the cane as well as other implements. And this time I would not be disappointed. As he said the last bit he laughed. He knew what I had wanted last time and, naked and caned, he was willing to fulfil that need. He didn’t say that but his laugh did. I made it clear that I was eager and ready. We made a date for the following Wednesday and on the afternoon I put on my tightest and sexiest gear. I needn’t have bothered I suppose because I know I was going to be stripped before any action took place. But it made me feel good. At least it did until, ten minutes before I was due to leave, his wife phoned me to tell me that Adrian had suffered another heart attack.

Third Intermission

There were so many things I had not yet discussed with Adrian. So many things we had not yet explored. How far could our journey of discovery go? How and when would it end? What other surprises did he have in store for me and, as he embraced his growing desire for dominance, how far along the road of discipline could I take him? And now we had lost the chance to fill in all these unspoken gaps, possibly forever. As he lay in that intensive care bed, this scare being much worse than the first, I feared we would never know. If he died then he would die with many things unspoken, unrealised, and I would be left with a private grief I could not share. In that bleak corridor of antiseptic anonymity I waited as a concerned friend. In my heart I waited as a secret partner in a journey of exquisite joy. It had taken me fifteen years to find him, fifteen years of rooted friendship which finally, and unexpectedly, flowered into a special understanding that only those who desire the same can understand. I could not bear to lose him and fearing I would I cried copiously. My wife sat by me and understood the tears. She would never understand why there were so many.

Tenth Day

It was almost a year to the day from our first meeting, the day we discussed his needs and I offered my bottom as a substitute, when we got together again. He had been discharged from the hospital some weeks before and, looking him at him now, the corridor tears seem overdone. Adrian was in the picture of health and the doctors said that if he took care he would have many years before him. Oh, all right he would probably not see ninety but not many of us do and the operation they had performed on him should lessen the risk of another attack. Providing he did not smoke, or drink, or only have unexciting sex. Actually it was Adrian who had made the last comment and the doctors had laughed. But as he made it clear to me, unexciting sex was the farthest thing from his mind. He was going to live while he could. And that meant finally entering a world that had beckoned and fascinated for many months. His wife would be on a course in the spring, away for at least two weeks, and he would spend the time cultivating a number of internet contacts. I did not enquire on the details but it was clear that Adrian had decided that if he suddenly keeled over in the local supermarket he would do so in the full knowledge that he had experienced everything he desired. So where did this leave me? I had asked him this question when he amplified some of his thoughts on the phone the previous weekend. All he said was come over and see what I have to offer. So I did the following Thursday, three weeks after another Christmas, and listened as he told me that this time we would take down all the barriers and embark on the ultimate journey. This time there would be no holding back. He handed me a third cup of tea and settled down in his large armchair and flashed me a wicked smile. Fifteen minutes later I was standing, blindfolded and tied and naked, in his bedroom. He spent five minutes exploring my body, every inch, and another five minutes whacking my behind with the so familiar belt. He then took my hands and led me over the bolster on his bed and raised my bottom in the air. He then spent a further five minutes thrashing me with the same cane which had lashed into me on the day of our private summer barbecue. Thirty strokes poured into me and I felt every single one of them. And when he had finished he put his hand under my bending figure and started to manipulate my cock and balls with an urgency alien to his nature. As I rose to a fevered erection his other hand explored my raised and eager bottom and, as the fluid stirred inside me, I sensed the pressing of a hardness against my buttock crease. I instinctively spread my legs and willed the entry of a manhood I desperately desired. That manhood was to be denied but, in that exquisite moment, it did not matter. Adrian may only be entering me with a playful toy but he was entering me all the same. As the stiff unnatural prick thrust its false desire into my bottom I surged in uncontrollable urgency and the manipulative hand around my shaft did the rest. I ejaculated that which could not be denied and, simultaneously, devoured the unseen object of my deflowering. I was truly spent and, in my nakedness, I blessed the giver of all my sensations. Adrian did not move for a couple of minutes as I lay, prostrate and exhausted, on his bed. Then he gently kissed my bottom and left the room. I think it was his way of saying goodbye.

Coda

We never got together again, or at least not in that way. We remain friends and he and our wives eventually picked up our previous relationship. Five years have passed since his first heart attack and our first exciting and exploratory conversations. And four years since he last whacked me with a cane and told me he was on to pastures new. We never discuss it and I have no regrets. It was a wonderful year and, over the dinner table, I can still see the special light in his eyes when he asks me if I have had any good spankings lately. We all laugh; both the wives and Adrian and me, but his laughs and mine are a bit special.

Alfred Roy © 2008

I Have Never Seen Whipstock Grange (F/M)

Much of this story, including the characters, is fictitious. The establishment and the punishments it administers is fact. I know, I have been there, and I thank them for allowing me to use the school’s actual name for verisimilitude. – Alfred Roy

There were five of us there. Three other boys, one girl, and me. We were all dressed in the smart maroon and grey uniform of Whipstock Grange School and stood rigidly to attention. We probably looked a little strange in our colourful blazers, dark grey jumpers, crisp white shirts and matching striped ties but we didn’t mind. We minded even less the dark grey school shorts, or in one case pleated skirt, the long grey socks and black shoes. They completed the picture we all desperately wanted to create. Fourteen year olds back in the classroom of an age long gone. And we were there. The distinctive badge, menacing crossed canes, emblazoned the school logo and said this was the 1950s. And the imposing sixth presence removed any doubt. I said there were five of us, actually there were six and the last was the most important. We might be playing fourteen or fifteen but she, Miss Jenks, was a real nearer fifty than forty. She was the deputy headmistress and was taking our class for a day. She was quite tall and well built and, dressed in a long black gown, looked very imposing. Even more imposing was the long, thickish, brown cane she held by her side. It was rich with an unspoken promise. As we sang the school song to the sounds of a distant piano, my bottom twitched and I contemplated on how I came to be at Whipstock Grange on a very ordinary and dull Wednesday in September.

It all started out in a very silly manner. There is a programme on the radio called, I think, ‘I Have Never Seen Star Wars’. In it a celebrity comic experiences things they have never done, like reading Jane Austen or eating Kangaroo. All very amusing and occasionally interesting. One comic underwent colonic irrigation and another, both names escape me, experienced some very personal body waxing. But generally it is pretty safe. The subject came up at a friend’s club where four of us were having dinner. One of my companions, who I only knew slightly, brought the topic up. Apparently he knew someone who was loosely connected with the show and had complained to him that it never did anything too outrageous. Couldn’t really, BBC and all that. But it led to a discussion on what the comics could experience if the show had an unrestricted remit. I can’t remember the details, the dinner was over a year ago and the drink had freely flowed, but we finished up setting our own personal challenges. The idea was that we should each have our own ‘Star Wars’ moment and report back. It eventually got dismissed as being nonsense but not before we had put four of the most outrageous ideas in a hat and drawn lots. The four decided on were Being Kidnapped, Taking part in a Porn Film, Attending a Discipline School, and Going to a Gay Sauna. I like the idea of two of them and the one I drew, the Discipline School, was my most favoured. But it was all a laugh and never intended to be taken seriously.

The action didn’t take long to start. The music stopped and Miss Jenks made the formal morning inspection of her five pupils. We all failed her cursory, but detailed, check on our attire. The girl, Shirley, the youngest of us at no more than thirty five, was admonished for wearing the wrong shoes and at least one, I can’t remember which, was reprimanded for having a stained jumper. I failed on two counts. Inappropriate shoes and a shirt more cream than white. It didn’t matter. We were all going to fail this test. That bit was clear. And we were all going to be spanked for it. What I did not know was how. I soon found out. Maybe it was because I was a new boy but, whatever the reason, I got my spanking last. By then I knew the form. I watched four others take their shorts down, skirt for Shirley was lifted, and bent over Miss Jenks ample knee. All got lots of vigorous spanks to their pants or knickered covered bottom and, after about thirty or so, this last bit of cloth was peeled away and the spankings continued on bare nether cheeks. So when I bent over the Jenks’ sturdy thighs I had no illusions. To start with it was all very pleasant and then she increased the tempo. I started to squirm and did so even more when I felt the sensation of my underpants being pulled down. As her stinging hand connected with my bare behind I thought what on earth have I got myself into. Club lunches, pleasant as they are, were a long way from my thoughts.

It was as we were leaving the club that the companion with a BBC connection voiced a few thoughts. Pity the challenge hadn’t been taken seriously he said, he rather fancied being ‘Kidnapped’ by some Amazonian women, and this might have given him a nice excuse. I made some negative comment about all of us having secret kinks and waited for my taxi. My friend and the other dinner colleague were staying at the club for the night and we were alone. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the heady conversation, but out of the blue he asked which of the propositions excited me. I was tempted to say none of them but I knew that would not be true and, fuelled by the same drink, I told him that a visit to a discipline school appealed. So we made a private pact. He would be kidnapped and I would sign up for a day at a private thrashing school. And over an equally private dinner at the club we would discuss it all. Whoever gave the better report would be treated by the other. All very courteous and civilised. But as I saw his taxi disappear in the distance I could not help thinking how I was going to find a place which, for a fee, was willing to provide someone to smack my bottom.

It was the second piece of scholastic discipline which wired into my mind the reason I had willingly volunteered for the unlikely pact. I was standing at the front of the class with my shorts around my ankles. One of my classmates was bent over a padded gymnasium horse. His underpants were down and Miss Jenks was giving him nine whacks to his bare behind with a vicious looking strap. A second classroom boy was waiting his turn, eleven strokes, and after him would come me. Fourteen strokes. We had all failed the geography test and for each wrong answer the Jenks’ leather strap would extract retribution. Each action alone may not have had the desired effect. But Miss Jenks was a Mistress of considerable power, both physical and emotional. As the first was punished the second waited and the third, me, watched them both. I could see the strap hit the bare backside, I could see the second boy waiting for eleven more, and I was aware of myself waiting a further three. Conscious of shorts down and underpants in the open and soon to be removed for my own fourteen. I could not wait. I wanted it. I welcomed it. My secret fantasy of so many years was being brought to life. However much it hurt I knew that when she lowered my underpants and strapped my bare backside I would, with each sting, say a silent thank you. This was to be a total surrender to my inner self and when that strap landed into my naked bottom I would not help wondering why I had denied myself for so long.

It was the lack of being in control that was so wonderful. However much the strokes of Miss Jenks’ strap cut into my bare skin, and I registered every one with an involuntary flinch, I knew that this experience was meant to be. How many times in my life had I fantasised about such a situation? To be bent over and disciplined on my bare bottom by a vengeful school mistress. It had happened once when I was a real twelve year old and I had never forgotten it. But for thirty years it had remained only a dark thought, buried and unspoken. Now it was happening, in a school room with a school mistress, and each unrelenting thwack into my hitherto virtually unblemished rear brought forth intermingled tears of both pain and joy. I could not avoid the exposure and the humiliation. I could not avoid the pain. I was in the helpless position I had always desired and the past thirty years were expunged with each fall of that mistress strap. In spite of, or because of, the throbbing pain in my bottom I was calmer and more serene than I can ever remember. Whipstock therapy worked.

I pondered our after dinner conversation for quite a while. The long journey home from the club in the taxi, a special treat, enabled me to sober up and reflect on the strange turn of events. Could I take up the challenge? Did I want to take up the challenge? Initially I dismissed it. My companions desire to be kidnapped by Amazonian women would disperse with the cold light of day and my own, peculiar, fantasy would retreat to where it had been buried for so many years. By the time we joined the motorway I had filed it all away as an amusing after dinner conversation. But as the taxi approached Watford the interest returned, at Bedford I was considering the possibilities, and by my destination I convinced myself I would go through with it. I slept heavily that night but in the shower the next morning, the previous night returned in full blaze. I dried myself thinking that he might not get kidnapped but I, sure as mutton, was going to get a beating. I talced myself and turned my back to the bathroom mirror to look at my behind. Just at that moment my wife came in and remarked that for my age, forty two, it still looked school boyish. She could not have done a better job of giving me the final push if she had given me a contact number.

I was twelve, a real twelve, and I was in real trouble. The deputy headmistress at my private school said that my stupid actions could have resulted in the school being closed. I didn’t demur. I didn’t think that placing a very small firework, hardly more than a sparkler, under the school choir would cause so much disruption. I only did it for a dare, a stupid dare. How was I to know that they would think it was a bomb and that the ensuing chaos would dwarf my miniscule intentions at minor disruption? No I didn’t demur. And I didn’t protest when she said, in her study, that she had decided to give me the ultimate punishment. I didn’t protest when she said I was going to get six strokes with the rarely used school strap. And I didn’t demur, or protest, when she said it would be applied to my bare behind. Such an action deserved no less. Her words. So I undid my pants, took them and my underpants down, and bent over her desk. Six times she whacked my twelve year old bare behind with that strap and I was crying by stroke three or four. But I deserved it and it was all caused by a stupid dare. And I never forgot it, never forgot my naked and painful submission, and now, thirty years later, another stupid dare was going to get me its recreation. The question was, where?

We broke for lunch at Whipstock Grange at twelve and I took the opportunity for the first of two welcome cigarettes. That one passed without notice but when I broke for the second after a sumptuous helping of homemade steak pie I was not so fortunate. Miss Jenks arrived outside just as I was finishing it and her look of disapproval spoke volumes. She said nothing, she didn’t need to, but the schoolboy vibes returned. I had transgressed big time and it was going to be an interesting afternoon. One of the other boys, or it may have been the girl, said that the cane would be coming out and I was sure to get lots. I went back to the classroom with a heavy but anticipatory heart. I am not sure what I was expecting but had not considered being ignored as one of the options. But for nearly an hour I was. Miss Jenks set two tests. The first was mathematics and I sailed through that with ease. Two boys got the strap for scoring less than fifty per cent and, disappointed at not being involved, I made sure that I screwed up on a number of important history dates. Careful to place Bannockburn and Flodden in the wrong centuries was sure to get me thrashed. And if that didn’t work no self respecting teacher could ignore a boy who put Mary Queen of Scots decapitation around the time of Trafalgar. Nelson might only have one eye but even he would have seen through that transparent ploy. I came last, none of us scored very well, but only the other four got six of the best. I watched and waited as a collection of pants were taken down and the dreaded cane landed on trembling and welcoming cheeks. But I didn’t get any. Miss Jenks just smiled and said that the ‘new boy’ had been noted. For a number of transgressions. My heart lurched and my loins surged as we broke for afternoon drinks.

I stumbled across Whipstock Grange almost by accident. The day after the club dinner and the intriguing conversation I spent half an hour on my private computer surfing the internet for possibilities. Trouble is there is so much out there and seeing your own particular tree in an overfull wood wasn’t easy. But eventually I found one. It ticked all the boxes except it was two hundred miles away. But a link took me to another site and a couple of nervous e-mails and a phone call led me to Whipstock Grange. One week later, fee paid, I was in schoolboy pants and blazer with logo and waiting to be caned. And that was about to happen. Miss Jenks disapproving look at my smoking habits and her enigmatic comments made that a certainty. The drink in the break was water, or tea for the more refined. At that moment, heavenly as it was, I would have paid fortunes for a whisky.

I did not have long to wait. The final test was on music and my knowledge of that could be written on the back of a semi quaver. I know what I like, Bach and Beethoven and Sinatra, but can remember nothing of the details. She played us lots and I scored abysmally. As did all the others. Except Shirley, who in spite of her desire to be walloped could not resist showing off her musical expertise. So she missed out when the three other boys got caned for their ignorance. But I didn’t. I had been called out first and bent over the gymnasium horse for twelve strokes of a heavy strap with my underpants around my knees. They stung, but not as much as her following words. I had to stand in the corner as I was, hands on heads and pants down, while she caned the others. They would get six, I was to get twelve. Six for poor test results and six, extra hard, for smoking. All with her heaviest cane. I remember standing there in the corner hearing the thwacks as her cane hit a variety of bare bums. I remember thinking that I could not wait until it hit mine. And I remember my shuffle back to the disciplinary horse for a bending over and, shirt and blazer lifted, awaiting the savage attack on what was revealed. And I most of all remember glorying in the strokes that hit an inviting and naked behind displayed for all to see. The pain was excruciating, the strokes were hard and penetrating and some were so low they remained as a badge of dubious honour for a number of days. But I would not have missed it for anything in the world. I was twelve or fourteen again and Miss Jenks and her cane had taken me there. I left Whipstock Grange with the overriding impression that the experience of an expertly wielded cane on a bare backside defied understanding. It would make for an interesting club dinner discussion.

I met that companion about four weeks after my visit to Whipstock Grange. After opening drinks in the bar and general chat on the ways of the world and business he hinted that he had finally fulfilled his fantasy. The women weren’t of the Amazonian variety and the kidnapping was so respectably conducted it hardly qualified. By the time we were seated for our starters of grilled goat’s cheese salad I was well aware that there were many organisations that catered for men who desired to be captured and hunted by predatory women. During the main course of succulent roast beef he created many images of the exhilarating and expensive day he had spent with like minded souls. It sounded very much like paint balling with twists. The twist being that he and the other men were stark naked except for a pair of sturdy shoes and, for some reason, black balaclavas. He did not go into too much detail, he didn’t need to, but as a steaming sticky pudding was placed on our table he was clearly expectant of something in return. He didn’t get it. I chickened out and said I had lacked his courage and my interests would remain just a fantasy. He looked disappointed but remarked that at least he had the compensation that I would have to pay the bill. I did that cheerfully but with a slight tinge of guilt at my deception. But I could not tell him. If my experience had ended in the classroom I might have. My being beaten by a mistress was little different from his own ordeal. Or so it seemed to me. But I had opted to go a step further and, having done so, was not ready to use it as amusing post prandial conversation.

There was a final option for the role playing kids of Whipstock Grange. For those who desired it, the one false note of this elaborate fantasy was that we had a choice, a departing visit to the headmaster was arranged. He would discuss your day at the school and as a parting gesture make you touch your toes for the inevitable valediction. Grasping ankles, shorts and pants down, he delivered twelve venomous strokes to bare skin so tight and taut that the rebounding cane suggested more damage to him than to you. I had ticked the box that approved it. I welcomed it. I enjoyed it. A caning. Bare bottom. From a man. I could not tell that in the club. Dinner companions have their limitations. Even in fantasies.

Alfred Roy (2011)

Fridays at Three O'Clock (F/m)

The boy stood outside the door. It had been a long journey and if the details of his travel arrangements were precise they paled against the details he knew the letter in his trembling hand contained. He had not read the letter, he was not allowed to, but other boys on other occasions had made a similar journey over the past year. They had been given the appropriate train tickets and a strict itinerary. Any variation would result in their immediate expelling. They, literally, had to follow to the letter the instructions given. The trembling boy was the fourth pupil of the school to be given the dreaded letter and the travel documents. A return ticket to Bury St Edmonds and an appointment with Dr.A.S.Parsons. At Three O’clock on Friday afternoon. And it was now Friday afternoon and it was nearly three o’clock. And the trembling boy, clutching the private letter, stood outside the door of the imposing flat in an equally imposing building and wondered why his headmaster had decided to send him here. He knew he was going to be caned, that had been made very clear, but when he knocked on the door he still did not fully understand why he had to go to Bury St Edmonds to receive it. It only became clearer when the door opened.

The woman carefully studied the trembling boy and, standing aside, ushered him into the long corridor of her third floor flat. She took the letter and his outer coat and instructed him to go into her living room and sit on the sofa and wait. The boy said nothing, merely nodded and did as he was told. The woman was unsmiling, almost unfriendly, and her tall frame was a good six inches higher than his five foot four figure. At fourteen the boy was not yet full grown and tall adults with a severe demeanour always enhanced his nervousness. He sat on the sofa and waited. Presumably she, the woman, was the Dr A.S.Parsons he had been sent to. No wonder none of the other boys who had made a similar journey ever talked about it. Being caned by a woman was not something you wished your fellows to know about. The boy gulped and rubbed his sweating hands down his smart grey trousers. And then he gulped again. Those smart grey school trousers would soon be coming down. He knew that because the headmaster had specifically said so. In fact the headmaster had told him an awful lot about the experience he was going to receive. The only important detail that had been left out was that the person who took his trousers down to cane his bottom was a woman.

She read the letter for a second time, absorbing all the details. The headmaster had left nothing to chance; all the important facts were there. The offence, or offences, the action already taken, and what she was allowed, indeed encouraged, to do. As the boy waited, nervous and trembling, in her sitting room, she read the relevant paragraphs again.

‘The above boy has been a pupil at this school for nearly three years. On two occasions he has received the ultimate sanction, namely six strokes of the cane. The cane is administered to the bottom and for a second offence the trousers are removed and the boy is caned with only his underpants for protection.  It is the policy of the school that any offence, or offences, which would justify a third caning on the bare bottom, will result in the boy involved being instantly expelled. However in a small number of cases it is the opinion of the school that a particular boy may benefit by receiving corporal punishment from a member of the female gender. The headmistress who conducted this service for us, with great success, has recently retired and she has provided a list of fellow headmistresses who she is confident would be capable of fulfilling our requirements. The advice we have been given is that no serious restrictions should be placed on how the boy in question is dealt with. We wish you every success with this particular referral and confirm that we are agreeable to your terms and conditions. A list of this boy’s more serious offences are on the attached page.’

The woman read the details of the offences and folded the letter and placed it in her handbag. The time for the preliminary interview with the boy had arrived and, armed with all the pertinent facts, it would be an uncomfortable fifteen minutes for him. That was all the time she allowed before she got down to the business of the day. And at three o’clock on this particular Friday afternoon the business of the day was the lowering of this boy’s trousers. She smoothed the sides of her severe black skirt, adjusted her crisp white blouse and walked resolutely towards her sitting room. The order to ‘stand up, hands by your side’ were already on her lips as she arrived.

Was it only a week ago that he received the bombshell? Having been caned twice for two serious transgressions he was in danger of being expelled for a third, more serious, offence. The headmaster had made it clear that such an action would cause considerable distress to both the boy and his parents. He would therefore be given one last chance. He would be caned on his bare backside. Severely. But not by anyone at the school. That policy had been discontinued many years before. But in certain cases, and the boy qualified to be considered a special case, the school were prepared to refer him to a specialist who would carry out the unpleasant task on their behalf. It was last chance. Any further instances of serious misdemeanour would result in his dismissal. So, however painful and humiliating the experience, he must tell himself it was the lesser of two evils. He must do exactly as he was told. And so he had. The boy took the travel tickets, the itinerary, and the sealed letter from the headmaster and left his study. And now he was here, standing and waiting, in Bury St Edmonds. And the woman who had let him into her flat sat in the chair opposite and calmly studied his flushed and trembling face. It was three or four minutes before she spoke again.

‘Nicholas. Nicholas Turner. Aged 14 years and seven months. Is that what you are called. By your school chums?’

‘Nicky, miss. They call me Nicky.’

The woman smiled. It was the first time she had shown any expression since his arrival and the boy visibly relaxed slightly.

‘Nicky. A nice name. But not, I suspect, a very nice boy.’

‘No miss.’

‘A long list of offences is it not?’

‘Yes miss.’

The woman looked at the list attached to the letter and started to read them out. At each one the boy blushed and shifted his feet uncomfortably. Twice he was ordered, sharply, to keep still as the painful reminder of each of his transgressions was amplified.

‘Smoking – This boy is an inveterate smoker. Cleanliness – This boy regularly has grubby fingers. Punctuality – This boy is frequently late in attending classes. Insolence – This boy is frequently argumentative with his teachers. Laziness – This boy is renowned for failing to undertake allotted tasks.’

She paused but the boy said nothing.

‘It all makes for painful reading Nicky.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Particularly the last one. Personal habits – This boy is known to masturbate.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Not a nice habit. Especially in a boy of your age.’

‘No miss.’

The woman glanced down at the list again.

‘I see that you were caned for smoking in November. Six strokes on your trousers. Did it hurt?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘And you received a further six strokes of the cane to your bottom the following month. For insolence. Did that hurt as well?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘More than the first time?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry miss?’

‘It was a simple question Nicky. Why did it hurt more on the second occasion?’

The boy blushed even more.

‘I had to take my trousers down miss.’

‘You had to take your trousers down. For six strokes on your underpants. Am I right?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘And who gave you the canings?’

‘The headmaster.’

‘Miss.’

The retort came sharply and the boy flinched.

‘The headmaster, miss. He caned me both times.’

‘And did you cry?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Both times?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘But still you haven’t learnt your lesson, have you Nicky?’

‘No miss.’

‘Which is why you are here?’

‘I think so miss.’

‘You think so? I think you know so, Nicky.’

‘Yes miss.’

The woman stood up and any slight, friendly, expression in her demeanour faded.

‘You are here, Nicky, because your headmaster is of the opinion that corporal punishment from me may help to curb your undesirable tendencies. He is of the opinion that a short, sharp, and humiliating shock to your young person may lessen the risk of you being expelled from your school. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Good. Then take off your jacket, shoes and trousers and wait here until I come back. I shall be a couple of minutes and I expect you to be ready when I return.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘And when I return you will follow my instructions. Precisely.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘If you obey without any unseemly obstructions I will deal with you as your headmaster requires. If not I shall increase the punishment as I see fit. Is that clear?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Good. I have agreed with your headmaster that you are to receive twelve strokes of the cane. And I am at liberty to deliver them to your bottom at maximum force. And without any protection. Do you understand, Nicky?’

‘Yes miss.’

 ‘You will be caned, twelve times, on your bare backside. And then I trust that will be the end of the matter. Now prepare yourself young man. I shall not be long.’

And with that the woman left the room and the boy, understandably, burst into tears. He had done nothing else by the time she returned.

‘Hold out your hand. Your right hand.’

The boy did as he was told and the cane slashed across his outstretched palm. The burning sting increased the tears in his eyes and a continuous throb immediately erupted.

‘Now the other one. Quickly.’

The boy tentatively held out his left hand, fearful of the pain to come.

‘Higher. Straighter.’

The boy closed his eyes and stretched out his left palm for the next stroke of the cane. It lightly tapped the palm and then rose and slammed into the centre of his hand to add a second stinging cut and burning throb. The boy’s hands were on fire and in a vain attempt to ease the pain he rubbed the violated flesh down his sides and sobbed uncontrollably.

The only difference from such scenes in a schoolroom was that this boy was standing in the elegant sitting room of an equally elegant flat in Bury St Edmonds dressed only in his shirt, socks, and underclothes.

The woman had briefly assessed the situation when returning to the room and as the boy looked up, seeing the cane for the first time, she spoke to him in the manner she would maintain for the next half an hour.

‘I am displeased Nicky. I told you to remove your outer clothes. Why have you not done so?’

‘I don’t know, miss.’

‘You don’t know.’

‘I am scared, miss.’

‘And so you should be, Nicky. This cane is intended to hurt. And not knowing is going to cost you.’

‘Please miss. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry will not help you. Now, get ready. You have already earned four extra strokes. Do you wish me to increase your punishment further?’

‘No, miss.’

As he said this the boy took off his jacket and placed it on the sofa. He then bent down and slowly removed his shoes and, discarding them, started to undo the buttons of his smart school grey trousers.

‘All the way off, Nicky. And when you are ready I shall give you the four penalty strokes. One to each hand and two to your bottom. Think yourself lucky that I am only giving you four extras. You deserve more.’

Nicky Turner tried to hold back the tears but it was a fruitless task. He could not stop himself crying and he continued doing so as he reluctantly removed his trousers. The woman watched silently until the disconsolate boy stood before her wearing only his white shirt, green and yellow striped school tie, pale grey socks and underclothes. The next words she uttered were to tell him to hold out his hands and after the pain of the first two strokes she instructed him to bend over for another two on a different place. Still sobbing the boy did as he was told and the woman lifted the shirt and placed it high on the boy’s back. The small white underpants fitted nicely a chubby and prominent small bottom. She did not care for his positioning but for these two strokes it did not matter. She placed the cane across the centre of the buttocks and speedily delivered two firm and hard cuts to the presented pants. The boy squealed and inched forward but did not rise until instructed. When he did he rubbed the still burning hands into the now burning bottom, and turned to his tormentor.

‘I shall leave you for a moment, Nicky, and when I return I expect you to be ready for your real punishment. If you wish me to limit your caning to twelve strokes then be correctly presented. I want you in the centre of the room, bent right over, and holding onto your ankles. And I expect your legs to be straight. You are only fourteen it should not be difficult. Do you understand?’

The boy remained silent, still rubbing his still stinging bottom.

‘Do you understand, young man?’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Then do as I say and let us get this over with.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘And I hope for your sake that I only have to hit your backside twelve times.’

And with that she left the room. When she came back, five minutes later, a bending boy’s shirt covered bottom beckoned her attentions. The legs were straight and the ankles were gripped. His pain and her pleasure was about to begin in earnest.

She approached the waiting boy and placed her left hand on the small of his covered back. The crisp white shirt was warm to her touch. From its previous lifting she knew he was not wearing a vest and she could feel the sweating heat of his young flesh. The legs bent slightly at her touch and a firm command to straighten his knees brought an instant and dutiful reaction. Other than that command all was silence, and the boy’s irregular breathing and involuntary sobs were the only sounds. The woman lifted the tail of the shirt and, turning it back, raised it to the boy’s bending waist. The flesh of his lower back, pink and fresh, matched the pale smooth colour of the straight and slim legs. This boy was almost beautiful and the inherent beauty was highlighted by the small and tight fitting underpants which covered his bottom. White and silky cotton, they both veiled and enhanced the treasures that lay beneath. And they were treasures, the woman was convinced of that. Underneath the small pants beckoned two twin orbs of delicious promise. She placed her long fingers in the elasticised waist of the boy’s underpants and slowly drew them down his thighs. As they rested below his naked cheeks she drank in the picture revealed. Two chubby and trembling pieces of curved boyhood signalled their silent submission. It was a sight that defied description and begged attention. It was in such moments, the moment when she took down a boy’s pants, she wanted both to kiss and cane. Such a bottom was worthy of both. The boy let out an audible sigh, seemingly in acknowledgement of her silent appreciation, and she let her hand drift slowly across the surface of his unprotected flesh.

‘A very nice bottom, Nicky.’

She touched the flesh with her fingers and pressed lightly into the two distinct marks of her penalty strokes.

‘Almost too nice to be caned. But ideal for the purpose would you not say?’

The boy said nothing. He held his breath, conscious only of her exploring fingers on his buttocks.

‘Ideal for a caning I said, Nicky. Soft and smooth and yet so springy and supple. And their jutting out makes them almost eager for my cane. Do you not agree?’

Again the boy said nothing.

‘Stand up.’

The woman issued the command with sudden venom which unnerved the boy and he quickly rose from his bending position.

‘And turn and face me.’

The boy turned to face her and her anger mingled with amusement. The front of his shirt had fallen down but it could not hide the fact of his excitement.

‘I’m sorry, miss.’

She ignored the reference to his state and spoke very quietly to him.

‘When I ask you a question I expect an answer, Nicky. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Good. I will ignore it this time but fail me again and we will not stop at twelve strokes.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘I am glad we understand each other. Now turn around and bend over again and we shall begin.’

The boy turned away and, bending forward, felt yet again the lifting of his shirt. It may have been his imagination but it seemed to be placed higher up his back. Again he felt the womanly fingers on his flesh, first adjusting his underpants against his thighs, and then, again, brushing his upturned buttocks. Never had he felt so vulnerable, so afraid, and so confused.

‘Do not be concerned about your erection, Nicky. I have never yet known a boy about to be caned with his pants down who didn’t get a stiffy. It will soon go, I assure you.’

Nicky Turner said nothing, it wasn’t a question so it required no answer, but only registered the new sensation of a cane tapping his naked flesh. Ten seconds later he felt its first burning sting to that same naked flesh and all thoughts and confusions fled from his mind and raced to the centre of his agonising pain. He screamed and, rising to his feet, begged her to stop.

‘Thwack’

She had made him bend again, ignoring his pleas, and a second stroke to naked flesh had left his mark.

‘Thwack’

The boy held onto his ankles as the third stroke bit into him.

‘Thwack’

Could he stand so much pain? The fourth stroke, lower than the first three, gave its answer as the boy rose again and tearfully clutched his buttocks.

‘Thwack’

Underpants were now discarded at her command and, bent again, the boy absorbed the fifth stroke and screamed.

‘Thwack’

The sixth stroke cut high and hard and the new red weal to his bottom indicated an upping of the punishment. The boy screamed more loudly and rose again, begging to be let off any more.

‘Please, miss. No more. Please. I’m sorry.’

He clutched his bottom and pleaded for her to relent. It did him no good. All the woman said was ‘Strip. Completely. Everything.’

The boy sobbed and pleaded but did as he was told. His shirt and his socks followed his underpants and, totally naked, he looked at his aggressor. It was by now obvious that his arousal, his fourteen years and seven months erection, had long since departed. He bent over again and gripped his ankles as if his short life depended on it.

‘Thwack’

The seventh stroke now lashed into the buttocks of the completely naked boy.

‘Thwack’

Nicky Turner felt the eighth burn and sting to his buttocks and vowed he would never do anything wrong again.

‘Thwack.’

He held onto his ankles and cried out for the last three to be quick.

‘Thwack’

The tenth stroke cut across the centre of his buttocks with a pleasing sound. Tears he no longer felt he had continued to flow.

‘Thwack’

The penultimate stroke of the woman’s cane seared into his burning bottom and, still crying, he readied himself for the last.

‘Thwack’

It came, and when it did he looked at his limp boyhood and prayed there would be no more. There was not. For five minutes he was made to stand, still and naked, while she talked and inspected but the cane had done its all. His bottom throbbed and stung, his boyhood had shrunk to nothingness, and his tears had almost ceased. Eventually. All that remained was the woman and her eyes. She studied and examined every part of his body and being and told him he had been well and truly thrashed. He could get dressed. And saying it she kissed his tearful face and left the room.

Nicky Turner took over fifteen minutes to get dressed. For the first few minutes he merely stood in the sitting room, naked, rubbing his lacerated bottom and suppressing his tears. Then he picked up his discarded shirt and put it on and, gingerly, did the same with his underpants. The brevity of the pants did little to ease his discomfort. With recovering composure he put on his trousers, socks, shoes and tie and he was just about to pick up and put on his school jacket when the woman, the woman who had caned and saw all, came back into the room. She was holding a tray of tea and biscuits and her friendly demeanour conveyed nothing of what had recently past. All she said was ‘Sit down, Nicky, if you can, and have some tea.’ He smiled weakly and sat on her sofa. The softness of the material did little to ease the incessant throb in his bottom but he gratefully took the tea, and two biscuits, and pretended that the lingering pain was not really there. She picked up her own tea, smiled, and spoke. What she had to say made him realise that his ordeal was not yet over.

‘You must be sore.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘And it is a long journey back to your school.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘A long train journey. Sitting for so long is going to be very uncomfortable.’

‘Yes miss.’

‘Perhaps I can make it better, a little less uncomfortable.’

‘Sorry miss?’

The woman smiled.

‘Make it easier for you to sit, Nicky. On your journey.’

‘How?’

‘How miss.’

‘Miss. Sorry. How miss?’

‘Drink your tea and I shall show you. I have some ointment I can apply to make you less uncomfortable.’

The boy blushed and nervously supped his tea. The woman laughed.

‘Do not worry, Nicky. You will have to take your trousers down again but this time, I assure you, it will not be unpleasant.’

Nicky Turner said nothing. Whatever the reason, taking down his trousers again for this formidable woman was not something he welcomed. The cane may be absent but the humiliation of such an action would remain.

‘Do not look so worried, Nicky. After all I have become very familiar with your bottom, as you must agree.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Then drink your tea and let us go to my bedroom. Everything is in place.’

Five minutes later Nicky Turner’s chubby and bare bottom once again beckoned feminine attentions. He could only pray that she had not forgotten the benign reason for his unveiling. She didn’t, and when he left and boarded his homeward train the memory of his caning vied with the strange pleasure of her long fingers oily massaging his naked and lacerated behind.

It was an equally strange telephone conversation. Any listeners would never understand the subtext of the exchanges but any listeners would have no knowledge of the actors in this private and secret and familiar scene.

‘Headmaster?’

‘Dr Parsons.’

‘I still can’t get used to that.’

‘Then you should. I trust it all went well?’

‘Of course. I am very good. I still think your boys prefer being caned to being massaged.’

‘It is what they are used to. I trust Nicky behaved himself?’

‘Of course not. I had to give him extras.’

‘Oh?’

‘Only four. But two on his hands.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Another boy soon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Next Friday?’

‘Of course.’

‘I look forward to it.’

‘But will he?’

‘Probably not.’

‘And why is that?’

‘I am getting better with practice. And some targets are harder to miss.’

‘Unlike Nicky Turner?’

‘Unlike Nicky Turner.’

‘Then he will see you at three?’

‘Friday.’

‘Yes.’

‘And headmaster?’

‘Yes?’

‘Whoever he is, tell him he is going to get eighteen. Little Nicky has fired my enthusiasm.’

A week later another boy stood outside the door. His had been an equally long journey and the details of his letter were as precise as the one in the trembling hand of fourteen year old Nicky Turner. This boy had no need to read the letter; he knew why he was there. The woman came to the door and, taking his coat, led him into her sitting room. She went through the familiar procedures, listing his faults and his transgressions. Then she made him strip to only his school shirt and tie and his underpants. He turned away and bent over when instructed. She lifted the shirt and, as before, peeled down the underpants to the boy’s knees. The bottom was whiter and larger than the last boy but, as she ran her fingers over it, the woman registered the same smooth springiness that awaited her cane. Eighteen strokes she gave it and eighteen red weals and marks signalled a job well done. The tearful boy rose and, clutching his bottom, turned to face her. As with the other boys she had seen the rigid penis sticking out of the shirt. But this time, with this boy, it remained erect throughout the caning and still stood proud and erect when the last stroke fell. This time she did not comment or condemn. This time she took it in her hand. This time she brushed it and touched it as gently as she brushed her fingers on all the boyish bottoms. And this time, with this boy, she allowed it to spill its desire.

It did not take long; this boy had been desperate for her cane and her touch since the moment he had sent Nicky Turner and his letter to her. Whenever he sent a boy to his obliging ‘Dr Parsons’ he could not wait to visit her and hear and relive the experience for himself. It added so much to their special relationship. As he downed a welcome gin and tonic in her sitting room he blessed the fact that he had met her. And he equally blessed the fact that he was headmaster of a school which contained any number of fourteen year old Nicky Turners. Friday afternoons at three o’clock would always have a special place in his heart.

Alfred Roy © (2009)