The Last Christmas Present (M/m)

Things have been a bit quiet here recently. Reckon you are all out doing late festive shopping. Not surprising but as it is that time of year, decided to post my only Christmas spanking story. Published some years ago it invokes a real Christmas spirit. A boy narrates the tale of how he and his friend Keith got an unusual present from Father Christmas. Whether or not a warm and bare bottom is on your wish list for Santa may I wish you all a Happy Xmas and a peaceful New Year. Alfred Roy

 

I like Christmas. I have always liked Christmas. I think it helps that it falls in December. There isn’t much goes on in our part of the world between Bonfire night and Pancake Day. If it wasn’t for Christmas the winter would be very dull. It must be very frustrating for those whose Christmas falls on a burning summer’s day. If I was them I would move it. You need Christmas in winter to really appreciate it. Or that is what I think. I thought so when I was six, even though I did not then appreciate that some people had hot winters. And I still think so even more now I am much older. In hot winters the snow soon melts. And where I live snow and Christmas go together.

I love the snow. Waking up on a cold morning and seeing everywhere covered in white is magical. You go to bed to a dull and dark world and rise to a blanket of white. It’s always a blanket. They repeat it endlessly on the wireless. The whole of the north was covered by a blanket of snow. If you are lucky you get lots of it for a long time. And if you are really lucky you get it at Christmas, instead of two weeks before or a month after. We always get it at Christmas, or thereabouts. And me and my friend Keith have amazing fun tobogganing and throwing snowballs. When we were younger we used to make a snowman or roll a big ball of snow down a steep hill until it hit a tree and smashed. But throwing snow balls at passing folks or young kids is much more fun.

Or it was until this Christmas. Sitting here writing this reminds me that this Christmas was different. This Christmas I met Santa Claus, the real Santa Claus, and discovered that even in a northern blanket of snow you can get very hot. Keith didn’t think he was the real Santa Claus or, if he was, he was a long way from home. But he was certainly a Santa Claus and this Christmas he gave me and Keith a present we will remember for a very long time. And as Keith said as we left his cottage ‘That’s one Christmas present that will never come wrapped in paper.’

The events I am going to tell you about happened yesterday, four days before Christmas Eve. But it all started the day before. The day that Keith and me woke up in different parts of the village and, looking out of our bedroom windows, saw that blanket of snow. We couldn’t wait to get to it. Within half an hour we were meeting up at the edge of the local wood. Within an hour we were exhausted with endless tobogganing rides. And within two hours, getting bored, we were looking for other interesting things to do. It is a fact of life that some folks are at their most dangerous when bored. And Keith and me definitely fell into that category. My mum reckons he is a bad influence on me and his mother thinks the same. Or rather she thinks that I am a bad influence on him. It never occurred to either of them that we are both as bad as each other. If Keith has an evil thought, I am rarely more than half a second behind.

At the edge of our village there is a playground, where the young kids play, and beyond that a narrow road which runs for about a mile to the next village. In the old days it was used by the packhorses to transport goods. I know this because we did a project at school and the road is known locally as Packhorse Lane. The only building along Packhorse Lane, about half a mile down, is a run-down cottage. No one has lived in it for years. Most of the windows are broken, me and Keith did some of that, the roof is falling off and the rooms are bare and dusty. It has cobwebs on its cobwebs. It’s officially called Aaron’s Cottage for some reason but no one knows who Aaron is or was. But locally it’s known as Christmas Cottage. Don’t ask me why. I reckon some local wag christened it that, and it seems to have stuck. But whatever it is called we only go near it in the daytime. I have never known anyone to go near it at night. Until yesterday.

 

The day before, getting bored with sliding down the hills, we had taken up a good position overlooking the playground and started taking pot shots at some of the younger kids. The braver ones rolled their own snowballs and lobbed a few back. But even if their aim was straight they couldn’t reach us. We were well out of range of their small arms. And eventually we bagged all the ones who hadn’t run away. We reckoned we could clear the playground in ten minutes, five if we pressed our snowballs to make them icy. Keith said it made for a faster and straighter throw. This one-sided game usually stopped when some interfering adult came along shaking a stick or a brolly at us. We would giggle and run off, but not before we had landed two or three good hits. The day before yesterday was different. Well not exactly different. In most respects it was the same. We threw the snowballs. An adult came out. We ran away. In that respect it was the same. But the difference was that this adult didn’t shake a stick or a brolly. He just stood there looking at us. And this is true; I swear this is true, every snowball we threw at him melted.

Keith said this first. We had run off into the woods and didn’t stop until we reached the edge of the brook that runs through it. I say it’s a brook. It’s dry most of the time, even in winter. We sat on a large tree stump near its edge and got our breath back. And when we got our breath back, Keith said that his snowballs had melted. I couldn’t argue with him. I saw it with my own eyes. He’d thrown one which seemed to disappear just before it hit this man, and mine had done the same. We’d both thrown another, not believing our eyes, and then, very gently, a third. We had thrown our third shots much higher and slower, almost as an experiment. They both did the same. They moved through the air towards the man and then they were gone. Exploded. A puff of snow and they disappeared. Always about a foot in front of him. And after our third nervous throws, we ran.

We were both pretty quiet for the rest of the day. We put it down to a trick of the light, but we didn’t convince ourselves. That man had stopped our snowballs. No one had done that before. And who was he? Keith said he had never seen him before in the village and I certainly hadn’t. He was very old or looked as if he was from where we were standing. He was wearing a raggedy old coat and looked a bit like a tramp. And he was covered in dirty grey hair. We both decided he must be a magician. A retired magician down on his luck. And having decided that, we went back into the village to look for him. But we couldn’t find him. Like the snowballs he had disappeared. And we didn’t see him again until yesterday afternoon.

We had been wandering about for most of the day. The snow was still thick but we didn’t feel like throwing snowballs. We had helped Keith’s mum clear the snow from her path. It made a good slide until she put salt on it. And in the afternoon we had been messing about by the bridge in Packhorse Lane, the one that runs over the brook. We weren’t doing anything really, just amusing ourselves. Shaking the snow off the trees was fun and piddling in the snow, trying to write our names, even better. About half past three we started to walk back home. Christmas Cottage is set back from the lane, about a hundred yards from the brook and we wanted to get by it before it got dark. We were about twenty yards from it when he came out of the door. The man. The old man who had melted our snowballs. Or vapourised them as Keith kept saying. He vapourised them he said. For some reason it made us giggle. But we didn’t laugh now, when we saw him come out the cottage door and head off towards the village. We stepped off the lane, behind a bush, and kept perfectly still until he was out of sight.

We didn’t speak for a couple of minutes and then we both had the same idea. That man must be staying in the cottage, probably sheltering for a day or two. We were having a cold snap as my mum kept saying. This cold snap is in for at least a week. So perhaps the old man was looking for somewhere to keep warm. It wasn’t dark yet so a quick peep in the cottage would be a bit of fun. Keith wasn’t keen but I egged him on. He kept saying that the man might be a murderer or worse. He might eat us. But all the while he was saying it he was moving towards the door of the cottage. Like me he was scared and excited. We had never been in it. We had thrown stones at its windows and the crumbling chimney. And we once spent an afternoon trying to land bricks through the large hole in the roof. But we had never been in. And now we did. We quietly lifted the rusty latch on the door and pushed it open. And then we nervously stepped inside. And when we did, we stood there gob smacked.

I tell you, you needed to be there to really understand. No wonder they called it Christmas Cottage. There was a blazing log fire in the grate and lighted candles all round the large room. And the warmth hit you. That’s what we noticed first. Outside it was beginning to freeze again and inside it was like an oven. What I didn’t understand, and still don’t, is how we didn’t notice from the outside. Outside the cottage looked bleak and cold and hostile. But there inside it was like my mum’s Christmas cards. A big decorated tree stood in the corner and lots of wrapped presents sat invitingly under it. There was a big white rug in front of the fire, two cosy chairs, and a long table full of Christmas food. On all the walls there were holly wreaths and paper decorations, and from the ceiling hung the most fantastic red and silver chandelier. And looking up in awe, and Keith noticed this first, there was no hole in the roof. I could swear that I saw that hole before we came in, but in the room the ceiling was clean, crisp and complete. We were in a room which celebrated Christmas. And while we taking all this in, trying to fit this wonderful room into the bleak outside, the door swung open and the man came in.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at us and shut the door. Then he crossed over to the fire and warmed himself. He was bigger than he seemed when we threw the snowballs. And close up his beard and hair looked more white than dirty grey and, in front of the fire, his raggedy coat had a hint of fading red. He took off his large leather boots and sat down by the fire. He pulled out an old and twisted wooden pipe from his pocket, lit it, and told us to help ourselves to any of the food we fancied and sit down. We were both feeling a bit nervous and neither of us had said anything. Keith backed himself up to the door and tried to open it. The first surprise was that the door would not open. It was not locked because look as you might you would not find a lock. But it would not open. And the second surprise was that the man told Keith that, and in telling him, used his name. He told him that he and his friend, meaning me, were there until he decided to let us go. And then he used my name. He told me to help myself to some food and sit down. He had to tell us twice before we moved. We were amazed and scared. Keith helped himself to some chicken legs and roasted spuds and I had ham, pickles, and crisps. There was enough to feed the village. And we sat down on the rug and slowly ate our food. And all the while the man sat in the chair, watching us, and puffing on his pipe.

Now I need to get what followed in some sort of sensible order. Keith reckons that I am much better than him at writing but I do sometimes run away with myself. And the order of this event is very important. So I am going to use some dialogue. We hadn’t said much while we were eating and, to be honest, being nervous we did not eat much. Keith asked him why he had locked us in and I asked him who he was. And we both asked him how he had managed to make the cottage so nice and how he knew our names. We didn’t ask him if he was going to eat us. Or even worse. And we didn’t ask him, although we wanted to, why we couldn’t see the hole in the roof or the lights from the outside. But he didn’t answer any of our questions, spoken or unspoken. He just smoked his pipe and studied us. But eventually he tapped his pipe out on the fire and put it back in his pocket. And he got ready to speak. I knew he was getting ready to say something because he had that look in his eye that our vicar has when he is going to say something important. And this is where I need to use dialogue. It is very important. To the best of my knowledge the conversation between the three of us, not that Keith did much talking, went as follows.

‘I suppose by now you have guessed who I am?’

That’s the man speaking.

‘A Magician?’

That’s Keith speaking.

‘No.’ The man laughed.

‘A Tramp?’

That’s me speaking.

‘No.’ The man laughed again. ‘But in a way you are both right.’

We looked at each other wondering what we were expected to say.

‘I am both a tramp and a magician. But I am more than that.’ His eyes gleamed and caught the light of the flickering fire. ‘I am Father Christmas.’

Keith and me giggled nervously.

‘Or, at least, I am your Father Christmas. I have a present for you both. A special present. A very special present for boys who throw icy snowballs at young children and old men.’

He paused, waiting for a reaction and when none came he rose and, crossing to the tree in the corner, picked up a large red sack and placed it at our feet.

‘You first Keith. Open it. Take out what is inside.’

Keith looked at the sack and, pushing it away, got to his feet and ran to the door.

‘It won’t open. It won’t open until I am ready. And it would be useless banging on it. No one can hear. So you may as well come back Keith and get your present.’

‘Please let me go home.’

That’s Keith speaking again. He was almost sniffling by now. I just sat there, my heart thumping and desperate for a pee.

‘You can go home. After you have had your present. Now open the sack.’

Keith looked very frightened.

‘Go on Keith. Open the sack. Then we can go home.’

That’s me again, convincing no one, least of all myself.

Keith put his hand in the sack and pulled out the item inside. It wasn’t wrapped and it wasn’t any Christmas present I had ever seen. Or if I did, there were usually two of them.

‘Do you know what it is?’

The man, this Father Christmas, was looking intently at Keith.

Keith didn’t say anything. He just went very pale and stared. In that order.

‘It’s a slipper.’

That’s me again.

‘Yes. A slipper. A large black leather slipper.’

He took it out of Keith’s hand.

‘Do you know what it is for?’

I knew. And Keith knew. We both knew. We knew because we had it at school. But he wasn’t saying and neither was I. We were both beginning to feel uncomfortable.

‘No. No.’

That’s both of us.

‘Really?’

The old man smiled.

‘I think you do. It is made especially for naughty boys. Boys who throw snowballs at young children and old folks. Snowballs packed like ice.’

Keith didn’t say anything. Like me he couldn’t take his eyes off the large shiny black slipper in the old man’s hand. And like me he was hoping that if he played dumb events wouldn’t turn out as we were both fearing. Adults and single slippers usually meant only one thing. Keep quiet and the danger might pass. But the danger was in that room, and it didn’t pass.

The old man held the slipper tightly by the heel, tapped it against the palm of his left hand and spoke again. Quietly, in that warm and silent room, his words caused a frightening shiver.

 ‘Remove your jacket Keith, take down your trousers, and come here over my lap. This Christmas present has come a long way for you, and is long overdue.’

And with that the man sat upright in his chair, patted his large knees, and beckoned Keith to him.

 ‘Do I have to?’

That’s Keith talking again, or mumbling really. If I wasn’t holding my breath I wouldn’t have heard him.

‘I don’t think you have any choice.’

As the old man said this he pulled Keith towards him and started to unbutton his trousers.

 

I don’t need dialogue anymore. Little else was said over the next ten or fifteen minutes. In that moment we both knew why we were there and what was going to happen before we left. Keith sniffles grew louder and my need for a pee grew stronger. I stood and watched, open mouthed, as Keith at first protested and then took off his coat. He slowly undid the rest of the buttons on his trousers and pushed them down to his feet. He shuffled over to the man and, when instructed, lifted up his shirt and jumper. He was wearing a pair of white underpants. I couldn’t help thinking how snugly they fit him. His mum would be proud. The man took Keith by the arm and pulled him over his lap. I was struck at how big the man was and how small Keith looked bent over his knee. And then the man pulled Keith’s underpants down to his knees, revealing his bare bum. Somehow I expected this. Keith didn’t. He sniffled even more. I was gripped.  I had known Keith for years but this was the first time I had seen his bare bum. We were in different classes so had never been in the showers together. I was so gripped by what was happening it was almost as if I wasn’t part of it. I could just look and thrill. My pal Keith was going to get whacked on his bare bum and I was going to watch. And it was a nice bum. A very little and round bum. Two lovely little white cheeks and a very large black slipper was hovering over it waiting to whack down. That slipper could do a lot of damage to such a tiny bum. The old man held Keith round the waist and rested the slipper across the bare cheeks, almost covering them completely. It looked so big and capable of fearful damage. And it was. The first whack brought up a lovely red mark on Keith’s right bum cheek and the second whack did a similar job on his left cheek. And did Keith scream. And after half a dozen like that he was really wriggling and howling. And for the first time I saw his willy. Well, I had seen it before when we peed. But never like this, never fully in view. When the slipper whacked down on his bum and he twisted towards me I could see all of his willy and his balls. The whole lot. That excited me almost as much as seeing his bare bum get whacked. And did he get whacked. I reckon that slipper whacked Keith’s bum at least fifty times. I could have watched it for hours. I know I should have felt sorry for Keith, especially his howling, but that slipper slapping his bare bum was amazing.  By the time the man stopped, Keith was sobbing his heart out, his bum cheeks were a bright burning red, and I had seen all of his bits at least half a dozen times. I have never been so gripped by anything. The old man let him up and Keith hopped round the room rubbing his bum for all he was worth. He was sobbing his heart out and made no attempt to get dressed. All he was doing was rubbing and rubbing his bare bum and showing me his willy. In such a daze it is hardly surprising that I almost missed the subtle change as a beckoning finger summoned me to take his place.

Now I have never been whacked on the bare bum before. And I have certainly never seen anyone else getting whacked with their trousers and pants down. I had been slippered at school but always on my shorts. And I had seen my mates get whacked occasionally. But nothing like this. Nothing anywhere near fifty whacks on the bare bum. And seeing Keith get them had made me breathless and flushed. Keith’s bare bum, that big leather slipper, the cries and screams. The red marks on the white skin. My head was swimming. When that finger beckoned I was in a trance. I was scared. My stomach was churning. I knew I was going to be hurt and hurt big. My bum was going to sting. But as I took off my coat and slowly walked towards the old man in the chair I felt the surge of a strange thrill. My trousers and pants were coming down and I was going to get the whacking of my life on my bare bum. And I couldn’t wait. And by now Keith had quietened down and had pulled up his pants. And he was sitting on the floor waiting for me to get my turn. And he looked almost as flushed and breathless as me. And his eyes were gleaming. I don’t think anything was moving in that room when I started to unbutton my trousers.

 

I was standing so close to the old man that I could hear his breathing and smell the pipe smoke. The way he was looking at me I swear he sensed that, for all my nervousness, I was more ready than Keith. Perhaps it was the slow and deliberate way I undid the buttons on my trousers. Perhaps it was the defiant way I was looking at him. Or perhaps it was the fact that, having pushed my trousers to my ankles, I pushed down my underpants to the same place and lifted my shirt and jumper. Without saying anything I both told and showed him I was ready. I stood there, my hands holding the lifted clothes under my armpits, amazed, excited, and fearful. All in one combined emotion I was enjoying my exposure. And, Keith forgotten, it was me and the old man.

One second he was looking at me, assessing the situation, the next second he had put his right hand on the back of my neck and guided me to his lap. I was pushed down and felt an arm go round my naked waist. I could see the fire and the carpet and the boots he had discarded. Looking down I could see his stockinged feet. And if I turned my head to the right I could see Keith sitting there, silently waiting. And I could feel my small body pressed into his rough clothes. I could feel the shirt and jumper riding up my back and I could feel the pants around my ankles. And I could feel my nakedness. My willy pressing against his clothes and my bare bum, up in the air, meeting the cold tap of that wicked slipper. I could feel and see it all. I was ready. Or I thought I was.

And then the first whack of his slipper hit my right cheek, quickly followed by a second to my left cheek. The sting was amazing. It raced up my body to my brain and danced around my head. I let out a howl. And then he did it again. And again. I am sure Keith gasped. I know I howled. And I twisted and turned. Just as Keith had done. I forgot everything except the pain and sting that was attacking my bum. The more I wriggled the more tightly the old man held on to me. And he whacked even harder. Every bit of my bum burned as each stinging slap found its mark. I screamed, I begged him to stop, I promised to be good, I did everything I could to avoid the next whack. But it did no good. That sharp and shiny slipper found every tiny bit of my bum. It was relentless. I thought I would die. And if Keith had shown me his bits half a dozen times when he got whacked I reckon I showed him mine twenty times. I could not stop squirming and twisting. For a few minutes the only bit of me that existed was my bum, my bare upturned bum, and the savage attacks on it. My mind and bum were as one and the burning fire in both made me cry as I had never done before. And then, with one final searing slap, he stopped.

I reckon I lay over his lap for a good five minutes before he made me get up. All I could feel was this throbbing in my bum and I kept rubbing it to ease the pain. He lifted me off his lap and, unlike Keith, I pulled up my pants straight away and rubbed my eyes and then my bum again. It was so sore I didn’t think I would ever sit down again. And I kept rubbing it, through my trousers, and Keith got up and put his hand round my shoulders, which was nice.

I don’t remember much after that, at least not until we had left the cottage. I remember that bit. We took our trousers down and put our bare bums in the snow. We were so hot down there we could have melted all the snow in the village. As we sat in the snow we wiped our remaining tears and giggled and agreed that we had both had a whacking and a half. Keith showed me his bum and it was bright red with blue round the edges. And then I showed him mine which must have been the same. And as I pulled up my pants I felt my cheeks again. In spite of the snow they were still burning hot. But I don’t remember much else before we left the cottage. My throbbing bum made everything a blur. The old man gave us a hot drink and I think he said something about paying our debt. And he also said something about coming back next Christmas if he needed to. But we just wanted to get away and didn’t hear much. And this time when Keith went to the door it opened. We were half way back to the village when Keith asked me what the time was. I looked at my watch. It said half past three which was why it was still light. But it was half past three when we left the Packhorse Bridge. We must have been in that cottage for at least half an hour, maybe more. But according to my watch and the light we hadn’t been there at all.

 

I wrote all this last night and showed it to Keith this morning. We had both checked our bums and they were still very red so we must have got whacked. All Keith said was he knew what he knew and in spite of too many mentions of bums, my story was accurate. He also said it was graphic and this led to much talk of ‘graphic bare bums’ and got us giggling again. He hadn’t told his mum and I hadn’t told mine. Before we split the day before we agreed that this was something we kept to ourselves. There is no right way of telling your mum that you have been whacked on the bare bum by a man who tells you he is Father Christmas. And that got us thinking again. Who was he? He could melt snowballs, magically mend roofs and lock doors, and make time stand still. And he knew our names. Well the last bit could be easily explained but the rest took some swallowing.

I don’t know which of us thought of it first, probably Keith because if I am the writer he is the thinker, but we decided to go back to the cottage. Remembering what had happened yesterday between half past three and whenever we didn’t skip there. We had no wish for a repeat dose. But something drew us back to the cottage in Packhorse Lane at eleven thirty this morning. Something made us go back. And when we got there we waited for at least an hour to see if anyone went in or came out. But no one did, and looking at the cottage you could not imagine what took place or the room it took place in. The cottage looked its usual mess from the outside but, as Keith pointed out, it looked like that yesterday. The broken windows, the holes in the roof, the dust and dirt. No one had lived here for years. We pushed open the door. We did it together because neither of us wanted to be first. And we stepped into the cottage. Into the room where, surrounded by the joys of Christmas, we had been whacked with a slipper on our bare bums.

When I am older I shall be a writer. A proper writer. And I shall avoid anti-climax. I shall build up my story and then add surprise after surprise. You will be exhausted by it. If this was a story I would create a new twist. The cottage would have become a space ship and we would be rocketed to some planet, miles away. Or it would be a machine which took us backwards or forwards in time. Keith said that’s already been done. Or the old man would be there and he would reveal himself as the supreme master of the human race, bent on destroying all the universal powers. Keith said, if that was the case, he would hardly waste his time whacking bums. He would get his minions to do it. And that started him off again and we got fourteen different versions of the word ‘minions.’ I think he wants to be an actor. But we didn’t get spaceships, or time machines, or supreme beings. We didn’t even get an old man with a grubby beard and a raggedy coat. All we got was the old cottage. Aaron’s Cottage. Christmas Cottage. In all its dust and silence. Dust that had been there for years. Dust, and cobwebs, which had not been disturbed for a long time. Talk about an anti-climax.

I am in need of dialogue again.

‘Where’s all the Christmas decorations?’

That’s Keith speaking.

‘Where’s the food, the fire, everything?’

‘It’s all gone’

That’s me speaking.

‘Then it was magic. Real magic. An illusion’

‘My sore bum aint an illusion’

That’s me again.

‘An illlusion. A graphic illusion. A graphic illusion’

Keith started getting silly again and danced round the room pulling at the cobwebs.

‘It was all a graphic illusion’

‘It was all very real Keith. I just don’t understand it.’

‘Perhaps he was Father Christmas. Perhaps he was telling the truth.’

‘We don’t believe in Father Christmas.’

‘Only his slipper.’

‘We should go. One day we will understand.’

I said that and I was sure of the first bit but not convinced by the second. Keith was comically rubbing his bum as he again danced round the room saying ‘only his slipper’ in a silly voice.

‘You weren’t so brave yesterday.’

I said that bit with annoyance at his silly antics and was just about to leave when I noticed something in the corner of the room. I don’t know what it was about it, all I can say is that it looked odd. It was a sack and it was old and grey and dusty. But when I looked closer the grey took on the light colour of a faded red. It reminded me of the sack that had stood in the corner of this room yesterday. It was the only thing in that room from yesterday. It even sat in the same way. I went over to it and opened it. I had no idea what I would find. I didn’t even know if I would find anything. As I told Keith when we were going home, I was just drawn to it. I opened it and put my hand inside. There were two things inside it. The first was a letter. I say it was a letter. It was just a sheet of paper with scrawly writing on it. The paper was old and thin and the writing was tiny. But it was easy to read. And as I read it Keith leaned over my shoulder taking in the words with me. And this is what it said.

‘This is the last Christmas present I shall ever give you. You will soon be a man but, until then, if you have need of it, I shall not hesitate to use it. I have used it many times in the past and shall do so many times in the future. It is a good servant to me and a good master to those who fail to learn by other means. It teaches a sharp lesson and gains attention as no other method can. When you no longer have use of it you will have grown to the estate of man, and I shall have moved on to those more in need of its services’

It was addressed to Aaron and dated 1838. And it was signed ‘Father Christmas.’

Keith took the letter from me and read it again. As he did so I put my hand back in the sack and pulled out a large, very old, very faded, black leather slipper. We looked at each other and then placed the two items back in the sack.

We are never going back to that cottage again and, about half an hour ago, we made a solemn vow. The cold snap is coming to an end and this blanket of snow will soon be a memory. When it comes again, as it will in the north, just to be on the safe side we are sticking to tobogganing. That old man may or may not have been the real Father Christmas, Keith still isn’t sure, but he convinced me. And as I said to Keith as we left, if we didn’t get a magical slippering how come nobody heard our screams? Keith went very quiet. I sometimes think he can’t cope with my intelligence.

 

Alfred Roy (2009)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mistress Flowers and Master Field (F/m)

Just for a change I have started a story with a whacking. Rarely do, as I like to take my time before the pants come down. Pure fantasy, of course, but inspired by those moments when you meet someone and silently wish. If only they knew what really turned you on. Reckon it has happened to all of us with a CP bent. Such is life. Alfred Roy.

‘I shall write it down.’ he said.                                                                            

‘Please do.’ she said, ‘I shall be interested in reading it.’

He bent down again. For the third time. The tears were flowing now and any attempt at composure and stoicism had deserted. The pain, the burning and searing pain, were just too much. The constant throbbing in his small behind created a fire his mind could not ignore. Never had he been caned so hard. And never, so she had said, had it been more deserved. That is why his short trousers were around his ankles. That is why his small underpants made the same journey. When she lifted his shirt to the bending back, revealing a bottom pure and unsullied, she said he would now get what had so long been deserved. Twelve strokes of her cane across his naked behind. He had trembled, he had bit his lip, and he had stifled incipient tears. But he had obeyed. He agreed. He deserved to be caned. He thought so when he undid his buttons and pushed his trousers down towards his socks. He thought so when, shamefully, he put his small hands in the waistband of his underpants and nervously dragged them over his thighs. Baring his cheeks, baring all, baring everything so she could see. And he thought so when he bent down, gripped his ankles, and felt the lifting of his flimsy shirt. His shame and humiliation were complete. He even thought his caning was just and fair as an angry first stroke cut into his naked flesh, expelling his breath and leaving a savage mark. But the pain was too much and after the second stroke he rose, clutching his cheeks, and begged forgiveness. None came forth, none would, and he bent again, tears welling, offering a bottom rich red in painful spasms. He felt the shirt being lifted a second time, he felt again cool air from her study window on his tender skin, and he told her he was sorry. Sorry as he bent, sorry as shirt rose and revealed. And he told her twice more he was sorry. As the third stroke struck and he gripped his ankles ever tighter he said it, and he said it again when the fourth stroke, hard and true, forced him to rise again. He looked at her, pleaded, hid none of his boyish shame, begged to be forgiven. Begged for relief to his bottom.

It would not be. She tapped the cane against her thigh and bid him to bend again. Twelve strokes she had said, twelve strokes of her cane to where it would do most good. It was well deserved, they both knew. He would thank her when it was done. Perhaps later, much later, but he would thank her. He cried, louder than he had ever cried before, and begged again. But he knew it was to no avail. The erect composure, the stern eyes, the twitching cane, all spelt out a resolve well stiffened. This boy, this deserving boy, was going to be caned the promised twelve times. She would not stop until her weapon of choice had done its work. She had told them that many times, warned them, threatened them. And now it was happening. Twelve strokes of the cane across the bare bottom of the one who was caught. Threatened, promised, started. And he was now due the fifth of that allotted twelve. He resigned himself to his fate and bent again, tears streaming down his cheeks. Please, he said to himself, please make me bear it. Four strokes of her cane had been suffered, only eight more to go. And he did deserve it. From the time she said it would happen to the moment he lowered his pants he knew she would not be denied. He clutched his ankles again and thought, fleetingly, it was all so different from the day that they had first met. The day he had been captivated by her gentle charm and stunning smile. His young heart had skipped a thousand beats. It all seemed so long ago. He had thought so as he loosed his trouser buttons. He had thought so as he slipped down his underpants and exposed all he had to her stoic gaze. And he had thought so as she lifted his shirt and not for the first time, or so he thought, she saw his bare bottom. And he still thought so now as the cane lashed across that bottom, bent and bare and beckoning, for the fifth time.

He was in the last term of his last year at his middle school. Next term he would be with the big boys. In long trousers. But for now, for a few months more, he was Master Field. Master Field of the junior school. In short trousers. He so longed to grow up. And never more than when he met Mistress Flowers. Tall, athletic, temporary gym mistress. Mistress to eleven year old boys on cross country runs and frantic team games. She trained them hard but she trained with fun. Exhausted, happy, and sweaty, they ended cold spring days and warm summer evenings with welcoming communal showers. She walked amongst them oblivious to their nakedness, or seemingly so. Some giggled at first, some covered up in shame, but all, eventually got used to her presence. And they all dutifully left when dismissed. Mistress Field took her own private shower and all, giggling boys or shamefaced boys, painted their own imaginary pictures. But all obeyed, willingly or not. I have a cane, she had said, much bigger than any bottom here. Invade my privacy and you will feel it. No exceptions. And it will be twelve. With pants down. All giggled again, or blushed, or both. But all remembered and all dressed and left. Until one day, one fateful day, Master Field, for a dare, went back. Two other boys had already done so on other days, on other dares, and escaped intact. They had heard the cascading water, they had seen her naked, or so they had said. They had seen Mistress Flowers in the buff and had survived. It became a private badge of honour, eagerly to be earned. Now it was Master Field’s turn. Unless he was a chicken, a scaredy cat. Master Field gulped. The prospect excited and terrified. The prize was to be relished, the consequences feared. If caught. But they, the taunters, had escaped. It was easy they said, she won’t see you. Just open the door and take a look. So that is what Master Field did. And if that is all that he had done, opened the door and taken a look, he might be a third boy urging a fourth or fifth boy to earn the special badge. If all he had done was listen to the cascading water and sneaked a furtive glance he would not be bending down having his bare bottom severely caned. But Master Field, unlike the other boys who dared, was transfixed. He did not, could not, run. He could only stare.

The door had opened easily. He had waited until he heard the sounds of welcoming water. Welcoming for the picture they created in his young and feverish mind. Welcoming for their suggestion of safety. Mistress Flowers was taking her shower. Naked, like them. Or so he assumed. He pushed open the door to the communal shower and changing room and tentatively stepped inside. Or half stepped in. They had only been dismissed ten minutes before, a long cross country run, and they all knew Mistress Flowers showered as soon as they were gone. She must be showering now, he thought. It was a large lockered room, square and bleak with benches, and the stoned communal shower area was to the left. It was hidden from the door by a half tiled jutting wall. If you were in the shower you could not see anyone enter. Safety, Master Field thought. But you could not see. So he stepped beyond the wall and peered into the shower room, praying she was not standing there and facing him. This was the biggest risk, this was the dare. She wasn’t. But equally, disappointingly, she could not be seen. She was in the shower. He could hear her singing, he could see her discarded clothes on a bench, but he could not see her. None of them could have. She was hidden behind the central block of marble tiles which offered some modesty. He felt cheated. They had lied, the taunting boys. Mistress Flowers may be showering but none had seen. And then she moved. As he stood there she moved to a cascading shower head in the right hand corner. He gasped. Silently. He saw her in all her naked glory. Long and lithe and with a back and bottom and legs as smooth as pure silk. It was a vision he would never forget. If he had feasted on it and run he would have won his dare. With no consequences. And his re-telling of the tale would not be a lie. Unlike theirs. But he did not run. He stood there, transfixed, drinking in all her innocent nakedness. And then she turned. Unexpectedly. And when he, Master Field, finally decided to run, she, Mistress Flowers, issued a commanding ‘wait.’ He froze on the spot and for a few seconds, it seemed like a lifetime, they just looked at each other.

She had made him stand there while she dried herself and pulled on her tracksuit. Saying nothing. And then she locked the door. He registered the key for the first time. She had not locked it before she showered. Had she wanted to catch a boy? He did not know, did not even think like this. He was sweating and shaking. And afraid. She towered over him, her wet hair glistening and her eyes full of reproach. Why are you here, she had said. He did not know but he thought it a stupid question. It was a dare he said. A dare with consequences, she said. I did warn you, I warned you all. You will report to my study this afternoon, Master Field. Five o’clock. And then I shall have sight of your bottom as you have had sight of mine. But for you there will be no pleasure this time. I promised twelve strokes of my cane and twelve strokes it will be. I suggest you go and tell your friends. She unlocked the door and, tearfully, he left. It was three o’clock. He had two hours to fill. His school friends would be eager for his tale. And his would not be a lie. He had seen her naked. But that flimsy triumph, badge or no badge, was tinged with savage consequences. His was a painful victory. Or soon would be.

He had, clumsily, undone the buttons of his trousers. He had nervously pushed his pants down to his ankles and quickly, or was it slowly, done the same with his underpants. He stood in his shirt, nether garments at his feet, and looked tearfully at his tormentor. Lift your shirt she had said, front and back. You saw all of me, I wish for the same. He did so, trembling. His small hands held the front of his shirt and he was conscious, as never before, that she could see every private part of him. A nice bottom, she said, if somewhat small for such a large cane. But I did warn you Master Field. Now bend over. Twelve strokes, and they all will hurt. He cried as he bent down and grasped his ankles. He cried as she lifted his shirt, pushing it almost to his neck. And he screamed when she landed the first stroke and raised the first red weal across his marble skin. He rose after two, and again after another two, and begged for forgiveness. A forlorn hope. He bent again and the fifth stroke landed across his naked cheeks with a message about being deserved, and the sixth stroke quickly followed. These are the consequences, Master Field, you were warned. She looked at his bottom. Such a harsh punishment for such a small boy. Six livid weals were crisscrossed against his pale white flesh. The small cheeks of his buttocks were taking a severe beating. No wonder he twitched and squirmed. But he had not risen again. She almost relented but thought back to her promise. Her showering. And so she whacked her cane across his jutting bottom, his small quivering bottom, another six times. Six more times she whacked him and six more times Master Field cried. And when he stood up, rubbing vigorously, she considered it a job well done. Dares have consequences and, as she studied the boy’s lacerated cheeks for the last time, Mistress Flowers considered this caning was well deserved.

 

 

'Did it ever happen?'

'No. I got caned at school in the changing room once. On the bare bottom. But never like that.'

'But you wish you had?'

'I do now. Since I met you.'

Celia Flowers laughed.

'I shall have to see what I can do.'

It was a gentle laugh full of enticing promise.

Andrew Field called the waiter over and reflected, as he poured more wine, that this just might be the best evening of his life.

 

Alfred Roy (2013)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The First Time (M/M-autobiographical)

I reckon it took me about fifteen years to work out my kink. From bending down for a schoolmaster to bending down for pleasure, however obliquely, took me through all my teens and most of my twenties. I knew the scenario of having my bottom whacked appealed. School memories were seared on my fertile brain almost as much as the marks that had regularly registered on my young backside. That age of classroom discipline inevitably set me on a course that even the swinging sixties could not deny. But it took a long time. I was approaching thirty before I, finally, took the initial plunge into a world of CP pleasure. The urge had nagged at me for a long time. Articles in newspapers and magazines that referred to someone getting a caning or a spanking produced the inevitable, hormone induced, reaction. They turned me on. I couldn’t talk about it but I couldn’t ignore it. I wanted that recreation of schoolboy events. I wanted a dominant male, preferably schoolmasterish, to cane my bottom. And I wanted him, whoever he was, to take down my trousers and underpants and give it me on my bare backside. Pure fantasy of course. It could never happen. Until one day, in Gay News, I saw an advert which suggested possibilities.

An organisation calling itself Icebreakers, still going apparently but in a different form, offered help and support to men having difficulty with their sexuality. I thought mine was as rare as hen’s teeth but a nice young man soon put me right on that. I would be amazed, he said disarmingly, at how many men have the same urges. I was not unique and I wasn’t abnormal. The organisation didn’t just offer advice. In those non internet days they offered practical and desperately desired solutions. In an age devoid of mouse clicking for instant gratification such help was eagerly welcomed. In short, the nice young man arranged an introduction to a likeminded older gentleman. My telephone conversation had taken little more than ten minutes and, at its end, I had a contact number for a man who was willing to fulfil what I urgently wanted. A man, somewhere in London, who was willing to cane my bottom. Clothed and bare. After a fifteen year wait, a wait filling with increasing desire and frustration, my constant fantasy would be realised. I almost fainted.

All this took place nearly forty years ago and that older gentleman who re-introduced me to corporal punishment, and augmented its pleasures, has long since passed on. But over the years until his death we became firm friends and even though CP rarely figured in later years he took great delight in reminding me, and others, on how we first met. A trembling twenty something boy who turned up at my flat, one day, to be caned. And how he howled. That is how he put it and, as I blushed, he would release a throaty and infectious laugh. I joined in but without his enthusiasm. It was a private memory and it was reflected in the twinkle of his ageing eyes. He knew I had not forgotten it. And I never would.

I rang the door of his spacious and expensive flat in a state of high agitation. The flat was in an upmarket location of London that was alien to my humble beginnings. Nervousness was twofold. Where I was and what I was there for. That agitation jumped to another level when, having pressed the intercom, a rich and fruity voice bid me to come in. Come in boy, it said, you are late. I wasn’t, or only by a couple of minutes, but it set the tone for what was to follow. As I walked up the carpeted stairs, this block of flats was definitely top drawer, I remember thinking that I must be mad. I hadn’t been caned for nearly fifteen years and yet here I was for its overdue recreation. From a stranger. And if he didn’t take my pants down at some stage I knew I would be disappointed. It was a highly sweating twenty something going on thirty who entered his open door.

I needn’t have worried. He was everything I had hoped. Stern but friendly. He both put me at my ease and increased my agitation. I was in safe hands, even if my bottom wasn’t. He made that clear. Change into shorts and top, he said, no underpants. I shall deal with you straight away and then we can chat. Over tea. I said little. I was both scared and excited. Especially when he said that he intended to give me a proper caning. No point in pussyfooting he said. Best to find out if you are really into it. You have waited long enough. Six on shorts, six bare. I suggest you get ready. Then he left the room. I had brought shorts and a top with me. Both pure white, I had a fixation with white in those days. The shorts were fairly thick but small and tight. They enhanced my bottom in a pleasing fashion. It had taken me ages to get the right pair, especially bought for this occasion. I was trembling as I changed. I was going to be caned. First time in fifteen years. A hard caning, and the second six would be on my bare backside. I feared I would not be able to take it, that I would disgrace myself. But I so desperately wanted it. I wanted what this upper class gentleman of fifty odd years was willing to do.

He had a genuine black leather horse. An indication that he was a serious player at corporal punishment. This seemed to help. I was in the hands of a professional. Or that is what I told myself as I bent over it. He had come back and the cane in his hand was worthy of all my fantasies. Long and thick and gleaming brown. Genuine public school cane, he said, and smiled. It’ll sting more than those they used on you grammar school boys. Nice bottom, he said when I bent over and gripped the end of the leather horse, even if those shorts are a little thick. I closed my eyes. This was it. I was bending over with my bottom in the air and finally, after fifteen years of waiting, a cane was going to hit it. In reality. Not fantasy. My schoolboy experiences would, at last, be relived. And they were. Excruciatingly. The pain was enormous from the first stroke. I gasped. Was this what it was like at school? Could I take two or three, let alone six? Did I want this agonising burning in my bum?  I did, gripping even harder that horse as each stroke lashed across my bottom cheeks. All six of them. The fire spread through my backside and tears welled in my eyes but I took them all. And after the final stinging pain, I relaxed. I had survived. I had not cried off. I had been caned on my bottom, as at school, and the familiar warming and pleasing throb told me it had all been worthwhile. I was fifteen again. Fifteen years old with a smarting behind. That is what it seemed. But this was different from school; this was a willing boy and a man desirous of inflicting pain. To nature’s natural part. And now those shorts came down. And off. Legs and bottom and private parts, all exposed and vulnerable. This man meant business.

The joy at having nether clothes removed for bare bottom discipline cannot be explained to those who do not understand. The surge of electricity that envelops the whole being cannot be surpassed by any other experience. Exposure, humiliation, freedom, anticipation. All combine to make the naked cheeks twitch in fear and wanting. You are at your most submissive, all of you laid bare for your chastiser. It is a heavenly moment, enhanced if rough and manly hands explore your curves. It is fantasy writ large. In those minutes and seconds you desire to be nowhere else, to be in no other situation. Your twitching behind eagerly awaits the savage kiss of a fearful and vengeful rod. It is to be savoured. And if I screamed when his cane lashed into my bare flesh, I am sure I did, no amount of pain could deny that preliminary sensation. It is a pure and beautiful pause that is never expunged. Whatever the pain. And pain, searing, there was. The second six strokes of his cane scored my flesh and each registered a vicious sting that induced copious tears. As fire swiftly travelled from buttocks to brain I both prayed I would survive and knew I would. Each thwack to my naked backside produced a breathless gasp but each was painfully welcomed. I wanted it. I deserved it. That is what I told myself. And when the last stroke of the cane whacked across the centre of my cheeks, all had been delivered fairly rapidly, I jumped up and ran around the room. Clutching my behind in classic schoolboy style. But I had taken all my punishment. A few tears, a few gasps, and lots of vigorous rubbing. But I had earned my tea. Wearing only my top, I had no desire to cover myself, we sipped the promised tea and discussed my experience. Or at least he did. A continuous throbbing bottom spoke much more eloquently than me.

No future CP experience from that late gentleman ever reached the levels of that first caning. It couldn’t. When I bent over for the first time in his palatial flat I had not suffered corporal discipline for fifteen years. The mind was uncluttered and the bottom virgin pure on that momentous day. I was an old hand when he took my shorts down for an overdue repeat. But I shall always have good memories of that first time. Memories of underpants sticking to my skin on the long train journey home. Initial shock, followed by mesmerising fascination, when I inspected my lacerated bottom in a mirror. Twelve hard cane strokes on a virgin bottom, six in a bare state, does not leave a pretty sight. Nasty and livid purple weals across my behind, mixed with small traces of blood, told their own story. I vowed never to go back to him again. But within a week, as all gently healed, I knew that I would. The first time is always the best, or the worst, but it does not stop those of this ilk constantly trying to recreate it. It was when I bent over for that gentleman the second time, pants adrift and cane hovering, that I knew I was hooked. Forever.

 

 

 

The Headmaster's Dilemma (M/m)

Of all the CP scenarios I have been involved in, both in fact and fiction, a boy being caned on his bare behind by an authoritative male figure is the most stimulating. Perhaps because it happened to me when I was about twelve and for the next forty years I constantly tried to recreate it. These days it is mainly in stories that I nervously lower my pants for that exquisite sting. This one, written in 2010, is one of them. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

The Headmaster's Dilemma

The Headmaster read the appropriate minute again. He had read it three times, or it may have been four, and he almost knew its telling words by heart. He recalled the meeting when the matter of corporal punishment had been discussed some years before. He had been headmaster for only a few months at the time and a decision on a vexed subject was required. Society was changing, legislation was, if not imminent, on the political agenda and lines were being drawn on both sides. Split between the traditionalists and the trendies his staff were a microcosm of a changing world. Corporal punishment of schoolboys was a last resort which was rapidly fading from fashion. Should his school, his new school, anticipate the changing times with a blast of modernism or retain, in some form, the ultimate sanction. His new staff, trendies and traditionalists alike, waited with bated breath the guidance and opinion of their young and progressive headmaster, He did not disappoint. He moved with the times but kept a steady foot in the rituals and rules of the past. A cane could still strike the bottoms of uncontrollable boys at his school but only by him or his deputy and only when there was no alternative. A compromise which totally satisfied none, but a compromise that both sides could accept. The hard liners could relax with the thought the cane was not completely abolished and the others could console themselves with the view that it would never be used again. Honour to all. Unless there was no alternative. That was the crux. He read the minutes of that old and distant meeting for a fourth or fifth time and wondered why it was that those who employed the cane when required were always considered to be hard liners. It can be so much harder to invoke other means of expressing ones disapproval.

‘Extract from minutes of meeting 276/9 – Section 3/Para4 –Restrictions on the use of the Cane.

-         With effect from the date of this meeting Corporal Punishment of any boy under the age of fourteen years is immediately abolished. Boys aged between fourteen and the day prior to their eighteenth birthday may be referred to the headmaster or deputy headmaster for any disciplinary sanction he or they wish to employ. Such sanctions, if determined by the headmaster or deputy headmaster in consultation with the referring master, may include the issuing of an order of Corporal Punishment. In such instances only the official school cane may be used and all such enactments must be carried out in private with two independent staff witnesses. No more than four strokes of the cane can be applied for any individual transgression and no boy can be subject to more than two orders for Corporal Punishment in any school year. Multiple transgressions can be included in any one order but in such instances the total penalty applied must not exceed eight strokes. All applications of the cane will be applied to the boy’s clothed posterior, or as determined by the headmaster, and will be carried out within twenty four hours of the order. No boy attaining the age of eighteen years may be caned.- Ref 276/934

 

In all the years since the heated meeting in which the vexed issue was minuted only three boys in the school had been made subject of the special order and none had received more than four strokes of the official school cane across their trousers. As much as he found the use of the cane distasteful the headmaster had to agree with his deputy that in all the cases the punishment was well deserved. After the first such caning, a boy who had demanded money from younger boys, the headmaster deferred to his deputy and the subsequent two canings were carried out by a man who had more enthusiasm for the task. At those canings tearful boys rubbing well scolded bottoms left his study and he reflected that the youthful extortionist, subsequently expelled for similar offences, had been let off lightly. But now the headmaster had a dilemma. He had to cane a boy who had done nothing wrong and he had to do it before legislation to abolish such a scholastic act was introduced. And that was little more than a few weeks away. It is little wonder that he had been trawling through the minutes of an inglorious past.

The boy read the letter again. He had read it three times, or it may have been four, and he almost knew its telling words by heart. He considered the implications, the painful implications, and the financial consequences. He was nearly seventeen and had been at the school for almost six years. And the considerable fees had been paid for by a man he had never met. The half brother of his long dead father had paid the relevant fees for all of his growing years and, as his mother constantly reminded him, they should both be permanently grateful. And now the half brother had died and for weeks and months both he and his mother worried that the payments would cease and his privileged schooling would end. But a last letter to his mother from the anonymous uncle assured them both that the fees would continue to be met until the boy’s eighteenth birthday. The letter, from a man who knew he would shortly draw his final breath, also assured them both that arrangements had been made to ensure a financially secure future. The worrying weeks and months could be set aside. And then came the letter to him. From his uncle’s solicitor. And he read it again and still did not understand. The first part, outlining a successful and rich life of his benefactor, caused no difficulties. It was the final paragraphs which engendered thoughts of painful implications and financial consequences.

‘Your uncle was not an orthodox man and he had many unorthodox and, frankly, rigid and incomprehensible values. But his support for you in your educational years has never wavered. The memory of your father, his half brother, determined his resolve never to allow you to suffer. But now, perversely, to come to your part of his considerable estate you must do exactly that. He was convinced that his commercial success was due in no small part to the fact that, many years ago, he was severely caned by his headmaster for a sin that he never amplified either to me or anyone else. But, in his own words, often quoted ‘It was the best five minutes I ever spent in my life. Bending over and getting that cane on my backside taught me things I have never forgotten. There is no finer lesson to a boy about to become a man. I hated that caning at the time but now, every time I count my money, I profusely thank the man who did it.’ They quoted this comment in his obituary and, in his adopted country, he became almost famous for it. It should, therefore, come as no surprise that a condition of you inheriting his estate is that you accept and suffer the same experience. I will therefore be contacting your headmaster in due course.’

And in due course, he did.

 

‘An unusual legacy.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Or an unusual condition placed on a legacy. Either way it makes for uncomfortable reading.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I shall, of course, write to your solicitor informing him that the request, or instruction, cannot possibly be carried out.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘We do not do things like this in England.’

‘No sir.’

‘An application to any court would, in my opinion, see the unusual conditions of the bequest set aside.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And besides.’

‘Sir?’

‘In a few weeks time such action, even if approved of by an unreasonable judge, would be illegal. In this country.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘So you have no need to worry.’

‘No sir.’

 

The headmaster reflected that it had been a strange interview. The boy seemed more disappointed than relieved that he was not about to be caned. Given the financial implications of his step uncle’s will and the tongue of his overbearing mother he probably considered that a short and sharp pain to his backside was the easiest and quickest option. His bottom may briefly burn and he may shed a few tears but, as the sting subsided, he would be the possessor of a considerable fortune. A small price to pay. Whereas the headmaster’s approach seemed rich with legalistic complications. If the boy did not think like this, and he was only sixteen and three quarters, then the headmaster certainly did. But it was not as simple as that. If it was, the headmaster could merely sign a form to the effect that the required caning had been carried out, even though nothing of the kind had taken place. But the conditions of the bequest made things more difficult and therefore, in the opinion of the headmaster, needed to be challenged in an English court. If necessary.

 

‘Let us get this clear headmaster. The conditions of the bequest are that a senior official from the uncle’s company flies over here to witness the caning. Do you know who that would be?’

‘The company secretary. A lawyer.’

‘Ah. And he signs a form to the effect that the boy has been caned by his headmaster in accordance with the instructions.’

‘Quite.’

‘Twelve strokes of a rattan cane on his backside.’

‘His bare backside.’

‘His bare backside, yes. And after that the boy gets his inheritance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I could do it if you didn’t feel up to it.’

The headmaster smiled but said nothing.

‘In the circumstances I would go easy on him.’

‘The company lawyer might not agree to that. In his country such disciplines tend to leave serious weals.’

‘I always marked the backsides I walloped, headmaster. Even when I did not use full force. The last boy I caned told me he had the stripes across his arse for weeks.’

The headmaster studied his enthusiastic deputy and decided that it was a past conversation he had no desire to pursue. He had contacted the solicitor and received a fairly curt and pedantry reply. If the boy did not comply with the conditions of the will it would be impossible to release the funds and a long and protracted legal case between two countries with differing cultures seemed the likely outcome. As if echoing his own earlier thoughts the solicitor had commented that a few quick taps on a young backside seemed a small price to pay to avoid such complications.

‘If it has to be done then I, as headmaster, will have to do it. The instructions make that clear. But I am still hoping for a compromise.’

He was dwelling much on that compromise when, a week later, he interviewed the boy for a second time.

 

‘They would not agree.’

‘No sir. I didn’t think they would.’

‘They would not agree to you not being caned.’

‘No sir.’

‘They would not agree to the caning being symbolic.’ The headmaster paused. ‘Less harsh.’

‘No sir.’

‘Or the strokes being reduced.’

‘No sir.’

‘And they would not agree to you retaining an element of dignity.’

‘No sir.’

‘So it is to be twelve strokes of their choice of cane, delivered to your exposed backside.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Which causes me a considerable dilemma.’

‘Sir?’

‘Who is to do it?’

‘I thought it would be you sir.’

‘It cannot.’

‘Why not sir?’

‘I could not bring myself to do it. Not under their stringent conditions, conditions which breach the disciplinary rules of this school.’

The boy looked concerned and the headmaster anticipated his thoughts.

‘I could not do it. Not even for your inheritance and your mother.’

‘No sir.’

‘But I have thought of a compromise. One that I am sure will be acceptable to their solicitors.’

‘Sir?’

‘You will be transferred to a new school. Next week. It will be arranged as a permanent move but you will be allowed to return here next term. I have spoken to their headmaster, the brother of my deputy, and he has agreed to cane you. It will fulfil all the conditions of your uncle’s strange legacy.’

‘And if I do not agree? Sir.’

‘You have no choice. Your mother has approved the arrangements.’

The boy moved towards the door with some sadness.

‘I would prefer to stay here sir.’

‘I know you would. I would also prefer that.’

‘And I can. All you have to do is cane me as they say.’

‘I could not do it. I could not do it well. And they would see that.’

The boy paused, his hand on the handle of the study door.

‘Even if I gave you reason.’

‘I cannot think of anything you could do which would make me wish to cane you. In that way. In that manner.’

‘No sir.’

‘So go and pack your belongings.’

‘Yes sir.’

The boy opened the door and, before departing, turned back to the headmaster. His eyes were full of tears. The tears of boy who had been told he would not be caned. Not at this school.

‘I shall have to think of a reason, sir. I shall have to think of something that would make you cane me.’

And with these parting words to his headmaster he closed the door.

 

The headmaster looked at the cheque again and still did not believe what he saw. It was drawn on the account of the boy’s mother and dated from the first day of the following term. He re-read the letter that was attached to it and, picking up his study phone, summoned his deputy to his office. Ten minutes later, apprised of the contents of the letter and the details of the cheque, his deputy gave his opinion to the headmaster. What he had to say was unpleasant but expected.

‘I think that clinches it headmaster. You will have to cane the boy.’

‘Meaning every man has his price?’

‘For the good of the school. The cheque is for £10,000.’

‘But only if I cane him.’

The headmaster emphasised the ‘I’ and let it contain all the distaste that he had constantly felt ever since this protracted matter first emerged.

‘The letter makes that clear. If the boy is transferred to my brother’s school and he is caned there he will not pass any of his legacy to his mother.’

‘And so the cheque, if presented, will not be honoured?’

‘No.’

‘But if I do it?’

‘Then it will. The mother’s letter makes that clear.’

The deputy headmaster paused and then continued.

‘He is going to be caned headmaster, whether you do it or my brother does it. Follow his wishes and the school gets a considerable sum.’

‘But only if I do it in the manner decreed in the instructions?’

‘It is a small price to pay for such a large cheque, headmaster.’

And on that point the deputy left the headmaster to muse, once more, on his dilemma.

 

‘You knew I would send for you?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You are causing me considerable pain.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I had no, have no, wish to cane you. I understand your complying with your uncle’s strange legacy. It is a very large sum to inherit. But to transfer to another school for the caning to be carried out would have been a more satisfactory solution.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘As it is you have….’

‘Sir?’

‘You have placed me in a difficult situation.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And yet, in a convoluted way, you have also resolved it.’

‘I hope so sir.’

‘If I do not cane you then the school loses the bequest that you and your mother are transferring to us next term. So I will do as is required.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And I will fulfil all the conditions.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And I will make it hurt. I will not hold back.’

‘No sir.’

The headmaster looked at the boy’s impassive face. The face of a boy who knew he had won.

‘I will not hold back.’

‘No sir.’

‘I will cane your bottom hard because as you know I never wanted to cane it at all.’

‘No sir.’

‘And you have forced my hand.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Have you anything else to say?’

The boy thought for a moment before speaking.

‘Only this sir. Fulfil the conditions and I will honour my mother’s letter. If it has to done, and it clearly must, I could only accept it if it was done by you. It will lessen the pain and the humiliation.’

‘Do not be too sure of that.’

‘No sir. But it will lessen the humiliation.’

The headmaster looked at the boy’s slightly flushed, but still impassive, face again and registered a momentary understanding. He moved to him and gently placed his hand the boy’s shoulder.

‘You may go. I will make the arrangements.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And be brave. That means that you need not be afraid to cry. It may help.’

‘Yes sir.’

Twenty minutes after the boy departed the headmaster started to compose a difficult and delicate letter to a distant solicitor.

 

The day after the boy was caned, all the arrangements having been satisfactorily made and carried out, the headmaster went for one of his long regular walks around the grounds of the school. The caning of the boy had left a deep impression on his conscience and the prospect of a substantial cheque had served to enhance, rather than assuage, his troubled thoughts. These thoughts were interrupted by his deputy, returning from a regular daily exercise which, the headmaster noted, did little to inhibit the signs of a comfortable middle age.

‘How are you feeling headmaster?’

‘Fine. It is a fine evening. A good one for your evening run for a change.’

‘I mean after yesterday.’

‘It is over. At least we can be thankful for that.’

‘And a substantial cheque will be coming our way.’

‘Yes. I suppose I should be grateful.’

‘At least you shouldn’t feel guilty.’

‘Am I?’

‘The boy did not mind.’

The headmaster stared at the reddened face of his deputy, only now recovering his breath from his exertions.

‘He seemed very distressed to me.’

‘Who wouldn’t be after that? Twelve strokes of a cane to your bare backside when you have probably never even had as much as a housemaid’s slap in the whole of your life. I thought you did it very well in the circumstances. Laid it on as hard as I ever did.’

‘Did that surprise you?’

‘No. But the boy did not mind.’

‘So you said.’

‘I saw him this morning. Fully recovered. Just a bit sore he said.’

The deputy chuckled and the headmaster responded quickly.

‘You find it amusing?’

‘Boys are strange creatures. All this troubles you, and all he says is that when he looked at the stripes on his bottom he realised what his uncle meant. Said he would go through it all again if he had to.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘He also said that he was glad that it was you that caned him. It made it bearable.’

‘Then at least one of us is happy.’

After that particular comment the deputy shrugged his shoulders and went off for his evening shower. Clearly he did not think corporal punishment of schoolboys was any big deal and, judged by the comments, neither did the boy who was the subject of their discussion. In different circumstances the headmaster might feel the same but the experience of the previous day was one he had no desire to repeat.

 

‘You know why you are here?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And you wish to go through with it?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then we will not waste any time. Take off your school blazer and place it on the chair,’

‘Yes sir.’

The boy looked around the headmaster’s study. There were four people in the room other than himself. As well as the headmaster and his deputy, both standing by the desk, his uncle’s solicitor was standing by a small side window cleaning his tiny round spectacles with a silky white handkerchief. He had met the solicitor a couple of times over the past few weeks but the fourth man he did not know. As he placed his blazer on the chair the headmaster introduced him as a representative of his uncle’s company. The company lawyer who had to agree that all had been enacted as required. He had sat, large and impassive and silent, in a corner seat when the boy came into the study. As the blazer was removed he stood up and moved towards the solicitor.

‘There is no need to remove your trousers but it will be best if you lower them before you bend over my desk.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And bend over from the front of the desk, facing the back wall.’

The headmaster paused and as he did so the boy saw, for the first time, the cane he had produced from behind his back. He did not know it but the cane was a two foot six inches long and medium thick rattan cane specially brought over by the impassive company lawyer. No detail had been left unattended. The headmaster, his voice strangely thick and breathless, continued.

‘It is important that everyone in this room gets a good view of your caning.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘When you are in position my deputy will hold onto your wrists to enable you to take all of your…, all of your caning without any unnecessary interruption. Do you understand?’

The headmaster had nearly said punishment but such a word seemed inappropriate. The boy was not being punished. If anyone was being punished it was him.

‘Yes sir’

‘Then do as I say. And you had best lower your underpants as well. It is a condition of the caning.’

‘Yes sir.’

The boy moved towards the desk and to the four waiting figures enacted out his small defining scene. He undid the belt of his long grey school trousers and releasing the buttons of the fly pushed them firmly down to his ankles. He then placed his hands under his pale blue school shirt and pulled down an equally pale blue pair of regulation underpants. He pushed these down his pale legs to join his crumpled trousers and stretched himself firmly across the surface of the desk. He had made no attempt to lift up his school shirt and the area he knew would shortly suffer unfamiliar pain remained decently covered. The deputy headmaster moved towards his bending head and gently but firmly held onto his wrists. The headmaster watched these proceedings and then enquired, unnecessarily, if all were ready, and approached the prostrate boy. He said nothing but lifted the tail of the boy’s shirt and rolled it to his waist. The boy, acutely conscious of this final baring of his lower body, lifted slightly to allow the shirt to make an easy journey of uncovering. Someone in the room coughed.

 

The headmaster had no wish to mark the sight which met his eyes but equally he had no wish to prolong any agony. The round, beautifully smooth, pale brown cheeks of the boy’s buttocks captured everyone’s attentions. Such lower perfection in the boy suggested that sacrilege was about to be committed. Not a blemish, or stain, or spot detracted from the glory of his naked skin. But nature had always decreed that this was the area designed for chastisement and nature was now about to get its wish. In a few moments the smooth and cold rattan cane would gently rest on the warm and trembling cheeks and the first strike of a strange legacy would, literally, make its mark. For a moment the even pale brown skin across the back and the buttocks made the headmaster wonder if the boy sunbathed nude, but the moment passed and he raised the cane in readiness.

‘Please compose yourself. And be brave. You are to be given twelve strokes across your naked behind, as you yourself requested and the conditions of your uncle’s will requires. They will hurt but it will not take long. Are you ready?’

‘Yes sir.’

The words were hardly out of the boy’s mouth when the first stroke struck his backside. It was as if the headmaster was eager to commence the proceedings and it took everyone, not least the boy who suffered it, by surprise. He gasped and lifted his left leg slightly as if to ease the pain but, other than that, there was no movement and there was no sound. The stroke had been clean and true, and hard, and as it seemed to echo in the air a clear red line painted itself across the centre of the upturned cheeks. It did not sound its pain but the vividness of its colour spoke loudly to all who watched. The second and third strokes fell equally quickly but after that the headmaster slowed his pace and allowed the boy to absorb each individual shock to his system. By the fourth stroke the buttocks, now twisting and turning, were beginning a fiery glow within the lines across them and by the eighth, or it may have been the ninth, the boy was clearly crying. The deputy headmaster was by now holding on grimly to the arms and hands which begged for release but he did so silently and intently. Other than the sound of the cane hitting its delicate target and the subsequent groans of increasing distress from the boy the room was silent. None of the four men spoke until the last stroke of the twelve had fallen across the naked bottom and, released, the boy had recovered himself and left. It took some time. He had hopped around the room and rubbed his bottom with a violent vigour and then, quickly calming, pulled up his underpants and trousers and begged to be excused. The headmaster had no wish to detain him and he held the hands of the tearstained boy and told him he had been very brave and let him go. And the boy had been brave. But, in his own way, so had the headmaster. And all in the room silently acknowledged that fact.

 

‘Thank you for the cheque. It arrived last week. We are very grateful.’

‘Thank you sir. The school deserves it.’

‘And you have no regrets?’

‘No sir. Should I?’

‘It is a large sum of money.’

‘Yes sir, but small compared to my uncle’s estate.’

‘And you are happy with the way you earned it?’

‘I am sir. I would be happier if I knew that you were comfortable with the way you earned your small part.’

‘It is hardly small. £10,000. It did occur to me that there was a possibility you might not send it. In which case I would have caned you for nothing.’

‘I could not do that sir.’

‘No, of course not. It was an uncharitable thought for such an honourable boy.’

‘If I was to be caned, especially in that way, it had to be you that did it. As I said it was a small price to pay.’

‘And you have no regrets. I mean the caning?’

‘No sir. I would go through it all again if necessary.’

‘So my deputy said.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘In spite of the pain? And the humiliation?’

‘There was no humiliation sir. What you did was an act of love for this school. It made it bearable.’

‘You didn’t give that impression at the time.’

‘I was being caned on my bare bottom at the time. Sir.’

The boy smiled, the first time he had since being summoned to the headmaster’s study following receipt of the promised cheque.

‘Yes.’

The headmaster smiled.

‘You may go. And thank you again for the cheque.’

‘Thank you sir.’

The boy turned to go and then turned back.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘What would you have done if I had not sent you the cheque?’

‘I do not know. Probably got my deputy to give you a second thrashing.’

‘In spite of the new regulations?’

‘I am sure we could have got around that.’

After the boy left the headmaster mused on their conversation and everything that had led up to it. He was not happy that the boy had been caned and he would have preferred it not to have been done. But, strangely, if it had to be so, he was glad it was he who carried the caning out. It was what the boy wanted and, now it was over, he was glad he was the one to cane him. Whatever else he owed the boy, and the magnificent cheque to the school would bring great benefits, he owed him gratitude for helping him to learn something of himself. The deeply personal act that had taken place in his study told him that. The boy would never forget his experience but neither would anyone else in that room. On the day that vicious cane kissed the defenceless naked bottom of a perfectly formed boy, four people learned many things about themselves. When he struck the soft and fetching cheeks, shamelessly exposed, his whole being inexplicably surged. And all he was aware of in himself was in all the others. The headmaster was sure of that. The collective silence in the room, both during and after the caning, said so.The uncle’s strange legacy was far reaching.

 

Alfred Roy © 2010