A Boy is being Belted (Factual- M/m)

The main facts of this are true. Given that many younger readers of disciplinary forums doubt the veracity of 1950s recollections from oldies I have posted it in full on a couple of sites. Will be interesting to see what, if any, reaction I get. Alfred Roy

My dad wasn’t very subtle. To him the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. Always. Get under his feet and you got a clip around the ear, spend too long in the bath and he would pull out the plug and run the cold tap. Make him angry and he’d threaten you with his belt. He was either too busy or too stupid for fatherly negotiations. Seeing as he was deputy manager at the local bank I assume it was the former. That and the fact that he didn’t like boys. Or that is what I thought. I had three sisters, all around my age, but he never clipped them around the ear, never ran cold water in their baths. And he never threatened them with his belt. That was saved for me. And it wasn’t an idle threat. I had felt it and feared it. If the shortest distance was a straight line then, when angry with me, my dad saw my behind and his belt as the two telling points. He would reason with my sisters when they transgressed, he would see their point of view, and he would readily forgive. With me when I went too far it was upstairs, pants off, and belt across my bottom. Practically before I had time to draw my breath and protest. If I cried, as I did, it was as much for the injustice as for the pain in my burning behind.

I reckon I was about eight the first time he took his belt off to me. Sounds shocking now but you must remember this was the 1950s. Things were different then, both at home and at school. Boys feared teachers for their canes and slippers and fathers for their belts but it did not stop them getting into mischief. Being whacked was normal, part of growing up. And soon forgotten. I feared my father, even though I got to like him in his old age, because of our different sizes and that belt around his waist. A constant reminder of pain it was thick and strong and the first time he undid it for me and slipped it out of his trouser loops I realised its special significance. He had often threatened me with it. About time you felt my belt boy, he would say. And I would run away and pray that he didn’t follow me. His hand, occasionally used, had been bad enough. Suddenly, in anger, he would hold me by the arm and give me six or so hard whacks across my short trousers with his hand. A quick lesson for something I had done or not done. But never the belt, even though threatened. Until, one day, when I crossed some divide and the points between the straight lines crystallised in ultimate disciplinary fire.

I can remember what I had done. And remembering I suppose I deserved what I got. I had bitten my six year old sister on the arm. And she screamed. And no one, not even Hammer horror film stars, could scream like my little sister. If there was an Oscar for overreaction she would have won it. Every time. Can’t remember what led to it but given that my slightly older sisters backed up the constantly screaming sibling, I was tried and condemned almost before my flush faced father arrived to investigate the fuss. I saw his belt being drawn out of his trousers and I joined in with my own pitiful cries. The last thing I remember before pitifully running to my bedroom was my father saying that this was not before time, to whom I do not know, and my younger sister’s screaming suddenly ceasing. Nice actress, but her timing was awful.

I threw myself down, still sobbing, onto my bed which was probably a stupid thing to do. As I have said my dad did not waste time. He was in my room in seconds. And there were no lectures, no standing to respectful attention, no this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. No gathering of the facts which may or may not be how they momentarily appeared. This was him in full flow and a father’s belt would now do to his boy’s behind what it would do many times over the next few years. He pulled down my short trousers, elasticised waist so no difficult task, and did the same to my underpants. Lift up your shirt he said, he always said this, and keep your hands away. I think he had a theory that me holding on to my shirt made his task easier. Whatever the theory it certainly presented him with a completely uncovered bare bottom. And the moment the shirt rose he whacked his belt across my offered behind with a frequency and intensity that created a fire that only eight year old boys can understand. I screamed and screamed and screamed. Pleading for a forgiveness which I knew would not come. Not from him, not my sisters, or unseen neighbours who must have heard. A boy is having his behind belted; he must have done something very wrong. He whacked his belt into my bottom about twenty or thirty times, that was the usual number, and my only consolation is that I never let go of the shirt. I struggled, I turned away and was pulled back, and I begged to be let off. And I pulled the shirt down only to have it and my arms pulled back. But I never let go. If this was a special, traditional, battle between a boy and his dad then at least I would have that small victory.

He had trod his straight line and his belt returned to its alternative use and I tried to ease my wounds. Little hands rubbed into an equally small behind in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing and lessen the fire. I remained in my room for about half an hour, sobbing for most of it, but eventually recovered. Within hours it would almost be forgotten and by the next day it was as if it had never happened. Until the next time. And it was always the belt, not like at school with canes, and always on the bare. And if I can remember the first time the belt left his trouser loop for my correction I cannot remember the last. But it happened, infrequently, for a few years. My eldest sister says it stopped when he caught me looking at the results in the bathroom mirror when I was about twelve. This was many years later and I can’t remember if it is true. But it sounds as if it ought to be. Bare behinds being whacked was an essential, if unwelcome, part of my childhood.

 

To Come :-  The Deviant Duo (An FF/M kidnapping tale.)

The Clinic - (futuristic F/m - F/f - F/M)

Haven't done a futuristic story for a while and this is probably the first one on my whacking tales blog. Setting something about 100 years hence gives a rich seam for unfettered imagination. I seriously doubt if such clinics will ever come about but, as long as civilisation exists, I am convinced that the fascination for smacking bare bottoms will remain. Comes with a twist at the end for those with staying power in this unexpected heatwave. Alfred Roy

 

 

THE CLINIC

 

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Thursday)

It’s 4.45 pm on Thursday afternoon. A quiet day by our standards. Three referrals this morning, three assessments early this afternoon and two inspections at four o’clock. Pretty easy really. One of the assessments, the girl, was let off but the two boys, a year older and more culpable, were sent for Inspections and the previous days referrals were dealt with. We do the latter in the mornings, gets it over with, but assessments and inspections are subject to who is available and how many are coming through our doors on any given day. As I said, today was quiet by any standards. School holidays and lots of kids on vacation. And the previous weekend, when most trouble starts, is as far away as it can be. Thursdays, our last operative day, is usually the quietest of the week. Gives me time to clarify my notes for tomorrow’s visitors. A group from Japan who are interested in our methods. Speak Japanese, don’t you? Janet, the clinic administrator, amplified this. No, I said, don’t even know where it is. No matter, I have been nominated to show them round. Mainly because I have covered all aspects of the AIR programme in my time. And mention of that means I need to explain what is going on. In English, not Nippon.

AIR. Assessment, Inspection, Referral. That’s what we call the programme and that is what it is. You get assessed, you get a medical inspection, you get referred for correction. That’s all it is and the ‘you’ is the kids who have stepped out of line. Big time. Central Control Clinics were set up by the government in 2035. Seems a long time ago now and, when proposed, the clinics seemed pretty revolutionary. Created a lot of fuss and reams of media comment. Search through the archives and it is all there. Nowadays they are as a part of our daily fabric as dentists and hairdressers and gymnasiums. One in every large town. And some smaller ones. And all set up with one fundamental purpose. To keep the young in line. It works, no doubt about that. The streets are clean, vandalism is almost nonexistent, and fights are few. The clinics were a logical extension of new legislation in 2028. Corporal punishment was re-introduced in homes and schools back then. Moderately applied for those up to age 15. And it worked. But something else was needed for older kids. The 16-21 year olds. Parents and teachers didn’t want the role, even if allowed, for maturing youth. Too difficult. So in 2035 legislation was passed to allow the opening of Control Clinics and the employment of appropriate staff. It took time. The first didn’t start to operate until 2039, Sheffield I think it was, and even by 2043 there were only seven of them. But in the 2050’s they mushroomed due to early success, the results were obvious, and at the last count there were 178 such clinics. Each employing around 20 staff divided between administrative, medical, corrective and client liaison. We call them clients, it sounds nice. I started in medical when they did a large recruitment of ex nurses. The job appealed, so much so that within two years I got trained on the corrective programme. I still cover that aspect occasionally but, these days, most of my time is taken with administration. There are 23 staff in our clinic and I sit as joint deputy director to Janet. She’s Chief Administrator and boyish Mark (the other deputy) and I divide the daily workload between us. We make the AIR programme work and it is about time I told you what it is.

A.    Assessment. Get sent here by a local court (still as old fashioned as in the last century) and we decide if you need our services. The client has no choice in the matter. If we decide, usually a panel of three officers, that a warning will suffice you are issued with a recorded ticket and sent on your way. The ticket goes on your file and there is no second chance. Come up again and it is straight to Inspection and, normally, Referral.

 

B.     Inspection. This is the medical and, assuming you pass it, a spelling out of what punishment you are going to get. Takes place the first operative day after the assessment to allow the client to sleep on it and prepare themselves. The medical is deliberately humiliating and embarrassing as that has proved to act as a greater repeat deterrent than any punishment meted out. Stressful though, as it is here that the miscreant learns the extent of their punishment. And that induces tears, in boys as often as girls. Punishment is graded but on a very simple scale. Only one implement. Cane or strap. 4, 8, or 12 strokes. No more and no less. And all administered to the bare bottom. Minimal necessary clothing removed.

 

C.     Referral. This takes place the first operative day after Inspection. Again allows the client to sleep on it. Conducted in a soundproof room during the morning session prior to that day's Inspections and Assessments. The client is prepared and tied to a trestle bench. This is done whether it is 4 with a strap or 12 with a cane. As all clients are aged between 16-21 no other allowance is made. At one time, so I gather, it was considered supplying lighter straps and canes for the female sex but that was quickly dropped. Medium weight implements are applied to both sexes. As was pointed out, it reads quiet funny in the dry governmental report, bottoms come in all shapes, sizes, and durability regardless of the gender. We make no allowances. If you have a small bottom and wafer thin skin, that is your bad luck. You got yourself here is our maxim.

The whole process from assessment to referral is three operative days which means the unlucky lot who get sent to us on Wednesdays and Thursdays don’t get their bottoms whacked, if sanctioned, until the following week. Drags out the process but it is still pretty quick. The Juvenile courts sit Monday to Wednesday and anyone sent for assessment comes in the same day. So you could commit an offence on Sunday and be whacked for it on Wednesday. Swift justice by any standard. The downside is that there is no appeal. Used to be but it clogged up the system too much. Our attitude anyway is that you might be getting a cane or strap on your bottom unfairly this time but on other days at other times you probably got away with something. Times have certainly changed.

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Monday)

It all went off very well with the Japanese contingent on Friday. We held over a couple of assessments to this day so they could get a picture of the proceedings but God knows how much, if anything, they understood. They certainly understood the Inspection and referral sessions though. Only on video. Reckon a couple were disappointed judging by their not so inscrutable faces. We had decided that real live situations were not fair on our clients and so a couple of government issued filmings was all they got. Pretty graphic though and, as Janet said, gives a flavour of the place. I offered Mark, my counterpart, as a flesh and blood substitute but, unsurprisingly, he declined. Pity. He’s young and tasty. Difficult time this morning with Monday’s assessments. My second lot, sitting with two assessment officers, was four teenagers who had set fire to a barn they had been smoking cannabis in. Not deliberate. That became clear through reading court proceedings and interviewing them. That’s why they were sent to the local Control Clinic. Considered deliberate and they would have been placed in young offenders prisons. Just teenagers who let things get out of hand and deserved a salutary lesson. We let the younger boy off. He hadn’t smoked and he was outside the barn when the fire started. But we gave him a ticket and warned him of its implications. Turn up here again and his trousers would be down so quick he may consider it hardly worth putting them on. But with the other three, two seventeen year old girls and an eighteen year old boy, we told them that corporal chastisement was warranted. That’s the standard phrase. Corporal chastisement was warranted. You can hear them telling their parents this all over the town. Inspection times issued and dismissed. They still did not know what was actually coming. They would find out on Tuesday.

That left us to debate for quite a while on what the other three should get. Agreeing the boy deserved the maximum twelve strokes of the cane was easy. He was the eldest and the ringleader, and he supplied the cannabis. Legal, but only for those over twenty one. And we all agreed that both girls deserved four or eight stripes. They were seventeen and almost as culpable. The issue was whether it should be cane or strap. We eventually opted for the strap and, being the lesser of two evils, went for eight for each. Satisfactory solution, but difficult for me. This was the only assessment I sat in on where I would give the sanctioned punishment. Vested interest you could say which is why it does not usually happen. We try to avoid it and it is not allowed for standard assessment or corrective officers. But Deputy Directors are exempt and it solves staff shortage problems on occasions. So I sat in on this one knowing that the bottoms of the fearful and fresh faces watching would feel an implement wielded by me. It makes you concentrate. Saw Mark afterwards. He said that he hoped my decisions were not influenced by the malefactors. I have no idea what he means.

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Tuesday)

Heard from the medical director that today’s Inspections did not go well. The boy was well behaved. I think being told he was to get twelve with the cane knocked all the stuffing out of him. His only hope was that he would fail the medical. No chance of that. The medical officer, Nadine, is a no nonsense Jamaican lady of twenty years experience in such matters. Her verdict was very young, very fit, and ideal bottom cheeks for a whacking. Blushed like a beetroot when she pulled down his underpants for a detailed inspection but, otherwise, remained stoic throughout. All he said was ‘Will it hurt Miss?’ Yes, Nadine said, it’s meant to, but the cane would bounce off him and it would be quickly over. Not sure if he was convinced and she reckoned a small tear was escaping as he dressed and left. She rather liked him. The two girls were more problematic. The first girl refused to strip and it took two assistants to get her clothes off. Usually the miscreants remain in underwear for the inspection and only briefly lower undergarments for the genital and buttock inspection. The boy, touchingly, squeezed his eyes closed whilst Nadine inspected his. Most boys do apparently. The theory is that they are fearful of getting an erection, especially if it is female hands doing the exploring. Closing eyes blanks out all thoughts. As I say, just a theory but an interesting one. Girls are usually less of a problem in such matters but the ones that are can be very difficult. Refusing to divest even one garment is a common response. Clinic policy, rigorously enforced, is a complete strip in such circumstances. Show them who is boss. It took a few unseemly minutes but the first girl, big for her age and with very large buttocks, was soon completely naked. A tongue lashing from Nadine and the information that her sentence was to be increased from eight to twelve strokes of the strap had the desired effect. By the time the inspection, rougher than with the boy, was completed the girl had completely calmed down. Nevertheless Nadine was glad to see her dress and leave the inspection room. The second girl was slight and small and overly tearful. She didn’t object to undressing but the information that she was to receive eight strokes of the strap across her naked backside, subject to passing the medical, increased both the volume and quantity of her tears. Never in her seventeen years had she had as much as a smack, that was the gist, and she was as scared as hell at what was to come. Not surprising really. When Nadine took the girl’s knickers down she revealed the smallest bottom it had ever been her experience to uncover. So tiny she was convinced the strap would cover every inch of it. Pert and boyish it would feel every sting. As the girl dressed, still shedding tears that never ceased, Nadine mused on who the corrective officer was. If she laid into this girl with the same force as she would no doubt attack the buttocks of her sister in crime then expect some screaming. Not unusual at the clinic, but not desired. Not sure if I welcomed her thoughts. Clinic policy is that all whacks with whichever implement should be at medium to full force, regardless of age, gender, or physicality. But we are human, so it is rumoured, and I and others regularly make small and unofficial adjustments. You won’t find it on any forms though.

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Thursday)

Had a meeting with Janet this morning. The Japanese contingent has put in a request for two of our corrective officers to visit one of their trial centres next month. Apparently they have a few Japanese bottoms that need chastising and they want our girls to show them how it is done in England. Given our wide experience. I am tempted to volunteer myself as they specifically requested female chastisement officers. Janet vetoed that. Too valuable here she said, would rather send Mark. I resisted pointing out that he was a male but did observe that he had little corrective experience. He did it once and hated it and, so he says, never again. All the more reason I need you here, Janet said. We finally agreed they could have one of our girls for a week. We can spare her, Janet said, providing you fill in if required and that led on to Wednesday’s corrections. She gathered I had been impressive. Might be out of practice but the old skills still remain. That was evident, so the feedback suggested. Couldn’t disagree. I only had two of our miscreants rather than the expected three. The large girl’s chastisement had been postponed until the following week for the usual female reasons. She would be someone else’s problem. But I had the stoic boy and the tearful elf to deal with. Ten o’clock was the appointed time and they both turned up with parents in tow. Some kids come on their own but it is unusual. Most need moral support for what is to come and friends would be inappropriate. The parents wait in a reception room, no consent is required and they are not allowed to witness proceedings, and the clients are taken off to the referral area. This is three rooms, one each for the two sexes to prepare and the correction room. They don’t see me. The corrective officers and the medical officer always wait in the correction room for the clients. Those to be punished are accompanied by a client liaison officer and these assist in the preparation. Given the manner in which the caning or strapping is delivered, bare bottomed, their gender is not considered relevant but, as a policy, they are always of the same sex as the miscreant. Avoids problems. The gender of the corrective officer and corrective assistant are usually female, mainly because our sex is considered to be more effective. Read the research if you want reasons. But there are always three or four personnel in the room when the punishment is carried out so gender is irrelevant. Each miscreant has to strip completely and put on the official corrective attire. For boys this is a short grey cotton vest and a pair of grey cotton shorts. The latter do not have to fit because they will be taken down, but it allows a little modesty before proceedings commence. Also adds to the juvenile humiliation having your pants taken down before being whacked. So we say anyway. For girls the attire is similar but grey knickers take the place of shorts. Bras are not allowed as this suggests maturity and part of the procedure is a re-affirmation of juvenile correction. For the same reason boys are not allowed to wear jockstraps. All jewellery, watches, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, are also removed. There is a logic in what we do. When we say naked, we mean naked and before the vest and pants are issued that is the state our clients are in.

 

We dealt with the girl first. My thinking was that I needed to get my eye in before attacking the boy with a cane. A stray stroke with the strap would do less damage. I wasn’t that sure when they tied the still tearful girl to the bench. Her bottom was nicely raised but when the assistant took down her knickers I was reminded of how small it was. She would certainly feel what I was going to give. I placed the strap, pretty thick I thought, against her trembling cheeks, and it almost covered it. She couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were tightly tied to the trestle legs and a thick belt was tied across her equally small waist. Her bottom, nicely prominent, was firmly held and the knickers around her knees completed a pleasing picture. I reminded myself why she was here and, ignoring the incessant tears, raised the strap and lashed it across the centre of her small backside. She screamed. Not surprised. This young girl had history and it was good stroke. Her pale white bottom immediately flagged up a wide splat of scarlet indicating that I had found my mark and that the strap was doing its work. I gave her two more on the same central space and as the marks darkened and spread the screams and howls grew louder. This young lady was not enjoying this spanking of her behind. Clinic style. I warmed to my task, God I was enjoying it. It had been quite a while since I had whacked a bare bum and it was pleasant. Certainly getting me in the mood for the boy who was to come. Control yourself Leah, I said. This is work. But nice work all the same. I spaced the last five out. Whack after whack I landed the strap full and square over the girls little white bottom. Never been smacked in her life she had said. Well she was getting smacked now. On her bare behind with a Central Control Clinic approved strap, by an approved corrective officer who was giving her all. Her screams echoed the scarlet fire enveloping her behind and both indicated a job well done. I was sweating when I delivered the last stroke but well satisfied. If it wasn’t the girl’s copious tears or the burning in her behind, couldn’t resist touching it at the end, it was the assistant’s response when I finished. She undid the straps, pulled up the girl’s knickers and gave me an affirmative nod. Professional job Leah she seemed to be saying. Now for the boy.

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Thursday) – continued

Was surprised to see that Mark was the officer who accompanied the boy into the punishment room. No one else available, he said, so he had to stand in at the last minute. He looked almost as flushed and nervous as the boy. The medic, Nadine again, did a cursory check on the boy and my assistant, Rita, bid him to bend over the trestle bench. He looked almost in tears but meekly obliged. He knew resistance was futile. Rita tied him down and strapped the restraining belt across his lower back. I could hear him whimpering but ignored it. You learn how to. She pulled the grey vest to his waist and deftly whipped down the regulation shorts to his knees. Soon be over she said as he involuntarily shuddered. I could see what Nadine meant by the cane bouncing off him. His chubby little bottom cheeks looked as if they were moulded rubber. Not a blemish in sight and beautifully formed. Nature had clearly designed this boy for whackings even if, as far as I knew, he had never had one. As I swished the cane, always in my hand when the client enters, the boy shuddered again and, I am sure, Mark took a deep breath. For a moment there was total silence as everyone readied themselves for what was to take place. I tapped the cane against the naked skin and the boy flinched. Twelve strokes, I said, twelve strokes of the cane on your bare bottom boy. I won’t stop unless Nadine intervenes, however much you howl. It is going to hurt but it is going to be quick. So grit your teeth and remind yourself why you are here. And with that I raised the cane and lashed it across the centre of his behind. It was a magnificent stroke, even if I say so myself, and the vivid red line across the buttocks was only matched by the first of many piercing screams. You have to be extra careful with boys. When they wriggle and struggle the bits between their legs can bounce around a bit. Especially if they are not short in that department. The trestle table is specifically designed to raise the bottom and allow genitals to swing freely so not a problem providing the strokes are true and accurate across both cheeks. But you have to take care if you don’t want to damage their marriage department. Being right handed I always target the right cheek to ensure no accidents but, perfecting my style over the years, I always ensure that the left cheek gets a fair share of attention. It’s all in the swing and how you land the stroke. The twelve I gave to this boy were some of my best. Straight and true and hard, and wriggles and howls came forth in equal measure. By the time I had finished, it took no more than three or four minutes, the boy’s backside was well and truly striped. All over. Other than the fact that he had wet himself, a problem with males who get a lot of cane strokes, I was well pleased. At least he did not have an erection. Seen that more than once and it always amazes me. I was still sweating a bit as the boy put on his shorts and left. Mark and Rita went with him and, left alone, Nadine and I laughed. Not at the boy, that would be unkind. But at Mark. I may be wrong, Nadine said, but I reckon our dishy deputy director was a little turned on by that. You learn something new every day. As I say, we both laughed.

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Friday)

Janet was looking a little stressed today. Apparently one of the Japanese contingent had purloined one of our government films. The discs on which the demonstrations are recorded easily fit into a willing pocket. Useless without the code of course but, knowing the Japanese, that won’t be insurmountable. She blamed Mark, he was in charge of all that, and reckoned he had slipped up somewhere. Shall have to report it, she said, but hopefully Rita can get it back. Rita was volunteered for the Japan trip and, if I am any judge of character, she will enjoy herself. Her arm was constantly itching on Wednesday and I know from witnessing she can lay on a mean strap. She whacked seven bottoms on one memorable morning a year or so ago and hardly broke sweat. All she said, manfully pulling up the last bleater’s regulation shorts, is that one day they will let me use a cane. People constantly surprise. As did Janet this morning. Have a word with Mark, she said. I think he is losing concentration. Wouldn’t like to lose him. Neither would I. Surrounded by women he is welcome relief in this place. Very good administrator. And very boyish. Is that relevant, I ask myself?

 

Coda to Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Sunday)

Need to record this very carefully. Shall do the conversation line by line. No quotation marks. Too time consuming. Friday. End of day. Everyone gone bar me and Mark. Having a tipple in the office. We usually do. All locked up and records finished. Mark has changed into his casual weekend gear. Jeans and Gabbici top. Both light blue. Nice. I am still in clinic gear. Strict black suit. Contrasting styles for what turned out to be an interesting hour. Never to be repeated and, except here, never to be told. I start the subject on my mind. If I had known where it would go I might not have done. But then again.

 

You do know that you are not in Janet’s good books today?

She told me. Some Nip has nicked a disc.

Hopefully Rita can get it back.

She will.

Embarrassing for Janet though. She hates things to slip.

But she isn’t going to take it further?

He was looking a bit concerned, I will say that for him.

No. These things happen. Just bloody annoying.

And my fault?

Seems so, Mark. And not the first time apparently.

Been checking Leah? Not like you.

Janet said you were getting slack lately. Not concentrating she said. Lost some files last week.

He looked sheepish and downed a good half of his drink.

The Eastfield kids. Don’t remind me. Had to delay their spankings for half an hour while I found them. Embarrassing. Four kids waiting to be whacked and me feeling a right prat.

Puts the Clinic in a bad light.

So stop being a naughty boy Mark. Is that it?

I downed some of my drink and looked at him seriously. I liked Mark, he was very good at his job. But Janet was not pleased and he needed to get that message.

Don’t get on the wrong side of Janet. I paused. Any troubles at home?

No. Just me. This place can affect your concentration.

Don’t let it. We are professionals.

I’ll try Leah.

Good. So let’s pack up and have a good weekend. I’m off to the beach with the kids so need to pack. It’s been a hectic week in more ways than one. What are you doing?

Not a lot. Chilling out, mainly.

He finishes his drink and, picking up his bags, walks to the door.

You locking up, Leah?

My turn, Mark.

Always just you and me on a Friday evening. Rounds the week off nicely, I always think.

Yes.

Nice to talk. And unwind.

Yes. Unwind anyway.

He stops in the doorway and turns. When he speaks again his tone is different. Quieter, more serious.

That affected me Wednesday, Leah. Been thinking about it.

Don’t. That’s my advice.

Easier said than done. I saw the way you caned that boy.

I like to keep my hand in.

You were very good. Unnerved me a bit.

You didn’t have to be there, Mark.

No.

So why were you?

I don’t know. Wanted to I suppose. And I had the opportunity.

And?

Nothing, except.

Except what, Mark?

He put down his bag.

Can I tell you something Leah?

I said nothing, waiting for him to continue. He looked nervous and his face was very flushed.

Been thinking about it for a while. And Wednesday confirmed it. You and Nadine knew I was affected. He paused, choosing his words carefully. But it wasn’t as you thought Leah. It wasn’t the boy. It was nothing to do with him. It was me. Me and you.

Meaning me as the corrective officer?

Yes.

And you as the boy?

Yes.

Are you saying what I think you are saying?

I think I am. Thought about it for a long time. He was breathing heavily now. I would like to be caned Leah. And I would like to be caned by you.

I looked at him. Not in surprise, I had my suspicions about Mark. Had done for months. Nothing he was saying was new in this place.

Have another drink Mark and sit down. We need to talk this through.

He did as I said and, breaking the rules, lit a cigarette. In the circumstances I thought it best to say nothing. We didn’t, either of us, for a couple of minutes.

When you are ready, Mark. Get it off your chest. It may help.

Difficult to know where to start. I knew there were dangers when I took this job. I know me.

And?

It has just got worse recently. Wednesday just capped it all. I didn’t feel for that boy but I wasn’t detached.

No.

I was envying him. Do you understand that Leah? I envied him. I wanted to be where he was.

Then he poured it all out. His thoughts, his needs, his desires. Even his intention to resign from the clinic. He was going to do that anyway. Taken a job in Canada. Our conversation was just clearing the slate. I carefully chose my following words.

So you would like me to cane you?

Yes.

Here?

Yes.

Now?

He flinched, realising the way things were going. This wasn’t planned, that was clear, but it was probably his only opportunity to fulfil a constant fantasy.

Yes. Yes, Leah. I think I do.

As I do it to our clients?

Yes. Yes I think so.

You think so?

I know so, Leah. I want you to do to me what you did to that boy on Wednesday. He paused. All of it, exactly the same.

You know what that means, Mark?

Yes.

It means we go into the correction room. You take down your jeans or, better still, take them off. You go over that trestle table and I take down your underpants and cane you. On your bare backside. Is that what you want?

Yes. Yes I do.

I won’t hold back, Mark. If I agree that is. It won’t be a bit of fun spanking. You will get what our clients get.

That’s what I want, Leah.

Twelve hard strokes of a regulation cane? On your naked bottom? Are you sure?

Yes.

Excruciating pain and humiliation?

Yes.

I won’t stop once I have started. You know that.

Yes.

And just to make sure I will strap you to the bench.

As you do with clients?

I looked at him closely. He was sweating and breathing hard. All this had taken a lot of courage. I could send him home and forget it, or try to. But his demons would not go away. To cane him, as he desperately wanted, seemed an act of kindness. I responded quietly but firmly.

For the purposes of this you will be a client.

Then you will do it.

Yes, Mark. As a one off. For a friend.

Thank you, Leah.

Thank me afterwards, if you still want to. It’ll all be over in ten minutes. I suggest you go and get ready.

Yes. Yes I will.

And Mark?

Yes.

No illusions. No going back, Mark. When I enter the correction room, there is no going back.

No. No going back, Leah.

And on that note he rose, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and went off to the correction room. I swear I saw a small tear in his eyes. Unlike our recalcitrant clients, these were a small indication of joy. The other kind would no doubt come later.

 

Second coda to Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Sunday)

I have been employed by the Central Control Clinic for eight years and for six of them I have been a correction officer. Don’t do much these days due to my administration role, usually only once a month or so, but in the early days I had about four or five clients a week. So I reckon I have whacked at least a thousand bottoms in my time. Large, small, black, white, yellow, dimpled, smooth, hairy, male, female. They come in all designs. Rounded, flat, bouncy, wide, narrow, pronounced. Still, twitchy, trembling, cheeky, struggling. All fascinating in their own way. All behinds bare when the cane or strap lands. Some scream, some howl, some whimper, some stay completely silent. Some mark at the slightest touch, others absorb both pain and force and look almost as pristine as when the pants came down. Nothing surprises. I have seen erections from boys and juices from girls. I have seen tears, many times, and occasional laughter. Some curse you, some thank you, and one or two even kiss you. One boy, after eight vicious strokes of my cane, pulled up his pants and asked me to marry him. So I reckon I have seen about everything. But Mark was a first. All of my clients, everyone of those thousand or so, were unwilling clients who had been referred to us. All of them dropped their pants and exposed their behinds because we and the courts said it must be so. When the strap or cane landed its sting it was sanctioned, approved, determined by a higher authority. They had no choice in the matter. Mark did. Or he did until I entered the correction room. When I strapped him down there was no going back.

He had taken off his jeans when I arrived, cane in hand, and neither of us said anything. He looked so boyish in his light blue Gabbici top and pale blue underpants that he could easily pass for a real client. I indicated the trestle bench and he gave me a weak smile and dutifully bent over it. The rear view was immensely pleasing. Small and chubby cheeks pronounced by the clinging pants. A bottom designed for spanking as Nadine had said many times. I had always suspected as much and now I was close to seeing all. I tied his hands and legs to the trestle, tighter than I usually do, and was conscious of his heavy breathing. But still he said nothing and I had resolved to let my cane speak for me. It has an eloquent and scorching tongue. I lifted his top and placed the central strap across his back, the skin was warm and sweaty, and completed the pinning down. The trestle and straps are beautifully designed. The body is firmly held in place and the important buttocks stick out prominently. Raised slightly by the angle of the bench the twin cheeks of our miscreants present inviting targets. Mark was no exception and he sensed the experience he desired was getting closer. I was enjoying it all so much that I was in no hurry to continue. We would not be disturbed. I had changed the clinic entrance codes so no one could get in if returning unexpectedly. And the correction room was soundproofed. It was just me and Mark and my cane. I moved towards him and placed my hands in his underpants. He shuddered slightly in anticipation of the sensations to come. I still said nothing. He knew it was to be twelve strokes and he knew they would be as hard as I could give. He had no illusions and all words seemed superfluous. I slowly peeled his pants down, slower than I usually do and gradually revealed a divine backside that was almost kissable. It twitched and clenched in readiness and, as I pulled the underpants right down to his knees, I could not but help see that the readiness had a customary manifestation. Mark’s penis was as rigid as the most rampant pole. It had a hardness that seemed fit to burst. As I placed the cane across one of the loveliest boyish bottoms I had ever seen I could not help thinking that this boy had been waiting a long time for this. No wonder he shed a small tear in the office. The cold cane touched his skin. I tapped twice to indicate that the caning was about to commence. The bottom trembled, the body shivered, and the penis twitched. I took a deep breath and, raising my arm, lashed the cane across him. It was the most glorious stroke and beautifully indicated the start of, hopefully, a most glorious caning.

It was. Thwack. The pale skin picked up a livid weal, right across both cheeks and left a pleasing view. Thwack. I did it again, quicker than I usually do. Two stripes across that bottom would look even better. I was eager to see the results of my work. Thwack. I did it again. All three straight and true, all leaving fiery marks on the lovely boy cheeks. Thwack. A fourth and now he howled because I was hitting harder. Thwack and Thwack. The fifth and sixth, lower and higher, completed the first half. Six glorious stripes emblazoned the virgin skin. And now Mark was giving out serious signs of distress. Time for a rest. I drew my breath as he howled and whimpered. Christ, he said. I smiled and moved back towards him. And then I did something I never do with real clients. I put my hand between his legs and touched his balls and penis. Not sensuously. I just wanted to check. It was as I thought. The penis had lost its desire and was semi flaccid. Mark’s desire for punishment was in his head not in his manhood. He may get erect again, indeed there were signs of it returning, but his were of the before and after variety. I can only think of one boy who maintained a massive erection throughout, although a number arrived with one, and that was the one who wanted to marry me. I smiled and tapped Mark’s bottom. He twitched, knowing its indication. He was right. I placed the cane across his lacerated cheeks and finished the job he had, almost, implored me to do. Thwack, Thwack, Thwack, Thwack. Four hard and true across the centre of his bottom and then one, Thwack, high and one Thwack, low. The former produced continued howls of distress. The latter two produced piercing, frightening, screams of despair. It was a real caning, no doubt of that from the weals and the cries of anguish. But it was all over.

Mark took a long time to dress. It was almost as if he wanted to prolong the humiliation. He stood by the bench rubbing his exposed bottom and oblivious, or so it seemed, of his renewed hardening in front. It struck me that he welcomed the continuing exposure. Some clients were like that, especially males. Having had their backsides bared and thrashed they show no urgency to cover up. Rita had a theory that it was throwback to childhood. Mother’s saw all and when we thrashed a bare bottom we were surrogate mothers. She may be right but I had no interest in pursuing it. As far as I was concerned it was time this thrashed boy put everything back in his trousers. Eventually he did so and, smiling weakly, came and gave me an enormous hug and a kiss on the cheek. Thank you, he said. Thank you, Leah. I shall never forget what you have just done. I shall never forget, but I shall never tell. Ten minutes later we locked up and left for the weekend. I had just got to my car when I remembered I needed to change the codes back. Janet would not be best pleased if, come Monday, she could not get in.

 

Journal of Deputy Director Leah Wilson (Tuesday)

Mark gave in his notice yesterday. Janet said she was expecting it, even though she tried to talk him out of resigning. The lost disc was no big deal she said. But he said it was nothing to do with that. He had been after this new job in Canada for some time. I shall miss him. We worked well together as joint deputies to Janet and he was very popular. Nadine gave him his medical when he first joined the clinic and always said he had a bottom to die for. It was a comment I did not pursue, even medics have impure thoughts. Rita was more up front and, hearing the news, said she would have liked to have thrashed him and then fuck him. Out of hours of course. Too late now, she said. I just laughed. The staff here are incorrigible, I said. Must be because of the job we do. I didn’t tell her, then or later, that I had fulfilled one of her desires. For ten or fifteen minutes, one Friday afternoon, Mark had become one of my clinic clients. And it was good. Very good.

Alfred Roy (2013)