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.