Thwarted Whackings - Not bending over for the cane

I had an unusual experience the other day. Unusual, that is, in the sense that it was rare. Being of that ilk that enjoys having his ageing behind whacked unusual experiences are not generally, well, unusual. No, this one was a rare experience in the sense that I have rarely experienced it. Perhaps I have been lucky, or unlucky depending on your point of view. But for me, however one views it, whenever discipline was promised or threatened I usually got it. From nervous boy to expectant adult. But not this week. It has got me musing and, judging all by this first paragraph, rambling. Perhaps I need to be caned.

 

I had made an appointment to visit one of my favourite disciplinarians. I am lucky in the fact that I have a few, some charge and some do it for free, and they come in both sexes. These days, surprisingly, I get a greater frisson from a dominant female making me lower my pants for the necessary but the right sort of male can also get my nerve ends tingling. In the final analysis it is all about that cane striking my naked bottom and, eyes closed and gripping bench or chair, the sting does not signal the gender. The urge for that special sting rises pretty rarely these days but when it does, circumstances allowing for the possibility, I make the arrangements and spend the ensuing days in heady excitement and anticipation. By the day or time of my appointment I am in that familiar state of nervous agitation beloved by all submissives. And this week was no exception.

 

And, lo, it was cancelled. Not by me. If that happens, equally rarely because I hate mucking folks about, it is because I am ill. On the one occasion my car broke down I rang the lady and, fortunately, agreed a delay of three hours. Never was I so grateful to be in the RAC. Nice man, I never let on the real reason for my agitation. The subsequent session was one of the best I ever had. A moral there somewhere but I will not pursue it. Suffice to say it did not figure on my feedback form to the breakdown organisation. But illness kills all desire and cancellation is both inevitable and wanted. Those sorts of thwarted whackings I can cope with. But this one was different. I had been steeling myself for it for a number of days; the lady is a formidable caner and had promised something special. My health was good and the skies were sunny. And the car showed not a hint of recalcitrance. All was set. Visions of me in vest and pants, a dominatrix with a vicious cane, pants coming down and a bare behind proffered for the desired and exquisite sting. A heavenly prospect with an amusing and delightful lady who loved what she delivered as much as I loved receiving it. A perfect match in some ways. And then, lo as I said, she cancelled.

 

It happens. Unavoidable in her circumstances and, gutted as I was, I took some solace in the fact that she seemed almost as disappointed as I was. There will, hopefully, be other days and next time it will be even better. Or worse, depending on your point of view. The best things in life are well worth waiting for, I told myself on my journey home. And it was on that journey, and subsequently, that I go to musing on the thwarted whackings of my life. Surprisingly, I discovered, there had been quite a few.

 

1. Aged about 7. I remember one that was very much of the ‘Wait until your father gets home’ variety. I had been belted, bare bum, a couple of weeks before for something or other. I know not what. And for the life of me I cannot remember what this one should have been for. But I do remember sitting on our sofa waiting for my dad to come in. Thinking back I reckon my mother must have calmed down by the time he arrived and it was a pretty muted retelling of my, now forgotten, misdeed. Instead of a belt across my behind all I got was a shrug and a look and a dismissal. I was more relieved than Mafeking.
    
2. Aged about 11. There was no feeling of disappointment at that early thwarted belting and there was little in regards to a later experience. I was about eleven and me and three others had been summoned to the gym in our PE Kit. It was during a PE lesson so being in such kit was no special ritual. Again I cannot remember what we had done but I do remember feeling terrified when the PE master produced a large black leather plimsoll and waved it menacingly. I suppose all such things waved at small schoolboys must, by definition, be menacing. I was convinced we were going to be whacked by it on our small and thin shorts, a new experience for me, and convinced even more so when he said that his little weapon had warmed practically every behind in the school. But then he said, given our ages, he would let us off with a warning. This time. Relief flooded over me as I left but, warnings unheeded, it wasn’t too long before I was to feel its vicious sting. But the first time I looked upon that PE plimsoll it was not, mercifully, introduced to my bottom. Being only eleven or so I remember me and the other boys giggling in blessed relief when we left him. It is probably then that I got an early inexplicable thrill at the idea, albeit thwarted, of being whacked.
    
3. Aged 13 or so. I do remember this one. Chemistry lesson, chemistry master. I hated both the subject and the teacher. So I used to muck around in my coveted role as class joker. But only in subjects I loathed. History and Mathematics always got complete attention. He was conducting an experiment with a variety of tubes. With stoppers. He stressed how important it was not to remove a particular stopper. Unfortunately he stressed it too much for one bored boy. So I pulled it out. Just to see what would happen. This was still the excuse I was offering when, in his private lab, I was bending down for four whacks on my trousers with a nasty piece of rubber tubing. It stung like hell, as it had before when I had got it. No other teacher used such a weapon, and at my school in the 1950s most whacked, but he was a chemistry master. It was as I rose, rubbing my behind vigorously and fighting back tears, that he issued a particular threat. He must have been angry. If I have you in here again, he said, I shall have your trousers down and you will get it on your bare backside. You wouldn’t dare, I said. He didn’t and I never did. Get whacked by his rubber tubing on my bare bum. Probably a good job because even over the trousers you were left with thick red and bluish lines across your bum which took ages to heal. But his threat definitely created a thrill and in a funny sort of way, scared as I was, I always regretted that he never carried it out. And he had his chances as I got that tubing across my behind on at least one more occasion, probably two. But only in the classroom in front of other boys, not in his private lab. I wonder why.
    
4. Aged 27 to 35 I suppose that last one does not really count as a thwarted whacking as I did suffer a bruised behind. But it qualifies as a thwarted promise. A promise of pants down which was never carried through. The next two both fall into that category, even though for one of the experiences my bottom was shamefully bared and merely minutes or seconds from getting a delicious whacking. I am uncertain of exactly when but both took place in the period when I first entered the CP world of pleasure in earnest. Between those ages I met many people and went to many parties of the whacking kind. I had some amazing experiences and some that were complete duffers. A couple stand out in the memory and both definitely fit this blog. In those days my CP interests were purely male, school influence, and the idea of being whacked by a woman did not appeal. It all worked very well when the cane wielders were from the select group of friends that I had cultivated, and by extension friends of theirs. But I was relatively young and craved for adventure. Or the adventure that centred around having your pants being taken down by a stranger for a bottom whacking. So I answered a variety of adverts, no internet in those days. As I say I had some amazing experiences. But these were not that. One involved many messages and telephone calls and a long journey through the countryside on a dark winter night. As soon as I arrived I knew it was a mistake. A chat and a drink and the message was clear. Not stated, but I have an acute antennae and I knew I was a disappointment. I took the bull by the horns. You want someone about eighteen, I said. I was all of thirtyish by then. I should have been annoyed, I had not disguised my age in arrangements. But I am a considerate soul and perhaps he thought he could get himself in the mood. I think I finished my drink and drove back home in the dark, quietly cursing. I reckon I must have had a wank when I did. In those days the CP urge and the sexual drive were heavily entwined. At least I had the consolation of not taking off any clothes. The other duffer session did not even have that. It was a posh flat in London and, again, in response to some long lost advert. Nice chap, erudite and pleasant and about my age. We talked for an age, in hindsight probably too long. Eventually we got around to CP and caning bottoms. Mine. He left the room and, as instructed, I stripped to my underwear and bent over the back of his sofa, on which he had considerately placed a towel. It was then I remembered he wanted me just in my vest. Hence the towel. So I slipped off my trunks and bent over the sofa again. Bare arse in the air and penis throbbing in anticipation. Writing this makes me wish I was thirty again. He eventually returned and, after a minute or so, he gave me six whacks with the cane across my backside. They were pretty tepid and unexciting. My interest rapidly waned. Even more so when he said, I am sorry I am really not in the mood. By the time I dressed neither was I. Oh all right, I got six strokes but, given my early mood, that really was a thwarted whacking.
    
5. Aged 50 and over One learns ones lessons in life. As I aged I was very careful whom I made arrangements with. Complete strangers, contacted by a variety of adverts, were out and friends or friends of friends were the only CP show in town. I sacrificed heady adventure for a surety of pleasure. They did not let you down or, if they did, it was well before the event. And when I started to use the services of professionals, you have to when you get old but still have schoolboy desires, I chose with care. It is with the latter that I moved into the world of the female disciplinarian and, thankfully, the best are as good if not better than any male. I am happy to pay but even happier if they seem to enjoy whacking behinds. And the best do, I am convinced of that. That is why they are successful. My only failure, a thwarted whacking I suppose, is visiting one who wanted to treat me as a slave. I put up with most of the indignities but when she asked, or told me, to lick her shoes I gave up and got dressed. Schoolboys don’t do that sort of thing. My own fault really as in limited pre discussions I had said I wasn’t averse to bondage and masks. I like passive humiliation. She was a very nice lady outside her dungeon and we chatted amiably over tea and delicious cakes before I left. I did consider going back some time and asking her to tie me up and blindfold me and whack my naked bum with her hardest cane. But then I thought of those shoes.

 

So there you have it. A variety of thwarted whackings. Occasions when my bottom was bared, or not as the case may be, and denied life’s ultimate pleasure. And all arising from musings on a journey home from an appointment postponed. I prefer not to say cancelled. Every cloud has a silver lining and this particular cloud has two. I have a long overdue blog and a session, temporarily deferred, that I shall look forward to with even greater anticipation. The next time I lower my pants and offer my bare backside to that particular lady I shall know that her cane may land late, but it will land with an eagerly awaited and overdue sting. And I shall absorb that exquisite sting in the full and welcoming knowledge that thwarting is such sweet sorrow. Alfred Roy




I went back a few weeks later. New appointment and long drive but I finally got that whacking I had long desired. When I bent over, pants down, and her cane touched my bare bum I almost cried.