Christmas is a coming and blogs, here and elsewhere, will take a back seat to all the usual festive rituals. Many years ago, far more than I care to remember, I went to a pre-Christmas spanking party. All males, young and old, subs and tops. The highlight was we young subs, I was then, getting a bare bottom spanking from the visiting Father Christmas. Never did discover who he was, even if our host did tease that he was well known in the theatrical field. In those days I was very much hooked on male disciplinarians. Ageing has meant I care not who smacks my bottom, so long as they do it with enthusiasm and finesse. An old male friend who last week gave me a traditional and annual festive caning when I delivered his gaudily wrapped presents reckons he has suspicions that I hanker more for the dominant mature female as I get older. He may be right. I said so as I pulled up my pants after eighteen sweet strokes across my naked behind. I certainly enjoy writing about them. Hence this story. Not festive, not seasonal. But ever appropriate to those who read my tales. Enjoy Christmas and, whether you get whacked or do the whacking, remember that in those blessed privacy moments when cane meets bottom all else in this world can be forgotten. Kinks have their uses. Happy New Year. Alfred Roy
A Study in Discipline
Two figures. A short moment in time. Thirty minutes. Less. Twenty seven. Twenty seven,
that is all it took, from the moment he knocked and entered to the moment he
left. She knew because of the clock on her wall. Two o’clock when he knocked on
her door, two twenty seven when he closed it behind him as he left. He knew,
the boy knew, because of the new watch his father had given him the previous
Christmas. Proudly displayed on his wrist. Not so proud now, twenty seven
minutes after he had entered her study, not now he had departed. Chastened,
changed, confused.
The Headmistress Ten
minutes. Only ten minutes and he will be here. I have no regrets, none. He
deserves all he is going to get. And he is old enough, or young enough.
Thirteen, or he may be fourteen, is a good age to learn a salutary lesson. And
this will be salutary. If he had not hit the girl I might have let him off.
With a warning. Here in my study. If he had not hit her. But that alone
deserves at least three strokes of my cane across his bottom. And then refusing
to apologise, lying, that increased my anger and the possibility of more. More.
Across his stubborn bottom. But then he hit her again, in my study, in my
presence. It took all my will not to deal with him then and there. But calm
reflection and just retribution is a wiser course and, with that hitting of the
girl in my presence, the strokes of my cane and the manner of their delivery
will increase. Two o’clock, nearly, he should soon be here. I think the cane on
my desk and a strategically placed chair will convey the message admirably.
The Boy I will get
even with her. One day. I will make her suffer. She has led me here with her
goading, her lying, her nasty nature, her spite and venom. We had never liked
each other, a girl and boy consumed with inexplicable childhood hate, and when
she kicked me in class that day I just snapped. And I am glad I did. And I am
glad I did not apologise when that cow of a class teacher dragged us both to
the headmistress. Her, the girl, so sweet and simpering, an angel wrapped in
poison, and me a bemused and flustering boy. And when she said that I was
always mocking her, always threatening her, I hit out again. In front of the
chief cow. And if she had any sympathy for me, any inkling of the truth, it
evaporated in that moment. But I have no regrets, even though her look and the
girl’s triumphant smile told me I had blown it, I would hit her again and again
in front of anyone who cares to watch. And sod the consequences. But they are
now here, the consequences, as I approach the study door. Headmistress. A nice
copper plate on a shiny brown oak door. My watch, my present from my father,
says it is two o’clock. I knock, tentatively. I knock and curse. Not the
headmistress, not me, not that cow of a teacher who sees not causes only
consequences, but the girl. I will get even with her. One day.
She was ready now and she was resolved. Whatever the reasons, and she was astute enough to
know that all battles have their reasons, the boy had no excuse. Hitting the
girl in her study, not once, but twice to her head and her stomach, was beyond
any pale. And with pure hatred. That shocked as much as the action. He must be
taught a lesson. He must be taught that anger must be contained. She would be
right to do what she intended to do. She had thought very carefully about it.
Her own anger had been contained, would remain so, but she would teach his
small bottom a lesson it would never forget. And in a manner that would remain
in his memory. The door opened and interrupted her thoughts. She had not said
come in but, glancing at the clock it was the subscribed time, and she rose
from her desk and put on her most serious face. The boy looked very small and
very fearful and, even though he mumbled, the gist was clear. You wanted to see
me, Miss. That is all he said. The growing boy, not yet fourteen, looked at the
towering headmistress, looked at his watch. It is two o’clock. The door
silently closed. They were alone in her study. He saw the cane on the desk and
gulped. He saw the chair in the centre of the room and gulped again. You wanted
to see me. She looked at him, almost young enough to be her grandson if she had
ever married, and shook her head. Yes, she said, I wanted to see you. After
yesterday you gave me no choice. Somewhere in the distance they heard a girl’s
laugh. If it was not the laugh of the girl who caused it all, it should have
been.
The Headmistress I shall not
waste time. You know why you are here. Whatever the circumstances hitting that
girl, in my presence, was totally unjustified. Anger has to be contained. Even
in fourteen year old boys. I intend to cane you and I intend to cane you hard.
You need to learn a lesson. I usually only give three or four strokes but, I am
sorry, you have earned the full six. Six strokes of my cane across your bottom.
And, given the circumstances, I think I am entitled to extract full
retribution. You will lower your trousers and bend over that chair. As I said I
intend to cane you hard and I intend each stroke to hurt. So you would do well
to steel yourself and prepare yourself. Drop your trousers young man, and bend
over the chair. Hopefully this will not take too long, but however long it
takes it is truly earned.
Her words stunned her mind and, equally,
their effect stunned the boy. She
heard herself relishing in each syllable she uttered, enjoying the anticipation
of the picture her mind conjured. Enjoying the look of distress and confusion
which enveloped the boy as he absorbed the words. Lower your trousers, bend
over the chair. Six strokes to his bottom, very hard. She saw tears well in his
eyes, saw the lips tremble, a futile attempt to speak. Flushed in face. And
then nothing. He gave a small shrug, a sign of resignation and acceptance, a
desire to be done. He loosened his belt on his trousers and undid the buttons.
Pushed the long grey trousers down to his knees and, reluctantly, bent himself
over the chair sitting proud in the centre of the room. It had a low wooden
back and fitted neatly against his waist. He steadied himself, put his hands on
the chair seat, assumed the classic position. All was ready. And then,
surprisingly, he released his hands from the seat and rose slightly. She
thought he might be issuing a late and wasted plea for forgiveness. But no. He
merely put his hands behind him and raised his pristine white shirt and then
bent over again. This time, the second time of bending, the readiness of the
assumed position was writ large. Small pale blue underpants clung to an equally
small and vulnerable bottom. The raised shirt allowed for such a display, a
display for which the boy was inexplicably keen. It may be a show of defiance,
a suggestion of bravery, or a subtle prayer for gentleness. See what you are
about to ravage. Whatever the ploy it did not, could not, work. The sight of
those small twitching buttocks, tightly encased in the small cotton pants,
merely fired the chastiser to an even greater resolve. She intended six strokes
of her cane, very hard, and the gentle curve of the two boyish cheeks merely
beckoned an increased eagerness. This caning was to be enjoyed.
The Boy
I shall not resist there is no
point. I can see from her look, hear from her voice, that she is relishing what
she intends to do. The other boy’s in the class said I would have to take my
pants down. She was well known for it, if deserved. And all agreed mine was
deserved. I would get six they said, possibly eight even though no one had ever
had that many. But they knew of boys who had got six from her, pants down. On
the bare. No one believed that bit. Getting six was bad enough. Six cane strokes
on your bum. With your trousers down. But not bare. She wouldn’t do that would
she? But who would tell if she did. Who would come out of her room and admit to
that. Admit to being caned on the bare bum. From a woman built like a tank,
large, forbidding, scary. Taking six was brave; taking six with your trousers
down was acceptable. But on your bare bum, naked, from this woman, no one would
tell that. So no one knew. But she has told me to take down my trousers and,
now I have, I may as well steel myself. Lift my shirt, show her my pants. There
they are Miss. My underpants, covering my bottom. A bottom you are going to
cane. You may as well see what you are going to do. I know it will hurt, she
said so, and so I might as well steel myself for it. Get ready. For your six
strokes. Get ready and find out. Find out if it is true. Find out if you do
take down boy’s underpants. If you do, sometimes, when deserved, cane boys on
their bare bum. Cane them like that, knowing no one knows. Because no one will
tell.
The Headmistress He
is very still. Even though he is breathing heavily and his small face is
flushed he makes no movement. His hands grip the sides of the chair and his
bottom remains raised and still. The back of the chair is exactly the right
height for such discipline. It allows a small degree of comfort and yet
presents the small backside ideally. I have caned many boys, and a few girls,
in such a position over such a chair. All satisfactorily conducted. They can
grip the legs as the pain enflames their bottoms. Most can take three or four
strokes of my cane without rising; it is the last two that causes problems. Few
can take six strokes, especially as hard as I intend to give these, without
rising or at least loosening their grip. The desire to assuage the pain in
their bottoms generally overcomes the wish to remain in place. I expect the
same from this young man. Especially as his six strokes will be to his bare
bottom. He deserves no less. I suspect he knows this and is the reason he,
belatedly, lifted his shirt. He knows this is to be a serious caning. That is
why he is still. Waiting, waiting for the last act. As I place my hands on the
waistband of his underpants he shudders and slightly shifts his legs. He knows
what is coming. He knows that I am going to peel down his underpants and expose
his small bottom to my gaze. He knows, and he also knows that he cannot tell.
The Boy It
is happening. I can feel her fingers on the waistband of my underpants. I can
smell her perfume, hear her subtle breathing. She is saying nothing yet. But
she must, she must tell me what she is going to do. She must ready me for what
is to come, it is her job. Her duty. I feel my underpants being peeled down,
feel the cool air brush my bottom cheeks as they are exposed to her room. Her
gaze. I feel the gentle sensation of my tiny pants being pulled down to my
knees , why so far I ask myself, and as the freedom gifted my lower body makes
itself felt I hear her words. They drift into my ears as a surge of blood
pounds my head and a frightening, inexplicable, thrill consumes my being. I
fear the pain to come but I am entranced by the expectation, the preparation.
And the words. Cold, formal, deliberate. This is underpants down I am afraid,
young man. I rarely cane a boy’s bare bottom but this is deserved. You will do
well to stay still. It will make it easier for you. Six strokes, six strokes
boy. And I do not intend to go easy. I absorb all this, all these words, I
cannot see I only sense. I look ahead, gripping the chair, trousers and pants
around my knees, my naked bottom in the air. Waiting to be caned I hear all
these cold and formal words. And I do not intend to go easy on you. She repeats
her threat and, as she does so, I feel the sensation of a cold and threatening
cane placed across the centre of my bottom. I feel faint, I feel my bladder
weaken, I cannot get my breath. I am hot, cold, scared, vulnerable. I feel the
cane press into both my cheeks, across my crack, and sense that soon there will
be a flight of pain. I close my eyes.
This is underpants down I am afraid,
young man. There, she has said it and
actioned it, there can be no going back. She has said the words and carried out
their meaning. She peeled down the underpants, the soft and pale blue cotton,
to reveal an equally soft and pale bottom. Two twinkling delicate cheeks not
designed for pain. She held her breath, ignoring her interest. Her voice was
calm, restrained. Measured, hiding all emotion. I rarely cane a boy’s bare
bottom but this is deserved. Well deserved she thought, a duty. Not to be
enjoyed. You will do well to stay still.
It will make it easier for you. It would, but would it make it easier for
her. Six strokes, six strokes boy. And I
do not intend to go easy. He moved, twisted his small body, bent and prone.
The cheeks twitched in anticipation. She sensed, heard, his distress. A
distress increased as she placed the cane across the centre of his bare bottom
and tapped, signalling that the pain imagined was soon to be real. He cried, a
small cry but audible. It was time. She raised the cane, high, measured the
distance, and struck. She was well experienced, she had done such before. It
should not take long.
The boy screamed, a combining gasp and
roar, as the first stroke of the cane cut his bare flesh. The effect surprised her, the Headmistress, the pain
engulfed the boy. Searing, cutting, pain which fired across both of his
buttocks and instantly travelled to his brain. For a second she thought he
might faint, or rise, cover his bottom with his hands as he issued a tearful
plea to be let off. But he did none of these things and through the gasping and
groaning merely hung on to the chair as if his life depended on it. A thin red
scar rose across his naked skin, flashing a mark aimed well and true. A bottom
caned, albeit only one stroke. She relaxed and steadied the cane once again
against the boy’s bottom, now twitching fervently, and with a deft flick
delivered the second stroke. Still across the centre of the small round target
and still with the fire she knew he deserved. He cried again but, this time, as
the new pain vied with the old he seemed to absorb the shock and merely twisted
his legs in an indication that she had found her mark. And he gasped and
twisted again as she struck him twice more, one slighter lower and one slightly
higher, and took his caning to the homeward journey. A slight pause as she
studied him and, almost caringly, allowed him to gather himself for the final
two cuts. As an indication of the pause and a warning of what was still to come
she lifted his school shirt a little higher up his back. His bottom, a bottom
which looked so pure and unsullied only a few minutes before, now blazed four
fiery marks of chastisement. The deep scarlet lines contrasted painfully with
the surrounding white skin of the soft backside. It would soon heal, soon fade,
but not before she had completed her task. A task she knew had to be done. She
touched the cane against the ravaged skin and tapped, taking care to avoid the
existing lines. Lines she had painted on a deserving bottom. The boy stiffened,
readied himself, knew what was to come and screamed again, twice, as strokes
five and six cut into his fourteen year old bottom. These were the hardest two;
both knew that, the evidence was there. The evidence, the aftermath, the
gradual dying of the painful and tearful scene. Six strokes, four hard and two
harder, on the boy’s bare bottom. It had to end as it did. And from first
stroke to last had been no more than four minutes. But it seemed much longer.
The Boy
I had to rise. I had to get
up. I had to clutch my bottom and rub for all I was worth. I could see in her
face that she was displeased but I did not care. Did not care that she could
see my lower nakedness, could see my boyish penis and ravaged bottom as I
skipped around her room. All I cared was that the pain in my bum, the intense
throb of those last two strokes, should subside as my tears should subside. And
I did not care that I had wet myself. The shock of those last two cuts to my bum
had caused that. It was her fault. She had done this to me, induced tears and
everything through scorching pain to my bottom. I doubted if the pain would
ever go, doubted if the marks would ever fade. Hard ridges registered in my
fingers, I owned a bottom I was convinced would never heal. And she just stands
there, watching me, the woman who did this. Caned my bare bottom. And I could
never, would never, tell. As I stroked my burning bum I hated her almost as
much as I hated that girl. Just for that moment I hated her.
The Headmistress He
will calm down. In a few minutes. They always do. Once the pain begins to ease
the cavorting will cease. Boys are very resilient, more so than girls. I regret
his loss of control but such a shock to his bottom can create such problems,
albeit in his case only momentarily. Girls can be much worse. But I have no
other regrets. This caning, delivered as it was, was well deserved. He may not
ever thank me but, as he examines those marks, he may grudgingly admit to
himself that I had no choice. And he will examine them, boys always do, he is
touching the ridges now, fascinated, even though consumed by pain and tears.
And that pain, as usual, diverts any shame. He is not aware that as he rubs his
backside he displays all his lower nakedness. Girls always rush to cover up,
whatever the circumstances, boys care only for the assuaging of the fire I have
created in their bottoms. And boys, this boy, have such nice bottoms. If one
has to cane, as I sometimes do, it is nice to have a pleasing bottom. He will
calm down, the tears will subside, the rubbing and cavorting will cease.
Gradually. And then I shall tell him to pull up his pants. To cover that nice
bottom. Boys never do, until you tell them. I often wonder why.
The door closed, separating boy and
woman. Thirty minutes. Less. Twenty
seven. Twenty seven, that is all it took, from the moment he knocked and
entered to the moment he left. She knew because of the clock on her wall. Two
o’clock when he knocked on her door, two twenty seven when he closed it behind
him as he left. Only four of those twenty seven minutes had any true meaning.
For four of those twenty seven minutes a vicious cane had struck the tender and
naked bottom of the boy. The rest had been listening, preparing, bending,
reacting, dressing, listening. A woman’s cane, a bending boy. A bottom raised,
naked and ready, a rod hovering in flight. Six strokes, six searing moments of
intense cutting pain, six fleeting stabs of agony. Well deserved. She said so,
the girl would say so. Maybe, later, when he examined and touched those painful
marks, he would say so. Maybe much late in life, when he was grown and mature,
he would remember the day his headmistress caned his naked bottom and feel a
warm and satisfying flush. Maybe. But just now, at fourteen, he doubted. Twenty
seven minutes after he entered her room, her study, he had left. His watch said so. Chastened,
confused, subdued. A fire still in his backside. The memory of that would never
change. And like many boys before him in that study, naked bottoms caned, he
could never tell.
Alfred
Roy (c) 2015