A little while since I posted. Have been busy but, as new photo at the side shows, found time to indulge in a favourite hobby. Much justified seeing as hits on this blog now total 200,000. I find it pleasing that so many people enjoy the same strange passion as me. When I was young I thought I was the only one. I mean, how can anyone really enjoy being caned on their bare bottom? Lots of us as the internet regularly illustrates. Long may it continue. If anyone has found any better fun than dropping your pants to be whacked then I have yet to discover it. Age limits activity these days but writing stories, such as below, compensates. Never happened to me but I can fantasise. An F/M story next time - Hotel Appointment. Like to keep all the folks happy. 200,000 times apparently. Alfred Roy
A Caning From Three Angles
The Headmaster’s View
It
has to be done. The boy deserves it, far more than most. A particularly nasty
piece of work. Bullying minors and blackmailing them. I rarely sanction canings
but this one was an easy decision. Either this or being expelled. Or both. No,
I settled on the caning but make it a harsh lesson. That was my decision.
Reading the report on his crimes made that decision easy. Eight strokes. Eight
strokes on his bare behind. That would teach him. So I thought. Until I saw
him. Now. Standing here in my study. He looks so young and vulnerable. So
innocent, so scared. Have I misunderstood?
The Games Master’s View
Thank
God he agreed. I thought for a moment he was going to decline my
recommendation. Going to suggest that the boy should be suspended or, even
worse, just given a detention. No sir, no headmaster, he deserves a good
thrashing. A few strokes of a cane across his backside, preferably a dozen,
preferably bare. Show the little bastard that we do not condone his actions.
And I will do it, willingly, it is well overdue. He looks like an angel,
standing there, but do not chicken out. This little beggar deserves everything
he is going to get and, by God, I shall enjoy it. That bum is going to be very
sore if I have any say in it. Even if you relented to only eight. I shall make
them feel like twelve.
Master Andrew’s View
Not
much chance here. The headmaster is a wimp; he looks more scared than me. And
that gym master is a bastard. Been itching to whack me all year. Probably wank
off to it afterwards. Especially as he got his wish. I have asked the
headmaster to agree to your pants coming down, he had said. A bare arse
thrashing boy. I was supposed to be impressed, supposed to plead. I spit at
him. See you in court I said. He repeated it. Bare backside, eight strokes
though I reckon you deserve at least twelve. How he enjoyed keep saying it.
Your pants are coming down boy, your pants are coming down. Tomorrow. If he
doesn’t bring himself off at the thought probably the headmaster will. Me? I
have had worse. And now I am here, in the study, and hate and fear are eclipsed
by a surfeit of despising. Just get it over.
The Set Up
The
headmaster sipped his glass of water. How he hated situations like this. A
young boy trembling. A master fired up with indignation and revenge. And
himself, arbiter of an unpleasant task he would wish left to others. Corporal
punishment was rarely sanctioned these days. Almost outlawed, but not quite.
Reserved only for the most serious cases. And this one was serious, so much so
that he had agreed with the gym master. Yes the boy could be caned. Yes he
could be given the maximum of eight. And yes he could have his pants taken
down. It was still allowed at a private school. Even if not condoned. But all apprised
of the circumstances would agree. He thought. Would agree that the boy’s pants
would have to come down. And, naturally, he would have to be there. To watch,
to ensure fair play. To ensure no overstepping of the mark. No going too far
when a boy was caned on his bare backside. This boy. Trembling and nervous. The
first to suffer such for at least three years. He had shuddered when the gym
master said this. Three years since we sanctioned such a punishment. Almost an
attempted rape that was and the instigator was subsequently expelled. Only a
nicety in the procedures had allowed him to be caned first. Much deserved. But
this boy, this boy, was his sin so bad?
Yes
headmaster, the gym master had said. Bullied twelve year olds and threatened
them if they did not pay him protection money. A nice little scam, a nice
earner, for a year or so until one of the little ones absconded and revealed
all to his distraught parents. Deserving of being expelled but a caning first.
Or as a substitute, a reprieve. He didn’t care as long as his sturdy cane
whacked into that boy’s bottom around a dozen times. Long desired to do it but
never dared. This was his chance. If not twelve then at least eight. And pants
down headmaster. Make him suffer as he made the juniors suffer. Make him feel
something he will never forget. And then expel him if you want to. Send him
away with thick and fiery red stripes across his rebellious arse. Will be an
hour well spent.
He
told the boy of the headmaster’s decision. He never flinched. Five and a half
feet of pure, sixteen year old, venom. He and the gym master loathed each other
with a passion. Got your wish, he said. Always wanted to get my pants down, he
said. And the wimp has agreed. Surprised you haven’t got a hard on, or maybe
you have. The gym master refused to rise to the taunting bait. His hour would
come when this boy was bent over, trousers and underpants down, awaiting his
cane on his bare flesh. He could wait and the boy knew that. False bravado
ahead of a daunting experience. He spat in the face of the threat but inwardly
quaked. But whatever transpired he was determined not to cry. He hated the
bastard of a gym master and despised the wimp of a headmaster. They might see
his naked bum but they would never see tears.
The Preparation
It
was all so classically evocative. The diminutive and venomous Master Andrew,
eyes ablaze with a mixture of fear and loathing, the sadistic Games Master rich
in eager anticipation, and the tall and perturbed Headmaster weighing up
justice with humanity and order with excess. The boy had to be caned, as
decreed, and he had to be caned on his bare backside. As persuaded. But if the
Games Master was bent on a private vengeance, long festered, he was there to
ensure the ultimate sanction stayed within acceptable bounds. In a study rich
in leather bound furniture and washed with afternoon sun, he laid out the
inevitable procedure. Long and tortuous it seemed to a boy with a twitching
behind and a games master holding a twitching cane. If the one feared, in spite
of his outward bravado, and the other relished, both combined in wishing that
the punishment would soon commence. The boy in hope it would quickly be over
and the master in equal and fervent hope that it would be as imagined. The
prolonged peroration, delaying to both the inevitable tableau to follow, was a
headmaster using words to steel his resolve and allay his doubt. It was only
five minutes or so from the boy entering the study to bending over the low
backed leather chair but it seemed like an eternity. Never were words so
unnecessary and wasted.
The Dialogue
The
Headmaster spoke.
‘You
know why you are here boy?’
‘Stupid
question.’
‘Do
not be insolent boy, you will only make things worse.’
It
was the Games Master who spoke, relishing the expected insolence.
The
headmaster again, surprisingly apologetic.
‘I
just wish to be certain you know why you are to be caned, that is all.’
‘Because
I got found out, because some brat blagged to his folks.’
The
headmaster studied him and absorbed his response. Sympathy was rapidly
dissolving.
‘Do
you feel no remorse?’
‘There
is only one thing he will feel, Headmaster.’
The
Games Master again, impatiently tapping the cane against his right thigh.
‘Let
him answer. Well, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,
that is progress.’
‘For
being found out.’
The
boy spat out the words and followed with a few more.
‘Unlike
all the other bastards who have been doing the same for years. But he likes them;
he turns a blind eye to them. It’s only me he wants to get.’
‘That
is not true, Headmaster. I have no agenda.’
‘Bollocks.’
The
boy spit out the word and the Headmaster flinched.
‘It’s
bollocks. He has been itching for an excuse to cane me for months. That little
oik gave him one.’
The
Games Master again.
‘I
have no agenda, Headmaster. I agree that I have long felt that this boy
deserves to be taught a hard lesson. Which is why we are here. But it is not
personal, definitely not. It is only what is deserved. Deserved and just.’
The
Headmaster sipped water from the glass on his desk and pursed his lips.
Combining thoughts and words were proving difficult.
‘Putting
aside this perceived animosity do you accept that what you did was wrong? Threatening
younger boys and stealing money from them?’
‘I
didn’t steal. They gave it to me.’
‘In
return for what?’
‘Things.’
‘Bollocks.’
This
time it was the Games Master uttering the expletive.
‘He
was running a protection racket, Headmaster. If they did not give him cash he
would beat them up. We are wasting time. He deserves to be thrashed and he knows
it.’
The
Headmaster pursed his lips again.
‘Is
that true?’
‘Of
course it is true, and that little shit knows it. Don’t be deceived by the
angelic face.’
‘Language,
Master, language. I repeat, is it true?’
The
boy considered before answering. To deny was to prolong and, although fearful
of what was to be done, he wished it over. Just so long as he did not cry. He
did not want to give that satisfaction to a man he hated.
‘Yes.
Yes it is true. They paid me so I would not beat them up. But I am not the
first, or the last. Just the one that that shit, that shit, wanted caught.’
‘Then
you leave me no choice.’
As
the Headmaster said this there was almost a hint of regret in his voice, a hint
that the Games Master was determined to extinguish.
‘There
you have it Headmaster. Out of his own mouth. His own words, so perhaps we can
now get on with what we are here for.’
The
cane tapped impatiently, yet again, against the twitching and rigid right
thigh.
‘Yes.
Yes. Of course.’
The
Headmaster took a deep breath.
‘You
will be caned, Andrew Bailey. Caned for a heinous offence. It is with regret
but with justification that I sanction it. Your Games Master, Mr Bennon, will
administer the caning. Eight strokes.’
‘Think
yourself lucky, boy. I wanted twelve.’
The
Headmaster ignored the interjection.
‘Eight
strokes of the cane on your buttocks. The normal punishment at this school. But
in view of the seriousness of your offence...’
‘That
bastard gets his wish.’
‘Quiet.
The Headmaster has not finished.’
‘In
view of the seriousness I have agreed that the caning shall be delivered to
your naked backside. I would therefore ask you to prepare yourself and bend
over that chair. The sooner this is over the better.’
A
moment of silence as all absorbed the fateful words.
The
boy gulped but hid his nervousness. He knew it would come to this and he was
not looking forward to it. Putting aside the humiliation of taking his trousers
down and showing his bare bum the thought of that cane hitting him eight times
was loosening his bladder. He was scared but he would not show it. Not to that
shit of a Games Master. Just do not cry he said to himself. Anything, any pain,
but that.
The
Games Master felt a surge through his being. The Headmaster had said it at
last, eight strokes with pants down or words to that effect. The warm surge
thrilled his body and the look on the boy’s face, anxiety tinged with contempt,
thrilled him even more. Imagination was about to become reality and if he
stiffened in contemplation it was hardly surprising. But for the next few
minutes, heady with anticipation, control was all.
The
Headmaster breathed deeply and pursed his lips again. The boy’s gaze was
unnerving and the Games Master was visibly twitching. He prayed that he had
made the right decision.
‘Take
down your trousers boy. It is time you were caned.’
Any
of the three could have said that.
The Caning – The Headmaster’s View
Take
down your trousers boy; it is time you were caned. He had uttered the words he
had been rehearsing all morning and their effect was electric. What had been
promised was about to be delivered. There was no going back, all three knew
that. He watched, mesmerised, as the boy shrugged and approached the leather
chair. Only the combined heavy breathing of the three broke the enveloping
silence. The boy, face set grim and determined as he struggled with the buckle
on the belt of his trousers. The Games Master, eyes ablaze and body stiffened
with eager anticipation. And he himself, transfixed by the scene evolving
before him in his study. A boy, a boy he had decided he did not particularly
like but a boy all the same, was about to be caned on his naked bottom. And he
had sanctioned the man at his side, determined and ready and vengeful, to
administer it. He watched as the boy loosened his belt, undid his trousers and
pushed them down to his knees. He sensed the keenness in the Games Master
growing and inwardly resolved to ensure that this caning, however deserved and
however severe, remained within bounds. It was to be eight strokes across the
boy’s buttocks, nothing more nor less. He would ensure no loss of control. The
boy hesitated before bending over the chair as if coming to a decision. He
guessed at what it was and the following action confirmed it. The boy pushed
down his underpants to his knees and, contemptuously and almost provocatively,
pulled up his shirt to his waist and bent over the back of the leather chair.
Presenting an almost studied central nakedness which indicated that his
backside may be about to be violated but he retained some control, some strange
dignity. It invoked a grudging admiration, in him if not in the Games Master
who snorted at such at an action, at such a display. Wishing no doubt, he
thought, that such revealing action was a key element of the drama that the
Games Master had intended for himself. No matter all was now ready and he
watched as the bending boy was approached and the cane which had twitched in
readiness from the first moment pressed into the naked bottom. When you are
ready Mr Bennon, let us get this over with. Eight strokes, no more, as we
agreed.
The Caning – The Games Master’s View
When
you are ready Mr Bennon. Of course I am ready. I have been ready ever since
this little oik entered your study. Given his small frame and angelic looks I
feared for a second that you might let him off. Until the shit opened his mouth
and condemned himself. He’s scared now, I can tell, in spite of that grim face.
He knows I am going to lay on the cane as hard as I can even if you don’t. But I
shall keep control, shan’t give you any reason to relent even if he screams his
bloody head off. I’ll make sure every one of those eight strokes will be across
the centre of his pretty little arse. I have been practising, been waiting,
been wishing this opportunity. I shan’t screw up. And as a bonus I have to say
it is a nice arse. Small and tight and very boyish and, thankfully, as clean
and pure peach as I could wish. A boy’s arse absolutely designed for a caning,
for having livid red stripes across it. Oh, how I shall enjoy this. Pity he
pulled down his own pants, I was looking forward to that, looking forward to
showing him who was in charge. But, no matter. He did himself no favours with
the Headmaster in exposing himself like that, pulling up his shirt and almost
waving his tiny cock at us. A late two fingered salute no doubt. But at least
he has bent over, not resisting like I thought he might, and that delectable
naked arse is twitching in anticipation. Not so much as me, as I am sure he
knows. I am going to enjoy this Headmaster, and yes I am ready. I place my cane
across Bailey’s naked bottom, let us call it that, and take a deep breath. I
have waited so long, so long. Even if it is only eight.
The Caning – Master Andrew’s View
Take
down your trousers boy, it is time you were caned. Pompous git. Nervous as well.
Hey, it is me being caned, not you. Reckon he wouldn’t be so nervous if I was
getting them on my trousers and a less sadistic beast was doing it. I am ready
anyway, ready as I can be. Eight strokes across my bare bum. Does not bear
thinking about, so I won’t. But shan’t give them any pleasure, especially that
bastard of a Games Master. Hide the twitching, hide the nerves, hide the
filling bladder desperate to pee. Just get on with it I say. I shall pull my
own pants down, everything, and pull up my shirt. Show them I do not care, that
I have nothing but contempt. They can have a good look at my bum and my cock
and my balls and reckon on what they are doing. And I will not scream, I will
not cry, I will take that bastards eight strokes on my bum and then get out of
here. I will not be humiliated either. Showing my bits is no big deal, even if
that nasty cane cutting into me will be. It is soon over, I hope. Bending now,
sticking up my bum, begging him to whack it. And he will, especially as I am
sure he has got a hard on. Pervert. Oh, God, it is touching my bum. The cane.
And it feels so cold and hard on my bare skin. I must not cry. I tell myself,
whatever else, I must not cry. I can see the Headmaster standing to my right.
Catch his eye. I must not cry.
The Caning
It
was as all had anticipated. The Headmaster, the Games Master, the Boy. The
classic dance, age old, played so many times over so many years in so many
places. A boy bent down, in this case over a chair, trousers and underpants
around his knees and bare bottom sticking provocatively into the air. A man,
rigid and stern, standing to his side and slashing his cane across the twin
orbs of the twinkling boyish buttock cheeks. Creating a picture of livid red
stripes that induced both anguish and appreciation. Anguish from the one
suffering and appreciation from the one administering. And the arbiter, the one
watching, ensuring that all was in acceptable bounds. In this case eight
strokes, no more, and all delivered centrally across the boy’s two cheeks.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack,
thwack, thwack, thwack.
It
does not sound much.
Thwack.
The
boy squealed, in spite of himself, and the headmaster flinched.
Thwack.
The
boy squealed again, the headmaster flinched again, and the games Master admired
the growing red stripes.
Thwack.
Will
he rise, he is struggling, and that was the hardest yet.
Thwack.
That
was good, he squealed so loud I thought he would rise. The Headmaster is transfixed;
he cannot take his eyes of the boy’s bottom.
Thwack.
Aaagh.
That was vicious, all agreed. Wriggling, squirming, surges of desire from the
wielder, a mesmering fascination from the Headmaster. It cannot stop. It will
get harder.
Thwack.
It
did. The Boy screamed, half rose, A trickle of blood on the edge of the the
deepest red weal. The games Master sensed, almost felt, the pressing of his
erection. The Headmaster groaned but did not move. The boy started the gentlest
of whimpers as the blood trickled down his naked thigh.
Thwack.
The
boy screamed again, and screamed even more, begging to be let off, rising,
pushed down, one more to come. The Headmaster agitated, wandered around, drank
in the naked bottom, waited. The Games Master pressed the hand holding the cane
against his groin then raised it for the final time.
Thwack.
Aaaaaaaagh.
Screams. Tears. Abuse. Rising. Clutching buttocks. Swearing. No more. No more.
No more it said. You have won, you have won, you bastard. The Games Master
stepped forward, cane raised, grabbed the boy’s shirt. Lifted it high to his
shoulders. Ready to strike again. The Headmaster, the wimp, the prevaricator,
stepped in. Eight. Eight he has had. We all three need to calm down.
And
they did.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack,
thwack, thwack, thwack.
It
does not sound much.
But
it is.
Aftermath
The
boy stood by his mirror in his room. Tears in his eyes. He had failed but with
some justification. The pain had been excruciating, he had almost passed out.
But he had not cried off, until the end when the last vicious stroke had cut
into him. So he smiled and lowered his trousers and his underpants and turned
around. He studied the eight livid weals across his behind. They would be there
for some time. All eight. Evenly spaced marks across both of his small cheeks.
Raised, hard, vivid, and purple. Turning black at the centre. He touched them.
Scabby. His fingers moved and contrasted the feel with the smoothness of his
untouched skin. Eight strokes, parallel lines, only an inch and a half or so
from first to last. That Games Master knew his trade. It was a caning he would
not forget. His bottom, still hot, said so. He pulled up his pants. Two hours
later he lowered them again and looked again at the stripes. And this time,
this time almost in defiance, he masturbated. Brought himself off.
Elsewhere
in the school, separately, as imaginations were fuelled and situations relived,
two others were doing the same.
Alfred
Roy (c) 2017