Boy's Day Out (F/M)

A fantasy, to spite a thwarted visit to the Leicester Governess. Never destined to happen I fear. If it had then two anonymous souls, lifelong friends, would have got what southerner Lenny and northerner Keith got. Or so I hoped. Happy Christmas, whatever you do. Alfred Roy

 

They were never sure who came up with the idea first. Not that it mattered. When northerner Keith and southerner Lenny combined on an unusual disciplinary adventure, the anticipation, the experience and the heady aftermath eclipsed any thoughts on the original brainwave.

They had first met some years before on an adult school adventure. Not an ordinary school. It was one of those establishments, and surprisingly there are quite a few around, that specialise in recreating the olden days of the 1950s and early 1960s. Days of Macmillan and Eden, Suez and sweet rationing, Kennedy and Elvis. And days when young boys in shorts sat at inky stained desks and lived in fear of the cane. It had an appeal to respectable middle aged men, and women, of the millennium years that could not be explained. Not that it should be. Some folks get their thrills from skydiving or white water rafting. A few, like northerner Keith and Southerner Lenny, got their adrenalin rush from a hefty cane hitting their trembling and upturned bottoms. The same fear and anticipation but a damn sight safer. As Lenny had said after one particularly hard swishing from a formidable headmistress, so she described herself, his backside was throbbing but he still had both of his legs attached.

Living so far apart, Lenny in the murky depths of Braintree and Keith ensconced in a similar Salford, their paths rarely crossed. But on regular, if intermittent, meets at their favoured establishment in the Midlands they soon realised that in humour, outlook, and interests they effortlessly gelled. No longer young but irrepressibly school boyish in spirit and looks the two slightly built fellows were soon on post educational drinks at a local hostelry before respective drives home. Quietly in a secluded corner they would exchange feelings on the day’s experience and gradually discover more about each other.

Keith had married very young but was long since divorced. He had an understanding partner who knew of his penchant for having his bottom beaten but did not share its appeal. Go off young man, she used to say, and tell whoever it is to give you twelve for me. He liked the young man comment. Lenny wasn’t so lucky. His wife neither knew nor would approve. He was sure of that. Fortunately, these days, they did not live in each other’s pockets and trips away were both possible and desired. Lenny didn’t explain and Keith considered it prudent not to enquire. All folks are different but in one defining respect the imbibing latter day schoolboys were very much the same.

Keith enjoyed nothing more than being singled out by a forbidding mistress and, in front of a small class of likeminded, ordered to drop his pants and on a bottom bared and proud receive his scholastic due. The pain of the cane across his naked behind was enhanced by the knowledge of eyes watching. No pain, however searing, could eclipse the pleasure of such public shame. It echoed of schooldays long past even if, then, classroom whacks were delivered to a covered bottom. In every other respect, the call, the walk, the bending down, the pain, it was the heady same. Lenny much preferred the more private trip to a headmistress study. Private shame to him having a special frisson that a classroom smacking could not compare. Hardly surprising. When young it had often happened. Pants had come down in private rooms many times and his small bottom had suffered at the hands and canes of a variety of chastisers. He relished that recreation. Keith could have his realised fantasy, pants taken down in full view of fellows as they never were in the past, Lenny preferred the repeat of memories indelibly seared.

They exchanged their desires and the reasons for them and then went their separate ways. An occasional phone call, the odd postcard, and a quick drink when paths fortuitously crossed was the only contact outside the hallowed walls of the secret establishment when pants came down and memories flowed. Following one phone call, Lenny had a meeting in Manchester, they met for dinner at a posh restaurant and, over expensive wine, discussed their mutual interest. Nearly two years had passed since their last combined visit to the Midlands, although both had schooldays when the other was absent. The Bottoms Academy as they called it. They exchanged experiences and, as the wine took hold, delved further into the disciplinary world. Somewhere in the conversation the Midlands Governess cropped up. Not that far from the establishment they frequented. A private woman, never taken a class as far as they knew. Did her own thing. And one of those own things, offered on a comprehensive website, was a sixty stroke caning therapy. They knew of it. A couple of the chaps at the school had experienced it. Incredibly painful but exhilarating. No warm up, no preamble, just straight in, pants down, and six sets of ten strokes across the bare backside. Marked for days and throbbed for hours. It appealed to Lenny, not so much to Keith. Until one of them, it may have been the more public Keith, said it would fun if they watched each other get it. That idea appealed to both and they left the restaurant musing on it. Three days later Lenny phoned him with a proposition. Both, Keith in Salford and Lenny in Braintree, put their phones down and felt the tingling in their loins. They were going on a boy’s day out.

It took some arranging. The Midlands Governess only sessioned on weekdays and only in the afternoons. They needed to fix a firm date and arrange a local inn or hotel to stay overnight. They had both agreed that a leisurely post whacking dinner and drinks would round off their day nicely before driving home. As Lenny said, hopefully by the following day his marks would have faded a bit. Based on the recollections of those who he knew had visited the lady, Keith was not so sure. But the idea of staying overnight with Lenny appealed. They could bond, as the modern terminology had it. He made a mental note to pack some appropriate soothing cream. Whacked bottoms often appreciated a gentle massage. If such thoughts, strangely, induced a slight erection such feelings were enhanced when Lenny phoned him again to say that he had fixed up a possible date and the lady, pleasingly, embraced the idea of dealing with the one whilst the second watched. She had laughed and said it sounded like fun. Unprompted Keith said he would be dealt with first. If for no other reason than, at the Midlands School, he was well used to having his bare bottom displayed to viewers. And it would get Lenny in the mood for his. Lenny put down the phone. The mood, and his own inexplicable erection, was already upon him.

Keith looked at Lenny as if he was seeing him for the first time. A trembling pale boy. Fearful of what was to come. The face may have aged but in all other respects he could pass for fifteen. Slight, small, no more than ten stone and a bit, with a body and a bottom so slender he felt for him. No wonder he liked his discipline in private. In public most would weep. If Lenny looked at the darker skinned Keith he would be reassured. He seemed confident, ready, face flushed and emotions surging, but up to the ordeal. Slightly taller and fuller but nevertheless with a trim figure and nicely pronounced rear. Lenny particularly noticed this about Keith. His bottom protruded even before any presentation for being caned. He noticed also that the eyes were glistening with anticipation, the body stiff with resolve, and below a disconcerting bulge suggesting pleasure. Lenny was glad he was going second. If Keith in the state he was cried off then he would equally relent. Pay the fee and go back to the hotel he thought. But, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t do that. They had come so far for their sixty stroke therapy. This was it. They had to go through with it. Both of them. That is why they were here. In her small study, looking at her, standing to attention clad only in small vest and small underpants. With hands on head as she spoke. The Midlands Governess, tall, slim, ginger haired, severe. And with a smile on her face and a savage looking cane in her hand she politely asked which of them had agreed to go first. I care not which, she said, all bottoms come alike to me. Lenny shuddered and Keith, in a lower place, twitched.

They had planned it all very carefully. Governess booked, hotel registered, tangential drives from distant locations to a desired destination. A destination to end in bottoms bared and pain delivered. They wished it no other way. The heady excitement of fearful anticipation eclipsed all other emotions. Those who feel the same need no explanation, the others would never understand. The day agreed created in northern Keith and southern Lenny a surge in wanting, a need for reliving old memories, that defied analysis. They were going to be caned. Hard. By an expert. And each would watch the other getting their due. A double pleasure, a double fear. They met, embraced, clocked in at the hotel and drove to the given destination. An imposing country house, surrounded by trees. Trees which would muffle any sounds. Cane or screams. Or so Lenny thought. She met them in the drive, smiled, sorted out their names, and bid them to enter. Ten minutes later the two erstwhile schoolboys were in her study. In vests and underpants, hands on heads. It had been that quick. And, as she said, all bottoms came alike to her.

Keith went first as agreed. He took a deep breath and moved forward to the small black leather bench. Eagerly, almost too eager, he bent over it and stretched out his arms. Wrists and legs were fixed with straps and, deftly and expertly, his underpants were pulled down to his knees. A familiar bare bottom, just below the raised vest, blinked a disconcerting welcome. A nice bum, Lenny thought, smooth and coppery, well versed in the kiss of a cane. The two cheeks complimented each other and raised themselves in co-operation and appreciation. Keith was up for it, or so Lenny thought. When those pants, pale blue, had been pulled down the stiffening rod in front advertised desire. Lenny was transfixed. On the bottom, twitching in anticipation, on the woman, rising to her full and formidable height, and on the brown and gleaming cane both readied and threatening. The Midlands School was never like this. There Lenny had watched adult boys being caned with mild interest, eager for his own private chastisement. But now, in this room, just he and Keith and a formidable expert, private and public intertwined. His body burst with a desire to see his friend caned. To see a bottom and a cane join in mutual pleasure and to know that he would be next. It is no surprise that as the first stroke found its mark his juices flowed.

Keith flinched. The first of the sixty strokes across his behind was harder than expected and he had another fifty nine to come. His flesh may be copper tinged but it raised a red line across his centre which pleased the mistress and created trepidation in the watcher. All agreed, especially Keith, that it had hurt. The remainder of the first ten followed in relentless succession and as the bending boy squirmed and gasped Lenny registered the pictured weals. When the Midlands Governess paused, fifty more strokes waiting in the wings, the one with hands on head winced at the savage sight and the other, already almost in tears, absorbed the pain. The first ten strokes of the cane across the seemingly willing naked bottom of Keith had rapidly revised their thoughts. Keith was convinced he would be crying off before many more were inflicted and Lenny, terrified and fascinated in equal proportions, wished for the lady to bare his bottom but to smack it gently. Neither scenario happened. Both took the sixty strokes therapy. As agreed. Hard and true. Both had weals that would remain until Christmas, so Lenny said, and both had behinds that throbbed through their evening dinner and long into the night. And both were glad. It was the reason for their boy’s day out and the ordeal survived eclipsed all other feelings.

They coped for a variety of reasons. Keith endured because those elusive endorphins kicked in and combined with amusing encouragements from the engaging chastiser each stinging kiss to his backside took him to unexpected heights. The sixty whacks to his bottom were hard and unrelenting but when he rose his mind floated and his being embraced all. It had been worth it. Lenny endured because he was desperate to have his pants taken down by her, whatever the pain. He visualised what the others saw. A small and quivering pale bottom, divested of upturned white vest and specially selected white pants, now at knees, presented the picture that he imagined and they saw. His naked rear begging and willing to be whacked. The searing pain of sixty strokes across his small backside would be as nothing compared with that. It was not of course. He gasped when the first few fell onto his vulnerable behind. By twenty he was in tears and they did not stop through the next forty. As Keith watched, hands on head and pants still lowered, each thwack across his friend’s pure behind increased stiffening in his private parts. By the sixtieth stroke to Lenny a second bottom was savagely ravaged and at least one of the boys on a day out had an erection that could not escape comment. As the Midlands Governess said as they dressed, boys it is not only your bottoms that are throbbing. If I had a flag Keith would be waving it. They all laughed. The alternative was to sigh.

They had witnessed each other being caned. Each had seen his friend, bent and tied and bare, getting sixty cane strokes across a behind that seemed so soft and tender. Lenny witnessing the copper cheeks of Keith turn subtly red and purple, the friend wincing under each blow, and Keith seeing the pure white bottom orbs of the other savaged with each painful strike. And both had been absorbed by it all. To suffer and to watch combined all disciplinary emotions. It is no wonder that as behinds throbbed the male bits of these adult boys danced to their own agenda. They had discovered, unsurprisingly, that canes connecting with bottoms can lead to unexpected consequences. You could say that from the first moment of Lenny’s phone call regarding the proposition it was almost destined. If it was then it is no surprise that, in a later hotel bedroom, gushing warm showers stirred and exploded the pent up feelings. Lacerated behinds sought welcome solace and each erstwhile boy embraced both the moment of soapy warm and naked wet flesh.

It was not intended. Both would deny any such consideration. Their boy’s day out was for an indulgence of disciplinary pleasures. To welcome and witness two compliant bottoms, bare as the day they were born, being whacked by an expert in the art. Heaven. They wanted nothing more, nothing less, and as their sore backsides, still throbbing, signed in at the hostelry both Keith and Lenny were content. So they had imbibed welcoming drinks in the small bar of the hotel and reflected on an amazing afternoon. It was only later, much later, when getting ready for a much wanted evening meal that the day’s events crystallised in a way neither expected. Lenny, the small and pale Lenny was showering in the small bathroom of their hotel room. For some reason, perhaps the Midlands Governess could explain it, Keith stood in the doorway watching him. He had known Lenny for some years now and was very familiar with his bottom. Lenny may have preferred private canings but classroom discipline was compulsory at the academy they frequented. And today they had both suffered the ultimate exposure of sixty stroke therapy to their bare bottoms. Wasn’t that the point of this day? And now Keith was seeing Lenny naked. For the first time. He saw the slim and pale naked body being cascaded with warm and inviting water and he saw the cleansing soap sweeping over the contours of his friend. And he saw Lenny’s bottom. Still pale and firm and round but now lacerated with the afternoon’s stripes. He smiled and made a small comment. Lenny glanced at him and the meaning in his eyes was clear. Keith needed no further prompting. Clothes divested he joined his southern friend in the shower and four eager hands combined on two still very sore backsides in mutual pleasure and soothing sensations. It was hardly surprising that those same hands found equally eager cocks and balls. Lenny and Keith, in an explosive moment, crossed a sensual divide. If that formidable Midlands Governess had witnessed, a swinging cane would connect with soft and bare bottoms for a second time. But she wasn’t there. No one was, except the naked Lenny and Keith. And the following day they drove home, north and south, doubly content. It had been some boy’s day out. And, as Lenny said, when they parted, nobody died. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Artist's Model (F/M)

Weird it is where inspirations for stories come from. This one, I tell no lies, follows a conversation with an artist at a studio open day. The bits about being a model in my youth is true, the rest is pure fantasy. And I did not buy one of her very abstract, male nude, paintings. Alfred Roy

The Artist's Model

The thing to do is concentrate. Close your eyes and think about days on the beach or in the garden tending flowers. Walking through fields of poppies on a warm and promising morning. Think about anything really. Anything except about where you are, what you are doing. Standing in the middle of an unwelcoming room, surrounded by ten eager pairs of studying eyes. Eyes that microscopically examine every inch of your skin. At a distance that dilutes warm breath and dulls whispered words. Thankfully. For you are naked, as naked as the day you were born. Not a stitch on, and that day you were born was a long time ago. Conscious of those eyes you finally close your own and think about those days on the beach. It is a nice feeling, standing naked and being stared at, but an hour is enough.

 

‘You did well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you did not move too much.’

‘I tried.’

‘Much appreciated, by me and my students.’

‘Can it be a problem?’

‘Occasionally, yes.’

‘Especially if the bits move.’

 

At my response she laughed.

 

‘Talking of bits, we all think you have a nice bottom.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes, all of us. Me and the students.’

‘I am flattered. Considering my age.’

‘You shouldn’t be. One young lady said that he may be well over fifty but his bum is definitely only fifteen.’

‘Skin tight.’

‘Small and smooth, it does not age like face and hands.’

‘Spoken like an artist, madam.’

 

She paused, and became more serious.

 

‘Is that why you agreed to do it?’

‘What?’

‘Pose nude for us?’

‘Because I think I have a nice bottom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Partly. I like being naked and having a nice bottom, as you say, is a bonus.’

‘For you or us?’

‘Both, I think.’

 

She paused again, and her face took on a very serious tone.

 

‘How do you keep it in shape?’

‘Many ways’

‘Such as?’

‘I walk a lot.’

‘Of course.’

‘And watch my diet.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘And exercise. Mainly at home, I do not like gyms.’

‘Too crowded?’

‘Too sweaty.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Do you need to ask?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I think you know.’

‘Try me?’

‘It’s kinky’

‘I adore kinks.’

‘I have it whacked.’

‘Your bottom?’

‘Where else?’

‘Often?’

‘Frequently. At least once a month.’

‘Just to keep it in shape?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

 

She laughed again, but this time it held a hidden promise. For the first time on that strange day my loins tingled.

 

We were sitting in a small and cosy cafe. I had met her at one of her artistic open days. Fifty, severe, but fun. And desperate to sell her strange but compelling art. Male nudes in abstract, rich and diverting, full of complex swirls and stripes creating a modernistic slant on the age old form. I did not understand but they intrigued and, after a third visit, I bought one. Pale blues and orange with just a hint of the male form. We had chatted on all my visits and there was a relaxed air between us, established well before the money changed hands. She did art classes, regularly, and finding older males willing to strip off wasn’t easy. A comment prompted by my amplified thought that posing in the nude was very pleasurable. I had done it in my youth but now, regrettably, much too old. She did not agree. Such volunteers were always welcome, just extremely rare. So I volunteered and, a month later, had stood naked in her studio for an hour thinking mainly of flowers.

 

‘You intrigue me’, she said.

You intrigue me.’ I said.

 

We both laughed.

 

I saw her again two weeks later. This meeting was different. We were in the same cafe, drinking the same weak coffee, and continuing our previous conversation. Except that this one had an alternative slant.

 

‘Well, that was unexpected.’

‘My phone call?’

‘Yes. That and the request.’

‘To see you in your professional capacity?’

‘My other professional capacity.’

 

She emphasised the word ‘other’.

 

‘I found you.’

‘On facebook?’

‘No. Another site.’

‘A specialist one?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were you surprised?’

‘No, not really. I suppose I half expected it.’

‘It’s an old site. Forgotten it was still there.’

‘But you must get feedback. Requests.’

‘Occasionally. I ignore them. Long time ago.’

 

I paused. Thinking. Drinking my weak coffee.

 

‘But you didn’t ignore mine.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘You were my model, remember?’

‘Is that the only reason?’

‘No. We seemed to get on well.’

‘And we are only having a coffee.’

‘Very weak.’

‘Madame Kahlo?’

‘A daft name.’

‘It suits. Conjures up visions of a wielded paintbrush.’

‘Or other wooden implements.’

 

She laughed and I joined in. I liked this woman and I reckon she liked me. But when she spoke again my mood changed.

 

‘But after?’

‘After what?’

‘The coffee.’

 

I froze. Registered that strange gleam in her eyes. The slight increase in her breathing. The stiffening of her body. Intermingled signals I could neither deny nor ignore.

 

‘After?’

‘After the coffee, what then?’

‘I don’t know. I go home, I suppose.’

‘Oh Nigel.’

 

She used my name, for the first time I think.

 

‘Oh Nigel. You disappoint me. Why would you go home?’

‘Because we met for coffee. You said so, on the phone. You made that clear.’

‘That we meet for coffee.’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing else. Or so I assumed.’

‘But you hoped. Admit it Nigel, you hoped.’

‘It crossed my mind.’

 

She laughed, a little loud and disturbing in such a public place.

 

‘Of course it crossed your mind. It did more than that. I would be surprised if it didn’t, having found my old website. I do remember our last conversation.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? You like having your bottom spanked, don’t apologise for that.’

‘Caned.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Except harder.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you discovered I used to do it.’

‘A bonus.’

 

She gave me that very serious look again, the one first seen when I told her of my kink.

 

‘And I have decided I will do it again. As a one off. For you.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘And no fee.’

‘Even more foolish.’

‘You amuse me. And I like you. Modelling for me was fun. My students thought so. And, as we all said, you have a delightful bottom.’

‘And you haven’t caned one recently?’

‘No. I am retired from that. But you seem to have rekindled the interest. I think it’s the naughty boy in you.’

‘I am a perennial fifteen year old. So my friends say.’

‘Then you deserve to be whacked. By me.’

‘Or Madame Kahlo.’

 

She laughed again, quieter this time, and more breathless. I think she was getting turned on. I know I was. The room was beginning to spin and my face was getting flushed. And the stirring in my loins was unmistakeable. The promise of discipline across my bottom was a heady prospect I could never deny. Whatever the circumstances. And I liked this woman, had done ever since we first met. Spiralling artistic male nudes in hues of orange and blue was one thing, but being beaten by her eclipsed all. I relished the idea and the reality.

 

‘I will. Willingly. But there is one thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘I insist on paying. There has to be a fee.’

‘Why?’

‘It will not work otherwise.’

‘Too personal.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘There has to be that barrier. I hope I am not offending you.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good.’

‘And if you have, I know the remedy.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Oh, do not worry, I used to be very good.’

 

She rose, ready to leave.

 

‘Pay for the coffee Nigel, and I will see you in an hour. Give you time to compose yourself. Here’s my card. I think I shall enjoy this.’

 

And with that she left.

 

The thing to do is concentrate. Close your eyes and think about days on the beach or in the garden tending flowers. Walking through fields of poppies on a warm and promising morning. Think about anything really. Anything except about where you are, what you are doing. Standing in the middle of an unwelcoming room, surrounded by eager studying eyes. Eyes that microscopically examine every inch of your skin. At a distance that dilutes warm breath and dulls whispered words. Thankfully. For you are naked, as naked as the day you were born. Not a stitch on, and that day you were born was a long time ago. Conscious of those eyes you finally close your own and think about those days on the beach. And then you bend over the bench, laid out conveniently in the centre of the room. It was not there last time, the day you posed naked for aspirant artists of varied ability. But it is there now. And now some of those same students watch, not paint. Watch as you are bent over and tied down. Watch as you are beaten, with a cane.

 

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Content.’

‘Good.’

‘Content and sore.’

‘Not annoyed?’

‘Should I be?’

‘Possibly. Some folks do not like an audience.’

‘It was only three. And I don’t mind. Adds something.’

‘The perennial exhibitionist.’

‘Is that why you invited them?’

‘Partly.’

‘Thinking it would add something.’

‘Did it?’

‘Yes. But you should have told me.’

‘A breach of trust?’

‘Could be. And knowing, knowing others would be watching, would have added to the anticipation.’

‘It might have put you off.’

‘It might.’

‘But once in the room, seeing them, I knew you would be hooked.’

‘You did say you were good.’

‘Very good, Nigel. Very good’

‘And you paint the most interesting pictures.’

 

She laughed, quite loud again, but as were in her flat, alone, it did not matter. I suppose I could have been angry. Turning up at her flat, studio, and finding three eager young students waiting. Waiting and eager to see what the afternoon entailed. They had been well selected, as I later learnt, young and intrigued embracers of all the senses. Well chosen, well versed, and alive with fascination. They were to see a man being beaten. That is how she had put it to them. To see a man release all those mesmerising endorphins as a cane smacked into his naked bottom. To witness a sensation that defies explanation and is beyond understanding. Until you have seen it, heard it, smelt it. They would leave shaking their heads but they would leave richer in knowledge of the human condition. Or that was her rationale. Mine was more basic. Power surged through me as, with watching eyes, she told me to strip to my underpants and calmly explained to the trio what was to happen. I was to be tied down on her bench, Nigel is a willing participant she said, and I shall cane him thirty six times. Observe all, marks, movement, distress. Observe all; it may be the only chance you get. I listened to it all, covered only in my underpants and conscious of a growing erection. A woman, a cane, three observers, a bench, and me. Almost naked. Humiliation, anticipation, and fear combined in heady levels. When she walked towards me, fully immersed as Madame Kahlo, and slowly peeled off my underpants I was eternally grateful that none giggled at my stiffened state. They were all enthralled and that made what was to come almost heavenly.

 

‘Did they say anything as they left?’

‘Only that you took it well.’

‘I am experienced.’

‘So I saw.’

‘But it still hurt.’

‘As it should.’

‘I hope they appreciated it.’

‘They were enthralled. Transfixed. Caning a bottom, a naked bottom, plays havoc with the emotions of the watchers.’

‘Is that why you did it?’

‘Partly. Caning you appealed and my students just added an extra frisson.’

I supped the wine I had been offered, a gentle well rounded merlot, and considered my next response.

 

‘I am sorry about my erection. I hope they weren’t embarrassed.’

‘Were you?’

‘No. It added to my humiliation.’

‘I think they were amused. Amused and intrigued. It added to their understanding.’

‘And quickly lost.’

‘Of course. I am, or was, Madame Kahlo.’

‘And you caned me well. My bottom is well striped and well sore.’

‘Then a very useful afternoon. For all of us.’

‘Living art?’

‘In a way. In a manner of speaking.’

‘Your health.’

 

I raised my glass.

 

‘And yours, Nigel.’

 

She raised hers and we both laughed.

 

It was art. In a way. She had peeled off my underpants and led me to the bench. Watching eager eyes saw me bound and naked across her bench. A soft backside upturned and ready and with a hardness in front that signalled agreement. As those eyes watched and absorbed, her cane lashed into my upturned cheeks. I gasped at each strike on my buttocks but as I drank in the fire and pain I blessed the presence of witnesses. Witnesses to the painting of the hues of her blues and orange across my nether cheeks. Living art. Living pain. Living submission. Observed by some of those who had, on another day, drawn my nakedness. Now they could draw my pain. Thirty six strokes. All lovingly created on my bottom as carefully and as cleverly as any painter’s brush. They, I, and Madame Kahlo were well pleased.

 

Or I hoped so. Next time, if there is a next time, no students will be present.

 

Alfred Roy (2018)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guest Story - Shorts on Fire by Africanus

Something a bit different. A guest story from a follower of my blog. Personally I would have the lad dropping the shorts but, otherwise, good enough to post here. Not a precedent I hasten to add even if, teasingly, I suspect a sequel when those pants will come down. In the meantime enjoy Africanus. Makes a change from Alfred Roy.



Shorts On Fire ( A Mrs Dwaine Story)

 

On that broiling Saturday afternoon – with the pavement almost cinder hot and uncomfortable to walk on – I was to report to Mrs. Patience Dwane for a caning. A punishment for inattentiveness with the formidable Xhosa matriarch assuring me that I would feel each and every stroke and would not be negligent for some time to come.Before the discipline itself I would need to face the ordeal of purchasing a school cane.The towering Patience Dwane had insisted upon Mr. Khan’s Bazaar. Pliant, quality canes capable of teaching me a proper lesson were stocked by this gentleman.I should mention Mrs. Dwane and Mr. Khan would handle everything else. My plan had been to cautiously survey Khan’s premises and select the right moment to make an appearance but the searing Eastern Cape heat put paid to that. I almost threw myself inside Khan’s Bazaar to escape the furnace.It was a place of shadows, mercifully cool and devoid of customers. I had only just got my bearings in the gloom when my shoulder was lightly tapped.

“Would you be liking a cold drink Sir, our refrigerator has an excellent selection.”

It was a tempting offer but I declined and asked whether he was Mr. Khan.

 “Yes indeed I am.”


“Are you sure you are not wanting refreshment, your accent suggests you are from England and must be feeling this African weather.”

I stammered no thank you and then took a deep breath and stated my actual business.

Mr. Khan did not blink or raise an eyebrow and beckoned me further into his premis



A moment later I was confronted by a substantial wicker basket containing an array of canes – some with crook handles - and others finished with a leather grip.



The proprietor gave the basket some thought and then selected two with crook handles. He briefly looked me up and down and then studied the canes again.



“This one I think. Mrs. Dwane has requested a similar type many times before.”



“I know my customers well you see!”


A light laugh from Mr. Khan and then as if by magic he reached behind him and extracted a large brown paper bag from a shelf.



“We shall get it wrapped for you Sir. I think you do not wish folk to know you have misbehaved and require a caning.”



“You see Mrs. Dwane today I think for a most painful but useful lesson?”



I nodded my head and my already hot face burned some more.



Three minutes later I was out on the street. The cane had been expertly bent and wrapped and Khan had accepted a ten rand note without making any further comment.



Crossing over to the side of the street with some shade I plotted a route to Mrs. Dwane’s home which avoided going past the bookshop where I worked.



My uncle (and employer) was in the habit of standing outside his shop because in the hottest, driest months a display of books he was eager to be rid off lived outside.



He would no doubt been intrigued about the curious brown paper package and I had no intention of being cross-examined by my relative on the matter.



So I avoided Devon Street altogether and took a more roundabout route through the old part of town where the first English settlers had built their small, humble townhouses.



Much to my delight the heat had driven nearly everyone inside and I was able to use this solitary walk to reflect upon on my relationship with the imposing Patience Dwane.



**



Books lay at the heart of the matter.



Or rather my inability to order the correct editions for Mrs. Dwane and then having got the order right I had failed to diligently pursue our suppliers in faraway Cape Town.



After a third fruitless visit to my Uncle’s bookshop Mrs. Dwane had taken me to one side and without causing a scene had administered a prolonged scolding.



I was an idle young man!



No eye for detail!



Did I treat all my customers this way?



I had better pull my socks up and get her books!



Someone should give me a shake!



Patience Dwane in full flow had proved to be an overwhelming experience.



Glowering down at me, hands placed on her broad hips and listing my faults I found her to be intimidating and yet hugely intriguing.







She was magnificent, utterly commanding and by the time she had finished I felt humbled and then apologised for all I was worth.



There was a curt nod of her proud head and then a long, elegant finger had pointed in the direction of the telephone on the front desk.



I had some calls to make and next week there had better be some books!



And with that she had swept out of the bookshop.



A week later she strode back into my life looking even more majestic than ever in a grey trouser suit and some high heels adding to her considerable height.



A young black man – around my age – was trailing in Patience Dwane’s wake.



Once again I was skilfully steered to one side so she could interrogate me and assumed that commanding stance of hands planted on hips and looking down on me.



“Well young man, do you have my books?”



Mercifully I did and had even secured a small discount for the various delays. I was treated to a brief but dazzling smile from above.



“So you can be a good boy! I was beginning to believe you were idle and someone who had not been raised correctly. And where are my books?”



I pointed back to the counter and a carefully wrapped pile I had placed to one side. I made a move to fetch them but found a restraining hand placed on my shoulder.



A crisp volley of Xhosa was directed at the young man who headed for the counter and rather elegantly took up a carrying position. Mrs. Dwane returned her attention to me.



“My godson Albert. A nice young man but often forgetful, lazy and clumsy. But I have a proven remedy for such shortcomings.”



Still reviewing me from-on-high Mrs. Dwane smiled again.



“Every so often I set the seat of his shorts on fire.”



I had gulped at this point and my face had coloured some more. My reaction both amused and encouraged Mrs. Dwane.



“A good caning and a mighty sore bottom!”



There was a moment of silence and I was being studied very intently.



“I think that maybe you and Albert are much alike and perhaps you have also benefitted from some cane strokes in the past?”



“In fact I am sure of it; I can read your face!”



Mrs. Dwane stepped even closer to me and lowered her voice to a whisper.




“And what Patience Dwane is thinking now is that a certain young Englishman would very much like to apologise for disappointing Madam so much.”



“And that the same young Englishman can either offer some contrite words and we conclude matters. Or perhaps he opts to make amends like Albert does?”



Mrs. Dwane stepped back and folded her arms.



Approximately three minutes later I had made my choice and been given instructions.



Saturday afternoon, visit Mr. Khan first and then the cane from Patience Dwane.



**



Mrs. Dwane’s neighbourhood highlighted the fact that she had been successful.



It was a new district of the town which the Xhosa professionals and entrepreneurs had moved out to and there were driveways with BMWs and glimpses of swimming pools. South Africa was changing fast and for the better!



I clutched my package - praying it would remain intact – and reviewed the business card I had been given containing Mrs. Dwane’s details.



After a frustrating wrong turn I finally found Accra Street and walked to the very end of the road and noted that this was the very edge of town where the scrubland began.



Taking the deepest of breaths I approached an imposing front door and rang the bell.



The door was opened by a truly beautiful and lithe Xhosa girl and I quickly realised that Patience Dwane could afford a maid.



“Madam is busy with work but you are to come in and wait for her.”



“I shall take the parcel for Madam, follow me.”



Mrs. Dwane’s employee quickly led the way and to my surprise I found myself standing on a large expanse of terrace at the back of her home.



We finally came to a halt at the far end of the terrace where there was a table with a jug of water and a glass.



More ominously a low, sturdy stool which I knew would play a part in upcoming events. The young woman gave me a brief smile.



“Madam says you may have a glass of water. But then you must stand by the stool and be quiet and perfectly still. You are to wait like this.”



A demonstration was given; the maid placing her hands on top of her head and standing directly behind the stool.



“Drink the water, you look hot. But you must be ready for Madam.”



**


Some twenty minutes passed before Mrs. Dwane appeared on the terrace.



Another trouser suit and this time completed with a stylish and colourful African turban.



She approached me slowly and with an almost regal elegance and bade me good afternoon. The cane from Khan’s bazaar was tucked beneath her arm.



“You will go across this stool in a minute or so and I will deliver a sound punishment. A good beating on your bottom for being a lazy boy and wasting Madam’s time.”



“Mr Khan’s canes – as you will discover – get fine results.”



She stepped closer to me – as was her wont – and then effortlessly spun me round.



“A good backside I think. When did this bottom last receive some correction?”



I was turned again.



“Speak up boy, Mrs. Dwane requires an answer!”



My answer came in a stutter. Not since prep school many years before.



There was a loud tut-tut from Patience Dwane.



“Too long, far too long for an idle boy like you!”



“England must be becoming a very soft place indeed.”



“Albert and his brother Peter go over my stool once a month. More if they need it.”



“I think it is good we have met. This cane has plenty of work to do and I shall keep it here and just for you.”



My wrist was then grasped and together we approached the stool.



I could feel Mrs. Dwane’s considerable might as she positioned me to her liking.



And it is pointless to deny that submitting to a strong, implacably determined and mature woman like this was not exciting.



She could seemingly move me as she wished and with her considerable ease due to her physical strength and experience.



Finally, I was placed in a tipped over position with my head down by the terrace and bottom proffered for what I knew was going to be a proper hiding.



Mrs. Dwane knelt down close to my head.



“Three wasted journeys. So three sets of six from Madam.”



“You may cry and shout. My maid is quite used to the songs young men sing when their bottoms are being caned.”





**



I’ve mentioned Mrs. Dwane’s uncommon strength and on that afternoon it was used to considerable and dramatic effect.



Before commencing she applied a vice like grip to the waistband of my summer shorts both to tighten the target area and hold me in place.



The grasp was inescapable and raised my bottom for the cane even more.



Six vigorous, excruciating strokes then ensued that had me gasping and I was astonished by her ability to wield the cane and keep me pinned over the stool.



Mrs. Dwane released her hold and I found myself writhing over the seat and throwing my hands back to try and massage my scalding rear.



That earned me a sharp tap of the cane.



“Hands away! I want that bottom to smart and those shorts pulled up good and tight.”



Thirty seconds later she seized my shorts again and I felt both excited and terrified as the material was pulled even tauter and by this demonstration of power.



“More cane strokes for you, head right down.”



A further six – delivered every ten seconds or so – had me yelping and after the fifth stroke I made a futile attempt to wriggle my thrashed bottom out of the way.



This was easily dealt with by my disciplinarian who simply hauled me back onto the middle of her punishment stool and delivered the next stroke with some extra heft.



I squealed as the cane bit into my hauled-up shorts and smacked my palms on the terrace to cope with the considerable pain.



Sore, sorry and panting I was held in place across the stool for a further minute before I heard the rattle of the cane on the nearby table.



I was ordered to rise and could not help performing a ridiculous jig. Just as she had promised, Khan’s cane did indeed get some fine results.



Patience Dwane – not even remotely out of breath despite her exertions - reviewed this dance with some amusement.



“A bit of dancing is good! Shows me a bottom is stinging and a boy is learning.”



The cane was reached for again but this time held halfway down the shaft and Mrs. Dwane purposefully planted her right foot on the centre of the stool.



A high platform was being created consisting of Mrs. Dwane’s shapely and mighty thigh. I was beckoned to come closer.



“Get up and over. The last six will be over my knee.”




“Don’t worry my leg is more than strong enough.”



I made a very poor effort of mounting this glorious stand and Mrs. Dwane’s notable might was required to hoist me up.



Eventually I was tipped right over and was treated to a dizzying view of the terrace from my perch and the delicious experience of being in contact with a sturdy, warm thigh.



“More beating for this bottom, now hold still.”



I kicked and yelped my way through the last six which came in rapid succession – the strokes whipping home - and was then left dangling across Mrs. Dwane’s raised thigh.



She was in no hurry to let me down from this compliant posture and assuredly had the stamina and know-how to keep me up there for as long as she saw fit.



A hand was placed gently on my bottom and began to explore the just-caned area.



“Shorts on fire – yes, good and hot – but next time no shorts and I pull down the underpants as well. You will receive correction on a bare bottom.”



I was left hanging there a tad longer before Mrs. Dwane applied a mild smack (which still made me flinch) to signal I was to be lowered.



She skilfully returned me to terra firma and instructed me to adjust my shorts.



As I performed this task – which made me wince as the material had been pulled tight and my bottom was striped - she flexed the cane thoughtfully and then bade me to move closer to her.



To my surprise and delight I was totally enveloped in a tender hug and she rocked me gently from side to side as she whispered in my ear.



“More punishment for you in the weeks to come, more visits to Mrs. Dwane’s house.”



When I was released there was a final dazzling smile and Patience Dwane turned sharply and strode across the terrace.



Both conquered and chastised, I drank in the sight of her superbly rounded, trouser-clad bottom and long, powerful legs and savoured the scent of her perfume.



Much to my astonishment I found myself needing to adjust the front of my shorts.


**



A fortnight later.



The weather had somewhat relented and I was engrossed in rearranging a troublesome shelf of books for my uncle.




There was a polite cough from behind me designed to gain my attention.



A smiling Mr. Khan was standing there.



“Good morning Sir. During your lunch hour please come to the Bazaar. There is a gift waiting for you from Mrs. Dwane.”



Two hours later I slipped into Khan’s shop and was once again steered towards the back of his rambling premises.



A black, hard-backed book was then presented to me.



“There is no charge Sir. Mrs. Dwane has purchased the item and you are to keep it safe and read the contents at your leisure.”



I gave Mr. Khan a somewhat perplexed look.



“I believe it is a Punishment Book Sir, your Punishment Book.”



ENDS