Saturday, 2 September 2017
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.
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 Headmaster spoke.
‘You know why you are here boy?’
‘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?’
‘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.’
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?’
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.
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.
The boy squealed, in spite of himself, and the headmaster flinched.
The boy squealed again, the headmaster flinched again, and the games Master admired the growing red stripes.
Will he rise, he is struggling, and that was the hardest yet.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Wednesday, 7 June 2017
This story is self explanatory. The preamble should make it clear. In reality I thought I was going to meet up with such a person during the spring months. It did not happen, sadly. However I did manage to make a visit to an old friend and we created the situation I had desired with someone new. The photo on the side is the result. No longer a thirty year old bottom, as per the story, but one that thoroughly enjoyed being whacked. One may be getting old but one can still enjoy this most delightful of perversions. Enjoy the story, even if you have to avert your eyes. Alfred Roy
The Retired Headmaster
It’s a phrase that always caught my eye and created a tingle elsewhere. And if I followed it up, a spring infused my steps. Retired Headmaster. Just two words, but two words rich with special promises and pleasures. Met one or two in my time. Whether they were real headmasters or no, I cared not, the soubriquet was enough, especially if they looked the part. Have been hankering recently to again meet up with one of those like minded folks who still promote themselves as such but distance and obstacles have so far thwarted. It hasn’t stopped me thinking that such a visit is long overdue. Headmistresses, retired or not, don’t come cheap and the male of the species often perform their pleasurable tasks for free or just a nominal sum. To someone who cares little who bares his behind and stings it, as long as it is done with expertise and relish, the situation is a no brainer. So I shall continue searching and hoping and, in the interim, muse on a Retired Headmaster experience I had some years ago.
He was a fussy little man, dapperly dressed in three piece suit and bowtie, and reminded me more of a floor manager at an expensive department store than retired headmaster. But he had a malicious twinkle in his eyes and a warming smile when he discussed the afternoon arrangements. Both facets set me at my ease and suggested promise. We had communicated a couple of times before meeting. I travelled a lot in those days and his palatial detached house, so he told me, was only a short detour on my regular journeys along the A1. The Great North Road. I could call in on my way back south in a summer heat that was heavenly both for the warmth and the adventure. My northern meetings had been dreary but necessary and it was only the thoughts of our meeting that kept up my spirits. Hardly surprising. I had been put in touch with him by a like minded friend and our couple of telephone chats established a rapport. He liked caning bottoms and I liked mine to be caned. As a schoolboy. We could be made for each other he said, and chuckled. His parting words, as we confirmed my visit, lingered throughout my business trip and haunted every free moment. I shall take down your pants of course, he said. All boys should be beaten on their bare bottoms. Yours will be no exception. I said I would not have it any other way. Headmaster or not, retired or not, he certainly ticked all my boxes.
Such anticipation, of course, can frequently lead to disappointment. It had happened to me a couple of times. I once, famously, spent seven hours in travelling for six of the best on my shorts. All over in five minutes. That was it. The man who did it was happy. I wasn’t. He had not stirred from his house. I journeyed home, three and a half hours, with a slight sting in my bottom and a strong feeling of frustration in my head. Could this be the same? A week or so spent in anticipation for five or ten minutes of fleeting pain and little pleasure. I sincerely hoped not. I reckon that seven hour jaunt, and other experiences, was why I turned to professionals. Male and female. At least with them you get your sixty or ninety minutes. They earn their fee. But amateurs, I use the word kindly, can be unpredictable.
I need not have worried. From the first tentative knock on door, the house was all he said, and the warm handshake I sensed we would gel. Long journey, he said, let us have tea and talk. So we did. I told him my desires and fantasies and experiences at school, the latter particularly intrigued, and he told me what he intended to do. Allow an hour, he said, I have no wish to rush. That appealed. No seven hour frustration here, I thought. I had bought my PE kit, white top and shorts as he had requested, and changed into them after the refreshing tea. Leave on your underpants, he said, you may need the extra protection. And then he smiled. Do not worry, they will be coming down. I tingled and, hastily changed, went to the room he indicated. A headmaster’s study in all its splendour. A large desk and equally large leather chair. A small bench on which, attired as ordered, I sat and lots of impressive bookcases. And in the corner, near latticed windows, a stand full of various implements. All designed to mark a behind. I waited for about ten minutes and, shamefully, played with myself in anticipation. Only through my shorts and underpants but, waiting, my desire was clearly strong. I prayed he would not see.
I should make it clear at this stage that I looked every inch the schoolboy. I was in my mid thirties, slightly built, and with a very young face. My love of corporal punishment had been kindled at school and flowered through my twenties. I was, and still am, fortunate in that my bottom matched my face. Young and boyish but deceptively capable of taking severe cane strokes. Made me popular at the caning parties I regularly attended in those days. In anticipation of my meeting with this retired headmaster I had refrained from any indulgence for a number of weeks. Most caners that I know and knew appreciate a virgin, unmarked, bottom and mine was pristine smooth, hairless, and unblemished. Every inch checked in bathroom mirror, and every inch ready and eager to be painted in scholastic stripes. No wonder I was playing with myself.
He caught me. I was so absorbed in my lower fumbling I did not hear, or see, him enter the room. His manner had changed, stern had replaced fussy and steel supplanted warmth, and I guiltily blushed as he bid me stand. He expressed disgust, naturally, but secretly I reckon he was pleased that my furtive actions had introduced a verisimilitude to our preambles.
‘Do you usually indulge in such disgusting habits?’
‘In the headmaster’s study?’
‘Yes sir. Sorry sir.’
‘You will be boy. You are here to be caned as you know. Gross insubordination. In view of your unseemly behaviour I shall increase both quantity and severity of the cane strokes. Do I make myself clear?’
‘I think twelve strokes, six on your shorts and six on your underpants will suffice for the insubordination and then a further twelve on your bare behind for this latter offence. Do you agree?’
‘Do I have a choice sir?’
‘Do not get glib with me boy or I might have those shorts down straight away and give you them all on your naked backside.’
‘Yes sir, sorry sir.’
‘Yes sir, sorry sir. How many times have I heard boys say that when they know that their bottom is about to be beaten. It’s too late to be sorry, too late. It is time to bend over and take your punishment. Punishment well deserved and punishment delivered to where nature intended. To your bottom. A bottom that will be very red and sore by the time I have finished. Bend over and touch your toes.’
He was in full stride through all this, pacing and pacing up and down the room. I stood transfixed and a little thrilled. As the pacing increased he crossed to the latticed window and selected a cane from his copious selection. It was red, medium thick, and made for a goodly swish as he flexed it. He amplified my thoughts when he referred to it as a senior cane, redwood, designed to sting the most obdurate of behinds. His face was flushed and his eyes gleamed in anticipation. Bend over, he said, touch your toes or grasp your ankles. Six strokes boy. His voice was thick and, as I replied and did as instructed, my own was almost as breathy. I couldn’t touch my toes but I did manage to grasp my upper ankles and keep my legs straight and steady. I was conscious of both my upturned bottom and, reassuringly, the fact that it was covered by both shorts and underpants. That cane looked vicious. I was both headily expectant and slightly scared, both feelings enhanced by the thrill I felt when large hands explored my covered rear. He may be a retired headmaster and I a naughty schoolboy but, prior to delivering his first set of stings, fantasy allowed a short sexual frisson that reality would frown upon. I sighed as those hands explored all of my nether curves. My bottom cheeks, my crack, my testicles and penis, all felt the clothed touch of exploring hands. Did he do this when he was a real headmaster? Did he desire to do it and resisted? Was he at last fulfilling suppressed passions? I cared not. All I thought was do not stop, do it more, cane me, and then when my pants are down do it again. When the redwood cane touched my bottom for the first of my first six I was as stiff as the hardest pole.
When it landed, hard and straight across the centre of my clothed bottom, I was not so keen. It stung like hell and the fiery line engendered caused a shuffling of feet and a reaching forward. Hold still, he said, clearly consumed by the corrective act. I did, manfully and painfully. The line throbbed and I knew I had been caned. Albeit only one stroke. Two and three quickly followed and I gasped at both the intensity and the residual pain. My poor bottom was developing an all consuming heat and staying down, ankles grasped, was proving difficult. Retired or not, true or not, this headmaster certainly knew how to cane a boy’s bottom. I readied myself for strokes four, five, and six and prayed they would be quick and accurate. The pain in my rear was eclipsing all other thoughts and desires. My penis had flagged, my breath had exhausted, and the burn on my cheeks was excruciating. I closed my eyes and beseeched those prayers. It did little good. The latter strokes stung and burned and my discomfort rose to new levels. But I remained submissively down and pain eased as a short intermission was followed by exploration of my ravaged backside and the gradual lowering of my shorts. That was perverted bliss. Resting, as they were, on my ankles I was now conscious of hands exploring my tight fitting, and thin, underpants and my increased vulnerability. The burning bottom and eager, manly hands, returned my penis to its earlier full state and flagged a silent acknowledgement that the second six strokes should be delivered. He took his time. The hands explored for what seemed an eternity. But I was not complaining. The burn in my bottom had moved from discomfort to pleasure and the hands, and my submissive position, merely enhanced it. As manly fingers and palms caressed filling balls and throbbing cock of eager student, a side benefit one could say, a small and slightly covered bottom was indicating its readiness for more of the same. Six more cane strokes, six more as hard as you can, but this time on buttock cheeks only thinly protected. He needed little urging. Silence was only filled by heaving breathing. His palms stroked and lingered on my heated curves for just a few moments longer and then, pressing my back and urging me to straighten my legs, he lashed six fairly quick and hard strokes of his redwood cane across my ready and upturned bottom. I gasped, I squirmed, I edged forward, I did not rise but continued grasping ankles, I squealed out loud, and finally I rose clutching my savaged bottom and howling. It had hurt, by God it had hurt, and I could see from his smiling face that he was well pleased. He was well pleased and I was well tanned. So much so that, burning rear notwithstanding, all in front had yet again flagged. Two minutes of cavorting and vigorous rubbing ensued and then a comment, many comments, that continued both the pain and thrill of a heady afternoon of scholastic fantasy.
‘I see that my ministrations have, once again, removed your erection.’
‘Yes sir. That second six really hurt.’
‘So I see. The next twelve will be even more painful. Over my desk, I think. I cannot see you holding ankles for those.’
‘Especially as those underpants are coming down. Bare bottom boy. Twelve strokes of my redwood cane on your bare bottom.’
‘Yes sir, no sir, yes sir. Is that all you can say? No matter. Your little penis will no doubt rise again, in fact I think it already has, but twelve hard strokes across that bottom will expunge all that. But given its manifestations I reckon it is time I saw it.’
‘That and your little bottom of course. Given my exertions I have earned that right.’
‘Then hands on head and stand up straight. I want no distractions.’
And he didn’t. I placed my hands on my head, stood up straight, closed my eyes, and waited. Five seconds later my underpants were pulled down to my ankles and large hands explored my blistered backside and my, by now, full and urgent balls and cock. I was in heaven. They say pain comes before pleasure, pleasure follows pain. This was writ large in this anonymous house on my long journey home down the Great North Road. I had been caned, a hard twelve strokes on my covered bottom by a retired headmaster who, before this day, I had never met. And now with shorts and underpants at my feet I was being explored in the most intimate way. I sighed and gasped as large soft hands stroked my very private parts and then gently turned me round to inspect and explore my lacerated bottom. Fingers tantalisingly traced the weals on my backside, followed by a gentle rubbing of palms on the same burning skin. I closed my eyes and drank in the twin sensual pleasures of large hands on my bottom and twitching cock in front. I prayed I would not spurt before the pain I had to come. Twelve hard strokes of that redwood on my naked bottom. The thought made my penis twitch again and it was almost with relief that I was bid to lay over the desk. It had been cleared of all paraphernalia and the smooth leather studded top did not cause discomfort. I stretched my arms, as instructed, and gripped the far side. The action caused my white PE vest to rise up my back and emphasised my lower nakedness. Shorts and underpants were still at my feet and as I waited they were removed. To allow me to stretch my legs he said. They allowed much more, so much more. He wanted my legs stretched wide and, lifting the vest, my back and bottom arched. I could not see the final picture but I could imagine it. Naked, except for the small vest now pushed to my waist, my small buttocks were accentuated and ready to be thrashed. And in between my genitals were exposed and vulnerable. A true boyish picture for a headmaster, retired, to fulfil his own desires. And I had no complaints. It was all I wanted. Providing the cane, already experienced on covered bottom, connected only with my bare cheeks, I could endure. However painful. I closed my eyes and sensed the cold cane pressed against the centre of my bottom. A bottom already well striped and still warm. This was it. This is what I had travelled down the Great North Road for. This was my all consuming wish. A savage cane to lash my bare backside, and to be done by a man who desired the same even more. A match made in heaven. He did not disappoint. My retired headmaster, or at least for this blissful hour or so, did what he had promised and threatened. He thrashed that cane into my exposed bottom the twelve expected times. Each stung like hell, each created its own particular fire. Most across the centre of my bum, but some slightly higher or slightly lower. But all in the area of the buttock curves and none stray enough to cause alarm. He knew his job, he knew his target. What had he said? The area that nature intended, or something like that. He was experienced, he was good, and he was enjoying himself. Ten or fifteen seconds apart each vicious stroke caused a resounding thwack on my naked skin and each made me gasp and squirm. But I suffered it all, gritted my teeth, absorbed the pain, stared at his latticed windows for relief, and gasped breath and shed tears. Not many, but enough to know that my bruised behind had sent the appropriate message to my brain. The last two were harder and quicker, he sensing perhaps my weakening resolve, but the task completed he sighed and tapped my legs with the implement of much discomfort. All done, he said, well done, he said. No blood. I said nothing. I just lay there, across his desk, naked and beaten and serene. Strange? Yes, but strange in the way only those who seek such pleasures can understand. He understood, my retired headmaster, he understood. And I understood him. I had taken his gift but, in doing so, had returned it. I sensed that we were both happy even though only I, as is usual in such cases, only I had a very sore bottom.
‘You took that extremely well.’
‘You gave them extremely well sir.’
‘I aim to please. And call me John.’
‘Yes sir. John.’
‘No sir. John. No John. It was all I wanted.’
‘Good. I must say you have a nice bottom. Actually a lovely bottom. Could have been designed for corporal punishment.’
‘I have often been told that.’
‘Even at school. A chemistry teacher once told me that I had the nicest bottom he had ever caned. I didn’t appreciate it at the time.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Did he take your pants down? Did he do it bare?’
‘No sir. John. No. But I think he would have liked to.’
‘Didn’t we all.’
‘You say we. So you were a real headmaster?’
‘And did you?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Take down the pants of your boys. Cane them bare?’
‘No, never. Not done, even in my day. We could still cane, of course. Often did. But I had my fantasies.’
‘You are very good.’
‘As I said, I aim to please.’
‘You did John. Sir. God, how I needed it.’
‘For this relief much thanks.’
‘Thank you sir.’
‘Worthy of another twelve before you go.’
‘Then back to my study boy and pants off. I wish to see that bottom again.’
And he did. And I got another twelve with the redwood before departing. Nothing else. It had been clear from the first session that he was happy to play with a boy’s genitals prior to caning but all else was off limits. That would have to wait until I got home. Spurting my built up tension would be fuelled by imagination and recall. As it should be. Headmasters, even retired ones with unfulfilled fantasies have their rules. I and all on the Great North Road would understand. At least I hope so.
(c) Alfred Roy 2017
Sunday, 5 March 2017
I suppose this should have been my Christmas piece, given the title. But sheer laziness and domestic distractions delayed. A sequel to Taking Care, which I enjoyed writing immensely. Reckon it is all those explicit showers. A particular fantasy of mine. Like the Simon of the piece I am probably a pervert. But, as my wife says, pretty harmless. Most of what I do these days is in my head. It makes those real times when I bend over, pants down, really special. Enjoy. Alfred Roy.
How do I start this? I am back home after ten heavenly days with Nurse Nettles. Ambrosine Nettles, the no nonsense nurse who had been taking care of me through the summer. (See my other piece called, unsurprisingly, Taking Care). Gives you the background to all of us. Me, the one armed Simon, my siblings Sophie and Adam, my strange dad, and nursie. It was a summer never to be forgotten. Especially by me. When nursie left, as she did suddenly, I reckon I was in love with her. She dominated my fifteen year old thoughts. Pervert my elder brother called me, but in a nice way. Perhaps I am, or becoming one. I got to enjoy the showers she gave me and, unexpectedly, I even more enjoyed the smacks she gave to my bottom. So much so I contrived situations that resulted in much more than a gentle hand slap to a bare cheek. Strange desires released and ultimately thwarted when she left. It should come as no surprise, it did not to a smirking Adam and Sophie, when dad announced a skiing winter holiday. For all except me. Not possible in my condition. One arm gone in a car accident and the other only partly mended. I was to stay with Miss Nettles for the Christmas period in her cosy cottage in the Cotswolds. More smirks from the revolting and knowing siblings. I could have jumped for joy. I reckon one small bit of me did. Or at least twitched. There, I have started my piece so telling of those ten days should prove to be easy. It was certainly a roller coaster ride.
Dad put me on the train the day before they all set off for Switzerland and Miss Nettles was waiting for me when it pulled into Cheltenham. She, like dad, said how disappointing it must be for me not to get a winter skiing holiday and I said the same to both of them. No, I said, I would rather be spending Christmas with my nurse. Perhaps it was the way I said it but both, separately, gave me a strange and similar look. It could have been along the lines of our Simon is growing up, I had turned sixteen in November, but I don’t think so. I think dad’s look was more like ‘be careful’ and Nurse Nettles was, well Nurse Nettles was more like ‘be good’. I had no intention of being either. Sophie and Adam would understand.
The first few days were a bit disappointing. I arrived at her cottage on the 20th of December and shopping and Christmas preparations were clearly the order of the day. Or week. Food shopping in Broadway and everything else shopping in Cheltenham and Stratford. Money seemed no object and we arrived back at her secluded cottage on the outskirts of Chipping Campden literally loaded with goodies of every description. A few friends and relatives were joining us on Christmas Day and an old and special friend the day after Boxing Day but, other than that, it was just us two. She told me this many times on our regular jaunts around the Cotswolds in her old but impressive BMW. Just us two she said until the New Year. That will be nice, Simon. And your dad has been very generous. That got me thinking. Was dad paying for all this? Did he own the cottage? She laughed when I voiced the latter thought. Good God, no. I bought it out of my earnings many years ago. She laughed again and pressed her foot on the accelerator. As we speeded along a country road I was becoming very familiar with, I suppressed the desire to ask if that was from her National Health nursing earnings. Some things are best left unsaid.
I said the first few days were disappointing. They weren’t totally as I still required help when showering. My one remaining left arm was improving but was still heavily strapped with plaster and bandages. The hospital told me that early Spring should see their removal and, with exercise, a return to normal. Adam had laughed at that as his eighteen year old mind could only envisage one particular form of exercise. Well overdue he reckoned. I said nothing. But it did mean I still needed help when showering. Since the summer a variety of nurses come medical helpers had done this duty but none, thankfully, caused any consternation to them or me. I was getting used to be being naked with strangers and as these were of the ageing and/or male variety my once a week all over obligatory ablutions passed without embarrassment to either party. I knew it would not be the same with Nurse Nettles, my Ambrosine. The prospect hung over me from the moment dad said I was to stay with her. At sometime in that pre-Christmas period she would say that I needed a shower. I knew it, she knew it, and it dominated my thoughts. The last time she had showered me, long ago in those summer months, I had my first and involuntary ejaculation. When you are fifteen you do not forget that.
It was after our second shopping trip, Stratford in heavy rain showers, that the hitherto unspoken promise was voiced. Dinner was in the oven and a pleasing fire was flickering in an old fashioned grate. A shower before dinner will do us both good, she said, after such an exhausting day. You first, you haven’t had one since you got here, and then you can watch the food whilst I have mine. So upstairs young man and get ready. Two thoughts instantly struck me. I was to undress myself, I could do that easily after so many practises, and the ‘get ready’ indicated some assistance. My bits twitched in anticipation and Nurse Nettles smiled. I think both of us were remembering the last time she soaped my naked skin. As Adam regularly said, our bruvver is a pervert.
It did me no good, perverted thoughts or otherwise. My shower was conducted with professional and clinical expertise. I was standing under it when she entered the bathroom, the crisp white nurse uniform adding to both the excitement and the formality. Warm water cascaded over my nakedness within seconds and a large soap bar scrubbed all of me with efficiency. As per her usual methods Nurse Nettles left no inch unwashed. With a confidence grown from familiarity, and lacking any embarrassment, I told her it was nice when she washed my bottom and the bits in front. All this prompted was an increase in the water temperature and a vigorous washing of my hair with a strong smelling shampoo. I protested and received a first firm smack of her hand to where nature intended. A first smack of this Christmas break. Inevitably it had the usual effect on me and as I stepped out of the shower a second smack to the same place followed. I now had sharp stings on each of my bare cheeks. Nothing else, except a knowing smile, as a large white towel enveloped a growing erection that was now thankfully covered up. Dry and dress, she said. Pyjamas I think and then keep an eye on the food. And you can open the wine, she said, at sixteen a small glass is permissible. I was a bit despondent that she had decided not to dry and talc me but given my excitement this was probably wise. I needed to calm down before dinner. I didn’t.
There was a good reason for that not calming down. For some reason, which soon became clear, Nurse Nettles had redressed in her nurse uniform after showering. We listened to some obscure classical music during dinner, a lovely beef stew, and she outlined the plans for Christmas Day. Two days hence. A nephew and niece plus the niece’s boyfriend and three villagers would make up a party of eight and I would be expected to help with the preparations. Then a quiet day on Boxing Day before the visit of a very special friend who, she smiled as she said this, I would like enormously. And in preparation for her, she said, I think it is time you were spanked.
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘You have, but do I need a reason?’
‘Exactly. You have been wanting one ever since you arrived.’
‘Sorry. Is it that obvious?’
‘It was when I showered you, young man.’
‘No need to apologise. I was going to spank you anyway. I promised your father I would before Christmas Day.’
‘Yes. He said smack Simon’s bottom at least once before Christmas. He will thank you for it.’
‘I might not.’
‘And make you more controllable and contented before the onslaught of all my friends.’
‘You don’t have a choice, Simon. So no need to agree.’
‘I am gathering that.’
And with that she pulled out her chair and bid me to rise and place myself over her knee. I had hardly had time to absorb it all. One minute we were eating our dinner and discussing Christmas plans and the next I was upended over her ample knee and feeling her large hand explore my pyjama covered bottom. It did not stay covered for long. Six or so hefty smacks to my behind and she pulled the pyjamas down and gave me a further twenty or so to my bare skin. They stung, especially as she increased the tempo and severity as the spanking progressed. By the time I rose, rubbing my behind, the heat emanating was extensive and fierce. Ow, I said, that hurt. Good, she said, a little taster before my special friend arrives. What does that mean? I said. You’ll find out was her only response. And with that she pulled up my pyjamas and cleared away the dinner. All questions were deflected and I went to bed intrigued, excited, and a little scared. I had been promised, or threatened, with something from someone I had never met. And I had to get through Christmas Day first. I fell asleep with a full erection, one that I was in no condition to satisfy. I needed help and my showering angel of a nurse knew it.
Christmas Day was hectic. It was lovely but hectic. The three villagers, all elderly males, were clearly old friends of Nurse Ambrosine, and her younger relatives made for a nice mix. Her nephew was only a year or so older than me and, after an uneasy start, we got on well. He and his elder sister were clearly very fond of our Nursie and during chats with him, another Adam, I learnt that she had helped her brother bring them up after their mother died. That got discussed over a sumptuous dinner and one bit of the conversation intrigued me. One of the elderly villagers, a retired architect, started it. Something along the lines about her smacking their bottoms to keep them in line. The conversation was not pursued, I reckon the niece was embarrassed, but I formed the distinct impression around the table that all the bottoms seated, except the niece’s boyfriend, had been vigorously smacked at some time by Nurse Nettles. I asked her about it that evening, when we were alone. She merely smiled and said all her charges, old friends and young relatives, were special. The following day, Boxing Day, she gave me my second shower and my best Christmas present. Ever.
‘That was nice, Miss.’
‘You deserved it. You needed it.’
‘I know. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘And I didn’t feel embarrassed. Not with you.’
‘Even though you’ve only just turned sixteen and I’m, well let’s just say I am older.’
‘I understand Simon. Probably older than your mother and have just done something she never would.’
‘God, I hope not.’
‘You are a growing boy. You have needs and, let’s face it, you cannot do anything yourself.’
‘Not yet, no. Hopefully soon.’
‘Your father understands.’
‘It was one of the reasons he wanted you to stay with me. You can spank him and wank him, he said. Quite seriously.’
‘Now I am embarrassed. Putting it like that.’
‘You shouldn’t be. It is perfectly normal.’
‘Being wanked by your nurse?’
‘You would be surprised how often it happens. Men, boys, need relief. Nurses know that.’
‘Fathers know more than their sons ever give them credit for.’
‘I am learning all the time.’
‘And only sixteen? Just thank yourself that you are lucky knowing someone like me.’
‘I have always thought that, Miss. Always.’
I have always, ever since the early summer. Dad was right. Nurse Nettles was exactly what I needed in my condition. Only one arm and that in plaster and hormones running riot. Hormones additionally fuelled by that same nurse baring my behind on occasions and spanking and caning it. Pervert, Adam said, but a nice one. I think he meant me not Nurse Nettles. She was special. The Boxing day shower was mid afternoon after a lovely walk through the Cotswolds countryside. I knew it was going to be special because she took me upstairs when we came back and took all my clothes off herself. She had that determined look about her which I only usually saw when she intended to discipline me. By the time my vest was pulled off and my underpants pulled down I had an erection that only a blind man could ignore. There was heavy breathing and not just from me. I felt a line was about to be crossed. The last time I ejaculated when being showered it just happened. This time I was sure it was intended. Especially when she said that things must be difficult for me, having no use of my arms. Arm, I said, I only have one. By that time I was stark naked and ready to step into the shower. She turned on the water and washed my hair, taking an age or so it seemed to me. Soap my body I was thinking, soap my body and everything else. Eventually she did. Arms, legs, back, chest, buttocks, shoulders. It was heaven. The water cascaded and the soap bar conducted its dance. Everywhere. Everywhere except my protuberance which screamed for blessed relief. I closed my eyes and wished as hands and soap explored all of my naked skin. And then her hands moved to my genitals. The soapy warmth touched all my personal flesh, my balls, my shaft, my bottom, my crack in between. Explored, teased, entranced. Cleansed. And then the hands, her hands, stroked my shaft up and down. Gently, but with no mistake. This time intended. This time she intended to give me that blessed relief. I knew it. She knew it. A Christmas treat for a frustrated boy. Her left hand cupped my full and eager balls, her right hand expertly worked my stiffened penis. Up and down with a fine finesse she stroked it. Stroked it and pumped it until, far too soon, I gushed forth a flood of semen which seemed to have been stored for months. Six, seven, eight times I spurted the cream that had been so pent up. As the hands squeezed and caressed I saw stars and flowers and rainbows and, eyes closed, gasped at the beautiful intensity of it. I did not want it to end. Forever. But eventually it did. My penis twitched and died and the hands lessened in their intensity. Balls were gently caressed and the one on my shaft eased its gripped. I sighed and did again as two sharp smacks hit my behind. Just to bring you back to earth, she said. Water continued its cascade and pleasant stings on my bottom vied with dying desire in my cock. That was beautiful, I said. She said nothing but, as she dried me, I sensed that the talcum powder she applied had an added gentleness. Almost as if, as it dusted my personal parts, she was saying well done. And much deserved. It was later, much later, as I was getting ready for bed that she reminded me of the morrow. My friend is coming she said. Just for the day and she is really looking forward to meeting you. She has never caned a sixteen year old and that, my boy, is the price for today’s pleasantries. All questions from me were deflected. Spent but excited, Adam and Sophie would understand, I fell asleep.
‘Can’t you give me a clue?’
‘Well, when for a start.’
‘When she comes back from Stratford.’
‘When’s that what Simon?’
‘When’s that Miss.’
‘Around five I would imagine. She doesn’t like driving in the dark.’
‘But she isn’t staying here?’
‘She seems nice.’
‘She is, most of the time.’
‘But she likes caning people.’
‘Oh yes. Makes a very nice living at it.’
‘And you want her to cane me?’
‘It’s my Christmas present to her, and your cost for yesterday.’
‘You should be. She’s a no nonsense woman.’
‘Your father’s son.’
‘That’s what Adam and Sophie say. They reckon I’m a pervert.’
‘You are Simon. I realised that a long time ago. And so young. It usually takes folks years to understand this particular need.’
‘I still don’t understand. I only know the thought makes me feel funny.’
‘And you feel ‘funny’ now?’
‘Then be patient. She’ll be her soon. And when she arrives she will take you into that other room, take down your pants and cane your bare backside. Hard.’
I gulped. We had met her earlier in the day. She was younger than Nurse Nettles, but not by much and with darker hair and taller, and reminded me of some of my teachers at boarding school. She studied me with an intensity that slightly unnerved. I could feel my feet shuffling. She was staying in a local hotel and needed to visit her elderly father in Stratford whilst she was here. Just dropping by to meet me, she said. It sounded like a threat as I am sure it was. And when I get back, before dinner she said, I will have my Christmas present. At that comment both Nurse Nettles and Christine, as she was known, laughed. I looked at my feet that were still shuffling nervously. Over a light lunch and wine for them, only a small one for Miss Christine as she insisted on being called, I relaxed a bit. Especially when I sensed that the whole thing may be an elaborate joke. I sensed that when my Nettles asked her if she had been busy leading up to Christmas. The usual clients she said, nothing special. The youngest was in his thirties and the oldest over eighty. It never ceases to surprise. She sipped her wine and said, looking at me, when you are twenty or so I should love to deal with you. Ambrosine says you are a natural. But I thought..., and tailed off as relief vied with disappointment in perplexed confusion. Nurse Nettles laughed. You see what I mean Christine. He doesn’t want to wait until he is twenty. So when you come back from your father you decide. A box of chocolates or ten minutes alone with Simon. She returned about four thirty and left around seven. She never got the chocolates.
‘So Simon, you like being caned?’
‘Oh, I thought you did?’
‘No Miss. It hurts. I don’t like it. But.....’
‘You like what it entails. You like the build up?’
‘So a little pain on your bottom is a small sacrifice?’
‘Does that thrill you?’
‘When I say that. A little pain on your bottom?’
‘The thought of the pain or the thought of your bottom being prepared for it?’
‘The getting ready.’
‘Having your pants taken down?’
‘Having your bottom bared for my cane?’
‘In spite of the pain?’
Nurse Nettles had left us. Left me and Miss Christine alone. A strange intimacy was created and both of us sensed it. She made me stand and walked around me, seemingly examining me. I sensed a thrill in my being, enjoying this subtle domination. I was dressed in jeans and Christmas jumper, a Nurse Nettles present, and the latter amused the tall and determined woman who assessed every inch of my body. She talked as she did so, playing her role and also living it. If this was a special Christmas present from Nurse Nettles, mine as well as hers, then Miss Christine was eager to ensure that both of us got full benefit. It was as she told me that I was to get twelve strokes of her cane, six on my underpants, that she started to undo my jeans. As the top button of my jeans was released she emphasised the six on my underpants, the new Calvin Klein’s she said. Yet another present from Nurse Nettles. She trusted I was wearing them. I was. Small, tight, pale yellow, with a blue band. I had opened the box on Christmas Day after all our guests had left. Miss Christine will like those she said. She was right. As she undid the remainder of my buttons and pulled the jeans down to my knees she admired the colourful display. Beautiful she said, and beautifully filled. And then she laughed. I am so going to enjoy caning your bottom, Simon, she said. And after six on your bright pants I shall take them down and cane your very bare bottom another six times. And as she said this she led me to the small table in the corner of the room. It was just the right height and had been dutifully cleared earlier in the day. I bent over it, my jeans by now around my knees, and made myself as comfortable as I could. Miss Christine was to my left. Dissatisfied, she made me grasp a leg of the table and arch my back and, as I did so, she turned up my Christmas jumper and pulled my jeans further down my legs. I need a good target she said, smoothing her hands over the yellow underpants as she did so. I sensed her adjusting the pants, ensuring that no obtrusive crease would spoil her view or detract her aim. Such a lovely bottom, she said, no wonder your Ambrosine likes smacking it. As she said this she picked up her cane. I had seen it earlier, in the corner. Long and medium thick, designed to hurt. It had been left there deliberately and, equally deliberately, I had not referred to it. But now I was destined to feel it and fear and anticipation induced familiar stirrings in my penis. When she laid it across my Calvin Klein covered bottom I was stiff. I remained that way all through the first six of Miss Christine’s cane. Partly because the strokes were fairly gentle, little more than stinging taps across my bottom, and partly because she kept up incessant chatter with every whack. Such a springy backside, so boyish, and so smackable. And so pert and willing. I think I could do this all day. Each utterance brought forth an extra stroke of the cane across me. I squirmed as the heat rose in my behind in spite of the gentleness. And then she stopped and eager hands inserted themselves in the blue waistband of my bright yellow Calvin Klein underpants. I sensed them slowly slipping down my thighs, exposing my naked bottom to her gaze. Nice and pink and warm she said, rubbing her hands over my upturned skin. Two lovely little peaches, two little shining moons, no wonder Ambrosine raves about you. My young stiffness burst to its fullest condition. This was heaven. And then she brought the cane down much harder across my bare behind, spurred on by the vision I assumed. It hurt and I squealed and did so three more times as three more strokes laced my skin. Christmas present she said, two more to go, hold tight. I did and squealed even louder when strokes five and six burnt into my bum. Ow, I said, and rose clutching my by now fiery bottom with my one free hand. That bloody hurt. Miss Christine merely smiled, pulled down my Christmas jumper, and said that swearing would get me on a report to Nurse Nettles. Then she gently kissed me on my cheek and pulled up my underpants. It was only then that I noticed my penis had shrunk in painful shock. Some Christmas present.
With one notable exception the rest of my Christmas break with Nurse Nettles passed without much incident. We saw in the New Year with those same old village friends who came on Christmas Day and all were extremely well behaved. Only one, an elderly chap slightly the worse for wine, hinted at things unspoken. How I wish I had a Nurse Nettles to stay with when I was sixteen, he said. And winked, mischievously. I merely shrugged as teenagers are supposed to do and Nurse Nettles smiled in silent approval. Given that the period from Boxing Day to the New Year lasted a week or so it was hardly surprising that I endured two more vigorous showers from my nurse. Both were extremely professional and efficient. And, from my view, disappointing. They were conducted early in the morning, quick as a flash, and me decently covered up with towels both before and immediately afterwards. I have to do this, she seemed to be saying, you are my patient as well as my guest. I said nothing. Christmas was clearly over. Except it wasn’t. She was due to drive me back home three days after the New Year and on our last full day she dropped a small bombshell. Two actually, one firing fear and anticipation and the other inducing an overdue thrill. Given what she said the two bombshells were clearly linked. I would not have had it any other way. As Adam and Sophie would say, I am a pervert.
‘Home tomorrow, Simon.’
‘So. There are two things I need to do.’
‘One pleasant, one not so.’
‘And, as this is our last full day, it will make sense to combine them.’
‘You say that as if you have some idea of what I intend to do.’
‘I think so.’
I was right. New Year, Christmas over. Friends and relatives all gone, including Miss Christine. Only memories remain. Memories of my final spank and a wank. As my father would put it. Both were heaven. Taken over her knee and, pants taken down, smacked vigorously on my bare bottom. To remember her by, she said. Twenty or thirty times. And then, upstairs, stripped and showered. Everything including my much reddened rear. And finally, searching mature hands giving me a blessed climax. One I could not do yet for myself. As I say, heaven. But then, Nurse Nettles was an angel.
Alfred Roy (c) 2017