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How to bare a behind

I have just realised that I haven’t done a chatty blog for yonks. Stories always get more hits, and I have posted a few of those since l...

Saturday, 16 June 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.”


Wednesday, 2 May 2018

Your Favourite Stories - A Statistical Review

The perspicacious amongst you will have readily noticed that dilatoriness has been the order of the day recently. In other words, sharp sighted folks may think that things have gone a little quiet on this blog. Nowhere near as bad as another blog I have on theatre, not a thing there for months. Shall not regale you with the reasons, far too boring, but rest assured that whilst theatre visits have been pretty well nonexistent these last few months the travels of the pants down variety have still featured regularly in my life. Usually for fully naked massages, no other way in my opinion, but also, occasionally, for well deserved and long overdue bottom whackings. Taking all of your clothes off for pampering is fun, preferably by another male but not compulsory, but baring your bottom whilst retaining much else is so much better. There is something so very wonderful in bending over a bench waiting for the tee shirt to be raised and the underpants pulled down. And then the lovely whacks on the over eager bottom. And unlike massages when a male is definitely favoured by me, chastiser gender is immaterial. Just be good and accurate is all I wish for and want. And both genders have warmed up my behind during the last few months. So, in spite of dilatory blogging, there is still life in this old dog. Or certainly in his backside.

One thing I have been doing whilst waiting for story scribing inspiration is studying my statistical hits on whacking tales. Moving up to around 250,000 hits now, so I have a pretty clear idea of what appeals. Three thoughts come readily to mind.



A story will always win out over a blog.

17 of my stories have registered over 1,000 hits each. The top one, Fridays at Three O’clock, currently stands at 12,850 and two others, The Boston Landlady and Miss Pringle Solves a Problem, have both passed the 10,000 mark. Only one blog, My First Caning, has reached over 10,000 and only 7 have passed the 1,000 hurdle.


A Female whacking the bottom wins out over the male.

8 of the top ten stories involve a female dominant whacking a young bottom, In addition to those recorded above The Reluctant Schoolboy, The Past is Always Present, Mistress Fredericka, A Lesson for Miss Jones, and Aunt Mildred all figure up there in the top ten. Surprisingly the last two of these have a girl baring her bottom. Only Yesterdays Boy (autobiographical) and The Headmaster’s Dilemma, stories of the male caning a male intrude in the higher echelons. This preference for the female chastiser is underlined by the blog statistics with The Leicester Governess, I Have Never Seen Whipstock Grange and Caning as Therapy all being in the top ten blogs.


The Cane is Tops.

A theme that runs through most of the top stories and blogs is that the wielding of a cane across a bare bottom trumps much else. All of the top ten blogs involve someone being caned and 3 of the top 5 stories have a similar scenario. Statistics are undoubtedly skewed by the fact that I enjoy writing blogs and stories involving the cane much more than other scenarios but the fact that they figure so highly suggests like minded readers.



So an interesting set of statistics. Most of those singled out above are on the currently top ten list (see right column) and easily linked. And this, in itself, is another statistical skew. Folks are lazy, I reckon, and the top six account for 47% of story hits and 55% of blog hits. Success breeds success is my uncharitable thought. A thought underlined by the fact that my currently featured blog (see top) How to Bare a Behind, has taken a big jump up the table in recent months. Currently working on a new story (The Artist’s Strange Model) and musing on posting an old long one (A Light Shines in Ruislip). All this and the above await comments to my e-mail. alfred.roy@btinternet.com Postings there have been conspicuous by absence recently. Are you all too busy being whacked?

Alfred Roy

Monday, 5 February 2018

Memories of Gerry (M/m)

I have an old friend who regularly deals with my bottom when I visit him. We oldies can still have fun. He enjoys my stories, the male ones, and I often read one to him over an evening tipple. Due a visit shortly and realised I did not have a suitable new one. So dashed this off, total fiction except for the caning. Hopefully when I sit down to entertain him with it my own backside will be suitably tingling. A late Happy New Year to you all. Alfred Roy

Memories of Gerry

I never did forget that summer of 1957. I didn’t forget it for a number of reasons. My parents divorced after years of acrimony, my grandmother died, and I spent two weeks in hospital recovering from some unspecified bug. Food poisoning someone said, but it seemed a lot worse to me. I was fifteen and miserable. Family and health had induced ill humour. But I recovered and that recovery was helped, nay enhanced, by a hospital bedside companion who remained a close friend for all of the following sixty years. He was the main reason I did not forget that summer of 1957. Gerry. Outrageous Gerry. Fun, anarchic, irascible, witty. Call him what you will. Diminutive Gerry Robinson was irrepressible. Same age as me, and as I found out due to go to the same small private school, and instantly likeable. He lifted my spirits far more than any medicine or medical ministrations. When we were discharged, fortuitously on the same day, we vowed to meet up at school. Hopefully, we both said, in the same house. Roll on September I thought. That long gone summer would become memorable, mainly because of Gerry.

We got into trouble almost from the first day. A pompous housemaster with spiky ginger hair had what I discovered in later years was a rotacism. He could not pronounce the letter R. Inevitably, although he directed nothing at us, I took to calling my friend Gewwy. We giggled and those giggles were seen and registered. An enemy of ginger haired was made on day one. And on day three we discovered he was to be our housemaster. He will find an excuse to cane us, I said somewhat ruefully. Gerry laughed. It will be ‘Bend over Wobinson’, he said, and we giggled as only fifteen year boys could.

Surprisingly he gave us a pretty easy time for the first month or so. We didn’t see him that often as his few teaching duties were mainly Latin and Greek, two subjects both Gerry and I had opted out of in favour of German and French. Our paths mainly crossed outside teaching hours when he did his best to maintain discipline among twenty or so young teenage boys. By the end of that first month we were well aware of how that discipline was maintained, this was 1957, as two of our fellows made early evening visits to his study and returned ruefully rubbing behinds. Eager questions followed and information, followed by unseemly displays, elicited. The marks on small behinds were impressive, no wonder they had ruefully rubbed. ‘So he only gives six’ Gerry said, ‘Or that seems to be the minimum. And on the bare bot. The wotter.’ We both laughed but the warning was registered. Neither caned boy had done anything particularly heinous as far as we knew. One had been caught smoking and the other returned half an hour late from a sanctioned afternoon in town. Do something very wrong, especially in the eyes of an enemy, and it might be eighteen with a rod wrapped in barbed wire. I amplified these thoughts to Gerry. ‘A wod wapped in barbed wire. Weally?’ We both laughed a little bit, knowing, I think, that such taunts were getting a little thin. Especially when repeated a day or so later, Ginger Spike overheard. He did not say anything then but we knew he had registered our mocking tones.

We got our next warning just before the Christmas break. I am unhappy with you two boys, he said. Quite mild really, considering that we had blown an electrical fuse on the lighting box for the schools’ festive theatrical production. Three minutes of blackout does not sound much, except when it is in the middle of a bit of old Shakespeare. Not totally our fault but we were assisting and found it quite funny. Gerry particularly so. ‘Oh wherefore art thou Romeo, has an extra piquant zing when the poor sod is completely in the dark.’ Ginger Spike, consumed in the seriousness of theatre, abhorred our levity. But not a caning offence, thankfully. You don’t whack boys for laughing, not even in 1957. It did not occur to us then that he was biding his time, saving up his corporal investment. Nor, stupidly, after a more direct threat of future retribution. That was a caning offence, at least for Gerry if not for me.

A mutual passion we had discovered when occupying adjacent hospital beds was horseracing, especially National Hunt racing. His father had owned a couple of point to pointers and used to ride in his younger days and Gerry was often taken to race meetings. My parents did not have the same involvement but regularly attended top meetings in a business capacity. Aintree and Ascot were often dinner table discussions in our house. So I subscribed to Gerry’s enthusiasm. His father’s friend owned a horse which was running in a valuable handicap hurdle at Newbury early in the new year. Gerry was keen to back it but had little money and no means of placing a bet. So he did the next best thing. He took bets on the other horses in the race from other race keen school fellows. In other words he made a book. A heinous offence both for him and the boys who bet with him, if found out. Worthy of any caning. My only involvement was to act as Gerry’s studious ledger clerk. Never liked sums, he said, ignoring the obvious fact that betting on horses involved little else. We, or he, would have got away with it if one inconsiderate and overloud oik had not subsequently blagged about his substantial win. The father’s friend horse had lost and this one irksome schoolfellow had placed one pound with Gerry on the 15/1 winner. He was delighted, as was Gerry who made a profit on the book he had created, until the celebrating blagging reached the ears of housemaster Ginger Spike. The blagger was caned, severely we heard, but puzzlingly repercussions for us seemed curiously delayed.

By the third day after Gerry’s only winning punter had received his scholastic desserts we were completely on tenterhooks. Why had we not been summoned, or at least Gerry, and thrashed on our deserving behinds. Having a bet was clearly much less heinous than running a book. We found out on the fourth day, immediately after a dreary day of rugger. Ginger Spike ran some of these sessions and he was on duty, whistle happy as always, on the first inter house game following the Newbury race. He timed his acknowledgement of our involvement in the clandestine betting exceptionally well. Always had my suspicions of him after that. We had just come out of the showers and, catching us both naked, he issued his strange summary of events. I think he took much pleasure in making us squirm whilst we were in a state of unwanted nudity. ‘I have caned one of your class fellows, as you know. For betting on horses. And I have confiscated his winnings. I have my suspicions as to who acted as his bookmaker. If I find any pwoof of that, or any other misdeeds, then he or they shall suffer as none other has at my hands.’ He could have been saying this to any in the changing room but Gerry and I, and he, knew it was directed at us.

All of these events should have told us that Ginger Spike was merely biding his time. It would have taken little effort for him to get the proof, or pwoof, he needed. The blagging boy who pocketed £16 was no hero. Promise to reduce his sentence, six of the cane we heard on his bare backside, and he would have sung like the proverbial canary. But pompous Spike of the ginger persuasion was a patient man. This is all hindsight of course, honed with sixty years of life’s perspective. He could have been an idiot, but I do not think so. No, he was content to bide his time. Catch Wobinson and his limpet like friend in something particularly dreadful and slates of mocking tones, theatrical mishaps, and clandestine bookmaking would be wiped painfully clean. He had our bottoms very much in his sight and we, who should have known, blissfully ignored the signs. All we said, pleased that he had left us naked and subdued, was ‘Bugger.’ Or at least Gerry did. ‘Bugger’, he said, ‘Confiscated the winnings. Wish I had only given the oik odds of 8/1.’ I laughed.

A week later, a cold wet Wednesday early in February, that laughter faded. Big time. This will take some explaining. The school had a trainee teacher, learning the ropes. Or learning the wopes, as Gerry took delight in saying when Ginger Spike made the announcement. The trainee had been around for about a month and regularly got played up by boys who knew no better. A school tradition I was reliably, or unreliably, informed. I felt a bit sorry for him. Tall and gangly, and not much older than us, he seemed totally out of his depth. No idea of how to control a class of combustible fifteen year olds. On that fateful Wednesday he was in charge, a loose phrase, of the physical education class. Not my favourite activity. For some reason, purely fortuitous I think, Gerry and I were chosen as opposing captains for a red and blue team game of basketball. Seven a side. It all went well until the incompetent trainee left us alone for a few minutes with an airily instruction to carry on playing. That seemed to be a signal for two opposing lads who detested each other to start a fight. Within five minutes all was chaos, not diluted by the returning trainee who appeared incapable of dowsing schoolboy flames. It was left to me and Gerry, diminutive Gerry, to try to prise the main protagonists apart. By now this was most of the opposing teams, boys being boys, as some fight and ask the reasons afterwards. Order could not be restored, or not until Ginger Spike appeared. Tall, pompous, and full of flaming nostrils. The two fighters were singled out and ordered, immediately, to his study. As they were, he stressed, meaning in their PE kit. No need to change, he said, and that said all we needed to know. A whacking was on the cards. And then he dropped his bombshell. ‘And in half an hour, you two as well.’ he said, pointing to me and Gerry, ‘You and Wobinson. And no need to change either.’ And with that he left the gym leaving four boys to contemplate an inevitable fate. And two of them could not see the justice of it. Only an opportunity not denied.

I never did forget that caning. I never forgot it for a number of reasons. By itself it was definitely undeserved. But as Gerry and I recognised and agreed, it was going to happen one day so might as well get it over with. Ginger Spike had us on his list and our Captains day was the day of overdue retribution. So we resigned ourselves to our fate, even if resolve was a little less than steely as we saw two very subdued pugilists leave his study. But the main reasons I did not forget it was because of the impression it made on both my fifteen year old bottom and my equally fifteen year old mind. When we knocked on Ginger Spike’s study door the air was already rich in heady expectancy. When we left some twenty minutes later roads to adulthood and sexuality were clearly defined. Or at least for me.

We said little when we entered his study. An acknowledgement that we were there because we had been summoned and a registering of the cane on his desk. He glanced at both it and us, clearly relishing the situation. We were both a let down to the school, he said, ‘Clearly diswuptive and, it seems, incapable of taking wesponsibility.’ Gerry almost corpsed at this pronouncement but, thankfully, giggles from both us were mercifully suppressed. I think fear of what was to come eclipsed all other feelings. We knew damn well that we were going to get six, we did not want it notched up to twelve. He addressed Gerry first. ‘Wobinson, I shall deal with you first. Not because I think you are the lesser of two evils, but you are the smaller.’ If that was meant to be a joke it fell on unreceptive ears. ‘You will be given six of the cane on your bottom. Long overdue in my opinion. So kindly bend over.’

If that had been it, a cold and clinical bending over, and six whacks across Gerry’s PE shorts then I reckon things might have turned out different. I would have seen and heard his caning, sympathised with his pain, and reluctantly taken his place when all was done. But it was not like that. As I have said before this was 1957, or to be more accurate 1958, and this was a small private school. And this was a vengeful housemaster who had stored up many grievances. So he approached the bending Gerry, roughly pulled down his shorts to his knees and lifted his PE vest to the middle of his small back. A rule of our school was that you did not wear underpants for physical education. Considered unhealthy. So poor old Gerry was as bare as the day he was born. At least from waist to knees. His bare bottom stuck out like a small and gleaming early evening moon. And I was transfixed. I moved from being fearful of what was to come for me to being fascinated by what was to happen to Gerry. A caning on the bare backside was an experience beyond any normal understanding. And when Ginger Spike put words to the picture it both increased fascination and enhanced anticipation. I was becoming consumed by a desire I did not understand. ‘Six stwokes on your bottom, boy, I said. I did not say you would have any modesty. If ever a boy deserved his bare bottom to be caned, it is you.’ And with that he lashed his cane across the naked rear of my best pal, and a howl sprung from unseen lips as a savage line crossed the two nicest bare cheeks I had ever seen. I flinched. And I did so five more times as Ginger Spike’s cane did its worst. Gerry, to his credit, never moved in spite of his gasps and howls and by the sixth stroke his bottom was fiery red with weals which would take long to fade. Each one had been painted on his behind to perfection, and each one had etched me further along a road I would take years to understand. Gerry rose, sobbing quietly, and pulled up his PE shorts. A rueful rub of his bottom and he stepped aside. But not before an encouraging glance at me. It hurt, he seemed to be saying, but it’s over. And then he rubbed his bottom again, more vigorously it seemed. I gulped and waited, heart pounding and all inside stirring. ‘You now boy.’ Ginger Spike said, now in full flow, ‘Bend over and get what you clearly deserve. Six strokes.’

I did as I was told. This was inevitable and now I knew all that was to come. He would hardly cane Gerry on the bare behind and allow me some modesty. Fleetingly the thought crossed my mind that he might, after all he always saw Gerry as the more reprehensible. And with the thought came an inexplicable feeling of possible disappointment coupled with a surging of anticipation. Bent over, touching my ankles as I could in those days, I knew that I wanted Ginger Spike to take down my pants. I wanted him to cane me on my bare backside. And not just because that is how he had caned my friend. I just wanted it. I had a desire, there is no other word, to be bereft of my lower garments and exposed to the gaze of both present. The chastised and the chastiser. Somehow I knew the pain would be more bearable if my naked bottom felt the savage kisses of the cane.

I need not have worried. Words that should have created fear strangely thrilled. ‘You will not be spared, boy.’ he said. ‘I caned your friend on his bare bottom, well deserved, and you will receive the same.’ It was said in a voice unfamiliarly clear, increasing my anticipation. And with that he put his hands in the waist of my flimsy PE shorts and pulled them down to my knees. I felt surrounding air brush my bottom and my genitals, sensed the exposure. And then my equally flimsy vest was roughly pushed up my bending back. There could now be no illusions, I was a picture of submissive nakedness. And all could see. My bottom was exposed and waiting and my private parts dangled freely and wantonly. I was a boy waiting to be caned and the way it was to be done, for those who witnessed and those who suffered, it would be glorious. Gloriously bare. I sighed and when the cane lashed into me, after a preliminary tap, I reckon my first unexpected howl was wrapped in that anticipatory sigh. I did cry, of course. I couldn’t help it. It hurt like hell. After the third stroke I almost, unlike Gerry, nearly rose clutching my burning bum. Rough hands pressing on my back and threatening extra strokes prevented it and, after a pause, I felt the three remaining cane whacks across my, by now, lacerated backside. The sting was indescribable and all thoughts of pleasurable anticipation were expunged. After the last, particularly vicious stroke, I rose. Copiously sobbing, woefully subdued, I pulled up my pants and rubbed those parts of me that I was convinced would never heal. I had been caned six times on my bare bottom. It was my first experience and the most impressionable. Such things happen when you are fifteen. Ginger Spike was not a sensitive soul but maybe he recognised something in me for he gave us a few minutes to recover. Minutes in which my senses moved from acute pain to confusing pleasure. The warmth of chastisement had pleasing compensations. By the time we left my spirits had revived. My bottom may have been throbbing for England but I felt serenely calm. Gerry had also recovered his generally irrepressible spirit. ‘Thank God he pulled my pants down without saying anything.’ he said. ‘If he had said dwop your shorts Wobinson I would have giggled so much I would have got twelve.’ That was the extent of our post whacking’s banter. A couple of hours later it turned more serious.

We showed each other the marks. Boys do that. Whatever the pain, the humiliation, displaying the stripes on otherwise virgin bottoms seemed to be as much a part of growing up in the 1950’s as the sneaky cigarette behind the chemistry lab or the passing around of dubious magazines such as Spick and Span or Naturist Monthly. I was transfixed both by the sight and the feel, he allowed me, of Gerry’s small bottom. He touched mine, almost obligatory but cursory, but my fingers lingered on his still warm flesh much longer. The weals fascinated and the contrast between the six livid lines against alabaster cheeks enthralled. If my tracing fingers could have stayed on his delightful bottom for a week it would not have been long enough. He sensed it and, sensibly pulled up his pants. ‘You are kinky’, he said,’ I guessed that when you were being caned. When old Ginger Spike pulled down your PE shorts your willy popped out. Standing up like a flagpole.’ Gerry Laughed and ruffled my hair, as if to diffuse the uncomfortable mood. ‘Don’t worry’, he said, ‘ We shall still be friends. Even if some who I will not mention would not appwove.’ And he laughed again.

We did stay friends. For another sixty years. Through school, university, growing up and ageing. He married and had four children and, at the end, eleven grandchildren. We didn’t meet often, my job took me to the USA a lot and Gerry spent most of his mature years nurturing a business always on the cusp of failure, so he told me, in Newcastle. We rarely talked of school or our perplexing youth, although he did occasionally in the early years teasingly allude to our caning by Ginger Spike and both our dawning realisations of my sexuality. ‘You are a strange one,’ he used to say, ‘That old bugger gave you a taste for the weird, no doubt about that. Do you still indulge?’ I just smiled and we let the matter drop. Never raised again until three weeks ago, just before he died. He was lying on his hospice bed, full of all sorts of mysterious things to kill his pain, and seemed strangely animated. One of his ministering angels had a rotacism and constantly called him ‘Mr Wobinson.’ It brought back old memories, long buried. When I arrived, sombre and fearful, he said he had been thinking about me a lot that morning because of his nurse. ‘Our early days’ he told me, and laughed as only he could. ‘Hospital beds when we first met and now hospital beds when we are to part. And that school. And dear old Ginger Spike.’ I remained silent, content with my suppressed tears to let him continue, if he wished. ‘Nasty bugger. Never liked him. But in a funny sort of way he sealed our relationship. Bend over Wobinson. I almost wet myself.’ And then he smiled and closed his eyes briefly. Remembering days past.

‘Bend over Wobinson.’ I place my flowers by his grave, speak briefly to his ageing widow, and walk slowly back to my car. ‘Bend over Wobinson.’ How many times over the years have I heard that phrase. I took it as my own a long time ago. You need a name for adult school play and parties and ‘Wobinson’ evoked both Gerry and Ginger Spike. So whenever I dropped my pants in various and far flung places I did it to that telling soubriquet. I have been known as ‘Wobinson’ in the disciplinary world for nigh on sixty years. Now that, if I had ever told him, would have truly made Gerry laugh.


Alfred Roy



















Thursday, 14 December 2017

The Folk Next Door (F/M)

This was meant to be my Christmas blog. Given all the white stuff that has been falling, and the strange facebook and youtube pics inevitably generated, I had conjured up my own version of winter antics those cold flakes  inspired. Let's face it, in my youth, I rolled naked in the snow many times. Beats anything on modern over sensitive websites. Worthy of a kinky blog I thought. But Christmas thwarts all the best intentions. Time pressures mean that well intentioned blog has to wait until bleak January days and the story intended for that slot goes up now. I enjoyed writing it, hope you enjoy reading it. And in spite of those times pressures I shall shortly fit in a pre festive visit to a favourite disciplinarian. I put off a lot over Christmas but baring my bottom for a serious whacking is not one of them. Happy Christmas, whatever you get up to. Alfred Roy

The Folk Next Door


Did I hear that? Did I hear that right? Thought it was DIY at first, do it yourself. A bang, a nail in the wall, home improvement. But then, no, more like a whack. A whack of something. Listen carefully. Yes a whack, a whack of something. On a behind. Possibly, I hoped, a bare behind. Listen carefully, listen, listen for a howl or a whimper. That would clinch it. Yes. Another whack, definitely. Another whack and a low key howl. Someone next door was being whacked, with a strap or a belt I thought, but definitely being whacked. And it must be on the behind. But who, who lived there? My mind worked overtime. A mother and her son. No one else. I should be shocked, I should be incensed. I wasn’t. I was intrigued. And, sad to say, I was jealous. Jealous of the behind that was being whacked. I would so much like to be him. How I would so much like to be him.

I had seen her a few times since she moved in. Nice woman, not more than forty, and definitely my type. My type in the sense that she seemed to be both nice and stern. A no nonsense woman I thought, and thought it even more when I found out that she was deputy headmistress at a local private school. That really kicked in all my juices. I have a thing about the headmistress type, have done ever since I was an impressionable youngster and got severely spanked by one. Fixed my sexuality and personality in one defining ten minutes, which have stayed with me for the following twenty years. She may be around my age but I dropped most of them when I saw her shortly after she and her teenage son move in. And listening to his whacking, no doubt about it now, I dropped the remaining few. By the time she stopped, and it must be her whacking that whimpering behind, I was twelve or thirteen again. The thing is, or was, would I ever get the chance to tell her.

I first spoke to her a couple of weeks after they arrived. Thinking back, I should not be surprised at what I heard. She was full on, a woman of statements rather than questions. We have just moved in, she said, you must be Justin. I was told you lived next door, she said, on your own. Estate agents are very helpful. I trust we won’t disturb you, she said. I have a teenage son, Andrew, but he is very well behaved. Most of the time. My house rules do not allow loud music after eleven o’clock, she said. And smiled. A disarming mile which made me feel about ten years old. A strange thought I considered as she waltzed off to her car, an upmarket Renault. A strange and exciting thought. And now I know why.

It was two days after the evocative noises from next door that I had my first chance to speak to her again. She was offloading her weekend groceries. Waitrose I imagined, she did not seem like a downmarket shopper. I was wondering how I could subtly allude to the earlier day without raising suspicions, but I need not have worried. She went straight for the jugular. Hope we didn’t alarm you on Thursday, she said, Andrew has been difficult lately. We had an argument. I was concerned about the noise. A pause followed by a smile preceded the last statement. Her son had been difficult, they had an argument. It happens. But the pause and the smile before her remark about the noise unnerved me again. That noise, a strap on a behind, was unmistakeable and she knew it. Was she testing me or was it just a statement of edited fact intended to deflect? I just nodded and said something about kids growing up needing control. Not a problem. And it wasn’t. Except my blushing and sweating when I said it. If she registered it she did not respond. Just thanked me for my understanding and went indoors. I just stood there, admiring her car and thinking that I must start shopping at Waitrose.

Our paths did not cross for a few weeks. I went away on business and, shortly after returning, her and her son took a summer vacation in France. Her ex husband lived there and they met up during the holidays apparently. They came back on a miserable early September weekend whilst I was in the middle of some overdue decorating. I was working on the bedroom wall which divided our terraced houses when I heard it again. And this time there was no mistaking the scene. Raised voices made things absolutely clear. The boy was tearful, pleading almost, but the muffled angry voice of the mother did not allow for interpretations. I said I would strap your backside if it happened again, she said, and I do not break my promises. Lay still, she said. And then I heard it. A resounding whack and a howling shriek. Louder than before, as if all inhibitions of both chastiser and chastised were released. He knows. Him next door knows, or guesses, so I can whack with abandon and you can scream. And they did, and I stood transfixed for at least five minutes. Listening to every stroke of that strap across a trembling behind and soaking in every howl and cry. Fourteen year old Andrew suffered for those excruciating minutes and I relished every second of it. I imagined flaming eyes and indefatigable resolve from a determined woman, I imagined a boy bare and distraught with bottom flaming red, and I imagined a merciless strap combining the two in a picture richer in intensity for being unseen. And when it stopped I imagined, or heard, the quiet sobbing and the heavy breathing. I could not see their exhaustion but I could feel my own. I sat on my bed, quiet with my thoughts, and re-imagined it all. If only I could tell her.

Tell her what, I thought. That I had heard it all, that I knew what she did. That it had re-kindled desires in me that had lain dormant for years. Not true. Those desires were far from dormant. I had never indulged in such practices but I had read books and magazines about them. Men and women disciplining each other. Did not do much for me. I was firmly in the schoolboy camp. And hearing Andrew being whacked fired both imagination and wish. When I was his age a dragon of a headmistress hauled me out of class one day, I had spit at a particularly obnoxious girl, and dragged me to her office. Disgusting child, she said, one of the worst in the school. As I did not have a reputation this seemed unfair. But I did not protest. And I did not protest when she told me to pull down my trousers and underpants and bend over her chair. A broad leather one if memory serves me right. I did so and as she lifted my shirt I saw out of the corner of my eye the large strap she had taken from her desk. It was at that moment that I realised that I was going to be whacked on my bum, my bare bum, by this dragon whom I both feared and respected. And the thought brought a strange warmth and excitement to my being that was not expunged by any of the searing six strokes of the strap she whopped into my small and naked backside. They stung, they hurt, they made me sob, and standing I rubbed hands over burning cheeks and sobbed even more. But as her tongue gave additional stings and trousers covered the attacked rear I felt an inner contentment. It may have hurt, it may have been unexpected, and it may have been humiliating, but being strapped on the bare bottom was nice. That was my fourteen year old assessment. And I have never changed.

I did tell her, but not immediately. Two days after her son’s strapping I spoke to her in her garden. We were both doing a bit of tidying up in mid September sun. She thanked me for taking in her post whilst she was away, three overlarge parcels if I remember correctly, and apologised for not telling me that they would be away for nearly four weeks. Not a problem I said and smiled my most sincere smile. A few more pleasant exchanges whilst we did our respective weeding and then, unexpectedly, an invitation to pop in for afternoon tea. Time we got to know each other, she said, and Andrew is on a course and my school is still out. A surge, inexplicably, thrilled my body. I knew not why. It was merely an invitation for a neighbourly chat. But the way she issued it, the way she looked at me, suggested a hidden agenda. I felt commanded, and going inside allowed imagination to run rife. Tomorrow afternoon. Tea and chats. With a mature woman not averse to strapping a behind. If I could not prise that subject, and my own desires, into the conversation it would not be for the want of trying. But I was not scared, or cautious, because something in the invitation told me it would be a road worth following. Lying in my bed that night, re-running all in my fevered mind, I sincerely hoped so.

It was easier than I thought. We were only five minutes into the tea and biscuits, and preceding chat on respective backgrounds easily prepared the ground. I was a private individual with a long distant failed marriage and she was a divorced woman relieved to be out of a relationship which never worked. But unlike me she had the baggage of her fourteen year old Andrew. Not that she put it like that. Just that having a teenage son limited her freedoms. Freedom to do as she wished. What did she wish I asked? In retrospect I am sure that was an innocent remark, and again I saw that disconcerting smile before she replied. The smile when she had offloaded groceries and apologised about the noise. I blushed to my toes and felt an inexplicable surge run through me. Truth be told I felt like this ever since I stepped into her lounge. I had dressed deliberately school boyish, white shirt and grey jumper with pale blue tight jeans, and seeing her in a severe black dress only enhanced my fantasy. Was she playing up to it or was she completely unaware? I fervently hoped she was on my perplexing wavelength. What did she wish I asked again, filling a weird and unexpected silence? She smiled again and poured more tea. And then she said it, and it was almost as if I had written the script. It wasn’t what she wished that was important, she said, it was what I wished. What do you wish for Justin? That is what she said. I know because I have replayed it in my mind many times since. And her eyes, pale blue, pierced into me and conjured up visions of the long past dragon headmistress. She didn’t comment but she must have seen the sweat pouring off me. I cannot say, I said, it seems so bizarre. But you fascinate me, and as I said this, I almost held my breath. If one can hold one’s breath and speak at the same time then I managed it. She merely smiled again and said tell me, tell me what you wish. So I did. Something about that room, the afternoon of cosy chats, the way we were both deliberately or inadvertently dressed, something released long suppressed inhibitions. And I told her. Told her about my long gone headmistress, my fourteen year old experience, and my long years of denied desires. Desires kindled or rekindled by evocative sounds through a brick wall. Imaginations fuelled and emotions crystallised. And she listened. Attentively and patiently. We must talk again she said. Next weekend. Andrew will be visiting his father. We will have more time. I felt both elated and deflated. Elated that she had not thrown me out as a dangerous pervert, deflated that she had not taken matters further. But, rationalising, her son was due home soon I thought. We finished our tea and she tidied up as I made to leave. The tension had dropped considerably and prosaic matters regarding off street parking, noisy neighbours and ridiculous house prices filled the next twenty minutes or so. So what she said as she opened her front door both surprised and thrilled. And also unnerved. You may get your wish Justin, she said. You may get what Andrew gets. And she smiled that disconcerting smile again, only eclipsed by the closing door. The note dropped through my door exactly seven days later.

Come tomorrow, it said. Dressed as you did last week. Three o’clock. Celine. That was all. Ten words. Come tomorrow, dressed as you were. So she had noticed. She had registered the white shirt and grey jumper, the retreat to childhood, and understood. Or so I hoped. I read and re-read those ten words over and over again. Come dressed as you were. As you did last week. Last week when I confessed all in a moment of private madness. Confessed that for twenty or more years I had bottled up a secret desire. A desire to be thrashed, thrashed on my bottom, my bare bottom, with a strap. And I had confessed it to her, distant sounds and cosy conversations combining in release, confessed and hoped. I would come, Celine, at three o’clock as commanded. I would come and I would be prepared. The thrilling surge in my body as I read her words again told me that I would not want it any other way. Tomorrow, tomorrow after many long years of waiting I would get my desire. Tomorrow I would be thrashed. Thrashed on the other side of our dividing wall, a wall that had re-awakened that strange desire.

I found out a couple of days later, long after the fire in my bottom had dimmed, that there was no Andrew. No Andrew, no teenage fourteen year old son, and no private school headmistress. She did not tell me at the time, at the time of my three o’clock appointment, did not tell me that there was no Andrew. No anyone. Just her, working her special trade from the terraced house attached to mine. Looking back I should have guessed. I had never seen the boy, never seen anyone, except her. Driving her posh Renault to Waitrose. If she had visitors they were men, or women, I had never seen. But it all makes sense. Now. She never flinched at my confession, expressed no surprise at my interest. The noise beyond the dividing wall, the deliberate howls and raised voices. And how it inflamed my latent desires. All designed and natural, to her. And she, Celine, was willing to fulfil those desires. Willing to put me in the place of the anonymous and fictional Andrew, if only for half an hour. Entering this fiction made our private connection work in a way it could not on any other basis. I was thrashed as a surrogate son, not as a willing and paying client. And it made it special.

It was very special. She said nothing as she opened her door. Just that smile, the smile that had unnerved me when she had apologised for the noise. She indicated her living room and I walked in, trembling and anticipating. I could have got this so wrong but I did not think I had. And she and the room confirmed it. Severely dressed in a black dress she pointed to a small table in the middle of the room. On it was a large and thick strap. Threatening shiny leather designed for one purpose only. It is for my Andrew she said. All my Andrews. I did not register that strange phrase at the time, all my Andrews, but it makes sense now. And it seemed to make sense as I followed her instructions. No preliminaries, we did not need them. Instructed I lowered my jeans, transfixed at the bizarre development of unexpected events, and bent over the small table. She lowered them further, expert hands, and pulled down my underpants. No preliminaries, she said. Just what you want and desire. She pulled my underpants down to my knees, leaving me exposed from the waist down. A naked bottom, as naked as I had dearly wished when first hearing the sounds from her house, naked and desperate to be thrashed. A nice bottom, she said, a very nice bottom and so eager to fell pain. I said nothing, I had floated to a separate heaven awaiting the culmination of my long held fantasies. Jeans and underpants down at my knees, my bare bottom in the air, and a vicious strap I had noted and absorbed brushing my naked skin. And, unseen, a woman whom I desperately desired to do her worst. To make me howl and scream as she had done through our mutual terraced walls. For the next few moments or minutes, I would be her Andrew. And I was. She thrashed me expertly and I did howl and scream. But not too loud, more gasps and pleas. The strap whacked into my naked behind around thirty times, light at first but increasingly severe, and I gasped more and bellowed pleas of mercy. But I did not relent, and neither did she. It was as if we both knew that this was an affirmation of a consuming desire. By the end in which I sensed a burning bottom inflamed by her unrelenting strap I was almost crying out for the strokes to be harder. When you have waited twenty or more years the appetite can be ravenous. I said that I had floated to a separate heaven, that was no truer than when I arose. The pain had been awesome, the sting in my backside burning and fearful, and the incessant throbbing mesmerising. And as she pulled up my underpants, a gentle touch much appreciated, I registered a slight stiffening in that private area which had dribbled in appreciation. You may have howled, she said, but my strap clearly inflamed your juices. I blushed and mumbled something. I know not what but, inside, it was a blessed thank you. I had waited for over twenty years to have my pants taken down again and to be strapped, bare bottom, by a fearful woman. Headmistress, Celine, a mother next door. No matter. Fantasy had been fulfilled, ambition satisfied. I went home content. And I still had not met Andrew.

A second note came two days later. Clearly this was a woman who did not use phones. The first had been a summons, come dressed as you did last week, this was merely a polite request. Was I up for coffee that morning? I could not refuse, did not want to, the memories of two days before still etched in both my bottom and my mind. I loved what this woman did and her presence, for whatever reason, thrilled my being. To be close to her and near to that perverted promise eclipsed all else. I knocked on her door within an hour of the note arriving. Coffee, she said, nothing else. But she smiled when she said it and, once again, I was ten or twelve years old. Those alien to such a mindset could never understand, but she did. I think that is why the ‘nothing else’ suggested ‘not yet.’ In both our minds. It was then she told me, over coffee, that there was no Andrew. She lived on her own and practiced an age old trade. It suited her, regarding me, to suggest a fictional son. Explained the noises. What she did not know, could not have, that those noises would resurrect and fire long suppressed desires. How could she know that the man she had moved in next door to had never forgotten a dragon of a headmistress who had whacked his bare behind when he was fourteen? Never forgotten and never wanted to. And was desperate to re-live it. It was a bonus to both of us, her moving in. She got a compliant neighbour and I got a free session. I amplified these thoughts and she laughed. Laughed not smiled. A ‘one off’ she said, you intrigued me. I have to earn a living. But providing you don’t cause me neighbourly problems, and here she smiled again, I might give you a special Christmas present when December comes around.

And she did. A severe caning the like I have never had, nor would ever want again. On a Christmas Eve I shall never forget. Thirty six strokes on my bare behind. I floated and squealed in equal proportions. As we sat drinking a very nice vintage port afterwards, she smiling her enigmatic smile and me comforting my burning bottom, a small thought passed through my mind. She asked me what it was. I was just thinking about Andrew, I said. He must be very glad he doesn’t live here. 

Alfred Roy (2017)

Wednesday, 8 November 2017

Hotel Booking (F/M)

Bit of a strange one this. Pure fantasy, with a twist. Knocked out whilst confined to study during household decorations. I must have been bored. The scenario never happened to me but must be something that appeals as some years ago I wrote a story  Room Service 
in which a young man is thrashed in a hotel room by a predatory male. I reckon it is the anonymity that ticks my boxes. Enjoy as my little prelude to a Christmas message. That, like my next whacking, is just around the corner. Alfred Roy

Hotel Booking


He ordered his second drink and returned to the corner seat. A plush, red leather, curved area that was both comfortable and secluded. That and his second whisky on the rocks induced a pleasant ambience in his being. Nerves, initially consumed in havoc, were calmed and in control. About time he thought. Pulling up in the car park of the well established if discreet town centre hotel, can a town centre hotel be discreet he thought, his nerves and anticipation had been in overdrive. He had spent four or five weeks musing on this meeting and then nervously made contact. The response had induced a further week of frantic e-mails, hasty re-arranged appointments, lame excuses, and finally confirmation. Yes he would meet her at the hotel suggested, yes he would pay the cost of the room in addition to her fee, very reasonable, and yes he wanted the full works. Complete scholastic domination. For two heavenly hours. How he longed for it. But how he had fretted both after the e-mails and the initial telephone call. Worried about so many things. Most allayed now, in this hotel sitting on this comfortable corner seat with his second whisky, less than half an hour to lift off. How and why he had fretted now seemed a little overdone.


She had been so reassuring. Do not worry she said, I have been there before. The rooms are soundproofed and, besides, they know what I do. They are as discreet as me. They do not want trouble. And we will be out by nine and they can re-let the room. Good business for everyone. You can’t meet at your place and I only operate on this basis. Purely professional. So do not fret, do not worry, just meet me at the hotel and look forward to having your bottom smacked. And everything else. It sounds well overdue. Those last few words had tantalised his being long after the one and only phone call had been completed. Look forward to having your bottom smacked. And everything else. How he desired it, wanted it, was desperate for it. Twenty seven and discovering his sexuality. A like minded friend had told him about her. Amazing. She ain’t young or particularly attractive but she is the bee’s knees. Especially for latent schoolboys desirous of his fantasy headmistress. That is what the like minded friend had said and each word etched in his being and stiffened, literally, his resolve to have a session with her. Or, more appropriately, to be sessioned by her. He had got the distinct feeling that in this bizarre tango there was only one leader and it would not be him. Another box ticked, another twitch in his groin. The downside, there is always a downside, she only played at your place or at specially selected hotels. The first was a no-no, the second did not appeal. Initially. It scared him but, as in so many things, fear and desire are a potent mix. He tortured himself for days, fantasised for a few more, and finally phoned her. Yes he had references, important, yes he knew what she did, important, and yes he wanted it. Desperately. He desperately wanted her to cane his bottom. So much so he was prepared to meet someone he had never met in a hotel room he had never visited. And he booked it in advance. Room 223. And if anyone on reception smirked he was not aware of it.


He knew her straight away. Or he thought he did. The reception desk was well in his sight line, deliberate, and the woman making enquiries fulfilled all of his fantasies. Medium height, buxom but not overweight, mid forties and pleasingly dressed and pleasant of face. Every inch a schoolmistress, but a schoolmistress with a touch of elegant frivolity. She looked both fun and severe and he was convinced she must be the lady his like minded friend had dubbed amazing. If she picked up her case, a heavy brown one, and went straight to the lift he would be disappointed. Devastated in fact. The woman on the phone had made it clear, references or not, that this was a first meeting and she would not go to his room until they had met. He held his breath and prayed. But she did exactly that, took a key and moved off to the lift. So much for fantasies. A few minutes after she left a small and elderly lady, slightly confused it seemed, entered the lobby and made querulous enquiries of the receptionist. Something about them not being able to accommodate her Pekinese. He drank a goodly quality of his whisky and said to himself, please do not be her. Please, do not be her.


He was still containing his disappointment when a voice whispered in his ear.

‘Martin?’ It is Martin, isn’t it?’

He froze.

‘You can look at me. I won’t bite.’

He turned his head and held his breath.

‘At least not yet.’

She sat down, drink in hand, and smiled warmly. The buxom woman he had seen at reception. His puzzled expression evoked a response.

‘I always book in. It looks odd otherwise. They have an office where I leave my case. This is non alcoholic, by the way. In case you were thinking.’

He still said nothing.

‘It is Martin isn’t it? Christopher’s friend? I am rarely wrong.’


‘And if I was, well, no harm done.’


‘Just sorry to have bothered you, a smile, and go. But you are Martin aren’t you?’

‘Is it obvious?’

‘Oh yes. Schoolboy written all over you. Your friend Christopher told me all about you.’



She smiled enigmatically and it was a smile that held a hint of promised indulgences. And the words that followed confirmed it. Martin felt stiffening in his loins as he listened. The words were heavenly, a blessed fulfilment of an all consuming desire.

‘Enough to know that I shall have a willing pupil. A very boyish one, if I may say so. I reckon I shall enjoy beating your bottom. I usually do, but it is a bonus to have one so young.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Even if my fee is still the same. One has to make a living.’


‘And you have been beaten before?’

‘A long time ago. At school.’

‘But not since?’



She mused on this word and a silence fell between them. He finished his drink and waited for her to speak again.

‘But you are ready?’

‘Yes. Yes Miss.’

‘Ready to be caned?’

‘I have been ready a long time, Yes Miss.’

As he said this, Yes Miss, a surge fired through his being. He had definitely been ready for a long time and she seemed safe. Safe for an anonymous meeting in an equally anonymous hotel. Never had he felt so excited. His friend said he would, given his personality and desires. And she was good, so it was said. He would have all those desires fulfilled. So Yes Miss it was. And he was ready.

‘I cane hard.’

‘I know.’

‘Very hard.’

‘He told me.’

‘Your friend?’

‘You have dealt with him, more than once.’

‘Then you know what to expect.’

‘I think so.’

Whether he did or not the prospect, and the words, increased the stirring in his loins. He sensed his penis beginning to twitch uncontrollably. She must know, he thought, she must realise what she was doing to him. Her smile said she did.

‘I do not believe in pretending. I like my scenes to be real. A cane should hurt.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘But it should also excite.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Creating both fear and desire, Martin.’

‘Christopher, my friend, said it did. He said it, you, turned him on.’

‘In spite of my age and appearance?’

‘Because of it.’

‘And you?’

‘Yes. Yes Miss.’

She smiled and as she did so her eyes flashed a glistening warning.

‘I like to please, as well as give pain.’

‘Thank you Miss.’

‘Then I suggest you go up when you are ready.’


‘I think so. The room is only booked until nine,’


‘And neither of us wishes to rush things, do we?’

‘No. No Miss.’

She leaned closer to him and whispered.

‘Then prepare yourself, young man. Keep all your clothes on, for now; I do not like it any other way. I shall do all that is necessary as we progress. I shall look forward to this Martin. I shall be up in ten minutes. Leave the room unlocked, I do not wish to knock, it does not suit my style.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘And do not be afraid to cry. It often helps.’

As she said this she raised her drink and smiled at him again. He nodded and did as she bid. He finished his second whisky and, slightly light headed and warm, rose and walked towards the lift. He fervently prayed that no one around could see the erection he was convinced trumpeted the promised scene that was to follow in room 223. In ten minutes or so he would be being caned on his bare bottom. For the first time in many years. And he was aching for it. Aching for both threatened pain and promised pleasure.


He stood trembling, hands on head and eyes closed. He had removed his shoes and jacket, as instructed, and the remaining shirt and jeans clung to him in a heavy sweat. He sensed and felt the soft hands undoing the buttons on the jeans and, as they loosened, thrilled at the same hands pulling away nether clothes and tantalisingly caressing lower curves. His curves, ready and willing for what was on offer. In this case a preliminary inspection. That is what she had said as she closed the hotel door and dimmed the central room light. He had gulped and, commanded, removed the shoes and jacket and stood stock still. Eyes fervently closed. And then the hands had started to explore. All was silent, only his heavy breathing and the drift of perfume indicated the presences in the room. Room 223. He sensed, felt, his jeans being pulled down to his ankles and registered the slight touch of coldness from the room on his exposed flesh. Only his legs but soon, very soon, all of him was revealed and sensed the cold air. His underpants, cotton and light blue, specially selected for this mistress were slowly pulled down. His bottom and penis, the latter magnificently erect, were brought into view. He felt so vulnerable, so consumed in all his being. This was what he had so fervently wished for. Controlled, humiliated, exposed. In an anonymous room with an anonymous woman. And she was not there for prosaic sex, the usual coupling. She was there for other reasons and the thought of what would follow, a cane across his eager bottom, increased that magnificent erection. Martin, partially naked and tantalisingly exposed, wanted all she had to offer. To his friend Christopher he offered many silent thanks and sighed. The sighs died when soft and caressing hands ceased their exploration and a large and heavy strap whacked into his naked and trembling behind. Martin’s discipline had begun. His anonymous mistress in the anonymous hotel room did not disappoint. Standing still, hands on head, he absorbed twenty or so strokes of her straps across his bare bottom. They neither decreased nor enhanced his erection. They merely complemented it. The feeling was heaven and when she pulled his underpants over his burning bottom Martin wondered what was to follow. He did not have long to wait. Instructed to pull up his jeans he did so and, breathlessly, followed all else she said. He bent over the chair she had placed into the middle of the room and readied himself for a promised cane. She gave him twenty four strokes, six on his jeans, six on his underpants, and twelve across a behind she lovingly bared again in preparation. They stung like hell, especially the last twelve, but Martin drank them all in and willed it to continue. Never was pain so pleasurable, none more so than, when bid, he looked into the hotel room mirror and admired the savage weals burned into his glowingly warm backside. ‘Touch them’ she said, ‘Enjoy the warmth, the ridges, the sting. And when you are ready Martin, strip’. ‘Strip completely, I wish to see you as you wish to see yourself. Naked.’ And she did. And for over an hour more a naked Martin suffered and devoured exquisite humiliation that even his fevered imagination had not contemplated.


They sat in the bar of the hotel, the three of them. Martin, his amazing Mistress, and his friend Christopher. The session in room 223 over, Martin and his tormenting chastiser had retired for a relaxing drink. Alcohol, she had said, this time, and her smile alluded to the possibility that Martin had quite exhausted her. Perversely, a subdued Martin seemed pleased. The bar lounge was empty and conversation, albeit subtly low key, could be free and uninhibited. It was during a few intensive exchanges that Christopher turned up, clearly expected if not by Martin. He bought a drink at the bar and joined them. If Martin was surprised by this it paled into insignificance as a strange three way conversation progressed. A conversation that both churned Martin’s stomach and, weirdly, disturbed and enhanced his pleasure of the evening. If he never knew before how perverse his sexuality was, he certainly did now.

‘Your wife?’

‘Yes. Did you not guess?’

‘No, why should I?’

‘No reason Martin, I just thought you might though.’

‘My names is Christine, by the way.’

The woman who had just done things to him he had only dreamed of, in an anonymous hotel room, turned and smiled at Martin. She sipped her drink and continued.

‘Christopher had told me all about you and, well I thought it might be fun.’

‘So you don’t normally do this sort of thing?’

‘Oh yes. It’s my living. And my pleasure.’

She smiled and looked at Christopher.

‘And she is very good Martin, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. Yes, she is, very good.’

His mind wandered back to hotel room 223 and he blushed, beads of sweat returning.

‘And you don’t mind?’

‘No. Should I? After all, it is how we met.’

How they met. Christopher and Christine. At a dominatrix party, a couple of years before. They clicked and, strangely, fell in love. A normal relationship Christopher said, except once a week or so when she beat him. And except those weeks when she sent him to someone else to do the same. It was at one such someone else’s house, an afternoon party, that he had met Martin. A voyeur, a man on the side, watching but desperate to be involved. They became friends and, eventually he told him about Christine, Madam Christine. Except he did not say her name or that she was his wife. Merely of what she did.


And it was what she did that Martin was still thinking of when he journeyed home. Christine, his friend’s wife. What she did for a fee, a substantial fee. And for pleasure she had said. Did Christopher know? And if he did, did he care? Did he know or guess that his wife had taken Martin, a man much younger than himself or her, to a hotel room. And in that hotel room she had thrashed him, caned him, made his bare bottom beetroot. And when she had done so she had stripped him naked, tied him to the bed, spread-eagled, ran her hands all over him and brought him to a climax that Martin had only previously imagined. Her feverish hands and his throbbing behind had combined in releasing an explosion of perverse desire from his bursting cock. Never had he come so willingly and so desperately. The experience was wonderful, and the reliving of it with his new found knowledge even better. He already hankered for a repeat. Christopher was a friend, a like minded friend and, as Martin told him in a pub a couple of weeks later, being beaten by his wife was an amazing experience. Christopher smiled. No bother, he said, and next time, if you want a next time, she might do it for free.

‘Providing you let me watch.’

‘Let you watch?’

‘Yes. Does that bother you?’

‘No. No, strangely it doesn’t.’

‘That’s what Christine said.’


‘She said, and she knows these things, Martin has an exhibitionist’s bottom.’


Martin just laughed, laughed to cover his embarrassment. But he knew Christopher was right. His penis had never stopped twitching from the moment he met Madam Christine. He fervently desired her to thrash him again. Discovering she was Christopher’s wife did not diminish his feelings, it increased them. And now, in the pub, with the strange proposal? Martin twitched even more. To have his humiliation watched took strange desire to new heights. Even higher than room 223 in an anonymous town centre hotel. He could not wait.

To be continued


Alfred Roy (2017)