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The First Time (M/M-autobiographical)

I reckon it took me about fifteen years to work out my kink. From bending down for a schoolmaster to bending down for pleasure, however ob...

Wednesday, 7 June 2017

The Retired Headmaster (M/M) - with accompanying picture

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?’

‘No, sir.’

‘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?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘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.’

‘No sir.’

‘Especially as those underpants are coming down. Bare bottom boy. Twelve strokes of my redwood cane on your bare bottom.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘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.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘That and your little bottom of course. Given my exertions I have earned that right.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘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 regrets?’

‘No sir. John. No John. It was all I wanted.’

‘And needed?’


‘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?’

‘Of course.’

‘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.’

‘Now realised.’


‘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.’


‘Very good.’

‘Thank you sir.’

‘Worthy of another twelve before you go.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘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

Christmas With Nurse Nettles (F/m)

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.





‘Why not?’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘You have, but do I need a reason?’

‘No Miss.’

‘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.’

‘My father?’

‘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.’

‘No need.’

‘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.’

‘And fathers?’

‘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?’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, when for a start.’

‘When she comes back from Stratford.’

‘When’s that?’

‘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.’

‘I’m scared.’

‘You should be. She’s a no nonsense woman.’

‘And excited.’

‘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?’

‘No Miss.’

‘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?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘So a little pain on your bottom is a small sacrifice?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘Does that thrill you?’

‘What Miss?’

‘When I say that. A little pain on your bottom?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘The thought of the pain or the thought of your bottom being prepared for it?’

‘The getting ready.’

‘Having your pants taken down?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘Having your bottom bared for my cane?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘In spite of the pain?’

‘Yes Miss.’


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.’


‘What, Miss’

‘What, Miss?’

‘One pleasant, one not so.’


‘And, as this is our last full day, it will make sense to combine them.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘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











































Wednesday, 14 December 2016

Taking Care (F/m F/f)

This is not a Christmas story but it does hint at the end of one to come. I have been suffering for a few weeks, shingles, which has made me very unsociable and grumpy. Two folks usually give me a Christmas spanking and both have had to be cancelled. Hence this pretty long story and, unusually for me, a good deal of semi sexual detail. Pure fantasy of course although, I suspect, nurses such as Miss Nettles figure in many an over active male mind. Happy Christmas. Shingle bells, shingle bells, shingle all the way. Alfred Roy

Taking Care



I should be embarrassed. I was the first time but, when you have been bathed half a dozen times, you get used to it. Well I did anyway. My brother said it’s because I am only fifteen and don’t have his hormones. I also don’t have his arms. Well one of them. My right one. Have to wank left handed, he said, when you start, or get someone else to do it for you. He seemed amused by this but I reckon he was covering up distress. That’s what my sister said. She’s my twin and we are two years younger than Adam. They were both gutted by my accident, you could see that in spite of the forced hilarity. I lost the arm in a car accident about eighteen months ago and, to compound the difficulties, my saved left arm is taking yonks to heal. But, eventually, the hospital let me home and dad employed a nurse come home help to see us through. Had to really as mum, in the car with me, is back in hospital and not likely to come out again for months. Can’t have three teenagers causing riots, he said, during the long holidays. You’ll all need a firm hand. Not sure, then, if he meant that literally but, looking back, it was a portentous comment. That summer was one never to be forgotten.

I suppose you could say we were an incredibly lucky family in some ways. We had a fantastic house in the country and we all went to private schools. Never any money problems, mum had inherited wealth and dad a highflying job which took him all over the world. We wanted for little. But in other ways, we also had our fair share of bad luck. The car accident was just one of many. Adam spent two years in hospital, on and off, when he was little with heart problems. Thankfully, now fixed. And Sophie, bane and love of my life, was the twin I nearly lost when our holiday boat capsized about five years ago. Adam said we were jinxed and repeated it after the car accident. True I said, but we have all survived. Unlike Tom he reminded me, as is he needed to. Tom was the eldest of the four of us, five years older than Adam. Or would have been. About two weeks before my accident he was killed in Afghanistan. Dad reckons that mum was thinking of all that when she lost control of the car. As I said we are an incredibly lucky family.

But what we lack in luck we make up for in humour and resilience. We get the resilience from dad and the humour from mum, or is it the other way round? Thing is they both had both qualities so we, Adam, Sophie and me had double portions of the two. That’s what Adam said, and Sophie repeated it when Miss Nettles arrived. The nurse come home help. Miss Nettles. Ambrosine Nettles. Thirty five, serious, old fashioned. In manner and dress. You’ll need your humour with her Sophie said and giggled. And your resilience Adam said, in spades. Glad she’s not my nurse. I just looked open mouthed. I’m Simon by the way and I have just got off to a bad start with dad’s little helper. We all stared in amazement as Miss Nettles walked up the garden to the house. What had dad done?

She had arrived on the Wednesday afternoon of the start of a long and glorious summer. We three were in the garden drinking beer. That might sound a bit strange for two fifteen year olds and their seventeen year old brother but it was homemade stuff, one of dad’s passions, and we had been virtually weaned on it. Miss Nettles, our Ambrosine, in starchy nurse’s uniform and light brown coat seemed singularly unimpressed. She carried a small case, a holdall, and a distinct frown. Are one of you children, not Simon obviously, going to help me with these, she said. No introductions, no hellos, just a veiled instruction. Adam looked nonplussed and Sophie smiled her widest and most insincere smile. I don’t like you it said, almost instantly. I looked at Adam and said I would lend a hand but it’s at the hospital. We all corpsed and Adam spluttered in his beer. Our Ambrosine merely smiled icily and said, unnervingly calmly, then Adam, it is Adam isn’t it, can show me to my room. We can introduce ourselves at tea. And with that she flounced, or something equally dramatic, to the house.

We questioned dad closely that evening. Who and what is she and where does she fit? Simple he said. He was to be away for six weeks and she was to run the house and nurse me. She came highly recommended and it would be best if we co-operated. Apart from her, Miss Nettles, and a cleaning lady who came in three mornings a week we would be on our own. It was either that or shutting up the house for the summer and sending us away. He reckoned we would prefer this option. We did but not because of Our Ambrosine, as we called her behind her back. She seemed to have little sense of humour, was over efficient, and insisted on us obeying a few house rules for her stay. As the latter included being in bed by ten and not drinking dad’s beer in the house we were unimpressed. But other than that she generally left us alone. Except for me. She was a qualified nurse and tended to my remaining arm with a professional expertise. In fact in her nursing role she was almost likeable, it was the unfamiliar role of controlling three teenagers which caused her most discomfort. There was just one aspect of that nursing role that caused me some initial concern. She was determined to carry on where the hospital left off and that included me showering at least twice a week. For some reason that didn’t bother me too much at the hospital, different nurses on different days and a sense of anonymity. But at home with a person I was seeing regularly unnerved me a bit. And hormones were beginning to kick in, in spite of what Adam said. I’ve got used to it now, and other things, as she has been here two weeks and made me shower at least six times. But I still shudder at the first time, especially as, bizarrely, I got what I reckon was my first ever serious erection.

I had been getting pretty good at most everyday things. I could dress myself and go the lavatory without help, thank God. Both tasks took five times as long as normal but it was better than the alternative. But showering, as they told me in hospital, was difficult if not impossible. Mainly because I needed to keep my damaged arm dry. So I used to close my eyes and let them get on with it. Initially bed baths but, as I got stronger, trips to the shower with the available nurse. Usually an older, no nonsense, one. I got used to it so did not get too agitated when, on her third day, Nettles said I needed to shower. To save time she took my clothes off in the bathroom and that, I reckon, was her first mistake. In hospital it was just a case of taking off the pyjama top and pulling the cord on my pants. Within a blink I would be naked. But at home the command, that is what it was, came at the end of a day when we had all been having fun in the garden. She had to strip an awful lot more. Shirt, shoes, socks, jeans, underpants. One by one. I found it exciting as well as embarrassing. Especially when she pulled my underpants down and off. Sorry Miss, I said, looking at the stiffness in my cock. She ignored it. You are a boy she said, it is to be expected. I stepped into the shower, hoping my strange growth would go away. It didn’t and it got worse when she turned on the water and started to rub me with the soap. First my back and chest and then my legs and buttocks. The last bit took my breath away and I closed my eyed firmly and tightly when her hands went to my private bits. They need cleaning as well she said, even the stiff bit. I thought I would die. She did it briskly and efficiently and quickly moved on to washing my hair, taking care to keep my one arm away from the water flow. I had survived and breathed thankfully when I realised my unexpected erection was subsiding. I learnt two things that day. One was that no boy has any control over his appendage. It rises and falls at will. The second was that some folks, some women, have strange habits that please. This one certainly did. As I stepped out of the shower she delivered a sharp and resounding smack of her hand to my wet and naked bottom. They must have heard it downstairs. Ouch, I said, what was that for? For failing to control yourself, Simon, for having unclean thoughts. I had not a clue what she meant, all I knew was that I had a sharp sting on the left cheek of my bottom and, truth be told, it felt rather nice. Nettles by name, and Nettles by nature. How much so I was yet to find out.

The first clue came from Adam, my older and so called wiser brother. She’s Nettles by name and nettles by nature is our Ambrosine, he said to me one morning, adding, I reckon that’s why dad employed her. The phrase struck me as the one I had called to mind after she first showered me. After that she took care to ensure showers took place in the morning before I dressed. No slow and hormone inducing stripping and no subsequent hand stinging slap on bum. Don’t you know he said, pouring himself a second cup of disgustingly thick Turkish coffee and lighting a cigarette, much frowned upon by Our Ambrosine. He looked at me quizzically. She’s out, he said, shopping with the cleaner. And, proceeding to puff on his clandestine weed, told me what I clearly did not know. You must have been on one of your hospital visits, which is why you missed the drama. What drama, I said. Our Nettles got cross with Sophie, he said. Last Tuesday. She came in late the night before and gave her some lip. Asked to apologise the next day more lip spurt forth. Upshot was Miss Nettles gave her a spanking, Sophie, right there and then in the kitchen, in front of the cleaner. No messing, knickers down and on her bare behind. She howled for England. I heard it. All over when I got to the kitchen but no doubt what had happened. Sophie was bawling and rubbing her behind and threatening Miss Nettles, utterly calm I might say, with all sorts of dire threats. The cleaner looked gobsmacked, as I was. But amusing all the same. Do Sophie good. But today she threatened me with the same. You are not too old at seventeen, she said, to get what Sophie got. Just because she caught me smoking one of these, he waved his cigarette around to emphasise the point. Just let her try, he said. Just let her try I echoed the thought. Sophie spanked by Miss Nettles and hating it and Adam threatened with a spanking from her and dismissing it. And me? Listening to all this. What did I, Simon, think? Fifteen year old Simon remembering the showers and the smacked behind, albeit fleetingly. I thought it might be rather nice. Might be rather nice to be spanked by Miss Nettles, especially if she did it on my bare behind.

She did. Only a few days after Adam related the story of Sophie’s spanking. And she did it exactly as I had wished, exactly as I had fantasised. On my bare behind after a serious lecture and slow and deliberate preparation. Could she read my mind? It was my own fault. Adam had said, amongst other things, that he thought Miss Nettles was a bit of a sadist. Her flushed and animated face after spanking Sophie clearly indicated a woman of strange passions. He had read too many dubious books I said. She was strange but not a sadist. He disagreed. Wouldn’t surprise me, he said, if she had straps and canes buried in her bureau ready to wreak havoc on our behinds. Such women exist and not just in books. It got me thinking. Dad had made it clear that Miss Nettles had been employed to keep an eye on us. And he had said something else which did not register at the time we questioned him but was beginning to take on a special significance. You either accept her, he had said, or I shut up shop for a couple of months. She comes highly recommended and I have given her full powers. Full powers. Now what did that mean? Did she have disciplinary implements buried away in her room, ready to whack us with? I decided to find out. I decided to search. My timing was bad and, being so, I discovered that Miss Nettles, Our Ambrosine, was indeed a woman not to be messed with. No canes, no straps, either discovered or used but a hand of vicious and stinging qualities. Especially when applied to a fifteen year old backside. As the first smack landed emphatically into my bared bottom my fantasy died.


‘You do know I have spanked Sophie?’

‘Yes, Adam told me.’

‘So it will not surprise you, Simon, that I intend the same for you.’

‘That’s abuse. You are my nurse. Besides I don’t have any arms.’

‘Not strictly true and not relevant. I do not intend to spank your arms.’

‘I am too old to be spanked.’

‘No boy is too old, not even Adam if he deserves it. You certainly deserve it, invading my private space. What did you expect to find?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do, but I am not interested. You have stepped out of line and your father has given me permission to deal with such matters as I see fit.’


As she said this she drew me closer towards her and started to undo my trousers. We were in her bedroom, the room in which I had been caught. She had closed the door and locked it. A sure sign that I was in serious trouble. As my pants were pulled to my knees I registered what she had said about dad. He’d never spanked us, and neither had mum, but both had said that it would probably do us all good occasionally. Well they were getting their wish. I thought that as my underpants followed my trousers down my legs. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and pulled me towards her and over her knees, my bare bum upended and ready for action. I shouldn’t feel too embarrassed as she had seen all I had many times. But not like this, not as a little boy over her knee waiting to be spanked. I had mused on the possibility many times since she spanked Sophie and the idea appealed. That appeal faded the moment her left hand lifted my shirt and her right connected with my bare bottom. My howling was about to begin. Boy could our Miss Nettles spank. Both of my poor cheeks were walloped at least a dozen times and I struggled manfully, arms or not, to wriggle free. But her left arm was firmly around my waist, holding up my shirt to ensure that the area to be spanked was well exposed, and my soft and vulnerable bottom was well and truly smacked. I could not see but the heat rising from my bum suggested a picture of vivid red. By the time she stopped, and the spanking could not have taken more than a couple of minutes, I was in tears. She raised me up and, as she lowered my shirt, did the decent thing and gently massaged my bottom. After all, she said, I could not do it myself. Standing there, pants still at my knees, her soft hand on my naked bum almost made the earlier stings worthwhile.


‘Dry your tears Simon, it wasn’t that bad.’

‘Tell my bottom that.’

‘Sophie took it better, even if she was abusive afterwards.’

‘Maybe she has a tougher bum.’

‘Nonsense. Boy’s bottoms are much more resilient. You will be fine within half an hour.’

‘Doesn’t feel like it at the moment.’

‘Good. Will teach you to behave yourself.’

‘And if I don’t.’

‘Then perhaps you will feel my cane.’


‘The one you couldn’t find.’


She was redressing me during all this and she could not have failed to notice the erection I was displaying. It had started as she rubbed my bottom after the spanking and, as much as I tried, I could not control it. Pulling up my underpants and trousers was an exercise in physical delicacy. She made no comment but, when dressed, she patted my burning bottom again and said that I was a strange but interesting boy. My cock twitched again. It might only be fifteen but it was getting weird sensations. I told Adam all this the following day. You are a masochist he said, nothing weird about that. Lots of men like being spanked and they got their fixation in childhood. I reminded him that I was not a child but, wafting away the smoke from another of his revolting cigarettes, declined any other comment. Sophie joined us and smirked that she had heard that I had suffered as she had and mused that only Adam was now a Nettles virgin. Unlike you, Adam said, our Simon quite enjoyed it. I was about to protest when Sophie said something that got me thinking. It runs in the family, she said, all at least amongst some of us. We both asked her what she meant and she just pulled a face, one of her most irritating habits. I discovered the facts behind the enigmatic comment later. I overheard the Pauline our cleaner, she said, talking to Our Ambrosine on the day she spanked me. Full of admiration, the cow. Said it was long overdue. We were all nice kids, she said, but spoilt, and a few smacked behinds would do us all good. I didn’t say anything but in Sophie’s case I was inclined to agree. I loved her to death but she could be a monster on her bad days. Bloody cheek, Sophie continued, she wouldn’t have been so eager if it had been her bare bum getting walloped. But the most interesting comment came from Nettles. Their father agrees, she said, which is partly why he hired me. I can combine nursing with old fashioned correction. A smacked behind can help to develop an individual on the right path and he should know, she said. I reckon she would have said more but they saw me in the doorway and stopped talking. Now my darling Simon, my ‘armless brother, what do you make of that?

I didn’t know what to make of it other than the fact that Nursie Nettles had arrived with a dual mission. Tending to all my medical needs was the obvious one, with a not now so hidden agenda to discipline us when needed. With ‘old fashioned correction’ to quote Sophie quoting Nettles quoting dad. And dad should know, she had said. That was the most perplexing comment and as such I dismissed it from my mind. Besides I had other things to think about. Our Ambrosine said I was well overdue for a shower, she had not had time that morning, and it would be the first one since being spanked the day before. A strange surge went through my young body. Apart from the first time she had given me a shower my appendage had behaved itself. She had been quick and efficient and professional and, being early morning, my mind was only slowly awakening. But today’s was late morning and followed both the previous day’s private and personal walloping and the discussions with Adam and Sophie. I flinched when she made the announcement, just before lunch, and blushed profusely when my revolting siblings both gave knowing smirks. I don’t need a shower I said. I’ll be the judge of that, she said, in a manner which defied contradiction and engendered a sense that this lady was finding her feet. Upshot was that ten minutes later I was standing in the bathroom in my birthday suit, eyes closed and fervently praying that nothing of me would rise to the auspicious occasion. The prayer failed.


‘Your bottom seems to have recovered remarkably well, Simon.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘One would hardly know it had been spanked.’

‘No Miss.’

‘I shall have to do better next time, if there is a next time, I usually leave shining beetroot cheeks for at least a  couple of days.’

‘It hurt Miss, and Sophie agrees with me.’

‘It is meant to Simon. There is no point otherwise.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘And Sophie would have felt more discomfort, such a small and tender girl’s bottom.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘You seems very dutiful today, Simon. I am pleased.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘I shall have to take your pants down more often.’


And on that point she laughed and turned on the shower. The water, thankfully, engulfed me and took my mind off a penis which had stiffened more and more as she had chatted. I think she knew the turmoil she was creating in my mind both by the situation, me naked and waiting, and by the conversation. Fixated as it was on my spanking of the previous day. As the soap and water, and her soft and large hands, went to work I concentrated on the task in hand. Trying to forget the heady conversation and the memories of the previous day I sensed those hands doing their expert job. Cleaning all of me, all my orifices and personal bits, washing my hair, massaging my bottom and legs, cleansing my back. If I had been capable I reckon I would have spurted on that day and I reckon she knew that, hands exploring my young body interspersed with comments on my spanking. By the time I stepped out of the shower and a warming towel dried my body I was ready, and she knew it, to be spanked again. To be spanked, or anything else she had in my mind. What I did not know, and in fairness neither did she then, what she eventually had in mind was a damn sight more than a spanking. And this next time it was not private and personal. This next time was a threesome. I got caned and I did not get it alone. When I bent over the leather chair with my bottom in the air I was following fifteen year old twin Sophie and seventeen year old Adam in a painful disciplinary dance. By then we definitely knew that dad would be pleased. We knew because we found a letter that he had written to her. We knew because she caught us reading it. And we knew because all of us, sentenced to a caning, reckoned she had left it lying around as a trap. Sophie read it out and her eyes widened in amazement as she did so. Adam and I just stood transfixed as a veil was lifted from our eyes. Dad had planned this and the realisation coincided with our realising that Nurse Abrosine Nettles was both watching and waiting. A short hiatus in this narrative will allow that letter to be displayed in full. It explains a lot.


‘My Dear Ambrosine, it has been so long since I saw you last I hesitate on how to begin. Life has been pretty dire for my family over recent months. First Tom being killed and then the car accident. It has taken us months to get back on an even keel and now my lovely wife is back in hospital. I should close up the house and send my kids off to relatives for the summer but I know they would hate that. They are mad but lovely and will make for fantastic and amusing adults. We are all a bit bohemian and all we lack, as I often tell them, is a bit of old fashioned discipline. I know that your special services have helped me through many traumas. My wife understands, always did, my need to visit you every few months. Always put me back on an even keel and helped, even enhanced, my coping with the commercial world. I reckon it would help my kids if they got a taste of your special medicine. Not that I want to be around to see it. Much too soft with them. I hinted that you would fit the bill when we spoke on the phone. Simon needs nursing care and the fact that you have that qualification as well makes you a bit of a shoe in. Contact me at my office and we can finalise the details. Basically I would like you to live in for the month or so I am away, look after Simon and sort out the other two delightful reprobates. And smack the bottoms, hard as you like, of all three when they need it. They will thank you in later life. Regards, Nigel.’


Sophie was singularly unimpressed by the reference to being reprobates and Adam thought it a bit off that dad was sending strange letters to a strange woman advocating that she smack his seventeen year old son’s bottom. I felt it all made sense given what I had experienced at Our Ambrosine‘s hands. Not only had she spanked me but she regularly bathed me, and on the last occasion she seemed to relish talking about it. The spanking not the showering. To talk and reflect on smacking bottoms to a naked and tumescent boy. I was getting hooked on the things my dad needed, must be genetic, but the prospect did nothing for my siblings. Sophie desired not a repeat and Adam abhorred an introduction. But the variety of feelings from thrill, to fear, to distaste, mattered not a jot. Three siblings with mixed emotions turned and listened as the incriminating letter dropped from their hands. All three, eyes firmly fixed on our Ambrosine Nettles, learnt very quickly that they were going to be caned. We were lined up in book laden study so revered by our dad. By now the scenario was well established. Musings and clandestine letters, not to say the earlier spankings of me and Sophie, spelt out what was expected. Miss Nettles had been given carte blanche to our undeserving bottoms by dad and she was not to be thwarted. She made that clear. He loved us and hated the thought of sending us away when circumstances conspired against us. Him on serious commercial business and mum in hospital. But his arrangements had a downside. At least for us. A stinging Nettles bent on fulfilling her brief. If we refused to accept her sentence, six strokes each, she would resign and throw the house into confusion. We had no choice. Sophie cried at the thought, Adam gulped in resignation, and I both hated and thrilled in equal proportions. But we accepted. Report to the study, she said, for six cane strokes each on the place that nature intended.  And then the house could come to some sort of order. We slowly and fearfully made the small journey, all of us thinking we had to do this for dad. I said we were a weird family.


To an outsider it must have looked very strange. Three teenagers, the eldest only seventeen, standing in only their underclothes in front of a crisply uniformed nurse. Why she was wearing her nurse’s uniform I do not know but, with a vicious looking cane in her hand, it added a special frisson. At least for me. Nurse Ambrosine Nettles was in her element, full disciplinary power sanctioned by an absent parent, was about to give consummate vent to her special remedies. She said she would deal with Sophie first. Well she was a girl and the youngest by twenty minutes. On that basis I thought I would be second in line but for some reason she decided that Adam would be next and I would be last. When bid, Sophie stepped forward, already in tears, and bent over the leather chair that had been conveniently placed in the centre of the room. Its low back made it ideal for its intended use. I can’t remember the last time I had seen my twin’s knickered bottom. I must have over the years but in this situation it fascinated, especially as I was to receive what she was currently getting. Her knickers had been pulled up tightly and smoothed across her cheeks and her top lifted, expertly. Nothing, other than flimsy cotton, stood in the way of Our Ambrosine’s cane. She rested it on Sophie’s cheeks and, unsurprisingly, they twitched in nervous anticipation and the tears enhanced. Be grateful these are not coming down, Nettles said, emphasising the point with a couple of light cane taps. Sophie twitched again and immediately followed with a loud and piercing scream as the cane lashed across the centre of her bum. A second stroke joined the first and Sophie jumped up, tears flowing and screams pleading, and rubbed a bottom that was clearly on fire. I was transfixed as Adam, standing next to me, shivered in teenage fear. Get back Sophie and stay down, came the command, otherwise I shall not spare your modesty. The threat worked and Sophie took the final four strokes, if not stoically, at least with grim resolution. Nurse Nettles allowed her to leave the room, still clutching her bottom and howling, and I considered her lucky that we did not get to see her bared bottom. The whole process had taken no more than two or three minutes and it was with flushed face and steel in the eyes that our chastiser summoned Adam to the chair.


‘Adam you know what to do. Bend over the chair.’

‘And if I refuse this assault on my person?’

‘Then I shall resign my position. It is as simple as that.’

‘Perhaps I don’t care.’

‘Oh, I think you do Adam. It isn’t just that you and Sophie will go away. Simon will have to go back into hospital.’

‘He might like that.’

‘I doubt it, he is getting used to me and my methods.’

‘Unlike me?’

‘And it is what your father wishes.’

‘He wishes us to be caned? I doubt it.’

‘He wishes you to stay together and, though you don’t agree, he thinks having your bottoms smacked occasionally will do you good.’

‘I don’t call what you just did to Sophie a bottom smacking.’

‘It was deserved Adam. As is yours. And if you keep me waiting much longer I shall take down your underpants as extra punishment.’

‘You wouldn’t.........’

‘What. Wouldn’t dare Adam? I think you know me better than that. Now bend over the chair and let us get this over. It will hurt but it will not take long.’


I listened to all this, fascinated. Adam was trembling, in spite of his superficial bravado, and Our Ambrosine Nettles had the determined look of an avenging nurse. Adam was going to be caned and he knew it. I was enthralled, both at the prospect and that I would be next. My big brother was about to get his bottom whacked and when he bent over I could not help but admire his shapely backside. Fuller than Sophie’s small backside and distinctly boyish. And enhanced by the tight white trunks which clung to every curve. Nurse Nettles took her time, I think she appreciated the male bottom on the cusp of manhood and her hands smoothed out the covering cloth and, erotically, made Adam spread his legs and lift his backside. A good target, she said, and a good bottom. Well qualified for discipline. And discipline he got. She walloped that cane into him six times, about ten seconds apart, and Adam gasped at every stroke. But though he wriggled and squirmed he absorbed each one and never attempted to get up. When he did, after the last stroke had seared the centre of his behind, he had tears in his eyes and hands rubbing away almost as vigorously as Sophie had done. She let him go, to recover his composure in private and so it was just me left in the room with the medical woman from whom I had no secrets. And this time it was not for a showering or a spanking, or all the other many things she did for me. This time it was for a caning. Six times. On my bottom. And I had seen what she had done to Sophie and Adam. I was both scared and thrilled and now it was my turn. I have to say I was a little disappointed. I bent over meekly, unlike Adam. I lifted my bottom, as instructed, and enjoyed her rearrangement of my underpants. I fearfully awaited the cane and screwed up my face when the six strokes struck. And when I rose I had a few tears and lots of rubs to my behind. I had taken my caning better than Sophie but not as well as Adam. And she said so. I mumbled something and gratefully left when she dismissed me. The pain in my bum was excruciating and I knew it would throb for a while. But I did not mind that. What I minded, what disappointed, what left me with a sinking feeling of emptiness was one thing. One thing that I most desired when I bent over in readiness for the cane. I desperately wanted my Nurse Nettles to take my pants down and do it on my bare bum. For that, all pain would be bearable. And she didn’t. She did not take my pants down and cane me on my bare bottom. So, later, it was left to my boyish fantasies. I mused on this for a long time afterwards and eventually, somewhat reluctantly, raised it with Adam. We were in the library playing chess, about two days after we had our caning threesome. Unlike me he had not spent time examining his marks. It won’t happen again was all he said. I said I had found it all exciting, in spite of the pain. And the marks on my bum are amazing. You are a pervert, he said, just like dad. But, I shouldn’t worry, he added, it was just a strange normality and indicated high intelligence. Except in my case, he added. I reckon he was right, not the intelligence bit, and something that happened a couple of weeks later made me think even more so. Nurse Nettles gave me an enema and, discomfort or not, the experience was thrilling.

I was standing in front of her dressed only in underpants and top. No need to get dressed, she had said, after an early morning shower which, thankfully, had not sent my jimmy pointing up to the ceiling. Wisely she had decided that early morning showers caused less embarrassment. I had ignored the instruction even though she had amplified the reason. My tablets were causing havoc with my insides and an enema was well overdue. Her words. I had been given a couple in hospital, not pleasant, and was not really looking forward to a repeat from nasty Nettles. My bottom had recovered from my caning but the memory lingered. But she was insistent and, before breakfast, I found myself on my bed wearing only my top. She had taken down my underpants and when I lay on my bed, turned away from her with my knees up to my chest, I was conscious of an unwanted incipient erection. She had seen it but made no comment. Only my bottom seemed of interest. The cane marks have cleared up nicely, she said. I hope you have learnt your lesson. I made no reply, conscious only of the oiling of my anus and the slow and gentle insertion of the cold and unkind tube. Warm water gradually flowed into me and I steeled myself for the inevitable reaction. She made me turn to her and her hands gently massaged my stomach. They were no more than inches from my penis, thankfully now declining, and the feeling was not unpleasant. When you are ready, she said, and shortly I was. She helped me to the bathroom and, in spite of the excitement at exposing myself to her again, I was glad when this incident was over. I took vicarious enjoyment from her seeing my naked bottom but, deep down, I wished it prior to being disciplined. Showering and enemas were not the same. And I particularly wished her to see that naked bottom just before she caned it. I thought it might have happened when we were left alone after she caned my siblings but, in that desire, I had been frustrated. A week after the enema I was to get my wish. Thinking back, I realise now that such desires should remain in fantasy.


‘You have engineered this Simon.’

‘No Miss.’

‘Oh, I think so.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘You get Adam and Sophie drunk by lacing your father’s beer, very dangerous I might say, you persuade them to join you in running naked around the garden, and you post photographs of the event on my website. You must have known you would be caught.’

‘It was a laugh.’

‘Not very funny. Fortunately nothing gets posted until I have checked it. You must have known that.’

‘I said it was just a laugh.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘What? Miss.’

‘My website.’

‘It was in dad’s letter to you. Your professional name.’

‘Very clever. But not so clever with the photographs. Apart from your arms, you were all clearly recognisable.’

‘How? I didn’t show faces.’

‘But you showed bottoms, Simon. Especially yours, with which I am very familiar.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘So you will get your wish. I will cane you, twelve strokes on that bottom. On your bare bottom, which I think is what you most desire. But for lacing your brother and sister’s drink. Nothing else. So I should say take down your pants but, as things are, I shall have to do it for you.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss.’

‘You will be, but as I said Simon, you have engineered it.’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘You really are your father’s boy.’


And I was. I desired nothing more than what was proposed. A pervert was what Adam had called me, a chip off the old block. He was right. At fifteen I had discovered the joys of being whacked. I did not understand the thrill, but thrill it was. Standing waiting for her to do what she intended was nothing short of heaven. Rich in my imaginations and overwhelming in the reality. The fear of pain, and I was scared, was eclipsed by the heady anticipation. She approached and I drew in my breath as she undid the top of my jeans. All buttons quickly followed and she dragged those same jeans down to my knees. The low leather chair had been pulled to the centre of the room, the same room in which three siblings had been caned in their underclothes, and she walked me to it and bent me over. Not three siblings now, not two watchers and one with covered modesty, just the one, me, and modesty was not on the agenda. I felt her warm and large hands caress my bottom, very pleasant, and drew in my breath as the fingers teased the waist band of my underpants. Within a moment I felt them being pulled down, slipping down my flesh, exposing all I had. I was captivated. She had seen all before, seen my bare bottom many times, but this time it was not for a showering., This time it was to feel her cane, twelve times. I could hear her heavy breathing, sense the tension in her body, and responded by raising up my bottom. Signally my acquiescence in what she intended to do. I desperately wanted her to cane me, and I desperately wanted her to do it like this. My jeans and pants at my knees, my top lifted, my bare bottom begging for her savage kisses across it. I sensed the feeling in my loins with which I was becoming so familiar and told my mind I did not care. As long as she caned me I did not care what happened. Or I thought I didn’t. When the first stroke lashed into my bottom I could have screamed with agony. It was vicious, much worse than when she did it on my underpants, and tears welled in my eyes at the searing pain.


‘Aagh. That hurts Miss.’

‘It is meant to Simon. I am not doing this for fun.’


‘Aagh. It stings. No more please, Miss.’

‘You brought it on yourself, Simon.’



‘So stay still.’


‘No more please, no more, I am sorry.’

Thwack! Thwack!

‘Oh my God. Aaagh. Oh my God. It hurts.


I rose, clutching my bottom with my one good arm, turning towards her and begging for forgiveness. I told her I was sorry, told her that I did not think it would hurt so much, said it was all a mistake. I was in tears, disconsolate, the searing pain in my bum throbbing for all it was worth. I told her I was not enjoying it. She laughed and said she never expected me to. It was clear then that if I had a childish fantasy she was bent on destroying it. Reluctantly, pain still throbbing, I bent over the chair again.



‘Aaagh. Please Miss, no more.’

‘That was quite gentle, Simon.’

‘It hurt.’

‘It is meant to.’



‘Only four more to go.’


‘And all deserved. Your bottom is looking lovely, beautiful stripes.’


‘Aaagh. Oh God.’

‘You should have them for a few days.’

Thwack! Thwack!

‘Aaaaaaaagh. Christ.’

‘And hopefully you will be cured.’


I looked at my bottom in the bathroom mirror. Three days had passed since my caning and on each of those three days I had, with an effort, undone my jeans and pulled both them and my underpants down to my knees to inspect the damage. On the first day I lifted my top to see the reflection of my naked cheeks I had gasped at the sight. The stripes on my bum were vicious, purple and red lines across both white bottom cheeks. They fascinated and the fascination grew as each day passed. The pain had been worthwhile and Our Ambrosine’s attempt at a cure had failed. She knew that herself by then. My most recent shower from her had made that clear. The stripes are hardening, she had said, I had better wash your bottom with care. They will be there for days yet and however much soap I apply they will not go way for a while. As she said this, and as the soap rubbed against my lacerated cheeks, she and I noted my erection. I had been stiff from the moment she undressed me and soap and words merely enhanced it. It was as she washed my genitals, delicately as always, I came. For the first time in my life. I said sorry, I could not help it. I did not truly understand it either but I knew that the feeling had been pretty special.  She merely smiled and turned the shower water to freezing cold and gave me a hard smack on my naked and bruised bottom. It was the last time we had any contact that summer. She left the following day.

Adam questioned me about it. All a bit sudden, he said, did I know the reason why? I said I didn’t but perhaps she was feeling guilty about whacking us. I didn’t believe that and neither did Adam. It was left to Sophie to come up with some sort of solution to the mystery. Dad was coming home early, later that day, and Our Ambrosine was going to meet him at the airport and then head off home. She had lots of catching up to do apparently. Sophie saw her packing and waiting for a taxi whilst we were still in deep sleep. Don’t disturb them she said, just say good bye and tell them I will be seeing them again, especially Simon. Sophie  looked at me and grinned. Sounds like a threat, Adam said, but one that our little pervert would like. I said nothing. I just closed my eyes and drifted into memories. I think I know why she left.


It was a strange Christmas that year.


I spent it with her, Nurse Nettles. Dad and mum, now out of hospital, and Sophie and Adam left for a much deserved skiing holiday. I couldn’t go, not in my condition. So I spent Christmas and the New Year with Nurse Nettles, Our Ambrosine. But that, as is said in the best stories, is best left for another day. It was a heavenly two weeks.


Alfred Roy (2016)