The boy stood outside the door. It had been a long journey and if the details of his travel arrangements were precise they paled against the details he knew the letter in his trembling hand contained. He had not read the letter, he was not allowed to, but other boys on other occasions had made a similar journey over the past year. They had been given the appropriate train tickets and a strict itinerary. Any variation would result in their immediate expelling. They, literally, had to follow to the letter the instructions given. The trembling boy was the fourth pupil of the school to be given the dreaded letter and the travel documents. A return ticket to Bury St Edmonds Three O’clock on Friday afternoon. And it was now Friday afternoon and it was nearly three o’clock . And the trembling boy, clutching the private letter, stood outside the door of the imposing flat in an equally imposing building and wondered why his headmaster had decided to send him here. He knew he was going to be caned, that had been made very clear, but when he knocked on the door he still did not fully understand why he had to go to Bury St Edmonds
The woman carefully studied the trembling boy and, standing aside, ushered him into the long corridor of her third floor flat. She took the letter and his outer coat and instructed him to go into her living room and sit on the sofa and wait. The boy said nothing, merely nodded and did as he was told. The woman was unsmiling, almost unfriendly, and her tall frame was a good six inches higher than his five foot four figure. At fourteen the boy was not yet full grown and tall adults with a severe demeanour always enhanced his nervousness. He sat on the sofa and waited. Presumably she, the woman, was the Dr A.S.Parsons he had been sent to. No wonder none of the other boys who had made a similar journey ever talked about it. Being caned by a woman was not something you wished your fellows to know about. The boy gulped and rubbed his sweating hands down his smart grey trousers. And then he gulped again. Those smart grey school trousers would soon be coming down. He knew that because the headmaster had specifically said so. In fact the headmaster had told him an awful lot about the experience he was going to receive. The only important detail that had been left out was that the person who took his trousers down to cane his bottom was a woman.
She read the letter for a second time, absorbing all the details. The headmaster had left nothing to chance; all the important facts were there. The offence, or offences, the action already taken, and what she was allowed, indeed encouraged, to do. As the boy waited, nervous and trembling, in her sitting room, she read the relevant paragraphs again.
‘The above boy has been a pupil at this school for nearly three years. On two occasions he has received the ultimate sanction, namely six strokes of the cane. The cane is administered to the bottom and for a second offence the trousers are removed and the boy is caned with only his underpants for protection. It is the policy of the school that any offence, or offences, which would justify a third caning on the bare bottom, will result in the boy involved being instantly expelled. However in a small number of cases it is the opinion of the school that a particular boy may benefit by receiving corporal punishment from a member of the female gender. The headmistress who conducted this service for us, with great success, has recently retired and she has provided a list of fellow headmistresses who she is confident would be capable of fulfilling our requirements. The advice we have been given is that no serious restrictions should be placed on how the boy in question is dealt with. We wish you every success with this particular referral and confirm that we are agreeable to your terms and conditions. A list of this boy’s more serious offences are on the attached page.’
The woman read the details of the offences and folded the letter and placed it in her handbag. The time for the preliminary interview with the boy had arrived and, armed with all the pertinent facts, it would be an uncomfortable fifteen minutes for him. That was all the time she allowed before she got down to the business of the day. And at three o’clock on this particular Friday afternoon the business of the day was the lowering of this boy’s trousers. She smoothed the sides of her severe black skirt, adjusted her crisp white blouse and walked resolutely towards her sitting room. The order to ‘stand up, hands by your side’ were already on her lips as she arrived.
Was it only a week ago that he received the bombshell? Having been caned twice for two serious transgressions he was in danger of being expelled for a third, more serious, offence. The headmaster had made it clear that such an action would cause considerable distress to both the boy and his parents. He would therefore be given one last chance. He would be caned on his bare backside. Severely. But not by anyone at the school. That policy had been discontinued many years before. But in certain cases, and the boy qualified to be considered a special case, the school were prepared to refer him to a specialist who would carry out the unpleasant task on their behalf. It was last chance. Any further instances of serious misdemeanour would result in his dismissal. So, however painful and humiliating the experience, he must tell himself it was the lesser of two evils. He must do exactly as he was told. And so he had. The boy took the travel tickets, the itinerary, and the sealed letter from the headmaster and left his study. And now he was here, standing and waiting, in Bury St Edmonds
‘Nicholas. Nicholas Turner. Aged 14 years and seven months. Is that what you are called. By your school chums?’
‘Nicky, miss. They call me Nicky.’
The woman smiled. It was the first time she had shown any expression since his arrival and the boy visibly relaxed slightly.
‘Nicky. A nice name. But not, I suspect, a very nice boy.’
‘No miss.’
‘A long list of offences is it not?’
‘Yes miss.’
The woman looked at the list attached to the letter and started to read them out. At each one the boy blushed and shifted his feet uncomfortably. Twice he was ordered, sharply, to keep still as the painful reminder of each of his transgressions was amplified.
‘Smoking – This boy is an inveterate smoker. Cleanliness – This boy regularly has grubby fingers. Punctuality – This boy is frequently late in attending classes. Insolence – This boy is frequently argumentative with his teachers. Laziness – This boy is renowned for failing to undertake allotted tasks.’
She paused but the boy said nothing.
‘It all makes for painful reading Nicky.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Particularly the last one. Personal habits – This boy is known to masturbate.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Not a nice habit. Especially in a boy of your age.’
‘No miss.’
The woman glanced down at the list again.
‘I see that you were caned for smoking in November. Six strokes on your trousers. Did it hurt?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘And you received a further six strokes of the cane to your bottom the following month. For insolence. Did that hurt as well?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘More than the first time?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Why?’
‘Sorry miss?’
‘It was a simple question Nicky. Why did it hurt more on the second occasion?’
The boy blushed even more.
‘I had to take my trousers down miss.’
‘You had to take your trousers down. For six strokes on your underpants. Am I right?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘And who gave you the canings?’
‘The headmaster.’
‘Miss.’
The retort came sharply and the boy flinched.
‘The headmaster, miss. He caned me both times.’
‘And did you cry?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Both times?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘But still you haven’t learnt your lesson, have you Nicky?’
‘No miss.’
‘Which is why you are here?’
‘I think so miss.’
‘You think so? I think you know so, Nicky.’
‘Yes miss.’
The woman stood up and any slight, friendly, expression in her demeanour faded.
‘You are here, Nicky, because your headmaster is of the opinion that corporal punishment from me may help to curb your undesirable tendencies. He is of the opinion that a short, sharp, and humiliating shock to your young person may lessen the risk of you being expelled from your school. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Good. Then take off your jacket, shoes and trousers and wait here until I come back. I shall be a couple of minutes and I expect you to be ready when I return.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘And when I return you will follow my instructions. Precisely.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘If you obey without any unseemly obstructions I will deal with you as your headmaster requires. If not I shall increase the punishment as I see fit. Is that clear?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Good. I have agreed with your headmaster that you are to receive twelve strokes of the cane. And I am at liberty to deliver them to your bottom at maximum force. And without any protection. Do you understand, Nicky?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘You will be caned, twelve times, on your bare backside. And then I trust that will be the end of the matter. Now prepare yourself young man. I shall not be long.’
And with that the woman left the room and the boy, understandably, burst into tears. He had done nothing else by the time she returned.
‘Hold out your hand. Your right hand.’
The boy did as he was told and the cane slashed across his outstretched palm. The burning sting increased the tears in his eyes and a continuous throb immediately erupted.
‘Now the other one. Quickly.’
The boy tentatively held out his left hand, fearful of the pain to come.
‘Higher. Straighter.’
The boy closed his eyes and stretched out his left palm for the next stroke of the cane. It lightly tapped the palm and then rose and slammed into the centre of his hand to add a second stinging cut and burning throb. The boy’s hands were on fire and in a vain attempt to ease the pain he rubbed the violated flesh down his sides and sobbed uncontrollably.
The only difference from such scenes in a schoolroom was that this boy was standing in the elegant sitting room of an equally elegant flat in Bury St Edmonds
The woman had briefly assessed the situation when returning to the room and as the boy looked up, seeing the cane for the first time, she spoke to him in the manner she would maintain for the next half an hour.
‘I am displeased Nicky. I told you to remove your outer clothes. Why have you not done so?’
‘I don’t know, miss.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘I am scared, miss.’
‘And so you should be, Nicky. This cane is intended to hurt. And not knowing is going to cost you.’
‘Please miss. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry will not help you. Now, get ready. You have already earned four extra strokes. Do you wish me to increase your punishment further?’
‘No, miss.’
As he said this the boy took off his jacket and placed it on the sofa. He then bent down and slowly removed his shoes and, discarding them, started to undo the buttons of his smart school grey trousers.
‘All the way off, Nicky. And when you are ready I shall give you the four penalty strokes. One to each hand and two to your bottom. Think yourself lucky that I am only giving you four extras. You deserve more.’
Nicky Turner tried to hold back the tears but it was a fruitless task. He could not stop himself crying and he continued doing so as he reluctantly removed his trousers. The woman watched silently until the disconsolate boy stood before her wearing only his white shirt, green and yellow striped school tie, pale grey socks and underclothes. The next words she uttered were to tell him to hold out his hands and after the pain of the first two strokes she instructed him to bend over for another two on a different place. Still sobbing the boy did as he was told and the woman lifted the shirt and placed it high on the boy’s back. The small white underpants fitted nicely a chubby and prominent small bottom. She did not care for his positioning but for these two strokes it did not matter. She placed the cane across the centre of the buttocks and speedily delivered two firm and hard cuts to the presented pants. The boy squealed and inched forward but did not rise until instructed. When he did he rubbed the still burning hands into the now burning bottom, and turned to his tormentor.
‘I shall leave you for a moment, Nicky, and when I return I expect you to be ready for your real punishment. If you wish me to limit your caning to twelve strokes then be correctly presented. I want you in the centre of the room, bent right over, and holding onto your ankles. And I expect your legs to be straight. You are only fourteen it should not be difficult. Do you understand?’
The boy remained silent, still rubbing his still stinging bottom.
‘Do you understand, young man?’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Then do as I say and let us get this over with.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘And I hope for your sake that I only have to hit your backside twelve times.’
And with that she left the room. When she came back, five minutes later, a bending boy’s shirt covered bottom beckoned her attentions. The legs were straight and the ankles were gripped. His pain and her pleasure was about to begin in earnest.
She approached the waiting boy and placed her left hand on the small of his covered back. The crisp white shirt was warm to her touch. From its previous lifting she knew he was not wearing a vest and she could feel the sweating heat of his young flesh. The legs bent slightly at her touch and a firm command to straighten his knees brought an instant and dutiful reaction. Other than that command all was silence, and the boy’s irregular breathing and involuntary sobs were the only sounds. The woman lifted the tail of the shirt and, turning it back, raised it to the boy’s bending waist. The flesh of his lower back, pink and fresh, matched the pale smooth colour of the straight and slim legs. This boy was almost beautiful and the inherent beauty was highlighted by the small and tight fitting underpants which covered his bottom. White and silky cotton, they both veiled and enhanced the treasures that lay beneath. And they were treasures, the woman was convinced of that. Underneath the small pants beckoned two twin orbs of delicious promise. She placed her long fingers in the elasticised waist of the boy’s underpants and slowly drew them down his thighs. As they rested below his naked cheeks she drank in the picture revealed. Two chubby and trembling pieces of curved boyhood signalled their silent submission. It was a sight that defied description and begged attention. It was in such moments, the moment when she took down a boy’s pants, she wanted both to kiss and cane. Such a bottom was worthy of both. The boy let out an audible sigh, seemingly in acknowledgement of her silent appreciation, and she let her hand drift slowly across the surface of his unprotected flesh.
‘A very nice bottom, Nicky.’
She touched the flesh with her fingers and pressed lightly into the two distinct marks of her penalty strokes.
‘Almost too nice to be caned. But ideal for the purpose would you not say?’
The boy said nothing. He held his breath, conscious only of her exploring fingers on his buttocks.
‘Ideal for a caning I said, Nicky. Soft and smooth and yet so springy and supple. And their jutting out makes them almost eager for my cane. Do you not agree?’
Again the boy said nothing.
‘Stand up.’
The woman issued the command with sudden venom which unnerved the boy and he quickly rose from his bending position.
‘And turn and face me.’
The boy turned to face her and her anger mingled with amusement. The front of his shirt had fallen down but it could not hide the fact of his excitement.
‘I’m sorry, miss.’
She ignored the reference to his state and spoke very quietly to him.
‘When I ask you a question I expect an answer, Nicky. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Good. I will ignore it this time but fail me again and we will not stop at twelve strokes.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘I am glad we understand each other. Now turn around and bend over again and we shall begin.’
The boy turned away and, bending forward, felt yet again the lifting of his shirt. It may have been his imagination but it seemed to be placed higher up his back. Again he felt the womanly fingers on his flesh, first adjusting his underpants against his thighs, and then, again, brushing his upturned buttocks. Never had he felt so vulnerable, so afraid, and so confused.
‘Do not be concerned about your erection, Nicky. I have never yet known a boy about to be caned with his pants down who didn’t get a stiffy. It will soon go, I assure you.’
Nicky Turner said nothing, it wasn’t a question so it required no answer, but only registered the new sensation of a cane tapping his naked flesh. Ten seconds later he felt its first burning sting to that same naked flesh and all thoughts and confusions fled from his mind and raced to the centre of his agonising pain. He screamed and, rising to his feet, begged her to stop.
‘Thwack’
She had made him bend again, ignoring his pleas, and a second stroke to naked flesh had left his mark.
‘Thwack’
The boy held onto his ankles as the third stroke bit into him.
‘Thwack’
Could he stand so much pain? The fourth stroke, lower than the first three, gave its answer as the boy rose again and tearfully clutched his buttocks.
‘Thwack’
Underpants were now discarded at her command and, bent again, the boy absorbed the fifth stroke and screamed.
‘Thwack’
The sixth stroke cut high and hard and the new red weal to his bottom indicated an upping of the punishment. The boy screamed more loudly and rose again, begging to be let off any more.
‘Please, miss. No more. Please. I’m sorry.’
He clutched his bottom and pleaded for her to relent. It did him no good. All the woman said was ‘Strip. Completely. Everything.’
The boy sobbed and pleaded but did as he was told. His shirt and his socks followed his underpants and, totally naked, he looked at his aggressor. It was by now obvious that his arousal, his fourteen years and seven months erection, had long since departed. He bent over again and gripped his ankles as if his short life depended on it.
‘Thwack’
The seventh stroke now lashed into the buttocks of the completely naked boy.
‘Thwack’
Nicky Turner felt the eighth burn and sting to his buttocks and vowed he would never do anything wrong again.
‘Thwack.’
He held onto his ankles and cried out for the last three to be quick.
‘Thwack’
The tenth stroke cut across the centre of his buttocks with a pleasing sound. Tears he no longer felt he had continued to flow.
‘Thwack’
The penultimate stroke of the woman’s cane seared into his burning bottom and, still crying, he readied himself for the last.
‘Thwack’
It came, and when it did he looked at his limp boyhood and prayed there would be no more. There was not. For five minutes he was made to stand, still and naked, while she talked and inspected but the cane had done its all. His bottom throbbed and stung, his boyhood had shrunk to nothingness, and his tears had almost ceased. Eventually. All that remained was the woman and her eyes. She studied and examined every part of his body and being and told him he had been well and truly thrashed. He could get dressed. And saying it she kissed his tearful face and left the room.
Nicky Turner took over fifteen minutes to get dressed. For the first few minutes he merely stood in the sitting room, naked, rubbing his lacerated bottom and suppressing his tears. Then he picked up his discarded shirt and put it on and, gingerly, did the same with his underpants. The brevity of the pants did little to ease his discomfort. With recovering composure he put on his trousers, socks, shoes and tie and he was just about to pick up and put on his school jacket when the woman, the woman who had caned and saw all, came back into the room. She was holding a tray of tea and biscuits and her friendly demeanour conveyed nothing of what had recently past. All she said was ‘Sit down, Nicky, if you can, and have some tea.’ He smiled weakly and sat on her sofa. The softness of the material did little to ease the incessant throb in his bottom but he gratefully took the tea, and two biscuits, and pretended that the lingering pain was not really there. She picked up her own tea, smiled, and spoke. What she had to say made him realise that his ordeal was not yet over.
‘You must be sore.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘And it is a long journey back to your school.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘A long train journey. Sitting for so long is going to be very uncomfortable.’
‘Yes miss.’
‘Perhaps I can make it better, a little less uncomfortable.’
‘Sorry miss?’
The woman smiled.
‘Make it easier for you to sit, Nicky. On your journey.’
‘How?’
‘How miss.’
‘Miss.
‘Drink your tea and I shall show you. I have some ointment I can apply to make you less uncomfortable.’
The boy blushed and nervously supped his tea. The woman laughed.
‘Do not worry, Nicky. You will have to take your trousers down again but this time, I assure you, it will not be unpleasant.’
Nicky Turner said nothing. Whatever the reason, taking down his trousers again for this formidable woman was not something he welcomed. The cane may be absent but the humiliation of such an action would remain.
‘Do not look so worried, Nicky. After all I have become very familiar with your bottom, as you must agree.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Then drink your tea and let us go to my bedroom. Everything is in place.’
Five minutes later Nicky Turner’s chubby and bare bottom once again beckoned feminine attentions. He could only pray that she had not forgotten the benign reason for his unveiling. She didn’t, and when he left and boarded his homeward train the memory of his caning vied with the strange pleasure of her long fingers oily massaging his naked and lacerated behind.
It was an equally strange telephone conversation. Any listeners would never understand the subtext of the exchanges but any listeners would have no knowledge of the actors in this private and secret and familiar scene.
‘Headmaster?’
‘Dr Parsons.’
‘I still can’t get used to that.’
‘Then you should. I trust it all went well?’
‘Of course. I am very good. I still think your boys prefer being caned to being massaged.’
‘It is what they are used to. I trust Nicky behaved himself?’
‘Of course not. I had to give him extras.’
‘Oh?’
‘Only four. But two on his hands.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Another boy soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Next Friday?’
‘Of course.’
‘I look forward to it.’
‘But will he?’
‘Probably not.’
‘And why is that?’
‘I am getting better with practice. And some targets are harder to miss.’
‘Unlike Nicky Turner?’
‘Unlike Nicky Turner.’
‘Then he will see you at three?’
‘Friday.’
‘Yes.’
‘And headmaster?’
‘Yes?’
‘Whoever he is, tell him he is going to get eighteen. Little Nicky has fired my enthusiasm.’
A week later another boy stood outside the door. His had been an equally long journey and the details of his letter were as precise as the one in the trembling hand of fourteen year old Nicky Turner. This boy had no need to read the letter; he knew why he was there. The woman came to the door and, taking his coat, led him into her sitting room. She went through the familiar procedures, listing his faults and his transgressions. Then she made him strip to only his school shirt and tie and his underpants. He turned away and bent over when instructed. She lifted the shirt and, as before, peeled down the underpants to the boy’s knees. The bottom was whiter and larger than the last boy but, as she ran her fingers over it, the woman registered the same smooth springiness that awaited her cane. Eighteen strokes she gave it and eighteen red weals and marks signalled a job well done. The tearful boy rose and, clutching his bottom, turned to face her. As with the other boys she had seen the rigid penis sticking out of the shirt. But this time, with this boy, it remained erect throughout the caning and still stood proud and erect when the last stroke fell. This time she did not comment or condemn. This time she took it in her hand. This time she brushed it and touched it as gently as she brushed her fingers on all the boyish bottoms. And this time, with this boy, she allowed it to spill its desire.
It did not take long; this boy had been desperate for her cane and her touch since the moment he had sent Nicky Turner and his letter to her. Whenever he sent a boy to his obliging ‘Dr Parsons’ he could not wait to visit her and hear and relive the experience for himself. It added so much to their special relationship. As he downed a welcome gin and tonic in her sitting room he blessed the fact that he had met her. And he equally blessed the fact that he was headmaster of a school which contained any number of fourteen year old Nicky Turners. Friday afternoons at three o’clock would always have a special place in his heart.
Alfred Roy © (2009)