This is the last story I posted to the excellent MMSA website. It was very well received but the site was becoming a victim of its own success. Postings, good or bad, dissappeared down the pages very quickly due to the high input. I still visit it as there are some excellent pieces from some first class CP writers. But you have to sort through a lot of prosaic stuff to find them. Many of my friends, including ones not enamoured of our particular kink, say this is one of my best. Pure fantasy but fun to write. Alfred Roy
Neil Wallington could not understand why his palm was sweating. He rang the bell, a small old fashioned brass bell hanging from an overhead beam in the porch, and patiently waited. It was while he waited, heart uncontrollably thumping and stomach inexplicably churning, that he realised how sweaty his hand was. He wiped it down the side of his pale blue jeans and rang the bell a second time. Still nobody came. He began to wonder if he had misunderstood the time, or even worse chosen the wrong day. He was sure he hadn’t. Wednesday at three o’clock . His half day off from his job as a trainee administrator. That was the arrangement. On his next Wednesday off he would visit the man’s house and they would play a private game. Nothing unusual in that. They were both keen chess players and the man was a retired senior policeman. As he had said, he valued the opportunity to play between his visits to their club. So why was Neil sweating, profusely now as he waited, why was he taking deep breaths and steeling himself to face the man? And why was he getting a pleasant and warm feeling in his loins. Much as he enjoyed the anticipation of a good game of chess he knew that he felt as he did for different reasons. For a moment he thought he heard distant footsteps but when he realised the space beyond the front door contained only silence he reflected on how he and the man had first met.
It was three weeks before, on his second visit to the local chess club. A company colleague, discovering their mutual passion, had introduced him to the club the previous month. He had signed up and played a couple of friendly games. The members, the majority elderly men, soon realised he was pretty good. One of the two he beat, easily, had been club champion a few years before. Modesty stopped him from telling them that three years before he had been in the schoolboy county finals. His colleague didn’t know that. He only knew that, like him, Neil Wallington liked a game of chess. But he played it at a different level and, like the elderly members, his colleague was impressed. It had been a good evening and he vowed to go again the following week. His colleague couldn’t go that week, other interests took priority, and Neil went on his own. Without the companion of his own age he felt more uncomfortable than on his first visit. It wasn’t that, at nineteen, he felt out of place. Chess was a great leveller in the world of social interaction. And besides he always enjoyed the company of older men, especially the ones who reminded him of the scholarly teachers who introduced him to a love of history and literature. It just seemed unfortunate that the two or three he had briefly met the previous week were not there and the lack of a familiar face left him unfocused and unsure of what to do. As is so often the case in such uneasy circumstances he drifted over to the club notice board and started to aimlessly read. He was perusing a piece on a proposed club visit to their twinned town when a voice behind him caught his attention. It was only on the voice’s repeat of its query that Neil realised that the soft and gentle tones were directed at him.
The man was complimenting him on his games the previous week and, turning, Neil thanked him and modestly blushed. He introduced himself as Ronald, or Ronnie as he preferred to be known, and as he spoke Neil registered the tall and military bearing. His lined face indicated a man nearer seventy than sixty but the slim six foot build, taller than Neil by at least four inches, oozed fitness and strength. Neil registered all this as readily as he registered the warm smile and, with equal pleasure, joined him for tea in the small non playing café area of the club. Cognisant of an old age social rule that you should always be wary of the first person who makes friends with a new boy, Neil was on his guard. But at least his evening now had a focus, if only temporary, and he was grateful for the company. He had no reason to be wary, the man was witty and pleasant and pointed out two or three of the real characters of the club. He had been a member for eleven years, joined the same week he retired, and had never regretted it. But as a teacher in his early days, history, he was always pleased to see younger people joining. At the mention of history the conversation expectedly steered away from the club and chess for a while and Neil was sorry when the man said he had a game to play at eight o’clock . Come and watch he said and play the winner. We are both free afterwards. Neil was delighted and spent forty minutes watching an evenly matched game. Ronald, or Ronnie, finally won when his opponent needlessly sacrificed a well placed Knight and, absorbing all the details, Neil was eager for the challenge. He beat Ronnie easily, capturing his Queen in a well disguised move. So easily that the laughing Ronnie said he deserved to be spanked. A new boy humbling an old boy in such a manner deserves to have his bottom smacked for such temerity. That was how he put it. That was how it registered to Neil and long after the game was finished, long after he had said goodnight and left the club, he could not get the words out of his mind.
The following week Neil made his third visit to the club, this time with his colleague. The comfort of attending with a friend from work was tempered by the realisation that Ronnie was not there. He hadn’t said he wasn’t attending, no reason why he should, but Neil felt a perceptible sense of disappointment. The military Ronnie had made his second visit enjoyable and his not being there dulled the evening. Neil did not really understand why this should be so, chess was the focus after all, but it did take the edge off the evening. He won both the games he played, so well he was urged to enter the forthcoming club competition, but he knew that they were both clumsy and fortuitous wins. Ronnie’s absence had dulled his senses and when he made his fourth visit the following week he realised why. He was fascinated by the man and his joy at seeing him there was barely contained. They played three games and Neil won them all. The first was difficult because Ronnie tried so hard, having been humbled the only other time they played, but their second and third games took a familiar course. Neil Wallington was far too good for the man he now knew as retired Chief Supt Ronald Nailles and, in fairness, the latter took it in good grace. In his opinion Neil was far too good for most of them and would probably waltz off with the club competition. It was as he was explaining to Neil why he left teaching and joined the metropolitan police that he also, as an aside, suggested that Neil should come to his house for a private game. One of their observers had referred to Ronnie as Super and Neil queried this. Made him sound like a policeman whereas Neil thought he was a teacher. The wrinkled Ronnie smiled and said, in his time, he had been both. A history teacher for ten years but he was not happy, so a policeman for twenty five. Ended up as Chief Superintendent. And now, and he smiled again when he said this, a lousy retired chess player. At least when he played the Neil Wallington’s of this world. And then he repeated the comment he made two weeks before. Nineteen year old’s who humiliate old fogeys deserve to have their bottoms smacked. That is what he said. Neil Wallington took a deep breath, downed his by now cold club café tea, and embarked on a journey for which he had no idea of the destination.
‘You have said that before’
‘What?’
‘Clever clogs at chess should have their bottoms smacked.’
‘Have I?’
Ronald Nailles smiled and his wrinkled face lit up.
‘Just a manner of speech, dear boy. Keep you in your place, especially as you win so easily.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Makes us old fogeys feel very humble.’
He paused and then continued.
‘Mind you, the prospect does have its attractions.’
Neil Wallington blushed nervously as his companion warmed to his theme.
‘If you were an arrogant nineteen year old it would give many of the old codgers here a great deal of amusement to take you over their knee. Take my word for it. Other than chess they do not have a lot of fun in their lives. But you are not arrogant, thank God, in spite of your talent at chess.’
‘And you are not an old codger?’
‘Compared to you, yes. But I have no great desire to spank you. Beat you at chess, certainly. Beat your bottom, no. My days of doing that to young men are long over.’
Neil Wallington registered this last point and responded to it.
‘When you were a teacher?’
‘Occasionally. A long time ago. It gave me no pleasure.’
For some reason, maybe it was the way he said it, maybe it was the smile on his face, but Neil Wallington did not believe him. He did not say so and they moved on to other matters. The formalities for entering the club competition were discussed and common aspects of history, mainly the Georgian period, were briefly explored for the rest of the evening. But Neil Wallington did not forget the earlier comments and when Ronnie, Chief Supt Ronald Nailles, asked again if he fancied a private game at his home he readily accepted.
‘Next Wednesday, after you finish work. I shall be able to concentrate better at home and, after I have beaten you, I shall give you a magnificent tea.’
‘Will you beat me?’
Ronald Nailles smiled.
‘I shall try Master Wallington but, given your prowess here, I consider it unlikely. But I shall still give you tea.’
Ten minutes later they left the club and went their separate ways.
If Neil Wallington’s feverish mind was exploring the possibilities of the offer of a private game and afternoon tea he was not alone. Ronald Nailles could not remember the last time he felt so heady with excitement. Childless and long widowed he had little to amuse him in retirement. The chess club and a little gardening were his principle pleasures and for most of the time he was satisfied with his own company. But if his professional life and his marriage had meant a constant denial of his attraction to young men, his isolated retirement allowed a relaxed mental amusement. The young stimulated him and young men like Neil Wallington particularly so. His natural dominant character brought out a boyish, submissive, streak in some and Ronald Nailles readily recognised it. It was as clear as crystal that Master Wallington saw him as some sort of undefined father figure and it was a role he was happy to nurture. The boy may be exceptionally good at chess, far too good for him, but in all other respects the fifty year gap between them was very much in the older man’s favour. He would answer the door, after the third ringing of the bell, and he would let the boy into his old and comfortable house. They would play chess and discuss history and he would lay on the promised magnificent tea. And if it proved appropriate, if circumstances conspired to allow the possibility, he may amuse the nineteen year old boy in other ways. It may be fun and the ideas he pictured clearly intrigued. But if he did so, the retired Chief Superintendent had already decided that he had no intention of wasting his efforts. He had observed the hidden promise when standing behind Neil at the club notice board. Even before he spoke to him he had appreciably registered the pronounced contours of the boyish cheeks. He liked young men and their attributes. And he particularly liked the pleasant and gifted Neil Wallington. It would be delightful to entertain him in his house, especially as he knew that both had an unspoken agenda that may or may not be fulfilled. He approached his front door, opened it, and welcomed the nervous and clean faced youngster to his home.
It was hardly surprising that the two games they played ended in defeat for Neil Wallington. It should have been, given his expertise at the chess club, but a pronounced lack of concentration by the boy led to his early downfall. The first game lasted barely fifteen minutes and in the second, a more intense affair, Neil capitulated on the lazy loss of his Queen just as he appeared to be getting on top. Ronald Nailles could not contain his joy. If only they could see this at the club. But equally he knew that at the club he would not have won. Neil’s constant nervousness and agitation was clear for anyone to see. And Ronald Nailles had a pretty clear idea what was causing the agitation. They packed away the board and chess pieces and he asked Neil if he would like to give a hand with tea. The house was open plan and steps from the large lounge led to a slightly raised and well designed kitchen. As Neil went up the steps Ronnie made some light comment on his lack of concentration and, as he did so, delivered a light slap to the boy’s rear. It was little more than a gentle brush to Neil’s right cheek but it had the desired effect. The boy stiffened and blushed and then continued his journey to the kitchen. The man passed him and went to his fridge to extract the treats he had prepared earlier. When he turned, plates in hand, to face Neil he was smiling and it was not merely the smile of a man who had just won two games of chess against a formidable opponent. It was the smile of a man who knew that the afternoon was proceeding just as he hoped.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you a better game Mr Nailles. My concentration levels were poor.’
‘Two games, Master Wallington. And call me Ronnie, please.’
‘Yes, Ronnie. I’m sorry.’
‘No matter. It happens in chess. But I am surprised that even playing below your best you didn’t beat me.’
Ronald Nailles paused and smiled mischievously.
‘You didn’t by any chance let me win?’
‘No.’
‘No, I didn’t think you did.’
He paused again.
‘I can only think that you have something on your mind. Care to tell me about it. We have all afternoon.’
‘And the games didn’t last long.’
Ronald Nailles laughed. The intensity of the young constantly amused him. He and Neil had chatted long during a splendid tea of ham, cheese, toast and cakes washed down with equally splendid claret. Only a third of the bottle remained when the conversation returned to the matters of the chess board.
‘You did not play your best because you were not relaxed. And I think I know why.’
‘You do?’
‘Oh yes.’
Ronald Nailles had lowered his voice unnecessarily and the effect of his soft and gentle tones coupled with the disconcerting way he stared at Neil induced a churning in the boy’s stomach.
‘I think, and I think I am right, that you have an inexplicable desire for me to take you over my knee. Isn’t that the truth?’
He said it so matter of factly, with such a lack of drama, that he could almost be saying that the boy had a desire to see his garden or examine his books. It was that lack of drama, the sheer ordinariness of the observation that released a stream of confession from the boy. Within five minutes Chief Supt. Ronald Nailles was to know more about Neil Wallington than, hitherto, the boy had known about himself. Neil told him that he had always looked up to elderly men; in fact he seemed to have a fascination for them. Especially elderly men like Mr Nailles. He had the grace to apologise at using the term elderly but the general gist was clear. Such men, in authority, appealed to his nature. He thought the desire to be spanked first manifested itself when he was about fourteen. A teacher threatened it, often, but it never happened. The desire grew, usually triggered by casual contact with the type of man who appealed, but had never been acted on. Either he misread the signs or, when the intentions were clear, he lacked the courage to explore them. He didn’t know where this afternoon invitation would lead but he desperately wished to find out. The veil of games of chess allowed the opportunity. Ronald Nailles listened to the outpourings, making barely a comment, and downed the last remnants of the wine.
‘Interesting, Neil. Have you ever been spanked?’
‘No. My parents did not believe in it and I rarely gave them any reason to. And schools don’t these days.’
‘Even the teacher who often threatened it?’
‘I think he liked the idea. He said it to many of us. But…you know.’
‘Yes. I know. Such activities can be dangerous in a school situation.’
‘But not here?’
Ronald Nailles eyed again the intense boy. There was a nervous desperation in both his voice and his demeanour.
‘No, not here. I confess that when I first mentioned it, after you humbled me in our first game, it was said as a joke.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I saw your reaction, registered the signals, and it got me thinking. This boy would quite like to be spanked. And I was right.’
‘Yes.’
‘It wasn’t a question, Neil. Just a statement of fact. Which is why I repeated it.’
‘Nineteen year old boys who humiliate old fogeys deserve to have their bottoms smacked.’
‘You remember the words?’
‘Yes.’
‘They were not said as a joke the second time, Neil. They were issued as a test. And you passed it with flying colours.’
Neil Wallington blushed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Was I that obvious?’
‘To me, yes. Stand up.’
The boy rose and Ronald Nailles studied him with admiration. His first impressions had not changed. Medium height and with a slight figure the fresh faced Neil looked little more than a mature schoolboy. The smart honey coloured wool jumper contrasted pleasantly with the light blue jeans. And the latter fitted his slim legs so well.
‘Come here.’
Neil nodded and walked over to the chair in which Ronald Nailles was sitting. As he did so the latter moved his chair away from the table and looked closely at him. At such proximity he became acutely aware of the sweating forehead and the heavy breathing of his young companion. The fresh face displayed a pinkish tinge on the cheeks which may or may not have been the wine. Whatever the cause the boy was clearly ready to do whatever he wished. But Ronald Nailles was a patient man, whatever he wished would be within the bounds of reason. He spoke again and this time it was almost a whisper.
‘I am going to smack your bottom, Neil. As an experiment, to see how we both feel about it. And to give it verisimilitude I shall do so for my humblings at the club.’
‘Yes.’
‘And to make it even more real I think we should take down your jeans.’
‘Yes. Yes sir.’
Ronald Nailles registered the use of the word ‘sir’ with satisfaction and did not issue a correction. He was enjoying this moment far more than he ever expected. His controlled, mature, voice was a little thicker when he gave his next instruction.
‘They would give you too much protection, particularly as I only intend to use my hand.’
Neil Wallington gulped and looked at the hands referred to. They were large and thick and he was conscious that his bottom was small and soft. It would be an unequal match but a match he desperately wanted. He undid the metallic button at the top of his jeans and slowly pulled the fly zip down as far as it would go. The jeans opened and rested on his thighs in readiness for their descent. Ronald Nailles read the obvious signals and responded accordingly.
‘Would you like me to take them down?’
Neil Wallington gulped again.
‘Yes please. Sir.’
‘Then I will. This time.’
Neil registered the veiled promise that this may not be the only occasion and closed his eyes as the large hands grasped the side of his loosened jeans and pulled them down to his knees. Underneath he was wearing small, tight fitting, pure white underpants he had specially chosen in both hope and anticipation. As the smart woollen jumper only reached just below his waist the effect was as any mature man of certain inclinations could desire.
‘A pleasing picture, Neil. It will be even more pleasant when it is over my knee. I suggest you assume the required position.’
Saying this Ronald Nailles took Neil by the left hand and pulled him towards him. The boy bent willingly over the firm and long legs of his chastiser and felt both the inner warmth and the roughness of the outer material. As the upended, cotton covered, bottom came into view the recipient of the beautiful sight almost gasped. The hidden promise first noted in the chess club was not found wanting.
‘You have a lovely bottom, Neil. Very boyish. I shall enjoy spanking it.’
As he said this Ronald Nailles place his right hand over the right buttock cheek of the boy and gently made tactile circles. As the boy shifted his position and placed his extended palms firmly on the kitchen floor, the hand repeated the process on the left cheek.
‘It feels very soft. Very soft and very small, but nicely pronounced. But we cannot make allowances, Neil. If you are to be spanked, if this lovely bottom is to be smacked as we agreed, then it needs to be a proper one.’
‘Yes sir.’
This was all Neil could say. He was in a situation he had longed for, wanted for many years, and he was not going to back out now. And the man was clearly enjoying it. The sight and feel of his bottom had released words the boy had only imagined. And he was giving himself to a man in a manner he had always craved. The stirring in his loins, never totally absent all day, rose to a new intensity.
‘I think I shall give you forty. Ten spanks for each time you beat me at chess in the club. I think that seems fair. But I warn you, Neil, there will be no warming up. I intend to make them hurt, all forty, and by the time I have finished your bottom is going to feel very sore.’
And with that comment Ronald Nailles raised his right arm and lashed his open palm across the right cheek of Neil Wallington’s upturned rear. As the palm struck with a resounding slap which echoed round the kitchen, the boy wriggled and gasped. The man smiled and breathed heavily and, underneath the thin cotton pants, the buttock flesh of the boy took on a redness and burning sting with which he was about to become increasingly familiar.
Neil Wallington did not go to the chess club for a few weeks. He was away on a training course for two of the scheduled days and, on two others, he had differing reasons for staying away. When he finally went he sincerely hoped that Ronald Nailles, if he was there, would not interpret his absence as an indication of disapproval of what had passed between them. Nothing could be further from the truth. He had enjoyed his spanking, the forty smacks to his bottom, so much so that he had left with both a feeling of joy and a sense of disappointment. The joy was because the sensation of lying over Ronnie’s knee and all it entailed had been heavenly, the disappointment because at no point had his chastiser taken the matter any further. The underpants had remained firmly in place through the forty slaps and the witnessed erection, so obvious when Neil finally rose from his prone position, had been studiously ignored. The slaps to his bottom had hurt as Ronnie said they would and the last ten were particularly painful, but he had both wanted them and needed them. It was a wonderful afternoon and the only thing that would have made it better would have been if he could have experienced the delicious sensation of his pants being peeled down. He was musing on this when an elderly, unfamiliar, voice interrupted his thoughts. He had been studying the notice board and the scene was almost a replica of his first meeting with Chief Supt Ronald Nailles. Except that when he turned the voice did not belong to his new and special friend. In its place the diminutive, but equally military, figure of the club chairman made his introduction. They passed a few words and, two weeks later in the presence of the man who had invited him to a very special tea, those words came back to haunt him.
‘You are in serious trouble, Master Wallington.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘You played in the club competition.’
‘At the invitation of the chairman.’
‘And, even worse, you won it.’
‘Is that the problem?’
‘Do not get smart with me young man. I haven’t forgotten our recent meeting. It might not be so pleasant next time.’
Neil Wallington flushed. He hadn’t seen Ronald Nailles since his invitation to tea and was keen to talk about what had happened in the kitchen. But circumstances had dictated that their paths were not to cross. His own absence from the club had been frustratingly followed by his friend’s absence in Scotland
‘That was special, really special. I shall never forget it.’
Neil paused before issuing the next, so important, syllable.
‘Sir.’
‘Good.’
‘But I still say I have done nothing wrong. I won the competition on merit.’
‘You certainly won it, Neil. And my spies tell me you won it with ease. But we both know that you should never have been allowed to enter.’
Neil Wallington shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was well aware of what was coming. Ronald Nailles continued, his pleasure at the boy’s discomfort heightened by private knowledge.
‘You have played professionally and the club rules do not allow professionals to play in our tournaments.’
‘Only twice. And I was paid very little, mainly expenses.’
‘It is the principle, Neil. You should have declared it on your application form. The club welcomes professionals, but only for recreational play.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘Obviously not. The Chairman was furious when he found out, particularly as it was he who invited you to enter. Family matters meant me missing it this year. Not that is would have made any difference.’
Neil Wallington remained silent for a moment, glad that there were few members around to witness his discomfort. He looked at his elderly companion but the impassive face gave no indication of his thoughts. He asked a question which had been on his mind since he arrived that evening.
‘Do many of the members know?’
Ronald Nailles rose and his large, military, form towered over the sitting Neil.
‘Come outside, I could do with a smoke of my pipe.’
Neil stood up and followed his companion outside to the small parking area that fronted the club. Very few cars were there. When Ronald Nailles had phoned him earlier in the day he had instructed Neil to come to the club and to come early. He told him he had broken club rules and, after meeting the Chairman, he wished to discuss the matter with him. The intention was to avoid a club row and further embarrassment for the Chairman. Neil had sat in the café area, virtually alone, and after a few minutes Ronnie had joined him. He had guessed what it was all about and, being proved correct, he was anxious to find out how it would be resolved. He waited, silently, while Ronald Nailles lit his pipe.
‘Do you like this club, Neil?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you wish to stay a member?’
‘Only if I am welcome.’
‘That should not be a problem. Only the committee are aware of your transgression. One of them, a nice old soul, was an organiser for the tournaments you entered,’
‘Is that how you found out?’
‘I am on the committee and he raised it at our last meeting. Unfortunately he had been ill and it was only seeing your name in the minutes that brought it to his attention.’
‘So it is because I won.’
‘Careful, Neil, you are in enough trouble.’
‘Sorry. Sir.’
Ronald Nailles relit his pipe which had gone out for a second time.
‘Given your age the committee are prepared to overlook it. Indeed they, we, are considering amending the rules to allow ‘expenses only’ tournaments to be excluded from the professional rule. But it does not alter the fact that under the existing rules you should be served with a six month suspension from the club.’
Neil Wallington considered these developments and their implications for a moment.
‘But that would mean everyone knowing. You would have to give a reason.’
‘Exactly. We all agreed that would be unfair.’
‘Thank you.’
Ronald Nailles stared at the boy for a moment and the look reminded Neil of the way he had looked at him in his kitchen some weeks before. It was a look of admiration and promise.
‘Do not thank me yet, Neil. I made a suggestion to the committee and, given your age, they agreed to it. Providing you also agree you will not be suspended and the matter will be, quietly, dropped.’
Neil Wallington gulped.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said that you should be caned.’
Neil Wallington spent an uncomfortable evening at the club and although he won both his games it was only because the opponents were poor by any standards. Ronald Nailles deliberately did not offer to play him. He knew that the boy had a lot to digest and the inevitable questions could await the end of proceedings. The club finished at ten o’clock and he and the chairman had offered Neil a lift home in the latter’s car. Although he only lived a short walk from the club the boy realised that it would be in his interests to accept. Ronald Nailles had said little after his unexpected announcement. He would be given the details later, presumably in the car, and they would expect a response by the weekend. If he agreed they would make the arrangements and, if he didn’t, the committee would suspend him for six months and a notice placed to that effect in the club. This element of public shame meant, in effect, the end of his membership. So when the details were outlined to him in the chairman’s luxurious car by its owner he had already decided to accept their proposition. The caning would be carried out at the chairman’s home at a date and time to be arranged and would be witnessed by the chairman and one other committee member. He would receive twelve strokes of the selected cane and they would be delivered to his buttocks. And, before he asked, yes he would have to lower his trousers to receive his punishment. The matter would not be recorded in the club minutes. They would merely state that Neil Wallington had been reprimanded but allowed to keep his competition trophy. As far as they were concerned this unfortunate incident would then be closed. Neil digested all this information and took a deep breath before responding.
‘What if I agree and then change my mind.’
‘You will be suspended.’
The chairman paused, thinking carefully, and then continued.
‘But if you keep the appointment and the caning is commenced you will not be allowed to abort it. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes. I think so. And will I be allowed to keep my underpants on?’
The chairman shifted uncomfortably at a question he had been expecting but wished not to dwell on.
‘No. The committee considered this for some considerable time. It was decided…..it was the general opinion that the punishment, to be most effective, be applied without any protection.’
‘You will be caned on your bare bottom, Neil. We think it is only right.’
Ronald Nailles had spoken for the first time since the chairman had outlined the proposal. He was sitting in the back of the car and listened carefully to all that had been said.
‘You will be given twelve strokes of the cane on your bare bottom and that will be the end of the matter.’
Neil Wallington had one other question before he got out of the car. He suspected he knew the answer but he was going to ask it anyway.
‘Who will cane me?’
The chairman coughed and brushed an imaginary crumb from his waistcoat.
‘The Chief Superintendent. Chief Superintendent Nailles will cane you, Neil.’
As he said this he brushed away a second imaginary crumb and looked at his young passenger.
‘He has experience in such matters.’
A number of people had very different thoughts on a very special meeting which was to take place at the chess club chairman’s house on a particular Sunday afternoon on a warm and sunny day. The committee consisted of mainly elderly men and all, in various degrees, considered the unusual proposal acceptable. The treasurer, a younger mild mannered individual, had no wish to witness it but considered it a sensible solution to a difficult problem. The one female member was so enthusiastic for the proposition that she made clear her disappointment that she had not been chosen to be committee witness. It was tactfully pointed out to her that the boy was to be caned on his bare bottom and her presence may cause unnecessary embarrassment for him. So much the better was her entrenched view but in spite of her obvious desire to be there, wiser heads prevailed. The committee member selected as witness, a lawyer with a voice so quiet you could hardly hear him, had mixed views on the solution. The boy might charge them with assault or create some other, undefined, public fuss. And on any number of grounds the action proposed was illegal. But like one or two others who prevaricated he deferred to Ronald Nailles’ confident assertion that the boy would not only accept their decision he would, when it was over, be glad that they had caned him rather than suspending him. He did not explain the reasons for his confidence but he did not need to. The majority, elderly and old fashioned, thought it a splendid idea. And none more so than the extremely vocal female member thwarted at the prospect of seeing a young bare bottom get soundly thrashed. Ronald Nailles could not help thinking that his proposal had certainly lifted the veil on a few of that so respectable committee.
He himself had risen on that Sunday with a spring in his step. Much as he liked and admired young Neil Wallington he confessed to himself that the opportunity to cane his backside was a prospect most pleasing. He would feel for the boy’s pain but he would make sure that the strokes hurt. No point otherwise was his view. He also suspected that the chairman was eagerly looking forward to the small drama. He had talked of little else for the past couple of weeks. He enquired about appropriate canes and was surprised when Ronald Nailles said he had a most effective one from his old school days. He discussed how the boy should be dressed and readily embraced the suggestion that he should bring a sports kit with him and change into it before being called. He discussed the position of the boy during his caning and seemed almost ecstatic when Ronnie reminded him that the small study table he had would be ideal for bending over. You have thought of everything Chief Superintendent he said. Almost as if you had planned it. That bit struck a nerve with Ronald Nailles. He had definitely not planned it, if anything the chairman was more to blame than him for the situation, but he had welcomed it. He was happy, the diminutive chairman was also happy, and the legal committee witness was prepared to go along with it. And they, all three, would be there when young Neil Wallington bent over. The rest of the committee would merely register the time and the day and wonder if all had taken place as they imagined. If the imagination of some, especially a certain lady member, were extremely graphic and coloured none would match the thoughts of Master Wallington. Ronald Nailles was sure of that. As he shaved for the fateful day he gently wondered what was going through the boy’s mind. They had come a long way since the day he told a boy to whom he had taken an instant liking that he had no desire to beat him. It may have been true then, it was certainly not true now.
Neil Wallington stood rigidly to attention in the large library study of the chess club chairman’s house. As instructed he had changed into a sports shirt and shorts. The shirt was an anonymous pale orange football style top and the shorts, small but loose fitting, were made of simple white nylon. Not being a sporting type he had borrowed them from his office and chess club companion when the expected attire of trousers or jeans had been deemed undesirable for such a significant act. The companion had not enquired the reason for his wanting them and the lack of interest was of some small comfort to Neil. The committee were true to their word. This was to be a private cleansing of the slate. So he had removed all of his clothes except his plain socks and, bizarrely, his underpants and changed into them. He knew that keeping his underpants on made no difference but their retention gave him temporary comfort. Sick in his entire being he presented himself before the three committee members selected for the task in hand. The legal representative sat, impassively, in a chair by the largest bookcase Neil had ever seen. The chairman, richly filled with the importance of the occasion, sat behind a red leather desk on which he had clearly spent a small fortune. And to the left side of the desk stood Chief Superintendent Ronald Nailles and in his hand, his right hand, he held a cane, If Neil Wallington was in any doubt of the purpose of this meeting the cane dispelled it. It was long and yellow and thick, or medium thick. And it could cause a lot of pain to anyone unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of it. And as if to emphasise the point that the boy who stood before them was the intended recipient, a small and sturdy, rosewood, table completed the picture. Placed in the centre of the room, around six foot in front of the red leather desk, it dominated the scene and spelt out its meaning. It could not be made clearer that when the preliminaries were over one of them, the one wearing the flimsy shirt and shorts, would bend over that table and the one holding the cane would do the deed that the other two watched. Neil Wallington breathed heavily and waited for someone, anyone, to speak.
‘You know why you are here Neil?’
It was the club chairman who spoke. If his voice was thick and throaty it held no more emotion than the voice of the boy it addressed.
‘Yes sir.’
‘You have transgressed the club rules and, instead of suspension, you have accepted an alternative punishment.’
‘Yes sir.’
Neil thought to himself that the chairman was making unnecessary statements. He had agreed to be caned. Why did they not get it over with? But this was a ritual and the chairman was not to be denied any single moment of it.
‘The punishment, agreed by the club committee, is twelve strokes of the cane. On your bare bottom. Do you understand?’
‘Yes sir. I understand and I accept.’
‘The caning will be administered by Chief Superintendent Nailles and witnessed by myself and Mr Myles. Have you anything to say before I ask Mr Nailles to carry out the order.’
‘No sir,’
‘Good.’
‘I transgressed the rules and I accept your, the committees, decision.’
Ronald Nailles could not fail to be impressed. The boy was clearly in absolute turmoil but he had maintained an outer calm and control throughout the proceedings. If the face looked a little flushed and the hands nervously twitched, his demeanour was no more uncomfortable than the man making the preliminary address.
‘Very well. I will now ask Mr Nailles to administer the punishment. Approach the table.’
Neil Wallington took a deep breath and moved towards the nearer edge of the table. He was still facing the chairman, separated by the length of the small table and the imposing desk, and silently waited for further instructions. No one spoke and for a moment Neil wondered if he was supposed to drop his pants and bend over without being told to do so. The table was quite low with the upper edge just below his waist and as he pressed against it he was aware of a warm sensation in his loins. Fear was his uppermost emotion but, as the defining moment approached, he became conscious of a more complex reaction. As the two disparate feelings flowed and intermingled he also realised that his eyes were beginning to water. It was as he tried to ignore the vying sensitivities and suppress the coming tears that he heard the familiar voice of Ronald Nailles. He had to move to the side of the table, remove his shorts, and bend over. Such easy instructions but ones he had never, in the whole of his nineteen years, heard before. If it all seemed unreal, his walk to the side of the table would bring it to painful life.
Neil Wallington was relieved that the punishment was to commence. The sooner it started the sooner it would be over and the feelings mixing up his insides were causing him distress. He moved to the side of the table, acknowledging that such a position would give the witnesses a grandstand view of his bottom, and undid the string on his shorts. He had tied them carefully when he put them on but it did not make the drawing of the string any easier. His fingers trembled and it seemed an age before he released the simple knot and, loosening the shorts, slipped them down his thighs and legs and took them off. For a second he considered if he should remove his underpants but, deciding against it, he bent over the table and tightly grasped its far edge. Ronald Nailles moved around the small table towards him, for the moment obstructing the legal committee member’s view. It did not matter. When he stood back to deliver the caning all would be seen. He picked up the discarded football shorts and placed them on the desk and then looked at the prone and ready boy. The pale orange shirt hung down to cover the top half of his small and rounded bottom and only a portion of the cotton underpants could be seen. They were the same pristine white as Ronald Nailles had seen before in more favourable circumstances. On that private, gentler, occasion he had left them in place, resisting any temptation to remove them. But this was different, this was a formal caning and all present had decreed that the pants should come down. He moved closer to the boy and lifted the shirt, turning it up away from the area destined to be chastised. Having done so, he placed his fingers in the waist of the cotton pants, now totally revealed, and deftly pulled them down the boy’s thighs. He pulled them all the way down the boy’s legs and took them off. It was best if they did not impede his correction and, placing the underpants on the desk with the shorts, he turned back to the boy. Without any word from him Neil had arched his back and placed his legs slightly apart. The small, well rounded, naked bottom protruded provocatively and Ronald Nailles could not help but admire the beauty revealed. The two separate bottom cheeks glistened with a pale and shimmering magnolia texture which captivated. The pure unblemished skin of each buttock, high and pronounced, highlighted the contrast with the feathery dark of the crack in between and the obvious display of the mature genital area. The cane tapped across the buttocks and, simultaneously, Ronald Nailles requested that the back be arched more and the legs be spread wider. If the witnesses were not aware before of the display before them, they surely saw it all now. The cheeks rose in readiness for the cane and the stretched out legs brought all Neil’s boyhood into view. It was a picture that all would remember for a long time to come. A silence hung in the air as Ronald Nailles raised the cane and told the boy, grasping tightly the table edge, to hold on in readiness for the first stroke. This was it. The boy’s naked bottom was ready, the vicious cane hovered in the air, and the chairman and the other witness waited. All that remained was the connection of those two principal elements of cane and bottom. All that had to happen was for Chief Superintendent Nailles to bring down that cane across that bottom and one twelfth of the agreed committee punishment would be enacted. And when it began all, except the suffering boy, could relax. And then it did and, when it did, when the cane devastatingly hit his bottom the boy screamed. He yelled, frighteningly so, and continued doing so as the first red weal painted itself across the delicate pink cheeks. All noted the strike and the effect and, most probably, all noted that the penis of the boy was in a semi-tumescent state. Such a state may not last long given the severity of the stroke but, while it did, all would be grateful that only males were present. They did not relax. The first stroke had caused such pain, such a vocal reaction, such tears that at least one of them wondered if the twelve determined would be delivered. And whilst he was wondering Ronald Nailles lashed the cane into Neil’s small cheeks for the second time. And the boy screamed again as a further livid weal joined the first. This caning of his bottom was hurting and far more than any in the room had thought it would.
The boy had started to cry on the first stroke and he continued crying and uttering anguished screams throughout. By the fourth stroke the small backside was painted with rich and angry stripes across its centre area. By the sixth stroke the bottom had ceased its perfectly presented stillness and the hitherto arched back and stretched legs writhed and wriggled in response to the burning pain. But Neil still held on to the table’s edge, fingers still grasping the one firm holding place, and waited for the next line of fire to mark his behind. The strokes were coming at about ten second intervals and before each one the boy now held up his head and stared at the chairman’s large study window. Concentration on anything other than his naked bottom was his uppermost desire. If his mind could absorb the details of the expensive curtains or the quality of the decorations perhaps, just perhaps, he could ignore the stinging pain that emanated from behind him. Ignore the incessant throb of that pain and the added stings which came, as the cane cut into him, every ten seconds or so. But he could not and he screamed and howled again and again as strokes seven, eight, nine and ten lashed his backside. All were in the area decreed by nature for chastisement but it did not stop Chief Supt. Nailles delivering the sixth to his lower crease and the eighth to the upper curve of Neil’s backside. The last two were the hardest of all but, mercifully, they hit an area well marked by the earlier strokes. When Ronald Nailles delivered the last stroke to the boy he lowered the cane and waited for the final throaty scream to ebb. For what seemed an age nobody spoke and nobody moved. The only noise in the room was the continued quiet sobbing of Neil Wallington who, still bent and semi-naked, displayed the reason for the cries. Eventually he was told to rise and put on his pants. When he did so it was clear that the pain was still as intense and as he rubbed his wealed bottom all noted, but never mentioned, that the earlier stirrings of his boyhood had totally diminished. Ronald Nailles could not speak for the others but his own penis had made gentle movements in exactly the opposite direction. Much as he liked Neil Wallington he had liked caning his naked backside much more.
Neil Wallington did not go back to the chess club for six weeks. Twice he tried, both times with his office colleague, and both times he opted out at the last minute. He wanted to go, if only to see Chief Superintendent Nailles, but his courage failed him. They could not see the marks across his backside but he convinced himself that all knew they were there and how he got them. Ronald Nailles had phoned him two days after the caning to ask him how he was but he listened to the message and declined to return the call. The thick purple weals still displayed on his cheeks acted as a barrier to any conversation. He then felt strangely guilty and the following weekend he phoned him back and said he wasn’t angry or vengeful. Just a bit confused and not feeling very sociable. His bottom was still a bit sore and the marks, although less inflamed, were still obvious to anyone who saw them. He wouldn’t be coming to the club for a while but, when he did, he hoped Mr Nailles, Ronnie, would be there. When he finally turned up it was the same Ronnie who spoke to him first. He invited him to play a game and they sat down in a remote corner and opened the chequered board. Ten minutes later, Ronald Nailles conceded. Neil Wallington had not lost his touch. As they reset the board the events of a certain Sunday afternoon were alluded to for the first time since Neil arrived.
‘At least being so good at chess means you don’t have to sit for too long, Neil.’
‘It’s okay now, sir, but I couldn’t have done it a month ago.’
‘That painful?’
‘You should know, sir.’
‘Marks all gone?’
‘Nearly. Just faint lines now.’
Neil paused and blushed before continuing.
‘I rather like them, sir. They fascinate me.’
Ronald Nailles registered the use of the word ‘sir’ in Neil’s various responses.
‘You can still call me Ronnie, you know. Just because of what happened doesn’t….’
For once Ronald Nailles uncharacteristically tailed off, unsure of what to say. His companion came to his rescue.
‘Just because you caned me, hard, on my naked bottom, nothing has changed?’
Neil paused.
‘I think it has sir.’
He paused again and his whispering voice, deliberately kept low, dropped even lower.
‘I think it has and I am glad of it. I have done a lot of thinking in the last few weeks.’
‘We both probably have, Neil. Let’s play another game and then go for some refreshments. My treat.’
The second game went a similar course to the first and it was not long before they were vacating their isolated table and allowing two other, eager, participants to take their place. Ronald Nailles could not help wondering as they walked to the refreshment area if the next chess table conversation would be as interesting as theirs.
Neil Wallington understood only too well why his palm was sweating. He rang the bell, the small old fashioned brass bell hanging from the overhead beam in the porch, and patiently waited. It was while he waited, heart uncontrollably thumping and stomach pleasantly churning, that he realised how sweaty his hand was. He wiped it down the side of his pale blue jeans and rang the bell a second time. Still nobody came. For a moment he thought he heard distant footsteps but the front door contained only silence and he reflected on his and Chief Superintendent Ronald Nailles last meeting and what they discussed. They had met the previous week at the chess club, his first visit since he had been caned six weeks before. The picture of the club chairman’s study and what happened there was still fixed in his mind. He had no regrets and, after he and Ronnie had played their games, he told him that he would go through it all again if necessary. And, more importantly, he told him that the spanking he received in his kitchen was everything he could desire. And Ronald Nailles had smiled at him and said they would do that again and do it very soon. So that was why he was ringing the bell of the old house again. For a second time he was using his Wednesday afternoon off to visit Mr Nailles. Ronnie. Sir. For a second time they would play some private games of chess and share an afternoon tea. And afterwards, for a second time, he would be taken over his host’s knee and have his bottom spanked. Not caned, not a hard, disciplinary caning which made him cry. A private and mutually desired spanking and pleasure would usurp pain. And this time, after the jeans had been lowered, he would have his underpants taken down and the spanking would be given to his bare bottom. He knew this was so. Chief Supt. Ronald Nailles, Ronnie, Sir, had said so. In the club. Neil Wallington wiped his sweaty palm down the side of his jeans again and rang the bell for a third time. This time he heard the distant footsteps. He would not have to wait long.