Monday 18 June 2012

Room Service (M/m)

Being slavish to statistics on this blog I have been concentrating on the F/m variety of stories in recent weeks. Hence the posting of  a new one in my Connie Wilmer/Andy Styles series. (The Past is Always Present). A small coda in that has got me working on a new one. It is called 'The Boston Landlady' and fleshes out Master Styles disciplinary experiences in America. It will be posted here shortly but, before it is, I thought it was about time we had another M/m story. Some folks like being whacked by men, and in this one the young man gets a little more. Sex can occasionally raise it's head, even on this blog. An old story posted to the MMSA site some time ago and reprised here for entertainment. For those who like M/m. Alfred Roy

Room Service.

Garry Barton stood by the hotel bar and downed a second, welcome, glass of red wine. He was sweating profusely. The bar was full with the noise and bodies of a variety of business folks relaxing from their endeavours. Each individual conversation was no doubt important to the parties involved but as the multitude of sounds intermingled, Garry Barton was only conscious of his own heavy breathing and his churning stomach. He finished off the second glass of wine and made his way to one of the few empty tables. The many sharp suited men, and women, faded into a distant and rowdy sea of expectant humanity. Their evening was just beginning. Numerous, separate, conferences were over and all were eager for the hopes and expectations of their various evenings in a strange hotel in an equally strange town. Some would have a quiet dinner with colleagues, a few would dine alone, and a number would abandon themselves to the delights of a town far from home. And one or two would indulge themselves in some special and secret excitement. Indulge their particular taste in the safety of an anonymous town far removed from their normal social circle.


Garry Barton was not like any of those. He had no desire to dine with colleagues. He had no desire to visit a strip club or a night club. And he had no desire to find himself a black girl which, for some reason, seemed the main preoccupation of a couple of the older married men on his team. He had every intention of dining alone, retiring early, and brushing up on the requirements of the second day of the conference. That was his intention when he left home that morning. That was still his intention when he booked into the hotel and made his way to the customary course registration and coffee and biscuits. Even the seductive sounds of colleagues outlining their evening plans over afternoon tea did not sway him. This two day course was important. He needed a fresh mind for the second day. And it was still his intention when he picked up his room key after his first day and made his way to the lift. A quick refreshing shower and change into casual clothes before a light, solitary, dinner. He had no desire to socialise. He was so intent on his simple plans he barely noticed the man who stepped into the lift with him. Until, between the second and third floors, the man uttered his name. And hearing the man’s familiar voice, Garry Barton froze in expectation and a strange excitement surged over him. The man issued an invitation and, as the lift doors opened on the fourth floor, quickly departed. By the time the lift arrived at the fifth floor Garry Barton’s face was on fire and his breath was shallow and quick. By the time he arrived at his hotel room door he knew that his carefully laid evening plans were about to go awry.


A hotel waitress approached him and asked him if he was dining. Garry Barton said he was but he was waiting for a colleague. He felt his face blush as he said it and, with an uncontrollable turning stomach, accepted the offer of a further glass of wine. His brain told him that additional alcoholic indulgence was unwise but his ravaged nerves welcomed the promise of calming influence. The waitress smiled, almost seeming to understand his unspoken dilemma, and departed for the bar. Garry Barton watched her disappear beyond the forest of compressed and raucous bodies and reflected on his own personal turmoil. To anyone who glanced in his direction he was a fresh faced, fair haired, twenty-something, relaxing from the excesses of the day. The casual grey slacks and smart cerise top indicated a young man of taste and style. Clearly a conference executive destined for the top. If any discerning onlooker had concentrated more deeply they may have noted that the face was more twenty than something and that the hairless cheeks had an early indication of over imbibing. And, looking more carefully, they may also have noticed the nervous wringing and twisting of the hands. But nobody did notice, all were immersed in their own adventures, and Garry Barton was left alone to dwell on the significance of the man in the lift.


He concentrated and thought very carefully on what the man had actually said. What was it? What had he said as the lift made its way up to the fourth floor? ‘Garry. Fancy seeing you here. Let me buy you a drink and dinner.’ And, as he left, ‘Always hoped to see you again.’ And then the lift door had opened and he was gone. Never even said his name. But he didn’t need to. Garry knew who he was. Twice their paths had crossed and by the end of their second meeting an unspoken understanding was growing between them. So much so that the man was rarely out of his mind. And now he was seeing him for the third time. And they were staying in the same hotel. Different conferences, but the same hotel. And, unexpectedly, in the lift they had bumped into each other again. And the man had said ‘Always hoped to see you again.’ and invited him for a drink in the bar. And Garry Barton had felt an inexplicable flush of illicit excitement and a simultaneous desperate yearning for fulfilling of unspoken needs. The man was about forty five and had that air of inflexible authority that always stirred and attracted. Garry could not say why, but peremptory figures always induced a sensual passivity in his being. Meeting him for the first time, on a management training course two months before, Garry had felt a strange attraction. And a recent meeting between his company and their bankers had caused unexpected inner confusions on discovering this man on the other side of the table. When they broke for afternoon tea they had renewed their old, training course, acquaintance. When the meeting concluded and papers were gathered, Garry knew from various asides, that he desperately desired to meet in more propitious circumstances. And by the time he got home that evening he was convinced that he desired nothing more than for this man to give him his companionship. He did not know why. He only knew he desired it. And the thought constantly occupied his mind. And tonight, in this hotel, he had seen the man again. In the lift. And he had said ‘Always hoped to see you again.’ And Garry Barton had blushed uncontrollably. He was still doing so when the waitress brought him his third, unwise, glass of red wine.


Colin Simpson wiped the excess of foam from his cheeks and, discarding the hotel towel, picked up his black jumper and pulled it over his bulky form. He turned sideways and studied himself in the mirror. The waist was definitely extending and the hints of a double chin suggested a life of considerable indulgence. But if the suntanned arms were thicker than in earlier years they still registered more muscle than fat. And most did not seem to mind. Those fixed on father figures, men of authority, cared little for the signs of advancing years. If anything such signs were a distinct advantage. Certainly if the young man he had, unexpectedly, met in the lift was anything to go by. A nice boy. Garry. Flirted outrageously, even if he was unaware of it. Desperate for attention. Colin Simpson was well aware of that. He had an acute antenna for the type. Young men attracted to male figures of authority. And Garry, Garry Barton, that was his name, was definitely in that category. He suspected as much when he met him on that training course. And last month, at that bankers meeting, the boy was mesmerised by him. Colin Simpson took his large suitcase out of his wardrobe and checked the contents. He didn’t need to. He knew what was there. He never left home without careful preparation. And tonight he had the feeling that such preparation may not be wasted. Providing he played his cards correctly. He closed the case and, smiling at himself in the mirror, prepared to leave the room. Downstairs a young man was waiting for a pleasant evening drink and a civilised meal. And if Colin Simpson was not mistaken, and he rarely was, the coffee and liqueurs could have an interesting coda. He put the suitcase back in the wardrobe and left the room.


Garry Barton took a large sip of his third glass of wine in less than half an hour. His nerves were still ravaged and his insides were heady with expectation. And to make matters worse his personal sexuality was exhibiting outward signs of uncontrollability. He carefully placed his left arm over his growing tumescence and gripped the glass in his right hand. What on earth was the matter with him? The man, if it was him, clearly excited and disturbed him. He had done so on that management training course when, on the second day, they had met at the bar after Garry had played tennis with a colleague. What was it he had said before downing a quick whisky and departing? ‘Always knew you had a nice face Garry. Nice to see you have an equally attractive bottom.’ And he had blushed crimson and felt a surge of excitement. The man had not said anything else on that course until they were leaving on the third day. But the casual comment had made them both aware of each other. Garry was a relaxed individual and enjoyed the company of his peers, but whenever the man came close he felt all his energy drain from him. And on the final day, as they all said their goodbyes, the man had come up to him and shook his hand. And as he did so the look in his eyes held out an unspoken invitation. But Garry did not rise to it. And he hadn’t last week when at a meeting with his company’s bankers he found this same man sitting opposite him. Concentration had proved difficult and when, during the lunch break, the man asked him if he had played any more tennis lately, Garry desperately tried to maintain his composure. It wasn’t what was said. It was the private, quiet, way with which the weighted words were imparted. ‘Have you played any more tennis, boy? In those shorts.’ And as he said it the man’s eyes undressed him. Garry had blushed and with a weak smile left the room. He had not returned until all at the meeting were sitting down to lunch.


Colin Simpson lit another cigarette and embarked on his second walk around the hotel grounds. He had seen the boy sitting in the corner of the bar and, judging by the flushed face and the agitated manner, he was clearly unnerved by something. Colin Simpson knew what it was, he had seen the signs many times before. And this boy displayed them in spades. Ever since their first meeting he had suspected a boy who would not be averse to a bit of old fashioned disciplinary play. He may be wrong but the signs were unmistakeable. The passivity exuded whenever Colin Simpson came near him indicated both a homosexual nature and a desire to be dominated. When they shook hands at the end of that management course he would have stripped in the car park if Colin Simpson had wished it. He was sure of that. But what he didn’t know was how much the boy was aware of his nature. He didn’t look more than twenty and at that age confusion reigned in the mind. So Colin Simpson would need to play his cards carefully, and subtly, if he was to succeed in his aims. But he didn’t mind. He had all night in which to seduce a compliant boy into special pleasures. He stubbed out his cigarette and, with a contented smile, made his way to the bar.


The first part of their meeting conducted itself along familiar civilised lines. Colin Simpson set the agenda and a nervous Garry Barton gradually relaxed. They caught up on the various aspects of their respective jobs and filled in details of the different conferences they were attending. Only when Colin Simpson meaningfully said that their paths seemed destined to keep crossing did Garry briefly lose his growing composure. But the rest of the preliminary meeting and the first two courses of the evening meal passed off without any personal or unnerving comments. Garry Barton wisely stayed with sparkling water, sliced with lemon, and with a clearer head filled his companion with a few private details. They had just finished the main course when a small but important detail allowed Colin Simpson to steer the conversation onto his chosen path. He had carefully requested a corner table where they could not be overheard and as an attractive young waiter cleared the table, his equally attractive young companion issued the invitation Colin had been waiting for. He watched the waiter depart and turning his attention back to Garry, poured himself a second glass of wine.


‘You say you left school early. Why was that?’

‘My father died and my mother could not afford the fees.’

‘So you had to get a job?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you mind?’

‘Not really. He had been ill for some time and the money was running out. But he was well connected. The company that took me on is very good.’

‘So you support your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just the two of you?’

‘And three dogs. My mother is besotted with dogs.’

Colin Simpson smiled and topped up Garry’s glass of sparkling water. He leaned towards his companion and lowered his voice.

‘Was it a good school?’

‘Just a minor one.’

‘But expensive?’

‘Yes.They all are.’

‘Was it strict.?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘No cold showers or early morning runs?’

‘No.’

‘Detentions?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Lines?’

‘No.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

Colin Simpson smiled and brushed his fingers over Garry’s arm.

‘No other punishments? No slaps on the bottom?

Garry blushed and anxiously looked around the room before answering. The nearest diners were, thankfully, immersed in their own conversations. No one had heard. In fact he wasn’t sure that he had heard right. He lowered his head and whispered his response.

‘What?’

‘I think you heard Garry. Did you ever get your bottom whacked?’

‘No. It wasn’t allowed.’

‘Really?’

‘No’

‘What a pity. No boy should ever grow up without the benefit of at least one caning.’


Garry Barton stared at the man sitting opposite him. His voice had lowered and had developed a disconcerting thick and serious urgency. His eyes were gleaming with an undefined desire and Garry remembered again the look when they shook hands in the car park after the management training conference. It affected him then and it affected him now. This was why they were having dinner. This was why he had sat, trembling, in the hotel bar waiting to meet him again. And this was why he both desired and welcomed the increasing tensions of their conversation. An inexplicable surge of excitement shot through his young body and when he spoke the words were thick and hoarse.


‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondered Garry. You have a bottom that many would find difficult to resist.’

‘They didn’t allow caning at school.’

‘And at home?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No. My parents were very modern.’

‘Pity.’

‘Why?’

‘I told you. You have a very desirable backside. And I should know. Before I went into banking I was a maths teacher at a private school.’

Colin Simpson paused and took a sip of his wine.

‘A very old-fashioned private school.’

‘Old fashioned?’

‘I think you know what I mean. It was a long time ago. I left when I realised my taste for disciplining boys could get me into trouble.’

‘You enjoyed it?’

‘I still do. But these days I confine myself to willing participants.’

‘People who liked being caned?’

‘Not so much like, as have a need for it. I meet them all the time.’

He paused and gently placed his hand across the fingers of his companion. Garry Barton felt both uncomfortable and thrilled at this first show of intimate contact. Colin Simpson was so close he must have sensed the shallowness of his breath. Whether he did or not his next comment was guaranteed to increase the intensity of their developing conversation.

‘I was hoping I might have met one in you.’

Garry Barton’s churning stomach vied with a pleasurable sensation in his loins. The single word that escaped his lips was barely audible.

‘Me?’

‘Someone slowly coming to terms with his strange sexuality, looking for adventure.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Colin Simpson leaned even closer to Garry Barton and looked intently at the reddening face of his young companion.

‘Oh, I think you do Garry. I think you do. I must go for a pee. When that dishy waiter comes back order me a black coffee and cognac. No sweet, I am on a diet.’

And with that final instruction Colin Simpson rose and left the dining room, leaving Garry to reflect on where the evening was heading.


And Garry Barton did understand what had been meant. He understood only too well. That was why they were having dinner. The veiled illicit promises of this man had mesmerised him ever since their first meeting. Garry was well aware that his sexuality was drawn towards men, especially mature men with an authoritative nature. He had never done anything about it but he knew the attraction was there. He remembered back to a teenage crush on a French teacher at his school and, before that, an unspoken love for his father’s elder brother when he was little more than twelve. Both had engendered strange desires in Garry triggered by the one, isolated occasion, when that uncle had playfully turned him over and slapped his short covered bottom. They had been renovating his uncle’s garden fence and Garry had accidentally knocked over the tin of paint. Within an instant he was tipped over the adult knee and, laughing with glee, his uncle had delivered half a dozen slaps to his backside.  Garry had loved the attention and, in spite of the sting, the warm and pleasing glow. They both giggled and his uncle had held out a light threat of more in the future. But it never happened, even though Garry often desired a repeat. But he never forgot and occasionally fantasised. And his fantasises frequently involved an oblivious French teacher who reminded him so much of his uncle. And then, at eighteen, he was given a book which had a very descriptive passage on a boy being caned. His reaction to it cemented his growing sexuality. There could be no denial. The fantasies grew and, at twenty and a half he met Colin Simpson at the management training course, and a new character was added to the descriptive scenes of his secret mind. The waiter arrived at the table and, as he ordered, Garry Barton wondered if he had the slightest idea of the thoughts of a red faced and trembling customer on the cusp of a new experience.


Colin Simpson finished a pleasant stream at the urinal and adjusted his attire. He crossed to the elegant wash basin and stared at his reflection in the mirror. This evening was going even better than he had dared to hope. The boy was desperate for it Everything about his manner suggested that. It would be a first time, there was no doubt about that, but he desired the physicality of many pent up fantasies. Colin Simpson had met many like him. And he was a master at introducing them to the reality of discipline. Real discipline. Colin Simpson did not play at the game. He caned for real. It was just a case of getting the recipient into the right frame of mind and Garry Barton was already more than half way there. What had he said?  ‘I don’t understand.’ Oh, but he did. His face had blushed even more and his hands had trembled but the eyes had gleamed with watery excitement. And over coffee and liqueurs in the bar Colin Simpson quietly outlined his proposition to a companion bursting with fearful anticipation. Garry listened in silence, nodding thoughtfully at some of the details and it was a couple of minutes before he spoke. When he did his voice was surprisingly calm and measured.


‘You give me your room key and I go there and wait for you?’

‘Or you hand the key into reception and say you found it in the bar. If the door is not on the latch I will know that you have given it in and gone to bed.’

‘But if I don’t?’

‘If you don’t, then you do as instructed and wait.’

Colin Simpson sipped his brandy liqueur and smiled. He was enjoying this. The thought of seeing this young man stripped in readiness for a caning was a heady aphrodisiac. He had no wish to rush. Garry Barton was still deep in thought and it was some moments before he responded.

‘I strip to my pants and vest and wait?’

‘Yes.’

‘With the door on the latch?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if someone else comes in?’

Colin Simpson gave his companion a steady stare.

‘That is the risk you will have to take. Tell them it is your room.’

Garry Barton wrung his hands and put out the cigarette which Colin had given him. His throat was dry from its unfamiliar sensations.

‘But….’

‘But what Garry?’

Garry Barton lowered his voice. Most of their discussions had been conducted in little more than a whisper and if Colin Simpson had not been sitting so close to him he would not have heard. But it did not matter, he knew what the boy was going to say.

‘But you said I had to be bent over, touching my toes, with my back to the door.’

‘I know.’

The young man’s face was a picture of exquisite consternation as he weighed up a number of possible scenarios.

‘How long will you be?’

‘That is for me to decide Garry and for you to contemplate. But I assure you that I will come and there is a cane in my suitcase. And you Garry will not be going to bed until it has found your delectable arse at least a dozen times. Think about it.’

And saying this Colin Simpson pushed his room key across the table to his companion. Garry studied it for a few moments and then, gingerly, picked it up and rose.

‘And Garry.’

‘Yes?’

‘I do not play games. Remember that. If you take up my offer you will get a caning that will hurt. Be under no illusions.’

‘Yes.’

‘But if you are half the boy I think you are, you will thank me when it is over. Maybe not tonight but sometime.’

‘Yes.’

‘But the choice is yours. If I don’t see you later I’ll join you for breakfast.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now do yourself a favour. Go and get ready to be caned.’

Garry Barton made no response. He smiled weakly at the man who had played havoc with his emotions and disappeared to the area of the hotel’s reception desk and lifts. Colin Simpson watched him depart and fervently hoped that he was not seeing the delightful rear for the last time that night. The boy had a small but prominent backside that, hidden by the grey slacks, hinted at any number of special pleasures. And Colin Simpson was more than equal to them all. He finished his liqueur and, not unnaturally, decided on a second welcome walk around the hotel grounds.


Garry put the key into the lock of room 423 and, slowly turning it, tentatively opened the door. For some inexplicable reason he half expected the room to be occupied. The lights were on and the curtains were drawn and evidence of occupancy contrasted with the silence. But other than Garry himself the room was empty. He closed the door and stood silently for a moment, gathering his thoughts. It may be a hotel room but it was not his room and a feeling of intrusion swept over him. Was this how burglars felt when they broke into someone’s house? A temporary violation of privacy. But the feeling soon passed and Garry Barton remembered why he was there. And there was never any doubt, at least for the last long and heady hour, that he would come to this room. The strange promise excited him, surged through his whole body, and he knew that the opportunity of the experience that Colin Simpson offered could not be denied. He had briefly toyed with the idea of handing in the key and, walking to the lift, he had hesitated slightly before pressing the button for the fourth floor. But, deep down, he knew that this was his destiny and to deny it would fill him with lasting regret. He was scared, frighteningly so, but he was also riddled with excitement. He took a deep breath and started to remove his shoes and socks.


It had been over two years since Colin Simpson had been in the position he now found himself in. His banking business regularly took him away from home but opportunities for serious disciplinary play rarely arose. The required ingredients to fuel his special passions were singularly elusive. They needed a young and personable compliant stranger to come to full fruition and, in spite of the impression he gave, these were not easy to find. But when they did cross his path, the clandestine sessions reaped rich rewards. That is why Colin Simpson was patient and accepted with stoicism any number of aborted hotel dinners. And the chase was always exciting. While the promise held, the evenings were stimulating. And every now and then everything fell into exquisite place. Two years ago, in a similar hotel, he had built up an interesting relationship with a young waiter. And on the third night of his stay that same young waiter had gone to his room for the same reasons, and the same purpose, as Garry Barton. And in the privacy of that anonymous room Colin Simpson had engaged him in sensual and disciplinary fire. Colin Simpson smiled as he remembered the details of those stimulating hours. And he smiled again at the thought that upstairs, in room 423, another young and personable man was about to embark on a similar journey. He knew he was there. No key had been handed in to reception.


Garry Barton did a tentative practice of touching his toes. He had been in the room about ten minutes and his discarded grey slacks and cerise sweater were carefully folded on a bedside chair. With his back to the bedroom mirror he leaned forward with his hands on his knees. The small, pale blue, tee-shirt disconcertingly rode up his back and showed his small and firm bottom to great effect. Encased in his tight fitting white underpants, that bottom jutted out in provocative prominence. It made an easy target for a cane. Garry bent further down, touching his toes, and turned his head again to the mirror. What he saw told him that he was in for a painful experience. Colin Simpson would have to be blind to miss his taut and beckoning cheeks. He rose, straightened his back and placed his hands on his covered rear. The virgin cheeks felt so smooth and unsullied. He placed his hands inside his underpants and felt the warm flesh and, turning towards the mirror, studied the conscious bulge that faced him. Hesitating for only a moment, he moved his hands to the front of his pants and lifting them away, released his massive erection. His hands cupped and caressed every inch of his stiffened shaft and his soft round balls. The familiar private parts of his body were begging for release and, as the welcome juices stirred within, he cupped the fingers of his right hand around the iron hard flesh. Gently and slowly he moved his hand up and down the shaft and, turning away from the mirror, added the needed visual image to his private masturbation. His underpants had slipped down his bottom and the top half of his twin cheeks wobbled in anticipation of the impending surge. Garry Barton always masturbated himself in this manner. His spurts of relief could only ever be contemplated whilst viewing his bottom. But this was different. He was not alone, or not for long, and such pleasures would have to wait. He stroked his penis a couple more times and, with a sigh, pushed it back into his pants and pulled them up in both the front and the rear. He turned to the curtained window, his back about six feet from the hotel door, and bent down and touched his toes. He had been in that position for about two minutes, studying an enclosed erection which refused to subside, when he remembered that he had not raised the latch.


Colin Simpson stood by the bending boy. He had been in the room about five minutes and, so far, had not uttered a word. The hotel door was locked and the cane was in his hand. The boy instinctively knew that he should neither speak nor look behind him. His task was to remain bent and staring ahead. If the pattern of the hotel curtains eventually bored he would soon have something else to occupy his mind. Colin Simpson relished the picture and was in no hurry to commence proceedings. In the silence only the heavy breathing of both participants could be heard. The boy shifted slightly and the small space of flesh between the pale top and the white pants gave a gentle ripple. As if prompted into action Colin Simpson brushed a finger along the tiny exposure and casually pushed the flimsy tee-shirt further up the boy’s back. He resisted touching the small white pants. They were coming down, there was never any doubt of that, but Colin Simpson wished to postpone the moment as long as possible. He was content to wait. And having waited, and looked, he spoke.


‘Straighten your legs, Garry. And grasp your ankles. I want your bottom well presented.’

Garry Barton did not speak. There was nothing he could say. He both desired and feared what was to come. This was to be a fulfilment of many fantasies. No words of his would break the spell.

‘I am going to take down your underpants. All the way down to your knees. I am going to bare your bottom in readiness for my cane. And I shall give you twelve strokes.’

Colin Simpson’s voice was thick with anticipation and excitement. The picture presented and the words he uttered combined in exquisite juxtaposition. He was about to cane a boy and it had been a long wait. And that wait was nearly over.

‘I assure that the strokes will hurt but I expect you to take them. If you get up at any point, that stroke will not count. And…’

Colin Simpson paused, unsure for a moment if he should give his final instruction. But when he did, Garry Barton gave a slight gasp. It was the first sound he had uttered since Colin Simpson had entered the room.

‘And if necessary we will stay here all night. I have never started a caning I have not finished.’

And with that final authoritative point Colin Simpson placed his hands on Garry Barton’s small white underpants and very slowly pulled them down to the boy’s knees. The two beautiful bare mounds of enticing boyish flesh which met his eyes enhanced a desire which had been growing all evening. Colin finger touched the straight and smooth legs and thighs and arranged the lowered underpants to pleasing effect. The boy’s legs and thighs trembled and, above them, the two pale cheeks jutted in a provocative display begging for attention. And that attention took the shape of a sharp and rigid cane which tapped itself, impatiently, across the centre of the bared buttocks. And Garry Barton, aware of both the nakedness of his cheeks and the release of his continuing erection, simultaneously sighed and shook in anticipation. He was about to be caned. On his bare bottom. And it had been a long time in coming. He closed his eyes and willed the first stroke of a long desired fire.


The cane lashed across the centre of the bending cheeks and Garry Barton issued the first audible gasp of the evening. Colin Simpson had started well. He had stepped away from the boy, tapped the cane across the centre of his bottom, and then raised it high. In true schoolmasterly fashion he was taking precise and measured aim. And when he lashed the cane down to meet the offered boyish flesh the gasp of pain was unmistakeable. The thwack of the cane produced a stifled roar from the boy’s mouth and, simultaneously, the desired mark of chastisement across his naked behind. The three main elements of discipline combined with intoxicating effect. Accompanied by a shifting of the boy’s feet and the involuntary twitching in his rear, the overall effect was stunning. The surging thrill which engulfed Colin Simpson’s whole being spurred him on to even greater and harder lashings of the cane across Garry Barton’s behind. The boy did not scream but his bending body shuffled further and further forward after each stroke. And by the time the vicious cane had struck his backside a fifth time, he rose and cried that enough was enough. With tears in his eyes he turned to Colin Simpson and, clutching his burning bottom with both hands, said he could take no more. Colin Simpson might have believed him but it would not have made any difference. The small, fleshy and spring orbs of Garry Barton’s delightful naked cheeks were going to get the other seven strokes whether believed or not. But Colin Simpson did not believe him. As Garry Barton rubbed his rear and writhed in obvious pain, his large protruding penis wafted from side to side in proud denial of his pleas. Garry Barton may be in pain but his smarting behind had yet to diminish his desire. Colin Simpson moved closer to the boy and briefly held the still stiffened member. It eloquently told him that this boy both wanted and needed the seven strokes to his backside that were still to come. He did not let go until the boy was back in place and his five line striped bottom was up in the air again. He gently tapped the bending boy on the head, lifted the pale blue tee-shirt away from object of desire, and placed his free hand gently on the two softly burning cheeks. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he raised the cane again and sent it on its way. And for the final seven strokes Garry Barton gripped his ankles, gritted his teeth, and maintained his erection. Each slash of the stinging cane surged through his body and private areas of pain and pleasure linked in heady unison. The last stroke fell and, after a few agonising moments, Garry rose again. He turned to look at his chastiser and, ruefully rubbing his bottom, whispered an inaudible message of gratitude. Colin Simpson said nothing. For him, indeed for both of them, the evening had only just begun.


‘More toast Garry?’

‘Please.’

‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Too much makes me fidgety.’

‘And you need to keep a clear head today, or so you tell me.’

‘Lots to listen to, and lots of notes to make.’

‘And hours of sitting down?’

‘Yes.’

Garry Barton blushed. In spite of everything that had happened the previous night he still had a degree of nervousness. Talking about his sexuality, or alluding to his special tastes, engendered boyish confusion. Especially in public. And Colin Simpson’s comment, issued with a gleaming smile, indicated a breakfast conversation about to take a familiar turn. Garry looked around the dining room before replying. Unlike the previous night there was no dinner chatter to drown out their discussions. Garry fervently hoped that Colin Simpson, reading his thoughts, would be discreet.

‘Don’t worry Garry, no one can hear us. And if they can, it was a harmless comment. Sitting in lecture halls can be a tiresome prospect.’

‘You didn’t mean that Colin.’

‘No, perhaps I didn’t.’

Colin Simpson smiled and, considerately, lowered his voice.

‘I was envisaging that little sore bottom of yours desperate for some relief.’

‘It isn’t sore. Well not much.’

‘And you have no regrets?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Then we should have a repeat session sometime. And next time you can come to my house. Doing what we did in hotel rooms can be a little risky.’

‘The noise?’

‘Not every hotel guest appreciates hearing someone being thrashed. Even someone who took it so quietly as you did.’

‘I thought that was part of the thrill. For you.’

‘In a way it is. But I would enjoy having a go at you without any inhibitions.’

Garry Barton did not consider that his companion had any inhibitions the previous night but refrained from saying so. Time was pressing and his first lecture was due in fifteen minutes. He was unlikely to see Colin Simpson again that day and, before they parted, he had one remaining question.

‘Colin?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you have done if I had refused to take the full caning?’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I know. But if I had?’

‘I would have made you.’

‘How?’

Colin Simpson smiled, finished his toast, and wiped his mouth with the breakfast serviette.

‘I would have threatened to send a very interesting piece of film to your mother.’

‘What?’

‘Ssh. Do you want everyone to hear you?’

Garry lowered his voice again and leaned across the table.

‘You mean you filmed it?’

‘I didn’t say that. I merely said I would have threatened you with it.’

‘You bugger.’

‘That little comment is going to cost your bottom very dearly the next time we meet.’

‘True though.’

Colin Simpson smiled and remembered the previous night.

‘And for your cheek I shall thrash you twice.’

Shortly after that last exchange, laughing quietly, the boy and the man rose and left the breakfast table. And three tables away another man, quietly reading his morning paper, idly wondered if they were the ones making all those strange noises in room 423.


And the man would have been correct in his assumptions. He may have puzzled over the dull thuds and ensuing groans which permeated his room but he would have been glad at the silence which followed. A silence only occasionally interrupted by an indistinct but audible sigh. He had mused that in the room beyond his bedroom wall those sighs would have a greater intensity. And he was right. For in the room beyond, in room 423, the final act of a special drama was taking place. There was no audience for the actors, no gathering crowds to anticipate and applaud. Just Colin Simpson and Garry Barton bringing to a conclusion a special disciplinary dance. Colin Simpson took the boy who ruefully rubbed his ravaged bottom, and led him to the bed. He bent him over it and gently removed the underpants that had, steadfastly, remained anchored to his knees. It did not take long. Both were more than ready. The man lovingly gripped the boy’s erection and, parting the striped buttocks, eagerly and urgently entered him with his own. He did not rush. Such exquisite moments are worth prolonging. The beautiful sensations of his searching member were enhanced by the visual stimulation of uplifted silky smooth cheeks. And both entwined combatants breathlessly embarked on their sexual journey of personal fruition. He did not release his own flow until the boy was splendidly spent in a sea of juvenile ecstasy. But he did finally end his desperate pleasure and, with a silent and tearful sigh, treasured the ejaculatory moment. The boy he had desired with predatory skill had been both caned and fucked. And both had welcomed it. Colin Simpson studied the ravaged and wonderful bottom of the exhausted Garry Barton.  And as he did so, it is more than probable that the man in the next room had, long since, fallen asleep.