This was meant to be an update on the whacking tales blog statistics but I ain’t stupid. ‘Fifty Shades of
Pink’ sounds much better than ‘Statistical Analysis – Part the Tenth’. Or
whatever. It was musing on statistics, another fetish of mine, which got me
thinking on the variety of folks who, over the years have spanked or caned my
bottom. This was not totally an idle thought as following a quiet, bug induced,
spell I have been fortunate enough to drop my pants for a multitude of reasons
over the last few weeks. Doctors and wives aside, ageing pleasure comes from a
good massage (everything off) or a good whacking (pants off). Being naked for a
massage is heavenly and it is not unknown for the odd operator to give my bare
and blushing behind a few friendly whacks with their expertise hands. Not the
same as a true CP situation, but pleasant all the same. But the real fun comes
from scenarios when you have all your chosen clothes on and the bits that cover
your bum are lowered for disciplinary pleasures. I like being naked, but I like
baring my bottom in a schoolboy scene even more. There is something very
special about being prepared for a whacking and those who have done it to me
have, over the years, come in many colours. Authority figures wear a variety of
cloaks. The result was always a reddened behind for me. In many shades. Here is
a taster.
My Primary Schoolmistress. A real dragon,
or so she seemed to me when aged 5 or 6, and not averse to smacking a behind
when the mood took. Did it to me a few times, most memorably after I threw sand
at a girl I particularly disliked. Her method never varied. She pulled you to
her, holding you under her left arm, and with her right hand lifted up the
right side of your small pants. Holding you tightly to her she whacked that
same right hand across the conveniently bared cheek. It stung like hell, never
more than five or six or maybe less, but you howled like a banshee. I did and
so did all the others, girls as well as boys, who got it. Not a true bare
bottom spanking but it always seemed like one. As I approached my teens I fantasised
about those peremptory whacks. The 1950s has a lot to answer for. (1)
My Father. Only
ever belted on the bare behind and did it to me at least three times between
the ages of 7 and 11. He whacked quickly and vigorously and, although I never
counted, I reckon I never got less than forty or fifty on each occasion. Always
in my bedroom, pants pulled off and shirt lifted, and always on my bed. I
remember the last occasion because he kept coming back to give me more because
I would not say sorry. No idea why I should. Only stopped when my mother said
my backside had taken enough. I was howling and my bum was flaming. We lived in
a semi detached council house. Everyone in the street must have heard it. But
it was the 1950’s so I need say no more. (2)
Mr Beasley. The
years 7 to 11 again. I remember this man because he was my form master in
junior school and was the first to kindle a childish desire for disciplinary
pleasures. Had a penchant for taking his favourite boys over his knee, in a
mixed class, and gently smacking or slippering the upturned shorts. From memory
the spankings rarely hurt and evoked much giggling. My only meaningful
punishment from him was on a red letter day when I was about 9 and he lined
four or five of us up for a spanking. Last in the line, I watched in horror as
he took down shorts before taking each boy over his knee and giving a variety
of underpants a few stinging smacks from his heavy hand. We must have done
something pretty bad. I cried. Not because I feared my turn but because I did
not wear underpants. No money in our house for such luxuries. I mumbled this
truth as I bravely undid my snake belt. He spared me classroom humiliation but
nothing else. I was taken to a private room and, shorts pulled down, was taken
over his knee and given my dues on my bare bottom. His hand stung like mad and
I cried again. For the rest of the day I was the classroom star, especially
when I filled in the details. I learnt that day that a smarting bottom has many
compensations. (3)
Secondary School
Teachers .Too many of these to mention by name. Not that I would, some may
still be with us. And I don’t blame them for what they did. This was the late
1950s and 11-15 year old boys were easy meat for latent sadists. And no come
back. Your folks wouldn’t listen even if you told them. My most hated was a
games teacher who thrashed the bottom with a short version of a cricket bat and
a science master who did the same with a piece of rubber tubing. I experienced
both, over trousers, and both hurt like hell. Bending down for such appropriate
weapons was not fun. The favourites were a student PE teacher who whacked the
flimsy covered bum with a vicious plimsoll on which a backwards FRED had been
chalked, think about it, and a house teacher who shall go by the name of Mr
Dee. The latter gave me my two most memorable canings and both are seared in my
ageing memory. The first, when about 11 or 12, was four strokes of the cane on
my bare behind in a sports changing room and the second, I reckon I was 14, two
strokes on my trousers in a classroom. The first experience stung and shocked,
I was naked at the time; the second was excruciating and burning and induced a
throb in my backside that I constantly wished to relive in later life. I learnt
a lot at school. The Tudors, Stuarts, the Civil War and how to do quadratic
equations. But thanks to those long lost teachers I also learnt about
masochism. Anyone beating a young behind today, clothed or bare, would be in clink.
In those days we who got it just shrugged and revelled in our unexpected and
welcome notoriety. How times have changed. (4)
Sundry Adults. Since those days I have, thankfully, found a number of
people more than willing to beat my behind. Hard wired from school and home I
entered adulthood with a constant desire to have my pants taken down and my
bare bottom thrashed. For most on my adult years a male was required to give
the scenes verisimilitude but, as I age, I care little for the gender of the
cane or strap wielder. Most of my male acquaintances have whacked for fun and
free. Females charge and the type I like, mature and dominant, are hard to
find. Whipstock Grange is an exception because there, whatever their age, a
school environment is paramount. But whatever the situation I reckon that every
time I lower my pants for a heavenly sting across my bare behind I am paying a
silent homage to all those who did it to me when I was very young. I am glad
they did. I still have fun and many folks of my age, bereft of such perverse
pleasures, cannot say the same. (5)
Lots of my stories were inspired from the above. A few are
listed below and many are on this blog or on the MMSA website. And the statistics? They must await another day. Let's say I got distracted. Worth at least six of the very best from one of those distant ghosts.
(1) The Law of Miss
McKindrick
(2) Rainy Days
(3) Master Kennedy’s
Slippering. The Pecking Order
(4) Yesterday’s Boy. Tomorrows
Child. Mistress Fredericka. The Games
Club.
(5) I Have Never Seen
Whipstock Grange. Whipstock Revisited. Ten Days. A Visit to Miss Court. Room Service.
Alfred Roy
Next Month - Sailor Beware (M/m) A tale of a cabin boy being whacked whilst on the lovely canals of England.