Sailor Beware (M/m)

This is the second of my two Christmas postings. A little late due to my computer crashing last week. Preview readers, including a couple of old boatees, have given it the thumbs up. Won't appeal to those who like the F/m variety, no ladies here, but may amuse the rest. Will make an alternative to endless rubbish on the TV over the next week or so. But whoever takes your pants down or whichever bottom you bare, may you all have a good Christmas and prosperous New Year. And many thanks for clicking on my blog. Alfred Roy

 

I thought it was an interesting and exciting offer and it did not take me long to agree and make the necessary arrangements. One of the regular customers in the shop I worked in on Saturdays, Tesco if anyone is interested, made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Didn’t want to refuse it anyway. A week on the canals in a narrow boat sounded fun and the weather forecast was good. Short notice he said but it’s free other than lunchtime meals in a variety of pubs. A six berth boat on the Kennet and Avon but only a crew of four. So plenty of room. One of the crew had pulled out at the last minute and a crew of three makes all that locking difficult. He was looking for a replacement and thought of me. Probably because with his portly figure and splendid beard I always called him Captain when he came in for his cigs and paper. He used to laugh at that, never been to sea in my life he said but I know all the canals of England. And once he said I would make a good cabin boy. Or he thought I would. I reckon that is why he thought of me when someone pulled out. But whatever the reason I accepted and dropped college the following week. A free week in May on the canals, sunny weather, against a course I was finding more and more difficult. No contest. Arrangements hastily put into place, even if my mother didn’t approve, and I was off to Wiltshire. Monday morning, a clear blue sky, me a passenger in the Captain’s car, and a week of watery bliss. Heaven. And then, arriving at the boat basin around noon I met his fellow crew members. And that is when I had my first doubts.

I was nineteen for God’s sake. The Captain was about fifty, maybe more, but I hadn’t thought about the other two crew members. I suppose I was just so taken with the proposal. But they were ancient. The one called Lionel, broad Scottish accent and a passion for whisky and opera, must have been at least sixty five or seventy and, I swear, the one they called Cloggs was at least ten years older. They seemed very nice, especially Cloggs when he winked at me every time someone mentioned my age, but they were so old. The gap in age between us was so wide I could not possibly see how we would gel. We sat in the local pub waiting for our boat to be got ready and I felt so out of place. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. But I do have to say that my spirits lifted for two reasons. First they were great fun, they might be old but they were mischievous devils and full of life. And their salacious comments about looking forward to seeing me in boating shorts appealed to my gay nature. It struck me then that these old fellows might, in their younger days, have preferred their own sex. It did not occur to me, naive being that I am, that they still did. But the gentle banter made me relax and when Christian came into the pub, Mr Christian they exclaimed in silly voices and burst out in school boyish laughter, I relaxed even more. He was nearer my age, even if over thirty, and was tall and slim whereas Lionel and Cloggs were smaller and wiry. And he was a fifth crew member; I knew that because over introductory drinks the Captain had said that the defaulter had been able to change his plans. Don’t look so worried, he said, we shan’t send our cabin boy home. There is room for five. Looking at Christian, suntanned and smiling, I did not want to leave. And in staying I was, at that moment, christened Cabin Boy. It amused them all, especially the Captain.

The first inkling that these narrow boat cruises had a structure and tradition that I was unfamiliar with came on the second day of our trip. We had just passed Melksham, a lovely Wiltshire market town, and a grass covered swing bridge blocked our progress. Mr Christian, I now called him that, and I were instructed to open it. We jumped off the boat and opened the bridge to allow our vessel, Iris, to pass through. As soon as it had done so we both jumped back aboard eager for afternoon tea and cakes, supplied by the elfin Cloggs. Tut and tut, Mr Cloggs said, the bridge has not been closed. That won’t please the Captain. Canal courtesy, as I was learning, was that bridges were closed and lock gates were shut. Nothing else was said but when we stopped for the evening in a remote area a few miles outside Bath, the Captain said a small matter needed to be addressed. Mr Christian and our cabin boy had failed to close the bridge. There were more tut and tuts from Mr Cloggs and Lionel, the latter highly amused as he smoked his enormous pipe, and our bearded Captain issued his judgement. Mr Christian was to be caned, six strokes. Not being familiar with narrow boat discipline the cabin boy, me, was to escape with a warning, this time, but Mr Christian had no excuse. I was both shocked and transfixed. Surely our young Mr Christian would object? But he didn’t, he clearly knew the form and the ritual. He stepped onto the canal bank and bent over; offering his tightly clad backside for what was obviously a familiar routine. The Captain, my Tesco customer now seen in a totally different role, produced a vicious looking cane, about two foot six in length, and stepped off the boat. As we all watched, me in awe, he approached the bending miscreant and delivered six hard and meaningful strokes to a prominent backside covered and enhanced by the tightest of tightest of light blue jeans. Mr Christian gasped and, after the sixth stroke, rose and ruefully rubbed his bottom. And they all laughed, including Christian, and they did so even more when the Captain said, and next time boy those jeans will be around your ankles. I was both fascinated and fearful. This was clearly a routine. What had I let myself in to? As if answering my thoughts Cloggs, still full of mischief, said think yourself lucky boy. The last cabin boy got twelve of the strap the first time he left a bridge open. Reckon the captain likes you. And as he said this I saw the disconcerting gleam in his eye.

I slept badly that night. My cabin was at the rear end, nearest the kitchen, as it was my job to make the early morning tea. My price for being aboard for free someone said, but without malice. They were a friendly lot, the first two days made that clear, but they had their strange rules and it seemed I was part of them. Cloggs had hinted as much and after the evening meal and a few drinks, Mr Christian confirmed it. You will get whacked at sometime on this trip he said. Nobody under thirty escapes. The Captain likes to do it and the other boys, Lionel and Cloggs, like to watch. It is part of their fun and, as you saw this afternoon, maintains discipline. You don’t get much arguing when the one in charge wields a cane or, in your case I think, a hefty strap. He laughed at this comment and wiggled his behind at me before retiring to his own cabin. It was the comment about the hefty strap that particularly bothered me. I liked the Captain, thought he was a great bloke. But I was seeing him in a different light and now I was a little fearful of him. I would have to work very hard to make sure that my behind, very small, and that unseen strap never became acquainted. The thought perturbed me but, strangely, it did not evoke a wish to leave. I was not going to abandon this ship whatever the consequences.

The consequences came in mind boggling fireworks across my backside on the fourth day. Wednesday had been pretty uneventful, the weather was unexpectedly dull and drizzly, and we had moored in Bath for most of it. Mr Christian and Cloggs had gone exploring the Roman city and Lionel and the Captain played endless games of chess. I suppose I got bored, that is my excuse anyway. I wandered off and got chatting to some local fishermen. I must have been away longer than I thought because when I got back the boat had gone. And then I remembered. The Captain said we were setting off at four, ten miles and six locks, so we could reach a very nice canal side pub, highly recommended, before it got busy. I looked at my watch. It was four thirty five. I looked along the canal and there was no sign of Iris, they had gone without me. I reasoned that it was probably to teach me a lesson but I could easily catch them up. But it was the teaching me a lesson bit that perturbed. As I walked along the canal, the sun finally trying to break out, I held an unwelcome vision of an annoyed Captain and a wavering strap in my mind. I need not have worried. They were at the second lock when I got to them and they all burst out laughing when I scrambled aboard, mumbling apologies. At least he walked the right way Lionel said, and Christian ruffled my hair and called me a clot. Make us some tea Cloggs said and at least you may not have to walk the plank. So all was forgiven, so I thought, especially when the Captain bought us all a splendid meal at the promised canal side pub of recommendations. It was only as we were retiring that I was brought back to earth. Christian was washing up glasses in the kitchen. The others had gone to their bunks and I was having a read before I put out my light. I hope you are ready for tomorrow he said. For your baptism. I looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He came over to me and ruffled my hair again, just as he did when I had sneaked aboard earlier. It will be about ten o’clock I think, if I know the Captain. When we are all on the tiller sailing the open seas, he said, and gave a small laugh. Twelve strokes at least, with his heavy strap. And all on the bare arse. He only ever straps cabin boys on their bare arses. And then he ruffled my hair again and put out my light. Strangely, I slept well that night.

Mr Christian was right. The Captain joined me on the back of the boat whilst the others were on the tiller. He had clearly arranged things that way. Given the sunny weather, a change from dull Wednesday, I was back in my usual gear of black cotton top and light blue cotton shorts and enjoying a mid morning coffee. Chores were done and I was off duty for the rest of the morning. Are you enjoying the trip he asked. I said I was, and it was true. I had settled into the routine and accepted the bizarre rules and regulations. I knew what was coming and the Captain did not waste time in getting there. You let us down yesterday he said. Not good, not good for discipline. I can’t let it pass, in spite of your age. I think you know what that means. I looked at him, nervously. But with acceptance. He was a long way from my customer in Tesco’s. Last Saturday suddenly seemed a long way away. Out here he was in charge and I had transgressed, big time. I waited, knowing what was coming. Go and put a pillow on the middle bunk and lie over it. I will be with you in a minute. I nodded and did so again when he offered a further instruction. And take down your shorts; you will not be needing them for a few minutes. My head was spinning but something compelled me to obey. This was the deal, I thought. This was the deal from the moment he invited me to join his crew. Nothing to do with being a free trip. This was what it was all about. Strangely I did not mind and as I made my way to the middle cabin bunk, the only one on the boat with room to swing whatever took your fancy, I realised I still liked him. He was going to thrash my backside, deservedly so Cloggs and Lionel would say, but I still thought he was a great bloke.

I am not sure if I still felt the same when he was doing it. The situation made me obey and I did so with a mixture of fear and anticipation. I went into that middle cabin, the one conducive to the swinging of a strap, and moved a pillow to the centre of the bunk bed. As I lay down, stomach placed over that now significant pillow, I noticed that the small curtains had been drawn over the even smaller boat windows. Boats pass on canals and, even fleetingly, no one would be allowed to peer in. They probably would not believe what they would see. But why take the chance. I heard him come, my Captain from Tesco, and remembered his final instruction. I quickly pulled down my light blue cotton shorts to my knees and waited. Do your worst Captain, I was saying, however much it hurts I do not regret this trip. My resolve wavered over the next few minutes but, thankfully, it was soon to be over. Not before he had stood over me, breathing heavily and looking, and said twelve strokes boy. Twelve strokes with my strap for being late coming back. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. And hoped. What was it Mr Christian had said? He only ever straps cabin boys on the bare arse. Perhaps this would be different. I was only nineteen and I did serve him every weekend in the local supermarket. He was nice, we chatted, he knew me in other places. He was a customer for Christ’s sake. He liked me. Surely he wasn’t going to take my pants down? The hoping was all to no avail. My underpants came down, slowly but firmly, and my small and fleshy bottom both pale and inviting was revealed in all its innocent glory. I blushed at the revelation, even though I could not see. I could only hear that continuing heavy breathing. My virgin skin had no blemishes and the two matching cheeks would make a welcome target for a Captain’s wrath that was clearly mingled with a heady anticipation. I prayed it would not hurt, not cause me pain, but I knew that it would and, in hurting it would make a peculiar sense. His strap and my behind were, at that moment, always destined to meet. And when it landed, painfully and accurate, across my naked behind for the first time I would know why I had been invited to cruise this Wiltshire canal. He placed his hand on the small of my back, shirt lifted to ensure an unimpeded view, and delivered the first whack across the centre of my backside. I audibly reacted. Not loudly, but enough to make me realise that this was for real. The sting across my bottom created a burning sensation I had never previously experienced. I was having a strapping on my bare backside and it was not pleasant. He waited a second, waited for me to compose myself, and then he slashed my bottom for a second and third time. Both cut and hurt and created an intense warmth in my lower portions that was alien to me. Is this what being whacked means? It was awful and I gripped the bedclothes on the bunk. Three more strokes quickly followed and I howled and asked him to stop. This cold leather strap on my naked bottom was something I neither desired or wanted, and, at that moment, also felt I did not deserve. But I did not get up. I was living part of this boat’s rituals. I had to take the remaining six strokes. That was my reasoning. Or I thought so afterwards when I reflected that, in spite of my protestations, I recovered my calm and pushed the pillow further into my stomach and raised the all consuming target of the strange scenario. I was offering my bottom to him. It may hurt Captain, it may make me cry, but as I absorb the earlier sting I await my final six. Is that why I pressed on that pillow and lifted, almost provocatively, my naked and reddened bottom? Is that why I offered this private part of my body, ignominiously stripped, for its painful avenger? Whatever the reasons the Captain completed his job with vigour. Six more times that relentless strap unerringly found the centre of my cheeks, and six times I gasped and squealed. It hurt like hell. I was tearful and I was sore and flamed. I had been well and truly strapped by the Captain of Iris. Cabin Boy. Whacked on his bare bum, twelve times, by a most vicious strap. At that moment I was convinced the sting in my backside would remain for weeks and, in distant innocent supermarkets, I would never look this man in the face again. A man I admired had shown a different nature and the proof continuously throbbed behind me. You took that well boy was all he said. Nice bottom and a strapping well deserved. And then he left, lighting a cigarette before he did, and I was alone to recover and reflect. In the silence I could still hear the strap hitting my behind. I could still hear his heavy breaths. He had enjoyed what he did and I had, reluctantly but willingly, succumbed. I had been given my baptism. I lay on that bunk for a good five minutes, maybe ten, shorts and underpants still adrift. Head and bottom throbbing, bare and shamed, I was serene. I knew not what it meant. I know it hurt, painfully so. But somehow, as the distant engine chugged on that quiet Wiltshire canal, it seemed so right. In a funny sort of way I felt I had finally earned my keep. Earned my stripes you could say. Rubbing my hand across my very warm backside that last thought seemed very appropriate.

I suffered a lot of teasing for the rest of that day. When I went to take my turn on the tiller Lionel said, who has been a naughty boy then, and Cloggs, delivering what was now a customary wink, said that someone must be very grateful that tiller duties were done standing up. And both agreed that the captain would probably buy lunch again. He usually does when he has whacked a boy, so was there any chance of me missing the boat again. I smiled weakly but entered into the schoolboy spirit by giving my shorts a rueful rub. Mr Christian laughed and, expertly instructing me on the tiller when the others had left, added to the teasing and said pity we haven’t got a strong cold wind. The gist was I could drop my shorts and enjoy a welcome and cooling air. The rest of our conversation is worth recording in full. It seemed to sum up this strange trip I had embarked on.

‘Wishing you hadn’t come?’ he said.

‘No. Far from it.’ I replied.

‘You didn’t mind?’

‘It hurt, but I was expecting it.’

‘Part of the rules and regulations. You saw that when I got caned for not closing the bridge.’

‘And you didn’t mind?’

He thought for a moment before answering. I suspected that what he had to say would fill in a few gaps.

‘I have known the Captain for a long time. He first invited me about ten years ago. He sussed out, as Lionel would say, I was one of the faith.’

‘One of the faith?’

‘A boy who would not mind having his bottom whacked, if circumstances warranted it, might even enjoy it in a funny sort of way.’

‘And you do?’

I was thinking back to the Tuesday on the towpath when the Captain caned him, very hard, on his jeans.

‘Not the first time, when I got it like you just did, shorts and underpants down and twelve of his strap. But he is very good at assessing people. He knew it was something I always had a hankering for, even if I didn’t recognise it at the time.’

‘So you still come?’

‘These boat trips are super, heavenly canals and good company, and having a sore arse occasionally is a small price to pay for it.’

I laughed and ruefully rubbed my backside again.

‘I didn’t think so when I was lying on that bunk with my bare bum in the air.’

‘But you don’t mind now, now it’s all over?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly. That is why he chose you. He told us sometime ago that there was a boy who served him in Tesco’s who might make a suitable cabin boy. He is very good at spotting the type.’

I pondered this for a moment and asked Mr Christian something that had been bugging me for a couple of days.

‘Did you always intend to come?’

He laughed, so much so that for a moment I lost control of the tiller and wandered to the far bank. Watch it, he said, if you don’t want to be on the strapping bunk again. Not today. I didn’t, at least not until my backside had recovered its usual bloom.

‘You never dropped out, did you?’ I said.

‘No. That was a small ploy by the Captain to explain the invitation. He wanted you aboard.’

‘It all makes sense now.’

‘And he wasn’t wrong, was he?’

I steered the boat back into the centre of the canal, keep right for passing boats, and with my free hand rubbed my light blue cotton shorts again. The shorts that had recently been taken down. No, the Captain wasn’t wrong.

The teasing continued, on and off, for the rest of the day. Lionel bought lunch, surprisingly in view of what had been said, but he explained when picking up the tab that the Captain had promised him a ringside seat the next time I transgressed and my pants came down. Cloggs tut tutted a false disapproval and, mischievously, produced a small cushion for me to sit on. I reflected that whatever else the day bought having someone whacked clearly lifted a collection of spirits. And in spite of everything, or because of it, the Thursday was a good day. Probably the best to date. We all retired in excellent and exhausted mood. And when I lay in my bed the teasing took a more sensuous and interesting turn. Mr Christian bid me to turn over and, pulling down my pyjama bottoms, rubbed some gentle oils into my recovering backside. It was not strictly necessary as the worst excesses of the Captain’s strap had long faded. I know, having looked in the only mirror on the boat. Just a few marks, Mr Christian said, but you must still be sore. I made no comment. His request for me to turn over came as a surprise but it was a welcome end to a flagship day. His large hands on my bare cheeks was heavenly, a sharp contrast to the morning. Twice in the same day I was baring my bottom for masculine attentions but I had moved from a stinging strap to a gentle sensation. I knew then that I desired him to bring me off. Sadly he didn’t, the hands only fleetingly brushed against the back of my filling balls, but it was intoxicating all the same. But he did spend a long time massaging his hands across the naked curves of my cheeks. Far more than was necessary. After about ten minutes, legs shamelessly spreading and a last fleeting touch of balls I had now fully exposed, he pulled up my pyjamas and told me I had a super bottom. Much the best cabin boy bottom he had ever seen. Then he gave it two gentle smacks and left. Alone, and in the dark, I wanted so much to masturbate but I resisted. I had a healthy nineteen year old’s erection but to spill the contents may prematurely undermine an interesting week. There were three days to go and I wished to save all for what it had to offer.

Mr Christian got caned again on Friday and I, along with the others, got to watch. We were approaching a remote lock and, jumping off the boat, he slipped and dropped his lock key in the canal. He easily retrieved it but the act itself was deemed almost a capital offence. Lock keys on canal trips are precious for obvious reasons. Cavalier attitudes in regard to them invoked severe condemnation, at least four tut tuttings in Cloggs’ case, and statutory retribution. With the boat still in the filling lock the Captain stepped on to the bank, cane in hand, and beckoned Mr Christian to him. We other three watched in fascinated silence as the thirty year old miscreant lowered his jeans and underpants and, bending over, received eight vicious cane whacks, or so they seemed to me, to his bare backside. He rubbed the violated area vigorously and quickly rose and pulled up his clothing. That bloody hurt he said. But he grinned when he said it and the ordinariness of his reaction seemed to break the watchers spell. Or at least it did for Lionel and Cloggs, tongues loosened by the delightful sight. I remained silent. It was all right for them, at their ages they were unlikely to be in Mr Christian’s position. They could enjoy the pleasure with no threat to themselves. For me it was different. There were two days to go on the trip and by now I had accepted that I was sure to get walloped again before it ended. I didn’t mind, there was something peculiarly intimate and touching in being strapped on the bare bottom by the Captain. I liked him, he was a gentle and generous man even if he did have a strange penchant for disciplinary activities. But I did not want that cane. As Lionel and Cloggs chatted and steered the boat out of the lock I reflected on that fearful thought.

The last two days were wonderful. It rained all day on the Saturday but with only two locks and a swing bridge, the one that on the outward journey had caused a little grief, there was little to do. Given the poor weather the Captain decided to moor the boat and treated us all to a taxi trip into Devizes and a promise of a sumptuous pub lunch. Mr Christian insisted on paying for the lunch and I, not unreasonably, bought a round of drinks. I had so far spent nothing on the trip and it was the least I could do. Besides, my mother, in spite of her reservations, had given me a small sum for that eventuality. We summed up the week over desserts and all were eager to know how I had enjoyed the experience. Apart from ten minutes on Thursday I said and they all burst out laughing. A small price to pay said Lionel, filling his pipe in readiness for a routine puff, and Cloggs, wolfing on a disgustingly overfilled cream profiterole, agreed. What a pity we did not see it, he said. The rumour on the canal he added, without saying who had spread it, is that our Cabin Boy has a most delectable bottom. Almost made for the strap. The Captain, beaming at what had clearly been a successful trip, said that it isn’t over yet. Six locks tomorrow to get back to the boat basin and the last day is always fraught with problems. In the taxi back I asked Mr Christian if that was true, was getting back to base a problem. No, he said, but it is the Captain’s last chance to whack a few arses. So something always goes wrong. He arranges it. I slept well again that night. Partly because it had been a lovely day in spite of the rain. In the evening Cloggs initiated me in the complexities of Sudoku and Lionel produced a supper of his personal twist on Welsh rarebit. And there was much talk on the joys of being whacked. If that conversation had taken place on Monday I would have squirmed in embarrassment but, given the strange week with this weird but lovely crew, it seemed perfectly normal. As I say, I slept well. Given all the comments I knew I would get strapped on the last day at some time. That I was prepared for. I was not prepared for anything else.

The sun shone beautifully on the Sunday and created enough warmth for me to don the black top and light blue cotton shorts for the final time. The first three locks went without mishap and we found a nice pub for a simple lunch. Families were out in force but we managed to find a quiet corner where we could blissfully thank the unpredictable weather for sending us home with a warm glow. I think Lionel conjured that phrase. Whoever did, it prompted Mr Christian to make reference to warm glows of another kind. Is our Cabin Boy not due for his traditional farewell Captain? I knew what was being referred to and felt a churning in my stomach. Mr Christian was supposed to be my friend. The captain smiled and concurred. Indeed, he said, and he has earned it. Morning tea was late, the third lock was slovenly done, and the breakfast crockery is still unwashed. His job. Our cabin boy has a lot to learn. We shall do so , on the boat, after this lunch. And, this time, you can all watch. I said not a word. I was expecting it, almost welcoming it, and this time there would be an audience. And looking at Cloggs and Lionel, eyes gleaming, I expected little sympathy. My final price for this trip, or so I thought, would shortly be paid. We moved out of the pub area and moored about a hundred yards from the next lock. Being Sunday the canal was busy and we waited almost thirty minutes before there was a convenient hiatus. When it came the Captain summoned me to the only bunk where a strap could be swung in earnest. But this time there was no one on the tiller. This time as I stretched on the pillow and pulled down my light blue shorts the heavy breathing was fourfold. One would wield the strap but the other three pairs of eyes would watch and absorb. The Captain pulled down my underpants, matching light blue, and I am sure someone gasped. Strangely that was comforting. Four men, collective age over two hundred, were about to witness a nineteen year old getting his bare bottom thrashed. And I was that nineteen year old. A head mixed with heavy and alien sensations could absorb the fleeting pain. And I did. The Captain gave me twelve strokes again, less hard that on the Thursday, and as that strap whacked into my naked behind I consumed it all. That first is for you Lionel, that second and third for Cloggs, you all deserve to see this. And the fifth, the sixth, the seventh? They were for Mr Christian; the man who had a couple of days ago caressed these same cheeks. I did it all for them. And when the intensity increased, the last few stung and made me gasp, then they were for the Captain. My Tesco customer. I had loved this trip and this was small price to pay. This crew were getting their reward. I was both the victim and the prize. I pulled up my pants, bottom throbbing as before, and gave them all a small kiss on their cheeks. All we still laughing as we moved to that fourth lock.

That really should have been it. I had played the role of Cabin Boy and, in accepting my two strappings, had fulfilled the price demanded. With no regrets. All that remained now was to moor on that last night and take the boat back to its home. But the build up of the strange week and last night alcohol extracted a heavy toll. When Mr Christian came to say goodnight to me I was sleepily drunk and warmly sensuous. I did not resist when he peeled down my pyjama bottoms and removed my top. In a few minutes my new nakedness was matched by his own. In the morning we would say we only cuddled. That was true in a sense. We held on to each other, enjoying the sensation of our combined male flesh, and then he turned me over and gently stroked his hands over my bottom cheeks. The warmth of the afternoon strap had faded to be replaced by a searching more urgent than the previous experience. This time, when I parted my legs and thrust out my backside, he allowed his delicate fingers to probe deeper than before. I felt his touch on my balls and then, gently, on my stiffening prick. I did not take long to come. A few gentle up and down strokes on my shaft and I readily shot out the desire of a heavenly week. It had been a long wait. He sighed, brushed my bottom again, kissed my back and fell asleep. I quickly followed. Alcohol had got the better of us both. And that is how the Captain found us. At six o’clock on our last day. Both naked in my bunk. We were on a charge, he said. We would both be caned.

I ate an uneasy breakfast. Tradition had it that on the last morning the Captain cooked a full, artery clogging, feast before we departed. It smelt delicious and tasted even better but I could not fully appreciate it. My mind was on others things and it did not help that the elfin Cloggs and the twinkling Lionel, puffing on his pipe indoors for once, were full of anticipatory banter. I thought of absconding, being strapped was one thing but I was fearful of the Captain’s cane, but readily dismissed the idea. It would spoil the week and, besides, the Captain was driving me home. So I resigned myself to this third and last experience vowing that I would not come on a trip again. I liked the Captain and I liked his crew but I had no desire to be caned. Prior to breakfast I had pumped Mr Christian for information. We were sitting outside whilst the bacon and eggs and sausages sizzled, and I was eager for details. I wanted to know what was going to happen. At least I thought I did. I might have enjoyed my breakfast more if I had not asked. Mr Christian fleshed out all the salient points and a few more. Again it is a conversation worth recording.

‘Do you think he means it?’

‘He does for me, corrupting the young he said. I expect at least six or eight strokes. Probably twelve.’

‘And you don’t mind?’

He laughed, a throaty laugh I had grown to like over the last few days.

‘No. I expect it; I have a taste for it you could say. If he doesn’t do it on my bare arse I shall be so disappointed.’

‘And me?’

‘Not so many, young un. But given you have such a delectable behind I can’t see him letting you retain your pants.’

‘I’m scared.’ I said and meant it.

‘Don’t be. It’s all part of the game. And it got you a free trip, remember. He was always going to cane you at some point. Just needed a reason.’

‘And we gave him one. Last night.’

I thought back to Mr Christian’s warm hands around my shaft and, in spite of my fear, regretted nothing. What he said next surprised me.

‘Oh, the Captain engineered that. He had packed a lot of boxes on my bunk. Will save time in the morning he said. Suggested I sleep elsewhere.’

‘He’s a strange man.’ I said.

‘He’s a lovely man. Generous and kind hearted to a fault. Just has this penchant for whacking boys.’

‘If there is a reason?’

‘There has to be a reason with him. That is why he does boat trips. So much can go wrong. So cheer up and go and drop your pants when called. It won’t take long.’

He lit a cigarette and offered one to me. I took it; I rarely smoked, but suddenly felt the need. I had become very fond of Mr Christian. It was not just our ages and that, literally, we were the boat’s whipping boys. He had a gentleness that, the previous night, I had fully appreciated. I would have let him take me, he knew that, but had the sense and restraint to know it would have been too much and too soon.

‘What happens?’

‘It varies, but I imagine over the breakfast table. That’s the usual routine.’

‘Will it hurt? I mean really hurt?’

He drew on his cigarette and gave me a meaningful look. It was almost as if he was summing up the strange week before he answered.

‘Yes. The Captain does not know any other way. He canes for real. It will be a lot worse than your strappings. But it will be over very quickly. So grit your teeth and think of Tesco.’

‘And last night.’

Mr Christian laughed and ruffled my hair. Lionel called that breakfast was ready. The trip would soon be over.

‘I guarantee’, he said, ‘I guarantee that when you are driving home you will be glad he did it. Remember, he sussed you out. However much his cane hurts, and boy it will, you will like having your pants taken down again.’

I smiled weakly and with no confidence and, as Lionel called again, we went in.
 

I had to stand outside the boat door while the Captain caned Mr Christian. It had started to drizzle again and the rain seeped into my shorts and top. The dampness of my inappropriate clothes, ordered to wear, depressed my sinking spirits even further. They seemed to be taking an age and, perversely, I wondered for a moment if it was not all an elaborate joke. They knew I was fearful of the cane and I fruitlessly grasped at the thought that it was not to happen. But then I heard a dull thud followed by a faint gasp and, ears attuned by the trip, I pictured the scene. Mr Christian was getting whacked by the Captain with the motley duo in attendance. I could not tell if he was getting it bare or not but, by the third or fourth stroke, I knew it was hard. I heard him cry out and I heard the resounding swish. I counted. Carefully and fervently. It seemed important. Seven, eight, nine. Would they ever stop? As the numbers increased my agitation matched it. Logic said that whatever Mr Christian got I would get at least half and my mind had numbed at more than three or four. I could not take six with that cane, laid on hard, and no doubt laid on bare flesh. Across a bottom that had never felt a cane. I wished at that moment, still counting the distant and unseen thuds, that I had never accepted this invitation. And then it stopped. Was that twelve or had there been more? My agitation had made me lose count. A silence followed and then Mr Christian emerged, smiling and ruefully rubbing his jeans. Fourteen, he said, two extra for jumping up. I suggest you do not do the same. I blanched as he hastily added that I would not get as many. He wants you to come again he said. He will make them hurt but they should be few. With that less than comforting thought I stepped into the cabin. As I closed the door I thought, weirdly so it seemed, that for once Mr Christian had not ruffled my hair. I hoped it was not significant.

Driving back home with the Captain I looked back on that last significant few minutes in the cabin and realised I would never truly recapture what had happened. I was in too much of a state and my swirling mind had buried most of the details. I remember standing before them, Lionel and Cloggs and the Captain, the latter brandishing a fearful weapon that I had dreaded all week. I remember the Captain muttering something about unseemly behaviour and me, when instructed, taking my damp shorts and underpants completely off. I remember being over the kitchen table and someone, I think it was Lionel, lifting my equally damp top. And I remember my nakedness and jumping around that small cabin kitchen shamelessly holding my flaming backside. But I do not remember the actual caning. My mind had blanked it out, both then and afterwards. It was four strokes, I knew that because I looked in the only mirror and saw the livid weals, but I only remember the first. All the others merged into a continuing fire across my bottom that all the cavorting around the kitchen could not expunge. I had closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as that cane lashed into a backside that no longer belonged to me. I felt the pain as it transmitted to my brain but I had reduced it to a single violation. My cabin boy bottom, bare and bent, gave the Captain his final moments. And even though I could not remember each individual searing thrash, I did not begrudge it. It was still throbbing when we said our goodbyes. Lionel and Cloggs, if they realised, would say that is as it should be on such a boat trip.

I didn’t see the Captain for a few weeks. When he eventually came into Tesco again he said he had been abroad. I had blushed deeply when he entered and served him nervously, afraid that he would say something I wanted none to hear. He didn’t but he did wait for me to finish my shift and we chatted outside. I was a big hit he said and he hoped I would come again on a future trip. Mr Christian was especially looking forward to renewing our acquaintance. I was expecting this, particularly as he said on the way home that I was the best cabin boy he had ever had. Yes, I said. Of course I will come. I had given it a lot of thought.  He paused for a moment and looked at me with that mock severity that had been so familiar on the canals. It will be the same rules and regulations he said. You know what that means? Yes sir, I said. I would not have it any other way. He left, smiling and satisfied, and I walked off to catch my bus home. I had learnt a lot about canals in that invigorating week. Locks, and bridges, and weirs and tillers. Wiltshire towns and country pubs. And I had learnt a lot about myself. Particularly with my pants down.

Alfred Roy (2012)