Friday 24 May 2013

Mrs Wilmer Meets Miss Jones (F/f)


Immediately following on from The New Neighbour (M/m) here is one that is strictly F/f. Pure imagination, of course, and links in with the many Connie Wilmer stories I have written. The young lady in this one first appeared in 'A Lesson for Miss Jones' and is a spanked and strapped regular in others. In this one she is growing up. In many ways. Alfred Roy
 
Mrs Wilmer meets Miss Jones

 The call was totally unexpected.

‘Mrs Wilmer? Connie Wilmer? Hi. Remember me. Gillian Jones. I am in the area. At a conference. Wondered if you still lived here. Looked you up in the book. Hope you don’t mind me ringing. Thought we might meet. Catch up a bit. On the past.’

Hardly a breath. Young girl. Nervous. Prepared speech. No pauses. Hasn’t changed.

‘We did some theatre when I was a teenager. Never forgot you. Love to see you again. I am here for three days. If you are free.’

Urgent. Almost begging. Planned? Maybe. Memories. Interesting.

‘Tomorrow night really suits. At my hotel? Yes, okay. Seven o’clock. Castle Hotel. The Riverside Bar. Great. Look forward to it. Hope you didn’t mind me ringing. Bye’

Connie Wilmer put down her phone and wondered. Why was Gillian Jones contacting her after all this time? Three years? Five years? And never a word. The boy involved in their theatre projects had kept in touch but Miss Jones had disappeared. Not dramatically, but just the way teenagers do. College? University? New horizons? We all move on. How old is she now? Must be twenty or twenty one. She was sixteen, or was it seventeen, when we did the Edinburgh festival. That was five years ago. Yes Miss Jones, Miss Gillian Jones must be twenty one. At least. Haven’t seen her since she was a spiky teenager, impish and mischievous, leading that distracted boy a merry dance. And now, out of the proverbial blue, she makes contact. A bit of a surprise. But then, from memory, Gillian Jones was always full of surprises.

‘It’s fantastic to see you again. I hardly dared. Ringing you after all this time. You may have moved. Or anything. But I was here, in this town, and I thought. Connie Wilmer. My Connie Wilmer. Never forgotten you. You or Andy. Just dying to see you again. When you answered the phone I nearly died with joy.’

The gushing had hardly stopped since they met. Everything hemmed in through teenage years poured out. Relentless, wearing, amusing.

‘They were the happiest times of my life. Doing those plays with you and Andy. And then Edinburgh. I never wanted it to end. Then he got involved with some other girl and we moved to Canada. Daddy’s job. I hated it. Canada. Came back last year. Work for a marketing firm in Woking. I love it. And then they send me here for this conference. Home town I said. And I just had to ring you.’

Because of Andy? Because of the memories? Or because of what? She hadn’t said. All through the initial meet and now dinner she hadn’t said. They had relived the past, the plays, the theatre, the boy. Nothing else. Miss Gillian Jones, the still impish twenty one year old Miss Jones, had said much but told nothing. Or that is what it seemed to Connie Wilmer. It still seemed like that when they parted.

The second call was not totally unexpected.

‘Mrs Wilmer? It’s me. Gillian. Gillian Jones. I loved last night. Meeting you again. Catching up on the past. It was wonderful. And you are a wonderful woman. Andy and I always thought so. I have never forgotten you. There was so much I wanted to say last night but couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.’

They will now. Courage comes from desperation. It was in her voice. Connie Wilmer sensed it. She sensed it on the first call, she sensed it over the hotel dinner. And now it had urgency. And she was ready.

‘I think you know what I am going to say. Coming here, to this town, brought back so many memories. Some I shall never forget. I think you know which I mean. I can’t say it but I think you know. I can think of nothing else. Is there any chance? Is there any chance, Mrs Wilmer, that you would be willing to do it again?’

Twenty? Twenty one? Not sixteen. But still impish, still mischievous. Still desperate for her own pleasures. But now as a young woman, not a young girl. Connie Wilmer had been searched for. And tested. And over the hotel dinner she had passed the test. Nothing said but all clearly implied. Hence the follow up phone call. She responded and Miss Jones gushed. Again.

‘Brilliant. I will come to you tomorrow. It’s my last night before going back. I shall be sixteen again Mrs Wilmer. Promise. I have wanted this for so long.’

Connie Wilmer replaced the phone. Let us hope she is not disappointed was her only thought.

Back in the distant past Connie Wilmer had painfully strapped the tiny bare behind of Miss Gillian Jones. The little knickers of the impish girl had been taken down and Connie Wilmer had whacked the boyish cheeks of the most mischievous girl she had ever known. Not once, at least twice, probably three times. Constantly teasing, constantly disruptive, she had thrown many a theatrical project into turmoil. Before her seventeenth birthday she had suffered the special wrath of a distinctive and mature theatre director on many an occasion. Connie Wilmer’s methods were unusual but effective. Those in the know willingly, if reluctantly, conceded that. And for the Gillian Jones’s of this world it worked wonders. She screamed, she howled, she pleaded to be let off. But when the sting had faded, when the burning ache had gone, she recognised its worth. At sixteen she needed it and she held no resentment. That was always clear. Her strappings were often visibly provoked. And now, at twenty one, she wanted it. Desired it. The special flame, once lit, refused to die. Please recreate it she was saying. Connie Wilmer thought it was worth a try.

The third call followed a familiar pattern from those desperate to be chastised.

‘Mrs Wilmer? It’s me, Gillian Jones. Sorry to bother you so early. Afraid you might be out. I have been thinking about tonight. What we talked about. Can we just go into it straight away? When I arrive. I’ll be dressed ready. Am afraid if we socialise first that I might chicken out. Lose the, you know.’

Mrs Wilmer did know.

‘I have been steeling myself for this and the nearer it gets the more I want it and the more I am scared. Having dinner with you on Tuesday was fantastic. Brought back everything. We can socialise. I want to socialise. But afterwards.’

Afterwards.

‘Is that all right?’

It was all right. Mrs Wilmer understood.

‘Oh, thank you Mrs Wilmer. Thank you ever so much. I won’t let you down. Promise. I’ll do whatever you say.’

There was a pause, an uneasy pause.

‘I so want you to strap my bottom again. Ever so much.’

It was the first mention of what Miss Gillian Jones actually wanted. The first amplification of her true need. Now there was no turning back, could be no misunderstanding. It had taken great courage for her to say it at last and the courage was accompanied by heavy breathing.

‘And I so want you to take my knickers down, Mrs Wilmer. Meeting you again convinces me of that.’

The courage was rising now and details were flowing forth. A confirmation of the time of her arrival stemmed Gillian Jones’s thoughts and Mrs Wilmer replaced the phone. She was ready, she just hoped her erstwhile charge was.

Connie Wilmer had enjoyed strapping Gillian Jones’ delicate little bottom all those years ago. She realised that the first time she did it, even though anger had provoked it. Strapping young bottoms, male or female, gave her a special pleasure. Grudgingly, the more she did it to various theatrical charges the more she understood that it fulfilled a strange need in her. The heady power of holding an awesome strap or cane over a vulnerable young naked bottom was a sensation to be savoured. A visual stimulation that could not be equalled for those with the special taste. Connie Wilmer acquired that special taste in her mature years but rarely indulged it. Circumstances did not generally allow such pleasures. But if ever it came knocking at her door, as it did with the Edinburgh boy and some others, she was more than ready. Those now chastised may be more willing than in the past but the scene was the same. Discipline, seriously applied, to nature’s defined and beautiful target. And boy or girl the sensations were the same. Yes, she was ready. She just hoped that, if she came, Miss Gillian Jones was. Connie Wilmer only strapped for real.

The girl stood before her, meek and silent, waiting for Mrs Wilmer to begin. Her flushed face contrasted with the pale pink of her flimsy top. She wore no bra and the breasts were still small and under-developed, other than the cotton top her only attire was Calvin Klein white knicker shorts. She looked every inch the sixteen years old she had said she desired to be. Mrs Wilmer, carefully dressed in a black suit for the occasion, smiled as she entered the room. The strap was in her hand, a strap that Gillian Jones both remembered and craved. Or so she had said, but on seeing it again her small body had shuddered and her eyes had closed. Mrs Wilmer stood silently in her sitting room, listening to the faint sound of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto and Gillian’s heavy breathing. She was impressed; the girl had chosen her attire with care and determination. It invoked memories of an earlier time when, in this same room, anger had provoked a first strapping of Miss Jones’ pert backside.

‘Take off your jeans.’ It was the first thing she had said since entering the room.

‘No.’ Gillian was surprised with the emphasis of her refusal.

‘I said take off your jeans, Gillian.’

‘No. You can’t make me.’

‘Oh I think I can. Besides it is what you want isn’t it?’ Mrs Wilmer smiled as she said this.

‘No. I don’t want that.’ Gillian looked across at the strap.

‘I’m sure you don’t. Neither did Andy. But I gave him no choice, and I am giving you none either. Now take off your jeans.’

‘You can’t spank me. I haven’t done anything.’ Gillian, in spite of her usual poise, was getting concerned. It was not meant to be like this.

‘I am not going to spank you. I think you would enjoy it too much. I am going to give you a well deserved strapping. That little sixteen year old behind of yours has been crying out for it for weeks. You have trespassed on my property. So, for the last time, take off your jeans. Now. Your introduction to my sturdy friend is going to be memorable.’

‘I haven’t trespassed. I came back because of Andy.’

‘I know why you came back. You have made that pretty clear over the last few weeks. Well, tease Andy Styles anymore and I shall be able to tell him that you had a taste of the same medicine.’

Sixteen year old Gillian Jones had been strapped for spying on her young friend getting his desserts from Mrs Wilmer. On that distant day impish confidence had visibly drained. Now a slightly more mature girl desired its re-creation. Or so she had said. But the girl who had entered her house that evening displayed anything but confidence. Hesitant, respectful, soft spoken. But still elfin like and engaging. Tight jeans and jumper hinted at nothing. Mrs Wilmer had instructed her to strip to her top and knickers and wait. But before she did she spelt everything out. Gillian Jones must have no illusions, no misunderstandings. If she did as Mrs Wilmer said then, on her return, there would be no going back.

‘Let us get this clear, Gillian. You wish me to deal with you as I did in the past. When you were a teenager?’

‘Yes. Yes Mrs Wilmer. I do.’

‘A strap. My heavy strap. Applied to your bare bottom?’

‘Yes. Yes. That’s what I want.’

‘Want or need?’

‘Both.’

‘You didn’t like it then. You used to howl a lot if I remember correctly. Why would you like it now?’

‘I don’t know. I only know I want you to do it.’

‘With your knickers down?’

‘Yes.’

‘No holding back. Hard strokes across your behind. Strokes that will hurt. As they used to.’

‘Yes. Yes Mrs Wilmer.’

She paused and flushed deeply.

‘I have wanted it for so long.’

She shuffled her feet. Connie Wilmer had insisted she remain standing through these preliminaries. She herself had sat down in an easy chair. Their situations emphasised the roles. She studied the girl. She had a nice, slim, figure and a pert behind. The latter enhanced by the tightness of the jeans. Mrs Wilmer suspected that this was Gillian’s usual casual attire. Her eyes drifted over the girl’s entire body and she warmed to her task. The natural submissiveness added to her growing pleasure. She chose what she said next with care.

‘Gillian.’

‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’

‘Look at me.’

The girl did as she was bid, her eyes alight with anticipation and a touch of pending trepidation.

‘Have you been disciplined by any one, anyone other than me?’

The girl bent her head before replying.

‘Have you? Has anyone else strapped your behind?

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of years ago. Two boyfriends. But it didn’t work out.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. One was too rough and....you know.’

‘And the other?’

‘Kind. Kind and gentle and considerate.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘No. It didn’t work.’

‘It wasn’t what you wanted?’

‘No.’

‘And this is?’

‘Yes. Yes. At least I think so.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so, Mrs Wilmer. I know myself. What I want, what I need, can only come from you. Or someone like you. I know that now.’

Mrs Wilmer studied her again. The girl was trembling, agitated, breathing very heavily. Her face was bright red and she nervously clenched her hands. It would be unfair to delay any longer.

‘Gillian.’

‘Yes Mrs Wilmer.’

Both spoke so quietly that the distant piano sounds of Beethoven virtually filled the room.

‘I shall leave you now. I shall return in five minutes. I expect you to be ready. I expect you to be down to your top and pants. Nothing else. When I return I shall strap your behind. Six strokes across your knickers and then twelve with them taken down. But, in consideration of your inexperience, I shall prepare you with a preliminary spanking. I am afraid that the shock of my strap may be too much otherwise.’

‘Yes, Mrs Wilmer.’

The girl did not demure and Mrs Wilmer said nothing else. She rose and left the room, puzzling slightly at her sudden decision to tread the desired path slowly. It was a sensible decision, she knew that, but not one made totally devoid of emotion. When her eyes drifted down the girl’s standing form she sensed a strange urge. And the urge was to spank this elfin form. It made perfect sense. For both of them.

She gently took the girl over her knee. There was no resistance. The pale pink flimsy top rose up her back and the small white Calvin Klein knicker shorts emphasised the small buttocks. They clung to the girlish slim thighs and created a heavenly picture. Mrs Wilmer ran her right palm over Gillian’s bottom cheeks and enjoyed the sensation. Gillian Jones shuddered at anticipatory pleasure. Young bottom and mature palm were joined in mutual joy and need. It took all of Connie Wilmer’s resolve not to pull the knickers down and drink in the promised sight underneath. But she resisted and slowly explored all the tiny curves of the impish form. The memories came flooding back. This was a young female bottom that cried out for chastisement. She raised her right hand and delivered one resounding smack to the right cheek of Miss Jones. It was hard and it stung and the girl responded. Connie Wilmer waited and then delivered an equally hard smack to the girl’s left cheek. Gillian wriggled again and raised her bottom slightly. The twin warmth on the two sides of her bottom indicated that her spanking had begun. She relished the sensation and surges of desire swept through her whole body. A desire to be soundly smacked and strapped. To be made to cry. Mrs Wilmer, delivering two further smacks to each cheek, seemingly had the same intention. The smacks became quicker and harder, gradually increasing in intensity and making the young girl struggle and audibly respond. But the more she struggled the firmer Mrs Wilmer held the slim waist with her left hand and pounded the upturned behind, fixed in determined sight, with her right. Twenty, thirty, forty times she walloped Gillian’s backside and the heat from her exertions burned into the young girl’s covered flesh. By the end the prone girl was crying profusely and uttering words of contrition. But never once, as the hand relentlessly smacked her bottom, did she ask Mrs Wilmer to stop. Gillian Jones was taking a spanking she had long desired and only the woman giving it would bring about its end. Eventually, exhausted, Mrs Wilmer did stop and for a couple of minutes those same hands caressed the heat she had engendered. The arching back and jutting bottom of the girl over her knee indicated a desire to have the pants taken down. To allow the naked flesh to breathe, to be spanked again, bare. But again Mrs Wilmer resisted. The knickers would come down, she had said. But not yet. That was to come. For now she indulged the pleasure of the warmth in the curves, the hint of promised flesh, the submissiveness of the spanked girl. All else could wait. But not for long. After two or three heavenly minutes, for both, Connie Wilmer quietly told Gillian Jones to get up and stand in the middle of the room. When she did so, tearful but composed, Mrs Wilmer walked towards her and ran her left hand down the girls back and across the bottom she had just joyously spanked. The girl shuddered and trembled and waited. In Connie Wilmer’s right hand was the strap. Bend down Gillian, she said, bend down and touch your toes. Or as far down as you can go. Six across your knickers and then I shall take them down for twelve more. Across your bare and shamelessly naked behind. And I do not expect you to get up until I have finished. After all, you want this. You have wanted it for years.

The last phone call was expected, if a little late, but the message wasn’t.

‘Mrs Wilmer. It’s me, Gillian. Last night was wonderful, everything I hoped for. And I have some lovely stripes. Everything else has faded but the strap marks are awesome. I shall treasure them. But that is not why I phoned, you know I loved our get together.’

There was a pause and a sharp intake of breath.

‘I have the chance of going to a party. In Woking. It’s called Aunts and Nieces. Never been to one but always fancied it. Just never had anyone to take me.’

Another pause, another intake of breath.

‘It’s in two weeks time. I should be better by then. If you know what I mean.’

Mrs Wilmer knew exactly what she meant.

‘Would you take me? I can put you up.’

Silence.

‘I need an Aunt, Mrs Wilmer. You would be ideal. And it may give you other opportunities. With other nieces.’

Mrs Wilmer put down the phone. She hadn’t agreed, she hadn’t declined. But not for the first time she sensed that she had been manipulated by a devious minx. The party invitation had always been on the agenda, ever since the first phone call. But never mentioned. Until now. If Mrs Wilmer had known, then the previous night’s strapping would have been even harder.

She placed the heavy strap against the willing cheeks. Still covered, still trembling. The strap, brown and worn, was over two foot in length and medium thickness. It packed a heavy sting and, in its time, had visited a variety of submissive behinds. Now it was ready for Gillian’s. Again, after so many years. The girl had bent down as far as she could and the white briefs clung to her skin, shaping and enhancing the two divine cheeks of her rear. She held on to her ankles and gritted her teeth as Mrs Wilmer placed the weapon on the centre of the jutting backside. The strap touched the pants and both participants knew that this was it. This was the moment when there would be a crack and a scream. Or a howl. Mrs Wilmer raised her arm and, as the girl readied herself, swung the strap across the bending form. It hit dead centre, a delicious crack which produced a gasp of pain and a shuffling of feet. It was a sweet stroke, well struck. And well deserved. Five more followed, all as sweet and true, and all were accompanied by more gasps and howls. But Gillian never got up. She remained, bending and ready, as Mrs Wilmer put down the strap and approached her. Slowly, tantalisingly, gently, she placed her fingers in the waistband of the girl’s pants and deftly drew them down to her knees, then her toes, and then off. Only the flimsy raised pink top remained. For the first time that evening Gillian Jones’s bare bottom was totally exposed. Both gasped. One at the exquisite sensation, the other in appreciation of the sight revealed.

The bare flesh of Gillian Jones’s small and perky bottom was smooth and pure and crimson. It cried out for the further attention of Mrs Wilmer’s strap but, equally, it cried out for the exploration of her hands. The girl was spreading her legs, arching her back, beckoning. Touch me, strap me, take me, she seemed to be saying. This was no teenager forced to submit. This was a young woman indulging her desires. Mrs Wilmer pressed her palms against the warm skin and, brushing the tender cheeks, allowed her fingers to drift across the centre of the quivering bottom. Feminine juices flowed. Hands touched the inner curves and as the music in the outer room ceased, a woman sighed. Then silence. For a few seconds, twenty, thirty, silence. Both women devoured the sublime sensations of the exploring. Gillian Jones did not want it to end. But gasps and howls quickly followed as a dangerous spell was broken. Connie Wilmer denied the fleeting pleasures and, standing back, brought the strap down on to the naked cheeks. Twelve times the heavy strap thwacked into the naked skin and, twelve times, the girl struggled to remain in place. The feet shuffled, the gasps and howls increased, and the burning in her behind reached an intensity that cried out for relief. But she never resisted or rose. The hands moved up the legs, the head jerked upward, and the bottom wiggled in disciplinary pain. But each time, after each stroke, Gillian Jones recovered and held again her ankles and offered again her bottom. Beat my pleasures out of me she seemed to be saying. And Mrs Wilmer did, accurate and unrelenting. Twelve times the leather thrashed the naked bottom until all was bright crimson and bruised. This had been a glorious chastisement. When she laid aside the strap she was thinking that Gillian Jones had come a long way in the last five years. The girl rose, slowly, and turned to her. Ruefully rubbing her bottom she tearfully offered a weak smile. That was so good Mrs Wilmer, she said, it was what I have needed for a long time. Needed and wanted. Mrs Wilmer smiled back. The girl was naked from the waist down. For the first time that evening Mrs Wilmer was seeing the centre of her sex. Her girlish and glowing genitals. It was a pleasing sight.

Connie Wilmer took Miss Gillian Jones to the Aunts and Nieces party in Woking. It was a good evening and she got to whack some other young female bottoms. She was a great success.

 

Alfred Roy (2013)

The New Neighbour (M/m)

This one is a bit different as it is related, alternatively, by the two protagonists. Strictly M/m it will be followed immediately by one of the F/f variety. I try to please all. Alfred Roy


The New Neighbour

I had just turned seventeen when our new neighbour moved in next door to us. Us being me and my mother. My dad left many years before, went to Canada so I was told, and I have never seen or heard from him since. My mother rarely talks about him. She struggled for a few years but does pretty well now. Hairdressing. Works in a local salon three days a week and visits folks in their home on her free days. So we have no serious financial worries. I go to the local college, studying technology and keen on computer graphics. Contented life really. The old lady next door died last year and the house was empty for about six months. And then he moved in. Elderly. Retired. Name of Buckley. No first name offered. Mr Buckley he said. Saw him in his garden about two weeks after he moved in. Nice sunny day. I’m Stephen I said. Nice to meet you. Hope you are settling in. Turns out he is a retired schoolmaster. Thought as much. You can tell.

Wondered when I would see my neighbours. Looks a nice lad if a little talkative. Can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen, and typical of the young. Gangly and fidgety, just like most of my charges. Looked even more fidgety when I told him I was a retired Headmaster. Or did I say schoolmaster? Whatever, he seemed to stand up more straight when I said it. Always had that effect. Stephen I think he said he was. Seemed to want my first name. Not getting it. Start as you mean to go on I say. He didn’t say much else but I watched him closely when he was doing some weeding. Nice shape. Haven’t met the mother yet.

Saw him in the garden again today. It was a very hot day and he was in some very peculiar shorts. Long and baggy and brown. I calculated that he was around seventy, but pretty fit. He nodded when he saw me and took the opportunity to have a short break from his task. Heavy job he said. Replacing some old fencing. Rotten all the way through so got to be done. Asked me if I was still at school. College I said. We chatted for a bit and he lit a very old pipe. One of my few pleasures, he said. Could do with my son helping with this he said, nodding towards the fence, but he’s abroad. Army man. Found out he was widowed, which is why he moved. Wanted a smaller place with no memories. We didn’t chat too long. Didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Bit unnerving. Once a schoolmaster always a schoolmaster I suppose.

Saw next door’s lad again today. Still haven’t met the mother. Hairdresser apparently. No husband on the scene, so the estate agent told me. Dead or divorced I suppose. Not that I am interested. One marriage enough for me. Nice lad though and seems very bright. And a very nice backside. You could tell that, even in jeans that did nothing for him. Wouldn’t mind having him bent down for a tanning. Would do the modern young a lot of good. In my younger days parents used to complain if you didn’t whack their charges. All different now. Now they take you to court if you as much as look at them. But I still get my fun when the mood takes so not complaining. Not with his sort though. At college apparently, studying computers or something. Rarely use mine, all a bit complicated. Suppose he would be useful there. Shan’t bother though. Still, might ask him to help me with the fencing.

My mother introduced herself to Mr Buckley in our local Sainsbury’s. She had seen him leaving his house a couple of times and recognised him. They both apologised for not meeting up earlier and something was said, on both sides, about settling in. She seems to like him and said it might be nice to invite him around for lunch one weekend. I wasn’t sure. Reminded me of my late grandfather. Mother’s dad was a military man and had no time for modern life or the young. Mr Buckley seemed a bit like that. She said that he didn’t seem a bit stuffy to her. Old yes, but very amusing. Taken up genealogy since retiring. Reckons he has some pirates amongst his ancestors. But finds computers complicated. She said I could help him there. I wish she hadn’t. His first love, apparently, is nineteenth century History. Specialised in it at school until he became a headmaster. Small public school, very prestigious. No wonder mother was impressed by him. Explains why his smaller house, trading down, is still a lot bigger than ours. Surprised he hasn’t employed someone to do his fence. It’s a bigger job than he thought it was.

Asked the lad if he wanted to earn a few pounds helping me with the old fencing. Got a firm coming in with new stuff but can’t see the point paying for the removal of the rotting edifice. But bigger job than I thought. He seemed pleased and being a hot and sunny day he wasn’t wearing much. Light top and those unfashionable knee length shorts the young seem to favour. Bit disturbing though, especially when he bent down to gather up debris. Nice young and firm buttocks that even unflattering cloth couldn’t hide. Would love to put my strap across them. Get a grip on yourself Buckley, I said. He’s not one of you pupils or into your scene. Just a friendly lad helping out a neighbour. When we stopped for a well earned break he told me more about his computer course. Seems very knowledgeable. I tested him by referring to my headmaster days but he didn’t respond. Pity. Another two hours and we had got everything ready for the fencing firm. A good day’s work. Nigel coming next week. Nice lad, in his thirties but still school boyish. Shall have to vent my urges on him. Haven’t played for a while. Might thwart my professional interest in neighbour Stephen. Wonder if he would help me with my computer? Time I mastered it.

Wish I hadn’t worn those shorts. They weren’t tight or skimpy but old Buckley was affected by them all the same. Should have worn jeans. He obviously likes the young around him. Not sure why though. Would have thought he would have had enough of them in his schooldays. Kept ‘em in line he said. You have to be fair but firm with the young and, until they abolished it, sometimes with the help of a cane or a strap across their behinds. I just laughed and steered the conversation to my technology course. He clearly lives in some old fashioned past. Mother has been going round to give him the occasional haircut. Lovely furnishings she said. Lots of expensive antiques. Not short of a bob or two was how she put it. Impressed with what he paid me for helping out on the fencing. Said he would probably pay a lot more if I taught him how to use his computer. Not keen, even though the cash would come in handy. Being in his garden with him staring at me is bad enough.

Had a nice time with Nigel. Lovely chap who I haven’t seen for months. He was desperate for a bit of action. Nice lunch and a couple of glasses of wine and then down to business. He really throws himself into the schoolboy bit. Takes me back to the old days. Chatted afterwards about many things including, late on, the lad next door. Told me to be careful there. Whacking him was one thing. Sixteen or seventeen non compliant boys were another. Take his point. Even so, the prospect pleases. After Nigel had left went for a walk in the garden. The lad was there. Burning some garden rubbish. Not at college I said. Half day he said. That was it. May have been my imagination but convinced he gave me a funny look.

Told my mother there were some funny goings on next door during the afternoon. Kept hearing strange sounds. Thought at first he was doing some renovations. Lots of banging or something like it. Then it sounded like, well not sure what it sounded like but there was at least two people involved. And one of them, not old Buckley, was calling out numbers and saying sir. All a bit intermittent but very strange. Sounded as if he was whacking somebody. All my mother said was whatever floats your boat. Well Buckley don't float mine.

Interesting lunch next door. First time I have been in their house. The lad was a bit quiet at first but he relaxed later on. Think I got him interested in helping me with my computer. Need to master it if I want to pursue my genealogy interests. Told them that both my father and grandfather were schoolmasters, the latter at Eton in the 1930’s. I never reached those heights. We exchanged views on grandfathers, the lad’s was a strict military man, and somehow the conversation turned to lack of discipline in the young. I remember as a young boy my grandfather telling me he wasn’t averse to using the birch when needed. Don’t think I mentioned that but did allude to the fact that, these days, we have moved too far the other way. Think the mother agreed with me. The lad blushed a bit and was much happier when we moved on to discussing the Crimean War. Lots on computers apparently. I will have to get him around to my place.

Sunday Lunch was a bit unnerving but, overall, not as bad as I thought it would be. Old Buckley was amusing, mother said he would be, and very complimentary about the lunch. Still don’t like the way he studies me, especially when the conversation moved on to the problems of today with the young. Mother surprised me by agreeing with most of what he said. She may have been just being polite but I don’t think so. She nodded vigorously when he said the worst thing this country did was when they abolished the cane. I was glad when we got on to Cromwell and the Civil War. Or it might have been the Crimean. He clearly knows his history. I must admit I like him a bit more than I first did and he certainly paid me well for the fencing job. Dropped a hint that he would welcome some computer help. Might go round, the money would be nice. But those sounds when I was burning rubbish in the garden bother me. He ain’t taking a cane to my arse.

Well surprise of surprises. The lad’s mother has gone away for a couple of days and, being at a loose end he offered to have a look at my computer. Left him to it for an hour or so. Nothing on there of any concern as I have rarely used it. Wouldn’t know how to anyway. When I took him a soft drink he was downloading some files. So he said. All gobbledy gook to me. Mr Buckley, he said when he came downstairs, you need an upgrade or, better still, a new computer. He showed me the sites he was looking at, History and Genealogy, and I could see the attractions. But all very slow, hence the need to splash out a bit. I gave him £30 for his trouble and he said he would investigate possibilities. When he left I wondered if he had seen the book I had left on the table in the hallway. Nice lad and very polite. Wiped his feet and washed up his glass. Would love to have the taste of my strap across his backside.

Went round next door today. There is no doubt about it, Buckley is weird. Generous though. £30 just for tinkering with his computer. Way out of date and slow as a tortoise. He’s not a nutter, far from it, but distinctly strange. If I didn’t know before, that book on his table confirmed it. Bloody sure he left it there for me to see. Just googled it. Chastisement through the Ages. It’s a history book and he is a historian, so no big deal. But its history is floggings and beatings. I reckon that’s what he wants to do to me. Well not exactly, but something along those lines. I didn’t stay long after checking his computer. He was very pleasant but still unnerves me. Like being at school in his presence, I fear some weird proposition one day. Whatever it is would cost him a damn sight more than thirty quid though.

The lad is getting the message I think. Chatted to him in the garden today and we arranged a visit next week to a computer centre. While I was burning some rubbish he asked me about my schoolmaster days. That’s a first as any hint of that and he usually clammed up. Reckon his mother has been putting him straight on how things used to be. Buckley may be different, old fashioned, but he’s not odd. I can almost hear her saying it. Clearly influenced by her own father, that much was obvious at the Sunday lunch. Told him I taught at boy’s schools for nearly forty years, both here and abroad. Last twelve as a Headmaster. And then, as I was lighting my pipe, he suddenly asked me if I whacked any of them. That took me by surprise but I didn’t show it. Just laughed and said not allowed to. Used to in my younger days though. Little buggers most of them and, especially abroad, the only language they understood. I didn’t ask him why he wanted to know, that can keep. Confirmed the shopping trip details and then went in for my tea. Still wondering why he asked.

If Old Buckley is a bit kinky, I am sure he is, then he is not alone. There is loads on the internet. Googling his book opened up that world to me. Apart from all the sex angles there are lots of elderly men, and not so old, who like disciplining younger lads. Even clubs which specialise in it. Didn’t say anything to my mother as she seems to think Buckley is a perfect gentleman. Besides I reckon she subscribes to his views on wayward youth. Not sure how she would react if I said that I think he enjoys the idea. Asked him if he whacked when he was a schoolmaster. Don’t know what made me do that. He laughed the query off but I could see that gleam in his eye. Been there since I first helped him with his fencing. Oh yes, our Mr Buckley would definitely like to whack me. Convinced of it. Preferably with my pants down if the internet is anything to go by. Looks painful and doesn’t really appeal. But those keen for younger chaps often pay well. And that does. Going to a computer shop with him tomorrow. Co-owned by one of our lecturers and very high tech.

The young never cease to amaze me. And the lad next door amazes me more than most. Spent a couple of hours in the computer shop and purchased a computer which is more bespoke than off the shelf. Lots of complicated accessories, all necessary apparently. The shop will put it all together and deliver next week and Stephen, in his element, will give me a quick tutorial. Saves the shop a lot of extra time. They seemed pleased. So very successful, if expensive, day. Took him for a light lunch at the local pub. Must have looked an odd pair unless presumed to be grandfather and grandson. Given our differences that would take some swallowing. Told him I was well pleased and when the task was completed would pay him £100 for his efforts. His face lit up in appreciation. When it’s all working, to my satisfaction I said, just in case there was any misunderstanding. And then, on instinct, I added a coda. Take a few of my strap when you have finished and I will make it £150. I said it almost as a joke, a get out if he reacted badly. He didn’t. He just looked at me, thinking deeply and pursing his lips in an unflattering manner. Yes all right, he said. That’s all. Just yes all right. As I say, the young never cease to amaze me.

I knew he was going to ask me at some time. Not expecting the proposition so soon but not surprised. What surprises me is my acceptance. A month ago I would have told him to get lost. But he knew that so didn’t ask. Just used to stare in that disconcerting manner. But having done a bit of research I can see the attraction. For him. Retired, old fashioned, schoolmaster deprived of any outlets. Don’t relish any pain in my bum but £50 extra for it seems a no brainer. Just his strap, on shorts, and no more than twelve or eighteen. Shall grit my teeth and think of the money. Be almost a new experience for me. Only memory of being whacked was my late grandfather spanking me when I was about seven for peeing in his garden. Took my pants down on his lawn and smacked me with his very large military hand about ten times. Remember howling and mother saying I deserved it. She still fussed over me though, much to granddad’s disgust. He died shortly afterwards. Wonder if I will howl again?

Computer arrived today. All boxed up and I have no intention of touching it. Got the fencing firm in this week so have put the lad off until Wednesday afternoon. His half day from college and his mother working at the salon. So all in place. He reckons he can set everything up in an hour or so, including getting me connected, and then half an hour to show me the basics. Have told him to come around in school trousers, he still has some, don’t want any sloppy jeans or whatever. Bit of a break and then down to business. My old school strap should suffice. This time. Don’t want to rush things. Christened many a bending bottom in its time. Stings like hell but leaves little marking. Still think he might pull out. If he does it saves me £50. If not, then should be money well spent. Looking forward to dealing with that lovely backside. Nigel rang last night. Told him about it. He said I should tread carefully. Cautious chap but kinky as anything.

My God, that was well earned. My arse is on fire. Only thing to be grateful for is that he let me off with twelve. Pain going off a bit now but still uncomfortable. I thought that he wasn’t going to go through with it at first. Computer set up was a doddle and he grasped the essentials quickly. May be old but bright as a button. Then he gave me a beer, I liked that, and we chatted. Mainly about genealogy. And then he stood up and said time for the last bit of our agreement, unless you have changed your mind. I gulped and said no, and I gulped even more when I saw the look on his face. His eyes were blazing, unnerved me a bit. But his voice was measured and calm. Stand up he said and let’s have a good look at you. As he said this he went to a drawer and took out the meanest looking strap you had ever seen. It was long and thick and well worn. He ran it through his hands, enjoying the feel, and told me to bend over and touch my toes. I was quaking and it was only thinking of the extra £50 that stopped me running for the door. I gulped again and did as he said. It’s a strange feeling bending over and touching your toes for the first time. Especially when you know what’s coming. Twelve strokes he said. Twelve strokes lad, with my strap across your backside, as we agreed. Should be eighteen but I think twelve will do. This time. He pressed his hand on my back and my knees started shaking. And they shook even more when he gripped the waist of my trousers and pulled them up. The cloth on my arse felt like a second skin. I was shaking so much I could hardly keep still. And then I felt that strap touch my bottom. Weird. Getting ready. I gritted my teeth and hoped that my mother hadn’t come home yet. If she had she was sure to hear me yell. And then he hit me and I felt an instant hot pain in my bum. I almost jumped up. The feeling was so unfamiliar. And then he hit me again, a bit harder this time and my feet shuffled forward as I absorbed the pain. My bum was getting very warm. He took his time, I will give him that. The next four, equally hard, whacked into me at ten second intervals and then he told me to get up and rub myself. I needed to, my arse was on fire. But I hadn’t howled, not yet anyway. Compose yourself lad, he said, and then bend over again. The next six are going to be a bit harder. More of my old school standard. You are old enough he said. I gulped again and thought of my extra cash. I rubbed my bum for a while more and then bent down again. Get it over with. But old Buckley was in no hurry. He was going to get his money’s worth. He pulled up my trousers again when I bent down and ran the strap across my arse. Dragging it. And then he did the same with his hands, running them across my bum cheeks. Bit disconcerting that. Very warm, he said. Just as a boy’s bottom should be. And then he whacked me again. And he was right. It was a lot harder. It stung like hell and I let out a yelp. Jesus I thought. Another five like that. I will never get through it. But I did. All five more, agonisingly hard across the centre of my bum. I took them all and howled at each one. As the last one whacked into me, the hardest of the lot, I squealed out and jumped up rubbing every bit of my bum I could find. I turned to him and saw his flushed face. At school, he said, boy’s got extra for that. But, and he smiled, I will ignore it as it is your first whacking. Rub away lad, your backside has had a shock. I didn’t need a second telling. The whole of my bum was red hot from his strap. I reckon I had earned every penny of my extra cash. The pain was so much it had made me cry. Only a bit but I took a while to compose myself and go home. Mother was in when I got back, only just arrived thankfully, and she asked me if Mr Buckley was happy with what I done and had he paid me. I said yes to both.

Oh I enjoyed that. Thought for a bit he was going to cry off. But full marks to him, he went through with it. Very co-operative. Might get a taste for it, but unlikely. Money seems to be the motive. But he took my strap well and I did lay those last six on hard. Lovely bottom and, surprisingly, he didn’t raise any objections when I ran my hands over it. Got a submissive streak has young Stephen. Sensed that when I first met him, in spite of the gangly attitude of his youth. Not unusual really. Saw lots of bumptious youngsters change personality completely when bending over in my study waiting for my strap. One sight of it used to quell even the strongest. Happy days. Would have loved to have taken the lad’s pants down and seen the results. Or better still give him another six on his bare behind. That will have to wait but he may agree. Providing I don’t rush things. All in all a good afternoon. And I have a state of the art computer. Young Stephen is satisfying a multitude of needs.

Mother seemed to spend a long time talking to old Buckley today. She was in the garden chatting to him for at least half an hour. When I asked her what it was all about all she said was that he was coming for lunch again on Sunday. She looked very thoughtful.

Hope I handled that well. Apparently she had heard something as she came back from the salon. She knew Stephen was in my house working on my computer and when he came in he was a bit subdued. Wasn’t to do with the money because he said he had been paid. And besides, she recognised the sounds. When you grew up with two boisterous brothers and a military father such things become familiar. Mothers being mothers I knew I needed to tread carefully. Some things, especially with her background, she may understand. But telling her I paid her lad to strap him wasn’t one of them. So I manipulated the truth a little. Yes I had issued some old fashioned discipline. Merely a strap to his bottom. On his trousers I emphasised in case there was any misunderstanding. Well deserved, I said. He had dropped my computer and damaged it, involving additional expense. Very careless when unpacking it. It was either that or not paying him for his work. Stephen chose the less financially painful option. She seemed satisfied. Said something about someone like me, with my background, seeing that as a sensible solution to the problem. I suppose a temporary sore bottom, a new experience for Stephen, was better than not being paid. I think we parted on good terms. I assume so because she invited me to lunch again.

I am beginning to think that my mother is almost as weird as old Buckley. She had just finished serving the lunch and, as she sat down, she asked him if he had arranged the repair of his computer. Have you broken it already, I said. No, you did, she said. That is why he took his strap to you. Don’t look so shocked Stephen, I heard it. I sat there open mouthed. Seems to me it was well deserved, she said. I looked across at Buckley but his face displayed nothing. It was either that or not paying him for his work, he said, and gave me a schoolmasterly smile. I did some thinking. So mother had heard everything. Explains the garden conversation. And, not knowing the true details, approves. I had no choice but to go along with the deception. I was careless, I said. Those few words triggered a conversation between them about adult’s favourite topic. The failings of the young and how to deal with them. Buckley’s school charges and mother’s boisterous brothers figured large. Her father was never reluctant to take a strap to those two when required. Did them the world of good. I was seeing my mother in a different light. Not only did she approve of Buckley’s actions, a man’s job that she was never able to do even when I deserved it, but virtually suggested he should do it again if required. Or that is what it sounded like to me. I was glad when we moved on to the safer topics of gardening and the outrageous cost of new fencing. I shall be eighteen next year. Reckon I might look around for a flat share.

The lad’s mother is an interesting lady. Helped her with the washing up after he went to meet some friends. She told me there was one occasion, about a year ago, when she wished that she could have practiced what she clearly believed in. The lad had just turned sixteen and had a party at the house with a few pals. She laid down a few rules and left them to it. Was only fair. When she came back some of them, including Stephen, were disgustingly drunk. And one had been sick on her carpet. They had found some vodka or brought some, she couldn’t remember which, and not realised its potent effect. She was furious. No alcohol was one of the rules. The sober ones helped the others home and she helped Stephen to bed to sleep it off. She then spent an hour cleaning up. I got all this as we dried a variety of pots. We sat down and finished off the wine I had brought round. My father would have thrashed my brothers, she said. When they had sobered up. I know, he did it often enough. And no messing. Trousers down and his heavy strap on their bare backsides. Right up till they left for university. Never to me though, he firmly believed that only boys got strapped. I got stopped pocket money, she said. That’s how she punished Stephen. She clearly wishes that she’d had the strength or resolve to revive her father’s methods. I left with the clear impression that, if circumstances arose, I should fulfil that role for her. As I said, an interesting woman.

I went round to Buckley’s today. He was having some problem with a couple of websites. Or that is what he said. They were so easy to solve it was just as likely that he wanted an excuse to talk to me in private. He did so anyway. Apologised for not warning me of his slight subterfuge with mother. Never had the chance, he said. Said we should delay any repeat until my mother was definitely away. Preferably on one of her weekend visits to friends. I said there would not be a repeat. The extra money was nice but the cost was too much. My arse took a couple of days to recover, I said. He winced. Not a nice word, Stephen. Not a nice strap, I said. It stung like hell. He looked disappointed but accepted it. No one enjoys it at the time, or very few, but many get thrills from the situation. Clearly you aren’t one of them. No, I said. The only strap I want is the one that holds my trousers up. When I left I thought back on this conversation. What I said wasn’t totally true. It had turned me on a bit, in spite of the pain, but I ain’t really ready for such things. Not with the man next door.

Don’t think Stephen was speaking the absolute truth. Even allowing for the incentive of £50 he had committed himself with little fuss. Dutifully bent down and touched his toes and remained there, with no audible protest, when I ran my hands over his warming cheeks. No one aggressively opposed to this old fashioned ritual could be so compliant, even for money. But, as friend Nigel has wisely said, it takes years for folks to find their true feelings and I should leave well alone. There are lots of other, more compliant, lads. Inclined to agree but, as I said to Nigel, if ever a backside cried out to be strapped it was my neighbours. And I reckon his mother agrees. Or, depending on circumstances, she might. Still haven’t mastered my computer. Websites are so confusing.

Mother was in a strop today. She has been very peculiar lately, constantly criticising me. Complained last week when I borrowed £10 out of her purse without asking her. You take me too much for granted, she said. And yesterday she had a real go at me for coming home after midnight. You have college tomorrow she said, you’ll be like death. But today took the biscuit. Her last haircut appointment had been cancelled and she arrived home early. I was watching TV and having a beer. Why aren’t you at college, she said. Not well, I said. You were well enough to stay out last night, she said, ignoring the connection between the two events. You are getting lazy she said, going into the kitchen. Not true. I work bloody hard but college has been a pain lately. Didn’t like her last retort. Reckon I should ask Mr Buckley to take his strap to your behind again, she said, might do you the world of good. Sometimes you just hate mothers.

So it has come to this. Not surprised, been growing for weeks. The lad has been getting listless and neglecting both home chores and college. Happens with teenagers. I have had a long litany of his ills from his mother. Finally she came round today, clearly annoyed, and sat down in my lounge. Told me what was on her mind, what she had been considering for a while. Stephen had got drunk at a weekend party and, after being sick on an expensive carpet, had been brought home by a considerate father. At one o’clock in the morning. It’s time he was taught a lesson she said. Her father knew the solution. All I can do is stop his pocket money, she said, as I have done before. I told him I would, for four weeks. He was mortified. Means staying in for a month. So I offered him an alternative, she said. I listened intently, curious as to what was to come. No pocket money or go and see Mr Buckley and get your behind strapped. Just like that. Time somebody did it. Having said her piece she sat back in the chair and waited for my response. Stephen had gulped at the proposal and remained silent for a while. Finally he spoke. All right, he said. If that’s what you want. All right. Just like he had responded in the pub. I told her to send him round the following evening. I had no qualms about it. We both had old fashioned, hard wired, views on discipline. It would do Stephen the world of good. We both knew that. I told her it was a sensible solution and, afterwards, Stephen would agree with us. What I did not tell her was that, this time, he would have his pants taken down. Stephen’s strapping, schoolmasterly delivered, would be on his bare backside. Anything less would be a travesty.

Mother told me over breakfast that I had to go round to old Buckley’s at seven thirty. He was expecting me. Providing I was willing. Did I have a choice, I said. Yes she said. Unlike her brothers. But the alternative was no pocket money for four weeks. I didn’t argue. My actions had clearly irked her. Reckon she would have whacked me herself if I had been younger. Buckley had changed her, or brought something out that had been dormant. My only consolation was that he hadn’t moved in next door when I was growing up. Could have been a painful few years. I will be eighteen next year. Whatever happened at seven thirty it was a one off. And, like last time, for money again. This time my mothers.

I have to hand it to him, he took it all pretty well. The blood drained out of his face when I told him to drop his trousers but, other than that, he showed no resistance. Been steeling himself all day. He arrived on time and said, very formally, I have come for my strapping Mr Buckley. Mother says she will not give me any allowance for four weeks if I refuse. He was trembling. A rehearsed short speech to get him over the preliminaries. I had cleared a space in my lounge and studied him as he stood in the doorway. Dressed in a pale blue jumper and long grey trousers. If his mother had told him how to report to me she had done well. I could be back in my study, years before, facing a pupil who had earned the ultimate penalty. I would not go easy, wouldn’t be a true lesson for the lad if I did. And the situation was what I had long wanted. I spelt it out so there would be no misunderstandings. Twelve strokes of my strap lad. It’s what you both deserve and need. Your mother clearly thinks so as well. So drop your trousers and let’s get this unpleasant business over. Unpleasant for him of course, not for me. He flinched when I told him to drop his trousers. He clearly was not expecting that. Must he, he asked, but knowing the answer. Necessary lad, I said, We are not playing games now. The only way my schoolboys learnt in the old days. Twelve of my strap on the bare behind solved most problems. So I found. So do as I say and take your trousers down. He did as I said but there were tears in his eyes as he did so. That was usual as well, in my experience. No lad likes the prospect placed before him as he fumbles with belt and buttons. The point of no return often induced weeping. Stephen was no different to many I had dealt with. Face the wall, I said, and bend over. Down as far as you can go. He did so, very tentatively, and it took a small push on his neck to get him in the right position. His trousers were at his feet and I rolled up his shirt and jumper, placing it high on his back. Push you bottom out lad, the better the target the easier it will be. He trembled and shook but thrust his bottom out as requested. Perhaps he is a true submissive. Or scared. I studied him for a moment. The sight of a bending boy is to be savoured. Especially one as pleasing as Stephen. Fair faced, slim, smooth. And covered only in tight fitting cotton pants, pale green, soon to come down. I ran my hand over his pants, feeling his soft curves. He trembled again but made no attempt to rise. Nice bottom, Stephen, I said. I shall enjoy strapping it. Saying this I placed my fingers in the black waistband of his underpants and pulled them down to his knees. The sight almost made me gasp. A beautiful pale white bottom, smoother and whiter than his fair face, was revealed. The skin was as pure as alabaster. Firm, and plump, and gently rounded as only a boy’s bottom is. It screamed out for my strap.

I couldn’t believe it. I have never, in my life, been in such a situation. And my mother had both wanted it and engineered it. Bent over in his lounge with my trousers and underpants down my legs waiting for him to strap me. Twelve times he said. Twelve times across my naked arse. A naked arse which was sitting up and almost begging him to do it. Thrust it out he had said. Thrust your bottom out Stephen, don’t make me miss. And he had rubbed his hands, large and rough, across both my cheeks as he said it. He had done so on my underpants and he had done it again when he pulled them down. His hands, my bum, and then his strap. Tears were falling down my face. And that’s before he hit me. My mother should be here, seeing this, seeing what she had put me up for. Then she might stop it. But she wasn’t here. Just me and him. Mr Buckley, old Buckley, breathing hard and telling me that all schoolboys should be in my position. And stroking my skin again. My bottom, my arse. Searching for the best place for his strap. No wonder I was crying.

His skin is warm and sweating, fearful of what is to come. The beautiful contours of his two rounded cheeks tremble in anticipation. First my hand and then my strap gently brush against them. He shudders again and steels himself. I tap his head, get ready Stephen I say. He says nothing. I stand back and raise the strap and with a sweeping arc send it with a resounding crash into his bottom. Leather and skin connect in a joyful thwack. The cheeks wobble, the legs tremble, the boy expels an anguished sound, the strap falls, and a thick red line surfaces on the centre of the white flesh. Two buttocks, one line of fire, one stroke. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t attempt to get up. He holds fiercely onto his ankles and I  can hear his quiet sobbing. I repeat my action twice more and tell him he is doing well. You are doing well lad, I said, three more and you can have a short break. And all the while I am looking at his bottom. Rich in redness now from my strap, throbbing and twitching, and no longer a marble white. I strap him three more times, on the fifth he almost rises, each landing with a pleasing thwack across his cheeks. Then I stop and he slowly gets up. Rubbing his bottom vigorously to ease the pain. His shirt and jumper are still rolled up to his waist. He makes no attempt to cover himself. I see all. His ravished bottom, his youthful penis. The latter topped with light and fragile pubic hair. The penis is flaccid but full. And he is leaking. I have seen some boys get erections when being strapped on their bare bottoms. It means nothing. It is a natural reaction that they neither understand nor desire. It is all to do with exposure to an adult combined with fear. Stephen is clearly no exception.

I didn’t understand it. The pain on my arse was excruciating. How I stayed bent over I will never know. That strap whacked into me with such force I almost fell over. But I held myself down, trousers at my feet, whilst Buckley whacked my naked bum. After the sixth, I was counting them, he let me get up and rub. My arse was burning. But more than that I saw that I was leaking from my willy. I was mortified. Christ, I wasn’t enjoying it. Never had I felt such pain, and all in my bum. My arse. And he was loving it. You could tell. Never mind that lad, he said, I’ve seen some boy’s get erections when being whacked bare. It means nothing. Just hormones. I was ashamed but equally I did not care. You have got me naked from my waist to my ankles Buckley, I thought, and you are whacking my arse. What do you expect? What he expected, and got, was that I bent over again and stuck out my arse for the second six. Crying, burning, leaking. None of it mattered. All that did was that I ready myself for another dose of his school strap. A strap that had, no doubt, kissed numerous behinds in its time. Now it was mine again. I held on to my ankles and silently screamed get it over with. Complete your fire in my bum.

The leaking continued all the way through his second six of my strap. I laid them on hard, much harder than the first six, and he howled and wriggled as each one landed on his delicious bottom. But give the lad his due, he did not get up even if he came close to it. He cried out in agony as he absorbed each thwack to his cheeks, wonderfully wobbly and enticing, and his feet shuffled forward inch by inch. But he stayed down for them all. Shirt and jumper at his waist, bare bottom thrust in the air, and the Buckley strap to complete an exquisite connection. My strap was just made for young Stephen’s bottom, even if he didn’t think so. When he rose, after the twelfth and last, I drank in the picture. My semi naked boy. Naked and crimson behind, leaking and lively penis, tearful fair face. His mother, instigator and approver, should be here. It took him five minutes to dry his tears and, circumspectly, his penis and another five to get dressed. He readily gulped the water I gave him and, smiling weakly, left. Not a word was said by either of us. That can wait.

Mother made me show her my backside. Not straight away. She wasn’t in when I got back. Didn’t arrive till after nine and never said much for the first hour. But when I went to bed she came up and said Stephen, let me see the damage. Assuming you went round. Why I said. He will confirm it. I need to see for myself, she said. I didn’t agree but, frankly, I was exhausted. So I dropped my pyjama bottoms and showed her. I knew the picture. The bathroom mirror told a good tale. My arse was like a beetroot. Rich red and crimson over both of my cheeks. There was no mistaking its cause. Pull them up she said, I have seen enough. Mr Buckley has done a good job she said. You have earned your pocket money, Stephen. I pulled up my pyjamas as she left thinking that we may have a new neighbour, but I also have a new mother.

Two days seeing nobody, a very quiet period, and then three people within half hour. Life is like that, especially when you are preparing a complicated meal. Nigel popped round to drop in some books I was interested in and stayed for a few minutes. On my way to my family he said, can’t stop. But he did, long enough for me too update him on Stephen. So you finally got your wish, he said, thanks to his mother. You will have to do a reprise with me. When you are in the mood. I laughed, won’t be the same I said. But I will,. Then the mother popped round. Her pretext was changing my date for my next haircut. Didn’t take us long to get round to Stephen. She thanked me for what I had done. He has been a changed lad, her words, and does not appear to resent it. Her brothers always reacted the same way after their father whacked them. That is why she knew it would work. Stephen hadn’t said but she presumed I had done it on his bare behind. I nodded. I thought you would, she said. Women are so resourceful, or some of them. My final visitor was Stephen himself. I think his mother sent him round but his excuse was that he wanted to check something on my computer. Nasty virus doing the rounds. Didn’t take long. I offered him a beer and he took it willingly and stayed while I finished making a very difficult sauce for my casserole. Come back in two hours and you can help me eat it. He said he would. There was an awkward moment while he finished his beer, there is only so much you can say about cooking. He put the bottle down, youngsters always refuse glasses, and looked at me seriously. I deserved what you did he said. Both you and mother were right. It hurt and, seeing how you did it, embarrassing. But I have got over it now. Now my bum’s not so sore. Good lad, I said, see you in an hour or so. I stirred the casserole when he left and wondered. Would I ever see that lovely backside again? In all its glory. Naked and glowing. Somehow I think so.

I might let him whack me again but I will make him pay for it. And if he wants my trousers down, as I am sure he will, he will have to pay double. Get your pants down lad, can be both our mottos. If I have learnt anything in the last few months it is that I know a bit about Buckley, a bit more about my mother, and a lot more about myself. Three bits of knowledge that I intend, along with my computer skills, to put to considerable use. It is no less than I deserve. After all it was my arse, not theirs, that got whacked by our new neighbour.

 

Alfred Roy (2013)