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)