Friday, 24 May 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)