Friday 22 November 2013

Mistress Flowers and Master Field (F/m)


Just for a change I have started a story with a whacking. Rarely do, as I like to take my time before the pants come down. Pure fantasy, of course, but inspired by those moments when you meet someone and silently wish. If only they knew what really turned you on. Reckon it has happened to all of us with a CP bent. Such is life. Alfred Roy.

‘I shall write it down.’ he said.                                                                            
‘Please do.’ she said, ‘I shall be interested in reading it.’

He bent down again. For the third time. The tears were flowing now and any attempt at composure and stoicism had deserted. The pain, the burning and searing pain, were just too much. The constant throbbing in his small behind created a fire his mind could not ignore. Never had he been caned so hard. And never, so she had said, had it been more deserved. That is why his short trousers were around his ankles. That is why his small underpants made the same journey. When she lifted his shirt to the bending back, revealing a bottom pure and unsullied, she said he would now get what had so long been deserved. Twelve strokes of her cane across his naked behind. He had trembled, he had bit his lip, and he had stifled incipient tears. But he had obeyed. He agreed. He deserved to be caned. He thought so when he undid his buttons and pushed his trousers down towards his socks. He thought so when, shamefully, he put his small hands in the waistband of his underpants and nervously dragged them over his thighs. Baring his cheeks, baring all, baring everything so she could see. And he thought so when he bent down, gripped his ankles, and felt the lifting of his flimsy shirt. His shame and humiliation were complete. He even thought his caning was just and fair as an angry first stroke cut into his naked flesh, expelling his breath and leaving a savage mark. But the pain was too much and after the second stroke he rose, clutching his cheeks, and begged forgiveness. None came forth, none would, and he bent again, tears welling, offering a bottom rich red in painful spasms. He felt the shirt being lifted a second time, he felt again cool air from her study window on his tender skin, and he told her he was sorry. Sorry as he bent, sorry as shirt rose and revealed. And he told her twice more he was sorry. As the third stroke struck and he gripped his ankles ever tighter he said it, and he said it again when the fourth stroke, hard and true, forced him to rise again. He looked at her, pleaded, hid none of his boyish shame, begged to be forgiven. Begged for relief to his bottom.
It would not be. She tapped the cane against her thigh and bid him to bend again. Twelve strokes she had said, twelve strokes of her cane to where it would do most good. It was well deserved, they both knew. He would thank her when it was done. Perhaps later, much later, but he would thank her. He cried, louder than he had ever cried before, and begged again. But he knew it was to no avail. The erect composure, the stern eyes, the twitching cane, all spelt out a resolve well stiffened. This boy, this deserving boy, was going to be caned the promised twelve times. She would not stop until her weapon of choice had done its work. She had told them that many times, warned them, threatened them. And now it was happening. Twelve strokes of the cane across the bare bottom of the one who was caught. Threatened, promised, started. And he was now due the fifth of that allotted twelve. He resigned himself to his fate and bent again, tears streaming down his cheeks. Please, he said to himself, please make me bear it. Four strokes of her cane had been suffered, only eight more to go. And he did deserve it. From the time she said it would happen to the moment he lowered his pants he knew she would not be denied. He clutched his ankles again and thought, fleetingly, it was all so different from the day that they had first met. The day he had been captivated by her gentle charm and stunning smile. His young heart had skipped a thousand beats. It all seemed so long ago. He had thought so as he loosed his trouser buttons. He had thought so as he slipped down his underpants and exposed all he had to her stoic gaze. And he had thought so as she lifted his shirt and not for the first time, or so he thought, she saw his bare bottom. And he still thought so now as the cane lashed across that bottom, bent and bare and beckoning, for the fifth time.
He was in the last term of his last year at his middle school. Next term he would be with the big boys. In long trousers. But for now, for a few months more, he was Master Field. Master Field of the junior school. In short trousers. He so longed to grow up. And never more than when he met Mistress Flowers. Tall, athletic, temporary gym mistress. Mistress to eleven year old boys on cross country runs and frantic team games. She trained them hard but she trained with fun. Exhausted, happy, and sweaty, they ended cold spring days and warm summer evenings with welcoming communal showers. She walked amongst them oblivious to their nakedness, or seemingly so. Some giggled at first, some covered up in shame, but all, eventually got used to her presence. And they all dutifully left when dismissed. Mistress Field took her own private shower and all, giggling boys or shamefaced boys, painted their own imaginary pictures. But all obeyed, willingly or not. I have a cane, she had said, much bigger than any bottom here. Invade my privacy and you will feel it. No exceptions. And it will be twelve. With pants down. All giggled again, or blushed, or both. But all remembered and all dressed and left. Until one day, one fateful day, Master Field, for a dare, went back. Two other boys had already done so on other days, on other dares, and escaped intact. They had heard the cascading water, they had seen her naked, or so they had said. They had seen Mistress Flowers in the buff and had survived. It became a private badge of honour, eagerly to be earned. Now it was Master Field’s turn. Unless he was a chicken, a scaredy cat. Master Field gulped. The prospect excited and terrified. The prize was to be relished, the consequences feared. If caught. But they, the taunters, had escaped. It was easy they said, she won’t see you. Just open the door and take a look. So that is what Master Field did. And if that is all that he had done, opened the door and taken a look, he might be a third boy urging a fourth or fifth boy to earn the special badge. If all he had done was listen to the cascading water and sneaked a furtive glance he would not be bending down having his bare bottom severely caned. But Master Field, unlike the other boys who dared, was transfixed. He did not, could not, run. He could only stare.

The door had opened easily. He had waited until he heard the sounds of welcoming water. Welcoming for the picture they created in his young and feverish mind. Welcoming for their suggestion of safety. Mistress Flowers was taking her shower. Naked, like them. Or so he assumed. He pushed open the door to the communal shower and changing room and tentatively stepped inside. Or half stepped in. They had only been dismissed ten minutes before, a long cross country run, and they all knew Mistress Flowers showered as soon as they were gone. She must be showering now, he thought. It was a large lockered room, square and bleak with benches, and the stoned communal shower area was to the left. It was hidden from the door by a half tiled jutting wall. If you were in the shower you could not see anyone enter. Safety, Master Field thought. But you could not see. So he stepped beyond the wall and peered into the shower room, praying she was not standing there and facing him. This was the biggest risk, this was the dare. She wasn’t. But equally, disappointingly, she could not be seen. She was in the shower. He could hear her singing, he could see her discarded clothes on a bench, but he could not see her. None of them could have. She was hidden behind the central block of marble tiles which offered some modesty. He felt cheated. They had lied, the taunting boys. Mistress Flowers may be showering but none had seen. And then she moved. As he stood there she moved to a cascading shower head in the right hand corner. He gasped. Silently. He saw her in all her naked glory. Long and lithe and with a back and bottom and legs as smooth as pure silk. It was a vision he would never forget. If he had feasted on it and run he would have won his dare. With no consequences. And his re-telling of the tale would not be a lie. Unlike theirs. But he did not run. He stood there, transfixed, drinking in all her innocent nakedness. And then she turned. Unexpectedly. And when he, Master Field, finally decided to run, she, Mistress Flowers, issued a commanding ‘wait.’ He froze on the spot and for a few seconds, it seemed like a lifetime, they just looked at each other.
She had made him stand there while she dried herself and pulled on her tracksuit. Saying nothing. And then she locked the door. He registered the key for the first time. She had not locked it before she showered. Had she wanted to catch a boy? He did not know, did not even think like this. He was sweating and shaking. And afraid. She towered over him, her wet hair glistening and her eyes full of reproach. Why are you here, she had said. He did not know but he thought it a stupid question. It was a dare he said. A dare with consequences, she said. I did warn you, I warned you all. You will report to my study this afternoon, Master Field. Five o’clock. And then I shall have sight of your bottom as you have had sight of mine. But for you there will be no pleasure this time. I promised twelve strokes of my cane and twelve strokes it will be. I suggest you go and tell your friends. She unlocked the door and, tearfully, he left. It was three o’clock. He had two hours to fill. His school friends would be eager for his tale. And his would not be a lie. He had seen her naked. But that flimsy triumph, badge or no badge, was tinged with savage consequences. His was a painful victory. Or soon would be.

He had, clumsily, undone the buttons of his trousers. He had nervously pushed his pants down to his ankles and quickly, or was it slowly, done the same with his underpants. He stood in his shirt, nether garments at his feet, and looked tearfully at his tormentor. Lift your shirt she had said, front and back. You saw all of me, I wish for the same. He did so, trembling. His small hands held the front of his shirt and he was conscious, as never before, that she could see every private part of him. A nice bottom, she said, if somewhat small for such a large cane. But I did warn you Master Field. Now bend over. Twelve strokes, and they all will hurt. He cried as he bent down and grasped his ankles. He cried as she lifted his shirt, pushing it almost to his neck. And he screamed when she landed the first stroke and raised the first red weal across his marble skin. He rose after two, and again after another two, and begged for forgiveness. A forlorn hope. He bent again and the fifth stroke landed across his naked cheeks with a message about being deserved, and the sixth stroke quickly followed. These are the consequences, Master Field, you were warned. She looked at his bottom. Such a harsh punishment for such a small boy. Six livid weals were crisscrossed against his pale white flesh. The small cheeks of his buttocks were taking a severe beating. No wonder he twitched and squirmed. But he had not risen again. She almost relented but thought back to her promise. Her showering. And so she whacked her cane across his jutting bottom, his small quivering bottom, another six times. Six more times she whacked him and six more times Master Field cried. And when he stood up, rubbing vigorously, she considered it a job well done. Dares have consequences and, as she studied the boy’s lacerated cheeks for the last time, Mistress Flowers considered this caning was well deserved.
 
 
'Did it ever happen?'
'No. I got caned at school in the changing room once. On the bare bottom. But never like that.'
'But you wish you had?'
'I do now. Since I met you.'
Celia Flowers laughed.
'I shall have to see what I can do.'
It was a gentle laugh full of enticing promise.
Andrew Field called the waiter over and reflected, as he poured more wine, that this just might be the best evening of his life.
 

Alfred Roy (2013)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday 1 November 2013

The First Time (M/M-autobiographical)


I reckon it took me about fifteen years to work out my kink. From bending down for a schoolmaster to bending down for pleasure, however obliquely, took me through all my teens and most of my twenties. I knew the scenario of having my bottom whacked appealed. School memories were seared on my fertile brain almost as much as the marks that had regularly registered on my young backside. That age of classroom discipline inevitably set me on a course that even the swinging sixties could not deny. But it took a long time. I was approaching thirty before I, finally, took the initial plunge into a world of CP pleasure. The urge had nagged at me for a long time. Articles in newspapers and magazines that referred to someone getting a caning or a spanking produced the inevitable, hormone induced, reaction. They turned me on. I couldn’t talk about it but I couldn’t ignore it. I wanted that recreation of schoolboy events. I wanted a dominant male, preferably schoolmasterish, to cane my bottom. And I wanted him, whoever he was, to take down my trousers and underpants and give it me on my bare backside. Pure fantasy of course. It could never happen. Until one day, in Gay News, I saw an advert which suggested possibilities.

An organisation calling itself Icebreakers, still going apparently but in a different form, offered help and support to men having difficulty with their sexuality. I thought mine was as rare as hen’s teeth but a nice young man soon put me right on that. I would be amazed, he said disarmingly, at how many men have the same urges. I was not unique and I wasn’t abnormal. The organisation didn’t just offer advice. In those non internet days they offered practical and desperately desired solutions. In an age devoid of mouse clicking for instant gratification such help was eagerly welcomed. In short, the nice young man arranged an introduction to a likeminded older gentleman. My telephone conversation had taken little more than ten minutes and, at its end, I had a contact number for a man who was willing to fulfil what I urgently wanted. A man, somewhere in London, who was willing to cane my bottom. Clothed and bare. After a fifteen year wait, a wait filling with increasing desire and frustration, my constant fantasy would be realised. I almost fainted.

All this took place nearly forty years ago and that older gentleman who re-introduced me to corporal punishment, and augmented its pleasures, has long since passed on. But over the years until his death we became firm friends and even though CP rarely figured in later years he took great delight in reminding me, and others, on how we first met. A trembling twenty something boy who turned up at my flat, one day, to be caned. And how he howled. That is how he put it and, as I blushed, he would release a throaty and infectious laugh. I joined in but without his enthusiasm. It was a private memory and it was reflected in the twinkle of his ageing eyes. He knew I had not forgotten it. And I never would.

I rang the door of his spacious and expensive flat in a state of high agitation. The flat was in an upmarket location of London that was alien to my humble beginnings. Nervousness was twofold. Where I was and what I was there for. That agitation jumped to another level when, having pressed the intercom, a rich and fruity voice bid me to come in. Come in boy, it said, you are late. I wasn’t, or only by a couple of minutes, but it set the tone for what was to follow. As I walked up the carpeted stairs, this block of flats was definitely top drawer, I remember thinking that I must be mad. I hadn’t been caned for nearly fifteen years and yet here I was for its overdue recreation. From a stranger. And if he didn’t take my pants down at some stage I knew I would be disappointed. It was a highly sweating twenty something going on thirty who entered his open door.

I needn’t have worried. He was everything I had hoped. Stern but friendly. He both put me at my ease and increased my agitation. I was in safe hands, even if my bottom wasn’t. He made that clear. Change into shorts and top, he said, no underpants. I shall deal with you straight away and then we can chat. Over tea. I said little. I was both scared and excited. Especially when he said that he intended to give me a proper caning. No point in pussyfooting he said. Best to find out if you are really into it. You have waited long enough. Six on shorts, six bare. I suggest you get ready. Then he left the room. I had brought shorts and a top with me. Both pure white, I had a fixation with white in those days. The shorts were fairly thick but small and tight. They enhanced my bottom in a pleasing fashion. It had taken me ages to get the right pair, especially bought for this occasion. I was trembling as I changed. I was going to be caned. First time in fifteen years. A hard caning, and the second six would be on my bare backside. I feared I would not be able to take it, that I would disgrace myself. But I so desperately wanted it. I wanted what this upper class gentleman of fifty odd years was willing to do.

He had a genuine black leather horse. An indication that he was a serious player at corporal punishment. This seemed to help. I was in the hands of a professional. Or that is what I told myself as I bent over it. He had come back and the cane in his hand was worthy of all my fantasies. Long and thick and gleaming brown. Genuine public school cane, he said, and smiled. It’ll sting more than those they used on you grammar school boys. Nice bottom, he said when I bent over and gripped the end of the leather horse, even if those shorts are a little thick. I closed my eyes. This was it. I was bending over with my bottom in the air and finally, after fifteen years of waiting, a cane was going to hit it. In reality. Not fantasy. My schoolboy experiences would, at last, be relived. And they were. Excruciatingly. The pain was enormous from the first stroke. I gasped. Was this what it was like at school? Could I take two or three, let alone six? Did I want this agonising burning in my bum?  I did, gripping even harder that horse as each stroke lashed across my bottom cheeks. All six of them. The fire spread through my backside and tears welled in my eyes but I took them all. And after the final stinging pain, I relaxed. I had survived. I had not cried off. I had been caned on my bottom, as at school, and the familiar warming and pleasing throb told me it had all been worthwhile. I was fifteen again. Fifteen years old with a smarting behind. That is what it seemed. But this was different from school; this was a willing boy and a man desirous of inflicting pain. To nature’s natural part. And now those shorts came down. And off. Legs and bottom and private parts, all exposed and vulnerable. This man meant business.

The joy at having nether clothes removed for bare bottom discipline cannot be explained to those who do not understand. The surge of electricity that envelops the whole being cannot be surpassed by any other experience. Exposure, humiliation, freedom, anticipation. All combine to make the naked cheeks twitch in fear and wanting. You are at your most submissive, all of you laid bare for your chastiser. It is a heavenly moment, enhanced if rough and manly hands explore your curves. It is fantasy writ large. In those minutes and seconds you desire to be nowhere else, to be in no other situation. Your twitching behind eagerly awaits the savage kiss of a fearful and vengeful rod. It is to be savoured. And if I screamed when his cane lashed into my bare flesh, I am sure I did, no amount of pain could deny that preliminary sensation. It is a pure and beautiful pause that is never expunged. Whatever the pain. And pain, searing, there was. The second six strokes of his cane scored my flesh and each registered a vicious sting that induced copious tears. As fire swiftly travelled from buttocks to brain I both prayed I would survive and knew I would. Each thwack to my naked backside produced a breathless gasp but each was painfully welcomed. I wanted it. I deserved it. That is what I told myself. And when the last stroke of the cane whacked across the centre of my cheeks, all had been delivered fairly rapidly, I jumped up and ran around the room. Clutching my behind in classic schoolboy style. But I had taken all my punishment. A few tears, a few gasps, and lots of vigorous rubbing. But I had earned my tea. Wearing only my top, I had no desire to cover myself, we sipped the promised tea and discussed my experience. Or at least he did. A continuous throbbing bottom spoke much more eloquently than me.

No future CP experience from that late gentleman ever reached the levels of that first caning. It couldn’t. When I bent over for the first time in his palatial flat I had not suffered corporal discipline for fifteen years. The mind was uncluttered and the bottom virgin pure on that momentous day. I was an old hand when he took my shorts down for an overdue repeat. But I shall always have good memories of that first time. Memories of underpants sticking to my skin on the long train journey home. Initial shock, followed by mesmerising fascination, when I inspected my lacerated bottom in a mirror. Twelve hard cane strokes on a virgin bottom, six in a bare state, does not leave a pretty sight. Nasty and livid purple weals across my behind, mixed with small traces of blood, told their own story. I vowed never to go back to him again. But within a week, as all gently healed, I knew that I would. The first time is always the best, or the worst, but it does not stop those of this ilk constantly trying to recreate it. It was when I bent over for that gentleman the second time, pants adrift and cane hovering, that I knew I was hooked. Forever.