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How to bare a behind

I have just realised that I haven’t done a chatty blog for yonks. Stories always get more hits, and I have posted a few of those since l...

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)