Have completed two new stories of the F/M and F/m variety but delaying blogging until I have checked them. Both are sequels to other new stories, recently posted. The Reluctant Schoolboy (F/M) follows the boy in Woman in the Window thirty years on. More ambitiously, The Boston Landlady in London (F/m), gives first person narrative to a black character I grew to love in The Boston Landlady first time round. Must be my deep buried hankering to be dealt with by such a woman. Whilst you await I thought it was appropriate to post this one. First posted to malespank some years ago and pure M/m with a strong medical bent. Medical examinations of a certain kind thrill almost as much as being whacked on the bare bum. The boy in this gets both.
Dr Petrov’s Special Prescription
I
recently saw a small article on the BBC teletext news service. It stated that
Russian scientists had concluded that caning the buttocks in cases of
depression was more effective than other methods of treatment. Sixty strokes
produced the most efficacious result. I
was intrigued, and the following is the result of my idle imaginings. - Alfred
Roy
Friday 11th 3.00 p.m.
I
am not sure how I got into this. I sometimes think I might be going mad. I
don’t think most who know me would agree with that comment but if they had any
idea where I was going at six o’clock
and what was going to happen to me, they might change their opinion. Six o’clock . Three hours. In three
hours time I shall keep my appointment with Dr Petrov and….No, I am not going
to think about it. I am not going to dwell on any of the details. He outlined
them at the time, in his consulting room last week, but I am not going to think
about it. It is just a doctor’s appointment. What is so special about that
Robbie? Lot ’s of people go to the doctors,
every day. Yes, but they go for prescriptions, for re-assurance, for comfort.
They don’t go there to get caned. Yes, that’s what I said. To get caned. On the
National Health Service. At six o’clock
this afternoon. Three hours. And I don’t have any choice. My parents have
agreed. Everything else has been tried and they are desperate to release the
gloom and misery which surrounds me. So they agreed and so did I. As I said, I
sometimes think I must be going mad.
Tuesday.
That was when it was. We had an appointment to see Dr Petrov at four o’clock last week. Tuesday
afternoon. We being me and my parents. I had seen him before, a couple of days
after I downed my dad’s whisky and my mum’s pills. A lethal combination. Except
it wasn’t. I only succeeded in making myself sick. But it scared my parents and
two days in hospital was followed by a long consultation with Dr Petrov. He
studied my notes, asked me a lot of questions, and referred me for
psychotherapy. Six sessions of psychobabble achieved nothing. The only thing
the therapist and me agreed on was that I was seventeen, anxious, and
miserable. After the six sessions she gave up and referred me back to Dr
Petrov. And he arranged an appointment for me. With my parents. Last Tuesday.
He
was very formal. He shook my parents by the hand and all three of us sat down
opposite his vast desk, reflecting his importance. In spite of his heavy
Russian appearance and his name, Dr Alexander Petrov, the bearded and heavily
built man spoke perfect English. We all sat in dutiful silence as he outlined
the salient points of my case. Apparently I was, am, a classic example of a
young man finding it difficult to cope with the various pressures of
approaching manhood. Exams, sexuality, confusion, social pressures all combine
to disturb the young mind. Most come through it unscathed but a few succumb to
the enormity of the task of growing up. They go off the rails in various ways
and a small number, of which I am one, opt for an early exit from life’s
pressures. He did not think that my attempt to do away with myself was serious
but it nevertheless indicated a desperate state of mind. I listened with
passive indifference. But if I cared little about myself my parents took a
different view and they hung, pathetically, on every perfectly elaborated word.
They were clearly in awe of this man. It has just gone four o’clock . Two hours. In two hours I have my
first appointment. And it is my parents’ fault.
I
reckon it was his carnation that did it. Sitting in his buttonhole it smacked
of Harley Street Harley
Street Moscow Petersburg
Sixty
five minutes. In sixty five minutes I shall be sitting in the sixth floor large
waiting room of a prestigious hospital awaiting the sound of a buzzer which
will summon me to Dr Alexander Petrov’s impressive consulting rooms. And then
what happens doesn’t bear thinking about. Except I am thinking about it. All
the time. I have thought of little else since last week. He had waited for my
parents to depart and, closing the door, sat down again and eyed me cautiously.
I needed to understand that the course of treatment he proposed was far better
than the alternatives. I might not think so during its administration, but the
results in Russia Germany
I
need to be going soon. The hospital is a good fifteen minutes walk and I need
to be on time. For the preliminaries. I asked Dr Petrov what was involved and
he calmly and gently outlined what was to happen. In his perfect English accent
this heavily bearded Russian doctor filled in details that I both desperately
desired to know, and simultaneously feared. The Special Remedial Therapy was
always carried out on Friday evenings in a private room annexed to Dr Petrov’s
consulting room. Prior to the administering of the therapy one of his
assistants would carry out a full examination to ensure that the recipient
could safely endure its application. The examination took about fifteen minutes
and, subject to a satisfactory result, the therapy was administered immediately
following. In Dr Petrov’s opinion, supported by much research, the most
propitious approach was three separate ‘twenty stroke’ administrations at five
minute intervals. The whole procedure, including examination, took about forty
five minutes and the patient was ready to go home within an hour. And yes, he
personally carried out the initial administration of the therapy. He showed no
emotion in releasing all the information. He could have been telling me to take
some pills, three times a day after meals. My stomach churned and my head
filled with subsidiary questions. But a desperation to get well, coupled with
the passive gloom which had pervaded my being for weeks had left me exhausted.
I shook his hand and left. Until a week the following Friday.
And
those ten days have now passed and, in that time, I have thought of little
except that private interview and all its attendant implications. There were so
many questions I should have asked. How will I be caned? Will it hurt? What
happens if I stop the treatment or don’t turn up? What happens if I take one of
his cane strokes and then walk out? Should I tell my parents? All these
questions, and others, have played on my mind over the last ten days. Will I
scream? Will I disgrace myself? Will I find it exciting? The last question
disturbed me the most. I spent some time in the local library earlier in the
week searching their medical reference books and the internet for information on
the Russian system. Perhaps I didn’t search the right books or ask the right
questions but they were little help. And there was no way I was going to
enquire at the information desk. ‘Excuse me, my name is Robbie Henderson and I
am being caned for depression next week. Do you have any details?’ No, I had to
search for myself, however incompetently. And in my incompetence I stumbled on
a small book on dealing with depression. It didn’t look promising and the only
attraction was its obviously Russian author. Most of it was gobble-de-gook to
me but it did have an interesting glossary on a variety of approaches. Most had
special names, usually attributed to the instigator of the particular method
with, in brackets, a pithy description. Buried half way down the glossary, one
very foreign phrase was followed by the words ‘Beating on the Buttocks’. My
stomach turned over and I read the brief outline avidly and, having absorbed
the few descriptive words, read it again. It didn’t say much, merely a summation
of its merits and drawbacks. It was the last sentence which gripped in my
throat. ‘Not unknown for some, especially males, to become visibly excited by
its application and, therefore, rarely applied in Western societies.’ I
returned the book to the shelves and silently thanked my decision to tell my
parents nothing. I told them I did not understand what was planned. But I do
know, or at least I know the important bits. The clock tells me I need to go.
It’s
not easy writing this. I tried a couple of hours ago but it is hard to
concentrate. It is also not easy to sit down comfortably. But I need to get my
thoughts in order. My parents have gone to bed. They waited patiently all
evening for me to say something but eventually gave up. They have become used
to my silences over the last few weeks and, tonight, silence was all they were
going to get. I left the hospital just after seven o’clock and didn’t arrive home until nearly nine. I
needed those two hours walking the town to regain some visible composure. My
experience had terrified, excited, elated, hurt, confused and intrigued in
equal proportions. I still feel a pervading gloom but briefly, in that room and
in the park, my mind seemed to clear. The gloom has returned but as Dr Petrov
said, after I got dressed, this was only the first session. And by the time I
arrived home I knew, in the silence, that I would be going back.
I
arrived at the hospital at just after six
o’clock and took the lift to the sixth floor. To say I was nervous
would be an understatement. I was sweating profusely and my agitation must have
been obvious to anyone who saw me. There was no one in the waiting room and,
just for a moment, I irrationally thought that I must have the wrong day. I sat
down on the first available chair and waited. I had been there a couple of
minutes when a young man in a white coat came out of a small side room and
introduced himself. His name was Dr Abele and, as he smiled reassuringly, his
gleaming white teeth contrasted pleasingly with his coal black face. He said
that as this was my first session Dr Petrov wished to see me for a few minutes
before the commencement of the proceedings. Afterwards I was to come to his
consulting room for examination and preparation. He spoke very formally but with
a manner which suggested prosaic routine. Seeing my concern he smiled again and
told me not to worry. The treatment was well established and would help me with
my problems. And then he led me to Dr Petrov’s large consulting room and
departed. Dr Petrov was seated at his desk, making notes in the large open book
placed before him. He didn’t say anything for a few moments and, as I
studiously waited in silence, I registered the large carnation in his
buttonhole. It was the same colour as the one from the previous week. He closed
the book, raised his head to look at me and bid me to sit down. I was not there
long but in the few minutes in his presence I learnt all I needed to know. I
never said a word but in a few precise sentences, delivered in his disconcertingly
perfect English, Dr Petrov calmly elaborated the procedures. If I had any
illusions regarding what was to happen to me, they were instantly dispelled. After
my examination I was to be taken to his Remedial Treatment Room. In the
interest of safety I would be secured to a specially designed trestle, he did
not say how, and positioned for the treatment. I need have no fears, the
trestle was perfectly comfortable and well designed for its purpose, and the
only discomfort would be from a cane striking my buttocks. That was the essence
of the treatment and would be applied, in three doses of increasing severity,
to that part of my person designed for such a purpose. The room was sound
proofed and it did not matter if I cried out during the administration. Indeed
in the opinion of himself and many of his colleagues, such vocal release was to
be welcomed. Dr Abele would be present to assist in the preparation and to
observe and monitor any detrimental effects that may necessitate a curtailing
of the treatment. But, and here he paused choosing his words even more
carefully, in the interests of maximum effect and benefit it would be necessary
to apply the treatment to my naked buttocks. Only maximum, uninhibited, contact
could release the curative chemicals in my brain. I need not be embarrassed, Dr
Abele and he were very experienced in such matters. He wished me well for the
first of my six sessions and instructed me to report to his colleague for my
preparation. He would see me in the Therapy room in ten minutes. Through all
the minute and explicit details his voice never varied from its even and
mellifluous flow and, listening to it all, I never said a single word. The fog
surrounding my head never lifted and half formed responses died before they
reached my lips. But as I left I sensed, deep inside me, a cold shaft of
unknowing fear.
Saturday
12th 12.15 a.m.
It
has gone midnight . I need to
go to bed. It has been a long and tiring day and six hours ago I suffered
something I never thought possible. My parents are asleep but, if they wake up
and see me writing this they may wish to view it. I couldn’t cope with that.
Besides I have taken my sleeping pill and the mind won’t function for much
longer. But there is so much I need to get down on paper before sleep overtakes
me. I don’t know how I walked from Dr Petrov’s consulting room to the smaller
room of Dr Abele. My legs had turned to jelly and I was shaking all over. And
the agitated sweating which enveloped me when I arrived had returned with added
zest. It would not have surprised me if I had not passed out. But inner fear
had created an alien alertness in my usual passivity. The vying sensations
allowed me to reach Dr Abele’s consulting room without mishap. I knocked on the
door, tentatively, and hearing a strong and confident call to enter, my stomach
lurched again. If Dr Abele had rhythms of speech which mirrored his superior,
the words he issued were much more relaxed. He may have formally asked me to
strip to my underpants but, in all other respects, he did his best to put me at
my ease. As I removed my shoes and socks and, more reluctantly, my jeans and
top, he placed his stethoscope in his ears and told me to relax. It is no big
thing he said, and it will help my recuperation. The gleaming white teeth flashed
a friendly smile and he checked my heart and lungs. All in order he said and,
smiling again, he said ‘and now for the important bits.’ I was still puzzling
as to what he meant by this when his large black hands whipped down my
underpants to my thighs and cupped my testicles. I looked away and, as
requested, obeyed his instruction to cough. He made me do it twice. I have
never known why doctors make you do this and usually found it embarrassing. But
the large and rough hands of Dr Abele were not unpleasant. And then he told me
to turn round. I did so with unnecessary alacrity. My face was flushed and his
shining black one was too close for comfort. It was only when I had completely
turned that I realised that my underpants were still down my thighs. I made to
pull them up and Dr Abele laughed. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit’ he said and
laughed again at his delight at mastering an English idiom. And as he laughed
he pulled my underpants down again. His fingers pressed the flesh of my
buttocks and, ordering me to bend forward, he briefly examined the area in
between. Satisfied, he pulled up my pants and expressed the professional view
that I could have been designed for the Russian treatment. ‘You, Master
Henderson, have a magnificent set of buttocks. They will take much pleasure
from Dr Petrov’s cane.’ And then he smiled again and, pointing me in the
direction of the door, gave my bottom an unexpectedly sharp and satisfying
slap. I flinched and reflected that the small and friendly sting emanated the
only indication of an irregular approach to a very formal and professional
examination. Clothed only in my underpants I made my way to Dr Petrov’s Special
Remedial Therapy Room.
I
have just had breakfast and re-read all my notes. My parents have gone to do
the shopping and, before they left, asked me if I wanted anything special for
the weekend. I nearly said only Dr Abele, but they would not understand. They
would be surprised that I had said anything, the breakfast had been conducted
in total silence, and shocked at my desire. But they had not been there. They
had not walked from his examination room dressed only in underpants and
sporting a small tumescence that all consuming depressive thoughts had rendered
obsolete for many weeks. But those rough hands and sparkling black smile had
triggered unexpected wants. As I walked to Dr Petrov’s room I feared the
prospect of a prescribed treatment and reflected on momentary stirrings. I
resolved that through all sixty strokes of my therapy I would think only of Dr
Abele and his unaffected charm. That resolve did not last for very long. Within
a few minutes a vicious sting in my backside was to dispel all other thoughts.
And as I entered the room I saw the trestle across which I was to be fastened.
It was a padded horizontal beam, supported at each end by inverted ‘v-shaped’
wooden legs which raised the beam about four feet from the floor. Parallel to
the padded beam, about a foot from the floor, two wooden struts joined the
front and rear legs of the support. In the centre of each wooden strut was a
pair of what I can only describe as leather handcuffs. These were the securing
devices which Dr Petrov had referred to. I was absorbing all these details when
I registered the doctor standing in the corner of the room. He had taken off
his coat and the shirt sleeve of his right arm had been rolled up to the elbow.
My first thought was that, minus his carnation, he no longer suggested a Harley Street
I
have been for a shower and, as I dried myself, I saw in the mirror the results
of Dr Petrov’s first session. As I studied the lines across my backside I
vividly recalled how they had got there. I did not struggle, I did not fight. I
did not think of the impending pain. Like a man going to execution I allowed
the medical experts to do with me as they wished. My mind, my whole being, was
empty of any emotion. Dr Abele took me to the trestle and bent me over the
centre of the beam. Dr Petrov was right, it was not uncomfortable. The leather
beam was thickly padded and my stomach pleasantly rested against the cold and
soft support. Dr Abele moved to the front of the trestle and pulled me over so
that my feet dangled above the floor. He did this so that he could fix my hands
to the wooden strut. I did not resist. When he had done this he moved behind
and fixed my dangling feet to the centre of the strut at the rear. My legs and
arms were now pinioned tightly, and closely, together. I suddenly felt very
vulnerable and the sensation was increased when he tied a small leather strap
around my knees. I could not move and, more importantly, the dexterous fixing
of the various straps held my backside in a pronounced position it could not
escape from. I tentatively experimented with preliminary wriggling, but nothing
moved. I was fixed and ready. And Dr Abele clearly agreed. He ruffled my hair,
whispered a couple of words of re-assurance, and completed the procedure. Large
black fingers inserted themselves into the waistband of my cotton underpants
and, in one deft movement, they joined the straps at my knees. It was in that
moment, a moment when cool air hit my naked bottom and a similar sensation
encased my genitals, I knew I was going to be caned. And in that moment I
became very afraid. Please God that it does not hurt and please God that I do
not get excited. Nothing happened for about ten seconds and then, lifting my
head, I saw Dr Petrov walking towards me. And for the first time since I had
entered that room I saw the cane. It was yellow and shiny, and fairly thick and
Dr Petrov held it like an expert. It could cause a considerable amount of
distress.
The
last piece of this account has caused me even more distress than I imagined. I
wrote the above straight after taking my shower. I had dried myself but had not
bothered to get dressed and sitting, wrapped in a towel, in the conservatory I
continued the overwhelming urge to get all on paper. I was so absorbed I didn’t
realise my parents had returned from the weekend shopping. They were in the
conservatory before I knew they were there. In my confusion I dropped my papers
and rising to gather them up, my towel slipped away from me. It wouldn’t
normally matter. I like being naked, always have, and my parents accepted it as
part of my complex personality. But this was different. They only got a
fleeting glimpse of my backside before I covered myself up, but that glimpse was
enough. They both fell silent and I picked up the papers and went to my room.
That was three hours ago. I still haven’t dressed. I discarded the towel and
for two hours lay, face down, on my bed willing my father to come up and have a
look. Come on, come and have a proper look at your son’s behind. You did this,
or at least you signed for it. But I know he will not come. He will not come
and see the marks of Dr Petrov’s cane. But he knows they are there. All sixty
of them. And when the first stroke hit my buttocks I had gasped, more in surprise
than pain, and endured a sensation that for seventeen years I had avoided. Dr
Petrov had moved behind me and I was conscious that he was standing on my left.
Dr Abele had moved to my right and I could just see him out of the corner of my
eye. He smiled gently at me and, as he did so, I felt the light cold touch of
smooth wood on my rear. Dr Petrov’s cane was readying itself and three
impatient light taps registered in my brain. And then, suddenly, it moved away
and I held my breath. For a second all was still and then, a slight rush, and
the cane landed behind me with a sharp thwack. It stung and instantly left a
slight burning line across my bottom. I wriggled and twitched my bottom in
protest. But it had not hurt too much and the slight sting was already fading
when Dr Petrov hit me again. Again I sensed the force was not hard but this
second sting was added to the fading sensation of the first and the two
combined were increasing my discomfort. I wriggled again and tried to reduce my
bottom to a smaller size. The two lightly stinging strokes had made me conscious
that my bottom was not only bare but it was raised high in the air, at least
two feet above me. It made for an easy target and over the next couple of
minutes Dr Petrov accurately found it eighteen more times. By the tenth stroke
I was beginning to cope with it. The cumulative effect of the stinging strokes
made me wriggle and emit the occasional yelp but the effect was not unpleasant.
The warming sting in my bottom, reinforced by the remaining strokes, was
releasing the anguish in my brain. I could not see below the beam but I sensed
stiffening in my penis. Dr Petrov completed the last few strokes and I
fervently prayed that neither he nor Dr Abele had observed my physical change.
Dr
Abele did know. I wasn’t sure at the time but thinking about it now I do not
think there is any doubt. While Dr Petrov took a short break he checked my
pulse and breathing. And then he put his hands on both sides of my thighs and
shifted me back into a comfortable position on the beam. I had done a lot of
wriggling and he wanted to ensure that my bottom was correctly aligned for
session two. And as he did so he said ‘I trust your below bits are comfortable,
Robbie.’ I said nothing. The tip of my penis was pressing on the underside of
the beam and his large black hands on my thighs did nothing to subdue it. Dr
Petrov returned and picked up the cane that had caused me some discomfort and,
as Dr Abele dutifully stepped aside, proceeded to give me the second set of
twenty strokes. It was when the first stroke reached my bottom that I
remembered him saying something a long time ago, or so it seemed, about
‘increasing severity’. I saw, or should I say felt, what he meant. I issued a
loud yelp. The first stroke of the cane across my bottom seemed to carry the
strength of the previous twenty. If I thought, or hoped, that it was a
temporary aberration whilst he found his rhythm the second stroke dispelled any
illusion. It stung like hell and a burning line of fire hit me in places I did
not know I had. I howled and twisted and begged him to go easy on me. By the
time he had given me the first five I could feel an uncontrollable throbbing in
my rear. And the throbbing and burning increased as stroke after stroke hit my
cheeks with increasing venom. By the time the twentieth stroke had landed
across my upturned bottom, inducing vicious stinging sensations which cried for
relief, I had lost both my composure and my erection. As the tears welled and
involuntarily flowed, the hardening below shrank in painful contrition. The
intense throbbing in my rear demanded all my attention. And I still had twenty
strokes to come. As Dr Abele checked my pulse and breathing a second time, Dr
Petrov walked over to a small table in the corner and put down the smooth and
painful yellow cane. He took a small sip of water and, as he did so, I noticed
for the first time a dark, thin, red cane next to the one he had just put down.
I was so shocked at the enormity of this discovery that I barely registered the
touch of two large hands adjusting the position of my naked cheeks. But Dr
Abele was nothing if not considerate. He gave my right buttock a gentle slap
and whispered that there were only twenty more to go. But it was what he said
next that sent the greatest shiver down my spine and elsewhere. ‘Do not be
afraid to scream’ he said, ‘These are going to hurt.’
My
father finally came into my room at seven
o’clock . I had dressed and gone down for the evening meal. The meal
was conducted in almost total silence, just the odd ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ in
response to enquiries regarding individual servings. I finished my meal and
went back to my room. Ten minutes later my father came in. He was polite, he
always is. He knocked on my bedroom door and waited until I answered. When I
was fourteen he almost caught me masturbating and had clearly vowed that he
would not risk a repeat of that embarrassment. I was lying on the bed dressed
in my jeans and jumper. He stood by the door looking at me for a good two
minutes before he spoke. ‘May I see?’ was all he said. I looked at him and,
dropping my eyes, rose from the bed. I turned my back to him and undid my
jeans. I pushed them down to my knees and lifted my jumper and waited. He
hesitated, unsure of what to do. Realising that I was not going to assist him
in any way he moved towards me and placed his hands on my underpants. I held my
breath. He slowly peeled my underpants down below my buttocks and gazed at my
exposed flesh. He sighed and, after a few seconds, pulled them up and said he
had seen enough. I have no doubt he had. I had counted at least twenty five
clear and vivid stripes in the bathroom mirror. Most were a deep or pale red
but a couple, stretching to the edge of my thighs, hinted at touches of purple.
They did not make for a pretty sight. He said he was sorry, he had no idea. I
said nothing. I pulled up my jeans and, as he left the room, dropped down on my
bed.
Sunday
13th 11.30 a.m.
Dr
Petrov picked up the redwood cane and moved slowly towards me. I was trembling.
The second twenty strokes had caused me considerable pain and I doubted if I
could cope with any guaranteed to make me scream. My whole being was alive with
a variety of sensations. My head buzzed with bewildering thoughts, my clamped
hands and legs cried out for release and, in between, my naked bottom mocked my
helplessness. It stood proud and high and begged and pleaded for the kiss of an
unsparing rod. It said beat me, thrash me, crash the stiff and unrelenting
stick across me. I am waiting, I am yours. My mind said no, ignore it, be blind
to its message. But words and thoughts cannot allay pictures. And my bottom, my
bare flesh, was so displayed as to defy any other conclusion. It had to be
caned. It begged to be caned. And if, when that cane set out on its destiny,
the boy screamed then so be it. As the rigid cane made its heavenly contact
with the beckoning curves those who did not scream would sigh in appreciation.
I closed my eyes and cried and when the cane touched my rear for the first time
I cried again. And then I screamed. I screamed and howled. Screamed and howled
as I had never done before. And I wriggled and twisted and turned and did
everything I possibly could to avoid the lash of a vicious cane which relentlessly
found its mark. Oh please God I said. Please God. No more. Please. Oh my bum,
my bum. Oh please. No more please. No more. Aagh. It hurts. Oh God. I’m on
fire. Let me up. Kill me. Anything. Not my bum. No more. Aaagh. My bum. My bum.
My poor bum. But it did no good. Dr Petrov was a master tactician and the cane
he had saved for the last attacked me with a relish and fire beyond my
imagination. And as each stroke across my naked cheeks induced a searing fire
that screamed for relief, I begged and pleaded and promised favours I would
never be able to deliver. By the time the last stroke fell across my backside I
had been reduced to a sobbing and pleading mess, conscious only of a
frightening and stinging throbbing in my bottom that only a year of paradise
would cure. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed and continued pleading for my poor
ravaged bum long after the cane had been returned to the table. And for ten
minutes Dr’s Petrov and Abele left me to my painful misery. When Dr Abele
returned and released me, I fell into his arms and sobbed again. My parents are
at church as I write this. It seems appropriate.
Dr
Abele is very kind. He undid the straps and, after comforting me, took me to
his consulting room. I lay face down on his couch and, after lowering the pants
he had considerately raised when he took me off the trestle, he rubbed some
special ointment into my buttocks. The slight cold sting contrasted with the
savage throbbing which still engulfed my rear. I doubted if I would ever
recover and said so. He laughed and said that by next Friday only faint
markings would remain. A boy’s bottom has great powers of recovery. And it was
all for my own good. I had released many recuperative chemicals. I rose and
winced as I pulled my pants over my hardened cheeks. I still had slight
uncontrollable sobs and, getting dressed, I said I doubted if I would be coming
again. The pain of the last twenty strokes was unbearable. He looked at me
seriously and said I should reconsider. I needed this therapy and should suffer
the temporary discomfort for the long term gain. Besides, next week, he got to
cane me. Dr Petrov rarely did all the sessions. And this dog, he said, looked
forward to having his own go at the rabbit. And then he laughed again and
showed me another glimpse of those perfect white teeth, I rubbed my bottom,
desperate to ease the throb, and left. It was seven o’clock .
Thursday
17th 3.30 p.m.
My
father asked me this morning if I was going to keep my Friday evening
appointment at the hospital. I said I was. The pain had gone and the marks were
healing. I had been checking each day and, surprisingly, within a few days only
faint lines remained. Dr Abele had said that the canes were well chosen,
intended to sting not maim. It did not seem so at the time, especially the last
twenty, but my bottom was the evidence. I didn’t say any of this to my father.
I just said I would go. It was what he wanted. He signed the form. I could see
by the expression on his face that these last remarks pained him deeply. He
visibly winced. And then he told me he had written to Dr Petrov questioning the
treatment. He did not wish to interfere but, given the unorthodox approach, enquired
as to whether there were any alternatives. The state of my bottom had caused
much distress to him and my mother. I said nothing. He would not understand. He
would not understand that I was not only prepared to go for my second session
but, in some peculiar way, I was actually welcoming it.
Friday
18th 11.15 p.m.
I
was very nervous when I arrived at the sixth floor of the hospital. I knew what
was going to happen but removing the fear of the unknown had not lessened my
agitation. As the hours passed today the memories of the previous week came
flooding back. My only comfort was that Dr Abele had said that he would be
carrying out the treatment and I told myself that his slighter frame could not
possibly carry the punch of Dr Petrov. In my agitation I had arrived early and
the hospital clock showed 5.50 p.m.
when I entered the building. If I relaxed a little as the lift made its way to
the sixth floor my distress levels increased when I entered the waiting room. A
young Chinese woman, about thirty or so, came over to me and confirming my name
said that Dr Abele was waiting for me. She took me in to his consulting room
and, after she left, Dr Abele informed me that Dr Petrov was unavailable and
that Dr Choo would be his assistant for the second session. My legs buckled. I
asked the obvious question and Dr Abele confirmed that the young Chinese woman
was Dr Choo. And then he laughed and told me to get undressed. ‘She is a
doctor, Robbie. There is no need to be embarrassed.’, and as I removed my
clothes he added ‘You have nothing she has not seen many times.’ That may be so
but, standing in only my underpants, I was glad he had not handed my
preliminary examination to her. Perhaps the visible effects of my ordeal would
not have occurred with Dr Choo but, if it had, my embarrassment would have been
trebled. Dr Abele put his stethoscope to his ears and did all the usual checks
and then looked down at my bulging front. He didn’t say anything, he just
slipped the pants down to my thighs and, lightly gripping my testicles, asked
for the obligatory cough. He turned me round but, surprisingly, did not examine
my bottom. He merely looked at it and registered approval. As I pulled up my
pants he walked over to the desk and tapped a few notes into his computer. He
then said he was ready and started to walk to the treatment room. We were
halfway across the large waiting room when he spoke again. ‘Don’t worry about
these erections, Robbie. They are an occupational hazard to Doctors. You would
be surprised at the number I have seen.’ And then he laughed and said ‘And now
let us continue our interesting route to the chemicals in your brain.’ In spite
of everything, especially what was to come, I like Dr Abele.
Saturday
19th 1.35 a.m.
I
cannot sleep. I have tried but I cannot get this afternoon’s session out of my
mind. It had the desired effect inasmuch as, for a short time, it cleared my
head and lifted my spirits. In spite of the pain there is no doubt that caning
my bottom brings blessed, temporary, relief. No wonder Dr Petrov decided I was
an ideal subject for his unorthodox therapy. But it is more than that. It is
beginning to turn me on. That small book was right. What did it say? ‘Not
unknown for some, especially males, to become visibly excited by its
application.’ That was certainly true in my case. I carried my erection from Dr
Abele’s consulting room to the padded beam of the trestle and if those sixty
strokes of the cane subdued its expectancy, it never totally expunged it. As I
cried in anguish, internal juices continued to churn. Everything in that room
conspired to unnerve and disturb my emotions. The sweet Chinese woman doctor
took my hand and led me to the trestle. As the previous week, when Dr Abele
carried out the preliminaries, she gently pushed me over it and fixed my hands
to the front wooden strut. With smiling and silent efficiency she moved behind
me, pressed my legs closely together, and fixed my feet to the rear strut.
Satisfied, she put her hands on my bending thighs and gently lifted my bottom
further over the beam. ‘Bottom up, Mr Henderson.’, accompanied her slight
shifting of my position. Then she fixed the restraining strap around my knees
and pulled tightly, ensuring that no gaps split my flesh from the waist down.
Then she placed her hands in the waist of my underpants and pulled them down.
Meeting a frontal obstruction she calmly, and efficiently, put her hand under
the beam and pulled my pants down from the front. Her ‘We must let the rabbit
see the dog, Mr Henderson.’, was followed by a reassuring smile. I didn’t
enlighten her on her mixing of Dr Abele’s metaphor. I was mortified. This woman
doctor had bared my bum and must have been aware of my erect state. And she
must have known it was nothing to do with her. It was all about Dr Abele and
his cane and, as if on cue, he picked it up from the table and walked over to
me. He had taken off his white coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The well
muscled shiny black arm looked strong and firm. I inwardly shuddered and below
me my penis gave an involuntary twitch. And it gave a couple more as he spoke.
I may have been feeling sick inside, I may have been upturned over the beam
with my naked backside raised high in the air, and I may have remembered the
devastating stings from the previous week, but it did not deflect the inner
exciting fear. And as Dr Abele delivered his formal outline of the procedure he
intended to adopt I listened to his modulated tones and held my breath. ‘I
prefer to give all sixty strokes in one period, Robbie. They will be at three
levels of intensity, as last week, but they will be continuous. I will only
stop if Dr Choo, who will monitor the progress, considers it preferable to do
so. So, as they say, let us get to the bottom of your problem.’ He laughed at
his own weak joke and stepped behind me. I felt the cane touch, and gently tap,
my bottom. ‘It will help your therapy, Robbie, if you cry out whenever you feel
the need to do so. So, when you are ready.’ And with that he whacked the cane
across the centre of my backside and, as I issued a surprised gasp and howl, I
registered that the first stroke on my bum probably equalled number forty five
from the absent Dr Petrov. I was still considering the implications of this
when the second searing sting landed in exactly the same place. My bottom had
started an uncontrollable throbbing and I had fifty eight cuts to come. I was rapidly
going off Dr Abele.
I
still cannot sleep and an attempt at relief an hour ago has not diminished my
inner turmoil. My body is exhausted but my mind, far from being calm, is
fretful from my imaginings. After the first few strokes Dr Abele had eased off
and the next twenty or thirty were delivered at an even tempo and severity. I
still flinched every time the cane contacted with my bottom but the cumulative
effect was not unpleasant. I could feel myself beginning to relax and almost
welcoming the stinging strokes. As Dr Abele had said, it was an interesting
route to the chemicals in my brain. The pain in my bottom was engulfing and
swamping my negativity and the warm glow produced, spread imperceptibly through
my body. And, helplessly tied and bent, it relieved me of any responsibility
for my responses. And then Dr Abele did two things which triggered increased
sensation. Two sharper thwacks to my backside, followed by a silence, indicated
that he had come to the end of the first part of my caning. I reckoned I had
taken about forty so had a final twenty to come. He crossed to the table in
front of me and replaced the cane he had used with the red one which had caused
me so much pain the previous week. I felt a surge of apprehension. He had proved
he was no slouch when it came to thrashing a bottom, and the redwood cane had
its own special, penetrating, sting. He walked towards me as Dr Choo was
readjusting my position. She put her hands either side of my waist and gently
shifted me a couple of inches along the beam. Then putting her hands under my
arms she inched me forward by the same couple of inches. Finally she placed her
hands on the edge of each of my cheeks and lifted slightly. Satisfied that all
was presented as desired she gave an unnecessary push down on my pants and
pronounced that I was ready for the final part of my treatment. Dr Abele moved
behind me and, as he did so, he reached under the beam and placed his hand
around my erection. He didn’t do so in any sexual manner. It was merely a
medical observation of the patient’s state. But when his fingers touched my
penis, albeit only for a fleeting second, a surge of expectancy shot through
me. The offending part notched another degree of hardness in fruitless
anticipation. I gasped for breath and waited. And then the cane, the feared
redwood, tapped my bottom and Dr Abele readied himself for the final onslaught.
‘Make a note Dr Choo, that the patient maintained a state of arousal during the
application of the first forty strokes of the No 2 regulation cane. I am using
regulation cane No 4 for the final twenty strokes. We will need to check his
arousal state again, after its completion.’ Dr Choo didn’t say anything. I
couldn’t see her but she was probably dutifully writing it all down. They did
check, or at least Dr Abele did. But I could have told them there was no need.
Whatever I felt inside, outward manifestations of arousal dispensed almost from
the first stroke. I screamed as the redwood cane lashed into me and I continued
screaming and pleading throughout the delivery of all twenty. That cane was
cutting my bottom in half and the sting and penetrating bite was indescribable.
All of my sensations were concentrated in my bum. And that bum, upturned and
carefully rearranged by an efficient Chinese medical, could not escape. No
wonder the room is soundproofed. And my screaming and pleading only seemed to
urge Dr Abele on to even harder lashings of my rear. No, oh Christ, please, no
more. It is killing me. Aaagh. Oh God, No. My bum. My poor bum. No more please,
Aaagh. No, please, please. Don’t hit me anymore. I am on fire. Oh God, let me
die. Aaaaagh. And I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. And as the last two or three
whips to my bottom did their worst I cried continuously. I was still crying as
they undid me. I was still crying as Dr Abele checked that my penis had
returned to a flaccid state and I was still crying as he pulled up my pants and
took me back to his consulting room. And if I was not crying as he lowered my
pants again and rubbed some lotion into my buttocks it is only because, by
then, I had no tears left to shed.
Sunday
20th 2.00 p.m.
I
have been very calm today. The pain of Friday is starting to fade and, apart
from a tenderness when I touch it, my bottom seems to have returned to normal.
The marks appear more savage than from the first caning but, in compensation,
the red lines have a ceaseless fascination. I went for a walk with my parents
this morning and, as my mother fed the eager ducks in the park, my father asked
me how I was feeling. Sore, I said, but apart from that I was fine. My father
remained silent for some minutes and then, hesitantly, told me about the one
occasion his father had beaten him. It had been unpleasant and painful but,
after it was all over, it engendered unhealthy thoughts and feelings. That is
why he had never chastised me and why he had written to Dr Petrov questioning
the treatment being applied. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that his objections
were two sessions too late.
Thursday
24th 3.15 p.m.
The
hospital issued a statement today. There had been an item in the evening paper
on Monday about Dr Petrov. Apparently a woman had contacted the paper regarding
the treatment being applied to her son. He was 22 and suffered from mild
depression. She was shocked when he told her that on the previous Friday he had
been beaten on his bare buttocks at the hospital. The paper had requested an
interview with Dr Petrov but he declined. On the following day the paper
recorded three other cases, including a young woman, who had received the same
treatment. They also reproduced an article from a medical journal outlining the
benefits of this unorthodox system. Yesterday their letters page was full of
correspondence praising or condemning the practice. Some were salacious or
riddled with wishful thinking but others were balanced and sensible. But
collectively, they had caused a local storm. And today the Chairman of the
hospital trust issued a statement declaring that, after consultation with Dr
Alexander Petrov, the practice of medically controlled canings had,
temporarily, been suspended. The procedure was based on sound principles but
the context and administration evoked strong and conflicting emotions in
western societies. Dr Petrov, a man much respected in his profession, had no
wish to undermine the confidence the community had in their local hospital and
the matter had therefore been placed under review. In the interim alternative
procedures would be enacted for the benefit of patients and the continued efficient
running of the department. Dr Abele was not mentioned.
Friday
25th 6.00 p.m.
I
should be at the hospital today getting my third treatment. I should be being
tied to that trestle and, as some assistant positions my bottom and lowers my
underpants, I should be getting sixty strokes of Dr Petrov’s National Health
canes. Or even, and this seems better, an even harder sixty from the black arm
of Dr Abele. But it isn’t to happen. I got a letter from the hospital today
cancelling my appointment and giving me a revised date for Wednesday week when
my case would be reviewed and alternative treatment offered. But this letter,
and the one to my father agreeing with his concern, fails to understand. Dr
Petrov is right. His treatment works. And I should know. I was only a third of
the way through my six sessions but the two canings of my bottom had released
all of my anger and frustration. I may have screamed, I may have begged for
release from the stinging pain as the canes lashed my naked backside, but the relief
and tears at its end induced a joy and serenity that were beyond my
comprehension. After two sessions my all pervading gloom was beginning to lift.
Sensitive fathers and, more pertinently, a sensitive public were to deny me the
completion of a method that was working for me. I looked at the letter again. The
appointment on Wednesday week was with Dr Mabuchi Abele.
Wednesday
week 9.30 p.m.
I
wasn’t sure how I was going to approach this. I arrived at Dr Abele’s waiting
room at 5.00 p.m. and my
heart was thumping. How was I going to tell him that I did not want any
alternative treatment? That all I desired was for him to cane my backside. I
clutched the letter to me and avidly re-read it. Was there a clue there, buried
deep in the text? ‘Dr Abele will discuss the various aspects of your case with
you and determine the required treatment relative to your needs and condition.’
It was all a bit bland but it left open the door for patient initiative. And
patients are not unknown for demanding certain courses of treatment. With these
thoughts dominating my mind I fretfully waited for the ring of Dr Abele’s
buzzer and the calling of my name. There were three other people in the waiting
room and my name was not attached to the sound of the buzzer until all had left.
I rose from my chair and, walking to his door, tentatively knocked. He called
me in and the dazzling white teeth and coal black face beamed in recognition.
And as he rose and held out his shirt sleeved arm for a handshake I registered
the rippling muscles that had, not long ago, been employed to special effect. I
sat down and he asked me how I was. I went straight for the jugular. I did not
agree with the hospital suspending my treatment, I did not agree with the
pusillanimous capitulation to public opinion, and I did not agree with
suggestions of alternative treatment. Dr Petrov was right. His methods worked.
And in telling Dr Abele all this I poured out all my sexual and emotional
frustrations. I poured every individual feeling of joy and surrender. Every
moment of excitement and fear. Every scream at every sting, and every tear and
blissful release of tensions. That cane on my bottom was a catharsis that I
desperately needed and desired. To be denied it was akin to a cancer patient
being denied an operation. Dr Abele watched me silently through my outburst
and, beaming a smile which lit the world, leaned over his desk towards me and
spoke. ‘And Dr Petrov and I agree with
you.’ He didn’t say anything else, just repeated those eight words. And as he
repeated them he was making it clear that neither he nor Dr Petrov had any
intention of denying the ‘Russian System’ to any who, in their opinion, needed
its application. And he made it clear that I came, very firmly, into that
capacity. The last words I can remember, the words that ring through my ears as
I write this, is the words he delivered as he rose from his desk and rolled up
the sleeve of his right arm. ‘Take off your clothes, Robbie, all of them,
including your underpants. And when you have done so, bend over my desk. And
stick out that bottom. As Dr Petrov often said, let the dog see the rabbit.’
And as he laughed and swished the cane he produced from his desk, I lowered my
jeans in joyful and fearful anticipation. That Dr Petrov clearly knew a thing
or two.
Alfred Roy (2006)
To Come in February:-
The Boston Landlady in London (F/m)
The Reluctant Schoolboy (F/M)