Monday 7 December 2015

A Study in Discipline (F/m)


Christmas is a coming and blogs, here and elsewhere, will take a back seat to all the usual festive rituals. Many years ago, far more than I care to remember, I went to a pre-Christmas spanking party. All males, young and old, subs and tops. The highlight was we young subs, I was then, getting a bare bottom spanking from the visiting Father Christmas. Never did discover who he was, even if our host did tease that he was well known in the theatrical field. In those days I was very much hooked on male disciplinarians. Ageing has meant I care not who smacks my bottom, so long as they do it with enthusiasm and finesse. An old male friend who last week gave me a traditional and annual festive caning when I delivered his gaudily wrapped presents reckons he has suspicions that I hanker more for the dominant mature female as I get older. He may be right. I said so as I pulled up my pants after eighteen sweet strokes across my naked behind. I certainly enjoy writing about them. Hence this story. Not festive, not seasonal. But ever appropriate to those who read my tales. Enjoy Christmas and, whether you get whacked or do the whacking, remember that in those blessed privacy moments when cane meets bottom all else in this world can be forgotten. Kinks have their uses. Happy New Year. Alfred Roy


A Study in Discipline

 

Two figures. A short moment in time. Thirty minutes. Less. Twenty seven. Twenty seven, that is all it took, from the moment he knocked and entered to the moment he left. She knew because of the clock on her wall. Two o’clock when he knocked on her door, two twenty seven when he closed it behind him as he left. He knew, the boy knew, because of the new watch his father had given him the previous Christmas. Proudly displayed on his wrist. Not so proud now, twenty seven minutes after he had entered her study, not now he had departed. Chastened, changed, confused.

 

The Headmistress  Ten minutes. Only ten minutes and he will be here. I have no regrets, none. He deserves all he is going to get. And he is old enough, or young enough. Thirteen, or he may be fourteen, is a good age to learn a salutary lesson. And this will be salutary. If he had not hit the girl I might have let him off. With a warning. Here in my study. If he had not hit her. But that alone deserves at least three strokes of my cane across his bottom. And then refusing to apologise, lying, that increased my anger and the possibility of more. More. Across his stubborn bottom. But then he hit her again, in my study, in my presence. It took all my will not to deal with him then and there. But calm reflection and just retribution is a wiser course and, with that hitting of the girl in my presence, the strokes of my cane and the manner of their delivery will increase. Two o’clock, nearly, he should soon be here. I think the cane on my desk and a strategically placed chair will convey the message admirably.

 

The Boy   I will get even with her. One day. I will make her suffer. She has led me here with her goading, her lying, her nasty nature, her spite and venom. We had never liked each other, a girl and boy consumed with inexplicable childhood hate, and when she kicked me in class that day I just snapped. And I am glad I did. And I am glad I did not apologise when that cow of a class teacher dragged us both to the headmistress. Her, the girl, so sweet and simpering, an angel wrapped in poison, and me a bemused and flustering boy. And when she said that I was always mocking her, always threatening her, I hit out again. In front of the chief cow. And if she had any sympathy for me, any inkling of the truth, it evaporated in that moment. But I have no regrets, even though her look and the girl’s triumphant smile told me I had blown it, I would hit her again and again in front of anyone who cares to watch. And sod the consequences. But they are now here, the consequences, as I approach the study door. Headmistress. A nice copper plate on a shiny brown oak door. My watch, my present from my father, says it is two o’clock. I knock, tentatively. I knock and curse. Not the headmistress, not me, not that cow of a teacher who sees not causes only consequences, but the girl. I will get even with her. One day.

 

She was ready now and she was resolved. Whatever the reasons, and she was astute enough to know that all battles have their reasons, the boy had no excuse. Hitting the girl in her study, not once, but twice to her head and her stomach, was beyond any pale. And with pure hatred. That shocked as much as the action. He must be taught a lesson. He must be taught that anger must be contained. She would be right to do what she intended to do. She had thought very carefully about it. Her own anger had been contained, would remain so, but she would teach his small bottom a lesson it would never forget. And in a manner that would remain in his memory. The door opened and interrupted her thoughts. She had not said come in but, glancing at the clock it was the subscribed time, and she rose from her desk and put on her most serious face. The boy looked very small and very fearful and, even though he mumbled, the gist was clear. You wanted to see me, Miss. That is all he said. The growing boy, not yet fourteen, looked at the towering headmistress, looked at his watch. It is two o’clock. The door silently closed. They were alone in her study. He saw the cane on the desk and gulped. He saw the chair in the centre of the room and gulped again. You wanted to see me. She looked at him, almost young enough to be her grandson if she had ever married, and shook her head. Yes, she said, I wanted to see you. After yesterday you gave me no choice. Somewhere in the distance they heard a girl’s laugh. If it was not the laugh of the girl who caused it all, it should have been.

 

The Headmistress  I shall not waste time. You know why you are here. Whatever the circumstances hitting that girl, in my presence, was totally unjustified. Anger has to be contained. Even in fourteen year old boys. I intend to cane you and I intend to cane you hard. You need to learn a lesson. I usually only give three or four strokes but, I am sorry, you have earned the full six. Six strokes of my cane across your bottom. And, given the circumstances, I think I am entitled to extract full retribution. You will lower your trousers and bend over that chair. As I said I intend to cane you hard and I intend each stroke to hurt. So you would do well to steel yourself and prepare yourself. Drop your trousers young man, and bend over the chair. Hopefully this will not take too long, but however long it takes it is truly earned.

 

Her words stunned her mind and, equally, their effect stunned the boy. She heard herself relishing in each syllable she uttered, enjoying the anticipation of the picture her mind conjured. Enjoying the look of distress and confusion which enveloped the boy as he absorbed the words. Lower your trousers, bend over the chair. Six strokes to his bottom, very hard. She saw tears well in his eyes, saw the lips tremble, a futile attempt to speak. Flushed in face. And then nothing. He gave a small shrug, a sign of resignation and acceptance, a desire to be done. He loosened his belt on his trousers and undid the buttons. Pushed the long grey trousers down to his knees and, reluctantly, bent himself over the chair sitting proud in the centre of the room. It had a low wooden back and fitted neatly against his waist. He steadied himself, put his hands on the chair seat, assumed the classic position. All was ready. And then, surprisingly, he released his hands from the seat and rose slightly. She thought he might be issuing a late and wasted plea for forgiveness. But no. He merely put his hands behind him and raised his pristine white shirt and then bent over again. This time, the second time of bending, the readiness of the assumed position was writ large. Small pale blue underpants clung to an equally small and vulnerable bottom. The raised shirt allowed for such a display, a display for which the boy was inexplicably keen. It may be a show of defiance, a suggestion of bravery, or a subtle prayer for gentleness. See what you are about to ravage. Whatever the ploy it did not, could not, work. The sight of those small twitching buttocks, tightly encased in the small cotton pants, merely fired the chastiser to an even greater resolve. She intended six strokes of her cane, very hard, and the gentle curve of the two boyish cheeks merely beckoned an increased eagerness. This caning was to be enjoyed.

 

The Boy   I shall not resist there is no point. I can see from her look, hear from her voice, that she is relishing what she intends to do. The other boy’s in the class said I would have to take my pants down. She was well known for it, if deserved. And all agreed mine was deserved. I would get six they said, possibly eight even though no one had ever had that many. But they knew of boys who had got six from her, pants down. On the bare. No one believed that bit. Getting six was bad enough. Six cane strokes on your bum. With your trousers down. But not bare. She wouldn’t do that would she? But who would tell if she did. Who would come out of her room and admit to that. Admit to being caned on the bare bum. From a woman built like a tank, large, forbidding, scary. Taking six was brave; taking six with your trousers down was acceptable. But on your bare bum, naked, from this woman, no one would tell that. So no one knew. But she has told me to take down my trousers and, now I have, I may as well steel myself. Lift my shirt, show her my pants. There they are Miss. My underpants, covering my bottom. A bottom you are going to cane. You may as well see what you are going to do. I know it will hurt, she said so, and so I might as well steel myself for it. Get ready. For your six strokes. Get ready and find out. Find out if it is true. Find out if you do take down boy’s underpants. If you do, sometimes, when deserved, cane boys on their bare bum. Cane them like that, knowing no one knows. Because no one will tell.

 

The Headmistress   He is very still. Even though he is breathing heavily and his small face is flushed he makes no movement. His hands grip the sides of the chair and his bottom remains raised and still. The back of the chair is exactly the right height for such discipline. It allows a small degree of comfort and yet presents the small backside ideally. I have caned many boys, and a few girls, in such a position over such a chair. All satisfactorily conducted. They can grip the legs as the pain enflames their bottoms. Most can take three or four strokes of my cane without rising; it is the last two that causes problems. Few can take six strokes, especially as hard as I intend to give these, without rising or at least loosening their grip. The desire to assuage the pain in their bottoms generally overcomes the wish to remain in place. I expect the same from this young man. Especially as his six strokes will be to his bare bottom. He deserves no less. I suspect he knows this and is the reason he, belatedly, lifted his shirt. He knows this is to be a serious caning. That is why he is still. Waiting, waiting for the last act. As I place my hands on the waistband of his underpants he shudders and slightly shifts his legs. He knows what is coming. He knows that I am going to peel down his underpants and expose his small bottom to my gaze. He knows, and he also knows that he cannot tell.

 

The Boy  It is happening. I can feel her fingers on the waistband of my underpants. I can smell her perfume, hear her subtle breathing. She is saying nothing yet. But she must, she must tell me what she is going to do. She must ready me for what is to come, it is her job. Her duty. I feel my underpants being peeled down, feel the cool air brush my bottom cheeks as they are exposed to her room. Her gaze. I feel the gentle sensation of my tiny pants being pulled down to my knees , why so far I ask myself, and as the freedom gifted my lower body makes itself felt I hear her words. They drift into my ears as a surge of blood pounds my head and a frightening, inexplicable, thrill consumes my being. I fear the pain to come but I am entranced by the expectation, the preparation. And the words. Cold, formal, deliberate. This is underpants down I am afraid, young man. I rarely cane a boy’s bare bottom but this is deserved. You will do well to stay still. It will make it easier for you. Six strokes, six strokes boy. And I do not intend to go easy. I absorb all this, all these words, I cannot see I only sense. I look ahead, gripping the chair, trousers and pants around my knees, my naked bottom in the air. Waiting to be caned I hear all these cold and formal words. And I do not intend to go easy on you. She repeats her threat and, as she does so, I feel the sensation of a cold and threatening cane placed across the centre of my bottom. I feel faint, I feel my bladder weaken, I cannot get my breath. I am hot, cold, scared, vulnerable. I feel the cane press into both my cheeks, across my crack, and sense that soon there will be a flight of pain. I close my eyes.

 

 

This is underpants down I am afraid, young man. There, she has said it and actioned it, there can be no going back. She has said the words and carried out their meaning. She peeled down the underpants, the soft and pale blue cotton, to reveal an equally soft and pale bottom. Two twinkling delicate cheeks not designed for pain. She held her breath, ignoring her interest. Her voice was calm, restrained. Measured, hiding all emotion.  I rarely cane a boy’s bare bottom but this is deserved. Well deserved she thought, a duty. Not to be enjoyed. You will do well to stay still. It will make it easier for you. It would, but would it make it easier for her. Six strokes, six strokes boy. And I do not intend to go easy. He moved, twisted his small body, bent and prone. The cheeks twitched in anticipation. She sensed, heard, his distress. A distress increased as she placed the cane across the centre of his bare bottom and tapped, signalling that the pain imagined was soon to be real. He cried, a small cry but audible. It was time. She raised the cane, high, measured the distance, and struck. She was well experienced, she had done such before. It should not take long.

 

The boy screamed, a combining gasp and roar, as the first stroke of the cane cut his bare flesh. The effect surprised her, the Headmistress, the pain engulfed the boy. Searing, cutting, pain which fired across both of his buttocks and instantly travelled to his brain. For a second she thought he might faint, or rise, cover his bottom with his hands as he issued a tearful plea to be let off. But he did none of these things and through the gasping and groaning merely hung on to the chair as if his life depended on it. A thin red scar rose across his naked skin, flashing a mark aimed well and true. A bottom caned, albeit only one stroke. She relaxed and steadied the cane once again against the boy’s bottom, now twitching fervently, and with a deft flick delivered the second stroke. Still across the centre of the small round target and still with the fire she knew he deserved. He cried again but, this time, as the new pain vied with the old he seemed to absorb the shock and merely twisted his legs in an indication that she had found her mark. And he gasped and twisted again as she struck him twice more, one slighter lower and one slightly higher, and took his caning to the homeward journey. A slight pause as she studied him and, almost caringly, allowed him to gather himself for the final two cuts. As an indication of the pause and a warning of what was still to come she lifted his school shirt a little higher up his back. His bottom, a bottom which looked so pure and unsullied only a few minutes before, now blazed four fiery marks of chastisement. The deep scarlet lines contrasted painfully with the surrounding white skin of the soft backside. It would soon heal, soon fade, but not before she had completed her task. A task she knew had to be done. She touched the cane against the ravaged skin and tapped, taking care to avoid the existing lines. Lines she had painted on a deserving bottom. The boy stiffened, readied himself, knew what was to come and screamed again, twice, as strokes five and six cut into his fourteen year old bottom. These were the hardest two; both knew that, the evidence was there. The evidence, the aftermath, the gradual dying of the painful and tearful scene. Six strokes, four hard and two harder, on the boy’s bare bottom. It had to end as it did. And from first stroke to last had been no more than four minutes. But it seemed much longer.

 

The Boy   I had to rise. I had to get up. I had to clutch my bottom and rub for all I was worth. I could see in her face that she was displeased but I did not care. Did not care that she could see my lower nakedness, could see my boyish penis and ravaged bottom as I skipped around her room. All I cared was that the pain in my bum, the intense throb of those last two strokes, should subside as my tears should subside. And I did not care that I had wet myself. The shock of those last two cuts to my bum had caused that. It was her fault. She had done this to me, induced tears and everything through scorching pain to my bottom. I doubted if the pain would ever go, doubted if the marks would ever fade. Hard ridges registered in my fingers, I owned a bottom I was convinced would never heal. And she just stands there, watching me, the woman who did this. Caned my bare bottom. And I could never, would never, tell. As I stroked my burning bum I hated her almost as much as I hated that girl. Just for that moment I hated her.

 

The Headmistress   He will calm down. In a few minutes. They always do. Once the pain begins to ease the cavorting will cease. Boys are very resilient, more so than girls. I regret his loss of control but such a shock to his bottom can create such problems, albeit in his case only momentarily. Girls can be much worse. But I have no other regrets. This caning, delivered as it was, was well deserved. He may not ever thank me but, as he examines those marks, he may grudgingly admit to himself that I had no choice. And he will examine them, boys always do, he is touching the ridges now, fascinated, even though consumed by pain and tears. And that pain, as usual, diverts any shame. He is not aware that as he rubs his backside he displays all his lower nakedness. Girls always rush to cover up, whatever the circumstances, boys care only for the assuaging of the fire I have created in their bottoms. And boys, this boy, have such nice bottoms. If one has to cane, as I sometimes do, it is nice to have a pleasing bottom. He will calm down, the tears will subside, the rubbing and cavorting will cease. Gradually. And then I shall tell him to pull up his pants. To cover that nice bottom. Boys never do, until you tell them. I often wonder why.

 

 

The door closed, separating boy and woman. Thirty minutes. Less. Twenty seven. Twenty seven, that is all it took, from the moment he knocked and entered to the moment he left. She knew because of the clock on her wall. Two o’clock when he knocked on her door, two twenty seven when he closed it behind him as he left. Only four of those twenty seven minutes had any true meaning. For four of those twenty seven minutes a vicious cane had struck the tender and naked bottom of the boy. The rest had been listening, preparing, bending, reacting, dressing, listening. A woman’s cane, a bending boy. A bottom raised, naked and ready, a rod hovering in flight. Six strokes, six searing moments of intense cutting pain, six fleeting stabs of agony. Well deserved. She said so, the girl would say so. Maybe, later, when he examined and touched those painful marks, he would say so. Maybe much late in life, when he was grown and mature, he would remember the day his headmistress caned his naked bottom and feel a warm and satisfying flush. Maybe. But just now, at fourteen, he doubted. Twenty seven minutes after he entered her room, her study, he had left. His watch said so. Chastened, confused, subdued. A fire still in his backside. The memory of that would never change. And like many boys before him in that study, naked bottoms caned, he could never tell.

 

 

Alfred Roy (c) 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday 1 November 2015

Four Voices (M/m)


Four Voices

(A sequel to ‘The Games Club’)

Part One

Neil Wallington had never forgotten his twelve stroke caning. Never forgotten any detail of his meeting Ronnie Nailles at the Chess Club and how, subsequently, a transgression of the club rules had led to his backside being severely caned. When you are nineteen such experiences remain fixed in the memory. That momentous event, witnessed by two committee members, was sandwiched between two private meetings between the seventy year old ex Supt Nailles and the young chess expert when strategic play and sexuality were interestingly explored. Afternoon teas were never so heady and promising. Knight to King checkmate was ritualistically followed by heavenly sensual spankings. Only the committee sanctioned caning, cold and clinical and procedural, coloured the memories. When Neil Wallington, fresh from his first year of University, arrived back in his home town it was natural that his thoughts turned to these past events. Turned back to Superintendant Ronnie Nailles and the Chess Club. Both were well overdue for a visit.

He studied the club membership board. A few names had changed, a couple of additions and one or two deleted, but Ronnie Nailles name was still there. He had phoned him twice but there was no response, not even an answer phone on which to leave a message. He thought of calling round but decided, membership still active, that a visit to the club may bring forth dividends. A year into university, a year older, he was less nervous than on his first visits. And he comforted himself that only the committee knew of his caning and only three, including a small and pompous Chairman, had been party to it. It was that same small and self important voice which spoke as Neil studied the membership board. When he turned in response to a piping query, the sweating and flushed face told him that the same face had no doubt been studying his jean clothed backside and evoking a long lost and significant memory.

‘Master Wallington, how nice to see you. It has been a long time. What brings you here tonight?’

‘I was hoping to see Ronnie. Mr Nailles.’

The Chairman smiled, a knowing smile rich in past memories.

‘Not to play chess then?’

Neil Wallington blushed, already less comfortable than when first arriving.

‘That as well. Is he no longer a member?’

‘Oh yes, but he hasn’t been in for a while. I think he is visiting relatives in Scotland.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not due back for some weeks, so I believe.’

Neil Wallington tried to hide his disappointment. He did not particularly like the fussy and oleaginous Chairman and, seeing so few members, was afraid he might offer a game. It would be a rare offer as the officious man studiously avoided taking on the better players and Neil Wallington was in a different expertise league to most. Frankly he did not particularly wish to play with anyone other than his Mr Nailles but it nevertheless came as some small relief when a vaguely familiar younger member joined them and volunteered a game. Neil did not know his name but the prospective opponent clearly knew him. There was an over familiarity in the use of his Christian name and a suggestion, during play, that he also knew other things about him. That was realised at the end of an absorbing, if one sided, game that Neil completed with the demolition of the man’s queen and two castles.

‘You have not lost your touch, Master Wallington. Ronnie would be well pleased.’

‘I play at University, mostly friendlies but the occasional competition.’

‘Ah. Competitions. We changed our rules because of you.’

The man smiled, knowingly and mischievously, and Neil suddenly realised who he was. He was the legal committee member who witnessed his caning. Neil had hardly registered him on that momentous Sunday morning at the Chairman’s house. Sat well away from the action his slender, anonymous, frame was eclipsed by the theatricality of the event. And he left the room the moment the last cane stroke had been delivered. Fear and tears had erased him from Neil’s mind. And now he was calmly playing him at chess.

‘I’m sorry, but I have just realised who you are.’

‘I wondered how long it would take. You did raise an eyebrow when I said that, being so good, it would be a special event to see you being beaten. But even there, the thought died. So I presumed you did not remember me.’

‘I don’t. Well I do, but only vaguely.’

‘Hardly surprising, in the circumstances. I am Maurice by the way. And I have Mr Nailles mobile number, if you want it.’

The man smiled, and it was an engaging smile. And for the first time that evening Neil Wallington relaxed. The man, Maurice, was in his late thirties. Serious, but with an attractive smile, he oozed intelligence and perception. The club’s legal eagle was how Neil remembered him. A witness to a caning he considered dubious in both its invention and execution. But whatever his views it had clearly made an impression and seeing Neil at the club again had stirred old and unexpected memories. Hence the offer of a game. He said this and then, unexpectedly, added an interesting coda.

‘Ronnie and I discussed that Sunday morning, long afterwards. I was intrigued.’

‘In what way?’

‘Why you agreed, or more to the point why Mr Nailles was so confident you would agree?’

‘Was it that unusual?’

‘Well yes, actually Neil it was. When it was raised in committee my instant reaction was that no boy, in this modern age, would agree to such a thing. Twelve strokes of a cane across his bare backside. Very Victorian. But Ronnie was confident.’

‘The alternative was being expelled. I had broken the rules by playing in the club tournament.’

‘Well yes, but even so....’

Maurice’s quiet voice trailed off, considering his options, a legal mind feverishly at work. He chose his next question carefully.

‘I assumed, on balance, that such things you had experienced before. Is that right?’

Neil Wallington also considered his options. He was warming to this man but felt the need to tread carefully. He did not know, at this delicate stage, how much his Ronnie Nailles had revealed.

‘I think you should ask Supt. Nailles that question.’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘He said that the young were very strange. They had fixations.’

‘Fixations?’

‘Crushes, if you like. That is how he explained it.’

‘Oh.’

‘And he also said you were not averse to having your bottom tanned.’

Neil Wallington blushed.

‘In the right circumstances. Don’t worry. I know of such things. Especially where young men and older, authoritative, figures are concerned.’

Maurice paused and smiled.  

‘He did not say but I formed the impression that you and he indulged in such practices.’

As Maurice said this he set up the board for a second game. Played mainly in silence, Neil Wallington did not particularly enjoy it. Even his pleasure at an easy win was subdued. The man, friendly but sharp, had unnerved him. Incipient submissive attraction vied with guilty thoughts regarding Ronnie Nailles. Maurice seemed discreet but, now he had returned, chess club gossip may take unwanted turns. He declined the offer of a third game, and a sociable drink, and confined himself to a simple question. Long registered in his mind.

‘You said you had Supt Nailles’ mobile number. Can I have it?’

Thirty minutes later, drinking in refreshing external air, Neil phoned the man who had rarely been out of his thoughts in twelve months of hothouse university life. Two weeks later he was in his house and whatever else was on the menu, chess and sumptuous food, a burning backside was clearly going to be the main course.

‘Maurice was very inquisitive, if my spies relate it right. I think you have tweaked his interests, young man.’

‘I have no desire to be tanned by him, as he puts it. Or anyone, for that matter. Being spanked by you is different.’

Ronnie Nailles smiled.

‘Your year at university seems to have given you confidence Master Wallington. Do I take it that you are coming to terms with your strange sexuality?’

It was now Neil Wallington’s turn to smile.

‘It is not that strange sir. I found that out.’

‘Ah.’

‘CP clubs. Tops and bottoms is a thriving industry.’

‘And did you indulge?’

Neil Wallington did not answer. He did not need to. The watery wistful look in his eyes told Ronnie Nailles all he needed to know. Dinner had gone well and the conversation had been stimulating. So much to catch up on. And when the washing up was finished and all cooking implements stored away both men, or boy and man, indulged in their special pleasure. Two bottles of a delicate red wine and heady conversation fuelled their mutual desire. Jeans divested and underpants pulled down, Neil Wallington placed himself over Ronnie Nailles knee and suffered and succoured a long overdue, heavenly, spanking. A spanking he had been hoping for and waiting for many a month. Consumed with desire as manly hands both embraced and chastised it was impossible for Neil to contain his submissive passion. For the first time, almost as if he knew that the relationship had changed, Ronnie Nailles rough and large hands caressed the delicately soft balls and erect penis of his boy. The hardness pressing on his knees contrasted with the soft naked and burning skin of the beautifully formed and bouncing buttocks. It would be cruel, or so he thought, to deny Neil Wallington the ultimate pleasure. So he gently stroked the being of the boy, still prone over his knee. Hands played on the warm and rigid shaft and, finally and inevitably, the boy came. He came a prodigious all enveloping flood, spurting his delayed passion in moments of joyous, uncontrollable, release. His being twitched and spent the last few drops as the manly hands gently played an intimate tune on both his penis and his balls. And as Ronnie Nailles continued to stroke the gradually dying rod and caressed, yet again, the burning skin of the best behind of the chess club he realised that for both of them things would never be the same.

‘You do know that Maurice has designs on you.’

They were finishing off the second of two bottles of expensive red wine and silence had rained between them. Ronnie Nailles made his surprising statement very quietly.

‘Oh yes, young man. Your caning affected him, I think you can say it turned him on. People are so surprising.’

‘I got that impression when we played chess. Does he want to spank me?’

‘No, no. Not that.’

‘I would say no anyway, sir.’ Neil Wallington paused and blushed suitably. ‘What has just happened, what you did, is only right with you.’

‘I know Neil. But Maurice suspects something. It is his legal mind. He won’t pursue it, far too civilised, but he has a hankering....’

Ronnie Nailles tailed off, considering his words carefully.

‘......you being caned, at the chairman’s house, played havoc with him. I gathered that over the following weeks. Constant questions and admissions. Quite funny really.’

Neil Wallington looked very intense. It was a while before he spoke.

‘And?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘No.’

‘He wants to cane you. Been obsessed by the idea. Told me so as soon as you came back. Can’t say I am surprised. You have the most desirable bottom’

Neil Wallington laughed. He made no response to Supt Nailles observation but he laughed. It was only when he was later playing their subsequent conversation over in his mind that a serious turn in imaginations induced both a thrill and a fear. Maurice would like, very much, to cane him. Serious, for real. As it was that Sunday morning. The Sunday morning when he suffered so much pain. And humiliation. But Neil Wallington had moved on since then, the joys of the corporal punishment scene fired by visits to Manchester clubs. If Ronnie Nailles had first kindled then flamed strange desires in his being, visits to those clubs confirmed his submissive sexuality. From being spanked to being caned was such a short step. But for his being to be thrilled in heavenly anticipation, especially if a cane was to strike his backside, required a scenario both realistic and scary. Being spanked by Ronnie Nailles, especially when those wonderful hands got to work on his private bits, was a joyful pleasure. Being caned was, or could be, excruciatingly painful. It was the preparation, the ritual, the aftermath, this made it all worthwhile. Neil Wallington now knew that. The thought of being caned on his bare backside was like a drug to him. Even thinking about it gave him an erection. But it needed that ritual, that tantalising possibility that it may not happen. The chance, however slight, that dropping his pants for a searing whacking may be deferred or cancelled. It was an essential part of the scenario that played in Neil Wallington’s fevered mind. And it needed to be real. The caner, not the caned, in control. Maurice could cane him, scarily willing as he was, but only if he first beat him at chess.

‘So, let me get this right, if Maurice beats you at chess you will let him cane you?’

‘Best of five. Yes.’

‘But, given that you are willing to be caned, will you not ensure Neil that you will lose?’

Master Wallington smiled at Ronnie Nailles. He had readied himself for this question from the moment he had framed in his mind his strange proposition.

‘No. Definitely not. I have not forgotten what I went through that weekend.’

‘But the idea turns you on?’

‘Yes. Your fault really. I got caned a couple of times at that club I told you about and I hated it. It was all done too willingly, in fun. Lots of pain, but little else.’

Ronnie Nailles sensed there was more to come and waited.

‘But one of the blokes took me to his home for a weekend. He lived with his step father. On a small farm, just a few sheep and pigs. We had a great time but rather overdid the booze.’

Neil Wallington blushed. Whether this was through embarrassment or excitement at the retelling Ronnie did not know. But he waited patiently.

‘We were not flavours of the month at breakfast. Got told in no uncertain terms that when the sun went down, that was his words, we would be taken to his attic and caned.’

‘And were you?’

‘Yes. As promised. Pants down, everything, bare backside. Twelve strokes each. In front of each other.’

‘Interesting.’

‘It was amazing. Not the caning, hurt like hell. But everything else. The waiting, the build up to it, the being sent to his attic. Being told to take our pants down and bending over. And afterwards. The reliving it all. Amazing’

‘He sounds like an interesting man.’

‘He was, is. Very nice, and was perfectly normal afterwards. I questioned my friend the next time I saw him and he said he is a lovely bloke. Not really into CP apparently, that surprised me, but....’

‘But what?’

‘But he always seemed to find a reason to get out his cane whenever a friend stayed for the weekend. I was the fourth one to suffer with him he said. Got to the point that he would be disappointed if nothing happened.’

‘Now that is very interesting.’

In fact musing on it later, Ronnie Nailles considered it especially interesting both in regard to Neil’s strange tale and to an additional glimpse into his ever growing complex sexuality. Clearly the boy was a gilt edged submissive. And, as Ronnie reflected, he had unearthed desires in himself that surprised. He thoroughly enjoyed spanking the boy and, he admitted to himself, caning him had been a tremendous turn on. What he did not know until recently was that the club legal eagle, Maurice, had been similarly affected. Must be something about the English psyche, because their illustrious chairman had equally devoured the scenario. Clearly caning a delectable male backside, young and firm and bare, released emotions few knew they possessed. It was with all this in mind that Ronnie Nailles set up the very special chess match. At the club. Best of five. With the club Chairman as arbiter. All in the club were intrigued and most watched. But none, other than the two players and the two officiating, knew what was at stake. They just thought it was a routine challenge match, probably with a small side stake, after all Maurice was one of the best players until Neil Wallington came along. None could have known and few could have guessed. Neil and Maurice were playing for something that even fewer could have imagined. A boy’s backside.

Neil lost. That sounds inevitable given the strange stakes. One desirous of caning and the other desirous of bending his form. But it was not as straight forward as that. Nervousness on both sides led to many mistakes and after three games Neil was an uneasy two one ahead. Whatever the reasons Maurice won the fourth game easily, Ronnie convinced that Neil threw it, but early honours were even in the deciding match. Both players knowing what was at stake raised the tension and if chess pride and submissive desire played havoc with Neil’s emotions he did not let it show. He was well on top when, unexpectedly and stridently, the chairman announced him out of time. Game forfeited a flushed and pompous judge triumphantly proclaimed. Maurice is the winner. A stunned silence followed, not least from the growing number of watchers. Neil pushed the board away in disgust and left the room. Seething. It was only after much discussion between the other three men that Ronnie Nailles joined him in the car park. He lit his pipe and waited for Neil to speak.

‘That was unfair.’

‘I don’t think so Neil. The Chairman did say, out the outset, that if the match went to a decider time rules would apply.’

‘He should have reminded us. I’d forgotten by then.’

‘A small oversight, I agree.’

‘A bloody large one.’

‘Don’t swear Neil, it doesn’t suit you.’

‘I’ll swear as much as I like. I have been stitched up. Well it won’t work. Maurice whatever his name is can find someone else to whack. I’m not playing ball.’

Ronnie Nailles studied his boy, face reddened and angry, for a considerable time. Disciplinary fantasies could not compete with chess honour in his young being. He was aggrieved and, quietly, Ronnie Nailles thought justly so. To be caned for losing at chess would tick his complex submissive boxes. To be tricked, as he undoubtedly was, gave any future scenario an unpalatable taste. Much as Neil desired to be caned the circumstances needed a ring of verisimilitude. Witness the farming stepfather and his attic. Ronnie Nailles chose his words carefully. Much would be unspoken but, if he trod with wisdom, all would be satisfied. Including Neil Wallington.

‘If you refuse to be caned by Maurice, as you certainly may, you will of course leave me no choice.’

Ronnie Nailles paused and looked severely at his friend.

‘I will have to cane you myself.’

‘You?’

One word, but already Ronnie sensed the growing tension in the boy’s body.

‘Yes. I shall cane you for not honouring the agreement. And with me, as you know from experience, there is no negotiation.’

‘But that’s not fair.’

‘Oh eminently fair, Neil. You will have reneged on a contract. However mitigating the circumstances you will have let me down.’

Ronnie paused and smiled.

‘A bit like you let down your friend’s step father.’

Neil Wallington looked at Ronnie Nailles, ex Chief Supt Ronnie Nailles, as suddenly he understood. And in understanding a flow of warmth spread through his being. His breath became shallow and a surge of anticipatory desire encased his loins. Desire and fear at what was to come. When he spoke, and it seemed a long time, his voice was cracked and trembling.

‘I will be caned by you sir. I have no choice if, as you say, I have let you down.’

‘You have no choice Neil. So go home and await my call.’

 

Part Two

Four different people had four differing thoughts regarding Neil Wallington’s second disciplinary caning. Maurice, the legal observer thwarted in his desire to administer the intended pain. The oleaginous Chairman, flushed with importance and voyeurism, thrilled at a reprise of a momentous Sunday adventure. Ronnie Nailles, the enigmatic Chief Superintendant, fired by his care for the boy and his puzzling eagerness to cane his bare backside for a second time. And Neil Wallington himself? Tormented by both a desire and fear engendered by the pseudo reality of the situation. A special drama was about to be re-enacted. In the Chairman’s house on a selected Sunday morning. Ronnie Nailles had told Neil this, over the phone, and all reflected on what that morning would mean.

‘We have agreed on this Sunday, Neil.’

‘Already?’

He sounded understandably nervous.

‘No point in delaying. I’ll pick you up and take you to the Chairman’s house. 11.00 o’clock.’

Ronnie Nailles paused.

‘Proceedings commence at 12 noon. Apparently our beloved Chairman wants to entertain you first.’

Neil was puzzled and said so. There was amusement in Ronnie’s reply.

‘He doesn’t want things rushed. An aperitif I think. Very civilised.’

‘Just the three of us?’

‘No. Maurice is coming. I hope you don’t mind but in the circumstances....’

Neil laughed ruefully.

‘Needs to get something out of it I suppose. I don’t mind.’

‘No. I didn’t think you would, which is why I did not object.’

‘But that’s all? Not the full committee?’

‘No just us four.’

Ronnie Nailles paused and then his voice lowered a tone and became serious.

‘As before Neil, we discussed it in some detail.’

‘The cane. Your cane, by you. On my bare bum.’

‘Yes....but’

‘What?’

There was a silence.

‘What Ronnie? Sir?’

‘Eighteen Neil. We agreed eighteen. Given the seriousness. Maurice wanted twenty four....’

‘But you agreed eighteen. All on my bare backside. Should I say thank you?’

Ronnie ignored this, the barbed response.

‘Let’s just say you can thank me later, the next time you come for tea’

‘Which if the last time is anything to go by will not be for a few weeks. See you Sunday. Sir.’

With that the phones went down. Both were sweating. One in fear and anticipation, the other merely in desire for an unexplainable promise.

 

Maurice Jones was sweating with excitement. He had never forgotten the picture in the Chairman’s house that previous year. Initially dubious in regard to legality and practicality, Neil Wallington’s twelve stroke caning from Supt Nailles had played havoc with his usually calm demeanour. Much as he tried he had never expunged the picture from his mind. The boy bent over, naked from the waist down, the beautiful young buttocks twitching in nervous anticipation, the cane hovering and eager to do its work. The intensity as it did. The howling, the raised weals, the twisting and turning revealing all of the boy’s being, all registered and enthralled. A desire for air made him leave the room immediately the caning was completed. A desire to do the same to the boy, or some other boy, continued to torment. The feelings shocked him but would not dispel. And it almost came to be when Neil Wallington returned to the chess club. But to observe, if not to partake, was better than not being there. And this time, this time, Maurice Jones would not flee for air. This time, he resolved, he would stay and drink in all that was revealed. Every drop, until the last moment when the boy pulled back on his pants. This time he would savour every second.

The Chairman was almost of similar ilk. Wallington’s first caning, arranged in a quasi judicial manner, was an item to be savoured. Such a delightful boy, such a nice bottom, and such a wonderful beating by Mr Nailles. And much as the boy protested he never attempted to rise. That struck the Chairman almost as much as all else. The pain to his backside must have been excruciating but he had willed himself to take it. Ronnie Nailles had said he would and he was right. Having his bottom beaten was a desperate need, whatever the pain. It was what made the picture bearable as well as stimulating. An unwilling participant in his house would have made it all unsavoury. Especially to a man acutely conscious of his position. But Wallington never protested, never tried to cry off, however much he howled, however much he squirmed, each stroke of Mr Nailles cane across his bare backside was absorbed and suffered. And now it was to be repeated, eighteen rather than twelve, and the self important Chairman was, once again, to be a front row spectator. Little, these days, twitched in his ageing being but the prospect before him engendered an unfamiliar tingle. The sight and sound of strange disciplinary pleasures fired, obliquely, officious and predatory enthusiasm. And unlike Maurice, flushed and excited, his only desire was to watch.

Neil Wallington, if he thought of such things on that fateful Sunday morning, did not share either Maurice or the Chairman’s confidence. Fear and anticipation both stilled and thrilled his being. He knew he was hooked on CP, knew that the whole ritual fired him, knew that passion would surge through him as he bent over the Chairman’s small disciplinary table and his shorts and underpants were taken down. He knew that the familiar feeling of helplessness, vulnerability and humiliating exposure were something he constantly wished for. The nakedness of his skin, the revealing of his backside, the expectation of pain. All combined to prepare him for what was in store. He knew that but he also knew that the pain which followed would be almost unbearable. Could he take eighteen strokes of his sturdy cane from the man who constantly dominated his thoughts, the man who in other situations brought gentle spankings to his behind and even gentler caresses to his boyhood. He would try, he would will it, he would close his eyes, hold back his tears and as he squirmed at each vicious stroke across his bottom think of the aftermath. The relief, the subsiding of pain, the easing of the throb in his rear, the gentle touching of the weals and ridges. He would think of those ridges, red and stark, as his Mr Nailles did his worst. Eighteen times. On his naked bum. He would think of those.

Ronnie Nailles stroked his crotch. Two hours before collecting Neil and already he had a tumescence that both amused and surprised. Long past seventy such feelings had rarely figured in his later life until Neil Wallington emerged from the shadows of the chess club and sparked an enthusiasm both denied and unrecognised. Until then. But now surges of desire were becoming more familiar. He took great pleasure at spanking the boy, such a delectable firm and bouncy bottom, and did not even mind giving him the release that he fervently needed the last time he took him over his knee. It was fun, and at his age he found little, and an interesting and harmless coda to their chess games and sumptuous teas. All prosaic and private. But what had truly fired him, had truly made the juices flow, was caning Neil’s backside. Last year in the Chairman’s house. Almost judicial. Stimulating, exciting, so much so he was almost ashamed. Especially as the boy squealed and howled as each stroke cut into his bare flesh. But he never rose and later, much later, he thanked him for it. And since then he had learnt much more about his Master Wallington. The boy desperately needed to be caned but only with all the parental or judicial paraphernalia. He had wanked himself silly after his experience in the attic with his friend’s farming stepfather. Neil had told Ronnie that. And Ronnie had smiled and said that maybe the opportunity to create that scenario would arise again. Well it had. Eighteen this time. Eighteen strokes of the cane he had never dispensed with from his schoolmaster days. Eighteen strokes of the cane across the bare backside of his favourite boy. Ronnie Nailles stroked his crotch again. He was almost hard.

 

Neil Wallington stood still and firm in that room so familiar. Large and sumptuously furnished it had been the setting of his first caning. And now, wine and sandwiches dismissed, it was a clean stage for a strange drama. The self important Chairman of the Chess Club, inappropriately attired in expensive business suit, sat behind his large desk. A flushed face mirrored the deep red wall coverings which gave the room, his magnificent study, its sombre feel. To his left, slightly distant on a comfortable dining chair, sat the equally formal Maurice. This time he would have a ringside seat. To their right stood Ronnie Nailles, serious and determined and unlike the other two, dressed in casual brown top and tight fitting jeans. In front of the Chairman’s table was the small square table, three feet by three and under three feet high, over which Neil Wallington would bend for his eighteen stroke caning. He stood to the side of it, ready, dressed as required after the unnervingly civilised aperitifs. The three adults were clothed authoritatively, suits and casual, he was in the regulatory shorts and vest. Orange top, black shorts, reminiscent of some favoured football club. Nothing else other than his small black underpants and socks. The former, Calvin Klein with orange trimmings, especially chosen by Neil even if he knew not why. For eighteen strokes black seemed appropriate. He felt the headiness of the wine he had drunk as he stood there, a full glass followed by a small top up, unwise probably. The Chairman and Maurice had also indulged, copiously. Dutch courage? But only to watch. Ronnie Nailles had drunk none. In the drinking stakes he was the outsider. He had a job to do. And that was plain for all to see. Serious, determined, standing and sober, he held the cane. Neil Wallington glanced at him and, when bid, bent over the table thinking as he did so that the cane and the man were almost as one. If one had to be caned, he thought as he lowered his body, then that is the man to do it. Pain is never sweet, but such a man makes it bearable.

The words had spun in his befuddled head before he assumed the required position. You know why you are here?....Yes, yes.....You reneged on a contract...Yes..yes....You refused to honour your agreement with Maurice....Yes..yes....yes sir....But in such dishonouring you accept Supt Nailles punishment.....Yes...yes...Mr bloody Chairman....Eighteen strokes of the cane. Eighteen strokes of the cane across your bare backside. Eighteen strokes with no break, no remission. Yes...yes and thrice yes. Yes sir, sirs, I accept my punishment. Then bend over, bend over the table, bend over boy and Mr Nailles will prepare you.

Mr Nailles will prepare you. As he heard these words Neil Wallington leant forward and bent himself over the small table and waited. All was silence in the room. He sensed rather than saw Ronnie Nailles walk towards him. Rough hands were placed on his waist and the shirt, the incongruous orange shirt, was lifted slightly and tucked in. Bare skin, no more than a few inches, was revealed for the watchers. The lower back, between the raised orange shirt and the black trunks, felt the morning air. All waited. The suffering Neil, bent and tense, the watchful Chairman and legal committee member, all held collective breath. Slowly, almost gently and tantalisingly, Ronnie Nailles, placed his fingers in the waistband of Neil’s shorts and firmly pulled them down to his knees. He then repeated the action, much more slowly and with subtle tenderness, on the tight Calvin Klein underpants of rich black with orange trim. Neil’s bare bottom, smooth and pink and hairless and bouncy as all would later say, displayed all its glory. The twin peaks of a perfectly formed boy’s bottom glistened in the sombre and richly furnished room. This was what all were there to see. And all sighed, one at the sensation and three at the sight. Nineteen, or was he twenty, year old Neil bent and ready with his pants down and his shirt lifted for eighteen strokes of an unforgiving cane across his bare behind. And across that bare behind, twitching and clenching in fearful anticipation, the cold cane of Ronnie Nailles was laid. The shiny wooden length stretched across both of the boyish buttocks and signalled its painful intentions. Eighteen strokes boy, eighteen Neil, and I intend them to hurt. This is well deserved. All sighed at the words, all gasped, and Neil, conscious of all the sensations felt and words sighed gasped longer than anyone in the room. The cane pressed into his bottom flesh, tapped twice and pressed again, and after that would come the first dreaded swing and thrust of a savage cut that would make a bottom mark and blaze, a boy scream, and willing watchers thrill. It is little wonder that manly juices stirred in all in that room. And all for differing reasons.

Maurice felt a surge of desire in his lower being. Both for the bottom revealed and the hovering cane. One, alone, would not engender these feelings but the prospect before him, a savage cane causing havoc on virgin flesh, was heady in its power. He had never forgotten the first time, torturing as it was to his conscience, and this time he intended to devour every stroke, every squirm, and every howl. The Chairman, sweating and still, could not take his eyes off Neil’s bottom. Beautifully curved, beautifully pure, it engendered feelings in the officious man that he had spent a lifetime denying. And, as a bonus, about to be caned. Those lovely virgin twin cheeks, wobbling in tension and fear, were to be fired with lines of scholastic venom of a sort that he had not witnessed since his own school days. The first time it had happened, a year before, he had floated in middle aged ecstasy for nigh on a week. And this repeat was both desired and wanted. He could not indulge in such things himself but, obliquely, with Nailles and Wallington he did not need to. They had opened a door to his soul with their strange relationship and if, at his age, passion did not harden it nevertheless stirred. He could not wait for the caning to begin. Not so Neil, bent and bare from the waist down and trembling with fear for the pain to come. Eighteen strokes to endure, eighteen and all would cut viciously. He knew that from previous experiences. He closed his eyes and tried to cut out the three men, concentrating only on surviving his ordeal but aware, so aware, of the vulnerability of his situation. He sensed the air on his backside, the heavenly freedom of his semi-tumescent penis and balls, the submission of his body to the man he most admired and cared for. And he felt the cane, the cold cane, press against his bottom and knew that he must endure it all for him. Whatever the pain, whatever the anguish, he must endure it. He clenched his hands, screwed his eyes even more tightly closed, and willed his bottom to be brave and strong. This was it, no going back, and in spite of his fear he would not have it any other way. Ronnie Nailles waited for the boy to stop wriggling, waited for the signs that all was ready, waited for the bottom to subtly rise in beckoning. Much as he loved this lad he had to admit to himself that a quasi judicial caning, as this was, released a strange pleasure that was both difficult to control and understand. The joy at whacking such a lovely arse, a naked and bouncy and youthful arse, and a willing one when all was said, eclipsed all other feelings. He knew that from the first time. And this time he would lay the cane on even harder, all eighteen. His Master Wallington, his bent and semi naked Master Wallington, would know that he had been caned. All in the room wanted it that way. Maurice, the Chairman, Neil, and himself. Ronnie Nailles steadied the cane, tapped gently on the bare and peach like skin of the loveliest boy cheeks he had ever seen, and with a speed that surprised all lifted it and thwacked into the boy with a passion and fire that such a scenario deserved. The boy gasped, wriggled slightly, and the watchers took inward breaths. As they expelled air the first vicious line appeared on the young bottom, no longer virgin and pure. Violated. But violated in a manner that all understood. The pure and thick redline spread across the whole of Neil’s bottom and contrasted beautifully with his pale skin. The boy twitched as if absorbing it and twitched and wriggled even more when two further strokes quickly followed evoking more gasps and inward breaths. Within a minute, or maybe a few seconds more, three vivid red lines had been implanted on Neil’s buttocks. All were central, no more than half an inch apart, and all were emblazoned as true marks of discipline. Barely a sound was in the room, perhaps the sound of heavy breathing and the faintest sob from the boy, but the picture told the tale. Neil Wallington’s caning had truly begun. And by the third stroke, the third cut into that youthful bottom, Ronnie Nailles’ erection was difficult to ignore.

The swish and the thwack of the cane continued remorselessly. Supt Nailles right arm raised to its full height and thrashed his vicious implement across the backside of his beloved boy. Mainly central, varying only a couple of inches either side, Neil’s buttocks twitched and responded as each stroke embedded itself in his naked skin. To the watchers the bottom and the cane seemed to be in a ritualistic duel. The boy squirmed and gasped, and a couple of times gave an audible howl, but much as he stretched and turned he never lost his grip on the table nor his focus on the room ahead. By the twelfth stroke his black shorts had fallen to his feet and, as a pause, Ronnie Nailles removed them and also the black underpants. The boy sobbed quietly as he prepared himself for the last six strokes but, in spite of his outward distress, the release of all of his lower body signalled an increase in sensuality. The cane was ready again, the watchers stilled even more their small breaths, and Neil Wallington arched his back and spread his legs. His wealed and reddened bottom seemed to rise even higher than before and cry out for its chastisement. It was as if he was offering himself, all of himself, to Ronnie Nailles. Beat me sir, he seemed to be saying. Beat me until I cry. And if so, he was not to be disappointed. The cane lashed into his buttocks with such deadly venom that Neil twisted and turned in an agonising and thrilling dance. No one in that room could ignore the exposure to his private parts, the display of a penis and balls that danced and twitched as much as the bouncing part of his anatomy being attacked. And that unrelenting cane, as it connected, seemed to be sending a message from the bottom to the genitals. Never did Neil’s swaying balls lose their fullness and never did the swinging cock lose that early tumescence. It was never full and hard and erect but its interest never died. Through all eighteen strokes. And all, the boy, the caner, the watchers, were aware of it. And all remembered.

 

Part Three

‘I think Maurice would very much like to fuck you.’

‘Is that what the cheque is for?’

Ronnie Nailles laughed. It was a warm and gentle laugh, much at variance with his outwardly stern demeanour. He and Neil were having a well overdue afternoon tea at his house. Other than copious glasses of wine and sundry delicious sandwiches little had happened since Neil’s arrival. The passing of a sizeable cheque was the first serious allusion to the proceedings of the previous Sunday morning.

‘No. That’s just a small settlement from two guilty consciences.’

Nail Wallington looked again at the cheque.

‘Not that small, a hundred pounds.’

‘He and the Chairman can afford it. Petty cash to them.’

‘But why?’

‘I told you, Neil. Guilty consciences. They stitched you up.’

‘And you. Sir?’

Ronnie Nailles laughed again, a little louder this time.

‘I guessed something like that would happen. They were determined you would lose and well..........’

His voice trailed off, remembering the Sunday morning.

‘And you took advantage. Sir.’

Ronnie noted the added sir, yet again.

‘It suited both of us Neil, didn’t it.’ His voice had lowered in tone and become more serious. ‘It allowed fantasies to be filled, yours and mine.’

‘And Maurice?’

‘I think his fantasy remains. As I said he has designs on you.’

‘So if I let him cane me I shall have to tread carefully. Is that what you are saying?’

‘Has he said he would like to?’

It was Neil Wallington’s turn to smile.

‘Not exactly sir but I saw him on Monday, couldn’t avoid him, we were in the same supermarket. I was still feeling pretty sore. We chatted briefly and he said that he hoped we would keep in touch.’

‘That could mean anything or nothing Neil.’

‘It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he was looking at me. The look in his eyes.’

Neil paused.

‘A bit like the look you get, glazed, gleaming, watery.’

Neil paused again and blushed.

‘A bit like the look you have now.’

Ronnie Nailles did not say anything for a few moments. And when he did, gently but firmly, it was just two words.

‘Stand up.’

Neil did so and, instinctively and dutifully, he placed his hands on his head and placed his feet apart. Within seconds he started to breathe heavily. He did not know what was going to happen, if anything was going to happen, but his submissive nature immediately desired whatever Ronnie Nailles desired. With him there were no barriers. He knew that now. He waited, closed his eyes cutting out the room, and felt gentle but large and rough hands undo the belt on his jeans. Those hands slowly undid the jeans, button by button, and peeled them down to the boy’s knees. No words were said, just the combined sounds of heavy breathing. Then those same familiar hands tucked up the pale blue jumper that Neil was wearing to his waist. The pale lower body of Neil was revealed clothed only in the purest and tight fitting pale blue underpants. Already filled with a growing desire. Slowly, tantalisingly, Ronnie Nailles slipped his hands inside the underpants and gently peeled them down to join the lowered jeans. The released erection, the stiff and rigid shaft of Master Wallington, was impossible to ignore. But Ronnie was not interested in such displays. There was only one thing he wanted to see, had wanted to see ever since Neil had arrived over two hours before. He turned the boy round and stood back. A silent sigh escaped his lips and the memories of five days before came flooding back. Such a beautiful bottom, no wonder Maurice had predatory designs on it, so beautifully formed and smooth. And bouncy. Ronnie remembered that, how that lovely boyish bottom had bounced to the savage kisses of his cane. And the evidence was still there, clearly there, painted in hard and violent ridges across both of the rounded bottom cheeks. A skilful job, Ronnie thought, and if one was careful one could probably count all eighteen of the strokes. A purple hue in places but mainly vivid red. It would be a long time before they faded back to Neil’s virgin skin and whilst they remained they created a fascinating picture of a boy well caned. Ronnie Nailles touched them, gently let his fingers explore the ridges, and sighed. He pulled the jumper right up to Neil’s armpits and pulled the jeans and underpants right down to his ankles. The boy just stood there, hands submissively on bowed head, virtually naked with a glowing backside, savagely marked, and an erection which would remain unsatisfied. For now. He was left like that for ten, maybe, fifteen minutes, as Ronnie Nailles sat in the nearest chair and admired his handiwork. And for that ten or maybe fifteen minutes, neither spoke.

Alfred Roy (2015)




To Come -


Maurice and Neil (M/m) - Part Three of The Games Club Trilogy


A Study in Discipline (F/m) - Twenty seven minutes in a headmistresses study for a fourteen year old boy.