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Sunday, 19 July 2015

The Schoolmaster's Wife (F/m)

A first new story for a little while, as my previous post explains. Pure fantasy, but one that I have often wished happened to me. It has echoes of an elaborate sting, and not just in the sensations on a very bare backside. Enjoy, if this is your thing as much as mine. Alfred Roy

The Schoolmaster's Wife

 Terry Burton can still remember it all as clear as yesterday. He often mused on it in his idle moments and the memory always produced pleasant and inexplicable yearnings. He had never told anyone, not his wife or his friends, and he had no intention of ever doing so. What happened to him over thirty years before was a secret, a delicious and heady secret, which would accompany him to his grave. His experience was both shameful and humiliating, and exceedingly painful. But it was also an experience which at the time and afterwards produced thrilling sensations in his being which maturing years had never totally expunged. It was the day he was caned by his form master’s wife. A day and an experience indelibly imprinted on his memory. Thirty minutes of his young life which would remain with him forever.


That day, a sunny and warm September Saturday, had all started so promising. He and two other boys had been invited to help their form master move into his new house, a splendid detached bungalow at the bottom of the school playing fields. The house belonged to the school, a small but prestigious private school, and was regularly rented out to staff. The form master, Mr Raven, was moving in for six months with his new wife and the prize for the boys for helping was to be a slap up tea and ten pounds each. No mean sum at the time for three fourteen year old boys. As well as the promise of sumptuous food and much desired cash the day provided two additional incentives to hormone induced teenagers locked for much of the time in the hothouse atmosphere of a boy’s school. They would get to see their form master Mr Raven, a taciturn man not renowned for a relaxing sense of humour, in an unfamiliar role and they would meet the Mrs Raven who, rumour had it, was as desirable as she was formidable. She taught in a nearby girl’s school and, so the tom toms had it, charmed and feared in equal mystifying proportions. To Terry Burton and his two companions all promised to be a very special day. It was, but in a way none of them expected. If Mr Raven played an offstage role in the unexpected drama, his wife, the statuesque Physical Education teacher of much renown was very much centre stage. Mrs Raven left her mark, literally, on Terry Burton and his companions in a way none would ever forget. Desirable she may be, formidable she was. As all, painfully, found. But, as Terry Burton might say, indeed would say, to reveal too much before the day had truly started is to get ahead of oneself.


The morning went off fairly uneventfully. Furniture, books, and a variety of bric a brac were carefully and efficiently moved into the Raven’s new abode. Under the watchful supervision of the taciturn, but surprisingly relaxed, Mr Raven matters proceeded as expected. At twelve thirty a welcome coffee break was taken and then the Ravens, to raised teenage eyebrows, indulged in a small glass of wine each and sinful cigarettes. As the boys ate a prepared carrot cake the adults sat in the garden relaxing in the way adults do. It was all very pleasant. The sun shone and the air was warm. Warm enough for the boy’s to be wearing only thin vests and physical education shorts. After the short break Mr Raven announced that he needed to go into town on a few matters but Mrs Raven would supervise the remainder of the moving in. He would be back in time for the promised afternoon tea. A removal van had left sundry boxes on the small patio and the boys would be well occupied moving the various contents to where his wife desired them to be. The three boys, Terry Burton foremost amongst them, registered three simultaneous thoughts. They did not share them, at least not until later, but all were of similar minds. Mr Raven was departing. Mrs Raven, the desirable but formidable Mrs Raven, was in charge. Dressed in black silk top and satiny grey leggings she induced strange feelings in all the boys. And in the house was a copious supply of wine and cigarettes. It was a heady concoction, one designed to mix temptation with downfall in a spectacular manner. Boys will be boys, which is to be expected. What followed, supervised and enacted by a lithe and merciless Mrs Raven, was not.


Terry Burton, reflecting thirty years later on the momentous events of the day, remains convinced that all the signs of the heavens conspired against them. Rewrite history in a slightly different manner and three teenage boys would not have gone back to their dormitories that evening with searing cane marks across their backsides and a searing memory that life would never expunge. At least for Terry Burton. He could not speak for his two companions, long faded from the memory. If Mrs Raven had not been called away. If Mrs Raven had not come back earlier than expected.  If they had only confined themselves to consuming that small quantity of wine, smoking only a minimum of cigarettes. If all these things then a vengeful angel would not have descended. She would have smiled at their teenage indulgences and prepared the promised afternoon tea. But she had been called away, Mr Raven having left behind important legal documents relating to the rental of the property, but returned early because, unknown to them, her husband had joined her on the outskirts of the town. She was expected to be away for two hours. She returned in less than one. And when she arrived, a box, an innocent box from the patio, never intended to be opened was being hastily closed. The heavens had indeed conspired.


In later years Terry Burton became highly suspicious of that box, sealed, private, different from all the others. It had all the hallmarks of being a central cog in a meticulously planned sting. But, as he would equally say, more of that later. On the day, the day indelibly printed on his mind, one of the twelve boxes they unpacked was an unexpected Pandora of heady significance. Mrs Raven had left specific instructions when she was called away. Take the boxes to the rooms indicated and unpack them. Three contained various items of crockery; two contained a plethora of ornaments and most of the remainder books of various subjects and sizes. She indicated the two bookcases where the books should go, alphabetically stored by subject and author, and reiterated the need to carefully unwrap the crockery and ornaments. It would be a great help for when she returned. One box, the one marked small study, was to be left unpacked. She did not explain, there was no need to. The boys had enough to occupy their time with the remaining eleven boxes. Besides it was sealed, marked private.


It was Morris, the small and wiry ginger haired Morris, who was the first to audibly wonder at the significance of the unopened box. It was light, much lighter than the others, and unlike those others was copiously covered in masking tape. He commented on its lightness when taking it to the small study room. Nettles, the tallest of the three boys, blessed with a saturnine expression that rivalled the absent Mr Raven remarked that, light or heavy, it was nothing to do with them. Initially Terry Burton agreed with this viewpoint but later, after the consumption of heady wine in conveniently opened bottles, bravado usurped discretion. Musing on this in later years, those tantalising wine bottles and equally accessible cigarettes in a splendid silver container figured heavily in Terry Burton’s thoughts. It seemed to him, viewed from maturity, that an elaborate trap was being set and willingly, unknowingly and joyfully, three fourteen year old private school boys had fallen headlong into it. But such subtleties figured naught at the time. At the time they were enjoying their unsupervised couple of hours. Studiously emptying the boxes, fuelling themselves with sinful adult pastimes of alcohol and tobacco, and when all restrictive barriers were down opening the sealed and private box which had exercised their fevered imaginations for most of the afternoon. And it was as they were opening that twelfth box and, wide eyed, examining its contents that Mrs Raven reappeared. A vengeful Mrs Raven, eyes blazing, and looking decidedly ill pleased.


They had not heard her car return, and that was something else Terry Burton mused on in later years, or her arriving at the small study door. Three slightly flushed fourteen year old boys were caught, literally red handed, delving amongst a box of what can be best described as adult sexual delights. The picture captured is still printed on Terry Burton’s mind. The ginger haired Morris had a small thong attached to him like an unseemly moustache and an uncharacteristic giggling Nettles was holding up a skimpy pair of bright red leather knickers studded with shiny buttons. Standing above them Terry himself was magisterially waving a two tongued leather tawse. As the shadow of Mrs Raven appeared in the doorway all schoolboy laughter died. Frozen for the moment, all flinched as Mrs Raven, studiously controlled, calmly told them to repack the box and join her in the living room. And emphasising her displeasure icily stated that it would be in their best interests to do so immediately.


It was when they did so, three disconsolate boys dressed only in summer vests and shorts, that Terry Burton first truly registered how magnificent Mrs Raven really was. She was tall, at least six inches taller than the wiry Morris, and as slim and lithe as you would expect a Physical Education teacher to be. And still on the right side of thirty she was black haired and beautiful. It was on this day that Terry Burton fell in love with such women. Even in his nervousness, in fact probably because of them, he was appreciative of her special charms. But those special charms were packed with retributive venom. If she told her husband what she had shamefully discovered they would all be caned. And they would not get their ten pounds. In Mrs Raven’s view that would be unfair. Their work that day had been good; it was their inquisitiveness that was reprehensible. So she proposed, calmly and deliberately, that she would cane them and that would be the end of the matter. Her husband would not be told, he was not due back for at least two hours, and the promised ten pounds would still be paid. It was a subtle proposition and one that none of the boys could argue with. If Mrs Raven told her husband what had transpired they would certainly be caned and their promised remuneration would certainly be at risk. It was, as Nettles ruefully said later, a bit of a no brainer. They were not to know the caning Mrs Raven had in mind. Morris, told to remain in the living room whilst the others were dismissed to the garden to wait, was soon to find out.


The next twenty minutes or so were agonising for Terry Burton. Morris came out fairly quickly; his two companions had hardly finished a clandestine cigarette they had taken to ease their distress. He said little, merely rubbed his backside and told Nettles he was wanted. There were tears in his eyes and no hint of mirth in his demeanour. That hurt, he said, as he moved off to the end of the garden. Terry Burton followed him but all Morris would say in response to obvious questions was that they would soon find out. And as he wandered off to the adjoining playing field, desperate only for his own company, Terry Burton reflected that Nettles would indeed be finding out. He made his way back to the house, keen to gather any information that would prepare him for his own fate. As he entered the large kitchen he stopped in his tracks. The sounds coming from the living room, sounds familiar to young schoolboys of any era, were capable of only one interpretation. A boy was being caned. And it was no gentle caning, delivered by a gentle member of the fairer sex. The strokes were hard and firm and the howls they engendered writ large the discomfort in the recipient. Terry Burton went back into the garden. He was sweating and trembling, and he was still fearfully sweating when a contrite Nettles emerged and told him that Mrs Raven wanted him. His turn had come.


‘You do agree that you deserve to be caned?’


‘Yes, Mrs Raven.’


‘I can forgive the wine and the cigarettes, boys will be boys, but the box?’


If this was a question Terry Burton did not respond. He had entered the room with alacrity, a desire to get things over with, and stood to attention as Mrs Raven admonished him. He had been in such situations before, albeit with a form master, and always felt it best to agree. Fates had already been sealed and, he had to admit later, in this case deserved. All he registered, apart from his resignation to that fate, was the blazing dark eyes and flushed face of his tormentor and the cane she held in her right hand. And the suspicion, not gleaned from any master, that she was enjoying the situation.


‘That was private, sealed and private, Master Burton.’


‘Yes Mrs Raven. I am sorry.’


‘You are going to be sorrier. I shall deal with you the same as I dealt with your fellows. Are you wearing underpants?’


Terry Burton registered surprise at this unexpected question.


‘Yes, miss. Mrs Raven.’


Mrs Raven smiled.


‘Then take off your shorts, I am only allowing one level of protection.’


Terry Burton flushed deeply but, understanding the question and the order, slowly removed his thin black shorts. How he wished, he thought, that he was wearing thick large boxer shorts and not the tight fitting white hipsters so fashionable with young males. Such attire added to both embarrassment and forthcoming pain. Of the latter he was sure.


‘You are fourteen, Master Burton. The same age as the other two boys. You will therefore be dealt with exactly the same for your disgusting behaviour. You will bend over and hold your ankles, or your knees if that is easier, and receive seven strokes of the cane across your underpants. And very nice ones they are, if I may say so.’


Mrs Raven smiled and Terry Burton gulped. Seven strokes, on his underpants, that struck fear and extinguished any registering of the comment on his nether garments.


‘You will then lower your underpants and receive a further seven strokes across your bare bottom. If my maths are correct that will make a well deserved fourteen.’


Mrs Raven smiled an intense smile and Terry Burton, shocked at this secondary instruction, now knew his suspicions were well founded. This formidable lady was enjoying, no relishing, the situation. She enjoyed caning boys and, as he mournfully registered, the next one to be caned was him.


‘Take down my underpants, Mrs Raven?’


‘Yes, Master Burton. Is that a problem?’


‘No. Well yes. It is unusual Mrs Raven.’


‘This is an unusual situation, Master Burton.’


‘Yes, Miss.’


‘Then bend over, as I instructed. Your friends were willing to suffer in this manner for their ten pounds.’


So now he knew, in a roundabout way, in a cleverly designed way Mrs Raven was paying him ten pounds to accept a caning from her. Some on his bare backside. Whether by accident or design Terry Burton had become a willing partner in an age old disciplinary dance. But when you are fourteen such subtleties are not evident. All you know is that there are two people in the room and one of them is to be caned. And it is not you who is holding the cane, eager to do its work. He bent as instructed, held onto his calves – a happy compromise, and closed his eyes. Please, if this must hurt as I know it will, then please make it quick.


It was not to be. From entering the living room to leaving may not have been longer than ten or fifteen minutes but to Terry Burton it was a short quarter of an hour that would remain with him forever. No matter how often he replayed it in his mind in later years, it never lost its freshness nor its ability to send an inexplicable frisson of excitement through his being. Mrs Raven pressed her delicate fingers on his back and then, tantalisingly, spread those same fingers across his young buttocks. As he held on to his calves he felt those same fingers smoothing the cloth of his underpants, determined that not even the tiniest of creases would impede her cane. And then that cane, that feared cane which seemed so smooth and threatening in her hand, rested on his bottom and readied itself to deliver the first sting. And when it did Terry Burton gasped. The cutting pain had fired across the centre of both of his cheeks and, almost simultaneously, linked that same fire to his anguished brain. Terry Burton gasped again. That really hurt, as did strokes two three and four, firing within inches of the same place. They came ten or fifteen seconds apart and, after the fourth, Terry Burton rose clutching his backside in pain and despair.


‘Don’t worry, Master Burton. It is to be expected. I will not charge extras.’


‘No miss, sorry Mrs Raven. But, God it hurts.’


As Terry Burton said this he rubbed vigorously on his burning backside, oblivious now to the fact that he was being caned in his underpants by a thirty year old woman.


‘Of course, now bend down again and do as you did before. It pays not to prolong these things.’


‘Yes Miss.’


Terry Burton, conscious of tears rising in his eyes, bent again to present his burning bottom for what was to come. And what came was the further three strokes across his underpants, less painful than the first four, but viciously stinging all the same. By the time the seventh stroke of the cane connected with his backside he had a burning pad of fiery correction that, he was convinced, would remain there forever.


For a moment there was a silence in which both participants recovered their composure. And then, finally and inevitably, came the instruction that Terry Burton both dreaded and feared. But also welcomed. He could not explain it but this final act, this defining act of his unexpected corporal discipline on a day which had promised so much, was as necessary as it was bizarre. He held his breath and waited to be told.


‘And now, Master Burton, when you are ready, please lower your underpants.’


Terry Burton did so. Not totally to Mrs Raven’s satisfaction as he soon discovered. Bent over and clutching those calves he had merely lowered his underpants from behind, uncovering the parts already savaged by the cane. Mrs Raven approached him, pushed him further down and providing his bottom with greater prominence, and simultaneously pushed his underpants totally down to his knees. Fore and aft, giving an exposure that Terry Burton had tried to avoid. Satisfied she then turned up his vest to his middle ensuring that nothing was left to any imagination. Hers or Master Burton’s.


‘I think that is better for both of us, Master Burton. Do not be distressed, I have seen many a boy’s bottom, and all else, and I must say that your bottom is extremely pleasing. Besides, well marked as it is, I need a good target for seven strokes of my cane on the bare.’


Terry Burton was convinced she was almost laughing, her enjoyment matching his humiliation. A humiliation that, in spite of the pain he still felt in his backside, had stirred both his own imagination and his body. And her final words before the cane struck into his naked flesh only added to the strangeness which was firing his being.


‘I think this is the best bottom of the day. Pert and boyish, and designed for the attentions of any lady’s cane. I suggest you hold on very tight young man, such pleasure as it gives may fire my aim and strength to even greater heights.’


It probably did but, in fairness, Mrs Raven did not over prolong the proceedings. She whacked Terry Burton’s bare backside with a vigorous relish which made him howl and rise at least once if not twice. But the strokes came fairly speedily and the last weal mark registered its anger merely a minute after the first one had struck. Terry Burton was howling and rubbing his nether flesh with an energy only a cane across a bottom can instil. These last seven had been laid on with abandon, the lure of the small naked bottom eclipsing any attempt at restraint, and expunged any attempt by Terry Burton at circumspection. He had risen quickly at the last stroke and with underpants at knees and vest raised high, displayed all front and rear for Mrs Raven’s inspection. And he cared not, either then or later. Then only the pain in his bottom mattered. Later the picture he conjured up in his mind more than compensated. To expose all of his body to this woman, this strange woman, more than compensated for the excruciating pain she had imparted. He wondered if either Nettles or Morris felt the same.


If they did none spoke of it, at least not until much later when marks were compared. When Terry Burton pulled up his underpants and shorts, wincing from the pain he had endured, the curtain closed on an unexpected drama. Mrs Raven made no mention of it, neither when her husband returned or during an elaborate afternoon tea. By then all three boys had fully recovered and, initially somewhat subdued, had thrown themselves into the remaining tasks. The only hints regarding what had transpired was first when Mrs Raven asked them, a slight twinkle in her eyes, if they were all sitting comfortably for tea. And later, as they were leaving clutching Mr Raven’s proffered ten pounds, she said that it had been well earned. Surprisingly none of the boys held any grudges and the smiles they collectively gave seemed to convey that. Looking at Mr Raven, the saturnine but seemingly content Mr Raven, Terry Burton was tempted to say that while he was out his wife, his delectable and formidable wife, had caned him and his friends. With their shorts down, on their bare backsides. But he thought better of it. It was only later, much later, he mused that Mr Raven might not have been surprised.


On the way back to school the three boys made a couple of vows. One, at the first opportunity they would each see each other’s backsides. That came later that evening when it was agreed, in that ritualistic manner of recently caned schoolboys, that Terry Burton’s weals were the most impressive. The second vow was a resolve to keep the afternoon’s events to themselves. If Mr Raven raised it, which they doubted, they would discuss it but to all else silence would reign and communal showers avoided for the duration. It was never mentioned, then nor later, by anyone and neither was it mentioned by Terry Burton that late into the night, mind filled with heady pictures of the day, he had the most glorious first masturbation of his young life. He never forgot that, never forgot the steams of fluid which erupted as he replayed his caning. But nothing was ever said. Neither to Nettles nor Morris, convinced as he was that they had equally succumbed. But he took the memory of that masturbation and the disciplinary events that led up to it into manhood. A constant, private, fantasy. And an integral part of that fantasy, an experience long lost in the mists of time, was that all of them, he, Nettles, Morris, were the unsuspecting victims of an elaborate sting.


Mrs Raven, the formidable wife of their form master, rather fancied caning some schoolboys. Legitimately, with just cause, cast iron. And she and Mr Raven, he for his own reasons, very neatly set them up. And Terry Burton had and has no regrets. Being caned on his bare backside by Mrs Raven, gentle hands preparing him for pain, was an experience he savours in the memory. And if Mr Raven colluded in its preparation and execution, as it seems in reflection, then that is no concern. They had their motives, they found their victims. It was all very neat. He often wonders what happened to them. They left the house and their respective schools less than a year later and neither said goodbye.


And no schoolboy, as far as it is known, was asked to help them pack.


Alfred Roy (c) 2015