Four Voices (Preview) - (M/m)

As promised I have been working on a sequel to The Games Club. It is long, for which I apologise, but the build up is vital to the story and the caning, when it takes place, is as descriptive as anything I have ever written. I clearly see myself as the boy, as I used to be long ago. The caning is quasi judicial and its formality adds, rather than detracts, from the story. Just my opinion of course. I have called it Four Voices because, simply, four people are involved. The caner (Ronnie Nailles), the boy (Neil Wallington) and the two watchers (Lawyer Maurice and the Chess Club Chairman). I shall refine it and post next month but, just to give you a flavour, the following extract is the thoughts of those four on the morning of Neil's caning. I hope you enjoy. I have certainly enjoyed writing it. Especially as it gets me hankering again for similar treatment myself. I feel an early Christmas present coming on. Alfred Roy


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.