Leicester Governess Revisited

After this visit I returned with a friend for a dual session. I think she enjoyed it as much as we did. Regardless, she put a photo of our bottoms on her twitter account. Fame, of a sort, at last.

 

It has taken a long time but I have finally got to drop my pants for this lovely lady again. She is great fun and seriously awesome. The smile on her lips and the fire in her eyes turns a willing but fearful oldie back to a trembling fifteen year old long before the cane in her hands has swished. Bending over her bench waiting for my underpants to be pulled down was sensory heaven. The sixty cane strokes that followed on my shamefully bare bottom were painfully hell. But I loved it all. Therapy at its finest. Why had I waited so long?

Not my fault I told myself. For reasons I have no wish to elaborate, contact had become elusive. Desire thwarted. But suddenly, following a lazy summer afternoon text, she responded. I was staying with my brother and shortly to return home. Idly I had mused on popping in to see my favourite Governess for sixty of her finest. A forlorn muse I thought. Silence had reigned for months. But now, following a positive response, fantasies regenerated and imagination switched into overdrive. In summer heat a short drive on my way home would culminate in longed for disciplinary heaven.

She was everything I remembered. Tall, imposing, friendly and firm. The years on me shed away as we talked. I morphed to fifteen from whatever. This lady canes bums with aplomb and mine, after afternoon pleasantries, would be no exception. The sixty stroke therapy she offers, for a very reasonable fee, is pure disciplinary perfection. There is no touchy feely warm up, no suggestion of unseemly sexual services, and no props or devices to enhance the senses. It is pure get ready, suitably attired, and over her punishment bench for sixty strokes across your bare behind. And you know that you deserve it. The endorphins will kick and this therapy, writ large, will take you on a journey that has no equals. The National Health never offers thus.

I prepared, nervously, and stood before her in small vest and tight fitting underpants. Very clean, very light blue, very complimentary. Or so I hoped. A severe look, a quick order, and over her bench I went with bottom suitably raised and hands steely gripping the rails. I was ready, especially when those light blue pants were pulled off leaving me only in a small top covering my upper half. My bare bottom was ready for my first ten of sixty, my mind desperately trying to embrace the zone. It was a sturdy cane, thankfully neither too thin nor thick, and my Governess expertly whacked it into my willing behind with gentle force. Painful but pleasant and I relaxed. The first ten, or twenty, or thirty would be well within my discomfort range. But I had no illusions; I had been here before and knew that this sixty stroke therapy was a slow build.

The power increased and my bottom responded in burning sensitivity as that first thirty were delivered in sets of more painful tens. Number twenty three was a bit low and I raised my first howl but the rest, all twenty nine, whacked pleasingly against the only target I wished to be hit. As I rose for a most welcome hiatus I eagerly rubbed my disciplined backside, simultaneously conscious of both the burning throb and hardness across both of my cheeks. In classic schoolboy manner I looked in one of her many mirrors and was surprised that the burning pain was merely reflected in gentle pinkness on my bum and the odd reddish stripe. An expert had whacked causing distress but not destruction.

I bent over the bench again. Thirty more therapy strokes to come and, at my request, restraints were applied to arms, legs, and back. No crying off for these as my upturned sensitive bum beckoned the avenging cane. And avenge it did. I felt everyone, much harder than the first thirty and a few despairing howls rang in the air. But I did not begrudge, it was what I wanted. A hard cane across my naked bum. And I got it, all expertly applied to that central cheek area which signals pain and induces emotions in equal proportions. Each vicious stroke released a feeling in my being that I cannot explain. Nor need to. But as the last few created a savage fire across my behind that could only be assuaged by unseemly amplified gasps of anguish, I knew I had reached a pinnacle of exquisite disciplinary pain. Released from my restraints I rose with an inexplicable joy in my being and an invigorating throb in my behind. The hardness on my cheeks was now enhanced and, helpful mirror, the gentle pinkness had deepened to a pleasing red.  I had no desire to dress, no desire to cover up. For ten or fifteen minutes the Governess and I chatted, her severely dressed and me merely in short vest which covered nothing of importance. As it should be. She could admire her handiwork and I could calmly float into that state of blissful serenity such a severe caning evokes. And I could continue to rub my ever burning bottom.

Eventually I dressed and prepared to leave. Before I did I was given an unexpected leaving present. Eyes blazing she said she was displeased with something I said. I know not what; it did not matter as clearly I was due for a late disciplinary bonus. And this I remember almost as much as what had gone before. I stood by the bench like a naughty school boy as she undid my belt and roughly lowered my jeans and underpants to my knees. Bent over and top lifted out of the way she gave me ten extra hard strokes of the cane to my now familiar bare bottom. I howled. But if the pain was high the pleasure was higher still. As I drove home I vowed that her cane would, very soon, provide the same service again. My bottom and the Governess’s cane may not be a match made in heaven but on that lazy summer afternoon it was certainly one made in Leicestershire. As I have said, an awesome experience.

 

Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

Bottom Marks in Life

It has recently occurred to me that it has been a long time since I did a blog on this site. Ignoring my last year statistical review you have to go back to January 2016 to find a muse on the infinite and tantalising  ways one can bare an eager and willing behind. So it is time I revisited my favourite vice and mused some more. And this time I wish to concentrate on whacking’s most pleasing aspect. The marks. The stripes and splodges, red or pink or blue, painted on the pale flesh of those fascinating bottom cheeks.

I first realised this fascination when I was very small. A primary school teacher smacked my bottom, shorts pants pulled up at the legs, and a firm and large hand applied to both of my naked orbs. Tiny girls sniggered and tiny boys, fearful of the same, were transfixed. I cried copiously at a well deserved spanking, sand thrown into an insufferable female child’s face was my crime. But as the tears dried I sensed the pleasing tingle in my bottom. And this strange pleasure was doubled when I looked at that small bottom in a mirror and firm pink handprints on my white flesh cheeks spelt out the reason for the tantalising throb. At four and a half, I could not have been any older, I had unknowingly discovered a kink that would dominate my life. Or at least the fun part of it.

That first experience of scholastic chastisement sowed an incipient seed that was destined to grow and flower as the years progressed. It is best illustrated by the fascination shown when classmates were caned. To witness or hear of a school caning was exciting in itself but to see the result in post communal PE showers, at least twice weekly in the 1950’s curriculum or so it seemed, was an undiluted pleasure. Cane stripes across a fellow schoolboy’s bottom conjured up delightful and sensuous feelings thankfully devoid of the necessary pain. Broad and flaming red or purple lines across the centre of an otherwise pure and white male bottom painted peculiar desires in my mind. I may have feared the pain that gave birth to the picture but to recreate on myself I would suffer much.

I did not have long to find out. I was given two searing strokes to my bum, in front of a class of unsympathetic friends, when I was about thirteen or fourteen. Those two strokes seared and fired into my behind and, tears now dried, remain long in my memory. But the stripes they left in their wake remain longer still. Only two strokes but my pale bottom cheeks were emblazoned for weeks with the black and the blue, fading gently to green and yellow as time passed, and fascinated as nothing else. I was almost sorry when they were finally gone. I had endured two minutes of excruciating pain for endless happy days of dropping pants and savouring the savage lines on the virgin bottom reflected in my mother’s mirror. The sight was heavenly and, frequently, engendered my first teenage masturbations. To relive the causing pain was pleasure undefined.

It is hardly surprising then that through my adult life I have suffered much for those tantalising stripes. In my thirties and forties, latterly renewing my desire for the corporal punishment world, results were pleasing. A bottom rarely whacked produced some heavenly results. Fingers tracing red lines and weals on an otherwise marble backside made all pain worthwhile. A pictorial fascination that those not so inclined would find bizarre. Not easy to recreate in my autumn years. The lines are less pronounced these days and the results fade quickly. Sadly a bottom much beaten recovers too quickly. Pain and pleasure briefly rise and evaporate. My primary school teacher, baring my four and half year old behind, would understand. Those exquisite nether stripes will not last forever. Alfred Roy