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