The Paper Boy Scam (F/m)

What a year. None of us could have predicted how 2020 would evolve. Hopefully 2021 will be better. I sincerely hope so, as visiting my favourite disciplinarians will require the flouting and waving of a variety of vaccine certificates. Both theirs and mine.  And even then it may be a case of covering up the face with some quirky mask whilst pants are lowered for bared behind. You could not make it up. But even in thwarted lockdown one can have one's pleasures. Some unexpected, which I have no intention of elaborating other than to say that ITC supplied my home with a much desired rattan cane by post. The best of many on line purchases this year. Another pleasure was writing a few stories. I post the latest here for Christmas consumption. Not festive, pure fantasy and fun. Except the scam. I really did get my entitled  2/- a week collection fee. No guilt, no exposure, no sore behind. Happy Christmas. Alfred Roy

You read a lot about scams these days. Especially during lockdown. Dodgy phone calls, e-mails, even the odd bit of snail mail. I hate them. And feel sorry for the folks that get sucked in. I may be old but the marbles are still intact. Never answer the phone to unsolicited calls, never click on attachments from folks I don’t know, and don’t divulge my bank or card details to anyone. That is my motto. One of them. Another is ‘Trust no one, my friend.’ Herod said it to Claudius in a scene in Robert Graves great TV drama I Claudius. I remember it to this day. Not a bad maxim. I should know. In the more innocent fifties, when I was very young, I did a bit of a scam of my own. Someone trusted me and I took advantage of it. Justifiably. But it got me into an awful lot of trouble. To put it briefly at fourteen and a bit I won the admiration of my friends, the wrath of an irate newsagent, and a sore behind from his schoolmistressy wife. Pants down and twelve with a mean strap. Would be sweet justice for some who scam today. Let me tell you about my more innocent one. Or so it seemed until my pants were taken down.

 

He told me he was going to write this piece. Almost sixty years ago and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I wasn’t as old as he suggests but to a fourteen year old I suppose anyone over twenty must be ancient. But I was schoolmistressy, unsurprising as I was one. And in those days I did whack behinds, both male and female.

 

It all came about because that wrathful newsagent was mean. He paid his paperboys the going rate for deliveries but would not give us any extra for collecting money from those folks who did not come into his shop to settle up. In a paper round of about fifty deliveries that was over half of the customers. So on collection day a round that normally took healthy fourteen year old bikers under an hour could stretch to two or more. You would be amazed at the number of arthritic folks who had to go and search for their purse or wallet. I told him, bolshie youngster that I was, that he should pay double rate on collection day. He refused and I and the other paper boys were not happy. But there was nothing we could do about it. Except that I could. I spotted a flaw in the collection system that I could exploit to compensate. One paper boy was going to get a collection fee, even if the others weren’t. Pay attention at the back and I shall tell you my wheeze.

 

We became friends many years after this event, he reminded me of it at a party we both attended. Not that I needed reminding, when you strap a boy’s bare behind you are unlikely to forget. He wasn’t the first I had in that stockroom, bent over a crate. But he was much the best.

 

Simple really, and all because we recorded the payment details in pencil. Biros were still an underused novelty. Papers were around 3d or 4d in those days, so a week’s supply of one paper would probably be around 2/- to 2/6d. 10p in modern money terms. And that, coincidently was about the amount we should be paid extra for collections. So I did what I did, devious but justifiable. Or so I told myself. On my weekly collection I would not record one of the payments. Preferably from some old codger who was extremely unlikely to visit the shop, either because of infirmity or distance. I would pay in the balance, totalled at the bottom, and rub it out when the card was handed back the following week and record the true amounts. And two shillings, or two bob in the vernacular, had gone into my back pocket.  As I and the meerkats say, simples really. Repeated weekly it gave me what, denied by a mean newsagent, I sincerely felt was fair. And it was. Trouble is I could not avoid showing off and when listening to fellow paper boys moaning about the long collection days for no extra dosh I stupidly told them of my wheeze. Only the more intelligent two or three but it was two or three too many and lead to the ultimate exposure of both my scheme and my backside.

 

It wasn’t just paperboys in those days. We had a couple of youngsters in the shop and the cafe we owned next door. A few of them felt my strap as an alternative to being sacked. They did not seem to mind, once the pain had gone, even if one or two initially resisted at the thought of getting it bare. My husband knew my penchant, God rest his soul, but turned a blind eye to it. So even though he did not know it at the time, this lad was far from the first. I remember telling him so at the party. He laughed then. And he still does when he visits me at home for tea and old time chats.

 

They may have been intelligent but they were not as careful as me. I had stressed to them that if they did not record Mrs Bloggs or whoever’s weekly 2/- payment that they should do it the following week when they got the collection card back. I could not stress that enough. What I did not stress was that they should not doctor payments of anyone who might go into the shop. And that was where it all went wrong. Mrs Bloggs or Mrs Green or someone ambled into the newsagent one fine day and, whilst there, said she would pay for that weeks papers. I might be out on Saturday, she said, or something like that. You can write the rest of the script yourselves. Two weeks Mrs Blank, the mean newsagent said, you haven’t paid for last week. I am only guessing but I reckon a heated exchange took place and later, again I am only guessing, that mean newsagent and his schoolmistressy wife decided to keep a much closer eye on their paperboy’s weekly collections. And after four more weeks they pounced. They had gathered all the evidence of what we had been doing and a report was off to our school.

 

The scam amused me; it was clever but not clever enough. Someone coming to the shop unexpectedly or a studious relative visiting on their behalf would easily expose it. A fatal flaw. We weren’t truly bothered, it was only a few shillings and, arguably, a collection fee should have been added to the paperboy rounds. So we were never going to report them to the school or anyone else. But I could see the opportunity to indulge a special, innocent, pleasure with the main culprit. And he played right into my hands.

 

Now remember, this was the 1950’s. Telling our school meant only one thing. We would all be caned and, if they informed our parents, probably get belted at home as well. Not a pleasant prospect. The other boys in trouble blamed me and said I should sort it out, conveniently forgetting that they had benefited as much as I. But being eminently fair I saw their point. I said I would talk to the newsagent, even offer to pay it all back, and try and stop him reporting us. I hung around in the shop after we had paid in our latest collections and asked the schoolmistressy wife if I could speak to her husband. Now the next bit is important, particularly as half an hour after my request my trousers were around my ankles, so I had better take it step by step. You probably won’t believe it otherwise. You probably won’t anyway. I am not sure I do, even to this day. But, as I said, this was the 1950’s. They did things differently then.

 

‘Why?’

‘I want to offer to pay the money back, if he doesn’t report us.’

‘Reverse blackmail?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Never mind. Sit down young man.’

We were in their stockroom, at the back of the shop. They had closed up for the evening and, as I realised later, her husband had gone for his evening pint at the local pub. I had always been a bit nervous of her. She had that authoratative manner that put youngsters on edge. And being tall and slim added to her presence. She looked at me for a few moments, assessing me, deciding what to do or say. I had no idea. I knew I was in trouble, serious trouble or so I thought, so when she spoke I was initially relieved. But that feeling did not last long.

‘We could report you. Not just to the school but the police as well. What you have done could be deemed as criminal.’

‘Sorry.’

‘At the very least. What would happen if we told your school?’

‘We would probably be caned. Or at least they would tell my parents.’

‘And your dad would probably belt you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your friends?’

‘They would get belted as well.’

‘And how is it done?’

‘With their belts.’

‘I know that. But how?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do, young man.’

I did but I did not want to spell it out. Apart from anything else it was embarrassing. She was looking straight at me, her eyes gleaming with an excitement I did not understand. At least not then. I felt my stomach begin to churn. Everything was silent in the stockroom. All I could hear was my own breathing. Mine and hers.

‘I think you do.’

‘I would get the belt on my behind. That’s how he usually does it.’

‘Over your trousers?’

‘No.’

‘Or on your underpants.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘But not often?’

‘No.’

‘And for this?’

‘I would get it bare. He would belt me on my bare behind.’

 

Such sweet memories of that far distant day. I can almost hear the conversation now, as if it was yesterday. It had taken me a while to get it out of him. I was amused at his squirming. But eventually he had admitted what I already knew. As he has said, this was the 1950s. He would be belted on his bare behind. And so would his friends. And probably caned at school as well. Double punishments were often the scourge of kids who incurred parental displeasure at scholastic discipline. Especially for something verging on the criminal. I spelt all this out to him. Not that I needed to. Anything I offered to resolve the situation just had to be better. When he dropped his pants he would do so almost with relief. Or so I hoped.

 

‘I would get it bare. He would belt me on my bare behind.’

There. I had said it. What she wanted to know and it seemed to excite her more. Her breathing became heavier. And then she made her proposal. If I took her punishment, her private punishment, then neither the school nor our parents would be informed of our thefts. Thefts, which is what she called them, and she was probably right. But if I agreed to her proposal no one else would know and my three friends would escape retribution. Escape sore behinds. I would be a star, a hero, in their eyes. She smiled when she said this. To her it was a no brainer. To me it sounded more complicated. Either way I was going to get belted.

‘If I agree, you won’t tell anyone. Won’t still get us into trouble?’

‘You have my word.’

‘How many?’

‘Twelve.’

I flinched.

‘With a belt?’

‘No. That is a man’s weapon.’

She paused, tellingly.

‘I have a strap.’

I flinched again.

‘A school strap. Not too thick, but it will sting.’

She paused again.

‘As it should do, young man.’

I looked at her, hesitating before I asked my next question.

‘And can I keep my trousers on?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘But they are coming down. As are your underpants, if you are wearing any.’

My slight relief was extinguished by her elaboration.

‘You mean I am to get it bare? On my bare behind?’

‘Of course. You have already told me that is how your father would do it. Why should I be different?’

I could think of lots of reasons but I refrained from saying so. My schoolmistressy employer’s wife was determined and one way or another I was going to get whacked. This way I had the small consolation of gaining the admiration of my friends. But just then, in the quiet of that stockroom, it did not seem like it. Especially as I rose and started to undo my pants.

 

The moment was exquisite. I could not take my eyes off him. A nice gentle, slightly framed, boy coming on for fifteen. He looked very nervous, unsurprisingly, but he was well used to discipline. And well used to having to lower his trousers for it. If not at school, at least at home. I was pleased he was offering no resistance, in those days boys were very dutiful even when a scorching behind was in prospect. He undid his trousers and, before lowering them, stared distractedly and turned himself away from me. He had walked to the large crate I had told him he was to bend over. It was an ideal height and if he ever wondered why it had a large and thick blanket covering its top, he never said. He paused and pushed his trousers down to his knees. I thought for a moment he was going to lower his underpants but after a secondary stillness he bent over the crate and clutched its sides. It was a perfect picture; the standard schoolboy white underpants had a pleasing blue trim and neatly framed a pert little bottom. Deliberately or not the blue trim on the underpants matched the woollen jumper the lad was wearing. I nodded an appreciation to his mother, particularly as the pants were pristine clean. It crossed my mind, briefly, that he may have come prepared. I took the strap from the wall, had he seen it, and moved silently towards him. For a moment I just looked, enjoying the sight of two tempting cheeks encased in the pleasing cloth. And then, gently, my fingers touched his skin and lifted the waistband of those same pants and effortlessly eased them down his thighs, leaving them just touching the bottom of his soft, creamy white, buttocks. No need for more. He was now fully exposed behind and breathtakingly beautiful. And crying out for my strap, a strap I now laid across his naked bottom. He gave a slight shiver and gripped the sides of the crate. We both knew this was the moment.

 

I saw the strap, hanging on the wall. I don’t know why I had not noticed it before. It was just as I started to lower my trousers. A thick shiny brown one, or it seemed thick to me. I told myself it was no worse that my dad’s belt but I wasn’t convinced. My one hope is that being a woman she couldn’t hit so hard. I gulped and turned away from her. It seemed very strange bending over that crate with my trousers around my knees. I sensed her coming towards me, felt her hands lifting my jumper and tucking it in and then her fingers, cold, touching my skin. She was slowly easing my underpants down and that was the strangest sensation of all. When my dad belted me he made me take my trousers off and pushing me down on my bed would roughly pull my underpants down and whack almost straight away. Not in anger, but with a desire to get it over with quickly. He would stop when my howling got a bit too loud and stressful, usually after twenty or so. But it was always quick, both the baring of my bum and the whacking of the belt. This was different, this was gentle, almost ritualistic, and almost enjoyable. If not for me then clearly for her. She was savouring the preparation. Getting me ready. My naked bottom raised high for her and her strap. And until she whacked it across my behind I did not seem to mind. But when she did, when she lashed me with the first of the promised twelve, I howled.

 

Oh I did enjoy it. I enjoyed it then and I enjoy it even more now in the memory. He had a lovely bottom. Soft and smooth, two beautiful white cheeks, and the first stroke of my strap produced a lovely large and long red line across them both. That was artistic heaven and was worth the grunt and squeal he evoked. Raising the strap for a second time and lashing it down across that divine backside released emotions in me impossible to describe.

 

Christ it hurt, stung like hell. I wriggled and howled. Pain was racing from my behind to my brain and, as it registered, the second thwack landed across the centre of my cheeks. I howled again and gritted my teeth, determined not to cry off. As I twisted and turned the third and fourth thwacks of the deadly strap landed on my bare skin. It was hurting as hard as my dad’s belt and I twisted from side to side in a futile attempt to avoid it. But that strap knew where my behind was and five, six, and seven, continued their searing work. It was on the seventh I got up and I am sure she saw all of me for a moment. My twisting about and contorting against the bench had lowered my underpants further than a boy desires with a lady disciplinarian. She saw what my mother had not seen for years. Shamefully I quickly pulled them up and rubbed violently against cheeks which were hot and hard and stinging. And I was sniffling as I pleaded for no more. Please Miss I said, and to this day I regret my behaviour. I was not taking my thrashing like a man.

 

I did consider letting him off the final few. He was clearly distressed and the exposing of his private bits mortified him. But we had a contract, a bargain, and as he composed himself I reminded him of it. To clear the slates, to ensure no repercussions for he or his friends, he had agreed to twelve strokes of my strap on his bare behind. He had only had seven. There were five more to come. Reluctantly but eventually he agreed. His crying had diminished to involuntary sniffles and I could see that he was readying himself for the final part of his discipline. It was then I made my defining decision. A decision that, in a way, has cemented our relationship over the years. Certainly since we re-met at that party some years after this event. Take your underpants right down, I said, they only get in the way and, besides, you have nothing I have not seen. Either now or in the past. And when you have done so stretch yourself back over the bench. You have five more strap strokes to come. And these will be even harder. So steel yourself young man.

 

Surprisingly I did. My behind was burning and I did not welcome five more strap strokes across it. She could really lay it on. But in a strange way I felt that what she said was right. I would suffer the brief pain and the humiliation and it would be right. Confused young minds have their sexual awakening in the strangest ways and I realised that I was getting mine. I would store this experience and in later years begin to appreciate it. So when I lowered my underpants to my trousered ankles it was with a feeling of exquisite calm. My backside may be throbbing but my senses were clear. I would embrace her last five strokes across my completely naked bottom and, afterwards. I would rejoice in them. And I think we both knew this. I bent over the blanketed crate, legs now spread as far as I could and showing all, and prepared myself for the final five consummate kisses. Five searing strokes to my behind that I would remember for years to come. And tell her about it at the party we both attended many years later. Sorely, and surely, I had repaid my paper boy scam in spades.

 

We were re-introduced when he was in his early thirties and I was just turned forty. I told you I was younger than he thought. He told me he had never forgot his strapping and, after a few drinks and circuitous conversations, realised he wished it again and I willed a repeat. So we did, many times over the years until we both got too old. So now he comes to visit me for tea and chats. Nothing else. But we both remember the day that I gave him a burning behind for his paper boy scam. When I reddened his bottom to a degree, he swears, that his father never achieved.  And he and I are both glad it happened. Which is why he is writing this piece about it and allowed me to put in my own comments. I told him when he had finished it, I do not do computers so put my pieces down on paper, that I still think that his was the nicest young bottom I ever strapped.

 

My three friends were relieved that I had got them let off. They questioned me as to how I had managed it. I never told them. It was too private. When that young, and I now see that she was, schoolmisstressy wife of the newsagent made her proposition I knew I would go through with it. I knew, if not then, but when I saw her strap. I knew because I had a slight erection. And that is why I turned away. Not her, not the lowering of my trousers, not the strap on the wall. I could feel myself growing. And later on she saw it. And she knew. Mrs Bloggs, paying her paper bill, has a lot to answer for.      Alfred Roy (2020)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Victorian Birching Fantasy (M/m)

Body Swop

We all need things to do in lockdown and I have often hankered to write a Victorian birching story. So not before time and inspired by pics found on the excellent CORPUN site here is my attempt. Pure fantasy, as if that needs saying given the narrative. Alfred Roy

 

I can’t be hearing this. Who is this man? Where am I? Who am I? He is saying something. I need to lean closer. I am in a dock. I know that. A burly policeman with big walrus moustaches is standing by me. He puts his hand on my shoulder as I lean closer to hear what the man is saying. He looks like my old headmaster, or at least like the Victorian photograph of his grandfather which hung prominently in the school hall. And the expression on his face is even grimmer and sterner. And he is speaking. Speaking to me. I lean closer still, taking in the unfamiliar fusty brown surroundings. I am in a dock and this is a court, a court not unlike the reproductions that have been cropping up in our town. But they are shiny, new, glorified cafes. This is real, musty, dark, and threatening. And I am in the dock and, listening to the dry tones of the florid faced man, I realise that I am being sentenced. And I do not like, no I am fearful of what I hear.

It was that ragamuffin I met at the fair. The strange fair that turned up in our town one day and was gone the next. He looked like a gypsy. About the same age as me, twelve going on thirteen, but thin and wiry and, frankly, unhealthy. A sickly pallor whereas I had the glowing healthy skin of a well fed and cared for youngster. But he mesmerised. His eyes glowed and he had a funny, old fashioned way of talking. He said methinks a lot. He asked me my name. David I said. I am Wilbert he said. I work here with my dad. We sell potions. Wanna try one? I declined and then he did something very strange. He took a bottle of liquid from his pocket, took a sip, and disappeared. I was stunned, shocked, puzzled. And then he turned up again, behind me, and laughed mischievously. It’s magic, he said, but I only took a sip. Take a big swig and there is no saying what happens. And he laughed again. It was almost malevolent. No it was. Malevolent.

The dry tones of the florid faced man are continuing. I have done something. Something bad. The court takes a dim view of such behaviour, especially one old enough to know better. That’s what he said. I strained forward even more and the burly policeman gripped my shoulder even more. You need a harsh lesson which, hopefully, will curb you of your heinous ways and act as a deterrent to others. I sentence you to eight strokes of the birch. To be administered in the usual manner and under the usual procedure. Take him down. And then he stood up and bowed to the court and left. I was transfixed. Had I heard right? Eight strokes of the birch. He must have been talking to someone else. And then the burly policeman spoke, the first time I had heard his voice. Come on he said, come on Wilbert, let’s get this over with. Can’t be the first time you will have had your bum smacked. I left in a daze. He had called me Wilbert.

The strange boy had laughed at me again and told me to take a sip. Go on Davy, he said, it’s magic. I was tempted but again refused. Frankly I was both intrigued and scared. It won’t hurt you he said, my dad is a genius. And he took another sip and disappeared again only to return behind me some two minutes later. It’s a lovely feeling he said, try it. So I did. But I must have sipped a little more than him because the next thing I remember I was standing behind him and I was wearing his clothes and he was wearing mine. That’s never happened before, he said. You disappeared and then I must have passed out. Well don’t I look grand, he said, and laughed uproariously. His clothes felt rough, baggy trousers and a rough, laced, shirt and large leathery boots. We should change back I said and he agreed and so we both sipped a little more. And I found myself in this dock being sentenced to eight strokes of the birch. In the usual manner.

I am not stupid. I know what that meant. I have read my history books. Boys who were birched got it on the bare buttocks. The bare behind. That is what the books said. I don’t know the details but I was shortly to find out. Unless I could conjure up the real Wilbert or convince the policeman that they had got the wrong boy. I was thinking this when he stopped at a cell door. This is where the doctor will examine you, he said. Make sure you are fit for your birching. He grinned, but not unpleasantly. Don’t look so worried lad, he said, it will soon be over. We never like to delay too long, not fair. The doc will be along in a minute and if satisfied, as he will be, you will be taken to that room at the end of the corridor. He pointed to a large wooden door about twenty feet away. I shall be there with our inspector to see fair play, as will the doctor, and the colleague who is a specialist in these matters. So just the four of us, no need to be embarrassed. Just do as you’re told, he said, and it will be over in five or ten minutes. I won’t pretend, you will feel it, Sgt Colefax is very good with the birch and he takes no prisoners. Just tell yourself that you deserve it. Makes it easier to take, in my opinion. But I don’t deserve it, I said, I have not done anything, and I felt myself start to cry. They all say that lad, doesn’t do any good, he said. But I haven’t, I said, I don’t belong here. I have come from the future.

The burly policeman looked at me quizzically, almost fatherly. Look lad, he said, you are going to be taken into that room in a few minutes and your trousers and pants are going to be taken down, you are going to be strapped to the birching horse, and Sgt Colefax is going to whack your bare arse with his birch eight times. And nothing you say is going to change that. Take my advice and co-operate and take your punishment like a brave boy. Tell Colefax what you have told me and he will cut you in half. There is nothing he hates more than a lad who tries to wriggle out of what he knows he deserves. Now in you go and strip off. Doc will be here in a minute.

 

‘Pants off young man, and your top. This won’t take long.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘That is what you all say. The prospect of the birch on the bare bottom turns you all into angels, in my experience.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘Pants off, I said.’

‘I don’t belong here.’

‘You all say that. Anything to avoid the birch.’

‘But it’s true. I don’t belong here. I come from 1969.’

‘Well, that’s a new one I must say. Now strip. I haven’t got all day.’

‘I’m not Wilbert, you must believe me.’

 

I had started to cry again and the doctor, a man as equally burly as the policeman and with equally imposing moustaches, changed a friendly demeanour to a more serious one. As he spoke he whipped down my pants and looked me firmly in the face. We’ll have these pants off and the top if you please. I need to ascertain your fitness for your birching, though you look a fine healthy young man to me. Well able to take what is coming. Now come along and don’t waste my time or I’ll have you before the magistrate again. And that could mean your eight strokes being increased. Do you want that? As he said all this he pulled my trousers off, I had already removed the heavy and unfamiliar boots, and then roughly lifted the shirt over my head. I was naked and shamefully tearful. This was a situation I had never experienced or imagined. And I could see no way of avoiding what was to come. I closed my eyes as the doctor conducted his minute examination. I reckon every bit of me was prodded and tugged and scrutinised, especially my bottom and genitals. After what seemed an age he muttered something under his breath, a satisfactory sigh I thought, and told me to get dressed again. Just the trousers and shirt, no need for anything else, he said, putting on underclothes just prolongs things in my experience. He put his stethoscope away in a very officious looking black bag and made to leave.

 

‘What year is this sir?’

‘What?’

‘What year is it?’

‘I wouldn’t start that again, young man, I am a busy man.’

‘I’m sorry, but I need to know.’

‘You know damn well what year it is.’

‘I don’t. I don’t know.’

‘Just take what is coming to you and get it over with.’

‘I will sir. I will. I see I have no choice.’

‘That’s better.’

‘Just tell me what year it is. Please.’

 

The doctor eyed the boy. He seemed in deadly earnest. The doctor wasn’t sure whether this was a ruse to try and get out of his birching, not the done thing to birch lunatics generally, or merely to delay it. Irritation vied with interest. The boy seemed normal, intelligent even, not the usual type who got birched. And his body, minutely examined, was clearly well fed and cared for. Soft and healthy skin and well filled plump and creamy buttocks. Not scrawny or splotched as many who end up here. And he was composing himself at last. The tears had eased and his voice had lost some of its tremble. He seemed resigned to his fate, resolved even to take what was coming. That was good. A birching taken well, however unpleasant, was welcomed by all involved. Screaming and fighting lads still got their deserts, often harder from Sgt Colefax, but it left a poor taste. Justice was much better served by an acquiescence and acceptance. And this boy now knew his fate was inevitable. So he told him. 1898. And then he left.

 

I think the next half an hour or so passed with me in a dream. There was an unreality about everything that was happening. The date the doctor had said was buzzing around my head. It did not make sense, nothing made sense, except I now knew that I was going to be birched. There was no escape unless, miraculously, Wilbert somehow reversed the spell. And in my heart I knew that was not going to happen. So I resigned myself to my ordeal and tried to hold back the tears that seemed forever waiting to swell. I had never in my life been beaten and now I was to be. In the most painful and humiliating manner imaginable. The usual manner the magistrate had said. Except I could not imagine it. Did not want to imagine it. It was beyond my experience. But I was thirteen, nearly, not yet a man but neither a little boy. I would submit, I had no choice, but if tears flowed they would be tears caused by pain and distress not by fear. I closed my eyes and held my breath and waited.

I did not wait long. After a few minutes the door opened and the burly policeman re-entered. He nodded to me and I meekly followed him. The impassive look on his face told me that this was it. I had done as I was told. I was wearing Wilbert’s rough baggy trousers and laced trimmed cotton shirt, equally large. Nothing else. As I walked the twenty or so feet along the corridor to the imposing wooden door earlier indicated I was conscious of the rough trouser material rubbing against my naked skin. My naked bottom. Soon to be revealed and birched behind that frightening door. I had little time to think. The burly policeman, strangely almost the only friend I had in my dilemma, opened the door and stood aside. In you go lad, he said, soon be over. The birch stings and you will no doubt howl but it won’t kill you. And if you keep telling yourself it is deserved it will go more quickly. And he then smiled, as if encouraging me to take what I knew I did not deserve, and ushered me in. The room was dimly lit and small. It registered little. A small window high in the opposite wall and in front of it a strange looking curved leather contraption with a variety of straps. Even to my confused dreamlike state it registered as the place of my execution. I gulped. This was clearly it, the moment of no going back. And then I saw him. Standing to the left of the doctor in the furthest corner of the room. Another burly policeman, uniform jacket discarded and white right shirt sleeve rolled up. And in the hand of that shirt sleeve rolled up arm it held a frightening implement. Long and thin with what seemed an enormous number of intertwined twigs, all held together at the handle by intricate binding. It must have been at least three or four feet long and spanned a good eight inches at its tip. It looked as if it could do a great deal of damage. I blinked and looked at the man holding it. His face held no expression but the eyes studied me disconcertingly. This was Sgt Colefax and the eyes told me, shouted at me, that the thing in his hand, the dreaded birch, was shortly to be introduced to my behind. And beyond the impassive eyes I sensed the slightest glimpse of a smile of anticipation, a hint of relish. As the other policeman closed the door I sensed myself beginning to cry again.

It was then I registered the fourth man. He was standing to the right of the door and was carrying a clipboard with papers. This must be the inspector referred to. He looked officious, thin and tall and serious, and clearing his throat looked at me and spoke. Wilbert Jenkins, you have been sentenced to eight strokes of the birch for wilful damage to property of the crown. That sentence will now be carried out. Prepare him Constable Wainwright. In my confusion I could hardly take in the words. They were dry and impersonal but filled with menace. Wilful damage to property. A birching offence. Constable Wainwright, so I now knew his name, took my left arm and eased me gently to the bench. I know it was gentle because I moved forward willingly if not eagerly. The contraption, the birching bench, was old brown leather with the distinct smell of age and wear. Narrow at the base it widened at the top as it curved its six feet length to a height of about four feet. The further end was supported by wooden legs and the whole device was raised on a wooden block base. It was well designed, an ideal shape for someone to be bent along it for a beating. Stand on the base lad, Constable Wainwright said, with your legs either side and then lean over and stretch your arms. Soon be over. There was softness in his voice but I sensed, rather than knew, that if I resisted a different Wainwright would emerge. Once in this room you were not going to leave unscathed. I did as he bid, stood on the platform base and put my legs either side of the leather contraption. Over you go, he said, stretch your arms out. As I did so I felt the cold leather press against my crotch and with my face touching the widened top of the bench I smelt its aroma. I was now in the desired prone position but, fleetingly I thought, if I wished I could still get up. And then something strange happened. I was in this vulnerable position, enclosed by menacing leather, four unseen players of the drama behind me waiting to play their part and I could also see it all. As if by magic I could see what they could see. Another part of me seemed to be in the doorway watching it all take place. I was starring in this film of a Victorian drama and I was also watching its replay.

The constable took my arms and leaned so close to me I could smell his garlic breath. He placed my wrists in straps fixed to the supporting legs of the bench. I sensed my breathing become more shallow and urgent. Relax lad, he said, won’t be long. Just need to make you secure. And then I felt, and saw, a thick leather strap being pulled across my waist and tightened and fixed. I sensed, frighteningly, the helpless feeling of being trapped. Held in a position I did not desire and with no way to escape any ensuing onslaught. I started to cry. I cursed to myself at the incipient tears but fear at what was close was engulfing me. None of these manoeuvres took more than a minute or so and then I again felt, and saw, Constable Wainwright lift the baggy shirt and tuck the ends of it into the strap around my waist. I knew and sensed what was coming next. Hands were around my waist untying the string of the trousers and then quickly and efficiently, almost with undue haste, the trousers were pulled down to my knees and I was bare, naked, and ready. A cool breeze brushed my bottom cheeks and conscious of their pronounced position I tried in vain to shrink the size. The tears welled even more and I screwed up my eyes and prayed all would soon be over. And yet in the doorway I seemed also to be watching my fate. My potion induced fate.

Ready sir, said Constable Wainwright, his voice seeming thicker and more nervous than hitherto. Thank you constable, the dry voice of the inspector responded. All yours Sgt Colefax. Do your duty. Eight strokes and lay them on, this wretch deserves it. And you have a nice plump and creamy arse to work on. I flinched, Sgt Colefax gave a slight deferential laugh, the constable and the doctor remained silent. I suspected they did not approve of the comment. And then the doctor spoke. Not the shape of the usual miscreants we get, he said, if I did not know I would say he came from a good and caring family. Be that as it may, the inspector said, but he is here to be birched. When you are ready Sgt Colefax.

There was a silence and then I sensed him step towards me. And then I knew, the twigs of the birch rested on my exposed bottom right across the centre. Sgt Colefax was measuring his aim. Everything in the room stood still, nothing and no one moved. The only sound was my whimpering and the heavy breathing of the onlookers. Sgt Colefax, expression grim, tapped the spraying birch on my backside, raised his arm to a seemingly impossible height and lashed the twigs across my naked cheeks. For a moment I was stunned. The impact seemed to take all the breath from my body and then, after a second, the stinging fire engulfed my behind. I wriggled and tried to shift my position and clenched my teeth determined to slow the spread of any more tears. And then the birch lashed into me again, harder this time, but still central across both of my raised orbs. A plump and creamy arse they had said. A plump and creamy arse well raised, an easy target for an expert. Now scratched and wealed from a deadly implement. And the sting and the pain was starting to spread. And then the third stroke hit me, slightly lower this time, and I screamed. The pain was becoming unbearable. And when the fourth stroke lashed into my naked rear, higher up my cheeks, I knew I could no longer hold back. I cried and howled and begged to be let off. Constable Wainwright, standing near my head, brushed my hair and said, hold on lad, hold on, only four more to go. I merely wailed. The pain and throbbing in my behind, my sore and lacerated behind, was engulfing my whole being. Burning wires drilled into my naked flesh and he says hold on. Only four more to go. I do not remember much of the rest, of those four strokes. I know they stung and fired into my behind in ten seconds intervals. I know that Sgt Colefax put his full force into them, almost as if my howling and pleading had fired him to even greater lashes. I know that I screamed unmercifully when those avenging twigs savagely connected with my upturned cheeks. And I know that I wet myself, my bladder becoming uncontrollable as the pain consumed my backside. But I do not remember much more. I did not see those last four strokes. It was as if a mist had descended to try and shut out the excruciating pain in my rear.

 

‘Feeling any better lad?’

‘A bit. Still very sore. Still throbs.’

‘Hardly surprising. It’s only been an hour. Did the doc’s ministrations help?’

‘You mean the cream?’

‘Yes.’

‘A bit. Told me it was to stop infections.’

‘It does. Won’t stop you being unable to sit down for awhile though. You’ll have those birch scars for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more.’

‘He told me that Sgt Colefax really laid it on, especially the last four. Hadn’t seen him whack anyone that hard for months.’

‘It’s your arse lad. He doesn’t often see one as good as yours.’

‘That’s what the doc said. Said a plump and creamy bottom like mine almost begged for the birch. Made me blush. He also said something else.’

‘Go on.’

‘He said I was too well fed to be a gypsy. In too good a condition. Don’t feel it at the moment though.’

‘You’ll recover.’

‘Before I go home. I will go home won’t I?’

‘Depends where home is lad. I mean, after all, you weren’t given a custodial.’

‘I have told you. I have come from the future.’

 

The burly Constable Wainwright gave me that quizzical look he gave me when I first said that. Before I was birched. He looked displeased then, but less so now. I had grown to like him, in spite of the strange circumstances. This large man had strapped me down in the birching cell and pulled down my pants and bared my bottom for Sgt Colefax’s dreaded birch. I should hate him. But I couldn’t. He had stroked my hair and gently talked me through the last four strokes. He had helped me dress and did not mention my bladder disgrace. And after the doc had inspected me he had come to chat and see how I was. I think he saw it all as his duty. He approved of my being birched, approved of me having eight savage cuts delivered to my raised bare behind. I reckon he would have done it himself if directed. Boys, lads, needed a lesson, and a sharp birch across their bare arses, their bare and plump and creamy arses, is the best way of teaching it when they stray. And in his eyes I had strayed. But, I told myself, Constable Wainwright cares for boys, lads, even if he does not care for their behinds. He looked at me sternly, but not unfriendly. I could get Sgt Colefax back to give you another four or six for that comment, he said, or even do it myself. And then he grinned. You are a strange lad he said, far more intelligent than most we get here; I hope we don’t see you back. And he didn’t. I fell asleep in the holding cell shortly after he left and when I woke up I was standing in a deserted field. In my own pristine clean school clothes. And the real Wilbert was nowhere to be seen.

 

This was where the strange fair was, the fair that appeared suddenly and, so I was later told, disappeared in the same manner. Now it was just a deserted field and the only indication of what had happened was a small purple bottle discarded on the ground. The potion. I resisted an impulse to pick it up and decided to make my way home. I would not explain to anyone where I had been or what I had suffered. Who would believe it anyway. 1969 boys do not get birched, and certainly not in the manner considered usual in the days of 1898. On my way home I met no one but the following day I went back to school and, puzzled, I was summoned to the headmaster’s office on arrival. I will not bore you with the details but the summation was that he was unhappy. I had insulted a new master at the school, totally out of character apparently, and the headmaster was concerned. What had provoked it?  I had no idea and offered, lamely, that I had been feeling ill the day before. Well you certainly would be after he dealt with you, he said. Most disconcerting. He seems a bit of an authoritarian. Insisted you must be caned. Most rare in these days. I, reluctantly, agreed, I hope you have recovered. Very few boys get six of the best in these times. The headmaster smiled at me, clearly concerned, and hoped that I had recovered from both my illness and my caning. Most uncharacteristic David. Spitting at a new master and kicking him in a private place, most uncharacteristic, I had to sanction your punishment. You do understand? I did. That is what this interview was all about. The unexpected caning of a, normally, well behaved boy. It was Wilbert, I was sure of it. I asked the headmaster the name of the new teacher, just out of curiosity. A Mr Colefax, he said, very much a disciplinarian. I think you boys need to be careful. After he gave you your six of the best he said to me, he said to me, headmaster, in the old days I would have taken his pants down and those six would have been on his bare backside. These days’ youngsters get it so easy.

 

So Wilbert had been caned whilst I had been birched. Made me feel a little better even if I knew that in his case dignity had been retained. But it had happened. When I returned, in that desolated field, I had doubted it. But when I arrived home I went to my room and dropped my pants. In the mirror, reflecting back at me, my bottom showed the many lacerations of a serious birching. A birching that I could never show my mother. Or her new man. A very nice chap, very fatherly and attentive. His name is Wainwright. I sometimes wonder when I have heard that name before. I think it lies in a bottle in a desolated field waiting for the return of Wilbert.

Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Late Mrs Brown (F/m)

Just been studying my posts and realised I have not done an F/m story for over two years. Bit of a surprise as they are the most popular reads and great fun to write. The fantasy schoolboy in me enjoys creating situations I rarely, if ever, experienced, but clearly desired. The trick is finding something fresh to embellish and enhance the age old theme. I hope I have with this one.

The Late Mrs Brown

I didn’t know her well. At least not in recent years. She was well over ninety when she died and I had lived in Manchester for most of my working life. But now an early retired and still single, my partner of many years having found new pastures, I sold up and moved back to the small village of my childhood and youth. In all the stress and strains of the move I had not given her a thought. Thirty five years away meant I had lost touch with most in the village and my elderly widowed father was in the nearby care home. One of many reasons why I moved back. Visiting from Manchester was never easy. My main schoolboy friend, Stuart, still lived in the village and still worked on the farm he joined the moment he left school. Muck rather than maths was his motto. It did not take us long to renew old acquaintance and have a regularly meet at the Mucky Duck, the village one remaining pub. It is actually The Black Swan but nobody, locals or visitors, ever called it that. I also re-met Mavis, the girl we both fancied at school. Now fifty plus and plump she reignited nothing in me. Probably just as well as she had married Stuart and produced him three bright and healthy children. Or so they told me over a sumptuous reunion Sunday lunch a couple of months after I moved in to the cottage I was renting. It was at that lunch that I was reminded of Mrs Brown.

We were talking about people I knew in the village when I was growing up. I say we, but Mavis did most of the talking. Stuart was as monosyllabic as ever and Mavis, dressed in Sunday best with a fetching old English apron, effused enough for all of us. I suspected that she rarely had an opportunity to show off and I was marked down as a special occasion. Lots of folks got mentioned, most dead and all forgotten. Mr Pepper who kept the now closed chemist shop. Cyril Jones, who left under a cloud sometimes in the 1980s, and no one knows why. And little Tommy Pemberton who drowned in the village pond when both Stuart and I were still at primary school. As I said, all forgotten and, presumably, all dead. And then Mavis mentioned Mrs Brown. Stuart’s reticence became even more marked and I mumbled something along the lines that although remembered, unlike the others, I presumed that she had also long gone.

I knew that was not true. A few weeks after returning to the village and staying at the Black Swan whilst sorting out my cottage rental, I bumped into her in the one remaining village shop. Her crisp and authoritarian voice quickly evoked old memories. She may have become old and frail, readily witnessed as I turned around, but the strict persona was still there. Stuart’s friend, she said, back in the village at last. It sounded like a rebuke. Not surprising, given that memories of Mrs Brown were never pleasant. And one particular evening after school when Stuart and I were just into our teens is seared, as the saying goes, on my memory. It may have been forty years before, but some things are never forgotten. And judging by Stuart’s less than effusive grunts not forgotten by him either. Mavis twittered and served a splendid pudding and reminisced about Mrs Brown. We both, silently and collectively, just remembered.

It was sometime in the 1960’s. I can’t remember the date but it was around the time of one of many general elections, and posters of Harold Wilson and his ilk figured prominently on many advertising boards. But I do know that it was a Wednesday. I know it was a Wednesday because that was the day that Mrs Brown, a near neighbour of both of us, did evening classes in the village hall. That did not interest Stuart and me. Mainly for old fogies or so we gathered. What interested us was the fact that Mrs Brown’s house was uninhabited between 6.00pm and 8.00pm, as there was no Mr Brown as far as we knew. He was never mentioned or seen in all my growing years. No, Mrs Brown lived alone but she did have regular visitors. Everyone in the village knew this, it was no secret. There was a very posh card in the post office window and an impressive brass plate on the wall of her cottage. Both displayed the same benign message. Camilla Brown. Member of the Institute of Chiropodists and Podiatrists. I remember asking my mother one day what a podiatrist was and her answer intrigued me. Something Mrs Brown isn’t, she said, and following my response issued the usual parental ‘never you mind.’ Stuart giggled when I mentioned it to him. It’s to do with feet, he said, but according to his elder brother Mrs Brown attended to much more than feet.

Early teenage schoolboys have lots of time on their hands. Stuart and I were no different and aimless walks and equally aimless conversations filled much of the hours between school and evening meal. We talked about Mavis, pert and pretty and blossoming, and we talked about Cyril Jones, a smelly schoolboy we both loathed. And we talked about Mrs Brown, the mysterious, to us, Mrs Brown. Who was she and what were her visitors? Fertile young brains decided she was probably a clairvoyant or a witch. Or even a courtesan. I had no idea what the latter was but had heard my father use the term unflatteringly about some actress who was in the news. Stuart didn’t think so. Mrs Brown took exercise classes for oldies and courtesans were lazy. Or so he thought. More likely to be a witch and dance naked with her afternoon visitors to her cottage whilst conjuring up spirits. I did say our brains were fertile, dangerously so as it turned out. I do not know which of us suggested it but on the following Wednesday around 6.00pm, we decided to have a close look at Mrs Brown’s cottage. Excitement eclipsed sense and our road to a very painful, and humiliating, ending was set. And still remembered forty years on.

Cutting to the chase, why not, Mrs Brown caned us both. Twenty strokes, unequally shared, on our backsides. Boy did it hurt and boy did we cry. I thought I would never stop. And we never told anyone. Ever. And definitely not the details. But if I leave it at that you may be disappointed. The why and the wherefore would be left tantalisingly hanging. So, in the interest of 1960’s history and how things were dealt with in those days I shall give you a blow by blow account. Literally. From the moment we entered her cottage conservatory to the moment, twenty minutes later, when I fumbled with my snake belt and lowered my pants. Tearfully regretting my stupidity. A stupidity still remembered but strangely, no longer regretted. Mrs Brown, now known as the late Mrs Brown, introduced me to a painful but ultimately heady experience I can neither explain nor deny. And I have no intention of doing so. I will just stick to the facts in all its fascinating development. We watched her go; it was already getting dark so we were not seen. Or so we thought. Giggling nervously we crept round to the back of her cottage. I swear to this day that neither of us knew what we were going to do. If a plan had been formulated neither of us was aware of it. But we were in luck, or as some would say bad luck. The conservatory had two large windows and one of them had been left open. It was an easy job for me to climb through; I was and still am much smaller and slighter than Stuart, and even easier to release the inner catch on the sliding conservatory door. Within five minutes we were both inside. We checked the back door to the cottage but, unsurprisingly, it was locked. Not being real burglars we had no idea what to do. The conservatory did not seem promising. A small table, a couple of comfy old chairs, a few plants dotted around, and a low long bookcase with drawers either side. All were locked and any attempt to open them would cause damage. At that stage neither of us fancied attacking them. We were not vandals, or so we told ourselves.  The bookcase was filled with a variety of books and, failing anything else to do we decided to explore them. Most were boring, medical books, foot books, history books, and a few novels by such as Dickens and Austen. We were beginning to think that our adventure was a waste of time when, on the bottom shelf, Stuart spotted a couple that looked more interesting. We took them out. Large tomes with lots of pictures. ‘The Art of Massage’ and ‘Sensuous Massage’ were two that I can remember but the one that sticks in the mind and fascinated was called ‘The Kama Sutra.’ We opened it and were gobsmacked by the pictures. Naked folks, male and female, in all sorts of positions. I giggled and Stuart even more so. So much, as he told me later, he almost wet himself. We were so absorbed in our discovery we did not hear the key in the door to the cottage turn. It was only when Mrs Brown, standing in her doorway, spoke that we realised she was there. I dropped the book and saw the grim determination in Mrs Brown’s face and the menacing gleam in her eyes. She stared at us for what seemed an age before she spoke. ‘I was told you boys were here’ she said calmly, ‘you had better come with me.’ And with that she turned and went back into her cottage. I suppose we could have run but it did not occur to either of us. Or not then. So we meekly followed her, fervently regretting our abortive and pointless adventure. If we got out alive we would be eternally grateful.

Mrs Brown, tall and dominating, eyed her two incipient schoolboy burglars with a venomous gaze which chilled. Caught, red handed, in her cottage Stuart and I had little in the way of defence. We waited with bated breaths, in her cosy kitchen, her reaction to the violation of her property. Mercy suggested that she would send us off with a threat to tell our parents if anything like this happened again. Fear induced the frightening thought that she would call the police and we would suffer the awful consequences. Neither prospect appealed. But neither did the one she proffered. It involved neither police nor parents. Retribution deferred, in a sense. Except by her. And we were about to find out what that entailed. I reckon, given what followed, we were either very brave or very foolish.

‘So what do you suppose I should do? Call the police? Or your parents?’

‘No.’

That was me.

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

That was her.

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

That was us, in unison.

‘Why not?’

‘It will get us into trouble.’

That was me again.

‘You are already in trouble. Serious trouble.’

She emphasised the ‘are’ and the ‘serious’.

Both of us twitched nervously.

‘You break into my house, violate my privacy, and disrupt my evening plans and you think I should just tell you not to do it again and send you away.’

‘I don’t know.’

That was me again, Stuart being his usual silent self.

‘You don’t know?’

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

‘Well I do young man. I will send you away and tell you not to do it again and will not tell your parents. Or the police.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Brown.’

We said this together, relieved.

‘After I have dealt with the matter myself.’

Our relief instantly dissipated and I looked at Mrs Brown with a growing awareness of her dominance. Dressed in black top and tight black trousers her short silvery hair contrasted well with the thick gold chain she wore around her neck. She wasn’t young, certainly older than my mother, but her presence and piercing dark eyes gave her an authority most adults of my acquaintance lacked. I feared we were not going to escape unscathed.

‘You stay here.’ she said, pointing to me, ‘And you come with me.’

And with that she turned and left the kitchen and Stuart, as before, meekly followed.

The next fifteen minutes were excruciating. Stuart had followed Mrs Brown into the hallway and the kitchen door closed firmly. I was left on my own, suddenly and unexpectedly. For a few moments I was conscious only of the silence that had descended over the cottage. There was a faint tick from a clock in her hallway and the tiny patter of rain falling on the conservatory roof. But all else was a menacing quiet. And here I was marooned, or so it seemed, in a strange house. I wandered aimlessly around Mrs Brown’s kitchen, examining a splendid Aga that my family could not afford, and studied the variety of colourful plates and cups on her shelves. Somehow it was necessary to fill the time, I told myself. Gradually I was drawn towards the hallway door through which Stuart and Mrs Brown had left. I opened it. Beyond, on the right, was a door to another room. It was closed and I assumed that is where they were. The silence continued, even more menacing, and the ticking of the clock grew louder as it grew nearer. It was as I was wishing that I had never got involved in this stupid caper and desperate for my own familiar home that I heard raised voices. I jumped. It was Stuart, it couldn’t be anyone else, saying ‘no’ and a quieter, indistinct voice, responding. I strained to hear what Mrs Brown was saying, what had prompted Stuart’s uncharacteristic outburst, but to no avail. Everything went very quiet again and then I heard an unmistakeable sound followed by an even more familiar response. I froze for a moment and then went back into the kitchen and sat down on a small stool near the Aga. I was trembling. There was no mistaking it. I was a 1960’s schoolboy after all. Stuart, my taciturn friend Stuart, my erstwhile burglar friend Stuart, was being caned. And that meant one thing. I was going to be next.

‘Well, have you anything to say young man?’

‘No.’

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

‘No, Mrs Brown.’

‘Then I think we should get this over with. I very much doubt if this is a first time for you.’

‘No. No, Mrs Brown.’

I had lots to say, of course, but I could not see the point. The situation I was in was crystal clear. We were in Mrs Brown’s cosy sitting room, gently lit by a number of old fashioned wall lights. Stuart was nowhere to be seen; I guessed she had let him out through her front door before summoning me. Summoning seemed about right. She stood in the middle of the room, elegantly poised I thought, and in her right hand she held a cane. A familiar sight to schoolboys, if not in this bizarre situation. If I had any doubts about what she intended to do, and I didn’t, they were readily dispelled. I listened to her, transfixed, as she calmly spelt out how this mad evening would end. If I had any regrets, and I had lots, it was the regret that it was not already over.

‘I have dealt with your friend, and I now intend to deal with you in the same manner. The alternative is that I report you to the police and I doubt if either of you would wish that. Stuart certainly didn’t and he took his caning well. A brave boy. I expect you to do the same. So, when you are ready young man, lower your trousers and bend over the end of that sofa.’

I gulped. I had been caned before at school a couple of times but both times by male teachers and neither had told me to lower my pants. Mrs Brown was clearly of a different ilk. Perhaps she thought she did not have the strength of a man, I reckoned she would, and that thin underpants would be enough to compensate. I flinched and stared at her, ready to protest like Stuart had volubly done. At least I reckoned he had before he bent over her sofa. After that all I heard was the swish of a familiar cane and a number of large howls. Annoyingly I had not counted the strokes. But it did not matter because as I stood there opened mouthed and motionless, Mrs Brown enlightened me.

‘I intend to give you twelve strokes as opposed to the eight I gave your friend. You were clearly the one who climbed in through my conservatory window and you were the one who damaged a valuable book when you dropped it. But like him you are also be caned on your bare backside. It’s the only way with boys.’

I was undoing the snake belt on my grey trousers and in the process of lowering my trousers when she said this. The shock hit me like a thunderbolt. Bare. I had never been caned bare. Dad had spanked me a couple of times on the bare, but that was with his hand, and a few years ago. And no woman, not even my mother, had ever laid as much as a feather on me. I blushed deep red and trembled, tears beginning to well. Instinctively I turned away from her. Should I run or submit? Part of me wanted to run but another part, a strange all consuming part, held me in Mrs Brown’s presence and dictated my actions. I would let her cane me, given I had a choice of sorts, and mercifully trust it would be over quickly. Please God it would. Unlike Stuart I have, or had, a very small bottom. And twelve strokes on it, underpants down, was a lot more than it had ever received.

The room fell silent. All I could hear was Mrs Brown’s heavy breathing, I had not noticed that before, and my own sniffles. I steeled myself, pushed my thin grey school trousers down to below my knees, and bent over the arm of her sofa. No way was I going to take down my underpants in front of her. That would be too humiliating. And, vain hope, she might forget or relent. I stared at the bright cushions on the sofa, anything to take my mind off the situation, and waited. What had she said when she told me how I would be caned? ‘It is the only way with boys.’ I puzzled on this phrase as I sensed her move closer towards me. Her perfume was strong but pleasant and her hands when she touched my waist were light and soft. I wondered for a moment what she was doing but did not have long to find out. She eased my shirt and jumper a few inches up my back and I sensed warm air on my now exposed skin. And then, after a moment of hesitation, she placed her fingers in the side of my underpants and gently pulled them down to my knees. It was a slow process and, strangely, I assisted her by raising myself slightly to ease their passage down towards my thighs. I was now acutely conscious of my nudity, or at least the bits that mattered, and I screwed my eyes in anticipation of the coming pain. I did not have long to wait. A cold sensation touched the centre of my naked bottom, a cane readied to do its work registered in my brain. ‘You have a nice bottom, young man. Do me the honour of raising it slightly. It will be so much better for both of us.’ Weirdly, I meekly did as she bid, and screwed up my eyes even more. Tell yourself, I said, the first stroke is always the worst. I doubt that it was but as it lashed across the centre of my naked cheeks it induced an anguished howl. The second stroke, in the same place but harder, induced an equal loud cry. The third and fourth were slightly lower and I struggled to stay in place. The pain in my backside provoked the urge to rise and rub. But it also provoked a sudden and unexpected thought. Mrs Brown had caned boy’s bottoms before.

How I took the remaining eight I do not know. She considerately allowed a rest after the first six and, surprisingly, allowed me to get up and rub the weals. I was shocked at how hot and rough my bottom felt but, mercifully, the throbbing eased a bit. As I rubbed I was conscious, shirt and jumper still tucked up my back, of my exposed boyhood. I blushed at this displaying of my penis to a woman I hardly knew and, at her signally discreet cough, I bent back over her sofa. How strange. My bare bottom had been displayed to her gaze for over five minutes and, other than the excruciating pain delivered to it I no longer registered any embarrassment. My penis, and other bits, were a different kettle of fish. But those and other thoughts dissipated as I sensed and felt the adjusting of my shirt and the cane steadied on my warmed backside for my second six. It was then that Mrs Brown made a second strange comment that registered. ‘You may be in pain, young man, but unlike your friend you seem to think it is well deserved.’ Why did she say that? The searing pain in my backside was awesome. The baring of my bottom was humiliating. Every stroke made me gasp and flinch. A burning cane across my bare bum was an experience alien to me. But she was right. I had revealed myself to her, lifted myself for the lowering of my flimsy underpants, almost welcomed her cane as it hit me on my naked cheeks six times. And readily put myself back for the second six. Now eagerly delivered with increasing strength and intention. I gasped, howled, screwed my eyes, gripped her sofa, and prayed for the end. Every cut registered a fire in my brain and intensity in my bottom which, I was convinced, no amount of vigorous rubbing could dispel. But I took them, tearfully by the end; I took all the twelve strokes she gave my bare bottom and triumphed at my will. Forty years later I still remember it with pride.

I didn’t see Stuart for a couple of days, I think we were avoiding each other, and being half term neither of us was at school. But on the Saturday he called round my house and suggested we went into the local park. He told me that what I heard was true. Mrs Brown had caned him eight times and she had made him take down his trousers and underpants first. Threatened him with the police if he didn’t and the prospect of that, plus his dad’s belt, clinched it. He hoped, being a woman, that it wouldn’t hurt. It bloody well did, he said, and he had eight very purple and red weals on his bum to prove it. I told him he was lucky, or at least luckier than me, as I had twelve long red stripes on mine. I had been looking at them every day in the bathroom mirror and they were still there, emblazoned as scholastic retribution. We agreed we would not tell anyone and that we would avoid the showers at school for a few days. We also agreed that at the first opportunity we would give Cyril Jones a beating up. We could not prove it but we both suspected that he had seen us on the Wednesday and told Mrs Brown. Hence her coming back. It made sense to us. We had both, separately, seen him in the streets since our canings and his sickly grin and eagerness to cross on the other side of the road blazoned his obvious guilt. At least to us. We were both still worried that Mrs Brown might inform the police, or at least tell our parents, but rationalised that she might have some explaining to do if she did. We had the evidence still clearly marked on our backsides. And mine didn’t completely fade for about three weeks by which time I reckoned that the crisis was well past. We never did beat up Cyril Jones. By the time we had the opportunity the desire for revenge had dissipated. But we did scare him into a confession, so honour was served.

And that was that. Except it wasn’t. Sitting waiting for a train a couple of years later I had a decidedly uncomfortable conversation with Mrs Brown. Both of us were going to London but, fortunately, she was travelling first class so our meeting was brief. She never mentioned that Wednesday evening, and I had hardly seen her let alone spoken to her since, but it was written in her eyes. And she asked me how Stuart and I were getting on now we were leaving school. That sealed it. Why equate me with Stuart out of all the boys I associated with if she wasn’t remembering. I blushed and muttered something about staying on. Me, not Stuart, he was going to an uncle’s farm. Mercifully our train arrived and we made amicable partings. I never saw her again until a few weeks after I returned to the village. And again she immediately referred to Stuart. ‘Stuart’s friend’, she had said, ‘back in the village at last.’ Nearly forty years between our two brief conversations and both intertwined two burglar schoolboys. It must have ranked as a high point in her life. In fact I knew that it was. At about the midpoint between those two meetings, I must have been about thirty, I learnt something about Mrs Brown that my maturity should have suspected. My partner and I attended a fetish party in Manchester. Neither of us were particularly adventurous but a mutual friend was keen and so we decided to give it a go for amusement. Our only condition was that we would not dress up, weird or otherwise. It was a surprisingly respectable gathering, almost disappointingly so, most fetish interests being kept firmly under wraps. Other than a few strange gadgets and books scattered about, one or two leather clad folk, and a few whoops of laughter and intriguing noises from separate rooms it could have been any thirty something party. Wine flowed freely and, as we said later, we did enjoy ourselves and met a few interesting people. One of them was a rather imposing female college lecturer of our own age who classed herself as a keen observer of people’s peculiar interests. Especially those of a sexual nature, she had said and laughed heartily. In the way of such meetings, small talk is often the order of the day. My partner was in deep discussion with a couple she knew well, not leather clad ones, and I was left alone with the college lecturer of the hearty laugh.

‘I gather you were brought up in Compton Beasley.’

‘How on earth did you know that? It’s not exactly on the map.’

‘I was talking to some friends about it, just now, and your partner said that’s where you came from.’

‘I do, but why were you talking about it. We don’t have any murders there, as far as I know.’

I was given another reprise of her hearty laugh.

‘I should hope not. And we weren’t exactly talking about Compton Beasley. We were talking about a lady who lived there. Still does apparently.’

‘Oh.’

‘Mrs Brown. Camilla Brown. Do you know her?’

I hesitated, and she registered it.

‘Vaguely. Why is she of interest? Has she done something?’

‘I should hope not, but in her own field, this field....’

She indicated the room and the crowded mixture of people.

‘.......to some of these people, very well known.’

‘Oh.’

‘Very well known indeed.’

I hesitated again and chose my words carefully.

‘I gather she is, or was, a very distinguished podiatrist.’

I now knew what that word meant.

The laugh, deep throated, was even louder this time.

‘Is that funny?’

‘No, not really. She is a podiatrist, in the village. But Mrs Brown is very distinguished in another field. Mrs Camilla Brown is a very distinguished dominatrix.’

‘Really?’

‘One of the best. Ask her clients.’

And with that she laughed again and walked away.

I suppose in a way, I was one of her clients. Albeit a young one.



It is the only way with boys.



You have a nice bottom, kindly raise it, it will be better for both of us.



Unlike your friend, you seem to think it is well deserved.



The voice of a professional.

I said as much to Stuart when we attended her funeral, a few weeks after the Sunday lunch with Mavis. Mrs Brown had died peacefully in her sleep at the grand old age of 93. Retired village podiatrist and physical instructor. And so much more. And only a few, my mother amongst them, had suspected as much. I found it quite comforting. My trousers and underpants had been taken down by an expert of the disciplinary craft and twelve very hard cane strokes had christened my bare bottom. And it had not cost me a penny. Stuart and I retired to the Black Swan, Mucky Duck, and drank her health. I reckon she deserved it. Especially from me. A caned bottom was, and still is, very pleasant.

Alfred Roy