A first new story for a little while, as my previous post explains. Pure fantasy, but one that I have often wished happened to me. It has echoes of an elaborate sting, and not just in the sensations on a very bare backside. Enjoy, if this is your thing as much as mine. Alfred Roy
The Schoolmaster's Wife
Terry
Burton can still remember it all as clear as yesterday. He often mused on it in
his idle moments and the memory always produced pleasant and inexplicable
yearnings. He had never told anyone, not his wife or his friends, and he had no
intention of ever doing so. What happened to him over thirty years before was a
secret, a delicious and heady secret, which would accompany him to his grave.
His experience was both shameful and humiliating, and exceedingly painful. But
it was also an experience which at the time and afterwards produced thrilling
sensations in his being which maturing years had never totally expunged. It was
the day he was caned by his form master’s wife. A day and an experience
indelibly imprinted on his memory. Thirty minutes of his young life which would
remain with him forever.
That
day, a sunny and warm September Saturday, had all started so promising. He and
two other boys had been invited to help their form master move into his new
house, a splendid detached bungalow at the bottom of the school playing fields.
The house belonged to the school, a small but prestigious private school, and
was regularly rented out to staff. The form master, Mr Raven, was moving in for
six months with his new wife and the prize for the boys for helping was to be a
slap up tea and ten pounds each. No mean sum at the time for three fourteen
year old boys. As well as the promise of sumptuous food and much desired cash
the day provided two additional incentives to hormone induced teenagers locked
for much of the time in the hothouse atmosphere of a boy’s school. They would
get to see their form master Mr Raven, a taciturn man not renowned for a
relaxing sense of humour, in an unfamiliar role and they would meet the Mrs
Raven who, rumour had it, was as desirable as she was formidable. She taught in
a nearby girl’s school and, so the tom toms had it, charmed and feared in equal
mystifying proportions. To Terry Burton and his two companions all promised to
be a very special day. It was, but in a way none of them expected. If Mr Raven
played an offstage role in the unexpected drama, his wife, the statuesque
Physical Education teacher of much renown was very much centre stage. Mrs Raven
left her mark, literally, on Terry Burton and his companions in a way none
would ever forget. Desirable she may be, formidable she was. As all, painfully,
found. But, as Terry Burton might say, indeed would say, to reveal too much
before the day had truly started is to get ahead of oneself.
The
morning went off fairly uneventfully. Furniture, books, and a variety of bric a
brac were carefully and efficiently moved into the Raven’s new abode. Under the
watchful supervision of the taciturn, but surprisingly relaxed, Mr Raven
matters proceeded as expected. At twelve thirty a welcome coffee break was
taken and then the Ravens, to raised teenage eyebrows, indulged in a small
glass of wine each and sinful cigarettes. As the boys ate a prepared carrot
cake the adults sat in the garden relaxing in the way adults do. It was all
very pleasant. The sun shone and the air was warm. Warm enough for the boy’s to
be wearing only thin vests and physical education shorts. After the short break
Mr Raven announced that he needed to go into town on a few matters but Mrs
Raven would supervise the remainder of the moving in. He would be back in time
for the promised afternoon tea. A removal van had left sundry boxes on the
small patio and the boys would be well occupied moving the various contents to
where his wife desired them to be. The three boys, Terry Burton foremost
amongst them, registered three simultaneous thoughts. They did not share them,
at least not until later, but all were of similar minds. Mr Raven was
departing. Mrs Raven, the desirable but formidable Mrs Raven, was in charge.
Dressed in black silk top and satiny grey leggings she induced strange feelings
in all the boys. And in the house was a copious supply of wine and cigarettes.
It was a heady concoction, one designed to mix temptation with downfall in a
spectacular manner. Boys will be boys, which is to be expected. What followed,
supervised and enacted by a lithe and merciless Mrs Raven, was not.
Terry
Burton, reflecting thirty years later on the momentous events of the day,
remains convinced that all the signs of the heavens conspired against them.
Rewrite history in a slightly different manner and three teenage boys would not
have gone back to their dormitories that evening with searing cane marks across
their backsides and a searing memory that life would never expunge. At least
for Terry Burton. He could not speak for his two companions, long faded from
the memory. If Mrs Raven had not been called away. If Mrs Raven had not come
back earlier than expected. If they had
only confined themselves to consuming that small quantity of wine, smoking only
a minimum of cigarettes. If all these things then a vengeful angel would not
have descended. She would have smiled at their teenage indulgences and prepared
the promised afternoon tea. But she had been called away, Mr Raven having left
behind important legal documents relating to the rental of the property, but
returned early because, unknown to them, her husband had joined her on the
outskirts of the town. She was expected to be away for two hours. She returned
in less than one. And when she arrived, a box, an innocent box from the patio, never
intended to be opened was being hastily closed. The heavens had indeed
conspired.
In
later years Terry Burton became highly suspicious of that box, sealed, private,
different from all the others. It had all the hallmarks of being a central cog
in a meticulously planned sting. But, as he would equally say, more of that
later. On the day, the day indelibly printed on his mind, one of the twelve
boxes they unpacked was an unexpected Pandora of heady significance. Mrs Raven
had left specific instructions when she was called away. Take the boxes to the
rooms indicated and unpack them. Three contained various items of crockery; two
contained a plethora of ornaments and most of the remainder books of various
subjects and sizes. She indicated the two bookcases where the books should go,
alphabetically stored by subject and author, and reiterated the need to
carefully unwrap the crockery and ornaments. It would be a great help for when
she returned. One box, the one marked small study, was to be left unpacked. She
did not explain, there was no need to. The boys had enough to occupy their time
with the remaining eleven boxes. Besides it was sealed, marked private.
It
was Morris, the small and wiry ginger haired Morris, who was the first to
audibly wonder at the significance of the unopened box. It was light, much
lighter than the others, and unlike those others was copiously covered in
masking tape. He commented on its lightness when taking it to the small study
room. Nettles, the tallest of the three boys, blessed with a saturnine
expression that rivalled the absent Mr Raven remarked that, light or heavy, it
was nothing to do with them. Initially Terry Burton agreed with this viewpoint
but later, after the consumption of heady wine in conveniently opened bottles,
bravado usurped discretion. Musing on this in later years, those tantalising
wine bottles and equally accessible cigarettes in a splendid silver container
figured heavily in Terry Burton’s thoughts. It seemed to him, viewed from
maturity, that an elaborate trap was being set and willingly, unknowingly and
joyfully, three fourteen year old private school boys had fallen headlong into
it. But such subtleties figured naught at the time. At the time they were
enjoying their unsupervised couple of hours. Studiously emptying the boxes,
fuelling themselves with sinful adult pastimes of alcohol and tobacco, and when
all restrictive barriers were down opening the sealed and private box which had
exercised their fevered imaginations for most of the afternoon. And it was as
they were opening that twelfth box and, wide eyed, examining its contents that
Mrs Raven reappeared. A vengeful Mrs Raven, eyes blazing, and looking decidedly
ill pleased.
They
had not heard her car return, and that was something else Terry Burton mused on
in later years, or her arriving at the small study door. Three slightly flushed
fourteen year old boys were caught, literally red handed, delving amongst a box
of what can be best described as adult sexual delights. The picture captured is
still printed on Terry Burton’s mind. The ginger haired Morris had a small
thong attached to him like an unseemly moustache and an uncharacteristic
giggling Nettles was holding up a skimpy pair of bright red leather knickers
studded with shiny buttons. Standing above them Terry himself was magisterially
waving a two tongued leather tawse. As the shadow of Mrs Raven appeared in the
doorway all schoolboy laughter died. Frozen for the moment, all flinched as Mrs
Raven, studiously controlled, calmly told them to repack the box and join her
in the living room. And emphasising her displeasure icily stated that it would
be in their best interests to do so immediately.
It
was when they did so, three disconsolate boys dressed only in summer vests and
shorts, that Terry Burton first truly registered how magnificent Mrs Raven
really was. She was tall, at least six inches taller than the wiry Morris, and
as slim and lithe as you would expect a Physical Education teacher to be. And
still on the right side of thirty she was black haired and beautiful. It was on
this day that Terry Burton fell in love with such women. Even in his
nervousness, in fact probably because of them, he was appreciative of her
special charms. But those special charms were packed with retributive venom. If
she told her husband what she had shamefully discovered they would all be
caned. And they would not get their ten pounds. In Mrs Raven’s view that would
be unfair. Their work that day had been good; it was their inquisitiveness that
was reprehensible. So she proposed, calmly and deliberately, that she would
cane them and that would be the end of the matter. Her husband would not be
told, he was not due back for at least two hours, and the promised ten pounds
would still be paid. It was a subtle proposition and one that none of the boys
could argue with. If Mrs Raven told her husband what had transpired they would
certainly be caned and their promised remuneration would certainly be at risk.
It was, as Nettles ruefully said later, a bit of a no brainer. They were not to
know the caning Mrs Raven had in mind. Morris, told to remain in the living
room whilst the others were dismissed to the garden to wait, was soon to find
out.
The
next twenty minutes or so were agonising for Terry Burton. Morris came out
fairly quickly; his two companions had hardly finished a clandestine cigarette
they had taken to ease their distress. He said little, merely rubbed his
backside and told Nettles he was wanted. There were tears in his eyes and no
hint of mirth in his demeanour. That hurt, he said, as he moved off to the end
of the garden. Terry Burton followed him but all Morris would say in response
to obvious questions was that they would soon find out. And as he wandered off
to the adjoining playing field, desperate only for his own company, Terry
Burton reflected that Nettles would indeed be finding out. He made his way back
to the house, keen to gather any information that would prepare him for his own
fate. As he entered the large kitchen he stopped in his tracks. The sounds
coming from the living room, sounds familiar to young schoolboys of any era,
were capable of only one interpretation. A boy was being caned. And it was no
gentle caning, delivered by a gentle member of the fairer sex. The strokes were
hard and firm and the howls they engendered writ large the discomfort in the
recipient. Terry Burton went back into the garden. He was sweating and
trembling, and he was still fearfully sweating when a contrite Nettles emerged
and told him that Mrs Raven wanted him. His turn had come.
‘You
do agree that you deserve to be caned?’
‘Yes,
Mrs Raven.’
‘I
can forgive the wine and the cigarettes, boys will be boys, but the box?’
If
this was a question Terry Burton did not respond. He had entered the room with
alacrity, a desire to get things over with, and stood to attention as Mrs Raven
admonished him. He had been in such situations before, albeit with a form
master, and always felt it best to agree. Fates had already been sealed and, he
had to admit later, in this case deserved. All he registered, apart from his
resignation to that fate, was the blazing dark eyes and flushed face of his
tormentor and the cane she held in her right hand. And the suspicion, not
gleaned from any master, that she was enjoying the situation.
‘That
was private, sealed and private, Master Burton.’
‘Yes
Mrs Raven. I am sorry.’
‘You
are going to be sorrier. I shall deal with you the same as I dealt with your
fellows. Are you wearing underpants?’
Terry
Burton registered surprise at this unexpected question.
‘Yes,
miss. Mrs Raven.’
Mrs
Raven smiled.
‘Then
take off your shorts, I am only allowing one level of protection.’
Terry
Burton flushed deeply but, understanding the question and the order, slowly
removed his thin black shorts. How he wished, he thought, that he was wearing
thick large boxer shorts and not the tight fitting white hipsters so fashionable
with young males. Such attire added to both embarrassment and forthcoming pain.
Of the latter he was sure.
‘You
are fourteen, Master Burton. The same age as the other two boys. You will
therefore be dealt with exactly the same for your disgusting behaviour. You
will bend over and hold your ankles, or your knees if that is easier, and
receive seven strokes of the cane across your underpants. And very nice ones
they are, if I may say so.’
Mrs
Raven smiled and Terry Burton gulped. Seven strokes, on his underpants, that
struck fear and extinguished any registering of the comment on his nether
garments.
‘You
will then lower your underpants and receive a further seven strokes across your
bare bottom. If my maths are correct that will make a well deserved fourteen.’
Mrs
Raven smiled an intense smile and Terry Burton, shocked at this secondary
instruction, now knew his suspicions were well founded. This formidable lady
was enjoying, no relishing, the situation. She enjoyed caning boys and, as he
mournfully registered, the next one to be caned was him.
‘Take
down my underpants, Mrs Raven?’
‘Yes,
Master Burton. Is that a problem?’
‘No.
Well yes. It is unusual Mrs Raven.’
‘This
is an unusual situation, Master Burton.’
‘Yes,
Miss.’
‘Then
bend over, as I instructed. Your friends were willing to suffer in this manner
for their ten pounds.’
So
now he knew, in a roundabout way, in a cleverly designed way Mrs Raven was
paying him ten pounds to accept a caning from her. Some on his bare backside.
Whether by accident or design Terry Burton had become a willing partner in an
age old disciplinary dance. But when you are fourteen such subtleties are not
evident. All you know is that there are two people in the room and one of them
is to be caned. And it is not you who is holding the cane, eager to do its
work. He bent as instructed, held onto his calves – a happy compromise, and
closed his eyes. Please, if this must hurt as I know it will, then please make
it quick.
It
was not to be. From entering the living room to leaving may not have been
longer than ten or fifteen minutes but to Terry Burton it was a short quarter
of an hour that would remain with him forever. No matter how often he replayed
it in his mind in later years, it never lost its freshness nor its ability to
send an inexplicable frisson of excitement through his being. Mrs Raven pressed
her delicate fingers on his back and then, tantalisingly, spread those same
fingers across his young buttocks. As he held on to his calves he felt those
same fingers smoothing the cloth of his underpants, determined that not even
the tiniest of creases would impede her cane. And then that cane, that feared
cane which seemed so smooth and threatening in her hand, rested on his bottom
and readied itself to deliver the first sting. And when it did Terry Burton
gasped. The cutting pain had fired across the centre of both of his cheeks and,
almost simultaneously, linked that same fire to his anguished brain. Terry
Burton gasped again. That really hurt, as did strokes two three and four,
firing within inches of the same place. They came ten or fifteen seconds apart
and, after the fourth, Terry Burton rose clutching his backside in pain and
despair.
‘Don’t
worry, Master Burton. It is to be expected. I will not charge extras.’
‘No
miss, sorry Mrs Raven. But, God it hurts.’
As
Terry Burton said this he rubbed vigorously on his burning backside, oblivious
now to the fact that he was being caned in his underpants by a thirty year old
woman.
‘Of
course, now bend down again and do as you did before. It pays not to prolong
these things.’
‘Yes
Miss.’
Terry
Burton, conscious of tears rising in his eyes, bent again to present his
burning bottom for what was to come. And what came was the further three
strokes across his underpants, less painful than the first four, but viciously
stinging all the same. By the time the seventh stroke of the cane connected
with his backside he had a burning pad of fiery correction that, he was
convinced, would remain there forever.
For
a moment there was a silence in which both participants recovered their
composure. And then, finally and inevitably, came the instruction that Terry
Burton both dreaded and feared. But also welcomed. He could not explain it but
this final act, this defining act of his unexpected corporal discipline on a
day which had promised so much, was as necessary as it was bizarre. He held his
breath and waited to be told.
‘And
now, Master Burton, when you are ready, please lower your underpants.’
Terry
Burton did so. Not totally to Mrs Raven’s satisfaction as he soon discovered.
Bent over and clutching those calves he had merely lowered his underpants from
behind, uncovering the parts already savaged by the cane. Mrs Raven approached
him, pushed him further down and providing his bottom with greater prominence,
and simultaneously pushed his underpants totally down to his knees. Fore and
aft, giving an exposure that Terry Burton had tried to avoid. Satisfied she
then turned up his vest to his middle ensuring that nothing was left to any imagination.
Hers or Master Burton’s.
‘I
think that is better for both of us, Master Burton. Do not be distressed, I
have seen many a boy’s bottom, and all else, and I must say that your bottom is
extremely pleasing. Besides, well marked as it is, I need a good target for
seven strokes of my cane on the bare.’
Terry
Burton was convinced she was almost laughing, her enjoyment matching his
humiliation. A humiliation that, in spite of the pain he still felt in his
backside, had stirred both his own imagination and his body. And her final
words before the cane struck into his naked flesh only added to the strangeness
which was firing his being.
‘I
think this is the best bottom of the day. Pert and boyish, and designed for the
attentions of any lady’s cane. I suggest you hold on very tight young man, such
pleasure as it gives may fire my aim and strength to even greater heights.’
It
probably did but, in fairness, Mrs Raven did not over prolong the proceedings.
She whacked Terry Burton’s bare backside with a vigorous relish which made him
howl and rise at least once if not twice. But the strokes came fairly speedily
and the last weal mark registered its anger merely a minute after the first one
had struck. Terry Burton was howling and rubbing his nether flesh with an
energy only a cane across a bottom can instil. These last seven had been laid
on with abandon, the lure of the small naked bottom eclipsing any attempt at
restraint, and expunged any attempt by Terry Burton at circumspection. He had
risen quickly at the last stroke and with underpants at knees and vest raised
high, displayed all front and rear for Mrs Raven’s inspection. And he cared
not, either then or later. Then only the pain in his bottom mattered. Later the
picture he conjured up in his mind more than compensated. To expose all of his
body to this woman, this strange woman, more than compensated for the excruciating
pain she had imparted. He wondered if either Nettles or Morris felt the same.
If
they did none spoke of it, at least not until much later when marks were
compared. When Terry Burton pulled up his underpants and shorts, wincing from
the pain he had endured, the curtain closed on an unexpected drama. Mrs Raven
made no mention of it, neither when her husband returned or during an elaborate
afternoon tea. By then all three boys had fully recovered and, initially
somewhat subdued, had thrown themselves into the remaining tasks. The only
hints regarding what had transpired was first when Mrs Raven asked them, a
slight twinkle in her eyes, if they were all sitting comfortably for tea. And
later, as they were leaving clutching Mr Raven’s proffered ten pounds, she said
that it had been well earned. Surprisingly none of the boys held any grudges
and the smiles they collectively gave seemed to convey that. Looking at Mr
Raven, the saturnine but seemingly content Mr Raven, Terry Burton was tempted
to say that while he was out his wife, his delectable and formidable wife, had
caned him and his friends. With their shorts down, on their bare backsides. But
he thought better of it. It was only later, much later, he mused that Mr Raven
might not have been surprised.
On
the way back to school the three boys made a couple of vows. One, at the first
opportunity they would each see each other’s backsides. That came later that
evening when it was agreed, in that ritualistic manner of recently caned
schoolboys, that Terry Burton’s weals were the most impressive. The second vow
was a resolve to keep the afternoon’s events to themselves. If Mr Raven raised
it, which they doubted, they would discuss it but to all else silence would
reign and communal showers avoided for the duration. It was never mentioned,
then nor later, by anyone and neither was it mentioned by Terry Burton that
late into the night, mind filled with heady pictures of the day, he had the
most glorious first masturbation of his young life. He never forgot that, never
forgot the steams of fluid which erupted as he replayed his caning. But nothing
was ever said. Neither to Nettles nor Morris, convinced as he was that they had
equally succumbed. But he took the memory of that masturbation and the
disciplinary events that led up to it into manhood. A constant, private,
fantasy. And an integral part of that fantasy, an experience long lost in the
mists of time, was that all of them, he, Nettles, Morris, were the unsuspecting
victims of an elaborate sting.
Mrs
Raven, the formidable wife of their form master, rather fancied caning some
schoolboys. Legitimately, with just cause, cast iron. And she and Mr Raven, he
for his own reasons, very neatly set them up. And Terry Burton had and has no
regrets. Being caned on his bare backside by Mrs Raven, gentle hands preparing
him for pain, was an experience he savours in the memory. And if Mr Raven
colluded in its preparation and execution, as it seems in reflection, then that
is no concern. They had their motives, they found their victims. It was all
very neat. He often wonders what happened to them. They left the house and
their respective schools less than a year later and neither said goodbye.
And
no schoolboy, as far as it is known, was asked to help them pack.
Alfred
Roy (c) 2015