Four Voices (M/m)

Four Voices

(A sequel to ‘The Games Club’)

Part One

Neil Wallington had never forgotten his twelve stroke caning. Never forgotten any detail of his meeting Ronnie Nailles at the Chess Club and how, subsequently, a transgression of the club rules had led to his backside being severely caned. When you are nineteen such experiences remain fixed in the memory. That momentous event, witnessed by two committee members, was sandwiched between two private meetings between the seventy year old ex Supt Nailles and the young chess expert when strategic play and sexuality were interestingly explored. Afternoon teas were never so heady and promising. Knight to King checkmate was ritualistically followed by heavenly sensual spankings. Only the committee sanctioned caning, cold and clinical and procedural, coloured the memories. When Neil Wallington, fresh from his first year of University, arrived back in his home town it was natural that his thoughts turned to these past events. Turned back to Superintendant Ronnie Nailles and the Chess Club. Both were well overdue for a visit.

He studied the club membership board. A few names had changed, a couple of additions and one or two deleted, but Ronnie Nailles name was still there. He had phoned him twice but there was no response, not even an answer phone on which to leave a message. He thought of calling round but decided, membership still active, that a visit to the club may bring forth dividends. A year into university, a year older, he was less nervous than on his first visits. And he comforted himself that only the committee knew of his caning and only three, including a small and pompous Chairman, had been party to it. It was that same small and self important voice which spoke as Neil studied the membership board. When he turned in response to a piping query, the sweating and flushed face told him that the same face had no doubt been studying his jean clothed backside and evoking a long lost and significant memory.

‘Master Wallington, how nice to see you. It has been a long time. What brings you here tonight?’

‘I was hoping to see Ronnie. Mr Nailles.’

The Chairman smiled, a knowing smile rich in past memories.

‘Not to play chess then?’

Neil Wallington blushed, already less comfortable than when first arriving.

‘That as well. Is he no longer a member?’

‘Oh yes, but he hasn’t been in for a while. I think he is visiting relatives in Scotland.’

‘Oh.’

‘Not due back for some weeks, so I believe.’

Neil Wallington tried to hide his disappointment. He did not particularly like the fussy and oleaginous Chairman and, seeing so few members, was afraid he might offer a game. It would be a rare offer as the officious man studiously avoided taking on the better players and Neil Wallington was in a different expertise league to most. Frankly he did not particularly wish to play with anyone other than his Mr Nailles but it nevertheless came as some small relief when a vaguely familiar younger member joined them and volunteered a game. Neil did not know his name but the prospective opponent clearly knew him. There was an over familiarity in the use of his Christian name and a suggestion, during play, that he also knew other things about him. That was realised at the end of an absorbing, if one sided, game that Neil completed with the demolition of the man’s queen and two castles.

‘You have not lost your touch, Master Wallington. Ronnie would be well pleased.’

‘I play at University, mostly friendlies but the occasional competition.’

‘Ah. Competitions. We changed our rules because of you.’

The man smiled, knowingly and mischievously, and Neil suddenly realised who he was. He was the legal committee member who witnessed his caning. Neil had hardly registered him on that momentous Sunday morning at the Chairman’s house. Sat well away from the action his slender, anonymous, frame was eclipsed by the theatricality of the event. And he left the room the moment the last cane stroke had been delivered. Fear and tears had erased him from Neil’s mind. And now he was calmly playing him at chess.

‘I’m sorry, but I have just realised who you are.’

‘I wondered how long it would take. You did raise an eyebrow when I said that, being so good, it would be a special event to see you being beaten. But even there, the thought died. So I presumed you did not remember me.’

‘I don’t. Well I do, but only vaguely.’

‘Hardly surprising, in the circumstances. I am Maurice by the way. And I have Mr Nailles mobile number, if you want it.’

The man smiled, and it was an engaging smile. And for the first time that evening Neil Wallington relaxed. The man, Maurice, was in his late thirties. Serious, but with an attractive smile, he oozed intelligence and perception. The club’s legal eagle was how Neil remembered him. A witness to a caning he considered dubious in both its invention and execution. But whatever his views it had clearly made an impression and seeing Neil at the club again had stirred old and unexpected memories. Hence the offer of a game. He said this and then, unexpectedly, added an interesting coda.

‘Ronnie and I discussed that Sunday morning, long afterwards. I was intrigued.’

‘In what way?’

‘Why you agreed, or more to the point why Mr Nailles was so confident you would agree?’

‘Was it that unusual?’

‘Well yes, actually Neil it was. When it was raised in committee my instant reaction was that no boy, in this modern age, would agree to such a thing. Twelve strokes of a cane across his bare backside. Very Victorian. But Ronnie was confident.’

‘The alternative was being expelled. I had broken the rules by playing in the club tournament.’

‘Well yes, but even so....’

Maurice’s quiet voice trailed off, considering his options, a legal mind feverishly at work. He chose his next question carefully.

‘I assumed, on balance, that such things you had experienced before. Is that right?’

Neil Wallington also considered his options. He was warming to this man but felt the need to tread carefully. He did not know, at this delicate stage, how much his Ronnie Nailles had revealed.

‘I think you should ask Supt. Nailles that question.’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘He said that the young were very strange. They had fixations.’

‘Fixations?’

‘Crushes, if you like. That is how he explained it.’

‘Oh.’

‘And he also said you were not averse to having your bottom tanned.’

Neil Wallington blushed.

‘In the right circumstances. Don’t worry. I know of such things. Especially where young men and older, authoritative, figures are concerned.’

Maurice paused and smiled.  

‘He did not say but I formed the impression that you and he indulged in such practices.’

As Maurice said this he set up the board for a second game. Played mainly in silence, Neil Wallington did not particularly enjoy it. Even his pleasure at an easy win was subdued. The man, friendly but sharp, had unnerved him. Incipient submissive attraction vied with guilty thoughts regarding Ronnie Nailles. Maurice seemed discreet but, now he had returned, chess club gossip may take unwanted turns. He declined the offer of a third game, and a sociable drink, and confined himself to a simple question. Long registered in his mind.

‘You said you had Supt Nailles’ mobile number. Can I have it?’

Thirty minutes later, drinking in refreshing external air, Neil phoned the man who had rarely been out of his thoughts in twelve months of hothouse university life. Two weeks later he was in his house and whatever else was on the menu, chess and sumptuous food, a burning backside was clearly going to be the main course.

‘Maurice was very inquisitive, if my spies relate it right. I think you have tweaked his interests, young man.’

‘I have no desire to be tanned by him, as he puts it. Or anyone, for that matter. Being spanked by you is different.’

Ronnie Nailles smiled.

‘Your year at university seems to have given you confidence Master Wallington. Do I take it that you are coming to terms with your strange sexuality?’

It was now Neil Wallington’s turn to smile.

‘It is not that strange sir. I found that out.’

‘Ah.’

‘CP clubs. Tops and bottoms is a thriving industry.’

‘And did you indulge?’

Neil Wallington did not answer. He did not need to. The watery wistful look in his eyes told Ronnie Nailles all he needed to know. Dinner had gone well and the conversation had been stimulating. So much to catch up on. And when the washing up was finished and all cooking implements stored away both men, or boy and man, indulged in their special pleasure. Two bottles of a delicate red wine and heady conversation fuelled their mutual desire. Jeans divested and underpants pulled down, Neil Wallington placed himself over Ronnie Nailles knee and suffered and succoured a long overdue, heavenly, spanking. A spanking he had been hoping for and waiting for many a month. Consumed with desire as manly hands both embraced and chastised it was impossible for Neil to contain his submissive passion. For the first time, almost as if he knew that the relationship had changed, Ronnie Nailles rough and large hands caressed the delicately soft balls and erect penis of his boy. The hardness pressing on his knees contrasted with the soft naked and burning skin of the beautifully formed and bouncing buttocks. It would be cruel, or so he thought, to deny Neil Wallington the ultimate pleasure. So he gently stroked the being of the boy, still prone over his knee. Hands played on the warm and rigid shaft and, finally and inevitably, the boy came. He came a prodigious all enveloping flood, spurting his delayed passion in moments of joyous, uncontrollable, release. His being twitched and spent the last few drops as the manly hands gently played an intimate tune on both his penis and his balls. And as Ronnie Nailles continued to stroke the gradually dying rod and caressed, yet again, the burning skin of the best behind of the chess club he realised that for both of them things would never be the same.

‘You do know that Maurice has designs on you.’

They were finishing off the second of two bottles of expensive red wine and silence had rained between them. Ronnie Nailles made his surprising statement very quietly.

‘Oh yes, young man. Your caning affected him, I think you can say it turned him on. People are so surprising.’

‘I got that impression when we played chess. Does he want to spank me?’

‘No, no. Not that.’

‘I would say no anyway, sir.’ Neil Wallington paused and blushed suitably. ‘What has just happened, what you did, is only right with you.’

‘I know Neil. But Maurice suspects something. It is his legal mind. He won’t pursue it, far too civilised, but he has a hankering....’

Ronnie Nailles tailed off, considering his words carefully.

‘......you being caned, at the chairman’s house, played havoc with him. I gathered that over the following weeks. Constant questions and admissions. Quite funny really.’

Neil Wallington looked very intense. It was a while before he spoke.

‘And?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘No.’

‘He wants to cane you. Been obsessed by the idea. Told me so as soon as you came back. Can’t say I am surprised. You have the most desirable bottom’

Neil Wallington laughed. He made no response to Supt Nailles observation but he laughed. It was only when he was later playing their subsequent conversation over in his mind that a serious turn in imaginations induced both a thrill and a fear. Maurice would like, very much, to cane him. Serious, for real. As it was that Sunday morning. The Sunday morning when he suffered so much pain. And humiliation. But Neil Wallington had moved on since then, the joys of the corporal punishment scene fired by visits to Manchester clubs. If Ronnie Nailles had first kindled then flamed strange desires in his being, visits to those clubs confirmed his submissive sexuality. From being spanked to being caned was such a short step. But for his being to be thrilled in heavenly anticipation, especially if a cane was to strike his backside, required a scenario both realistic and scary. Being spanked by Ronnie Nailles, especially when those wonderful hands got to work on his private bits, was a joyful pleasure. Being caned was, or could be, excruciatingly painful. It was the preparation, the ritual, the aftermath, this made it all worthwhile. Neil Wallington now knew that. The thought of being caned on his bare backside was like a drug to him. Even thinking about it gave him an erection. But it needed that ritual, that tantalising possibility that it may not happen. The chance, however slight, that dropping his pants for a searing whacking may be deferred or cancelled. It was an essential part of the scenario that played in Neil Wallington’s fevered mind. And it needed to be real. The caner, not the caned, in control. Maurice could cane him, scarily willing as he was, but only if he first beat him at chess.

‘So, let me get this right, if Maurice beats you at chess you will let him cane you?’

‘Best of five. Yes.’

‘But, given that you are willing to be caned, will you not ensure Neil that you will lose?’

Master Wallington smiled at Ronnie Nailles. He had readied himself for this question from the moment he had framed in his mind his strange proposition.

‘No. Definitely not. I have not forgotten what I went through that weekend.’

‘But the idea turns you on?’

‘Yes. Your fault really. I got caned a couple of times at that club I told you about and I hated it. It was all done too willingly, in fun. Lots of pain, but little else.’

Ronnie Nailles sensed there was more to come and waited.

‘But one of the blokes took me to his home for a weekend. He lived with his step father. On a small farm, just a few sheep and pigs. We had a great time but rather overdid the booze.’

Neil Wallington blushed. Whether this was through embarrassment or excitement at the retelling Ronnie did not know. But he waited patiently.

‘We were not flavours of the month at breakfast. Got told in no uncertain terms that when the sun went down, that was his words, we would be taken to his attic and caned.’

‘And were you?’

‘Yes. As promised. Pants down, everything, bare backside. Twelve strokes each. In front of each other.’

‘Interesting.’

‘It was amazing. Not the caning, hurt like hell. But everything else. The waiting, the build up to it, the being sent to his attic. Being told to take our pants down and bending over. And afterwards. The reliving it all. Amazing’

‘He sounds like an interesting man.’

‘He was, is. Very nice, and was perfectly normal afterwards. I questioned my friend the next time I saw him and he said he is a lovely bloke. Not really into CP apparently, that surprised me, but....’

‘But what?’

‘But he always seemed to find a reason to get out his cane whenever a friend stayed for the weekend. I was the fourth one to suffer with him he said. Got to the point that he would be disappointed if nothing happened.’

‘Now that is very interesting.’

In fact musing on it later, Ronnie Nailles considered it especially interesting both in regard to Neil’s strange tale and to an additional glimpse into his ever growing complex sexuality. Clearly the boy was a gilt edged submissive. And, as Ronnie reflected, he had unearthed desires in himself that surprised. He thoroughly enjoyed spanking the boy and, he admitted to himself, caning him had been a tremendous turn on. What he did not know until recently was that the club legal eagle, Maurice, had been similarly affected. Must be something about the English psyche, because their illustrious chairman had equally devoured the scenario. Clearly caning a delectable male backside, young and firm and bare, released emotions few knew they possessed. It was with all this in mind that Ronnie Nailles set up the very special chess match. At the club. Best of five. With the club Chairman as arbiter. All in the club were intrigued and most watched. But none, other than the two players and the two officiating, knew what was at stake. They just thought it was a routine challenge match, probably with a small side stake, after all Maurice was one of the best players until Neil Wallington came along. None could have known and few could have guessed. Neil and Maurice were playing for something that even fewer could have imagined. A boy’s backside.

Neil lost. That sounds inevitable given the strange stakes. One desirous of caning and the other desirous of bending his form. But it was not as straight forward as that. Nervousness on both sides led to many mistakes and after three games Neil was an uneasy two one ahead. Whatever the reasons Maurice won the fourth game easily, Ronnie convinced that Neil threw it, but early honours were even in the deciding match. Both players knowing what was at stake raised the tension and if chess pride and submissive desire played havoc with Neil’s emotions he did not let it show. He was well on top when, unexpectedly and stridently, the chairman announced him out of time. Game forfeited a flushed and pompous judge triumphantly proclaimed. Maurice is the winner. A stunned silence followed, not least from the growing number of watchers. Neil pushed the board away in disgust and left the room. Seething. It was only after much discussion between the other three men that Ronnie Nailles joined him in the car park. He lit his pipe and waited for Neil to speak.

‘That was unfair.’

‘I don’t think so Neil. The Chairman did say, out the outset, that if the match went to a decider time rules would apply.’

‘He should have reminded us. I’d forgotten by then.’

‘A small oversight, I agree.’

‘A bloody large one.’

‘Don’t swear Neil, it doesn’t suit you.’

‘I’ll swear as much as I like. I have been stitched up. Well it won’t work. Maurice whatever his name is can find someone else to whack. I’m not playing ball.’

Ronnie Nailles studied his boy, face reddened and angry, for a considerable time. Disciplinary fantasies could not compete with chess honour in his young being. He was aggrieved and, quietly, Ronnie Nailles thought justly so. To be caned for losing at chess would tick his complex submissive boxes. To be tricked, as he undoubtedly was, gave any future scenario an unpalatable taste. Much as Neil desired to be caned the circumstances needed a ring of verisimilitude. Witness the farming stepfather and his attic. Ronnie Nailles chose his words carefully. Much would be unspoken but, if he trod with wisdom, all would be satisfied. Including Neil Wallington.

‘If you refuse to be caned by Maurice, as you certainly may, you will of course leave me no choice.’

Ronnie Nailles paused and looked severely at his friend.

‘I will have to cane you myself.’

‘You?’

One word, but already Ronnie sensed the growing tension in the boy’s body.

‘Yes. I shall cane you for not honouring the agreement. And with me, as you know from experience, there is no negotiation.’

‘But that’s not fair.’

‘Oh eminently fair, Neil. You will have reneged on a contract. However mitigating the circumstances you will have let me down.’

Ronnie paused and smiled.

‘A bit like you let down your friend’s step father.’

Neil Wallington looked at Ronnie Nailles, ex Chief Supt Ronnie Nailles, as suddenly he understood. And in understanding a flow of warmth spread through his being. His breath became shallow and a surge of anticipatory desire encased his loins. Desire and fear at what was to come. When he spoke, and it seemed a long time, his voice was cracked and trembling.

‘I will be caned by you sir. I have no choice if, as you say, I have let you down.’

‘You have no choice Neil. So go home and await my call.’

 

Part Two

Four different people had four differing thoughts regarding Neil Wallington’s second disciplinary caning. Maurice, the legal observer thwarted in his desire to administer the intended pain. The oleaginous Chairman, flushed with importance and voyeurism, thrilled at a reprise of a momentous Sunday adventure. Ronnie Nailles, the enigmatic Chief Superintendant, fired by his care for the boy and his puzzling eagerness to cane his bare backside for a second time. And Neil Wallington himself? Tormented by both a desire and fear engendered by the pseudo reality of the situation. A special drama was about to be re-enacted. In the Chairman’s house on a selected Sunday morning. Ronnie Nailles had told Neil this, over the phone, and all reflected on what that morning would mean.

‘We have agreed on this Sunday, Neil.’

‘Already?’

He sounded understandably nervous.

‘No point in delaying. I’ll pick you up and take you to the Chairman’s house. 11.00 o’clock.’

Ronnie Nailles paused.

‘Proceedings commence at 12 noon. Apparently our beloved Chairman wants to entertain you first.’

Neil was puzzled and said so. There was amusement in Ronnie’s reply.

‘He doesn’t want things rushed. An aperitif I think. Very civilised.’

‘Just the three of us?’

‘No. Maurice is coming. I hope you don’t mind but in the circumstances....’

Neil laughed ruefully.

‘Needs to get something out of it I suppose. I don’t mind.’

‘No. I didn’t think you would, which is why I did not object.’

‘But that’s all? Not the full committee?’

‘No just us four.’

Ronnie Nailles paused and then his voice lowered a tone and became serious.

‘As before Neil, we discussed it in some detail.’

‘The cane. Your cane, by you. On my bare bum.’

‘Yes....but’

‘What?’

There was a silence.

‘What Ronnie? Sir?’

‘Eighteen Neil. We agreed eighteen. Given the seriousness. Maurice wanted twenty four....’

‘But you agreed eighteen. All on my bare backside. Should I say thank you?’

Ronnie ignored this, the barbed response.

‘Let’s just say you can thank me later, the next time you come for tea’

‘Which if the last time is anything to go by will not be for a few weeks. See you Sunday. Sir.’

With that the phones went down. Both were sweating. One in fear and anticipation, the other merely in desire for an unexplainable promise.

 

Maurice Jones was sweating with excitement. He had never forgotten the picture in the Chairman’s house that previous year. Initially dubious in regard to legality and practicality, Neil Wallington’s twelve stroke caning from Supt Nailles had played havoc with his usually calm demeanour. Much as he tried he had never expunged the picture from his mind. The boy bent over, naked from the waist down, the beautiful young buttocks twitching in nervous anticipation, the cane hovering and eager to do its work. The intensity as it did. The howling, the raised weals, the twisting and turning revealing all of the boy’s being, all registered and enthralled. A desire for air made him leave the room immediately the caning was completed. A desire to do the same to the boy, or some other boy, continued to torment. The feelings shocked him but would not dispel. And it almost came to be when Neil Wallington returned to the chess club. But to observe, if not to partake, was better than not being there. And this time, this time, Maurice Jones would not flee for air. This time, he resolved, he would stay and drink in all that was revealed. Every drop, until the last moment when the boy pulled back on his pants. This time he would savour every second.

The Chairman was almost of similar ilk. Wallington’s first caning, arranged in a quasi judicial manner, was an item to be savoured. Such a delightful boy, such a nice bottom, and such a wonderful beating by Mr Nailles. And much as the boy protested he never attempted to rise. That struck the Chairman almost as much as all else. The pain to his backside must have been excruciating but he had willed himself to take it. Ronnie Nailles had said he would and he was right. Having his bottom beaten was a desperate need, whatever the pain. It was what made the picture bearable as well as stimulating. An unwilling participant in his house would have made it all unsavoury. Especially to a man acutely conscious of his position. But Wallington never protested, never tried to cry off, however much he howled, however much he squirmed, each stroke of Mr Nailles cane across his bare backside was absorbed and suffered. And now it was to be repeated, eighteen rather than twelve, and the self important Chairman was, once again, to be a front row spectator. Little, these days, twitched in his ageing being but the prospect before him engendered an unfamiliar tingle. The sight and sound of strange disciplinary pleasures fired, obliquely, officious and predatory enthusiasm. And unlike Maurice, flushed and excited, his only desire was to watch.

Neil Wallington, if he thought of such things on that fateful Sunday morning, did not share either Maurice or the Chairman’s confidence. Fear and anticipation both stilled and thrilled his being. He knew he was hooked on CP, knew that the whole ritual fired him, knew that passion would surge through him as he bent over the Chairman’s small disciplinary table and his shorts and underpants were taken down. He knew that the familiar feeling of helplessness, vulnerability and humiliating exposure were something he constantly wished for. The nakedness of his skin, the revealing of his backside, the expectation of pain. All combined to prepare him for what was in store. He knew that but he also knew that the pain which followed would be almost unbearable. Could he take eighteen strokes of his sturdy cane from the man who constantly dominated his thoughts, the man who in other situations brought gentle spankings to his behind and even gentler caresses to his boyhood. He would try, he would will it, he would close his eyes, hold back his tears and as he squirmed at each vicious stroke across his bottom think of the aftermath. The relief, the subsiding of pain, the easing of the throb in his rear, the gentle touching of the weals and ridges. He would think of those ridges, red and stark, as his Mr Nailles did his worst. Eighteen times. On his naked bum. He would think of those.

Ronnie Nailles stroked his crotch. Two hours before collecting Neil and already he had a tumescence that both amused and surprised. Long past seventy such feelings had rarely figured in his later life until Neil Wallington emerged from the shadows of the chess club and sparked an enthusiasm both denied and unrecognised. Until then. But now surges of desire were becoming more familiar. He took great pleasure at spanking the boy, such a delectable firm and bouncy bottom, and did not even mind giving him the release that he fervently needed the last time he took him over his knee. It was fun, and at his age he found little, and an interesting and harmless coda to their chess games and sumptuous teas. All prosaic and private. But what had truly fired him, had truly made the juices flow, was caning Neil’s backside. Last year in the Chairman’s house. Almost judicial. Stimulating, exciting, so much so he was almost ashamed. Especially as the boy squealed and howled as each stroke cut into his bare flesh. But he never rose and later, much later, he thanked him for it. And since then he had learnt much more about his Master Wallington. The boy desperately needed to be caned but only with all the parental or judicial paraphernalia. He had wanked himself silly after his experience in the attic with his friend’s farming stepfather. Neil had told Ronnie that. And Ronnie had smiled and said that maybe the opportunity to create that scenario would arise again. Well it had. Eighteen this time. Eighteen strokes of the cane he had never dispensed with from his schoolmaster days. Eighteen strokes of the cane across the bare backside of his favourite boy. Ronnie Nailles stroked his crotch again. He was almost hard.

 

Neil Wallington stood still and firm in that room so familiar. Large and sumptuously furnished it had been the setting of his first caning. And now, wine and sandwiches dismissed, it was a clean stage for a strange drama. The self important Chairman of the Chess Club, inappropriately attired in expensive business suit, sat behind his large desk. A flushed face mirrored the deep red wall coverings which gave the room, his magnificent study, its sombre feel. To his left, slightly distant on a comfortable dining chair, sat the equally formal Maurice. This time he would have a ringside seat. To their right stood Ronnie Nailles, serious and determined and unlike the other two, dressed in casual brown top and tight fitting jeans. In front of the Chairman’s table was the small square table, three feet by three and under three feet high, over which Neil Wallington would bend for his eighteen stroke caning. He stood to the side of it, ready, dressed as required after the unnervingly civilised aperitifs. The three adults were clothed authoritatively, suits and casual, he was in the regulatory shorts and vest. Orange top, black shorts, reminiscent of some favoured football club. Nothing else other than his small black underpants and socks. The former, Calvin Klein with orange trimmings, especially chosen by Neil even if he knew not why. For eighteen strokes black seemed appropriate. He felt the headiness of the wine he had drunk as he stood there, a full glass followed by a small top up, unwise probably. The Chairman and Maurice had also indulged, copiously. Dutch courage? But only to watch. Ronnie Nailles had drunk none. In the drinking stakes he was the outsider. He had a job to do. And that was plain for all to see. Serious, determined, standing and sober, he held the cane. Neil Wallington glanced at him and, when bid, bent over the table thinking as he did so that the cane and the man were almost as one. If one had to be caned, he thought as he lowered his body, then that is the man to do it. Pain is never sweet, but such a man makes it bearable.

The words had spun in his befuddled head before he assumed the required position. You know why you are here?....Yes, yes.....You reneged on a contract...Yes..yes....You refused to honour your agreement with Maurice....Yes..yes....yes sir....But in such dishonouring you accept Supt Nailles punishment.....Yes...yes...Mr bloody Chairman....Eighteen strokes of the cane. Eighteen strokes of the cane across your bare backside. Eighteen strokes with no break, no remission. Yes...yes and thrice yes. Yes sir, sirs, I accept my punishment. Then bend over, bend over the table, bend over boy and Mr Nailles will prepare you.

Mr Nailles will prepare you. As he heard these words Neil Wallington leant forward and bent himself over the small table and waited. All was silence in the room. He sensed rather than saw Ronnie Nailles walk towards him. Rough hands were placed on his waist and the shirt, the incongruous orange shirt, was lifted slightly and tucked in. Bare skin, no more than a few inches, was revealed for the watchers. The lower back, between the raised orange shirt and the black trunks, felt the morning air. All waited. The suffering Neil, bent and tense, the watchful Chairman and legal committee member, all held collective breath. Slowly, almost gently and tantalisingly, Ronnie Nailles, placed his fingers in the waistband of Neil’s shorts and firmly pulled them down to his knees. He then repeated the action, much more slowly and with subtle tenderness, on the tight Calvin Klein underpants of rich black with orange trim. Neil’s bare bottom, smooth and pink and hairless and bouncy as all would later say, displayed all its glory. The twin peaks of a perfectly formed boy’s bottom glistened in the sombre and richly furnished room. This was what all were there to see. And all sighed, one at the sensation and three at the sight. Nineteen, or was he twenty, year old Neil bent and ready with his pants down and his shirt lifted for eighteen strokes of an unforgiving cane across his bare behind. And across that bare behind, twitching and clenching in fearful anticipation, the cold cane of Ronnie Nailles was laid. The shiny wooden length stretched across both of the boyish buttocks and signalled its painful intentions. Eighteen strokes boy, eighteen Neil, and I intend them to hurt. This is well deserved. All sighed at the words, all gasped, and Neil, conscious of all the sensations felt and words sighed gasped longer than anyone in the room. The cane pressed into his bottom flesh, tapped twice and pressed again, and after that would come the first dreaded swing and thrust of a savage cut that would make a bottom mark and blaze, a boy scream, and willing watchers thrill. It is little wonder that manly juices stirred in all in that room. And all for differing reasons.

Maurice felt a surge of desire in his lower being. Both for the bottom revealed and the hovering cane. One, alone, would not engender these feelings but the prospect before him, a savage cane causing havoc on virgin flesh, was heady in its power. He had never forgotten the first time, torturing as it was to his conscience, and this time he intended to devour every stroke, every squirm, and every howl. The Chairman, sweating and still, could not take his eyes off Neil’s bottom. Beautifully curved, beautifully pure, it engendered feelings in the officious man that he had spent a lifetime denying. And, as a bonus, about to be caned. Those lovely virgin twin cheeks, wobbling in tension and fear, were to be fired with lines of scholastic venom of a sort that he had not witnessed since his own school days. The first time it had happened, a year before, he had floated in middle aged ecstasy for nigh on a week. And this repeat was both desired and wanted. He could not indulge in such things himself but, obliquely, with Nailles and Wallington he did not need to. They had opened a door to his soul with their strange relationship and if, at his age, passion did not harden it nevertheless stirred. He could not wait for the caning to begin. Not so Neil, bent and bare from the waist down and trembling with fear for the pain to come. Eighteen strokes to endure, eighteen and all would cut viciously. He knew that from previous experiences. He closed his eyes and tried to cut out the three men, concentrating only on surviving his ordeal but aware, so aware, of the vulnerability of his situation. He sensed the air on his backside, the heavenly freedom of his semi-tumescent penis and balls, the submission of his body to the man he most admired and cared for. And he felt the cane, the cold cane, press against his bottom and knew that he must endure it all for him. Whatever the pain, whatever the anguish, he must endure it. He clenched his hands, screwed his eyes even more tightly closed, and willed his bottom to be brave and strong. This was it, no going back, and in spite of his fear he would not have it any other way. Ronnie Nailles waited for the boy to stop wriggling, waited for the signs that all was ready, waited for the bottom to subtly rise in beckoning. Much as he loved this lad he had to admit to himself that a quasi judicial caning, as this was, released a strange pleasure that was both difficult to control and understand. The joy at whacking such a lovely arse, a naked and bouncy and youthful arse, and a willing one when all was said, eclipsed all other feelings. He knew that from the first time. And this time he would lay the cane on even harder, all eighteen. His Master Wallington, his bent and semi naked Master Wallington, would know that he had been caned. All in the room wanted it that way. Maurice, the Chairman, Neil, and himself. Ronnie Nailles steadied the cane, tapped gently on the bare and peach like skin of the loveliest boy cheeks he had ever seen, and with a speed that surprised all lifted it and thwacked into the boy with a passion and fire that such a scenario deserved. The boy gasped, wriggled slightly, and the watchers took inward breaths. As they expelled air the first vicious line appeared on the young bottom, no longer virgin and pure. Violated. But violated in a manner that all understood. The pure and thick redline spread across the whole of Neil’s bottom and contrasted beautifully with his pale skin. The boy twitched as if absorbing it and twitched and wriggled even more when two further strokes quickly followed evoking more gasps and inward breaths. Within a minute, or maybe a few seconds more, three vivid red lines had been implanted on Neil’s buttocks. All were central, no more than half an inch apart, and all were emblazoned as true marks of discipline. Barely a sound was in the room, perhaps the sound of heavy breathing and the faintest sob from the boy, but the picture told the tale. Neil Wallington’s caning had truly begun. And by the third stroke, the third cut into that youthful bottom, Ronnie Nailles’ erection was difficult to ignore.

The swish and the thwack of the cane continued remorselessly. Supt Nailles right arm raised to its full height and thrashed his vicious implement across the backside of his beloved boy. Mainly central, varying only a couple of inches either side, Neil’s buttocks twitched and responded as each stroke embedded itself in his naked skin. To the watchers the bottom and the cane seemed to be in a ritualistic duel. The boy squirmed and gasped, and a couple of times gave an audible howl, but much as he stretched and turned he never lost his grip on the table nor his focus on the room ahead. By the twelfth stroke his black shorts had fallen to his feet and, as a pause, Ronnie Nailles removed them and also the black underpants. The boy sobbed quietly as he prepared himself for the last six strokes but, in spite of his outward distress, the release of all of his lower body signalled an increase in sensuality. The cane was ready again, the watchers stilled even more their small breaths, and Neil Wallington arched his back and spread his legs. His wealed and reddened bottom seemed to rise even higher than before and cry out for its chastisement. It was as if he was offering himself, all of himself, to Ronnie Nailles. Beat me sir, he seemed to be saying. Beat me until I cry. And if so, he was not to be disappointed. The cane lashed into his buttocks with such deadly venom that Neil twisted and turned in an agonising and thrilling dance. No one in that room could ignore the exposure to his private parts, the display of a penis and balls that danced and twitched as much as the bouncing part of his anatomy being attacked. And that unrelenting cane, as it connected, seemed to be sending a message from the bottom to the genitals. Never did Neil’s swaying balls lose their fullness and never did the swinging cock lose that early tumescence. It was never full and hard and erect but its interest never died. Through all eighteen strokes. And all, the boy, the caner, the watchers, were aware of it. And all remembered.

 

Part Three

‘I think Maurice would very much like to fuck you.’

‘Is that what the cheque is for?’

Ronnie Nailles laughed. It was a warm and gentle laugh, much at variance with his outwardly stern demeanour. He and Neil were having a well overdue afternoon tea at his house. Other than copious glasses of wine and sundry delicious sandwiches little had happened since Neil’s arrival. The passing of a sizeable cheque was the first serious allusion to the proceedings of the previous Sunday morning.

‘No. That’s just a small settlement from two guilty consciences.’

Nail Wallington looked again at the cheque.

‘Not that small, a hundred pounds.’

‘He and the Chairman can afford it. Petty cash to them.’

‘But why?’

‘I told you, Neil. Guilty consciences. They stitched you up.’

‘And you. Sir?’

Ronnie Nailles laughed again, a little louder this time.

‘I guessed something like that would happen. They were determined you would lose and well..........’

His voice trailed off, remembering the Sunday morning.

‘And you took advantage. Sir.’

Ronnie noted the added sir, yet again.

‘It suited both of us Neil, didn’t it.’ His voice had lowered in tone and become more serious. ‘It allowed fantasies to be filled, yours and mine.’

‘And Maurice?’

‘I think his fantasy remains. As I said he has designs on you.’

‘So if I let him cane me I shall have to tread carefully. Is that what you are saying?’

‘Has he said he would like to?’

It was Neil Wallington’s turn to smile.

‘Not exactly sir but I saw him on Monday, couldn’t avoid him, we were in the same supermarket. I was still feeling pretty sore. We chatted briefly and he said that he hoped we would keep in touch.’

‘That could mean anything or nothing Neil.’

‘It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he was looking at me. The look in his eyes.’

Neil paused.

‘A bit like the look you get, glazed, gleaming, watery.’

Neil paused again and blushed.

‘A bit like the look you have now.’

Ronnie Nailles did not say anything for a few moments. And when he did, gently but firmly, it was just two words.

‘Stand up.’

Neil did so and, instinctively and dutifully, he placed his hands on his head and placed his feet apart. Within seconds he started to breathe heavily. He did not know what was going to happen, if anything was going to happen, but his submissive nature immediately desired whatever Ronnie Nailles desired. With him there were no barriers. He knew that now. He waited, closed his eyes cutting out the room, and felt gentle but large and rough hands undo the belt on his jeans. Those hands slowly undid the jeans, button by button, and peeled them down to the boy’s knees. No words were said, just the combined sounds of heavy breathing. Then those same familiar hands tucked up the pale blue jumper that Neil was wearing to his waist. The pale lower body of Neil was revealed clothed only in the purest and tight fitting pale blue underpants. Already filled with a growing desire. Slowly, tantalisingly, Ronnie Nailles slipped his hands inside the underpants and gently peeled them down to join the lowered jeans. The released erection, the stiff and rigid shaft of Master Wallington, was impossible to ignore. But Ronnie was not interested in such displays. There was only one thing he wanted to see, had wanted to see ever since Neil had arrived over two hours before. He turned the boy round and stood back. A silent sigh escaped his lips and the memories of five days before came flooding back. Such a beautiful bottom, no wonder Maurice had predatory designs on it, so beautifully formed and smooth. And bouncy. Ronnie remembered that, how that lovely boyish bottom had bounced to the savage kisses of his cane. And the evidence was still there, clearly there, painted in hard and violent ridges across both of the rounded bottom cheeks. A skilful job, Ronnie thought, and if one was careful one could probably count all eighteen of the strokes. A purple hue in places but mainly vivid red. It would be a long time before they faded back to Neil’s virgin skin and whilst they remained they created a fascinating picture of a boy well caned. Ronnie Nailles touched them, gently let his fingers explore the ridges, and sighed. He pulled the jumper right up to Neil’s armpits and pulled the jeans and underpants right down to his ankles. The boy just stood there, hands submissively on bowed head, virtually naked with a glowing backside, savagely marked, and an erection which would remain unsatisfied. For now. He was left like that for ten, maybe, fifteen minutes, as Ronnie Nailles sat in the nearest chair and admired his handiwork. And for that ten or maybe fifteen minutes, neither spoke.

Alfred Roy (2015)




To Come -


Maurice and Neil (M/m) - Part Three of The Games Club Trilogy


A Study in Discipline (F/m) - Twenty seven minutes in a headmistresses study for a fourteen year old boy.