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
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)