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

Leicester Governess Revisited

After this visit I returned with a friend for a dual session. I think she enjoyed it as much as we did. Regardless, she put a photo of our bottoms on her twitter account. Fame, of a sort, at last.

 

It has taken a long time but I have finally got to drop my pants for this lovely lady again. She is great fun and seriously awesome. The smile on her lips and the fire in her eyes turns a willing but fearful oldie back to a trembling fifteen year old long before the cane in her hands has swished. Bending over her bench waiting for my underpants to be pulled down was sensory heaven. The sixty cane strokes that followed on my shamefully bare bottom were painfully hell. But I loved it all. Therapy at its finest. Why had I waited so long?

Not my fault I told myself. For reasons I have no wish to elaborate, contact had become elusive. Desire thwarted. But suddenly, following a lazy summer afternoon text, she responded. I was staying with my brother and shortly to return home. Idly I had mused on popping in to see my favourite Governess for sixty of her finest. A forlorn muse I thought. Silence had reigned for months. But now, following a positive response, fantasies regenerated and imagination switched into overdrive. In summer heat a short drive on my way home would culminate in longed for disciplinary heaven.

She was everything I remembered. Tall, imposing, friendly and firm. The years on me shed away as we talked. I morphed to fifteen from whatever. This lady canes bums with aplomb and mine, after afternoon pleasantries, would be no exception. The sixty stroke therapy she offers, for a very reasonable fee, is pure disciplinary perfection. There is no touchy feely warm up, no suggestion of unseemly sexual services, and no props or devices to enhance the senses. It is pure get ready, suitably attired, and over her punishment bench for sixty strokes across your bare behind. And you know that you deserve it. The endorphins will kick and this therapy, writ large, will take you on a journey that has no equals. The National Health never offers thus.

I prepared, nervously, and stood before her in small vest and tight fitting underpants. Very clean, very light blue, very complimentary. Or so I hoped. A severe look, a quick order, and over her bench I went with bottom suitably raised and hands steely gripping the rails. I was ready, especially when those light blue pants were pulled off leaving me only in a small top covering my upper half. My bare bottom was ready for my first ten of sixty, my mind desperately trying to embrace the zone. It was a sturdy cane, thankfully neither too thin nor thick, and my Governess expertly whacked it into my willing behind with gentle force. Painful but pleasant and I relaxed. The first ten, or twenty, or thirty would be well within my discomfort range. But I had no illusions; I had been here before and knew that this sixty stroke therapy was a slow build.

The power increased and my bottom responded in burning sensitivity as that first thirty were delivered in sets of more painful tens. Number twenty three was a bit low and I raised my first howl but the rest, all twenty nine, whacked pleasingly against the only target I wished to be hit. As I rose for a most welcome hiatus I eagerly rubbed my disciplined backside, simultaneously conscious of both the burning throb and hardness across both of my cheeks. In classic schoolboy manner I looked in one of her many mirrors and was surprised that the burning pain was merely reflected in gentle pinkness on my bum and the odd reddish stripe. An expert had whacked causing distress but not destruction.

I bent over the bench again. Thirty more therapy strokes to come and, at my request, restraints were applied to arms, legs, and back. No crying off for these as my upturned sensitive bum beckoned the avenging cane. And avenge it did. I felt everyone, much harder than the first thirty and a few despairing howls rang in the air. But I did not begrudge, it was what I wanted. A hard cane across my naked bum. And I got it, all expertly applied to that central cheek area which signals pain and induces emotions in equal proportions. Each vicious stroke released a feeling in my being that I cannot explain. Nor need to. But as the last few created a savage fire across my behind that could only be assuaged by unseemly amplified gasps of anguish, I knew I had reached a pinnacle of exquisite disciplinary pain. Released from my restraints I rose with an inexplicable joy in my being and an invigorating throb in my behind. The hardness on my cheeks was now enhanced and, helpful mirror, the gentle pinkness had deepened to a pleasing red.  I had no desire to dress, no desire to cover up. For ten or fifteen minutes the Governess and I chatted, her severely dressed and me merely in short vest which covered nothing of importance. As it should be. She could admire her handiwork and I could calmly float into that state of blissful serenity such a severe caning evokes. And I could continue to rub my ever burning bottom.

Eventually I dressed and prepared to leave. Before I did I was given an unexpected leaving present. Eyes blazing she said she was displeased with something I said. I know not what; it did not matter as clearly I was due for a late disciplinary bonus. And this I remember almost as much as what had gone before. I stood by the bench like a naughty school boy as she undid my belt and roughly lowered my jeans and underpants to my knees. Bent over and top lifted out of the way she gave me ten extra hard strokes of the cane to my now familiar bare bottom. I howled. But if the pain was high the pleasure was higher still. As I drove home I vowed that her cane would, very soon, provide the same service again. My bottom and the Governess’s cane may not be a match made in heaven but on that lazy summer afternoon it was certainly one made in Leicestershire. As I have said, an awesome experience.

 

Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

Boy's Day Out (F/M)

A fantasy, to spite a thwarted visit to the Leicester Governess. Never destined to happen I fear. If it had then two anonymous souls, lifelong friends, would have got what southerner Lenny and northerner Keith got. Or so I hoped. Happy Christmas, whatever you do. Alfred Roy

 

They were never sure who came up with the idea first. Not that it mattered. When northerner Keith and southerner Lenny combined on an unusual disciplinary adventure, the anticipation, the experience and the heady aftermath eclipsed any thoughts on the original brainwave.

They had first met some years before on an adult school adventure. Not an ordinary school. It was one of those establishments, and surprisingly there are quite a few around, that specialise in recreating the olden days of the 1950s and early 1960s. Days of Macmillan and Eden, Suez and sweet rationing, Kennedy and Elvis. And days when young boys in shorts sat at inky stained desks and lived in fear of the cane. It had an appeal to respectable middle aged men, and women, of the millennium years that could not be explained. Not that it should be. Some folks get their thrills from skydiving or white water rafting. A few, like northerner Keith and Southerner Lenny, got their adrenalin rush from a hefty cane hitting their trembling and upturned bottoms. The same fear and anticipation but a damn sight safer. As Lenny had said after one particularly hard swishing from a formidable headmistress, so she described herself, his backside was throbbing but he still had both of his legs attached.

Living so far apart, Lenny in the murky depths of Braintree and Keith ensconced in a similar Salford, their paths rarely crossed. But on regular, if intermittent, meets at their favoured establishment in the Midlands they soon realised that in humour, outlook, and interests they effortlessly gelled. No longer young but irrepressibly school boyish in spirit and looks the two slightly built fellows were soon on post educational drinks at a local hostelry before respective drives home. Quietly in a secluded corner they would exchange feelings on the day’s experience and gradually discover more about each other.

Keith had married very young but was long since divorced. He had an understanding partner who knew of his penchant for having his bottom beaten but did not share its appeal. Go off young man, she used to say, and tell whoever it is to give you twelve for me. He liked the young man comment. Lenny wasn’t so lucky. His wife neither knew nor would approve. He was sure of that. Fortunately, these days, they did not live in each other’s pockets and trips away were both possible and desired. Lenny didn’t explain and Keith considered it prudent not to enquire. All folks are different but in one defining respect the imbibing latter day schoolboys were very much the same.

Keith enjoyed nothing more than being singled out by a forbidding mistress and, in front of a small class of likeminded, ordered to drop his pants and on a bottom bared and proud receive his scholastic due. The pain of the cane across his naked behind was enhanced by the knowledge of eyes watching. No pain, however searing, could eclipse the pleasure of such public shame. It echoed of schooldays long past even if, then, classroom whacks were delivered to a covered bottom. In every other respect, the call, the walk, the bending down, the pain, it was the heady same. Lenny much preferred the more private trip to a headmistress study. Private shame to him having a special frisson that a classroom smacking could not compare. Hardly surprising. When young it had often happened. Pants had come down in private rooms many times and his small bottom had suffered at the hands and canes of a variety of chastisers. He relished that recreation. Keith could have his realised fantasy, pants taken down in full view of fellows as they never were in the past, Lenny preferred the repeat of memories indelibly seared.

They exchanged their desires and the reasons for them and then went their separate ways. An occasional phone call, the odd postcard, and a quick drink when paths fortuitously crossed was the only contact outside the hallowed walls of the secret establishment when pants came down and memories flowed. Following one phone call, Lenny had a meeting in Manchester, they met for dinner at a posh restaurant and, over expensive wine, discussed their mutual interest. Nearly two years had passed since their last combined visit to the Midlands, although both had schooldays when the other was absent. The Bottoms Academy as they called it. They exchanged experiences and, as the wine took hold, delved further into the disciplinary world. Somewhere in the conversation the Midlands Governess cropped up. Not that far from the establishment they frequented. A private woman, never taken a class as far as they knew. Did her own thing. And one of those own things, offered on a comprehensive website, was a sixty stroke caning therapy. They knew of it. A couple of the chaps at the school had experienced it. Incredibly painful but exhilarating. No warm up, no preamble, just straight in, pants down, and six sets of ten strokes across the bare backside. Marked for days and throbbed for hours. It appealed to Lenny, not so much to Keith. Until one of them, it may have been the more public Keith, said it would fun if they watched each other get it. That idea appealed to both and they left the restaurant musing on it. Three days later Lenny phoned him with a proposition. Both, Keith in Salford and Lenny in Braintree, put their phones down and felt the tingling in their loins. They were going on a boy’s day out.

It took some arranging. The Midlands Governess only sessioned on weekdays and only in the afternoons. They needed to fix a firm date and arrange a local inn or hotel to stay overnight. They had both agreed that a leisurely post whacking dinner and drinks would round off their day nicely before driving home. As Lenny said, hopefully by the following day his marks would have faded a bit. Based on the recollections of those who he knew had visited the lady, Keith was not so sure. But the idea of staying overnight with Lenny appealed. They could bond, as the modern terminology had it. He made a mental note to pack some appropriate soothing cream. Whacked bottoms often appreciated a gentle massage. If such thoughts, strangely, induced a slight erection such feelings were enhanced when Lenny phoned him again to say that he had fixed up a possible date and the lady, pleasingly, embraced the idea of dealing with the one whilst the second watched. She had laughed and said it sounded like fun. Unprompted Keith said he would be dealt with first. If for no other reason than, at the Midlands School, he was well used to having his bare bottom displayed to viewers. And it would get Lenny in the mood for his. Lenny put down the phone. The mood, and his own inexplicable erection, was already upon him.

Keith looked at Lenny as if he was seeing him for the first time. A trembling pale boy. Fearful of what was to come. The face may have aged but in all other respects he could pass for fifteen. Slight, small, no more than ten stone and a bit, with a body and a bottom so slender he felt for him. No wonder he liked his discipline in private. In public most would weep. If Lenny looked at the darker skinned Keith he would be reassured. He seemed confident, ready, face flushed and emotions surging, but up to the ordeal. Slightly taller and fuller but nevertheless with a trim figure and nicely pronounced rear. Lenny particularly noticed this about Keith. His bottom protruded even before any presentation for being caned. He noticed also that the eyes were glistening with anticipation, the body stiff with resolve, and below a disconcerting bulge suggesting pleasure. Lenny was glad he was going second. If Keith in the state he was cried off then he would equally relent. Pay the fee and go back to the hotel he thought. But, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t do that. They had come so far for their sixty stroke therapy. This was it. They had to go through with it. Both of them. That is why they were here. In her small study, looking at her, standing to attention clad only in small vest and small underpants. With hands on head as she spoke. The Midlands Governess, tall, slim, ginger haired, severe. And with a smile on her face and a savage looking cane in her hand she politely asked which of them had agreed to go first. I care not which, she said, all bottoms come alike to me. Lenny shuddered and Keith, in a lower place, twitched.

They had planned it all very carefully. Governess booked, hotel registered, tangential drives from distant locations to a desired destination. A destination to end in bottoms bared and pain delivered. They wished it no other way. The heady excitement of fearful anticipation eclipsed all other emotions. Those who feel the same need no explanation, the others would never understand. The day agreed created in northern Keith and southern Lenny a surge in wanting, a need for reliving old memories, that defied analysis. They were going to be caned. Hard. By an expert. And each would watch the other getting their due. A double pleasure, a double fear. They met, embraced, clocked in at the hotel and drove to the given destination. An imposing country house, surrounded by trees. Trees which would muffle any sounds. Cane or screams. Or so Lenny thought. She met them in the drive, smiled, sorted out their names, and bid them to enter. Ten minutes later the two erstwhile schoolboys were in her study. In vests and underpants, hands on heads. It had been that quick. And, as she said, all bottoms came alike to her.

Keith went first as agreed. He took a deep breath and moved forward to the small black leather bench. Eagerly, almost too eager, he bent over it and stretched out his arms. Wrists and legs were fixed with straps and, deftly and expertly, his underpants were pulled down to his knees. A familiar bare bottom, just below the raised vest, blinked a disconcerting welcome. A nice bum, Lenny thought, smooth and coppery, well versed in the kiss of a cane. The two cheeks complimented each other and raised themselves in co-operation and appreciation. Keith was up for it, or so Lenny thought. When those pants, pale blue, had been pulled down the stiffening rod in front advertised desire. Lenny was transfixed. On the bottom, twitching in anticipation, on the woman, rising to her full and formidable height, and on the brown and gleaming cane both readied and threatening. The Midlands School was never like this. There Lenny had watched adult boys being caned with mild interest, eager for his own private chastisement. But now, in this room, just he and Keith and a formidable expert, private and public intertwined. His body burst with a desire to see his friend caned. To see a bottom and a cane join in mutual pleasure and to know that he would be next. It is no surprise that as the first stroke found its mark his juices flowed.

Keith flinched. The first of the sixty strokes across his behind was harder than expected and he had another fifty nine to come. His flesh may be copper tinged but it raised a red line across his centre which pleased the mistress and created trepidation in the watcher. All agreed, especially Keith, that it had hurt. The remainder of the first ten followed in relentless succession and as the bending boy squirmed and gasped Lenny registered the pictured weals. When the Midlands Governess paused, fifty more strokes waiting in the wings, the one with hands on head winced at the savage sight and the other, already almost in tears, absorbed the pain. The first ten strokes of the cane across the seemingly willing naked bottom of Keith had rapidly revised their thoughts. Keith was convinced he would be crying off before many more were inflicted and Lenny, terrified and fascinated in equal proportions, wished for the lady to bare his bottom but to smack it gently. Neither scenario happened. Both took the sixty strokes therapy. As agreed. Hard and true. Both had weals that would remain until Christmas, so Lenny said, and both had behinds that throbbed through their evening dinner and long into the night. And both were glad. It was the reason for their boy’s day out and the ordeal survived eclipsed all other feelings.

They coped for a variety of reasons. Keith endured because those elusive endorphins kicked in and combined with amusing encouragements from the engaging chastiser each stinging kiss to his backside took him to unexpected heights. The sixty whacks to his bottom were hard and unrelenting but when he rose his mind floated and his being embraced all. It had been worth it. Lenny endured because he was desperate to have his pants taken down by her, whatever the pain. He visualised what the others saw. A small and quivering pale bottom, divested of upturned white vest and specially selected white pants, now at knees, presented the picture that he imagined and they saw. His naked rear begging and willing to be whacked. The searing pain of sixty strokes across his small backside would be as nothing compared with that. It was not of course. He gasped when the first few fell onto his vulnerable behind. By twenty he was in tears and they did not stop through the next forty. As Keith watched, hands on head and pants still lowered, each thwack across his friend’s pure behind increased stiffening in his private parts. By the sixtieth stroke to Lenny a second bottom was savagely ravaged and at least one of the boys on a day out had an erection that could not escape comment. As the Midlands Governess said as they dressed, boys it is not only your bottoms that are throbbing. If I had a flag Keith would be waving it. They all laughed. The alternative was to sigh.

They had witnessed each other being caned. Each had seen his friend, bent and tied and bare, getting sixty cane strokes across a behind that seemed so soft and tender. Lenny witnessing the copper cheeks of Keith turn subtly red and purple, the friend wincing under each blow, and Keith seeing the pure white bottom orbs of the other savaged with each painful strike. And both had been absorbed by it all. To suffer and to watch combined all disciplinary emotions. It is no wonder that as behinds throbbed the male bits of these adult boys danced to their own agenda. They had discovered, unsurprisingly, that canes connecting with bottoms can lead to unexpected consequences. You could say that from the first moment of Lenny’s phone call regarding the proposition it was almost destined. If it was then it is no surprise that, in a later hotel bedroom, gushing warm showers stirred and exploded the pent up feelings. Lacerated behinds sought welcome solace and each erstwhile boy embraced both the moment of soapy warm and naked wet flesh.

It was not intended. Both would deny any such consideration. Their boy’s day out was for an indulgence of disciplinary pleasures. To welcome and witness two compliant bottoms, bare as the day they were born, being whacked by an expert in the art. Heaven. They wanted nothing more, nothing less, and as their sore backsides, still throbbing, signed in at the hostelry both Keith and Lenny were content. So they had imbibed welcoming drinks in the small bar of the hotel and reflected on an amazing afternoon. It was only later, much later, when getting ready for a much wanted evening meal that the day’s events crystallised in a way neither expected. Lenny, the small and pale Lenny was showering in the small bathroom of their hotel room. For some reason, perhaps the Midlands Governess could explain it, Keith stood in the doorway watching him. He had known Lenny for some years now and was very familiar with his bottom. Lenny may have preferred private canings but classroom discipline was compulsory at the academy they frequented. And today they had both suffered the ultimate exposure of sixty stroke therapy to their bare bottoms. Wasn’t that the point of this day? And now Keith was seeing Lenny naked. For the first time. He saw the slim and pale naked body being cascaded with warm and inviting water and he saw the cleansing soap sweeping over the contours of his friend. And he saw Lenny’s bottom. Still pale and firm and round but now lacerated with the afternoon’s stripes. He smiled and made a small comment. Lenny glanced at him and the meaning in his eyes was clear. Keith needed no further prompting. Clothes divested he joined his southern friend in the shower and four eager hands combined on two still very sore backsides in mutual pleasure and soothing sensations. It was hardly surprising that those same hands found equally eager cocks and balls. Lenny and Keith, in an explosive moment, crossed a sensual divide. If that formidable Midlands Governess had witnessed, a swinging cane would connect with soft and bare bottoms for a second time. But she wasn’t there. No one was, except the naked Lenny and Keith. And the following day they drove home, north and south, doubly content. It had been some boy’s day out. And, as Lenny said, when they parted, nobody died. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Artist's Model (F/M)

Weird it is where inspirations for stories come from. This one, I tell no lies, follows a conversation with an artist at a studio open day. The bits about being a model in my youth is true, the rest is pure fantasy. And I did not buy one of her very abstract, male nude, paintings. Alfred Roy

The Artist's Model

The thing to do is concentrate. Close your eyes and think about days on the beach or in the garden tending flowers. Walking through fields of poppies on a warm and promising morning. Think about anything really. Anything except about where you are, what you are doing. Standing in the middle of an unwelcoming room, surrounded by ten eager pairs of studying eyes. Eyes that microscopically examine every inch of your skin. At a distance that dilutes warm breath and dulls whispered words. Thankfully. For you are naked, as naked as the day you were born. Not a stitch on, and that day you were born was a long time ago. Conscious of those eyes you finally close your own and think about those days on the beach. It is a nice feeling, standing naked and being stared at, but an hour is enough.

 

‘You did well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And you did not move too much.’

‘I tried.’

‘Much appreciated, by me and my students.’

‘Can it be a problem?’

‘Occasionally, yes.’

‘Especially if the bits move.’

 

At my response she laughed.

 

‘Talking of bits, we all think you have a nice bottom.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes, all of us. Me and the students.’

‘I am flattered. Considering my age.’

‘You shouldn’t be. One young lady said that he may be well over fifty but his bum is definitely only fifteen.’

‘Skin tight.’

‘Small and smooth, it does not age like face and hands.’

‘Spoken like an artist, madam.’

 

She paused, and became more serious.

 

‘Is that why you agreed to do it?’

‘What?’

‘Pose nude for us?’

‘Because I think I have a nice bottom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Partly. I like being naked and having a nice bottom, as you say, is a bonus.’

‘For you or us?’

‘Both, I think.’

 

She paused again, and her face took on a very serious tone.

 

‘How do you keep it in shape?’

‘Many ways’

‘Such as?’

‘I walk a lot.’

‘Of course.’

‘And watch my diet.’

‘Don’t we all.’

‘And exercise. Mainly at home, I do not like gyms.’

‘Too crowded?’

‘Too sweaty.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Do you need to ask?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I think you know.’

‘Try me?’

‘It’s kinky’

‘I adore kinks.’

‘I have it whacked.’

‘Your bottom?’

‘Where else?’

‘Often?’

‘Frequently. At least once a month.’

‘Just to keep it in shape?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

 

She laughed again, but this time it held a hidden promise. For the first time on that strange day my loins tingled.

 

We were sitting in a small and cosy cafe. I had met her at one of her artistic open days. Fifty, severe, but fun. And desperate to sell her strange but compelling art. Male nudes in abstract, rich and diverting, full of complex swirls and stripes creating a modernistic slant on the age old form. I did not understand but they intrigued and, after a third visit, I bought one. Pale blues and orange with just a hint of the male form. We had chatted on all my visits and there was a relaxed air between us, established well before the money changed hands. She did art classes, regularly, and finding older males willing to strip off wasn’t easy. A comment prompted by my amplified thought that posing in the nude was very pleasurable. I had done it in my youth but now, regrettably, much too old. She did not agree. Such volunteers were always welcome, just extremely rare. So I volunteered and, a month later, had stood naked in her studio for an hour thinking mainly of flowers.

 

‘You intrigue me’, she said.

You intrigue me.’ I said.

 

We both laughed.

 

I saw her again two weeks later. This meeting was different. We were in the same cafe, drinking the same weak coffee, and continuing our previous conversation. Except that this one had an alternative slant.

 

‘Well, that was unexpected.’

‘My phone call?’

‘Yes. That and the request.’

‘To see you in your professional capacity?’

‘My other professional capacity.’

 

She emphasised the word ‘other’.

 

‘I found you.’

‘On facebook?’

‘No. Another site.’

‘A specialist one?’

‘Yes.’

‘And were you surprised?’

‘No, not really. I suppose I half expected it.’

‘It’s an old site. Forgotten it was still there.’

‘But you must get feedback. Requests.’

‘Occasionally. I ignore them. Long time ago.’

 

I paused. Thinking. Drinking my weak coffee.

 

‘But you didn’t ignore mine.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘You were my model, remember?’

‘Is that the only reason?’

‘No. We seemed to get on well.’

‘And we are only having a coffee.’

‘Very weak.’

‘Madame Kahlo?’

‘A daft name.’

‘It suits. Conjures up visions of a wielded paintbrush.’

‘Or other wooden implements.’

 

She laughed and I joined in. I liked this woman and I reckon she liked me. But when she spoke again my mood changed.

 

‘But after?’

‘After what?’

‘The coffee.’

 

I froze. Registered that strange gleam in her eyes. The slight increase in her breathing. The stiffening of her body. Intermingled signals I could neither deny nor ignore.

 

‘After?’

‘After the coffee, what then?’

‘I don’t know. I go home, I suppose.’

‘Oh Nigel.’

 

She used my name, for the first time I think.

 

‘Oh Nigel. You disappoint me. Why would you go home?’

‘Because we met for coffee. You said so, on the phone. You made that clear.’

‘That we meet for coffee.’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing else. Or so I assumed.’

‘But you hoped. Admit it Nigel, you hoped.’

‘It crossed my mind.’

 

She laughed, a little loud and disturbing in such a public place.

 

‘Of course it crossed your mind. It did more than that. I would be surprised if it didn’t, having found my old website. I do remember our last conversation.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? You like having your bottom spanked, don’t apologise for that.’

‘Caned.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Except harder.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you discovered I used to do it.’

‘A bonus.’

 

She gave me that very serious look again, the one first seen when I told her of my kink.

 

‘And I have decided I will do it again. As a one off. For you.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘And no fee.’

‘Even more foolish.’

‘You amuse me. And I like you. Modelling for me was fun. My students thought so. And, as we all said, you have a delightful bottom.’

‘And you haven’t caned one recently?’

‘No. I am retired from that. But you seem to have rekindled the interest. I think it’s the naughty boy in you.’

‘I am a perennial fifteen year old. So my friends say.’

‘Then you deserve to be whacked. By me.’

‘Or Madame Kahlo.’

 

She laughed again, quieter this time, and more breathless. I think she was getting turned on. I know I was. The room was beginning to spin and my face was getting flushed. And the stirring in my loins was unmistakeable. The promise of discipline across my bottom was a heady prospect I could never deny. Whatever the circumstances. And I liked this woman, had done ever since we first met. Spiralling artistic male nudes in hues of orange and blue was one thing, but being beaten by her eclipsed all. I relished the idea and the reality.

 

‘I will. Willingly. But there is one thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘I insist on paying. There has to be a fee.’

‘Why?’

‘It will not work otherwise.’

‘Too personal.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘There has to be that barrier. I hope I am not offending you.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Good.’

‘And if you have, I know the remedy.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Oh, do not worry, I used to be very good.’

 

She rose, ready to leave.

 

‘Pay for the coffee Nigel, and I will see you in an hour. Give you time to compose yourself. Here’s my card. I think I shall enjoy this.’

 

And with that she left.

 

The thing to do is concentrate. Close your eyes and think about days on the beach or in the garden tending flowers. Walking through fields of poppies on a warm and promising morning. Think about anything really. Anything except about where you are, what you are doing. Standing in the middle of an unwelcoming room, surrounded by eager studying eyes. Eyes that microscopically examine every inch of your skin. At a distance that dilutes warm breath and dulls whispered words. Thankfully. For you are naked, as naked as the day you were born. Not a stitch on, and that day you were born was a long time ago. Conscious of those eyes you finally close your own and think about those days on the beach. And then you bend over the bench, laid out conveniently in the centre of the room. It was not there last time, the day you posed naked for aspirant artists of varied ability. But it is there now. And now some of those same students watch, not paint. Watch as you are bent over and tied down. Watch as you are beaten, with a cane.

 

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Content.’

‘Good.’

‘Content and sore.’

‘Not annoyed?’

‘Should I be?’

‘Possibly. Some folks do not like an audience.’

‘It was only three. And I don’t mind. Adds something.’

‘The perennial exhibitionist.’

‘Is that why you invited them?’

‘Partly.’

‘Thinking it would add something.’

‘Did it?’

‘Yes. But you should have told me.’

‘A breach of trust?’

‘Could be. And knowing, knowing others would be watching, would have added to the anticipation.’

‘It might have put you off.’

‘It might.’

‘But once in the room, seeing them, I knew you would be hooked.’

‘You did say you were good.’

‘Very good, Nigel. Very good’

‘And you paint the most interesting pictures.’

 

She laughed, quite loud again, but as were in her flat, alone, it did not matter. I suppose I could have been angry. Turning up at her flat, studio, and finding three eager young students waiting. Waiting and eager to see what the afternoon entailed. They had been well selected, as I later learnt, young and intrigued embracers of all the senses. Well chosen, well versed, and alive with fascination. They were to see a man being beaten. That is how she had put it to them. To see a man release all those mesmerising endorphins as a cane smacked into his naked bottom. To witness a sensation that defies explanation and is beyond understanding. Until you have seen it, heard it, smelt it. They would leave shaking their heads but they would leave richer in knowledge of the human condition. Or that was her rationale. Mine was more basic. Power surged through me as, with watching eyes, she told me to strip to my underpants and calmly explained to the trio what was to happen. I was to be tied down on her bench, Nigel is a willing participant she said, and I shall cane him thirty six times. Observe all, marks, movement, distress. Observe all; it may be the only chance you get. I listened to it all, covered only in my underpants and conscious of a growing erection. A woman, a cane, three observers, a bench, and me. Almost naked. Humiliation, anticipation, and fear combined in heady levels. When she walked towards me, fully immersed as Madame Kahlo, and slowly peeled off my underpants I was eternally grateful that none giggled at my stiffened state. They were all enthralled and that made what was to come almost heavenly.

 

‘Did they say anything as they left?’

‘Only that you took it well.’

‘I am experienced.’

‘So I saw.’

‘But it still hurt.’

‘As it should.’

‘I hope they appreciated it.’

‘They were enthralled. Transfixed. Caning a bottom, a naked bottom, plays havoc with the emotions of the watchers.’

‘Is that why you did it?’

‘Partly. Caning you appealed and my students just added an extra frisson.’

I supped the wine I had been offered, a gentle well rounded merlot, and considered my next response.

 

‘I am sorry about my erection. I hope they weren’t embarrassed.’

‘Were you?’

‘No. It added to my humiliation.’

‘I think they were amused. Amused and intrigued. It added to their understanding.’

‘And quickly lost.’

‘Of course. I am, or was, Madame Kahlo.’

‘And you caned me well. My bottom is well striped and well sore.’

‘Then a very useful afternoon. For all of us.’

‘Living art?’

‘In a way. In a manner of speaking.’

‘Your health.’

 

I raised my glass.

 

‘And yours, Nigel.’

 

She raised hers and we both laughed.

 

It was art. In a way. She had peeled off my underpants and led me to the bench. Watching eager eyes saw me bound and naked across her bench. A soft backside upturned and ready and with a hardness in front that signalled agreement. As those eyes watched and absorbed, her cane lashed into my upturned cheeks. I gasped at each strike on my buttocks but as I drank in the fire and pain I blessed the presence of witnesses. Witnesses to the painting of the hues of her blues and orange across my nether cheeks. Living art. Living pain. Living submission. Observed by some of those who had, on another day, drawn my nakedness. Now they could draw my pain. Thirty six strokes. All lovingly created on my bottom as carefully and as cleverly as any painter’s brush. They, I, and Madame Kahlo were well pleased.

 

Or I hoped so. Next time, if there is a next time, no students will be present.

 

Alfred Roy (2018)