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

 

 

 

 

 

Bottom Marks in Life

It has recently occurred to me that it has been a long time since I did a blog on this site. Ignoring my last year statistical review you have to go back to January 2016 to find a muse on the infinite and tantalising  ways one can bare an eager and willing behind. So it is time I revisited my favourite vice and mused some more. And this time I wish to concentrate on whacking’s most pleasing aspect. The marks. The stripes and splodges, red or pink or blue, painted on the pale flesh of those fascinating bottom cheeks.

I first realised this fascination when I was very small. A primary school teacher smacked my bottom, shorts pants pulled up at the legs, and a firm and large hand applied to both of my naked orbs. Tiny girls sniggered and tiny boys, fearful of the same, were transfixed. I cried copiously at a well deserved spanking, sand thrown into an insufferable female child’s face was my crime. But as the tears dried I sensed the pleasing tingle in my bottom. And this strange pleasure was doubled when I looked at that small bottom in a mirror and firm pink handprints on my white flesh cheeks spelt out the reason for the tantalising throb. At four and a half, I could not have been any older, I had unknowingly discovered a kink that would dominate my life. Or at least the fun part of it.

That first experience of scholastic chastisement sowed an incipient seed that was destined to grow and flower as the years progressed. It is best illustrated by the fascination shown when classmates were caned. To witness or hear of a school caning was exciting in itself but to see the result in post communal PE showers, at least twice weekly in the 1950’s curriculum or so it seemed, was an undiluted pleasure. Cane stripes across a fellow schoolboy’s bottom conjured up delightful and sensuous feelings thankfully devoid of the necessary pain. Broad and flaming red or purple lines across the centre of an otherwise pure and white male bottom painted peculiar desires in my mind. I may have feared the pain that gave birth to the picture but to recreate on myself I would suffer much.

I did not have long to find out. I was given two searing strokes to my bum, in front of a class of unsympathetic friends, when I was about thirteen or fourteen. Those two strokes seared and fired into my behind and, tears now dried, remain long in my memory. But the stripes they left in their wake remain longer still. Only two strokes but my pale bottom cheeks were emblazoned for weeks with the black and the blue, fading gently to green and yellow as time passed, and fascinated as nothing else. I was almost sorry when they were finally gone. I had endured two minutes of excruciating pain for endless happy days of dropping pants and savouring the savage lines on the virgin bottom reflected in my mother’s mirror. The sight was heavenly and, frequently, engendered my first teenage masturbations. To relive the causing pain was pleasure undefined.

It is hardly surprising then that through my adult life I have suffered much for those tantalising stripes. In my thirties and forties, latterly renewing my desire for the corporal punishment world, results were pleasing. A bottom rarely whacked produced some heavenly results. Fingers tracing red lines and weals on an otherwise marble backside made all pain worthwhile. A pictorial fascination that those not so inclined would find bizarre. Not easy to recreate in my autumn years. The lines are less pronounced these days and the results fade quickly. Sadly a bottom much beaten recovers too quickly. Pain and pleasure briefly rise and evaporate. My primary school teacher, baring my four and half year old behind, would understand. Those exquisite nether stripes will not last forever. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

Your Favourite Stories - A Statistical Review

The perspicacious amongst you will have readily noticed that dilatoriness has been the order of the day recently. In other words, sharp sighted folks may think that things have gone a little quiet on this blog. Nowhere near as bad as another blog I have on theatre, not a thing there for months. Shall not regale you with the reasons, far too boring, but rest assured that whilst theatre visits have been pretty well nonexistent these last few months the travels of the pants down variety have still featured regularly in my life. Usually for fully naked massages, no other way in my opinion, but also, occasionally, for well deserved and long overdue bottom whackings. Taking all of your clothes off for pampering is fun, preferably by another male but not compulsory, but baring your bottom whilst retaining much else is so much better. There is something so very wonderful in bending over a bench waiting for the tee shirt to be raised and the underpants pulled down. And then the lovely whacks on the over eager bottom. And unlike massages when a male is definitely favoured by me, chastiser gender is immaterial. Just be good and accurate is all I wish for and want. And both genders have warmed up my behind during the last few months. So, in spite of dilatory blogging, there is still life in this old dog. Or certainly in his backside.

One thing I have been doing whilst waiting for story scribing inspiration is studying my statistical hits on whacking tales. Moving up to around 250,000 hits now, so I have a pretty clear idea of what appeals. Three thoughts come readily to mind.

 

 

A story will always win out over a blog.

17 of my stories have registered over 1,000 hits each. The top one, Fridays at Three O’clock, currently stands at 12,850 and two others, The Boston Landlady and Miss Pringle Solves a Problem, have both passed the 10,000 mark. Only one blog, My First Caning, has reached over 10,000 and only 7 have passed the 1,000 hurdle.

 

A Female whacking the bottom wins out over the male.

8 of the top ten stories involve a female dominant whacking a young bottom, In addition to those recorded above The Reluctant Schoolboy, The Past is Always Present, Mistress Fredericka, A Lesson for Miss Jones, and Aunt Mildred all figure up there in the top ten. Surprisingly the last two of these have a girl baring her bottom. Only Yesterdays Boy (autobiographical) and The Headmaster’s Dilemma, stories of the male caning a male intrude in the higher echelons. This preference for the female chastiser is underlined by the blog statistics with The Leicester Governess, I Have Never Seen Whipstock Grange and Caning as Therapy all being in the top ten blogs.

 

The Cane is Tops.

A theme that runs through most of the top stories and blogs is that the wielding of a cane across a bare bottom trumps much else. All of the top ten blogs involve someone being caned and 3 of the top 5 stories have a similar scenario. Statistics are undoubtedly skewed by the fact that I enjoy writing blogs and stories involving the cane much more than other scenarios but the fact that they figure so highly suggests like minded readers.

 

 

So an interesting set of statistics. Most of those singled out above are on the currently top ten list (see right column) and easily linked. And this, in itself, is another statistical skew. Folks are lazy, I reckon, and the top six account for 47% of story hits and 55% of blog hits. Success breeds success is my uncharitable thought. A thought underlined by the fact that my currently featured blog (see top) How to Bare a Behind, has taken a big jump up the table in recent months. Currently working on a new story (The Artist’s Strange Model) and musing on posting an old long one (A Light Shines in Ruislip). All this and the above await comments to my e-mail. alfred.roy@btinternet.com Postings there have been conspicuous by absence recently. Are you all too busy being whacked?

Alfred Roy

A Wakefield Detention (Miss Hardcastle)

A Wakefield Detention – a visit to Miss Hardcastle and friends.

I gets around on my travels, always willing to try new experiences in the interests of my blog. Venturing to Wakefield was a journey I never expected to make but well worth it. Age may wither but the spirit remains and a sore behind was a small price for this northern pleasure. They whack bottoms hard in that part of Yorkshire. This report is for Miss Hardcastle but all are welcome to read. Who knows, if she don't like it, I could be baring all near the Pennines again.  Alfred Roy

 

Given that the staff on this visit to the notable Miss Hardcastle’s equally renowned detention class numbered three I suppose I could have called this piece The Wakefield Trinity. An incorrigible threesome of the severe headmistress herself, a delightful matronly watcher christened by me the Ofstead Inspector, and a fun loving head girl who went by the soubriquet of Violet Bubblegum. Or something similar. An awesome trinity indeed. Unlike the motley collection of pupils who them in charge spent a pleasant afternoon dealing with. In a variety of creative and painful ways. Including yours truly, who journeyed 180 miles to accompany a close northern friend to a disciplinary class long desired. By him, if not me. But, given that I have had much fun on occasions at its southern cousin, Whipstock Grange, I ventured on the long travel up the boring A1. 180 miles to have your bottom smacked. I must be mad but if I am, to quote someone else, it is a fine madness.

If I learnt anything at the school detention it was stand up whenever Miss Hardcastle entered the room and don’t, ever, end a sentence with a preposition. So that is something I ain’t about to put my pen to. The other thing I learnt, long ago and continue to do so, is that blogging such shenanigans here needs lashings of descriptive disciplinary antics to capture the reader. A pant lowered and raised gets more hits, so to speak, than any number of examples on the corrective use of a pronoun. Shallow lot, pupils and readers alike.

Fortunately pants and underpants were regularly lowered for a variety of indiscretions. Most deliberate, like my northern friend stating that the King who named a spaniel was called Cocker. Think about it but not too long. If he was dealt with first it was but a brisk flick before my own small shorts and nether garments were around my ankles for a dozen cane strokes from Bubblegum across my bare backside. Raised high in the air as I bent over an accommodating stool. Not sure of the transgression which caused my initial whacking but as said Bubblegum alluded to me as motor mouth it may be something to do with giving her a surfeit of lip. A little later, first visit to headmistress Hardcastle’s private room, more serious thwacks were given to my now warming bottom. First a strap and then a cane and shamefully naked cheeks stung like bees on a bender. That registered, but not as much as the fact that large uncovered windows gave a bird’s eye view to the overlooking offices. They do things differently in Wakefield.

One unexpected difference was a splendid afternoon tea of sumptuous cakes and resumption of proceedings under the control of the Ofstead inspector. Deceptively gentle, kind and cuddly, she transmogrified into a harsh disciplinarian of awesome power. My motormouth is still gobsmacked. She had, from the back of the class, oozed friendly persona. From the front her cane and strap, and her voice, fired venom to both ears and backsides. None escaped. Even if a pupil from the wilds of Berkshire begged, and received, only gentle strokes to his pleasingly rounded naked bottom. By my calculation his journey was even longer than mine. I still wonder if it was really worth it. Mine was, both from her and a final castigation from Miss Hardcastle. She had us all bent and bare over a dividing rail in the large and scholastic hall and a candy striped cane left marks on behinds that will take longer to fade than the memory. Two weeks later, Sudocream profits soaring, I still have mine. They fascinate, like they did in schooldays, a bare bottom violated with scholarly wrath. The fee paid is redeemed in full every time I look. And I still do.

So Miss Hardcastle, Miss Bubblegum, my Northern friend, and all others delivered their promise. I drove home, all 180 miles, very sore in the nether regions. But it was worth it. We into corporal punishment in all its guises may be very odd folks. But dropping your pants, offering your bare behind, and being whacked by enthusiastic mature ladies beats lots of the alternatives for oldies. And with like minded fellows in an old fashioned schoolroom, thoughtfully arranged. And as a bonus that Ofstead lady sent me off with a farewell spanking. My behind glowed like a beacon and, as I left, my smile lit up the streets of Wakefield. Old ladies walking dogs will never know the reason why. Alfred Roy

 

How to bare a behind

I have just realised that I haven’t done a chatty blog for yonks. Stories always get more hits, and I have posted a few of those since last year’s personal trauma, but muses and wanderings on the delights of being whacked on the bottom have been strangely silent. George Eliot is credited with the wise piece ‘Blessed is he that having nothing to say does not open his mouth and prove it.’ Maybe I subscribe to it or, more likely, laziness and Christmas and research for this blog have kept me over occupied. That or they are my excuse.

The ‘research’ bit is the most interesting. Whenever I indulge these days I often wonder if my experience or pleasure will be worth blogging. Trawl through my pieces and you will find thoughts on The Leicester Governess, Thwarted Whackings, Whipstock Grange, Mistress Sapphire, Corrective Therapy and Medical Inspections amongst others. It is as if the pleasure of the experience is redoubled and repeated by writing it up. I win all ways. Musing on all this and remindful of the fact that a light blog is well overdue I got to thinking of that most singular pleasurable aspect of the corporal punishment or submissive scene. Avert your eyes if you are of a delicate nature. That most singular pleasure to me, centre of the anticipation and the pain and the relief, is the first moment your pants are taken down. It is exquisite, a heavenly moment of offering yourself, a line finally crossed. It has happened to me numerous times, in a variety of situations, and is always consummately desired and relished. No bodily sensation equals that moment your pants come down. I experienced it when I was very young, childhood spanking or belting imminent, and I still do. Nothing equals an authoritative figure, male or female, taking down your pants for dominant fun. Whether pure CP or shades of BDSM, when my knickers are coming off I still shudder at the thoughts of expected joy.

So, on the basis that the baring of the behind is a key procedure in my pleasure I thought, as a 2016 treat or whatever, I would list you those moments in my life when that delicate action was particularly special.  Some painful, some titillating, occasionally embarrassing. But all, to this hedonistic incorrigible, memorable.

 

When I was about nine or ten I was taken over a male teacher’s knee in his study and given a dozen or so hard spanks on my bottom. I remember it so well, especially standing at his side as he undid my shorts and pulled them down to my knees. I wore nothing underneath. For the first time in my life an authority figure, other than my father, was going to see and whack my bare bottom. The situation, the sensation, dwarfed all that followed. It was a defining moment in my life, made especially so because his very large hands virtually covered my small behind.

 

When I was a little older I was caned, four strokes on my bare behind, in a sports changing room. The teacher made me, and three others, strip completely naked for swimming and then offered an alternative punishment. I have often relived that momentous disciplinary occasion but have always regretted that the teacher never took our pants down himself. He had clearly decided to cane our bare behinds, why not make it special. He missed a trick that, even at a very young age, I already desired.

 

When I was about twenty an old school friend, embarking on a physical education career, practised a sports massage on me. We were both young and naive and unsure of our sexuality and he, annoyingly, insisted I kept my underpants on for the session. I remember little of the proceedings but one moment stands out. Towards the end suddenly, and surprisingly, he pulled down my underpants and proceeded to give my now naked bottom cheeks a vigorous workout. Sorry about that, he said, but it wasn’t working with your pants on. I just beamed at the memory of my bum being bared.

 

Throughout my life I have on a number of occasions bared my bum for the medical profession. We all have to. But my most significant, and one that induced an unwelcome erection, was an examination by a young Chinese doctor when I was in my thirties. At London University College no less. I was being examined for nasty crabs. It was the standing still in my underpants whilst he checked all the usual places that stirred me; it was the pulling down of my underpants to complete the inspection that surged me to full prominence. I reckon it was then I first knew I was a rampant submissive bi-sexual. The sensation was heavenly. I apologised. He gave a beaming Chinese smile. Nothing surprises the medical profession.

 

The first time I was caned for adult pleasure I was very nervous. It had been about fifteen years since my last school caning and it had taken me a long time to come to terms with my strange need and to pluck up courage to find someone to do it. He was very posh, very understanding, but very firm. I remember standing in his large flat, dressed only in white top and shorts, readying myself to bend over his impressive leather horse. I was trembling having been told that only six of the very best would do. Kill or cure seemed to be his motto. He said that they would be on my bare backside and slowly removed my moderately thick shorts. That moment was heaven, a surge of desire shot through me and even before I got into position and suffered the first whack I knew I was hooked. He certainly knew how to bare a behind.

 

I have come a long way since those early days. I thoroughly enjoy being whacked and, equally, thoroughly enjoy writing about it. Having a creative mind I have equally enjoyed the variety of ways in which one can indulge this consummate pleasure. Everything from spanking parties to adult schools and private domination sessions. In later life the latter has encompassed the female of the species if only for the fact that professional practitioners of the ancient art tend to be of the fairer sex. At least where I live. I am lucky in that I care not who takes down my pants as long as they are bossy. And it is the taking down of those pants, whether bending over a chair, standing to attention, or blindfolded and tied to an overhead beam, that is the most important. The heavenly sensation when all your enclosed bits, genitals and bottom, are released to the air. It is divine whatever the pain to follow, especially if you are down to a vest or less. That teacher who did it when I was nine or ten removed my shorts very slowly, or so it seemed. And all my life and all my experiences are, in a strange way, repeating that first baring of my behind. It never fails to thrill. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, only a caning will do.

The more perceptive amongst you may have noticed that I have not posted on here for some time. I do not wish to go into the details as to why but suffice to say a traumatic family illness, sudden and unexpected, expunged all desire to blog. Either here or elsewhere. (Yes, I do have interests other than of the whacking bottoms variety.) All peripheral interests for a while ceased, whether as participant or blogger. My only concern was for a beloved, fighting, literally, for breath in intensive care.  Such are, to mangle Shakespeare, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. That was all of three months ago and amazing recoveries and long summer days in glorious Devon put life back on an even keel. And make one thankful. And as that life returns to normal one thinks again on the little pleasures that make it all worthwhile. Pleasures that are trivial and unimportant when all goes pear shaped but help to spice up the normality of one’s usual existence. And dropping your pants to be whacked is a pleasure that should not be denied too long. The fact that I am back here blogging is testament to that. I got whacked last week and it was long overdue. I emerged from a much needed session of the sore behind variety and, smiling, waved goodbye to my personal, unexpected and unwanted, trauma. We all cope in our own ways I said, ruefully rubbing my backside.

 

And that, of course, got me thinking of this long overdue blog. The question of having your backside whacked as a form of stress relief often crops on CP site forums and chat rooms. It is frequently couched in the form of being a rather strange thing to do. Is it? I don’t think so. To those of our ilk there cannot be anything nicer than having a cane or strap connect with your willing bottom, especially when your pants are around your ankles and that bottom is as bare and naked as when your mother first saw it. All your responsibilities and burdens in an increasingly chaotic world are gone in a flash. For a few minutes, or if you are lucky an hour or so, all that matters is the naked freedom of disciplinary pleasure. And it is not strange. Guilt for some misdeed was often assuaged in childhood by a wrathful parent or vengeful teacher. I still remember those long gone days when a smarting and burning backside, painfully earned, relieved all the stresses of a heady situation. Is it so unusual that, in adulthood, its recreation can have a similar effect? I reckon submissives of the CP scene, I cannot speak for those who wield the weapons, are lucky to have such a simple and ready release at their disposal.

 

When I readied myself for last week’s caning, heavily delivered by an enthusiastic headmaster type, I blessed my particular kink. As I bent over the punishment bench dressed only in shorts and vest I felt a surge of long delayed anticipation. And when those shorts were lowered and the eager cane touched my bare buttocks I almost cried in relief that my much desired cleansing was about to commence. And each time that cane lashed into my bare backside I cried again in a strange mixture of pleasure, pain, and thankfulness. Next week I shall visit my favourite mistress for a more prolonged and sensuous reprise. I am fortunate that I care not who canes me, male or female, so long as they are good and enthusiastic. In fact mixing the gender adds to the spice of my life. And that life, after a much stressful period, is now back on an even keel. And being caned on my bare bottom has played no small part in it. But I doubt if I shall tell my doctor that. There are some things best left to this blog. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

Mistress Sapphire

For those amongst you who enjoy dropping your pants for a female disciplinarian you can do a lot worse than paying a visit to this excellent exponent of the art. Quietly spoken, this Edgeware based lady mixes kindness and gentle humour with a serious right arm and a no nonsense approach. She warms backsides with a variety of implements and an impressive display of roles from governess to police officer. In her cosy and well furnished chambers you can fulfil practically any persona you desire and, well smacked, enjoy a post session tea and chocolate biscuit. Nothing is hurried, all is refined and civilised. But, by God, she can hurt you. If that is what you want. Going over her knee, pants down and bottom bared, for an early Christmas spanking was heaven.

So I was told.

I, of course, would not dream of indulging in such hedonistic practices.

Mistress Sapphire (North London) - Tel 07984 579501 for appointment.

Thwarted Whackings - Not bending over for the cane

I had an unusual experience the other day. Unusual, that is, in the sense that it was rare. Being of that ilk that enjoys having his ageing behind whacked unusual experiences are not generally, well, unusual. No, this one was a rare experience in the sense that I have rarely experienced it. Perhaps I have been lucky, or unlucky depending on your point of view. But for me, however one views it, whenever discipline was promised or threatened I usually got it. From nervous boy to expectant adult. But not this week. It has got me musing and, judging all by this first paragraph, rambling. Perhaps I need to be caned.

 

I had made an appointment to visit one of my favourite disciplinarians. I am lucky in the fact that I have a few, some charge and some do it for free, and they come in both sexes. These days, surprisingly, I get a greater frisson from a dominant female making me lower my pants for the necessary but the right sort of male can also get my nerve ends tingling. In the final analysis it is all about that cane striking my naked bottom and, eyes closed and gripping bench or chair, the sting does not signal the gender. The urge for that special sting rises pretty rarely these days but when it does, circumstances allowing for the possibility, I make the arrangements and spend the ensuing days in heady excitement and anticipation. By the day or time of my appointment I am in that familiar state of nervous agitation beloved by all submissives. And this week was no exception.

 

And, lo, it was cancelled. Not by me. If that happens, equally rarely because I hate mucking folks about, it is because I am ill. On the one occasion my car broke down I rang the lady and, fortunately, agreed a delay of three hours. Never was I so grateful to be in the RAC. Nice man, I never let on the real reason for my agitation. The subsequent session was one of the best I ever had. A moral there somewhere but I will not pursue it. Suffice to say it did not figure on my feedback form to the breakdown organisation. But illness kills all desire and cancellation is both inevitable and wanted. Those sorts of thwarted whackings I can cope with. But this one was different. I had been steeling myself for it for a number of days; the lady is a formidable caner and had promised something special. My health was good and the skies were sunny. And the car showed not a hint of recalcitrance. All was set. Visions of me in vest and pants, a dominatrix with a vicious cane, pants coming down and a bare behind proffered for the desired and exquisite sting. A heavenly prospect with an amusing and delightful lady who loved what she delivered as much as I loved receiving it. A perfect match in some ways. And then, lo as I said, she cancelled.

 

It happens. Unavoidable in her circumstances and, gutted as I was, I took some solace in the fact that she seemed almost as disappointed as I was. There will, hopefully, be other days and next time it will be even better. Or worse, depending on your point of view. The best things in life are well worth waiting for, I told myself on my journey home. And it was on that journey, and subsequently, that I go to musing on the thwarted whackings of my life. Surprisingly, I discovered, there had been quite a few.

 

1. Aged about 7. I remember one that was very much of the ‘Wait until your father gets home’ variety. I had been belted, bare bum, a couple of weeks before for something or other. I know not what. And for the life of me I cannot remember what this one should have been for. But I do remember sitting on our sofa waiting for my dad to come in. Thinking back I reckon my mother must have calmed down by the time he arrived and it was a pretty muted retelling of my, now forgotten, misdeed. Instead of a belt across my behind all I got was a shrug and a look and a dismissal. I was more relieved than Mafeking.
    
2. Aged about 11. There was no feeling of disappointment at that early thwarted belting and there was little in regards to a later experience. I was about eleven and me and three others had been summoned to the gym in our PE Kit. It was during a PE lesson so being in such kit was no special ritual. Again I cannot remember what we had done but I do remember feeling terrified when the PE master produced a large black leather plimsoll and waved it menacingly. I suppose all such things waved at small schoolboys must, by definition, be menacing. I was convinced we were going to be whacked by it on our small and thin shorts, a new experience for me, and convinced even more so when he said that his little weapon had warmed practically every behind in the school. But then he said, given our ages, he would let us off with a warning. This time. Relief flooded over me as I left but, warnings unheeded, it wasn’t too long before I was to feel its vicious sting. But the first time I looked upon that PE plimsoll it was not, mercifully, introduced to my bottom. Being only eleven or so I remember me and the other boys giggling in blessed relief when we left him. It is probably then that I got an early inexplicable thrill at the idea, albeit thwarted, of being whacked.
    
3. Aged 13 or so. I do remember this one. Chemistry lesson, chemistry master. I hated both the subject and the teacher. So I used to muck around in my coveted role as class joker. But only in subjects I loathed. History and Mathematics always got complete attention. He was conducting an experiment with a variety of tubes. With stoppers. He stressed how important it was not to remove a particular stopper. Unfortunately he stressed it too much for one bored boy. So I pulled it out. Just to see what would happen. This was still the excuse I was offering when, in his private lab, I was bending down for four whacks on my trousers with a nasty piece of rubber tubing. It stung like hell, as it had before when I had got it. No other teacher used such a weapon, and at my school in the 1950s most whacked, but he was a chemistry master. It was as I rose, rubbing my behind vigorously and fighting back tears, that he issued a particular threat. He must have been angry. If I have you in here again, he said, I shall have your trousers down and you will get it on your bare backside. You wouldn’t dare, I said. He didn’t and I never did. Get whacked by his rubber tubing on my bare bum. Probably a good job because even over the trousers you were left with thick red and bluish lines across your bum which took ages to heal. But his threat definitely created a thrill and in a funny sort of way, scared as I was, I always regretted that he never carried it out. And he had his chances as I got that tubing across my behind on at least one more occasion, probably two. But only in the classroom in front of other boys, not in his private lab. I wonder why.
    
4. Aged 27 to 35 I suppose that last one does not really count as a thwarted whacking as I did suffer a bruised behind. But it qualifies as a thwarted promise. A promise of pants down which was never carried through. The next two both fall into that category, even though for one of the experiences my bottom was shamefully bared and merely minutes or seconds from getting a delicious whacking. I am uncertain of exactly when but both took place in the period when I first entered the CP world of pleasure in earnest. Between those ages I met many people and went to many parties of the whacking kind. I had some amazing experiences and some that were complete duffers. A couple stand out in the memory and both definitely fit this blog. In those days my CP interests were purely male, school influence, and the idea of being whacked by a woman did not appeal. It all worked very well when the cane wielders were from the select group of friends that I had cultivated, and by extension friends of theirs. But I was relatively young and craved for adventure. Or the adventure that centred around having your pants being taken down by a stranger for a bottom whacking. So I answered a variety of adverts, no internet in those days. As I say I had some amazing experiences. But these were not that. One involved many messages and telephone calls and a long journey through the countryside on a dark winter night. As soon as I arrived I knew it was a mistake. A chat and a drink and the message was clear. Not stated, but I have an acute antennae and I knew I was a disappointment. I took the bull by the horns. You want someone about eighteen, I said. I was all of thirtyish by then. I should have been annoyed, I had not disguised my age in arrangements. But I am a considerate soul and perhaps he thought he could get himself in the mood. I think I finished my drink and drove back home in the dark, quietly cursing. I reckon I must have had a wank when I did. In those days the CP urge and the sexual drive were heavily entwined. At least I had the consolation of not taking off any clothes. The other duffer session did not even have that. It was a posh flat in London and, again, in response to some long lost advert. Nice chap, erudite and pleasant and about my age. We talked for an age, in hindsight probably too long. Eventually we got around to CP and caning bottoms. Mine. He left the room and, as instructed, I stripped to my underwear and bent over the back of his sofa, on which he had considerately placed a towel. It was then I remembered he wanted me just in my vest. Hence the towel. So I slipped off my trunks and bent over the sofa again. Bare arse in the air and penis throbbing in anticipation. Writing this makes me wish I was thirty again. He eventually returned and, after a minute or so, he gave me six whacks with the cane across my backside. They were pretty tepid and unexciting. My interest rapidly waned. Even more so when he said, I am sorry I am really not in the mood. By the time I dressed neither was I. Oh all right, I got six strokes but, given my early mood, that really was a thwarted whacking.
    
5. Aged 50 and over One learns ones lessons in life. As I aged I was very careful whom I made arrangements with. Complete strangers, contacted by a variety of adverts, were out and friends or friends of friends were the only CP show in town. I sacrificed heady adventure for a surety of pleasure. They did not let you down or, if they did, it was well before the event. And when I started to use the services of professionals, you have to when you get old but still have schoolboy desires, I chose with care. It is with the latter that I moved into the world of the female disciplinarian and, thankfully, the best are as good if not better than any male. I am happy to pay but even happier if they seem to enjoy whacking behinds. And the best do, I am convinced of that. That is why they are successful. My only failure, a thwarted whacking I suppose, is visiting one who wanted to treat me as a slave. I put up with most of the indignities but when she asked, or told me, to lick her shoes I gave up and got dressed. Schoolboys don’t do that sort of thing. My own fault really as in limited pre discussions I had said I wasn’t averse to bondage and masks. I like passive humiliation. She was a very nice lady outside her dungeon and we chatted amiably over tea and delicious cakes before I left. I did consider going back some time and asking her to tie me up and blindfold me and whack my naked bum with her hardest cane. But then I thought of those shoes.

 

So there you have it. A variety of thwarted whackings. Occasions when my bottom was bared, or not as the case may be, and denied life’s ultimate pleasure. And all arising from musings on a journey home from an appointment postponed. I prefer not to say cancelled. Every cloud has a silver lining and this particular cloud has two. I have a long overdue blog and a session, temporarily deferred, that I shall look forward to with even greater anticipation. The next time I lower my pants and offer my bare backside to that particular lady I shall know that her cane may land late, but it will land with an eagerly awaited and overdue sting. And I shall absorb that exquisite sting in the full and welcoming knowledge that thwarting is such sweet sorrow. Alfred Roy




I went back a few weeks later. New appointment and long drive but I finally got that whacking I had long desired. When I bent over, pants down, and her cane touched my bare bum I almost cried.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caning as Therapy

I may have reached that time of life when I should be pottering around the garden or doing crosswords, I do both actually, but I still occasionally yearn for adventure. Not unusual, lots of older folk regularly seek an adrenalin flow by flying to far off places or booking a world cruise. Some even take up a risky and strenuous hobby that saner and younger folks decry. Bungee jumping at your age, they say. I admire them but I do not envy them. I prefer a quieter and gentler life. But wired into my complex system is that constant yearning for infinite varieties of CP pleasure and, over the years, I have gained many an adrenalin kick by trying a different aspect of it. The end result is always the same, a cane or strap across my backside, but along the journey I have travelled many an interesting road.

A few years ago I saw a feature in a dubious magazine, I forget which, detailing the unusual and intriguing services of a caning therapist. The article made it absolutely clear that the lady in question offered no other services, or so it said, but purely administered a serious caning to the backsides of her clients. For a fee, of course. I cannot remember the details but they were specific enough to have me hankering for this special service. The article emphasised the therapeutic aspects and the beneficial effect it had on the wellbeing of those who undertook it. It was all very interesting but what really stimulated, and had me searching for a contact number, was the little disguised fact that to be effective the caning was administered to the recipient’s bare bottom. My heart was thumping and my head reeling when I finished reading the article. There was no contact number but there was a box number if, as the article disingenuously phrased it, any reader wished to make further enquiries. I did. I compiled a short letter and nervously awaited the two weeks it took me to get a reply. These days it would be no more than an internet click. How times have changed. When the reply came it contained a contact number and, a couple of days later, I made my first and only appointment to visit a caning therapist. I was both excited and scared but, equally, determined to go through with it. On the selected date and time I would make a journey of heady and stimulating anticipation.

Suffice to say it was one of the weirdest but strangely civilised experiences of my secretive life. The address was a very ordinary but attractive semi detached house in a leafy part of one of London’s many suburbs. The comforting anonymity appealed. I was met by a smartly dressed young lady, it transpired that she was the therapist’s student daughter, and ushered into a small study. I sat and waited and after a few minutes an older lady appeared. She was wearing a smart, official looking, white hospital uniform and my heart lurched. I studied her as I answered a few preliminary questions. She was tall and pale skinned with short reddish hair and a pleasing smile. I reckoned she was nearer fifty than forty and that suited my passive nature. She completed the form in front of her and handed it to me to sign. Read the final paragraph, she said, before you sign. I do not wish there to be any misunderstanding. I cannot remember precisely what it said but it was the usual disclaimer with a few special details. I was to be stripped naked and tied over her special equipment and receive, in sets of ten, fifty stokes of a suitable cane across my naked bottom. I signed in a shaky hand and, as I did so, she told me not to worry. It will hurt but it will not be savage. It will take about fifteen minutes and it will help if you cry. Most of my clients thank me afterwards. With that she stood up, I did the same, and she led me to the room where I was going to take off all my clothes and have my bare bottom caned. And I was paying for it. I had never felt so scared, or so it seemed.

The therapy room, the sign on the door said it was thus, was small and clinical. But for an impressive angled black leather bench at its centre and sundry canes on its walls it could have been a dental surgery. The bench had a raised step that I could kneel on, I realised that when taking my place over it, and leather ties at the front and centre. When ordered, or requested, I slowly took off all my clothes. You have a nice bottom she said, and I am sure I blushed. Dressed only in my birthday suit I knelt on the front of the bench and stretched myself over it. As the therapist tied my wrists to the front legs of the bench and passed a thick leather strap across my back I realised this was it. There would be no going back. I felt very vulnerable, even more so when she gently brushed her hands across my bottom, naked and raised and ready, and said that a medium cane would be most suitable for such a backside. I closed my eyes and heard her pick up the selected implement. First ten, she said. And then, after a second the sting hit me. A fiery pain across the centre of my bottom. I winced, but it was not unpleasant. Neither were the next nine as, with increasing intensity, this expert in her field built a burning glow behind me. Over the next ten minutes or so she repeated the process four more times, each set being a little harder, a little more intense, than the previous ten. By the end my bottom was burning and stinging and my eyes shed tiny tears. It would be good to cry she had said, and I did. Albeit quietly. And then it was over. The cane was returned to the wall and the straps untied. Before she released me I felt her gentle and soft hands smooth themselves across my very hot behind. I may have imagined it but I am sure the fingers brushed my genitals. It was all very pleasant and civilised and she issued a soft laugh when I rose and, vigorously rubbing my backside, apologised for my obvious pleasure at her ministrations. An occupational hazard was all she said and then left the room to allow me to dress and compose myself. I cannot remember what happened when I arrived home but, living alone at the time, I reckon I must have had my best solo wank ever.

All this came back to me because recently I have seen, via the internet, a lady offering similar services. Caning therapy, pure and simple. I am tempted to try it again. And this time dropping my trousers and baring my behind in a clinical situation is merely an internet click away. The times may change but our desires, thankfully, remain the same. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

Why the cane is history. (Media comment)

There has been a lot of chat in the media recently on new initiatives to maintain or improve discipline in schools. This issue raises its head intermittently and, inevitably, the elephant in the room eventually pops up. Bring back the cane. Kept us old uns in line when we were at school goes the cry. Worst decision ever made when they totally abolished it. Should have been kept as the ultimate deterrent. A few whacks across the backside would solve most problems. The ultimate sanction. Easy solution really. Well, at the risk of being provocative, is it? Would we cure all the ills of the modern generation if we went back to the fifties and sixties?

I doubt it. You cannot turn back the clock. In the immediate post war period life did not have many luxuries but it had a structure. In the family, from upper class to working class, the father was the authoritative head. His word, and slipper or belt or whatever, was law. You did not argue. That deference naturally followed through to school. Children, especially boisterous and growing boys, needed keeping in line. In classes of up to forty, yes forty in those days, teachers kept order with the threat of corporal punishment. And it was not an idle threat. Canes, straps, plimsolls, even rubber tubing (chemistry master) were regularly applied to the backsides of the wayward.

What seems so amazing from a twenty first century perspective is that all deferred to the ritual. Teachers wielded instruments of punishment, parents supported their use, and schoolboys meekly bent over. Even, on rare occasions, dropping shorts or underpants before the dreaded infliction. In my day I saw big fifteen year old bullies bend over for strokes of a cane from a master who physically was less than their equal. You could say that such boys were conditioned by their upbringing. You fought or bullied kids, you did not take on adults. Generally speaking, as there were always exceptions. But they were the exceptions. Most boys when in trouble took their whackings. Refuse and you might get worse at home.

Today it is all so different. Bring back the cane or any other form of corporal punishment and you would have a legion of angry parents defending their brood. And that is only for the few who submitted to such attacks on their backsides. Those of teenage years, or the majority of them, would not submit. Certainly not the ones who most deserved it. They would be more likely to resist in various degrees of hostility. Anarchy would prevail.

And that is why I think that the elephant in the room, even if sanctioned, would never work in the twenty first century. You need deference, co-operation, a sense that what is being done is right. Even if it hurt. Deep down, 1950’s schoolboys sensed the rightness of it all. It was the natural order of things. Boy misbehaves. Teacher produces cane. Boy bends down. Teacher whacks bottom. Boy is redeemed. Easy. We are too far along the current educational road to go back to those days. Yes they were hard and the nastier aspects of the nastier teachers, and there were some, should firmly remain in history. But the more civilised aspects had a structure and order which benefited both teachers and schoolboys. (I cannot and will not talk for girls). The sensible and moderate use of corporal punishment underpinned that structure. But we can never bring it back.

Except of course in stories, for those who have a taste for writing about or reading such tales. Gleaned from our schoolboy experiences. The sensation of a wooden stick across our tender backsides wired in a thrill we could never shake off. Even as adults. Another good reason, some would say, for leaving those scholastic disciplinary implements to gather even more dust. Alfred Roy

To come later this month. A new story – Telling Lies

An old fashioned schoolboy caning story (M/m) in an old fashioned boy’s school.

Anticipation

Life is all about anticipation. Good or bad, the journey to our goal often eclipses the event. R L Stephenson said, and I paraphrase, that it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive. Literally true in the case of some, long anticipated, holidays or theatrical offering. The pleasure, with rueful hindsight, was all in the preparation. Fearful anticipation is similar but frequently emotions are reversed. If we express disappointment when arriving at a dreary hotel that had filled our weeks with excitement, we equally express pleasurable relief when an experience we feared turned out to be nothing of the kind. Flying, visits to dentists, an important interview. All come into this category. Good or bad, whatever enriches or blights our lives is filled with anticipation. We spend every day anticipating tomorrow, whatever it may bring.

I have been thinking much on anticipation this past week or so. A few weeks ago I rashly booked an appointment with someone who specialises in sensual domination. The gender is irrelevant as, tied up and naked and blindfolded, it is only you that matters. Or it is in my case. I have flirted, briefly, with this side of my nature for some time. But a fully fledged session was a first. And I had a couple of weeks to think about it. Anticipation kicked in big time. Pleasure and fear combined and a fee, or tribute as it is sometimes called, was well earned even before I set out. The powerful force of anticipation had gone into overdrive and, good or bad, the actual experience could not negate that. I reckon, for submissives, it was always thus. We are hardwired from birth. Think about it.

The most fearful childhood memory for many of us of a certain age was that dreaded phrase ‘Wait till your father gets home.’ It is almost a cliché but it has that ring of awful truth. The uttered phrase usually meant, a few agonising hours later, a very sore bottom. However hard we were whacked it almost came as a blessed relief. No searing sting to our naked backsides could be as painful as the mind numbing wait. It was the same at school. Told in assembly to wait outside the headmaster’s study was the ultimate fear for every schoolboy. Long before any cane landed on juvenile trousers many were reduced to tears in anticipation. And if it was likely that those same trousers would be taken down the fear increased fourfold. Abject pain was quickly followed by relief. It was all over and the reality had been more bearable than the prospect. Summoned for unexpected corporal punishment in class created a similar scenario. Except the time between anticipation and bending down was considerably reduced and the relief, when it came, muted.

But it is when we get older that the pleasurable ingredient of anticipatory discipline begins to kick in. Initially it is a fearful, inexplicable, thrill when the teacher produces his cane or strap. You are frightened, you are scared, but you are also excited. Instant pain in your bottom is assuaged by comradely attention and the displaying of the marks. The suffering is eclipsed by the attention from schoolfellows. In your young and developing mind you begin to enjoy the anticipation regardless of the pain. It is but a short step to total enjoyment of the anticipatory fear, especially if your pants are coming down, and a lifetime of disciplinary pleasure. Without that anticipation no willing erstwhile schoolboy would ever stand in front of his master or mistress preparing to drop his pants. Without that anticipation, joyfully embraced or fearfully denied, no bottom would be bared and no cane would swing. Or at least not for a fee.

I paid that fee, it was a female dominant for those who wish to know such things, and it was well worth it. Tied up, naked, blindfolded, it was a long way from my school days. But in some respects, nasty cane landing on bare bottom, it was little different. Samuel Johnson said that ‘Nothing concentrates a man’s mind as much as knowing he will be hanged in the morning.’ Submissives would say that nothing concentrates the mind as much as knowing that his pants are coming down for a caning. That is what he loves, that is what he anticipates. Fathers and schoolmasters have a lot to answer for. Alfred Roy

A Boy is being Belted (Factual- M/m)

The main facts of this are true. Given that many younger readers of disciplinary forums doubt the veracity of 1950s recollections from oldies I have posted it in full on a couple of sites. Will be interesting to see what, if any, reaction I get. Alfred Roy

My dad wasn’t very subtle. To him the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. Always. Get under his feet and you got a clip around the ear, spend too long in the bath and he would pull out the plug and run the cold tap. Make him angry and he’d threaten you with his belt. He was either too busy or too stupid for fatherly negotiations. Seeing as he was deputy manager at the local bank I assume it was the former. That and the fact that he didn’t like boys. Or that is what I thought. I had three sisters, all around my age, but he never clipped them around the ear, never ran cold water in their baths. And he never threatened them with his belt. That was saved for me. And it wasn’t an idle threat. I had felt it and feared it. If the shortest distance was a straight line then, when angry with me, my dad saw my behind and his belt as the two telling points. He would reason with my sisters when they transgressed, he would see their point of view, and he would readily forgive. With me when I went too far it was upstairs, pants off, and belt across my bottom. Practically before I had time to draw my breath and protest. If I cried, as I did, it was as much for the injustice as for the pain in my burning behind.

I reckon I was about eight the first time he took his belt off to me. Sounds shocking now but you must remember this was the 1950s. Things were different then, both at home and at school. Boys feared teachers for their canes and slippers and fathers for their belts but it did not stop them getting into mischief. Being whacked was normal, part of growing up. And soon forgotten. I feared my father, even though I got to like him in his old age, because of our different sizes and that belt around his waist. A constant reminder of pain it was thick and strong and the first time he undid it for me and slipped it out of his trouser loops I realised its special significance. He had often threatened me with it. About time you felt my belt boy, he would say. And I would run away and pray that he didn’t follow me. His hand, occasionally used, had been bad enough. Suddenly, in anger, he would hold me by the arm and give me six or so hard whacks across my short trousers with his hand. A quick lesson for something I had done or not done. But never the belt, even though threatened. Until, one day, when I crossed some divide and the points between the straight lines crystallised in ultimate disciplinary fire.

I can remember what I had done. And remembering I suppose I deserved what I got. I had bitten my six year old sister on the arm. And she screamed. And no one, not even Hammer horror film stars, could scream like my little sister. If there was an Oscar for overreaction she would have won it. Every time. Can’t remember what led to it but given that my slightly older sisters backed up the constantly screaming sibling, I was tried and condemned almost before my flush faced father arrived to investigate the fuss. I saw his belt being drawn out of his trousers and I joined in with my own pitiful cries. The last thing I remember before pitifully running to my bedroom was my father saying that this was not before time, to whom I do not know, and my younger sister’s screaming suddenly ceasing. Nice actress, but her timing was awful.

I threw myself down, still sobbing, onto my bed which was probably a stupid thing to do. As I have said my dad did not waste time. He was in my room in seconds. And there were no lectures, no standing to respectful attention, no this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. No gathering of the facts which may or may not be how they momentarily appeared. This was him in full flow and a father’s belt would now do to his boy’s behind what it would do many times over the next few years. He pulled down my short trousers, elasticised waist so no difficult task, and did the same to my underpants. Lift up your shirt he said, he always said this, and keep your hands away. I think he had a theory that me holding on to my shirt made his task easier. Whatever the theory it certainly presented him with a completely uncovered bare bottom. And the moment the shirt rose he whacked his belt across my offered behind with a frequency and intensity that created a fire that only eight year old boys can understand. I screamed and screamed and screamed. Pleading for a forgiveness which I knew would not come. Not from him, not my sisters, or unseen neighbours who must have heard. A boy is having his behind belted; he must have done something very wrong. He whacked his belt into my bottom about twenty or thirty times, that was the usual number, and my only consolation is that I never let go of the shirt. I struggled, I turned away and was pulled back, and I begged to be let off. And I pulled the shirt down only to have it and my arms pulled back. But I never let go. If this was a special, traditional, battle between a boy and his dad then at least I would have that small victory.

He had trod his straight line and his belt returned to its alternative use and I tried to ease my wounds. Little hands rubbed into an equally small behind in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing and lessen the fire. I remained in my room for about half an hour, sobbing for most of it, but eventually recovered. Within hours it would almost be forgotten and by the next day it was as if it had never happened. Until the next time. And it was always the belt, not like at school with canes, and always on the bare. And if I can remember the first time the belt left his trouser loop for my correction I cannot remember the last. But it happened, infrequently, for a few years. My eldest sister says it stopped when he caught me looking at the results in the bathroom mirror when I was about twelve. This was many years later and I can’t remember if it is true. But it sounds as if it ought to be. Bare behinds being whacked was an essential, if unwelcome, part of my childhood.

 

To Come :-  The Deviant Duo (An FF/M kidnapping tale.)

My Second Caning

The slight blog on My First Caning has proved so popular I thought I would do another one. In a flash of unexpected imagination I have decided to call it My Second Caning. My creativity knows no bounds. It’s a bit different from the first in many ways. That one, for those with short memories, was three unmemorable strokes across my clothed backside by an ineffectual art teacher when I was still under the heady age of twelve. The offence was spitting at classmates, the punishment more noteworthy for occasion than execution. It smarted but caused little distress. The second one, in the same school year, was marked in the mind for more interesting reasons. It was four strokes this time, it was delivered by a master of the art of caning boys, and it was on my bare bottom. Modern folks don’t believe it but in the late 1950s whacking bare backsides was no big deal. Done more at home than at school but, either way, none complained. You did what teacher said and, other than a smarting bottom, you thought little of it. It was as much a part of growing up as putting on your first pair of long pants or having your first cigarette. You certainly didn’t talk about it afterwards, except to curious and eager schoolfellows. Bottoms turned up for whackings was a constant fascination in those innocent times.

This second caning involved four of us, all aged about twelve. We tried to skip hated swimming lessons by conveniently forgetting our trunks. It worked most of the time. But on one particular day this particular master was having none of it. Something must have pissed him off. That’s my theory. Swim naked he said, in the pool starkers he said, and flounced off. Or whatever the equivalent of flounce is in very athletic and frightening schoolmasters. We disconsolately made our collective way to the changing room and, mouths open and clothes divested, waited. Waited for what we did not know. He, the teacher, had told us to swim naked. But if we dutifully stripped we showed no collective inclination to join thirty odd schoolmates in the pool. Would rather frolic with a shoal of piranhas was our view. School showers were bad enough. We would be easy and irresistible targets for grabbing hands on exposed and vulnerable parts. All cloaked in the anonymity of covering water. No, jumping in the pool was not a serious option. Standing naked in the changing room, four shivering twelve year old boys, was. So we did. Until he came back.

Hindsight tells me that our pissed off teacher had gambled that the raucous noise of classmates splashing around would kill any intention of obeying his unexpected order. He was ready for it. Swim as you are, he said, or take the cane. Four strokes each on four bare backsides. The choice was ours. Collective gulps and we all agreed to be whacked. Teachers know their boys and his pending and customary disciplinary evil was an almost gratefully received alternative. He left to fetch the cane and we waited, all willing to take twelve strokes with barbed wire across our bare bums rather than succumb to the unseen rabble. A fleetingly smarting bottom scored over a constantly and mercilessly pulled penis any day. He knew that. We knew that. So we waited. Naked, forlorn, scared, relieved.

He returned, cane in hand, and summoned the first trembling boy to him. All hopes of a reprieve were dashed as the naked boy walked past the twin rows of lockers to the open area suitable for unexpected chastisement. The rest watched in awe as the boy bent down and received four tell tale marks on his backside. They were hard, but not vicious, and ankles remained clasped throughout. To enhance his fun or to teach us a greater lesson, I leave you to choose, the boy’s naked behind was pointing to us. We saw every whack, heard every groan, saw every emerging mark on flesh. None would have any illusion when their turn came. Memory confuses details but I know I was consumed by inner excitement and fear. Too young to understand conflicting emotions; old enough to know the situation inexplicably thrilled. Even though it all happened many years ago I have never forgotten my long walk to the top of the changing room. I have never forgotten my bending over, naked and unashamed, and grasping my ankles. Never forgotten the touch of that cane on my bare bum. And never forgotten the relief that the pain, when it came, was bearable. The four strokes stung and my warm bottom was well rubbed as I walked back to my fellows. We all had small tears but none were in total distress and, when he left, we all admired our individual marks. Boys in the 1950s recovered their composure pretty quickly. We were just glad that we had not been made to swim naked. We had paid the price for this and, on our naked bottoms, had the schoolboy badge that proved it.

I do not know to this day why that teacher took the action he did. Do it today, four twelve year old boys made to strip completely for a bare bottom caning, and he would be in clink quicker than you could say bend over. But he wouldn’t do it today. The past is a different country, as greater minds than mine have said. And in that strange and lost terrain such things mattered not a jot. Boyish behinds, bare or clothed, were whacked with abandon. And none complained. You didn't in those days. Alfred Roy

 

A fuller version of this true event is told in my piece Tomorrows Child (available on this blog – April 2012). I often wonder if the other three boys, cannot remember who they were, got the same taste for the cane that I eventually did. If they didn’t then, based on my adult experiences, it is their loss. I still silently thank that teacher. And I have never forgotten him. If he is still alive, I would doubt it, I wonder if he still remembers me. He ought to given that he gave me another more memorable caning a couple of years later. Some teachers knew your bottom better than they knew your face. I reckon he was one of them.