The Retired Headmaster (M/M) - with accompanying picture

This story is self explanatory. The preamble should make it clear. In reality I thought I was going to meet up with such a person during the spring months. It did not happen, sadly. However I did manage to make a visit to an old friend and we created the situation I had desired with someone new. The photo on the side is the result. No longer a thirty year old bottom, as per the story, but one that thoroughly enjoyed  being whacked. One may be getting old but one can still enjoy this most delightful of perversions. Enjoy the story, even if you have to avert your eyes. Alfred Roy

The Retired Headmaster

 

It’s a phrase that always caught my eye and created a tingle elsewhere. And if I followed it up, a spring infused my steps. Retired Headmaster. Just two words, but two words rich with special promises and pleasures. Met one or two in my time. Whether they were real headmasters or no, I cared not, the soubriquet was enough, especially if they looked the part. Have been hankering recently to again meet up with one of those like minded folks who still promote themselves as such but distance and obstacles have so far thwarted. It hasn’t stopped me thinking that such a visit is long overdue. Headmistresses, retired or not, don’t come cheap and the male of the species often perform their pleasurable tasks for free or just a nominal sum. To someone who cares little who bares his behind and stings it, as long as it is done with expertise and relish, the situation is a no brainer. So I shall continue searching and hoping and, in the interim, muse on a Retired Headmaster experience I had some years ago.

He was a fussy little man, dapperly dressed in three piece suit and bowtie, and reminded me more of a floor manager at an expensive department store than retired headmaster. But he had a malicious twinkle in his eyes and a warming smile when he discussed the afternoon arrangements. Both facets set me at my ease and suggested promise. We had communicated a couple of times before meeting. I travelled a lot in those days and his palatial detached house, so he told me, was only a short detour on my regular journeys along the A1. The Great North Road. I could call in on my way back south in a summer heat that was heavenly both for the warmth and the adventure. My northern meetings had been dreary but necessary and it was only the thoughts of our meeting that kept up my spirits. Hardly surprising. I had been put in touch with him by a like minded friend and our couple of telephone chats established a rapport. He liked caning bottoms and I liked mine to be caned. As a schoolboy. We could be made for each other he said, and chuckled. His parting words, as we confirmed my visit, lingered throughout my business trip and haunted every free moment. I shall take down your pants of course, he said. All boys should be beaten on their bare bottoms. Yours will be no exception. I said I would not have it any other way. Headmaster or not, retired or not, he certainly ticked all my boxes.

Such anticipation, of course, can frequently lead to disappointment. It had happened to me a couple of times. I once, famously, spent seven hours in travelling for six of the best on my shorts. All over in five minutes. That was it. The man who did it was happy. I wasn’t. He had not stirred from his house. I journeyed home, three and a half hours, with a slight sting in my bottom and a strong feeling of frustration in my head. Could this be the same? A week or so spent in anticipation for five or ten minutes of fleeting pain and little pleasure. I sincerely hoped not. I reckon that seven hour jaunt, and other experiences, was why I turned to professionals. Male and female. At least with them you get your sixty or ninety minutes. They earn their fee. But amateurs, I use the word kindly, can be unpredictable.

I need not have worried. From the first tentative knock on door, the house was all he said, and the warm handshake I sensed we would gel. Long journey, he said, let us have tea and talk. So we did. I told him my desires and fantasies and experiences at school, the latter particularly intrigued, and he told me what he intended to do. Allow an hour, he said, I have no wish to rush. That appealed. No seven hour frustration here, I thought. I had bought my PE kit, white top and shorts as he had requested, and changed into them after the refreshing tea. Leave on your underpants, he said, you may need the extra protection. And then he smiled. Do not worry, they will be coming down. I tingled and, hastily changed, went to the room he indicated. A headmaster’s study in all its splendour. A large desk and equally large leather chair. A small bench on which, attired as ordered, I sat and lots of impressive bookcases. And in the corner, near latticed windows, a stand full of various implements. All designed to mark a behind. I waited for about ten minutes and, shamefully, played with myself in anticipation. Only through my shorts and underpants but, waiting, my desire was clearly strong. I prayed he would not see.

I should make it clear at this stage that I looked every inch the schoolboy. I was in my mid thirties, slightly built, and with a very young face. My love of corporal punishment had been kindled at school and flowered through my twenties. I was, and still am, fortunate in that my bottom matched my face. Young and boyish but deceptively capable of taking severe cane strokes. Made me popular at the caning parties I regularly attended in those days. In anticipation of my meeting with this retired headmaster I had refrained from any indulgence for a number of weeks. Most caners that I know and knew appreciate a virgin, unmarked, bottom and mine was pristine smooth, hairless, and unblemished. Every inch checked in bathroom mirror, and every inch ready and eager to be painted in scholastic stripes. No wonder I was playing with myself.

He caught me. I was so absorbed in my lower fumbling I did not hear, or see, him enter the room. His manner had changed, stern had replaced fussy and steel supplanted warmth, and I guiltily blushed as he bid me stand. He expressed disgust, naturally, but secretly I reckon he was pleased that my furtive actions had introduced a verisimilitude to our preambles.

 

‘Do you usually indulge in such disgusting habits?’

‘No, sir.’

‘In the headmaster’s study?’

‘Yes sir. Sorry sir.’

‘You will be boy. You are here to be caned as you know. Gross insubordination. In view of your unseemly behaviour I shall increase both quantity and severity of the cane strokes. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I think twelve strokes, six on your shorts and six on your underpants will suffice for the insubordination and then a further twelve on your bare behind for this latter offence. Do you agree?’

‘Do I have a choice sir?’

‘Do not get glib with me boy or I might have those shorts down straight away and give you them all on your naked backside.’

‘Yes sir, sorry sir.’

‘Yes sir, sorry sir. How many times have I heard boys say that when they know that their bottom is about to be beaten. It’s too late to be sorry, too late. It is time to bend over and take your punishment. Punishment well deserved and punishment delivered to where nature intended. To your bottom. A bottom that will be very red and sore by the time I have finished. Bend over and touch your toes.’

 

He was in full stride through all this, pacing and pacing up and down the room. I stood transfixed and a little thrilled. As the pacing increased he crossed to the latticed window and selected a cane from his copious selection. It was red, medium thick, and made for a goodly swish as he flexed it. He amplified my thoughts when he referred to it as a senior cane, redwood, designed to sting the most obdurate of behinds. His face was flushed and his eyes gleamed in anticipation. Bend over, he said, touch your toes or grasp your ankles. Six strokes boy. His voice was thick and, as I replied and did as instructed, my own was almost as breathy. I couldn’t touch my toes but I did manage to grasp my upper ankles and keep my legs straight and steady. I was conscious of both my upturned bottom and, reassuringly, the fact that it was covered by both shorts and underpants. That cane looked vicious. I was both headily expectant and slightly scared, both feelings enhanced by the thrill I felt when large hands explored my covered rear. He may be a retired headmaster and I a naughty schoolboy but, prior to delivering his first set of stings, fantasy allowed a short sexual frisson that reality would frown upon. I sighed as those hands explored all of my nether curves. My bottom cheeks, my crack, my testicles and penis, all felt the clothed touch of exploring hands. Did he do this when he was a real headmaster? Did he desire to do it and resisted? Was he at last fulfilling suppressed passions? I cared not. All I thought was do not stop, do it more, cane me, and then when my pants are down do it again. When the redwood cane touched my bottom for the first of my first six I was as stiff as the hardest pole.

When it landed, hard and straight across the centre of my clothed bottom, I was not so keen. It stung like hell and the fiery line engendered caused a shuffling of feet and a reaching forward. Hold still, he said, clearly consumed by the corrective act. I did, manfully and painfully. The line throbbed and I knew I had been caned. Albeit only one stroke. Two and three quickly followed and I gasped at both the intensity and the residual pain. My poor bottom was developing an all consuming heat and staying down, ankles grasped, was proving difficult. Retired or not, true or not, this headmaster certainly knew how to cane a boy’s bottom. I readied myself for strokes four, five, and six and prayed they would be quick and accurate. The pain in my rear was eclipsing all other thoughts and desires. My penis had flagged, my breath had exhausted, and the burn on my cheeks was excruciating. I closed my eyes and beseeched those prayers. It did little good. The latter strokes stung and burned and my discomfort rose to new levels. But I remained submissively down and pain eased as a short intermission was followed by exploration of my ravaged backside and the gradual lowering of my shorts. That was perverted bliss. Resting, as they were, on my ankles I was now conscious of hands exploring my tight fitting, and thin, underpants and my increased vulnerability. The burning bottom and eager, manly hands, returned my penis to its earlier full state and flagged a silent acknowledgement that the second six strokes should be delivered. He took his time. The hands explored for what seemed an eternity. But I was not complaining. The burn in my bottom had moved from discomfort to pleasure and the hands, and my submissive position, merely enhanced it. As manly fingers and palms caressed filling balls and throbbing cock of eager student, a side benefit one could say, a small and slightly covered bottom was indicating its readiness for more of the same. Six more cane strokes, six more as hard as you can, but this time on buttock cheeks only thinly protected. He needed little urging. Silence was only filled by heaving breathing. His palms stroked and lingered on my heated curves for just a few moments longer and then, pressing my back and urging me to straighten my legs, he lashed six fairly quick and hard strokes of his redwood cane across my ready and upturned bottom. I gasped, I squirmed, I edged forward, I did not rise but continued grasping ankles, I squealed out loud, and finally I rose clutching my savaged bottom and howling. It had hurt, by God it had hurt, and I could see from his smiling face that he was well pleased. He was well pleased and I was well tanned. So much so that, burning rear notwithstanding, all in front had yet again flagged. Two minutes of cavorting and vigorous rubbing ensued and then a comment, many comments, that continued both the pain and thrill of a heady afternoon of scholastic fantasy.

 

‘I see that my ministrations have, once again, removed your erection.’

‘Yes sir. That second six really hurt.’

‘So I see. The next twelve will be even more painful. Over my desk, I think. I cannot see you holding ankles for those.’

‘No sir.’

‘Especially as those underpants are coming down. Bare bottom boy. Twelve strokes of my redwood cane on your bare bottom.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Yes sir, no sir, yes sir. Is that all you can say? No matter. Your little penis will no doubt rise again, in fact I think it already has, but twelve hard strokes across that bottom will expunge all that. But given its manifestations I reckon it is time I saw it.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘That and your little bottom of course. Given my exertions I have earned that right.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then hands on head and stand up straight. I want no distractions.’

 

And he didn’t. I placed my hands on my head, stood up straight, closed my eyes, and waited. Five seconds later my underpants were pulled down to my ankles and large hands explored my blistered backside and my, by now, full and urgent balls and cock. I was in heaven. They say pain comes before pleasure, pleasure follows pain. This was writ large in this anonymous house on my long journey home down the Great North Road. I had been caned, a hard twelve strokes on my covered bottom by a retired headmaster who, before this day, I had never met. And now with shorts and underpants at my feet I was being explored in the most intimate way. I sighed and gasped as large soft hands stroked my very private parts and then gently turned me round to inspect and explore my lacerated bottom. Fingers tantalisingly traced the weals on my backside, followed by a gentle rubbing of palms on the same burning skin. I closed my eyes and drank in the twin sensual pleasures of large hands on my bottom and twitching cock in front. I prayed I would not spurt before the pain I had to come. Twelve hard strokes of that redwood on my naked bottom. The thought made my penis twitch again and it was almost with relief that I was bid to lay over the desk. It had been cleared of all paraphernalia and the smooth leather studded top did not cause discomfort. I stretched my arms, as instructed, and gripped the far side. The action caused my white PE vest to rise up my back and emphasised my lower nakedness. Shorts and underpants were still at my feet and as I waited they were removed. To allow me to stretch my legs he said. They allowed much more, so much more. He wanted my legs stretched wide and, lifting the vest, my back and bottom arched. I could not see the final picture but I could imagine it. Naked, except for the small vest now pushed to my waist, my small buttocks were accentuated and ready to be thrashed. And in between my genitals were exposed and vulnerable. A true boyish picture for a headmaster, retired, to fulfil his own desires. And I had no complaints. It was all I wanted. Providing the cane, already experienced on covered bottom, connected only with my bare cheeks, I could endure. However painful. I closed my eyes and sensed the cold cane pressed against the centre of my bottom. A bottom already well striped and still warm. This was it. This is what I had travelled down the Great North Road for. This was my all consuming wish. A savage cane to lash my bare backside, and to be done by a man who desired the same even more. A match made in heaven. He did not disappoint. My retired headmaster, or at least for this blissful hour or so, did what he had promised and threatened. He thrashed that cane into my exposed bottom the twelve expected times. Each stung like hell, each created its own particular fire. Most across the centre of my bum, but some slightly higher or slightly lower. But all in the area of the buttock curves and none stray enough to cause alarm. He knew his job, he knew his target. What had he said? The area that nature intended, or something like that. He was experienced, he was good, and he was enjoying himself. Ten or fifteen seconds apart each vicious stroke caused a resounding thwack on my naked skin and each made me gasp and squirm. But I suffered it all, gritted my teeth, absorbed the pain, stared at his latticed windows for relief, and gasped breath and shed tears. Not many, but enough to know that my bruised behind had sent the appropriate message to my brain. The last two were harder and quicker, he sensing perhaps my weakening resolve, but the task completed he sighed and tapped my legs with the implement of much discomfort. All done, he said, well done, he said. No blood. I said nothing. I just lay there, across his desk, naked and beaten and serene. Strange? Yes, but strange in the way only those who seek such pleasures can understand. He understood, my retired headmaster, he understood. And I understood him. I had taken his gift but, in doing so, had returned it. I sensed that we were both happy even though only I, as is usual in such cases, only I had a very sore bottom.

 

‘You took that extremely well.’

‘You gave them extremely well sir.’

‘I aim to please. And call me John.’

‘Yes sir. John.’

‘No regrets?’

‘No sir. John. No John. It was all I wanted.’

‘And needed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I must say you have a nice bottom. Actually a lovely bottom. Could have been designed for corporal punishment.’

‘I have often been told that.’

‘Oh?’

‘Even at school. A chemistry teacher once told me that I had the nicest bottom he had ever caned. I didn’t appreciate it at the time.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Did he take your pants down? Did he do it bare?’

‘No sir. John. No. But I think he would have liked to.’

‘Didn’t we all.’

‘You say we. So you were a real headmaster?’

‘Of course.’

‘And did you?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Take down the pants of your boys. Cane them bare?’

‘No, never. Not done, even in my day. We could still cane, of course. Often did. But I had my fantasies.’

‘Now realised.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are very good.’

‘As I said, I aim to please.’

‘You did John. Sir. God, how I needed it.’

‘For this relief much thanks.’

‘Hamlet.’

‘Very good.’

‘Thank you sir.’

‘Worthy of another twelve before you go.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then back to my study boy and pants off. I wish to see that bottom again.’

 

And he did. And I got another twelve with the redwood before departing. Nothing else. It had been clear from the first session that he was happy to play with a boy’s genitals prior to caning but all else was off limits. That would have to wait until I got home. Spurting my built up tension would be fuelled by imagination and recall. As it should be. Headmasters, even retired ones with unfulfilled fantasies have their rules. I and all on the Great North Road would understand. At least I hope so.

 

(c) Alfred Roy 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Marks of Master Brindley (M/m)

This was always one of my favourite stories and I have been meaning to post it here for a long time. Work on a new F/m story for this blog is likely to be distracted by the Cheltenham Festival (Horseracing not Literary) so this is posted as an interim piece. Should appeal to those of a mathematical bent and, of course, any who like the rigid logic of why and how masters cane schoolboys. Or used to. I never got caned exactly like this, my nearest being a collective bare bottom caning outlined in my autobiographical story 'Tomorrows Child.' But the ritualistic element has echoes of that real experience. Master Brindley gets more, eight, harder and just as bare. Pure fantasy, just like my dream of a yankee at Cheltenham. Alfred Roy

The Marks of Master Brindley

Alexander Brindley could not believe what he was hearing. There must be some mistake. Sitting at the back of the class he closed his eyes and concentrated, desperate to catch the main thrust of Mr Duncan’s peroration. The form master, a miserable disciplinarian of exceptional magnitude, was gathering up all the latest homework papers and, amid the rustle, amplified a number of well considered thoughts. The general gist was well and truly caught by the thirty well scrubbed boys who listened in disrespectful silence. None were enamoured of Mr Duncan’s dry and unbending personality, but all knew better than to do other than remain still and quiet. To absorb, in the silence, the growing implications of a singularly unpleasant speech. And none were more acutely aware of those implications than Alexander Brindley.

 

Their form master and specialist maths teacher was making it abundantly clear that homework standards had left much to be desired in recent months. So much so that, as he had recently warned this class, failure to improve would result in a painful and salutary lesson to the worst offenders. Indeed, he had carried out this threat on another class the previous week. Seven of the thirty two boys in class 4B had discovered that sloppy homework carried harsh penalties. And this class, the brightest and best of 4A, had been given due warning and their latest mathematics homework paper would be marked with special interest. And as all collectively strained in concentration, mindful of the celebrated group caning referred to, the most pertinent detail of Mr Duncan’s uncomfortable speech was revealed. Any boy receiving a mark that fell 20% or more below their normal schoolwork standard would be caned. The only exemptions from this stern criterion would be boys who, in the previous month, had been absent from crucial mathematics lessons for legitimate reasons. And as the tall and saturnine Mr Duncan listed the names of the four boys who would not be subject to such detailed scrutiny, Alexander Brindley suffered the uncomfortable sensation of a turning stomach and a spinning head.

 

It was a very subdued Alexander who made his way home that evening. How could he have been so stupid? He knew that his homework had not been of the highest quality in recent months. When you have just turned fifteen there are so many distractions when the school gates fade into the distance. Ten or fifteen minutes devoted to a boring homework task were as much as he was usually prepared to give. But it did not concern him. Most of the teachers did not set great store by it. And the one who did, the fear inspiring Mr Duncan, thankfully taught a subject at which young Alexander excelled. If his form master had, latterly, resolved to improve standards it did not concern him. Alexander Brindley could never, even on his worst submissions of dilatory homework fare, score less than 20% in mathematics.

 

And this is where he had been so stupid. He had listened to the warning the previous week and he had heard about the caning of the poor unfortunates of 4B. Seven boys from one class being taken into the sports hall and given eight strokes of Mr Duncan’s cane was a topic which quickly spread through the school. One caning a fortnight was the usual average, and that usually a cursory two or three from the ineffectual headmaster, so the excesses of Mr Duncan’s ministrations flew far and wide. And as the message moved, from the mouth of one overawed boy to another, it imperceptibly changed. By the time it reached the ears of the mathematically bright Alexander Brindley it had suffered a fatally flawed shift. Mr Duncan had caned the boys of 4B who had scored 20% or less in their homework. Taking this distorted message as gospel, Alexander Brindley relaxed and, with an indifferent air, opined that such matters did not concern him.

 

And now he knew different. In his bedroom, late into the night, he feverishly tried to redo in his mind the fateful mathematics paper handed in that morning. He knew he had scored more than 20%. He could score more than 20% at mathematics if he filled in the answers in his sleep. But that wasn’t the point. What was it Mr Duncan had said? Any boy getting a mark that fell 20% or more below their normal standard would be caned. Their normal schoolwork standard. That was the key point. Grudgingly, Alexander Brindley accepted this was fair. Not that it was fair to cane anyone but, if you did, it would not be fair to just single out the dullards. If he had thought about the distorted message regarding 4B he would have realised its inherent weakness. But he hadn’t thought. He had accepted it at face value. Only the thick would get caned. But Mr Duncan was more subtle than that. He would cane the ones he knew had not tried, had not done the necessary work in their home. The ones who had not reached their normal schoolwork standard. And the more he thought about that fateful phrase the more it tormented. Alexander Brindley’s normal mathematics standard was well into the mid eighties, even, occasionally reaching the dizzy heights of ninety plus. As he fell asleep he desperately tried to satisfy himself that his latest homework paper came within twenty points of those demanding peaks. He failed, miserably, to achieve such comforting satisfaction.

 

Walking to school the next day, convinced his name would be on a very select list, Alexander Brindley thought back to the last time he had fallen foul of Mr Duncan’s ill humour. It was three years ago but he had never forgotten it. He had only been at the school a few months and he and two of his class 1A friends took great delight in winding up a vague and pleasant and short sighted trainee teacher. This teacher, bearing the splendid name of David Digby-Bell, was singularly unsuited to the demands of imparting knowledge to thirty hyperactive eleven and twelve year olds. He may have had a brilliant brain, indeed he probably did, but his skills were more suited to the quiet backwaters of a laboratory rather than the wayward front line of a junior chemistry class. He became the butt of school boyish jokes and, sadly, had little idea of how to deflect them. A favoured past time of Alexander and his friends was to creep round the back of the chemistry laboratory after school and, as the trainee teacher sat quietly marking papers, shout ‘Ding Dong’ through a convenient open window.

 

Inevitably they were eventually caught, or at least the slowest member of the trio was. David Digby-Bell marched the young boy to Mr Duncan’s study and demanded that he be punished. The ‘Ding Dong’ pastime was clearly becoming irksome and retribution was overdue. Mr Duncan agreed and said that each of the three boys should be given two strokes of the cane across their backsides but, as the other two were unknown, the boy caught would have to take all six. Mr Digby-Bell considered this to be grossly unfair and urged the boy to name his companions. He refused to do so and, quietly impressed by such courage, Mr Duncan gave him twenty four hours to persuade his friends to come forward. And after much discussion, Alexander and his friends presented themselves in Mr Duncan’s study to share the six strokes of the cane initially allocated to the slowest member of the trio. But when they left Mr Duncan’s study five minutes later they were not rubbing their respective smarting bottoms. They were merely shaking their small heads in wonderment at the strange workings of adult minds. Mr Duncan had let them off. Yes he had issued the usual warnings that people in authority are prone to do, but the three trembling figures absorbed little of the detail. All they concentrated on was an allusion to manfully owning up and, in consequence, the small fact that the cane was not, on this occasion, to be actively employed. Three small boys, virgin bottoms all, collectively relaxed.

 

Alexander Brindley had almost forgotten that inadequate trainee teacher, known to all as ‘Ding Dong Bell’, but he had never forgotten that he was the cause of his one and only painful swishing from Mr Duncan. And walking to school on a day when he was convinced he was about to repeat the experience, all the long buried details came flooding back. The collective relief that he and his companions felt at not suffering a first taste of Mr Duncan’s feared cane was tempered by the obvious anger of the thwarted Mr Digby-Bell. He may have considered it grossly unfair for one of the boys to suffer all six strokes, but for all to be totally let off was beyond his comprehension. The methods of Mr Duncan were, in Mr Digby-Bell’s opinion, obscure to the point of absurdity. And the more he thought about the situation, the more his frustration grew. Those three boys should have been caned. As a trainee teacher he was helpless in such matters but, on a red letter day in the junior chemistry laboratory, he extracted his sleeping revenge. An elaborate experiment misfired and boys, being boys, took great delight in the ensuing chaos of an enveloping fire. The fire was hastily extinguished but the hapless trainee teacher lost control of thirty raucous and disruptive youngsters enamoured of both the chaos and the confusion. When the irate Mr Duncan was summoned to restore a semblance of order he demanded both collective calm and individual culprits. Mr Digby-Bell, shaken and stirred in equal proportions, gathered his remaining dignity and selected his sacrificial lambs. With barely a hesitation, an unfair finger was pointed in the direction of Alexander Brindley and his two friends. Long standing scores would, at last, be settled.

 

Alexander Brindley paused on his journey to school and sat on the wall of the local shop. The shop was a convenient break between home and school and he regularly indulged in its many delights. But on this fateful morning his fevered stomach was in need of no sustenance. He merely stopped to gather his thoughts and to play over in his imagination Mr Duncan’s sonorous listing of the boy’s who had fallen foul of a precise mathematical criterion. And if other names were vague and distant, the name of Alexander Brindley was always to the fore. And as he imagined himself making the slow and nervous journey to the school gym he remembered, in painful detail, that other journey taken by his younger self. When Mr Duncan beckoned the three to follow him young Alexander knew that protestations were futile. For the first time in his young life he was going to be caned and that fearful cane was going to be applied by the equally fearful Mr Duncan. Never did a journey to a teacher’s study seem so long. And sitting on the wall of his favourite shop he could remember it all. The background noise of other boys, in other classes, blissfully unaware of the impending drama. The benign and pleasant French teacher who, passing the silent group, spoke briefly to Mr Duncan and smiled gently at the three nervous boys. The school caretaker, mending a broken window, wishing Mr Duncan a gruff good morning and, as they passed, wondering why all were so silent.

 

Alexander Brindley could remember it all. And he could particularly remember arriving at Mr Duncan’s study and being told to enter whist his companions remained outside. And he remembered Mr Duncan opening a drawer and taking out an implement much talked about but, to Alexander, never seen. And Mr Duncan telling him to remove his jacket and lower his trousers and, when he had done so, to bend down and grasp his ankles. And, barely able to breathe, he had followed these instructions and waited. And he remembered crying copious tears long before any stroke had fallen. And he remembered Mr Duncan lifting his shirt up his small back and pushing him down so that his face almost touched his toes and his small bottom jutted out in preparation. And he remembered the slight adjustment to his underpants and a command to ‘hold tight’. And he remembered the excruciating pain as the first stroke of the cane lashed across his bottom. And that he screamed. And sitting on the shop wall, Alexander Brindley remembered all this and more. He had been given three strokes of Mr Duncan’s cane across his bottom. The pain remained with him for three days, the marks for considerably longer. The memory never left him. And now, three years on, he was convinced that he was to have a second, more deadly experience, of Mr Duncan’s scholastic wrath. How could he have been so stupid? With a heavy heart, he rose from the wall and continued his reluctant walk to school.

 

The mathematics lesson with Mr Duncan was scheduled for eleven thirty and a troubled Alexander had morning assembly and a ninety minute period of history to negotiate before his personal Armageddon. He was not the only one who was tense. A number of his class mates had equally concerned faces. All were remembering, with vivid clarity, the warning from the week before. The wait was intolerable. Alexander Brindley needed to share his personal grief and singled out one of the friends who, long ago, had touched his toes in the cause of a trainee teacher’s revenge. What he had to say gave no solace. Alexander Brindley’s anxiety reached new heights and, making his way to the history lesson he cursed his enquiry and digested the three salient points of their uncomfortable conversation. The friend had no reason to worry, he was on the exempt list. And Alexander had no reason to worry, he was a mathematics star. But those selected would do well to do some praying. Rumour had it that of the seven boys caned from 4B, three had got their eight strokes on their bare bums. The worst offenders were made to drop everything for Mr Duncan’s cane.

 

To say that the next two hours were the longest in young Master Brindley’s life would be a masterly understatement. His painful study of the hundred year’s war seemed almost as long as the event itself. If he entered the history lesson convinced that, by the end of the morning, he would be severely caned, he left it equally convinced that every one of those feared eight strokes would be on his bare backside. If only he could wind back the clock and redo that blighted mathematics paper. However much he had tried, his anguished mind could not get his homework mark above sixty. And that fell well short of his best and, more importantly, his normal school standard. Perversely he now fervently wished that those school marks which engendered such pride when announced, were now considerably less. If Alexander Brindley had been capable of a smile to cleave his inner turmoil, that thought was the moment when it would have surfaced. But he was not capable of any such homage to irony. As he made his way to Mr Duncan’s class he could only think of the fateful day when a small boy bent down for three strokes of a cane which, devastatingly, seared both his behind and his being. And the man who wielded that cane would shortly do it again. And this time, three years on, the strokes would be eight and the manner of their administration unthinkable.

 

Mr Duncan was not a completely cold and indifferent master. He was well aware that the class of 4A, all thirty of them, would be remembering his previous week’s warning and that concentration levels would be minimal. Besides this was the master who, three years ago, had temporarily reprieved three courageous and honourable boys. Mr Digby-Bell may consider him to be obscure to the point of absurdity but, coupling fairness with resolve, the mathematical Mr Duncan worked to his own precise agenda. And that agenda demanded that the fearful boys of 4A, fuelled with their imaginings from his dealings with the lesser mortals of 4B, be informed of their fate. He closed the register, noted the one absentee, and eyed his class. All were silently staring at him and none more so than the breathless and sweating Alexander Brindley. And as he stared and listened the inner anguish, matched by his many fellows, lurched from cold fear and dread to faint hope and blissful relief. As Mr Duncan droned on, five boys were named and told to report to the gym immediately. And in an instant of distilling emotions, Alexander Brindley headily realised that his name was not amongst them. Any sympathy he felt for the five was washed away in the inner joy of his own reprieve. He had escaped and the lesson would be gratefully learned. But as he sucked the air and closed his eyes in thankful prayer he almost missed a small but important fact. The saturnine Mr Duncan was grimly studying the list in his hand and, after a short pause, released the names of four other boys who were to report to the gym in half an hour. And the first name on that list, engendering a shaft of cold fear in its owner, was Brindley, Alexander. As he collapsed in his seat, fleeting joy instantly eclipsed, a pin could have dropped in heaven and all on that small piece of God’s earth would have heard it.

 

The thirty minutes following Mr Duncan’s announcement were the longest and most disjointed of Alexander’s young life. He was vaguely aware of the slight shuffling of feet as five subdued and traumatised boys rose and left the room. None looked back on their fellows. If they were surprised or shocked at their selection, they did not show it. Only one displayed outward signs of distress and a taller companion, condemned to a similar fate, gently touched his shoulder. As they left a young trainee teacher entered the room, no doubt to cover for a form teacher employed on a more serious mission, and delivered a superfluous command for silence. Well versed in the importance of the occasion his preening figure struck a slight comic note. Alexander Brindley was reminded of nothing more than the unlamented and inadequate Mr Digby-Bell. Trainee teachers had no place in such auspicious happenings. Those five boys, including the one who cried and the one who touched his shoulder, were on their way to a gym where they were to be bent over and receive eight strokes of Mr Duncan’s accurate and deadly cane to their most vulnerable parts. Those five bottoms would burn with unimaginable fire and the five owners would scream for forgiveness and relief. And Alexander Brindley and three other boys waited and wondered. Conscious of collective eyes constantly singling them out in inconsiderate curiosity, the four destined for the ‘second list’ imagined the worst. Four fevered minds convinced that within half an hour their worst fears were to be realised.

 

The minutes ticked by and Alexander Brindley desperately tried to concentrate on the task set by the self-important trainee teacher. That task was impossible. Every time there was a movement outside the schoolroom door his stomach turned in consternation. If that was not enough any attempts at the simple algebraic equations were destined to compete with his graphic imaginings. His exempted friend had seemed remarkably well informed on the dealings with class 4B and, knowing the orderly methods of Mr Duncan, Class 4A would be treated no differently. The five boys would have been taken to the gym changing room and ordered to change into specially provided P.E. kit of shorts and vest. Then, one by one, they would be called into the gym by the master charged with assisting and witnessing their punishment. Mr Duncan would be there and, minus his jacket, would issue a short lecture. But they would not hear it. They would be staring at the cane in his hand. And then they would walk to the back wall of the gym, a wall filled with wooden climbing rails, and grasp the bottom rail. A thick wooden rail, little more than six inches from the ground. It placed a boy in the perfect position for chastisement. Alexander had witnessed its use during the occasional P.E. lesson. A boy being slippered, in summary and arbitrary justice, painfully discovered this additional use of the gym’s climbing rail. And the first of the five would realise it worked just as well for a caning. Hold tight for there is nowhere to go, no escape for your jutting behind. And when each was dealt with they would be lined up in the gym, lectured again, and told to change and return to their class. No wonder it took so long. No wonder the boys on the second list had to sit through their additional torture. And when their turn came they would be given one additional instruction before grasping the bottom rail. Alexander Brindley shivered at this final thought and willed himself to address the third of the simple equations. He was half way through it when the schoolroom door opened and five subdued boys slowly returned to their class.

 

‘I am disappointed in you, Alexander.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You scored 47% in your homework. Your school work in mathematics is 83%.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Homework 36% below standard.’ Mr Duncan paused. ‘The second worst in the class.’

‘Yes sir. I thought….’

‘You thought what?’

Alexander Brindley said nothing. He knew there was no point. No point in telling this stern disciplinarian that he, stupidly, thought a score of 20% would be enough to escape a caning. And that caning was now imminent. He had left the classroom with the other three boys on the second list a few minutes before. One of the first five, a ginger headed boy equally adept at maths, had rubbed his bottom and mouthed a silent ‘eight’ in his direction. Alexander could see the redness surrounding his eyes. The forced smile could not disguise the pain. He and the others left and slowly walked the long corridor to the gymnasium. No one spoke. The assistant master was standing outside the gym door and directed the boys into the changing room. In silence they changed into the sports kits handed out by this teacher. There was a hint of a smile on his face. Perhaps he knew that putting on the flimsy black shorts was superfluous, merely an attempt at initial dignity. Alexander Brindley had stripped and put on the equally flimsy white vest and, with undue haste, stepped into the shorts. The vest barely reached his waist and the shorts were disconcertingly baggy. In that moment he realised that they were not to remain around his person. If Mr Duncan intended to cane him across his shorts he would have ensured the issuing of a pair of a tighter fit. Dressed as instructed, and never looking at each other, the four made their way to the door of the gymnasium. The first boy was taken in and the other three stared impassively along the corridor. In other rooms, in other places, boys were learning of civil wars, intransitive verbs, and theories of relativity. But they had no mind for this. They were learning a boy’s oldest and most painful lesson. The silence stretched for at least five minutes and then they, collectively, heard the distant and familiar sound of a cane doing its work and a boy making the expected response. All in the silence stiffened and sweated. They strained every nerve in their bodies and listened. And counted. And after eight strokes the familiar sound ceased and only the sobbing of the beaten boy remained. And then, almost immediately, he came out and the second boy was summoned to take his place. The first boy rejoined the line and as the familiar sounds repeated he imparted the information that the two remaining boys both desired and feared. When Alexander Brindley, third in line, stepped into the gym, he knew exactly what was going to happen. His week of torment was about to reach its feared conclusion.

 

‘You thought what?’

Mr Duncan repeated his question.

‘Nothing sir. I have not paid enough attention to my homework. I am sorry.’

‘So am I Alexander. You are one of my brightest pupils. But you give me no choice. I set the rules, I can make no exceptions.’

‘No sir.’

‘No.’

Mr Duncan paused and then slowly delivered his instruction.

‘Go to the far wall and grasp the bottom rail. And before you do so remove your shorts.’

‘Sir?’

‘Take off your shorts.’

Alexander froze. The four words he had dreaded for the last week, the words which had tormented his mind were finally released. He mechanically repeated the instruction, plied out the words, one by one, as if to ensure that this momentous event was recorded for both participants.

‘Take off my shorts sir?’

‘You heard what I said Alexander. Take off your shorts. Your poor results warrant a bared bottom for your caning. So do as instructed and take the punishment you clearly deserve.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘You will be given eight strokes. And I can assure you they will hurt. So I suggest that you hold, very tightly, onto that rail.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And if you resist or get up I shall see you in my study tomorrow. Do you understand?’

Alexander Brindley decided that any further comment was unnecessary. Mr Duncan had made it very clear how he intended to administer this punishment and the consequences of any deviation from co-operation. He walked to the end of the room and, staring at the wooden rails, slowly lowered and removed his shorts. An inward shiver indicated his concern at the paucity of the flimsy vest. Barely reaching his waist it meant that all below was painfully exposed. The nakedness of his penis, brushed with the gentle hair of growing puberty, was nothing when compared with the acute realisation of the exposure of his bottom. A bottom only a few moments from the experience of excruciating pain. He bent down and grasped the bottom rail. He stretched out his arms as instructed and, simultaneously, stretched his legs. In the vulnerable position all was exposed and ready. If the freed and naked essence of a boy was the ultimate embarrassment, the upturned cheeks of his smooth behind were the greatest consternation. Alexander Brindley was acutely aware that the method applied left no room for comfort. His bare backside was presented in such a manner that only a fool would fail to cane it with efficiency. And Mr Duncan was no fool. When he laid the cane across Alexander’s jutting backside for the first of the eight strokes both knew that the one would lash with aplomb and the other would scream for forgiveness. The touch of that cold cane across his cheeks was accompanied by a second urging to hold tight and, briefly, Alexander remembered a younger boy who, three years before, was given the same instruction. Those three strokes, across his covered rear, had burned themselves into his mind and enhanced his latest turmoil.

 

And now a naked Alexander, from the waist down, was bent in submission to eight strokes of the same Mr Duncan’s cane. He gripped the wooden rails, stared at the shining parquet floor, and concentrated on the exposed part of his body about to suffer for the stupidity of his sins. This was the moment in his life he had most dreaded. The cane tapped his skin, readying itself for the first stroke. Alexander held his breath, screwed his eyes, and gripped the rails ever more tightly. And he, belatedly, clenched his small buttocks and prayed that the stroke, when it fell, would not hurt. And then he sensed the cane rise, heard the swoosh, and gasped in awe and desperation as it wrapped itself against his naked behind. For a moment he sensed nothing and then the burning fire hit him and a searing line of scholastic anger transmitted itself from his bottom to his brain. The pain begged for relief and it took all his strength to hold on to the wooden rails. His legs twitched, his small penis swung in sympathy, and his bottom writhed in agony. The first stroke of Mr Duncan’s cane had delivered all that Alexander Brindley most feared. He could not take seven more. But his mind said hold on, grip the rail, present the bottom, and with legs straddled absorb the worst that this master could do. And scream. Care not for what others think. If screaming and crying brought relief then indulge it. And Alexander Brindley did scream. As the seven remaining strokes fell across his behind, he wriggled, he squirmed, he begged for mercy he knew would not come, and he held tight on to that rail. Each unrelenting stroke of Mr Duncan’s cane delivered its message to the naked bottom, splendidly presented, of his brightest boy. The pale flesh registered each deserving stripe and the owner of the proud and trembling backside roared at their agonising arrival. The second stroke caught the bottom of his buttocks. The third and fourth, deliberately, wrapped themselves across the centre of his cheeks. The fifth hit unnecessarily high on the boy’s curves and the sixth mirrored the previous aim as it lashed into the crown of the arching presentation. Alexander Brindley may have been unaware of the subtleties but his Mr Duncan was an expert in the geography of a boy’s backside. The seventh and eighth strokes lashed across the centre of the writhing cheeks with consummate skill. And when the cane did its work for the final time, the wealed and disconsolate boy, bent and bare in humble submission, sobbingly contemplated the throbbing pain in his backside and the relief that its cause was ended. The lines of icy fire which had burnt his naked flesh had mercifully ceased. He could not rise but, bent over in that age old position, he could express a pitiful joy in the knowledge that his upturned bottom was to be spared further coruscating cuts. If Mr Duncan was admiring his handiwork Alexander was not aware, but it was a long two minutes before he was told to get up.

 

‘Put on your shorts Alexander. Your ordeal is over.’

Alexander Brindley rose and picked up the discarded baggy black shorts and hastily pulled them over his nakedness. He turned to his teacher, eyes reddened and watery, and gingerly rubbed at the stinging and throbbing pain which still emanated from his buttocks. His fingers traced the hard and sore ridges, easily defined through the flimsy shorts, and his short, uncontrollable, gentle sobs brought little relief. He had never suffered such a caning before and facing his tormentor was no easy task.

‘I am glad you took your punishment with fortitude, I would dislike having to repeat this experience.’

‘No sir.’

‘You are the one boy who I never expected to be on the list.’

‘No sir.’

‘Promise me Alexander that you will give me no future cause to cane you.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Because, if you do, I shall not hesitate.’

Mr Duncan paused with significant meaning.

‘I have no favourites, Alexander.’

‘No sir.’

‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Then you may go. Send the last boy in.’

‘Yes sir.’

And still rubbing his smarting backside and wiping his tears, Alexander Brindley turned his back on Mr Duncan and slowly left the gym. He was made to wait with the other caned boys until the last miscreant was dealt with. He heard little of it. Before his own caning he had concentrated his mind on all that took place behind the closed doors. But as the last boy paid his painful debts, Alexander was aware of nothing other than the tormenting throb which encapsulated every inch of his ravaged bottom. Each one of those eight strokes of Mr Duncan’s cane continued to wreak their individual revenge on the small and springy flesh of his backside. A poor and tender backside he was convinced would never heal. And the throbbing discomfort continued throughout the collective lecture that Mr Duncan delivered when all were finished. The fire still raged as he went back to the changing room to gather his school clothes. He gasped at the weals and lines displayed on the other boy’s bottoms and they, equally, gasped at the sight of his. And still the fiery throbbing raged. And when he returned to the classroom, sitting down to a gentle consolatory touch from a spared classmate, he winced in his sore discomfort. The momentous mathematics lesson dragged on for a further half an hour and each moment was filled with the pain of Mr Duncan’s cane. When Alexander Brindley rose for a welcome lunch break, the blessed relief of numbness in his rear had still not arrived. He gingerly rearranged the uncomfortable proximity of his underpants and, still red-eyed, left the class for a long and much desired lonely walk.

 

Alexander took many such walks over the next few weeks. Initially engendered by a desire to avoid his fellows he found such walks brought a quiet comfort. The caning of the indolent cream of 4A, Mr Duncan’s clear intention, caused ripples far beyond any stirred by the trial run on class 4B. Alexander had no wish to share his experience. By Mr Duncan’s criterion he deserved what he got and his quiet resolve was to ensure no repeat ever occurred. And the pain soon faded. Within a couple of days the only serious reminder of his unpleasant meeting with Mr Duncan’s cane was the eight distinct lines across his backside. And if they were a painful and personal signature, they unsurprisingly provided a boyish fascination. Mindful of those changing room gasps as he uncovered his throbbing bottom, Alexander had been strangely eager to see the results. In the privacy of his mother’s bedroom, curtains discreetly drawn, he lowered his trouser and underpants and turned his naked rear to her dressing table mirror. The reflecting triptych allowed no comforting illusion.  Seeing the eight rigid lines that searingly marked his flesh brought a painful recollection of their recent cause. Those marks, initially blazing their purplish hue, gradually faded to a speckled yellow and within three weeks were virtually spent. Only the knowledgeable or the keen sighted would, in the school showers, detect the faint traces of his mathematical come-uppance. But by the time that day arrived, the boy’s familiarity with his bottom and his painful penance was embedded in his mind.

 

 And on his many walks he constantly mused on the enduring inflictions of a cane in full flight. And on one such walk, long after the day when he bent to grasp a wooden rail, he met two men walking towards him. Two men taking an equally welcome lunchtime stroll. And Alexander Brindley suffered a double anxiety. For one of those men was the often seen, but much avoided, Mr Duncan and the other, resplendent in long grey coat and colourful scarf, was Mr David Digby-Bell. Mr Duncan smiled and Alexander nodded a silent and respectful acknowledgement and hastily walked on. As he passed, the younger man turned to Mr Duncan and issued an inaudible question. Alexander didn’t hear it but he could guess what it was from the loud response. As they disappeared into the distant he heard a distinct ‘Ding-dong’ and, after a moment, the sounds of two grown men laughing loudly. Clearly the sins of boys caused much amusement. Alexander took an aimless kick at a dirt covered plastic bottle and made his way back to school. The next lesson was double mathematics, a fairly easy ride for such a star pupil. Except for exams, these days Alexander Brindley took considerable care to ensure that his schoolwork never reached their previous dizzy heights. Mr Duncan’s painfully applied marking system was unlikely to be repeated. But you never knew. Alexander Brindley was taking no chances. Reflecting on this small flaw in the master’s methods he joined in the distant laughter and took a second, exultant, kick at the long discarded bottle. He would not be caned again.

 

 

Alfred Roy (2006)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four Voices (Preview) - (M/m)

As promised I have been working on a sequel to The Games Club. It is long, for which I apologise, but the build up is vital to the story and the caning, when it takes place, is as descriptive as anything I have ever written. I clearly see myself as the boy, as I used to be long ago. The caning is quasi judicial and its formality adds, rather than detracts, from the story. Just my opinion of course. I have called it Four Voices because, simply, four people are involved. The caner (Ronnie Nailles), the boy (Neil Wallington) and the two watchers (Lawyer Maurice and the Chess Club Chairman). I shall refine it and post next month but, just to give you a flavour, the following extract is the thoughts of those four on the morning of Neil's caning. I hope you enjoy. I have certainly enjoyed writing it. Especially as it gets me hankering again for similar treatment myself. I feel an early Christmas present coming on. Alfred Roy


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

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

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

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

The Boy Who Hated Girls (M/m)

Christmas has come and gone and even New Year revels are starting to be a distant memory. The world, sadly in some parts, slowly gets back to what passes for normality. In my case, as regards this blog, that means constructing a few chatty posts and the odd creative story. The latter, especially of the F/m variety, is well overdue. Shall spend some of the dull January hours developing a couple of ideas. (See below after this old tale). Festivities over I am well in need of having my own bottom severely smacked and, with that incentive, I shall put my metaphorical pen to work. In the interim I post this old tale, first shown on the malespank story site in 2008. Worth an airing here. In my primary schooldays a loathsome nine year old girl named Gillian got me an undeserved smacking. I have hated that name ever since and here, obliquely, I get my own back. The boy in the story still suffers in the time honoured way but, like Gillian's cat, he probably thought it was worth it. Happy New Year. Alfred Roy

He held out his hand as instructed. He didn’t look, instinctively his head turned away to the wall. He had stretched his arm and hand out in the required manner. Hold the arm out straight, shoulder height or even higher, hold the fingers together and stretch out the thumb. His shoulder ached from holding his arm so high. He felt the cane tap his palm, just below his fingers and, thankfully just above the outstretched thumb. If he was lucky the crack of the cane would hit his palm exactly right and miss his outstretched fingers. If he was really lucky it would also miss the tip of his thumb. This is what the boy really hoped. The last time he was caned it had hit his thumb both times, one on each hand and that had hurt. But that teacher wasn’t an expert. But this one was. He was very expert in caning ten year old boys and this particular boy, face resolutely turned to study the wall, prayed that the expertise had not faltered and that only his outstretched palm would sting.

 

He heard the instruction to stretch out his arm even further and raise it even higher. Being an obedient boy he did as he was told and, simultaneously, pressed his small fingers together and urged his wavering thumb to create a separateness which would spare his pain. It was at moments like this that he dearly wished that he did not have a thumb. It may be smaller than fingers but, unlike them, it reached tantalisingly above the palm. And when palms were struck by a cane, deservedly so or not, the thumb tips of unlucky ten year old boys could multiply the undesired pain that followed. So the boy stuck out his hand as far as it would go, raised his arm as high as the expert teacher commanded, and urged the unwanted thumb to shrink and disappear. And as the cold cane tapped his small palm and readied itself for the first stroke he screwed up his eyes and thought of Gillian.

 

Gillian would be watching and enjoying this. A spiteful ten year old classmate who took great delight in getting small boys into trouble. Especially ones who lived in the same street. Gillian would get an especial thrill at seeing him standing in front of the class with his hand outstretched. Would enjoy seeing their teacher, the expert caner, place the rod across the boy’s palm, ready to strike. Would enjoy the whip and thwack of the cane across that palm and, as his tears began to flow, would enjoy the discomfort in those outstretched compliant fingers and thumb. And Gillian would especially enjoy knowing that she was the principal cause of the distress. For Gillian had provoked the boy, had teased him and spit at him and no one had seen. Had kicked him and scratched him and no one had seen. And when he kicked her back and pulled her hair, still no one had seen. And so she teased even more and kicked even more. And finally, the boy lost control and punched her in the face. And someone, this time, had seen. The teacher. The expert caner. And Gillian, seeing him out of the corner of her eye, burst into copious tears and ran to him. He had seen the punch in her face. He had seen her tears. And he would know what to do. And so now the boy stood in front of the class, his hand outstretched, waiting for the sting of the cane.

 

The cane swooped down and cracked across his palm. All his instincts told him to withdraw and clench his fingers across the burning fire to ease the pain. But he had been instructed to hold his arm out straight and to stretch his small hand for two strokes of the cane. Two strokes and then, as the fire burned into the delicate flesh, to turn and stretch out his other hand for two further strokes. He waited. He closed his eyes even tighter and held out his throbbing hand as far as it would stretch. And that second stroke whipped expertly into his palm and tears rose into those tightly closed eyes. And after it fell and cut a second avenging sting he obediently turned and, allowing the tears to fall, he caught sight of Gillian. Her watery vision was clearly enjoying his pain. He clenched his eyes closed and held up his virgin hand for the third and fourth strokes. His other palm throbbed with scholastic fire but all the pain was burned across the centre flesh. So far his fingers and thumb had been spared. His stretched the clean hand even further and, as instructed, held it up as high as it would go. Fingers closed, thumb outstretched, and the breath willingly held. The only difference now was that tears were uncontrollably trickling down his cheeks and his small legs were trembling. But the boy, the obedient boy, held out the unblemished target of his teacher’s wrath and agonisingly, dutifully, absorbed the two further lines of special fire. And when it was all done and the boy was sent back to his desk he vowed his revenge. As the twin stings burnt and bit into his flesh, as the tears copiously flowed down a face steeled with impassivity, he looked across at the smirking Gillian and inwardly determined vengeance. He didn’t like girls. He had never liked girls. But now he hated them. He hated all girls. Especially Gillian. He was a diligent and dutiful boy but he hated Gillian. And as his hands throbbed with the incessant, tear inducing, pain the intensity of his hatred surprised him.

 

Concentrating on lessons for the rest of the day was not an easy task. The blistering pain in his hands vied with the boy’s fertile imaginings of revenge. He and the awful Gillian lived near a canal. Perhaps he could push her in when no one was looking. He had often seen her on the towpath and a little push would do it. But she would scream, she screamed very loudly, and he might be discovered. Or, even worse, she might drown, and as much as he hated her the boy did not wish that. No, attractive as the idea was, pushing Gillian into the canal carried too many problems. Perhaps her bike was a better idea. Gillian was very proud of her bike and rode it every day in their street after school. He could tamper with the brakes or let down her tyres. The boy was sure he could find an opportunity. But tampering with the brakes risked her falling off and breaking her neck. He warmed to the idea of her falling off her bike but her breaking her neck was a step too far. Like drowning in the canal it smacked of excessive revenge. Perhaps he should just let down her tyres but that, conversely, seemed as tame as the other possibilities seemed unnecessarily severe. The boy was on the verge of giving up, and on that verge of giving up he rubbed the painful blisters on his hands and, as he did so, a small secretive smile lit up his tear stained face. Gillian, the awful Gillian, the girl who had got him caned had a cat. More than that she had a cat on which she doted. A cat that was her pride and joy. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when or where, but as he rubbed his still burning palms the boy was convinced that Gillian’s cat would be the architect of his revenge. He didn’t think all this in such precise terms. He was only ten. But from his confused and childish and vengeful mind he conjured up an alluring picture of Gillian’s cat.

 

Within a week a plan had formed and developed and within a few more days the opportunity arose to put it into action. The boy had no intention of harming Gillian’s cat. He may hate Gillian but he quite liked her cat and regularly stroked it when passing her house. And the cat liked him and, equally regularly, used to stop by his house for a friendly pat.  And one day, two weeks after his caning, a day when the streets were quiet and deserted he patted the friendly cat and, picking it up, put it in the shed at the bottom of his garden. The cat didn’t mind. A warm blanket and a dish of tinned salmon had been studiously placed for its creature comforts. And if it did get distressed he would eventually let it out. The completion of his plan would only take a few hours.

It all went surprisingly easy. Within an hour Gillian was anxiously searching for her cat. Within two hours a rumour was spreading around the street that the cat had been seen by the canal. In spite of the fact that the canal was officially out of bounds to young children it did not prevent Gillian rushing down there to search for it. The rumour had been conveniently spread whilst her mother was at the local shops and the impatient and hateful Gillian did not await her return. Whilst she was away on her fruitless search her mother returned from the shops and the boy recovered and returned the cat, the well fed and satisfied cat, to its home. He had found it in his garden and no, he did not know where Gillian was but somebody had said that the cat had been seen by the canal and she might have gone there. Gillian’s mother frowned a menacing frown and, turning it instantly into a grateful smile, took the cat from the boy and thanked him profusely. It had all gone surprisingly well, not unlike the cat’s effortless disposal of the tinned salmon. That was the only marginal weakness of his plan. His own mother might notice the absent salmon tin and he had yet to think up a suitable explanation.

 

He need not have worried. The salmon was not missed and, more importantly, he had not been seen with his feline prisoner. And to add to these small satisfactions of his well executed plan he had achieved his ultimate aim. He had got Gillian into trouble with her mother. Her frown had spoke volumes. It was much later in the day, whilst musing on the implications of the depth of that maternal frown, that he discovered that hell hath no fury like a girl spanked. He was taking a walk to the shops for his mother when he was stopped on his innocent errand by the unnerving blocking presence of three ten year old girls. He liked none of the girls and he liked less what they had to say. Within five minutes, mixed with prods and pushes to his small person, he learnt of Gillian’s downfall and her, and their, conviction that he was the cause of it. Lack of evidence did not deter that conviction. He had brought the cat back and he had told Gillian’s mother that she had gone to the canal. Gillian had been spanked and, as they had gone with her on the search, they could have been in trouble as well. They and she would not forget. After a few more pushes and prods, accompanied by colourful verbal threats, they let him go. He had admitted nothing and if slightly unnerved by the threats he was secretly pleased that the much hated awful Gillian was currently nursing a very sore bottom. It neatly squared the account raised when that teacher’s cane had landed on his upturned palms two weeks before. In his innocence he trusted it would all soon blow over. But ten year old boys do not understand ten year old girls and Gillian and her friends did not forget. They were determined to get him into trouble at school again and this time his offence would be so heinous they would probably lock him up and throw away the key. His plan may have been clever, its execution perfect, and its outcome pleasing. But it had not factored in the blind prejudice of girls against ten year old boys. Especially the one in their street who had returned a cat who, if it could speak, would have declared it had never been lost.

 

It is famously said that revenge is a dish best served cold. If the boy’s small token took place whilst his palms were still relatively warm, the girls, led by the monstrous Gillian, were prepared to wait for their opportunity. And wait they did. And when that chance came, they seized it with vengeful relish. Unlike the boy when assessing the consequences of any of his retributive actions, the girls took little interest in the outcome. Providing the boy suffered they would be well satisfied. And they were satisfied, in the sense that the teacher who warmed his palms subsequently warmed them again, but they never saw it. They merely took pleasure in the knowledge that ten year old boys were no match for the collective deviousness of determined ten year old girls. Their opportunity came on the first day of the school games. They did not plan it, you could almost say that it just happened, but led by Gillian they seized and executed the chance to get even with delicious aplomb.

 

The first day of the school games were always very popular and lots of parents and guardians turned up to the playing field to see the younger children express their prowess in a variety of sports. Tradition determined that a token sum was extracted from eager and proud adults as a contribution to school funds. Two boys were allocated to gate one to act as collectors and two girls were allocated to gate two for the same purpose. Tickets were issued and the monies collected were placed in a small velvet bag. At the height of the games Gillian and two of her friends saw that the boy at the centre of their wrath had been left alone at gate one. Their first thought was that they could pinch his money. Their second thought, arriving an instant after the first, was that they could pinch his money and get him into serious trouble. It didn’t take long to evolve the juvenile plan. Gillian hurried along to the girls changing rooms. Her friends grabbed the velvet bag and charged off in the same direction with the boy, unsurprisingly, giving chase. The friends rushed into the changing rooms pursued by a purposeful boy and handed the bag to a triumphant, hastily departing, Gillian. They turned to confront the boy, satisfied in the knowledge that they was surrounded by a very wet and very naked group of screaming ten year old girls who had recently given their all in the 4 x 400 metres relay. As the boy turned to escape he saw a formidable and highly indignant sports mistress and behind her, clutching the velvet collection bag, a satisfyingly smirking Gillian.

 

The boy tried to offer some sensible explanation of his unwelcome presence in the girl’s changing room but, even at ten years old, he quickly realised that his protestations of innocence were falling on deaf ears. To the shocked and flushed sports mistress no explanation was possible, no reason justifiable. A boy in a girls changing room, a room where those same naked girls were showering, was a crime beyond explanation. He could plea his case to his form master but, to her sensitive eyes, he was already condemned. And if his form master, this time, suspected a schoolgirl plot he could not deflect the insistence of an indignant colleague that the boy should be caned. For the second time in a few weeks the boy held out his palm and, fingers closed and thumb outstretched, suffered the painful experience of two searing strokes. And, as before, the process was quickly repeated on his other hand. The form master put his cane back in his desk, the sports mistress expressed herself as reasonably satisfied, and the boy shed the expected tears. When the first stroke fell he realised he hated Gillian, the Gillian who had told her schoolmistress that she had saved the velvet money bag when it had been deserted, when the second stroke fell he hated the girls who had lured him into the their changing room. And when the third and fourth strokes fell across his unwilling palm he hated all those naked girls, all sixteen of them, who had been showering in that room. Without their presence he would not have been caned. If they had been boys he would not have been caned. But they were girls. And as much as he hated the pain in his palms he hated girls more.

 

In one respect he considered himself very lucky on that fateful sports day. The sports mistress had insisted he be caned and confronting his form master had loudly proclaimed that his trousers should be taken down and the punishment issued to his bottom. His form master had declined such severity. For the sin of entering the girl’s changing room the boy would be caned but, unconvinced that there was any malicious intent, the palms of his hands would suffice. The boy listened intently to their short adult conversation and trembled nervously at the possibility of the ultimate schoolboy indignity. The three were alone in his form master’s small study and for a fleeting moment he feared that, for the first time in his young life, he would be caned on his bottom. And if she had her way he would have to take down both his trousers and underpants. Mercifully it did not happen and only his palms felt the burning sting of the cane. But he had come perilously close. It would have been unfair; he knew that and so, instinctively, did his form master. But it might have happened and the possibility was sufficient to make a small boy extremely careful as to his future conduct.

 

It is, of course, impossible to stay fearful too long especially when that fear is in regard to something that did not happen. Within time the boy overcame his caning and the drama that immediately surrounded its execution. Life has too many distractions when you are ten years old and it was only when meeting Gillian’s cat or, less welcome, the girl herself that old sores re-emerged. Contact with Gillian and her friends was kept to a minimum. Gillian and he may be in the same mixed class but they were sworn enemies. Their unspoken hostility ensured that they stayed well apart both during lessons and on the street where they both lived. Theirs was just one small, insignificant, war that is replicated in its thousands all over the country. But it was their war, or more to the point it was a war that Gillian relished. She was far more vindictive than the boy and was the principal reason why he hated girls, all girls. She took her few opportunities at school to taunt him and tease him and occasionally, for no other reason than that she enjoyed it, to issue a secretive push or a sneaky kick. She was very careful not to be seen and, remembering his canings, the boy was very careful not to respond. The worst times were on the journey home from school. If he was with friends the journey was uneventful but sometimes, walking alone he would be confronted by Gillian and her three friends. On those occasions he did kick and punch and then, at a greater speed than they could muster, run. Being a boy had its advantages. It did not spoil his life but he longed for the day when he would be transferring to a boy’s only school. Girls were nothing but trouble. Being in such a frame of mind it should not come as a surprise that a week before the end of the summer term, a week before he would leave a mixed school forever, he was the centre of a local cause celebre. And the inspiration for a chaotic and unexpected event on the school’s rickety old bus was Gillian’s well fed and satisfied cat.

 

The cat was having one of its regular early evening rambles and as it passed the boy’s house it stopped to show him the fruits of a recent one-sided battle. The boy bent down to stroke the cat and take closer inspection of the item clamped firmly in its jaw. As he did so the awful Gillian turned the corner and, spying the boy and her beloved cat, approached both with a mixture of nastiness for one and nurture for the other. And then, in an instant, her demeanour changed and the boy simultaneously discovered both her Achilles heel and a new weapon of revenge. He didn’t realise it at the time but when Gillian departed, screaming and shouting and begging him to get rid of the offending item, he had gleaned some interesting information. Gillian loathed mice. Even dead ones. And the one in her cat’s mouth was undeniably dead. It was some time later that the boy mused on how she, and her equally awful friends, might react to a live one. Two days later he purchased a beautiful white mouse from the local pet shop and placed it in a plastic food box he found in his mother’s kitchen. Being a dutiful and considerate boy he created a number of breathing holes for the mouse. All he had to do now was find an opportunity to slip it into Gillian’s school bag without being seen. That opportunity never arose and to discover what actually happened and to witness the final act of this drama we need to enter the small study of the boy’s form master where, a few weeks before, an irate sports mistress had failed in her desire for the ultimate retribution to a schoolboy who had affronted her charge’s decency.

 

The form master had been questioning the boy for almost half an hour. Gradually he had learnt the truth of the cause of the crashing of the school bus whilst taking a class of ten year old schoolgirls to their weekly swimming lesson. Thankfully no one had been seriously hurt but all, including the harassed driver, had been shaken and distressed. And the rickety old bus had made its last journey in the services of educational recreation. The girls had been questioned and it had transpired that a small plastic box had been found at the back of the bus and on opening it, ten year old girls are very curious, a small white mouse was discovered inside. The box was dropped on the floor and the mouse and the girls, or some of them, ran amok. In the confusion the driver lost control of the bus and veered into a field before coming to a stop on being introduced to an inconvenient wooden barn. Subsequent enquiries had revealed that the previous occupants of the bus, merely an hour before, had been a class of ten year old boys taking their own weekly swimming lesson. And now one of those boys stood before him. It had been a simple matter to discover the purchaser of the white mouse and nervously shuffling his feet in obvious agitation, the culprit clearly had some explaining to do.

 

It didn’t do him any good. He tried to explain that the mouse was intended for Gillian and putting it on the back of their bus was a last resort. He tried to explain that Gillian had been a thorn in his side for most of his short life and twice in the last few weeks had caused him to be caned. He tried to explain that he did not mean any harm and he was glad that no one had been hurt. But he was only ten years old, almost eleven, and all he succeeded in doing was convincing his teacher, his form master, that he hated girls. All of them, not just Gillian. And this teacher, the expert caner, had twice before scorched his hands and clearly intended to do it again. Why else had he taken his cane out of its drawer and taken off his coat. And whilst doing so was saying that the boy gave him no choice. The possible consequences of the stupid action were unthinkable. The boy needed to be taught a sharp and serious lesson he would never forget. The boy trembled as these words came forth but steeled himself for the inevitable and, closing his eyes, held his right arm out in the familiar manner. But as he stretched out his arm, fingers close together and thumb separated, he heard words that should not have been unexpected. Not this time. The time for caning hands had passed. This time the boy’s bottom would have to suffer. It had recently been spared, but if leniency was applicable on sports day such mercy could no longer prevail. This caning would be on his bottom, six strokes, and furthermore it would be with his trousers around his ankles. So he should prepare himself by lowering his arm and, after removing his coat, do the same with his trousers.

 

The boy started to cry. He had thought himself so grown up when he started wearing trousers to school instead of shorts. In long trousers he was ready for senior school, ready for that move away from dreaded girls. He thought back to that day when the angry sports mistress had said they should be taken down for a caning and, in spite of the ensuing pain to his hands, was relieved that they had remained on his person. If they take down your trousers you are no longer grown up. And now he wasn’t grown up. He was being told to take off his school coat and to take his trousers down. He couldn’t resist. The teacher had the cane in his hand and they were in his small study. Just the two of them. And he was only ten, nearly eleven. And he was an obedient boy. He did as he was told. So with the tears still flowing he took off his coat and fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. It took him a little while. His fingers, fingers that would not feel the sting of a cane, refused to obey his simple instructions. The buttons would not undo and the trousers would not fall. But one by one, as the teacher impassively looked on, the buttons released and the trousers opened at the front and allowed themselves to be pushed down unwilling thighs and legs. Finally they rested on his ankles and he looked at the teacher, the expert caner of hands, waiting for further instruction. He knew what he had to do. He had never been caned on his bottom before but, like all schoolboys in such a situation, he did not need telling. But being told seemed important. Being told to bend over and touch your toes or grasp your ankles, to present your bottom, was an important part of the ritual. The boy may never have been caned on his bottom before but he knew the rules. All schoolboys do. So he waited, trousers surrounding his ankles and, on cue, his form master told him to bend over and hold onto his ankles. The boy did so. It was a strange position, one he had never been in before. But it did not seem unnatural. It was frightening, it made him sweat and tremble and induced a sickening fear, but the position itself held no more discomfort than holding out an outstretched hand. He did not like it because he had no experience of a cane on his bottom. He knew how it felt on his hands but pain to his bottom, from any source, was an undiscovered experience. He did not know what to expect. He stared at the carpeted floor and waited, conscious only that his small bottom was raised in the air. And while he waited large rough hands lifted his shirt up his back and, satisfied that it would remain in place for the duration of the punishment, turned their attention to the small grey underpants which encased the lower portions of the boy. After a moment that seemed an age to the boy he took them down and both the bottom and the boy winced.

 

The strange and new experience was now even stranger. The boy felt the teacher’s thumbs inside the waist of his underpants and involuntary shivered as they were deftly pulled down to his knees. He sensed the cool air enveloping his small bottom and his even smaller penis and, as the cold cane tapped impatiently across that bottom, he held his ankles more firmly and tried to stem his flow of tears. As the cane concentrated on his bottom he fearfully concentrated on the study carpet. It could not sting more than the caning of his hands and he had held firm through that. So he steeled himself for the first stroke of a new experience. For the first time in his life he was going to be caned on his bottom, his naked bottom, and the impending prospect of unfamiliar pain both fuelled his tears and stiffened his wavering resolve. But when it came, slashed across the centre of his two small cheeks with a savagery he could not have imagined, he screamed and jumped up rubbing the violated target and pleaded for no more. All internal preparation dissolved in the violent icy sting across his bending form. As the single line of fire burned into his naked flesh he promised to be good and begged for the caning to continue on his hands. His bottom was not ready for such attention; please cane the hands which he eagerly offered.  It did him no good. Tears and pleas fell on deaf ears.  He was made to bend again, his shirt was lifted again and the cane tapped his bottom for a second time. The boy sobbed uncontrollably and the form master, the expert caner of hands, readied himself for the continuation of a necessary lesson. Perhaps the shock of that first stroke had helped him or maybe his chastiser, fearing he had struck too hard, eased off on the second of the six marks he intended to give. But whatever the reason the boy remained in place as his howl of anguish indicated that, for only the second time in his short life, an unforgiving cane had fired across his naked bottom. And he remained in place for a further two strokes, two strokes which cut with venom into the young and gentle flesh of his small backside. It was only the increasing intensity of the fifth stroke that made him half rise and scream in agony. A scream which doubled in tearful anguish as the sixth, most vicious, stroke struck low on his half bending form. The first five strokes of the cane had lined the centre of his soft and naked cheeks. The sixth, avoiding the falling shirt, had caught his buttocks much lower and the now dancing boy sobbed uncontrollably. The fire across the centre of his bottom was being eclipsed by the stinging burn further down and his hands, in confused and desperate consternation, rubbed first at one area and then the other. He had never in his short life suffered so much and it was two minutes before his hands ceased their rubbing, a further three before he reduced his sobbing and almost ten minutes after the last stroke of the cane before he pulled up his trousers. He hardly heard his teacher’s final words about hoping never having to do this again. He was only conscious of a throbbing bottom and trousers that refused to button up, mocking his fumbling preparation for their earlier removal, and the involuntary sobbing and tears that refused to completely stop.

 

The boy remained in a subdued state for a couple of days. The caning of his bottom, bent over with everything down, was not something he was eager to share. A number of people suspected that he had suffered the ultimate indignity but he had no intention of enlightening them. Even his mother remained in ignorance. There was only one attentive listener to whom he poured out all the embarrassing and painful details. And he would never tell. Gillian’s cat would merely listen and, as if on cue, make suitable and conciliatory sounds of sympathy. But that was hardly to be unexpected. He much preferred the boy’s company to the awful Gillian. After all the boy plied him with tinned salmon whereas she only gave him painful and constricting hugs. He didn’t particularly like girls. And the boy gently stroking the cat’s fur and, occasionally, doing the same to his own sensitive bottom clearly didn’t care for them either. In the league table of life, specially compiled by boys of a certain age, hated and awful girls were a long way behind cats.

 

Alfred Roy (2008)

 

To Come:    Taking Care (F/M)     /      The Nieces Party (F/f)      /      The New Boy's Clinic (F/m)