Age and maturation lack synonymity.

A thirteen year old boy can look fifteen or even sixteen; a sixteen year old boy can look fourteen - and a young fourteen at that.

So it was with Richard Foulkes (I have altered his name and some other details.) When his great aunt brought him to my home for their initial interview, I took him to be fourteen at most - and was duly surprised, as she completed my registration form, to discover he had recently turned sixteen years of age.

Richard was short - and I might only have guessed he was older, upon second examination, by a degree of solidity and muscularity in his young torso. But his face was quite smooth and devoid of adolescent maculation - and his voice... his voice was soft, as indeed were his gentle brown eyes and long silky eyelashes. His hair was black as the raven is black - and lustrous also as the raven.

Richard's Great Aunt Mary had inherited Richard quite recently, through marital dissolution and Richard's accelerating unruliness with his ailing mama. Great Aunt Mary had strong views about the virtues of corporal punishment, undressed, but was now in her late seventies and felt herself quite unequal, physically, to such a task. So she had hit upon the idea of acquiring the services of a tutor such as myself (but is there one such?!) and employing him both to teach and to chastise her wayward charge.

For myself, it is a crucial question in relation to youngsters of Richard's age, in the context of our society which is increasingly squeamish about the infliction of pain or indignity, even in the cause of salutary correction and moral rectitude, (we prefer to imprison our youngsters rather than spanking them, thus causing far more hurt, damage and destruction to the juvenile soul, not to mention cost to the state)... I say again, it is a crucial question, whether or not said youngster is or is not prepared to accept my antique ministrations. (Oh dear, I wax eloquent to the point of arcane verbosity: to the point, Tutorteach, to the point!) In the case of young Richard, I was assured that whilst Richard dreaded the very thought of being undressed and punished, he feared more a return to his mother, where he had been deeply unhappy. I could spank.

But there was a rider. I must spank only in front of his Great Aunt Mary. This, as Richard was to tell me in our first tutorial later that week, had determined him that he would henceforth be a good and upright young citizen.

Ah, how our early hopes of moral reconstitution are so often flayed and dashed by the inexorable return, from the subterranean depths of our unconscious, of motivations and sequent actions which we had fervently hoped to have been long discarded. We think we have reformed; we find we have not. Who controls us? How can we control ourselves? (I lapse once more into philosophical babble and promise the reader to return to the straight and narrow narrative path; I try to be a good writer, but see how I am ambushed by my unconscious desire to circumlocute. In our surreder to such internal forces, Richard and I are one, both naughty boys, albeit separated by generations. I smack my bottom and return to my task).

You have guessed? After a few weeks - it was actually just last Saturday - Richard came to me with his homework wholly incomplete, an interesting synchronicity, in that his Great Aunt Mary telephoned me shortly before he arrived, to say that his behaviour at home had ended its honeymoon. The boy had reverted to type.

So it was that I told him that I would be calling at his home the following morning to administer a sound thrashing. So it was also that I later telephoned his aunt once more and agreed to bring with me a set of clothing for Richard, more suited to his emotional age. (The three ages of Richard: chronological (16); physiological (14); and emotional (9).

I had somehow guessed that Great Aunt Mary would live in a large, gothic, detached nineteenth century house; there was indeed much of the gothic about Richard's Great Aunt, in features, dress and behaviour. Nor were the furnishings of her front parlour in any way disappointing in this regard. She sat in a high backed armchair to one side of her blazing hearth, a _c_o_c_k_er spaniel at her side - and young Richard already stood, in his dressing gown, pajamas and slippers, hands on head, facing one corner of the room. And, I think, shivering, for this was not a house given to the modernities of central heating: by the hearth, warmth; in the corner, a cold draught.

I sat as bidden upon the settee, which was gloriously bedecked with a finely embroidered antimacassar, upon which rested a promiscuous display of cushionry - and we called Richard over to view his clothing, which I carefully unpacked, item by item.

I had bought the boy: a black blazer, with fine red and gold crest, worn by scholars at one of our most eminent and ancient educational institutions (where, doubtless, boys' bottoms had often been exposed and spanked by stern schoolmasters - or lecherous pederasts - over many centuries until such practices had finally been placed outwith the law; ah the entertainments and mischief of times past!); a pair of shining black leather shoes; a pair of grey-black short woollen socks; a grey school shirt; a school tie in black and red; a white cotton singlet; and white cotton Y-front underpants. He was sent to his room to dress, whilst I enjoyed a glass of elegant Madeira and a slice of rich fruit cake with Great Aunt Mary.

Thus fortified, I was ready for my task upon Richard's return.

My goodness, the boy looked splendid in his uniform! So smart. Such smooth young legs. So shy and vulnerable-seeming.

"Richard," I said, "Stand before me here at the settee."

The boy did so, my eyes at the level of his waist. "The uniform suits you well, my boy," I said. "Turn around."

He turned around.

"Now move your feet apart. Further. Stop. Good. Bend forward, your hands on your knees, your bottom thrust backward toward me. Good. Excellent."

I lifted his blazer and folded it back. "Splendid!," I said, "These shorts make an expert job of following the contours of your bottom. No detail of your anatomy is spared."

I placed my hand upon the seat of his shorts, over the cleft in his buttocks.

He flinched, visibly, but was wise enough not to pull away.

I kept my hand in place, allowing it then to slide just a little downward between his thighs. "When you behave like a small naughty boy, Richard," I said, "you forfeit the privacy accorded to you as a young man. Today, your body is mine to punish, your clothes are mine to remove. Say "Yes Sir" when I ask "Do you understand?" Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir", the bent boy replied.

"Well good!" I said. "You may stand."

I withdrew my hand. He stood. He was blushing, poor dear!

Great Aunt Mary was on her second glass of Madeira and had begun to crochet, watching events over the top of her spectacles with an occasional wry smile.

I delved in my attache case and brought out a round jar. "Tell me, Richard", I said. "Your face and legs are smooth and hairless. Do you have hair around your penis?"

Richard's mouth opened and shut. He blushed even redder. "Yes, Sir." He couldn't look at me or his great aunt.

"Very well. As I have indicated, you are being punished as if you were a small boy - and small boys have no hair of this kind. You are to go to the bathroom, follow the instructions on this jar and remove your pubic hair. Then you are to have a bath and wash your hair. Finally, return here, dressed once more in your school uniform. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Then off with you!"

He retired, hors de combat as one might say, and Great Aunt Mary and I had a light lunch, with a glass of fine claret each. Richard returned to us as we drank our coffee, looking scrubbed and scared, all in one.

"I think you can remove the blazer now, Richard," I said. "Place it on the back of an upright chair."

This he did, before returning to stand before me. I could smell the soap and shampoo.

I stood and moved a high-backed chair onto the hearth rug, not too close to the log fire, of course - and facing Great Aunt Mary. I sat upon it. "Come," I said, beckoning him to my side. "Stand between my legs."

I sat forward and stood him side on between my thighs.

"Now bend over my left thigh," I ordered.

He bent across my left thigh as I closed my right behind his legs, holding him in place. I put my right hand on the seat of his shorts, then smacked his bottom once, hard.

He gasped.

I put my hand on the back of his right thigh, just below the leg of his shorts and moved it up beneath the leg and onto the surface of his underpants. "Painful?" I asked.

"Yes Sir."

"Only the beginning," I said, patting his bottom over the thin cotton fabric. "Stand up." I released him from the vice of my thighs. He stood.

"Remove your shoes, please," I instructed.

He stooped and did so.

"Stand before me."

He stood before me in his stockinged feet.

"Closer."

He came very close.

I unfastened the top of his shorts, unzipped his fly and let the shorts drop to his ankles. "Step out of them, fold neatly and place on the chair with your blazer." He did this and returned. He looked even younger now.

"Stand over here."

I stood him closer to his Great Aunt, feet apart, back to his aunt. "Bend forward, hands on knees, bottom sticking out."

Richard took the position and I lifted his shirt tail, folding it back to reveal all of his white underpants. His bottom was taut, muscular, neat, curvaceous.

I patted its surfaces. "This will soon be a very hot young bottom," I said. "You may stand."

He stood.

"Remove your tie and place it with your shorts."

He did.

"Unbutton the front of your shirt."

He did.

I removed his shirt and had him place it over his blazer.

I sat once more upon the upright chair and placed him once more over my thigh. His white vest was neatly tucked into his white underpants. I put my hand on the seat of his white underpants. I lifted my hand. I started to smack his bottom hard and fast until he began to yell and kick. I stopped as fast as I had started. I slid my hand up under the legs of his underpants onto his hot, hot, bottom. "Sore, is it?" I asked.

"Yes, Sir," he panted.

"It will soon be sorer," I said, withdrawing my hand. "Stand facing your aunt, hands on head."

He did so.

I wrenched his underpants to his ankles and stood by his side.

His penis had gone half hard, curving out of the base of his white singlet in a gentle arc. His face was bright red. "Apologise to your aunt."

"I'm sorry, Great Aunt Mary," he said tearfully.

"Put your hands above your head."

He did. I pulled off his vest. He only wore his socks. His penis, shorn of hair, smooth, went totally, throbbingly, embarrassingly erect, pointing upward in its juvenile strength.

"Apologise again."

"I'm sorry Aunt Mary."

"Turn round."

He turned round.

"Feet well apart."

He spread his feet.

"Bend forward, bottom sticking up and out."

He did so, presenting his anus to his aunt.

His buttocks were red.

We kept him like there whilst we had a glass of the best Sauternes.

"Now back over my knee."

I sat on the chair again and locked him in place, pulling off his socks. I addressed his bottom, vigorously.....

...