The school summer holidays had just started, it was 1965, and I was nearly 13. Unfortunately, my mother had become ill, so my brother was sent to relatives in Kent, and I had to stay with a friend of the family in Scotland. Of the two places, mine was probably the best, as the Scottish family included two boys a year older than me who delighted in living up to their nickname of the Terrible Twins.
Not long into my stay, the twins were bored and coerced me into joining them on a venture into the grounds of an enormous house a couple of miles away. The idea, apparently, was just to scrump some apples but, while I was up a tree, one of them threw a stone at a greenhouse window, which smashed and alerted a gardener. He bellowed out at us, they legged it in different directions leaving me to scramble down the tree on my own before I could run away – and in my haste I tripped over a dead branch and tumbled into a very muddy ditch. Slipping and sliding out of the other side, I aimlessly dashed off, and ended up hiding in a barn full of old cars. Unluckily, the gardener spotted where I went (I was pretty easy to see, as I was wearing a bright red tee shirt with black shorts), and a few minutes later he came inside the barn, shut the door, leant against it, and shouted "Come out here you wee little bastard, 'cos if I 'ave to fetch you out there will be all 'ell to pay". Panting heavily after the run, and dripping muddy bits on the floor, I realised he would quickly find me, so with little likelihood of escape, I stood up and sheepishly walked towards him.
When I was close, he made a lurching grab for my right arm, twisted it painfully behind my back, and frog marched me across the lawn towards a side door of the mansion. On the way he just kept cursing and swearing, and when he occasionally paused for breath, he slapped my bottom hard with his free hand instead! Inside the lobby (I think it was the gardener's rest room, judging by the tools on the wall), he made a brief telephone call, and shortly afterwards a smartly dressed sort of butler man turned up, who thanked the gardener and politely dismissed him.
"Take those horrible shoes off, boy.... and those disgusting socks too" He said firmly, "then follow me".
I did as I was told, and was whisked down a long stone corridor to a small office. He sat down in a big old comfy chair, and I just stood there before him – muddy, still sweating, and frightened.
"Well sonny, what have you got to say for yourself?" he said, not at all angry like the grumpy old gardener – in fact he seemed pleased to see me!
I came straight out with the truth, but didn't want to name my hosts for obvious reasons. The butler man explained that there had been a lot of vandalism on the estate recently, and that the owner, Sir Angus McDonald, was very upset that someone had damaged his vintage Rolls Royce whilst mucking about in the very barn where I was caught (so things didn't look very promising for me, he stressed) especially as Sir Angus had complained to the sheriff's office that the local police were inept and seemed completely unable to solve these petty crimes. In my favour, the butler man recognised my southern accent and accepted it probably wasn't me who damaged the car as I would have been at school in England at the time. However, he doubted Sir Angus would be so lenient, and expected he would press for trespass and criminal damage of the greenhouse, as a minimum.
During his lecture, my stomach churned, I felt sick, I went hot and cold, tears filled my eyes, and I must have looked a sorry sight – head slumped and completely dejected. As I started to cry, the butler man stood up, gripped me under the chin and gently tilted my head back up. Appearing sorry for me, he said "Look, sonny, I've got an idea .... you're an attractive lad and I wouldn't mind you coming over to my friend's studio at the weekend to do some work with us, and in return I'll try and swing something with Sir Angus"
This completely took me by surprise. "What do you mean, work for you?".
"Well, Gary and I are interested in amateur photography, and you would make a lovely model .... you know, dressing up, posing, action shots, that sort of thing. You just have to promise you'll come and do what you're told, and I'll try and get you off the hook with my boss today"
"But how can you do that?" I asked, my tears reducing to a sniffle
"Its not going to be easy. Jock, the gardener, knows you've been handed in, and he's bound to ask Sir Angus what happened to you next time they talk. So what we have to do is pre-empt the situation - deal with it now - present you to Sir Angus in the best possible light, and persuade him to let you off going to the police, and hopefully settle for just a spanking from the book"
"How are you going to persuade him ..... and what book?" I replied, probably with a hint of hope in my voice.
"Well, the best chance to impress Sir Angus is to change you from a dirty teenage nobody into a smart little boy from a well disciplined family, you know, not so much a hooligan, just a bit over adventurous – oh, and the book is the Standard Scottish Schools Guide to Corporal Punishment, Issue 1890. Angus has kept it from his own school days nearly seventy years ago .... its quite good actually, loads of drawings of boys getting smacked, caned and whipped in all sorts of interesting positions, with detailed preparations, degrees of undress, suggested number of strokes, how to vary the pain, even how to prevent minor injuries .... there's everything from a simple over the knee smack bottom for toddlers, up to a naked birching fully restrained over a wooden horse for wayward seniors .... and they are all graded to suit the age of the boy and the severity of the offence."
He settled back down in the chair and continued more thoughtfully: "Sir Angus has lent me the book several times, in fact I've got it in my room right now .... fascinating reading.... he reckons the lack of respect from boys like you today is all down to insufficient discipline at school .... I suppose he's probably right .... anyway, what they used to do to the naughty boys in the last century was amazing – it must have taken ages getting everything ready, carefully following the instructions, and then administering the punishment slowly and expertly .... all very exciting really!"
Then he sort of snapped back to the present situation:
"So, whats it to be boy?"
"Shall I take you to see the boss straightaway, or do you want to try my alternative plan?"
There really wasn't much of a decision to make "OK, I'll do what you say, I'm staying up here for a while, so I can easily come to your friend's studio thing, but I just can't get a criminal record, my parents would kill me"
A little smile arrived on the butler man's face, then he stretched his arms out, slapped his hands around my grubby thighs, tightly squeezed my legs, and pulled himself up, saying "Right, lets get started – first you need to have a wash .... nice boys don't roll around on the ground" (he added mockingly). "And doing exactly as you're told starts right now!"
In a quieter voice, and with a reassuring hand on my shoulder, he told me "We can't go to the proper bathrooms because the maids will still be up there, and anyway we don't want to risk anyone seeing Sir Angus's personal valet helping out the little vandals who get caught damaging his estate, do we?" – (sarcastic grim on his face) – "So we will go to the old laundry room in the west basement – follow me, and keep quiet".
He led, and I padded barefoot behind, along the old stone corridor, through some huge wooden doors, down some steps, across a little archway affair, and finally arrived at a really old part of the house that smelt damp and unused. Then through a small creaky door, and into a dark basement room with only a tiny window at the top. He flipped a switch, a couple of bare light bulbs illuminated the cobwebs. The floor and walls were all tiled in white, and a central work bench was also covered in them, encompassing a huge metal sink with bright silver taps, and a wooden draining board. He beckoned me to stand on the grating where the water from the big sink came out. Then he opened a tall cupboard and took out one of those gowns you see Victorian washer women wearing – a sort of backwards coat, with long sleeves and a big apron – obviously to protect his smart clothes. Then an armful of huge towels, some flannels, various packets of soaps, and finally a hose pipe that fitted onto the bench tap with a spray nozzle on the other end. He practised spraying the water into the sink, and adjusted the nozzle to give a heavy rain rather than a jet.
"OK, er, whats your name by the way?" he asked.
"Stephen" I replied.
"OK, Stephen, feet apart a bit, hold your shorts up, and stand still - I'll have a go at these dirty legs myself"
I gripped my belt and pulled up, he crouched down and started the sprayer. It was freezing! I instinctively stepped back to get out of the cold, and he gave my bare leg a resounding slap. "Stand still Stephen!". I got back in position, and he carried on.
"Just relax, .... lets better", "When you're clean, I'll smuggle you back into the house, and up to my quarters. Oh, by the way, I'm Jack Duff, Sir Angus's valet, and I look after all the clothes for the people who work on the estate .... and amongst them I've got a full school uniform for St Benedict's Boys Primary – that's where the head cook's son went, and its what you're going to wear to see the boss."
"But I'm nearly 13" I protested. "In the second year of secondary school, not a primary!"
"Look Stephen, to get any sympathy from Sir Angus you are going to have to be small and innocent .... and anyway, the uniform was new for his final primary year, which is only two years younger than you are, and you'll not exactly the biggest 12 year old I've ever seen!" He gave my other leg a smack. "Foot up!".
"But the gardener saw me, he will know I wasn't dressed like that" I said.
"Luckily for you, Stephen, St Benedict's colours are a red jacket with charcoal grey shorts .. so pretty much the same mix you're wearing now, and anyway old Jock's not known as the sharpest brain in Scotland, so a slight discrepancy won't matter – and before you ask, the term here finishes on Friday, so you would still be in uniform today"
I shut up and he continued with the wash. First loads of cold water all over, then he dropped the hose and picked up a huge yellow slab of soap to rub over my wet legs, and then he worked up a lather with his hands over my slippery skin. His fingers penetrated between my toes (my mum used to do that – nice), followed by a kind of massaging action up my lower leg, over and under my knee (one hand supporting behind, the other rubbing hard on the front), and then continuing up and around my thighs until he reached my shorts. Then pick up the sprayer, leg back down, rinse off, and repeat. On each repeat he pushed the edge of my shorts further up to expose more skin, and I felt them (and my pants) getting really soaked. There must have been a stubborn bit of crime up there somewhere, because he spent a while concentrating on cleaning the inside of my left thigh, and he must have slipped on the lather doing it because a few times his hand made gentle contact with my privates (which made me startle, but I managed to keep still), and once his fingers slipped right inside the pant's, which really tickled! Anyway, after a few wipes and rinses, I thought he had finished, but then he said "Look, Stephen, your clothes are caked in mud, and so are your arms and hair.... so now that you're got used to the cold water, I think we might as well do this job properly and give you a rinse all over .... come on arms up, I'll slide this tee shirt off".
I didn't wear a vest in summer, so with the shirt gone I was now bare apart from the shorts – a thought that didn't last long, because having thrown my red shirt into a basket, Jack undid my trouser belt, lowered the zip, and a few seconds later, had me standing there in just my less-than-perfect Y fronts. I say less-than-perfect, because they were my brother's old ones, a bit baggy, not very white, and now heading towards transparency due to the wet!
The first drench of freezing water over my head was another shock, but once he started rubbing in the shampoo, it didn't seem so bad. In fact, after a couple of minutes, I really didn't notice the cold any more. What I did notice though, was that as the water ran down my back, my pants were filling up! With my eyes shut to prevent the shampoo stinging, and Jacks hands wondering unseen over my body rinsing off the suds, this extra fascination of the bubbly water accumulating around my privates combined to start a weird feeling growing down below, and rather alarmingly I noticed I was going stiff. Jack just carried on with the wash.
"OK, under arms next .... hands up high please ...."
This was too much! I'm very ticklish under my arms, so there was no way I could keep my hands up whilst he washed me there .... they just collapsed down the instant he tried. "Stephen" he said surprisingly firmly, "if you bring your arms down again, I will spank you here and now .... so clasp your hands together if it helps, or shut your eyes again to concentrate".
I did both.
He stood behind me, applied the soap, washed up my arms, through my armpits, and down both sides simultaneously, lowering my pants as he brushed past them on the way down to my legs. I felt my bum getting exposed, but the waistband stopped at the front when it reached my now obvious erection. Then he stood to my side and soaped up my shoulders and chest at the same time, and to withstand the increasing sensitivity developing over my body, I tightened the grip in my hands until they were strangling each other and crammed my eyes even more firmly shut. He was washing and rubbing in circles, pushing firmly with both hands acting in unison (presumably so that I wasn't moved in any particular direction) - and after a short spell on my chest and shoulders, he moved down to do my stomach in partnership with the small of my back, then down some more until he reached the little mound (with its new hair!) above my embarrassment, in combination with my bare bum cheeks. I was just thinking how the excitement at the front was better than when I played with it, when rather abruptly I felt him slide the sodden pants right down to my ankles (which I instinctively stepped out of). My stiffy initially strained down in the elastic, then slapped back up to hit my belly on its release, then just stuck out wobbling in the fresh air in all its circumcised glory. His hands moved back to the stomach and back washing, and after a few more gyrations began the journey south again. I winced a bit as he reached lower this time, because a finger from the hand washing my bum started exploring my crack, and the other hand moved gently across the top of my shaft and was softly cleaning the now throbbing end. The sensation was overwhelming, and I just couldn't stand still any longer! I cringed lower, bending at the knees and sticking my bum back in an effort to relieve the rising urge at my tip – but all this did was cause the well lubricated finger waiting at my rear to slip inside my hole, which was such a shock that it made me jut forwards, which plunged my whole 4" into the palm of his front hand!
After a few seconds of electrifying wriggles, where the finger at the back slid further inside by stages, and the hand at the front gripped tight and slowly pumped, he suddenly pulled out, let go, and matter of factly gave me a final rinse all over with the sprayer.
"There, all done .... lets go and get you dressed young man"
He fetched me a fluffy dressing gown from the tall cupboard, removed his apron, put the hose away, and tidied all the wet stuff into the same laundry basket as my muddy clothes. Fortunately the dressing gown was far too big for me, so I was easily able to hide my embarrassment, which anyway was on its way back down.
We took a different route out of the wash house, Jack checking the way ahead was clear, and me scurrying along afterwards to each corner or door he stopped at. After ascending a spiral stone staircase, and along a carpeted corridor lined with gigantic paintings, we arrived at his magnificent room. He locked the door.
"OK, Stephen, take off the gown and stand by this mirror so we can get you dressed". He stood looking at my reflection for a while, as if measuring me up, and I just stood there naked thinking what a strange a day it was!
He opened a drawer and pulled out some pristinely folded boys' white shirts wrapped in crinkly plastic, and selected the biggest. Then the next drawer for some socks (light grey with a yellow and purple hoop at the top), and a pair of black shiny shoes (they looked brand new). Then to a wardrobe full of hanging ties, to select the small yellow and purple diagonal striped one with a crest on the front (also wrapped in crinkly plastic). He gave me the socks first.
"Pull them on straight" he demanded. Then, sighing, he crouched down in front of me, twisted the tops round, folded them over, and pulled them up to just below my knees. They were tight, but fitted OK. Then he unwrapped the shirt, helped me into it, and put on the tie. Looking in the full length mirror, I noticed how bright and smart the outfit was, even though a bit small, and also how amusing it was to still have my willy on show at the front!
"Right, let's try the blazer and cap" he said, and brought these out from yet another wardrobe. This was the first area of difficulty, because whilst the blazer fitted, it was too small to do the buttons up without looking stretched, so Jack undid them again (giving my willy a playful wobble when he got down to the last one!) "Not a problem" he said brightly "It's summer, just leave it open".
The cap was fine, so then Jack went and got the shorts (from the cupboard near his bed). "Sorry, no underwear Stephen, that's not my department, but it shouldn't matter". The shorts looked really expensive – dark grey material on the outside, white lining inside, tailored pockets, and perfectly ironed to give sharp straight creases down the front and curved creases at the back. They felt wonderfully smooth and cool as they slipped up my freshly washed legs, and Jack squatted down at the front to pull them up and make the adjustments. After letting out the side straps as far as they would go, he pulled on both halves of the waistband, I breathed in, and he managed to clip the front together. "There!" he said proudly, "just get this little monster packed away, and then we can do up the zip". I wasn't as tickly now, so it was easy to stand still while he fiddled around finding a position for my willy that allowed the job to be finished.
The shoes were the right size, and while I did the laces up, Jack rubbed some Brylcreme in my hair and combed it straight to the front and neatly sideways. "All done!" he declared, "stand up for a final check".
And there I was .... every inch a smart little ten year old again, not me, but a posh kid from an expensive private school .... wow!
"Now Stephen" he said in a decidedly different voice, "you will remember that you are supposed to come from a well disciplined family, so you should have some evidence"
"Pardon?"
"You can hardly claim to be disciplined without any marks – have you ever been caned?"
"No, its banned at our school" I replied truthfully, "and I just get my pocket money stopped if I'm naughty at home"
"Well, caning hasn't been banned at St Benedict's, and most respectable fathers around here still use one at home too – and to convince Sir Angus you are going to need some stripes"
"You mean you going to cane me?"
"Yes, but not properly .... in England they have Six of the Best, usually five strokes in a neat row on the bare cheeks, followed by a sixth at an angle crossing them, fairly cruel really, because it often bleeds at the five points where the lines cross. But here, we do Five and a Show, which is the same five strokes in a neat row on the bum, but the last one goes across the back of the legs at about the position where the shorts end – so as you walk around people can see that you've been spanked. Now my plan is just to give you the Show line so that Sir Angus thinks you have been recently dealt with .... simple eh?"
"Well, if its absolutely necessary" I grudgingly agreed.
"It certainly is, Stephen, so I suggest you position yourself on the bed, on all fours, and push your bottom out". Which is what I did, whilst comforting my face in his lovely big pillow. I heard him walk round to his bedside cupboard (where the shorts were) and rattle around, presumably getting the cane. The first I felt was the cold of the stick as he touched it on the back of my exposed legs just above the back of my knees, rubbing it from side to side. Then he placed a steadying hand on my back and started a series of gentle smacks with the cane, raising the position each time until it was level with the hem of the shorts, which is where I braced myself for the Show line to hit.
"You've got a marvellous bum" he said, "so I've changed my mind, I'm going to do five over the shorts first", and without the chance to discuss matters further, I heard the swish in the air and THWACK as the first stroke landed bang in the centre of my backside. The initial sting was just turning to a burning fire, when WHACK as the second stroke landed higher, and WHACK again as the third went higher still. I was just getting my breath collected for a violent scream, when the almighty fourth landed somewhere below the first, and I was managing to "ARRR" when the fifth, and hardest slash yet, got me on that special place where a boys bottom creases into his legs. My whole world was a raging inferno, and I was shouting unheard into the bedding, as his supportive back-holding hand had quickly moved to become a head-in-the-pillow holding hand.
"Hush, hush" he said soothingly "all over, now lets have a look at the results", and whilst still stifling my face into the bed, he reached underneath the shorts with his free hand, tugged the front open, and ripped them down to my knees. Then a splash of something cold over the burning lines, and his hand gently rubbing the relief over the raised ridges I had so unexpectedly gained. As I calmed down, he slowly released the grip on my head, and concentrated both hands on the weals – which was nice.
"Just keep still and quiet Stephen, these will soon be better", and for the second time that day, I had the weird stiffening feeling as his hands worked their magic on my bum, and especially when the fingers advanced in between the cheeks. When I felt the slippery digit start to penetrate again, I relaxed behind and energised fully at the front. After a few minutes, as the rear exploration went intimately deeper, and the pain of the caning subsided to a pleasant warmness, it was not surprising to feel the other hand come down between my legs, cupping and massaging my unusually tight scrotum, then working its way along the underside of my most powerful erection ever, before investigating the pre-cum oozing freely at the front. Just as before, a gentle rhythm became established where the finger movements were matched to a slow pumping action (naturally lubricated this time!), which had me mesmerised and yearning to climax, but as before, Jack stopped early and declared we had better go and see the boss.
A replacement pair of shorts were found, the show line added as an uneventful afterthought, and Jack was on the telephone to his employer:
"Duff here, Sir Angus .... um, Jock has apprehended a young chap in the garden area, sir, apparently trying for some free apples, and handed him in to me .. er, should I bring him down to you sir?" ...... "No sir, I don't actually know him, but he is from St Benedict's Primary,, ..er.. Stephen sir, er.. Stephen Walthering-Smyth" .... "Yes sir, straight away sir, .... er, yes, I've still got it, I'll bring it along too sir,"
With an intake of breathe, and retrieving the 1890 spanking book from under his bed, Jack and I went off to meet Sir Angus MacDonald.
Now wait for Part II.