I hate travelling with that nervous feeling in the pit of my belly, but not buying the ticket saves a few quid out of my allowance which buys a packet of cigarettes and the like. The train rolled into Barnes, W3, at about 8:45 on that fine Saturday morning in August. The summer air smelled just fine as I stepped off the dusty carriage, and I was relieved to have survived the journey without being accosted by the regular stony faced ticket inspector. He had caught me on a previous occasion and evicted me from the train.
I alighted with a handful of other travellers and walked the platform with my hold-all on my back. It contained a couple of changes of clothes, my gym shorts, and my "Boy" T shirt, a black T shirt with the word Boy embroidered tastefully to the left of the chest. Richard had bought it back for me from a recent trip to the States. I was very happy to be seeing Richard, the man I had come to love over the last eight months, but I was somewhat fearful of the beating he had promised me for this morning.
It had been several months since he had taken me to the point of kicking and screaming. Richard is not a big man, about an inch taller than me at five feet ten inches. He wears his greying hair cropped, has a well trimmed moustache and clean shave. He is slim, under ten stones in weight, but he knows how to swing a cane, had honed his technique as a teacher through the 1980's.
Richard had, I am sure, never used the cane gratuitously, always the beatings he had administered were entirely legitimate and supported by the parents and the school system, but he had a handful of very strong and pleasing memories of chastising young bottoms. Those boys he had caned back then would be my age now, a fact that added fuel to our fantasy, and we had wondered if, as a boy at his school, I would have enjoyed being bent over his desk for a caning, or if it might have been an unpleasant ordeal. Who knows?
I had gained a great deal of subsequent pleasure from that soundest of whippings a few months ago, and it had done something wonderful for our relation, but at the time it had been a real ordeal. As I thought about that particular thrashing on the way out of the station, it occurred to me that it had put into my mind the importance of two major issues; always have my mobile phone with me, switched on, and always get to work on time. Ridiculous that a grown man, albeit a slightly immature one, should actually break the habits of a lifetime for fear of being whacked, but it had worked for me.
So today I was to learn two more important lessons.
Richard keeps an impeccable house, and I, by contrast, do not. He is still training me in the ways of civilisation here, and I do not envy his task, but I like the results and prefer to come home to a clean and tidy house than to arrive home to a tip. So I allow him to work on me and I put effort in to retraining myself.
Another rule concerns lying. I am forbidden to do so, and that is that. Not that a man should feel that he has to, of course, and one has to wonder about the strength of a relationship where one feels that lying is the best course of action, but sometimes I am driven to do so, and I have lied about a number of petty things over the months, like the number of cigarettes I have smoked, about taking a day off work, this sort of thing. Recently I had lied about a doctors appointment.... I had said that I went when I did not. Richard is very concerned for my health and insists that I attend the dentist regularly and that I keep appointments with my doctor. This time it was for some advice on bad headaches I had been getting. At the time I had booked the appointment they had been quite frequent, but the appointment was set for ten months time and by the time the appointment came round I hadn't had an attack for almost that long. So I didn't think it was important to go, but I had kept the day booked off work.
Well, Richard had stayed with me in Brighton the previous week, had taken me out to dinner at an excellent restaurant and we had had a very good time together. But on arrival at my flat he had noticed it was a mess; I hadn't vacuumed or dusted for a fortnight, my dirty-clothes basket was overflowing, and the surfaces were cluttered. For the first hour of his visit he had me busying round putting things right.
"What's this Samuel Boy?", he asked, holding a sock aloft at fingertips. He was smirking, just, so humour was prevailing, but the sock had been lifted from my computer desk where it most certainly did not belong.
"It's a sock, Sir?" I said, then hurriedly continued folding my clothes as Richard's face showed alarming displeasure.
"Put it somewhere appropriate, Boy, before I do." Characteristically he did not shout, but I realised I was lucky to get away with that one. However, I was wincing with fear as he made his way round my flat picking out my failings in the hygiene and cleanliness department, and I was wondering what would become of me when the cleaning was done.
I was soundly spanked for a start, and I can tell you that Richard's spankings are a real eye opener for me. Then he bent me over a chest of drawers and paddled my bare arse with his fearsome leather reformatory paddle, I howled so the neighbours were left in doubt what was happening to me. I couldn't complain really, I mean, I'd had a week to prepare for this visit, it's just that other things seemed more fun than cleaning. A mistake in prioritising, I realise, now.
Then we went to dinner.
The restaurant was full of diners at half past eight. My bum was still hot, fresh from the paddling. It is a strange yet wonderful feeling to be so utterly humiliated and hurt yet so comfortable and loved. I was his child, his charge, I didn't care who knew. Richard motioned for me to sit with my back to the wall and he took the seat opposite.
Richard chose his food after a few moments of scanning the menu, selected a wine an ordered two glasses of champagne to start. I hadn't finished reading the menu by then. He didn't rush me though, just reminded me not to smoke before the meal.
We spent a while judging the clientele. One of the two barmen was young, handsome and a mite fruity, the other was friendly. I was dying for a cigarette, as they say, especially when they are regular smokers, but I knew Richard would refuse me the opportunity, claiming "we might as well go to MacDougals, or whatever it's called, if you're going to ruin you're palette before eating".
During the meal Richard turned to the talk to our 'special relation'. He persuaded me, with little effort, that I had become too disrespectful over recent times. My conduct had become far less submissive towards my Master, and I was lacking obedience. The evidence was in my laziness in my domestic chores, and in the fact I had lied on a number of occasions. He pointed out that it was a long time since I had really bucked under severe instruction, and that it was about time I was put firmly in my place. He seemed very assured, I had no defence. So it was decided that the following week I would arrive early in the morning at his very substantial Victorian residence in Barnes, and would come prepared to be caned hard across my naked backside. God knows how it came to pass that I confessed to not keeping my doctor's appointment, but I guess it had to do with the love and respect I felt for him during that most delightful meal. Later, after walking his beagle dog, Jemma, Richard had his masterful way with me, which was fantastic.
I was regretting my honesty now though, as his front door was in sight. Just a few more yards and I'd be opening the garden gate and approaching the grand porch and brass doorbell. I was wearing a pair of soft jeans, quite tight, and a white T shirt and trainers. I was very aware of my butt as I rang the bell. I did not know if Richard would get straight down to my punishment, or if I might be allowed some breakfast first. It was a full minute before he opened the door.
"Good boy," he said without smiling, "You're on time."
"Yes, Sir," I replied, not knowing how else to respond. I entered and wiped my feet on the mat, but was then instructed to remove my shoes. Richard closed the door. "Have you remembered your shorts, Samuel Boy?" He inquired with a sinister eye, as though he would catapult me the 60 miles back home to fetch them had I not remembered to bring them. I had, of course, remembered them.
"Yes, Sir,"
"Good lad," he spoke with a an air of calm confidence, a sureness that I was going to do exactly what he instructed me to do. "Go upstairs and put them on, and your Boy shirt, then come downstairs and wait here by the clock," he pointed to the grandfather clock in the hallway. At this point I realised that punishment was number one on the agenda and that friendly hello's were not required.
Richard's house is formal in decor, almost hotel like, with yellow and white pinstriped wallpaper in the hall, high ceilings and ornate light fittings and shades. It is quiet, unhurried and cool. As I mounted the stairs I was aware of him watching me, no doubt aware of my nervousness, and no doubt watching my soon-to-be-wriggling backside.
A few minutes later I descended the stairs in my shorts, my 'boy' T shirt, and bare feet. The air was cool on my legs and without pants I felt rather exposed in the skimpy black running shorts. I took my place next to the grandfather clock in the hall, ticking it's stately rhythm, with my nose against the wall just as I had done before. Each tick of the clock was a kiss goodbye to my dignity. I waited, listening to Richard feeding Jemma in the kitchen.
It is uncomfortable for me, corner time, because I get bored, start thinking about other things I could be doing on a Saturday morning, like sleeping, tea and toast, shopping. I realised I was hungry, wondered if I might need the toilet, all these things, and there's Richard getting on with his day, feeding the dog. Still, I didn't move too much, just shuffled about a bit and looked around the stillness of the hall. On the wall behind me there was an eerie ink drawing of what appeared to be a street carnival, with three giant people, probably supposed to be entertaining, human-like structures, but they seemed ugly and frightening to me. Richard appeared in the hallway, "face the wall, Samuel," he reminded me gently.
He went upstairs. I was not aroused by the events so far. In fact, as I remembered how abjectly painful my last severe caning had been I became less convinced that I wanted to be in that hallway at all. But there I was, dressed up with my nose against the wall waiting to be caned. I felt foolish, yet simultaneously felt a twitch in my shorts.
On Richard's return down the stairs he caught me again looking round, I noticed he was carrying a wooden hard back chair and two canes, and this time he said more forcefully, "Face the wall, Boy." I did so, and he disappeared into the study behind me and closed the door.
Now I was scared, really considering the possibility of evading the situation, but what would be the right moment, and what would I say? Oh Christ, I'm a grown man, and not a soul in the world is going to sympathise with my plight, seems as though I have come here out of choice, out of desire, lets face it. No, they would not show sympathy, but they might laugh, and watch!
A sudden THWACK of the cane slices the silence, makes me jump. It sounds so loud and hard. Richard is probably whacking a pillow, practising. My tension drains with each tick of the clock as I stair at the yellow and white lines. Then another whack as the cane whips and thumps the pillow. My bum is speaking to me, telling me to run out the door immediately. I need a piss now. Whack! Again, just reaffirming my 'flight' signal, my mind can almost be heard in the hall. The clock keeps ticking. Finally Richard emerges from the study.
"In you come, Boy." I turn and see him standing in his smart outfit. A twinkle in his pale blue eyes, but no smile. I pass him on the way into the room and can smell him, am reminded of how he smells when I take him in my mouth, of when he pins me hard against the soft mattress, riding up between my legs. I am his boy, he is my Master, and my fear is mixed with strong feelings of love, of being wanted, of being attractive. I am aware of my cute butt, of how it is going to be put to good use, and though I feel pathetic, I feel somehow 'found', in the right place at the right time.
The curtains are closed, the room is dimly lit by a lamp on the desk under the window, but the most striking feature of the room this morning is the simple wooden chair in the centre, with a pillow over the back-rest. Three crook handled canes of ascending length and weight are hanging on the mantle piece.
Richard closes the door gently and I feel his hands on either side of me, under my arms. He leads me softly to the back of the chair, takes my wrists and guides my hands on to my head. "Stay there, lad". He moves to the desk and takes up a bottle of disinfectant and a cloth. "Why are you here this morning, Samuel Boy?"
"For a caning, Sir." I say humbly. Richard does not answer, but ambles to the mantle piece to pick up a cane. The middle one, a senior cane, 3 and half feet long and 9mm round.
"You are going to learn the importance of respect for your Master," he says with some emphasis whilst running the cane through the fingertips of his left hand, "and the importance of telling the truth. It is simply unacceptable for you to lie. Isn't it, boy?"
"Yes, Sir," that was an easy one. Richard holds the cane under his arm and picks up the disinfectant, removes the lid and moistens the cloth.
"How can I love you if I cannot trust you, hm?"
"I don't know, Sir." He rubs the cloth up and down the length of the rod.
"Can I trust you if you lie to me?"
"No Sir,"
"So if you want to be trusted you're going to have to tell the truth, aren't you lad?"
"Yes, Sir," Richard usually makes things easy to understand. He replaces the lid on the bottle and puts it back on the desk, then takes the cane firmly in his right hand, whipping it once through the air.
"As for your level of respect, I think you have forgotten how vital it is that you do as you're told. I never ask you to do anything that is not good for you. I only ever instruct you to do what is best for you. Isn't that right, Samuel Boy?
"Yes Sir," Richard never shouted, never blustered angrily. He spoke softly but sternly, moving correctly towards the inevitable.
"You have not been keeping your flat in an orderly and clean condition, it seemed to me that you had been lying to me on the phone about the state of your room. But I can't prove that. I can say you had plenty of time to put things right before I arrived, but you were lazy and disobedient. Now you will pay. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir." _d_a_m_n_, I like this less and less.
"18 hard strokes of the cane across your bare bottom." He pauses long enough for me to realise it is my line;
"Yes, Sir."
"12 with the senior cane, and 6 with the heavy one."
"Yes, Sir." This is not good at all. The heavy cane is 12mm and 4 feet, most unpleasant. The first time he had used this cane on my naked butt I had kicked both legs in the air like I was sky-diving on the back of his leather arm chair. Oh well, it will soon be over and he we can have breakfast.
"Take your shorts off." I hate this bit. I take them off and Richard retrieves them from the floor, folds them and places them out of the way.
"You will learn to do as you are told, and you will not lie to me, is that clear?" I answer as usual. Richard comes round behind me, hooks his cane on the mantle piece, places one hand on my hip and one between my shoulder blades, "Bend."
He encourages my hands to grip the base of the legs, then eases my legs out so they are straight and I am on my toes with my T shirt riding up my back. My nerves will not take too much more, the cane hurts, as many of you will know from experience, and Richard does not do any warm-up stuff, I mean he enjoys watching me suffer, so the first stroke is going to hurt like fury.
After applying some disinfectant to my bare buttocks, Richard recovers his cane and takes his position to my left side.
Richard sways slightly from side to side, building up to the first stroke. "You will not lie to me again, is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir," I say meekly. THWACK.
There is a momentary numbness across the centre of my bum, then the fire burns. My left leg comes off the ground, and after two or three seconds I let out a cry.
"You will not lie to me. What will you not do, boy?"
I struggle to speak calmly, "I will not lie to you, Sir," THWACK
Again the fire takes a moment to burn, this time lower than the first stroke. But my feet remain planted this time and I do not cry out, just exhale sharply. THWACK. This time I do cry out. THWACK, and again, a little screech of surprise and agony.
"You will always be honest with me, boy, and I will always thrash you if you are not. Clear?" Of course it is clear, so I say so, and the cane lands with full force across my upper thigh. This makes me scream and both my legs come up. Anyone walking by on the pavement outside would have heard that one. I am almost crying now. After the next stroke Richard asks me how many strokes I have taken and luckily I have counted.
"Six strokes, Sir."
"Good boy. Now you can stand up and have a rest." The one across my thigh has really taken it out of me, I am very glad of the break. Tears are forming in my eyes and I can barely believe I have 12 to come, and six with the heavy cane.
By the time I am bent over and ready for the next six my bum is hot, I am building a good dose of endorphins to combat the attack and feel easier. These are delivered with the rhetoric about keeping my house tidy, about how I have been a lazy boy and need to attend to hygiene more rigorously.
Without letting me stand Richard moves to the mantle piece and, though I don't watch him, I know he has swapped the senior cane for the reformatory, 12mm one.
It is not easy to explain how the heavier cane feels in comparison. It is slightly more painful, but it strikes more deeply, leaves it's mark more obviously, and makes me yell more heartily. By the time Richard has finished with me my arse is on fire and I am sobbing. He replaces the cane on the mantle with the others and helps me up.
"That's it Samuel Boy. You took that very bravely, I'm proud of you." He turned me to face him, our eyes met and we hugged. I loved him, though if my bum could speak it might have sworn at him. He handed me my shorts and I put them on. "Right, you want some breakfast?" He asked cheerily.
"Yes, Sir," I said, increasingly elated that the beating was finished.
"Okay, well you go and put some toast on, and I'll be with you in a minute. I've got a surprise for you downstairs." That sounded good. I went to the bathroom to check the results in the large mirror above the sink. Hm. Scary. Especially that band across my thigh. Oh well. I pulled my shorts up and headed off to meet Jemma, in the kitchen.
We had rye-bread toast and marmalade, fresh orange juice and espresso coffee, and talked about the day ahead. Richard was going to take me to the gardens at Kew, then on to a restaurant for lunch. Only a couple of times did he remind me of what happens to lazy boys and liars, not that I was going to forget in a hurry, my bum was striped and very hot.
The surprise? The Camel shoes I had seen in town the other day.... new buck leather and horny as hell.