Before I tell this story, I should say something about myself.
Those of you who have read my other stories will realise that I have a considerable interest in the subject of the corporal punishment of boys. That has been the case for as long as I can remember. Before I reached puberty I was already aware of my fascination with the subject. I remember, when I was about eight (1984), persuading a friend to play Dads and Sons just so I could smack his bottom (I also let him smack me). I always got a thrill when my school friends were punished. Both my prep and public schools were among the last in Britain to give up using corporal punishment. At prep school (eight to thirteen) all the masters used to bring large gym shoes into class so as to be able to administer instant justice. When a boy got the slipper in class (I am not sure why we called it that when it was a rather more vicious instrument) we all got to watch the spectacle. I used to long for boys to get into trouble and, because the school was on the old fashioned side, I was frequently granted my wish. Of course, I did not escape myself. I suppose I was about average when it came to naughtiness. I must have been slippered about once a month to begin with. By the time I was eleven the frequency had increased slightly, to about once or twice a fortnight. My interest was not such that I ever enjoyed being beaten, but I certainly enjoyed showing off the marks afterwards.
The school was a boarding school and we were placed in different houses. For the first two years we were in the junior house. There was a housemaster in overall charge of us. I will call him Mr Smith. There was a rather fierce matron and there were three under matrons, all about eighteen years old. The under matrons were allowed to slipper us for minor misdemeanours in the dormitory. They used real slippers, not gym shoes, and the punishments were not all that painful. Matron did use a gym shoe and, because we were only eight and nine, our bottoms were always bare when she punished us. She was actually harder than some of the masters and we tended to be on our best behaviour when she was around. If we were really naughty we would be sent to Mr Smith. He always used a cane and he always made us remove our trousers and pants. He was the only master in the school to insist on bare bottoms. Even the headmaster did not do so. There was rather more theatre involved in a caning (or swishing as we called it). My first time has certainly stuck in my memory. It was towards the end of my first term. I was only just eight years old. I had been playing up a bit in the dorm. About half an hour after lights out I, and another boy whom I shall call Warren, were caught talking by one of the under matrons (I remember she was a particularly pretty blonde). She told us to get out of our beds and bend over them. She then gave us each three whacks with my slipper (which she judged to be harder than Warren's). Even though we only had the protection of our thin pyjamas, we both agreed afterwards that the punishment hardly qualified to be called that. I think there was a bit of a sting as each wallop connected, but any pain was gone in moments. By the morning our bottoms were completely unmarked. Anyway, I am jumping ahead. After we had got back into our beds, Warren and I were soon deep in conversation again. About half an hour later the under matron caught us again. I remember very well beginning t! o push t he bed clothes aside so as to get out of bed for another slippering. But she was exasperated by now and, instead, she told us both to report to Mr Smith at break.
Neither Warren nor I had yet been caned. But we both knew that being sent to Mr Smith inevitably meant a caning. I remember being petrified. I am sure Warren was as well. Somehow I got to sleep. When I woke in the morning it took me a few moments to recall what was in store for me. But then I did and I can assure you I was not very happy. At breakfast I told a boy in the year above me that I was due to be swished by Mr Smith. He didn't help by assuring me that the housemaster was well known to be the hardest caner in the school. I didn't eat a great deal of my breakfast. I had great difficulty in concentrating during morning lessons, but I persevered (the last thing I wanted was to turn up to Mr Smith with an already sore bottom).
When the bell for morning break came Warren and I rushed back to junior house and climbed the stairs to Mr Smith's study. It was clear that we were the only victims that day because no one else was waiting outside and no one else turned up while we waited. We stood for about five minutes until Mr Smith appeared at the top of the stairs. He ambled slowly towards us and asked, as if he did not know, whether we were waiting for him. We said we were and, while we still in the corridor, he asked why we wanted to see him. We explained that we had been sent to him for "persistent talking after lights out". He said that, if we had committed the offence together, we had better come in together.
Once inside the room, Mr Smith busied himself in setting up his sort of execution block. He placed two chairs back to back in the middle of the room. Then he walked slowly to his corner cupboard and removed a fearsome looking cane which he proceeded to bend in his hands, demonstrating its whippiness. Then he told us both to take our shorts and pants down. It is amazing, but I remember to this day the slight frisson of pleasure I got from seeing Warren drop his shorts and pants and reveal his small white bottom. He was first. He had to clamber up on one of the chairs and bend over the two chair backs, holding onto the seat of the other chair. Mr Smith then gave him three sharp strokes with the cane. Even though I was to be next (and I was feeling very nervous indeed) I was absolutely fascinated to see a thin red line appearing on Warren's bum after each whack. After the third he was told to get down. He rubbed his bottom a bit, but I was relieved to see that there was no suggestion of a tear in his eye.
I might interject here that it is fairly clear that many of the authors who contribute to these pages cannot have had first hand experience of being beaten at their own schools. In ten years of being at schools which employed the cane as a matter of course, I never heard of any boy having cried. Yet, in nearly every story I read here, the victims of corporal punishment seem to scream their heads off. I am not talking of those stories in which the beatings are grotesquely severe (stories which I have to admit I find rather unpleasant). I can well understand why a boy who is given a massive number of strokes might cry out. But the more realistic stories of school beatings (where the maximum number of strokes is usually no greater than six) suffer, I presume to suggest, from the unrealistic reactions of the boys to their punishments. I can't believe that the boys at my prep and public schools were unique in their ability not to "blub" when being swished.
I must try not to digress. As Warren started to pull his pants and shorts up I placed myself on the execution block. I felt the cane tap on my bare bottom as Mr Smith took aim. Then I felt the first stroke as it whipped across the middle of my bum. It was quite different from the slipper or from the spankings I got at home. The pain was more akin to that which follows being cut. It was intense, but certainly bearable (I was to learn from later experiences that Mr Smith was not, in fact, the hardest caner in the school). As I say, it was a different sort of pain from the feeling of warmth which one got after the application of the slipper. I would find it difficult to say, in retrospect, whether the pain of that first stroke of the cane was any worse than that which followed a robust slippering from a strong young master. Partly because of the theatre of the occasion, however, I was convinced it was. The second and third strokes followed and, when I climbed down and felt my bottom I could feel three thin raised stripes close together. They hurt quite a bit, but I could also feel that the pain was beginning to wear off at a fairly quick rate. I took my time in pulling my pants up (because I thought Warren would like a good view). Then, as Mr Smith was replacing his cane in the cupboard, we left to boast of our ordeal to all our friends.
Well, this story is not really meant to be about my own childhood. I will not dwell on it much further. It is enough to say that that was the first of a great many canings I endured throughout my education. It was certainly the least severe of them. The last I ever got (six from the captain of rugby at my public school when I was sixteen) was in a wholly different league.
By the time I was about eleven or twelve I realised that my interest in corporal punishment was not exactly healthy. Although I was tempted, I knew that I had to stop the spanking games with my friends. Fortunately, I did not have to give up all talk of beatings because the subject was one which was raised by my peers frequently. Neither was I deprived of viewings of striped bottoms: we all proudly showed off our war wounds as a matter of course. But I never let on that my interest was any greater than that of a normal school boy.
So, when I emerged into adulthood I did so with one secret which I was determined no one should know. I was fortunate in that my interest never extended to having the slightest desire to engage in any _s_e_x_ual activity with boys. I do, I admit, sometimes fantasise about boys masturbating after being caned or slippered. But the thought of ever doing anything _s_e_x_ual to a boy myself has always been absolutely abhorrent to me. I hasten to say that I am not criticising those whose nature is different. It is just a matter of fact that buggery is, to me, something I would find revolting. Indeed, my good fortune is even greater in that, since puberty, the excitement I derive from thoughts of the corporal punishment of boys has been exceeded only by my entirely "normal" interest in girls. I think it has been that interest which has enabled me, with one exception to which I shall come shortly, to keep to my resolution never to inflict any physical punishment on a boy.
I will now, at last, get to the story I promised you.
It was 1998. I was twenty two years old. I had recently come down from the University. I had a small flat in Oxford which I shared with my girlfriend, Samantha. We both worked in the University, but my job enabled me to work at home a fair amount. There was a larger flat on the same floor as mine. It was lived in by a nice woman called Rebecca and her three children, James, Susan, and Deborah. Rebecca's husband, and the father of her children, had died some years before. Although the occasional boyfriend could be seen coming for supper, she had not found anyone permanent. She was clearly an excellent mother. The children were always well behaved and polite. The family got on together exceptionally well. Sam and I got to know them as a result of Sam's offering our services as babysitters, should Rebecca ever wish to go out of an evening. We had performed that service about three or four times by the time of which I am writing. James was twelve years old and had just started his second year at secondary school. The girls were eight year old twins and were at a local primary school.
This story is, of course, chiefly about James. I will try to describe him. He was about 5' 5" tall. He was slim, but very fit (he loved all sports). His hair was dark, as were his eyes. His face was slightly freckled. It took very little to get it to break into a most enchanting smile. He adored life. Everything seemed, to him, to be a wonderful joke. He didn't exactly enjoy school work, but he knuckled down to it and obviously realised that it was the price he had to pay for being able to play rugby, soccer, cricket and tennis with all his friends. This story would not be truthful if I did not say also that the shape of his firm, slim, slightly round bottom was such that I dreamt of it being walloped on more than one occasion. Whether his mother had spanked him when he was younger I did not know. But I could not believe that he could be so well behaved unless she had. I certainly liked to fantasise about his youthful spankings.
At an early stage I offered to help James with his homework. I enjoyed his company (not just because he had such a spankable bottom) and it was no great trouble for me to spend the odd hour, while waiting for Sam to come home, brushing up on my Latin and French with James. Gradually, he became more and more open with me. I am sure that he welcomed an adult male presence at, or very near, home. By the time of the events which I will shortly unfold, our relationship was such that he would listen out for my return to the flat when I had been working in College. Within moments of my getting in, the doorbell would ring and he would be there. Sometimes he had homework to do. Sometimes he just wanted a chat. Occasionally, in the summer, we would go to the municipal tennis courts for a game. Sometimes we went swimming together (you can imagine my feelings the first time we changed into our swimming trunks together and I actually saw his naked bottom). But never once had I given him even the most playful smack on the bum.
I had been in the College all morning. I got back at about 3.15 p. m. The doorbell rang immediately. I was surprised, because James would be at school. It wasn't him. Rebecca was standing there, looking flustered.
"Can I come in Tom, something awful's happened".
I immediately feared the worst.
"Oh God, the children. Are they all right?"
She assured me they were and my concern was abated. I ushered her in and said I would put the kettle on.
"No, Tom, don't bother. Look, I'll tell you straight out. James was caught shoplifting during his lunch hour. Fortunately the shopkeeper didn't call the police. But he told the school and they rang me. I can't think why he did it. He has plenty of pocket money and I've always made sure he knows right from wrong. Oh, Tom, I'm so worried. I just don't know what to do."
"I'm sure it'll be OK", I said. "Lots of boys of his age get into minor trouble with the law like that. I have no doubt that, once you've had a long talk to him and told him the error of his ways, he will never do anything like it again."
"It's easy for you to say that. You're a man. If his father were still alive this would have been so much easier to deal with. But, whatever I say to him, I know that he will just think of me as being a 'mere woman'. Maybe he'll listen to me, but I somehow doubt it."
"Really, Rebecca, I can assure you you're wrong on that count. James gives you more respect than any other boy gives his mother. He will be mortified to think he has let you down."
"I hope you're right. But I can't count on it. This is far too serious for me to take risks. That's why I am asking for your help. James adores you. If I had a penny for every time he said 'Tom says' or 'Tom thinks' or 'Tom does', I would be a millionairess. I know that he would take any telling off you gave him desperately seriously. And if he had upset you enough for you to give him a good hiding, well, I am convinced he would never do anything bad again, ever."
I could not believe what I was hearing. I had begun to guess that she wanted me to give him a good talking to, but it never crossed my mind that she would suggest that I should spank him as well. Obviously, a part of me was delighted. But the more responsible and adult part of me was horrified. I protested at once.
"I don't mind talking to him, but there's no way I could spank him. Surely, you could give him a lengthy period of grounding and stop his pocket money or something."
"Please Tom, hear me out. I know what he needs and I am determined he should get it. Look, be honest in answering this. What would your father have done if you'd been caught shoplifting at James's age?"
"That's different. I'm not James's father, and, anyway, times have changed since I was twelve."
"Answer the question, please." She almost barked the words at me.
"Well, I suppose my Dad would have given me a good walloping with his gym shoe. But that doesn't mean that that's what James needs."
"He's my son, Tom and I know he needs it. I know it's an awful lot to ask anyone, but I also know that you are very fond of James. You don't want him to embark on a life of crime any more than I do. And if you're worried that he won't like you any more after you've done it, I can assure you that you're wrong. In his eyes, and I am inclined to agree with him here, you can do no wrong at all. There isn't another man he knows from whom he would take a punishment like he would from you."
I continued to protest. I honestly did all I could to persuade her that I should not slipper her son. I really don't think I could have tried any harder. I suppose, looking back, I could simply have told her the truth. But I was determined that no one should ever know that. Eventually, when she was almost in tears, I gave in. She threw her arms round me and thanked me profusely. She left, saying that she would send James round to see me as soon as she had herself spoken to him about his crime.
I sat, alone, cursing myself for having been weak. Funnily enough, I was not really looking forward to my interview with James. I really was very fond of him and I did not relish the idea of becoming a stern father-like figure. I suppose I knew that I would be bound to get some pleasure out of the act of slippering him. But I honestly did not want to hurt him. Then I thought about what he had done. I thought back to the punishments I had had at his age, for far less serious offences. I had never thought I was being harshly or unjustly treated, even though I knew that most schools had stopped using corporal punishment long ago. As the minutes ticked by I began to realise that what was being asked of me was not so dreadful as it had first seemed.
I could hear the doorbell of the next door flat. It rang at about 4.15, just when James was due back from school. I heard the door open and shut. Another fifteen minutes went by. Then my own doorbell rang.
James had taken his jacket off but was still in the rest of his school uniform. His eyes were red. He had obviously been crying. He was looking down at his feet and shuffling from foot to foot.
"Mum says you want to see me", he mumbled.
I ushered him in. We went into the sitting room and I pointed to a chair for him. He sat down and then, slowly, raised his head and looked me straight in the face.
"I know I've let you down Tom. I don't suppose you'll ever want to play tennis with me again or help me with my homework. But, please, just give me one more chance and I promise I'll never do anything like it again."
"It's not me you've let down James, it's your mother. There isn't a better mother than her, and you have repaid her by becoming a common criminal. How could you?"
Tears sprang to his eyes again.
"I just don't know why I did it. I was mad. No, before you butt in, I know I was bad, not mad. And if I hadn't worked it out for myself, I certainly knew by the time the head and Mum had finished their telling offs. The head said I ought to be given a good thrashing, and would have been 'in a more enlightened age'. Mum agrees. So do I. Mum told me to ask you to beat me. But she didn't need to tell me. I know I need a whacking and I know you're the one to give it to me."
That was not what I was expecting. I had assumed that Rebecca would not have told him her plan, in case he refused to come and see me. But she had obviously told him everything.
"Very well. I can't pretend that I'm happy about this, but I have to agree with your mother that a thrashing is what you need. I am assured that there's no one else to give it to you. So I will have to do it. Go to my study while I fetch a gym shoe."
He stood up.
"Can I borrow a hanky Tom. I don't want you to think that I'm crying because of being whacked."
I handed him a handkerchief. He wiped his tears away and walked out of the room. I went to our bedroom and found one of my old plimsolls. It was large (I take size 11) and suitably pliable. I went into the passage and into the study.
James was standing in his school shirt, his boxer shorts and his socks. He had removed his trousers and was folding them neatly. He put them on the desk and then made to pull his boxer shorts down.
You may well find this hard to believe, but I really did not want to beat him on the bare bottom. Well, that may be a bit misleading. I suppose I did think that it would be more fun for me, but I honestly wanted to punish him for good reasons, not just to satisfy my own desires.
"No, James, there's no need for that. I'm sure it will hurt enough over your trousers".
He turned to me with a look of extraordinary determination on his face.
"Before Dad died, when I was eight, he sometimes had to whack me when I was naughty. He always did it on my bare bottom. I know that he'd want this punishment to be done properly too."
I explained to him that an old fashioned slippering was going to be much more painful than a few smacks on the bottom for an eight year old and that having it over his trousers would hardly make any difference. But he was absolutely adamant.
"Sorry Tom, but I know I deserve it bare and you'll have to give it to me bare. If you want, I'll leave my boxers on till I'm over your knee, but you'll have to take them down then."
In my fantasies I had always imagined James being across my knee, rather than bending over a chair or touching his toes. The intimacy of the traditional father son position for punishment had always attracted me. But I had assumed that now, when fantasy was to give way to reality, it would be more appropriate for him to bend over. Although, as I have said, I was eager not to satisfy my own desires, I realised that slippering him across my knee, though more pleasurable for me, would also probably be less painful for him. Bearing that in mind, I did not argue with him on the point, although I did say to myself that I would leave his boxers on.
I pulled my chair out from the desk and put it in the middle of the room. I sat down and looked up at him. The tears were now gone. Even so, he looked incredibly vulnerable as he stood there in his skimpy blue boxers and white school shirt.
"OK", I said, patting my knee, "let's get this over with as quickly as possible."
He stepped towards me and gently laid himself across both knees. When I had been punished as a boy by my father I regret to say that I had always had to be held firmly in place. My legs had been put between Dad's thighs and he had squeezed them together to stop me getting away. He had held both my hands together with his left hand at about the small of my back to stop me trying to protect my bottom. I could see that none of these steps was going to be necessary with James. He just lay there, passively, waiting for his punishment. Indeed, he went further than that. Once in position he put his hand behind his back and pulled his shirt tails up. The boxers hugged his small bottom fairly tightly. I looked down with decidedly mixed emotions. I could not count how many times I had imagined the two of us in this position. Now it was actually happening. I won't pretend that I wasn't excited. But I do have a better nature and I was also desperately upset at the thought of what I was about to do and at how much it would hurt him. But it was too late to go back. I had promised his mother that I would do it, and do it I would. I reminded myself again that he had actually been very naughty. He quite obviously deserved to be punished and the punishment had to be severe.
"Very well, James, I am now going to give you four very hard strokes with this plimsoll. I am afraid it is going to hurt a lot. I realise you've never been punished as severely as this before and I won't think any the less of you if you cry. But I must ask you to stay still until it is over."
"I deserve six, not four."
I was not going to let him win this battle as well. Six of the best would not have been inappropriate for what he had done, but I was confident that four would be enough to ensure that he never stole again and I was determined not to give him more than was absolutely necessary.
"I don't disagree about that, but I can assure you that four will be adequate this time."
I gently tapped his bottom with the plimsoll and slowly lifted it as high as I could. As I did so, with the speed of lightning, both his hands went to the waist band of his shorts, he slightly lifted his bottom and then pulled the shorts down to his thighs.
"I knew you wouldn't do it", he said, "but it's got to be proper".
I looked down at the round milky white cheeks. I think a sigh escaped my lips as I contemplated their beauty and vulnerability. I thought of pulling the boxers up again, but I realised that he would only struggle to pull them down again. He had won another battle.
I took a very deep breath. I saw his bottom tense as he waited for the first blow. Then I swung the shoe down as hard as I could. The blow struck both cheeks with considerable force. I felt his body jerk as it connected. But there was no other movement and no sound. I lifted the shoe again. The pattern of its sole was now clearly marked on the small, firm bottom. The colour had changed from white to pink and quickly to red. I waited for a moment to make sure that the pain had properly sunk in before delivering the second stroke with equal force. This time he was ready. The jerk was not nearly so pronounced. Still no sound escaped his lips. When I lifted the shoe again I could see that his bottom was already a deep scarlet colour, after only two strokes. I looked to see whether he was going to be able to resist the temptation to clasp it with his hands. But his arms remained hanging down towards the floor and his fists were firmly clenched. He was a brave boy. I took another deep breath and swung again, as hard as I could. The crack as the shoe hit his bottom seemed almost deafening. I wondered whether his mother was listening through the thin walls. I didn't see how she could avoid hearing it. The marks on his bottom were already beginning to be tinged with blue bruising. Perhaps three was enough, I thought. But then I remembered how weak I had thought one of my prep school masters who had promised me six and then given me only three. I had to give the final stroke and it had to be hard. I raised the shoe and smashed it down again. For the first time there was a slight sound from James. It was no more than a sigh, but it was confirmation, if such were needed, that the punishment had been very painful. I threw the shoe onto the floor and gently, taking great care not to touch his bottom, pulled his boxer shorts back up.
"All right, James, it's over now. You can get up."
He carefully eased himself off my knees and grasped his no doubt throbbing bottom with both hands. His eyes were slightly watery, but he was certainly not crying. He had taken his punishment as well as any English schoolboy.
"Now", I said, "as far as I am concerned the matter is closed. You have paid the penalty for your crime and the slate is clean. All I will say, although I realise it is probably not necessary, is that if you do it again I really will give you six. But I reckon that you have just had your first and last beating from me."
"I promise with all my heart that I will never be so stupid again. Will you really go on helping me with my homework and playing tennis with me and so on?"
"Of course I will you silly boy. I only agreed to thrash you because I like you so much. If you're still prepared to be friends with me, I am certainly keen to go on being friends with you."
"You're my best friend Tom, and you always will be."
I almost felt the tears coming to my own eyes as he spoke so warmly to me.
I cleared my throat and told him that I was going to have a chat with his mother. I suggested that he might want to go into the bathroom and look at the damage in the mirror. Once again, his wide and enchanting smile appeared on his face.
"I bet it'll be gruesome" he said.
"Well, once you've admired your wounds, help yourself to some lemonade and I'll be back soon."
I left the room and the flat and rang Rebecca's bell. Her eyes were red from crying as she opened the door.
"Oh Tom, thank you so much. I hated listening to it, but it just had to be done. You must have hated it. I think you're wonderful."
As she spoke it suddenly occurred to me that I had indeed hated doing it. I was amazed as I realised that I was not in the slightest bit aroused, although I realised that the memory of what had just happened would probably cause me some excitement later.
I asked if I could come in for a quick chat. She ushered me in and we sat side by side on her sofa.
"All I wanted to say, Rebecca, is that James has paid the price for his naughtiness. The beating must have been exceptionally painful. He took it like a real man. I am absolutely sure that he will stick on the straight and narrow from now on. You can tell me I'm interfering in things that are not my business and I will quite understand, but my own view is that you and I should both treat the entire episode as being over and done with. He doesn't need any more punishment and he doesn't need any further telling off. He knows how serious his behaviour was and all he wants now is the chance to show you that he has learnt his lesson."
"You're certainly not interfering in things that are not your business. James is very much your business and I will always value your advice on how to deal with him. I am sure you're right. I will do exactly as you say. The chapter is closed and I will tell him so."
I suggested that she might like to come next door (the girls were out at Brownies) and speak to him there and then. She agreed and we returned to my flat.
James was standing in the sitting room. He looked very sheepish when he saw his mother. She spoke at once.
"It's all right James, I'm not cross with you any more. You've been punished and that's the end of it. I just hope you are properly grateful to Tom for putting you right."
"Of course I am Mum. I know how much I deserved it and I know it was for my own good. I think Tom is just the greatest man on earth."
"OK James", I interjected quickly, "no need to go over the top."
"But you are great", he said. Then, turning back to his mother and demonstrating how quickly he bounced back from depression to his usual cheery demeanour, he went on: "Mum, it was awesome. I am incredibly sore, but I took it really well, didn't I tom? I mean, I took my trousers down and refused to put them back on when Tom said I should. And when he didn't pull my boxers down, I did. And I stayed absolutely still and I didn't cry or anything. I don't suppose any of my friends has ever had such a wicked whacking."
After another lemonade for James and a cup of tea for Rebecca, they left to collect the girls from Brownies. It was only when they had gone and I went back into the study and saw the plimsoll on the floor that I started to get that pleasurable feeling that I had always assumed would follow from what I had done that afternoon. I busied myself with some work to get my mind off it.
Sam got back at six. I still felt a twinge of guilt at what had gone on in the flat in her absence. I thought of not saying anything about it, but I realised that Rebecca, and probably James as well, were almost certain to tell her. I thought it would be better coming from me. So, as soon as I had settled her down with a glass of Chablis, I told her the whole story.
I must say, I was taken aback at her reaction. She gave me a rather knowing smile and then spoke. "Oh dear, I suppose that means that I'm not going to be able to go straight to sleep tonight."
"What on earth do you mean?" I asked, dreading what she did mean.
"Come on Tom, you're not the only man to get turned on by spanking. It's perfectly natural, so long as you never do it unless it's deserved, and from the sound of things James certainly deserved it."
"What makes you think it turns me on?" I asked rather shakily.
"Well, to start with, the way you never fail to slap my bum when I'm getting undressed is a bit of a give away. And if you really think I haven't noticed the way you're transfixed whenever James bends over to pick something up, then you must think I'm really unobservant. It's OK", she went on hurriedly, "I know you'd only ever have _s_e_x_ with girls. It doesn't matter to me at all that you like the idea of spanking boys. People are aroused by all sorts of things. I don't mind admitting that I have some pretty odd fantasies myself. So don't torment yourself with feelings of guilt. It's all fine by me, just so long as you never spank a boy just for the fun of it."
She was right, of course. That night was a pretty stormy one. We went to bed early and put on repeat performances every half hour or so until about three in the morning. When I woke at seven I was hard again and we had yet another session. As we drank our coffee and ate our cereal at the table a bit later Sam, rather wearily, spoke again.
"I must have a word with James. Last night was quite fun, but I will be totally exhausted if he gets into the habit of being naughty."
That was all five years ago. Sam and I moved to Cambridge two years ago. Until then, we went on seeing James, Rebecca and the girls daily. James never shoplifted again. When he was fourteen he was caught smoking at school. Rebecca was rung by the headmaster. She came straight to me and asked me to give him another thrashing. I refused. I said that he had reached an age when such an easy option should not be taken. I advised a month's grounding. She reluctantly agreed. He came to me that day, after Rebecca had passed sentence, and begged me to give him six ("with the cane if necessary"). But I didn't give in. He was a little moody for a few days, but he soon cheered up. The day before we left Oxford James had lunch with me in the flat. For the first time for three years we talked again about his experiment with crime. He raised the subject.
"Tom, I don't want to be all embarrassing about it, but I can't let you go without thanking you properly for what you did for me three years ago. I used to think it was silly when I read school stories about boys who thanked schoolmasters for caning them. But you've shown me that I was the silly one. I hope I would never have shoplifted again whatever you and Mum had done. But that whacking you gave me really made sure of it. I know you didn't have to do it and it can't have been fun when you did. But it was what I really needed and I want you to know that I will always be grateful to you."
I proposed to Sam last year. She accepted me immediately. I couldn't believe my luck. I asked her, after she had accepted, whether she could really put up with me, knowing what she did about my interest in the punishment of boys. Her answer was direct.
"If you'd agreed to beat James for smoking I would have had to think very carefully about it. The fact that you refused convinced me that you were the man to father my children. I hope we will have lots of little Toms. If we do, I can be sure that they will never be spanked by their father unless they really deserve it. I'm not sure that there are many men about whom that could be said.".
Next week we are to be married. Rebecca's daughters are to be bridesmaids. James, at the tender age of seventeen, is to be best man. If we do have sons, I hope I will never lift a finger against them. In fact, I already have a little plan forming in my head. I just wonder whether James, who is a very bright boy, might not like an academic life. If he does, and I could get him a job here in Cambridge, we could rent him our top floor flat. If any son of mine really needed a hiding, I might be able to persuade James to do the job for me. I've checked, and that size 11 plimsoll is still here. We'll have to wait and see ........