Shane was givivg me my evening smacking and my arse was already tough and leathery, as I knelt before him, my back bent low and my head clamped between his ankles.
"Harder!" said Matthew, and then he said to me "You're booked for some blacks tomorrow, boy."
I wasn't sure I had heard correctly, because my ears were muffled by Shane's jeans, but it appeared I had, because Matthew continued.
"Make sure you have some good pictures out of it, boy. I want lots of black hands on your lily-white bottom."
I should explain that Matthew made me have photos taken when I was lent out for punishment. He was proud of his growing album, and he intended to have what he called an exhibition later in the year, with demonstrations on the hour.
So the next day I found myself at Brighton Station, standing with my hands clasped behind my head in accordance with instructions, outside the gentlemen's toilet and waiting to be picked up. Quite soon a black man came up to me, obviously for me because there aren't that many blacks around in Sus_s_e_x_, even in Brighton. He was well-built I could see, and I saw later with buttocks to die for. He studied me for a few seconds, reached around me to feel my bottom, seemed to be tolerably satisfied and said, "C'mon, boy, let's go."
After traipsing up the hill opposite the station, we came to a stucco-fronted house and mounted to a room right at the top, comfortable enough but rather sparsely furnished. There was, however, a kind of trestle, which I guessed, correctly, was for me. But first my host made three telephone calls.
"Lee, the whiteboy's here ... " and something similar to the other two, but I think he said "white trash."
They came within a minute or two. That area must be a hotbed of spanking enthusiasts, I suppose. Sir had occupied the time by getting me to strip and inspecting me for cleanliness. And when they did come, to my surprise they all stripped off too. A bonus, that didn't normally happen. They were all four well-developed young men, and I was overwhelmed by the sight of their glistening black bodies. And of course it made the whole thing rather jollier, a bit like a party, the more so because they were all laughing with that peculiar high-pitched cackle they have at my tiny tackle.
They had a beer apiece while I stood in the corner. I soon gathered the mates were called Lee, Winnie (Winston?) and Elvin, though Sir was called Sid and did indeed sound very English, while the others were distinctly Caribbean. Sir called me over and I was tied to the trestle. Each of them slapped me a few times as if testing, and in a mirror conveniently and I suspect deliberately placed I saw their sinewy black hands descending on my poor little cheeks and already reddening them. They were tingling, I could feel that.
Then each had a turn in earnest, and I can vouch for the legendary strength of the black race. Sir started off and he smacked allegro, slaps at two-second intervals I think, and I was soon gasping and my bottom smarting like hell. I calculated afterwards that he must have given me three hundred blows. I knew why he had those rippling biceps.
Lee had a slower, more deliberate pace. He took longer but the effect was similar, but with this rhythm I could study his legs wth their tapering calves and large, splayed African-looking feet. But gradually my need to moan and struggle took over. My cheeks were clenched and I writhed at each smack. On and on - smack, smack, smack, smack ... !
Winnie liked to syncopate. Dum, dum, dum-diddy-dum. My arse was strangely charged as if a current was passing from one buttock to the other and back. And I screamed, and screamed at the pain till they made Winnie pause while they gagged me with some sticky tape. I looked like a parcel held up at the sorting-office, but with a crimson protuberance.
That left Elvin. He had no rhythm at all, and that was the most maddening experience for me, my cheeks clenching in anticipation, then relaxing, only to shake like an earth tremor as his huge, black hand descended again. My arse felt like embers in the grate, and amidst it all I could feel beneath me where we had become interlaced, black and white.
Suddenly, relief. Lee remembered they only had ten minutes to get to Marvin's for their dominoes. They let me go.
I suppose because this interracial stuff was new to me, I had completely forgotten about the digital camera in my pocket, complete with timer device. Oh, God! Matthew would exact a heavy penalty for that. My bottom would be burning again when I got back to Littlehampton.
Ii did burn, and how! But I must have done something right, or at least given satisfaction, as Matthew reluctantly conceded.
"The blacks want you back at the end of the month, boy, they're having a stag night for Sid."