I'm sitting at the desk. I have to write a three thousand-word essay in my very best handwriting. The topic that I have been set is this: "Firm traditional discipline, with the regular and frequent application of corporal punishment, would have made a better man of me".
The pen in my hand is of a type that I have seen but never actually used before. It is wooden with a metal nib and has to be dipped in an inkpot frequently. The prep school I joined as a seven year old in 1973 had some ancient desks in some classrooms. These were only used by the older boys and they used pens like these, dipping them into inkpots that were built into the desks and had little brass sliding covers. But by the time I was an older boy the pen had been replaced by the biro and I'm not so sure that our handwriting was any better for that change.
I'm struggling to use this pen without blotting everything in sight. It's going to take a very long time to write this essay but then, a very long time is what I've got. I was set this task by a gentleman who insisted on having me strip naked as soon as I arrived. We had hardly said hello, meeting for the very first time, but he wasn't going to have any delay. This long weekend would be on his terms, not mine. Once I had removed my clothes, standard casual wear for a guy in his mid to late thirties, he had taken the folded pile upstairs and put them away. When he came down he walked over to me and slapped the back of my legs several times before ordering me to put my hands on top of my head and stand facing into a corner. I heard him going through my weekend bag and imagined him taking each item out for inspection, checking that I had brought the clothes that he had listed in the emails which preceded this visit.
I pictured him lifting out my special clothes one by one. First there would be the two grey school shirts from the JL department store. Neatly ironed and folded and placed on top to avoid creasing. Then the two pairs of grey short trousers. One pair made by David Luke, lined in white cotton, and offering a generous inside leg of over six inches, the second pair lined in white nylon and offering no more than an inch of inside leg. These extra short school shorts were brand new having been bought to meet this gentleman's requirement that I should bring a suitable pair of juvenile punishment shorts. After the shirts and shorts he would have extracted three pairs of white cotton trunks and two pairs of white briefs, all bearing the tags which proclaimed that they were of a size suitable for boys, age 15 - 16. These would have been followed by: two white vests, three pairs of plain grey kneesocks, two pairs of kneesocks with navy turnover tops, one pair of shortie pyjamas (extra short shorts), two school ties, one navy jumper, and one pair of garters with navy flashes. My sponge-bag would have come out last along with a pair of brown leather sandals. My black shoes were still on the floor, I was wearing them when I arrived.
There was some movement, and then I heard him going up the stairs again. I presumed that he was putting my special wardrobe away in a bedroom. As he came down again I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten and a tingling ran down my spine.
I know this feeling well. It's always the same. After the email exchanges and the telephone calls and the arranging of appointments it always comes to this. That I have actually turned up. I am really going to be spanked and caned. I will feel pain, a lot of it. I will have to do as I am told even if I don't want to. I have given up all control and I must submit, accept that I am no longer an adult. I have become a boy again, and this man is my teacher, my tutor, my uncle, my Daddy. He will decide. He will tell me what to do. I will obey.
But right now as he is coming down the stairs I am thinking, "why am I doing this? Why don't I just turn around and tell him that it's all been a terrible mistake, that I am sorry for wasting his time, that I have to leave right now?" But I know that having come here I will submit. I will obey until the time that we have agreed would be the time for me to change back into those adult clothes and leave. In this case that is a long way away. It's Friday afternoon and I have agreed to stay until Tuesday evening. It's a ridiculously long time for a first encounter with another man. There is the possibility that this will not turn out well, there is real danger. So I shudder but I will be an obedient boy. I will take my punishment. I will bend over and ask to be thrashed. I will do whatever chores I am given. I will undertake whatever schoolwork I am set. I will try to be a good boy even though I know that, no matter how good and well-behaved I may be, I will be punished. And yes, if I am ordered, I will kneel before this gentleman and take his manly _c_o_c_k_ into my mouth and suck for all I am worth. I want to please this total stranger and I will go through with it.
He entered the room and I heard him sit down. There was silence, a long silence. I heard him sigh a few times, not loudly, just the heavy breathing of an older man who knows that soon he is going to have to exert himself. I imagined his eyes examining the back of my body, my hair, my shoulders, my back, my bottom. His eyes linger on my bottom. He's thinking about how white it is. There is a tanline at the top of my legs, my bottom nicely contrasted above. This white skin will soon be red, perhaps even bruised. This skin will bear the marks of hairbrush, slipper, strap, and cane. In four days time this white bottom will be a very well punished bottom. An hour ago this was a man's backside, right now it is the bared bottom of a boy who is awaiting his punishment.
And I wonder. I think back to other encounters. The guy who insisted on starting sessions by administering an enema. The guys who caned me and then inserted fingers up inside me and gently finger-_f_u_c_k_ed me. The guy who liked to have me wear a butt-plug when we went out for walks. The guys who had _f_u_c_k_ed me while I bit into the mattress and tried to master the pain. That guy who had insisted that I turn over and look into his eyes while he _f_u_c_k_ed me. This guy knows that we have set no limits. I can't handle limits, they leave me with too much control when I want to submit and obey. Instead I have decided to trust him. So I wonder. I wonder whether this guy will want to _f_u_c_k_ me. It's actually not something I enjoy, but if he wants to I will accept his authority. That's just the way it is. He is in charge. And I am standing here naked, my face pressed into a corner, while his eyes continue their inspection.
I'm not thin, I don't bother with a fitness regime; let's face it, with a waist that is never less than 36" I am at least chubby and in need of losing a couple of stone. But he knew that before I arrived. Right now he is looking at my well-developed thighs and thinking about how much pain he can inflict on me by concentrating his spanking on my upper legs. He's looking at that spot where a well-aimed cane will have the most effect. He's not thinking about how he can spare me or be gentle with me. Right now he's thinking about how much pain he can inflict on me. And he's probably thinking, "he's a chubby lad, stout. It will take a good thrashing to make any impression on him". Little does he know.
I know that he will probably start off by smacking me with his hand. That's fine. Then he will pick up something like a hairbrush or a wooden spoon or an old running shoe, and with the very first whack I will be in agony. I really can't take the pain. But I'm a boy now, a boy who is going to be punished, and punishment means pain. I must be a complete idiot to be standing here like this. Why do I search out these encounters? What drives me to do this, to do exactly what I know will be unpleasant and painful?
I don't know. What I do know is that by now his eyes have probably completed their inspection. He will have noted that my legs are tanned and hairy. My bottom has hairs too. He saw my pubic hair earlier when he first ordered me to strip. Some guys don't mind, they just want to spank and cane and thrash and they don't seem to really notice body hair. Other guys like to make things that bit more realistic. They like their boys smooth and they will either require that the lad is hairless before he arrives or they will take it off him sometime during the scene. I'm guessing that this guy likes his guys to be as boyish looking as possible. He's going to be a shaver. I don't particularly mind. It's been a bit embarrassing a couple of times before, like that time I had suspected appendicitis and had to visit the doctor just a few days after a session. Smooth and caned I was then and the doctor didn't say a word. And there have been some looks on summer days as people have glanced at my legs. But it's been nearly a year since my last session. I've got hair again. But I suspect that it's only temporary hair. It will be coming off soon. Some things you just know.
There's an intake of breath. He's getting ready to speak.
"Well boy, I suppose we had better get started then. Turn around and come over here".
I turn around, carefully keeping my hands on top of my head and walk over to him. He is sitting on a sofa. He is clothed, I am naked. I stand beside him. My legs are actually trembling again. He reaches out with his left hand and grips my penis and draws me closer to him. My legs are touching his thighs. He looks up at me, smiles, and squeezes my penis. With his right hand he pats his lap and says, "over you come, boy". He lets go of me. I lie down across his lap. He gently rubs my bottom. And then it comes, the first smack.
I was right. He likes to start off with his hand. His hand, my bare bottom. And he smacks. There's no counting, no pause. Just smack after smack. I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable. He is concentrating on my legs now. Up and down, left leg, right leg, smack! Smack!
It's beginning to feel just a bit painful. I've been here a few minutes and the cumulative effect of smack upon smack is beginning to tell. Then, just for a moment, he breaks his rhythm, and now I am really feeling it. He has picked up something, I don't know what, and now we have switched from smacking to spanking. Whatever it is that he has got in his hand certainly stings. Gawd this is nasty. He continues. Mostly on my bottom, but he also delivers the occasional whack to the back of my legs. This guy really knows his stuff. I bite into the cushion of the sofa, this is really getting through to me.
And then he stops. One hand massages my throbbing bottom, the other hand reaches down and strokes my penis. I am not hard, I do not have an erection. That was a punishment spanking and strangely enough, even though this is the stuff of my nightly fantasies, I always go limp when I am punished. He squeezes and then lets me go. I am ordered to stand. I glance down and see it. A shoe-horn. I've never had that before, never even heard of someone being spanked with one of these. But it makes sense, a nice piece of plastic, and it certainly works.
He tells me to get dressed. On another chair he has left some of my special clothes. There's no vest, so I pull on a grey shirt first. Then I step into the white trunks. My short trousers are next. He has chosen the really short shorts and they don't really cover my underpants. Socks up, garters on, tops turned over neatly. He points to the shoes, polished this morning and still shining bright, so they go on next. A blue and red tie is followed by my navy school jumper. That's it. I turn towards him, my hands by my side, and await his inspection. He smiles, "very nice, boy, very nice".
I wonder if he has noticed that my shorts have become a little bit tighter. This is something else that happens every time. There's something about these traditional school shorts that always does it for me. I've got the beginnings of an erection but I dare not adjust myself to lift my trunks and shorts over my penis and make things a bit more comfortable down there. But I'm not going to risk another spanking, so I leave myself alone. I do so want to be a really good boy.
He comes over to me and slides his hands under the legs of my little shorts. He pulls my trunks down a little so that my white underpants can now be seen clearly. "Such a good little boy", he whispers into my ear. "You do want to be a good little boy for Daddy, don't you."
So that's it. Daddy. Until now it was just "Sir", and I had kind of thought that this would be one of those pupil and headmaster things. But I'm fine with this.
"Yes Daddy, I want to be a really good and obedient little boy for you".
He pats the back of my shorts. "Well now, it's time for Daddy's boy to go up to his room and do some homework".
He leads me upstairs into the bathroom. I have to stand at the toilet while he pulls my shorts and trunks down. The he reaches round me and takes my penis and aims it at the toilet bowl. I understand all this. I am Daddy's little boy, this is just how we do things in this house. When I am finished he shakes my penis and pulls my pants back up. Before he zips my shorts up again he pinches my pubes. "This will have to come off won't it boy? We'll deal with this later when I give you your bath. I've got some nice cream here that will take all this nasty hair off. You'll like that, won't you boy".
He leads me into a small bedroom. There's a child's bed against one wall. It has been made up with blankets and sheets rather than the usual duvet. I'm taken aback by three things that are lying on the bed. There's a teddy bear. That's not so unusual. But there's also a large square towelling nappy and a pair of plastic pants. I really was not expecting that. In fact, I've never had that before in a session and I'm not at all sure about the implications. He catches my glance. "We can't risk any accidents now, can we boy? I know that you think that you're a big boy, a teenager. But Daddy also knows about your bedwetting so Daddy is just taking some precautions."
I'm a little bit startled by this. We certainly didn't talk about this when we set up this session. We didn't even exchange real names. How can he know that I was a teenage bedwetter? But I realise that he doesn't actually know about that. This is the scene. We've not spoken about it before, we've not written a script or set out any parameters, but I now know where this is going.
I'm a teenage boy sent back to live with his strict father. I have been put back into shorts again and my Daddy believes in corporal punishment for boys. Even though I am a teenager I will be treated like a little boy. Daddy will take me to the toilet and help me wee. Daddy will give me my bath. Daddy will remove my pubic hair and all the other big boy hair that I have been so proud of. Daddy will make me wear nappies to bed and I will be sent to bed quite early. Daddy's in charge and I am Daddy's obedient little boy.
He turns me to face the little desk. It's an old-fashioned school desk, one of those with a frame that has desk and a folding seat. It was built for two boys sitting side by side. Built for two teenage boys, so it's a bit of a squeeze and not terribly comfortable. I feel my bare knees rub against that underside of the desk. The seat feels quite hard on my tender bottom. There are six things on the desk-top. There's a brand new copy-book. There's a bottle of blue ink. There's one of these old-style pens. There's a ruler and a pad of blotting paper. And lying there, looking as innocent as anything, there is a tawse.
Daddy picks the tawse up and tells me to sit up straight. I am staring at the leather instrument, absorbing every detail. It seems to be a fairly heavy strap, although not the heaviest. It's quite old looking, two-tailed, and I guess that this particular tawse has actually seen duty on the hands of pupils at some Scottish school. I don't know how he does it but when suddenly the tawse is in the air and Daddy has managed to bring it down across my bared upper legs. The pain is incredible and I really feel tears welling up in my eyes.
Daddy puts the tawse back down on the desk. "This will help you concentrate, boy. There'll be a lot more of that if you don't do a good job on your homework."
He opens the copy-book and on the first page he has written the title of the essay he wants me to write. " Firm traditional discipline, with the regular and frequent application of corporal punishment, would have made a better man of me."
"Three thousand words boy. No spelling mistakes, in your best handwriting. You've got three hours, I'll come back up and tell you when to stop. And you are not to move from this desk before I tell you to."
He left and went back downstairs. From time to time I can hear him moving about. I've made some progress but the catch is, I don't have a watch or a clock. I have no idea how much time I have left to do this. I'm not really sure that I can write that fast and anyway, I've still not got the hang of this blotting pen. The red stripe across my legs is really stinging and I have the nasty feeling that I am going to feel a lot more of that strap before the evening draws to a close and Daddy decides that it's time to get me ready for bed.
But I've got quite a bit written. I've just started a paragraph on why boys should be kept in short trousers and traditional school uniform until they are finished secondary school. Just writing about grey school shorts provokes a reaction from my penis. I reach down and rub my burgeoning erection through my little shorts. But hold on. It sounds as if Daddy is coming back up the stairs. My eyes fasten on the tawse. It can't be time already, can it?