He enters the room and tells me to put the pen down. Then, standing behind me, he flicks through the pages of the copy-book. "Well, it doesn't look like you've completed your task boy, does it?"
"No Sir".
He gets me to stand up and hold my right hand out. This is going to be very unpleasant. This was the position of choice in my childhood when being punished by parents or teachers. Of course my bottom received plenty of attention too, but for those everyday misdemeanours it was always the cane or strap on the hands. I loathe this method with all my heart, the sting of the strap seems to be multiplied by its application to upturned palms. But worst of all, this position feels to me like the most submissive thing a boy has to do. To stand there, in front of the person who is about to thrash you, to see them eye to eye, and to hold out a hand in total passive obedience while the instrument is lifted up and whipped down. Bending over, even bared, is easier. Being strapped on the hands means that I am an active participant in my own punishment.
I get three sharp whacks on my right hand. Then I have to hold out my left hand. Three more.
When he returns the strap to the desk I find my hands have dived for safety and comfort under my armpits. The stinging is as awful as it ever was and I know that my face is flushed and that, even though I'm not actually crying, I feel as if I'm not far off breaking down into the tears of a whinging little boy. I must look a sight, standing there in short-trousered school uniform trying to ease the pain in my hands. He smiles and tousles my hair. "I'm going to take your homework downstairs with me and correct it after I put you into bed. We'll deal with any spelling mistakes in the morning. Now, come over here boy".
He sits on the bed and orders me to remove my shoes. That done, he undresses me, folding my clothes and putting them on a shelf in the wardrobe. I've not seen inside the wardrobe before but now I see that my role-play clothes are there along with other clothes that look suitably boyish. There's a couple of school blazers hanging up and if I'm not mistaken, about six or seven pairs of grey school shorts. There are other clothes but I don't really get a good look as the wardrobe door is closed and Daddy is now leading me back out towards the bathroom.
He has laid brown paper on the floor and I am told to stand on it with my hands on top of my head and my feet apart. Daddy picks up an electric hair-clipper. This is it, I think. I try to work out how long it was since my last shaving, how long it took for this hair to grow back to how it is now. Nearly a year. I had a whole summer of unembarrassed sun-bathing and shorts-wearing, knowing that I was as manly a guy as anyone else. But I understand this guy's point of view. Body hair is a barrier, it gets in the way of total submission. Once removed I will still be a big guy, but I will undoubtedly look younger. The clippers are set to cut short and my body-hair is being shaved off quickly. He pulls the cheeks of my bottom apart to get the shaver in as close as possible. In the mirror I am looking at my denuded pubic area. It doesn't help that I am feeling cold and my sac has clenched up tight. I am circumcised and the red tip of my penis has shrunk back towards my pelvis. Even the straightest of straight blokes would understand the symbolism of this act if he happened to see me naked. A guy without pubes is a boy under discipline, a controlled lad who lives his life under the authority of another. I may be tall for a boy, I may be heavy, I may bear the evidence of my thirty-eight years on my face, but from the neck down I am undoubtedly juvenile. The extra couple of inches that I carry on my waist has been transformed into puppy fat. I am a boy.
Daddy smacks my bottom and tells me to get straight into the bath. It has already been filled and I sit there enjoying the warmth while Daddy clears away the paper with my shorn hair. On his return he starts to soap my body, his hands reaching down gently. I feel as if I am in some sort of trance, a relaxed and happy youngster. That all changes when he picks up a scrubbing brush and starts cleaning the back of my neck. "You filthy little boy, how on earth do you manage to get so much dirt behind your ears?"
He tells me to change my position, to kneel and bend over so that my bottom is positioned for easier scrubbing. He smacks me a couple of times, reminding me to stay still. The scrubbing brush is put to work. I had pretty well recovered from the spanking he gave me when I arrived but my backside is still tender enough to be extra sensitive to those bristles. I am sore and feeling very vulnerable. He stops scrubbing and I wait for him to tell me to adjust my position. But he doesn't.
Seconds pass and then I feel something hard being pressed against my hole. He presses hard and it hurts. It takes me a moment to register the fact that he is inserting something up inside me and then I obediently relax my muscles. I feel liquid squirting up into my bowels. Some kind of enema or douche. It doesn't take long and I am told to stand up, get out of the bath, and wait. There doesn't seem to be much liquid inside me so I guess that this was just a quick douche but all the same it's been a while since I was last cleaned out like this and I can feel the muscles around my stomach begin to cramp. He gives me permission to sit on the toilet and release. I look up at him, he's still smiling. There is something shaming about having to do this in front of another guy but a bit of me knows that this guy doesn't really see me as being in any way an adult anymore. He has made a child of me and he doesn't feel that there is any reason for me to feel at all embarrassed about having Daddy stand over me and make sure that I clean my bottom properly.
That done, I am told to resume position standing by the bath. Daddy removes two jars from the medicine box over the sink. I know the design well enough to realise that my shaven body is going to look juvenile and immature for some time to come. He's using Nair, smoothing it all over and paying extra special attention to my bottom and pubic area. The minutes pass and I am ordered back into the bath. This time he hands me a plastic scraper and tells me to remove the cream myself. I don't blame him, this is caustic stuff. I work as quickly as I can but I can't reach everywhere on my back so he takes the scraper from me. The water is beginning to chill and when I am finally allowed out of the bath I am shivering. But he doesn't let me dry off immediately. Instead I have to clean the bath, afterall it's my filth. He wanders off somewhere while I scrub at the tide-mark which is mostly the result of the hair removal cream and is clogged up with the thousands of little bristles that had been left behind by the clippers. I am still scrubbing when he returns. He has brought the tawse back with him and he whips it down across my bottom, once, twice, three times, four. Numbers five and six land across the back of my legs. "Get a move on boy, stop dawdling, and make sure you do a good job there".
I finish and he inspects the bath. Naturally I have failed to do a good enough job. "Hands out boy".
It's only two strokes, one on each hand, but it is enough to reawaken the pain of my earlier hand-strapping. This time the tears actually escape into my eyes and for a moment I stand before him with my vision clouded. I don't really understand the next order. He tells me to get into the shower and not to move until I am told to move. He turns the tap and steps back. Cold water cascades over me for what seems like ages. Afterwards he towels me dry, and touches my penis which has shrivelled in the cold. My testicles have sought refuge from the chilling water and are completely retracted back inside me.
Daddy whispers into my ear. "Such a sweet little, little boy. We better get you ready for bed now. Little boys like you need early bedtimes if they are to get enough sleep and grow up big like Daddy".
He expertly folds the large square nappy into a kite shape on the bed and orders me to lie down on it. Then he picks up a digital camera and takes a dozen or so shots of me, concentrating on my tiny penis. More photos follow when he pins the nappy on me and pulls up the plastic pants. It's the first time since I was about two years old that I have found myself wearing a nappy. I certainly have no memory of that time but there is a strangely comforting sense of security in being dressed like this. Daddy goes over to the wardrobe and takes out a pyjama top. It's a tight fit but then it would be, I saw the label before he put it on me; "15 - 16 years old". On the chest it has a cartoon style picture of a boy playing football. It's not something I brought with me. This is from daddy's collection and I wonder how many boys have worn it before me. He takes another couple of photos of me standing there in my nappy and boyish top. Then I am ordered into bed and tucked in. Daddy warns me against playing with myself, and tells me that on no account am I to get out of bed before he comes in in the morning to wake me up. "Not for any reason whatsoever. Now good night my good little boy". He kisses me on the forehead and leaves the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
I don't know what time it is. The last time I saw a watch or a clock was when I arrived here just after lunch. There was the first spanking across daddy's lap. There was some cornertime. There was the time spent doing my homework. There was the long time in the bathroom. Even so it can only be somewhere about eight o'clock at the very latest. It's not quite dark outside and I can hear the sound of a ball being kicked against a wall somewhere nearby.
I've had nothing to eat or drink since lunch, and I guess that I'm not getting anything either. Afterall, I'm tucked up in bed now. Sent to bed early, wrapped up in a nappy, with no supper. Nothing but a thrashed bottom and stinging hands.
The nappy is tight around my waist and I can't get my hands down under it. I don't want to try loosening it because I'm sure I won't be able to get it back on properly and it doesn't take much to imagine the consequences if this guy suspects that I've been trying to give myself a bit of comfort.
I can hear my new Daddy moving about downstairs. At some stage the doorbell goes. I hear voices, Daddy and some other man. There's laughter. They must be in the sitting room. I can't make out any words but they are talking and laughing for what seems like a long time. The yellow light of a street lamp is being filtered through the bedroom curtains and strange shadows are being cast on the walls. There's a sudden burst of really loud laughter. I lie there absolutely still. I dare not make a noise because I don't want this visitor to know that I am here. But what if he has already been told? What if Daddy brings him up here to see this adult bloke lying in a child's bed, wearing a nappy over a well-spanked bottom? I'll just have to lie here and pretend to be asleep.
It happened once before. I was visiting a guy who really liked to wield a cane. He had thrashed me over my shorts and then bare. From time to time he would leave the room and I would be left to contemplate the caning I had received and the caning I was going to get when he returned. At some stage in the afternoon the doorbell had rung. I was in a bedroom at the top of the stairs, bent over a stool, waiting. The bedroom door was open and I could hear every word at first, then they started to speak more softly. There was a laugh, and the visitor said, "You lucky bastard. How do you do it?"
I just knew that he had been told about the young man who was wearing school uniform and waiting upstairs for his next caning. They went into the kitchen. There was the sound of a kettle being filled, the clink of crockery, the conversation continued. I waited silently, bent over, my grey school shorts tight over my throbbing bottom. These were my early days as an adult schoolboy and I had cut these shorts down from a pair of school trousers and hemmed them as neatly as I could. I had intended to make them as realistic as possible but in fact I had cut them rather short. This tutor had admired them when I bent over for the first six of the day. I guessed that I looked pretty good in them, incredibly caneable, possibly more.
They had come upstairs. They weren't speaking but I knew that they were both coming upstairs and I was quite worried. Two against one? But I remained in position. They came in and there was a whispered, "nice, very nice". I felt hands rub my backside through my shorts and then they reached around, undid the clip, and pulled the shorts down to my ankles along with my underpants.
My tutor spoke. "See this for a disgrace. Boy here turns up wearing extra heavy trunks. Must have thought they would give him some protection".
"Naughty, very naughty," was the quietly spoken response. "The boy obviously needs a lot of thrashing."
My tutor agreed, picked up the cane again and told me to count them.
"One Sir!"
"Two Sir!"
"Three Sir"
"Now boy, ask me to thrash you even harder".
"Yes Sir. Please Sir, would you be so kind as to thrash me even harder Sir".
"Certainly boy".
"Four Sir".
"Five Sir".
"You failed to ask me to thrash you harder. That'll be two extra boy".
With each stroke my back arched higher and higher. This was harder than any punishment I had ever been given before. I wanted it to stop but I didn't dare say so. To ask for it to stop would have meant turning around and letting the stranger see my face. I didn't want that. So I resumed the position, asked for an even harder thrashing, and counted them out. All the way to sixteen.
Two sets of hands massaged my bottom. The muscles in my bottom seemed to have gone into spasm at the shock. I lay there over the stool, gasping for air. They left the room. The stranger hadn't seen my face. I hadn't seen his.
That session scared the daylights out of me. And it filled the stuff of my masturbatory fantasies for ages afterwards. One of the best afternoons of my life as an adult boy.
There was another time. I had travelled quite a distance by train to be caned by a new tutor. It was an incredible session. But what I hadn't known was that this guy had a partner. His partner wasn't into caning so much but he obviously enjoyed watching. It was the partner who performed the "medical inspection" to make sure that I was fit to continue taking my canings. His partner's fingers were the fingers that _f_u_c_k_ed me and tested the response of my prostate to his massaging fingertips.
Would I have bent over in either house if I had known that there would be more than one guy? No way. Did I enjoy those sessions? Well, yes.
So as I am lying here in bed, do I really want my new Daddy to bring this visitor upstairs and show off his new boy? I really don't know. I close my eyes, and wait.
At some stage I wake up. I need to go the toilet and I start to move. Then I remember. I feel the bulk of the nappy. I know what is expected of me. I try, but it takes a surprisingly long time. Years of conditioning have taught my brain that I am not supposed to do this when I am lying on my side. But eventually it comes. First a dribble, and then complete relief. It doesn't feel too bad, but I don't seem to register the experience for long. Sleep comes quickly again.
I am awake really early. Or at least, I think that it must be really early. There's some daylight outside, it's getting brighter. A few cars pass by but otherwise it's still quiet. My nappy feels unpleasant. It's not quite cold but it's sort of clammy. My first night as an adult boy put back into nappies. A milestone of some sort.
I wait for Daddy to get up, remembering that I am to be a good boy and stay in bed until he tells me that it's time to get up. But it's a long wait. I look around the room again thinking about how many other guys like me have woken up in this bed, their bottoms sore and their nappies soaked. How many others have waited here for Daddy to come and announce that another day of caning and strapping and little humiliations is about to begin.
There was a time when I thought that I was the only one. The only eleven year old who thought that others boys looked really smart in shorts. The only teenager who had a secret pair of shorts. The only sixteen year old who thought that it would be nice if some of the guys wore traditional short trousers and kneesocks. The only adult who fantasized about being put back into shorts and told to bend over. Then the internet came along and blew my solitude apart. There were lots of us. And quite a few guys who wanted to see us in our school uniforms and wanted to have us across their laps for a slippering or bent over for the cane.
I consider the possibility of spending a few days here along with another adult boy. This Daddy is clearly equipped for that. There's space in this room for another bed. And all those shorts in the wardrobe! Why, he could have a whole class of us. I feel that sweet familiar morning erection struggle into being. I need to adjust myself, the nappy is a bit looser now. I guess it's stretched with being wet or simply loosened as the hours went by. I can get my hand in and begin to stroke myself. Daddy's up, I can hear him moving.
He goes into the bathroom, goes downstairs. My hand is back outside my plastic pants, I didn't have time to get up to any real mischief. I wait, wondering what plans he has for me today. It's Saturday morning. We have all day today. We have all day tomorrow. We have all day Monday. We have most of Tuesday. I'm really in for it this time. Let's face it, that's a lot of spanking and strapping and caning. And I guess, probably three more nights of early bedtimes and nappies and shaming hours in the bathroom.
He comes back upstairs and into my bedroom. He is dressed, shaved, looking happy and ready to face the day. "Have you been a good little boy for Daddy?"
He pulls the bedding off me and sits down beside me, tousling my hair. "Let's see then".
He reaches into my nappy and suddenly his face turns severe and angry-looking. "Wet again! And you insisted that you were a big boy. Sixteen years old and still wetting himself at night!" Daddy takes the tawse from the desk and tells me to turn over. Two vicious strokes across the back of my thighs, landing just below the hem of the plastic pants. I bite into the pillow, but there's no more. I'm sent to the bathroom and told to shave, brush my teeth, and come straight back. When I return Daddy is sticking a sheet of paper on the wall. "Michael's bedwetting chart". He has written a large W in the first box. No stars for me today then.
He doesn't change me. I have to wear that wet nappy through breakfast and while I am washing the dishes. I need to go to the toilet again but he just says that I will have to use the nappy again. When eventually he takes me into the bathroom and strips me I can feel the stinging and see the redness of a bit of rash. The bath is cold as he washes me. "I'm not wasting hot water on boys who can't stay dry for one night". I don't say a word, none is called for. This may be role play but it's getting through to me.
I don't escape a few smacks on my bottom and legs before we return to the bedroom and he starts to dress me. He doesn't select any of the clothes that I brought with me. Instead he starts off with a little pair of light blue Bart Simpson briefs, very tight-fitting. The socks are also light blue and only ankle length; the top is a long-sleeved t-shirt, white with blue stripes, again a bit tight. It takes him a bit of rummaging in that wardrobe before he finds the shorts that he wants me to wear. They are navy pull-up type shorts and incredibly short in the leg, but they fit cosily around my waist. They are made of a stretchy fabric and I can just imagine what I look like in them. There are no pockets and they don't have a proper fly but they do have belt loops, and through these a striped elastic snake-belt is threaded. Daddy pats my bum. "If you need nappies for bed you can't expect to be allowed to wear big-boy school shorts like that nice pair you were wearing yesterday".
I am told to sit at the old school desk. He looks at his watch, checking the time, and then hands me a school-book, a poetry anthology. There's a poem in it that I am to have word-perfect when he calls me downstairs in about an hour. I will get the cane for any lines that I get wrong, and I'm in for a good thrashing for the atrocious spelling in the essay I wrote yesterday. "So concentrate boy because I certainly have no objections to using the strap and cane to beat some knowledge into that skull of yours".
I've always hated learning things off by heart. My school reports used to state with painful frequency that I had failed to do homework because teachers used to insist, "If you'd learnt it boy you'd know it. Hold your hand out".
I stare at the page and begin to repeat the lines to myself, hoping against all hope that I may learn enough to be spared at least some of the forthcoming punishment.
"With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill ...."
I struggle to learn the lines of the first stanza. It's a nice imagine though, a boy, a hill, a bicycle. Carefree and fun-filled and certainly not sitting at a desk feeling cold and sore. There's laughter outside and some shouting. I look and can see three boys kicking a football around a small green on the other side of the road. They must be about eleven or twelve years old and they look cool and happy in their fashionable gear. One of them is wearing those trousers that are cut-off just above the ankles. When he kicks the ball I get a glimpse of an inch or so of skin. That's just about as short as boys nowadays ever wear their trousers at this time of year. Even a four year-old would object to wearing little shorts like the pair I am wearing. I feel cold, my legs are covered in goose-bumps and the t-shirt top isn't very warm. I shiver and turn back to the poem.
"Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy, ...."
Daddy calls me. I have to go downstairs now and I know that I am going to struggle to recite my verses. I glance out at the lads on the green. No fear of them having to bend over for the strap. If I was really a boy again I would be out there with them. I wouldn't have to consider the possibility of getting the cane or even just a smacked leg. I would be wearing long trousers.
Downstairs I have to stand to attention. I've not been in this room before, it's a proper study. Books on shelves, a big antique desk, one of those desk-lamps with a green shade. The window looks out onto the back-garden. I can see the shrubs and trees as I look over Daddy's shoulder. He is sitting behind the desk, he has my copy-book in his hands. I am standing in the middle of the room. I am standing straight, hands by my sides, my finger tips touching my bare legs. My shorts are so short that I can feel the hems rubbing against my wrists.
"I said three thousand words boy, and what do you give? A thousand words an hour, that's not too much to ask, is it boy".
I really don't know, I've never counted, I have no idea how fast I can write. I can't answer the question and stumble out a stuttered, "I, I, I d....d....ddon't know, SSSir". I must be really nervous, I never stutter and I'm not pretending to either, but then I have good reason to be frightened. There are four canes standing upright in the corner over to my left.
"You don't know. You don't appear to know anything, do you boy?"
Another question to which there is no answer. "I try to Sir".
"Try, try, try. Pathetic little wretch. One thousand, eight hundred, and thirty-two words, boy. That's all I've got here. Appalling. And as for the spelling. Atrocious. When Mister Grayson was here last night I asked him to read through it, to check that I wasn't being unreasonable. And what do you think he said, boy?"
"I, I don't know Sir".
"He said that I should fetch you down out of your bed and cane you there and then for your cheek in handing me such a slovenly piece of work. You wretched little boy. You wouldn't have liked that, would you boy? Stand up straight and look at me when I'm talking to you".
It doesn't really matter what he says. I know that I am going to be punished, the only question that remains is the actual sentence. How many strokes. Daddy is holding three envelopes, I am to choose one. He tells me that I am getting the junior cane over my shorts. The envelope I choose will dictate the number. One envelope contains the words, "twelve strokes", another says twenty-four. The third says, "roll two dice". He shuffles the envelopes, I choose the middle one. He asks me if I'm sure, absolutely certain that this is my choice. I am so nervous that I can barely whisper, "yes Sir".
I open the envelope. It's the dice. Daddy is smiling.
I figure that at a maximum of twelve it can't be too bad. It's better than twenty-four. Daddy hands a pair of dice to me. I roll them on the desk. Three and a four.
"Seven", I think, "I can handle that".
Daddy looks at me. "A three and a four boy." He smiles. "And three fours are what, boy".
"Twelve Sir".
I stretch out across the desk and feel my little shorts stretching with me. Daddy pulls them up a bit further. The first stroke lands sharply across the middle of my bottom. I am to count out each stroke. "One Sir".
The next is a bit higher, the third a little lower. I scream on the fourth. Daddy has brought the cane down just below the hem of my shorts. It's still on my bottom, but on the bare, and I wasn't expecting it. My spine reflexes.
"You moved boy. That one won't count".
By the time I get to count out, "twelve, Sir", I am in agony. Daddy placed at least half of them on bare skin, my shorts being so short that most of my bottom seems to have been exposed. In the course of my punishment Daddy felt obliged to repeat five strokes. When he tells me to stand up again, I do so very gently.
Back in the middle of the room I have to stand to attention again and recite my poem.
I state the name of the poem. I start off, "With lifted feet, hands still ...." So far, so good, I feel. I work my way towards the end, ".... who toils whatsoever, will find wings waiting there." I think that the wings waiting bit is right but I'm pretty certain that I've not it all absolutely correct. But with any luck I've managed enough to make my punishment bearable.
"Pathetic boy, absolutely pathetic. A mere twenty-four lines, a short little poem. And you butcher it".
Apparently I got the first stanza right, and a few other lines. But that still leaves fifteen lines to be atoned for. This time it's the tawse. I am told to bend over the back of an armchair. Daddy pulls my shorts and underpants down towards my knees. I am to count out each stroke again. Daddy takes his time. Each stroke comes down hard. There is that sharp pain, that lingering stinging. There is the fact that I am being strapped on top of that awful caning. Somewhere towards the end I realise that my nose is running and there are tears in my eyes. I actually sob out the numbers, "Fourteen Sir. Fifteen Sir".
Standing in front of Daddy I find myself sniffing. "There, there boy. Now if only you put more effort into your homework we wouldn't have to do this, would we boy". Daddy hands the copy-book and the poetry book back to me. I am to go back up to my bedroom and start work on another essay. Daddy has written the title on the page after my previous sorry effort. I am also to look at the poem again. I will be called down for lunch. After lunch we will go for a nice walk in the park and then, when we get back, we'll see if I can do any better at the nice poem.
Upstairs I am still near tears. I open the copy-book, and picking up the pen, I try to imagine a way of making a start on such an awful subject.
"The only good boy is a boy who has just been thrashed".
The lads are still out there on the green with their football. How I envy them.