MY NEPHEW 1963
PART 1
My nephew was fourteen the first time he spent the summer with me in my villa in the south of France. He was a well-behaved boy and I had no trouble with him. One evening, however, something seemed to get into to him as he became a little boisterous and, quite unintentionally, he ended up breaking an expensive item of Limoges porcelain. Being extremely annoyed, I ordered him to his room. He was reluctant to go and said to me, "Theres a very good film on soon. Do I have to go to my room? Why dont you spank me instead?"
I was somewhat taken aback by this and before I was able to reply he continued, "Itll be alright. Dad often whops me with his belt if I misbehave or cheek him and I get the cane at school."
"Are you sure," I said.
"Yes," he said firmly. "Your belt looks the same size as dads. Ill go over the end of the sofa." He kicked off his sandals, walked leisurely over to the sofa and placed a cushion on the arm. I started to pull my belt through the loops of my trousers not quite believing what was happening. I was even more astonished when he started to pull down his shorts and stepped out of them, folded them neatly and placed them on the seat of the sofa. He then turned to me and said, "I always get it on the bare," and proceeded to pull down his underpants. He did not take them off, but left them round his ankles. He then bent over the arm of the sofa, making himself comfortable on the cushion. His T-shirt was rather long and in the position he had adopted only the lower part of his buttocks was exposed.
Emboldened by the thought of my shattered porcelain, what I had just witnessed and the obvious willingness of the boy to be thrashed, I went up to him and lifted up his T-shirt pushing it right up his back so that he was naked from his armpits to his ankles.
"We dont want this getting in the way, do we?" I said.
He turned, smiling, and said, " Thats just what my housemaster says."
He settled himself back down and I turned my eyes to my target. I knew from the tight shorts he wore that his bottom was shapely, but I now saw it in its full glory, its perfection highlighted by the deep tan of his back above and his thighs below. I doubled my belt and rested it on the apex of his delightful derrière to take aim. As I lifted my arm he perceptibly raised his bottom as if to meet the expected stroke. I brought my arm down sharply and the leather landed with a crack which resounded round the sparsely furnished room. A broad band of red slowly appeared across the cheeks. The boy sank back into the cushion, but immediately raised himself up in readiness. The next two strokes were placed above and below the first. The boy continued raising himself up for each stripe. I momentarily considered where to aim the fourth and opted for the right flank to follow it with another opposite. I then delivered a really good stripe where the buttocks meet the thighs and the boy kept his behind well up. Repositioning myself so that I was now looking down the boys body from the middle of his back to his feet, I brought the belt down lengthwise on his left cheek and then on the right.
I halted the thrashing and asked, "How many do you get from your dad?"
"Usually twelve," was the reply.
"Four more to go then."
I returned to the side of the boy and the ninth stroke was whipped diagonally from top left to bottom right with the tenth answering symmetrically from top right to bottom left. By now he had stopped adopting a pert position for each stroke.
"Get that bottom up properly," I ordered.
He immediately thrust it up higher than he had before and kept it in position for the final two strokes without wavering. The penultimate stroke of the belt was directed to the lower bottom. Saving the hardest stroke for last, I lashed the belt down in the same position as the first stroke.
I stood back to view the effect of my methodical whipping and was pleased to see that I had left what was a creamy white bottom nice and evenly red.
"May I get up now?" asked my nephew.
"Of course," I replied.
He lifted himself up from the sofa and his T-shirt dropped down. Without pulling up his underpants he turned and faced me and said, "I am sorry I broke your china. I deserved that. You certainly know how to give a boy a good thrashing; dad never whopped me that hard."
"What about your housemaster," I said.
"Oh, hes a lot worse. He really lays into me with his cane. Hes a ba..."
Before he could finish the word, I was surprised to hear myself say, "I will not have that sort of language. Bend over again."
From the look on his face I think my nephew was equally surprised, but he obeyed immediately. Without pulling up his shirt, waiting for him to think about getting his bottom in the air or considering precise positioning I belted him three times as hard as I could. For the first time my nephew uttered a sound while he was being beaten. To be precise it was three sounds: "Ah!"
"No!" and "Stop!" I have since heard that there is nothing more likely to encourage the continuation of a beating than a request to stop and I was no exception to the rule. However, my sudden burst of anger had subsided and, compared to the three stinging strokes, the next three were light taps.
"Get up," I instructed.
He did so slowly and without turning to meet my gaze he said, "Sorry. I shall never use bad language again."
Despite the severity of his punishment my nephew seemed to rally and he turned to me sheepishly and said, " With your permission I think I shall be more comfortable without these." And, without actually waiting for permission, he bent down and removed his pants, folded them and placed them on top of his shorts. He then gathered the hem of his shirt up and tied it in a knot, unconcernedly leaving the lower half of his body exposed. The film was about to begin and so he lay face down on the rug in front of the television, propping his head in his hands. I sat down on the sofa to watch the film with him. From time to time he would turn and smile as he caught me admiring my handiwork.
When the film had finished he got up, picked up his shorts and pants and announced, "I am off to bed. I think I shall probably be sleeping face down!
PART 2
Bloody hell! My uncle well and truly warmed my arse with his belt. Hes such a quiet man. Id seen the way hed looked at me and thought that if I showed him my bum Id get a few light taps and that would be it. My mistake. Knew it after the first whack. A deals a deal though and I had to go through with it. Stupid to have made that remark about my housemaster. I thought those three strokes were going to leave me with my arse permanently in a sling. The whole joke is that anything Id had from my housemaster was nowhere near as bad as what Id just had from my uncle, even if he (the housemaster that is) does cane me on the bare botty (as the old pervert likes to say). Heres another joke. Ha bloody ha. My father never touches me. Cant be bothered. Why do you think Im here in Provence? When he (my uncle that is) asked me how many strokes I usually got, I meant to say "six", but with all that pain I somehow managed to double it and said "twelve". Perhaps Im a masochist. I dont bloody think so! Should have kept my bum down from the start, it can only have encouraged him. Ive got used to having to stick it up at school and it sort of comes naturally now. Still, I mustnt complain. I did after all more or less insist on it so that I could watch that Cocteau film. I must be bloody mad! Still I enjoyed the film. The things I do for art. Ive heard of ars pro arte, but not arse pro arte. Thats bloody good, must repeat it to my Latin master. On second thoughts perhaps not. I cant believe the spiel I gave him (my uncle that is). "I usually get it on the bare." I mean, really. Was that asking for trouble or not? Ô que je suis ingénu!
As I say, I cant believe the way he laid into me, and him a Mozart lover. Whopped to the strains of "Soave sia il viento". That must be a first. I wonder if old Leopold had little Wolfgangs silk britches down round his ankles. Probably carved up his arse with a violin bow, in tempo giusto of course. I think I have unleashed the beast within. The last few days he (my uncle that is) keeps asking to look at my bum and dabbing witch hazel on it. Dont mind. Quite a nice feeling actually. Perhaps Im a homo. I dont bloody think so! I just have this idea that hes checking on the healing process so that he can start all over again as soon he finds an excuse. Which he will. They always do. Take my housemaster. Keeps caning me for "my attitude." Thats code for "I cant find anything to pin on you, but I need you to get your pretty little bum out so that I get off on whacking it."
I need to think something up. I dont mind a little light lambasting, but I dont want that belt clattering my arse again. I shall have to engineer an erotic entertainment. An exquisite turn of phrase. Engineer an erotic entertainment. I must get me to a mirror to practice the barely perceptible fluttering of the eyelashes that gets the prefects going. Ah monsieur, you have not reckoned wiz ze mind of Hercules Poirot. Perhaps Im a genius. I dont bloody think so!
PART 3
About a week after the thrashing I was pottering about in the garden when my nephew came out to help me as I was pruning a badly overgrown hazelnut bush. As we were tidying the prunings he picked up a long slender branch, swished it through the air and declared, "This will help you keep me in order uncle. I shall see to it straight away."
I took a rest while I watched him strip the bark off with his penknife and sandpaper the white wood to remove a few snags. "Its a little sappy yet and I think it should be left on the terrace in the sun for a day or two to dry out a bit," he announced. So saying he left the rod on the iron table and went back indoors.
Two days later he said to me after breakfast, "Uncle, I have been having impure thoughts and playing with myself. At school if that happens I go to the chaplain who gives me six of the best to mortify my flesh. Will you please use the new switch on me this evening after dinner?"
I nodded agreement. I had been hoping for an excuse to repeat the punishment I had meted out and was delighted to be presented with an opportunity on a plate. It would not perhaps be as intense, but I was not going to complain.
After dinner my nephew rose from the table and said, "Excuse me uncle, I need to go out for a few minutes. I shall return shortly for the punishment you promised." He never went out in the evening and I was intrigued.
He returned a few minutes later with a boy from the village. I recognised him, but did not know his name. He had black wavy hair and a pretty face. He was wearing a green T-shirt and a very short pair of red shorts. He had on a pair of short white socks and sandals.
My nephew announced, "Uncle, this is Jean-Luc. I know you speak French, but he speaks quite good English as he had an English nanny. He has something he would like to say.
Jean-Luc stepped forward and shook hands as the French do. He cleared his throat and said, "Sir, I read stories of the English schools. The teachers they cane the boys. In French schools they do not cane boys. Monsieur your neveu tells me that you will cane him tonight for the foul deeds. I like to see this. Then you must cane me also. Today I steal some apples and no one knows. I am very bad. The trousers they go. Please do not cane me hardly. I am eleven."
He hung down his head as if ashamed. I must have stood there open-mouthed. My nephew broke the short silence by suggesting that we repair to the kitchen. Everything had been prepared. The switch was lying on the well-scrubbed kitchen table and a stool had been placed strategically in the middle of the room. My nephew looked at me expectantly and I came to my senses.
I pointed to the stool and said to him, "Go and take your shorts and underpants down and bend over the stool. He did as instructed while I picked up the switch. He was only wearing a short length shirt and so his bottom was fully exposed. I decided, for Jean-Lucs benefit, that a short lecture would be in order, though I doubt he understood all of it.
"You have engaged in filthy habits. Your body, which is the house of the soul, must be chastised to purge your mind of impure thoughts. I am punishing you for your own good. You will receive six strokes of the cane. Do not move while the punishment is in progress. When I tell you to get up you will take off your shorts and pants, fold them and place them on the table. You will then go and stand next to the cupboard with your face to the wall and your hands by your sides."
I then went up to my nephew and stood at his side. There were only the faintest marks visible of the thrashing I had administered ten days before. Knowing the number of strokes was limited I decided to keep things simple and work my way down the buttocks. I noticed that Jean-Luc had repositioned himself to get a good view of the procedure. I lifted the cane and cracked it down sharply on the upturned cheeks. I was unsure what effect the switch would have so I held back somewhat. I waited and a second or two later a faint red line appeared. I decided that the remaining strokes could be a bit harder and proceeded accordingly, leisurely working my way down as planned. When I had finished I stepped back to admire the neatly spaced red lines. However, I had another boy to punish and could not hang about in aesthetic appreciation.
"You may get up," I said and the boy duly obeyed. As instructed, he stepped out of his shorts and pants and bent to pick them up showing me the full roundness of his bottom. After folding his clothes and putting them on the table he walked over to the wall and stood as I had told him to.
I now turned my attention to Jean-Luc. "You know what to do?" I said. He nodded and went over to the stool. He untucked his shirt, pulled it up and held it in position with his chin. He then pulled down his shorts, which was a bit of a struggle as they were very tight. He was not wearing any underwear. He bent over the stool grabbing a rung with both hands.
"Jean-Luc," I began, "You must not steal apples, it is very naughty. I will have to beat you very hard. You will get six strokes of the cane."
I contemplated the small bottom. Like two of the apples he had stolen? The cheeks looked nice and sturdy and I fancied they could take a good switching, so I caned him as hard as I had caned my nephew. He took it very well.
When he stood up to take off his shorts he said, "Sir, you give me a good fessing. Thank you." He then did exactly as my nephew had done and went and stood next to him.
"You may both now rub your bottoms if you wish," I said.
Four hands went down to two bottoms to feel and ease the weals I had made. After five minutes I told them both to get dressed and we all sat down (the boys a little carefully) to have some sandwiches and milk. When we had all finished Jean-Luc got up and shook hands with us both and went on his way. My nephew and I went to bed.
The next morning the penny dropped. Unless we had something planned, I usually let my nephew lie in the morning. This morning I had something planned. After a leisurely breakfast I marched into my nephews bedroom, throwing the door open. He opened his eyes and was perhaps surprised to see me standing there holding a thick wide, leather belt I had rummaged from the bottom of a draw.
" You had it all worked out, didnt you?" I said in a loud voice, but not quite shouting. "You invited that boy round here so that I would not cane you too hard, didnt you? Dont deny it. Your silence indicates that I am right. It was a stupid thing to do. I am now going to belt your backside until it sings. Turn over on your tummy and put your arms under the pillow." He did as he was told, without protesting, his bare arms indicating that, as usual he was not wearing a pyjama jacket. I drew back the sheet to the foot of the bed. Grabbing hold of the waistband of his pyjama trousers I tugged them down to his knees. I then took hold of the bottom of each pyjama leg, pulled the trousers off completely and threw them on the floor.
The marks of the previous nights business were still visible, but the weals had subsided. I decided the belt was wide and thick enough to be used without folding, so I wound the buckle end round my hand to leave about eighteen inches of the leather. Positioning myself opposite the naked boys bottom I began thrashing. The beating was relentless and merciless. I did not execute any careful plan, but simply brought the leather cracking down as the fancy took me. After a few strokes he started reacting. Moving his body from side to side and bucking up and down. As the movements became wilder, so that it became difficult to hit the target, I stopped and warned him that if he did not keep a little stiller I would have to hold him down and beat him harder and longer. The brief respite allowed him to regain his composure a little and as I continued he managed to keep his twisting and turning under better control. I counted seventeen strokes and paused briefly. I then leant right back and brought the belt down with all my force and repeated the action twice.
By now the crimson-bottomed boy was sobbing into the pillow. I left the room, saying, "You may have your breakfast when you are ready. No hurry. I shall not expect you to take any meals standing up today."
The boy is a Stoic. Half an hour later he was standing at the kitchen table chatting as if nothing had happened. He requested, and I granted, permission to wear no clothes below the waist and for the shutters to be kept closed. Whenever a visitor called he scuttled into his bedroom. Jean-Luc, however, was admitted to view the damage. They were in the bedroom together for over two hours. I did not ask what they were doing.
PART 4
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Pain! Pain! Pain! So dont call me Solomon the Wise. "I am now going to belt your backside until it sings." I like that. By the time he was finished my arse was doing the Halle-bloody-lujah Chorus, massed choirs in the Albert Hall conducted by Sir Malcolm Sargent. I thought it had all gone off as well as a battle lead by Tiberius. The slow build up. A day of anticipation. The last-minute surprise. And finally the main event, starring le petit Jean-Luc and yours truly. A few whacks with an instrument of my own choosing and a good time was had by all. I said he would be looking for an excuse to leather my arse, but I thought I had headed him off at the pass. Want to know the joke this time? Jean-Luc pestered me to bring him up to the villa for ze fessing. Wed got talking about how his dad had stopped his pocket money for a month and then I got on to all the indignities I suffered at school and how I was going to get it that evening. Well, you know how excited the French can get and this one went into a St Vituss dance. Never stopped asking questions. What did they use? How many do you get? Did I really get it with les fesses nues? Who took the pantalon down, the boy or the teacher? How much did it hurt? Did they draw blood? Said he would like to be spanked. Began thinking I could make some use of his enthusiasm and a small bribe of a couple of bottles of wine swiped from his fathers cellar clinched it. "I stole some apples" indeed. At least he had the sense not to say "I stole two bottles of premier grand cru and gave them to monsieur your neveu." Was hoping to see the brat get it, but checkmated by the "go and stand in the corner and keep showing your bum" manoeuvre. Despite all those years in the finest schools never actually seen anyone whopped. The masters like to keep it to themselves.
Jean-Luc came round in the afternoon. Uncle let him in to my bedroom. No time to cover up. Lied about why I got the belt – too complicated to tell the truth. Examined every inch of my arse. Feeling a bit guilty about the wine I let him touch it – lightly. Little chap dropped his shorts to show me the red lines. Fingered them just to oblige, but kind of liked it. Wanted me to put him over his knee. Explained me sitting down a bit of a problem, anyway we would have to wait for my uncle to go out. He would be off to play chess with the curé soon. He had no sooner shouted goodbye before Jean-Luc was hunting round the room for something to be spanked with. Nothing really suitable lying around, but remembered the slippers in my suitcase. He was delighted and stripped off completely. He lay across the bed where I had so recently met my nemesis. I got into the swing of things and placed a pillow under his middle. I think he purred as his bum was lifted up. We agreed that I would give him six strokes as hard as I could to see what happened. He loved it. Me too.
PART 5
Little did I realise when I was switching his tight little bare bottom that evening that until he was sixteen Jean-Luc would be a regular visitor to my villa for "fessings" whenever he felt guilty about something, which was quite often.
I did not beat my nephew again that summer. However, he kept coming out every summer and we had sessions until he was seventeen, when by mutual unspoken agreement we stopped. After graduating in French and music he married and brought his two sons out every year. When they were twelve and ten he left them with me for a month.
"Have you still got those belts you used to redden my arse with," he whispered in my ear.
"Language!" I laughed. "Yes. Rolled up in the usual place in my desk draw."
He spoke aloud to his children, "Boys, your great-uncle will show you discipline while you are here."
And I did.