Archive for the ‘ Naughty boys spanking stories ’ Category

A Beatable Offence

A Beatable Offence

by Vanessa

It was quite straightforward really, mused the headmaster Dr Brown as he put down the note from the Latin Master, Mr Smith. In the panoply of school rules and regulations – from wearing the right sort of socks to not running in the corridor – there were only three beatable offences: smoking, truanting and persistent insolence or disruptive behaviour. Everyone knew that – teachers and pupils.

And, of course, he had to enforce this every so often: four strokes of the cane over the backside for a first-time offender; six for a repeat offender, usually on the bare. Simple: get caught smoking or truanting, and a pupil would have to submit. But the last offence – persistent insolence or disruptive behaviour – was perhaps not so clear cut.

He looked up at the boy standing before his study desk: Jonathan Bryson. Bryson, the best behaved, most dutiful and assiduous boy in the fifth form. Bryson, the insolent, the disruptive?

‘Well Mr Bryson,’ began the headmaster at last, ‘perhaps you would like to tell me why you are here.’

The boy remained silent.

‘Bryson?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’ve no idea; didn’t you hear me the first time – Sir?’

Dr Brown stood up, anger pulsing unexpectedly through his body. There was no room for any more questions, any more ambiguity, just one clear instruction.

‘Bend over, hands on knees – now!’

Ms Turner’s reply

by Ms Turner

Boys, boys! Don’t fall out over me. Paul and Anon you’re both right.

I’m Ms Turner, the original and only No-Nonsense Disciplinarian, and I hate to see clients get into a tizzy.

Anon, or Donald (he lets it slip in the story), is very well-known to me. Yes, every two weeks he comes and I spank his naughty bottom. And I shall continue to do so as long as he wants. He’s a sensitive fellow and I treat him accordingly. Sure, he tells me fibs sometimes about the naughty things he’s done, and I know it perfectly well (without Donald saying so!)

He’s slim, about 5ft 7in and very polite and obedient. If I tell him to stand in the corner with his hand above his head and his pink, bare bottom on display for my inspection, he does so straight away. Unlike some of my clients, who say they don’t like being treated as naughty schoolboys. I don’t know why. They just get an extra slippering, strapping or caning for their cheek! But Donald is an absolute joy. He complies with every instruction and always remembers to thank me before he goes, profusely… on all but one occasion. That was, of course, the time he told me he had called a woman “a bitch” in a supermarket.

I couldn’t stop myself. I pulled down his trousers and pants, threw him across my knee and gave him a severe spanking. I’ve never thrashed him so hard before or since. And I have to admit I over-reacted somewhat, but I cannot stand men calling women names. Now, of course, he admits it was just another of his made-up confessions, but it sounded so real at the time. And, frankly, for that he deserved to get his bottom soundly smacked… just not so hard.

He was quite abject afterwards. I felt sorry for him and I would have felt even sorrier had I known he didn’t really deserve such a sore bottom. But, hey, he recovered and came back two weeks later for another spanking, and still continues to do so. In my own way, I love you , Donald, and we’ll discuss your story next time you visit.

Paul is a different kettle of fish. He’s about 5ft 9in, quite well-built and not completely honest. Unlike Donald, his “fibs” are what he leaves unsaid, and he left quite a bit unsaid. He’s been in trouble with the police for his occasional violent eruptions, and when he first came to see me he was on probation and, on his own admission, was in danger of “losing it” once more and that would mean prison. He said his probation officer had actually – and totally unofficially – advised him to seek me out. I was his last chance, he said. I had to punish him so he would remember that punishment for a long time. I nearly showed him the door but he pleaded with me for my “help”. I had read a little about people like Paul using people like me to curb their – how shall I say? – excess emotions. We talked for a long time and finally I believed him.

I started, as I begin with everyone, with an over-the-knee bare bottom spanking. This tends to get rid of any inhibitions and puts the spankee in mind of his or her childhood when a spanking was a generally accepted form of punishment at home or at school. Things are different nowadays, but not all change is good.

He took off his trousers and bent over my knee without demur. I pulled down his pants and got stuck in with a favourite paddle of mine. Favourite because it’s particularly effective. I must have paddled him for about five minutes before he eventually let out a small cry of pain. I continued for a further five minutes after which he was sweating. Then it was over the bench for the usual assortments of straps and canes. Like many – if not all – female disciplinarians, I enjoy mixing canes and men’s bottoms. They deserve each other. With Paul I made, always do, strenuous efforts with the cane, but I don’t flay him. I give him what he asked for and what I think he needs if he’s to keep out of jail and his “passions” curbed.

The reason Paul wrote his story is Linda. I think he fell in love with her the moment he saw her. She is quite lovely. I could see his expression change as we walked into the room. Although he was in an awkward position – bent over the bench with his bottom exposed – there was no mistaking the way he regarded Linda. He almost twisted his neck, craning it to see as much as possible of her as she walked behind him to examine his raw buttocks.

His story is fairly accurate up to a point. That point is when Linda breaks the cane across his bottom. She did that because she was too keen to impress me. Paul howled. I’ve never heard a man cry out so loud, and he did literally cry. Real tears. I nodded for Linda to continue with the punishment and held Paul down. This was either going to kill or cure you, I thought. Well, not kill exactly, but you get my drift.

He’d come every month or so and told me he needed to be thrashed as hard as I could manage. Well, I didn’t do that. I am strong – stronger than many men – and tough as Paul might think he is, he couldn’t tough-out a no-holds-barred Ms Turner whipping. He’d faint. I do not do that to anyone. But Paul did not want to appear weak in any way in front of Linda and when she broke the cane and Paul howled in pain, he thought he had let himself down. He hadn’t, any man would have yelled at that.

I’m glad to say he’s now come back and on his next visit I shall let Linda deal with him. He asked me about her. Tried to make it sound casual but he was pleased when I said she had joined me. His probation officer also said Paul’s behaviour had improved over the past three months. He’s not so angry, she said. “You’ve certainly improved him.” Then I took her over my knee.

Each client has his or her own level of punishment. I’m the No-Nonsense Disciplinarian, not the No-Sense Disciplinarian.

The real Ms Turner

The real Ms Turner

By Arnon

I’ve been going to Ms Turner for two years. She must be the same Ms Turner who “Paul A” describes. She is elegant and attractive and over 6ft in her high-heels. There cannot possibly be two disciplinarians called just Ms Turner who both match that description. So I’m presuming my Ms Turner is “Paul A’s” Ms Turner. But there the similarity ends.

“Paul A” describes someone who is more like a sadistic dominatrix than a disciplinarian. (You do know the difference, don’t you, “Paul A”?) My Ms Turner would never give someone 24 hard strokes of the cane. As “Paul A” says, that’s a flogging! Ms Turner’s firm, but she has respect for her clients. I visit her every two weeks – I know that’s expensive but I do – and she has never brought in a surprise “assistant” to witness and take part in a spanking, never mind a flogging!

I was going to say she’s gentle, but she is not gentle. A disciplinarian can’t be gentle. But she’s very measured in her punishment. I’ll describe a typical session with her.

She leads me into her punishment/dining room and we sit down and talk for about five minutes. She always asks if I’ve committed some sort of misdemeanour in the past two weeks. I sometimes make something up – like kicking a cat or driving through traffic lights when they’ve just turned red – so I won’t sound dull. Anyway, afterwards she tells me to stand up and she takes down my trousers and pants – this always excites me – and pulls me over her knee. I’m now stuck in that position.

She starts to spank me, slowly at first. I have to count each one and say “thank you”. Her spanking hand moves from one buttock to the other so each gets an equal number of strokes. Whack, “One thank you”, whack “Two thank you”, whack “Three thank you”… and so one for 24 strokes. She stops and rubs my bottom and, if I’ve done something wrong or pretend to, she says I’ve been very naughty and deserve to be spanked, don’t I?

“Yes, Ms Turner.”

If I haven’t done anything wrong and can’t make something up, she still tells me I’ve been a naught boy, haven’t I?

“Yes, Ms Turner.”

“Yes, and this is what naughty boys get.”

She then spanks me 24 more times, but harder. Whack “Ouch, one thank you”, whack “Ouch, two thank you”… and so on.

Again she massages my bottom. It’s lovely that, but there’s worse to come.

Ms Turner reaches down and picks up a slipper. She shows it to me.

“You know what’s coming now.”

From across her knee I see the slipper being dangled in front of my eyes.

“You don’t like this, do you?”

“No, Ms Turner, I don’t.”

“But you’re going to get it, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ms Turner.”

“Yes. Yes you are.”

Then I receive 24 heavy strokes of the slipper. Each one rising in intensity. I sometimes lose count they hurt so much. But Ms Turner leaves a moment between each stroke. Sometimes she’ll rub my bottom before the next whack.

Finally it’s over. I still lie over her knee as she gently – yes she does this gently – rub, pats and massages my bottom.

“There. You’ve got a nice, pink little bottom. That’ll last you two weeks, won’t it, Donald?”

“Yes, Ms Turner.”

It’s always virtually the same. It’s like it’s scripted. But once – oh yes, dear me, once – I angered her. I told her during our initial chat that I’d had a row with a woman in a supermarket. This was true. It was very busy and we both tried to join the same checkout queue at the same time. Our trolleys collided. Hers was very full and several items fell out.

“Oh, look what you’ve done.” she said, or something like that.

At this point in the story, I got excited and spiced it up a bit. I said the argument went like this.

“It was you’re fault. You should watch where you’re going.”

“Don’t you talk to me like that, young man. Pick them up.”

“No, I won’t. Pick them up yourself.”

“You cheeky young devil. I’ve a good mind to slap your face.”

“Bitch!”

At that moment, Ms Turner’s expression changed from the mildly interested to the very angry.

“You said what?”

“I… er… I didn’t…”

“STAND UP!”

It was said with such force that I immediately did as I was told. She tore down my trousers and pants, put me across her knee and gave me such a beating with the slipper. I didn’t know when or even if it was going to stop. At first I just took it without yelling, I was so shocked by her reaction. But after about half-a-minute of the constant blows on my bottom, I shouted, “Don’t, don’t, please stop it!”. I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but Ms Turner merely grabbed it out of the way. And continued with the slippering.

When she’d finished I slid off her knee and bent down before her, my head resting on her lap. After a few seconds she started stroking my hair.

I looked at her, my eyes welling up.

“I didn’t… I didn’t actually…”

“Shsh,” she said softly. “Don’t ever use that word again. Don’t!”

The irony is, of course, I didn’t. I just tried to spice the story up… foolishly.

That’s as severe as Ms Turner’s ever been with me. I was sore for the rest of the day, but that was it. But to suggest that she would give someone a 24-stroke flogging with a cane like “Paul A” suggests, and that the cane would break… no, I don’t believe it! And no one else should either.

Ms Turner

A visit to Ms Turner

by Paul

THERE I was, bent over the bench awaiting 24 strokes of the cane from Ms Turner when her doorbell rang.

“Ah,” she said. “I’ll just be a moment, Paul. Stay where you are.”

Well, I wasn’t thinking of going anywhere.

I watched Ms Turner as she went out of the room. She was a handsome, dark-haired women; 5ft 11in tall and toned like a Wimbledon champion. She was also still carrying her cane.

I heard the front door open. “Oh, do come in. You’re just in time.”

What?

“It’s this way.”

She came back into what was normally her dining room with a young woman, about 25 to 30. From what I could see – still bent over – she was pretty.

“This is young Paul.” She was always calling me “young Paul” though I’d never see 40 again. It was to maintain “a correct relationship”, she once told me.

“Paul this is Linda. Linda this is Paul.”

Linda managed to stop herself from laughing but she couldn’t help the huge grin. “Pleased to me you, Paul. How are you doing?”

What on earth do you say when you’re bent over a bench with your trousers and pants down? “Fine,” I heard myself say. “How are you?”

“Well, better than you, l think.”

“Paul’s just about to receive the cane. You’ve agreed to 24 strokes, haven’t you, dear.”

I sort of nodded as best I could from my position. Twenty-four strokes of the cane! That was Ms Turner’s idea, in fact. She said I was ready for them after visiting her five times previously. They would hurt but they would last longer and I would enjoy their after-glow much more. It sounded all right when she said it. And she did say it several times – until I agreed. Right now I was l feeling very different. It was a flogging! I nearly said as much but Linda’s presence stopped me.

“You’ll see he’s received a jolly good spanking already.”

They walked round behind me. I was on show in all my red-bottomed glory. Helpless. Totally helpless. Well, I could stand up, of course, but I didn’t think that would be an improvement. I felt myself cringe as Ms Turner continued.

“His bottom always turns a very nice shade of red. And you can see I’ve spread the strokes of the paddle carefully all over.” Ms Turner brushed my bottom with her hand. “Very nice, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it almost looks painted. Very smooth,” replied Linda.

Oh, don’t mind me.

Swish! I automatically clenched my buttocks, but the cane didn’t touch them. Ms Turner was merely trying it out. Deliberately, of course. They both giggled.

Ms Turner. I always had to call her Ms Turner. I don’t even know her first name. It doesn’t appear on her website and she wouldn’t tell me anything about herself. Only that she was a disciplinarian. The No-Nonsense Disciplinarian, she calls herself on the internet. That’s all I had to know, she told me. The visits were just about me. Well, and this time Linda. But she soon explained that.

“Now young Paul, Linda is planning to become my assistant. She’s very keen to become a disciplinarian but she’s never seen professional spanking. But you’ve carried out some spankings yourself?”

“Yes, but nothing like this. Just across the knee, on boyfriends. Most of them enjoyed it.”

“Well, you’ve missed most of the action but you’re here for the piece de resistance: the cane. I always save that till last. You don’t mind her watching do you, young Paul.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No.” And that wasn’t an answer, just an acceptance of the inevitable.

“Right, well, brace yourself, Paul.” I braced and Swish!

Once again nothing. Ms Turner was just having another little joke. Then all of a sudden the first stoke landed. “Aagh!” I yelled. I couldn’t help it. The cane had taken me by surprise. I could just see Linda flinch.

Man-up! The ubiquitous expression these days. I was going to have to man-up. I didn’t care how painful it was, I wasn’t going to scream again. Not while a young women was watching.

I held out until stroke number 12. Then I lost it. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled.

“Hm, that’s better,” said Ms Turner. “It doesn’t do you any good to pretend it doesn’t hurt. You’re just trying to impress Linda. It’s no good. Linda doesn’t mind, do you?”

“No.” Her tone was neutral.

“Well, you can take over now. Here.”

I couldn’t see, but Ms Turner handed Linda the cane.

“You can give him the other 12 strokes. Are you ready, young man?”

“Yes.”

Stroke 13. Oh, that was better. I could take that.

“Linda!” said Ms Turner. “Give it some wellie, for God’s sake.”

The next stroke was a bit harder, but still bearable.

“Linda, if you’re going to be like this, you’re no use to me. You understand.”

In answer, Linda whacked me so hard she broke the cane. I screamed out loud.

“Oh,” laughed Ms Turner, “that was a bit too hard. Never mind.” She gave Linda another cane from her endless supply.

Linda passed the rest of her caning test with flying colours. I yelled at every stroke this time.

“Poor Paul,” said Ms Turner at the end. “Just lie there for a while. I’ll get some cream for that botty of yours.”

Five minutes later, fully dressed, my bottom still burning, I prepared to hobble out and get the bus home. I would never come back.

“I’d like you to stay for a few minutes, Paul,” said Ms Turner

“Linda, I insist that every disciplinarian who assists me experiences at least one professional spanking herself. So she’ll know what it’s like. If you don’t want to have it, I’ll quite understand. But you’ll never work for me.”

“I can’t that!” Linda pointed to the bench.

“No, no. That’s for men. I’ll just take you over my knee.”

“Well, okay… yes… I suppose. But…” Linda looked at me.

“Well, letting Paul watch is the least we can do, considering what we’ve both done to him. Don’t you think?”

Linda said nothing. She just stood there while Ms Turner sat on a hard chair and took her across her knee.

She spanked Linda 12 times over her skirt. Medium-strokes. Linda let out an “Ouch” at each one.

Then she lifted up Linda’s skirt to reveal her round, shapely bottom covered in a pair of white panties. Linda emitted a quiet protest then fell silent.

I felt a stirring.

Another 12 strokes were delivered. Linda yelled slightly louder with each slap.

Finally, Ms Turner pulled down Linda’s panties. She did not make any protest this time. Her beautiful, soft, pink bottom was on show… just as mine had been when I was over the bench.

My stirring grew harder.

With every smack, her bottom turned slightly redder. “Ow!” said Linda as Ms Turner’s hand landed on her cheeks for 10 swats. Then the final two were delivered quickly and with much more force, making Linda shout out “Aagh! Ouch! Ouch!”

“Now you’ll know what it feels like every time you spank a woman,” said Ms Turner. “Everyone has to go through this.”

Oh, sure. What about you Ms Turner? I can’t imagine any woman – or man come to that – ever putting you over their knee. I wouldn’t even think about doing it.

Linda and I both left together. Quietly. But just before we parted to go our separate ways, I said, “What are you going to do, Linda? Are you going to join her?”

She thought for a moment. “I think I will.”

It’s three months since my visit to Ms Turner, the No-Nonsense Disciplinarian. My bottom has long healed up. I don’t know… but I’m feeling an urge. Maybe I’ll go back. I’ve never known a woman like her.

Favours

Favours
by
Vanessa

‘You will do it, won’t you Tim? Tell me you’ll do it,’ demanded Peter.
‘Well,’ replied the bespectacled 15-year-old, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead, ‘I don’t think it’s a terribly good idea.’
‘Come on Tim,’ continued Peter, ‘you do owe me one.’
And it was true, Peter had helped Tim, who was something of a swot, with his French homework on numerous occasions that term, and now it was pay-back time.
‘Please Tim, it’s my last chance to see her.’
The dark-haired boy studied the ground for a moment, then suddenly said ‘Well, all right – but you better not be caught!’
‘I won’t,’ replied Peter, ‘they won’t even miss me, and if they do, say I’ve gone to the san.’
‘What with?’ asked Tim.
‘It doesn’t matter, they won’t miss me – don’t worry,’ and with that Peter clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Thanks Tim.’
It was a beautiful June evening and Alice was wearing a fine print dress. She and Peter walked around the lake and talked amiably. Alice was going to the south of France for the summer holiday, and promised to send him a postcard. Peter wanted to kiss her, but the moment escaped him.
Soon Alice had to go, and reluctantly Peter watched her walk away. Peter turned back towards school, his step light with happiness. As the stone structure of the school came into view, however, his mood flattened.
Peter’s most direct route back to the common room was through the quad, but following a strange foreboding, he decided to go via the headmaster’s office. Climbing the stairs up to the first floor and turning left towards the library, he saw a solitary figure stationed outside the headmaster’s door – it was Tim. Peter’s heart fell into his boots and he quickened his stride.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked his friend.
‘A prefect was in the san,’ mumbled Tim, ‘and knew that you weren’t’.
‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Tim, ‘I’m really sorry, I really am,’ but his friend didn’t look consoled.
Suddenly, the headmaster’s door swung open, and an upper fourth boy exited quickly. Tim glanced at Peter: it would be his turn next.
‘Don’t worry,’ asserted Peter for the second time that day, then spun round and knocked on Dr Brown’s door.
‘Come!’ Peter turned the handle and went in.

Hit for Six

Hit for Six

by Vanessa

 

“What?”

“Brown wants to see you – straightaway.”

“What? Why?” mustered Peter.

“Five for fifteen.”

“What? Sorry West,” asserted Peter, taking his friend momentarily by the elbow, “rewind a little; you’re not making any sense.”

“Five for fifteen, straight after lunch. Where the devil were you?” …

“Where the devil were you?” asked the Head, as Peter stood before his study desk, an ominous looking cane positioned clearly in view.

“Where were you?”

Peter’s mind whirled instantly backwards: to the beating heat of the afternoon sun; the cool of the gentle water; the joy of illicit release.

“I was at the pond, Sir, having a swim,” he replied at last. “I never thought; play was so slow. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, exactly?” demanded the Head. “For letting your team down, your school down, yourself down?”

“For all of the above, Sir. I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” responded the Head, “as I am going to have to punish you for your irresponsible behaviour. A walloping six with the cane on the backside sounds about right, don’t you think? After all,” he continued, glancing down at the cane, “a good six is what all you cricketers want isn’t it, even our number 10 batsman?!”

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O’s Punishment

O’s Punishment

By Amy Carter

My mother, Lucy, and I, are in her bedroom, getting ready for O. She is wearing a dark grey basque and seamed black stockings, her pinstripe suit hanging on the back of the door, waiting for her to clamber into it. I’m dressed already, wearing a short black skirt and green cashmere sweater, just fastening up my boots. She is brushing her hair in front of the mirror, looking pensive, occasionally flexing her right arm and shoulder, practising her swing, an unconscious gesture I know well. She catches my eye.

“He must be punished. Properly.”

I can feel cold ripples of fear fluttering in my stomach, almost as if I’m the one to be spanked. “I hope you won’t be too hard on him! He’s really quite new to all this – ”

She raises a hand to stop me. “He’s quite experienced enough to complain about the way you’re handling him, apparently. Which indicates he has not yet properly learned to submit. You’re doing him no favours by protecting him. He needs to learn to obey, and surrender, for his own sake. He’ll be happier when he does. You know that!” She reaches for her suit; I zip up the skirt. “Shall we have him naked as soon as he walks in?”

“Oh, I think so!”

“He has such a pretty bottom. You’d better hold him still while I beat it. He looks like a squirmer to me. And then we can swap. Agreed?”

“Absolutely!” There’s a knock at the door, and I rush to answer. My mother tuts. “Let him wait, for heavens sake! Don’t rush, it’s undignified. And don’t be too nice to him!”

I try my best, but I can’t help smiling at his part-eager, part-terrified face, expectant, exhilarated.

“Good afternoon, O. Come in.” He passes me the wine, silently, giving a nervous smile, starting to kiss my cheek, then thinking better of it. “Thank you. Please take off your clothes and wait in the corner. We’ll be with you in a minute.”

His eyebrows raise questioningly, but he obeys me with pleasing speed. My mother finishes dressing just as he removes his last item of clothing, and sweeps down the stairs, her eyes on his thick, twitching cock. She tuts.

“Well, well, O! Not managed to mind your manners yet, I see!”

He blushes, and stutters, and looks to the floor, as she walks round him, a finger circling his hips, from the curve of his buttocks to the hollow of his pubis. She nods to me as he whimpers. “Clara and I will discipline you now. Taking a cheek each!”

We sit opposite each other on two hardbacked chairs, our knees knitted together, making a platform for O to bend across. We push him over, our ankles pressed against his head, his cock wedged between our silky, stockinged thighs. And we begin to spank. I on the left cheek, she on the right.

We start slowly and gently, but soon a competitive frenzy compels us both to spank harder, harder. I’m incensed that her cheek seems to be getting redder than mine, and her thwacks seem to elicit more “Ooohs!” and “Owwws!”, so I redouble my efforts. I almost forget there’s a man at the other end of my ministrations, so eager am I to prove my worth to my mother. Harder and harder I hit, raising my hand above my head each time, bringing it down with all the strength I can muster.

At last, my mother pauses for breath. Gratefully, I clench and unclench my hand, which is tingling hotly, although nothing in comparison to O’s bottom. He’s gone strangely quiet. Surely he hasn’t fainted? We help him stagger to his feet, and find that he looks extraordinarily happy. “That – was – amazing! Agony, but amazing. Can we do it again?”

“Oh good, and no”, my mother says drily, suppressing a smile. “Get over the sofa, you young reprobate.” She sits gracefully before he can comply, dainty ankles just parted. “We’re going to take a strap to you now. Put your head between my feet. Lift your buttocks – right up, that’s it! Like a dog that wants to play. Clara, get the heavier strap. Now, I understand you have difficulty staying in the correct position, yes? This should make it very difficult for you to move. Excellent training. Twenty-four strokes, I think, my dear.”

I nod, and comply. Always best not to argue! I aim the strap – a fearsome, thick, leather beast – right into the lower part of his buttocks, almost the tops of his thighs; while his head cannot move, his bottom is jerking around so madly I fear for his tender parts. Eventually I wrap one arm around his waist to steady him, and continue my assault. Once it’s over, my mother releases her grasp, and O collapses flat on the floor, gasping brokenly, rubbing his buttocks.

“Get in the corner!” we bark, simultaneously. Then grin at each other as he staggers away from us. We take it in turns to go and prod his bruised, red bottom, while the other sits back, admiring our joint handiwork. His smile and erection have all but disappeared. He’s crushed, and we haven’t even begun the caning! We beam at one another, and sip our wine.

More stories by this author

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Asking for it!

Asking for it

By Vanessa

“I see you’ve been sent to me by Daniel Craig-Martin; is that correct Mr Winter?”

“Yes Sir,” responded the 14-year-old schoolboy swiftly.

“And it’s because you called him ‘an arrogant so-and-so’. Is that also correct?”

“No,” responded the schoolboy, “It’s because I called him ‘an arrogant tosser’, Sir.”

“Did you indeed?” said the Headmaster, Dr Brown, glancing up in surprise at the boy from behind his half-moon spectacles. “And I understand it’s an opinion you still adhere to, even after two runs round the playing field,” he continued, getting up from behind his desk and moving towards the window.

“Now,” he resumed after some moments’ contemplation, “We may all have our opinions of Craig-Martin, but he is a prefect, and you are a fourth-former. Or, to put it another way, he is a god and you, and the rest of the fourth form, are just followers. Do I make my meaning clear?”

“Yes Sir,” responded Peter.

“That is how this school works: indeed, how it has worked for hundreds of years. And, because you have chosen to ignore this basic fact, I have no choice but to punish you, and punish you severely. Remove your blazer and bend over the desk!”

Peter took off his blazer, then stretched himself across the desk as instructed. He braced himself for the onslaught. He had of course expected to be caned, and was determined to take it with courage.

“Twelve strokes, Mr Winter!” boomed the headmaster, “and please count them out loud.” Twelve strokes; that was more than Peter had bargained for. He gripped the desk, and closed his eyes. A thin swishing sound filled the air, then suddenly his backside felt like it was on fire.

He started the long painful count: “One!”

Strict aunt and her brat nephew

By Amy Carter

There are three things I must tell you about Martin. First, he’s a tall, gangly youth, lean and fidgety, with a shock of black hair, earnest brown eyes and cute button nose. Second, he’s a perfect brat, mucky minded and insolent with it, and third, I had the misfortune to be his aunt.

He usually stayed with me for a week or two during the summer holidays, to give his mother a break. She had younger children to cope with, and Martin’s slovenly ways and cheek were a constant source of anguish to her. I lived alone, and was better able, I felt, to devote the requisite time to improving his behaviour and manners. For the first few days I simply observed him, without interference or comment. The wicked boy! He refused to clean or tidy up after himself; he was clearly spoilt, and altogether too accustomed to having someone meet his every need, without his even having to ask. Well, slovenliness in a young boy is hardly surprising. But his other crimes simply appalled me. Whenever I went upstairs, or bent over, I was always aware of his wicked little eyes, upturned, feasting greedily on the delicious sights to be found around and between my thighs. Yes, really! Isn’t it shocking? He would make a point of following me upstairs, two or three steps behind, and when I spun my head round I would always find his mucky little neck craning up towards my hemline, like a homing pigeon. Now, my skirts are, admittedly, on the short side. I’m rather vain about my legs, which are slender and shapely, and I do choose to expose them general admiration much of the time – but I hardly expected it from my young nephew! And really, the way that boy had craned his neck, I swear he could see my black stocking tops and suspenders, if not my little black knickers as well!

His fascination with my undergarments was further confirmed when I decided to brave his bedroom, to open his curtains, air and make his mucky bed. I winced slightly at the sweet, sweaty smell, the faint stickiness that pervaded the sheets, pummeled up the pillows – and found beneath them three pairs of my frilliest, dirtiest underwear!

Well, for heaven’s sake. That was absolutely the finish for me. Before I went to work that morning I cornered the little beast – still unwashed and sleepy-eyed, naturally – and told him, very firmly, we’d be having a serious talk when I returned. I was slightly mollified to see a flicker of fear in his eyes. Perhaps, with careful handling, he could be trained and transformed into a decent young man. Perhaps. It was surely my duty to try.

That night I came home to find he’d made at least some effort to wash up and tidy after himself, however shambolic. But I was hardly likely to forgive and forget, just because he was starting to behave as a guest should.

“Stand up, Martin! Face your Auntie.”

He stood before me, hands clasped behind his back, eyes to the floor. I was in my highest heels, determined to tower over him.

“Have you any idea, Martin, why I might be angry?”

He shook his head, still gazing at the floor, as if he expected to supply the appropriate response.

“No? Well, do these garments -” I shook the offending undies in his face – “ring any bells?”

He looked genuinely terrified at that. His breath quickened, the colour drained from his cheeks.

“I – I was just tidying up a little for you, Auntie – you’d left them in the bathroom, and – ”

“What, tidying them under your pillow? How terribly thoughtful.” His excuses wilted under my less than subtle sarcasm; the bulge in his trousers, I noted, did not.

“You’re going to be punished for this, Martin. Punished severely. I’ve a good mind to tell your mother – ”

“Oh God, no!” Real anxiety now: his eyes met mine, big and beseeching. “She’ll be so upset – so angry – ”

“You should have thought of that sooner, surely – ” I swear I saw his knees buckle. The obvious fear I was instilling in him gave me a sudden flash of inspiration.

“All right, Martin. Suppose – suppose we don’t tell your mother.” He looked up at that, sudden eagerness flickering across his features.

“Don’t look so damn excited until you’ve heard the alternative. Suppose instead, I – ” Would he swallow it? I felt almost as agitated as he looked, at the prospect? “Suppose instead I provide you with a little of the proper physical chastisement of which you’re so obviously in need?”

He flinched, the realization of exactly what I was suggesting slowly dawning. “You mean…?”

“Yes, Martin. A spanking.” I gave a chilly smile. “And given your extensive knowledge of my undergarments, and more, I think it’s about time I evened the score. Don’t you? Take off your trousers.”

“My – trousers? Surely you’re joking, Auntie?”

“Not at all.” Before he could even think to run away, I hooked a delicate finger through his belt, and in one swift, smooth movement sat down on the chaise-longue and compelled him to follow me, face-down, over my stockinged lap. Martin whimpered slightly, and struggled in a token way, but it was clear he understood I was in charge, and it was pointless to resist. With grim satisfaction, I cupped my hand and brought it down firmly, relentlessly, on to his buttocks, in a barrage of short, sharp smacks.

“Ow! Oo Oh, Auntie, you – you can’t do this, it isn’t right!”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous”, I say, continuing the assault, although my own hand is starting to smart somewhat, “I’ve barely touched you yet. And I don’t suppose you can feel a thing through those thick trousers anyway.”

“Oh, but I can, I can!” He continued to squirm and moan, but in a manner I feared might indicate pleasure, rather than pain. It’s so difficult to tell the difference sometimes! I intensify my assault, bringing my hand crashing down on his bottom with all the force I could muster. The nature of his moans became more apparent when, during a particularly prolonged wriggle against my thighs, I felt something distinctive, pointy and stiff, pressed against my thighs. I was appalled!

“Get up this minute, you revolting little beast!” I shout, hauling him off me and slapping him round the face for good measure. “Take off those trousers! Come on! That’s it, right now, this minute!” His hands were trembling, I noted: his own feverish excitement helped to calm me, and I assisted him with his buckle, yanking the wretched fabric down to his ankles; followed – despite his gasps of protest – by his pants. As I feared, his wicked little penis stuck out at me, hard and throbbing, a fleshly embodiment of insult.

“And what, Martin – ” I tugged on it gently, watching him squirm and fight back tears – “do yo call this?”

“I’m – I’m so s-s-sorry, Auntie”, he stammered, trying and failing to cover the monstrous growth with his hands. “It’s just – being so close to you – you’re stocking tops – I – ” Watching my face contort with rage, he wisely decided to stop speaking and looked to the floor instead.

“Right then. Martin.”

Slowly, deliberately, I stood and spun him round, to avoid seeing that repulsive tumescence, and applied a fresh volley of stinging smacks to his behind, which, I was relieved to see, was looking quite red and sore already. Very hot to the touch, too.

“If being over my lap has this unfortunate and unforeseen consequence, I’d better find another position to beat you in.” I picked up a heavy, mahogany-backed clothes brush I’d put aside earlier, little imagining how quickly it would need to be employed!

“Bend over”, I said, pushing his head down firmly until it came into contact with the dining-room table. “That’s it. Stop whimpering.” His cock, I noticed with no small satisfaction, was starting to shrivel with fear. “Up on your toes. Spread your legs. Stick out that bottom. Right then! Don’t dare move from that position. You’ll take twelve strokes of the brush; I expect you to count them, and thank me for each blow. If you forget the count, or move, or complain, we’ll go straight back to the beginning again, until you get it right. Understood?”

“Y-y-yes Auntie.” His knees were actually trembling! How perfectly delightful. I raised my arms, high above and behind my head, and let loose with every ounce of strength.

“Oh! Ow, ow, oh! I mean, oh, one, thank you, Auntie!”

A delightful, reddish-black mark gleamed low on his left buttock. My lips twitched at his desperate efforts to suppress his pain, humiliation and rage, in a bid to escape further punishment.

“I’ll let that one go. But I expect you to take the next eleven in perfect, stoic dignity, without moving a muscle or deviating in the least from what I told you to say. Got it?”

He nodded his head, clearly not trusting himself to make a sound. I hit him again. And again. And do you know, he didn’t complain once more, or move, or forget the count, so terrified was he of receiving more punishing strokes from that evil brush. You see, corporal punishment really can make a difference! When I’d finished, I kissed his cheek, damp with tears gratified to see his genitalia shrivelled and pathetic between his legs, curled protectively against one thigh, like a baby sea-slug.”I’m so,so sorry, auntie”, he whimpered, his plump little hands reaching round tentatively to explore his lumpy, throbbing bottom, black and blue from the finest thrashing it had ever taken. “I promise, it will never happen again. I’ll be a good boy from now on. I swear it.”

“Hmm. No more looking up my skirt? No more peculiar fixation on my lingerie, glancing at them, stealing them and God knows what else? And you’ll keep the house a little tidier from now on, too?”

“Yes. Definitely. I promise.” He looked calmer now, convinced this was the end of the trauma and embarrassment, and he could revert to his old sloppy ways henceforth. Infuriated by the creeping complacency, I gave him another slap round the face.

“I’d better believe you mean that. And if there’s any backsliding – any return to your old ways – you’ll be straight back here.” I patted the table fondly. “And I’m sure I can find plenty more vicious implements to hit you with, which will make this evening’s ordeal seem like a mere tickle. So you stay on your guard. And Martin?”

“Yes, auntie?”

“For heaven’s sake, put your pyjamas on and go to bed. My friends are coming round later, and I very much doubt they want to see my naked nephew, his bottom engorged and fiery red, waiting to greet them. Although – ” I needed say no more; he picked up his clothes and scarpered up the stairs. But the way he paused halfway, to give me a final, longing glance, made me suspect he’d be back over my knee before the week was out. And truth be told, I couldn’t wait.

 

More stories by this author

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Puff Patrol

Puff Patrol

By Vanessa

“We’ve had it now,” whispered Stevens as the two boys trudged dejectedly behind the tall figure of Daniel Smith-Martin. “Too right,” thought Peter to himself. Five demerits in a week meant a trip to the headmaster’s study, but getting five in a week was pretty careless. Peter had only achieved this distinction once before, back in the third form, and that occasion had marked his first encounter with the cane.

He tried to remember what it was like, but apart from recalling it hurt like hell and he couldn’t sit down in class without wincing for a few days, the details escaped him. He wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not, but he was sure of one thing – this time it would be the senior, not the junior, cane. He sighed heavily as the main school building loomed into view, Smith-Martin turning round to tell the boys to hurry up.

Five minutes later and they were in Smith-Martin’s room. “Right you two,” barked the prefect, “you know the score: 4 o’clock outside Brown’s study – and I wouldn’t advise you to be late!” Peter glanced up at the clock on the prefect’s wall: it was only three. “And,” continued Smith-Martin, removing his blazer and chucking it casually onto a chair, “to keep you busy, I want you to tidy up my room.” Peter looked quickly around his surroundings: the room was small, but it was in an advanced state of disarray. Books and records littered the bed, and the desk was covered in a thick layer of dust. “Make sure you do a good job,” continued their tormentor, “or I’ll send for a run round the playing field.” Stevens moaned audibly at this, as Smith-Martin turned for the door.

“Oh, there is one more thing,” continued the prefect, rummaging in his trouser pocket and pulling out a crumpled red and white cardboard packet; “thanks very much for the cigs!”

Caning-007

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