Bedtime at Mr. Fosters

                      Author : Jay Bee JBates3327@aol.com

Two weeks into 1962 a happy boy sauntered home from work. For a start I had been allowed to leave the office early. This was always good as the job bored me rigid. There is not much scope for fun as an office junior. But better than that I had finally come to a decision about what to spend my Christmas money on. I was going to get a bike. Not a motor bike; Mr Foster, my landlord, would have had a fit. No I was going to buy the smart blue pushbike I had been eyeing up in the shop window for the last fortnight. I took one more look on my way home. Tomorrow that bike would be mine.

It had been a difficult decision. For once I had money to burn. I got two weeks’ pay as a Christmas bonus. My dad had sent me £10. With that I had over £50. I paid off my debt to the Scout Group I was in. That left me £45. I could have the bike or a record player. I wanted a gramophone quite badly. The radio was ok but I wanted to listen to my music. On the other hand Mr Foster was against it. He said there would be too much noise. If that happened I’d end up in his study at 9.30 one evening making a lot of noise myself. I thought I might get away with it. I could keep the volume low. But at the end of the day discretion ruled. His tawse was painful, the thin whippy cane called Stinger was agonizing. A bike it was to be. In any event it was my seventeenth birthday next month. I might scrape up enough money to be able to buy a small player then.

By now I had been living with Mr Foster and his housekeeper, Mrs Davies, for ten months. Their house had become my home. We got on well together most times. I had made myself useful. I did some gardening, washed Mr Foster’s car once a week and cooked the odd Sunday lunch or supper every now and again. On the other hand if I got into trouble I would be punished. I was part of the family. At Christmas I stayed with them, despite a half-hearted invitation from my dad. It was a quiet Christmas but I enjoyed it.

I had a really good holiday. The boss had shut the firm down until January 2 so I had over a week free. I mucked about with my friends from the scouts, went to the cinema a couple of times and took part in a massive snow fight that lasted half a day. When I got home Mrs Davies was furious with me. I had to strip almost entirely in the kitchen before she would allow me up to my room. Before I got out she landed four stinging whacks on my backside with a wooden spoon. I think Mr Foster was a bit disconcerted to come out of his study and find me half way up the stairs clad only in a pair of white, wet - and so transparent - pants, rubbing my bottom as I went. I was worried that I might be in trouble. But Mr Foster just laughed and said `boys will be boys.’ He was good like that.

As I walked from the bike shop to where we lived I planned the evening. It was a Tuesday so when I got home I would have to go for my run. This was Mr Foster’s idea of keeping me trim. At first I wasn’t keen. But the results were good. My hairless body was slim, firm and slightly muscular. After the run would come a shower and supper. There was a cop show on the television I wanted to watch. Then I would go to my room and work on an essay for my history `A’ level. At 8.30 there was a western. Once that had finished I knew I could scrounge a hot drink and some cake from Mrs Davies. I would take that to my room, get into bed, read a bit of my thriller and then put the light out. I might even pleasure myself thinking of Colin before I went to sleep.

Colin went to the same history evening class as me. He was really good looking. He had a sort of elfin face, dark, slightly curly hair and brooding brown eyes. That was combined with an almost perfect body. Not that I had seen it. He always wore his school uniform to the class. But if I timed it right I would get a good look at his firm, round, dark trousered bottom as he bent over to put his case down. I often imagined what he would look like without the uniform. At such times I usually had to make a quick dash for the washbasin in the corner of my room.

He wasn’t interested in me. When we started the evening classes I tried to get to know him. But he kept me, and everyone else, at arms length. I could talk briefly to him about work. If I tried to get more friendly he would politely disengage and walk away. It was so frustrating. At least he didn’t talk to the girls there. I was friendly with Neill, another boy of my age, but it wasn’t the same. Neill was ok to mutter to while Mr Williams was boring on. But it was Colin I fancied.

The classes had been Mr Foster’s idea. If I wanted to get out of the rut I was in I needed more qualifications he had said. So I agreed to do one `A’ level a year for the next two years. History was the first one. It wasn’t going very well. When I started I was getting Bs for my essays but that soon fell to Cs. Once I even got a D. I had resolved that I was going to do better. I put more effort into my first essay of the New Year and was rewarded with a C+. I had talked to Mr Williams about my work. I think he was pleased that I had gone to see him. Nevertheless he said I needed to bring more discipline to my writing and to work harder. I was sure the essay I would be working on tonight would get me back into the Bs.

During supper I told Mr Foster about my decision to get a bike. He said I’d have to get a chain to lock it up with. There had been a number of bike thefts locally. I hadn’t thought of that. But I would have enough money for it so there wasn’t a problem. Mrs Davies went on about rising crime rates. I knew what Mr Foster’s solution would be - bring back the birch.

After supper I helped wash up. I watched the police show. Then I went to my room and started the essay. It didn’t go as well as I hoped. By the time the western was on I had only done four paragraphs. Evening classes were on Thursdays so I would have to work most of tomorrow night to get it finished. The trouble was I had said I would meet my mates, Dave and Simon, that evening. Still, I thought, as I went downstairs, I could always get up early on Thursday morning and finish it then.

I was right. Mrs Davies fussed a little but I got some hot chocolate and fruit cake. I had it in my room. I looked at the essay again and wondered if I should get on with it. On the other hand the thriller I was reading had got to an interesting bit. Ah, well, I decided, there were still two more days. I got into my pyjamas, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and jumped into bed. Soon I was immersed in the book.

About half an hour later I heard Mr Foster come up the stairs. As he got to my room the door handle turned and he came in. He never knocked. At first this annoyed me. It was my room. But then I sensed that this was his way of telling me that it was his house, I was only a lodger. Every now and then, if my light was on, he would come in. He never visited me if it was off. In any event as I grew to like him I welcomed his presence. I quite happily put my book down. I smiled up at him and scrunched up to one side of the bed so that he could sit down.

Tonight however he didn’t want to sit on the bed and chat. Instead he roamed about the room. I was glad it was tidy. He had told me off a couple of times for it being messy. As he walked around we talked about the bike. I said it would save me money on bus fares. He was dubious. Then he wandered over to the desk. He looked at the essay I was writing. Suddenly he sat down and started to read it properly. A thin trickle of anxiety began to flow through me.

I got even more worried when he picked up the folder containing my earlier essays. I knew that on the top right hand corner of the first there was a large, red `C+ Must try harder.’ He began to leaf through them. His face grew more and more stern. When he got to the D he gave me a long hard look. By now I was beginning to get frightened. I knew my work was poor. I could guess at his likely reaction.

"Come here please Jay," he said.

Reluctantly I got out of bed. I checked that I was decent then padded over to the desk. I stood by his right shoulder as he continued to examine my work. When he got to the Bs he snorted. "You can do good work when you set your mind to it I see."

I didn’t say anything. He went back to the D. He took it right out of the folder and read it through. My hands became sweaty. I had to wipe them against my pyjama trousers. He finished the D and picked another essay at random. It was a C-. Just my luck. He read that one through as well. It wasn’t cold in the room but I had begun to shiver. When he got to the end of the C- essay he turned in the chair to face me.

"You’ve got some explaining to do, young man," he said firmly. "I am not happy with this at all."

I stumbled my way through a litany of excuses. I was tired from work. There was the scouts. The D was at the time I was going to be initiated. I hadn’t been at school for some time. It was difficult to get back into the routine. I’d had a bad cold. Mr Williams was OK but he didn’t explain things properly. I couldn’t afford the books. My voice trailed off. I knew as well as he did how pathetic I sounded.

Mr Foster made no comment. He merely picked up my latest effort. `C+ must try harder.’ It said it all. I bowed my head and, trembling with fear, awaited his judgment.

"Its not good enough, is it Jay?"

"No sir."

"What should I do?"

I thought it better to face the facts, "Spank me, sir," I replied miserably.

"Well, it may come to that. Firstly though there are going to be some new rules."

"Yes, sir." Inwardly I cringed. Not more rules.

"You go to college on Thursday evenings. From now on when you get back you will go straight to my study and place your newly marked essays on my desk. I will discuss them with you later. But I can tell you this now. A C grade will earn you six with the tawse. For a D Stinger will be brought into play. I don’t know how many but it certainly won’t be less than four. No excuses will be accepted."

A thrill of fear surged up. Stinger!!. I vowed never, ever would I get a D again. I would ring Dave’s mum tomorrow and say I wasn’t going to meet them. Tomorrow night I would work on that essay until it was perfect. Four with Stinger!! I couldn’t take one. And it might be more.

If he saw my reaction he took no notice. "Secondly," he went on, " The English in your essays is appalling. There are spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and the whole construction is sloppy. You will come and see me tomorrow and I will set you a composition. You will hand it to me at Saturday lunchtime. We will go through it in detail. You will then redo it taking into account the mistakes I have pointed out. You will give me the rewrite on Sunday evening. I strongly advise you to get it right on the second go."

"Yes sir," I could see my valuable free time slipping away.

"Thirdly, I am going to see Mr Williams. I will ask him to let me know if you are inattentive in class, badly behaved or otherwise a problem. The first time he complains about you it will be the tawse; a good ten, soundly delivered. The second time it will be six of the best with Stinger."

If Mr Williams wanted the floor of the classroom polished he had suddenly acquired a new cleaner. The days when I muttered clever comments to Neill were gone. Colin was really ugly. In future my whole attention would be rivetted on what Mr Williams was teaching.

"Yes, sir." I fervently agreed.

"Fourthly," then he paused, ".....Fourthly, I am going to mark my displeasure at these grades. In part it may be my fault. Perhaps I should have checked up on you before now. Nevertheless they are your grades and some punishment is due."

"Yes sir." My heart sank. I sighed and turned to the door.

"Where do you think you’re going, young man?" He snapped.

"To your study, sir." I anxiously replied.

He just looked at me. Then he stood up and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. "Oh, Jay, Jay, what am I going to do with you?" He sighed. "In many ways you’re a pleasure to have in the house. At other times ...... I tell you now when I saw that D I had a mind to drag you down to my study by the ear and whip your bare bottom raw. But I accept what you say about the initiation. I know it was a difficult time for you. Yet this can’t go on. If I let it you will fail your exams. You know that don’t you?"

"Yes, sir," I cautiously agreed, wondering what was to happen next.

"It’s not that I want to punish you," he continued, "But it does seem to do the trick. However this time I think I can do without the tawse. I’ll try a more traditional approach."

With an arm around my shoulder he propelled me towards the bed. He sat down. I remained standing on his right hand side. Again both hands gripped my shoulders. He turned me gently until I was facing him. He looked me straight in the eye.

"Is there anything you would like to say to me before I punish you?" he asked.

"I’m sorry, sir. I know my work was poor but I had seen Mr Williams about it last week. I will do better, I promise."

A brief silence fell. Then one of his hands left my shoulders. It travelled down my arm and across my waist to where the ends of my pyjama cord hung. An end was firmly grasped then tugged. The knot unravelled. My trousers loosened. At the same time he applied more pressure to my shoulder with the other hand. I was forced forward. As I was bent further and further over he pulled my trousers down. They slipped over my bottom and fell to my knees. He pushed them right down to my ankles. By now I was resting over his lap. I put my hands on the floor to steady myself. He brushed my pyjama jacket up my back. My white, round, bare bottom was entirely at his disposal.

"Raise yourself up more, please."

I did as I was told. I arched my back so that instead of being flat across him my bottom rose in the air. I wriggled about a bit to get more comfortable. The movement stilled the instant his cold hand came to rest on my bare flesh. I tensed, ready for the first spank.

"When I deal with a boy like this I am sending him a message," Mr Foster began, his hand lightly gripping the crown of my backside. "I find it helpful if he knows what that message is. So I get him to spell it out. Thus if the message was to be `Good examination results must be achieved in my history A level,’ After the first whack you would say G, after the second, O and so on."

I gasped. On that message I would get at least fifty whacks, maybe more. When I had realised I was going to get a hand spanking I thought it would be easy. I rapidly revised my opinion.

"I see you get the picture," Mr Foster continued. "Now, what message shall I send you?"

"How about, `I must get better grades,’ sir" I ventured hesitantly.

"Hmm, I would prefer `I must get a B for every essay.’" Mr Foster replied. "Do you agree?"

Being a complete idiot I didn’t spot the trap; although I don’t suppose it would have mattered if I had. Instead I quickly worked out that this meant twenty three whacks instead of over fifty. I readily agreed. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I should have known better.

His hand lifted away from my bottom. It returned with a hard swat to my right cheek. It stung. "I" I gasped. He settled into a rhythm. Top right, top left, bottom right, bottom left then two good ones dead centre. Given that his hand covered half a cheek there probably wasn’t a square inch of flesh that he missed. By the time the seventh whack landed the e was a long drawn out "EEEE." When I got to the r in `for’ he had started the third round. If anything the spanks were getting harder. My bottom burned. I wriggled and gasped as I spelt out my duty. This was one message that was definitely getting through.

The last round started. "S" I shrieked tears beginning to flow. Whack! "S", Whack! "A", Whack! `Y’. When I howled that `Y’ his trap sprang shut on me.

"What did you say?" he demanded sternly

"Y, sir," I stammered tearfully.

"Why? Well I’ll tell you why, because." Whack! a real stinger, dead centre. I howled.

"Boys" Whack! "Oh, sir, please !"

"Who" Whack! "Ow oooh!"

"Get" Whack! "Please sir, no more!"

"Cs" Whack! "Yeow oooh!"

"Get" Whack! "Ow! ow! ow!"

"Spanked." Whack! "Oh sir! sir!"

"What happens to boys who get Cs?"

"They get spanked sir," I sobbed. I was squirming in his lap, my legs kicking in the air. I tried to get a hand round to my bottom but he easily restrained me. I honestly think that if I had gone back to the start I would have begged for the tawse instead. It wasn’t just the pain, although that was bad enough, I felt so small and ridiculous. I had thought I was a hero. I couldn’t even take a spanking with his hand. I cried without restraint. My bottom throbbed with heat and pain.

"Good boy," he said kindly. Again he rested his hand on my rear end. But I was still writhing with the pain. It slipped off my cheeks and fell between my open legs. It stayed there for a moment. I felt a sudden firm pressure on my ring. Then it was gone. I got another light slap. He allowed me to stand. Had I really felt anything?

He looked at me for a minute. At least this time I wasn’t hard. Then he told me to get back into bed. I pulled my trousers up. As I knelt briefly on the side of the bed while getting in a light swat sped me on my way. I lay on my back, my bottom glowing, and looked up at him. My tears slowly dried.

"What do boys who get Cs get?" he asked.

"A spanking, sir," I sniffed.

"Good, see that you remember that."

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

He leaned forward and ruffled my hair. He tucked the blankets in. No one had done that for me since mum left home eight years ago. I smiled weakly at him. He said goodnight, turned the light out and closed the door behind him.

I turned on my side. I eased down my pyjamas and massaged my sore backside with my hands. After a while my cock began to stir. My mind went to Colin. Yet, when I got to the part of the fantasy where his slim arm crept round me, hand diving lower, it suddenly changed. The body behind me was tall and strong. The arm was firm, authoritative, possessive. The hand was that of a real man. I didn’t make it to the washbasin in time.

Jay Bee, April 4 1998