A FEW CUTS ON THE CUT

Author: John Crouch sixbest675@aol.com

As usual I’m early. Excellent directions written in a very precise hand coupled with a welcome absence of traffic has knocked at least twenty minutes off my worst estimate.

A muddy track with several available parking spaces in small clearings. I wait a little in the car watching the rain through the windscreen. Then cautiously tip toe between the worst of the mud and puddles and have a pee behind the nearest tree. It pays to be prepared.

As I emerge I see that just ahead and above the embankment is the tow path. This will save me walking further down the track which I imagined would be my way forward. Sure enough I emerge onto the tow path between a bridge, a space and just ahead a houseboat.

I step carefully along the towpath and find that joining the enlarged superstructure of the boat to the bank is a timber veranda. At the back of this, in the middle is a small wooden door. As a suburbanite I look in vain for a door bell or knocker. Then I see the little angelus bell on it’s bracket to one side of the door. I pull the lever and chimes ring out. From within the boat there is the noise of movement. The boat rocks slightly and a sheet of disturbed rainwater flows over the sides from the roof and cascades into the canal with a splash. The door creaks open.

I am greeted by a sprightly man in country clothes and sleeveless jacket. He does not look the seventy years or so that he has described in his note. Beaming smile and he ushers me in. I descend the companionway steps and wipe my shoes carefully on the mat at the foot of the stairs. I am in what I would call a bathroom since a basin, bath and chemical loo are arranged about this modest space. It should probably be called the heads?

He indicates that I should proceed to the left toward his bedroom. His-berth?

He has told me that we should start right away upon my arrival so it is no surprise when he instructs me to remove my shoes.

He sits down upon the bunk and I stand just in front of him. He tells me to about turn. I do so.

I feel his hands slide over the seat of my trousers. He pats my cheeks. He tells me to remove my trousers. I do so. He pulls my pants down to my knees and then tells me to take those off as well. I hurry to do so. Perhaps seeing a faint bruising he enquires when last I might have been dealt with. I tell him last Saturday and he asks for some details . I explain that I had been out for an evening walk to a local park where I had expected to meet agreeable company. It had started to rain and the park seemed deserted but just before I had given up I saw two figures closely engaged, behind the brick built shelter. I had been watching them a while, imagining that they could not see me in the dim light but I was wrong. To cut it short they had seen me and quite playfully they had caught me. After a bit of light hearted "Don’t you know what happens to young peeping toms etc." and having seen that I was quite turned on by this instant scene" I had found myself, now quite nervous in fact, being held over by one whilst the other slipped down my trousers and underwear and gave me quite a strong thrashing with his belt. Satisfied, my new master merely grunted "very dangerous behaviour, in my view, quire reckless".

He tells me to turn around. I find that I am avoiding his eye. I am embarrassed by the slight stirring that has occurred, in recounting Saturdays encounter, but which is as yet hardly noticeable. More a feeling than physical evidence. He indicates that I should position myself across his knees and when I have done so spends a moment rearranging me to his satisfaction. This involves a few light upward jerks of his knee and a little pulling and pushing as he settles me in position and at the same time his hand sweeps between my thighs and deftly pushes my balls and cock out of harms way. Satisfied he runs his hands across the cheeks of my bum and pinches it lightly here and there.

He not only looks less than his years he has a surprisingly hard and forceful hand. Gentle almost playful slaps at first but I need not worry. I moan a little to see if it gets him going. "Oh, Sir, please Sir, mmmm" He quickly steps up the pace to harder stinging blows and I find myself wiggling and writhing but he has a firm hold upon me and if I do move at all he jerks me back into place with little effort. I am not acting now and the rather husky "please Sir", gives way to genuine anguish. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! "OW, Sir, oh OW Sir" Thwack! Thwack! "Please Sir-OW, OW, SIR SIR...." Thwack...Thwack...then he says, almost laughing "Getting to you now boy, am I" and though he sounds as though he is laughing there is an edge to his voice as well and Thwack! Thwack! he hits home remorselessly. I shake my head from side to side, my eyes are watering, my breath comes in deep sobs between the pleading, "hurts Sir, ow Sir" greeted by a curt "Meant to".

Having blazed the surface of my buttocks he slaps a little at the tops of my legs and my inner thighs where the velvet skin is softest. I squirm a lot more but against the same lack of release.

The treatment continues with a return to my buttocks and the now forgotten first warm glow, becomes a furnace and then a becomes a sizzling stinging.

Abruptly I am ordered to stand up. About turn. His hands run over my bottom kindly now, smoothing, inspecting.

Obeying instructions I lay down now upon the berth. I cannot see the implement but imagine a thin and fairly light strap. It rains down with a beautiful rhythm. Thwip, Thwip, Thwip, I can judge the strength, visualise the wicked kiss of leather on skin, imagine the sudden thin red lines marching over my firm white flesh. I can hear the faster intake of his breathing. The pressure varies between a light sting Thwip, Thwip and something much heavier THWIP, THWIP. Fire flows with that unique sensation between pain and pleasure that defies description. To my surprise, it never happens to me, my cock is filling and pressing between me and the berth....I don’t want him to see this....as if reading my pain and my guilty pleasure, which perhaps he glimpses as my thighs part a little and clench again as I wriggle and writhe beneath the cruel strap and, he says in such a reasonable tone "This is what you need, this is what you deserve and by golly this is not the half of it!" and I know this to be the truth.

Now the rhythm and the implement have changed. A paddle? A more solid thunk, thunk as it strikes and a more solid contact. Again the changes in strength. The other feelings subside and then disappear as the blows fall. Thunk, Thunk, THUNK, Thunk...I count a set of six, quite firm and now the focus is firmly back where the blows are landing. A pause. Firm hands clasp me at about the level of my knees and my legs are parted wider. I am relieved that my cock has subsided. "Do not close your legs or else!" He says.

The little strap is working now on my inner buttocks. Thwip, Thwip, no hefty blows now but the area is so sensitive that I gasp at each anyway. It produces almost a burning sensation. Thwip, Thwip, I am unable to resist raising one and then both legs from the knee when particular shots overlap and bite harder between the lulling

background battery but I just resist the overwhelming temptation to bring my knees together and protect my inner thighs and upper inside legs. My only reward is "Well taken, boy."Another pause and the promise of a moments cooling off. I can feel a new "weight" to my buttocks as if they have actually grown a bit. Then ouch! No mistaking a proper tawse as it hisses into my backside. SPLAT! SPLAT! Six fairly firm shots that I sustain

by the "only" method. Only four to go, SPLAT, only three to go, SPLAT, only two to go, horribly long agonising pause here... SPLAT...... "Sir, please Sir, I can’t Sir,.... Sir?" "Can’t boy or won’t boy"....SPLAT... ".OWwwwww"...."Not for you to decide is it boy?" Sobs "No, Sir" barely whispered now.

The noise of a bottle top squeaking as it is opened. "Sore, boy?" ."Very sore, Sir" "Good, but I’m not quite finished with you yet, young man". Now the hard hands are kneading and smoothing my hot, heavy, sore buttocks. A cool lotion. More smoothing. I relax and welcome this interlude and respite.

This time, as I feared and despaired, the paddle again. A further group of six. Just precisely harder. Always just within the limits that I can sustain. But at each KAWHAK! of the solid wood, as it sears into my quivering tensed arse I cannot contain sharp gasps of pain and I have to admit to it, some awful whimpering. "Stop that silly nonsense boy, you’ll gain no sympathy by it-just the reverse!" Now as we enter the unknown territory a gentle word of congratulation on punishment well taken. An expression of surprise that one is lasting so well. A two edged sword. Comfort and pride mixed with the need to justify this faith and try just a little harder. Just a little more.

A perfect master. Knocking right on my limits and then teasing for a little more. Turning any fear to a determination to go just a little further.

He produces a senior cane, yellowed with age and I wonder at the other bottoms that must have submitted to it.. I kneel over the edge of the bunk, my head against the cool side of the boat. A couple of taps. Then, swish...THWACK......swish...THWACK..... "Sir, oh Sir, please, Sir" no response except...swish...THWACK...a full searing six as hard as I have ever taken.

At last I hear the magic enquiry and suggestion that perhaps sufficient has been delivered. Instinct cries out that it is enough, it is. Surely madness to go on? I recall the earlier flattery the surprise that my letter had suggested cautious limits, a subtle goad indeed. But he has mastered me. To gamble a little more? To risk humiliation? To spoil things? Does he want to stop for my sake or for his? I should stop. But he can at any time. He is in charge-isn’t he? Selfishness on my part prevails. Hope I can take it.

With confidence at this superb technician I can only reply that "the matter is not for me to decide, Sir".

The chance to stop has been waived. He is reaching into a bucket of brine and produces the BIRCH. I am really gritting my teeth. This is unknown territory for me. He hefts a large box, like a tuck box, onto the berth. I kneel over the box, as directed, so that my bum is well presented and he has the space over half the bunk and the rest of the cabin for his swing. I feel for the first time the new sensation of scratchy twigs against my arse as he places it there to judge the spread, then lifts it back to gauge the swing in this still limited space. To and fro gently until he is satisfied. I notice that my legs are quivering with frightful anticipation. No sharp swish as with the cane announces the travel of this fearsome device. No loud crack upon contact. Just a muted ‘thwash’ as it lands. The first shot stings like hell, the pain across what seems a huge area is mostly like a mildish whip, interspersed are the sharper pains where the twiggy ends have cut more into the flesh. It doesn’t seem too bad. But as the second lands I realise my mistake. It is an accumulative thing. The pain builds up and before the first heat has almost arrived, let alone started to subside, the heat and stinging accelerate ahead. Thwash.......Thwash. At the third my head pitches down, my ears are filled with a screaming noise, I let out a long loud wail of pure despair "EEEEEOOOOOWWW!". He doesn’t comment. The pain and heat are everywhere, across my whole arse and all over the tops and sides of my thighs. Despite my best efforts I cannot resist turning my bottom slightly in a vain effort to find a virgin landing spot. All efforts are doomed since there can be none. The birch spreads it’s tentacles and bites in a thousand places. I have to force myself back into position each time and force myself to present my buttocks. I know I must offer myself properly for my just desserts. The pace is slower now, thwash "oooww!" but the treatment is really getting through. I am nothing now but a submissive all other thought driven out by the unique and penetrating agony of this fiendish implement.

Just as I have planned to take the awful course of surrender, he announces that sufficient punishment has been given. Maybe he knows that we have just arrived at my limit. The lotion again, almost tenderly applied. He carefully picks away odd twiggy ends that have lodged where they landed. The worst bite is just receding to a fiery glow.

Later I sit in the forward saloon before the blazing logs in an iron stove. They are not the only thing that’s blazing. Tea and biscuits with a canal view. Now a hand shake and a goodbye.

I am driving homewards through the rain. It has been the best visit that I have ever made bar none. The only disappointment is the realisation that such a skilled practitioner has probably not been so greatly enthused by my limited abilities. Will I be given another chance?

I find myself replaying the scene from front to back within my mind. It was so good. I wriggle my backside on the car seat trying to drive away the numbness and recapture the discomfort. It nearly works. But another sensation gets recaptured and this time amplified too. Some things can’t wait...I am pulling into a secluded and empty lay-by......