Jay And Mr. Foster

                      Author : Jay Bee JBates3327@aol.com

It was the evening of my eighteenth birthday. I had had a really good day. I slowly got ready for bed my mind going over it. To start with when I went downstairs for breakfast there were cards from my dad, Mr Foster, my landlord, Mrs Davies, his housekeeper, and friends from scouts and from Colin my best friend - well, boyfriend actually. At work I got more cards. Even Mr Lewis, the senior planner in the Council’s department where I worked, had got me one. At supper there were presents. Mrs Davies had bought me a really good cookery book. I was looking forward to trying some of the recipes. Mr Foster had done even better. He would pay for a week’s canoeing holiday at a centre in Scotland. I was so pleased I nearly kissed him. Dad had sent money and Colin got me a box of chocolates.

I undressed for bed. Before putting my pyjamas on I had a good look at my naked self in the mirror. Even though I was only five foot eight I was slim and firm. My legs were muscular after my twice weekly runs and my bottom was round and neat. I also still had almost no hair on my body. I only shaved once a week and that was to remove fluff. Still, now I was eighteen I could get a proof of age card. I would no longer get thrown out of pubs with the words, `Get back to school, sonny.’

Then I heard Mr Foster coming up the stairs. I hastily put my pyjamas on and jumped into bed. He entered without knocking as was his habit. At first that had annoyed me but now I had got used to it. I scrunched up to one side of the bed. He sat down next to me.

"Well, young Jay," He remarked, "Eighteen, even though you’re not a man until twenty one, it’s certainly a landmark." At that time, 1963, twenty one was the age of majority.

"Yes sir," I grinned, "It means I can no longer be spanked."

"Don’t get your hopes up," He smiled, "You’re still a boy as far as I’m concerned. Talking of which birthday boys should get a spanking. It’s an old tradition where I come from."

I said he wouldn’t dare. He took it as a challenge. Giggling and mock pleading I allowed myself to be dragged out of bed. I went over his knee. Somehow my pyjama trousers found their way to my ankles. I got eighteen slaps on my bare bottom. Enough to be felt but not causing any real pain. His hand rested on my cheeks for a moment. A finger explored my crevice, found the hole and lightly probed. I giggled again. He gave a heavy sigh and fetched me a real stinger.

"Yeooow!! What was that for, sir."

"To remind you that even at eighteen you are not immune," he growled with pretend ferociousness.

I got back into bed and grinned up at him. He tucked me in and ruffled my hair. Saying goodnight, he turned my light off. I snuggled down to sleep. I thought of Mr Foster and remembered my vow. He had spanked my bottom a number of times. One day I had promised myself that I would bare it for his pleasure. But, now I was eighteen, the whackings would stop.

Three weeks later my new resolution was put to the test. I was doing a Geography `A’ level at evening class. One of my essays was returned with a C grade. `Not good enough’ was scrawled in red at the top of the page. At first my heart sank. Formerly that would have meant a spanking. However it was different now I was eighteen. I still showed Mr Foster my essays when I got back from class but the days when I was punished were over. I would tell him that tonight. He might put up a bit of resistence. I would be calm but firm. I would listen to him and respect his criticism. Spankings were out.

When I got home that evening I went to his study with my essay as usual. He was busy working. He glanced at the C grade and told me to come and see him at 9.30. I started to put my case about not being punished. He simply said that we’d discuss it at 9.30 and turned back to his work. Frustrated, I retreated to my room. I went over in my mind what I would say to him. My arguments were irresistible. Usually when I saw him at 9.30 I had to be in my dressing gown and pyjamas. Tonight I would go down properly dressed. That would show him I meant business. On the other hand I was going to go to bed immediately after anyway. It wouldn’t do any harm to put my pyjamas on. That way he had no cause to say I was being disobedient or disrespectful.

At 9.30 I knocked at his door. For once I wasn’t trembling. I had nothing to fear now. He told me to enter. I went in and closed the door behind me. I was summoned to the desk. I strode forward confidently. Then I stopped in shock. I gasped with horror. Lying on the desk was the tawse. The sight of it unnerved me. I knew only too well the pain those leather tails would inflict on my bare bottom. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The dark brown leather gleamed menacingly in the light. My carefully marshalled arguments seemed to slip away.

Mr Foster took charge. We discussed my essay. I agreed it wasn’t up to my usual standards. He considered that perhaps I needed an incentive to work harder. My eyes rivetted to the strap, I found myself nodding. His hand seemed to creep closer to its handle. What, I was asked, happens to boys who get Cs. The memory of learning a painful litany over his knee flooded back. "They get spanked, sir."

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

"Well, sir. I mean I’m eighteen now. I’m too big to be spanked." I managed pitifully.

"I’ll be the judge of that young man," he replied. "Go and get ready for it. Six, I think, was what we agreed."

What could I do? I reluctantly went to the door, took my dressing gown off and hung it on the hook. I got the footstool from by the armchair and put it in the centre of the room. I stood between it and the desk. I half turned to try again. He scowled at me. I thought better of it and faced the stool once more. I undid my pyjama trousers. They fell to my ankles. Sighing, I knelt on the stool and put my head and hands on the floor. I inched my knees apart and lifted my bare bottom high in the air. I was ready.

He let me kneel there for a good five minutes. I was furious with myself but it was too late now. I heard him get up from the chair. By this time my rear end was quivering in anticipation of the agony to come. He came to my front. He bent down and put my essay before my eyes. The words `C - not good enough’ glared up at me. He returned to stand behind me and to the right. The cold leather of the tawse caressed my backside.

"Not good enough, is it Jay?"

"No sir,"

The tawse lifted away. It came back, swooshing through the air. It cracked down really hard across both cheeks. I yelped with the shock and pain. I looked again at the words on the essay - `not good enough.’ The second landed lower down. I shivered with it but managed not to yell. The third had me writhing in agony. How I hated that tawse.

"Not good enough, is it Jay?"

"No, sir," I squealed.

Again the strap rose and fell. I still held out. I was determined not to howl. But its effects were felt. My bottom was on fire. I twisted and wriggled on my narrow perch, my breath coming in gasps. The fifth was a real scorcher. I nearly jumped up. I only just stifled a scream. The sixth got me. It scalded right across both cheeks again, dead centre. I howled with the pain and wriggled all over the place. Tears formed in my eyes but I managed to blink most of them back. Yet a few escaped and trailed hotly down my face.

"Not good enough, is it Jay,"

"No sir." I quavered, my voice trembling with pain.

He left me there for a while, my bottom throbbing. I worried about Stinger, a thin whippy cane that was often applied after I had had the tawse. However my luck was in tonight. After a while he let me stand, rub my burning bottom and pull my trousers up. I left the study taking the essay with me. He was right, it wasn’t good enough. I would do better in future. Even as I thanked him and went to my room I realised I was liable to a spanking as long as I remained in his house. In one sense it annoyed me; in another it was comforting.

About a fortnight later I came home to long faces. For a boy the world centres on him. I wondered what I had done wrong. At supper all was explained. Mrs Davies’ sister had been in an accident. She was in hospital now but would be discharged tomorrow. Mrs Davies would have to go up north and look after her. She would be gone at least a month. That night Mr Foster came and sat on my bed. We discussed the next few weeks. I would cook breakfast and the evening meal. Except for weekends he would get his own lunch. I would do the shopping, take washing to the laundrette and iron where necessary. I would keep the house clean. I would be free of rent for that time. The money saved would be paid into my building society. I wasn’t keen on that last bit. I could find many things to spend it on. However I agreed. My savings were now over £600; a lot of money in those days. Again he tucked me in and ruffled my hair. It was at times like that I yearned for him. If we were alone together all sorts of things might happen.

Mrs Davies left the next day. I was given firm instructions as to the keeping of the kitchen. The fridge was to be cleaned once a week, any food over was to be used or thrown out within three days and I was always to wash down every surface after each meal. Then we moved on to the standards of cleanliness expected. I said `yes, miss’ or `no miss’ as appropriate. As much as I liked her I couldn’t wait to see her go.

Supper that night was strained. I had cooked a nice pork steak with apple sauce and vegetables. Mr Foster ate in silence. I didn’t like to say anything. Later that night I hoped he would come to my room. At 9.30 I stripped and waited for him. He would come in, I would pretend shock and maybe things would go on from there. I heard him come up the stairs. Quivering in anticipation I prayed for the door to open. It didn’t. He went to the bathroom. Sometimes he would come in in his dressing gown and pyjamas. Not this night. I sullenly went to bed. I did this for three nights. Nothing happened.

After that I gave up. If he wanted me he’d have to beg. I got really sulky. Too sulky. On about the fourth day I made a cheeky comment. I was quickly bent over a chair and given six ringing slaps. Even over my trousers and pants they hurt. After that I was careful to sulk when he wouldn’t notice. I came to terms with it. He wasn’t interested. Still, there was always Colin. The next time we could get alone together I would let him do it.

Within a week we had settled into a routine. At work I had been busy with a planning inquiry. As a junior filing clerk in the Council’s planning department I had been taken off my usual job and done the filing and other stuff for the hearing. That was now over. I had accumulated a lot of overtime which had to be taken in hours off. So I came home half an hour early, did the shopping, cooked and had supper with Mr Foster. We talked about our jobs or the news. It was all very impersonal. It was as if he was deliberately keeping his distance. I once ventured a remark about Colin. Sometime ago I had confessed what we did together. He wasn’t angry but had put Stinger across me to remind me to be careful. When I said I might go out with Colin on Saturday he just looked away.

For some reason I didn’t meet Colin that Saturday. Instead I went for a long ride on my bike. I got home, had a bath and made supper. Afterwards I watched television for a while then went to my room. I did some work on an essay for my Geography `A’ level. I was so immersed in it that I forgot the time. It was only when I heard Mr Foster come up to his room that I realised I was tired. I could finish the work in the morning. I undressed. I had got down to my pants when I thought of something for the essay. I crossed to the desk and added a sentence. Satisfied, I wandered over to my bed to put on my pyjamas.

I took my pants off. I couldn’t be bothered to go and put them on the armchair. Instead I balled them up and threw them at it. They sailed right over and landed on the far side. I just smiled to myself and picked up my pyjama trousers. Then I thought better of it. If Mr Foster came in I would be told off for being untidy. So, naked, I went over to the chair to pick them up. To save time I didn’t go round but bent over the chair and reached for them. They were a bit further away than I had thought. At full stretch I only just managed to get them. I dragged them towards me. Suddenly I heard the door open behind me. I squeaked in shock. I tried to get up. But I was too far over. I unbalanced and collapsed back onto the arms of the chair. I gathered myself for another go.

"Stay there," he ordered softly.

I froze. I heard him close the door. There was silence. I wasn’t entirely sure if he was still in the room. Then a floorboard creaked with his weight. I could imagine him standing there, staring at my white, round, bare bottom. I wondered what he was going to do. Thoughts of pleasure were far away. I hastily reviewed my sins. He came to stand behind me. Without warning a real stinger landed on my left cheek. It was followed by one to the right and another dead centre. I ooohed and ouched and wriggled a bit.

"What are you doing?" he asked, almost laughing.

He came round to the side. All I could see were his slippered feet and dressing gown. I dumbly pointed to my pants. He chuckled and reached down to ruffle my hair. I relaxed. There was nothing seriously wrong. I might get a couple more stingers but that would be it. He rubbed my head. Then he started to gently massage my neck. It felt really nice. After a while he got to my spine. The massage stopped. A finger began to travel slowly down it. The traveller traced a path along my back. It dipped for a moment then paused at the twin hills that were my bottom. It wasn’t interested in climbing. It chose the ravine. A little way in it found a cave, paused and then hesitantly entered. It was a bit uncomfortable. I wriggled but otherwise stayed still. The finger withdrew. There was a heavy sigh. Again the finger cautiously probed. I raised myself up a bit and opened my legs wider.

The finger left me. His hand came down with another slap. I winced but it wasn’t hard. The hand gently massaged away the pain. The massage turned into stroking. His hand roamed all over me; at first tentatively as if he was worried I would say something. When I remained still and quiet the strokes became firmer, more authoritative, possessive. I loved it. By now he was sweeping along me in great arcs that ran from my neck, over my bottom and down the back of my thighs. As they increased in intensity I felt a thrill of delight. All at once I realised that he now understood something I had known for months. At last he knew what I was. I was his, his boy.

In my joy I reared up, thrust my backside at him and opened my legs even wider. I got my reward. The strokes stopped. Six hard slaps stung me. I subsided in pain and dismay. Then I understood the lesson. There was only one person in charge in this room. It wasn’t me. I gratefully absorbed the stinging rebuke. He would have no more trouble. I let myself go limp. I was his.

His hand returned to my bottom. Again it massaged away the sting. The finger once more probed my passage. This time it was different. It was no longer the hesitant traveller. It was the scout for an invading force. I was thoroughly examined. The finger pressed deep within, releasing a bubble of pain. I now moved to the pressure of his hands. They told me to lift myself up. I did so. A hand slipped between my legs. It cradled my balls for a moment then went on to the rock hard shaft. My length was explored. My circumcised tip was gently squeezed. He started to rub me and I grew even harder. Then he stopped and took his hand away. I got a pat on the bottom as if to say `later.’

Again he told me to stay where I was. I heard him leave the room. Just as I was beginning to get worried he came back. He put something down on the floor behind me. Then a hand rested on each hip. Moving to the light pressure I positioned myself to his satisfaction. I was left arched over the chair, my legs far apart. When he was through he picked up whatever it was on the floor. Then the finger returned to my ring. Only this time it was covered in a cold, slightly oily mixture. He rubbed it into me and inside me. I shuddered from the cold but otherwise stayed still. For a moment it seemed as if there was more than one finger in me. I felt another pang of pain.

The pain reminded me of what Colin had told me. He had had an affair with a prefect at his school. He said the first time it really hurt. After that though it was quite nice. The thought of pain didn’t trouble me. It couldn’t be worse than the tawse or the cane. But I didn’t want to scream and spoil it all. I almost asked him about it when I saw the solution; my pants. I reached for them again. I rolled them into a little ball. If the pain got too bad I would put them in my mouth and bite down.

If he saw what I was doing he gave no sign. He finished oiling me and went over to my bed. There was a rustle as clothing was removed. It was placed on the bed. There was a pause in which it sounded as if he was also oiling himself. Then his bare feet padded over to me once more. I yearned to look round and see him. But I could only do so with his permission. He didn’t give it so I stayed where I was. By now I was feeling slightly apprehensive. As much as I wanted him, I wasn’t sure about going through with this.

It was too late for second thoughts. Even as my doubts surfaced a hand once more grasped one of my hips. I felt something hard, implacable being guided to a position against my hole. I became frightened. It was about to happen. I shuddered. He stopped what he was doing and soothed me with his hands; stroking me, patting me and telling me it would be alright. My tension eased. I picked up my pants and put them in my mouth. I got a firm grip on the base of the chair.

He sensed my readiness. Once more his tip nudged at the entrance to my hole. Again his hands took a hip each. There was a pause. Then he thrust forward. The short jab got him in. At first it didn’t seem to hurt. Then the pain came. It was like bubbles of agony rising up in me. I bit down on the pants and tried not to wriggle. Another short thrust. More of him was in, more pain followed. This was really sharp. As if something inside me had given way. Yet as much as it hurt I welcomed it. I needed something to bite on but otherwise I knew I could last it out. I felt him driving up inside me. After more short thrusts I felt something gently slap me between the legs. For moment I wondered what it was. Then I realised. It was his balls. He was in all the way.

He let me rest. The pain was strong but I was stronger. One hand left a hip and explored underneath me. It found my drooping cock. At his touch it sprang back to life. Despite the ebbing pain I was once more rock hard.

Then he began to move. It was slow at first, each movement re-awakening the pain. Yet as he continued to move the pain dulled. It was always there but was overtaken by a warm, glowing feeling. In addition when he moved the hand on my shaft moved with him. Soon the pain was left in the background. The movement became stronger, more frequent; driving even further up me. For a minute it became almost frantic. Then with a huge sigh and a jerk within he came inside me. Almost at the same time I came as well. I spat out the pants. I slumped onto the arms of the chair, panting and groaning. He slipped out of me. He was also breathing deeply. He leaned over me and kissed the back of my neck. "Stay there," he said yet again.

He left the room. I heard a tap run in the bathroom. Then he was back with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned me gently. Some cream was applied inside. It eased the soreness but I knew I would feel the effects for a few days to come. I heard him get dressed. Was I not to see him? Finally I was allowed to stand. There was a mess on the seat of the chair. I used the cloth to wipe it up. I noticed the bloodstains. I got worried but he soothed my fears. It was quite common. In a few days it would be as if it had never happened. I smiled up at him. He led me to the bed and motioned me in. I did as I was told. He pulled the bedclothes over me and tucked me in. Once more he ruffled my hair. Then he bent forward and kissed my cheek. He turned to go.

"Sir?" I said, my voice trembling with emotion, "Thank you sir."

He said goodnight and left, switching my light out. I lay back against the pillows. I was sore but it had been worth it. I had kept my promise.

Jay Bee April 16 1998.