Jay's Day Out

                      Author : Jay Bee JBates3327@aol.com

I had to really work hard to get to go on this trip. About the only thing I didn’t do was get down on my knees and knock my head on the floor three times. It was for Mr Foster’s work. He was an educational book publisher. He was also my landlord. He had his own company. To sell their books they went to various trade fairs and local authority events. This one wasn’t far from us. It was the education authority’s open day at one of their schools. To get people in and make some money there were a variety of attractions. There was an army team, a mini fairground, rides, charity stalls and a cookery competition. I fancied the competition but that wasn’t why I was so desperate to go. There was also a careers tent.

I had a really boring job at that time. I was the office junior in a small wholesale stationers. I hated it. It was made worse by the fact that if I messed up my boss would apply the flat of a heavy ruler to my bare backside. I wanted out. At Mr Foster’s suggestion I had started an `A’ level course at the local college. I was doing history. If I got that while I was seventeen and another A when I was eighteen I should be okay for a better job. The question was what job? For a boy like me, in work, there was no careers advice available. At that time, 1962, once you left school you were virtually on your own.

So I dropped heavy hints. I offered to carry his books. In the end I resorted to heavy sighs at the supper table. Mr Foster, who could read me like one of his own books, surrendered. I could come with him. I would make myself useful. If I caused him any trouble I would have to report to his study at 9.30 that evening. I vowed he would have no trouble from me. 9.30 was spanking time. It meant his heavy tawse or the light, whippy cane known as Stinger. The tawse was horrible, Stinger was more than I could take. Even one from it on my bare bottom was too much. I would go to the fair. I would be very, very good.

When we got there, before it opened, it was a muddle. It was amazing to see Mr Foster at work. Almost effortlessly he got his stand set up. I laboured between the car and the stand carrying books and leaflets. We were ready well before the start. I pitied lesser beings who were still struggling as 2.00 approached. Two of Mr Foster’s employees joined him. They would persuade headmasters or resources teachers of the merits of their products. I was no longer needed. I was free.

I made a beeline for the careers tent. There was a queue already. I wandered around. The army display was interesting but not for me. I knew I would not have to do national service. I mooched past a number of stalls. I had a go at a tombola. I actually won a bottle of sherry. I would give it to Mrs Davies, Mr Foster’s housekeeper. From time to time I scouted the careers tent. Then, suddenly it was almost empty. I went in.

A bored lady was free at a desk. I went and sat on the chair beside it. She asked for my details. When she realised I was not at a school in the area she nearly turned me out. But I pleaded with my eyes and she relented. We went through my school career and my ‘O’ levels. I think she was impressed by the fact that I was now studying for my `A’ levels at the local college. I went through my interests. She was taken by my cooking abilities. She suggested I become a chef. But I had already thought of that. It didn’t really attract me. We went back to my love of maps. She said that perhaps I should consider town planning. I wasn’t sure. She explained a bit about it and it sounded quite interesting. She gave me details of courses I could do. They all needed two `A’ levels so I was on the right track; although the next one should be Geography. She showed me brochures for the courses. Obviously, she said, it would be better if I could get some ground floor experience.

I left with a new resolve. I would pack in my job as soon as I could. I would get work in planning. There must be planning offices in town. If only I could get a job in one of them. Even if I didn’t like it after a while it would still be good experience. I was really looking forward to discussing it all with Mr Foster on the way home.

My mind spinning, I walked back to the main school. To do so I had to cross a track. Then I spotted him, walking towards the fair. I yelled but he didn’t hear me. I raced towards him: across the road: straight into the path of a cyclist.

There was a screech of brakes. It was too late. The bike caught me hard on my hip. I was knocked to the ground. I just lay there, shocked and trembling. The cyclist came up and started to have a good go at me. I was really frightened. Then all at once Mr Foster was there. I shrank towards him. I was safe. When he looked at me it was with concern. He checked to see that I was alright. When he realised I wasn’t that badly hurt he turned his attention to the cyclist. Words were said. The cyclist departed. His final sally was that Mr Foster should give me a really good hiding. I went cold. One look at Mr Foster told me everything. The cyclist needn’t have bothered with his suggestion. He was furious with me.

He wouldn’t talk to me. I tried to explain. My explanations fell on deaf ears. Icily I was directed to reload the car with unsold books. When all was done we left. The journey home was conducted in silence. The only thing he said was when I started to snivel, "Be a man." I tried, I tried. But I knew what was in store. Despite his contempt, tears rolled down my cheeks; not just for the spanking but for the ruined day. I managed to get back under control. He left me to stew in my misery.

When we got home I was sent straight to my room. I didn’t deserve any supper. I was to report to the study at 9.30. Mrs Davies came out to see what was wrong. As I scuttled up to my room I heard Mr Foster start to explain.

At 7.00 there was a knock at my door. It was Mrs Davies.

She had a tray with tomato soup, a cheese sandwich and some ointment. She put the tray down on my desk. She wanted to examine my injuries. I resisted. It was no use. She had been a matron at a boy’s school. My trousers came down. It wasn’t enough. My pants followed. I was really embarrassed. She took no notice. She dressed the bruising and cut on my hip with the ointment. It felt a lot better. I was allowed to dress.

"That won’t prevent what’s going to happen to you at 9.30" she said.

"Oh, miss" I replied. "Why is he so cross with me? I’ve been hurt. I won’t do it again."

"Jay, Jay," she responded kindly. "Suppose it had been a car? You could have been killed. You could be in hospital. It really gave him a shock when he saw you lying in the road. I don’t think you realise how fond of you he has become. When you came here you were just a lodger. Someone to help with expenses. But you have been such a delight to him. To both of us. Having you about is like a breath of fresh air. You cause no trouble. If you do something wrong you accept his guidance and his discipline. You work about the house. In many ways you are the son he never had."

"Really, miss?"

"Really."

I was shocked. I never would have thought it. I was in awe of him. Not just for the spankings. I looked up to him. Even though I was naturally obedient I would never have thought to disobey him. He was firm but fair. I would have really loved to have been his true son. Particularly after what my dad had done to me. Not physically. He never touched me. But still I had very little time for him. He had sent my mum away. It was Mr Foster I looked to.

"You are going to get the best spanking of your life," Mrs Davies continued. "All I ask is that you accept that he thinks it is in your best interests. He also thinks that you are worth spanking. Another boy might simply be shown the door. It won’t be done out of anger. He just wants to ensure that never again do you put yourself in such danger. Can you accept that?"

The tears started afresh. I really didn’t want the thrashing I was obviously in for. Yet at the same time I acknowledged that I deserved it. What Mrs Davies was saying made sense. I warmed to her. I stopped crying. If both of them thought I should get a really good spanking, who was I to argue? I just had to take it. If I could.

"Yes, miss" I promised.

"If it is too much, come to me in the kitchen afterwards and I’ll put some cream on your bottom."

I looked at her aghast. I’d rather die. She may have seen me bare. She may have once whacked me herself with the wooden spoon. She had been really nice to me with cooking and stuff. But I would never, ever go to her for that. I just looked at her. I think she got the message.

"Alright, Jay," she smiled, "I’ll leave a pot of cream in your room."

"Thank you, miss," I managed, still a little shocked at her suggestion. She left me to my thoughts. I was hungry. I ate the sandwich and had the soup. I even got down to an essay for my history teacher. But the thought of what was going to happen was never far away. As the time relentlessly grew closer I was quaking with fear.

It was with a heavy heart that I got ready. I stripped and looked in the mirror. My firm, white, nearly hairless body was reflected back at me. I was in good shape thanks to the twice weekly running I did. I looked at my well rounded bottom. Its white, unblemished skin would soon be turning red. I checked to see if I needed to shave. I only had to use the razor once a week at most. I didn’t need it now. I put my pyjamas and dressing gown on, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and went downstairs.

I waited in the hall, shaking and fretting. If only I had taken more care. The hall clock ticked loudly. At 9.30 I presented myself at the study door. I knocked. On the summons to enter I twisted the door handle. My hands were damp with sweat. I fumbled with it but managed to get it open. Mr Foster was seated at the desk. He beckoned me closer.

"Now," he said, "You know what you’ve done wrong."

"Yes, sir," I answered fearfully.

"You could have been killed. You could be lying in hospital, permanently disabled. All because you didn’t look where you were going."

"Yes, sir."

"When you were small did no one ever teach you how to cross a road?"

"No, sir. I mean yes sir."

"What do you do when you come to the edge of a road?"

"I should stop, look left, look right, look left again and, if it is clear, I can cross, sir."

" Well, I think you need reminding of that lesson. It doesn’t seem to have sunk in."

What could I say. By this time my heart was at my feet. I felt like a small child. I only ran across because I was excited. But that was no excuse. He was right. I could have been badly hurt. I just lowered my head in shame and gazed at the carpet.

"To remind you of how to cross a road I am going to give you ten with the tawse."

I gaped at him. Ten was really bad. I had had that last summer. I knew I would never take it. But worse was yet to come.

"And," he continued, "Six with Stinger."

The blood rushed from my head. I swayed. I think I would have fallen if I hadn’t grasped the desk. Not Stinger. Not six. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness. But I knew he would only despise me. I had done wrong. He had passed judgment and sentence. All I could do was accept it.

"Yes, sir," I squeaked. "Please sir."

"No Jay," he said sternly. " There are no pleases here. You would have been killed today if it had been a car rather than a bike. I know how much this is going to hurt you. I mean it to. I want to make sure that every time you come to cross a road you will remember this lesson. At least that way you will be safe."

My eyes brimmed with tears. Some began to trickle down my cheeks. I couldn’t hold them back. Yet I remembered what Mrs Davies had said. He was doing it for me because he was fond of me. I was worth it. I drew a deep breath.

"Yes sir, thank you sir." I sniffled.

"Good boy. It will soon be all over and done with. What I intend is this. You will get five with the tawse. Then you must remind me of how you should cross a road. The same after the tenth stroke. When we come to Stinger you will repeat the crossing drill after every two. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir,"

"Very well, you know what to do."

I dried my eyes although they quickly filled again. I turned and went back to the door. I took my dressing gown off and hung it on the peg. My feet dragging, I walked slowly over to his armchair. In front of it was a footstool. I pulled it into the centre of the room. I put myself between it and his desk. I paused for a moment. I really didn’t want to go through with this. Yet I knew I had to. With a sigh I untied the cord of my pyjama trousers. I let them fall to my ankles. Then I knelt down on the footstool and put my head on the floor. My firm, round, bare bottom rose in the air. I steadied myself with my hands. I inched my knees apart. My backside was now ready to pay for my sins.

I heard him open the bottom drawer of his desk. That was where the tawse was kept. My senses seemed to be on full alert. I swear I heard the whisper of the leather as he drew it from his desk. His chair creaked as he stood up. I could hear his shallow breathing. I certainly heard the whoosh the tawse made as he gave it an experimental swing. Then he came to stand to my right. By now I was quaking with fear. I arched myself up so that my bottom was in the best position to receive the strap. He pushed my pyjama jacket further up my back. Then the cold leather touched me. It was quickly drawn away.

It landed really hard, dead centre, getting both cheeks. It was agony. I don’t know how I suppressed a yell of pain. I shivered with it. If this was the first, what would the rest be like? I wasn’t left in much doubt. The second got me almost on the thighs. I gasped and writhed. The third was another direct hit. I forgot my pride, forgot my strength, I howled. I wanted to get up. I wanted it to end. But there were another seven to go. And then there would be Stinger. I trembled.

The fourth cracked down. It got me higher up. I managed not to scream. The fifth beat me again, searing across areas he had already got. Again I howled. I tried to get up and rub my wounded rear end. But he thrust me down. The tears were falling in earnest now.

"What should you do when you come to a road?" he asked.

"I must stop, look left, look right and look left again. If it is safe I can cross sir," I shrilled. "Please sir, please sir."

He took no notice of my pleas. The tawse cracked down again. It seared across my right cheek, burning as if someone had thrown acid on me. The seventh was as bad but on the left. He was making sure that no part of my bottom was left untouched. I screamed, I pleaded but he took no notice. The only thing that kept me down was the certain knowledge of more. When he got to the tenth I was a howling, sobbing, totally defeated boy. I believe that at that moment I would have done anything for him. Anything to stop the terror to come.

Once more I tearfully recited the crossing code. He patted my burning cheeks. Then he walked away. I heard him put the tawse back in its drawer. I heard the drawer close. He went over to the sideboard. Another drawer opened. I shivered in fear. Stinger was being brought into play.

He came back to stand behind me. He tapped the cane on the under part of my bottom. I knew what he wanted. Tears falling like rain I somehow managed to raise myself into the correct position. I was shaking all over. I knew how bad this was going to be. I wanted to beg for mercy.

The first whopped in right across both cheeks. I screamed with pain, then screamed again. I couldn’t bear it. I thrust forward with my hands and reared up on the stool. My hands automatically went to my injured bottom. I twisted round to look at him; to plead for forgiveness. I quailed before his look of fury. Somehow I found the strength to get down again. I took my hands from my burning cheeks. Snivelling and crying I awaited the second stroke. It whipped in low and hard. Again I wailed my sorrow. I writhed in agony. Somehow I managed to stay down.

He let me recover. Once the sobbing had stopped I had to recite the crossing code. I stuttered my way through it.

"Stay there," he said. He laid the cane across his desk and sat down in his chair. He had a perfect view of my wounded rear end. I just knelt and looked at the pattern on the carpet. Bits of it were soaked with my tears. I breathed in and out heavily as if I had just run a mile. There were four more to come. After a while the throbbing in my bottom subsided slightly. He seemed to sense this. I heard him get up. There was a slight clatter of wood as he picked up Stinger once more.

"Please sir, I’ll never do it again. Please don’t sir."

I might just as well have talked to the moon. Again the cane tapped under me. Again, trembling with fear, I raised myself up. There was a pause. Then it whopped through the air to land dead centre. I howled, I screamed, I begged; to no avail. The fourth seemed to get me right on the last one. Any tears that had been stemmed now flowed unceasingly. I frantically wriggled about trying to ease some of the pain.

"What do you do when you come to a road?"

"I stop....." I sobbed, I couldn’t continue. "Oh please sir, no more."

"Go on."

"I stop, I look left, then right, then left again. If it is safe I can cross. Please, sir, have mercy"

He turned away from me and paced around his study. At one stage he walked into my view. He stood and looked down at me. He held Stinger in his right hand, tapping it gently against his leg. Then he walked on. He went over to the sideboard. Hope rose in me. Was he putting the cane away? My hope was dashed by his next words.

"Last two, lift your bottom up please and get your knees further apart."

Still weeping I raised myself up so that my throbbing rear pointed to the ceiling. I got my knees further apart. A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of my muted sobbing. The cane lightly touched me. I shook with fear. He waited until the shivering stopped. Then I heard the familiar whop as it cut through the air. Once more my bottom exploded with pain. I howled and writhed. Only one more to go. I gritted my teeth and got back into the right position. I think he angled the last one. It cut up from top to bottom instead of being straight across. It was agonising. I must have wailed for a good minute, just howling my pain and grief. I was too hurt to even think of getting up. I just knelt there, my face in my arms and sobbed my heart out.

He left me there to recover. It must have taken five minutes or so. Then once more I had to recite the crossing drill. I stumbled my way through it, my voice shaking with tears and pain. After that he allowed me up. I struggled to my feet like an old man.

He came over to me and sat on the footstool. He gently turned me and examined my wounds. I looked round at myself. I wasn’t cut but the stripes were still lines of fire across me. The tawse had left marks of deep red all over my backside. I knew I would be sleeping on my stomach tonight. He sighed and gave my bottom a gentle pat. Even that hurt.

"You can get dressed," he said.

I hastily pulled up my trousers. I should have done it more slowly. The pressure from the light material was enough to make me wince.

"I hope you have learnt your lesson, young man."

"Yes sir, thank you sir." I sobbed.

"Very well, you may go."

I fled, still crying, to my room. When I got there I stripped off my clothes and went to the washbasin. I ran cold water on my flannel and applied it to my backside. I held it there for several minutes. Slowly the throbbing subsided. Then I remembered that Mrs Davies had said she would leave a pot of cream for me. I looked around. There it was on the desk. I dried myself very gently.

The cream was really soothing. The immediate throbbing seemed to fade. The deeper pain of the stripes remained but was muted. If Mrs Davies had come in I would have kissed her. Then I realised something. She would never have left the cream if Mr Foster hadn’t approved. I thought about what she had said about him being fond of me as I climbed into bed.

I lay awake for some time. It wasn’t just the pain. I had never realised how Mr Foster felt about me. I wondered what life would be like without him and shuddered at the thought. I remembered the feel of his finger against my ring after he had spanked my bare bottom with his hand. That night I made myself a promise. I had knelt, naked, before him a number of times for punishment. But some day, somehow, if he wanted, I would bare myself for his pleasure.

Jay Bee April 6 1998.