Lodging with Mr. Foster

                      Author : Jay Bee JBates3327@aol.com

I was born during the war and my mum left when I was nine. When I was sixteen it was my turn to leave home. The details aren’t important but I didn’t get on with my stepmother or her two brats. My dad was nice but firm. I was of age to get a job. I should leave and start on my own.

At that time, 1961, I was still growing. I was about five feet seven, dark hair and of slim build. I hadn’t started shaving yet although I was developing hair in other areas. I had a good figure - the Arts teacher at school had asked me to model for a life class - but I also wore glasses which made me look a bit of a wimp. In addition I was naturally quiet and obedient and so rarely got into any trouble.

Dad found me work as a junior in an office about fifty miles from where we then lived. I wasn’t that keen because it was a small firm run by a middle aged man and three other staff. I was the youngest there by about twenty years. As it was so far away I had to find lodgings.

Dad put an advert in the local newspaper. ` Sixteen year old boy, quiet, reliable seeks decent lodgings within reasonable distance of town centre’. We had four replies. One Sunday we went to the town to see what was on offer. The first was a rundown, poky basement room for £12 a week. The landlady seemed to have a permanent sniff and we quickly ruled that one out. The next two were almost as bad.

Without much hope we went to the fourth. This was a well maintained detached house a little way away from the centre and with a good garden. My spirits rose almost immediately. The door was opened by a pleasant lady who said she was Mr Foster’s housekeeper. Mr Foster himself then appeared. He was a tall man in his fifties with graying hair and a look of authority. He was one of those men you almost automatically start calling `sir’ as soon as you set eyes on them. Well, when you’re sixteen you do.

He showed us a really brilliant room. It had a good view over the local park, a comfy looking bed, an armchair, a desk and a washbasin. Compared to what I had at home - where I shared with one of the brats - and to what we had seen in town, it was a palace. I really liked it and asked Dad if we could take it.

Mr Foster wasn’t so sure. "You may like the room, young Jay" he said, "But the question is whether I want you here. There will have to be some rules and I shall expect them to be obeyed."

Since Dad was keen as well he agreed about the rules. I didn’t get much of a say. Unless I had permission I was to be in at 6.00 every evening. Bed time was 9.30; although I could keep my light on for as long a I liked. No loud music and I was to be on time for all meals. For a reduction in the rent I was to do two hours gardening a week and wash Mr Foster’s car every Sunday. In addition I was to behave myself at all times.

"If these rules aren’t complied with I shall have to ask you to leave" Mr Foster added. "Do you accept that?"

"Yes sir," I replied - see I was calling him `sir’ already.

"You get kicked out of here and you’re on your own" Dad exclaimed. "At the moment I’m giving you an extra £5 a week on top of your wages, but mess up and that won’t last."

The next week I moved in and started my job. I settled into the house easily, the job less so. It was boring work; running messages, getting coffee, making sandwiches, doing the post and stuff like that. I had nothing in common with the other employees who rarely bothered to talk to me. Coming back to Mr Foster’s every night was a relief. I could chat to him and Mrs Davies, the housekeeper, at supper. They were relatively friendly and as I caused no problems and did my work in the garden they became less distant; although they were still quite formal with me. He talked about his time as a master in a boys’ school and his job as an educational book publisher. Mrs Davies had been a matron in another boys’ school and the two of them obviously got on well.

The only friction was caused when Mr Foster decided that a growing boy needed exercise. Going to work on the bus and being in an office most of the day was not, he maintained, good enough. I must either join a sports club or go running round the park twice a week. I was reluctant but, as I said, Mr Foster wasn’t someone you argued with. After that every Tuesday and Friday before supper I had to put on my shorts and run three times round the park. Seeing as the house overlooked the park I didn’t dare walk or only go round once.

My downfall came after I had been there six weeks or so. The boss didn’t pay overtime. So when one night, with hastily arranged permission from Mr Foster, I worked three hours extra, I had the next morning off. Mr Foster left the house at 8.30 and Mrs Davies followed soon after to get her hair done and do the shopping. I was left on my own.

I was soon bored. I mooched through the house. I went past Mr Foster’s study, which I was forbidden to enter, and into the living room and then the dining room. In the dining room there was a sideboard with a row of bottles on it. I had often looked at them and wondered what the contents were like.

I think I would have been OK but for the fact that I had watched a Western the night before. You know the scene. The hero rides into town. He ties his horse up in front of the saloon. He enters the bar and orders a whiskey. The drink comes in a small glass. He gulps the whole lot down in one and lets out a large sigh of satisfaction. I had often acted out that scene when I was younger. Now I had a chance to do it for real.

Without really thinking I poured myself a small glass of whiskey. I left it on the sideboard and went out of the room. Then I came back in, walked up to the bar and said `bartender, give me a shot of rye,’ took the glass and gulped the whole lot back in one.

Let’s just say that it came as a bit of a shock. I nearly sprayed the floor with the stuff. As it was I couldn’t breathe for a minute and spent the next quarter of an hour trying to get the taste out of my mouth. I have never touched whiskey since.

The big problem arose when I went to put the bottle back. The level in it was noticeably lower than it had been before. So I filled it up to roughly its former level with water from the tap and hoped everything would be alright. Shortly after I went off to work.

While I was at work I began to have doubts about what I had done. I had taken something that did not belong to me. I had tried to cover things up. If I was found out I would be a thief and even if Mr Foster did not go to the police he would probably kick me out. Also I liked both him and Mrs Davies and felt bad about the whole affair. When I got home no one seemed to have noticed anything wrong. It was a Friday so I went out for my run. While I was going round the park I decided that my smartest move was to own up and hope for the best. I finished the run, showered and went down to supper. Somehow I didn’t have much appetite.

One the rules was that when I finished a meal I had to wait for Mr Foster and Mrs Davies to finish as well before I could leave the table. When they finished on this night I stood up and asked if I could say something. My heart rate seemed to increase as I did so, but by then it was too late, and so I told the sorry tale. After I finished there was a deathly hush. Mr Foster got up and went to look at the bottle. He opened it, sniffed and poured a little glass. He drank it down and then turned to me.

" I might not have detected it, but then again I might," he said in a slow, soft voice. " I trusted you and you have betrayed my trust. Why shouldn’t I throw you out?"

"Oh please sir," I stammered, close to tears "I was only playing. I didn’t mean to steal or anything, honestly sir. And I have owned up."

"That counts for little," he replied, "You could have been afraid of being caught and told me to make things easier on yourself."

I couldn’t answer that, for one thing it was too close to the truth for comfort, so I just hung my head in shame and stared at the carpet.

"What should I do with you," he asked, " Do you want me to send you back to your father."

"Oh please don’t, sir!" I cried. "I’ll be good, I’ll never do it again."

"What do you think, Mrs D?" he inquired of the housekeeper.

"Well he’s usually a good boy, polite and hard working," Mrs Davies answered, " I don’t think this was really stealing. However, you should teach him a lesson about interfering with other people’s property that he won’t forget in a hurry."

"So Jay," Mr Foster said sternly, " If I let you stay will you accept my punishment."

I went cold. I hadn’t really thought of being punished. On the other hand I didn’t have much choice. Dad would kill me if I was kicked out and I’d lose the extra £5 to add on to my wages.

"Yes sir," I mumbled.

"Very well, it’s now 7.00. You will report to my study at 9.30 in your dressing gown and pyjamas. I will deal with you then. In the meanwhile you are to go to your room and stay there until it’s time to come and see me. "

"Yes sir, I’m sorry sir," was all I could say.

"Not as sorry as you’re going to be," he retorted as he left the room.

I scuttled up the stairs and lay on my bed. What was going to happen? When I was punished at school it was detention or extra essays, lines or doing litter picking and stuff like that. If I was in trouble at home I was just sent to bed without supper or not allowed to go out. Yet something told me that was not what Mr Foster had in mind. In those days every school used the cane but it wasn’t something I had even been threatened with, let alone had. I began to worry that that was going to change. I had seen boys with striped bottoms in the showers. I had even heard one boy getting it. I got the impression he didn’t enjoy it very much. What would it be like?

I passed the longest two hours in my life, lying on that bed wondering what I was in for. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t like to put the radio on in case it got me into more trouble. I wished like anything I hadn’t taken that drink this morning.

At 9.00 I started to get ready. I got undressed and put my pyjamas on. As I did so I got a look at my firm, round, white bottom in the mirror. Would there soon be a few red lines across it? I shuddered in fear, but also in anticipation. I cleaned my nails, combed my hair and made sure my slippers and dressing gown were neat. I then went to the bathroom and had a pee. I brushed my teeth and made sure I looked the best I could.

At 9.20 I made my slow way down the stairs to the study door. Half way down I nearly stopped and went back up again. But I didn’t dare. Dragging my feet I got to the hall and waited for half past to strike. All of a sudden I started shivering uncontrollably. My stomach felt as if I had swallowed a lead weight. As I was waiting Mrs Davies came past. I couldn’t meet her eyes and just looked away.

9.30 struck on the hall clock. Hesitantly I raised my hand and tapped at the door. There was no answer. I knocked again, louder this time and heard Mr Foster say "Come." My slippery hand fumbled with the door knob. I managed to open it and saw him working at his desk.

"Well?" he asked.

"It’s 9.30, sir," I said, "You wanted to see me."

"So I did. Come in and close the door behind you."

I came into the room and closed the door. Not sure of what to do next I stayed where I was. Surreptitiously I wiped my sweating hands on the dressing gown.

"Just wait there a moment while I finish what I’m doing" Mr Foster ordered, and, without another look, turned back to his papers. He seemed to take an age to do whatever it was he was doing but it was probably only a few minutes. He stacked the sheets of paper neatly and put them in a folder. Then he raised his head and looked directly at me.

"Come here."

I crossed the room and stood beside his desk.

"Why did I tell you to come and see me?" he asked.

"For taking the whiskey and for trying to hide what I had done sir," I replied.

" Was it your whiskey to take?"

"No sir."

"Even if I accept that you were only playing a silly game, is that any reason for me not to punish you?"

"No sir."

"Can you think of one good reason why I should not punish you?"

"Please sir, I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again."

By this time I was feeling about three feet tall. Any ideas I had of being a grown man had faded. I was a little schoolboy again. I gazed at the desk. My eyes began to water and one hot tear escaped and ran down my cheek.

"That wasn’t really an answer, was it Jay?" Mr Foster said kindly. "You know you deserve to be punished don’t you?"

"Yes sir," I sniffed.

" Well punishment you deserve, and punishment you are going to get." With that he reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled it open. He rummaged around for a minute. Then he drew out something I couldn’t quite see. He lifted it up and laid it on the top of the desk.

It was a strap!! But it wasn’t like an ordinary piece of leather. It had a handle at the top which merged into the body of the strap. Then about six inches down it split into two tails, each about a foot long. The whole thing was about half an inch thick. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

"Do you know what this is?" Mr Foster asked.

Dumbly I shook my head.

"It’s a tawse. An old Scottish device. Bottoms, boys’ for the chastisement of. It rarely fails to draw a howl or two of appreciation. And tonight it is going to be used to chastise your backside until you howl your sorrow to the moon."

"Oh sir! please don’t sir!" I screeched. I felt faint and I must have turned white. I was really frightened now. It was one thing to wonder what a good spanking was like. It was entirely another to be faced with it. The tears began to flow in earnest.

Mr Foster stood up. He put a hand on my shoulder and with the other tilted my chin so that I was looking at him. "It’s no good you crying now," he said. "You asked for it and now you’re going to get it. You must try and take it like a man."

"What does that mean, sir?"

" I don’t mind you yelling or crying," he replied, "Or even jumping up. But if you do jump up or put your hands in the way you must get down again, put your hands in front of you and present your bottom for the next stroke."

"I’ll try, sir," I quavered. "How many, sir."

"I know you’ve never been spanked before, but I mean you to learn a lesson. You must not take other people’s property without permission. If you did that elsewhere you could end up in prison. The minimum I feel I can give you is nine. If I am forced to hold you down I will add on a few extra as well."

Somehow I managed to stop crying and look him in the eye.

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

"Good boy, it will soon be all over and done with. Now take your dressing gown off and hang it on the door."

I made my way to the door, took the dressing gown off and hung it on a hook. It was little high for me and I had to stretch to reach it. Before I turned round I checked the flap of my pyjamas to make sure nothing could be seen. To one side of the study there was an armchair with a footstool in front of it. Mr Foster pulled the stool out into the centre of the room and beckoned me over.

"Stand in front of the stool" he ordered.

I hastily complied.

" Now, young man, where is my tawse going to land ?" he asked.

I was mystified. "On my bottom , sir" I replied.

"Yes, on your bottom, not on your pyjamas, take them down."

I was shocked. Even though I was used to boys’ showers I never really liked being naked in front of others. I turned round and looked at him. "Please sir, they’re only thin." I begged.

"Take your pyjamas down now," he repeated in a stern tone.

Reluctantly I raised my hands to the cord and untied it. As the trousers loosened I held them up and turned to him again. In doing so I felt myself growing hard. I pleaded with my eyes but he just made a curt gesture. I let the top of the trousers go and they fell to my knees. The pyjama jacket was short and hid nothing of my hardening cock. He looked down at me.

"Right down to your ankles" he said.

I bent over and pushed at the trousers until they circled my feet. The night air cooled my backside. I felt very vulnerable and alone.

Mr Foster went back to the desk and picked up the tawse. He swished it experimentally through the air. I shuddered and nearly started crying again. He came back to where I was standing and placed himself behind me and to the left.

"Kneel on the footstool with your head and hands on the floor," he commanded.

I knelt on the soft upholstery and then leaned forward until my head touched the floor. I needed both hands to steady myself with. My rear end rose towards the ceiling, presenting him with an excellent target. My pyjama jacket slid up my back.

"Get your knees further apart."

I inched my knees away from each other until he was satisfied. I have never felt so ashamed in my life. He could see everything.

"Right young man, that is the position you will be in for each stroke. I don’t care how long it takes but you are not leaving this room until you have had the full nine properly delivered. Although if it takes too long you may end up with a few more than nine."

I remained silent. There was a pause. Then I felt the cold leather of the strap placed lightly on my backside. It seemed to rest there for ever. Then it was drawn away and I tensed for the first stroke.

Swooosh, crack!! A wave of intense pain radiated out from my bottom. It was like I had been branded with a hot iron. The shock of the pain made me cry out in agony and I half jumped up, my hands reaching round to my burning buttocks.

"Get down" Mr Foster snapped harshly.

Petrified at the tone in his voice I got down again. I took up the correct position and waited for the next one. I did not have long to wait.

Swooosh, crack!!. He caught me as I was breathing in and I nearly choked. The pain was terrible but I managed not to yell.

Swooosh, crack!! I shivered with the hurt and there was a pause until I stopped. Swooosh, crack!! I shivered again and let out a gasp of pain. I couldn’t take much more of this. The tails of the tawse were mainly landing on my right cheek and it was a sea of fire.

Swooosh, crack!! "Yeowooooh! please sir! no more sir!" I let my head take my weight and reached round to soothe my bum with my hands. I then realised why I was in this position. I needed my hands to balance with and had to hastily put them back on the floor before I fell over. Sobbing softly, I raised my trembling bottom into the air.

There was another pause while I resumed the correct stance. I heard movement behind me and saw that he was now standing on my right. It was my left cheek’s turn to bear the brunt of the attack.

Swooosh, crack!! That was slightly better, and although I started shivering again I found I could take it.

The next completely defeated me. It landed with the usual crack and I let out a yell that must have been heard a mile away. I started to get up but he pushed me back down. I subsided, frightened that I had just earned myself more. I was in floods of tears by now, all restraints gone.

Swoosh, crack!! I howled like an animal but stayed where I was. Only one more left to go.

It was a scorcher. Right across both cheeks, the hardest yet. I screamed and cried but it was over. Or was it?

"Stay down" Mr Foster ordered.

I stayed down. My bottom was burning. I yearned to comfort it with my hands. Some cold water would have been good. But I didn’t dare move. I’d had my nine. Surely I wasn’t going to get more? Shivering and sobbing I waited to see what would happen.

There was a noise behind me and I twisted round to see what was going on. Mr Foster had gone to a chest of drawers and was opening the middle drawer. From it he drew out a long, thin cane.

"Oh no sir," I pleaded. "No more sir, I’ve had my nine."

" It was a tradition at my last school, " Mr Foster remarked, "That after a boy had been punished he would receive one stroke with the next weapon on the scale. So if he’d had the slipper it would be one with the tawse. This would show him what to expect if he transgressed again. You have had the tawse so I am going to give you one with this cane. The boys called it `stinger.’ You can tell me if it was well named."

What could I do? I turned back and made sure I was kneeling with my reddened bottom high in the air, knees wide apart. I heard him move back to my right. There was a light tap of the cane on my seat.

Swish, thwack!! I shrieked in agony. It felt like a dozen wasps had lined up and stung me all at once. The pain was incredible. I just knelt there sobbing and writhing with it.

Mr Foster put the cane away and came back to stand over me. He put his hand on my bottom, felt how hot it was and gave it a rub. Then he went back and sat down behind his desk.

"You may get up," he said.

I shakily rose and turned to face him. All thoughts of modestly gone I didn’t care what he saw. My hands crept round behind me. Gratefully I massaged my burning cheeks.

" Have you learnt a lesson from this?" Mr Foster asked me.

" Yes sir," I sobbed, "not to take what isn’t mine sir."

" Very good, what do you say now?"

"Thank you, sir."

"Good boy, you can get dressed and go to bed."

I got myself under control and pulled up my trousers. I put my dressing gown on and opened the door to go.

" Goodnight sir," I managed, "and sir, I am really sorry, thank you again."

" That’s alright young Jay," Mr Foster smiled, " But I suggest you don’t get into any more trouble for a week or two."

I winced at the thought of another spanking on my already sore behind. "Oh no sir, I won’t sir," I promised and fled to the sanctuary of my room.

Funnily enough I seemed to get on better with both Mr Foster and Mrs Davies after that. Although there were times when I had to kneel on the footstool again, I was sad when I eventually left those lodgings. They were good to me and I remember both of them fondly.

Jay Bee - March 19 1998.