Mr Foster's Garden

                      Author : Jay Bee JBates3327@aol.com

It was 8.30 on a Thursday evening in May. I had had my gym class. My favourite comedy show on the television had just finished. I stretched my full five foot eight inches luxuriously.

"Ready for bed?" Mr Foster, my landlord, asked, standing up. At over six foot he towered over me. He was a distinguished looking man, his grey hair and slim physique adding to his air of authority.

I just looked at him. I was eighteen. I didn’t go to bed at 8.30. That was for kids. Then it registered. Mrs Davies, the housekeeper, had gone to her Women’s Institute meeting. She wouldn’t be back until about 10.00. Mr Foster wanted me. As far as I was concerned he could have me in the High Street on market day at noon. I changed my glare to a grin. I scampered upstairs and washed myself. I went to my room and stripped. Then, mischievously, I put my pyjamas on. I was his, but he had to work for it.

A few minutes later he came into my room. His smile of expectation faded. I couldn’t stop a chuckle. He realised I was playing him up. The smile came back, like a tiger savouring its prey. All of a sudden I wondered if this had been such a good idea. It was too late now.

His hands caressed me. I loved this bit. Then they came to my pyjamas. The jacket was expertly removed. Only my trousers were left. He paused. His hands sought the cord. They tugged. My trousers slipped, then fell all the way to my ankles. I kicked myself free of them. I was naked. I was his. He led me over to my armchair and bent me over it. Now I had to pay for my crimes.

Six ringing slaps on my bare bottom showed his disapproval of my sense of humour. They stung, but not as bad as his tawse or the dreaded Stinger. I oohed and ouched a bit. His hand massaged the pain away but a warm glow remained. His fingers guided me to the correct position. They fell away. Then they were back, inside me, oiling me to receive him. Suddenly I heard the rustle of clothing removed. A hard, implacable force made itself felt against my hole. I widened my legs in anticipation. He grasped my hips with both hands and thrust. I moaned with pleasure. Soon he was fully in and moving. I gasped and shuddered. He spent himself inside me. The bastard, last time he had let me come with him. Now I was rock hard and unrelieved.

He slipped out of me, pulled his trousers up, and let me stand. He turned me round and smiled. I saw what he wanted. I grasped myself and started to pump rapidly. He shook his head and gently took over. He squeezed the tip, making me shiver with joy. Then he slowly started running his hand up and down my shaft. The pace increased. I got even harder, if that was possible. After a minute or so I arched myself in ecstasy. I came all over the carpet. He grinned and cradled my collapsing cock in his hand, rubbing his fingers through my spunk. I nearly came again.

"Bed now," he ordered, kissing me lightly on the nose.

I was only too happy to comply. I was exhausted. Not just from the sex but from relief. I had been dying for this for about three months. It was that long since the first time. After that he had almost cut me dead. Now it was as I had always wanted. I was his boy. I would do anything for him and he would let me. I went to sleep a very satisfied young man.

On the Sunday it was a different story. When my dad had first brought me to him the terms were agreed. I would pay so much in rent. Dad was giving me £5 a week towards that. But in addition I had to do two hours gardening and wash his car once a week. For more than two years I had stuck to it. But now there were so many different demands on my time. There was work, my `A’ level studies, scouts, canoeing, mucking about with my friends - everything. Inevitably some things had to go by the board.

In the morning I washed the car. Well, almost. What I actually did was throw a bucket of water over it and wipe away the grime. There was no time to polish because I was meeting my friends for a coffee. I came back for lunch. Afterwards I mowed the lawn. It took about half an hour. Then I went round to Colin’s, my best friend - boyfriend really. His parents were away. We had a great time, listening to records, chatting and cuddling. He had always wanted to have me. That afternoon I knelt on the end of his bed and let him do what he wanted. But I knew it was not going to last. He had left the school he hated. All the other guys our age shunned him. He was known as a `pouf.’ He just wanted to get away from the town. His aim was to find a job in London. He’d had an offer. Soon he would go and I’d be left on my own.

I wandered home in a melancholy mood. I really liked Colin. He was the only boy I knew who I could be myself with. While I had friends at work and in the scouts I had to be careful. In those days, 1963, to be thought of as `queer’ was the kiss of death. How would I find someone else? Don’t get me wrong. I was loyal to Mr Foster. He was everything to me. But it was just so good to be with an attractive boy of my own age. Anyway he knew about Colin. He hadn’t said I should stop seeing him. So I didn’t worry about his reaction if I found someone else.

I slipped in through the back door. Mrs Davies was in the kitchen, baking a pie for supper. It smelt really good. I smiled at her. She didn’t return it.

"Mr Foster would like to see you in his study, Jay," she said briskly, "Right away."

I paled. A sudden chill gripped me and I shivered. From her attitude and the fact that I had to go at once one thing was clear. I was in trouble. I made my sad way to the study. I was racking my brains as to what I had done wrong. It couldn’t be that incident at the swimming pool. It was months ago. Anyway if they didn’t want boys barging into the ladies’ changing room they should put a sign on the door. If it was the broken window it was nothing to do with me. Alright, I had been there, but I hadn’t thrown the stone. As I got to the study door I gave up. I’d soon find out. I knocked.

"Come," he called.

I went in nervously and closed the door behind me.

"You wanted to see me, sir," I quavered.

"Yes, Jay, I did," he said sternly, getting up from behind his desk. A great weight settled in my stomach. From the look of him I was really for it.

"Come with me," he ordered. He went past me, opened the door and stepped into the hall. I meekly followed him. We went out to the little driveway in front of the garage. He indicated the half washed car. There were muddy swathes where the water had dried. It looked worse than when I had started. He didn’t need to say anything. I hung my head in shame. We then went to the back garden. It was mowed but there were weeds in the flower beds and on the path, leaves needed raking up, the edge of the lawn was ragged and dead flowers had not been cut back.

"Not good enough is it Jay?" he said.

My heart sank. I had no defence. I just shook my head and waited for judgment.

"It’s now 5.00," he told me. "Between now and supper you will wash the car again and do it properly."

"Yes, sir."

"After supper you will come into the garden and get this mess sorted out. In the unlikely event you finish here before 9.00 you can work on the front as well."

"Yes, sir."

"At 9.00 you’ll come in, have a bath and report yourself to my study at 9.30."

"Yes, sir, I’m sorry sir."

"You will be," was his parting shot. I sighed at his retreating back. 9.30 was spanking time. I wondered what I’d get. The rest of the evening went very slowly. By supper the car was gleaming. I think even he was pleased with it when he came out to call me in. Not that he said anything. At the table I sat in silence, my eyes on my plate. Mr Foster and Mrs Davies chatted quite happily. I didn’t dare open my mouth. I was in disgrace and knew it. Afterwards it was straight out into the garden; my favourite western unwatched. For two and a half hours I toiled. I did the flowers, put down slug pellets, trimmed the edges of the lawn, weeded two beds and raked up leaves. I even started tidying the garden path. By 9.00 I was ready for my bath.

Normally I liked to laze in the hot water. Not tonight. I hurriedly washed my hair and soaped myself. A quick rinse and I was through. I jumped out and dried off. I scuttled back to my room, a towel around my waist. There I looked at myself in the mirror. My body was firm and trim, a product of the twice weekly gym sessions I had to do and the runs round the park. Some dark hair was beginning to appear on my boyish chest; only little straggly bits but it was a start. I still only needed to shave about once a week. I peeked at my firm, round bottom. At the moment its smooth white cheeks were unmarked. I knew they wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. I slowly got into my pyjamas and dressing gown. Then I sat on my bed and waited until it was time to go downstairs. By now I was shivering slightly. I couldn’t bring myself to read or anything. I just stared at the carpet miserably and thought of what was about to happen.

At 9.25 I was outside the study door. I was trembling with fear. The ticking of the hall clock unnerved me. Each sound was announced my impending doom. Despite my dressing gown I felt cold. I heard Mrs Davies moving around in the kitchen. I hoped she wouldn’t come out and see my shame. I often wondered what she thought when she heard my howls of agony. Did she despise my weakness? Was she pleased that justice was being meted out? Or was she sorry for me? She never let on. Though since she’d been a matron at a boy’s boarding school I doubted she was that sorry for me. More likely she felt I was getting what I so richly deserved.

The clock struck 9.30. I hesitantly knocked on the door. There was no reply. I knocked again, louder this time. For the second time that day he told me to enter. I grasped the bronze door knob with slippery hands. I fumbled it open. I drew a deep breath and went in, closing the door behind me. It shut with a decisive click. To me it was like the slamming of an iron gate. I was now entirely at his mercy. My world shrank to the confines of the study.

He beckoned me over to stand at the desk.

"You’ve been cheating me haven’t you?" he started.

I gasped. I didn’t think of it like that. I always meant to do my chores, it was just that there was so much else I had to do.

"Oh, sir," I managed, " I didn’t mean to."

"Jay, I accept that, you’re not that sort of boy," he said firmly. "But nevertheless that is what you have been doing isn’t it?"

"Oh, but I always meant to do the work sir,"

"But you didn’t, did you?"

"Well," I rallied, " I’ve always kept the lawn mowed and the car reasonably clean."

"Maybe," he frowned, " But you agreed to do two hours a week in the garden, have you done that recently?"

"No, sir."

"And, let’s face it, you haven’t washed the car properly for months, have you?"

"No, sir."

"So you have been cheating me," he concluded.

What could I say. I just looked at the desk and kept quiet.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn’t punish you?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Is there anything you want to say to me before I do so?"

"Only that I’m sorry sir. I didn’t mean any harm. I won’t do it again."

There was a long silence. I lifted my eyes from the desk and looked at him. He was staring at the ceiling. I waited to hear my fate. His eyes met mine.

"Well, what should I do with you?"

"Spank me, sir," I sighed.

"And what should I give you?"

I was shocked. He wanted me to set my spanking. I didn’t know what to do. If I said too little he’d be cross. If I said too many I’d get them. I panicked. What should I say?

"I don’t know, sir," I tried.

"Well, we’ll just stay here until you do know," he snapped. "Look at it this way, is it worth the tawse, Stinger or both?"

I hung my head. I knew what I had to say. "Both, sir," I whispered.

"Good boy, that’s a start. Now, how many with the tawse?"

I thought furiously. It had to be more than six. Ten or twelve was the usual limit. I settled for eight. "Eight, sir," I announced.

"Very well, and Stinger?"

I shuddered. Stinger was a light, whippy cane that lived up to its name. I hated it. I wanted to say three. But suppose that wasn’t enough? I might get extra.

"Six, sir," I said mournfully.

"Not quite what I would have said," he smiled. "I’d have let you off with four. But since you want six, six you shall have."

"Oh sir, please sir."

"No young man, you were asked to set your punishment. You obviously know what you deserve. That is what you are going to get. Now go and make yourself ready for it."

I sighed again. Somehow I dragged myself over to the door. I took my dressing gown off and stretched up to put it on the hook. I missed the mark the first time and had to try again. When it was securely there I went over to the armchair. I bent down to pick up the footstool. I carried it into the centre of the room, put it down and went to stand between it and the desk. A noise came from behind me. I looked round. He was standing up, the brown leather tawse swinging from his hand. I shuddered at the sight. I quickly faced front and fumbled with my pyjamas. The cord came loose. They fell all the way to my ankles. I knelt on the footstool, then bent over until my head touched the carpet. I put my hands down to steady myself.

"Get your knees further apart and raise yourself up" he ordered.

I hastily complied, raising my bare bottom so that it pointed at the ceiling. He came to stand behind me. A hand brushed my pyjama jacket up to my shoulders. He stepped back. I could hear his steady breathing. Time slowed. Mrs Davies left the kitchen and walked past the study door. For one awful moment I thought she was going to come in. I heard her go into the living room. Then the cold tails of the tawse came to rest on my vulnerable rear end. Once more I shivered with fear. They seemed to lie there for ever. All of a sudden they were gone. I tensed, anticipating the torment to come.

With a swoosh and a crack the first one landed. I gasped and shuddered with the onset of the pain. As the tawse drew away for the second stroke it left a fiery trail across both cheeks in its wake. The second was just as bad. It got me lower down, almost on my thighs. I shivered but managed to stay quiet. I screwed my eyes tight shut and prayed for deliverance. The third was my answer. Both tails landed squarely on my left cheek. It felt as if boiling water had been thrown over it. I couldn’t stop a yelp of pain. I writhed and wriggled. He waited until I stilled then let me have the fourth. It seared in, again on the left cheek. It really hurt. I bounced up and down but held back the growing howl.

There was a pause while I settled down again. I heard him move behind me. I kept my eyes shut. The fifth came in, shattering the darkness and brightening my sight with vivid golds and reds. I gasped with pain and opened my eyes. The after image left new patterns on the carpet. Before I could adjust the sixth got me dead centre, across both cheeks. It was agony. I raised my head up and wailed my sorrow. I half turned to beg for mercy but knew it would be no use. Instead I wearily got back into the right position. I had hardly done so when the seventh whipped my throbbing bottom to a new height of pain. I howled again, louder and longer this time. I only wanted to soothe the hurt away. But there was more to come. I settled down for the eighth. As always the last was the best. It was another direct hit. I howled and started to cry, the tears flowing down my face and onto the carpet. And that was only the tawse. Stinger was next.

He walked away. I heard him place the tawse on the desk. He went over to the sideboard. A drawer was opened. I knew Stinger was coming out into the light. I couldn’t help it. I moaned in fear. If the tawse was bad, Stinger was far worse. And I’d talked myself into six when I could have got away with four. He came back to stand behind me again. In my mind’s eye I could see the lithe cane twitching in his hand. I shook like a leaf. Another low moan escaped me.

There was a light tap on my burning bottom. I adjusted myself so that once more I was properly positioned; bum high in the air, knees wide apart. Another tap. The only warning of the full stroke was the whop as it flew through the air towards me. It blazed across both cheeks like a white hot wire. I jerked so hard I nearly fell off the stool. I screamed then screamed again. It was terrible. My faltering tears flowed anew. I couldn’t take another five.

The second was worse. It got me low down, on the tender part of my thighs, not really on my bottom at all. I couldn’t help it. I sprang up, staggered as I nearly lost my balance, but then just stood their, hands clasped to my glowing buttocks, tears streaming down my face. I must have howled but I didn’t hear it.

"Please sir," I sobbed, "Please sir. No more. I’ll never do it again. Oh please, please."

For a wonder he let me stay up. He turned away to the desk. Hope built up inside me. Perhaps, just for once, he would let me off. I rubbed my bottom feverishly. He came back towards me, the cane still in his hands. My hopes faded.

"Get yourself down again, Jay," he said sternly.

"Oh, sir. Please sir."

"Down!" he snapped.

I knew I had to obey him. Reluctantly I turned round and faced the stool once more. I lowered myself onto it as if it were made of cut glass. I turned to look at him, pleading with my eyes, but he just motioned me into position. My head went down on the carpet, my knees inched apart, my bottom rose into the air. I shuddered, then stilled and awaited his justice, sobbing softly.

It wasn’t long in coming. Another whop disturbed the silence. This was a much better shot, dead centre. My yell of agony must have been heard miles away. I dug my fingers into the carpet, staying down by sheer force of will. It must have been a full minute though before I stopped wriggling enough for him to be able to get the next one in. That was another direct hit. It seemed almost as if it had landed on top of the last one. I jerked forward, howling and crying. I was utterly defeated.

I think he realised this. There was a long pause as I knelt there, my tears soaking into the carpet, my body racked with shudders of pain. There was a light tap. I raised myself up again. The cane whispered through the air and landed lightly on bottom. It stung but wasn’t nearly as bad as the others had been. I gasped but that was more a reaction than anything else. The next one was the same. I shivered a little but that was all. It was over. He had shown me mercy.

"You can get up now," he said kindly.

I struggled to my feet.

"Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you sir."

"Well, I hope that’s taught you a lesson, Jay."

"Yes sir, I’ll never try and get out of my chores again."

"See that you don’t. Next time you’ll get the full amount, properly delivered."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir."

"Very well, you can go."

I pulled my pyjamas up, grabbed my dressing gown and fled to my room. Once there I stripped and held a damp, cold flannel to my burning bottom. It helped ease the pain. After a while I got into bed. Before I did so I looked at the damage. Both cheeks were completely crimson, with four dark weals left by the cane. The other two whacks couldn’t be seen. Despite the flannel I had to sleep on my stomach that night. From then on, at every weekend, I assiduously washed his car and did the garden. I knew now where my priorities lay.

Jay Bee

May 21 1998