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A Real Life Experience

'Story'?

The noun grates!

It suggests fiction, imagination, fantasy, make-believe.

The following narration is but a record of sober fact.

***

Brian is a country-boy, born and bred. He had attended his local primary school and, to fourth form, his local secondary school.

Brian's father, Eric, had been a contemporary of mine at 'X' College. I had been a 'day boy'   he had been a boarder. Despite varying family backgrounds and diverse interests, we became firm friends. That friendship persisted following our reaching and 'passing' what then was called our 'Matriculation' examination. Eric returned to, and on his father's tragically early death, took over the running of the family farm. He continued to run that farm following the no less tragic early death of his wife. In my turn, I went on to University, graduated, studied abroad, returned to Australia, and, in time, returned to my old College as a Junior Master.

Two years ago Eric contacted me. Eric explained to me precisely why, given the state of the rural economy, his son Brian could not 'take over' and earn a living from the family farm. If Brian was to make a 'go' of life he had to win a scholarship financing his schooling and, as a boarder, accommodation at 'Y' College. The lad simply had to to finish his fifth and sixth years of secondary schooling at a respected private school. University, and subsequent employment, would therefore become real possibilities.

Eric contacted me. Would I, over the school Summer vacation, tutor Brian for the scholarship examination? No honorarium of significance would be possible, but all accommodation and meals would be provided. "And", added Eric somewhat enigmatically per telephone, 'full spanking and carnng privileges' (sic) will be extended."

Somewhat hesitantly - for I was planning an overseas journey - I agreed to make the trip to the rural community where Eric's family farm was situated and discuss matters.

I enjoyed catching up again with Eric. And Brian, when introduced, impressed me. His - government - school reports were better than one might have expected. The boy clearly was 'no fool'. He was, like his father had been in his youth, red-haired and an amiable, muscularly-built sort of lad.

I read through the specifications for the scholarship examination. In theory at least, mastery of the required disciplines - primarily mathematics - could be attained by Brian given that he, to quote the classics, 'put his head down and tail up' and really studied hard seven days a week for six solid weeks.

Eric was, it seemed, overly anxious to please. "I reckon I was whacked almost weekly in School House. Did me no harm! And when Brian kicks over the traces, well, it's pants down and a good six or so with the cane. Just like I got in my day! He knows it's for his own good!   Tell Dr Williams what we've decided, Brian!"

The lad blushed slightly. "Well sir, either I pass or bomb out. Pass, and I've got a cahnce for a future. Bomb out, and I'm heading nowhere. I know deep down the sort of teaching that - well - works for a guy like me. If I don't do as told or work hard or - well - play up, well, that means a good whacking. Bare bum and all. Hand or Dad's cane or your belt or whatever. No fuss or protest, I promise." The boy lapsed into silence, but flashed me a shy sort of grin. "I know how to cooperate when I being whacked!' he suddely added, then lapsed back into silence.

I made up my mind. I contacted my travel agent, cancelled my trip, and - a week later - took up residence in a (remarkably comfortable) room at the farm.

Brian, as stated, was no fool. A preliminary diagnostic test revealed more areas of strength than of weakness. And for some eight days Brian worked like the proverbial 'Trojan'. Inasmuch as I had prepared what are called 'behavioural objectives' - specific skills precisely described and the 'testing procedures' indicating whether those skills had or had not been mastered - Brian could register, and take pride in, his undoubted progress.

Then came disaster. Eric had to take two days off to attend a market sale. Brian and I alone occupied the farm. Whether due to his father's absence or for some reason I did and do not understand, Brian one night went 'right off the rails'. His set homework assignment was not even attempted. For one sufficient reason. Brian took himself off to the local hotel, met up with some 'maters', and drank himself into a virtual stupor. It was a small mercy that the drunken friend who drove Brian back to the farm did not run the car off the road.

A somewhat sheepish Brian 'fronted up' for the day's lesson. No, his set assigment had not even been attempted! A simply 'test' on the topic we had spent some two hours studying the day before, the so-called 'difference of two squares' - a to the power of 2 minus b to the power of 2 = [a + b](a - b] - resulted in a (lucky) two marks out of twenty marks! In addition to disobeying clear instructions he had, in effect, wasted an entire morning's lesson! I was furious!

"Go and do whatever you have to do on the farm when your father's away!", I snapped and stormed out of the front room, which had served as our schoolroom. I went to my bedroom and began packing my case.

My packing was interrupoted by a gentle but persistent knocking on my door. "Come in!", I muttered. A literally ashen-faced Brian entered. "Are you leaving?, he blurted.

"Yes! My time is valuable. Worse! Your father has generously provided me with accommodation and my meals, and given me the run of the house! And why? So you might have a chance - a chance - for a future this farm no longer can provide! Because he cares for you! And what do you do? The moment he is away you take yourself off, get drunk, fail to reinforce an entire morning's study of an important topic. I'm not prepared to waste my time or avail myself of your father's generosity! Do you know he was embarrassed - embarrassed - that he could not, given the state of the rural economy, pay me - in addition to everything else - a salary? I'm furious, Brian, furious about your disregard for me and for your father - my friend!"

I regretted these words the moment I had uttered them. For they 'hit home'. Brian hung his head, but I could see a tear trickle down his left cheek.

There was an awkward silence, a silence which probably lasted for seconds but seemed like hours. Then Brian spoke in a somewhat muffled voice.   "Would you - could you - give me another chance. Please. Sir. It will never, never, never happen again!"

I was still angry. "So you would have me pat you on the back and congratulate you for wasting my time, your time, and your father's generosity?"

"No sir! Not let me off. But" - and the boy managed a wry sort of smile and looked me in the eyes - 'maybe pat me a little lower and a great deal harder, if you know what I mean. Then - when you've done it - punished me good and hard - sort of let bygones be bygones and say nothing to Dad. Please.."

When Eric had extended 'spanking and caning privileges' I had, mentally, determined not to avail myself of those 'privileges'. I was aware of my - well - 'quirk'. Young Brian boasted a pair of buttocks almost begging to be chastised!   But a genuine occasion for a dose of the sort of punishment his father frequently, by his father's own admission, had administered presented itself. But I wanted to be sure.

"What, Brian, exactly are you suggesting?" I asked.

The boy blushed. But his voice was firm. "A belting, sir, a real, honest-to-goodness bare-bum belting. You know. A smacking and perhaps a caning and on my bare bum too. I'll keep nice and still so you can do it really hard. I promise, honest to God, I proimise."

I simply could not resist. "Go to the school-room - the front room - and get ready. And fetch your father's cane and place it on the table!"

Brian sighed with what sounded like relief. "Yes sir. And sir - like I asked - can this be between you and me? Dad is worried about finances and things and I don't want to - well - make things worse..:

"It will be between you and me", I heard myself saying.

Brian left, quietly closing the door behind him. I poured myself a Scotch and slowly sipped it. When no more than five minutes had passed I made my way to the school-room. I felt strangely excited.

Brian had, in a mere five minutes, been busy. A wicked looking rattan cane, which brought back memories of my days at 'X' College, had been placed on the main table. A leather arm-chair had been dragged forward and so situated that a boy leaning over same would conveniently present a more than accessible target. Brian himself was stark naked, standing beside the chair. Perhaps strangely, he evinced not one sign of embarrassment. If anything, he held himself with what I can but describe as a measure of dignity.   Almost pride. "I'm ready for you to do it!', he quietly said.

I had, as it happened, never before seen a red-haired young man in his nakedness. Brian's pubic hair, I noted, was also red in colour, although a slightly lighter shade of red than was his hair.

"Turn around, Brian", I ordered.

The boy did as told. His buttocks, which had invited spanking when clad in his blue farm overalls, were even more inviting when naked. Occasionally he must have worked outdoors wearing only shorts, for his body, save for his buttocks, was slightly tanned. His buttocks were startlingly white, albeit lightly covered with downy red hair. "I think you know the routine!", I stated - hoping that he did for I most certainly did not!

"Do you want to spank me first then give me a caning, or the other way around?" he asked.

"Spanking first!', I muttered.

"Over your knee?": Brian inquired.

"How else?" I blustered, sitting down in the arm chair.

Gently, the boy positioned himself over my lap. His two firm, white buttocks could not have been more conveniently positioned! "Is that how you like it?" he asked, "or would you like me to sort of push my bum up higher?"

"Perfect!" said I, then began spanking him, switching from one bouncing buttock to the other. Apart from a few muffled gasps and a measure of writhing, Brian 'took what was coming' without protest. I finished only when my hand was too tender to continue! The boy's bottom was brilliantly red, flinching when I even laid my hand lightly on each bum cheek. "That was sixty-three good and hard smacks!" said Brian. Apparently, keeping count was part of the procedure!

"Just nine smacks short of six dozen!" I retorted, so administered nine further hard smacks, seven on his right buttock and two on his left. There was something mildly erotic as I felt him 'jerk' and watched him writhe as each smack hit its intended target.

"Now for a dose of the cane!" said I. Brian carefully rose from my knee, gently clasping and squeezing what obviously was a very sore pair of buttocks. Without protest, he made his way to the table, picked up the cane, and presented it to me. I stook up. Without any instructions on my part, Brian bent over the back of the chair I had vacated, firmly holding each arm. I walked to the left of the chair. His reddened buttocks were still twitching from his spanking, but were superly positioned for what was to come.

"How many strokes of the cane are you expecting?", I asked.

"I don't know sir. Twelve. Perhaps eighteen."

"You're lucky!" said I. "You're going to take only twelve."

Slowly but methodically - and with as much force as I could muster - I administered the twelve strokes, slowly working up his bottom from his bum crease to the top of each buttock and then downwards again. Gasps, but no cries. Squirming, but no breaking of position. And when the twelth stroke was administered, a deep sigh signifying, I thought, relief.

I looked at Brian's reddened and now striped buttocks. At two points on his right buttock the tip of the cane had drawn blood, which for some unaccountable reason displeased me. Yet although marred, in my opinion, by these two points of broken skin, his twitching - indeed shaking - buttocks were a sight to behold. "A good job well done!", I found myself thinking.

"You may stand", I said, distant memories reasserting themselves. Gingerly the boy stook, craddling his red and raw bottom with his hands and, for some reason, standing on tip-toes, slightly arching his back.

Then he sighed, turned around, and held out his right hand. I took his proffered hand and shook it, as was clearly expected.

"Thank you, sir" he said, his voice quite remarkably firm. "Between you and me, right?"

"Between you and me!" I replied. "Now let's make sure we've mastered the difference between two squares!"