Firm Traditional Discipline 3


by Mike Ward <Boymike_1966@yahoo.co.uk>

I pause for a moment and think through some possible approaches to the essay. Then I realise that I have a serious dilemma. With neither watch nor clock in the room, and no idea as to when I will be called for lunch, I have no way of knowing how I should divide my time so that I get as much of this essay done and still have the opportunity to try and learn that poem off again. It's a risky call. Will it be cane or tawse for each line of the poem that I fail to get correct next time? But if Daddy doesn't think that I have made a reasonable attempt at the essay then the consequences may be even worse. It's the not knowing that makes this feel difficult, and that's actually rather satisfactory now that I think about it.

The genius of this particular Daddy is that he has kept me in a state of not knowing ever since I arrived. Sure, I knew my visit would involve corporal punishment and some type of regression back to boyhood in my school shorts, but nothing else has been planned out in any great detail.

Other scenes with other guys have tended to follow a pretty straightforward script. I'm a boy. He is a schoolmaster. I am going to be punished for masturbating or bullying or both. I change into school uniform. For most masters the quality of my school uniform doesn't really matter. A white shirt will do, a tie is not always necessary. School jumpers, blazers, or caps, are never missed. What is demanded is that I wear grey school shorts, and preferably a pair of kneesocks. I will be told whether or not I am to wear underpants. If I am, then white trunks or briefs are what most guys want me to be wearing. I was once handed a pair of pink panties with tiny little flowers printed all over. It felt a bit unfair to be told that I was going to be getting an extra severe caning when, on pulling down my shorts later, he discovered that I was wearing girl's underwear.

But this Daddy has pulled a few surprises. I can't remember ever being so concerned about the time and the absence of clocks or other ways of keeping track of the passing hours. For some bizarre reason, not knowing the time makes me feel that bit more out of control. I am not in charge here, he is, and he decides when things will happen. The cold shower last night was another surprise. Deliberately chilling my body so that my genitals would shrink in the cold and physically, if only temporarily, regressing my body to a state of prepubertal immaturity. Then there was the nappy and the really early bedtime. Waking up wet and being punished for my lack of control. Daddy's ability to dress me in clothes of his choosing, reinforcing my juvenile status. The carefully chosen poem. The little game that had been prepared so that I would have to choose my own punishment. This Daddy is rather good at this and again I find myself wondering about how many other boys like me he has dealt with.

I am trying to find some way of stretching this terrible essay that I have been set, "The only good boy is a boy who has just been thrashed". Even though this is a scene, a few days apart from my ordinary everyday life, and I am playing a role, I still want to do this as well as I can. To write an essay that would bring praise from my teachers, to be a good boy. Dare I argue against the proposal? "The motion we have before us suggests that boys require the frequent application of corporal punishment if they are to be obedient but I must counter this and argue that boys who are thrashed are boys who can never be authentically good". Somehow, I suspect, that such a line of thought will be construed as cheek and inappropriate pride. Arguing against the motion will earn me a thrashing. But then, am I likely to escape the cane no matter what I write?

Suddenly my memory kicks in and I am nine years old again and at home. My mother has bought a new pair of shorts for me. They are navy-pull up style, made of a stretchy material, probably a polyester and nylon mix, and similar to the pair I am wearing right now. Which is to say that they are embarrassingly short and I just know that I will be teased mercilessly if I am seen by any of my schoolmates when I am wearing them. Mother has always chosen my clothes and I have never cared enough to argue about her choice. Clothes are clothes and I have no real interest in them. But today I kick up an almighty fuss. I dare not allow these new shorts to enter my wardrobe and become a regular garment that I might have to wear in public. The row is incredible. Looking back I know that my parents, for my father has joined in at this stage, must realise that if they give in on this then I will never be happy to accept their authority in anything. The cane is produced. They win.

My hands are gently stroking the cloth of the little shorts that Daddy made me wear today. And I am nine years old again, lying on my bed, sobbing into my pillow. Those awful shorts are on the chair. I will be wearing them tomorrow. And I will be a good boy from now on.

Those dreadful shorts certainly provoked the reaction I expected. But that was as nothing compared to the mess I got myself into when I was fourteen. By then absolutely nobody I knew wore shorts either to school or even during the summer holidays. Or at least, nobody was ever seen wearing them. But I had been doing all the stuff that teenage boys like to try, and when my crimes were discovered my punishment was shocking, painful and humiliating. I might have got away with a the usual parental lecture warning me that smoking was bad for my health, drinking would get me into serious trouble, and pornography was an affront to the dignity of all women. But those crimes seemed to pale into insignificance compared to the uncovering of my fledgling fetish for short trousers. Relaxed and liberal parenting was swiftly ousted in favour of a regime of discipline that was easily the strictest suffered by any other guy in the country. Or at least, that's how it felt to me when my schoolmates got to see me wearing grey school shorts again with my school uniform, and quickly discovered that spanking had returned to my home. Let's face it, I certainly avoided any form of misbehaviour thereafter and I was even reasonably well-behaved at university. The sharp shock was a lasting one.

So I'm beginning to make some headway on this essay. Working my way through examples of how firm parental discipline had kept me on the straight and narrow throughout my teens. But on the other hand, that same discipline reinforced my masturbatory fantasies. So, did thrashings keep me good, or did they make me really bad? Whatever, little peter and I have had a lot of fun and pleasure out of this kink, even if sometimes my backside has had to take the pain.

My adventures really began when I had finished my first degree. One of the gay mags had a contacts column that was always full of houseboys looking for masters, and masters looking for houseboys. I was living in digs so I was relatively free from any questioning about how I spent evenings or weekends, so I wrote my first letter. Two letters later I was standing outside a semi-detached house in the suburbs of another city in the North of England. When the door opened I stepped into my first encounter as a submissive lad. I spent that weekend naked, running around the house, scrubbing and cleaning and ironing. And bending over to be spanked with a wooden spoon or to receive a few lashes of a belt. The punishment was certainly not at all severe that weekend but it was the first taste of punishment that I had had in years and I certainly felt it. My master for that weekend would have liked more, naturally, but we stuck to our original agreement so he satisfied himself by fondling and feeling me. It was a fun weekend but I didn't feel inclined to take him up on his invitation to return. Something hadn't quite clicked for me.

What clicked came later when I found that there were guys who liked to assume the role of Dad or schoolmaster and administer traditional punishments to short-trousered adult-schoolboys. There was a very discrete subscription only magazine run off on a duplicator and despatched to devotees of the cane and strap. And every now and then, in the mainstream newspapers, there would be a hint of a story about other people who liked to dress up in school uniform and visit professional spankers. And of course every phone box in London conveyed the very clear message that there were lots of spankers and spankees wandering about the city disguised as ordinary people. And then, just when I needed it, the internet was unleashed upon an unsuspecting world and suddenly spanking stories and contact sites were everywhere. Let the fun times begin.

Corporal punishment in schools would only survive a few years after I left school. Maybe they thought that there was no need for it once my generation had passed out into the big wild world. So I have filled a page or two of the essay by trying to compare my experience with the behaviour of the teenage boys I see on the streets of the city where I live, and indeed anywhere else I happen to visit. I'm not sure that we were any better when we were teens. Out of school we dressed in the most awful clothes. Senior boys were into punk. Most of my peers were into football. Some were hoping to get into girls. I was into other boys in shorts.

The essay is a wandering heap of waffle. So it's just like any of the homework I did as a real schoolboy. It's time to look at that poem again. But first I glance out the window and allow myself a few moments break. The lads who were playing on the green earlier have gone, a few people wander by. My hands reach down to my shorts and I start to rub my prick through the material. It springs quickly to erection; afterall it is a few days now since I last came. I work it out. Today is Saturday, sometime before lunch. I didn't yesterday because I was travelling and then when I got here I wasn't allowed. I didn't cum on either Thursday or Wednesday because I thought it would be nice to have saved up some pleasure for this weekend. So the last time was Tuesday night. Three and a half days of good behaviour; that's some sort of record for me.

I'm still kind of surprised that I haven't been ordered to my knees to pleasure this Daddy yet. He seems to like to take things very slowly. But my guess is that he will have his _c_o_c_k_ in my mouth before too long now. I also guess that he is going to be one of those guys who doesn't let his boys cum at all. It's going to be a long, long weekend. I place my hands back on the desk and stare down at the poem. It wouldn't do to be caught playing with myself. I suspect that this Daddy would take a very dim view of such an occurrence, and my bottom is in trouble enough as it is.

I read the lines over and over again hoping that the poem will be absorbed by my brain. But it doesn't help that my mind is still wandering off from time to time and recalling canings and spankings I have had. Like that guy who actually lives quite near this Daddy, just up the road in another village. I wonder if they know each other. Two caners, just about the same age, living only four or five miles apart. But it would be indiscrete to ask and anyway, this Daddy and the other guy have nothing in common when it comes to how they deal with their schoolboys.

The other guy was absolutely clear in his messages before we met. He would be headmaster, I would be the shivering schoolboy sent to see him in his study. I would absolutely have to wear a complete short-trousered school uniform. I was to bring my own grey school shorts and a grey school shirt. He would provide blazer, cap, tie and socks. I changed into my uniform as soon as I got there and then we had that preliminary cup of coffee in the sitting room while we got to know each other. I was sent into the kitchen to clean the mugs. That done I returned to him and was told to follow him into a bedroom. He ordered me to strip and then lie down over the bed with my feet on the floor and wide apart. And then he spanked me. Slipper, belt, strap, and cane, in that order. Twelve of each. Plus an extra stroke of the cane for good luck. And then another stroke because thirteen was unlucky. He left me standing in a corner for half an hour while he took photographs of my punished backside. And that was it. When I was allowed to turn around again he simply gave me a few smacks with his hand and told me to get dressed in my regular clothes and be on my way, "and I hope that this little lesson will help you behave for at least a few days". There certainly wasn't much extra fun involved but I did feel well and truly punished. But I wasn't able to work out why he bothered to insist on the school uniform.

Daddy is coming back up the stairs. He moves around in his room, the goes to the bathroom. I'm feverishly staring at the poem when he comes into the room. He stands at the side of the desk and I can almost feel his eyes burning into the top of my head. Very quietly he poses one of those questions of doom. "Don't you usually stand up when a teacher or elder enters the room?"

I stand. He sits on the bed and beckons me across. Quickly he pulls my little shorts down and pulls me across his lap. "I'll teach you to show a bit more respect in future". It's just a hand spanking, but mostly on my upper legs. Every now and then he adds a few more words about how little boys need to be respectful, to stand when adults enter the room, to be polite, and obedient, and do exactly as they are told.

When he is finished spanking me he has me stand to attention in front of him while he removes my shorts and socks. I am told to go to the toilet, to wash my hands and face, and to return to my bedroom immediately. When I get back he hands me a pair of grey chunky knit walking socks and then he tells me to step into a pair of fawn coloured shorts. These shorts reach to just above my knees but even so I still feel worried about them. He can't seriously be intending to take me out walking in this outfit! But he is.

We are walking through the green where those boys were playing earlier. Apparently we can get to the park if we follow this path, and then once through the park we will be heading out along a wooded valley. He explained the route to me while we ate lunch in the kitchen. He had a ham sandwich and a mug of tea. I had a tomato sandwich and a glass of water. The menu wasn't my choice; I just had to eat what I was given. "It will be a decent walk, maybe three hours, and you clearly need the exercise boy".

It's a crisp autumn day and he sets a brisk pace. I feel incredibly conspicuous wearing these shorts. Everyone else, including Daddy, is dressed for warmth. But of course nobody actually passes any comment but I still wonder if anyone notices the fact that my legs are hairless, and I'm not absolutely certain that these shorts are long enough to cover the signs of my most recent spanking. I'm still wearing that childish striped top that he gave me this morning but at least that is covered up by my jacket. If only nobody looks too closely at me I might get through this.

Daddy is still lecturing me about the importance of good manners and how boys must be polite to all adults and to girls, and to other boys too. Boys have to show respect for adults and girls. And boys who wear short trousers are to be respectful towards any boy who is wearing longs because long trousers are a sign that a boy has attained a certain level of maturity. I'm not too sure about this last bit but Daddy makes clear that I am required to address any long-trousered male as Sir, and that I don't want to suffer the consequences of any perceived disrespect. This Daddy really takes his role seriously and I'm beginning to wonder if I have got myself into more than I had bargained for.

We are striding through the woods when Daddy begins to tell me about what I can expect if I am to become one of his regular boys. He demands commitment, regular attendance, at least one forty-eight hour visit every month. Sometimes there will be other boys present, he has three other regulars at the moment, and we will treat each other as brothers and have no shame about sharing baths or beds. There will certainly be other boys present during the summer when he requires that each of us come on holiday with him for a fortnight, usually to a place he has down by the sea in the southwest of the country.

His boys wear short trousers most of the year regardless of who else might see them. The only concession is that he will not usually require a boy to wear punishment or grey school shorts in public, and he often allows long trousers for walks in the winter months. But otherwise his boys wear shorts all the time; scout shorts like the pair that I am wearing right now, or navy or red corduroy shorts. There will be no negotiation. And each of his boys signs a personal commitment to good behaviour between visits. No alcohol, no smoking, no _s_e_x_ with anyone else, no masturbation, no hunting for porn on the internet, no spending on credit cards, and a requirement to be in bed with lights out by half past ten every night.

And what do his boys get in return? In return they learn to appreciate his strict discipline and know that he is helping them to become much better people. "Not better adults, mind you. A boy is a boy in my view and he remains a boy whether he is with me or back at home. So, my lad, if you want to become one of my regular boys you had better think it over carefully, because I mean every single word of what I say. Of course, boys being boys, my lads slip up from time to time and break the rules. But they know that they must confess their misdeeds on their next visit, and they know that I will wield the cane accordingly".

I decide to risk a question. Just how long do his boys stick with his programme? "The longest was four years, he's a senior manager in his bank now, and he still visits, but he's an adult now. At the moment, I have one boy who has been with me for two years, one has been coming for a year and a bit, and the third is a new boy like you. He only signed up a couple of months ago".

I dare not commit myself. It sounds like everything I have fantasised about for years, but it also sounds like handing over total control of every single aspect and minute of my life. But there again, maybe that would do me good. For the moment though I don't say anything, it's clearly something to be considered very carefully.

At the end of the woods there is one of those kiosks doing hot drinks and snacks. Daddy hands me some change and tells me to go up and buy two cups of hot chocolate. When I return with the drinks and his change he tells me that I can expect a sound thrashing when we get home. He had been listening. I had failed to address the youth behind the counter as Sir. As we walk back I wonder what it would be like to do as he expects, to address a spotty teenage boy as "Sir"; to say, "please Sir", and "thank you Sir", to a lad who must be twenty years younger than me. We walk in silence and I am left to think over the consequences of allowing myself to enter into the relationship the Daddy is suggesting. At least I don't smoke, but given the rest of the rules I wonder if my backside would be able to take the thrashings that I would inevitably earn.

When we get back into the house Daddy surprises me by ordering me to strip and go straight into the study. Bent over the desk I count out six strokes of the cane in punishment for my disrespect to the young man at the kiosk. Then I am told to stand and recite the poem. It's better this time but I still got eight lines wrong and Daddy decides that two lashes of the tawse for each of those lines would be appropriate. This time, however, he tells me to bend over and grab hold of my ankles, or as close to my ankles as I can get. The position is incredibly difficult to maintain and I earn three extra lashes for moving. When he is finished tawsing me he sends me into the corner to stand, hands on my head, while he marks my second attempt at an essay.

Every now and then I hear him sigh in despair, or quietly "tut tut", as he finds yet another error. I know that I am going to be punished again, and I know that it will be painful. But I feel completely relaxed standing here with my nose in my corner. This isn't role play any more. I don't have to ask myself why a guy in his late thirties with a decent career is spending his time wearing school shorts and bending over for corporal punishment. I'm still that guy, but this Daddy has brought me to another place in life. I am really his boy for now and it feels right to be waiting for my next punishment, a boy subject to firm traditional discipline. The only question in my mind is this; dare I commit myself to becoming one of his regular boys?


More stories by Mike Ward