2001 Nights: Past Imperfect 8 Revised


by 7th Son <Jihanr@hotmail.com>

Jeffs Journal

Of late, Ive been relearning the benefits inherent in using a PC (cut-and-paste, what a novel idea). Ive also rediscovered fragments of familiarity with and interest in video games. It encouraged in me a renewed desire to have my past restored to memory.

Ah, diary, I badly want it all back, my past and my memory of it. Last week, I had cried tears of desperation in front of Tristan. Its a simple demand, I sobbed impatiently in his chest.

Simple, yes, but enormous in the larger frame of your life, he scolded. Now, dry your girlish tears, and come downstairs for breakfast. Matthew will be here soon.

My session with Matthew had us searching for things, incidents and series of people or events, that would break through some of the complexities that underlay the blocked space of my mind. He had arrived early. I found him and Tristan moving new things into the clinic, transforming the room into a time conscious milieu of my belongings and possessions that carried with them anecdotes of my childhood and adolescence. A topsy-turvy arrangement of books, paintings, gifts and toys, and all their annual stocks of permutations including dust, rust, fingerprints and fungus, cluttered the empty niches and spaces of the clinic. They were familiar looking strangers, every one of them overlaid with anonymous associations of names, people and places. I knew the associations were all there in my locked mind.

While my mind roamed over the surface of these things, Matthew tossed in repeated clues within them. Later, he suggested I read Lord of the Flies to see if the book would provoke any recollection.

It did, coming through in a flash out of the lines of the narrative. Ah, I was getting quite fond of these little nuggets.

I saw a stern-faced woman, a school marmish type who wore perky horn-rimmed glasses on her discolored nose. You know, all the veritable stereotypes and cliches youve ever read about or seen depicted in literature concerning a schoolteacher.

The association had been instantaneous. Ms. Hathaway, I whispered.

An excited Matthew prodded me to talk about her.

Ms. Hathaway was my eighth grade English teacher but I felt seriously loathed to remember her. For I had been her favorite – the teachers pet – so she had waylaid what might have been the best years of my life in high school.

Ms. Hathaway was stiff in every manner of her life, I started to tell Matthew, stiff as a heathen priest at a sacrifice. She was a firm advocate of corporal punishment and her caning edicts turned the school environment into an academic and social roughhouse. She used to consider the eighth grade a problem year. She was right but she espoused her idea on a different frequency from us. It was a difficult time of acne, dealing with problems of underdevelopment and identity, and _s_e_x_ual discovery. She saw the difficulty as rebelliousness, period.

It was hard to toe the moral and etiquette lines when you were plagued with problems of your self-image. A small penis and skinny chest were the common symptoms, and all we needed were adjustment time and understanding. These Ms. Hathaway hadnt the magnanimity of heart to give. She also eschewed psychology or the humanist approach in favor of the objective cane to ensure that her moral and ethical lines, as well as those of the school, got toed.

Apropos her philosophy, she was not averse to spanking a boy who misbehaved in her class. It was all done in a business-like manner, delivering with her long cane a surplus of tears and welts on a boys top and bottom cheeks. She always caned on the boys barest commodity – their shorts or underwear – while they faced the blackboard, palms flat against it.

Her hard-line approach secured her the principals chair in my graduating year, the year she made me class valedictorian. She implemented her corporal punishment edict at the auditorium during the weekly assembly, when she lined up the errant boys who, over the preceding week, had been written up for caning. The younger ones, the 7th and 8th graders, received a short caning of about 4 or 5 lashes on their PT shorts. The older ones were given up to 10 lashes on their underwear, or if they were recidivists, on their bare bottoms facing the assembly.

Her cane would dart swiftly and callously into the boys fleshy bottoms. Ms. Hathaway took no pleasure in expending unnecessary school time to deliver each miscreant backside its spanking, so each boys punishment took no more than a minute.

I paused here. I struggled to search the hidden places of my memory for more but my mind was masked once again. This is all Im receiving, I said to Matt regrettably.

My therapist closed his notebook over whose pages hed been furiously running his pen to annotate my story. He broke into a gentle smile despite the trifling details Id just given him. Indeed, this occasion had been just the thing for which hed been waiting so long. Four and a half months of playing with his alphabet bricks, drawing with his art slate and dissecting his IQ tests, not to mention re-reading my old school tomes, had penetrated my amnesia to arrive at this. He had good reason to smile.

Youve done very well, he said enthusiastically.

Somehow I couldnt share his degree of enthusiasm. I had made a breakthrough and that was encouraging. But that hadnt been my objective.

It was Brad. He was my secret objective and present all-consuming interest. I wanted to remember him above everything else that was still blocked. If I were consumed with a passion for remembering the past, it was preeminently because I wanted to remember what it had been like to live with him as his bottom, his spank boy, his amorous younger lover.

Hed told me before that I had always belonged to him and he me, but Ive no recollection of this and its accompanying sentiment. Nor of how it all started and what we did together that embodied this idea of belonging to each other. I only know that I feel as if Im going through a brand new experience with him, and my heart is constantly a-flutter with the mystique of this experience.

Know what, diary? I believe I have a crush on him.

So, that evening, after my therapy with Matthew ended, I had pursued my nap with the eagerness of a boy who indulged in pleasant daydreams. Because it bought my tolerance of the hours Brad was still at work.

He pulled up the driveway at the usual hour. The sound of car engine below my window awakening me, I ran my fingers through my hair and hurried down to meet him. This was not in my usual habit, but, lately, Id found myself wishing that he would get home earlier. Or else that he worked at home, for the hours he spent with me were too short.

He seemed as eager to see me, gathering me into his embrace. I felt particularly drawn to his scent, and, though it humiliates me to confess this, it had enticed me to a libidinal convulsion that oscillated down to my groin. I felt my penis whirled into a tornado for _s_e_x_. Concealing my crotch that had tented up, I clasped his elbow and hurried us to the bedroom. If Tristan hadnt been thus disposed to us at every turn, I would have thrown off all my clothes on the way there, I swear.

I dispensed with the light, save the one on the nightstand, and then sat him down on my bed. This was my master and mentor but today I was the one pushing the buttons and dictating our present course. I liked my new role. I stripped off my clothes, dropping every article to the floor, but when all he was doing was glare at my strip tease act in astonishment, I beseeched him to do the same.

Hurry, Brad, I said, breathless for him to be naked and for the melding together of hearts, minds and semen. And like the unabashed whore I could be, streams of pulsating desire were already heating me to an intolerable temperature while I presented my body, at ease in its nudity, to him.

Alas, he neither moved nor removed any of his own clothes. And it wasnt for want of a reason for surely he could deduce that from my body linguistics! I was 7 inches long already. He had to have noticed.

I guess its not a bath were about to have, he said, gently cradling my elongation on his palm. I dont hear the water running.

Well, its not, I said, scowling at him in disbelief. I want to .... you know ....

His brows knitted together in a frown and that was when my heart started to sink. Penis, too.

Its not the right time, baby, he said at last, getting up. With some remorse, he took me into his arms. He pressed my body against him, crushing my genitals.

Why? I asked.

Because youre not well, he answered. And because youre extremely vulnerable. I wont take advantage of you in your present condition.

But you love me, I said, my heart shattering into pieces. I thought you said ....

I do love you, he said, and its because I love you that I cant do this.

I averted my eyes. I couldnt stay to hear anymore from him. Im such an idiot, I whispered, and tore from him. I ran into the bathroom, locking myself in. There I surrendered stupidly to my tears.

It wasnt long before I heard him imploring me from outside. Im sorry, Jeff, he said. Cmon, darling, open the door. Look, well have a bath together instead.

I ignored him, turned on the shower and drenched myself with cold water, all the time detesting the cold. But it took care of things quickly, my emotions, my embarrassment and my erection.

It wasnt to last. I had another erection at dinner and couldnt make eye contact with him. I gulped down the food in ten minutes. I excused myself from the table, feeling unbearably dyspeptic for the haste. That night, I resorted to masturbating myself to cripple my potency. I spilled my seed over the bathtub after a few minutes of frenetic pumping.

Raw _s_e_x_ual obduracy was not susceptible to common sense, I learned, and the next day I masturbated myself once more. I wasnt yet aware I would go out of control. But later that evening, touching him with such frequency when we engaged in a game of Twister with Tristan and Sean, who was visiting, once again quickened my primal impulse for self-gratification.

By the time I spilled my seed, I realized that twice in the span of six hours qualified as being out of control.

Nevertheless, I masturbated again the following day. Twice. And the next day, and the next and the next, as well. I writhed in bittersweet agony each time I ejaculated. The act, completed, possessed such beauty it constituted a circumspect diversion for copulation.

Or so I thought, nary wary I was breaking a house rule, Brads house rule.

Of course, I was aware that there were general house rules for living: for example, chores were fairly distributed and each member of the family carried his full weight in the division of labor, and etiquette rules pertaining to shared space and privacy were observed. However, in addition to these, Brad and I had entered into a written agreement to live by some other special rules, which Id apparently forgotten. These ones were in the code of the masters and slaves etiquette. Brad reminded me about the paper divide last night.

Dinner over, he and Tristan put away the dishes that Id helped to wash. He took my hand in his, apprising that we needed to talk. We brought our coffee latte to the Study, and he locked the door on us. He sat next to me on the deep leather settee, closing for an infinitude any gap that ever existed between us with a warm and sincere embrace. He kissed me and began.

Jeff, he said, Ive been trying to ignore this problem since it started last week, but its gone on for longer than Im able to tolerate. I think it has to be brought to your attention.

I dont know what you mean, Brad, I said, stealing glances nervously in Tristans direction.

I know you dont, he said, nodding. I know you dont remember how we used to live. Its the amnesia. This notwithstanding, and adding to that the fact that youve been back with me for nearly half a year, I think its time you were reminded. We have rules here. Most of these are general ones, particularly housekeeping ones, and youve kept them all because youre essentially sensible and level-headed. Your morals are impeccable. I attach no blame to them. You do your share without needing to be asked.

But I want to talk about the special rules we used to have – some mine and others yours. One of these is the bathroom door. Its never locked when one of us is inside. This was your rule and we agreed to live by it. Likewise the bedroom doors. Another is our clothes. If something is worn not more than twice a year, it goes to the Salvation Army. That was my rule to avoid unnecessary cluttering of our lives.

Then theres the matter of manners and conduct in the way we relate to friends and ourselves. This comes with it a slew of rules I cannot begin to describe but youll find out in the course of time and living here. However, there is one thing I do want to talk about today, and its the reason were gathered in this room.

Im talking about masturbation, in particular, self-masturbation. Now, Im aware that you have needs and its a very natural part of you. Its what being a strong, healthy and _s_e_x_ual person means. If you didnt have these urges, Id be very concerned. However, self-masturbation is a concern I have, not so much for the act per se as for the sense of loneliness and isolation associated with the act. Its nothing to do with the sense that Im left out of it so much as that youre doing it alone. If you want to be masturbated, tell me, and Id be happy to be involved. But dont do it because you have no one else with whom to enjoy _s_e_x_. The very idea breaks my heart. Masturbate if Im not around, but otherwise, dont. Ill be honest: masturbation is not an issue from the moral perspective but a personal, if selfish one. Its an act I simply forbid. And you had agreed completely.

I know youve been masturbating yourself every day this past week. Dont get me wrong. I hadnt been spying on you. It was Tristan who chanced upon it the first time. Hes here to bear testimony. No, no, he didnt stay to watch or listen, so banish that fear from your mind. But since that first time, weve come to realize its what youve been doing every time you shut yourself in the bathroom. I know youve masturbated yourself 11 times in the last 5 days. I wont be half surprised to find you sore down there. And so....

And so, here it was – my first real scolding from him. It embarrassed me, and I didnt know why, but instead of experiencing repugnance, I threw myself on his shoulder, cutting him off. I wept.

But a stoical quality stole greyly about his face, unnerving me in his arms. No, he said, not time for cuddling yet.

But I came to you, I protested. I had needed you.

Yes, but I explained to you that time why I would not make love to you, he replied. I made myself very clear.

I sank my head in my hands. Not fair, I thought. I felt him grip my arm and then arise, raising me up willy-nilly with him.

This is another rule, he explained, holding up my chin, every time one is broken, correction and punishment are in order.

I knew what was coming. He neednt have to tell me that in violating a taboo, I had committed a field of infraction germinally ripe for harvesting a spanking. I looked to Tristan to help me out.

He showed his support for Brad instead. No reason why not, he said calmly. Its a timely lesson.

And it was what I had wanted, wasnt it: finding out what living with Brad had used to be like? He quickly gave his command for the spanking that I was already anticipating.

And Ive always spanked you naked, he added, his fingers already curled under the hem of my shirt.

I fidgeted nervously but found myself not minding that my post-masturbation abscess was going to be burst this way. I mean, my penis and conscience were already sore and needing control and discipline!

Brad silently removed my sweatshirt over my head. Afterward, he unfastened the button and zipper in my cargo pants and yanked them southward past my legs. While I shucked off my sandals at his command, he slowly peeled off my underwear. This last piece of protective covering he left around my thighs.

He seemed next to be shifting his intent. He handed me naked to Tristan though I didnt try to invent a strategy for circumventing this indignity.

But why let Tristan mete out my spanking?

Red and tender, Tristan observed, examining my penis. You must be quite sore.

I nodded. Yes, very, I said. Relieved that he wasnt going to spank me. I would rather the one I loved did it.

All right, honey, the one I loved ordered, lets get your punishment over with.

He was already sitting back down on the settee when he invited me over his lap. I climbed up slowly and carefully, as if fearful my bones would break. Or his might. But as soon as I was on his lap, I felt his love envelop me. This despite the impregnable position he had taken concerning my infraction and need for correction. I felt the love in his hands. They were over my shoulder to stanchion his hold on me so I wouldnt fall, and on my bottom, feeling my skin and flesh, but for his own mysterious reason. It was such a new experience. And such a tender and intimate one.

Hold on to my ankles, he advised, this is going to hurt.

I did as he suggested, feeling him completely remove my white briefs from my thighs. And then his hand landed hard on my bottom cheeks.

WHAP!

I yelped.

The next smack came in a series. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

I hollered.

And again – WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

I swore.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

By now I was wailing out my tearful promises. But then came the slipper. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

Some time between the hand and slipper, I heard Tristan leave the room.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

I wailed, swore, howled and kicked.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

I sobbed.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

I pleaded, and this marked the limit of his industry. I heard him put away his slipper. At last.

Brads guileless art had been all exhausted after fifteen minutes. However, my tears and my erection were inexhaustible. I was feeling the direst pang of my spanking. He caught me at a horrid and sudden rankle and soothed my chest, but reaped little fruit for his labor.

Im going to give you a rectal, he prescribed when he realized I was going to need more than mere hugs to calm me down.

I attempted to get up but was prevented. He scooped me up. He mounted the stairs, carrying me in his arms while I endured the terrible soreness in my bottom. The next time, after a spanking, he said, youll be required to take a half hours corner time to consider your punishment. Thats another rule. But one thing at a time.

As soon as hed lain me on my bed, he delivered the usual post-spanking entreaties: soothing cream, soothing platitudes and soothing kisses. Shortly after, I felt him work the same cream into my anus. I purred. However, my anus protested violently when I soon felt an invasion there that was so completely and indescribably at variance with its predecessor. It was cold, hostile and humiliating.

Calm down, baby, he said, stymieing my rebellious pelvis with his hand. He rested his other palm on my buttock cheeks and held the rectal thermometer between his fingers. This will be removed when I see youre latent again. I promise.

I wept. But I also took him at his word, embracing my bed, his arms around me and the rectal thermometer inside me. Then again, I didnt have any say in this psychological duel.

It had appeared, at first, a cruel form of training in material abstinence but my penis gradually softened without a drop of semen gone to pot. My sobs subsequently abated while I focused on my uncomfortable invasion. And while he reviewed the details of my old life of regimentation and how nudity and spanking had been an uncompromising part of the regimen, I inadvertently drifted into a comfortable sleep. His voice had been as calming as the contemptible rectal. As for this, fortunately, the blessed sleep had spared me the humiliating knowledge of its removal from my rectum.

This morning, I had awoken in his arms.

© 1998, 2001, JRK & BWK. 2002, BWK.


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