Dinner with a Former Schoolmaster


by Colonel Bill's Well-Spanked Lover <Oldmenspankme@email.com>

It was a drizzly March Tuesday afternoon as one only finds in Ireland, with a soft fine rain falling from a grey, leaden, sky. The rain had been falling since early morning, and showed no sign of abating. I picked my way to the bus stop, tired at the end of a long working day, and looking forward to getting home to dinner and a drink. At the bus stop, however, was a sight for sore eyes. Mr. O'Connor, who had been deputy head in my early days at secondary school, was standing next to me in the queue. He had retired, as I said, a few years after I had started, and was now well into his seventies. He was a cheerful old soul, and although he had never taught me, he always remembered me and asked how my career and life were proceeding.

I also had more furtive pleasures on my mind whenever I met him, as I had developed a crush on Mr. O'Connor the day and hour I had set eyes on him and even now, over a decade later, the crush had not subsided. As we lived on the same bus route, we met from time to time, and never did it fail to be the case that after our meetings on the bus he would be the subject of my fantasies later the same evening!

As he stood there, puffing on his pipe, and as always immaculate with his shock of fluffy white hear and neat sports jacket and tie, we chatted about this and that, and when the bus arrived, we sat next to each other. I enjoyed the warmth of his arm and leg against mine as the crowded bus proceeded slowly through the rush hour traffic. Then a question came out of the blue.

"Do you have a girlfriend at the moment?"

"No, I never seem to have any luck with girls. My Ma says none are mad enough to have anything to do with me!"

This was a decorous lie - my mother is as aware as most people that I am gay. I was sort of half surprised that he hadn't heard through the bush telegraph of former pupils and teachers.

"Well, maybe you're just not the marrying type - I never was", he replied.

I found myself thinking unsavoury thoughts and my loins were well and truly stirring. I felt a rush of blood to my head - and I'm not talking about the one on top of my neck!

Conversation proceeded, and as the bus approached my home stop, I bade my farewell. At that point Mr. O'Connor asked, "Would you like to come to my house for dinner some night?

"Oh, yes, that'd be lovely. Tonight's my last free night before I go on holiday for three weeks, then on business straight away for a week afterwards, though. It'll have to wait for a while." I said this with entirely sincere disappointment.

"It's a pity you couldn't come up tonight," he replied, his voice cracking a little, "I hardly ever have company for dinner, and I do get lonely sometimes. But I suppose you'll be out gallivanting."

"Actually, I wasn't planning anything. There's no reason why I have to go home just now, if you don't mind me accompanying you."

"Not at all", he beamed back with a huge smile, "I'm delighted that you want to."

As we left the inner-city, the traffic thinned, and within ten minutes we were in the well-to-do district where Mr. O'Connor lived, and soon arrived at his modest, but spotlessly kept semi. He left me to the papers as he prepared dinner, and we had a lovely chat over dinner. I found myself beginning to open to him more and more - and yes, the whisky probably encouraged that - and before we had finished eating I was telling him of the travails of my life. Oh, they're not serious in the grand scheme of things - in fact life was going rather well - but we all have a few things that we've done that we don't like telling anyone about, and so they fester within us and make us feel bad about ourselves.

Well, anyway, I found myself telling Mr. O'Connor quite a few things that had been festering within me. He listened quietly, pouring more whiskies which simply prompted me into confessing further iniquities as dinner moved towards its conclusion. The meal finished, Mr. O'Connor cleared up.

After he cleared up the desert plates, he sat down on the settee and called me over. "Son, I want you to sit down here beside me. Come, right by me." I sat down beside him on the sofa. "That's it, lad." He put his arm around me and I snuggled against his shoulder. This was a dream come true.

"I've always been fond of you, you know that don't you?", he said as he petted my back, "I'd love it if we could be special friends. I like helping young men and I'm really proud that you felt able to trust me with some of the things you told me tonight. I'd like to be a friend and a... and a tutor to you if that's not the wrong word. It's the part of teaching I miss most."

"I'd be honoured if you were."

"Do you like calling me Mr. O'Connor or would your rather call me Sean?", he asked.

To be honest, he was the sort of person, at least from my point of view, that was always a Mr., but I didn't want to say anything that might offend him, so I sort of shrugged.

"It's OK if you want to keep calling me 'Mister', you can. You'd like that sort of friend wouldn't you? A friend you can look up to."

I smiled and slowly nodded my head.

He pulled me gently to my feet, undid my belt and opened my zip. He pulled my rampaging prick out of my trousers and rubbed it gently. Precum formed gently on the tip as my hormones went haywire. He pressed his soft, aged lips against mine, and our tongues performed an intricate dance. I loved the taste of whisky and pipesmoke on his breath. He placed his hands on my shoulders, looked deep into my eyes, and said gently, "You want more of this, don't you?" I nodded, softly and silently. "Well then", he continued, voice still gentle, "we have a few things to discuss first."

He sat down again and pulled up my trousers, then sat me across my knees across his with my weight resting on the other part of the settee. He looked me straight in the eye with a gentle, kindly, look began to speak.

"I said I was proud you felt able to talk to me tonight they way you did, but I wasn't proud of some of the things you told me. Not from a young man I've always had a high opinion of, even in his schooldays. I know you're not proud of some of them either. I want you to consider a suggestion I'm going to make, which might seem a little strange at first, but I'm sure you'll appreciate the wisdom of it if you take me up on it."

"Mr. O'Connor, whatever you want me to consider, I will." I replied earnestly, "I'm not proud of what I've done and I feel a million times better for having told you about it."

"Well then, if you go to the room immediately to your right at the top of the stairs, you'll see a desk with a typewriter and some trays on it. If you open the drawer in the centre of the desk, you'll find a leather strap like I used to use in school. I am going to punish you with it. As you are now a man of twenty-five it will be more severe than when you were at school."

"I was never strapped in school," I interjected.

"Of course, I forgot, you were too young. Well, just remember generations of men got a good dose of the strap when they were young, and many of them got it from me. It was the making of many of them and I don't think you're too old to benefit from it yourself. I know it sounds a bit odd, but you must trust me if I am to be your mentor. I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think you'd thank me for it after.

"Besides, son," he continued, suddenly grasping my adamantine-hard prick, "I know you are not closed to the idea yourself."

"I will. I'll try to, anyway. I'll try to, Sir." My voice was almost inaudible and I trembled with nerves. I had dreamed about this moment for so long, never imagining it could become reality.

"Off you go then." He patted me on the back and I slowly picked my way up the staircase.

I indeed found the strap where he said it was, in the drawer among boxes of Swan matches and well chewed pipes. I was surprised to find how flexible it was and somewhat dismayed to find a heavy solid lump embedded in its lower end.

I breathed in the erotic aroma of pipe tobacco as I flexed the strap through the air. I was getting more and more worried about this, but I knew this was a once in a lifetime chance to life out my most secret fantasies. With trepidation I returned to the living room and in meek silence presented the strap to Mr. O'Connor.

Mr. O'Connor's voice was soft and slow, almost gentle. "Now, young man, as you have never had corporal punishment inflicted upon you, I must tell you this is going to hurt more than you imagine. Cry if you have to, but don't swear and don't move out of your position or I will impose further punishment. For forgetting your mother's birthday card you will receive two strokes on your hands. For your drunken foolishness, not malicious behaviour, but foolish nonetheless, you will receive a further two strokes on the hands. However, I must impose a more severe sentence for you disgraceful behaviour towards your staff at work, as bullying is something I detest, and your behaviour was in essence no better than an eleven year-old thug. You will receive twelve strokes on your backside, and you can thank the fact that this is your first strapping that it will not be considerably more.

"Now my boy, stand in front of the fire and stretch your arms straight out in front of you. That's a good lad. Now cross your left hand on top of your right hand. Now, don't move them or I may hurt you more than I intend."

He swished the strap through the air a few times, testing its weight and range. He spoke sternly, his voice now taking on a considerably harder aspect, "Remember, boy, that this strapping is for things you yourself are ashamed of. You know how richly you deserve this and I want you to think of your disgraceful behaviour while I am punishing you. You will think of how much your thoughtlessness hurt your mother and you will be glad of the chastisement you are receiving."

The first stroke landed on my left fingers. The leather stung in a way that its flexibility seemed to bely. I can't quite describe that moment - so transitory, yet etched forever on my mind. I felt the sour taste of fear and adrenaline surge like a tidal wave from my stomach up to my throat and breath wooshed from my lungs. It brought back memories of being hit on the thigh with a wet leather football when I was about eight and the way I couldn't stop crying. I heard myself screech, as if from another vantage point, "_f_u_c_k_!"

"Young man," barked Mr. O'Connor, "I will not tolerate such disgraceful language in my own home. You will apologise to me at once and you will receive an extra two strokes on the hands."

"I can't go on with this", I replied breathlessly, "I really thought I wanted to but I can't. I'm sorry."

"It's irrelevant whether you want to or not.", Mr. O'Connor continued in a most severe manner, "You deserve this punishment and you will assuredly receive it. More than that, you know you deserve it. It hurts, but it's supposed to hurt, you silly boy. In my day an eight year old would have taken a strapping like this without flinching. The only trouble with you is that you didn't get this fifteen years ago. Now stand up and put your right hand above your left."

I stood, frozen, not wanting to continue, but knowing this is what I had dreamed of for so many years. I just never realised how much it hurt in real life.

"Up I said, boy, before I throw you up against the wall and knock you to kingdom come!"

Slowly I stretched my arms out to their full length, right hand above the left as I had been ordered to. I closed my eyes, fearing that I would pull my hands away as I saw the strap coming towards me.

"You will show gratitude to your mother in future, young man. You will not hurt her by neglecting her birthdays."

With a sickening smack the lead-centred leather crashed on to my right palm. I didn't cry out this time, but I wanted to. With a gasp, I bent over clutching my right hand.

"Up, lad, left hand out."

Rather unsteadily, I held my arms outstretched again, left hand on top. I wasn't sure how my stinging left palm could take more punishment. I was trembling slightly, as Mr. O'Connor began once more to admonish.

"You will behave yourself responsibly when you drink."

The strap lashed out onto my left hand.

"You will not put yourself at risk of ending up in court over a silly prank."

I had already crossed my hands and the strap whipped against my right thumb and wrist. I grunted and wondered whether I shouldn't have persisted in my refusal; but again I dutifully crossed my hands in front of me, almost as if in supplication. My _c_o_c_k_ was no longer hard. There was nothing erotic about this, nor could I remember why I thought I deserved this. My hands were pure pain and they filled all my consciousness.

"You will also show respect to me and for my role as your tutor. You will not swear at me nor will you question the punishments you receive from me."

As the strap whizzed in a graceful arc, I let out a quiet little shriek of fear. It crashed into my already raw hand and I immediately dropped into a hunch clutching it.

"You will do as I ask when I ask. You will accept your punishments like a man of twenty-five, not a braying schoolgirl. And you will speak like a gentleman, not some corner boy."

I was still crouched over, clutching my aching hand, sure a blister was forming on it. Mr. O'Connor approached me quickly and gave me a stinging slap across the cheek.

"Up boy, hurry up."

Again I stretched out my hands. Again the strap cracked squarely on my right palm. It stung so much I didn't understand why it wasn't bleeding. Again I crouched over rubbing my palms together and my cheek continued to flush from the slap.

"Up. Hands on your head. Stand in silence until I tell you otherwise."

Mr. O'Connor had a fierce, almost frightening look now. I couldn't understand how such a frail old man could inflict such pain. My _c_o_c_k_ was still soft and I wasn't thinking about _s_e_x_ in the slightest, but I was in rapture at Mr. O'Connor. The display of such command, such authority, left me breathless in admiration. I remembered why I was being beaten and I was glad I was being punished.

Mr. O'Connor rummaged in his cardigan pocket for a cigarette while I continued to stand with my hands on my head. He lit it, and after inhaling deeply blew the smoke in my face.

"That was very pleasant, was it not?", he asked with scorn.

"No, Sir, it was very sore", I whimpered.

"Well remember, if it isn't hurting it isn't working. I've never met a boy yet who didn't benefit from a good whipping." He took another draw on his cigarette, "I'm afraid that the rest of your punishment will hurt rather more. I will not tolerate bullies. You may be a big-shot in your job, but your disgusting treatment of junior staff shows you up as not having developed beyond the playground hooligan stage. I am thoroughly ashamed of you and I hope you are thoroughly ashamed of yourself."

He pointed and the settee. "You will kneel on the settee and you will cross your hands behind your neck." Another deep pull of the cigarette. "You will stick your backside out as far as it will go. And you will not get up or swear or I shall cane you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well don't just gawp there. Drop your trousers and your underpants. This instant."

I was frightened by the angry - genuinely angry - tone in his voice. I have never got out of a pair of knickers so quickly.

"Good lad. Now assume the position."

With his cigarette in his mouth, he felt round my body and the settee to ensure all was to his satisfaction, tucking my shirt under my pullover. He then put the cigarette in the ashtray and took a few steps back.

I heard his feet trot, then all was pain.

"If you abuse your position, I will abuse you, understand that boy."

He repeated the motion, and another cruel stroke left a broad zone of pain across my buttocks. Where the weight had impacted I felt a bruise forming.

"Whatever cruelty you inflict on others, I will inflict tenfold on you."

Another crash, up near my tailbone. The lead weight connected with thinner flesh and I screamed out.

"Bullies always find out there is a bigger bully than them. And for you, young man, I am that bully."

Again, this time the lead weight crashed on my left cheek. I cried out louder this time. How on earth could I survive another eight? Only the fear of worse kept me in place. I was Mr. O'Connor's. I was Mr. O'Connor's boy to do with as he liked.

Again, a few steps back and a quick shuffle forward. I tensed my bottom as a further bludgeon of agony landed on the right cheek.

"Think of why this is happening. Think how awful you awful you would have felt if you were in your first job straight out of school and a manager had used such horrible names about you. He couldn't answer back and, now, neither can..."

This time, the pain was right in the centre of my bottom.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I really am," I moaned.

"No doubt, boy, but not half as sorry as you will be when I'm finished with you. Think of the way you treated the girl on the advertising desk? Was that a proper way to speak to a lady?"

I did think of it and was ashamed. I had no answer back to Sir. I deserved this.

"But surely not that", I thought to myself as he caught me low on my upper thigh. I started to cry. Like a little boy, I started sobbing.

"I'm glad to see we're getting through a little now." Mr. O'Connor paused for a second, wiped his brow and retrieved his cigarette from his ashtray. Blowing more smoke in my nostrils, he continued, "But I think only the pain is getting through. Not the reality of your misdeeds." He replaced the cigarette in the ashtray, and after more shuffling, brought a vicious backhand down on my blazing rump.

I wanted to get up. I couldn't take this any more. It had been a mistake agreeing to this. But I couldn't get up either. I couldn't disobey Mr. O'Connor. I didn't want him not to be my special friend, and I didn't want him to punish me even more. "Sir, please stop", I blubbered through sobs, "I've learned my lesson. I know what I did was wrong. Please, Sir, no more."

"You obviously haven't learned your lesson, or you wouldn't be asking for me to stop. You must know how wrong you were, and I will keep giving you tuition until you do."

His run-up was longer this time, and the strap audibly wooshed through the air before crashing, low and vicious, onto the bottom of my buttocks. I began to sob more. Only two more. Or was it three? Or four? I couldn't remember anymore.

"Making fun of someone's religious views, even if you disagree with them, is extremely unpleasant. You must have caused a great deal of pain and distress. Which is why I am causing you a great deal of pain and distress."

Another long run up, and the lash crunched high up, on an earlier bruise near my tailbone. I screamed and salty tears poured down my face.

"Did you deserve that?" Mr. O'Connor asked.

"Yes, Sir", I sobbed, "I know I did."

"Maybe we are slowly making an impression. Now be a brave lad, the last ones will be worse yet."

My heart began to thump with fear. Mr. O'Connor laid the strap against my ravaged left upper thigh and tried a few trial runs through the air. He then walked back a long way, by the sound of it right to the other end of the room. "Ready lad?" he asked.

"Sir." I squeaked.

Like a cricketer getting ready to bowl he cantered across the room and delivered a stunning blow right where he planned. I yanked up involuntarily and let out a gasp of breath, but quickly assumed my submissive position.

Mr. O'Connor took another two pulls of his cigarette and I smelt the fuggy cloud as it moved towards me. He stubbed the cigarette out, and walked slowly to the end of the room. He paused for maybe ten seconds, maybe more. He trotted across the room and a I cried out in fear, "Please, Sir, no!" The stroke landed the length on my arse with the weight landing on my right upper thigh. I again jerked up and let out choking tears,

"Resume your position, boy, or we can start over again", Sir barked. He waited for a moment, then continued, "Stand up and put your hands on top of your head. Walk to the corner and face the wall."

He proceeded to examine my bottom, making me wince when he kneaded the bruises. "Now turn round and face me. What do you say?"

"Thank you, Sir", I sobbed, "I mean it thank you. I'm sorry I made you beat me and I'll try not to do those things again."

With a stern look he stretched out his hand. Shaking my hand, he smiled, "You're a very brave young man to take a first flogging as severe as that so well. I'm proud of you. You've been punished properly and there's nothing to be ashamed of any more."

He reached over to give me a peck on the lips which turned into a passionate deep kiss as tears of relief streamed down my face. Before long I had his trousers down and was massaging his testicles in my mouth, before taking his semi-erect _c_o_c_k_ and drinking his salty spunk.

He then sat me across his lap and tossed me off while had a post-coital pipe and I felt the warm, soft, wool of his cardigan against my side. Afterwards, he found me a pair of pyjamas and we talked and cuddled in bed for a very long, and very lovely, time.

We agreed I would come to visit regularly. There wouldn't always be a beating - only if I actually deserved it - but I promised, honestly, to tell him of anything I thought might be worthy of one. And it may not always be the strap. He hoped, again honestly, he would never have to do it, but he would cane me until the blood ran if I gave him good cause.

My Sir, my tutor, my master, pressed my head against the soft downy hair on his chest and stroked it. "I'll be honest with you, my dear, dear lad, I enjoy beating you. But I'll never beat you unless you deserve it. And I do honestly think you'll be a better man for it. I beat you because I love you and I want you to be a man I'll be proud of."

"I know you want what's best for me, Sir. And I love you for it."


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