The Portrait of a Strict Disciplinarian

New readers should start reading this novel at Chapter 1.  The chapters do not stand alone, but are sequential components of an erotic novel in which there are 36 chapters in all, which are intended to be read in numerical order. They will be posted at regular intervals..

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After the shower, back in Simon’s bedroom, Simon pulled Brad down onto the bed saying: “Well, Brad, we are only at half time in tonight’s little drama, as the usual protocol on such occasions as this requires that you now beat my arse before going on to show my anus your undoubted skills with your own stiff rod.”

Brad decided that now was the very moment to take the bull by the horns and overstate his case: “Simon, before we go on, there is one thing I want to get quite clear. I was talked into participating in this little soirée by Jeremy; until you beat me just now, my arse had never been kissed by the cane; or, for that matter, by any other implement of punishment. Now the rest of you may enjoy having your bare arses beaten like naughty schoolboys before you have sex, but let me tell you that once is really more than enough for me.  Listen, Simon, my backside is still on fire with what you did to me earlier; I did not enjoy being beaten and I am not enjoying the painful aftermath right now.  So, if our budding friendship is predicated upon complete mutuality, where the one beats the other and then shafts him, let me say here and now that that is a non-starter as far as I am concerned.”

“I’ve gone along with it tonight in a sort of suck-it-and-see mode. Well I’ve sucked it and seen and I don’t like the flavour at all. Simon, don’t get me wrong; you have a marvellous cock and are great when you use it – the greatest ever, in fact – but if to have sex with you is unconditionally tied to your beating my arse, then, to coin a phrase, include me out; it’s an absolute non-negotiable-non-starter for me. How in God’s name any of you can stand having your arse shredded with a cane as a prelude to sex beats me – no pun intended. Simon, the cane was banned in schools in 1999 and here you are resurrecting it!”

Brad had grossly overstated his case; as he knew that if push came to shove, based on that amazing first fuck which Simon had given him that he would allow Simon to beat his arse again. In a word, Brad, after having been fucked only once, was already totally hooked on Simon’s undoubted sexual ability. However, given that Simon appeared as keen on him as he was on Simon, he was hoping that there might be another solution. And then he thought that this was all utter madness, as he was basing his thoughts on one, sole fuck by Simon, whom he himself had never actually fucked. But sex is such a driving force and people do and say things, which in the cold light of day appear senseless.

Simon listened to all this without interruption before replying: “Listen, Brad, there are horse for courses, and we are not all built the same way.  All the guys present tonight, me included, do enjoy having their arses thrashed prior to sex; somehow it turns us on.  I know for someone of your mindset that it is difficult to understand, but there are lots of guys in the world, who do actually enjoy the pain of a beating; even without sex following; they just like having their arses beaten. Others, to which group I belong, like to be beaten prior to having sex with the beater. And then there is that vast majority of guys, to which group you evidently belong, who do not like to be beaten at all, but still enjoy sex. Equally, there are gays, who irrespective of a beating, like to fuck but not to be fucked; and those who like to be fucked but not to fuck. Finally, there is the group to which I belong – and I hope you do too – who like both to fuck and to be fucked. So as you can see, it takes all kinds to make a world.”

“Anyway, Brad, I am sure you are wondering how I came to enjoy having my arse beaten. Let me say that today, although I like to be beaten and then fucked by the guy who has just wielded the cane, it was not always like that. My first encounters with the cane happened when I was a boy at Eton; I got my arse beaten until I was 16 or so, but not at Eton, where the use of the cane and the birch had been dropped long before the law of 1999 forbad their use. In fact, it was my father who used to beat the three of us – I am the youngest, by the way, by more than 10 years, of three brothers – when we were home from school for the holidays.  My father, who died last year, was a real martinet and his bad temper and manners had driven my mother to an early grave.  He belonged not to the 21st century, nor even 20th, but to the 19th.”

“At the end of my first term at Eton, when I came home for the Christmas holidays, my father’s chauffeur came to fetch me from the station. When I got home the butler said to me, in his most deferential tone of voice, verging on  the sepulchral, which may have been his way of expressing his sympathy to me for what he knew, from observing the past experience with my two elder brothers, was about to happen to me: Welcome home, Master Simon. Your father asked me to tell you that he wishes to see you in his study immediately on your arrival.” 

“Just think of it; here we were in the early 21st century and my father still employed a butler, who as butlers did in times past, still addressed me as Master Simon, a form of address which had fallen into disuse by the middle of the last century. But it gives you an idea of the mindset of the house in which I was brought up. My father, I should tell you, was a retired army colonel, an irritable and sadistic man if ever there was one, and he was used to getting his own way. He subscribed wholeheartedly to the flog’em and hang’em philosophy of that set of society in which he moved. However, as the law had prevented him from practising either of those two distinctly disagreeable pastimes during his military career, at home and well into his retirement he had exercised his prerogative as pater familias – legal or not – and had beaten his sons’ arses hard and often”

“When the butler relayed my father’s order to me to go immediately to his study, I knew it was tantamount to a death sentence. My father, as I knew from the past, never let the grass grow under his feet and was a great believer in, and indeed, practitioner of, the adage: strike whilst the iron is hot. As I was painfully to find out as I arrived home from Eton that first day of the Christmas holidays, the traditional sentiment of peace and goodwill to all men which one associates with that season, if present at all in our house, certainly did not seem to extend to me as I knocked on the door of my father’s study.”

“My father shouted for me to enter, in a gruff voice and I timidly opened the door of his study to find him sitting with the several pages of what was clearly my first end-of-term progress report from Eton in front of him. “Come in, Simon, and shut the door.” Before he had said another word, I saw that my arse was on the line, as the hard-backed chair with the stained leather seat, over the back of which my two elder brothers had in their day bent times without number to receive the painful bounty dispensed by our father and make their tearful contribution to the ever-growing stain on the seat, was already in position in the middle of the room.  And as if to emphasise matters, if that was necessary, a long rattan punishment cane was already sitting across the seat of the chair.  I can tell you Brad, it was a chilling moment for me to be confronted by my father, who was clearly, judging from the grim expression on his face, in an angrily unforgiving mood and hell-bent on shredding my arse. This was not the first time that my father had raised his hand in anger at me; but as I stood there trembling silently in front of him, I just sensed that this time would be different. He looked at me balefully for several seconds before speaking.”

“This document I have in front of me, Simon, in case you do not recognise it, is a copy of your first end of term school report. It makes sad reading: very sad reading indeed, for a father, who is shelling out tens of thousands of pounds each year to give his son a good education and to turn him into a gentleman as befits any male member of this family. I do not propose, Simon, to go one by one through the comments made by your masters. However, in summary, they all say more or less the same thing: that you are a very capable boy, but also that you are very lazy and do the absolute minimum just to ensure that you scrape through each month. Now in the old days, before the use of the cane and the birch in our public schools was misguidedly banned by law, your masters, acting in loco parentis would have dealt with you by the end of your first month at school and sent you to bed with a very sore bottom for your lack of effort.”

“However, given the present, totally misguided, prohibitive legal situation which now totally forbids the use of corporal punishment in schools, it falls to me, as your father, acting in the dual role of pater familias in loco magistri, to assume this distasteful, but very necessary task. Luckily the law does not at present appear to preclude the possibility of a father correcting his son, so I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies. So that, Simon, is what I now propose to do, as I was regularly forced to do, with excellent results, I might add, with your two brothers when they were at school and needed to be brought back onto the straight and narrow from which they had misguidedly strayed.”

 “Simon, for your own good, I now propose to give you a very thorough beating to bring home to you the importance of applying yourself to your studies.  Let me make one thing quite clear to you, son; I will not tolerate idleness and if necessary I will beat it out of you. Now take of your blazer; then go and stand behind the chair and drop your trousers and underpants to the floor. Then bend across the back of the chair, put your hands on the seat and keep perfectly still whilst I apply the cane to your buttocks.”

“Simon, I believe in being thorough in everything I do in life; prepare yourself, son, for this will be a very painful occasion for you and will hurt a lot. But retribution for one’s sins has to be painful if its message is to be taken seriously by the recipient. Brace yourself, Simon, for a 12-stroke beating.  You will kindly call out the number of each stroke as I deliver it. I regret that things have come to this on your first day at home for the Christmas holidays;  but needs must and your future comes first; so I am afraid you will just have to grin and bear what you are about to find is a very painful welcome home. Brace yourself, boy, as this is really going to be a very unpleasant few minutes.”

“After listening to the old boy’s remarks, I realised that he was going to enjoy thrashing me. Like you earlier this evening, this would be the first time that I had been subjected to any form of corporal punishment and I confess I was trembling with fear as I dropped my clothes and bared my arse for the cane. I also was terribly embarrassed, as a 13-year-old boy, to have to expose my nakedness to my own father; somehow it just did not seem right. As I bent over the chair and found myself staring at the central stain on the leather seat, I realised that it had been produced over the years by the tears of my two brothers as they had regularly been made to offer up their arses for our father to beat. Aged 13 going on 14 as I then was, I wondered if I would be able to hold back my own tears or if I would make a significant lachrymose contribution to that stain, which I had already mentally classified as our FFE -  Fraternal Flagellation Escutcheon. I kid you not, Brad, when I say that as I remained bent over that chair waiting for my father to deliver his maiden stroke on my bare arse, I was totally petrified by the thought of what was about to happen to me.”

“When it finally came, the first stroke of the cane landed across the equator of my two buns with a crack reminiscent of a pistol shot. For a split second after the crack of the cane mating with my naked arse, I felt nothing at all; but the respite was short-lived, as within a moment my arse felt as if it had been sliced in two by a red-hot poker.  The pain of that first cut exceeded my wildest my imagination; I could hardly believe that a simple length of rattan cane could inflict so much agony in a split second. I realised that my father had not been joking when he had referred to what was about to happen to me as being a very unpleasant few minutes. Unpleasant! Well that was the understatement of all time, as I was already in excruciating pain after just one cut.”

“It was obvious to me that my father knew exactly what he was doing and that I was not to be spared. He helpfully prodded my arse with his cane to remind me to call out that first cut, which I duly did.  But then, to my surprise, nothing further happened for about ten seconds, after which, with no warning, I heard the cane swish down through the air to deliver, with its second stroke even worse pain to my arse, if that was possible. As the excruciating pain of that second cut seared its way into my buns, I felt my eyes fill with tears as I attempted to call out the number two without being prompted to do so. As I gazed down on the seat of the chair, I saw my first tears fall on that stain, started by my two brothers years ago and I realised that with 10 cuts of that horrible cane still to go, I would be making a generous, tearful contribution to our FFE.”

“How I managed to survive that first beating of my life, I do not know. My father made haste slowly as he systematically applied his cane, with a 10 second pause between each stroke, which I suddenly saw was to allow me to savour – if that is the right word – the full effects of each and every one of his carefully placed cuts.  He had obviously developed and perfected his technique on my two brothers, so I was in the hands of an expert. He placed each cut strictly parallel to the previous one. From his initial central cut, he placed another four that led upwards to the bottom of my back. And then, with seven cuts still in hand, he moved slowly and precisely down my arse until he made his final cut almost at the top of my legs.”

“At the time, not being a connoisseur in the matter, I had no idea that the lower regions of a guy’s arse becomes progressively and increasingly more sensitive to pain the closer you get to the top of his legs. This my father obviously knew, as he placed all of his remaining cuts on that part of my anatomy destined for sitting. I can tell you that after 12 cuts he left me in a state where I could not bear to sit down. I knew as I struggled to stand up after my ordeal, which had lasted nearly five minutes, an absolute age when you are in agony bent over the back of a chair, that I had been well and truly beaten. I can tell you for a fact that it was with some difficulty that I pulled up my underpants and trousers, so great was the pain I was suffering. That evening at supper, several hours later, I was obliged to stand at the table as I could not bear the pain of sitting down.”

“That, my friend, is how it all began. My first experience of the cane convinced me of something I had long suspected: my father was a sadistic old sod, who took great pleasure in beating his son’s bare arse. Over that first Christmas holiday from Eton, my father managed to invent some excuse to address my naked arse with his cane yet again on two separate occasions. Each time it was only six cuts; but the old boy really knew how to lay it on; and I can tell you that taking a six-cut beating on an already sensitised arse is not anything to volunteer for.  From then on, for the next several years until I reached the upper sixth form, my visits home for the holidays were always painful.”

“It became standard practice for my father to give me what I soon began to think of as my welcome home thrashing, more or less as I walked in through the door.  But that was not all, as he always managed to find other reasons to whack my arse, so that my times at home were never exactly pleasant. But over the years, I found myself gradually developing a taste for what my sadistic sod of a father – for that is exactly how I came to think of him – was doing to me. I steeled myself not to show any emotion as he exercised himself with his cane on my arse.  I suppose it was my way of showing him that he had not broken me and denying him the satisfaction of reducing me to tears. And that, my friend, is how I gradually developed a taste and a liking for the cane: a totally home-grown perversion!”

“By the time I was 15, I already knew that my sexual orientation was towards my own sex. Of course, at Eton, as at most boys’ public schools, homosexuality ran very near the surface and by the time I was 17, I had already had my first tentative sexual experiences with certain of my classmates.  But it was not until my final year, to my surprise, I found that I was not alone in my taste for having my arse whacked with a cane. There was a group of four of us in the upper sixth, all as gay as coots, who practised what I learned was called CCP – Consensual Corporal Punishment on each other’s arses. Of course, whacking each other was always a prelude to sex as all four of us were also great cocks-men”.

“So, what many years ago began with my father venting his spleen on my naked arse – for that is what he was doing – became my all-consuming passion as a prelude to sex.  So, there you have a potted history of how I became what I am today: how I came to enjoy the pain of a well-beaten arse prior to sex. Call it a perversion if you will, but it is a fact stranger than fiction, as many facts often are. However, it does no harm to anyone other than me. In fact, in addition to giving me pleasure, it often gives pleasure also to my partner, who is wielding the cane.  It is amazing how many guys have a hidden sadistic streak in their make-up and take pleasure inflicting pain on others.”

“Turning now to you and me; frankly, Brad, and I kid you not, you are an incredibly good fuck and I had hoped that you and I might form a – to coin a phrase – a star flagellation-copulative duo. We are both, and this I say in private to you, factually and not boasting in any way, physically a well-matched pair of muscular young studs, with good muscles and big endowments where it truly counts.  After all you have just said, I fully understand that like the majority of guys, you find having your own arse beaten prior to sex is not your scene; but I wondered if you might enjoy playing the role of the beater rather than the beaten and the fucker rather than the fucked. And so, before we say goodbye to what I think might be a promising partnership before it has really begun, I wonder if you might like to give me a return match and do the same to me as I just did to you. You could try it out just once to see if beating arse is more to your taste than having your own arse beaten. Who knows, you may find that you have a hitherto hidden sadistic streak, as many of us have – me included – and that you actually enjoy inflicting pain on someone, even though the converse is not true. It’s a concept for which the Germans have a splendid word: Schadenfreude: pleasure at the suffering of others.  So who knows, you might enjoy beating my arse before fucking me. I know now that I would enjoy having you do it; so how about it? Will you give it a try?”

“But if you say no, then at least have the courtesy to give my arse a return fuck. Look, Brad, to cut to the chase, as I have just said, putting any false modesty aside, you and I are easily the best equipped of tonight’s little group. So, unless you fall into that category of guys who are confirmed bottoms: guys who like only to be fucked rather than to perform the act themselves, I think we might prove ideal partners for each other.  And just looking at you – looking at both of us, in fact – tells me that we both are ready for more sex right now. You need but take a look at our respective sexual thermometers to see what they want; they are both still registering a hundred degrees and raring to go. Just look at yourself; your cock is already on a low simmer as it is already exuding cum in anticipation of being asked to fulfil its destiny.  And as you are surely aware, a guy’s cock is rarely wrong.  So, Brad, even if you do not want to beat my arse, at least tend to the urgent needs of your cock and go ahead and fuck me.”

Continued in Chapter 5