|
My Boy Billy
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From kaiwan.kaiwan.com!rahul.net!a2i!olivea!uunet!in1.uu.net!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!EU.nenews.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Sun Feb 26 17:19:39 1995
Message-ID: <[email protected]>
Path: kaiwan.kaiwan.com!rahul.net!a2i!olivea!uunet!in1.uu.net!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!EU.n!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi
Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking
From: [email protected] (CRISPIN)
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.spanking
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Reply-To: [email protected]
Date: Sat, 25 Feb 1995 16:36:43 UTC
Subject: REPOST: BY REQUEST: MY BOY BILLY - M/M CP
Lines: 410
Xref: kaiwan.kaiwan.com alt.sex.spanking:11774
MY BOY BILLY
I like to begin our little evening tutorials with a uniform inspection.
I will not tolerate sloppiness in any form, and Billy knows from long
painful experience that his bottom will suffer if he fails to come up to
the mark.
"Straighten yourself up Billy, " I tell the boy "Chin up, tummy in,
back straight, thumbs pointing down your thighs towards your shoes."
"Yes Sir."
I watch him for a long suspended moment. Billy hardly dares to
breathe for fear that the slightest relaxation on his part will bring
several inches of supple scottish leather lashing about his bare thighs.
I do not need to pick up my tawse as I leave my desk. That fiendish,
twin tailed, two footer is seldom out of my hands on these occasions.
I walk round him slowly. I slap the leather tails against my palm
deliberately. The sound of leather slapping bare flesh is almost more
than Billy can bear.
The blazer, bright green with yellow trim, and upon the breast pocket
an embroidered school crest, is freshly cleaned and pressed and
correctly buttoned.
The matching school tie is impeccably knotted, and not a millimetre
out of place.
The grey trutex shirt has been so well laundered and ironed, it might
almost be new.
The grey school trousers are equally clean and neatly pressed. They
are short, a good five inches above the knee, and would not look out
of place on a boy of 8. But Billy is a good deal older and taller than
that. I don't think he likes wearing such tiny shorts as these. As if he
had any say in the matter. Besides I like his thighs bare for the strap.
The socks, grey with green and yellow piping, hold his smooth calves
firmly. Tops neatly turned down at his knees.
The shoes are sensible school boy style, gleaming black leather, with
not the merest hint of a scuff on the toecaps.
Really, I'm quite proud of my boy Billy. He must be the tidiest
schoolboy in the land.
But also, alas for him, one of the most forgetful. I refer to his peaked
cap. Green with yellow trim, matching his blazer, placed squarely on
his head, and not jauntily at an angle. But it shouldn't be on his head
should it?
"Who taught you to wear your cap in the Master's study, Boy?"
"N-nobody, sir!" he chirps as he snatches the offending article off his
tousled hair. "Sorry sir!"
"Sorry will not do. You are old enough to know the rules. Widen your
legs boy."
"Aw sir."
"Legs wide apart! Hands behind your back! Quickly now!"
"Not the belt, Sir Please!!!"
But for all his protest, he does as he is told and obediently parts his
legs, baring his sensitive inner thighs to receive the strap.
His skimpy little shorts rise even higher on his thighs as his legs
widen, threatening to bear something a good deal more sensitive. I
have to take special care when wielding the strap in that area.
He squeals as I belt the inside of his left thigh.He squeals as I do the
same to his right thigh, he positively yelps as I repeat the entire
operation.
A few painful moments later, he is bent double, rubbing away
feverishly at the smarting crimson blotches.
I let him get on with it as I return to my desk and restore the tawse to
its place of honour on a hook below the blackboard. I pick up Billy's
exercise book and rifle through the inky pages. I stop at the last page
of smudged writing. The last addition to the page is mine. Written
large in stabbing letters of red biro: "POOR EFFORT SEE ME."
I summon up my most severe frown and glare at the boy. He is still
rubbing his leathered thighs, but I can tell from the anxiety in his eyes
that he knows the worse is yet to come.
"Cone our here boy, at Once!"
"Yes, sir," he drags the words out as he drags himself over to my
desk.
I push the exercise book towards him, "Is this your idea of
homework?"
He looks at the blotted work, knotting his brow and chewing his lower
lip.
"Answer me boy!"
"Is it wrong Sir?"
"Is it wrong!! Come round here, to my side and I'll show you if it's
wrong!"
He moves closer to me, but not fast enough. I seize his wrist and jerk
him into my knees. He begins to snivel. I take up my heavy wooden
ruler and give him a juicy crack across the knuckles. I try hard not to
smile.
"Hand away from your mouth, boy, or I'll strap it! Now look at this
miserable excuse for homework. Blots and smudges everywhere, and
those answers that I can make out are all wrong, you just don't listen
do you boy?"
"I try sir!"
"The only thing that you try is my patience! Now what happened to
you the last time you had the impudence to present work like this?"
"Slipper sir!" he whispered, no longer able to look me in the face.
"Yes, I took your pants down, didn't I, and slippered your bottom red
and sore, and I warned you that you'd get worse than that if there was
a next time. Hold your hand out!"
Whimpering the boy obeys. Rising briskly from the desk, I reach for
the tawse and begin belting the boy's outstretched palm.
He can only take a few strokes before snatching his hand away, so I
have to grab his wrist and hold his hand out firmly in order to strap
it properly. I manage to land four or five jusy lashes before going for
his other hand. This proves to be impossible; he is making a terrible
fuss, so I swiftly change tactics. Seating myself again, I catch him off
balance and flip him across my thighs.
He seems to be so relieved at rescuing his hands from the torment of
the tawse that he lies over my knees quite submissively, although he
knows that nothing can save his bottom from drastic punishment.
The sight of Billy's boyish bottom jutting up at me through his tight
grey shorts never fails to excite the stern schoolmaster in me. I grab
him further still over my lap until his toes are barely touching the
carpet. In this superb spanking position, his shorts are at there tightest,
emphasising the bold roundness of his ripe young bottom.
I spank his bottom with my hand. I can never resist the thrilling
sensation of my hand actually slapping the taught seat of his shorts.
So I smack and smack until my palm is as sore as his well stripped
hand...and then I reach for the tawse again.
The tawse is not the easiest of implement to wield upon a bottom at
such close quarters. But frequent experience on Billys bottom as made
me quite an expert. I hold the tawse a third of the way down the
handle and lash both tails with a loud and satisfying thwack on the
lads squirming bottom.
I lay it on hot and fast, leathering every inch of the bottom, although
it wriggles every which way. I like to belt the sit upon part of
bottoms, just above the thigh, that's where Billy feels it the most, and
he will go on feeling it most, for the next two days at least.
I have seen Billys bottom bare after a particularly sound strapping.
The whole seat is a lurid deep crimson. The leather tails leave a
welted impression in ugly purple yellow bruising.
At this stage of the exercise, Billy only has one desire, to let down his
shorts and get a breath of cool air at his inflamed buttocks. Even a
pair of underpants is torture to him. That is why he prefers to spend
his punishment nights lying tummy down on top of his bed.
I give him a couple of dozen with the tawse, not really bothering to
keep count; just keeping a fast agonizing rhythm going. All the time
telling Billy what a naughty sloppy little boy he is, and that he must
do better the next time or woe betide him.
"Very well boy. That will do for now."
"Ooh, that didn't half hurt, sir!"
"It was meant to".
"Cor-Ouch!"
"Yes, rub your bottom if you must."
"Can't sir, it stings!"
"Stop pulling those ridiculous faces, and take your blazer off"
This last command stops him dead. "Sir?" he falters.
"Did you think that I would not notice that you're not wearing
underpants? You are not properly dressed, my young man, and I take
that as a mark of disrespect."
"But sir!"
"Not another word! Just slip your shorts down and bend over my desk.
Right over now. I want that bottom as high as you can get it."
The tawse had left Billys bottom in a very sorry state. But, manfully,
he manages to elevate it above the desks edge so that I can get a good
whack at it.
The cane has been hanging over the top edge of the blackboard, from
where I now retrieve it. As always, when I flex it between my hands
it sends a shiver of excitement through me. It's a frail little thing,
hardly three feet long, and as thin as my little finger. But, oh! How
Billys bottom flinches at the sound of it swishing through the air.
I take up position at his left side and draw the cane across his belt
marked bottom. He moans a little.
"Twelve of the best for you my lad, and it will be more if you don't
stay down and take your medicine."
I swish the cane across the broadest swell of Billys left buttock. The
cane sinks in, bounces back, leaving its vivid scarlet tell tale weal.
Billy bites down on his fist to stop himself crying out. His body
writhes, his bottom jerks, but he stays bent over for the next stroke.
Pat..Pat..Pat.. I tease his bottom gently with the cane, warning him
where the next blow will fall, two or three inches above the first welt,
still on the left cheek, but just above the fleshy crown.
The cane whips down, a flashing blur, hitting the boys bare buttocks
with a terrific smack! The boy groans, his bottom ripples with
muscular contractions. Will he stay down for the full dozen? Already
I'm slapping the cane teasingly against the lower part of Billy's
quivering bottom, The cheeky, chubby seat. I change my stance for
this stroke, swishing the cane up and under to achieve the devastating
whiplash effect. The force of the blow nearly sends Billy flying across
the desk. He tries to say something, imploring me to stop, but the pain
is so great he simply cant get the words out.
And now its the turn of the left buttock to suffer.
"THWACK! SMACK! WHACK! OUCH! RING!!!!
"Damn-there's the phone"
"Tell them that you are sick or something! I urge as Billy rises
painfully and hobbles across the room to the ultimate torture
instrument.
"Hello- yes this is Doctor McEwan."
And even though I am still by the desk, I can still hear the familiar
ear-drum piercing wail of a Glaswegian shrew:
"Oh Doctor, I'm awfully sorry to bother you now, but it's oor wee
Jimmy. He's been playing submarines in the bath, and he's got
something lodged up the tap...."
I suppose that most spanking twosomes generally have a more
satisfying end to their punishment evenings. But this sort of
disturbance tends to be the rule when one of you is in General
Practice. Still we don't do badly, Billy and I. He loves having his
bottom beaten, and I get my kicks from dishing it out.
I hardly need to tell you that inmost CP based relationships the roles
are often reversed from time to time so that both bottoms get their fair
share of the whackings. In ours its Billys bottom that gets all the
attention.
For my part I cant be doing with a smarting rear. I had enough of that
as a child in a strict Scottish household. Luckily I was big brother to
two sisters and young Matthew whom we called the baby of the
family. When Dad died, our Mother dad to take a full time job. That
meant I had to oversee matters of discipline, and that how I acquired
my taste for chastising naughty bottoms.
Looking, I'm making it all sound as if all this happened 40 years ago
or more. In fact, I'm only 35 now, and I was a stripling of 16 at the
time. My two sisters were twins of 14, and little Matthew was just 11.
Susan and Sally were real Glasgow tomboys, and heaven knows how
they would have ended up without a fatherly hand to control them. A
good job that they had my hand to contend with. To say nothing of a
very flexible gym slipper that I brought home from school for the
purpose.
There was no shortage of love in our family. We were a close knit
bunch, and we all had to do our bit to help our mother through a time
that couldn't be anything but difficult.
Still, kids will always be kids. Many is the good skelping I metered
out at bedtimes. I remember the time when I had to put them all to
bed with swollen and bruised bottoms, for I was never one to spare
the rod.
As the youngest, and a tough high spirited wee lad, Matthew got it the
hottest. I slippered his bottom so severely some times that I had to get
the two girls to hold him down across the bed while I finished the job.
Matthew was a little devil, no doubt of that. He was forever getting
himself into hot water; wagging of school, cheeking his mother,
terrorising the neighbourhood moggies, even breaking the odd window.
I took it out on his bottom every time. With interest. While the lasses
could always be kept in check with fairly frequent applications of the
slipper to the seat of their tight jeans or thin knickers, Matthew mostly
had it on the bare.
I have to confess that it wasn't long before I began to discover a
certain thrill in baring my brother's bottom and turning them a lovely
shade of crimson while he yelled the place down.
Poor lad, he never did get a taste for it. A bright boy at school, he was
too much of a tearaway to save his bottom from frequent beatings, and
he got plenty. What with the hidings he got from me in the evenings.
I can't understand how why he didn't compensate for it by twisting it
into a source of pleasure. My 'boy' Billy certainly did in his school
days. Billy calls it a sort of survival mechanism. But I'm afraid that it
quite eluded Matthew.
Billy was, I think more typical. He went to a good old fashioned High
School, which favoured the English cane to the more traditional
Scottish tawse. Beatings were so prolific at that place, with prefects
indulging in a vast amount of illicit swishing, that the young short
trousered victims had to subconsciously turn the pain into pleasure as
means of survival. The result being that most of them grew up with
a repressed but undying desire to re-live the pain/pleasure of their
youth.
I met Billy when he joined our health centre as a very junior G.P. He
was a few years younger than myself, and a little on the short side, so
I suppose that it was inevitable that I would come to treat him as a kid
brother once we got to know each other. What attracted us in the first
place? Perhaps I sensed a certain appealing boyishness about him, an
element of submissiveness. Or was it just that he had a saucy little
bottom-especially in the faded cheek hugging blue jeams that he wore
off duty! He always claimed that it was my brisk 'School masterly'
bossiness that turned him on. I forget which of us first broached the
subject of bottom smacking, but it soon became a frequent subject of
conversation.
We talked about the brats who misbehaved in our waiting room, and
how our hands hitched to give their bottoms the spanking that they so
richly deserved. We had some very stimulating reminiscences of our
own school days and the use of the strap and cane. We discussed
teenage hooliganism, which led us to consider the pros and cons of
birching. (Billy is pro, and some day soon I am going to have to get
round to getting him to make a birch to further our studies in the
fascinating field of corporal punishment.
And by and by, our shared interests in spanking entered into our most
intimate moments together. I slapped his bare buttocks at the point of
the greatest excitement. Encouraged by his appreciation of the extra
stimulation, I took to slapping his delightfully rounded bottom
afterwards to restore his flagging enthusiasm. So successful were these
experiments that the time came that I was slapping his bottom
beforehand, and that got us going like a pair of loved crazed stallions.
That is when the regular spanking of Billys willing bottom became a
daily way of life. We developed a scene in which I played the strict
teacher to his naughty schoolboy. We bought exercise books and a
genuine school desk to add realism, and I constructed a very passable
blackboard and easel, and, as you can guess, I lost no time in putting
my boy Billy back into school uniform. It only took a few visits to a
local rummage sale to put his whole kit together.
Slim built, he has no trouble fitting into a sixth former's shirt and
blazer. The grey shorts are a much tighter fit, but they don't half make
Billy's bottom a fabulous target for a swishy cane!
I too wear a sort of uniform for what I call our tutorials! A gown from
my university days, and the tasselled mortar board bought for my
graduation day.
When we started, genuine punishment canes were not easy to find as
they seem to be these days. we had to doa fair bit of searching before
we managed to purchase several crook handled canes of varying
lengths and thickness from a supplier in Bristol. It was quite a red
letter day when they arrived - or should I say 'red bottom' day, for I
couldn't resist treating Billy's bottom to a dozen smart swishes from
each new cane.
Next came a superb two tailed tawse, a firm favourite of mine, from
a saddler in Fife who actually supplied the leather lovelies to Scottish
schools.
A large gym plimsoll and a few leather paddles complete our 'arsenal'
is you will forgive the pun.
Every Friday, we set aside the whole evening (anxious patients
willing) for our punishment sessions. This gives Billys bottom time to
recover from its pervious thrashing. I do love a smooth unmarked
bottom to work on. Come 6.30, Billy leaves the room to change into
his uniform. I sit behind the desk, tawse ready to hand, and wait for
the timid knock on the door. Billys schooldays are about to begin
again.
|
|
