‘There are few more precious moments than those in which a boy feels for the first time the independence of manhood, when he can take decisions for himself, has no longer to ask permission or account for every action.’
That short passage is quoted from a book I read not long ago. Even by the time I had reached the age of seventeen I was still no closer to that ‘precious moment’ than I had been at any other time in my young life. As for reaping the benefits of being able to make my own decisions, no longer needing to ask permission or to account for myself… these rewards lay quite beyond the limits of my experience. The single scintilla of hope that I had at last gained some acknowledgement of my maturity when I was given long trouser privileges had been abruptly extinguished when Miss Mary had made me plead with my parents to remain dressed in short trousers at all times. My one brief moment of elation, so casually quenched, was gone, leaving me to wonder if I would ever be allowed any independence at all.
I had an agonising few days to wait before arrangements were made for my first lesson in deportment to be given by Miss Mary. As you might imagine my waking hours were spent wondering just what these new lessons would entail. One thing I was sure of though was that any failing on my part would be dealt with the utmost promptitude by Miss Mary.
The day arrived all too soon and upon my arrival at the Fletcher’s house I was shown into the the dining room just as I had been for my study sessions, only this time I was at Miss Mary’s insistence wearing my humiliating grey pull-up shorts. As before Miss Mary and both sets of parents stayed chatting in the hallway while I waited on my own in the dining room.
When I looked at what was laid out on the dining room table I was puzzled by what I saw. There was a selection of different books which seemed to have been selected for their size rather than their subject matter. There were even two weighty looking telephone directories. I really couldn’t fathom what they were there for since the phone was in the hall, like most houses at the time. Odder still were a few empty old wooden cotton reels. Maybe these had been left over from something Miss Mary or her parents were doing before I arrived. There was a tray upon which had been placed half a dozen glasses and next to these were some dainty cups and saucers. Next to the books was a twelve inch plastic ruler which I assumed to have been something to do with the cotton reels. Once again I could see no reason why it had been left there on the table. It was almost as if I was going to be expected to take part in Kim’s Game.
I looked around and saw to the side of the door a low stool. With a shiver I remembered the foot stool from my study sessions and wondered if this slightly higher stool would have some use during my forthcoming lesson in deportment that Miss Mary was going to give me. Instinctively I reached down and brushed my fingertips across the tops of my bare thighs exposed by the very brief shorts I was wearing.
I had plenty of time to take all this in as I stood waiting. It only made me more anxious than ever as the minutes ticked by and I was left to ponder upon what exactly would be involved in these new exercises. It was at this moment that I heard mother’s voice raised sufficiently loudly for me to hear, which was probably her intention.
“He’s in disgrace…”
My heart beat a little faster. That was all I needed. I was sure it would start my lessons off on the wrong foot if Miss Mary knew that I was in the doghouse again.
It was so stupid. Ever since I had been made by Miss Mary to tell my parents that I wanted to wear short trousers I never seemed to do anything right. Mother would scold me for even the most trivial of things. She would keep reminding me of what she called my ‘refusal’ to wear long trousers. “It’s your own fault for being so childish,” she would inevitably add. Gosh, what wouldn’t I have given to tell her how much I truly wanted to wear longs and to feel once more the sensation of having my legs completely covered. I hated the way everyone looked at my bare legs, the bare, smooth legs of a seventeen year old teenage boy. How can I describe the awful feeling of vulnerability the daily unremitting exposure of my bare legs gave me?
Once more I cursed myself for getting out of bed during one of the parties given by my parents thinking that no one would see me, only to be found lying on my stomach at the top of the stairs dressed in my boy’s pyjamas by Miss Mary of all people. What an idiot I was. All I wanted to do was to listen to the grown-ups and try and find out what they were talking about. What was so wrong with that? Nevertheless I was ashamed of myself for giving in to the temptation and I simply couldn’t face the thought of mother and father finding out what I’d done. It was something I couldn’t risk happening; not at any price. As I have told you before, my parents had very firm views about how a well brought up boy should behave. Even though I was in my mid-to-late teens I was still treated as though I was a much younger boy and so I was expected to adhere rigidly and uncomplainingly to my parents’ rules which existed, I was repeatedly told, to instil in a boy good behaviour, good manners and above all, respect for his elders.
My stupidity had cost me dearly. What I had done was to sacrifice the fulfilment of my long held desire to wear proper long trousers like all the other boys I saw. A lost opportunity. To be at last dressed in the same manner as my peers was what I truly longed for. It was so humiliating for me to be seen still bare legged at seventeen years old and dressed constantly in short trousers. And not just any old short trousers, mind. No, my short trousers were all as short as they possibly could be without being indecent… that is apart from the pair I was at that very moment wearing in the Fletcher’s dinning-room as I waited for Miss Mary, without, I should add, the mental and physical support of a pair of underpants. Mother thought the sight of my white cotton briefs, visible since the shorts were so small, “spoilt the look” of the shorts.
Let us not forget that short trousers are a sign to grown-ups that the boy wearing them, whatever his age, is still too immature to be treated as a young man. This was certainly the case with all my relatives and the friends of my parents. While I continued to wear short trousers, I was treated no differently than I had been when I was a preteen of eleven or twelve.
As I waited in the dining room I stood with my hands clasped behind my back, my right hand holding my left wrist in what I hoped would be an acceptable position. I pondered on whether I had ever felt this miserable when I suddenly felt a cool breeze tickle the backs of my bare legs as the door to the room swung open.
“Well, Georgie, this is a fine how-d’ya-do. I suppose you know your mummy is very upset with you,” Miss Mary said, announcing her presence behind me. I turned my head round to look at her. She carried on, “I am surprised at you, Georgie. I thought you were such a nice, well-behaved boy…” She paused for a moment, frowning as if deep in thought, “Hmm… no, I do seem to remember that you can be very naughty at times…”
Miss Mary didn’t need to elaborate. I knew to what she was referring.
She walked round to stand in front of me. Standing face-to-face with her, Miss Mary made me feel more nervous than ever. “Are you going to be a good boy for me, Georgie?”
I don’t think I could have felt more ashamed as I did when I heard myself reply meekly: “Yes, Miss Mary…”
“Promise?”
“Yes, Miss Mary, I promise… I promise I’ll be a good boy.”
Honestly, I ask you, what other seventeen year old teenager would put up with being talked to like this by a girl two years his junior? I guess you can imagine how it made me feel. I could sense my ears, my whole face burning as I stood, head bowed, unable to look up and face Miss Mary. I was dreadfully angry with myself for getting into this situation and being so powerless to do anything about it. But for my foolish behaviour I could have been wearing long trousers. Instead I was standing in front of Miss Mary dressed in my briefest, most humiliating short trousers. It was my own fault, I understood that, and experience had taught me what to expect. I knew it had been very naughty of me to get out of bed, but I couldn’t help myself, I had to know what was going on downstairs. If Miss Mary was old enough to be invited to join the adults, then surely I should have been too. It was so unfair to be excluded while at the same time see how Miss Mary was asked to dine with my parents and their friends. Couldn’t I at least have had the opportunity to show everyone that I was old enough to join them too? But I think everyone knew and had accepted my parents’ view and thought that I was still too immature for their company. I knew mother would have been very upset with me if she had known what I had done, so even though I was envious that Miss Mary had been given precedence over me, I was very grateful that she had not said anything to my parents about my misbehaviour.
There was little doubt in my own mind that I had brought the situation I was in upon myself and that therefore I only had myself to blame. Be that as it may, the frustration I felt in my predicament was so intense as to be almost palpable.
Miss Mary made a great fuss inspecting my uniform, even walking around me checking that my shirt was tucked in properly. I was aware that due to the extremely short, almost non-existent length of my short trousers together with my lack of underpants, an item of clothing I was forbidden to wear with these particular shorts, Miss Mary was almost certainly looking at the exposed cheeks of my bottom peeking out from beneath the hem.
Miss Mary came round to face me once more.
“I am pleased to see you are wearing your naughty shorts, Georgie.”
This was the first time I had heard them called ‘naughty shorts’ and of course that made me feel quite inadequate, as if I was no more than ten years old as I stood in front of Miss Mary. I was even more ashamed of myself than ever.
“I have asked your mother, and she has agreed, to make sure you wear your naughty shorts to these lessons… so, just to make sure you understand, tell me, Georgie, what will you wear when you come for your lessons?”
Crumbs, this was awful. We hadn’t even started my lessons I was already feeling fresh waves of humiliation breaking over me. Now I hung my head in shame as I said the words Miss Mary expected to hear: “I’ll wear my naughty shorts for my lessons, Miss Mary.”
She appeared satisfied with my answer. I was relived a little and as usual suppressed my feelings of humiliation, but if Miss Mary was happy, that was what mattered.
“We are going to start with some basic exercises in balance. Look at you, Georgie, you’re slouching and you’re looking down at the carpet. You must stand up straight and look at me when you are spoken to, Georgie. It is disrespectful to do otherwise. You would be wise to remember that.”
“Yes, Miss Mary.”
“A boy of your age should have no difficulty in standing up straight with his head held high…we’re going to have to do something about that straightaway…”
And with these words left ringing in my ears, Miss Mary picked up one of the books from the table.
“Bend your knees, Georgie… Keep your hands together behind your back and keep your head straight… keep bending until you are level with my shoulders.”
I did as I was told. Miss Mary then placed the book on top of my head. As I crouched I could feel my little grey shorts riding up, baring more of the lower curves of my bottom. I held my position, but my legs quickly began to ache. My neck muscles were feeling the strain too. I don’t know whether you’ve ever tried to keep a moderately heavy book balanced on your head while crouched with your knees bent, but I’m here to tell you that it is not easy… not easy at all, so when Miss Mary told me to stand up straight the inevitable happened and I felt the book begin to slip to one side of my head. I tried to stop it from falling, but never having had a book placed on my head before, my movement to attempt to keep the book in place was too abrupt. The book tumbled to the floor.
I looked down at the book and apologised for my failure: “I’m sorry, Miss Mary… can I try again?”
Miss Mary was not happy with either my performance or my response. She tutted and shook her head: “Can I try again what?”
Of course I knew what she meant and I apologised again, only properly this time: “I’m sorry, Miss Mary… can I try again please?”
“That’s better, Georgie… We’ll get along much better if you mind your manners in future. Now bend down and we’ll try again… I think it’s only fair to warn you that if you let the book slip off your head again, it’s two minutes on the naughty stool…”
I turned my head to look back at the low stool by the door. So that’s what it was for. Well two minutes standing on the stool shouldn’t be too bad, I thought. I little realised there would be an additional punishment for my failure to keep the book in place. However I soon found out.
After failing once more to balance the book on top of my head, I picked it up from the floor and paced it in Miss Mary’s hand.
“Naughty stool for you, Georgie…”
I find it shameful to admit, but without protest I walked across the room, climbed onto the stool and stood up straight. I quickly realised that standing as I now was my bare thighs were positioned just below Miss Mary’s shoulder height.
“Face the wall, Georgie, put your hands on your head and stay perfectly still… two minutes, Georgie,” she reminded me.
My nose was but a few inches away from the wall. I could hear Miss Mary moving, but I dared not turn my head to see what she was doing. I very quickly found out what it was as seconds later I felt an unbelievably sharp sting high up on the back of my left thigh. I had barely recovered from the shock when my right thigh received the same treatment. As soon as I had turned to face the wall and thus unable to see what was happening, Miss Mary had picked up the plastic ruler.
It took all my strength of will not to move my hands from head. I bit my bottom lip in an effort to control myself as I squeezed my eyes tight shut. It was impossible not to flex my body as a third stroke of the ruler landed in exactly the same spot on my left thigh. The sting of the ruler was worse, far worse than her hand smacks.
“Keep still Georgie, or you’ll only make matters worse for yourself…”
Miss Mary’s words stung… not as much as the ruler smacking my thighs, but they stung nevertheless.
I tried to keep still… I really did try, but my slightest movement was rewarded by stinging smacks of the plastic ruler to each of the very tops of my exposed, bare thighs accompanied by Miss Mary’s repeated admonition to stand still. How on earth anyone can stay still while having their legs smacked with a plastic ruler is beyond me. You try it… it’s not possible.
On the completion of the two minutes on the naughty stool Miss Mary gave me another chance to see if I could keep the book on my head only this time with the added complication of ordering me to walk across the room to where she had placed one of the cotton reels on the floor. Remarkably, and possibly with the fear of receiving any more smacks of the ruler on my now terribly sore legs, I was able to complete the task without dropping the book.
“Take the book off your head, Georgie,” Miss Mary said, “Good, now pick up the cotton reel.”
Painfully aware of what would happen to my little grey short trousers. Legs straight, I bent down to pick up the reel.
Miss Mary laughed as she saw my grey shorts ride up to expose more of my bottom cheeks.
“No, Georgie, when wearing short trousers you shouldn’t keep your legs straight like that… bend your left knee and move your right foot back… as if you were about to curtsy… that’s better, your naughty shorts are still riding up, but whoever is standing behind you isn’t faced with seeing quite so much of your bare bottom.”
Some consolation, I thought.
I was made to practice this manoeuvre until Miss Mary was satisfied, but then she told me to pick up the cotton reel with the book on my head. I tried. I really did try my best, but every time the book slid from my head and each time this happened I received a smack with the ruler on my already red thighs. Even at this early stage on the proceedings I was having a great deal of difficulty in not tearing up.
The punishment this time saw me back on the naughty stool this time facing the room with arms outstretched holding a telephone directory in each hand.
“One minute, Georgie…”
One minute! After ten seconds my arms were aching so much that I could barely keep them straight. Twenty seconds and I couldn’t keep my arms in position any longer. Two smacks of the ruler to the front of each thigh was my reward for failure.
“I can see we are going to need a great deal more practice, Georgie… Get down from the naughty stool… good boy, now for this next exercise you are to stand on your left leg…”
I listened carefully to Miss Mary’s instructions hoping to avoid the need for further ‘encouragement’ from the ruler which she now held permanently in her hand.
“Lift your right leg. Now bend your knee, lift your foot and hold your ankle with your right hand… stand up straight, Georgie and look straight ahead…”
In this position I quickly found there were considerable possibilities for further humiliations. My naughty shorts were stretched in such a way that the absence of underpants now became a serious issue. Whenever I wore this particular pair of short trousers I was terribly conscious how in certain situations my penis was in real danger of slipping out of the shorts and becoming visible. Such exposure I felt was hardly my fault, after all I was a seventeen year old boy wearing the sort of short grey trousers without underpants that even a boy of ten would normally have already outgrown.
I couldn’t be certain, since my eyes were fixed firmly on a spot on the dining room wall opposite, but I was pretty sure my penis had slipped out of the open leg of the shorts due to my position standing on one leg. Then I felt the slightest tickle of fresh air on it and I knew my penis definitely had slipped out. Without a second thought as to the consequences I immediately dropped my raised leg and whisked my hands down between my legs to push my errant penis back inside my shorts before Miss Mary had a chance to see what had happened. She was very annoyed as was to be expected.
More time standing on the naughty stool followed and I felt the sting of the ruler as she struck my legs repeatedly. But I knew that I would rather endure that than to have exposed my penis to Miss Mary’s gaze. However Miss Mary insisted she be told the reason for my failing to do the exercise properly. I hope you will sympathise with me when I tell you that I was reluctant to tell Miss Mary what had happened, but after suffering more sharp smacks with the ruler, I very reluctantly explained. Shame-faced once more and wondering how things could possibly get any worse, I told Miss Mary that my penis had slipped out of the leg of my little shorts. That I was very sorry and that I would try not to let it happen again in front of her.
Miss Mary frowned. She clearly expected boys to have more control of their penises and although nothing further was said, I could sense this was not going to be the end of the matter. Indeed it was not. When I returned home later I found myself in for a blistering dressing-down from mother.
“What is it with you, George?” mother said as she admonished me, “Why on earth did you try to expose yourself in front of Mary Fletcher? Did you think it was clever? Why you think anyone would be bothered to show the slightest interest in your penis is beyond me. And to think your father and I have tried to raise you to be a descent caring boy and this is what you get up to. I am ashamed of you, George.” Mother went on in this vein for fully fifteen minutes non-stop during which time I was left with no opportunity to try and explain what had happened. Mother told me how upset Miss Mary had been, although I couldn’t recall her being so at the time.
“Well, since you are incapable for controlling yourself, we are going to have to do something about it,” mother continued and the upshot of this was yet another trip to the boys’ outfitters.
To my embarrassment mother explained in almost lurid detail what had happened. In her version of events, even though she’d not been there, I was depicted as some sort of exhibitionist unable to control himself. The lady in the shop agreed that boys wearing extremely brief pull-up boy’s short trousers sometimes required underwear, although I noted how she agreed with mother that ordinary regulation schoolboy underpants were not suitable apparel.
I knew that some boys at school wore jockstraps and I wondered if I would be allowed to wear one of these underneath the humiliating little-boy shorts. I was mistaken. The lady owner of the shop pulled out a tray from below the glass-topped display counter. From the tray, which she placed on top of the counter, the lady produced something she called a ‘boy’s support thong’. This was certainly not a jockstrap, at least not like the ones that I had seen. There wasn’t much to the thong, which to my eyes looked very insubstantial, but the lady explained how it was specially designed not to show when boys were required to wear their briefest shorts. The thong would prevent a repeat of what she casually called my ‘attempt’ to expose myself. This was said as if I had tried to display my penis on purpose!
Well, the thong was awful. A thin strap pressed deep between the cheeks of my bottom and rubbed constantly against my anus. It was most uncomfortable. The pouch squeezed my penis and balls tightly so that I was constantly aware that I was wearing this horrible item of boy’s underwear. The least movement caused discomfort, so you can imagine what it was like for me when I continued with Miss Mary’s deportment classes.
I still had no idea what had been planned for me during the long summer vacation that lay ahead. I was still puzzled by Miss Mary’s insistence that I learn how to carry a tray of cups and glasses properly. I was made to practice with a book on my head as I walked across the room. When eventually Miss Mary was satisfied I had mastered the basics, I was ‘allowed’ to carry a tray upon which were two cups and saucers through to the living room where Mrs Fletcher was sitting.
I felt singularly embarrassed as I entered the room in which Miss Mary’s mother sat in front of a low coffee table. I saw immediately what would happen when I bent down to place the tray on the table. When bending even slightly forwards the thin strip of unforgiving material of the thong pressed between my bottom cheeks and would rub across my already sore anus. I had been admonished earlier and told off for ‘pulling a face’ during my deportment lesson. I couldn’t help but clench my buttocks in trepidation when I saw how low the coffee table was. However there was nothing for it but do as I was told. I inwardly grimaced at the thought of my new predicament. Once more I kicked myself for my stupidity in being caught by Miss Mary trying to listen to my parents’ guests.
It was with difficulty that I controlled myself as I approached Mrs Fletcher. She looked up to face me, but not before I saw her eyes scan my bare legs and my absurdly brief short trousers.
“Ah, George… come to serve tea?”
Although the cups were thankfully empty I replied: “Yes, Mrs Fletcher.”
She pointed towards the coffee table: “Put them here.”
My buttocks clenched even tighter together as I moved forward and positioned the tray so that it was balanced on my left hand alone. I lifted a cup and saucer in my right hand. Immediately my nerves got the better of me and my hand shook. The cup rattled on the saucer.
“Come on Georgie,” Miss Mary admonished me, “There’s no need to be nervous… we’ve practised this enough times… now put the cup and saucer down on the coffee table.”
That’s when disaster struck. As I bent forward the thong bit cruelly between my buttocks causing me to flinch. I couldn’t help myself and my body jerked in response to the sudden pain in my nether regions. Unable to control myself, my arm twitched at which the tray slipped from my left hand and crashed to the floor. I managed to hold on to the cup and saucer in my right hand, although the cup rattled loudly against the saucer.
I looked down. Remarkably neither cup nor saucer that had slipped from the tray were damaged, but I didn’t need to look at either Miss Mary or her mother to know that I was in the doghouse once more.
“Oh, Georgie…” Miss Mary made it sound as if I’d let her down, which I suppose I had.
I got down on my knees to pick up the cup and saucer. The thong bit deeper between my bottom cheeks and it was only with a great deal of difficulty that I suppressed the urge to squeal as the thin strip of material rubbed even more tightly against my anus.
Mrs Fletcher was not impressed: “Really George you’re going to have to do a lot better than this at the café… They won’t like it if you go around spilling tea and coffee over the customers…”
I hadn’t a clue what Mrs Fletcher was talking about and it wasn’t made any clearer when Miss Mary interrupted her mother.
“Oh, mummy… it was meant to be a nice surprise for Georgie,” she pouted playfully, “Now you’ve gone and spoilt it…”
I must have looked confused, as indeed I was. What ‘surprise’? What café were they talking about? It seemed as if I was, as usual, going to be the last to be told. It sounded suspiciously as if the grown-ups, among whom I was obliged to number Miss Mary, had decided something on my behalf without, as usual, bothering to consult me.
I picked up the cup and saucer and stood up, which relieved some of the discomfort of the thong.
“Please… what surprise?” I asked.
Miss Mary clapped her hands together. I felt more nervous than ever.
“Well Georgie, your mummy and I were worried that you’d have nothing to do after your exams and we didn’t want you wasting your time during the long summer holidays…”
This did not sound good.
“So I had a word with my friend Rebecca. Her mother runs a smart little café and it gets quite busy during the summer months and guess what? they always need extra help, so I’ve managed to get you a job as a waiter! Isn’t that wonderful?”
My heart sank as visions of spending the whole summer in some stuffy little café serving tea and coffee were conjured up in my mind. This should have been my free time… in as much as I had any time to myself. Why couldn’t mother have asked me what I wanted to do? How come Miss Mary was so eager to see my summer holidays ruined? More to the point, what was I in for?
“But I don’t want to work in a café,” I pleaded, as usual sounding like a petulant child.
“Don’t be silly, George,” Mrs Fletcher said, “Mary’s gone to a great deal of trouble getting you this summer job. They wouldn’t normally take on an inexperienced boy like you. So just be grateful for the opportunity.”
I persisted: “But nobody asked me… it’s not fair.” I got so worked up that I actually heard myself say that I wouldn’t do it. “I won’t. I don’t care… I - I just won’t…”
The look on Mrs Fletcher’s face changed in an instant and stopped me in my tracks. I realised that I’d well and truly overstepped the mark. One severe glance in my direction was enough to make that plain before she looked towards Miss Mary: “I think I’d better have a word with George’s mother. Will you stay here and keep an eye on him while I go and phone her?”
Mrs Fletcher rose from her chair and swept past me, her face set, on her way to the telephone in the hall.
Realising I had been rude to her I begged Mrs Fletcher not to speak to my mother: “Please… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to be ungrateful… honestly.” It was pathetic of me I know, but I had a horrible feeling what mother’s reaction would be and what she would say in response.
Miss Mary looked at me, her expression was one of compassion: “Oh, Georgie… what have you done? Mummy’s very upset with you…”
Miss Mary didn’t need to tell me. I knew.
She paused as if gathering her thoughts before continuing, “Your mother still smacks your bottom, doesn’t she Georgie?”
This was devastating. I’d hoped as I’d never hoped before that Miss Mary would never find out that, yes, I was still subject to a bare bottom spanking as punishment for naughtiness. Somehow she had found out. There was no use denying it.
“H-how…?” I stuttered, utterly ashamed, “How did you…?”
Miss Mary completed my question: “... find out? Oh,” she said airily, “we were having a talk about boys and what to do when they misbehaved or were naughty. Mummy said that it didn’t matter how old a boy was, he should still have his bottom spanked for naughtiness. Your mother told us that you were… on your bare bottom, she said.” Miss Mary paused and looked me in the eye. “Isn’t that true, Georgie?” she asked, “On your bare bottom,” she added.
What else could I say? It was true, although in my defence I might add that I had long ago learnt that good behaviour had its rewards. I thought of all the smacked bottoms I had received as a young boy. As I grew older I tried my best to avoid the humiliation of a formal bare bottom spanking. All it took was a few sharp stings of a hand-smack to my bare thighs to remind me of my place.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Georgie?” Miss Mary persisted.
I glanced nervously in the direction of the hall from where I could hear Mrs Fletcher talking to my mother. “Yes, I see… well if that’s what you want… certainly… of course… I’ll bring him to the phone…” It didn’t sound hopeful. There was a pause before Mrs Fletcher called out, “George! Your mother wishes to speak to you.”
I looked at Miss Mary. I’m not sure why, but she smiled her encouragement and verging on sympathy said, “You’d better do as she says, Georgie… Don’t make it any worse for yourself.”
Any worse! How could it possibly get any worse?
I walked through to the hall where Mrs Fletcher was holding the telephone handset. She waved it in my direction. My heart beat a little faster as I took the proffered handset from Mrs Fletcher and held it up to my ear.
“Yes, mother…”
There followed a tirade such as I have no desire to hear repeated. That mother accused me of being an ungrateful little boy was one of her milder rebukes. I was lazy and I should grow up and learn how to behave myself. I should at least try to understand how upsetting it was for her to have to put up with my behaviour. How could I be so selfish as to show her up in front of Mrs Fletcher? How did I think it made her feel to have such an irresponsible son?
Mrs Fletcher stood at my side, no doubt satisfying herself that I was getting a good telling off.
I was told to give the phone back to Mrs Fletcher and watched as the two women said their final few words to each other.
Mrs Fletcher rang off and returned the handset to the cradle.
“Well young man I think you know what’s coming to you.”
My eyes almost popped out of my head as my buttocks clenched involuntarily. She couldn’t mean that… surely not. Not in front of Miss Mary.
“Oh, no… please, Mrs Fletcher… can’t it wait until I get home?”
“Your mother was initially of that opinion, but I considered it best if you were dealt with immediately. However, when I explained what had happened she changed her mind and agreed with me.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but this time I thought the better of it when I saw a warning look from Mrs Fletcher. What was the point after all? I was in trouble and I knew it. I should have kept my mouth shut earlier. Why hadn’t I engaged my brain before opening my mouth? An academic question perhaps, but then I heard what Mrs Fletcher said next and my legs turned to jelly.
“Mary, would you be so kind as to fetch my hairbrush from the dressing-table in my bedroom.”
In case you’re wondering whether a boy of seventeen might not be too old to be taken over a lap for a bare bottom spanking, let me just say that I had this argument with my parents shortly after my sixteenth birthday and got nowhere. I was, and still am in their eyes, and come to think of it pretty much everyone my parents know, a boy. My age is just a number. The fact that on my birthday I was another year older didn’t mean that I automatically qualified for any further privileges. Age had nothing to do with it. For instance most boys got their longs on their thirteenth birthday, some boys might be older and others as young as twelve or even eleven. Not me. At the age of seventeen I was still dressed in short trousers and was now likely to remain in short trousers for a considerable time to come. It didn’t seem to occur to my parents that there was anything strange about how I now had to have the shorts of my short trouser suit specially tailored to fit a boy of my age and height.
Now I found myself standing nervously in front of Mrs Fletcher dressed in a pair of my briefest of brief short trousers, by far he most humiliating ones I possessed; the pair Miss Mary had dubbed my ‘naughty’ shorts. Oddly enough, or perhaps under the circumstances maybe not, I was thinking how comforting it was now to be wearing the distinctly uncomfortable thong. If Mrs Fletcher insisted on taking down my short trousers, my bottom would undoubtedly be bare, but at least I might be spared the further disgrace of exposing my privates to their view.
It was less than a minute before Miss Mary returned to the living room holding her mother’s hairbrush. She mischievously tapped the back of wooden oval-shaped brush against the palm of her hand, as if testing it before handing it to Mrs Fletcher with a cheerful, “Here you are, mummy.”
I looked across the room to the bay window with its open curtains all neatly tied back. Already I was wondering whether anyone would be able to look through them and see my punishment. It was then that I noticed there were open windows all of which overlooked the street outside. I had hardly time to register what was happening before Mrs Fletcher told me to fetch one of the chairs from the dining room. Miss Mary followed me.
“It was awfully silly of you to argue with mummy, Georgie,” said told me, “You might have known what would happen. Mummy can be very strict… I’ve seen her use that same hairbrush on one of our neighbour’s young boys. He broke one of the panes of glass in our greenhouse when he was playing with his football. When mummy spanked him you could hear him yelling and crying from halfway down the street. He got teased for ages by the other children who heard him bawling…”
I thought again of the open windows as I carried the chair into the living room. I knew that if Mrs Fletcher’s technique when she wielded the hairbrush was even half as efficient as my mother’s, it would be nigh on impossible for me to keep quiet. I would end up by making a complete spectacle of myself.
I placed the chair where Mrs Fletcher indicated in the middle of the room facing the bay window. Mrs Fletcher walked over to the chair and sat down. She placed the hairbrush on her lap and told me to come and stand in front of her. Facing her my back was to the window. I looked over to Miss Mary who stood to one side watching.
It was an awful feeling standing there in the middle of the Fletcher’s living room, knowing what was about to happen and not being able to stop it. I would like to be able to say that I accepted my fate with equanimity, but that was not the case. My stomach was in knots and my buttocks clenched in anticipation of the spanking I was about to receive.
Mrs Fletcher leant forwards and without a word spoken reached out and took hold of my naughty shorts. I heard a sharp intake of breath from Miss Mary. Clearly even she didn’t think her mother would pull down my short trousers right there in the living room.
At last Mrs Fletcher spoke, but only to give instructions to her daughter: “Mary, would you pull up George’s shirt for me while I remove his short trousers?”
Miss Mary stepped forwards and pushed up my shirt until it was rucked up underneath my armpits. She then tucked the back of the shirt into the collar, presumably to prevent it from slipping down again. This of course left me almost bare from neck to feet and if it hadn’t been for the thong I would have been completely exposed to them both. As it was I felt dreadfully embarrassed and ashamed to be made to feel so vulnerable.
Mrs Fletcher picked up her hairbrush and patted her knees. Miss Mary watched as I moved to her mother’s side and leant over, gripping the far side of the chair so that I could lower myself over Mrs Fletcher’s lap. I eased myself down and leant further forward lowering my hands until they reached the floor and I was able to present my bottom in the correct position to receive my spanking.
The thong was even more uncomfortable in this position, but at least it afforded me a little modesty. I felt the back of Mrs Fletcher’s hairbrush tapping my bare bottom cheeks as she prepared herself. I stared fixedly at the carpet only inches away from my face. I was up on my tiptoes on the other side of the chair, so Mrs Fletcher must have been supporting most of my weight, although there was no sign of it being a discomfort for her. It certainly didn’t in any way hinder her ability to use the hairbrush to spank my backside.
I knew from the first sharp blow of the brush that I wouldn’t be able to maintain a stoical countenance for very long. I grunted and gasped as each stinging thwack landed. It wasn’t long before my toes left the carpet as my legs started to flex involuntarily, almost as if I was trying to swim out of water. I was no longer at all concerned about how I must have looked to Miss Mary… or to anyone else who might have passed by the open windows. It wasn’t long before the sounds of my protests and begging began to fill the room and no doubt spread out through the windows adding sound to the picture of a teenage boy receiving a hairbrush spanking inside the Fletcher’s house.
With my hands firmly pressed against the carpet I was unable to wipe away the snot that started to dribble from my nose. With my mouth open in an almost constant state of shock and my head raised as I cried out in anguish, I could do nothing to prevent the nasal mucus from passing between my lips. I spluttered and coughed, but to no avail as salty tears were added to the unpleasant mixture.
By the time Mrs Fletcher had satisfied herself that I had been punished sufficiently, I was of course a complete wreck. No longer concerned about anything other than my painful, stinging bottom I clambered to my feet. I was not even aware of my surroundings anymore and commenced hopping about as I rubbed my sore gluteus muscles, performing my post-spanking dance in full view of the bay windows.
Mrs Fletcher brushed her hands over her dress to straighten herself after having me twisting about on her lap: “Now, George I don’t want to hear any more nonsense from you complaining about your summer job.”
I was in neither the position nor mood to disagree.
