2 comments/ 5336 views/ 1 favorites Joyce Ch. 01 By: Jamesey Joyce Ch. 01: The Choice Looking back from the vantage point of three score years and ten, one sees many scenarios where an alternative choice of action could have sent events in a completely different direction – maybe for the better and maybe not. I have often thought of what might have happened had I elected to be bolder at certain times. Forty years ago, I was working as a copy editor for a legal magazine and book publisher near Chancery Lane in the City of London. My supervisor was a statuesque and formidable spinster in her late 40s. Her name was Joyce Tipson but in the formal manner of the early '70s, we underlings always respectfully called her Miss Tipson to her face. I had noticed that she had an eye for a shapely young male backside and her eyes often lingered greedily on my own posterior, always encased in skin-tight trousers, as was the fashion in those days. She thought I didn't notice, so I would often bend over provocatively to perform some task when she was in eyeshot for the sheer devilment of it. One day I received a phone call from Miss Tipson to visit her office and firstly entered an ante-room where her PA (although they called them secretaries in those days), Julie, was seated. She was a very attractive girl in her early 20s and always seemed to have a streak of mischief in her. "The boss wants to see me, Julie," I said cheerfully. "Yup, John," she replied. "And if I were you I'd stick an exercise book down the back of your pants before you go in." she giggled. I was surprised at her remark as it was the first ever hint that something beyond the normal office routine was going on here. Anyhow, standing in front of Joyce's desk, I was told I had made a major mess-up in a court report and was given a severe dressing-down, told to buck my ideas up and warned that the matter could be appended to my personal record file. "So what have you got to say for yourself, John?" she said, fixing me with a steely, blue-eyed gaze. (And this is where the buzzers sound and the lights flash.) "I'm truly very sorry, Miss Tipson," I mumbled, "and it certainly won't happen again." She was still looking at me with a questioning expression. There was long silence and eventually she told me to leave and get back to work. The choice was there but I had fluffed it. I had always had a strong interest in CP as a recipient but in my early years, unenthusiastic girlfriends, disinterested call-girls and pro doms who were only willing to cane bottoms with no erotic nuances whatsoever, had all left me rather cold. Thinking about it now, I am convinced that there was a golden opportunity to start a relationship with a real-life female boss who would discipline me with as much pleasure as I would get from receiving. So let's rewind the videotape to where the choice was offered and see what might have happened. "I'm truly very sorry, Miss Tipson," I mumbled, "and it certainly won't happen again." She was still looking at me with a questioning expression. "If there is any way I can make amends for my errors I would be happy to oblige," I said softly. She looked at me with a ghost of a smile on her face. "I have always been a believer in traditional discipline but, needless to say, in these modern times the law and society disapproves of such methods. But if a wrongdoer is willing to accept punishment in the form of a caning, where's the harm? Only you and I and Julie would ever know." "Er, Julie?" I stammered. "Don't be silly, John, she knows everything that goes on in this room and you might get a pleasant surprise afterwards. Anyway she could hardly avoid hearing the sounds that are going to be resonating around this office shortly." With that Miss Tipson walked briskly over to a tall cabinet, unlocked it and withdrew a supple, yellow, curly-handled, rattan cane. "That looks like a real bum blisterer," I said jokingly, trying to lighten my mood which was somewhat apprehensive. Miss Tipson chuckled. "Well your rear will be the most recent recipient but there have been many more before you, young man." She placed a chair in the middle of the room and told me to kneel on the seat sideways with my hands on the carpet the other side. "I have decided that 12 of the best would be appropriate for your offence and your trousers are so tight and thin that I see little point in embarrassing you even further by insisting you remove them." Without any preamble she moved behind me and delivered the first stroke, a whistling humdinger that swished and cracked across my arse with serious effect. She left 20-second pauses between the strokes and by the fourth my grunts had turned to a mini-yelp. The fifth and six whacks were hard to take but she paused at that point and bent over to whisper in my ear. "Well, John, do you think this caning is doing you good? Are you repenting and is the soreness of your bottom making you regret the error of your ways?" "Oh yes, Miss Tipson," I gasped, "I realise now that a caning is exactly what I needed to set me back on the straight and narrow." After the seventh and eighth thwacks had descended, my bottom was glowing with a delightful heat and for the ninth and tenth I was arching my buttocks towards the cane's trajectory, involuntarily begging for harder strokes. My submissiveness had taken over my entire body and I barely felt the tenth and eleventh as a numbness had pervaded my bum. Before the final stroke she leant down towards my ear. "The last one is always the hardest, John. Are you ready?" "Oh, yes, Miss Tipson," I whispered. Was I ready? Was she kidding? I tensed my backside and heard the swish of the rattan as it headed towards my cheeks at great velocity. It certainly was a hard one and I nearly tumbled off the chair as it nearly bisected my arse. I slumped forward. "Thank-you for my caning," I said gratefully. She patted and rubbed my bum cheeks and smiled. I stood up and the bulge in the front of my trousers made it quite obvious that I had enjoyed our session at another level too. "I've been quite lenient with you, John, for your first offence but, be warned, any more slackness on your part could deserve more serious punishment. And, if you feel that my methods are doing you good, feel free to report to me and confess any other transgressions, even ones unconnected with your work," she said. This was music to my ears – an open invitation for a good whacking whenever I felt the urge. I thanked her again and left her office intending to return to my own office but there was another episode to come. Julie was still sitting at her typewriter (no computers then). "Hello again, John. Twelve of the best, eh? They sounded like real stingers too?" She pointedly stared at my considerable erection. "Looks like you really appreciated it! Would you like me to ease the pain with some cream. I usually offer this service to Joyce's miscreants. She likes to keep her naughty boys happy and willing to return. It doesn't do me any harm at pay rise time, either. "Let's go to the ladies' loo. Everybody's gone home now." We walked down the corridor and into the ladies. She told me to take of my trousers and pants and to bend over the toilet bowl and I found myself in much the same position as I had been with Miss Tipson a few minutes previously. "Boy, you've got 12 lovely red ridges across your arse there," she said laughing. "One of them really stands out. It must be Joyce's special last stroke. She usually lays on a real belter to finish off." Julie rubbed cold cream on her hands and started to massage my behind with slow movements. Before too long her hands started to stray all over the place – up and down my bum crack and a slight insinuation into my fundamental orifice. Then she was brushing against the back of my balls and before too long she grasped my now raging engorgement, giving me words of encouragement while her hand moved up and down my shaft. "Poor John...is your bum really sore from Joyce's cane...never mind Julie will rub the pain away from your poor bottom...ooooh, I can feel the ridges on your arse...it'll be a few days before they disappear...let Julie give you a lovely wank..." And with more words along these lines, the inevitable happened as Julie speeded up her wrist technique and I exploded into the toilet bowl. While she was cleaning me up with a tissue as I sat on the bowl, I reflected that some of the more respectable legal ladies, sitting in this lavatory tomorrow, would be shocked to have seen our little tableau. I stayed in that job for another two years and, of course, reported to Joyce frequently to confess a variety of misdemeanours. I never made any deliberate mistakes in my work as that would have been irresponsible but manufactured a wide range of punishable offences ranging from lateness at work, being rude to my auntie, not finishing my greens at dinner, and so on. Miss Tipson was an imaginative disciplinarian and varied the punishment according to misdemeanour. For example when I confessed to not changing my pants and socks one day because I couldn't be bothered I was given a monumental bare bottom hand spanking across her knee. She was a large and athletic woman and a prolonged session over her lap was a very chastening experience. "If you commit childish offences you get treated like a small boy," she told me as her hard hand reddened my buttocks to steam heat. Other variations were a Perspex ruler and an old-fashioned plimsoll for schoolboy errors, a Lochgelly tawse for not washing the back of my neck properly, a wooden yardstick for answering her back, and so on and so on. But all good things come to end and, regrettably, with my move to another part of the country, we could not continue our mutually agreeable relationship. And so, dear reader, if you have reached the end of my story, I must say that even 40 or so years later I wish that most of the above had occurred because, it is, of course, only my surmise and is probably over-optimistic as far as the attentions of her secretary were concerned. But even now, I am convinced that she would have loved to have given me superb beatings to be relished and remembered. Afterword: Joyce Tipson was a real person and if she is still around she would be in her late 80s. If by some miracle, you were ever to read this, Joyce, my apologies if you are offended by some of the hypotheitical actions I have made you take. But I don't think that's very likely. Joyce Ch. 02 Joyce 2 - Flatulent confession It was 6pm in the London offices of Clutterbuck Legal Publishers, Bell Yard, EC2. Manager Joyce Tipson was sitting in her office chatting to Julie, her secretary. The year was 1972 and the building was deserted because the employees had all gone home with the exception of Joyce, Julie and one other – your humble scribe, John. "Who are you dealing with tonight?" asked Julie, an attractive and lively young lady in her early '20s. "John is paying me a little visit," replied Miss T, a statuesque and formidable spinster in her late '40s. "As you know all too well, John has reported to me several times since we agreed to a discipline regime. I'm not sure what he has done this time but I am sure I'll get to the bottom of it." Julie sniggered. "You usually do, quite literally, but I would love to be more involved in one of your sessions. I've soothed John's sore bum with cold cream a few times now after a beating and sent him home happy." Joyce looked thoughtful. "Well, I don't really see why you shouldn't be involved in applying some deserved correction to the tautly-trousered or bare backside of an attractive young man. It certainly gives me great pleasure so why not you?" "That'd be really great, Miss T," said Julie eagerly, "I've listened to so many of your thrashings of miscreants, sitting in the outer office, it would be a real thrill to be part of the whole scene." At 10 past six, I walked through the dusty and Dickensian corridors of Clutterbucks and entered through the outer office into Miss Tipson's lair. "Welcome, John," she said, "as you can see Julie is going to be present during the proceedings this evening. I trust you don't mind?" Don't mind? In fact I was going to suggest it myself before long. Another female presence in the room during a beating had always appealed to me in no small measure. Julie winked at me. "Hi, John." Miss T fixed me with one of her sternest glares. "OK, why are you here, John? What mischief have you been up to?" I hesitated before answering. "I am deeply ashamed of an incident that occurred during Evensong at my church, St Bridget of the Flagellants, last Sunday. "I am afraid it is rather indelicate," I went on," and I hesitate to even describe the event to two sensitive and respectable ladies like yourselves." Miss T's frown deepened. "Come on, John, confess and face the consequences." "Unfortunately, Miss Tipson, in the silence between two of the opening hymns and sitting between my sister Emily and my Aunt Flora, I involuntarily unleashed a highly audible flatulent emission," I said softly. There was a screech from Julie. "Oh, John, you farted in church..." But her mirth was quickly stifled by a withering look from Miss T. "Be quiet, Julie, and don't use crude language in my presence," she said sternly. "There is nothing amusing about antisocial, and often malodorous, behaviour at a Christian assembly." "Sorry Miss T," said Julie, struggling to keep a straight face. "Schoolboy-type misdeeds deserve appropriate punishments," said Joyce grimly, unlocking her corner cabinet and taking out a pair of old-fashioned plimsolls. "I kept these from my own schooldays gym sessions. I knew they'd come in useful one day." She handed one of the plimsolls to Julie and told the girl to place two wooden chairs back to back in the centre of the room while she thoughtfully smacked her own plimsoll against the palm of her hand. I had never had a slippering before this evening and it would be a new experience, especially when I was instructed to remove my trousers and under-shorts (all previous punishments had been across the seat of skin-tight trousers). I did as I was told and then kneeled on one of the seats and grasped the legs of the other chair so that my bum was raised and in a perfect position for the imminent bastinado. The first arrived with a whoosh and a tremendous crack and Joyce continued with vigorous whacks to alternate buttocks. The noise was very loud, like pistol shots, and I thought I saw though the window a couple of heads turn on the pavement below as my humiliation continued. "Cheeky lads (whack) who make irreverent noises (whack) in a house (whack) of worship (whack) deserve a good leathering (whack)". After what seemed an age, she put down the plimsoll on her desk and called Julie over. "Your turn, young lady. Would you care to make your mark on this naughty bottom?" "Oh yes, please, Miss," said Julie, with what seemed like ominous enthusiasm. I was granted permission to rub my scorched rear before the second salvo started. Julie was smaller and slighter than her boss but my bum was feeling her application of the slipper just as much as before. Peeking round from my low position I couldn't help noticing that she had a lovely behind herself, tightly encased in her 1970s mini-skirt. Despite the searing ache in my arse being the centre of my own particular universe, I couldn't help speculating whether one day I might see her in a similar position to my current one, her being the object of Joyce's ire. It seemed like the junior disciplinarian would go on indefinitely until Joyce intervened. "I think that'll do for now, Julie. Let the lad have a break." I was permitted to get up and take a glass of water and rub my rear and neither lady seemed perturbed by the sight of my male equipment, the honourable member being somewhat excited as the glow in my buttocks worked its wondrous effect. Nothing new for Julie, of course, but I was surprised at how the always prim Miss T seemed totally unaffected. She'd seen a few bulges but never a full monty no-pants hard-on. "I really enjoyed making John's backside red raw," Julie told Miss T throatily. "Perhaps we ought to stick a wine bottle cork up his bottom to remind him of his misdemeanour?" "If it happens again, we might well do that but for now let's get on with the business in hand. Back on the chairs, John." I quite fancied the notion of a cork stuffed up my arse and stored the thought away for the future. I shuffled back and re-assumed the slippering position and soon Miss T's old gym shoe recommenced its relentless smacking across the cheeks of my bum. Thwack, thwack, left cheek, right cheek, on and on went the punishment as Joyce's plimsoll connected with great velocity on my rear. After what seemed an age and by now the imprint of the gym shoe's sole must have seared itself over every square inch of my bottom, Miss T suddenly paused. She came round the chair and leaned over to talk softly into my ear. "You were right to confess to your disgraceful behaviour but you have fully paid the price." She turned to Julie. "I too enjoyed our double whacking and, having allowed you to join in I would like to ask a favour of you. I know of course that you often indulge in a little hanky-panky with my lads after a beating although I always turn a blind eye." "However, never having seen a woman do what you do to a man, just for once I would like to observe the activity." "I've no problem with that," said Julie and went to the outer office to find some cold cream and a towel. The penitent wind-breaker was not, of course, consulted about any of this. Would I have objected? A lovely sore bottom, 20 minutes of humiliation from two ladies and now hand relief before an interested spectator. What do you think? And so another of Joyce's tableaux ended, this time with the boss seated in front of us, me kneeling on a chair while Julie's expert wrist action gradually speeding up in tempo soon brought matters to the inevitable conclusion. Joyce looked absolutely entranced as my orgasm spurted into the waiting towel. "Beautifully enacted, Julie," said Miss T, "your timing was exceptionally accurate. Maybe I ought to try it myself soon. What do they call the activity? 'Wanking' isn't it? Rather an unpleasant word but very, very interesting to observe..." Did this indicate that punishing a saucy male bum was not quite tasty enough for her now? Whatever next?