There are times when you wonder just how it is that you got into this. Now was one of those times. I was naked, lying over the lap of a man who was very much my senior, and getting my ass well and truly spanked with an ancient leather strap. This piece of faded old carpet in front of me had become very familiar over the previous couple of months, a thorough spanking having become part of a ritual that was acted out nearly every day in this household. Today was a bit different, however.

This guy usually contented himself with smacking my backside and thighs with his hands for a few minutes but this was one of those punishment spankings, a proper disciplinary strapping for what he perceived as my impudence. I was really finding this very difficult to take as it was coming only a couple of days after a caning I had been given for having failed to complete a task to his satisfaction. I couldn�t help the little whelps that escaped from my mouth as each stroke of that strap made contact, over and over again.

He called me impudent, I thought that I was merely imprudent in ever having allowed myself to get into this situation. Spankings, canings, and other disciplinary measures aside, this had been a great summer and my body was in great condition from the weeks of gardening and exercise that had become part of my daily timetable. I was probably fitter than I had ever been in my twenty-three years of life and that was saying something because when I met this guy, back at the beginning of June, I was pretty fit already.

So how had I ended up in this position? Well let me start at the beginning, that way this whole tale might make some kind of sense.

I suppose it kind of began in the winter months. I was living in a really cheap bedsit, suffering the cold and damp, while I pretended to be a serious research student in a northern red-brick university but was really engaged in postponing that day when I would have to make a decision about starting some kind of career. Student life suited me, and every now and then I would have meetings with my supervisor and I basically kept some kind of work ticking over.

A couple of nights a week in the student bar (pulling pints not drinking!) and a little bit of teaching and essay marking supplemented my research grant so I had some money and no particular hassles. I worked out in the university gym every other day, swam a couple of times a week, and living on a student diet I was pretty skinny. But anyway, the cold was really getting to me and so I took myself off on a little treat, caught a train to a nearby town, and indulged myself in some serious heat.

A few valleys away there was one of those old spa towns and its great Turkish baths were well known as having been the very height of therapeutic luxury in the nineteenth century. The years had taken their toll but on my first visit I was impressed. There was a decadent insouciance about the place, like I imagined one of those gentlemen�s clubs in London, only instead of leather armchairs there were day beds and slatted benches, and instead of cigar smoke there was steam; lots of gorgeous hot steam. The place was huge, at least compared to anything like a steam-room or sauna that I had ever been in before. There were high vaulted ceilings, a long hall that had different levels of heat in various sections, a separate steam room, a plunge pool in its own colonnaded area, and a rest room where guys recovered from the rigours of sitting around in the warmth. It was magnificent, but most importantly, it was very warm.

I suppose some guys might have been a bit intimidated by the casual nakedness of so many other men but having been to a boarding school I didn�t really notice. The universal dress code, even for staff, was a white towel around the waist except in the steam room where even a towel was too much to be wearing in the intense heat. I loved it, pure and simple. Within minutes I could feel heat getting into my bones again and I knew that a visit every few weeks would be enough to help me survive the winter.

And I did go back two or three more times that winter. It was just such a luxurious experience and with a bit of reading on the train journeys those days were among the most productive of that term. But as Spring set in my need for those little trips disappeared and I just got on with doing a bit of research, a bit of exercise, and quite a bit of lying about in bed or drinking coffee with mates. But time passes even for the laziest students and the weeks ticked by until that fateful morning in June when I looked out at the rain and decided that a trip to the Turkish bath might be a nice way of passing what was looking like a pretty miserable day. Things were really quiet around the university. The undergraduates were disappearing as their courses finished for the long summer vacation, and my services were no longer required in either the bars or the seminar rooms. Even my supervisor had disappeared for a few months of conferencing, by which I understood him to mean that he was touring the world on an expenses paid trip. For my own part I hadn�t any plans lined up other than a vague idea that I could do with finding some sort of job and getting in a bit of cash.

I liked to start off my sessions at the baths with a sauna, it was a pretty gentle way of getting used to the heat again and as it happened I had the room to myself that afternoon. I had worked my way up to the higher bench and was sitting with my legs apart, enjoying warmth curling round my loins. The door opened and this older guy came in and sat down opposite me. He was already breathing pretty heavily but that wasn�t surprising as he was a much older guy, overweight and used a walking stick. We just nodded to each other and I continued to just sit there savouring the heat. I noticed that this other bloke was looking at my cock and whatever else I had on display but I was relaxed about that. If it gave him a bit of pleasure to sit there looking at me I wasn�t going to get all worried.

I was just beginning to think about heading to the plunge pool and then on to the steam rooms when his stick clattered to the floor. I guess it was just one of those automatic reactions borne of having been brought up to be polite and good-mannered, but I got up immediately and picked the stick up for him. As I handed it to him he pulled ever so gently on it and I moved a step closer. You know this may sound totally weird, but it felt completely natural and proper when he placed his hand on my backside and thanked me for my kindness. I just smiled and told him that he was welcome, went back to my place and sat for a few minutes thinking about that little exchange. One thing was clear, this was a guy used to being in command, there was something very confident about the way he spoke and his accent was pretty plummy. The thought passed through my mind that he had somehow treated me as if I was a child rather than a man, but then, I guess that there was at least forty years between us and maybe I seemed no more than just a young boy to him.

Anyway, it was definitely time to move on to the other rooms and I got up, wrapped my towel around my waist, nodded to the other bloke and put my hand on the door. It was then that he spoke again. �If you are around when I�m leaving boy you might like to join me. I�ve got something you might be interested in�. I looked back at him, nodded again and went out. In all our communication had been limited to me nodding and smiling, and a few sentences from him but even so we seemed to have reached an understanding.

An hour later I was by the lockers and pulling on my t-shirt and khaki bermudas. He was looking into a mirror, knotting a tie, and he caught sight of my reflection. �Time to be going boy, get a move on�.

Now there are stupid things to do, and there are really stupid things to do, and this was one of the latter. Of course he was some kind of predator picking up a young guy, and of course he was going to want to have his wicked way with me. But being young, adventurous, and bi, I reckoned that I could take anything that came my way. And who knows, maybe it would be fun. I suspected that it would certainly be interesting.

In the car-park he opened the doors of an impressive old car and I relaxed into the passenger seat and considered various ways of opening up a proper conversation with him about what we were doing. But as it was he curtailed any conversation by saying, �you�re a handsome young boy, and I happen to be rather fond of handsome young boys. And I�m particularly fond of handsome boys who are polite and obedient. Is that clear?�

The only appropriate response in the circumstances seemed to be a simple, �yes Sir�, and those were the only words I spoke as we drove the short distance to the outskirts of the town. His home fitted with what I had guessed about his personality. It was one of those large-ish Victorian townhouses, the sort of thing that had been built for the owners of small factories. It had a bit of a front garden, steps up to the front door, and through a large bay window I could see some bookcases and what looked like an old landscape painting. My guess was that this guy was respectable enough to have some concerns about losing his respectability and I figured that things would be ok. Back then I reckoned that the people to worry about were those who had nothing to lose.

Once inside he steered me upstairs and again I felt pretty relaxed. It was taking him a lot of puff and effort to climb those stairs and I figured that I was fit enough to make my escape if I needed to. But if I tell the truth I was beginning to think that this old guy was pretty trustworthy and that I didn�t really have anything to worry about. I couldn�t imagine him, given his size, being able to fuck my ass but, having seen his in the sauna, I was toying with the idea that it would be interesting to suck an older guy�s cock. He opened a bedroom door and I was surprised to see that it was a small room and obviously not the master bedroom. The furniture was dark-coloured and fairly old, and there was that musty smell that you get when a room hasn�t been used much.

�This, my boy, will be your room when you are here with me. You will sleep here when you stay overnight, you will do your homework here, you will keep it tidy, and it is to this room that you will come when I send you up to await your punishment�.

His hand was on my shoulder as he said this and even though I wasn�t overly happy with that last word, I still said, �yes Sir. I understand Sir.�

�Good boy�. And with that he patted my bottom and turned to leave the room. �I want you to explore this room and its contents for a while. I think that you will find all that you need in the drawers. When you are ready you can come downstairs. Tea will be ready, and we can have a little chat�.

Going through the drawers I had a much clearer idea of what my fate would be if I stayed. And from the reaction of my own cock as well as the thrill I got from looking through the old clothes that those drawers contained, it looks as if I would be staying for at least a few more hours. Perhaps this had been the old bloke�s room when he was a boy, for the clothes were certainly pretty old-fashioned and looked as if they might have been lying there since the war. I pulled out a pair of grey shorts and held them against my waist. Too small. But the next pair looked as if they might have been worth trying. We hadn�t discussed this, but I reckoned that he expected to see me dressed as a boy from the 1940s, and I was up for it even if I suspected that being dressed in such a way might also dictate the kind of thing that he must have meant when he referred to �punishment�. At the very least, I guessed, I was going to be spanked within the next hour or two. I was definitely going to find something that fitted.

It took a bit of scrabbling through the chest of drawers and the wardrobe before I felt that I had managed to find a few things that would fit me. Among the clothes there seemed to be a range of sizes but everything I saw had obviously been bought a long time ago. There were two pairs of long trousers hanging in the wardrobe, a pair of grey flannels and some cricket whites, but I kind of warmed to the idea of doing the job properly and opted for the short trousers. Doing the job properly also seemed to suggest that I should pull on a pair of the underpants that I had found. Now these must have been white at some stage in the past but time had yellowed the cotton. Even so I figured that a pair of old trunks were more suited to the image I was about to portray than the pair of red boxers I had been wearing. A grey shirt came next, a bit weird because instead of having buttons all the way down it just had a few at the top and so it had to be pulled on over my head. I wasn�t at all sure about the socks that I came across because they seemed to have lost all shape and it was difficult to imagine them fitting but I tried on a pair, long grey kneesocks with a kind of argyle turnover top.

The trainers I had been wearing were obviously inappropriate so I peeked under the bed and sure enough, right where I would have put them if this really had been my room, there was a line of shoes and sandals. These took quite a bit of going through until I found a pair of old-fashioned brown leather school sandals that fitted fine but looked a bit odd because the leather-uppers were cracked with age. There was a long mirror on the wardrobe door and I was pretty impressed with what I saw. Of course it was still me but I seemed to be dressed fairly convincingly as a lad from the second world war.

I figured I had done enough and that it was high time I went downstairs to see what the old guy had in mind. His smile suggested that he was pleased enough with what he saw and we settled down at the kitchen table to cups of tea and a long chat. It turned out that he was one of those crusty old men who objected to change and all things modern. This was the home he had grown up in and after his parents had died he had moved back in and was happy to keep it as it was. Everything was pretty much the same as it had been by the end of the nineteen forties and he liked it that way. No television, no fancy gadgets, and certainly none of the crudeness of contemporary life as he saw it. The clothes I was wearing had indeed been his; his mother had shared her generation�s love of thriftiness and had never thrown anything out. As the years had gone by the clothes he had outgrown had been boxed up and put in the attic and it was some of these that I was wearing now. He was particularly pleased with the fact that I had chosen the short trousers as he still thought that the knees of boys should be kept bare at all times.

We went into the room that he called the drawing room which I thought was a bit pretentious for a dark sitting room. It felt a bit like one of those rooms I had heard about where everything was kept neat and spotless and which nobody ever used unless someone like the vicar called. We sat down side by side on a sofa and he pulled out an ancient leather-bound photo album and took me on a journey through his memories of growing up. I was fascinated to see that even as an older boy he was still wearing shorts in a picture of a family gathering at Christmas and he told me that he didn�t get his first long trousers until he was nearly seventeen. My suggestion that his parents must have been very strict drew out the comment from him that indeed they had been very traditionally minded and that he believed that the world would be a better place if more people today held the same views.

He had a few school photos and sure enough as we worked through the years I could see that he was one of only two who were visibly wearing shorts in the fourth form, although he assured me that there was another boy, standing at the back, who had actually been kept in shorts for even longer than him. We switched to talking about my own school experiences and he was pleased to learn that I had gone to a prep-school where the uniform included grey shorts for all boys until we left the school at thirteen. He was equally pleased to learn that, young as I was, I had not entirely escaped the cane. I had once been given two strokes over my trousers when I was fifteen for being one of a group of boys who had been chucking books around a classroom. If anything he felt that two strokes for such an offence was overly lenient and I foolishly agreed with him.

�Yes indeed,� he said, �if I had heard that any son of mine had been throwing books about the place he would have been over my knees for a good old-fashioned spanking regardless of whatever punishment he might have received at school.�

�Perhaps it�s not too late to make up for that�, he continued. And with those words he was pulling my body down over his lap. Well, I had been expecting something like this to happen sooner or later; I�m not completely na�ve. I knew enough to know that there were plenty of guys around who were into short-trousered schoolboys and spanking, I just hadn�t met one before. And to tell the truth, dressed as I was, I wasn�t exactly turned off by the idea. So I made myself comfortable on his lap, kind of relishing the fact that this was the first time I had ever been in this traditional spanking position. I hadn�t suffered any form of corporal punishment since that book-throwing incident and I wasn�t sure that I could take it, but a sense of adventure took over and I figured that I would survive a spanking even if I didn�t like it.

The first smack was perfectly fine. No more than a pleasant tingle as his hand made contact with the cloth of the shorts. Let�s face it I was well protected with both the heavy material of those old short trousers and the pair of trunks I was wearing. Smacks numbers two to eleven were perfectly fine too and I had figured that if I was actually to feel any pain at all and have this feel like a punishment then he would have to continue spanking for a long, long, time or else he would have to pull those shorts down or find himself an implement. As it was this just felt kind of intimate and I wished that there was a mirror or something so that I could see what must have been a very picturesque sight of traditionally clad boy over his father�s lap.

It clearly doesn�t do to allow oneself to feel comfortable and secure in this position because when smack number twelve landed I really felt it. The sod had gone and smacked me on my thigh and the impact on bare skin was quite a different matter. He must have liked my reaction for he then began to smack his way up and down my bared legs and I found myself actually beginning to feel a bit of pain building up. But even so it wasn�t unbearable and I figured that his hand would have to give in before I did.

So I wasn�t too surprised when he soon broke off and told me to stand up. �Beginning to get you nice and warm, isn�t that right my boy?�

Well the only answer to that was the obvious �Yes Sir�, but I was surprised that the words seemed to some out of my mouth with a bit of a sniffle and I realised that the glow in my thighs had made an impression. But nothing like the impression his next words made.

�Now boy, I don�t think we�ll need the cane today, but it�s time we moved on. So just you stay there a while and I�ll go and get my strap and we�ll soon have you right.�

Well I certainly didn�t like the idea of being had �right� and when I saw the piece of leather in his hand when he returned I knew that I was going to be experiencing the genuine anguish of a well-punished boy within a few minutes. Well, what else had I been expecting? I would just have to take what was coming and chalk it up to experience. He sat down again, his hands reached to my shorts and I breathed in sharply. This was it. My shorts unfastened they were quickly pulled down to my ankles and it was then that he first saw that I was wearing a pair of his old underpants. The old pervert positively slavered at the sight and instead of hauling me back over his lap immediately he spent a few moments massaging my bottom through the ancient yellowed material. �Very nice, very nice indeed,� he remarked, �you�re going to do just perfectly�.

If I had allowed myself to hope that he might leave me with whatever protection those trunks might have afforded I was very wrong. All too soon they were hauled down to join the shorts and I was back in position ready to receive my first ever strapping. And after the first stroke I knew that this was an entirely different proposition to a simple hand spanking. It didn�t take very many strokes, perhaps only even four or five, before I was biting into the sofa and trying to stifle my shrieks. In my mind I started to repeat the thought, �I can take this, I can take this, I will survive it�. But I wasn�t really managing to convince myself. This was pain. At some stage my body just went rigid as if it was trying to suggest to my brain that it was high time that I got to hell out of there. But even as the pain began to be really unbearable, and as I began to feel the muscles in my backside actually throbbing, I was getting deeper and deeper into the idea of being a boy from the nineteen-forties being disciplined over his father�s lap. This was simply how things were in this household and I would just have to accept it.

Now I didn�t actually burst into tears from the pain but I was certainly sniffling and feeling incredibly sorry for myself when eventually he decided to stop. There was the most incredible pain in my backside and when my hands flew back to try and massage the pain away I felt this most amazing heat. I had read references to a �hot bottom� but I had never realised that this kind of punishment resulted in literal heat. The old guy pushed my hands away and started to massage my backside himself and that felt really nice as I began to get my breath back and to feel that I was getting myself back together again. I really can�t find a way to describe the pain. Obviously I had never felt anything like it before. Even accidental things like a burn from a hot pan or something like being on the losing side in a schoolyard fight didn�t feel like useful comparisons. This was hard deliberately inflicted pain.

Every stroke of that strap had stung and made a deep impression on my flesh. But the weird thing was that as I lay there on his lap and let him gently massage my buttocks I felt this thrilling sense of having achieved something really important. I had been punished in the most stereotypically traditional way, and I felt both relieved and elated to find that I had come out the other side. A strapping wasn�t nice and I certainly wouldn�t be volunteering for another one, but I could take it, and would take it again if that was what I was told to do.

When I had fully recovered we had a very long chat. His proposition was simple enough and intriguing enough to make me think that it might be worth trying. He would pay my bed-sit rent for the next three months until the next academic year began. He would also pay me to do two hours work each day in his garden; the cash from that would be handed to me when I left to go back to university. I would live here in his house and have full-board while I was here. That much was fine and it didn�t take much calculating to work out that I would probably have more cash in my pocket come the end of September than I would have if I lived in my bedsit and tried to find a job. So in that respect, I was quids in. The problem of course lay in the other bits of his proposition.

He wanted me to live as his teenage son for the time I would be with him. And that meant living the life of a schoolboy in the nineteen-forties. I would have to wear his old boyhood clothes at all times, and he was most particular in stressing that this meant that I would be wearing these old-fashioned short trousers and others like them even in public. There would be rules and they would be strictly enforced, and he suggested that I was likely to find myself over his lap for the strap on a frequent basis. He also mentioned that he might choose to cane me if he thought that my behaviour merited it.

I was manoeuvred into a corner and left there to think through my response. If I accepted I would stay overnight and go and sort out my affairs at the bedsit the following day. If I decided to go he would drive me back to the railway station immediately. Well, there�s hardly any point in drawing things out, is there? You know that I stayed and that indeed I got my bottom strapped and caned plenty of times over the following months.

I tried to convince myself that this was a unique opportunity, that it was sort of like getting the chance to go back in time and research life some fifty years ago. Perhaps I could write it up as something like, �Paradigms of masculinity; an action research project on comparative experiences of youth and the maturational process among boys following both the Second World War and the Cold War�. Of course it was unlikely that I would ever dare publish such a thing; afterall, who would have read it and how exactly would I have referenced my source material? It seemed like a good deal and possibly a bit of fun along the way. I glanced around and caught sight of myself in a large mirror over the fireplace. I was already here and contentedly slipping into the role of a teenage boy living in the nineteen forties with his strict Dad. It made more sense to stay than to go.

And lets face it, some of my experiences over the following weeks were incredible. It took a few hours to sort through the old clothes in what had become my bedroom. A couple of trunks up in the attic had to be explored as well and soon enough we had assembled two old pairs of grey school shorts and a couple of pairs of light cotton khaki shorts for me to wear most of the time. There wasn�t really enough underwear and the socks were just hopeless so he suggested that we could take a walk into town later in the week and find something appropriate at a school outfitters. I could see that he really meant this stuff about having me parade about in public in this stuff, but that just kind of excited me. Nobody I knew was going to see me � I hoped. And anyway, there was a fair chance that people would see what they expected to see, be that a young guy wearing knee-length shorts or an older boy in school uniform, I doubted that all that many would really compute the fact that what they were seeing was a twenty-three year old in the attire of a nineteen-forties teenage boy.

I did negotiate a couple of other compromises. I suggested that it might be worth getting a few short-sleeved shirts, perhaps aertex school uniform type, as the old shirts that fitted me were quite heavy and not really suitable for summer. I was also happy enough to wear his old PE clothes around the house but those yellowed old shorts were going to attract too much attention if I wore them for my daily run and so he agreed to letting me wear newer ones so long as they were white, cotton, short, and worn without anything else on underneath. It felt like a deal and soon enough we were sitting to dinner, Dad and son, and making plans for the long summer holidays ahead. I was surprised to be sent up to bed as early as half past eight but he told me that until he had left school and gone on to university himself, his bedtime had always been set so that his light was switched off by nine every night.

But I might not have negotiated those compromises on clothing if I had realised just how embarrassing I was going to find shopping for those clothes. In his old-style tweed suits the old man wasn�t at all put off by the idea of bringing me along to try on the garments that I would need. His idea of shopping certainly didn�t include visiting an anonymous mall or large department store where at least the ratio of staff to customers would usually guarantee that one need not receive unnecessary attention. Instead he brought me along, clad in those ancient khaki shorts, a pair of cracked leather school sandals, and a scratchy grey shirt, sleeves rolled up as a concession to the summer heat, to a shop that was as musty and old-fashioned as his own house.

Crewe Bros, the name emblazoned in faded gold lettering over the shop-front, was one of those gentlemen�s outfitters that I would never have entered under my own steam. Its window display of country-check shirts, cheap pin-stripe suits, and pullovers that would only ever be seen on a third-rate golf course, would have been enough to put me off. This was a shop that was proud of the fact that it sold nothing that might interest a young man with an eye to street credibility.

An old man who I took to be one of the brothers Crewe, ushered us downstairs into the basement in response to the request for boys school shirts and underwear. He wasn�t going to come down with us as he said that his days of running up and down stairs were long over, but his grandson was in the basement doing a stocktake and he would be pleased to help us find whatever we needed. I had an awful premonition when he referred to his grandson; somehow I couldn�t help feeling that such a youth would have to be about my age at the oldest. Sure enough, when we got down there, a boy who must only have been about fifteen or sixteen years old greeted us with a polite welcome and asked if he could be of assistance.

The next half hour or so was a totally humiliating experience. Somehow, when he had first suggested that I would be dressing this way all the time even in public, I hadn�t really imagined a public that would actually see me. Over the past day or so I had comforted myself by thinking that people would see what they expected to see, just as they always do. But there was no doubt that the teenage boy who was selling us these clothes was well aware of the fact that I was much too old to be wearing this kind of outfit. Perhaps he presumed that I was his own age, or just a year or two older. But it still felt pretty embarrassing to be standing there in these old shorts while this lad talked through my requirements with my new Dad.

It didn�t help that there was no changing room in that basement and I was told to try on various items, including some new school shorts, out in the middle of the floor. That really rubbed it in. The shop assistant must have known that there was something very strange about an older boy being made to wear such juvenile garb. Between changes I caught sight of myself in a mirror and realised that the marks that were visible just underneath my underpants were sure and certain confirmation that I was a boy under the strictest of disciplinary regimes. I looked up and caught the assistant�s eyes and blushed as he smirked.

He had seen. He knew just how thing stood. He even had the cheek to point out that the spiralling chrome rack in the middle of the shop-floor had plenty of grey school shorts in larger sizes should we require them in the future. I have never been so relieved to get out of a shop, but as we headed back to the house I felt incredibly aroused. The whole experience of being seen as a boy who lived this anachronistic lifestyle seemed pretty wonderful and I imagined the conversation that young man was going to have with his mates when he got off work.

The days passed swiftly enough. Sure enough I was back over Dad�s lap a few times and I certainly felt his hand a lot as he never hesitated to simply pull up my shorts and smack me on the back of my legs if he thought that I was being as quick to follow his directions as he wanted. I soon grew used to calling him Sir but he also insisted that I addressed him as Daddy and that was less easy. I went for my morning runs as usual but he started to time me, setting targets for each day so that I had to complete my distances within set times. Failure was frequent, in fact almost daily, and so most days my first punishment involved bending over in my PE kit to have his old plimsoll applied firmly and swiftly to my bottom with no more than the protection of a pair of tight white shorts. Washing and bathing took a bit of getting used to because I was only allowed hot water once a week, on Saturday evenings when he would actually scrub me in my bath. The rest of the time the water was cold, but I guessed that that was life in the nineteen forties. My days were then occupied with gardening, chores, study, walking or reading.

The study time was actually great. I had some of the key books for my research project with me and I really began to get to grips with understanding some of the theory that I had struggled with before. Daddy was well-educated and able to debate the issues with me even though it wasn�t his subject and indeed, was probably not to his liking, given that I don�t think they were teaching sociology at Oxford when he was there. But it wasn�t just a case of good discussion and dedicated study-time that was helping me to get on top of this stuff.

There was also the little matter of making it through the Friday tests he set for me. Basically each week he set me a target, like learning the facts and quotations from specific chapters or writing an essay on a topic that I had chosen. Failure to respond promptly to his questions or to produce a piece of writing that met his standards in grammar, spelling, and logical argument, resulted in the most severe punishments of all, the cane.

Not a single Friday passed by that Summer without me having to bend over for at least four strokes of that ancient length of rattan. If he was feeling lenient or thought that I had actually done reasonably well he would let me keep my shorts up. But more often than not he would unfasten my shorts himself and pull them down along with my underpants before directing me to bend over and touch my toes. I found that the best thing to do was to curl my toes upwards a bit and try and grip the soles of my sandals and hold on tight as the strokes fell.

My admiration for previous generations of boys was enhanced every time that can bit into my bottom. The two strokes that I had received as a fourteen year-old had not really prepared me for the intensity of a proper caning on bare flesh. On two occasions he administered eight strokes and somehow those final two after the traditional six of the best were really horrific. It took a while before I managed to stay in position for even four cuts but he didn�t add any more so long as I got back into position immediately. The cane was really a very different sensation and in a class of its own. Somehow a hand-spanking, strapping, slippering, or spanking with an old hair-brush or wooden spoon, seemed to all fit into a general class of experience. They all hurt, some more than others, but the pain soon faded.

And so that�s how it was right now. I was getting a spanking and it really hurt. The old leather strap that had seen so much use over the weeks must have been relishing its return to action. How many years had it lain unused in this house never imagining that one day it might return to the duty on the bared backside of some unfortunate boy? Well, however many years it was, the thing still had plenty of bite. The pain had built up and I could feel my buttocks flinching, the muscles pulsing, as they endured the onslaught of punishment whacks. Of course I was going to have to give in. I always did. I was going to have to apologise and say that I was sorry and that I would never do anything that could be remotely construed as self-abuse ever again. Dad had a real thing about what he furiously called �self-abuse�. The first time he caught me it was because I had, quite unthinkingly, left a tissue of evidence by my bed. He had smacked the backs of my legs a few times and told me that masturbation was a damaging activity which was absolutely forbidden.

Then he gave me an old scout handbook to read, with its chapter on maintaining the purity of body and mind. Its tips really didn�t help much. Cricket isn�t really my sport and imagining the fattest eleven in the world was not quite the distraction it was meant to be. So here I was, actually for the fifth time this summer for this specific offence, over his lap and suffering the pain of his disapproval.

Waiting in my room to be called down for punishment I had almost laughed at the thought that in a way it was his fault that I was jerking off so much; indeed whacking off a lot more than he knew. Contrary to my thoughts way back in that sauna the old guy really did seem to look upon me as his son. I had not been ordered to my knees to suck his cock into life. There had been absolutely nothing sexual at all about how he touched me, even when he bathed me. It had been a summer of sexual frustration and of course, being fit and healthy, and with the warmth of summer, I was ready to play every day.

The thing is, as I lie here and suffer, that I have been kind of enjoying this summer in a weird way. He has been really kind and we have done a few fun things; walks on the moors, trips to the sea, even a bit of dinghy sailing. But all the time he has been absolutely clear about our relationship. He�s my Dad, I am his teenage son. And we live our daily lives as if time had frozen about forty or fifty years ago.

The pain is really building up this time. There is no doubt at all that this is a punishment spanking rather than anything more light-hearted and certainly nothing like an erotic experience. This is just crack upon crack as the old leather whips down again and again. The strange thing is that this really works. Of course I�ll be back to my little caresses under the sheets. But if the previous times are anything to go by it will be at least a week, and probably a whole fortnight, before I am really tempted. Don�t let anyone fool you into thinking otherwise. The old ways really work.

So there you go. I�m fitter than ever, have a great tan, and I�ve done more work on my thesis in these few weeks than in whole of the previous year. His garden looks great and he seems to appreciate my company. On the minus side there is the obvious fact that he is so strict. When I first came here I was open to the idea of trying out spanking as a sexual experience, but this is punishment. Every spanking or caning I have received has been punishment pure and simple. And of course I feel a bit weird having to wear short-trousers and such obviously old-fashioned and juvenile short-trousers at that. But what�s a disciplined life against the benefits? That�s the question I will have to address next.

You see, before he started whacking me about half an hour ago, he suggested that I obviously needed this kind of lifestyle. The proposition came out of the blue and I know that every rational bit of my brain wants to reject the idea. But there�s a bit of me that wants to go with the hunch, the intuition that staying on and living here like this until I finish my thesis might not be quite the outlandish suggestion it appears. Let�s face it, I guess that there�s no doubt that I would complete the thing on schedule!

There�s just a moment of relief as he gently massages my backside. He�s whispering something about how I need to learn to be a good boy and I�m agreeing with him. All these thoughts have been going through my mind but I�m sobbing away and promising to be such a good boy forever. I�m sure I should leave and go back to my bedsit at the end of this month. But right now I feel so confused; wracked with pain and humiliation on the one hand, glowing in the security of this old man�s genuine affection on the other. Maybe I�m going to have to find someone with whom I can talk this through. But where would you start? And let�s face it; just how would you react if a twenty-three year-old guy told you this tale?

 

� Mike Ward 2006

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