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Mrs Wilkins (parts VII, VIII and IX)

Mrs. McConnal (parts I, II, III, IV and V)

Mrs. McConnal (parts VI, VII, VIII and IX)

Mrs. McConnal (parts X, XI and XII)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XIII, XIV, XV, XVI and XVII)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XVIII, XIX, XX and XXI)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XXII, XXIII and XXIV)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XXV, XXVI, XXVII and XXVIII)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XXIX, XXX, XXXI, XXXII and XXXIII)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XXXIV, XXXV and XXXVI)

Mrs. McConnal (parts XXXVII, XXXVIII and XXXIX)

Maternal Matrimony (parts I, II, III and IV)

Maternal Matrimony (parts V, VI and VII)

Ocean (parts I, II, III, IV, V and Epilogue)

The Guest House (parts III, IV and V)

Innocentata (parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII and VIII)

Dog Sitting (parts I, II, III, IV and V)

Robin's Camp (parts I, II, III, IV and V)

Lisa in New Zealand (parts I, II, III and IV)

Lisa in New Zealand (parts V, VI, VII and VIII)

Lisa in New Zealand (parts IX, X and XI)

Returning (parts I, II, III and IV)

Sylvia's Mother (parts II, III and IV)

Sylvia's Mother (parts V, VI and VII)


As a boy I went to a Catholic school. It was shortly after World
War II. In those days Catholic schools were notorious for their strict
discipline, and for the liberal use of the cane, ruler or slipper
to keep unruly pupils in line.
However the Catholic school that
I went to was different. The Head Master of the school had been imprisoned
in a Nazi concentration camp during the war for being a member of
the resistance, and several times he was severely beaten. That is
why he did not allow corporal punishment in his school.
When one
misbehaved one had to write lines or was kept after school. In serious
cases a telephone call to the pupil's home brought an angry parent
to school and very soon one could hear the sounds of a spanking being
administered in the headmasters office, and the screams of the victim
of parental wrath.
Franciscan Fathers ran the parish church under
which the school resorted. Once a week, on Friday afternoon, a priest
came to the school to instruct us in religion. The one that taught
us was a sour elderly priest with a sharp sarcastic tongue, with which
he managed very well to keep order in class. One day he retired, and
was replaced by a very young priest, Father Francis. Father Francis
had curly brown hair, blushing red cheeks, beautiful big brown eyes,
with long eyelashes. He was young, and pretty, and he had no clue
how to keep order in class. Immediately the religion lessons on Friday
afternoons deteriorated into an occasion for merriment and disorderly
conduct for us boys.
On the second Friday that he came to teach
us Father Francis became so frustrated that he grabbed Billy Potter,
one of the worst troublemakers, and shouted: "I am going to spank
you!" He put his left foot on a school bench, hoisted the boy over
his knee and held him in place with his left hand. Franciscan monks
wear dark brown habits with a thick white rope around their waist.
Both ends of the rope have knots tied in them. This rope is a "flagellation
cord", which is meant to be used by the monks to flagellate themselves
as a penance for their sins.
Father Francis took the end piece of
the rope in his right hand and started to whip Billy Potter's bottom
with it. The class, not being used to seeing spankings in school thought
it hilarious and after the third stroke started to count aloud with
every stroke delivered: "FOUR! FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN!
ELEVEN! TWELVE!" After the 12th stroke a very flustered, red-faced
Father Francis stopped spanking Billy and put him back on his feet.
A still grinning Billy Potter, demonstratively rubbing his bottom,
went back to his seat.
The following Friday afternoons I noticed
that boys who had formerly been misbehaving badly had become very
quiet. At that time I did not know the reason why.
One Friday during
religion lesson I was throwing paper aeroplanes high through the classroom
while Father Francis had his back to the class while writing on the
blackboard. When he suddenly turned around I was caught.
"Come here
Anthony", Father Francis said.
Before I knew what happened I was
balancing in the air face down across Father Francis' left knee, and
I felt the tip of the flagellation cord "caressing" my bottom. I got
the usual 12 strokes while the class was counting out loud, but it
really did not hurt much as a pair of shorts I was wearing, made of
thick tweed material, protected my buttocks.
The next day, Saturday,
school finished at noon, and just when I was about to go home, a boy
gave me the message that the German teacher, Mr Wolfsrath, wanted
to see me. I wondered why.
Mr Wolfsrath, the German teacher, was
only recently employed at our school. He was a figure who possessed
a natural authority. Mr Wolfsrath was in his early 40-ties, handsome,
very masculine with a bald patch on top of his head. From that bald
patch he got the nickname: "Das kahle Wunder", which means something
like: "The bald-headed Terror." He was feared, and admired.
I remember
one of his first speeches to the class. He said: "Boys, the Head Master
has banned corporal punishment from this school. However, it is a
fact that the conscience of a boy is situated in his buttocks, and
that it takes a cane to activate it." He further said: "As I cannot
punish you with the cane, a 1000 lines is the minimum punishment I
give."
Soon after Mr Wolfsrath joined our school he became very
friendly with Father Francis. He more or less took Father Francis
under his wing.
That Saturday afternoon when I went to see Mr Wolfsrath
after school he told me: "You have behaved very badly during Father
Francis' lesson yesterday. I think we should have a talk about that.
Please come to my house on Wednesday afternoon at 4 o'clock. You can
go now."
The next Wednesday afternoon
I rang the doorbell at Mr Wolfsrath's house. Mr Wolfsrath let me in
and took me to his study. There was nobody else in the house. On top
of his desk I saw a sturdy cane and a writing pad with a fountain
pen.
Mr Wolfsrath said: "Some boys have been behaving abominably
during Father Francis' lessons. I had already several of those boys
here in my study. I have heard from Father Francis that your conduct
is one of the worst. You deserve a good caning, don't you agree Anthony?"
I
stammered: "But Sir, Father Francis has already spanked my bottom
in class with his rope."
"Yes", Mr Wolfsrath said, "But I have heard
that that makes not much of an impression on you boys. What you need
is to feel the cane on your bare bottom. Listen well, you have a choice.
Either you are getting a caning now, or I am going to write a letter
to your parents. Which will it be?"
I had no illusions that the
severity of a caning by Mr Wolfsrath would be less then horrific.
But on the other hand I knew exactly how my father would react to
a letter with complaints about my conduct during religion lessons
in school. He would get into a rage and beat the hell out of me with
a piece of wood till he had no more strength in his right arm, and
then he even might continue with his left arm!
Mr Wolfsrath said:
"Make up your mind Anthony, quickly please."
I felt like a lump
was stuck in my throat, I could hardly speak. I stepped up to the
desk while I was unbuckling my belt, zipped down the fly of my shorts,
pulled my underpants down and quickly bent over the desk so that Mr
Wolfsrath wouldn't see my genitals.
Mr Wolfsrath said: "Good boy!
I am going to give you 12 strokes with the cane. After that you are
to stand with your face to that wall with your hands on your head
and think about what you are going to say to Father Francis next Friday."
I
turned round my head and said: "What do you mean Sir?"
Mr Wolfsrath
said: "Well, don't you owe Father Francis an apology?"
I said: "Yes
Sir, of course Sir I do."
Mt Wolfsrath said: "Good, let's begin."
And at the next second a stroke of red-hot lightning hit my bare bottom.
I
gulped for air, let out a scream, got up and danced around frantically
rubbing my bottom.
Mr Wolfsrath grabbed me under my chin, lifted
up my head, looked me in the eyes and said: "Wrong move Anthony. When
you get up before I tell you we have to start all over again. Do you
understand?"
I said: "Yes Sir", and at that moment I became aware
that Mr Wolfsrath was getting a kind of excitement and satisfaction
out of caning me, and that my bare bottom had somehow become an object
of lust to him.
I gritted my teeth and bent over the desktop again.
"All
right", Mr Wolfsrath said, "Let's start again", which was followed
by a hissing sound of the cane, which made another painful landing
on my quivering buttocks. A mournful cry escaped my mouth but I willed
myself to stay put.
In quick succession stroke TWO, THREE and FOUR
landed on my bottom. Waves of unbearable pain shot through my body.
I started to cry and shout on top of my voice, promising anything
and everything if only the caning would stop. "Please STOP Sir! I
will be a good boy Sir, honestly Sir. Please STOP Sir, I will tell
Father Francis how sorry I am, Sir."
Mr Wolfsrath said, while he
stopped the caning for a moment, "I am glad to hear your good intentions
for the future Anthony. But to make sure you won't forget them there
are still another eight strokes to come." And before he had finished
his words another cane stroke tortured my bottom. And another one,
and another one. I screamed like a pig till at last the end of the
ordeal arrived with the 12th stroke of the cane.
With my shorts and underpants still wrapped around my ankles
I shuffled to the wall, put my hands on top of my head, and I started
my "corner time". Mr Wolfsrath left the study; I couldn't help noticing
a bulge in front of his trousers. About ten minutes later he came
back and told me to dress and go home.
The next Friday afternoon
I went up to young Father Francis with the wheals of Mr Wolfsrath's
cane still hurting my bottom, and I told him how sorry I was for having
been so disruptive in class during his lessons. Father Francis' angelic
face was beaming while he said to me: "I am so glad to hear that Anthony."
With his right hand he patted the top of my head and stroked my hair,
and said: "I know you are a good boy." I did become one of Father
Francis' pet pupils.
The German language was not very popular among
us schoolboys. The first little German rhyme we boys taught each other
was: "Deutsche Sprache, schwierige Sprache. Dass die der Teufel hole!"
which means: "German language, difficult language. That the devil
may take it away!"
After my close encounter with Mr Wolfsrath's
cane I did not dare to give him the slightest reason for disapproval.
I knew he could not cane me during school hours but I did not want
to get an invitation to visit his study at home again. After the caning,
when doing homework, I gave my German lessons top priority and soon
I became number one of my class in German and also one of Mr Wolfsrath's
favourite pupils. In my later life I came to live in Germany for ten
years and at that time did I fully appreciate the thoroughness with
which Mr Wolfsrath had taught me the language.

Lying in bed, flicking through his collection of old Scouting books,
Scott felt a pang of regret and longing at the sight of all those
young men in tight fitting short trousers and smart knee length long
socks; especially when compared to the 'trendy' uniform of today's
Scouting movement. He kept finding himself drawn to one picture in
particular. It showed a stern looking Scout Master sitting with a
teenage Boy Scout over his knee. The Scoutmaster was giving the boy
a sound spanking and from the look on the boys' face it was obvious
that this was no token punishment but one designed to get through
to where it hurts. Scott tried to imagine himself in the boys'
position and felt a stirring in his loins. Furthermore this image
reminded Scott of his own spankings at the hand of Father a strict
traditionalist.

Called into his father's study having changed, if necessary,
into his School uniform, Scott would then be told why he had to be
punished before being drawn over his Fathers knee to begin the
spanking . Scott never got used to the searing pain as his Father's
right hand beat down over his Short trouser clad butt cheeks. His
father would always begin slowly, taking His time between each
strike as if He were measuring up his target. Before long the pace
would quicken and the burning sensation emanating from Scott's'
rear would begin to grow. He tried not to cry out, but once His
trousers had been lowered, with only his white cotton briefs for
protection, Scott couldn't help himself. He would try to break free
but his Fathers grip would keep Him firmly in place. No amount of
pleading for forgiveness or exclamations of how sorry He was would
divert His Father from His purpose. The final round of punishment
would always take place on the bare. The removal of His briefs was
always a moment of dread for Scott. He knew the punishment on His
already painful arse would be that much harder, and now there was
to be no protection from the pain metered out by His Father's hand.
As Scott's butt cheeks grew an ever deeper red, the tears would roll
down his face, his cries for forgiveness would go unheeded. This had been a regular part of his life up to the age of 13 when Scott moved from middle to senior school and finally out of short trousers, into longs . At the time it was a relief to be dressed as the other boys . For almost two years He had been the only boy in his year at School still in short trousers and as a result had been the butt of many cruel jokes . He was always made to wear short trousers at home and when He went to His Scout meetings , which again had been the source of constant embarrassment . Now five years on , at the age of 18 , and his final year at school , Scott missed those simpler , boyhood days .He often felt that a sound , over the knee spanking would be much preferable to the grounding or loss of pocket money which were now the usual methods of punishment . Furthermore He had recently been made an assistant Scout leader and now had the problem of keeping a group of unruly , younger teenagers in order . Again , how much simpler life would be if He could administer some traditional discipline to help maintain order just like the Scout master in the picture . With these thoughts in mind Scott closed the book and turned off his bedroom light . He had a busy day the next day at Scouts helping to organise the next camping trip .

However, Scott's cock had been stirred into action. With the
memories of his childhood days, the picture in the Scouting book and
his overwhelming desire to return to short trouser past, firmly on
His mind Scott began Instinctively to gently stoke his growing
member and caress his now aching balls. His hand began to move in a
steady rhythm on His erect shaft now lubricated by his pre cum
juice. Faster and faster, spurred on by his desire and need. Within
the space of a few moments Scott could contain himself no longer and
shot his thick creamy load high into the air and watched it land on
his flat, hairless chest. With a deep sense of pleasure and relief
Scott rubbed His man juice into his body before turning over and
falling into a fitful sleep.


The next morning Scott woke to find that his alarm clock had
failed to go off and was faced with the prospect of being late for
the Scout meeting. Within ten minutes He was washed and dressed and
running down the street to the bus stop. But despite his Herculean
efforts He was still over half an hour late when He finally arrived
at the Scout hut door. He knew Mr Dunn, the Scout leader would not
be impressed. 'Not a good start to your new position as assistant
Scout leader is it Scott' he could hear Mr Dunn say.

Scott was all ready with his words of apology when He was stopped
in his tracks at the sight that greeted him on opening the Scout hut
door. It was as if He had gone back in time. He stared, opened
mouthed, at the sight of traditionally clad Cubs and Scouts in their
smart khaki uniforms of short sleeve shirts, short trousers and knee
length socks held up with green trimmed garters. It was like a picture
out of the old Scout annual he had been reading the previous night.
Before He had time to gather his thoughts Scott heard the authoritative
voice of Mr Dunn, booming across the hall from his office. 'Your late,
and where's your traditional Scout uniform boy?. You're the one who's
always going on about returning to traditional Scout values and now
you're the one whose let the troop down'. Scott turned towards the
sound of the voice and was greeted by a traditional clad Mr Dunn
striding across the hall towards him. Scott blushed with embarrassment.
It didn't make sense. He knew nothing about the uniform change. At
the same time He felt a stirring in His groin as he surveyed the
magnificent form of Mr Dunn in His short trouser uniform; the tight
fit emphasising a body that was well looked after. 'I'm sorry sir,
I didn't realise ...' Scott mumbled 'Never mind that now boy We've
got too much work to do this morning preparing for next weeks Scout
camp. But report to my office after the meeting.' With that Mr Dunn
turned and strode back into his office leaving Scott to face the
looks and comments from the other boys.

That morning went by in a haze of activity as Scott helped
organise the final preparations for the Scout Camp. He felt stupid
being the only one in modern Scout uniform, why had no-one told him?,
He soon learnt why from the other boys. The idea to have a Traditional
Scouting Weekend had been taken up and agreed upon at the last
annual general meeting, three weeks ago. Scott had been absent from
the meeting because of illness. On His return the following week,
Scott arranged a meeting with Mr Dunn so he could be filled in on
what had happened in his absence; but Scott had failed to show,
distracted by a film on TV he had been desperate to see for some
time. An angry Mr Dunn had phoned His Father who had grounded him
for the rest of the week because of His 'irresponsibility' and
'thoughtlessness'. He never did find out what was decided at the
meeting. Now he knew. It was all His own fault that, once more, He
had failed in His duties as a Scout leader.

At the end of the day Scott found himself in Mr Dunn's office
receiving a long lecture about 'responsibility' and 'being given
one more chance'. Scott was only half listening. Instead, He
marvelled at the sight of Mr Dunn in his traditional Scout uniform;
badges proudly displayed on the arms and chest of his khaki, short
sleeved shirt; its tight fit emphasising the firm ripe muscles of
its wearer; the long khaki socks leading to those bared Muscular
thighs; and who knows what pleasures lay behind those tight fitting
short trousers. Scott thought he could see a knowing bulge pressing
against the light trouser material. It certainly was against his
own trousers; his own cock responding to this wondrous sight by
pushing against the lining of his white briefs.

Suddenly Scott was thrown out of his reverie with the words
'traditional punishment' and 'Fathers permission'. Did He hear right
or was it just His own vivid imagination returning once more to
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