Crammer Pt. 04

*

As I regained my senses, I realised what had happened to me. The dozen strokes of a near judicially sized birch had been excruciatingly painful and almost too severe to receive with any degree of stoicism. Yet here I was feeling very happy and contented, with a tremendous sense of accomplishment. At first it would appear strange that being secured by the limbs to pieces of furniture, with the agony of thousands of fire ants having stung you all over your arse, could be anything else but a frightful experience. I’d better explain for newer readers.

My lover and I were parted by a tragic accident a few months ago. We had known each other since we were toddlers together living next door to each other. We were the same age, and Chrissie’s father had become rather more absent minded as we approached our twenties. Chrissie had discovered his collection of adult reading material, happily her father didn’t realise that we were educating ourselves curtesy of his private library. Chrissie and I practised what we read and we were considering some serious spanking for pleasure. We had already indulged in some very mild sessions, and became aroused. However, both of us were subject to painful corporal punishment from our parents and had suffered very sore bottoms as a result of our misdemeanours during our formative years. These parental beatings weren’t at all stimulating in a sexual sense and we had doubts about the authenticity of what we had read. Yes, we knew that most of what was written was fantasy, but within the stories there seemed to be a grain of reality. The mechanics of arousal as written was in accord with what we had confirmed with each other, we had shared some amazing climaxes together. Furthermore, within literature like The Pearl there were countless accounts of spankee’s attaining a type of ‘nirvana’, and now I knew that that had a grain of truth in it as well.

I felt a couple of swift smacks to my bottom, left and right. It was out of the blue, stung, and shook me out of my complacency. Coming back to earth, I realised that I’d better not say anything my temporary mental sojourn.

“Where was I, I feel all strange and my bottom is roasting hot.”

“You’re just recovering from a severe birching, Danny, and I’m afraid there’s a caning to come as well. Your mum had to leave, so we’ll proceed. I’ll be interested to see if you can stay in position for the cane. If you don’t, I’ll begin the caning again.”

With that, she undid the dog collars and I very slowly and gingerly stood up. For a few moments I tottered before I regained some sort of balance, Miss Prymm moved one of the chairs back to its original position and I didn’t need telling that I was to bend over the remaining article of furniture. I had the impression that this ordeal would be a lot worse than the birch and even though Dad had given me dozens of strokes on my bared bottom, I just had this feeling that Miss Prymm could get the maximum effect from whatever instrument she chose to use on me. The 18 with the paddle had been no laughing matter and I was still frightfully sore from the ‘junior’ birch despite copious amounts of first aid afterwards. I leaned over the back of the chair and forwards so that I could bite the front of the cushion, and apparently, I had got into the correct position first time, Miss Prymm was satisfied with the way that I had presented my bottom. There was a brief interval, and during this I heard a rattle as two hard surfaces collided, and then a couple of low-pitched swishes, to test my mettle perhaps. I didn’t flinch, and I still didn’t flinch when I felt a hard surface resting against the crown of my backside.

I was hanging on to the front legs of the chair, my knuckles white, when I felt the cane leave my cheeks. I just had time to top up my lungs with air when I heard the atmosphere being cleaved by the instrument. The crack echoed around the room and almost simultaneously a white-hot iron wrapped itself around my derriere. I almost bit through the cushion with the shock, thankful that the stroke hadn’t landed on cold flesh. The agony escalated through degrees of excruciating torment, and it was all I could do not to stamp my feet. The stroke was definitely harder than Dad’s efforts and it was only because I had been extra-well prepared that I managed to keep in position. There was a delay, presumably Miss Prymm was waiting for me to get the full benefit of the pain. It was on my internalised count of 20 when there was another cleaving of the air and the white-hot brand was repeated. I felt myself tearing up, but I still kept control of the tear ducts, I had the impression that my bottom was writhing with the agony, and I struggled to draw another deep breath. The next stroke was no easier, the breath was blasted from my lungs and only that prevented me from screaming. Desperately, I gasped another quick breath, and the third stroke continued to burn its way into my flesh, just below the first two. My eyes were welling up and I clutched the chair legs in an effort to focus on position. The fourth stroke caused me to cry out, I just couldn’t help it, and I was sure that the flesh on my behind had been cut. It was a short cry, but a sign that I was almost losing control. Unconsciously, I had been counting between the strokes, 20 seconds between each one, sure enough, the fifth blazed at the juncture of thigh and undercurve, I almost leapt up, and silently wept into the cushion. Twenty seconds later and the final stroke burnt its way into the same place. Silently weeping, I waited for the command to arise, and she made me wait for a count of sixty before I was bidden to arise.

I had to stand to attention, hands behind the head or thumbs in line with the thighs were the two approved positions for the hands. I wanted to clutch my roasted mounds and dance on the spot, despite the lack of dignity that would show, only I didn’t want another six scorchers for failing to take my punishment properly. Consequently, I couldn’t conceal my tears, and I was disappointed that Miss Prymm could see that I was such a crybaby.

“Put your shorts back on, you are dismissed, tea is at 6pm. I expect you to attend.”

The smart of the birch was still excruciating, and the welts from the cane made it even worse. I slowly moved to where I had placed my shorts and made ready to step into them, I happened to be looking at them from the back and noticed what looked like several parallel lines used as a marking or label, curious I thought. My hesitation had another interpretation.

“Anything the matter, young man?”

“I was wondering about these lines at the waistband.”

“I’m sure you’ll work that out. I thought you were wondering about your caning.”

“Well that too, I’ve had the cane at school many times, it was never this painful. Dad used to give me a dozen on the bare, and it hurt even worse -of course, but never this bad. I suppose you must think me a wimp, six and crying my eyes out.”

“But you’ve never seen a birch before, have you? I thought not. The normal practice is to soak it overnight in order to soften the tines. Your birching was with a freshly cut bunch of 5 tines, with the buds still attached, and hard enough to flay the skin off your backside. I’m amazed that you didn’t scream the place down. And a real six of the best on top of that would try even the most hardened spankee. You did well, now crawl upstairs and see to yourself. You’ve 90 minutes till tea-time, and you’ll find something useful in your bedside drawer.”

The words were slightly reassuring, ok I wasn’t a complete wimp. I struggled to put my shorts back on, and try as I might, I didn’t see any signs of amusement on Miss Prymm’s face. I slowly made my way to the dormitory, with each shuffle of my feet, the shorts fabric scuffed against my burning bottom. On reaching my goal, I collapsed on my bed, I realised that there were two other occupants of the room, but I took no notice of them. After a minute or two, the call of a cold shower was too much to resist. Despite the pain, I removed the shorts and my socks. My shirt was less than a problem, my upper body muscles didn’t hurt at all. I made all speed to the shower, and took full advantage of the cold water. After about 5 minutes, my upper body was freezing and the play of the ultra-cold water on my bottom took away some of smart. One of the lads called from the dormitory,

“Can we help you, mate?”

I grasped a towel from a rail and hurried back to my bed. Opening the bedside drawer I saw a jar, and retrieving it I placed the towel on the bed, and lay on top of it. I wasn’t sure of what was in the jar, but Miss Prymm had said that I would find it useful, and it was a cream of some sort. Opening the screw top jar, I gathered a good dollop of the substance and started to massage it into my burning cheeks. I was finding it awkward to maintain a smooth application of what I guessed was some sort of moisturisor.

“Here, let me help,” said a nearby voice.

Before I could graciously decline the offer, I felt some movement on the mattress, either side of my lower legs, and a pair of hands moved mine aside, and massaged my bottom. For a split second, I thought of voicing my objections, but the relief I felt a moment later dispelled any feeling of alarm, and I settled down into the mattress. I don’t know how long I allowed his hands to stray all over my arse, but eventually I felt stirrings around my groin, and I couldn’t allow myself to be aroused in these circumstances. I used to get really hard when Chrissie used a moisturisor on my warmed up arse, but with blokes, no this wouldn’t do.

“Thank you for your help,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster, “I’m feeling a lot better.”

With that I rolled over and brought my legs to hang over the side of the bed. He moved his left leg away as I rolled onto my back and then onto my right side. The massage had been amazingly effective and it wasn’t so painful to put my shorts on.