Three Hot Days

Authors note: This story contains graphic descriptions of fully consensual corporal punishment including hand spanking, strapping, and caning. If these are offensive to you please be warned, and don't read on. If you do, please don't then criticise the content. I have received negative comments on several of my "spanking" stories before, including;

Another story advocating domestic abuse. Pathetic.

Pain of any sort is never acceptable in a loving caring relationship.

Whilst people are entitled to their opinion it is not mine. There is a large, significant minority of people with an interest in spanking and other forms of cp both inside and outside of loving relationships. Whilst some adults practice consensual corporal punishment in their lives, for others it is a fantasy. This story describes fully consensual corporal punishment in both a "judicial" and a loving setting.

This is also a love story. Straight sex is also part of it.

All of the participants in this story are adults over the age of eighteen years. As usual, none of the characters depicted are real and any similarity to real places or people living or dead is purely coincidental.

One of my characters, Matron, also features in a different unrelated story, The Making of a Masochist.

The events described in this story happened fifty years ago in a world with very different moral and social values and this story should be read within this context.

I have also tried to explain the emotions of a masochist. They are complex and, like people, sometimes difficult to understand. If I have failed, my apologies, and in advance apologies for any editing mistakes that this story contains. They are mine and mine alone.

Please comment and score. Any constructive criticism positive or negative is welcome. Far too few folk score and even fewer make comments, especially after reading BDSM stories. Rude, stupid, gratuitous, and anonymous comments will always be removed. If you post abusive posts using a moniker your post may be left so folk "know" who you are. You will only make yourself look stupid or rude, or possibly both.

Three Hot Days

The summer of 1983 in the UK was a good one, the sixth-best in over seventy years. At the time, it was the hottest summer ever recorded, with forty days of temperatures of over twenty-seven degrees Celsius recorded between the beginning of July and the end of August. This is what happened to me on just three of them.

***

There is a well-known poem with the opening line, "They fuck you up, your parents do." *

In my case, nothing could be more true.

My earliest memory of my mother is of a tall plain bony awkward woman with a loud voice. She was well suited to her job as headmistress of a private girl's boarding school near Birmingham. It was the mid-sixties and the establishment over which she presided was not a pleasant place to be a pupil. Discipline was strict and liberally enforced with a strap or cane. Mrs Ames had a fearful reputation for both her willingness to sanction corporal punishment and her ability to administer a particularly painful thrashing.

When I was born in 1965, my misfortune was to be the last of the four children that my mother bore, and to be a boy. She was forty-five years old when I came into the world and my three elder sisters were twenty, eighteen, and three years older than I was. I later realised that I was both unplanned and unwanted, an inconvenient reality, conceived when my mother thought it was no longer possible.

If I had been a girl maybe I would not have been so out of place, but my mother was a misandrist and avoided men as much as possible. In the world in which she lived, there were few of them. The teachers at "her school" and who taught "her girls" were ladies. The caretakers, gardeners, and handymen were men, but she did not talk to them except to issue orders. The school cook, serving staff, and our housekeeper were considered better than men but still worthy of little respect.

My father was a mouse of a man. He did only what my mother told him to do and did it exactly as directed. I never heard him voice an opinion of his own. His most common responses to my mother seemed to be, "Yes dear, As you wish dear, or Whatever you think Marjorie."

I often wondered why my father married a woman who hated men and why he stayed with her so long. I never remember them sleeping in the same bedroom. I am amazed that he could have fucked her the four times needed to produce four children. I have a vision of her barking instructions as he impregnated her.

Her reasons for fucking him are easier to understand. Three successful pregnancies. Until I came along she produced only girls whom she could try to fashion into clones of herself. Only her fourth pregnancy could be considered a failure.

In our family, Mother wore the trousers.

***

We lived in a large three-storey house provided by the school. It stood on the grounds of the school but had its own large walled garden, and it was here in this world that I was brought up.

We were very well off. My father was a respected local vet with his own rural practice and my parents had very few overheads. They paid no rent, rates, electricity, or phone bills, and the school gardening team and handymen were available whenever they were needed. A housekeeper ran the house. From the age of eight, my three sisters, in turn, attended the school. They did not board and their subsidised school fees were extremely reasonable.

I cannot remember my mother ever showing any love or affection, nor did she spend much time with me when I was a child. My parents employed a full-time governess to do that. My eldest sister, Jean, had already finished school and was in her second year of teacher training when I was born, and my sister, Alice, was also soon due to fly the nest. Only three-year-old Moira remained at home with me. I think to begin with, Moira thought I was some kind of doll to play with, but she soon got bored with me and I was left to be brought up by Mrs White, my governess, who doted on me and treated me as if I were her own. Up until I was eight years old and went away to boarding school she was a constant in my life.

My parents were absent much of the time. My father was busy with his practice six days a week and my mother had little interest in me. Her job was full-time. Even on Sundays, she would attend both the school chapel and the local church, and she never seemed to be at home. My father was often not at home on Sundays. I later realised that he was avoiding Mother, who seemed to believe that members of the male sex deserved no respect or happiness. For the first few years of my life, my two eldest sisters flitted in and out of my life when they came home in the college holidays. but by 1970 they had both moved away and returned home only for the occasional Christmas Day. I remember very little of them whilst I was growing up.

I started junior school when I was five years old. My interaction with Mother continued to be sporadic. In the evenings, whenever she was at home, she would spend time reading to or home tutoring Moira whilst I was left with Mrs White, the governess. I didn't mind. My mother rarely had a kind word to say to me and often called me stupid or reminded me that she had never wanted me. Her attitude was infectious. Moira often told me I was stupid or that I was a boy and "Mother says all men are pigs... They only want one thing." The first time she said this I was eight and she was eleven, and even if she knew what that "thing" was, I certainly didn't.

I had few friends my age and I rarely visited their houses. They were never allowed into mine and after the first round of birthday parties that I went to, without a party of my own, invitations slowly fizzled out.

When I was eight years old I was packed off to a private boarding school. My mother was pleased to be rid of me; my father as usual was given no choice in the matter. I remember leaving home to go to boarding school for the first time. The school was in the North of England, a hundred miles by road, and my father was to take me by car and deliver me there.

My heavy trunk and tuck box were loaded into the car by the gardener and the caretaker whilst Mrs White fussed over me and cried buckets. My mother curtly said goodbye and didn't even wait for the car to move off before turning on her heel and walking back into the house. The last I saw of Moira she was pulling faces at me.

It all seemed so normal.

***

Public school was the saving of me. Although I was not the most sociable of children, I was tall for my age, and unlike my classmates, I was not homesick. During the first week at school, I did not mope around and cry myself to sleep at night. I was not a target for the bullies, of whom there were all too many, and quietly I thrived.

It was in my first weeks at school I first met James. He was the only son of a rich businessman who lived in York. We were an ill-matched pair but hit it off immediately. He was extroverted whereas I was quiet. I was tall and thin whilst he was a rather fat podgy boy and small for his age. Whatever I lacked in self-confidence he had in spades. We might not ever have been such friends but for the accident of our names. I was Ames (staff never called you by your first name) and he was Ambrose, so we were forced to sit at the same double desk in classes.

James and I became like brothers; the ones that neither of us had ever had. We stood together in our little world and soon we had our nicknames. They stayed with us until we left school a decade later. I was "Laurel," and he was "Hardy."

Hardy was the first person, other than Mrs White, who ever fed my self-esteem. My father had never done much to crush it, as my mother and sisters had, but neither had he had the courage or inclination to disagree with them.

Away from home, at last, I learned that I was not as stupid as my mother said. From Day One I was one of the best academically in my class. I started to play sports and I excelled. James was effusive in praise of my athletic prowess and my self-confidence slowly returned.

By the end of my first term, most of the kids were counting the days to the Christmas Holidays but I was not. I arrived home to a very cold welcome from Mother and Moira. My father had little to say for himself: by then I think he had given up,

If I was expecting to see Mrs White, I was going to be disappointed. My mother had sacked her the day after I left home. As it happened, I already knew. She had written to me every week and I had written back. My father wrote only twice, and my mother didn't bother at all. Every Sunday evening we had a letter-writing hour following which our missives were posted, and if anybody ever noticed I wasn't writing to my mother they never said.

The day before Christmas my mother told me that Mrs White had phoned the week before and was coming to take me to her home for Christmas. I was ecstatic to be away from my family and back in the company of the only woman who had shown me any affection. Predictably, she cried when it was time for me to leave.

Soon, farming me out at school holidays became a regular thing. My first Easter I spent with James and his family, and in the summer I went to my Aunt in York. She was my father's sister, and predictably enough had nothing good to say about my mother and very little good to say about my "spineless father." After that, I only occasionally went home during the school holidays. Nobody appeared to miss me at home.

I may have been unloved by my family, but at school, things were very different. I was a star pupil. As the years passed I grew tall and strong. I was popular with teachers and boys and in my final year I captained the school rugby and cricket teams, and, in the ultimate accolade, I was made head boy.

On the school prize-giving day, I was awarded several books for my services to the school. James received the physics prize. I remember his parents clapping enthusiastically when we received our prizes. My parents and sisters were only notable by their absence.

I had half expected I might see my father. He had "got out from under" several years earlier and had finally left my mother. I wondered what had taken him so long. He didn't turn up either, although he did have an excuse. I didn't know it at the time, but he was very ill.

***

In 1983 I left school. I had been accepted to a BSc course in zoology at Liverpool University. I cannot deny that being close to Anfield, Liverpool's home ground did not play some part in my decision. James had also won a place to study physics there, and we had agreed to share a flat. Before that, we decided to go on holiday to the Greek Islands for a month. We had a great time drinking too much ouzo and retsina, chasing women (unsuccessfully), and lying on the beach.

On our return, I was staying at James's parents' home when one evening the phone rang. It was my Aunt. She told me that my father had died three weeks previously whilst I had been away. Unfortunately, nobody knew how to contact me. She was sorry, but his funeral had already happened. Would I like to visit his grave? When I asked her how he had died, she told me that his heart had just given up. She believed that his wife and girls had driven him to it. It was then she dropped a bombshell.

"He left you most of his money. Around half a million pounds after tax, I would imagine."

I was struck dumb and said nothing,

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, Auntie, I heard you. It's such a shock, that's all. Where on earth did it come from?"

"He inherited it from our father. I don't think he touched it. He didn't want your mother to know about it, so he invested it.

I don't like to speak of the dead and he was my only brother, but he did nothing for you when he was alive. He was a weak and silly man. The only sensible thing he did was hide that money from your mother and her brood. It's only fitting that you should benefit from his will."

The tone of her voice became more serious.

"Now listen carefully to what I'm about to say. The only people who know what's in that will are you and I, and for the time being that's how it's going to stay. I'm the sole executor and have the will which has been properly witnessed by a solicitor and paralegal. It is incontestable but that doesn't mean your mother won't try. I have been left fifty thousand pounds, Mrs White receives ten thousand pounds, and you have been left the balance of his assets. He didn't want anybody else to inherit. He's very clear about that. I've got the relevant passage in his will here. I've read it so often that I almost know it by heart, I'll read it to you.

To my bitch wife and my children, Jean, Alice, and Moira, I leave nothing other than contempt for my wife, and pity for my girl children and any man imprudent enough to marry any one of them. To my son Malcolm, to whom I gave so little support in life..."

She paused.

"I think you get the gist of it."

"Now, I know that you don't stay much at home, but I'd get down there straight away and clear out anything of sentimental value to you before anybody finds out what's going on. Once your mother discovers she's not getting a penny, they'll throw you and everything you have into the street. If you need any money in the meantime, I'm putting money in your bank account to tide you over."

***

I caught the train home the following morning and arrived in the middle of the afternoon. I had rung ahead, and the housekeeper had prepared a room and had set an extra place at dinner. I washed and changed my clothes and went for a walk in the school grounds. As I approached our garden gate I saw a young lady approaching. She was unremarkable to look at with long brown hair and green eyes, She was of medium height, and well-covered but not fat. She was wearing a knee-length summer dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, you must be Malcolm. Moira mentioned you might be coming. I'm Claire her friend."

Later at dinner, I found out a little more about Claire. Mother was not present. She had some "important" conference to attend in London and would not be home for three more days. In front of her guest, initially, Moira was civil to me. Both Moira and Claire had recently finished teacher training and had known each other for the last year or so. Whilst Moira was planning to teach at Mother's school, starting at the end of the summer, Claire had a different plan. She was travelling to Canada to study for a master's degree. She was staying with Moira for a few more days, having arrived a few days ago.

The beginnings of discord started soon after dinner when Claire suggested I accompany them to the cinema to see Octopussy. Afterward, we sat in the pub and chatted, and I found myself increasingly attracted to Claire. She was interesting, clever, and witty. Moira found herself on the edge of the conversation and I could see the signs of her becoming increasingly annoyed, but I didn't care.

Later, as we arrived back home, Claire turned to me and spoke.

"We're going to into Birmingham tomorrow, Malcolm. Would you like to come? It will be fun."

"I don't think he's interested," said Moira, quickly.

"I'd love to come," I said.

"OK, see you at breakfast at nine o'clock," said Claire. "Goodnight."

As I walked away, I looked back to see Moira glaring at me. If looks could kill, I might have soon been dead.

The following day passed with no drama until after we had returned home from the city. It was about half past five in the late afternoon when the shit hit the pan. It happened like this:

I had climbed the stairs leading to the two garret bedrooms situated at the top of the house. At the top of the narrow stairs leading to them was a small landing with doors leading off it, left and right, to two bedrooms, each with its ensuite shower and toilet.

I had gone there because the bedroom on the left was normally my bedroom and, for reasons I did not understand, on this visit home, the housekeeper had prepared me a room elsewhere in the house. It was no big deal but now I wanted my stamp collection and some books which were of sentimental value to me, and which were stored there. I was going to retrieve them before the contents of my father's will became known.

As I stood on the landing I heard a noise coming from the bedroom on the right. The door had been left ajar and I soon realised why I had been assigned to another room. As I looked through the crack in the doorway, I saw Claire. She had just showered and was wrapped in a towel. I was about to quietly creep away when she suddenly dropped the towel, stood in front of the mirror, and started to run her hands over her breasts. They were perfect; the size of grapefruits, and her nipples were erect. She was narrow-waisted, and her bum was big and round. I was transfixed. I had never seen a naked woman in the flesh before.

She was standing with her legs apart when she reached down between her legs and started to rub. Now I couldn't leave. My dick was hard inside my trousers, and almost without thinking I undid my flies, took it in my hand, and jerked my foreskin up and down.

As her hand moved so did mine, and I was oblivious to anything but the sight of Claire and my pleasure.

That was unfortunate because Moira had come upstairs and was standing behind me. The first I knew of it was when she reached past me, pulled the door shut, and slapped me hard across the cheek.

"You dirty fucking cunt!" she shrieked. "What the fuck do you think you are doing?"

My erection vanished in a flash, and as I bundled my flaccid dick back in my trousers, she pushed me hard against the wall and continued to scream at me.