I had been a sailing club member since I was thirteen, and I was now seventeen and doing my A-level studies at a local technical college. Joan was the Commodore of the sailing club following the last committee meeting.
Joan had divorced and owned an old traditional keelboat racing yacht with a varnished hull above the waterline and wooden decks. There was an enormous amount of work required to maintain these boats every winter. I had a fourteen-foot fibreglass racing dinghy which needed minimal maintenance.
Joan ran the club strictly, had stopped underage drinking and insisted on excellent behaviour in and around the club. Woe betides anyone who broke the club rules. But she was a senior police officer. I thought Joan was a real hard-arse, and it didn’t bother me. In fact, I approved.
One day she asked me, “I know you can use a blow lamp because you used to burn the paint off your old wooden dinghy every winter. Could you please spare me three to four hours on a Saturday afternoon in helping to carry out the surface preparation of my boat above the waterline before I give it coats of varnish? I would be most grateful.”
Of course, I agreed, and we worked on the boat in a big, dry shed and started it on the next Saturday afternoon early in November. The work made steady progress, and by late February, the hull was almost ready for its first coat of varnish at the next warm spell, which usually happened during March. Joan had brought an electric kettle to the shed and there was a small workshop where we often had a welcome coffee and a chat halfway through the afternoon in the unheated shed.
My mock A level exam loomed. The work preparing for it mentally drained me and Joan must have seen my drawn look. Unless you were one of life’s geniuses, you had to work for your grades. Sixty years ago there was no grade inflation, and the best universities ensured fierce competition for their places in terms of grades from us countless baby boomers.
Joan said, “Peter, do you have to get back for tea today, or can we spend more time?”
I assumed Joan meant time working on the boat. My parents were away at my father’s regimental reunion. It was going to be a big event, as a member of our royalty would be present. They were staying overnight. I’m sure this was because my dad did not want to have to drive back after a skinful with his old comrades in arms. I did not need to be back by a certain time.
“Peter, you are not yourself. You are working well, but I can see the drawn look on your face. What’s wrong?”
“It’s the awful pressure of getting ready for the mock A level exam. We have another six weeks to run in this term because of the late Easter and the mocks are at the end of term. It is almost like a death sentence, and I think this misery will never end. It will end, of course, but it seems such a long way off. If it wasn’t for coming here and working on your boat, I think I would go nuts.”
The exam pressure had driven me way off mental balance, but in those days, you would man up and get on with it. Joan checked the locks on the two large doors at the far end of the shed, and we were alone. She was my height and quite attractive in a butch sort of way. Joan closed the workshop doors and locked them. For the first time, she took me in her arms. I thought at that moment it was just an act of tenderness.
“Peter, this examination pressure is tough on young people because so much of your lives depend on it, but I understand, and I can offer you relief. You need some stimulation. Would you like me to cane you, please? It will have a wonderful effect on you, I assure you.”
At first, I was speechless! “What? We can’t do that!”
Joan turned my head to make me look into her eyes.
“Why not? At about your age, I was in a similar situation and my uncle offered me, and I accepted a stimulus caning. It hurt, of course, but it gave me a changed perspective and that was what I needed. It will hurt you, which is an important part of it, but the stimulus to your system and the sensations a few hours later will be beyond belief.”
“We can do it in comfort at my house. Amanda is away abroad on an exchange visit with her language class at the college, and I am alone there. A sore bottom will take you out of yourself and reset your outlook. All you have to do is to accept it and keep your mouth shut.”
The idea of being caned, possibly bare bottom, by the older and mature Joan was attractive. I had been embarrassed that when I saw her in public a few weeks before, I got an erection and she had noticed. Joan was sophisticated, and would know exactly how to deal with me and would do it erotically. I had never had a fantasy like it, and I could feel my penis stiffening. I could visualise receiving a caning from her.
The thought of the attractive, strict, and authoritative Joan standing over me, brandishing a cane, almost gave me an orgasm on the spot. My earlier erection just looking at her was proof of her attraction to me, so why not take the plunge? No one else would know.
“OK, I agree, and thank you. We need to do more work today, because the hull is not quite ready.”
My pals thought I suffered from a gross excess of focus and had told me so a few times. Whilst I had enormous focus, I had an equally enormous imagination. They recognised my dark moods, but were probably not aware of the breadth of my imagination. My dark mood had lifted already in anticipation of the erotic caning.
“That’s my boy. The idea of it has lifted you already. I can see from your face. You don’t have long to wait for your sore bottom.”
After a little over an hour, we stopped work, turned off the blow lamps and left them on a heat-resistant surface to cool. We swept the floor and bagged the debris into bin liners, pouring some water into each bag to make sure it could not catch fire. After waiting for ten minutes to check everything was ok, we locked up and left. On my bicycle, I made the five-minute ride to her house. She unlocked the rear garden gate and put my bike in the back so no one would see it from the road. We went in through the kitchen door.
“Peter, I will cane you in the back bedroom, which is unoccupied.”
She took me upstairs and showed me the bathroom.
“Get naked, relieve yourself, and wash your bottom and your penis. With a bath towel around you, when ready, go to the back bedroom and wait for me. Take your time.”
I did as I was told. The realisation that I was about to be taken on an unusual journey was sinking in. Joan prepared herself in her en-suite bathroom and came to me wearing a dressing gown, holding two canes.
“Peter, I don’t think you have received a caning before, have you?”
“No, I didn’t get into enough trouble at school and my parents don’t do it. There is nothing like that at the technical college.”
“I want to see how well you receive the cane and the effect it has on you. It’s best to cane the bare bottom, so I can check my aim. An excellent position is for you to stand by the corner of the bed and bend over to get your head and shoulders down as close as possible to the bed. This position tightens the skin of your bottom. Remove the bath towel, drape it over the bed where you are standing, get the rest of it on the floor and stand on it. If you become aroused and ‘drip,’ it will fall on the towel, not the bed or carpet.”
I shyly removed the towel and could no longer hide my erection. I blushed all over.
Joan smiled. “Don’t worry. You are a normal boy. I would be worried if you didn’t have an erection.”
She got hold of my buttocks with both hands and squeezed them hard.
“These are going to be so sore in a few minutes, but another part of you will be as stiff as a caber. Bend over, please, keep your legs straight and try to curve your back downwards to emphasise your bottom.”
I did as I was told. I felt the cane rubbing backwards and forwards across my bare bottom.
“Are you ready, please?”
“Yes.”
Tap-tap ‘crack,’ and I received my first ever cane stroke. There was an instant of numbness and then a line of fire erupted across my bottom. I gasped, but stayed in place.
My penis was throbbing. I looked around and saw that Jean had dropped her dressing gown and was naked. This was the first time I had seen a naked, ravishing lady, and it fulfilled my earlier fantasy as she stood there, brandishing the cane with a smile on her face. She had an impressive figure, but I did not realise how alluring she would look naked. Joan was a natural blonde and her breasts were in excellent shape.
“Well done. You took it well. Ready again?”
“Yes.”
Tap-tap ‘crack,’ and stroke number two struck home. I yelped in pain.
“Well done again.”
Tap-tap ‘crack,’ stroke number three. My bottom was on fire and I was going ‘ow, ow.’ When I looked around, Joan had a hand down at her crotch and was touching something with her fingers. It was then that I understood caning me was a turn-on for her and would lead to sex. I was close to orgasm, despite the pain, which drove everything else out of my mind. I could feel fluid at the end of my penis and I had taken a pee before we started. Joan had been correct in thinking that I might ‘drip.’
“Halfway to six strokes, my brave boy.”
It carried on like this until I had received six strokes. I was so stimulated and I would have had an orgasm had not the pain of each cane stroke temporarily reduced the feeling. I was so turned on by her presence that didn’t feel humiliated or afraid. It was our secret, and I was ‘living a fantasy.’ I stood up, and rubbing my bottom, I could feel the six hot welts as the pain of the impact of the cane decreased. Joan took my head in her hands and kissed me. Then she reached down and took hold of my rigid penis.
The wonderful feeling of sexual arousal enveloped me, mostly because of the expertise and seductiveness of my ‘torturer’. Joan took hold of my penis and massaged my balls, and I almost exploded. My pains were decreasing and the sensation in my bum was so erotic.
“My bum is on fire, but it’s a sensation, not a pain.”
“Six strokes is for little boys. When are you eighteen?
“Next month. Please, can you give me a few more strokes?” I said this as if in a dream! The experience, whilst severely painful, was so erotic I wanted more!
“OK, can you handle six more strokes, please?”
“Yes, I think so,”
“Get back into position.”
I took up position again. The cane went tap-tap on my bum, and a second set of six strokes began. Joan was doing it harder, and the pain at first grew to a crescendo after each stroke. Towards the end of the six strokes, I was ‘floating,’ and the all-enveloping sexual arousal replaced the pain. I guessed that what Joan possibly perceived as a brave performance on my part was an enormous turn-on for her. My heartbeats roared in my ears. My erection had drooped, but as the pain ebbed and the afterglow started, it returned harder than ever.
As I stood up, Joan took my head in her hands again and kissed me. She eased me back onto the bath towel and took hold of my penis. I was about to lose my virginity to her.
“Get comfortable on the bed, Peter.”
My penis was rigid. Of course, I knew how to bring on an orgasm, but Joan was just holding it and doing nothing else. She let go and got on the bed, her knees on each side of me. She eased my erect penis into her warm, wet vagina.
“Don’t worry. I’ve had a hysterectomy and can’t get pregnant.”
This was before we had heard of HIV. Joan was fit and ‘rode’ me. I climaxed in about fifteen seconds, and she could not have taken more than a minute before she followed me. Despite my climax, I remained hard. My semen was dripping out of her and I wondered how much I had produced. Her vagina was in spasm and maintained the wonderful feeling in my still erect penis. We remained coupled for several minutes. Joan leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.
She smiled and said, “Peter, how do you feel now?”
I could not describe it. My penis was still throbbing slightly, and I was still in a state of high arousal. I believe blondes give off a type of scent unlike any other lady and it is highly erotic.