Draft Tuesday, June 8, 2021 6:03 PM

tyke48

For pretty much all of my life it seems I’ve had a taste for the forbidden. It started when I was very young. I must have been about seven years old the time I was doing ‘Bob a Job’ for the cubs, when a lady who lived nearby asked me and my friend in to her house to do a little job for her. She would have been around 25, blonde, married, to me at that age a goddess.After collecting and taking out an old rug and some bottles, she gave us our shilling each, then said ‘Do you want to see the scars from when I was caught in a fire?’ We both nodded eagerly. She pulled the curtains so that no-one could see in from outside. In the soft twilight, she lifted her dress right up, and held it between her teeth. Her flesh-coloured stockings and white suspenders were instantly right there in front of us, the delicious bare flesh between her knickers and stocking tops slightly scarred at the back, just beneath her bottom where she pointed. ‘There look, can you see it?’. We nodded, dumbfounded. We were at eye-level to her knickers, and about two feet away. I was aware of a delicious perfume coming from her, which I now realised was a sexual scent. There was a thrilling sensation in my belly and down my legs. I knew that all this was somehow forbidden, maybe wrong in some way, and I loved it. Nothing else happened then, but I’ve never forgotten the thrill. It was the start of a life of loving what is naughty and not allowed, the taboo under the surface of apparently ‘respectable’ life. We walked down her path two innocent little cub-scouts doing good works, and nobody would ever know what else had gone on in there. Of course there were the usual naughty childhood games – a look at yours for a look at mine, doctors and nurses etc., and I loved them, but the bad and wrong were also exciting. The flashers, the man who tried to get us to go to his house to see a naked girl he said was there (we didn’t go, sensing danger) - all so bad, yet with a thrill that felt so good. At around fourteen, I was camping with five friends in the Lake District. One night at around ten o clock, a man appeared at the door of our tent and said that some people in the nearby village had complained about our bad language. He said he was a master in a reform school, and they’d asked him to deal with us. Here were the options: either he’d go to the police and we’d be on a charge of offending public morals, a fine, maybe time in Borstal, our parents knowing; or he’d give us the strap that they gave to the boys in his school. Of course, naïve idiots that we were, we chose the strap. He told us to meet him next morning at nine in a barn which he pointed out up the hill.We dutifully arrived, some of us more scared than others. He emerged from the barn looking dishevelled. He told us to come inside three at a time, the other three to remain outside keeping watch. I was in the first batch. We were ordered to take off all our clothes and brace ourselves against the wooden rail, presumably there to tie up cattle. The impostor withdrew a leather strap from inside his jacket, and went along the row of bare bottoms giving one swipe each, then starting again until we’d had four strokes each. Then we were told to get dressed and send in the other four. When it was over, we made our way back to the campsite jubilant that we’d got through all that, being brave. Back at the tent we showed off to each other the purple marks on our bottoms, the same shape as the lethal looking strap. Evidence of our bravery. Mine’s worse than yours, that kind of boyish bravado. I was left with some kind of fascination and excitement. We had believed his story, ridiculous now of course, yet still I felt that there was something not right about what had happened, something excitingly wicked under the surface.That’s been my experience with a lot of adult life since. The girlfriends who appear, who are, respectable on the surface, then as trust develops there emerges some liking for something a bit more, let’s say, unusual. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that my first serious girlfriend enjoyed being hit while being fucked. Of course I was reluctant at first, I was very fond of her, didn’t want to hurt her. But then, I reasoned, if I loved her then I’d give her what she wanted, and began to find this part of me which enjoyed slapping her thighs and bottom. So I was primed for when she said, at the height of passion, ‘strangle me’. I did it straight away, giving her this bad thing that she wanted. The fact that she wanted it was the exciting thing, that she wanted something unusual, a bit perverted maybe. She gurgled ‘fuck me harder, harder…squeeze tighter…’, her voice strangulated and croaking, until she had an almighty orgasm, and so did I. I’d never filled her with so much spunk before. We fell back exhausted and thrilled, the beginning of our real sex life together, which I’ll go into more in the next installment.

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