Joyce

Joyce Ch. 01: The Choice

Looking back from the vantage point of three score years and ten, one sees many scenarios where an alternative choice of action could have sent events in a completely different direction – maybe for the better and maybe not.

I have often thought of what might have happened had I elected to be bolder at certain times.

Forty years ago, I was working as a copy editor for a legal magazine and book publisher near

Chancery Lane in the City of London.

My supervisor was a statuesque and formidable spinster in her late 40s. Her name was Joyce Tipson but in the formal manner of the early '70s, we underlings always respectfully called her Miss Tipson to her face.

I had noticed that she had an eye for a shapely young male backside and her eyes often lingered greedily on my own posterior, always encased in skin-tight trousers, as was the fashion in those days.

She thought I didn't notice, so I would often bend over provocatively to perform some task when she was in eyeshot for the sheer devilment of it.

One day I received a phone call from Miss Tipson to visit her office and firstly entered an ante-room where her PA (although they called them secretaries in those days), Julie, was seated. She was a very attractive girl in her early 20s and always seemed to have a streak of mischief in her.

"The boss wants to see me, Julie," I said cheerfully.

"Yup, John," she replied. "And if I were you I'd stick an exercise book down the back of your pants before you go in." she giggled.

I was surprised at her remark as it was the first ever hint that something beyond the normal office routine was going on here.

Anyhow, standing in front of Joyce's desk, I was told I had made a major mess-up in a court report and was given a severe dressing-down, told to buck my ideas up and warned that the matter could be appended to my personal record file.

"So what have you got to say for yourself, John?" she said, fixing me with a steely, blue-eyed gaze.

(And this is where the buzzers sound and the lights flash.)

"I'm truly very sorry, Miss Tipson," I mumbled, "and it certainly won't happen again."

She was still looking at me with a questioning expression.

There was long silence and eventually she told me to leave and get back to work.

The choice was there but I had fluffed it. I had always had a strong interest in CP as a recipient but in my early years, unenthusiastic girlfriends, disinterested call-girls and pro doms who were only willing to cane bottoms with no erotic nuances whatsoever, had all left me rather cold.

Thinking about it now, I am convinced that there was a golden opportunity to start a relationship with a real-life female boss who would discipline me with as much pleasure as I would get from receiving.

So let's rewind the videotape to where the choice was offered and see what might have happened.

"I'm truly very sorry, Miss Tipson," I mumbled, "and it certainly won't happen again."

She was still looking at me with a questioning expression.

"If there is any way I can make amends for my errors I would be happy to oblige," I said softly.

She looked at me with a ghost of a smile on her face. "I have always been a believer in traditional discipline but, needless to say, in these modern times the law and society disapproves of such methods. But if a wrongdoer is willing to accept punishment in the form of a caning, where's the harm? Only you and I and Julie would ever know."

"Er, Julie?" I stammered.

"Don't be silly, John, she knows everything that goes on in this room and you might get a pleasant surprise afterwards. Anyway she could hardly avoid hearing the sounds that are going to be resonating around this office shortly."

With that Miss Tipson walked briskly over to a tall cabinet, unlocked it and withdrew a supple, yellow, curly-handled, rattan cane.

"That looks like a real bum blisterer," I said jokingly, trying to lighten my mood which was somewhat apprehensive.

Miss Tipson chuckled. "Well your rear will be the most recent recipient but there have been many more before you, young man."

She placed a chair in the middle of the room and told me to kneel on the seat sideways with my hands on the carpet the other side.

"I have decided that 12 of the best would be appropriate for your offence and your trousers are so tight and thin that I see little point in embarrassing you even further by insisting you remove them."

Without any preamble she moved behind me and delivered the first stroke, a whistling humdinger that swished and cracked across my arse with serious effect.

She left 20-second pauses between the strokes and by the fourth my grunts had turned to a mini-yelp.

The fifth and six whacks were hard to take but she paused at that point and bent over to whisper in my ear. "Well, John, do you think this caning is doing you good? Are you repenting and is the soreness of your bottom making you regret the error of your ways?"

"Oh yes, Miss Tipson," I gasped, "I realise now that a caning is exactly what I needed to set me back on the straight and narrow."

After the seventh and eighth thwacks had descended, my bottom was glowing with a delightful heat and for the ninth and tenth I was arching my buttocks towards the cane's trajectory, involuntarily begging for harder strokes.

My submissiveness had taken over my entire body and I barely felt the tenth and eleventh as a numbness had pervaded my bum.

Before the final stroke she leant down towards my ear. "The last one is always the hardest, John. Are you ready?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Tipson," I whispered. Was I ready? Was she kidding?

I tensed my backside and heard the swish of the rattan as it headed towards my cheeks at great velocity. It certainly was a hard one and I nearly tumbled off the chair as it nearly bisected my arse.

I slumped forward. "Thank-you for my caning," I said gratefully.

She patted and rubbed my bum cheeks and smiled. I stood up and the bulge in the front of my trousers made it quite obvious that I had enjoyed our session at another level too.

"I've been quite lenient with you, John, for your first offence but, be warned, any more slackness on your part could deserve more serious punishment. And, if you feel that my methods are doing you good, feel free to report to me and confess any other transgressions, even ones unconnected with your work," she said.

This was music to my ears – an open invitation for a good whacking whenever I felt the urge.

I thanked her again and left her office intending to return to my own office but there was another episode to come.

Julie was still sitting at her typewriter (no computers then).

"Hello again, John. Twelve of the best, eh? They sounded like real stingers too?"

She pointedly stared at my considerable erection. "Looks like you really appreciated it! Would you like me to ease the pain with some cream. I usually offer this service to Joyce's miscreants. She likes to keep her naughty boys happy and willing to return. It doesn't do me any harm at pay rise time, either.

"Let's go to the ladies' loo. Everybody's gone home now."

We walked down the corridor and into the ladies. She told me to take of my trousers and pants and to bend over the toilet bowl and I found myself in much the same position as I had been with Miss Tipson a few minutes previously.

"Boy, you've got 12 lovely red ridges across your arse there," she said laughing. "One of them really stands out. It must be Joyce's special last stroke. She usually lays on a real belter to finish off."

Julie rubbed cold cream on her hands and started to massage my behind with slow movements.

Before too long her hands started to stray all over the place – up and down my bum crack and a slight insinuation into my fundamental orifice. Then she was brushing against the back of my balls and before too long she grasped my now raging engorgement, giving me words of encouragement while her hand moved up and down my shaft.

"Poor John...is your bum really sore from Joyce's cane...never mind Julie will rub the pain away from your poor bottom...ooooh, I can feel the ridges on your arse...it'll be a few days before they disappear...let Julie give you a lovely wank..."

And with more words along these lines, the inevitable happened as Julie speeded up her wrist technique and I exploded into the toilet bowl.

While she was cleaning me up with a tissue as I sat on the bowl, I reflected that some of the more respectable legal ladies, sitting in this lavatory tomorrow, would be shocked to have seen our little tableau.

I stayed in that job for another two years and, of course, reported to Joyce frequently to confess a variety of misdemeanours. I never made any deliberate mistakes in my work as that would have been irresponsible but manufactured a wide range of punishable offences ranging from lateness at work, being rude to my auntie, not finishing my greens at dinner, and so on.

Miss Tipson was an imaginative disciplinarian and varied the punishment according to misdemeanour.

For example when I confessed to not changing my pants and socks one day because I couldn't be bothered I was given a monumental bare bottom hand spanking across her knee. She was a large and athletic woman and a prolonged session over her lap was a very chastening experience. "If you commit childish offences you get treated like a small boy," she told me as her hard hand reddened my buttocks to steam heat.

Other variations were a Perspex ruler and an old-fashioned plimsoll for schoolboy errors, a Lochgelly tawse for not washing the back of my neck properly, a wooden yardstick for answering her back, and so on and so on.

But all good things come to end and, regrettably, with my move to another part of the country, we could not continue our mutually agreeable relationship.

And so, dear reader, if you have reached the end of my story, I must say that even 40 or so years later I wish that most of the above had occurred because, it is, of course, only my surmise and is probably over-optimistic as far as the attentions of her secretary were concerned.

But even now, I am convinced that she would have loved to have given me superb beatings to be relished and remembered.

Afterword: Joyce Tipson was a real person and if she is still around she would be in her late 80s. If by some miracle, you were ever to read this, Joyce, my apologies if you are offended by some of the hypotheitical actions I have made you take. But I don't think that's very likely.