The Boy Who Hated Girls (M/m)

Christmas has come and gone and even New Year revels are starting to be a distant memory. The world, sadly in some parts, slowly gets back to what passes for normality. In my case, as regards this blog, that means constructing a few chatty posts and the odd creative story. The latter, especially of the F/m variety, is well overdue. Shall spend some of the dull January hours developing a couple of ideas. (See below after this old tale). Festivities over I am well in need of having my own bottom severely smacked and, with that incentive, I shall put my metaphorical pen to work. In the interim I post this old tale, first shown on the malespank story site in 2008. Worth an airing here. In my primary schooldays a loathsome nine year old girl named Gillian got me an undeserved smacking. I have hated that name ever since and here, obliquely, I get my own back. The boy in the story still suffers in the time honoured way but, like Gillian's cat, he probably thought it was worth it. Happy New Year. Alfred Roy

He held out his hand as instructed. He didn’t look, instinctively his head turned away to the wall. He had stretched his arm and hand out in the required manner. Hold the arm out straight, shoulder height or even higher, hold the fingers together and stretch out the thumb. His shoulder ached from holding his arm so high. He felt the cane tap his palm, just below his fingers and, thankfully just above the outstretched thumb. If he was lucky the crack of the cane would hit his palm exactly right and miss his outstretched fingers. If he was really lucky it would also miss the tip of his thumb. This is what the boy really hoped. The last time he was caned it had hit his thumb both times, one on each hand and that had hurt. But that teacher wasn’t an expert. But this one was. He was very expert in caning ten year old boys and this particular boy, face resolutely turned to study the wall, prayed that the expertise had not faltered and that only his outstretched palm would sting.

 

He heard the instruction to stretch out his arm even further and raise it even higher. Being an obedient boy he did as he was told and, simultaneously, pressed his small fingers together and urged his wavering thumb to create a separateness which would spare his pain. It was at moments like this that he dearly wished that he did not have a thumb. It may be smaller than fingers but, unlike them, it reached tantalisingly above the palm. And when palms were struck by a cane, deservedly so or not, the thumb tips of unlucky ten year old boys could multiply the undesired pain that followed. So the boy stuck out his hand as far as it would go, raised his arm as high as the expert teacher commanded, and urged the unwanted thumb to shrink and disappear. And as the cold cane tapped his small palm and readied itself for the first stroke he screwed up his eyes and thought of Gillian.

 

Gillian would be watching and enjoying this. A spiteful ten year old classmate who took great delight in getting small boys into trouble. Especially ones who lived in the same street. Gillian would get an especial thrill at seeing him standing in front of the class with his hand outstretched. Would enjoy seeing their teacher, the expert caner, place the rod across the boy’s palm, ready to strike. Would enjoy the whip and thwack of the cane across that palm and, as his tears began to flow, would enjoy the discomfort in those outstretched compliant fingers and thumb. And Gillian would especially enjoy knowing that she was the principal cause of the distress. For Gillian had provoked the boy, had teased him and spit at him and no one had seen. Had kicked him and scratched him and no one had seen. And when he kicked her back and pulled her hair, still no one had seen. And so she teased even more and kicked even more. And finally, the boy lost control and punched her in the face. And someone, this time, had seen. The teacher. The expert caner. And Gillian, seeing him out of the corner of her eye, burst into copious tears and ran to him. He had seen the punch in her face. He had seen her tears. And he would know what to do. And so now the boy stood in front of the class, his hand outstretched, waiting for the sting of the cane.

 

The cane swooped down and cracked across his palm. All his instincts told him to withdraw and clench his fingers across the burning fire to ease the pain. But he had been instructed to hold his arm out straight and to stretch his small hand for two strokes of the cane. Two strokes and then, as the fire burned into the delicate flesh, to turn and stretch out his other hand for two further strokes. He waited. He closed his eyes even tighter and held out his throbbing hand as far as it would stretch. And that second stroke whipped expertly into his palm and tears rose into those tightly closed eyes. And after it fell and cut a second avenging sting he obediently turned and, allowing the tears to fall, he caught sight of Gillian. Her watery vision was clearly enjoying his pain. He clenched his eyes closed and held up his virgin hand for the third and fourth strokes. His other palm throbbed with scholastic fire but all the pain was burned across the centre flesh. So far his fingers and thumb had been spared. His stretched the clean hand even further and, as instructed, held it up as high as it would go. Fingers closed, thumb outstretched, and the breath willingly held. The only difference now was that tears were uncontrollably trickling down his cheeks and his small legs were trembling. But the boy, the obedient boy, held out the unblemished target of his teacher’s wrath and agonisingly, dutifully, absorbed the two further lines of special fire. And when it was all done and the boy was sent back to his desk he vowed his revenge. As the twin stings burnt and bit into his flesh, as the tears copiously flowed down a face steeled with impassivity, he looked across at the smirking Gillian and inwardly determined vengeance. He didn’t like girls. He had never liked girls. But now he hated them. He hated all girls. Especially Gillian. He was a diligent and dutiful boy but he hated Gillian. And as his hands throbbed with the incessant, tear inducing, pain the intensity of his hatred surprised him.

 

Concentrating on lessons for the rest of the day was not an easy task. The blistering pain in his hands vied with the boy’s fertile imaginings of revenge. He and the awful Gillian lived near a canal. Perhaps he could push her in when no one was looking. He had often seen her on the towpath and a little push would do it. But she would scream, she screamed very loudly, and he might be discovered. Or, even worse, she might drown, and as much as he hated her the boy did not wish that. No, attractive as the idea was, pushing Gillian into the canal carried too many problems. Perhaps her bike was a better idea. Gillian was very proud of her bike and rode it every day in their street after school. He could tamper with the brakes or let down her tyres. The boy was sure he could find an opportunity. But tampering with the brakes risked her falling off and breaking her neck. He warmed to the idea of her falling off her bike but her breaking her neck was a step too far. Like drowning in the canal it smacked of excessive revenge. Perhaps he should just let down her tyres but that, conversely, seemed as tame as the other possibilities seemed unnecessarily severe. The boy was on the verge of giving up, and on that verge of giving up he rubbed the painful blisters on his hands and, as he did so, a small secretive smile lit up his tear stained face. Gillian, the awful Gillian, the girl who had got him caned had a cat. More than that she had a cat on which she doted. A cat that was her pride and joy. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when or where, but as he rubbed his still burning palms the boy was convinced that Gillian’s cat would be the architect of his revenge. He didn’t think all this in such precise terms. He was only ten. But from his confused and childish and vengeful mind he conjured up an alluring picture of Gillian’s cat.

 

Within a week a plan had formed and developed and within a few more days the opportunity arose to put it into action. The boy had no intention of harming Gillian’s cat. He may hate Gillian but he quite liked her cat and regularly stroked it when passing her house. And the cat liked him and, equally regularly, used to stop by his house for a friendly pat.  And one day, two weeks after his caning, a day when the streets were quiet and deserted he patted the friendly cat and, picking it up, put it in the shed at the bottom of his garden. The cat didn’t mind. A warm blanket and a dish of tinned salmon had been studiously placed for its creature comforts. And if it did get distressed he would eventually let it out. The completion of his plan would only take a few hours.

It all went surprisingly easy. Within an hour Gillian was anxiously searching for her cat. Within two hours a rumour was spreading around the street that the cat had been seen by the canal. In spite of the fact that the canal was officially out of bounds to young children it did not prevent Gillian rushing down there to search for it. The rumour had been conveniently spread whilst her mother was at the local shops and the impatient and hateful Gillian did not await her return. Whilst she was away on her fruitless search her mother returned from the shops and the boy recovered and returned the cat, the well fed and satisfied cat, to its home. He had found it in his garden and no, he did not know where Gillian was but somebody had said that the cat had been seen by the canal and she might have gone there. Gillian’s mother frowned a menacing frown and, turning it instantly into a grateful smile, took the cat from the boy and thanked him profusely. It had all gone surprisingly well, not unlike the cat’s effortless disposal of the tinned salmon. That was the only marginal weakness of his plan. His own mother might notice the absent salmon tin and he had yet to think up a suitable explanation.

 

He need not have worried. The salmon was not missed and, more importantly, he had not been seen with his feline prisoner. And to add to these small satisfactions of his well executed plan he had achieved his ultimate aim. He had got Gillian into trouble with her mother. Her frown had spoke volumes. It was much later in the day, whilst musing on the implications of the depth of that maternal frown, that he discovered that hell hath no fury like a girl spanked. He was taking a walk to the shops for his mother when he was stopped on his innocent errand by the unnerving blocking presence of three ten year old girls. He liked none of the girls and he liked less what they had to say. Within five minutes, mixed with prods and pushes to his small person, he learnt of Gillian’s downfall and her, and their, conviction that he was the cause of it. Lack of evidence did not deter that conviction. He had brought the cat back and he had told Gillian’s mother that she had gone to the canal. Gillian had been spanked and, as they had gone with her on the search, they could have been in trouble as well. They and she would not forget. After a few more pushes and prods, accompanied by colourful verbal threats, they let him go. He had admitted nothing and if slightly unnerved by the threats he was secretly pleased that the much hated awful Gillian was currently nursing a very sore bottom. It neatly squared the account raised when that teacher’s cane had landed on his upturned palms two weeks before. In his innocence he trusted it would all soon blow over. But ten year old boys do not understand ten year old girls and Gillian and her friends did not forget. They were determined to get him into trouble at school again and this time his offence would be so heinous they would probably lock him up and throw away the key. His plan may have been clever, its execution perfect, and its outcome pleasing. But it had not factored in the blind prejudice of girls against ten year old boys. Especially the one in their street who had returned a cat who, if it could speak, would have declared it had never been lost.

 

It is famously said that revenge is a dish best served cold. If the boy’s small token took place whilst his palms were still relatively warm, the girls, led by the monstrous Gillian, were prepared to wait for their opportunity. And wait they did. And when that chance came, they seized it with vengeful relish. Unlike the boy when assessing the consequences of any of his retributive actions, the girls took little interest in the outcome. Providing the boy suffered they would be well satisfied. And they were satisfied, in the sense that the teacher who warmed his palms subsequently warmed them again, but they never saw it. They merely took pleasure in the knowledge that ten year old boys were no match for the collective deviousness of determined ten year old girls. Their opportunity came on the first day of the school games. They did not plan it, you could almost say that it just happened, but led by Gillian they seized and executed the chance to get even with delicious aplomb.

 

The first day of the school games were always very popular and lots of parents and guardians turned up to the playing field to see the younger children express their prowess in a variety of sports. Tradition determined that a token sum was extracted from eager and proud adults as a contribution to school funds. Two boys were allocated to gate one to act as collectors and two girls were allocated to gate two for the same purpose. Tickets were issued and the monies collected were placed in a small velvet bag. At the height of the games Gillian and two of her friends saw that the boy at the centre of their wrath had been left alone at gate one. Their first thought was that they could pinch his money. Their second thought, arriving an instant after the first, was that they could pinch his money and get him into serious trouble. It didn’t take long to evolve the juvenile plan. Gillian hurried along to the girls changing rooms. Her friends grabbed the velvet bag and charged off in the same direction with the boy, unsurprisingly, giving chase. The friends rushed into the changing rooms pursued by a purposeful boy and handed the bag to a triumphant, hastily departing, Gillian. They turned to confront the boy, satisfied in the knowledge that they was surrounded by a very wet and very naked group of screaming ten year old girls who had recently given their all in the 4 x 400 metres relay. As the boy turned to escape he saw a formidable and highly indignant sports mistress and behind her, clutching the velvet collection bag, a satisfyingly smirking Gillian.

 

The boy tried to offer some sensible explanation of his unwelcome presence in the girl’s changing room but, even at ten years old, he quickly realised that his protestations of innocence were falling on deaf ears. To the shocked and flushed sports mistress no explanation was possible, no reason justifiable. A boy in a girls changing room, a room where those same naked girls were showering, was a crime beyond explanation. He could plea his case to his form master but, to her sensitive eyes, he was already condemned. And if his form master, this time, suspected a schoolgirl plot he could not deflect the insistence of an indignant colleague that the boy should be caned. For the second time in a few weeks the boy held out his palm and, fingers closed and thumb outstretched, suffered the painful experience of two searing strokes. And, as before, the process was quickly repeated on his other hand. The form master put his cane back in his desk, the sports mistress expressed herself as reasonably satisfied, and the boy shed the expected tears. When the first stroke fell he realised he hated Gillian, the Gillian who had told her schoolmistress that she had saved the velvet money bag when it had been deserted, when the second stroke fell he hated the girls who had lured him into the their changing room. And when the third and fourth strokes fell across his unwilling palm he hated all those naked girls, all sixteen of them, who had been showering in that room. Without their presence he would not have been caned. If they had been boys he would not have been caned. But they were girls. And as much as he hated the pain in his palms he hated girls more.

 

In one respect he considered himself very lucky on that fateful sports day. The sports mistress had insisted he be caned and confronting his form master had loudly proclaimed that his trousers should be taken down and the punishment issued to his bottom. His form master had declined such severity. For the sin of entering the girl’s changing room the boy would be caned but, unconvinced that there was any malicious intent, the palms of his hands would suffice. The boy listened intently to their short adult conversation and trembled nervously at the possibility of the ultimate schoolboy indignity. The three were alone in his form master’s small study and for a fleeting moment he feared that, for the first time in his young life, he would be caned on his bottom. And if she had her way he would have to take down both his trousers and underpants. Mercifully it did not happen and only his palms felt the burning sting of the cane. But he had come perilously close. It would have been unfair; he knew that and so, instinctively, did his form master. But it might have happened and the possibility was sufficient to make a small boy extremely careful as to his future conduct.

 

It is, of course, impossible to stay fearful too long especially when that fear is in regard to something that did not happen. Within time the boy overcame his caning and the drama that immediately surrounded its execution. Life has too many distractions when you are ten years old and it was only when meeting Gillian’s cat or, less welcome, the girl herself that old sores re-emerged. Contact with Gillian and her friends was kept to a minimum. Gillian and he may be in the same mixed class but they were sworn enemies. Their unspoken hostility ensured that they stayed well apart both during lessons and on the street where they both lived. Theirs was just one small, insignificant, war that is replicated in its thousands all over the country. But it was their war, or more to the point it was a war that Gillian relished. She was far more vindictive than the boy and was the principal reason why he hated girls, all girls. She took her few opportunities at school to taunt him and tease him and occasionally, for no other reason than that she enjoyed it, to issue a secretive push or a sneaky kick. She was very careful not to be seen and, remembering his canings, the boy was very careful not to respond. The worst times were on the journey home from school. If he was with friends the journey was uneventful but sometimes, walking alone he would be confronted by Gillian and her three friends. On those occasions he did kick and punch and then, at a greater speed than they could muster, run. Being a boy had its advantages. It did not spoil his life but he longed for the day when he would be transferring to a boy’s only school. Girls were nothing but trouble. Being in such a frame of mind it should not come as a surprise that a week before the end of the summer term, a week before he would leave a mixed school forever, he was the centre of a local cause celebre. And the inspiration for a chaotic and unexpected event on the school’s rickety old bus was Gillian’s well fed and satisfied cat.

 

The cat was having one of its regular early evening rambles and as it passed the boy’s house it stopped to show him the fruits of a recent one-sided battle. The boy bent down to stroke the cat and take closer inspection of the item clamped firmly in its jaw. As he did so the awful Gillian turned the corner and, spying the boy and her beloved cat, approached both with a mixture of nastiness for one and nurture for the other. And then, in an instant, her demeanour changed and the boy simultaneously discovered both her Achilles heel and a new weapon of revenge. He didn’t realise it at the time but when Gillian departed, screaming and shouting and begging him to get rid of the offending item, he had gleaned some interesting information. Gillian loathed mice. Even dead ones. And the one in her cat’s mouth was undeniably dead. It was some time later that the boy mused on how she, and her equally awful friends, might react to a live one. Two days later he purchased a beautiful white mouse from the local pet shop and placed it in a plastic food box he found in his mother’s kitchen. Being a dutiful and considerate boy he created a number of breathing holes for the mouse. All he had to do now was find an opportunity to slip it into Gillian’s school bag without being seen. That opportunity never arose and to discover what actually happened and to witness the final act of this drama we need to enter the small study of the boy’s form master where, a few weeks before, an irate sports mistress had failed in her desire for the ultimate retribution to a schoolboy who had affronted her charge’s decency.

 

The form master had been questioning the boy for almost half an hour. Gradually he had learnt the truth of the cause of the crashing of the school bus whilst taking a class of ten year old schoolgirls to their weekly swimming lesson. Thankfully no one had been seriously hurt but all, including the harassed driver, had been shaken and distressed. And the rickety old bus had made its last journey in the services of educational recreation. The girls had been questioned and it had transpired that a small plastic box had been found at the back of the bus and on opening it, ten year old girls are very curious, a small white mouse was discovered inside. The box was dropped on the floor and the mouse and the girls, or some of them, ran amok. In the confusion the driver lost control of the bus and veered into a field before coming to a stop on being introduced to an inconvenient wooden barn. Subsequent enquiries had revealed that the previous occupants of the bus, merely an hour before, had been a class of ten year old boys taking their own weekly swimming lesson. And now one of those boys stood before him. It had been a simple matter to discover the purchaser of the white mouse and nervously shuffling his feet in obvious agitation, the culprit clearly had some explaining to do.

 

It didn’t do him any good. He tried to explain that the mouse was intended for Gillian and putting it on the back of their bus was a last resort. He tried to explain that Gillian had been a thorn in his side for most of his short life and twice in the last few weeks had caused him to be caned. He tried to explain that he did not mean any harm and he was glad that no one had been hurt. But he was only ten years old, almost eleven, and all he succeeded in doing was convincing his teacher, his form master, that he hated girls. All of them, not just Gillian. And this teacher, the expert caner, had twice before scorched his hands and clearly intended to do it again. Why else had he taken his cane out of its drawer and taken off his coat. And whilst doing so was saying that the boy gave him no choice. The possible consequences of the stupid action were unthinkable. The boy needed to be taught a sharp and serious lesson he would never forget. The boy trembled as these words came forth but steeled himself for the inevitable and, closing his eyes, held his right arm out in the familiar manner. But as he stretched out his arm, fingers close together and thumb separated, he heard words that should not have been unexpected. Not this time. The time for caning hands had passed. This time the boy’s bottom would have to suffer. It had recently been spared, but if leniency was applicable on sports day such mercy could no longer prevail. This caning would be on his bottom, six strokes, and furthermore it would be with his trousers around his ankles. So he should prepare himself by lowering his arm and, after removing his coat, do the same with his trousers.

 

The boy started to cry. He had thought himself so grown up when he started wearing trousers to school instead of shorts. In long trousers he was ready for senior school, ready for that move away from dreaded girls. He thought back to that day when the angry sports mistress had said they should be taken down for a caning and, in spite of the ensuing pain to his hands, was relieved that they had remained on his person. If they take down your trousers you are no longer grown up. And now he wasn’t grown up. He was being told to take off his school coat and to take his trousers down. He couldn’t resist. The teacher had the cane in his hand and they were in his small study. Just the two of them. And he was only ten, nearly eleven. And he was an obedient boy. He did as he was told. So with the tears still flowing he took off his coat and fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. It took him a little while. His fingers, fingers that would not feel the sting of a cane, refused to obey his simple instructions. The buttons would not undo and the trousers would not fall. But one by one, as the teacher impassively looked on, the buttons released and the trousers opened at the front and allowed themselves to be pushed down unwilling thighs and legs. Finally they rested on his ankles and he looked at the teacher, the expert caner of hands, waiting for further instruction. He knew what he had to do. He had never been caned on his bottom before but, like all schoolboys in such a situation, he did not need telling. But being told seemed important. Being told to bend over and touch your toes or grasp your ankles, to present your bottom, was an important part of the ritual. The boy may never have been caned on his bottom before but he knew the rules. All schoolboys do. So he waited, trousers surrounding his ankles and, on cue, his form master told him to bend over and hold onto his ankles. The boy did so. It was a strange position, one he had never been in before. But it did not seem unnatural. It was frightening, it made him sweat and tremble and induced a sickening fear, but the position itself held no more discomfort than holding out an outstretched hand. He did not like it because he had no experience of a cane on his bottom. He knew how it felt on his hands but pain to his bottom, from any source, was an undiscovered experience. He did not know what to expect. He stared at the carpeted floor and waited, conscious only that his small bottom was raised in the air. And while he waited large rough hands lifted his shirt up his back and, satisfied that it would remain in place for the duration of the punishment, turned their attention to the small grey underpants which encased the lower portions of the boy. After a moment that seemed an age to the boy he took them down and both the bottom and the boy winced.

 

The strange and new experience was now even stranger. The boy felt the teacher’s thumbs inside the waist of his underpants and involuntary shivered as they were deftly pulled down to his knees. He sensed the cool air enveloping his small bottom and his even smaller penis and, as the cold cane tapped impatiently across that bottom, he held his ankles more firmly and tried to stem his flow of tears. As the cane concentrated on his bottom he fearfully concentrated on the study carpet. It could not sting more than the caning of his hands and he had held firm through that. So he steeled himself for the first stroke of a new experience. For the first time in his life he was going to be caned on his bottom, his naked bottom, and the impending prospect of unfamiliar pain both fuelled his tears and stiffened his wavering resolve. But when it came, slashed across the centre of his two small cheeks with a savagery he could not have imagined, he screamed and jumped up rubbing the violated target and pleaded for no more. All internal preparation dissolved in the violent icy sting across his bending form. As the single line of fire burned into his naked flesh he promised to be good and begged for the caning to continue on his hands. His bottom was not ready for such attention; please cane the hands which he eagerly offered.  It did him no good. Tears and pleas fell on deaf ears.  He was made to bend again, his shirt was lifted again and the cane tapped his bottom for a second time. The boy sobbed uncontrollably and the form master, the expert caner of hands, readied himself for the continuation of a necessary lesson. Perhaps the shock of that first stroke had helped him or maybe his chastiser, fearing he had struck too hard, eased off on the second of the six marks he intended to give. But whatever the reason the boy remained in place as his howl of anguish indicated that, for only the second time in his short life, an unforgiving cane had fired across his naked bottom. And he remained in place for a further two strokes, two strokes which cut with venom into the young and gentle flesh of his small backside. It was only the increasing intensity of the fifth stroke that made him half rise and scream in agony. A scream which doubled in tearful anguish as the sixth, most vicious, stroke struck low on his half bending form. The first five strokes of the cane had lined the centre of his soft and naked cheeks. The sixth, avoiding the falling shirt, had caught his buttocks much lower and the now dancing boy sobbed uncontrollably. The fire across the centre of his bottom was being eclipsed by the stinging burn further down and his hands, in confused and desperate consternation, rubbed first at one area and then the other. He had never in his short life suffered so much and it was two minutes before his hands ceased their rubbing, a further three before he reduced his sobbing and almost ten minutes after the last stroke of the cane before he pulled up his trousers. He hardly heard his teacher’s final words about hoping never having to do this again. He was only conscious of a throbbing bottom and trousers that refused to button up, mocking his fumbling preparation for their earlier removal, and the involuntary sobbing and tears that refused to completely stop.

 

The boy remained in a subdued state for a couple of days. The caning of his bottom, bent over with everything down, was not something he was eager to share. A number of people suspected that he had suffered the ultimate indignity but he had no intention of enlightening them. Even his mother remained in ignorance. There was only one attentive listener to whom he poured out all the embarrassing and painful details. And he would never tell. Gillian’s cat would merely listen and, as if on cue, make suitable and conciliatory sounds of sympathy. But that was hardly to be unexpected. He much preferred the boy’s company to the awful Gillian. After all the boy plied him with tinned salmon whereas she only gave him painful and constricting hugs. He didn’t particularly like girls. And the boy gently stroking the cat’s fur and, occasionally, doing the same to his own sensitive bottom clearly didn’t care for them either. In the league table of life, specially compiled by boys of a certain age, hated and awful girls were a long way behind cats.

 

Alfred Roy (2008)

 

To Come:    Taking Care (F/M)     /      The Nieces Party (F/f)      /      The New Boy's Clinic (F/m)