A Victorian Birching Fantasy (M/m)

Body Swop

We all need things to do in lockdown and I have often hankered to write a Victorian birching story. So not before time and inspired by pics found on the excellent CORPUN site here is my attempt. Pure fantasy, as if that needs saying given the narrative. Alfred Roy

 

I can’t be hearing this. Who is this man? Where am I? Who am I? He is saying something. I need to lean closer. I am in a dock. I know that. A burly policeman with big walrus moustaches is standing by me. He puts his hand on my shoulder as I lean closer to hear what the man is saying. He looks like my old headmaster, or at least like the Victorian photograph of his grandfather which hung prominently in the school hall. And the expression on his face is even grimmer and sterner. And he is speaking. Speaking to me. I lean closer still, taking in the unfamiliar fusty brown surroundings. I am in a dock and this is a court, a court not unlike the reproductions that have been cropping up in our town. But they are shiny, new, glorified cafes. This is real, musty, dark, and threatening. And I am in the dock and, listening to the dry tones of the florid faced man, I realise that I am being sentenced. And I do not like, no I am fearful of what I hear.

It was that ragamuffin I met at the fair. The strange fair that turned up in our town one day and was gone the next. He looked like a gypsy. About the same age as me, twelve going on thirteen, but thin and wiry and, frankly, unhealthy. A sickly pallor whereas I had the glowing healthy skin of a well fed and cared for youngster. But he mesmerised. His eyes glowed and he had a funny, old fashioned way of talking. He said methinks a lot. He asked me my name. David I said. I am Wilbert he said. I work here with my dad. We sell potions. Wanna try one? I declined and then he did something very strange. He took a bottle of liquid from his pocket, took a sip, and disappeared. I was stunned, shocked, puzzled. And then he turned up again, behind me, and laughed mischievously. It’s magic, he said, but I only took a sip. Take a big swig and there is no saying what happens. And he laughed again. It was almost malevolent. No it was. Malevolent.

The dry tones of the florid faced man are continuing. I have done something. Something bad. The court takes a dim view of such behaviour, especially one old enough to know better. That’s what he said. I strained forward even more and the burly policeman gripped my shoulder even more. You need a harsh lesson which, hopefully, will curb you of your heinous ways and act as a deterrent to others. I sentence you to eight strokes of the birch. To be administered in the usual manner and under the usual procedure. Take him down. And then he stood up and bowed to the court and left. I was transfixed. Had I heard right? Eight strokes of the birch. He must have been talking to someone else. And then the burly policeman spoke, the first time I had heard his voice. Come on he said, come on Wilbert, let’s get this over with. Can’t be the first time you will have had your bum smacked. I left in a daze. He had called me Wilbert.

The strange boy had laughed at me again and told me to take a sip. Go on Davy, he said, it’s magic. I was tempted but again refused. Frankly I was both intrigued and scared. It won’t hurt you he said, my dad is a genius. And he took another sip and disappeared again only to return behind me some two minutes later. It’s a lovely feeling he said, try it. So I did. But I must have sipped a little more than him because the next thing I remember I was standing behind him and I was wearing his clothes and he was wearing mine. That’s never happened before, he said. You disappeared and then I must have passed out. Well don’t I look grand, he said, and laughed uproariously. His clothes felt rough, baggy trousers and a rough, laced, shirt and large leathery boots. We should change back I said and he agreed and so we both sipped a little more. And I found myself in this dock being sentenced to eight strokes of the birch. In the usual manner.

I am not stupid. I know what that meant. I have read my history books. Boys who were birched got it on the bare buttocks. The bare behind. That is what the books said. I don’t know the details but I was shortly to find out. Unless I could conjure up the real Wilbert or convince the policeman that they had got the wrong boy. I was thinking this when he stopped at a cell door. This is where the doctor will examine you, he said. Make sure you are fit for your birching. He grinned, but not unpleasantly. Don’t look so worried lad, he said, it will soon be over. We never like to delay too long, not fair. The doc will be along in a minute and if satisfied, as he will be, you will be taken to that room at the end of the corridor. He pointed to a large wooden door about twenty feet away. I shall be there with our inspector to see fair play, as will the doctor, and the colleague who is a specialist in these matters. So just the four of us, no need to be embarrassed. Just do as you’re told, he said, and it will be over in five or ten minutes. I won’t pretend, you will feel it, Sgt Colefax is very good with the birch and he takes no prisoners. Just tell yourself that you deserve it. Makes it easier to take, in my opinion. But I don’t deserve it, I said, I have not done anything, and I felt myself start to cry. They all say that lad, doesn’t do any good, he said. But I haven’t, I said, I don’t belong here. I have come from the future.

The burly policeman looked at me quizzically, almost fatherly. Look lad, he said, you are going to be taken into that room in a few minutes and your trousers and pants are going to be taken down, you are going to be strapped to the birching horse, and Sgt Colefax is going to whack your bare arse with his birch eight times. And nothing you say is going to change that. Take my advice and co-operate and take your punishment like a brave boy. Tell Colefax what you have told me and he will cut you in half. There is nothing he hates more than a lad who tries to wriggle out of what he knows he deserves. Now in you go and strip off. Doc will be here in a minute.

 

‘Pants off young man, and your top. This won’t take long.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘That is what you all say. The prospect of the birch on the bare bottom turns you all into angels, in my experience.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘Pants off, I said.’

‘I don’t belong here.’

‘You all say that. Anything to avoid the birch.’

‘But it’s true. I don’t belong here. I come from 1969.’

‘Well, that’s a new one I must say. Now strip. I haven’t got all day.’

‘I’m not Wilbert, you must believe me.’

 

I had started to cry again and the doctor, a man as equally burly as the policeman and with equally imposing moustaches, changed a friendly demeanour to a more serious one. As he spoke he whipped down my pants and looked me firmly in the face. We’ll have these pants off and the top if you please. I need to ascertain your fitness for your birching, though you look a fine healthy young man to me. Well able to take what is coming. Now come along and don’t waste my time or I’ll have you before the magistrate again. And that could mean your eight strokes being increased. Do you want that? As he said all this he pulled my trousers off, I had already removed the heavy and unfamiliar boots, and then roughly lifted the shirt over my head. I was naked and shamefully tearful. This was a situation I had never experienced or imagined. And I could see no way of avoiding what was to come. I closed my eyes as the doctor conducted his minute examination. I reckon every bit of me was prodded and tugged and scrutinised, especially my bottom and genitals. After what seemed an age he muttered something under his breath, a satisfactory sigh I thought, and told me to get dressed again. Just the trousers and shirt, no need for anything else, he said, putting on underclothes just prolongs things in my experience. He put his stethoscope away in a very officious looking black bag and made to leave.

 

‘What year is this sir?’

‘What?’

‘What year is it?’

‘I wouldn’t start that again, young man, I am a busy man.’

‘I’m sorry, but I need to know.’

‘You know damn well what year it is.’

‘I don’t. I don’t know.’

‘Just take what is coming to you and get it over with.’

‘I will sir. I will. I see I have no choice.’

‘That’s better.’

‘Just tell me what year it is. Please.’

 

The doctor eyed the boy. He seemed in deadly earnest. The doctor wasn’t sure whether this was a ruse to try and get out of his birching, not the done thing to birch lunatics generally, or merely to delay it. Irritation vied with interest. The boy seemed normal, intelligent even, not the usual type who got birched. And his body, minutely examined, was clearly well fed and cared for. Soft and healthy skin and well filled plump and creamy buttocks. Not scrawny or splotched as many who end up here. And he was composing himself at last. The tears had eased and his voice had lost some of its tremble. He seemed resigned to his fate, resolved even to take what was coming. That was good. A birching taken well, however unpleasant, was welcomed by all involved. Screaming and fighting lads still got their deserts, often harder from Sgt Colefax, but it left a poor taste. Justice was much better served by an acquiescence and acceptance. And this boy now knew his fate was inevitable. So he told him. 1898. And then he left.

 

I think the next half an hour or so passed with me in a dream. There was an unreality about everything that was happening. The date the doctor had said was buzzing around my head. It did not make sense, nothing made sense, except I now knew that I was going to be birched. There was no escape unless, miraculously, Wilbert somehow reversed the spell. And in my heart I knew that was not going to happen. So I resigned myself to my ordeal and tried to hold back the tears that seemed forever waiting to swell. I had never in my life been beaten and now I was to be. In the most painful and humiliating manner imaginable. The usual manner the magistrate had said. Except I could not imagine it. Did not want to imagine it. It was beyond my experience. But I was thirteen, nearly, not yet a man but neither a little boy. I would submit, I had no choice, but if tears flowed they would be tears caused by pain and distress not by fear. I closed my eyes and held my breath and waited.

I did not wait long. After a few minutes the door opened and the burly policeman re-entered. He nodded to me and I meekly followed him. The impassive look on his face told me that this was it. I had done as I was told. I was wearing Wilbert’s rough baggy trousers and laced trimmed cotton shirt, equally large. Nothing else. As I walked the twenty or so feet along the corridor to the imposing wooden door earlier indicated I was conscious of the rough trouser material rubbing against my naked skin. My naked bottom. Soon to be revealed and birched behind that frightening door. I had little time to think. The burly policeman, strangely almost the only friend I had in my dilemma, opened the door and stood aside. In you go lad, he said, soon be over. The birch stings and you will no doubt howl but it won’t kill you. And if you keep telling yourself it is deserved it will go more quickly. And he then smiled, as if encouraging me to take what I knew I did not deserve, and ushered me in. The room was dimly lit and small. It registered little. A small window high in the opposite wall and in front of it a strange looking curved leather contraption with a variety of straps. Even to my confused dreamlike state it registered as the place of my execution. I gulped. This was clearly it, the moment of no going back. And then I saw him. Standing to the left of the doctor in the furthest corner of the room. Another burly policeman, uniform jacket discarded and white right shirt sleeve rolled up. And in the hand of that shirt sleeve rolled up arm it held a frightening implement. Long and thin with what seemed an enormous number of intertwined twigs, all held together at the handle by intricate binding. It must have been at least three or four feet long and spanned a good eight inches at its tip. It looked as if it could do a great deal of damage. I blinked and looked at the man holding it. His face held no expression but the eyes studied me disconcertingly. This was Sgt Colefax and the eyes told me, shouted at me, that the thing in his hand, the dreaded birch, was shortly to be introduced to my behind. And beyond the impassive eyes I sensed the slightest glimpse of a smile of anticipation, a hint of relish. As the other policeman closed the door I sensed myself beginning to cry again.

It was then I registered the fourth man. He was standing to the right of the door and was carrying a clipboard with papers. This must be the inspector referred to. He looked officious, thin and tall and serious, and clearing his throat looked at me and spoke. Wilbert Jenkins, you have been sentenced to eight strokes of the birch for wilful damage to property of the crown. That sentence will now be carried out. Prepare him Constable Wainwright. In my confusion I could hardly take in the words. They were dry and impersonal but filled with menace. Wilful damage to property. A birching offence. Constable Wainwright, so I now knew his name, took my left arm and eased me gently to the bench. I know it was gentle because I moved forward willingly if not eagerly. The contraption, the birching bench, was old brown leather with the distinct smell of age and wear. Narrow at the base it widened at the top as it curved its six feet length to a height of about four feet. The further end was supported by wooden legs and the whole device was raised on a wooden block base. It was well designed, an ideal shape for someone to be bent along it for a beating. Stand on the base lad, Constable Wainwright said, with your legs either side and then lean over and stretch your arms. Soon be over. There was softness in his voice but I sensed, rather than knew, that if I resisted a different Wainwright would emerge. Once in this room you were not going to leave unscathed. I did as he bid, stood on the platform base and put my legs either side of the leather contraption. Over you go, he said, stretch your arms out. As I did so I felt the cold leather press against my crotch and with my face touching the widened top of the bench I smelt its aroma. I was now in the desired prone position but, fleetingly I thought, if I wished I could still get up. And then something strange happened. I was in this vulnerable position, enclosed by menacing leather, four unseen players of the drama behind me waiting to play their part and I could also see it all. As if by magic I could see what they could see. Another part of me seemed to be in the doorway watching it all take place. I was starring in this film of a Victorian drama and I was also watching its replay.

The constable took my arms and leaned so close to me I could smell his garlic breath. He placed my wrists in straps fixed to the supporting legs of the bench. I sensed my breathing become more shallow and urgent. Relax lad, he said, won’t be long. Just need to make you secure. And then I felt, and saw, a thick leather strap being pulled across my waist and tightened and fixed. I sensed, frighteningly, the helpless feeling of being trapped. Held in a position I did not desire and with no way to escape any ensuing onslaught. I started to cry. I cursed to myself at the incipient tears but fear at what was close was engulfing me. None of these manoeuvres took more than a minute or so and then I again felt, and saw, Constable Wainwright lift the baggy shirt and tuck the ends of it into the strap around my waist. I knew and sensed what was coming next. Hands were around my waist untying the string of the trousers and then quickly and efficiently, almost with undue haste, the trousers were pulled down to my knees and I was bare, naked, and ready. A cool breeze brushed my bottom cheeks and conscious of their pronounced position I tried in vain to shrink the size. The tears welled even more and I screwed up my eyes and prayed all would soon be over. And yet in the doorway I seemed also to be watching my fate. My potion induced fate.

Ready sir, said Constable Wainwright, his voice seeming thicker and more nervous than hitherto. Thank you constable, the dry voice of the inspector responded. All yours Sgt Colefax. Do your duty. Eight strokes and lay them on, this wretch deserves it. And you have a nice plump and creamy arse to work on. I flinched, Sgt Colefax gave a slight deferential laugh, the constable and the doctor remained silent. I suspected they did not approve of the comment. And then the doctor spoke. Not the shape of the usual miscreants we get, he said, if I did not know I would say he came from a good and caring family. Be that as it may, the inspector said, but he is here to be birched. When you are ready Sgt Colefax.

There was a silence and then I sensed him step towards me. And then I knew, the twigs of the birch rested on my exposed bottom right across the centre. Sgt Colefax was measuring his aim. Everything in the room stood still, nothing and no one moved. The only sound was my whimpering and the heavy breathing of the onlookers. Sgt Colefax, expression grim, tapped the spraying birch on my backside, raised his arm to a seemingly impossible height and lashed the twigs across my naked cheeks. For a moment I was stunned. The impact seemed to take all the breath from my body and then, after a second, the stinging fire engulfed my behind. I wriggled and tried to shift my position and clenched my teeth determined to slow the spread of any more tears. And then the birch lashed into me again, harder this time, but still central across both of my raised orbs. A plump and creamy arse they had said. A plump and creamy arse well raised, an easy target for an expert. Now scratched and wealed from a deadly implement. And the sting and the pain was starting to spread. And then the third stroke hit me, slightly lower this time, and I screamed. The pain was becoming unbearable. And when the fourth stroke lashed into my naked rear, higher up my cheeks, I knew I could no longer hold back. I cried and howled and begged to be let off. Constable Wainwright, standing near my head, brushed my hair and said, hold on lad, hold on, only four more to go. I merely wailed. The pain and throbbing in my behind, my sore and lacerated behind, was engulfing my whole being. Burning wires drilled into my naked flesh and he says hold on. Only four more to go. I do not remember much of the rest, of those four strokes. I know they stung and fired into my behind in ten seconds intervals. I know that Sgt Colefax put his full force into them, almost as if my howling and pleading had fired him to even greater lashes. I know that I screamed unmercifully when those avenging twigs savagely connected with my upturned cheeks. And I know that I wet myself, my bladder becoming uncontrollable as the pain consumed my backside. But I do not remember much more. I did not see those last four strokes. It was as if a mist had descended to try and shut out the excruciating pain in my rear.

 

‘Feeling any better lad?’

‘A bit. Still very sore. Still throbs.’

‘Hardly surprising. It’s only been an hour. Did the doc’s ministrations help?’

‘You mean the cream?’

‘Yes.’

‘A bit. Told me it was to stop infections.’

‘It does. Won’t stop you being unable to sit down for awhile though. You’ll have those birch scars for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more.’

‘He told me that Sgt Colefax really laid it on, especially the last four. Hadn’t seen him whack anyone that hard for months.’

‘It’s your arse lad. He doesn’t often see one as good as yours.’

‘That’s what the doc said. Said a plump and creamy bottom like mine almost begged for the birch. Made me blush. He also said something else.’

‘Go on.’

‘He said I was too well fed to be a gypsy. In too good a condition. Don’t feel it at the moment though.’

‘You’ll recover.’

‘Before I go home. I will go home won’t I?’

‘Depends where home is lad. I mean, after all, you weren’t given a custodial.’

‘I have told you. I have come from the future.’

 

The burly Constable Wainwright gave me that quizzical look he gave me when I first said that. Before I was birched. He looked displeased then, but less so now. I had grown to like him, in spite of the strange circumstances. This large man had strapped me down in the birching cell and pulled down my pants and bared my bottom for Sgt Colefax’s dreaded birch. I should hate him. But I couldn’t. He had stroked my hair and gently talked me through the last four strokes. He had helped me dress and did not mention my bladder disgrace. And after the doc had inspected me he had come to chat and see how I was. I think he saw it all as his duty. He approved of my being birched, approved of me having eight savage cuts delivered to my raised bare behind. I reckon he would have done it himself if directed. Boys, lads, needed a lesson, and a sharp birch across their bare arses, their bare and plump and creamy arses, is the best way of teaching it when they stray. And in his eyes I had strayed. But, I told myself, Constable Wainwright cares for boys, lads, even if he does not care for their behinds. He looked at me sternly, but not unfriendly. I could get Sgt Colefax back to give you another four or six for that comment, he said, or even do it myself. And then he grinned. You are a strange lad he said, far more intelligent than most we get here; I hope we don’t see you back. And he didn’t. I fell asleep in the holding cell shortly after he left and when I woke up I was standing in a deserted field. In my own pristine clean school clothes. And the real Wilbert was nowhere to be seen.

 

This was where the strange fair was, the fair that appeared suddenly and, so I was later told, disappeared in the same manner. Now it was just a deserted field and the only indication of what had happened was a small purple bottle discarded on the ground. The potion. I resisted an impulse to pick it up and decided to make my way home. I would not explain to anyone where I had been or what I had suffered. Who would believe it anyway. 1969 boys do not get birched, and certainly not in the manner considered usual in the days of 1898. On my way home I met no one but the following day I went back to school and, puzzled, I was summoned to the headmaster’s office on arrival. I will not bore you with the details but the summation was that he was unhappy. I had insulted a new master at the school, totally out of character apparently, and the headmaster was concerned. What had provoked it?  I had no idea and offered, lamely, that I had been feeling ill the day before. Well you certainly would be after he dealt with you, he said. Most disconcerting. He seems a bit of an authoritarian. Insisted you must be caned. Most rare in these days. I, reluctantly, agreed, I hope you have recovered. Very few boys get six of the best in these times. The headmaster smiled at me, clearly concerned, and hoped that I had recovered from both my illness and my caning. Most uncharacteristic David. Spitting at a new master and kicking him in a private place, most uncharacteristic, I had to sanction your punishment. You do understand? I did. That is what this interview was all about. The unexpected caning of a, normally, well behaved boy. It was Wilbert, I was sure of it. I asked the headmaster the name of the new teacher, just out of curiosity. A Mr Colefax, he said, very much a disciplinarian. I think you boys need to be careful. After he gave you your six of the best he said to me, he said to me, headmaster, in the old days I would have taken his pants down and those six would have been on his bare backside. These days’ youngsters get it so easy.

 

So Wilbert had been caned whilst I had been birched. Made me feel a little better even if I knew that in his case dignity had been retained. But it had happened. When I returned, in that desolated field, I had doubted it. But when I arrived home I went to my room and dropped my pants. In the mirror, reflecting back at me, my bottom showed the many lacerations of a serious birching. A birching that I could never show my mother. Or her new man. A very nice chap, very fatherly and attentive. His name is Wainwright. I sometimes wonder when I have heard that name before. I think it lies in a bottle in a desolated field waiting for the return of Wilbert.

Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memories of Gerry (M/m)

I have an old friend who regularly deals with my bottom when I visit him. We oldies can still have fun. He enjoys my stories, the male ones, and I often read one to him over an evening tipple. Due a visit shortly and realised I did not have a suitable new one. So dashed this off, total fiction except for the caning. Hopefully when I sit down to entertain him with it my own backside will be suitably tingling. A late Happy New Year to you all. Alfred Roy

Memories of Gerry

 

I never did forget that summer of 1957. I didn’t forget it for a number of reasons. My parents divorced after years of acrimony, my grandmother died, and I spent two weeks in hospital recovering from some unspecified bug. Food poisoning someone said, but it seemed a lot worse to me. I was fifteen and miserable. Family and health had induced ill humour. But I recovered and that recovery was helped, nay enhanced, by a hospital bedside companion who remained a close friend for all of the following sixty years. He was the main reason I did not forget that summer of 1957. Gerry. Outrageous Gerry. Fun, anarchic, irascible, witty. Call him what you will. Diminutive Gerry Robinson was irrepressible. Same age as me, and as I found out due to go to the same small private school, and instantly likeable. He lifted my spirits far more than any medicine or medical ministrations. When we were discharged, fortuitously on the same day, we vowed to meet up at school. Hopefully, we both said, in the same house. Roll on September I thought. That long gone summer would become memorable, mainly because of Gerry.

We got into trouble almost from the first day. A pompous housemaster with spiky ginger hair had what I discovered in later years was a rotacism. He could not pronounce the letter R. Inevitably, although he directed nothing at us, I took to calling my friend Gewwy. We giggled and those giggles were seen and registered. An enemy of ginger haired was made on day one. And on day three we discovered he was to be our housemaster. He will find an excuse to cane us, I said somewhat ruefully. Gerry laughed. It will be ‘Bend over Wobinson’, he said, and we giggled as only fifteen year boys could.

Surprisingly he gave us a pretty easy time for the first month or so. We didn’t see him that often as his few teaching duties were mainly Latin and Greek, two subjects both Gerry and I had opted out of in favour of German and French. Our paths mainly crossed outside teaching hours when he did his best to maintain discipline among twenty or so young teenage boys. By the end of that first month we were well aware of how that discipline was maintained, this was 1957, as two of our fellows made early evening visits to his study and returned ruefully rubbing behinds. Eager questions followed and information, followed by unseemly displays, elicited. The marks on small behinds were impressive, no wonder they had ruefully rubbed. ‘So he only gives six’ Gerry said, ‘Or that seems to be the minimum. And on the bare bot. The wotter.’ We both laughed but the warning was registered. Neither caned boy had done anything particularly heinous as far as we knew. One had been caught smoking and the other returned half an hour late from a sanctioned afternoon in town. Do something very wrong, especially in the eyes of an enemy, and it might be eighteen with a rod wrapped in barbed wire. I amplified these thoughts to Gerry. ‘A wod wapped in barbed wire. Weally?’ We both laughed a little bit, knowing, I think, that such taunts were getting a little thin. Especially when repeated a day or so later, Ginger Spike overheard. He did not say anything then but we knew he had registered our mocking tones.

We got our next warning just before the Christmas break. I am unhappy with you two boys, he said. Quite mild really, considering that we had blown an electrical fuse on the lighting box for the schools’ festive theatrical production. Three minutes of blackout does not sound much, except when it is in the middle of a bit of old Shakespeare. Not totally our fault but we were assisting and found it quite funny. Gerry particularly so. ‘Oh wherefore art thou Romeo, has an extra piquant zing when the poor sod is completely in the dark.’ Ginger Spike, consumed in the seriousness of theatre, abhorred our levity. But not a caning offence, thankfully. You don’t whack boys for laughing, not even in 1957. It did not occur to us then that he was biding his time, saving up his corporal investment. Nor, stupidly, after a more direct threat of future retribution. That was a caning offence, at least for Gerry if not for me.

A mutual passion we had discovered when occupying adjacent hospital beds was horseracing, especially National Hunt racing. His father had owned a couple of point to pointers and used to ride in his younger days and Gerry was often taken to race meetings. My parents did not have the same involvement but regularly attended top meetings in a business capacity. Aintree and Ascot were often dinner table discussions in our house. So I subscribed to Gerry’s enthusiasm. His father’s friend owned a horse which was running in a valuable handicap hurdle at Newbury early in the new year. Gerry was keen to back it but had little money and no means of placing a bet. So he did the next best thing. He took bets on the other horses in the race from other race keen school fellows. In other words he made a book. A heinous offence both for him and the boys who bet with him, if found out. Worthy of any caning. My only involvement was to act as Gerry’s studious ledger clerk. Never liked sums, he said, ignoring the obvious fact that betting on horses involved little else. We, or he, would have got away with it if one inconsiderate and overloud oik had not subsequently blagged about his substantial win. The father’s friend horse had lost and this one irksome schoolfellow had placed one pound with Gerry on the 15/1 winner. He was delighted, as was Gerry who made a profit on the book he had created, until the celebrating blagging reached the ears of housemaster Ginger Spike. The blagger was caned, severely we heard, but puzzlingly repercussions for us seemed curiously delayed.

By the third day after Gerry’s only winning punter had received his scholastic desserts we were completely on tenterhooks. Why had we not been summoned, or at least Gerry, and thrashed on our deserving behinds. Having a bet was clearly much less heinous than running a book. We found out on the fourth day, immediately after a dreary day of rugger. Ginger Spike ran some of these sessions and he was on duty, whistle happy as always, on the first inter house game following the Newbury race. He timed his acknowledgement of our involvement in the clandestine betting exceptionally well. Always had my suspicions of him after that. We had just come out of the showers and, catching us both naked, he issued his strange summary of events. I think he took much pleasure in making us squirm whilst we were in a state of unwanted nudity. ‘I have caned one of your class fellows, as you know. For betting on horses. And I have confiscated his winnings. I have my suspicions as to who acted as his bookmaker. If I find any pwoof of that, or any other misdeeds, then he or they shall suffer as none other has at my hands.’ He could have been saying this to any in the changing room but Gerry and I, and he, knew it was directed at us.

All of these events should have told us that Ginger Spike was merely biding his time. It would have taken little effort for him to get the proof, or pwoof, he needed. The blagging boy who pocketed £16 was no hero. Promise to reduce his sentence, six of the cane we heard on his bare backside, and he would have sung like the proverbial canary. But pompous Spike of the ginger persuasion was a patient man. This is all hindsight of course, honed with sixty years of life’s perspective. He could have been an idiot, but I do not think so. No, he was content to bide his time. Catch Wobinson and his limpet like friend in something particularly dreadful and slates of mocking tones, theatrical mishaps, and clandestine bookmaking would be wiped painfully clean. He had our bottoms very much in his sight and we, who should have known, blissfully ignored the signs. All we said, pleased that he had left us naked and subdued, was ‘Bugger.’ Or at least Gerry did. ‘Bugger’, he said, ‘Confiscated the winnings. Wish I had only given the oik odds of 8/1.’ I laughed.

A week later, a cold wet Wednesday early in February, that laughter faded. Big time. This will take some explaining. The school had a trainee teacher, learning the ropes. Or learning the wopes, as Gerry took delight in saying when Ginger Spike made the announcement. The trainee had been around for about a month and regularly got played up by boys who knew no better. A school tradition I was reliably, or unreliably, informed. I felt a bit sorry for him. Tall and gangly, and not much older than us, he seemed totally out of his depth. No idea of how to control a class of combustible fifteen year olds. On that fateful Wednesday he was in charge, a loose phrase, of the physical education class. Not my favourite activity. For some reason, purely fortuitous I think, Gerry and I were chosen as opposing captains for a red and blue team game of basketball. Seven a side. It all went well until the incompetent trainee left us alone for a few minutes with an airily instruction to carry on playing. That seemed to be a signal for two opposing lads who detested each other to start a fight. Within five minutes all was chaos, not diluted by the returning trainee who appeared incapable of dowsing schoolboy flames. It was left to me and Gerry, diminutive Gerry, to try to prise the main protagonists apart. By now this was most of the opposing teams, boys being boys, as some fight and ask the reasons afterwards. Order could not be restored, or not until Ginger Spike appeared. Tall, pompous, and full of flaming nostrils. The two fighters were singled out and ordered, immediately, to his study. As they were, he stressed, meaning in their PE kit. No need to change, he said, and that said all we needed to know. A whacking was on the cards. And then he dropped his bombshell. ‘And in half an hour, you two as well.’ he said, pointing to me and Gerry, ‘You and Wobinson. And no need to change either.’ And with that he left the gym leaving four boys to contemplate an inevitable fate. And two of them could not see the justice of it. Only an opportunity not denied.

I never did forget that caning. I never forgot it for a number of reasons. By itself it was definitely undeserved. But as Gerry and I recognised and agreed, it was going to happen one day so might as well get it over with. Ginger Spike had us on his list and our Captains day was the day of overdue retribution. So we resigned ourselves to our fate, even if resolve was a little less than steely as we saw two very subdued pugilists leave his study. But the main reasons I did not forget it was because of the impression it made on both my fifteen year old bottom and my equally fifteen year old mind. When we knocked on Ginger Spike’s study door the air was already rich in heady expectancy. When we left some twenty minutes later roads to adulthood and sexuality were clearly defined. Or at least for me.

We said little when we entered his study. An acknowledgement that we were there because we had been summoned and a registering of the cane on his desk. He glanced at both it and us, clearly relishing the situation. We were both a let down to the school, he said, ‘Clearly diswuptive and, it seems, incapable of taking wesponsibility.’ Gerry almost corpsed at this pronouncement but, thankfully, giggles from both us were mercifully suppressed. I think fear of what was to come eclipsed all other feelings. We knew damn well that we were going to get six, we did not want it notched up to twelve. He addressed Gerry first. ‘Wobinson, I shall deal with you first. Not because I think you are the lesser of two evils, but you are the smaller.’ If that was meant to be a joke it fell on unreceptive ears. ‘You will be given six of the cane on your bottom. Long overdue in my opinion. So kindly bend over.’

If that had been it, a cold and clinical bending over, and six whacks across Gerry’s PE shorts then I reckon things might have turned out different. I would have seen and heard his caning, sympathised with his pain, and reluctantly taken his place when all was done. But it was not like that. As I have said before this was 1957, or to be more accurate 1958, and this was a small private school. And this was a vengeful housemaster who had stored up many grievances. So he approached the bending Gerry, roughly pulled down his shorts to his knees and lifted his PE vest to the middle of his small back. A rule of our school was that you did not wear underpants for physical education. Considered unhealthy. So poor old Gerry was as bare as the day he was born. At least from waist to knees. His bare bottom stuck out like a small and gleaming early evening moon. And I was transfixed. I moved from being fearful of what was to come for me to being fascinated by what was to happen to Gerry. A caning on the bare backside was an experience beyond any normal understanding. And when Ginger Spike put words to the picture it both increased fascination and enhanced anticipation. I was becoming consumed by a desire I did not understand. ‘Six stwokes on your bottom, boy, I said. I did not say you would have any modesty. If ever a boy deserved his bare bottom to be caned, it is you.’ And with that he lashed his cane across the naked rear of my best pal, and a howl sprung from unseen lips as a savage line crossed the two nicest bare cheeks I had ever seen. I flinched. And I did so five more times as Ginger Spike’s cane did its worst. Gerry, to his credit, never moved in spite of his gasps and howls and by the sixth stroke his bottom was fiery red with weals which would take long to fade. Each one had been painted on his behind to perfection, and each one had etched me further along a road I would take years to understand. Gerry rose, sobbing quietly, and pulled up his PE shorts. A rueful rub of his bottom and he stepped aside. But not before an encouraging glance at me. It hurt, he seemed to be saying, but it’s over. And then he rubbed his bottom again, more vigorously it seemed. I gulped and waited, heart pounding and all inside stirring. ‘You now boy.’ Ginger Spike said, now in full flow, ‘Bend over and get what you clearly deserve. Six strokes.’

I did as I was told. This was inevitable and now I knew all that was to come. He would hardly cane Gerry on the bare behind and allow me some modesty. Fleetingly the thought crossed my mind that he might, after all he always saw Gerry as the more reprehensible. And with the thought came an inexplicable feeling of possible disappointment coupled with a surging of anticipation. Bent over, touching my ankles as I could in those days, I knew that I wanted Ginger Spike to take down my pants. I wanted him to cane me on my bare backside. And not just because that is how he had caned my friend. I just wanted it. I had a desire, there is no other word, to be bereft of my lower garments and exposed to the gaze of both present. The chastised and the chastiser. Somehow I knew the pain would be more bearable if my naked bottom felt the savage kisses of the cane.

I need not have worried. Words that should have created fear strangely thrilled. ‘You will not be spared, boy.’ he said. ‘I caned your friend on his bare bottom, well deserved, and you will receive the same.’ It was said in a voice unfamiliarly clear, increasing my anticipation. And with that he put his hands in the waist of my flimsy PE shorts and pulled them down to my knees. I felt surrounding air brush my bottom and my genitals, sensed the exposure. And then my equally flimsy vest was roughly pushed up my bending back. There could now be no illusions, I was a picture of submissive nakedness. And all could see. My bottom was exposed and waiting and my private parts dangled freely and wantonly. I was a boy waiting to be caned and the way it was to be done, for those who witnessed and those who suffered, it would be glorious. Gloriously bare. I sighed and when the cane lashed into me, after a preliminary tap, I reckon my first unexpected howl was wrapped in that anticipatory sigh. I did cry, of course. I couldn’t help it. It hurt like hell. After the third stroke I almost, unlike Gerry, nearly rose clutching my burning bum. Rough hands pressing on my back and threatening extra strokes prevented it and, after a pause, I felt the three remaining cane whacks across my, by now, lacerated backside. The sting was indescribable and all thoughts of pleasurable anticipation were expunged. After the last, particularly vicious stroke, I rose. Copiously sobbing, woefully subdued, I pulled up my pants and rubbed those parts of me that I was convinced would never heal. I had been caned six times on my bare bottom. It was my first experience and the most impressionable. Such things happen when you are fifteen. Ginger Spike was not a sensitive soul but maybe he recognised something in me for he gave us a few minutes to recover. Minutes in which my senses moved from acute pain to confusing pleasure. The warmth of chastisement had pleasing compensations. By the time we left my spirits had revived. My bottom may have been throbbing for England but I felt serenely calm. Gerry had also recovered his generally irrepressible spirit. ‘Thank God he pulled my pants down without saying anything.’ he said. ‘If he had said dwop your shorts Wobinson I would have giggled so much I would have got twelve.’ That was the extent of our post whacking’s banter. A couple of hours later it turned more serious.

We showed each other the marks. Boys do that. Whatever the pain, the humiliation, displaying the stripes on otherwise virgin bottoms seemed to be as much a part of growing up in the 1950’s as the sneaky cigarette behind the chemistry lab or the passing around of dubious magazines such as Spick and Span or Naturist Monthly. I was transfixed both by the sight and the feel, he allowed me, of Gerry’s small bottom. He touched mine, almost obligatory but cursory, but my fingers lingered on his still warm flesh much longer. The weals fascinated and the contrast between the six livid lines against alabaster cheeks enthralled. If my tracing fingers could have stayed on his delightful bottom for a week it would not have been long enough. He sensed it and, sensibly pulled up his pants. ‘You are kinky’, he said,’ I guessed that when you were being caned. When old Ginger Spike pulled down your PE shorts your willy popped out. Standing up like a flagpole.’ Gerry Laughed and ruffled my hair, as if to diffuse the uncomfortable mood. ‘Don’t worry’, he said, ‘ We shall still be friends. Even if some who I will not mention would not appwove.’ And he laughed again.

We did stay friends. For another sixty years. Through school, university, growing up and ageing. He married and had four children and, at the end, eleven grandchildren. We didn’t meet often, my job took me to the USA a lot and Gerry spent most of his mature years nurturing a business always on the cusp of failure, so he told me, in Newcastle. We rarely talked of school or our perplexing youth, although he did occasionally in the early years teasingly allude to our caning by Ginger Spike and both our dawning realisations of my sexuality. ‘You are a strange one,’ he used to say, ‘That old bugger gave you a taste for the weird, no doubt about that. Do you still indulge?’ I just smiled and we let the matter drop. Never raised again until three weeks ago, just before he died. He was lying on his hospice bed, full of all sorts of mysterious things to kill his pain, and seemed strangely animated. One of his ministering angels had a rotacism and constantly called him ‘Mr Wobinson.’ It brought back old memories, long buried. When I arrived, sombre and fearful, he said he had been thinking about me a lot that morning because of his nurse. ‘Our early days’ he told me, and laughed as only he could. ‘Hospital beds when we first met and now hospital beds when we are to part. And that school. And dear old Ginger Spike.’ I remained silent, content with my suppressed tears to let him continue, if he wished. ‘Nasty bugger. Never liked him. But in a funny sort of way he sealed our relationship. Bend over Wobinson. I almost wet myself.’ And then he smiled and closed his eyes briefly. Remembering days past.

‘Bend over Wobinson.’ I place my flowers by his grave, speak briefly to his ageing widow, and walk slowly back to my car. ‘Bend over Wobinson.’ How many times over the years have I heard that phrase. I took it as my own a long time ago. You need a name for adult school play and parties and ‘Wobinson’ evoked both Gerry and Ginger Spike. So whenever I dropped my pants in various and far flung places I did it to that telling soubriquet. I have been known as ‘Wobinson’ in the disciplinary world for nigh on sixty years. Now that, if I had ever told him, would have truly made Gerry laugh.

 

Alfred Roy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Caning From Three Angles (M/m)

A little while since I posted. Have been busy but, as new photo at the side shows, found time to indulge in a favourite hobby. Much justified seeing as hits on this blog now total 200,000. I find it pleasing that so many people enjoy the same strange passion as me. When I was young I thought I was the only one. I mean, how can anyone really enjoy being caned on their bare bottom? Lots of us as the internet  regularly illustrates. Long may it continue. If anyone has found any better fun than dropping your pants to be whacked then I have yet to discover it. Age limits activity these days but writing stories, such as below, compensates. Never happened to me but I can fantasise. An F/M story next time - Hotel Appointment. Like to keep all the folks happy. 200,000 times apparently. Alfred Roy

A Caning From Three Angles

 

The Headmaster’s View

It has to be done. The boy deserves it, far more than most. A particularly nasty piece of work. Bullying minors and blackmailing them. I rarely sanction canings but this one was an easy decision. Either this or being expelled. Or both. No, I settled on the caning but make it a harsh lesson. That was my decision. Reading the report on his crimes made that decision easy. Eight strokes. Eight strokes on his bare behind. That would teach him. So I thought. Until I saw him. Now. Standing here in my study. He looks so young and vulnerable. So innocent, so scared. Have I misunderstood?

 

The Games Master’s View

Thank God he agreed. I thought for a moment he was going to decline my recommendation. Going to suggest that the boy should be suspended or, even worse, just given a detention. No sir, no headmaster, he deserves a good thrashing. A few strokes of a cane across his backside, preferably a dozen, preferably bare. Show the little bastard that we do not condone his actions. And I will do it, willingly, it is well overdue. He looks like an angel, standing there, but do not chicken out. This little beggar deserves everything he is going to get and, by God, I shall enjoy it. That bum is going to be very sore if I have any say in it. Even if you relented to only eight. I shall make them feel like twelve.

 

Master Andrew’s View

Not much chance here. The headmaster is a wimp; he looks more scared than me. And that gym master is a bastard. Been itching to whack me all year. Probably wank off to it afterwards. Especially as he got his wish. I have asked the headmaster to agree to your pants coming down, he had said. A bare arse thrashing boy. I was supposed to be impressed, supposed to plead. I spit at him. See you in court I said. He repeated it. Bare backside, eight strokes though I reckon you deserve at least twelve. How he enjoyed keep saying it. Your pants are coming down boy, your pants are coming down. Tomorrow. If he doesn’t bring himself off at the thought probably the headmaster will. Me? I have had worse. And now I am here, in the study, and hate and fear are eclipsed by a surfeit of despising. Just get it over.

 

The Set Up

The headmaster sipped his glass of water. How he hated situations like this. A young boy trembling. A master fired up with indignation and revenge. And himself, arbiter of an unpleasant task he would wish left to others. Corporal punishment was rarely sanctioned these days. Almost outlawed, but not quite. Reserved only for the most serious cases. And this one was serious, so much so that he had agreed with the gym master. Yes the boy could be caned. Yes he could be given the maximum of eight. And yes he could have his pants taken down. It was still allowed at a private school. Even if not condoned. But all apprised of the circumstances would agree. He thought. Would agree that the boy’s pants would have to come down. And, naturally, he would have to be there. To watch, to ensure fair play. To ensure no overstepping of the mark. No going too far when a boy was caned on his bare backside. This boy. Trembling and nervous. The first to suffer such for at least three years. He had shuddered when the gym master said this. Three years since we sanctioned such a punishment. Almost an attempted rape that was and the instigator was subsequently expelled. Only a nicety in the procedures had allowed him to be caned first. Much deserved. But this boy, this boy, was his sin so bad?

Yes headmaster, the gym master had said. Bullied twelve year olds and threatened them if they did not pay him protection money. A nice little scam, a nice earner, for a year or so until one of the little ones absconded and revealed all to his distraught parents. Deserving of being expelled but a caning first. Or as a substitute, a reprieve. He didn’t care as long as his sturdy cane whacked into that boy’s bottom around a dozen times. Long desired to do it but never dared. This was his chance. If not twelve then at least eight. And pants down headmaster. Make him suffer as he made the juniors suffer. Make him feel something he will never forget. And then expel him if you want to. Send him away with thick and fiery red stripes across his rebellious arse. Will be an hour well spent.

He told the boy of the headmaster’s decision. He never flinched. Five and a half feet of pure, sixteen year old, venom. He and the gym master loathed each other with a passion. Got your wish, he said. Always wanted to get my pants down, he said. And the wimp has agreed. Surprised you haven’t got a hard on, or maybe you have. The gym master refused to rise to the taunting bait. His hour would come when this boy was bent over, trousers and underpants down, awaiting his cane on his bare flesh. He could wait and the boy knew that. False bravado ahead of a daunting experience. He spat in the face of the threat but inwardly quaked. But whatever transpired he was determined not to cry. He hated the bastard of a gym master and despised the wimp of a headmaster. They might see his naked bum but they would never see tears.

 

The Preparation

It was all so classically evocative. The diminutive and venomous Master Andrew, eyes ablaze with a mixture of fear and loathing, the sadistic Games Master rich in eager anticipation, and the tall and perturbed Headmaster weighing up justice with humanity and order with excess. The boy had to be caned, as decreed, and he had to be caned on his bare backside. As persuaded. But if the Games Master was bent on a private vengeance, long festered, he was there to ensure the ultimate sanction stayed within acceptable bounds. In a study rich in leather bound furniture and washed with afternoon sun, he laid out the inevitable procedure. Long and tortuous it seemed to a boy with a twitching behind and a games master holding a twitching cane. If the one feared, in spite of his outward bravado, and the other relished, both combined in wishing that the punishment would soon commence. The boy in hope it would quickly be over and the master in equal and fervent hope that it would be as imagined. The prolonged peroration, delaying to both the inevitable tableau to follow, was a headmaster using words to steel his resolve and allay his doubt. It was only five minutes or so from the boy entering the study to bending over the low backed leather chair but it seemed like an eternity. Never were words so unnecessary and wasted.

 

The Dialogue

The Headmaster spoke.

‘You know why you are here boy?’

‘Stupid question.’

‘Do not be insolent boy, you will only make things worse.’

It was the Games Master who spoke, relishing the expected insolence.

The headmaster again, surprisingly apologetic.

‘I just wish to be certain you know why you are to be caned, that is all.’

‘Because I got found out, because some brat blagged to his folks.’

The headmaster studied him and absorbed his response. Sympathy was rapidly dissolving.

‘Do you feel no remorse?’

‘There is only one thing he will feel, Headmaster.’

The Games Master again, impatiently tapping the cane against his right thigh.

‘Let him answer. Well, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, that is progress.’

‘For being found out.’

The boy spat out the words and followed with a few more.

‘Unlike all the other bastards who have been doing the same for years. But he likes them; he turns a blind eye to them. It’s only me he wants to get.’

‘That is not true, Headmaster. I have no agenda.’

‘Bollocks.’

The boy spit out the word and the Headmaster flinched.

‘It’s bollocks. He has been itching for an excuse to cane me for months. That little oik gave him one.’

The Games Master again.

‘I have no agenda, Headmaster. I agree that I have long felt that this boy deserves to be taught a hard lesson. Which is why we are here. But it is not personal, definitely not. It is only what is deserved. Deserved and just.’

The Headmaster sipped water from the glass on his desk and pursed his lips. Combining thoughts and words were proving difficult.

‘Putting aside this perceived animosity do you accept that what you did was wrong? Threatening younger boys and stealing money from them?’

‘I didn’t steal. They gave it to me.’

‘In return for what?’

‘Things.’

‘Bollocks.’

This time it was the Games Master uttering the expletive.

‘He was running a protection racket, Headmaster. If they did not give him cash he would beat them up. We are wasting time. He deserves to be thrashed and he knows it.’

The Headmaster pursed his lips again.

‘Is that true?’

‘Of course it is true, and that little shit knows it. Don’t be deceived by the angelic face.’

‘Language, Master, language. I repeat, is it true?’

The boy considered before answering. To deny was to prolong and, although fearful of what was to be done, he wished it over. Just so long as he did not cry. He did not want to give that satisfaction to a man he hated.

‘Yes. Yes it is true. They paid me so I would not beat them up. But I am not the first, or the last. Just the one that that shit, that shit, wanted caught.’

‘Then you leave me no choice.’

As the Headmaster said this there was almost a hint of regret in his voice, a hint that the Games Master was determined to extinguish.

‘There you have it Headmaster. Out of his own mouth. His own words, so perhaps we can now get on with what we are here for.’

The cane tapped impatiently, yet again, against the twitching and rigid right thigh.

‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’

The Headmaster took a deep breath.

‘You will be caned, Andrew Bailey. Caned for a heinous offence. It is with regret but with justification that I sanction it. Your Games Master, Mr Bennon, will administer the caning. Eight strokes.’

‘Think yourself lucky, boy. I wanted twelve.’

The Headmaster ignored the interjection.

‘Eight strokes of the cane on your buttocks. The normal punishment at this school. But in view of the seriousness of your offence...’

‘That bastard gets his wish.’

‘Quiet. The Headmaster has not finished.’

‘In view of the seriousness I have agreed that the caning shall be delivered to your naked backside. I would therefore ask you to prepare yourself and bend over that chair. The sooner this is over the better.’

A moment of silence as all absorbed the fateful words.

The boy gulped but hid his nervousness. He knew it would come to this and he was not looking forward to it. Putting aside the humiliation of taking his trousers down and showing his bare bum the thought of that cane hitting him eight times was loosening his bladder. He was scared but he would not show it. Not to that shit of a Games Master. Just do not cry he said to himself. Anything, any pain, but that.

The Games Master felt a surge through his being. The Headmaster had said it at last, eight strokes with pants down or words to that effect. The warm surge thrilled his body and the look on the boy’s face, anxiety tinged with contempt, thrilled him even more. Imagination was about to become reality and if he stiffened in contemplation it was hardly surprising. But for the next few minutes, heady with anticipation, control was all.

The Headmaster breathed deeply and pursed his lips again. The boy’s gaze was unnerving and the Games Master was visibly twitching. He prayed that he had made the right decision.

‘Take down your trousers boy. It is time you were caned.’

Any of the three could have said that.

 

The Caning – The Headmaster’s View

Take down your trousers boy; it is time you were caned. He had uttered the words he had been rehearsing all morning and their effect was electric. What had been promised was about to be delivered. There was no going back, all three knew that. He watched, mesmerised, as the boy shrugged and approached the leather chair. Only the combined heavy breathing of the three broke the enveloping silence. The boy, face set grim and determined as he struggled with the buckle on the belt of his trousers. The Games Master, eyes ablaze and body stiffened with eager anticipation. And he himself, transfixed by the scene evolving before him in his study. A boy, a boy he had decided he did not particularly like but a boy all the same, was about to be caned on his naked bottom. And he had sanctioned the man at his side, determined and ready and vengeful, to administer it. He watched as the boy loosened his belt, undid his trousers and pushed them down to his knees. He sensed the keenness in the Games Master growing and inwardly resolved to ensure that this caning, however deserved and however severe, remained within bounds. It was to be eight strokes across the boy’s buttocks, nothing more nor less. He would ensure no loss of control. The boy hesitated before bending over the chair as if coming to a decision. He guessed at what it was and the following action confirmed it. The boy pushed down his underpants to his knees and, contemptuously and almost provocatively, pulled up his shirt to his waist and bent over the back of the leather chair. Presenting an almost studied central nakedness which indicated that his backside may be about to be violated but he retained some control, some strange dignity. It invoked a grudging admiration, in him if not in the Games Master who snorted at such at an action, at such a display. Wishing no doubt, he thought, that such revealing action was a key element of the drama that the Games Master had intended for himself. No matter all was now ready and he watched as the bending boy was approached and the cane which had twitched in readiness from the first moment pressed into the naked bottom. When you are ready Mr Bennon, let us get this over with. Eight strokes, no more, as we agreed.

 

The Caning – The Games Master’s View

When you are ready Mr Bennon. Of course I am ready. I have been ready ever since this little oik entered your study. Given his small frame and angelic looks I feared for a second that you might let him off. Until the shit opened his mouth and condemned himself. He’s scared now, I can tell, in spite of that grim face. He knows I am going to lay on the cane as hard as I can even if you don’t. But I shall keep control, shan’t give you any reason to relent even if he screams his bloody head off. I’ll make sure every one of those eight strokes will be across the centre of his pretty little arse. I have been practising, been waiting, been wishing this opportunity. I shan’t screw up. And as a bonus I have to say it is a nice arse. Small and tight and very boyish and, thankfully, as clean and pure peach as I could wish. A boy’s arse absolutely designed for a caning, for having livid red stripes across it. Oh, how I shall enjoy this. Pity he pulled down his own pants, I was looking forward to that, looking forward to showing him who was in charge. But, no matter. He did himself no favours with the Headmaster in exposing himself like that, pulling up his shirt and almost waving his tiny cock at us. A late two fingered salute no doubt. But at least he has bent over, not resisting like I thought he might, and that delectable naked arse is twitching in anticipation. Not so much as me, as I am sure he knows. I am going to enjoy this Headmaster, and yes I am ready. I place my cane across Bailey’s naked bottom, let us call it that, and take a deep breath. I have waited so long, so long. Even if it is only eight.

 

 

The Caning – Master Andrew’s View

Take down your trousers boy, it is time you were caned. Pompous git. Nervous as well. Hey, it is me being caned, not you. Reckon he wouldn’t be so nervous if I was getting them on my trousers and a less sadistic beast was doing it. I am ready anyway, ready as I can be. Eight strokes across my bare bum. Does not bear thinking about, so I won’t. But shan’t give them any pleasure, especially that bastard of a Games Master. Hide the twitching, hide the nerves, hide the filling bladder desperate to pee. Just get on with it I say. I shall pull my own pants down, everything, and pull up my shirt. Show them I do not care, that I have nothing but contempt. They can have a good look at my bum and my cock and my balls and reckon on what they are doing. And I will not scream, I will not cry, I will take that bastards eight strokes on my bum and then get out of here. I will not be humiliated either. Showing my bits is no big deal, even if that nasty cane cutting into me will be. It is soon over, I hope. Bending now, sticking up my bum, begging him to whack it. And he will, especially as I am sure he has got a hard on. Pervert. Oh, God, it is touching my bum. The cane. And it feels so cold and hard on my bare skin. I must not cry. I tell myself, whatever else, I must not cry. I can see the Headmaster standing to my right. Catch his eye. I must not cry.

 

The Caning

It was as all had anticipated. The Headmaster, the Games Master, the Boy. The classic dance, age old, played so many times over so many years in so many places. A boy bent down, in this case over a chair, trousers and underpants around his knees and bare bottom sticking provocatively into the air. A man, rigid and stern, standing to his side and slashing his cane across the twin orbs of the twinkling boyish buttock cheeks. Creating a picture of livid red stripes that induced both anguish and appreciation. Anguish from the one suffering and appreciation from the one administering. And the arbiter, the one watching, ensuring that all was in acceptable bounds. In this case eight strokes, no more, and all delivered centrally across the boy’s two cheeks.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

It does not sound much.

Thwack.

The boy squealed, in spite of himself, and the headmaster flinched.

Thwack.

The boy squealed again, the headmaster flinched again, and the games Master admired the growing red stripes.

Thwack.

Will he rise, he is struggling, and that was the hardest yet.

Thwack.

That was good, he squealed so loud I thought he would rise. The Headmaster is transfixed; he cannot take his eyes of the boy’s bottom.

Thwack.

Aaagh. That was vicious, all agreed. Wriggling, squirming, surges of desire from the wielder, a mesmering fascination from the Headmaster. It cannot stop. It will get harder.

Thwack.

It did. The Boy screamed, half rose, A trickle of blood on the edge of the the deepest red weal. The games Master sensed, almost felt, the pressing of his erection. The Headmaster groaned but did not move. The boy started the gentlest of whimpers as the blood trickled down his naked thigh.

Thwack.

The boy screamed again, and screamed even more, begging to be let off, rising, pushed down, one more to come. The Headmaster agitated, wandered around, drank in the naked bottom, waited. The Games Master pressed the hand holding the cane against his groin then raised it for the final time.

Thwack.

Aaaaaaaagh. Screams. Tears. Abuse. Rising. Clutching buttocks. Swearing. No more. No more. No more it said. You have won, you have won, you bastard. The Games Master stepped forward, cane raised, grabbed the boy’s shirt. Lifted it high to his shoulders. Ready to strike again. The Headmaster, the wimp, the prevaricator, stepped in. Eight. Eight he has had. We all three need to calm down.

And they did.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack.

It does not sound much.

But it is.

 

Aftermath

The boy stood by his mirror in his room. Tears in his eyes. He had failed but with some justification. The pain had been excruciating, he had almost passed out. But he had not cried off, until the end when the last vicious stroke had cut into him. So he smiled and lowered his trousers and his underpants and turned around. He studied the eight livid weals across his behind. They would be there for some time. All eight. Evenly spaced marks across both of his small cheeks. Raised, hard, vivid, and purple. Turning black at the centre. He touched them. Scabby. His fingers moved and contrasted the feel with the smoothness of his untouched skin. Eight strokes, parallel lines, only an inch and a half or so from first to last. That Games Master knew his trade. It was a caning he would not forget. His bottom, still hot, said so. He pulled up his pants. Two hours later he lowered them again and looked again at the stripes. And this time, this time almost in defiance, he masturbated. Brought himself off.

Elsewhere in the school, separately, as imaginations were fuelled and situations relived, two others were doing the same.

 

Alfred Roy (c) 2017