A series of twelve, stand-alone, very short stories involving corporal punishment and gay sex or both, each told in five-hundred words or less. The titles of the stories are listed below.
- A Hard Father
- Every Cloud Has One
- Not Really, Sir
- Lust At First Sight
- A Prison Sentence For Jamie
- Prison Ship Justice
- Jamie’s New Family
- Light At The End Of The Tunnel
- A Headmaster’s Farewell Gesture
- The First Sunday Of The Month
- Sir’s New Toy
- By Mutual Agreement
A Hard Father
Shortly before Christmas 1905, it was with a heart heavy with apprehension that Andrew Ridley boarded the train for the six hour journey from York to Exeter, where he would be met by his father’s coachman and driven to Ridley Hall, his family’s ancestral home in the village of Upper Ridley some ten miles from the city.
Andrew, an only child, was now seventeen and had just completed his first term in the lower sixth form at the Frogmore Academy, a public school for boys near York. He had barely scraped through his lower examinations the previous year and had faithfully promised his father that he would get down to some serious work as a sixth former; work which he had hitherto diligently eschewed, preferring sport, at which he excelled, to academic pursuits.
And therein lay his present malaise. He knew that his father would have seen his disastrous end-of-term report, for which he had, only yesterday, received a nine-cut beating from his house-master. He now feared that his arse night again be on the firing line, for his father, Sir Jonathan Ridley was a consummate expert when it came to using the cane, as Andrew, from past experience, knew only too well.
Arriving at the house, Hargreaves, the butler, welcomed “Master Jonathan” home for the holidays and in a sepulchral tone of voice that said it all, informed him that his father wanted to see him immediately in his study.
It was a trembling Jonathan who knocked on the study door, to be told in a stentorian voice to enter. His worst fears were confirmed as he saw his father, a habitually bad-tempered man, in what was clearly a volcanically foul mood, sitting at his desk with the damning school report open in front of him. But worse, an armchair had already been pulled into the centre of the room and lying across its two arms was a vicious looking rattan cane, which Jonathan knew would shortly and unpleasantly mate with his arse.
Sir Jonathan did not mince his words to his son, who five minutes later found himself, arse naked, across the back of the chair, waiting the ministrations of his father. And the onslaught when it came was truly horrific. Twelve vicious cuts (ten parallel and two diagonal) decorated his backside by the time his father had finished with him.
No stranger to the cane, with which his arse had been a regular communicant at Frogmore, Jonathan had never, ever experienced such a beating. His father had made haste slowly and allowed his son to savour the full painful effect of every stroke. So Jonathan was over the chair for a good ten minutes before his ordeal was finally over.
If ever a boy had been taught a lesson that laziness did not pay, it was Jonathan Ridley. And at that moment, in his agony, he swore to himself that never again would anyone beat his backside.
Every Cloud Has One
This is a stand-alone, very short story. Nevertheless I recommend fans first to read Story No.1: A Hard Father.
Andrew Ridley, who had just taken a monumental beating for his laziness at school from his father, was attempting to pull up his nether garments over an agonisingly painful arse, which would certainly remind him of his lack of application until the end of the Christmas holidays.
Suddenly, his father sprang past him silently, almost cat-like and pulled open the door of his study, almost to be knocked off his feet by eighteen-year-old Edward, the junior footman, who had evidently had his ear so close to door and had lost his balance and fallen into the less-than-welcoming arms of his master.
“Edward, you were eavesdropping. Well, boy, do come in; my son is just leaving and it will be my pleasure to demonstrate to you firsthand what has just happened to him. Edward, I will not tolerate eavesdropping in my house, especially from my junior footman. I am in half a mind to dismiss you right now, but I will give you a second chance as I think that you might benefit from the lesson in good manners, which I now intend to give you.”
And that is how Edward found himself also the possessor of a similarly painful arse to Andrew’s. What Sir Jonathan fortunately did not notice was the look of sympathy which had passed between Edward and his son. Had he know what was going on between the two of them, then Edward would have been out on his ear and Andrew might literally have had the skin taken of his arse
That night, Andrew lay naked in his bed, hoping against hope that he would not spend the night alone; and he was not disappointed. Edward, who had just previously joined the household, had first met Andrew, at the beginning of the summer holidays. There had been that instant feeling of mutuality, which had led a sexually experienced Edward, to initiate a naïve, but willing Andrew, into the pleasures of homosexual sex. Andrew had proved an enthusiastic and adept pupil; so much so that the two of them had for six, glorious weeks, spent virtually every night together, copulating like rabbits.
Andrew had returned to school that autumn fully initiated into the joys of anal sex, an activity which rarely fails to please and in which he had been happy to instruct any of his school mates that showed the slightest interest. His devotion to both sex and sport to the detriment of his studies had together led to that disastrous end-of-term report, which had justifiably earned him a well deserved sore arse.
That night, as Edward slipped into Andrew’s bed, the two of them drowned their mutual sorrows in an intense orgy of sucking and fucking.
As implied in the title, every cloud does have a silver lining and the Christmas holidays were, in spite of a painful start, highly enjoyable,
Not Really, Sir
Colin Bryant aged thirteen, wearing only his gym shorts and vest was standing, nonchalantly in front of his Headmaster. How he could appear so relaxed, when his own attire and the rattan cane lying on the Headmaster’s desk already said it all.
“I think, Bryant, you know why you are here.”
“Not Really, sir.”
“Well let me apprise you of the facts. I saw you with my own eyes, walking across the lawn, which I presume you know is strictly forbidden.”
“Not really, sir.”
“Not only is it forbidden, but any boy caught walking on the grass is, subject to the most painful penalty, of which I assume you are aware.”
“Not really, sir.”
The boy’s apparent insouciance and lack of any apology for his behaviour were already beginning to annoy the Headmaster.
“Bryant, I see that you have already been beaten five times times this term for running in the corridors; once by your house-master, once by your house-captain and three times at the Prefects’ Court. I would have thought that by now you would have realised that running anywhere inside the school buildings is strictly forbidden.”
“Not really, sir.”
“Bryant, do you not find it unpleasant to have your bottom beaten so regularly for the same offence.”
“Not really, sir.”
“Well, young man, it falls to me, as your Headmaster, to set you back on the path of obedience, from which you have evidently strayed. I had intended to cane you for walking on the lawn; but in view of your apparent indifference to the numerous beatings you have received for offences, to which, frankly, boy, you seem to have become addicted, I have decided that you need a dose of sterner stuff. I take it that you are familiar with that time-honoured scourge, the birch?”
Bryant, apparently unaware of what he was about to bring on himself, managed, by his tone of voice, figuratively to wave the proverbial red rag front of an already enraged bull, gave his usual reply.
“Not really, sir.”
“Well, Bryant, allow me to give myself the pleasure and you the pain of a well birched bottom. Take of your shorts, boy, and assume the position across the back of the armchair over there. I take it you are familiar with the position to which I am referring?”
Brant, impudent as ever, added insult to injury, by his indifference to what was about to happen to him as he said:
“Not really, sir.”
Some fifteen minutes later, now back in his dorm, Bryant proudly showed his schoolmates an arse of a hitherto unimagined, beaten splendour, achieved by twelve cuts of the birch followed by six of the cane.
“Come on you lot, that’s a half-crown each you owe me. I told you I’d get the old-boy both to birch and cane me, which I did; so kindly now cough up.”
Lust At First Sight
Public school, upper sixth former, Alastair Gosling was certainly the most muscularly athletic among his classmates. He excelled at rugger and cricket, of which he was captain of both teams. But he had another string to his bow, on which the teaching staff wisely preferred to cast a blind eye; Alastair was already sexually very active.
Alastair’s surname, Gosling, meaning a young goose, belied his sexual capabilities, which he exercised with gay abandon with several of his like-minded classmates. Certainly anyone even remotely that way inclined, having seen Alastair’s tantalisingly attractive kit in the showers, would have wanted to taste what at that time was strictlyeer as a coot. Aged just twenty-three and in his first post, he was physically extremely fit. In his teaching attire of shorts and vest, even to the most untrained of eyes, his muscular physique exuded sexual attraction in spades.
But Alastair Gosling’s eyes were anything but untrained, as were also those of Philip Masters. More or less from the moment they first met in the gym, it was mutual lust at first sight; so much so that it soon became Alastair’s secret obsession in life to have sex with Philip.
Philip, in spite of his youth was, from the word go, a hard task master with the boys. He warned boys against dawdling in the showers, a warning which some boys ignored and as result felt the bite of his cane on their naked arses.
One day, Alastair in the interest of advancing his cause, deliberately loitered in the showers and a few minutes later found himself, as he had hoped, in Philip’s office, having his bare arse thrashed. Sexually arouse by the thrashing, Alastair glanced around to see that the crotch of Philip’s shorts was also tenting with a huge boner. As he had not been told to get up after his thrashing, Alastair guessed that Philip was hesitating whether he dare to make the next move; a move which both of them wanted, but one which would break the strictest of rules and which if discovered could wreck Philip’s nascent career forever.
“I am afraid, Gosling, I have been a bit rough on you, so let me apply a little ointment to your stripes.”
It was as Philip was massaging the cream into more than his stripes, that Alastair decided to burn his bridges and said: “Go on sir; just do it; you know you that we both want it; so just go ahead and do it.” As he felt Philip’s rock- hard shaft slide into him the pain of his stripes suddenly vanished; he had achieved his objective.
Now, forty years later, Alastair, aged sixty and Philip, sixty-five, are still together: Alastair is a successful barrister and Philip is Headmaster of a small public school nearby. And as an item, they are still sublimely happy together.
A Prison Sentence For Jamie
To say it was already the middle of the twenty-first century, the magistrate, perched on his bench high above the court, gazing balefully down at defendant James Jamieson; looked positively Dickensian, And the sentence he was about to impose on the sixteen-year-old Jamie was equally Dickensian in its severity.
The United Kingdom Government, now free of the pettifogging regulations of the European Union, had, by popular demand, legalised draconian punishments for repeat young offenders like Jamie, who standing there, listening to the magistrate towering above him, had no idea at all of the severity of the sentence, which was about to fall on him. And when it did, it took a few seconds for him to realise the devastating consequences he had, by his own actions, brought upon himself and, more specifically, his arse.
“Jamieson, you have been before this court courts no less than five times in the past two years for petty larceny, for which you have repeatedly been caned. However your latest heinous crime moves you into a different class of criminal. Not only did you snatch an old lady’s handbag in a street market, but in your haste to escape, you knocked her down, broke her arm and left her lying there. I therefore have no compunction whatsoever in passing on you the most severe sentence allowed by law.”
It is doubtful if Jamie understood, the words, larceny, heinous or compunction, but the pompous tone of the magistrate said it all; he knew that this time he was in for the high jump.
“James Jamieson, you will suffer forthwith a twelve stroke beating with the birch rod, followed immediately by twelve strokes of the cane, both punishments to be applied to your bare buttocks. You will then spend the next two years as a prisoner-cadet on board HMS Justice, a juvenile prison ship, where the officers are trained to inculcate some sense of decency and respect into reprobates like you.”
“Furthermore, in view of your criminal record and the seriousness of your latest crime, you will receive on your arrival on board ship, another twelve cut beating with the cane, followed, at monthly intervals, by two further twelve cut beatings.”
The magistrate then told the guards to take Jamie, who was by now, not surprisingly, shaking like a leaf, as the extreme severity of his sentence hit him, to await his first dose of corporal punishment.
That night in his gaol cell, still suffering the inevitable agonising pain of his twenty-four stroke, exemplary beating, which had been applied, with vigour, by a muscular young policeman, he reflected on his life of crime which had led to his present state. Jamie would learn a lot in his life as a naval prisoner-cadet; a two year prospect, to which he was not looking forward. But the young lad had no idea of just how difficult the next two years would be. To coin a phrase: “He hadn’t seen nothing yet!”
Prison Ship Justice
This is a short, stand-alone story; but I suggest fans first read Story No. 5.A Prison Sentence For Jamie
Sixteen year-old James Jamieson (Jamie) had been sentenced to two year as a prisoner-cadet on board the juvenile corrective training ship, appropriately named HMS Justice.
As HMS Justice never left its mooring in Portsmouth the harbour, the Royal Navy had seen fit to put its command in the hands of a junior commissioned officer, a lieutenant called Nigel Topping. When Topping had heard of his posting only a week previously, he was livid. He saw that he had been put on the career road to nowhere. But there was nothing he could do other than resign or lump it. But as master of a load of juvenile delinquents, he could vent his frustration on their arses.
Topping was both a sadistic martinet and a rampant homosexual. As a prefect at his public school he had been the scourge of his schoolmates with the cane. So, reading Jamie’s sentence, his heart jumped for joy, as there were three mandatory canings to administer, which he decided he would perform himself. It was not the normal procedure. But what the hell; he was in charge and he could do as he wished.
Jamie was kitted out with a uniform with his name tag PC 704 Jamieson. (PC stood for Prisoner Cadet) and was marched straight to the showers, Then, naked and wet, he was led, trembling with fear, straight to the punishment room, where he was bound naked across a beating horse and left to contemplate his fate.
He had not long to wait. Topping arrived and dismissed his underlings, leaving himself alone with the unfortunate Jamie. Looking at Jamie’s naked arse he saw that the lad had recently suffered a severe court beating which he was only too happy to refresh.
“Cadet 204: Jamieson, you have arrived here with a mandatory order for a twelve cut caning, which I now intend to perform. Brace yourself, cadet, as this is going to be very painful.”
And lieutenant Topping was not joking, as he was a past expert with the cane. Twelve times the cane rose and descended with maximum force on Jamie’s already tortured arse. The lad begged for mercy, but to no avail.
But Topping had not yet finished with Jamie. He unzipped his fly, rolled a lubricated condom onto his massive erection and then with one smooth thrust, relieved Jamie of his anal virginity. Jamie, although shocked, quickly realised that being fucked was less painful than being caned. So by the time Topping had dumped his load, Jamie was actually quite enjoying the experience.
Having finished with Jamie, Topping called back the under-ranks, who manhandled Jamie to his cabin, where his future mates were eagerly awaiting the arrival of their new mate. But if Jamie had thought that his initiation to life on the Justice was over for the day, he had another thing coming to him.
Jamie’s New Family
This is a short, stand-alone story; but I suggest fans first read story No 6: Prison Ship Justice
On his day of arrival on HMS Justice, a training-ship for juvenile-delinquents, where he was to spend his next two years, Prisoner-Cadet 704- Jamieson had endured the first of three mandatory twelve-cut canings, to which he had been sentenced by the magistrate on his conviction for robbery with grievous bodily-harm. He had been thrashed by Lieutenant Topping, the ship’s commander, who had then gone on to relieve him of his anal virginity.
But Jamie’s initiation to life on HMS Justice was far from over. Now barely able to walk, he had been unceremoniously dumped in his cabin under the curious gaze of the three muscular looking characters with whom he was to bunk.
PC-685-Sutcliffe, evidently the leader, said: “Well, new-boy, now that you are here, get your pants off so that we can welcome you into our little family”
Trembling with fear of the unknown, but faced with three lads, all older and bigger than him, Jamie obeyed and bared arse for inspection; and a really sorry sight his striped and blooded arse was.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Sutcliffe, “They really did a job on you. But don’t worry; we’ll take care of you. Just kneel on your bunk, stick your arse in the air and we will make you one of us.”
As Sutcliffe said this, all three of them dropped their pants and pointed their boners in Jamie’s face. Sexually neo-natal as he was, Jamie knew instantly what was in store for him. But, still terrified of what was about to happen to him, he could do none other than obey.
And so, for the second time within an hour, Jamie was buggered, first by Sutcliffe and then successively by the two others. For a lad who had come aboard a virgin only two hours ago, Jamie had been provided with a stark introduction to both the tribal aspects of his future life on board HMS Justice and the rampant homosexuality, which not surprisingly existed when a group of young men were forced to live in close quarters together without access to female company.
But the surprising fact was that he fund he had enjoyed being fucked and felt completely relaxed with his with his three cabin-mates. Only now, did the four of them exchange names: Jamie, Bert, John, and Brian Sutcliffe.
That night after supper, Jamie learned that his new mates really had meant it, when Sutcliffe had said that they would make him one of them.So Jamie, street-wise but sexually totally ignorant on his arrival, finally went to sleep having been fucked by each of his new mates and having fucked each of them in turn. In making him one of them, Bert, John and Brian had changed his life forever. Jamie now felt that life as a prisoner on board HMS Justice might not, be too bad after all.
Light At The End Of The Tunnel
This is a short, stand-alone story; but I suggest fans first read Story No. 7: Jamie’s New Family.
Eighteen-year-old James Jamieson had completed his sentence as Prisoner-Cadet 704 on board HMS Justice. As he regained his liberty, it was a very different Jamie to the sixteen-year-old bad-lad, who had boarded the ship two years ago.
Life aboard ship had not been a bed of roses; discipline had been strict and the cane-bite painful as, with monotonous regularity, it communicated its message to Jamie’s naked arse. But at the end of the day, Jamie emerged better equipped to deal with the challenges of life.
Two years ago, Jamie had been a street-wise, petty-criminal, sexually totally inexperienced; but living in an all-male environment had revealed to him his true sexuality. This, coupled with the strict, physical, navy regimen, meant that it was a physically well-set-up, young man, who regained his freedom.
When Jamie had been the new-boy, his then mates had immediately introduced him to the joys of anal sex. Eventually, as the senior member of the cabin-group he had become the teacher rather than the pupil. And as sex was part and parcel of daily life on the ship, Jamie quickly had become addicted to it and could not now envisage his new-found freedom without it.
Jamie had had no home life to speak of. His mother had died when he was just six and his father was a drunk, who scarcely knew his son lived in the same house. But having regained his liberty and having nowhere else to go, he went to home to a stinking mess of a house.
After the strict cleanliness and order of naval life, Jamie just knew had to get out and also find a job to earn his living. But badly educated as he was and with a criminal record to boot, job prospects were bleak.
However, as the attractive, sexy-looking young stud he undoubtedly was, he had the luck to be picked up by a well-heeled businessman looking for sex, who paid him £200 for an evening of non-stop, anal copulation.
It suddenly hit Jamie that in selling his body for sex, of which he was a superb purveyor, he was giving both his partner and himself pleasure; and, moreover, he had £200 to show for it: more money in his hand than he had ever before had in his life. So that was how Jamie’s introduction to the sex trade.
He first joined a male escort agency, where he rapidly became one of their star performers. But then, as his reputation spread, he became an independent male escort. At the last count he was able to charge £400 a night, which clients were willing to shell out for his unique expertise.
But Jamie found he missed the camaraderie of life on board HMS Justice. So his next goal in life was to find a kindred spirit, with whom to share his life.
A Headmaster’s Final Gesture
Shortly before Christmas I was sitting sipping a second glass of port in front of the fire in my study, looking forward to the arrival of the head-boy and his deputy, whom, unbeknown to them at that moment, I intended to thrash. Next week, was the end of term and I would retire from a headmastership of thirty years, leaving my successor with a well-run, disciplined school, where, thanks to my leadership, the birch and the cane ruled supreme.
Although I should not say this, as it shows a side of my character which I prefer to conceal, I had always especially enjoyed beating naked arses of eighteen-year-old upper-sixth formers, like the pair who would shortly join me. It was an act, which aroused me sexually.
I had seen the two of them, drinking and smoking, in the bar of the local hostelry and so, in my final act of flagellation, I intended to show them that there was still life in the old dog.
The two of them arrived, having no idea why I had sent for them.
Saunders, the head-boy began: “You wanted to see us, Head-master?”
“Indeed I did, Saunders. Sit down, gentlemen; now, as it is the end of term and almost Christmas, let me offer you each a glass of this delicious port before we begin.”
Saunders, completely relaxed, replied: “That’s awfully kind of you sir; and very welcome indeed, as we have just finished beating Hinchcliffe and Parry-Jones, whom we caught smoking and drinking.”
“Well Saunders, I am pleased that my two senior prefects do not flinch from punishing boys, even those in the lower sixth. So I am sure you will understand when I tell you that I intend to beat the pair of you for committing exactly the same offence in the King’s Arms yesterday evening. Finish your port, gentlemen, and report back here in thirty minutes, suitably attired for the occasion.”
Saunders complacency disappeared in a flash. “Sir, you cannot mean that you intend to beat your two senior prefects. Sir, we are both eighteen years of age and as such…..”
“Save you breath, Saunders. I know you are legally of an age to drink; but not under the rules of this school. So I shall beat both of you. Now go and change and get back here on the double.”
To one naked arse after the other, I first administered twelve cuts of the birch. Then I made them re-assume the position and gave each of them an additional six strokes of the cane. When I had finished, I felt very pleased with the results of what had been my somewhat severe swansong.
My two senior prefects each left nursing an artistically striped and excruciatingly painful arse. They had learned that that school rules applied to all boys equally, from the first form right through to the upper sixth. What what was sauce for the goose was also sauce for the gander.
The End
The First Sunday of the Month
Chapel service on the first Sunday of each month, led by the Headmaster, Dr. Gideon Godfrey, was always tense. However, when he made the awaited, dreaded, fateful announcement, the atmosphere became positively sepulchral when he intoned the words: “I would like to see the following boys, appropriately attired, in my study at eleven-thirty today precisely.”
His words sent a shudder of fear down the spine of those named, who knew they were destined to be birched on the bare before Sunday lunch. Boys with a bad report the previous month automatically qualified for the list, as did boys, who had been caned at least twice times the previous month; and given the liberal use of the cane within the school, such lads were usually numerous. But it did not end there; boys who saw themselves as sin-free, suddenly found they were on the dreaded list.
All boys, from first-from to the upper-sixth were grist for Dr. Godfrey’s birching mill. His reputation for inflicting pain was legendary; and as boys regularly found out, past it, his right arm most certainly was not.
This very Sunday, nine boys, including two from the lower-sixth were to experience the Headmaster’s expertise with the birch. The youngest lad, first-former, Robert Baxter, was the first called-in to meet his fate. As usual, the head-boy was on hand to assist the Headmaster; holding down the shoulders of the young lad whose arse was about to be roasted, whilst the Headmaster worked his painful magic with the birch.
The Headmaster was never less then generous; so Baxter, who had received a poor monthly report, would enjoy twelve strokes of the dreaded implement. But the two senior boys, who had been caught smoking in the lavatories, would suffer eighteen cuts. But the expertise of Dr. Godfrey was such that no boy, whatever his crime, ever left his study other than with an excruciatingly painful arse.
Relentlessly, the birch delivered its painful message to Baxter’s arse. Unlike the cane, which concentrates its force in well-defined stripes, the birch spreads its good-tidings across a wider area of the anatomy. Then gradually, stroke upon stroke, the pain rapidly builds up to unbearable levels, which nevertheless have to be borne by the unfortunate recipient.
Seeing the unfortunate Baxter as he limped from the study, sobbing with the pain of his ordeal – and, make no mistake; birching truly is an ordeal – filled the hearts of the lads, nervously waiting, with foreboding of what awaited them. Dr. Godfrey subscribed to the axiom: “Pain is the name of the game”; and he practised what he preached with that consummate expertise, acquired from many years of birching boys’ arses. Judging from Baxter’s appearance, Dr Godfrey seemed on top of his form today.
It was, for the boys still to be called in, not a happy pre-lunch interlude. However, with that British stiff upper lip, they had little alternative but to grin and bear it.
Sir’s New Toy
The Headmaster of Ollerton Academy, Mr. Thomas Harrison, universally known as Sir to the students, sat in his study on the penultimate day of the school year, contemplating a long cardboard box containing two punishment canes, which the representative of the supply company had left for his approval, doubtless hoping for a large order in September.
To say that Sir approved of corporal punishment was to do him an injustice; Sir was a died-in-the-wool flogger of his pupils’ naked arses, which in his view had been provided by Almighty God to be beaten.
“Our new improved rattan canes,” read the blurb, “Are made from a rare sub-species of the rattan plant, Calamus rotang densa, which has the advantage of being 20% heavier than the true species, whilst retaining that delicate balance between flexibility and rigidity, which only the rattan cane offers the exigent schoolmaster. Due to its heavier weight, the new Excelsior punishment cane, delivers considerably more pain on mating with a miscreant’s bare bottom.”
The publicity droned on, extolling the advantaged of the new canes. Sir, possibly the greatest practitioner ever of the not-so-gentle art of flogging schoolboys’ naked arses, was already salivating at the thought of using the Excelsior Cane and he could barely wait to test out the samples with which he had been presented. The problem was that tomorrow school was breaking up for the summer, so the likelihood of finding a convenient guinea-pig before the holidays was slight.
However, through the window, Sir, saw, to his great delight, an upper sixth-former, Blackborough, who tomorrow would be leaving Ollerton forever, cuffing a first former around the ears. Bullying, which Blackborough’s action definitely constituted, was strictly forbidden and carried with it, if caught, a mandatory beating of twelve strokes on the bare.
Sir opened his door and saw a boy in the corridor: “You, boy, go right now and find Blackborough and tell him I wish to see him in my study immediately.”
A few minutes later a surprised Blackborough entered Sir’s study and said enquiringly: “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Indeed, I do, Blackborough, indeed I do; come in boy.”
Some ten minutes later, a physically admonished Blackborough limped tearfully out of Sir’s study, having taken twelve cuts on the bare from the new Excelsior senior cane.
Luck was smiling on Sir that day, for as Blackborough left, Sir found the boy, whom he had sent in search of him, loitering outside his door, with two friends in tow, Curiosity, it is said, killed the cat, as the three lads found to their cost, as Sir tested the junior Excelsior Cane on their naked arses. Sir sighed with contentment as he closed the door; four well-beaten arses had made a fitting conclusion to the year.
The supply company was delighted to receive Sir’s written order for thirty sets, of two canes each for deliver at the start of the new school year in September.
By Mutual Agreement
“You, Lionel, are a prick; an absolute, bloody prick; calling me out in front of a load of juniors as you did today and saying in front of the junior boys, me that you intended to beat me for swearing. I thought, Lionel, that we were friends; really close friends; but I now have serious doubts.”
“Look here, Paget,” replied Lionel Fortescue, the head-boy of Ollerton College, “I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head, when you address your head-boy.”
“So, it’s Paget now, is it? Well, Fortescue, you pulled rank on me, but you can stick your cane where a monkey keeps its nuts, as it’s not coming anywhere near my arse tonight.”
“That’s where you are so wrong, Paget. I caught you swearing in front of junior boys for which I am duty bound to give you twelve on the bare. But if you object, we can take the matter to the Headmaster and let him deal with you. Paget, believe me; it’s not personal; I’m just doing my duty as head-boy.”
Jeremy Paget had by now calmed down and moved into his damage- control-mode: “Look here, Fortescue, can’t we agree some sort of compromise?”
“Well Paget, I’m all ears; what had you in mind?”
“Well, how about I give you a blow-job and you just give me six on the bare?”
“OK Paget; I agree; so let’s get on with it.”
Fortescue stepped out of his trousers and underpants and offered his cock, already hard and oozing pre-cum in anticipation of the pleasure to come, to Paget, who immediately dropped to his knees and sucked-off the head-boy to his climax, taking his ejaculation full in his own face. Paget then bent across the back of the armchair and Fortescue proceeded to give him six swingeing strokes of the cane, But, as a unexpected sweetener, Fortescue then shafted Paget and fucked him through to his climax.
Later, alone in bed, Paget heard the door open and felt a naked body slide into bed beside him. The two bodies embraced warmly, before Paget rolled Fortescue over onto his stomach and said: “Lionel, I told you, you were a prick; and pricks need fucking hard. So prepare yourself to be nailed to the bed by an expert cock.”
For a good hour the two young men fucked and sucked each other as they had, as lovers, been doing for some time, until they reached that state of euphoria, which only consensual sex can bring.
“Jeremy, I’m really sorry I had to beat you; but you gave me no choice, mouthing off as you did in front of younger boys; otherwise I would have forfeited my authority as head-boy.”
“Lionel, all is forgiven, I fully understand that you did what you had to do. I am just relieved that we are still together, as you are a hell of a good fuck, which I would have missed enormously.”
Lionel, equally relieved that their friendship had endured said: “Amen to that.”
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