French Correction Part 3


by Tim Green <Doubleninebare@hotmail.com>

Friday - My last full day with Olivier. Tomorrow I'm off to Paris where my parents will meet me off the train. Today I get my last taste of the martinet, but not from M Corot! Ever since our first thrashing, Olivier has been asking me whether the cane, so beloved of English schoolmasters, hurts as much as the martinet. I assure him that it does and promise to prove it. On Fridays, M and Mme Corot go to the local market so we have the house to ourselves. I'd noticed that there are clumps of bamboo growing along the road to the river (I'd always thought bamboo only grew in the Far East). Yesterday, on our way back, I cut several long thick stalks and have made a couple of canes about 3 feet long and 3 8ths of an inch thick - about the size of the senior cane at my school. (Being only a third-former, I haven't experienced the senior cane yet but I don't tell Olivier that!). The bamboo is not quite as whippy as a real school cane but I've chosen some stalks which are still a bit green so they should do the job. The deal is that I will give Olivier a dozen on the bare bottom but in return he will do the same to me with the martinet. We toss (a coin, silly!) to see who goes first. He wins so I strip off my shorts and underpants and bend over the wooden bar at the end of the bed. Olivier slides a pillow under my tummy - to make me more comfortable he says but I think he just wants my bum higher in the air! He then leaves me in this humiliating position for ages while he goes downstairs to collect the whip from its hook in the scullery. Eventually he returns, running his fingers through the long leather strands just as his Dad does.

"Eh bien! You have been tres mechant and I am going to whip your bare bottom very hard." Although I know he is only acting and trying hard not to giggle, my stomach tightens and my bottom prickles in fear of what is to come. But it's exciting, too, and I feel my _c_o_c_k_, pressed hard into the pillow, beginning to stir.

Bent over the end of the bed, I can see a bit of what's going on behind me, unlike over the settee. I watch Olivier take up position to my left and raise the martinet high above his shoulder, I brace myself and , after a little pause, I hear the now familiar WHOOPP!! SPLATT!! sounds and my bum is stinging all over. It's as if someone has attacked my rear with stinging nettles. The next one is high, curling round the top of my backside, the third lands dead centre and makes me gasp. Olivier may not be as strong or as accurate as his father but he is not holding back. "THAT REALLY HURTS!" I gasp as the thongs whip around the lower curves of my cheeks. "It's supposed to." Oliver replies coldly. His aim is improving and the next two blows both land low down, where my bottom joins my thighs. I writhe in pain but cling to the bed. I'm not going to be defeated by a 13 year old! I can see Olivier standing back, admiring his handiwork like an artist. There is a determined look on his face and I can tell he is enjoying this - enjoying it far more than I am but just you wait, boy, until the tables are turned!

Clearly, he had been looking for fresh areas of my bum to attack and he finds them, the thongs whipping round the side of my right cheek. then across the tops of my thighs, which makes me jump up and down. Finally, Olivier half climbs on to the bed and aims the martinet down rather than across my bottom, three times in quick succession. AAGHH! I sing out - the pain is unbelievable .The thongs curl down my legs, between my thighs and penetrate deep between my bum cheeks. He gets off the bed and I try to push myself up, too, but Olivier's hand presses me back down over the bar. "Wait" he says simply. I am dying to get up and rub - my bottom feels like it has been attacked by a swarm of bees, my thighs too. Most of all, I want to massage that agonising burning spot at the base of my swollen penis. In an instant, Olivier has got the cold cream and is applying its cooling balm to my flaming rear. His fingers start to explore the cleft between my cheeks. It feels so good that I'm close to coming but I don't want to yet. "Enough" I croak and lever myself upright. I can see from the bulge in Olivier's tight shorts that he is as excited as I am but it's going to be a while before we do anything about that!

I get dressed in a pair of jeans as these are less constricting than Olivier's shorts. "Right, boy, now it's your turn to be punished for your disobedience" I say in the sternest tone I can manage. I make Olivier stand facing the wall with his hands on his head, like our housemaster does at school, while I go downstairs and fetch the bamboo canes. I don't rush - I want him to enjoy the mixture of anxiety and excitement that I know so well. I leave him there while I arrange a chair in the middle of the room. "Come here, boy!" I command, flexing the cane as menacingly as I can. "You have disobeyed school rules and I am going to give you a severe caning on your bare bottom." I make him stand behind the chair and then I reach round to undo his shorts. It's not easy as his bulge has made them even tighter than usual. I slide the shorts down his beautiful brown legs and make him step out of them. Slowly, I do the same with his underpants and then order him to bend over the chair. I push his head hard into the seat so his bum is stretched tightly and I spread his feet further apart. He is in the exact position that I know so well from school. I fold back the tail of his tee-shirt and stare in wonder at his gorgeous bum, the cheeks standing out milky white against his tanned back and legs. I run my hand over the smooth, warm, hairless skin. It seems a such shame to spoil this flawless beauty with the stripes of the cane but I know he wants it. I swish the cane experimentally - the sound brings a wiggle from Olivier's bottom. My hand is shaking, partly from excitement but also through nerves. I've never done this before and I want to do it well - hard enough to show him how much the cane hurts but not too much. In these last three weeks I've really come to love my new French friend. I take aim carefully, raise the cane high and crash it down across the middle of his bottom. Olivier's body bucks and he gasps in surprise. That's a good sign. I aim the next one higher - it's a bit too high but it still hurts him. I try lower - the cane whips round the under-curves of his firm cheeks. "YEOUCH!! Please David, not so hard." he implores. "Be quiet, boy! You deserve a proper English school caning and you're going to get one. And if you get up before I tell you to, you'll get two extras."

Three livid red stripes cross his pale cheeks. I continue to thrash, slowly and carefully. This is harder than it looks. I can't keep the strokes neatly in line like my housemaster does. They are crossing all over the place and the points where they cross look very red and sore. Each stroke now makes the boy howl loudly. I stop after nine and run my hands through his dark curls. "Only three more to go now" I say reassuringly. Olivier is sobbing but clings on gamely. I try hard to aim the last three strokes so they don't land on top of previous ones but only partly succeed. I help him up and hug him tightly, his tears falling on my shoulder. "It's OK, it's all over. I'm sorry I hurt you so much. You were so brave." I lie him face down on the bed and rub some cream gently over the worst of his stripes. I know just how he's feeling - nothing exists in your world except a throbbing aching bottom. He needs some time to recover from the shock. I sit silently on the bed, staring at the deep red ridges criss-crossing his slim bottom and listening as his breathing becomes calmer. After a while, I apply some more cream liberally over the whole of his rear, which wiggles seductively in response. I help him up and hold him tight while still gently rubbing the cooling balm into his cheeks. His prick, which shrunk during the caning, is now back standing to attention. Mine feels ready to burst. I strip off my clothes and in less than a minute we are both coming is shuddering waves of ecstasy, our juices mingling and binding our bodies together on the bed.

All too soon it is time to get dressed and tidy up before Olivier's parents return from market. I am relieved to see that no cane weals show below the hem of his brief shorts although he will have to be careful if he bends over and he won't be wearing swimming trunks in public for a few days! My bottom is prickly hot and stinging, but it doesn't ache as badly as it did after M Corot had treated it. I can see Olivier wince when he moves but he tries hard to hide this from his parents when we sit down for dinner.

Saturday. Olivier is sporting a fine set of dark red stripes, which I admire and comfort for a final time when I should be packing ready to leave. At the station, I thank M and Mme Corot profusely for having me and thank Olivier for making me so welcome. I ask if it would be possible for him to come and stay with me in England next summer. Olivier points out how useful this will be in improving his English and his parents agree, subject to my parents' approval. We kiss farewell promise to write. The train ride is bumpy and the seat hard, which soon brings back a stirring reminder of Olivier's martinet strokes. He has promised to bring me a souvenir when he comes next year - he showed me the bunches of martinets with their wooden handles and long shiny leather strands hanging up ready for anyone to buy in the local hardware shop. Along with the presents for my parents, I am taking one other memento of my visit home - a pair of Olivier's very brief tight denim shorts which I plan to wear when no-one is around to remind me of our time together.

My parents meet me off the train and are amazed at how brown I am. They are so pleased that the educational trip they planned has been successful that they readily agree to Olivier coming to stay next year. I start wondering how I am going to acquire a proper school cane prior to his visit - you can't buy those in hardware shops!


More stories by Tim Green