'Hold your hand out, Grey!'
Peter meekly obliged.
'Higher than that, you idiot! That's better!'
The younger boy couldn't help flinching as the cane whistled through the air and descended with a quick slash on his right hand.
He drew the hand back sharply, gasping with the sudden pain. His fingers felt numb. He examined the stinging red band across the palm.
The prefect prodded him gently in the stomach with the length of rattan. 'What are you waiting for, boy? Other hand!'
Reluctantly, trembling slightly, Peter raised his left hand.
'Stretch that palm out, Grey. If I have to hold it steady for you, it'll be six on each hand.'
The boy obeyed. Another slash, and another red stripe burn into his left palm.
Forbes smiled with a satisfied air, pleased with his handiwork as the younger boy hugged his stinging hands under his armpits. 'Well you can't say you didn't ask for it, young Grey. You said you fancied a taste of my new cane.'
'Not on the hands, Forbes!'
'Ah-ha, you wanted me to beat your bottom, is that it ?'
'I thought you might need some practice. You've never used a cane before.'
'Most obliging, old chap. But hardly a fair test in your case. You've only been caned on the hands before. And by the masters. I wanted to see how I measured up.'
Jolly well, I should say. Absolute scorchers.'
'Sporting of you to say so. Let's have a look at the damage. My word, yes, those stripes show up rather well. Now, about your bottom. Yes, it would be a good idea to try the rod out a few times before I have to use it in earnest. What do you say then, old fellow? No hard feelings about the hands? Are you still game ?'
Peter nodded, a little tearfully. The older boy clapped him soundly on the shoulder. 'Splendid! I promise I shall give of my best, and if it'll compensate you're excused fagging duties for the rest of the week.'
'Oh, thank you, Forbes!'
'Cut along now, and report to my study after prep. You can tell old Biggins you're helping me rearrange furniture or something. I fancy you and I are in for a long and tiring night.'
Peter left the prefect's study, closed the door and leaned against the wall. Before joining the rest of the boys at lunch, he must first regain his breath and control his wildly fluttering heart. He had done it very well and truly now. He had no-one else to blame for the consequences. He just hoped he would be able to take what was coming to him like a man.
At the age of fourteen, Peter had just fallen in love. With a boy two years older than himself.. It was nothing serious, of course. Just one of those pre-adolescent crushes that are bound to occur in the cramped, claustrophobic confines of a single-_s_e_x_ boarding school. In Martin Forbes, Peter had found a roguishly handsome idol. A school hero on the rugger field and in the nets. A natural born leader with an air of masterful authority that left the younger, more introverted boy gasping with hero-worship. It had been Peter's ambition for six long months to become Forbes' personal fag, and at last success had come. He wanted no more than to serve the boy he secretly aspired to become.
Did he but know it, success for Peter had been assured from the moment he arrived at the school little more than a year ago. Forbes had marked him out from the first as the boy most eligible to serve him as soon as he joined the ranks of the prefects. Peter was just the type of boy he'd been looking for. Naturally submissive. A born slave. Just the ticket for an oaf like Forbes who was too preoccupied with the playing fields to bother himself with looking after his clothing and his study.
Peter himself was quite a nice looking lad. Rather tall for his age, with curly fair hair. He didn't mind moving to a strict school where the accent was firmly on corporal punishment. He was, after all, the type of boy who did his best when firmly controlled. What he did rather mind was the school uniform which he thought made him look silly. It was the type of uniform normally associated with very young boys, consisting of crisp white shirt, knee length stockings, orange and brown striped blazer, crested cap and crested tie.....and very short, very tight grey shorts. It was the shorts that made him blush. His mother had often told him how rounded and girlish his young bottom was when ever she put him across her knee for a playful smacking. He could feel how tightly the shorts moulded his pert bottom cheeks, and was constantly aware of the attention they drew from the other boys.
Actually, it was the sight of his bottom in those tight, grey shorts that made Peter all the more attractive to Forbes. The little pants from the rear clearly outlined his bottom crevice.
Peter remembered being taken aback when he first arrived at the school and discovered that in keeping with the school's tradition of Spartan discipline, no boy was allowed to wear vest or pants. He remembered his Form Master's response when he complained of feeling cold in class and thus unable to concentrate on his Latin Grammar.
'Step forth, boy, and bend over my desk,' the Form Master had ordered. Peter quickly obeyed, and felt very conscious of the whole class staring at his sturdy bare thighs and his superbly rounded bottom set off by his tight grey shorts.
The Form Master had placed his strong hand in the small or Peter's back and held him down firmly over the ancient wooden desk while he reached for a stout leather slipper. Peter squirmed when the thick leather sole thwacked against the taut seat of his shorts, but realised that it wouldn't do to appear a coward in the eyes of his class-mates. So, submissively he lay across the master's desk while the slipper went thwack. . thwack. . thwack six - ten - twelve times upon his tender bottom.
At last, the slippering was over and the Form Master pulled Peter back to his feet. The boy clasped his burning bot with both hands and hopped from toe to toe with the fiery smart. The master chuckled and asked the boy if he felt any warmer, to which the boy replied, truthfully, that he did.
That was the first of many a slippering, spanking and caning the boy learned to endure during his first year at the school. He soon learned that it was the canings that were most to be feared. He didn't mind overmuch being beaten on his bum. His bottom had been beaten lots of times at home and at previous schools. But the cane was only given on the hands when strokes less than six were given, and he hated handcaning more than anything else. He wished the Masters would beat his bottom with a cane instead, but he was never naughty enough to deserve more than two or four strokes of the rod.
Gradually, he came to dwell more and more on the idea of being caned on his bottom. So much so that it became an obsession with him. The cane stung horribly on the hand - how did it feel on the bottom ? Worse than the slipper ? Would he ever find out ? Dare he ever find out ?
The only way he could get a caning, it seemed, was to do something really wicked. Like cheeking a Master, or fighting in church. But a caning for such offenses often amounted to a bare-bottom flogging administered before the whole school. And he certainly didn't fancy that.
Then a new rule was issued by the Headmaster ordering prefects to use their canes only on the buttocks of their unruly charges. There had been some trouble with clumsily wielded canes fracturing fragile wrist-bones, so the Head had decided that the seat was a safer target for the ever-flailing canes of enthusiastic prefects.
Masters, who were more skilled at the art, would still continue to use their rods on upturned palms.
Peter's heart had leapt into his mouth when he heard this pronouncement. His eyes instantly sought out Forbes, who had by this time been made a prefect. By this time also, Peter was his personal fag. Events followed their natural course with inevitability.
On the day that Forbes, as a new prefect, was issued with his first cane, Peter made straight for the prefect's study directly after morning lessons. He found the rod, brand spanking new and shining, lying across a low stool. With trembling fingers he picked it up. It was about 36" in length, yellow, cruelly ridged, and pencil thin. He curved it between his hands - it made an almost perfect 'O'. He grasped it by the crook-handle, and, with a flick of the wrist, sent a tremor rippling across its length. It whipped the air with a warning hiss. He looked down at the low stool. Suddenly, he was acutely aware that the thin material of his grey shorts felt unusually tighter across the bare cheeks of his sensitive bottom. He felt a sudden compulsion to lay himself down across the well padded stool and try a few practice swishes across the drum-taut seat of his pants...
Suddenly, the door flew open and Forbes barged in wearing his cricketing flannels.
'I say, young Grey, you haven't seen my new pads knocking about, have you? Ah, here they are! Can't play the Junior XI without...' He stopped short as he noticed the new cane in Peter's hand and the guilty expression on his face.
'Hello ? What ? What ? What ?'
'Hel - hello, Forbes, old man,' Peter gulped. 'Just been admiring your new bum-whacker.'
'So I observe.'
'Bet it's a real stinger!'
'It would certainly appear so.'
'Had a chance to try it yet ?'
'Not yet.'
'I suppose there's an art to it. It's all in the wrist, so they say.'
'Do they?'
'One has to know how to use it properly to get the right effect. One has to know how high to raise it above the shoulder, how fast to bring it down, and where to place the strokes on the bottom.'
'You sound like a chap who knows whereof he speaks,' the prefect drawled.
'N - not really.'
There was a pause. A tension in the air. The boys gazed at each other. The younger boy was the first to drop his eyes, his face suddenly crimson.
'Are you suggesting I need some practice, Grey?' The prefect's voice was low, soft, deliberate.
'If it would be of any help, Forbes,' answered the younger boy softly, submissively.
Forbes gently but firmly took the cane away from the younger boy and flexed it. 'Certainly has a lot of spring to it. A real stinger, as you said. One will certainly need a touch of practice. One doesn't, after all, use the foil or the fishing rod without familiarising oneself with the instrument.
'Of course,' he went on, 'one has to be able to judge the effect the cane is having. For that, one needs a boy.
'Yes, Forbes.'
'Anyone in mind ?'
'I am your personal fag, Forbes.'
'So you are. Very well. Take off your blazer, and hold your hand out.'
And that is how young Peter Grey came to be tapping at Forbes' study door at a little after six that evening. Now that the moment had come he was petrified, but he knocked resolutely if timidly.
'Come in,' came the prefect's voice.
Peter turned the handle and entered. Forbes was sitting at his desk finishing an essay. He laid down his pen as the boy came into the study. 'Close the door behind you, there's a good boy.'
For a long moment, Forbes sat behind his desk gazing up at the younger boy who began to blush. Both were aware of the slender rod lying on the prefect's desk.
'Turn around,' said Forbes. Peter turned slowly, feeling the prefect's eyes slipping down his young body, coming to rest on those beautiful buttocks held captive by the straining shorts. He heard the scrape of the chair behind him as the prefect stood up. He heard, or rather felt, the older boy approaching. Then he felt a hand brush against his bottom. The hand came to rest, lightly cupping the prominent crown of the right cheek. Then another hand clasped the left cheek. Gently, the prefect squeezed Peter's buttocks.
'You have a lovely bottom, Peter,' Forbes breathed. 'Absolutely right for the cane. I think it's time we began. I want you to bend over and touch your toes.'
Bending down, so that the tight shorts rode higher and higher and tighter over his buttocks. Perter heard the rattle of the cane being lifted off the desk.
With a solemn sense of occasion, Forbes brought the cane up slowly and brought it whipping down into the seat of the smaller boy's tightly stretched shorts. There was a loud thud as the rod made contact and na sharp intake of breath as the boy being thrashed gasped.
Peter's body shook a little under the impact, but he stayed in position.
'How was that?'
'Not too bad.'
'Can you take some more?'
'I'll try.'
For the next three minutes, the study echoed to the swish and thus of cane contacting the seat of Peter's shorts as the prefect laid on six of the best with 30-second intervals between each stroke. Apart from the occasional gasp, drawn involuntarily from between gritted teeth, Peter took his punishment in silence. He was determined to savour his first bottom caning to the full. Somehow, coming from Forbes, it was more like a caress than a full-blooded whacking.
Finally, the cane stopped falling. Forbes stepped back and perched himself on the edge of the desk. He mopped his brow and looked down at the tightly-shorted bottom still thrusting up at him.
'You may stand up now Peter.'
The boy did so, with a certain amount of reluctance, and a certain amount of pain.
'Well, what's the verdict ?'
'Quite all right, Forbes...' he left the sentence hanging.
'But ?'
'A little on the high side. And most of the strokes were falling more on the hips than on the bottom itself.'
'I see. And how do you propose that I correct the error ?'
'Simple enough, if you begin at the middle of the bottom, you know, where the shorts are the tightest, then work your way down the lower checks towards the thighs. That would be excruciating.'
'How about the speed of the strokes ?'
'Murderous. Slow and ruthless.'
'Whippy enough for you ?'
'I should ensure that only the last six inches of cane actually hit the bottom, if i were you, Forbes. That's how to make it really sting. Use it like a whip.'
'Shall we say another six ?'
'Might as well. Just to get it right.'
'Over you go, then. Nice and tight.'
'Forbes went into action without further ado and gave Peter his second half dozen all the way down his bottom. This time he found it harder to stay in position, the thin school shorts offering him no protection from the forcefully wielded rod. The boy was squirming after two cuts and positively writhing after three. He tried to take it manfully, but his bottom was on fire and the heat and throbbing spread up beyond his waist and all the way down his thighs. He gasped and panted madly at the fifth, and when the sixth slashed across the very top of his thighs he actually yelped. He was a bit ashamed of that, but it was such a scorching caning any boy would have done the same.
'Owzat ?' asked Forbes.
Peter had difficulty in controlling his voice as he jumped up, hands clutching his smarting bottom, but he managed to convey his opinion that the prefect had done a fine job.
'You took it splendidly, old chap,' beamed Forbes as he prepared to put the cane away.
'Just a moment, Forbes.'
'Hello ?'
'Don;t you want to see how precisely you've laid on the strokes ?'
'You don't mean - ?'
'If that's all right with you ?'
'Yes - yes, of course, Down with 'em.'
Peter quickly unbuttoned his shorts, lowered them to the floor and leaned over the desk, displaying his scarlet-striped bottom to the prefect.
Forbes examined the ridged buttocks closely, and ran his hands gently over them. 'Looks like a red-hot griddle. Feels like one too. Pity....'
'Why a pity ?'
'Pity we're only allowed to cane boys on their shorts. It would be interesting to see the effects of a bare bottomed caning. Don't you think ?'
'Oh, Forbes!'
'Up to you, old man of course.'
But already the slender rod was bouncing up and down rhythmically on the soft fulsome bottom cheeks, and peter knew he was powerless to resist.
'Just another six, nice and low.....' The strokes were falling sharper now. 'Nothing to worry about. You can take it, can't you. And afterwards I've some lovely cool lotion for you. You can lie across my lap while I smooth it in.......'
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This story was on the Foxxnet BBS in the mid-90s. The author is unknown.