Once again, please skip this story if juvenile masturbation and/or CP bothers you - that is what Part 2 of this story is all about and the fact that it really happened won't make it any more palatable if you feel that way. So, if you read on, remember that you HAVE been warned!
Standing back on terra firma, with my bare feet gratefully soaking up whatever soothing coolness they could find in the damp floor and my blazing, smarting, stinging, cane-raped backside reminding me painfully of what had just been done to it, I hadn't yet realised that I was already on a high-speed roller coaster ride between heaven and hell, which was going to last some time. I had just been through a 'hell' trough, as witness the excruciating agony which was still building in my naked bum and my top priority was to try to bring that under enough control to enable me to pass into the hot, tingling afterglow which always made a hiding worth while; trouble was that, this time, it was taking unusually long and my tail was telling me that extraordinary measures were required to relieve its discomfort.
So, Having already given vent to more yelping during this thrashing than in all my previous 'school' whackings put together, I found myself hopping round the floor with my hands trying to coax some of the burn out of my corrugated bum and doing my own energetic and inelegant version of my eldest cousin, Eddie's, "No Pants Dance", capering shamelessly about, unheeding of and unconcerned by the show being put on by my wildly flapping and jigging _c_o_c_k_ and balls - anything could go, as long as it reduced that blinding, scalding heat. Well, it certainly DID and I apologised, mentally, to all the kids whom I had arrogantly pitied for doing the same thing in the past. There comes a point at which bare flesh is just SO tormented that SOME assistance is needed to restore it to normality.
With my tail once again feeling as though I could live with it, I focussed on the ashen faces of eight of my partners in crime and am heartily ashamed to have to admit that, far from feeling any sympathy with them, or compassion for their imminent fate, I realised, with ghoulish glee, that I was about to have an uninterrupted, close-up view of nine very presentable bare bums being more soundly whipped than I had ever seen before, even on the farm. I found this prospect SO appealing that my _c_o_c_k_, which had been hanging, long and limp against my thighs, described a rapid, unbroken, vertical, 180-degree arc and smacked hard against my tummy, as if propelled by a strong spring. Oh, yes!, as I couldn't STOP their getting hurt, I was definitely going to relax and enjoy the performance!! (A 'heaven' crest which was just TOO good to last); the ninth 'Circler', Eric, my erstwhile mount, turned round to face me and all my sadistic pleasure evaporated, because the stark terror in his eyes reminded me that he, of all of us, really didn't deserve a thrashing and that it was pure bad luck that he had been caught with us. Still far from puberty at 12 and a half, _s_e_x_ was not yet a major issue in his life; he would far rather be pulling cover drives in the nets than his wire in the changerooms. No prude, though, he was always game to join in any romp and this time it had backfired badly on him. Knowing Eric, I realised at once that he was not afraid of getting a hiding, or of the pain, or of what he could see on my bum and flanks, but of the very strong possibility that his own frailty would make it physically impossible for him to get through the same thrashing that was being dealt out to the rest of us. Let me explain.
Eric was, I think, the only son of a rather mysterious single-parent father who had 'something to do with the war effort'. He came from Barbados and was 'parked' at various schools all over the world which were in the zone in which his father was operating at the time. He had arrived with us on the same day that I had started my stint as a boarder and we found ourselves in the same class, house AND dorm, but those were our ONLY points of contact. I have already described my own status in the school, whereas Eric, had he been born 30 years later, been five or six years older at that time AND lived in America, would have been 'a Jock', par excellence. A brilliant, fearless, scrum-half and (suicide) slip fielder, with hands that seemed to be coated with high-quality glue when it came to dealing with any ball, he had a scrawny, straight-up-and down body that seemed to be made of wire and whipcord, with tendons of best steel cable; he had no discernable muscles but could arm-wrestle any junior and many seniors into submission effortlessly and packed a punch like a mule. He was also the only under 12/13 Rugby player in the school's history who regularly had the whole First Team back line turn out in full colours to watch barefoot Primary League matches, just, as the School Captain, who was not a profane or vulgar boy, put it, "To watch how this little guy _f_u_c_k_s the other side around". He won many of our matches almost single handed and would have ensured yet more victories, had our junior packs simply not been too light and our backlines too slow, to capitalize on the openings which he fabricated for them.
So, where was the 'frailty'? The 'Eric' package was wrapped in the thinnest, most fragile and delicate apology for a skin that any normal, healthy and VERY active boy was ever cursed with. He used to come off the Rugby field, grazed raw from shoulder to elbow and from hip to knee; his knees and elbows always sported huge, thick, black scabs (unless they had just been knocked off) but he kept on going back for more. He was not a 'bleeder', but was just VERY thin-skinned.
This shortcoming had been brought out unmistakably during one of his earlier terms with us. Our dorm had been horsing around after lights out, in spite of several warnings from Davies, the duty Monitor, to cut it out; this was largely because Davies was such a decent and gentle guy that, even if he did whack you, you hardly felt it and it left you (and especially me) with a pleasantly tingling bum that was a great starting point for a really good wire-pull in bed.
That night, after the third warning, Davies collected his prefect's cane and made us all bend over our beds for three. Then, with another order to shut up, he was leaving us to scramble into bed when Sean yelled out, 'Hey Eric, what's up with your bum?' Everyone, including Davies, turned to look and saw that the seat of Eric's white PT shorts, which were what he slept in,( having come from the tropics with no pyjamas with him and 'nothing' being verboten), were not flecked, but saturated, with blood.
The one I felt really sorry for at that moment, was not Eric, but poor old Davies, who went so white I thought he was going to faint. The bloodstain just kept on spreading and the more Eric said, 'Its nothing to worry about', the more panicky Davies got. Eventually, he dashed off to find Bro. Mac, returning with him in a few minutes. Eric's shorts were eased off his tail, exposing three neat, two-inch, open, double-lined, superficial gashes across each cheek. In spite of his vigorous protests, Eric was led off to the sick bay, vociferously exonerating Davies from any blame for his condition. In fact, Davies had certainly NOT hit Eric any harder than the rest of us, whose stripes had already faded to pink and almost resorbed as well, so everyone realised that Eric had a genuine problem, not that he ever let it spoil his fun!! By the way, it was many months before Davies caned another boy.
Now, the problem was that Bro. Mac was virtually obliged to thrash Eric and, to make matters worse, to do it bare bum; probably he hadn't even noticed Eric among the group originally and I seriously considered alerting him to the situation, until I realised that Eric would NEVER forgive me if I intervened on his behalf, He was one of those misguided people who would sooner die a thousand deaths than be 'let off' anything and I simply had to shut up and allow things to take their course. That I was really worried, was proved by my _c_o_c_k_'s subsiding again and shrinking into obscurity; as far as I could see, Bro. Mac was in a cleft stick - either he could make some sort of exception for Eric and brand him, in his own eyes, at least, as a weakling, or go ahead, thrash him and cause a blood-bath. Of course, I was reckoning without the man himself and, in doing so, plumbed my second 'hell-trough'.
Bro. Mac took one look at Eric's almost transparently white arse, clearly grasped the situation and immediately started me on my next 'up'. He said, quite casually, that he knew perfectly well which boys were behind this "revolting perversion", that they, (the remaining nine), had already seen how severely one of them had been beaten and that the others, who knew perfectly well who they were, could expect similar treatment. So, in one sentence, this very astute handler of boys had not only made my day (unintentionally, I'm sure), but also provided himself with a valid reason for giving some of the others (including Eric) a FAR less stiff caning than I had just had.
So far, so good. Still, Eric's track record proved that even a few quite moderate cuts across his bare bum were going to cut him to ribbons, but to merely tap him would, again, humiliate him completely. Meanwhile Eric, himself, had obviously decided that his Guardian Angel had to take over, because I saw him signal to Paulie, who had to 'horse' him, to 'make a back', on to which he vaulted with far more style than I had, although, of course, he didn't have to cope with the same obstacle to a happy landing as I did!! There he settled himself and rode, bare tail, but apparently quite relaxed, as if he were sunbathing, rather than waiting to have his bum very painfully skinned.
Over to Bro. Mac. Without hesitation, he got into position in line with Eric's bare and only slightly tension-dimpled bottom, rested his cane lightly across both cheeks, and, as he had done with me, lifted the stick and let fly. Even to my experienced, connoiseur's eye and ear, that stroke could not be faulted. The hiss of the descending cane, the sharp crack as it met naked tail and Eric's harsh gasp for breath, all testified to his having just received the first cut of a VERY good hiding. I had shut my eyes, involuntarily, the moment before impact. Eric was not a friend of mine, but, God, he had guts and I didn't want to see his hopelessly ill-protected bum get ripped open. His gasp was VERY genuine, but isolated and did not sound as if he was in mortal agony, so I dared to look. There, dead straight across the middle of both small cheeks, was a chalk-white, indented stripe, the blood, which had been forced away, already rushing back to colour the twin 'tramline' edges a dark purple around the crimson central strip of whipped skin. It was, in fact, a perfect cane stripe, just like most of those which, I felt sure, were adorning my own bum at that moment. None of the others could have doubted that Eric, like me before him, was in the process of getting a 'good' thrashing. But, how? His skin was still like tissue paper. What was different? Be sure I watched the rest of that caning like a hawk, my _c_o_c_k_ coming back to full attention as I appreciated the addition of one bright weal after the other, dividing that neat white backside into seven almost exactly equal segments from top of crack to crease, and leaving Eric hanging, limp and exhausted, the very picture of a well-thrashed small boy, tears streaming down his upper cheeks, but not a single drop of blood visible on the lower ones. He got six, not eight, three a side, but all straight across his bum; it must have hurt him like hell, because when he was let down, his knees buckled slightly before he scuttled off, his wide-striding gait betraying the need to avoid any pressure between those two hard, red mounds of whipped muscle. He seemed to slump against the wall and stayed there for quite a while, but, I think, just to recover a bit before he went for his clothes and not, like me, so that he could watch the rest of the hidings.
During the time before the next boy, Paulie, started to get his, I reflected glumly that all this, thrilling though it might be, had spoilt what had promised to be a most enjoyable circle for me. Eric wasn't much fun to have on your right, as he had such a minute, circumcised _c_o_c_k_, that its little pink head seemed to come straight out of his body and even on full bone was probably under 2" long - real finger-and-thumb size, provided your hand wasn't too big! However, having him on my left, for the first time that day, had promised to be GREAT fun, as he had a light but firm grip and was using a smooth, just right for me, stroke. Where he got it from, I couldn't imagine, as he certainly had nothing to practise it on, himself; but there it was and heaven alone knew when I would get him on that side again, as one of the unwritten, but best observed, rules of 'Circling' was that the pre-arranging of your partner(s) and any undignified scrambling for position were strictly forbidden.
Then, on the other side, I had had Simon, who, at nearly 13, had recently hit puberty and was currently the proud possessor of one of those wonderful, not very big, but rock-hard, immobile and virtually inflexible erections which are given only to the very young and super fit and which feel like bars of polished, oiled steel, when stroked through their loose sheath of velvety skin. All in all, I had been done out of what had promised to be one of my best 'Circles' ever, so what was coming had BETTER be good!
Meanwhile Paulie had got himself ready to 'get it'. A tough, fairhaired, but sallow-skinned, little ruffian of about my own age, he always took 'cuts' very well and didn't seem too worried about his coming dose. He was also on bone, but I knew of old that his was due to pure tension and not pleasurable anticipation and wouldn't survive his first cut, or revive later on. He seemed to become one with Sean's naked body as he wrapped himself round his shoulders and settled his stiff _c_o_c_k_ as comfortably as possible against Sean's bare cheeks, with his pale, slickly-angled young loins moulding snugly around Sean's firm and quite 'sticky-out', rear end.
There was no reason to brand him 'a ringleader', so I expected him to get six, as well, also, probably, with no 'diagonals' and so it turned out. He, unlike either Eric or me, though, went in for some very interesting gymnastics during his thrashing. The first cut, which, as usual, caught him across the lower curve of his tail, made him gasp and go absolutely rigid, so that his whole body seemed to be standing out horizontally from Sean's upper back for a few seconds, his already soft _c_o_c_k_ dangling and his bare legs and feet braced in agony; then he collapsed back on to Sean, and started to kick wildly, but silently as the next cut landed. I had worried about giving Bro. Mac a faceful of feet, but he was REALLY in danger of being hoofed in the balls by Paulie's powerful and VERY mobile, legs. Sean actually had his work cut out to keep him on his back, as he writhed and twisted frantically in his efforts to get his bare and obviously very sore, tail out of the path of that slashing, biting, stick. The cane was, as a matter of fact, etching a very interesting pattern on those two hard, naked cheeks and gave me my first clue as to how Bro. Mac might have avoided making mincemeat out of Eric's bum.
Whereas each of Eric's cuts had seemed to bounce off his taut little backside, Paulie's were sinking into his, even though his arse was far more muscular than Eric's. This was proved by the way his stripes followed the curve of each buttock, over the crest and on to the far flank. A gentle feel of my own, still smarting, welts, told me that they, too, went way past the 'top' of each cheek, so, somehow, Bro. Mac had managed to appear to hit Eric just as hard as me and Paulie, but without actually letting the cane bite into his arse. It was not until years later that I discovered HOW this is done, or was able to appreciate the skill that went into doing it, not once, but six times in a row AND from both sides. The technique requires split-second timing and consists of bringing the cane down with normal force towards its target, which need not necessarily be bare and then, JUST before impact, relaxing not only the 'caning' wrist, but also that hand and even its individual fingers. This results in there being virtually no driving force in the stroke - the cane lands with nothing more than its own weight and speed behind it; its tip can't flex round the bottom any more, because there is nothing to attach it to its fulcrum, on which it is rather bouncing than digging in. Of course it will still sting and, on a tender hide, like Eric's, raise quite a nasty weal. The problem is to adjust your grip at the very last moment, failing which the stroke will wander all over the place, while, if it happens a fraction too late, there will be almost full pressure on the target, which, if bare, as Eric's had been, will not be spared anything.
TO BE CONCLUDED