In 1948 I was sent to board at Birchleigh, a famous Commonwealth school for boys. My father had been killed in action so a grateful nation paid for his son's education.
Birchleigh had in place a type of mentoring or buddy system. My mentor was a house prefect named Butcher. He was 18 and as big as a man. Captain of the rugby First XV and an expert on the firing range. I was just 11 and small for my age. Most afternoons I spent an hour with Butcher in his study where he tutored me in algebra or showed me how to hold a cricket bat.
There were many rules like forgetting to hang your dressing-gown on its hook which earned a beating from a prefect. Butcher was in charge of my house as well as being my mentor. The housemaster, form masters even the rector himself all caned with great enthusiasm, but mostly for more serious offences. The day to day running of the place was left to the prefects.
One morning during my second week at Birchleigh I found my dressing-gown on the floor and not on the hook where I had left it. I quickly put it back up, hoping no one in authority had noticed. That afternoon as usual, Butcher helped me make sense of an equation. He was a natural teacher and very patient with me. Suddenly, he slammed his book shut.
"Now, nipper, we have something else to discuss". Butcher looked stern. "Dressing-gowns belong on hooks. Do you agree with that?"
"Yes, Butcher".
"Then why was yours on the floor this morning?"
"I don't know. I must have forgot".
The house prefect looked me in the eye: "Then I will have to teach you NOT to forget in future. I am going to have to beat you".
My stomach turned to ice as the burly senior boy picked up a thin, whippy junior cane.
"Take down your trousers and underpants and bend over the arm of that chair".
I fumbled with the clasp of the belt and then my trousers slid to my ankles. I peeled my underpants down as well and placed myself over the chair. My bare bottom felt horribly exposed.
"Two strokes". Butcher tucked my shirt-tail up inside my pullover. "This will hurt", he promised.
The cane landed. I gasped as a lightning rod of pain scorched my boy-mounds. My whole body trembled. Tears scalded my eyes and I let out a yell. Butcher waited 10 seconds for the pain to reach its peak before unleashing the second firm stroke. I shouted. Lightning rarely strikes the same place twice but Butcher had.
"You can get up now. No rubbing".
I stood upright and adjusted my clothing. The tears had turned to hiccups.
"That your first whacking?" Butcher asked as he put the cane down.
"Yes" I whispered.
"Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Butcher", I sniffed.
He smiled: "Glad to hear it". A bell rang and I was dismissed.
As I lay in bed that night listening to the snuffles and other noises made by the 20 or so boys in the junior dorm, I reached down and felt the weals Butcher had carved into my very tender flesh. The hurt had subsided into a warm, glowing sensation which was not unpleasant. I rolled over onto my tummy and was soon fast asleep,
The next day my bum was all the colours of the rainbow. The other junior boys were very impressed. In the swimming pool lads swam naked. One or two fifth formers sported thick welts from a senior cane but fourth formers seemed to get whacked the most. They teased me about having had my 'arse tickled' and gently touched the welts. I felt like I'd joined an exclusive club.
A month later my dressing-gown was on the floor again. I knew I was in for another thrashing from Butcher. My bravado vanished as I remembered how much the first one had hurt.
That afternoon in Butcher's study I had trouble concentrating on the math's problem. He was starting to lose patience because I was so distracted.
"Please, Butcher", I said, "I know you have to beat me. Can we get it over with?"
He looked at me. "Beat you? What for?"
I gulped. He hadn't noticed the dressing-gown!
"Nothing, I guess".
Butcher looked at me through brown eyes.
"Tell me, nipper". Those eyes seemed to look right inside my soul. I shivered. He was talking so I concentrated to hear what he was saying. "Before you came to Birchleigh did your father give you hidings?"
I shook my head. "He was killed in the war".
"That's rough. I'm sorry to hear that". He smiled at me. "Bet you were a terror at primary school!"
"No. My mother taught me at home".
"Ah, that explains why, when I had to tickle your bottom with my stick, it shook like a couple of jellies and you yelled your head off. That's very bad form. Won't do at all. I'm going to have to toughen you up, nipper".
I didn't like the sound of that, one little bit.
There was a long silence. "Well, since you've come to me today expecting to be beaten so I'd better find some good reason". He stood up. "Time for a hygiene inspection. Hold out your nails". I did as I was told. "Hmm, cleaner than mine". He gently took hold of my head in order to check behind my ears. "I couldn't grow King Edwards in there", he pronounced cheerfully, "you are a very clean lad". He grinned at me. "Well done".
"Tell me why you were expecting a whacking", he asked.
I shuffled my feet before saying "My dressing gown. It was on the floor this morning".
Butcher looked at me. "Very honest of you, owning up like that". He frowned: "Probably another lad put it there, hoping to get you into trouble. He's the one who needs caning, not you. Agreed?".
"Yes, Butcher".
My mentor looked at me for a long time. "On Saturday night, when that man from the town came up here and very kindly showed the school a movie on his projector, someone pulled the power plug out'. He paused. "Was that 'someone', you?"
"It was a rotten film. Lovey dovey stuff. Yuck!" I retorted. "I thought it was going to be Errol Flynn".
"But instead it was Greta Garbo in 'Camille'. The projector bulb got broken and the screening had to be abandoned".
"I'm glad I did it", I said, mutinously.
"I'm afraid you rather hurt the feelings of a visitor to the school. Sorry he didn't have an Errol Flynn flick". Butcher picked up his cane. My stomach turned to ice. "You'll have to make do with my 'sword' tickling your rump instead. A bit one sided, for a sword fight I'm afraid". He frowned. "You upset a visitor and broke his bulb. Worse, you let down the school. I have to give you six. Bare and bend!"
Slowly I did as I was told. Six! How could I survive them?
"Over that chair. Spread your legs out as far as you can. Good boy".
Time in the small study was measured by the rise and fall of that stick. The only sounds were the thud it made against my boy-orbs, Butcher panting with the exertion and my yells. His eye was so good he placed each fresh stripe within an inch of the others. The hurt was agonising. It seemed to go on forever. The final stroke cut a swathe through the other five weals which had moments before scorched my small buttocks. In my heart I knew I'd deserved every one of them. Now, the slate was wiped clean.
"Get up".
I danced from one foot on to the other. Tears stained my face. I got dressed again.
"You'll thank me for that, one day, nipper".
Butcher helped me with my maths homework until the bell rang. I closed his door behind me in a daze.
That night under the showers the other lads were impressed by the six puffy ridges on my bum. I scrubbed inside its crease, washed my pre-pubescent genitals and flannelled behind my ears as well.
A fortnight later, Butcher took me to the cricket nets. He showed me how to hold a bat. A senior lad asked my mentor to bowl a few balls to him. I wandered over to the fence. Another boy was looking through a hole at me. Without thinking I picked up a sharp stick and poked it in. Fortunately the boy ducked or he'd have lost an eye. I was grabbed by my ear and hauled upright by Stephens the duty prefect.
"Wretched boy! You could have had his eye out". He marched me over to Butcher. "Does this sprog belong to you?" My mentor admitted ownership and the duty prefect told him what I'd done.
Butcher put down the cricket ball. His kindly face was distorted with anger. "Wait outside my study!"
I stood in the corridor. My hand touched my bum which was not long healed from the attention Butcher had paid to it earlier. My mentor strode along the corridor, took me inside his study and closed the door. He picked up the cane.
"Bare and bend!".
I dropped my trousers, underpants and bent over the chair. I studied the imprints Butcher's muscular buttocks had left in the cushion. Big hands scooped up my shirt-tails.
"Move and you'll get extra strokes. This will hurt a very great deal".
The first whack landed with such force it knocked the breath out of me. My sore bum shook and I let out a yell. That just .made Butcher concentrate even harder into giving me the beating of my young life. I howled. The flog-stick was like an extension of Butcher. After the sixth stroke had landed he said: "That's all I'm allowed to give you". He sounded regretful. "Not much of a penalty for such a serious offence".
The next afternoon he was waiting for me. "It's no good. I can't let you away so lightly after pulling a dangerous stunt like that". My stomach felt like lead. He was standing there looking very sad. "'You nearly had his eye out. I'm going to have to give you another six". I rubbed my still smarting bottom. "Then you will have paid a just penalty".
Miserably I removed my clothing and got into position.
Thud!
The first stroke rekindled the flames still smoulding in my rump into a raging forest fire.
Thud!!
How I wished I might faint but never felt more alive. By the time he was finished with me my twin-orbs were throbbing. It was as if they had taken on a life of their own. I could feel them starting to swell.
I got dressed. Butcher looked down at me. "I hated doing that but, you see, nipper, that was just a flea-bite compared with losing an eye".
I wiped the snot from my nose. "Yes, Butcher".
The next day at the pool I was surrounded by admirers who touched my tiny multi-coloured bum-cheeks.
"Who did this to you?" one fifth former asked, cupping both my swollen globes in his big hands. I'd already seen the fresh welts on his own fleshy rump. His finger gently traced the weals on my much smaller backside.
I shrugged. "It doesn't matter".
He ruffled my hair.
"You're a tough little rooster".
I looked him in the eye. "Can I touch your stripes?"
He took me into an empty changing room and lay face down on a bench. The rector had given him a dozen the day before. I ran my fingers over the thick, purplish welts. He moved his legs and his cheeks parted. I took a good look at his pink puckered hole. I wanted to touch it but didn't dare. Then he groaned and rolled over displaying a huge erection.
"You lie down. I promise not to hurt you".
I did as he asked. He lay on top of me with his big penis between the cheeks of my bum. He rubbed himself until he spunked right inside my crack. Then he got up and gently cleaned me with an old towel.
"Don't worry, you'll soon be able to spunk like that".
Butcher was determined to toughen me up. He made a point of 'tickling' my bum at least once a week. It was an ordeal for a lad who had grown up without having a man to correct him. Butcher thrashed me with such force the cane often snapped in two. It was months before I was able to take six as hard as Butcher could lay them on, without flinching or uttering a sound despite the hurt. I don't know how many canes he wore out on me. Later there were to be whackings from the housmaster and teachers, but that year my bottom belonged to Butcher.
My 5th form friend repeated the 'Birchleigh rub' whenever he got the chance. I liked the attention. He was very affectionate but was often in trouble. The stripes on his firm buttocks fascinated me. He was a decent youth who never took advantage of my innocence.
It was the third term before my voice broke. After that momentous event a beating became an excuse to spunk but in the privacy of my bed. Lying there, feeling my throbbing bum-cheeks, it was Butcher's face that flashed into my mind, the moment I spunked.
That was my introduction to Birchleigh. During my years there my ever-growing buttocks were to receive many a beating, such was the lot of schoolboys back then. The rector dealt me a dozen but I didn't move an inch.
The most important lesson Butcher taught me was how to take a beating well. Without flinching or yelling. Many years later I met him at an Old Boys function. He had rather gone to seed but still had the same direct look in his eyes.
I said to him: "Thanks for toughening this mummy's boy up".
He looked reflective. "That wasn't why I did it". He blurted it out: "Of all the junior boys you had the MOST beautiful bottom. Like two golden peaches".
I squeezed his arm and we went into lunch.