I emerged from Price's study with my backside feeling as though acid was eating into the muscles. I had to force my feet to carry me down the passage and the lower half of my body seemed strangely divorced from my torso and head. The cane had cut me in two.
I climbed to the washroom where my clothes were hanging on my peg with all my games kit. Carefully, I peeled the shorts down and craned round to examine my lacerated rear end. I couldn't see the full damage but the lower half of both buttocks were a mass of swollen stripes in a range of colours from blue and purple to scarlet where the blood was just below the surface. The thought of going to prep and sitting on a hard seat for an hour was intolerable: it couldn't be done. No-one would mind, I thought, if I had a shower to try to cool my bottom down.
I turned the shower on and stood under the water, turning to as near cold as I could stand it. I let it fall on to my burning flesh and gradually, gradually the pain diminished, though I was still in agony ten minutes later when I turned the water off and started to dry myself.
Just then Price came into the washroom for a piss. He was obviously surprised to see me there.
"What are you doing here?"
"I just had a shower, Price," I said.
"Why?"
"I was so sore I wanted to cool it down a bit."
He stood at the urinal and spoke to me over his shoulder. "What's the point of giving a beating, Hendry?"
"So it hurts, Price."
"Exactly. And you thought you would undermine me by reducing the pain in your arse that you thoroughly deserved, did you?"
"Not really, Price. I couldn't have sat there like this."
"But you're meant to be in prep now, aren't you?"
"Yes, Price."
He gave his _c_o_c_k_ a good shake and put it away. He turned round, still buttoning his trousers. Without another word or a look at me, standing there with my towel round my waist, he went to the rows of shoe lockers and selected a big gymshoe. It must have been one that he'd used in the past. As a rule prefects didn't keep a special gymshoe for the whacking of naughty boys. There was always a plentiful supply in these lockers. Of course, they quickly got to know where a particularly effective gymshoe could be found and used it over and over again. As I discovered when I was prefect myself, you could always find a size 12 or bigger in any of the washrooms.
"Towel off, Hendry."
"You're not going to whack me, are you?"
"Certainly. Skiving prep, undermining my authority. I think that's worth six, don't you?"
"Six?!" I was horrified. "Please don't whack me, Price. I didn't realise. I won't do it again, honest."
"Being on the Whacking List is meant to be tough. You don't get to miss prep or anything like that. Skiving is skiving. You're lucky I'm not using a cane on you again."
His hand on my shoulder manoeuvred me into the open space in front of the showers and now he gripped my towel and pulled it off me. "Bend over, please."
"Oh, please, Price. Not six."
"Bend over."
So I bent over and gripped my ankles.
I didn't understand then and still don't now, why we always did as we were told when the order came to bend over. I suppose if I had refused he would have called for reinforcements and I would have been forcibly held down and probably beaten far worse. Maybe boys who get to this position know deep down that they deserve the slipper or the cane and co-operate out of the moral sense that it is the right thing to do.
He kicked my feet apart till my thighs were stretched tight. My bottom was on fire still from the caning. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth hard. He didn't hit me hard – but he didn't need to. Every whack woke up the weals made by the cane and it was as though I was getting the last thrashing all over again. I yelled enough to raise the roof, but he wasn't going to let me off any of it. Six good ones with a gymshoe across the bare bottom is enough to subdue most boys. On top of ten with the cane, it was sheer torture. I've no idea how I managed to remain still till he told me to get up. And there I was, like a fool, clutching at my bum, hopping around the washroom and trying desperately not to cry while he put the gymshoe away and then just stood looking at me.
"You've got five minutes to get to prep, Hendry. I shall be standing outside your form room with a cane. If you fancy getting another dose in front of all your friends, just be late."
I made it, but only just, and there he was flexing the cane between his fists, just dying for the chance to beat me again. But I wasn't going, if I could help it, to get caned in public. The humiliation of that would just about finish me off.
Of course, the rest of the form all knew that I'd been beaten though they didn't yet know that I was on the List, or the full extent of the punishment I'd endured. My bottom was a mass of fire still and maths prep was impossible. The only thing on my mind was the pain and the prospect of the week that stretched ahead of me. How could I bear something like this every day? – because I knew that prefects would be keen to have a go at me, even if they couldn't catch me doing anything wrong.
The figures swam in front of my eyes and I had no idea whether what I wrote down was right or not. Then I had to do English. A story about a day in the country. How could I concentrate on fluffy lambs and flowers with my backside exploding beneath me.
And it was so unfair. I was a bit of a scamp, but I didn't deserve to be singled out and beaten like this. I couldn't see what I had done that was so terrible and was convinced that the prefects – and Price particularly – were out to get me.
I was even more convinced of this after supper when a junior prefect called Jackman nabbed me for having a button undone on my jacket. Once again I was outside a prefect's study with my nose, toes and crotch pressed against the wall.
He hauled me inside and there were the chairs ready for me to bend over and the cane ready to beat me with. I draped my jacket over another chair, knelt on the nearest seat and bent right over again. He hoisted my shirt up to my shoulders, and smoothed my trousers down over my backside. No doubt the state of my bottom would have been a shock to him but it made no difference now.
I'm pretty sure this was the first time he'd ever used a cane, though of course he was well used to slippering boys and he'd had plenty of experience of caning from the other perspective. (He was one of the very few boys I ever saw caned publicly - a full dozen across his naked, meaty bottom from the headmaster. He had slippered me a number of times.) If I hadn't been so thoroughly 'warmed up' his caning wouldn't have worried me. His aim was rotten, so that the first stroke landed practically up on my back and the second across the tops of my thighs (much, much more painful!). The last two he landed more or less right but not with enough force to add significantly to the fire that was still burning in my bottom.
When he let me go I went straight up to the dorm. I had to be in bed by 8.30, but in any case I wanted to retreat from the day, hide myself away under the bedclothes.
But Jackman had kept me too long. There was Amery, another of the senior prefects, gymshoe in hand, waiting for me.
"You're late," he accused me.
"But I was with Jackman," I protested.
"No excuse. You're late. Get stripped off."
Teeth clenched in anger and blood roaring in my ears, I got undressed and then he sent me down to the washroom to clean my teeth and have a piss. When I got back he ordered me brusquely to get down over the end of my bed. I wanted to argue, to protest that this was beastly unfair and that there was no way I deserved another whacking. But it was hopeless.
I lowered myself over the iron rail at the foot of the bed and gripped the side rails as far up as I could stretch. This was a standard position for a beating so I was well used to it. He kicked my feet wide apart and then announced that he wasn't going to slipper me until the rest of the dorm came up to bed.
I was there for over half an hour, waiting. Of course, my backside was the centre of attention. It must have been a real sight and I was honest enough to admit to myself that if it had been someone else lying there I'd have been just as interested. Amery had forbidden me to speak so when all my friends were asking if it was still sore I just had to lie there in silence. Hicks lay his hand on my skin and said that it was really hot and swollen where the cane had landed. It was kind of comforting.
Amery gave me four hard slaps of the gymshoe once everyone was in bed and watching. If the fire from the earlier beatings had started to fade this ensured that it started up again. I yelled for all four whacks. I couldn't help it. The pain was extraordinary, even though he wasn't whacking me as hard as I'd suffered in the past without any trouble.
He let me up and I climbed into bed as quickly as I could. Partly to hide how much he had hurt me, but mainly because I was afraid that I was going to cry. My bottom was in agony. Every weal of the cane and every bruise from the slipper was fresh and throbbing. I had never the least idea that so much pain was possible. The coolness of the sheet was slightly comforting, but the meat of my buttocks seemed to be made of nothing but fire.
Amery put the light out with the switch in the passage. There was no talking though I guess that lots of the chaps in the dorm wanted to ask me about what had been happening. I lay on my front and cradled my burning buttocks in my hands. I could feel each weal across the skin like a piece of rope below the surface. Every inch of flesh was tender and sore. After every beating I'd had before today – even the canings across my bare bottom – the pain had started to fade a bit after fifteen minutes or so. Now it didn't seem to be decreasing at all.
Suddenly the light went on, and there was Price.
"Hendry. Out of bed." What now? I thought. How could I bear any more? I climbed out and stood by my bed, my hands draped over my _c_o_c_k_. Price was carrying a cane. "Why aren't you wearing your pyjamas?"
I felt tears rushing up towards my eyes, but I was determined not to give in. If I cried, the bastards would have won. "I don't know, Price."
"You know it's against the rules to sleep without pyjamas on?"
"Yes, Price."
"Get down to the washroom."
How could I resist or protest? I limped out into the passage. Behind me I heard Grey, then Hicks, then two or three more protesting that it wasn't fair to cane me just for that. I wanted to wait to hear what was being said, but knew how dangerous that would be.
The washroom was cold and drips from the shower echoed a bit. I had to wait nearly five minutes, but then Price appeared – and behind him were Grey, Hicks, and Mutter. He faced them and thrashed the cane through the air. Mutter flinched.
"You first, Grey, please. Bend over at the basins." Grey did as he was told, ducking his head beneath one of the basins, holding the taps and bracing his feet well apart. This was the second day running that I had watched Grey take a caning and knew that his solid backside was striped already. Once – twice – three – four slashing strokes of the cane descended on his bottom. He took them without a sound but his teeth were clenched when he stood up and his hands went to his rear end.
"Hicks." I had witnessed Hicks receive several beatings in our time as friends, and this was as bad as many of them. His bottom was strong and lean and his pyjamas were worn and stretched across the muscles. Price landed all four low down where a caning hurt the most and close together to concentrate the pain. He too made no sound as the cane hit him.
When we were prefects, Hicks had a ferocious reputation as a beater. He seldom used anything but a cane and made his victims drop their pants very often. I once saw him give a fourth former six strokes of the cane across the bare bottom, and then repeat it half an hour later because he caught the boy showing off the stripes. Grey was much less savage, but I remember a little boy telling me that he was just as bad because he might let you keep your trousers on but he was much more likely to give more than six.
"Mutter." I couldn't recall ever seeing Mutter beaten before though we had been friends for a while. His backside was skinnier than the other two and looked smoother, even a little soft. The cane sang through the air and he gasped as it landed across the perfect spot. The second made him gasp louder and his feet shuffled on the floor. The third made him cry out, and the fourth made him shoot upright clutching at his bottom.
"Now Hendry. On the Whacking List but you still can't obey rules. You agree that sleeping without pyjamas is against the rules?"
"Yes, Price."
"And what happens to boys on the Whacking List if they break a rule?"
"Get a whacking, Price."
"Bend over then." I went forward to the basins and bent over where the others had done. My bottom was still in serious pain, and I hoped that nothing now could make it hurt any worse.
"Look, how can you cane him on top of that lot?" It was Hicks. I had seen him like this before, refusing to let something go, long after all sensible resistance had stopped. "His arse is like a ploughed field."
"Do you want more yourself, Hicks, or what?"
"No, but he can't take any more."
"One more word," Price warned, "and you'll be getting another six. Is that clear?"
I was wrong. The pain in my bottom could be made worse, and four strokes of Price's cane lit the fire all over again and made me yell. I hated letting him know how much it had hurt but I couldn't help myself. I was hopping round the washroom, hands clamped to my behind, trying desperately not to swear and hoping like hell that no tears were showing.
As we limped back to bed, Hicks put his arm round my shoulder and the other two followed suit, rather clumsily. I did feel slightly better, but it did nothing to soothe the fire. I put my pyjamas on in the darkness and climbed gingerly into bed. I had to lie on my belly and my fingertips traced the stripes. The whole of the lower half of my bottom was now a mass of swollen weals. I wasn't bleeding, but down the right hand side I could feel that the ends of some of the weals were very close to it.
I suppose I slept a bit, though it didn't feel like it. The burning in my bum was still intense and my mind was whirling with the events of the day. Even the pressure of the blankets was intolerable. For a while I pushed them back but then the rest of me got cold. I tried wanking, but it was difficult in that position and it didn't do any good anyway.
Some boys swore by a good wank after a beating. Certainly, more than once a slippering made me feel horny, but I never found that it lessened the pain or took my mind off it at all. The only times I came anywhere near getting any benefit from that kind of thing were the few times when a lot of us had been beaten and we paired off and wanked each other. I suppose the human contact took our minds off the punishment.
Once, I must have rolled on to my back in a doze and that woke me up again. The next thing I knew was being woken up, the pain had faded to a kind of intense warmth, and my second day on the Whacking List was starting.