"I must say I am quite astonished. You are probably the last two I would have expected to find engaging in this sort of behaviour. I will see you in my office in ten minutes."
The Headmaster was quite right. Getting caught smoking dope in a secluded corner of the grounds was not something any of the teachers would have expected to find my best friend Greg and I doing. And to tell you the truth, we were quite astonished too when the Headmaster found us. There was no way he could have seen our little nook from anywhere. And Greg and I had been using the small clearing in the bushes as a private hidey-hole for most of our time at the school. He must have seen us wandering off and followed, then waited a few minutes before completing his investigation.
The complete surprise on our faces when we saw him was equalled only by his own when he took in the scene before him. To virtually all of the teachers, we were seen as star pupils. Not that we were completely angelic, mind you - we were just _d_a_m_n_ good at not getting caught. And our marks were good too - so long as we applied ourselves in the next few weeks and months, we would have the choice of any University we wanted at the end of the year. Yet here we were, both 17, in our final year at school without ever having been found out, now screwing up big time and getting caught for what was one of the more serious offences around. It wasn't made easier by the fact that, in our dopey state, Greg was obviously on the verge of giggling, and in fact did as soon as the Headmaster had turned his back. Thank goodness we had only been getting started on the dope when he appeared.
"_s_h_i_t_, Greg, get your act together! This is serious! We could be suspended for this, or even expelled." Even through the light mist of dope, Greg could see that. Now was definitely not the time to be taken out of class, just before our trial exams. And if we needed to find a new school to sit our final exams in three months time, that would be disastrous. Even for good students like us, the stress and disruption would no doubt significantly affect our grades.
We walked together grimly across the grounds to the Headmaster's office. I checked my watch. Not quite time, but I knocked anyway. He opened the door a little. "Ah, Rodgers and Booth. Punctual as ever. Please be seated," he said, gesturing to the row of chairs in the hallway, "and I will be with you shortly." We sat down and waited....and waited....and waited. A full 15 minutes went by.
I glanced at my friend. "Is this good or bad?" I whispered. Greg just shrugged his shoulders and kept staring at his shoes. Finally, 20 minutes after we had arrived, the door opened once more and we were invited in.
The lecture lasted some time. We stood side by side in front of the Headmaster's desk in the richly oak panelled room. "....Totally illegal....wasted opportunity....utter foolishness....complete lack of self discipline....time when your minds need to be at their peak...." He was pretty much correct, of course. Sure, there's nothing terribly wrong with dope, but he as a Headmaster can't approve of anything illegal. And smoking during school hours during the final preparations for our trial exams - what the heck were we thinking?
"So now I must determine your punishment," he said, and paused. Our eyes, which had been fixed at a point on the edge of his desk until now, looked up. We knew what the first part of the lecture would be; this, however, was unknown territory. And the first signs were not good.
"As you are aware, boys caught using drugs in this school are suspended, almost without exception. Last term, three boys who were caught doing exactly what you were doing received four weeks suspension. There are those who say that fairness dictates that the same should apply to you." I blinked hard and caught my breath. What the heck had we done?
"However, I am not convinced that that is correct." Some hope, perhaps....
"I consider myself a fair man. And for these last few minutes, the issue of how to punish you fairly has been vexing me greatly. First, you two are strangers before me. Were you regular offenders, I might not have been as disposed as I am to look kindly upon you. That does not, however, weigh heavily on my mind. After all, as they say, what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. In the case of a serious offence such as this, lack of previous infractions cannot deter me significantly from imposing an otherwise fitting punishment.
"The other matter that concerns me, however, is deeper. I ask myself - what am I punishing you for? And I answer myself this way. At its root, the reason why you should be dissuaded from smoking marijuana is its potential to adversely affect your mind. At this time of your life, more than ever, you should be at the peak of your alertness. Whatever would possess two intelligent boys like yourselves, who should be maximising your potential, to instead dull it with the use of depressant narcotics completely eludes me. So, since you seem unable to make that leap of logic yourselves, a punishment is required to impress the folly of your conduct into you. And I would hope that as a result, you would be dissuaded from any more of this self-destructive conduct which cannot but adversely affect your academic performance.
"As I said, suspension is the normal penalty for this offence, almost without exception. If yours was an offence that had harmed others, such as cheating, I would have no hesitation in suspending you. Exception must be made, however, where the evil wrought by the penalty would outweigh the good that it would seek to achieve. And I fear that is what would result were I to suspend you. I am seeking to prevent you from hurting yourselves, not others. The disruption to your studies would, I believe, be just as destructive to your final results as the continued use of marijuana. No, that would be an unjust punishment."
Well, we were in the clear on that count. Greg and I breathed barely audible sighs of relief, almost simultaneously.
"My normal alternative to suspension for seniors such as yourselves would be to order you to give up a substantial amount of your free time contributing to the school - weeding the grounds, assisting with repairs, cleaning the guttering and so forth. Normally, a very productive punishment. But again, I cannot see this as appropriate in this case. Again, this would be time you should be spending on your studies. Were I to jeopardise your futures with such a requirement, I would prove myself as foolish as you have been. No, your punishment must be swift and rapid, and allow you to return to your studies as soon as possible, free from additional burdens, whilst still serving as a salutory lesson to you.
"So I find myself turning to a punishment which I do not particularly favour, but which I consider is the only option available to me that fits these criteria. You will report to me in the gymnasium after school today, where I propose to cane both of you. I trust that you will find the experience - in its entirety - somewhat educational."
Neither Greg nor I knew what to do. We were both stunned. After a few seconds silence, we were reminded where we were when the Headmaster said: "That will be all, for now." We took the cue, turned on our heels and left.
We didn't quite know what to say to each other as we walked across to the rest of the boys enjoying the end of their lunch hour.
"Well, at least we're not suspended." I said.
"Yeah, but...." said Greg apprehensively.
I knew what he meant. Ours was a private boys school, and unlike most in Australia caning had not yet been abolished. Even so, it was not regularly used. And then, only on the junior boys - it was virtually unheard of for anyone in their senior years to be caned. In one's junior years, there was a certain cache that came with being caned. It marked one as an outlaw, a man of boldness and daring. After gym or sports, a 14 year old who doffed his underpants to reveal the unmistakable red brands of the cane on his buttocks would saunter to the showers drawing looks of admiration. An older boy, however, would draw chuckles and pointing fingers. What would it be like for two 17-year-olds like Greg and I?
And this was quite apart from the caning itself. When, at 14, I had looked admiringly at the candy-striped outlaws, I had on occasion wished mischeviously to be caned, to know what it felt like. But I never had the resolve to make sure I got caught in flagrante delicto and expose myself to reality. Even more recently, corporal punishment in the form of spanking and caning had featured in my _s_e_x_ual fantasies, and I had enjoyed several climaxes imagining my bottom being punished as I stroked myself. But now that the reality was so suddenly close, I was filled with nothing but apprehension.
During the afternoon's lessons, my mind was anywhere but my work, and I could tell Greg was similarly preoccupied. Occasionally, one of us would catch the other's eye, and grimace slightly. We were fortunate about two things. First, the school did not approve of public caning. Only we and the headmaster would be present. Secondly, caning was not on the bare buttocks, although the victims did have to receive their sentence on their underwear. I shuddered to think what the afternoon would bring.
A sign on the Gymnasium door read "Closed". That was all. That was all that was necessary to let the rest of the school know that it was not available for casual use that afternoon. They didn't need to know the reason, although it would soon be common knowledge.
Greg and I walked there together silently. Ever since the beginning of high school, we had been a team. For some reason, we had both clicked. Neither of us was particularly sporty, both a little smaller and thinner than normal, both good students, and both comfortable with each other. We were comfortable enough that we knew when we needed to talk, and when silence between us was best. Now was a time for silence. We had shared many milestones together, so it seemed strangely fitting that we were to share what was about to transpire.
Our steps slowed as we approached the gymnasium, passing a trio of boys turning away disappointed from the closed door. "It's closed" they said to us. Yeah, we knew. We paused at the door and waited until no-one was in sight before entering.
The gymnasium was a pretty large room, the size of a full-sized basketball court, and two storeys high. At one end were the squash courts, at the other, the change rooms. Lots of equipment was arrayed about its walls, able to be swung out into the body of the hall for use and tucked aside when not needed.
The Headmaster was already there, sitting on a chair on the side of the large room. He was seemingly in a reverie, gazing towards the vaulted ceiling, but his eyes turned to us as we entered. We noticed him, but our attention was immediately drawn to the two canes resting by the side of his chair. "Why two? One plus a spare", I thought.
"Ah, gentlemen. I was hoping you would not detain me too long. Kindly retire to the change rooms, remove your uniforms and report to me out here in your underwear."
Although we had known what was coming, the command was still like a bucket of icy water hitting us with full force on this warm summer afternoon. Dazed, we turned and entered the change room, dropped our bags on the benches and began removing our ties. The dead still of the change room was a great contrast to how we normally saw it, full of lively teenagers joking with one another as we readied for sport. That cheerful laughter was replaced by the slightest of sounds - the slip of a button, the pull of Greg's arm from his shirtsleeve, the plop of a shoe, the clink of my beltbuckle as I unclasped it.
Finally, as I shed my trousers and hung them on a hook, I turned to look at Greg. He was just straightening up after tucking his shoes neatly under the bench. We both stood there for a moment. His eyes flickered over my body, and mine over his. He was wearing pale blue boxer shorts with dark blue vertical stripes, maybe slightly too small for him. I was wearing plain light blue briefs, definitely slightly too small for me. Heck, isn't everyone at that age wearing clothes slightly too small, your mothers wanting to get every last bit of wear out of them before shelling out for new, better fitting clothing?
For a moment, time stood still. Greg and I had gotten changed near one another many times, both at school and outside. We showered in the communal showers here regularly after gym. But never in circumstances quite like this. We were both about 5'6" tall, and around 50kg. We were both very slim, with the gangliness of youth still present. Greg was slightly taller than me, but a little more thin and wiry, whereas my muscles were a little more toned and developed. I may have had the slightly more defined body, but Greg had by far the more attractive face, with twinkling yet soulful blue eyes setting off a mouth normally tweaked upwards in a charming yet mischevious smile. His nipples were small and pointy, but surrounded by a broad pink areola, in contrast to mine which were tight and compact. Even at this age we both had some facial hair, requiring us to shave several times a week; and the fact that our chests were destined to become hairy was attested to by the thin lines of hair running from our navels beneath the waistbands of our underwear, and the small black spirals beginning to poke out from around our nipples.
At this most desperate time, a strange thought sprung into my head of one of my fantasies. Greg and I, in bed together, naked, arms around each other, legs entwined, hands caressing each other's back slowly, feeling each other's slow breath on our cheeks, his mouth opens and our eyes meet, I begin to say "I...." before his lips meet mine and we kiss, slowly, delicately....
Where was I? I blink and look at Greg, now looking anxious and vulnerable. Although it seems like an age, it must be only about two seconds since our gaze met. I raise an eyebrow slightly and tilt my head - You okay?. He gives a slight nod, curls his lower lip up ever so little and bites down on it - Yep, but _s_h_i_t_-scared. His eyes dart over to the door. Shall we get it over with? I wrinkle the corner of my mouth slightly - I'd rather not, but I guess there's nothing else for it - and start for the door with Greg falling in behind me.
"Welcome back gentlemen." That was one thing about the Headmaster. He always treated us like adults. Even when we were thirteen. Even when we were standing before him in our underwear. Even when he was about to bend us over and thrash our bottoms. "We need to make the necessary arrangements. Please set up that apparatus over there, would you?" He pointed to a frame. One vertical side of it was hinged to the wall, the other vertical strut was on a small castor. Between the struts were two long horizontal wooden beams. The top beam was usually used for chinups, the bottom as a balance beam or for elevated pushups. Or, as we were about to discover, for canings.
Greg and I swung the frame out from the wall and each took one of the wires used to tether it to small plugs in the floor. As he squatted to secure his wire, I noticed that his scrotum was visible just inside the leg of his boxers. _s_h_i_t_, this is so humiliating! I thought. Why couldn't we have set this up while we were dressed? But I realised I had answered my own question. In his office the Headmaster had referred to "the entire experience". The caning was the least part of the punishment. The greater part was the humiliation. We had behaved foolishly and were now being made to feel foolish. And this was just the beginning. The crowning humiliation would come in two days time when Greg and I were forced to expose our stripes of shame to our peers in the showers after gym. Oh _f_u_c_k_.
"Now, we will check the height." With me standing beside the frame, the Headmaster asked that it be lowered two notches, so that the top was slightly lower than our crotches. "Thank you. Now, please stand beside each other, there, and there", indicating a marked line on the floor to the side of the frame and back somewhat from it. We did so, hands self-consciously moving in front of our crotches. "And get those hands behind your necks!" he barked suddenly, causing us to snap into position with fingers clasped firmly behind our heads.
He began the necessary lecture again, slowly pacing circles around us. Of course, in one way it was completely unnecessary. He had told us everything just a few hours before. But it was completely necessary as part of our punishment. To prolong the wait, the humiliation. He did not humiliate us verbally. That would have been destructive. No, we humiliated ourselves, as our minds were preoccupied with the image of how we must look, two adolescents standing like children before the Headmaster, the man we admired, the man we regarded as a friend and an equal, the man we so often would chat with in the playground and have happy discussions with, now showing his contempt for our behaviour as we stood stripped before him, subjecting ourselves to his scornful gaze, his scolding words, his punishing cane.
My mind strayed back to the image of Greg before me in the change room, then to Greg crouching on the floor with his scrotum visible. I shot a glance over at him and was surprised to see the front of his boxers tenting out slightly. My surprise at this development was only matched when I suddenly realised that I too was becoming aroused. Neither of us had full erections but a glimpse down showed that my penis was very clearly defined in the tight material of my briefs, and as for Greg - well, his arousal was pretty obvious. I shut my eyes and tried to concentrate on the lecture, but all I could think was - Thank goodness it's not me in the boxers. I was managing to stabilise but only just.
I opened my eyes again as the Headmaster arrived in front of us once more and stopped. The lecture was coming to an end.
"And so, since you two have elected to comport yourself in such a juvenile manner, you have forced me to punish you as juveniles. Believe me, it gives me no pleasure at all to see you like this." Strange choice of words, I thought. "I would have thought that gentlemen that I had regarded as responsible and intelligent could be trusted to steer themselves in the proper course. Obviously, my faith was misplaced. I can only hope that the correction I will apply to your course this afternoon can convince you that the fruits of juvenile irresponsibility are not nearly as pleasant as you may have surmised.
"Now, Rodgers, kindly step up here please," he said, indicating the frame, and turning to retrieve the cane. I honestly didn't know whether I was relieved or annoyed that Greg was going first. I just wanted the whole thing to be over.
Greg walked the few paces to the frame. The Headmaster was just collecting the cane. While his back was turned, Greg took the opportunity to slip his hand down and depress his semi-erect penis slightly, and stood right against the beam to prevent it from popping up again. Smart move, I thought. He didn't look around to me but I'm sure he would have felt my eyes on him as he did so.
"Bend over the frame, boy, and touch the floor," said the Headmaster, in a colder tone than I had heard from him for some time. He had also never called us "boys" for several years. Maybe it was part of the humiliation, or maybe he was trying to come to terms himself with what he was about to do to 'gentlemen' with whom he would normally be conversing intelligently.
Greg bent over the bar double and planted his fingertips on the floor. The position did not look comfortable. I wondered idly how those less flexible than us would manage the position. "Spread your legs apart. Further, further.." came the order, accompanied by a tapping of the cane on Greg's inside thighs as he wriggled his legs wider apart. From my position behind and to the right of him, I could well see my friend in his sorry position, and my heart went out to him. His calf and thigh muscles were pulled taut; his hair hang loosely from his head; his boxers riding high up his thighs and streched tightly over his buttocks, spread to present a firm and neat target. Again, a slight glimpse of his scrotum was visible inside the right leg of his boxers. Greg had only recently started wearing boxer shorts; he might not realise exactly how much of his genitals could be seen but even the problem with his erection alone would have been enough for him to be bitterly regretting wearing them on this day, I was sure.
As the Headmaster stood beside Greg and held the cane up to his upturned buttocks to gauge his swing, I became aware once more of my own erection, more insistent than ever. Bizarre as it may seem at a time like this, to see played out in front of me a scene very close to those I had fantasised about was erotic enough, but for the starring role to be played by my best friend, the subject of many a carnal thought himself, was undeniably arousing. While I thought I should close my eyes, the sight was compelling.
The Headmaster took a couple of steps back and raised his arm. My eyes were locked on Greg. His bare chest rose and fell quickly as his breathing quickened, his nipples erect, his areolae stretched broadly with his arms braced. Oh _s_h_i_t_, I suddenly realised, he can see the Head. Between his splayed legs, Greg would have an excellent view of his nemesis as he brought the cane down. The Head started to move and my eyes sprang to Greg's. As if magnetically, his were drawn to mine. We locked, and for a moment I felt his anxiety, he felt my alarm, and I willed him Oh Greg, close your eyes man, don't look. As the Head took his final step and the cane began arcing down, Greg's eyes snapped shut, his jaw clenched, his face tautened in an anticipatory wince as....
Swish! The cane raced towards its target.
Crack! It scored a direct hit on its fleshy target. I winced.
Bang! Greg's body was jolted forward against the frame by the force of the impact, which in turn was shoved back to be caught by the guy wires. The sounds ricocheted around the brick walls of the gym, almost drowning out the
Gasp! as Greg drew breath in sharply through his clenched teeth. He let it out slowly then panted a couple of times, opening his eyes once more and looking nowhere in particular as his mind coped with the pain.
The Head waited for Greg to regain some composure before retreating for his second stroke. Greg did not need to look at me this time, he prepared himself once more.
Swish! Crack! Bang! Gasp!
Swish! Crack! Bang! Gasp!
The second and third strokes were delivered much as the first had been, at intervals of about 20 seconds. The Head walked back to his position and paused. He was panting slightly as well. Seconds passed. Greg's eyes were closed once more, waiting. It did not come. He opened them. Still the Head stood. 40 seconds, 50 seconds. Then he raised his arm high. Greg's eyes closed again and he prepared himself as the Head strode in for his fourth shot.
Swish! CRACK! "Huhhh" BANG! "Hhhh-ahhhh!"
The "Huhhh" came from the Head. The stroke had been powerful and he had brought his arm down with all the power he could muster as if beating a sledgehammer on a "ring the bell' contest at a country fair, at the same time letting out the aggressive grunt of a tennis player delivering an ace serve. The cane had slammed extraordinarily hard into Greg's buttocks and as he jolted forward his head snapped up, his eyes and jaw sprang open and he was unable to restrain his cry of pain and astonishment.
There was dead silence for a moment and the room was frozen into silence. Greg was fixed mid-gasp, eyes dead ahead, arms pressing his body upward. Then, a small moan, followed by another, then a sigh as he lowered himself once more.
The Head stood still, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. I was astounded. I could not imagine that he would ever cane a junior boy that hard. Had I not known him better, I would have seen that last stroke as one of sheer sadism. But that was not the man I knew. Had he allowed himself to be carried away by evil intent? I was sure there was some other explanation. I will never know, but I am sure that fourth stroke was in some ways a symptom of the Head's own frustration and rage at our stupidity, and the thankless task of humiliating and flogging a kind, caring, sensitive, intelligent young man like Greg, who was more a friend than a mere pupil.
Greg's eyes moved to mine. They were wet with tears. He gulped slightly, suppressing a sob. His eyes were no longer anxious, nor determined. They were tired, begging, supplicating. And I could not help him. My look was one of anguish.
The Head broke from his reverie and wandered back into position. This time, Greg did not bother to close his eyes.
Swish! Crack! Bang! "Unnnnh!"
A much lighter stroke, it seemed, this time, although without his jaw clenched a low groan escaped Greg's lips. He was now not so much poised as hanging over the bar. The Head turned and walked back. I begged that this would be the last stroke. I had not known anyone to receive more than six before (most junior boys would receive two, three or four, with six only for the most serious offenders) but there was always the possibility that our seniority might be thought to merit additional punishment.
Swish! Crack! Bang! "Unnnnh!"
This stroke landed not on the main mound of Greg's buttocks, protected by his underpants, but instead on the bare flesh at the very top of his thighs, just below his cheeks where his boxers ended. This was expected, and also a relief. It was the Head's practice, we knew, to deliver the final stroke on the bare thighs so that even in his underwear or at swim practice in his speedos a boy was marked to the world as having been caned. For this reason, it was known among the boys as the 'speedo stroke'. Hmm. Greg and I had planned going to the beach at the weekend. As keen speedo wearers, this suddenly seemed like not such a good idea. However, we both now knew that Greg's ordeal was over.
"That will do. Stand up, Rodgers."
There were a few seconds pause as Greg drew a few breaths, then drew his legs together and awkwardly raised himself. The entire caning had taken less than five minutes but it must have seemed like an age to him. He was visibly wincing as the skin on his buttocks relaxed and shifted. The welts were already beginning to appear on his thighs from the last stroke. He straightened, and instinctively moved a hand behind him to massage his bottom.
"Hands behind your neck!" barked the Head, and Greg reluctantly complied. "Go and resume your place." Greg turned, and I saw my friend, near naked, tousle-haired, red-eyed, with tears still drying on his cheeks. There was perspiration on his forehead and across his chest. Understandably, his erection was gone. I had forgotten mine, but, as my mind drifted down, I was surprised to feel that I was still slightly swollen.
Greg slowly and gingerly walked back towards me. I longed to reach out to him, to hold him, to stroke his back, to cradle his head in my arms as he sobbed out the pain. Instead, I could only try to offer the sympathy of my eyes as he stood beside me once more. But even that was probably dulled by the mounting alarm that my ordeal was about to begin.
TO BE CONTINUED....