December 1967 - end of the first term of my third year at boarding school. Some homecoming! I'm standing in my Dad's study while he rants and raves about my school report. True, it is a stinker but he has been going on for ages - "inattentive", "careless", "not fulfilling his potential"...I keep wishing he'd get on with it - if I was in this sort of trouble at school it would be over by now. When we get punished for less serious things, which is several times a week, we just touch our toes for four or six whacks with the slipper. In the classroom, dorm or gym; boy - it stings instantly, each stroke a small explosion across our bottoms, a little shower of stars in our brains. But the stinging soon fades, leaving a warm glow which, if I'm honest, feels quite nice. For something this serious, the consequences would not be so nice. Lots of waiting around outside the Head's study, a lecture (but not as long as Dad's), then bend over the chair. The clatter as he gets the cane out of the cupboard and the swishing sound as he tries it out make your blood freeze - you know it's going to hurt like hell and it does. Three four or even six strokes - all on the lower half of your bum. The worst ones land below your underpants and the tip of the cane wraps around your side. Even the tough nuts (and I'm not one) have moist eyes by the end. And it hurts so much to get up off the chair. The stripes throb and ache with every little movement. You want to rub away the fire but have to stand still while the beak lectures you some more. At last you can go - to the bogs to wash your face, splash cold water on your bottom, compare marks with friends, find comfort in shared suffering...For days you get a sharp reminder of the punishment every time you sit or move on your hard desk seat. And yet, I'd gladly take six of the best from the Head rather than what Dad has in store. He and Mum don't believe in corporal punishment (but are happy to send me to a school that does) so instead it's: 1. No pocket money this holiday, 2. No trips to the cinema or playing football with my friends from primary school, 3. Lots of school work and exercises my dad gets from his many teacher friends. I'll be glad to get back to school after the holidays for a rest!
April 1968 - First day of the Easter holiday, standing nervously in Dad's study while he reads my end-of-term report, just like last time. Except this time it's a fair bit better. (So it should be, I have been trying!) Not good but better. The bit which bothers him most is French. I don't see the point of learning French and my French teacher, the cow, takes it out on me. She's always putting me in detention and getting me whacked. But Dad makes it clear that Something Needs To Be Done about my French. Lengthy consultations follow with a teacher he knows and it is announced that I am to spend three weeks of the summer holidays in France. THREE WEEKS! I'll go mad. And I'll miss my friends. My protests go unheeded as usual.
July 1968 - Mum and Dad come to Paris with me and put me on a train for .., which is a long way south and west. I'm met by the family who have agreed to host me - M Corot and his wife and their son, Olivier. He is a year younger than me. His older brothers have all left home so he is happy to have someone to stay, even though it means sharing his room. The Corots live on a small farm about 20 km from Cahors. It's a bit quiet compared with York, where I live, but I soon settle down. Sometimes Olivier has to help his Dad on the farm so I do too but most days we cycle to the river nearby - there's a small beach where all the local kids gather. We spend glorious hours swimming, lazing in the sun, smoking foul French fags and chatting to girls. Girls! Olivier knows lots and they all seem mad keen to practise their English on me. In the evenings after dinner we go out in the field behind the house and play ball. It's really ironic - I go to a school that only plays rugby and all I want to do in the holidays is play soccer. Olivier plays soccer at school but really prefers rugby.
One thing neither I nor my parents planned for was the weather - it's really hot down here. I've brought swimming trunks but not shorts. I haven't worn shorts, at home or at school, since I was 12. None of my friends would be seen dead in shorts off the football field and anyway the climate in Yorkshire, even in summer, hardly encourages you to bare your legs! Olivier wears shorts and sandals all the time of course and I tell Mme Corot, when she asks me I am sweltering in jeans all the time, that I wished I brought some. She springs into action and starts hunting through drawers in our bedroom. She turns out a couple of old pairs of denim shorts that belonged to Olivier and insists on standing there while I try them on. Oh God! It's so embarrassing - I wish my tee-shirt was longer so it would hide my underpants. Then it gets worse - Olivier is a fair bit smaller than me and these are shorts he has outgrown! I squeeze into them with difficulty and Mme Corot beams with satisfaction. "There," she says "now you'll get some sun on your legs." But these shorts are so tiny - they hardly cover my bum I can't go out in these!! But Olivier smiles and says they look fine - the girls will fancy me in even more now. I guess they are better than sweaty jeans.
I'm not sure about that. Next morning at the river, the girls do seem to be looking and smiling at me even more but I'm sure they think I look funny. I wish my legs weren't so white - all the kids here are as brown as berries.
By the evening, I've stopped feeling so self conscious about these shorts. I think they've stretched a bit so they don't feel quite so tight. We are playing ball as usual. I'm showing Olivier torpedo throws and the stupid twerp misses the ball and it goes through his Dad's shed window. He stares at the shattered glass, his face almost as white as my legs. "Now I'm for it" he says simply. The sound brings M Corot running from the house. My French is up to understanding all of the angry stream of words but I gather that he has told Olivier many times not to play so near the buildings. He sounds every bit as bad as my Dad when he gets going. He gives Olivier an almighty slap on his bare thigh - I am transfixed by the red handprint that grows before my eyes - and storms off into the house. Olivier is too embarrassed to look at me but says "We must go in, now. My father will punish me, but you are OK because you are a guest." This is getting interesting, I think to myself. "Does your father beat you?" I ask as we trudge slowly in. "Yes, does yours?"
"No, but we get whacked a lot at school," I reply. "They are not allowed to hit us at school" Olivier explains. Here's another irony. I get caned and slippered all the time at school but am never hit at home. Beating is not allowed in French schools and yet... Olivier uses the word "fouetter" which I know means "to whip" but that must be a figure of speech.
Olivier leads me into the front room, which I've not been into before. His father is waiting and starts ranting some more. He tells Olivier to go and get something and the boy reluctantly leaves the room. M Corot speaks to me slowly and simply, so I can understand most of what he is saying. "Olivier knows he should not play ball there and must be punished. You are our guest here but you threw the ball so it is not right that you should escape punishment. Perhaps I should contact your father and ask him what he thinks is right?" Oh no! I know my Dad - he'll want me to pay for the window out of my pocket money - and it was a big window! "No, please, monsieur" I hear myself saying in my halting schoolboy French. "My father wanted me to be treated like a member of your family. I know he would want you to punish me like Olivier."
"But I am going to give Olivier a" - he uses the word "fessee" which I know means spanking. "Does your father spank you when you are bad?"
"Oh, yes" I reply. "Very well then, I will give you the same as Olivier."
Olivier returns and my blood freezes when I see what he is carrying. It really is a whip! It has a short wooden handle and loads of thin leather strands. He hands it to his father, who holds it up and says "Our English guest is going to feel the martinet like you. I hope it teaches you both a lesson." Olivier gives me a look of horror mixed with shame and I try to smile back encouragingly. "Olivier, you go first to show David what to do.". M Corot swings a large settee around and Olivier bends right over the back of it so I can't see his head. His toes are hardly touching the floor. I stare in wonder at the sight of Olivier's sun-tanned legs, bare from the tops of his ankle socks to the hem of his short blue denim shorts. They are so beautifully smooth and almost hairless. I watch his calf muscles twitch and the tendons at the backs of his knees strain as he maintains his balance over the back of the settee. Most of all I gaze at his bottom. I had never noticed how delightful it was until now. The seam of his tight shorts digs deep into the cleft defining two perfect mounds, encased in the smooth tight material they remind me of the peaches we ate at dinner. I feel my prick swelling and straining inside my own tight shorts...
M Corot moves around to Olivier's left and I edge right to maintain my view of the proceedings. He lifts the martinet high above his shoulder and crashes it down on the boy's bottom. The noise is astonishing. It sounds like someone emptying a pail of water from a great height onto a stone floor. Olivier gives a little gasp and his legs twitch. Again the whip thrashes down and the tight backside wriggles. I give my own bottom an encouraging squeeze. At least these shorts are thick and so tight (even tighter now thanks to developments around the front) - I think to myself - it can't hurt as much as the housemaster's cane with only pyjamas for protection, which is our usual ration at school. I watch with fascination as M Corot whips the martinet again and again around his son's rump. Olivier's gasps have turned to cries and get louder with each slash. His body jerks convulsively. Suddenly, an icy knot of fear kills my arousal stone dead as I realise that many - perhaps most - of those wicked long leather thongs are not landing on Olivier's bottom at all but curling around the tender bare tops of his thighs, below the hem of his denim shorts. I can see thin red criss-crossing weals already forming. I clutch at my own cheeks and remember to my dismay that my shorts are even shorter than Olivier's. I can feel the lowest part of my bum bare below my shorts now - how much more vulnerable will it when I am bent tightly over that settee?
At last, M Corot stops and orders his son to get up. In my shock I lost count of the strokes but there must have been a dozen at least. With some difficulty, Olivier pushes himself off the settee and stands, clutching his backside and upper thighs, tears rolling down his cheeks. He moves aside and now it's my turn. In a daze, I bend over the back of the settee, leaning forward further in response to M Corot's gentle pressure on my back. My face is buried in the cushion and I can see nothing. I can only imagine how vulnerable I must be, my backside pointing almost at the ceiling, these ridiculous shorts digging deep into my cleft and riding up to leave the half my bum exposed to public gaze and ...
SPLOOSH - that sound of water again. That first stroke isn't as bad as I expected. The second one stings a lot and then YEOW! It's as if he has found his range. The pain burns deep into my bones. I can feel the fine lines of fire around the tops of my thighs. I'm trying to make a good show - at 14 I'm a year older than Olivier and have many years of English boarding school beatings behind me. But each stroke now makes me cry out loud and even louder. I kick my legs in a vain attempt to ease the throbbing ache. I clutch at the cushions. Oh please make it stop! When it does, it takes me a few seconds to realise. It's so hard to push myself upright from this position and when I do, I find my legs have gone weak and I almost fall. At school, I would be ashamed to show the tears which are welling up in my eyes but I don't mind Olivier seeing them. We are like true brothers now.
(to be continued)