With great difficulty, we help each other up the stairs to our bedroom. Somehow I manage to peel off my shorts and I lie face down on my bed, unwilling to move as moving intensifies the deep pulsating pain which has engulfed the lower half of my bum. Then I am aware of Olivier beside me and something cold on my cheeks. It makes me jump up but he softly pushes me back down on the bed. "It's OK, just relax. This will help take away the sting."
"What is it?" I gasp. "It's just some cold cream I stole from my mother's room. I always use it after a whipping." Slowly and gently he rubs the cream into the burning skin at the tops of my thighs. This is bliss. After a while he helps me up so I am resting on my knees and elbows. I don't object when he carefully eases my underpants down and gets to work on the rest of my bum. Now he is roaming further afield, between my thighs where a few thongs strayed and into my cleft where they didn't. My prick responds to this treatment in the usual fashion and is soon firm and horizontal. Olivier murmurs "Ah, that's a good one" and begins to rub his creamy hand along its length. My balls are already primed from the earlier excitement of watching Olivier's thrashing so I explode in an instant in a long, back arching, toe-curling, gasping release. To my surprise, Olivier has a cloth in his left hand to catch the stream of spunk which might otherwise have hit me in the face. I suddenly realise - he's done this before! I collapse, too sore and emotionally drained to even put my pyjamas and fall asleep on the bed in just my tee-shirt.
Next morning, I wake up feeling confused. I wonder if last night was just a dream. Then I move and the deep ache which is rekindled tells me it wasn't. I turn over carefully to look at Olivier. He is already awake and a cheeky grin peeks out from beneath his dark brown curls. "Ca va?"
"Oui, ca va - but God I'm sore!" I reply. "Do you want me to rub in some more cream?" he asks with a twinkle. "No, but how about I give you some?" In an instant he hands me the tub of cream and drapes himself, naked from the waist down, over my lap. I drink in the sight of his delightful firm rounded cheeks, standing starkly white against the deep sun-tan of his back and legs, except that much of the lower half is glowing red and the area where the paleness gives way to the tan at the tops of his legs is a mass of darker thin ridges crossing in all directions. I lay my hand on the reddest part and feel the heat - my, that's going to be sore to sit on! Gently I begin to massage in the cooling cream, starting at the centre of each cheek and working slowly down each leg. Olivier moans contentedly. I remember the last time I was over someone's knee like this, being spanked at primary school, and give the tempting target a playful slap. "Shh! Maman will hear us." I get the impression that he wouldn't mind some more if it wasn't for the noise! I feel his prick swelling against my bare thigh and roll him over onto his back.
His prick, not as well developed as mine but pretty fair for a thirteen-year-old, juts eagerly upwards. I gently caress its tip and Olivier gasps and wriggles. In no time, a small stream of spunk spurts onto his tummy. Olivier grins widely, wipes himself clean and gets dressed without a word, although he winces every time he bends to pull on his socks and shoes. I get dressed too - my shorts seem tighter than ever this morning and I have to go without underpants to be able to do them up (which actually feels quite nice). We walk stiffly downstairs for breakfast. M Corot is long gone; Mme Corot gives us a knowing smile as we sit ever so gently on the hard kitchen stools.
There is no way that either of us is going to ride a bike this morning so we wheel them in silence to the river. I don't know about Olivier but I have a lot to think about. After all, I attend an English boys' boarding school where _s_e_x_ual contact between boys is common, especially when prompted by the stimulation of a freshly caned bottom. But, although I readily admit to being stimulated by the sight and sound of an attractive boy getting his backside whacked, I've never wanted to share this stimulation with anyone else. And yet here is Olivier, who spends his summer days chatting up gorgeous girls (and whose large collection of girlie mags I have been enjoying all week), obviously quite used to sharing the enjoyment of a beating with other boys. I don't understand!
We get to the river and I realise in panic that my brief swimming trunks (and Olivier's for that matter) will show the full glory of last night's encounter with the martinet. I whisper to Olivier that I'm too embarrassed to get changed. "Don't worry," he says. "Everyone here gets it just the same." And I thought CP was such a British thing! Sure enough, Olivier's finely striped cheeks and thighs attract only a few light-hearted comments so I quickly join the others in the cooling water. The fact that I, a guest from abroad, got the same treatment is received with more surprise. The other boys are keen to know if I get whipped at home and I have to explain that I don't but that we get caned frequently at school, which they think is appalling. Later, when I'm lying in the sun, one of the girls picks some leaves and rubs them over the sore skin below my skimpy trunks, explaining that this is traditional remedy for the effects of "le fouet". It is some minutes before I am able to roll over onto my back without displaying an obvious bulge in my trunks!
Evening. Getting ready for bed, Olivier quizzes me about life in an English boarding school. I tell him about the shock of arriving there at the age of 11 to find the slipper was used in the dorm on our pyjama-clad bottoms almost daily in our first two years. How the housemaster's cane hurts much more than the slipper and the headmaster's cane even more so. I tell him that some masters slipper us in class, or use a ruler on our hands or the bare legs of the juniors in short trousers. How we get whacked with anything from plimsolls to cricket bats in the gym and on the sports field. He listens to this catalogue of whackings in awe. He asks what the boys do after they have been caned. I tell him that it is usual to go to the bogs to admire each other's stripes and that some boys get erections and go off into a cubicle together to do something about it, while others wait until they are alone or in bed for a quiet wank. I can see he is excited by this. "I think I might enjoy it at your school" he says with a mischievous grin. "Let me see how your marks from last night are doing," I say, seizing the initiative. He peels down his pyjamas and bends over in front of me. I lay my hands on the smooth undercurves of his cheeks, which still feel hot and sore. "The marks have faded quite a lot. It's quite different from the cane," I explain. "You can still see the results of a good caning two weeks later and it hurts to sit down for several days," Olivier's bum gives a wriggle as I say this. "How do mine look?" I ask, stripping off. Olivier runs his finger gently across the tops of my thighs. "It's still quite red where he hit you below your shorts." I turn round. We look at each other's stiff jutting pricks and fall onto the bed laughing, grab each other and wank each other to blissful climax.
Second Sunday of French visit. Olivier's grandparents come for lunch on Sundays - the meal lasts for hours. We have to stay on the farm and can't go to the river, which is a shame. Olivier and I are bored so we slide off to the far end of the farm for a cigarette. Only trouble is, Olivier's Dad comes looking for us. He is furious, not just that we are smoking but that we are doing so in one of his sheds where we might set fire to the hay. He grabs both of us by the arm and marches us back to the house, ranting all the way. "Is it allowed for English boys to smoke at your age?" he asks me. I confess that it isn't. "Do you parents know you smoke?" I shake my head. I don't smoke during the holidays and only do it at school occasionally for the thrill of breaking the rules and to be part of the gang of rebels. "Do you want me to ring and tell them or am I going to punish you again?" I pause, thinking how my father, a doctor, would react to the news and shame he would feel I had brought on him. I think about how much those leather thongs hurt my bottom and legs last time. And I think about the fact that Olivier is going to get it and it won't be so much fun afterwards if I don't. "I'm very sorry, M Corot," I gulp "I'd like you to give me the same as Olivier."
M Corot pushes us into the front room, tells us to turn the settee around and strides off to fetch the martinet from its hook in the scullery where I now know it is kept. At least Olivier's Grandparents are not in the room - it would be awful to submit to this with an audience - but they are sitting in the garden where they will no doubt hear what is happening. Olivier and I swing the big old settee around so its back faces the centre of the room and wait anxiously, avoiding each other's eyes. M Corot returns, running the long leather strands through his fingers. "Take you shorts off," he orders. "Oh no, Papa!" Olivier protests in vain. We both peel off our tight denim shorts and stand, self consciously, in our underpants. M Corot pauses and then adds the words that fill us both with horror "And your pants!" Reluctantly but silently we both strip off our last layer of protection. I can't help but notice that Olivier's little _c_o_c_k_ is beginning to grow, which starts mine swelling, too. "Both of you - bend over the settee" I'm disappointed that I won't be able to watch Olivier's delightful little tail being tanned but it's nice that we are being whipped side by side. We bury our faces in the cushions, stick our bums high in the air, spread our legs and wait for the worst...
There 's a WHOOP!! followed by that familiar splashing sound, but louder than before. I feel Olivier's body jerk beside me. Is he going to finish punishing Olivier first or...? SPLASHH!! I get my answer as the martinet crashes down on my defenceless bum. Christ! That hurts more straight away than it did last time. M Corot settles down to a rhythm, whipping each of us in turn. After four strokes my whole bottom is blazing from top to bottom and hip to hip. I don't know how many of these I can take. The pain of each stroke seems to bore deep into my bones, leaving an incredible stinging behind on the surface - it's like I'm being attached by hundreds of bees. Olivier yelps at each blow. I'm trying hard to keep quiet and still but failing. I try to wriggle my bum to disperse the fire but it's not easy to move in this position so I try kicking my legs. It doesn't help much. I've lost count of the strokes - it must be over a dozen now. I'm scrabbling at the cushions in an attempt to cling on. My hand finds Olivier's probably doing the same. We instantly clasp each other's hands - a brotherly bond. His grip tightens as the angry martinet lashes down on his rear. Poor kid - he's in a bad way. But then, so am I! I cry aloud as the thongs hit new and even more tender areas - lower down, between my thighs, YEOWW!! BETWEEN MY BUM CHEEKS!! I writhe in a vain bid to escape the lashes.
It takes a while to realise it has stopped. The pulsating pain is overloading my brain and blocking my comprehension of what M Corot is saying but I am aware of Olivier trying to get up so I do the same. It's murder trying to push my body up from this position with a bum that feels swollen to twice its normal size. Eventually the two of us are standing, tearful, in front of Olivier's Dad, who simply tells us to go to bed and storms from the room to rejoin the rest of his family. That ferocious whipping hasn't abated his anger much. With infinite care, Olivier and I bend down stiffly to retrieve our clothes from the floor. I slip my shorts on without underpants and wince as the rough denim brushes my blazing cheeks. I don't even try to do them up but at least they will cover my modesty if we meet any of Olivier's relatives on the way. We don't. We shuffle upstairs silently, clinging to the banister and to each other. When we get to our room, we both ease down our shorts and lie face down on our beds, motionless, waiting for the agony to subside a little.
"David?" Olivier whispers after a while. I turn to look at him. He is still tearful. "I am so sorry that you got such a whipping. It is all my fault. I should have known that Papa would have come looking for us and that he would be angry if he found us."
"It's OK," I try to reassure him. "I knew what were doing was wrong. But that was a lot worse than last time. Do you often get it bare?"
"Only once before, last year, and it wasn't as bad as that." The penalty for growing up, I suppose. "Do you have some of that cold cream?" I ask. With some difficulty, Olivier prises himself off the bed and gets the tub from his drawer. He kneels on the floor and begins a slow cool creamy massage of my injured rear. It's heaven. My prick is swelling beneath me. I get off the bed and join Olivier on the floor so I can apply some cream to his bum. It is a mass of thin deep red tramlines. There are deeper purple strips where the tips of the thongs have landed. It's a real mess. I guess mine is the same but I don't feel like looking at the moment. Besides, his bottom, with or without stripes, is so beautiful - small and just slightly rounded, firm and hairless. I can't wait to run my creamy hands over the burning skin. Olivier moans as the cooling cream provides relief. My own prick is throbbing fit to burst as I watch Olivier's sturdy little tool stand to attention.
Olivier winces as I rub some cream between his bum cheeks - obviously he got some strokes there, too. My hand reaches forward to feel his tight little scrotum - I want to cream his balls in more ways than one! A big smile breaks across his tanned freckled face, for the first time since we were smoking in the barn. He peels off his tee-shirt and leans back against me. Gently, I start to massage the tip of his penis. I hold his naked body tight against mine, feeling it shudder and listening to the quickening of his breathing as he gets close to coming. I slow down to keep him close to boiling point as long as I can until his body bucks and the prick in my hand pulsates to eject long hot spurts of spunk onto his chest. Olivier gasps and then lies still, his curly-haired head nestling against my neck. Eventually he gets up and turns his attention to my engorged member. I nearly came as I was bringing Olivier off so it doesn't take long for him to get me moaning and writhing and shooting my own load. Exhausted by these complex emotions, we both go to bed, lying on our tummies, but the deep throbbing ache in our buttocks makes sleeping difficult.
Monday - It's stormy today but it doesn't matter as we are both too stiff and sore to walk, let alone cycle to the river. Instead, we stay in our room most of the day, keeping out of the way of M Corot in case he is still furious. The tub of cold cream makes a couple of appearances during the day!
(continued)