It had indeed been an unusual weekend.
I couldn't get Peter Brown out of my mind at school today. I also could not get the slippering my dad had given to me out of my mind as I was reminded of it every time I sat down. School chairs are very hard and even though the punishment had been on Saturday my bum was still just a huge bruise – all black, grey, blue and even purple in bits. It is an amazing site. Yesterday it was still hurting all the time but today it is more of an itching sensation but still gets me when I sit down. I am very glad we didn't have PE or games today but we do have PE tomorrow and somehow I am going to have to get out of it. I can't have any kids seeing my bum like it is. Dad has told me to be very careful about it.
What I was hoping to get from dad was a spanking over his knee and I thought I would like to feel his slipper but I had not expected anything like he gave me. It was really awful at the time and I haven't cried so much for years. I think mum must have seen something was wrong as its very difficult to get rid of a face that's been crying, especially around the eyes. I don't know why it is though, but now I really wouldn't mind getting it again – but maybe not quite so hard or so many. And I keep thinking about the canes in the shed and then about Peter getting the stick on Friday, which I assume was with a cane. I couldn't wait for school to finish and find out. I kept getting a hard on all day in anticipation and I dearly wanted to see Peter in his school uniform again. Nobody at my school ever wears shorts and I never have to school since I was nine I reckon. Then I thought about Peter's prep school and I am sure the boys usually wear longs there, except for the little ones – yet Peter was in shorts. Really nice ones and he looked fantastic.
I must have been one of the first boys out of the school and I rushed to Peter Brown's house. He lives in a large Regency terrace with steps up to the front door and railings around the front. I rang the bell and waited but nobody came. I tried again but there was no answer. I was very disappointed but then I had not considered I might have got there before him in my keenness. I couldn't just stay on the front door step – it was so public. I decided to walk around a bit and maybe head towards his school, which I knew was less than a mile away in a tree lined avenue to the north of the town. I ambled in that direction and fairly soon saw a couple of boys in the smart blue blazers of that school, although they were certainly not wearing shorts. Then three more, probably aged around ten and again wearing longs. These were followed by a group of three, accompanied by mothers, this time the boys were all in shorts but they were really very little. A turn in the road revealed another long trousered prep boy who probably was about Peter's age and across the road a short trousered version, but again younger, eight or nine I guessed. He looked super with his socks pulled up neatly and the first I had seen so far who was wearing a cap. I kept on towards the school but whilst I must have now seen fifty or sixty boys there was no sign of Peter and it seemed that short trousers were worn by only a small percentage. I turned around in disappointment and headed back towards Gladstone Terrace, still hoping for a glimpse of Peter – or any boy that looked like him. As I rounded the last corner into the Terrace itself, my heart leapt up as I suddenly saw him going up the steps to his front door. In blue blazer, short trousers, long school socks and he even had a cap on.
"Peter!," I called, and I quickly joined him on the steps.
"Oh hello. You remembered then," and Peter grinned just like he had at the dentists. "Come in," he invited and he opened the door with a latch key and went in, taking his cap off as he entered and he hung it on a coat hook adjacent to the door, ready to put back on again. I followed him, already gaping at the small expanse of bare legs above his socks. "Come up to my room", and I climbed the stairs close behind him admiring the rear view of his neatly pressed grey shorts and followed him into his room. It was much larger than my bedroom and looked over a large expanse of lawn and flower borders at the back of the house. It contained a single bed with a plain blue cover, which I noticed matched the shade of his blazer, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, two open bookcase units and an old fashioned school desk and two school type chairs. There was no TV, stereo, computer or anything on the wall but two school photographs. It looked boring but immaculately tidy. It also felt cold and I could see no sign of a radiator.
"What do you do in here," I asked
"What do you think. It's my bedroom and study as dad calls it. I have to do my homework in here and I get sent here a lot," and he grinned again and removed his blazer, which he immediately hung up in his wardrobe. He did not take anything else off, which surprised me as the first thing I do when I get home from school is yank off my tie. He retained all the rest of his uniform, including his shoes and grey V-neck pullover with blue stripes on the neckline and around the bottom that matched those on his sock tops. I noticed him checking his socks and adjusting the tops. His clothing was four shades of grey. His shirt was the lightest, then the pullover, the socks came next and the shorts were the darkest – but all were what I would describe as mid grey – all lighter than my school trousers. I thought he looked really great and when he hung his blazer up I could now see all the back of his shorts, which beautifully covered the curve of his boyish bottom.
"How old are you," I asked
"I was thirteen last week"
"Wow – almost exactly a year younger than me. I thought you were younger than that about 11 or 12 at most."
"I'm in the top year and doing common entrance. So its all work at the moment."
"I've noticed that most kids at your school don't wear shorts – only the little ones," I offered.
"That's 'cause they don't have a father like mine," he returned.
"So it's not school uniform really"
"Well it is. You're meant to stay in shorts until 10 but not many do now and the school doesn't make them. After 10 it is optional but it's only me and one other that has to stay in them, and I'm the oldest. The parents decide and mine are the strictest old-fashiondist parents in the world. They still think it's the 1950's when dad was a boy. As far as he's concerned boys stay in short trousers until they prove they are big enough to do otherwise. He doesn't mean big like over 5 foot something but big like mature and well behaved and grown up and too big to get the stick. I've got a few years before I'm too big for that says dad." Peter said this sitting back on his bed and leaning back on his arms, dangling his legs over the edge. His shorts had ridden up his thighs in the process and my eyes were drawn to his smooth legs and again I was aroused. Why is this happening? Is there something wrong with me?
"Did you get the stick on Friday"
"I'll say. Dad was in a pretty bad mood and laid it on. I got a full dozen."
"Is the stick a cane?" I enquired
"Yea. Like this", and Peter jumped off the bed and dragged a chair across to the wardrobe and stood on it and reached up. He produced a cane. It was about 2' 9" long, 3 8" thick and had a bent over handle, like in old-fashioned headmaster's cane in school story books. He handed it to me. It was very flexible and I could bend it a long way. I swished it through the air a couple of times. I really wondered how much it would hurt. It must be really terrible. I had an urge to whack Peter's gorgeous bottom with it but didn't dare. I handed it back to him and he tossed it on the bed.
"Do you usually get it in here?"
"The study usually. Dad has a few different canes in there. He keeps this one if I get caught in here doing something."
"What do you mean?"
"Well. At night maybe. If he catches me with the light on when its bed time or worse if I am doing something with my willy." And he obliged by demonstrating through his shorts, just like he had done in the toilets at the dentists. He then lay on his front across the bed and his right hand disappeared under him. I watched his beautiful grey clad bottom going up and down. That was too much for me and I just had to open my fly and start working on mine through my boxers. Peter got up suddenly and saw what I was doing and we grinned at each other again. I stopped, feeling embarrassed and pulled my zip up.
"It's good doing that isn't it? I like doing it on the bed best. Its best when my willy is all soft and I can rub it round and round. If I let it go it goes hard straight away" Peter said, still holding his shorts. "Then I have to do it differently"
"Doesn't stuff come out" I asked
"It does now at the end"
"But doesn't it mess your pants?"
"Yes" he grinned. He clearly didn't mind. "It's even better at bedtime because then I do it with my pyjama trousers down. Its magic" He was sitting on the bed again and had obviously let go, as his boyhood was now clearly defined.
"Is that what your doing when dad catches you?"
"Sort of. Or I've just stopped. Dad looks at my hand to see if it's red and if I have messed anything. Then he gets the cane down and I'm for it. He gives me at least 6, sometimes more and then a couple on the hand I've been using. It doesn't stop me. After the hurt goes it makes me want to do it even more, particularly when I wake up in the morning."
Before I knew what had happened I felt Peter feeling the bulge in my trousers. It was thrilling, but even more exciting was when I reached forward and touched the smooth grey worsted cloth of his shorts, through which I could feel a hard bulge, which I clutched and squeezed. I just wanted to . . . to . . I don't know what. I stood back and asked him:
"Do you cry when you dad gives you the stick?"
"Like a baby."
"I did on Saturday when dad gave me the slipper – but it was a really hard and long session. I think I got about 25. I lost count". Peter looked at me differently. I think I had surprised him.
"I didn't know you got beaten"
"Loads" I lied. "But dad has never caned me" I added to redeem myself "but says he's going to" which was nearly the truth anyway. My bum's like a piece of modern art."
"Mine's like Clapham Junction – all lines and points."
"Can I . . Show . . . look . . . me.! We said it together and burst out laughing.
"I will if you will. When you get the cane do you keep those on?" I asked, meaning his shorts.
"No. Dad lets them down usually. Sometimes I have to do it. When I was smaller dad always sat down. You do it."
"Do what, sit down?"
"Yes."
I sat on one of the school chairs and Peter stood directly in front of me. My eyes were level with his pullover. I noticed Peter putting his hands on his head.
"Pretend you're my dad and take my trousers down."
That was an invitation I had not expected. I pulled the tab apart at the top of his shorts and lowered his zip. This revealed his white boys' underpants and the white cotton lining to his shorts. I then held the outside of the hem of each leg and pulled gently. The trousers descended and I continued pulling until his knees reappeared and the shorts fell around his ankles. I now had a perfect view of his briefs and the little hard bulge in the middle, which I could not resist touching. It twitched.
"Now what?"
"It depends. If it's a severe one I go across my desk or the chair in dad's study. Dad pulls my pants down when I'm bent over." He didn't move. I suppose I had better play his dad.
"Peter" I said in my best stern voice – which probably did not sound very authentic as my voice was still unbroken. "Bend over the desk!"
Peter shuffled to his school desk, hampered by his shorts.
"Step out of your trousers"
Peter did so and I picked them up. I thought how I would love to put them on. I noticed that the front of the white cotton lining was stained.
"Don't you get in trouble messing your shorts"
"I have done. I got in much more trouble once when dad caught me after school doing it on my bed with my trousers and pants down. So now I keep them on so I can get up quickly," replied Peter from the desktop.
I admired his logic but this was transcended by my admiration of what was in front of me: a boy bending over a desk in white briefs showing below his shirt; partly bare lower buttocks and completely bare thighs and knee backs and then school socks below that. The otherwise white flesh at the top of his thighs was marked with blackish reddish bruises. I then peeled his pants down and saw the full effect of his dozen. I counted 9 very distinct stripes, including one in the crease between bottom and leg which was much darker than the others, and which might have been one on top of another and what looked like a stroke or two diagonally across the others.
"That must have hurt!" was all I could say and I touched his bottom and rubbed my hand over the surface and could feel it was not smooth, but still slightly ridged from the bruising. "What did you do?"
"Got a detention for cheating in a maths test. Dad takes things like that very seriously."
I eyed the cane on the bed and picked it up. I touched the boy's bottom with the end of it, which made Peter jump up.
"No fear", he said. "Let's see yours?"
I obliged by quickly dropping my trousers and boxers and turned towards him. I felt his hand on my bottom and that made my prick grow as big as I think I had ever seen it.
"I bet that hurt too," he said
"Not as much as yours" I added. Suddenly I wanted to do something. "Peter. Do you mind if I put on your shorts?"
"Be my guest"
I stepped out of my trousers and took my boxers off and Peter handed me his shorts. I felt silly asking the next question
"Do you mind if I put your pants on first. Mine don't look right" I wished I had put on my white Y fronts.
"If you like" and Peter stepped out of and handed me his none too clean briefs, which were damp at the front but I thoroughly enjoyed pulling them up, followed by his super shorts, which felt fantastically smooth over my thighs. "I wish I had to wear them" I mused
"You look pretty good in them. But you have to have long socks"
Peter went to his chest of drawers and handed me a rolled up pair of socks. I quickly took mine off and put his on. I loved pulling the tops over my knees and turning them over. They were all grey without any colours at the top. I stood and admired myself in front of his mirror. Imagine what it would be like if I went to school tomorrow like this. There would be an uproar. I enjoyed feeling my bottom through the shorts. I put my hands in the pockets, which caused my willy to strain at the front. I bent over and touched my toes pretending I was waiting to be caned. I felt my knees and up inside the legs, which were quite loose fitting. I lifted one trouser leg and felt for my penis and pulled it right out and showed it to Peter who giggled and started rubbing his own, which since I was wearing his trousers and underpants was totally visible. Like me there was no sign whatsoever of puberty. Was there something wrong with both of us? I've seen chaps at school our age with loads of hair down there. There was one other thing I needed to happen before giving Peter his clothes back
"Peter. Do you mind if you just . . . sort of give me the cane. I mean not hard. Just a stroke or two so I know what it's like. Do you mind?"
Peter didn't mind and picked up the cane.
"Can we do it the same way. You sit down"
Peter put the cane on the desk and sat on a chair but looking nothing like a stern father, but rather comical, sitting his bare bottom gently down on the hard chair. I had an excellent view as he undid my shorts (his shorts rather) and pulled them down for me and I also remembered to put my hands on my head. I shuffled to the desk as he did and bent across it after Peter had picked up his father's cane. Next I felt the underpants being lowered and then I heard the door open.
I quickly stood and I saw my friend's face turn white as he dropped the cane on the floor. A tall man in a dark suit was standing in the doorway looking sternly at Peter, who started shaking and trying to hide his genitalia, which seemed to shrink in front of me. I showed everything I had before struggling to make myself decent as quickly as I could and nearly fell over in the process of pulling the shorts up.
"What on earth is going on in here?" said the man in a calm but very authoritative voice. The question was directed at Peter.
"Nothing Sir!" replied Peter. The man turned to me. "Who are you?"
"Philip Smith, Sir", I replied emulating Peter, and pulling up the zip of his shorts. The Sir seemed to come naturally and even though he had to be Peter's father I was somehow not surprised when his son addressed him as Sir.
"And where are your trousers, Peter"
"oh . . . er . . . I was . . . just changing. I got them dirty at school . . I fell over . . .
"And why is that cane on the floor, Peter. You know you are forbidden to touch them."
"Oh sorry Sir . . . I was just showing it to Philip."
"Why?"
"He's never had the cane. He gets the slipper"
"I see. I think we shall have to do something about that. Put some trousers on and go down to my study immediately. You come with him!" ordered Mr Brown, pointing at me and my heart started thumping. He left the room. Peter very quickly took a clean pair of briefs and another pair of school shorts out of his chest of drawers and put them on with remarkable speed. "You're best keeping those on. Dad hates long trousers. It's a good job he didn't see yours" The quick thinking boy had kicked them under his bed whilst his father had been looking at me.
"Come on. You'd best come" and Peter seemed close to tears.
"What do I say?"
"You're just my friend"
I followed Peter quickly down the stairs and he momentarily hesitated outside of a paneled door off the hall. He knocked and went in. I followed him into a large room with books lining most of the walls, a big marble fireplace in which a recently lit fire was warming an old springer spaniel curled up in front of it, a huge mahogany desk at one end, a leather chesterfield and two other leather chairs. Behind the desk a large window looked over the street. The floor was covered in a blue patterned plush carpet, and I hoped my shoes were cleaner than they looked. I noticed that Peter's were black and shiny, as if he had just polished them. The dog raised an ear for a moment as we entered but otherwise took no notice.
Mr Brown was standing in front of his desk facing us as we entered. He looked over six-foot tall and stood erect. It was apparent that he was not the sort of person a boy could argue with. I stood next to Peter and copied the way he stood with his hands behind his back and looking at the floor.
"You two stay there and don't move" Mr Brown said sternly and went out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Where's he going?" I whispered.
"Don't know" whispered my companion. "I don't like it though. Why don't you just go"
"Like this. I can't go out like this!"
"You said you wanted to wear shorts"
"I know – but . . . Oh I can't explain"
We became quiet. A clock in the hall started to strike. It was already 5 o'clock. I would get into trouble if I didn't go home soon. A minute later the door opened and we both jumped. We were still routed to our spots. Mr Brown came in front of us and to my horror he was holding my trousers, boxer shorts and socks.
"Are these clothes yours?" he asked me.
"Yes Sir."
"And are the trousers and socks you are wearing my son's?"
"Yes, Sir," I mumbled
"Take them off immediately!" he thundered
I obeyed instantly, quickly removing Peter's shorts and stockings. I looked for my trousers to be handed to me but Mr Brown had put them on his desk. He looked at my underpants.
"Do you usually wear two pairs of pants – or are those also my son's," he said pointing at Peter's briefs, which I had borrowed.
"Well . . . er . . .
"Speak up boy!" he ordered.
"Yes Sir, I mean no Sir. I mean . . ." I turned to look at Peter but he was still examining the carpet. I was on my own but I didn't want to get him into more trouble.
"It's just that I wanted to try them . . ."
"Take them off instantly!"
I did. He took them from me and I just stood exposed in front of him. He examined them and then picked up Peter's shorts from the floor where I had left them and looked inside. He walked around the back of us and I could tell he was examining the effect of my father's slipper. I was glad it showed that my dad was strict too.
"Which one of you boys has been masturbating in these clothes?"
"Me Sir. It was me Sir . . . It's my fault. Please let Philip go . . . " and Peter started to cry.
"Stop sniveling Peter. You shall have plenty to cry about in a minute. As for you Philip, I very much regret I cannot deal with you as you deserve, as you are not my son. But if you were let me tell you young man, I would give you the biggest thrashing you have ever had. How dare you come into my house and play dirty little games with my son. How old are you"
"That's not fair. I didn't. I'm 14."
"Well. In that case you can go. I don't believe you, but I have no alternative. You only have to give me your address and telephone number and then leave immediately. You can borrow these again" and he handed me Peter's clothes. Not mine but Peter's.
"Give me my clothes back" I had forgotten the Sir this time.
"Don't talk to me like that!" he shouted. Peter nudged me. "Be careful!" he hissed.
Mr Brown went to his desk and took out a piece of paper.
"Full name please"
"Philip Smith, Sir"
"Address?"
"10 Rodhouse Drive
"Telephone?"
443367
"Thank you. Now do as you are told and put the clothes on. Do not argue."
I dressed again in Peter's clothes, including his dirty pants and resumed my position of contrition. This after all had been my dream. In a study like this. In short trousers. I noticed a wicker basket in a corner behind the desk. It had several crook handled canes in it. Was this my dream coming true? But now I was scared of being caned and just wanted to be somewhere else.
"When did you last wear short trousers Philip?" resumed Mr Brown.
"Years ago, Sir"
"So your parents will be surprised when you get home"
"Well . . . er . . . yes. They would be," I said thinking there is no way I could go home like this.
"Correction. They shall be. You shall go home like that. Let me tell you boy, you look a great deal more presentable dressed properly even if your trousers and pants do show signs of somebody's disgusting behavior." He added looking at Peter. "I shall leave it to you to explain your new clothes. In fact you may keep them, seeing you are the same size as my son and he has plenty more."
"Off you go. I shall now telephone your parents. Go on!"
I was not sure what to do so I took the easy option and did nothing.
"NOW!" he thundered as he went to the whicker basket and drew out a mean looking cane. That turned me around, not that I thought he could cane me. Surely he wouldn't dare to.
I reached the door and opened it.
"Now Peter. A full explanation of what you were doing with that boy is required from you before I decide your punishment, for punish you I certainly shall with the utmost severity, and if you think for one moment that I shall show any leniency on account of your caning on Friday, then you are mistaken. You are a disgusting dirty little boy and a disgrace to . . .
I shut the door behind me and could no longer hear Mr Brown. I debated whether I could wait around to hear Peter being caned but decided that I had no appetite for that. Perhaps if I hid somewhere I could get my clothes back later somehow. What else could I do? The shops were shut and in any case I couldn't buy any trousers for 27p, which was all I had on me – or rather did have on me. Peter's shorts pockets contained nothing at all. I really had to go home but at least it was dark. My debate ended as the study door opened and Mr Brown came out, cane in hand.
"Are you still there boy. Go home immediately!" he ordered as if speaking to his dog, which I noticed took the opportunity to leave the study with its tail between its legs, no doubt anticipating yet another caning for the young master.
The front door was opened for me and I descended the steps and started walking, aware that Peter's father was watching me. As soon as I was out of his sight I ran towards home. Perhaps if I hurried I would not have to explain my junior clothing to anybody that might know me. I must have looked a picture running down the formal streets in that area. A teenage boy in a navy blazer (my own school uniform) grey short trousers and knee length socks. An anachronism surely in England of 2002. I pulled the socks down to make me look less stupid and decided I would try and creep into home and get to my room without being seen. I would keep Peter's clothes hidden somewhere.
The last hundred yards was awful, trying to avoid anybody seeing me and this included crouching behind a parked car when I saw the next door neighbor come out of their front door. At that moment a car came along and bathed me in its headlights. I wondered what the driver had made of it but I eventually arrived at the front door unchallenged. Dad's car was already there. What was it about today that was causing fathers to come home early. I very gently slid my key in the lock and turned the handle. The light was on in the hall so I stealthily but very quickly went across to the stairs and slowly began to climb, terrified that they would creak. About half way up the dining room door opened and dad appeared at the foot of the stairs. We just looked at each other and I blushed profusely. He said nothing but came up the stairs after me and nudged my bottom to push me on. At the top he took my right ear and propelled me to my bedroom and pushed me in. I sat on the bed and rubbed my ear.
"Well well well, Philip. Stand up!"
It was the second time that day I assumed the classic schoolboy pose of contrition. But this time total embarrassment took over from fear. My father looked quite amused.
"I have just had a telephone call from a Commander Brown. He has told me a very interesting story and I believe as we speak his son whom I believe you know very well, is having his bare backside very soundly thrashed with a cane, the second time in four days. He suggests I do the same with you. The slipper he says is for little boys, and he was able to see that you are not that little."
I look enquiringly at my dad.
"But," he continued. "I can't do that for three reasons. Firstly your mother would not let me unless we waited for a time she was going to be out for a long period, secondly I do not have a proper cane and thirdly your bottom is still bruised from Saturday's well-deserved slippering.
I felt I was getting excited again. The fear I had for Peter's father had now subsided and now maybe I could get my dad to give me that caning sometime – but not too hard. My willy was now growing inside Peter's briefs and a little hard place appeared at the front of his shorts, yet again I thought. Dad was looking hard at them and must have noticed.
"So we discussed alternative arrangements. Because your misbehavior was in Peter's house and it seems both of you are as bad as each other it would be appropriate for you to visit him again. You are invited to spend the day there on Sunday and you will walk there dressed as you are now."
"Dad . . ."
"Don't interrupt. Dressed as you are now. You will attend church with the family and have lunch with them. After lunch has been digested you will go with Peter into his father's study. I shall arrive at about the same time and witness both of you being caned across your bare bottoms very severely indeed. We shall also witness Peter's brother being punished"
"But dad . . . I didn't know . . "
"I said don't interrupt. This way we get over the problem of your mother. Commander Brown has a collection of proper school canes and your bottom will have recovered fully from the slipper by then. Peter is very used to being caned but I have made it clear that your punishment must be more severe than Peter's as he has already been punished today and in any case you are older. So you have something to really look forward to this week."
"Wow. Peter didn't say he had any brothers. Do you know how old he is?"
"Giles is 15 and goes to boarding school but is home this weekend by arrangement with the school – especially I gather, so his father can cane him. He will probably get the senior cane.
"Wow."
"Now Philip. You're late home and mum is worried. You had better come down straight away."
It occurred to me that my clothes hadn't been mentioned.
"I shall change and be right down."
"Oh no you won't. Come as you are. That is how you are staying until further notice." And again my ear was taken hold of and I was directed downstairs. It is absolutely impossible for a boy to resist when his ear is being pulled.
"OW. Please . . . but not to school of course . . ow!"
"Oh yes. Certainly to school young man."
That was too much and I collapsed into tears. I was a child once more.
"Come on Philip," said mum as I went in the dining room. "Come on hurry up and pull your socks up!"
"Come on Philip. It's late."
"Come on. Wake up!"
I woke up. It was morning and mum was holding a cup of tea. I blinked and saw I was in bed. It was another boring school day. It was Monday. My school trousers were on the chair next to the bed where I had put them last night. There were no shorts. There had not been any cane or even any slipper and worst of all there was no Peter. There was however a wet patch in the middle of my sheet.
I looked at my smooth unblemished naked bottom in the mirror before getting dressed. I routed around in the drawer to see if I could find a pair of white briefs but there were none there. Nor were there any khaki shorts.
Maybe I thought as I finished dressing in my boring school uniform, I could get dad to put me over his knee again, like he used to when I was little . . .
The end.