The last night before Sam's ordeal in the Three Stripes Club was not the best he had had. He was an even-tempered boy and he made no complaints about the jocular comments which flew around the dormitory wash room before the junior boys retired to bed. He knew that, in their position, he would probably have done the same. Neither was he cross about the seemingly endless practising he had heard from Launceton's study earlier in the evening. He quite understood why the older boy would want to perfect his technique for an experience which he was not likely to be able to enjoy again, at least until he was old enough to be head boy: it would be a sad waste of a wonderful opportunity not to make sure that every stroke counted.
But Sam was definitely nervous. As he lay down in his bed he allowed his hand to slip beneath his pyjama trousers and gently stroke the smooth bottom which he knew would be far from smooth at the same time on the next night. He tried to imagine the type and scale of the pain he would have to endure on the following evening. He thought of his past punishments, and how they had become more severe over the years. He remembered early spankings from his father and how, at the time, they had seemed incredibly painful, but had then seemed trivial after his introduction to the school slipper at the age of eight. He remembered that day when his father, conscious that the boy was subject to more severe punishment at school, had decided to use the back of a hairbrush for the first time. That had been more painful than anything he had, until then, suffered at school. Then, at the age of ten, the PT master's large gym shoe had first made contact with his scantily clad bottom and he had been convinced that no punishment could ever be worse. He recalled those three incredibly hard blows as he had bent over in the changing rooms, wearing nothing other than thin cotton games shorts, only immediately to remember the five even harder strokes he had had to take the following term for mucking around in the showers. That time he had been stark naked, much to the amusement of his watching friends. Surely, he had thought, he would never have a harder punishment than that. But then, of course, he had had his first beating at Burcliffe, at the hands of that fit and powerful prefect, Tomlinson. It had only been three and the implement had been the familiar gym shoe, but Tomlinson had demonstrated in a few seconds that the masters at his junior school had never put their all into any of his punishments. Finally there had been the six from Mitchell, inflicted with massive force on his bare bottom. Although he had, as always, taken the beating without moving or crying out, he had secretly to confess that he had become! very close to doing both. Could it really be true that the caning ahead was going to be even worse than that? He knew it could, and his stomach was churning with fright.
As Sam's past misdemeanours and punishments went through his mind, he again became aware of a sensation of stiffening between his legs. He had first become aware that he could be aroused by thoughts of punishments when he had seen the marks on Larkin's bottom after his beating from Cox. Until then, his fantasies had been much more conventional. They had generally centred on the sixteen year old sister of his friend, Jonathan. Shortly before he had started at Burcliffe he had spent a weekend with Jonathan's family. Julia was undoubtedly an exceptionally attractive girl and, when Jonathan had suggested that Sam might like to secrete himself in a cupboard in her room while she was changing to go out to a party, he had not taken much persuasion before he agreed to the adventure. He had stared in wonder through the crack in the cupboard door as Julia had removed all her clothes. Her slim and gently rounded body was, to him, the most exciting and pleasurable sight of his life. Many was the night after that when he allowed his thoughts to dwell on what he had seen that evening. How could it be, then, that the thought of boys' bottoms being walloped (an everyday event in countless homes and schools) could bring on similar feelings? He was deeply troubled. With an extreme effort of will power he kept his hands to his side and tried desperately to think of the morning's Latin lesson. Eventually he got things back under control. Getting to sleep was not easy that night, but he had had an active day and even the thoughts of what lay ahead could not keep him awake for ever.
As he made his way to breakfast, Sam spotted a new notice on the CCF notice board. He went to read it. With a heavy heart he saw that Blue Platoon, the one in which he served, was to have a Saturday parade after lunch. The NCOs in charge of each platoon were allowed to call one extra parade on one Saturday in each term. Most never did so, but Corporal Jones (the markedly unpopular fifteen year old who was in charge of Blue Platoon) never failed to exercise his right to inflict an extra parade on his charges. Sam was particularly irritated that Jones had chosen this Saturday of all Saturdays to call the parade. What he did not know was that it was no coincidence that the parade was to happen on the very day of his initiation into the Three Stripes Club.
Three years before, when Jones had himself been in the first year, he had applied to join the club. He was, in fact, one of the most cowardly boys in his year. When he made his application he did so, not with the aim of joining, but with the aim of just missing the chance to join. He waited until there were no vacancies left and then informed the club secretary of his wish to join. He knew, he reckoned, that he would pass his thirteenth birthday before a vacancy could arise. Indeed, he had carefully checked the birth dates of all the fourteen year old members just to make sure that a casual vacancy would not arise as a result of one of them becoming too old. What he hoped was that he would gain popularity for his apparent bravery in showing himself willing to undergo the initiation, without actually having to endure the pain of a caning. What he did not bargain for was the decision of the parents of one of the members to take their son away from the school in the middle of that term. Suddenly, there was a vacancy and Jones was the next on the list. He had spent a miserable week worrying about what to do. That said, it had not been all bad. He had enjoyed the notoriety of being known as someone who was shortly to take a club caning, but he had also known that there was no chance that he would actually submit to it. Sure enough, when the time for his initiation came, he simply did not appear. He was, of course, promptly blackballed from the club. He did not mind that. What he did mind was the stream of accusations of cowardice and the loss of the few friends he had made in the school. Ever since then, he had hated the club and all it stood for. This Saturday was to be the day for his revenge.
Morning lessons passed all too quickly for Sam. He then picked at his lunch. The thought of his forthcoming caning had almost entirely removed his appetite. Immediately after lunch he changed into his corps uniform. He polished the brass and his shoes until they were like mirrors. He was not going to give Jones any excuse to punish him. True, the only punishment a NCO could impose was a run round the playing fields, but he had no intention of giving Jones the pleasure of being able to make him do that. Once he was satisfied that his appearance was faultless, he went out to the quad for the parade.
When the whole platoon was assembled, Corporal Jones gave the order to fall in. The boys came smartly to attention and Jones started his inspection. He found fault with the degree of shine on the shoes of a couple of boys before he got to Sam. But he was justified in doing so, even if it was a little zealous of him to order them to run round the playing field three times after the parade. He then got to Sam.
"You're shoes are a disgrace Whitstable. Six circuits after parade."
Sam was absolutely appalled. His shoes, as anyone could see, were spotless. They were shinier than anyone else's. He could not stop himself from protesting.
"But Corporal ..."
Jones interrupted. "You are questioning my authority. There can be only one way of dealing with that. Report to Mitchell at 7.45 tonight."
Although NCOs had no right to inflict serious punishment on cadets, there was a long standing convention that mutinous behaviour could lead to the offender being reported to the head boy. When that happened it was firmly understood by all concerned that a beating was inevitable. The school took its role in training future soldiers desperately seriously, despite the fact that very few of the cadets actually went on to join the armed services. The maintenance of discipline in the CCF was considered to be of paramount importance. The authority of NCOs was never to be undermined by anyone. So strongly was this rule adhered to that, whatever reservations he may have about a particular case, the head boy quite understood that a cadet reported to him for questioning a NCO's order had to be beaten. Of course, if he considered that the punishment was not justified, he would certainly feel free to have a private, and strong, word with the NCO concerned, but only after he had administered the inevitable punishment.
Sam was well aware of all this. Having made superhuman efforts to keep out of trouble for the past week, he simply could not believe that, on the very day of his initiation, he was going to have to submit to another beating from Mitchell. And not just on the day of it, but only minutes before it. He had been reasonably confident that he would take his caning without flinching or crying out, but he was now seriously concerned about his ability to withstand a caning within less than half an hour of being thrashed (there was no other word for it) by Mitchell. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he was in the deepest gloom.
Unbeknown to Sam, this episode with Jones had been witnessed by a prefect, Tomlinson. He was a strong believer in the beneficial effects on boys of the occasional severe beating. But he had an equally strong belief that beatings should not be given unless they were justified. He was horrified by what he had just seen and heard. He was sorely tempted to intervene immediately, but he knew that that would be to undermine a NCO's authority and he realised that he must not do that. But he was determined that Mitchell should know the true facts. While Jones was supervising Sam's six circuits of the playing field, Tomlinson went straight to Mitchells study.
Mitchell realised immediately what Jones was up to.
"The cad", he said to Tomlinson, "he set this whole thing up so as to try to make Whitstable blub during his swishing tonight. This is his way of getting back at the Three Stripes Club. Thanks for telling me, I've now got some serious thinking to do about how I can deal with things without upsetting the CCF."
Mitchell realised that Jones would have to come and tell him about his instruction to Sam to report at 7.45 that evening. A plan quickly formed in his mind.
Half an hour later Jones appeared in Mitchells study.
"I thought I'd better let you know that I've told Whitstable to report to you this evening. I'm afraid he seriously questioned a perfectly fair punishment I had had to give him."
Mitchell was not going to let on that he already knew the true facts. He decided to let Jones dig himself in as deep as possible.
"You'd better tell me what the offence and punishment were and how Whitstable questioned it."
"His corps boots were absolutely filthy. I had no alternative but to make him run round the field. He argued with me. He said I was being unfair and that his boots were perfectly clean. I accept he gave in in the end and did his run. But he clearly cant be allowed to get away with such impertinence to an NCO."
"How many circuits of the field did you make him do?"
"I was going to give him three, but in view of his attitude I increased it to six."
Mitchell had now got Jones exactly where he wanted him.
"As it happens, Tomlinson saw the whole thing. He has already told me what actually happened. Whitstable's boots were spotlessly clean. You told him to do six circuits before he had said anything to you at all. You set out to try to get him beaten just before his initiation in the Three Stripes. And now, to cap it all, you have deliberately lied to me. I know I have no authority over you in CCF matters, but I am perfectly entitled to deal with you for lying to me. I am going to cane you harder than I have ever caned any boy before. As for Whitstable, I know that the good discipline of the CCF requires that he must be beaten, even though he has done nothing wrong, but I certainly intend to ensure that his initiation in the Three Clubs will not be affected by this. And you can also rest assured that I will not tell anyone the reason for your own beating, so you neednt worry about your precious authority."
Jones started to protest, but he was immediately cut short by Mitchell. "I will not hear another word from you. You will only make me angrier. Now, I'm not going to cane you in those thick army trousers. Go to your dorm, get your school trousers and bring them back here. You will change into them in my presence so there will be no chance of adding any padding."
Again Jones tried to speak.
"Get out" shouted Mitchell. Jones at last knew he was defeated. He opened the door and set off for his dormitory. He had been caned twice before, but never by anyone who was so angry as Mitchell now was. He knew this was going to be hell. Although he was fifteen, he was slight for his age. He was convinced that the cane hurt him much more than it did other boys in his year. His distress was very real. To give him his due, he knew that he could blame no one but himself. But that made it all much worse. He was having difficulty in holding back the tears. What on earth, he wondered, was he going to be like during the caning? Mitchell had not said how many strokes he was going to get, but he had little doubt it would be six, the maximum. He rubbed his all too small and slim bottom in anticipation.
While Jones was collecting his trousers, Mitchell was preparing his study for the beating. He cleared the centre of the room to ensure maximum swinging space. He then carefully chose a suitable cane. He swung it through the air a couple of times. Then he sat in his armchair, cane resting across his knees, to wait for Jones's return. He had to admit that his right to cane boys was a perk of the job which he particularly valued. He nearly always enjoyed the experience. But this was going to be the most enjoyable yet. When beating most boys, the pleasure he derived from it was merely sensual. He was not motivated by any dislike of the victims, and he even felt some sympathy for them. It was a matter of honour amongst the boys that you did not cry when being caned. He was pleased for all his victims that, at least so far, none had done so. But this was going to be different. He wanted Jones to be in total agony. More than that, he wanted the boy to scream and, preferably, to be seen running in tears from the study when it was over. He didnt doubt that he would be aroused, as he nearly always was. For all his faults, Jones was a good-looking lad with a firm, slim, slightly rounded bottom which would be ideal for the cane. But, for the first time, his real motivation was positive dislike. He desperately wanted to hurt Jones more than he had ever been hurt before.
There was a timid tap on the door. Mitchell stood and said "enter". Jones came in. He held his thin grey trousers in his left hand. His eyes were downcast. He was a picture of misery.
"Mitchell, before you swish me, can I ask you one favour?"
"What is it?" This was barked in a thoroughly aggressive tone.
"When it is over, will you let me explain myself?"
"If you're not blubbing too much to say anything, yes. Now, hand me your school trousers while you take your corps trousers off and put them on that chair. I'm going to make bloody sure you havent tried to slip anything inside them."
Jones undid his army trousers and pulled them down. Mitchell noticed that his legs were surprisingly muscular, though slim. He felt the proffered school trousers. No padding had been added. Jones turned and put his army trousers on the chair. He was wearing very close fitting white underpants. He was clearly well developed at the front. His bottom, however, was small, slim and firm. It was, thought Mitchell, the bottom of a fit thirteen year old. Jones's age was not going to make his beating any easier for him.
Mitchell handed the school trousers back. Jones put them on. Then, before being told to, and much to the prefect's surprise, Jones bent over and clutched his ankles. The cloth of his trousers was drawn very tightly across his bottom. It was the perfect target.
Mitchell took his position. He carefully took aim with the cane, gently tapping it on Jones's bottom. He was pleased to see a slight flinching. "You might like to know, Jones, that this is going to give me a great deal of pleasure. If it does you some good as well, thats an added bonus." He then drew the cane back as far as he could, paused for a couple of seconds and swung it with all the force he could muster at the waiting bottom. The swish and crack must have been audible throughout study corridor. Jones moved no more than half an inch. He screwed his eyes shut as the incredible pain seared across the width of his bottom. But he wasn't crying. Not yet anyway.
Mitchell drew the cane back again. He counted to fifteen silently (more than his usual ten because he wanted to draw this out as long as possible). Then, swish, crack. The second perfectly placed stroke crashed into Jones's bottom. Never had the boy felt such intense pain. But he stood his ground and not even the quietest sob could be heard. Mitchell counted to fifteen again. Then he delivered an absolute corker of a third stroke, just below the first two. He thought he could hear the slightest intake of breath from his victim. But still no crying. He tried counting to twenty before the next one and, having done so, summoned up as much strength as he could as he slammed the cane down again. Jones was surprising himself, as well as Mitchell, with his fortitude. Although the agony was now almost unbearable, he still kept silent and still. After another count of twenty, the fifth stroke landed. It was as hard as the others, but it still produced no whimper from the fifteen year old. Mitchell counted to thirty before the last. He knew that Jones must be desperate for it to be over, but he was not going to make things easy for the bounder. Then, with almost superhuman force, he swung the cane again. Jones's fingers, gripped tightly round his ankles, would leave marks for hours. His bottom was throbbing with immense pain. But he stayed stock still. What is more, he still did not utter a sound.
Mitchell counted to thirty again. He knew, from his own experiences, that this was almost the worst part. Jones would be longing to jump up and get out of the room. Well he would just have to wait.
Eventually Mitchell barked "get up".
Jones slowly stood. Both hands went to his bottom and rubbed hard. His eyes were watering, but he wasnt crying. He looked Mitchell squarely in the face.
"OK, if you've still got something to say, say it".
"I just want to thank you. I can't believe how nasty I was to Whitstable. I deserved every stroke and more. I just hope that the punishment was enough to stop me ever being so horrible again. The other thing I wanted to say was that I intend to tell Whitstable that Ive changed my mind about reporting him to you. He's three times the man I am. I just can't believe the bravery of a twelve year old boy who can voluntarily submit himself to a caning in the way he's going to. I am going to apologise to him immediately."
Mitchell was entirely taken aback by this extraordinary speech. He was as strong a supporter of corporal punishment for boys as anyone, but even he could never have dreamt that it could effect such a transformation of character. In a second, his hatred of Jones evaporated. He thought for a moment and then spoke.
"I've misjudged you Jones. I don't mind telling you, I had been hoping to make you scream in agony. I certainly did all in my power to achieve that, but you took it like a real man. Well done. But I am afraid that the CCF must come first. Your authority will be lost for ever if you cave in on this one."
"But Mitchell, you can't beat Whitstable. It would be so unfair."
"I have no intention of doing so. I am going to explain to him that you have come to see me and told me that you hadn't realised that he was due to be initiated in the Three Stripes tonight. I will say that you managed to persuade me to let his caning from Launceton stand as his punishment for arguing with you. When you have recovered sufficiently, I would like you to find him and send him to me. He must be going through hell at the moment and I think we ought to put him out of his misery."
Jones turned to go.
"Oh, one other thing Jones, I suggest you tell everyone that I caned you for smoking. I think you might be quite popular in the dorm tonight when you are changing for bed."
Jones went straight in search of Sam. His hands were still clutched to his incredibly sore bottom, but he was now a happier boy than he had been for years. His idiocy had led to his salvation. Never again would he abuse his authority in such an appalling manner. And, with any luck, the story of his own thrashing, and of how he took it, would begin the slow process of building up a modest level of popularity. He would certainly not be mean about letting the other boys in his dorm see the stripes that night. It was a surprisingly cheering thought that he would probably be on the minds of more than a few fifteen year olds after lights out as they indulged in their nightly exercise.
To be continued .........