Halfway through Sunday tea I notice that Peter Dickens is missing – hes the sort of mischievous child an experienced schoolmaster tracks almost without thinking. I feel a quiver of anticipation – thrashing his bottom, though hardly a novelty, will be an invigorating bit of exercise before my 6pm gin and tonic. Oliver, his bosom friend, is present which is a bit odd – Peter is not a loner.
I am just about to blow the whistle which indicates silence and table-clearing, when the door of the Dining Room opens and the boy enters looking rather sheepish. When I see hes accompanied by two of the French boys – Marc and Olivier – my quiver turns to a tumult.
(I should explain about the French boys: twice a year there is an exchange with a school near Marseilles, and a couple days earlier a group of a dozen boys of 11 and 12 years had arrived at the school to savour the curious English prep school world of cold showers, dormitories, nude swimming and corporal punishment. They are accompanied by a teacher, but I normally suggest he may wish to take advantage of our proximity to Oxford and London and spend his days exploring.)
The talking dies away in the Dining Room. Trouble is brewing and every boy wants to see how it develops. I disappoint them by curtly sending the three errant children to my room, then quickly finishing the meal.
They are waiting barefoot outside my door (Peter knows the regulations!), and I notice that they are extremely grubby and reeking of woodsmoke. Once inside I sit in my armchair and find out what is going on - Peter is not a liar, so mercifully I dont have to waste a lot of time peeling away layers of falsehood. In summary, the three had smuggled sausages out of breakfast, gone out of bounds and lit a fire to re-cook the sausages, losing track of time while doing so. (Just the sort of thing I loved to do as a boy, I cant help thinking!)
I fix Peter sternly with my eye. The boy is biting his lower lip, his pretty little face troubled by the knowledge that he is in for a painful few minutes yet again. His mane of light brown hair is windswept and untidy, and his complexion is rosy from an afternoon in the fresh air. Hes wearing a red armless T-shirt (I believe they may be called tank-tops or some similar preposterous name) and light blue shorts – it will be the work of a moment to have those off and beat his bare buttocks.
I have no established right to thrash the French boys, of course. In previous years in similar situations I have always offered them a choice: a phone call home or the same as their English friends. Only once have I had to reach for the telephone rather than the rod of correction. Theres a near-universal boyish solidarity and pride in taking an ordeal, I find.
Fetch the slipper, Peter. The slipper was bequeathed to me by Codger Armitage when he retired. Well used even then, it has since done another 14 years of service. The leather sole has been worn beautifully smooth and shiny on the bottom skin of naughty boys.
I take the instrument from Peter, who, without prompting, slips off his T-shirt, drops his shorts and peels off his little white briefs. Now he hesitates, unsure how I will position his bottom for thrashing. I point to my left leg and he climbs expertly into position, the centre of his buttocks over the centre of my knee, legs well apart.
If he were my only potential victim I would take my time over punishing him, but frankly I am more interested in the possibility of beating two virgin little French backsides. The two, by the way, are literally open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the scene that is unfolding - commonplace enough to a boy like Peter, but clearly outside their experience.
I thrash Peter hard. For the final stroke I aim low and make sure the tip of the slipper slashes into his buttock cleft. He gasps and squirms involuntarily, having taken the first five without protest. He gets up and I notice his little hands fly straight between his bottom cheeks to soothe that area first.
While Peter is rubbing himself and putting his clothes on, I outline the choice to the French boys in my competent but poorly-accented French. Having proposed that I will leave the room while they decide, I go out, smoke a cigarette and then return. Deliberately I have left Peter in the room, for I am sure he will encourage them to take a spanking.
Shall I phone your fathers and explain that you have disgraced yourselves, or will you take une fessee, exactement comme Peter a recu? I enquire, sounding indifferent but actually on tenterhooks.
Une fessee, Monsieur, is the glum reply.
The edginess in me evaporates and careful planning starts.
Peter, you may go. The boy looks indignant – the two have watched his bottom take the slipper and he is not to be allowed the small pleasure of seeing their bottoms submit!
Olivier is the taller and more confident of the two. Hes a deeply tanned child with wavy brown hair and intelligent brown eyes. His physique is lean and wiry. Marc has shoulder length blonde hair and a cheeky little face. He is by no means plump, but just from his bare arms I can see that he is of a fleshier, more rounded build.
Marc, get undressed please. Gulping and nervous the little boy starts to obey. His shirt and shorts come off then he hesitates, thumbs tucked in the elastic of his yellow underpants.
Vas-y, murmurs Olivier, encouragingly. Go on. Marc summons his courage, pulls off this final garment and gives it to me. His hands fly to his groin to cover his little organs. I call the child over, gently move the hands to the side of his thighs, and take in the figure of the small boy I am about to beat. His nervousness at what is about to happen to him is very evident.
In no hurry to put him out of his misery I lay my hand on his warm young bottom and enquire: Have you ever had a spanking like I gave Peter?
No, Sir.
In that case I wont use the slipper on you, just my hand. For emphasis I give him a light slap on the buttocks, then guide him across my left knee. He climbs into place clumsily, presenting me with his lower back more than his bottom. I slip my hand between his thighs and pull him forward until his curve of his buttocks is symmetrically over my knee. Unsure how the boy will react to his first real bare-bottom spanking, I clamp his thighs in place with my right leg and hold the boys neck down with my left hand. As always, I run my spanking hand over the flesh I will soon be chastising, priming it for the pain it has earned. The buttock muscles are tense, and the childs skin is goose-pimpled.
Are you ready, Marc?
Oui, monsieur.