It was the end of the Summer term and the end of Oliver Reece-Jones's penultimate term at Linden Lodge Junior School. He was twelve and a half years old, one of the most popular boys in his year, bright, averagely mischievous and a star at cricket and rugby. He was clearly destined to be appointed a prefect at the beginning of the next term. Everyone knew that. He knew it himself and he was very much looking forward to the experience. But then that mischievous streak got the better of him.
The midnight feast, something of a tradition in the school, was, as usual, planned for the last night of term. Oliver was looking forward to it with eager anticipation. Of course, if he and his friends were caught, they could expect swift and painful punishment. But that would be nothing new to Oliver and it was a price he would be prepared to pay for the fun he would have. It would hardly jeopardise his promotion: Rigsby, after all, had been appointed head boy after being caught having a midnight swim.
But Oliver entered into the spirit of the event with too much gusto. In the afternoon he had to hand in a hundred lines to Mr Bateson in the Masters' Common Room. That was no problem. He knocked on the door and entered. There was no one there. He looked around and immediately took in the rows of full wine bottles waiting on the table for the masters' end of term party. Just in front of them was a note. It was addressed to him. All it said was: "Reece-Jones, please leave your lines in my pigeon hole". It was signed by Mr Bateson. Oliver walked over to the bank of pigeon holes, found Mr Bateson's, placed the lines in it and walked back towards the door. He had to pass the table with the wine bottles on it. The temptation was too great. There were so many there that no one would notice if one went missing. He took a bottle of red, placed it under his jacket and left the room.
Even now, he might have got away with it. If only he hadn't opened the bottle before the midnight feast started. If only, having done so, he had not consumed two large tooth mugs full. He was not used to alcohol on that scale. The most he had drunk before had been a glass of Champagne at his cousin's wedding and the occasional glass of diluted wine on family holidays in France. By the time the midnight feast started he was decidedly merry. Although he gave some of the remaining wine to his friends, he was foolish enough to have another mug himself. As the crisp packets were being opened, he started singing. His voice grew louder and louder. The other boys became more and more concerned. They begged him to be quiet. But he was too far gone. There was nothing left for it. His friends bundled him out of the dormitory. He was obviously going to be caught whatever happened. It was better, surely, that he should be caught on his own. Once he was out of the door, the others quickly consumed what was left of the food and jumped back into bed.
Oliver decided to go and serenade another dormitory. There, too, a midnight feast was in progress. Although these boys were a year younger than him, they had no difficulty in ejecting him. He wandered on his way, continuing his crooning at an even higher volume. So far, he had been remarkably lucky. But that luck was bound to run out when he chose to go and sing outside the duty master's study. Mr Leinster had, of course, heard the commotion, but he was prepared to overlook end of term high spirits if he could. This was going too far. He opened the door and realised, within a second, that the boy was drunk. He even still had the wine bottle with him. This was one incident of high spirits which could not be overlooked.
Mr Leinster made an instant decision. Oliver was in no fit state to go back to his dormitory. He would have to spend the night in the San. Still singing, he was dragged off by Mr Leinster. When they arrived, he was beginning to become tired. He sat on the bed and then threw up. Fortunately, the vomit only landed on his pyjamas. Mr Leinster lay the boy down on his back and gently eased off his trousers and top. Then he picked him up, pulled back the bed clothes and lay him down again. Oliver grunted and turned onto his side. Mr Leinster sighed, gave an affectionate slap to the small, firm, white buttocks and whispered a parting message.
"I'm afraid, young man, that your bottom is going to be hurting even more than your head when you see the headmaster tomorrow morning."
The interview with Mr Trumpington was exceptionally distressing. Oliver's head was indeed sore. He was weak from his vomiting. But he was alert enough to realise that he was in deep trouble. The headmaster was looking his most grim. He was sitting at his desk. There was a moment of silence. Then, in a remarkably quiet voice, he spoke.
"Reece-Jones, I am very disappointed in you. You were not just naughty last night. Drinking wine at your age is foolish. Stealing it is the act of a criminal. If you were older, you could be sent to prison. I am going to have to give serious consideration to whether you can be allowed to stay in this school any longer. What have you got to say for yourself?"
Oliver looked down at his shoes. He shifted from foot to foot. Tears began to form in his eyes. He blinked them back. He took a deep breath, lifted his head and looked straight at Mr Trumpington.
"I have no excuse sir. I know that what I did was very very bad. I think I must have gone mad. But please sir, don't expel me. Please give me another chance. Please give me a beating. I promise I'll never do anything like that again."
There was another long silence. Mr Trumpington appeared to be trying to make up his mind what to do. In fact, he never had the slightest intention of expelling the boy. Oliver was far too good a pupil. Most of the time he was a credit to the school. Anyway, the outcome of the next term's rugby matches largely turned on him. Eventually the silence was broken.
"You are a very lucky boy. You certainly deserve to be expelled, but I am prepared, just this once, to give you a chance to redeem yourself. It goes without saying that I shall beat you harder than you have ever been beaten before. I have seriously considered sending you to the senior school to borrow a cane. Because I have also decided that you will not be a prefect next term, however, I am going to be lenient and I will only slipper you."
Oliver knew that Mr Trumpington had only used the cane once during the previous four years but, even so, conscious of the magnitude of his crime, he had firmly expected to be the second victim. He had quite reconciled himself to it. He should, of course, have been relieved to hear that he was only going to get the slipper. But he was much too distressed at the news that he was not to be a prefect to take any comfort from the fact. He thought of begging to be caned in return for being made a prefect. But he realised that he had been fortunate to avoid expulsion and he didnt want to risk upsetting the headmaster further. He muttered "thank you sir" and repeated his assurance that he would never do anything so bad again.
"Very well Reece-Jones, go and change into your games shorts and report back here in ten minutes."
"I'm sorry sir, but my games kit has already been packed in my trunk and that has gone to the station. It's going PLA you see sir". PLA, for those of my readers who are not British or who are too young to remember, meant passenger luggage in advance. "Would you like me just to take my trousers down instead sir?".
"Well, I suppose there's nothing else we can do. All right, take them down. I'm just going to get the slipper from the outer office. I'll be back in a moment."
Mr Trumpington left the room. Oliver undid his belt, unfastened his trousers and eased them down to his ankles. Then he had a thought. He was determined to do all he could to show the headmaster how real his remorse was. He decided to pull his underpants down as well. Then, knowing the routine well, he shuffled towards the desk and bent over it in preparation for his thrashing. His heart was beating fast and his legs were shaking, not only from the effects of the previous night's drinking. He knew his punishment would be severe, but he also knew he deserved it. He was determined to take it like a man.
It was something of a surprise for Mr Trumpington, when he returned with the large gym shoe he used for beating naughty boys, to see Oliver's naked bottom presented for punishment. He realised that the boy truly wanted to show how sorry he was and he inwardly congratulated himself for having decided against expulsion. This was, indeed, a boy who was a credit to the school.
The headmaster did not enjoy beating boys. He strongly believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and he recognised that boys often needed to be beaten. But he disliked doing it. He was fairly sure that there were other masters who did enjoy it and he knew that many of the prefects (who were permitted to use leather slippers to punish younger boys) took great pleasure from exercising their power. But, for him, it really was a painful duty. As he looked at Oliver's long legs and pale slim buttocks, he guessed that those who were aroused by such things would find the lad a particularly attractive victim. Sometimes he wished that he got that sort of pleasure from slippering boys: it would make this part of his job so much less distressing. But it was not be. He sighed and stepped forward to do his duty.
"You will not be surprised to hear, Reece-Jones, that I am going to give you six strokes. What is more, they will truly be six of the very best. I know you have never cried during a punishment before. You may well find it impossible to avoid doing so this time. If you do cry, you need not be embarrassed because I know that you are going to be in very great pain."
Then he took off his jacket, rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt and took aim. He took a step back, pulled the shoe behind his back and then took a pace forward, swinging the shoe forwards with as much force as he could. The crack as it hit poor Oliver's bottom seemed enormously loud. He had been slippered more times than he cared to remember, but that first stroke seemed to him to be even more painful than four of the hardest he had had before. He gritted his teeth and waited for the next whack.
Mr Trumpington pulled the shoe back and looked at what it had done to Oliver's bottom. What had been pale white before was now already red, with the pattern of the sole of the shoe clearly visible across the middle. He took another deep breath, took another step back and then launched another wallop, as hard as the first.
Oliver's back arched slightly as the second stroke connected. He let out no more than a gentle sigh of pain, but he knew now that this really was one of the hardest beatings ever given at the school. He dreaded crying and bit his lip in an attempt to avoid doing so.
Mr Trumpington was almost as distressed as Oliver as he looked at the scarlet bottom bent over his desk. He knew the boy must be in absolute agony. He would have given almost anything to stop. But he knew that he had to go through with it. The third stroke was just as bad as the first two, but, greatly to Oliver's credit, he remained silent. His bottom was not only incredibly sore, it also felt extremely hot. He hoped that, in half an hour or so, it would just feel rather comfortably warm but, for the moment, it was excruciatingly painful.
After the fourth and fifth strokes Oliver remained silent. He felt an almost irresistible urge to stand up and run round the room, but he managed to restrain himself. He could feel his eyes watering, but he kept blinking furiously and got the tears under control. There was a very long pause after the fifth stroke. It was not that Mr Trumpington was trying to draw out the boy's agony. On the contrary, it was because he so desperately did not want to go on. But it had to be done and, what was more, he knew that the last had to be even more painful than the earlier ones. At last he summoned up his courage. This time he took three steps back and put the whole weight of his moving body behind the blow. The crack of rubber on flesh was almost deafening. Oliver could not avoid letting out a grunt of agony. But it was no more than that. He had got through the whole thing without crying. The pain was, of course, still intense, but he knew it would gradually fade. The worst was over and he had taken it like a man. He waited for permission to rise, still blinking all the time to dry his watering eyes. After a moment or two that permission was given and he slowly stood, feeling no shame at grabbing his bottom with both hands. After a few seconds of rubbing he was able to pull his pants and trousers up.
"Please, Oliver", it was a sign of his sympathy for the boy that he used his first name, "please never make me do that to you again."
"I absolutely promise sir. And, sir, I know I deserved it and I really am grateful to you for beating me rather than expelling me. I know it was for my own good sir. Thank you very much sir."
"Very well. As far as I am concerned, the matter is closed. I am afraid it will have to be included in your report, but I will emphasise my belief that the beating and my decision not to make you a prefect next term are sufficient punishment. Even so, I could hardly blame your father if he felt it necessary to punish you himself. Do you think he will?"
"I expect he will sir, but I can hardly complain and, anyway, it couldn't be nearly as painful as the punishment youve just given me."
"In that case, I shall delay sending your report home for a week, so as to give you time to recover."
"Thank you very much sir".
"And one other thing, Reece-Jones, don't give up hope. You are an excellent boy at heart and there is no reason why you should not be a prefect before you move on to the senior school. Now, be off with you, and have a wonderful holiday."
Oliver went first to the lavatories where he lowered his trousers and pants and looked at his bottom. It was already bruised. He had seen many bottoms after they had been slippered, but none had been so dramatic as this. He gently stroked it and felt the heat with a sense of awe. He was still in pain, but he knew that he would be feeling better soon. Strangely, he always felt a feeling of elation after he had been slippered. That too would come soon. He was still sad about not being made a prefect, but at least he had been given hope. He was determined to keep his sense of mischief within bounds next term. It would be annoying if he had to be slippered by one of his friends. But, if it happened, he would grin and bear it.
It was an excited gaggle of twelve year old boys which gathered round Oliver in their common room when he went there to show off his wounds. All were agreed that they had never seen the results of such a severe whacking. Even though he was not to be a prefect, his popularity had now reached even greater heights than before. He was an almost happy boy as he travelled back on the train to start his Christmas holidays.
The day the school report arrived was a Tuesday. It was raining hard outside and, when Oliver saw the familiar envelope land on the doormat, he knew that he would not be able to leave the house to delay witnessing his father's eruption. He went up to his room to await the inevitable.
He tried to read a book, but he could not concentrate. He imagined his father opening the envelope and reading through the boring bits about French, Latin, History, Geography etc before getting to the last page where the headmaster's comments on behaviour were to be found. The minutes passed slowly by. Then he heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs and landing. Suddenly, the door burst open.
Oliver took one look at his father's face and knew, before he even saw the leather slipper in his hand, that he was going to be punished again. He didn't think it was unfair, but he had hoped Mr Trumpington's belief that he had been sufficiently punished would convince his father. It clearly had not.
"Oliver, I am extremely angry with you. I expect you know why."
"Yes Dad, I do, but I've already had the hardest whacking ever and I really promise I'll never do anything so stupid again."
"You're quite right you won't. I'm going to make sure of that by giving you the thrashing of your life. Are you going to be sensible and take your own trousers and pants down or am I going to have to do it for you?"
It was odd perhaps, but Oliver, who never had any problem about bending over for the slipper at school, had never yet taken a parental slippering without having to be forced across his father's knee and having his trousers and pants dragged down. Perhaps it was a sign of his increasing maturity that now, for the first time, he decided to co-operate with his father. He slowly stood up, undid his jeans, pulled them and his pants down and stood, naked from the waist down facing his father.
"Ok Dad, I won't make a fuss."
Sir John Reece-Jones was somewhat taken aback by his son's acceptance of his fate. It took him a moment or two to take it in. Then, he sat down on the bed and patted his knees to indicate where Oliver should place himself. The boy stood by his father's right knee and slowly lowered himself across it. The faint marks of Mr Trumpington's beating were still apparent, but his bottom was once again a pale white colour. But not for long. Sir John only gave him four, and they were not nearly as hard as the headmaster's, but he succeeded in producing a deep red colouring. The slippering hurt, obviously, but the pain was only transient. Oliver doubted whether he would ever be as affected by a beating as he had been by Mr Trumpington's until he first tasted the cane at the senior school, and that was more than a year away. When his father had finished, he wearily rose and pulled up his pants and jeans without even touching his bottom. Again, he apologised for his behaviour and again he promised to be good in future. Sir John grunted and then said that nothing more would be said about the incident. He coughed and then spoke again.
"I think you ought to know that Mr Trumpington has explained how severe his punishment was and how well you took it. I'm proud of you for that Oliver. Well done. By the way, I've invited him for dinner tomorrow night. I think you're old enough to stay up for a dinner party now."
Oliver was not sure he wanted to sit through a grown up dinner party with his headmaster. But he recognised the honour being given to him and expressed his gratitude.
That night, the usual post-slippering elation was such that, for the first time, Oliver found that he was so aroused by it that he could not stop himself from relieving the pressure in the way favoured by most boys of his age. He slipped off to sleep as contented as he had ever been.
I will not bore you with an account of the dinner party. It is enough to say that Mr Trumpington took Oliver aside and asked whether his father had punished him again. Oliver told him of the previous day's slippering, but again said he knew he had deserved it.
"I daresay you did, Oliver, but I don't think you deserve not to be made a prefect as well. You will be appointed on the first day of next term".
Oliver's delight knew no bounds. An unhappy incident was now truly over and done with. Next term he would be able to discover whether he would be as excited by administering the slipper as he was by receiving it.
To be continued