It was a lovely evening. The school grounds were beautifully laid out and this time of day when all the boys were busy and no-one was about was the best. The sun was just starting to go down behind the chapel, but it would be light for two hours more at least.
But I couldnt really enjoy it tonight because I was on my way to lash the backsides off eight boys. I was going to reduce their bottoms to a mass of raw cuts – and only for doing something that I and just about every lad in our village had done any number of times. In fact, I had swum in the quarry only yesterday on my day off with a group of my mates. Admittedly, our fathers had forbidden us to swim there when we were little, and most of us had felt their belts across our bums when we disobeyed, but twelve of the cane was a different matter altogether.
And the worst of it was that I knew exactly what a dozen of the cane across the bare arse was like. In fact, looking back Id had more than my fair share of beatings and that certainly increased my sympathy for the lads I was going to be whipping.
My father used his belt, a great heavy black leather strap, and after a dose of that across my bare bottom it felt as though I was going up in flames. Id lie in bed afterwards feeling as though the fire was never going to die down. Sometimes Id wake up the next morning and still be warm. It was actually quite nice lying there in bed with the glow still coming off my poor backside. Once, he put a stop to that by coming in early and giving me a second dose to drive the lesson home. I walked to school that morning feeling as though I would never be able to walk straight again.
At school, the headmaster only caned me once. A group of us spied on the girls when they were changing for PT. He gave us six of the best as he called it, but it didnt really hurt all that much. We thought it was a great laugh, and even better showing each other the faint lines of bruise hed left on our bums.
Id always wanted to join the navy, so as soon as I was fourteen I was off. HMS Amaryllis wasnt a ship at all. It was a training base for boy sailors. Two weeks into my time there I saw naval discipline in action for the first time.
Three lads had been caught smoking. We were all paraded in the gym facing this big old cannon that was mounted on a kind of low platform. The three boys were marched in. They were wearing nothing but thin cotton shorts. The first of them was led up to the cannon and stretched out over the breech of it, so that his backside was perched up ready. His wrists and ankles were fastened down so he couldnt move and then the master-at-arms got this massive cane out and lashed into him six times with all his strength. Every one made the lad yell and before they let him up we could all see blood beginning to soak through his shorts.
Canings werent always done in front of everybody like that, but this was a bloody good warning, and you can bet your life that I was determined that I wasnt going to get caught doing anything to earn a punishment like that.
But I hadnt reckoned with the bastard CPO in charge of my watch. I must have been a fairly pretty little lad and CPO Roberts took a fancy to me. First time, he ordered me to present myself at his billet after the lights were put out. I thought he was just being friendly till he started stroking my prick. Id never heard of anything like that but I didnt like it, so I backed off and wouldnt let him touch me.
"Right," he said, "get back to bed, but youll be sorry."
Next day, at kit inspection, the master-at-arms found a cigarette end in my kit. I was up in front of the commander, at attention, cap off, and before I could say a word I heard him say, "Six strokes."
An hour later I was in the gym, stark naked, waiting to be caned. The master-at-arms appeared in front of me holding the cane and I nearly wet myself. He made me lie down over the breech of the cannon and secured my wrists and ankles. I was too scared to protest that I wasnt wearing the shorts that the other lads had. Then he caned me. I thought that cane was killing me. It filled the whole of my body with the most intense pain I had ever felt. Every stroke seemed to take me to new heights of agony and every time I thought it could get no worse. But then the next stroke lashed into me and it did get worse.
For about an hour afterwards it felt as though the fire in my backside would never go out, and I was limping for the rest of the day.
That night Roberts ordered me to his billet again. None of the other boys would look at me as I went out in my pyjamas.
"How did you enjoy your trip to the cannon, then?" he started, sort of sneering.
"I didnt," I said.
He pulled me close to the bed, and I was kind of stiff with terror at what was coming next. He pulled the cord of my pyjamas and pulled them down. He looked at the weals across my bottom and started tracing them with his finger, then he cupped one cheek in his hand and started stroking me. I put up with it till he reached round and took hold of my prick.
I pulled away from him and pulled up my trousers. "I thought you didnt enjoy the cane," he said. I shook my head. "So come here, and let me be nice to you."
What could I do? I was old enough to know about girls and to know that I didnt want to do what he wanted. In fact, I thought, Id rather die than let him do it – even though I didnt know exactly what he did want to do.
The next three days I spent cleaning out every filthy lavatory – or heads as they were called - on the base, including about ten that were blocked with _s_h_i_t_ and rubbish. He didnt come near me. Ive forgotten what excuse he found for punishing me, but I knew that it was him. Softening me up for what was coming next.
When he ordered me into his billet I still refused to give in to him. So he let me go without touching me and got Smithy in with him instead. But I knew it wasnt over.
Two days later I was up in front of the commander again. The charge was indecency. I didnt even know what that meant really. They didnt listen to anything I tried to say. The sentence was twelve strokes.
It was done across my bare arse again. I know now that a doctor was supposed to check that I was fit to receive the cane but there was no-one there besides me and the master-at-arms, and he took no notice of the fact that my rear end was still horribly bruised from the last beating. He shoved a piece of wood in my mouth to stop me screaming too loud. But the screaming in my head got louder and louder. Ive no idea how I endured it. Well, I didnt endure it. It was past any boys endurance. There was blood down to my knees and I couldnt walk properly.
I was ordered to my hammock – which was really just an ordinary bed – and I stayed there the rest of the day. I think the rest of the watch now realised what was going on, and that I hadnt really given in to Roberts. Half sort of admired me for not giving in, the others said I should do what he wanted, just to make it stop.
"Its not so bad," said Smithy. "He doesnt bum you, he just wants you to wank him."
I shuddered at the very thought of touching his repulsive _c_o_c_k_. But he didnt come near me that night.
Next day I was back on cleaning out the heads. Exhausted, I collapsed on my bed at the end of the day. And it was then that another CPO ordered me out on to the field in running kit.
"Were worried about your fitness, Johnson. Ten laps of the field. And Ill have twenty press-ups between each lap."
Were they all in it together? I thought as I ran. How could I stand up to all of them? Maybe it would be better to give in and wank the bastard. But I was a stubborn little sod, and I reasoned that Id taken a dozen of the cane on my bare arse, so what could he do that was worse? But running was making all the weals hurt again and I knew that if he wanted he could order me up another dozen on top of them, and another on top of that. Could I stand up to that?
When it came to the press-ups he chose a horrible muddy bit of the field in the gateway and made me lie down flat in the mud. Once he put his boot on my shoulders so that my face went down into it. But I was a pretty strong kid; Id never had difficulty doing press-ups, so somehow I managed the runs and the press-ups, but my muscles were screaming by the end. I was soaking wet and on the point of collapse.
Next day I spent scraping rust off a load of anchor chain with a wire brush – another horrible job hed found me. That night I was back out on the field – with a different petty officer this time. It was raining and he made me stand holding a rifle straight out in front of me at shoulder height. He had a starter – a short length of strap they used on us – and every time my arms drooped he lashed me across the seat of my thin shorts. After about five whacks of the strap he suddenly yanked my shorts down and I braced myself for the leather across my bare bottom.
But nothing came.
"Have you been caned, Johnson?"
"Yes, chief."
"Why are you out here, Johnson?"
"Dont know, chief."
"What were you caned for, Johnson?"
"Indecency, chief."
"What did you do, Johnson?"
"Nothing, chief."
"Nothing? Put the rifle down, Johnson."
"Nothing, chief."
"You must have done something. You _f_u_c_k_ed another boy."
"No, chief."
"Tossed off together?"
"No, chief."
"Got your _c_o_c_k_ out on the parade ground?"
"No, chief."
"Had a wank in the heads?"
"No, chief."
"Wouldnt let CPO Roberts _f_u_c_k_ you?"
"No, chief. I mean – "
"So you did let him _f_u_c_k_ you?"
"No, chief."
"So – let me guess. You turned him down so there was a fag end in your kit and you were caned. You still turned him down, so you were on heads cleaning. Then you were caned for indecency, and youre out here because you still wouldnt let him _f_u_c_k_ you."
I had tried so hard not to cry. I was a boy sailor in His Majestys Navy, so I couldnt cry. But somehow there were tears running down my face.
"I tell you what, Johnson. Youre the bravest lad Ive seen for many a long day. Get dressed." I pulled my shorts back up. "Go and clean yourself up."
He said no more. No-one said anything more to me, but next morning Roberts had a black eye and a bit of a cut on his cheek. And I was back on normal training with the rest of the watch.
The next three years were heaven. I loved the navy. I loved the sense of doing something for the country – for the king. He inspected us once, and I felt so proud. I won the guinea for best boy sailor twice, and the second time spent some of it on a beautiful young prostitute in Lisbon. The war was over really before we went to sea, but some of us were taken on for a short mission to Gibraltar.
I was only caned once more. Four of us had brought a bottle of Spanish brandy on board and got completely pie-eyed. Somewhere out in the Atlantic, on the open deck, we were paraded, stark naked, lashed down over a windlass one by one, while a dozen corkers were applied to our bare bottoms.
The day after we arrived back I was playing in a rugby match, was tackled badly, broke my leg, and my naval career was over. The leg never mended straight and I shall walk with a limp for the rest of my life.
Which is why Im now a porter at this Dartmoor College, and why Im having to whip these eight boys.