PART ONE
This afternoon I was reminded of the importance of self-control and discipline when, after school, I had to report to Mr K (my Housemaster) for a spanking. I had foolishly misbehaved during my Maths lesson and I am paying for it now with a sore bottom as Mr K does not suffer fools gladly! I hope this essay will prove acceptable to him tomorrow morning or I will be spanked again: for much harder and longer than I was this afternoon which, believe me, was hard enough. If you could see the evidence for yourself you would know what I mean!
I am writing this essay lying face down on my bed wearing only a T-shirt as my bottom is too sore to have anything covering it; it hurt like Hell walking home after Mr K had finished with me! Each time my underpants and trousers rubbed against my butt, my arse felt as though it was on fire! My _c_o_c_k_ is rock-hard from fear in knowing that if I dont complete this composition and give it to Mr K by eight oclock tomorrow morning, or if my literary efforts are deemed to be unsatisfactory, he will spank me again. I also know that were he to enter my room now, he would expect me to stop writing immediately and stand to attention by my bed and ask why I am not sitting at my desk; he would take one look at me and my erect member and conclude that, instead of attempting to write this essay, I was rubbing my tool against the bottom sheet of my bed. He would slap me hard across my face once, maybe twice – as I attempted to explain I was not, but merely trying to write the essay he had set me to do – before examining my bedding for any cum-stains and turning my bed upside down for any girlie magazines I may have in my possession. Finding neither he would question me as to what the copy of 'Match' [a weekly magazine about English football] is doing under this essay and angrily ask if I was masturbating over the footballers inside it. Playing with oneself is bad enough without being caught doing it, but to do so fantasising about – or with – another male is criminal!!!
Mr K hates homo_s_e_x_uals .... or so he claims! Some people (not me I hasten to add) say they remind him of himself, not that either he or I are .... you know what .... "queer", even though I sensed he enjoyed making me strip out of my gym kit this afternoon and smacking my bare bottom over his knee whilst my _c_o_c_k_ became hard as it rubbed against his trouser leg. There is something rather strange and suspicious as to why he felt it necessary to probe between my bum-cheeks and inside my rectum with his finger in-between smacking me and lecturing me along the lines of "Always keep your arse clean boy; you never know when I may want to visit it .... and not just with my finger!!! Remember, a boys arse is like a temple: a sacred place wherein only man can enter and share all that which is usually hidden from the world with his Creator, and recall that just as God made man in His own image – beautiful and without blemish, without being contaminated by the opposite _s_e_x_ – so man has a duty before God to make an equally handsome young man out of a boy, without allowing the boy to become contaminated by the female serpent"!!!
Mr K continued to smack me (with the palm of his hand) until I lost all self-control and either ejaculated over his trouser leg or started to cry like a baby – I cant remember what happened first – whereupon he said "I think you need a lesson or two in self-control; firstly in how to control your tongue and secondly to remind you that spunk, like medicine, should never be spilt and only given by a man to another man rectally or to a boy down the boys throat"! For a moment or two I thought he was going to, you know ... screw me, or at least make me suck him dry but he didnt and simply ordered me off his lap and to bend over his desk with my legs spread wide apart for twelve blistering strokes with the cane, before pushing me (stark bollock naked) into the corner of his study for a period of corner time, following which he set me this essay to do by tomorrow morning and told me to "get dressed and bugger off"!
I have just probed the crack between my clenched buttocks and puckered my butt-hole again with my finger to satisfy myself it is clean. I think I had better stay off the chocolate or the maize nibbles tonight as they both make my bowels loose, and I suspect that were Mr K to discover any faeces either between the cheeks of my arse (after I had passed a wet fart or failed to clean myself thoroughly after having a crap) or inside my rectum on giving me another rectal examination tomorrow morning I will get more than the dozen strokes with his cane he gave me - after first making my bottom hot, red and sore with his hand - this afternoon. I wonder what all that talk about God and man, and where one should and should not spill ones spunk, was about; it was as though he was trying to tell me that he wanted to seduce me? Surely not, but then again why would he have said it, or repeatedly puckered my butt-hole with the tip of his cane in-between whipping my desperately sore bottom, and commenting on my "cute little arse"?!! _d_a_m_n_ it; I can feel my _c_o_c_k_ beginning to leak pre-cum at the thought of it: I must adjourn from lying on my bed to prevent an eruption of lava from my volcanic shaft and maintain self-control. Cum-stained sheets are likely to earn me a further spanking from Father if he feels I am giving Mother more laundry to do.
PART TWO
Back again – lying face down on my bed to write this _d_a_m_n_ed essay – after a short recess to lose my erection (without jacking-off)! At least Father or Mr K didnt see my hard-on as the sight of a naughty boy with an erection seems to make either (or both) of them livid. I glanced at my bottom in the mirror a few moments ago to see why it feels so inflamed: it is as red as a ripe tomato all-over from where Mr K had smacked me and there are eight horizontal stripes across both buttocks and four more weals across the back of my thighs (high enough to escape the back of my knee but low enough to be seen when Im wearing shorts) where he caned me.
I will be the laughing stock of the whole class in P. E. the day after tomorrow, as everyone will know Mr K has done it. A well-striped arse and stripes across the back of ones thighs are his hallmark! My T-shirt may help to provide an additional covering for my bottom (when my shorts become taut and almost transparent) whilst exercising in the gym: all the time Im allowed to keep it on (as sometimes my gym class is divided into two halves with one half of the class being made to strip to the waist and the other half being allowed to keep their T-shirts on, either to practice various exercises or for team-games). Providing Im not in the shirtless half and I can get away without taking a shower afterwards, and changing in and out of my shorts with my back towards the wall, the rest of the class wont see the welts on my arse even though they will see the weals on my legs, as looking at the damage in the mirror both my bottom and my thighs will be marked for a few days! Perhaps I should claim Im too sick to do P. E. again but, knowing my luck, my Games Master wont believe me and send me back to Mr K for a further spanking for trying to get out of doing it – just as surely as he will if he suspects I havent had a shower after being in the gym, or if he catches me wearing my underpants underneath my shorts (as an alternative to keeping my T-shirt on to cover the welts on my arse) during his lesson - and both my butt and legs will end up permanently marked from the dreaded cane!
I also cupped my testicles in my hand to examine them for any unexplained lumps or swelling and simultaneously pulled back the foreskin of my tool – as soon as I had lost my erection – as Mr K did to me this afternoon, recalling the words he said to me at the time: "Just making sure you are not neglecting your personal hygiene down below! Youll be surprised how many boys leave their cheese to mould under their skins, and how frequently I have cause to scrub it away with an old toothbrush .... Pity then that theres nothing down here for me to scrub away as I always like to see a boy wince when I scrub his tool clean, but at least you appear to know the importance of keeping yourself clean. Your balls arent terribly full though; I hope you have not been jacking-off or, believe me boy, you will be in serious trouble"!
He continued "I dont see why some parents insist on having their sons circumcised to keep their boys tools in good shape; its laziness on their part. All it needs for a boy to maintain his personal hygiene is for the boys father to regularly examine his sons fishing tackle and admonish the little bugger if he isnt keeping his rod clean or if he suspects his son has been playing with it! What hope has one of instilling in boys respect for others and themselves if, at an early age, their parents deprive them of an uncut rod to routinely clean and present to the man of the house for inspection?! A boys foreskin may not appear particularly attractive but it conceals the most beautiful thing he can offer to another male – and only another male, never a female, you understand – and protect that which is almost as precious as the Creator himself, for it is in His image that the Creator made us men-folk: beautiful and without blemish, without being contaminated by the opposite _s_e_x_! A boys penis, like any jewel, is a most precious rock which should only be examined by learned and experienced men, never by a female, and only ever touched by a boy to be cleaned, preferably with another boys tongue, not played with if it is neither to become damaged nor infected.
"Likewise, no boy should ever touch his own testicles, other than to wash and shave them; if he wants to play ball-games he should ask a friend to wash and shave his balls and do likewise for his friend! Certainly, no boy your age should be allowed to grow pubic hair; it is unbecoming and unhealthy any boy until he either graduates from university or reaches twenty-one, whichever is the earlier; it is bad enough that you are allowed to wear long trousers. All pubic hair and long trousers do is give succour to the illusion that you are mature when we both know, particularly by your behaviour earlier today, you are not"!!!
Running my finger through my bush of pubic hair I can see why Mr K feels it "unbecoming and unhealthy" for a boy my age: "a breeding ground for lice" he claimed, "particularly when you start sleeping with other boys and older men, apart from making one look old before your time, again not unlike those hideously long trousers you wore earlier today. If I had my way all boys would be made to wear shorts as part of their school uniform, indoors and outdoors, everyday of the year and not just for P. E. .... whilst pubic hair would be no more acceptable than facial hair! If ever you give me cause to spank you again boy I will first shave away every last strand of hair from your balls and between the cheeks of your arse to remind you that you are just that: a boy not a man, until you can take your punishment like a man and cease crying like a baby"!
I wouldnt consider myself particularly attractive but my pubes do detract from my youthfulness. Perhaps I should deliberately discontinue this essay now as I must confess I find the prospect of being forced to lie naked on the floor with Mr K sitting on top of me to firstly clip my pubes with a pair of scissors and then massage my balls with shaving gel before wet-shaving away every last hair, prior to rolling me onto my front and either smacking or paddling my bottom very hard before massaging the crack between my bum-cheeks with gel and shaving away the fluff between them, strangely appealing.
I probe between the cheeks of my arse with my finger a second time: theres only a little hair there but, I suspect, in Mr Ks eyes even one strand of hair is one strand too much, and I thought the rule that boys must be clean-shaven only applied to their faces and neither their balls nor their butts!!! I suspect that if, in the unlikely event Mr K ever became Headmaster, he would insist all boys – from the youngest to the eldest – line-up in the main hall, form by form, stark bollock naked not only to have their faces and necks examined to make sure they were not growing any prohibited sideburns, moustaches, beards and or designer stubble, but also ensure that no boy had any hair under his armpits, on his back, torso, balls or between the cheeks of his arse. Mmmm .... the thought of daily seeing, and intimately examining, Philippe Vincent (my best friend) is making me horny!
There is clearly much to be said for Mr Ks adage "Having hair on ones balls and wearing long trousers doesnt make one a man; being able to take a mans _c_o_c_k_ up ones arse and put ones own _c_o_c_k_ up a boys younger than ones own just might, providing one first learns to control ones tongue and respect ones elders .... and I am going to teach you to respect me"! I wouldnt say "No" to controlling my tongue by sucking – no, not sucking thats being queer, cleaning – Philippes tool, or compelling him to clean mine, or expressing my manliness by having Philippes tool inside me or mine inside him.
I feel both excited and yet terrified at the prospect of having my balls and arse shaved, as whilst I quite like the idea of having an experienced older man (like Mr K) shaving me down below, as much as I love Philippe Im a bit nervous that he may end up cutting my balls to shreds as he cant even shave his own face at times without cutting himself! I did read somewhere that ones balls itch like mad when ones pubes start to grow back so I guess once one has started shaving down below it is something one has to keep doing to avoid giving everyone the impression one has crabs!!! I feel my _c_o_c_k_ starting to leak pre-cum again as I ask myself am I, or is Mr K, you know what I mean .... "queer"?! No, I have already said that neither of us are; yet why then does he lust after younger boys, or why do I feel the need to screw, and be screwed by, Philippe? Why do I keep pausing – in-between writing this essay – to look at my 'Match' magazine and drool at the awesome thighs of some young footballers even though I cannot abide to play the game and wish that 'Ace' [a monthly tennis magazine] would contain as many photos of Tim Henman and Andy Roddick as Match does of Michael Owen? Why have I not already ripped up this essay and started to rewrite it, knowing that as it stands Mr K will be far from impressed with it, and will surely punish me all the harder for its pernicious insinuations?
My body temperature is out-of-sink with itself: my legs are starting to feel chilly whilst my face feels hot and armpits, chest and back are beginning to perspire underneath my T-shirt with fear, all the time my arse is still too numb from my earlier spanking to decide whether Im too hot or too cold. Time for another break I think, to allow me to take my T-shirt off and hopefully stop my top-half sweating in order to focus my attention on what this essay is about and avoid it degenerating, if it has not already, into a commentary on _s_e_x_ual innuendo.
PART THREE
Back again, just under an hour later, having successfully lost my erection again. I think I must have dozed off without, believe it or not, jacking-off! Im still lying face down on my bed, only this time without my T-shirt. Im stark naked now – as I was when Mr K smacked me over his knee yesterday afternoon - and its getting late. Its now twenty minutes to three in the morning and I have to be up at six oclock for school. Im normally asleep by midnight and dont usually wake up until seven-thirty at the earliest on schooldays – as school doesnt start until five-to-nine – but today I have to be there by eight oclock or maybe even earlier to get the caretaker to unlock the doors and let me in early so I can change into my gym kit and report to Mr K with this essay by no later than eight or I will get the cane. At least yesterday I got caned after school, so I could go straight home – after three-quarters of an hours corner time – and didnt have to attempt to sit down for the rest of the day, but if I get the cane again this morning I just know I will find it virtually impossible to sit down for the rest of the day.
I could feel Mr Ks eyes on my butt during corner time yesterday afternoon as he made me stand in the corner of his study, stark bollock naked, with my face towards the wall, my hands behind my head, elbows behind my shoulders and my legs spread apart, with the promise of a further caning if I moved or spoke without his permission, or any part of me (other than my nose and toes) touched the wall; it was just as well he didnt check my position or examine the wall after barking at me to keep my elbows behind my shoulders, as my _c_o_c_k_ – already rock-hard with fear – kept twitching against the wall. My lower back soon began to ache standing like that and at one point I thought I was going to ejaculate against the wall and be forced either to lick it up or be forced to suck him dry to remind me not to spill my spunk, as my _c_o_c_k_ began leaking pre-cum juices against the wall!
Another favourite trick of his is to make one stand on ones head, facing him for a couple of minutes of ones corner time, and give one an additional caning if one is unable to stand on ones head for the full two minutes: apparently he made one boy do this in front of Lady Chapman, the sixty-seven year-old wife of Sir Robin Chapman Bt [Chairman of the Board of Governors], who took great delight in fondling the boys fishing tackle and complimenting Mr K on his disciplinary methods before asking Mr K to further cane the boy in front of her, so she could give the boy a rectal examination herself; needless to say Mr K obliged and as soon as she had left Mr K fiercely whipped the boy all the harder to "decontaminate" him after Lady Chapman had played with the boys genitals and fingered his butt, all the time citing the words of Proverbs 23:13-14 "Withhold not correction from the child; for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shall deliver his soul from hell" and Proverbs 29:15 "The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame"! Mr K always canes across the bare bottom and the back of ones thighs: hes not supposed to as only the Headmaster or, in his absence, the Deputy Head are allowed to use the cane (and then only in the last resort) – as if Lady Chapman didnt know that - but Mr K appears to be a law unto himself, yet he gets away with it! I wonder if Lady Chapman canes Sir Robin with his walking stick or whether she just gets off playing with adolescent boys. Either way, one certainly wouldnt get much sympathy from Sir Robin if one was to complain to him about Mr K; I remember Sir Robin addressing the school assembly on Founders Day last year when he recalled his days as a colonel in the army and said that corporal punishment was as essential to making a man out of a boy as two years national service, before concluding his speech with the words "Now let us all stand and sing that lovely hymn, I ! vow to thee my country and boys, let me hear you sing it with all your heart and soul or I will personally undertake to ensure you will be unable to sit down again for the remainder of the current school year and the whole of the next"!!!
Apparently even the Head and Deputy Head only ever cane one across the palm of ones hands, and then they only give one a maximum of three strokes across each hand ... but not Mr K! With Mr K the only caning worth its salt is given across a boys bare buttocks and the back of his bare thighs, after the boy has first reported for his spanking in his [all-white] gym kit and, on Mr Ks orders, removed every stitch of kit prior to being lectured about his unsatisfactory behaviour, during which time the boy must stand facing Mr K with his hands interlocked behind his head and elbows behind his shoulders, so Mr K can delight in keeping one eye on the boys _c_o_c_k_ and the other on the boys face and firmly rebuking the boy for any sign of distress or embarrassment. "For punishment to be effective it must humiliate almost as much as it hurts" Mr K told me yesterday, "now get your kit off and remember boy, no pain no lesson learnt! Naughty boys get bottom marks"!!!
This is so true! Recalling his lecture to me is giving me another erection now – as it did yesterday – with fear. I could just about manage to sit at my desk to write this essay now (almost ten hours after my spanking) but Im too tired to do so, so I shall stay lying face down on my bed and my right arm drooped over the side of my mattress scribbling away on the paper on the floor with my cherished copy of 'Match' underneath. My handwriting is not as good as it would normally be were I sitting at my desk and fully awake but Im beyond caring now: it is too late to rewrite anything and Mr K is sure to spank me for its content, let alone the poor handwriting and any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes in it: maybe my volcanic shaft needs to fully erupt before it sleeps as much as Im trying hard not to let it erupt pubescent lava everywhere.
One quick peek at Michael Owen in 'Match', I think, to prepare me for my impending doom. Pworrah, he looks so cute, but why do todays footballers wear such hideously long shorts, and why does 'Ace' still contain fewer photos of Tim Henman and Andy Roddick than Match does of Owen?!!! I might even start watching football – as vociferously as I do men's tennis, at least when Henman and Roddick are playing – if the nation which invented the stupid game insisted that its national players at least wore shorts worthy of the name (i. e., as short as those prescribed for games or gym at school)! If ever the inside leg of either ones games shorts or gym shorts exceeded more than two inches (five centimetres) in length, Im sure that Mr K would personally be the first to order the manufacturers to his study for a spanking .... closely followed by every Games Master and bent – did I say that word - schoolboy in the country!!!
The time before last when Mr K spanked me he confiscated my long grey trousers and underpants, and made me spend the remaining three days of what was a very cold October week in my skimpy gym shorts (and took great delight in putting his hand up the leg of my shorts at various times of the day to reposition my _c_o_c_k_, sorry make sure I was wearing nothing underneath) whilst sarcastically claiming "Cold legs and a warm backside are the hallmarks of a well-disciplined youth": at least he hasnt done that this time! Now that the weather has suddenly turned much colder, hell probably do that later today .... knowing my luck!!!
Speaking of shorts, excuse me for a moment whilst I put my gym shorts on now to again attempt to focus my attention on what this essay should be about, and in case my volcanic shaft does explode as they can be more easily sneaked into the wash than the fitted sheet of my bed to avoid me being given a further spanking by Father. I gaze at myself in the full-length mirror attached to the inside of my wardrobe door once I've put them on ... not bad; Ive seen a better torso and pair of legs but Ive also seen worse! I suspect Henman and Roddick look good in just a pair of short white cotton shorts; I would love to take each of them in turn and put the pair of them over my knee and soundly spank their cute little arses after first examining their _c_o_c_k_s and balls, not to mention fingering their butts!!! Mmmm!!!
Back on my bed – still lying face down and scribbling this bloody essay – what more can I say? Im doing really well I think, not causing a tidal wave of pubescent spunk to flood the inside of my shorts thinking about spanking Henman and Roddick or screwing, and being screwed by, my beloved Philippe! I bend my right and left legs up in the air and glance at the weals on the back of my thighs. I guess I can only be thankful Mr K didnt give me the belt. The last time Father strapped me, his belt accidentally wrapped inside the back of my right thigh and struck the back of my scrotum .... and I saw stars, as my Uncle John looked on approvingly and photographed me being spanked for his own private satisfaction!
Father told me the last time he spanked me that if he caught me wearing any underwear other than cotton white Y-fronts underneath my jeans trousers in future, the only thing I would be wearing would be both the strap and buckle of his belt. "But everyone my age wears boxer shorts or mini-briefs; its only primary school-kids who wear Y-fronts, especially white ones" I protested. "No buts" he snapped, "all the time you behave like a six year-old not a sixteen year-old you will be made to look like one and will be punished like one which will mean you will end up with a very sore butt": a threat I know to be as real as Mr Ks warning to me to report to him wearing my gym shorts not my games shorts (with nothing underneath or on top) if I am not to be punished all the harder for being improperly dressed. I run my hands through my spunk-matted pubes and again wonder if he will fulfil his promise to shave me prior to spanking me and how many strokes of the cane I will receive both on account of this essay and reporting to him improperly dressed.
_s_h_i_t_! I spoke too soon! I can feel a flood of warm semen oozing out of my _c_o_c_k_. This cant be happening to me! I stand up quickly and pull down my shorts only to discover it is; my _c_o_c_k_ is dripping white lava and a pool of spunk has lined the inside of my shorts. _d_a_m_n_! I take my shorts off and stand there looking at them in despair. I needed them to wear when I report to Mr K in the morning; there is no way they will be washed, dried and pressed in-time! I certainly cant report to him in anything other than my gym kit in pristine condition or he really will kill me! Sod it; I shall just have to chance it and wear my [navy] games shorts instead, even though he prefers boys in their [white] gym shorts as the latter give a better outline of ones _c_o_c_k_ when one is wearing them and, if worn commando – as either games shorts or gym shorts should be – they soon become transparent when wet from excesss sweat or exercising in the rain; and guess what?! It is forecast to piss it down this afternoon .... so I bet I end up me in after-school detention and made to exercise in the rain – wearing a spare pair of gym shorts (borrowed from the lost property box) and my trainers, if precious little else - in order that everyone can see my arse and my _c_o_c_k_ through the flimsy cotton material of the shorts. Ill be pleased when Ive left school as Mr K is forever picking on me for some reason.
The object of writing this essay was to make me reflect on how to control my behaviour and feelings to avoid being physically punished yet, clearly, by finally causing my volcanic shaft to erupt – after simmering at the surface at least three times over the course of last night and the small hours of his morning – I have surely failed to exercise all self-control whilst I am conscious that I have put in writing many of Mr Ks adages which he told me not to repeat to anyone: both of which, I suspect, will guarantee I receive more than just twelve strokes of the cane in the morning.