Please don't be offended by the boys' views on some MMSA Stories stories. This is fiction after all.
The two boys had greatly enjoyed the sleep over at Andrew's parents' farm. But both were beginning to entertain some doubts about their behaviour.
Because of the need to do homework, it had been agreed that Oscar would return home before lunch on the Sunday. Homework was not an attractive prospect to either of them, but the previous evening's activities had given both quite a bit to take their minds off boring work. As he sat in the train on the way back to Longhampton, Oscar found that he had mixed emotions about all that had happened. He had definitely enjoyed himself, and part of him was undoubtedly looking forward to a repeat performance. But his pleasure was tinged with some feelings of guilt. That guilt was not, perhaps, as deep as that felt by boys of earlier generations. He had, after all, undergone modern _s_e_x_ education in school and he knew from that that masturbation was an entirely normal activity for growing boys (although he did wonder whether he might not have started a little early). The real concern he had was over the thoughts he had entertained on the only two occasions on which he had indulged in the practice. He had been aware for a while that the spanking of boys caused him to become somewhat excited. But he had also got the same feelings from thoughts of pretty girls. He had always assumed that it would be the latter which would fill his mind once he began masturbating. In fact, despite the references he and Andrew had both made to girls while they were doing it, he had found that he concentrated much more on what had happened to his friend's bottom. His fear was, in short, that he was perverted. On the other hand, he reassured himself, Andrew was a real boy, not a wimp, who undoubtedly had the same feelings as him. That much was obvious from fact that his friend had become obviously erect during the slippering session the previous night. He could hardly, Oscar reasoned, have been thinking of girls while his bare bottom was being whacked (and whacked quite hard) by Oscar. If Andrew felt the same way then, surely, the feeling could not be all that abnormal.
While Oscar was thinking those thoughts, Andrew's mind was running along the same lines. He was now back in his own bedroom at home, ostensibly doing his homework. But he kept thinking about the previous evening. Had they gone too far? If they went on doing the same sort of thing, would they turn into gays? He knew what they did, and he thought it sounded horrid. But if a boy took such pleasure from whacking another boy's bare bum, wasn't it only a short step to doing those other things as well? But he, like Oscar, took consolation from the fact that his friend had derived the same pleasure from the game they had played. Surely no one would ever accuse Oscar, such an excellent sportsman, of being gay.
Andrew's parents were at church. He had pleaded homework (and a promise to go to Evensong) as an excuse to get out of that. The house was empty. He decided that he could risk an experiment with the internet. There were sites, he had once looked at some before, with pictures of naked girls. He would do a search for them and see what his reaction to the pictures was. His father had downloaded a programme onto his computer which was meant to prevent access to sites which were unsuitable for children. But that was not a problem. It had only been a matter of moments, once the programme had been installed and he had been alone again in his room, to work out the password his father had entered to enable the programme to be bypassed. Scallywag was the name of their dog. It had been the second word Andrew had tried, and it had come up trumps.
He turned the computer on, clicked on the so called child protector icon, entered the password and connected to the internet. He did a Google search for "_s_e_x_y babes". It produced a lot to choose from. The first couple of sites were far too explicit. They didn't cause him to become aroused at all. He thought they were disgusting. He feared that his experiment was just confirming his worst fears. But he ploughed on and struck gold with the third. It offered a choice of menus to look at. Each had a girl's name. He chose Mandy, because there had been a girl in his class at primary school called Mandy whom he had always thought to be very pretty. The page slowly loaded. There were twenty thumbnail pictures. It wasn't that easy to tell what they would look like full size. He chose one at random and double clicked on it. The picture began to appear, slowly again, from the top of the screen. There was something exciting about watching the process. It must be a bit like watching a girl undress, he thought. First her blonde hair appeared. Then a very pretty face, the face of a girl of about sixteen he thought. Then bare shoulders. He found himself sitting on the edge of his seat as he waited for the breasts. Her left shoulder was to the camera. There should, at least, be a good view of the left breast. When it appeared, however, he could see that Mandy was covering the nipple with her right hand. Still, he thought, the shape of the breast could clearly be seen between her fingers. It would have been nice to have seen it all, but this was pretty good. He longed for the rest of the picture to appear. "I must", he said to himself, "persuade Dad to get a faster internet connection". Slowly the screen filled. She had the most beautiful skin you could imagine. Eventually, the slim waist was there. What would be visible below? His breathing became heavier. His hands became clammy. And, wonder of wonders, there was a definite stirring in his groin. Centimetre by centimetre the picture! continued to unfurl before his eyes. He saw the curve of the left buttock starting to form. "Lower, lower" he almost gasped aloud. When it was down to the top of her thigh he could see that, yet again, the really interesting part, was obscured. This time by her left hand. But he could just see some of the hair and, as the picture continued its slow progress, he could see that he was looking at a girl with the longest, most beautiful legs imaginable. By now he was fully erect. He grinned widely as he realised that he was 'normal'. He looked at three more pictures of Mandy. In none could he see everything he wanted to. But that seemed, if anything, to increase rather than reduce his excitement.
Having satisfied himself of his normality, Andrew thought he might, out of curiosity, see what was produced by a Google search for 'spank'. He was astounded by the number of results it brought up. Most of them, he was pleased to find, failed to arouse him at all. Pictures of grown men's hairy bottoms were a decided turn off. True, there were some pictures of girls, dressed in school uniforms having their bottoms smacked which did attract him. But even most of the girls looked to him to be far too old. He was about to turn the machine off when he saw a link to something called 'MMSA Stories spanking stories'. Out of curiosity, he clicked on it. He chose the link to 'new stories'. That produced a list of some thirty odd stories from which to choose. He selected the first one. It was, even to his inexperienced eyes, a rather badly-written and wholly unexciting account of a twenty two year old man being excessively beaten with something called a paddle. He started to read it, but it did not keep his attention and he clicked the back button before he was half way through. He glanced at some of the other titles on offer. Only one struck him as being worth a look. It was called 'Mischief at Manor School - Part IV'. He double clicked on it. He began to read it. It seemed interesting, but it was clear that it would be more sensible to read the earlier parts first. He had seen, when scrolling through the other story, that there was a link at the bottom of the page which took one to other stories by the same author. He scrolled down this one and found the link. He clicked on it and then clicked on 'Mischief at Manor School - Part I'. He was instantly captivated as he read the introductory paragraph describing the arrival of a twelve year old boy at his new boarding school. He read on avidly. To the adult reader the story might not, perhaps, have seemed to have the most thrilling of plots. But Andrew found it gripping. He read all four parts. In the early stages, there were accounts of thrill! ing rugby matches, dastardly mean-minded bullies, friendships between new boys facing the same hardships together and the occasional noble prefect whose life was devoted to the welfare of the junior boys and the good of the school. Gradually the main plot unfolded. Three of the new boys were planning a midnight raid on two fifth form bullies who shared a small dormitory with three other fifth formers. The plans were meticulously made and recounted throughout the first three parts of the story. But, interspersed, there were also accounts of smaller escapades and scrapes which boys got into. At the end of the first part, for instance, a thirteen year old boy who had skipped a gym lesson in order to meet a friend who lived in the local town was given six of the best by the gym master with a plimsoll. The beating was described in detail. The boy's clothes were described (cotton shorts without underpants). His fear as he waited outside the gym doors for the master to arrive was described (heart beating madly, butterflies in stomach). His slow walk to the centre of the gym and his getting into position were described (feet apart, bending with legs straight as a ramrod and clutching ankles). The shape of his bottom was described (round, slim and firm). The application of each stroke of the large shoe was described (a resounding crash as it smashed into the firm young flesh). The victim, however, took this painful treatment without a murmur, and even thanked the master at the end. In the dormitory that night he showed off his bruised bottom to his admiring friends.
Each part of the story ended with an account of a beating. But, until Part IV, the twelve year old hero and his chums escaped punishment. The climax of the story was, of course, the raid on the bullies (their dormitory mates had been brought into the conspiracy and were standing by to assist in case of too violent retaliation). Inevitably, despite an otherwise successful result to the raid (humiliated bullies absolutely defeated by new boys), the heroes had been apprehended (by the noble prefect). On the following morning they had had to present themselves to him in his study. The prefect had been entirely decent but, as the boys fully accepted, he had to wield the cane. After four stinging strokes to each young bottom, he had congratulated them on their spirit and everyone lived happily ever after.
Andrew was absolutely entranced. This was romanticism on a grand scale. Valiant and fearless schoolboys getting into trouble, but always taking their punishments 'like men'. Prefects of outstanding nobility administering the punishments with a heavy heart, but always for the good of the miscreants and of the school. But that was not all. As each part built up to the climax of a slippering or caning, Andrew found himself becoming more and more excited. And the descriptions of the beatings themselves caused him to react in the same way he had done to Mandy's pictures.
When he had read all four parts of 'Mischief at Manor School', Andrew tried a couple more stories on the new stories page. But those he chose were not in the same league. What they lacked, although he may not have realised it, was the romantic flavour of the Manor School series. Each, of course, featured corporal punishment. Each concerned the punishment of boys (which was a relief after the first story he had started to read). But, in both cases, there was no hint of nobility in any of the characters. Those doing the beating were motivated solely by their own desires. Those receiving the beatings wailed and screamed like two year olds, even as the first stroke connected. As with the first story, the punishments were ludicrously excessive. In one case fifteen strokes (again with this mysterious instrument called a paddle) were inflicted. In the other, there were a hundred lashes with a belt. The stories did not excite him in the slightest. He went to the full list of all archived stories and saw that there were thousands. There was no time to continue his research, however (he could hear his parents' car coming up the drive), and he shut down the computer resolving to have another look later.
He reflected on what his experiments with the internet had shown him. First, he assured himself, he had a perfectly normal interest in girls. That was a relief. Second, he was not at all aroused by graphic descriptions of excessive beatings of boys or men. Third, stories about schools as they probably actually were, in the olden days, with decent (good-looking he had to admit) boys being moderately but painfully punished (without complaining or crying), most definitely did appeal to him. The last discovery did cause him some slight continuing concern. But he reckoned that his interest in the punishment of boys was mild compared with the interest others obviously had and he thought it wholly unlikely that it would develop into anything dangerous or sinister.
Then his mind turned to his own behaviour when he faced punishment. He always refused to take his trousers down (his father had to fight him to get them down). He always refused to bend over (his father had to drag him over his knee). He always screeched aloud as each blow landed. That, he thought, was not the behaviour of a decent English schoolboy of eleven years old. No, from now on, he resolved, he would take his punishments like a man. He would not argue with his father. Once the decision to whack had been made, he would co-operate fully. He would take his own trousers and pants down and he would bend over. He would remain silent and still throughout the punishment. Maybe he would even say thank you afterwards.
At school on the next day Andrew decided to tell Oscar about his internet surfing activities. First, he gave his friend the address of Mandy's site. He raved about her beauty and, as he rather coarsely put it, her "screwability". That, he thought, should be enough to show his hetero_s_e_x_ual orientation. But then he went on to talk about 'Mischief at Manor School'. He said that there had been other stories that were "pathetic and perverted", but the Manor School stories were exceptionally good. He said that reading them had changed his approach to being punished. He would not say more until Oscar had also read them. When he had, they could discuss things further. Oscar was rather bemused by this serious tone to the conversation, but agreed that he would log on that evening and read the stories.
After lunch the boys of Form 1A had a PE lesson with Mr Charlton, their form master. After the lesson, they had to shower and change back into school uniform. It was what Mr Charlton saw in the changing rooms that provided the first step towards Andrew's fate later in the week. Andrew and two other boys had been slow in changing. Mr Charlton, who had been waiting in the class room for all his charges to gather, decided to go and hurry the laggards. Now, the reason Andrew was being so slow was that he was conscious that his bottom still showed evidence of the slippering game he had played with Oscar on the Saturday evening. Although, by now, he had been relieved to see evidence in the showers that there were other boys who were still subject to corporal punishment at home, he was not particularly keen that anyone should see the results of the game. If that happened, he would have to invent some story about having been whacked by his father and he would rather not embark on elaborate lies. He had therefore waited until the other boys had finished showering before sidling in, back to the wall at all times, to have his own shower. He was now in the process of drying and getting dressed. He was facing the remaining boys in the room. His back was to the door. His towel had been round his waist as he put his shirt on. It was tempting to keep it there while he slipped his boxer shorts on underneath it. But he knew that signs of modesty of that sort tended to lead to teasing ("ashamed it's too small are you Andy?"). So he had to drop the towel. As he did so, Mr Charlton opened the door behind him and got a full view of the fading marks of a slipper or plimsoll on a small round bottom. Andrew quickly pulled his shorts up and Mr Charlton was not mean enough to say anything. But the sight had registered. The master always found it useful to know which boys were subject to "proper punishment" at home.
That night, Oscar looked at Andrew's websites. He started with Mandy. He, too, was relieved to find that he had a perfectly healthy reaction to the pictures of her mostly naked body (although the experience was not as tantalising for him as it had been for Andrew because his parents had broadband). Then he turned to 'Mischief at Manor School'. It is enough to say that he shared exactly his friend's reaction to the stories. They were, to his mind, much more exciting than Harry Potter. And, in addition, they caused those wonderful funny feelings which he had also felt on looking at Mandy. His time was limited, because of the urgent need to do homework and avoid a detention, so he didn't look at any of the other stories. But he, like Andrew, decided he would go to the site again.
On Tuesday, Andrew overslept. His father, as usual, was working in the fields by 6.30. His mother was helping with milking the cows. So no one was there to wake him. And he had forgotten to set his alarm the night before. He was not disastrously late for school. But he was late. Ten minutes after assembly he went into 1A.
"Explanation please Parton", barked Mr Charlton.
"I'm sorry Sir, I overslept."
"Being late for school without an adequate excuse, and sleeping is not an excuse, leads to detention doesn't it Parton?"
"Yes Sir."
"I'm in a good mood today. There will be no detention. But there will be trouble if it happens again".
"Thank you Sir".
In break Andrew and Oscar met behind the bicycle sheds.
"Did you look at Mandy and read the stories?"
"I certainly did", said Oscar, "well cool. She's wicked. I got a hard on in seconds".
"Me too. What about the stories?"
"Bloody brilliant I thought. Do you think schools really used to be like that?"
"I reckon so", said Andrew, "my dad once told me about his school days and how he sometimes got the cane and never made a fuss. At the time, I thought he was just being mean to me for making a fuss when he punishes me, but now I've read about Manor School, I reckon he was telling the truth. Anyway, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You know how we've always agreed that we ought to make it as difficult as possible for our dads to whack us? You know, making them fight us to get our trousers down and all that?"
"Yes, what of it?"
"Well, after reading the stories I got to thinking that maybe that's a bit sort of babyish. Anyway, I thought that I might try to be a bit more grown up in future. So, next time I'm in trouble, I'm going to take my trousers down and bend over and not cry out. Do you think that's cool?"
Oscar thought for a moment. He had to admit that he, also, had wondered whether his approach to getting the whack was not a bit childish and dishonourable. On the other hand, he had always prided himself on his ability to make life hard for his father when it came to administering punishment. Still, he thought, if his best friend was going to change his ways, perhaps he should as well.
"Maybe you're right", he ventured, "shall we have an agreement on it? I vote we both agree to try out taking our next whackings without a fuss and then see what we think afterwards.
"You're on."
Wednesday came and went without anything of note happening. Thursday was not so straight forward. Andrew managed, again, to get on the wrong side of Mr Charlton. This time he was in the process of throwing a book at another boy just before afternoon lessons were about to start. It left his hands at precisely the moment that Mr Charlton walked in. It could have been worse. It might have hit the master. As it happened, it missed him by inches.
"What do you think you're doing Parton?"
"Oh, Sir, I'm sorry. I was aiming at Priestley, not you Sir."
"You shouldn't be aiming at anyone. You are getting dangerously close to being in serious trouble boy. This is the second time I've had to speak to you this week. Buck up your ideas or you'll regret it".
"Yes Sir, thank you Sir".
It was Friday lunch time that sealed Andrew's fate. Lunch itself took half an hour. There was then half an hour's play time. First form boys had to stay in the playground or in their class rooms. On no account were they allowed into the town. It was Andrew's misfortune that he chose to go to the sweet shop at the end of the road at precisely the same time that Mr Charlton decided to buy some cigarettes. The conversation was brief.
"That's it Charlton. You're in trouble. See me after school."
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir".
He assumed that a detention would be awarded. That would mean destroying his Saturday afternoon. That was a bore. But he supposed he deserved it. After the last lesson he made his way to Mr Charlton's office and knocked on the door.
"Come in. Ah, Parton. I don't know what's come over me, but I have decided to be lenient yet again. No detention this time. Instead, I have merely written a short note to your father, setting out my concerns about your behaviour, and explaining that I shall have to give you a detention if things don't improve. Here it is. Perhaps you could give it to him tonight. That will be all".
Andrew thought quickly. There was no doubt what his father would do on getting a letter like this, and it would be painful. No one wanted to do a Saturday detention, but it would be preferable to a really hard slippering. He decided to try to persuaded Mr Charlton to change his mind.
"Sir, that's really kind of you, but I know I deserve a detention and I am sure it would be good for me. So I'll just turn up after school tomorrow." And he made to hand the envelope back.
"It's very proper of you to volunteer for punishment. That only makes me firmer in my view that there is no need to give you a detention this time. Take the letter and be off, but remember I won't be so lenient next time."
There was nothing for it, Mr Charlton would clearly not be budged and any further attempts would just make him suspicious.
As Andrew headed for the door with the envelope in his hand, Mr Charlton thought of one other thing.
"Oh, by the way Parton, I have asked your father to let me have a note acknowledging my letter".
So that scuppered any idea of not giving the letter to his father.
Oscar was waiting for Andrew in the playground.
"Hi, did you get a detention?".
"No, much worse than that".
"He hasn't sent you to the head has he?".
"No, he's given me this". Andrew held up the envelope. "It's a letter to Dad telling him everything I've done."
Oscar could see, immediately, what lay in store for his friend.
"That's gross. Is there any chance he'll let you off?"
"None at all. I'll be getting the slipper in earnest this evening."
Oscar thought back to their conversation about 'Mischief in Manor School'.
"Are you really going to drop your trousers and pants and bend over for it?"
"I hope so. I know it's easy to say and obviously it'll be difficult, but if boys in the olden days could do it, I don't see why I can't."
"Will you text me afterwards to tell me how many you got and whether you did take it without a fuss.? Anyway, I need to know that it's happened because of our other agreement. I was thinking I could look at one of those pictures of Mandy while I'm doing it."
"Good idea. I'll do the same, and I'll certainly text you. I'm just nipping into the bogs to make sure that the marks on my bum from last Saturday have gone. God knows what I will do if they haven't. I can't think of any innocent explanation to give Dad."
"God, I hadn't thought of that. I'll come too and see if I can see anything".
The boys went into the lavatories. Fortunately, no one else was there. Andrew went into a cubicle, leaving the door ajar and Oscar stood just outside. Once Andrew had pulled his trousers and pants down he opened the door wider and turned to show his bottom to Oscar. It was completely unmarked. The bruised had disappeared and there was no evidence of what had happened the previous week.
"All clear Andy, it's as white as the driven snow"
"Thank God for that Anyway, I'd better go and catch the train now. See you tomorrow"
"OK, good luck, I'll be thinking of you."
Andrew was becoming more and more nervous as the train neared Shorthampton station. He was trying to read a school book, but couldn't concentrate. The familiar butterflies were hard at work in his stomach and his hands were clammy with sweat. He had, of course, taken three with the slipper from Oscar on the previous Saturday. But he wasn't foolish enough to think that that had been anything like as painful as what his father could do.
The train slowed to a halt and Andrew stepped down onto the platform. As he set out on the short walk to the farm he tried to rub the sweat off his hands on the seat of his trousers. But they were clammy again when he reached the house. He went in and headed for the kitchen. His father was usually there at about this time of day. In fact, only his mother and Paul were there.
"Hi Mum, where's Dad, I need to have a word with him about something?"
"He had to go and mend a fence in five acre field so he had his tea early. I know that when he gets back he's got to do the farm accounts in his office, so I'm afraid you probably won't be able to see him for an hour or so", it was an absolutely firm rule that Christopher Parton was never to be disturbed when he was working on the accounts.
"Cool, it can wait. I'll see him later. I'll just go and get changed and then come down for tea."
On his way to the stairs he slipped into his father's office and put Mr Charlton's letter on the desk. At least, that way, he wouldn't have to watch him reading it.
In his room Andrew took off his school uniform and replaced it with jeans and a T shirt. Before pulling the jeans up he slipped the back of his boxers down and had another look in the mirror. Yes, it was all right, his slim round bottom was unmarked. He gave it a gentle slap, pulled the boxers back up and did up his jeans.
Andrew tried to be as cheerful as possible during tea. Fortunately, Paul was very over excited about the part he had been given for his school play and he did most of the talking. Andrew would normally have told Paul about a forthcoming punishment, but he didn't want to mention it in front of his mother. After about fifteen minutes he made his excuses and went upstairs to do his homework. He reckoned his father would be back any minute. He didn't know whether he'd have to wait until after the accounts or whether justice would be administered immediately. But he wanted to be safely in his room, waiting, whenever it happened.
Five minutes after getting to his room, Andrew heard the front door open and shut. The heavy footsteps trudged along the hall. Then he heard the office door open and shut. He held his breath. There was no immediate eruption from downstairs. After a couple of minutes he guessed that he was going to have to wait for the accounts to be finished. Then he heard Paul coming upstairs. He was, presumably going to do his homework too. Andrew toyed with the idea of nipping out into the corridor and telling his brother. But then he thought it might be more fun if Paul simply heard it happening, without having any advance notice. His room, after all, was next door and the dividing wall was not very thick. And there was a family rule that no music was aloud during homework. So Paul shouldn't be in any doubt about what was happening.
It was half an hour before Andrew heard the office door open downstairs. He had not managed to write a single word of his English essay as he waited. He listened intently. Sure enough, those heavy footsteps were coming slowly upstairs. Andrew was sitting at his desk on a hard back chair. He stood up and moved the chair to the wall, opposite the door. He positioned it so that it's back was facing into the room. Then he stood by his desk looking at the door. He had removed the dreaded slipper from its drawer and placed it on the desk, just beside where he was standing. The door opened. His father came in, with a face as black as a storm cloud. He shut the door and glared at his errant son.
"I imagine you know why Mr Charlton has written to me?"
"Yes, Dad, he told me".
"Did he show you the letter before he put it in the envelope?"
"No Dad".
"Before I decide what to do about it I want you to read it and tell me your side of the story". He handed the letter to Andrew.
Andrew unfolded it and began to read:
"Dear Mr Parton,
"I do apologise for troubling you, but I regret to say that I have some concerns about Andrew's behaviour. He has not been long at the school and I am reluctant to punish him so early in his time here. Normally, a boy who had behaved as he has done this week would be given a detention without any hesitation. In this case, however, I hope that it may be possible to avoid that. What I thought was that, if you had a quiet word with him, you might be able to persuade him to buck his ideas up a bit. I have had to speak to him three times this week. On Monday he was ten minutes late for school and his only excuse was that he had overslept. Yesterday I came into class to be greeted by a book hurtling through the air. It missed me by inches. Andrew had thrown it, although I hasten to say that I entirely accept that it was not aimed at me. He was throwing it at another boy. Today, at lunch time, I went into the town to buy some cigarettes in the corner shop down the road. As I am sure you know (and Andrew certainly does) there is the clearest possible rule prohibiting all first form boys from leaving the school premises at lunch time. When I got to the shop I found Andrew there, buying some sweets.
"I know Andrew looks up to you enormously. That is why I am taking this unusual step of asking you to have a word with him, rather than punishing him.
"Yours sincerely,
"Peter Charlton"
Once he had read the letter, Andrew handed it back to his father and looked down at his feet, in that way favoured by naughty boys over many years.
"Well", his father barked, "is this all true?".
"I'm afraid so Dad. I'm really sorry. I promise I'll try to behave in future."
"Oversleeping is not an excuse for being late from school. You'll never be a farmer if you lie in bed all morning." This was a familiar theme in the Parton household. "Anyway, you've got a perfectly good alarm clock.".
"I know Dad, I just forgot to set it, but I know that's not an excuse".
"Throwing books at other boys may not be the most serious crime of all time, but it does seem to have been foolish to do it just as a lesson was a bout to start and a master was about to come into the room."
"Yes, Dad, not very clever at all."
By this time, Mr Parton was becoming somewhat bewildered by the way the conversation was going. The word "unfair" had not been used once by his son, and no pathetic excuses had been offered at all. Andrew was behaving entirely out of character. But the list of charges had to be completed.
"Breaking a clear school rule is disobedience isn't it?"
"Yes Dad".
"And what have I always said I will do when you're disobedient?"
"Whack me Dad".
"Precisely. Is there any reason why I should not do that now?"
"No Dad. I know I deserve it."
That really did astound Mr Parton. For the first time in his life, when telling off one of his sons, he was absolutely speechless. But what happened next left him completely dumbfounded. Rather shakily, but with absolute determination, Andrew picked up the slipper from the desk and handed it to his father. Then, still with shaky hands, he undid his jeans. He glanced in the direction of the chair.
"I put the chair there Dad, I thought you might like me to bend over it".
"Um, yes, that's as good a place as any. This is most impressive Andrew, can you let me into the secret? Why are you suddenly being so sensible."
"Well Dad, I know I'm old enough for the slipper now and I know I deserve it. It seems to me that I'm also old enough to take my punishment like a man. So that's what I'm going to do."
"Well, I am delighted to hear it."
Andrew walked to the chair. Once there, he stood facing its back and slowly pulled his jeans down to his ankles. Then, just as deliberately, he slipped his boxer shorts down after them. Finally, he bent over the back of the chair, as far as he could, and gripped its front legs. Christopher Parton looked in absolute astonishment at the small, round, white bottom just waiting to be thrashed. He had never been sentimental when it came to disciplining his boys. When they misbehaved he knew they had to be punished and, to his mind, there was really only one punishment that worked on boys. Pain had to be inflicted. It was not something he enjoyed doing. It was just something that had to be done. It was part of the job of being a father. In the past, he had never had any second thoughts, once the telling off had started. Both his sons actually made the job rather easier by being so argumentative and by putting forward silly excuses. And certainly, when it came to the actual execution of the punishment, the wild struggles they put up only served to stiffen his resolve. But now, looking at Andrew's patiently waiting bare bottom, he did begin to have second thoughts. How small he is, he thought and how reasonable and good he is now being. He was sorely tempted to put the slipper down and let the boy off. But then he remembered what he had done. No, all logic told him that it would be fatal to be lenient. Andrew had to be taught his lesson and it had to be taught forcefully. At last he spoke.
"Well, Andrew, I had been going to give you four. But in view of your excellent attitude I will only give you three. Are you ready?"
"Yes Dad, thank you".
Andrew may have looked brave, but he wasn't feeling it. His legs seemed to him to be shaking uncontrollably. His stomach was tying itself in knots. His palms were again wet with sweat. But he held his position and waited for the first blow.
Christopher stepped towards his son and gently tapped his bottom with the slipper to take aim. He saw the muscles tense. He pulled the slipper back, behind his shoulders, and swung it, as hard as he could at his son's bottom. The crash echoed round the room. Paul, who had managed to make out most of the, to him, very strange conversation, jumped as he heard the crack of leather on tender young flesh. But Andrew, who had much more cause to jump, was gripping the chair legs with such a fury that he managed to stay absolutely still. Not a sound escaped his lips. And yet, that first stroke of the slipper (delivered in earnest) had caused more intense pain than any other punishment he had ever had (and he was no stranger to corporal punishment). It certainly bore no relation to Oscar's efforts the previous week. Christopher saw that his son's bottom was already scarlet, just from one stroke. Maybe, he thought, this is too severe. Perhaps he is really still too young for the slipper. But then he thought back to his own childhood. By the age of eleven, he had already been caned three times and he could not remember how many times he had the slipper.
In the pause between the first and second whacks, Paul could not understand why he had heard no yell from Andrew. He had heard his brother being spanked on numerous occasions, and every time he had screeched out in pain from the very beginning. But this time, Paul knew, Andrew was being slippered. It must be a hundred times more painful, he thought. He was totally bemused. Just then he heard the second crash from next door as a further blow was delivered to his brother's buttocks. But, again, there was no other sound. It occurred to him then that his father and brother might be playing some sort of practical joke on him. Maybe the slipper was being applied to something else, not an eleven year old bottom at all.
Neither of the occupants in Andrew's room thought they were taking part in a joke. Andrew himself was clenching his teeth and gripping the chair legs even harder as he tried to bring the dreadful pain under control. Christopher was looking, in evident distress, at the visible signs of the pain his son must be suffering and trying to summon up the necessary spirit to deliver the last stroke. He took a deep breath and, yet again, swung the slipper with all his force at the waiting target. This time there was an almost imperceptible jerk from Andrew as it connected and the burning pain again intensified. But he still managed to remain silent.
Paul was now convinced that it was all a joke. No boy, he thought, could withstand a slippering of that intensity without screaming in pain. But he was not so sure as to feel able to risk his father's wrath by bursting into the room. He decided to wait, as usual, for the footsteps to go down the stairs.
As soon as the last stroke landed, Christopher, despite his own schoolboy experiences of having to wait for up to a minute or two before getting up after a beating, told Andrew to get up.
Andrew rose and grabbed his burning hot bottom with both hands. He jumped up and down three times and then spoke to his father.
"I promise I'll try to be good in future Dad. I know I deserved that and that you only did it for my own good. Thank you."
There, not only had he taken his punishment like a man, but he had actually thanked his father for it as well. It was a considerable consolation to him, despite the almost unbearable pain, that, were he at Manor School, he would no doubt be thought a credit to that great institution.
"Well, Andy", Christopher only ever used the shortened form of his son's name when he was particularly pleased with the boy, "you have just made me a very proud man. You took that punishment better than I could ever have imagined possible. It's over and done with now and, as far as I'm concerned, your misdemeanours are forgotten. But I will always remember the day my older son showed himself to be a man. Well done. Now, I'm going to drop a note to Mr Charlton explaining that the matter has been dealt with. If you don't mind, I would like to say how you've been punished, so as to make it clear to him that the matter is completely closed and should not be used against you if you get into any further trouble."
Andrew thought for a second. A few days before, he would have been horrified at the prospect of one of his masters being told that he was still whacked on the bottom for being naughty. But reading 'Mischief at Manor School' had changed all that. There was nothing to be ashamed of in being given a sound thrashing, especially if it was known that it had been taken so well. It would also, no doubt, be helpful for him if Mr Charlton knew that he had been very adequately punished (little did he realise that it would merely encourage the master to continue using letters home rather than detentions).
"No, Dad, I don't mind. I think he's got the right to know I've been properly punished."
"Ok, well come down as soon as you're ready. We might have time for a game of table tennis before supper."
Christopher left. Andrew knew that Paul would arrive in a moment and he decided not to pull his boxers and jeans up until his brother had had a chance to see his bottom. He turned to the mirror to look at it himself. It was definitely a sight to see. It was still at the scarlet stage, but there were blue tinges from bruising already visible. Paul would never have seen anything so dramatic, he was sure.
Paul bounded into the room, ready to reveal that he realised it was all a joke. But he came to an abrupt halt when he saw his brother's vividly coloured bottom. It clearly was not a joke. He stared in astonishment and wonder at the sight that greeted his eyes.
"Awesome", he gasped. Then a moment later, "but Andy, why didn't you scream? It must have been the worst Dad's ever given you."
"There's no doubt about that. It was bloody agony, but I reckoned I'm old enough to take a whacking properly now. That's how boys used to take whackings in the olden days. I don't see why the adults should think we are all wimps."
"I don't think I could do it."
"Don't worry, by the time you're eleven you'll be able to, but you've still got a couple of years to go."
Andrew gingerly pulled his boxers and jeans up over his extremely sore bottom and went to his desk. He picked up his mobile telephone.
"I've just got to send a text to Oscar. I said I'd tell him what happened" and he tapped into the machine.
Oscar was sitting in his bedroom doing his homework when his mobile telephone started vibrating. He picked it up and looked at the screen. The message was as clear as could be:
"3, bare, agony, taken like a Manor School boy, thanked Dad afterwards".
He smiled and thought that he might go to bed early tonight.
Andrew and his father did have time to play table tennis, and Andrew won fairly and squarely. Christopher said, over supper, that he had been thinking that Andrew might like to come on a weekend's fishing trip with him over half term.
"You could bring Oscar if you wanted. It would be a boys' own weekend. I'm sure we could have great fun".
Andrew knew that his father was usually highly reluctant to leave the farm for any sort of holiday. It meant getting in hired labour to do the work (which had to be done 365 days a year). Never before had he heard him actually proposing to go away, even for a day. The boy absolutely adored his father. He could imagine nothing more fun than spending a whole weekend with him, alone apart from having his best friend there. He jumped at the idea.
"Dad, that would just be so cool. Can I really ask Oscar as well?"
"Certainly, I'll make the arrangements tomorrow morning while you're at school".
"Oh Dad, you're just the wickedest dad alive. Thank you a thousand times."
After supper Christopher asked Andrew into his office to show him the letter he had written to Mr Charlton and check his son was happy with it. This was another new for Andrew. The office was normally absolutely out of bounds to the boys. They were allowed to go in there to leave a message for their father when he was out, as Andrew had done with Mr Charlton's letter, but it was unheard of for one of them to be allowed in when Christopher was there.
Andrew read the letter. This is what it said:
"Dear Mr Charlton,
"Thank you for your letter about Andrew. I was, of course, sorry to read about his recent behaviour and I am grateful to you for drawing it to my attention. I have discussed the matter with him. He immediately admitted that all you said was entirely accurate. He told me, and I believe him, that he would do his best to mend his ways. It was kind of you to refrain from punishing him, but I took the view, and he agreed, that it would only be right to mark the seriousness of his offences by imposing a penalty. I have therefore beaten him with a slipper.
"I think you ought to know that he took the punishment very well. Before he went to Longhampton Grammar I had only ever smacked him. Now he is at secondary school, I consider him to be old enough to undergo more painful punishment. I was immensely impressed by his demeanour (which I can only put down to the influence of the school). He removed his own trousers and pants and bent over the back of a chair. I gave him three very hard strokes. He made no sound and stayed in place to the end of the punishment. I hope you will agree with me that the slate should now be wiped clean. In particular, I would like to think that, in the event of any more trouble in the future, you will not punish him more severely because of these past misdemeanours.
"Thank you for keeping me informed.
"Yours sincerely,
"Christopher Parton"
"Thanks Dad, that's a really cool letter."
Andrew stayed in the office chatting happily about the proposed fishing trip. Eventually, his mother put her head round the door.
"Darling", she said to her husband, "I know that you and Andrew seem to be having a wonderful bonding session this evening, but he really does have to go to bed now. He has to be at school tomorrow and we don't want him being late."
Christopher gave a wink to his son. As both knew, Mrs Parton was unaware of the punishment that had been administered earlier in the evening.
"All right my dear, he'll be up in a minute."
Mrs Parton left and her husband addressed some parting words to his son.
"I'm afraid there probably will be times when I have to punish you again, Andy, and sometimes it will be inevitable that Mum knows about it. But I don't see any point in telling her unnecessarily. As far as I am concerned there is no reason at all why she should know about this recent trouble. You've paid the price and we can forget about it now."
"Thank you Dad, I wouldn't want Mum to have to worry about me at school."
As Andrew mounted the stairs to his room, Oscar was lying on his bunk bed with his laptop computer by his side. He had gone back to the MMSA Stories site. Like Andrew before him, he had looked at a few other stories and not found them to be at all interesting. The plots were almost non-existent. Some were about very strange adults spanking each other. Others were about boys being punished, but they were so unrealistic as to be ludicrous (who ever heard of an eight year old boy being given a hundred whacks for not washing his father's car?). He recognised that a lot of the stories were American and he acknowledged that it was possible that Americans treated their children more harshly than the English did. Even so, he thought it highly unlikely that anyone, other than a psychopath, would punish a boy as severely as the characters in these stories were punished. He had been coming to the conclusion that the Manor School stories were unique. But, before closing his browser, he had picked another story at random (it was called 'Prefect's Revenge') and he suddenly found himself back in the wonderful world of old fashioned English boarding schools. There were midnight feasts, wonderful practical jokes played on unpopular masters and prefects and, of course, well-deserved, but realistically moderate, canings and slipperings. Then he tried another ("Hank Pays the Price"). It was clear from the first few words that it was about an American boy and he was about to press the back button . But then he decided to give it a chance. This one wasn't about schools. It was about a fifteen year old boy babysitting a ten year old boy. There wasn't, it is true to say, a great deal of a plot to it, but there was enough to keep him reading and the inevitable spanking at the end was moderate, well-described and certainly merited by the ten year old's behaviour. In particular, he was pleased to see that the final third of the page was not entirely taken up by one word, in capitals, being repeated about thirty times. ! He was also interested to see that the fifteen year old, having given his first spanking to a bare bottomed ten year old, had celebrated the event by masturbating in bed that night. That story, he thought, was not bad at all.
'Prefect's Revenge' and 'Hank Pays the Price', together with the picture he had in his mind of what had been going on at the Partons' farm earlier in the evening, had got him in the mood for the highlight of the night. He closed the browser on his computer and went into My Pictures. There he found the pictures of Mandy which he had downloaded earlier. His favourite was one which showed her petite but gently rounded bottom in the best light. He opened it, leant over and turned off the light and gazed at her wonderful figure. No massaging was required to get things going and, in a few moments, he was, for the third time in his life, gently pumping his erect penis. This time his thoughts were mixed. He imagined what he might be able, one day, to do with a girl like Mandy, but he also pictured Venables (a boy in 'Prefect's Revenge') bending over for the cane and Hank having his small bare bottom turned pink. Towards the end, however, he preferred to think only of the real boy, Andrew, being given three with the slipper provided by his own father (and the twin of the one that was used on his own bottom). He managed to keep it going a bit longer this time and the climax, when it came, was even better than he had experienced on the other occasions. As he closed his eyes he found himself secretly hoping that he or Andrew would be punished again soon.
Andrew had no need of props. He undressed hurriedly, looked at his bruised bottom in the mirror, looked down at his erect penis (maybe he was imagining things, but it seemed to be getting bigger) and jumped into bed. He was determined to try to keep it going longer than before, and he succeeded (although it was to be some time before his technique was really perfected). When the pulsating finished, he shut his eyes and thought of all that had happened that day. Being caught in the shop by Mr Charlton had not been fun but, at the time, he had not thought that he would be in for more than a detention. Being handed the letter in Mr Charlton's office had been a dreadful moment. Travelling home in the train had been horrible. Waiting for his father in his room had been almost unbearable. The moments when he was bent over the chair waiting for the first stroke had been terrifying. The beating itself had been incredibly painful. But everything from then on had been wonderful. The praise his father had heaped on him immediately after the punishment had made him blush with pleasure. The game of table tennis, with a father who rarely had time to play with his children, had been a delight. The news of the fishing trip had left him almost delirious with pleasurable anticipation. And, finally, while carrying out the night time exercise enjoyed by so many boys, he had thought, not just of his punishment, but also of a beautiful girl called Mandy. And then, after morning school tomorrow, he would be able to tell Oscar all about it. He would explain about the fishing trip. He would convince his friend that his new approach to punishment was undoubtedly the correct one. And he would proudly show off his bruised bottom to someone, he knew, who would be genuinely impressed by the sight. His last thought, before drifting off to sleep, was that he had probably not had such a wonderful day in the whole of his life.