Fern Park: Sowing and Reaping


by Mr Hickson

Last lesson before lunch. English. Silent reading. The whole class was intent on their books. Some kids lolled over the table; others swung on the back legs of their chairs; others had sunk down in their chairs till their heads rested on the back of the chair. At the front of the room, Mrs Armstrong was also reading a book. It was nice. Everyone enjoyed this lesson.

At the back, at a table that was half-separated from the rest of the room by a bookcase, sat Martin Scudder, his blond head bowed over an Andy McNab novel. Beside him sat Dawn Donnelly, her Virginia Andrews open on the desk in front of her. Although Martin was engrossed in his book, he was also conscious of Dawn beside him. He liked her a lot. They would have gone out on a date by now if it wasn't for the Fern Park Club and homework that was claiming his time since last week..

Suddenly, he felt her hand on his thigh. He looked up. Mrs Armstrong was engrossed in her book. No-one else was looking. It still wasn't safe though. He moved her hand off him.

"Just keep reading your book," she whispered to him. And her hand was back. Not on his thigh now, but right into his groin, finding his penis that was already standing up to welcome her fingers. Through his trousers he felt her touching his testicles. Almost involuntarily he moved his thighs apart to let her do it.

Concentrating ferociously on his book, he felt her fingers grip his penis and start to rub gently, and suddenly it was hard as a rock, throbbing to get out of his clothes. And then she found the toggle of his zip and began to pull it down.

He looked at her. She appeared to be reading. Slowly, his zip came down. And then her hand slipped inside, found the opening in his boxer shorts. "No," he whispered. But it was too late. His prick, nearly six inches of muscular boyhood lust, was out in the open, and her fingers were wrapped round it deliciously.

She did it slowly, letting her hand slide over the head, holding his foreskin back and tickling the very tip with her fingernail. That made him jerk backwards and his chair scraped a bit. She shot her hand away and he sat up straight but nobody looked. After that she just stroked and gently pulled, stopping every now and again to push her hand down inside his flies to feel his bollocks. It was lovely, she thought. Such a strange and lovely mixture of hard and soft.

It was lovely, he thought, the way her fingers made the feeling stronger and stronger, the piercing sensation making his breath come in jumps and starts.

He had no idea how long it lasted. It seemed an age, with the feeling building and building. He couldn't believe how much better than wanking himself it could be.

He felt the orgasm coming. Felt the spunk rushing from his balls. Up the shaft of his prick ...

Then everything happened at once. As he fired his load, he made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a yelp, his chair scraped loud1y on the floor. Several heads shot round to look at them. Most of it was on her hand but a great dollop was on his trousers. Mrs Armstrong was up and out of her seat, striding down the room. Frantically, he tried to stuff his still dripping prick back into his trousers. Dawn tried to hide her hand under the table and got spunk on her skirt. Both of them were bright red.

Mrs Armstrong was a sensible woman. Not given to panicking. "I think you two had better go outside," she said.

Not everyone knew why they'd been sent out, though it was unusual for a boy and a girl to be sent out together, but that didn't lessen the embarrassment that Martin felt. Out in the corridor they tried to clean themselves up with Martin's handkerchief - the only thing they had. But it was hopeless. The white stains seemed like permanent stigmata. And rubbing them only made them worse.

But things can always get worse still.

Mr Francis, the deputy head, chose that moment to appear on one of his walks round the school looking for kids misbehaving. He stood in front of them, hands on hips.

"And why are you two out here, eh?" And already Martin could see in his eyes that his father would know about this before long.

"We were mucking about, sir," he said.

"I see. And what's that mess on your trousers, lad."

"Don't know, sir," Martin bleated, going even deeper red.

"You seemed very keen to wipe it off."

"I just noticed it, sir."

"You seem to have got it too, Dawn."

"Have I, sir," Dawn said as boldly as she could manage.

"H'm," said the teacher, looking very doubtful. He opened the door and beckoned Mrs Armstrong to join him. "What have these two been up to, Mrs Armstrong?" he asked.

"I can't be certain, Mr Francis," she said. "But from the evidence I would say that Martin was playing with himself ..."

"I wasn't," Martin protested.

"Your flies were undone and you've managed to get semen all over your trousers. And Dawn's skirt, by the look of it."

"But I wasn't, miss. Honest, sir." He appealed to Mr Francis.

"Dawn?" Mr Francis asked her.

"No, he wasn't, sir. It was me. I done it to him." She dropped her head in a good imitation of a girl who was deeply ashamed of herself

"I notice he didn't try to stop you," Mrs Armstrong put in. As usual, she was doing her best to stick up for the girls.

Mr Francis took charge once more. "Dawn. I want you to go and sit in the waiting area. I'm going to get Mrs Brotherton to come and talk to you. Martin. Outside my office."

Martin went one way and Dawn the other. It was so unfair. He just knew that Frankie would tell his father, and that would mean another session over the end of his bed with his pants down. My God! that cane hurt. The weals across his bottom were still a bit tender.

But another part of him felt ten feet tall. One of the best looking girls in the class had got his prick out and wanked him. In English! Without him even having to ask! And the feel of Dawn's hand round his bollocks! It had been heaven. He couldn't wait to do it again. Or even shag her. She was obviously dying for it. Now that might even be worth getting another caning for.

He stood in the corridor outside Mr Francis's office for ages. Mrs Brotherton came by and asked him why he was there. He told her he'd been sent out of English. She obviously hadn't heard yet about what was waiting for her in the waiting area.

Mr Francis was quite an old man, but every bit of him spoke sheer muscular power, from his bull neck, to his short stubby fingers. He sat at his desk and made Martin stand in front of it, facing him.

"So, Martin. You were doing silent reading in English and Dawn just. reached over and opened your flies, got your prick out and wanked you."

Martin went bright scarlet again. A teacher - and an old one like Frankie - using words like that! He stuttered, but. couldn't say anything.

"And you just loved it, didn't you?" Martin looked at him and found himself confronted by a huge grin.

"Yes, sir."

"You'll be able to tell all your mates. Hey, guess what. Dawn Donnelly wanked me in English."

Martin grinned back, almost breaking into a1augh. But suddenly, Mr Francis was serious again, and Martin's stomach seemed to lurch.

"Tell me, Martin. What do you think of what your father and the other men are doing on Fern Park? D'you think it's a good idea?"

"Yes," said Martin, cautiously. "It's all right."

"All right? Getting the cane across your bare bottom? It can't be much fun. Is that what your dad does? Cane you with nothing on?"

"Yes, sir." And Martin gave his backside a rub to show that it had hurt.

"And how many times has he caned you so far?"

"Twice," said Martin.

"And that's all right is it? You deserved it?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, it's horrible getting the cane, but it's still better than being grounded for a week. And the club is getting to be really good, I reckon."

"And you reckon it'll really make a difference to the way you and the other lads behave?"

"Yes, sir. You should see Jim Boyle now, sir. He's completely different."

"So what dyou reckon your dad is going to do when I tell him about this morning's little episode?"

"Kill me, sir."

"Because I'm going to have to tell him, aren't I? Thats the agreement."

"Yes, sir. But ...."

"What, Martin?"

"Would you cane me instead, sir?"

"Out of the question."

"Oh, go on, sir. My dad says you used to cane kids before, and if you caned me, sir, me dad wouldn't have to know."

"It's against the law for teachers to hit pupils."

"I know, sir, but before, like, that time me dad came up to see you just before the meeting, sir. He asked me what I thought of him hitting me instead of other punishments, and I said I thought it would be good if kids could get the cane in school instead of getting suspended and so on. You can ask him, sir. Please. No-one'd know. I wouldn't tell."

"I don't have a cane any longer, Martin."

"Well, you could easy find something to do it with, sir. All you need is some kind of stick, or a strap. I mean, sir, I know I've got to be punished, but me dad does it so hard and its really horrible getting it with nothing on. And I know that's what I deserve sometimes, but I'd much rather have it from you, sir."

"If I was to cane you, Martin, I certainly wouldn't go easy on you."

"I know, sir. Fair's fair. If I've got to be caned, you'd have to do it properly."

Mr Francis got up and went to the window, looking out. He stood there Łor a while, then turned and looked at Martin.

"All right," he said. "On two conditions. That I tell your father what I'm going to do. And that you don't tell any of your mates. The only three people who are to know about it are me, you and your father."

"But, sir," pleaded Martin. "He'll just cane me as well."

"That's a chance you'll have to take. But I don't think he will. You think about it, and if you still want me to beat you come back here after school and I'll see what can be done. Off you go."

Martin spent the rest of the day in an agony of suspense. He certainly didn't want his father to beat him again - the memory of the two canings he'd received was too fresh. Perhaps more importantly, he didn't want his father to know what he had done to deserve a beating. He trusted Mr Francis to treat him fairly, but then his father would know and might decide to cane him on top.

But at the end of the day, when all the other kids were trooping off home, he presented himself at Mr Francis's office. He had to wait ages before he came back from some duty or other. The deputy head lead him inside.

"Well," he began, "I've spoken to your father. He's agreed that if I whack you he won't take any further action, but if you choose to take the same punishment as Dawn, which is to be on report to Mrs Brotherton for a fortnight, then he will cane you this evening. So - it's your choice."

Martin felt a great weight lifted off him. "I'll take the whacking from you, sir," he said.

"Now, I haven't had chance to look for a suitable implement, but I think we shall find something in the gym. Go and wait for me in the boys' changing room."

"Thank you, sir," said Martin.

"You may not be thanking me after I've finished with you." The man grinned. "Off you go."

Martin had to wait a long time again in the changing room. The cleaner came and went, asking him what he was doing, but he just said he had to wait for someone. At last Mr Francis appeared. Using a key he opened the storeroom.

"Aha. I thought so," Martin heard him say, and few seconds later he emerged carrying what looked like a cross between a table tennis bat and a canoe paddle. "The last time I used this was over twenty years ago. Boys who misbehaved in my gym lessons got this across the seat of their shorts. It should do the job very well. Take your coat off."

Martin hung his coat on a peg. His heart was beginning to race. He was scared of what was going to happen, but he still knew it was the right thing. That delicious feeling in his prick and his guts as Dawn was wanking him would have been worth more than a bit of a whacking.

"Now, you're sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, sir." He nodded to back up his words.

"Because this thing hurts. Your backside is going to be roasting."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to give you six, and an extra one every time you stand up. Is that fair?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK. Go and stand there In front of the showers." Martin went to the spot indicated. This was where he had imagined it happening while he was waiting. "Your last chance to back out, Martin."

"No, sir. I'd rather have this."

"Good lad. Now feet well apart, then bend over and hold your ankles. And keep your legs straight."

"Do you want me to drop me trousers, sir?"

"Not unless you've put extra clothes on."

"No, sir."

"No swimming trunks or football shorts, or extra pants?"

"No, sir."

"All right then. Just bend over.."

Martin braced his feet apart, then doubled over. He held his ankles and his bottom was held up in the ideal position to be whacked. Mr Francis lifted his shirt, exposing the bare flesh of his back. His dark grey school trousers had no pockets in the seat. Instead there were patch pockets on the outside of each thigh. He had obviously had them a fair while because they were tight over his buttocks, moulded to the slim but muscular flesh. The waistband was pulled away from his back slightly, revealing the elastic waist of his boxer shorts.

"Six whacks, Martin. And an extra one if you stand up," said Mr Francis standing back slightly to where he could get a good swing.

"Yes, sir," said the bending boy.

Mr Francis took aim, keeping his eye on the boy's taut little bottom. He swung the bat back till it was poised behind his shoulder; then he threw himself forward, whipping his arm and the bat like a squash player. The wooden blade landed with a ferocious CRACK! connecting perfectly with the points of both buttocks. A second later Martin reared up, his back arched, his hands clutching for his bottom, a strangled cry escaping from his mouth.

"Bend over again, Martin," Mr Francis said. "And you've still got six to go, havent you."

"It really hurts, sir."

"I warned you it would, didnt I? Youre not going to back out now, are you?"

"No, sir," said Martin, still rubbing himself. He was obviously in massive amounts of pain, but he still bent over into the same position, offering his bottom again to the terrible slapping bat.

He took the next three whacks without moving, though it was clearly terribly hard. His feet shuffled and the same strangled cries were forced from him, but somehow he remained bending over.

"Three to go., Martin," said Mr Francis.

"Yes, sir," he said, and the paddle was launched into him again. This time he was almost overbalanced and he straightened up before he could stop himself. He quickly grabbed at his ankles again and then forced his legs straight.

"Still three to go, Martin."

"Yes, sir," he said. The problem was that the bat landed on the same flesh every time, and that was exactly where his dad's cane had caused the worst damage. Every whack now was worse than the one before, but he held on and held on, and at last Mr Francis said, "You can stand up now."

He hopped up and down, rubbing at the seat of his trousers. Mr Francis had been right: his bottom was roasting. But it was over. Gradually he calmed down. Mr Francis had put the bat away in the stockroom again and was standing watching him.

"So how did that compare with your dad's beatings, eh?"

"Dunno, sir," said Martin. "Worse in some ways. But at least it wasn't on me bare bum. Dyou want to see my marks, sir?"

"Not really."

"Go on, sir. Theyre really cool." And he started undoing his trousers. "Some of the other lads were almost jealous."

"I hope youre not planning to show off the bruises Ive just given you like that."

"No, sir. Course not."

He shot down his trousers and shorts together and turned to show his bottom to Mr Francis. "Look at them, sir."

The bat had turned the white of his slim little backside dark red, but across the whole of the lower half of both buttocks was a solid band of black and blue bruise made up of individual weals that overlapped and crossed. It was impossible to see how many strokes of the cane the boy had been given – but it was a lot.

"How long ago did your dad cane you?"

"Last Friday was the last time, sir."

"He certainly laid it on hard, didnt he?"

"Yes, sir. You bet." Martin pulled up his shorts now and stooped for his trousers.

"Are you still glad you chose a whacking from me?"

"Definitely, sir."

"And was your experience at Dawn's hands worth a whacking?"

Martin looked up and saw that he was grinning.

"Yes, sir. Definitely!"


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