Fifteen-Year-Olds
Martin Cowper
Every year fourth form boys from our grammar school went on this rugby tour to Scotland. It was something to do with where Mr Cope, our games master, had been to college. We played against schools where his old friends were teaching. We stayed in this boarding school which was one of the places we played against. There were a couple of dormitories that we sort of took over for the week: I dont know what the lads who slept there normally did.
We trained every morning and then on four afternoons we played a match and the other days we could go into town or we got taken to see the sights. It was a really good laugh. All of us had a great time, because Copey was enjoying himself and relaxed a little. Back at school he could be a bit of a bastard and all of us had felt his cane across our arses, and this paddle he kept hanging on a nail in his gym. But here, on the rugby tour, he was different.
There was another tradition attached to the rugby tour that had nothing to do with Copey. There was a bottle shop in this town who didnt mind selling to under-age lads and there was always a bit of illicit drinking that went on in the dormitory. I think he knew about it really and didnt mind too much as long as nothing untoward happened.
I was sharing a dormitory with Neil Roper, Chris Potter, Gary Froude, John Rix and Andy Devlin, and we were determined to follow on with this tradition. Chris and Gary had no pocket money at all, so the rest of us subbed them. Neil, John and Andy bought bottles of Newcastle Brown and smuggled them into the dormitory. My dad kept a pub back home and I had pinched a bottle of whisky out of the store, and that was tucked securely into my bag with a shirt wrapped round it.
Now, even though Newcastle Brown is quite strong ale, three bottles shared between six reasonably hefty lads wont do much damage. Add a bottle of whisky, however, and we were in deep _s_h_i_t_. By the time we had finished the beer and had drunk about a third of the whisky bottle between us we were giggling and rolling about on our beds and telling each other urgently to shut up or _f_u_c_k_ing Copey would hear us.
Of course he heard us. He ordered us into bed, promising a severe punishment in the morning, took possession of the bottles and snapped the light off again. Soon we were snoring the sleep of the drunkard and I myself was certainly too befuddled to think about the punishment we had been promised.
Next morning my head was pounding and Im pretty sure the others were no different. We were silent over breakfast and the porridge we were given nearly made me ill. Then, as the lads from the school went to their lessons, we were paraded in the changing room, ready for the training session. It wasnt a hard one because we had the last match of the tour that afternoon, against our hosts, who were a good outfit, but still he worked us a bit, which I was glad of really because it dispersed the headache slightly. But there was no mention of the punishment we had coming.
And then it was back to the changing room for a shower before lunch. We all dried ourselves off in the area in front of the gang shower and started heading for our clothes. It was then that Copey appeared.
"Devlin, Potter, Roper, Froude, Cowper and Rix. Line up there in front of the shower. We have a small matter to deal with, havent we? The rest of you get dressed, but you can stay and watch if you like."
Of course they liked. The only possible reason for lining us up in the nude was to stripe our bums and they wouldnt have missed that for the world.
"The piece of equipment it never occurred to me bring on tour," he started, " is the cane. And in Scotland, youll be pleased to hear, they dont use canes. Instead they use a wee strap, as my friend calls it, on bad boys hands, so thats what Im going to have to use on these six. But we cant have them going into a match with sore hands, so – sorry, lads – itll have to be your backsides."
For a second I thought we were let off. It sounded kind of pathetic, a little strap that they used on kids hands. And then he brought it out from behind his back and I knew we were dead.
It was about eighteen inches long, nearly two wide and thick enough to stand out stiff as he showed it to us. The business end was split into three. My hands went to my bottom as I imagined that wicked strap lashing down on my bare skin.
"Roper. You first, please."
Neil stepped forward to where he had placed a chair. We all thought he was going to make us bend over it, but the truth was better - and much worse - than that. Copey sat down on the chair and pulled Neil down over his knees so that his head was down near the floor and his bum was hoisted high. Copey raised the strap as high as he could and brought it down full force. Neil yelped and there was a bright red stripe about an inch wide across both cheeks.
Five more times the strap was lashed down. Neils yells became more frantic and he wriggled a bit over Copeys knees but there was no escape. When he struggled back to his feet his hands went to his rear end, rubbing at what was obviously very painful.
Chris went next, then Gary, then Andy, then John. Gary and John took the six lashes without a sound, but the others squealed like Neil had done. And then it was my turn.
I lowered myself over his knees, feeling a right idiot, displaying my backside for the whole team to see. The first whack of the strap felt worse than I could have imagined. I think I whimpered a bit. The second landed on the same line and the burning pain doubled. Each whack seemed to increase the fire I was feeling and each time I thought I couldnt possibly take any more.
But then I was struggling upright and clutching at my punished bottom like the others had done. We stood in a line facing our grinning team-mates, waiting for Copey to dismiss us so we could get dressed.
He didnt stand up but surveyed the six of us, the strap that had set our bottoms on fire lying across his knees.
"That was for drinking," he said. "If I judge that your behaviour contributes to losing the game this afternoon, then all six of you will be back across my knees for a repeat dose.
"Now, a little drinking by teenage boys is probably only to be expected, and a little ale wont do much harm. But whisky is another matter. That cannot be allowed to pass. After the game I want the boy who provided the whisky – presumably from home – to own up so that he can be properly punished."
Then he dismissed us to get dressed and go to lunch. My guts were churning. No matter what the outcome of the game I was going to get more of that fiendish little strap.
"What you gonna do?" Gary asked.
"I shall have to own up, shant I?" I replied.
"Maybe we could say that we all chipped in to buy it," suggested John.
"Dont be _f_u_c_k_ing daft," I said.
"He wouldnt go so hard if it was all of us."
We all knew that wasnt true.
The game was hard. Fast and furious, end to end stuff. With only a few minutes to go I tackled their inside centre badly and gave away a penalty right in front of the posts. Their full back stepped up to take it and for the first time in the eighty minutes I became aware of the glowing warmth that the strap had left in my backside. Miss, you cunt, I urged him, or my arse is dead meat. Whether someone up there took exception to my prayer, or he was just too _f_u_c_k_ing good – he scored and they were 3 points ahead.
I kicked off, and the forwards charged down the field after it, John and Neil in the lead. A ruck formed; the ball came out our way; passed along the line. I came into the line to lengthen it. We passed faultlessly, out to where Gary was waiting on the wing. He side-stepped their full-back and set off for the line like a rabbit. Their wing came haring after him, tackled him just short of the line, but too late. It was a try.
So the teams were equal. (And if you think Ive got the scoring wrong, remember how long ago this happened). I jogged up to take the conversion. I dreaded this. The teams level; seconds to go, and everything depending on my kick. Gary had gone over about ten yards in from touch, so it was a long kick, but not impossible. No-one would blame me if I missed – except that we wouldnt have won the match. And Copey was going to be strapping my bare arse with the image of my failure fresh in his mind. And maybe, just maybe, if I won the match for him, hed let me off.
I set the ball and Chris held it for me – as he had done countless times before. It looked a _f_u_c_k_ing mile to the posts. Please God, I prayed. Ill do anything, but let this go over. I whacked it with all my might. It soared. One of the great kicks of all time. Straight for the nearest post. At the last instant it curled and shaved past the post – on the outside. Id missed. Oh _f_u_c_k_!
The whistle blew. It was over – a draw. Their captain called for three cheers. We responded. Everyone shook hands. Bloody good game, everyone said. And we all trotted off to the changing rooms.
In the showers for the second time that day, we sang. But my heart wasnt in it. He was leaving us alone for the time being, but it couldnt last.
"Right," I heard him shout from the doorway, "where are my six drunkards?"
We emerged from the shower, grabbing our towels for what temporary protection they could provide. Some of the team were drying off already, the rest peered round the wall of the shower at the scene.
"So - a draw. But is it good enough to save their backsides from more strap?"
"Go on, sir. Give em another dose," said Jenkins, the hooker, to a good deal of laughter.
"No, sir," said Watson, the scrum half. "They all played bloody well. They shouldnt get any more."
"Except Cowper," chipped in Gay, one of the second rows. "Missing that last kick deserves a whacking." And everyone laughed.
"But he scored several points before that," Neil Roper contributed.
"All right." Copey brought it to an end. He was going to decide anyway. "A draw is better than I was expecting. So no more strap for drinking. But the whisky will have to be paid for. Who brought that in?"
There was silence for a few seconds. I was trying to get my pounding heart under control.
"Me, sir," I said and felt everyones eyes on me suddenly.
"So Cowper gets his backside strapped after all." And I thought I was going to be sick as the rest of the team laughed. "Does your dad know youve taken a bottle of his Scotch?"
"No, sir."
"I shall have to tell him, shant I?"
"Do you have to, sir?"
"Fraid so Cowper. What will his reaction be? Another hiding?"
"Dont know, sir. Probably." The truth was that dad had never laid a finger on me, but then, Id never stolen whisky from his pub before.
"Dry off, Cowper, and then wait over there by the gym door. The rest of you, if you want to see the action, I want you dressed in three minutes." And he disappeared inside the gymnasium.
The three minutes stretched to ten by the clock above the notice board, but it was still over too soon for me. And the commiserations of my friends and team-mates were welcome but did nothing to make me feel better. And somehow, being naked with all the other lads meant nothing, but standing there with nothing but my towel round my waist while the others were all dressed was threatening and humiliating.
I jumped as Copey opened the gym door and ushered us all inside. Hed pulled out a pommel horse and it didnt take a genius to work out that I was going to be bending over it. The team gathered round it and Copey pulled the strap out from under his jacket. He lay it on top of the horse while he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. Oh _f_u_c_k_! I thought.
"Towel off then, lad," he said. "And lie across the end of the horse."
I got into position. The horse was high enough to hoist my feet off the floor and my backside felt more exposed than ever in my life before. He made Chris and Gary hold my arms and Neil and Andy my ankles, so now I couldnt move and he lay the business end of the strap across my skin that seemed to throb at the memory of it.
"How manys he getting, sir?" asked a voice.
"That youll find out when I say hes had enough," said Copey. Oh _f_u_c_k_! I thought.
The strap went away and there was silence. I heard his shoes scrape on the floor and then THWAP!! it lashed down across my bare bottom. Ten, twenty times worse than before. He was putting his whole strength into it. I think I yelled. And went on yelling as he strapped me and strapped me and strapped me. He took his time, so that every lash gave full value. He covered every inch of the lower half of my bottom, and then covered it again. I howled.
I had no idea how many times he hit me, but the five minutes or so that I spent over that horse were some of the worst of my life, and I could never again see a pommel horse without thinking about it. Eventually, weeks later, the rumour went round school that it had been sixteen, but I think it was more like a dozen. Another four wouldnt have made a difference anyway. It was as though my whole body had been concentrated into that part of my bum and it was all turned to molten fire.
The fire was still raging as we joined the other team for tea and I had to sit between two strange, but very friendly boys, discussing the match and accepting their congratulations. It was still fierce as we climbed on to the coach for the long drive home. It was still hot as hell when, in the back of the coach, with Jenkins keeping watch, I dropped my pants to show them the marks. My arse was bruised, but not like after a caning. There were no individual weals, just a general area of terrible pain with a few black lines through it.
It was the early hours of the morning when we arrived home. My dad greeted me warmly and asked how everything had gone. "Fine dad," I told him. Before falling into bed I examined my rear end in the mirror. It was still roasting warm and the skin was a mixture of scarlet and purple.
Copey never told father about the whisky and amazingly father never missed it.
Jack Dornford and Michael Skinner
Dornfords penis was slender and slightly tapered. He was uncircumcised and as his erection had grown the foreskin had pulled back to reveal the shapely, mauve glans at the head. Down the shaft a blue vein throbbed as Skinners fingers stroked the length of it.
Skinners was thicker, a five inch column of meat rising out of the nest of sandy hair, blunt and hard. The tiny eye at its tip was open as though staring at something. He had no foreskin and Dornfords thumb and forefinger made a snug ring just below the snubbed bell end, moving slowly up and down.
The sensation of the other boys hand on his prick was the focus of everything that either cared about at that moment; the sensation that comforted and partly discounted the harsher sensation of the prefects gymshoe slamming into their thinly protected backsides. Both could still feel a glow where they and three other boys had been punished for shying soap around the washroom as they prepared for bed. Their brains were also revolving their current ideals of womanhood – for Skinner this was Jane Russell, while Dornford preferred the more subtle charms of Virginia Lake – imagining the silky cunts impersonated by their friends hand.
Their two hands moved slowly and rhythmically. They were standing in a pool of moonlight in the dark gymnasium. It was past midnight. They felt secure and had stripped down their pyjama trousers. As the sensation grew their hands began to move a little faster. Dornfords left hand slid round Skinners waist and rested on his bottom, cool against the place bruised by the gymshoe. Skinner responded in similar fashion, and their hands moved faster still.
And that was when the lights crashed on.
There was no hope of escape or innocent explanation. The situation, their positions and clothing, their still rampant pricks – they were dead ....
It was Saywood, one of the senior prefects, a stocky individual, scrum leader for the First XV, entitled to use a cane and reckoned to be a bastard by those he had beaten – the very worst person to be caught out of bed by. But what, in Gods name, was he doing out of bed after midnight?
"Well, well, well," he said, advancing on them. "Two little fruits giving each other a cheap thrill." He stood over them, clenched fists on his hips. "Go on then. Give us a demonstration. Show us what you were up to."
Naturally, both boys hands had shot away from the others prick, but there could be no doubt what they had been doing. It took a second to realise what the prefect was ordering them to do. Another second to realise what it meant. Skinner reacted first.
"_f_u_c_k_ off, Saywood," he said. It was stupid, of course. Not just to refuse the order, but to do it in that particular way. Later, when he was able to reflect on it, he would realise that telling Saywood to _f_u_c_k_ off couldnt possibly make the punishment any worse so it was the best course to take. But at the moment when he said it, he was reacting purely instinctively.
But what could Dornford do? He stooped, pulled up his trousers and tied the string, looked directly at the prefect.
"_f_u_c_k_ – off," he said.
Saywood was tempted to beat them then and there. He would be perfectly justified, but their defiance seemed to recall him to a sense of his duty, and the realisation that he had put himself in the wrong by his half playful taunts. He would thrash them, but it would be done properly.
"Get to bed," he commanded. "And report to my study after tea."
Neither boy slept immediately when they got back to their beds. Both had been caned by Saywood before, and knew that a beating from him was no joke. And both knew that for tossing each other off and then telling a prefect to _f_u_c_k_ off he would have the perfect excuse, even the duty, to rip into them.
In the darkness of the silent dormitory Skinner lay contemplating his fate. The best consolation he could come up with was that it was only a beating. He had had plenty of those and survived them all. This one, no matter how bad it turned out to be, could not be much worse.
From three beds down the line he heard Dornfords bed springs squeak. That was probably the best thing to do. His hand slid inside his pyjamas and his prick rose to meet it.
For most of the next day the thought of the thrashing they were going to get occupied most of their minds. Saywoods reputation ensured that they werent going to take it lightly. Skinner remembered the four strokes he had been given only a month ago: every one a brand of fire across his backside, even through trousers and thick winter pants. But it was officially summer now, and thinner trousers and pants were the regulation wear. But there was a good chance that they wouldnt have even that much protection. Everyone knew that Saywood had caned at least one boy with nothing but gym shorts on.
And the anticipation grew and grew as the day went on. There were cricket nets between lessons and tea, but neither could enjoy them fully. Neither boy ate much, even though it was sausages, one of everyones favourites. Making them wait for their punishment served a couple of purposes. Firstly, of course, the longer they had to wait the greater the worry about what they were going to get. Secondly, by putting it off till after tea Saywood could arrange matters so that he had a full two hours while everyone was in prep during which he could do pretty much what he liked.
At last though grace was said at the end of tea; tables were dismissed in the usual orderly fashion, and Dornford and Skinner went to Saywoods study to wait for him. They knew exactly what the they were supposed to do and stood facing the wall with their hands on their heads and their toes and noses touching the wall. This was the standard way of waiting outside a prefects study and they wanted to give him no excuses for adding to their punishment.
He came at last, after maybe twenty minutes, by which time their guts were twisting in anticipation. He ushered them inside and threw himself down on the armchair while they stood side by side, waiting for him to announce their doom.
"Ive a good mind to send you up to the old man," he started. "A good whippings the only thing for disgusting little fruits like you. How would you like that, eh?"
"We wouldnt, Saywood," said Skinner.
"Or I could beat the pair of you myself." He looked at them for a full ten seconds. "Which is it to be?"
"You, Saywood, please," said Dornford.
"Dyou agree, Skinner?"
"Yes, Saywood."
"Very well. Im going to cane the pair of you in the gym. Go up to the gym and get undressed. Completely, mind. Then you can put your trousers back on – but not your pants. Understand?" They nodded. "Get out the pommel horse and then Ill have you both lying across it, but head to toe so youre facing opposite ways. And thats how you wait for me. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Saywood."
"Go on then."
They undressed in the changing room and then, as instructed, put their trousers back on. Summer trousers were thin worsted rather than the thick flannel of the winter uniform. It felt strange to have no pants on and to be bare chested. And the evening had turned a little cold. Still, they padded into the gym on their bare feet, wheeled the pommel horse out and then stood facing each other across it.
Saywood had not, of course, invented this idea of lying across the horse together. Mr Campbell, the PT master, always made boys bend over the horse to be whacked, and sometimes if there were two he would do it this way. So Dornford and Skinner knew what was required.
Together, they placed their hands flat on the top of the horse, pushed themselves up till their weight was on their hands with their feet off the floor, then lowered their upper bodies till they were draped across the horse. Their heads and arms hung down one side and their feet the other, while their backsides were hoisted perfectly into position. The cloth of their trousers was pulled smooth over the muscles, providing modesty, but practically no protection at all from a cane. Uniform trousers had no pockets in the seat – some said because pockets provided extra protection from the cane – so the worsted was perfectly moulded to their strong young bottoms.
Dornford was slim in the hips with strong, shapely buttocks. He had grown a lot in the last twelve months and his old summer trousers were stretched tight and worn smooth in the seat. Skinners trousers were also old and smooth. His backside was broader, more beefy than his friends, but now that his puppy fat had burned off his body was lean and muscular.
Half an hour later, Saywood had still not turned up. Under the body of the horse the two boys could see each other, but their efforts at conversation had faltered in the face of their anxiety about what was happening to them. They heard his footsteps approaching from far down the corridor and their hearts skipped a beat.
"Here he comes," whispered Skinner.
They heard the changing room door bang open and then closed again. The gym door opened and swung closed. The prefect who was going to thrash them had arrived.
He didnt say a word, which was almost more threatening than an additional lecture. He felt their bottoms, feeling for pants. He pushed his hand down under the waistband of their trousers, not so much to check that they were wearing nothing extra but more to reinforce the message that their backsides were completely in his power. They heard the cane thrash through the air as he loosened his arm – three, four, five times. Then his boots stepping back: strangely, they couldnt tell on which side of the horse he was going to start. A profound and terrible silence fell on the gymnasium and the now static group of boys.
Finally, his steps reverberated as he skipped into the first stroke. The cane sang its vicious song. Both boys were tensed, ready. CRACK! it exploded across Skinners backside and he gasped as the sudden pain ripped into him. Slowly, the footsteps crossed the floor and they realised: he was going round to the other side. Again the silence. Again the skipping footsteps; the ferocious hissing THWUP; the pistol shot of the cane, this time across Dornfords bottom. Dornford yelped a little.
Taking his time, Saywood crossed to the other side of the horse again. Skinners bottom, protected only by the one inadequate layer of cloth, simply invited the cane. The prefect danced in, swinging it from behind his head, flicking his wrist at the last moment, landing the appalling cane perfectly across both taut buttocks. Back around to the other starting point. Dornfords backside was almost too perfect – slim, firmly muscled and perched there, helplessly waiting. The same flashing swing and crack and the boy cried out again as the atrocious pain bit into him.
And so it progressed. A full minute between each stroke, which meant two minutes or more during which each boy had to lie there, the burning stripe across his rear end screaming to be rubbed, the desire to get up and walk out of the gym all but overwhelming. And then, halfway through the unspeakable wait, the lashing punctuation mark of the stroke delivered to his friends bottom, only inches from his ear.
After six apiece, both boys were crying out each time the cane flogged into them, landing now on already terribly bruised flesh. But there were still two more to come. And come they did. Just as slowly; just as hard, but seeming now to penetrate to the full depth of the muscles. The unspeakable pain had spread through their bodies, seeming to fill them up, to rule out any other sensation. The last strokes were heartbreakers, and both boys howled.
Saywood didnt allow them to dismount for a couple of minutes. They were obliged to lie there and savour the pain that the cane had produced. It would be nice, he thought, if he could see the damage it had caused to their arses, but he knew.
Knew from still quite recent experience the horrific burning of such a beating.
Knew from the bloodily swollen weals across his own backside.
Knew, now, the powerful exultation of having visited righteous punishment on two naughty boys.
"Get down," he said at last, and the two boys dropped off the horse and their hands went, far too late and far too ineffectually, to their throbbing, fiery buttocks. They shook hands with the boy who had tortured them and limped out into the changing room.
Thankfully, they peeled their trousers down and the cool air was a minor blessing. That was the moment when Saywood passed through the changing room. He disdained to stop and examine his handiwork, but he saw the dark stripes – and they knew that he had seen.
By lights out time they were able to show them to their friends, but four hours later, in the darkness of the dormitory, after wanking had failed to deliver its usual comfort, their bottoms were still throbbing and tender to the touch. And it was then that tears came to their eyes, with the remembrance that Saywood had made them bawl - like juniors being caned for the first time.