WARNING: This story contains a scene of a boy being caned over his trousers, which some readers (especially the stricter thrashers) may find offensive. The author assures readers that the scene is necessary for the artistic reasons of plot development and that by the end of the story the boys lower garments are in their proper place.
When I became a prefect at Nashtons (school motto: "Semper verbero ferula") I had the right to beat the boys in my charge. I was initially reluctant to do so. There were two reasons. The first was that I had suffered many a beating from a prefect myself and I knew from experience that they could be worse than any dished out by a master. Being still boys themselves, they often got carried away, especially when one prefect got into a competition with another to see who could produce the reddest arse. A master would always have a reason to thrash you (maybe sometimes not a very good one) but many of the prefects would often cane you for no good reason at all. The second reason was that I knew that I would enjoy it and this worried me. I had got over late adolescent religious mania (can you believe I did not wank for a year!) bit still had a bit of a puritan streak about _s_e_x_ and, for me, beating a boy would be _s_e_x_ual. I had no objection to corporal punishment as such, although I often doubted its efficacy, as it seemed to be the same few boys who got most of it, at least from the masters.
The prefects beatings usually took place in the Lower Common Room with three or four prefects in attendance. Bare bottom canings were not supposed to be administered by prefects and they never were in the Lower Common Room. However, whilst the rule was observed according to the letter, it was breached in spirit. The usual procedure was for the boy to turn up in P. E. shorts (no underpants underneath). He would then bend over a chair and one of the prefects would pull the boys shorts up into the crack of his bum so that both cheeks were exposed. Another prefect would then lay it on. I endured several such beatings. Years later when I looked at a photo of myself as a boy I realised that my blond hair, angelic face and comely form may have had something to do with it.
A prefect could cane his fag in the privacy of his own study. Some of my companions reported how they had got it on a properly bared bum. This practice was tacitly acknowledged and the rule was that in exchange the fag got a special treat.
I was caned several times by a master.
The first was in my first year when a master came into a room where a near riot was in progress. The first row all got two strokes, each administered in a very business like manner; I was in the first row and got it even though I had been sitting quietly. The pain was bad, but did not last too long.
On all other occasions I was actually guilty. I remember when I was fourteen. Although generally well behaved, I had the misfortune to enjoy smoking. I got caught and got six of the best from my housemaster, Mr Benson. I was promised a severer thrashing if I got caught again. The charms of Madame Nicotine being what they are, I did get caught again, this time with another boy, Smythe (OK I know that you think I made that up on the basis that every public school had a Smythe, but that was his name). Smythe had been caned for smoking earlier in the term. We presented ourselves to our housemaster together. He was singularly unamused.
"Both you two boys have been caned for smoking already this term. You have been caught again and I shall therefore, as promised, deal very severely with you and give you the strap and cane."
Strap and cane! I did not like the sound of that.
"Smythe! As usual you will bend over the arm of my armchair, but before doing so you will oblige me by taking down you trousers and pants."
Strap, cane and bare bummed! Things were getting worse. Smythe nervously went over to the armchair and took down his trousers and then his pants. He hesitated before bending over the arm of the chair. Mr Benson, meanwhile, had sorted out his instruments of punishment: a long thinnish strap and a longer thinner cane. Carrying the strap, he walked over to Smythe and lifted up his jacket and shirttails. Now, it is in the nature of life at public school that you see all your contemporaries in various states of undress, and I must have seen Smythe naked a hundred times, but in that defenceless position, the way his pert round bum was thrust up over the arm of the chair was something new and my _c_o_c_k_ started to swell.
"I shall give you six with this strap and, as there are two of you, you can have a short rest while I strap Perkins and you think about the cane."
Without further ceremony he raised the strap and brought it down on the bare flesh. Maybe it was the acoustics of the room, but the sound itself was almost painful. Smythe sort of sighed. I was ideally placed to see a red mark, the same width as the strap, appear on the white skin. The strapping continued with the whole bum being methodically and skilfully covered. Smythe kept almost quiet and hardly moved. When the announced number of strokes had been delivered Mr Benson said, "Get up and go and stand over there. Dont bother pulling your clothes up. Perkins. Your turn. You know what to do."
Smythe stood up straight and shuffled to where the master had indicated, gently massaging his rear. I took his place and, not wishing to appear wimpish, smartly undid my trousers and pulled them down. I followed with my pants. I had managed to persuade my erection to go down by thinking about girls. Almost as soon as I bent over I felt my jacket and shirt being raised. A sudden feeling of pleasant coolness wafted over my bum. It was short lived as the leather cracked on my bare cheeks. The sound was different with your head in the seat of the well-padded armchair. The pain was severe; about the same as his cane with your trousers up. I fearfully wondered what the cane would be like on an already well-thrashed bare arse. I managed to get through the six strokes without too much loss of dignity. I stood up and resumed my place.
Smythe was back bending over and Mr Benson now had the waspish cane in his grip. This time he made sure that the jacket and shirt were well up the back and adjusted Smythes position carefully until the bum was presented to his satisfaction. He stepped back and almost seemed to admire the view. He raised the cane over his shoulder and brought it down with a tremendous crack on the already tender bottom. Smythe let out a cry of pain and arched his back, but otherwise stayed in position. A crimson line appeared on the red.
Now there was me, standing there with my trousers and pants round my ankles, my bum thoroughly warmed and my best friend with his red bum up in the air getting it swished. What else could my _c_o_c_k_ do but stand to attention like a guardsman at Buckingham Palace? I tried to hide it with my hands, a little unnecessary as the other two occupants of the room were otherwise occupied. The caning continued and as it progressed a few muffled sobs could be heard issuing from the depths of the armchair.
When he had finished Mr Benson stood back and ordered, "Get up and go over there. You can pull your trousers up when you are ready. I wont object if you rub yourself. Perkins! Over here boy. Your turn again."
Smythe chose to keep his bottom bared while I was getting it.
My erection had subsided somewhat as the moment of my own beating approached. I think I managed to hide what was left of it as I walked awkwardly forward. I leant over the chair arm again and felt my jacket and shirt being pushed up like Smythes. The first stroke was the most painful I had ever had. The following five were equally bad. The timing was perfection. I wondered if the man had been expertly caned himself as a boy to get it so right. It was as if each stroke was a continuation of the previous one. I think I made a few strange noises, but managed more or less to keep in position. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
"Get up. I see Smythe has elected to rub his backside before pulling his trousers up; you may do the same."
I did the same. I had heard other boys who had had a really severe or bare bottom caning say that it was like your arse was on fire. I can think of no better description.
While we were both paying attention to our respective well beaten bums Mr Benson took his seat behind his desk.
"Do you both feel as if you have had a sound thrashing?"
"Yes sir," we both mumbled and nodded.
"Well, if either of you are caught smoking again your next thrashing will make what you have just had seem like a smacked bottom from your nanny. Get your things up and get off to wherever you are supposed to be."
We got our things up and went to where we were supposed to be.
The last time I was thrashed was by the headmaster when I accidentally ran into him in the corridor. I got six on the bare bum. (The head only deigned to punish naked bottoms; it was a sign of his authority.) It was almost as painful as Mr Bensons special. The head used a thicker cane, but my bum had not previously been prepared by the application of leather.
Now I was a prefect and entitled to cane, rather than be caned. It was rare for a senior boy to be caned. An exception was a very _c_o_c_k_y boy who got thrashed in front of the whole house by Mr Benson when he lost patience with his continuing insolence. There was great excitement in the house as a public caning was unusual, and of a senior boy unheard of in any pupils time at the school. A few masters, who no doubt wished that they had broken with recent tradition first, turned up for the occasion. I often wondered if Mr Benson had invited them. Such was the audience, that Mr Benson decided to put on a good show. He lectured the boy on his attitude and manners for about five minutes, all the time wielding a cane as thick as a finger. I do not know what the boy had been promised, but he looked mortified when ordered to lower his trousers and pants and get over a strategically placed chair. He got twelve with the cane, each stroke deliberately and slowly whipped into place. As the boy was as disliked by the boys as much as by the masters, the whole of the audience was wreathed in smiles at the boys embarrassment and pain. However, he went up in many a boys estimation for the stoical way he took his medicine. After standing up and pulling up his trousers, he shook hands with Mr Benson and all the other masters and apologised for his behaviour. This was an occasion where corporal punishment did have a salutary effect as the boy reformed completely.
In these days where corporal punishment in schools has been abolished, I often think that a sound thrashing for insolence, rudeness, egomania or just general _c_o_c_k_iness would do the offender a world of good. If you consider the main purpose of punishment to be to discourage future bad behaviour, beating boys for general mischief is a waste of time; as I mentioned above it was always the same boys who came back for more. Naughty, cheeky, unspiteful boy are generally nice to know and usually grow up to be sensible adults.
But I digress.
As I say, I was now a prefect. As was required of me, I attended beatings in the Lower Common Room. I often pulled a boys shorts up in readiness, but never volunteered to use the cane. On one or two occasions I got a boy out of a beating when I thought he did not merit it. This annoyed one or two of my fellow prefects, but not unduly as there were always plenty of candidates.
One the perks of being a prefect was that you had a fag. Abuse of the system had been drastically curtailed by the present headmaster when he joined the school. Being a grammar school boy he had wanted to abolish it completely, but a token system was allowed to continue on the basis that every first year boy would have a senior boy as a mentor. The fags had only light duties such as polishing shoes or making toast. Only a few prefects took their mentoring duties seriously. A few took an interest that cannot be described as academic, unless you hark back to the Greek origins of that word and remember what the Athenians got up to.
My first fag, Dobson, was an attractive boy with black curls that tumbled over his forehead. (I mention in passing that the fags were allotted by a ballot conducted by each housemaster. Although it was never expressly admitted, I am sure this was a futile attempt to discourage the Greek vice. Swapping fags was strictly forbidden.) The boy seemed as if he was deliberately trying to annoy me. At first I paid no attention. Then I told him to behave.
One day he (somewhat frustrated?) said to me, "Youre supposed to beat me if I annoy you. Im the only fag in the house who hasnt been beaten by his pref. Im losing face." I ignored his comments and told him to push off.
But what he had said began to insinuate itself in my mind. We can all be very Jesuitical when it suits our purpose. There was nothing more I wanted than to thrash his little bum. He, for whatever reason, seemed to want to have his little bum thrashed. What harm could there be if I thrashed his little bum? I resolved to thrash his little bum.
He almost seemed to have given up on me, as the next time he went about his duties he was very quiet, almost sullen. I inspected his work.
"You havent shined these shoes properly," I said. "I expect to be able to see my face in them. Youre a lazy little tick and Im going to have to thrash you."
His face brightened. I think he just about managed to stop himself saying, "At last!"
The first year boys all wore Eton jackets (Now thats something they should abolish if they want to stamp out the Greek vice!) It was not therefore necessary to lift any clothing out of the way when he had bent over the end of my bed. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he stuck his bottom up merrily. I gave him six. It was the first caning I had dished out so I went a bit easy. I just hoped that I had done enough to give him something to display in the dorm. He left walking on air.
It was soon understood that he would do a reasonable job of being a fag, and I would always find a reason to cane him at regular intervals. An oblique enquiry established that the canes marks could perhaps be a little redder so I whacked him a bit harder.
One day I was doing the rounds of the dorms and came in at the tail end of an exchange when I heard my protégé say to one of the cleaning staff, "I can leave my pyjamas where I like. Its your job to clear up. Youre the skivvy."
To quote the words made famous by "Private Eye" during the reign of John Major: "I was not inconsiderably incandescent with rage." I stormed into the room and grabbed Dobson by the hair (there were plenty of thick curls to get hold of) and startled him.
"Ouch! Youre hurting me!" he bleated.
"Its nothing compared to what you are going to get in a minute." I raged. "How dare you speak to Mrs Williams like that? She has enough work to do without taking any backchat from brats like you. Apologise at once."
With my hand still grasping his hair he probably concluded that a swift apology was in order and said, "Im sorry Mrs Williams."
Still holding on to the boy, I turned to Mrs Williams and said, "I am going to give this ill-mannered boy a sound beating for the way he spoke to you. You are welcome to come and watch if you wish."
She replied, "No, its all right dear. Ive plenty to be getting on with. Ive brought up five sons and they were all a bit unruly from time to time, so Ive seen my husband deal out a few good hidings. Theyre all grown up now, of course. Just give it to him good hard. Thats what I used to say to my husband. Give it to him good and hard. Did them good. They all grew to be proper gentleman. Give it to him hard. Make him into a gentleman."
"I shall try my best Mrs Williams."
I let go of Dobsons hair and took him firmly by the arm, leading him to my study. As we entered I locked the door. Dobson was getting scared. I stood him at the end of the bed.
"Get your trousers and pants down," I said.
"You cant cane me bare," he complained. "Its not allowed."
"I dont care whats allowed. Get them down or Ill have them down. Im already fuming. I dont think you want to get me any angrier."
"Ill tell Mr Benson."
"If you like well both go and see Mr Benson now. I know what youll get, because Ive had it. Hes fond of using a strap before he gets round to the cane. All on the bare bum. From personal experience I would not recommend it. You know how he says: I hate incivility boys. Rude boys will suffer. So you can choose the strap and cane from him, or the cane from me. (I lied. He would probably have got three with the cane on his trousers.)
I could see the boy thinking furiously. He made up his mind. His hands went to his waist. He undid his trousers and pulled them down to his ankles. He was beginning to recover his bravado a little.
"I think you should take my pants down for me," he pouted.
Without waiting for me to agree he bent over the bed in his usual position. I certainly was not going to argue about getting my hands in the waistband of his underpants. Before attending to that little detail, I gently pulled his jacket and shirt up as far as they would go. The resulting sight was entrancing, his beautiful bottom neatly clad in white underpants. I took a deep breath and my hands moved down. I could not help it; I pulled his pants over his bottom very slowly. I had often had his trousered bum thrust up at me cheekily; I had wondered how it would look untrousered and ununderpanted. Perfection.
"You will get four strokes for being rude to Mrs Benson and two for having the cheek to ask me to take your pants down. You can choose between having another four strokes for threatening to blab to Mr Benson, or me telling everyone. Well, is it to be six or ten? Its only fair that I warn you that they will be a lot harder than the play strokes Ive been giving you. I also remind you that your bum is not protected by your trousers and pants."
"Ill take the ten."
I knew he would hate to lose face by having everyone know that he had threatened to go to the housemaster to try and avoid a thrashing. The ten were virtually guaranteed.
I walked over to the corner of the room where the cane was kept and picked it up. The prefects canes were about two feet long and quite thin. I do not go through my usual ritual of swishing it in the air as if to check it. I walked back to Dobson and took up my usual position. To give myself a little time to contemplate the perfection presented to me I decided on a short lecture.
"I shall speak to you now as I doubt you will be in a listening mood when I have finished with you. It is a privilege to be educated at this school. You must always be polite to all the ancillary staff. Politeness is one of the hallmarks of a gentleman. I could not believe that a boy from this school would speak to a cleaner in such a way. I was extremely angry when I heard you. I should not have pulled your hair and I apologise for that. I shall shortly thrash you very hard. You will have some interesting marks to display in the dorm tonight. You will go up in the estimation of your fellows. Whether the price is one worth paying only you will know. In accordance with the ancient traditions of this school when a fag gets it on his bare arse from his prefect I shall give you a present tomorrow. Get ready."
I lifted the cane and brought it down hard on the naked bottom. I was glad that I had calmed down or it would have been as hard as I could make it. I continued beating the beautiful bare bottom working the cane up and down. I was clearly getting through to Dobson as he yelled, the yells getting louder as the beating proceeded. In a public school in those days no one took much notice of that sort of sound when accompanied by the swish and crack of leather or wood. I got up to seven and paused slightly. I remembered the sight of my own backside in the mirror after a prefects thrashing and decided that the last three strokes could be rather harder. I was not very muscular and so I decided to risk it and brought the cane down as hard as I could in three rapidly delivered stinging stripes. Dobsons song did not crescendo appreciably. I admired the well-whipped bottom.
Dobson did not move. After a few moments when he realised the beating had stopped he said, "Youve only given me nine."
I was puzzled that any sane boy would complain that he had received fewer strokes than promised. "No. Im sure I gave you ten."
"I think it was nine."
"Tell you what, Ill give you another for arguing. How about that?"
"OK"
I lifted the cane and brought it down diagonally across the still pertly raised bum. Another yell form Dobson.
"That one will make an especially interesting talking point," I observed. You can rest there for a moment to get your breath back. When youre ready just stand up and Ill pull your pants up for you as you had trouble taking them down."
"How about a cold flannel on my poor sore bottom?" he enquired.
I obliged, going to the sink and running my flannel under the cold tap and wringing it out. I laid the cold cloth on the red weals, taking the opportunity to feel the roundness of the bottom my eyes had feasted on. Dobson flinched a little, but appreciated the tender love and care. He suddenly made a move to get up and I stood back. I just about managed to avoid saying, "I shall never wash this flannel again." I threw the damp cloth on the bed. Dobson stood up and went to pull his pants up.
"Tut, tut!" I said. "My job."
He smiled and took his hands away. I gently eased the white cotton over his red bottom. After the flannel I did not hesitate to caress his bum cheeks. He did not object. I also pulled up his trousers, giving myself another opportunity for a little squeeze. Tucking his shirt in also had its moment of pleasure. I will not mention what was pressing urgently against the inside of my trouser flies.
Dobson was becoming a little perkier. "What present are you going to give me?"
"I havent decided, but Im thinking of a long whippy cane that you can bring along so that I can give you a proper thrashing every time you deserve it."
Dobson smiled and ran off somewhere.