by Fiona Locke
I looked at the floor.
‘I think it’s time for you to find out what a Pop tanning is like.’
I blinked. I didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t sound pleasant. I shook my head slowly in baffled ignorance.
Peter’s mouth spread in a slow predatory smile. He walked to the table near the window. On it was a cane. But it wasn’t the usual kind of cane. It was shorter, thicker and knobbly. Malacca? Peter picked it up and flexed it slightly to demonstrate how little it would bend.
I took a step back. Where in the world had he got that? Had he been hiding it from me, waiting for the perfect scene to use it in?
‘Pop was the club of senior boys who ran the school,’ Peter explained in a silky voice, relishing every word. ‘When a boy had done something particularly reprehensible he was summoned to their common room. He wasn’t told what was going to happen, though. Oh, no. The note merely said he was to present himself wearing a pair of old trousers.’
Eyeing the cane fearfully, I swallowed.
Peter was standing by the window now. He beckoned me closer.
‘The boy had to put his head out the sash window. Then they lowered the window on to his neck like the blade of the guillotine.’
As he spoke I was visualising the scene. I peered through the window, down at the drive. I tried to imagine being trapped like that, my bottom helplessly served up to those inside, my cries audible to everyone outside.
‘It is said that boys feared a Pop tanning far more than a birching from the headmaster,’ Peter said, caressing the length of the cane. ‘And, as you can see, a Pop cane is much nastier than an ordinary prefect’s cane.’
The knuckles in the malacca looked savage. They would leave deep bruises where they struck.
‘The president of Pop administered the caning while the others watched. Naturally, a boy would try to be brave and keep his composure but, after two or three dozen good hard strokes, the seat of his trousers – not to mention his dignity – would be in tatters.’
My mouth drifted open in silent horror. Two or three dozen strokes? He couldn’t possibly be intending to subject poor little Martin to that! I would never be able to suppress my screams and the police would be banging on the door within minutes.
Peter raised the cane and brought it down with a ferocious swipe. It cleaved the air with a deep full-throated carving sound that made me jump.
With a dangerous smile, he laid the cane on the table and raised the window. My eyes bugged.
‘Head out, boy,’ he said.
I was terrified. My knees turned to water and I made my way to the window as though in a dream. I kept looking back at him, hoping he’d laugh and tell me he was just trying to scare me.
I realised I was still holding the topper and I blinked at it in surprise.
Peter gave me a withering look. ‘You may set it on the desk,’ he said, as though speaking to a feeble-minded child.
With trembling hands, I placed the hat on the desk and turned back to the window. I had to bend my knees to get my head down low enough to rest it over the windowsill. I felt like Anne Boleyn stretching her head out on the block. I caught the pungent scent of wood smoke from a chimney near by and I looked across at the houses on the other side of the village green. Lights shone in several windows. There was traffic noise in the distance and the voices of people talking not too far away. Anyone going for a stroll past the old vicarage would hear me.
Without a word Peter lowered the window down. It rested loosely enough on the back of my neck, but it would hold me in position. My chin pressed uncomfortably into the sill. The difference in temperature was disorienting. Outside, the air was bitterly cold, isolating me from the warmth of the room inside. I placed my hands on the edge of the windowsill for balance. At least he hadn’t made me take my trousers down.
Then I heard the muffled swish of the cane as he sliced it through the air again. I flinched and gave a little yelp of fear, but the cane didn’t strike. I was shaking all over, in utter terror over what he had described.
I turned my head as far to the left as I could and I could just make out his arm, raising the cane to strike. I knew it would be a real stroke this time and I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut tightly, digging my nails into the windowsill.
The cane slashed through the air and into my bottom with astonishing force and I couldn’t hold back the breathless cry of pain as my body tried to process the unusual sensation of the Pop cane. It had the penetrating thud of a much heavier implement, and the knuckles in the wood made the impact even worse.
The pain began to swell and crest until I thought I couldn’t bear it. I bounced on my heels, trying to will the sting away. My nails gouged into the windowsill and I gritted my teeth, reminding myself that I was a boy.
Boys don’t cry, I thought, desperately needing courage. I repeated it in my head like a mantra. Boys don’t cry, boys don’t cry, boysdon’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry …
There was no placement tap, so I wasn’t prepared for the next stroke. My right foot flew up behind me, shielding my bottom. The struggle to keep silent took all my willpower. In my mind the shadowy village dissolved and I was looking out over School Yard at Eton College. It bustled with activity as the other boys went about their business, oblivious to my disgrace. If I made a sound they would look up and see me. I couldn’t shame myself by yelping after only one or two strokes.
‘Get those feet out of the way, oik,’ said Peter scornfully. ‘I can’t cane you if you’re writhing like a cut worm. If you can’t take it properly, it’s likely to become a very much longer caning.’
I instantly stamped my foot back into place on the floor. The position was ingenious. It was impossible for me to straighten my legs and lock them into place. Nor could I simply lie across the sill and surrender to the beating. I held my breath, flinching in anticipation.
Again, there was no warning tap before the cane attacked again, knocking the wind out of me. I struggled as much as the position would allow, holding my foot up behind me to deflect further attack until my tormentor snapped at me to remove it.
I tried to be stoic, but the next stroke wrenched a howl of agony from me.
‘Your behaviour is unseemly,’ Peter said. ‘Don’t disgrace yourself further by putting on a display for the whole school.’
My face burnt with shame and my breathing grew fast and shallow as I awaited the next stroke. I couldn’t un-see the image Peter had painted in my mind. A boy’s trousers shredded by the relentless slashing Pop cane, his face stained with tears of pain and humiliation. He wouldn’t be showing off those marks as proudly as he would a simple six of the best from the headmaster.
The next one was the hardest of the lot, but somehow I managed to gut it out without yelping. The well-aimed stroke fell just at the tender crease where the bottom and thighs meet. I clawed at the windowsill, scraping flecks of paint loose as the scorching line flared and intensified until I thought I would faint.
I gasped for breath as it burnt and throbbed, hissing through my teeth and tensing for another whack. The suspense lengthened and my fear intensified with every second I was made to wait.
But then I felt Peter’s hand by my throat and he raised the window. ‘In you come,’ he said gruffly.
I scrambled to my feet instantly.
‘Not pleasant, is it, boy?’
‘No,’ I panted.
He smiled and slammed the window. It thunked shut like the chopper’s axe burying itself in the block.
‘That’s just a little taste. That’s what you can expect the next time you go crying to Fleming like a girl.’
I melted with relief and genuine gratitude. I wanted to kiss his feet for sparing me. I could scarcely conceive of taking any more and yet boys had taken dozens of such strokes through the years. The idea made me dizzy. ‘Thank you, Carruthers,’ I said.
He snorted. ‘I hope you don’t think that was your punishment, oik. No, that was just a warning for next time.’<
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My heart sank. He was a sadistic one, this Carruthers.
‘You’re due a bloody good hiding, Shepherd. And you’ll get one. But first I’ll address your laziness and indolence in neglecting to clean my study.’ Peter pointed to the centre of the room. ‘Stand there.’
With weak legs, I did as I was told. Peter rummaged in the wardrobe while I fidgeted, straightening my jacket and shifting my feet back and forth. I didn’t dare rub my bottom.
Peter found what he was looking for very quickly. It was a slipper – a heavy battered plimsoll. He smacked it imperiously against his palm.
I told myself to be thankful I wasn’t getting the full Pop tanning. The slipper would have a wicked bite, but it couldn’t be anything like the malacca cane.
‘Touch your toes.’
I bit back a whimper. I hated that position. It tautened the flesh of my bottom, making the punishment sharper and even more painful. But I bent down and placed my fingertips on the tops of my smartly polished shoes.
‘Bend over properly, boy. Grab your ankles.’
I took hold of my ankles, gritting my teeth. I felt so exposed and vulnerable.
Peter tapped the slipper against my bottom. It was extremely tender from the cruel treatment at the window and I cringed like a beaten dog at each little slap. I took a deep breath, bracing myself.
The slipper exploded against my bottom with a loud meaty whack. I choked back a cry and kept my legs straight. The rubber sole of the shoe imparted a brutal sting, but I resisted the urge to grab my bottom.
The next three strokes came in rapid succession, hurting terribly. With each stroke I bent my knees a little more, until I was quite out of position.
‘Back in place, snotty,’ Peter growled. ‘Right down. Come on, show some pluck.’
I turned scarlet as I straightened my legs and clutched my trousers. The taunts and scathing tone of his Carruthers persona were so unfamiliar to me. He’d never played a bully before. It was humiliating and frightening, but in an exhilarating edgy way. I didn’t fully understand it, but somehow I knew that I could endure more of this as a boy than I ever could as a girl. Peter seemed to know it too.
Again Peter applied the slipper. He allowed very little time between strokes, which made it harder to take. I straightened my legs when he barked at me to do so, but there was no way I could maintain the position for long.
‘Feeling these, are we, boy?’
‘Yes, Carruthers,’ I whimpered.
‘Good. Then I may be getting through to you.’
The onslaught continued until I had lost count of the number of strokes. Again and again the slipper descended, painting its distinctive imprint on my cheeks.
By the end I was yelping with total abandon, not caring if I sounded like a girl or not. I clung to my dignity as a boy, not breaking position too badly and not reaching back to shield my bottom. I didn’t beg him to stop, either. And I didn’t cry.
Finally, Peter stopped.
Thinking it was over at last, I stood up, stumbling a little.
‘What do you think you’re doing? I told you that was for failing to clean my study properly. I’m not finished with you yet.’
I lowered my head.
Peter’s face was a mask of cruel glee as he fetched a rattan school cane from the wardrobe. It was long and dense, but at least it wasn’t the Pop cane.
‘Back in position,’ he ordered.
With a soft moan, I resumed the position.
‘This time you can drop your trousers, boy,’ he said. ‘And your underpants.’
I gasped.
‘You heard me. You’re a cry-baby, Shepherd. And cry-babies are punished on the bare. Now take them down.’
‘But, Carruthers –’
‘Now, boy. I want to see those baby-cheeks. Drop your trousers or I’ll do it for you.’
I blushed so hard my scalp tingled. But I wasn’t about to disobey. With a mournful sigh I bent to the task, unbuckling my belt and unfastening my trousers. I held them up for a moment before letting them slip down to the floor. They puddled around my feet and I stood before him in my boy’s underpants. Putting them on earlier had felt sexy and transgressive, but now I was self-conscious. I knew Peter was thoroughly enjoying my discomfort and I hesitated only another few seconds before hooking my thumbs into the elastic and pushing the cotton underwear down my thighs.
‘Feet apart.’
I managed to shuffle my feet away from each other until they were about twelve inches apart. Then I felt the cane tapping against my backside. I winced. I already felt well and truly beaten. My bottom burnt and tingled from the assault of the Pop cane and the slipper. The school cane would be excruciating after that. And I knew he would use it hard. After all, he wasn’t punishing me; he was punishing a boy who had broken the schoolboy code by telling tales. No matter how much you were bullied, no matter what was done to you, you did not squeal. As always, he had set me up nicely.
‘Six strokes,’ Peter pronounced. ‘Stay in position. You know I’ll repeat strokes if you give me an excuse. Don’t you, you little worm?’
‘Yes, Carruthers,’ I whispered.
‘This is for running to Fleming. Before each stroke you’re going to say, “Please teach me not to be a cry-baby”.’
I moaned with shame. Oh, God, this was torture! I swallowed and plucked up my courage. I could do this.
‘Please teach me not to be a cry-baby,’ I said.
The cane sliced into me instantly, painting a line of fire across my already sore backside. I gritted my teeth, grimly determined not to make a sound. The words I had to speak were degrading enough; I didn’t need the added dishonour of blubbing.
‘Again,’ Peter directed.
‘Please teach me – not to be a cry-baby.’
Another savage stroke met my aching flesh, but I kept my legs straight and my cries to myself. I swallowed and spoke my line again.
The third stroke made me hiss, but I forced my legs to stay rooted to the floor. My fingers were gripping my trousers so hard they were shaking. I felt tears pricking my eyes and I willed them away.
The final three strokes steadily increased in intensity and I knew he was trying to break me. But I stuck to my resolve, gasping and biting back my yelps of pain. I spoke the awful phrase six times, feeling as though I was being brainwashed. By the time it was over I was a trembling mess.
‘Very good, Shepherd,’ Peter said, a trace of pride in his voice. ‘Get up. Get dressed.’
I hurriedly adjusted my clothing, eager to let poor Martin escape the evil clutches of Carruthers. I stood before him, my eyes on the floor.
‘Right, boy,’ he said. ‘This time if Fleming asks you about the state of your girlish little backside you’ll tell him how much you deserved it, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Carruthers.’
‘Excellent. And I expect to find my study habitable tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Carruthers.’
I turned to go, but a lift of his eyebrows summoned me back.
‘Isn’t there something you’re forgetting, boy?’
I looked up, confused and worried that there was more to come.
He raised his eyebrows.
Suddenly understanding, I lowered my head again. ‘Thank you, Carruthers,’ I murmured.
He smiled. ‘You’re welcome, boy. Now, off with you.’
I headed for the door, snatching up my hat as I went. I scampered down the stairs, eager to get out of my tormentor’s sight, and sank back against the wall outside the study. I felt drunk. Drowning in that confusing cocktail of embarrassment, arousal and shame. I covered my face with my hands. It was so flushed it felt feverish. I knew my bottom was bright red and I couldn’t wait to look at it in the mirror.
I heard Peter’s footsteps on the stairs and I braced myself for the encounter. When I peeled my hands away from my face he was standing by the clock, grinning cheerfully at me.
‘You OK?’
I buried my face again.
‘Oh, God,’ I moaned. ‘I don’t know if I can face you again!’
‘Oh? That’s a shame. Because, while that little roleplay may be over, you still have your customer to deal with. Rent boy.’
I didn’t think it was possible to blush any harder. My face felt scorched.
He opened the door to the library. ‘Inside,’ he said, beaming wickedly.
I obeyed, a lamb to the slaughter.
‘Now then, my lad,’ he said, his tone different. ‘That’s as far as I ever got in school. With you, I can go much further.’
I recalled some of the things Shaun had said in his mock obscene call. I hid my face again, horrified.
Peter was positively revelling in my embarrassment. ‘Yes, that’s exactly right,’ he teased, as though reading my thoughts. ‘Trousers down.’
With nervous fingers, I unbuttoned my trousers again and let them slide down my legs.
‘Over the arm of the sofa.’
I shuffled to the spot he indicated and bent down over it. I grabbed a cushion and shoved my face into it.
Behind me, I heard Peter chuckle. Then I felt his hands in the waistband of my underpants. He pulled them down slowly over my punished bottom, making me wince at the pain.
‘Very nice,’ he commented, running a finger along the tramlines. ‘I do like a lad who can take a proper caning.’
At the sound of his zip, I realised just how wet I was. Endorphins were pinging around in my head and my sex was screaming for release. I was desperate for him to touch me, to take me.
I heard the soft pop of a plastic top coming off a pot and then there was a cold oily sensation between my cheeks. He eased them apart with his thumbs, exposing me completely. His finger sought the little rosebud of my anus and I whimpered into the cushion as he swirled his finger around the puckered ring, probing. Coaxing it open. I couldn’t stop myself clenching at the intrusive sensation. But the determined finger pushed inside, up where no one had ever been. It must have been obvious to Peter that I was a virgin there.
