Blake and Nigel stood at the entrance to the garage and peered inside. The light was not good but they could see clear enough that everything was neat and tidy.
Mr Mandelson was eighty-two. He had recently been taken to Brocklehurst Nursing Home: he wouldn’t be coming back. His granddaughter had asked them to look in the garage and the loft. If there was anything worth selling it could go to the Red Cross. The rest would go on the town dump.
Blake and Nigel were eighteen years old and had been best friends all their lives. They were both only children; Nigel had no father to speak of. He had run away just after Nigel was born. Blake and Nigel were like brothers.
Something had been troubling Nigel for some time. He had probably known it for years but only now could he admit it to himself. He was gay. He was sure of it and more than a little scared. He couldn’t tell his best pal; it would be the end of the friendship for sure. Blake often made jokes about “faggots” of the “backs to the walls, guys!” variety.
There had been one kid at school when they were thirteen. They treated him unmercifully because they thought he was a fruit. The kid moved home and they never heard of him again. He probably wasn’t gay, Nigel now realised, but he was wet.
Nigel often dreamt about Blake. In the dreams they weren’t doing much, just lying in bed cuddling. But it was always enough to make sure Nigel woke in the morning with sticky bedsheets. Sometimes there was more to his fantasies. Only the previous night Nigel had dreamt he and Blake were at Blake’s home. Blake’s dad had his son across his knee. Blake’s soccer shorts were at his ankles and his briefs at the knees. Blake couldn’t remember what crime the two teens had committed; probably drinking beer, that was frowned upon in their community.
Nigel watched as Blake’s dad spanked his son with the flat of his hand. Hard and rapidly. Nigel was transfixed by his friend’s naked backside and how the flesh wobbled with the impact of each slap. Blake wasn’t fat; far from it, but his buttocks had a lot of meat.
Nigel didn’t get the chance to go over Blake’s dad’s knee for his turn – he had already shot his load and the dream ended.
The two boys stepped inside the garage. At the far end there was an old chest freezer. It was empty. On the wall were neatly hung DIY tools and in a corner, garden equipment. And that was it. They could probably send it all to the Red Cross.
They went inside the house. Nigel held the ladder steady as his pal climbed into the loft. It wasn’t really necessary but it gave Nigel an excuse to look at his friend’s bum close up as he climbed the rungs. It was a meaty bum and it looked all the better in the tight soccer shorts Blake wore – just like the ones in Nigel’s dreams.
Nigel was also dressed in sport shorts and a tee-shirt. They expected it would be hot and dirty in the loft. Soon they were both safely inside. Blake found a switch and the room was brightly illuminated. It was as neat and tidy as the garage. In one corner under a dust sheet were a pile of boxes and in the centre of the room was a large heavy wooden trunk, the kind posh people used to use in the olden days when they travelled.
Blake carefully removed the dust sheet and opened the first box. “Old films,” he said holding up a reel of 8-mm film. He unravelled the end, drew out a yard of celluloid and held it to the light. “Looks like a school.”
Nigel shrugged his shoulders. “They might be home movies. We should give them to his granddaughter.”
Blake opened the other boxes. There was not much to interest him. There were a lot of ancient school text books. One had a map of the world.
“Not much here, what’s in the trunk?”
“It’s locked,” Nigel replied. “I’ll go get something from the garage, we can break it open.” With that he climbed out the loft.
Blake unfurled the map. Most of the countries were coloured pink. Idly, he rummaged through the books. They were geography mostly, from the nineteen-thirties. Had Mr Mandelson been a schoolteacher, he wondered.
Nigel soon returned with a hammer and chisel. It took a couple of whacks to smash the padlock. He wiped dust from the top of the heavy chest. “Perhaps it’s full of pirate treasure. Gold and jewels, Jim lad,” Blake joked, mimicking Long John Silver.
Both boys stood over the trunk in eager anticipation as Nigel eased it open. “Hmm,” he wheezed thoughtfully. “School uniform.” He reached in and carefully lifted a green blazer with gold trimmings. “St Francis Grammar,” he read the name on the badge on the pocket. He unfolded it and held it in his two hands.
“It’s a bit big,” Blake took the blazer from his friend and slipped his arms into it. It hung from his shoulders and the sleeves came half way down his palm. “Boys must have been pretty big in his days,” he said. Nigel frowned silently. Surely, he thought, people in the old days were smaller, not larger. He had learnt it in school. It was something to do with diets.
Blake took off the blazer and carefully placed it on the dustsheet. Nigel removed another blazer from the trunk. This one was red and white and had the letters PGS on the blazer pocket. It was equally as large as the green one. He placed it on the dustsheet. A third blazer was navy blue. Its pocket badge had an image of two curved handled school canes crossed into an “X” over the words “Brocklehurst Grange.”
He held it up for Blake to see. He got a quizzical look from his pal in return. “What the buggery!” Nigel exclaimed. He had just seen a pair of mid-grey short trousers in the trunk. He reached inside and realised there were three pairs, all short and each in a different style.
“Wah-hoo!” Blake yelled. His face lit up and without a second’s hesitation he pulled down his soccer shorts and took the grey school short trousers from Nigel. He stepped into them and pulled them up. They had a half elastic waist and fitted him rather loosely. He put one hand on his hip and sashayed around the loft, rather as he imagined models would do on a cat walk.
Nigel watched him cautiously. His pal looked gorgeous in the grey short trousers. They came down to just above his knees and his bum was hidden in folds of cloth, but he was still sex on a stick. Nigel felt his cock tighten. He placed his hands in front of his crotch. The soccer shorts he was wearing were tight, it would be impossible to hide it if his soldier went on the march.
Nigel pulled out a Boy Scout uniform, pairs of knee socks that matched the colours of the blazers, a couple of school caps and an assortment of ties. Silently, he piled them on the dustsheet. He had seen some other things in the trunk. Things that he didn’t want to think about.
Blake took the initiative. His heart thumped so loudly he was sure Nigel would hear it echoing around the small loft. First he took out an old worn white gym plimsoll. Then a small block of wood with a handle on it. This was followed by a leather strap cut into two tails at one end. Finally, two whippy rattan canes emerged.
The boys looked at each other dumbfounded. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years before they were born and despite Nigel’s dream dads did not spank their sons these days, no matter how much they might deserve it. Even so, they immediately knew what all these implements were for. They stared at them in silence for some moments.
Then, Blake cracked. He picked up a rattan cane just below its crooked handle and swished it viciously through the air. “Bend over Thompson. Touch your toes,” he growled as schoolmasters across the generations were wont to do. Nigel giggled uneasily. His cock was twitching again. Blake swiped the cane again. “I said ‘Bend over Thompson’ it’s six-of-the-best for you.” He set his face into a scowl.
“God, yes please!” Nigel didn’t say it aloud, but at that moment he would willingly submit to his masterful pal. Blake was no taller or stronger than Nigel, but when he wanted to, he had a presence. You wouldn’t want to get on Blake’s bad side.
The cane flew through empty space once more. “Bend over Thompson.”
Nigel could not meet his friend’s eye. Was he serious? Would he really hit him with that stick? It was a little over three feet long and as thick as a pencil. When Blake swished it about it looked awesome. A caning would hurt terrifically.
Nigel lent forward and stretched his fingers so they rested on the toes of his trainers. He could feel the cotton of his shorts tighten across his buttocks. He closed his eyes tight, this was going to hurt awfully, but he wanted it. He wanted his best pal, and the subject of his wet dreams, to punish him.
He felt Blake “saw” the cane across the centre of his buttocks. He was taking his aim. Any moment now, Nigel shuddered in delightful anticipation. The cane lifted away from his bum and returned a second later and tapped into his backside. That was it? That was supposed to be a stroke of the cane? Nigel was bitterly disappointed. He stayed in position waiting for stroke number two.
When he realised it wasn’t coming, he stood up. He couldn’t control his dismay. “Do it properly. Give me a proper caning. Like you meant it.” He couldn’t believe he had said it out loud. He had asked his best friend to thrash his arse. Properly. Like the headmaster of St Francis Grammar, or whoever pretended to be him, beat Mr Mandelson and his pals.
Without waiting for a response, Nigel turned away from Blake and resumed his position, back arched, legs apart, tips of fingers on toes.
Blake had never seen a boy caned before, he didn’t know how it should be done. He let instinct take over. He stared down at Nigel’s bum. The white soccer shorts were so tight he could see the outline of his underpants beneath them. In his touching toes position, there was a small area to aim at. If a caning was to be “proper” it had to be delivered with some force. The caner had to put some beef into it. So, that’s what Blake did. He whacked a cut across the middle of both buttocks and was rewarded with a yelp from Nigel. Then he struck five more times.
Nigel was gasping and yelping and wriggling and writhing. The caning hurt like crazy. His bum was throbbing like mad. He wanted to jump up and rub the pain away. But, he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he didn’t want Blake to see. He didn’t want Blake to see he couldn’t take an old-fashioned schoolboy caning. More than that, he didn’t want Blake to see the tent-pole-like erection at the front of his shorts.
The six-of-the-best was over, but Nigel remained bent over touching toes. Blake was wheezing a bit himself. “No that’s enough,” Blake said, supposing his best friend wanted him to continue thrashing him. “For now, at least …” he trailed off.
Reluctantly, Nigel stood, trying to keep his back to Blake as he rubbed his aching bum.
“C’mon, shorts down, let me see,” Blake grinned. He reached over to grab the waist of Nigel’s shorts. Then he saw the massive bulge. He roared with laughter. His own cock was also standing on end, but hidden by his loose-fitting school short trousers.
He pulled Nigel’s shorts and pants down, releasing the throbbing cock. Then, in a single movement, he had his own short trousers and tighty-whitey pants at his ankles. The two eighteen-year-olds stared at each other’s aching members. Blake was still working on instinct. He fell to his knees and took the end of Nigel’s cock into his mouth. He ran his tongue around the tip and up and down an inch of the shaft. Nigel yelped, when Blake gripped his buttocks, reigniting the pain from the caning. He thrust his hips backward and forward as if he were trying to fuck Blake’s mouth. His pal gagged and let the cock slip from his lips.
Nigel grabbed Blake’s dick and inexpertly ran his fist up and down the shaft. “Careful, careful,” Blake winced. “Do it just as if you were tossing yourself off. Gently.” His pal resumed. Slowly.
Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. Mr Mandelson’s granddaughter had arrived to see how well the boys were doing.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second