Harrison sped down the passageway. His arse was on fire. There was nobody around so he was not embarrassed kneading his scorching flesh. Jesus H. Christ, he was on fire. Moments earlier he had been stretched across the worn leather chesterfield coach in the headmaster’s study. Nose pressing against the stinking leather. Trousers at his ankles; Y-fronts at his knees.
The headmaster laid on twelve stingers. Twelve. A dozen. On the bare arse. Was that even legal? Bloody hell, he’s eighteen years old, almost an adult.
Harrison heaved his shoulder against a door and pressed hard against the force of the overhead spring. Great. The sixth-form bogs were unoccupied. Carefully, he unbuckled his belt and let his mid-grey trousers slip over his buttocks. Then gingerly he eased down his cotton underpants. The throbbing was intense. Then, he pointed his bare bum at the mirror. Crikey! The marks will last a month, he thought.
Suddenly, the door opened. In walked his best pal Tollinson. He paused in the doorway and seeing Harrison’s corrugated flesh, let out a low soulful whistle.
“I heard you had been called to the beak,” he said, moving further into the lavatory. “Well he’s given you a good set of marks.” He licked his index finger and gently traced one of the longer, deeper cuts with it.
“Sorry,” he lied, when his friend winced as the pain was reignited. As any schoolboy would, Tollinson was greatly enjoying his pal’s distress. “It looks like a map of Clapham Junction,” he grinned.
Harrison twisted his body to get a closer view while Tollinson carefully massage his hairless bum with the palms of his hands. “It’s hot enough to fry an egg back here,” he grinned.
Harrison grimaced. “Look at those cuts,” he sashayed his bum. “It’ll take forever for them to clear.”
“A week at least,” Tollinson confirmed. “When Davis got done, there were bruises for ten days,” he added with authority, “and he only got six.”
Harrison cupped one buttock in his hand and weighed it ruefully. “I’m meeting Sandra tonight, what’s she going to say?”
“Your girlfriend?” Tollinson asked sulkily. “Do you mean you’re doing it?” He assumed like himself, every boy at the school was a virgin. There were no girl pupils. The only action the sex-starved boys got came courtesy of their right hands. Or (he supposed) the left for those so inclined.
“Of course,” Harrison straightened his shoulders. The cock of the walk. “How do I explain this?”
Tollinson stared at the ridged arse and shrugged, “Tell her the truth, why not?”
Harrison eased up his underpants and trousers. Tollinson struggled to hide his disappointment. Harrison buckled his belt furiously. “I told her I was a student at Brocklehurst Uni. How can I explain this?” He rubbed the seat of his trousers in case Tollinson didn’t understand.
Tollinson pursed his lips. “Tell her you flunked a test and your professor gave you a bowing to buck up your ideas.”
“Will she buy that?” Harrison asked.
“Yeah, right,” his pal chortled. “Come on, let’s go home.”
The two schoolboys walked down the passageway. One distressed and the other delighted there would be no nookey for Harrison that night.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
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