Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its countless rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. The two eighteen-year-olds were more suited to the life of the boys in town.
They were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.
They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school.
They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.
Previously in Rory and Alistair
Rory lay stark naked on his bed; his stiff cock in his fist. It was another scorching day. The heatwave was breaking all records. The weight of his body pressed his corrugated buttocks into the mattress. Six ugly red welts stood up on his otherwise creamy-white bum. Two were still very tender when he put any pressure on them.
It had been Six. Short trousers at the floor, white underpants at the knees. The eighteen-year-old had been bent over a hard wooden chair; palms down on the shiny seat. The new master Mr Macaulay was showing off. He was showing Rory and the other boys at Willadong Academy that he could. If he wanted to he could put a heavy whippy rattan cane across their bare arses and there was nothing – absolutely zilch – they could do about it. Such was the power of a schoolmaster.
Rory was no fool. He saw right through Mr Macaulay. The young master had said Rory was cheeky, insubordinate, rebellious, defiant and “sassy” – whatever that meant. It was as if Mr Macaulay had swallowed Roget’s Thesaurus. Mr Macaulay had made most of it up. He often didn’t obey the rules, it was true, but Rory had done nothing special to upset Mr Macaulay.
So six-of-the-best it had been. The young master was a fine cricketer. He knew how to slog a ball to the boundary. He used that strength to whip his cane into Rory’s bared bottom so fiercely it was as if he were trying to enter at one end of the buttocks and slice through them like a hot knife and butter, before exiting at the front. It had been one heck of a thrashing.
Mr Macaulay enjoyed every moment of it, Rory was quite certain of that. The master was probably at that very moment lying on his own bed wanking himself dry at the memory. Rory himself was close to orgasm. He wasn’t thinking of his caning, he had other pleasures on his mind. In a perfect world he would be fantasying about his boyfriend Alistair; the two eighteen year olds shared the same room and had sex at least once every day. But, despite Rory’s great affection for Alistair he never used his friend as wanking material.
Rory didn’t know the name of the star of his dream. It was a guy he had seen at Banjo’s record shop. Banjo’s was the closest the town of Willadong had to a “counter-culture” – it was where the young people – and some not so young – went to hang out and listen to the latest records from America. Recently they had spent a lot of time listening to some new guy called improbably Little Richard.
The young man Rory dreamed of always looked so sad; he had a permanent frown painted on his face. But his legs and oh that cute little bum encased in the tiniest pale green cotton shorts. How Rory would like to get inside those. Whoosh! He shot a load over his belly.
Only later as he cleaned himself up with a rag did he notice the time. It was past lock-up; where was his friend Alistair? Had something happened to him?
At that moment Alistair was trudging his way back to the school. His backside throbbed. The short trousers he was forced to wear as a “junior” boy chaffed against his raw buttocks. He was late for lock-up; the chances were he’d get a sound spanking from Pendleton, the Head of Wilson’s House. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced to bend across the house captain’s knee for a dose of his hard wooden hairbrush across the bare arse. Pendleton wouldn’t care that Alistair’s bum was already on fire.
The eighteen-year-old grinned. What an afternoon it had been. Who would ever have predicted it? It had happened in Ferguson’s bottle shop. Old man Ferguson was typical of small shopkeepers – he had very few scruples. If a boy had cash, he would sell him liquor. No awkward questions about age were asked. Not all the seniors at Willadong Academy were angels. Many of them frequented Ferguson’s. Even Rory and Alistair – short trousers or no – were served there. So, that afternoon Alistair made his regular visit in search of a quarter bottle of whisky.
But the old man was not there. Instead, a younger version stood behind the counter. Alistair had never seen him before, but it didn’t take a genius to see he was Ferguson’s son – or, for he couldn’t have been older than about twenty, his grandson.
“Bells, please,” Alistair did not anticipate trouble; he was a cash-paying customer. He might not have expected trouble, but trouble he most certainly got. “You must be joking,” Young Ferguson rejoined, and then he positively sneered the next word, “sonny.”
Undeterred, Alistair repeated his liquor order. “Quarter bottle. Thanks.”
Young Ferguson looked Alistair up and down. From his thong encased feet to the top of his tousled hair. He saw an obvious schoolboy, dressed only in grey short trousers and an open-necked white shirt.
“I know you,” Young Ferguson leaned forward across the counter menacingly. “You’re from the Academy.” Alistair flushed. This wasn’t going to plan. “I’m getting on the phone right now. I’m calling your headmaster.”
The eighteen-year-old reeled. Headmaster! The stupid man meant it too. “B.. b.. but,” he blustered. “Yeah,” young Ferguson grinned. “It’ll be a right caning for you. Bare arsed, I shouldn’t wonder.” He was enjoying himself enormously.
A caning. Yes, Alistair thought, almost certainly. But there could be much worse to come, if the headmaster heard about his regular visits to the bottle shop. Alistair had been in so much trouble at school over the years, this might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. This might be the time Dr Bruce, the headmaster, sent him packing. Expelled. Sent home in disgrace. No school examinations sat. No place at university. No good career to look forward to. All because of this idiot shopkeeper’s son.
Young Ferguson peered perceptively at the schoolboy standing before him. No boy wanted a flogging from the headmaster. He would do almost anything to avoid that. Young Ferguson had learnt as much in the weeks he had been standing in for his father.
“Of course,” he stretched his arms wide and then steepled his fingers, “I could deal with the matter myself.” He left the words hanging in the air. The silence in the small shop was deafening. Young Ferguson let the words sink in. He assumed Alistair was no fool. They were supposed to be a brainy bunch at Willadong Academy.
“Well?” Young Ferguson’s tongue shot out his mouth like a lizard’s. Then he ran the tip around both his lips, all the time staring intently at the youth in front of him. “What’s it to be? Me or the headmaster?”
Alistair couldn’t stop is eyelids blinking. What kind of choice was this? It had to be either a flogging and possible expulsion at the hands of Dr Bruce or some as yet unspecified treatment from the vile Young Ferguson. The heat in the small shop was oppressive; sweat poured down Alistair’s back. He could hardly breathe. Any moment now he might collapse on the floor in a faint.
His mouth was impossibly dry. There was not a single drop of saliva. Alistair could barely form the words he needed to say. “You,” was all he could croak.
“Is the right answer,” Young Ferguson shouted over-enthusiastically, like a game show host on the radio. He sprang towards the shop door, locked it and turned the “Open” sign at the window to face the other way.
“Follow me,” he said as he breezed through the shop and entered a storeroom. Miserably, Alistair followed behind. He stopped at the entrance of the room, astounded at what he saw. It was in most ways a typical storeroom for a small shop. There were some cases of booze and others with cigarettes. But dominating the room, right in the centre, were two crates stacked one on top of the other. And on the top of that was an old grey blanket. It was neatly rolled and laid out to make a cushion. It was a makeshift punishment block. It was the right height for a boy of Alistair’s size to bend across and offer up his backside for beating.
On the far wall, hanging from a large nail was a dark brown paddle. Alistair had never seen one before. Willadong Academy was a “caning school” – although some heads of house used a rubber-soled gym shoe. And, Pendleton, of course used his nanny’s hairbrush. This paddle was twenty inches long, about three-quarters of an inch thick and four inches wide. It had holes drilled in the blade end.
“Oh I see you’ve seen the paddle. It’s a real beauty, I can tell you.” Young Ferguson spoke as if he were showing his prisoner his new car. “Very effective. Stings like hell,” he grinned. “As you are about to find out.”
Alistair blanched. Even his deeply suntanned face could not disguise his concern.
“Yes,” Young Ferguson positively beamed, “I’ve taken the arses off a few of your school chums.” He swirled the words “school chums” around his mouth as if enjoying a fine wine. “You won’t sit down for a week,” he chuckled to himself. “Come on in, don’t stand at the door. I haven’t got all day. I’ve had to lock up the shop.”
Alistair shuffled forward. He was no stranger to corporal punishment. Sometimes it seemed his arse was permanently bruised. Just as the effects of one caning were wearing off; he was bent across a chair for another bowing. Such was his life at Willadong Academy.
“Come now,” Young Ferguson was enjoying himself immensely. “Stand by the block,” he said as he reached up to the wall and retrieved the paddle. It looked an awesome weapon in his small hands. He held it by the handle in his right fist and gently tap, tap, tapped it into the palm of his left hand. Alistair’s eyes followed it as it moved.
“C’mon, let’s have those trousers down. Pants too.”
Alistair couldn’t believe it. What would he tell Rory? That he tried to buy whisky as usual, but instead of old man Ferguson, he found his pervert son. And said perve demanded Alistair show him his bare arse so he could whack it black and blue with a heavy wooden paddle. Rory would never believe him. Until, he showed him the battered backside and the outline of the paddle reproduced dozens of times across his cheeks.
“Come on!” Young Ferguson raised his voice considerably. “Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?” He would do. He had done precisely that with one lanky prefect only yesterday. The stupid boy had frozen to the spot with both terror and humiliation. He had howled the house down after only a couple of swats.
Alistair shot Young Ferguson a glance. It was one, he hoped, that showed his contempt for the pervert, tinged with just a little defiance.
“Watch your attitude, sonny,” Young Ferguson sneered. “Just remember I’m the one with the paddle in his hand and you’re the one about to show me your bare arse.”
Alistair, undid the button at the top of his short trousers. They had a half-elasticated waist so needed no belt. The shorts slipped down his thighs and gravity took them past his knees and to the floor. Young Ferguson gazed at the eighteen-year-old’s underpants. Alistair’s cock was not erect, but it still made a terrific bulge against the snug cotton.
He hitched his thumbs under the waistband and sent them to meet his short trousers in the puddle at his feet.
Alistair slipped his feet out of his thongs and stepped out of his shorts and pants. He was naked from the waist down. The top four buttons of his white short-sleeved shirt were unbuttoned, revealing his clearly-defined chest. It was as nut brown as the teenager’s face. He moved forward a couple of paces and positioned himself over the block. He had to stand on tiptoe so the palms of his hands could rest on the cold stone floor. His naked and vulnerable buttocks rested along the edge of the chest at a perfect angle to receive swats from the paddle.
It wasn’t necessary, because Alistair’s shirt tail had risen up his back, but Young Ferguson took hold of it and dragged it so that the shirt was now at the teenager’s shoulders. He was almost totally naked. Alistair was deeply suntanned across his whole body, except for a small area where swimming trunks had covered his buttocks, which was creamy-white. Ferguson ran his hand over Alistair’s cheeks, making gentle circular motions across the apex of each mound. The cheeks were tighter than some Young Ferguson had encountered in the past few days.
At last, he was ready to go. He lay the paddle across Alistair’s left cheek, raised it about two feet away from the flesh and brought it crashing down. It was all in the wrist action. Young Ferguson admired the red rectangle that instantly appeared. Alistair’s mouth opened and his lips formed an “owww,” but he uttered no sound.
By the fourth whack of the paddle, Alistair was starting to feel it. His bottom tingled. As the fifth and sixth blows landed he was surprised to find that the paddling was really hurting. The heat built into a terrific ache and each stinging new blow inflicted fresh torment. Involuntarily, his bottom wriggled and quivered.
Young Ferguson nailed Alistair’s bottom from one side to the other, up and down and down and up, taking the paddle under his cheeks and onto his thighs. That burned like the fires of hell. Young Ferguson whacked at ten second intervals. Suddenly, he stopped. Alistair lay across the chest unsure what to do next. At school the master would give a command. “Up,” or would say something like, “That’s it. It’s over,” but Young Ferguson remained silent. Then, Alistair felt his punisher’s hand caressing his backside. It reignited the pain in parts of his throbbing bum. Welts had risen and blood was trying to weep through where the paddle had repeatedly landed on the same spot.
At last Young Ferguson spoke; or rather, he croaked, “Okay. You’d better stand up.” Alistair hauled himself to a standing position. His bum ached like crazy. It had probably been one of the worst beatings he had ever endured. It had gone on and one. This had been no simple six-of-the-best. Six severe cuts and it was over. He hadn’t been counting, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the pervert had given him a hundred or more swats.
He retrieved his trousers and pants and very gingerly he dressed. Young Ferguson stood and watched him do it. He was wheezing, his body bent double. Alistair tried to see the front of his tormentor’s trousers, but Young Ferguson kept it hidden.
Without a word, Alistair left the storeroom. He knew Young Ferguson would not follow him. He wouldn’t return to the shop until he had masturbated. Alistair went behind the shop counter, found two quarter bottles of whisky and slid them into the pockets of his short trousers. He unlocked the door and left it wide open as he hurried down the street in the direction of school.
The prefects had given up waiting for latecomers. It was a lucky break. Alistair would not have been able to endure another spanking. He returned to his room to find his lover Rory naked on the bed, the cuts across his backside still raw.
“Macaulay,” he said in answer to a question Alistair had not asked. He rolled onto his stomach so his pal could have a better view. Alistair licked a finger and traced it across the six welts. “Pretty impressive,” he said cheerfully. “But, not a patch on this.”
He grinned hugely as he whipped down his short trousers and underpants to show Rory his savaged arse. His efforts were greeted by Rory’s swelling cock. Alistair’s dick saluted in solidarity. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he wheezed as he knelt by the side of the bed and put his lips around the tip of Rory’s magnificent spear.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second