All's Well that Ends Well

CHAPTER 1

Friday nights at Churton were always especially exciting for Marcus Saxby-Cox, the head-boy of the school. At 7:30 each Friday evening, those boys, who had accumulated five demerits, were honour bound to present themselves together with their demerit diaries at the head-boy’s study, where they would, in retribution for their accumulated peccadilloes, be treated to a-no-questions-asked-non-negotiable-six-cut-beating with a rattan cane applied vigorously to their bare arses. Taken individually none of their minor misdemeanours justified a caning, but some long retired Headmaster had decreed that after five infractions, a boy needed a short, sharp shock to put him back onto the straight and narrow path of righteousness from which he was in danger of straying. So had begun the system of demerit diaries and the Friday evening ritual in the head-boy’s study, beating the so-called honour penitents,became one of the traditionally painful fixtures of life at Churton; and with Marcus Saxby-Cox wielding the cane, anyone unlucky enough to be treated to his not-so-tender-loving-care, learned just how painful a six-cut, well-beaten arse could be.

The truly awful thing about the system was that you did not have to get caught breaking the rules by some higher authority or other; once you had accumulated five demerits, you were duty-bound to present yourself, accompanied, of course, by your arse, to the head-boy for correction. Don’t you just love that mealy-mouthed word correction?In reality what was about to happen to you was that you were going to have your bare arse flogged with a cane. And when it came to wielding the cane, it was generally accepted that the present head-boy was a leading exponent the art. So for those boys unfortunate enough to have accumulated the fatidic total of five demerits, their inevitable visit to the head-boy’s study was not one filled with great joy. If, as occasionally happened, you forgot your obligation, either genuinely or otherwise, when your forgetfulnesscame to light, as it usually did, your arse really suffered; the penalty automatically increased threefold – always non-negotiable – to eighteen strokes, moreover with a senior-cane, whatever your age.

Moreover, the tradition was even worse than it appeared at first sight; for each successive set of five demerits, the punishment increased by three strokes. So on the occasion of a third Friday evening visit to the head-boy’s study – a regular occurrence for certain lads – the unfortunate offender was faced with twelve swingeing cuts on the bare. In public school speak, on the bare is shorthand for on the bare buttocks or, as it is more frequently referred to by everyone other than the masters – and even by some of them – on the bare arse. And it got even worse; for on a fourth set of five demerits in any school year – yearand not term – the unfortunate lad was treated by the Headmaster to the ultimate punishment: a bare arse birching. In spite of the progressive severity of penalties, several boys regularly qualified for a twelve cut beating each year; but birchings for a fourth set of demerits were rare and limited to one or two each year. But the birch was there and hung like the Sword of Damocles over the heads of the entire school.

Churton, a boys’ public boarding school, accommodating some 480 boys, aged from thirteen to eighteen plus, was located in large village of the same name, not far from the county town of Hereford. Churton was a very traditional school and the cane was in regular use; too regular by half, in the opinion of many of the boys, whose bare arses were under constant threat of its bite, from a platoon of eighteen prefects under the auspices of the head-boy, six housemasters and the Headmaster himself. To make matters worse, the Headmaster and the six housemasters all still used the dreaded birch, which was considered by most boys to be fate worse than death and to be avoided like the plague. And occasionally – very, very occasionally, the Headmaster had been known to birch a boy and then go on to indulge his artistic talents, not to mention his latent sadism, by giving him another four parallel cuts with the cane, completed by two, additional crossing diagonal cuts across his victims already throbbingly painful arse. No one could ever accuse any of the authorised cane wielders at Churton, masters and prefects alike, of a lack of thoroughness.

In appointing Marcus Saxby-Cox as head-boy, the then Headmaster, a certain Mr. Godber, had, fortuitously, made, what in his eyes, was an excellent choice. Himself a firm believer in the benefits of both the cane and the birch when applied to any delinquent boy’s bare buttocks, an act he practised with surprising regularity, not to mention skill, the Headmaster rejoiced in the fact that his new head-boy had quickly shown himself to have a slight sadistic streak in his make-up, which he displayed in the strict discipline he dispensed when it came to controlling his schoolmates. Whether the head-boy realised quite how much he enjoyed thrashing his school-mates is a moot point. But Mr. Godber, who kept his ear permanently to the ground and learned that after one month in office, the general opinion of boys who had had the pleasure of being beaten by both him and the head-boy, that in terms of pain delivery, they were both considered absolute bastards and should be avoided like the plague. In the light of this damning verdict, Mr. Godber was delighted both with his choice and his own reputation.

But to come back to the head-boy’s Friday night flogging-fests, the reason why Marcus Saxby-Cox looked forward to them so much was the sense of excitement of the unknown they brought to his life. It was not until at the witching hour of 7:30 pm each Friday evening, as he turned the corner to enter the corridor leading to his own study that he would know whether it was to be feast or famine that evening. The honour system required only that any boy – from first former through to the upper sixth – with the dreaded five demerits to his name, present himself the head-boy for punishment on Friday evening at 7:30. There was no signing-in process prior to the painful event; the lad in question simply came and stood outside the head-boy’s study, bringing his demerit diary with him at the fatidic hour and waited to be called in to have his arse shredded. So the head-boy himself was always in the dark, until a few minutes before the executions took place, as to how many, if indeed any, honour penitents were to avail themselves of his services.

However, during his first term as head-boy, Marcus had never, to date, known a single Friday when there was not at least one boy waiting nervously to be called into his study and enjoy submitting his bare arse to the biting rigours of the rattan cane as rigidly set out, as if

carved in tablets of stone, in the school rules. I almost said waiting eagerly for the head-boy’s arrival;but that would have been a gross misrepresentation of the thoughts churning around in the head of most of the penitents. On the whole, they were all shit scared of what they were about to suffer at the hands of a head-boy. Their only consolation, if you could call it that, was that the head-boy had considerable artistic talent when it came to wielding the cane and always left his victims with a visually attractive, striped arse, which they were later proud to show off to their room-mates.

And they were not wrong to be nervous, for by the end of his second week in office, Marcus Saxby-Cox had already established a reputation as being a right bastard when it came to beating arse. Not for nothing was he generally referred to as The Killer.As a boy, who had himself run the gauntlet of multiple head-boys’ and prefects during his earlier years at the school, Marcus’s own backside was no stranger to the cane. And so, like many a prefect before him – and many who were to follow him – Marcus saw his final year very much as pay-back time and had no compunction at all in indulging his sadistic streak and beating arse as often and as hard as he could; and make no mistake, in Marcus Saxby-Cox’s hands, the payback was always with generous interest.

On this particular Friday evening, the last Friday before the long Christmas break, which started on Wednesday of the following week, the head-boy’s heart literally jumped for joy as he saw a clutch of five victimsawaiting him as he turned the corner and walked towards his study. Two fourth formers, Benson and Crawley, whom he had himself, earlier that very day, caught smoking in the gym changing rooms (how could anyone be so stupid?) were standing there before his study door, justifiably nervous, as they knew that their arses would shortly be the reluctant beneficiaries of the mandatory twelve strokes of the cane laid down in the school rules for anyone caught smoking, which along with drinking was a cardinal offence.

But additionally, three first formers, whose names Marcus did not yet know, had also, rather reluctantly, found themselves honour-bound to join the less than joyful throng and bring their arses along for a dusting of tender, loving care by the head-boy. So this particular Friday promised to be a very satisfying occasion for Marcus, who, like many of the prefects and indeed, like most older boys in general, was turned on sexually by the act of beating a naked arse. As Marcus thoroughly enjoyed beating his schoolmates’ bare bums, the concept of a response proportionate to the offence they had committed never crossed his mind. So every boy, who had the verydoubtful pleasure of being corrected by the head-boy, left his study sporting an arse which was truly worthy of the epithet, well beaten. The head-boy short-changed no one; everyone got his painful due in spades!

Like so many people, Marcus Saxby-Cox was a person of habit; and like many public school boys – young men really – of his age, he was sexually very active. At Churton, until the lower sixth all, boys slept in one of a series of eight-bed dormitories, located in the six houses of the school. But in the lower sixth, two boys shared a study bedroom. Of course sexual stirrings in most lads had started well before they reached the lower sixth when Marcus and his bosom friend, Maurice Denham, first shared a room together. But until they found themselves living in such close, private proximity, they had been nothing more than close friends: best mates, so to speak. But the sexual awakenings, which are inevitably associated with young men of that age, did not pass them by.

So their friendship, fostered by the privacy afforded by the nature of their living accommodation, rapidly progressed to a more intimate level. In a word, Marcus and Maurice quickly became sex partners in what was a somewhat a rather lopsided relationship: Marcus did all the fucking which seemed to please the submissive Maurice. But Maurice did not complain and Marcus, no slouch when it came to using his cock, made hay whilst the sun was shining. So the evening at the end of his first term as head-boy on which the events of this story began, Marcus Saxby-Cox, although already an accomplished copulator, still possessed a virgin anus, ripe to be initiated when the right person came along.

But the notable thing about their relationship, ill-balanced though it was, Marcus did not bugger Maurice; the two of them really did make love. Although very young, Marcus had already seen that he needed to take Maurice all the way to orgasm whenever he fucked him, he never let Maurice stranded, obliged to jerk-off to satisfy himself. This is not to say that Marcus did not occasionally abandon himself to his worst desires and rough fuck his partner. But even then Marcus never abandoned Maurice to his own devices and always fucked him through, as a bottom, to his own climax. In a word, the two sixth formers were true lovers.

Their sexual idyll of being able to sleep together every night came to an end when the boys commenced their final year in the upper sixth.

Maurice, along with all his house mates of the upper sixth was allocated a single study bedroom. But Marcus, as befitted his elevated status, was obliged to move into the lavish quarters (a study, a bathroom and a bedroom) which Churton accorded its head-boy, who had almost the status of a master. Notwithstanding that Marcus and Maurice now found themselves in different buildings, their mutual sexual attachment remained so strong, that twice a week Maurice surreptitiously crept from his house and spent the night in bed with Marcus in his new quarters, always behind a firmly locked door.

One of these two visits was always on Friday night, when Marcus, fresh from beating the evening’s contingent of honour-penitentsand any others whom he had deemed would benefit from his attention with the cane, was always particularly horny and was able to do full justice to Maurice’s ever eager anus. And so on this, the last Friday of the autumn term, with a five man beating in view, to be followed by the delights of a night of intense anal sex with Maurice, Marcus felt very satisfied at the evening’s prospect as he advanced along the corridor to greet the group of five, justifiably nervous boys awaiting his arrival. All in all it was a very satisfying prelude to the Christmas break: five arses to thrash and one – Maurice’s – to fuck.

Marcus had in the course of his first term as head-boy, rapidly defined, refined and honed his technique of dealing with boys whom he was about to beat. Not only had he perfected his physical handling of the cane, but he had also imbued the whole business of delivering a beating with psychological overtones, which increased the mental anguish of his victims whilst they waited for the painful onslaught on their arses which they knew they would shortly receive. In so doing he showed a completely different side of his character to the loving way in which he treated Maurice. And so, that evening, painting the most dour of disapproving expressions on his face, on arriving at his study, he brusquely collected the demerit diaries from each of the three first formers, all of whom he knew only by sight and told the whole group, fourth formers, Benson and Crompton included, to wait there until he called them into his study one by one to meet their immediate, rather painful destiny.

He then went into his study, closing the door firmly behind him, deliberately leaving his five clientsto stew in their own juice for a full, fifteen minutes. He first pulled into the middle of the room the old armchair, over the back of which he habitually made the boys bend and present their naked arses to him for correction. He laid out on his desk the two canes he would use: a junior one for the first formers and a second, heavier one for the two fourth formers, each of whose arses he intended artistically to embellish with twelve, swingeing cuts of the senior-cane, by way of giving them a Christmas card, which would remind them of their misdeeds well into the New Year. As you will by now have gathered, dear Reader, Marcus was not filled with the milk of human kindness, nor particularly imbued with the Christmas message, especially the bit which preaches goodwill to all men.

The physical disposition of the accoutrements for the floggings being now in place, Marcus leisurely turned himself to the task of entering the names of his five victims into his punishment register. James Cunningham, Robert Evans and William Hargreaves, were the names of the three first formers he extracted from their demerit diaries. Somewhat a stickler for order and convention, Marcus entered the three names in alphabetically order, the order in which, in a few minutes time, they would in turn be invited to submit their bare backsides to him for correction. He also entered the offences for which they were being punished and the number of strokes of the cane they received: in each case the same: five demerits; six strokes. He then completed his register for the evening, by entering the names of the two fourth formers, Benson and Crompton: smoking; twelve strokes. All that now remained for him to do was to call in the unfortunate five, one by one, and enjoy the pleasant task – only for himself, of course – of roasting their arses, after which he had the pleasure of looking forward to an evening of sex with Maurice Denham, to round off what for him would make a perfect day.

The five condemned lads had been left standing in the corridor for about fifteen minutes, waiting their calls to execution, when Marcus suddenly opened the door and called in the first boy: “Come in Cunningham, I’ll deal with you first, then you Evans and finally you Hargreaves; and after I have have finished with this new-boy, demerit group, I’ll see you first, Benson, whilst you, Crompton, will have the pleasure of being the last this evening.” Needless to say, as had been the head-boy’s express intention in keeping them waiting, the long wait had increased the nervousness of all five lads. And so it was a tensely fearful James Cunnigham who entered head-boy’s study to meet his fate.

James Cunningham was the tallest of the three first formers; a fair-haired, robust looking lad, who, Marcus immediately noted with pleasure, filled out his trousers well, with what was obviously a very beatable arse. “Well Cunningham, this is our first meeting and probably your first beating since you joined the school at the beginning of this term.”

“No, this will be my second beating this term, Saxby-Cox. I was beaten by by house-master for being impolite to to him; he gave me six just last week.”

“And six are precisely what I am going to give you now as this is your first demerit beating this year. Let me just remind you that a second set of demerits will land you with a nine-stroke-beating and a third will give you twelve strokes of the cane. And if you are sufficiently disobedient to accumulate yet a fourth set of demerits, you will have the pleasure of a Headmaster’s birching to looking forward to. So, my advice to you, young man, if you value your backside, is to make this first visit to my study also your last. Now, Cunningham, let’s get on with it; take of your coat and go stand behind the armchair over there; then drop your trousers and underpants to your ankles and bend across the back of the chair, put your hand on the seat and bend over the back as far as you can.”

Cunningham obediently and calmly did as he had been told and presented Marcus with an absolute peach of an arse; an arse which had just been made for a rendez-vous with a well-seasoned length of rattan and one which was still bearing traces of the housemaster’s beating of two weeks earlier.

With Cunningham settled in place, Marcus said: “Now, Cunningham, here comes the tricky bit; you must keep perfectly still whilst I cane you. If you move, or if you try to massage your bum whilst I am correcting you, then I shall be obliged to start again from the beginning. And do not attempt to clench your buttocks either; you must relax your bum the whole time or I shall again start from the beginning. Now, you will count each cut aloud as it is delivered and ask me to give you the next. Marcus then recited the fatuous phrase which every boy being beaten had to repeat after each stroke. You will receive a mandatory punishment of six cuts as stipulated in the school rules; and I kid you not; this is really going to hurt; so brace yourself, boy and I will begin”

Cunningham remained remarkably calm as Marcus laid the cane gently across the mind-point of his buttocks and did not move or give any sound at all as the cane came crashing down with great force, producing the first of the six livid furrows with which he was destined to pass a very uncomfortable night in bed.

Calmly he uttered the totally fatuous, ritual phrase: “One; thank you Saxby-Cox; please may I have another?”

And so, completely stoically, Cunnigham took his punishment and, like the gentleman he obviously was, showed no signs of the considerable pain he was experiencing nor emit any of the usual, audible histrionics. This was somewhat unnerving for Marcus, who prided himself on being able to reduce even the most macho of boys to tears by the fourth blow. But instead of mentally congratulating himself on a job well done, Marcus found himself – if somewhat reluctantly – admiring Cunningham’s self-control. When it was all over and Cunningham had again made himself decent, he turned to Marcus and, as if taking charge of the situation, said: “Saxby-Cox, thank you for correcting me and I just wanted to say that I bear you no ill-will as I realise that I deserved to be beaten and that you were just doing your job.” Marcus, totally deflated, could do none other than accept the proffered hand, which he saw as an affront to his position.

Marcus felt that he had just been robbed of all authority by the sang-froid of the boy he had just beaten, It was not that Cunningham had in any way been insolent, allowing Marcus to justify giving him another thrashing immediately, which, given half a chance, he would have done without a moment’s hesitation. But Cunningham just had an indescribably air of calm superiority about him, which rendered Marcus inwardly furious. It was not that he was in any way impudent or impolite; but he just exuded and air of calm self-confidence from every pore, which rendered Marcus impotent and stole all his thunder. It was as if Cunningham and not Marcus was charge; Marcus felt almost as if it was he who had been beaten by Cunningham and not the inverse.

Finally, as Cunningham left the head-boy’s study, although the pain he was suffering must have been excruciating, he added silent insult to injury by not even touching, let alone massaging, his backside in the normal way boys, who have just been beaten, usually do. Marcus was an expert of getting the best out of every cane; so no one ever left Marcus’s study after having been beaten by him, with less than a well-striped and very painful arse. But no one seeing Cunningham’s composure as he left the study would have had any inkling of the intense pain he was suffering. In a word, Cunningham, in spite of his youth, in the face of adversity, exhibited in spades those two much admired British qualities: grit and a stiff upper lip.

His behaviour had rendered Marcus both inwardly seething with anger but literally speechless. So, completely internally deflated, he said nothing more to Cunningham as he opened the door to show the lad out and invited Evans to come in and face the music – a very percussive piece – for his sins. As Evans entered the study, Marcus noticed that he was not wearing a tie, a fact which had escaped him in the corridor when he first arrived on the scene. This, in the rigid, tradition-riddled environment of Churton was an unbelievable liberty on the part of Evans, who was now to learn that this act of lèse-majesté had earned him a further six cuts of the cane.

Exaggeration being the order of the day, Marcus laid it in spades: “Evans, do you usually present yourself to your head-boy, on such a serious occasion as this in such a half-dressed state? You are here today to be punished because you have accumulated five demerits, for which you will shortly be rewarded by a six-cut beating. And now you come here not even wearing a tie. Have you no sense of decorum? No common sense, boy? Your actions, Evans are tantamount to waving a red flag in front of a bull, which you wish to enrage. Well let me tell you, young man, that this serious lapse of good manners, will not be overlooked and that your act of impoliteness has earned you a further six cuts of the cane, which I shall be more than happy to give you. If ever a boy needed a lesson in manners it is you, Evans. I can see from your lax, sartorial behaviour that you are probably someone who needs to be kept on a short leash to ensure that you remain on the straight and narrow. How many times this term have you already been whacked?”

Without waiting for an answer, Marcus barked: “Now, boy, get your blazer off and pants and underpants down and present me your naked bum for correction, by bending over the back of that armchair. I will then endeavour to ensure, with my customary skill, to see that you contribute a generous quantity of salty tears to the maintenance of that stain on the seat cushion, at which you will have the honour of looking directly, whilst I am beating you. Evans, I presume that you are capable of counting up to the stratospheric heights of twelve! So, if you value your hide, count each stroke and don’t forget to thank me and ask me to give you another. The appropriate words are… (Marcus intoned the words he obliged all of his victims to utter after each cut of the cane). And finally, Evans don’t even think of putting your hands on your arse, boy, in an attempt to ease the pain you will undoubtedly be feeling whilst I am caning you; otherwise I shall start your punishment again from the beginning.”

If Evans had been intimidated and scared, as had been Marcus’s intention by making the five lads wait in the corridor, and heard, albeit through the closed door, the sharp inimitable crack of the cane as it mated with Cunningham’s bare arse, after listening to Marcus, he was now absolutely terrified at the thought of what was about to happen to him; not to put too fine a point on it, he had that undesirable panic feeling of being about to shit bricks. What was worse for Evans was that he was totally unaware of the fact that Marcus himself, already extremely irritated by Cunningham’s calm behaviour, intended to regain what he saw as his own punctured pride, in exercising his undoubted authority to the full on Evans’s backside. So Marcus had every intention of regaining what he saw as his lost prestige by beating Evans into a Niagara of tears by the fourth stroke of the cane. With twelve really hard cuts of the rattan across Evan’s bare buttocks, Marcus had the sadistic intention of making the lad wish he had never been born.

It was not as if Evans was as pure as driven snow in his general behaviour. As Marcus had surmised, Evans had already been beaten twice earlier in the term; once by his house-master for rudeness and a second time by his house-captain for being being late and incorrectly dressed at breakfast. Evidently the second beating had not been taken to heart, for as we have seen, Evans was distinctly cavalier in his respect for the rather strict dress code enforced at Churton. So Marcus was quite justified in condemning the lad to a further six cuts of the cane. However, what was very disturbing and spoke ill of Marcus’s character, was that he was – quite unconscionably – intending to vent his own concealed anger on Evans’s bare arse, and thereby appease his own frustration brought on by Cunningham. Even more disturbing was the fact that in spite of the uncalled-for severity of the fusillade Marcus was about to visit on Evans’s backside, he did not himself realise the moral implications of what he was about to do.

Evans had been through a typical prep-school mill. Having a somewhat rebellious nature, his bum – as he still thought of it – had quickly made the acquaintance of the cane; first applied by his then no-nonsense form-master in his second week at prep-school, his arse and the cane rapidly became regular companions, meeting quite often. However, the many prep-school swishings that Evans had endured, could in no way be compared with the two beatings he had already received that first term at Churston. Given Evans’s’ rather disobedient and mischievous character, it was amazing, somewhat of miracle that he had managed to survive until almost the end of his first term before receiving that fatal, fifth demerit entry bringing him to the head-boy’s study today. However, as soon as the first stroke landed on Evans’s naked bum, the lad knew that this was no ordinary beating.

Evans knew from his long personal experience with the cane, that there was pain and pain; but this was pain at an excruciating level, such as he had never before experienced. Had Marcus been able to see the Evans’s eyes at that moment, his heart would have jumped for joy, for that first stroke had already brought tears to the lad’s eyes. From then on, Marcus applied nine more swingeing strokes, ten in all, all strictly parallel to each other, running from the bottom of the lad’s back to his highly sensitive crease, before giving him a final two, diagonal, gating strokes to complete the twelve. But so obsessed was Marcus with what he alone saw as recovering his lost prestige, which was really an exercise in assuaging his punctured pride, that he left Evans with a twelve cut beating from which blood spots were oozing along the edges of many of the deep furrows which Marcus’s excessive vigour had cut into the lad’s flesh. If ever there was an excessively severe beating this had to be it. If Marcus realised the state in which he had left Evans’s arse, he did not show it as brusquely said: “That’s your lot Evans. Make yourself decent go and report to matron, who will give apply a little antiseptic ointment to your battle scars.”

So with Evans taken care of, that was two down with one more of the honour penitents, William Hargreaves, still to go, before he could get down to the highlight of his evening, to which he was really very much looking forward: thrashing the two fourth formers, Benson and Crompton. When it came to beating arse, Marcus knew that to him, thrashing a big’un was ten times more satisfying than thrashing a little’un. Beating an older boys turned him on sexually, in a way which caning a first former did not. And although he had never gone on to have sex with any of the older boys he had beaten his first term as head-boy, he enjoyed the sexual arousal which came from embellishing an older boy’s backside with the cane. But needs must and before he could pass onto to the highlight of his evening’s duties, the cherry on the cake as he thought of it, there was still Hargreaves to deal with. As he ushered a not surprisingly weeping Evans, out of his study, he told Hargreaves to come in and closed the door behind him, leaving Benson and Crompton on tenterhooks, still waiting outside.

“Well Hargreaves, this is the first time we have had the pleasure of meeting one another. However, I think as you have presented yourself voluntarily to me this evening, you know why you are here. You have received five demerits and I assume from your presence that you that you know what happens now.”

Hargreaves was obviously very nervous and frightened by what he had heard through the closed door and the parlous state in which he had just seen Evans leave the room: “Well, sir,” and then correcting himself he went on, “I mean Saxby-Cox, I’ve never been caned before and I really do not know what I am suppose to do.”

“Well Hargreaves, there’s nothing special about being beating here at Churton. You take off your blazer, drop your trousers and underpants, bend across the back of that armchair over there, then I give you the standard six cuts with the cane have earned by your demerits and that’s that. It’s just the same as you have experienced at prep-school, except that here at Churton, it is a prefect, who is correcting you rather than your prep-school form-master. So shall we proceed and get the matter over and done with. Then you can go back to your house and proudly show your stripes to your dorm-mates. Come on Hargreaves, quick about it now, get your pants off and bend over the back of the chair.”

“But you have not understood, Saxby-Cox, when I told you I had never been beaten before I really meant never,not ever, in fact; and not just here at Churton but also at my prep school. You see I was sent to a prep-school where neither the cane nor the slipper were used at all and so I have never, ever been beaten! So I am just so afraid of what you are intending to do to me now.”

Marcus had never, until now, met a boy at Churton who claimed to have an unbeaten, virgin arse. Common sense told him that Hargreaves was not alone along the new boys to have never been caned, for not every boy at prep-school got his backside swished. But he had never before heard of a Churtonian make a thing about the virgin state of his arse, when faced, as Hargreaves now was, with his first, quite justifiable beating. It seemed evident to Marcus, that Hargreaves was playing on his sympathy and hoping that he, somehow, could escape what was a perfectly reasonable and justifiable punishment. But, of course, from what we already know of Marcus’s character, Hargreaves was sadly mistaken if he thought that playing what might best be called the holy innocent card he could avoid what was inevitable.

“Well Hargreaves, I am delighted to hear that you have avoided the cane throughput your entire school life, until the end of your first term here. However, at Churton, the rules are sacrosanct and must be obeyed. And so Hargreaves, as you have now accumulated five demerits, it is my unfortunate duty to hold you to account for your actions. I am therefore obliged to give you a six stroke caning on your bare bottom. Not to do this would be a failure in my duty as head-boy of this school. So kindly do as I have told you to do. Take of your blazer and trousers and bare you bottom and go and bend across the back of the armchair.”

“But, Saxby-Cox, I don’t want to be beaten and I thought…..”

“Hargreaves, what you think is neither here nor there at this moment; get your pants off right now, boy and across the chair; if I hear another, single word out of you I will give you an extra three strokes of the cane.”

“But Saxby-Cox – please sir – you really don’t understand….”

“Hargreaves you have to learn to understand that I mean what I say. That’s nine cuts you will now receive. Now, unless I see your bare arse across that chair by the time I have counted up to ten, you, boy, will find yourself facing with a twelve stroke beating. Believe me, Hargreaves, I am not joking. One, two, three….”

Hargreaves now saw that he had to accept the inevitable and to avoid making things worse for himself, now quickly did as he had been told to do. With Hargreaves bent across the chair, Marcus, then recited to him the business about counting the strokes and so on, before, unrelentingly laying on parallel the nine, hard cuts he had promised, to the lad’s twitching buttocks. Hargreaves sobbed incessantly as he was being beaten, adding considerably to the extent of the stain on the chair cushion with his own saline effluvium. Finally when told he could stand up and redress himself, he slank away, still weeping; a changed young man, he had met met with the reality of daily life at Churton and had not much cared for it. But like many boys, the experience had changed him for the better; he had learned that he had to come to terms with life at the school and not think he could talk his way out of awkward situations. And when he got back to his house, his dorm-mates, who had not been present to witness the unedifying spectacle, smacking of cowardice, of Hargreaves trying to save his arse, were mightily impressed with what they saw as his courage and treated him like a hero. Every cloud has a silver lining.

As he showed Hargreaves out, Marcus motioned for Benson to enter. However, Crompton, his partner-in-crime so to speak, intervened: “Saxby-Cox, if you agree, then Benson and I would like to be beaten together.” As this was no skin off his nose, Marcus motioned to the two of them to enter his study. Marcus had never before beaten two boys together, having always followed the tradition of dealing with offenders individually. But the erotic overtones of having two naked arses available at the same time was an alluring erotic prospect, made even more so be the fact that the two lads in question were older. For Marcus, there was something much more sexually satisfying about beating the backside of someone nearer his own age than that of a first former.

The sexual overtones associated with beating bare arse were always uppermost in Marcus’s mind with whomever he was dealing. But the uncontrollable erections coupled with the emissions of semen he experienced as he shredded the backsides of older boys, were infinitely greater and more pleasurable than those induced when he beat a first former. His cock had barely stirred as he had beaten the three first-formers, whereas just contemplating what he was intending to do Benson and Crompton, he was already fully erect and moist with anticipation at the thought of the pleasures still to come.

Benson and Crompton, two perennial offenders, were well acquainted with protocol governing beatings at Churton and so without a word from Marcus, they immediately started stripping off for their ordeal. They never even thought of questioning the punishment they were about to receive. At the end of the day, they were nothing more than a good-natured, but totally incorrigible, pair of boys, who took delight in flouting the school rules, but who, when caught in the act, like the young gentlemen they truly were, accepted their punishment without rancour and with good grace.

Marcus pushed the armchair, with its damp cushion, to one side and place two chairs with their seats facing each other, but well apart. He motioned to the two boys to assume the traditional position over the back of the chair, which simultaneously exposed two, very meaty arses stuck in the air in opposite directions, just calling to be caned; a call which Marcus was quick to answer.

The punishment for being caught smoking was a twelve strokes beating. However, there were no restrictions as to how the twelve strokes were to be administered. Marcus, already in an extremely horny mood due to his experience that evening with the three first formers, none of whose beatings could exactly be described as run-of-the-mill, allowed the worst side of his character to take over. Marcus was, among other sports, at all of which he excelled, an excellent tennis player and was a master at the art of the back-hand stroke. So he began by standing in the unusual position to Benson’s right, with which he intended to deliver all twelve strokes to each lad. Being right-handed, as he was, the cane moved in one smooth, uninterrupted curve from the left side of his head, where he had raised it, before starting its split-second, downward journey to deliver its painful message, mating with the bare flesh of the buttocks of its victim with the inimitable crack of rattan. Add to this unusual stroke, the fact that Marcus also flexed his wrist to the left as he held the cane above his head and straightened with a quick flick on that split second before impact, endowed what was already destined to a very painful cut with even greater bite.

If anyone had been watching Marcus as he performed the beating, they would have been privileged to see a master-craftsman at work. As that maiden stroke, the first of twenty-four, which were destined to deliver their excruciatingly painful message to the arses of the two recipients before their ordeal was over, landed on the crown of Benson’s buns, the lad took in a very audible breath as the well-seasoned rattan of the senior-cane cut deeply into his naked flesh, leaving a deep, livid welt.

Having given Benson his first stroke of twelve, he now moved over to Crompton and initiated his arse into what was to prove an ordeal by fire for both unfortunate boys. With his customary expertise, Marcus quickly reduced both lads to tears and it was two very recondite young men who limped out of Marcus’s study some ten minutes later, each the painful possessor of that product of the cane: a well-beaten arse. But now, after a series of five, consecutive beatings, Marcus was almost on the point of climaxing and ready to shoot his load. He could barely contain himself, as he waited for the arrival of Maurice Denham, on whose arse he was looking forward with great pleasure to using his own personal rod. Marcus was, in fact, as competent with his cock when he fucked Maurice as he was with the rattan which he had just applied to five different arses. But, to quote Robert Burns: the best laid plans o’mice an men, gang aft a-gley,which was exactly what happened now.

CHAPTER 2

A knock came at the study door, which Marcus opened thinking it was Maurice, to find Robert Fairclough, one of his own classmates with whom he sat together on a daily basis in the upper-sixth arts stream, standing there wearing just his gym shorts and vest, the so-called appropriate attire, which was mandatory for any boy who was destined to be thrashed by the Headmaster himself. Robert and Marcus were just classmates and not close friends in the way that Marcus and the delectably fuckable Maurice were. To say the very least, Marcus was astonished to find Robert at his door, dressed as if for a Headmaster’s beating.

It was a now retired previous Headmaster of Churton, who had seen the sense in making boys, whom he was going to beat, present themselves for a beating, wearing only what was essentially their gym strip – but always without a jock strap. He had seen that it was so much easier to gain naked access to that vital part of a boy’s anatomy which was to mate with the cane, if the unfortunate had simply to drop a pair of shorts rather than fumble around divesting himself of what was a rather cumbersome school-uniform. So it was that the gym strip had become the mandatory appropriate attire to wear by any boys who was to be beaten by the Headmaster. The words: I will see you in my study, at such and such a time, wearing the appropriate attire, which had since that time, been uttered frequently by a succession of Headmasters, sent a chill down the spine of any boy to whom they were addressed; they were thought of by all the boys as the nearest thing to a sentence of death at Churton. The Headmaster in question had, on his retirement, seen fit to publish his thoughts on beating, in a now defunct magazine, The Schoolmaster, with the result that many public schools had adopted his idea and boys, whose backsides were to be beaten, were required to change into their gym strips prior to the painful event.

As he looked at Robert Fairclough, Marcus’s first thought, seeing him, appropriately attired as he was, was that he had just been beaten by the Headmaster. But he more or less immediately realised that this was not the case, as Fairclough was not showing any of the signs of pain – in modern language: post-traumatic stress disorder – which are always visible in the aftermath of a beating. For a second or so, the two classmates looked at each other in silence, which was then broken by Fairclough, who began: “Saxby-Cox, (this was the normal form of address of address between boys at Churton, where what were then still known as Christian Names, were only used between close friends and even then, only in private. So although Marcus Saxby-Cox and Maurice Denham called one another Maurice and Marcus in private, in public they were still Denham and Saxby-Cox to each other) the Headmaster has asked me to give you this note and has told me to wait until you have read it and acted on it. He has also asked me to tell you, as he apparently also says in the note, that he wishes to see you in person his study at nine this evening.”

“Well, Fairclough, what a surprise to see you here playing the role of God’s Messenger. (Mr Godber, the Headmaster, whose pronouncements were equivalent to the Ten Commandments at Churston, was universally, and quite irreverently, always referred to by all the boys as God.) You had better come in and sit down whilst I read the Word of God and see what the old-boy wants.”

Opening what Fairclough had referred to as a note, which was in a sealed envelope, Marcus saw at a glance, from the Headmaster’s precise, italic handwriting, that this was not a message which had been dashed off in moment, but a proper letter which had clearly been the subject of considerable thought. It read:

My Dear Saxby-Cox,

I am sending this request to you by the hand of the very boy, the wretchedly disobedient Fairclough, on whom I wish you to inflict the punishment detailed below. As he was caught in the act by a prefect in his house, I thought it totally appropriate that on this occasion he be punished by the head-boy of the School. I am imposing on you in this unusual fashion as I have a weighty matter on my mind, which I also wish to discuss with you. So I shall expect to see you in my study at nine this evening, to review how you got on with Fairclough, but also to discuss another important matter which needs my attention.

Fairclough is a boy, whom I class as serially disobedient: a boy who is constantly looking for trouble, which, alas, he seems to have no difficulty in finding. I have beaten him times without number, throughout his entire career at Churston, but, apparently, with little effect. His latest misdemeanour is serious; a prefect caught him, red-handed d drinking spirits in his bedroom for the second time this term. The first time he dealt with Fairclough himself, but this time he referred him to me for the rigours of a Headmaster’s beating, which I have decided to delegate to you.

So, Saxby-Cox, what I require from you is to show our friend, Fairclough, that the retribution he will suffer at the hands of head-boy of the School, who sits in the same upper-sixth class with him, is in no way inferior to that which I myself would have delivered to his buttocks. It will also reinforce the fact that staff and prefects act in unison and are, figuratively, singing from the same hymn sheet when it comes to maintaining discipline

As this is the second time that Fairclough has been caught in flagrante drinking alcohol in his room, a full twenty-four stroke beating is, as set out in the school rules, mandatory. Quite specifically, in order to bring home to this arch-recidivist the seriousness of his offence, which, if repeated again, will lead to his expulsion from this School, I require you to apply the twenty-four strokes of the cane in two sets of twelve, the second set to land in exactly the same places at the first. I appreciate that this is a particularly painful punishment; but I am afraid Fairclough deserves to face severe retribution for his sins. Fairclough, by his actions, has made his bed and must now lie in it. So I am relying on your expertise to ensure that he has a painfully uncomfortable night.

After you have dealt with his burning needs, please come to my study at nine this evening, as I have another matter which I need urgently to discuss with you.

Sincerely

R. G. B. Godber.

Headmaster

As Marcus read this extraordinary order, and let’s be quiet clear; it was an order and not a request and as such had to be executed, he was both elated and nervous; elated, in that God obviously had sufficient confidence in his head-boy’s capabilities with the cane, to delegate to him a very severe beating, which, by rights, he should be performing himself; but at the same time; but depressed, as it devolved on him to thrash another member of the upper sixth; and moreover, a boy with whom he sat together in the very same class. Every boy at Churton, no matter what his age or position, was subject to exactly the same rules. So although rare, it was not unknown for a sixth-former to be beaten – prefects included. However, such high-level beatings had always – until now, at least – been performed either by a housemaster or by Headmaster himself, which explained Marcus’s nervousness.

In all his time at the School, Marcus could remember only two occasions when a member of the lower-sixth had been beaten by the then head-boy; but an upper sixth-former, never! In fact, beating of upper sixth-formers, even by the Headmaster himself, were as rare as the proverbial hen’s teeth. So although Marcus was to some degree elated at the prospect of addressing a senior arse with his cane, he was, nevertheless filled with a sense of foreboding; something was wrong; but what?

As Marcus read and digested the contents of this very long note,Fairclough, looked on inquisitively. Marcus turned to him and said: “Fairclough, are you aware of the contents of this letter; of what the Headmaster actually says?”

Fairclough shook his head and replied: “No! It was sealed by the hand of God before he handed it to me to give bring to you; so what does it say? And does it involve me?”

“Well, my friend, the good news is that the Headmaster has decided not to beat you for your recent cardinal sin. But the bad news is that he has delegated the task to me; he has ordered me, as his surrogate, to shred your arse in his stead. Here, you can read what he says for yourself. As you will see, you are not exactly his favourite person at the moment.”

With that, Marcus handed the letter to his classmate, who was thus able to learn his fate, handed down by God himself. Marcus was relieved that the Headmaster had been so specific in his instructions to him and had, moreover, put them in writing. He knew if he had had to do it himself that he would have had great, personal difficulty in telling Fairclough verbally of the horror which the Headmaster had ordered him to visit on his classmate’s bare arse. But there it was, in God’s inimitable italic hand, all neatly laid out for the unfortunate Fairclough to read and inwardly digest. It exonerated Marcus from all responsibility for Fairclough’s predicament; he had simply been delegated the role of executioner, who would, figuratively, slice off the condemned man’s head.

After reading what passed at Churton as the word of God, Fairclough began: “What the fuck does the old boy think he is playing at, asking you to thrash my arse for me? Do you have any idea of how insulting that is; fobbing me off to his fucking head-boy because he feels too weak himself to do the job?” And for a few seconds more, Fairclough spat out a string of foulmouthed, insulting invectives about the Headmaster, before finally calming down to face the reality of the truly extraordinary situation in which they both found themselves. “So, Saxby-Cox, in your new role of Headmaster Surrogate, Arse Flogger in Chief, or whatever you wish to call yourself, what the fuck do propose to do?”

“Fairclough, I suggest first of all you stop using such foul language in speaking to me. I am the head-boy of this School and as such I am entitled to expect some respect from my peers, including the likes of you, in spite of the fact that we sit together daily in the same classes. I understand your anger, but the two of us have both been placed in an invidiously awkward position by our revered Headmaster. It is not a situation for which either of us is responsible, but is one, which we have to come to terms with. You have read the letter and seen that the Headmaster has given me an order; and let us be quite clear; it is an order to beat you and not a request. Under the circumstances, I see no way of refusing to carry out the punishment as that is not an option given in the letter, which is quite specific, even to the way the strokes should be applied. As things now stand, Fairclough, I see no alternative but to ask you to present your bare arse to me by bending across the back of that armchair over there and allow me to carry out what. I suppose we have to accept as the Will of God. I wish things were different, but they are what they are and I am afraid we have to accept them as such.”

In fact Marcus was lying through his teeth when he said that he wished things were different. The prospect of beating someone of his own age, one of his classmates to boot, was just too arousing a prospect to let slip through his fingers. Just reading the Headmaster’s letter, he had again felt his cock stirring in his pants and was already at a pre-cum stage of sexual arousal at the thought of thrashing an otherwise quasi-untouchable prize. There was no way on earth that Marcus intended to let Fairclough somehow talk him out of the beating and escape from his study, other than with a superbly well-beaten arse to his name. And then, already fully aroused after beating Fairclough, he could look forward to having a night to remember with Maurice Denham in what promised to be a win-win situation of intense copulation for both of them.

“Saxby-Cox, you are out of your tiny, fucking mind if you think I am going to allow you to shred my naked arse as per that letter, even though it has been handwritten by God. Look here, we sit together in the upper sixth together; we are classmates; and classmates at our age do not go about beating the daylights out of each other. Come on Saxby-Cox; be reasonable. The old boy is out of his mind, asking you to do his dirty work for him. Can we not compromise; strike a quid pro-quo agreement together; one that no one, especially God himself, ever needs know about?”

It was now clear to Marcus, that after his initial outburst, Fairclough had resigned himself to the fact that he had to take some form of punishment from him, but now in a somewhat calmer mood, he wanted to negotiate a lesser sentence: something that was not in Marcus’s remit from the Headmaster. So Marcus held firm; after all he had the Headmaster’s written order, which was very precise. And anyway, why should he negotiate a lesser number of strokes of the cane, which was what Fairclough was angling for, against an as yet unspoken promise which would probably involve sexual favours. Marcus was sexually very active but his activity was rather special for a boy of his age and confined strictly to his long standing affair – to be absolutely precise, his true love-affair – with Maurice Denham.

So Fairclough was barking up the wrong tree if he was thinking that he could barter away a dozen of his twenty-four cuts by allowing Marcus to bugger his admittedly attractive arse. Marcus was fully aware that such dealswere not uncommon with some of the prefects, who were willing to reduce the number of cuts they had intended to give a miscreant in exchange for sexual favours. It must be remembered that homosexual acts between senior boys at Churton, in common with other public schools public schools, were part and parcel of life in such institutions, given the sexual frustration engendered by the all-male environment in which the lads were cloistered.

So in attempting to negotiate with Marcus, Fairclough clearly had not realised that he would be proposing sex, not to a young man who was frustrated by the lack of available female partners, but to someone who was, quite amazingly, given the circumstances, already discreetly leading a full and satisfying sex-life. In a word, Fairclough was wasting his breath; sowing his seed, so to speak, on stony ground.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, as he now sensed that he had the upper-hand in what was a very strained conversation, Marcus now firmly kyboshed any thought of a deal and said, more expansively: “Look here, old man, be realistic; both you and I know that I can do none other than carry out our the Headmaster’s instructions. So I am afraid that there can be no form of any negotiation on this. You have read the letter with God’s orders to me, which, you surely know, as with all his edicts, are as immutable as if they had been carved in stone. As I see it you have two options: either you allow me to beat you or you go back to God’s study and tell him that you won’t be brushed-off with what you seem to think as second best; in which case, my guess is that the old boy will expel you; literally chuck you out of the School.”

“Fairclough, you are now in the unfortunate position of finding yourself between a rock and a hard place; as far as I can see, you are in a lose-lose situation; either you let me whack your arse, or you go back to God and risk getting the chop. So you have to make a decision; and whichever option you settle for, I’m afraid, old chap, it is inevitable that you will suffer. The choice, my friend, is yours. Frankly, Fairclough, if you were stupid enough to allow yourself to be caught a second time this term, drinking in your room, you have only yourself to blame for the consequences. You know as well as I do that among the seven deadliest sins which you can indulge in this school, drinking and smoking are second only to stealing. And as everything is more or less cut and dried in this place when it comes to retribution, the standard punishment for being caught drinking a second time is a twenty-four stroke beating. Surely you knew this before you started drinking? So, although in a way, I’m sorry for you that you have been caught, there is nothing at all I can do to mitigate what happens next. You have made your own bed and now must lie in it.”

“Now I admit that we both find ourselves in an extraordinary situation. I have not the faintest idea why God has decided to renounce addressing your arse with the cane himself, a pastime he normally relishes, as both you and I know from past, painful, personal experiences. The first I knew of it was when you arrived here just a few minutes ago and handed me the letter. And believe me, Fairclough; I was as stunned by the contents as you yourself were. But as you can see, it was not a decision made on the spur of the moment, as the letter had been prepared, in chillingly meticulous detail, well in advance. What the hell the old boy was thinking, when he passed you, one of my own classmates on to me and ordered me to beat him, I have no idea. One thing is sure, it’s certainly not cricket he is playing! He must have an ulterior motive; but I have no clue as to what it is. But I can tell you, even though I must carry out his instructions, I feel very uneasy; something about the whole business smells very fishy to me. But in words inspired by those of Lord Tennyson in his poem, The Charge of the Light Brigade: Mine not reason why, mine but to whack your unfortunate arse.”

“But frankly from your point of view, Fairclough, it seems to me that it is more or less immaterial whether God himself beats you or I do his dirty work for him. Look, because of your own stupidity you have got yourself into a situation, where the school rules mandate a non-negotiable twenty-four cut caning. I fully understand that you were incensed by the fact that God had pushed you off on to me to shred your arse. But frankly, at the end of the day, where’s the difference? Either he does it or I do it for him. There’s no skin off your nose; just skin off your arse, whichever one of us whacks you! And believe me, Fairclough, I am not second best if you decide to accept what might be called The Word of God on this matter.”

“So, Fairclough, it’s your decision to make. Do you allow me to beat you or are you going to go back to God and risk being expelled from School? The decision, my friend is entirely yours to make. Think well and clearly before you decide; I know which I personally would take; but don’t let me influence you one way or the other.”

Marcus sensed that the mention of expulsion had put the fear of God – and not God as in Mr Godber – into Fairclough. Fairclough was a clever lad and was more or less certain, at the end of that very school- year, to be admitted to read law at Cambridge. So he was unlikely to try arguing his case and risk ruining his career, by going back to see the Headmaster. So, as Marcus rested his case, he was more or less certain that, in a subtle sort of way, he had persuaded Fairclough to allow him beat his arse, rather than risk being cashiered and thereby ruin his future career prospects.

The two of them sat there in silence for a few moments, whilst Fairclough assessed his options. “OK, Saxby-Cox, you win; go ahead and do your worst on my arse.” And then without another word, the fateful decision having been made, he stood up, went across to the armchair, dropped his shorts, revealing an enormous erection, and bent, without hesitation, over the back of the chair, placing his hands firmly on its arms, with the exhortation to Marcus: “Well come on Saxby-Cox, let’s get it over and done with.”

Marcus, concealing his feeling of elation at what he saw as hisvictory,picked up his senior cane, and went across to examine Fairclough’s as yet totally undefiled buttocks, which he shortly, as decreed by God, would artistically embellish with twenty four cuts of the cane, applied twelve on twelve. He felt a surge of anticipative pleasure, akin to a sudden release of adrenalin, course through his body, as he gazed for the first time on the most mature arse he had ever had the chance to roast. On the number of strokes and their method of application, the Headmaster had been quite specific: “I require you to apply the twenty-four strokes of the cane in two sets of twelve, the second twelve to land in exactly the same places as the first.”

Such precise instructions left little leeway for Marcus to exercise his own aesthetic tastes in the creation of an, albeit temporary, artistic masterpiece of flagellative art, but he saw that God had not stipulated that all the strokes should be parallel to each other, merely that every stroke should be doubled. And so, and with this modicum of freedom, Marcus began by giving Fairclough’s muscular buttocks, eight, resounding, parallel strokes, placed, in leisurely manner, from the bottom of his back to the top of his legs. He then allowed a full two minutes to elapse, before applying a second volley of eight cuts doubling exactly the first, thereby inflicting the most agonising pain on Fairclough’s arse. After another pause, still with eight strokes in hand, he now applied another four, primary strokes in the form of a double pair of diagonals, thereby firmly gating his initial offering. And then, after yet another pause to allow his victim to appreciate care which was being lavished on his arse, he administered the coup de grace, by doubling his four, diagonal, gating strokes, thereby completing, to the letter, the Headmaster’s instructions, whilst at the same time exercising his own artistic talent.

As he stood back to admire his handiwork, Marcus silently congratulated himself on a job well done. To his mind he had, in spite of the strict parameters imposed on him by the Headmaster, to say the very least, provided Fairclough with a well-beaten arse of which he himself was justifiably proud to be the author. Whether Fairclough himself appreciated the artistic masterpiece etched on his buttocks, is doubtful. But Marcus had created an excruciatingly painful example of flagellative art, which Fairclough, by his actions, had richly deserved; an example, which by the sheer brilliance of its execution, would satisfy the prurient, sympathetic curiosity of Fairclough’s classmates, coupled, as ever, with the omnipresent undertone of Schadenfreude; an arse, which in the inevitable post-mortem viewings, would make Fairclough the hero of the moment; an arse, which from the obvious pain he was suffering, would have a strongly persuasive effect on viewers, not to follow their schoolmate’s his example when it came to drinking.

What was not immediately obvious, but what Marcus knew full well, was that there would be a lot of young, male sperm jerked and shot into wank-rags in the beds of the upper-sixth arts members that night, as the lads masturbated to assuage their sexual needs aroused by the sight of Fairclough’s shredded backside.

After Fairclough had limped tearfully away, massaging his buttocks, the euphoria Marcus had felt whilst he was beating his classmate’s arse, suddenly ebbed away. The erection and sexual arousal he had experienced wielding the cane, both suddenly disappeared, to be replaced by a feeling of foreboding. Somehow, could not shake of the premonition that something was wrong. The whole evening had been both exhilarating, but also somewhat unnerving. It was not every Friday that Marcus had a clutch of three honour penitents to beat; add to them Benson and Crompton and then the unexpected bonus of Fairclough: a senior arse, which was certainly not to be sneezed at. All things considered with a night of sex with Maurice Denham still to look forward to, Marcus’s spirits should have been bubbling with anticipation. But the fact of the matter was that they were not!

Why had Mr. Godber, a man, whose love of wielding the cane was well-known, not to say feared by the boys, chosen to send Fairclough to his head-boy to be thrashed? And why had he given such detailed instructions in writing about the number of strokes and the way in which they were to be administered? And what was the other matter which needed so urgently to be discussed? So it is not surprising that it was a strong feeling of uneasiness that Marcus entered the Headmaster’s study at precisely nine that evening.

CHAPTER 3

God in the form of Mr. Godber, the Headmaster, was still wearing his flowing black gown. He gave the impression of being in an extremely affable mood as he greeted Marcus and invited him to sit down in an armchair in front of a blazing log fire. The Headmaster’s study was a large rectangular room with three windows along the long outer wall. The room was arranged in two quite distinct parts; first came what was essentially the working part of the room, with a large mahogany desk, where the Headmaster sat to discharge his administrative duties. Facing this desk, a little way from the wall, stood a spine-chilling relic of the Victorian era: an adjustable beating horse, replete with arm and leg straps, designed to render immobile any boy who had the misfortune to experience one God’s legendary beatings. On the wall behind this fearsome contraption, was a handsome, two-door cupboard, housing God’s collection of canes and sundry other instruments of punishment. So in order to reach the agreeable group of chairs around the fireplace, Marcus was obliged to pass by this group of professional punishment artefacts, the sight of which, for no explicable reason, was enough to send a shiver of fear down his spine.

“Saxby-Cox, I wanted to find out how you got on with dealing with that perennial misbehaver, your classmate, Fairclough. He really is someone who cannot keep himself out of trouble and no matter how hard and how often he is beaten, he appears incapable of reforming himself. However, caught red-handed as he was, drinking for the second time this term, the ultimate punishment laid down in the School Rules for that very offence, was totally merited. So how did he take the fact that I handed him over to you to deal with?”

“Well sir, as you might imagine he complained bitterly. But after a little argument he finally accepted that I was going to beat him and took his punishment, which I administered exactly as set put in your instructions, sir. So, sir, he finally took a very severe beating for his offences and left, if you will pardon the vulgarity, sir, with a very well-beaten arse. I think that Fairclough will have a very uncomfortable few days in front of him sir, which on my view he well deserves. Whether he finally learns his lesson and reforms himself is another matter, which only the future will tell, sir.”

“Can I take it from your remarks, Saxby-Cox, that you approve of the severe retribution which the School exacts from serial offenders such as Fairclough?”

“Oh, most certainly, sir; it is my personal view that all boys, from first-formers right through to the upper sixth should be held accountable for their actions, sir. And whilst the beating I gave Fairclough, was very painful, I think he totally deserved it. I fully agree that drinking should be completely stamped out; and smoking too in my view.”

“So, Saxby-Cox, you do not feel in any way that I was being too severe when I asked you to give Fairclough twenty-four stokes, of the senior cane on the bare and to double each cut?”

“Absolutely not, sir; Fairclough broke one of the golden rules of the School for the second time. He knew what he was doing and what the consequences would if he was caught in the act. So he got his just deserts sir.”

“Well. Saxby-Cox, it is reassuring to know that you and I are, as I put it in my note to you, singing from the same hymn sheet and that I can rely on my head-boy to support me in the never ending task of keeping order in this place.”

So Marcus, laying it on in spades, said: “Absolutely, Headmaster; when it comes to disciplining the boys, no one is above the law and you have my fullest support, sir.”

Until now, the conversation between God and his head-boy had been extremely affable. Marcus had made all the right noises which God had obviously wanted to hear. But appearances can be deceptive, as the turn in the tone of the conversation now showed.

“Now, Saxby-Cox, there is another, somewhat disturbing matter which has been on my mind, which I hope you will be able to help me in resolving.” The tone of voice in which the Headmaster made this statement, was, to say the very least, chilling, almost sepulchral. “Yesterday evening I happened to be in the village around ten, and I saw a young man resembling you, come out of the King’s Arms, public house. Now I could be wrong as it was quite dark. But perhaps you would set my mind to rest and confirm that I was mistaken.”

As he heard these words, Marcus felt as if a knife had been thrust into his stomach. In a split second he had that release of adrenalin which sent fear rushing though his entire body. The Headmaster was quite correct. It had been the head-boy whom he had seen emerging from the strictly forbidden pub. So what should he now do; lie and tell God that he had been mistaken, or accept that he had been caught, in flagrante, breaking one of the one of the Schools’ strictest rules and make a clean breast of it? The problem was that Marcus was a regular, weekly visitor to the King’s Arms and he now wondered how much of the Headmaster actually knew of this strictly prohibited activity. So to lie was out of the question, for if he was caught out, he would certainly be expelled from the School at moment’s notice. Ironically he found himself, as had Fairclough only a brief hour, in that distinctly unpleasant position of being between rock and a hard place, with no agreeable outcome seeming possible.

So he moved into what, I suppose, might be called his damage control mode, in an attempt to salvage what he could from a hopeless situation. “Headmaster, I am very sorry to say that it was, on fact, me you saw coming out of the King’s Arms. And if you will permit me to apologise, I am very sorry that I succumbed to temptation and broke one of the cardinal rules of the School, for which I am truly, truly, sorry, sir.”

If Marcus had thought that his apology would be accepted and that the matter would be settled, he was seriously mistaken. The Headmaster’s voice changed yet again, this time from sepulchral to glacially angry, as he portentously went on, verbally grinding Marcus down: “Saxby-Cox, it grieves me bitterly to find out that my head-boy, a person in whom I had put my fullest trust to enforce the rules and maintain order in this School, has himself sunk so morally low as to break one of the cardinal restrictions and enter into the strictly forbidden precincts of a public hostelry. And to make matters worse, boy, you have just exercised your prerogative as head-boy of his School and beaten one of our classmates for more or less the same same offence: consuming alcoholic drinks. In fact, boy, your offence is worse than that of the wretched Fairclough, who at least did his drinking in private, whereas you chose to do it in the public eye. By your foolish actions, you, Saxby-Cox, you have risked bringing this venerable establishment into disrepute.”

“Now, before I finally decide what to do with you, kindly answer the following question. You have confessed that it was you I saw coming out of the King’s Arms. So can I take it that this was the only occasion that you have yielded to temptation and gone in there to indulge yourself or have there been other occasions? Come on, boy, answer me; and I shall know whether you are speaking the truth or not; so do not even think of lying to me, or you will matters, which are already grave, still worse.”

Marcus realised by now that he was in a hole of his own making and wondered to himself exactly what the Headmaster knew already. However he was sensible enough to realise that whatever he said, he was going to emerge the loser in this affair and so he quickly decided to make a clean breast of everything and answer the Headmaster truthfully. “Sir, I regret to say, that since the start of term that I have been several times to the King’s Arms.”

But this answer did not satisfy the Headmaster who wanted chapter and verse: “So, Saxby-Cox, you say that you have been several times to the King’s Arms since term began in September. What exactly does the word several mean; twice or three times or more? Come on, boy, I want an answer to my question. So let’s be having it. How many times have you been in the King’s Arms this term; and I want the truth?”

By now Marcus was in a blind panic as he confessed the extent of his guilt: “Headmaster, I have been once a week to the King’s Arms since the start of term, sir, which I think makes fifteen times in all, sir.”

“I see, Saxby-Cox; so do you think it is fair of me to say that you are a serial offender when it comes to frequenting a public house?”

“I suppose one could say that, sir.”

“You suppose that one could say that? Perhaps, Saxby-Cox, you would kindly be good enough to enlighten me as to the number of visits to the King’s’ Arms you consider to be necessary to allow you to turn your supposition into a concrete fact. Your offence, boy, exceeds that of Fairclough, whom you have just soundly thrashed for drinking in private. Allow me to repeat to you what you just said a few minutes ago: Absolutely, Headmaster; when it comes to disciplining the boys, no one is above the law and you have my fullest support, sir. I am happy that you confirmed your views in such a positive way, as it makes the action, which I now feel I have no alternative but to take, much easier. Reluctant as I am to beat anyone from the sixth form, I never thought that I would find myself having to beat my head-boy; or as I must now say, my former head-boy; for as you must have realised Saxby-Cox, in view of your actions, which are a complete betrayal of my trust in you, you cannot any longer hold the office of head-boy of the School.”

As he listened to the Headmaster and saw the look of wrathful disgust on his face, Marcus knew that there was nothing at all he could do to avoid the inevitable. Mr Godber was about to exercise his legendary skill with the cane on his backside with all the fury of an irate earthly God on earth which he was. He, the head-boy, or more exactly, the ex-head-boy of the school, aged eighteen-plus was to suffer the indignity of a beating in retribution for his sins. The only positive thing so far was that the Headmaster had not uttered the frightening word: expulsion. As there was little or nothing he could do to avoid the inevitable, Marcus decided to eat humble pie in the faint hope of mitigating the worst the Headmaster was capable of delivering. So he began to make a profound apology for his actions:

“Sir, I fully understand that I deserve to be punished for my actions, which were an abuse of my position. Before you beat me, sir, I would like to say that I bear you no ill will for the punishment I am about to receive. Your actions are completely justified, sir. I regret that I was weak and allowed my own personal desires to override the sort of behaviour which went with the position which I was privileged to hold.”

“Well Saxby-Cox, I am relieved that you are sorry of your actions. But that, unfortunately, does not excuse your behaviour, nor in any way mitigate the consequences for what you have done. Stand up boy, take of your blazer, trousers and underpants and go and bend across the beating horse over there and present your bare bottom to me for retribution, which I regret to have to say, in view of the enormity of your conduct is going to be very severe: very severe indeed.”

Whilst a trembling Marcus – and who, under the circumstance would not have been trembling? – was fumbling with his clothes, the Headmaster went across and opened both doors of his cane cupboard. Marcus was struck by the quasi-religious overtones of what was about to happen to him. Here was Mr. Godber, referred to as God, opening a cupboard, which once fully opened, took on the appearance of a triptych: one of those hinged, three panel altar pieces, with a central panel adorned with a religious painting of a biblical subject, such as the crucifixion or – more pleasantly – the annunciation, with the smaller side panels having supporting images.

But the difference was that the back of the cupboard, equivalent to the central panel of the triptych, so to speak, was adorned not with a religious image, but with a row of well-seasoned, straight-handled rattan canes, all well over 3 ft long but of various diameters, hanging menacingly there, in increasing size of calibre, ranging from the lightest, measuring just over ¼ inch diameter, to the heaviest, a so-called dragon-cane. This latter, a fearsomely knotted, instrument, just over ½ inch in diameter, was capable of inflicting unimaginably excruciating pain, not to mention physical damage in the form of broken skin, to the bare arse of any lad unfortunate enough to be invited to sample its charms.

But as if this was not enough, as Marcus approached the dreaded beating horse, the putative altar over which he was now to bend to offer his naked backside to what promised to be God’s not so tender mercies, he saw that the insides of each door, as if to complete the illusion of a three panelled picture, were also embellished with a blood-chilling selection of other implements of corporal punishment, such as the taws, a thick leather belt with a handle and an old-fashioned long-handled bath-brush. Since the beating horse was set directly in front of the open cupboard, as Marcus reluctantly bent across it, the religious illusion was complete; Marcus was the sacrificial lamb, stretched across the altar in front of the cupboard, itself a triptych to the art of flagellation.

To say that Marcus was scared as he prepared himself to meet, what seemed to him at that moment, like his doom, was the understatement of the century; he was shit scared and could barely control his cock which with typical regard only for itself, had become rock-hard and was already emitting those drops of pre-cum in anticipation of the pain to come. The total arousing, sexual eroticism of the situation was complete, as Marcus waited, trembling, for the first blow.

God had not yet spoken and announced the sentence on his erring acolyte. And as he surveyed the muscular buttocks he was about to roast, he simply said: “Saxby-Cox; I will not pretend other than that I intend to give you, in the next few minutes, the most painful experience of your life to date: one, which you richly deserve but which if you are wise, you will never, ever wish to repeat.”

Hunched over the horse as Marcus now was and with the Headmaster in front of the cupboard selecting which ever implement he intended to use to embellish his arse, Marcus could not see the object which would shortly impart pain to his arse. But as he listened to what was the word of God, Marcus’s blood ran cold as he heard what was in store for him. Like many boys before him who had experienced the Headmaster’s legendary mastery of the cane, Marcus was afraid of what was about to be visited on his naked arse.

If he had been afraid at the thought of the cane mating with the naked flesh of his buttocks, the Headmaster’s next remarks truly put the fear of God – and not God as in Mr Godber – into him: “Roxby Cox, in view of the extreme gravity of, let us call it, your long-term lapse of judgment, I feel it both appropriate and necessary to teach you a salutary lesson and exact maximum retribution from you. And so, young man, I have decided to commence your punishment by giving you six strokes with the back of the bath-brush to precondition your buttocks for what is to follow. I shall then give you a twelve cut thrashing with the heavy leather belt, which will in turn be followed by twelve strokes of the birch. I shall then complete your punishment with an additional twelve strokes of the senior cane as I feel a boy being punished should always have some clear marks on his buttocks as a visual testimony to what he has just suffered.”

As he listened to what God had in store for him, it was all Marcus could do to sop himself fainting. My God! Thirty-six strokes in all, not counting the swats with the bath-brush, which were also painful. If anyone had wished to give a master class in the art of flogging, then this was it. Unbelievably painful, it would, nevertheless, provide Marcus with a unique opportunity, given to few, to compare and contrast the efficacy of all four implements, which were to be used to roast his arse. The Headmaster then made as if to fasten the restraining straps around Marcus’s wrists and ankles. However, Marcus, who having listened to the utter horror of what was in store for him, in spite of being terrified to the point of figuratively, to use a vulgarity, shitting bricks, nevertheless had decided that he would not undergo the indignity of allowing himself to be strapped down to be beaten. So, showing considerable backbone, he said to the Headmaster: “Sir, there is no need to fasten the straps sir; I promise you, sir, that I will stay perfectly still whilst you punish me. In spite of my errors, still consider myself a gentleman and as such I will accept my punishment with good grace as a gentlemen should. But if you would permit me to say, sir, I think that the punishment you are about to inflict on me is somewhat excessive.”

“Very well, Saxby-Cox; if that is what you wish, then so be it. And, for the record, your remarks have been noted. However, I consider that the punishment I have just outlined to you is totally appropriate in view of your status in this School and the term-long nature of your misdemeanour. You, young man are now about to experience the most painful, but, at the same time, well-deserved experience of your life. Brace yourself, boy, as I will now begin with six strokes with the back of the bath-brush.”

I am sure many reader will agree with Marcus in thinking that the Headmaster was being particularly severe, but one has to remember that Mr. Godber was a strong believer in the deterrent effects of corporal punishment on schoolboys’ behaviour and, as such, a regular and ruthlessly efficient practitioner of the art of fustigation. But even though he had condemned Marcus to no less then forty-two cuts with four different implements, his choice was dictated by the desire to inflict maximum pain, which quite frankly, based on the apparent facts at his disposal, Marcus totally deserved, whilst at the same time doing little permanent damage to the lad’s arse. So in his choice of the bath-brush, the leather strap and the birch, he knew that, although very painful when applied with force, as was his intention, none of the three damaged the skin excessively, due to the wide spread of the force of the blow. But, ever conscious of the need to leave a boy with clear traces of his suffering for the customary, post mortem viewing by his schoolmates, he had added the twelve cuts of the cane, as a sort of excruciatingly painful coup de grace, to provide a visually clear and distinct series of raised welts.

So although the punishment Marcus was about to undergo was draconian in its severity and would leave him in agony, he would suffer no permanent ill-effects from his ordeal; at least that was what Mr. Godber ardently believed. He belonged to that fraternity of traditional, public school headmasters, who ardently believed that a public schoolboy’s was destined, from birth, to be beaten, both hard and often. So he had no second thoughts at all as he prepared to take Marcus to hell and back.

Marcus put on a brave face as the Headmaster, totally incensed by his head-boy’s betrayal of trust, mercilessly flogged his naked arse. Every blow he administered was painful, but by far the worst was the final application of the cane; concentrating, as it did the force of every blow over a small, already painful area, it is hard to over-exaggerate the supplementary pain it delivered. When it was all over and Marcus was told to get up from the horse and put back on his clothes, he had, quite miraculously managed to control his emotions and had not uttered a sound or shed a tear during the whole, epically awful experience. How he had managed to keep his cool given the ordeal he had just endured, God alone knows; but he had.

It was, however, an extremely recondite and sorry young man, the ex-head-boy of the School, who limped his way for the last time back to the head-boy’s rooms. As he showed Marcus out of his study, the Headmaster suddenly realised that at the end of the day, he had a sneaking admiration for Marcus, who had admitted his transgressions and had, without complaint, taken a monumental beating like the true gentleman he evidently was. The Headmaster was mightily impressed by Marcus’s sterling behaviour in adversity, which set him thinking.

But for Marcus, arriving back in his quarters, he found a light at the end of the tunnel, in the person of his lover, Maurice Denham. Maurice was aghast when he saw the state his friend was in and was full of sympathy when he learned that Marcus had been beaten for frequenting the King’s Arms. By way of comforting his lover, Maurice persuaded a somewhat reluctant Marcus into bed. He was totally shocked when he saw what the Headmaster had done to his lover’s arse, which was by now black and blue with bruising. And so he made Marcus lie on his belly and started to apply some soothing ointment to his stripes. Marcus relaxed as he felt the gently soothing fingers of his lover, massaging the ointment into his wounds, in spite of the pain, when he suddenly became aware that the fingers had descended away from his welts and into his crack and had started to explore his anus. This was a totally new departure for Marcus, as his relationship with Maurice had hitherto always been with himself talking the lead as top and Maurice submitting himself as bottom.

But now that he had started, there was no stopping Maurice. Marcus suddenly found himself, as if by magic, on his knees on the bed, with his legs spread, and Maurice’s cock-head, already oozing generous quantities of pre-cum pushing hard against his anal sphincter. Having no resistance left in his body, Marcus relaxed and took Maurice’s full-length, lubricated by its own copious emissions, inside of himself. It was by way of being first for both of them: a first for Maurice, who, in his relationship with Marcus, had ever actually fucked him until now and had been a half virgin, having always bottomed for Marcus; and a first for Marcus in that he had now, finally, lost his anal virginity, which until now had never taken another guy’s cock up his arse, most appropriately, to his one, long-term lover.

Next morning Marcus awoke alone as Maurice had, as usual, gone to his own bed. He was still very, very sore and he was grateful for his own private washing facilities in the head-boy’s rooms and did not have to display his shredded backside to others in the communal showers. He then gingerly dressed himself and attempted to walk normally, a task he barely accomplished, and sat down to breakfast with those of the masters who were single and lodged in the man school building as did Marcus. Totally out of the blue, one of the school servants arrived with a message from the Headmaster for Marcus. It read:

Dear Saxby-Cox,

In view of the parlous state in which you still doubtless find yourself this morning, I think it better that you do not attend Assembly today. Please see me in my study immediately Assembly is over.

Yours etc.

Ronald Godber

Headmaster

The nuance that the Headmaster had signed himself as Ronald,instead of using his three initials,as was his norm, did not escape Marcus: “What the fuck does old boy want to see me about?” Marcus asked himself as he walked towards the Headmaster’s study, the scene of yesterday evening’s massacre of his arse. The meaningless expletive, fuck, had slipped into his thoughts, even though he rarely used vulgar language, even to himself, and he had never been slow to beat its use out of any younger boy’s arse, whom he heard using such. But the word had slipped in as he was just so despondent with his lot, for which he appreciated that he, and he alone, was responsible.

But accepting responsibility for his predicament, did nothing to ease the pain of what he had lost; added to which was the sticky job, to which he was distinctly not looking forward, of explaining to his father, who to say the least was what one might call a difficult man, how he had come to be demoted. Among the myriad of thoughts running through his mind, was that the Headmaster would be writing to his parents to expose what he had he called a betrayal of my trust. He knew that his father would, figuratively, hit the roof if he learned that this son had lost his position because of drink.

In the event, he was astounded (quite the appropriate word) when the the Headmaster greeted him as if he had found a lost lamb: “Saxby-Cox, since I beat you yesterday evening, a punishment which I think you agree you more than deserved, I have reflected deeply on what I said to you about your position as head-boy. I have to say that in spite what was, by your actions, a clear betrayal of the trust I had placed in you, I was impressed, when push came to shove as it did for you, with a vengeance, yesterday evening, that you confessed openly to your offenses and did not try to wheedle your way out of a difficult situation, but had the courage to make a clean breast of things. But I was more impressed by the way you accepted as your lot, without complaint, what was, by any standards, a very severe beating. In summary, Saxby-Cox, in spite of your serious misdemeanour, for which I could, with complete justification, have expelled you from this school, I saw in you a boy of total integrity and honesty, one who acknowledged his errors and accepted, without demur, a dreadful punishment exacted in retribution for his mistakes. I can tell you, Saxby-Cox, I was full of admiration of the way in which you took, without complaint, the most severe beating I have ever visited on any boy, in all my years as Headmaster of this School.”

“I have therefore decided to reverse my decision and allow you to retain your position as head-boy until the end of the school-year when you leave Churton for the last time to go university. This reversal is given on the condition that you here and now give me your solemn word as the true young gentleman, which I perceive you to be, that for the rest of your time as a pupil of this School, you will never again drink alcohol in public in the King’s Arms or in any other hostelry or in private whilst you are still at Churton as a pupil. Subject to these conditions you may continue to hold your position as head-boy and what passed between us yesterday evening in this very study will forever remain a matter strictly between you and me and will never again be discussed. May I take it that I have your word and that I can rely on it?”

Marcus Saxby-Cox left the Headmaster’s study, walking on air.

CHAPTER 4

But to bring this story its satisfactory – and rather surprising – conclusion, we must back-track somewhat in time, to the end of the first week of term when Marcus Saxby-Cox had just installed himself in the head-boy’s rooms in the main school building. Possibly because of his move from his former house to his new quarters, there had been a mix-up with his laundry and his shirts were missing. To sort things out, he went himself to the service building where the school’s laundry was located and it was there that he made his first acquaintance with a female employee, whom he later learned was called Amy Hinchcliffe. Unbeknown to him at time, this meeting was to have far reaching consequences. The reader will understand that, cloistered away as boys were in the typical public school, apart from the Headmaster’s secretary, often herself a frustrated spinster, and a frumpy matron, who tended to boys when sick and occasionally anointed their shredded arses with a little antiseptic when either a master or a prefect had gone a little too far with the cane and drawn blood, females were totally absent from the daily life of most public school boys; and Churton was no exception.

Public schools were a strictly man’s world; and so the boys, once they reached puberty and the sex urge, as it inevitably does, made itself manifest, had to make do with what was available: essentially their classmates! So whether they were true homosexuals or not, many boys aged seventeen or eighteen – or even younger – assuaged their sexual yearnings by buggering one another, which is exactly the way the relationship between Marcus and Maurice Denham, except that true love developed between them as they were both homosexual and not just frustrated, like most of their schoolmates, by the lack of female company. But for Marcus, who knew – or thought he knew – that he preferred boys to girls, to find that he was attracted to Amy, as the twitching of his cock told him he was, was a totally new experience for him. There the matter would normally have rested; for once the question of his missing shirts had been settled, he had no reason ever again to go to the school laundry.

But fate, as it so often does, intervened, in the form of a chance meeting the following afternoon between Marcus and Amy in the village High Street. Well, as Marcus was attracted towards Amy, after greeting each other and an ensuing few seconds of awkwardness as to what to do next, Marcus, wanting desperately to prolong this chance meeting, suggested that as it was four o’clock, they go into the village teashop and have tea together; an invitation which Amy accepted with alacrity. Now, much as Marcus had been instantly attracted by Amy, who was an exceptionally pretty girl, some four or five years older than him, she too had also been equally attracted to him during that brief meeting in the school laundry. Marcus was an attractive and sexy looking, muscular, young stud, handsome to a fault: exactly the type that the street-wise, sexually highly-experienced Amy, really liked.

Over tea, Marcus learned that his companion was called Amy Hinchcliffe and was from what she referred to as the big town –Hereford – where her parents still lived; but, wanting to live her own life as she wished, she had left two years ago found work in the school laundry at Churston. As they sat together the mutual attraction and sexual desire between the two of them increased; especially on Marcus’s side. When tea was over and they were again walking side-by-side down the High Street, Marcus wondered what he could do to do to prolong what he was finding to be a very pleasant experience. So when they got to the King’s Arms public house and Amy said: “This is where I live; if you want to, you can come up and see my place,” Marcus did not refuse. The simple fact of the matter was that Amy was as keen as Marcus to continue the liaison which was clearly developing between them.

An older, more street-wise man than Marcus was with women, would have seen that Amy was what might politely describe as experienced with men and was issuing a come-on invitation. I suppose that Amy, in inviting him to see her place, a she put it, was playing the role of the man, who, wishing to seduce a woman whom he has just met, issues that classic, certainly apocryphal invitation: “Would you care to come back with me to my place, my dear and and see my etchings?” It was Amy who was intent on seducing Marcus and not, as normally the case, the man trying to seduce the woman. But Marcus, although he had been sexually very active with Maurice Denham for well over a year, had no experience with members of the opposite sex whatsoever. As such he was an easy, and it has to be said, willing prey, for someone whom as we shall soon learn, was something of a man-eater, in that she had the sexual libido of a nymphet.

It turned out that Amy did not actually live in the King’s Arms, but in one of two small apartments, which the landlord rented out, located on the first floor above the public house itself. The entrance was through a locked, outer door, in the open lobby of the pub. Another door, at present locked, as due to the then licensing laws, the pub not yet opened for the evening, gave access to the pub’s bars. So when the Headmaster had seen Marcus ostensibly coming out of the King’s Arms, he had not been leaving the public house itself, but had, in fact, been leaving Amy’s place after one of their regular, weekly, sexual assignations, which had developed as a result of that first invitation from Amy.

In fact, once Amy had a willing Marcus in her grip that Saturday afternoon when they had met, he was like putty in her experienced hands. Had Marcus wanted instruction in the art of heterosexual sex, he could have done no better than choose Amy Hinchcliffe to teach him the tricks of the trade. As soon as they were alone in her small flat, Amy more or less threw herself on Marcus, who as he was sexually attracted towards her, did nothing to resist her advances. In no time at all, Amy and he were enjoying each others’ young bodies and Amy had one thing only in mind: sex, as she seduced this young willing stud. After fondling his magnificently erect cock, Amy set off on the road to the ultimate act, intimating to Marcus the pleasures to come, by giving him a female blow-job: his first blow-job ever.

Marcus, who, unbeknown to Amy, had considerable sexual experience, still ongoing, with Maurice Denham, posed no resistance as he was totally enjoying what was happening to him. He had moved mentally into what might be described as the living and learning phase of his sex education; and no one was a quicker learner than Marcus when it came to sex. He was mentally in somewhat of a quandary, for having had, for the past year, a truly loving relationship with Maurice, he was amazed how he had suddenly been attracted to a member of the opposite sex, with whom he now desperately wanted to copulate. Until he met Amy, since he was fourteen years old, he had had eyes only for muscular, older boys at the School, out of which attraction had developed the close physical relationship he now enjoyed with Maurice. But now here he was, totally infatuated with Amy – a woman yet! – and enjoying every bit of the tender, loving care she was lavishing upon him.

But Marcus suddenly realised, acutely aware of just how little he knew about having sex with a female and how experienced Amy obviously was, when, having sucked him off to orgasm, she opened a drawer, in which he could see a sizable carton, from which she extracted a single condom and a tube of lubricant. It was not that Marcus did not know what a condom was and the purpose it served; but he had never seen one until now and had never even considered using one in his weekly sessions with Maurice. Amy then surprised him as him as rather than hand the rubber to him, she opened the packet and rolled the condom onto Marcus’s still erect member. She then applied a good dose of lubricant, making Marcus even harder than he had been – if that was possible – before lying down on the bed and beckoning him to join her.

And that is how Marcus Saxby-Cox, a schoolboy aged eighteen, with a desirably large penis, already an experienced cockswain – to coin a word – but one which was then still virgin to heterosexual sex, and Amy Hinchcliffe, a very experienced young woman of twenty-four, with an extremely large appetite for sex, started what was to become their year-long affair; and this, within one brief hour of leaving the tea-shop!

Marcus saw that he had been pipped at the post by a girl. What most young men of his age would have seen as their first conquest was, in fact, game, set and match down to his partner. Amy, he now saw, by the directness of her actions, as a girl in need of regular sex, who on meeting him for only the second time, purely by chance in the street, had, then and there, decided to make him hernext conquest and had unhesitatingly swooped into the kill. Marcus realised that he was in a situation which should be the other way round; he should have been the one seducing Amy, and not Amy seducing him. It had now dawned upon him in view of the expertise, which Amy, by her actions had taken him in hand, together with the availability of the prophylactic paraphernalia associated with heterosexual sex, that he was certainly not the first to succumb to Amy’s undoubted charms.

But as he found the girl highly attractive and she obviously wanted him to have sex with her, what the heck did it matter if he became the latest of a line of men with whom Amy had had sex? At least he would be having his first experience with a female who could show him the way. Of course the fact of the matter, as that infallible indicator of his own sexual readiness was telling him, was that he was so taken with Amy’s attractive physical appearance, that whatever her mores, he would have gone ahead, forcing himself on her and fucked her given half a chance. But here he was being welcomed with open arms; so why hold back? For for both Amy and him, it had been not a case of love, but of lust, on first sight.

But if Amy had had the upper-hand in their relationship so far, once Marcus had her in his arms and experienced the pleasure of feeling a soft, pliant female body under him, he slid himself smoothly into her as if it was an act he accomplished daily. If Amy had thought that she was about to have sex with a young man, whom she could continue to twist around her finger as she had done up to now, she was sadly mistaken. It may have been Marcus’s first time with a woman, but he was already a very experienced operator when it came to copulation. So, with the bit between his teeth and psyched up to high heaven with the anticipation of what was to come, Marcus gave Amy, who unbeknown to him, adored rough sex, the pounding of her life with his magnificent, rock-hard cock.

As he swiftly took her through to what was to be the first of their several orgasms together that afternoon, Amy felt that she was being transported to heaven. She had been with many different men in her brief life; but sex with Marcus was something else. He did for her what no man hitherto had ever done; he totally dominated her and left her with a feeling of fulfilment which she had never, ever before experienced. She had loved every second of it.

But Marcus was not yet done with Amy. Now in total control of what was happening, he withdrew his still hard cock from her and pulled off the rubber, which was now bulging with his copious emission. He went over to the drawer, took another condom from the carton, tore open the foil packaging and rolled it onto his cock, this time without Amy’s assistance, before going on to fuck Amy for the second time within ten minutes, Within the next two hours the two of them wallowed in a private orgy of raw carnality, getting through no less than six condoms and as many orgasms in what seemed like an ongoing, unbroken chain of copulation.

And that is how Marcus Saxby-Cox, discovered that he was bisexual: that he was equally attracted sexually to both males and females and enjoyed having sex with both of them. So for all that first term of his final year at Churton, which had led to his monumental beating by the Headmaster, Mr.Godber, Marcus had been copulating twice a week with Maurice Denham and once a week – very occasionally twice, if the opportunity arose, for Marcus had an essentially insatiable libido – with Amy Hinchcliffe, neither of which liaisons were known to the Headmaster.

Marcus’s beating and fall from grace, followed by his subsequent reinstatement, had all been predicated on the Headmaster’s assertion that he had seen him emerging from the King’s Arms and quite naturally assumed that Marcus had been in there drinking. In fact, the word, drink, had never been mentioned in the conversation between Mr. Godber and Marcus, who immediately saw that the Headmaster had got the wrong end of the stick in making his assumption. But given the true reason for his apparent leaving of the King’s Arms and the devastating repercussions for him if the Headmaster ever found out what he had been doing there, Marcus decided, to avoid what would have been his instant expulsion from Churton, by allowing Mr. Godber to continue to believe that he had caught his head-boy red-handed coming out of a public house with all that that implied.

Now the fact of the matter was that Marcus Saxby-Cox, unlike many of his contemporaries, did not drink beer or any other alcoholic beverages at all. Thus when the Headmaster had rescinded his original decision and had offered to reinstate him as head-boy, against his word that he would never again, whilst still at Churton, enter the King’s Arms or other public house and would totally forswear the drinking of alcohol in any form both in public and private, Marcus had had no problem in giving his word. The Headmaster was ignorant of the fact that Marcus did not drink at all; nor that he had never actually been into the King’s Head or any other pub for that matter. Marcus was being less than completely honest when he allowed the Headmaster to believe that he was correct in his conclusions. He had therefore taken that truly monumental beating from the Headmaster to save himself from expulsion, which would have ruined his chances for Cambridge had the truth ever come out.

So at the end of the day, one can sympathise with Marcus for saving his own skin and also that of both Amy Hinchcliffe, who would certainly have been dismissed from her job in the laundry and also possibly Maurice Denham, who would also certainly have have been expelled along with Marcus had their long-standing homosexual affair ever seen the light of day, as such things have a nasty habit of doing.

In the words of Alexander Pope: To err is human, to forgive, divine.Myself, I tend to favour forgiveness, especially in a case such as this. The actions of Marcus, Amy and Maurice, although forbidden by the school rules, and indeed in the case of Marcus and Maurice proscribed, by the law of the land at the time the actions in this story took place, they were just following their normal sexual urges and had done no damage to anyone. They were just three young people bowing to the demands which nature was imposing upon them.

And so, Marcus and Amy and and Marcus and Maurice, continued their regular sexual activities, fucking like rabbits for another two terms, until the end of the school year, when both Marcus and Maurice left Churton to go on to university; Marcus to Cambridge and Maurice to Oxford where in those fertile, intellectual breeding grounds they both easily found new partners. Marcus, on the principle that ignorance bliss, never told Amy or Maurice of his shared affections for both of them; so they never knew of the existence of the each other.

When he left Churton, Marcus felt justifiably proud of his record as head-boy. He knew from the punishment records, which he had studied in detail, that as in his year as head-boy, he had beaten more arses than any of his predecessors over the last ten years: a major contribution towards law and order at the school. Add to this his totally exceptional sexual activity; as a young man of nineteen, he calculated that he roughly had had sex with Amy no less than thirty times in his final year and with Maurice with whom he had copulated twice a week for their last two years together at Churton, no less than one hundred and forty.

But his contemporaneous experience with Amy and Maurice had taught him that his future life would be with another man. Much as he had enjoyed sex with Amy, he had decided that the trappings of marriage, which is where liaison with a female, whether with Amy or another woman with would ultimately have ended up, were not for him. He knew that, long term, he could never be faithful to a woman and would always prefer to have sex with another man. And if ever he was again tempted to have sex with a woman, well there was no need to keep a cow when he could always buy a pint of milk.

As for Amy; well, Marcus and she had a tearful – hers – break-up at the end of the school year. But Amy, with her generously liberal libido soon found a replacement stud for Marcus and pursued the happy life as she knew it.

So all’s well that ends well.

THE END