by BendOverBoy

(usual disclaimers apply)

“I'm very disappointed in you, boy”.

The anticipatory gleam in the housemaster's eye belied his words.

“You know what to do”, he said.

He selected a springy cane from the selection he kept beside the desk in his study.

I placed a chair in the middle of the room and then unfasteneded my pyjama bottoms which fell to the floor. I bent over the chair, presenting my 16 year old buttocks to the housemaster.

There was a pause before hostilities commenced. I reflected on ‘my crime’. It was the last night of the term and the dormitory had been noisy. I was the oldest of the dozen lads and was supposed to keep order. The housemaster warned us a couple of times. The third time he decided to make an example of me. You could have heard a pin drop as the housemaster led me from the room to his adjacent study. He left both doors ajar so my punishment would be heard by the other lads.

The housemaster's cold hands rested on my tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of my jacket well clear of his target. He was a big man, physically fit. I had been beaten by him before so knew how much it was going to hurt.

The first stroke landed on the centre of his target. The thud! the cane made when striking flesh would have been clearly audible in the dormitory, as he intended. Corporal punishment was meant to be a deterrent, after all.

A band of pain burst across my backside. Just as the hurt was reaching its peak the second stroke landed. He gave me six-of-the-best which hurt like hell. Tears stung my eyes. Then came the moment in these character- building sessions which I absolutely hated, his cold hands stroked and fondled the cheeks of my flogged bottom. He pawed me for ages before I was allowed to get dressed again.

I was dismissed and returned to the dormitory. The only noise came from my slippers as I walked on the wooden floor.

The next morning under the communal showers my battered backside with its six ‘tramlines’ and technicolour bruises was discretely admired. The housemaster was supervising so had the opportunity to inspect his handiwork.

Four hours later and I was on a train heading for freedom. ‘Freedom’ was my home where I lived with my mother and sister. My father died during the war so the head of the house was my brother Bert, 12 years my senior.

The journey seemed to take longer than usual. The Second Class seat, uncomfortable at the best of times, aggravated the welts on my bottom. I'm sure I felt every join in the railway lines as they jolted my tender, corrugated bum-flesh.

Then I was h-o-m-e! Everyone had come down to the station to greet me. Bert, handsome as ever, shook my hand with such force I thought he'd crushed it. Kisses from Mum and Sis. I was introduced to Sis' friend Andrea who was to spend her holidays with us. She was a black-eyed beauty, one year older than I.

We all climbed into the truck and Bert drove us home to the farm. The dogs greeted me hysterically and even Snudge the cat condescended to having his head rubbed.

That night I slept in my own bed. It was quiet on my own and I missed the other lads' snores and their less savoury noises. At least I was safe from the housemaster's cane. I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I enjoyed a leisurely shower. I was towelling myself dry with my back to the door when it suddenly opened.

“Oh! Sorry!” a female voice said. It was Andrea.

“The l-ock doesn't work”, I stammered while quickly wrapping the towel around my middle. I fled the room with as much dignity as I could muster.

Andrea tracked me down later in the morning.

“Don't worry about this morning”, She told me. “I've got six brothers so I've seen loads of male bottoms”. She looked me up and down. “But what caused those nasty marks and bruises? Did you fall?”

I told her about the housemaster and the beating.

“Poor you!”, she said sympathetically.

After that, everytime we were on our own she brought up the subject of my backside.

“Wonder why they don't cane girls?”, She queried.

“Their flesh is too t-ender”, I stammered.

“Rubbish”. She broke a length of supplejack and handed it to me.

“Go on”.

To my amazement she flipped back her dress and bent over. I was greeted by the sight of panties which contained what looked to be a glorious bottom.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Stop mucking about”, I said, memerised at the sight of two tantalising mounds. “I can't hit you. It's not right”. I threw down the stick.

She stood upright and smoothed down her dress.

“Spoilsport!” she shouted but the cross expression on her face quickly changed to a relieved grin.

The next day I was helping Bert shift hay bales in the barn. All my clothes were in the wash so I was wearing an old pair of Bert's trousers which were far too big for me. I was above him, bending over to pick up a stray bale when the trousers slipped down revealing my caned backside in all its glory, to my big brother.

“Did the housemaster do this to you?” Bert asked.


He found a soothing ointment used in lambing and gently applied it to my welts and bruises.

“In my book, this goes way beyond fair and reasonable corporal punishment”. Bert helped me pull the trousers back up over my tortured globes. “I'll have a word”.

The rest of the holidays flew by. Andrea and I became great pals. However, all too soon I was seated in a railway carriage travelling back to school. After arriving at the boarding establishment I was surprised to learn that the old housemaster had left suddenly. His replacement was a cheerful, younger man, an enthusiatic caner as it turned out, but he had none of his predecessor's sleaze. Nothing was said but I was sure I had Bert to thank for to that. Along with labouring over a weekly letter to the farm, I also wrote to Andrea. She wrote big newsy letters back. Life was good!