I was packing my bag for school. Mum was ill and had been in bed for over a week, but Tony and dad were kind of looking after me OK. I got the right books packed and then went to the airing cupboard for my gym shorts. Last week we'd played crab football and the backside of the shorts got all dirty, so I'd put them in the basket to be washed. They weren't there.
In a panic I went to the laundry basket and rummaged through the clothes. There they were, still unwashed. I was a dead boy.
I'd been at grammar school just over half a term. Mr Donnellan, the PT master, was known to all the boys as Madman, because of the whackings he handed out. He hadn't actually whacked anyone in my form, but his reputation was terrible and the memory was still fresh of his lecture at the beginning of our first lesson with him.
"The clothing list says that you wear white shorts for gym lessons. And I expect to see white and nothing else. You turn up with shorts any other colour, or shorts with dirt hiding the whiteness and the only colour you'll be showing is red. Because that'll be the colour of your backside after I've used my special bat on it."
I had asked Tony about it, and he confirmed the rumours. If he didn't think your shorts were clean enough you had to do the lesson in the nude and he whacked your bare bottom with this big bat thing he kept specially. Tony said he'd never had it but he'd seen big lads in his form nearly crying after Madman had paddled their bare bottoms.
I held the shorts up. Even I didn't think they were clean enough. There was no chance that Madman would. I went in to mum's room. She was awake but just lying there staring at the ceiling.
"Mum," I said. "My gym shorts haven't been washed."
"I'm sorry, love. Didn't your dad do them?"
"No. I'll get in trouble if they're dirty."
"Have a go at them yourself. Tony's got homework and it's your dad's night out. The soap is under the sink."
I tried to wash them but the marks just wouldn't come out. I think I was crying when Tony found what I was doing. He laughed when he saw the state of my shorts. If anything, I'd made them worse.
"I'm glad I'm not in your shoes," he laughed and he gave the back of my jeans a swat with the flat of his hand.
"_f_u_c_k_ off," I said.
"You better not say that to Madman tomorrow when he's whacking your arse for you."
But then he took pity on me and tried to scrub off the marks. They were very stubborn but I thought they looked clean enough. We hung them in front of the stove to try and dry them.
When I went to bed I lay awake for ages, imagining Madman making me strip off and touch my toes so he could whack me.
First thing in the morning I went down to the kitchen to see how successful my laundry had been. The shorts were lying on the floor and when I examined them it looked as though dad had accidentally stood on them as he came in from the pub – and they were still wet.
Now I really was for it.
"Lend us your shorts," I begged Tony, but it was no good. He had PT too and it was unreasonable of me to expect him to run the risk of getting a whacking himself.
Gym was first lesson. All the other boys in the form got out their sparkling white shorts and pulled them on. I got out my still damp and very mucky articles and with sinking heart pulled them up my legs. They were clammy and horrible round my loins.
"Look at your shorts," said Simkins, a fat boy who I hated.
"_f_u_c_k_ off," I said.
As usual we lined up and were allowed into the gym as he inspected us. I hung back to the end of the line. Maybe he wouldn't look so closely by the time he got to me. There was no chance.
"Well, well, Potter. What have we here?"
"Please, sir, my mum's ill, sir, and couldn't wash them. I had a go but it didn't work very well."
The boys who heard giggled, slightly nervously. I don't think they wanted me to get the whacking.
"You know what you're getting then, Potter, don't you?"
"A whacking, sir."
"Do the lesson with nothing on, sir."
"That's right. Get those disgusting items off, fetch me my special bat out of the cupboard and then come in the gym and we can see what you're made of."
Fighting back the tears, I peeled off my shorts and was naked. I went to his cupboard and there was the special bat. It was like a ping pong bat, but about twice the length, so that, I suddenly thought, it would land on both cheeks of my bum at once, and instead of rubber or sandpaper it was faced with leather. It had obviously been made specially for slapping boys' bottoms.
Sheepishly I went into the gym, holding the bat in front of me so that my prick was hidden, but Madman wouldn't have that. He held his hand out and I had to hand it over. The whole form were watching now, some of them hardly able to hide their excitement. But I was determined now that I wouldn't show how scared I was.
"This is the first time a boy in this form's had to have the bat, isn't it? So this'll be a useful demonstration for all of you to see what it's like."
The class stood in a rough semi-circle and I was made to stand in the middle. Madman stood over me holding the bat and tapping it against the palm of his other hand. It made a horrible slapping sound.
"Right, Potter," he said. "Face the far end of the gym and touch your toes."
Resigned now to what was happening, I turned my back to the class and bent over. This was the first time in my entire life that I had ever been whacked, but I had seen friends get it a couple of times so I knew what you had to do. I could sense the whole class's eyes fixed on my bare bottom.
"I'm going to give you three whacks, Potter, and you're going to stand nice and still till I tell you to get up. If you move you'll get extra whacks."
There was a pause that seemed to stretch out forever. I even thought maybe he was going to say stand up, he was going to let me off this time.
And then the whole of my backside exploded. I had never felt anything so utterly excruciating – ever. I've no idea whether I yelled or not. It was as if the muscles of my bum had turned instantly to molten fire. The second landed, of course, on exactly the same area and the pain – impossibly – doubled in intensity.
I must have moved because he suddenly snapped, "Stand still." I gripped my ankles and gritted my teeth. "Only one to go now." Another long pause and then the third slapped down on my burning flesh. I wanted more than anything to stand up, to run away, but I remembered what he said. The last thing I wanted was more of that bat.
"And that is the special bat," Madman said to the class. "Do you think Potter will come to gym with dirty shorts again?"
"No, sir," they all murmured.
"Stand up, Potter." Thankfully I straightened up and faced the class. I had survived the ordeal, and I wasn't blubbing – for which I was immensely grateful – but my bottom felt as though the fire would never subside. "Here." He held the bat out to me. "Go and put the bat away. You can have a quick look at yourself in the mirror. Then come back and get on with the lesson."
I took the torture instrument that I had been beaten with and escaped into the changing room. I put it away in his cupboard and noted that it contained a couple of canes and a nasty looking leather strap too. My backside was dark scarlet, as he had said it would be.
I was not over self-conscious about being naked. I was not one of those who hated getting into the shower after rugby. It felt strange at first to be the only one with his prick on show, but I got through the lesson somehow. Parsons asked me how I was but Madman saw him talking and threatened to send him out for the bat too.
At the end, my bottom was still flaming sore, and I could still feel the warmth of the whacking at lunchtime. I walked home with Tony at the end of the day and told him about my encounter with the special bat.
"How's your arse now?"
"All right. Still tingling a bit." He laughed.
I went in to see mum the way I always did. "How was your day?" she asked. "Did you get into trouble for your shorts?"
"Yes," I said.
"Lines or something, was it?"
"Yes, mum," I said.
"Never mind," she said.
Wilkinson was, by any standards, a very bad little boy. He looked like a cherub, with his twinkling blue eyes and his fair hair flopping over his forehead, but last term Major Sterling had had to slipper him six times. But it had never been more than three or four whacks and he had taken his beatings cheerfully enough.
"Maybe that's the trouble," said the major to matron. "Maybe nothing will do the trick but one of the head's whippings."
He wasn't very attentive in lessons, doing no more than the minimum, and his greatest pleasure in life seemed to be creating mischief and being cheeky to those who thought that having fun was something boys should never indulge in.
Matron took no nonsense from him and he responded with a reasonable imitation of good behaviour when she was around. But her young assistant was a different matter. Only nineteen, she found some of the boys she had to supervise more than a handful.
One Friday night in the Spring Term she was supervising Wilkinson's form going to bed. They were laughing and ragging, much as they did every night. There were boys bathing in both of the cubicles behind the showers. She became aware of a knot of boys in one of the cubicles, obviously involved in something that had to be investigated.
"Now what's going on in here?" she demanded. The group of boys parted and there, standing up in the bath, was Wilkinson, holding his penis and inspecting it with a look of concern on his face. One or two of the others giggled, but, by now, she knew better than to let that put her off.
"What's the matter, Wilkinson?"
"I've got a funny mark on my _c_o_c_k_, Miss Bennett," he said and the giggles from the other boys doubled. "Will you have a look at it, please."
"Not now, Wilkinson. Come to the surgery in the morning."
"Oh, please. I'm rather worried about it."
"Very well. Out of the bath and get dried. Then I'll have a look. The rest of you, off about your business."
They left the cubicle, but not very far. There was too great a possibility of a good rag here to be left completely. They started to slowly clean their teeth, or wash their faces again.
Wilkinson rubbed himself dry and started again. "If I stood on a chair you could get a better look," he said and stepped up on to the chair beside the bath. He lifted his penis again and held it for her inspection.
"There's nothing there, Wilkinson. You're just imagining it," she said.
"There is. You have to look closer. Perhaps if I made it bigger for you."
Unfortunately, he had failed to notice that the sniggers from his friends had stopped.
"Wilkinson." It was the voice of doom. Major Strickland's large frame filled the doorway of the cubicle and he was done for. "What is going on, Wilkinson?"
"Nothing, sir. Just a joke, sir."
"Did you find it funny, Miss Bennett?" demanded the major.
"No, major," said the girl.
"Neither do I. I think it's time my slipper had another joke with your backside, Wilkinson. Get down to my study."
"Yes, sir. I'll get dressed, shall I?"
"No, Wilkinson. I think the joke will be funnier if you go as you are."
"But I've got nothing on, sir."
"Yes. Hilarious, isn't it?" And he turned on his heel, leaving the boy dumbfounded. "And why aren't you boys in bed? Last one in bed feels my hand on his backside."
In no time the washroom was empty and Wilkinson had no option but to head for the major's study – and yet another beating. It was at the far end of the house and walking there with no clothes on at all was a terrible punishment in itself. He had no idea who might still be around to see him. All the boys were meant to be in their dorms, but it wasn't that late and someone might still be up. There were masters and the domestic staff, still working. He took the least conspicuous route he could, but in the end there was the passage and the dreaded door at the end of it. And he had to stand there and wait.
When the major arrived Wilkinson was shivering and dancing from foot to foot. His hands were clutched over his groin and he looked terrified. The major opened the door and ushered the naked little boy inside. There was a fire burning in the grate and he could feel the warmth immediately. The major sat down behind his desk and Wilkinson took up his familiar place facing him. His hands still clutched his groin.
"At attention, Wilkinson, please. You should know by now." The boy straightened his back and forced his hands down by his sides. "I heard enough up there, boy, to disgust me and to tell me that I would be doing less than my duty if I didn't give you the most thorough beating I can. Would you agree?"
"Then I see no point in dragging it out any further. And you should know, Wilkinson, that you are greatly honoured. I have a new slipper and your bottom will christen it. Here it is."
He took out of a drawer the biggest gymshoe Wilkinson had ever seen. It was enormous.
"A size twelve," said the major, "which should do the trick very nicely. Especially as it's got a specially heavy, reinforced rubber sole, with nice ridges across it, which I think you're not going to enjoy. Usual position, please."
Wilkinson turned to the big armchair in the middle of the room. He raised himself on to his toes and draped himself over the back of it. He was a sturdy little boy and his bottom was round and solid with muscle. His skin was white and his strong thighs were trembling slightly.
Major Strickland came round the desk, gripping the gymshoe tightly. He felt sorry for the boy, because there was something about him that one couldn't help liking, but that was not going to deflect him from this painful duty. He lay the sole of the shoe against the white skin, letting the boy feel it.
"This is going to hurt a good deal," he said. "I know you will try to take it bravely. If you get up before I tell you, I shall give you extra whacks. Do you understand?"
He swung the slipper back and brought it down with considerable force. It landed with a solid THWUNK! Instantly both cheeks of Wilkinson's bottom turned bright red and the boy gave a yell of pain. The second one made him yell again and the colour of his skin darkened still further, but he still made no move. After the third whack the major stepped back a little further and launched the slipper at Wilkinson's scarlet backside much harder. The boy's yell rose in pitch and he wriggled over the back of the chair. The next one covered the same suffering area of flesh and the boy reared up from his bending position, his face contorted with pain.
"Still, Wilkinson," warned the major and waited till the boy had resumed his tightly bending position over the chair. "One to go."
The sixth was the hardest of all. It slapped down with a resounding THWACK!! and Wilkinson howled. But he knew better than to get up before the major told him to. The whole of his bottom was a mass of fire. The skin was dark red and turning to purple in places. Sitting down tomorrow would be pretty uncomfortable, the major thought.
"Get up." The boy stood up and clasped both hands over his backside. The major noted that, although his face showed clearly that the slipper had hurt terrifically, there was no trace of a tear. And that is how it should be, thought the major.
"The next time I have to punish you, Wilkinson – the very next time – I shan't slipper you. I shall take you up to Dr Corp and ask him to whip you. Do you know what that means?" Wilkinson nodded. "Six of the best with his cane. And on your naked bottom – like this. Is that what you want?"
"Then take this as a warning. Off you go to bed – and no showing off your bruises till the morning, mind."
Wilkinson escaped into the corridor, still rubbing at his horribly stinging rear end. For the moment he really did mean to change. The thought of a whipping from Dr Corp would have been enough for anyone. Unfortunately, as the bruises faded, so did his resolution. At the end of the month he received the first of several beatings with the headmaster's cane. As the major predicted it was six of the best with his pants down. In the final year he spent at this school, he was whipped a further eight times – twice in front of the whole school – but nothing made much difference to him.
"And in a way I'm glad it hasn't changed him," said matron.