Martin Hicks was a very serious boy. He had every reason to be, with a father like the commander. But as well as the very reasonable fear of his father's punishments, he desperately wanted to excel at everything he did – lessons, sport, model making, religion, the army cadets. He had to be the best. And he wanted more than anything to impress his father with his toughness. He had decided, in a carefully thought-out decision, that one way of doing that was to take the beatings that came his way as bravely as possible.
But taking a whacking bravely would not just impress his father; regular whacking, he was convinced, would make him tough. So he deliberately set out to get himself slippered and caned as often as possible. He didn't enjoy being beaten but he realised that corporal punishment was a necessary and beneficial part of growing up, and the more he got of it, the better he would be.
In the last six months another element had been added to his peculiar approach to life. He had discovered masturbation. Johnson and Sims had first talked about it and then told him how it was done. He had tried it. Enjoyed it. And decided that it was wrong – possibly the greatest sin he had yet committed. But he couldn't stop himself. He'd even done it in French when he was sitting in the back row, with his hand deep in his trouser pocket. And a messy business that had been. Something would have to be done.
And then the idea came to him. Since wanking was obviously a crime he ought to be punished. But he couldn't very well get his knob out in public so that he'd be caught and whacked. But he could – and should – arrange to receive as severe a beating as possible, for something or other, as soon afterwards as he could. Even better, he wouldn't allow himself to toss off till he'd received a _d_a_m_n_ good hiding.
The plan worked well. He selected a prefect called Robson; walked past him with his hands in his pockets, and then, when Robson told him to "take 'em out", turned and calmly told the prefect to _f_u_c_k_ off.
The whacking was done in the boot room. Martin bent over and gripped his ankles and Robson pulled his shirt out of the back of his trousers. The gymshoe was a size twelve, with a heavy rubber sole. Robson applied it at full strength with a good run up, and it hurt tremendously. Martin took the first three or four in silence without too much difficulty. After that the stinging fire was driven deep into his muscles and it required a real effort of will to keep to his tightly bending position and to make no sound. A full six left his bottom burning horribly.
Martin went straight up to the gym changing room – a deserted place at this time of day. Briefly he examined his bruised rear end in the mirror – and then got down to business. His knob was already stiff and he allowed the sensation to flood through him as his hand slowly and luxuriously did its stuff. He'd equipped himself with a wad of toilet paper and at last he shot a satisfying gob of spunk efficiently into it.
Three days later, though, he needed to do it again. His prick kept pushing out at the front of his trousers at the most awkward moments. This time he 'accidentally' put a dirty mark on his gym shorts. 'Bull' Corcoran, the gym master, made him strip off naked and lashed his bare bottom with a skipping rope. It was four strokes, low down on his tightly muscled buttocks, right where it hurt all over again when he sat down in the next lesson. But later that afternoon, as he showered after his run, he could hardly control his knob's swelling, and then he ran off to the gym changing room again. His hand got to work and the silky sliding of his hand and foreskin over his throbbing bell-end was all the sweeter for the pain he had undergone in order to give himself permission for this.
And each of these punishments was recorded in his Lett's Schoolboy's Diary. This had been a present from his father, who had issued strict instructions that every mark given for work, every try scored at rugby or run at cricket, every detention or set of lines, every dose of the slipper, every caning, or any other sort of beating should be recorded for his inspection at the end of term. Of course, beatings were recorded in the punishment book and the number placed on the report – just as in the commander's own school: but the commander also knew that many whackings escaped the record; but Martin wouldn't know which ones; so he would have to keep an honest record; or he'd be in deep, deep trouble.
In addition to all this information for his father, Martin also conscientiously recorded each experiment with masturbation. Not openly, obviously: just a discreet underlining of one letter in the month, so only he would know that it wasn't just an aimless doodle.
End of term. No invitation to his father. This headmaster didn't go in for such a thing. But he did have boys up to explain their poor records.
"You've got seventeen whackings in the book, Hicks. More than any other boy in your form. How do you explain that, eh?"
"I don't know, sir," said Martin, looking at his boots. The real total was nearer thirty, so he hadn't done so badly just to get seventeen in the book.
"But it's a pretty shocking total, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"I can't let it pass, you know, can I?"
"Very well. Let's get on with it." He stood up and came round the desk. "Take your jacket off and go and bend over the back of the settee."
Martin did as he was told. His trousers were taut across his lean and shapely backside. The headmaster pulled his shirt clear and then took up position.
"I'm well aware, Hicks, that a lot of whackings don't get into the book, so your record must be very bad indeed. I'm going to give you a dozen strokes. I know you'll try to take them bravely. I don't mind if you make a noise. But if you get up I shall add three strokes to your punishment. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," said Martin from the depths of the settee. He had already decided that twelve whacks would allow him to toss off twice, but he certainly wasn't going to yell if he could help it. Under his rules, he would lose the right to wank if he made a sound.
The headmaster was an expert flogger. Not quite in the commander's class, but nonetheless a man who could deliver a beating to subdue the most unruly boy. He had considered making Hicks lower his trousers, but the boy was only thirteen – though a very well developed thirteen - and there was no point in excess severity before it was needed. He stepped back and launched himself into the punishment. The cane cracked across the boy's bottom, a high-pitched report like the cracking of a carter's whip. Each one delivered with a good run up to maximise the speed of the cane's tip at the point of impact.
But six strokes later, Martin had still made no sound. The headmaster thought he had heard a low gasp escape from his mouth, but nothing more. This would not do.
"Stand up, Hicks." Martin pushed himself upright. "Put down your trousers and underpants." Without any hesitation, Martin unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down – and his pants – right down to his ankles. "Bend over again." Martin lowered himself once more over the settee back, presenting his now naked bottom for the rest of the caning. The headmaster knew how terrible it was to have to strip naked in the middle of a beating and thought that it would do no harm to intensify the experience for this particular boy.
He hoisted the boy's shirt over his back. The white skin was criss-crossed by the six purple weals. Six more would do the trick.
Martin clenched himself as the cane lashed into his now unprotected flesh. He was prepared for it, having been caned with nothing on since he was a small boy, but the torture went to the very centre of his being, as it always did. Only his willpower and strength of purpose kept him from yelling or getting up. Once, his knees collapsed under him and he scrabbled to regain his feet, but he forced his head to stay down in the settee, always offering his backside to the cane. It was very hard and very terrible.
The headmaster saw him struggle to keep his position and thought, Now I've got him, and lashed the cane into his lacerated buttocks even harder, but the boy made no sound other than a gasp for breath. There was a bead of blood on the outside curve of his right buttock. The last was the worst – as it should have been – but still the boy made no sound of pain, though he must have been suffering terribly.
Martin stood up. His face showed the pain that he was feeling and his eyes showed how seriously he took this punishment. This was a boy who was repentant, accepting completely that he had deserved a beating as severe as this – and more. A boy who cared deeply about the headmaster's good opinion and who wanted, above all, to take his medicine bravely. Painfully, he pulled up his pants and then his trousers. He put on his jacket and signed the book to show that he accepted his punishment, agreed that he had deserved '12 strokes – 6 on trousers – 6 on bare breech'. He shook the headmaster's hand.
Walking was painful, as it always was after a severe caning. His bottom felt as though it was exploding. And his knob was standing up already, as stiff as a flagpole. Before he left for the station, he retired to his favourite wanking place, the gym changing room, fished his straining prick out of his trousers and slowly restored a little humanity to the suffering meat of his loins.
The last part of his journey home was on an old corridor-less train. He had the compartment to himself. There was a little mirror above the seat opposite (though he had spent a great deal of the journey standing up). By standing on his seat, dropping his trousers and looking over his shoulder, hanging on to the luggage rack at the same time, he could see the lines of swollen bruise across his bottom. It was still very painful, but more as a fierce heat than the initial terrible lashing sting. Naturally, his hand went to his groin once more and, ten minutes later, just as the train drew into his station, he shot three substantial spurts into his handkerchief and he was ready to face his father.
For a number of years he had spent most of every holiday with the four or five boys at his father's school who had no home to go to. They had become good friends and the commander relented somewhat during the holidays, though misbehaviour was still punished severely. Luke and Mark, the two boys of his own age, were particular favourites and he was looking forward to the long hot summer with them and Steve Schofield, who was now in the third form, and Jamie Daw of the fourth.
His father greeted him warmly. He was not an unfair man and he was deeply proud of his son's achievements and the promise of his developing manhood. And then the report and the diary of the term's events had to be handed over.
"Come down to the study tonight, when you're ready for bed. I'll have had a chance to read these by then."
Martin moved his gear into the dormitory where the four others would spend the holiday. He no longer felt as though his bedroom in the headmaster's quarters belonged to him. It was better to be in with the other boys. He changed out of his uniform and into the games kit that they all wore most of the time during the holidays. They all came in and there was an immediate reawakening of their old friendship. Lots of news to exchange filled the hour till tea. The boys ate with the commander during the holiday and it was almost like a family.
It was raining after tea and the boys took to the best of the common rooms. "Who's had the stick this end of term?" Martin asked. Luke was always caned at the end of term. He seemed incapable of keeping away from trouble even the little bit that would have kept him out of the commander's study. But this term Steve and Jamie had been caned too. And they were happy to show off their striped rear ends. Martin was surprised when the sight of his friends' wounds caused his knob to rear up inside his shorts.
"How about this?" he said, and dropped his shorts, turning to show them the still throbbing weals across his buttocks. They were impressed. They knew that the commander regularly flogged his son – in fact, they had often been present during holiday punishments – but beatings by his own headmaster were more rare, and this had obviously been a corker.
"Is he going to do you again later?" asked Mark.
"'spect so," said Martin. "He's reading the report now, so I expect he'll want to cane me."
"Is it that bad?"
"I've had twenty-eight whackings this term, and he's bound to once he knows the old man swished me this morning."
"Come straight back up to the dorm," said Steve. "We're going to show you how we have a knob race."
They all changed into pyjamas for supper, which they had with the commander, but now, in the holidays, there were no prayers or a hymn – just cocoa and biscuits.
"Right, Martin," said the commander. "I'm ready for you now. Come to my study."
"Good luck," said Luke, and Martin grinned at him, but he knew that luck didn't come into it. He had fallen below the standard this term and he needed to feel his father's cane across his bottom.
The commander took his time going through Martin's diary. He dealt with the good things first. A regular place in the junior cricket team; captain of the house cricket team; eight wickets taken in one of the house matches; forty runs scored in the match against another school. His marksman badge gained with a maximum score with the rifle; praised by Sgt Wilson for the standard of his turnout. Regular high marks in all subjects, especially maths and science; credit marks awarded every week; fourth in the form in all three of the form orders this term. Cross country runs kept up regularly; first in the 880 yards and the mile at the school sports; first also in the discus throw and javelin; awarded the junior Victor Ludorum.
The commander almost visibly swelled with pride as he ran through Martin's achievements. But Martin could only take a limited pleasure in them. He knew what was coming. And he knew the truth behind it. He was a wanker.
"But –" The commander paused. "Twenty-eight beatings in just twelve weeks. That's more than two a week. What have you been playing at?"
Martin hung his head. "I don't know, sir."
"And they're not just three or four of the slipper either. Eleven canings, and more than half are six strokes or more. I don't understand, Martin. What has brought about this sudden change? Is something troubling you?"
"What then? You've never had a fraction of this number before."
"I don't know, sir. I just seem to get into trouble without thinking about it."
"That is most unlike you, Martin. I would never have said you were thoughtless." There was a long silence. "What has Mr Grenfell said about this number of beatings? Presumably most of these were in the book."
"Yes, sir. He caned me this morning. Six on the trousers and then six with my pants down."
"Did he? And did it hurt?"
"Yes, sir." Martin's hands went briefly to his bottom. There was still a lingering echo of heat in the weals.
"Then I'd better repeat his caning, hadn't I? Take off your trousers and get ready over the chair."
Martin was relieved. He had been ready for a long lecture before his father got down to business. This had been almost a record for brevity. He whipped off his pyjama trousers, folded them neatly and knelt on the chair. He reached over and held the rail. Over the last three days nearly twenty boys had been flogged in this same position and Martin was aware of their ghosts watching him and judging his performance.
The commander came round the desk carrying the rattan cane that he had been using all week. He considered his son's bottom, stretched by his bending position over the back of the chair. Martin was as strong and fit as any of the boys he had recently beaten. The muscles were lean and well-defined, with no fat at all. His stretched thighs were taut and powerful. This was a boy that any father would be proud of. The purple weals that criss-crossed the white skin were obviously still very painful. It had been a very serious punishment. But that would not deflect him from his duty.
He launched into the beating and the boy gasped as the cane bit into him. Slowly, he applied the strokes, laying down a pattern of scarlet stripes over and across the more random marks of the earlier flogging. But there was no run up now, just a good swing of the cane with the weight of arm and shoulder behind it. The boy gasped a little when the cane struck a particularly tender weal, and there were one or two extra beads of blood when the skin was broken. A good solid, painful beating – but not an out-and-out flogging like some he had handed out. Twelve good strokes that covered the lower half of the boy's buttocks with dark parallel lines of bruise. His sense of pride and admiration for his son grew as this second serious punishment of the day was taken silently and with a clear determination to accept whatever was necessary.
"Get up." Martin straightened up and climbed down off the chair, turned and – good heavens! The boy had a an enormous erection, jutting unmistakably out from under his pyjama jacket. "What's the meaning of this?"
Martin's hands flew to his groin, but it was too late. He couldn't think of an answer that wasn't stupid so he kept silent, the realisation flooding into him that his prick might very well have condemned him to yet another dose of the cane. But the commander was more perceptive and sympathetic to boys than many gave him credit for. And he certainly understood his son better than Martin realised.
"You've discovered masturbation, haven't you?" But this wasn't a word that he knew. "Tossing off? Wanking?"
Martin went bright scarlet but, as always, was ready to face the music. "Yes, sir."
"Is that what all these extra whackings were for?"
"Not exactly," said Martin. And then, seeing no other honourable way out, confessed all to his father.
The commander listened. It was tempting to laugh, but knew that such a response would have been very wrong. He remembered, just, the seriousness with which some boys took these things. He was glad that Martin was prepared to take responsibility for his actions, even if the impulse behind it was so mistaken.
"Now, listen," he said. "You are right to some extent about this. It is much better not to toss off if you can. But it's not as serious a sin as you think. Every boy does it sometimes. Anyone who says they don't is a liar. And you don't have to punish yourself for it. Just enjoy it, and think of the better ways there are of achieving the same thing in the future. I dare say you've come across situations where boys do it together – or even to each other. There's nothing much wrong with that either, though I'd take the skin off the backsides of any that I caught doing it. Just be careful and sensible – as I know you will."
Martin smiled with relief. If his father said it was all right, then it must be.
"How's your bottom?"
"Stinging," said Martin.
"Good. But let's have a better record next term, eh?"
Martin pulled on his trousers and escaped. Up in the dorm the others were waiting for him. In the summer none of them slept in pyjamas and now they lounged naked on their beds. He pulled off his pyjamas and showed them what his father's cane had done to him. They were suitably impressed, laying their hands on the roasting skin to feel the swollen weals.
"Right," said Steve at last. "Time for our knob race."