The Jonster


by Alfie Legrand <Alfredlegrand@hotmail.com>

The Jonster

Note: this is basically a true story, although I have embroidered details in parts at which my memory has faded. It includes depictions of M/b caning and spanking, and b/b _s_e_x_ual activity; so if that stuff squicks you, please don' t bother reading it.

I have changed certain details and our names to protect our identities. "The Jonster" and I are still friends, now happily married with kids of our own.

American readers should note that, in the UK, a prep school is a private educational establishment typically catering for boys aged from 7 to 13.

It all started with the Jonster's lines.

He sat dejectedly on his bed, staring moistily at the red notebook in his hand. Sitting by his side, I pouted, and then drew a deep breath.

"Lose it," I advised.

Friends often turned to me for advice, even back in the mid '70s, when the Jonster and I were 12, going on 13. This was the worst piece of advice I ever gave. Its aftermath taught me several things, not least that the best counsel is usually to let someone reach his own decisions. That way you can' t get blamed when things go horribly wrong -- as they did in this instance.

The Jonster pulled a tight-lipped smile and, at length, nodded. "I don't s' pose it could make matters worse," he observed ruefully.

Famous last words.

We were close, the Jonster and I. He, some months my senior, may even have turned 13 by this time, I'm not sure, but he was nevertheless smaller than me and still very much a boy. I had hit puberty relatively early for those days and, perhaps as a result, I felt quite protective of him. I certainly found him attractive, although I would never have dared let him know that for fear of losing our friendship, which I valued above all others.

I can still picture him sitting there on his bed, looking so forlorn and vulnerable. Man, I only wanted to help.

The red notebook in the Jonster's hand was a Barnabus Prep School journal. These were homework diaries used by pupils at the private school we attended as day boys. The 60% of the school's pupils who boarded there would have to have their homework checked against the journal and signed by the housemaster before they were allowed to embark on recreational activities.

The homework routine for day boys was left to their parents' discretion; in the Jonster's case, this differed little from the boarders' homework ritual. His father, a single parent, was loving and caring towards his only son, but strict. Physically strict. Too strict, some might say. I don't know. It was his way of being a good parent (which to my mind he undoubtedly was, and The Jonster loved him dearly). He certainly put the fear of God into me, though, and, on not infrequent occasions, into his own son.

The Jonster, aka Jonathon Johnstone, my best friend and ally both in and out of school, was basically a good kid. He was, however, exceedingly mischievous and, like his father, hot tempered. This combination of personal qualities, endearing though it was to me, used to get him into quite a bit of trouble - at school and at home.

On many occasions he paid for it with his hide. Although our school was pretty forward-looking in its discipline policy, having practically abandoned the cane, except as a "last resort", the Jonster's dad's first disciplinary recourse was to "take off his belt."

"Stop that this instant, Jonathon, or I'll be taking my belt off."

Such caveats were heard several times a day in the Jonster's house and they had the effect of immediately subduing the boy, like a mainline shot of Ritalin.

I'd never seen said belt come off, although I'd had occasion to be shown the effects it left on the Jonster's buttocks. The marks terrified me, yet fascinated me and, in a way I could not yet quite understand, excited me.

He flicked through the school journal contemplatively, finally coming to rest on the offending page once more. There, in Miss Jordan's ugly, fat, red writing, were the words:-

"'Inappropriate, abusive and profane language will not be tolerated at Barnabus Preparatory School in any circumstances whatsoever.' X 500. Best handwriting for Monday."

That morning, taunted by a classmate, the Jonster had momentarily forgotten himself and told his tormentor to "_f_u_c_k_ off". Overheard by Miss Jordan - a much hated, wizened, spinsterly mistress - he was awarded 100 lines. Still fired up by the incident (for which he really was not to blame) he argued back. His sentence was summarily increased five-fold by the outraged teacher.

The imposition was well out of proportion to the misdemeanour. Looking back, I wonder whether our teachers ever stopped to think about the severity of such sanctions, which they handed out glibly on a whim with monotonous regularity. I never had to do more than 200 lines myself, and those were half the length of the sentence awarded to the Jonster. Even then, the task seemed endless and I still remember sitting up in bed into the early hours to get the _d_a_m_n_ things finished.

The Jonster had the whole weekend to complete this sterile exercise, but the prospect was nevertheless onerous. On a quick mental calculation, I figured it would entail at least ten hours of solid writing.

We had spent some time discussing an action plan that afternoon in the Jonster's room. We considered the possibility of his refusing to do the lines, or maybe just doing the original sentence of 100 (in itself quite a task) in the hope that Miss Jordan would relent. However, relenting wasn't something Miss Jordan was famous for.

What would be the consequence of not doing the lines, we wondered. Quite possibly a "last resort" appointment with the Headmaster's cane. Neither of us had ever been caned, but the Jonster felt pretty confident that it would be easy relative to his father's belt. Even to me, a boy who had never experienced anything worse than a slapped backside as a little kid, a caning seemed quite possibly preferable to the stratospheric writing imposition that lay in prospect for the Jonster.

The snag was. Another possible consequence (and, on reflection, a more likely one) was for Miss Jordan to contact the Jonster's dad. At the thought of this, the boy's face dropped and his chattering tongue fell silent.

She knew what she was doing, alright, did Miss Jordan. It was well known that she made a point at open evenings of asking boys' parents about their methods of domestic discipline. Her classroom discipline was dictated by the knowledge thus gleaned. She didn't bother with letters or phone calls home to boys whose parents would merely reprimand them. In such cases she imposed her own punishments. For kids like the Jonster, however, parental contact was often her first recourse - the scheming old cow.

In fact, it wasn't common practice to record impositions like this one in boys' school journals anyway. Normally we were allowed the dignity of keeping scholarly chastisement private, without our parents' knowledge. Oh, she knew what she was doing alright!

That was the other problem, you see. The Jonster's dad had a bit of a thing about bad language. He was a God fearing, pure-living, clean-mouthed gentleman. If he found out that his son had used language like that, in class of all places, his belt was sure to come off for an extended period. Quite possibly several extended periods.

That's why I suggested losing the journal.

It was a ploy we had used successfully the previous term, when the Jonster had been placed in detention for running in the corridor. Parents were routinely informed about detentions via their sons' journals. Knowing that getting detention would also mean getting a licking from his father, the Jonster and I had come up with a scheme whereby he "lost" his journal down a drain our way home from school. Then, on the day of his detention, I had covered for him by telling his father he was coming home with me after school.

The plan had worked perfectly. The only price for the Jonster was a fairly trivial punishment for losing his journal; I think he had to write an essay on "The importance of looking after school materials".

Like me, the Jonster enjoyed writing English essays, so this wasn't really a punishment for him at all.

That, of course, is why Miss Jordan had given him lines rather than anything more creative. Did that bitch know what she was doing!

We formulated the plan.

If the Jonster just told his dad he'd left the journal at school by mistake, he could get a replacement on Monday, pay the mild penalty, copy up the old journal into the new, and his dad would be none the wiser.

Getting the lines done without detection was straightforward. My mum and the Jonster's dad were good friends. She was a lone parent too and most years we would all go on holiday together. That was nice; a bit like the way we used to play "mummies and daddies" in kindergarten. I had asked my mum if the Jonster could visit us over the weekend, staying Saturday night. He was always a welcome guest at our house. That way we could shack up in my bedroom and he could get the lines done in private, away from his dad's prying eyes.

I did offer to help him write them out, so we'd have more time for a bit of fun over the bleak two days ahead, but, we decided, that was too risky. Miss Jordan was the sort of woman who would gloat over the Jonster's punishment and examine it carefully. She would notice the difference in handwriting.

Hiding his school journal under his mattress, the Jonster heaved a sigh of relief.

"You know, Greenie, I think this is going to work," he said.

I was wrong in my earlier premise. THOSE were his famous last words.

The Jonster's dad dictated that the boy had to complete his homework before he could come to our house on Saturday; little was he aware of the irony of this edict. It was around 2pm the following day that a somewhat subdued Jonster arrived. We had a Coke in the kitchen before telling my mum that we were going to work on some scenes for the school pantomime and retiring to my room.

The Jonster sat and wrote sedulously that afternoon and evening. I did my best to keep his spirits up, cracking the occasional joke, but could do little more than lie on my bed reading and wishing I could do more to help. By 10 o' clock, when my mum called up to us that it was time for bed, he had barely completed half of that wretched exercise.

He rose early the following day and by the time we were called down for Sunday lunch, he had done all but fifty of the lines. We sat and ate my mother's meal, chatting to her about the pantomime, in seemingly high spirits. Kids are natural actors when it comes to deceiving parents; I always remember that as a parent myself and take any first-hand account of my kids' activities with a large pinch of salt.

Finally, by 3pm, the Jonster's ordeal was complete, which gave us a couple of hours for playing out before his dad came to collect him at 5. That left one final problem. He could hardly meet his father clutching fifteen pages of foolscap, covered front and back with carefully written repetitive sentences. Besides, his dad had a habit of "checking" the Jonster's school bag in the mornings. We decided therefore that I should bring them to school the following day.

"Hello boys. Have fun, did you?" asked the Jonster's dad cheerily on his arrival.

"Yes thanks, Mr Johnstone, it was great. Thanks for letting him stay."

"Johnstone! Legrand! Stand up!"

Miss Jordan's piercing yell caught me unawares. I rose, the Jonster's lines still in my hand.

"Johnstone, I thought it was you who was supposed to be writing 500 lines for me."

We just stood there dumbfounded.

"Don't act stupid, boys! I've been watching you." She approached us, looking severe. "So you got your friend here to do them for you, did you?" She signalled for me to hand her the lines, which - rather shakily - I did.

"No, Miss!" objected the Jonster.

"No, Miss," I added, and then checked myself. What exactly could I say? How could I explain how the lines came to be in my possession without going into how we had deceived our parents?

The crony old mistress heaved a huge sigh. "Don't lie, boys! Anyone can tell this isn't Johnstone's writing; it's far too neat." She returned to her desk and then unceremoniously ripped the fruits of the Jonster's labour in two, dropping it disdainfully into and adjacent waste paper bin. I sneaked a glance at my friend. His eyes were welling up, but he was holding out on blubbing - just.

Miss Jordan had produced a duplicate book from her desk draw. I knew what was coming and a shiver ran down my spine. She was giving us report slips.

Report slips were the ultimate sanction at Barnabus Prep, reserved for the most serious breaches of school discipline. Any boy to whom one was issued had to pay a visit to the headmaster after school that day to account for his behaviour. As I mentioned earlier, corporal punishment was a rarity at this particular school, but in the event of a report slip being issued by a teacher, it became a distinct probability.

Said head, a Mr Browning, was a scholarly, mild mannered man for whom we all had great and genuine respect. He was, nevertheless, athletic, about 6 foot 6 tall and weighed in at 200-odd pounds of pure muscle. It was said that during the 15 years he had held the post of headmaster at Barnabus, no boy had ever been back for a second taste of his cane.

"Come here, boys," commanded Miss Jordan. Weak-kneed, we approached her. "You two have an appointment with Mr Browning at 4 o'clock," she explained - somewhat unnecessarily. She handed us the slips and we returned to our places, followed by a classfull of sympathetic eyes, which were, nevertheless, charged with a certain excitement.

I should explain that the issuing of a report slip was not a commonplace event at Barnabus. When it happened, a buzz would rise like a Mexican wave through the school. At four o'clock, the miscreants responsible would be standing outside the head's office, often watched surreptitiously by a clutch of excited young observers, of whom I confess to having been one on occasions.

On the boys' being called into the office, an electric tension would rise amongst the select audience. We would wait in silence.

Sometimes it was an anti-climax, and the offender or offenders would emerge from the office with nothing worse than flea-ridden ears; but somehow this element of Russian roulette merely added to the excitement.

Other times, after a few minutes, a series of pistol cracks would resound from the office, echoing loudly through the hall, despite originating from behind a solid oak door.

"CRACK!"

Sometimes two. Usually three. On occasions, 4. Sometimes, a full 6.

Anyone less informed could have been excused for thinking that Mr Browning had installed a rifle range in his office. However, the expression and posture of the unfortunate boy who would emerge from the door shortly afterwards made the nature of the target manifestly clear.

Getting a report slip at Barnabus was like getting a life-threatening disease. It just didn't happen to you. These things only happen to other people.

The Jonster and I met up for a lunchtime conference. Obviously, we had both given the situation plenty of independent thought during the course of the morning. My feelings on the matter were clear.

"That old hag Jordan wouldn't listen to us, but Browning will. He's fair, Jonster, you know he is. All we have to do is tell him what really happened."

The Jonster shook his head ruefully. "And have it come out how I lied to my dad? No way." He looked up at me apologetically. "Look, I'm sorry, Greenie, but I think we just have to take what's coming to us. PLEASE? Dunno what that means for you. I just want to keep my dad out of this."

A sudden surge of affection for my friend ran through me.

"I don't care what it means for me!" I exclaimed. I meant it too. "Maybe I get the whack, maybe I don't. I'm in this with you, that's only fair. But it 's not bloody fair on you. You did those beastly lines and that's that. You don't deserve any more. It's not right."

The Jonster shrugged. "Yeah, well. If dad gets wind of it. you know." He bit his lip.

I just put my hand on his shoulder and nodded my head very slowly.

As I remember, we were spared the indignity of an audience at 4 o'clock that afternoon. All I recall is waiting with the Jonster outside Browning's office, with legs like jelly. After what seemed like hours, but was probably less then five minutes, the door opened and the headmaster's huge frame appeared before us.

"Legrand and Johnstone? Come through."

He took his place behind a vast desk - a wigless judge at whose mercy we stood. At length he read from a piece of paper on the desk - presumably Miss Jordan's report.

He took a deep breath and then looked up, directly at me. To my surprise, he smiled. Not a sarcastic, Miss Jordan smile, but a kindly-stern, gentle smile.

"Legrand, would you like to explain to me why you wrote Johnstone's lines for him?"

The question was as unexpected as it was direct. Caught off-guard, I stammered, "I-I'm not sure, S-sir."

"Did he threaten you?"

Affronted, I all but shouted in reply, "No, Sir!"

"Pay you?"

"No, Sir."

"So why did you do it?"

I thought for a moment, and decided to give the most honest answer possible in the circumstances: "We're friends, Sir. We help each other out."

Mr Browning smiled again. In fact, I swear, he chortled. He was of a generation of gentlemanly scholars for whom the art of chortling was not dead.

"So I understand," he chortled. "In fact, I find your display of loyalty quite touching." His face reverted to a stern posture as he continued. "However, it was, in this instance, also foolhardy."

He paused.

"Yes, Sir. I know, Sir," I filled.

"Since you seem so fond of this sort of thing, you will write, 'Individuals are responsible for their own behaviour' 100 times by Wednesday morning. You may go."

Befuddled, I floundered, and looked up to Mr Browning for confirmation that I had heard correctly, but his gaze had fallen once more upon the report on his desk.

I shot a glance at the Jonster and sensed, rather than saw, that he was trembling. He did not catch my gaze, so I turned and left the office.

Once outside, I took several deep breaths. The emotions running through my body were immensely complex. My heart was leaping with relief at my discharge, yet my gut was heaving with apprehension in sympathy with the Jonster. I felt dizzy and confused, unsure of where to put myself.

Perhaps it would all be OK. Somehow I just couldn't imagine that wise and kindly man deliberately inflicting torturous pain on my best beloved friend. It just didn't fit. He seemed to understand what it was about. I guessed that Mr Browning, unlike Miss Jordan, remembered what it was like to be a 12-year-old kid himself.

More as a distraction than anything else, I fumbled in my pockets for a scrap of paper on which to make a note of my imposition. Leaning the paper against the wall I started to write, but got no further than the word "own".

"CRACK!"

My body jumped and my hand leaped, leaving a large, royal blue blot on the paper.

No! It couldn't be!

A second, resounding CRACK! Confirmed that, indeed, it was.

My heart was seized by empathy for the Jonster - a burning regret laced with anger at the injustice of it all. My mind filled with a vivid image of my diminutive buddy bending over, the scourge raining down cruelly on his tender little buttocks.

"CRACK!"

Oh, God, the poor Jonster! I'd heard tell that Browning made boys take down their trousers for a caning, and in my mind's eye I could see little Jonster 's shorts around his ankles, his slender legs trembling, his buttocks quivering beneath the scant protection of his white briefs.

Patiently, I waited for him to emerge from the office.

But no.

"CRACK!"

What? Surely I had miscounted! No way could he have got four! An image of his grimacing yet brave, sweet little face flooded my brain, and suddenly I realised that I was aroused. Still facing the wall, pen and paper in hand - my _c_o_c_k_ was pushing itself against the brickwork.

"CRACK!"

Open mouthed I stood there, my heart racing. The feeling was ecstatic, my rage against the injustice momentarily forgotten.

"CRACK!"

I felt a sneaking admiration for my friend. He had taken a full six stingers without crying out. Some times I had heard boys in that office beg for mercy after the second! It was so confusing. I hated it, yet it was awesome. The full half-dozen! And my beloved Jonster at the receiving end!

I cursed myself. How could I feel that way? I should be outraged, I told myself. It was all so unfair! The kid had done nothing wrong. He had already paid the price (an inflated one at that) for swearing in class. This was WRONG!

And yet it was sooo good.

The figure that emerged from the door some seconds later startled me. I was expecting a brave and defiant Jonster, perhaps a sneaky wink, a reassuring grin. Instead, the boy looked agonized: his jaw set square, his eyes glazed, as he walked stiffly to the main school entrance without pausing to look at me. I wondered for a moment whether I should leave him on his own for a few minutes, but decided to follow him. We knew each other well enough to tell the other to get lost without any offence being meant or taken.

He walked out of the door and around to the side of the building, out of sight to any passers-by. When I reached him he was standing facing the wall, forehead against the brickwork, clutching his butt.

"You alright, Jonster?"

"_s_h_i_t_!" he hissed. "Jeee-SUS!"

"That bad, huh?"

The Jonster turned he head towards me and allowed himself a smile, which mingled with the tears in his eyes like sunshine and showers.

"A little worse than I expected," he said mildly. His smile became a grin and he began to giggle. He looked. beautiful. I put my arm around him and, to my surprise, he yielded to my touch, and then clasped me in a firm embrace. Gently at first, I rubbed his backside for him, and he hugged me tighter still. To a casual observer, it would have looked like nothing less innocent than a bit of male bonding, but I was hoping my friend couldn't detect the bulge in my groin. However, I quickly figured he was probably hoping the same thing.

"I thought you were really brave," I said.

The Jonster snorted. "Well, at least it's over with," he observed.

What was I saying about famous last words?

I knew straight away that something was afoot. My mother was waiting in the hall when I got home.

"And where have you been, Alfred?"

Uh-oh. I only got called "Alfred" when I was in big _s_h_i_t_. I checked my watch. I was less than 30 minutes later than usual - what was the big deal?

"Jonster had to stay after school," I explained. "I waited for him."

"That friend of yours, AND you, are in big trouble, young man!"

"What?!" I frowned. Was there to be no end to this?

"Don't play the innocent with me, Alfred!" said mum sternly.

"But I don't know what you're talking about!"

My mother sighed. "Well, you can go and protest your innocence to Mr Johnstone, then," she snapped. Then she paused, obviously expecting me to understand.

"Look, mum, I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING WRONG!"

She rolled her eyes. "So you don't think there's anything wrong with encouraging Jon to lie to his father then? Or feeding me a load of rubbish about school pantomimes?"

Oh my God! How did she know?

"Mr Johnstone phoned me this morning. He found Jon's school journal - hidden under his mattress."

"Ah," I started. "Erm, look, I'm sorry, mum, but."

"I suggest you save your excuses for Mr Johnstone," she interjected. "He's furious, and so am I."

My head wilted. "OK," I conceded. "Do you want to go now?"

"Well, I don't think you should keep him waiting. And I should warn you now, I've told him I'm quite happy for him to deal with this matter his way."

It took some seconds for her words to sink in. My jaw dropped and I suddenly felt dizzy again. As I mentioned earlier, my mum knew Mr Johnstone well. Equally, she knew full well what was meant by 'his way'.

"Mum?" I couldn't believe it.

"You know how I feel about lying," she said. "I thought I could trust you!"

I don't know which emotion was the stronger - fear or shame. I was generally honest with my mother, and in return she was generally calm and reasonable with me, even when I was in trouble. But this was different. I had told her barefaced lies. I didn't have a leg to stand on.

"Well, come on," she said, taking the car keys from the hook on the wall.

I faltered.

".Or would you rather I took you in hand myself?" added my mother. I admit, I paused for a moment to consider the option. My mother hadn't raised a hand to me since I was five years old. I decided the answer was an emphatic 'no!'

I swallowed hard. "Let's go," I said.

I was ordered upstairs to wait with the Jonster on our arrival, while my mum and his dad had "a few words". I felt terrible, and more than partly responsible for the mess we had landed in. The whole scheme had gone, as today's kids would say, distinctly pear-shaped.

He was lying face down on his bed. I sat by him and for several taut minutes we said nothing. Eventually, he looked up at me with a wry smile.

"That'll teach me to make my bed in the morning," he reflected. I giggled nervously.

"Did you tell him everything?" I asked.

"Didn't have much choice, did I?" he replied. "I tried to keep you out of it as much as I could. I don't think dad's that mad with you really. You shouldn't get it too bad."

I decided to take the bull by the horns. "Jonster, I don't. I mean, my mum doesn't. hit me, you know?"

He nodded. "You scared?" he asked.

"Yeah," I admitted.

"Me too," said the Jonster. "I'm used to it, but it doesn't make it any easier when I'm in it this deep." He grimaced.

"Do you get it, you know. with pants on or."

"On the bare bum," he said. "Always."

"What. you know. where do you."

"You bend over the foot of the bed," replied the ever-perceptive Jonster. "Just make sure you stay there till it's over, and hold on tight. He can get mad if you cover your arse or rub it."

This was unreal! The Jonster had never really talked about the thrashings he got from his dad in any detail. I had often wanted to ask him, but it didn't seem right. It was pretty exciting, but I was also terrified.

I could feel a tear running down my cheek. I felt a total coward.

"Don't worry," he reassured me, "I bet he only gives you a few licks. You'll get through that no problem. It's just to keep your mum happy, I reckon."

I nodded and tried to look more confident. However, "a few licks" sounded more than enough for me. "What about you?" I asked.

The Jonster chewed his lip. "Don't reckon he'll stop to count," he said.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the Jonster stood up. I followed suite. His dad entered the room. My heart was beating fiercely. I could actually hear it. From the Jonster's dad's right hand dangled the famous belt, wide and thick, doubled over, menacing. I was petrified. I found myself hoping I would be able to move when told to.

"You know why you're getting this, so let's get it done," he said. He was never a man to stand on ceremony. "Alf, stand in front of the bed."

Nervously, I did as the man bade me.

"Take down your trousers and pants," he ordered.

Coyly, I unbuttoned my school shorts and let them fall to my ankles. Then I lowered my underpants to expose my buttocks. Without being told, I bent over and grasped the rail at the foot of the Jonster's bed. For a moment, I felt surprisingly calm. "Just hold on," I told myself, "that's all you've got to do; hold on tight..."

"No hard feelings, Alf, all right?" said the man. I couldn't speak. I just shook my head and waited for it to start.

Without warning, the belt cracked down on my ass. The pain was instant and I felt my throat tighten to stifle a yell. A second lick fell in quick succession and I tightened my grasp on the bed-rail, determined to remain stoical, emulating the Jonster's display of bravery at school less than two hours earlier. But the pain was welling within me. It wouldn't be easy.

Smack!

"Aaagh!" I cried, as the third lick impacted, directly above the first two. Undaunted, the man delivered a fourth which made me gasp. I felt my head lurch upwards and tears roll down my cheeks.

Smack!

"Please!" I begged. I was in agony, my butt on fire with nothing to douse the flames - only a merciless belt to fuel them.

There was a pause. Was that it? I waited hopefully.

"One more, Alf." Oh, God. "And this is one you won't forget."

How right he was. I remember it vividly to this very day. There was an almighty bang, it seemed. I didn't know what had hit me. Seconds later, an agonising burning, far, far worse than the one I felt already, started to overtake me. I tensed every muscle in my body and tried to stifle a scream, but the agony multiplied itself and I let out a yell from the pit of my soul.

I drew air into my lungs and tried to compose myself. Then I had a strange thought: my mother must have been sitting downstairs, and she would have heard me. Well, now she knew what a physical coward her son was. For only then did it occur to me that the Jonster's dad had merely been playing with the first five licks. That last one was what it was really about.

"You may stand up and cover yourself," said a voice from behind me. I stood straight and gingerly pulled my undies and shorts over my burning butt, trying to stem my torrent of tears the while. The Jonster was standing, head bowed, but I think he was crying too.

"Come on, son, you know the routine."

My friend looked up at his father, and for a moment caught his eye with an imploring glance. Then, with an air of reluctant resignation, he began to unbutton his shirt.

His shirt? I was confused.

He removed the garment and folded it neatly on the bed. Next he took off his vest, folded it, and placed it next to his shirt. Then he sat on the bed and started to untie his shoelaces.

"On the bare bum," he'd said. The poor Jonster was going to have to take his licking naked, right in front of me. Respectfully, I bowed my head. I had seen him naked in the showers at school, of course; it was a sight I rather liked, in fact. But that was different. This was so humiliating for him. And yet. I just couldn't resist having another peep, as, clad only in his briefs (my guess had been right, they were white), he neatly folded his shorts on his bed and then reached down to remove his last vestige of protection.

When next I looked up, my friend was in position for his thrashing, ass raised, holding on with grim determination to the bed-rail as I had minutes earlier. But what really caught my eye was the pattern of purple welts on his small, chubby buttocks, acquired earlier from Mr Browning's cane. They were almost perfectly spaced: five practically parallel stripes, criss-crossed with the sixth. Christ, that must have hurt! I felt so ashamed at the cowardly way I had just taken my relatively mild spanking.

The pattern on the Jonster's bottom seemed to have caught his father's attention too; the man apparently cast a respectful eye over it before raising his belt. He drew his arm back to its full extent and, using what looked like all the force he could muster, brought the strap down with a resounding crash onto the boy's already wounded ass.

It was every bit as hard as my final stroke, and I saw the Jonster reel at the impact. How he managed it I don't know, but he remained in position not only for that, but the subsequent merciless shower of full-force licks, which rained on his unprotected skin for the next several minutes. He'd been right - I don't think his father bothered to count. The boy bore the scourge bravely, although he was letting out a few whimpers towards the end and his legs looked as though they would have given way had the thrashing gone on much longer.

I couldn't bring myself to watch much of it, and yet that same confusion was welling within me. My penis was stiff, and the urge to rub my groin was second only to the urge to rub my sore behind.

At last the Jonster's father decided that his trembling son had had enough. He instructed him to stand and replace his clothes. The Jonster did so, and then approached his father.

"I love you, son," said the man. "You know that, don't you?"

"I love you too, dad," the Jonster replied. Then they embraced, much as we had embraced earlier, but without the bottom-rubbing element, of course.

Finally, the man approached me and proffered his hand. I accepted the gesture.

"I'm sorry, Mr Johnstone," I said meekly. He smiled.

"It's done with and forgotten, Alf. You're still welcome in this house any time, understand?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you," I replied, really quite freaked by the whole scenario.

When his father left, the Jonster went back to lie face-down on his bed once more. We were silent for some minutes before the boy began to sob softly into his pillow. Again, I had that feeling of not knowing where to put myself.

"Do you want me to go, Jonster?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied - tearfully, yet distinctly.

That's not what I'd wanted to hear. Rejection is never easy, particularly when it comes from the friend whose company you need above all else at that moment. It hurt. It was a different pain, but it hurt a lot more than the licking I had just received.

Then he raised himself on an elbow. "No, I didn't mean that," he explained. "I just feel so. so small."

I knew what he meant. I felt microscopic myself. "You don't look small to me," I said, joining him, seated somewhat unsteadily on the bed. From where I was, I could plainly see that the Jonster's little _c_o_c_k_ was erect, tight beneath his charcoal grey school shorts. That's where instinct took over.

Wordlessly, I took his hand and guided it to my flies. He got the message and unzipped me, while I did the same to him and took his stiff _c_o_c_k_ in my hand.

That was the first of many times the Jonster and I jerked each other off. He didn't actually ejaculate, but he certainly had an orgasm - the first one of his young life. In fact, we came together, his back arched, his legs wriggling, his face a picture of wondrous pleasure.

"Greenie," he whispered afterwards, "that was amazing!"

"Yeah," I replied, "it bloody well was! And so are you!"

Although there have been many other males I have found attractive, the Jonster is the only one with whom I have had _s_e_x_ual relations. These continued until we were 15 or 16, by which time we had both had a short string of girlfriends. We never made a conscious decision to stop - it just seemed to stop happening. At the time, despite living in a climate far more homophobic than our 21st century one, it felt perfectly natural and was a guiltless way of manifesting the adolescent love we shared. That love matured into a mature platonic bond, which holds strong to this day.

Neither of us spanks our own children. I've never asked the Jonster why he has made this decision, but I suspect that it's for similar reasons to me: knowing the erotic undertones which can exist both for the spanker and the spankee and a recognition of the fact that, to be honest, I would enjoy it too much. Those issues aside, I don't rate physical punishment as a disciplinary tool anyway. But I make no apology for enjoying the interest I have in it. It's one that many, many people share. The line between fantasy and reality is clear in my mind. Hope it is in yours too.


More stories by Alfie Legrand