Breaking His Duck: Birthdays


by Mr Squeers

(Perhaps it needs to be explained to non-British readers that a duck in cricket is a score of zero. To break ones duck means to score the first run, to get off the mark. This isnt a story about cricket).

Amazingly, Davey had almost reached his fourteenth birthday and had never been given a beating. He had never been caned, or whacked with a gymshoe, or even slapped across his bottom. This was amazing for two reasons. Firstly, of course, very few boys reached this age without some kind of chastisement; but secondly because when any mischief was in progress he was sure to be in the thick of it, or thereabouts.

After nearly a full year at Dartmoor College – a year in which just about all his form-mates had sampled the range of punishments available – Davey remained unbeaten. Not unpunished, because he had written his share of lines and served detentions, but his bottom had still not felt the slap of a prefects gymshoe or the slicing sting of the headmasters cane.

This was even more amazing because he had formed a strong friendship with three boys called Poole, Dorney and Scully who were definitely at the top of the league when the numbers of whackings received were totted up. Poole had even received two canings with his pants down. The four boys went everywhere together, but somehow, where corporal punishment was concerned, Davey bore a charmed life.

It helped that he was a very clever boy indeed - consistently at the top of his class – and that he loved all his lessons and worked hard at them. It was this that had saved him all through prep school, where most masters had canes and used them enthusiastically – but never on him.

There had been some close shaves. One master was all set to slipper a number of boys from his dormitory, but then mysteriously changed his mind at the last minute and handed out lines instead. Several of the boys tried to argue him into changing his mind, but Davey kept quiet. As long as it was possible, he was going to avoid being beaten.

Even during this last year at Dartmoor, there had been times when he came within a whisker of a whacking. With his friends, he took to going on their Sunday afternoon walk to an old quarry that was strictly out of bounds. One week, Davey stayed behind because a master was trying to start a science club that he thought would be interesting: the others were caught, sent up to the old man, and suffered a swingeing six of the best across the seat of their trousers that left vivid weals across their flesh for the rest of the dorm to admire.

Mr Donnelly, the PT master, used a length of flat wood that he called his smacker, sometimes on boys naked bottoms. The week when he decided to smack the whole form, Davey was in sick bay with an upset stomach.

Perhaps the closest he came to it was when Slugger, their maths master, set some sums for prep that no-one but Davey could do. Slugger kept a cane hanging off his blackboard and had been known to use it on boys who did prep badly. Dorney and Scully, plus a boy called Hendy persuaded Davey to let them copy his work.

Scully, Davey, Dorney and Hendy, Slugger growled. Stand up.

The four boys climbed to their feet.

Now, said Slugger with an unpleasant grin on his face. Explain to me please, how it happens that all four of you have scored seventeen out of twenty, and that all four of you have made the same three stupid errors.

None of them said a word. Slugger unhooked the cane from its place on the board.

Quickly. An explanation. Still nothing. The silence could have been cut with a knife. Very well. Out here, Davey. Touch your toes.

Davey walked to the front, his heart beating like a drum. At the front of the room he bent over and gripped his ankles, the way he had watched other boys take their whackings, very aware of the tightness of the trousers across his backside. This is it, he thought.

But it wasnt.

Oh, please, sir. It was Scully. It wasnt Daveys fault, sir. We copied his prep. He didnt want to let us.

Is this true, Dorney?

Yes, sir.

Stand up, Davey. You will write two hundred lines: I must not allow fools to profit from my industry. Scully. Out here.

Scully came to the front and bent over. From the safety of his desk, Davey saw the smooth cloth over his friends slim buttocks when Slugger hoisted the tail of his jacket up his back, saw Slugger take aim and launch the swishing cane with full force at the target area, heard the sharp crack that it made, heard the almost gently whimper that Scully uttered after the fourth stroke, and wondered as Scully returned to his desk, rubbing himself, what it must feel like to be punished like that. Hendy was next. It seemed that all four strokes landed on the same line, but he took the punishment bravely. So did Dorney who went last, but Slugger went a bit easier on him because he had owned up and saved Davey from the cane.

His friends did not think the worse of him because of his good luck, as they might have done, mainly because of his prominence in the naughtiness that all boys go in for at some times. Improbable though it sounds, most boys in his form were unaware of how lucky he really was, and assumed that, like them, Davey too had had his share of swishes. He was as daring as any boy in the form, probably naughtier than most, so it stood to reason that he must have been whacked – if not in the last year at Dartmoor, then certainly at prep school, where all of them had received their initiation into the universal fate of boyhood.

Early on in the year he had shown his mettle in the matter of birthday celebrations. Each of the boys, coming from their old prep schools brought their own ideas of how best to mark their fellows birthdays. At one school boys were given the bumps, at another tossing in a blanket was the tradition, in a third the lucky boy got a cold bath. And most of them knew how to keep their birth date secret, and some had got their relatives trained not to send them cards and give the game away.

But Dorney hadnt been to school, having been educated by a tutor. Three weeks after the start of term, the prefect who dealt with the mail, dropped a larger than usual bundle on the common room table and said, Looks like someones going to get his bollocks inked. It was Dorney and there was a good deal of laughter about it, which he tried to take in good part.

Davey, Poole and Scully discussed what they were going to do. The only thing they were sure of was that the occasion could not go unmarked. Scully consulted Green, the senior boy under whose guidance he had been placed and who had been on the other end of most of the whacking he had received so far. At Dartmoor College it was the tradition that boys birthdays were celebrated by everyone scragging them after lights out, pulling their pyjamas off, and either painting their balls with ink or applying boot polish or, in rare cases, shaving their pubes off.

It was going to have to be done.

Poole gave the signal and before Dorney could do anything about it nine boys were on top of him. He struggled mightily, but they were too strong for him. He felt someone undo the cord of his pyjamas and then they were gone. Davey sat on his stomach facing Dorneys now defenceless genitals. Dorney had a slim, circumcised penis and a few short, black pubic hairs. Davey took hold of the prick and amongst a great deal of suppressed laughter and stifled squeals from Dorney began to pull it into an erection. Someone held a torch focussed on Dorneys groin. Someone else held the ink bottle. Davey took the brush he had borrowed from the art room and carefully painted his friends testicles, and then the shaft of his penis, which was now all but fully erect.

Dorney took it all in good part, though he threatened revenge on all concerned. He found his pyjama trousers eventually, and ten minutes after that the dorm was silent. Mission accomplished.

This became the accepted way of marking a boys birthday, and usually, though not always, it was Davey who applied the ink to the victims balls. It was certainly him who first thought of using dubbin instead of ink, which made the ordeal much, much worse. It was also him who sneaked into the corridor where the form registers were kept and noted down in his Letts Schoolboys Diary when everyones birthday was, so that there was now no hiding place. And it was him who thought of hiding the birthday boys gym shorts so that the happy day would be marked with a set of Madman Donnellys smackers across his bare bottom.

But he was never caught.

Beatings were now a regular occurrence for everyone except him. Poole, Scully and Dorney could count on receiving the cane or the gymshoe once or twice a week, and they became quite used to it; but for Davey, the charm on his life held. Even the prefect whom he fagged for, and who was meant to keep him on the straight and narrow, turned out not to believe in corporal punishment. Even more amazing was that there was no resentment of his good fortune – if thats what it was - only a little gentle ragging, which he joined happily. There was something weird about it all. None of them could explain it, least of all Davey himself. It was just a freak of nature – the boy who was never beaten.

But then his own birthday came around. Too many boys wanted to get their own back for it to pass unnoticed. And actually he didnt want it to pass unnoticed. He didnt even try to grab the post before the others. And there they were – the betraying cards from loved ones with postal orders in them. His three friends laid their plans carefully. But he was ahead of them. He arrived at PT with the second pair of shorts he had been hiding in his bedside locker – still no smacking.

So Poole decided on plan B. Starting with his friends, but gradually involving the whole form, his messing about became worse and worse. Scully and Dorney realised what he was doing and joined in enthusiastically. The others joined in for the fun of it.

The fun came to an abrupt end when Madman shouted, STOP! his voice echoing round the gym.

I dont know whats got into you today, he said. Like a bunch of hooligans. Clements – fetch the smacker. The rest of you – line up down the wall-bars.

The form shuffled into a line. Madman surveyed them, hands on hips.

Right, he said. Hendy, Dorney, Lucas, Scully, Poole, Nelson – shorts off, in a pile down the end there. Who else?

Please, sir.

Yes, Hicks.

Its Daveys birthday, sir.

Is it? Madman came right up to Davey where he stood in the line. Is it your birthday, Davey?

Yes, sir.

Lets see if we can celebrate in style for you, then. Shorts off, on the pile.

So, this is it, thought Davey. At last. On my fourteenth birthday.

He peeled his shorts down and stepped out of them, joining the other naked boys at the end of the line.

Madman had started already. The first boy in the line was touching his toes, shorts pulled tight over his backside, and the smacker cracked down – once, twice, three times. Next.

Davey was surprised that he wasnt much afraid at all. Four of the seven naked boys had marks of some sort on their bottoms. In a minute, his bottom too would be marked red. It was an important landmark, and he was curious about whether he would take it bravely.

The naked ones were left to last. Nelson was the first of them. He had been caned only two days ago and the weals were dark lines in a narrow band across the white of his meaty arse. Madman landed the smacker right on top of the marks, but Nelson didnt make a sound.

One by one they bent over, offering their bottoms for punishment, and the smacker supplied it, leaving a clear red band across the white skin. Davey couldnt tell how much it was hurting. None of them yelled or anything, but most rubbed themselves as they returned to the line. Lucas jumped up and down, both hands rubbing at his arse, making his prick jerk comically between his thighs, but his face bore a huge grin, so it cant have been that bad.

Davey.

This was it, the moment so long postponed was here. He stepped out to the spot where the others had stood, took a deep breath and bent over. He was glad really. It had been good not to be beaten like the others, but it put a distance between them as well. He couldnt really ever be one of them till his backside had taken a whacking. And three of the smacker from Madman, with his shorts down, would be a good first step.

Davey wasnt big for his age, but his body was compactly muscled and firm. His bottom was lean and tight – just the kind that Madman enjoyed laying into with the smacker. The PT master made a note: another time this boy would really get it. Davey felt the smooth wood of the smacker touching him on the bottom.

Your birthday, Davey?

Yes, sir, he said from his bending position.

How old are you?

Fourteen, sir.

Did you know, Davey, that in some places boys get a whack for each year on their birthdays?

No, sir.

Fourteen whacks, Davey. Would you like that?

No, sir.

Maybe not. I dare say your friends have plans for celebrating your birthday. Three whacks it is, then.

The smacker was still laid against his skin, but then it went away and he held his breath. Madman withdrew the smacker about six inches, held it a second and with a flick of the wrist tapped it against the boys left buttock – once, twice, three times.

There we are, Davey. Up you get. Consider yourself whacked.

There were howls of outrage, led by Daveys friends. Its not fair, sir, was called several times.

Be quiet, Madman growled. You dont think Id whack a boy on his birthday, do you?

And that was the end of the matter – at least, as far as the master was concerned. But Davey felt betrayed. He had been humiliated in front of the whole class. To be set up like that, made an exhibition in front of all his classmates and then let off in that patronising fashion was mortifying in the extreme. He could still feel the insulting taps of the smacker on his skin and the sight of the bands of red across the others bottoms made the whole thing worse. It was now urgent that he do something radical, or he would never regain the respect of his friends.

And his friends thought the same. Just you wait till tonight, Poole hissed as they were getting dressed. And Davey knew he was in for it in no small measure.


More stories by Mr Squeers