The Old Lodge - Part One


by Mike Ward (Click for Author's Home Page)<Boymike_1966@yahoo.co.uk>

To say that Richard was my boyfriend would have been to speak without regard for accuracy. For starters, he was fifty-three, I was twenty-four. He was old enough to be my father and that was just how he liked it. He had had other long-term, live-in boyfriends but, as he made perfectly clear to me when we started seeing each other, he had always dumped them when he felt that they were getting too old; somewhere around their twenty-fifth birthdays. But age wasn't the only thing that stopped me thinking of him as a 'boyfriend'. There was also the fact that in no way were we equals or partners. Richard was in charge, of everything. He controlled the money, but there again, it was his money. He gave the orders, set the chores, insisted on a long list of rules. He even chose the clothes I wore, and yes, you guessed it, he was never slow to order me into position for a long session of corporal punishment whenever he felt that I had fallen short of the standards he required.

I had been living with him in his suburban home for four years. He would say that he always liked to get his boys young because they were easier to train. It often struck me that he really would have liked to pick up his boyfriends at an even younger age, but he had his reputation to think of and he was always scrupulous in his observance of the legal boundaries. Basically, he liked having a young lad around all the time, and he was rich enough to have whoever he chose.

Rich! Well, why else would I have stuck with him? He was nice enough and not bad looking for his age. But given the restrictions he placed on my life, his rather one-sided approach to _s_e_x_ual pleasure, and his delight in wielding the cane, I had plenty of reasons for thinking that life could be a lot better for me. But on the other hand, I didn't have to go out to work, I was well-fed and warm, I had acquired a handful of educational qualifications from various courses he had chosen for me, and then there was the promised redundancy package. So all in all, it was easier to stay put and accept his authority over every single little bit of my life.

And let's be honest; I quite liked being treated as a little boy without any responsibilities or worries. Sure, I got the cane a lot, and of course I bridled at stuff like having to go to bed at ten o'clock every night and being made to wear school clothes all of the time, but it was any easy enough life. And in my own way I had grown very fond of the old guy and even though he would cane me if he even thought that I was trying to masturbate, I still found a lot of satisfaction in sucking his _c_o_c_k_ and accepting his cum whenever he ordered me to my knees before him. I was his boy, and for the time being that was enough.

But after four years of Richard's discipline and control you can imagine that I wasn't all that dismayed when he announced one November morning that he was going to have to work abroad for a few months and it would not be possible for him to bring me along. Richard, you see, had made his money simply by having the luck to have been a senior manager in a state-owned utility when Maggie T had started her privatisation crusade. Basically, like all the other managers, he had been given massive amounts of shares simply to make sure that the company was run so as to be attractive to paying shareholders. It was all a great con, a rip-off that left tax-payers paying to make rich men richer. But the end result was that, as well as being enriched, Richard had acquired a reputation for being able to turn companies around and he had a pretty lucrative line in consultancy work.

So he'd had to work away from home a few times before but he had always dragged me along, if for no other reason than to have a handy shoe-shine boy to hand in the mornings and a nifty _c_o_c_k_-sucker on call in the evenings. But this time, this time he was going to be working in one of those places where people get all uptight about guys showing up with their pretty boyfriends. He would have to go, I would have to stay.

I tried to sound disappointed and upset, but my mind was already sorting through the many possibilities that would be presented by a few months' freedom. My _c_o_c_k_ was already straining in my tight little-boy briefs at the unexpected prospect of being coaxed to orgasmic joy. I was calculating, adding up the months since I had last managed to sneak a momentary session of hand-held pleasure. Four. Four months since I had last stroked my _c_o_c_k_, but even then I hadn't dared bring myself to orgasm. Aside from regular wet-dreams as my body did what it could while I slept, it had been an incredible three and a half years since I had last cum. You may well look shocked, but you weren't the one who had to endure Richard's wrath when he walked in shortly afterwards and found me still sweating and mopping up the evidence of my transgression.

I remember every single stroke. I was naked, stretched across the bench in the garage, tied down. Richard had the senior cane. He was livid, mad with anger, dangerous with rage. There had been nothing erotic about that caning. I always suffer pain when he punishes me, and I have never enjoyed the cane or strap. Sometimes, when Richard isn't really angry with me he will take me across his lap and smack me with his hand, and that can be kind of nice and comforting. But he insists that punishment is meant to make an impression, it should lead to better behaviour and closer observance of the rules. So when he punishes me, I never enjoy it, but at least he seems to get some sort of pleasure from those sessions and most times I have to express my gratitude to him by accepting his _c_o_c_k_ in my mouth.

But that day, when he caught me masturbating, he punished me, and I learned the lesson. Don't even trouble yourself by trying to imagine the scene as he thrashed me. Let's just say that he was never the kind of guy who believed that the cane should not be allowed to draw blood, and that day he did not hold back. Afterwards he had left me tied down for hours before releasing me and sending me to my room. It was a week before I could bear to wear anything more than a light cotton t-shirt. The scars took two months to heal.

I was Richard's boy and I submitted.

So, of all the things that a young man could dream of after four years of being controlled and reduced to the juvenile status of a well-tamed boy, what most excited me was the idea of being free to relax with nothing but my hands for company. While I was dreaming, Richard was still talking. Somehow I realised that he was getting close to a conclusion and I switched my attention back to his words.

'So all in all, I reckon it would be for the best if I sign you into the Old Lodge for a couple of terms. I guess you've never heard of the Old Lodge?'

'No, Sir, I haven't.'

'Well let me explain.'

There would be no months of freedom. I had genuine tears in my eyes as Richard explained that the Old Lodge was a very special place, for very special boys just like me. It was run along the lines of one of those old crammer schools that used to take three or four boys at a time and subject them to a period of intensive study in preparation for the examinations that would let them make the move from prep school to public school. Only the Old Lodge didn't deal in thirteen year olds, it offered its rather exclusive services to those young men who were, just like me, in disciplinary relationships. A place where boys like me could be sent when our boyfriends found themselves unable to supervise us, or when family or other circumstances made it difficult for boyfriends to have us around.

It sounded awful. Worse was to follow. The house used to be a hunting lodge and was stuck in the remotest wilds of the Scottish Highlands. The rules were strict, the punishment was corporal, the uniform traditional. Boys who were sent there, and boys was the term they used for us no matter what our age might happen to be, were required to pursue the studies needed to pass the Common Entrance Examinations that are still a feature of life for thirteen year-olds in our private schools. Study, obligatory cross-country runs, austere conditions, and more study. That was what was on offer. Richard reckoned that it would do me a lot of good.

Christmas came and went in the usual way. Richard treated himself by having me undergo a course of electrolysis because he didn't like the feel of my early morning beard on his skin when he had my head between his thighs and his _c_o_c_k_ in my throat. He had me kneeling before him quite a lot in anticipation of months without having his boy to hand whenever he felt like having his _c_o_c_k_ sucked. Just after New Year we took the train up to Edinburgh and spent a few nights in a self-catering apartment.

The Old Lodge sent a list of uniform and other requirements. I would not be allowed to bring anything that was not on the official list. The only concession was that boys were allowed to wear long school trousers when travelling to or from the school, but these would be taken and locked away on arrival. I didn't mind wearing grey school trousers. I'd grown used to them as Richard often insisted on having me wear school uniform when shopping or otherwise out and about in public, and being slim and young-looking, nobody ever looked twice at what they must have taken to be a Dad and his smartly attired son. And Richard liked to have me wear shorts during the summer months. But the Old Lodge was even more strict and they gave the name of the department store where the required items that made up the school uniform could be obtained.

It must have been something about being so far away from home. Perhaps Richard really felt with my new hair-cut and freshly waxed legs - there's agony for you - I could really pass for a teenage boy who was being kitted out for one of Scotland's more traditionally oriented schools. Anyway he didn't seem at all embarrassed at handing the list over to a sales assistant in the schoolwear department and asking her to make sure that I had everything I needed. I could have died. Her eyes scanned the list as she said that she would be delighted to be of assistance, but I saw those eyes flicker in surprise, and I could guess why. That list was imprinted on my mind and I didn't need to have it in my hands to know that this young woman, probably a year or two younger than me, was reading the words, 'navy school shorts, four-inch inseam, three pairs'. Or further down the awful references to red knee-length socks and white briefs.

As she ran her tape-measure around my neck, chest, and waist, I knew that my face must have been as scarlet as those appalling socks. Richard had explained to me that a few Scottish schools had, even as late as the mid-eighties, kept boys in shorts all year round up to sixteen years of age. But those days were gone, this was 1990, and I just knew that this girl was being very professional in disguising her surprise. Maybe she really did think that I was only fifteen or sixteen years old, but even so, I still guessed that I must have been the oldest boy she had ever been asked to kit out in short trousers for school, and on a chilly day in January too.

A huge pile of stuff was built up on the counter: grey shirts and white vests, underpants and socks, navy crew-neck jumpers and sky-blue shortie pyjamas. Rugby shirts, shorts, and pt shorts joined the rest. My twenty-eight inch waist presented no problems when it came to the shorts. The shop had them in all sizes up to thirty-six, they must have had some pretty stout twelve-year-olds in the local prep schools. And of course the shorts had to be tried on. Our friendly shop assistant looked at Richard and said that it would be better to make sure that they fitted properly and I was directed to a small changing cubicle and told to put them on and come out so that they could see how they looked. I felt like a total prat standing in the middle of that shop while Richard and the girl had me turn around. What must I have looked like? I was handed one of the jumpers and had to put that on as well. Richard remarked that I looked fine enough and would do, as if he was a gruff old Dad who didn't feel that he should have to be wasting his time taking his son to be outfitted for his new school uniform. The girl asked the name of the school that I was going to. Without batting an eyelid Richard told her, "The Old Lodge; they specialise in lads like him". The only consolation I had for all this embarrassment was the size of the bill that dear old Richard had to pay. The Old Lodge might not require formal blazers and stuff but even so this kind of schoolwear didn't come cheap.

I was weighed down with bags as we walked along Princes Street. I must have developed some sort of paranoia for I began to imagine that everyone we passed could see that these shopping bags contained such an old-fashioned set of clothes. By a burger restaurant Richard stopped and remarked, "Now don't they look smart. You'll be just like them next week." Ahead of us were two boys. They must have been twelve or thirteen, one of them was quite tall. They were chatting away, oblivious to the chilling air around their exposed knees. I had to admit that they did look the part, and indeed their uniform was more formal than that required by the Old Lodge. They were wearing blazers, grey school shorts, and red kneesocks. I thought, however, that they were pretty lucky. Their shorts reached their knees. Richard thought that I should be glad to see that other boys had to wear shorts too. I could just imagine the looks those boys would have given me if they had seen such an older and taller lad wearing those awful red socks with shorts as short as the ones I was carrying.

Back at the apartment I was set to the tedious task of sewing name labels on every item including handkerchiefs and socks. Richard had ordered the labels before the holidays and they had my new name on them, 'Michael Smythe', my own first name with Richard's surname. This was the style required by the Old Lodge. A boy would be known by his guardian's surname, it was just another way of making sure that we boys knew our place.

So, it was as Michael Smythe that I arrived at the Old Lodge. Richard had hired a car for the journey and we set off at first light to travel up through Scotland, a journey which still took nearly three hours and brought us ever more north into colder and colder weather. The roads were reasonably clear but there was plenty of snow around and my knees shivered in anticipation of their forthcoming exposure. The Old Lodge was on a small estate of its own. Small that is by Highland standards, at only three thousand acres. But that was enough land to ensure that the house itself was set a good couple of miles from the main road.

In the hallway I was greeted by a tall man who must have been in his seventies. He shook hands with Richard, smiled and welcomed him, and then turned to me and told me to remove my trousers. I had, of course, been expecting that order but I was still surprised to be told to remove my long trousers when I was barely in the door. But I knew that I didn't want to suffer the consequences of being seen to hesitate. My trunk was opened and a pair of those short navy school shorts was handed to me. Whatever extra warmth that was afforded to the very tops of my legs by the white cotton lining was easily negated by the cold air of a Highland winter. I was left standing in the hallway while Richard and the gentleman went into a well-lit and invitingly warm-looking room. A few minutes later, formalities completed, Richard set off. He wanted to get back to Edinburgh before dark. I felt utterly miserable as he shook my hand rather formally and told me to be a good boy and to be sure to be attentive to my studies. There was a glint in his eye. I guessed that he was happily imagining the misery that lay in store for me. The he left.

The old gentleman turned to me. "You will have to wait here until lunchtime, I am not interrupting class to get another boy help you carry your trunk to the dormitory. At all times, remember this boy, at all times from now on, if you are told to wait you will turn to the wall, put your hands on your head, and remain still until you are called. But first, hold out your hand."

He produced a short tawse from his inside pocket, lifted it into the air and brought it flying down into the palm of my upturned right hand. "Now the other hand".

"You should be ashamed that I have had to punish you in your first few minutes here. We try not to be overly severe but boys must learn to obey the rules and work hard. Now pull that sock up properly."

So I spent my first couple of hours at the Old Lodge standing in a cold, dark, and draughty hallway, my hands smarting from the strap, my eyes staring into the grey stone wall. I really wanted to go the toilet but I didn't dare move, and anyway, I still hadn't been shown around and I didn't know where anything was. I knew that I looked ridiculous in my school uniform and, at the risk of repeating myself, I felt bitterly cold. As the minutes passed I felt more and more miserable, more and more like a little boy sent away to school for the first time. I wanted to be back at home with Richard, warm and happily sucking his _c_o_c_k_. I wanted to run away but I didn't entertain that thought for long. The Old Lodge was very far from anywhere, its remoteness making it perfect for the purpose that had been found for it. And anyway, could I really face the thought of going out in these little school shorts?

I thought about the rules that had been sent down to Richard before Christmas and that I had had to learn. The stuff about keeping our uniforms tidy, socks up, shirts tucked in. Rules about letters and phone-calls (we could write letters, but only to people on a list approved by our guardians. We could receive letters but they would, like the letters we wrote, be read by our designated tutors. We could make one phone call a month to one person, again approved by our guardians. We could receive one phone call a month, but only from our guardians. Rules about going to bed and getting up again, about cross-country runs every morning before breakfast. "Surely not," I thought, "surely they don't make us run outside in this weather!"

I felt very, very, alone and dejected and suddenly found myself actually sobbing into the wall for a few seconds.

"Cheer up old man". A voice came from the gloom by my side. "The worst is yet to come you know". This was all said in a jovial way and I turned towards the speaker, not sure that I wasn't having my leg pulled. Before me, in the same juvenile school uniform, was another boy. Blond and utterly gorgeous, He smiled at me and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Jamie, welcome to the Old Lodge". And then, with one hand feeling my backside, he leaned towards me and we kissed, deeply but not for long. "Better not get into this too much now," he whispered, "wouldn't do to have one of the old beaks catch us at it".

To be continued at my new study on www. asstr. org ~Mward

Jamie helped me carry my trunk upstairs to the dormitory. There were six beds in the room but, I was told, it was expected that only four of them would be occupied that term. I was the last arrival. Jamie told me to wash my face and hands, "carefully, mind you, we get inspected". The unpacking would have to wait, it was time for lunch.


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