Turning Fantasy Into Reality


by Karl Gatt <Kbouwde@hotmail.com>

I can't believe that I am allowing this to happen to me. I am 16 years old and have nothing at all to do with the St. Giles Boys' Home save that some of my best friends live there. However, here I am, one of a queue of almost all the Home's inmates, edging their [our] way slowly towards the front of the hall, where a mass thrashing is being dealt out and each boy, in turn, peels off and walks to the next open bench of the four on the stage, on which he [and, eventually, I] will lie, face down, while the instructor whose bench it is, applies a long, springy cane good and hard and six times, if the boy is a junior, or ten if he is over 13, to his naked arse, which is well raised by the folded blankets under his hips.

There go a couple more, two of the smaller kids, who look about 11 and are obviously petrified of what is coming their way. The hall is echoing with the whistling hiss of the descending canes, the sharp, snapping cracks as they meet taut, bare young flesh and the gasps or even yelps of agony from the thrashed boys, as the heat and sting of every stroke registers afresh in each pair of naked haunches.

It would have been so easy for me to extricate myself from this predic- ament initially; a mere word to the supervisor, pointing that I am not one of 'their' boys, had certainly had no part in the series of thefts from local shops which had been [quite correctly] blamed on the Home's boys and that I had no idea of who the culprits were, would have assur- my immediate release and still have left me free to watch the communal caning if I wanted to.

Of course, I actually knew all about the incidents and had been talking to some of the principal culprits when the Superintendent had demanded names and, on these being withheld, had ordered a general caning for every boy in the home so that the guilty would be punished, although at the cost of the innocent, if any. However, I had then seen the challenging, half mocking, looks in the eyes of the other boys, my friends of years' standing, daring me to share their fate and had also seen that I had suddenly been presented with the opportunity to realise one of my oldest fantasies, by giving up my privileges and being punish-ed like any 'St. Giles' boy, even though I had actually done nothing to deserve it.

It wasn't that I was short of hidings of my own, or even that I had NEVER had it bare bum, but there had always been, to me, something so impersonally cruel, but impartially fair and just, so implacable, so disciplined, about that long line of uniformly barefoot and partially stripped boys of all ages, zig-zagging across the floor of the not too large hall and ending up at the flight of steps to the platform, where each boy took the short walk on to the stage, selected the closest open bench and quietly, if fearfully, but without argument, submitted his naked backside to the biting, burning sting of the instructor's cane.

So, with my heart in arrest and somewhere between its usual place and my mouth, I had defiantly returned the looks and had copied the other boys by shedding my shoes and socks and, once I was barefoot, had climb- ed out of my skin-tight 'stovies' and then, having rolled my shirt tail up above waist level, had joined the line of partly innocent, but mostly guilty, boys which was inching its way towards the place of execution.

Here come three of them, a senior and two juniors, all red faced and tearful, hopping from foot to foot and frantically trying to rub some of the pain out of blazing, cane-striped bottoms; the two little boys' bums are evenly red-welted, with the six 'tramlines' of a sound caning already starting to form across both bare cheeks, but my attention is drawn more by the havoc which ten full-blooded cuts had wrought on the older boy's naked rump and which would, no doubt, be repeated on my own before long. He was making no attempt at preserv- ing his modesty or at concealing his soundly whipped tail from view and as he passed by, performing the traditional 'no pants dance' of thrashed boys through the ages, I had a close-up and very worrying view of two round, muscuar buttocks which were cross-hatched by ten livid red-turning-purple welts, some level and parallel and the rest laid on diagonally, crossing the others and going pitch black at most of the intersections.

I also noticed that he, like many of the other boys on their way to and even some coming back from, their hidings, was sporting a full erection, whose shiny, moist head made me wonder if the painful stimulation of the nerves in his backside had brought him to a climax while he was being thrashed and whether that would happen to me as well.

Two more howling juniors are climbing off their benches, rubbing sore tails and their places are taken by the next two in line. Well over half the boys have already been thrashed and the hall is full if the smell of fear, sweat and hot, well-whipped flesh. There are about 20 boys of all sizes between me and my own moment of truth and probably double that behind me. With four canings being dealt out simultan- eously the queue is being polished off quite quickly and if I am going to funk it, I will have to move fairly fast; but I know I won't, because if I do, I will hate and despise myself for the rest of my life. So I take another short step towards my appointment with the cane and notice, with surprise, that the cold, granolithic floor is suddenly red hot under my bare feet and that even the cool breeze from the open windows is burning my naked bum.

I have also developed a solid erection, but there are so many of them around that I don't even bother to try to hide it; it seems to make me one with the rest of my fellow sufferers and I wonder idly if it will survive the ten-fold bite of the cane or will subside limply as the pain in my bottom climbs to its peak.

The current foursome climb down almost together - eight bright red and thickly-striped cheeks and the gasping yelps of their owners bearing witness to the agony which a well laid on cane will always produce in any boy's bare bum. Four more naked backsides are upturned on the benches and are clenching and flinching under the canes; hello, one of this lot can't stay down and the next two boys in line are called up to hold his hands and feet and I hear him being told that he will get two extra cuts for jumping up. He is about 14, so he is in for a full dozen now, poor guy; I must avoid that at all costs - ten will be quite bad enough.

By now there are only about 12 or 14 boys between me and my hiding; last chance to pull out; no way - I'd both look and feel such a fool; far better to get a sore arse and retain some of my pride. However, I start watching what happens to you once you are on that bench, with a far more personal interest than I had taken until then. I notice that all four instructors, whom I know quite well, are doing their job with a will, making their canes hiss as they bring them down across their naked targets and allowing them to remain in contact with tightly braced flesh for a few seconds, before lifting them for the next stroke. Of course, they have a direct interest in keeping the Home's name clean and can't be expected to sympathise with anti-social behav- iour on the boys' part.

In some cases and not only those involving the bigger boys, some of the cuts are being delivered with long, slashing strokes, as if the boy's tail was not there at all and I notice that the weals raised by those lashes are much longer and stand out much higher above the surrounding flesh than the others and also leave two thin lines of broken, skin across each pale, bare bottom.

I wonder what those kids have done to deserve SUCH severe thrashings and whether mine will be like that as well. One of the two boys who is down now, a very cheeky 12 year old who goes in a lot for dumb insolence and is always in trouble, although he is not one of the usual thieves, has got three of his six like that, one flat, low down near his legs and two on the cross and he is crying openly and doesn't even dare to rub his bum, which is looks raw in lots of places and must be terribly sore, when he gets up. I hope I don't get any like that..... and yet, I wonder what they feel like; it has always been part of my fantasy to be thrashed so hard that my bum is cut open. My _c_o_c_k_ jerks up even more stiffly at the thought, but with only two more sets of four bums between mine and its hiding, I need to concentrate on getting through the ordeal with as much dignity as possible and to let the actual details take care of themselves. I suffer a final moment of torturing doubt; is it REALLY worth it to have my bare bum whipped like that, just for the sake of a dream? Of course, the anaswer has to be yes, because THAT is what dreams are made of and I dismiss the doubts with the hope that reality will not be a disappointment, but without knowing whether I will be disappointed if it hurts me more or less than I am expecting it to.

This foursome is made up of juniors only, so their hidings go quickly, especially as they all hang on tight and stay down, causing no delays at all and their places are taken by two of the smallest kids, maybe only just 10 year olds and two of the biggest, both of whom must be about 17. That leaves me second in line, so I will probably have to go up before the two seniors' hidings are finished.

The snap of the canes on bare tails is starting to have the strangest effect on me and between that and the sight of those bright red stripes swelling out of all the bare cheeks, it's all I can do not to cum all over the place. My _c_o_c_k_ feels like a bar of steel and I'm sure that I am going to shoot as soon as it touches that bench, if not before. How the hell will I be able to survive a thrashing like this just after cumming?

They are finished with the little guys now and two sobbing small boys, with a mixture of tears and snot running down their faces and grubby hands massaging vigorously at flaming, smarting tails, hop off their benches and jog unevenly towards their pants, while keeping a malicios- ly interested eye on the two much bigger backsides that are still being thrashed on the other two benches.

My turn; I walk hesitantly forward, aware of 12 year old Matt half a pace behind me as we move towards the two open benches; he'll be finished before me and will probably get to see me get my last couple, if he's not in too much pain to care. He's a good kid and he looks up to me, so I mustn't let him down by making a fuss or jumping up and getting extra cuts or anything stupid like that.

Here we are. I can feel the edge of the bench againt my shins and see Justin, the instructor at whose bench I've landed up, look at me with surprise, as he knows perfectly well that I don't belong in the Home. I wonder if he is going to say anything or if he will work it out for himself and then, if he does, whether he will go a bit easy on me or, maybe, hit me twice as hard for cheek; oh well....I'll soon know, won't I?

Now I'm lowering myself on to the bench and my fingers are feeling for the struts to hang on to. Oh _s_h_i_t_, I can't find them. What am I going to do? I can't take 10 on my bare bum with NOTHING to hold on to and to help me to stay in place. Thank goodness, there they are; I waas just a bit too far back on the bench and now I've wriggled forward far enough to reach them. The blanket under me feels very funny; oh _s_h_i_t_ again - it's soaking wet, thats why it feels so cold; some of the other guys must have either peed or cum into it, or both, while they were getting it. What a mess, but, so what? Maybe I'll be adding to it in a few seconds, myself. Now that I'm there and just waiting for my thrashing to start, I've got no more urge to cum; in fact, I'm so _s_h_i_t_-scared that I think my horn has gone down good. The rough blanket is scratching my bare tummy and tickling my _c_o_c_k_ and balls, but I'm far more worried about the exposed part above them. I haven't had it bare bum since I was about 11 and so I can't really remember what it was like, except that it hurt like hell. One of the guys from the home who is always in trouble and seems to average a hiding a week, once said that the skin on your arse is much tougher but far more sensitive up to about 13 than later on and although it seems to get less sensitive after you get your ballhairs, a caning is likely to cut it open more easily then, than when you were younger. He reckons that boys are made like that because they are naughtiest up to about 12, so they need their hidings to really hurt them until then, but if their skins weren't extra tough, their bums would be permanently raw, which is not the idea. It's a pity I can't really judge, but I have the feeling that these 10 cuts are going to be quite sore enough, without my having to try to compare them to any others.

Justin looks at me very hard and whispers, "I hope you know what you are doing, Charlie, [he always calls me Charlie, even though my name is Karl, probably after Charlie Brown] because this is going to hurt like hell." I feel a shock of fear because that means he isn't going to go easy on me, but I am glad at the same time, as it would be terrible if he just tapped me when all those little guys are getting their tails so thrashed so hard. Even so, my guts are in a knot as I wait with my bare bum clenched so tight that it's getting a cramp, for the first cut.

I'm lying with my head on one side, facing to my left and I can just see what is happening out of the corner of my eye. Justin is a big, powerful guy in his early 20's. He is a first-class tennis player and I know how hard he can hit. I must be mad to give him a go at my bare bum like this; what if he decides to give me all ten as follow- throughs? it would cut my arse to ribbons and I'd never be able to stand the pain. Here it comes!! I can feel the cool, damp wood of the cane pressing lightly on my bare bum as he judges his distance and the angle at which he's going to hit me. The pressure stops and I see his arm going up and back, the cane held firmly in his hand. In spite of myself, I twist my neck still further and watch, with a sick, numb feeling, as he swings it right back and then brings it forward and down with one of those whistling hisses that I've been hearing for the last half-hour or so, only this time it's hissing towards MY bare tail; sud- denly the hissing stops and a gun goes off. Someone must have shot him so he couldn't hit me, because he obviously didn't - I feel nothing!

Two, maybe three, seconds in a fool's paradise and then my bum goes up in flames. Don't let anybody bluff you that you can tell where on your bum the cane lands for the first time; my WHOLE arse is on fire from that first cut; no hiding I have ever had in my life has hurt as much as this one is obviously going to. I know exactly what is being done to my bare backside, but I could swear that, instead of hitting it with that stick, Justin had poured a stream of molten lead across both cheeks, letting the liquid metal chew into the meat of my bum, and run right down into my crack and up my arsehole, even though I know that that is impossible.

There is also a bright, sharp sting on top of the heat, as if a whole nest of wasps had landed on my backside and is stinging it all over, just for fun, but, within seconds, the burning sting of that one branded strip of bum flesh, which I can handle, spreads through my whole body, from the top of my head to the tips of my clawing fingers and splayed, scrabbling toes, in waves of white-hot agony, which I can't. I hear myself scream, but know, somehow, that I can't have, simply because I have no breath; I am suffocating from lack of air - the pain in my bum has halted all my vital functions and I am going to suffocate and die.

Then, slowly, I came back to earth; the cane is still pressing into my bare flesh, so that first cut, at any rate, was NOT a follow through one. I can feel my cheeks throbbing under the stick and wish that it would go away until I realise that the sooner it does, the sooner I'll get my next cut. There it goes; my eyes meet Justin's for an instant; there's no mercy there; he's probably decided that I'm doing this for a dare or a bet or something and he is going to give me a run for my money. Another nine like that one will make pulp of my whole arse and I'll never be able to take them without screaming the place down.

Then I glance at the next bench, where tough little Matt's equally bare tail is bucking and writhing as Harry lays into it with his cane. I can see how sore it must be from the way the kid's smooth, pre-teen face is screwed up in agony, but not a sound is passing his lips. If he can take it, so can I. As Justin's stick bites into my arse again, I think how crazy it is that when nearly 200 boys all get hurt as badly as we are being that afternoon, their main concern is not with what they are being thrashed for, but with trying to bluff themselves and each other that it ISN'T hurting them at all.

Two down, eight to go; if I can get through the next two without breaking down, my tail will probably be so numb that the last six won't be too bad. There must be a point after which even a bare bum can't register any more pain and I must aim to get there. Here comes number three. The hiss of the cane is even higher pitched and the snap as it meets bare flesh, is louder. But then, the pain is also different. That one definitely got me on the lower curve of my tail, closer to where my bum and my legs join and that new level of agony pushes me towards my threshold of pain, starts me really screaming, and convinces me that I can't take any more.

My whole arse is being roasted, as if a red-hot clothes iron is being pressed into each bare cheek, or I am sitting flat with my naked buttocks on the top of an slow combustion stove in which a peat fire has been roaring for a few days and I know for a fact that every fresh cut will raise that already unbearable heat by several degrees until my flesh ignites and my bum and everything around it goes up in flames.

Justin, however, doesn't seem to notice the damage he is doing to my naked rear end, as he simply goes on thrashing it slowly and method- ically laying his cuts hard and evenly across it, one high, one low, steadily increasing the width of the band of whipped, tender skin which must by now cover my tail from about two inches below the top of my crack to about the same distance above the tops of my legs. Can't he hear me screaming? Why is he being so cruel to me? Does he want to cripple me for life?

The bastard lays 4 and 5 diagonally across the first three; I know because I can feel the tip of the cane digging into my bare flesh, once up on my right hip and once round the side of the very top of my right leg and also those first three stripes, which are still throbbing and burning, suddenly bite me all over again. Half way; perhaps I will make it after all and not let Matt and the other kids down.

There goes Matt. I get a distorted, tear-blurred view of a small, bright red and purple-striped pair of ridged and obviously very hot and painful haunches, as he moves slowly towards his pants, vigorously but carefully rubbing his smarting seat with the palms of both hands. He has a good look at what has been done to my rear end as he goes and I notice that his still small and almost hairless _c_o_c_k_ jerks outwards from his body as he takes in the spectacular damage that is being done to yet another bare bum.

Whether it was seeing him start to get an erection from looking at my stripes, or simply the high level of irritation produced in that acutely _s_e_x_ually aware area by the bite of the cane into my bare hide, I don't know, but, through the blinding agony that was radiating from my arse, I suddenly felt a stirring of my own and also realised that there I was, in the exact position about which I had fantasised so often while I lustily wanked away and that what I SHOULD be doing was trying to relax and enjoy it, or, at least, concentrating on the sensations it was pro- ducing, for future recall.

That thought coincided with an unexpected pause in the reqular tempo of my thrashing. I had not really noticed whether the other seniors had got their cuts from both sides, but Justin obviously intended to cane me like that and I felt my _c_o_c_k_ pulsing with appreciation in its confined position, trapped between my tummy and the soggy blanket below it.

Suddenly lust and not pain, was roaring in my ears and, in spite of myself, I tensed my knees, braced my toes and midriff and lifted my bare bum slightly off the bench, as if to onvite and meet the next lash of the cane.

That was not long in coming and landed, again, hard and low, squarely across both cheeks, making my body jerk in shock and agony; however, now I am in control; I suck the wave of heat and sting into my loins, feeding my rock-hard rod with a flood of hot, teenage blood which threatens to push it and me past the point of no return. The pain in my bum has given way to an intense, pounding, living glow, like the slow revving of a big diesel engine which is idling before its gears are engaged to take its load.

Now the cuts are landing regularly and evenly again, but each one, in- stead of hurting me like before. is having the same effect as a short blip on an accelerator, increasing my engine's pace briefly, getting it ready for the effort of moving off, which, in my case will, I am sure, be the surge that will take me over the edge. I think there are only two to go; yes, here comes number 9, on the slant, right across both cheeks. There is no pain, only this bright, hot roaring of blood in my ears and the corresponding churning deep down in my guts as the tor- tured nerves in my backside, the tingling transmitter path in my spinal chord and the waiting receptors somewhere in my brain all join forces to compress my balls against my body and to shoot stream after stream of boiling spunk through my still throbbing _c_o_c_k_, each jet draining another level of energy from my loins until I feel my upraised bum flatten out and I subside, limp and exhausred, on the bench.

I am aware of the final cut slamming into my tail, but not of any sensation as a result of its having done so; my whole body is floating on a wave of hot, glowing exhilaration; I realise that, once that euphoria has passed, I will have to cope with some serious pain, as the hiding I have just received was very severe by any standards, but I am at peace, both for the present and with my short-term prospects. I lever myself off the bench, to make way for the next bare-tailed kid; I wonder whether he will get anything except pain out of his 'six' [he is about 12] or if he will ever know the unbelievable pleasure, the sheer satisfaction, the incredible release and sense of fulfilment that is rushing through me, making me want to hug Justin and go and thank the Superintendent for making this experience possible. I have no wish to rub my red-hot bum or to do anything that might interfere with the waves of pure pain-pleasure that are radiating from its soundly thrashed cheeks to every part of my body.

My eye catches Justin's as I turn to go down the steps, red, burning bum on unashamed display and attracting a fair amount of comment from the groups of already caned boys whom I have to pass. A quick, under- standing grin creases his lips; he knew - he had realised, all along, that my presence on his bench was intentional and that the biggest disservice he could do me would be NOT to thrash my bare tail to and past the normal limits for that sort of hiding; he must have sensed my needs even before I had fully acknowledged them myself and decided that he would take them at face value and give me what, at any rate, I THOUGHT I wanted. If it turned out to be more than I could handle, I would be 'cured' for life; if not, I would leave St. Giles that day, as I in fact was about to do, bearing a gift which all the wealth and privilege in the world could not have bought me anywhere else.


More stories by Karl Gatt