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Our
three names were read out clearly and slowly, one after the
other, followed by “Mr Evans would like to see you
immediately.”
Black words of extreme doom announcing the fate we knew all too
well lay ahead of us, knowledge each one of us had in our
possession ever since the first discovery of our crime. This was
simply the confirmation of our sentence.
Boss Evans ruled our school with a metaphorical rod of iron and
a quite literal rod of rattan. No misdemeanor escaped his
all-seeing eye and our three backsides were now certain not to
escape the retribution of his cane.
We stood together nervously outside the headmaster’s door
until Anthony was summonsed in first. The door was made of solid
wood and Anthony had closed it behind him yet still the crack -
crack - crack of the cane, punctuated only by the briefest
silence between strokes, was perfectly audible to us outside.
The door opened, Anthony winked an eye as he came out and then
it was Gary’s turn. Again that crack - crack - crack.
Finally my turn, save that I received four - it was in my bag
the evidence had been found so I was awarded an extra stroke.
I bent over and rested my hands on my knees. There followed an
age of waiting. I had plenty of time to study the green carpet
below me noticing a white speck of cotton and a scuff mark of
mud. I contemplated the colour and wondered who had chosen it, I
could see each individual tuft of the weave there below my eyes.
I thought about counting them, a strange thing to do, but then
felt the cane gently rest on my buttocks as Boss Evans
positioned it ready for his aim. It moved away then headed back
with a deafening swish as the air was forced out of its path in
the descent towards me. It landed with a thundering crack. For a
micro second I felt nothing then the squirt of pain was as much
as I could bear. By instinct I pinched my buttocks together as
tight as I could. I was reeling inside and I didn’t hear the
swish as the cane came in for its second stroke. Hell - the pain
was like a red hot rod of steel being laid across me. I bit my
teeth together and mentally cursed as hard as I could. Number
three and the agony increased. Number four and it was all over.
All over but the pain was still increasing and announcing its
intent to stay with me for a long time yet.
Reunited outside the door we limped our way back to class by way
of the toilets and a quick inspection of one another’s
backsides.
“Why did he give you four ?”
“’Cos the whisky was found in my bag, that's why. The old
bastard.”
“But that aint fair, we each went thirds on it.”
“So do you want to go back and ask him for another one each
?”
“No way !”
Three definite lines were imprinted on both Anthony’s and
Gary’s bums. Mine had four. I gingerly felt them and ran my
finger tips over the ridges. It bloody hurt !
“Don’t know about you two but I could use a swig of that
whisky right now.”
“Yeah, well we aint never going to see that again. I bet he
drinks it all himself - the fat old bastard !”
We had sneaked out of school during the lunch time, that in
itself was a statutory whacking offence but one which would
probably be ignored and at the very most bring only a quick slap
of the slipper from our form master. The sneaking out wasn’t
the problem, no not all at all. We had been down to the local
off licence and bought a bottle of scotch which we planned to
share that evening. Gary’s parents were going to a dinner
dance so he had the house to himself and we planned to party.
The shop should never have sold it to us, we were only sixteen
but this was the 1970’s when underage drinking was viewed in a
slightly different way than that of today. Not sufficiently,
however, for our beloved headmaster to do anything other than
thrash our backsides and confiscate the bottle. Boss Evans had a
reputation for being the hardest caner in the history of the
school and now we all had the proof that his reputation was very
well founded.
“We can always get another bottle on the way home,” Anthony
suggested.
“Not from the same shop,” I protested. “I reckon it was
probably that creepy git of a shopkeeper who grassed us up.”
“You are probably right - we need to come up with a suitable
form of revenge for him - I’ll give it some thought.”
So it was with a second bottle, one obtained from a quite
different source, we gathered that evening at Gary’s house.
I’d nicked a couple of bottles of lager from home and Anthony
produced half a bottle of Navy Rum.”
“I give you a toast,” Anthony said. “To Boss Evans - may
his right arm wither and suffer terminal tennis elbow.”
“To Boss Evans the old bastard !”
“I tell you,” I said, “my arse still hurts like hell.”
“Mine too.”
“I put some cream, on mine,” Gary said, “it appears to be
working. The pain's almost gone now.”
“What kind of cream ?” We were curious.
“After sun, we had some left from the holiday. I spread it all
over and it’s made things much more comfortable.”
"After sun ?"
"Yes."
“Got any left ?”
“Sure. Want some ?”
For the second time that day we examined our arses. The colour
of the lines had changed from bright red and was darkening into
multi coloured bruising. We debated how long it would be before
the marks would finally fade. Ages was our conclusion.
“Bob Key in 5G must have permanent arse lines," I
pondered, "he gets caned more weeks than not."
“Must have the hide of a rhinoceros.”
“He may have but he hasn't ever got it from Boss Evans, the
world champion caner.”
It wasn’t easy trying to reach round and apply the after sun
in the right places. I was struggling.
“Want me to do that for you ?”
“Go on but be careful my arse is still white hot.”
The touch of Gary’s hand on the bare flesh of my arse and the
soothing feeling of the cream brought much pleasure. I liked it.
The dull pain subsided to be replaced by an almost sensual
feeling. My dick started to become ever so slightly aroused. Not
so slightly, however, that Anthony did not notice.
“Hey,” he laughed, “look at Nigel he likes that.”
I was embarrassed and my dick instantly lost all of its
semi-hardness. “Sorry,” I blurted.
“I have an idea,” Gary’s eyes sparkled and
there was a note of boyish cunning in his voice.
“Revenge is sweet do you not agree ?” He kicked off his
trousers which were still round his ankles, bent to pick them up
and rooted through the pockets. “One each,” he giggled
opening a pack of three and handing a Durex to both Anthony and
I.
I wanted to ask him what we were supposed to do with them but
that would have been a bit obvious. Instead I scoffed,"
What would you want those for ?”
“I use them for cleaning my teeth, what do you think ?” The
whole class knew he was chasing after Pamela Jones like a fly
round you-know-what but I didn’t think he had got that far.
Lucky bugger.
Anthony looked down at the small packet, held it in front of his
dick and smiled with a tender note of incredulity.
“We each fill one up,” Gary explained, “then we’ll post
them to the owner of that off licence. Stick them through his
letter box and get him back for telling the school.”
“How’s that going to hurt him ?”
“How’d you feel if somebody pushed three spunked up jonnies
through your letterbox ?”
OK, today retelling these events it appears silly - even stupid
but that was the way it was and that was just how it happened.
For three horny adolescents filled with alcohol it made perfect
sense. Nobody would know it was us who had done it - there was
no DNA profiling in those days.
I kicked my own trousers and pants away, pulled off my tee shirt
and allowed my dick to start its rise again. Gary was ahead of
me passing well beyond semi-hard towards a full erection. I
watched carefully as he opened the packet, expertly placed the
Durex on the top of his cock and slowly rolled the tight skin
down the shaft. I’d never worn one before and until I’d seen
Gary put it on had no idea what to do. And where had he got them
from ? The barbers I guessed. Wasn't that where everyone got
them from ?
It was a strange feeling wearing that Durex, it was tight and
added to the erection yet it wasn’t there, so gossamer thin
was the covering. What was it made out of ? I wondered. Rubber ?
The same stuff as sausage skins but sausages burst when you
fried them !
At sixteen I was wanking seven or eight times a week. I remember
once trying to abstain for a fortnight in an attempt to induce a
wet dream but it didn’t work so it was back to the rhythm of
my right hand. To be honest with you this was not the first time
I had shared this special male pleasure with others but that’s
another story.
As I pen these notes and think back all those years it occurs to
me that many, if not most, of my readers will not be able to
recall life in the early 1970’s. Today when everybody is so
busy tripping over the human rights of everyone else and being
ultra-pathetically politically correct you may not appreciate
how we grew up in schools where nearly all teachers used the
stick and our backsides were familiar with its special purpose.
We thought nothing of it, it was part of adolescence and growing
up. You were not a man until you had the cane. We got caned and
slippered for all kinds of things from not doing homework to
being caught with a bottle of whisky in your sports bag - that
was life, the way things were. Today we all have to be so
careful about what we say and what we do, in my youth we would
have simply called that being wet. Those we now called
mild-mannered, a state of political correctness generally
admired, we would have called wimps. What have a bunch of
lily-livered liberals done to our society ? I think things were
better in my time.
But one thing today is better than it was thirty years ago and
that’s the way folk are more open towards sexuality. We made
smutty jokes about wanking, accused everyone else of indulging
in it but would never admit to participating ourselves. Of
course we were all at it but generally in secret. People in my
day generally regarded it as dirty - what rubbish ! My first
time was with another guy, he was the one who showed me how to
do it, but that time with me Anthony and Gary was different.
Anyway - back to the story.
The drink had relaxed our minds and the stated object of what we
were doing, to get revenge on the shopkeeper, began to take a
second place. But there was more to our fun than that. Of course
we all, each and everyone of us, was delighted to be wanking
together but none gave any indication of our satisfaction. I’d
seen both Gary and Anthony naked in the showers after games
loads of times but this was different. Wow it was good.
So there we were, in Gary’s front room three horny sixteen
year olds naked, hard on and closely wrapped in rubber jonnies.
We all pumped furiously and came quite quickly; I remember that
I was first, Gary next and then Anthony. Taking the Durex off
proved a bit tricky, thing was none us had come down very much
and our dicks still clung to the thin plastic skin. Once we
eventually had those shields off we stretched them, tied knots
in the end to preserve the contents and still naked and hard on
we started fooling about throwing the jonnies at one another.
“Careful you don’t bust them - we need them for the off
license.”
Yeah, if they bust we’ll have to do it all again."
“Well I wouldn’t mind that.”
“Neither would I.”
We did wank again, the three spent Durex were gathered up and
carefully stored ahead of their final destination. With that
done we were able to concentrate our efforts on a slower and
more methodical wanking session.
“Tell me, “ I asked, “how often do you wank ?”
“Most nights.”
“I prefer a morning wank myself, it brilliant when you wake
with a hard on.”
“This is the third time I’ve done it today,” I said,
“once this morning and now twice this evening.”
“I did it four times in one night once,” Gary said, “but
the fourth time was just a little dribble and my cock was bloody
sore afterwards."
Gary had a lovely cock, bigger than Anthony and me, with low
hanging balls. He was fair haired and I remember he had a large
bush of pubic hair. Anthony and I could have been twins, at
least in that department, where out attributes were very
similar.
“What’s the best wank you’ve ever had ?”
“I wanked out of my bedroom window,” Gary smiled, “and I
squirted it out into the garden below.”
“I thought your bedroom is in the front of the house.”
Gary smiled. “It is, I squirted into the front garden !”
We started to sing in unison the words from a song we knew -
Balls to Mr Brassington, Brassington, Brassington,
Balls to Mr Brassington - dirty old man.
He sits on the steeple and wanks on the people,
So balls to Mr Brassington - dirty old man !
Know it ? Never mind -
I was starting to feel precum again, we didn’t call it precum
in those days we knew it as knob-juice. But what ever the tap
had been turned on. A full cum wasn’t that far behind and when
I did cum it was bloody fantastic. I guess we all felt the same
and with it all sore feelings in our backsides where Boss Evans
had done his worse disappeared. Yep, the tenderness was gone
even if the red marks lingered on for many more days.
And yes we did send the spunk filled jonnies to the off-licence
but we put them in an envelope and posted them courtesy of the
Royal Mail. Nobody had the bottle to walk up to the shops and
push the envelope through the letterbox. Instead we entrusted
them to a humble postman. We never heard anything but presume
the shopkeeper must have received them. I wonder what he thought
or if he suspected we had sent them.
Let me tell you something else before I go. On the day the three
of us left school we celebrated the freedom with three more
jonnies and another cracking good wank. That time we posted them
to Boss Evans.
Revenge is so sweet.
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