Yesterday's Boy (M/m)

Everything recorded in this story actually happened. I have never forgotten it and still remember the names of all involved. In fact, push me, and to the insistent echo of the daily recording from the register of all our names I could probably recall all thirty eight boys who watched the caning. When writing it I had clearly shelved the swimming pool caning of Tomorrow's Child (see previous story). But then I was twelve. Now I was fourteen and all boys know it is the longest two years.– Alfred Roy.

I still remember the day that first fixed my sexuality. The day on which was triggered an obsessive journey of sensual discovery. I didn’t know it at the time. At the time it was merely a painful, very painful, schoolboy experience. But it took root in my mind and, honed and developed, it constantly replayed its insistent picture in the ensuing years. I still remember it today, nearly fifty years later, and every single detail is crystal clear. It wasn’t just that painful experience, two strokes of the cane on my bottom, it was the drama which surrounded it. My caning was a play in three acts. I have never forgotten the actors and I have never forgotten the three distinct scenes which defined its importance. Taken alone, the caning was insignificant and routine. Boys growing up in the fifties regularly touched their toes for a short and sharp shock to their backsides. But this particular boy was already tipping to the edge of disciplinary pleasures and those two strokes of a vicious cane finally thrust a confused mind into a world he would never depart. If ever one wanted a reason for not caning boys then I am it. When those two strokes landed on my bottom I began a journey which has never wavered. If there is any pleasure in life which equals the exquisite sensations of a disciplined backside I am yet to discover it. And the day it all began is etched in the memory.

I was fourteen. In my third year at a boy’s secondary school in Leicestershire.  For those reading this in far off lands Leicestershire is a county in the midlands of England, known for the hunting of foxes and the knitting of nylon stockings. And famed for Lady Jane Grey, a queen for nine days destined to lose her head four hundred years before I lost my innocence. Like most boys in those days I was familiar with the sensations of a smarting bottom or stinging legs or hands. It was no big deal. If you didn’t behave at home your dad took a strap to your bum and if you didn’t behave at school a teacher used whatever method he or she favoured. I didn’t enjoy it. In fact I cried copiously. But it was fairly infrequent and I accepted it. It was part of growing up.

I was in that school for three and a half years and celebrated four birthdays, twelve to fifteen, in a cramped class of forty. In those three and a half years we all developed at different rates and in different ways. I can’t speak for the others, except for a couple I knew very well, but time has taught me that my development was slow and singular.  I listened to playground dirty jokes without ever understanding them and laughed loudly with the knowing boys who told them. Those same boys, and others, showed an increasing and natural obsession for that small piece of flesh dangling between seemingly ever open legs and hinted at its mysterious delights.  Masturbatory races at the back of the geography or geometry class were a giggly highlight of long and boring afternoons. And naked fumbling in the school showers after physical education or swimming became almost obligatory. It was all lost on me. My appendage merely indicated that I was a boy. I took no pleasure from anyone grabbing at it. There was only one scenario where I displayed any hint of breathless and internal sensuality. There was only one scenario where I felt a swimming of my senses and an uncontrollable fever of unexplained desire. And that was when one of my classmates was being caned.

I was a reasonably intelligent boy and occupied one of the top places in the school’s top stream. By the time of my fourteenth birthday I had only been disciplined on a couple of occasions. In my first year a very young P.E. teacher had whacked my shorts with a slipper for inattention and at thirteen an ineffectual art teacher gave me an equally ineffective three strokes of his personal cane for spitting at a classmate. Neither were particularly memorable except for a pleasantly warm afterglow in my behind and welcome approbation from my friends. Any whacking at our school made you a bit special, if only for the rest of that day. And if I couldn’t avoid that furtive fumbling in the showers I could take a perverse and secret pleasure in displaying my naked and rosy backside. There was an inexplicable regret when the signs of my cursory disciplines faded. I did not understand my feelings; I only knew they were there. And never more so than when a classmate had been seriously caned and in those same showers one witnessed the savage weals writ across his backside. We all admired them; all forty of us, but for me the pleasure went much deeper. I had no desire to be in that boy’s place but his marks took on a singular fascination. I would go home and dream of having some of my own.

For most of those first three years it never happened. Serious canings were a rare event at our school and most that took place were in the deputy headmasters study. As these were usually to boys in a lower stream even the visual aftermath was denied to me. But one of our class was given four strokes of the cane by that deputy head for peeing over a wall and all of us eagerly viewed the result at the first opportunity. Rumour gave out that the boy had to take his trousers down for his caning but he always refused to confirm it. He had no shame at displaying his marks to us but that confession was clearly a step too far. It merely provided fuel for my over active imagination and variety for my dreams. But one teacher, our form teacher in my third year, was not averse to issuing punishment in front of his class and on more than one occasion I witnessed a classmate touching his toes for a couple of strokes of the cane. And he could lay it on. It was a long slow journey back to his desk for any boy who suffered his particular justice. He didn’t do it very often, he didn’t need to. Every watching boy felt those strokes as they landed on their classmates backside  and the ensuing silence, only broken by solitary muffled sobs, was thick with collective fear. None of us wanted it to happen to us. Thankfully it rarely did, the lower streams gave him more reason to exercise his arm. But one day, about a week or so before the end of the school year, it suddenly and unexpectedly happened to me. I had gone through the whole of his year without even the hint of scholastic displeasure.  And being good at his special subjects I was probably one of his most favoured. But it didn’t save either myself or the other boy involved. An innocent, inquisitive moment brought about my one serious school caning. And when we both realised it was going to happen the shock reverberated through the heads of the thirty eight other boys who had watched in breathless silence. They didn’t believe it and until I touched my toes some fifteen or twenty minutes later, in my heart neither did I.

I still remember the name of the other boy and I can still see us standing at the front of the classroom staring at the door. It was the day when class positions were announced and we were both convinced we had come top. The teacher had left the exam result book on his table and in a moment of combined madness we both decided to take a peek. I do not know to this day whether that teacher had left the result book on his table on purpose but I do know that as we furiously perused it he came into the room. To say that you could have cut the air with a knife would be to do the drama a disservice. You could have cut it with a whole canteen of cutlery and still not have room to breathe. The silence was deafening. Two sets of fourteen year old eyes stared at the unwelcome presence and thirty eight other still and fearful boys drank in the scene. I have no idea how long it was before that teacher spoke but, caught red handed, we should not have been surprised at what he said. He spoke quietly but firmly.

‘Go and get the punishment book and the cane. Both of you.’

That was all he said and, as he held the door open, two numbed and frightened boys started on a journey which seemed destined to end in unexpected and unwanted pain. Our departure released a little of the collective tension in our schoolmates and as we made our initial walk to the headmaster’s study in search of the weapons of our discomfort a muffled roar of ‘silence’ cut the corridor’s air. Neither of us spoke. Five minutes earlier we had been engaged in schoolboy rivalry. Now we were joined on a mission that neither wanted nor expected. We approached the outer office of the headmaster’ study preoccupied with thoughts that neither wished to share. It was the brisk and efficient secretary calmly directing us to an outlying classroom which released our tongues.

I would be lying if I said I could remember the details of our conversation but I do know that at some point on our travels we fearfully mused on what was likely to happen to us. I was convinced we were going to be caned and I was equally convinced that we were not going to get it on our hands. My one hope was that it would be limited to two strokes. I had never seen this teacher give more but, from memory, he didn’t need to. He hit hard. My companion tried to convince himself that he was trying to scare us. Make us fetch the cane and the punishment book and then tell us what he could have done if we were not such good and clever pupils. By the time we reached the door of the class where the school’s official cane was last in use he had almost succeeded in his slender hope. Looking back I am certain that the ritual of sending a boy to search for the implement of his chastisement was a deliberate school policy. Neither of us had ever made this tortuous journey and the closer we got to its end the greater our agitation. My companion had never been caned at this school and whilst I had some experience of being disciplined, neither occasion involved the official punishment book and cane. We collected both items as hastily as the large and florid woodwork teacher allowed and, without looking at anyone in the room, left as nervously and speedily as we had entered.

I can remember so many details of that morning nearly fifty years ago but one of the most important points continues to escape me. I can remember the plump officious secretary telling us that a boy in the woodwork class had collected the book and cane and it had yet to be returned. I can remember the name of the woodwork teacher and, when I asked for the punishment book, I can remember him asking why I needed it and me telling him that we were to be caned for being nosy. And I can remember telling him the name of the teacher who was going to do the caning. And I can remember him saying, when he heard the name, that we had better grit our teeth and pray that our bottoms were tough. And I can remember that my companion said nothing. And I can still remember the name of that teacher who eventually made me touch my toes. I shall never forget him. And with me taking the punishment book and my companion taking the cane I can remember the long walk back to our class. A walk made in silence. But I cannot, for the life of me, remember whether or not I ever touched or held that cane on the long journey back. I can only assume I didn’t. I cannot believe that I would forget an implement that was to dominate my later life. So I assume that a companion who was convinced, or seemingly so, that it was all an elaborate sham to frighten us had the unwelcome task of carrying the weapon that advertised our distress. Until it slammed into my behind with devastating effect I had no tactile knowledge of the school’s official implement of discipline. So, to this day, I have no idea whether it was thick or thin, long or short, stiff or supple. I only know that it left a hurt and a mark which turned my life.

If act one is a mixture of devastating clarity and tantalising mist then act two is writ crystal clear. The summons of a second teacher to witness the punishment dissolved any hope in my companion that the procedures were an elaborate sham to teach us a lesson without actually inflicting pain. The punishment book was opened at the appropriate page and both teachers dutifully filled in the relevant columns. I didn’t see it then and I have never seen it since. But I can conjecture what it recorded for history. Duly signed and witnessed in accordance with the procedures of June 1959 it would have stated the following:-

XX and YY (Class 3A – 14 years old) – Two strokes of the cane (each) on their bottoms. Reason – illegal perusal of exam results.

It no doubt spelt out our names in full. It could not, in any way, suggest what we were about to endure. And it could not know, why should it, that for one of those boys the next few minutes would shape his future life. We were ordered to remove our jackets and picking up the cane which had dutifully lain on his desk my companion was ordered by our teacher to face the door and bend over. The witness teacher stood to one side, close to me, and facing the door as instructed my companion’s bottom was pointing at all our classmates. The area had a lot of space and was well chosen. From that far corner of the classroom all would get a perfect view and that was clearly intended. This teacher was going to make sure that all, not just the one who suffered the pain, would learn a salutary lesson.

The next few minutes are photographed on my memory both visually and physically. Our school uniform was a mixture of light and dark grey and as he bent over the light grey of my companion’s jumper contrasted sharply with the dark grey of his long trousers. Trousers which I suddenly realised were very thin. They would offer little protection. He had quite a small bottom and, bent over, it looked very vulnerable. He held tightly onto his ankles and even though I could not see his face I knew the distress he was feeling. All hope had been abandoned and he knew that he was about to get his first caning. And with the official school cane by a master of the art. And neither of us knew how many strokes we would receive. That information had been cruelly denied when the order to bend had been issued. Thirty nine boys watched fearfully and if thirty eight of them had a mixture of emotions they could not compare with mine. I prayed and prayed that it would soon be over and, being over, that we would express relief that it had not hurt that much. I waited, sweating with fear and desperation. Would he ever strike and get it over with. But the preparation was all and the boy was bent further down until he was almost squatting and his small behind jutted out and almost rested on his ankles. And then the teacher placed the cane across the pointing arc of that backside and, almost in an instant, gave two taps and then lashed it across the trousered seat. I jumped in fear and concern as the stroke landed with a resounding thwack and my friend and companion lurched forward. But the crouching position, cleverly arranged, ensured no unseemly rising and as he absorbed the pain and shock of the first stroke the second lashed the very centre of his bottom. Two vicious strokes issued in quick succession before a boy had any chance to reflect on the fire and scream. And as he lurched forward a couple more inches his bottom readied itself for a third stroke to join the throbbing pain now emerging. But no third stroke came and the boy was told to get up and go to his seat. I watched him rise and turn to face us all. The two teachers, the thirty eight boys, and me. And we saw the tears streaming down his flushed face, we saw his hands furiously rubbing his bottom, and we saw the small tentative steps he took to his desk. The other thirty eight boys could only wonder at the misery of it all. I was about to discover the reasons for it.

I shall never forget that picture. The taut grey trousers spread over the small squatting bum like a second skin. The cane tapping the cheeks and then swooping to do its work. The resounding thwack which echoed around the room. The stifled sob, the shuffle forward, and the immediate second stroke only an instant behind the first. The two still teachers, one armed with a cane, and the collective silence as a caned boy returned to his place. It had happened a couple of times before in this class and I had sweated with strange emotions. But this time was different. This time I was to step into his place and experience what I had only seen. This time I had to step into the picture and, this time, I was devoured with consuming fear of what was to come. This time the cane had come for me and I was to feel the pain. It was probably only a few moments or maybe it was five minutes but, however long, it was not long enough. But as my companion gingerly took his seat I was ordered to take his place.

I had seen what had gone before and besides I was a good and dutiful boy. Wasn’t I one of the class stars? I knew what had to be done and, in spite of my fear, I wanted it over. And it was only two strokes. At least I now knew that. But he had hit very hard. Savage it seemed. He had put so much into those two strokes to my companion’s backside I swear he must have cut him in two. And now it was my turn and thirty eight, no thirty nine, eager faces were staring at me. And in a moment would be staring at my small, very small, behind. And whilst all would have some sympathy all would be relieved it was not them. Pray God if a behind has to be beaten make sure it is not mine. That is what they would be thinking. And who could blame them. I was the one who had transgressed. Not them. And as I dutifully bent over and grasped my ankles and pushed out my small and vulnerable bottom, even smaller than the boy just caned, I remember thinking that I may be getting it now but it could be your turn tomorrow. And that small thought gave me some comfort. I stared at the door and tried to ignore the fact that the position I was in meant only one thing. I was about to be caned and it would hurt. My bottom was in the air awaiting the cane and that cane would do to me what it had done to my friend. It would cut and it would burn and I would cry. It would deliver excoriating pain to that part of my person that nature had designed for the purpose. And it would do it to a level that even moments before it arrived I could only imagine. And all behind me would see, I would only feel. In that small second of my life I would have paid a fortune to change places with them.

And then I felt a firm hand on the lower part of my back. A hand pushing me down making me crouch even lower. I bent my knees and grasping my ankles even harder sensed my bottom jutting out even more. And still he pushed. He wanted, like before, the lower part of my backside almost touching the back of my lower legs. This was a master who knew the precise part of the bottom he wished to hit and, having struck, wanted to make sure that the boy stayed in place. Eventually he was satisfied and I felt the cane touch my backside. It caught the only bit that stuck out, just below the crown of my cheeks. And then he caned me. Just the two strokes, as before. But two strokes of instant and agonising fire. The first stroke was unexpected, surprisingly so given the elaborate ritual. I felt the gentle tap and the lash immediately followed. A line of burning fire struck my behind and I felt myself springing forward and fighting for my breath. And as I held on to my ankles and stopped myself from falling over, I couldn’t in that clever position, the second stroke followed a similar excruciating route. For a few moments all I was conscious off was the burning fire in my bottom and lack of breath in my body and, combining the two, the release of tears to assuage my discomfort. By the time I was told to stand and return to my seat I was sobbing uncontrollably in some sort of merciful release. And as the tears flowed the throbbing in my bottom from those two strokes grew and grew. The shock and the pain combined in an all consuming fiery dance on my backside. I had been well and truly caned. Only two strokes. But as I made my way to my desk, slowly and manfully, I was convinced that I would never recover. No boy’s bottom could take so much pain and allow its owner to live. I sank into my desk and prayed for oblivion.

I have never forgotten the incessant throb that enveloped my backside for the remainder of that momentous morning. Initially the pain and the sting cried out for desperate relief. But however much my agonisingly sore behind begged I dare not offer the desired soothing rub. Conscious of all eyes upon me I sat in tortuous immobility. Desiring only to be ignored and forgotten I would do nothing to draw attention to myself. Keep still and a boy momentarily special for being caned would be allowed to sink into anonymity. And so I sat, ignoring the grasping throb of pain around my rear and the occasional furtive glances of my classmates and fervently wished for the morning to end. I can honestly say I remember nothing else of that day. If this were a piece of fiction I would paint many pictures; caustic teachers threatening more of the same on another day, veiled allusions of trousers being taken down, classmates viewing the results in school toilets, companions in distress comparing their respective weals. But I can remember nothing else. Not the teachers’ reaction or comments. Not the other boy who touched his toes before me. Not how I saw out the remainder of the day. Nothing. All is a blank. All I can remember is that sometime later at home, it may have been the same evening, it may have been the following day, it may even have been after a week had passed. But I doubt it. But at some time after that caning I inspected my bottom in my bedroom mirror and from that day my life changed.

I did not lower my trousers and underpants and look with dispassionate curiosity. I remember it was more with a state of excited agitation and anticipation. Which makes me think it must have been the same evening. But I do know that as I lowered my pants and turned my bottom to the bedroom mirror I was eager to see the results of my discomfort. Something inside me was saying that this pictorial pleasure would make the violent pain worthwhile. What I saw both shocked and fascinated. My bottom was small and smooth and very pale and the two cheeks were, at fourteen, extremely boyish. And blazed across them both, across the centre and no more than an inch apart, were two of the most savage weals that could ever have been planted on an innocent behind. They cut right across, stretching the full breadth of the buttocks, and displayed themselves with angry purple and black fire. Each of the two weals registered the full width of the cane and were edged with artistic touches in various shades of red. And against the backcloth of the pale flesh they flashed as two raised disciplinary beacons and endlessly fascinated. I gingerly touched them and contrasted the rigid hardness of the purple-black lines against the smooth whiteness which surrounded. And as my fingers explored and compared I knew, instinctively, that whatever the pain that created this picture it would be well worth it. Over the following weeks I must have inspected my bottom at least once a day. The changing picture of those two weals never ceased to mesmerise. I saw the blackish purple slowly fade in stages to a final sickening yellow and then, sadly, to nothingness. Eventually the marks on my behind were as if they had never been but the mark upon my mind was indelibly printed. I would suffer anything to recreate them. The final act of this particular drama would shape the whole of my life.

I have often wondered if the other boy was as affected as I was by this particular caning. He went to a different school the following term and I have never seen or heard anything of him since so I have no way of knowing. But to him it was probably just a nasty schoolboy experience. Boys are remarkable resilient and unless your incipient sexuality is subtly shaping on particular lines a whack on the bottom is just an unpleasant sensation best avoided. But to a few, and I was one, it can tip you over a willing edge into an all consuming passion. I don’t blame that teacher; my submissive personality was already forming, he just gave me a violent and dramatic push along a special path. I often wonder if he is still alive. He could be as he was only in his thirties at the time. It would be nice to think he was. In a desire to recreate an experience that can never be truly recalled he has featured in many of my stories. The man who most devastatingly caned my fourteen year old bottom has, under many guises, regularly stepped on to my personal literary stage. My perverse and peculiar nature makes me wish him a ripe and gentle old age.

Alfred Roy (2007)