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The Naval Cadet

by Grammarschoolboy

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 15 Feb 2018

The Naval Cadet

The air in Brett Fortisley’s bed-room was thick with cigarette smoke. A makeshift ash-tray, strategically placed in the middle of the room, and within easy reach of the eighteen year old sixth-former and his two companions, was over-flowing with cigarette ash and fag ends. A record player, with the latest central spindle mechanism which allowed up to six 45 rpm discs to be played in succession, was churning out the latest Petula Clarke Hit, while Brett and his fellow sixth-former, Matt Pursden, who was lounging back on the dishevelled single bed, listened intently to the boastings of a former grammar school pal, who had left school at the end of his first year in the sixth form, to join the navy.

The two sixth formers’ eyes were rivetted on the widened, uniform-clad thighs of the naval cadet, whose first week of leave had given him a chance to meet up with his former pals, and fill them in on life on the ocean wave...from the perspective of a very raw, newly recruited cadet. Spud Murphy, officially known as Conor Murphy, seemed to look so much more mature and physically developed since Brett and Matt had last seen him during their first year together as sixth formers.

Maybe it was the uniform which certainly enhanced his over-all manly appearance, and while Spud had always been that little bit more mature, physically, than the rest of his fellow sixth formers, his short time as a naval cadet seemed to have made him look significantly more mature. The firmness of his muscled thighs, accentuated by the tightly fitting, dark material of his uniform trousers, was just one visible, aspect of that increased physical maturity.

Both sixth formers had noticed, with interest mingled with a fair amount of envy and admiration, the way the full roundness of his buttocks was also highlighted by the way the uniform’s soft material had clung to the seductive curves when he had entered the room, and when he was casually walking around. Then, when he had bent over to pick up from the floor the cover of one of the records being played, Brett’s eyes had widened with fascination and undisguised excitement, at the sight of the tightly outlined, hidden cheeks, which he recalled seeing the senior sports master, Slasher Simms, whacking with a gym shoe in the gym changing room, just a few days before Spud left to join the navy.

Matt had not failed to notice his pal’s momentary pre-occupation with Cadet Murphy’s fully rounded buttocks. He glanced at Brett with a knowing grin. I know what’s goin through your mind, you sexy bugger!

Brett, catching sight of Matt’s grin, flashed a silent signal back to him, as though to convey a silent message along the lines of: Wonder how many times he’s had to bend over to take a number of cuts with the cane?


Not surprisingly, after the sixth and last disc had dropped down over the spindle, and Petula Clark had taken them Down Town, Brett broached the topic which he guessed his pal Matt was also longing to get on to.

Has life in the navy taught you to behave yerself better than you did at school, Spud, or are you still having to frequently bend over for a dose of the gym shoe, or even the cane?

Yeah!, chimed in Matt, chuffed to peanuts that his pal had set the ball rolling. Strokes of the cane are called cuts in the navy, I believe...and they’re sometimes handed out across the bare I’m told.

Too bloody true they are, mate! responded Cadet Murphy, sucking his cheeks in as he re-enacted the wincing reaction to such punishment.

Sounds like you’ve had a few cuts yerself! chirped Brett, straightening himself up from his lounging position, and displaying overt interest with his widened eyes.

T’wouldn’t surprise me if you have, Spudjoined in Matt, seeing how many times you were either bending over the punishment stool for more than the usual Six of the Best in old Hardman’s office, offering yer backside for Slasher Simms to slam that sodding gym shoe across.

Okay! Okay! You sound like a couple of sadistic pervs, drooling over the thought of my arse being thrashed...and maybe used in others ways! snarled Spud Murphy in a mocking tone of voice. If you must know...yeah, I was given half a dozen cuts just a few days ago...and yes, they were laid on across my arse, by a Petty Officer who had biceps like a very handsome-looking, sexy version of Pop-Eye! Boy! Could he lay on that fucking cane! Made Slasher Simms look like a sympathetic Sunday School teacher!

Tell us more, Spud, urged Matte, jumping up from his lounging position, to sit up-straight alongside his pal, Brett, eagerly attentive, like a junior boy about to listen to a story on Jackanory


Three more cigarettes were lit; smoke drawn into lungs, and slowly expelled, as the two sixth formers, already tentatively showing, and definitely feeling, groin warming arousals underneath their pale grey school trousers. Petula Clark had moved on from Down Town, leaving a total silence in which Brett and Matt listened with undisguised, open-mouthed awe to the naval cadet’s confessions and revelations.

Cuts were the order of the day for any cadet who stepped out of line in any way! began Spud, pausing to draw on his cigarette for effect. We knew that right from the very first day we set foot in the naval barracks, and saw it being proved in front of our very eyes within a couple of days.

The two sixth formers leaned forward, hanging on to every word their former school pal was uttering.

D’you mean...? blurted Matt, with a mouthful of smoke which made him virtually cough his guts up.

No, it wasn’t me or any of us new recruits, continued Spud, second guessing what Matt was asking. It was one of the older cadets who’d apparently chalked up quite a few sessions of cuts with the cane for various irregularities, and who had acquired quite a reputation for being allergic to any form of authority. But this time, it was for something more serious, and which warranted his punishment being administered in full view of all of us, lined up on three sides of the gym

So that wasn’t the usual procedure for cadets like you to be caned! commented Matt, indicating an element of surprise in his voice.

No. replied Spud, sensing that Matt was keen to know all the gruesome details of a naval cadet’s caning. Normal, run of the mill offences were generally dealt with by a Petty Officer, in a room set aside for disciplinary purposes, and with sometimes another officer as a witness. But quite often, there would just be just the officer who was administering the punishment.

Is that how you were caned? persisted Matt, unable to hold back his enthusiasm for hearing every detail.

Yeah, replied Spud. At least up until now.

Does that mean...? began Brett, rather hesitantly.

Does that mean: Have I been given cuts on more than one occasions?, well the answer is yes. But I’ll come back to that a bit later! I’ll finish telling you about Nick Jamieson, the older cadet who’d gone AWOL, and who’d staggered back half cut, and reeking of booze.

Great! enthused Matt, wriggling forward like an excited junior kid, as though to make sure that he didn’t miss a single word of what was about to be revealed. How old was he?

Oh, about a year or so older than I was, so probably approaching eighteen, but not quite, because rules didn’t allow for eighteen year olds to be caned in that way!

And what was he like? interjected Brett, showing the same uninhibited excited interest as his pal. I mean, was he tall, thin, short and fat....

Bloody hell! exclaimed Spud with a grin. D’you want me to draw you a picture?

Yes please! chirped Matt. Then we can colour in all the different parts while you’re telling us all about the cuts he was given!

Okay, fellas! At this rate I wont have time to tell you everything you obviously want to know, if you keep on interrupting. I thought you two had to get back to school in time for the last lesson, so that no one finds out you’ve been skiving off during your Private Study periods in the school library?

Yeah! mumbled Brett. I guess we ’d better make sure we’re back early enough, to avoid being sent to the Head Master, who was not in a good mood today, I’ve heard. So, if Matt can keep his big mouth shut for a while, we’ll listen to your tale of the naval cadet who’d been sentence to Gawd knows how many cuts for going AWOL, and for getting blind drunk!


Okay! began Spud with a sigh or relief. I’ll start again, and if Matt or even you, Brett, interrupts me again, you’ll end up bending over the end of the bed, with yer trousers and pants around yer ankles, and one of yer gym shoes flattening yer delightfully sexy, adolescent arse!

Mmmm! Yes please! whispered Matt, moving his right hand to rest on the bulge emerging under his pale grey school trousers.

Just watch it, Matt! warned Spud before he resumed his account. Or I’ll do a Slasher Simms on you!

Anyway, as I was saying. Jamieson had already been through the very formal procedure of being sentenced. He’d been given a very brief medical check by the naval officer, who was a really hard bastard; had showered and changed into a pair of very old, very worn, thin, tatty punishment shorts, which wouldn’t have provided any real protection, because the very thin material of the shorts became even thinner and virtually threadbare when it was fully stretched tight around a defaulter’s backside in the process of bending over.

He was marched into the gym where we’d all been waiting, and was made to stand facing the vaulting horse, over which he would soon be held, while the details of his offences, and of his sentence, were read out by one of the senior officers who was in charge of the disciplinary proceedings.

That was the first time we knew that Jamieson was going to get the full twelve cuts, with the very special thick, heavy rattan known as a Nichert rattan, because of its thickness. Twelve cuts was officially the maximum number of cuts which any defaulter could be given in any one punishment session, and judging from the way Jamieson, who was certainly not a wimp, but a seasoned offender with the hide of a rhinoceros, flinched and winced as he heard the confirmation of his full sentence. He knew, from past experience that the rattan the cane would play havoc with his arse...and he has a very fine arse, enviably manly and superbly shaped. Really sexy!

Spud stopped to gaze at his two former school mates, grinning as their widened eyes met his.

I think you’d really like Nick Jamieson if you were to meet him. He’s all male. Not particularly handsome, but he has that allure of a well-built, sexy guy who’s easy going and damned good company.

Matt felt himself blushing as, with his left hand now joining forces with his right hand to keep his hidden, fully fledged erection under control, he glanced at Brett, who returned the glance with a knowing smile.

With his sentence confirmed, Nick was ordered to mount the punishment bench. And as he did so, from where I was standing, I could see the way in which his gorgeous arse filled out and fully stretched the thin material of his punishment shorts. He’s a tall lad, with very strong legs, especially around the thighs, and strong arms. Being blond, he doesn’t have a great deal of hair on his thighs, or on his fore-arms, and bent over as he was...sort of fully exposed to the full force of the rattan... he presented an arousing sight...even for guys who prefer only females.

Bloody hell! murmured Matt, holding both hands firmly in place to mask the moist stain which was beginning to appear in the crotch of his pale grey school trousers.

Yeah! That’s how I was feeling Matt, old boy! grinned Spud And I’m damned sure I wasn’t the only cadet in the gym who was turned on by the clear outline of Jamieson’s backside as he waited for the first stroke to slice into those buttocks. I reckon that a few of the officers were lapping it up as well!

Must have been quite something to see, muttered Brett. Reminds me of the time Slasher Simms caned the entire rugby team in the gym. D’you remember, Matt? When we had to watch him swinging that bloody cane across backsides which were protected only by very thin, tight-fitting shorts. We had to stand there waiting, knowing that we were soon goin’ to be next in line for six of his very best!

I don’t want to worry you, guys, but Slasher Simms would look like a benevolent maiden aunt alongside the officer who was wielding the rattan across Jamieson’s arse. Talk about a big, burly, muscled rugby player. Officer Hurlby was one of those guys you wouldn’t argue with in a dark alley! The very first stroke he delivered, right across the crown of Nick’s backside, made us all flinch and wince. As for Nick, even though he’d been caned quite a few times before, but with smaller doses, I could see him clinging on like a mad man to the rope handles on the side of the punishment bench, even though his wrists and ankles had been very tightly secured with leather straps. And he was gritting his teeth for all he was worth to hold back any cries or signs of weakness.

We all waited for the officer in charge to confirm that first stroke by calling out the number...and it seemed ages before he did. Then it seemed like another age before the second stroke was delivered, and once again we all flinched, along with Jamieson, whose muscles looked as if they were goin’ to burst with the effort he was making to control himself.

And did he? I mean, did Jamieson manage to hold on and stay in control of himself throughout the entire caning?

More or less, yeah, replied Spud. But after the first six strokes, there were very clear signs that he was really struggling to hold back any kind of yell or cry, even though you could hear him panting to catch his breath after each stroke had landed, especially after those which the officer was deliberately aiming to land just above the crease at the top of his thighs. We could hear a kind of high pitched whining sound, seeping out through his clenched teeth, as the force of those strokes left a kind of indented mark across the tight material of the shorts. And from about the seventh stroke, Jamieson began to struggle like hell to free himself from the leather restraints which were holding him in place.

Bloody good job he was fastened tightly, by the sound of it, commented Brett quietly. I don’t think I could have coped with a caning of that ferocity! The last couple of canings I had from the Head Master were bad enough, but at least I was wearing trousers and under-pants...and he wasn’t using a thick rattan!

You said you’d been caned a few times since becoming a naval cadet, Spud, chipped in Matt. How many cuts did you get each time?

I’ve never yet had any more than six, and for the first couple of times it was only four. But my canings weren’t witnessed by all the other ratings. In fact, not all of mine were what you would call official. But, as I said, I’ll tell you about that in a minute. I’ll just finish telling you about the Jamieson caning first.


As you’ll already have worked out, the whole procedure was very formal, and surprisingly protracted. It wasn’t like the canings we’ve had at school. You know...I’m goin’ to give you Six of the Best, boy! Bend over, boy! Whack whack, whack! Thank you sir! Over and done with in five minutes maximum.

An official administering of twelve cuts across the arse of a naval cadet, witnessed by everyone, took as long as fifteen to twenty minutes. Nothing was rushed. Everything was done with precise timing and accuracy. And that made the whole thing all the more agonising, not only for the defaulter, as the offending cadet was referred to, but for all of us watching him being severely punished...’cos all the time yer watching the poor sod whose strapped over the punishment bench, you keep wondering if the next time it will be you.

Jeez! whispered Brett. I don’t think I’ll be joining the navy as a naval cadet!

Well, there are compensations! grinned Spud, massaging his bulging groin in an exaggerated way. At least, that’s how I coped with the canings I was given...especially the unofficial ones!

He gave himself another exaggerated massage of his very generous, but well hidden genitals; glanced at his watch and quickly straightened up.

D’you realise what the time is, guys? It’s gone two o’clock, and if I remember right, the two of you have to be back in school before half past, in time for the last lesson of the afternoon, otherwise....

Oh shit! sighed Matt. It’ll be just our luck that they’ll twig that we’ve not been in the library Private Studying, after the lunch break, and that could lead to an unscheduled visit to you know who in his study!

Right! commanded Cadet Conor Murphy in a stentorian tone. Get yourselves tidied up. Wash your faces to get rid of the smell of those cigarettes. Make sure you’re clean and tidy, and fully zipped up at the front of your trousers, and get yerselves back to school, at the double, before anyone does twig that you never came back after the lunch-break.

I’m staying with my old man while on leave, so if you want to come round this evening, we can resume our chat up-stairs in my room, out of ear-shot of dad, who’ll be watching TV all evening. So, I’ll be able to get you all excited by telling you about the cuts I was given for various minor offences. That’ll perk you up!


You know who aka Mr William Hardman. much respected and much feared Head Master of the Boys’ Grammar school at which Brett Fortisley and his pal Matthew Pursden had been pupils for the past six years, had established himself as being an unbending, strict disciplinarian...’of the old guard

Within just a week or so of his appointment as the Head Master, Mr W Hardman had indeed proved himself to be a hard man when it came to matters of discipline, especially in relation to disciplining any boy in his school who broke any of the rules. The more senior the offending boy, the harder Mr W Hardman came down on that boy, with the logical result being that, once in the upper echelons of the school’s hierarchy, as a member of the hallowed sixth form, penalties for any infringement of the school rules, for any kind of behaviour which was deemed to be unacceptable or of a potentially corrosive threat to the disciplined behaviour of younger boys, were guaranteed to be particularly hard, and lastingly painful.

As luck would have it....or rather as bad luck would have it, the absence of the two sixth formers had been noticed, noted and notified. Word, in oral and written form, had reached Mr W Hardman, who was immediately informed of the return of the two miscreants, and before they had a chance to quietly and unobtrusively mingle with the other law-abiding sixth formers for the final lesson of the afternoon, Messrs Fortisley and Pursden were duly informed that their presence was requested, and indeed demanded, in the inner sanctum of the Head Master’s study at the end of the lesson.

Thin, short, white PE shorts had replaced the two offending sixth formers’ pale grey school trousers. PE vests of a somewhat shabbier shade of white had replaced their neat white school shirts, and gym shoes had replaced their shiny, well polished, regulation black shoes, when the two seventeen year olds reported to the Head Master’s study for the second time that afternoon.

Their first visit, made when the school bell had signalled the end of the final lesson of the day, and while they were still wearing their regulation school uniform, had been short but not sweet. Mr Hardman was not in the mood for anything sweet. Indeed, the bitterness of the reception he gave to the two sixth formers, together with the bitterness of the words of chatisement which he heaped upon them, left Fortisley and Pursden each with a bitter pill to swallow: Accept and submit to instant punishment of a severe variety at the hands of the Senior Sports Master, Mr Simms, or face the ignominy of having your parents informed of the way you have abused the sixth formers privileged freedom to benefit from Private Study unsupervised, and then face the further ignominy of being caned in the presence of your parents.’


It had taken Brett and Matt less that sixty seconds to decide on their choice, and less than ten minutes for them to make the necessary transformation from school uniform to PE kit. To their great relief, most boys had already left the school premises, before the two scantily clothed teenagers made the longer walk than they would have preferred to make, from the gym changing room to the Head Master’s study, there to wait, in full view of any passing stragglers, (of which there were quite a few...particularly of the senior boy variety). for many long meditative minutes, before being summoned in to stand in penitent silence in front of the Head Master and his willing accomplice, the hefty Senior Sports Master, Slasher Simms,.

During their seemingly interminable wait, facing the wall of the long, cold corridor, with their hands on their heads, as befitted condemned offenders, they had caught sight of the unmistakable, track-suit clad physique of Slasher Simms, advancing down the corridor, carrying his favourite, heavy, thick soled gym shoe, which was renowned for its potential to deliver a succession of particularly heavy, painful buttocks-flattening swats, and for depositing a wad of residual pain which continued to seep out and pervade the entire surface of a lad’s buttocks for hours after his punishment had been handed out.

The two sixth formers glanced and grimaced at each other apprehensively, and they both felt the seat of their short, thin shorts tightening even more intimately around their vulnerable buttocks. Even half a dozen with that gym shoe, wielded with unrelenting force by Slasher Simms, was enough to induce a teen-age offender to repent whole-heartedly for the rest of his teen-age years...and beyond. Add to that the fact that a caning at the hand of Mr W Hardman had been included in the punishment package to which they had willing, maybe too willingly, agreed, and one can appreciate the rising level of anxiety with which our two seventeen year old lads awaited their fate.

With a very persistent, cold draught of air blowing through open doors at the far end of the corridor, the two scantily clothed teenagers waited for the summons to open the study door and walk the few paces to their allotted place in front of the Head Master’s desk. The wait seemed to be interminable, and by the time the brusque command echoed out through the door and along the deserted corridor, two pairs of aching arms moved away from heads to hang forlornly at the sides of semi-clothed bodies which were shivering with the cold and possibly with a certain amount of trepidation. Then, with brief glances of encouragement and heavy sighs of resignation, the two sixth formers responded to the summons to enter the room.


One end of the Head Master’s large wooden desk had been cleared of any items, papers, or other paraphernalia relevant to a Head Master’s duties. Its surface seemed to gleam with unseemly expectation, under the harsh over-head light, and for both senior boys a brief moment of anxious anticipation gripped them, adding to the existing coldness of their bare thighs, and significantly cooling their ardour

Both lads would admit to each other, in private, to being turned on by the prospect of either witnessing a caning of another senior boy, or of being caned in the presence of another senior boy. Deep down, in the inner depths of their groins, currents of arousing excited anticipation lingered, but the coldness of the corridor seemed to have followed them into the room, and in the presence of the very stern, angry-looking Head Master, whose cane lay on the desk in front of him, and of the formidable sports master, with his thick, heavy gym shoe in his right hand, even the most hardened offender would have had second thoughts about any outward display of bravado...let alone any aroused excitement.

Thus it was that Fortisley and Pursden, their eyes focused on the flattened pile of the study carpet, their hands clasped behind their backs, and their body language proclaiming their penitence, stood patiently, impassively unhearing, as Mr W Hardman delivered his usual spiel about school rules, the school’s reputation, the standards expected of sixth formers, blah, blah, blah... until the change of tone, and the mention of Mr Simms, the sports master, snapped the two boys out of their inattention.

Mr Simms was pointing with his gym shoe to the cleared end of the Head Master’s desk. Matt Pursden heard his name mentioned, and without waiting for any further orders, moved to take up the required position over the end of the desk. The gym shoe pointed directions at Brett Fortisley, who shuffled back a few paces, out of the way, so that Slasher Simms would have enough space in which to swing the gym shoe to maximum effect.

Watched wide eyed by Brett, Simms launched the flight of the gym shoe with every ounce of energy his burly, muscled body possessed, and thereby inaugurated the offcial commencement of the two sixth formers’ official punishment session, with the resounding thud of the shoe’s thick, heavy sole landing very forcibly across the crown of Matt Pursden’s fully rounded, thinly protected, slim, teenage buttocks.

Both teenagers flinched, winced, and drew in lungfuls of air as the gym shoe flattned Matt’s thinly clothed buttocks. All the muscles in Pursden’s body tightened in defensive protest, while the only muscles, belonging to the on-looking sixth former, to spring into a fully tightened state were those covered by his thin, white, tented shorts, which were beginning to display a small wet stain.

Meanwhile, Slasher Simms, who had unfastened and removed his track suit top prior to commencing Matthew Pursden’s punishment, was showing signs of great satisfaction and determination as he re-positioned himself and his favourite gym shoe, in readiness to swing it back into action once more. A second sickening thud resounded around the room, accompanied by a deep grunt from the depths of Matt’s throat. The gym shoe remained in situ, squarely full on across the tightened white shorts, and when it lifted away, the curves of flesh under those white shorts could be seen to be quaking and quivering.

Slasher Simms was on Top form, and after just the first two swats of an unknown, undeclared number of further swats, Matt Pursden’s backside was already fully aware of the ardour with which he was being well and truly slippered.


Neither Matt nor his pal managed to keep count as the gym shoe continued to blast bum-numbing wads of punitive pain into Matt’s backside. Matt was too busy fighting to stay in position, repeatedly needing to re-adjust himself to the required position after each collision with the gym shoe had knocked him off balance, and had sent his hands and fingers scrabbling across the shiny, polished surface of the Head Master’s desk to find something to hang on to.

Brett, while feeling concerned for his pal, nevertheless allowed himself to wallow in the euphoria of seeing Matt’s much admired, and frequently fondled backside being flattened by the wicked gym shoe. He knew that well over six swats had been delivered, but because of his preoccupation with the sight of Matt’s fully outlined backside being slippered, he had no idea how many times the gym shoe had landed. It was only after a prolonged pause of total silence, that it became apparent that Slasher Simms had completed Matt’s slippering, and that Brett realised that even the figure twelve must have been well surpassed. Then, as he watched the way in which his pal was cautiously straightening up, wincing, grimacing and visibly unsteady on his feet, Brett Fortisley had no doubts whatsoever that he himself was now destined to end up with a very sore arse.


Slasher Simms did not disappoint Matt Pursley’s pal once he was bending over the end of the Head Master’s desk. Surveying the very pleasing, inviting, clear outline of Fortisley’s larger, fuller, rounder buttocks. Mr Simms allowed the hint of a smile to twitch the corners of his usually thin, mean lips, and a gleam of pleasure to momentarily lighten his normally icy cold eyes, as he tapped the sole of the gym shoe across the open palm of his left hand.

Then, once again, making sure that Matt Pursden was standing far enough away from the gym shoe’s orbit, Slasher Simms lived up to his nick-name by slashing the said punishment implement with undisguised vigour. Brett Fortisley bravely and stubbornly withstood the initial challenge of the heavy thick sole, but Mr Simms was determined to prove that he could be far more stubborn than the offending sixth former, and as the number of buttocks-flattening swats mounted well past the magic figures of six and twelve, Brett’s grunts and high-pitched seething of air being sucked in through his gritted teeth, clearly indicated who was winning this battle.

The solid thud of of the thick-soled gym shoe slamming punishing blasts of concentrated pain into Brett Fortisley’s backside, reverberated around the room with a rhythmical beat. Each carefully timed, carefully aimed, ruthlessly administered swat physically propelled the submissive sixth former into groin-grinding contact with the end of the desk, forcing him to gulp back the involuntary gargling noises escaping from his throat, while his clenched hands slid helplessly over the desk’s shiny, polished surface. And by the time the gym shoe had completed its mission, Brett Fortisley’s thinly clad buttocks were visibly quaking and quivering.


The two punished sixth formers, with their buttocks a-glowing behind, and their confused, hidden genitals half way up and half way down in front, stood waiting for the next stage of their punishment to commence. Signs of repentance were beginning to show in the two pairs of watery eyes which followed every movement of the Head Master, as he picked up the cane; flexed it; swished it; replaced it on the surface of the desk; removed his academic gown; hung it up on a hook behind the door; removed his suit jacket; hung that also behind the door; rolled up his shirt sleeves; picked up the cane; flexed it once more, and glowered at both offenders. Then, pointing with the cane to the cleared end of the desk, he barked out Pursley!, and watched the slim lad, with slim buttocks, slowly move to the sacrificial altar, and submissively upper up his trembling buttocks in penitential sacrifice.

From his view-point, which was close enough to feel the current of air created by the cane’s rapid flight in the direction of Matt Pursleys proffered buttocks, Brett could see the single-minded determination with which the Head Master was aiming and propelling the curved-handled cane, and the ensuing thin indentations of his pals buttocks as the cane sank into them, momentarily creasing the smoothly stretched material of the sixth former’s white shorts.

He was close enough also to hear the stifled, vocal reaction which escaped from the back of Matt’s throat, as each decisive stroke released, on landing, its allotted dose of concentrated pain, and while Brett’s hidden genitals continued to react with mixed feelings, his own thinly clothed buttocks, already blazing with the aftermath of the gym shoe’s fury, suddenly felt totally naked and utterly vulnerable.


Brett Fortisley’s buttocks felt even more vulnerable when, having exchanged remorseful glances of empathy with his pal Matt, as the two changed places, he lowered himself over the end of the desk, where the shiny surface felt warm, and gave off the faint scent of male body odour. He spread his legs apart, feeling the thin fabric of his short white shorts tightening around the circumference of his generous buttocks, and pulling the rear seam tightly into the sensitive cleft.

The cane which Mr W Hardman had selected for the sixth former’s punishment was one which had anointed Brett Fortisley’s backside many times before. But that familiarity had not in any way lessened the implement’s stunning, stinging impact, which intensified when the cane’s introductory survey of the new target had been completed, and the first stroke had embedded the cane into the lower portion of Brett’s curves, where the hem of his short shorts had risen to expose naked flesh.

The incision of that thin streak of burning, stinging punishment proved to be almost too great a challenge for Brett. To his shame he let an agonised groan escape through his open mouth, and his right leg spontaneously swung across behind him, in a vain attempt to protect, reassure, and comfort. But the cane’s legacy continued to thrive as the sliver of pain sank deeper into the unprotected, tender flesh.

That opening stroke signalled the quiet but very firm determination with which Mr W Hardman was going to complete the sixth former’s punishment. Each successive stroke was going to be as devastatingly painful as the one before. They would land precisely where the Head Master knew they would produce the Best results...which ironically was the much vamped aim of the school, in terms of academic achievement and successful futures for its pupils.

Matt looked on with increasing concern at the ordeal his pal was being put through, but also with uncontrollable excitement as his eyes soaked in the arousing, erotic sight of Brett’s fully outlined buttocks, partially exposed by the brevity of the fully stretched shorts. The initially small wet stain at the front of his own tented shorts, had become much larger, much more visible and much more embarrassing. But he couldn’t deny, nor did he want to discourage, the surging waves of sexual desire which were swirling around in his groin with increasing strength as the caning reached its peak with the sixth stroke biting deep into the crease at the top of Brett’s thigh.

As, in response to that final stroke, his pal’s body sprang up into a muscle-tightened rigidity, with his clenched fists pressing hard against the shiny, polished surface of the desk; his tightly clenched buttocks sucking the seam of his white shorts deeper into the cleft, and his teeth and eyelids clenched tight in defiant defence against ferocious pain consuming Brett’s entire backside and upper thighs, Matt swiftly moved his right hand in a vain attempt to hide the fully visible vulgarity of his leaking erection.


The school’s corridors were deserted by the time the two punished sixth formers were permitted to limp their way out of the Head Master’s study, and hobble towards the gym changing rooms. The distant sound of the cleaners’ buckets echoed down the corridors, urging the two lads to reach the relative privacy in which they could strip off their white punishment shorts; quickly check each other’s caned backsides; slip as quickly and painlessly as possible into their school uniforms, and then, as nonchallantly as possible, make a reasonably dignified exit.

You’re late today, dearies! chirped Mabel, as the two lads turned the corner and almost fell over the end of her mop. Been practicing, have you? That’s nice!

Yeah, I suppose it a funny sort of way, mused Matt, whose groin was still alive with churning waves of uncontrollable arousal which he was longing to release.


So, how did yer get on, fellas? Have yer had a nice afternoon? Great to see yer again. Come on in and make yerselves comfortable.

Spud Murphy greeted his two former school mates with a short, sharp smack of his open hand across the buttocks of each lad as he ushered them into his bed-room.

Sit where yer like, guys..on the bed if yer like! It’s more comfy than the old wooden chairs which my old man has consigned to me!

We’ll need somewhere comfy, as you describe it Spud,winced Brett, pressing with his hands to find the softest part of the bed to sit on.

Can’t think why, grinned Cadet Murphy. Unless, of course....

Yes, of course, replied Matt, with unmistakable emphasis.

You don’t mean.....?

We bloody well DO mean! retorted Brett. We were fucking well caught getting back into school, and ended up in the Head’s study getting our arses slippered by Slasher Simms, and then caned by old Hardman! I can’t vouch for Matt, but my arse is still smarting like hell, because Harmand proved he was a hard man, by slicing that bloody cane of his with full force across our backsides which were virtually naked, on account of the short thin punishment shorts we might just as well not been wearing!

Wow! beamed Spud. That sounds as exciting, if not more exciting than the canings I was goin’ to tell you about! Tell yer what! You let me see how well old Hardman laid his cane across your butts, and I’ll show you the marks still left by the official caning I had the day before I came home on leave. Bargain? We won’t be bothered by my old man. He’s watching Z cars on the tel