sfogarty
17-10-2012, 10:19 PM
The winter evening grew dark quickly that day, night creeping in from the nearby hills and woods, and the fire threw long shadows in the master’s study. A quiet night is what it should have been, a snifter or two of brandy, a good book, a gentle wind down from the stresses and strains of the day. Except that this evening he had an appointment, one of his young scholars led astray into the ways of error, and in need of a firm hand…
A faint and hesitant knock, as though the one without sought entrance unwillingly if at all. Yates turned to the door and barked an order to enter. Slowly it opened and a boy entered. Largish, with fair hair and clear skin, the body of a loose-head gone a little to seed, but still a fine figure of a young man, set off to best advantage by the uniform. The shorts were a little shorter, and a tad more snug than was the norm in Downhurst, but young James wore them well. A chunky beefy wee lad, well presented and normally with a ready and charming smile. The smile was somewhat absent on this occasion…
Yes Fogarty.
You asked to see me, Sir.
And you have no idea why I would want to see you, boy?
I think I know why, Sir.
I suspect you do young man. I have been told that you assisted some other boys to avoid our internet filters, and access pornographic filth. Did you do this boy?
Yes, Sir, I did.
I really am very disappointed in you, Fogarty. Why the blazes did you do it? I trusted you! The boy blushed for shame, looking down at the carpet, anything but to see the anger and the pain in the master’s eyes. And I believe you know the names of the people responsible but will not divulge them.
Yes Sir, I am afraid I can’t.
Or won’t boy, is that it? The code of silence, of not being a snitch, the omerta of schoolboys down the ages. He could flog the silly oaf in front of him till the blood flowed down off his arse in rivulets, and he still would not tell. The old sense of honour, and for John Yates a boy should not be punished for showing such resolve. Had it been up to him, he would have taken the computer job away, sent him out with a flea in his ear, and left them all without any access for the next month, but the Head had been insistent that the miscreant be punished, hard and with the cane. Twelve of the best was the most he could inflict at any one time., and that was he would do, though with no great joy. The lad in front of him was as sweet and obliging a boy as he had ever met, respectful and courteous at all times, never rude. And that in part was the problem: he was always eager to help, and easily led. Some blackguards, and he had a good idea who, has put the frightners on wee Jamie here, and forced him to betray his trust. They should be bending over the chair now, not this innocent wee thing.. However the rules had to be enforced, and Fogarty would have to take what was coming to him. Honour always had a price..
The boy looked up at him, embarrassed, and in a low voice said I am sorry Sir, I can not tell you their names. Yates looked at him, and could only see a frightened wee lad trying to do the right thing, whether through fear or honour, he wasn’t sure which. All he did know in his heart of hearts was that this boy had not done it willingly. Honour, then, Fogarty, the code of silence, is that it?
Something like that, Sir. Fogarty shifted uncomfortably, and looked down at the carpet again.
You’ll be seeing plenty of that carpet, young man, when I’m finished with ye, Yates thought to himself. Look at me boy, he barked, pretending a rage he did not feel.
Yes, Sir. Fogarty looked him in the eye, pleading silently to be let go, for all of this never to have happened.
Yates stopped, his anger ebbing away. The boy was not to blame, really. But for the Head’s insistence, he would have given him a tongue-lashing, stopped the access for a month or so, and left it at that. The order was explicit, the boy was to be thrashed, or expelled if he would not take it. Best to be honest with the lad…
A kindness entered the master’s voice. I know why you won’t tell me, Fogarty, and that your reasons are honourable. However, the school can not tolerate such a blatant breach of trust by one of its boys, whatever the reasons. You have a choice, either be expelled in disgrace, which I know neither of us wants, or take a thrashing.
The boy was silent for a minute, worried no doubt at the prospect of a hard caning when he had little if any experience of it. In a low voice he replied. I would prefer to be caned, Sir, if that’s agreeable to you.
Very well, Yates replied.
The boy looked at him again, and said May I ask, Sir, that the punishment be carried out now.
Why boy?
Well, Sir, I knew this was going to happen, and have prepared myself for it.
Have you now, boy? You might not find yourself quite so well “prepared” as you think. Twelve of the best, with the senior cane, and as you have rarely if ever been thrashed, this is going to be new for you. You know the drill, I hope.
I think so, Sir, but you may need to guide me..
Very good. I think this is the first time you have been caned at Downhurst, Fogarty.
Yes, Sir.
Well what we do here is simple enough. The uniform you have no problem with, in fact it’s what you normally wear in class, and in that respect you are very well turned out. The procedure is as follows: The boy takes a chair, and having adjusted his shorts so they are comfortable and tight over his bottom, bends over the back thereof, informing his master when he is ready. The boy counts each stroke, and at the end of the punishment, thanks the master. You do not move until you are told to do so. And that includes rubbing your rear end when I am finished with you.
Yes, Sir.
Very good, boy. Let’s get this over with. Fetch a chair, if you would be so kind, and when you have positioned it where you were standing, bend over same, and assume the position. Tell me when you are ready.
Fogarty fetched the chair, placed it with its back facing the master, and hitched up his shorts, and then tautened them at the back so that they were snug against his arse. And what an arse, Yates thought to himself, a fine frame of a lad, beefy chunky.. he stopped himself. That road led to some very nasty places, not kind, not loving for those he was in charge of, nor for himself. Keep to the boundaries, man, and this place will still be good for you. Could you live with yourself if you did that to the lad? Just stick to the business in hand. They didn’t go for on the bare in Downhurst, much less checking that a boy did not have protection down there. If it were detected, then the boy would be expelled immediately, but even if he had been dumb enough to wear an extra pair of underpants, it would do him little good. The senior or dragon cane, expertly employed, could bring tears to the hardest prop forward, and indeed often had.
The boy was now in position.
I am ready, Sir.
Very well then, count them out.
Yes Sir.
Yates moved round, and considered how he would do this. The arse in question was beefy, full and plump, not used to the cane, so whatever he did would hurt. The question was for how long. He did not want this to be something Fogarty forgot about the following day, but a painful and lasting reminder of the consequences of his actions. He would lay them on hard, taking time to ensure that each blow was as excruciating as he had it in his power to make it. The boy would take what was coming to him with the dignity required, he was sure of it. In all good private schools caning was a ritual, a ceremony whereby a boy paid for his misdeeds, and the slate was wiped clean for both master and pupil. No record was ever kept of a misdemeanour for which a boy had been thrashed, however serious.
He raised the cane, and swished it through the air. The ceremony had begun. Twelve strokes followed in slow succession, each drawing a low gasp from the boy, and a pained counting out. The pain increased as he proceeded, with the subject of his endeavours shifting about as the lad attempted to keep in position, and the hoarseness of his voice increasing. Fogarty was struggling now, realising how painful a proper thrashing was when inflicted by someone who was a master in every sense of that word. To cry out, blub, or plead for it to stop would have been shameful, unworthy, nothing for it but to keep silent as best you can, keep back the years, keep your place, count it out. It would end, but Dear God, when? Why did the old cunt have to take his fucking time over it? All going on in the boy’s head, words he would never have dared utter in a master’s hearing. After all, what did he expect to happen? He had made a choice, give the bastards what they wanted, avoid what they would do to him, and then take his medicine in Yates’ study. This was the downside of staying out of their clutches, a quarter hour of utter agony, in the overheated room filled and reeking with the smoke of the master’s briar pipe. To tell the truth, if he was going to get a thrashing, he would not have anyone but Yates do it. A kinder or more decent master he had never encountered, he had been someone Fogarty could go and talk to whenever anything was wrong. The shame he felt at having to do what he did was worse than the pain he was suffering, and in a way the caning was good. It would put this behind them, and they would be friends afterwards. That was the way of it, and he would take it like a man, a gentleman. He kept counting, forcing the words out, keeping the gasps and the tears back best as he could.
The twelfth stoke. His voice was hoarse, and he had to struggle to keep the tears back, not to blub like a four year old. Thank you, Sir, he muttered, the sobbing just about kept at bay, the pain exceeded only by his shame. Yates felt for him. He had taken it well for someone not used to a thrashing, and had taken it primarily because he would not tell. Nothing to be ashamed of..
Get up, boy. Well taken.
Fogarty rose slowly, re-adjusting his shorts, shifting slowly and uncomfortably. He stood up eventually, and remembering the rules, kept his hands to his side.
Put the chair away, Fogarty, and come back here.
The boy put the chair away and returned to his position. He could see the pain in his face, the struggle to retain his dignity, after what had been done to him. Yates wanted to know why, why a boy as well behaved as this should do such a thing, and he meant to find out. Fogarty might not tell him who was to blame, but he knew him well enough to know that he would explain himself.
Tell me why, James.
Because, Sir, it seemed the only way. If I hadn’t let them get what they wanted to get at, they would have done things to me. Whatever punishment you impose, at least there are limits. There are no limits to what they would do.
Yates imagined what those “things” might be to a gentle wee lad like James. He should not have been here, and he should not have had to cane him. Not that he could tell the boy that.
You still say that, boy, after twelve of the best.
Yes, Sir, after twelve.
Yates smiled, and looked at him amused. You’re one tough piece of work, he thought to himself, and decent with it. Fogarty looked back, and seeing the smile on the master’s face, felt at ease. He had paid his dues, and it was all over and done with. He and his master were friends again.
One thing, Sir…
Yes
I am sorry I betrayed your trust. I hate lying to you.
I know that, James. But I am afraid I have to take the job away from you, and as a consequence of what has happened, access to the Internet will be suspended until the boy or boys in question owns up. And one thing you can be sure of, young Fogarty, they will get the same treatment as you.
Thank you Sir. May I have your permission to…
Yes.
Fogarty rubbed his bottom vigorously, the relief evident in his face. He even began to smile wanly.
Did I hurt you, James?
Yes, Sir.
Was my aim good?
Deadly accurate, I would say, Sir.
Corporal punishment, boy, not capital. You’re not dead yet, nor near to it, young James.
The boy smiled again.
Would you like to sit down over here? Yates indicated the sofa where they normally chatted most weeks.
Yes, Sir, if you have a cushion.
I think we can rise to that, James.
Yates fetched one and placed on the sofa, and then sat down beside it himself. The boy came over, placed himself down, and let the master put his arm around him, It was all too much and the master held him gently as he sobbed.
Yates held the boy a long time, fighting the dark thoughts that came to his mind about what else he might do with this gentle and willing child, and knowing he must not even think about them. There was a love here, real and pure and yet so fragile, and he would let nothing corrupt that…
Best you go off to bed James. The boy rose, and Yates went over to the door with him.
Thank you Sir, for everything.
Yates looked at the lad, and hugged him. Don’t ever let them do that to you again, Jamie lad, d’ye hear, never!
James looked up at the gentle loving face of his master, and both cried a little. No, Sir, never again…
A faint and hesitant knock, as though the one without sought entrance unwillingly if at all. Yates turned to the door and barked an order to enter. Slowly it opened and a boy entered. Largish, with fair hair and clear skin, the body of a loose-head gone a little to seed, but still a fine figure of a young man, set off to best advantage by the uniform. The shorts were a little shorter, and a tad more snug than was the norm in Downhurst, but young James wore them well. A chunky beefy wee lad, well presented and normally with a ready and charming smile. The smile was somewhat absent on this occasion…
Yes Fogarty.
You asked to see me, Sir.
And you have no idea why I would want to see you, boy?
I think I know why, Sir.
I suspect you do young man. I have been told that you assisted some other boys to avoid our internet filters, and access pornographic filth. Did you do this boy?
Yes, Sir, I did.
I really am very disappointed in you, Fogarty. Why the blazes did you do it? I trusted you! The boy blushed for shame, looking down at the carpet, anything but to see the anger and the pain in the master’s eyes. And I believe you know the names of the people responsible but will not divulge them.
Yes Sir, I am afraid I can’t.
Or won’t boy, is that it? The code of silence, of not being a snitch, the omerta of schoolboys down the ages. He could flog the silly oaf in front of him till the blood flowed down off his arse in rivulets, and he still would not tell. The old sense of honour, and for John Yates a boy should not be punished for showing such resolve. Had it been up to him, he would have taken the computer job away, sent him out with a flea in his ear, and left them all without any access for the next month, but the Head had been insistent that the miscreant be punished, hard and with the cane. Twelve of the best was the most he could inflict at any one time., and that was he would do, though with no great joy. The lad in front of him was as sweet and obliging a boy as he had ever met, respectful and courteous at all times, never rude. And that in part was the problem: he was always eager to help, and easily led. Some blackguards, and he had a good idea who, has put the frightners on wee Jamie here, and forced him to betray his trust. They should be bending over the chair now, not this innocent wee thing.. However the rules had to be enforced, and Fogarty would have to take what was coming to him. Honour always had a price..
The boy looked up at him, embarrassed, and in a low voice said I am sorry Sir, I can not tell you their names. Yates looked at him, and could only see a frightened wee lad trying to do the right thing, whether through fear or honour, he wasn’t sure which. All he did know in his heart of hearts was that this boy had not done it willingly. Honour, then, Fogarty, the code of silence, is that it?
Something like that, Sir. Fogarty shifted uncomfortably, and looked down at the carpet again.
You’ll be seeing plenty of that carpet, young man, when I’m finished with ye, Yates thought to himself. Look at me boy, he barked, pretending a rage he did not feel.
Yes, Sir. Fogarty looked him in the eye, pleading silently to be let go, for all of this never to have happened.
Yates stopped, his anger ebbing away. The boy was not to blame, really. But for the Head’s insistence, he would have given him a tongue-lashing, stopped the access for a month or so, and left it at that. The order was explicit, the boy was to be thrashed, or expelled if he would not take it. Best to be honest with the lad…
A kindness entered the master’s voice. I know why you won’t tell me, Fogarty, and that your reasons are honourable. However, the school can not tolerate such a blatant breach of trust by one of its boys, whatever the reasons. You have a choice, either be expelled in disgrace, which I know neither of us wants, or take a thrashing.
The boy was silent for a minute, worried no doubt at the prospect of a hard caning when he had little if any experience of it. In a low voice he replied. I would prefer to be caned, Sir, if that’s agreeable to you.
Very well, Yates replied.
The boy looked at him again, and said May I ask, Sir, that the punishment be carried out now.
Why boy?
Well, Sir, I knew this was going to happen, and have prepared myself for it.
Have you now, boy? You might not find yourself quite so well “prepared” as you think. Twelve of the best, with the senior cane, and as you have rarely if ever been thrashed, this is going to be new for you. You know the drill, I hope.
I think so, Sir, but you may need to guide me..
Very good. I think this is the first time you have been caned at Downhurst, Fogarty.
Yes, Sir.
Well what we do here is simple enough. The uniform you have no problem with, in fact it’s what you normally wear in class, and in that respect you are very well turned out. The procedure is as follows: The boy takes a chair, and having adjusted his shorts so they are comfortable and tight over his bottom, bends over the back thereof, informing his master when he is ready. The boy counts each stroke, and at the end of the punishment, thanks the master. You do not move until you are told to do so. And that includes rubbing your rear end when I am finished with you.
Yes, Sir.
Very good, boy. Let’s get this over with. Fetch a chair, if you would be so kind, and when you have positioned it where you were standing, bend over same, and assume the position. Tell me when you are ready.
Fogarty fetched the chair, placed it with its back facing the master, and hitched up his shorts, and then tautened them at the back so that they were snug against his arse. And what an arse, Yates thought to himself, a fine frame of a lad, beefy chunky.. he stopped himself. That road led to some very nasty places, not kind, not loving for those he was in charge of, nor for himself. Keep to the boundaries, man, and this place will still be good for you. Could you live with yourself if you did that to the lad? Just stick to the business in hand. They didn’t go for on the bare in Downhurst, much less checking that a boy did not have protection down there. If it were detected, then the boy would be expelled immediately, but even if he had been dumb enough to wear an extra pair of underpants, it would do him little good. The senior or dragon cane, expertly employed, could bring tears to the hardest prop forward, and indeed often had.
The boy was now in position.
I am ready, Sir.
Very well then, count them out.
Yes Sir.
Yates moved round, and considered how he would do this. The arse in question was beefy, full and plump, not used to the cane, so whatever he did would hurt. The question was for how long. He did not want this to be something Fogarty forgot about the following day, but a painful and lasting reminder of the consequences of his actions. He would lay them on hard, taking time to ensure that each blow was as excruciating as he had it in his power to make it. The boy would take what was coming to him with the dignity required, he was sure of it. In all good private schools caning was a ritual, a ceremony whereby a boy paid for his misdeeds, and the slate was wiped clean for both master and pupil. No record was ever kept of a misdemeanour for which a boy had been thrashed, however serious.
He raised the cane, and swished it through the air. The ceremony had begun. Twelve strokes followed in slow succession, each drawing a low gasp from the boy, and a pained counting out. The pain increased as he proceeded, with the subject of his endeavours shifting about as the lad attempted to keep in position, and the hoarseness of his voice increasing. Fogarty was struggling now, realising how painful a proper thrashing was when inflicted by someone who was a master in every sense of that word. To cry out, blub, or plead for it to stop would have been shameful, unworthy, nothing for it but to keep silent as best you can, keep back the years, keep your place, count it out. It would end, but Dear God, when? Why did the old cunt have to take his fucking time over it? All going on in the boy’s head, words he would never have dared utter in a master’s hearing. After all, what did he expect to happen? He had made a choice, give the bastards what they wanted, avoid what they would do to him, and then take his medicine in Yates’ study. This was the downside of staying out of their clutches, a quarter hour of utter agony, in the overheated room filled and reeking with the smoke of the master’s briar pipe. To tell the truth, if he was going to get a thrashing, he would not have anyone but Yates do it. A kinder or more decent master he had never encountered, he had been someone Fogarty could go and talk to whenever anything was wrong. The shame he felt at having to do what he did was worse than the pain he was suffering, and in a way the caning was good. It would put this behind them, and they would be friends afterwards. That was the way of it, and he would take it like a man, a gentleman. He kept counting, forcing the words out, keeping the gasps and the tears back best as he could.
The twelfth stoke. His voice was hoarse, and he had to struggle to keep the tears back, not to blub like a four year old. Thank you, Sir, he muttered, the sobbing just about kept at bay, the pain exceeded only by his shame. Yates felt for him. He had taken it well for someone not used to a thrashing, and had taken it primarily because he would not tell. Nothing to be ashamed of..
Get up, boy. Well taken.
Fogarty rose slowly, re-adjusting his shorts, shifting slowly and uncomfortably. He stood up eventually, and remembering the rules, kept his hands to his side.
Put the chair away, Fogarty, and come back here.
The boy put the chair away and returned to his position. He could see the pain in his face, the struggle to retain his dignity, after what had been done to him. Yates wanted to know why, why a boy as well behaved as this should do such a thing, and he meant to find out. Fogarty might not tell him who was to blame, but he knew him well enough to know that he would explain himself.
Tell me why, James.
Because, Sir, it seemed the only way. If I hadn’t let them get what they wanted to get at, they would have done things to me. Whatever punishment you impose, at least there are limits. There are no limits to what they would do.
Yates imagined what those “things” might be to a gentle wee lad like James. He should not have been here, and he should not have had to cane him. Not that he could tell the boy that.
You still say that, boy, after twelve of the best.
Yes, Sir, after twelve.
Yates smiled, and looked at him amused. You’re one tough piece of work, he thought to himself, and decent with it. Fogarty looked back, and seeing the smile on the master’s face, felt at ease. He had paid his dues, and it was all over and done with. He and his master were friends again.
One thing, Sir…
Yes
I am sorry I betrayed your trust. I hate lying to you.
I know that, James. But I am afraid I have to take the job away from you, and as a consequence of what has happened, access to the Internet will be suspended until the boy or boys in question owns up. And one thing you can be sure of, young Fogarty, they will get the same treatment as you.
Thank you Sir. May I have your permission to…
Yes.
Fogarty rubbed his bottom vigorously, the relief evident in his face. He even began to smile wanly.
Did I hurt you, James?
Yes, Sir.
Was my aim good?
Deadly accurate, I would say, Sir.
Corporal punishment, boy, not capital. You’re not dead yet, nor near to it, young James.
The boy smiled again.
Would you like to sit down over here? Yates indicated the sofa where they normally chatted most weeks.
Yes, Sir, if you have a cushion.
I think we can rise to that, James.
Yates fetched one and placed on the sofa, and then sat down beside it himself. The boy came over, placed himself down, and let the master put his arm around him, It was all too much and the master held him gently as he sobbed.
Yates held the boy a long time, fighting the dark thoughts that came to his mind about what else he might do with this gentle and willing child, and knowing he must not even think about them. There was a love here, real and pure and yet so fragile, and he would let nothing corrupt that…
Best you go off to bed James. The boy rose, and Yates went over to the door with him.
Thank you Sir, for everything.
Yates looked at the lad, and hugged him. Don’t ever let them do that to you again, Jamie lad, d’ye hear, never!
James looked up at the gentle loving face of his master, and both cried a little. No, Sir, never again…