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Eton Terms Story Guide: The story is in flashback format.Where there are blockquotes (indented text) indicates moving back in time. Contemporary time is roughly early 1990's. Flashback time is roughly the mid 1970's. Eton school terms are called halfs. There are three halves per schoolyear; Michaelmas, Lent and Summer. Eton pupils are designated not by year, but by Blocks. A 9th year British pupil is an Eton F Block pupil. A 13th year British pupil at Eton is a B Block pupil. So-called A Block pupils were eliminated years ago and no longer exist. The term: Pop, indicates a member of the ancient Eton Society of boys, derived from a latin term, popina, meaning, cookshop. The Eton Society used to meet in a sweets and candy shop that is now the School Hall.

Dreading Eton
Michaelmas Half - Chapter One

By

PJ Franklin
 

An American's Recollections of his Years At Eton College – In Three Halves

Author's Forward: Is there any educational institution of any kind, anywhere on the planet that has attracted more media and the general political and public eye than Eton College? No, there is not. If controversy were a complete food group on its own, then Eton would be the place whose robust nutrition seems to consist entirely and completely of it alone.

Eton College seems to thrive on scathing critiques and blistering attacks that are not really afforded other British colleges of equal stature that are much older and who have had just as controversial past practices and produced just as controversial alumni as Eton; yet only Eton seems to gather the collective ire not only from political circles, but from pop cultural circles as well, all seemingly intent to try and bring the school to its knees. Yet, over the past fifty years of such attacks especially, and like a black hole in the cosmos, Eton College sucks up all the negativity and not only survives, but gets stronger and more attractive still.

My fascination with Eton College speaks for itself, even as it does nothing to explain it and was very superficial until I visited the place and for me, a one dimensional and very partial understanding, at least took on a second in person dimension, the third eternally lacking for mine never having attended the school, of course. At the least then, I developed some "real world" feel for the place, having actually been there. The real fascination with Eton did not appear for me, however, until days and weeks later after I had returned home. Since then, it's been an increasingly warm and vibrant stream of remembrance.

This story, "Dreading Eton," is based both on hours of off-site research and also of that feeling that I, an American, developed from standing on British soil; arriving, visiting and then leaving the college grounds, all in one day's time. Content-wise, the story is a blend of the very old and the very new gathered from late nineteenth century internet published books all the way through time until recent articles in the British Press, online versions of the school magazine, "The Chronicle," and one particular pop culture feature as well.

I say based, because it is a fiction that borrows from all eras and blends them into one character's fictionalized autobiographical (but very nonlinear) story line, whose job it is to portray what, for my discriminating audience, is a particular kind of individual and very contemporary experience based on both my gathered wealth of information about the school started by Henry VI in 1440 as well as simply the feelings that I have for the school, no matter their source.

You may ask, and rightly so, how I could possibly condense even simply what I know about this school into just one character's experience and possibly cover the field of possibilities and you'd be correct to be skeptical, but that is not what I am trying to do.

Instead, I am trying for my story's character, also an American, to attempt, in part anyway, to live up to the current Eton College Headmaster's stated college mission. In part: "Our primary aim is to encourage each Etonian to be a self-confident, inquiring, tolerant, positive young man, a well-rounded character with an independent mind, an individual who respects the differences of others," and who, for my purposes, has his own individual experience in the story and doesn't try to be anyone, but himself.

The story title is derived both from my own strange experience of having just spent a few hours on the College grounds and then leaving it. I missed it and wanted to go back. Obviously, for my own real life experience, the story title is not a little melodramatic, but recognizing that, I proceeded nonetheless.

So, imagine my delight, when long after crafting the story title, I encountered an actual description of the title's intent from actual Old Etonians (OE) that was editorialized and published in the Eton College magazine, The Chronicle, for Leaver's Day, 2007 (graduation day for us North Americans), but then found the original words by Cyril Connolly himself to be a bit more full and quite a bit more cutting and pertinent than that. Read them both and compare.

I certainly am hopeful you enjoy reading the story, as much as I did writing it and by the way, don't let the vast and unique Eton College terminology and odd words and phrases intimidate you. Pretend you are a new boy, at first foreign to the strange phrases and usages and learn over time, just as they would, what everything means as you read. Enjoy!

* * * * * * * * * *

Dedication: This story is dedicated first of all to two valued British friends, the first, Robert, who provided me a great deal of inspiration and valued counterpoint from his own Eton Group independent school experience and impressions, the second to Charles, who when asked early on if the story was working for him, simply stated (paraphrased), "makes me want to have attended your version of it at any rate!" Secondly, but not less importantly, this story is also dedicated to what few others of its readers who may have also attended any of the great public schools of Great Britain, but mostly to the vast majority of us who, in our hearts, might wish to have done so.

* * * * * * * * * *

"We have come to that most dreaded time of the year at which farewells must be bid and houses must be made vacant. A time in which B Block, who have carried the school with such efficacy and grace over the past year, must gather together their most cherished memories and depart. That's enough of the melodrama. Leaving Eton has always proved to be a strange experience: some obviously, have responded to it with more dignity and style than others. The distinguished intellectual, Cyril Connolly, an extremely close friend of George Orwell, who himself was clearly much affected by the school, once wrote: 'Were I to deduce anything from my feelings on leaving Eton, it might be called The Theory of Permanent Adolescence: It is the theory that the experiences undergone by boys at the great public schools are so intense as to dominate their lives and to arrest their development."

Editorial, "The Chronicle," Eton College, Leaver's Day, 2007

* * * * * * * * * *

Michaelmas Half – Chapter One

I don't go one day without thinking about my old school, even now nearly fourteen years after my departure. Then again, many people have memories from their adolescence that never quite leave their conscience daily thinking, including their school days. So why has mine bothered me so? They were just my high school days after all, not even a university and I never think much about those later years. And yet it has caused me distracted days at times and even sleepless nights, though less over the years in total, less lingering dread as it were.

I disliked my parents for a short while for having made me leave my home country at the age of thirteen and attend half of my junior high school and all of my American high school years in a foreign country, no matter that there was really no language barrier to prevent potential success and that the experience itself was unmatchable, but I didn't know that at first. It was for my own good, they said. I dreaded leaving my comfort zone during those early and tender years.

At the least, they could have chosen a British college with much less public visibility, sordid fascination and tabloid-like focus. Over even my early years at Eton College, I got the distinct impression, as did my many mates there, that Eton was somehow different, different even from our hated rival Harrow or Tonbridge, Dulwich or Winchester, but we never understood why until much later really, when we were older. We didn't know the differences, what young boy does?

But then, after I was forced to reckon with a new country and boys with which I had little in common save our common language and economic status, waged a short war against home sickness and then learned over my five short years not only to get along, but to love my school and my mates with a certain wild abandon I had no idea was in me, I was then forced to leave when it was all over.

I dreaded that moment for days before, secretly loathed the actual process and then resented the actual departure for months and not a few years after. Yes, I obsessed for years afterwards over my precious Eton College days and somehow knew that though I was part of but a small minority in doing so, I still was not the only OE (Old Etonian) to have done so.

Otherwise, just the fact that anyone can go to my old haunt proper and visit a small in-house museum after a short tour of the place and see Dr. Keate's infamous 19th century birching block right on display behind glass, including an example of his flogging birch, tells you something of what I had to deal with, does it not? I mean, what other college in Britain, much less America, has anything similar to display or would display?

In my time there, The Keate exhibit was something we Eton boys naturally knew about, keenly so, but avoided mentioning to each other after being shown the thing. To my group of ten incoming F Block thirteen year olds, the birching block exhibit mostly evoked a few uncomfortable smiles, not a few titters here and there and a lot of whispered pointing, except from me.

The thing gave me the creeps. I avoided even thinking about it much less ever looking at it again until by about mid-way through my D block years and right around my sixteenth birthday, but by then, I had quite well discovered that I probably had much more in common with Keate's late 19th century Eton and other early 20th century old Etonians, than anyone contemporary to even my time there.

Naturally, I'm speaking of the infamous boarding school corporal punishments foisted upon many of the boys who attended Eton over the centuries. I vividly could still remember the first time I finally went back to the small school museum that huddled near to the gigantic Eton College Chapel entrance and looked both ways before going inside. Then feeling like a sneak and making sure nobody was inside the museum as I stood just inside the door, I turned to my right and stared at the block and the flogging birch rods gathered into a dark brown, almost black bundle.

Then I stepped right in front of the glassed in exhibit and read the history of Dr. Keate once again, the short and ugly man with the funny tri-cornered hat. I even tried to imagine myself over the block, two mates holding me down and the rods swishing about next to me as Dr. Keate himself was preparing to flog my bare arse for any of a number of sins popular in those days. Maybe I felt a slight stirring in my Eton uniformed black pin-striped trouser front as I looked at it, but it passed quickly. Who in the world would really want to be flogged with that awful looking device?

Bear in mind, in those decades of years, boys at all of the British colleges "suffered" beatings of various kinds from various authorities, it was just that at Eton College and apart from the Headmaster's birchings, the authority to cane and otherwise punish was given to the boys themselves. Somehow that fact alone just raises all sorts of hackles to most who hear of it, unless they're like me and likes that sort of thing.

Nonetheless, from my D Block years to the end, I would visit that little exhibit three or four times a year, if just for a few moments of blank fascination by myself on my way to and fro along Eton's many pathways and across the old grounds near to the School Yard.

* * * * * * * * * *

"You boy! The House Captain and Library wants you in, now!" the voice came from behind me. My ears perked up and my dick instantly started to harden inside of my trousers like a salivating Pavlov's dog. I didn't turn to look, I knew better. I but glanced at the framed sepia tinted picture* of me and my two other cherished same-year OE fellows taken long before on a small stretch of High Street after school, then pushed aside the legal brief that I was preparing for my senior associates at the law firm and pushing back my chair, stood up. I heard the footsteps disappear down the hallway and knew the coast was temporarily clear, but that I could not tarry long.

And I didn't, but I did allow to enjoy the moment, the foreplay if you will, via my mind's return to my old Eton haunts in The Timbralls, my old Eton schoolboy House. My stomach grew an instant crop of butterflies, knowing for sure now, as I did then during my older Block years, that my buttocks would soon be bared for a swift six or even twelve cuts of the senior cane. And, much like some very unforgettable moments then, after my cuts now, there might be something more intimate afterwards as well.

I let my step quicken and reached the open doorway of Kevin's study. Kevin was a year younger than me, but much more mature, thank god. I was a licensed attorney, 32, and Kevin a board certified psychologist of immense talent. His patients adored him, but were not allowed anything more than platonic adoration from afar; whereas, I adored him and took full advantage of his considerable talents close up and very intimately. Yes, we were a gay couple, unmarried because of American cultural ignorance, but knew that someday soon that inequity would be justly rectified.

Until then, and at this very moment, I was in deep "trouble" with my "House Captain" and once again called before him and up to three phantom prefects who in my mind's eye comprised the House Captain's "Library," and who also apparently hid in the shadows of his study, some of them rubbing on themselves at my expense as they actually sometimes did in my days at Eton. Yes, well before my five years at Eton, corporal punishment had, after a short-lived abolishment, been re-introduced, all of it boy on boy corporal punishment as it had been for centuries before.

Shockingly enough, the absence of corporal punishment at Eton grew to be as reviled almost in the same way that having it had been heavily criticized, though never by the boys themselves. Know this, that boys, even the vast majority who never knew it to be erotic and sexually stimulating as a rare few of us did, discovered that just the threat of the possibility of a good hard bare bottomed beating from your own peers, your own kind as it were, and in very traditional Etonian fashion, was not only the best deterrent to poor behavior, but also a key for some to motivate to "toe the line" and "get the job done," either in sports or in academics.

The fact was that, like it or not, we were constantly tested on every aspect of our lives at Eton. Everything, every academic test result, every sports team score was tabled and publically posted, not by individual names mind you, but by collective House numbers and the Houses constantly competed in everything. If your poor academic grades brought your House average down, believe me, you heard about it from your House Captain who knew your scores intimately and then applied swift intimate reddening of your bared bottom, sometimes in a series if it was a repeat offence. It went a long ways towards getting certain boys to pony up with their best efforts instead of puny second offerings on behalf of both himself as well as of his House.

"Get in here Campion! Close the door behind you unless you want the whole House to witness what happens to academic sloth?" Kevin glared at me. He was holding the cane as well and my dick was responsive, even as I felt that old familiar feeling once again and my head dipped before my lover in my "earned" humiliation …

"Sixteen years old just the other day Campion? We did offer a nice D block send off and C block welcome did we not?" Burton Glide asked me as I entered the room at the end of the long Timbralls upper floor hallway even as he held up my Order Card (mid-half academic record report), the results not good and the shame building up in quick fashion as intended.

Ingratitude from a lower boy was not a very tolerable situation to any House Captain in any Eton House. He was right, however. Birthdays among us boys were taken seriously and celebrated seriously. Yes, you got a bit of hazing for having turned a year older, but the gifts afterwards were effusive and honest expressions of friendship and camaraderie and always exceeded what the Housemaster and Dame gave you, but that was to prevent any of the adults to look to be playing favorites.

Burton had given me a very handsome pull-over vest sweater and tie that year, something I really liked; you could do that when you had money, as most all Eton boys did. And to the surprise of scoffing outsiders, those that didn't have money were never made to feel to be anything less than a full member of the club by their peers. Eton was and still is a meritocracy. Money did not count in that system, not really. Many of the less well heeled younger boys were in fact even discreetly doted upon by the wealthier and older boys to buoy up their spirits in lean times.

"Yes Glide, it was magnificent and appreciated," I replied and tried not to let my head dip. If a boy was to face his Captain's cane, it had better be with his head up. Glide glanced at the three peers in attendance, the so-called "Library," then sighed,

"This nonsense has to stop, eight for you Campion, trousers and pants down please."

I nodded and proceeded to disrobe. I knew the drill. I had known the drill every year for three years now, just not with the senior cane. I imagined it to be worse that Glide's junior cane which I had felt before or the various spankings or slipperings I had taken from my prior House Captains in step-wise fashion since two weeks into my very first half as a new boy at age thirteen.

Every new boy received "new boy's benefit" those first two heady weeks, meaning a free pass and no punitive results against any poor effort for anything until the "colours test" was finally submitted, then look out. Some of us seemingly had sore, spanked and slippered bottoms continuously for a month after that!

When I was prepared, I was made to stand and wait a long two minutes or so, silently facing Glide and his peers, hands at my sides in my half-nakedness. That was on purpose to test my willingness to boldly and proudly show myself off and possibly gain an erection in front of them, that is. It was part of the humiliation for most boys, a passive thing really, but to a boy like me, it had become an increasing necessity, actually an obsession.

I knew I would gain an erection, but by now, Burton Glide knew it as well. He knew me better than I knew myself at that point and in fact just a short time later would be personally instrumental in helping me to finally and fully come out of my shell; something for which I counted him a kind of personal savior. When I had finally pleased him, he nodded,

"Over the chair," and I went to the chair and went over it, putting my feet at regulation width as he stood at my side.

Burton never swished his cane before he struck; he was far too prepared, experienced and confident to need to. All the Pop were like that, the "Pop" being the esteemed and admired exclusive twenty-four members of the Eton Society of boys, all prefects of exceptional abilities and talents. Each of the twenty-four Houses had at least one Pop, each boy of each House knowing in his heart that his Pop was the best of the lot. I certainly thought so of Burton.

The eight cuts of the senior cane was delivered to my naked posterior with strength and precision in a manner that each of my Timbralls House mates boasted was the hardest in the whole school. I believed that. I was forced to at least grunt very hard on the last four cuts and by the time he was done with me, even a boy of my extensive experience was wiggling about very uncomfortably.

I waited, still bent over, my rear throbbing with eight hot and searing precise ridges, knowing that the three other sets of older boys' eyes in attendance were looking intently at Burton's efforts. My cock had gone limp, but I knew that like several of theirs, mine also would come roaring back and it was my lot for Burton and the others to see it if it did.

When it was time, he told me to get up and get dressed and I was not to hide myself from them in the process and I didn't. Despite some of their own stimulations, the other three prefects were otherwise solemn now, their prior mirth subdued by Burton's show of power. A couple of them whispered and even pointed at me briefly as they discussed the outcome amongst themselves, but that was all.

When Burton was satisfied, he cautioned me to not acquire a similar poor Order Card report least I befall an even more painful future fate and I was excused to go back to my room or wherever I pleased, "tabula rasa," the Latin phrase for all was forgiven, the slate clean of my sins as it were.

I only briefly let my head drop in front of Kevin as it was, by now, a long time habit to face my "judgment" with pride and I did so, head put back up high, playing out the drama once again. I turned and closed the door and faced him again.

"You know the drill boy. Eight on the bare, prepare," Kevin said.

I silently went over to his desk and undressed myself right down to my underwear, "pants" in British terms, carefully folding up my clothes in the process. When I was done, I turned and faced him. He nodded, "Pants off, over the chair," and I complied with full nakedness and stepped over to the chair, fully erect. I bent over the chair back, feet correctly spaced apart and Kevin came to my side.

I could well recall the first time that Kevin ever used any cane on me. It was after a very intense discussion or "counseling" session we had concerning my deteriorating state of mind shortly after we first met, him in his third year of psychology training, me in my second in law school in our large mid-western American university. I had not hid my homosexuality from him, he was gay as well and that's why we had met up in the first place and had been sexually intimate, easily so at first, so that was not at all the issue.

He knew that I was a rare American OE having had attended Eton College in Great Britain, but I had greatly delayed revealing the intimate details of my life at Eton to him, especially my intensely erotic attachment to the corporal punishment that I had received at Eton in my years there. It was something that most OE's would never reveal, save perhaps to another OE and I felt that I really had only two other OEs to talk to about such things after we all had left. Those would be my very best friends and mates at the time, fellow Timbralls Housemen Chadwick Burke and Aaron Connaught. Chad was holed up at Cambridge doing his own post-Etonian thing and was no longer really available to me in that manner and neither was Aaron.

I was still afraid that Kevin would look down on me for my odd erotic attachment. I loved Kevin at that point and he loved me, but he knew that I was hiding something very important from him and was determined to not let it become a fatal flaw to our budding relationship. So finally, one night I came out with it, trembling the whole way as we sat side by side in his tiny off-campus apartment.

I told him everything, how it had all come about. I started with some about my very earliest small efforts with other same aged new boy chums and about my very first brief, but telling and more earnest tryst with my House Captain and Pop member, Burton Glide, in my D block (third) year. Kevin quietly listened in the manner that since has made him such a superb therapist.

Just the honor of being chosen by the Debate Captain, my own House Captain Burton Glide, on my merit and ability alone, to help represent our third year second debate team was enough to have made my whole year, but then, when he asked me to room with him in our hotel room, I was sure I had gone to heaven.

By now I had suffered many minor schoolboy crushes on same aged mates or older boys and especially my prefects over my prior school halves and now passed that habit on to a new crush on Burton Glide, even though part of that crush was more related to his skill with a cane than any real kind of romantic thing. I simply admired him so much which was not an uncommon lower boy to upper boy thing at all, no matter one's romantic interests later in life. We were in Madrid, Spain at the time, the college was prone to sending small groups of boys with the adult master in charge of the group, out on lavish field trips, no matter the academic interest or competition.

That first night, after a spectacular beginning day in which I scored very high for our team, we all had supper together and then retired to our rooms. I had been very confident of myself from the debate success earlier in the day, but now was nervous as hell and Burton knew it. As soon as we were alone and the door closed, he peeled off his shirt down to his bare skin, my natural tendency to fantasize that it was an unconscious attempt at seduction kicking in as usual.

You had to understand, Burton Glide was a sports god, most of the Pop were back then. I was by then only modestly good at British sport of any kind, much better at American sports like baseball, but when it came to school sports competitions against other schools as with our long-time rival, Harrow, I was always at the fore, yelling my lungs out for our boys, "For Eton!"

Burton then pulled up a chair and sat down, putting his stocking feet up on his bed, we had two double sized beds in the room. I just stood there, kind of stupidly really, wondering how in the hell I was going to survive with my dignity intact for that night and two others through the competition without making a fool out of myself in front of him.

"Let's get one thing straight between you and I Campion. This is my bed and you are not to sneak over in the middle of the night and try to do anything nefarious to me."

I blushed. I just stood there and felt accused and instantly revealed for the pervert I still felt I was. He then took his feet off the bed,

"I'm just joking Campion, you're the most decent boy I know, but I have to be blunt. I know you're just bursting to be yourself and haven't found a way yet."

I can tell you I'd rather he accused me of molesting his little brother, if he had one. I'd rather have him angry with me than sympathetic and understanding, but that was not to be. Older boys were chosen for Pop not only because of high academic or sports ability, but because they were judged by their peers to have extraordinary abilities to guide us younger boys, to be friends and role models in the proper contexts.

"I don't know what you mean," I shrugged my reply.

He patted the bedside across from him, "Come here, sit."

I moved over and sat down as instructed, trying in vain to look innocently ignorant and was terribly nervous besides.

"You're not the only Oppidan or King's scholar who's been in favor of his fellows you know, there's no shame in it Campion."

"Just because you've seen me get a boner during a caning Glide, doesn't mean anything. Other boys do it too," I countered, I thought cleverly; forgetting Burton Glide could not easily be out-debated on any subject.

"I'm not talking about canings and don't think you're going to get off by using my last name. Burton will do nicely just now," He replied.

Now I was really getting nervous. He had never offered that kind of intimate equality to me before, though I had dreamed of it for ages.

"I still don't know what you're talking about," I said, but I did know. He sat forward, hands clasped together.

"Look, I'm only doing this because you're capable of being at the top Barrett and you really can't do that if you're in the closet about yourself. You could get elected to Pop in the next two years, but not if you're not totally in tune with who you are, just like the school mission statement says."

"I don't think my kind is what was intended by the mission statement and certainly not for Pop anyway," I countered in a brief spate of feeling sorry for myself, a older and bad habit. He smiled and shook his head,

"Your kind? Your kind Barrett? Is that any way to treat yourself and as for the mission, it has no such boundaries for a reason. There have been plenty of queers in Pop over the years."

My face flushed a little at his use of the word. I successfully resisted other denials however. I was queer. I knew I was, but had never heard another boy, older or younger say it with as much respect as Burton's saying it just then. Now he was getting to me in ways that weren't fair.

It was either flattery which can be terribly attractive, especially coming from a boy like him or he was actually trying to somehow bring me into a seduction for his own use. As attractive an idea as the latter seemed, even I could not possibly think of Burton in that fashion, my admiration for him was that genuine.

"It's all rubbish," I impulsively said, having adopted that word from Chadwick Burke's incessant use of it in my presence.

Chad had been a new boy with me from the start. I had intended to sound humble and perhaps deflect his attempt to make me feel good about myself, but instead sounded insulting, not a mistake to be overlooked. Burton stood up and loomed over me,

"Rubbish Barrett? Did you just tell me, a member of Pop, in my presence, that my opinion of your future abilities is rubbish?!"

I stood up and faced him eye to eye. If I thought I was nervous before, I was terrified now.

"Well, no … um … Burton, I just …" and froze a moment, but just for a moment, "… I'm sorry, it's just not easy, thank you Burton, it all means a lot coming from you." He sighed,

"Get ready for bed, now you've gone and spoiled the evening or what's left of it. I've a good mind to take my belt to your bare backside and beat some sense into you Barrett, rubbish indeed."

And that took me a bit by surprise. I had been belted before, but only as an F and E Blocker, never after. It was not unheard of for a boy my age and advancement to get leather cuts, just not the usual; but the moment he offered it, I wanted it from him.

I quickly decided and at that maybe for the first time in my private life to do something bold for myself for once, something worthy of being an Eton boy and just as the college intended for all of us boys, to do things sensibly, but boldly and in our own way, using our minds and bodies to facilitate success just as Burton had already encouraged me. Right then, I also wanted Burton Glide to be proud of me as well,

"I wouldn't mind … if you really wanted to … give me a sound whipping with your belt, that is, I've earned it, I think."

Burton's hands were on his hips, "Oh really? Do you think you've earned punishment, or is this about something else Barrett?" he challenged me with a solemn and resolute face.I thought a moment and decided that honestly with this boy was what he deserved,

"It's about me. It's about how much I like … that is, how turned on I get after a good hard caning from you and you're right. I need to get over myself and admit that it's OK to like guys … adore them even, from afar of course," and now I was in his hands completely and waited. Burton tarried for effect, just studying me for a moment, then grinned and nodded,

"That's better. I'm proud of you Barrett. I wouldn't have asked you on this trip without admiring your abilities debating and admiring that I know how hard it is to be yourself, even at Eton. I could easily say that if I were in your Block year and liked boys as well, I would probably find a way for us to be together."

I blushed, letting his words wash over me like a thick warm blanket of hot fudge. I even had to sit back down a moment and did what I always did when maximally embarrassed, or in this case flattered. I looked at and fiddled with my fingers a moment, but finally looked up, a lump in my throat and smiled,

"Thank you Burton. That's about the nicest thing another boy … rather, a man has ever said to me."

He tilted his head a bit sideways this time and pointed his prefect's finger at me,

"Now don't go getting all soft on me. If you still want that whipping, you can have it, but afterwards, I might make you pay for it!" and grinned at me, quite knowingly.

"Pay for it?" I asked, my eyes popping widely open, thinking or hoping that I knew what he had meant. He grinned back, knowing that he had affected me with the giant tease,

"You know what I mean, but it's still your choice," and now I even allowed my mind's fantasy to conjure up his obvious real offer as a delightful sexual seduction from him though it was not that at all in reality.

I stood up and being bold again, kicked off my shoes, left my socks on, then removed my trousers and with them, my pants. I was already hard as a rock, but him having seen me in that state several times before, I did not feel any embarrassment whatsoever and simply moved over to my own bed, fetched the pillow and putting it in the middle of the bed near the side, lay myself lengthwise on it, putting my bare arse far up high on it ( yes, I was an "arse" boy by then, actually long before, despite my American roots). Burton smiled, removed his brown leather dress belt and came right over to my side,

"How many?" he asked me. I looked at him, his strong arms and chest muscles and at the belt. I knew that once he started, he would not hold back and it would be fierce and I had better not ask for too many or too few,

"A dozen, with an option for six more should I survive the first set," I said.

He smiled, "You're sure now?"

I nodded, "Yes, positive!" I said and lay my head back down on the other pillow, gathering my arms around it. Burton doubled up the belt,

"OK then," and he started in.

Like I said, Burton Glide is terribly strong and from the first biting cut with just his dress belt, I knew that I had made a good rough estimate. The pain wasn't as focused as the cane at first, but it hurt nonetheless and after the first six, I reckoned it was nearly the same as the cane.

He didn't let the spread get too wide, so as to focus as he might with a tawse or strap. I had not had those instruments from him yet and now was glad I had not. They would hurt more than the cane in his capable hands and as it was, by cut twelve with just his dress belt, I had a three inch wide, deeply red stripe right across the center of my arse that burned like the devil. But for once, I just enjoyed it and even ground my hips into the pillow here and there to keep my dick hard.

"Nice, very nice Barrett, well done. How does it feel?" he asked me. I looked at my arse, then grinned up at him,

"Hurts like the devil Burton, but even now, it makes me feel … so alive and horny, sorry!"

He smiled, "No need for apologies, more?"

I thought a moment and looked at my arse again. I grinned, "Yes please, another six," and was immediately proud of myself for asking for the second round.

"Good, now that's a boy with confidence, one that might be useful to his school's purposes some day, OK, another six it is," and then I put my arse up even higher for him and steeled myself. He didn't disappoint. The last six came below the first twelve and hurt more, but in the aggregate made for a spectacularly wide and satisfyingly handsome colored stripe.

I bounded up off the bed, my hands quickly in grasp of my burnt backside and grinned,

"Bloody'ell Burton, now that's a proper beatin' !" I said in my best British toned accent.

He laughed, "That it is." and he just watched me walk about for a bit, my cock hard as nails as the heat fed my lust. Then I turned, my boldness catching on,

"It's time to pay up, anything you want Burton, please!" He nodded and decisively answered,

"A nice blow job would be nice, that is if you know how to do it?"

"Of course I do!" I blurted out and then felt kind of stupidly anxious for sounding insulted.

"I mean, well, yes, I do Burton, I'm a little experienced anyway," meaning I was much more than that in reality.

I had sucked off certain Timbralls boys here and there by now, but this was much more like being on stage at the Eton College Farrer Theatre at the end of Commons Lane. I also mused to myself that Burton's quick reply was some kind of very subtle hint that perhaps I might be in some kind of fun competition with Burton's girlfriend for the honor of having given this man the best head of his school career?

"OK, just don't let your teeth get involved, and take your time, there's no hurry," Burton replied and taking off his trousers, he then sat back in the chair and preemptively pulled out his flaccid penis from the fly of the very stylish and expensive pure white boxer pants popular in those days for me to do my thing.

I sighed and went over to between his knees and knelt, trying like hell to control my over-excitement, my own dick twitching like a race horse at the gate and my heart beating like a cross country runner's at the final line. I then faced my opponent, it laying peacefully for the moment, long and limp, emphasis on long.

His breathing seemed normal. I glanced up, his eyes were closed, his hands comfortably on the arms rests of the chair. I imagined that he was picturing his girlfriend in his mind. I didn't mind that at all. Actually, I liked it. I had no need to think of Burton Glide as a male lover, not at all. I wished him to be who he really was to me just then, a true Eton god, a boy that had become a man in my estimation, one among many along the way really that I wanted to be like, if I could.

I moved in towards the penis and took my time. I was very careful with my thumb and index finger to lift it mid-shaft and slowly took the velvety softness of his cock head between my lips without touching Burton's body anywhere else. At the moment my lips made contact, I said it inside my mind to myself, maybe for the first time really,

"I'm queer and I love cock and I always will!"

Then it was like my mouth and lips knew what to do on their own. I felt his breathing quicken and he even sighed as his erection developed nearly instantaneously. I would now have to deal with as much of a good eight inches of hard male lust as I could manage, but it would really be no problem given my heightened motivation to do well for Burton.

I didn't get piggish and confined my lips and tongue to about the upper third of the rigid pole, not wanting him to hear me gag, even though I didn't think I would any more with my prior experience already under my belt. Apparently, I was making good enough strides.

"Wow, you can keep that up for awhile!" he praised me and then gently pushed his pelvis upwards, carefully forcing just a little more of his cock into my mouth. I didn't mind. I was rather busy using my tongue to swirl about his head, especially just under the firm rim of the base of the hood, as I had done with a few other boys in my House.

I even heard him moan and already his pre-cum was starting to coat my mouth, generously oozing from his rather largish gaping piss slit. I found Glide's fluids positively delicious, having tasted my own and others enough times to try and compare. But knew I must hold back my mind's tendency to want to project more of these sessions with him into the future as it already wanted to. I already knew that expecting to do this with him again, especially as he was Pop, was an unlikely reality.

I then raised myself much more upright, my head right over his groin and started to face fuck myself first down onto his cock, then up again, then up and down, slowly and smoothly gliding his cock through my lips and through a clever tunnel I had devised with my tongue. Even he was forced by lust to put both of his hands at the sides of my head and his head bent back, his eyes staring at the ceiling wide open.

"My god Barrett, you make me wish I was a boy as yourself, it's quite remarkable!"

His hands were at the same time gentle as well as commanding and I did dare to fantasize and fancy up a notch that in an alternate universe, maybe I was his personal male sex slave. There was no harm in having the thought, nor disrespect of Burton intended. Things moved quickly from there.

"Oh dear, I'm about to explode Campion, you'd better make up your mind to either …" but then he did explode and I was not exactly as ready for it as I thought I had been. I did start to gag on giant blobs of semen, hitting the back of my unaware throat, the horrid automatic response and discomfort almost feeling like I was being "caned" as a real punishment.

I quickly withdrew my torso back, sitting back on my haunches as he quickly finished the job himself with his own hand as I recovered the embarrassment of my foiled attempt to give him the perfect blow job on my effort. I prematurely chastised myself for a poor showing as Burton Glide gave a big sigh, then looked down at me, smiling,

"No worries! That was fabulous Campion, don't look so wan. Your effort at pleasing me was maximal, not unlike keeping Mr. Carter happy on the football pitch, quality of effort, not quantity."

"Wish I could have done better," I sighed. He pointed his finger at me as I stood up, my own cock in desperate need of relief now,

"You'll be fine, now go set yourself down on your bed and enjoy yourself, you've earned it and my respect Campion."

I did as he suggested, one last coating of that delicious hot fudge streaming over me via that very important word, "respect." As I lay back on my own headboard, sitting half up, I glanced over at him. His eyes were ignoring me now, already steadfast on the television screen of the hotel room's set, his fingers clicking one channel after another on the remote. We boys seldom in all of our five years took any time at all to watch television, besides it being incredibly boring.

I took my hardness in my right hand and closed my eyes. Surprisingly, I didn't think of Burton Glide during those moments of firm stroking. I only thought of the newly found freedom of finally being closer to myself, albeit at Glide's insistence. I did remind myself that I did want to be like him however, a man coming to full flower of himself, in command of himself, kind, generous and mindful of those of us boys who needed the peer role modeling that the College was designed to encourage. Already I was missing him as well. Leaver's Day would not be happy at the end of the Lenten half.

"Did you ever do anything with him again?" Kevin asked me at the end of my confession.

"No, we never did anything like that at school again, though he had his cane busy on me several more times after that before he left," and my mind drifted at that moment to what it had been like to see Burton Glide leave Eton at the end of the Lent school half, but the thought of those last moments were too painful right then to want to describe them. Kevin sighed,

"How do you feel about telling me about your love for corporal punishment?" I shrugged,

"I'm not sure. Good I guess, but I expect it turns you off though," I conjectured, almost feeling as I did when I had told Burton Glide that his opinion of me was "rubbish" those years long before.

"No, it doesn't. Actually, it fits you and since you seem defensive about it, I think we should try it out," he said, surprising me! I shifted in my seat,

"Try it out? What do you mean?" He smiled,

"I should learn how to cane you, punish you with it for pleasure so that you don't have to feel left out of yourself. I think it's an important connection for you to make with yourself and I'll be happy to do it too."

At that point, I decided to open the flood gates. His offer was too good to pass up, but I had to make sure that he knew everything and that meant that I had to first reveal the deepest of all my Eton societal secrets, my B block (last year) participation in the Red Scarf Society.

"Red Scarf Society? What was that?" he asked and grinned, "A men's fashion club perhaps?" I laughed, "No, not quite!" I grinned with great satisfaction and went on to explain …

NEXT: Michaelmas Half – Chapter Two

(so that there is no confusion, you may notice that "half" designations in this context are not meant to connote the story's actual time line, only to make story part and chapter separations)

* If you are interested to view the this authentic Eton schoolboy picture, try this link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/flailinginge/2652721404/in/set-72157604975993188/
Otherwise,Email the author. It is a Flickr picture and as such cannot be copied.

© Copyright PJ Franklin May 25, 2009

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Last updated:  May 25, 2009