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Ten Days in Springtime
by Isidore (no address provided)
***
Set in an all-boys boarding school in England in
the 1970s, when the first afternoon of love between
a 17-year-old boy and a housemaster's daughter has
painful consequences... but the story doesn't end
there. (mf-teens, 1st, oral, mast, rom, preg,
male adult/teenboy, corporal punishment, homoerotic)
***
Sunday afternoon
It was a warm Sunday afternoon in spring, midway
through the Easter term, the air was filled with
the scent of blossom and rising sap as Charlie
strolled under the weeping cherry trees on his way
back to his boarding house. His route took him past
one of the other houses, Lutyens, where some of his
friends boarded; he glanced across the rolling,
manicured lawns, inhaled the smell of new-mown
grass and toyed with the idea of dropping in to see
them, but remembered that they were away on a
hockey tour. As he passed the main gate of Lutyens
he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
'Hi Charlie.'
He stopped, turned; his stomach and groin lurched.
In the doorway of the house was Sophie Buckler. Her
father, Dr Buckler, was the housemaster and taught
Latin and Greek; Charlie was in his final year 'A'
level Latin set and wanted to read Classics at
Oxford. The exams were next term, then came
Oxbridge entrance in the autumn, so the pressure
was on.
'Oh, hi Sophie.' They smiled at each other
awkwardly, adolescent angst. She was wearing
ordinary clothes, a short skirt, shirt and
cardigan, while he was still in school uniform; he
hadn't bothered to change after chapel, then there
had been lunch, after which he had hung out with
some friends. Suddenly he felt constrained, uncool
in his stiff collar, waistcoat and black jacket.
She came down the front steps, nervously he
strolled up the path towards her. Sophie wasn't a
pupil at the school, - which was all boys - but
went to a private convent school for girls in the
town. Like him she was doing Latin, Greek and
English for 'A' level and also wanted to go to
Oxford.
They occasionally bumped into each other around the
grounds, he'd danced with her at a Lutyens house
party once, and afterwards they had had a (very
brief and fumbling) snog in the garden before her
father appeared and Charlie had had to make himself
scarce. Ever since then they had hovered in each
other's subconscious, a distant, dreamlike memory.
She had long blonde hair, - today it was tied back
in an amber slide - grey eyes, and what he and the
other boys regarded, from the height of their 17
years, as a pair of perfect, tight little tits. He
felt another gentle stirring in his groin.
'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked,
surreptitiously looking him up and down and
trembling slightly. To her, Charlie Millais was one
of the best-looking boys in the sixth form. She
loved his mop of tousled chestnut hair that always
looked as if he had just got out of bed, and which
tumbled into his dark blue eyes with their
diffident glints, his slender, retroussˇ nose, his
willowy fingers (although like most boys his nails
were scruffy and chewed), his still boyish but
somehow virile figure... and especially that small,
round, slightly protruding bottom. She and some of
her classmates had noticed it while watching rugger
matches, and once in the school swimming pool.
Ah, that perfect bum - it was so cute! They would
scream with laughter as they fantasized about
stroking it. But most adorable of all, and despite
being intelligent and good at sport, Charlie was
shy. A girl only had to speak to him and his smooth
cheeks would blush pink. She glanced at the area
below his waistcoat, but the grey trousers were too
baggy to give any clues about what lay beneath.
'Err... yeah, okay, thanks,' he mumbled, '...but
won't your father...?' There it was, that faint
blush. God, he was so sexy!
'He and my mum and sister have gone to watch an
away match, they won't be back till quite late
tonight. I stayed behind to do some revision...
like you, I suppose. So we'll have the place to
ourselves.'
'Okay,' he said, smiling diffidently. The way she
said 'we' seemed to imply something more than a cup
of tea.
They went into the kitchen. Sophie made a pot of
tea but neither of them drank more than a mouthful.
'I'm stuck on a Latin translation, maybe you can
give me a hand?'
'Sure.'
A few minutes later they were up in her bedroom in
the family's private wing of the large, rambling
boarding house. Charlie was relieved to see that it
was as untidy as his own, both here at school and
at home. Tights and knickers were scattered
everywhere, as if for his benefit.
The Latin problem was soon solved; in fact Sophie
seemed to know the answer already, although she let
Charlie explain it to her anyway. They discussed
exam work, Oxford, Cambridge, other boys and girls,
TV programmes, and then she put on an Abba record.
Charlie didn't like it; he'd just bought Pink
Floyd's latest, 'Wish you were here,' but gladly
went along with her taste in music.
He took off his jacket, threw it on a chair. Sophie
smiled, looked at her books, out of the window, and
then untied her hair. Sitting on the desk, she put
her fingers in his waistcoat pockets, toyed with
the buttons, gently drew him towards her. Charlie
flushed pink again, held her hand in his long
fingers. They looked each other in the eye,
grinned, laughed, blushed... and then kissed. And
kissed. Their tongues slipped back and forth,
entwining, by now she had her arms round his waist,
she could feel something stirring beneath the
flannel of his trousers.
'God, Charlie, you kiss so beautifully. It's really
lovely, better than before. Do you remember that
night in the garden? But his time there's no one
to interrupt us.'
Of course he remembered. How could he ever forget?
He had wanked himself silly over it hundreds of
times since, shot cum right across his room in
excited frustration.
His dark blue eyes stared into her grey ones, and
smiled. She unbuttoned his waistcoat, slipped off
her cardigan, he was standing close to her, her
legs either side of him, he could feel her soft
skin stroking against his trousers.
They kissed, kissed, kissed, kicked off their
shoes, Charlie loosened his tie, Sophie pulled one
end of it until it fell to the floor, undid his
collar stud then slowly unbuttoned his shirt and
slipped her hand inside, stroked his small,
hardening nipples. He shuddered as her cool flesh
touched his own.
Soon he had her blouse undone, eased it over her
soft, slight shoulders; within seconds his hands
were round her back, fumbling with the fastener of
her black bra. Wow, he thought, black underwear!
Are her panties the same colour?
'Help me, Sophe,' he mumbled. 'I'm not much good
with these clips.'
'Glad to hear it,' she laughed, swiftly unfastening
her bra and letting him gently pull it off. His
hands were shaking - and so were hers. She watched
his blue eyes as they took in her small, firm
breasts, saw how he blushed again, bit his lower
lip then ran the tip of his tongue along it. He
kissed first one breast then the other, kissed back
and forth, tickled her nipples with the darting
pink tip of his tongue while she inhaled the warm
silkiness of his hair which smelt faintly of fresh
air and school shop shampoo, so simple, so all-over
sexy. He'd had a shower that morning, she could
tell, he wasn't one of those boys who take pride in
washing as little as possible and stinking like a
goat... although there was a faint hint of uneven
yet healthy suint from the damp patches under his
arms, he was warming up, not only out of
awkwardness, she could feel the heat rising from
his body, beginning to enfold her. 'God, he's
gorgeous,' she thought, 'it's just like the other
girls say, he's hot but he doesn't know it. I
really want him to...'
She guided his hesitant fingers into the waistband
of her skirt, helped him undo it, and soon she was
stepping out of it, staring into his eyes as she
eased off his shirt, let it fall to the floor with
her own clothes, began to play with the buckle of
his belt.
'Jesus!' he gasped, pressed his hardening crotch
against hers, stroking his fingertips over her
panties, which as he'd hoped were black... and
ever-so slightly damp.
'Oh God, oh God,' he repeated, running his fingers
through her hair, kissing her over and over again,
his tongue dancing with hers, moving back as he
felt her fingers slipping into the top of his
trousers, finding the clip, the button, tugging at
the zip, easing, coaxing, all the time gazing into
his eyes, breathing deeply, now she was kissing,
biting his nipples.
'Ouch!' he giggled.
She bent down slightly, her blonde hair brushed his
lips, his nose, he caught a scent of strawberries,
she tugged at his trousers until they slid down his
long, slim, coltish legs, he kicked them aside,
there was an awkward, comical moment as he leant
forward and went to take off his dark blue socks,
their heads bumped together, they stumbled,
giggled, then he was tugging at the toes of his
socks, tossing them aside, releasing a brief,
passing smell of warm leather, wool, sweet Sunday
sweat - and there they were, naked except for their
underwear, in each other's arms, kissing wildly,
gasping, perspiring, delicate droplets forming on
their backs and chests.
'Navy blue briefs,' mused Sophie, looking down,
rubbing her knuckles across the urgent bulge that
was nuzzling against her thighs and pants. 'Just
what I'd hoped, I wear navy blue knickers too
sometimes, they make me feel so up for it, don't
know why, they're so conservative... but these, on
Charlie, oh God!'
'God, Charlie,' she said out loud, 'you're so sexy,
you're...'
And she sat on the edge of the bed, her face level
with his waist and its 'y' shaped, navy blue
outline, eyes fixed on the mysterious shape beneath
it, wanting desperately to pull his briefs down but
telling herself that she wanted him to undress her
first, she wanted to feel that unruly mop of hair
between her thighs, feel his warm breath, his
tongue on her...
She looked up, aware that her face was reddening,
and noticed with relief and arousal that Charlie
was blushing too, which made the cobalt blue of his
wide eyes even more vivid. More than anything she
wanted to see them staring up at her from between
her thighs, seeking approval... Standing up, she
pressed herself against him, - or as close as his
now rigid bulge would allow - took his hands in
hers and slipped his fingers - God, they were so
cool, so slim, so delicate - into the top of her
pants. As a hint it was unnecessary, because
Charlie immediately eased them down, paused to
stroke her soft pubic curls as they appeared from
beneath the black cotton, then slipped them all the
way down so she could step out of them.
Soon his long, inquisitive index finger was delving
its way into her, gently, gently, not wanting to
let on that this was his first time, that this was
unfamiliar but much longed-for territory, but
hoping that it was hers (in fact they were both
virgins); first the tip slid inside, she gasped,
smiled, he grinned and probed as far as his first
knuckle, then all the way, God it was so tight, so
silky soft, so warm, so moist, already he felt
fluid trickling down his finger and into his
upturned palm...
How odd that erotic refinements come so quickly and
easily when you've agonized for years over whether
you'll know what to do when the time comes,
practised on household objects, your bed... Soon he
established a rhythm, began to fuck her gently with
his finger, took it out for a moment, sucked it
then eased it back in again, past her trembling
labia, aaah!
Flushed, squirming, heating up, Sophie eased
herself away, sat on the edge of the bed, leant
back and looked up at the slim, handsome, almost
naked boy above her. Slowly she parted her thighs.
Charlie needed no further encouragement,
immediately he was on his knees, easing her legs
further apart, shuffling forward, briefs now
straining urgently, and gingerly lowered his face
towards the unfamiliar mound of curly light brown
hair that was already glistening with tiny
droplets.
At first he held back, sniffed slightly to test the
ground. There was a faintly salty, fish-paste smell
that rather put him off but aroused him as well,
yet there was warmth, sweet, soapy warmth, an
indefinable muskiness that made his cock throb
painfully as if it were about to explode.
'God, Charlie!' she gasped as his tongue darted
into her, flicked back and forth like a lizard's,
in, out, round and round, then he was coming up for
air, she gazed down at him gazing up at her,
grinning as he plucked a pubic hair from his soft,
pointed tongue. His lips were suddenly rosy red and
shiny with her moistness, the tip of his adorable
nose was wet too, it glinted in the afternoon
sunlight streaming through the window. He was
glowing, almost incandescent.
'Afternoon sex,' thought Charlie. One of his
friends, Johnny Templeton, who was always bragging
about his conquests, said that fucking on a warm
Sunday afternoon was the best; even if you'd had a
good lunch you'd still be hungry, your bodies would
somehow be more supple, the juices would flow more
easily, more sweetly... the orgasms were better,
longer, more intense, the hot cum squirted
further... and yet it was so calm, so still, so
relaxed.
Lowering his head again, he ventured back into the
musky-salt jungle, hoping that she wouldn't notice
when he pulled pubic hairs off his lips and tongue,
or made choking noises when he was getting out of
breath. He wasn't sure which was the fabled
clitoris, so he licked and stroked everything pink
in the hope that he would find it, and seemed to
hit the spot eventually. Sophie was loving it,
Charlie seemed instinctively to know where to go,
what to probe with his long, cool fingers. But what
aroused her just as much was the soft, rhythmic
sound of him lapping at her sex, easing the excited
lips apart with his fingertips, it was like a puppy
drinking a bowl of milk, every now and then she
glimpsed his pink tongue glistening with her
moistness as it paused before going back for more.
'Stop, stop,' she breathed, ruffling his hair.
Charlie looked up, abashed: had her hurt her,
wasn't she enjoying it? But the expression on her
face wasn't one of disappointment - far from it. It
was clear that she wanted to taste him.
He got to his feet, and she sat up, her face level
with his navy-blue clad crotch. She kissed the
slightly damp, twitching bulge, ran her fingertips
over it, noticed how it lurched forward, how
Charlie was trembling, breathing heavily. She
cupped his balls through the tightly stretched
material: God, they were red hot! Shall I pull his
briefs down quickly or slowly, she wondered? What
will he like most? In the end she decided to
compromise, and as she gradually eased them down,
his rigid, straining sex sprung out from its hiding
place and slapped against his smooth belly; they
both laughed.
When she had pulled his briefs down far enough for
him to slip out of them she stared up at what
looked like a great rod above her. From below it
seemed huge, although it was just an average six or
seven inches, neither thick nor thin, but still...
adorable!
'God, it's so hard, Charlie!' she whispered.
'Doesn't it hurt? It looks really painful.' And she
pulled it down from its near-vertical position
until the dribbling tip was level with her mouth.
'It feels like it's alight!' he winced, watching
her every move.
'Then I'll have to cool it down for you,' she
laughed. And she eased the tight, pink foreskin
back over the head, releasing a faint scent of
vinegary sweat, musk, saltiness... and raw sex.
Charlie had skipped breakfast that morning so he
could be alone in the shower while the others were
in the refectory, and had treated himself to a
long, luxurious, soapy wank that had left him
scrubbed and fragrant (and just as horny as before)
- such are the convoluted situations that boys at
boarding school have to engineer for themselves.
Once the head was free of its moist covering it
immediately swelled, throbbed crimson; it looked
like a ripe cherry. 'So that's why they call it
"losing your cherry",' she thought. She kissed the
tip, licked drops of salty fluid from the slit,
making him gasp.
'Jesus, Sophie, you're...'
Gingerly, holding her breath, she drew him into her
mouth until the head of his cock touched her throat
and made her gag. She quickly moved it back and
began to lick, suck, twirl her tongue along his
shaft, flicking the tip under the base of the head,
while all the time Charlie was moaning, rocking
back and forth, stroking her hair. As she glanced
up she dribbled slightly and made a slurping sound;
this seemed to excite him, and his cock twitched
against the inside of her cheek.
'Oh God, Sophe,' he mumbled, 'you're incredible...'
Taking him out of her mouth, she licked her way
down his shaft, burying her nose in his dark, downy
pubic hair, - he had no other hair on his body
except for tufts under his arms - and noticed the
characteristic smell of his balls, not so much
sweat as a slightly aromatic, dry odour, clean and
unbelievably delicious. As she kissed and tickled
them with her tongue he gasped and thrust forward;
she quickly pulled a pubic hair off her moist lips,
hoping he hadn't noticed, somehow it seemed silly,
even dirty.
After a few minutes she looked up again, smiled,
then lay back on the bed, her eyes telling him (as
if he needed telling) what to do next. She opened
her legs, and he knelt between them, hands
trembling as he rested them on her knees, stroked
the inside of her warm thighs. By now his cock
seemed to have grown, its shiny crimson head
pointing straight up.
'Come on Charlie,' she whispered, 'let's do it,
let's do it now, God, I love you so much.'
Lips parted in concentration and blushing deeply,
Charlie eased forward, his arms braced either side
of her, and lowered himself, his eyes gazing into
hers. He bit his lip, a bashful little quirk that
drove her wild.
'Shouldn't we...?' he said, 'I mean, I haven't got
any... you know...'
'What? What haven't you got, Charlie?' Sophie was
beginning to pant.
He blushed scarlet. 'You know... johnnies...
condoms... I mean, I... we don't want to...'
'Jesus Christ, Charlie,' said Sophie, unable to
contain herself, 'I can't wait for you to go to the
chemist! I want you inside me now, let's just do
it, please Charlie, I really want you!'
That settled it - as if there were ever any choice.
He winced as she moved his cock down from its rigid
position parallel with their bodies, and rested the
head against the lips of her sex, which were now
parting and glowing even more than before.
'God, I love you,' he sighed; and slowly, shyly,
hesitantly, he eased himself into her. Their
blushing sexes met.
They both gasped. What an incredible sensation! The
heat, the silky, slithering softness! Once his cock
was all the way in he paused, grinning, and looked
deep into her eyes.
'Yeah,' he whispered, as much aroused by what he
was saying as by the act itself. 'Let's do it.
Let's fuck...'
Sophie giggled, bit his neck. Charlie began to
thrust in and out, arms braced either side of her,
gasping, sweat trickling from under his arms.
'Not so fast,' she said. 'Take it slowly, Charlie,
there's no rush, I want this to last forever,
you're so gorgeous, so hot, so...'
Between gazing into her grey eyes, slipping his
tongue into her soft, eager mouth and nibbling at
her ear, Charlie kept glancing down, fascinated by
the sight of his glistening pink shaft gliding in
and out of her dribbling sex. Seeing it pulse made
him even harder, he could feel the narrow walls of
her vagina gripping his cock, massaging it,
stimulating every nerve ending. Sophie, too, was
awash with new sensations. With each of Charlie's
backward strokes she felt his foreskin slip back
over the head, while on his rhythmical inward
thrusts she could distinctly feel the vein
throbbing along the side as he glided down her
passageway, his adorably tight foreskin retracting
again, bunching into a ridge that made her whole
body shudder before it was pulled all the way back.
Then the process repeated, on and on, world without
end... they were breathing heavily, moaning, sweat
trickled down their backs, formed beads on their
foreheads, shoulders and thighs, sunlight poured
into the room, now filled with the smell of sex,
they breathed it and themselves in, she scratched
his back, bit his neck, he chewed her ear lobes...
it was wonderful.
Beneath them the sheets were getting damp and
sticky, and soon they began to make a slight
squelching sound; it was hardly romantic, but in
their ingˇnue ardour they found it thrilling; they
giggled and fucked harder and harder, their now
glistening tummies sticking together as their sexes
met then moved apart, leaving quickly-fading
imprints on each other.
Occasionally Charlie paused for a moment.
Inexperienced though he was, he wasn't sure when he
was going to come and didn't want it to happen too
soon (he'd read in magazines how this frustrated
girls, although the magazines gave little advice
about how to solve the problem except offering to
sell you 'stud cream,' which he would have been too
embarrassed, or proud, to use), and so he made
these rather obvious efforts to pace himself,
kissing and fondling Sophie in the intervals.
She knew instinctively what he was doing and adored
him even more for it: 'He's thinking of me, not
just his own pleasure,' she told herself. But when
he began thrusting into her again, his hot balls
slapping against the smooth area between her pussy
and her bottom, she suddenly remembered a
conversation that she had overheard at school,
between some of the more streetwise girls. One of
them, who had supposedly had a brief affair with an
older man, was telling the others that boys really
loved it if you slid your finger up their bum while
you were fucking. Apparently it drove them wild.
Should I, she wondered? I mean, will Charlie like
it, or will he think I'm perverted, a dirty little
slut?
Nonetheless she decided to risk it. The mere
thought of being inside his adorable bottom set her
whole body aquiver. Turning it into a game, she
rested her index finger against his lips and coaxed
him into sucking it for a while. Charlie innocently
went along with the ploy, treating it like a nipple
and immediately starting to lick her breasts once
she had taken it out. Putting her arms round him,
crossing her legs over the back of his thighs, she
teased her way down his back with her moist finger,
gradually inching between his buttocks until she
found the small, quivering, secret opening. Soon
her fingertip was toying with the lips of his anus,
teasing the thousands of nerve endings.
'Jesus, Sophie!'
'Sorry, am I hurting you, I'll stop if...'
'No no no, don't stop, go on, it's fantastic, do it
some more, please...' he moaned, sweat glowing on
his face, his toes curling and hot flushes
colouring the cheeks of his backside. She took him
at his word, slipped her finger into his hot, tight
passage. Soon she was moving it in and out,
fingering him long and hard.
'Aagh, ooh, Jesus Christ!,' he gasped, 'I'm going
to come, Sophe!' But she knew this already: the
muscles of his excited little anus were clenching
at her finger like teeth.
'I've got to pull out,' he said, breathlessly, 'I
can't... we can't... Sophie...'
But Sophie held him tight, kept her finger where it
was and crossed her legs over his toiling back.
'Go on, Charlie,' she whispered, 'come inside me, I
want you to, let it go, I love you, do it, do it,
do it now...'
Charlie looked her in the eye, blushed, grinned,
bit his lip. For a second or two he carried on
thrusting slowly, almost pulling out completely on
the backward stroke, but he couldn't control the
pace any longer and speeded up, their bellies
slapped together noisily, the sunlight lit up their
hair like halos, they were gasping, sweating,
oozing, trickling, kissing, licking, biting for all
they were worth.
'Oh my God!' he gasped, and with three, four, five,
six, seven short thrusts he came in a great
torrent, his whole body shuddered, again Sophie
felt the muscles in his bottom close tightly round
her finger, a scent of sweet, salty musk engulfed
them, she felt his lightning-hot semen shooting
into her in uncontrollable, adorable spurts...
...and then it was over, they were lying in each
other's arms in the damp patch, sticky with sweat,
saliva and cum. He gave one final, loving squirt
and then collapsed, his breath coming in gasps. For
a while his cock remained hard inside her,
twitching, and then it softened and went limp...
all passion spent.
Yet not quite. It was the moment for those sincere
but often gauche declarations which, suddenly
released by such moments of youthful intimacy,
young lovers feel obliged to make after their first
time making love. They kissed over and over again,
but only on the lips, as if they were in a public
place and wanted to proclaim their love to everyone
around them.
'I love the way you close your eyes when you come,
Charlie,' she said. 'It's as if you're dreaming, or
drifting away into another world... it's so
romantic.'
He smiled, kissed her breasts, traced his
fingertips through her still-moist pubic hair, ran
them over his own lips then hers. Yes, I'm a
romantic, he was thinking, I'm not like other boys,
I know how to love a girl... truly, madly, deeply.
'I love...' he began, then blushed. 'I love the way
you... you know... with your finger....' More
blushes. 'I mean, how did you guess that I...?'
Sophie chuckled. 'Girl talk,' she said. 'We know
more about boys' bodies than you realize.'
'I'm glad,' he grinned. 'I thought maybe they
taught you how to do it in biology.'
And, laughing, they lay in silence for a while,
embracing, kissing each other's hands and hair.
Suddenly he sat up. 'I need to pee,' he said,
rather sheepishly.
'It's just down on the left,' Sophie smiled, like a
mother or an elder sister. The banalities of sex
were so thrilling! She watched him walk across the
room, gazed at his long, slim legs, his agile feet,
- they were quite small and cute, rather like a
girl's - and that wonderful, wonderful bottom, saw
how the pink cheeks parted slightly and opened out
at the base like a smile, beyond which lay the
soft, sensitive entrance that she had explored with
her finger. God, he was so lovely! She noticed some
scratches on his back, and realized that in her
frantic excitement she had put them there. When he
got to the door he glanced back, as if sensing her
eyes on him, and gave a bashful grin.
As he made his way to the bathroom he gloried in
his nudity, thrilled at the way his half-erect,
heavy sex swung rhythmically as he moved, the
cherry-red head balancing back and forth. He was
filled with the glorious, romantic sensuality of
sex, its scents and sensations swirled around him,
rising off his body like mist.
Once he had had a piss, - and noticed a bottle of
Sophie's perfume on the shelf, resolving to buy her
some for her birthday (but when is it? I have to
ask her, I'll do it when I get back to bed... God
yes, she's lying there waiting for me) - he put his
cock under the hot tap and bathed it, caressed his
foreskin to and fro. By the time he got back to
Sophie he was erect again, hovering tantalizingly
in a near-vertical position.
'Come on,' she laughed. 'Back to bed with you,
quick, quick, I'm getting cold on my own... mmm,'
she mumbled, burying her face in his unruly hair
and stroking his sex as they embraced, 'it's all
warm and soapy, have you been massaging it for me?'
And she coaxed him into a sitting position astride
her, where he thrust gently back and forth between
her breasts until a great pearly stream cascaded
into a necklace round her milky-white throat, then
jetted onto the headboard and trickled down in
rivulets like summer rain. She looked at the
droplets on her breasts, plucked some with her
finger and ran it over her lips, licked it, then
sat up and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his
mouth.
Then they discovered soixante-neuf, a position they
were convinced that they had just invented. As
Charlie's tongue burrowed into her now familiar
pinkness, his more experienced finger stroking her
clitoris and making her squirm, she sucked him
gently before lowering her head between his drawn-
up legs, their muscles twitching excitedly, and
licked her way from his balls, along the soft,
smooth trail that led to his hot little anus.
As her hair brushed his thighs he shuddered, then
began to wriggle and moan as he felt her tongue
slip inside him, while with her other hand she
stroked his cock until she felt semen spurt high
into the air between her coaxing fingers, trickling
down the back of her hand and wrist. 'Sophe, Sophe,
Sophie,' he moaned, thrusting his tongue deeper and
deeper into her until his lips, nose and chin were
glistening with her own orgasm.
Afterwards they rested, her head on his chest. From
the boarding house next door came loud music.
'Wish... wish you were here,' sang the well-known
voice. Charlie laughed: 'Yeah, I bet a lot of them
wish they were here, in my place. You're fantastic,
Sophe, I love you so much.'
She smiled, kissed his nipple. But at the same time
she felt an odd foreboding; it was all too perfect.
For a while they dozed off; it was still quite
early, her parents weren't due back till late,
maybe not until well after supper. Sophie was the
first to wake. Carefully getting up, she crept down
to the bottom of the bed and began to lick and
tickle Charlie's feet, running her tongue between
his toes: there wasn't a single part of his body
that she didn't want to put in her mouth, to
inhale, touch, feel, absorb. He giggled in his
sleep, then woke up and stared at her in startled
delight. Yes, it was all so perfect.
They made love again, exactly like the first time,
an act that now seemed familiar although no less
thrilling, every little gesture imbued with
significance, a ritual that they had to repeat
flawlessly and step by step, or else it would
somehow be meaningless. Yet unbeknown to them, not
far away, fate was playing its part, arranging
things according to its own particular schema, as
it is wont to do.
Lost in their mirage of blissful abandon, the two
young lovers were unaware that Sophie's father had
suddenly remembered that he had to write some
letters that evening, and had got a lift back from
the away match with another member of staff,
leaving his wife and younger daughter to drive home
on their own later. He had just arrived. First he
looked into the boarding house to check on the
boys, and then decided to get himself a drink
before going to his study to work.
When he opened the front door the place seemed
unusually quiet, and yet he sensed an...
atmosphere. Then he heard a noise from upstairs (it
was Sophie's bed creaking), what might be music or
voices, and thought that he would just pop up and
look in on Sophie, who was probably revising. As Dr
Buckler got to the top of the stairs and walked
down the corridor, Charlie was about to have his
third orgasm of the afternoon (and the fourth of
the day, counting his wank in the shower that
morning): there was no going back.
The closer that Sophie's father got to his
daughter's room, the more suspicious he became. The
noise was getting louder, faster, it sounded like
bedsprings creaking frantically. He was a
housemaster of many years' standing; half his life
had been spent looking after adolescents, so he was
far from na•ve. And by now he could hear gasps,
muffled voices. When he got to the door he stopped
and listened.
'Oh, Sophie,' Charlie whispered, 'Sophe, Sophe, I
love you so much, I'm going to come, oh God...'
'I love you too, Charlie...' Her voice trailed off
into a sigh of ecstasy.
Charlie managed one last, gentle stroke then lost
control. His thrusts got faster and faster, he
closed his eyes, bit his lip, his heart was
pounding, both their bodies glistening. His cock
twitched, pulsed, he began to come.
Just at that moment, Sophie's father tapped on the
door then opened it, as he usually did. Immediately
he was met with a slightly sickly atmosphere of
suint and adolescent ardour, the lingering smell of
sex that seemed to hover in the air, envelop him,
wraps its blissful arms around him as well. Ah,
sweet unconsciousness! The first thing he saw was
the bed, its covers scattered, and then his
daughter lying on her back on it, naked, her face
momentarily hidden by another body that lay between
her legs, a round, boyish bottom moving
rhythmically, urgently up and down.
'Sophie!' he burst out. 'Sophie! What on earth...?'
Up till that point, Sophie hadn't seen or heard her
father; she was too intent on kissing Charlie,
scratching his back, fingering his bottom, biting
his neck and waiting for him to explode inside her
again, so hot, so sweet, so wonderful. But then the
angry voice forced its way into her consciousness
and her whole body froze. Over Charlie's heaving
shoulder she saw her father in the doorway, his
face like thunder.
'Oh my God!' she screamed. 'Stop, Charlie, stop,
get off...' But before pushing him away he held him
even tighter.
For a split second Charlie thought that he was
hurting her, that something was wrong, but then he
saw her terrified gaze staring past him and across
the room; he glanced over his shoulder. But it was
too late, he had already started to come inside her
in great, frantic thrusts. At the sight of Dr
Buckler he was seized with panic and immediately
pulled out, trembling, sat up, his flushed face
turning bright scarlet.
As he got up a jet of semen shot across Sophie's
breasts, and as he turned round another, even more
powerful white stream flew across the room and
spattered onto the carpet at Sophie's father's
feet, just missing his shoes. Before he could cover
his red, throbbing sex with his hands he had come
over the sheets and his own thighs as well. In less
dramatic circumstances he might have laughed...
'Charlie!' roared Dr Buckler. 'What the hell do you
think you're doing! Get out of here at once. Get
dressed, go on, get out, get out, get out this
instant!'
In a flash the terrified boy was scrabbling around
on the floor, his still livid erection swinging
like an accusing finger between his moist thighs,
frantically trying to gather up his scattered
clothes, dropping them, picking them up again,
stumbling over the furniture, red as a beetroot,
the sweat of lust on his face and back cooling
rapidly into that of fear.
'Out!' shouted Sophie's father. 'Get your clothes
on boy, no, not here, out in the corridor for God's
sake, then go and wait for me downstairs!'
In shame and dread, Charlie rushed out of the room
carrying his bundle of clothes; the door slammed
behind him, his beloved was lost. He fled to the
bathroom, and as he struggled to get dressed,
trembling, hair standing on end, hopping from one
foot to another, he could hear Sophie's father
berating her. Once he was in a vague semblance of
order he hurried downstairs and waited in the hall,
shaking all over, icy sweat trickling from his
armpits. Soon the shouting stopped and he heard Dr
Buckler's footstep thudding along the upstairs
corridor.
'Wait here boy!' he snapped as he came down the
stairs. He disappeared into another part of the
house, a door opened then closed, leaving Charlie
in a state of shock in the hall. He straightened
his hair, tie and waistcoat in the large gilt
mirror. After what seemed like an eternity, Dr
Buckler reappeared.
'Right, young man. I've just spoken to your
housemaster, and he's expecting you back at your
house this instant. I've also spoken to the
Headmaster, and you're to report to his study at
eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. You can expect a
pretty uncomfortable interview.'
'I'm sorry sir, I... I...'
'Be quiet! I'm not interested in your excuses, save
them for the Headmaster. Right, off you go.' And
he showed Charlie out of the front door.
When he got back to his boarding house, Charlie was
met by the housemaster, who took him straight to
his study. It wasn't a pleasant conversation for
either of them, particular since his housemaster
was fond of the shy, clever, capable boy who he was
sure would get a place at Oxford. He told him that
he was gated for a week, and confirmed that he was
to see the Headmaster the next morning:
'Don't report to the secretary's office,' he told
him, 'go to the side door at the far end of the
private corridor that leads off the Great Hall.
Knock on the door. And don't be late. You
disappoint me, young man, but I suppose that's
life.'
Charlie couldn't get to sleep that night. His mind,
his senses were in a whirl. First he wanted to get
drunk, then have a cigarette, then wank, then fuck
- but none of these were options. He was desperate
to talk to someone about what had happened: in
normal circumstances he would have told his best
friend, Adam Harcourt, about having sex with Sophie
Buckler, she was much admired by the entire sixth
form, who would all be insanely jealous. But he
knew it was impossible. So, after watching TV and
trying to chat normally for a while, he went up to
his room. He tried to take his mind off things by
getting on with some Latin and Greek, but with no
success.
He desperately wanted to be with Sophie, to hold
her, kiss her, - his whole body still smelt of her
- but the thought that he might have got her into
trouble (in more ways than one) left him utterly
desolate. He knew he was in deep shit. Any form of
sexual activity was completely forbidden at the
school, and being caught with a member of staff's
daughter made it a million times worse. He daren't
think what his punishment would be. He tossed and
turned in bed, felt ashamed whenever he sniffed his
fingers and got a now painful erection; only in the
early hours of the morning did he finally fall into
a fitful sleep; but there was no going back.
*
Monday morning
He woke earlier than usual, long before the house
tutor came round, although sixth formers were
expected to get themselves up. His usual morning
erection only served to remind him of the trouble
he was in; instead of wanking he took a cold shower
rather than a hot one. Before the fateful encounter
with the Headmaster he had double English, then
private study until lunchtime - these last two
periods would be taken up with what promised to be
an awkward interview.
He put on a clean shirt, underwear and socks,
polished his shoes, tidied his unruly hair and gave
his jacket a brush. Despite being hungry, breakfast
made him feel slightly sick, and he realized that
what he hungered for more than anything was
Sophie... But that was just a dream now.
At five to eleven he walked down the Headmaster's
echoing, private corridor, heat pounding, beginning
to sweat. He waited outside the door for a moment,
then as the clock on the bell tower struck eleven
he knocked as firmly as he dared. To his surprise
it was his housemaster who opened it.
'Come in,' he said. As Charlie walked into the
large, airy, book-lined room that always smelt of
leather, ink and authority he saw to his alarm that
Dr Buckler was sitting to the right of the large
oak desk, behind which sat the Headmaster.
'Fuck,' he thought, 'they're all here. It's like a
firing squad. I've got no chance.'
'Come in, Millais,' said the Headmaster. Charlie
knew immediately that things were looking serious.
The Headmaster always called sixth formers by their
first names; to be referred to by his surname sent
a shudder down his spine. His housemaster sat down
on the Headmaster's left.
'Well?' asked the Headmaster. 'What have you got to
say for yourself?'
Charlie hung his head. 'I'm very sorry sir. It
won't happen again.'
Silence.
'Sorry for your behaviour, or sorry that you were
caught?' asked the Headmaster, who was well known
for his puritanical views on sex and relationships.
But it was only a rhetorical question. 'I'm afraid
sorry isn't good enough, Millais. You've behaved
appallingly. You've dishonoured a girl, the
daughter of a member of staff, in a school boarding
house during term time, and brought shame on her
and yourself. It's disgraceful!'
'Yes sir.'
'To make matters worse, you might have got the
girl... into trouble.' The prudish man seemed to
baulk at the word 'pregnant.' 'I understand you
didn't use any form of protection?'
Charlie just looked at him blankly. What was he
talking about?
'Contraception, boy. A condom.'
Charlie blushed to the roots of his hair and looked
down at his feet. Cold sweat trickled from his
armpit.
'No sir.'
'So you were thinking purely of your own pleasure.'
'No sir,' Charlie protested, 'it wasn't like that.
It was...' He wanted to say that Sophie had wanted
it as much as he had, that it was actually her who
had made the first move, that it was love, that it
was beautiful, fine, noble... but he didn't dare.
Even in his state of terror he knew that trying to
share the blame with her would only make matters
worse. What had one of his tutors, a rather old-
fashioned but delightful man once told him?
'Nothing is ever a lady's fault.' It was the sort
of adage that the Head Man would agree with.
'So what was it like, Millais? No, don't answer
that. The fact of the matter is that it warrants
expulsion.'
Charlie swallowed hard. What was it like, he
thought? Less than twenty-four hours ago I was in
bed with a beautiful girl, and now I'm standing
here, being treated as if I murdered her.
'Which, considering that you've never been in any
serious trouble before,' the Headmaster continued,
'is a great shame. Your academic work is excellent,
you're expected to get top grades at 'A' level,
pass the Oxbridge exam in the Michaelmas term and
get a place to read Classics at Oxford. Plus the
fact that you're in the second eight, play fives
and fence for your house, that you're a house
prefect who sets a good example to the younger
boys, and that all your tutors and your housemaster
speak highly of you, hm? To be expelled at this
stage would be tragic, don't you agree?'
Charlie nodded, reddening. 'Yes sir.'
'Which is why I'm not going to expel you, or even
suspend you. To do so would destroy your chances,
undo all the hard work that you've done so far.'
For a moment Charlie began to feel relieved, but a
glance at Dr Buckler's and his housemaster's faces
told him that he had no reason to be optimistic.
'Expelling you would also draw attention to your
crime, and besmirch Miss Buckler's honour even more
by the rumours that would inevitably go round.
There is also, of course, the question of whether
Miss Buckler is... with child.' Charlie almost
smirked at the ridiculous phrase, but thought
better of it. 'If she is,' the Headmaster
continued, 'then we'll have to review the matter of
your place here.'
Silence.
'In the meantime, the fact remains that you have
committed the gravest misdemeanour, Millais. You
have flouted school rules in the most outrageous
fashion. I realize that you are both over the age
of consent - you're almost eighteen, aren't you?'
Charlie nodded. 'In two weeks' time, sir.'
'So in the eyes of the law you've done nothing
wrong,' intoned the Headmaster, peering at him over
his glasses. 'As far as the school and Dr and Mrs
Buckler are concerned, however, your behaviour is
totally unacceptable, quite beyond the pale. So you
deserve to be punished extremely severely.'
Charlie began to tremble. His stomach knotted. This
is it then, he thought. There was little doubt what
was coming.
The Headmaster looked him in the eye. 'So I'm going
to beat you, Millais. Frankly you deserve a good
thrashing, so that's what you'll get: twelve
strokes of the cane.'
Charlie felt the colour drain from his face. His
stomach churned, his tight little anus puckered
frantically open and shut, beads of sweat formed on
his forehead. Twelve, he thought. Jesus! It was a
hell of a lot, he wasn't sure he could take it -
not that he had any choice. Seven was the school
norm for serious offences ('go one better than six
of the best' was the unofficial maxim), although
despite popular rumours, canings were few and far
between nowadays. He had never been beaten, and
only knew three or four boys who had, usually for
the most terrible crimes like stealing, taking
drugs or hitting a master.
'Sir.' He hung his head again.
'Take your jacket off and leave it on the chair
there,' said the Headmaster. Charlie quickly did as
he was told, and then stood in front of the desk
again, too afraid to say anything or make another
move. Dr Buckler went to the corner, took a three-
foot long, whippy rattan cane from an umbrella
stand hidden behind a bookcase, and handed it to
the Headmaster. Charlie stared at it and shuddered.
'Since you're so fond of the pleasures of the
flesh,' said the Headmaster, a sour expression on
his face as if the word 'flesh' left an unpleasant
taste in his mouth, 'it's your flesh that will have
to suffer the consequences. Go and bend over the
horse in the corner there - and take your trousers
and pants down.'
Charlie went rigid with fright. He couldn't believe
his ears. He was going to be caned on his bare
backside like a naughty prep school boy! He blushed
scarlet, shuddered, then turned white as a sheet.
For a moment he thought he was going to be sick, or
wet himself. The shame of it!
'But sir...'
'No buts, Millais, or you'll get an extra stroke.
Go on.'
As he walked across the room, Charlie felt his legs
turning to jelly. He was shaking all over. He
stared at the notorious vaulting horse that stood
in the far corner, facing a row of bookshelves, and
which was usually kept out of sight in a cupboard.
Once it was no longer fit for use in the gymnasium,
some twisted individual in the school workshops had
had the bright idea of converting it to its
present, sinister purpose. The legs had been
shortened so boys could bend right over it with
their backside sticking in the air, the leather
repaired, the vaulting handles removed from the top
and a horizontal brass rail fitted to the far side
for the hapless victim to grip onto. His mouth was
dry, his back soaked in sweat. He glanced at the
books on the shelves: one of them was 'Paradise
Lost.'
He started to undo his belt, but his hands were
shaking so much that he couldn't do it. Eventually
he managed, and then had to struggle with the
button, the zip, which stuck. After what seemed
like an eternity he pulled his trousers down; they
slipped from his grasp, slid down his long legs and
landed in a heap round his ankles. The belt buckle
clunked ominously on the floor.
'Hurry up, boy!' came the Headmaster's voice from
across the room behind him. 'Pants as well.'
Charlie gulped. He felt utterly humiliated - but
that was all part of the punishment. It was exactly
what this awful ritual, the waiting, the lecture,
the sight of the cane were designed to produce.
Hands trembling, he eased his briefs down his
thighs. They were identical to the pair he had worn
yesterday, which Sophie had found so arousing; the
fact wasn't lost on him.
'Right, over you go,' came the voice.
Charlie bent over the horse, glanced down as he
felt his cock and balls squashing against the
leather, his pubic hair tugging. He shuddered: it
was almost a turn-on. I'm going to throw up, he
thought. Or faint. My arse is going to be cut to
shreds. Oh, Sophie! He tried to console himself
with the fact that this was all for her.
'Pull your shirt tail up, tuck it in your
waistcoat!'
Quickly he did as he was told, then gripped onto
the brass bar, which he noticed had recently been
polished. And waited.
'Legs apart slightly!'
Charlie moved his trembling legs. This is it, he
thought. Any second now.
His housemaster looked on, disconsolate yet
fascinated. Charlie Millais was a nice boy, this
was a shame. Wasn't the Headmaster being a touch
severe? But rules were rules. Dr Buckler stared at
the pale, round, attractive bottom and justified
himself for supporting the Headmaster's decision to
beat Charlie with the fact that the last time he
had seen these buttocks they had been quivering
with pleasure between his daughter's legs. Now they
were trembling with terror. And soon they would be
bright red with agony, not lust.
There was a pause. Silence. Charlie wanted to
glance back, but daren't. Then he heard footsteps
coming towards him, cloth rustling, felt a slight
breeze, glimpsed a shadowy figure out of the corner
of his eye, sensed the vague presence of a hard
object hovering near his naked backside.
'Fucking hell!' he thought. 'The bastard's taking
aim!'
The Headmaster used the cane very rarely, but when
he did he was famed for his deadly accuracy.
Charlie had seen the buttocks of someone who had
suffered the same punishment as he was about to
receive.
Silence. Charlie closed his eyes, held on tightly
to the rail. He was mortified. His bare arse was in
full view of these three masters, he felt only an
inch high. 'I'm almost an adult,' he thought; 'and
a prefect, an Oxbridge candidate - and now this!'
He bit his lip then ran his tongue over it.
Silence. And then: 'Swooosh... Whack!'
'Agh!' Winded by the unexpected force of the first
stroke, Charlie let out a horrified gasp. It felt
as if a red-hot rapier had cut into his buttocks.
The pain was agonizing, but almost immediately it
faded. Charlie was just telling himself that maybe
it wasn't going to be too bad after all when the
pain suddenly returned, and began to burn and sting
horribly.
This is the subtle horror of a rattan cane, the
reason why it was used. When the blow lands, the
initial pain is followed by a brief numbness. But
then comes the rising tide of agony that gets worse
with each new stroke. Experienced Headmasters know
this, and pause for about ten seconds between
strokes so that the next blow lands just as the
previous one is causing the worst pain. It is all
part of the ritual, the psychological as well as
physical torture.
'Swooosh... whack!' The second stroke landed like a
razor blade.
'Aaagh!' Charlie cried out louder. Any thoughts of
gritting his teeth, playing the hero, the star-
crossed lover, were gone. He was terrified,
ashamed, trembling openly, sweating; all he wanted
was for it to be over, to be away from this awful
room and its sadistic occupants. He desperately
wanted to beg the Headmaster to stop, that he was
truly sorry, that he'd do anything to prove how
sorry he was if only he wasn't caned... but he knew
that this was impossible, that it would only add to
his humiliation.
'Swoosh... whack!'
Stroke number three. Charlie's cry of pain got even
louder. His knuckles whitened on the rail.
The two housemasters watched as livid weals began
appearing on the naked flesh. An expert in the art,
the Headmaster could land six or seven strokes in
different places, never touching the same spot
twice. But with twelve strokes this would be
impossible. A boy's bottom, even that of an
adolescent of Charlie's age, is quite a small
target. It was inevitable that some strokes would
land on top of the previous ones; the pain would be
excruciating.
With the fourth stroke Charlie gave a yell, his
eyes began to water, his nose was running but he
daren't wipe it. He wanted to stand up, but knew
that that would incur extra punishment. By the
fifth stroke he was crying softly; by the sixth he
was sobbing audibly, his tears dripping onto the
floor. The seventh stroke fell on top of the first,
and he screamed: it felt as if his backside was on
fire, his legs began to twitch back and forth as if
trying to shake off the pain.
'Keep still boy!' growled the Headmaster, who was
standing close enough to smell the sweat of fear
that was running down Charlie's back and trickling
between his buttocks. 'Or you'll get more.'
But Charlie found it impossible to keep completely
still. His limbs seemed to be quivering of their
own accord, a form of nervous spasm. He was
beginning to feel faint, he was out of breath,
dripping sweat, the only thing that kept him from
collapsing or passing out was the sound of his own
screams. His whole body was shaking, he tossed his
head from side to side.
Eight... nine... ten. The pain, the hellish fire,
grew worse and worse. It was if he were being
sliced in half. He had never imagined that anything
could be so painful, so cruel, so utterly
degrading. He hung his head and wept.
'Swoosh...whack!' Eleven.
'Just one to go,' thought Charlie - as much as he
was capable of thinking. 'Or was that the tenth? Or
the twelfth?' He daren't ask, daren't look back.
'The Head Man's arm must be aching by now, the
fucking bastard, maybe the last one won't be so
hard.'
Pain.
'Swoosh... crack!' But when the twelfth and final
stroke came, it was the hardest, most vicious of
all, so much so that Charlie was completely winded
and almost collapsed. It was as if the Headmaster
had saved his strength for the last blow.
Silence. Sobbing.
'Right, up you get Millais. Pull your trousers up
and get dressed.'
It was over. Yet to Charlie it was as if it were
only just beginning. He could barely stand up from
the horse, and when he bent down to pull his
trousers up he almost fell over. As he eased his
briefs over his blazing buttocks he gasped in agony
- the elastic cut into the twelve red weals that
were throbbing violently, now at the very apogee of
pain.
Hands shaking, sniffing, wiping his tears, he
finally managed to do up his belt, then got his
jacket from the chair and put it on. The three
masters looked at him. The handsome, lively face
was streaked with hot tears, the dark blue eyes
devoid of their usual sparkle and now red and
puffy, the fine lips trembling, the slender nose
running. The due punishment had been carried out:
Charlie Millais wouldn't forget it in a hurry.
'Let that be a lesson to you,' said the Headmaster.
'I never want to have to deal with you over
something of this kind ever again, do you hear?'
'Y-Yes sir,' stammered Charlie, between sobs.
'Very well. Off you go. There's a cloakroom outside
the door, wash your face and clean yourself up,
then go back to your boarding house. You're excused
the rest of morning school.'
'Th-Thank you sir.' The fact that he had private
study until lunchtime completely escaped Charlie.
He was utterly abject.
'Just one more thing before you go, Millais,' added
the Headmaster, glancing round at his colleagues.
'This is to go no further. It stays within these
four walls. The only people in the school who know
about your punishment - and what you did to earn it
- are the four of us. If Dr Buckler's daughter's
honour is not to be sullied any further, and
protected from malicious gossip, then that is how
it is to remain. Is that clear?'
'Yes sir.'
'You aren't to talk about what you did, or your
punishment, to anyone, - particularly not the other
pupils - or to show them your backside, which I
know is usually what boys do in such cases. If
people know that you've been beaten they'll want to
know why, it's not an everyday event. And once they
know, that's where ugly rumours start. You're going
to have to suffer in silence I'm afraid. Regard it
as part of the lesson you have to learn.'
'Yes sir.'
'Right, off you go.'
The three men watched as Charlie hobbled out of the
room, shaking with pain, anger and shame, trying to
hold back his tears, to preserve at least a few
shreds of dignity.
'We'll have to keep a lid on this business,
Richard,' said the Headmaster, turning to Dr
Buckler. 'Let me know the results of the pregnancy
test as soon as you get them.'
'Of course, Headmaster. My wife took Sophie to the
doctor this morning.'
The Headmaster turned to Charlie's housemaster.
'And do please keep a close eye on young Millais,
Clive,' he said. 'I don't want him doing anything
foolish - or, not any more than he's done already.'
'Absolutely,' said Charlie's housemaster. 'He's a
decent boy, all this has shocked me deeply. But
I'll keep a watch on him, obviously. I've gated him
for a week, he can't get up to much in the school
grounds without someone noticing. I can tell people
it's for some minor misbehaviour, it happens all
the time, no one will give it a second thought. I'm
sure he'll soon get over it.'
The Headmaster nodded.
He'll soon get over it: nothing could have been
further than the truth.
When he got back to his house, having taken a
roundabout route to avoid meeting anyone who might
notice his puffy face and painful walk, he went
straight to his room and studied his backside in
the mirror. What he saw horrified him. Twelve angry
red lines ran across his buttocks, some already
purple from the bruising, a few still bleeding. He
dabbed at them with wet toilet paper; too ashamed
to ask the house matron for antiseptic cream, he
had to make do with soap, which stung. Then he
perched on the edge of his bed, lost in thought.
He desperately wanted to confide in someone, share
his pain, but he was sworn to a silence which if
broken would bring more punishment, even expulsion.
And he wanted to see Sophie, hold her, and yes,
make love to her, tell her what had happened, how
sorry he was, how he wanted to make up for it, how
much he loved her. But it was impossible. And now
he had English, Latin and Greek to do, there was no
let-up, even if he was allowed to tell his tutors
that he had just got the cane it wouldn't be
accepted as an excuse, far from it, although one or
two of them - especially Mr. Prideaux - might cut
him some slack. But no: he was on his own. Putting
a pillow on the chair he sat at his desk and
started revising the aorist.
The rest of the day was spent trying not to attract
attention to himself. Someone asked why he was
limping: he told him he'd twisted his ankle on the
stairs, but that it wasn't serious. Harder to
conceal was his general, preoccupied unhappiness,
which caused a few boys to speculate that he was
'in love' and try to guess who the object of his
yearnings might be. But as plenty of other sixth
formers had similar mood-swings, people soon gave
up and left him to his misery.
That night, after he had finished his prep and
watched TV (standing up at the back of the room),
he took a late shower in one of the cubicles
reserved for senior boys, thus preventing anyone
from noticing the tell-tale scars. Then he went to
bed; luckily he always slept on his side, but
whenever he turned over in his sleep he was woken
by a painful spasm. At about three o'clock in the
morning he drifted into a sort of semi-
consciousness and wanked feverishly until he
dropped off again, his sheets, thighs and stomach
sticky with cum.
*
Tuesday night
The next morning he woke early and in pain. After
an agonizing visit to the toilet, - the rough
wooden seat opened one of his scar and made it
bleed, and wiping his arse was virtually impossible
without crying out in pain - he rushed to the
shower to avoid being seen. His whole life had
suddenly been transformed into a charade, a series
of lies and half-truths: he ate breakfast perched
on the end of a bench; his housemaster noticed, but
instead of telling him to sit properly, he was
sympathetic enough not to comment. The school day
loomed, grey, grim and forbidding.
When he came back to the house at morning break he
found a letter in his pigeonhole. He didn't
recognize the writing, but it looked female, and
seemed to have been delivered by hand. But when,
and by whom? His heart missed a beat: was it
another summons! Was Sophie pregnant? He hardly
dared open it.
Inside the plain buff envelope was a page torn from
an exercise book, folded in half. What was written
on it was brief but thrilling:
'Meet me at the Lower School cricket pavilion at
midnight tonight. I've got a key. Don't be late. S
xxx'
Glancing round, he quickly stuffed it into his
inside pocket and rain painfully upstairs to read
it again and again and again. It had to be from
Sophie! And he remembered that the spare key for
the pavilion was kept at Lutyens, which was nearby.
He spent the rest of the day in a state of panic,
and got lower than average marks in a Latin unseen,
which Dr Buckler, his tutor, was quick to point
out, saying with unconcealed relish that it fell
far short of Oxbridge standards. Apart from that
the subterfuge continued; he took a late shower
again (the housemaster had suggested this and given
him permission, so nothing would be said about him
being up at that time), and then lay in bed in the
dark, counting the minutes until it was time to go.
One benefit of his injuries was that they prevented
him from dozing off.
At quarter to midnight he got up, put on his jeans
and reefer and crept down the service stairs into
the cool night air. Keeping to the shadows, he made
his way to the Lower School cricket pavilion, which
was midway between his house and Lutyens.
The low wooden building was in darkness, its
shutters closed. But as he crept up the veranda
steps and gingerly opened the door, he saw a faint
flicker of light inside. Sitting on a bench in the
far corner was Sophie; she had brought a candle.
The moment he appeared she leapt up, rushed over
and locked the door behind him. Then she threw her
arms round him.
'Charlie! I've been out of my mind!'
They kissed, held each other tight, ran their
fingers through each other's hair.
'I haven't stopped thinking about you, Sophe,' he
mumbled, his face buried in her shoulder and wet
with tears. Already their hands were slipping
inside each other's clothes.
'Ouch!' he gasped as she began to caress his
bottom.
'Oh my darling,' she whispered, kissing him on the
lips. 'Is it really painful? I heard what
happened.'
Charlie stiffened. How did she know he'd been
caned? Had word got out, had the Headmaster or the
others broken their word? He blushed, tried to hide
his shame.
'How did you find out? Who told you? No one's
supposed to know.'
'No one told me. I just guessed from something my
Dad said when I asked what would happen to you. He
said that he hoped you had plenty of cushions to
sit on.'
'What a bastard! Sorry Sophe, I didn't mean to...'
'No, you're right,' she said, moving back slightly,
her eyes swimming. 'They're monsters to do that to
you.' Then she gave a little smile, part sympathy
part flirting. 'Can I... will you show me?'
Charlie stared at her. His groin began to stir.
Then he grinned, and she saw some light come back
into his eyes. The candlelight seemed to have a
softening yet stimulating effect on him, giving him
a taste for wild romance. Taking off his coat, he
turned round and eased his jeans and briefs down,
wincing.
Silence. 'My God Charlie!' she gasped when she saw
his raw, wealed buttocks. 'What have they done to
you? You've been bleeding, it looks like you were
tortured! Did my Dad do this?'
'I think he'd have liked to. But no, the Head Man
did it while your father and my housemaster
watched. I got twelve strokes on my bare arse, it
must have been quite a show. I'm afraid... I'm
afraid I wasn't very brave, Sophe... I cried,
actually.' And he hung his head.
Sophie put her arms round him, kissed him over and
over again. 'Twelve! My God, Charlie, who wouldn't
have cried! And they made you take your trousers
down, that's really horrible, really cruel, you're
not a kid! You're a man, and I love you so much!'
She gave another mischievous smile and went and got
something from her coat pocket.
'I brought this in case,' she grinned. Charlie's
eyes widened. 'It's baby lotion, come on, I'll put
some on for you, it'll soothe those awful scars.
You don't mind do you? I mean...'
Mind? Charlie was ecstatic, if slightly
embarrassed. He blushed scarlet and gave a little
laugh. Then he kissed her, and for the second time
that week he bent over and offered his naked
backside to someone - only this time voluntarily.
'Ouch... aagh... mmmm,' he mumbled as she knelt
down and rubbed the cool lotion into his smarting
buttocks. 'Mmm, that's great, Sophe, further up...
now... a bit lower down... yeah!' He squirmed with
pain and pleasure as her fingers caressed him. 'Yes
yes yes, do it some more...'
Sophie smiled, rubbed and massaged; and then,
starting in the small of his back she kissed and
stroked her way down between his buttocks until her
lips and tongue were brushing his most intimate,
sensitive spot, the same place that she had
explored with her finger on that fateful Sunday
afternoon. As she did so she reached between his
legs and stroked his balls, eased his foreskin back
and forth.
'Oh yeah, Sophe,' he moaned, 'that's fantastic, go
on, don't stop...'
But she stood up, unbuttoned her blouse, and got
him to turn round. His eyes widened as she guided
his hand inside; she wasn't wearing a bra, her
breasts gave off a faint, luminescent glow in the
candlelight. Charlie leant forward and kissed them,
tickled her nipples with the tip of his tongue as
he had before.
Continuing to kiss him, to run her fingers through
his hair, to nibble at his ear she pulled off his
shirt and pullover, stroked her knuckles against
the front of his briefs (he had pulled them up
again). 'No, Sophe, no,' he whispered, 'we can't,
not after... not after last time, you might... you
know... what if you're pregnant, I'll... we'll...'
With a grin she wriggled out of his arms and got
something else from her coat pocket. She dangled a
little sachet in front of his face.
'I've thought of everything,' she whispered. 'I
wasn't a girl guide for nothing you know.'
It was a condom.
Charlie stared. 'Jesus Christ, Sophie! Where did
you...'
Another mischievous smile. 'I stole it from one of
the girls in my class. I think I told you about
her, she had an affair with this older man, or so
she says, she's always chasing after boys. She
keeps condoms in her bag all the time - "Just in
case," she says. So I helped myself to a few. So...
we'll be okay... if... if you want to... oh,
Charlie, I love you...'
'If you want to...' She didn't really need to ask.
As slowly and tantalizingly as they could, they
undressed each other, then stood kissing. They
found an old tablecloth on a shelf, spread it on
the wooden floor then scattered their clothes on it
like cushions and sank to the ground. Sophie gasped
as she felt his hair brushing against her knees,
then downwards along her thighs, then his tongue
and finger slipping gently inside her.
Something seemed to have changed since Sunday; in a
sense Charlie was more, not less diffident, as if
the beating had made him more aware of the
consequences of his actions; yet at the same time
he was more confident, he wanted to give her as
much pleasure as possible, he was holding back,
thinking of her and not just his own desires. He
was still a shy yet passionate boy, finding his
way, but on the horizon, lost in the shifting mists
of adolescence, were the first glimmers of what it
means to be a man.
His raw backside rather limited their movements,
and for a while he lay with his head between her
legs, licking gently, glancing up and grinning as
he ruffled his hair. He would have liked her to get
on top, but that would have to wait until his scars
healed; so instead he sat astride her, his cock
slipping back and forth between her breasts, Sophie
leaning forward occasionally and licking the head.
'Come on,' she said suddenly, sitting up, 'let's be
bunnies.' And she got on all fours and wiggled her
behind at him. 'It's my turn to have my bottom
whacked... sorry, my darling, I didn't mean to
tease, I know it's no joke.'
And she tore open the sachet and took out the
condom. It was bright pink, they both laughed. All
of a sudden the misery, pain and loneliness seemed
to recede into the darkness where it had come from,
they were alive again, breathing the same air - at
least for now. For a moment Charlie just stared at
her, thrilled not only by this clandestine
rendezvous, the renewed intimacy that he thought he
had lost forever because of what the school
regarded as his dishonourable behaviour, - but how
could he ever dishonour Sophie? - but also by the
fact that all of it, even the positions that she
chose for them to make love in, was done for his
benefit.
Almost spellbound, he let her take him into her
mouth for a while, held his breath as she twirled
her tongue round and round beneath the head of his
cock, and then watched as she slowly unrolled the
thin, pink latex along his throbbing shaft. The
touch of it was as cool, as responsive as her
fingers. Once the condom was on they stared at it
for a moment, giggling at the incongruous little
teat at the end. Sophie tapped it, made it wobble.
'There,' she smiled, 'no more babies.'
'Don't joke about it, Sophe. If you're pregnant
they'll burn me at the stake... sorry, that sounds
selfish, what I mean is... I don't want to lose
you...' And he held her in his arms.
'You won't lose me, Charlie. And anyway, my test
results will be through any day now, but if I have
my period in the meantime, and its about due, that
means we're okay.'
He smiled. She had said 'we' again.
'Come on then,' she said, getting on all fours,
'the night's not over yet.'
Charlie knelt behind her, fumbling to find her
silky, impatient sex in this new, unfamiliar
position, then crouched down and flicked his tongue
in and out, stroked her with his fingertips. Like
most boys he found the idea of rear-end sex an
enormous turn-on, although it meant he couldn't
kiss her, look into her eyes as they made love. His
cock was almost vertical, and he struggled to push
it down into a horizontal position and ease it in.
'Mmm,' he moaned, feeling the head slide into her
warmth, past her welcoming, petal-like labia. But
then it slipped out and sprang up again; they
giggled as he gripped the shaft and guided it in
for a second, then a third time. Soon they were
settled, and he began to knead her breasts, kiss
the nape of her neck and hair as he thrust gently
back and forth.
'Oh God, Charlie,' she gasped, 'that's fantastic,
you're adorable, keep doing it just like that...'
So they fucked, the candlelight throwing
fantastical shadows of their bodies across the
musty old pavilion, adding the smell of adolescent
ardour, their inflamed, thrilling sexes, to those
of linseed, dry wood and generations of schoolboy
cricketers. Charlie was amazed at how sensitive the
condom was, how it calmed him, the sex seemed to
last for hours, much longer than their first time.
This is love, he thought, we're making love, not
just screwing, God I love you Sophie, I'll never
let you go, no, not ever...
They came within moments of each other, and
collapsed onto the hard floor, gasping, getting
their breath back, kissing over and over again.
After they had been lying quietly for a while she
eased the warm, bulging condom off of him. Some cum
trickled out onto her hand, she licked it off and
ran her tongue over his lips. Then she laughed and
swung the condom back and forth like a pendulum.
'We'd better throw this in the bushes,' she
laughed. 'Or the Lower School boys will find it and
get ideas. What's the time?'
Charlie peered at his watch, yawned. 'Nearly three
o'clock. Jesus, I've got double Greek first two
periods, there's a grammar test.'
Reality loomed.
'We'll have to leave by four,' she said. 'It'll
start getting light soon after that. Oh Charlie, I
love you.'
'Let's meet here again,' he said.
Her eyes widened. 'You're mad... but yeah, why not.
How about Thursday night... same time?'
Grins of wickedness.
'Okay,' he said. 'I'll have to be quicker with my
prep, maybe take a nap after supper... and sit on a
cushion...' he grinned.
They lay in each other's arms until almost four
o'clock, then dressed quickly between kisses,
tidied up the pavilion, got rid of the candle wax -
this was all Sophie's doing, determined to keep
their meeting place a secret. They embraced one
last time.
'We'll have to leave separately,' she said. 'If
we're so much as spotted together then... I hate to
think. I'll lock the door behind us then make my
way back, you hide in the bushes for a while, count
to a hundred then go another way.'
'God, Sophe, you've got it all sussed.'
'Of course,' she laughed. 'I've got to take care of
my wounded soldier. It makes me so angry to think
what they did to you, I look at my dad and I want
to kill him.'
Charlie stared at her. Then he cupped her face in
his hands and kissed her on the lips, once, twice,
a third time. 'I love you Sophie.'
'I love you too. Don't worry, they won't get the
better of us.'
'It's us contra mundum now,' he mumbled.
'No,' she said, 'we're not up against the whole
world, just this little corner of it. Once we're at
Oxford they won't be able to touch us.'
Charlie didn't want to let her go; she was his
permanent ambassador to wonderland, a weaver of
spells. Her words echoed in his mind: 'They won't
get the better of us... us...' As he huddled in the
bushes and watched her hurry off along the edge of
the playing fields, he felt as if he were floating
off the ground. He saw her stop, toss something
into the hedge (it was the condom)... and then she
was gone. His eyes welled with tears.
He counted to a hundred then made his way back to
the boarding house. As he crept into his cold,
lonely room the first tints of dawn were just
beginning to colour the horizon.
'Ouch,' he said as he collapsed onto the bed. Then
he fell asleep, missed his alarm clock and was late
for breakfast.
*
Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night
They met on Thursday night as planned, and then
again the following night and at midnight on
Saturday as well, swept away by their turbulent,
almost unstoppable passions. For four or five hours
each time - after Sophie had rubbed lotion on
Charlie's backside - they made love by candlelight,
talked, made silly, impossible vows and used two
packets of condoms, all of which ended up in hedges
and bushes. She still hadn't had her period, which
had the advantage of not curtailing their fun, but
she assured him she wasn't late... at least not
yet.
But the nights without sleep, the energetic,
clandestine sex and constant subterfuge soon took
their toll. Charlie was behind with his work, he
wasn't getting enough rest, kept oversleeping,
missing meals or chapel, dozing off in class,
forgetting books and existing on a diet of coke,
crisps and chocolate. What surprised him, however,
was that by Saturday, partly due to the cream, the
weals on his bottom had begun to heal - enough to
allow him to be more athletic. Lying on his back on
the floor of the pavilion, he got Sophie to sit
astride him, and kissed and caressed her breasts as
she brought them both to three climaxes in
succession.
Fortunately for him, his work had always been so
good that his tutors were willing to overlook his
recent, less-than-perfect efforts. But he was
acutely aware that this state of grace wouldn't
last, that he was living on borrowed time: Dr
Buckler had his eye on him constantly; it would
only take one slip, a careless word or look and the
sky would fall in on him.
By Sunday he was cracking under the pressure. The
day before he had got terrible marks in all three
subjects, and had been told to do the work again
for Tuesday. Exams were looming, when he wasn't in
class or revising he was rowing or
supervising junior boys. Constantly bleary-eyed,
pale and distracted, it was only the thought of
seeing Sophie again that kept him going - or
perhaps it was bringing him to a grinding halt.
*
Sunday evening
Late on Sunday afternoon, William Prideaux, the
deputy housemaster of Charlie's boarding house, was
walking back across the playing fields. A misty,
almost summer rain had been falling and the air was
still damp. Along the road the streetlamps were
just coming on. As the house came into view he saw
someone sitting on a bench under a chestnut tree on
the edge of the grounds, leaning forward with their
head in their hands and staring at the ground. As
he got closer he saw it was Charlie Millais.
'Hello Charlie. Not going to supper?'
The boy just glanced up, then fixed his eyes on the
ground again. 'Not hungry sir.'
William stopped in front of him. Raindrops were
still pattering down from the branches above;
Charlie's hair was wet, water was trickling off his
shirt collar. He was only wearing a pullover. His
whole appearance was one of abandon, dejection,
abjection.
'You'll catch a chill sitting here,' said William.
Unlike the busy housemaster, whose time was taken
up with parents, house administration and finances,
discipline and reports, his role as deputy brought
him into daily close contact with all fifty or so
boys in the house. He knew every one of them inside
out, warts and all, and as a result was much loved
by them. Before taking over his present job he had
been house tutor, and had known Charlie Millais
since he arrived from prep school as a bright-eyed
13-year-old.
He had always had a soft spot for him, partly
because he had taught him English for the last five
years, a subject at which Charlie excelled. Over
time their relationship had become close and
confiding, a master-pupil friendship of the kind
peculiar to such schools. But never had the light
in those big, dark-blue eyes seemed as dim as it
was this evening. An adolescent boy off his food?
Not even in the deepest doldrums did they stop
eating.
Getting no response, William studied him for a
moment. Then he sat down on the bench beside him.
'I know what you mean, amice. I expect it's the
usual Sunday night special - corned beef hash. I
thought I'd give it a miss too.'
No reply. Charlie just glanced across the playing
fields, where a faint mist was rising, then stared
down at the ground again.
William looked at him, his tousled hair, the
delicate, winning profile. His lower lip was
trembling slightly, his eyelids were pink and
puffy, his eyes sunken and dark-ringed. 'A' level
work had that effect on most boys, but this was
something far more serious. He noticed a faint,
pinkish mark on his neck, just under his collar.
Was it a love bite? Charlie hadn't said anything to
him about a girl (or a boy, you could never be
completely sure), and they always talked openly
about such things. Why haven't I picked this up
before, he asked himself? No, this is a much bigger
problem. If you don't do something quickly, who
knows what might happen.
'Actually, I thought I'd make myself an omelette,'
he said. 'And there's some tarte tatin as well. Why
don't you come up to my rooms, I'll cook for you as
well. We can share a bottle of wine - I've got a
really nice Fleurie... and some vintage cognac.'
Bingo! Charlie turned to him, watery eyes widening.
He tried to smile but it was more of a wince.
'Thanks, sir, that'll be really nice.'
'Come on then, amice,' said William, tapping him on
the shoulder. 'Let's go and get warm, you wouldn't
think it was nearly summer.'
William's apartment was on the top floor of the
house, and could either be reached by a private
staircase or through the boys' quarters. They took
the stairs, to avoid prying eyes. William sensed
that whatever was weighing on Charlie needed to be
kept secret. When they got in he tossed him a
towel. 'Here, dry your hair and sit by the fire,
I'll get you a drink. Tea? Coffee? Something
stronger?'
Charlie looked at him blankly. 'Do you think I
could have a drink please sir?'
William smiled. 'Of course. Tell you what, I'll
make you some black coffee with a dash of brandy in
it. You look like you could do with it.'
Charlie just turned away and carried on drying his
hair. Then he almost collapsed onto the sofa and
sat staring at the log fire that had been burning
faintly when they came in. While he was making the
coffee, William kept glancing at him through the
door to the little kitchen. The boy was a mess,
both physically and emotionally; it was true that
he was more sensitive than most of the others, but
he'd never seen him in such a state. Suffering was
etched into his handsome, diffident face, he looked
hunted, cornered, could see no way out. William
understood adolescent emotions very well: they
often had tragic consequences.
'Here, that'll buck you up,' he said, handing him a
bowl of sweet black coffee laced with brandy.
Charlie sniffed it, his rosy nostrils twitched, he
took a sip, then another, then another.
'Thanks sir, that's great.'
'I think we can drop the "sir," Charlie. Call me
William. We've known each other for a long time,
you're almost eighteen, we're friends.'
Charlie just looked at him. For a moment his eyes
seemed to sparkle like they normally did, a faint
smile played over his lips but quickly faded. He
drank the coffee, stared at the fire.
'So what's on your mind, amice?' asked William. 'I
don't need to tell you that it'll go no further -
unless you want me to tell someone else, but that's
up to you.'
Silence.
'Oh, it's just... stuff,' said Charlie after a
pause.
'Pretty heavy stuff, if the state of you is
anything to go by. You look like death warmed up,
I've never seen you like this.'
'Death...' mumbled Charlie. He took a swig of
coffee, then another, and then, like a sudden
summer storm he began to cry. His whole body was
wracked with sobs, tears streamed down his face,
his lower lip trembled.
William went over and sat next to him, put his arm
round him. 'Charlie, Charlie, my darling boy,
what's the matter? What is it?'
To his surprise, Charlie threw his arms round him,
buried his face in his shoulder. William's shirt
was soon soaked with the boy's tears.
'Oh sir, sorry, William...,' Charlie sobbed,
sniffing, his voice muffled by the man's shoulder,
'I just can't take it anymore.'
'There's no need to apologize, amice,' said
William, patting him on the back, holding him
tight. 'It takes courage to cry, to say what you
really feel. Just tell me what the matter is, take
your time, let it all come out.'
And, in great, tear-soaked bursts, out it all came:
the afternoon of love with Sophie, her father
catching them, the beating, the pain, the shame,
the enforced silence, the possible pregnancy and
expulsion, their secret meetings, the sex, the
love...
William felt humbled. He was overwhelmed - and
appalled. Twelve strokes of the cane! It was
outrageous. I thought that was pretty much a thing
of the past now, he said to himself. And so it
should be. And then there's all this secrecy, the
boy's been left completely on his own, isolated.
'Please don't tell anyone,' begged Charlie. 'Or
I'll be expelled, I'll never see Sophie again, I...
I...'
For a while they sat on the sofa, arms around each
other. Then William got up, poured them both a
brandy and sat down next to him again.
'Of course I won't tell anyone, but this can't go
on, you're at the end of your tether. You'll never
pass your 'A' levels in this state, let alone
Oxbridge. We can't have that, amice, it's your
future that's at stake - and Sophie's. She wants to
read Classics too, doesn't she?'
Charlie nodded, sniffed.
'Then I think it's time I took this in hand.
Obviously I can't do anything about the pregnancy
thing, we'll just have to wait for the results, I'm
sure it won't be long now. And don't worry, the
secret of your midnight rendezvous is safe. I
always thought you were a Romantic!'
Charlie blushed.
'Leave it with me,' William went on. 'I'll have a
discreet word in the right quarters. It's quite
wrong that you and Sophie should be put through
this when all you've done is love each other -
although I think you could have been wiser about
your choice of time and place; under her parents'
roof in a school boarding house was reckless to say
the least. But there you are - passion waits for no
man. Okay then, let's eat. You uncork the wine,
I'll get cooking. We can talk more over supper.'
William knew from experience that it was best to
keep people busy in situations like this, so he got
Charlie to lay the table, cut some bread and put a
log on the fire as well, all of which the boy did
readily, glad to be occupied.
'This is really good, William,' he said as they ate
their omelettes and salade ni¨oise. It wasn't just
the Beaujolais that had put colour back into his
cheeks; the master's plan was working.
'Beats corn beef hash any day, eh! So are you
behind with your work?'
'To be honest I'm not sure. I've lost track.'
Charlie winced slightly and shifted in his chair.
'Does it still hurt?'
'Not as much as it did, but the scars are still
raw, if I'm not careful they open up and bleed,'
said Charlie. Then he blushed. 'Sophie's been
putting cream on them for me.'
William roared with laughter. 'You're a lucky
fellow, having a beautiful girl to rub cream on
your backside for. The other boys would give their
right arm to have someone do that!'
Charlie looked down, reddening even more.
'And she's lucky too,' William added, refilling
their glasses. 'Having you as a boyfriend. I know
what she sees in you.'
'Do you... I mean... really?' At the word
'boyfriend' Charlie's face lit up.
William laughed again. If he was honest with
himself, he was quite jealous of Sophie. Charlie
Millais was adorable: those diffident, self-
doubting blue eyes, that ready blush was enough to
turn anyone's head.
'Of course I mean it. You're kind and gentle. Oh,
you're not perfect by any means, amice. I've known
you be sulky and sarcastic, take the piss
unmercifully out of fourth formers, pick a fight.
But girls love it if a boy is a bit shy, hesitant,
they don't like loud-mouths, people who know all
the answers and never stop talking. Whenever you
blush you're telling her that she means a lot to
you.'
Charlie blushed, emptied his glass. 'Can I have
some more salad... and maybe another glass of
wine?'
'Help yourself. I'll get the tarte tatin.' That's
step one accomplished, thought William - he's got
his appetite back. But there's still a way to go.
'If you need extra tuition to catch up, just tell
me and I'll arrange it,' said William as they were
eating the tarte. 'There's no way I'm letting you
fluff Oxbridge.'
'I'm not sure I can handle it.'
'Of course you can. But that's why this business
with Sophie needs to be sorted out, and then you
can both concentrate on your exams. So leave things
to me, amice, and knuckle down to some work.'
The boy smiled, and poured them both more wine.
It was quite late when he left William's rooms,
full of a good supper and rather more alcohol than
even a senior boy was normally allowed, but with a
lighter heart. He ran a hot bath (it wasn't too
painful sitting on the hard surface now), then got
into bed and tried to read a Latin textbook. He
dozed off for a while, and when he woke a fine rain
was pattering on the window. The sound was somehow
comforting, and he turned out the light and went to
sleep.
*
Monday afternoon
At morning break the next day, William went to see
Richard Buckler in his office. They were old
friends and had taught at another school together
before coming here.
'I need to have a word with you about Charlie
Millais,' he said. Richard Buckler stiffened
slightly.
'Oh yes? What about? His work has been pretty damn
shoddy lately. He needs to buck his ideas up or he
won't get into Oxford.'
William hesitated, but decided to take the plunge.
'I'm not surprised his work is suffering after the
way he's been treated.'
'What do you mean?'
William just raised an eyebrow and tilted his head
to one side; it was his way of saying that he knew
exactly what had happened.
'So you know... ? He told you... after the
Headmaster specifically ordered him not to say a
word to anyone... How dare he!'
'With respect to the Headmaster,' said William,
'that's far too big a burden to lay on a 17-year
old boy who's about to take his 'A' levels and then
do Oxbridge. I found him sitting under a tree in
the rain; he looked as if he was going to hang
himself from the branches - I'm not exaggerating,
that sort of thing happens. He had to talk to
someone, Richard, it's a basic human need. I've
been his tutor for five years, so I know him very
well. And I assure you that I won't breathe a word
to anyone about the business with Sophie.'
Richard Buckler frowned. 'The "business with
Sophie" as you so coyly put it might have got her
pregnant, quite apart from the fact that he did it
under my roof, completely flaunted school rules. A
beating was better than expulsion, I'm sure you'll
agree.'
'You know my views on corporal punishment,' said
William. 'And when you say "he did it" you seem to
be forgetting that it takes two to tango, if you'll
pardon the expression. Sophie obviously loves him,
otherwise she'd have never...'
'Love?' said Richard. 'Don't be ridiculous. They're
just kids.'
'Don't mock, Richard. You might call it puppy love,
but to them it's deadly serious. I've talked to
Charlie, and he certainly is. If you try and keep
them apart there'll be tragic consequences, I
promise you.'
'So what do you suggest, William? Surely you don't
expect...?'
'No. But I think they could be allowed to see each
other, it'll help their feelings evolve. They're
both applying to Oxford to read the same subject,
they have plenty in common... in a word, they can
give each other the support they need at the
moment. You've taught Charlie for years, Richard,
you know him - and you know your own daughter:
they're both intelligent and responsible, if you
show them some trust they'll repay you.'
William smiled to himself. He'd been slightly
liberal with his use of the word 'responsible.' But
he had no intention of telling Sophie's father
about her and Charlie's midnight assignations,
which although touching were a sign of the
desperation they both felt.
'Responsible?' queried Richard. 'I'm not so sure.
But you're a good man, William, the boys in your
house think the world of you. Young Millais doesn't
know how lucky he is to have you on his side. I'll
talk to my wife, and Sophie, see what we can do.'
William smiled. 'You're a good man too, Richard. I
knew I could count on you.'
*
Tuesday afternoon
The next morning, Charlie's housemaster told him
that he had to go and see Dr Buckler after school
that afternoon. His stomach knotted, his blood ran
cold. What now, he thought? William had only told
him that he had spoken to Sophie's father, nothing
more.
He made his way over to Lutyens as inconspicuously
as possible, heart pounding, hoping not to bump
into anyone he knew. When he knocked on the door of
Richard Buckler's study, his hand was shaking as
much as when he was summoned to the Headmaster.
'Come in,' said Sophie's father, waving him to a
chair in front of his desk. Charlie sat down
awkwardly, still trembling slightly, painfully
aware that he was blushing and that this man had
witnessed both his crime and his punishment.
'Well, young man,' began the master, looking at him
over his half-moon glasses. 'You've got influential
friends, people who are prepared to go in to bat
for you.'
William! thought Charlie.
'Mr Prideaux came to see me, he knows you better
than I do. I have to say that he would have made an
excellent defence lawyer... which, considering your
behaviour, was definitely what you needed.'
Charlie blushed and looked down. Fuck, he thought,
what now? Have they found out about the pavilion?
'I've got some good news for you,' Richard Buckler
went on. 'No thanks to you, Sophie isn't pregnant.
So you can thank your lucky stars that nature
intervened on your behalf as well as your friend -
and I use the word advisedly - Mr Prideaux.'
He watched as a visible look of relief spread over
the boy's face. 'But please don't think that I
condone your behaviour. I most certainly don't.
You've simply been lucky this time - and I'm not
prepared for there to be a second time, at least as
long as you're still a pupil at the school. Is that
clear?'
'Yes sir.' Charlie swallowed hard.
'However,' the master went on, 'having spoken to my
wife, to Sophie, Mr. Prideaux and to the
Headmaster,' (here Charlie shuddered) 'it's quite
clear that you're fond of each other and have
things in common - not least that you're both
applying to read Classics at Oxford. So your
guardian angel, Mr. Prideaux, is quite right when
he says that you'll be able to help each other
through what is an extremely arduous academic
test.'
Charlie just looked at him. He couldn't quite grasp
what the man was getting at.
'So...' Richard Buckler continued, 'I'm prepared to
let you and Sophie see each other, go out
occasionally. And, if your parents agree, she might
be able to visit you at home during the holidays so
you can revise together - on the condition that
there isn't a repeat performance of last week. Is
that clear?'
Charlie couldn't believe his ears. He just sat with
his mouth open.
Richard Buckler watched him for a moment. 'I'll
take that as a yes,' he said. 'Sophie's school is
having a sixth form dance this Saturday. If you'd
like to take her, then my wife and I are quite
happy about that, as long as you come straight back
afterwards and are home by midnight at the latest -
we'll be waiting up to make sure you do - and don't
oversleep and miss chapel the next morning.'
'No sir, right sir, of course, absolutely sir!'
Suddenly Charlie seemed to snap out of a trance. He
stammered and blushed uncontrollably. . 'That's
fantastic sir, thank you very much, I... I...'
'That's settled then,' said Richard Buckler. 'It
might be a good idea if you came over and met my
wife, and perhaps talked to Sophie, one evening
this week. Shall we say Thursday after prep? I have
a feeling that we're going to be seeing quite a lot
of you from now on.'
Charlie dared to smile. 'Yes sir, yes, of course,
I'd like that very much, thank you sir...'
For the first time, Richard Buckler smiled as well.
With all the recent drama he had quite forgotten
what a nice boy Charlie Millais was. The sort of
boy who you'd be happy to let your daughter go out
with...
'Very good,' he said. 'Off you go then young man.
Oh yes...' he added as Charlie got to the door,
almost glowing. 'Don't forget that Homer
translation I set last week. It's due tomorrow
morning without fail.'
'Right sir, absolutely, you'll have it on the dot
sir, I promise.'
The master listened to him hurry away down the
corridor, and chuckled to himself.
As he was walking out, Charlie bumped into Johnny
Templeton, one of his friends.
'Hey Millais!' said the other boy, 'the Girls'
Convent have got a bop this Saturday. Are you
going?'
'Yes, as it happens.'
'Oh yeah,' sniggered Johnny sarcastically, 'and I
suppose you've got a bird to take as well?'
'I have actually,' said Charlie, trying to hide his
feelings of triumphant excitement beneath a veil of
nonchalance.
'Yeah, yeah, yeah, much,' said Johnny. 'Who is it
then, Minnie Mouse?'
'Sophie Buckler.'
Johnny just stared at him. But before he could say
anything more, Charlie was gone. He felt as if his
feet had wings. All the way down the road back to
his house he jumped up at the weeping cherry trees
and plucked blossom, tossed it in the air. 'Yes!'
he kept repeating, 'yes, yes, yes!'
The moment he got in he ran straight upstairs and
knocked on William Prideaux's door. When he opened
it, the master was met with the sight of a boy
almost dancing up and down.
'Come in,' he laughed. 'I'd say that you've got
something to tell me. You look like a dog with two
tails.'
As soon as the door closed behind him, Charlie
threw his arms round him. He was crying tears of
joy.
'Thank you sir... William... thank you so much, you
saved my life! I don't know what I'd have done
without you!'
William just laughed, patted him on the back. 'Me?
Surely not. I just appealed to Dr Buckler's better
nature. We all have one, you know - even the
Headmaster.' They both laughed. 'So, amice, what's
your news? I can see you're itching to tell me.'
'I can go out with Sophie!' laughed Charlie, his
face aglow. 'I'm taking her to a dance at the
Convent on Saturday, we'll be able to see each
other, help each other with revision, she can even
come and stay... we can... we can...'
'This calls for a celebration,' smiled William,
'only I think it had better just be cider, you
can't supervise junior prep drunk.' And he poured
them both a glass. Charlie could barely stand
still, he was hopping from one foot to the other.
The boy who had been sitting under the tree
thinking suicidal thoughts was quite forgotten.
William looked at his ecstatic face. Being deputy
housemaster was a thankless task, but every once in
a while you were rewarded with something - and
someone - very special.
'Will you come to our wedding?' asked Charlie. 'No,
actually, I'd like you to be my best man! I bet
you'd give a fantastic speech!'
'Aren't we getting slightly ahead of ourselves?'
laughed William. 'Once you've calmed down there's
the small matter of exams. And talking of speeches,
I've got a testimonial to write for your Oxford
application, it goes to your first choice of
college. The Headmaster asked me to draft it for
him. So I suggest you behave.'
They grinned at each other.
'Here's an idea,' William added. 'Why don't you and
Sophie come for a drink before you go to the dance
on Saturday? I only know her vaguely, it would be
nice to talk to you both, hear about your plans -
for university,' he added, smiling, 'not for the
wedding.'
Charlie's blue eyes sparkled. 'That would be cool,'
he said, and threw his arms round him again.
'Drink up,' said William, 'it's time you got down
to some work. Don't forget you've got a Chaucer
essay to do for me, it's due the day after
tomorrow.'
Charlie drained his glass in one, shook both of
William's hands until he thought they would drop
off, and then rushed off back to his room.
*
EPILOGUE
So how did things turn out? From then on - or as
much as work and school rules allowed - Charlie and
Sophie were virtually inseparable. Despite his
promises to her father, however, and the memory of
his beating, they continued to meet in the cricket
pavilion, although only a few times a month - and
always using what the Headmaster had so prudishly
referred to as 'protection.' In fact they often
didn't make love at all, or just had very slow,
gentle sex, and would spent the rest of the night
in each other's arms, talking, kissing, waiting for
the first light of dawn before returning to
everyday reality.
They both got excellent grades at 'A' level, and by
working together through a long, cold, exhausting
and often miserable Michaelmas term, passed the
Oxbridge exam, much to William Prideaux's delight.
On his advice they choose different Oxford colleges
- it was best not to live on top of each other, he
said, it could starve a relationship of life. In
the nine months before going up to Oxford they
travelled round Europe together, worked on the
grape harvest in the South of France and at a youth
camp in Spain, visited ancient monuments in Greece
and Italy, stayed in little pensions, made love in
the afternoon, danced till dawn and lived on kisses
and cafˇ cr¸me.
They kept in touch with William Prideaux, who went
on to become housemaster before being offered the
post of headmaster of another school. He remained a
bachelor, devoted himself to the boys in his
charge, was instrumental in having corporal
punishment abolished, and helped revolutionize
pastoral care in boarding schools. Of all the boys
he helped and advised, none of them ever captured
his heart quite like Charlie Millais, whose
photograph always stood on the desk in his study,
his shy, dark blue eyes staring out at him, full of
hope and tinged with self-doubt.
END
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The
author does not condone the described behavior in
real life in any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted
to act out any of the scenarios in this story should
seriously consider seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 80