The Old Lodge

by Mike Ward

To say that Richard was my boyfriend would have been to speak without regard for accuracy. For starters, he was fifty-three, I was twenty-four. He was old enough to be my father and that was just how he liked it. He had had other long-term, live-in boyfriends but, as he made perfectly clear to me when we started seeing each other, he had always dumped them when he felt that they were getting too old; somewhere around their twenty-fifth birthdays. But age wasn't the only thing that stopped me thinking of him as a 'boyfriend'. There was also the fact that in no way were we equals or partners. Richard was in charge, of everything. He controlled the money, but there again, it was his money. He gave the orders, set the chores, insisted on a long list of rules. He even chose the clothes I wore, and yes, you guessed it, he was never slow to order me into position for a long session of corporal punishment whenever he felt that I had fallen short of the standards he required.

I had been living with him in his suburban home for four years. He would say that he always liked to get his boys young because they were easier to train. It often struck me that he really would have liked to pick up his boyfriends at an even younger age, but he had his reputation to think of and he was always scrupulous in his observance of the legal boundaries. Basically, he liked having a young lad around all the time, and he was rich enough to have whoever he chose.

Rich! Well, why else would I have stuck with him? He was nice enough and not bad looking for his age. But given the restrictions he placed on my life, his rather one-sided approach to sexual pleasure, and his delight in wielding the cane, I had plenty of reasons for thinking that life could be a lot better for me. But on the other hand, I didn't have to go out to work, I was well-fed and warm, I had acquired a handful of educational qualifications from various courses he had chosen for me, and then there was the promised redundancy package. So all in all, it was easier to stay put and accept his authority over every single little bit of my life.

And let's be honest; I quite liked being treated as a little boy without any responsibilities or worries. Sure, I got the cane a lot, and of course I bridled at stuff like having to go to bed at ten o'clock every night and being made to wear school clothes all of the time, but it was any easy enough life. And in my own way I had grown very fond of the old guy and even though he would cane me if he even thought that I was trying to masturbate, I still found a lot of satisfaction in sucking his cock and accepting his cum whenever he ordered me to my knees before him. I was his boy, and for the time being that was enough.

But after four years of Richard's discipline and control you can imagine that I wasn't all that dismayed when he announced one November morning that he was going to have to work abroad for a few months and it would not be possible for him to bring me along. Richard, you see, had made his money simply by having the luck to have been a senior manager in a state-owned utility when Maggie T had started her privatisation crusade. Basically, like all the other managers, he had been given massive amounts of shares simply to make sure that the company was run so as to be attractive to paying shareholders. It was all a great con, a rip-off that left tax-payers paying to make rich men richer. But the end result was that, as well as being enriched, Richard had acquired a reputation for being able to turn companies around and he had a pretty lucrative line in consultancy work.

So he'd had to work away from home a few times before but he had always dragged me along, if for no other reason than to have a handy shoe-shine boy to hand in the mornings and a nifty cock-sucker on call in the evenings. But this time, this time he was going to be working in one of those places where people get all uptight about guys showing up with their pretty boyfriends. He would have to go, I would have to stay.

I tried to sound disappointed and upset, but my mind was already sorting through the many possibilities that would be presented by a few months' freedom. My cock was already straining in my tight little-boy briefs at the unexpected prospect of being coaxed to orgasmic joy. I was calculating, adding up the months since I had last managed to sneak a momentary session of hand-held pleasure. Four. Four months since I had last stroked my cock, but even then I hadn't dared bring myself to orgasm. Aside from regular wet-dreams as my body did what it could while I slept, it had been an incredible three and a half years since I had last cum. You may well look shocked, but you weren't the one who had to endure Richard's wrath when he walked in shortly afterwards and found me still sweating and mopping up the evidence of my transgression.

I remember every single stroke. I was naked, stretched across the bench in the garage, tied down. Richard had the senior cane. He was livid, mad with anger, dangerous with rage. There had been nothing erotic about that caning. I always suffer pain when he punishes me, and I have never enjoyed the cane or strap. Sometimes, when Richard isn't really angry with me he will take me across his lap and smack me with his hand, and that can be kind of nice and comforting. But he insists that punishment is meant to make an impression, it should lead to better behaviour and closer observance of the rules. So when he punishes me, I never enjoy it, but at least he seems to get some sort of pleasure from those sessions and most times I have to express my gratitude to him by accepting his cock in my mouth.

But that day, when he caught me masturbating, he punished me, and I learned the lesson. Don't even trouble yourself by trying to imagine the scene as he thrashed me. Let's just say that he was never the kind of guy who believed that the cane should not be allowed to draw blood, and that day he did not hold back. Afterwards he had left me tied down for hours before releasing me and sending me to my room. It was a week before I could bear to wear anything more than a light cotton t-shirt. The scars took two months to heal.

I was Richard's boy and I submitted.

So, of all the things that a young man could dream of after four years of being controlled and reduced to the juvenile status of a well-tamed boy, what most excited me was the idea of being free to relax with nothing but my hands for company. While I was dreaming, Richard was still talking. Somehow I realised that he was getting close to a conclusion and I switched my attention back to his words.

'So all in all, I reckon it would be for the best if I sign you into the Old Lodge for a couple of terms. I guess you've never heard of the Old Lodge?'

'No, Sir, I haven't.'

'Well let me explain.'

There would be no months of freedom. I had genuine tears in my eyes as Richard explained that the Old Lodge was a very special place, for very special boys just like me. It was run along the lines of one of those old crammer schools that used to take three or four boys at a time and subject them to a period of intensive study in preparation for the examinations that would let them make the move from prep school to public school. Only the Old Lodge didn't deal in thirteen year olds, it offered its rather exclusive services to those young men who were, just like me, in disciplinary relationships. A place where boys like me could be sent when our boyfriends found themselves unable to supervise us, or when family or other circumstances made it difficult for boyfriends to have us around.

It sounded awful. Worse was to follow. The house used to be a hunting lodge and was stuck in the remotest wilds of the Scottish Highlands. The rules were strict, the punishment was corporal, the uniform traditional. Boys who were sent there, and boys was the term they used for us no matter what our age might happen to be, were required to pursue the studies needed to pass the Common Entrance Examinations that are still a feature of life for thirteen year-olds in our private schools. Study, obligatory cross-country runs, austere conditions, and more study. That was what was on offer. Richard reckoned that it would do me a lot of good.

Christmas came and went in the usual way. Richard treated himself by having me undergo a course of electrolysis because he didn't like the feel of my early morning beard on his skin when he had my head between his thighs and his cock in my throat. He had me kneeling before him quite a lot in anticipation of months without having his boy to hand whenever he felt like having his cock sucked. Just after New Year we took the train up to Edinburgh and spent a few nights in a self-catering appartment.

The Old Lodge sent a list of uniform and other requirements. I would not be allowed to bring anything that was not on the official list. The only concession was that boys were allowed to wear long school trousers when travelling to or from the school, but these would be taken and locked away on arrival. I didn't mind wearing grey school trousers. I'd grown used to them as Richard often insisted on having me wear school uniform when shopping or otherwise out and about in public, and being slim and young-looking, nobody ever looked twice at what they must have taken to be a Dad and his smartly attired son. And Richard liked to have me wear shorts during the summer months. But the Old Lodge was even more strict and they gave the name of the department store where the required items that made up the school uniform could be obtained.

It must have been something about being so far away from home. Perhaps Richard really felt with my new hair-cut and freshly waxed legs - there's agony for you - I could really pass for a teenage boy who was being kitted out for one of Scotland's more traditionally oriented schools. Anyway he didn't seem at all embarrassed at handing the list over to a sales assistant in the schoolwear department and asking her to make sure that I had everything I needed. I could have died. Her eyes scanned the list as she said that she would be delighted to be of assistance, but I saw those eyes flicker in surprise, and I could guess why. That list was imprinted on my mind and I didn't need to have it in my hands to know that this young woman, probably a year or two younger than me, was reading the words, 'navy school shorts, four-inch inseam, three pairs'. Or further down the awful references to red knee-length socks and white briefs.

As she ran her tape-measure around my neck, chest, and waist, I knew that my face must have been as scarlet as those appalling socks. Richard had explained to me that a few Scottish schools had, even as late as the mid-eighties, kept boys in shorts all year round up to sixteen years of age. But those days were gone, this was 1990, and I just knew that this girl was being very professional in disguising her surprise. Maybe she really did think that I was only fifteen or sixteen years old, but even so, I still guessed that I must have been the oldest boy she had ever been asked to kit out in short trousers for school, and on a chilly day in January too.

A huge pile of stuff was built up on the counter: grey shirts and white vests, underpants and socks, navy crew-neck jumpers and sky-blue shortie pyjamas. Rugby shirts, shorts, and pt shorts joined the rest. My twenty-eight inch waist presented no problems when it came to the shorts. The shop had them in all sizes up to thirty-six, they must have had some pretty stout twelve-year-olds in the local prep schools. And of course the shorts had to be tried on. Our friendly shop assistant looked at Richard and said that it would be better to make sure that they fitted properly and I was directed to a small changing cubicle and told to put them on and come out so that they could see how they looked.

I felt like a total prat standing in the middle of that shop while Richard and the girl had me turn around. What must I have looked like? I was handed one of the jumpers and had to put that on as well. Richard remarked that I looked fine enough and would do, as if he was a gruff old Dad who didn't feel that he should have to be wasting his time taking his son to be outfitted for his new school uniform. The girl asked the name of the school that I was going to. Without batting an eyelid Richard told her, "The Old Lodge; they specialise in lads like him". The only consolation I had for all this embarrassment was the size of the bill that dear old Richard had to pay. The Old Lodge might not require formal blazers and stuff but even so this kind of schoolwear didn't come cheap.

I was weighed down with bags as we walked along Princes Street. I must have developed some sort of paranoia for I began to imagine that everyone we passed could see that these shopping bags contained such an old-fashioned set of clothes. By a burger restaurant Richard stopped and remarked, "Now don't they look smart. You'll be just like them next week." Ahead of us were two boys. They must have been twelve or thirteen, one of them was quite tall. They were chatting away, oblivious to the chilling air around their exposed knees. I had to admit that they did look the part, and indeed their uniform was more formal than that required by the Old Lodge. They were wearing blazers, grey school shorts, and red kneesocks. I thought, however, that they were pretty lucky. Their shorts reached their knees. Richard thought that I should be glad to see that other boys had to wear shorts too. I could just imagine the looks those boys would have given me if they had seen such an older and taller lad wearing those awful red socks with shorts as short as the ones I was carrying.

Back at the appartment I was set to the tedious task of sewing name labels on every item including handkerchiefs and socks. Richard had ordered the labels before the holidays and they had my new name on them, 'Michael Smythe', my own first name with Richard's surname. This was the style required by the Old Lodge. A boy would be known by his guardian's surname, it was just another way of making sure that we boys knew our place.

So, it was as Michael Smythe that I arrived at the Old Lodge. Richard had hired a car for the journey and we set off at first light to travel up through Scotland, a journey which still took nearly three hours and brought us ever more north into colder and colder weather. The roads were reasonably clear but there was plenty of snow around and my knees shivered in anticipation of their forthcoming exposure. The Old Lodge was on a small estate of its own. Small that is by Highland standards, at only three thousand acres. But that was enough land to ensure that the house itself was set a good couple of miles from the main road.

In the hallway I was greeted by a tall man who must have been in his seventies. He shook hands with Richard, smiled and welcomed him, and then turned to me and told me to remove my trousers. I had, of course, been expecting that order but I was still surprised to be told to remove my long trousers when I was barely in the door. But I knew that I didn't want to suffer the consequences of being seen to hesitate. My trunk was opened and a pair of those short navy school shorts was handed to me. Whatever extra warmth that was afforded to the very tops of my legs by the white cotton lining was easily negated by the cold air of a Highland winter. I was left standing in the hallway while Richard and the gentleman went into a well-lit and invitingly warm-looking room. A few minutes later, formalities completed, Richard set off. He wanted to get back to Edinburgh before dark. I felt utterly miserable as he shook my hand rather formally and told me to be a good boy and to be sure to be attentive to my studies. There was a glint in his eye. I guessed that he was happily imagining the misery that lay in store for me. Then he left.

The old gentleman turned to me. "You will have to wait here until lunchtime, I am not interrupting class to get another boy help you carry your trunk to the dormitory. At all times, remember this boy, at all times from now on, if you are told to wait you will turn to the wall, put your hands on your head, and remain still until you are called. But first, hold out your hand."

He produced a short tawse from his inside pocket, lifted it into the air and brought it flying down into the palm of my upturned right hand. "Now the other hand".

"You should be ashamed that I have had to punish you in your first few minutes here. We try not to be overly severe but boys must learn to obey the rules and work hard. Now pull that sock up properly."

So I spent my first couple of hours at the Old Lodge standing in a cold, dark, and draughty hallway, my hands smarting from the strap, my eyes staring into the grey stone wall. I really wanted to go the toilet but I didn't dare move, and anyway, I still hadn't been shown around and I didn't know where anything was. I knew that I looked ridiculous in my school uniform and, at the risk of repeating myself, I felt bitterly cold. As the minutes passed I felt more and more miserable, more and more like a little boy sent away to school for the first time. I wanted to be back at home with Richard, warm and happily sucking his cock. I wanted to run away but I didn't entertain that thought for long. The Old Lodge was very far from anywhere, its remoteness making it perfect for the purpose that had been found for it. And anyway, could I really face the thought of going out in these little school shorts?

I thought about the rules that had been sent down to Richard before Christmas and that I had had to learn. The stuff about keeping our uniforms tidy, socks up, shirts tucked in. Rules about letters and phone-calls (we could write letters, but only to people on a list approved by our guardians. We could receive letters but they would, like the letters we wrote, be read by our designated tutors. We could make one phone call a month to one person, again approved by our guardians. We could receive one phone call a month, but only from our guardians. Rules about going to bed and getting up again, about cross-country runs every morning before breakfast. "Surely not," I thought, "surely they don't make us run outside in this weather!" I felt very, very, alone and dejected and suddenly found myself actually sobbing into the wall for a few seconds.

"Cheer up old man". A voice came from the gloom by my side. "The worst is yet to come you know". This was all said in a jovial way and I turned towards the speaker, not sure that I wasn't having my leg pulled. Before me, in the same juvenile school uniform, was another boy. Blond and utterly gorgeous, He smiled at me and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Jamie, welcome to the Old Lodge". And then, with one hand feeling my backside, he leaned towards me and we kissed, deeply but not for long. "Better not get into this too much now," he whispered, "wouldn't do to have one of the old beaks catch us at it".

Jamie helped me carry my trunk upstairs to the dormitory. There were six beds in the room but, I was told, it was expected that only four of them would be occupied that term. I was the last arrival. Jamie told me to wash my face and hands, "carefully, mind you, we get inspected". The unpacking would have to wait, it was time for lunch.

Back downstairs I was introduced to the two other boys, Colin and Julian. They were both pretty good-looking too, especially Colin who was wearing shorts that were even shorter and tighter than mine. It turned out that Jamie and Colin were starting their second and third terms respectively at the Old Lodge, and they seemed happy and relaxed enough. Julian was another new boy, sent up here while his boyfriend was away with his Territorial regiment. Jamie was an adult schoolboy who had been adopted by a gay couple while he was at university in Manchester. They had packed him off to the Old Lodge for a year as a reward for graduating with a first. "Reward!" He laughed at my obvious amazement.

"It's ok here, Mike, so long as you can take a few whacks. You'll soon get into the routine. Just accept that you're just a boy again, and a boy who lives back in the fifties at that. Once your mind adjusts you'll find that we manage to make our own fun".

What Jamie meant by fun was pretty clear to me, his left hand was gently massaging the inside of my right thigh, while he slurped soup and kept one eye on the other table in the dining room. And I had an eye on that table too, for sitting there, along with the old guy who had tawsed me so soon after I arrived, were two other men. "So who are they?"

Colin replied. "The tall old bloke with his back to us, he's Kendall, but we have to call him Headmaster, he teaches Latin and French. The other old bloke is Wilkins, he teaches maths and English. The younger bloke is the Sergeant, he takes us for PT and history."

"The Sergeant?"

"Yeah, he's pretty fit. And he's real ex-army. His idea of history is wars and military, so his classes are always the best bit of the day".

I warmed to my companions. Colin was actually the oldest, but only by a month. That left me next oldest, then Julian who was twenty-two, and Jamie who was still three months short of his twenty-second birthday. But as far as our masters were concerned we were four thirteen year old boys who had to be taught and disciplined. I took some comfort from Colin's account of how punishment was used. "So long as you accept that you are a boy, you will get no more than a boy might have expected in the old days. We never get thrashed just for fun, it's always because you've broken a rule or been slack in your lessons. OK, so we get two or three whacks of the tawse in most lessons, but it's a lot less than my boyfriend used to give me every day. And if you study hard and stick to the rules you don't get whacked. There was one bloke here in my first term who really didn't like getting tawsed and he managed to avoid it most days by being a real goody-two-shoes little swot."

I laughed, relaxed and among friends already. I'd never before known anyone with whom I could talk about how Richard kept me controlled and punished and now I had three friends who knew just what it was to have a boyfriend (or two in Jamie's case) who liked to wield a cane and keep young men reduced to juvenile status. Lunch was pretty good too. It was just soup and bread, followed by an apple, but it was obviously home-made soup and the bread freshly baked.

Afterwards we had to clear our table and bring our dishes over to a trolley and that was when I really blushed with humiliation and regained consciousness of the ridiculousness of my attire. For when we put our bowls down on the trolley a middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen and smiled at us. I was introduced to Mrs Mactaggart, the housekeeper. It seemed to me that it was one thing to be wandering around in school uniform with scarlet kneesocks and short little-boy shorts in front of other guys and our masters, but it was quite another thing to be seen in this juvenile get-up by a mature woman, even if she was smiling and obviously well-used to the sight of young men in boys' school uniform.

But the presence of Mrs Mactaggart and her assistant in the kitchen was something I was apparently just going to have to accept. They were, in a way, a comforting sign that the Old Lodge was really run on school lines with kitchen staff in their white uniforms, teaching staff in their tweed suits and jackets, and boys in their short trousers.

We boys went up to the dormitory. We had twenty minutes to spare before one of the masters would come up and check that we had settled down for that mandatory afternoon nap. This meant that we had to have removed our shoes and be lying on our beds either sleeping or reading, but certainly silent and without even the merest hint of a whispered conversation. Jamie helped me unpack my trunk, showing me the proper way to distribute my boyish clothes between the drawers under my bed and the bedside locker. My regulation school coat, wellingtons, and brand new walking boots, were all put to one side to be taken down to the cloakroom. The unpacking was quickly done and the trunk moved over by the door in readiness for storage.

Time and again Jamie would brush his knees against mine, or let a hand rest on my legs while we sat side by side on my bed checking socks and garters and underpants and assigning each to its proper place. Naturally I accepted his obviously flirtatious gestures. Let's face it, Richard was far away by now and had, afterall, dumped me in this place. And Jamie was easily the most attractive guy I had met in ages, and he certainly looked none the worse for being dressed in a short-trousered uniform. But Jamie's advances were not the only thing that had my prick straining in my pants. For over by the door Colin was on his knees and servicing Julian with what, by the look on Julian's ecstatic face, was an expert and pleasurable demonstration of the art of cocksucking.

Knowing that sexual activity and masturbation were strictly forbidden in the school rules and carried the most severe penalty in the list of possible punishments, I turned to Jamie and asked him if it was really safe for the other two to be so obviously engaged in such a severely proscribed activity. Jamie's reply was straightforward and impossible to misconstrue. With one hand up inside the leg of my shorts he pulled me towards him and started to kiss me for the second time. Pulling away for a moment he smiled at me and said, "I'm glad you reminded me about that. I knew that we had some unfinished business left over from our meeting in the hall. Of course it's safe, so long as they are by the door they are bound to hear either the Head or Wilkins puffing up the stairs, and the Sarge is a decent bloke and always whistles a tune when he's on duty. Of course, if we get caught then we get the senior cane and one guy was even birched and expelled. But then, he was a bully and had forced himself on a smaller guy. But I reckon, so long as we keep watch and stick to sucking and kissing and hand-jobs we should be safe enough. So what do you want to do?"

The years of enforced chastity were telling on my penis as Jamie and I returned to kissing each other, our tongues deep in each other's mouths, and each of us with a fondling hand up inside the leg of the other's shorts. I broke away and whispered into Jamie's ear. "It's three and a half years since I came. Please suck me, I promise I'll do you too. Could we 69?"

Jamie looked at me in shock. "Three and a half years!" I nodded.

"We'd better wait until the beaks have been round to check on us. Colin will keep watch."

A few minutes later, when old man Wilkins looked in, four very good boys were lying on their beds. Jamie was engrossed in a Biggles adventure, a very pleased-looking Julian was reading about the escapades of Jennings and his schoolmates. Colin was lying on his side, his eyes shut. On my own bed I was looking out through a window as yet more snow fell. I was wondering if Richard had made it back to Edinburgh, and I was thinking about how odd it was that I didn't feel the slightest bit of guilt about what I was planning to do with Jamie.

Wilkins looked round and then in his gruff voice told us that we had better be extra quiet and good for the next half hour as he had work to do in his study and if we disturbed him, well, we'd know all about it.

He left the door open behind him but all the same, within a few seconds Colin was out of bed and keeping watch. He turned to us, thumbs up, and mouthed the words, "go for it".

A few minutes later I was the happiest boy on earth. Jamie and I had managed to cum together and my tongue was savouring his juice while my brain was overdosing on the joy of my first orgasm in years. Richard was history. So long as he paid the fees and kept me here at the Old Lodge I knew that, whatever thrashings I might earn, I was going to be a very, very happy boy.

And boy, did I earn a few thrashings! I quickly fell into the school routine. The bell would ring at seven o'clock every morning and we boys had to leap straight out of bed, strip out of our pyjamas, and stand to attention for the first inspection of the day. The duty master would march in, strap in hand, and check that our pyjamas and sheets carried no evidence of illicit nocturnal activities. Then, except on Sundays, it was straight into pt shorts, t-shirt and runners and we were despatched out into the cold early morning air for a run that varied in length, sometimes as little as two miles, sometimes as much as six. Naturally enough I was the last to finish every day and just as naturally I would have to bend over for a couple of lashes of a heavy tawse across the back of each thigh so that I might feel motivated to try even harder the next day. But it was good. By the end of the second week I was much healthier and fitter than I had been in years and while I was still last to complete the morning run I was beginning to catch up on the others.

After the run it was straight into a shower room on the ground floor, just inside one of the side doors. It was just a small room with tiled walls and eight shower-heads hanging from the ceiling, and we would have to scrub ourselves clean under the full blast of what was, of course, cold water. Then we would be shepherded, naked, back up to the dormitory where we dealt with grooming and getting dressed in our school uniforms. Julian and Colin would shave and had to be extra careful to make sure that they did a thorough job of it. Jamie, being blond, only needed to shave every few days, while the electrolysis had clearly done its job in my case. Needless to say Julian and Colin would tease Jamie and I by saying that some day we might grow up to be big boys too. It was all very good-natured and amusing in its own way.

After breakfast we would head straight for the schoolroom where, Monday to Saturday, we would begin with an hour's prep, a valuable opportunity to try and cram up on whatever pieces had been set for us to learn off by heart. Then the lessons would follow until three o'clock, interrupted only by lunch. And the strange thing was that all four of us took to the schooling quite seriously. Our masters conveyed no sense of being engaged in anything like role-play. They took their teaching seriously and we applied ourselves to the work, helped along by the ever-present tawse.

We were model pupils and did our best. Latin was completely new to me and I struggled to make sense of it. The maths should have been easier, it really was the curriculum for twelve and thirteen year-olds and I had a dim memory of doing similar work when I was a schoolboy the first time round. But whether through uninspired teaching, or lack of application on my part, or just the mere passage of time, it was stuff that I had long forgotten. Even multiplication and long division were difficult to grasp. But whether it was Latin, or maths, or French, or history, or whatever else our masters decided to teach, it was all taught by three guys who obviously enjoyed teaching. It was incredible to see the old headmaster getting excited about some obscure passage in livid Livy. And as for history, well we boys simply lived for history. The Sarge never disappointed us. History, as I had been told on my first day, was basically devoted to armies, battles, and wars. For once in my life I knew that I was really learning and enjoying it too, and it seemed that my companions in short trousers were just as appreciative of this strange opportunity.

But no matter how much I might have enjoyed these lessons, and no matter how much any of us seemed to work, none of us ever managed to escape the tawse for a whole day. The headmaster wasn't entirely satisfied with a piece of translation, "hold out you hand, boy". Old Wilkie refused to accept that enough effort had been put into working out some awful multiplication of fractions, "bend over boy". And when Wilkie said 'bend over', that didn't mean that you would have the protection of your shorts. No, those little shorts would be pulled up even further, and two or three cracks of the strap would land on exposed thighs. And then there was the Sarge. We really liked him and enjoyed his lessons, and we even managed to enjoy the physical exercises that he forced us through. But at the slightest hint of slacking on a run or if he thought that more effort could be extracted during push-ups, that tawse of his would be licking the backs of our legs. And in his history lessons, well, it was always best to have our homework done and carefully completed. "Eight errors boy, eight strokes. Hand out and don't you dare move your hand away while I'm thrashing you".

It was the strap to keep us on our toes, the strap to encourage us to put that extra effort in, the strap to motivate us to even higher levels of achievement in our studies and fitness programme. But it never felt terribly excessive. All four of us had been in disciplinary relationships and we knew that, no matter how often we were tawsed, it was always used with some sort of reason and not just on a whim or for the obvious pleasure of a master. The headmaster had a set of canes in his study and they were a frightening looking array of instruments, but they were very rarely brought into action. The cane was reserved for serious disobedience and matters of discipline, and we really had very little opportunity to engage in any illicit activities. We were not allowed to drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes and anyway, we were something like twelve miles from the nearest shop, and we had no money at all between us. We were not allowed to initiate conversations or friendships with anyone outside school, but nobody ever came near us anyway.

The only rule we could break was the one about sexual abstinence, and even then, that was a rule we didn't get the chance to break as often as we would have liked. Our masters were clear that they had a contract with the guys who had sent us here, the so-called guardians who paid the fees. And that contract meant that our asses and cocks were meant to be safeguarded for the sole pleasure of those guardians when eventually we returned to them. There was certainly never even the slightest hint of flirtation between any of the three masters and us boys. They might have suspected that we occasionally engaged in light sexual fun, and if any of us failed to show signs of a wet-dream from time to time, there would be an embarrassing interview when we would be probed as to our masturbatory activities. Colin, who had been at the Old Lodge longer than the rest of us had his own theory. "So long as they never actually see us, and so long as we never fuck each other, they'll be careful not to walk in on us unannounced." And that was how it seemed. Our after-lunch naps provided the most frequent chances for a bit of sucking and stroking, and in a way it all felt very innocent.

During my first term at the Old Lodge I only got the cane once, but the good thing was that Jamie was caned alongside me and somehow the experience brought us even closer together, a sort of brotherly bonding.

We had been out with the Sarge on the hills. At least once a week the Headmaster would walk in and announce that the weather was far too good and that we should take the chance to develop our scouting skills. Of course the best days between January and April were always the coldest days with frost or fresh snow on the ground. We would pull on an extra jumper, get into our coats, and march off wearing hiking boots. Bizarrely, given all that extra warmth on top, we would roll our kneesocks down to the top of our boots in an approximation of hikers' socks, and no matter how bitterly cold it was, we still had to wear short trousers as we trudged out through glens and over hills.

Sarge was always in charge on these expeditions and he really knew his stuff. A combination of a Highland childhood and his army experience meant that he could stalk a deer almost regardless of the wind direction. He taught us a lot about hillcraft, map-reading, and the old skills of the gamekeepers and poachers. Those were utterly magical days. After the first shock of the chill air we would forget that we were wearing our school shorts and that our legs were bared to the icy winds. A few miles of hiking up some of the local mountains and we would soon be warm enough. And then Sarge would lead us around rocks and down into hidden glens where we would crawl on our knees through the wiry heather and creep up into easy shooting distance of magnificent red deer. But we didn't bring guns with us, we just watched and competed to see who could crawl closest without disturbing those beautiful animals.

For a city bloke like me this was all wonderfully new. Before coming up here I could identify about four kinds of birds; pigeons, robins, crows and seagulls. At the Old Lodge, under the Sarge's careful tutelage, I learned to tell the difference between city pigeons and wood pigeons, between crows, rooks, ravens, and blackbirds, between common, black-backed, fulmars, and herring gulls. My nature notes included sightings of grouse and capercaillie, and the record of the day when we tracked a pine marten through the snow. Brilliant, every single moment, was utterly magical.

One bright afternoon in March we were resting on the top of the Ben and drinking in the incredible view when we heard voices approaching. Two blokes with rifles walked up to us, all dressed in their heavy tweeds and somewhat plummy accents. The Sarge stood up to greet them and we boys stood behind him, suddenly incredibly conscious of our bared legs and our juvenile uniform shorts. It was clear that the new arrivals were well known to the Sarge and he to them, and they chatted amiably about the movement of herds of deer and the possible location of an old stag who was either going to be shot in the next week or would die unremarked in some hidden glen. I suddenly found that I was incredibly turned on by the fact that these two blokes seemed to be ignoring the four of us despite our rather incongruous attire as schoolboys. They obviously regarded us as no more worthy of being included in their conversation than any other little boys who might happen to be present when adults met. These men clearly knew about the Old Lodge, its function and its traditions, and they accepted that the boys of the Old Lodge were just that, boys.

The Sarge eventually looked at his watch and told them that it was time he got us lads back down to the school. The younger of the two, who was probably in his fifties, smiled and looking straight at us said that we looked like a smart enough bunch of boys but that, "all the same, boys need plenty of the tawse to keep them in line". And with that he and his companion turned and walked down one side of the Ben while the Sarge led the way and marched us back down the other side. I was caught between embarrassment and delight. The shame of being publicly acknowledged as a short-trousered, well-tawsed schoolboy, and the delight of having my status looked upon as something rather ordinary and appropriate. Glancing at Jamie's eyes I could see that he was also emotionally charged by the experience. The Sarge was way out in front of us and I took a chance, held out my hand, and for a while Jamie and I walked along, hand in hand, like two little four-year-olds on a school outing, childhood best friends.

By now it was beginning to get darker and the Sarge picked up the pace a bit, perhaps for the added warmth, possibly in the hope that we might get back to the Old Lodge in what was left of the daylight. Suddenly Jamie tugged on my hand and pulled me down into a patch of heather behind a rock. I had barely reached the ground when he had his tongue in my mouth and we were kissing like the two lovestruck teenagers we had become. Jamie had a hand plunged down inside the front of my shorts while my hands were working their way up the back of his legs and under the hem of his shorts. It was a beautifully stolen moment and if we hadn't had our tongues down each others' throats I would have been giggling with delight. We broke off fairly quickly and peered over the rock. The Sarge, Colin and Julian had reached the bottom of the glen and were standing together in a little huddle. It didn't take much to know that Sarge would have been either very concerned or very furious when he realised that he was missing two boys. And somehow, as I looked down, I had the feeling that he was looking straight at our hiding place and that the look in his eyes was more anger than worry. Jamie and I looked at each other, neither of us sure that it might not be better to stay hidden than face the wrath that seemed to await us if we marched down now.

Jamie and I exchanged glances, shrugged our shoulders, and stood up to face the music. Hiding out for much longer was guaranteed to make things worse, and it didn't take much to work out that we were probably in as much trouble as we had ever been. It was a long walk down that hill to join the others. It felt like an even longer walk, paced out in total silence, back to the Old Lodge. Inside the door the Sarge placed one hand on my shoulder and the other on Jamie and steered us into position facing the wall. I was back where I had started, and just as on the first occasion when I was left to stand there all morning until lunchtime, I found myself listening to the ticking of the great clock and hearing the chimes counting out the quarter hours until supper was over and it would normally have been time to settle down for evening prep.

I almost felt that it was some sort of relief when the Head came up behind us and ordered us into his study. The lecture was the usual kind of stuff; all about personal responsibility, the safety of the whole group when out on the hills, the importance of truly internalised discipline, our status as the most junior of schoolboys who needed constant supervision. I felt completely mixed up, I could feel my face blushing at the onslaught and truly felt that I was as small and juvenile as an eleven-year-old lad counting the seconds until the inevitable thrashing, while another part of my mind was flitting back to the wonderful sensation of being snuggled up to Jamie, tongue to tongue, hands happily roaming inside each others' shorts. But if my mind was confused my prick was completely clear about how I felt. I really cannot remember ever having had such a raging erection and my tight schoolboy shorts were amplifying the incredible sensation of a throbbing cock that was working its own way towards eruption. And a sideways glance towards the front of Jamie's equally tight little navy shorts was enough to confirm that he was also heading towards a climactic end.

The Head finally worked himself out of clich�s and admonitions, and sentenced each of us to a dozen strokes of the junior cane. Bare-bottom of course, but I felt that it could have been a lot worse. Jamie was the first to go and he stretched himself out over the Head's big desk, his shorts tightening even more so that I knew that if I didn't look away I would be unable to control my cock's response. I curled my hands into fists and tried to dig my nails into my palms to distract my mind from the inevitable. The Head pulled Jamie's shorts and underpants down to his ankles, stood back, paused, and then brought the cane up into the air.

It was utterly beautiful, like a ballet, every movement and breath choreographed to perfection. Each stroke landed perfectly on it its target as the Head worked the cane from the top of Jamie's bottom to the top of his thighs, and then back up again. Jamie counted out the number of each stroke, clear and loud and calm. By number eight I knew that he was going to cum within seconds, but he must have found some extra reserve of control. It didn't happen until the very moment when the last stroke made contact. "Twelve Sir! Thank you Sir!" was screamed out and I watched in stunned amazement as he came, and came again, and came again, and flooded the desktop in that wonderful cream that I had come to regard as the most precious expression of the affection that I increasingly felt for him.

The Head sounded terse, as if was trying to restrain the most awful rage, when he looked down at the collapsed figure of the boy that he had just thrashed so perfectly. "It's your mess boy, you better clean it up."

Watching Jamie kneeling at that desk and outrageously licking up his own cum, stretching out his tongue, rolling his spunk around the dark green leather of the writing surface, and sucking up every last hint of his ecstasy, I found myself praying incredibly hard, that I might share the same experience. I wanted to be caned to joy, thrashed to exuberance, punished until I too erupted. And when my turn was announced and I stretched over that desk I knew that it was incredibly probable that I would suffer the pain and pleasure together with just as much passion as my companion.

And there was plenty of pain. The first stroke was shocking in the charge it delivered to my brain. There is only ever the present moment when you are being thrashed but I had an immediate sense that this was going to be the most skilful and painful caning of my life. It was something about the way the cane seemed to sing through the air and whip itself deep into my muscles and by the fifth stroke I felt my bottom begin to spasm. From the sixth stroke onwards I was having to work hard to control my spine from arching up into the air in response to the deepening pain. But all the time I was also aware of the amazing fact that my cock was still ragingly hard and pressing against the desktop as it sought the ultimate joy of release. On the ninth stroke I felt myself to be incredibly close to coming and I concentrated on trying to last until the last stroke which only a few minutes before had made Jamie's climax seem so spectacular. I felt as if I had to summons every last ounce of strength and control from deep within my being and I was delirious with success when I counted out the eleventh stroke, thanked my skilful disciplinarian, and allowed myself to plunge into the furthest depths of that fraction of a moment when the cane came down for the twelfth and last time.

Never before, and never again since that evening, have I experienced such an incredible orgasm. It seemed to rise from the soles of my feet, to course through my legs, and erupt through the top of my head. I was so lost in the joy of those seconds that I have no idea of how many times my cock pulsed before there was nothing left to be drained. I didn't wait for the Head's barked order, but sank to my knees and savoured the taste of my own cum, delighting in every last drop. I was in heaven, and while I knew that I had fallen in love, I wasn't at all sure if I had fallen for Jamie, or for old man Kendall, the Headmaster, or possibly for the cane which had brought me to this incredible state of being.

I thought that there was the slight hint of a glimmer of delight in the old Head's eyes as Jamie and I pulled up our shorts and presented ourselves as two smart looking schoolboys in our tight uniforms. We were certainly effusive as we expressed our gratitude for the thrashings we had received. This man was a true genius of the cane and Jamie and I knew that we had been privileged to suffer this punishment, an experience that we were sure would never be forgotten.

I would have imagined that the excitement of that day would have made sleep difficult. We had been sent straight up to bed and the looks that Jamie and I exchanged as we made our way up towards the dormitory were an indication of our shared hope that we might sneak a little bit of fun together before the others came up and the lights switched off for the night. But the exercise on the hills, the excitement of our escapade, the long hours of standing in the corridor, and demands and climaxes of our punishment canings, countermanded any further activities that night. By the time we got into our pyjamas we were both stumbling with weariness. I'm not at all certain that I managed to get into bed under my own steam that night, I do know that I slept. The following day Colin and Julian told us that we looked like the two happiest boys in the world as we smiled in our sleep, not even stirring when the other two had arrived up expecting to be regaled with tales of our adventures in the Headmaster's study.

We were back into the usual routine for the last two weeks of that term. Easter was approaching, the weather was a little bit kinder to bare-legged lads, and I was mildly proud of the fact that I could still make out the fading traces of my first Old Lodge caning. The only change from normal was the fact that all four of us were putting extra effort into study and revision for the end-of-term exams that would result in reports to our guardians. I was beginning to make some sense of Latin and felt a real sense of achievement whenever I managed to get a decent mark for my prep. The continuing regime of daily exercise had had a definite effect on my body. I was now able to keep up with the others on our morning run and it was noticeable that my short trousers, which had been quite snug when I arrived, were a little bit looser and I had had use the button adjusters on each side of my waist to tighten them again and keep them from falling down. I felt incredibly healthy and happy.

The one disappointment was the fact that Jamie was going home to his guardians for the Easter holiday. Colin was also heading off for the fortnight and so Julian and I were going to be left on our own with old man Wilkins in charge of us. Jamie and Colin would be returning for the summer term and we had been told that there would be two other boys joining us then, filling our dormitory to capacity and bringing the possibility of new adventures. On the final day of the Easter term I was bleary-eyed with tears as I hugged Jamie. It felt as if we had known each other for a whole lifetime and any remaining loyalty that I had had for Richard, my own guardian, had been overtaken by my joy at having found a true soul-mate. But Julian and I were perfectly capable of keeping each other company for a couple of weeks. While Jamie and I usually paired off together, and Colin paired off with Julian, we had all continued to enjoy experimenting with other couplings and foursomes. I knew that my own technique as a cocksucker had improved considerably over my first three months at the Old Lodge and I suspect that all four of us appreciated the somewhat innocent dimension of our sexual activities as born-again schoolboys.

As the two holiday-makers set off in a car with the Sarge Julian suggested a game of tennis and I was happy to work off some of the sadness of losing Jamie for the fortnight. In fact, after several rounds in which I had managed to maintain a bit of a lead over my opponent I was much more sanguine about the prospects for this Easter break. Julian, as always, looked utterly gorgeous in his white tennis outfit, his extra-tight shorts stretched over his perfect little backside. I knew that we would have some fun together during the holidays, and I equally knew that our fun would not detract in any way from the relationship I had with Jamie.

And so it was. We were like two pubescent boys sharing the newly discovered thrill of masturbation and ejaculation. We stuck to wanking each other off and somehow took enough pleasure in that gentle activity to keep each other satisfied. And there were other, equally innocent, pleasures to be had even though Wilkie kept us to a timetable of exercise and study, as well as sending us off on long walks over the hills. I guess that he knew enough about the relationship that each of us had with the two who were away to feel that he could trust us to spend time together and not engage in anything too heavy. And rather unbelievably, but entirely truthfully, he was completely right. We walked for miles, and each evening returned to the Old Lodge satisfied with having seen spectacular views and watched deer and the other wildlife roaming or flying around the glens. It was a proper schoolboy holiday and I could hardly believe that in a couple of months I would celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday. The mirror confirmed what I felt inside, I was about fifteen years-old again. A teenage boy under the strict control of old-fashioned disciplinarians who insisted that boys should be kept in short trousers all year round and subject to the control of the rod and strap. The Old Lodge had given me my youth back again and I was sure that the years ahead would hold plenty of wonderful experiences.

Although perhaps none of those experiences would be quite so peculiarly exhilarating as the few days when Wilkie took Julian and I down to Edinburgh, and guided us through that wonderful city; both of us happily behaving and dressed as the holidaying schoolboys that we had become. We stayed in a flat in the centre of the older part of the city and enjoyed taking in the sites, climbing the Scott monument and being suitably impressed by a visit to the camera obscura. The flat belonged to the Head and was a bit basic as he only used it a few times a year. Julian and I slept in a room that was just about big enough for the two old iron beds and a little desk by the window that boasted a drawer containing an ancient tawse, evidence that the room had seen duty before for hosting lads from the lodge. It was Wilkie who opened the drawer and pulled the strap out, making it absolutely clear that we could expect to be soundly thrashed for any misbehaviour even if we were on holiday.

The holiday mood was reflected in a relaxation of our uniform. We were allowed navy crew-neck sweaters! Everything else was the same, the short little school shorts and the long red socks. But we were allowed to roll the socks down towards our ankles just as we did when we went hill-walking and somehow this felt slightly less juvenile. Of course we attracted plenty of stares as we walked about the city-centre but I could see that Julian looked no older than fifteen or so and I hoped that I passed for a similar age. Even so anyone seeing us must have thought us a bit old to be dressed in such an old-fashioned manner, but most of the jeering smiles we got were from jeans-clad teenage boys. The summer term began as we passed our last couple of days in the city and on our last day Wilkie had Julian and I smarten up for one last tour of the New Town. We pulled up our socks, polished our shoes, and let ourselves be paraded through the streets early that morning as if we were two traditionally attired schoolboys being escorted to class. Of course Wilkie knew exactly what he was doing as we joined boys and girls who were heading towards their various schools and colleges, for while it was true that the vast majority of the boys we saw were wearing long trousers, there were quite a few who were wearing shorts. I exchanged a sheepish grin with a lad who was actually taller than me as he passed us, his brown knees on display under long navy shorts. Little did we know it a the time but we were being escorted through an area where some of the more traditional schools were based, and where short trousers on older teenagers were still in evidence in the summer term.

Wilkie took Julian and I to that department store where I had experienced the humiliation of being outfitted for the Old Lodge. Apparently my own school shorts were no longer deemed acceptable as I had become fitter and trimmer over the previous term. A size smaller was to be purchased for me and I had to endure the leering smile of the shop assistant, a young man this time, who was camper than a jamboree and didn't bother concealing his delight at seeing two apparently fifteen or sixteen year old boys enduring the shame of being kept in short trousers. He remarked to Wilkie that they didn't have many boys our age being outfitted with school shorts but there were a still a few and, this from someone who was definitely not as old as my real age, he felt that it was no bad thing at all to keep older boys in short trousers as we always seemed much more polite and well-behaved than our long-trousered confreres.

This time, instead of being sent of to a changing cubicle, I had to endure the added humiliation of trying on my new shorts in full view of everyone, it having been decided that there was no need to waste time and that boys didn't really require privacy. I would have died of shame if this had happened only a few months earlier but I had been in the role of schoolboy for so long now that I actually enjoyed being treated as no different to any other boy who might be brought in here for new school uniform. And I didn't feel that there was any mistaking the intention of the sales assistant when he adjusted my new shorts, letting his hand settle over my genitals and giving me a very friendly pat on my backside. Afterwards, as Julian and I sat in the back of Wilkie's car and were driven back towards the Old Lodge, I indulged myself by wondering just how long it was before that young assistant had found some quiet time to indulge in a wank with me as his centre of his fantasies and arousal. By the time we got back to school my own cock was pulsating its own arousal and trying to burst through my new extra-tight and extra-short little shorts.

Jamie and Colin were up in the dormitory along with the two new lads when we got in. They had arrived about half and hour ahead of us and the room was in total chaos as the four old hands caught up on news and the two newbies were introduced. I was in serious need of a few quiet moments with Jamie as my cock had become even more aroused, my brain clearly sending signals downwards about the pleasure of Jamie's proximity. But it seemed wise to check that the new guys were going to be ok about some of the irregular activities that we so enjoyed in the dorm, and willing to join in the fun. It seemed as if things might turn out to be a bit confusing when one of them introduced himself as Jamie. Two Jamies in one class! It wouldn't do and he was pleasantly accommodating when told that he would have to revert to being a James.

The other guy was a Nigel and he looked incredibly unhappy to have found himself in this situation. He was not only the youngest, being still only twenty years old, but he was also the fattest, his 36 inch shorts looking as if they would burst at any moment. It turned out that his boyfriend had freaked when Nigel announced that he was dropping out of university and had sent him up here to get himself sorted out. There was no doubting the fact that he was the least happy to be cast back into life as a schoolboy in such a traditional and strict establishment, and it was also obvious that there would be no convenient pairing off between Nigel and James. So it was that the six of us went down to evening meal without any of us having enjoyed the relief that at least four of us were so desperate for.

Nigel went out of his way to be unpleasant and despite the fact that he was in the same boat as the rest of us he insisted on making lots of rather catty remarks about the little boys in their shorts. He told us that he expected to be out of the Old Lodge within a few days and that he was going to put up with any more of this nonsense. The four of us who were more experienced in the ways of our masters smiled at each other and suggested to him that he would do well to see how things turned out. But his snide comments got through to us and we realised that we would have to be careful in his presence as he was obviously prepared to drag the rest of us down with him into his great well of misery. It didn't take much to imagine Nigel walking up to old Kendall and denouncing us if he caught us wanking or sucking each other off.

As a result the new term was almost a week old before I managed to have even the rather mechanical relief of a solitary and hasty wank in a toilet cubicle. It was clear from the fronts of their shorts that the others were having just as difficult a time of it, all six of us displaying rather prominent and almost permanent hard-ons under the tight blue cloth. The only comfort for me was the fact that each morning Nigel would come huffing in last from our morning runs and his backside was spared no pain as the Sarge wielded the big heavy tawse. The tense atmosphere seemed to have spread to our teachers who strapped all of us on every possible occasion and for every minor slip in either behaviour or diligence at lessons. The relaxed fun of the previous term had disappeared. Something would have to be done.

It was Colin, whom we looked upon as unofficial head-boy, who took the initiative after lunch as we worked our way through the tenth day of term. The Sarge was on duty that afternoon and although I have no evidence of this I still suspect that he may have suggested to Colin that it was time for action to be taken. As usual we were lying on our beds in the typical manner that betokens the youth of any age who is being forced to take an afternoon nap. I was working my way through yet another Biggles adventure, Biggles being about as mature a book as we were allowed. I could see that Colin was preoccupied about something but he was just lying back on his bed staring at the ceiling when Sarge came in did the usual naptime inspection. He could have hardly reached the bottom of the stairs before Colin had ordered James to go to the door and keep watch. Colin signalled to the rest of us and we joined him by Nigel's bed.

Perhaps it was something to do with the shared experience of a term together, or maybe just down to the frustrations of several days of sexual denial, but we managed to work as a team even though we had no preset plan. A pair of socks were quickly stuffed in Nigel's mouth and then, taking turns with three of us holding him down, we did to Nigel what we hadn't dared to do for ourselves over the previous week. We jerked him off. Not once, not even just four times. Turn by turn we took his cock in our hands and milked every last drop out of him until he was crying freely from the pain. And that pain was twofold; the awful pain of being jerked off over and over and having your cockhead rubbed raw time and time again, and the deep-burning agony that was Colin's very special contribution to Nigel's torture. Because Colin provided us with the lubricant that we used on Nigel's poor cock, a jar of Tiger Balm. It didn't take much to imagine what this stuff was doing to Nigel. The burning must have been incredible and when we were finished and had returned to our beds we had the satisfaction of seeing Nigel turned over and sobbing deeply into his pillow.

I went to masturbate myself but quickly changed my mind when I realised that the trace of Tiger Balm on my hand was enough to cause some of the burning pain that we had just inflicted on Nigel. I looked up and saw Jamie giggling at me, clearly aware of what I had been about to do and deducing the reasons for my hesitation. Julian had taken over the watch by the door and seemed relaxed enough about missing out on the activity that suddenly sprang into life in the dorm. For I was over on Jamie's bed, the pair of us sixty-nining with passion, while James was kneeling on the floor sucking Colin.

Thereafter things seemed to settle down a bit. Nigel was still the outsider in the group and basically had to be content with solo masturbation. Colin, Julian, and James seemed to have a happy enough little threesome going and this appeared to work because both Julian and James enjoyed submitting to our head-boy's authority. Jamie and I were getting deeper and deeper into each other and it still amazed me that we had spent all this time together without either of us trying for anal play. We stuck by the unspoken agreement that meant that our masters would overlook much that we did so long as we kept it simple and stuck to mouths, hands, and cocks. Actually fucking each other would have been interpreted as a breach in the contract that we and the school had with our paying guardians, and for some reason that I don't really understand, we kept our side of that contract.

The daily rituals of exercise and lessons continued and I found myself becoming more and more content in my role as a teenage boy packed off to a traditional boarding school. All of us were enjoying the heightened awareness that comes with being fit, healthy, and absolutely sober. There was very little to distract us and our leisure time, which was pretty limited, was restricted to kicking a ball about in one of the adjacent fields, or reading through the school's library. Naturally enough the library was not exactly stuffed with the kind of books I would have really wanted to read, but as there was nothing else we all contented ourselves with histories of Rome, illustrated books on wildlife and nature, Every Boys Big Book of Everything, along with the complete works of Blyton, Buckeridge, Johns, and a few others. Thankfully I managed to avoid getting stuck into the ancient set of novels by Charles Dickens. I'd done Hard Times at school and I didn't feel that I wanted to be reacquainted with the great novelist. The world must have continued on making news and going to war, and having speeches by politicians and bishops, but for the boys of the Old Lodge all of that went on unknown to us. We weren't allowed newspapers, there was no television, and radio had been limited so far to a series of science lectures on Saturday mornings along with one very special treat, the chance to listen to the rugby match between Scotland and England. But that was it in terms of entertainment and you can imagine that my football skills had come on amazingly. And then of course, there was the sweet innocence of boys wanking and sucking each other. What else could a lad need?

What I really didn't need was the series of tests that was sprung upon us during May. Just as the weather was beginning to warm up a bit and my legs were beginning to feel less exposed, old man Kendall announced that we would be examined using the Common Entrance questions that had actually been used by boys in their English prep schools earlier in the year. And just to make sure that we took them seriously he announced a carrot and stick approach to the results. The carrot was that the boy who came first would be made an official prefect for the rest of the term. The stick was quite literally just that. A dozen strokes of the senior cane for any paper that we failed, six strokes for any paper where we didn't achieve a grade B or higher. He didn't have to repeat the terms for each of us went immediately into revision mode and buried ourselves in our notes and text books for every second of available time.

It should have been easy enough. Let's face it, we were all in our twenties and reasonably bright. Some of us had degrees or other qualifications. And these examinations were designed for twelve and thirteen year-olds who were making the transition from prep to secondary school. All the same, when I turned over the first paper, Latin of course, my heart sank and I knew that I was in for a tough time of it.

Sure enough, when the results were announced towards the end of May, I had gone down in two of the papers and was facing a hefty two dozen strokes for failure along with six strokes for not achieving a B. The others were in similar straits. Julian had also failed Latin and Maths, Jamie and James had failed just the one paper, Colin had passed everything but not enough to avoid a dozen strokes. But if the promised canings seemed awful they were nothing compared to the horror of the fact that Nigel had managed to get away with no strokes at all. That he was a fantastic swot was one thing, that he had achieved the glory of a prefect's badge awarded by the Head was another. Five of us looked at each other and didn't have to say a word. We knew that we were for it.

Just how much trouble we were in was made clear when the Head gave us a short speech on what Nigel's powers would be, and on what our Masters would be expecting of us over the final six weeks of term. Our new prefect was to have the glory of reigning over life in our dormitory, and would have sole responsibility for ensuring that we all complied with the rules surrounding getting up, personal hygiene and neatness, behaviour during our naptime, and observance of the rituals of getting ready for lights out at night. And to ensure that we understood that his authority was to be respected, Nigel was presented with an unpleasant looking leather strap. It wasn't a tawse, just a stiff piece of leather, but it could be an effective instrument of pain as five of us were to learn within hours.

Life in our dormitory changed quite a lot. The afternoon nap was now definitely time for nothing more than a nap and any kind of more intimate relaxation was out of the question. Nigel also introduced an inspection regime and each evening the five of us would stand beside our beds, clad only in our blue shortie pyjamas, and wait while Nigel checked that our clothes were properly folded and stored correctly in either drawers or lockers, and then he would come round to each of us and check that we satisfied his somewhat strange expectations about personal hygiene. In turn we would present ourselves before him and he would check that we had scrubbed our necks and behind our ears, and then we would stand to attention while he pulled our shortie pants down and engage in a very slow examination of foreskins and scrotums, before turning us around and having us bend over while he checked that we were keeping ourselves meticulously clean around our backsides. A few times a week he would pick one of us out and his inspection would run to probing up our backsides with a finger lubricated with soap. One evening, obviously feeling incredibly angry about something or other, Nigel confiscated Colin's jar of Tiger Balm and each one of us suffered an excruciatingly uncomfortable few hours after being frigged with fingers that had been covered in that burning ointment.

Mornings weren't much better as we would have to get out of bed, strip out of our pyjamas, and be subjected to a bed and genital inspection by Nigel. The slightest sign of a spunk stain on a sheet or dried cum on our skin and we would have to hold our hands out for a severe prefectorial strapping. These inspections by Nigel were of course immediately followed by the first morning inspection by the duty master and we were frequently sent out on our morning runs with hands or backsides smarting painfully from two leatherings in quick succession.

But if Nigel was releasing his rather angry sense of frustration that left five of us, fit and energetic lads, developing some deep frustrations of our own. For Jamie and I, simply passing on the stairs had become a sneaked chance to rub up against each other and exchange a sneaked pat on the backside that confirmed that each of us was eagerly waiting for a chance to spend some time with the other. Those chances did come around from time to time, but they seemed far too rare, and they were certainly much less frequent that had been the case when our daily naptime used to provide an unhurried opportunity for getting together. When we did manage to sneak off into a corner of the library or behind a wall outside in the grounds we would have to accept that there could be none of the sixty-niners of old, but that instead one of us would kneel and suck while the other stood and kept watch in case one of the masters or, more likely, our suspicious prefect, would catch us in such an obvious breach of the accepted school practice. But the rarity of our chances simply meant that each time I was experiencing deeper and deeper orgasms and really loving every single second of pleasure whenever and wherever it could be grabbed.

Nigel's next attempt to assert his authority and control over us was as clever as it was vicious. One morning, having checked my sheets without finding any incriminating evidence, he suggested that as my bed had been spotlessly clean for a fortnight I was obviously not having wet-dreams and so I must have been jerking off in secret somewhere or, was it the case that I was having sex with one of the other boys? There was an embarrassingly long silence as he waited for the answer to this nasty conundrum. He was, of course, dead right and I would either have to be thrashed for masturbating, reported to the head for having sex with someone else, or accept that I was going to be beaten for soiling my bedding by having the wet-dreams of a more pure boyhood. I was damned whichever way it went so naturally I admitted to wanking in the toilets; it seemed the simplest and safest option. I was told to hold out my hands. "Afterall, you use your hands to wank so it's your hands that should suffer the pain". Twelve horrific strokes of Nigel's leather strap on each hand had me dancing and screaming in pain.

Nigel told me that he would be keeping an extra special eye on me and that I was to stay close to him all the time from then on. My hands were still throbbing as we showered after our morning run and I was very keen to avoid any more punishment so when Nigel ordered me to my knees and told me that I should kiss his feet and those of the others as a sign of my new status as the school fag I was quick to obey.

Thankfully, even if those days and weeks passed very slowly, pass they did. Spring turned into high summer and I had my first real experience of the Highland midge. The six of us boys at the Old Lodge continued to endure the scholastic timetable that had us in classrooms or sitting in prep for quite a bit of each day. But there was plenty of outdoor activity too. The morning run was by now a gentle six miles each day except for twice a week when the Sarge added a detour and loop that brought it over ten miles. I was incredibly proud of the fact that I could manage these runs without feeling much discomfort. In fact I suspect that most of the discomfort I felt was due to the fact that we didn't have really good running shoes but ran in plimsolls across fields and out onto moorland. Each afternoon saw us out in the playing field attacking a football with the vigour and single-minded enthusiasm of twelve year-olds. And a couple of times each week our lessons would take the form of the Sarge's nature study treks. I knew for certain that I had never been so fit in all my life and I promised myself that I would try to maintain some kind of exercise regime after I left the Old Lodge. But as well as developing our fitness the exercise also resulted in some of the most deeply tanned legs I have ever seen.

For five of us our tans were all the more enhanced by the new grooming programme that Nigel introduced for June. One morning, having subjected us to the usual embarrassing ritual of intimate inspection, he announced that the five of us under his authority would have to keep ourselves free of all body-hair, and that to start with he intended shaving each of us himself. By then the effects of the leg-waxing torture that I had suffered at the beginning of the year had worn off and my legs boasted a covering of soft but fairly obvious hairs. Even my face was showing enough signs, although patchy at first, of the fact that one session of electrolysis was not a lifelong sentence to life with beardless chin of boyhood.

Nigel decided to deal with one of us at a time, one boy each day, so that he would have the time to make sure that we were denuded of hair except for the hair on our heads was anyway kept in a traditional back and sides style by the Sarge. And of course, given that I was Nigel's favourite victim, I was first to be called in to the bathroom. Standing naked in the bath I had the shocking thought that this was the first time in some weeks that I had been alone in a room with one of the other boys and of course it had to be with Nigel. But then I had the slightly comforting thought that this meant that the others were free of supervision for the first time in those weeks and I hoped that they were being quick to take advantage of this slip in Nigel's regime of twenty-four hour observation. I was told to stand in the bath with my hands on my head and then Nigel started, not by shaving me, but by wielding his prefect's strap and giving me about a dozen whacks across the backside. It was just a little reminder of his complete authority and it certainly distracted my attention for a while from the real purpose of our time together. He went to work with the razor and I have to say that he wasn't the most expert shaver that I have ever seen. He managed to nick my skin in a couple of places and I was extremely nervous when he finally got round to my pubes.

Naturally enough, given that I had been living a life of enforced chastity for a few weeks, my cock responded to Nigel's ministrations as he soaped my pubic area in preparation for shaving, and being none too subtle about the way his soaped up hand curled round my dick and started to wank me. His true malevolence came to the fore then when, having got me close to climax, he let go of my dick and started shaving me. I was left to endure the following few moments as the little hair that I had grown was stroked away while my mind tried to deal with the conflicting urges of self-control over orgasmic release. But having completed his intended chore of keeping me hairless, Nigel was in no way finished with torturing me. I was told to bend over for an anal inspection and a couple of well-soaped fingers made their way up past my sphincter and probed around. Again my dick was ragingly hard and I was close to cumming but Nigel was keeping certainly wasn't going to let that happen and his fingers were withdrawn before I could snatch any real pleasure from his attentions. I was left standing beside the bath as he washed his hands, his face grinning back at me in the mirror as I focussed my thoughts on the slight burning sensation from the soap up my backside.

I should have guessed that he had more in mind. When he turned back round to me he dropped his shorts to reveal his own raging cock. I was ordered to my knees and for the first time he used his position to insist that he be thanked in the most traditional of ways. Ordinarily I would have relished every second of this task. Nigel had one of those cocks that isn't so large that it's uncomfortable to suck and I got into an easy rhythm that had him cum fairly quickly. But for once there was something about knowing that I had to obey this prefect or suffer the consequences of his obsessive anger that meant that I actually felt a deep sense of shame at my submission.

I returned to the dormitory naked, subdued, and really wanting to just curl up in a corner and cry. But the sneaked winks from my companions told their own story. While I was sucking Nigel they had addressed themselves to pleasuring each other and I found myself almost wishing that I could have witnessed the sight of Jamie and James in a sixty-nine. Colin let out a low whistle when I passed by and he saw the state of my backside and broke into a smile and I massaged away some of the pain of my spanking and enjoyed that old familiar warmth that can only radiate from a well-spanked bottom.

This daily ritual was the only variation in our lives at the Old Lodge as the school-year drew to a close. Our hands were tawsed in nearly every lesson. Five of us, naturally Nigel excepted himself, took it in turns to be last back from the morning run so that no one of us would have to suffer the Sarge's thrashing too much. Each morning one of us would be taken away to the bathroom to endure Nigel's attentions, while the rest of us would pair off and achieve the release that we had been denied for far too long. Later I discovered that James was the only other boy to be ordered to his knees to suck Nigel off which I take to be a sign that Nigel simply didn't have quite the same sex-drive as the rest of us.

There was one other matter that had to be dealt with during those last days and this resulted in a few days of respite away from the Old Lodge. Richard had definitely dispensed with my services as his resident boy and so I had to decide on what I was going to do with myself for the rest of my life. In a letter Richard had suggested that I should consider a career in law with the assurance that if I took up his suggestion I would be provided with financial security until I qualified, and the deposit on a house when I took up my first professional job. This was pretty much what I had understood to be the settlement terms he would have been prepared to offer when he had finished with me and the more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. I had to talk it over with old man Kendall and he suggested that as I would have wanted to return to England it might be wise to choose a university that was south of the border, Scottish law being quite a different kettle of torts. He went on to underscore his suggestion by mentioning that he thought that I might find the university at Sheffield would suit my way of learning and he offered to deal with the admissions procedures.

I actually presumed that it was too late in the year to get a place on a degree course and had reconciled myself to the idea that I might even end up spending the whole of the next year at the Old Lodge. But the Head called me aside one morning and told me to change into the clothes he had left on the armchair in his study. He was going to take me to Sheffield for a couple of days as he had arranged an interview for me. For the first time in months I was able to dress in clothes that were not quite so revealing and formal as the school uniform with its extra short little short trousers. But that didn't mean that I had been provided with clothing that might have been chosen by a fashion-conscious twenty-five year-old. A light-blue polo shirt, traditionally styled loose khaki shorts that almost reached my knees, and a pair of all-terrain sandals, made up my garb for the long journey. It certainly wasn't as conspicuous and embarrassing as the school uniform but it was still the wardrobe of a boy under discipline and I was pretty self-conscious as I sat beside the Head on the train that brought us from Edinburgh's Waverley station to Sheffield.

At Durham a thirteen-year old boy and his mother joined the train and sat opposite us at our table seat. My restoration to the status of schoolboy was confirmed when the boy asked if I would like to play Battleships with him on his new travel set and I found myself relaxing into the game and enjoying my publicly acknowledged status as a fifteen year-old boy travelling with his rather elderly, and obviously somewhat traditionally minded, Dad. It was a very pleasant part of the journey and it still forms one of my happiest memories. But there again, that just might be due to the fact that I won the game.

Old man Kendall and I stayed that first night in rooms above a pub near the railway station in the middle of Sheffield. We had dinner there and the Head insisted that I had to have something with mushy peas, "Afterall, you'll be living on mushy peas for at least three years if you come here". For the record, I didn't really like them on my first trial. Again there was no doubt about my status as an underage boy. We actually ate outside in the beer garden because I wasn't allowed in the bar area, and the Head chose a cola for me to drink while he sank a pint of Ward's best bitter. I was packed off to bed immediately after dinner as the Head maintained that I would need all the sleep I could get as I had had a long day and the next would be equally exhausting in its own way.

Making my way upstairs I was suddenly struck by the fact that this was obviously a gay pub; drooping moustaches, extra close hair-cuts, lots of leather and not a woman in sight. I smiled to myself as I realised that only a few months earlier I had been to places like this with Richard and amazed at the fact that I really hadn't noticed it earlier. If there had been any doubt in my mind it would have been wiped away as I went up the stairs. I had stood aside at the bottom of the stairs to let this guy get by, and when I turned the corner having climbed to the first floor I saw that he was still there, obviously delighting in the sight from below of a short-trousered youth. He winked at me and I grinned cheekily back.

The following morning I pulled on a clean shirt but as I only had the short trousers I was clearly expected to attend this interview with my knees bared rather than wearing the ill-fitting cheap suit that prospective students usually wear to interviews. On the buss out from the city-centre I was surprised when the Head told me that the interview was actually going to be at the home of one of the lecturers. I would have expected that this sort of thing would actually take place at the university itself and perhaps that should have been a warning to me. We actually passed the red-brick university and then went on out into the suburbs where the Head steered me with surprising confidence to the semi-detached house that was the home of Dr Pocock. At the door, when I was greeted as "boy", and the Head was greeted as "Sir", I began to suspect that there was something going on that I would rather have not known about.

Old man Kendall took himself off to stretch his legs and I was left standing in Dr Pocock's book-lined study as he sat behind his desk and grilled me on my understanding of law, the legal professions, and even probed into my knowledge of Latin. I was told that I could certainly have a place but that I would have to understand that I would be one of Dr Pocock's tutorial students and that he had a reputation for managing to get all of his students to graduate within the top two grades. There could be no room for slacking. I would have to study hard, devote myself to my books, and accept that failure would be dealt with decisively. I had a premonition that this decisiveness might be painful, and sure enough, just as I thought the interview had come to its end, my interrogator stood up, walked over to a bookcase, and reaching in behind the books produced a traditional crook-handled school cane. I was to have a demonstration of its effectiveness in producing excellent students.

Dr Pocock liked things very traditional and I bent over on his order and grabbed my ankles. It was then that he announced his intention give me twelve strokes; six over my short trousers and six on my bared backside. I was to count the strokes from one to twelve, thanking him for each one, and to be sure that I remained in position until I was told to get up.

"One Sir! Thank you Sir."

I couldn't believe that I felt so comfortable in this position. I remembered Richard trying to get me to bend over like this but even five years ago I didn't have the flexibility to manage touching my toes for more than a few seconds. But the months of exercise at the Old Lodge had resulted in more benefits than I had thought, that is if you can call it a benefit, being able to bend over for the cane.

"Two Sir! Thank you Sir."

My mind was heading off with a very peculiar thought as I found myself admiring Dr Pocock's skill with the cane. I wondered as to where and how he had learned to place strokes so carefully, and indeed painfully. There was a kind of artistry involved and I admired him for it even if numbers three and four seemed to sear through my flesh and work their way deep into my body. The fifth stroke was lower than the others and caught me right on the famous crease that is the eventual target of all true masters of the cane.

"Six Sir! Thank you Sir."

I was told to stand up and put my hands on my head. Dr Pocock reached round from behind me and undid the clasp and fly of my short trousers and pulled them down to my ankles. My tight white briefs received a gentle and appreciative swat on the back before they too were pulled down. I bent over again and found myself looking straight into underpants as the seventh stroke, the first on my bare skin, landed with all the pain that I would have expected from this escalation of the disciplinary session.

"Eight Sir! Thank you Sir."

I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a student under Dr Pocock's supervision. Of course it would be painful. And I suspected that there would be other rules to be observed and that life as one of his students wouldn't be anything like the carefree existence of the average student. I guessed that not many of those who were privileged to be members of Dr Pocock's tutorial groups would spend all that many nights in the union bar or trawling around the nightclubs.

"Nine Sir! Thank you Sir."

But on the other hand I knew that I was going to be joining the university at an age when most of my age-group would have been long-graduated and settled into careers. This was likely to be my one and only chance of achieving a serious professional qualification and I knew enough about my own natural laziness and tendency to procrastinate to have a sense that a closely-supervised and strict regime might be the only way by which I might use this chance well.

"Ten Sir! Thank you Sir."

But on yet another hand I was also concerned about parting from Jamie. I believed that I had actually met a soul-mate, someone to whom I wanted to commit myself for life. If I ended up here then I couldn't be sure that we would manage to see much of each other as I guessed that he was likely to find a graduate job in London. He had talked about doing something in finance and I could imagine him as a successful banker swivelling his sheathed umbrella as he strode through the City in pin-stripes.

"Eleven Sir! Thank you Sir."

There again there was the very real here and now to be dealt with. I was in real pain. Dr Pocock was not sparing any energy with each stroke. Indeed I had a sense that the last few strokes had been increasing in intensity and there was no doubt in my mind that this was meant to make clear to me that if I chose to become one of his students I could expect to work my way through my degree course under strict traditional discipline of the most painful kind.

"Twelve Sir! Thank you Sir".

I was told to stand up, turn and walk to a corner with my hands on my head. Minutes passed and I heard the doorbell ring and Dr Pocock was joined in conversation by the Head. It was agreed that I was a boy who might have some potential as a student. I was to come to Sheffield for the beginning of September so that I could be settled into the special lodgings that Dr Pocock had in mind for me, and so that I could start some preliminary studies in the weeks before the university year actually began. During term-time I would be under Dr Pocock's authority. During the holidays I would be the responsibility of the Old Lodge. Only then, when they had agreed everything about my immediate future between themselves, was I invited to pull my short-trousers back up and to smarten myself up again. Dr Pocock shook my hand, looking me in the eye and congratulating me on having taken my punishment so well. He was looking forward to seeing me again in a couple of months. I wasn't entirely convinced that the feeling was mutual, but I smiled and thanked him politely.

Old man Kendall decided that a walk and some air would do me good so we walked back downhill towards the city-centre. He obviously knew the area well and he pointed out the various university halls of residence that we passed. We stopped for coffee in an area that had quite a few nice-looking shops and I felt that this was definitely the sort of place I would like to be able to live in. Attaining a decent law degree seemed to be a reasonable way of getting me to a point in life where I could stand on my own two feet as an independent man for the first time and aspire to making a decent living. In the meantime, having followed Dr Pocock's conversation with the Head, I recognised that I was going to be a boy under discipline for some years to come. But for once I could see that sacrificing my liberty as an adult and accepting the status of boyhood might eventually result in something really good for me. I decided there and then that I would really commit myself to this opportunity. I was going to be a very good boy indeed for the severe Dr Pocock.

We continued to make our way downhill, it seemed to me that Sheffield was all hills and no flat, and entered a park. The Head informed me that this was Sheffield's once-glorious botanical gardens and as we walked past some old glass-houses I could see why he referred to its glories as being of the kind that had faded. It was well past three o'clock at this stage and so I wasn't all that surprised to see school pupils heading home at the end of a long day's learning. What did surprise me was the fact that the boys who had joined us on the path down into the valley were wearing what was probably the most traditional school uniform that I had ever seen. It was obviously a prep school but even two taller lads, boys about my own height, were wearing short trousers with stripe topped kneesocks, and their blue blazers were smartly edged with braid. The stripes on their socks and the braid on their blazers seemed to be pink in colour but I put that down to the bright sunlight. Nobody would have ever used pink in the colours of a boys' school so I presumed that my eyes had been dazzled and it must have been some other colour.

Once again I had that comforting sense that I could not have been mistaken for anything other than a teenage boy myself but this time I felt that I truly appreciated the amazing second chance that I had been given by being sent off to the Old Lodge. Richard had used me for his own pleasure but in return he had given me the years of adolescence back to try again. This time I would do much better for myself.

The journey back to Edinburgh was uneventful and it was quite late when we got into Waverley station. We spent the night at the Head's flat in the city centre and once again I slept in that bedroom where the ancient tawse lay waiting to do its duty by any misbehaving youth.

Back at the Old Lodge the last weeks of term had turned into the last days. Plans were being made for the holidays. Nigel was still abusing his power but the rest of us felt less and less concerned about him and his strap as we now knew that he would be going back to his boyfriend as soon as term ended, and that he was definitely intending to go back to university and apply himself to his studies. He for one was in no two minds about never wanting to experience life at the Old Lodge again.

I knew that I would be spending quite a bit of time at the Old Lodge over the next three years. I would be there for at least a few weeks of each holiday and old man Kendall had decided that over the three year period I should concentrate on achieving A level qualifications in Latin and French. Some of the long summer vacations would be spent on language courses in France and I allowed myself a wry smile when I was told that there was nothing to worry about as I would be staying in the French home of a gentleman who understood the traditions of the Old Lodge. But for this coming holiday I would be dedicating myself to a special study of Latin for the aspiring student of law. However, in order to provide some time for recreation, three of us; Jamie, Colin, and myself, were going to be joining a special scout troop for a three week hike over the Pyrenees on the ancient pilgrimage route to Compostela. The three of us were happy enough with what seemed like a pleasant enough prospect even if we were clear in our own minds that the phrase "special scout troop" could only mean that the uniforms and discipline would be very traditional.

My happiness, however, was perfected by a chat with Jamie when he told me about his own plans for the future. I wondered about what was going on when the Head invited the two of us into his study and offered us seats on his couch in an unprecedented moment of relaxed friendliness. Jamie seemed almost giddy with joy when he took my hand in his and told me that he was going back to Manchester to study on a postgraduate course for the common professional examination in law. Manchester to Sheffield was only a short train journey through the Peak District. Both of us would be studying law. It felt like a moment for a serious declaration of commitment.

Old man Kendall was leaning against his desk, flexing a senior school cane in his hands. "Well, aren't you going to kiss, or do I have to encourage you with this?"

We kissed. We're still together.

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� Mike Ward 2004